Inland Empress

The long road home

I spent eight hours in traffic today. I know you want to hear all about it, it was just so, um, eventful. Not.

We drove back from visiting Mom-in-law in Scottsdale. Wonderful trip, fabulous time, great hostess, etc. The ride home convinced me to never set foot out of my home from mid-November through early January.

Some lowlights:

1. At a rest stop in the middle of the desert, there were 20 women in line ahead of me for the toitee. I am doing the hold-yer-pee shimmy. I'm at the front of the line. It's my turn. A stall opens. Yesss! The woman behind me decides this is the perfect moment to start a conversation: "Are we in California yet?"

Do I look like an OnStar console? No, lady, you're in Arizona, and that's a puddle of wee-wee on your shoes. Are we best friends yet?

2. The mountains whip the air currents into a frenzy every fall. You know the winds are really strong when you see signs warning trucks, trailers, campers and empty vans to delay their trips. Like, until after New Year's.

Our car got tossed about like sheafs of paper. At one point I had the steering wheel turned almost completely to the right just to go straight. Okay, so I drive an Echo and you could breathe heavily on it and it'd veer off course. Nobody's going to post a warning to Echo drivers. SUVs roll right over us anyway, sorta like moving speed bumps. A few less Echos on the road -- who'd notice?

3. My brave Mighty Mite endured the whole trip on nothing but chocolate chip cookie and apple slices. He amused himself by unlacing and then relacing his sneakers, which made for some interesting macrame experiments. How many two-year-olds tie their own shoes? None. And for good reason. But I give him credit. After what must've been the 50th time my husband or I untangled his gordian knots, the monsterling would scrunch up his face, peer intently at his sneakers, and not rest until he'd discovered yet a new way to completely screw up the laces in ways not envisioned by their manufacturer. It kept him preoccupied. How could I argue?

4. Did you know that no matter how many times you change lanes, the most humongous RV dragging the world's largest trailer will always pull up next to you, blocking any possible view of mountains, sunsets, desert vistas, road signs, and the last rest stop exit for 50 miles?

5. As everyone knows, the L.A. metro area has the nation's worst traffic. But did you know that on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the L.A. metro area is defined as the geographical region stretching from the Pacific ocean to somewhere east of Phoenix?

Sigh. After giving this some thought, maybe the woman in the restroom was asking an existential question. Are we in California yet, indeed. Perhaps we never really left.

Be back soon

my name is seth and im holdig the emprss hostaj need more toyx and cookis or she gets it

send to grammyz hows in ardzona

will bee heer till sundae

oh ya send ice crem too

Dead orchid haiku

Dessicated shoots

Another plant bites the dust

Black thumb strikes again

Navel gazing

I need to address the serious subject of navel crud here. No, that's not a slap at our brave sailors. Learn to spell, will you? I'm talking bellybuttons.

Like most people, I have one. It used to be a lovely, vertical slit in the softly rounded contours of my tummy. It was an inny, but not just any inny, the very inniest of innies. The Grand Canyon was jealous.

Sure, I hid the occasional raisin or peanut M&M in there. Any kid could do that. It was finding it again that proved a challenge.

But the one drawback to having a bottomless pit for a navel was that it had many non-human admirers, mostly of the microscopic variety. I was a walking condo of crud, and my tiny tenants would wake me at night with their constant partying.

Wow, would I itch. It's an itch that simply cannot be sated, and don't tell me that your balls need a good scratch or there's this spot in the middle of your back. You've no idea. I nearly rearranged my intestines trying to get at that itch.

I learned the white crud smelled the worst, faintly acrid and sour, like meat left out too long. But the black crud was more gruesome and stubborn. My husband and I have had many unromantic episodes together; bouts of gas at inappropriate moments rank high on the list, along with the overzealous use of Altoids. Nothing beats my Romeo watching me swab mold out of my middle. 

"Guess I won't be sticking my tongue in there any more," he said.

Sigh. Do I criticize how hard he honks his horn before coming to bed? Of course not. I wait until the windows stop rattling and then smile sweetly, hoping he doesn't post-nasal drip anything on me.

Until I got pregnant, I'd never actually seen the bottom of my bellybutton. I just assumed it went all the way to China. Seeing it was like finding a whole new body part, if only I could figure out what it did.

