In Touch At Target

I’m not sure how or why, but on Saturday I found myself shopping at Target with Reena and Nick. Okay, that’s a lie. I know how and why, but I figured it would sound a lot cooler if I pretended that going to Target on a Saturday with my friends was an anomaly. Which, really, it is, because we had some time to kill before a movie, but still.

If you’ve ever shopped at Target, you’ve probably realized that the store has casino-like capabilities of drawing you in and then phantasmally forcing you to drop anywhere from $50-$100 on fairly sensible stuff you think you need, or will come in handy, but not actual stuff that you’re in dire need for. Case in point: did I really need another double pack of Oral B 40 Soft toothbrushes when I still have an unopened pack at home?

Someday I’ll need them, sure!

After paying and walking out, I found a copy of In Touch magazine right outside the front door that somebody must’ve dropped. (Poetic justice, anyone?) I picked it up and pointed it out to Reena and Nick. They were like, “Dude, just leave it there. There are cameras everywhere!”

Now, I’m usually the paranoid one, but I reasoned that if there are cameras everywhere, then the cameras would obviously see me leaving with only my bags and not the magazine. But my friends made a good point: did I really want to be pulled back into the store by loss prevention only to be questioned over a copy of a crappy three dollar gossip rag?

Without hesitation, I threw the magazine into a renegade shopping cart right near where I’d found it and took off.

I tell you, it’s crazy fun times like these that keep me from my blogging and make my life just too fucking exciting.

Pine Sol and Coffee

There's really no way to sugar coat this with words or cleverness. So I'll just cut to the chase.

Lemon yogurt flavored Zone Perfect bars taste like fucking Pine Sol. Seriously. This is not an exaggeration.

I'm sure there are friendlier ways to commit suicide.

Killing Baby Squirrels

Last night, as if life wasn’t weird enough, I went to see a preview of “Trust the Man” (and may I just say, Worst. Title. Ever) with the ex. (Sorry kids, no links or pictures. We’re trying to keep it on the staying friends tip.)

The movie (which not-so-coincidentally stars David “my object of lust for the past ten years” Duchovny), began normally enough, except for the fact that within the first fifteen minutes we realized that it was just like watching our failed relationship during its formidable unraveling depicted on the big screen with wittier lines and better make-up.

Anyway, without getting too much into it, at one point, Duchovny busts out with something along the lines of “it’s not like I’m killing baby squirrels.” That’s when I had some serious Zoe flashbacks.

The movie wasn’t too bad. Nothing great, but cute. Strangely enough, it was sort of well-cast and dare I say, well-acted. Duchovny actually did some acting, Julianne Moore was toned down, Billy Crudup was on par and even Maggie Gyllenhaal, who usually annoys me with her quirky/freaky schtick, was fairly likeable.

I would say that if it comes out in the next couple of months...and you’ve already seen the Harry Potter movie like five times...and have nothing better to go see...and you’re a fan of typical Hollywood endings, it’s worth a matinee showing.

The Saddest Sight

There are many visual images that make me sad. Road kill, white chocolate, starving children. (Yeah, yeah, I’ve already painted racing stripes on my handbasket.). But why does the sight of an empty e-mail box hurt so much?

Fewer things in the world scream “too cool for you on a Sunday evening” louder than this:

Too Old For This Shit?

So a few nights ago I’m rocking out to some Motley Crue and I’m really rocking out. I’m talking air guitar-ing, head banging, furniture jumping. And then I throw my neck out.

How come this never happened in the eighties?

I bet somewhere in America, Axl Rose, Sebastian Bach and Vince Neil are asking themselves the same thing.

As Jew Like It

For some reason, the twenty-five hour no-food or water Yom Kippur fast seems to get easier with each year that passes.

For those of you not of the Jewish persuasion, Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement where you’re supposed to fast and feel like shit and demonstrate your repentance for the year’s sins. It is basically identical to the Sabbath, only a lot scarier because if you’re so inclined, Yom Kippur is also the day of judgment where God either inks your name in the Book of Life or the Book of Death. Religiously chilling mind fuck anyone?

