Spot Check

September 30, 2024

Do you ever get these reminders that people see you or think of you differently than you see/think of yourself? My salsa amiga, Joy, came for dinner a few nights ago. We ordered in, and as we were waiting for the delivery, I offered her a choice of white or rosé wine. It's September, so I am in the mood for using up the rosés. I could have gone either way, but she chose the rosé. We settled onto the den sofa with our glasses and tucked our feet up under us. It's what we do when we spend time together at my house. And then we dish. Mostly about the men, our salsero novios. It's a festival. But, as we began, she suddenly complimented me on my face! It is an aging face, and that is what I see when I look in the mirror. I do my best with it, but let's face it, aging is a bitch and it shows on our faces. But, Joy seemed to see my cheekbones and my eyes in a better light.

I am with a man who doesn't compliment me on things like this, so it is nice to hear it from a girlfriend. Don't get me wrong. As a boyfriend/partner Joel is exemplary in most areas of our relationship. But he just isn't very complimentary. At first it bothered me. If he didn't comment on a dress I was wearing, I stopped wearing it. Ditto perfume. But now I know it's his quirk, and I remind myself that you can't always get what you want, but it you try sometimes you just might find, you get what you need. I just made that up.

My dear friend, Connie, recently commented that I am so organized. Clearly, she has never seen my office. I used to see myself as organized, but I hit that tipping point where once you lose control of something, you start losing control of everything. This generally starts with people's garages. With me it started when I needed to bring all of my mother's files and stuff into my home. And then, when I sold my business, more files. So my tipping point occurred in my office. Easily remedied. I now work at the kitchen table. The office desk is a goner.

While I no longer see myself as organized, I do see myself as regimen-oriented. I fall off of my regimens often, but like in meditation, the object of the exercise is in getting back on. I try to meet my mornings with tea, meditation, and journaling. I try to work out on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays with a different cardio-with-weights workout on Saturdays. I don't eat meat on Fridays. I only have an alcoholic drink on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and the weekend (I don't drink a lot. I just drink often). But all of this is subject to change or to just throwing it all into a jar, shaking it up and seeing what spills out. Again, regimen-oriented, definitely not regimen-bound.

But, back to the sofa. It has become one of my favorite things, to hang out with my friends in my house. Am I getting lazy? I do think since the pandemic some of us would rather stay home. I get a lot of social time outside my house when we are dancing at clubs. And I leave the house almost every day for errands. But being at home, hanging out with a friend, brings the satisfaction of not running around, dealing with traffic and parking, and the often loud volume of gen Zs and electronic music in a restaurant.

Still, we left home last Saturday to meet our friends, Todd and Christopher, at a local Italian restaurant. Joel and I hadn't been to this restaurant, so I was overjoyed that we really liked it. We have needed to add an Italian to our restaurant rotation. And it was a lovely night with these friends-as-family whom I have known for many decades. I came home with the leftover brussels sprouts which were insanely tasty. And then, because it was Saturday night and only on Saturday night, I pulled the container of spumoni ice cream from my freezer and grabbed the box of Keebler Sugar Cones from my cupboard. Ten minutes of softening time and I scooped and packed a mound of ice cream on top of the cone and settled down on that same sofa to enjoy my weekly Saturday night treat.

Much later, while watching an episode of Divorce I felt something itching on my chest. It is mosquito season and much as we try to keep them out of the house, mosquitos happen. But I was alarmed to find a crusty, scaly growth on my upper chest. What the hell? I ran to the bathroom where I saw a reddish-greenish-brownish spot. OMG, what is that? Of course it was the weekend, so there was no getting to my dermatologist, Dr. Os, and frankly, I'm not that person who runs off to the doctor for every little thing. But maybe this wasn't a little thing. I rubbed at it tentatively. And... it rubbed off. It. Rubbed. Off. And then it dawned on me. I can construct an ice cream cone that could stand up against any Baskin-Robbins' employee. But. I don't have the paper cones that keep the ice cream from dripping from the bottom of the cone. And, let's be honest, I was kinda reclining when I slurped up that cone. The reddish-greenish-brownish spot was a jot of cherry/pistachio/chocolate that got away from the bottom of the cone ('cuz I like to mash it down in there as I'm eating it). Great cheekbones? Organized? Let's face it. I am more accurately described as messy, especially when it comes to my Saturday night treat. Luckily, a body scan was not required.  

Chicken Fingers

Los Angeles, California

There is a restaurant space near by home which has housed a lot of different restaurants. Back in the '80s it was what we used to call a coffee shop, which was named Pages. It shared a parking lot with Jane Fonda's Workout, and became a popular place to go after morning workouts. Once, after eating breakfast with two friends from class, a group of teachers walked by our table and we started throwing our buttered toast and bacon onto each other's plates so we wouldn't get caught eating fat after a workout. Ah, youth...

I don't remember what the restaurant housed before Pages, but afterwards it was another coffee shop. And then a popular barbecue chain, Tony Roma's, which it remained for a long time. During the pandemic and after a long construction, the building was painted orange and opened as another coffee shop/diner, Norm's. Norm's is famous in Los Angeles but couldn't cut it at that time in this neighborhood. Recently, rehabbing began again and a sign went up: Raising Cane's Chicken Fingers.

