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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"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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Internet, Meet Fred
I just bought a plant.
I know that sounds like one of those boring things people post on Facebook along with pictures of the salad they ate for lunch, but trust me, it was a moment.
My husband collects orchids. He doesn't just collect them and love them and talk to them, he rescues them. Other people leave orchids - and in some cases plants they think are orchids but aren't - on our doorstep like babies in baskets. (Yes, really.) One had a note that said, "save me." His hairdresser has instructions to call him when the orchids in the shop go out of bloom just in case someone tries to hurt one in its dormancy. All of which means I am married to the ridiculously handsome version of Nero Wolfe. And that means I'm allowed to touch the plants in our house pretty much never.
Okay, so yes, one time I left a candle burning too close to a phalaenopsis, and it got a little singed. It was an accident. I apologized.
But now I have gone out - and by "go out" I mean "go on the internet" - and purchased my very own plant. I have named him Fred.
I know that sounds like one of those boring things people post on Facebook along with pictures of the salad they ate for lunch, but trust me, it was a moment.
My husband collects orchids. He doesn't just collect them and love them and talk to them, he rescues them. Other people leave orchids - and in some cases plants they think are orchids but aren't - on our doorstep like babies in baskets. (Yes, really.) One had a note that said, "save me." His hairdresser has instructions to call him when the orchids in the shop go out of bloom just in case someone tries to hurt one in its dormancy. All of which means I am married to the ridiculously handsome version of Nero Wolfe. And that means I'm allowed to touch the plants in our house pretty much never.
Okay, so yes, one time I left a candle burning too close to a phalaenopsis, and it got a little singed. It was an accident. I apologized.
But now I have gone out - and by "go out" I mean "go on the internet" - and purchased my very own plant. I have named him Fred.
Meet Fred.
Fred came with his own little house, which means my plant owns more real estate than I do. Fortunately, I don't hold a grudge about these kinds of things. I think we're going to be very happy together.
Right, Fred?
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