Very important issues that men will never have to tackle, Vol. 1

So, I am officially Juror Number 10, although, even after two and a half days, we are still in the process of selecting the alternates. Aside from the fact that I hate being idle and despise inefficiency and am kind of freaking out about losing half my paycheck next week, I find myself more overwhelmed by another court-related issue.

That issue would be footwear.

Jurors are relegated to a free parking structure that is about a 10-15 minute walk to and from the courthouse. That's a long distance in heels, which are primarily what I pair with business attire. And, um, with pretty much everything. After the first day in which I thoughtlessly wore platform boots, I tried to match an outfit yesterday around ballet flats. Problem with that is that none of my trousers are hemmed for flats - just for three inch heels - so they'd drag on the ground if I dressed for comfort. Do I ruin the slacks or ruin the shoes?

I ended up choosing a pair of cute cropped pants that I save for spring, and was able to skip sprightly from my car to the courthouse and back. Today, however, if I wanted to continue wearing the flats, I would have to consider the only other flat-friendly, weather-appropriate bottom-option in my closet - jeans. Now, I've seen plenty of people wear jeans to court and maybe their definition of "business casual" differs from mine; but my feeling is that unless you are the defendant and pretty much lucky to be in anything but an orange jumpsuit, jeans aren't really cool for court. At least until Casual Friday.

I then considered my Cole Haan pumps that literally have some Nike Air technology in the soles. But they give me blisters just in a day walking around the office, so I didn't want to chance it walking a mile across cobblestone. Then I considered my lower-heeled, more comfortable boots, but the stilettos on those are already a few wearings away from a resole and I was hoping to get through one more winter without it. They were resoled once here and twice in New York already, which brings me to my next point, which is: HOW DID I EVER LIVE LIKE THIS?

For seven years I faced this problem every morning; as a permanent pedestrian, I was forced to build a working, walking wardrobe around my shoes. I don't remember it being much of an issue until the last couple years I lived there, in part because the styles changed from rounded platforms to pointed stilettos, but also because I had more money to invest in nicer shoes. I do know that by the time I left New York I was exhausted by this daily decision, and I've happily stocked up on heels ever since, knowing that the most walking I'll ever do is on a treadmill or through a parking garage.

Coming back to the present, I chose the platform boots again this morning. I considered swallowing my pride and wearing sneakers with a skirt (just for the walk but OMG, that hurt to type you have no idea) but then that would bear the question of bare legs in the courtroom. Alternatively, I could have paired black tights with any number of my dresses, but - no, you know what? No. I am not Tess McGill, this is not Staten Island, and it's not 1988. I need to find another option, and that option needs to currently exist in my closet.

I swore to uphold the law. I should also respect the fashion police.

Where is Elliot Stabler when you need him?

The bad news is that it's looking quite possible that I am going to be a juror.

The good news is that the trial isn't slated to last more than a handful of days.

The bad news is that my office doesn't pay for any of those days. Which is kind of odd to me. I am a salaried employer. I could go into the office and do nothing but surf the internet all day, and they would pay me for that. But now I still have to check email and basically do more work from home at night - just not get compensated.

The good news is that, unlike so many of the people I saw today, I can get by with a small dip in my paycheck. Court is depressing. So many unfortunate souls, so many unfortunate stories, so many unfortunate choices in wood paneling.

I've never actually had jury duty before. I was called once, in New York, but I deferred because my job was so busy then. Either they never called me back or I moved before they could, because I never received another summons until this month. I'm in a fairly slow period now, so when it came, I figured I might as well get it out of the way. Truthfully, I'm interested in seeing and participating in the process; in fact, I can't help but feel like I'm getting a free, real-world course on the criminal justice system, with the benefit of not being the criminal! Of course, it's not free, and it depresses me to think someone else is experiencing it the other way.

The first group they called was for an anticipated 90-day trial. (!!!) I held my breath as names were called, silently praying one wouldn't be mine. The Universe listened and instead put me in the next group, but in the tenth juror's chair. They excused two people, have about 25 more alternates lined up, and will make the final decision tomorrow, but I can't think of any reason why I wouldn't make the case.

