It all started with the condoms.

I mean, once I get an idea, I just can’t let go, and the idea of sex at the Olympics started when I found out that the Olympics have an official condom. It’s not exactly something that they advertise in the US, like: “Durex, the official condoms of the Olympics.”

Nevertheless, there IS an official condom, it IS Durex, and there was a flap because an Australian Olympian saw a bucket of “rogue” condoms with a kangaroo on it, thought it was funny, and tweeted a photo.

The bucket had a computer-generated sign that read: "Kangaroo condoms, For the gland downunder."

It was cute, but the Olympic organization didn't find it amusing, and in an attempt to protect their brand and sponsors, tracked down the offending latex and dispensed with it.

But the ensuing publicity (most people never knew there was an official condom) started folks thinking about what really does go on in the Olympic village. ESPN got a few athletes to talk on the record, and it turns out to be fairly bacchanal.

According to medal winner Ryan Lochte, 70% to 75% of athletes are having sex in the Olympic Village. The explanation is that fit, young athletes who have been concentrating on nothing but getting to the games finally are in a position to meet attractive people with the same interests and level of fitness. And the result is international diplomacy of a very personal kind.

The close quarters and skimpy uniforms also add to the heightened sexual atmosphere. Breaux Greer, an American javelin thrower said,  "You see what everybody is working with from the jump."

Unfortunately, he also made the cavalier remark that "even if their face is a 7, their body is a 20."

Way to keep it classy, Breaux.

Of course, being a mature woman, my musing about this wasn't imagining beautiful bodies having orgies in hot tubs (honestly...), as they are reported to have done, but rather about the kids at the Olympics. I tried to find out how minors were dealt with. Do they have chaperones? The age of consent in the United Kingdom is 16, so legally they could do what they wanted.

The athletes lived in double-occupancy rooms in the Olympic Village, so did a parent room with these kids? I can remember being 16, and the idea that my parents would have to room with me would have been horrifying. You want so much to be an adult and do what the big kids do.

According to the Centers for Disease Control, 47.4% of high school students have had sex, so many of those 16-year-olds might not be virgins anyway.  But the idea that 70 to 75% of the athletes are whoring around like its spring break makes the parent in me want to keep younger participants far, far away.

Once there, athletes can't assume that they will ever get to the Olympics again, so I can imagine that they would want the complete experience: living in the village, meeting peers from around the globe, trading training tips, or whatever sports people talk about. (Clearly, I wouldn't know; have you seen me?)

Having to have a chaperone would really put a damper on things, I imagine, and all because the older competitors can't keep it in their pants. That's sad.

An amusing  Durex Olympic billboard.

It's rather amusing that previous to the electronic age, Olympic athletes had pretty squeaky clean images. They were the people on Wheaties boxes, being giving ticker-tape parades and keys to cities. Palmdale's own silver medalist, Lashina Demus, was feted at Poncitlan Square's 50-year city anniversary this week. She was there with her adorable twin sons, so it's unlikely she was involved in all this debauchery.

Considering the 24-hour news cycle and the fact that anyone with a smart phone can share photos, videos and text from inside the Olympic Village, it's difficult to keep a lid on things. (Ask Prince Harry.)

Maybe if this technology had been available when Bruce Jenner was on the Wheaties box, we would have realized much sooner what a douchebag he was, dumping his wife who supported him through all his training right after he became successful.

Previous medal winner for soccer, Julie Foudy, recalled looking at all the "eye candy" at her Olympics and wondering why she got married, and gold medalist Ryan Lochte said he felt he missed out last year because he had a girlfriend, so he made sure he was single this time around.

Hope Solo, the US women's soccer goalkeeper, said that athletes really are different from the rest of us: "When they're training, it's laser focus. When they go out for a drink, it's 20 drinks. With a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you want to build memories, whether it's sexual, partying or on the field. I've seen people having sex right out in the open. On the grass, between buildings, people are getting down and dirty."

When all is said and done, I'm glad that our Olympians are having safe sex, at least. The ESPN story reported that in 2000 in Sydney, 70,000 condoms weren't enough, and they ordered 20,000 more. Today the standing order is 100,000 official condoms. At those numbers, no wonder Durex wants to keep other companies out of the village.

And at roughly 10,000 athletes, that's 10 condoms per. That's a lotta action.

Did you miss me?

So, I’m sitting here with approximately 100 surgical steel stitches in a line from above my navel well down into what Victorian pornography euphemistically calls the “Mound of Venus.”

I can’t have sex, drive my sports car (or any car for that matter), swim, or luxuriate in a hot bath, all things that I consider essential to life. No matter how long I stand in the shower, I can’t approximate the feeling of well being that I get while submerged in water.

There are other things I can’t do which I don’t miss. Grocery shopping at the “you-bag it” store and lifting heavy sacks, for instance. And as a water aerobics classmate cheerfully crowed, “You won’t be able to vacuum for months.”

I had a “complete hysterectomy.” Did you know that there is a difference between a “total” and a “complete.”? Yeah, me neither, but just like booking a “direct flight,” when you really mean “non-stop,” there is a difference. If you’ve ever sat in an airport for four hours waiting for your “direct “ flight to resume, you’ll know what I mean.

You might be sitting there wondering why the hell I haven’t written for months. I don’t really have any good excuse other than I didn’t feel like it. I always said that I never wrote for free — there was always money or a grade attached. Until one day there wasn’t.

When I parted company with the local newspaper, I had been writing my column for almost ten years. People liked it, and my editors continued to pay me for writing it. The pittance they paid was just enough to complicate collecting unemployment and my tax filing, but it was something.

I got lots of positive feedback from people in the community. But in August of 2010, caught in the bind that all newspapers find themselves in, they decided my $200 a month could be better spent elsewhere, and discontinued my column.

