Sunday, April 30, 2006, 1:46 PM
I just spent 20 minutes reading reviews of the film United 93 while bawling my eyes out. I wanted to see what the critics had to say; I have no intention to go to see it, even though I've read that the film wasn't about Hollywood entertainment (which had been my main outrage about the film even being made in the first place). And now that I see it's not about that at all, I still won't see it, for the same reason I didn't see The Passion of the Christ or Titanic.
I know what's going to happen. Why put my heart, soul and body through an emotional wringer?
On the night of 9/11, I dreamed about flight 93. I dreamed about the planes flying into the World Trade Center and heard Lee Greenwood's song, I'm Proud To Be An American, all frigging night long, but it was the thought of what might have happened on flight 93 that filled me with the most pain, horror and awe. Apparently I wasn't alone in that because now there's this film.
I won't see it, though. I don't need to see it to remember what happened that day.
Try it. You might like it.
People often take me by surprise and Friday morning’s walk to work was no exception. LA traffic is almost always busy on the road (sidewalk) I take to work. Along the way, I pass a popular café. Unless it’s raining, there are people sitting outside drinking coffee and eating pastries. Since the café is on a street corner, there’s a painted white pedestrian walkway from one side of the street to the other. I’ve seen enough people cross that walkway during rush hour traffic to know it must be the law that cars have to yield the right of way to pedestrians.
This particular Friday morning, I noticed a man dressed all in black on the sidewalk curb across the street. I noticed him not because he was drop-dead gorgeous, but because he stepped into the street without looking either way, and he did so right in front of a car. It was an abrupt motion that caught the Fieval in me by surprise. His hands were in his pockets and his head was down, like he was lost in thought. I saw him glance quickly at the car that had stopped for him with a small smile on his face, as if might have been embarrassed by his close call, before his gaze returned to the road in front of him again. God, he was sexy.
He didn’t seem arrogant about the whole stepping into the road without bothering to look thing, but I had the thought that he was used to his looks parting the way for him. The city is rotten with gorgeous people, but this guy looked like a romance novel model with straight, shiny jet black hair, a well-defined face, and then there was the all black duds thing. Still, I wanted to ask him if he has a death wish. You’d never catch me walking out in front of a car. Even if this city’s drivers weren’t sometimes insane with road rage, distracted by talking on their cell phones, or feeling impatient to get where they’re going, I’m not going to pit my little body against someone else’s reflexes, not with they come with a multi-ton hunk of steel. It’s enough that I dare to live here, although LA doesn’t feel so intimidating as it once did. I’m even dreaming about driving on the streets.
Well, my coffee’s gone.
Whine and Dance
Right now, I'm paying the next door neighbor.
I read the CNN.com article about The worst songs of all time, part II. It's pretty funny. Long as all get out--I had to go pee before finishing it, fah cripe's sake--but while reading voter's slams on the worst songs, I was like huh-UH, I loved that song! Here are the top most hated five:
5. Seasons in the Sun, Terry Jacks (No. 1 for three weeks, 1974)
I love, love, loved this song as a kid. We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun. What's not to like? It's fun, it's upbeat, and I'm partial to men singing. I still love it.
4. I've Never Been to Me, Charlene (No. 3, 1982)
This song used to puzzle me because I didn't understand why a person would want to visit herself and wouldn't going to Hawaii be better? I liked the song, though. I like whiney songs. They make me tear up, even if I don't know what I'm tearing up about.
3. You Light Up My Life, Debby Boone (No. 1 for 10 weeks, 1977)
I used to sing this in the shower all the time. Next to I am stuck on Band-Aid and the Oscar Meyer weiner song, You Light Up My Life was always a favorite choice.
2. Muskrat Love, The Captain and Tennille (No. 4, 1976)
I didn't know what a muskrat was, never even thought this was a song about animals doing the deed. Nope, I thought it was The Captain and Tennille's own special sexual dance of love. I giggled lots.
1. (You're) Having My Baby, Paul Anka (No. 1 for three weeks, 1974)
I love this song still and I'm never going to have a baby for a man, but I can still sigh over the mushy feelings a guy can have about his woman giving him a baby. It's a good song.
I'm off to listen to my fouldy oldie 70s tunes.
