Don't Mince Words

You know you live on the Rose Bowl parade route when…..

you arrive home from work and you miss your driveway because Port-O-Johns are lined up in front of your building.

I was 35 when I realized I should hire men to move me. I made enough money and so did my friends, so the lure of beer and pizza wasn’t enough of a motivator for them. For my four-block move in Brooklyn, I called a Man with a Van.

The Russians showed up. They rule Brooklyn with their mob and their beloved vodka. After watching them operate, I couldn’t understand why their empire fell. They were hardworking, fast, and efficient. For $150, I was in my new apartment in less than two hours.

The Russians showed up again to move me from Brooklyn to Manhattan. It was a little more expensive because of 9/11 truck restrictions on bridges and tunnels. But the Russians got me there.

Finally, when I moved from New York to Los Angeles, the Russians came over to pack my unsold items to ship. They worked at a furious pace and most of them looked like they might weigh as much as my left thigh, but strong like bull.

When I decided to finally leave my “temporary” Venice apartment and settle in Pasadena, three friends volunteered to help (without prompting). I elected to call a Man with a Van and was greeted by Angel Chavez. The morning of my move, Angel was flying solo; his crew didn’t show up. “But I’ve done this before,” he explained, weighing as much as my left thigh. Three hours, 25 miles, and $80 later, he was right. He could do it.

As a woman, I’m thankful there are strong men out there that like to be paid to do a job I’d rather not do. As an American, I’m thankful there are immigrants out there that are proud to do any job just to live here.

The cards are pouring in. Neither Jesus nor Santa appears to be popular this holiday season. The statistics so far:

Reference to Christmas: zero

Reference to “Holidays”: 100%

Use of holiday iconography such as snowmen or poinsettias: 22%

Use of cats and dogs: 56%

Use of offspring spawned from human loins: 22%

Inclusion of generic “dear everyone we’re fabulous” newsletter: 33%

For someone who has always embraced technology, I’m sorely behind in one genre: video games.

When I moved to L.A., I thought I’d get back into the interactive space. I quickly found out most of the agencies out here are attached to the gaming industry. “Do you have any gaming experience?” a freshly pierced 20-something once asked me. I was too embarrassed to reply, “Why yes, Ms. Pac Man at the McLean, Virginia Pizza Hut in 1982.”

My first exposure was actually in 1977. A friend had Pong which I think was put out by Atari. It was the black and white Wimbledon of fake tennis games. After about five minutes, we’d get bored and go outside to play. That’s what kids did back then – we played outside without knee pads, helmets or wrist guards.

Twenty years later, I was working for an interactive development shop. One Friday, the guys asked me to be a player in a networked version of Quake. I didn’t know the rules and never earned the right weapons, so they slaughtered me. I got bored and went home.

Last night I was introduced to Sony’s Play Station 2. I mentioned that I have wanted to see Grand Theft Auto because of all the violence hype. With the controller in hand, I learned to speed, run into trees, steal cop cars, and kill hookers with chain saws. It was fun. I don’t understand why parenting groups are up in arms about this game. When I was young, teen boys just wanted to drive fast and get laid. The author of Grand Theft Auto is just capitalizing on an age-old rite of passage.

After 15 minutes, my adult-onset ADD kicked in and I wanted to do something else, but it was too dark to go outside to play. We ate brownies and watched the cartoon network instead.

I have follower. Another friend has decided to cut her mother out of her life in order to preserve her sanity.

“I’m on day ten. I have some guilt about it, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time,” she confessed.

In order to avoid a relapse, I reminded her that bad mothers are like bad carbs. If we indulge, we get fat and feel bad about ourselves. Stay strong and stick to the no-mother diet.