Box of Clothes

I've been walking in my neighborhood lately. I actually live in a very suburby section of the Valley and, let me tell ya, I'm just a middle class white girl at heart. I wanted to be fabu and glam and edgy and urban, but I'm not. I'm getting to the age where I can embrace my boring, Wonder Bread-ness. This is me, and it's OK. So, I'm completely comfortable telling you that I've been enjoying my Soccer Mom morning walks in my little hamlet where Porches are parked outside houses that look surprisingly like my grandfather's house on Candy Lane. However, do not doubt that just because I'm living in my comfort zone my imagination isn't still finding murder and mayhem around every corner. In my mind it's all a little Desperate Housewives: Season One. Case in point: The house with the mysterious box of clothes in front of it.

I started doing this walk about two, possibly three, weeks ago. I start off on my street, take a right, and end up on a private road. And there, smack in the middle of this private road, is a house with a very big fence around it. The fence is half concrete and half wood. But the wood is not slated like a picket fence, rather its placed horizontally, one on top of the other like a layer cake with nary a space to peek through. I'm assuming that the double doors that gate off the driveway -- also made of wood and also manufactured so that you can't see beyond it -- work on some sort of automated system. If the fortress-like fencing wasn't enough to keep prying eyes out then the big sign that says, CAUTION: DOGS ON PREMISES probably would. Whether these are German attack dogs or Bichon Frise, I'll never know. But it's all very secretive and intimidating and very, very curious. I probably wouldn't have thought twice about this house if it hadn't been for the box of clothes that has been sitting just outside the gate since the very first walk.

At first, I thought it was a homeless person that had curled up and fallen asleep there as some of the clothes were strewn about a bit. But as I advanced, I realized that it was just heaps of clothing. And this made me think, "I wonder what he did?" Because, really, it looked like some Woman Scorned got good and pissed, and went willy-nilly through the house dumping men's clothing into a box then punt kicked it outside the front gate before calling the locksmith. The box and the clothes stayed in this haphazard disarray for a couple of days before the the clothes were once again gathered up and dumped into the box. Two -- possibly three -- weeks later, the box of clothes is still there. The box is beginning to break down a bit, and the clothes look a little sodden. But no one has come to claim them. And no one has thought to throw them out. "Curiouser and curiouser!" Cried Alice.

I want to knock on this person's door. I want to ask him/her what happened. Was it a lover's quarrel? Did he sleep with the nanny? Did he lie on his tax forms and now the IRS is threatening to take the wooden gates and Bichon Frise and all? What is the secret of the box? Nosey neighbors want to know!

Of course, the answer is probably something ridiculous like they had a tag sale and these were the items that didn't sell. Or a friend was supposed to pick up the box on a random Tuesday morning when the owners were at work and never got around to it. Or maybe the clothes are free, but the idiot in the house didn't bother to post a sign. Don't know. And I will probably never know. But one thing is for certain, I'm grateful for the box of clothes. It gives me something to think about on those Soccer Mom morning walks.

Celebrity Sighting

I've been seeing celebs these days. It's kinda weird because I'm never in-tune enough with my surroundings to actually notice anyone other than that really cute boy who is probably way too young for me now that I'm in my mid-30s. (Is it me, or is this next generation really good looking?) Who have I seen? I'm glad you asked.

I saw Tia (or was it Tamera) Mowry at Gelsons.

I saw Geena Davis at Ben & Jerry's ice cream parlor at the Galleria. (This is a big SCORE! If she wasn't so tall, I probably wouldn't have noticed her, but she is, so I did, and that's good.)

Ed Begley, Jr. in his electric car getting onto the 101. (I shouldn't count Ed because I see him all the time. He lives in the neighborhood and is super eco-friendly, so he's always walking around or riding his bike.)

And Gordon Clapp from NYPD Blue just now over at Trader Joe's. (I don't know why this picture is so small.)

Hmm. The stars seem to be aligning. I wonder what it means.

