May Have Side Effects

There is a weird side effect that comes with living in Los Angeles. It’s that the surreal can become reality like *that*. For instance, one could be walking to Trader’s Joe to purchase lunch and see a guy standing on the sidewalk talking on the cell phone. He is dressed in a rumpled navy-colored tee shirt and old ratty jeans. He looks suspiciously like Joaquin Phoenix, at which point, a media-savvy person would think, “Wow, that guy looks like Joaquin Phoenix.” However, being that this is L.A. and I do work across the street from a studio, one's brain quickly follows up with, “Oh my god, is that Joaquin Phoenix?” (It wasn’t.) Not that I would do anything even if it was an accidental star sighting because the other side effect that comes with living in Los Angeles is that you kinda get over it (or at the very least, seem like you're over it). So, if the gentleman outside TJ's was Joaquin, the most I would do was take a long surreptitious look then run back here to blog that I just saw Joaquin Phoenix. (I didn’t, but, really, that guy looked like him.)

The X Factor

Do we ever really grow up? I'm not talking about the American obsession with youth that causes thousands of people to go under the knife for a "refresher" (which, BTW, I saw Loni Anderson last night. Yikes!). I'm not even talking about the fact that you don't feel much different than you did at eighteen (alright, maybe twenty-four). I'm talking about those moments when you feel like you did as a kid, that there are some great mysteries that will only be revealed when you hit some magic age like twenty-five, thirty, fifty-two. Like my mom used to say, "You'll understand when you're older." Except, I got to twenty-five and thirty, and there were still some things I didn't have a clue about. And I have a sneaky suspicion that fifty-two won't be all that illuminating either. Which then makes me wonder if I missed something along the way. Like the day you faked a stomachache to get out of Bio Lab, but then you missed Algebra where they explained literal numbers and now you'll never really know how to do trigonometry and you can just forget calculus. That's how I feel sometimes. Like somewhere down the line, I missed a day in school and now I'm irrevocably left behind. X = ...something.




Sometimes, I think X = Significant Other. Maybe that's cultural, too. Woman + Man (or woman, depending on your preference) = satisfying life. "I'll be fulfilled when I find that special someone." Although, every single married person I know basically screams from the bottom of the canyon, that I should not jump off the bridge just because they did. In fact, they assure me that the bridge is pretty terrific. Good view, plenty of space, and you can go at your own pace. Don't leave the bridge. This, however, is a double-edge sword. There are experiences I won't have if I don't leave the bridge, and there are times that I feel like I'm being excluded from canyon experience based on the fact that I'm not married. "I didn't think you would be interested, it was just couples." Or "You can come if you want, its just going to be me and John and this couple we met on our honeymoon." "You are so lucky you don't have a husband, you don't have to put up with his bad habits!" I'm often the third or fifth or, god help me, ninth wheel. Its a tad embarrassing, slightly uncomfortable, but mostly infantilizing feeling. Couples over here, kids and singles over there. "You don't understand. You don't know. Maybe when you're older." I think about the years I spent thinking, "I'm young! I'm only 19 - 22 - 24. There's plenty of time for a boyfriend!" and worry that I lost out on valuable playing-the-field time. Not to see what was out there, but to learn how to flirt, date, be a girl in the company of a boy. Do you know I've never necked in a movie theater?! I can't help to feel that there was a rite of passage that I totally missed and somehow that's screwed me up for about two decades now. "If only I allowed Jim Flanagan to kiss me during The Cutting Edge. I'd totally be married right now!"



This much I know is true. X does not = Career. Woman + Career = worry and fatigue -- which will age a girl. I'm always thinking that there is something more I can be doing in this particular area, and that I've possibly screwed up along the way here, too. "If I just stayed in publishing, I'd be further along." Which is a complete lie as all my publishing friends are pretty much one step up from where they were when I left and not running their own imprints yet. So, I don't know why I keep thinking I'm behind the eight ball on this one. But with the economy being what it is and corporate America downsizing while globalizing, the uneasy feeling that I might not be the heir to the Oprah Winfrey throne has taken root and -- unlike my career -- flourishes in a way that suggests that anxiety is psychic Miracle Grow. Naively, perhaps, I do believe that I'm young enough that this might change. I mean, I don't feel like an adult. So, maybe, right?

