Anyone Can Have Fun with an Empty Amazon Box

When I asked her what she was doing in there, Zoë said, “Playing that this is my tourbus. I’m heading to pick up my bandmates.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your band’s name?”

“Whisker Sisters. We cover Scissor Sisters songs.”

I turned to Monty. “Dude, what do you think about all this?”

“I’m moving out and changing my name to Kung Fu Panda.”

Flailings and Flappings

In these past few weeks of summer, I have learned something new about Mr. W. In addition to being thoughtful, an amazing cook, a wealth of knowledge on many subjects and a fandamntastic kisser, he’s also extremely entertaining to watch if there is a fly, June bug or squirrel in the vicinity.

Typically subdued and suave, Mr. W turns into a swashbuckling gazelle when something unwanted is in his house or yard. He bounds about, arms flailing, mouth cursing, trying with every ounce of his being to capture or scare off the home invader.

It is a complete crack-up and unbelievably endearing. I might actually consider planting insects and rodents in his house, just so I can watch him perform. I say “might” because I’m not entirely sure I can deal with another episode like the one that happened on Sunday.

We had just finished lunch when he stopped at the sliding glass door to inspect some sort of intruder. “I think there’s a wasp in here,” he said, backing up to the kitchen to procure an entrapment device. I was about 15 feet away, sitting idly on the couch.

Mr. W reached up and attempted to trap the wasp in a glass but it buzzed away and landed on one of the exposed ceiling beams about 6 feet away from the couch (still a safe distance from me). This called for the big guns. Bug spray. When he positioned a chair under the beam and shot a stream of raid at the little buzzer, it flew in a wide arc, around the living room, and before I could flee, it charged towards me, and as I whipped my head to shield my face, a blonde lock reached out and grabbed the wasp.

“IT’S IN MY HAIR! IT’S IN MY HAIR! IT’S IN MY HAIR!” I said calmly, coolly, collectedly. Just like when that necklace attacked me.

I was standing with my hair flipped over and my face cocked to the side as far as it would turn to get away from the lethal insect. The next thing I felt was furious brushing, as though someone was swatting me in the head with a broom. But alas, it was just Mr. W trying to whap the little bastard away with his hands.

When he finally dislodged it, it fell to the couch and he drowned it in a storm of aerosol repellent. “Is that even a wasp?” he asked, covering it with the glass and examining its unusually long blackish body. I’m pretty sure it was a wasp hybrid. Perhaps part dragonfly or pterodactyl.

Eventually, he relocated the choking wasp to the backyard and drenched the couch in upholstery cleaner. My hair is recovering nicely, thanks for asking.

C-o-o-l R-i-d-e-r

I have this strange propensity to trust people with my personal safety. I say it’s strange because my mother is probably the most paranoid person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Which means I was raised in a house of
For the Love of God, Don’t Get on an Airplane, Keep the Door Deadbolted if You Don’t Recognize the Face in the Peephole, and You Can’t Go Hiking Alone—a Mountain Lion Will Eat You! (Okay now that I read those, I realize each scenario involves me doing something solo, so maybe it’s not such a surprise that I blindly follow others and just believe they’re going to lay down their lives to save me from danger.)

Yesterday, Mr. Wonderful and I were browsing through the newspaper over breakfast burritos when he said, “Do you want to go for a ride up to Lake Hollywood today?” I nodded lazily, picturing a relaxing drive with the sunroof open.

But Mr. W wasn’t talking about a car trip. He was talking motorcycle.

I grew up in a family that rode ATVs, and my college boyfriend had a dirt bike. But I had never been on a street bike in my life. And although the thought of passengering one scared me a bit, I didn’t hesitate in the slightest to hop on the back of Mr. W’s Suzuki DRZ 400. I had absolute faith that he would do everything in his power to keep me from becoming helmet-clad roadkill.

It was about eleven o’clock when we accelerated down his street, winding through the Hollywood hills. The sky was baby blue, people in convertibles were taking Sunday cruises, walkers and joggers were out in their spandexy finest. I couldn’t help but smile at it all.

