Sole Junkie

I have to give props where props is due. I love to hear about artists who are doing what they love and utilizing their creative gifts and make money to sustain themselves and their families.

Sole Junkie is doing just that. Oh, and I really want this shoe.

And this one, too. Dope!


The never-ending project

I got the bright idea to paint my kitchen a new color. It's been five years since I painted it last so its about time. What can I say, I was really happy with the color, called Pineapple Delight. It was a beautiful sunny yellow that matched one of my teapots perfectly. Then about two weeks ago I looked around and realized I couldn't stand the yellow on the walls for one second longer. So I began the arduous task of removing all my vintage pottery plates from the walls, my vintage green-handled kitchen utensils from the 50's, vintage cupcake pans, green Depression glass and picture frames and various artwork. Now you know I am really into vintage.

But ugh.

You don't fully realize how disgustingly filthy things are until you remove them from the walls. I like to think that I am a reasonably clean person, and I regularly wiped and dusted all that stuff. But still, the items that were hung higher were covered in greasy dust. Ugh. Then I started wondering why on earth I even have that stuff on the darn walls when all it does is attract dust.

So I went out to Home Depot and got everything I needed. Michael was being a little difficult with me because I decided to paint on a weekend when he already made other plans. Fine, I'll just do it myself. I already had paint samples and a color all picked out but in my haste to leave and "do it myself", I forgot them and was too prideful to turn back and pick them up. I'll just pick a color on the spot. How hard can that be? Well, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights as I circled the paint selection at the local Home Depot.

What if this is too light?
No, this looks too blue.
This looks just like color I painted Maya's room.
This is too green, Michael will have a fit.
What if I go a little crazy and paint it a persimmon color? That will show him!
Ew, way too bright.
High gloss?

You can do this, Denise. You are an independent woman. Rise up, sister! You can pick this kitchen color on your own!

So I calmed down, flipped through some magazines for inspiration and then I picked it out. Behr's Garden Room. Turns out it's the exact color of my Sea Mist Fiestaware teapot. Not bad for a defiant, hastily made trip to Home Depot.

When I first rolled it on, I wasn't sure of my choice. It's really bright and gives the room a cool feeling as opposed to the warmth of the yellow. But I like it. I've gotten plenty of compliments on it, most notably the three comments of, "It looks like old Mexican people house!" Notice, not old Mexican people's house--but old Mexican people house. Like something out of Mi Familia. Word. That's a good thing.

The only thing that sucks is after the walls were done, the wainscot looked all dingy and banged up. So I had to paint that with a high gloss ultra white...which lead to the cabinets and the island needing to be painted. Which then lead to the ceiling. Sigh. It was like this never-ending project. It's been three weeks and it's still not done because I haven't put my stuff back up on the walls. I don't know if I want to. Everything looks so clean and nice and hole-free and especially, dust free.

But not for long, of course.

Breaking Bad

I've been watching Breaking Bad for a couple of weeks. I got interested in the series on AMC because I love the dad from Malcolm in the Middle. Frankly, the whole premise of a chemistry teacher joining forces with one of his former students to make his own crystal meth piqued my curiousity.

The first episode left me a little saddened and slightly horrified. But, the second episode was just plain disturbing. I just don't know if I'm gonna stick around to see the third episode. Seriously. When a pile of acid-cooked guts and innards crash through the ceiling in a bloody heap, it's kind of a deal breaker for my television viewing pleasure.



Graffiti L.A.

If you get the chance, check out Graffiti L.A. I know some people in the book. In fact, I'm married to one.



My Top Ten Faves

For lack of anything more constructive to do (nevermind laundry piles, dirty dishes and stinky butts running around), I thought I'd list my Top 10 All-Time Favorite Albums. Do we still call them albums? I mean, I do. I guess I could call them CD's...but I'm old so albums will have to do. By it being on my Top 10 list, it means I can listen to it over and over again and not get sick of it, practically every song is awesome and it possesses a timeless quality.

1. Sublime, "Sublime"
It was a toss up between this album and "40 oz. to Freedom". Brad Nowell was a genius. My perfect mix of rock, punk, ska, hip hop and reggae. To me, this music is what Southern California sounds like.