Last night was the first time the itchies awakened me since my pregnancy, and as I hunted for Q-tips and peroxide, I realized I missed my old bellybutton. After giving birth, it sagged to a sad "o" shape, and the bottom never fully retreated.

It was another sad reminder that my middle-aged body is betraying me. Not that I was getting into piercings or bare midriffs, but it'd be nice to think I could.

At least I know I was once the queen of M&M suppositories. Even my husband can't take that away from me.

My big, fat, Greek burrito

For a few glorious days and nights in my early twenties, I lived out my most hedonistic fantasies. While Eurail-passing through Europe, I eventually found myself on the Greek isle of Crete, renting a room for around $3 a day and drinking ouzo for 5 cents a glass.

Mornings, I'd roll out of bed and land in the town square, where I'd eat a frittata whose taste I've never been able to duplicate. Maybe it was the olive oil, or the combination of herbs, I can't recall. By midday, I was ready to tackle the rocky path to a secluded beach where I could sunbathe topless.

As I have rather large boobs, I was instantly popular -- a rather new feeling for introverted me, and one I happily exploited. My favorite moment was the Norwegian swimmer who had me hold his trunks while he ventured into the Mediterranean in nothing but his altogether. Something about the aerodynamics or other, I was too busy drooling to pay attention.

I'd lunch on a baguette and nutella I'd dragged from the village along with a bottle of water. And that was it -- my entire day. I might've explored the caves at one end of the beach, and posed for a few photos with flustered Canadian guys. Their Yankee counterparts did a better job of feigning coolness around all that voluptuous nekkidity.

In the evenings, it was strictly Greek salads by the sea before hanging out at one of the local watering holes to pick up guys, who couldn't remember my name but seemed to have memorized my cup size.

I brought home lots of souvenirs: funky leather sandals, a huge, coarsely knitted sweater and a case of crabs. Every time I step foot in a Greek diner, I'm reminded of those blissful days, if only because most of the salads I've ever eaten in a diner truly suck. I've no idea where the wilted iceburg lettuce comes from -- it's not commonly available in Europe -- or who stuck in those freaking beets or the tasteless yellow peppers.

Here's my remembered version, chopped smaller so it fits into a tortilla. Don't blame me if you get the sudden urge to take off your clothes.

The maven's big, fat, Greek burrito

Salad:

1 or 2 small persian or asian cucumbers, or 1/2 an English hothouse cucumber, peeled and diced.

1/2 heirloom or vine-ripened tomato, seeded and coarsely chopped

1-2 thick slices, purple onion, diced

1/4 cup pitted kalamata olives, coarsely chopped

1 Tbsp crumbled feta cheese

Whole-wheat tortilla

dressing:

1 tsp red wine vinegar

2 Tbsp extra virgen olive oil

1 tsp dried oregano

pinch pepper

Combine salad ingredients (except the tortilla) in a bowl. In a cup or small bowl, whisk together the dressing ingredients and pour it over the salad. Toss. Spread on the tortilla, and then roll it into a burrito.

And remember: 

"Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee!" -John Donne

The lonely, suburban Jew Blues

I am not the only Jew in the entire Inland Empire. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I try to remind myself of that several times a day, repeating it inside my head while suppressing a sigh.

I wander alone in the kosher food aisle at Vons, where the cans and jars marked "Rokeach" or "Manischewitz" keep a dusty vigil from one visit to the next. I've never bumped elbows with anyone within 20 feet of the egg noodles. The gefilte fish looks like it hasn't swam in anything remotely oceanic since the Dead Sea was still living.

I routinely clean out my favorite bead store of Jewish stars. I think they only re-order them because of me. It took two clerks 10 minutes last time to dig up their one remaining star, but it was a cloisonne beauty inlaid with tiny flower petals -- well worth the wait.

Mine is one of the few cars without a Jesus fish, but I try to compensate with a flag decal. It makes me feel like I have a plausible claim to fitting in, given the current jingoistic mood, even if it strikes me as wishful thinking. Since I'm not the fitting-in sort, whether it's due to lack of money in New York, lack of peroxide in Florida, or lack of a writing job in L.A., I just assume my fish-lessness is the latest variation in my odd-woman-out theme.

The occasion for my Jew Blues today was a fruitless search for a non-denominational holiday card. I like to write an end-of-the-year letter inflicting our life stories on relatives, and I usually choose fancy-shmancy inkjet paper for it.