If I want to wear that sundress tomorrow, I have to shave my legs. I'm thinking about the benefits of getting unwanted hair lasered. And how it would be nice if my armpit and leg hair follicles magically danced themselves upstairs to my scalp. This shaving of the legs practice sucks.
So does getting up before I want to in the morning.
Any bets on whether or not I get my pictures hung in the apartment this weekend? I've said it before: I'm as lazy as Ludlum's dog that had to lean against the wall to bark. (I have no idea who Ludlam is, okay? I read it in a book.)
I've been dreaming a lot lately--mostly about sexy, long-haired men who have it for me bad (which is good), and about highlighting numbers on a page (which has to do with my job). It's making me feel warm and brainburny.
I really don't think shaving my legs is a good idea at this point.
For some odd reason, I've been reading vampire romances. Usually I avoid romance because I was weaned on romance and all shades of the romance genre tends to bore me, but I guess I'm ... bloodthirsty.
If you think about it, we all wonder (more than once in our life) about the purpose for which we are born. And if you're anything like me, you think you might know the answer some times ... and then at others, you're clueless. But me? I just hope I conquer that fear and actually do something about it before I die. I don't want to live this life over again, don't want to be Fieval the mouse again. I want to be Bond. James Bond.
What if ...
I was surprised that the last entry I'd written made me seem like I was still bawling in my pillow. Because I'm not. Sure, I'm not happy, but I'm not sad. I am busy working my way towards that elusive state known as engaged contentment.
Actually, most of the time I'm busy going cross-eyed while staring at computer monitors, or sleeping. Until my training period is complete at work and my brain has fallen into that comfortable rut that comes only with time (and I'm not saying it's always a bad thing), one of the last things I want to do when I get home at night is to stare at the computer screen some more.
And now ... my time quota is up because I'm no longer making sense.
Short and sweet.
What if this entry had been longer?
(You'd be here longer.)
I am the fiery longing Scarlett felt for Ashley in Gone With The Wind. Although I think Rhett was the more dashing, I understand the lure angelic Ashley held for bad girl Scarlett. And oh God, I sympathize, I long, I burn.
I am a survivor, although I feel otherwise. It makes little sense that what doesn't kill me only makes me stronger, because it's not like I (or anyone of us) have a choice. We do what we have to do, which means that we are all survivors in an all too often unforgiving world. Still, I like when others say that I am a survivor, if for no other reason than it makes me feel as if I am.
I am honest, embarrassingly, not hiding it, heart-on-the-sleeve so. I don't know how to lie, I don't want to lie, nor do I see the merit of it.
I am still the kind of girl who'd study an anthill from a hair's breath away. Ants are selfless and work tirelessly until death. Surely somewhere, there must be an Ant Heaven.
I am the only one who stood up to Ronald, one of the middle school bullies who used to plague my childhood best friend. I only wish I'd done it sooner and that I'd had enough guts to punch him in the nose while I was at it.
I am everything that is whimsical. I see Puff The Magic Dragon in the clouds, I feel the presence of a guardian angel, and I believe that it's more than just dumb luck that drives my destiny. Maybe it's God, maybe it's magic, maybe it's me.
I am the five of hearts in a deck of cards. Five, because five is my number. Hearts, because I believe in true love, even though I may never find it myself.
I am the girl who lulled my younger sister to bed with stories of Thummy--my poor left thumb who'd lost his hat in a nut-digging accident. Rhonda loved hearing Thummy talk about his bloody and painful kah-whoomph! and the silver nut digger that tore the hat off his head, and how a new hat had magically re-grown in its place and made him just like new.
I am the one who laughed uncontrollably at the sight of a fly that flew into my dresser's mirror.
I am still disturbed by that dream I had about the devil and how he wanted me. Sexually. (Holy Mary, Mother of God, deliver me from evil, etcetera, etcetera, amen.)
I am the one who hid my hopes that some day I would be the kind of girl boys would love. It seemed so unlikely and impossible when I was only 12, gangly and ugly.
I am surprised I didn't die on the spot when my first grade teacher, whose name I can't remember, sang The Banana song to me in front of the whole class. Beeee-biiiii-booooo-bye, banana-nanna-no-niiiii. He was magical and if I found him today, I would hug him fiercely.
