The Affordable Art Fair (affordable meaning all art $10,000 and under) was actually much more diverse, creative and interesting. Blah blah blah. That’s it for art talk. Let’s go back to food.

I forgot to mention that I had dinner at a fabulously hip and incredibly delicious restaurant called LUKSHON. It’s in Culver City, in the Helms Bakery compound. It’s owned by a guy who is Jewish and was raised in Japan or by Japanese parents or wolves, or something like that. The Jewish/Japanese combination makes for items on the menu like Shanghai Matzo Ball Soup. I didn’t have it, but I will next time, because what’s not to love about spicy Matzo ball soup?? And wait! Isn’t Shanghai in China? I could have this whole story wrong. You’ll have to research it yourself.

Lukshon Patio - image swiped from their website, because I didn't take any pictures for once.

We sat on the warmly heated patio and shared a few small plates. Every one of them was good, but here are the ones that stuck in my memory palate:

1. Spicy Chicken Pops. Dear God, get these if you go. They are chicken legs from a very small chicken that are coated in spicy heaven. Get two orders. For yourself.

2. Brussel Sprouts. No, really. These aren’t your English grandma’s Brussel Sprouts. These are Jewish/Japanese/Chinese(?) small, blackened nuggets of green that taste like – well we couldn’t decide what they taste like, but boy they were epic.

3. Heirloom Black Rice. It comes with a fried egg on top and is like silky bits of rice-tasting black gold that are infused with a bouquet of yet more mystery tastes. Satisfying.

We were all full and complete with just the small plates.

Skipping ahead, my last night in LA was spent sitting by the fire and eating pizza, YESSSSS!

...

Pizza and I had been on an enforced separation due to over indulgence during the holiday season, but now we are back together. Or we were the other night. Seriously, this pizza was SOOOOOO good it eclipsed the recent Jewish/Japan/China food. My friend Miss M got it from a place called PITFIRE.

Now, I am no novice when it comes to pizza. Bread and cheese in any combination are a weakness for me and I will seek them out wherever I am. We had this:

THE BURRATA PIE:  Burrata Cheese / Tomato Sauce / Wild Arugula Caramelized Onion / Hazelnut / Pesto Drizzle

Mama Mia it was insane! The Burrata was like soft, warm, cream, the arugula was cool and crispy, the crust was fresh baked and smokey, like you had just baked it over a camp fire (or you could call it a PITFIRE. Duh!). My only problem with this pizza was that my friend M had not MADE me have it sooner. She should know better.

While eating our pizza from heaven we watched THE IDES OF MARCH which was a snooze fest, to be honest. It was only interesting when there was a possibility of Ryan Gosling maybe taking off his clothes. I KNOW! Totally not a feminist comment, but whatever.

This did not happen in Ides of March.

I’m sick of the corruption of our current broken political system and movies about corrupted and broken political systems and I will admit to dozing off once or twice. One noteworthy moment was the identification of Jennifer Ehle as Clooney’s unsuspecting wife. You BBC Pride and Prejudice fans will know of whom I speak.

The next morning it was back on the train and home to work.

Bridge from a train.

It was a Sunday morning, so the train was practically empty. Again, a stress free ride up the coast, no road rage, no traffic. Views of railroad yards and scenes only visible from the vantage point of a train.

Graffitied rail cars, illegal camp sites, police cars, piles of trash, and more graffiti.

...

At one point in Simi Valley, we passed a small town that was all facades, with worn out curtains blowing through glassless windows – obviously a studio set, but completely surreal. I didn’t have my camera ready, so we rushed past with only my mouth agape at the strange land going by.

This has been, indeed, a strange post starting out about art and then rapidly going to where my passions lie – food and shirtless men. If you’ve read this far, you deserve a pizza and now you know where to get a good one.

Bon Appetit.

Miss MoL

My work days are spent in proximity to artists ranging from canonical status  to the new, clear and bright energy of those in the process of pushing their way into a wider visibility. It is a dream of a job. The job was a dream that I made reality.

Anyway. This weekend was art weekend in Los Angeles. Many shows, many artists, many venues. As part of my job, I need to be out and about seeing what is new, what energy is in the gallery business, who is doing what, connecting with other dealers, artists and clients. Shaking hands, talking and talking, smiling, nodding, sharing, listening, praising, villifying, avoiding, and (if I’m lucky enough to come in contact with someone worthy) flirting. All as per usual in the daily life of a gallerina/curator.

