ALL SMILES

I imagine that in most cities, like Wichita for instance, you'll probably get a "Hello!" or "Well, good morning, Bob!... Good morning, Jan!" as you pass a stranger or neighbor on the street (or farm). But here in LA, it's very hit and miss. Occasionally, there's a "Hey" or a head nod if you're on a hike or doing the Santa Monica Stairs and see the same (gorgeous, out of work actor) person 14 times in a row (Please. Who am I kidding. 7. My max on those effing stairs has been 7. So?)

It's not that I'm cold and aloof. I want to be a sweet citizen... a part of "the community." I just don't notice and am typically the jerk guilty of not looking up or saying hello unless it's time to pay for my grande drip. But today, my inner Kansas must have come out...

After I dropped Baby-Ko off at day care, instead of heading up the block to make a pit stop for said grande drip, I decided to kill two birds with one (cheaper) stone and go to 7-Eleven since I also needed cash from the ATM. For whatever reason, as I waited in line with the 99 Cent breakfast sign next to me, thinking about the ten dollar oatmeal I might have just spent at S-Bucks made me laugh.
I whipped out my new iPhone and took a pic. I know. I'm sooo LA, I thought to myself and smiled to the guy standing behind me.

As I plopped my coffee, bottle of water, and the new InStyle Magazine (hello, Fall Fashion) on the counter, the clerk and I bumped hands.

"Sorry," she said.

"No problem!" I said right back.

"$9.06, please."

I handed her a 10 dollar bill. "I think I have 6 cents" I said (I guess nicely).

"Wow," The Guy behind me says, "We don't get enough like you."

"Huh?"

"You smile at me, you're pleasant to her.... There's not enough people like you in LA."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks..."

"We need more like you."

"Ha. You just caught me on a good day," I said grabbing my stuff.

"Bye," said the clerk. "Have a good one."

"You too," I say to my new 7-Eleven friends. "You too...."

Hmm. They need more like me. Like me. That's so nice....

***

Ten minutes later, I entered Sofya's- the goddess of waxing/torture and all things Russian....

Needless to say, you can say goodbye to the "sweet" hello for this portion of the story....

WHOLE (FREE) FOODS PART 2: NO CHIPS

Yesterday, while exploring perhaps the most magnificent Whole Foods ever, I couldn't help myself as I passed by the pizza bar. With my small(ish) sample in hand, I headed to the salad bar to get my "real" lunch.  En route, I noticed the most tantalizing display of olives... literally calling out to me.  Just as I was about to be the person who believes in test driving everything, including (free) food, (eeeeeven if you've given a whirl before),  I noticed a little sign:

"No grazing?"  What am I... an animal?? As if I would just pick an olive straight from there. Who do you think I am? This sign can't reaaaaaally be meant for ME. I'm clean. I scrub my hands like Howard friggin' Hughes!  I am NOT the gross one....

Of course later that evening, as if I hadn't learned my lesson about pining for free food and all the subsequent humiliation that comes with it, I was faced with another fork in the free food road...

I decided to pick up dinner from Jersey Mike's, a new sub shop that I've heard is delish. When I stepped in, I couldn't tell if the place was like an upscale/cleaner version of Subway or a legit/ old school sub shop.  Either way, the "sandwich artists" were taking way too long with my simple #7 (Mike's Way) and I was going to be late for an appointment. Long story short, when he finally completed the sandwich and I handed him my card to pay, the guy said "uh oh... The register's crashed."  Crap! I had to go and had no cash on me. I told him I'd come back in an hour to pick up the sandwich but the manager insisted I take the sandwich and come back "whenever."  

Whenever? WHENEVER?!!  You mean this meal could technically be free? Was he giving me an "out" to not return?  Was this a test?!?!

An hour later, I marched back in. Too scared to fuck with food karma, I proudly pulled out my card and said "let's try this again." 

The manager smiled, "That was nice of you to come back. Would you like a cookie?" 

A cookie... Nah. But something salty sounds good. "No thanks,"  I said and without missing a beat asked, "Can I take a bag of chips?" I pointed to the Dorito, Sun Chips, Ruffles orgy on a shelf.

"What?" he said not hearing me.

"Chips. I'd like a bag of chips... Instead." The place, now crowded, seems to stop like a record scratch. I feel all eyes at the counter staring at me. Is this girl for real?

"Um, no... No chips. But you can take a cookie."

"Oh. Well. No, I just want chips, but--"

He shook his head 'no.' "No chips."

"Okay! Thanks!" I said embarrassed and dashed for the door. No chips.

The moral of the story is beggars can't be choosers.  But they can certainly keep trying... especially if it's free....

TALK ABOUT DISHEVELED....

I feel like I'm always doing laundry.  In fact, tonight before I left to run an errand and pick us up some dinner, I  took some laundry out of the dryer and threw a new load in the washer....  I threw the dry clothes on the dining room table. I'll fold them when I get back (i.e. pray that my mom, who's over, will get to them first)....

**

At California Chicken Cafe, I spend 5 minutes debating (in my head) about which salad to have. I order two California Salads (chicken, feta, avocado, tomato, pita chips) and take a number and wait for my order. Crap. I changed my mind. I want the Chinese Chicken Salad. Will be great for leftovers for lunch tomorrow.  I walk up to the counter and try to get the cashier's attention. She's in the middle of helping a middle aged man (with a bandage on his nose) and his lanky 20-something son.  

"Um, whenever you get a chance," I say as they exchange cash, "I just want to change my order."  The middle aged man (MAM) looks at me. He does a double take. What? I waited until you got your order in. What??