Now, I want to be a good Jew and I want to be a good person, but I don’t think I really have twenty-five hours worth of sins to repent for and even if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to meditate on them for that long without contemplating suicide. If you can imagine, the hardcore Orthodox Jews spend all day in synagogue. Since I’m nowhere near that level of commitment and have some serious issues concerning organized religion, I pick and choose and tell myself that religion comes from within and not from public displays.

After fifteen years of fasting experience, my religiously incorrect method of getting through Yom Kippur is simply targeted at killing the boredom; fairly similar to the “About A Boy” way of breaking the day into units of time. My rules are pretty simple too: no phones, no e-mails, no IMs and no music. I would give up television, but DVDs are an integral necessity in the art of time killing.

For example, last night, I killed two hours with America’s Next Top Model and Veronica Mars. Then this morning I contemplated my sins for a bit and then spent most of the remaining hours of the depressing day with an equally depressing book that my mom asked me to pick up for her a few weeks ago but never read.

(Side note: I have nothing against the book itself, but I keep reminding myself that it is an Oprah Book Club book and I worry about reading anything that is associated with such because I know it’s a slippery slope and that I’m never more than a stone’s throw away from “Tuesdays With Morrie.” It’s also no surprise that the first thing I did before even cracking open the book is peeled off the Oprah sticker. Thus, in a preemptive strike against Mitch Albom’s opus, I gave Nick full authorization to freely shoot me in the head if he ever saw me so much as near a copy of said book.)

Eventually, six rolled around and I lightheadedly threw on some clothes, tried to make myself as presentable as anyone who’s just spent an entire day in a small room reading about drug addiction and rehab and started the slow half mile schlep to temple.

Personally, I find that a large part of religion is about testing out the weak spots and discovering loopholes. The ingenuity this year was that my mom and I strategically parked her car down the street from the synagogue yesterday afternoon. Thus, after the shofar was blown and the fast officially ended tonight, we were able to briskly walk to the car and drive our tired and lightheaded asses home to eat, drink and be food-comatose. Hence, we did nothing wrong and stayed well within the confines of the religious rules.

I think if I can find the cup of coffee escape clause for next year, I’ll be all set.

Math, Michael Myers & Madness

For me, the world pretty much breaks up into three basic categories: words, numbers and everything else. And out of all the subcategories that fall under the basic ones, there are very few things that can conceptually scare me as much as math.

Math was always the one subject I could never excel at. I couldn’t even come close to being decent at it. Remember the kid in math class who was asking to copy your homework ten minutes before class and always had that panicked “oh fuck” look on their face during tests? That was me. I always took the road less numerically traveled and that made all the difference; i.e., permitted me to scrape by, thus dragging down my otherwise impressive (honk, honk) GPA.

The logic required to grasp mathematical concepts ran away from my brain sometime during eighth grade and has never been seen since. I never bothered looking for it.

Avoiding math at all costs became my mode of survival and directly/indirectly contributed to my choosing English as a major in college. The thought that I’ll never have to take another math class as long as I live and breathe, allows me to sleep at night with a soundness unlike any other.

However, you know how some people have nightmares about falling to their deaths or being trapped in a room with a limited supply of oxygen? Sadly, I have those about math.

Not surprisingly, last night I was plagued by a nightmare about getting a “D” on a math test that I had no recollection of ever taking. I kept looking at it, thinking, how could I get a “D” if I only got ten out of one-hundred questions wrong? In what alternate universe did 90% become a “D!”

I was even more frustrated when some kid tried to explain the teacher’s perplexingly intricate grading system. And the fact that I couldn’t quite understand this system of curves, slopes and numbers, angered me even more because math was now fucking me harder than ever before.

Frustratingly enough, my dream sort of faded right before I approached the teacher about my grade, so I never really understood why I got the unjust grade that I did. But regardless, it made me feel like shit.

Then my dream sort of switched over to me sitting in the back of a moving car and Michael Myers chasing me with a large knife. (Think “Jurassic Park” when Jeff Goldblum is sitting backwards in backseat of the Jeep and the T-Rex is chasing dangerously close behind.). Only I kept kicking the crap out of Mike Myers and he just wouldn’t stop. That went on for a few minutes and I eventually woke up in a dry-mouthed sweaty panic.