I had never seen Lake Hollywood before—heck, until a few years ago, I didn’t even know Hollywood had a lake—so it was quite a treat to look out over the deep blue-green water with sagebrush and eucalyptus scents wafting into my helmet and Mr. W’s abs clenched tightly under my palms.

We passed a grassy dog park filled with prancing people and smiling canines, then Mr. W took me down to a secluded little spot where the deer tend to hang out. We did not see any…I think they’re all in his backyard eating his strawberry bushes.

When Batman, err Mr. W, asked if I was up for going the long way home through Griffith Park, I said, “of course!” Because even though I was wearing only a tank top and jeans, and my giant helmet was knocking against my tiny pea head, I had no doubt that Mr. W would keep the pristine beauty of the day intact and return me unscathed to his garage. And he did. And I’ll probably ride with him again. Even if my mom tells me not to.

Miss Schmindependent

Yesterday I took this quiz on Oprah’s website to determine what my excuses were for not dealing with my money and securing my financial future. It’s not that I am a bad money manager by any means—I pay my bills, almost own my Prius outright, have a nest egg for a condo—it’s just that beyond knowing how to open a savings account and use online banking, I’m kind of inept. I don’t really dabble in the stock market. I don’t pay attention to how my 401(k) funds are performing. Why? Because I don’t want to deal.

But after taking Jean Chatzky’s test, and assessing my answers, I felt a bit panicky about not having a smarter handle on my money. So, of course, I IMed Mr. Wonderful and asked him if he would help me look at my fund allocations and change things up to make more sense.

See, even though I’ve lived on my own (sans roommates) for the last 10 years… And I bought my car (without anyone guiding me) last year… And I’m not afraid to go walking solo at night… And I’m capable of functioning as a whole, single person in society… I really want to hand certain things off to a man in my life.

For a long time (and even sometimes now) I would turn to my dad for assistance with those things I consider men’s bidniz. But Mr. Wonderful is such a brilliant (hot), accessible (precious) and valuable (megawatt sexy) resource, I can’t help but want to run to him for help now.

After we looked over my Vanguard account online last night, he handed me a book about investing. I don’t wanna read the book. I want him to say, “Oh, here’s what you need to do. No scratch that, just let me do it for you.”

I wanted him to say that when he offered me a spare wireless Internet thingee, too. I don’t even know what it is exactly. It’s not a modem. It’s a plug. And I want him to install it. Just like I want him to take my garbage cans out to the curb. And get the oil changed in my car. And water my plants. And change lightbulbs that are too high for me to reach. And figure out my new cell phone. And man the BBQ. And carry in the groceries. And manage my freaking retirement funds.

Yes, I am an independent woman of the 21st century, and it makes me very whiney.

Goose and Other Bumps

You know how sometimes when you’re sitting in an airplane, thumbing through a People magazine, drinking your ginger ale, listening to Zero 7 on your ipod, you forget you’re actually inside a metal tube that’s hurtling through the clouds? You get so lost in your own little world that you might as well be reclining in a movie theater, grounded, static. Maybe even stagnant. Until some turbulence rattles you awake and you realize you’re already halfway to Denver.

Or you’re driving your car down a tree-lined street at dusk, paying more attention to your mental list of To Dos for the night—laundry, dinner, yoga, Netflix—that you forget you’re operating 1500 lbs. of machinery. Then THUNK! You bounce over a speed bump and grip the steering wheel, suddenly conscious of the responsibility in your hands.

Sometimes the bumps wake us up. They pull us out of our own heads and remind us that we’re in motion. That we’re participating in something.

The little hurdles we hit in relationships have the same ability—to shake us awake and shove us forward. I guess if there’s not enough momentum, it’s possible to reach the crest and then slip backwards down the hill…but this post is about making it over the top. Because, thankfully, that can happen when you really want and need it to.

And maybe if you’re lucky, after you traverse the bump together, you’ll be saying goodnight on IM. And you’ll thank the other person for being so sweet, understanding and non-judgmental. And that person will tell you they like that you two are different. And that they love you just the way you are. They love you. Love. You. And even though it’s over IM, it will almost jolt you out of your seat. And you will get goosebumps. And you will feel more alive and wrapped in a moment than you’ve felt for quite some time.

