A Japanese Drag Queen Walks in the Door....

Not even kidding, the other day, a vintage, Japanese pop-star Drag Queen walked into my store. Here's who I'm talking about:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J136WjKxkbY&feature=related

He/she carried a ceramic she-chicken like a bouquet of flowers before buying a large aluminum abstract painting. It was all very spectacular. Cards were exchanged, I immediately found youtube evidence (see above) of his/her validity and thought about how he/she must feel to be so famous on one island and so anonymous everywhere else. I also thought about his/her translator. The whole interaction was done through her (definitely a her) because, even though the "Frank Sinatra of Japan" (more evidence):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMYiKzPkraQ

had been in the public eye for decades, and traveled and performed throughout the world, he/she still didn't speak enough English to conduct a pretty simple business transaction.... but he/she did have an iPhone. Without the translator, not even I, who has been to Japan, bought Japanese cars, electronics, and sushi, and who fully acknowledges that Asians are taking over the world, I have not even learned enough Japanese to say, "Thank you for spending a few thousand dollars here today."

How did this happen?

This got me thinking about communication and technology and all the wonderments therein.

Technology: the Great Equalizer, Communicator, and Divider.

The Japanese pop-star drag queen just bought a condo around the corner from me, but I will never see her/him again. He'll be in his iPhone and I'll be in my computer. I'll be talking to all of you in English, he'll be connecting with friends in characters.

Sixty years ago, everyone in our neighborhood would know about the new guy/girl and everyone would have an opinion about it. Now, we barely notice. We're busy! We have apps to play with and second cousins in Germany to facebook. We'll be translating and navigating and constantly evolving our new language of inter-web, passing over opportunities to learn dozens of legitimate languages. I've been promising myself to learn some Spanish for years now, but I just don't have time since I'm still trying to work out effectively communicating sarcasm via text message in 160 spaces or less.

What's funny about all of this is that even with my cell phone, lap top, desk top, GPS, and camera, I'm still behind the times. I learned at the Apple store the other day that now you can get all of that in one nifty little hand held device... and more!! I felt really old when I had to ask the 12 year old who works there where the power button was.

Some other side effects of all of this technology that I've noticed include intense awkwardness at cocktail parties. Its almost as though no one really knows how to start up a conversation anymore. Lacking this skill fades the subsequent tradition of courting. Once upon a time, I've heard tell, a gentleman would meet you, send you a cute note and flowers. Then he would actually show up at your door, take you for a "tour of the gardens" and then a few days later, have dinner with your parents. Nowadays, you get excited if he finds you on facebook and you're lucky if you get more than a "hi" via text message (was that a sarcastic "hi"? or was it sincere? Do I just say "hi" back? Would it be weird to ask for a picture because I really don't remember what this guy looks like...).

Are we losing our innate human skills of socialization in exchange for online social networking? Or are we upgrading? Are the subtle nuances of pleasant conversation being lost to phrases like LOL? Or is this truncated version an improvement?

Sixty years ago, before the little "i" was attached to anything, Mr. Fabulous-Japanese-Drag-Queen and I would have considered ourselves neighbors. We only live a few hundred yards from each other. We probably would have found a personable way to communicate, and, I like to think, we would have become friends and exchanged beauty tips. But these days, I'll probably just see him on TV... and wonder what's happened to the ceramic chicken.

Somehow in Transit

When you really think about it, airports are kind of amazing. 

They sit like small metropolises, filled with people of every age, shape, size and occupation. Most have restaurants and shops. Some have metros and moving walkways. They're glowing little transit centers - modern day oases specifically designed to facilitate the weary traveler in their journey. A stopping point to rest up and refuel or a starting point for the next adventure. Airports are the beginnings of your vacations, your resting place between meetings, your safe haven from the elements. Need to charge your cell phone? Have an outlet! Care for a pretzel? Or maybe a money exchange booth? There they are! Right next to each other. So convenient. 

What I particularly appreciate about the harbors of the sky is the temporary anonymity and the autonomy that they provide. Because I know no one there and I don't have any place to be until my flight begins boarding, my mind gets a break from focusing on the little things and has time to consider the Big Picture. Since I'm in my egocentric early 20's, the Big Picture = Me. And My Life. And where it thinks its going. 

