My Year In Pictures December 30, 2006
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La Chismosa December 28, 2006
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My mom calls my blackberry “la chismosa.” In Spanish, that word means “one who gossips” or “tells on something.”
My mother christened my electronic device with this name because it’s how I communicate with people at all hours of the day. It’s what I go to the minute I have news of work, news of home, and news generally.
We’ll be sitting at the breakfast table and I’ll announce “such and such just died.” We’ll be at the mall and I’ll say, in my best Katie Couric voice, “there’s been an earthquake somewhere.” My mother will look at me and shake her head in disgust while saying, “como me cae mal esa chismosa.”
I suppose chismosa is as good a name as any to give to this device. I tried to use the literal Spanish translation for blackberry for a while. But, whenever I referred to “mora” my mom thought I was talking about breakfast fruit.
So, for now, I suppose “la chismosa” it remains.
© Laura Genao 2006
Trying to Tighten That Belt December 27, 2006
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I’m bored, therefore I shop (yes, even though Christmas has officially ended and no, not because I’m looking for deals).
Today’s trip to the internet mall was for a belt buckle and t-shirts.
Electrickid.com–Got a dancing monkey belt buckle and one reading, “EvilKid.” I’m not edgy enough to wear a skull on my belt buckle and I don’t have anything that matches a rubber ducky belt. I do, however, have qualifications for the wearing of the buckles I did buy, since I have been accused of being a monkey and evil.
2Bhipbuckles.com–Was intrigued by a few other buckles: Trailer and Alice in Wonderland. Somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to wear my British History and Literature background on my belt. Really, it just wouldn’t seem right to bring up research papers done about the 1860s meaning of the story on any occasion when I’d be wearing the buckle. As for the trailer, we weren’t that poor.
Threadless.com–Still deciding between “Acute Invasion,”"Pessimistic or Optimistic,” and “mmmh . . . Delicious.” T-shirts like these always serve as great reminders of people’s creativity. Plus, they make me smile.
© Laura Genao 2006
Christmas Eve Comedian December 25, 2006
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My favorite thing about large family Christmas Eve gatherings is their ability to provide material for smart alecks.
The best line of this year’s gathering came late in the evening, after the 73-year-old matriarch expressed her hope that we’d all live through 2007 in order to make it to next year’s gathering for tamales. A 20-something grandchild, ignoring the obvious reference the woman was making to her own mortality, yelled, “and just to make sure, make the tamales tomorrow and leave them in the freezer.” Laughter erupted and the spectre of mortality was banished for the evening.
Ay que familias.
© Laura Genao 2006
Found it in the Sunday Paper December 24, 2006
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Great essays in the SundayStyles Section of the NY Times.
Jewish in a Winter Wonderland–A Jewish woman’s essay on discovering holiday decorating joy. “I love that as soon as I told a Catholic friend what I was up to, she invited me to a gingerbread-house decorating party. How fun is that? And why wasn’t I invited before? What does a gingerbread house have to do with Jesus?”
Close Enough for Momma, Too Close for Me–A gay son’s essay on moving in to care for his 82-year-old mother. “And there I lay, as close to the edge as possible, listening to my mother’s breathing while gazing out the windows at the lights and the street and the neighbors’ windows beyond. I tried not to think of the fraught weeks and months ahead, of days and nights that would turn out to be filled with more indignity, suffering, closeness and grace than I ever could have imagined. I thought only: ‘I can do this. I can. But tomorrow, first thing, I’m buying new shades.’”
Bad Car-ma December 22, 2006
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A few nights ago, I was awakened by what sounded like a blaring alarm. It wailed and wailed and echoed through the hills in my Northeast L.A. neighborhood. I wondered if someone’s house was being broken into. I wondered if another car in my neighborhood was being vandalized. I got paranoid, so I woke up to go look out the window.
Upon a quick scan of the street, I saw my second car—a 1991 Mazda Protege–sitting at the curb. “My car doesn’t have an alarm,” I thought, so I went back to bed.
That pesky alarm kept sounding.
This time, I went outside (yes, I know that’s why people in horror flicks get killed) and realized my Mazda was outperforming what even I thought it was capable of, by blaring its horn more loudly than any SUV I’ve ever seen.