Rather than drive to Los Angeles (a drive that always leaves me with my shoulders hunched up around my ears from traffic tension after spouting the most horrific swear words your mother should never hear) I took the train. And it was fabulous. Two and a half hours of stressless bliss later I arrived relaxed at Union Station. Before I knew it I was walking slowly through the art deco hall of the lobby admiring the beamed and painted ceiling, the round discs of chandeliers, the streamlined leather chairs for weary travelers to sink into; public art in a very fine, California style. I waited  for my super friend to pick me up, the lighted station sign behind me and rows of dusty iconic Cali palms in front of me, my shoulders nowhere near my ears and no need to wash my mouth out with soap.

Union Station.

As seems to be a common occurence these days, I took a moment to notice my good fortune: to be standing outside a beautiful building, dressed warmly for the cold evening, stress-free and waiting on a friend, with the whole weekend ahead.

Flash forward to Saturday morning. It’s not every day that I get picked up by one of the most handsome and gentile men ever, who happens to have the same interest in art as me and is one of my oldest friends. More good fortune. Every woman should experience being picked up by a lovely man in a black jaguar after months of post failed-relationship-rehabilitation solo ventures. It does much for boosting one’s faith in pretty much everything.

We headed to LACMA. The standouts there, for me, being two works by Chris Burden: the now iconic lamp posts and the more recent Metropolis II.

LACMA Lamposts.

The lamp posts I love because they are old, refurbished reminders of childhood holidays in Pasadena, echoes of Oak Street. For a contemporary curator my heart is, ironically and iconically, stuck in the past.

Twelve hundred custom Matchbox cars move ceaselessly through Burden’s urban creation. Metropolis II is a racing study of the the rapidity of life and all that we miss by moving so quickly through our lives, the shapes of beautiful buildings lost in the blur as we rush to the next destination guided by lines, not unlike cattle through a chute on their way to… where?

Metropolis II by Chris Burden

The result is a hypnotic study of motion that, once sucked in, is difficult to peel away from.

After the speedy metro world, we traversed the galleries to see the California Lifestyle exhibition (my personal favorites were the matching his and hers lobster printed swim costumes, but no photos because I got yelled at by a guard for taking photos of other exhibitions) and colonial art of the native Americans of  Mexico and South America.

I have an interest in the casta paintings of colonial Mexico, but they only had one example. Casta paintings resulted in a need to classify the mixed race unions that were an obvious result of colonialism. Such a painting would often depict a white man, a native Mexican woman and their new breed offspring.

A good example of a Casta painting. From Wikipedia.

These paintings, to me, are wonderful documents of families, of history in the making, but also the beginning of defining separation of classes and race. Okay, maybe not the beginning, but an EARLY artistic reference to race and class definition.

Once through all of that, we slid into hipster chairs in the LACMA located restaurant, Ray’s.

Tableside at Ray's.

My favorite part was the little drawer in the table that held the utensils. Brilliant design. The food was phenomenal (sashimi, salad, and an extra spicy Bloody Mary for me). Brought to the table was a chopping block of crusty bread and a small plate with a slab of butter covered in salt crystals and small green bits of chives. Pretty and delcious. Apropos of an art museum.

After lunch we cruised through semi-empty streets downtown to the Convention Center and the LA Art Show, while listening to Etta James to honor her passing.

To be continued in Part II (otherwise this post would be hideously long and also I’m tired and need to go to bed)

Forgive the sloppy post about to reveal itself. Whatever virus that has been felling the ranks of family and friends this holiday season is paying me a visit. Everything aches, I am hot and cold at the same time, and my brain is dull and fuzzy without a fever.

The picture below is from yesterday, my birthday, when an obliging sister let me draft her physically-fitself up a mountain trail in the overly hot sun to have a birthday view. It was completely worth it. It was probably about 70-75 degrees, but felt like 90 as we were walking.

She was smart and brought water for both of us, a first aid kit, oranges, and chocolate. I brought a cup of coffee. My hiking skillz are out of practice as I have been sticking to the beaches for the last couple of years. But it was good thing she was experienced or I would have expired 1/4 of the way up and then we would have had to call search and rescue followed by an embarrassing airlift to the hospital, a segment on the evening news, etc. etc.

Birthday View. Not too shabby.

