Column will be delayed

I'm in Santa Monica, after going to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising's annual scholarship dinner and fashion show, Debut 2011, and I'm on my way to see "Turn of the Screw" at the Music Center.

Happy birthday, Lotte!

Charlotte in one of her photo sessions with Valeri Estrada from Little Blue World Photography

In a few weeks, my darling granddaughter Charlotte will turn two. Forget about the terrible twos, she started into that developmental stage about six months ago. It occurs to me that one of the reasons I got the ax from my former employer was they thought I wrote about Charlotte too much, and I haven’t written about her for months.

Being a grandmother is not what I expected. In some ways, it is so much more: that overwhelming unconditional love that you thought you’d never feel except for your children. And at the same time, it is not all Hallmark moments, especially with a granddaughter as precocious as Charlotte.

Charlotte and her mommy at the beach in Santa Monica.

I imagined that Lotte would be a cuddle-bug like her mommy: eager to sit in a lap, bestow kisses, ask for a story, or stroke your hair. Charlotte is way too busy for all of that. She is cuddly with her mom and dad, of course, but only on her own terms. To my daughter’s heartbreak, she is sometimes banished from the play space by her tiny tyrant.

With everyone else, she is like a skittish woodland creature: curious about this adult who has invaded her space, but not very anxious to have a close encounter of the third kind. Not shy, really, because she’s happy enough to have you stare at her; she’s just wary, like a faun at a watering hole.

I approach her like I would any wild animal: I acknowledge her presence but keep my distance. I let her come to me. You can’t just pick her up, or she screams bloody murder. Now that she is talking, eventually she will want to tell you something, so she initiates contact.

Lotte checks out part of a train with
her daddy at Travel Town. She always
wants to know how it works.

She is whip-smart, and curious about everything. Her mind is like a pachinko machine—you can almost see the bright silver balls bouncing from pin to pin as she takes in a concept and makes the connections, ending with the payoff of enlightenment.

Her dad is determined that she not be prissy and too girly, so he loves that she will eat bugs with him at the natural history museum and isn't afraid of snakes.

But I think he's fighting a losing battle with the girly stuff; Lotte is Disney-princess crazy, with Ariel and Tiana being her personal favorites. 

She brings out the best and the worst in me. Like the other day: In response to her command “Don’t touch me!”, I childishly chased her into the kitchen with my index finger outstretched, and poked her in the stomach when I caught up to her. Yeah, I know, I should be above that, but suddenly I was 7-year-old again, with a bratty brother in the backseat of my parent’s station wagon.

I imagined being a traditional, but hip, grandmother. You know, one who bakes cookies, sews heirloom dresses, AND listens to alt-rock, but it turns out I'm so busy, I don't have time to bake, and I mostly babysit Charlotte for her parents' movie dates. Lotte has a very full schedule of playdates, naps, doctor visits, and outings, so it can be difficult getting facetime.

So far, the extent of my spoiling has been to let her watch "Nightmare Before Christmas" whenever she comes to my house. I do this because when she walks over to the television, blonde curls bouncing, and asks "Jack? Sally?" I am helpless to resist her charms.

 

Charlotte, two binkys in one hand, finds a spot of dirt
on the street in Beverly Hills.

She is particularly fond of the male part of the species. She is no sooner on my doorstep than she starts asking about my husband: "Pop-Pop?" to which the answer is most likely, "He's at work."

Now that we've said that so many times, she will answer her own questions, saying" "Pop-Pop is at work..." .

Constantly in motion, one of the few things that will slow her down is an offer to read a book. If you're lucky, she'll only want to hear it once, otherwise, she pipes up with, "Again?" as soon as the last page is turned.

She doesn't suck her thumb, or carry a blanket, so when she needs soothing, she wants a binkie. Actually, she wants two: one to suck, and the other to stroke her cheek with, much the way Sherlock Holmes fingers his pipe.

Although I think her goal is world domination when she's lost in thought like that, not problem solving.

