I figure I've spent enough in parking tickets to feed a small African village for a year. For some people, it's things like drugs and alcohol, food, or sex that does them in - stuff that actually makes sense as far as addictions go. For me, it's parking tickets. When I'm feeling a little down, I put just enough change in the meter to give me a five minute window of panic. The movie ends at 9:30 PM, my meter will be out at 9:25. The rush! The adrenaline! What fun! Will I wake up in time to move my car for street cleaning?! Who knows? The suspense is my drug of choice.

Is there a parking/traffic violations anonymous group? Anyone?

Just for today, I am powerless over parking tickets.

I haven't been able to blog because I spend my evenings recovering from an intense web design stupor where I see bleary-eyed visions of sloppy code dancing among broken links...it's quite a party here in the world of the working. Work?! Apparently, there are droves of people who wake up every week day morning and drive (or take public transportation, or even--Oh, my God!-- car pool) to a place where they do some kind of task or piece of labor and, in return, they get to have a currency placed in their bank accounts that they exchange for services rendered. I've been working for many years, but only recently have I really begun to understand the beauty of Earning. Either I've finally reached maturity, or the fantasy that the great White Father in the Sky will shower down coins on me in the form of some wild inheritance from some rich person who wants to be my relative has breathed her (her?!) or his last breath. All I'm going to say is that it's really cutting into my Sitting Around Feeling Depressed time.

Must. Get. Sleep.

Just for today, I am an earner.

I'm one coffee-date short of a nervous breakdown. My life is so packed that I have to schedule in the stoplights at which I can put on my make-up (Arizona and Pacific). I don't even have time to return my Trader Joe's walnuts (they were like, rotten, and I had to spit them out...very unlady-like). My laundry bag is so compacted it's turning into a piece of furniture (I put my outfits on it).

What's up with working almost full-time?! It's like The Man is trying to keep me down! I don't have time to write about my latest bladder episode! At this piont, I'm giong to have to blog less and make them count more! I might even have to start writing about something important!

Just for today, I'm too busy.

After a long day of work, I road my bike to the Santa Monica pier to listen to some of the outdoor concert. That place is turning into a huge party scene. From my very sober, very purified physical state (no caffeine, no alcohol...), I like to look upon groups of people holding wine glasses (presumably, filled with wine) and wonder, "how are their bladders holding up?" I rode home an hour later amidst the sounds of crashing waves and enjoyed the warm night air (life on the beach is more than just a swarm of alcoholics). When I got near my apartment I saw a giant light in front of me. I thought perhaps a movie premiere was going on near my street (despite the fact that I live five miles from the nearest movie theater...) when I realized that it was the moon! The moon looked like a giant movie premiere light (uh...what do you call those things?)!

Just for today, I love summer.

I arrived back in LA yesterday after spending four days in the Berkshires of Massachussetts where I did manage to recover from my traumatic layover long enough to have a a really nice vacation. I arrived at noon and went straight to work like a proper martyr. However, I kept thinking, "something doesn't feel right." Deoderant? Check. Heaven by The Gap? Check. Bra? Check. It felt like everything was in place, but for some reason I just felt really, really... gross. And that's when I realized that I was wearing the un-holy stale film of Airplane Skin.

I had thought that the bath the night before would suffice me throughout following the day, but alas I had forgotten the realities of being thousands of feet above the ground for 6 hours in a tiny space occupied by about 150 bodies breathing the same stale recycled oxygen. The post-flight film that sets over me after flying feels unlike any other kind of dirtiness that I've ever experienced - as if my pores have imploded beneath a thin layer of wax. I can't quite explain it, but those of you who fly might agree that it's pretty nasty.

I think I felt fresher after spending a week backpacking with my father (against my will...as if I need to qualify) in the Sierras where we polluted mother nature's purity by using her as an outdoor latrine. I felt fresher after spending late nights in the cigar, stale beer-infested fraternity houses that I inhabited on weekends when I was 18 (embarrassing? Yes, more on that later...). For nothing, nothing feels grosser than airplane skin (have I made my point clear?...I know there are more important things to write about...but this was fun!).

Just for today, I can bathe after I fly.