Of course, when I am in an airport, I know exactly where I'm going. I know how I'm going to get there too and what I'm supposed to do until then. I have my routines and I go through the drills. Begin with security. Show ID. Take off the shoes, take off the belt, take out the little plastic baggie with my harmless little travel sized shampoos. Wait for the guy who doesn't know what he's doing to make a few trips through the metal detector. Be patient. Go through the metal detector. Collect my shoes, belt, plastic baggie, find the departure screen. Appreciate the myriad of possibility each listed city represents. Find a snack and a magazine. Go to my gate. Chat up the gate attendant for a window seat. Sit down somewhere and watch the people go by. Take a deep breath and think.... 

Having those few hours just to kick it have become crucial to my mental health in recent times. During the typical stop-over, no one expects me to answer a phone call or be anywhere. Technically, I'm on the go, and so that itch to be doing something is already satisfied just by showing up. There's no pressure to be making friends since I'll probably never see the nice old lady sitting next to me ever again. It would be physically impossible to take care of all of the overdue errands I've been meaning to get to. And so released from those responsibilities, I can seriously consider my future and the scary facts of my current situation. 

Scary Fact #1: After 5 years of specified study and one year on the career path, I don't like the field I've chosen. A shocking revelation, to be sure. I feel like there should be support groups for stuff like this. Hello my name is So-and-So and the focus of my adult life sucks and I no longer want any part of it. 

Scary Fact #2: My unique set of skills does not really equip me for many other industries. Not the way I thought it would when I chose art history classes (which I loved) over biomedical chemistry classes (which I just kinda liked). 

Scary Fact #3: The economy. 

Scary Fact #4: I'm terrified of poverty but for some reason, I still feel like I can be picky when it comes to taking a job. 

So now what? Do I go back to school? Learn something else? What would I study? I'm young enough. I could still become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a Pirate Queen, or.... realistic. I have the world at my fingertips, but what do I do with it? Its like standing in front of the departure screen, choosing a city. All you really have to do is pick a gate, cash in your frequent flyer miles and get on the plane. 

Just pick a direction and go. Go. 
... 
Airports are awesome... if you're leaving soon. 

Sun vs. Skin

Two years ago, sitting on a beach on the Greek island of Mykonos, I fell asleep in the warm Mediterranean sun. It was lovely, relaxing, calming. Until I woke up.

Sunburns are never pleasant and sun allergies bite the big one. Unlike any sunburn, during an allergic reaction, your skin will not only burn to a red onion like crisp, but it will swell and itch and become as hot as the surface of Mars. I know this from first hand experience, because when I woke up on that beautiful beach, an allergic reaction to the sun quickly followed. My eyes, as though trying to expel some toxic chemical, teared up and a mucus formed at my tear ducts. My throat swelled and swallowing became very difficult. Episodes of extreme fatigue washed over me every hour of my trip. My whole body was sore and I felt like an overgrown Oompahloompah. I avoided cameras.

That trip was definitely a learning experience. I learned precisely how rare aloe vera lotion is in Greece and how expensive specialized allergin soothing creams can be. I also learned that perfect health isn't part of the formula for an awesome vacation.

Though lots of lounging was done in Greece that summer (thank God), there was too much to see and do to sit around all the time. My gracious host and super cool friend filled my activities calendar with the perfect amount of interesting stuff, some of which we did together, and some that I got to do alone (fun fact: my toenail polish perfectly matched the marble of the Parthenon -- it was magical). We went on little outings to grocery stores and great auntie's house. We went to the mountains and out to the beach. We went on trains and boats. Coffee shops and clubs and we met up with a couple other Greek-Americans who spent their summers visiting the home-homeland.

On one such outing, we went to some posh club in Athens that sits on the waterfront and pumps techno out over the sea. There were three of us: me, my hostess, and one of her Greek-American buddies who also went to UVA, Harry. We danced and drank and carried on with several groups of people speaking languages I did not understand well until the wee hours of the morning. We were by no means the last to leave the place, but when we wandered back to the metro, I distinctly remember dawn quickly approaching. It was a Saturday night, so we ended up merging with the early Sunday morning church service crowd. Since it was 4 in the morning though, our car was mostly empty save for this old man who came and sat directly beside our little group.

