Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I have a confession to make: I like modern art. Not all of it, but more so than most people I know. Even my sister Adrienne thought that the sculptures scattered around downtown Los Angeles were pretentious, ridiculous and a waste of public funds. I’m not fond of many of those sculptures either, but I prefer paintings anyway. To me, art is subjective. Perhaps Shakespeare said it best, “Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”

One of my favorite pieces of art Blue Clamp by Jim Dine is on display at the San Francisco Modern Museum of Art. I have a print hanging in my office, but it doesn’t move me as much as seeing the three-dimensional work in person. The blue clamp projects outward from the painting, and to me it suggests how delicate our hearts are, how the clamp holds this particular heart in place, how in one quick motion someone could pull out the clamp and the heart would break. A large blue clamp does not hold my heart together, but I often feel that it is bound by a thick rope tied in numerous knots, which keep me safe and to some degree—sane.

With so many artists and works to choose from, I find it difficult to only select a few for my blog; therefore, I recommend viewing my MOCA Picasa Web album to see more art from this impressive collection or visiting the exhibition Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years online at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA).

Cuban artist Ana Mendieta has several works on display in MOCA’s permanent collection. Although I am not fond of some of her performance art, I stared at her series Silueta Works in Mexico, an examination of death and how the body becomes one with the earth.

I thoroughly enjoyed James Rosenquist’s Vestigial Appendage. The painting covers one entire wall at the museum, and I wish I could explain why I am so attracted to it. Rosenquist’s ability to capture sex, beauty, capitalism, and American pop culture using brilliant colors and unusual positioning is just breathtaking.

I am also a fan of Wallace Berman’s photography—especially his Black Piece and Silence series. Here is a close-up view of one small part of Black Piece #2 or #3 (I cannot remember).

Stepping into Doug Wheeler’s RM 669 is like walking into a peaceful fog. He states, “I make things that you experience and then it’s in your mind,” and indeed he accomplishes that goal with this sensory illusion of stepping into another dimension. I have heard critics say that modern art should be “an experience.” If that is true, than Wheeler is one of the best modern artists of his time; however, you cannot hang his work in your home.

Of all of the modern art that I saw/experienced, my least favorite artist is Cy Twombly.
Honestly, I do not get the point of his “art.” Anything that looks like something a kindergartener could scribble on a chalkboard is a waste of space. In addition to this Untitled piece, I recently saw another Twombly work at LACMA, and it looked exactly the same.

You may not agree with my comments, but isn’t that the point of art? To discuss, argue, learn, like, love, and remind all of us that there is some beauty in this ugly world even if we define “beauty” differently.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Four—Seeing the Geffen is coming soon!

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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 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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I am embarrassed to admit that I watch the television show Little Miss Perfect, a reality series that follows child beauty queens and their stage mothers in their quest to achieve the title of—you guessed it—Little Miss Perfect (LMP). I stumbled upon this show last year, and my husband walked in the room when I was watching it. He shook his head when he saw a JonBenét Ramsey doppelganger grace the screen. I shouldn’t have told him, but I said, “Wanna hear something scary? I’ve been watching this show for four hours.” (It was a marathon of the first season). Before I could say, “I’m hooked” he left the room.

Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their shortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.

Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.

When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.

On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.

I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.

• She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
• She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
• She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.

By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.

However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.

Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete—two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.

