Class of '80 iMix

Well, I'm not through living in the past just yet. The music at our class reunion came from my own iPod; by popular demand I've published an iMix, and about 3/4ths of the songs are on here. (iTunes won't allow songs from your personal music collection to go on an iMix.) You can buy 'em or just copy the list down.

Here's the link. Boom boom... out go the lights!

Voted Most Fun to Be With

(Note: the following story is COMPLETELY fictional, and all the names have been TOTALLY changed, because why would I – a mature, responsible mother of three – ever admit to engaging in behavior of this sort?)

As the evening of our 30^th High School Reunion wore on, Paul would sidle up to one or a few of us and say, “so, ya going tagging with us tonight?” And even though most people scoffed at him and dismissed it as another one of his crackpot ideas, no one really doubted that Paul was going to follow through. That’s just Paul.

He pulled a can of red spray paint out of his car and started shaking it, the look on his face exactly like a hyperactive 8-year-old boy who is conspiring to steal all the cookies – not one cookie, all of them. Late into the night, a group of the curious congregated at one of the plastic patio tables on the outdoor deck.

“Okay. I’m gonna need three lookouts.” Paul grew more animated as he started hatching his elaborate plan. “Dan? You in? Okay, you’re one of my lookouts. Now. Here’s what we do. First we’ll drop the lookouts off and you climb up to the top of the underpass, one on each side. Got it? Okay. Okay. And we’ll need a signal.” He was pacing back and forth as he talked, swinging his arms and gesturing broadly, really putting on a show. “Right. A LOUD signal, you guys, I’m serious. I need to hear you.”

“What happens after you drop off the lookouts?” someone asked.

“Okay. Then we swing around” — he jerked his body in a 180, hands holding an invisible steering wheel – “and when everybody’s in place, I’ll jump out and do the deed. Amie, you’ll keep the car running right there. Then we’ll get the fuck outta there and swing back” – another 180 – “for the lookouts.”

He stuck his head forward as he looked at us, raising his eyebrows, looking for a sign that we understood his plan. He did not get one.

“How many people are we talking about, here?” I asked, trying to figure him out. Which was something I had never succeeded in doing since the day I met him in 9^th grade.

“Right.” He started pacing again. “Three lookouts on top. Two on the road, one for each side. Driver. Me. That’s what, eight?”

“Seven.”

“Seven. Right.” His pacing grew more energetic, almost a line dance he was doing alone. “Okay. Now, a signal. It’s got to be loud, people! Loud!” And with that he cupped his hand alongside his mouth and looked off into the distance, yowling in a booming, high-pitched voice,

“GookgookgookGOOOOOP!”

He looked back at us with that raised eyebrow again, and as a group, we collapsed in laughter. Which is, of course, Paul’s drug of choice. So he raised his hand again.

“GookgookgookGOOOOOP! GoopityGOOOP!”

The people at the other end of the patio, fifty feet away, turned to look at this 48-year-old man in an oversized tie-dyed t-shirt, hopping around like a loopy bird doing a twisted mating call. I had tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes and bent over to try to stop laughing.

“Paul the goop-goop bird,” deadpanned Brian, sitting next to me.

“An exotic, endangered species native to West Chester, Ohio!” I sputtered.

One of the nominated lookouts told Paul there was no way he was going to yell goopity goop from the top of the West Chester Road underpass at 2 in the morning. There was agreement that the plan would have to be modified.

And so after way too much discussion, during which every single one of us wondered “would Paul notice if we just got in our car and snuck off?”, the hooligans were narrowed down to five. I was among them.

As we got ready to leave the bar, I noticed Paul had gone missing. When he returned to go over the plan, his eyes were pink.

“You’ve been smoking weed,” I said.

His Rodney Dangerfield eyes widened in mock surprise. He paused and then said, “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Because you smell like weed.”

“Oh. Well, there’s that.”

We left a small group of intrigued classmates, along with Dan, my husband, in the parking lot of the nearby Waffle House. Amie was driving, her husband Tom in front. He, along with Cam, would be the lookouts. Paul would commit the actual crime. I had the camera to document the action.