Last Friday I entered into a risky travel venture, also known as flying on Delta Airlines (if you have stock, either keep it for a few more decades, or sell it NOW!). I flew from Los Angeles to Atlanta, Georgia to make a very simple connection to Albany, New York. Now, I've never worked in the airline industry, but it's my guess that one needs three essential things to get a plane off the ground: a plane, a gate, and some pilots. After re-routing what appear to have been many cancelled flight on this fateful day, the Delta agents (or whatever master-mind works behind the scenes and laughs at the false hopes of those who still believe in the viability of connecting flights) could not manage to bring these three items together at the same place and time. After seeing our flight dissappear completely from the monitor several times (as if that would somehow make the issue go away and we'd just forget about flying and think, "Hmmm...maybe I'll go bowling instead of reaching my destination"), the posse of Flight 245 was sent to three different gates. At one point, the Delta agent (I don't know how she held up) raised our hopes when she announced, "We have the plane and gate, we're just waiting for our pilots..." (Two out of three! In my bedraggled state, that sounded like plenty. Who needs a pilot, anyway?!) Alas, the hope proved false as we were soon sent migrating over to Gate D, the sound of luggage wheels banging on the floor was deafening. Once at the new gate,our pilots finally showed up and stood around with us drinking coffee and looking equally confused. Now we had pilots and a gate, but where was our plane?! Details, details...(these people actually run an airline?!).

After talking for hours with people whose flights had been completely cancelled and who were planning on camping out on the lovely airport carpets, I hung onto the hope that I still technically had a flight. Finally, seven hours after arriving, I boarded the plane, still unconvinced that our pilots wouldn't suddenly realize they were supposed to be on the plane flying to Pensacola. I was so tired, I had to stop my bonding with the other passengers.

I got in at two o'clock in the morning, safe and embittered. I know there are far worse things that could happen to me during air travel, but I like being bitter.

Just for today, I recommend staying clear from connecting flights in Atlanta, Georgia and Delta Airways.

I got a pedicure and chose the color purple thinking it would bring my feet to a new level of hipness. I didn't think realize that I had chosen the same shade of purple that my toe becomes when I stub it against something. So now I look like I have ten injured digits on my feet. However, they do match my yoga mat now which gives me something to focus on instead of the fact that after six months I can still only barely touch the floor when I bend over.

Just for today, I have purple toes.

I work with all men and lately I've been wondering, could they be different from women? For one thing, the men I work with don't announce when they are headed to the commode, they just march on out and leave it up to the rest of us to come to our own conclusions. If one of them does happen to mention it, it's kind of a big joke. For me, "I'm going to the bathroom," is one of my top ten uttered phrases (along with "I'm hungry" )and it's no joke. It's vitally important to me to connect with others about our common human functions. If I didn't think that EVERYBODY goes to the bathroom, I might not only be afraid to face the world each day, but I myself might not be able to go.

Another thing I've noticed is that when a guy says "I'm going to lunch," he doesn't hang back and wait for a "Have a good one!" or "The soup is really good today," like I do. Whereas I'm not really complete until I hear a resounding chorus of response, these guys seem to not care if they get a response having only offered it as information. Similar to the bathroom statement, I take lunch and all meals as an pportunity to share my digestive process or how much I enjoyed my Dulce de Leche Luna Bar.

Perhaps, I have a neurotic need to connect with others about mundane issues that has nothing to do with my gender, but...

Just for today, I've noticed that men are different from women.

I watched Empire Strikes Back with the two boys I babysit (I know what you're thinking kids, perhaps, at 33 you, too, might find yourself in such an inviting situation on a Saturday night...better work on those SAT's!)...Anyway, I can't stand it when people refer to these movies by numbers. Every time I tried to mention a title one of the boys would say, "You mean 5?" What?! You mean the one I saw when I was ten? I guess I'm getting old.

So, while we watched fabulous struggle with darkness that is the crowning jewel of all the episodes, the boys said things like, "I saw that scene in my video game!" and "these special effects suck!" Meanwhile, I fawned over Princess Leia and Harrison Ford like it was 1980 again and it was SO MUCH FUN! No matter how old or cynical or jaded I get, I will always love Princess Leia. I joined the Carrie Fisher Fan Club when I was 7 and regardless of all the tall blond Arian models the media threw at me over the next ten years, she remained my unconscious physial ideal. Like me, she had dark hair and eyes and I believe I emulated the way Princess Leia used her intelligence rather than her sexuality to wield power (although they did make her look pretty bimboish in the third movie...I mean "Episode 6").