I am the one who always blushed first.
I am still wondering what my purpose for being born is.
The mystery of it all
I suspect I'll find my heavy metal curtain rod hangers in my underware drawer. And my hammer in the flour tin.
(By the way, thanks for my sah-weet pink tool kit, Becky! Like she wrote in her note: Ain't no guy likely to run off with a pink-handled hammer or pair o' pliers, ay wot?)
I took some great photos of my messy apartment, exported them to Freehand, closed the document, then immediately erased them from my camera card's memory. Meanwhile, I forgot to copy the photos over to a file so Freehand can find them when I open the file again. So ... no photos. But perhaps it's just as well because my apartment is still ker-plunk and I'd rather it was ker-ching.
In other news, I'm loving my new job. I'm not sure why because the new job is all about numbers and invoices and getting checks out on time, and I've never been about that kind of stuff. I'd rather get a tooth pulled at the dentist than to deal with numbers. But I like it anyway.
The company must be putting something in the water.
Last, but not least, I'm here to do my civic blogish duty for TheMovieovieBoy.com (whose reviews and opinions I admire) and for romance (something else I adore, endorse and urge upon you). Click here, read, and see the movie. Go. You have to see what he says. This is a 20-something guy with an incredible command of English and he's given a rare four-star rating to a sleeper romance/comedy about tween first love. It's not something you're going to read (or see) often.
Netflix, here I come.
I think/see/remember/dream stuff I want to write about here and in a novel all the time. Little things like how I've been noticing a limo that parks on a side street along Melrose, and how perhaps the driver inside is biding his (or her) time until Keanu Reeves returns to the car.
Of course I still have the thought that he'll see me one day and fall instantly in love.
And ... like the time I was returning from my Christmas holiday and I was in the airport after traveling all day, grumpy and tired and wondering where the frell my bag was, when some tall idiot man stepped on my foot when he shoved his way beside me. I was standing alongside the carousel that bags go 'round and 'round on. Well, this man didn't so much as glance at me. I might've been a five-foot-tall gnat. And then he turns around, nearly mowing me over again, and says "Rebecca." That's when I noticed I was standing not five feet away from Rebecca DeMornay. I was too tired to care, though.
She is, however, the only celebrity I've seen in the flesh.
And ... how when it rains here in Los Angeles and the worms crawl out of the grass seeking drier environs, they are much, much more skinny than they are Indiana. Apparently rain has lots to do with the health of a worm. Who knew?
And ... how male hair dressers--or beauticians or whatever they're called today--seem to be a lot more fun and attentive than females. I'm glad I got over my shyness and went to a male hair stylist. I have been eyed by so many hunkish--and probaby gay--men lately, that my self confidence has climbed at least five notches from feeling like doggy doo to doo wop me. There's something about me that gay men like. Maybe they sense my utter unthreateningness? Whatever it is, I like it.
And ... how the big thing advertised here in L.A. seems be cars and plastic surgery (and, okay, some place called Jack In The Box, or so I'm told), compared to feminine hygiene products and pizza in Indiana. Priorities, priorities.
It's spaghetti time. Chow.
Not enough sleep.
What's it called when three things intersect?
And most of it was a surprise.
Yesterday I was sitting at my computer (at home) and I got a phone call. I answered the call, then set the phone near my computer monitor. Some time later, I noticed the phone indicated that it was almost 5:00. And then for some reason, I'm looking at my TV. On top of the TV is my alarm clock ... which said it was almost 6:00.
Friggin time change. I was almost robbed of an hour unawares! I could have shown up at work an hour later this morning. It's entirely possible. We didn't do the time change thing in Indiana.
Well, until this year. Man, Oogie is Peeeeee. Ooooohed. You get an hour back in the winter, I reminded her. She doesn't care. If The Powers That Be weren't robbing her of an hour now, there'd be no need to give it back to her later.
So I arrive at work on Monday (on time) because my old position morphed into 40 hours instead of 32. I'm sleepy and my butt's dragging even before I step foot inside the door. And then I'm informed that I start my new position today.
Like ... now.
And that's basically all I remember about Monday. It whipped by me like the wet towel the neighborhood bully used to snap at my butt.