Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

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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One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld deals with the issues of friendship, sex, and love—otherwise known as: This, That, and The Other. The back story of the characters Jerry Seinfeld and Elaine Benes includes a romantic relationship that evolved into a friendship. However, during season two, Jerry and Elaine find themselves in an unusual situation. Neither one of them is dating anyone, nor do they have any prospects on the horizon. After watching some soft-core porn on television, Jerry and Elaine discuss whether they should have sex with no strings attached (i.e. friends with benefits). In an episode titled, “The Deal” they establish a list of rules that will keep their friendship (This) intact while they reignite their sexual relationship (That).

1. No kissing
2. No phone call the next day
3. Spending the night is optional

Of course, things don’t go according to plan—especially after Jerry offends Elaine by giving her $182 in cash for her birthday. I love this episode because it illustrates how complex relationships are and how despite the best intentions (e.g., “The Deal“) people hurt each other. I also realized I’ve experienced every combination of This, That, and The Other.

This + The Other = Friend—This combination may seem unusual at first. How many people fall in love with their friends? Well, it’s happened to me. Twice. Okay, I’ll admit the words “in love” may be too strong, but I definitely had feelings for the men, and I was attracted to them. However, my kiss compatibility theory failed me in these two cases. *
No matter how hard I tried (no pun intended), I was not sexually compatible with my friends, and I don’t know how you can fix that problem. Either you have “That” or you don’t. In one case, the friendship resumed after some time had passed, but the other man never spoke to me again.

That + The Other = Lover—This combination is far more common because many people are not friends with their spouses, partners, significant others, etc. Recently, a male friend told me how his girlfriend made a point of stating that they were not friends, “I don’t fuck my friends,” she said, “You are my lover.” She went on to say did not want to be his friend because she already had plenty of friends.
Although I don’t feel that way about my husband, I understand her point of view. My ex-boyfriend and I were never friends. I didn’t want to be his friend. I realized a few years into our relationship that I didn’t even like him. I loved him; we were together seven years and he wanted to marry me (dodged that bullet), but we were never friends.

This + That = Friend with Benefits—As Jerry and Elaine discovered, this combination is tricky. I find it’s much easier when you just have “That” otherwise known as the Fuck Buddy. Without the friendship, there really are no strings. You don’t have to know what’s going on in the person’s life. You don’t need to care. If both people know the relationship serves one purpose—sex—then it can be quite mutually satisfying. The only rule here is Don’t Be Greedy. Appreciate the “That” and don’t try to turn it into something it’s not supposed to be. If it were going to be “This” or “The Other” it would have happened already.

This and That sound great in theory, but usually the friend-with-benefits relationship becomes unbalanced. I’ve experienced it once in my life, and the sex lasted for a while until I developed feelings for my friend. Like Elaine, I wanted it all: This, That, and The Other, but he didn’t see me as “girlfriend material.” Therefore, we dropped the sex and returned to being just friends. A few years later though, we found ourselves very much in the same predicament that Elaine and Jerry did—we were both single, and we missed having a regular sex life. Though it wasn’t planned per se, we shared a spectacular evening full of That. We knew the terrain and there were no big surprises. Afterward, I realized I could never let it happen again if I wanted our friendship to survive. I cared too much; I yearned for The Other. So I gave up the That to save the This.

This + That + The Other =Ideal Mate—The ultimate threesome, This, That, and The Other is what I had always hoped to find in a spouse, and I did. I like that my husband is my best friend. Forty years from now, we may not being doing That as often as we would like, and if we didn’t have the This—what the hell would we talk about? I also know no matter how much gravity attacks my body, my husband enjoys me as a friend. With benefits. Plus The Other. He stimulates me in every way possible: intellectually, physically, and emotionally. As Jerry said, “Who wouldn’t want This, That, and The Other?”

AWW — XoXo

* My college roommate and I hypothesized that sexual compatibility between a man and a woman could be determined by examining their kissing compatibility. (Not a novel theory, but we used a scientific method.) Factors included kissing techniques, touch sensitivity, heart palpitations, goose bumps, time lapses, irrational decisions, etc. Though the sample was small, we determined that 83% of the time, the kiss revealed all.

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