I pulled on the horn pad. Nothing. I punched the horn pad. Nothing. I fiddled with wires. Nothing. I tried to pull out fuses. Nothing. I finally just turned on the “Protege” (or in my play off the Spanish, “Protector”) and the horn stopped.
I went back to bed. An hour and a half later, the car again demanded my attention. I again performed the crazed pulling, tugging, running around ritual.
This time when I punched the horn pad, the car stopped and I hated that brute force was the only way to shut my car down.
Being a resourceful woman, I went to my computer and googled ”Mazda” and “horn” and “Protege.” And, as if a miracle of the modern world, the “Car Talk” guys had done a segment on the problem.
It seems that this week’s cold snap, where evening temperatures dipped into the 30s and low 40s, made certain parts of my horn contract. That then causes the horn to blare.
Click and Clack suggested pulling wires or replacing the horn–but, despite their usefulness in identifying the problem, I still can’t figure out which wires to pull and I don’t have time to get the horn replaced.
So, until the mercury rises, I’ll just be resourceful and pull the fuse when I get out of the car and replace it when I get back in (turns out the horn fuse also controls the brake lights). The act should amuse my colleagues and unnerve the security guards at work, but hey, when you have to get around, you do what you can.
© Laura Genao 2006
Miracle of the Coca-Cola Cans December 21, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in Los Angeles, Miscellaneous, That writing I mentioned.1 comment so far
My mother is a deal hunter. She doesn’t really need to save a dollar, but she’ll scour city papers for deals and then drag me along to find cheap gallons of Gatorade or dozens of socks. This weekend the treasure hunter and I went to a grocery store in Bell in search of a $5.99 case of Coca-Cola.
Despite our professional-shopper knowledge of where deals are normally found in grocery stores, it took us half an hour to find the cases of soda (they were hidden in a remote back corner, while signs pointing to the more expensive boxes of 12 cans was ubiquitous). My mom got it into her head that the store was trying to pull some kind of consumer fraud thing on her, so she decided to buy a lot of the cases of soda, as if that would teach the store’s owners a lesson. That, and she is naturally inclined to prepare for natural disasters by buying soda.
Upon arriving at the checkstand, we found a a tiny 60-something looking woman standing ready to bag our groceries. She reminded me of my Abuelita Nena because she was only about five feet tall and her face was shriveled around her eyeglasses.
As our cases of Coca-Cola were rung up, this little, stand-in Mexican grandmother, picked up each of our cases and tossed them one by one into the shopping cart. It was like watching a hammer throw on the World’s Strongest Man competition.
The cases would fly two feet through the air and land in the cart. A loud crash would be heard and I would get annoyed because the impact was making the cart jump inches off the ground and a crowd was beginning to gather.
And that’s when the bagger discovered the miracle of the Christmas Coca-Colas. On what seemed to be her last attempt to win the gold medal in Coca-Cola case tossing, the bagger put more air under the case and as it crashed into the cart, the box broke open and all of the cans came tumbling into the shopping cart.
The bagger tried to put the cans back into the box, and then found that all but one fit. “Sobra uno” she announced, wide-eyed and staring intently at the extra can.
I gave her a look that said this was impossible and she was crazy for implying otherwise. Increasingly annoyed, I told her to try the repacking again, and again she had an extra can. She held up the polar bear-decorated miracle can as if it was a precious commodity. ”Todavía sobra,” she smiled.
I had watched her pack the cans and knew she had no more room in the box. In the holiday spirit, for a split second, I too started to believe this grocery store was one of those mysterious miracle spots in the universe written about in great literature and put on television by the WB in “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
I looked at my grandmother’s Santa-hat-clad stand-in and wanted to believe this story in the way I believed many of those my Abuelita Nena once told me.
Then a long-haired, 18-year-old bagging supervisor walked in and took over. He repacked the cans, and they all fit nicely into the box. The elderly bagger and I looked at one another.
She shook her head, stared at her feet, and dejectedly said, “Oh, I guess I just didn’t know how to pack them.” It made me sad to see my grandmother’s sadness in this woman’s face, so I smiled at her and said, “Es Navidad, nunca se sabe cuando va suceder un milagro.”
She perked up a little at the thought of a holiday miracle, “Es cierto, el milagro de las Coca-Colas.”
© Laura Genao 2006
Sooooo Cal Snowman December 19, 2006
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Yep, we have snowmen here, too. Specifically, at the North Broadway entrance to Elysian Park.