The good news is that I don't have to be there until 11.

UPDATE!: Apparently jury duty is the new black. It appears Madonna also reported for service today, albeit at a different court. How fun would that have been?!

Right here at home

It was such a busy weekend and I probably should be in bed by now because I have to report for jury duty downtown at 7:45 AM tomorrow; but since I napped for four hours this afternoon, I am having a hard time justifying getting back in bed right this second.

And there, my friends, was the longest run-on sentence about to be countered by a series of boring bullet points:

• Friday night I went downtown to Ciudad and Seven Grand.
• Saturday I ran about five million errands, including getting my brows done pretty much one year to the day I found salvation, food shopping, laundry, the tailor, and the gym. Or maybe only five errands, but who's counting?
• Saturday night I went to dinner at Benihana where we saw ex-'nSync member and current Singing Bee host Joey Fatone; then headed to Trader Vic's which, while fun, was not nearly as raucous as my birthday. But raucous enough to keep me from a good night's sleep.
• Today started out with breakfast at Junior's and was followed with the best intentions to get back to the gym, only to find myself asleep on my couch in the middle of the afternoon, lethargy clearly more prevalent than energy.

Now, it approaches midnight and, as if I haven't done enough, I find myself wishing I could squeeze just a few more hours out of the weekend.

My mom, the media darling

You may remember that, back in August, my mom was selected as one of 12 finalists in Cooking Light's annual Reader Recipe contest. The new (March) issue featuring her and her recipe will be out later this week, but in the meantime, I am tickled to find that the magazine's accompanying video has been posted on YouTube.

You can find the recipe here. I made it on New Years and, despite my general lack of culinary competence, my friends will swear to you that it was delicious.

The Getty and The Yeti

A yeti really has very little to do with my weekend; except that Friday night, that episode of Friends - literally called, "The One with the Yeti" - was on, and then, when I went to the Getty on Saturday, I couldn't get the word out of my head. And now, I am humming Kylie Minogue - Can't Get You Out of My Head. Try living in my brain for a day. It is exhausting.

Or maybe I'm just exhausted because I've been running around all weekend. With tomorrow off for President's Day, our bosses surprised us with an early dismissal on Friday, and I headed straight to the gym where I had the best run and workout I've had in weeks. Saturday, I woke up, got my taxes done - relatively early and responsibly this year - and then met my friend Heather for lunch down at the Promenade. I love having friends in from out of town because they motivate me to do touristy things I always claim to want to do but never quite get around to, and she was the perfect excuse for me to get myself to the Getty.

While the Santa Monica sun had warmed us enough to eat lunch outside on Third Street, late afternoon at the Getty - 1000 feet above sea level - suddenly seemed cold. We did a brisk walk around the gardens before heading inside to the art exhibits, which means I have to go back because the gardens were gorgeous. And will be even more so when it's not winter and they'll be in full bloom.

We headed down around sunset, and drove back to my place before meeting another friend for dinner in Venice. It was an early night but fun, and I fell asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

This morning we woke up early (well, 9:00) and went to the Farmer's Market, where we walked along Main Street , window shopped, and actually tried clothes on in no less than six stores. We both left empty-handed, save for the granola we bought for breakfast. At noon I dropped her at the hotel where she had some work to do, I went to the gym, and by 4 PM I was back, showered, and in my pajamas wondering if it was time to go to bed yet. It was a slightly major, but thoroughly satisfying, weekend.

Appropriately, President's Day weekend has a history of being slightly major for me. President's Day of 2004 marked the very first time I came to LA. The following President's Day came a month before my move, and I flew out here for two interviews and to drive for the first time in seven years. Last year, I went to Las Vegas, and even though the entire trip lasted less than 24 hours, it left a lingering impression.

Every year, it seems, is nothing short of an adventure. This year has been no different, and I still have another day left...

Valentine's Day 2000

I still laugh out loud when I read this card (click to embiggen):

The inside was better, if only because it was handwritten:

You make me hot. You make me laugh. You make me feel loved. But most of all, you make me get you beer. And that's OK.