I felt a certain obligation to my readers, and quickly took the column online. I tried to make it appear the same time that the column ran —Sunday morning— but I didn’t always make it. Often, I spent all morning Sunday writing about what my husband and I did on Saturday night.

It was terrific not having to answer to anyone — at the end, my editors were wanting to know in advance what I was writing about, to avoid trouble with management. About the time they told me I was writing about my granddaughter Charlotte too often, I was more than ready to cut the cord.

I could include photos, link to Wikipedia entries for those who didn't get some of my obscure references (I once had to defend using the expression “being between Syclla and Charybdis” at the paper because “people won’t understand it”), and embed videos. It was fun.

Until one day, it wasn’t fun any more. It felt like work. Unpaid work. My husband, who writes for the sheer love of it, doesn’t really understand. He asked for whom I wrote, expecting to hear me say, “me,” but that wasn’t my answer. Like the class clown, if I'm not getting money, I need affirmation, an audience, and I wasn’t getting it.

And then I realized I could quit. One Sunday, I just didn’t write. No explanations, I just didn’t. And if it takes 21 days to form a habit, I can tell you it takes fewer days to quit a habit you’re weary of.

Some people make a living out of their websites, some make enough to cover their expenses, but trying to make the site pay looked like another job to me, and I already had a very taxing one: teaching composition to college freshman. Which was another reason I had trouble writing: when push came to shove, my papers needed to be graded before I could write about our latest Los Angeles adventure.

But now I feel like writing again, perhaps because I realize that I want to write — even if it is just for me. After spending the last month waiting for this surgery to determine whether the softball-size mass on my left ovary was cancer or a fibroid tumor, I have had plenty of time for reflection. Thankfully, it was the latter, which really gives me no excuse for not fulfilling my potential.

If you are a writer, you write. It’s really simple. And I am a writer, have been since roughly fourth grade. My forced reflection period has convinced me that I need to get some of the book plans I have out of my head and onto paper, but for now, just writing this blog is a baby step.

So I’ll make a deal with you, what’s left of my readership. I’ll continue to write, and I’ll strive for posting weekly. But if I can’t, don’t be surprised. It probably means I’m torturing freshman somewhere by trying to coax a decent thesis statement out of them.

For your part, throw me a bone in the form of a comment or an email once in a while, just to let me know you’re still out there. At the right of the page is a “Subscribe by email” link. Just put your email address in there, and when I post, it will come to your mailbox . Or you can follow me with a Google or Yahoo reader by clicking the “subscribe” button.

Give the class clown some love.

Ps. While I've been on hiatus (no, that's not where the Kennedys go in the summer, as Neil Young once asked an interviewer) Charlotte has gained a little brother, Desmond. Tune in next week for the adventures of Super Chub!

Pulling strings to help Bob Baker

One of the characters in Bob Baker Marionettes
Christmas show welcomes guests.

Editor's note: This column originally ran in the Antelope Valley Press on Sunday, June 7, 2009. Three years later, Bob Baker is still hanging on, although his grip is now precarious. Humorist Charles Phoenix is doing a one-off fundraiser to try to save the theater. My husband and I took Phoenix's Downtown Disneyland Tour in December of 2011, and saw a part of the Christmas show, which was wonderful. Many of the puppeteers are Latino kids from the theater's downtown neighborhood. If you can't go to the fundraiser, try to catch the show, before the whole thing slips away.

Pulling strings at city hall took on a new meaning Wednesday, as the Bob Baker Marionettes lobbied the Los Angeles City Council to grant historical cultural landmark status to their home on First St.

The council granted the wish of Pinocchio, Fluffy the dog, and Calvin Collidisworth the song-and-dance man, and now the former movie scenery shop is on the city's landmark list. I'm not sure what that means in terms of protection for the theater, but I hope it helps.

Fans of the 85-year-old Bob Baker, marionette operator extraordinaire, were concerned back in December when they heard that the operation needed $30,000 to bring its mortgage current, or it would be forced to sell the building.

Baker has said that although he was behind in payments, he is refinancing his mortgage to a better rate, and that if people want to help, they should come down and see the show.

The poor marionettes are caught in the same bind as everyone: with less disposable income, people are having kid's birthdays at home to save money, school districts are cutting field trips, and the mortgage/credit crunch is driving up the cost of business.

Bob Baker with his Marionettes. Charles Phoenix's fundraiser  is on July 29 at 4pm.
Tickets are $75, and the details are here.

I had heard of Bob Baker for years, but I'd never seen his show until my friend Lynn and I went on Charles Phoenix's "Disneyland" Tour of Downtown Los Angeles. Phoenix, a huge fan and supporter of Baker, believes that every land at the Happiest Place on Earth can be found downtown.

For Fantasyland, he took us on a yellow school bus to the Marionette Theater and we got the birthday experience: 

a puppet show, a cake, and ice cream in those cool little Dixie cups I hadn't seen since I was a kid.

Baker isn't always there; often he is on the road doing shows, like he was on Wednesday when his puppets invaded the council chambers. But he performed the day we visited, and came into the birthday room to chat.

Watching Baker agilely working the strings, it's difficult to believe he's 85, and I could have listened to his old Hollywood stories for hours. He manufactures collectible marionettes for the Disney Corporation, and said he had a "handshake deal" with Walt himself.

Charles Phoenix (in mouse ears) gives a tour of the
Bob Baker Marionette Theater as part of a tour. Phoenix is doing a
 fundraiser for the Los Angeles institution.

His long career, begun by working with director Mervyn LeRoy, has spanned decades. He operated the aliens in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," made shoes, stockings and nightgowns dance in "Bedknobs and Brooksticks," worked the marionette that sang with Judy Garland in "A Star is Born" and one of his puppets was serenaded by Elvis Presley in "G.I. Blues."