After the hike (and a shower) I took myself to see the movie The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The contrast from bright light and hot sun to dark theater and wintry Sweden was pretty dramatic, and yet perfect. The opening sequence (which is like a James Bond opening movie sequence dripping in black) is very effective. Zeppelin’s, The Immigrant Song, you know the one – We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs flow- made me feel all tough and I wanted to stand up in the theater and shout,

“Fuck Yeah, Bitches! I come from the land of ice and snow and I’m gonna kick your ass!”

But I didn’t and I don’t and I probably can’t. Got that?

It’s impossible to see this movie and not only compare it to the book but also to the excellent Swedish version of the movie.

Comparisons to the book: they changed the ending, but otherwise were true to the story.

Comparisons to the Swedish movie: the Hollywood version had more money and it showed in the production quality and cinematography. Also, everyone is prettier than the Swedish actors (although, Noomi Rapace is hot). I did appreciate the fact that the harsh, wintry light accentuated everyone’s wrinkles and revealed that Robin Wright’s crow’s feet and mine are very similar (and that’s where our similarities end, sadly).

That’s as in depth as I will get for this pathetic review. If you liked the book, go see the movie. It’s time for my nap.

Hejda,

Miss Mol

Just Read It.

**** I’m re-posting this in preparation for going to see the American movie version tomorrow. I thoroughly enjoyed the Swedish version and am not really sure why it is being re-made in English, but  I’m the sucker they are looking for and will go see it.  Go Lisbeth.

Have you read the book THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO? I tried starting it about five times to no avail.

Then one foggy morning I was wandering from the bedroom to the kitchen and back to the bedroom, schlepping coffee and newspapers and assorted weekend paraphernalia back to bed. The news was (is) depressing and I should have known better than to try and read it. My new New Yorker had not yet arrived and there I was face to face with LISBETH SALANDER for the sixth time, the last salvation of literature on my bedside table.

OKAY, SISTER, I thought. I’LL TAKE YOU ON. I’ll show you that you can’t suck me into your bestselling tattooed shit. You’re all tough and Run Lola Run and no one can touch you because you ride a motorcycle. I get it. I’ve seen it and read it before. You can’t move me. JASON BOURNE was way before you.

I climbed back into bed with my strong and hot (like my man) coffee  and tried to read THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO again. Whatever.

And then, son of a… I got  hooked. Lisbeth. What the F? You are AWESOME in the true sense of this much overused word. You kick ass in the way I  only dream of, especially with a golf club. That’s justice, baby. I read for about 5 hours to finish your story yesterday.

With the ass-kicking spirit of Ms. Salander in my head, I went to work today, without the golf club. My assignment as a KICK ASS ART DEALER (sans tattoos) was to ascend to our ATTIC storage space and curate an exhibition from what I found up there for a specific artist whom I VERY MUCH ADMIRE. She was the impetus to overcome any of my fears as she had overcome her own in a way that Lisbeth would admire, and then some.

Sure, Boss. I’m on it!

I said all this knowing that I am terrified of heights and had only been in the attic once and that was really only halfway up the ladder. So really I HAD NEVER BEEN ALL THE WAY UP INTO THE ATTIC. This ladder is like a fire escape ladder. It’s high. HIGH! I have a fear of heights in the sense that high points create a sort of vertigo and disorientation that is as if the earth has tilted and we are all sliding uncontrollably into the abyss…

But guess who doesn’t have a fear of heights? Yeah, Lisbeth Salander. She wouldn’t be crying in her Swedish soup about having to climb a ladder and look at some art. She would have been up that ladder with one hand taped behind her back holding a taser just in case some jerk accosted her leather clad leg on the way up.

So, heck yeah! I was going up into the attic (sans taser, but I do have MACE in my desk drawer, so that’s kind of international intrigue spy-ish). I put on my running clothes, because it is dusty up there and I would have to crawl on my knees. My Nikes took me straight up the iron ladder and into the heart of our business. Row after row after row of beautiful paintings. Really, cubicles of visual jewels that would put many museums to shame.

I got the job done. I curated an entire show in my track suit, on my knees, twenty feet above our commercial business, because there was no time to be a wuss. It was time to kick some curator ass in a hot and sweaty, close space.

In the process I came across a box of paintings that hadn’t been looked at in a long time. Sorting through them, I found my next art purchase. A quick sketch by COLIN CAMPBELL COOPER of some swans, circa 1900. We have a hundred sketches by this artist, but it was the artist’s impulsive swan sketch that caught my eye. Not the cathedrals, not the more famous Orientalist paintings, not the European street sketches, not the work that warrants thousands of Kroner on the international art market. It was a simple sketch of swans on a blank page that got me. Go figure.

