A Day at the Fair

When I was a kid, we went to the county fair every year. It was the highlight of my summer. My parents or my friend’s parents would take us and we’d play the midway games and go to the 4-H demonstrations. There were baby goats, pigs—and pig racing—a petting zoo, and milking demonstrations.

And we’d eat. Cotton Candy, hot dogs, soda.

It was heaven for a kid turned loose with $20 in her pocket.

Yesterday we went to the L.A. County Fair. It was the first time in about 15 years that I’ve been to a fair–and it was the first time I went to the L.A. County Fair. I can’t believe how much fairs have changed over the years. They’ve always had the shopping pavillions with the up-and-coming Sham-Wow guys, jewelry cleaners, new windows and arts and crafts. But I don’t know if this is specific to the L.A. County Fair, or if it’s just par for the course now, but there was a section that was like a giant swap meet—cheap clothing and shoes, cell phone supplies and all sorts of randomness. It was kind of disappointing.

But really, the only reason to go to the fair is for the food. From 10 a.m. to midnight you can eat anything you want—in cholesterol-clogging, artery-busting, coronary-inducing quantities.

When we got there, I started with a BBQ beef sandwich and an ear of corn. This was probably the healthiest thing I ate all day. And that corn? Was perfect. It was fresh, crunchy and grilled just enough.

The corn on the cob rocked my world

When we finished our lunch, I spotted a stand with chocolate-covered bacon.

Photo by Elise Thompson (LAist.com)

It was basically thick pieces of bacon dipped in dark chocolate and served in Chinese take-out containers. I’m not a fan of dark chocolate, so I didn’t love it, but Bill thought it was weirdly good.

We heard a rumor that someone was serving deep-fried pizza. We didn’t find it, but we did find the deep-fried Oreos. I think I’m in love (and a little bit sick).

Doughnut-y, Oreo-ish goodness with a sprinkle of powdered sugar and drizzled with chocolate

And this place…

Chicken Charlies

Chicken Charlies will fry just about anything. They serve fried Avocados, fried White Castle burgers, fried frog legs and fried Twinkies.

I was more interested in a drink at this point.

daiquiri and a beer=$24

The daiquiri cleansed my palate so we went searching for more greasy goodness and found these…

Tasty Chips

These Tasty Chips are  hand-cut, homemade potato chips with just the right amount of salt. They give you dipping sauces like ketchup, ranch or this jalepeno cheese sauce. After much sampling and tasting it was determined that for optimal flavor you should dip the chips in ketchup first, then the cheese sauce. Personally, I’m a purist and ate them plain.

By this point, I was feeling a little sick, so I bypassed these….

Caramel-y deliciousness

But I was thinking about having one of these.

Monster Sausage

These foot-long Italian sausages are served on a grilled bun, smothered in onions and peppers.

This place…

Juicy's cranks out a lot of BBQ

cranks out a whole lot of this…

Finger-lickin' good

cazy amounts of chicken, and turkey legs bigger than your head.

That place also serves this:

Okay, I've heard of chicken and waffles. But this?

A chicken sandwich served on a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

I was sorry I didn’t get a chance to tackle the dill pickles, eat the brick of french fries or eat a waffle cone full of ice cream, but you’d need to hit the fair every single day for a month to hit all of the food places.

And you should keep your cardiologist on speed dial.

I think I’m totally going back next year.

PS: These photos were all taken with my Blackberry. Not too shabby, hu?

Ambush

Last night Bill and I went to dinner for a friend’s 40th birthday. It was a great night—dinner at a fancy-schmancy restaurant and then drinks by the rooftop pool. Toward the end of the night, everyone decided to go to Carney’s for some late-night chili burgers and hot dogs. (All the better to soak up all the alcohol everyone had!)

Everyone was having a great time, sitting outside, chowing down, laughing and talking.

And then the shit hit the fan.

One of the couples at the party sat down near us after they got their food. I made a comment to the woman along the lines of “Oh, you changed your clothes.” I didn’t mean anything by it; it was just a way of making polite conversation.