2. Lauryn Hill "The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill"
I recently spent the entire week painting my kitchen and I listened to this album several times. Lauryn is awesome. What I respect most about her is that even though her talent is amazing and her voice is genius, she still took time away to be a mother and raise her children. Which, in my opinion, is a woman's highest calling. But she will always possess her voice and talent because it is God-given.

3. Ice Cube "Amerikkka's Most Wanted"
I used to have to listen to this with headphones on because my mom wasn't havin' all that profanity. But I listened to it, all stealth-like. And it was good. His beats and samples were dope. His rhymes, vicious. It was Cube's debut albums right after his departure from N.W.A. They wanna sweep a nigga like me up under the rug!

4. Beastie Boys, "Ill Communication"
I've been a fan of the Beastie Boys since I was 13 years old and I saw them in concert, opening up for Madonna. Their concerts have always been exciting. Once, while seeing them at the Palladium, my homie Amparo and I almost got trampled to death when this big, drunk girl stepped on my foot and almost made me fall. Then at another concert at Cal State Dominguez Hills, the barricade under the stage collapsed and bodies were flying forward. I got a tad panicked. But it was always good times, good times. The Beastie Boys are the perfect blend of funk, hip hop, punk, rock and indie. Anything they put out is excellent.

5. Mary J. Blige "My Life"
I turned this album out. Seriously. I listened to it front, back, side to side. I loved it. I still do. I would lay on my bed and dedicate every song I head to the dudes who messed with my mind, who didn't return my love, who never called me. I feel you, Mary. She has the most beautiful, raw voice and when she sings, you feel it, you feel her realness. Plus, she is ghetto fabulous and you know I'm all for ghetto fabulousness.

6. Bob Marley "Legend"
This will be forever on my cd rotation. It just makes me feel good to hear it. It was toss-up between this album and Babylon by Bus, but Legend has "Redemption Song"and "Satisfy my Soul". I grew up listening to this music because my parents were huge Bob Marley fans. Beautiful music.

7. Wu-Tang Clan "Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)"
Watch ya step, kid. This may seem strange, having Wu-Tang on my all-time greatest list, but if you've never listened to their debut album, you need to. It was like an assault on the rap scene at the time. It was different, it was innovate, it was dope! Still fresh even though it came out in 1993, I haven't heard anything like it. Killa Beez!

8. Los Lobos "Just Another Band from East L.A.: A Collection"
This is a compilation of all their best songs, my favorites being the ones in Spanish from "La Pistola Y El Corazon", specifically "Estoy Sentado Aqui". This music reminds me of my Dad's family because Los Lobos is always playing whenever we have family gatherings. And hailing from East L.A., it stands to reason. Just watch out for my Nana when she has had a few drinks and she's listening to Los Lobos. Can I get a grito?

9. B-52's "The B-52's"
I know, I know. I came out the box with this one. What blows me away is this album came out in 1979, yo! I was only seven years old but I remember rockin' out to it with my aunts when they were getting ready to go to the disco. I continued listening to the B-52's well into college. "Planet Claire" and "52 Girls" are my favorite tracks. Who doesn't love a beehive and some fag hags? Come on now.

And last, but not certainly least.

10. Rage Against the Machine, "Live at the Grand Olympic Auditorium"
As a die-hard Rage fan, all of their albums are my favorite. You can't pick just one. But this live album is my favorite because they played pretty much all my favorite tracks and covers and they in L.A., where they had a huge fan base. All Rage fans are hardcore but fans from L.A. are rabid. And I think Rage sounds just a clean live as they do in the studio. Not too many bands can say that.

And that's it. I know that once I am laying down in bed, some album will pop up in my head so I reserve the right to add on to my list cuz it's my list! I contemplated categorizing them into hip hop, old skool rap, alternative, new wave, disco, reggae etc. but aggghhhh, I just thought I'd not be anal and go with my list off the top of my head. But truly, these are my favorite and I know I can never go wrong when listening to them. So tell, what are some of your favorites?

Graffiti Superstars in your town

Last Saturday while I stayed home like a good little wife and finished up my recent painting project, Michael had the opportunity to go out to L.A. for the Will Rise show at the Robert Berman Gallery in Santa Monica.