Now, I don't speak any Greek. At all. But what happened next didn't require much translation. The old man began to mutter, as old people taking mass transportation tend to do. We thought nothing of it, until his mutter turned to yelling, and his hands began gesturing. Out of my dazed stupor, I realized that he was yelling at us! AND, he was looking at ME!!! Hang on a tic! I'm doing nothing but sitting here swollen! Is my discolored skin that insulting?! I looked to my friends with a bewildered expression. ("Wtf?") They said he was yelling about disrespect and the flats of my feet. ("Wha...?" )

Apparently, in last-generation Greece, its a serious insult to show someone the bottom of your foot. I was sitting cross-legged and, as swollen as I was, that meant that the bottom of my foot was pointing up and out rather than down and over. Oops.

Here's where it became epic: Harry, who is a dear sweet guy a few years younger than me, doesn't appear to be the heroic type. If there is a confrontation, he seems like he would be the witness hoping it would stop, rather than the initiator standing up for justice. And usually, with most guys his age, personal comfort takes priority over a damsel in distress. Even though in that particular situation I wasn't really distressed (I couldn't understand anything Old Man was saying, so how could I get upset about it?), I was getting uncomfortable. I was beginning to wonder what I would do if this guy got really out of control. Could I punch an Old Man in the face? Could I move my arm? Just as I was trying to remember what have fully functioning limbs felt like, Harry spoke up! He spoke in Greek, so I didn't understand until later what he was saying, but he looked like he was making really good points. His voice took a controlled tone of authority. His posture was straight and unflinching. It was the Young vs. the Old, David v. Goliath, Respectful Sanity up against Unreasonable Anger. Young Harry talked this guy down from Crazypants Land! The Old Man stopped his screaming, and walked away!

When all was translated later, I learned that Harry had argued that I wasn't Greek and couldn't be responsible for unknowingly insulting someone in such an obscure way. I felt protected. An unwitting foreigner understood and defended by the natives. It put a grin on my face for the rest of the day and Young Harry became my friend.

I've loved Greece ever since.

Post-Break Up Detox

For those of us prone to falling in love hard and, some might say, idiotically, there will undoubtedly be a number of pitfalls. After all, if there's only supposed to be "The One," all the other ones will have to be heartbreak. (Unless of course you're a super model with amazing self-assurance and security who only dates fellow insanely beautiful and emotionally stable people for sport. THOSE people need not read further. They may go for a roll in the Egyptian cotton below deck of their yachts, thank you very much.) As for everyone else, we get it now; the Disney format isn't real. Chances are, one isn't going to wake up to a kiss from a handsome prince on their 16th birthday and get whisked away in a deluxe chariot wearing glass to live happily ever after in a ridiculous house in the hills. Most of us have to kiss/date/fall for/get dumped by a number of frogs before we find "The One." Of course, rarely do we just walk away from someone we've sworn to love inside and out for the rest of time. Nononono. There must be some drama. Some kind of emotional turmoil and unrest before we can learn, grow, and please oh please, move on.

But how? What to do with all of this heartbreak until then? Well, Disney? Where's the fairy tale that plays out THAT scenario?

Things get a little dicey without a Disney movie to show us how its done. I have experienced this crap a grand total of three times now, and I barely know what to expect, much less how to deal with it. I've even gone so far as to research the subject. I've taken a number of surveys, all of them ending in depressingly optimistic anecdotes along the lines of the "give it time, there are more fish in the sea" nonsense. Unable to hear such logic and reasoning, I've turned to literature, and by literature, I mean self-help pamphlets I find next to the blood pressure monitor at CVS. And by self-help pamphlets, I mean de-toxicity assistance manuals. Thankfully, there are plenty of programs to help the smack addicts find solace.

Nowadays, with only a will to carry on and a number of Addicts Anonymous hotlines, I've developed the Post-Break Up Detox Program. Its a bit unstructured, but I'd like to think that that will enable a broader interpretation and allow for people to use this as they will.

The first phase of PBUD will be the withdrawals. You'll have the shakes, the tears, and the night terrors, naturally. Your shakes might cause you to look for things to steady your hand, like the phone, which you'll use to call your true love for comfort. Instead you'll get more rejection, leading to the tears, and then you'll pass out from exhaustion imagining the very worst: He's off shacked up on some yacht with Giselle ignoring the finer points of Egyptian cotton.

