Sunday, February 24, 2013
Wouldn't you know it - out of nowhere (actually, on the way home from the wedding), an icon resembling a tire burned bright on my dash board. Needless to say, it scared the heck out of me and when I parked, I grabbed my owner's manual to figure out what to do. Can you guess what jumped to the top of my to-do list?
I told my husband my tires were not inflated properly (the manual made it sound like I couldn't drive another inch until I fixed the problem), and he was gracious enough to give me a working tire gauge. Bummer. Hadn't planned on getting that close to my tires and the ground ever.
I asked my husband about how long this should take. His reply: no time at all. That was enough to convince him to accompany me to the said gas station and become my attendant.
What was supposed to take no time at all actually took 30 minutes. First, the closest gas station was jammed packed at 7:45 am. I mean, I fill up my car at night so I can go straight to work in the morning. Is this an original thought?
Air is no longer free in Los Angeles. You actually have to pay for it. Okay, we're talking 25 cents, but still. Buying hot air is creepy. Especially when the pump is anchored by two massive work trucks whose drivers are missing. It took me 5 tries to back up into the spot and I couldn't open my car door.
My husband plunked down the quarter, and we waited a few minutes for the pump to be turned on. Meanwhile, he checked the air pressure. I was rolling on 25 psi, a good 10 psi below optimal. But now, that's all changed. Because of my husband, my tires are totally full of hot air. Just the way I like it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Before anyone reading this says, are you kidding - an hour, please realize that Los Angeles is a very big city, and each person here, be they single or part of a family, owns two cars. And if you've ever been in traffic, which isn't hard to do, you'd know that they were driving both cars at once.
Anyway, picture this: white Jews at a Persian wedding hall having the times of their lives eating Persian food. Everyone, that is, but me. Sorry, but the food looked weird, and there was some sort of sauce on everything and it smelled different. Okay, obviously my love of diversity doesn't extend to food.
Well, that's not entirely true. I love Mexican food, Italian food, Chinese food, sushi, and American fare such as hamburgers and french fries. But Persian food is just too out there for me.
Everyone loved it and no one has complained of feeling sick. I think, in hindsight, perhaps I was short sighted. I should have tried something Persian, like the rice, literally plate after plate of it. Or the stuffed chicken, which sounds pretty good right now. All my table mates were oohing and aahing as they ate.
Lesson learned: don't be so judgmental. Take a chance. I mean, what the heck. You can always throw it up later!
Monday, February 4, 2013
My daughter, who is 11 years old, decided she needed some pencil skirts for Shabbat. What I really mean is that she's 11 years old going on 25. But it's my duty to take care of my daughter's material needs, so to keep her quiet, I agreed to go to the local mall, nee football stadium complete with 8 floors. Seriously, 8 floors - do we really need that many choices?
We concentrated on H & M and Forever 21 - which were the furthest from our parking spot, and pretty much found what we needed. It only took 2 hours, and I guess I should be grateful she was happy. Because by being happy, we could stop shopping and starting heading home.
Want to know my fantasy? That I give my daughter to my sister, the shopaholic with 3 daughters. Talk about a match made in heaven!