Body by tumbleweed. Hat by trash can. Graffiti of unknown origin.
© Laura Genao 2006
Movies I Want to See December 17, 2006
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I don’t go to the movies very much. Generally, I’m more interested in talking to my friends than in sitting quietly next to them for two hours. Around year’s end though, my cinematological bodily clock seems to kick in and I’m completely suckered by movie marketing. This year’s list of movies I want to see before December 31 includes:
- Night at the Museum–I’ll admit it. I like any holiday movie that takes place in NY. I’ll replay the Christmas scenes in “When Harry Met Sally,” time it so I can catch just the end of “Serendipity” or sit through all of that really bad ”Home Alone” sequel just to catch scenes of Fifth Ave. or Wollman Rink or Radio City Music Hall. With this movie, it also doesn’t hurt that I think Ben Stiller’s really funny and that I’ve always thought the Museum of Natural History just a little creepy. I’ll just ignore that the guys who wrote this one also wrote “Let’s Go To Prison.”
- The Good Shepherd–Maybe it’s the conspiracy theorist in me, but I like movies about spying and intrigue. While Robert De Niro tends to scare me in a “he just can’t be right in the head if he’s that crazy on screen” way, I figure that he can fill the”psycho actor” parking spot in my brain for a little while (but only because I haven’t seen a Kevin Spacey movie this year).
- Notes on a Scandal–I cannot pass up the opportunity to see Judi Dench. I don’t know if it’s the fact that she’s the actress I place in my mental rewrite of every British novel or play I’ve ever read or if it’s just that I like that she chooses to do comedy and Bond movies, too. While I tend not to like movies about people being downright cruel to one another, the acting in this one may warrant a little exception (even if it’s guaranteed to be disturbing).
- Volver. “All About My Mother” is one of my favorite movies, “Talk to Her” was just weird, and “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” reminds me of good times sitting around a 19-inch television in a tiny college dorm room. This movie is my personal test for Pedro Almodovar. If it’s in the style of “All About My Mother,” I’ll consider seeing his future movies. If not, I may have to go elsewhere to find my quirky, yet strong, Spanish-speaking women.
- The Holiday–What is it about Cameron Diaz’s voice and smile? I may try to answer that question by seeing this movie (even if it is completely and admittedly total syrup).
© Laura Genao 2006
Seasonal Pick Me Up Lines December 17, 2006
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I’m jealous that Vaguely Urban came up with the Holiday Music Rant. Her insight into the dark side of music played on KOST 103.5 during the holiday season keeps me laughing and aghast.
I’ll add an interesting piece of Christmas song trivia to her thoughts.
It seems that some lyrics of ”Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” were
changed very soon after the song was written. As originally written, it contained verses such as, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last” and “Faithful friends who were dear to us, will be near to us no more.” At Judy Garland’s suggestion, it was “lightened” to be cheerier and now lets us sing, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light” and “Faithful friends who were dear to us, will be near to us once more.”
© Laura Genao 2006
The Tightrope December 15, 2006
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I recently found myself writhing in agony on a plane trip to South America. The pain was so bad that I arrived in Rio only to turn around and return three days into my trip. Upon my return to the U.S., I saw my doctor, chiropractor, and orthopedist. As you might expect, they all asked “What did you do to your back?”
I interpreted their question to be “What recent events might have caused the injury to your back?” and answered that there was nothing that came to mind. There was, in fact, nothing I had done to my back recently that warranted a diagnosis of two herniated disks. The doctors didn’t look convinced.
Since my appointments, I’ve thought more broadly about the doctors’ question and have come to terms with the reality that my history includes a lot of falling.
In the first grade, I fell on my neck after missing the ground with my feet during an attempt at the Death Drop from the monkey bars. I did finally master that upside-down hanging flip from eight feet in the air.
In the fourth grade, I showed off my ability to balance on the hind legs of my classroom chair. While I mostly hurt myself when the chair shot backward and into the floor, a few times I was holding a cup full of pencils. As you might guess, those were thrust straight into whatever group of students was sitting behind me.
In the seventh grade, I learned what a great feeling it is to make one of those soccer kicks that’s a combination backflip and kick. Then I learned that the jubilation that follows such a kick is followed by the eerie silence of people who don’t know how badly the player is hurt. I scored, but wasn’t allowed to play soccer again.