Earthquake

Just an FYI for all of you on the east coast who emailed me and called me yesterday: I'm fine. It was a little weird, but somehow I survived. And so did my vanity mirror...which was the only thing I was thinking about the entire time my office building shook. Yes, these are my priorities. I never said I wasn't screwed up.

Panhandler

Panhandlers are just a part of urban living. New York had an interesting array of them. Mostly druggies or alcoholics looking to score a couple of bucks for that next hit. That partixular breed would roam the streets of Times Square. They really hardcore ones -- the true homeless -- would huddle up in subway stations and in doorways. You wouldn't see them until the very last minute. These beggars had the habit of trying to grease you up a bit before going for the kill. "God bless you, Miss. You wouldn't happen to have a dollar to spare, wouldcha?" And the minute you said, "No, I'm sorry." They would sometimes mutter -- sometimes just plain out say -- "Bitch." Yeah. Thanks. After a few instances like that, any pity I might have felt for these poor souls blew away.

Los Angeles isn't much different. Though the homeless here seem to be psycho. No, seriously. Like, clinically disturbed individuals. I'll take a druggie over a schizo any day. The druggie just wants your money. The crazy could think that you're the CIA trying to read their mind. If the druggie pulls a shiv on you, just hand over the wallet. If the psycho pulls out a shiv, start praying and run like your hair is on fire. Aside from the obviously disturbed, you have the guys (and gals) at the bottom of the freeway exits. There's this one guy who works the Laurel Canyon exit off the 101 who, by now, could be a Foreman at a factory if he just put in the hours there that he puts in over at that ramp. He's got sign telling me that his wife's just died. I suppose she was the one who worked and now he's looking for someone else to support him. Namely people at the CBS Studios on Radford. The one that really disturbs me though, is the one that seems to work the 7-Eleven and the Bank of America on Laurel Canyon between Magnolia and Chandler. I'll call her Large Marge.

Large Marge is HUGE. Really. This woman is so obese that she's confined to one of those zippy wheelchairs that are usually reserved for quadriplegics. She looks like someone you would find parked in front of the nickel slots in Vegas. Big, round glasses, pink sweat pants, and a t-shirt pulled down over her stomach. There's something excessive about her and I'm not just talking about the puddles of fat. Honestly, I'm not lying. I can't even explain how upsetting I find her. Especially, when she's sitting outside my bank asking for money.

I want to feel bad for her. I do. I want to feel some sort of humanity when I look at her. "There for the grace of God, go I," and all that rot. But I can't. And -- this is going to be unbelievably cruel -- but I can't help but judge her and wonder what she needs the money for? Druggies need that next hit. Alcoholics need that next drink. And the homeless are pretty much one step away from being locked up in a state institution. And as much as I acknowledge that I'm an obsessive eater myself, there is a point where one has to start saying No. And all I can think of is: Isn't she on state aid? Where did that zippy wheelchair come from? And those rhinestone Elvis inspired spectacles? She's always clean. I'm assuming her medical bills are being taken care of through Social Security and Medicaid. Which means, aren't I already paying for her through my taxes? Why does she need more money? I'm not paying for her McDonalds supply. I'm more forgiven of the drug addicts! I completely admit that my prejudice is unfair. But I can't help myself. From a far, she disgusted me. And for that, I felt guilty. Awful. Awful that I judged her so harshly. And then, one day, I finally came face to navel with Large Marge myself.

Two weeks ago, I rode my bike down to Bank of America to deposit a couple of birthday checks. Large Marge was outside. I inwardly groaned. As is often the case, the panhandler did not talk to me when I went into the bank, but waited for me to come out. Because, you know, people have spare twenties that they just can't wait to give away. "Can you spare a dollar?" Large Marge asked. "No, I'm sorry," I answered. "I don't carry cash."

Large Marge looked at me and said, "Bitch."

Yeah. Thanks.

Appreciation

There is one component of my birthday week that I deeply appreciate. I absolutely adore that my family and friends call or email or text or send cards to let me know that they remember me. Its like a great big tidal wave of love. Mostly fueled by estrogen. My grandma, my aunts, my mom, my sister, and my girlfriends. (And my stepdad. He is the token boy. Everybody has got to have one.) Its pretty terrific. So I just wanted to take this opportunity to say, "thank you. I love you, too."