I could see something in her face, and she turned around and unleashed her rage.

She yelled at me from the other table, asking me my why I didn’t like her and wondered why I was always rude to her, looking her up and down, judging her.

Huh?

This is a woman who is somewhat prominent in our town. A woman who couldn’t be bothered to remember my name—or my husband’s—for about a year. A woman who stuck out her hand and reintroduced herself every time we saw each other as if we hadn’t already met 374 times before. I never went out my way to be her BFF because I was clearly never a blip on her radar. Or so I thought.

This woman is good friends with some of my friends, but I’ve never socialized with her. I’ve never even gotten past the niceties with her before she’s moved on to someone more prominent, more important in her eyes. When her and her husband showed up earlier in the evening I stood up, said hello, hugged her and told her it was good to see her. I did the same with her husband. I was nice, asked how they were and made small talk with her husband. Never once was I rude. EVER. Not last night. Not before that.

So I was stunned at first. Her attack totally came out of left field.

I kind of laughed a little because I wasn’t sure she was serious at first. And then I asked her what in the world she was talking about. I told her I was never anything but polite, that I’ve never been rude to her.

And that’s when she did her Linda Blair impersonation—head spinning around all crazy—and unloaded. Apparently, this woman who I’ve never really had occasion to talk to, who has looked ME up and down on occasion and can’t remember my fucking name, thinks I’m a the most rude person she’s ever met. And not only that, she’s not the only one who thinks so. Everyone apparently in her world thinks I’m rude. I never talk to her and she doesn’t know why I think I’m better than her.

At this point I was still trying to be nice. Why? Not sure. Maybe because it caught me off guard, that this woman ever gave me any thought at all.

I told her I had no idea what she was talking about, that I had always been nice, that I’ve never been rude to her and I had no idea who else she thought I was rude to. She, of course, conveniently wasn’t going to get into all that.

I looked at Bill totally stunned. He shrugged. He was still trying to keep it light too and told her  that I do get shy and have a hard time talking to people sometimes.

I got up and walked away for a minute and the more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I had no idea how I suddenly became the bad guy.

I came back and sat down and asked Bill what the fuck that was about. I was muttering to him that she was out of line and again, WTF?

She shouts from over her table that she can hear me, which was sort of the point I guess, and I tell her I don’t give a shit. I told her SHE was rude and out of line and I didn’t need to put up with that.

At that point her husband stands up and declares that they “don’t have to take this”—as if they were the victims—and they left.

I got up and walked into the parking lot to cool off.

When one of my friends came over to check on me, I promptly lost it and started to cry. Full body-wracking sobs. And I couldn’t stop.

Bill came around to see how I was and was surprised that I let this woman affect me so much. But I was embarrased. Not only because I felt ambushed by a clearly unhappy woman, but because it happened in front of a group of my friends. And because I wish I probably handled it differently. And I wish she did to.

I would have been much more responsive if she walked over and sat at my table and calmly asked my if there were issues. But she chose to attack me in front of everyone. And although I don’t really give a shit what she thinks of me, it concerns me that other people think I’m rude.

That pretty much ended the night. Everyone left to go home.

I felt horrible that my friend’s birthday ended on that note.

I am pissed that I was attacked without provocation.

And frankly, that fucking cow owes me a public apology.

And more importantly, she owes the birthday girl an apology.

Random Friday Thoughts

I know—it just doesn’t have the same ring to it as Random Tuesday Thoughts, but I’m three days behind and I have a bunch of randomness rattling around. So sue me. Besides, Bill, who has apparently assumed the role of my manager/mom was reminding me that I haven’t written and if I don’t post soon you’re all going to stop coming over here. At which point I suggested he start his own damn blog. But I digress…

••••••••••

Monday night I got the chance to go to the premiere of Julie & Julia, which opens next Friday (August 7). It was awesome. A couple of weeks ago I wrote about reading My Life in France, the biography of Julia Child’s years, um, well, in France. Her story is so fascinating to me as I approach decrepitude, because she really didn’t find her niche until she was almost 40. The parallel story in Julie & Julia is the story of Julie Powell, who spends a year cooking every recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking while blogging about it. No small feat. The movie could have been a recipe for disaster (ahem), but Nora Ephron, who wrote and directed it, really did an amazing job blending the lives of these two women who never met.

