Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I want to apologize upfront for this extemporaneous, stream-of-consciousness blog entry—especially since it has been more than a month since I have posted and this material is not at all related to my Learning to Love LA (again) series, which I promise I will finish.

I was sitting here on my couch watching the news, and I remembered a funny story from my first year of college. My roommate whom I’ll call Julia asked me, “What’s your major?”
I responded, “Journalism.” At the time, USC had one of the best journalism schools in the country and I had written a brilliant bullshit essay to get into the school. Getting my degree in broadcast journalism at an expensive university was easier to explain to my father than my true ambition—to be an actress.
Then Julia asked, “If your major is journalism, how come you never watch the news?”
I spoke before thinking (a bad habit in my youth), “I hate the news; it’s depressing.” When I saw the look on Julia’s face, I realized I had no business taking that spot in the journalism school. I dropped out the next day and changed my major to theatre. My father was not pleased when he found out, but that’s another story.

The funny thing is … now I watch the news all the time. I am a News Junkie; it is my drug. I watch CNN, Fox, even MSNBC. I read The Week, an awesome magazine that provides all points of view on a variety of subjects. I can tell you when I started paying attention to the world—when my sister Adrienne died. You see, I was so busy pursuing my dream, trying to earn a decent living, and later being a parent, that I didn’t make time to watch all of the ugliness around me. (At least that’s my excuse.) Maybe my conversation topics at dinner parties were limited, but I have always gotten by on my smile and my charm. I knew I was the ditzy, funny redhead of the “group”; in fact, my friends often compared me to Lucille Ball. “If only you could get your own sitcom,” they would say.

I liked playing that role. I miss That Girl. Goofy, ignorant me didn’t know anything about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and it didn’t bother me even though my former-roommate-turned-best-friend Julia was Jewish. Hell, it didn’t bother her either because Julia loved being the super-intellectual. Her favorite phrase was, “Does that make sense?” because we dimwits could not possibly comprehend her level of genius. The difference between Julia and me is that I knew I was smart but I never felt a need to prove it. I was comfortable being Lucy because in her shoes, the world was beautiful.

Ever since Adrienne died, I have been trying to figure out who I am. Being her parent gave me an identity that completed me, more than anything I have ever experienced in my entire life. Having that taken away from me—having her taken away from me—I struggle every day to find not only my identity, but also some beauty in this ugly world.
I found a butterfly lying on the ground in our backyard yesterday; it was dead. Perfectly intact, yet devoid of life. I lay the creature with its delicate yellow wings in our pomegranate tree because I didn’t want our dog Winston to step on it.

I don’t know if the butterfly is still there because I cannot bear to look. I need that brief moment of beauty to get me through the next week.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I think I should stop watching the news or buy a pair of rose-tinted glasses. Either way, I’m open to suggestions.

Posted under Adrienne & News | 1 Comment »

I have no sense of direction, but luckily, downtown Los Angeles is laid out on a grid system. Numbered streets run east and west while named streets run north and south. I often confuse the order of the named streets (e.g., Hope, Grand, Flower) so I definitely walked the longest way possible as I left Pershing Square (A) to find the Museum of Contemporary Art (B). I reminded myself that getting lost in a “new” city is exactly the point of being a tourist.

For example, I immediately stumbled upon LA’s Grand Central Market, which is a huge place full of restaurants and fresh-food stands. Since I had forgotten to eat, I decided to try EJ’s Grill. Initially, I wanted a slice of pizza, but against my better judgment, I opted for the chicken pita sandwich. Trying new food is part of the journey—right? Well, the “sandwich” was disgusting: dark-meat chicken mostly covered in fat swimming in three tablespoons of mayonnaise with one shred of lettuce. I gagged after one bite. I returned the food and got my money back.

Satisfied that I didn’t have to pay for a crappy meal, I vowed to eat somewhere else at the end of the day. With the taste of fat and mayo still clinging to my tongue, I searched in my purse for some gum. No luck. I could have stopped and bought a pack, but I didn’t want to waste anymore time.
Determined to get to the museum, I moved on still trying to figure out the best way to reach MOCA, which sits on Grand Avenue above an overpass.

I soon found myself walking through the 3rd Street Tunnel, which is practically underneath MOCA. I’m sure I have driven through it before, but being on foot was a new experience. Despite the cars zooming past me, the tunnel was quiet. Too quiet. The smell of exhaust filled my nostrils. Graffiti covers the sidewalk. One particular scrawl caught my eye, and I thought how it was similar to some of the modern art that I’ve seen in the past. I couldn’t resist taking a picture.

I exited the tunnel and began a short climb. My thighs began burning. My Skechers Shape-Ups are working. Soon, I saw Walt Disney Concert Hall, a place where I have seen many shows. I watched as tourists took pictures of what has become one of the ugliest, yet best known, buildings in Los Angeles. Despite architect Frank Gehry’s tacky exterior design, Yasuhisa Toyota’s acoustics are to die for. I highly recommend seeing a concert here—just close your eyes and listen.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Three—Visiting the MOCA is coming soon!