Normally, I would like to be his roll dawg for an event like this but since I was in the middle of a project and I was dead tired, he went with some friends.

It was a big show and a really important one, since the The Seventh Letter Crew is one of the most influential graffiti crews producing right now.

Think of them as the superstars of the graffiti world.

Where some graffiti artists are still looked upon as the scum of the earth because they choose to express themselves with a spray can on a wall, these dudes are making moves in music videos, books, magazines and art galleries all over the country. They've parlayed their vandalistic notoriety into a career for themselves and I gotta give them much propers for that.

Apparently, it was also a big night for seeing old friends. And people who still remember you getting your name up. My dear old husband is shy about these things sometimes, but he met lots of people who couldn't believe who he was and wanted him to hook up their sketchbooks. Good times. He even met a photographer who had been archiving graffiti pictures over the years and was excited to meet Michael, the man behind the name Jimer splashed all over Los Angeles back in the 80's and 90's. It is always good to go out and get some ego stroking.

Some jockin'.

I was happy for him. I was also happy that he was able to get out and make some contacts. He's had to be out of the art game for a while because of our family responsibilities but I think it's time he threw his hat back into the ring. I really want him to be happy. And part of his happiness is his art. There is nothing better than to see someone you love with a glowing smile on his face because he is doing what he was created to do.

Being around other active artists gets your own creative juices flowing. So hopefully, this will get him moving again. Anyhow, wish I would have gone. There were lots of people I've only heard of and read in magazines that were actually there, in the flesh. Plus, it's always entertaining to see all the hipsters that come out to be a part of the scene. Oh well, maybe the next one that comes around.

Until then, remember...graffiti art is not a crime.


My heart...

Something small that brings me a huge level of happiness everytime I see it to brighten up my kitchen. My "El Corazon" Loteria card light switch. Makes me think of the nights we played Loteria with our little pile of beans while camping in Ensenada every summer. We would call out the cards with our non-spanish speaking accents. El catrin. La sirena. El negrito. La chalupa. Our favorite, el borracho. It would make me very happy to have a different one on every light switch in the house. Thank you random girl on ebay that I bought it from.

Cuz this is how he rolls...

What do you get with a little black Play-Doh and unlimited creativity? The handlebar mustache. The moustachio. The Fu Manchu. The Pancho Villa. The Walrus. The Chops. The Dali. The Lowrider 'stache (aye, that's firme, homes). And the ever-present soul patch. He called himself gangsta. Whatever you want to call it...Benny is rockin' it cuz that's how he rolls.


Crown of Glory

Since my birthday month is around the corner (February) and old age is encroaching swiftly (I am turning 36), there is one startling revelation I made recently. Startling, I tell you.

I've been discovering that dudes with grey hair are pretty hot.

Up until now, I've looked at older men in the same way I regard my father, stepfather and my grandfather. Older men. Whole separate entities from young, fresh-faced dudes with Hercules belts. And now, I'm starting to dig...grey hair? I don't mean a full-on head of white. Come on, I'm not fully dead below the waist. I mean, some silver at the temples, some silver in the goatee. Choooooow.


What could this mean? And when did this shift happen? Will this mean I'm going to start enjoying Old Spice and Drakkar? Comb overs? Saggy man titties and turkey neck? White shoes with black socks? Damn.

I can't put my finger on it. Anytime I find some silver strands in my own hair I gasp for air, cry out to the heavens and then pluck it out. I recently found a grey eyebrow hair. Holey smokes. Surely, the end is near. I'm just thankful it takes a dentist chair, a circus mirror and some garden shears to get down and inspect the nether regions for any signs of silver. Oh dear Lawd. Lie to me, Michael, please. If you love me, you will tell me the carpet still matches the drapes.

But in a man, somehow it is sexy. How unfair is that? Sigh. What a cruel, cruel world. But now that I'm really pondering this phenomena, I'm beginning to recognize it's roots...my man, who wakes up everyday with more and more silver to add to his crown of glory.


