Dont Mince Words

If you have seen Steve Martin in “LA Story,” you’ve seen all the LA clichés come alive. Four cars. Four stop signs. All the drivers are courteous and wave each other on. There appears to be a rhythm to these intersections.

Up until today, I operated under the assumption that the first person stopped at the intersection would naturally go first and everyone else would wait their turn. That is usually the case UNLESS you encounter Scenario B which involves an IF/THEN math equation: IF a vehicle coasts through a four-way stop, THEN said vehicle has immediate right of way and that right of way supercedes the rights of the first stopped driver.

My New York horn skills combined with some Starsky and Hutch swerving resulted in me missing getting broadsided by a 1974 rust colored Chevy Impala station wagon filled with five Mexicans and two rakes. I cussed like a sailor for several minutes afterwards until my passenger told me, “Welcome to LA where traffic rules of native country supercede all logic.”

Now I understand the wave-on.

Today I went to a housewarming party of a friend from Virginia. I met a nice group of normal, adult people, but I had a few interesting observations.

Like most metropolitan areas, I am finding it hard to find anyone FROM California. (Kind of makes you wonder how things got so weird out here and then you remember… Hollywood). This party had a nice mix of mostly east coasters…. But it was obvious they were settled into the CA way of life.

(1) Eventually the conversation turned to astrology. I was dying. I was ready to hide in the bathroom, speed dial my friends in New York and say, “I’ve been in LA two weeks and somebody asked me what my sign was.”

(2) Food. Like New Yorkers, Los Angelians take their food, or lack there of, pretty seriously. Everyone had diverse opinions on raw vs. cooked, tofu, organic, low carb, and supplements.

The most difficult thing I had to deal with all evening was the inevitable question: “Were you there during 9/11?” For some, I was their only first-person account. And they wanted details. I was offended at first, chalking the questions up to LA’s love for action-based news; however, these folks actually were innocently trying to understand the magnitude of the event. I knew I wasn’t going be able to tell the story, so I decided to shift the conversation a little and explain east coast population density. It worked. I need to perfect this soundbite because I’m going to get asked this question again and again as I live here.

Yes, I was there. No, I don’t really like talking about it. We’re all doing better now. Thanks for asking.

I lived in New York a little less than four years. In that time, I learned to conserve going to the grocery store, even when I had a car. The less you buy, the less you have to haul upstairs. Endless, affordable restaurant selections make the decision to eat out that much easier.

A four- or six-aisle market was never a pleasant shopping experience. You go in, you get out. You don’t cruise for ass in these markets. My first ‘motherload’ at the grocery store in Marina Del Ray was interesting. Grocery stores are supposed to be notorious pick-up joints, but that has never been my experience. Today was different.

Let me remind you that I’m still fair-skinned. My rear end is so white, it could guide planes into LAX. My hair is still auburn. I have yet to see a redhead on my side of town. My boobs are still big and organically grown. I’m still 5’10” and today I’m 37.5 years old. Combine all these ingredients and you have a recipe for “oh my gosh, she isn’t from these parts.”

Men were checking me out. ME. It was kind of cool at first, then I realized I was getting looks because I was different. The kind of looks I remembered I got in 9th grade when I showed up for high school in the fall in thrift store seconds and it appeared everyone else had brand new, stiff 501s or Jordache jeans.

I mastered my technique by aisle five of 27. I’d lock eyes with the guy and right as our carts would get ready to pass, I’d lick my lips. Yeah, I’m different. I’m REAL and I’m going to fuck with you sunworshipping-tofu-eatting-motherfuckers.

There’s new meat in town and her name is Marna.