You might think that children raised on video games and movies with sophisticated special effects would scoff at the time-honored marionette show, but the kids at our show were enthralled.

The folks working the puppets wear black and are in plain sight, but after a few minutes you forget that they are even there. The puppeteers breathe such life into the creatures that the children sitting on the floor are transfixed.

Baker has vowed never to give up the fight to keep the theater open, and I hope he succeeds. My granddaughter Charlotte is only two months old, and I want to give her a birthday party there when she's old enough.

A very Gorey evening....

Our official portrait from the Edwardian Ball at the Belasco Theater in Los Angeles.
I  regret that you can't see Jim's cool gunfighter's coat in this picture. But you can see my ray gun.

I'm not sure why I love to dress up so much. Psychiatrists might have a theory about self-loathing, and they might be right. I haven't been comfortable in my skin since sixth grade. When you're not happy with the way you look, pretending to be someone else makes a lot of sense.

My favorite gown from Age of Innocence.
Now this is better than Renaissance clothes. 

A close-up of my ray gun.

Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I can remember dragging my mother's best white peignoir set out of her drawer, wrapping a ribbon crossways over my chest and declaring myself Helen of Troy. At which point she forbade me to drag her good nightgown all over the neighborhood, especially in late October.

When I had kids, I spent so much time making them costumes, I never quite got around to making one for me. A notable exception was in the late 1990s, when I made a red satin Edwardian ball gown, which would have been suitable for the Titanic. In fact, I did wear it for formal night on a week-long cruise to Mexico. It hangs in my closet, a mute reminder that I'm not as thin as I once was.

Here is the gunfighter coat with all the
 accouterments that April provided.
You can see a Gorey character behind him,

The Society for Creative Anachronism and the Renaissance Faire gave me lots of opportunity to dress up and pretend to be someone else, but 16th and 17th century costumes were not as detailed and delicate as liked. I gave a Russian party once, and April Ray of Daisy's Costumes on Lancaster Boulevard turned me into Anna Karenina and my family into that of Czar Nicholas.

So when my husband and I decided to go to the Edwardian Ball, I knew just where to go. I went into Daisy's with a sheaf of photographs and drawings culled from the Internet. You can't go into Daisy's and browse, because only she knows where everything is. You have to go in and say, "I want to be steampunk," and show her examples.

April got excited over one drawing that had leather straps and buckles holding up an overskirt and a corset top, and when your costumer is having fun, you get a great outfit. She took one look at my husband and exclaimed, "Oh, I've got a wonderful gunfighter's coat that will just fit you!"

We still haven't mastered the art of taking our own
 photo yet. How do those kids do this?

We ended up making about seven trips to Daisy's Costumes. I bought a striped steampunk corset and a ray gun, as well as goggles for Jim off the internet, and April made me a holster for my gun. I already had tea-length crocheted gloves and Victorian boots.

When we got inside the Belasco Theater, it was like stepping into a film. The venue actually is from the Edwardian era, generally described as beginning with the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 and ending with the start of the first World War.

This is the main theater at the Belasco. We paid a fortune
for one of these tables, but it was great to have a place to roost.

There was a guy playing a guitar made out of a shovel, called appropriately enough, Shovelman.

The place was awash in crinolines, corsets, high-topped ladies' boots, spats and top hats on men in a variety of time periods. Lots of the women had those tiny top-hats perched at a jaunty angle.

The Edwardian era was well-represented, as was steampunk and Victorian. I only saw a few truly authentic Edwardian costumes, but this wasn't about authenticity, it was a giant party. Everyone made at least some sort of effort.

One of our friendly neighbors, a steampunk naturalist.
She had butterflies all over her clothes, an Edwardian
walking skirt, a leather corset and goggles.
Jim thinks she was a little lit. I think he's right.

Waiting in line for a martini, I looked around and saw men in full safari gear and pith helmets, gentlemen in evening clothes who looked like they just came from seeing Jenny Lind perform, ladies in low-cut dresses with dazzling necklaces, and even a few men in Oriental robes and turbans, looking like Ram Dass from A Little Princess.

I was sad that I forgot my camera, but we both had our iPhones, so we got a few photos. People were coming up to us and exclaiming how great we looked, and asking to take our picture. We were doing the same, and everyone we met was remarkably friendly. Couple would just come up and introduce themselves, and chat.

One of our balcony neighbors insisted that the only way we could take her picture was if I was in it with her. She was a steampunk naturalist, and truly looked like an Edward Gorey drawing.

I believe that is actor Christopher Shyer (J. Edgar)
with the accordion, but I'm not 100% sure. His female
companion was a big hit with photographers all night.

Oh, did I mention Gorey? The Edwardian Ball, which began in San Francisco, is dedicated to the author and illustrator, whose black and white drawings of the bizarre lives (and deaths) of Edwardian families have been a favorite of mine since high school. The Vau de Vire Society reenacts Gorey stories with the blessing of the author's trust. This year's offering was The Iron Tonic, a tale about what happens when denizens of a home for the aged discover a magic elixir.

Couples were waltzing on the main floor to prerecorded music before the entertainment began. From our perch in the balcony, we had a great view. The master of ceremonies was fantastic, and changed costumes three or four times. You can see a video I shot of the opening number here.  Footage of the San Francisco ball is playing on the screen behind him.

The evening's entertainment also included Rosen Coven, the "World's Premier Pagan Lounge Ensemble," a string based musical group who are among the originators of the Edwardian Ball, and various vaudeville-type acts.

Feeling like the Edward Gorey character
from the PBS Mystery! titles.

The latter included aerialists, a whip act (get your mind out of the gutter), and a vastly entertaining Western shooting act which turned the gender tables. The shooter was a tall buff woman in a barely there buckskin top and pants shooting balloons off an "Indian maiden," who was the most flamboyant  queen I've ever seen. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth, moccasins, and a feather, but he might as well have been in rhinestones. Politically correct? No, but hysterical.