And really—anything with Meryl Streep just rocks.

Side note: In Los Angeles, it’s not uncommon to run into “celebrities” (I put that in quotes because I couldn’t give a shit about the likes of Speidi), but every now and then you have the exceptional luck to see someone really worth seeing. The other night I had a great spot along side the red carpet and at one point was less than five feet away from Merle Streep. I might have swooned.

Picture by: Russ Einhorn / Splash News

••••••••••

I’m a little pissed off at Nissan right now.

Last September I bought a brand-new 2008 350Z convertible. Otherwise known around our house as my Midlife Crisis. It goes Vrooom. It’s fast, it’s pretty, I can feel the breeze blowing through my hair, and it’s the perfect antidote to a shitty day at work. I leave the office, put the top down, blast the stereo and instantly feel transported out of the stress and drama.

However…I do have a couple minor problems with the car. The more minor issue is that the reflector on the front driver side has cracked and broken. It’s totally gone. And the car isn’t even a year old. For the amount of money we’ve spent on that car, shit shouldn’t be breaking off.

The bigger problem is a pain in the ass. Nissan is known (apparently to everyone but me) for having faulty motors for their windows. At some point they start to give out and you can’t close the window. It started a couple of months ago, and it didn’t really worry me too much until they failed at the car wash.

I pulled up to pay and grab my ticket, and when I tried to roll up the window, it went up and then went down about half way. I hit the switch again and it went up and then opened halfway again. I did this about a half dozen times until it seemed to stay up. Until I drove into the car wash. And it rolled itself down again. I had to hit the switch quickly and hold it until I was through the wash.

I did some research and it turns out this is common. The most common solution offered is to not roll down your window. Um, yeah. Not going to work for me. Especially because if you put the top up or down, the windows automatically go down.

Nissan says they’ll replace the motor but that’s a faulty solution, too. Because if you haven’t actually fixed the problem in all of the motors, I’m just going to have to go back in and replace it all over again. But the really insidious thing is, most of the time they don’t actually replace the damn thing anyway. The mechanics reset it.

So Nissan. You’re on notice. Fix your window motors and stop screwing your customers over. I can’t imagine in this economy that they can afford to lose any business.

••••••••••

Tomorrow night I’m going to a soccer game. It’s the Los Angeles Galaxy (with the hot but obnoxious David Beckham) versus FC Barcelona. I’m a little scared because Bill said soccer is a little crazy (like throwing cups of pee kind of crazy). I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

Random Tuesday Thoughts

Chowing Down

I had one of the best meals evah! This weekend Bill and I drove down to L.A. to eat at Mario Battali’s Pizzeria Mozza and it was day-um good pizza. It’s not like that Domino’s crap or even Pizza Hut. It was even better than John’s Pizza on 44th in New York City where I have eaten entire pizzas by myself once or twice. Mozza’s crust is thin and airy with just enough weight to hold whatever is on the pizza, but not so much that you get a face full of dough. The toppings were amazing—proscuitto, house-made sausage, you name it. Clearly, Mario knows good food.

Further Proof (as if you need it) That People Are Stupid

So the Lakers won the NBA Finals on Sunday night. That’s exciting and all, but winning seems to bring out the worst in this town. Exhibit A:

Asshole (Photo courtesy of the L.A. Times)

Really? What makes you ever think that throwing a garbage can on an LAPD patrol car is ever a good idea? Especially, when you’re doing it in front of the cameras.

What I’m Reading

I just finished The Beach House by Jane Green…

and just started Handle With Care by Jodi Picoult.

