Anita Ekberg Wants To Be Friends With You

Actually, Anita Ekberg wants to be friends with me. I just wanted to make that clear before continuing.

Anita Ekberg wants to be friends with me! Just how freaky and fantastic is that? I knew that Facebook would prove to be this exciting if I waited long enough. And now that day has come. I'm putting aside Newser, Sons Of Anarchy, and Let Constance Take Her Girlfriend To The Prom, in favor of Anita. At least for the moment.

But before I plan a celebration, I'm going to do a little research, just to make sure about hitting that CONFIRM button. You can never be too careful choosing your friends, even if they have chosen you (or me) first.

All I can tell from her Facebook "Info" is that she likes Leonard Cohen, Wilco, and a bunch of bands I've never heard of. She has lots of other "Likes and Interests", ranging from Stella McCartney and Vogue, to Federico Fellini and FEDERICO FELLINI (I suppose, just in case, I didn't hear her the first time), to "Intelligent, classy, well-educated women who say "F*ck" a lot", to... let's just say she seems to have a large array of "Likes and Interests".

I seem to have far fewer "Likes and Interests" than Anita. She has about ninety-five to my twenty-four. And she doesn't have "I don't like folding my laundry so I just restart the dryer" on her list. I don't know whether to be friends with her or not.

Anita's hometown is listed as Malmo, Sweden and her current city is Rome, Italy. Other than these two pieces of information, which sound kind of likely for Anita Ekberg, I'm afraid I might be dealing with someone who only thinks they are Anita Ekberg (which would be kind of scary), or someone pretending to be Anita so as not to reveal their own true identity.

I need more info about the real Anita. With the Internet at my disposal this is simple. Without the Internet, Anita Ekberg would not be asking to be my friend. This is why I'm so happy to be living in this day and age.

I'm sorry to say we don't have much in common. I have never been a fashion model, beauty queen, or studio, contract starlet. However, I will say that Anita claims to have spent a lot of time horseback riding while being spoiled by Universal and did not seek bigger film roles. I'm no equestrian, but I can say that Sudoku-ing has probably sidetracked me from something career-related on a few occasions. Same MO without the studio.

When Anita's dress burst open in the lobby of a London hotel, I was just a baby or maybe not even born yet. I never graduated to this kind of staged hijinks, maybe because no one ever joked about my mother and father receiving the Nobel Prize for Architecture the way Bob Hope did about Anita's parents.

I love New York, my birthplace, and plan to return there as often as possible. Anita does not feel the same way about Sweden. She says that she has not been appreciated by the Swedish people and will only move back when she is dead. Technically, I don't think this counts as moving. I don't care what people in New York think of me. As a matter of fact, there are only about three people in New York who might give me any thought. I'll go if I have a plane ticket and a place to stay.

Maybe Wikipedia and Facebook aren't giving me good enough information to make this Friend decision. I should go to Rome. Anita and I can splash around in the Trevi Fountain and get to know each other first. Ah. La Dolce Vita.

To Be (me), Or Not To Be (me). That Is The (same old) Question.

I recently decided that the Beverly Hills Public Library would be a good place to go to get some work done. So I went. It was where I used to find myself on weekends in high school... writing a paper, studying for a test, doing other library-ish things. I don't remember having much of a social life, at least not by comparison to others. I don't mean that I had no friends. I had good ones. I just wasn't at the beach in a bikini or anything. That is how I would have defined having a social life.

I'm here, at the library, again now. (I have found that after a while in the noise-filled coffee place, the quiet becomes strangely appealing. You can't start the other way around. Coffee comes first. It makes you on the ball enough to want to continue living.) Not much interrupted my train of thought the other day. There were, maybe, a couple of nostalgic moments about being here. How did the silence feel to my teenage self vs. how it feels to the 2010 version of me? How different am I, really? Had I not received a surprise package in the mail a few days ago, I might have answered, "... no different, just older."

