Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

Although I read numerous fairy tales when I was a little girl, I never wanted to grow up to become a princess. Maybe I knew the stories were unrealistic or maybe I never wanted to be rescued by a prince. I loved the beautiful dresses and happily-ever-after endings, but not if they came with seven little men singing irritating songs or an ugly giant beast who used coercion to obtain love. Even from a young age, I wanted to feel powerful and strong—like a super hero. I wanted to be Wonder Woman.*

I don’t know if I saw every episode, but Wonder Woman was my favorite TV show until it went off the air in 1979. I looked through my mother’s fashion magazines and cut out every picture of Lynda Carter (aka Wonder Woman) that I could find. In first grade, I dressed up like Wonder Woman for my school’s annual Halloween contest, which I won. Taking home the first-place prize not only made my mother proud, but it also fueled my obsession. I collected over 100 photographs of Lynda Carter, and I studied them religiously. Whether she was wearing her costume or her “regular” clothes, I thought if I could just grow up to be a tall, gorgeous, intelligent Wonder Woman that I could conquer the world. (They should teach genetics in elementary school.)

As the one of the shortest girls in a junior high of over 1000 students, I soon realized that “tall” was not a word that people would ever use to describe me. (I’m under 5′3″.) Despite having attractive parents, there are no supermodels in our family, and I was an awkward tomboy for many years. However, I knew I was smart, and that my brains would be the key to my success. No one had to make me do my homework or pay me to earn A’s in school. I wanted good grades because learning made me feel powerful, which made me feel strong. In fact, school became my sanctuary when our house resembled a domestic war zone during my parents’ divorce. While my mother and father screamed at each other, I hid in my room. If I wasn’t reading or doing homework, I looked at my Wonder Woman pictures because I needed her strength. When my dad moved out of the house, I was proud of myself for not crying. I may have been ashamed because I knew everyone in our cul-de-sac was watching, but I didn’t cry. At ten years old, I had learned how to fake it.

I remember someone telling me that the one thing that people have in common is that “We’re all faking it.” I feel better knowing I am not the only person who presents an image to the world that is a mere facade. However, I don’t fake everything. I possess some of Wonder Woman’s four distinct qualities: beauty, wisdom, swiftness, and strength. I may not be drop-dead gorgeous, but I can appear and feel beautiful when necessary. I’m not Einstein, but I’m no dummy either. I wouldn’t say that I’m quick, but when I’m in shape, I am quite physically strong for someone my size thanks to years of dancing, gymnastics, and marathons. The most interesting characteristic about Wonder Woman though is how her physical and mental qualities created someone with vitality, courage and a mental backbone stronger than steel. Without knowing it, I modeled myself after Wonder Woman, and when I didn’t feel that inner strength, I faked it.

“Faking it” has its advantages. My healthy state of denial made it possible for me to be an advocate for my sister Adrienne during her 147-day battle with cancer. As long as I kept pretending everything was going to be okay, I could get through each day. Except for a brief meltdown during the burial service, I continued to fake it after Adrienne passed away. I attended a Halloween party only three weeks after her death not because I was fine, but because I thought that I needed to show my friends that I would be fine. A month later, I agreed to plan my best friend’s thirtieth birthday because her husband asked me to do it as a surprise to her. I could have said no. I’m sure that he would have understood, but I wanted the distraction. I needed to keep up the facade because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped faking it. I have always been “strong” and “tough”; without those adjectives, I don’t know who I am.

Recently, my husband of three years (we’ve been together for six) said, “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Like what?” I asked even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“So close to giving up.”
I had no idea that he was that observant. Apparently, I cannot fake it with him. He sees right through me. I think he got more than he bargained for when he married me. I know that he doesn’t handle things well when I am physically hurt. He has said, “I’m so used to you being strong that I don’t know what to do when you’re not.” Maybe he thought he was marrying Wonder Woman, but I have to stop perpetuating this myth that I can handle everything. In fact, when people comment on how strong I am, I correct them. I appreciate compliments, but I cannot accept them when they are based on a lie. I must be honest.

After eight years of faking it, I am tired. Exhausted. One of my friends said that I sounded broken after he read the first draft of my memoir. He thinks I need to fix the ending. But that is how I feel: broken. Even though I love my husband, my family, my friends, and my pets, and even though I know people have suffered far more than I have, losing Adrienne was too much. Sad does not begin to cover the array of emotions that I go through during the day. I cannot sleep unless I take a pill. I’ve tried it all: anti-depressants, talk therapy, grief counseling, writing, reading, exercising, etc. Nothing changes a situation that I refuse to accept. However, I can stop pretending that I do.

I don’t need to support the facade anymore. Watch out—the false walls are tumbling down. I will allow myself to feel however I want. Besides, depression makes you appreciate the little things more. The funniest thing that happened last week was when my husband broke a glass saltshaker. No one was hurt, and we quickly cleaned it up. I didn’t show him how much I was laughing on the inside. All I kept thinking was … I wonder how many more times that will happen in our marriage. I’m the clumsy one, not him. I will remember that broken glass the next time I think I cannot make it through another day without my sister.

I still love Wonder Woman, but I am not a super hero, and I will not fake it anymore.