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During the wee hours of the morning, I lie awake unable to fall asleep because of insomnia and/or our dog Winston, whose arthritis has been causing him much pain lately. Instead of reading the dozens of books on our shelves, magazines on our kitchen table, or hundreds of emails in my inbox, I secretly watch infomercials. [Stands up] My name is Andrea, and I am an Infomercial Addict. I love them. I’ll watch my favorite ones more than once just to see if the producers ever change the content (they do). Yes, you read that correctly. I watch reruns of infomercials. It’s a serious problem. I even have rules regarding my infomercial viewing procedure:

1. I prefer that regular people pitch me the products instead of celebrities. For example, Victoria Principal’s skin looks so fabulous, but I have a hard time believing it’s strictly due to her Principal Secret skincare products. (Can anyone say “facelift”?) However, regular people often become famous if the infomercial is popular (e.g., Billy Mays, Billy Blanks, Susan Powter).
2. I only watch infomercials about products that I would consider buying so I focus mainly on health, beauty, exercise, and pet items. Anything related to cooking causes me to change the channel.
3. I must be excited by the title, and Paid Programming doesn’t cut it. With a dozen infomercials to choose from, the producers must grab my attention. My favorite title of all time (even though the infomercial sucks) has to be, “Is Colon Detox Hype?”

The infomercial “a blend of the words information and commercial” was created in 1984 after U.S. President Ronald Reagan signed the Cable Communications Policy Act, which deregulated television. Sources disagree about the first American infomercial although many believe it was Herbalife’s one-hour advertisement for a weight-loss supplement. In the U.S., the term infomercial is usually reserved for programs that are 28 minutes and 30 seconds in length. Short 120-second commercials that hawk products are called direct response television advertisements aka DRTV spots or short form; they are not technically infomercials.

A true confession isn’t complete without full disclosure of one’s sins … so here are my favorite (currently airing) infomercials a.k.a. guilty pleasures:

1. P90X: The Proof promises to whip your body into shape in 90 days by using Tony Horton’s secret technique of “muscle confusion.” I call his method kicking your ass until you want to drop dead. Actually, I bought this program on eBay (much cheaper!), and I love it. The only thing the infomercial does not disclose is that P90X is not for beginners. I’m proof of muscle memory because I don’t exercise on a regular basis (I’ve stretched the 90 days into seven months), but I still manage to survive most of the workouts.
2. Look Thinner Instantly swears the only way to get your figure back is with Kymaro’s New Body Shaper. This infomercial has all of the right ingredients: live testimonials, quantitative proof, and an “easy fix” to a common problem. I wanted to buy a body shaper, but I knew how ridiculous it would seem to people given that I wear a petite size 2. (There’s no way I’m posting my weight.) I did not succumb to temptation.
3. Straight Sexy Hair assures all women with flat, straight, fine hair that we, too, can have that extra lift by using the innovative Instyler, a “new hair styling tool that straightens, polishes and styles hair by means of a rotating heated cylinder and brush bristles.” I was almost sold because “Haley” has “lifeless, limp hair” just like I do and the results seem incredible. But I read too many mixed reviews about the product, and I knew eventually that it would be available in stores at a cheaper price.
4. Peticure “removes the fear of harming your pet” with its revolutionary mechanical grooming tool that resembles a rotating emery board. You no longer have to clip your pets’ nails; you simply give them a “peticure.” As a pet owner who has trimmed her dog’s toenails too close to the quick too many times, the peticure is an easy sale. The only reason I didn’t buy it is because I wasn’t sure if Winston’s (our 200-pound English mastiff) nails would fit into the slot provided. Now a similar product, Pedi Paws, is available at drugstores and pet stores in our area.

WARNING: Before buying any Infomercial product, do your research. Make sure you really want the product, search for the best price, and read all of the fine print. The latest scam is Flat Abs Fast, which markets the AB Circle PRO. “For just $14.95, you can try it for 30 days.” Uh-huh. But the shipping is $34.50 and then it’s only five easy payments of $39.95. Total pre-tax cost: $249.20. And good luck canceling those automatic payments on your credit card if you don’t like the product.

Suddenly, I don’t want flat abs fast; I have to learn to accept my flab or go confuse my muscles again.