Phase 1 will transition to Phase 2. Refusing to sleep (for obvious reasons), you'll begin to spend your nights tossing, turning, and moping. I, personally, like to call and cry to people in different time zones, waking them up at all hours and severing any and all ties I ever had to happiness and friendship.

From there you'll move right along to Phase 3: loss of appetite and foresight. You'll realize that he's over you and yes, moving on without you, and you'll attempt to waste away like the remaining pieces of your shattered heart. Food will lose all flavor, you won't have the stomach for anything, and all you'll be able to think about is how ugly the future looks by your lonesome. You'll consider investing in cats.

Don't worry. Eventually you'll get hungry and then you'll rediscover Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream!! This is Phase 4, the Phase of Seeking Happiness through Gluttony. There will be food, shopping, perhaps extravagant adventures you can't afford, but who cares!? "Its all about me now!" you'll say, to what's left of your friends, and you'll order a second dish of Thai food and another round of... beverages.

At some point, you'll hit rock bottom. The Low Point. The part when you think it will never get better. These will be the days when you just canNOT plaster a fake smile onto your face or even pretend that another box of girl scout cookies will make this better. The ugly days. Everything you notice will remind you of the perfect relationship you've lost and the wonderful guy you had to let go of. You'll feel awful and pathetic because you won't have let go, you might even want to call him or plan to run into him somewhere, like in his parking space, and your stomach aches from eating far too many thin mints. In this phase, you'll just want to curl up in your crappy polyester sheets and forget you ever existed. This is Phase 5. It sucks and for most of us, its inevitable.

Luckily, following Phase 5 is PHASE 6!! Thank goodness for Phase 6. Phase 6 is Awesome. Phase 6 is just the most amazing, most wonderful, most bestest thing you could ever hope for. In Phase 6, the sun rises up, the light fills your room, your bladder forces you to stand and stagger over to the bathroom, you get a glimpse of yourself in your mirror, and you think, "O Dear God, get me out of this mess!" And then you my friend, have arrived in The Future.

The Future is a wonderful place where you have to consider no one but yourself. You get to go places and do things that you want to do whenever you want to do them. You get to wear whatever you want and shave whenever you feel like it. You get to meet new people and see new things. You can change your hair, or your personal style, or just your sheets and no one else will think twice about it. You can go see that movie you wanted to see and not worry if anyone else wants to see it too. You can eat like crap or you can eat like a vegan health fiend and no one will accuse you of going on a false diet for a day. You can have a quarter life crisis career change and move to Sedona to become a crystal vibrations specialist, or you can just redecorate your apartment. The Future is just so great because the possibilities are endless and they're all about YOU!! Its like, your whole world just revolves around just you! and no one else!! This is, decidedly, a very good thing.

Following the Phase of the Future is Phase 7. Not everyone gets to Phase 7, so wrapped up in The Future Phase that they think they're cured and have survived Post-Break Up Detox and they're on to better things. Good for them. However, some of us feel as though we must not only survive, but rise above. Others of us just aren't so lucky and we still have a bit further to go. That's what Phase 7 is for. Phase 7 is where you learn how to walk again. So wrapped up in the last Love of Your Life, you kind of forgot how to take care of yourself (this always happens to me -- wtf). In Phase 7 you begin a committed regime of eating right, exercising regularly and becoming a Babe. Step by step, you'll move further away from Heartachesucksville and closer and closer to Rockinhotchickland and you can plan on glowing when you get there.

I could tack on a Phase 8, but hopefully, by this time you've forgotten all about these phases and you're on to bigger and better things like rescuing orphans or curing cancer or something ultimately more important than whatever Detox program you were following for whatever it was that you just can't remember.

Life will have begun again and you'll be that much closer to your happy ending.

Pay Attention to the Penguins

You know That Guy who's kind of tall, kind of cute, and definitely full of himself? This is the guy whose conversation opener is mildly insulting ("You're wearing all black. Why? Did you think this was a funeral or something. Haha.") and he may stare at you uncomfortably, forcing you to ask the question,"So, what do you do?" which he will then respond to with a full paragraph on all of his interests, hobbies, and extracurricular activities. Every time you think he'll pause, he won't. And not wanting to appear rude, you'll stand and listen and wait for a moment to interject a question you may have, or continue the conversation along a vein he touched upon, or maybe, in some small way, excuse yourself. But usually, when you're talking to That Guy, he won't give you that opportunity. He will just keep talking and talking and talking, assuming that his auto-biography is of paramount importance.

