Rainy Days and Mondays

I love rainy days. There's nothing better. They remind me of my days living in D.C. with the radiator hissing, hiding under the covers and listening to the rain tap my window. Ahhhhh, makes me feel like nesting.

I wish I could live somewhere where it rains and snows. LA just doesn't do it for me! I am the only person I know who prefers cold & rainy weather. Everyone thinks I'm so lucky to live in la la land, where it's always 70 degrees and sunny. But I'm telling you, give me a wet, rainy day, a cup of hot chocolate and a puppy to snuggle with and I am in heaven!!

The Mind Works in Mysterious Ways

I am a big dreamer. Literally, I have lots of dreams every night. And I've always been fascinated by my dreams. Not in a "what did it mean" kind of way (people have given me dream interpretation books and frankly I think they're a bunch of BS), but in a "the mind is so strange" kind of way.

A couple of nights ago I had a dream which I barely remember at all, except that it had something to do with a secret hiding place in a house I lived in 25 years ago. When I woke up, I started trying to distinguish the dream from reality -- was there a secret hiding place in that house? I had a vague recollection that there was but wasn't sure if it came from the dream. And it's been bugging me ever since. I even contacted my brother (with whom I am not close) to ask him if he remembered any such secret hiding space. And lo and behold, he does!

So the question is -- why or how did my mind go to that strange secret hiding place on a random night in 2006, when I haven't seen or thought about that place since 1982? Not that I think it has any special meaning -- but I just think the mind is so fascinating that it would retain something SO RANDOM for so long.

Speaking of which, my step-grandfather is in the hospital, and recently he suffered through one of the very rare side effects of his chemo drug, which is hallucinations. He basically went into some sort of semi-coma, which made him talk all crazy and generally exhibit the effects of Alzheimers disease. This, too, was fascinating -- to see what kinds of things his mind came up with from his past. He talked a lot about football, and priests, and apparently was singing polish to his nurses. I never knew he even spoke polish. He didn't really know who anyone was, but he mentioned his sister (with whom he was apparently not close) and never mentioned his brothers (with whom he was extremely close). He also apparently thought he was flying an airplane which was in trouble. Thankfully he's come out of the fog (but is still quite ill in the hospital.). Every once in a while he goes back to that place, though -- like yesterday when I came to visit, and he started counting the fingers on his hands and couldn't understand why there were 5 on each hand.

Celebrity (Non) Sightings

There's an irony about my cliched life here in LA, which is that although I live in the heart of Hollywood, I NEVER see famous people. Not because they are not around, I dare say, but because I just don't see them. Like the ketchup in the fridge staring at you which you just don't see. I know this because every time I have a friend visit me from out of town, the friend always sees famous people when we're out. At the grocery store -- oh, there's the english dr. from ER! At a restaurant -- look, it's Nicki Hilton! And so on and so forth. But when I'm alone, I'm in my own little world. I( try to be on the lookout but the truth is, as hard as I try to pay attention, I always end up paying more attention to finding the right brand of bagels or the perfect Lean Pocket. It's either ADD or just plain old food obsession.

The even stranger thing is, I am obsessed with celebrity gossip. Who isn't these days? But really, when I go onto the internet, I used to at least check out cnn.com to get an idea of any breaking headlines. Now? Now, I go to tmz.com. It's sick, really.

Sleepy McSleep

Is it normal for a grown woman to require 10 hours of sleep a night?

Everyone always says that you need LESS sleep as you grow older.

First Time for Everything

As I sit here in my living room on a random Friday night, I wonder whose life I am living. The kid sleeps soundly upstairs, the dog sleeps silently next to me on the couch, and it is paradise. Yet, totally fake. The dog, the kid, the house -- they aren't mine. The kid belongs to my father -- a creature of a uniquely LA cliche, the second family. The dog belongs to a friend, former roommate actually. In my never ending search for a dog, I have attached myself to this one, named Cashew because she looks like a little cashew nut when she sleeps. I don't even like cashews....but this dog, I love this dog. The house, well, the house is mine, OK, but rented, not owned.

At 36 years old, I feel 17. I look 17. Yet I have lived many lives, each one a sharp right turn from the last. It's been an adventure -- yet I never dreamed I would be borrowing other people's kids & dogs, and still looking for "it", whatever "it" is, at 36.