Of birds and b-listers

I suppose there are a lot of differences between the Daytime and the Primetime Emmy's (fashion choices and average weight per actress come to mind) but I've decided that one difference no one talks about is that the primetime actors can better hide their disappointment when they lose.

After attending a very pretentious and utterly boring fashion party last night, I came home, changed into my Target pajamas, and succumbed to the guiltiest of pleasures - watched the Daytime Emmy's.

I started watching General Hospital in kindergarten (blame the babysitter) which, in 1981-82, was the time now considered the Golden Years. Luke and Laura ruled the airwaves with their flowing manes of golden hair and Demi Moore, Rick Springfield, and John Stamos played Jackie Templeton, Noah Drake, and Blackie Parrish respectively. A change of babysitters kept me away for most of grade school, but I got hooked again in the winter of 1986 - when the Laurelton Murder Mystery kicked off with a Clue-like stabbing in the brownstone. I was hooked through the lives of Patrick and Kevin and O'Connor, Bobbie and Jake, Frisco and Felicia, Sean and Tiffany, and poor pathetic Terry who got framed for the chain of murders before realizing - while hanging off the edge of a cliff on her honeymoon - that the real killer was the man she just married.

Since then, I have grown up with the characters, as I watched throughout high school, college, and, thanks to Soap Net, the last few years in which a full time job has kept me away from midday television. My current cable package doesn't offer Soap Net, so I have actually gone a year without watching, but I plan to make a change soon, now that Robert and Anna and Robin and many of my other favorite characters have made a comeback. Watching the award show last night just reminded me how much I have missed them.

Of course, the Daytime Emmy's aren't entirely about soaps - they also honor excellence in talk shows and children's programming. Sesame Street's Big Bird, who in real life is known as Carol Spinney, last night received a lifetime achievement award for his many years on the show. I met him back in 1981 - even before I started watching GH - when my grandparents took me to the Sesame Street set in Queens. I like to tell people that I've seen him topless.

Although I suppose featherless would be more accurate.

The Thursday night theme song of my life

One of the few things I miss about living in New York is the convenience of everything. Within a five block radius of virtually anywhere in the city, you could find any kind of takeout food, at least two major supermarkets, a bodega, a drugstore, a gym or three, at least two dry cleaners, and a handful of neighborhood restaurants and bars worth popping in to if for no other reason than to say you have a neighborhood bar or restaurant. (Sometimes you do just want to go where everybody knows your name).

Not ironically, having everything at my fingertips was one of the things I was looking forward to leaving behind. I got so accustomed to having everything right there, right then, I became irrationally irritable any time I ever had to wait for something. Quite honestly, I was an impatient bitch. Because I'm far too young to start turning into an old crab, I thought that moving somewhere larger and slower might just be good for me.

And truthfully, it has been. Though you might not know it to look at or listen to me, I have mellowed out considerably in the last year. I don't necessarily scowl at the barista if they take too long to make my coffee. I accept that my errands may be on different sides of town and there may be traffic on the way. I can't buy Haagen Dazs or beer at 11 PM on Sunday? Oh well - I really didn't need it anyway. For the most part, change has been a good thing.

Lately, though, I've found myself missing the ease in which my friends and I used to spontaneously decide to meet up after work, choose a favorite spot in a well known neighborhood, and comiserate over our jobs or lack of boyfriends. No matter what time of day the email was sent out, someone would always be up for a drink - the bar and the companionship only a subway ride away. Happy hour would turn into the dinner hour, and sometimes, the witching hour, and problems were solved or at least forgotton for a little while.

Here, I am lucky that I have made some good friends with which I can continue to comiserate about work, about boys (that I am slowly feeling obligated to start referring to as men), about whatever, even though in all truthfulness we all really have quite fabulous lives and nothing really to complain about. But everything in LA is just so far apart! My friends in adjacent neighborhoods live at a minimum 5 or 6 miles away. Their neighborhood bar is the Four Seasons. Other friends live 15-20 miles away, over the hill and through the valley, and there is almost never any spontenaity - we typically plan a week in advance just to get drinks on a weekend night, at which point someone always ends up driving. Even if I had a friend next door to me, which, actually, I do, there is nowhere within walking distance to go. I know I live in one of the largest, busiest, most chic cities in the country, but honestly, half the time I feel like I've been banished to the grown-up hells of suburbia.

