Ekimba -Not a light Snack

So as most of you know I hurt my back unpacking and schlepping when we moved here.  So instead of going to an OT I got my old friend Ekimba to help me toughen up.  His name evokes just what he is, an imposing black man who knows how to kick ass.  I just didn’t realize what a sorry ass I now have.  Ekimba and I used to be roommates when I lived in LA back in 1999.  And yes we did party like it was you know THAT year.  So when I signed up for a large group of session with him I must have had amnesia concerning how much of an ass kicker he is. So this morning it all came rushing back to me as I lay panting on my living room floor with a tall black man standing over me. Back in the day he used to give me some quite useful diet and exercise pointers.  But the most annoying was his intolerance for late night snacking.  We would go out in West Hollywood until the wee hours of the night stumble back home and all I wanted was microwave popcorn.  To be clear I had the habit, way before I met Ekimba, of eating a whole bag of microwave popcorn and watching infomercials after any long night of drinking.  You can ask any of my college roomies. Ekimba put a stop to that.  I was only allowed a protein bar.  Sadly like a bad acid trip I remember how revolting these protein bars were.  I had to microwave said bars for 10 seconds to make then soft enough to ingest.  I say ingest because it was not eating.  I could almost taste one as I looked up at Ekimba this morning and whined “It hurts.”  “It should,” he says.

Iron Goddess of Mercy

Here I am sitting in the hippest of hipster coffee shops, Café Intelligentsia in Venice CA on the hippest street in LA, Abbott Kinney.  Where one tea has the titillating title “Iron Goddess of Mercy.” The name makes me oddly think of the Indian Goddess Kali who is so horrific (She is depicted as a 1000 year old warrior woman who carries the severed heads of her enemies) I would not want to drink any fluid associated with her. The coffee is fabulous I will give it that.  Awesomely prepared, executed and served.  So lets talk about the “look” of this place shall we?  Most of the men are wearing glasses.  There are a smattering of hats, one beret and a few wool caps.  One woman in rollerblades, which seems dangerous with hot coffee served in a china cup. The women mostly wear leggings, low booties with a men’s style shirt.  Black grey and brown are the colors of choice.  Everyone looks up when you walk by.  And the staff is by far the hippest of the crowd. To add a little spice, a towering transvestite in a bike helmet just walked in. Other than the tranie, facial hair seems to dominate the room. There is also a movie filming near by so a PA (Production Assistant) occasionally rushes in and orders 10 coffees as if the rest of the planet does not exist.

After living in this hood for a few months I have realized there are real hipsters and there are faux hipsters.  I am neither as I shop at the gap.  So how do you determine the difference?  A faux hipster combines one too many hip elements, a fedora and leggings and booties and a tassel bag.  For a man he may have wild facial hair, brightly colored kicks, a vest and Buddy Holly glasses.   So if you remove one or two hip elements does that change the faux hipster into a real hipster, sadly no.  Sometimes it is something really subtle like foundation.  A hipster woman does not wear foundation.  Or on a man maybe too clean sneakers. The elements that make a hipster are quite elusive, like Sasquatch or a really good sitcom.  Dude it’s just like a feeling?

Which Courtney?

So I got the bangs and luckily do not look like Maria anymore.  I do however look like Courtney. My Stylist said, Love? "No" I said "Cox."

A Commitment to Bangs

I have not had bangs since 1998.  And it was a hellish adventure ending that particular engagement.  So I was shocked when my good friend and hair stylist recently suggested them.  Bangs?  Are you a sadist?  She suggested I look at some photos of Katie Holmes.  What about wispy bangs I replied sheepishly.  Nein!  My stylist is really German.  “Full or nothing,” she demanded.  I was a coward.  I have good eyebrows I replied…I’d hate to cover my eyebrows. 

So I went home and thought about it.  And truthfully I had no intention of making that “kind” of commitment.  Then I saw the cover of last month's LA Magazine. Maria Shriver.  Oh my God I look like Maria Shriver.  I immediately called and made an appointment. Jawohl!  (I’ll include a picture when I finally take the plunge)

Excessive Language

It is painfully obvious that I have become a “Sally” when I order food. Remember the deli scene in “When Harry Met Sally?”  I also do other things she did well in that movie but not publically.  At the ripe old age of 38 the number of things I do not eat far exceeds the things I do.  And unlike every other woman on the planet I’d like to gain weight. I have had to cut so many things from my diet that I have now welcomed pork with open arms.  I know, shocking.  (I’ll deal with God when I’ve gained a few pounds.)

In an attempt to gain a few pounds I went out to order lunch at a Faux French Bistro in Culver City. My lunch turned out to be quite bizarre.  I say bizarre because in French they don’t say something is weird, it’s bizarre!  Furthermore, the French way of saying bizarre is so great it’s more like bIZZZZZaire.  We call French the language of Love. I would call French the language of hearing where as English is the language of seeing.  Ok I’ll save my obscure thoughts on this for another Blog.

By the time I entered the Bistro I had already noticed some excessive signage in the garage; “This door is now locked due to a request by the health department.”  OK?  Then as I attempt to order at the take out counter I am told I may not make substitutions I may only remove items from my order.  However if I want to have table service I may then make substitutions.  What?

I decide to cut my losses at this point order a steak salad that turned out to be pile of spinach and a pile of steak after I had “removed” all the things I cannot eat.  I also order a tea while I am waiting.  As I am adding honey to my tea I notice a note on the bottle “caution cap loose” and yet I still squeeze too hard and have a mountain of honey in my tea. Again, what? A plastic honey bottle is like a dollar. 

After my tea is completely ruined I choose to use the ladies room.  Which has the following sign on the door, “Be aware the lock is broken.  We are in the processes of fixing it. Thank you for your understanding.”  Now I could have been French and said, “C'est la vie” but I chose to say in clear English,  “You could have fixed the damn door in the time it took you to write that ridiculous sign!”