notes from a jog with a dog

I went jogging with Steinbeck the dog this afternoon, as the sun set over the crest of our sleepy, upper-middle class neighborhood. Jogging with the pup poses its challenges. First of all, although he weighs considerably less than I do, he has claws and pads on his feet that enable him to effectively anchor to whatever patch of grass or sidewalk he chooses. This would not be a problem if we were caught in a tornado. But while jogging when he suddenly takes interest in a particular stone or flowerbed, I am the one on the leash. Secondly, he does this every 2 minutes. This is our routine: Run, run, STOP, sniff, sniff, pee, yank, yank and repeat. He's just so darn cute though that I put up with his dog instincts. One time, we ran past a man on a bicycle whom Steinbeck snarled at. The man said "Geezus, I almost ran over him!" That's right, bitch, you keep thinking that YOU almost hurt my dog with the big teeth and protective attitude.

Anyway, back to today...as we rounded the corner and headed back towards the mothership, I heard Sinatra blasting from someone's backyard. "The Way You Look Tonight." It made me miss a friend of mine who loves Sinatra. I thought about the approaching twilight and the romanticism of jazz on an early evening. I don't know if Steinbeck likes Sinatra.

So, we continued on and passed a house in front of which a father and his 3 year-old son were working. Well, the father was working while the son played with a toy and stared at Steinbeck and me. We had seen them on the way out and said hello.

"Hi, we're back," I announced.
"Hi," the boy with the toy replied.
"What's your name?"
"Tyler."
"Hi, Tyler. It's nice to meet you. My name is Katie and this is Steinbeck."
Silence.
"What's your daddy's name?"
"Daddy."

And there you have it folks. Notes from a jog with a dog and a boy with a toy. His daddy's name is Daddy.

looking like you like being looked at

There is a tricky dichotomy between the people I'd never want to become and the people I would love to become. I wonder sometimes if this secretly exists in everyone. Last Friday, I went to Boulevard 3, a club in Hollywood that opens its iron gates to the powdered, elevated girls of Los Angeles and their fedora-wearing suitors. I joined the fray with three friends, all good people; all people I'd love to become in some small way.

As we navigated the outdoor patio with its cabanas and reflecting pool, I was mesmerized by the beautiful, thin, stylish girls who stood idly about. Sure, I'd secretly love to be beautiful, thin and stylish but, these girls had an air of empty conversation around them, a vapid scent mingling with their Armani Code perfume. They looked like they liked being looked at. The slight scowl, the disinterest in their eyes, they were like models who had wandered off the catwalk. Most fascinating though was that from my vantage point, the fedora boys seemed to like this. The fedora boys rested their eyes on hemlines, clevage and painted eyelids. All were on the prowl.

I once asked a boyfriend what motivates boys to speak to strange girls in bars, clubs, grocery stores and the like. His reply was the potential for sex. Sex soon. While I understand this intellectually, as I stood amongst them these target tarts, I secretly wished that maybe I emanated this 'sex soon' idea. Maybe just for a day, I'd like to be one of the girls whom boys sidle up to, Heineken in hand, eye on the prize. But again, intellectually, I understand that the prize is not my funny jokes or my effervescent personality. The prize is my vagina. I'm actually talking about my vagina in the public forum. My mother would be mortified.

There is the allure of physical superiority, of being VIP, of being desired. For once in my life, I know what it feels like to not want what I don't have. I would never want to be one of those girls because I COULDN'T. Stop thinking? Just stand around? Wear entire outfits from bebe? I couldn't. I like to think. I like to observe and analyze. Only in Hollywood would I feel the oppression of my preferences. My head enjoys the achievement of an understanding, no matter how erroneous it may be at the time. Using my noggin gives me a satisfying tingle. It's a feeling more valuable than ephemeral inebriation. Perhaps I should wear a fedora to keep my brain warm because I'm the type of girl who needs to think. I can make an entrance. I can make conversation. I can make a splash. Especially when I accidentally drop my phone into the reflecting pool. The good people I was with helped me fish it out and dry it off. The look-like-they-like-being-looked-at's couldn't have looked less interested. But, that's ok. I've got their number.

sometimes i run, sometimes i drive

It's been a long time since I've updated my blog. I apologize to the people who've been checking and to my own dedication for the lapse. I am a month older than I was when I wrote my last post. To make up for my absence, I return with a really great story. Maybe not a tale that warrants grand and glorious fanfare heralding my return to the narcissistic self-publishing world but, a tale that I would like to share in the hopes that it makes someone smile. Even if it's me.