Hand-me-down heaven

Having kids is expensive. When you have more than the normal and acceptable number of chil'rens, it's just plain crazy. Everything I buy, it's times six. Usually, I don't buy the kids more than one article of clothing at a time. Thankfully, my two oldest wear the same size so they share pretty much everything but their shoes (Diego is bigger by a whole size and a half--even though he is 15 months younger). My younger two sons have a small and humble wardrobe. They're busy waiting on the older two to outgrow something so they'll have something new coming their way. I don't mind though, the younger two are real pig-pens and they are constantly ruining stuff. And my girls, well, they are girls. They have more clothes than all of us combined.

I'm blessed to have parents who regularly buy clothes for their grandchildren. So if someone needs a new pair of jeans or they outgrew their shoes and their older sib is not yet ready to hand his down, they will fill in the gap for us and buy them what they need. And I'm not too shy to ask either. There have been quite a few shipments from Old Navy to my front porch, courtesy of my mom and dad's credit card. Just before Christmas I realized that Maya had absolutely no warm clothes. Sure, she had shorts and halter tops and tanks, but nothing that fit her constantly stretching legs and arms. So her grandma-mama took her to Target and bought her leggings, jeans, sweaters, long-sleeve tees and pj's. Whew.

I am not averse to hand-me-downs. As a matter of fact, I love me some hand-me-downs. Especially when they come from a home where there is an only child. Then that is just gravy. They are usually without stains or holes, they are still in style, they are name brand and they come by the trash bag full. Yesssss.

Unfortunately, we have also been a victim to people who thought oh, they have a hundred kids, surely I can toss them these holey, stained rags from Walmart. Here--why not toss in some thongs, too! I kid you not, I once got a bag of hand-me-downs from someone my stepdad works with and there were several thong underwear in the pile. Who the hell wears hand-me-down thongs? And shirts with large holes in them. Why would you inflict holey shirts and used thongs on the less fortunate of society? We're poor, not completely tasteless.

Right after the new year, my stepbro and his woman sent us a bag of clothes for our boys. My nephew Ezra is younger than Noah but he is a big, strapping boy so his stuff would fit Noah and Diego perfectly. Kristina told me that they just got rid of bags of clothes to friends and the Goodwill. Nooooo! But she still had some stuff to pass on over. And what was it? A big bag full of O'Neill, Hurley, Vans, Quicksilver, Tony Hawk, Billabong, Dickies and other skate brands. All like new. About four hooded sweatshirts in perfect condition. Six or seven pairs of brand-new board shorts. And several button down shirts for their fancy days. Wow, what a blessing. Good looking out, Ez. Keep on shooting up like a weed!

Then my cousin Diana brought over a big bag of stuff for Maya last Friday. Several pairs of sweats, sweatshirts, tees, pj's, shorts, dresses and sweaters. Maya and Xixi were so excited to see the Disney princess pj's. You would have thought they had a shopping spree at Nordstrom the way they were tearing through the bag. Oh, and two pairs of tap shoes! Those entertained them all week long.

I wish I could say that every bag of hand-me-downs I get was as good as these two occasions. There have been many occasions where stuffs been sold at our yard sales or packed in the back of Michael's truck headed for Goodwill.

I like to think that there is hand-me-down karma. Now, I don't believe in spiritual karma per se, but I do believe in passing whatever clothes I have to others. You may think that I wouldn't have anything to hand down since the chil'rens get good use out of everything. But there is still stuff to give away. I had an obscene amount of rubbermaid bins stuffed with brand-new newborn clothes and blankets and shoes and they all found a good home. The same with my girl's clothes and the several jackets I have stuffed in my hall closet. Whenever we get something new (or new to us), I try to give something away.

And now you know why the chil'rens don't look like ragamuffins every time you see them. We got people, yo. People that take care of us.

A case of mistaken identity

Last Sunday after church, I was hanging around outside talking to friends, taking my time because I had to be at a meeting afterwards. Michael was standing beside me, chatting as well. I am so engrossed in my conversation that I didn't realize he walked away to pick up the chil'rens. All I know is that in my peripheral vision, there is a tall man with dark hair and a white t-shirt and jeans beside me. He even had a goatee!