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I remember the exact moment when TJ and I started becoming friends. We were coworkers sitting in a conference room celebrating another employee’s birthday. As the party wound down, people went around the room and announced their birthdays. He said, “August 13″ to which I replied, “Oh my god! Another Leo! Mine is August 15—no wonder we get along so well.” Everyone laughed.

The truth is that TJ never wanted to like me. When our former boss hired me to be the second writer in a small department at USC, TJ viewed me as a threat even though his workload became lighter. Sure, he asked me to edit his articles and I asked him to review the tone of my letters (ostensibly from the dean), but our tasks were different. When TJ told me months later that he had planned to hate me, I laughed at his silliness, but I then remembered his cool tone toward me when we first met during the hiring process. He wasn’t kidding.

As time went on, TJ and I discovered we had many similarities beyond our jobs and writing. We love Disneyland and went there together for our birthdays; we even like the same rides. We often found the same men attractive. We both love Gone with the Wind, and we have similar coffee cups only I have Rhett Butler and he has Scarlett O’Hara. When I was crying during the movie Enchanted, I sent TJ a text because he had urged me to see the film. His text reply was, “We are the same person.”

Indeed, he often seemed like the masculine version of me except that he goes to bed early, he doesn’t like animals, he has less confidence, and despite having many friends, he doesn’t seem capable of forming a long-term relationship with anyone. That should have been my first clue, but I know it’s hard to find the right person and perhaps more difficult when you are gay. I wanted TJ to find an amazing man, but as much as he let me into his world, I still only understand it from an outsider’s perspective. Most of all, I wanted him to be happy.

Five months after we met, I quit my writing job for another position at USC. It didn’t change our friendship; we still met for lunch, for coffee, or for a walk around campus. Another eight months later, TJ left academia for a job in the entertainment industry. He ended up working less than ten minutes from my house so we continued to hang out—only the locations were different. I have met his friends and his cousin; he has met my husband, my stepmother, and my friends. TJ and I have spent holidays together, and I have attended many parties at his house. I could never call him late at night, but I would text him about any subject and we would go back and forth exchanging messages. I will miss our texting.

I think ending a romantic relationship is easier than ending a friendship, but maybe that is because I am usually the dumper and not the dumpee. I’ve lost many friends in the past ten years, but in most cases, I understand what happened even if I don’t agree with the outcome. With TJ and me, it feels like I’m watching a bad Lifetime movie. I guess it started after his last Oscar party when his roommate became incredibly drunk and said horrible things about me, which I didn’t hear, but my husband did. I told TJ in an email that my husband and I would not be attending any more parties if his roommate was present. I didn’t tell TJ to ignite a fight; I only wanted him to know that if we turned down a party invitation, it wasn’t personal.

I never wanted or needed TJ to defend me from his roommate, but I thought TJ should know the truth. Then he left for Paris, a trip that he had planned for two years. He didn’t call me before leaving (another clue), and I was disappointed but I thought he would phone when he returned. He didn’t. I called him while I was driving, which was my mistake because the conversation became emotional for me. When I found out TJ had been home for almost two weeks (I thought it had been four days) and hadn’t bothered to say hello—not even a text or an email, I was hurt and I told him so. I got off the phone before I started crying, but I didn’t hang up on him. He thinks I did.

Three weeks passed, and I didn’t hear from him. On the advice of another friend, I left TJ a message emphasizing that I was not mad and that I cared about him. I asked if he still wanted to be friends. He returned my call the next day and left a message. It was long. It contained lies. It was painful. Tears were falling down my face before his message ended. I wailed. Like an animal. He wants to “take a break from our friendship.” A break? Even in a message, he couldn’t be completely honest. Our friendship is over.

I wish I had picked up the phone, but I don’t answer it when I’m working out. I don’t think TJ would have said some of those things to me directly. Maybe it’s better this way. He doesn’t even sound like the same person. I don’t know this new TJ with the cold voice, distant manner, and edgy tone. I don’t like him. I don’t know what I expected, but after three years of friendship, I never thought I would be dumped. I still love the old TJ, the friend who made the best gluten-free pizza, championed my writing, asked my advice, adored my husband, and flinched when I hugged him.

My husband has said on many occasions that TJ wants “everything to be nice.” Indeed, TJ became upset if my husband and I argued in front of him (but he also disliked any displays of affection). His attitude reminds me of those female Mormons who left the Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints; they always say that their parents told them to “keep sweet.” Get real. Life isn’t nice and sweet all the time. I know TJ didn’t want to discuss his roommate, but I don’t regret being honest with him in an email. After all, if you can’t be honest with your good friends—especially over someone else’s behavior, then why remain friends?

Or maybe … no matter what the situation is … people—especially friends—cannot handle the truth.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I apologize for my long absence. Godaddy and Wordpress were having security issues so I wasn’t able to access my blog for a month. If during that time you read my blog or my website, please run the following free software Malware and Trojan Remover on your computer to ensure that you didn’t pick up any cookies, viruses, or trojans. I will continue my Learning to Love LA Again series later this week.