That Guy can be hard to spot sometimes. After all, he is usually well dressed, projecting an air of confidence, and he most likely approached you, which is always nice. But shortly after you spot the shifty eyes looking for someone else who may have noticed him, he'll drop the casual mention of his foreign car, European travels, or work-out schedule to make sure you're well aware of how lucky you are to get to talk to him.

Should you demonstrate that you may not be as fascinated in him as he is in himself, he may start to berate the people around you, making sure you know that he is the coolest person in the room. In this case, he may inadvertently insult you (again) not knowing that you may belong with the group of people he just slammed. Attempting to fend him off, you'll offer a shred of information about yourself in hopes that he may notice that he doesn't like you. But unfortunately, by this time, he's trying to look soulfully in your eyes, as if he's found something in you that he couldn't find in anyone else. (That would be the lack of an escape route.) He'll lean in. Maybe find some way to touch your arm or waist. Fearing the worst, you'll turn away, suddenly engrossed by the restroom placard across the room. And then, he'll ask you the first question of the night, "Do you want to get out of here?"

Merde alors.

Aside from the fact that he is That Guy and no one with any shred of dignity would ever go anywhere with him, is such an advance really prudent on his part? I could be a crazy person! I could be riddled with STD's or be carrying drugs in my purse or be MARRIED! I mean, Lordy! That Guy doesn't know ANYTHING about me, except maybe my name, if I even gave him my real one.

Granted, it is entirely possible that he just wanted to get out of the venue and go somewhere quieter and less crowded. Let's not make assumptions. But still, after 20 minutes of hearing him talk about how he wanted to be a spy when he was a kid but how he works for the environment now and isn't that different from what he what he thought he would be doing at this age and surely you couldn't tell he worked for an environmental organization because didn't you notice? He's wearing Italian leather loafers. He has made it abundantly clear that he's not really interested in you. He may be interested in doing things TO you, but he's waaaaay more interested in telling you all about himself.

Unfortunately, laughing and leaving at this point is usually interpreted by That Guy as the beginnings of a fun cat and mouse game. For the rest of the night, he'll lear up behind you and jump in on every conversation you have with anyone else. He'll misconstrue their faces of confusion for those of awe, and when he thinks you're not looking, he'll shamelessly lean in on any other girl gone unattended.

But there is a God, and I want to thank that Dear God. For he created the sun, which produces heat, which is absorbed by tall buildings; and raises the temperature there more than a few degrees well into the first few hours of the night. Thank God for this heat, which accumulates as people gather and drink and dance. And thank you very, very much dear Lord, for the three piece woolen suit that looks so terribly uncomfortable on That Guy as he stands on the 32nd floor of a Los Angelian loft party sans AC. And finally, thank you God for the fortitude and strength you gave me to wear that light weight, all-cotton, all black American Apparel dress all night long.

No. I did not want to get out of there with That Guy. No, I wasn't hungry. No, I didn't want to go someplace else with cheaper drinks. No, I wasn't too hot either. The temperature for me was just right. As was the music, and the people and the catered lemon square desserts, thank you very much.

Since he never asked any questions, he'll never be able to find me again.

Career Counseling on the 405

Between cutting people off and inching through gridlock, I alternate between L.A.'s Best Worst radio stations and Think.

I honestly wish I could do less Thinking in traffic. Productivity via cellphone was greatly reduced after I got a $145 ticket for driving on speaker phone. Without a connection to the outside world, being crammed between a MAC truck and a minivan, and watching my gas gauge slowly descend, my thoughts tend to stray to the demented, crazyface side of things. TrafficThinking is kind of like alcohol, if we were all angry drunks. Your thoughts go in circles, random tangents, but mostly downhill. Like being drunk, your emotions ebb and flow, but in traffic, they do so with the speed of the cars around you. "Are we going?!" (hope, happiness, excitement) "No." (sadness, depression).

Lately, I've spent my traffic time wondering what I'm going to do with my life (confusion, panic). I learned recently, that if you have the basic needs of food, shelter, and clothing, you're better off than 80% of the world's population. If you have ANY money on top of that, even if its just the change in your pocket, you're better off than 90% of the world's population. That puts me in the 10% of the worlds population that is most likely referred to as the Rich Bastard Selection by everyone else. One of the fortunate few financially, and born in a land and time where I personally face no persecution, oppression or discrimination. Quite the upper crust, by international standards.