The ironically sad part? I’ll take the Mike Myers dream over the math one any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Eye Can See

Had my long-overdue eye exam yesterday. As expected, I’m getting blinder as the years pass and its only a matter of time before I subject myself to the cornea cutting joys of the laser. Maybe.

Other than all the new technology, the eye exam was pretty standard. The best part, however, (besides the ever-so-delightful two poofs of air shot into your eyes that make you flinch and hit your forehead against the forehead rest and look like an idiot glaucoma test thing) was the digital photo shoot.

It was a bit strange because the flash goes off directly into your eyeballs. Remember in “Rear Window” when Jimmy Stewart is blinding Raymond Burr with the flashbulbs and the screen is rendered different shades of red and orange? Well, it was kind of like that, only with greens and purples. So in it’s own mock sixties acid trip sort of way, it was pretty cool...and I didn’t even have to worry about making sure my hair looked okay.

After a few strokes of the keyboard, my eyeballs magically popped up on the computer screen. At that moment, I had a mini-fantasy of me in front of the judging panel and Tyra saying, “Okay, Eti, you had an eye exam. The Doctor said your optical nerve was very strong and healthy and that you were fierce. Here is your best shot.” Damn, that would’ve been awesome.

Once the exam was over, I attempted to discreetly take a picture of the screen with my camera phone, but alas, I was not to be left alone in the room and was too apprehensive to ask for permission. I kind of regret doing that now because I could’ve had the best holiday cards...ever!

But, you know, bygones, hindsight, etc..

Sevens in Triplicate / Assholes in Spades

I seem to have fallen back into my lovely (read: psychotic) routine of triple sevens. Get to work at seven, go home at seven, back to work at seven. Actually, it’s more like the Bermuda Triangle of the fourth dimension where everything just gets sucked up into this infinite void of stress, yelling and paperwork. Which wouldn’t be so bad really, if it weren’t for stupid people. But then again, what wouldn’t?

If my life were a movie, this is the scene where I’d pick up a drug habit to get me through the days. And I haven’t really, unless you consider Advil a drug habit. So kudos to me. But not kudos to my fledgling bleeding ulcer.

At any rate, I think this blog’s been getting a little too cutesy and inner-monologue-ish for my taste, so it’s time for a proper bitching. Thus, in honor of what I like to officially declare Asshole Week (believe me, there’ll be plenty more), here is a short list of five (of many) asshole-ish things that really irk me:

1.) Assholes who think they’re hotter than hot shit even though they’re not; and even if they were it doesn’t excuse them from assholedom.

2.) Assholes who feel the need to press the elevator call button after seeing you press it or notice the light is already on. Ditto for crosswalks.

3.) Assholes who feel the need to get into the elevator before letting you get out.

4.) Assholes who see/notice you right behind them, yet fail to hold the door.

5.) Asshole traffic cops who cite people for crossing a street at a crosswalk one second after the red hand started flashing because they were cut off by an off duty ambulance. And as they’re ticketing you for a one hundred and fourteen fucking dollar fine, thirty other people are carrying out much worse offenses punishable by law every which way you turn and then have the audacity to tell you, through their 35 year-old retainer-wearing teeth, that their job isn’t to “protect and serve,” like it says on their insignia, but rather, make sure traffic is moving swiftly. Fuck you, Officer Dipshit. You know who you are, you stupid hapless motherfucker.

Ahhh, ain’t Asshole Week grand?

Unemployment: Proper

Okay, okay, so it was just one day off. But look how much I actually did without really doing anything.

8:00 a.m. Wake up.

8:30 a.m. Bowl of cereal over computer / blogging.

9:00 a.m. IMs and e-mails.

10:00 a.m. Read “Rats Saw God.”

11:00 a.m. Finish “Rats Saw God.”

11:01 a.m. Shower and get ready.

12:00 p.m. Eat leftovers while leafing through magazines and contemplating brilliance of “Harold and Maude.” Make mental note to watch “Harold and Maude” again.

12:20 p.m. Enjoy coffee over Photoshop.

12:40 p.m. Surf net, research digital cameras, ponder incestuous nature of blog.