Wow. And WTF (pardon my Internet slang French)? Apparently, I was fairly kooky. At least more so than I remembered. Or maybe that's what teenagers will always be and I shouldn't judge myself unfairly. When the mail arrived the other day, a small, manilla envelope was among the bills and flyers and the Census Bureau questionnaire. The return address was that of my best friend, Lynne, from high school. Inside were four letters I had written to her, starting with one from what appears to be December of 1969 and ending with one written on her birthday in November of 1971.

The first was written on a piece of tan colored, construction paper. The second was one sheet, front and back, college-ruled. The third letter... three typed pages. I believe we called the paper onion-skin. The fourth, her birthday letter, was composed (with an apology for the choice of stationery) on two pieces of lined paper, torn out of a spiral notebook. The only reason I have these in my hands right now is because she, my best friend, kept them. And because we had no computers, no iChat, no text messaging. And if my mother's garage had not been destroyed by a fire some years ago, I might have been able to reciprocate by sending a small, manilla envelope to Seattle. Then Lynne's eyes could widen and her jaw could drop, hearing herself "talk" some forty years ago.

I'm hoping it was all the rage to be cryptic back then. If not, it appears that I must have been drugged with something that causes illiterate rambling. Because for the most part I don't know what the f@*k I was talking about.

I can determine that in late 1969 I was quoting Cicero and Joni Mitchell, I was interested in boys (one in particular) and that I liked to use the word "croak". This is what I was going to do if absence (over the Winter Break) didn't make someone's heart grow fonder. Apparently, I was also excited about an impending party that I was throwing. (I remember that really well because I took a pass on a trip to Switzerland to play the part of Perle Mesta, the Hostess with the Mostess, at this event.) I do not remember the significance of $ 7011.00 or a hammock.

Within a couple of weeks, January 1st, 1970 to be exact, I was using the word "assholes" rather freely in some reference to Lynne and myself, and I was writing random sentences in French. I said that I thought my favorite season was Winter but that I wasn't positive. And in true non-sequitur fashion, I followed that statement with something about the significance of the two boys who were the first people to arrive at my party, "...except for me, Kathy, Lucy, Laurie, & you." Girls didn't count, I guess. And it seems like blowing off that trip to the Swiss Alps might have paid off, although, I'm not really sure.

From the three typewritten pages, I gather that I was upset about my boyfriend having a "childhood love" who yelled "HALLLLOOOOOOWWWW" to him (from a car) while he was walking down the street. Childhood love?!?!? Yeah. 'Cause, like, we were about fifteen by then. By the end of page two, things were looking up because I reported to Lynne that my boyfriend " absolutely positively definitely thinks she's a freak, a weird and a shit." Whew. Which is exactly what I said then, too.

On November 23rd, 1971, in honor of her birthday, I wrote to Lynne. We were in the 12th grade. She turned seventeen that day. I would do the same about three months later. Reflecting upon 10th grade, 9th, and then 11th, must have been some kind of preparation for all of us going our somewhat separate ways within the coming year. At least one of my earlier questions was answered here. We had, apparently, named ourselves "the two assholes", which is better than someone calling you one. The number 7011 reappeared and I still have no idea what it means but I'm going to ask Lynne. At some point, we renamed ourselves Phyllis Creamcheese and Roberta Bagel. Slightly more appealing than "the two assholes", but not by much.

Here's the thing. Fall is my favorite season. I know that now.

The Cookie Crumbled

The extent of my experience with fortune telling, psychics, and the like, begins and ends with one thing. Cookies. I like to think that "a wonderful opportunity will soon present itself" is all the soothsaying I need. On the practical side, for the price of an order of skewered beef and an exotic cocktail that includes a piece of patio furniture, I get a free glimpse into my future. I go home with good fortune, a paper umbrella and no hard feelings.