My body and brain feel hardwired and geared to FIND A MATE, MAKE BABIES, but I have every opportunity to do something other than that and generations of people have worked, fought, and died for these privileges to be born to me. And believe me, I'm grateful! and I've tried to take full advantage, but recently, I feel as though I've reached a point where I have no direction, no goals, and man do I feel guilty about it. Am I letting everyone down by not knowing where to go from here?

To be fair, this is my first year of liberation from formal education. The first year where I have no classes filled with individual goals (assignments, grades) and no greater goal (graduation, further education). I no longer have peers, I have co-workers. Instead of grades, we have paychecks. We don't have to show up. We could just as easily go someplace else. Its all options and limitless opportunity. I'm at a restaurant with a 20 page menu, a credit card, and a rumbly tummy, but I have no idea what I want.

Since cluelessness is the one conclusion I can draw, for now I go through the motions. Work as much as possible. Fill the remainder of my schedule with as many interesting things as possible. Wait for inspiration to strike. I change the radio station yet again, try to avoid eye contact with the weirdo staring from the station wagon next to me, wait for my exit to creep up over the horizon, and I just... keep thinking....

How to Date a City

Should you ever find yourself single, friendless, and living in a strange city that for even stranger reasons you refuse to leave, I highly advise you to put down the mallomars and get out of bed. There is a better way!!!

It doesn't matter why you're there or why you can't leave or that you're planning your escape and just waiting for the opportune moment so why should you make any effort. Because for now, You. Are. Home. Maybe you don't identify with this place. Maybe you don't like its smell. Maybe all the people you interact with on the regular Suck with a capital S. Whatever the case may be, the stress and anxiety of hating where you live will make you wrinkly and fat before it kills you undramatically and in a most depressing fashion.

If you do manage to avoid ugliness and obesity, that may be because you're on drugs or worse, have found love. But addictions are not the way to go. In most cases, either love will run out on you or you'll run out of drugs. So, if you can't be in love where you live, may I suggest that you love where you're living.

Even if you live somewhere where the very air makes you want to vom, other people have found happiness there, and you too can accomplish that. Each week set aside some time during which, under normal circumstances, you would be dating a potential life partner if everyone in your city didn't suck so much. Plan out a night that pushes your limits beyond your front door, or maybe, just drive around without a map or a GPS. Go online and find the Best Ofs in your city. Find the Best Bakery, the Best Restaurant, the Best Outdoor Music Venue, and then GO THERE. There's a reason its the best right? You don't need anyone to go with, you have yourself and you're pretty sure you're the coolest person within city limits. Dress up and wear whatever you want. Go eat something at that place YOU want to check out and then enjoy your food without distraction and savor every single morsel and maybe flirt with the waiter because its not embarrassing if no one is there to witness!

Check out Yelp.com and DailyCandy.com and get their weekly emails. Before you toss them in your cyber-trash, take a quick look and see what they've found in that horrible place you live. Maybe there's something there that you wouldn't expect from the 7th circle and just maybe you're not really doing anything that night anyway, so you might as well see what Helium Ballooning is all about.

Remember, during every period of courtship, there are hard times and doubts -- an unsteadiness as you get to know each other. Not every day is a picnic, but when you're patient and you listen and when you put your expectations on hold for a minute, the goodness is revealed and suddenly you find yourself smiling, and giddy, and excited to be part of something greater than yourself. Before you know it, you'll start focusing on the beautiful things and you'll accept the stuff you just can't change. And one day, when some jerk from some place else starts ripping on YOUR town, you'll find yourself standing up for it with the very passion you had previously reserved for loathing it. Because HEY! I LIVE HERE!!

Whatever you do, at the very least get to know your city, because when you leave, you'll be from there. You might as well know what you're talking about.

Oh the places you'll go...