Posted under Relationships | 1 Comment »

Every year on or near my sister Adrienne’s birthday, I go to an event as a way to honor her. Usually I see a ballet, a play, or a concert, but this year I decided to try something different. I had wanted to see the new exhibition, Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years, at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) before it closed in May. Originally, I was going to drive there as most Angelenos would. However, my relationship with Los Angeles has become incredibly acrimonious lately so I that thought I would approach the city with a fresh pair of eyes. I decided to be a tourist.

Besides going to art museums, one of my favorite things to do in a new city is to ride the subway and to walk the town. I never do these things in LA because its public transportation sucks and it is not “bipedal-friendly” as a friend of mine likes to say. But in the past ten years, the Metro (i.e., bus and rail system) has made it possible to go from the San Fernando Valley to downtown Los Angeles by taking the red line subway, and the public buses have increased their routes to include short trips such as the Downtown Area Short Hop (DASH), which only costs twenty-five cents. Walking around Los Angeles is still feasible if you plan to stay in one area. So the day after my sister’s birthday, I drove to the North Hollywood Metro station, parked my car, and experienced Los Angeles like a tourist for the first time in almost twenty years.

The immediate surprise was that I didn’t have to wait for the museum to see art, as there are murals inside of the North Hollywood station. The colors are bright and the pictures reflect the diversity and uniqueness of “NoHo”—Sitton’s Restaurant, Phil’s Diner, Lankershim Arts Center, etc. I especially liked the murals that reflect how the Valley looked before it was developed (e.g., Lankershim Ranch and Water Company). Most people don’t realize that the Valley used to be acres upon acres of fruit trees; we have an orange, a tangerine, a Meyer lemon, and a pomegranate tree in our backyard. (If you are local, email me if you want some oranges or lemons!)

As I exited the subway in Pershing Square, I reminded myself that despite its flaws, LA has a rich history full of intriguing characters, mysterious circumstances, and beautiful landscapes. All of these elements are captured in my two favorite movies about Los Angeles: Chinatown and LA Confidential. Wishing I had worn a hat like Mrs. Mulwray, I thought about those films as I buttoned my seersucker jacket when the cold breeze hit me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Two—Walking the City is coming soon!

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Do you remember The Game of Life? Originally created by Milton Bradley in 1860, Life received a makeover 100 years later, and I’m almost positive that we owned the 1963 edition. I played the game often as a child, but I didn’t enjoy very much. I didn’t like that girls had to be “pink pegs” in the pawns (i.e., plastic cars) and that part of the objective included obtaining wealth, getting married, and giving birth to children. I didn’t want those extra pegs in my car. Even at eight years old, the whole concept seemed so ordinary to me. I understood that the game was supposed to reflect “real life” but it didn’t represent the one that I wanted. Therefore, winning Life didn’t matter as much to me as beating my brother at Monopoly.

Except for The Game of Life, I have always been competitive. I never bought into that saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” Bullshit. The objective is to win. Many people don’t play games with me anymore because I am too obnoxious. My husband and I can’t play each other in Trivial Pursuit because we get too mean, but we make a ferocious team. I love games because like math the answers are definite.
1 + 1 = 2 or Earn six pie wedges by answering tough questions and then answer one final question (selected by your opponent) in the center hub. Of course people interpret them differently, but for the most part, the rules of games are clear.

Real life, however, doesn’t work that way. It is far more subjective, enigmatic. I remember my dance teacher used to wear this t-shirt that read, “He who dies with the most toys wins”; he collected Porsches. Unlike the board game, I used to think “winning the game of life” meant having an incredible career. Later, I realized that being Adrienne’s parent made me happier than any acting role ever did. For example, I scheduled the final dress rehearsal of a play that I directed, produced, and wrote around Adrienne’s 13th birthday party, which I refused to miss. No matter what, she always came first.

Even though I did everything that I could, a part of me feels that I failed Adrienne. I didn’t help her win the game of life. I didn’t see to it that she made it to the finish line. It is as if she lost her turn and never came back to the game. Like she quit, but that is not what happened. She never gave up even when she knew her time was running out. Like a tired boxer in the ring, she kept fighting and every time a doctor counted her out, she got back on her feet and threw another punch. She refused to suffer a knockout. She finished the fight on her terms—she died at home in peace.

All of these years, I thought Adrienne had “lost” the game because she didn’t survive cancer and because I had lost her. I had it all wrong. Even though Adrienne was not as competitive as I am, I instilled in her the same aim: Play to Win. If life were a boxing match and the judges had to decide between Adrienne and her opponent—cancer, there is no question. Adrienne won. She led a successful life. She made some of her dreams come true. She inspired her friends; she continues to inspire me. While cancer may have beaten her down physically, she never allowed it to take away her heart, her spirit, or her soul.