Don't get me wrong - it's not the heavy irresponsible drinking that I miss (she writes as her hand trembles from withdrawel), but the comfortable convenience of having my own Cheers gang so close with an open bar stool whenever I needed it. For someone as impatient as me, life doesn't get much better than that.

Raising the roof

It's too bad you're not supposed to talk about work on your blog because today was a good day. Let's just say that I've been there a year now, and well, I'm not at Romper Room anymore, so that alone is worth celebrating.

10 gallons of regular unleaded and a box of bitter to go please

Gas last Monday: $2.98
Gas this Monday: $3.13

Same gas station, same time of day. This happens to be the most inexpensive gas station in my neighborhood as well anywhere near my office in Pasadena. Did I mention that my commute is 45 miles per day, round trip? Maybe you couldn't hear me through all the dollar bills I'm apparently eating.

Of fish in the sea, a shallow pool

Perhaps you've heard of this thing called online dating.

If you're my age, and single, chances are you haven't only heard of it but you've tried it, and if you're anything like the people I know, just can't quit it. (Sorry, I know that was so three months ago.) Like most of my single friends back on the east coast, I've done Match.com; at this point we're all still single and on varying degrees of hiatus from the site. But here on the west coast it seems like everyone I know is on JDate, the online site for Jewish singles, and despite the fact that the site has tens of thousands of members, my social life incestuously keeps revolving around the same familiar few.

Before I moved to LA, I never really gave JDate much thought. I am half Jewish, and while my half is the legit half (from the mom's side!) it's always been just a half too short for any of the Jewish guys I've dated. Then again, I tend to gravitate towards the potbellied Irish drunks, so really, no love lost there. But since I've been here, JDate has been like an omnipresent character that not only won't go away but in fact keeps multiplying in the amount of times it wants to make itself known. Everyone's doing it, and by everyone, I mean the same 10-20 people I see on a regular social basis.

The last boy I dated happened to be Jewish and happened to be on Match. He must have had mixed feeling about dating a Jewess with a side of shiksa, because he was also double-dipping on JDate for a while. It didn't bother me at first, until I went out to dinner with three of my girlfriends who were on JDate, and they spent the evening comparing stories and sharing the screen names of their recent blind dates. It turned out that each of them shared more in common than they thought, and I spent the night silently praying that Double Dipper's name didn't become part of anyone's story. (It didn't. Yet.) That was just the beginning of what I was becoming to realize was a very small world, after all.

I once went to a party where my friend was convinced she recognized a guy - she thought maybe he was an actor or on a reality show. No, it turns out she recognized him from his JDate profile. That actually happens to her quite frequently now, though never to me through Match. I've been out on other nights to what my friends will deem "unofficial JDate parties" - where every Jewish Angeleno under the age of 35 is in attendance and not only have they cross-dated among my friends, they went to either high school, college, or summer camp with them too. Last night was such an evening, and I, the lone gentile (but not really! Only half!), found myself the only one in the room who didn't know anyone except the people I came with. Well, that's not true - I had met a handful of others at the last "unofficial JDate party". For much of the night I sat on the couch between two girls who had dated the same guy - who was further down on the couch - and continued to wonder how in a city of more than 10 million people, the same few continue to spin my social circle. As usual when it comes to religion, I didn't quite fit in, but didn't necessarily want to. That's an entirely different post, though.

Back to Double Dipper. Since we broke up, he has inadvertantly met two of my friends through JDate. The first wasn't my friend at the time (although that still says a lot about how small this city, and oh, JDate, is); the second recognized him upon arrival which subsequently, and understandably, ruined the mood. I can't say I wasn't relieved. Win one for the semi-shiksa.

NOTE ABOUT POLITICAL CORRECTNESS - I'll finish with a personal note to let you know that it has taken me a long time (about 3.5 hours - wow - do I have some free time! Maybe I should join JDate) to write this post because, when I first started, I wasn't sure how I wanted to put my feelings into words. Then, as it came out, I became aware that this could offend some people if they a.) actually read this, and b.) missed the part where I said that I am Jewish too; but you know, religion is a tricky thing and that's why they say you should never bring it up at parties. I suppose I could have been more politically correct in getting across my points, but I'm not yet that good of a writer. In any case, what I was trying to say is that with this whole JDate phenomenon, I feel like a fish out of water, even though to look at me you'd think I was a natural swimmer. Religion has always been an unanswered question in my life, and dating is just one big black hole. Put them together and I really have no idea what I'm talking about.