All the way there we made cracks about who would post bail if the West Chester cops came along. We even passed one on the road, so we knew they were out. As the others made jokes about a bunch of almost-fifty-year-olds getting arrested, I wondered what on earth had possessed me to come along on another one of Paul’s crazy batshit schemes, 30 years after we had graduated together. 

But that was Paul. He had always been the guy who made everyone laugh. Senior year he was voted Most Fun To Be With, probably unanimously. We were drama geeks together; sophomore year, we put on a home-grown production of “M*A*S*H”, based on the television show. Paul was the only guy who offered to play Klinger, earning him the nickname Man In A Dress for the rest of his high school career. He would drive us around in his Big Blue Boat and yell “Baja!” and swerve up onto the dirt, laughing maniacally. He became so close with my family, my mom used to call him her third son. He was like a brother to me; the little devil that sat on my shoulder and easily, confidently pushed me out of the box.

And now here we were 30 years later, me and my emotionally stunted third brother, about to perform a misdemeanor crime at the old underpass where high school kids in our hometown have been making their mark for decades.

Meanwhile back at the Waffle House, a couple of drunks pushed each other out of the door, threatening to really fuck each other up. Another guy moseyed over to Dan and Brian and introduced himself. There are two kinds of people in a Waffle House after the bars close: drunk and fighting, or drunk and friendly.

“I just ordered a giant potpourri of food in there, man,” said the drunk guy.

Brian considered the statement for a moment and decided to go ahead and take him on. “Well, you know, the word ‘potpourri’ generally refers to perfume or scented dried flowers.”

The drunk guy looked taken aback. Dan added, “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘cornucopia’.”

Drunk Guy brightened immediately. “Yeah, that’s it!” he said, and went back inside to enjoy his cornucopia of two a.m. eggs and pancakes.

There were no cars to be seen on West Chester Road. Amie pulled up right inside the tunnel and Paul yelled “go! go! go!” and we tumbled out.

Cam took the front and Tom took the back. I had the camera ready to go and as Paul got to work, I snapped away.

C. (Snap.)

L. A. S. (Snap.)

S…

“Car!” yelled Cam.

“Back in the car! Back in the car!” Paul hollered, and ran for the back seat.

“Where’s Cam?”

“I don’t know. Go! Go!” Tom and I piled in and Amie took off. The oncoming car had caught up to us by then and she pulled down a side street, turned around and went back, all of us hooting at the adrenaline rush.

Back in the tunnel we yelled for Cam, who had jumped into the bushes when the car came, and Paul shook the can.

CLASS OF

WAS HERE

I snapped away as he sprayed a huge 80 on the left side of his writing. As soon as he was done he ran for the car. Tom and I jumped in and we both said to him,

“80 CLASS OF WAS HERE? Why’d you do it like that?”

Cam hopped in and we sped off, Paul’s bizarre choice of graffiti layout left behind us. Elated and relieved, we joined our comrades in the Waffle House parking lot, shouting victory and showing the photos of the deed in progress. The five of us posed for pictures and were almost immediately exposed as criminals on Facebook via Paul’s Blackberry.

Two days later, I was safely on a plane back to the west coast. I nestled into my travel pillow and closed my eyes while Dan flipped through a magazine next to me. At the other end of the flight, my everyday life waited for me: three kids, two dogs, a too-small house, the new school year and the PTA. But at that moment, I was a fugitive from the law; seventeen again, with tales to tell of friendships old and new, bars we closed down, fireworks and riverboats. So many new memories.

You could even call it a cornucopia. 

This is a totally photoshopped image of a person who does not really exist, in front of a fictional work of vandalism. Really.