When asked what they want for their children, parents usually reply, “as long as they are happy and healthy” but all parents have dreams for their children. When I was a kid, my father told me that I should be a doctor because I love to read. I guess he figured that I could survive medical school. I didn’t have a career selected for Adrienne, but I wanted her to leave home for college, preferably a four-year university such as Stanford, Berkeley or an Ivy League school on the East Coast. (She preferred my alma mater USC.) I wanted her to realize that there was nothing wrong with making money from her art. I wanted her to learn to drive a stick shift. And of course, I wanted her to be healthy and happy.

But Adrienne never graduated from high school, sold her art, or drove any car. She suffered from depression long before cancer invaded her body. She didn’t have a chance to do the things that I wanted her to do, but my dreams for her should have no bearing on whether or not Adrienne lived an extraordinary life. Even though I don’t like the outcome, Adrienne won the game.

It does not matter how you play the game of life  … it is how you define winning. Therefore, Adrienne is a champ.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Happy Birthday baby—you are the champion of my world. I miss you so much. Keep playing Queen for me, okay?

Posted under Adrienne | 3 Comments »

On Wednesday, March 31, my husband took me to see Paul McCartney’s Up and Coming Tour at the Hollywood Bowl. At 67 years old, Paul has survived the breakup of the Beatles, the death of his beloved Linda, and a bitter divorce from his second wife Heather Mills. Though he is not the most dynamic performer, Paul can certainly keep up with his younger band members. The power of Paul (and the Beatles) is that his music is timeless. One look at the audience, who ranged in ages from 5 – 75, shows how each generation finds its own connection to the songs. Although I am not a devout Beatles fan, I will admit many of their songs possess a magical quality due to their melodic nature. However, despite his divine talent, I never need to see Paul McCartney in concert again. His overbearing ego, which needed to be stroked every few songs, distracted me from the music.

Instead of milling around, most people were in their seats by 7:30pm; I’m presuming because, like us, they didn’t want to miss anything. Well, we had plenty of time, as the sold-out show began 15 minutes late. In lieu of an opening act, the concert started with a 30-minute overture that consisted of pictures, photographs, and video clips scrolling on two giant screens as Paul McCartney/Beatles’ songs played in the background. The effect was interesting, but my husband regretted not getting in line to buy us drinks. By the time Paul opened the show by singing Venus and Mars/Rock Show/Jet, the guy next to me had elbowed me in the side one time, and I was sick to my stomach from his super sweet pot. Thanks for the contact high, asshole.

After singing a few songs, Paul talked about when he and the Beatles appeared at the Hollywood Bowl “about a million years ago.” (They played their last show there in 1965.) Then Paul stopped the show and took center stage to, he said, “Take a moment to drink this in.” He stared at the audience. Subtext: I will continue the show once I receive enough applause from you peons out there. Once everyone understood his message, we all started clapping. My husband and I, who have seen many pop/rock legends in concert (e.g., Queen, Madonna), looked at each other. I whispered, “What the hell?” My husband replied, “What an egomaniac!”
Although I was disgusted by his arrogance, I also admired Paul because he proved to us just how powerful he was. Though I couldn’t help thinking, if he were secure in himself, he wouldn’t need to demand applause on cue. He even told stories about girls screaming so loudly during concerts that he and the guys couldn’t hear each other sing. Taking the hint, two blonde Playboy types in the front row shrieked until their dark roots showed. Paul smiled.

To be fair, when Paul shut up and sang, the effect was wonderful. I was bouncing up and down in my seat to Drive My Car, and the graphics behind the band were fantastic. Let Me Roll It, a blue-jazzy number, had me rolling my neck, swinging my arms, and swaying my hips. The Long and Winding Road featured pictures of beautiful landscapes. Paul dedicated My Love, a song he originally wrote for Linda, to “all the lovers in the house.” However the strong emphasis on the last two words at the end of the song, “to me” made me wonder about their love affair. Was it all about him all the time?

Paul may be at his best when he picks up an acoustic guitar and sings a cappella. Here Today, a song he wrote for John after he died, brought tears to my eyes. Paul’s voice sounded smooth yet emotional; few artists today have that kind of raw talent. Even though Paul’s show had the bells and whistles of a modern-day concert, he didn’t need them and that is refreshing. Paul masters whatever instrument he is playing whether it is the piano or the guitar. Paul even played George’s ukulele to perform Something—a dedication to George who wrote the song.

During Sing the Changes, shooting stars turned into an image of President Obama behind the band to which my husband said, “That’s too bad because it’s a good song.” Paul picked up the pace with Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, which had people jumping and singing even if they only knew the “Life goes on” part. He kept up the energy with Back in the USSR; unfortunately, the sound tech cranked up the lead guitar, and it overpowered Paul’s voice. Paul shared a story about meeting the head of Russian defense years ago. The man said to him, “We learn English from your music. Hello. Goodbye.”