The only real anachronism was Creature Feature, who describe themselves as a "shitty rock band who writes songs about shitty horror movies." Here is a video of them which I shot mainly to show you the background video. It reminds me of Terry Gilliam's animation for Monty Python. Imagine what Gilliam could have done with computers!

Here's a link to a Huffington Post article with photos. You will see a photo of the tarot card reader to whom I paid $20. She read a three-card spread, then we chatted and she rubbed scented oil in my palm. It felt very decadent.

We want to go to San Francisco next year. That ball is an entire weekend, in a much larger venue. They actually had a bicycle-powered merry-go-round at that one, and many more vendors. But I think we'd like to come bank to this one again next year ask, and bring friends.

But a year is a long time to wait to dress up again. Maybe I should look into the Pickwick or Jane Austen societies. You know they've got to have parties, right?

Coming soon....the Edwardian Ball

Our official photo from The Edwardian Ball.

Sorry, it's been a couple of weeks since I have posted. We have had a busy social calendar, and it's hiring season for colleges, so I've been applying for jobs. This weekend I will post our adventures at The Edwardian Ball, so stay tuned.

Be my Valentine!

Today is Valentine's Day.

Any woman who says she doesn't care about that is a liar. Or Amy Farrah Fowler. But judging how Amy melted over that tiara, even she might be susceptible.

Oh, we say we don't care. We rationalize that our husband/boyfriend/shack job is plenty romantic throughout the year, and romance shouldn't be confined to just one day. If we are survivors of the 1960s, we might say that romance shouldn't be institutionalized, but spontaneous and free, like running through a meadow. (Yeah, just like we used to do under the influence.)

If we are very cynical, we consider the multi-billion dollar business this day set aside for showing love has become, and we say it is just another "Hallmark holiday" like Grandparent's Day, and dismiss it. (Speaking of that, I didn't get a Grandparent's Day card last year, what gives?)

But the truth is we'd sell our mothers for a dozen roses (I prefer peach, but the traditional red would suffice) delivered to the office. Because it's not really about whether we get roses, but rather that we are seen getting roses by the rest of our office mates,  "esse est percipi" (to be is to be perceived) as philosopher George Berkeley famously put it.

Like so much that happens today, if we can't put the picture on Facebook, it didn't really happen. We need to be the object of envy in the office.

When I was first divorced, I was invited to a girls-only Valentine's Day party, where unattached women drink and scoff at Cupid and his obviously bad aim, since they are still single. I was uncomfortable, because I hadn't given up hope. Sure, my husband dumped me after 18 years of marriage for someone younger he met on the Internet, but that didn't mean I was unloveable. My Prince Charming was right around the corner, I believed.

Thirteen years later, I was still waiting, still single with no significant relationship to speak of in all those years, and none on the horizon. I left the office that Valentine's day bitter and discouraged, after seeing bouquet after bouquet arrive for happily pair-bonded (as Amy would say) co-workers. Now, I was finally at that cynical place where I hated the whole holiday. I finally got it.

I left work heading straight to BevMo to buy a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to drown my sorrows, but not before I spied an errant rose in the foyer floor of the office. One tightly closed little rosebud that hadn't found its way to the beloved. I ground it to pieces under my heel, and just kept walking.

It was agit-prop theater, to be sure, but oddly, it made me feel a tiny bit better. Little did I know that my "I hate Valentine's Day"message was received by the co-worker holding the door for me, and he was almost  moved to invite me out for a drink. As he puts it now, if he had, it would have speeded up our courtship by a good six-months.

The next Valentine's Day, I still didn't get roses in the office, because I didn't work there anymore. I had to quit to avoid getting fired or getting him fired for intraoffice dating. It was a small price to pay. I haven't had a full-time job since, but I did get a full-time romance.

And I married the King of Romance. We don't exchange gifts on Valentines, but we go to a special dinner and dancing every year. Today, he is taking me to the Queen of Hearts Ball at the Edison in Los Angeles. It is a 1920s setting with a very strict dress code. Since it is a ball, he's wearing a tux tonight.

So now I have become one of the envied. And yes, I am back to loving Valentine's Day, just the way I did when my girls gave little neighborhood parties with heart-themed paper plates and heart-shaped sugar cookies we baked.

So, for all my single friends — don't give up hope. It took me 13 years to get swept off my feet, but when I did, it was marvelous. I'm sending good thoughts out into the universe for you.

Why I love the Big Bang

Much of "The Big Bang Theory" takes place around Sheldon and Leonard's  coffee table
eating a variety of Asian take-out. From left, computer whiz Howard, physicist Leonard,
community college dropout Penny, super-genius physicist Sheldon, and astrophysicist Raj.

I am hopelessly addicted to "The Big Bang Theory."

Uncharacteristically, I came very late to this nerd fest. The show debuted in 2007, when I was deep in grad school hell, going to classes at night and working all day. I didn't start watching until last year, and I've been catching up with the reruns on TBS ever since.

On the surface, it doesn't really sound like much of a premise: a bunch of egghead scientists living in Pasadena, working at a university, which although I don't think I've ever heard the name used, is obviously California Institute of Technology, and their bright, yet uneducated, neighbor, wannabe-actress Penny.

Penny is the perfect foil for these academically brilliant, yet socially inept quartet. There is a continuum of social awareness among them: Leonard could be cool, if he could tamp down his inner geek god; Howard is constantly on the make, convinced that women are attracted by his smarmy self-confidence; Raj is handsome and sweet and could easily get a girl if only he could talk to them without being drunk; and Leonard is so freakishly asexual that his girlfriend has to negotiate for hugs and kisses.

Mayim Bialik, as Dr. Amy Farrah-Fowler and Jim Parsons as
 Dr. Sheldon Cooper. Despite the body language,
they are an item.