In the end, I don't think anyone ever feels truly like an adult. That is, if "adult" means having all the answers. Sure, there's tons of things that I understand now that I wouldn't have had the capacity to understand at 10 - 18 - 23. And, more than likely, the X Factor probably isn't just One Thing. It's an ever changing myriad, different for each person, based on an equation like Woman + X \ Time = Satisfying Life. But I haven't a clue. I either missed that day, or I'm not old enough to know yet. Maybe when I'm fifty-two.

Thanks to craneshot.blogspot.com for the shot of Loni Anderson.

Cat Lover

It has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt that there are Cat people in this world and there are Dog people. I am a Dog person who is surrounded by Cat people. Yesterday, while we were waiting in line at Space Mountain, my mother told me about a "nightmare" she had the night before in which she had left the care of her two cats (amend, her one cat and my sister Kate's cat that my parents shelter) in the care of her brother while Mom was on vacation in California. In the dream, my mother checked up on the cats to find that the girl cat was preggers and the boy cat was missing. As I said, this was deemed a nightmare and, personally, I would love to know what dream analysts would say about my mother's psyche. I have a feeling it wouldn't really be about the cats or her permissive brother. That aside, it wasn't until this morning when I checked in over at Meg and Rachel's blogs -- both of which mentioned their cats -- that I realized that just about everyone I know loves their cat(s). And while I like cats and don't mind the odd cuddle and pet, I just don't feel the love. Go ahead, call me heartless, all you Cat people. Call me cruel and unfeeling. But at the end of the day, I'm a Dog person. I love dogs. I like how excited they get when they see you. How they want to be near you. How they want to accompany you everywhere. How they express exuberance at life, like everything is just one amazing spectacle. They are like 6-year olds with ADD. Cats are like 15-year old teenage girls. Maybe I want to be with you. Maybe I don't. For now I will tolerate your good will towards me.

I'm allergic to cats. One could hypothesize that this is the root of my non-Cat love. But one would be wrong. I didn't know that I was allergic until I was a teenager, and by then I was already begging, pleading, hoping, and Birthday-wishing for a dog. I think this is just instinctual. Like liking horror movies or spicy food. You either like it or you don't. I wish I were a Cat person. Unlike dogs, you don't have to rush home to let a cat out. Or fear what your cat might have done to your favorite pair of heels that you forgot to put away before you left for work. Or feel miserable every time you walk out the door and have to shove her nose back inside as she tries to sneak out behind you. And as a single girl of a certain age, it seems I'm destined to be an old maid who should collect a bazillion cats to keep her company until she dies and her cats eat the squishy parts of her face. But I won't be the Weird Cat Lady at the end of the block. I just don't feel the Cat love. Instead, I'll be that old lady walking her German Shepard...in the rain...picking up its man-sized poo with a biodegradable blue bag bought for the purpose...until she dies and he gnaws off her femur.

Evolution

My parents are in Los Angeles. (Pray for me.) I kinda like visitors because it gives me free reign to be a tourist. A typical American tourist in my own town. It’s very freeing. You get to dress badly, act a little crazy, and laugh like you’re never going to see any of these people again…and, really, I probably won’t. I like the bus tours, the amusement parks, and eating out at semi-good restaurants that charge way too much for draft beer. I like taking goofy pictures with my loved ones. I like making them take the goofy picture because, in spite of themselves, they usually get a laugh out of it later. (I know I do.) But what I probably like the best is how tired I am at the end of the day and how my body feels the next day.

People are not made to be sedate. I often imagine that if we keep going on the way we are, we will evolve into Gollum-looking creatures. Our metabolisms will have sped up because we will require less food, but consume more. We will have curved backs, pasty skin, and long, long fingers due to the numerous hours spent inside and hunched over a computer keyboard. And our consumer culture will have infected our psyches to the point where we will be greedy, greedy, greedy. (Oh wait! We already are!) Anyway, we are currently far away from our nomadic days, but I find that I still feel better after a whole day of walking – like traversing the theme parks and even those charity walks like March-of-Dimes ( I’ve always wanted to do that Avon Breast Cancer Three Day Walk for the Cure.) – than spending a couple hours at the gym where I inevitably end up like I finished an unappealing task.

Today, I’m back behind a computer. My legs feel solid, my back feels stretched, and I feel relaxed. And while I’m grateful for the respite, I’m looking forward to Wednesday when I drag them down to Anaheim! Hmm, do you think I can get Frank to pose with Grumpy?