My husband wasn’t a fan of Paperback Writer, but I thought the graphics were cool—novel covers about naughty nurses. The concert exploded during Live and Let Die, as fireworks and pyrotechnics lit up the sky. The show “ended” too predictably with Hey Jude, but of course, there were two planned encores, which I think are ridiculous. Paul thanked the sound guy Pablo and the video crew, but he failed to introduce his band, which both my husband and I found odd. Perhaps it was an oversight, or maybe Paul stopped acknowledging other musicians after the Beatles broke up. I mean, why bother when it’s all about you.

I thought it was funny (and perhaps sad) that a man who used to get women’s underwear thrown at him on stage got a teddy bear tossed to him during this show. Seeing that brown, fuzzy, stuffed animal and thinking about the soft, silky panties of the past has to make even Sir Paul, the unofficial king of England, feel old. Despite his over-the-top ego, Paul performed for an impressive two hours and forty minutes without taking one break. He closed the concert with a crowd favorite Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

We’re Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We hope you have enjoyed the show
Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
We’re sorry but it’s time to go.

Thanks, Paul, I did enjoy the show, but every now and then when you feel so insecure—ask for help, not applause.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. To see all of the pictures that I took during the concert, visit my Picasa Photo Gallery. To view the set lists for the two Hollywood Bowl shows, visit Paul’s website.

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I get bored easily. Very easily.* My problems with focus are exemplified by the many unfinished projects in my life, the high number of 14-week relationships that I’ve had, and the reason that I don’t stay at a job for more than three years. I need a change as often as a baby with a wet diaper. As much as I like routine, I want the stimulation that a new career, new person, and a new hobby provide.

When I was a kid, Attention Deficit Disorder/Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADD/ADHD) didn’t exist. Children who displayed ADD/ADHD-like symptoms were labeled, “unfocused,” “fidgety,” “hyper,” or in extreme cases “bad” because they couldn’t pay attention. I don’t think I would have been diagnosed with ADHD because I am able to focus when I care to; however, I was so energetic as a child that I refused to take naps. Even in kindergarten, I couldn’t fall asleep during naptime. I would lie there with my eyes open staring at the back of a sleeping classmate thinking the time would pass more quickly if the teacher would just give me a book to read. She never did.

I started pondering this whole ADHD thing after I saw the film Julie and Julia. Here is a woman, Julie Powell, who started a blog, The Julie/Julia Project, devoted to a specific subject—cooking. In fact, she cooked her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking by completing 536 recipes in 365 days. As a result, she received a book deal, followed by a movie, then another book deal, etc. Now Julie Powell is a successful, working writer.

Sensing that Ms. Powell was onto something, I researched the most popular blogs. I’m sure that you have heard of them even if you don’t read them: TMZ, Gizmodo, Perez Hilton, The Huffington Post, TechCrunch, and Mashable. Whether they cover politics, entertainment, celebrity gossip, or computer tips, all of the blogs are focused on one topic. One single subject. I understand the concept of carving out your niche, becoming a subject matter expert, being the person who knows everything about x. The problem is … I would rather know one fact about everything in the world than know everything about only one subject. I guess you could say I am a breadth over depth person.

I am somewhat exaggerating, of course. I can speak at length about more than one topic, but I prefer to expand my knowledge base. I titled my blog, “Seeking happiness, hope, and wisdom” because I want happiness, need hope, and crave wisdom. Writing my thoughts down, discussing a variety of subjects, communicating with others—these things help me grow as a writer, as a woman, and most of all, as a human being. If I limited myself to one topic, I would feel trapped. For example, when Michael Jackson died, I had no intention of writing about him, but a reader asked my opinion so I did. To date, The Case Against Michael Jackson is the most popular post I’ve ever written. If I only wrote about politics or travel—two of my passions—I would not have been forced to examine my feelings about the King of Pop. I am thankful to the reader who challenged me, and I always welcome topics from my audience.

While my blog may not be in Time Magazine’s 25 Best Blogs of 2009, I feel good knowing I have some devoted fans who enjoy my writing. Perhaps I do have ADHD, or maybe I’m a passionate person with a variety of interests. One time I made a list of all the classes I would take if time and money were not issues: poetry, art, ballet, swing dancing, tango, yoga, horseback riding, viticulture. I stopped when I realized that I had more classes than days in the week. Anyway, I will continue seeking happiness, hope, and wisdom, and I hope you will join me in my search. I cannot guarantee our final destination, but I promise our journey will be rich, rewarding, and full of surprises.

AWW — XoXo

* I hate that I used two adverbs consecutively, but they seemed to fit. My apologies to Stephen King.

P.S. In addition to this blog, I have decided to write a short-term blog devoted to a single subject: Exercising My Ass Off in time for my 20-year high school reunion.

Posted under Writing | 2 Comments »

According to President Obama, “I’m confident it [the healthcare bill] will pass because it’s the right thing to do.” I agree with him; reforming America’s healthcare system is necessary. But when our president has not read the bill in its entirety, when congressmen are bribed with special deals for their states (or just a ride on Air Force One), and when the vote is one of the closest ones in American history, you have to ask: isn’t there a better way to change our system?