Yeah, it’s kind of chick lit, but they’re both very well written. Picoult’s books always tackle headline-worthy topics with gripping storytelling. Years ago I read My Sister’s Keeper and I think I cried the whole way through. Last weekend I watched the trailer for the movie. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get through that—not without 16 boxes of Kleenex. Jane Green is new to me—I think I found her through one of those “Readers Who Bought XYZ Also Bought…” on Amazon. I will totally make my way through her other books. Here’s their synopsis:

Sixty-five-year-old Nan Powell has lived comfortably and happily in Nantucket since the suicide of her husband, Everett, so she is thrown for a loop when she learns that she is in danger of losing her beloved house. After weighing her options, Nan decides to turn her home into a bed-and-breakfast. The guests she gets for the summer are all at a crossroads in their lives in one way or another. Daniel has just separated from his wife and is facing something he has denied for years; Daff is recovering from the heartbreak of a divorce and getting a much-needed break from her anger-filled 13-year-old daughter; and Nan’s son Michael is on the run from a disastrous affair. Nan finds herself opening up to her guests and enjoying their company, but she is shocked when she discovers a person close to one of them has a startling connection to her. Peopled with likable, flawed, realistic characters and moving seamlessly between them, this is Green’s best novel in years, a compelling, unputdownable read.

There’s That News Van!

This morning on my way to work I got caught up in what, to me, is typical Los Angeles. Apparently, a robbery suspect is holed up in a storm drain on the 405S freeway—one of the busiest freeways in Southern California. And my main route to work. All lanes except the carpool and the left lane were closed. There were no fewer than 8 firetrucks, a half dozen California Highway Patrol cars, a dozen  LAPD patrol and undercover cars, paramedics and a full contingency of Department of Water and Power trucks. I’d estimate there were about 60 people standing around a storm drain looking down, chatting and drinking coffee. Meanwhile, Channel 7 reporter Leo Stallworth was reporting from the side of the freeway, most likely saying the same thing he had been saying since 3:00 a.m. when the whole thing started. Like traffic on the 405 isn’t bad enough…

Dear New Neighbor,

We haven’t met yet, but I don’t like you already. You’re clearly new around here, so let me clue you in to a few rules.

1. Though shall not park in front of your neighbor’s driveway, blocking them from entering their own property. Ever.

1a. If you do, even temporarily, do not shoot me dirty looks when I want you to move so I can pull in to my own garage. Asshat

2. Though shall not park 375 cars on the street. This is not a used car lot. This is where we live.

3. Though shall not covet your neighbor’s space. You live three doors down and across the street—claiming the space in front of my house (and everyone else’s) isn’t cool.

4. Though shall not drive 2 inches off my bumper while driving through our neighborhood.

5. Though shall not try to pull around me when I’m turning onto our street. Especially, when you clearly don’t see the 20 three-year-olds running around.

6. Though shall not drive down our cul de sac at 60 mph.

Follow my rules and we’ll get along just fine.

Signed,

The Bitch On Your Street

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For more Randomness, grab a martini and head over to Keely’s at The Un Mom.

If It’s Tuesday, It Must Be Random (The Depressing Version)

I just realized that for the past three weeks, just about the only post I’ve managed to publish is my Random Tuesday Thoughts. I haven’t been able to focus on one real post so I have a bunch of partial posts and thoughts sitting there waiting for me to do something with them. Sometimes I turn them into Random Tuesdays, but most of them are saved and may or may not see the light of day.

**********

On Sunday I went to a place called Massage Envy. It’s basically a membership salon for massages. You pay a fixed amount each month and that fee gets you either a massage or facial. If you get more than one service each month, the additional service is at a discounted rate. So I got a 50-minute massage for $49. Massage Envy doesn’t have any spa-like amenities like a locker room or steam room, but they do have a shower room if you need it. I needed a massage in the worst way—I couldn’t really turn my neck on Saturday—so it was just what I needed. I don’t care about the frills or any of that. I just needed a hard-core massage and that’s what I got. And the best part? They’re open until 10 p.m. Monday through Friday. Have a crappy day at work? Get a massage! Why the hell not?