Alas, I live in Kitsch City, and everything at Staples featured goofy snowmen or a red-nosed Rudolph, or a wintry New England scene. Nothing with a plain "Season's Greetings." Not even a "Joy" or "Peace." I'd have settled for something tasteful, something foil stamped or on faded velum or just elegantly understated. I long ago gave up on local stores carrying anything even remotely Hannukkah-related.

But why should they? I mean, why order a case of, say, lovely, crisp white papers with "Happy Holidays" stamped in blue when just one crazy Jewess will ever buy any? Local tastes demand snowy scenes of New England, a part of the country whose values were soundly rejected by my fellow exurbanites in a national election just, oh, was it two weeks ago? Already.

Mine is a small complaint. I found paper with a bunch of cute kids and families holding hands around the border. It's not holiday themed, but it'll do. And that's pretty much my life as a Jew in the Boonies. Somehow, I piece together my best intentions and confused misinterpretations and half-remembered snatches of prayer, and it almost works.

For now. Until I figure out how to get back to civilization, which I'm currently defining as anyplace with paper -- or voters -- in shades of blue.

The nightmare on Main Street

Decay reared its pockmarked face everywhere I looked.

The neon sign for a beauty parlor crumbled from rust, its lights broken. An old billboard had faded, the previous paint job poking through the washed-out letters. A shoe repair shop, a citrus packing plant, a humble eatery – markers left behind by some lost civilization, perhaps, or gaudy ghosts from a more glittery era.

Except it was all fake. Every last broken bulb, every peeling paint chip.

A movie set, right? Or Disney’s “Main Street USA” gets the reality TV treatment?

Nope, all this faux retro glory belongs to a new shopping mall in Rancho Cucamonga. Victoria Gardens covers some 147 acres and boasts 1.3 million square feet of retail space. And that’s just Phase I.

But giving an outdoor mall a distressed look is just window dressing. The real horror was sticking roads through the middle of it, just like a real downtown, where you take your life into your hands crossing from Pottery Barn to Williams-Sonoma.

But Pasadena, this ain’t.

I Love LA Observed

Yesterday, I was blue. Today, I'm pink -- I'm blushing. Check out the nice li'l write-up I got on LA Observed today. Just that one mention has driven my hits through the roof on both blogs.

Thanks, Kevin. If I weren't already married, I'd send a big, fat, slurpy kiss your way.

Job update

Apparently, I am so brilliant and talented, such a sultaness of style (not to mention grammar and spelling), plus a paradigm of copy editing perfection, that I failed to get the job after all. Y'know, the one I almost blew for other reasons.

The software firm left two messages on my answering machine today. They considered me overqualified for what was essentially a "junior position."

Fair enough.

They might've mentioned that before three mornings of non-stop interviews and a two-hour editing test, and then frantic behind-the-scenes scrambling to line up childcare options.

But it wasn't meant to be. Perhaps another time, another opportunity. Meanwhile, the Empress blogs on.

A moment to shine

I gave a chat on blogs last night for a journalism class at a local community college. Awrighty, I’m not exactly Daily Kos or Andrew Sullivan, but I figured I’m as talented as anyone at navel gazing, keyboard diarrhea and taking up valuable bandwidth. What else is there to know?

I met the instructor through the company I interviewed at a few weeks ago; he was one of the people who wasn’t supposed to discover my blog but instantly forgave me (I gave the firm mixed reviews).

There were six students in the class, ranging from early twenties to mid-fifties, about half of whom actually aspire to a journalism career, poor souls. The instructor’s Columbia educated, like myself, and has them doing deadline drills and weekly assignments. Tough stuff if you’re expecting the usual pandering, dumbed-down snoozefest that many CC courses have become.

We talked about James Madison's vision of a free, robust press, about the hoaxes Ben Franklin played in his newspaper, and related it to the uncensored, Wild West nature of the blogosphere. Judging by their questions, they got it. Big time.

What they said they liked about my class: maybe they won’t all get actual reporting jobs afterward, but any one of them can start a blog today. I made sure to walk them through all the steps from getting set up to ass-kissing fellow bloggers for reciprocal links.

What this contributes to bettering the world, I dunno. But I felt good afterward.