Happy Birthday, Julia!

Julia has always been one of the busiest, most driven people I know. Since we became friends in 8th grade, the girl has juggled more jobs (well, at 14 she was babysitting, but you've never had so much fun babysitting until you did it with her) and the most active social schedule, yet still found time to volunteer, go to church functions, and spread general goodness amongst everyone who crosses her path. (Full disclosure: since the church functions usually involved good looking boys, I managed to busy myself with her schedule too.)

I'm writing to Julia on my blog because she moves so often, I don't have a mailing address to which I might send a card. In fact, I'm emailing the link to about five different addresses because I'm not even sure which one she's checking this week. That's the thing about being as driven as Julia. She changes jobs so often, it's impossible to keep track of what state she might be living in this month. For now, I'm fairly confident it's either New Hampshire or Vermont, but really, she could be out saving Africa from Angelina Jolie and it wouldn't surprise me a bit.

Julia was an integral part of my high school experience, and I am so thrilled to have her as part of my life 15 years later. (Ugh - 15?!) I'm sorry I can't be there, wherever you are, but you know we will always have Montreal.

On the other hand, let's just concentrate on the future. Happy birthday!

Trade offs

I always say that one of my very favorite things about living in LA is being able to shop at Target. Yes, I know there are Target stores across the country (about 1300 of them according to the last press release I wrote, just over a year ago), so maybe I should clarify that what I mean is, the best thing about not living in New York anymore is that I can finally buy in bulk. And Target just happens to be the most fun place to do that.

Like most New Yorkers, I had no car, no trunk to load up with gallon water bottles or economy packs of toilet paper. A slave to the streets, my purchases were restricted by what I could physically carry home and up the four flights of stairs to my apartment. Not that I could have bought in bulk anyway: my apartment was about 350 square feet and had only enough cupboard space to house a handfull of groceries. And unless I wanted to share my 350 square feet with the waterbugs in the building, it was really best to try and keep groceries to a minimum.

On my first full day of living in LA I went to Target and stocked up on supplies. An 8-pack of toilet paper, a 6-pack of sponges, 32 bottles of water. You've never seen anyone so happy about wheeling a shopping cart out to her car or loading her trunk with the most boring of daily necessities. I hadn't been that excited about a purchase since the Prada sample sale of 2004. No wonder I loved LA - it was just so easy! Another thing I picked up was a 12-pack of paper towels. Or maybe it was a 9-pack - I don't remember anymore. All I know is that I have been here for more than a year and I have not purchased paper towels since. I've been working on that last roll for a good month already and I still have half to go.

Now if only I could make gasoline last that long. I wish they sold that at Target. Three bucks, my friends, three bucks...

These dreams go on

Have you ever had a recurring dream? Like the one where you're standing in your underwear at the front of homeroom, or being chased by something that you can't see but are scared of nonetheless?

I guess those are pretty general dream themes that most of us have over the course of our lives, myself included. If I've ever had one specific dream over and over, it's that I'm in college, preparing for finals, when I realize that I haven't been to class all semester. Usually it's a history class, but once in a while, for variety, I'll get a math class thrown in. (I never actually took math in college, basically because it stressed me out enough when I was awake to know better.) I'll have some version of this dream once every few months, and even more often if I'm stressed; lately, it has taken on some creative new twists.

Last week I dreamed that I was acting in a play, but hadn't seen the script or learned my lines. The first act had started, and I didn't know whether to leave the building and ruin the show or flub my lines and ruin the show. Mr. Corpuscle wasn't around, so really, I don't know what I was so worried about.

Then last night I had apparently traded drama club for cheerleading: I was about to try out for my high school cheerleading squad, when I realized that I didn't know the words to the cheer. I had the moves down (which right then should have told me it was a dream because when I actually was a cheerleader, it took my uncoordinated self at least three days longer than anyone else to master the routine) but I had never learned the words.