 

Happy Talk

If you ask me, there's been a little too much discord out there lately. I’ve gotten into a few too many ideological debates on Facebook (okay, even one is too many for me, really, gives me such a headache). I’ve recently received two "chain" e-mails on subjects that raise my hackles, from people who either don’t know me very well or don’t care if it raises my hackles. In the news today, there was yet another story of suicide bombers killing American soldiers, another billboard somewhere comparing Obama to Stalin and Hitler, and oh my gosh, don’t forget the oil spill in the Gulf. On top of that, it was 103 degrees in Burbank today as I ran my usual errands. And that got me to thinking.

How do we not go crazy train these days?

So here's what I did. In a fit of defiance against the barrage of bad stuff, I started thinking about the little things that make my life happy. And it’s my blog so I’m writing it all down and perhaps you, dear reader, will start to think about the good things in your life. And so, in no particular order, these are some things that make me happy:

•  Morning coffee from my French press. I’m serious, it’s the best way to make coffee. You should get one.

•  Playing peek-a-boo with other people’s babies in stores and restaurants. Especially if the parents aren’t looking. I have no qualms about making goofy faces in public, as long as it makes a baby smile.

•  Watching Dan fall asleep on the couch while we’re watching television. He’s just so darn cute. And then he wakes up with a start and says, “I’m a little tired!” like this is news. So darn cute.

•  Listening to the Classic Rewind channel on Sirius radio in my car (channel 15). I'm listening to David Lee Roth do that wild shriek in “Running With The Devil”, which transports me in time to the back of the bus in high school, where that cute but slightly dangerous senior blasted it from a tape deck. Oh, heavens, he looked just like that stoner dude Dawson from Dazed and Confused (green shirt, below). He never knew I had a crush on him. Since now I can’t even remember his name, I guess he never will.

 All right, check ya later!

•  Related: Dazed and Confused. And Grosse Pointe Blank, and The Big Lebowski, and Raising Arizona. Among some others. I like the funny movies.

•  Picking up my daughters from camp or school and Claire leaps into my arms, not caring that I now have a 48-year-old lower back. And I don’t care either. (Until later.)

•  The hummingbirds at the feeder outside my kitchen window.

•  A cool California evening spent on the back porch with the fountain on, sharing a glass of good red wine with my neighbor Irene. Or maybe one of her killer raspberry martinis. (But only one.)

•  Spending time with my new friends in the We Don’t Suck writing group. Because they are smart and talented and they think I am too. Which is awesome.

•  Sweet potato fries. Dipped in ranch dressing.

•  Reconnecting with a couple of old friends on Facebook. Especially Karen, who sent me some Skyline Chili. If you are not from Cincinnati, I’m sorry, you will not get what a big deal that is.

 

•  Speaking of Cincinnati: oh, how happy I am when the Bengals win! This, of course, is tempered by the frequency of their losses. But that’s another blog post.

•  Related: I love football. American football.

•  Related: Dhani Tackles the Globe on the Travel Channel. Best show on television. (That's super hunky Dhani over there.)

 

•  AirTalk with Larry Mantle on KPCC. Especially FilmWeek on Fridays at 11 a.m. He is the smartest guy on the radio and he talks about everything and has fascinating guests. And it’s usually not politics, but if it is, he is Switzerland, if you know what I mean. You can listen online at kpcc.org or on iTunes radio.

•  Sedona, Arizona. My favorite place. Especially hiking the Red Rocks with Dan.

•  Related: Dry saunas.

•  Volunteering in the girls’ classrooms, teaching them art through the Meet the Masters program. At the end of this past year, I received a big thank you note signed by the second graders. Kate wrote: I like you a lot. Seriously, does it get any better than that?

•  Shopping at Von’s and having my stuff rung up by Aaron, who babysits my kids. He is working his way through UCLA – working his ass off – and he is smart and kind and hard-working. Basically, the kind of young person who gives me hope for the future. So it’s always nice to see him. He always asks me how the kids are doing.

•  I love it when my son Charlie, who is 13 and pretty much wants nothing to do with me, comes out of his cave to tell me something funny that happened. He has a great smile, that kid.

•  I also love hearing him play the piano. And watching him. Makes my heart want to burst.