This past week:

1. Rowing on the Ocean

2. Moonbouncing in Griffith Park

3. A theater with couches for seats

4. Hotel soirees with cabanas and flat screens

5. Restaurants where nothing is in English

6. Invitation only bars

7. Highschool parties with your boss's son

8. The trash compounding plant

9. Movies by your lonesome

10. Infraed saunas

11. An acupuncturist

12. On the search for the city's best burger

13. Book stores hosting readings by the author

14. Mansions in Bel Air and Beverly Hills

15. Overpriced boutiques with FANTASTIC sales

16. On set

17. Gay bars with straight waiters

Psyched out by Psychology

If you ever need a good scare, read Psychology Today. Ironically, the theme of last month's issue was relationships. The writers shared many insightful theories on attraction, courtships, break ups and of course, love in general. Usually, I adore reading Psychology Today. Its always a good time and I finish with it feeling like a smarter person. But, when I was done with the Love Issue, I found myself playing a numbers game. Somehow my love life became a mathematical equation.

Here is what I learned:

It is so difficult to date in New York because women, who do the choosing, naturally (meaning evolutionarily) reject the first %34 of their dating pool before then settling on the next best option that crosses their path. So, if you're living in a cave somewhere with a bunch of hunters and gatherers and there are 10 men who fulfill the height, weight, charm, and social requirements, a woman will date 3.4 of them before settling on Dirrrk. Nice and easy.

However, if you're in, say, Los Angeles, where there may be 1000 men (or more) who comprise your dating pool. A woman will have to date 340 of them before finding the most suitable partner. And that's dating, not just meeting them once for coffee in order to cross them off the list.

Also according to P.T., it takes three years for the addiction to your partner's pheromones and body chemistry to level out. This means that its only after three years of constant exposure to that person's smell, your attraction to them sublimates from lust to love, IF there is any love there to be had. Therefore, psychologists highly recommend couples marry only after that three year anniversary.

Another fun fact: The most successful marriages occur in couples who met between the ages of 22 and 25. Apparently it is within this age-range when both men and women are focused on mating yet still developing emotionally allowing them to forge their lives together.

Additionally, a healthy marriage, as calculated by Psychos Today, will remain childless for about 5 years allowing the couple to grow together (or grow apart) and accumulate savings so that they may be financially stable enough to provide well for their off-spring.

Interestingly enough, the chances of having a pair of twins increases by %30 if the mother is impregnated after the age of 35. Also, the chances of birth defects or high-risk pregnancies increase as well. In other words, if you don't want your third child to be born with a tail, finish by 40.

And, since its at age 40 when healthy child reproduction ceases to be the standard, pre-menopause begins and so do the male mid-life crises. Recent studies have shown (whatever that means), that when a man has a mid-life crisis it isn't due to any physiological changes on his part, but on the part of his female mate. It is when his woman is no longer capable of bearing his children that the man feels the urge to find someone who can.

Wow. Let's recap. If one is to finish having children before she turns 36 and, for the

psychological well-being of those children, to have more than one child (let's say two) spaced about 3 years apart AND if she is to be married for 5 years before that AND have dated the guy for 3 years before that she has to meet him, and begin to date him, by the time she turns . . . 25.

Lest we forget to factor in the Theory of Dating Evolution: Once she meets this guy, she must begin regular exposure to his particular brand of endorphins (is there an iPhone app for that?). Depending on her location, she might have to weed him out of a large city, and shoot! Dating takes time if you're not a slut about it!!

Like I said, all of a sudden my life love just transformed into a time-space continuum. This is scary stuff.

And I haven't even mentioned the worst part. The worst part, is that ALL of this is dependent upon the very frustrating crux of the matter: is HE single and ready for commitment?

Merde.

June Bugs

Since its always something....

This month its bug bites. I don't know how I got them. I've cleaned my room, my sheets, washed every piece of cloth in extremely hot water, treated my mattress for bed bugs, had my landlord spray down the entire house for everything else, and I've started showering twice a day. Its strange -- these bites are only on my feet and around my ankles. According to the interweb, they aren't flea bites or bed bug bites and they're too small and flat to be mosquito bites, and they don't look like spider bites either. I'm clueless and uncomfortable and beginning to wonder if I shouldn't spread lambs blood over my door frame to save my first-born.

Even though its only my feet that have these mystery bug bites, I find myself twitching and scratching like a crack head needing a fix. That one infected area has a rippling effect throughout my entire body and I'll feel a random and sudden twinge on my left shoulder, or my right inner ear, or anywhere else. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm being bitten all over.