I find a copy of the cheer and try to commit it to memory, but then it occurs to me that I haven't actually cheered in over ten years! What if I forget how to make the perfect "V" with my arms? Or bend my wrists or leave my thumbs sticking out from my fist? What if I looked as awkward as I remember I did on the junior varsity squad?

It goes from bad to worse. Suddenly I remember that I quit the varsity squad in the middle of my junior year (that part is real), so how will I convince the coach that I want to be part of the team now? As if on a job interview, I have to find a way to explain that I'm not a quitter.

The funny thing is, I'm pretty sure this whole dream theme started because I was a quitter. My junior year of college I up and quit a history class - actually formally withdrew from it - because, well, it interfered with my social life. And why should I take it then when I could make it up over the summer when I had nothing better to do? And make new friends there? Which I did, and did. It turned out to be a better semester because I quit and a better summer because I had new boys to play with. (I mean, because I was mentally stimulated in between shifts at Bertucci's.)

Today, I don't think the dream has as much to do with my guilt over quitting as it does with the fear of being unprepared, but it's funny how things from our past can stay with us long after we thought we've put them to bed.

Time for a facelift

Do you ever just get in the mood for an extreme makeover?

Like, all of a sudden, every single piece of clothing in your closet is wrong, all wrong, and you need a full wardrobe overhaul, like immediately?

No, me neither. But the pink blog was starting to grate on my nerves. All pink all the time might work for Barbie, but I’m feeling less Barbie these days and more, well, me. And nothing says “Lori” like a display of self-absorption, especially if the display is sunbathing in Tony the Tiger sunglasses.

But seriously, once I learned that you can customize these neat blog things, I became obsessed with wanting to do so. After all, I spend hours writing on this site, sharing my thoughts and experiences through posts so carefully crafted I’m embarrassed to admit how long the writing sometimes takes me. While most of the posts don’t delve much deeper than the surface of my everyday life, it helps me just to have a place to put these thoughts, and know that somebody, somewhere, might be reading them. For better or worse, this blog is a direct reflection of my personality; it seems silly to have something so personal introduce itself to the rest of the world with a generic image plucked from cyberspace.

Of course, I didn’t do this myself. Sarah from Wicked Pixel Media worked her magic with only the picture I sent and some phrases I threw at her before I’d even had a single cup of coffee. Phrases like “retro”, “nostalgia”, and “don’t make it look like One Day at a Time.” I think she did a great job. Don’t you? I mean, this is so much more Charlie’s Angels.

87 and still crazy after all these years

Happy Birthday, Papa!



(Did I mention that I bought a scanner along with my new computer? That means YEARS of long-forgotten pictures can now be brought to life on this site. It feels like MY birthday!)

My grandfather turns 87 today; but if you are a pretty girl, he might tell you he's turning 88.

If you ask him what time he's going to the dentist, he'll tell you 2:30. (Tooth-hurty).

Every time a cousin passed their 5th birthday, we had to spend the year explaining to Papa that we were not, in fact, sick, but six years old. (He's not hard of hearing. That's just what we, on my mom's side at least, call "the MacBlogger sense of humor.")

On my 6th birthday, Papa bought me a record album (a 45 if you want to get technical) that played my very own birthday song. It went like this (insert "Lori" for "Jason"):

In case you don't have the technology to enjoy this bit of nostalgia, well, I'm really sorry for you because it has completely made my evening, but just in case I've copied the abridged lyrics below as a tribute to the man of the day:

Space command to Zoom
All systems are go for your message to Papa

Hey Papa!
It's your birthday!
I'm in charge of the stars
And I'm here to say,
Hey Papa,
You're the BIG STAR, today!

My name is Zoom
And I live on the moon
But I came down to earth
Just to sing you this tune
Cause Papa, it's your birthday, today!

A present for you I wanted to find
An outerspace creature
A one of a kind!
A wild whop or a kukelchoo,
An apple drop or a buzzardstew
Or maybe a 3-eyed tickleshay
For your birthday

I searched behind the clouds and stars

I even zoomed my bike to Mars
And met my friend the saucer man
And he said: "Hey Zoom I got the bestest plan!
What your friend needs is something new,
So how about a song, just from YOU?"

