Floss Daily

This and That

Some highlights from my mind for today:

1. There's always that one garment that you have a love affair with for months, saving it for the engagements where you want to make an impression: the cocktail party your boyfriend's boss throws for the childless friends attending her two-year old son's post kid-party-cocktail party (ok that didn't make sense at all); or the long-anticipated dinner date with your always fab and stylish friend from New York (who also happens to have the BEST hair--actually BOTH of my New York friends have the best hair). Then one day you wake up, take it out of the closet, feel unsure about it, wear it to work and suddenly decide you are SICK of it. People still say, "Cute dress" when you wear it, but you can't wait to cut it up and throw it in the rag bag. Now, I'm not going to those extremes yet, (someone did once mistake it for Miu Miu after all), but it saddens me that I am breaking up with my taupe jersey dress.

2. I am watching the end of Brothers and Sisters, a new show that I can't even believe I have added to the veritable buffet of TV shows waiting for me on TV right now. Do I really need more?  Apparently I do. Anyway, I have fallen asleep trying to get to the end of this not once, not twice but THREE times this week. Perhaps that is a sign that I am not meant for this family drama. But I have to say one thing about it, and it's not how much Sally Field irritates me. It is this: What is up with Calista Flockhart's face? Last night I actually paused on a close-up where she was half-smiling and peered at her for a bit until I reached the conclusion that she sort of looks like the village idiot. Is it botched scalpel work? Perhaps I should go and spend some time on a favorite web site I haven't visited for a while to see what I can find.

3. I have had a car to go to work in for FIVE WEEKS. David is working on a project at a location that is a 20 minute walk from our apartment, and because we are crazy folk from the great Siberia of the American west, San Francisco, he is WALKING to work. I have loved every last traffic-jammed mile of this. Next week it's back to the 714. I actually like the bus ride. What I don't like, and have not missed one bit, are the lunatics who lounge around at my stop. Seriously, why is the intersection of Beverly and La Cienega like the night of the living dead at 8am? It's time to get my thick skin out from storage.

4. Tonight I went to Whole Foods to buy a chicken to roast, and after providing annoying, high-maintenance, fear-of-raw-chicken juice instructions to the bagger, I left my neatly-wrapped chicken on the conveyor belt. Serves me right. I'm sure they chuckled about it. "That stupid neurotic girl left her chicken. Hee."

Ok. My chicken-fetcher just pulled into the driveway. Time to go set off some smoke alarms in the apartment.

Two Fools Figuring Things Out

Last week I went to services with David for the first time. He's far from being a regular at Shul, but his tradition is to go on the High Holy Days. The first Rosh Hashanah we were dating he went home to Montreal. The 2nd one we had just moved to L.A. and were close to broke so the membership fees weren't an option, but this year we decided it was time. 

It was a tricky weekend for me. My cousin's band was playing at the Avalon Friday night and while I had planned to go and see them, as the first night of Rosh Hashanah drew closer I knew I couldn't leave David alone on a very important holiday. One that reminds him of family. Just as Christmas does for me, regardless of the fact that that's ALL it really means to me: time with family and the fact that it's my dad's birthday.  This meant that I had to juggle more overt extended family expectations with the more covert expectations of my boyfriend. I made the right choice. This weekend brought us so much closer together. And believe me, we've had endless discussions about the interfaith thing. It's not something we haven't gone over in depth. David's position has always been a little more clear than my rather loosey-goosey one. He's much more a Jew than I am a Catholic. At the end of the day, we've agreed for a while now that Judaism would be the more dominant religion in a family we create, something that's ok with me. But at the back of our minds, I know we've both wondered how it would all work.

I'm not saying we've figured all this out, and it would obviously be easier if we were both born into the same thing, but we weren't.  We're just two people who met in an adpoted home town, far from our real ones, and can't imagine being with anyone else even though we've wondered whether it would be easier.  A little less than a year into our relationship it was serious enough thinking (on my part) for me to almost walk away. But who needs easy? Instead, we moved in together. In a new city. With no jobs, very few friends outside our own twosome (in the beginning) and a SHARED CAR! In L.A.!

Rosh Hashanah co-incided with my one-year anniversary of moving here and making it through our first year.  I'm not sure if it was the significance of the holiday and how we celebrated it, or what we feel we've accomplished together, but I've never been more sure about making it to the other side of a leap that may have seemed a bit rash to those who know me best. I'm such the person that would have needed to know the outcome of the jump before my feet left the ground, but this was a true moment of faith, and following gut instinct.

And now for whatever reason, I'm ready to explore David's side a little more. Temple Israel of Hollywood, was very welcoming and reassuring, valet parking and all.  And made me feel as though we're doing just fine where we are.  All I have to go on is the fact that I have never been more myself than I am with David. In fact, it's a much braver version of myself, and that has nothing to do with religion. I'm re-reading this post, and I'm feeling a bit exposed. This is an emotionally-loaded topic. Not one that I necessarily feel qualified to write about with any degree of learned-ness. And I don't want to raise any hackles. But I have to show my heart sometimes, even though I am so good at letting snark reign supreme.

Anyway, on the way home Friday night, David was eager for my thoughts/impressions. I turned to him and said, "Well the best part was not having to look at that guy on the cross. The one who died for MY sins". And now my Catholic, rosary-wielding grandmother is turning in her grave.