"There's something in your hair" he mutters.

"Huh?"  I say, not really hearing him.

"You have something in your hair," he points to it.

I swat at my hair. Ew. What is it?  He keeps pointing at my hair like he's seen a ghost. Everyone in line is staring.

"It's still there," he says and takes a step closer. Um, can I just get my salads please?!

"It must be my son's food or something," I say digging for an excuse. 

The cashier yells, "No it's kind of big." Big? What the hell is it?!  I pat my hair again. I feel nothing.

The MAM takes a step closer. "Here, I'll get--"

"No! That's okay. Really, I--" He takes a step closer. Now he's fully staring at my scalp. I'm frozen. The last time I washed my hair was on Saturday. My hairline cannot be pretty. I am so embarrassed. Can somebody just get my salad please?!

He takes another step closer. Now he's touching my hair. OH MY GOD.  He's PICKING through my hair like the mommy gorillas at the zoo. I'm going to die.

"Got it, " He holds up a piece of lint. "Here you go,"  he says handing me the remnants of  my laundry. 

"Oh, thanks... Hey. Look at that," I say apologetically, not knowing what to do with a shitty piece of lint.

CAN I PLEASE JUST GET MY FUCKING SALADS NOW!!??!

***

On my way out, the MAM, now sitting at the table makes some sort of sweeping gesture over his head as I walk by. Great, nice. You're honest and helped a complete stranger. Congratulations. Weirdo. 

I get in the car and look in the mirror. What is that? I look closer. Another piece of lint. Oy.

***

The moral of the story is multi tasking is great, but either I'm going to have to start washing my hair more, or start doing less laundry....

A BARE NECESSITY

I normally would not share a story of a  bikini wax from hell with my readers, but I'm watching "The Rachel Zoe Project" and for some unknown reason, something about this show is making me want to dish... 

**

We're leaving for this week to go to Maui for my brother in law's wedding. (Twice in five months. I'm a lucky girl, I know!)  Of course, leaving for a tropical vacation means beautifying from head to toe...  I found an amazing waxer close to my house who charges a lot, but who's meticulous, CLEAN (key!), fast and painless. BUT, since I'm a working mama now, I kind of need one-stop shopping. SO, at the urging of the woman who owns my nail salon, I decided to try her Waxing Lady. 

When the WL took me back to the private room, I was a little taken aback by the fact that she put on a surgical mask. Perhaps she's sick?  "Are you sick?" I ask, as I start sliding off my jeans. "No. Duck chicken school." Ummm.... okay. She is Vietnamese. Her English isn't great, and under the mask it's much worse. I lay on the table, fully nude from waist down, and she takes a big magnifying light, (the kind that the dentist uses when he's digging for a cavity), and shines it down there.  I take a deep breath.

"What we doing today, honey?" she asks, "Brazillian, Playboy...?"

"Um, both?" As if I really can ever tell the difference.  She reaches into her little caddy.

"Whoah. What is that? What are you doing??!??!" I ask shocked. SHE IS SPRAYING SOMETHING. LIKE A FUCKING ODORIZER OR SOMETHING!

"Don't worry. You don' t want to know." WHAT?! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW? WHAT????? Just for the record, this isn't my first trip down bikini waxing lane. Been doing this for quite some time. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER has someone SPRAYED something near my hoo ha. Never.  HOWEVER, I am now naked waist down. Hot wax is about to become my worst enemy, and an unclear Vietnamese lady is in charge. I take the second of MANY deep breaths, and decide not to respond.

The WL sticks the popsicle stick in the wax and approaches said area, "Hold, " she demands, "HOLD!" she says again putting my hands on my thigh and stomach, making me pull back my skin, fat and organs so as to make the skin taught. "I'm holding," I say frightened. 

"Tighter," TIGHTER?! How much more can I pull?! She YANKS my thigh back. "THERE!" She screams. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. 

"You see. Tighter. I get heaven." Huh? Did she say "heaven?" Did she mean it gets "even?" I have no fucking clue. As I start to internally scream at myself for agreeing to let this wacky broad tear at my privates, without missing a beat, the WL has my hands pulling my other thigh and stomach tight again. Literally, she has me pulling, lifting, flattening my body out so much that you'd think I was a morbidly obese person who's lost something in the folds of their fat. I think about asking her what the purpose of me groping myself like this is, because clearly it's not to minimize the pain, but she's already so busy proudly muttering something else about how "other people don't do like I do" that I realize it will be pointless. 

I sit up slightly to see the work that she's done so far. She pushes my head back. "You look later." Okaaaaaaaaaay. I guess she likes her clients to be surprised... 

Next thing I know, she's shoving a popsicle stick in my hand. "HOLD," she says and positions my hand and the popsicle stick in such a way that I wonder if I'm causing physical damage. "HOLD." She says again, pushing firmly. "Ow," I say meekly, praying that this will be over soon. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  

"YES!" She exclaims and shows me the muslin. "You see. Very curly. Chicken. Pad thai bullet proof," is what I can make out. Whatever. Just finish. Please. FINISH.

For the rest of the session she pulls, tightens, pushes and violates my hoo ha and has me in positions that I don't think my husband has even seen.  After a grueling 25 minutes, she finally finishes. I grab my underwear and jeans and pull them up.  Was I just her bitch??

As I walk back out into the nail salon to pay, I can hear whispers in Vietnamese and I can only imagine what she's telling them.  Omg... So embarrassing.

 And to quote Rachel Zoe: "DIE. I DIE...."