And so tonight when you're in bed
I'll be singing to you as I zoom overhead
Singing, Papa, Happy Birthday!
Singing, Papa, Happy Birthday!
Singing, Papa, Happy Birthday!

To you!

A kismet kind of night

I wrote recently about how I've been experiencing a great number of coincidences as of late, and last night was another such night that has me thinking I should get my own personal astrologer on retainer.

I was headed to an industry event at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel, to which I've only been once, and only to drop someone off. Unaware that the hotel had two entrances, and essentially, two separate buildings, we inadvertantly went into the wrong entrance. I should have known it was the wrong entrance when the first person I saw was John Stamos. Yes, yum. As I tried desperately to control my googly eyes, I hear my name being called from across the room. It's Ryan, who's doing PR for a charity comedy show there. Considering I know so few people that actually do entertainment PR, and go to so few industry events myself, it was kind of weird to run into him at all the possible venues in Los Angeles. Okay, very weird. Susan Miller, can you hear me?

We finally figured out that our event was in the OTHER building and so headed that way. There was one minor celebrity sighting, but major in my book - Ted King/Alcazar from General Hospital. FINALLY, after 20+ years of being a fan, and a year in LA, I get a soap star sighting of my very own. It didn't escape me that John Stamos was also a GH star from back in the day. All I'd need is a Jack Wagner (Frisco) sighting and I could die happy. Mmm. ANYWAY...

We left the party early to meet another friend out for dinner, and rode down in the elevator with the same two women we rode up with an hour earlier. Realizing the coincidence, we made a joke and started chatting. As it turns out, the woman runs a beauty PR agency here in LA and was with her daughter, who works there. For 20 minutes we talked nonstop, playing the name game and swapping life stories as we waited for the valet.

It is sometimes so easy to love this town.

Today's Buzz

I got a nice shout out on LA Observed today, and, as a result, had more traffic in one day than I normally exerience in an average week. Okay, let's be honest - an average month. Now, of course, I feel pressured to write something fabulously witty and "only in LA"-ish; but, wouldn't you know it? I got nothing.

So let's talk about Katie Couric instead. You know, because she's so LA. (I'm kidding. That's me being a sarcastic New Yorker. Get it?)

While Katie's resignation and move to CBS was no surprise (at least not to anyone who reads Gawker), I was still sad to see her announce the news this morning. I may be one of a dwindling few that still likes her, but, well, I do, and moreso I like the dynamic that she and Matt had on the show. (Oh - look at me there - I said "had". I guess I'm moving on just fine.) Sure, she could be annoying sometimes, and once in a while, self-righteous (uh, this was meant to be a nice tribute, I swear), but I think that's part of what made her - and the show - so interesting. Rival Diane Sawyer is a fine journalist, but at 8 AM, comes off a bit one-dimensional compared to Katie's love-her-or-hate-her persona. As for what Meredith Viera will bring to the table, well, let's just hope she brings anything but Star Jones.

Note that Katie was out all last week on vacation, no doubt preparing for the big announcement and the onslaught of media attention sure to follow. Gawker noticed that she looked particularly well-rested on Monday, suggesting that an eye lift may have been on her time-off itinery. I, too, noticed the change, but after studying her on Larry King tonight, I'm convinced she only had some strategically placed Botox and very well placed fat or Restalyne injections.

How about that? I brought it back to an LA topic after all.

Next stop: Boca

Please join me in honoring the long, hardworking, and fruitful life of my 8 year old Toshiba Satellite Pro 4600, who yesterday entered permanent retirement.

Toshiba, or Tushy, affectionately, had long served as my one-stop-shop "home office", providing me with an internet connection and the option of doing work any time, anywhere I pleased. Over the years we have together searched for jobs, shared music, swapped passwords, tried online dating, started a blog, fought viruses, and, oh, moved across the country.

Originating in the archaic laptop era of 1998, Tushy got her start in Massachusetts, working not-so-hard for the money for my mother, whose primary computer need was an internet connection. After two years of SPAM and not-so-funny forwards, my mom had had enough of email, and passed the computer down to me, who found herself in the office every night until 10 PM (or until I got drunk on the Bombay Sapphire kept in the agency freezer. Whichever came first.)

So Tushy was packed up and moved to New York, where she thrived under my frequent use and tender care. I took her into work and had her connected to all of our professional programs. I downloaded games, upgraded software, and typed the hell out of her petal-soft keys. And then I got greedy.