AWW — XoXo

* In the original TV pilot written by Stanley Ralph Ross, Wonder Woman is Princess Diana, a young woman from Paradise Island, home to beautiful, ageless, Amazon women with special powers. She gives up this life for the man she loves. Guess I did want to be a princess!

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I am not someone who normally makes Christmas wishes, but this year … well … the world is bugging me. So Santa, if you’re listening, here is my Christmas list. It’s a tall order, but if anyone can do it, you can!

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS …

5. The return of common courtesy, good manners, and etiquette
As an experiment, I googled “common courtesy”; it garnered 512,000 hits. Then I tried “Britney Spears” for comparison—63.2 million hits. Those numbers accurately depict today’s society. I can remember a time when what Emily Post said mattered; now I’m sure most people under the age of 30 don’t even know who she is. I recall my mother telling me that a woman was allowed to check her makeup in public (i.e., open her compact and tap on some powder), but applying makeup in public was a no-no. When I was a child, I got in trouble for calling the “young” grownups next door by their first names even though they told me to. My mother made me march over to their house and apologize for my bad manners. Most children today, however, don’t know how to behave properly in public let alone the definition of the word etiquette.
Yesterday, I discovered that rudeness is not limited to younger generations. I was at our local liquor store buying a lottery ticket. A man, easily 30 years my senior, appeared to be in line ahead of me. Not wanting to cut, I moved back to allow him his spot. He snarled, “I’m not in that line. I’m in this line,” as he pointed to an area where there was no line. Grumpy bastard. So much for trying to be courteous! I used to dislike it when my students called me “Ma’am” because it made me feel old; now I am just grateful that someone taught them some manners.

4. For politicians to stop being politicians
I believe our forefathers would be disgusted by our two-party, partisan political system; it is an utter disaster. At what point did politicians forget that they worked for the people who elected them? They spent taxpayers’ dollars—our money—as if we had an endless supply. Oh wait … we do … as long as China keeps lending it to us. (Guess greenbacks grow on trees over there.) I love the movie Bulworth starring Warren Beatty because he plays a politician who decides to start telling the raw truth about both political parties. He raps …
“I’m a Senator.
I gotta raise $10,000 a day every day I’m in Washington.
I ain’t getting it in South Central.
I’m gettin’ it in Beverly Hills.
So I’m votin’ from them in the Senate the way they want me too …
and-and-and I’m sending them my bills.”

Of course, Bulworth is assassinated because no one likes a politician who tells the people the way things really are. Once upon a time, I entertained the idea of running for Burbank City Council, but then I realized I am the female Bulworth. I couldn’t lie to the people who placed their trust in me to make their community a better place. Here’s my truth:
“You want better schools and you want higher scores,
Well guess what parents, you need to get involved more.
Our Burbank teachers can only do so much—
Stop spoiling your kids, pay attention, get in touch.
They don’t need cell phones or tons of clothes,
School isn’t childcare as you should know—
Help our teachers, your children, and yourselves, too
Stop blaming the schools for the mistakes that you do!”

3. An empty email inbox.
Make that four empty inboxes since I currently use and check four email accounts daily. (That’s down from six so I have made some progress.) I still have three other “active” accounts: USC, AOL, and Gmail; they are forwarded, ignored, and used for research purposes respectively. In order to reduce the amount of email that I receive, I finally unsubscribed to daily emails such as Word-a-Day, weekly emails such as Early to Rise, and monthly emails from all retailers. Some people don’t understand why I haven’t signed up for Twitter or established a LinkedIn account yet. There’s an easy explanation—I cannot handle another thing to do or to check every day.
I remember when I didn’t even own a computer. I recall having only one email account for years. When did life become so electronically busy? Sometimes, I just want to become an ostrich, stick my head in the sand, and disappear from the planet for a while. I definitely see a day when I will withdraw from society because I can’t imagine spending my twilight years with my eyes glued to the glow of my laptop in an effort to keep up with my online identity. Forget the fact that hours on the computer is the one of the major causes of my migraines (hence the reading glasses—oh joy); I need the touch, smell, sound, and sight of real people. But I digress. For now, less email will do.

2. A president who doesn’t suffer from ADD and a desperate need to please everyone. (Or for Barack Obama to stop trying to be a hero who believes he must simultaneously solve all of the world’s problems.)
Recent studies have shown that people who are heavy multi-taskers, like our president, cannot give items their full attention; therefore, their brains suffer as a result. Communication professor Clifford I. Nass stated, “They’re suckers for irrelevancy. Everything distracts them.” One could argue that if their mental function is impaired then their job performance suffers as well. According to recent polls from a variety of sources, President Obama’s approval rating has slipped to 47 – 49 percent. Considering he entered office less than a year ago with a 68 percent job approval (only one president out of the last eight—Eisenhower—had numbers that high), the drop is significant.

So here is my unsolicited, non-partisan advice, Mr. President. Try focusing on one thing at a time. You cannot fix everything all at once, and anyone who expects you to spent too much time listening to your campaign speeches last year. I have nothing against “Hope” and “Change” but you are one man, and your first name isn’t Super. You must learn to prioritize like the rest of us. Now if you consulted me, my top three concerns are the economy, the war, and the healthcare debacle. Americans need jobs and we need to know that our troops and our country are safe before you convince us to go into another trillion dollars in debt. I may not agree with all of your decisions (okay, most of your decisions), but one thing is certain—the results of your “multi-tasking” politics are showing. The Tea Party movement is increasing in numbers, Sarah Palin already sold a million copies of her book, and Fox News is not only finishing this year as the top-rated cable news network (no surprise since it has enjoyed this rank for the past eight years), but it is also experiencing its best ratings ever in the network’s 13-year history. F-O-C-U-S = Focus, Mr. President.