AWW — XoXo

Posted under Beauty/Fashion & Entertainment & Health | 3 Comments »

When a movie surprises me, I walk out of the theater with a smile on my face and a swing in my step. I Love You Man far exceeded my very low expectations. My husband wanted to see the movie because one of his favorite bands Rush plays a concert in the film. I agreed to go along because I’ve liked Paul Rudd ever since Clueless. However, I didn’t think a movie titled I Love You Man would be any good. Well, I was wrong.

In a story about straight-male friendships, Paul Rudd’s character Peter realizes after becoming engaged that he doesn’t have any male friends to be his groomsmen. He’s not even that close to his father or his gay brother (played by Andy Samberg). So Peter begins a quest to find friends using his family, his fiance, and the Internet, but his attempts to form new relationships meet with disastrous albeit funny results. Of course, when Peter stops looking, he meets Jason Segel’s character Sydney — a real man’s man whose bluntness turns off many people.

I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched Sydney and Peter sing Rush songs in the “man cave” (i.e., no women allowed). Sydney is a firm believer in having fun, and he is also brutally honest, which forces Peter to open up about himself, his relationship, and his dreams. Their newfound friendship feels real, and even when it is tested, it survives. This onscreen, make-believe, male friendship made me wonder about my friends …

• Why do I have more male than female friends?
• Is it because I’ve always been competitive and aggressive — traits normally associated with men?
• Is it because I am (according to my father) too blunt?
• Regarding friendships, how do men differ from women?
• Why do I like having male (gay or straight) friends?
• Can a straight woman and a straight man be friends?

I’m going to ponder these questions … look for my next blog titled I love you man — part deux

AWW — XoXo

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During my most formative years, my family underwent many changes. My parents divorced, my father got remarried, my brother moved in with my dad and stepmother, my mother and I moved to another state, and my mother had another child, my half-sister Adrienne. Maybe due to the chaos or the fact that my mother wasn’t the best role model, I looked to films (and music) to learn some of life’s most valuable lessons.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) This comical spoof of the 80s culture with a terrific ensemble cast taught me that, unlike Stacy, I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a stranger; I wanted to be in love. I also didn’t want to become pregnant (especially by a sleaze bag) in high school. * I was and I didn’t.

Sixteen Candles (1984) When her entire family forgets her 16th birthday, Samantha hates her life—even more so when her school crush Jake accidentally finds out about her feelings for him. This movie made me believe that the awkward sort-of-pretty-but-not-gorgeous redhead could end up with the handsome hunk. It didn’t happen until my senior-year spring break in Daytona Beach, but I did eventually land the best looking Canadian guy—a true “pretty boy.” Being with someone who is more beautiful than you are is a strange feeling, but instead of being jealous, I became used to the constant stares of bikini-clad women looking at him. After all, he was with ME.

The Sure Thing (1985) One of my favorite John Cusack films, The Sure Thing chronicles the journey of two very different college students, a goofy guy and an uptight girl, as they try to get to their spring break destination in California. He’s going for the “Sure Thing” and she is visiting her oh-so-perfect boyfriend. Naturally, they hate each other. Besides laughing my ass off, this movie taught me that personality wins over looks every time. My best romantic relationships usually have rocky starts—from a guy dumping a drink over my head to my 195-pound dog stepping on my boyfriend’s balls (an incident that almost ended the relationship). However, these bumpy beginnings taught me that I not only need someone who will stand up to me, but I also need some verbal sparring to keep things interesting. Only a smart, funny, confident man can meet those requirements. If he happens to be attractive, too, well, that’s just a bonus!