•  Okay, I’ll say it: I love it when the kids are with their dad for a whole week in the summer, so I can be totally self-absorbed and go shopping, and then do the annual clean-and-purge in the girls’ room. (Yes, seriously, I look forward to that. Go figure.) They have gotten into the habit of asking me, before they go to their dad’s, “what are you going to do to our room?” because one time I painted in there, one wall in bright turquoise, moved the furniture and replaced the nasty carpet, all in one week. Mostly, though, I just throw stuff out, which they don’t notice.

 •  Wimbledon. I love to watch good-looking men in tennis whites. (Or even out of their tennis whites. Oh, Rafa...) So sue me.

•  Office supplies make me happy. That’s weird. Also school supplies and new candles.

•  Wedding shows on TV. I want to work at Kleinfeld’s with Randy Fenoli. Or be David Tutera’s assistant.

•  Getting an idea for something I want to write about, then rushing home to write it, sitting on the couch with little dog Clem curled up next to me. Like right now.

I could keep going, but I only gave myself one hour to write down as many happy things as I could (and a little more time to find some pictures of the really hot ones). (Sorry, I didn't have a photo of Dan falling asleep.) Now it's your turn to write your own list. Better still, share with me in the comments section below. Please?

It will make me so happy if you do.

Things I want to know, but probably never will.

I want to know why oil companies aren’t required to have emergency shut-off mechanisms in offshore oil rigs. I am required by my insurance company to have an emergency shut-off earthquake valve on my home’s gas line. Seems like the scope of the prospective disaster should dictate the scope of preventive measures, right? Here’s a hint: the company in charge of Deepwater Horizon “objected in 2000 to a proposed requirement to use blind-shear rams, a type of blowout preventer which seals out-of-control oil wells by pinching off the pipe.” Their excuse? The rate of accidents was “approaching zero”. (Read more here.) Approaching.

I want to know why BP didn’t get out there THE INSTANT that oil rig blew to stanch the flow of spilled oil.

I want to know how many times BP can be responsible for spilling oil and killing workers without somebody going to jail. 2005: 15 dead, 170 injured in Texas. 2006: 267,000 gallons spilled in Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay, after ignoring warnings to check the pipeline for FOUR YEARS. Just an example.

I want to know what BP is going to do to compensate the fishermen and tourism industry for their loss of income. What are they going to do about the devastation to the ecosystem? I want to know how you put a number on the economic destruction this event has created. Did you know that BP has generously (sarcasm) offered Gulf Coast residents a $5000 payoff if they promise not to sue? Five grand? Really? From a company that earned over 70 BILLION dollars in revenue in the first quarter of 2010 alone?

I want to know if Sarah Palin and her “drill baby drill” cohorts have got their waders on yet. No, of course not. Sarah’s response to the disaster? Blame foreign oil companies. Yeah. That really helps with the clean up.

I want to know where the environmental groups are. I support Greenpeace, but I’d sure like to see them helping out instead of being indignant.

I want to know why some people are calling this “Obama’s Katrina”. How is the negligence of a money-grubbing oil corporation in the same category as negligence by Bush’s administration? Answer: it’s not. So, why, Rush?

And while I’m at it, what kind of person would actually posit that President Obama is happy about the death and destruction so he can now cancel his offshore drilling plans? Or that the explosion was the result of an evil plot by "hardcore environmentalist wackos"? Oh yeah… Rush again.

Most of all, I want to know how many people have to die (coal miners, oil rig workers, Americans with no health care), and how many people have to go bankrupt because of unscrupulous financial institutions, before Americans will realize that the unfettered greed of unregulated free-market capitalism will utterly and completely destroy this country. I’m all for responsible capitalism. I want to know what happened to the “responsible” part.

Clutter Busting

Trying to get my ducks in a row...

My first “real” job out of college was at an office supply company. This was in the mid-80s, before the days of mega office supply stores. Businesses would order their paper clips and Scotch tape and copier paper from the Boise-Cascade catalog, call it in to me, and we would deliver it the next day. It was billed if they were good customers, COD if they were not.