In the eleventh grade, I fell down a flight of stairs for the first time (the second time came almost ten years later in the law school library).
After college, I learned to mountain bike. My best friend and I went to Moab, Utah and did the Slick Rock Trail. My friend walked her bike down a steep part of the trail. I argued that so long as I lifted the wheels as I approached the ground, I’d ride right off the cliff and onto the continuing path. Gravity had other plans for me and the bike hit the ground at exactly the same angle at which it left the cliff. I flew over the handlebars and face first onto bed of sand. She said, “Wow! You looked like Superman.”
I’d fly again years later when I bounced myself off of a trampoline, 10 feet into the air and onto a grass lawn. The five-year-olds watching me were less convinced I was a superhero.
My back is slowly getting better. The docs are working me into an exercise routine and have me being careful about every move I make. I don’t like how planned all my actions have become. Perhaps that’s why lately I take great comfort in a tiny print that decorates my office. It reads, “Most people she never tells about the tightrope because she doesn’t want to listen to their helpful comments from the ground.”
© Laura Genao 2006
I’m a Miserette at Heart December 14, 2006
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That’s right, I live in L.A. That means that the holiday season is sunny and often warm. Today, the forecast is for weather in the mid-70s. Christmas records show lows as low as 28 degrees and a high as high as 87 degrees. Despite many a year spent in colder spaces, I’m one for warmer Christmases. So, I’m rooting for a new high this year. Just call me a Heat Miserette.
And on that note, my favorite Christmas movie EVER aired recently. “The Year Without A Santa Claus” was on and I got to do my annual sing-along with the flame-haired Heat Miser and his miserettes. I’ve been doing this for 32 years and probably will for another 30.
For those too young to appreciate or know this classic holiday flick, you were born too late. For those who do and who smile whenever it’s on, here are my favorite lyrics.
I’m Mister Green Christmas
I’m Mister Sun
I’m Mister Heat Blister
I’m Mister Hundred and One
They call me Heat Miser,
What ever I touch
Starts to melt in my clutch
I’m too much!
He’s Mister Green Christmas
He’s Mister Sun
He’s Mister Heat Blister
He’s Mister Hundred and One
They call me Heat Miser,
What ever I touch
Starts to melt in my clutch
He’s too much!
Thank you!
I never want to see a day
That’s under sixty degrees
I’d rather have it eighty,
Ninety, one hundred degrees!
(spoken)
Oh, some like it hot, but I like it
REALLY hot! Hee hee!
He’s Mister Green Christmas
He’s Mister Sun
Sing it!
He’s Mister Heat Blister
He’s Mister Hundred and One
They call me Heat Miser,
What ever I touch
Starts to melt in my clutch
I’m too much!
Too Much!
Santa Leaves Money in My Shorts December 13, 2006
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I’ll admit, I’m spoiled.
I am spoiled because I’m fortunate enough to have a mother who still wants to do my laundry. She takes care of it whenever she stays at my house.
I told her not to do the laundry. She refused and my t-shirts were ironed the next day.
I offered to buy her gifts out of appreciation for her help. She had none of it and reorganized my closet by color and style.
Finally, I hit upon how to reward her–I started leaving money in the pockets of my clothing.
It started inadvertenly. A forgotten five in my jeans. A few dollars of change in my shorts.
I came home on each of those days and my mom said the Spanish equivalent of “it must be nice to be able to forget about your money.” She announced my punishment was that she would keep the change. I poutily obliged.
The next week. I left a twenty in a sweatshirt. I did the same with different pieces of clothing over the course of a few weeks.
Finally, she said, “You know, the amount you’re forgetting in your clothes is increasing, and you’re starting to leave it in clothing without pockets.”
I looked at her and smiled, “I know. Thanks mom.”
She smiled back and said, “Esto se siente bonito. Como si tuviera yo un Santa Claus.”
(This feels good. It’s as if I have my own Santa.)
© Laura Genao 2006
The Holiday Cards Are Coming–To ME!! December 12, 2006
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Recently, in Holiday Card-i-ology I described the types of greetings cards I like to send during the holiday season. Since I’ve now received some cards, I thought I’d describe two of the more creative ones.