St. Elmo’s Fire (1985) A movie about what happens to a group of friends after college graduation, St. Elmo’s Fire launched the careers of actors such as Demi Moore, Rob Lowe, and Andrew McCarthy. Although the film may seem a bit cheesy now, its theme is noteworthy: strong friendships can survive almost anything: sex, infidelity, drugs, obsession, etc. These characters remained friends through it all. We all expect to work at our romantic relationships, but friendships need the same kind of attention. I’ve learned since, however, that both parties have to want to make amends or the relationship will not survive.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) This light-hearted comedy reminded me that maybe I shouldn’t take myself so seriously. I actually saw this movie in the theater and for some reason stayed through all of the credits. I’m glad I did because Ferris tells the viewing audience “It’s over. Go home.” I laughed so hard and eventually took my own day off during “Junior Skip Day”—my graduating class’s reaction to the traditional Senior Skip Day. When most of (some students went to school—what party poopers!) the entire junior class couldn’t fit into his office, our principal decided punishing us all with suspension would be silly because he would be giving us permission to miss yet another day of school. I felt just like Ferris; we beat the system!

The Breakfast Club (1985) Following the success of Sixteen Candles, John Hughes wrote and directed The Breakfast Club, a simple film about five high school stereotypes who discover they are not so different when they are forced to spend the day together in detention. What I like most about this film is that it teaches us that at certain times in our lives, whether it’s passing time in school detention, sitting in a jail cell, or lying sick in a hospital bed, social status ceases to matter. No matter what, we are all human beings. The characters explain it best in the final voiceover of the film:

“Dear Mr. Vernon, We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is we did wrong, but we think you’re crazy for making us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out, is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basketcase, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club”

Thank you Steve Bloom, Cameron Crowe, Amy Heckerling, Carl Kurlander, Rob Reiner, Jonathan Roberts, Joel Schumacher, and of course John Hughes for creating wonderful films that guided me through my youth.

P.S. The music in these movies is quintessential 80s and absolutely timeless.

AWW — XoXo

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My husband and I saw The Reader this past weekend, and I cannot stop thinking about the film. Set in post-WWII Germany, a law student named Michael begins to re-evaluate his past when he sees his much older former lover Hanna (perfectly portrayed by Kate Winslet) defending herself in a war-crime trial. Many issues arise throughout the film: the Holocaust, statutory rape, young love, and later—betrayal when Michael discovers the truth about Hanna’s past.

It would be easy to classify The Reader as just another war film or even an ad for literacy, but as I ruminated over its theme, I realized that it’s not that simple. The film reminds us that someone, usually the person you would least expect, can have a profound impact on our lives. As we walk toward the future, we carry our pasts with us, but usually our memories are buried in our minds, not visible for others to see. However, when those pieces of personal history pop into our present lives—reminding us of who we were then and who we are now—emotions cyclone like a tornado causing us to relive the joys, sorrows, fears, pains, and regrets that we never thought would surface again.

This epidemic of our pasts haunting us has become more prevalent due to online social networks like Facebook and MySpace, which reconnect us with childhood friends, high school pals, college roommates, and previous lovers. We have to ask ourselves: Do we want to be our history’s “friend”? And if we do, why and what does that mean exactly? Are we recapturing our youth? Reliving fond memories? Reflecting on what we did or didn’t do?

Relationships end for a reason, but the Internet has guaranteed that if we desire, we can perpetuate our past connections well into our future. The question then becomes—should we?

AWW — XoXo

P.S. A self-proclaimed overly nostalgic, sentimental person, I am a huge fan of Facebook.

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Relishing the last night of my winter vacation, right now I am sipping a delicious Oregon Pinot that my husband and I bought a few days ago at The Pines winery. We are staying at Home by the Sea, a B&B located in Port Orford, Oregon, along the Southern Coast. I can hear the waves pounding against the giant rocks as the surf rages outside—showing its fury with yet another winter storm. In fact, the surf is the only sound I can hear (it woke me up at 5am this morning) in this otherwise quiet location. I love it here.

We may be staying in Port Orford, but the purpose of our trip was to see my dream house in Gold Beach—a slightly larger town located farther down the coast. The real estate agent and the owner gave us a lovely tour today, and even though I wanted to find something wrong with the property, the town, anything … I couldn’t. Or maybe I didn’t. My husband, who wasn’t crazy about the house from the pictures, loves it now except for some super minor things. He even came up with an idea to make the property into something more interesting than just another ranch. I almost wish he had hated it so I could give up this dream of living in this remote area because moving—transporting our lives from Los Angeles—is just not possible right now.