Birthday

So, today is my birthday. (Yes, yes. Thank you.) I've never been the type to lament a birthday. In fact, I'm often the girl that goes around telling everyone and anyone when my birthday is and how old I will be. And yet this year, I didn't really care. My mother warned me this would happen. There would come an age where I finally thought to myself, "eh." Who knew that the magic number would be 35?

I'm not sure why this is. Part of me fully acknowledges that I've never been a party person. Meaning, I'm not the type of girl that likes to dress up, go out and stay out until my feet hurt and my stomach heaves. I find this to be forced friviolity and have always despised it when it was done in my name. Instead, I'd rather just order in Chinese, pop open a bottle of champagne, and play Scrabble. Good enough. Happy Birthday. Another part of me is getting introspective these days. I'm trying to figure out what what I want out of my life. And the answer isn't clear. I find this amazingly distressing.

I'm a five-year planner. I tend to shy away from long term goals. I like to say things like, "I'm moving to New York to pursue publishing. I'll give it five years and then reassess." And whaddya know? I lived in NYC for five years. I reassessed and said, "I'm moving to Los Angeles to pursue a TV/film career. I'll give it five years and then reassess." Two years in and it's okay. I can't really complain. But these days I'm feeling a bit...I don't know. Done with it. I'm kinda done with pursuing a career. What does that mean? Hell if I know. There is a definite part of me that's saying, "Time to get married and have that kid!" While another part of me is telling me to stay on track. I know there are people who think you can have both, but I'm not one of them. I know waaay too many working mothers who are struggling to keep up. Career on one side. Family on the other. It's like Germany during WWII. Once the Allies were on the western front and the Russians started to push in on the eastern front there was only thing a body could do: Kill yourself in a bunker. OK, maybe not. But it's definitely a squeeze and there are a lot of women who would love nothing more than to just surrender. Remember that Calgon commercial? Um-hmm.

I have a pattern that I've been following for about ten years now: Get a new job, love it for two years, get dissatisfied, get a new job. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. And sometimes that job has been a whole new career. Maybe that's what's bothering me the most right now. At 35, I don't feel like I should be doing that any more. I feel I should have a career that I'm actively working on advancing, not looking for something new or different. At the same time, I'm kinda freaked out because, well, I don't want to be in California for the rest of my life! Pretty soon my sisters are going to start having kids. My parents are going to get old. And what if I do get married and have kids. My kids won't know my family! Who is going to tease them mercilessly and then tell them to "stop crying, you big baby" forcing them to learn how to repress emotion in the way only a true New Englander can? AGH! (I might be getting ahead of myself on that one. But, umm, these things do go through my head.)

At times like this, I try to slow down and get quiet. I also start going to church like the Second Coming is scheduled for a week from Thursday. I figure its best to be quiet where God might see me and realize that I'm being quiet for a reason. Ahem. Its hard, however, since I like to be a woman of action. "God helps them that help themselves." That kind of thing. But sometimes the best plan of action is to do nothing at all. To wait and be patient. Let it play out. Maybe something will happen all by itself. A man opens the door for me at the Jiffy Lube and proposes six months later. That job I forgot I put in for last month calls. I'm trying not to let my fear of aging drive me to into doing something radical. So. I wait...though not that patiently. And hope that an answer will present it self. In the meantime, I'm going to see The Dark Knight and, later tonight, pop a bottle of champagne with my roommate. No one said that I had to be sober while I waited.

Terrified

I brought up this page to click on my links to everyone else's blogs and my boss walked in. He was very interested in the fact that I had a blog. Now I'm terrified he's going to find it on the web. I just Googled myself. Thankfully the only things that come up are the blind songstress and my books. However, I will be deleting blogs from MySpace that link to here. And I'm going to have to read through the posts to find anything incriminating...like the ones posted Monday through Friday during daylight hours. Ack!