He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. I put my arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze. All while wrapped up in my conversation. Then I snap out of my concentration to see Michael walking toward me. What the? He looks at the friend I am talking to and he says, "Oh! For a second I thought you were Denise because you are both wearing green!"

After a slow second my wheels start turning...if Michael is not the tall man in a white t-shirt standing beside me, then who is? I turn to find it's my friend's husband! I can feel my ears gettting a little warm.

I said, "Oh my--! I thought you were Michael!"
He said, "Hahahaha! Yeh, you would have been standing there, grabbing my butt or something."
And I said, "Yeh, but then I would have thought to myself '...but it's not as firm.'"
Everyone laughed. He said, "Hey, that's cold!"

Can you tell that sometimes I don't completely think about my words before I say them? But dude. I would've known they weren't my man's buns had I squished them. In a heartbeat. I know the goods when they are in my hands. And when they aren't. Heh.



Over at Loteria Chicana, miss Cinylu broke down what seems to be her type in men. An observation, really. It was interesting to me.

I can't say I'm well-versed in the man department. I can name the guys I went out with on one hand. What can I say? I'm blessed that I found my true love when I was 22. That helped me keep my nose (partially) clean. Well, he didn't know know he was my true love then and of course, I didn't either. But I prefer to think of the few men I did date as blights on the landscape of my life. Not really much to speak of...never long-term...definitely not life-changing...on the whole, pretty forgetful.

That said, I can't say that I have a type.

But one thing I've discovered is that over the years, my husband has shaped what I find attractive in men. Friendly. Compassionate. Outgoing. Into art. Free-thinking. A booming laugh. Romantic. Nice smile. Caramel skin. Tall. Strong hands. Curly hair. Soul-penetrating eyes that crinkle when they smile.

And he is all of those things. And when I see those qualities in other men and I find them attractive, I can trace it back to my husband. I have to add one more thing to the list. Grey hair at the temples. Tasty! I never thought I would be old enough to say that a dude with grey hair at the temples was hot, but it is and I am!

All of these things that I find beautiful and pleasing...they are all found in one place. My husband. He, of course, doesn't believe me when I say this. He thinks I am pulling his leg. That I'm spitting game or something. At this stage of our relationship...fourteen years of friendship, almost eleven years of marriage and seven chil'rens later...I don't have any time or compulsion to be anything but 100% real.

He is my type. And it's a very good type, if I do say so myself.


La Mas Cabrona strikes again

I got a text message last night from my homie Raquel. All is said was:

"The disintegration of our society is being broadcast on VH-1 Rock of Love II. Bring antibacterial wipes and spermacide."

I appreciated the heads up, although I wouldn't degrade myself by tuning in to watch Bret Michaels palm his way through another season of "trying to find true love" in a house full of silicone, MAC makeup, Botox, alcohol, pleather, thongs, cleavage that resembles buttcrack, the overwhelming lack of pubic hair and communicable diseases.

But on to more interesting topics. Raquel. Why is this gem of a woman still single? I ask myself this question all the time. She is so freakin' hilarious. I just wish she would blog more often. It is her responsibility to share that razor-sharp tongue, that wonderfully twisted mind and her plentiful stories of having gastrointestinal distress after eating meat (swine, no less) since she has turned into an organic/vegan hot mess with the rest of the world.

Now that, that I would tune in to see.


Death to all rodents!!

I hate them.


To add to that, I hate anything that is little and soft and gray with little beady eyes and a long tail. Hate.

We seem to be having a slight rodent problem. We also have squirrels, possums, cats, and rats. But no roaches, thankfully. What is the difference between a rat and a mouse? I don't know but I am raining down death on the both of them.

We have always had a mouse or two that we've caught in little traps. We gave up on the sticky traps because they are still alive and they just cry like little biatches. I want them dead--neck snapped, not crying! When they are on the sticky traps, it leaves the whole eliminating process up to you. I mean, what are you supposed to do, smash it yourself? Leave it alive and toss it in the trash?

This ain't Fievel Goes West, where the streets are made with cheese.


Let me just say there have been many a mouse that saw his last day in a plastic bag amid a fog of spray paint fumes.

So I thought my rodent problems were over. Then last week when I pulled out the stuff in the pantry to make cookies, there were little chew marks on the corner of my bag of flour.