And the #1 thing I want for Christmas is …
the perfect job!
If you can make this one happen Santa, I promise to tell everyone that you are real—including my younger brother. I told him the “truth” about you when he was five years old, and it made him cry. It turned out okay; our mother made me go back and lie to him. I consider that moment one of my first as well as one of my finest acting performances. Anyway, here’s the criterion for my perfect job:

Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could all list everything we wanted in a perfect job and on Christmas morning there would be an offer in our stocking? I recently found a position that meets most of the above requirements but since it is in academia, I probably won’t hear anything for months. I do have to thank A.B. for allowing me to use him as a reference. As Santa knows, personal relationships are everything.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I apologize for not posting a blog for so long. My normal goal is one post per week. I’ve been ill with pneumonia ever since I participated in Thrill the World on October 24. Being sick for this long has kicked my ass!

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According to psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These stages were initially applied to terminally ill patients, but were later adapted to include anyone who had experienced a personal loss (e.g., divorce, job). People may not go through every stage, and the order is not important. Though the Kubler-Ross model has been criticized, I believe it has merit. However, Kubler-Ross failed to recognize the importance of grieving the end of all meaningful relationships including friendships. Therefore, I would like to propose another stage: painger—that horrible feeling of being so upset that you want to hurt, emotionally and/or physically, the person who has caused you pain, but you still care too much about the person to actually harm him/her.

In many ways, I prefer anger because it’s just easier to hate someone. You can yell. You can scream. You can throw things. You can bitch to your friends. In anger, you find allies. Your boyfriend cheated on you? Your girlfriends will support your mad-as-hell rage. Getting revenge is more fun for everyone (except for the target) than feeling sorry for yourself. Anger encourages empowerment. Carrie Underwood’s Before He Cheats song was a huge hit because she didn’t cry, she got even. Whoever said living well is the sweetest revenge never “took a Louisville slugger to both headlights.” Honestly, I wish I could tell you a fantastic story about how I avenged a personal grievance, but when my crazy ex-boyfriend accused me of slashing “a hole in all four tires” I didn’t do it. Hell, I didn’t even know where he lived at the time.

When someone you love has hurt you, you may also experience emotional pain or depression. And trust me, no one wants to hear about it. After a certain point (other people determine this time for you), you are supposed to “get over it.” Even your best friends will grow tired of your pain because no one likes a pity party. In Sex and the City (episode #25), Carrie’s friends tell her to see a psychiatrist because they can’t listen to her whine anymore about her breakup with Big. According to the latest CDC statistics, more than one out of 20 Americans (ages 12 and older) are depressed; yet people are expected to pop a pill, see a shrink, suck it up, and move on. When someone asks, “How are you?” the only acceptable answer in our society is “I’m fine.”

Then there is painger. Anger and pain meet, they join forces, and they focus their energy against you as if you did something wrong. Their power is unstoppable, unbelievable at times because you feel crazy. The fury causes your adrenaline to increase, which elevates your heart rate; meanwhile, you cannot stop the tears from falling down your face. The faster your heart beats, the harder you cry, as if a dam has broken inside of you. If you think about the people who have upset you and you don’t know if you want to hit them or hug them, then you may be experiencing painger.

When I’m sad, I cry, nap, write, read, bathe, shop, walk Winston, and/or talk to someone. When I’m angry (and I cannot confront the person due to circumstances beyond my control), I exercise, pace, shower, scream, shop, and/or complain to someone. When I’m paingry, I have found only one thing that tempers my rage and controls my tears. I hit balls at the BatCade in Burbank. If available, I choose the slow-pitch softball batting cage #1 because I can’t hit anything else and it’s located on the far side of the property so no one bothers me. I usually pay for the time instead of by the pitch, but either way, I stay until calluses start forming on my hands and my arms are too sore to lift the bat.

I love hitting the balls; they become the faces of the people whose actions caused my painger. This year, I’ve been seeing old friends and an ex-boyfriend soaring toward me as the pitching machine spits them out. With every swing, my emotional pain moves from my heart into my arms and hands. With every hit, my anger transfers from the bat to the ball as if I have slapped those people who have hurt me. When the softball flies through the air, I feel free from the painger; it’s impossible to cry or to be mad when you imagine hitting a home run. I always leave the batting cages feeling depleted but satisfied that I have won another battle against painger. My batting average—.60—isn’t too shabby either.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I want to thank Bones for inspiring this blog. I promise we’ll have that Long Island at Boardners, and we’ll hit some balls when you visit LA.

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Although I am working on several emotional blogs about far more serious topics, I realize that today—the anniversary of my sister Adrienne’s death—I need some levity in my life. Adrienne often teased me about being too anal-retentive; she thought it was funny to watch me obsess over tasks. However, she decided to “get more organized” when she began losing her homework because she couldn’t find where she had put it. Adrienne spent more than an hour rearranging her papers by subject, putting her assignments into separate pocketed folders and matching each folder with its own spiral notebook of the same color. She beamed with pride when she finished and said, “There! Now I can find everything.”