The setup is somewhat reminiscent of the 1941 screwball comedy, Ball of Fire, with Barbara Stanwyck and Gary Cooper. Stanwyck is Sugarpuss O'Shea, a gangster's showgirl girlfriend who needs a place to hide and end up in a houseful of nerdy lexicographers, who are learning how "everyday people" talk for a new dictionary project. Cooper, a soft-spoken professor, falls head over heels for Sugarpuss. The professors learn how to relax and do the cha-cha along with modern slang, and she learns that being square isn't the worse thing in the world.

Sheldon doesn't understand sarcasm, that sometimes its better to not tell all the truth (or as Emily Dickinson would say, "tell it slant"), or any number of "social protocols." It's like he needs his own droid like C3PO to help him navigate the minefield of daily life. When Leonard has a girl in his room and puts a tie on his door handle, Leonard is smart enough to know its a sign, but has to ask Penny what it means. "You know, you went to college," Penny tells him. "Yes, but I was 11," is his retort. Penny then admits that she was usually on the other side of the tie.

Jim Parsons as Sheldon is the undisputed star of the show, which his two Emmys and multiple other awards attest to. He and former Blossom star Mayim Bialik, who plays his girlfriend Amy, are perfectly cast. Bialik plays a neurobiologist, which she is in real life, with a PhD from UCLA. Apparently she's also as badly dressed as Amy Farrah-Fowler in real life, since "What Not to Where" did a makeover on her. This moment, when Penny convinces Sheldon to buy Amy a gift to make up for his boorish behavior will go down in history as one of TV's greatest moments. The sparkle-deprived Amy dissolves into a girlish, yet totally Amy response.

This is how Big Bang nerds celebrate New Year's,
with a costume party at the comic book store.
You gotta love guys who like to dress up.

I'm not sure why I love the show so much. Part of it might be that I have known a considerable number of nerds. They may not be geniuses, but they do love comic books, superheroes, Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate, and any other science fiction. One of the great things about nerds is that they actually like to dress up. There are lots of nerds in the Society For Creative Anachronism, and many of the local ones work at Edwards. Computer screens by day; swords and capes by night.

I used to go to an English country dance SCA gathering on Friday nights, but I never went without a conversation partner of my own. The dancing was loads of fun, but when we went out for pie afterward, the talk turned to Star Trek, and I wanted to flee.

The show was always good, but the addition of Amy and Howard's fiancee, Bernadette has made it even better. Penny has to deal with the social ineptness of females, this time, who are equally stunted but in a different way. Amy's desperation and crush on Penny, and Bernadette's slow transformation into Howard's stereotypical Jewish mother make for lots of comedic opportunity.

My favorite relationship is that of Sheldon and Penny. He is at times openly hostile and insulting to her, especially about her lack of education, but often needs her help and nurturing. Penny actually has love for him in a way you might for a hurt puppy, or an obstreperous two-year-old. When he asks her to sing the "Soft Kitty" song his mother sang to him, you melt, but the next minute he berates her for not getting the words right.

I hope that Big Bang does real-life nerds some good, showing them as fun, bright, funny, open-minded and  loyal, as well as smart. Penny is slowly learning that her handsome, hunky ex-boyfriends don't treat her as well as bookish, eager to please (in bed and out)  Leonard does. As someone said, one day all of us will be working for the guys with pocket protectors.

*******

Speaking of dressing up, my husband and I went to Daisy's Costumes on Lancaster Blvd. to get fitted for costumes for the Edwardian Ball on Feb. 19. The ball is put on by lovers of author and artist Edward Gorey. According to their website,  "the Edwardian Ball is an elegant and whimsical celebration of art, music, theatre, fashion, technology, circus, and the beloved creations of the late, great author Edward Gorey. Set in our own version of “Edwardian” times, this multi-media extravaganza has grown over the past decade from a small underground club night into an internationally recognized event, now operating with the blessing of The Edward Gorey Charitable Trust."


Jim is getting a long gunfighter's coat, an ascot and vest, and some kind of top hat. April Ray, Daisy's proprietor, is making me a dress with a corset on the outside. I already ordered a ray gun and goggles for us. The theme is The Iron Tonic, and I know there will scads of steampunks there. I can't wait, and will takes lots of pictures. Here is a video from last year's San Francisco ball.

Weight Watchers: the never-ending story

My family at Disneyland in December 2012 from left: son-in-law Patrick, daughter  Allison,
 daughter Megan, son-in-law Christopher, husband Jim, and my chubby self.
 Charlotte is in front doing some weird shoulder thing. I'm going to use this as my "before" picture.

I'm back at Weight Watchers. Again.

Actually, this is the 41st year of my association with that organization. I started back when I didn't actually have enough weight to lose to qualify for the program. Used to be, if you didn't have 20 or 25 pounds to lose (I can't remember), you had to have a note from your doctor.

So I got my family physician to write me a letter saying my health would improve if I lost 18 pounds. Now, all these years later, I would kill to only have 20 pounds to lose. I'm far, far away from that and have been since I had children.

I like to tease my daughters that they ruined my figure. I had just dieted my way into a size 11 when I got pregnant. I still have that dress that I wore to a friend's wedding, just to prove to myself that it actually happened. I quit smoking as soon as I found out I was pregnant, so I attribute about 30 pounds of the weight gain to that. I eventually was 70 pounds overweight when I delivered.

The truth is, I was never thin. I was a chubby child, which never bothered me until I hit sixth-grade and became aware that other people were judging me. I was wearing go-go boots and hip-hugger skirts, and though I looked fantastic. Developing self-consciousness is a bitch. From that early 1960s realization on, never a day went by that I didn't worry about how I looked or mourn how fat I was.