**********

On Saturday night Bill and I made a spontaneous trip down into Los Angeles and had dinner at a great Italian restaurant and then we went to The Original Farmer’s Market to walk around and listen to music. I hadn’t been down there in a couple of years and I had forgotten how much I love it. They have candy shops, awesome pizza places, a Cajun restaurant that serves alligator (*shudder*) and a bunch of little outdoor bars.

I tend to get stuck up here in The Bubble as I call our little suburb, and it was a nice reminder that I need to get out of here once in a while. I need to go with the flow more and be more spontaneous. Spontaneity is not a big thing with me. But I’m trying to make the effort now because I feel like I’m letting life pass me by.

**********

On Thursday we had a couple of power surges. I guess the power actually went out for an hour in some neighborhoods, but ours just went on and off a couple of times. During one of the surges, my desktop iMac shorted out and now it won’t turn on. I know there’s power coming in and/or going out of it because when my external hard drive is plugged into it, it powers up. I’m hoping it’s an easy (and inexpensive) fix. It’s the last thing I need to deal with right now.

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If you want less depressing randomness, click over to The Un Mom for more!

Multitasking Is Overrated

Dear Asshole in the Pontiac Grand Prix,

When you are behind the wheel of a car, especially one careening down the freeway at 75 mph, please actually pay attention to what you’re doing, fucktard. This is not the time for you to pick up your cell phone, fumble around and dial without your earpiece while you simultaneously light your cigarette and pick your nose. Because what usually happens happened. You suddenly looked up, realized you had no idea what the fuck was going on in front of you and slammed on your brakes. Hard. With smoke and everything. This, of course, made me slam on my brakes, swerve into the adjacent lane and pray like holy hell that the semi in the next lane had dropped back to let me in.

You are a fucktard and should have your license revoked.

Signed,

The Bitch in the Blue Car

Wordless Wednesday

Okay, ONE Word: YUM!

Hugh Jackman Handprint Ceremony 4/21/09

Photos Copyright Bob Freeman 2009

Insert Foot in Mouth. Choke. Hard.

I have been known to put my foot in my mouth on more than one occasion. Sometimes I will say something because it’s funny and even though I don’t mean any harm, I cross the line trying to get a laugh. Other times I say something and have no idea there’s a line at all.

Like today.

I was in a meeting with a client and somehow we started talking about Dancing With The Stars. It started innocently enough—Do you watch? Sure. Then she asked who my favorite celebrity dancer was. I was sort of non-committal and said I like Shawn Johnson and, oddly enough, the poor dumped chick from The Bachelor. The client asked, “Well, what about the football player? What about the guy from the Sex and the City movie?” And on down the list. Everyone in the group—not just me—had a snarky comment about all the celebs. Until she got to a certain celebrity. Then she asked about one of the female celebs and I said, “Nah, she should get voted off next week.”

“Really?” she asked. “Why?”

“Well, she looked uncomfortable and appeared to be about as flexible as a Barbie Doll.”

This got a huge laugh from the group, including this woman’s boss, who hired us for the job we were meeting about.

Until the woman I was speaking with said, “Hu. Well, she’s my friend.”

At which point I sort of laughed, like, yeah, okay, right.

“No, really, she is,” she said. “And my husband represents her.”

The look of panic was pretty obvious on my face, and I stared at my boss, like “Fuck, help me.” He laughed it off at first, until it was clear she was pissed.

Then I got pissed, and pretty much seethed quietly through the rest of the meeting.

I felt set up. She deliberately asked about this person last, after everyone chimed in with equally snarky comments about the other celebs, and I stupidly took the bait. Her co-workers obviously knew of the connection, but clearly I didn’t.

I forget that in the industry I’m now working in, it’s never out of the real of possibilities that people know people. And as my husband reminded me tonight, you never say a negative word about anyone no matter what. For that very reason.

“Phil Spector? Yeah, he’s an okay guy.”