I traveled to the sunshiney city of San Diego this weekend to see my friend the award-winning, jet-setting An Phung as well as view the Annie Leibovitz exhibit at the San Diego Museum of Art. I've made this drive many times, along the 5 Freeway, past San Juan Capistrano, San Onofre, Oceanside. I listen to music, watch the vista change, daydream and sometimes pull over to take photos. The journey south is always filled with anticipation for the fun to come. The going is better than the leaving.

A few months ago, An and her roommate Ms. Johnson (if you're nasty) asked for a mix CD of Britney Spears songs. iPod and iTunes issues prevented me from burning the most fabulous Brit Brit CD EVER but, I finally met the request with an old mix I found; a compilation of Britney's earlier works from her pre-desperately lost and suddenly skinhead period. Before she became a toxic slave.

Moments after my arrival, the tunes blared loud and pink from the stereo. The girls and I reminisced about her career. Despite what she has become (wife, mother, just plain sad) and although I was in my 20s when she was flung onto the international sugar scene, early Britney reminds me of being in junior high. The sheer quality of her voice is perpetually youthful. Early Britney had few preoccupations other than e-mailing her heart and digging for boys. What simple pleasures crystallized into the thin silver circle that spun round and round for us to hear. An audible youth serum broadcast into the air, reducing us momentarily to boppy young women who sang brazen with eyes closed in agitated delight.

After a day and a half of eating and chatting and museum-walking and more eating and more Britney, I reluctantly pulled away in Sexy Lexy, my car and headed north on the grey ribbon we call the 5. I felt sad. Going home meant back to adulthood. In this instance, the going wasn't better than the leaving. I plugged in the iPod and dialed until I found the cure for my blue mood. It was Britney, me, my Oscar de la Renta sunglasses, my pink baby tee, and my voice loud, clear and soaring yet...pouty and coy. I was my own KIIS-FM concert. No sooner had "Sometimes" begun its soothing synthesized tones did I come upon this blue van going my way.


In case I was looking for something to do, perhaps I might want to "LEGALIZE SKATEBOARDING." I smiled to whom I thought was myself, but in this two-toned van, through the wide, rectangular rear window, a boy of no more than twelve spied my silly smirk. The kind of boy whom Britney and her minions would squeal over. He smiled back and quickly started tapping twelve year-old shoulders until I had a van-full of boys turned around in their bench seats, all staring at the old lady in her old Lexus. The boys closest to the window put up their arms and flexed their mini-biceps, pointing out the muscles with grubby index fingers. I laughed loud and mock incredulously for their amusement. One frenzied boy began to take his shirt off. I reached for my camera and held it up for them as they clamored to get into the fading sunlight. Look boys! The old lady is a pervert! I snapped my photo, sped up next to them, waved goodbye and left those sk8r boyz in the dust. One could only imagine what they told their chaperones.

For a moment, I felt young again. The indiscriminate interest they showed in me recalled the time in my life when I was their age. I wondered which girls (or possibly boys) those little brats would meet in their lives. Which girls would succumb to handwritten notes passed in class, whose knees would wobble at the presentation of a friendship bracelet; the girls who would be too smart to say no, too dumb to say yes. Or maybe it would be the other way around.

To a point, we all want to grow up. The going is better than the leaving. The leaving makes 29 year-olds a little mournful for the days of candy and crushes. But, the temporary returning, how it provides a moment during which to remember. Remember when anniversaries were measured by weeks and months, when gooey feelings couldn't be contained, when we didn't have the ability to overanalyze. A little perspective. I wouldn't want those boys in the van to know what boys my age know; they have their skateboards, their Victoria Secret catalogues, their PS3s, their little girl pals. And I say, they're so lucky. But, as it goes, they spotted me in my pink baby tee, with my very own car and my ability to legally purchase pornography, alcohol and cigarettes. And they say, she's so lucky.