In junior high and high school, it was only 20 pounds too many, but it seemed like 100. Now, I mourn all the hours I spent worrying about those measly 20 pounds, especially when I know exactly how bad it can get.

I know I'm insane for going public with this, because announcing you're on a diet usually dooms you to failure. Consider Kirstie Alley, Wynonna Judd, Carnie Wilson. They make public pronouncements, then fall off the wagon and end up packing the pounds back on. I've sat next to enough gastric-bypass patients in WW meetings to know that's not a silver bullet, either.

In Weight Watcher meetings, I'm a pain in the ass. I crack jokes and quote so many Alcoholic Anonymous slogans that members must think I'm in recovery. Think about it, those slogans are applicable to many endeavors in life: One Day at a Time, Easy Does It, Keep it Simple Stupid, and my favorite, It Works if you Work It.

Pretty much any plan works if you work it, but WW works better than others. I've lost 23 pounds since I started about eight weeks ago. I'm doing water aerobics three times a week at the gym. I feel better and have a lot more energy.

The plan is much better than it was in the late 60s and early 70s when I started. A woman found some Weight Watcher recipe cards from 1974 in her mother's basement, including many for mackerel, and put them on the internet with some very funny comments. Back then, the plan was based on the diabetic exchange program. We used to talk about eating "boxes" because each food group had little squares after it that stood for one unit of that food.

The program back then called for you to eat a certain amount of tuna and liver every week. I was okay with the tuna, but I'd rather be fat the rest of my life than eat liver. Just the smell of it makes me want to retch. Seriously, when we have iron supplements, why would anyone eat that disgusting stuff? My dad liked it, but he had to order liver and onions in restaurants, so we didn't have to cook it at home.

This time, I really believe I'm going all the way, because I'm scared. Fear is a fantastic motivator. Every single health problem I have would be eliminated or made better by losing weight and a better diet: bad knees, acid reflux, sleep apnea, and high blood pressure. I'm not getting any younger, and I want to be able to run after Charlotte and her soon-to-be born baby brother.

I always had people who loved me and found me attractive at any size, and the weight never stopped me from doing anything I wanted to do, but I had to overcome a degree of humiliation. Like having to wear a man's wetsuit and fold up the legs and sleeves because I was too fat to fit into a woman's version. The same thing happened in fencing: my fencing jacket sleeves practically hung to my calves because I had to wear a man's size.

Many of the health habits I acquired from Weight Watchers stuck with me in-between the times I actually was working the program. I almost always substituted something for fries when eating out, and I never eat hamburgers. But birthday cake is my bete noire; I will scrape off the buttercream icing and eat it with a spoon.

If I don't arrive early enough to my Tuesday night meeting I won't get a seat because of all the New Year's resolution newcomers. I wish them the best, but I know from my years of experience, that the herd will be considerably thinner by Easter. With any luck, I'll still be there, learning how to avoid my Easter temptations: chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies, and yellow Peeps.

Then the pre-bathing-suit crowd will show up at meetings, and for once, looking for a suit might not be the tremendous ordeal it has been in the past. By then, I should be considerably smaller. I am resigned to the fact that like alcoholics, I'm never going to be done with meetings. Maybe I'll apply to be a leader when I get to goal, since I have to be there anyway. Might as well get paid for it.

Tacos at a filling station and another, better, used bookstore

The front window of Book Alley, 1252 E. Colorado Blvd., Pasadena, 91106,
an amazing used bookstore that is a browser's delight.

Even though last weekend was supposed to be the book trip, we found a used bookstore on Saturday that has all the Hollywood places beat: Book Alley, in Pasadena. We had tickets for Noises Off, at the A Noise Within theater, and my husband Jim (the cruise director and master of the revels) thought that we should hit this bookstore he had read about in his research for a recent newspaper story.

Jim in the children's section at Book Alley.

In case you forgot that the New Year's Rose Parade goes down Colorado Blvd., the remains of Silly String on the road and sidewalks are a colorful reminder. Spraying Silly String became illegal in 1992 with a city ordinance, but lots of people remain scofflaws.

We parked on a side street, and the neon green, pink and blue stains got more Jackson Pollock-like the closer we got to Colorado. We noticed a place with sidewalk umbrellas the block behind the store, and made a note to check it out for lunch.

Book Alley's welcoming entrance immediately placed it well above the places we saw last week. I hadn't been in it but a few minutes, when I whispered to my husband: "I love this place!" There were lots of interesting books faced out on easels that drew me in, but also books stacked on the floor.

In fact, it's the perfect combination of organization and clutter, much like my own systems. The shelves are arranged into categories and alphabetized, but there are books on the floor, on the counters — hell, on every flat surface. The lady who helped us said it wasn't usually that messy, they were doing a reorganization, but that's my excuse to drop-in guests, too.

Don't you just want to know
what's in those stacks?

If you want something specific (Jim was looking for John Fante), you can find it, but there is enough randomness in other parts of the store to satisfy the bibliophile's urge to root around and seek out titles you didn't know you needed until you see it.

Another wonderful touch for English majors is that they file biographies and literary analyses right with the author's work, which makes for some wonderful discoveries. For $15, I picked up Feasting with Panthers: A New Consideration of Some Late Victorian Writers, by Rupert Croft-Cooke, written in 1967.

I must admit that this examination of how Charles Swinburne, John Addington Symonds and Oscar Wilde "made a cult out of their own sexual idiosyncrasies" appealed to my prurient fascination. But I've read a number of more mannered biographies about Wilde, including one that argued he was a better Catholic than anyone supposed, so I feel entitled.

They were out of Ask the Dust (it is Fante's best-known work), but they did have Dreams of Bunker Hill, so Jim bought that. I bought a first edition of Falling Man, by Don DeLillo, for $5, probably because the reviews were lukewarm. I figure that DeLillo, who was a 21st century author well before the millennium, was the ideal man to write about 9/11, about which I haven't read any fiction. The critics probably wanted another White Noise, and what author has more than one of those in him or her?