It's hard for me to imagine ever taking her affection for granted, but maybe it is a good thing that she bestows kisses the way a queen does land grants — it makes you appreciate them even more. When she slides her little arm around my neck and buries her face in my shoulder, I know there is nothing I wouldn't give her, no task she could set me I wouldn't do gladly.

Lotte is such a joy that she inspires me to want to live a long life in order to see what crazy thing she will do next.

littleblueworldphoto.com

Top up, cramped — Top down, liberating

Ham the Chimp squashed into his capsule at
Holloman Air Force Base in the late 1950s.
My husband swears this is what he feels like in the MG.

Editor's note: I am under the weather, and while I was sick in bed, my husband Jim disappeared for a few hours, came home and wrote the following. 

I hate my wife’s MG.

It is evil personified. It is a cash-sucking machine. It is British engineering — which is an oxymoron equivalent to jumbo shrimp, military intelligence, fiscally-responsible Democrat, or compassionate conservative.

This hatred started when our Saturn died, forcing us — and by us, I mean me because Kim took possession of Honda Fit — to use the MG to get back and forth to work. Had it been time any other time of the year it wouldn’t have been so bad, but alas, this happened during a very cold stretch of winter. That meant the MG’s top had to stay up.

A couple of very bad things happen when the top is up. First, all the vehicle noises — of which there are many — get amplified. Second, the smallness of the cabin makes me bent over and squished. I feel like Ham the chimp, the astronaut chimpanzee NASA crammed into a rocket and shot into space.

On cold days, which all of those days seemed to have been, I had to use starter fluid to get the MG to start. As much as I washed my hands after, I could still smell the fluid as I headed to work.

Another reason for my hatred of the vehicle is that fact that it spends as much time in repair shops – or waiting to go to a repair shop — as it does running. There was one week in which it made three trips to a repair shop — once for an odd wheel noise, a second time for a broken seat, and a third time for a wonky starter.

If it were any other vehicle, I would have pushed my wife to get rid of it. It would have been on Craigslist so fast it would have made your head swim.

Ham the chimp peers out of his capsule.
www.animalplanet.com

So why is it still in our carport? Let me begin by quoting one of my daughter’s instructors who said of an obstinate llama that was refusing training: “Well, at least she’s pretty.” Yes, damn it, it is pretty. People’s heads turn when we drive it. When I drive it, I have women who wouldn’t normally give me the time of day come up to me.

When my redhead wife is in it even more heads turn. Kim insists that isn’t true, that people are just looking at the car. As a guy, I know the difference between an admiring look at a vehicle and a lecherous look at a woman. Let me break down the guy math for you: sports car + redhead = sex on wheels.

Ok, so I’m exaggerating. I don’t really hate the MG. In fact, I’ve had some great moments in it. The first that leaps to mind is driving it to my wedding with one of my groomsmen, James Koren, in the passenger seat, both of us in tuxedos. It looked like something out of a James Bond movie. Okay, with two guys, it looked like something out of a gay James Bond movie (Thunderballs, anyone?), but a Bond movie nonetheless.

On a sunny day, with the top down, the MG is a joy to drive. It’s not fast by any means, but it handles curves and turns like a cat. It’s perfect for a leisurely drive in the country or, in the case of the Antelope Valley, into the nearby hills.

My drives into the hills are what I call “perspective drives.” While others are racing from Point A to Point B like crazed tenants of an Uncle Milton’s Ant Farm, I’m enjoying the scenery.

I took one of those perspective drives on Saturday. I was feeling a bit blue, thinking of money problems, career issues, and how schools have failed to recognize my wife’s talent, forcing her to be a road warrior adjunct instructor instead of a full-time, tenure-track professional. So that was the frame of mind I was in when I looked at the MG in the carport, ignored recently by Kim, who now has a Miata, and by me, who prefers the roomy cabin of the Fit, especially on cold days.

The MG started right up – it was as if it was eager to be driven. The day was perfect for a drive – sunny, about 70 degrees, with a slight breeze. I headed up to Lake Hughes. Along the way I saw guys in boats on Lake Elizabeth, people out with their dogs, and 20 or so bikers making a mid-day stop at the Rock Inn. It was an idyllic day.

