I Did Indeed Love Paris in the Springtime

I’m back in LA from Paris. Back to driving, American Cokes, Fred & Ethel and Business Associations reading. No more pain au chocolat, verres du vin, foie gras (except the stuff I brought back, wee!), no more walking the streets of Paris in awe from morning til night.

I think the most shocking thing for me was the city’s architecture. I had no idea. You are going to think I am silly, but truly? I thought all the movies I’d seen filmed in Paris? Were only filmed in the scenic parts. I did not realize the ENTIRE CITY looked like that. Our first day we walked from our hotel in the Latin Quarter to the Champs-Elysees, and I kept waiting to suddenly come upon some modern skyscrapers or strip malls. But the beautiful buildings just kept on keepin’ on. Amazing.

Two of my favorite bits:

Walking along the Seine, watching Parisians buy flowers and plants and food for their beloved chiens.

Pere Lachaise, walking (and towards the end, as it closed, running) among the crypts. Some well-loved and well-attended (like Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison’s), and some abandoned, like this one.

Laurie has more photos, and I’m sure we’ll be fighting over who gets to tell what story, so that’s all for now.

L.A. Hair

I freakin’ love Jonathan Antin of Blow Out. In the season premiere this evening, he managed to pump out these beauts:

• “More product than God and hair has ever seen.”
• “He lets me do what I do best — make beauty.”
• “I don’t cut and tell, simple as that, bro.”

Last summer, before The Austrian left, I got him some Jonathan product to remember me by (he also loved the show, and also was a little Jonathan-like, but in a good way, hi! Austrian! if you are reading). By that point, Blow Out had gotten HUGE and I had to trot my little fanny down to first Barney’s and then to Jonathan (the salon itself) itself to find some. Now, it’s EVERYWHERE.

I’ve ridden the rollercoaster of hair in LA from Jonathan-esque to SuperCuts, and since Laurie and I are both getting cuts tomorrow in preparation for PARIS!!, I thought I’d share.

First haircut in LA
Allan and I had just moved here from SF, where I was used to my Aveda salon, where they gave you an aromatherapy head massage and offered you cucumber water in Japanese tea cups. I was not ready for LA hair.

In the span of two hours, he plucked my eyebrows (unasked for, also I WANTED TO DIE INSIDE OF OVERGROWN-EYEBROWED SHAME), introduced me to Nancy Cartwright‘s agent, and told me Patrica Velasquez was unimpressive in real life. I was appalled by the name-dropping. I did not yet realize that ALL of LA did this.

Try #2
I went to Shannon’s hairstylist in Silver Lake. She did not listen to a word I said and cut my hair into a very (ahem) avant-garde shape. This works for Shannon — she always has AMAZING hair. But I wore a suit and heels to work at the time and could not, um, SPIKE OUT in odd places. Also, I think this might have been the time I cried to Laurie that I was “shorn of my beauty.” Yes, I said those words. I’m pretty sure I got that from Little Women.

Nirvana
By this point, I knew what it meant to live in LA. I loved me some celebrity sightings. I knew what expensive hair looked like. So, I went to Juan Juan, to its owner, Sean Jigambloo, and to Tracy for color. Oh (wipes nostalgic tear from eye), my hair had never looked so good. Perhaps this is partly because every time I admired it I could half picture Sean’s three-buttons-down-open shirt and smell his Eastern European cool yet HOT indifference, but whatevs. That was some damn good hair I had. Worth every third-of-a-rent-check I paid for it.

SuperCuts
That would be my situation now, a poor student. I was so bummed (silly, considering my life had only consisted of SuperCuts or a family friend before LA) to be slumming it in the nationwide chains. But I tell you? Who (re)knew life could be so good at SuperCuts? My hair looks great! I don’t see Julia Roberts in the next chair over, but I also don’t consider selling my eggs after every haircut.

Still, I am now an LA Girl. Wanna guess where I’ll be going this summer when I’m fully employed? I can almost picture Sean’s precise, exotic impassiveness now. Ah, LA hair.

The Math of Fantasy

There is a science to my fantasy life, apparently.

It goes like this:

When there is some hint of romance and intrigue in my own life — perhaps dating someone new, interviewing for summer associate positions, etc. — my fantasies are very pragmatic. The perfect outfit I wear for said date. The incomprehensibly unblemished thing will I say that will solidify our fate forever. My impressive response to that surprise interview question. My deft response to my professor’s question tomorrow.

But when there is, alas, no romance or intrigue, somehow my fantasies get more grandiose! The ultimate converse relationship.

And by fantasies I mean those little scenarios you set up for yourself as you’re in bed, trying to fall asleep, and hoping to shape the path of your dreams.