Now, I'm not taking that 'fingers' thing literally. I've seen this restaurant before in a neighboring community, and the chicken thing is going strong: Popeyes, Chick fil-A. Dave's Hot Chicken (that one is pretty good). So the appearance of a chicken finger joint shouldn't raise any cain (get it? Hah!). However, it has.

I do not indulge in any social media. If I made a list of the ten things I am most  proud of in my life, that would come in, let's see, probably around five. No Facebook. No Twitter, no X (yeah, I know, that's the same thing). But a neighbor suggested I get onto Next Door. Hated it. But recently, when there was a lot of helicopter commotion in the neighborhood, I decided to log on. And there was a string of indignant uproar about the chicken finger restaurant opening in the neighborhood. The most virulent complainer was a man. Named Karen. And I am kidding. I have a good friend named Karen who is the least Karen-like of anyone I know.

The complaint was against fast food. It's chicken, for God's sake. Not even the other white meat but the actual white meat we compare the other one to! Where does all this righteous virtue-signaling come from? It makes me tired.

And the new kid on the block is alcohol. Whether this is tied to a recent study which proffered that no amount of alcohol is good for you or just the newest of influencer trends, I don't know. Nor care. This reminds me a bit of Butch and Sundance poised on a cliffside with the posse closing in. Sundance is afraid to take the long jump into the river because he doesn't know how to swim. Butch laughs and admonishes: The fall'll probably kill you! We live in Los Angeles. I don't know the odds, but I'm thinking that our chances of dying on the road or freeway is probably greater than having a glass of wine each night. Or eating chicken fingers. What a world; what a world.

Maybe Not

Los Angeles, California

The debate will be on shortly, and I will definitely be watching it. In fact, I am praying before this debate. So much is riding on the coming election. However, but, instead... I've decided to take a break from politics, religion and sex (alphabetical, not preference order) and explore other themes, if you will.

In the afternoon hours leading up to the debate (last mention, almost), I needed something light to watch. It is the last day of a weeklong triple-digit heatwave. This morning, I had to undergo a nerve-racking test related to the health of my eyes, and Joel kindly went along with me. Afterwards, we went out to lunch, to Walmart to buy a new ironing board cover (see how mundane things here get when I stop writing about politics, religion and sex?), and to the market. We came home exhausted and HOT (heatwave. one week. over one-hundred degrees). Joel left for his home, and I unloaded groceries and finished up a few more chores before taking a break and turning on the TV. CNN? No, not yet. MSNBC? No. FOXNEWS? Never. Surfing around, I landed into the middle of When Harry Met Sally.

Strangely, Joel is of the opinion that all women love "chick flicks" and all men love action movies. Really. I am not a flick chick. I find most romantic comedies to be insipid and stupid. The men of my previous relationships were not action movie (dick flicks) guys. One loved crime dramas. They all enjoyed classic films like Casablanca and the Marx Brothers. My high school boyfriend was also a western film lover. Kinda blows the guys & action films (which are even more insipid and more stupid) theory.

But there are chick flicks and there are chick flicks. If it was written or directed by Nora Ephron, I am in. Her writing and directing was clever, witty and polished. I am a greater fan of When Harry Met Sally than Sleepless in Seattle, and I hadn't seen WHMS recently, so I gratefully dropped into it. It was a perfect pre-debate distraction. On this watching, I was particularly taken with Carrie Fisher playing the Meg Ryan character's best friend. She had a unique voice, and I was reminded of listening to an interview she did with Terry Gross on NPR's Fresh Air. In it, she reminisced about her marriage and relationship with Paul Simon. As I remember her telling of it, at a particularly tumultuous time in that relationship they had been arguing all night. In the morning, Paul Simon took her to the airport where she was flying from NYC to LA. Before boarding the plane, she turned to him and said:You're going to be sorry if the plane crashes. And Paul Simon replied: Maybe not. This probably doesn't read very funny, but as she told it to Terry Gross it was hilarious. Maybe because we relate to those times when the coin has landed on the other side of love and we are feeling maddeningly hateful. But then later, we realize the aspect of absurdity that exists in many of our battles.

Writing of celebrity marriages, I am reminded that Julie Andrews once noted that her marriage to Blake Edwards survived because of a great deal of therapy. I could be wrong, but what I recall reading was that she attributed it to both their individual therapies as well as couples therapy. Blake Edwards was a genius of comedy. Someone who worked with him once told the story that when he was in production on a film, and sitting in his director's chair, he could sometimes be observed shaking with quiet laughter. And those were the times when the crew knew he had come up with an inspired gag. Do you know the farce scene in Victor, Victoria when James Garner and Alex Karras are, on a snowy night, sneaking in and out of the hotel room shared by Julie Andrews and Robert Preston? When Alex Karras, coming out of the room into the hotel hallway with his coat and hair clearly covered in snow, is surprised by another guest coming out of an adjacent room, he covers his skulking by asking the guest: Do you have heat in your room? Purely Blake Edwards.

Victor, Victoria isn't really a rom-com. With it's music, and wry wit, it is much more than that. And that is what I have always loved about Blake Edwards' comedies. It provides more than whatever. And (because I cannot stay away), it is what I wish for tonight's debate. More than whatever. Will we get that? Maybe not.