Along the way, I saw the first wildflowers of spring – even a handful of poppies. Parts of the hills were still black from the Station Fire, but here and there patches of green were pushing through the charred earth. It is cliché to say that sight was life-affirming, but just because something is cliché doesn’t mean it’s not true or worth some quiet reflection during a drive.

I think it’s rather impossible to stay blue on a sunny day when you’re driving an MG with the top down. Maybe the MG isn’t so evil after all.

Out with the old....in style

Part of the evening's entertainment was 2Grand Entertainment, a dueling pianos act, at the Lancaster Museum/Art Gallery gala Saturday night.

Forgive me if my prose is not as sparkling as you might expect this morning: I blame the gin.

Two martinis are my limit; unfortunately, a third came my way and I drank it. But the evening was so much fun, being hung over today is a small price to pay. The Lancaster Museum/Art Gallery Associates said goodbye to their old building in spectacular style last night.

When LMAG Associate president Dan Venturoli told me weeks ago that the color palette for Prism: Through the Looking Glass was red, white, and accents of silver, I couldn't really imagine it. But when I walked into the museum space, I was stunned. The building has never looked so good.

The eponymous looking-glass was on the stage, surrounded by a optical illusion that made it look like you have to tumble down a long chessboard to get to it. The ceiling was hung with what turned out to be red and white tablecloths. The effect was that of a castle's banner-strewn main dining hall, making the huge space seem intimate.

Dan Venturoli, LMAG Associates president, left, greeted guests, and said he was "thrilled" with the second annual gala.

The "Alice" chessboard theme was carried out with oversized playing pieces as centerpieces: rooks, knights, kings and queens sitting on a glass block with red roses and lights trapped inside. Some guests heeded the invitation to dress to match the theme, with red ties, red satin dresses, and red high heels. Museum curator Nick West sported a red vest.

The Lemon Leaf did the catering, and all the food was red and white.

From the City of Lancaster's website, here are the Antelopes on Parade, a public art project where local artists decorate antelope statues which are later auctioned off at the gala to support museum programs. Lynn's antelope is at the far right.

I also blame the gin for my bidding in the Antelopes on Parade auction, but luckily I knew my pocketbook's limit better than my martini limit, and dropped out of the bidding at $500 for Cecily Willis' Celebralope, which has Antelope Valley celebrities pictured on it. Pancho Barnes is prominent on the beast's side, as are Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart.

My friend Lynn got into a bidding war with the event's  Honorary Chair Dianne Knippel for an antelope made by Kris Holladay called Past and Present. The statue is covered with bullet casings, broken tile, and mirrors, as well as small keepsakes belonging to her grandfather, who served in World War II. The thing is just amazing, but I hadn't seen it close up before Lynn started bidding on it.

It was very exciting, with Dianne and Lynn outbidding one another and running up the price with lightning speed. After a short consultation with my husband, I ran up and offered our friend some monetary assistance. Finally, Dianne realized, as she told Lynn later, that Lynn wanted it more than she did and she gave up. So, I don't know what portion of the $1,700 antelope we are entitled to with our measly $300, but we are a minority stakeholder. Maybe one mirrored antler....

Table centerpieces have the chessboard theme.

Why yes, that IS Josh Mann being the "A" in "YMCA"

We danced to the dueling pianos, and to the DJ who started spinning at the after party, called Jabberwock. The ladies hit the floor with or without partners, dancing in a big circle and pushing dancers into the center to show off their moves.

It was all great fun, even if I had to travel to the Dorothy Chandler hung over to go to the opera the next day. I know that the new museum building will be wonderful, but it felt a little sad to be leaving this one behind, especially how good it looked all dressed up.

The Miata, the MG, and me

The 2001 Mazda Miata we bought in Whittier, posing on the boulevard.

Romeo lied.

He's a used car salesman after all, so go figure. When I was hesitating about buying our 2001 Miata because of its badly repaired rear window, the young, improbably named Middle Eastern man said, "It's Southern California; we're all done with rain for eight months."