But when I hear those waves crashing outside our window, all I can think is I want to hear that sound every day. I can learn to live with the wet weather. I can wear layers all the time. (I have on three today!) I can wear hiking boots everywhere I go. I don’t know how much more of Los Angeles I can stand. I’ve lived there half my life, and I’m ready to move forward now. I never thought I would live in a small town, but living on the coast of Oregon seems quite different than living in some tiny, redneck town in Alabama (my home state). Okay, so the bartender today warned us that everybody knows your business in Gold Beach. But I passed our B&B’s owner’s “The Kiss of Death” test. He says any guest who asks him any of the three following questions is not likely to survive in this area:

1. What is there to do here?
2. Where is the shopping?
3. Where is the nearest hospital?

I laughed when he told me about his test because ten years ago I would have asked those first two questions, but there are numerous outdoor activities to try along the Rogue River/Oregon Coast (not to mention that little thing called working), and I shop online for nearly everything including clothes. I already knew the nearest “real” hospital (Gold Beach has a “rural” hospital for non-emergency situations) is in Crescent City, California or Coos Bay, Oregon. A part of me is more pleased than I care to admit (although I guess I am now) that I “passed” his test. I guess I’m fit to live here.

The surf continues to beat the sand … and I will continue to dream about the day when Gold Beach can be our home.

AWW — XoXo

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I’m sitting here half-listening to a rerun of Everyone Loves Raymond. I never watched the show when it originally aired because I didn’t think Ray Ramono’s standup comedy was funny. However, I  have discovered that I like the sitcom. The writing is clever, and the characters seem real. If the show had not reaired on cable, I never would have known that it deserved all the accolades it received during its initial run.

Now that I think about it, most of the television shows I watched as a kid were reruns—I Love Lucy, The Little Rascals, The Three Stooges, Father Knows Best —they were on in the afternoons when I came home from school. I would sit in my dad’s leather easy chair, eat Cheetos, do math homework, and giggle as Lucy stuffed her mouth with candy when the assembly line sped up. I loved these shows because they were part of my daily routine. I could count on them at a time when few things in my life were consistent. Just when I thought The Three Stooges was getting too stupid, Mo would do something to Curly and Larry that reminded me of the tricks I played on my brother. After all, Mo was the smart one. And just when I tired of Spanky and the gang, they did something silly that made me think being a kid wasn’t so bad; adults couldn’t do silly things without looking foolish. As for Father Knows Best, I would pretend I was the oldest character Betty, which wasn’t a stretch because I am the oldest sibling. But my parents didn’t have a perfect marriage like Jim and Margaret, my brother wasn’t cool or cute like Bud, and I didn’t have a younger sister (yet). I stopped watching Father Knows Best not long after my parents’ divorce became final. I guess I couldn’t live in that fantasy world anymore.

I didn’t discover a lot of shows until they were in reruns. I was too young to appreciate M*A*S*H in its heyday, but I watch it all the time now. The same holds true for Sex and the City. I don’t have HBO so I never knew about Carrie’s neuroses until the show began airing on other cable channels. Thanks to TNT and USA, I am a true Law & Order junkie. Because of reruns, I started watching L & O during its fourth season; now I’m sure I’ve seen every episode that has ever aired (many two or three times each), but don’t test me on it.

I don’t know why I can’t read a book twice, but I can watch the same episodes of my favorite shows over and over again. I never fail to cry when Monica tries to propose to Chandler (only to say “there’s a reason why girls don’t do this!”) or to laugh when Jerry Seinfeld explains the difference between taking and holding a car rental reservation.

Thanks to reruns (and now DVD collections), I get to re-experience these small delights whenever I find my shows on television. God bless cable.

AWW — XoXo

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