Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Favorite Quotes:
"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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No fart, no foul
It's raining. I hurt my knee. And all I want to do is lie on the couch, eat leftover Christmas fudge and read my ultra-running magazine. That's wrong, isn't it?
Injuries - in this case an aggravation of an old injury that is entirely my own fault and I should've seen coming four track loops away - make me cranky. First of all, there's the fudge. If you just got back from a run, you can eat the fudge largely without much guilt. Lying on the couch, it's another matter, and that's enough to piss anyone off. Chocolate depravation is not the way to get on my good side.
And then there's the endless daily rotations of physical therapy, ice, ibuprofen, cross-training, more ice, which - let's face it - is bound to spiral into a fudge fest at some point. There's only so much one woman can take. Especially with the farting. The farting is really what pushed it over the edge.
Unable to run, I've been dragging my sorry, limping self to over-priced spinning (i.e. stationary bike) classes, along with my ice, knee brace, ibuprofen and bad attitude. The fudge I left at home. This will turn out to be a mistake.
Like all real estate in L.A., even spin floor space is precious. Bikes are shoved in cheek to jowl. You have to develop anorexia just to squeeze between them to get to your equipment. The only way for this not to dissolve into "Lord of the Flies: The Sequel" is for everyone to be very, very polite. Forget what your parents told you before strapping on your angel wings for the preschool Christmas pageant, THIS is the time to be on your best behavior. That means, above and beyond all else, no farting. I can't possibly overstate this.
Picture the scene. Everyone is up out of the seats of their bikes, leaned over the handle bars, pedaling furiously like Lance Armstrong in the mountain stages without his secret stash. The bikes are crammed in there. Your nose is disturbingly close to the butt of the person in front of you. Dogs don't like this kind of intimacy. And what happens? If you're me, the ogre - who you just know is an attorney - in front of you let's that bean burrito lunch special rip.
There are no words. No words.
Fortunately, there was an ice pack, which turns out to make a mighty fine billy club in a pinch.
Injuries - in this case an aggravation of an old injury that is entirely my own fault and I should've seen coming four track loops away - make me cranky. First of all, there's the fudge. If you just got back from a run, you can eat the fudge largely without much guilt. Lying on the couch, it's another matter, and that's enough to piss anyone off. Chocolate depravation is not the way to get on my good side.
And then there's the endless daily rotations of physical therapy, ice, ibuprofen, cross-training, more ice, which - let's face it - is bound to spiral into a fudge fest at some point. There's only so much one woman can take. Especially with the farting. The farting is really what pushed it over the edge.
Unable to run, I've been dragging my sorry, limping self to over-priced spinning (i.e. stationary bike) classes, along with my ice, knee brace, ibuprofen and bad attitude. The fudge I left at home. This will turn out to be a mistake.
Like all real estate in L.A., even spin floor space is precious. Bikes are shoved in cheek to jowl. You have to develop anorexia just to squeeze between them to get to your equipment. The only way for this not to dissolve into "Lord of the Flies: The Sequel" is for everyone to be very, very polite. Forget what your parents told you before strapping on your angel wings for the preschool Christmas pageant, THIS is the time to be on your best behavior. That means, above and beyond all else, no farting. I can't possibly overstate this.
Picture the scene. Everyone is up out of the seats of their bikes, leaned over the handle bars, pedaling furiously like Lance Armstrong in the mountain stages without his secret stash. The bikes are crammed in there. Your nose is disturbingly close to the butt of the person in front of you. Dogs don't like this kind of intimacy. And what happens? If you're me, the ogre - who you just know is an attorney - in front of you let's that bean burrito lunch special rip.
There are no words. No words.
Fortunately, there was an ice pack, which turns out to make a mighty fine billy club in a pinch.
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