Used Book Buyer

Yesterday, I was given the task to order three more books of a title we're adapting into a script. As I come from publishing, I usually try to buy new and in hardcover. Keep those editors employed! Unfortunately, though, in this case, said book is now out of print in both hardcover and paperback. Ergo, I had to order used copies from Amazon (I'm sure I could have used another service not Amazon, but Amazon makes it easy, so...whatever. Not the point. Anyway...). Back when I started buying used, I would scope out the cheapest price as most of these blokes selling titles out of their basement actually make their money from the shipping fees. But lately, I've made a shift. I've been looking for name brands. IE Privately owned bookstores that would have been put out of business by Amazon and B&N and Borders if they didn't start using the net to their advantage. While I appreciate Uncle Jimmy's entrepreneurial spirit in hawking Grandma's old Harlequin titles, I would much rather keep Powell's alive by paying $13 for their "used-good, with some highlighter markings", than JimmyBeatsWorld's $0.99 "USED-V.GOOD, CHEAPEST PRICE ON THE NET!!!".


We live in a branded society. Afterall, when you want to satisfy that hunger, don't you reach for a Snickers? And if you cared to send the very best, wouldn't you send a Hallmark? (The answer to that last one, BTW, is YES.) I mean, perhaps I am brainwashed to believe that Hastings is going to give me better service because they're pretty big for a little chain. And, OK, yeah, I feel good whenever I buy from BetterWorld. I just can't help to picture African children crowding around a truck laden with books the same way we see footage of them clamoring for bags of rice. (Shut up.) My favorite place to buy from, of course, is the Strand. Whenever I click on "add to cart", I picture myself browsing those dark shelves or think about those times I dragged friends and family down there to sell my books for pocket change. I want the Strand to be right there in Union Square forever. Which is why, even if their prices are a bit higher than KittyKate, I'm going with them. Because I know that rent prices in NYC are awful, that the people who work there are even bigger book snobs than me and deserve a living wage, and that, in the end, by buying from a reputable place I'm still supporting the publishing structure (whether by keeping them a viable retail outlet, or at the very least as a place where Editorial Assistants can get pocket change).

Thanks to http://newyorkdailyphoto.blogspot.com for the photo.

Poli-psy

So, just took this test:

http://typology.people-press.org/

And I came back as a liberal. I ask for a moment silence while my inner-Republican mourns.

BYOB

I was at Target over the weekend and the woman in line in front of me had two of those Target re-usable sacks that everyone is using now instead of having to choose between paper and plastic. At first, it made me ashamed that I still haven’t gotten fully onboard with this Save the Earth thing that seems to be going around these days, but then it made me wonder when we switched from carting our hand woven baskets to the market to the store supplied paper sacks that continue to live on at Super Stop Shops. Things that make you go “hmm.”

You gotta love the internet, don’t you? For every stupid curiosity you have in the world, someone is out there with the answer. In this case, about.com. The first historical notation of paper bag usage comes from England in 1630. Good golly! But the custom didn’t really get moving until the Industrial Revolution when an American, Francis Wolle, patented a paper bag folding machine in 1852, and then – my favorite – Margaret Knight, an employee at a paper bag factory, figured out how to make the flat-bottomed grocery bags that was a precursor to the bag we know and love today. (Before that, they were folded like an envelope. Weird.) Anway, Ole Meg almost didn’t get the credit. This is comes from ideafinder.com:

About two years after the Civil War she went to work for the Columbia Paper Bag Company in Springfield, Massachusetts. While in the factory, she invented a device to cut, fold and paste bag bottoms. Initially her employer complained about the time she spent on the device. When she suggested she might consider selling the rights to him if it worked, he gave in. After doing thousands of trial bags on a wooden machine, she had an iron model produced in Boston.

However, before she could place the patent application, she found a man named Charles Annan who had studied her machine while visiting the factory was attempting to a patent machine suspiciously similar to her own. Knight, 33 at the time, filed a patent interference suit against Annan. She played to win, spending $100 a day plus expenses for 16 days of depositions of herself and other key Boston witnesses. Annan claimed that because Knight was a woman she could not possibly understand the mechanical complexities of the machine. Due to her careful notes, diary entries, samples and expertise the court ruled in her favor.

That Annan guy went on to patent his tweaked version anyway.

And as for the plastic bag? That came along in 1977. Odd to think that they came along during my lifetime, and might be fazed out during it too if this Bring Your Own Bag fad continues.