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ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often. |
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Read/Post Comments (1) Most Recent Twitters: A 3-foot long alligator was found walking down the middle of the street in Venice Beach this morning. I love L.A. In case you were wondering, it is very difficult to get a hummingbird out of your house. They are irrational and prone to hysterics. L.A. Finds: The Nickel Diner on Main between 5th and 6th is a made-to-look-old, throwback of a place that melds into the old downtown and is, at the same time, part of the renaissance. They serve their burgers medium, their soda in bottles and offer all they can to locals in need. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks by Christopher Brookmyre What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles |
2007-06-27 11:46 AM “What do we want? Cleavage! When do we want it? Now!” You know your wardrobe has slipped a little too far into the let’s-just-all-live-in-spandex-running-clothes-all-the-time realm when your husband, who hasn’t ventured into a clothing shop alone since before Kurt Cobain died, brings you a shopping bag full of things he picked up for you on his lunch hour.
Take it from me, you shouldn’t let it get this far. First because spandex shrinks. And two because now you’ve got a shopping bag full of clothes that your husband picked out, and you have to negotiate which pair of shorts cut up to THERE and tops cut down to THERE you can exchange without hurting his feelings. And while my loving groom may have gotten a wee bit exuberant in his choices, I have to concede his point. Things had run off the rails, and my cleavage hadn’t seen the light of day since, well, maybe ever. We writers aren’t particularly known for sexing it up. But when your husband buys you hot pants, you damn well better do something. So there I was in American Apparel. Having recently turned 28, I was easily the oldest. least tattooed and tragically uncoolest person in residence. I was also on a mission. I skipped the gold lamé leggings and the neon unitards – being just old enough to remember when “Let’s Get Physical” was on the radio and not being inclined to relive it – but I loaded up on all the form-fitting tank tops, flimsy v-necks and yes, even dresses I could carry and trudged past the painfully hip sales associate into the dressing room. I tried every last bit of it on and, after a few size adjustments, took the entire pile and plopped it down in front of the cash register. “Break out the big bag. I’m taking it all.” Look out, ladies. It’s a whole new day, and the boobies are coming out to play. A little bit. Kinda-sorta. There’s some cleavage. No, really. Look, there. No, there. See in this light you can kinda – Alright, I’m trying. It’s a work in progress, dammit. Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top |
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