I smiled and congratulated her on a job well done. Inside I was thinking … And you think we’re not alike. Ha! A few days later, Adrienne was diagnosed with liver cancer, and she never returned to school. Although we both used humor to deflect our pain, we never discussed the irony of that particular situation. Funny how some things don’t need to be said aloud.

Wait … this blog was supposed to be silly and serve as a warning to others like me who need to lighten up. So in honor of my sister, who understood me better than anyone else, here are five signs that you might be too anal:

5. You own a label maker and will look for any excuse to use it. I don’t only label binders. I’ve labeled our pet-food bins, our recycling can, my husband’s water bottle (he requested it), and various medication containers (the fine print is too small). You know you are in love with your label maker if you have used the device so often that you have run out of tape more than once in three months, and you have memorized the refill tape cartridge’s model number. Right now, the Brother P-Touch M Series is on sale at Costco so I had better stock up!

4. You have a specific method for eating corn on the cob and any deviation from your method causes you great distress. For example, I prefer the horizontal approach. I eat three to four rows at a time from left to right. Then I go back over those same rows from right to left to make sure I didn’t miss anything. The cob, of course, is dripping in real butter. If I’m at home, I use our corn-on-the-cob holders; they make the process less messy and guarantee your teeth attack every kernel. When my husband told me that he varies his method—vertical vs. horizontal—depending on the corncob, I was shocked. I don’t know him at all.

3. You review a check list in your head before you leave your house. Mine revolves around the five senses:

• Do I look good? (How’s the hair, makeup, clothes?)
• Do I smell good? (Am I wearing deodorant, perfume, lotion?)
• Do I taste good? (Did I floss and brush my teeth?)
• Do I sound good? (Do I have a water bottle and cough drops? My throat often becomes hoarse.)
• Do I feel good? (Am I happy about where I’m going and if not, can I fake it?)

Disclaimer: While I may run through this check list every time I go out, it doesn’t mean that I look “camera-ready” at all times. Far from it. But I am always acutely aware of what I did and did not do before going out in public.

2. You color-code all activities in your organizer. Whether you use software (e.g., Microsoft Outlook) or an old-fashioned day planner (e.g., DayMinder), you divide your tasks into color categories (e.g., appointments—green, social activities—yellow). I started doing this toward the end of high school, and my friends have always made fun of me. Even though Adrienne thought it was hilarious that I highlighted my activities for the week in different colors, she told me I was “weird.” If she had only known just how anal I was … I hid the highlighters so she wouldn’t use them. (To be fair, she once “borrowed” my theatrical glow tape and used all of it to decorate her room.) For the longest time I only liked Zebra Zazzle highlighters, but I’m learning to be more flexible. The colors in my Outlook calendar don’t exactly match the highlighters I use in my day planner, and I’m okay with it. Yes, I essentially have two organizers—and no, I do not want a BlackBerry.

And the #1 sign that you might be too anal …
your organization system is so complex that no one else can understand it. For example, when my appendix burst nine years ago, my boyfriend (at the time) was frantically flipping through my address book trying to find my father’s phone number. Apparently, he had already looked under “W” while I was in surgery. Nope, not there. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I heard Adrienne tell him, “Sissy organizes everyone by first name. Don’t you know that?”
My boyfriend sighed. He turned the pages. My eyes were closed, but I could imagine his expression when he looked under “Z” for Zelmer. The page was blank. He shook my arm. “Dammit, Andrea. I can’t find your father’s number anywhere.”

I remember smiling because the answer was so obvious to me. “Look under D—for Daddy.” My boyfriend groaned, Adrienne laughed, and I drifted off to sleep.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I hope I made you smile, kiddo.
For what it’s worth, you were worth all the while. – Green Day

Posted under Adrienne & General | 1 Comment »

Note: This blog entry is a continuation of a previous blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part One—The Ignorant Mother so I suggest you read it first to fully understand my disagreement with Miss Sourpuss and Continental Airlines.

The passengers remained quiet after I had confronted the mother regarding her son’s behavior. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping at least one person (besides my husband) would applaud my courage, but instead, I had become the older, malicious bully who had verbally attacked the younger, innocent mother. I’m glad I waited until the end of the flight to say something because I swear our captain took the scenic route around the Houston/Bush International airport. Finally, our plane found its gate, and I made sure the boy and his mother exited the cabin ahead of us. I thought it was best to put as much distance between her and me as possible. As my husband and I walked off the plane, I told him to go ahead and wait for me. I wanted to speak to our friendly stewardess Miss Sourpuss.

Before I go any further, I should tell you that even though I’m not afraid of confronting people, I don’t make a habit of it. I’ll admit I am the woman who sends back her dirty martini when it isn’t quite dirty enough. I will also return food at a restaurant if my meal isn’t correct (I rarely order straight off the menu) or if the cuisine doesn’t taste good. When a hairdresser once hacked my hair to pieces a few weeks before I had to be a bridesmaid in two weddings, I got my money back. However, until this incident, I had never said anything to a parent on an airplane besides, “Could you please tell your child to stop kicking the back of my seat?” I had also never complained about a flight attendant’s bad service, but there’s a first time for everything.