In the trash. Bleach the shelf. Set the traps. Wait.

Then on Wednesday, I rearranged the furniture in my bedroom. Apparently one of the kids put tangerine peels in my last drawer. The drawer I don't ever go in. The drawer where all my Daisy Dukes are folded neatly. Well, the tangerine peel was all chewed up and there was mouse poo on all my shorts.


In the trash. Wash the clothes on hot. Bleach the drawer. Wonder how the heck the mouse got in my dresser drawer.

Then today I hear a screech from Noah.


This time, all they had to munch on was a small piece of foam. So we went through the same process. In the trash, Wash the clothes on hot. Bleach the drawer. Get severely, completely agitated.

Plan death to all rodents.


Viva La Frida

I was sitting in the teacher's lounge yesterday, sipping some coffee and trying to stay awake when one of the mom's at the co-op starting talking about this art exhibit she went to at the Walker Art Center while visiting Minneapolis on Christmas vacation.

"Oh, I thought about you, Denise. All these crazy contemporary artists! Then we walked into this exhibit with paintings by that lady with the unibrow! Frida somethingorother. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

I just stared at her like a moron, mouth open. "You saw an exhibit of Frida Kahlo? Oh.my.goodness. Frida. You have no idea how jealous I am right now!"

Then she started describing some of the paintings she saw that day. The famous painting of Frida and Diego where she is wearing a red shawl (which hangs in my livingroom). The self-portrait with the birds. The self-portrait of her on the bed after her miscarriage. The self-portait of her and the broken column through the middle of her body. The suicide of Dorothy Hale. Self-portrait with thorn necklace. Mouth open again. Like a big moron.. For some strange reason, I felt like crying. You know when people experience something that is so fantastic, but they just don't understand the depth of it, the absolute fantasticalness of it because they don't value it? That's how I felt. I don't know. I'm just premenstrual. That and I'm still butt hurt about missing Dali.


They are celebrating 100 years of Frida Kahlo's life in Mexico by creating the largest retrospective of her work in Mexico City, at the Museo del Palacio de Bellas Artes. Finally, some recognition in her beloved homeland. I always felt she was overshadowed by Diego Rivera. They will be honoring her life and her work all year long.

I would love to go down there and see it. Me and my best homie Amparo, another Frida fanatic from way back in the day. It may seem rather cliche, two brown girls who lived in East L.A that loved Frida (and weren't lesbians!). But we were digging on Frida since the late 80's. It would be a dream trip for us. This is one of those times when I wish I wasn't so darn poor! I could fly down there and experience it. But alas, I am poor. Maybe I could scrape up some pennies and head up to San Francisco, where the exhibit at the Walker Art Center is heading next. It would sure beat Minneapolis, dontcha know!

Viva la Frida!


The Happiest Place on Earth

One of my parent's Christmas gifts to my family was annual passes to Disneyland. Um, wow. I probably sound like a spoiled southern Californian. Not everyone lives in close proximity to Disneyland.

Yeah, it's 75 degrees outside, a sushi spot on every corner and I have these ole annual passes to the Happiest Place on Earth.

So many people I know have annual passes that I was beginning to feel like some sort of outcast because I didn't have one. I would read blogs about folks going there for a few hours and their children becoming bored. Bored, at Disneyland? Or other people who decided that Disneyland was just too full of people for their taste so they escaped to the beach instead!

I remember trips to the local amusement parks as very special occasions. It was a privilege, not a right. We went on birthdays or summer vacation. My cousins would come over the night before (because no Mexican family could possibly go alone, we must come with an entourage of family), and we would sound like a bunch of chipmunks on crack, giggling and whispering excitedly about what rides we would get on, who would be each other's partner, etc. So we would get no sleep at all but it was never hard to wake up when mom woke us up the next morning to get dressed and ready to go. We would ride in the car, munching on my mom's ever present foil-wrapped burritos and I remember feeling this delicious sense of excitement. Like I just knew we were going to have the best time. And then seeing the snow-covered Matterhorn mountain off the freeway...I remember the giddy feeling so clearly. The day would just go by too fast. And we'd have to say goodbye to Disneyland and wait until it was someone's else birthday or summer vacation again.

