Los Angeles, California
It's here, and will the world stop? For those of you living out of the Los Angeles basin (or east of Fairfax, as the current joke goes), Carmageddon is the word, reputedly first used by Councilman Zev Yaroslavsky (though there is a computer game by the same name) to describe the anticipated chaos of this weekend's closure of the 405 freeway.
Now, the 405 freeway was called the San Diego Freeway when I was growing up and freeways all had names and off ramps had no numbers (actually, I find the off ramp numbers quite helpful, especially when navigating to somewhere new, worrying that I might have gone too far, and not trusting my navigation system as she led me astray once in an appalling fashion). Anyway, the ol' 405 was cut through Sepulveda pass way back when, and it used to be a lot less congested than other freeways in the area, but no more. All of our freeways are clogged with cars, most of which have one person in them, and that would be the driver. And, more and more people keep pouring into Los Angeles. They are young. They are hip. And they ALL want to work in the industry. Don't get me started as I've covered this sufficiently in a previous post entitled The One-Year Anniversary of Neighborhood Chaos (and available here for a very small cost).
Here are the two big preguntas about this weekend's closure: Will it be a chaotic nightmare beyond all imagining? Will they get it reopened Monday morning on schedule? Will it solve the problem? Ok, I know, that's three questions. I threw in the middle one for the fun of it. But the big question as discussed on my local NPR station which broadcasts from Pasadena (an area that shouldn't be affected by Carmageddon anyway, so why are they getting involved, I ask you?), is the latter one: Will it solve the problem? They are adding additional lanes, including a car-pool lane (once called a diamond lane, I suppose for it's preciousness?). Will more people double up in their cars in order to take advantage of this? Doubt it.
I did come up with a solution to this some time back. I thought that we could solve the problem of traffic in Los Angeles, if everyone who was born in a different state had to return to that state. That's it. Simple. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine, she protested that she and her husband (New York) would have to leave California, in that case. "Well," I said. "I have to make sacrifices as well. My mother (Ohio) has to leave. And Billy (Minnesota) has to leave." She wanted to know what I wanted to do with people who were born in other countries. I didn't have to ponder that. I kinda sorta like the multi-culturalism of Los Angeles, especially as reflected in the Latin-American origins of California. And I don't want to appear ethnocentric. So, basically, they all get to stay. "But," she said. "This would be something a totalitarian government might do!" I had a ready reply. "Sweetie, this isn't about politics. It's about traffic . . !"
We used to really love our cars here in Los Angeles. At least before they became movable containers of anger, angst, and anxiety (the real Triple A club of motoring). I have carried on a pretty good relationship with most of the cars I have driven, since learning to drive in my dad's Alfa Romeo. In fact, I got on quite well with that first car, much to my dad's dismay. You see, my much-older sister wasn't much of a driver, and didn't learn to drive a manual shift. So, my dad decided he was going to teach me to drive in his manual-shift, red, convertible, Italian import. Guess whose car I wanted to take to the beach on Saturdays when I got my license the day after my sixteenth birthday? An Aristotelian tragedy, that! I piled girlfriends into it (it had a shelf backseat), and motored through Malibu canyon as often as I could wheedle the loan of it. This was an experience so memorable, that the first car I bought with my own cash was a brand-new, white, convertible VW bug. My third in a long succession of all German automobiles, and probably my favorite to date. But I digress . . .
So, Carmageddon. This weekend. How will it all end? Gridlocked misery or trumped-up doom-prophesying, much like the anticipated hell of the '84 Los Angeles Olympics (which turned out to flow perfectly in all manner of ways including southland traffic)? But, just in case, we are sticking around our neighborhood, as advised, for the duration. A little gardening, a little cooking, a little hanging out by the pool. As I always say, when the cosmic trafficmeister hands you a lemon, it's always smart to spike some lemonade. Thank you for reading my blog. Vaya con huevos!
July 15, 2011
July 1, 2011
Frenemies
Los Angeles, California
Yes, it's come to that, and you must have known it would. I've been on a bent of bitching, complaining, and whining -- in spite of my annual observance of Lent, and my code of doing what Sandra would do. I do try. I really do. Seriously. But sometimes things, and people, get under my skin. This is one of those times.
I'm pretty nice. I know that word gets a bad rap, but it really shouldn't. My goal in dealing with family and friends is to try to do the best I can do. My philosophy is that it is daunting to try to change the world at large, but making a difference in my circle, in my home and with my family, friends, neighbors, and community, is doable. I am polite in the marketplace and on the road. I think I am friendly. And I am tolerant . . . to a point.