After all of the passengers had collected their carry-on luggage and left the plane, I approached Miss Sourpuss who was standing next to the co-pilot. I told her that I would like to have a word with her about our flight. With the same “My-life-sucks-I-wish-I-were-dead” expression on her face, she just shrugged her shoulders and said okay. Although I had intended for our conversation to be private to avoid embarrassing her, I started talking since she made no effort to move anywhere. The co-pilot shifted his weight and leaned forward.

“My husband and I were seated in row 10, in about the middle of the airplane. In front of us, a young mother sat with her little boy who wouldn’t stop singing the entire flight. Why you didn’t say anything to her about his behavior?”

Miss Sourpuss’s expression changed. Her mouth opened, her eyes blinked, and I could see her searching for the correct answer in her brain. “I … I … could never ask a parent … I’m just not able to … confront people.”

I already knew she was passive, but the fact that she admitted it surprised me. I responded, “Well, his behavior was inappropriate, and it was your job to do something about it.” The co-pilot looked at her. She furrowed her brow.

“Uh … it’s not my job. People can use their cell phones …” I raised my eyebrow. Right then the captain walked up and joined our group, and Miss Sourpuss realized her mistake. “I meant people can talk as loud as they want on the plane.”

I laughed because the conversation was getting so ridiculous. “Really? So I can yell at the top of my lungs during a flight and you’re not going to say anything to me?” The captain grimaced and looked at Miss Sourpuss who must have been sweating through her uniform.

She replied with as firm a tone as someone like her can muster, “Well, I wouldn’t do it because I didn’t hear the boy at all. And I went up and down that aisle the entire flight.”

“First of all, that’s not true. My husband and I couldn’t find you anywhere when we wanted a refill on our sodas. Secondly, you changed your story when the captain arrived.” I looked at him, then the co-pilot, and then her. “Just so we’re all clear, you went from not being capable, to not being responsible, to sheer denial.”

Miss Sourpuss pursed her lips. “I didn’t hear him!”

“And apparently, you’re deaf as well.” I looked at the captain. “Thank you so much for getting us to Houston on time, but please tell your bosses, I will remember this incident. By the way, I’m a writer, and I will let people know that it’s okay to sing at the top of their lungs on a Continental flight.”

Okay, so I didn’t say that last part, but now I know how to solve the problem should it happen again. The next time a lazy stewardess refuses to hush a chirping child, I have a plan. I’m going to belt out (and I’m tone deaf) the most obnoxious children’s song I know. My sister Adrienne taught it to me. In fact, she and my (then) boyfriend’s four-year-old son got in trouble for singing it in the car during a road trip. I was driving, and after 15 minutes of Bananas in Pajamas, I told them to pick a different song. When they didn’t, I yelled, “Shut your mouths, or I will shut them for you.” They stopped singing immediately.

After years of teaching, I can raise my already-loud voice over a room full of 100 noisy children so out-singing one kid on an airplane will be easy. My husband is appalled by my idea. He intends to begin divorce proceedings if I should proceed to break into song. I told him that he should pretend that he doesn’t know me or tell people that my “medication” doesn’t work at high altitudes. He didn’t laugh. My theory is that even a passive stewardess like Miss Sourpuss will have to tell me to shut up, and when she does, I’ll point to the child and say, “He started it!”

Who knows? Maybe I’ll incite a sing-along:

Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down in pairs
Bananas, in pajamas, are chasing teddy bears
cause on Tuesdays day … they want to catch them unawares!

AWW — XoXo

P. S. I wish I had gotten Miss Sourpuss’s real name so I could file a formal complaint.

Posted under Adrienne & General & Travel | No Comments »

On the hot, humid afternoon of Friday, July 10, 2009, my husband and I boarded Continental Airlines Flight 2292 * with service from Birmingham, Alabama, to Houston/Bush International. Our flight was supposed to leave at 5:50 p.m. so we, along with 42 other people, were in our seats by 5:30 p.m. The reason I know the exact number of passengers is that our plane, the ERJ 145, was at its maximum capacity; it is the smallest commercial airline I’ve ever flown on. The overhead bins are so tiny that the popular wheeled travel bags that are designed to fit into them do not. Part of our delay included passengers giving up their “carry-on” luggage and receiving a ticket to retrieve their bags after the flight. Although I’m not claustrophobic, I started wondering if there was enough oxygen in the cabin for all of us.

Finally, we appeared ready for takeoff. Though we were running 15 minutes late, the pilot assured us we would land in Houston at our scheduled arrival time of 7:37 p.m. My husband watched through the window as the plane soared into the air. Sitting next to him, I had the aisle seat since there are no three-seat rows on the ERJ 145. Directly in front of me was a young mother sitting with her son, who appeared to be about four years old. I usually notice where kids are sitting on airplanes because even though I like children, I worry about their behavior. Given that the passenger section of this particular plane could fit into our house (only a slight exaggeration), I could probably have told you where everyone was sitting. Anyway, I leaned back into my seat, opened my magazine, and that is when the “noise” began.