Of course there are philosophical differences among people. I believe, however, if the bill contained substantive content written in a straightforward manner, that a much higher percentage of the Congress, the Senate, and Americans would be in favor of it. Rasmussen polls show that 53% of Americans oppose the health care plan proposed by President Obama and the Congressional Democrats, and 57% of voters believe it will hurt the economy. These numbers are consistent with a recent Fox News poll that finds 55% oppose the current bill, 35% support it, and 10% don’t know. I have to give Obama, Pelosi, and Reid some credit; they certainly don’t govern by the polls, but in this case, they should.

Although I am fortunate enough to have medical insurance, I have been an uninsured American. In fact, I spent my twenties without health insurance despite having a serious thyroid condition that required one hospitalization, a radiation treatment, quarterly checkups, and daily medication. I didn’t qualify for Medi-Cal, but I received significant discounts by going to a Los Angeles County clinic in downtown LA. I usually spent half a day there between my doctor’s appointment and waiting for my prescription to be filled. I’m not even counting the time I spent two weeks prior to my appointment when I would give blood for my thyroid tests. I typically had to take the day off work—unpaid of course—just to go to the doctor. So I’ve been there, and yeah, it sucks.

However, every time I hear about this current healthcare bill, my stomach twists in knots. Think about it this way: imagine if a candidate didn’t have quite enough votes to get elected so he decided to use some dirty tactics (e.g., closing the polls early, turning voters away) that were technically legal, albeit unethical, to ensure he became president. Oh wait … that already happened. This healthcare bill is no different from Bush’s 2000 election. Even if you are one of the ten people who has read the bill and you agree with everything in it, the process matters.

Just last month, Pres. Obama commented that the healthcare debate was “an ugly process” but now he embraces it because “it’s the right thing to do.” This week, he assured Bret Baier that, “By the time the vote has taken place, not only will I know what’s in it [fixed bill] you’ll know what’s in it.” Wow, I feel better now. Obama makes it clear that the proposed healthcare legislation does not solve current structural problems such as Medicare’s $36.3 trillion (current and future) debt—a number the president agrees is accurate. Despite that staggering figure, Obama smiles and says he has proposed a fiscal commission to fix that problem. He uses terms such as “deficit-neutral” when he describes the healthcare bill even though Richard Foster, chief actuary of Medicare, disagrees with the president’s accounting methods. The president doesn’t like to talk about the estimated 17 million Americans who would not be covered by this sweeping healthcare legislation or how expensive it will be for the uninsured to buy coverage. Obama has one goal: pass this bill, no matter what the consequences are.

Mr. President, you promised to work across party lines, and you vowed not to sign a bill that adds “one dime” to our deficit. Don’t put our country deeper in debt because you are determined to do the “right thing” the wrong way. When you say that a yes vote is for health care reform and that a no vote indicates support for the status quo, you not only sound like a high school bully pushing the weaker kids around, you are also completely inaccurate. Just to be clear … a message to our elected representatives:

• Voting no means you cannot be cajoled, bribed, or pushed around by anybody, not even the president of the United States.
• Voting no means you realize that this bill is not the right one for Americans and that this process does not represent the will of the people.
• Voting no means you listened to the voters who elected you and even the ones who did not.

According to Rasmussen, a majority of voters want the president and Congress to scrap this bill and start over. We differ about the specifics, but we all want healthcare reform. Next time, Mr. President, when you decide to do “the right thing” do it the right way.

AWW — XoXo

Posted under Health & Politics | 3 Comments »

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality

Whenever I hear those words echo out of my car radio, I think two things: Is this my real life—the one without Adrienne? And is she talking to me right now? Queen was one of Adrienne’s favorite bands and even though “Bohemian Rhapsody” was not her favorite Queen song, whenever I hear it—especially the opening—I think of her, and lately, Queen seems to be following me everywhere.

Last month, just about the time I decided to buckle down and finish the second draft of my memoir, my husband commented, “Have you noticed we keep hearing a lot of Queen lately?” Indeed, I had. Whether we were in my car listening to Los Angeles radio stations or in his car listening to XM Satellite radio, Queen seemed to sing to us as soon as we pushed the power button. From Jack FM to KLOS, Freddie, Brian, Roger, and John reminded me that I had made a commitment to myself. To my husband. To Adrienne. Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? I don’t know, but then the song continued … Are you happy? Are you satisfied? How long can you stand the heat? It is just a coincidence, I told myself as I turned off the radio.

No matter what your religious beliefs are, I think we all hope that there is some kind of afterlife. I mean, who wants to believe this is it? This one life. I couldn’t get up in the morning if I thought Adrienne was gone forever. While I don’t believe that heaven is above us and hell is beneath us, I do think there are other planes of existence. The year after she died, I felt Adrienne’s presence near me several times, but I haven’t “seen” or “felt” her in seven years. I have this theory that maybe where she is at, time moves slower. Maybe in her world, one day there is one year here, and in her mind, she has only been gone a week so there is no need to keep in touch.