When he said it, I knew it was crap, and furthermore, there are other reasons one might want the top up besides rain, especially in the high desert. Two days after we bought the car; it started pouring rain.

I guess the glass in the rear window leaked, so the former owner fixed with a tube of silicone caulking applied roughly the same way an aging movie star applies make-up — with a trowel. It's a mess, and replacing that ragtop is Job One.

All I could think of when I saw the guys who own this car lot was "Jersey Shore." They aren't big, hulking, and muscle bound, but they definitely hit the gym, and they had shoes that cost more than every stitch of clothing we had on. There were Armani Exchange T-shirts, designer jeans, and precise grooming that must have taken longer than any woman I know.

They pick up luxury cars that are taken in trade at chi-chi dealers who don't sell used cars, and unload them at their lot, so they had three Miatas along with Jaguars, BMWs, and Mercedes. It was difficult to find Miatas, we had to drive all the way to Whittier to get to them.

Once I took it out on the road, I was hooked. This thing may have only four-cylinders, but it also has a dual overhead cam, 16 valve, 142 horse power engine; so, good on gas, it's not. It gets about 25 miles per gallon, and you are supposed to run premium unleaded in it.

What about the MGB? I hear you ask. Let me put it this way: if I were a polygamist, the MG would be the cherished first wife. Still beautiful, but a little fragile, demands a lot of foreplay, hard to get started, and unsuited to everyday use. The Miata is the newest  sister-wife: fresh, gets turned on at the slightest touch, is full of energy, and doesn't mind how often you come knocking on her door.

The beloved MG, the cherished first wife, in front of the Lemon Leaf on the BLVD.

I want to be buried in that MG, so I'm never getting rid of it. The two sports cars, the old and the new, have crowded the 2009 Honda right out of the carport. They sit side by side, the dowager empress and the pretender to the throne.

My husband and I were taking turns driving the MG — when I had to commute, he drove it to work. But now I'm commuting four days a week: two to Burbank and two to Victorville, so having a 32-year-old finicky British car with wonky wiring wasn't going to work.

Having a sports car for transportation requires some foresight: I had to drive to Palmdale to switch cars with my husband so I could shop at Win-Co. Even picking up dry-cleaning is problematic: there's no place to hang it, and the trunk's not big enough to lay it flat back there.

My kids are happy, because we switch cars with them when we take Charlotte for outings. So they are trading a Toyota Matrix with a milk-spattered back seat, Lotte's princess throne (er, car seat), and a assortment of toys, books, binkies, and strollers (one umbrella, one Rolls Royce sized), for a sweet two-seater with a kick-ass sound system.

I'm not really sure why two out-of-shape middle-aged people with bad knees want a sports car. I mean, it's not like we need it to get laid, like some 17-year-old. We have each other. I just figured that if I had to pay my dues by being a "freeway flyer," as they call adjunct professors who work at two or more colleges, I wanted to have fun in those hours I spent on the road.

Plus, if we don't get the sports car now while we can still get in and out of it, when would we? My friend  Lynn has a hotter, faster sports car than ours, and she's older than me, so there.

The new baby in front of the Leaf.

Miata hunting

Sorry I didn't post this week! We had to solve our transportation problem, so we went our looking for a Mazda Miata. We found one, all the way down in Whittier, a 2001 silver one.

I will post photos next week, along with a real column.

Passing sentence on the Saturn

A scene from "12 Angry Men" starring Henry Fonda, Jack Klugman, Lee. J. Cobb and E.G. Marshall, the 1957 film about serving on a jury. What does this have to do with a dead car? Stick around.

My 1997 Saturn SL passed away quietly in its sleep last week.

And let's face it, if your primary mode of transportation kicks the bucket, that's where you want it to die: in the driveway or parking lot, not in the center lane of the 5 freeway at rush hour.

No, I came out one morning and started it, only to discover the power steering had gone out. So actually, my death metaphor doesn't really work here — the car isn't dead, it's like it has a broken neck.

