Cats.

Based on the impressive amount of critter footprints that are left on my filthy car each morning, it's obvious that my car has become the feral cat equivalent to whatever really awesome club everyone who's anyone in Los Angeles goes to. I'm pretty sure that if I were to check up on my parking spot at 3AM I'd see about fifty cats and maybe a raccoon or two just chilling on my Civic.

I wish I had either the time to actually do this or the ability to set up a sweet surveillance system so that I could get the hilarious picture that I'm assuming I'd find without actually having to go outside at 3 AM.

Youtube.

Here's something that baffles me: when people dedicate what must surely be hours to creating the perfect unnecessary sentimental montage to throw up on youtube. Why? Why do this? Maybe I'm just dispassionate or something, but I cannot for the life of me understand why videos like this exist: 

Exhibit A: The Public Figure Montage. This is a montage of my now famous former neighbor Snooks that is four minutes long and comprised of maybe six pictures, max, and assembled by some concerned citizen with a lot of time and what appears to be some sad little Dell editing program that they had on their hands. Apparently people occasionally feel it is their civic duty to honor current events of which they have no part with a primitive, sappy montage. I also found about 300 JonBenet Ramsey montages that are way too disturbing/creepy to include here, but don't worry..."Dreaming of You" and "Wind Beneath My Wings" are the common musical accompaniments of choice. 

Exhibit B: The Reader's Digest Movie Montage where, basically, someone shaves a three hour movie down into the most crucial 3-5 minutes. Hello, Copyright Infringement. The creator of this masterpiece speaks for himself with the following description of this video:

The film Braveheart had a huge impact on me when I first saw it, and still does. I felt compelled to make a video for it showing my appreciation for such a powerful film. I used the score composed by James Horner and basically put alot of what made it memorable for me into this video. Wow, really? Well done. 

Exhibit C: The Music Video Montage. These are just...indescribably stupid. The only thing worse than a montage of scenes from a movie set to that movie's theme is scenes from a movie set to a completely separate, sort-of-but-not-really-relevant song. Behold: Titanic featuring Enrique Iglesias' "Hero", Pearl Harbor featuring Johnny Cash's version of "Hurt", and Jurassic Park, featuring Skillet's hit, "The Last Night". The only thing better than all of the above is when the song is Nickelback and it's being played under Pride and Prejudice. AMAZING.

These people should be punished.

Splash.

I really miss rain more than I thought I would. The good part about having to leave for work so early in the morning is that it's the time of day when the mysterious smog/mist clouds have yet to be burned off by the inevitable sunshine, so it leaves room for the possibility of rain for about an hour. 

The other night I woke up to the sound of water rushing and got excited...rain? Could it be? Too curious to not see for myself, I looked out the window to find my charming, lanky, 7 foot landlord splashing around in the hot tub.

I was totally singing a different tune last summer, especially  when, after a week of hauling around a full sized Degas umbrella -- Lizzy and I invested in Impressionist umbrellas at Filene's Basement-- because it seemed like it might rain but never did, I woke up on a gray morning and decided that I wasn't going to let nature force me into calling my own bluff by toting an unnecessary umbrella on what would be, as the pattern had led me to believe, a perfectly glorious, sunny Boston day. 

So I left it at home and proceeded to march through the Public Garden towards Barbour. I barely reached the banks of the Swan Pond when, obviously, it started to drizzle. No big deal, I thought to myself. I can dry off once I get to work. Immediately after I finished this thought in my inner monologue, it started to pour. Torrentially. I was halfway to work by now, and illogically figured that being on time for work but soaked was better than being thirty minutes late. I can run for it, I reasoned. No sweat. 

Yeah, sure. Me. Run. Through the rain in a white dress and flip flops. . So I started to run, subtly, you know, ballerina running. The running caused me to promptly break a flip flop, which sealed the deal. I was going to be late for work. Hindsight is 20/20, but looking back, it was probably best that the damn shoe broke, otherwise i would have shown up at Barbour, waterlogged and essentially naked. Classy.