IPod called in the summer of '04, but neglected to mention it wasn't compatible with my Windows 98. On one long, hot, summer day, I downloaded both iTunes and Windows XP, successfuly bringing myself into the 21st century; but Tushy - getting old and set in her ways - did not like this new software essentially coming in to redecorate. She started acting very slow, taking at least 10 minutes to warm up before she would let me work. That was annoying, but dealable. Until I packed her up to move again.

Always the trooper, Tushy made it to LA with nary a scratch on her, or so I thought. She even let me hook up to Verizon problem-free, and accepted my digital camera software without a hitch. But somewhere in the move she lost her voice - the computer literally hasn't broadcast sound in a year. That's a comfortable silence when I'm surfing the web; but not so good for downloading music. Her warm-up grace period went from 10 minutes to 15, and she began acting flaky and forgetful without warning. I figured she's either adjusting to LA extremely well, or preparing to join the flying toasters and dancing babies of yesteryear to a better, less congested information superhighway in the sky.

Though my Toshiba can never be replaced, I have accepted a new Gateway into the family to serve as my primary "home office". Clearly a male with his bold black keyboard and imposing 17 inch wide screen promising tech nirvana - More DVD, More Web, More Everything - we're still getting acquainted. In the meantime, Tushy is comfortably resting on a new shelf, free from all the wires and cables that have virtually and literally chained her to my whims for the past six years, wondering what to do with her newfound freedom. Gathering dust just isn't her style.

Browning and Whitening

I have a confession to make: I am tanorexic.

For more than ten years now I have been a regular frequenter of tanning salons, requiring a weekly or every-other-week fix of artificial sun to keep my naturally olive skin from delving too far into its natural greenish-yellow undertones. When I'm not tan, I look sick. Or maybe just ugly. But I'm far too vain to pinpoint the exact color line at which I go from looking like a human being to something that has risen from the dead, so for all intents and purposes, I tan.

Yes, I know how bad it is for me, but no, I can't stop. I started as a freshman in college - that very first week, perhaps. Dorm life meant that people would be seeing me at all hours, without makeup, and I am far too considerate a person to inflict my pale green face upon these strangers without reason. So I started for that. And then I got into working out. And the idea of looking at pale white arms and legs in the wall-to-wall mirrors was again, too much to inflict on my fellow gym rats. It was really quite selfless, you see.

During this time, though, I realized that the tanner I was, the less makeup I had to wear. And that was nice, because I saw far too many other girls with streaks of foundation running across their chin, two shades darker than the color of their neck. I needn't worry about blush looking like warpaint or like I'd been attacked by bronzer. Nope, one tan a week and I'd be out the door with lipstick and a swipe of mascara - as easy, breezy, and low-maintenance a girl as you could get.

I may be addicted, but I'm not crazy. I tan only enough to get color; not so much that you'd mistake me for a leather handbag or confuse me for my mother (who is also a tanner and looks quite good for her age despite it.) Heck, I still get carded 80% of the time. If I learned anything from my summers at the Jersey shore it's what I DON'T want to look like, and every time I hit the tanning beds I ask them to set it only so long that I don't look like I've been tanning. Because tanning's bad. And I work in the beauty industry, so not only do I know how bad it is, I am also a big hypocrite. A big, bronzed, glowing hypocrite who usually credits store-bough self-tanner for any apparent glow I may get called out on. (I keep a year-old bottle of Neutrogena on my shelf just to back that up, and for the odd occasion when I can't hit the beds.)

I recently switched to a new tanning salon, one that offered more beds and longer hours than my former one. And they offer something I've never seen before, something so L.A. I burst out laughing. Teeth-whitening while you tan! Ask about it at the front desk! Apparently, the same UV rays that turn my skin brown and bring me closer to cancer can also do wonders for whitening my teeth when paired with some special product. If anything, I thought this was something that should exist in New York, the multitasking center of the universe. But no, here in L.A., everyone it seems is happy to remind you that - even when you're looking your best - there's always room for improvement.

I would have inquired, but the guy was on the phone when I left, and well, even I have a limit on self-indulgence. I wasn't quite ready to go there just yet. Maybe next week.