(Just watch, this will be the one day that some hard core Bible basher will read my blog).

Ok. Project Runway talk tomorrow.

P.S. Heidi, if you're reading, you helped me so much last week. Without you, I don't think I would have navigated the waters quite so well.

To the Mat

My research for the perfect at-home Pilates workout has begun. Over the last week or so, I ordered almost EVERY pilates DVD in the Los Angeles Public Library's collection. I picked up three of them from my local branch last night and with much sighing, negative thinking and ass-dragging, I finally hauled the mat out from the bowels of the closet, put on the yoga pants, and started moving furniture around. (Seriously, the moving of the furniture? Is a pain in the rear. And the number one thing that stands between me and the home workout.) I decided to start with Crunch's Fat Burning Pilates. This was a difficult choice, given that Crunch is the spawn of the evil fitness empire Bally's, the very same one I swore I would have nothing more to do with after my recent row with them over a completely legitimate membership cancellation request that they chose to ignore for months, with RUDE letters soliciting hundreds of dollars from me for the balance of my membership dues. But the perky girl on the cover lured me in with her endurance abs. And then they almost lost me. I had to put "supportive" shoes on? This was supposed to be Pilates! I was expecting prone. On a mat. Barefoot. But since the footwear requirement seemed to be in the interest of "fat-burning", I went with it. And I have to say, compared to my recent 25 minute jogs around the neighborhood, all that squatting, kicking and plie-ing kicked my ass. I had to take a water break after just 15 minutes. So. While I prefer a more traditional Pilates workout, this is worth a repeat visit. The matwork focused on more challenging gut-clenching moves, of which I am in sore need. Next up: MTV Pilates set against the backdrop of "a stunning Arizona landscape". Or something like that. I can't frikkin' wait.

Project Bratwurst

Having just watched Project Runway on the night it's actually on for the first time since I finally jumped on its bandwagon, I'd like to say a few fresh words on the subject:

I loved, loved both Michael and Laura's dresses.

I hated Jeffrey's ensemble from its top down to the bottom of its black leather bratwurst legs.

I desperately want to throw Angela under an ironing board and keep her there for a while.

And Kayne? I was kind of sad to see him go, but if it means I never have to see his naked man-boobs again, I suppose I'm ok with it.

Another post in which I admit to my once-upon-a-time Literary Guild membership

On Sunday I was utterly slothful. Noon found me still in bed with bits of the newspaper strewn all around, convincing myself that it wouldn't kill me if I missed the Farmer's market. I had, after all, lived without one and its pesky 2pm deadline just around the corner for most of my lifetime. I had the TV on, (live TV, something I never do anymore, thanks to TiVo), when suddenly I heard the voice that hadn't graced my boudoir since the days of living alone and falling asleep to the TV: Daisy Fuentes on how Marie Winsor changed her life. Yesterday's offer was the Circle Sculpting Series, and if I called in the next 16 minutes, it would be mine for just $9.95. I couldn't find the phone fast enough. In one year since moving to L.A.(almost) my 3x per week Pilates schedule has gone to shit. I am feeling ungainly, ungraceful and my core couldn't be further from my spine if it tried. Instead it seems to be preceding me by at least 10 paces. And that circle contraption could be just what I need to reel it back in.

Guthy-Renker almost had me. But at some point during the routine order taking, when my mind had started to wander back to the Farmer's market and the clock, I heard the words, "automatic shipments", "new workouts" and "$19.95" Hold the phone! Those boxes containing unwanted Literary Guild shipments that bothered my life those first months in L.A. had become distant fragments of memory. Until that moment. They hurtled back into my immediate awareness to remind me that I want NO part of the automatic shipment. I suppose a new Pilates DVD would be more useful than a book that doesn't interest me, but still. It occurred to me that I should shop around a bit, read some reviews, maybe borrow some stuff from the library before committing. What if I hate the Winsor "system"?

I'd like to take classes again, but the ones I've looked into in my neighborhood are ridiculously expensive. There's always the gym, but after the difficulties extracting myself from the last membership, I'm a little squeamish about that route, even if it would offer the most affordable access to unlimited classes. All I know is that I can no longer delude myself that my daily trots to the bus and back are having a similar effect to The Hundred, the Corkscrew and Rolling Like A Ball (which was so much fun once my spinal column behaved itself and didn't propel me into my neighbor's mat).

If my readership of 5 has any suggestions about Pilates DVDs or classes in West Hollywood, they would be most welcome. In the meantime, I'll dust off my copy of Brooke Siler's The Pilates Body and get reacquainted with my abdominal muscles that way.

Another Post about TV

Apparently the telly is the only thing inspiring me these days. But I finally got caught up on Project Runway and since it's my favorite show right now, I have a few things to say, even if I am a few days late. First of all, didn't Laura just find out that she's pregnant? I don't speak from experience, but she looks far beyond the just-finding-out stage. I didn't like her design at all. That dress looked like it smelled like mothballs, even before its collar got crushed. I still want her to be one of the final 3, (along with Uli and Michael). I wish Jeffrey would go away. Not only because he is full of himself, but also because I am tired of looking at his neck. While I had a feeling his canary plaid creation would be well-received, given the nature of the challenge, I found myself hating it. It was creative I suppose, but I couldn't really tell what was going on with it. I think the fabric and the design together were too much. But maybe I just don't understand couture.