But since we have managed health care for geriatric vehicles in our house, a 1997 car with more than 200K miles and a dicey computer is unlikely to be approved for a operation to improve its quality of life. Yep, here's the REAL death panel for cars: broke owners.

We'll just shoot it like a lame horse and move on.

It turns out that morning that I was already late for jury duty, which I had postponed in December because I was in finals week at my job. I grabbed a can of starter fluid and cranked up the MG, which I hadn't been driving because it had what I thought was a wheel noise.

For days, we made do with one car: our 2009 Honda Fit (lovely car, 39 miles to the gallon), and tried to find someone local to fix the MG. Meanwhile, the "wheel noise" revealed itself to be an exhaust leak, getting louder and louder. I was driving down Division Street when I saw MGs in the lot at Sal's European Motors.

My 1979 MGB, taken by the previous owners. Liz and Rich Breault

There are two Sals, a junior and a senior, so it really should be Sals' European Motors, but whatever, I was happy to see MGs sitting there. (A few even looked like they ran....) I got a $90 estimate on the exhaust, but a funny thing happened on the way to the repair shop: the driver's side seat back broke.

So it was $90 for the exhaust fix and $200 for the seat. Already I could have rented a car more cheaply.

Two days later, I'm at work when I get a call — my husband has the MG, and it won't start, and it gets towed to Sal's. Again.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to get excused from jury duty so I don't have to cancel any more classes. Adjunct college instructors don't get to call substitutes like K-12 teachers — if I can't show up, the college has to replace me and pay the sub with my money. Not that the court gives a damn; they've already given me one extension. I didn't even try to get off that way, I just figured I'd spin the wheel and take my chances.

The first day we don't get into the courtroom until 3 p.m. and court closes at 4:30, so we don't get a lot done. I'm not one of the original 18 called, so it's looking good. It's Thursday, there's a furlough day on Friday, so we return on Monday. The call is for 2:30, I have to cancel my 1:30 class. We continue voir dire for two hours. People get dismissed, new people get called, I'm still not in the jury box.

Tuesday, again the call is for 2:30 p.m. It looks good; I'm still not being called. They have 12 people in the box they seem to like; they excuse some more people (like the guy who says people should be guilty until proved innocent, kinda makes me hope he gets arrested some day).

Then it comes — there are only three of us left in the audience, and they call my number. They ask us tons of questions. The DA wants to know what kind of blog I write, and what topics I write about. I say, oh, you know, my granddaughter Charlotte, my balky MG. "Balky?" he asks. Yeah, as in it runs when it feels like it. As a matter of fact, it's in the shop right now. "I'll remember not to buy a British car," he says, smiling.

"I'm going to tell Bentley and Rolls Royce you said that," cracks the judge. They ask me so many questions, I'm sure they're going to excuse me for being a freelance journalist, for being married to a journalist, for being cynical about the system, just because.

The lawyers and the judge go to a sidebar, then come back. The judge says the lawyers are both accepting the jury as constituted (yes, like orange juice is reconstituted), and they have agreed on two alternate jurors, and they call my name.

I guess I had a shocked look on my face, because the judge just looked at me and said, "Is that all right?"

I stammered, "But, I'm an adjunct college instructor, and I'm in the middle of a semester!" Super annoyed, the judge says, "Now is not the time to be telling us that!"

Oh, yeah, like they would have excused me, had I said so in the beginning. The judge throws up his hands, and say, "OK, then. Back to jury selection!" and gives me a look like it's all my fault. Well. I guess it was.

So I get excused, and the MG got a new starter and ignition switch. It turns out the the switch never snapped back, and it was calling for power from the starter the whole time we were driving it. It burned up all the relays back to the starter.

"Your husband is lucky it didn't catch on fire while he was driving it," said Sal Senior.

Hmm...I'm not sure he would consider himself lucky when it come to that car.

The upshot is that I got $38. 16 check for my time on jury duty. I bought a bottle of Scotch. It helped when I got the $328 bill from the the two Sals....

Anybody got a Miata they want to sell me?