"Hey lady, nice legs!" "Are you being serious or are you making fun of me?" "Naw, I'm being serious!" "Oh, well, thank you!"*

    Ever since I moved into my new apartment, other people have been moving out. I don’t think it’s necessarily because of me (narcissist), but it is curious.

    But what else is interesting/highly irritating, is the fact that the building management has been systematically gutting each apartment and putting down hardwood (a.k.a. laminate) floors, so there’s been a great deal of extremely loud construction work.

    And here’s the thing about construction work in Los Angeles (or pretty much any other job in Los Angeles from farming to medicine): it’s usually performed by Latinos (hey, they’re not a minority here!). And this is why that is awesome: Latino men almost ALWAYS take the time to pause what they’re doing and admire the females as they walk by. Almost any females. Even me!

    So I take a little time out of each day to walk past the various apartments in a skirt or shorts so that they can stop their work and stare at me. You’re welcome, Latino men of L.A. But more than that: thank you. Muchos, muchos gracias.

    It’s funny, because I don’t have great legs or big boobs, but men from Latin America are so damned appreciative of the ladies. All the ladies. I feel like maybe I should spray on a tan and move to Guatemala or El Salvador. Do you think I’d get to feeling too good about myself?

    I know, women (even Latinas) say the “machismo” thing is off-putting; that sometimes the way they treat women is no better than the way you’d treat a prize-winning pig. But seriously: I don’t really care. Besides, the Latino men I know personally are just flirtatious and sweet, not condescending or patriarchal.

    I used to go to salsa dance clubs in the Valley with my friend Lucia. She and her husband, Jose (one of those amazing, wonderful Latino men I mentioned) would drag me along to these clubs where I stood out like an extremely white, extremely quiet, sore thumb. I don’t speak much Spanish (very close to nada, actually) and I’m white for even a white person. (Just a notch above albino, actually. When I buy foundation, I have to buy the palest shade they sell, and even that makes me look “painted”.) But despite how I looked or spoke, these perfectly friendly, delightful men would come up to ask me for dances. They didn’t grope me or treat me like a piece of meat. They simply salsa-ed their heinies off while I did the “Marcia Brady Dance” (which I think my Aunt Mel invented—it’s that thing of swinging your thumbs back-and-forth in unison with your feet). They never judged me or made me feel like I couldn’t dance (and I can’t). Some of them even asked me for my phone number (which I gave out indiscriminately, and then never answered...not their fault.  It just seemed awkward. I’d had numerous cervezas on each occasion and couldn’t remember what any of them looked like). 

Salsa 2000 in North Hollywood. More exciting inside.

     But white men here are too self-absorbed to stare or whistle or even glance up from their Pabst Blue Ribbons at a bar. The men in LA (the white ones, anyway) are far too busy looking at themselves in the mirror (or the storefront, or the silverware, or the sunglasses of whomever is sitting across from them) to pay any attention to a woman who isn’t famous. They're mostly concerned with their huge muscles (though then they're usually gay) or their tiny skinny jeans (in which case, they're still gay or they're straight but I feel like an elephant standing near them). Neither of these scenarios helps the dating scene. It’s infuriating. And sad.

    So, I guess I’m going to Pollyanna the situation. That is: I’m going to be happy for the construction in my apartment complex, as it gives me a chance to interact with some truly friendly, appreciative men…

    And maybe improve my Spanish. (Estoy aprendiendo español.)

*Quote is from an interaction that actually happened to Gabe at a gas station. Love it.

"Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter productivity."*

    I’m feeling pretty smug today because I pumped some serious iron last night while watching Around the World in 80 Days (we’re talking at least 12 reps of various curls and extensions with 8-lb-dumbbells. Also...Around the World is a 3 hour movie, and I made it through the first 6th). And I got to bed at a grown-up person’s hour (11:30), so I was raring to go at 8 a.m. But, as so often happens at 8 a.m., I find that I don’t have anywhere to go, and I wonder if I should go back to bed. Especially since my arms and legs were sort of weak and hurt-y from all the iron pumping.

    But I didn’t go back to bed. I worked out (again!) and ran some errands and talked to my parents on the phone.

    Here’s the thing: my mom’s coming in town in under a week and I have to get my apartment to look like it’s a) very clean, b) not trashy and c) like a responsible adult lives in it.

    To that end, I have cleaned the dickens out of my bathroom (“dickens?” what am I, 90-years-old?), attempted to get all moldy and expired foods removed from my fridge, dusted my furniture and hidden all my dirty books. Just kidding. I didn’t dust.

    But I will!

    No, seriously, it’s not really about my mom, though I do want her and her buddy Laura to be comfortable while they stay at my apartment. It’s more that I’m becoming increasingly ashamed of my digs. And THAT has less to do with my digs not being good enough or classy enough (many wonderful human beings throughout history have lived in shittier places), but more to do with my inability to keep up with the day-to-day minutiae that is housekeeping.

    See, housekeeping is really boring.

    I love reading recipes and eating good food and I love looking at before and after pictures of remodeled homes and apartments. What I hate is actually getting up off my ass to clean the floor or the dishes or the fridge. I hate making myself dinner. It’s really awful and tedious and I think my mind functions on a plane much too high for such drudgery. Also, if I make dinner and it’s really delicious but no one’s there to tell me so, was it truly delicious? I’m just way too deep for housekeeping.

    Although, I'm not too deep (or busy, it would seem) for some kitchen-related photography. Check out some evidence of how I spend my spare time...

The Usual Suspects (Bryan Singer, 1995)

The Usual Suspects in my kitchen. (Lacey, 2012)

   But Mom is coming in town, so I had to stop wasting time and do some basic chores that I’ve been putting off for a while. That’s partly why I did all that laundry the other day. And then I cleaned the toilet. And I found a Tupperware in my fridge so full of mold, I chose to throw it away rather than barf while trying to clean it (sorry, god of recycling!).  And I fully intend to sweep the floors and water the plants. I may even vacuum the couches.

    See, if Mom sees me living like a derelict, she’s going to feel sorry for me and start “tending” to things around my apartment. This will be a two-fold disaster: I will resent her because she thinks I’m living like a hobo, even though I am, and insists on bettering my lifestyle. And I will feel sad that she’s spending her hard-earned money on rectifying my poor life choices. It’s a lose-lose situation, especially for me. Because I’m kind of a loser.

    My mother is very generous and very fun, so this trip will be delightful provided I make this place look like part of the Kennedy summer compound. Which will be hard because I don’t have a patio. Or stables. Or tennis courts. Or ascots. Or polo ponies. Or an ocean or toothy rich people nearby. But I do have a pool, which I will try to distract her with while closing the blinds to my neighbor’s makeshift, backyard “gym.” (Maybe I should see if he wants to spot me the next time I lift weights?)

    Wish me luck!

*Quote is from Erma Bombeck. And this was a woman who actually was a home-maker AND a humor columnist. But not like Martha Stewart. That bitch thinks we all have maids, butlers, yachts and basil plants growing out our butts.