I often think to myself that a relationship isn't a boyfriend until he knows how you take your coffee. But a hand-delivered, late-night six-pack isn't too bad, either.

Lifestyle choices

Every Sunday morning, for as long as I have lived in LA, I have kept the same ritual: I wake up, get my coffee from Starbucks, and read the New York Times online. I always skip immediately to the Styles section, read every single article in it, and only then go back and look at what else might have made news that morning.

For the last year or so, I have started doing the same thing with the LA Times. I skip immediately to the Image section, read every single article, and then go back and read whatever else might catch my eye.

And I realized today that the names of these two sections exemplify an elusive difference between both cities I have always noticed but never quite nailed down.

From Dictionary.com:

Style - (noun) - a particular kind, sort, or type, as with reference to form, appearance, or character; a particular, distinctive, or characteristic mode of action or manner of acting; an elegant, fashionable, or luxurious mode of living; the way in which something is said, done, expressed, or performed.

Image - (noun) - a mental representation, idea, conception; the general or public perception of a company, public figure, etc., esp. as achieved by careful calculation aimed at creating widespread goodwill.

Style, while subjective, is concrete. You either have it or you don't. It's a tangible, physical thing, something that can be measured and judged. You know it when you see it. Most of us covet it.

Image is an imaginary thing, only in the mind. Anyone can create one, everyone has one, and therefore, we all look down on the idea of it.

People in New York are focused on style. People in LA are concerned about their image.

That's not to say that no one in LA has style, or thinks about style or cares about style. But they think of style in terms of how it relates to their image. What will style do for me?

And of course, plenty of New Yorkers are image-conscious. But its such an anonymous town, I don't think too many people leave the house as concerned about perception as what brand of shoes they are wearing. New Jimmy Choos or kicked-around Chuck Taylors, it doesn't matter, so long as there's a soul behind the sole.

Style, in LA, is manufactured by stylists, working hard to create just the right image. New York stylists are typically known for their editorial work, not creating an "image" as much of a story that's representative of something specific, a distinctive expression of the artist at hand

An image could vanish faster than it was built. Style, even when questionable, is habitual, a permanent stain.

And I'm not trying to imply that one is necessarily better than the other. I think the resounding argument would vote in favor of New York, that "style" is a legitimate and worthy thing to aspire to, whereas "image" is fleeting and shallow. New York is real, legitimately gritty; LA is a footprint, a composite of its environment, La La Land.

But, for someone who has always lacked an inherent style or at least the desire to conform to one, I think there is something kind of freeing about living in a city that doesn't dictate a sartorial standard and instead gives you some control over your inevitable interpretation.

In which I get my energy back and vocalize every thought I've thunk this week

The first thing I did when I walked in the door tonight was strip my bed of the sick sheets that have been inhabiting it all week. (And, truthfully, maybe a week or three before that. Whatever. One of those weeks was spent in New York.) I threw my sheets in the hamper and the comforter and duvet in a pile to bring to the laundromat tomorrow for a professional wash. In the meantime, I made my bed with the only other really comfy blanket I have, which happens to be for a twin bed. It looks a bit sad and lonely.

Perhaps this would help.

(Seriously. Anyone? Although I would opt for a more stylish shirt. Even if I'm just going to drool on it.)

The second thing I did when I walked in the door tonight was heat up the second cup of soup Nicole brought me yesterday in the midst of my Josie-Grossiness. And I don't know how to say that it's not just a good friend that will bring you soup in your time of need; or that it's not just a good friend who will bring you said soup from across the street from your own house because you are too much of a freaking mess to pull it together to even call for delivery; but that it's a great friend who thinks ahead to bring you two cups of soup so that, in case you're still feeling under the weather, you won't have to worry about dinner the following night. Thank you, Nicole. Your parents raised you so well.