“Robert Blake? Sure, he’s cool. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Neither would OJ Simpson.”

So now I’m alternately pissed off and worried that she’ll hold a grudge.

I should have just shut the fuck up and made polite, non-controversial conversation.

Lesson learned.

DC or Bust (or, how a bitch creates a law)

I don’t know the first thing about our local politics (well, I know who the mayor is, but beyond that? Meh.), but I know people who know people and they have people. And I have an idea that I’m going to push and work tirelessly for in order to make sure my bill becomes law.

In Southern California it’s hard to get around unless you own a car. Our public transportation system kind of blows. Yeah, we have buses, but not enough. We sort of have subways, but they only go about 5 miles in one direction then you have to get off, and get on another that goes in another direction. Kinda pointless. This is a car culture, baby! We love our cars. Every year there are about 1.5 million new cars (about 9% of the total market) sold in California. And every morning, I commute to work with about 1.2 million of them. And every morning, when I get to work and realize that I am not only still alive but unscathed, I get down on my knees and kiss the ground in gratitude.

For a culture that spends so much time in our cars you’d think we’d be better drivers. Not so much. We suck.

The experience of driving a typical L.A. freeway is to be terrorized by an entire population of people driving 1990 Honda Civics and 2006 Toyota Prius’ racing each other, trying to break the land speed record on their way to Starbucks. I’m an aggressive driver, but I think it’s more out of necessity than psychosis. I don’t willfully and purposefully cut people off, tailgate a quarter inch off someone’s bumper, change lanes without looking, apply makeup while piloting a one-ton SUV at 90 mph, while talking on my cell phone and texting on my Blackberry with 6 screaming kids watching DVDs in the backseat. I have been known, however, to extend a salute with my lovely, manicured middle finger out of my adorable little topless convertible to thankyoumverymuchforbeingatupidbitchnowgetoffmyass.

And I never commit my personal pet peeve—lazy lane changes. In the last couple of years I’ve noticed that fewer people actually execute a proper lane change—you know, signal, look, wait until it’s clear, slow down if necessary until you can move. Instead, they rush up to your bumper as fast as they can and then…lacksidasically…turn the wheel Ever. So. Slightly. to get into the adjacent lane, but not before giving you a heart attack thinking they’re about to take your rear bumper with them, sending you careening into oncoming traffic. It happens to me every single day.

I don’t know what the laws are across the country, but I know that here in California the only time you actually take a physical driving test is if you are between the ages of 16 and 18 and are applying for your license for the first time or if you’re over the age of 80. That’s it. Otherwise, you take a written exam every other time that your license comes up for renewal. If you get your license after the age of 18, you don’t have to drive around doing three-point turns or parallel parking. You just take the written test, they hand you a slip of paper and off you go, free to commit random acts of terror behind the wheel.

A couple of years ago, I had to go DMV to take my written test. While I was waiting my turn, I heard them paging my license plate number over the loudspeaker. Turns out this stupid 16-year-old, who was parked next to me, went to back out of the space to take her driver’s test and took out the whole side of my Tahoe. In spite of my total temper tantrum, they let her take the driving test anyway. I think that should have been an automatic fail. Instead? DMV=FAIL.

So here’s what I propose. Every three or four years, or however often it is that your driver’s license comes up for renewal, we should ALL have to retake the actual driving portion of the test. And not just up and down a city block. They should make you drive in real-world situations—morning traffic, in front of a school getting out for the day, in a parking lot (please, don’t even get me started on this one. Parking lot does not equal speedway. Slow down, you fuckers.) This will weed out the weak, the bad and the stupid. I guarantee it. If you fail, you have to retake driver’s ed. Then you can try again in a month.

And not only will this get all the morons out of their cars and onto buses where they belong, it’ll pour money back into the California economy. California can take a cut of the driving school fees, plus any additional fees for the driving tests. I’m not great at math but 1.5 million cars at about $20 a person is a lot of money.

I think I’m going to write to my congressman.

I just need to figure out who that is.