Thanks to STIEG LARSSON and Lisbeth Salander, I was inspired to kick some ass in our attic by curating an exhibition and procuring my next  art purchase. It’s not a Dragon and it will never be a tattoo. I don’t know yet what Lisbeth’s Dragon means to her, but the Swans, to me, speak of childhood and peace and the magic of memories that come to mind in the space between waking and sleep (which decidedly does NOT sound very kick ass).

Thanks Stieg. And thanks, FRANK, for access to some of the finest art archives in the world. You create the space for us to kick some ART DEALING ASS, with or without tattoos.

Miss MoL

My mantle in the now defunct brothel.

This first picture is of the fireplace mantle in my new house. Well, new since May. I love the little Edwardian fireplace that probably kept all the hookers warm after their work day was done (see THIS POST for reference to Ladies of the Evening in my house). I have yet to use the fireplace, because I’m pretty sure it will set off all the smoke alarms. But it looks very picturesque.

Maybe you have to be there for it to be funny.

This second mantle photo was taken at my friend Barbara’s house. It has now become a tradition to take the charming blocks that spell out MERRY CHRISTMAS and bastardize them in to the irreverent CREMY SHITMAS, which, while it means nothing, allows for hours of adolescent-type laughter. It’s the little things that make the holidays so bright.

Whether your Christmas was MERRY or CREMY, I hope it was wonderful. Mine was delightfully  filled with epic family moments, really good friends, and lots and lots of Brie cheese.

Cheers!

The perfect wave.

What a way to start the Christmas-ing. Long walk on the beach, clear green water, time to ponder. Life is good.

Coming into town.

We just ended an incredibly busy work year with a three day sojourn to Palm Springs. Unfortunately, my sunny poolside desires were squashed by rain and coldness, but the giant suite I had with an uber soft king sized bed made up for it. I love hotels. Good hotels.

A few things happened in Palm Springs. And since it wasn’t Vegas, I can tell you about it (although I hate Vegas, so there will never be anything to tell anyway).

1. The Palm Springs Museum kicks ass. Beautiful building, giant theater, insane collection.

2. There were 300 people at this reception, all gathered in one room (the room where there was wine and food), so I got to wander the museum alone. I took in an Andrew Wyeth exhibition ALL BY MYSELF. There were some not-so-great drawings, some muddy watercolors and one painting that was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes and made my heart race. His use of white space is astounding; crisp and relevant. His paintings are so very American to me and yet there is a European influence that i’m too ineloquent to pin point in mere words. Some things should just be seen and felt, not analyzed. Since I was alone, I took illegal photos. They should know better than to leave me alone (pretty much anywhere) with a camera.

It's the Wyeth in the middle.

3. I discovered an App for my phone called 8mm and tormented my co-workers all weekend by filming them. I filmed my hotel room as well. I filmed the film on the television (Pretty Woman), and the swimming pool at night in the rain. People thought my taking still pictures of them (and everything else) was obsessive, well now they are running for the hills when they see me with my super-cool video thing pointed at them. However, WordPress will not let me post video here, so the world is spared my inane filming.

4. DO NOT listen to Sarah Bareilles after you have just put on mascara to go out. I thought I could handle it, but no. Girl makes me cry everytime.

5. Eat at Sherman’s deli in Palm Springs. I am still reeling from the deliciousness . The bagels and lox is haunting my taste buds. Good thing I have it on film to re-visit…

My morning walk vista.

6. I really regretted being afraid of heights yesterday. The funicular/tramway thing to the top of the mountain looks like one of the coolest things ever. And there was an entire winter wonderland up there. Damn. It would take a lot of chardonnay to get me on that thing, if at all. But I regret it. I may have to go back just for that.

7. I got REALLY tired of being the only person at these events without a partner/spouse and being asked why I wasn’t married, etc. Especially one (married) man who said, “You’re not married? But you’re such a knock out!”  What does one say to that? Thank you? Screw you? Who let you out of the clown car? I was at a loss and have been searching for a snappy comeback ever since.

Bar at the Parker Meridian. I saw no drugs anywhere.

8. We had a martini break one night and terrorized two different hipster bars. I wore crappy jeans and we were all in bed by 10:00. That’s how raging and hipster we were.