Anyway, I trudged back through the Garden, up Charles Street and Revere Street and down Garden Street, back home, all barefoot, of course, changed, grabbed the damn umbrella and headed back on my way. Except now, of course, the rain was over and my umbrella was useless. 

This is just one of many stories I've got as proof that I am, in fact, That Girl.

Half.

Something I've always enjoyed doing is finding some sense of organization in my life. Not like, trapper keeper, wall unit, filing cabinet organization, but the tidy little details that give me a sense that there's some much bigger plan for everything and that maybe everything that's meant to happen actually does happen, but only when it's supposed to, in accordance with the Bigger Plan.

I'll give you an idea what I mean here. My first day of work: I'm driving along, wondering if I made the right decision, thinking my brain into a puddle of brain mush, when SUDDENLY I stop at a red light, directly behind a car whose license plate reads DLR15378. Okay, I made the numbers up, but the letters are what's important because they're my initials, and had I not been on my way to that exact job at that exact moment, I would have never have seen that and honestly, when was the last time you saw a random car with your initials on it? Exactly. Coincidence? Obviously, but still.

Exhibit B: So today is my half birthday, and what do I get? An earthquake. A real one. A bonafide, not-pre lunch low blood sugar vertigo, not arbitrary agency-wide step dancing competition, not Hobsey the Prince of Movers juggling hide-a-bed couches on the upper floors, genuine seismic disruption. This would be a revelation on its own, but is actually even more significant because what did I learn exactly six months ago? That things people brush off as not happening in real life actually do happen, they just happen in Los Angeles. Apparently Los Angeles and I are on a bi-yearly reminder that, rare though they may be, what is written in fiction always stems from what happens in reality. Now I have high hopes for something really cool to happen on my birthday, you know, to make up for the stupid reality checks. Maybe Jurassic Park will become real. That'd rock.

Going back to my earthquake, I was surprised at what a non-issue it was, especially since I was in the bowels of a building (which, incidentally, is built on some sort of wheel apparatus that makes for a very flowy, sea-swellesque experience that makes the victims feel as though they're on a lovely, involuntary boat ride) and was, in the event of a serious emergency, set up to be in a third class, locked behind the gates and left to drown type situation, to go with a Titanic metaphor. Now we're all supposed to start prepping for The Big One, which could occur at any moment. Fantastic. This must be why California is so focused on hybrid cars, recycling,cups made out of corn and other feeble attempts at environmental salvage. People here feel like they need to do something because they know that if those glaciers melt and cause the plates to shift, guess which state is the first to go? Right. Adios, California. Sunk. 

Hopefully by the time that happens I will either have already died an old, old lady warm in her bed or if it has to happen before then, hopefully I'll be shacked up somewhere on Beacon Hill, reaping the benefits of my brilliant Hollywood career. 

I wonder what Nostradamus would have to say about this. I wonder if he does individualized consultations, or if he reserves his clairvoyency for disaster for the human race as a whole. I also wonder if the psychic's name is Nosferatu and not Nostradamus. One is a vampire, one is obsessed with the world's demise and I always get their names mixed up.

Hooker.

The expensive hooker who lives in my building and I are officially on opposite schedules. Every night when I come home from work (not actually EVERY night, it's actually a few sporadic nights here and there, but for the sake of the story, you know...anyway) her limo - I'm not sure if it's the client or her pimp or what - is waiting outside. We cross paths, acknowledge each other, etc. etc. and then I go home, watch Wipeout, and go to sleep only to...

...Wake up the next morning and leave by 7:20, by which time she is trudging through the door in the process of grabbing the Red Bull by the horns and looking, let's face it, way better than I would if the tables were turned. I can't even think about what the difference in our paychecks is.

My hooker neighbor, expensive or not, paired with my morning commute down Coldwater Canyon and Beverly Drive have made me realize that I am living in the wrong part of Los Angeles. And not even in the figurative "wrong side of the tracks" way, because my neighborhood's fine, if not the teeniest bit geographically inconvenient, but in the way that the people who live in Beverly Hills live in houses plopped in the middle of yards that look like they were landscaped by whatever artists Disney World gets to do their landscaping. I nearly get into a daily car accident just scoping out real estate.