I wish the noise had been crying because as aggravating as a sobbing child can be, I can control my urge to interfere. My opinion about children crying on airplanes is they may be sick, scared, hungry, tired, or their ears may be popping, which hurts like hell. I actually empathize with those frustrated parents who are embarrassed by their children’s tears, but who are also sad because they cannot make the pain, fear, hunger, or even exhaustion from traveling magically disappear. Whenever I see that look of utter despair in a parent’s eyes, I give my most encouraging “you-can-do-it” and “we-don’t-all-hate-you” smile. Crying may be irritating, but I can handle it. However, there are some noises no one should have to endure—especially in cramped quarters with no way out.

You see, the little boy in front of us began singing. Loudly. Not only did his mother not stop him, she encouraged him to continue. I sighed, but then I remembered I had brought my portable CD player with headphones. Problem solved! I turned up the volume all the way (something I never do because loud music makes it difficult for me to concentrate on reading), but I could still hear the boy’s high-pitched voice over the rock music blasting in my ears. I couldn’t believe it. I gave up on the music and found my ear plugs; they didn’t work either. I looked at my watch. I glanced at my husband who shook his head. I made eye contact with other passengers who appeared equally as annoyed as I was. Meanwhile, the boy’s tune—imagine a modern day version of the Smurfs theme song—echoed in my head.

The boy never stopped singing, and no one said anything to his mother—not even the stewardess whom my husband and I nicknamed Miss Sourpuss for her lovely demeanor. I bit my tongue the entire flight, but as we were approaching our gate, I felt compelled to say something to the mother if only to save fellow travelers from future torture. I tapped her on the shoulder; she turned around.

I smiled and said, “I want to tell you something that I hope you won’t take the wrong way. You have a lovely son who is clearly a very happy boy, but he has been singing loudly this entire flight.”

She nodded so I continued. “I’m a former teacher and it isn’t appropriate for him to be so loud on an airplane. He needs to learn to use his ‘indoor library’ voice.”

I could see the muscles in her face twitch. “Look, I’m only saying this to you because no one else on this plane will, but trust me, we are all irritated.” I could feel the eyes of our fellow passengers watching us.

Then the mother exploded, “Well, I paid for a ticket just like you did!” She jutted her chin forward and glared at me.

Until that point, I had remained calm but then I lashed out, “We all paid for our tickets! (You stupid bitch) It doesn’t give you the right to allow your son to sing at the top of his lungs for two hours. He doesn’t know any better, but you should. You are his mother; it’s your job to teach him manners.”

The whole situation disintegrated from there. I backed off, but I didn’t apologize. I’m glad I said something, but then I realized I should not have had to. If our stewardess, Miss Sourpuss, had done her job, I’m sure the mother would have been less defensive and more cooperative regarding her son’s actions. I’ll continue this story in my next blog titled: Flying the Unfriendly Skies: Part Two—The Lazy Stewardess.

AWW — XoXo

* Operated by Expressjet Airlines Inc doing business as Continental Express

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When I walked outside this morning, my eyes stung and my mouth tasted like ash. From our front door, which faces east, I could see that the La Crescenta Station fire had turned the blue sky into a dull beige dustbowl. I sighed as I prepared to take one of our cats to the vet. Given that all three of our pets have skin allergies, I should be happy they are not doing worse given the current climate. My eyes are so dry that I have to use Systane eye drops twice per day when weather conditions are normal, four times per day during sooty season. As I went to the car, I noticed that I could no longer see the Verdugo Mountains that separate Burbank from the city of Glendale. Outside of the vet’s office, I saw a mailman wearing a mask. He made me feel like I was in China during the height of the SARS epidemic.

Even though many people complain that the weather here never changes, Los Angeles has four seasons: Fire, Mudslide, Earthquake, and Riot. I’ve lived in LA more than half of my life now so I’ve experienced its unusual spells. Although I was out of town for the 1994 Northridge earthquake, I was driving on the freeway when one of its biggest aftershocks occurred. I watched in awe and in fear as all of the cars simultaneously shifted into neighboring lanes. After mudslides closed the Hollywood canyons, which commuters use to get to and from the San Fernando Valley, I spent almost three hours driving a mere 18 miles. I was living downtown when the 1992 riots turned LA into a war zone. I’ll never forget seeing military vehicles on the 10 freeway and trying to fall asleep to the sound of chopper blades whirring and anarchy rising. Now it is fire season again. People are losing their homes, the land is burning to a black crisp, and the air quality has been deemed “unhealthy.” Though they light up the night sky, the wildfires always cast a shadow over LA, causing a city, full of stars both fake and real, to lose its shine.

I used to love Los Angeles. I remember when my affair with the City of Angels began. I had arrived for a summer freshmen orientation at the University of Southern California (USC). The campus was (and still is) beautiful. The sun was shining, the temperature was a perfect 75 degrees, and I had never seen so many beautiful men in my entire life. I was sold. I wasn’t even 18 years old yet, but LA had stolen my heart with its beauty, weather, diversity, culture, nightlife, and location—near the beach, mountains, and desert and more than 2,500 miles away from my mother. I didn’t know about the traffic, the air quality, the anonymity, or the character of many Los Angelenos—dense, shallow, tardy, and egocentric. I guess all of that beauty comes with a price.