I used to tell people that I didn't seek out "real" information about the future because I didn't want to know if I was going to be run over by a truck. I don't know why I picked that particular scenario. It just seemed to have had the right touch of the gruesome to prove my point of leaving well enough alone. Some agreed, while others would argue with me, saying that nobody ever gets bad news at a reading. Rather, they might receive guidance on how to navigate difficult waters. Uh-huh. All I know is, I stepped out of the line for a party psychic after hearing someone say they had just been told that "in two years time, you will be a bitter divorcee". I came for the canapés and, as you can see, I probably had the right idea.

This morning, listening to the radio, I heard a news story about the end of a trial. The case involved a 45-year-old fortuneteller and her 23-year-old daughter who were murdered by a female client. One who had come seeking a spell to bring back her ex-boyfriend. Not from the dead, just back to her. (I am beginning to see at least one reason why the boyfriend might have left.) Under the circumstances I hesitate to use the term dead giveaway, but the client's request should have been an indication of how things were going to progress. I think you are supposed to go to a witch doctor, not a fortuneteller, for spells. Calling Dr. Bombay.

It boiled down to this--you can't change reality. That is what the client heard and did not like. Honestly, I would have told her the same thing and I'm no fortuneteller. Rage and murder ensued. Now look at the reality. Facing the death penalty is much worse than not getting your boyfriend back. I mean, in my opinion, anyway.

I'm starting to think about one other thing, which is like saying, "Please, enjoy another can of worms, why don't you?" If you can't change reality and you are a fortuneteller, then did you know this woman was crazy enough to come back and kill you, steal your money, and go on a $3,000 shopping spree before being caught?

I have come to three conclusions...

One: If you can't change reality, it especially sucks to be someone who can see the future.

Two: If you must seek answers, my fortune cookie method is likely cheaper and less dangerous.

Three: Live in the moment.

I Don't Have A Kangaroo

On February 25th, I will be staying home all day. That is when I expect the Prize Patrol to show up at my door and I don't know what happens to the $10,000,000. if you aren't home. I know what happens to half of it, even if you are. So does my accountant.

I'm going to look through the closet later and decide on an outfit. One that will photograph well as I am presented with the gigantic, cardboard check made out to... me. Maybe I don't need to worry about the outfit so much. I will be standing behind the check. I should probably deal with hair and makeup. And a smile. I have to try those on, too. I have yet to find one on my own face that photographs to my liking. I remember agreeing--somewhere in the all the flyers and emails-- to appear in promotional materials for the Publisher's Clearing House should I win. And I'm gonna win. Because when I was not busy entering the PCH sweepstakes, I was busy reading The Secret. Which is why I know I'm gonna win.

My road to winning the super, jumbo, mega, whatever-they-call-it prize isn't so time consuming anymore. Not since the Publisher's Clearing House started sending me email entries. It used to be you had to deal with the regular mail, which generally included only bills and envelopes from the PCH. After putting the bills aside for another time, you had to open the PCH mail--immediately, because sometimes you only had, like, 48 hours to turn things around-- find all the seals and stickers, detach along perforated lines, and then saliva them to the proper entry forms. Let me say, it's much faster to click than lick.

Occasionally, I have ordered something with my entry, even though it says that an order will not improve your chances of winning. Last week, in an earlier blog, I mentioned the emergency auto hammer. This week, my rolling duffel bag arrived. It wasn't quite as big as I had expected, but I think I can use it. And the battery organizer box is, as advertised, keeping my batteries organized.

I'm just curious about some of the other stuff you can get. Like the Kangaroo Keeper. I don't have a kangaroo. Should emails about this item have gone to residents of Australia and not Beverly Hills? It was only upon closer inspection of the details that I discovered the Kangaroo Keeper is something with pouches--hence, the clever Kangaroo marketing idea-- that enables you to easily transfer all your crap from one purse to another. I say crap because it usually is. All you do is put everything in the canvas insert and move the whole thing. I'm not ordering the Kangaroo Keeper. The only time I ever clean out one purse is when I have to switch to another. If I did order the item, I would have to call it the Krap Keeper. Poor spelling is a marketing technique, as well.