Based on the limo and what I've learned about powerful dudes in Hollywood, I think the odds are pretty good that my expensive hooker neighbor and I have very similar work commutes.

Sniff.

It's somewhat of a mind freak how all Linens N Things smell exactly the same, regardless of where they're located. It's a Linens N Things specific smell of, I'm assuming, linens and things and candles that hits you as soon as the automated doors swoop open.  It's like some kind of welcome wagon to trick most people into believing that they need a new duvet/Ultimate Chopper/toothbrush holder that coordinates with their shower curtain.

I say most people because I know that current and former employees of Linens N Things associate the smell with their job. I know I do. That smell hits me and for a split second I'm reminding myself to clock in ASAP so as to maximize the number of pennies I earn from the company while simultaneously wondering if anyone will return a giant container of Jelly Bellies so that I can damage them out and eat them all day long. Then I remember that I don't work there anymore, but I'm still wise to all the employee tricks. I know they don't care whether I find shelves or not. I know they just want to leave and get on with their lives. I know they're stealing Altoids and sniffing candles while pretending to be straightening them. I get it. 

Shopping is a solo act. You are in it alone, save for the person who got stuck at the register, the only place in the store where avoiding customers isn't an option. They're bored out of their mind and they know full well that their job can be and often is done by a robot so it's always nice to be as interesting as possible, just to break up the monotony for them. Chances are, if you're weird enough, they'll write you down in a notebook or on the back of a damage slip just in case they ever find themselves in need of a character for, I don't know, a story somewhere along the line because they know they could never make half of what they experience at the register up on their own. I'm just guessing. This is purely hypothetical. 

My career history is shaping up to be almost as interesting as my educational history. I've traded babies for linens for waxed cotton jackets back to babies and soon I will trade understandably needy babies for ridiculously needy adults.

My dues are going to be very expensive, it's time to start making some payments.

Retainer.

Today I was filling out paperwork and I wrote down the date, and it struck a cord. July 10th. This date is significant, I thought to myself. July 10th...The tenth of July...7/10/08...What is it?

And then it hit me. Today is a special day. Today...is...

THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE REMOVAL OF MY BRACES.

No, really. That's what it is. I must have been even more jazzed to get those suckers removed than I thought. 

Anyway, this might not be the best segue in the world, but This Just In: Los Angeles is populated by lunatics. Some of you might be saying, "But Danielle, you're kind of nuts too..." NO. Not L.A. nuts. L.A. nuts is a whole 'nother ballgame. As if everyone here weren't whacked out enough before, now, with the advent of a law forbidding one to talk on their cell phone while driving, they're all running around with bluetooth headsets strapped to their ears looking like cyborgs and talking to no one.

I had a little scare today, because I've always maintained that as long as I can recognize that these people are insane, then that means I've still retained (hah, retained. Like retainer. Like the retainers that I still wear, to this day, 8 years after I got my braces removed. Anyway) a shred of Eastern sanity. The scare happened while I was running errands. I was in and out of my car, turning the douchetooth earpiece on and off so that if I was in the store, I could answer my phone like a normal person. I contemplated for a second, one second, wearing the douchetooth outside of my car, just for the sake of convenience.

I was horrified with myself. Absolutely horrified. Bluetooths are toolish enough inside of a car where they belong, to think that I would even consider joining the ranks of those who march around town with them was terrifying. It was a moment of weakness and it passed. Thank God, because that would probably be the beginning of a huge downward spiral. I had a flash forward of myself, really tan and wearing sunglasses, a Laker's jersey and a Kabbalah string as I waited in line at Starbucks, talking on my bluetooth while texting on my Blackberry and carrying around some little mouse dog. Christ.

Anyhow. The point is, don't worry. 

Here's to 8 years with a fully aligned bite!