I grew fascinated by the seemingly endless array of doodads needed to make an office run smoothly. Clean plastic stacking shelves in so many colors. Pristine manila file folders, identified with color-coded, neatly typed labels, resting primly in proper green hanging folders inside 3-drawer, 5-drawer, or credenza style file cabinets. The huge variety of pencil cups, some with matching desk protectors. Cases and cases of 24-pin computer paper (remember dot-matrix printers? anybody?), legal or letter size.

One winter some co-workers and I earned extra money by meticulously labeling hundreds and hundreds of new file folders for a doctor’s office. They were changing to the system that’s the norm today: the first two letters of the patient’s last name on large colorful labels, with a separate sticker for the whole name. We sat in the cold warehouse with fingerless gloves and created an ordered world.

Ah, the promise of an ordered world. Now here I am, twenty some-odd years later, and I’ve just purchased yet another magazine which has filled my foolish heart with hope and desire:

“Secrets of Getting Organized!”

Oh, yes. To crack that code. Like the office supply catalog of yore, how I love the promise in those magazines: the photos of mudrooms and home offices, the memo boards decorated in rickrack, the kitchen chalkboards with “Timmy’s soccer game 9 am” written in a delicate hand. Little white wicker baskets, neatly labeled, hold the children’s SHOES, TRAINS, LEGOS. I’m not kidding, I get misty-eyed with the notion that my own home could somehow be like this.

Ask me how many books I have (in a box in the garage) on the subject of organizing. Hmmm, let’s see if I can remember. Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat? Organizing From The Inside Out. The Family Manager’s Everyday Survival Guide. (Okay, that one’s inside the house. Somewhere.) Now let’s look in the basket for magazines! Oh wait… I have to pull the dog toys out first… there you go. Storage Solutions. Better Homes and Gardens: get organized! 50+ ways to pare down, cut clutter, store more. Hey look, here’s an Oprah magazine from 2007.

Looking around the living room, where I do my writing, there is a basket of un-paired clean socks on the coffee table in front of me. Stacks of kid art poke out of the basket for the dog toys. (Oh yeah… that’s where they go.) My daughters’ laundry waits to be folded; in the meantime it rests on the back of the big chair. The Swiffer broom is, for some reason, on top of the dining room table.

Look, I’m busy, right? Who isn’t? Three kids, two dogs, and a tiny house. I’m exhausted the minute I walk in the door: it’s like there’s a vortex of disarray, threatening to suck me down in it, and I swim against its current madly and ineffectually. Last Christmas, when the kids were at their dad’s for a week, I spent the whole time cleaning and organizing the girls’ room. It’s April and you’d never know it. The cute little wicker baskets are in there; they just lie in the middle of the floor serving as houses for stuffed toys. The color-coded hangers are on the floor of the closet. The milk crate for Emma’s shoes is now a mini-bookcase that she keeps on her top bunk permanently. The shoes? Floor of the closet. Or in Claire’s milk crate. The toy chest just for dress-up clothes is now home to every Littlest Pet Shop playset that Target has to offer. Dress-up clothes?

Floor of the closet.

The girls really don’t care. They’re happy. My husband gets by, as long as the kitchen is navigable. My soon-to-be-teen son: haven’t seen him. He’s in his room until graduation, I guess.

But I continue to dream, because you have to have a dream to make it come true, right? If I just had the right baskets… if I just had those little color-coded thumbtacks…

So the lure of the Get Organized scam continues. Not long ago, I cruised the aisles of The Container Store, almost orgasmic at the possibilities. Oh, the sugar and flour canisters... a whole wall of them…

Somebody get me a cart.

Thunder only happens when it's raining...

 

The mudslides destroyed this home in La Cañada Flintridge. (photo, Glendale News-Press)

The sudden rumbling took me by surprise. I peered out of my car's front window, squinted through the rain, and said out loud, "is that thunder?"