1:00 p.m. Leave house. Run errands. Drop off film from Nick’s chocolate party in August at Target one hour photo. Go to Costco. Schedule long overdue eye exam appointment. Browse. Consider buying “Lipstick Jungle.” Remember that “4 Blondes” sucked ass. Reconsider “Lipstick Jungle.” Decide to think about it. Leave Costco. Go back to Target. Pick up photos. Flip through photos. Grow increasingly disappointed at lack of incriminating photos. Internally giggle at others. Leave Target to continue on quest to find perfect boot. Go to DSW. Mentally distinguish myself from middle aged women buying shoes on Tuesday afternoon in store. Decide all boots at DSW suck. Leave DSW. Make bee line for Tower Records. Browse. Make mental note to activate Netflix account. Drive around. Get iced coffee at Starbucks. Give up boot search. Go home.

3:45 p.m. Get home, turn on computer.

4:00 p.m. More IMs, e-mails, sarcasm. Comment on blogs, research DVDs to Netflix.

4:30 p.m. Get hungry. Eat sandwich with Muenster cheese, humous and out of season tomatoes.

4:45 p.m. Finish sandwich. Beg spiritual forgiveness for said out of season tomatoes.

5:10 p.m. Crank up iTunes, step away from computer.

6:06 p.m. Nick comes over. Discuss America’s Next Top Model and cover songs. Make in-jokes.

7:00 p.m. Hop into car, hop on freeway. Road rage check: mild.

7:30 p.m. Arrive at Silver Lake compound.

7:40 p.m. Don apron. Successfully de-seed pomegranate without staining self as loud Yiddish music plays in background.

7:48 p.m. Consider how cute I look in apron. Make mental note to try to be more domestic.

8:30 p.m. Eat, discuss wacky tales of synagogue, Zionism, vodka and eat more.

9:00 p.m. The mastication continues.

9:30 p.m. Revel in alcoholic stylings of Russian booze cake.

9:55 p.m. Discuss philosphy and absolutes.

10:00 p.m. Realize I'm too sober for this particular discussion.

10:20 p.m Crash book club next door.

10:22 p.m. Clear out book club next door.

12:00 a.m. Overstay welcome. Decide to leave.

12:02 a.m. Hop into car.

12:07 a.m. Get on relatively empty freeway. Road rage check: Nonexistent.

12:15 a.m. Note how lovely L.A. is without traffic.

12:20 a.m. Get home.

12:45 a.m. Make phone call.

12:50 a.m. Get ready for bed.

1:00 a.m. Spoon self and go to sleep.

Growing Down

When I was a kid, I used to think that by the time I reached twenty-five, I’d be a marine biologist living in Sydney with my husband and two kids in a cutely quaint seaside home studying the great white sharks off the coast.

When I actually arrived at twenty-five (miles off target), I swore that I would dedicate my life to becoming the Bride in Kill Bill (both volumes). Now at twenty-seven, I’m no more closer to being a kick-ass leather-jacket-wearing Uma Thurman than I am to being the second coming of Jacques Cousteau.

Too busy for any quality blog/instant messenger/e-mail time during my fun-filled eleven hour Monday at work, I came home and started writing this really sarcastic (surprise, surprise) and bitter post about how much fun work is. But I quickly scratched that because a.) for the most part, I like my job and b.) being a bitter asshole was more my forte when I was thirteen. Although I’m sure I still have some latent asshole shrapnel buried somewhere deep in my squalid heart.

So on the evening of Rosh Hashana, I started contemplating whether I was just a big fucking flake who’s never followed through or whether I was just as normal as the next kid who never found the cure for cancer or became the astronaut they swore they would be when they were ten. (In all fairness, you gotta give me the Bride/Uma Thurman thing, because, you know, awesome!)

But before I could think too much or get all depressed from my brooding, my sister came over with gifts fresh out of her unpacked suitcases. Somewhere in the bag amidst the Elite chocolate bars, evil eye paraphernalia and weird stuffed goat thing sewed for me by my paternal grandmother in the senior community she lives in, there he was; my monkey.