And now, this. Some annual passes. It's been a while since I've been to Disneyland. Probably a few years. I think Solomon was a baby at the time and he's now seven. Is Captain EO still playing? I'm excited for what this year of having Disneyland annual passes will look like.


ANTM Marathon

I'm exhausted. Literally. I mean, how many cycles of America's Next Top Model can one person view in a week? Vh-1, I hate you. I want to stop watching, but I just can't seem to. Someone change the channel for me, please!

If I hear one more overly obvious voice-over by Tyra during judging, I think I will put some Tapatio hot sauce on my eyes. Seriously.


I Am Legend

The Man and I had the rare opportunity to escape and catch a movie. I've been wanting to see I Am Legend since it came out last month. Believe it or not, the babysitting gods smiled down upon us. Score!

I watched the majority of the movie through the sleeve of my sweater. Scary. It's not a horror film, but I'm a big chicken so it was horrifying enough. I don't want to get into all the philosophical implications of this movie...the cure for cancer, the questionable threat of vaccinations, the destruction of the human race...because then I'll get all freaked out again and I won't be able to enjoy the pizza I'm about to pick up for dinner. And you don't mess with a big girl and her dinner. Heh.

I once read an article in Natural Health Magazine and it explained what happens to a person when they watch an exciting movie. The eyes and the heart don't realize what they are viewing is for entertainment. So the heart rate increases, the stress level rises--basically, your body is freaking out while you are trying to sit in your seat and "enjoy" a carefree night at the movies.

I have a tough time dealing with catastrophe movies. The end of the world, alien invasion, the destruction of war, natural disaster,the plague--I just can't deal. I think because I am constantly putting my motherhood and my children in the scenario. What steps would I have to take to gather up all my kids in the event of a gigantic tidal wave? If there was an alien invasion like in War of the Worlds, how could I just walk in the street with the thousands of other people and keep track of all my kids? Would I remember the diaper bag? Would I forget everyone's sweater? Stuff like that. This is what goes through the mind of a mother. Sure, you were probably munching on your popcorn and licorice, but me...I'm squirming in my seat, praying Lawd, LAWD, help me Lawd! Jesus, take us home!

So during I am Legend, when people are evacuating because they are shutting off the island, and Will sends his family off and he chooses to stay behind...aaaaahhh. When the visibly infected mother is trying to pass her baby off to someone and she's crying and pleading...sigh, those are the scenes my mind can't seem to erase. It was rough.


The scene of Will Smith (is it just me or does he just get better with age?), waking up and working out in the sunshine...doing his pull-ups with his perfect abs, running on the treadmill with all that chocolatey goodness. Well, it almost made up for it all. Almost.

Who's not going to see Dali at LACMA? Me.

I'm so, so bummed.

Paintings and film by the most notorious Surrealist artist, Salvador Dali are currently exhibiting at LACMA! And I didn't know. What a loser. The exhibit ends on January 6th and as every museum-goer knows, the final weekend of an exhibit is procrastinator's heaven. Which means you will be butt-to-butt with other procrastinators such as yourself, trying to get an eyeful of some Salvador Dali. I promise you this, you will be shuttled in like cattle. Cattle, I tell you!

You just don't get the opportunity to see a Dali on the west coast very often. And any time I get to see a modern art piece that I've admired over the years, it means alot to see it in the flesh. I can stare at the brushstrokes of a modern art master for what seems like forever. I like to take time through an exhibit, especially when I'm looking at beautiful works of art that I've seen over and over again in books, on slides, in school and in magazines. I need to soak it in, inspect it, dissect it, breathe on it, compare it mentally to the reproductions I've seen and finally, to taste it in my soul. If they are encased in glass, like the Van Gogh at the Getty, then you can best believe my hot breath is all up on that glass. I am a security guards nightmare.


I think I am going to miss this one. Time and finances just aren't going to allow me to see it. My only consolation is their upcoming exhibit in June, Los Angelenos/Chicano Painters of L.A.: Selections from the Cheech Marin Collection. Wow. I've been fiending to see Cheech's collection of art for a some time now. Cool. Now I have something to look forward to.
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