Of course, you actually end up as Patty Hearst, robbing banks with some really ugly kidnappers, or your mother is taking high tea with an ex-boyfriend in his underwear and she has some watercress in her teeth, but you know, you try to at least get the party started right.

Anyway. When the facts of my own life lack the necessary potential, suddenly I find my bedtime stories involve things like:

• Winning the lottery
• Being discovered as the heretofore unknown heir to the throne of some country where being queen involves wearing a lot jewels and making Serious Policy Decisions about the fate of the nation
• Being discovered by George Clooney (and by being discovered I mean, Being Discovered, much like Columbus plundered America)

Anyway, I know these fantasies are ridiculous. And to tell you the truth, I just made up the Heretofore Unknown Heir to the Crown fantasy while I was writing this just now. But don’t think I won’t be using it these evening! Do you think heirs to the crown get to spend most of the time playing baccarat and drinking martinis? I kind of do. And maybe they have their own chauffeurs who get to drive them to clandestine make-out spots with their wrong-side-of-the-tracks, tough-with-a-heart-of-gold-and-six-pack-of-steel boyfriends? Yep! I’m pretty sure they do!

‘Night. I know how I’ll be spending the next 7 hours. Playing some baccarat and trying on the crown jewels. Unless my mom shows up with watercress in her teeth. Damn her.

Happy Birthday, Space Cadet!

Today is my little brother Jeff‘s 26th birthday. My LITTLE brother has passed the mid-20s mark. Nutty.

Anyhoo, I love my brother. Which is mainly what this post is about. But also it is about how we were once dumbasses and LOST TO THE WORLD. Mainly, though, a story of brotherly-sisterly love. But also, don’t forget!, dumbass-ery.

And also, it is a long story. But it’s got, like, drama!

Our family moved up to Redding in 1988 — I was 11, Jeff was 8. We moved up to this wooden house way out in in the boondocks, backing up onto miles of manzanita-filled wilderness. We’d been raised in Sacramento, off Ancil Hoffman park, where we could head down this little path into the park and we could watch the ducks and deer in peace.

So of course we could do the same in Redding? Only. NOT.

One night after dinner, a few weeks into school starting, Jeff and I headed down the hill with our dog, Molly. We followed the dry creek bed through the manzanita, checking out the lichen on the rocks, chasing lizards. And Molly trotted along with us, the main proponent of the chasing lizards part.

Soon enough, it was close to dark and time to head back. Only?

We did not know that the creek bed had split.

And we couldn’t find our way home.

Terror.

We walked, and walked. And then we went back to where we thought we were and tried again. The first hardest part of the evening was when we swore (SWORE!) we could hear our father yelling our names, echoing over the canyons. “Jeeeeeeeeeeeeen!” “Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeff!”

We tried so hard. We stretched our pre-pubescent voices as far as they could go. We cried doing it. But there was no reply, no sign that he ever heard, only the same (elongated), “Jeff!”, Jen!” that even to this day I don’t know was real or imagined.

Can I tell you? Nothing is scarier than when you are so close, but they can’t hear you.

Then it was dark.

And it was just Jeff, Molly, and me.

And I told Jeff that we should stop moving, that it would be OK, because they would send a search party for us. So we bedded down for the night on this flat rock, the three of us. We knew we would be safe with Molly.

But I tell you? I was so scared. But I knew I had to be strong for my little brother. He may have been practically taller than me at that point, but I calmed myself down by telling myself I was the BIG SISTER. And I had to be strong for Jeff. And thus I calmed down enough to tell him that if they didn’t find us by the morning? We would still be fine. I swore I could hear cars on some highway from where we were. And then I swore to myself that I would stay up all night, with Molly, and protect us all from what might be out there.

A couple hours pass. And then.

The second hardest part of the evening came when the helicopters they sent for us actually FLEW OVER US, but couldn’t see us. Their lights flashed over us on the rock, with Molly barking, and us jumping up and down, waving our hands, trying to scream over the din and hoping to God they’d see us (WHY CAN’T THEY SEE US?? WHY AREN’T THEY STOPPING??). But they didn’t. And they left.

And of course, while this was happening, the Sherrif’s Department was at our home, telling our parents about the bears, mountain lions, and abandoned mine shafts that speckled the property. My mother was crying with us.

And then, an hour in the dark or so later, a miracle happened. We could hear voices, yelling for us. The volunteer fire department workers (not those who had been following our footprints a la CSI, but those who had been fanning out past Keswick Dam) had found us!

We yelled back, “We’re here! We’re here!”

And then the shots rang out. The third hardest part of the evening.

Because Redding, like every other small town with amply-wooded hiding places in California, is a meth and pot-production capital. And some fuckhead was shooting at the rescue staff.

There was some yelling, some explanation of what was going on to said fuckhead, and we were scared to death, but still, we could see the flashlights coming toward us, so we continued, not caring about the shots, just wanting to get the HELL OUT, “We’re here!” We’re here!”