One of my fellow Scorpio friends (who is also, incidentally, Sicilian) once told me that her instantaneous response to sever ties, when a situation has become intolerable, is not her favorite trait in herself. Survival instincts rarely are, I think. But I know what she is talking about. I call it the wall. It's that thing that happens in your mind and soul, that thing that, for me, drops down, impenetrably, and says enough. It's that thing that lets me know beyond a shadow of a doubt, with nothing I can do to change this, that I am done.
What causes this chasm to open? Usually a profound breach in the golden rule. Again, I am kind, I am thoughtful, I am polite and friendly. But I'm not inert. I expect that flow to come back at me, more or less. Some flow, anyway. And when people are short-tempered or rude, or worst of all, can't handle their own issues and act out, I am outta there. I do allow people a second, and even a third chance. But once the wall comes down, it is over. Not my favorite trait in myself, but there you have it.
Life is so short, and people are so cranky! I am often astounded by the abundance of lack I encounter all around me. Lack of concern, lack of empathy, lack of manners -- it is hard enough to do business or to be a consumer when encountering these cranky types. But what about coming face-to-face with this in your family and friends? I suppose for all of us it is sometimes a struggle to contain the caustic comment or the remark precipitated by irritation, but shouldn't we at least try?
Some years back I spent a few months screwing up my courage to confront a friend about her odd habit of eating off of my plate. She is an actress who lived in Manhattan when we first became friends. Still, we saw her often as she would fly to LA to work in the TV industry.
She kept her bad habits under wraps during that time, but once she moved to LA, it was open season.The first time I saw her with her uninvited fork in someone else’s food was at a dinner party at our house. She mostly picked at the food on her own plate, and ostensibly had finished eating when she suddenly lunged with her fork toward our friend Christopher, spearing up some pasta from his plate. After that, no one's plate was safe.
At a restaurant brunch gathering, she ordered asparagus. When it was served to her, she picked up a stalk, then wandered down the long table dipping into sauces on other people’s plates. I was reminded of that dramatic scene in The Miracle Worker, when Anne Sullivan first sits at the family dinner table, and experiences Helen blindly snatching handfuls of food from the plates of other family members.
Now, if you've been reading along or at least have read some portion of my fiftyish posts, you might garner this piece of info about me. I don't mind sharing my food. In fact, I like to share and often when out with people we share "small plates", or order one dessert with four forks. But this is a totally different thing. This is much like the high school girlfriend who goes after everyone else's boyfriend. Just because she can. This is serious boundary-crashing.
One night, after about six months of experiencing her eating off of my plate and the plates of others, we were dining at an Italian restaurant together, when, without warning, her hand darted across the table into my plate where she grabbed a large fistful of dressed salad greens from my plate, then, dripping a trail back across the table, she crammed them into her mouth, all the while continuing to talk. I knew right then that I had hit the wall.
It had taken me several months of internal debate to realize that I could either stop eating with her, or else I had to apprise her that she was in violation of my comfort zone. So after much rehearsal, I did just that. It did not go over well. Evidently, for her, having free rein to invade the plates of others was an entitlement that must stand, at all costs. As a result, we parted as friends. Billy boiled the whole thing down to its essence by casually stating that he wondered how long it would take her to realize she had lost a good friend. That made me ask myself whether I was willing to lose a friend over something like this. I wasn't, but, evidently she was.
I would like to think of this as an isolated instance, but I have learned that there is a whole world out there of boundary-crashing for sport. The challenge is to be someone who is generally nice, and kind, thoughtful, polite and friendly, yet still protect your boundaries, and with fortified armaments when necessary. Because some people, and let me not allude to their upbringing, simply won't observe any etiquette with regard to interpersonal relations. And I had a hand print in my salad to prove it.
So, sadly, I have occasionally found myself done. And, like my Sicilian, Scorpio friend, done swiftly and permanently. Even when it is a friendship that I valued or hoped would evolve to fristerhood. For being nice doesn't mean I don't respect myself, nor that I do not expect to be treated with respect. There is a definite line between friendship and frenemies. I don't like to cross it. But given the right circumstances, I can. And will.
So, don't cross me. The temperature is climbing, and we currently live in a world of earthquakes, war, and continued economic upheaval. I'm still worried about the sea turtles at The Kona Village (in the wake of the tsunami disaster there). Yet, even in light of all this, I have trust in my proven ability to make lemonade out of lemons. So if you have lemons, feel free to share. Just don't lob them at me, unless you are prepared for me to permanently disappear as your target. Thank you for reading my blog, so nice of you!
Yes, it's come to that, and you must have known it would. I've been on a bent of bitching, complaining, and whining -- in spite of my annual observance of Lent, and my code of doing what Sandra would do. I do try. I really do. Seriously. But sometimes things, and people, get under my skin. This is one of those times.