Look: Pork Tenderloin

So as you may know, I went to Body Worlds 3 on Friday night. I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit, although there were certain elements that disturbed me. The plasification process gives everything a sort of shiny, fabricated look, but if you move in closer, you can find little remnants of human imperfection and realism. Crooked teeth. Slightly dirty toenails. Nicotine-speckled lungs.

About fifteen minutes into the show, Mr. Wonderful and I came upon a hurdler. (They positioned all of the bodies in athletic stances.) We walked around to the back and Mr. W pointed to a small protrusion coming out of the tailbone area of the cadaver. “What is that? Is that…a...a butthole?” I couldn’t help myself. “Smell it,” I whispered to him and made both of us crack up.

Mr. W’s laughter stopped, however, when we noticed that the hurdler’s twig and berries were still attached. Well, sort of. See, the twig had been sliced down the middle. It seriously looked like a banana split. Mr. W got woozy and had to wander over to the hip and knee display to do some yoga breathing. But I, of course, had to examine it closely for a few more minutes. And let me tell you, I had no idea that the berries hung so close to the front and sides of the twig. Seriously, they’re not at all where they look like they should be when you remove someone’s skin. Not that I’ve ever seen a naked man before, Mom. Anyway…

There were some really interesting displays that showcased only the blood vessels. I was surprised at how few vessels you actually have on your shins and the top of your head. I guess because it’s mostly bone there? Not surprisingly, there were a hella lotta vessels on the naked man specimen….

The most interesting part of the exhibit, though, was the segment containing unborn babies. I was worried about this section—unsure if it would permanently scar me. But it was fascinating. There were embryos at 5, 6, 7 and 8 weeks, and fetuses ranging from I think 3 – 7 months. The embryos almost looked like little lizards or aliens. The fetuses, obviously, were perfect little babies. I think I mentally detached a bit and pretended they weren’t real. But I spent a lot of time looking at each one.

We saw human hearts and stretched out digestive tracts. The intestines looked like uncooked sausage, which may keep me from ever eating sausage again (yeah, I know its made with intestines, but it’s one of those things I just don’t like to think about…like where my hamburger is coming from). There were full-body slices of an obese man that made me want to curb my cheese consumption. And the lung samples made me never want to set foot near a smoker again.

The last room contained a full ostrich and enormous giraffe plastinate. Of course, I couldn’t resist looking to see whether the giraffe butt and bits were included…and let me tell you they were a great big (yikesies!) end to the show…

The Mood/Exercise Correlation

So up until this week, I’d been in a funk. Pretty much since Memorial Day. Chocolate wasn’t helping. Cuddling didn’t reverse it. Even the Xanadu soundtrack did nothing for me. It was baffling.

And then I went running. Did upper-body weight-lifting. And one of my favorite step aerobics DVDs. Then lower body weight work and abs.

I’ve pretty much worked out in some capacity every day this week, and you know what? It has done wonders for my spirits. It’s so easy to forget the far-reaching benefits of exercise. But when you’re reminded of them—man!—what a difference they can make. I feel stronger, not just in body, but in mind, humor, and chilled outedness. And just in time for summer, when I have to get into a bikini (which could really spin me into a sour spell!).

Speaking of bodies, Mr. Wonderful and I are going to Body Worlds 3 tonight at the Science Center in LA. I’m not a fan of blood, guts, or anything dead, but I’ve been intrigued by this exhibit for years. I’m glad to finally be able to see it. Mr. Wonderful suggested we get a drink beforehand to loosen us up in case it’s grosser than we expect. I’m hoping the plastination process just makes everything look kinda fake. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll just put on my sunglasses, close my eyes and let him lead me around like a blind person.

On another note related to my mood, a dear childhood and blogger friend sent me the best gift ever this week. I didn’t have a chance to take a picture of it because I got home too late last night, but it’s a fantastic little New Kids on the Block babydoll t-shirt (do people still say babydoll to describe shirts?). She also enclosed a very sweet note about reading my posts recently. Anita Stylist, thank you. You’re the best and if I could, I’d take that win away from the Celtics and give it to the Lakers and you!

Have a great weekend everyone!