And then they found us. And took us HOME.

And you know?

Jeff, you may be 26 now, and embarking upon a life so much more ADULT even than I am right now. You are getting married, you have a J-O-B and like stock options and shit.

But you will always be my little brother. And the little space cadet of the family who wandered about in a happy cloud until about, oh, well, have you left the cloud yet? Who I will shield on a rock.

I will always tell you that everything will be OK, and do my best to make it so.

Because that’s what big sisters do.

Happy birthday, Jeff!

How Accessories Changed My Life

A. I am sick. The only blessing is that instead of my usual modus operandi, I am sick BEFORE rather than DURING my vacation. Which, btw, JUST A LITTLE MORE THAN A WEEK AWAY. Paris!! I’m gonna have me some foie gras, dude. Assuming I can taste it by then.

Anyhoo. There is no B. because this post is about accessories — earrings, rings, headbands. Not shoes. I have always loved shoes. Although I have not always been good at selecting them. From 1992-1996, I wore exclusively Vans and Airwalks. Sk8tr Luv 4Evr.

And until four years ago, the only accessory I ever wore was a Baby-G watch (remember when those were HAWT?). Then, for my birthday one year, Allan replaced it with a Tiffany’s. And then, for Christmas, he gave me these beautiful, modern classic little white gold earrings with diamonds.

Obviously, Fred and his gut love them, too.

Then came too-expensive silver hoops I bought myself when we broke up. Because, you know, hoops? Sexy!

And now I can’t believe I deprived myself of this unexplored arena of fashion for so long!

Because earrings? Do not make your butt look big. They ONLY make YOU look FABULOUS! Whenever a pair of jeans is a little more snug than usual (I always conveniently blame this on bloat from sushi soy sauce), or I start to contemplate the wrinkles in my forehead, I put on some crazy earrings and some sparkly eye shadow, and suddenly I am 22 again.

And? When I haven’t done laundry? I like to pretend I’m wearing an entirely different outfit than last week because this time I’m wearing a headband, some copper hoops and my multi-metal ring.

Also? Adenturesome jewelry has translated into more adventuresome fashion choices generally. See my Barrister’s Ball dress last year? This year? Never would have migrated past basic black if jewelry hadn’t dragged me along.

If you have not acquired the bauble habit? It is so choice. I highly recommend picking one up.

I get my $5 and $10 earrings and rings from Melrose, Forever 21, wherever.

But the self-esteem benefits? Priceless.

Somebody’s Friday Night Is Starting a Little Early

The overwhelming smell in my apartment hallway leads me to wonder whether:

• Someone is staging a massive sage-burning exorcism of their ex-boyfriend’s spirit OR
• Someone just unwittingly ruined their rosemary potatoes au gratin OR
• If I stand out there any longer trying to discern the smell’s origin, I won’t be able to study tonight because I’ll be too busy watching Dazed and Confused and eating Cheetos.

The Great Cat Scratch Incident of 2006 by Gimpy McBloodyLeg

Last night I had Ethel, the skittish one, on my lap, and Fred, the feisty one, attacked my toes in jealousy.

I made the mistake of flinching. The fallout?

Just as you should never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line, so should you never NEVER make any sudden moves when Ethel is on your lap.

I don’t know what you call your pets — or, as my Animal Shelter Law class is teaching me to call them, your companion animals — but in my house, they are always BlanketyMcBlankyblank. For example:

• Fatty McBiggums
• Stinky McFartums
• Assbutt McCharlatan (when Fred wakes me up early in the morning, but spoken in such a loving voice it only prods him on with his toe-pouncing, damn him)
• Lovey McNoodlepuss
• Psycho McSchadenfreude
• Boompy McDoodums
• Goofy McGiggles

And so on.

You wouldn’t think that SleepyMcTwinkletoes and HunkyMcRunningback could do that much damage, would you?

Well.

You were not present for the The Great Cat Scratch Incident of 2006, were you?

Hrmph.

Signing off,
Martyr McPityPuss

A Quiet Holiday

Hollywood is eerily quiet this evening. Aside from the noise of the whirlybirds hovered above the Kodak for the two-hour red carpet arrivals, the streets were DEAD when I walked to the grocery store this evening. This is the thing about living in a one-horse town — when it’s the Kentucky Derby of that horse, EVERYONE is at home watching.

This weekend has been eerily quiet as well. Too quiet. I managed to get out both nights:

Friday:
Barrister’s Ball, aka prom for law students. For which I found a rockin’ dress that I can now also use for my little brother and Jen‘s wedding in (holy crap!) May.