But the martinis were delicious. I love a really good vodka martini and these were epic. At one point I was wandering around the gardens at the Parker Meridian (without a coat) filming misty pathways and under-lit swimming pools (see item 3) until someone had the good sense to come find me and take me inside where it wasn’t 20 degrees.

Self portrait at the Viceroy.

9. Sometimes the only way to get a picture of yourself on a trip is to take it yourself. I was enamored with this cheap-ass faux antler mirror. I thought it was very Evil Queen’s mirror from Snow White. Right? Sadly, it would not fit in my purse.

Some fine local art in a Mexican joint. Actually, I love this kitschy Californio stuff. Bring on the black velvet paintings!

10. Palm Springs is the juxtoposition of cool little old Hollywood desert town and Disneyland (or bright facades hiding slightly seedy backdrops). I like it there. Especially the mountains that loom in a protective, non threatening way. And if I was an avid golfer or a drag queen I would SCORE at the local thrift stores.

Leaving Palm Springs.

All in all, it was a colorful end to an exhausting year. Here’s to vacation and some holiday cheer for us all.

XO

It is, indeed, a Wonderful Life even if we get beaten up a little bit.

Holy Crap, I love the Holidays. I really do. Not for the commercialism or the mass spending of obscene amounts of money on useless landfill-bound items, and not for the Lifetime movie channel holiday movies starring every out of work 80s actor.

I love the holidays because of all the decorations around town, people smiling more than usual (no really, they are), giving thoughtful presents to my family and friends, and the tear-jerker classic Christmas movies that come on television and make you stay up until one in the  morning, because even though you’ve seen it 50 times it’s ALWAYS good and meaningful (I”m talking to you, George Bailey) and you can SING ALONG (Hello? Meet Me in St. Louis???).

And then there are the Christmas carols. The traditional Lo How A Rose E’r Blooming, to the awesome Baby It’s Cold Outside, to Joni Mitchell’s more contemporary (and melancholy) River. I love them all and have been known to sing them while bathing, cooking, blogging, exercising, and especially when driving in the car.

The whole reason I started this post was because I saw the SNOW on the wordpress.com home page. I LOVE that snow! I don’t know why it makes me happy, but, ridiculously, it does. And then I thought it looks a bit like Charlie Brown snow, which brought me to Vince Guaraldi whose Christmas music has been playing in my house since Thanksgiving day, and then I thought I would share a Charlie Brown Christmas musical video with all of you and then I ended up writing a whole bunch of other stuff.

Without further delay- Vince and Chuck. Happy Holidays!

T’IS THE NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING and all through the house, the aroma of  friggin bacon is driving me crazy. In a good way.

What is it about bacon? The smell is a porcine /slash/ human siren song, especially when it is cooking; hot and greasy.

For the past few months I have been by technical definition a vegan. By my own definition, I decided to eat what seemed right for me. And meat was not it. I just did not want it (or dairy) and  it physically didn’t seem necessary.

But tonight – the night before the familial fabulousness that is Thanksgiving, I waltzed through my house baking and creating a few things – one of which contained bacon, fresh herbs from the farmer’s market, buttermilk biscuits, onions, mushrooms, the usual fall ingredients. My gosh my house smells good. I am drunk on the smell and 400 small bites of crispy bacon.

In tandem with my baking is a country music celebration for the Obamas at the Whitehouse. Good stuff. They look so down home and normal and I want to like him so much – Mr. Obama that is. He just looks and talks like a regular man (and no, not Joe sixpack) who would undertstand, well, the maelstrom of shit that is happening  in our great country and not only understand it, but be able to deal with it and set it on a right course. Please, Mr. Obama. Get this country moving in a positive, non-pepper spraying direction.

In the meantime, Lyle Lovett is on again. He is the shit. AND he should have considered marrying me rather than Julia Roberts if he wanted a lasting relationship… I’m just sayin’. Hey Lyle? Call me.

The other singer who kills me on this “Obama has a night with country music singers” is Alison Krauss. She always gives me chills with her high, clear, real, and yet somehow ethereal voice. I was in the kitchen, chopping onions for the bacon when I heard her voice and it was NOT the onions that made me cry. She could sing the ABC’s and I would cry. But that’s just me.

To wrap things up (with bacon!) in this non-sensical holiday post, HAPPY THANKSGIVING to all and safe journeys to wherever you are headed for a feast. I am Thankful for my family and the safety of my daughter who is 8 thousand miles away and soon to be in Africa. I am hopeful (still!) that Mr. O will help get us out of this mess, with or without the country music.