Call it what you will, while watching Princess Leia spar with Han on the Millenium Falcon I reclaimed a part of my sou (I'm not kidding).

Yoda was pretty cool, too.

Just for today, I love and accept my inner-ten-year-old.

A few weeks ago I was inside a dressing room in Anthropologie when I overheard two girls (uh...I mean, women), talking in the room next door.

"...I know, I feel so much more empowered now!"

My ears perked up. What made her feel empowered? A facial? New sandals? Quitting her job (uh...no, that would be me)?...Tell me! Tell me! I want to feel empowered, too!

"I used to be all about blonde highlights," said the other girl. "But now, I love being a brunette."

Hair color?! An odd cocktail mixture of feelings surfaced inside of me that included jealousy and condescension (if that can be described as a feeling). On one hand I was repulsed that hair color could be linked with the word "empowered." UNLIKE ME, clearly these are not evolved feminists, I thought. But then, this woman's comments had tapped into my secret desire to pour a $15 bottle of Clairol over my hair and be done with the pricey highlight upkeep that I'm not even sure matches my skin coloring or my soul. I used to be a brunette before I started going grey and my Persian hair stylist, Shane, talked me into getting the highlights. I swore I would never go blonde, and while I technically haven't, I'm feeling a little slippery with these blond whisps hanging around. I hate to be so judgemental towards my Inner Blond Bimbo, because just like my Inner Child and Inner Big Black Woman, she needs love, too. But I have to say, there's something unnerving about light hair that's not supposed to be light.

I told my eyebrow lady about it and she recommended that I wait until the Fall...but it's only a matter of time.

Just for today, I'm inching away from my highlights.

I went to the health food store looking for Motrin and the woman looked at me like I had asked for a bag of Doritos and said, "We don't sell Motrin here, but Magnesium is a natural muscle relaxer." I started to go into a shame spiral over my monthly addiction to ibuprofrin, but then I thought "this is my period we're talking about, here." This is the thing that descended upon me at ELEVEN YEARS OF AGE that was accompanied with brutal knife-like cramps that have never gone away. And like Superman flying out of the telephone booth, I busted out of my shame-spiral with my Super Period Survivor Spirit and said, "Uh-Uh." Nope. I'm not messing around. Sure, I'll buy your tampons and skin cream, and maybe I'll plunk down $20 for some vitamins and tell myself I'm being healthy, but when it comes to my monthly friend, I'm not taking any chances; those orange pills are the only thing that can tame the uterus that is mine (it's the uterus right? Note to self: study female anatomy...).

She gave me a "whatever" look and I bolted to the nearest liquor store to find my drug of choice (which used to be coffee...but now I've been relegated to motrin...is that OK Mr. Urologist?).

Just for today, I'm grateful for western medicine.

So, I had a meeting with a very imposing Urologist who probably got paid a lot of money (via my health insurance) to look at my urine and then tell me to stay away from alcohol, caffeine, and spicey food. Well, I knew THAT. I came because I thought he might have something else. But, no, all he did was add chocolate to the list (as if things couldn't get worse) and gave me a urologist's version of "this is for reals" lecture. I walked out with my tail between my legs (as Steve Martin once clarified...I don't really have a tail) and cried as I walked to my car over the loss of my good friends Chai Soy Latte and De-caf Sugar-free Mocha. How I'm expected to work and earn money without caffeine, is beyond me, but if that's what it takes for me to not blab about my bladder to every other person I meet, then so be it.

However, before he let me trudge out of the office he did mention that eating a bran muffin every day would keep me regular. While we're on the subject of constipation and regularity (were we on the subject? Oh, sorry, that was someone else...but anyway), I might add that Mr. Urologist was not messing around with this recommendation. Bran. Muffin. These two words made the trip to his office worth every humiliating moment. If you're serious about making your visits to the throne comfortable I can't say enough about bran muffins. And I've tried every mysterious fibrous colon cleansing substance on the West Side of Los Angeles (have you seen the colon shelf at Whole Foods?! The colon is some serious business)! Forget the flax seed mixtures or the metamusil. Bran Muffin. My work is done.

Just for today, God bless my urologist.