I'm never ordering the Totally Nude Yoga and Tai Chi DVD. Just not doing that. And I'm still wondering if the Lost Kennedy Half Dollars are mine. The ones I lost decades ago.

Last night, when I was clicking, entering, and considering an order, I saw the following advertised... Snuggle Up With Elvis in Las Vegas. Hey, Publisher's Clearing House! Elvis is dead! And I am so not into that.

I Went To The Science Fair, Affect and Effect Were There......

"I went to the animal fair, the birds and the beasts were there..." Come on, you know that song. Now, sing today's blog title and you'll see what I was going for. (I can't hear you, so don't worry about being tone deaf.)

Last night, my husband and I went to the Science Fair at our son's school. After cruising through the aisles and viewing hundreds of those display boards (you know, the fancy ones with a large middle section and two smaller side flaps), my husband asked me if I had learned anything.

You have to understand that when he says, "Have you learned anything tonight, Amy?", it is kind of a smart-ass remark. So I smart-assed him right back. (By the way, while dictionary.com has no problem with it, this blog's correction feature does not recognize the term smart-assed, annoyingly underlining the assed part in red dots as I write. It also does not recognize the possessive blog's, as in its f*@#ing correction feature. I guess a blog cannot possess anything. If I am looking for justice in this matter, it seems like now would be a good time to take it to the Supreme Court, even if they are screwing up everything else.)

"Yes, Bob," I said to him, "I have learned that a lot of people use the word effect when they mean affect."

At that point I should have left well enough alone, but the effect vs. affect question seemed like a perfectly good topic of conversation with my son's first pediatrician, another mother at school. We both whipped out our phones and started to look things up, hoping for something decisive. We are still looking for answers. (Okay, she's probably seeing patients while I'm still looking.)

She thought that I might be half right and half wrong. I figured she must be right about that because, after all, she's a doctor which, automatically (in my mind, anyway), makes her smarter than I am. Then I wasn't sure. I went back to feeling that I knew who had used the words correctly and who had not. Her husband put it best when he said he just kind of knows which one to use and when, but he couldn't tell you why. Exactly.

"This is why I decided to become a doctor and not an English major," she said as we were wrapping up our conversation. Well, there's the problem. We didn't have to declare a major at my college. Which is probably why I'm still trying to figure out what to be.

I leave you, for today, with one or two questions. How did not declaring a major affect my path in life? In other words, what effect did it have upon me?

Spring cleaning, one step ahead of Punxsutawney Phil.

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day. I thought I'd start the spring cleaning... just in case Punxsutawney Phil does not see his shadow. And then again, even if he does see it (symbolizing six more weeks of winter, which I happen to like), I had still better get started. PETA wants to replace the real thing with a robot groundhog. I can't even get into this right now.

Oh. My. God. The things you discover about yourself accidentally. Fine. Maybe it's no accident.

On this post-Grammy morning, I could make a few comments about music but why bother? I'm sure plenty of other people are rehashing last night's creative lows and fashion fiascos. As for self-discovery in this arena, let's leave it at this-- many (like a lot many) years ago, I knew that I hated performing live. Years later, I kind of liked it. And as I got older and didn't really give a shit, I actually looked forward to it. Someone can analyze that, if they want. I'm looking at it as a kind of over-and-done-with issue. I've got more important things to deal with. Like the space in the back of my car.

It's not really a trunk in a Prius. It is just an area. My mother used to complain when our rooms were messy, always making reference to some people called the Collyer brothers. Famous hoarders. Nationally renowned, even. Now I know their first names, Homer and Langley, thanks to E.L. Doctorow. You have to admire a brother (Langley) who hoarded newspapers, keeping them so that if his brother (Homer) should ever regain his sight, he could catch up on the news. This was not the only thing piling up in the Collyer house, but it is my favorite due to its brotherly love motive/excuse for doing it. Plus, it keeps me from having to think about Homer's dead body being discovered on March 21st, 1947 and it taking until April 8th to find Langley, whose body had been partially eaten by rats.