See, we don't get many thunderstorms in Southern California. When I lived in Orlando, thunderstorms were almost a daily occurrence during the summer, and I loved to sit on my back porch and watch them. Spectacular events, they were: sonic booms that would rattle the windows, jagged shocks of lightning, and thunder cracks so dramatic that you'd swear a tree just landed in front of you. But here, the thunder is more sedate. Plus, you have to worry that it might be something else, like an earthquake or a mudslide.

So I had to double check the thunder. And it makes me think (although this is certainly not a scientifically proven fact) that this new rainstorm is going to wreak even more havoc.

You see, four days ago, Mother Nature caught us all offguard. The initial rains a couple of weeks ago had those of us in "the burn areas" prepared for the worst, and the worst never came. So when another rain was predicted for overnight Friday, everyone figured it would be no big deal.

Everyone was wrong.

For a number of homeowners about two miles from me, the worst case scenario came true. Rivers of mud, sidetracked by a boulder the size of a Volkswagen blocking the catch basin, barreled down their street and into their homes. Several homes were destroyed, many others suffered extensive damage. Cars left parked on the street were swept downhill and into the cement k-rails, which were no match for the mud. In some cases it flowed as high as the running boards of big SUVs.

It happened so fast and so unexpectedly; and unfortunately for the TV stations it was news on a Saturday morning. They scrambled to get reporters to the site, but only ABC-7 had the freedom in their programming to devote the whole afternoon to the story. And you know what that means.

I was glued to my television.

Later, I was able to pull myself away from the interviews with distraught homeowners and geological experts, and my stepson Sam and I went to the grocery store for Super Bowl supplies. The cel phone rang in the produce section; it was my Dad calling from Florida. "We're fine, no mud where we are," I said by way of answering the phone, and he laughed. Five minutes later I got a text from a friend up in Newhall, making sure we were okay. Sam, who lives out in Ventura County, didn't know what to think of it all, so I drove him up my street to show him the barren hillsides and to see if there was any damage there.

Where the fire devoured the earth, skeletons of trees reach up like claws from the dirt. "Dave should come up here and take pictures of this," I said, referring to Sam's brother, an accomplished photographer who is especially gifted at shooting landscapes. The rain had pushed some decent sized rocks and a bit of mud into the streets, but nothing newsworthy. We drove back down through a residential street, where an L.A. County Sheriff's car was parked across the road. The deputy motioned for me to roll my window down.

"We just need to let you know, if you leave this area, you won't be allowed back in. We're starting evacuations," she said politely.

I nodded and said, "that's okay, thanks," and we headed back home to make dinner.

Now it's Tuesday, and a new storm is rolling in. They're saying another two inches of rain could fall. And the evacuation orders, issued last night, went into effect at ten this morning. It's raining steadily outside; I have to pick my girls up from school in about an hour, and we're going to have popcorn and hot chocolate. I'll probably get on Facebook and compare notes with my friends back East who are dealing with the massive snowfall.

I'll be listening for more thunder and of course watching ABC-7. Sorry girls, you'll have to watch the TV in your own room. Mother Nature demands my attention.

After the Rain, Part 2; or, Dump Trucks on Parade

Now that the rains are over and the mud is done sliding, it's time for the clean-up. This involves a very large quantity of noisy, stinky dump trucks. As I've mentioned before, I live on the main drag up the hill, which means a parade of dump trucks outside my window (seriously, while I was writing that last sentence, I looked up and saw one going up and two going down).

I'm about a block uphill from a four-way stop, so right before the trucks are in front of my house they are braking and downshifting. I hear the earsplitting screech every few minutes, from wherever I am in the house. We had a yard sale on Saturday, and the noise was so bad that my neighbor Irene & I would stand with our hands covering our ears, like the "hear-no-evil" monkey.

When I went outside to snap a photo for this entry, it took only about 20 seconds for a truck to come into view. After only 2 or 3 minutes in my front yard, I watched a line of 5 dump trucks power up my street. Here you can see numbers 3, 4, and 5.

I don't know where they are taking the dirt and mud; I just know it's getting there one stinky truckload at a time. And there are a lot of very happy haulers out there, making truckloads of money cleaning up the mud in La Crescenta.