When I was one, my aunt bought me this stuffed monkey thing that I used to carry around everywhere. It moved with me to California when I was six and back to Israel when I was thirteen. And when I was fourteen, I left it in Israel when I moved back to the states again because I decided that it was an eyesore and I no longer cared for it. (See asshole shrapnel.)

So when I pulled it out of the bag last night, I was pretty sure my sister found it in a box at my maternal’s grandmother’s house, along with my stacks of old Mad magazines circa 1987 and stamp albums, because my grandmother would never let me throw anything like that away. My grandmother passed away this summer, so to have anything that smells even remotely of her house or remind me of her is just the greatest thing in the world.

And suddenly, the fact that I wasn’t hurtling myself into shark infested waters or whipping around Japanese steel against an army of Crazy 88s didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

Thanks in large part to the revoltingly offensive oral mist Zicam and generic (but oh so rhinally miraculous) Sav-On brand Afrin that I chugalugged and snorted respectively since the end of last week, I spent most of my Sunday morning expelling a technicolor rainbow of mucous too beautiful to be seen by the human eye. And despite sparing you any tangible images, knock wood, I’ve still got my health.

Whilst waiting for my just-back-in-town sister and company to arrive for a homely Sunday brunch, I picked up a deck of Osho Zen Tarot cards (purchased many a year ago in the Holy Land) for some facetiously-credible perceptivity. Running short on time, I opted for the one-card “super quickie,” where you randomly select a card for insight into a situation or to meditate on for the rest of the day.

I shuffled the deck, closed my eyes and split the deck in two, to see that I had picked out the No-Thingness card. Which is basically a black card with (gasp) nothing on it.

Enigmatic indeed.

Accordingly, after a lengthy spiritual meditation spanning some five minutes on the notion that “nothingness to nothingness is the whole journey,” I was so enlightened that my outgoing message will now impart: “Hey, it’s Eti. I can’t answer the phone because I’m too busy meditating on nothing and your call is fucking up my whole journey.”

LAXadaisical

Unless you’re one of those guys whose job it is to hold up little printed signs and pick up strangers in black Lincoln Towncars, trips to LAX (which don’t directly involve you in the travel plans) are often emotionally split right down the middle with little gray area in which to frolic.

Arrivals: happy. Departures: sad.

And after about twenty years of ping-ponging between LAX and the Valley, you tend to learn a thing or two.

For example, you know that traffic always gets shitty around Wilshire and again at the 405/10 interchange, so you have to leave early, unless it's three in the morning. You know that you need to stay in the left lane of Century Boulevard for arrivals and in the middle lane for departures. (Try not to get blinded by the Live Nude Girls XXX bar on the right or the giant Celine Dion Caesar’s Palace billboard on the left.)

Once officially on airport grounds, you know that the Tom Bradley International Terminal is terminal number four (right after the turn) and how it’s the one terminal that actually serves food, sells magazines and has actual chairs (which are actually quite comfortable by airport standards) to sit in. You know that LAX tends to reek of car horns, plane fuel and the ever so nauseating aroma of travel (i.e., clashing perfumes, recycled air and bad fluorescent lighting.)

It also no longer surprises you that parking prices are through the roof or that the guy in the suit who utterly rams your foot with his luggage cart will never actually mumble a quick apology under his breath in passing, much less stop to do so formally.

Oh, and remember the button that reads “Push Button: Wait for Walk Signal?” Yeah, to that I’m going to have a shirt made that reads: “I already pressed the button you stupid moron! You just saw me do it because you were standing right next to me! Do you think that you have magical powers? I wish you would’ve told me that you’d push it again so I could’ve been spared from touching that yellow hued playground of disease and infestation altogether!”

Nevertheless, as complacent and cynical as I am about LAX, I never forget how lucky I am to have it so close to home. There are people who actually have to drive a couple hundred miles out of their way just to get to some small airport, where they’ll inevitably get on a plane only to get forked out to a bigger airport and so forth. That’s just a great big bowl of suck if I ever ate one.

Granted, entering the diabolical arena of L.A. traffic is quite capable of making you burn through a half tank of gas in a single trip and suck the soul right out of your road raged body; but hey, at least you don’t have to catch a connecting flight. And to that, I say amen.

Huntress