However, my theory starts to fall apart when I hear Queen nonstop for three weeks, and I wonder if Adrienne is reaching out to me. Telling me to just do it. You’re ready, Sissy, yes you’re ready for it. You’re standing on your own two feet. Write our story. You have a dream—a vision. Finish your book. Your voice, your hope, it’s your decision. Fight your pain, she says. Be a Killer Queen. That’s what you taught me. I guarantee you’ll blow their minds.

It is me, Sissy. Listen …
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies and see
You’ll be successful
You need no sympathy
Because you’re tough as nails, tough as stone
Little high, little low
Anyway the wind blows
We’ll always be together you and me.

I want to believe in blue faeries. I want to believe that people actually win the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes. I want to believe that one day I will live in my dream house in Gold Beach. I want to believe that the sudden barrage of Queen music is not a coincidence. But most of all, I want to believe Adrienne is out there and that some day we will be together again.

AWW — XoXo

Note: All of the italicized words are Queen lyrics or slightly altered Queen lyrics. This one is for you, Adrienne.

One by one
Only the Good die young
They’re only flying too close to the sun
And life goes on—
Without you …

Addendum
Hours after I wrote this post, I got into my car to go and tutor my students. I flipped the ignition switch, turned on the radio, and after less than a second, I heard the beginning notes of one of my favorite Queen songs “Somebody to Love.” The strange thing is that I was running late, yet the timing of the song was perfect. Stunned, I sat and listened. I have spent all my years in believing you … You’re okay, you’re alright. Ain’t gonna face no defeat. Okay, Adrienne, I hear you. I believe …

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I am sitting in a bar in Mammoth Lakes, California, during one of the busiest times of the year—President’s Day weekend. As I listen to the inane chatter of intoxicated birthday girls, inebriated ski bunnies, slick man whores, and a staff who can’t wait for this night to be over, I don’t feel like part of this crowd, but I am here, ordering a drink just like the person next to me. Yet, this post-skiing-drinking tradition is not my typical scene. I would much rather be back at the condo watching the Olympics with my husband. Perhaps I would enjoy this situation more if I were falling down drunk with the rest of the clientele. Instead, I sit here writing in my notebook enduring curious stares and quizzical looks. It feels like junior high all over again—eating lunch in the cafeteria, wondering how kids my age can spend so much time talking about themselves.

Don’t misunderstand; I don’t feel sorry for myself. I could try, but I don’t want to because I am bored. Later, my husband will be upset that I didn’t make more of an effort to talk to “our friends.” However, with my new “No longer faking it” creed, I refuse to pretend that I like hanging out in a bar in a strange town with people whom I deem as acquaintances. I should add that I haven’t slept well in weeks, and that all I fantasize about lately is eight hours of uninterrupted, non-medicated sleep. I send my drink back not only because it is too strong and the vodka is terrible, but also because the alcohol will make a good night’s rest more difficult because it induces vivid dreams.

Finally, we leave the bar, and I look forward to whatever Olympic coverage is still airing on NBC. Despite my rant, I have fun skiing in Mammoth, and thanks to my husband, I have been many times now. So in my humble beginner-intermediate skier* opinion, here is the best of what Mammoth has to offer:

Best Ski Lift: Chair 12

Base elev. 9,042′
Top elev. 9,707′
Rise 665′
Length 2,851′

With many simple, groomed, intermediate runs, I am a huge fan of the double Chair 12. According to my research, it is a good place to learn about powder skiing, and in my experience, you can avoid crowds, too, because fewer people ski the back side of the mountain. Chair 12 takes you to chairs 13 and 14, which also have intermediate runs. If I am tired, I stick to Lower Road Runner, which is fairly flat, but narrow in many spots so I can practice my turns. If I feel more ambitious, I will ski White Bark Ridge or Secret Spot. My goal is to eventually ski all of the blue runs at Chair 12 even the steep ones (e.g., New Critters) that scare me.

Best Ski Shop: Footloose Sports
With their famous “Try Before You Buy” policy, Footloose makes it easy to find the perfect pair of skis and boots. We had rented equipment from them in the past, but in December, my husband decided it was time that I had my own skis and boots so I demoed a new set each day. Chris, one of their boot experts, recognized that my wide feet could only fit into two kinds of boots. When I complained that the pair we were about to buy still felt too tight, his alternate suggestion turned out to be the right fit. Julia recommended different skis for me to try based on my height and my expertise. In the end, I came home with electric blue Head skis and smoky grey Tecnica boots.

Best Accommodations: Edelweiss Lodge
With its Swiss chalet exterior and personable caretakers Keith and Marta, Edelweiss feels like home. A gift basket in every room invites guests to partake in Marta’s famous chocolate chip cookies, and pets are always welcome. We have taken our English Mastiff there, and the owners didn’t even blink at Winston’s size. In fact, they gave him his own gift basket complete with homemade dog treats. The only unfortunate experience we have ever had is that during our last visit, I contracted hot tub rash; it was the first time we have ever used their hot tub facility. However, we plan to return to Edelweiss considering that Keith and Marta have offered us a two nights’ free stay for what I now call “The Incident”; we just won’t ever use their hot tub again.