I'm not going to talk anymore about being sick, but I will list for you the number of products I tried in a one-woman, highly unscientific experiment trying to feel better. Beginning last Sunday and sampled throughout the course of the week, though never more frequently than every four hours or more than six times per day:

- EmergenC
- Tylenol PM
- TheraFlu Thin Strips
- DayQuil liquicaps
- NyQuil liquicaps
- Sudafed PE (missing the good stuff, which, I came to find out, was also why the DayQuil didn't work)
- Aleve
- Liters, upon liters of water (and yes, Abby, I finally succumbed to tap)

None of these products gave me any relief, even temporarily, although the TheraFlu strips made me sleep a little bit. Especially that afternoon I washed it down with a beer. What did make me feel immediately better today, however, was trying this random tea we had in our office:
Yogi Tea Cold Season. Yes, I was already feeling better enough to be back at work, but it was the first time since Tuesday I could breathe through my nose again. I had tried some tea from my own cupboard, but it did little for me, other than give me one more dish to wash at some point. Or glass, whatever.

Speaking of drugs, I realized just last week that I drive by Celebrity Rehab's Pasadena Recovery Center every single day on my way home from work. Huh.

And speaking of TV, I watched lots of it this week. Did you know that SoapNet plays 90210 for two hours every afternoon? And that they are currently running the end-of-the-first-season and that-summer-spent-at-the-Beverly-Hills-Beach-Club which I now know could never exist in real life because, um, Beverly Hills isn't on the beach. But oh! It was 90210 before it turned into Vampy Soap After Dark, which of course I still love, but this, this! was pure, early-90's innocence wrapped up in day-glo and topped with a flowered hair scrunchie!

It's so easy to forget that before Kelly went to college and cut her hair and had horrible things happen to her year after tragic year, she was a real bitch in high school! Donna barely even had a speaking role the first season. David, who grew up to be one of the better looking of the bunch, totally looked the part of the prepubescent geek. And then there was Steve, with his flask at the spring dance - who looked exactly the same throughout the entire ten season run.

It was refreshing to watch a teen-centric show that didn't center around sex, or at least slutting around. I love me some Gossip Girl, but I can't imagine having understood it, much less related to it, at the age when I was first watching 90210. There were somewhat "soapy" and adult issues in these episodes - Kelly's mom getting sober, Steve finding out he was adopted, Brenda deciding to "do it" with Dylan - but overall, in those years, the show was tooth-numbingly sweet, almost painfully wholesome.

When I wasn't watching 90210, I caught up on another early 90's gem, Saved by the Bell; or one of my oldest childhood favorites, Alice. About a month or two ago, I spent one night watching YouTube clips of the opening credits of some of my favorite TV shows. Alice was one of them. I spent that night, too, nostalgic for the programs of my youth, or at least their snappy theme songs that always set the story: One Day at a Time, Laverne and Shirley, Welcome Back Kotter, The Facts of Life, Charles in Charge, Growing Pains. No one does this anymore - how come?

I suppose to do so now would appear antiquated, what with all of our TiVo'd, Internet-accessed, reality-televised appetites for production. But after endless weeks of watching Jeff Conaway melt down in rehab or following Britney's real-life drama in real time, online, I could use more than a spoonful of antiquity to wash down what's become a near overdose of celeb-reality.

No sleeping beauty

Still sick.



Be back soon.

Mama's medicine

Superbowl, schmooperbowl.

I should note that one of the reasons I didn't watch the Superbowl tonight was that I was so sure the Patriots would win, I figured the game was a shoo-in - what was the point of my watching?

Another reason I didn't watch the Superbowl tonight was that I have been feeling like crap all weekend - just basically really run down from my travels last week. I was actually kind of welcoming the idea of being sick - last time I came down with something after an event, I lost like, five pounds, and kept it off until just around New Years. I don't think that was in the cards this weekend, however, since my sick food today consisted of a can of chicken noodle soup containing an entire day's worth of sodium, plus some chocolate frozen yogurt which I can't even stomach when I'm healthy, but for some reason always crave when my throat is scratchy.

Also, I ran out of water about an hour ago, so I'm sipping a beer now. I don't suppose that helps, does it? Regardless, it sure feels good going down.