I'm pretty nice. I know that word gets a bad rap, but it really shouldn't. My goal in dealing with family and friends is to try to do the best I can do. My philosophy is that it is daunting to try to change the world at large, but making a difference in my circle, in my home and with my family, friends, neighbors, and community, is doable. I am polite in the marketplace and on the road. I think I am friendly. And I am tolerant . . . to a point.
One of my fellow Scorpio friends (who is also, incidentally, Sicilian) once told me that her instantaneous response to sever ties, when a situation has become intolerable, is not her favorite trait in herself. Survival instincts rarely are, I think. But I know what she is talking about. I call it the wall. It's that thing that happens in your mind and soul, that thing that, for me, drops down, impenetrably, and says enough. It's that thing that lets me know beyond a shadow of a doubt, with nothing I can do to change this, that I am done.
What causes this chasm to open? Usually a profound breach in the golden rule. Again, I am kind, I am thoughtful, I am polite and friendly. But I'm not inert. I expect that flow to come back at me, more or less. Some flow, anyway. And when people are short-tempered or rude, or worst of all, can't handle their own issues and act out, I am outta there. I do allow people a second, and even a third chance. But once the wall comes down, it is over. Not my favorite trait in myself, but there you have it.
Life is so short, and people are so cranky! I am often astounded by the abundance of lack I encounter all around me. Lack of concern, lack of empathy, lack of manners -- it is hard enough to do business or to be a consumer when encountering these cranky types. But what about coming face-to-face with this in your family and friends? I suppose for all of us it is sometimes a struggle to contain the caustic comment or the remark precipitated by irritation, but shouldn't we at least try?
Some years back I spent a few months screwing up my courage to confront a friend about her odd habit of eating off of my plate. She is an actress who lived in Manhattan when we first became friends. Still, we saw her often as she would fly to LA to work in the TV industry.
She kept her bad habits under wraps during that time, but once she moved to LA, it was open season.The first time I saw her with her uninvited fork in someone else’s food was at a dinner party at our house. She mostly picked at the food on her own plate, and ostensibly had finished eating when she suddenly lunged with her fork toward our friend Christopher, spearing up some pasta from his plate. After that, no one's plate was safe.
At a restaurant brunch gathering, she ordered asparagus. When it was served to her, she picked up a stalk, then wandered down the long table dipping into sauces on other people’s plates. I was reminded of that dramatic scene in The Miracle Worker, when Anne Sullivan first sits at the family dinner table, and experiences Helen blindly snatching handfuls of food from the plates of other family members.
Now, if you've been reading along or at least have read some portion of my fiftyish posts, you might garner this piece of info about me. I don't mind sharing my food. In fact, I like to share and often when out with people we share "small plates", or order one dessert with four forks. But this is a totally different thing. This is much like the high school girlfriend who goes after everyone else's boyfriend. Just because she can. This is serious boundary-crashing.
One night, after about six months of experiencing her eating off of my plate and the plates of others, we were dining at an Italian restaurant together, when, without warning, her hand darted across the table into my plate where she grabbed a large fistful of dressed salad greens from my plate, then, dripping a trail back across the table, she crammed them into her mouth, all the while continuing to talk. I knew right then that I had hit the wall.
It had taken me several months of internal debate to realize that I could either stop eating with her, or else I had to apprise her that she was in violation of my comfort zone. So after much rehearsal, I did just that. It did not go over well. Evidently, for her, having free rein to invade the plates of others was an entitlement that must stand, at all costs. As a result, we parted as friends. Billy boiled the whole thing down to its essence by casually stating that he wondered how long it would take her to realize she had lost a good friend. That made me ask myself whether I was willing to lose a friend over something like this. I wasn't, but, evidently she was.
I would like to think of this as an isolated instance, but I have learned that there is a whole world out there of boundary-crashing for sport. The challenge is to be someone who is generally nice, and kind, thoughtful, polite and friendly, yet still protect your boundaries, and with fortified armaments when necessary. Because some people, and let me not allude to their upbringing, simply won't observe any etiquette with regard to interpersonal relations. And I had a hand print in my salad to prove it.
So, sadly, I have occasionally found myself done. And, like my Sicilian, Scorpio friend, done swiftly and permanently. Even when it is a friendship that I valued or hoped would evolve to fristerhood. For being nice doesn't mean I don't respect myself, nor that I do not expect to be treated with respect. There is a definite line between friendship and frenemies. I don't like to cross it. But given the right circumstances, I can. And will.
So, don't cross me. The temperature is climbing, and we currently live in a world of earthquakes, war, and continued economic upheaval. I'm still worried about the sea turtles at The Kona Village (in the wake of the tsunami disaster there). Yet, even in light of all this, I have trust in my proven ability to make lemonade out of lemons. So if you have lemons, feel free to share. Just don't lob them at me, unless you are prepared for me to permanently disappear as your target. Thank you for reading my blog, so nice of you!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.