Best Dinner: Mogul Restaurant
We went to this restaurant with ten other people, and everyone was happy with their meal. Whether you desire steak, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, or seafood, I guarantee The Mogul will have a dinner that will fill your stomach and ignite your taste buds as you savor their sauces. They have a “Lite Dinner” selection for those patrons who want to save room for dessert, and their wine list not only contains a decent selection, but the prices are reasonable, too—especially for a restaurant. While the salad bar is average, their entrees are not. I recommend the Mogul Chicken: a double boneless breast marinated in red wine, honey, soy sauce, red wine vinegar, brown sugar, Worcestershire, and spices. The menu states it is “grilled to perfection”—considering how moist, succulent, and delicious my chicken was, I completely agree.

Best Happy Hour: Austria Hof Lodge
According to its website, the Austria Hof restaurant is Mammoth’s only “truly authentic German” cuisine. I don’t know about the main dining room, but the bar downstairs is a divine happy hour experience. With tasteful martinis and many German beers on tap served by a friendly staff (ask for Sean the bartender), the drinking is elevated to new heights with their delicious appetizer menu. My favorite was their baked brie on crostini accompanied by grapes and apple slices; it was like tasting a piece of heaven. And unlike the bar  that I discussed in the opening of this blog, the Austria Hof Happy Hour has a touch of class. I think it’s the food. You have to be at least partially sober to appreciate it.

Best Breakfast: The Stove
“County cookin’ since 1970″ is what the sign outside The Stove says, and I believe it. The Stove is so popular that locals eat there, they don’t have to advertise much, and they don’t even need a website. As long as you can put aside any thoughts of keeping your cholesterol in check and be patient regarding the 20-minute or longer wait, you will be able to enjoy the huge helpings, pleasant service (the same Sean from Austria Hof served us here, too!), and typical eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and hashed browns breakfast. Of course, they have other items such as French toast and omelettes, but I stick to the basics at The Stove. My only complaint is that their biscuits could use more lard, but at least they are not as dry as most non-Southern biscuits. After all, we Southerners are biscuit experts!

Best Bakery: Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ
With locations in Bishop and Mammoth, you have two opportunities to visit Schat’s Bakkery, home of the original sheepherder bread. This European-style bakery has everything from bread to pastries to cookies to candy. My husband and I often buy olive or raisin bread depending on our mood, and we always indulge in some cookies. The mail-order catalog is only a partial list of the many goodies this establishment has to offer. If you are anywhere within a 50-mile radius, Schat’s is worth the stop. I recommend the Bishop location because it is much larger, and therefore has a more diverse selection.

Best Coffee: Looney Bean
I imagine Looney Bean is what Starbucks was once upon a time: a small coffee chain with great brews and a distinct personality combined with a touch of hometown charm that makes each location unique. While their pastries lack taste altogether (much like Starbucks), Looney Bean is the place to buy and drink coffee in Mammoth. They provide free Wi-Fi and plenty of indoor and outdoor seating for their customers. I especially like their support of local artists as well as their helpful—but not hyper—staff. With two locations in California (Mammoth and Bishop), and one location in Oregon, Colorado, and Mexico, Looney Bean is easier to find than Schat’s, but still inaccessible for most people. However, you can experience their coffee by joining Club Looney Bean, but if you are in Mammoth, stop by for a cup of java. You’ll like the taste of Looney!

No “Best of” review would be complete without at least one “Worst of” segment. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but here is my most humiliating and humbling experience at Mammoth:

Worst of Mammoth: Jim of the Mammoth Ski Patrol
What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ski down? Why can’t you walk up the road? Why are you alone?
Instead of “Are you okay?” I was grilled like a second-class citizen when Ski Patrol Jim discovered an exhausted me at the side of the mountain in December. I had gone down the wrong way (i.e., too steep), and I had tried to hike back up to where I needed to be. However, my thighs were burning, my chest was aching from pneumonia, and my head was spinning between actual sweating and nervous anticipation as I watched the sun descend on the horizon. I knew I had to get down the mountain, and I knew the easiest way was to ski down, not to walk back up to a flatter run. But I was too tired to struggle with the steep slopes.
Seeing the ski patrol was like an answer to the prayer that I forgot to say, but instead of feeling relieved, I felt stupid. After an initial burst of tears, I recovered enough dignity to say to Jim, “Why are you treating me this way? I thought you were supposed to be helpful.” Instead of answering my question, he diverted it by engaging in light chitchat. Although we were on civil terms by the time the other ski patrol arrived on the snowmobile to return me to the main lodge, I’ll never forget how Jim made me feel: like a moron. If there is a next time, I will either ski down or slide down on my ass, but I will not allow myself to be “rescued” again.

AWW — XoXo

* According to a Mammoth Ski Instructor, beginner-intermediate is an actual level. I was unable to take a beginner’s class because I am too intermediate, and I didn’t qualify for the intermediate class because I am too much of a beginner. Geesh!

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