This cabinet has drawers of programs,
guide books, and other cool
ephemera for sale.

The store has more books than you see on the selling floor; they also have a huge space that I can only suppose is a staging area for books before they put them out on the shelf. The nice lady helping us gave a peek into this room, and just looking at the floor to ceiling shelves and piles upon piles of books gave me an overwhelmed feeling.

I was glad to get back to the less-chaotic sales floor. When we checked out, I found a stack of old children's books on the counter waiting to be priced, including a facsimile reprint of a book my mother had when she was a child, Four Little Puppies.

Her copy was a 1936 original, but it had crayon markings on every page. Whether she or her younger brother did the enhancing, I can't say, but I loved it as a child, and was happy to pay $4 for the new edition.

The Coca-Cola wonderland that is Norma's Tacos,
a block off Colorado right behind Book Alley.

Book Alley had some of the other titles in the series, featuring cats and bunnies dressed up in clothes doing things normal families do: kids play in the yard, mom cooks in the kitchen, and dad sits in his chair smoking a pipe. Really cute stuff if you don't think about it too hard.

I fear for all bookstores these days, but Book Alley has an online component, which might help them beat the odds. If you are looking for something specific, you can go to their website, search for it and buy it online. Now that I have discovered them, I never want them to close, and I regret every dime I spent at Cosmopolitan.

We went back to the joint on the corner we had spied, which turned out to be Norma's Tacos, a walk-up taqueria made out of a vintage gas station. I don't know if the red and silver pumps are the same ones as when it dispensed gasoline, but it is really charming. The food is fantastic, and reasonably priced, especially important if you've just blown your wad on books. I had carne asada tacos, which were great, but I regretted not getting the tacos with crispy potatoes inside. Ah well, next time.

The combo of Book Alley, Comics Factory (just a few doors down from Book Alley, where Jim bought Fatale, a new noir comic book), Norma's Tacos, and a matinee at A Noise Within made for a satisfying Pasadena outing away from the bustle of downtown. It could be a reasonably priced excursion, depending on how well you can control your book habit.

World-famous martinis, books, books, and more books

Manny, Musso and Frank's bartender, pouring one of their famous martinis.

I walked back from Musso and Frank's ladies room yesterday and whispered in my husband's ear, "There are only two stalls in there."
"Yeah, and?" he replied.
"That means there's a 50% chance that I just used the same stall as Dorothy Parker."
His raucous laugh made more than a few patrons look around.

S.Z. Sakall, also known as Cuddles.
Doesn't he resemble Manny?
Manny sounds a little like him, too.

It was a nostalgic kind of day. We had been in the bar where we drank Musso and Frank's signature martinis, and now we were having lunch. Manny the bartender, has been stirring up the iconic cocktails since 1984.

I had heard people rave about the restaurant's martinis, so for once, I didn't call for Bombay Sapphire, my favorite gin. I wanted to have the whole Musso and Frank's experience, to have a cocktail the way they've been making them for years, just like the ones they made for Fitzgerald, Chandler, Parker, Hemingway, and all the other writers who have drunk, fought, recovered from hangovers, and oh, yeah, written there.

We climbed onto barstools, and I was disconcerted by my reflection in the bar mirror. I forgot that old-fashioned bars have huge mirrors running the length of them. Manny the bartender approached, and I told we wanted his famous martinis.

He searched our faces, and said, "You know our martinis are made with gin, right?"

I felt wounded. Didn't I look like a martini drinker?
"Is there any other kind?"was my reply. His smile brightened, and he bustled about making our drinks.

This is how your martini will arrive; the little
carafe is the rest of your drink. Kinda like
milkshakes at Bob's Big Boy.

The only martinis are gin martinis. That is an article of faith so strong with me that even people who know little about me know it. Nothing pisses me off faster than to order a martini and have the bartender ask, "Gin or vodka?"

You can put vodka in a martini glass, spike it with an olive or onion, and even splash a little vermouth in there, but that doesn't make it a martini. If you ask for a martini, you should get gin. If you want vodka, order a vodka martini. Gin drinkers were here first. Manny told us that he had to start asking, because people (probably young people) were ordering martinis and sending them back because they wanted vodka.

He poured Gordons gin into a glass cocktail shaker, added the vermouth and stirred. Manny said, "Some people say, hold the vermouth. I put a little in anyway." Of course, because otherwise, that's just gin in a glass. They stir martinis at Musso and Frank's because they think it waters down your drink to shake it.



The presentation is lovely: Manny lines up the glasses and carafes, then makes a big show of pouring equal amounts in each glass. He goes back and forth a few times, evening up the amounts, saying, "This way, there will be no arguments."

The Central Library's rotunda, with its stained glass globe chandelier
and murals depicting the opening of the West.

The rest he pours into the carafes, and later will come by to fill our glasses. Ah yes, a full-service bartender.
The drink can't be faulted: the olives come with toothpicks in them so you don't have to fish them out with your fingers (believe me, I will, and have). It is impeccably mixed, presented, and poured, and only costs $9.50. There's only one problem: it's still just Gordons gin.

My husband loved it, but he's not a dyed-in-the-wool gin drinker, like me. Let me put it this way: when you're drinking a martini, it's pure alcohol. So the gin matters. I don't order martinis in some places because they don't know how to make them, and even in places I do order them, I'll drink something else if I can't get Bombay or Hendricks gin.

So now I've had the Musso and Frank's experience: next time I'll call for Bombay, and then it will be a perfect martini.

The atrium joins the old and new wings of the library,
 with whimsical chandeliers.