I have been meaning to go through the area in the back of my car for a while. Today, I had no choice but to face it. I didn't think a self-deprecating reference to the Collyer brothers would be a good excuse for why I wouldn't be able to get my son's science project exhibit to school. What would I have said, really? "I'm going to be featured on an episode of Hoarders. Aren't you excited that your mom is going to be on TV?"

So, what I discovered is this. I had the usual, random stuff that piles up. Some magazines, a couple of books, a box of anti-bacterial hand wipes purchased during the H1N1 scare, and a pair of exercise sandals. The thing that really surprised me was the cache of approximately 25 reusable bags from various grocery stores. I know that I used to feel guilty using bags from one store when I shopped at another, prompting me to have a small selection available. (As if the checkout person at Bristol Farms was going to chastise me for shopping at Gelson's.) I now see what happens when you don't remember to bring the bags into the store or when you forget to bring them back to the car after unloading the groceries at home. You just buy a couple of more until a couple turns into approximately 25. Who knew that trying to be environmentally conscious could turn you into the Collyer brothers? It seems to be somewhat contradictory.

After stuffing all of the bags into one, I felt a little better. That is until I found the special, window-smashing hammer that I bought from Publisher's Clearing House was back there, still in its box. When I bought it, it was during a moment of thinking that a purchase would improve my chances of winning. When the hammer arrived, I promptly put it in the "area". But what good would the prize money and the 25 grocery bags do me if I was submerged under water in my car?

The hammer is now in the glove compartment.

FIrst the Tooth Fairy, Now the Maybach

Let me start with the tooth fairy. Not the movie. The actual fairy that shows up with the cash in exchange for those tiny, pearly whites.

When my son was younger, I remember a parent program at his school, one that dealt with issues of class (as in socio-economic standing), amongst other things. The best part of the evening, the part I found the most useful, was a discussion about the tooth fairy. One mother posed the following question. "How do I explain things to my daughter when we give her $1.00 for losing a tooth and another kid tells his friends that he got $100. for the first one and gets $25.00 for the rest?"

Had I been answering, I might have recommended an explanation about people having more money, that they can spend it the way the want. I might have said that even if we had that much money, that's not what we would pay. But, I preferred the answer one of our most beloved teachers gave. "Tell her there is no tooth fairy." Good answer. I'd probably make sure it didn't follow too closely on the heels of the "there is no Santa Claus" talk. But, really, I think it solved the problem nicely.

I'm going to move along to the Maybach. A $360,000. automobile (and for that price, really, it should fly) that P Diddy just gave to his son as a 16th birthday present. Now, apparently, Diddy did give him a check (10 grand to open a bank account), as well, which sixteen-year old Justin Dior Combs promptly donated to Haitian relief. I don't know if the story is 100% true, but I did read it online this morning.

I might have suggested keeping the $10,000., selling the Maybach, and donating that money to Haitian relief. Or even part of that money. Hell, with the ten grand and another, let's say, sixty from the sale of the car, you'd still have enough for some really nice wheels. Then you'd have about $300,000. left. You could still skim a little to open that bank account if that's what dad intended. I'm not blaming Justin. The fact that he took the money and donated it was admirable. I'm just sayin', I don't think a sixteen-year old needs a Maybach, no matter how much money you have. Where do you go from there? I know, something that really does fly.

I understand. Dad wants Justin to have more than just the cake he got when he turned sixteen. Newsflash: there is something in between a cake and a Maybach. We can all tune in to MTV's My Super Sweet 16 when the episode featuring the birthday party airs.

I am, however, faced with a quandary. My son will turn sixteen in 2011. I can't tell him there is no P Diddy.