Despite its flaws, I continued my relationship with LA but on different terms. In 1997, I moved to Burbank (a city that is technically separate from LA) so my sister Adrienne could attend a better school. Four years later, we moved across town to a another house in Burbank—the place where she died. In fact, I’m writing this blog in her bedroom right now, which may disturb some people, but it comforts me. I like to think of her as my muse. Anyway, in October I will have lived here longer than I lived in any other home in my entire life. I never thought I would want to move because I was afraid of leaving Adrienne behind. From her spirit in this house to her grave at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, I didn’t want to abandon her. However, Burbank is still LA, and it began losing its luster the day I lost her.

The irony is that Adrienne loved Los Angeles. Whether she was a hippie in Venice, a rocker in Hollywood, or an ordinary kid in Burbank, she appreciated everything LA has to offer. She accepted its faults. While I had wanted her to attend an Ivy League university far from home, she had planned on going to USC. The one time we argued about it she said, “Forget it, Sissy. I’m not leaving Los Angeles.” Now she will always be here, and I’m the one who wants to go. I can’t escape the pain; it will follow me. But in the City of Angels, my grief outweighs any happiness I might derive from my memories, which haunt me. Maybe when I’m not running into something every day that reminds me of what I’m missing (I don’t need proof), I can finally remember all of the wonderful times I had with my sister—how much joy, humor, and depth she brought into my life.

I want a fresh start in a new place where I can make new memories in a new house with my not-so-new husband. In a small town, I can breathe. Today, I inhaled dirt. It’s over, LA. I’m sorry. You didn’t change … but I did.

AWW — XoXo

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Since my daddy watches ESPN and my mommy tells me the latest news, I’ve heard a lot lately about this guy named Michael Vick. He sounds like a sinister fellow. However, if I were younger and stronger, I could take him. After all, I am a purebred English Mastiff who weighs 195–200 pounds, depending on the season. Anyway, this Vick character ran a dogfighting ring and even killed many of my distant cousins. PETA has accused him of being a psychopath and has recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Although I appreciate their support, people seem to have lost their perspective. My mommy and daddy may treat me like their child and I may act like one, but I know my place—I am their dog. Understanding English (and some Spanish) doesn’t make me human; it just means that I’m smart.

Even though Mr. Vick has served his jail sentence and has expressed remorse for his crimes, many people believe that his acts were so evil that he should not be allowed to play professional football again. Perhaps they are forgetting some of sports more notorious villains … the ones who hurt humans.

• Once famous for her triple axels, Tonya Harding is now remembered as the person who attacked Nancy Kerrigan before the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships. Only Harding didn’t do it, her ex-husband and her bodyguard assaulted her biggest rival. Though she maintained her innocence, Harding pled guilty to “hindering the investigation” of the attack; she received a fine, community service, and probation. After conducting its own investigation, the USFSA banned Harding for life from ever participating in their events as a skater or as a coach. Her career has been reduced to a sex tape, Celebrity Boxing, and The Smoking Gun Presents: World’s Dumbest.
• After a Pistons fan threw a cup of beer in his face, Ron Artest, (formerly) of the Indiana Pacers, confronted the wrong man and then punched another fan who had verbally mocked him. His actions in 2004 led to the worst brawl and the longest non-drug or betting related suspension in NBA history. Although Artest was suspended for the rest of the season and lost approximately $7 million in salary, he was not charged with assault. In fact, he didn’t go to jail until he was arrested for domestic abuse in 2007.
• In 1992, boxing weight champion Mike Tyson was convicted of raping Miss Black Rhode Island aka Desiree Washington. He was sentenced to ten years in prison, but was released after only serving three years. He immediately resumed his professional career. Two years later, Tyson assaulted Evander Holyfield by biting off a piece of his right ear during a boxing match. The Nevada State Athletic Commission revoked Tyson’s boxing license, but they reinstated it fifteen months later. Even though he was on probation, Tyson did not return to jail.
• O. J. Simpson may not have been playing professionally when he was arrested for murder in 1994, but as a spokesman and an actor, he had been profiting off his successful sports career for years. A Heisman trophy winner and NFL Player of the Year, the “Juice” parlayed his championship status into endorsement deals as well as film and television roles. Despite a former domestic violence charge, suspicious behavior, and circumstantial evidence, twelve Los Angelenos found Simpson not guilty for the murders of his former wife Nicole Brown and her friend Ron Goldman. He was a free man until he was convicted of armed robbery and kidnapping in 2008. Simpson is currently serving a 33-year sentence, which he plans to appeal.

Hmm … perhaps public perception is shaped by what sport you play, how good you are, and who your victim is. (Mommy says gender, race, and location may be other contributing factors.) In other words, if Mr. Vick was a mediocre golfer who beat up homeless people, maybe no one would care. From where I sit, Mr. Vick can do two things: run dogfighting rings and throw a football. Speaking for my fellow canines—especially the Philly dogs, we don’t want his kind around us. Let him play ball, pay his taxes, and pretend to be sorry. As long as Mr. Vick stays away from us dogs, the NFL can have him.

With three tale thumps and one wet kiss,
Winston

P.S. I would like to thank my mommy for helping me research and type this blog. (My paws are so big that I do not have the manual dexterity to operate a keyboard.) To see more pictures of me, become my friend on Dogbook and Dogster.