Have a wonderful day!

Miss MoL

I've used this image before, but what the heck. Here it is again.

The weather man on the TV showed an ominous swirl of clouds heading in our direction with much precipitation hidden in the swirl. I figured now was a good time to get some new wipers on my car. Of course, I’d been putting it off FOR-EV-AH. A job like that is:

A) Totally a boy job (and I am not a boy) and

B) A pain in the ass.

Hence, the procrastination. I also have a vague, repressed, traumatic memory of trying to put wipers on my car a few years ago. It’s a blur, but I have flash backs of curse words and possibly some tears were involved. So, why would I want to go there again? In the name of traffic safety, I decided to go.

I was  home nursing a back pain that was a total pain in the ass when I saw the weather report and if I wanted to go out at all in the next few rainy days, I would need new wipers. Forty naps and some muscle relaxers later, I decided to head out to the auto supply store – if that is even what it is called. A boy would know what it is called – that’s why IT IS A BOY JOB, people.

I finally landed in the Auto Zone. A nice man in the Zone helped me to find the correct wipers for my auto. First he suggested $60 worth of wipers and in my haze I said Why so much, Zone guy? I just need something to wipe the water off. Don’t you have some cheap balsa wood or maybe a couple of long chopsticks I could have?

Okay, I didn’t really say that, but something more like WTF $60, Auto Dude! No, no, no! And I’m so tired you need to hurry up.

We then settled on $30 worth of blades. They are middle of the price-road German blades for my high maintenance German car. That worked for me.

Back in the Auto Zone parking lot, a city tree trimmer posse had completely blocked me in with their tree trucks. The tree they were trimming looked almost done, so I gave them a five minute grace period while I studied the non-existent wiper installing instructions on the box, but then I realized they were taking down the ENTIRE tree and I really needed to get home and nap.

I flagged down the tree guy who obliged by moving his tree truck about three inches and declared, YOU CAN DO IT -COME ON, LADY! And I’m like, I AM TIRED AND REALLY RELAXED, TREE DUDE, AND TURNING MY HEAD LEFT AND RIGHT TO REVERSE OUT OF HERE TOTALLY SUCKS FOR MY BACK AND DID I MENTION I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DRIVING RIGHT NOW? He waved me through a tight space like one of those guys guiding a plane into the gate at the airport (what are they called?? I’m sure A BOY would know) and it was awesome!

I made it home before the rain started. Rather than take a nap, I thought I should get the new wipers on ASAP. I took the original driver’s side wiper off without looking at how it was actually on there, which turned out to be a big mistake, because the German car wiper people apparently decided to mess with the heads of any novice installers; they created the Rubix Cube of wipers.

In a hazy, muscle-relaxed nutshell, I got the new wipers on. At one point I sent serious visual vibes  to the guy who lives across the way. He works on cars all the time and a job like this would probably take him 30 seconds, whereas I was pretty much a walking NAP, mentally having lunch and filing my nails while contemplating this project.

But then, dear reader, I did it. I solved the Rubix Cube of wipers. There is a thing you have to press down in a geometrically wrong way to make the other thing go on to the other thing that then makes the whole thing an actual wiper! Voila!

The hazy point of this whole post is this: I was raised (in my experience) to be independent, to know how to take care of myself and need NO ONE. This has worked for and against me: FOR me in the sense that I can install windshield wipers, replace brake lights, capture giant spiders and put them outside and AGAINST me in the way that sometimes I forget to let others do for me and how that  letting them do things for me makes them feel needed.

The other point is that there are some jobs that are just meant for men. It’s just a gender fact. And while I feel exuberant at installing my new wipers after wanting to give up many times and after getting ubiquitous black car junk under my nails, on my shirt, and in my hair, what I really wanted was an awesome man to step up and install the wipers in 30 seconds, after I told him how much I NEEDED him to do that.

It’s great to be self sufficient, but sometimes it gets really OLD without a boy to do the boy jobs. I will happily do the girl jobs. HAPPILY. That is my real point. BOY changes windshield wipers and GIRL will use her awesome super-girl powers to make his world wonderful.

On tail end of a long day, I will end this rambling post whose point was, I fear, lost about 300 words ago…

Miss MoL

PS: The other  job I need a boy for is putting air in the car tires. I’m always terrified that the tire will explode, therefore I spend my days wasting fuel on probably under-inflated tires. Sigh.

PPS: Am I really STILL writing this post???