The first is from my sister. Normally, she sends a computerized letter describing the family’s exploits. Last year, she mixed it up a little by doing it from my niece’s point of view. This year, the annual “letter of our exploits” was done in the shape of a house. The drawing was done, like a rough floor plan of her house, and the description of each room gave some information about what happened in that room during the course of the year (i.e., here’s who stayed in the guest room this year, here’s what we’ve added to our basement–you get the idea). I’d never seen that idea before, so it made me smile. I can also start practicing my sleepwalking around her house.
The second, is from a dear friend’s mom. In the Atkinson family there are nine children, two significant others, and two grandchildren. The card, which I’ve been fortunate to receive for the past decade, is in the form of a simple matrix. Across the top of the card is everyone’s name. Down the side is a series of questions. Each cell then reflects a neatly handwritten answer to each question as given by everyone from dad on down to the kindergartener who is the family’s youngest member.
Every year the questions change and they are always chosen in a way to teach me something new about the family. For example, this year I learned that my dear friend of almost 20 years has a weakness for “baby food oatmeal” and that her childhood nickname was “Jenolian.”
Since the Atkinson card brings a laugh to my life every year, I thought I’d answer their questions with my own information.
- What are you doing now? Negotiating some contracts
- A book you’ve read this year that you’d recommend? The Great Gatsby
- An interesting website you like? www.loteriachicana.net
- A newly discovered weakness? Inability to sit on long flights
- What news reporter would you like to be, or one you respect? Tina Fey
- A mistake you made this year? Leaving my car on the street last weekend
- What was your childhood nickname? Federica
- What modern convenience would you invent? A home drycleaning device
- Most horrifying thing that happened to you? Herniating two discs in my back
- Who should be the next president of the U.S.? Barack Obama
- A favorite Christmas present? Xbox
- A thing someone else in the family has that you covet? The photos in my sister’s family albums
- If you were to die and come back as someone else, who would it be? Virginia Woolf
- What is your favorite kind of apple? Red delicious
- Best thing to know? How to think on your feet
© Laura Genao 2006
Personal Attack December 11, 2006
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My car was broken into this weekend. The vandals, thieves, suspects-whatever-you-want-to-call-them, stole about $500 worth of my stuff and my registration materials. I did the whole police report, insurance company, credit fraud alert, protecting myself thing, and then started thinking about my loss.
What did my stuff say about me? What would these vandals, thieves, suspects-whatever-you-want-to-call-them think about me, if in fact they ever did? What did I want them to know about me, that they might not otherwise know?
First, they attacked my car by slicing through the soft top. I drive a silver, two-seat, BMW convertible. That car is the the only thing I’ve ever wanted, in a material sense. I mean, growing up poor in L.A. meant that I never had a car. I got my first bus pass in the fourth grade. As I got older, I was drawn to convertibles. Soft top, Karman Ghias froze me whenever I saw them. I loved their curves and lines and the feel they exuded. 
At some point, I consciously said to myself, “I will work hard so that one day I can buy myself a car like that.” I aced high school, went to a great college, and worked one, two, or three jobs from the time I was 16-years-old so that I could buy that car. The day after I finally did buy the car, I picked my mom up from her hotel housekeeper job and watched as she quietly got into the car. When I asked why she was so quiet, she responded “I feel like the President is picking me up and that people are watching me as I drive away in this nice car.” I loved that. That car, more than anything, showed me how much I could accomplish for myself and my family by working hard.
Second, the guys took a couple of my CDs. Specifically, they took Kelly Clarkson, the Village People’s Greatest Hits, ABBA Gold, and Pepe and the Bottle Blondes. Ok, ok, I like to sing in the car. I sing loud and proud and I don’t care what the driver in the next car has to say about my facial contortions or smooth dance moves. I am, fortunately, not as bad as my sister, who locks the car doors, rolls up the windows and then subjects people to her sing-along-with-Lucero mariachi moments. If you get into my car, “Since You’ve Been Gone” or “Dancing Queen” will very likely be on, and I will be dancing to them with moves once choreographed for the Law Revue show. I suppose I should be happy that the vandals, thieve, suspects-whatever-you-want-to-call-them took CDs that had started to skip, and that now I can buy new ones.