Close-up (and, yes, Penny, it’s totally a MySpace money shot (except, what is going on with my side-nose-bags, I didn’t even know they could exist)):

Gorgeous Neeta, in the car. Of course, because I am me and Neeta is Neeta, before we even got INTO the ball we managed to:
a. Lose one ticket for entry.
b. Have THREE awkward social encounters.
c. Develop static cling (me) and spray too vigorously with Febreze to combat (Neeta).

Hanging out with lovely Jinny, Maggy and Neeta.

The mediocre food (included this pic just for you, Gloria and Dagny):

And then I danced the night away. Or until 11:30, which is as much of the 1Ls puking in the bathroom as we could take.

Saturday:
Gloria, Amber, and I convened for some pre-Paris French movie watching. Shannon and Laurie, our other travel companions, apparently cannot be pried from the Valley on Oscar weekend (the traffic, oh, the traffic), and I do not blame them. Also, they had to work. Yet again, there was no French movie watching, aside from La Boum in the background, but Gloria prepared a dish reflective of her name and I will leave it her to her to describe the wonder later.

But then.

Sunday:
This, I guess, is where the problem came in. The problem of too much quiet time, which I believe is what this post was originally about. Twelve kajillion paragraphs ago.

Too much quiet time for me means too much time left to question myself in every single area of my life. Which is, of course, what I have done. And I was going to make a list, a chart! even, describing all my questions (Am I a good kitty caregiver? Do I talk too much? Am I a good friend? Will I ever be able to date someone again without wondering about the ultimate outcome way too early?), but it was too embarrassing.

And then tonight I received my March 6 Thought for the Day from Sri Eknath Easwaran from the Blue Mountain Center for Meditation (also the sender of this quote):

In those moments when we forget ourselves – not thinking, “Am I happy?” but completely oblivious to our little ego – we spend a brief but beautiful holiday in heaven. The joy we experience in these moments of self-forgetting is our true nature, our native state. To regain it, we have simply to empty ourselves of what hides this joy: that is, to stop dwelling on ourselves. To the extent that we are not full of ourselves, God can fill us. “If you go out of yourself,” says Johannes Tauler, “without doubt he shall go in, and there will be much or little of his entering in according to how much or little you go out.”

And you know? I am not a religious person. I don’t believe in A God, The God, whatever. I believe in SOMETHING. But I mean, I know I AM a Capricorn, body and soul, for goodness’ sake. Might as well believe in witchcraft or pro forma accounting.

But every day, I get this damn e-mail (which I signed up for because of my mother), and EVERY DAY it makes me feel better. And makes me try to BE better.

Because you know? I NEED a quiet holiday from my quiet-time thoughts these days. Don’t you?

The Accidental Inquisitor

So, per Dan‘s request, lemme tell you what an atrocious monster law school has rendered me.

One thing you have to read a lot of in law school is court cases. Many, many, often interminable and impenetrable court cases. And your job is to outlast and to penetrate.

You have to poke holes in the court’s reasoning. Explore alternate theories. Extend the logic the opinion is resting on to its absolute, and usually ridiculous, limit. And more important, seize upon details in the facts of the case that, if altered, might make it come out differently in some cock-eyed hypothetical your professor might put on an exam. Like, if he had been deeply religious, but NOT a mental patient, would the court have come out the same way?

This is your job.

And.

Oops!

All of a sudden you’re The Inquisitor.

Laurie may be telling me a long, involved (She is Southern. She can’t help it. Love you, Laurie! You are my memory.) story of why her day was lame. And one, small, miniscule part of that story might be that there was some idiot on the bus who smelled.

But suddenly! I NEED MORE DETAILS. Where was he sitting? Did YOU wear your deoderant that day? Was it raining? Were you wearing wool? How many seats away was he? Did the bus driver smile at you when you got on? What time did you get on the bus? What was he wearing? Did other people smell it? Really? Did they LOOK like they might have smelled it? Were they on the phone? Was the traffic bad? What day of the week was it?

And so on.

Because I NEED MORE DETAILS.

Because I’m trying to.. Um. FIND A HOLE IN MY BEST FRIEND’S STORY ABOUT WHY HER DAY SUCKED???

Because this is… NORMAL BEHAVIOR???

And then I get a knot in my stomach and realize, my life? Will never be the same.

Because I am The Inquisitor. I will never be able to hear a simple story from my friend about how a man on the bus smelled without wondering: But did he really smell? And even if he did, would one small change in circumstances mean she never would have noticed?

And this, let me tell you, is not the kind of friend you want to be.

And p.s.? It gets worse. Because, when I say that I wonder about a small change in circumstances dictating the outcome, I realize I am The Sliding Doors Inquistor. And we all know how I feel about fucking Gwyneth.

So if one day I name my child Pear or Cantaloupe, adopt a faux British accent and break up my shaggy husband’s band?

BLAME LAW SCHOOL.