The unremarkable lunch (the wedge salad made me yearn for the Lemon Leaf's) was the mid-part of our day, which began at the Central Library, and continued at bookstores. The library is amazing; I take my students there, and I had never seen the fabulous things I saw on this tour. Our guide was a sweet little lady named Selma, who was knowledgeable, and liked to give us little quizzes. She was amused by the rivalry between me and my husband when it came to answering questions. In the final tally, he was more observant than me, dammit.

Then it was off to Larry Edmunds, which specializes in books on film, television, and the stage, where I found a German Expressionist poster for the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and the owner bitched at us because we wandered upstairs, where his office is. (We didn't know, he forgot to put his rope up across the stairs.)

I wander though the amazing mess of Cosmopolitan,
the bookstore seen in the Ewan McGregor
film Beginners, feeling like Indiana Jones.

We really wanted to see Cosmopolitan, the bookstore shown in the movie Beginners, with Ewan McGregor, Christopher Plummer and some delectable French woman, shot in some of my favorite locations in Los Angeles, like the Biltmore hotel.

The owner is a slightly irascible old man, who, when he dies, will take this place with him. The prices are too high, and I felt like Indiana Jones maneuvering though the stacks and stacks of books that threaten to fall on you, but it was an adventure.

I found a hysterical book about real notes that English flatmates have written to one another, with the author's funny comments on the opposing page. That being said, the title, I Lick My Cheese, needs no explanation.

I also overpaid for a book of photographs by Doisneau, who captured ordinary Parisians on the street in the 1950s. We know him best from his black and white series of couples kissing, that got turned into posters.

In the end, I think I overpaid because I wanted the books, he had them, and now I can say I patronized him, much like I can now say I had lunch at Musso and Frank's, even though the food wasn't great. My husband was rather taken with the "charm" of this store, but when I think about it, the reason I didn't like it so much is that books should be treated better than this, in my opinion.

If you are a book lover, you'd be appalled by the way books are piled on every conceivable surface, crammed into every corner, and never dusted in this place. I couldn't see the owner at the cash wrap, because of the stacks on books on the counter. It was almost comical. Maybe my former identity as a bookstore manager was screaming inside me.

On the other hand, my husband kissed me in an aisle featured in the film, and whispered, "Ewan McGregor stood right here."

Yeah, that was worth the trip.

Welcome, 2012!

This may look festive, but don't let that fool you: I didn't even drink on New Year's Eve.

So— the first day of 2012.

Since I am a white Anglo Saxon Protestant of mixed indeterminate ancestry on one side, and Irish on the other, I wasn't raised with any New Year's traditions.

I used to make Hoppin' John on the first day of the new year, but as any Southerner can tell you, the best stuff is made with a shocking amount of bacon grease. Since I started back to Weight Watchers a few months ago, that ain't happening. It was a borrowed tradition, anyway.

I just looked up the Irish traditions, and they aren't too difficult. The first person to cross your threshold on New Year's has a special significance. You want it to be a tall, handsome dark-haired man for good luck, apparently. Since I'm happily married, I'm not sure why I'd want that.

Princess Merida, the latest Disney princess, from Brave,
a new Pixar movie. I'm not sure I can forgive them for trying
 to cast Reese Witherspoon, but thankfully, she was busy.
Merida is voiced by a true Scotswoman, Kelly MacDonald.

If your first threshold-crosser is a red-haired woman, that's bad luck. Guess I'd better not cross my own doorstep. According to some versions, that's because people considered gingers to be witches.

Come to think of it, maybe that's where the British prejudice about red-haired people came from. They tease them unmercifully, and discriminate against them. Not even Prince Harry is immune.

I don't find ginger men to be particularly appealing, but a strawberry-blonde girl with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose? Adorable. I can't wait to see the latest Disney princess movie, Brave.

A princess who is a crack archer, and rides a horse like she was born on one? Awesome! Now we have a princess to emulate besides Belle, from Beauty and the Beast. We really only liked her because she was a bookworm, and didn't really fall for the Beast until she saw his library.

But I digress. Apparently, the Irish clean their houses form top to bottom for New Year's. Well, that ain't happening either, but I did clean out my upstairs closet.

My friend told me that one New Year's prediction is that what you do on that day will determine what you will do the rest of the year. So at least, I organized one closet.

Our day started out at Dillard's, to take advantage of their big sale. The place was a madhouse; apparently, women wait all year long for the big Coach purse sale. They had their own line, clearly marked. We were there to buy dress shirts and ties for my husband. We bought six shirts, two ties, a belt and slippers for around $300. Not too shabby. So, I guess I will be saving (and spending) money all year.

Then we did our laundry, and washed all those shirts. If I thought I was going to get out of doing laundry all year,  I was sadly mistaken. So, laundry's going to happen in 2012.

Prime Desert Woodlands, January 1, 2012.

We took a long walk at Prime Desert Woodlands, so maybe I'm going to spend more time in nature this year. That would be good. Actually, the older I get, the better I appreciate the outdoors.

It was late afternoon, my favorite time of day, and we exchanged holiday greetings with lots of nice folks. It's a very peaceful atmosphere out there, you don't feel like you're right in the middle of lots of houses.

I also baked low-fat apple cinnamon muffins, so I might do more baking in 2012. I don't know why, since I can't eat most baked goods. I did make a pretty healthful dinner, and I know that will continue.

I talked to family on the phone, which I definitely will keep doing. I'd like to get together with family and friends more this year, and I always want to do more entertaining.

I'm writing this column, and I really want to do more writing in the coming year. I couldn't get to it the last few weeks, and I hated that.

So those are my predictions for the new year. There's still time left before midnight for me to get some other things done, if you know what I mean.

I hope 2012 will be a better year. Last year wasn't a terrible year for me, but there's always room for improvement. Of course, if the 2012 doom-sayers are right, and the world ends, 2011 is going to look pretty good about then, right?

I hope you have a wonderful, prosperous New Year!