This morning, as I was rubbing benedryl gel into my toes, I started thinking about the rest of the little bugs in my life. To be honest, things could be worse -- as in, sleeping-under-a-bridge-eating-out-of-a-trash-can-selling-my-body worse, but I have been feeling incredibly uncomfortable and unsettled recently. I can come up with a few reasons for this, but I don't like any of them.

And so, like the invisible army of mites that attacks my lower appendages (When?! Where?! HOW!!!??), I am unable to pinpoint the source of my unrest and am left to experiment for the cure.

Why is it always so easy to know what's bugging us, but we forget what makes us happy?

Due For An Upswing

Dear Los Angeles,

Its been six months now -- six months that I've existed under the heating lamp of your smog. Six months of trials and tribulations and parking tickets, and I get the message. You've made it abundantly clear. Evidently, you just don't want me here.

First it was the rains that flooded the streets of the Valley and turned my car into a life raft. Then it was the hoodlums in Downtown who busted my little car's window, stole my GPS and Dior lip gloss and didn't even have the courtesy to close my doors all the way to preserve the battery. And then there were the friendly mechanics in Hollywood who fixed my window, but tampered with my brake lines. That was a close one and you almost got me there. If it weren't for the off ramp on Tujunga, that semi probably would have killed me that night.

Maybe I was naive, thinking you would abide by the rule of three like every place else in the universe. By January, you had lulled me into enough of a sense of security to actually go to a doctor here, my dear Angels. But when that OBGYN mis-diagnosed me for STIs and neglected to treat my minor UTI, I caught on. Of course, by that time I was in the emergency room with anti-biotics and modern day morphine being pumped into my veins. Needless to say, I spent that time praying I wouldn't have to have surgery on my infected kidneys. Escaping you didn't even cross my mind.

Then you sent me that sweet sweet man who stood by side and drove me back to the emergency room on Valentines Day when my digestive tract shut down in an allergic reaction to the cipro treatment I had been given to clear the infection. If it weren't for him, I might have left when my asshole roommates got upset that I started dating instead of going to aerobics classes with them. But I must say, it was clever of you to make finding another apartment so darned tough! I mean, really, just because I never had a credit card doesn't mean I'm not a reliable tenant! But I know now that that's not what you think. After looking at only 44 different apartments in three weeks, I found just what I needed. Who cares if it doesn't have a kitchen or a parking spot!

The twist I applaud the most though is that doozy of a car accident on Santa Monica and Highland. To this day, I can't go through a yellow light without worrying that an SUV is going to turn left into the hood of my car and come a mere 18 inches from killing me. The timing was a little rude, however. Couldn't you have postponed the accident until AFTER I'd finished moving? But whatever. I was only homeless and car-less for about a week.

Post-accident, began the regime of pain killers. You remember those bad boys? It was cocktail of vicodin and muscle relaxers that got me through the day and allowed my body enough movement to keep my job. Not that I could enjoy the numbness of prescription drugs. I was busy learning how to secure a loan and buy a car because you're bankrupt LA! and not enough of the logic and reasoning backing a reliable mass transportation system will convince you to make one!! But I digress.

Eventually, after avoiding the usual scams and shams that pass for used cars these days, I found one I felt I could go into debt for. I was able to settle into my little room and relax enough to get off the meds. Of course, you're gold digging floozy LA, and such a sweet life doesn't come cheap. Finding a second job here was almost as entertaining as finding an apartment and a car, but you are the land of opportunity and I got lucky. Though, I didn't know it would come at a price. Getting dumped right then wasn't cool, but I guess it had to happen if you were going to drive in the message that you're over me.

So don't worry, Los Angeles, I do understand -- I'm not that blind. I know that you think I don't belong here. I know you think I should pack my bags and run for the airport. You've knocked me down, Los Angeles. You've stolen my stuff, my money, my health, and my heart. You've confused me and berated me. Tricked me and abused me. But here's the thing, LAaaah. I know you're not such a bitch. I can see that beneath that tough exterior lies the heart and soul of a beautiful place and I am determined to co-exist with you, maybe even woe you. Whatever happens between now and whenever I do decide to move some place else, I'm going to get to know you like the back of my hand and at the VERY least, get my lip gloss back.

Love,
me

p.s. Bring on the summer months, boo. I'm ready and wearing sunscreen.