Ain't We Lucky We Got Em? Good Times!
Before I begin today, I want to apologize to all of you who've attempted to comment on this site but have had your comments disappear into some Internet netherland. In a misguided attempt to prevent my site from becoming clogged with shillery for Hoodia and penis enlargers, I accidentally had my spam filter on a very high setting, thereby nuking some of your profound insights. I've recovered some recent comments, but others have long since disappeared. Regardless, you all may begin commenting at will now, and your contributions will be heard. Welcome back to one of the Internet's least vibrant community forums.
Since today's theme is "adult economic circumstances not meeting expectations," I would welcome you all to share your own tales and anecdotes of class angst, or your commentary on what a spoiled bobo I am. Keep it lively, people!
Now then, let's talk about my glamorous writer's existence in the high-end Los Angeles neighborhood of Highland Park. They say this neighborhood is "up-and-coming," which is English for "bye-bye, long-time Mexican residents," and it's true that there are sidewalk repairs ongoing, a sure sign that the city is anticipating yuppie complaints, but let me tell you, life ain't Entourage.
Two nights ago, I was happily reading about the Suns' game-four whipping of Dallas and exulting in the Dodgers' shelling of the Braves, when Regina walked into my office.
"All the frozen fruit is melting," she said.
I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes, as I often do when another unamusing sitcom episode is about to unfold in my life.
Of late, the fridge has been making noise, somewhere between whirring and wheezing, but really it's been saying "you're about to be out 200 bucks." There's a clause in our lease that says we're liable to pay for repairs if our appliances break. Spare us your vitriol, oh superior humans. We moved in a hurry and this place, we thought, suited us. Besides, we thought, they're brand-new appliances. They never break.
As of this writing, we have about half our food in our neighbor's fridge, and the other half has gone into the garbage. If the repairman doesn't show up today, we're going to have to buy Elijah's lunch on the way to school tomorrow. Oh, wait. There is no school tomorrow. It's Shavuot. Regina is complaining about that, and I'm calling her an anti-Semite.
Let me tell you, there's nothing like trying to set up an appointment with the Maytag repairman while you're waiting at a car-repair place in Burbank, getting the brake pads replaced on your mother's 1998Nissan Sentra. That's how I spent yesterday morning. The Nissan is our number-two car, with our number one being a station wagon that's currently bankrupting us with its gas-guzzling. My parents gave the Nissan to me for free. Note to my mother, who reads this site regularly: I'm grateful, I'm grateful. OK? I'm just trying to make a point here to anyone who thinks publishing books and writing for magazines brings you vast riches. I'm driving my mother's 1998 Nissan Sentra around town. Hot.
So this car-repair place is right at the entrance to I-5 South. I spent the morning wandering around the Ramada Inn next door, because I had nothing else to do, other than read the pulpy, enjoyable dragon novel that I carried in my sweaty right hand. I'll amend an earlier statement. There's nothing like eating a Cibatta breakfast sandwich at Jack-In-The-Box and walking around a Ramada by the highway while there's a Mary Kay meeting going on. From personal experience, I can tell you that somewhere in America, there's a man sitting alone in a hotel bar called Whispers, staining his teeth and his fingers by smoking Parliaments, watching Regis and Kelly, and drinking a scotch and soda at 10:30 AM.
This morning, I woke to the incessant barking of George, the dog next door. George's ancient, drunken cuntburger of an owner keeps in a cage half the time, but particularly while she brings guys in to whack her weeds, which don't look any better after they've been whacked. I pulled the pillow over my head, but then the drunken cuntburger started yelling at her guys to dig up George's bones and rebury them somewhere away from her roses. This is the same woman who had the city put a warning ticket on our windshield because we kept our 1998 Nissan Sentra parked on the street, in front of our house, for four consecutive days without moving it. If I could take a crap on her roses, I would.
Now I'm waiting for the refrigerator repairman. Boy, I can't wait to argue about the warranty with him. Then later Schneider is going to come over to fix the pipes and he'll say something inappropriate to Valerie Bertinelli.