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Did you realize there are over 46,000 quizzes on Facebook? Even though I know these “tests” are not created by experts, I am still drawn to them. However, the results rarely surprise me except for the What color is your soul? quiz. I thought maybe my soul was red because it’s my favorite color or even orange because I have a quick temper. I would have understood if my soul was blue because I suffer from periods of melancholy. But according to Facebook, the color of my soul is yellow, “the color of sunshine.”

Apparently, yellow is associated with “joy, happiness, intellect, energy, and a strong sense of humor.” This quiz even figured out that I have a good head for business. (I guess Donald Trump’s soul is yellow, too.) I radiate a sunny personality. Sounds terrific—right? However, I remember another meaning for the word yellow: coward. Just watch some films from the 1930s and eventually a gangster will accuse one of his men of being “yellow.” In that sense, I do have a yellow soul, and I recall its worst public appearance.

I had been out drinking and dancing with two women—one friend Becky and her friend Sarah. Now Becky and I were not especially close, but she had been good to my sister while she was ill. Therefore, we tried to form a friendship despite our many differences. Though she volunteered her time to lots of causes, Becky didn’t actually work. She dry-cleaned her blue jeans. She once bought a $3000 watch just “because she could” but she had never worn it. I didn’t begrudge having more money than I did; I just didn’t understand her. Even if I had a million dollars in the bank, I cannot imagine not working (e.g., no one pays me to write my blog), I wouldn’t buy something that I wouldn’t wear, and I wouldn’t dry-clean clothes that can and should be laundered. However, she was a wonderful mother and a good person so we spent time together.

Deciding we were hungry after our evening at Howl at the Moon, Becky, Sarah, and I went to Mel’s on Sunset Blvd. The hostess sat us in the corner next to an obnoxious group of 20-somethings whose noisy racket could be heard over the buzz of the crowded restaurant. Becky and I sat next to each other with our backs to the “kids” while Sarah sat across from us. We complained about them while we waited for our food. When it arrived, I made a joke about doing something to shut them up. Becky and Sarah laughed. Without thinking, I threw the garnish on my plate—an orange slice—behind my head. Having a perfect view of what had happened, Sarah stopped laughing. Her face froze. I didn’t know it, but my aim had been flawless. The orange slice had hit one of the young women squarely in the face.

Everything happened so fast. The woman screamed, cursed, and pointed at Becky. The group turned to our table and started yelling at us. One young man accused Becky of targeting his girlfriend. There were three of us and six of them. Confused and trembling, Becky shook her head. Instead of claiming responsibility for my actions, I turned yellow. All I could muster was, “She didn’t do it. She didn’t do it.” Since oranges don’t magically fly through the air, no one was listening to me. I cannot remember any other time in my life when I’ve acted like such a coward. When I’ve allowed a friend to accept the blame for my bad behavior. When I’ve been so … yellow.

Eventually, the manager intervened and ejected all of us. (I think I may be banned from that Mels for life.) Outside, the security guard told us to stay back until the kids left the premises because they were members of an Asian gang that ran around in Hollywood. Even though our fear had been warranted, it was no excuse for what I had done. Or didn’t do. Becky barely spoke as she drove me home. Despite my numerous apologies, that incident incited the end of our friendship. Things were never the same between us. She had seen the color of sunshine turn ugly.

According to the quiz, someone with a sunny personality will also “shun responsibility, preferring freedom of thought and action.” (They always tell you the positive stuff first.) Wow. Maybe I do have a Yellow Soul—happy, humorous, and energetic, but also reckless, irresponsible, and cowardly. I can accept all of those adjectives except for the last one. I pride myself on living my life without fear. The next time I do something stupid (and I will) like throwing a piece of fruit at a bunch of gangsters, I’m going to stand up and say, “It was me. I did it. Take your best shot, asshole.” The first hit is for Becky.

AWW — XoXo

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As a tribute to David Letterman, I’m going to reveal the reasons I hate e-cards in reverse numerical order.

10. The e-card goes to your spam folder, and you never see it so you think someone forgot your birthday.
9. The e-card’s hyperlink doesn’t work, or it expires too soon so you cannot share the e-card with others.
8. The e-card arrives via cell phone, but the sender doesn’t realize that your phone cannot read multimedia messages.
7. The extraordinary flash animation of the e-card crashes your computer.
6. The e-card delivers a virus to your computer.
5. The virus that hitched a ride with your e-card crashes your computer.
4. Sending an e-card doesn’t show how hip and cool you are; it just reflects your laziness.
3. An e-card indicates that the recipient is not that important to you because shopping for the perfect greeting card, writing a personal message, putting on a stamp, and mailing the card take a little more time.
2. An electronic “signature” is impersonal; a handwritten signature is irreplaceable.

And the #1 reason e-cards suck … (for me especially)

When I am 70 years old and sifting through my memory box, I won’t be able to touch your e-card, open it up, and laugh all over again at your charming wit. I won’t be able to trace your signature and tear up because you are no longer living. I will still have memories of you, but it is the tangible object—the greeting card—that unlocks them for me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Don’t misunderstand me. I always appreciate birthday greetings (e.g., phone calls, emails)—just no e-cards, please.

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