Third, the men (we know they are men because my neighbor saw them while taking the dog out at 4:15 a.m.–although he didn’t think there was anything wrong with the sight of them in my car) took my Oakley sunglasses and Gucci eyeglasses. These items are the sole source of vanity in my existence and, as such, perhaps deserved to be stolen. Those glasses were the accessories I used to look unapproachable. The square, dark-rimmed eyeglasses and wraparound sunglasses, were supposed to somehow convey my intellectual and physical severity. I’ll admit it, sometimes I make good use of an “I will beat you down look” to resolve certain situations. Yes, clearly, that persona is fleeting and imaginary. In fact, it disappeared into the pocket of some figure clad by the night’s darkness, just outside my bedroom window.
Fourth, I’m not quite sure what to make of the fact that the vandals, thieves, suspects-whatever-you-want-to-call-them left altoids and low dosage aspirin. Do they think I need breath and health help? I won’t question it. For whatever reason, perhaps a poor work ethic (yes, even in thievery), they left those items, as well as a laptop computer containing about a week’s worth of work.
While I’m not happy that my car and what it represents were attacked, I am a little hopeful that the psychic imprint of my fresh-breathed, sing along, faux hard-ass soul will be passed along to whover picks up the scratched Kelly Clarkson CD and a pair of old Oakleys at the local swap meet.
Words I Love To Say December 8, 2006
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I’ve never quite thought about why I like the sound of certains words said in Spanish. Maybe it’s that I have an unconscious affinity for the “ch” sound, or a conscious enjoyment of dramatic words for “foul!” or “rancid!” I’ll translate my understanding of a couple of my favorites for those of you unfortunate enough to lack an outlet for their constant use. Any other words I should consider for my list?
- retefeo (really, really ugly)
- fúchila (really, really smelly)
- guácala (really, really gross)
- champiñón (mushroom)
- campamocha (preying mantis)
- híjole (Wow!), combine with No. 1 for maximum effect (“Híjole el
está retefeo” or “He’s really, really ugly”) - chapopote (tar)
© Laura Genao 2006
Trash Talking Trees December 7, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in This Crazy World.1 comment so far
A friend and I were talking about ghosts and supernatural experiences when she mentioned her three-year-old daughter’s fear of trees. One day while the two were driving down a tree-lined road, the kid says “Mommy, tell the trees to stop talking to me.” When my friend asked what the trees were saying, her daughter replied, “They’re telling me I’m stupid.”
It’s just not a good day when the trees are talking smack.
© Laura Genao 2006
The Hairy Godmother (Part I) December 6, 2006
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I am 36-years-old and people pull my hair. Grown men tug on it at football games. Proper ladies pluck strands out at church. Small children grab a handful of my locks as they walk behind me at the movie theater.
My hair is big and thick and curly and brown and blonde and, increasingly, gray. When it is down, my hair is about two feet long. When it is gathered into a pony-tail atop my head, it resembles a lion’s mane. In a bun, I look like I have a large, hairy grapefruit on the nape of my neck. In a braid, the rope is almost two inches thick. As you might guess, my hair has always made me more than a little self-conscious.
In grade school, my mother tried to tame the unruly strands by constantly weaving them into two tight braids. In addition to stretching my forehead tight and pulling my eyes back, the braids had other, more public consequences.
For example, I had to learn to carefully navigate the halls at school the day after any Pippi Longstocking movie marathon weekend on television. Although two braids were the only thing I had in common with the Swedish girl who was strong enough to lift her horse and whose name if said fast was funny, my classmates thought it was the funniest thing ever to tease on account of the two ropes that hung off the side of my head.
One day, the geniuses I went to school with decided to stick a pencil through my braids. They then tapped my opposite shoulder, which made me whip my head around, sending the embedded pencil into my face.
I took about three years of such abuse before demanding a change and, in the third grade, my mom took me in for a real haircut. Finances being what they were, she took me to 
Cynthia’s Beauty School for a four dollar haircut. We should have known there was going to be a problem when the remedial-level student working on me snipped off my left braid in one fell swoop. She didn’t undo the braid or see what the full head of hair looked like without the braids. She just made sure to miss the ear as she sawed through the thick, woven strand. The result of the shearing was a mental institution escapee-look. My little sister, cousin, and I shared that look in good times and bad, and it only cost my mom $12.
My mother was so devastated by the sight of us and felt so guilty at her role in the affair, that she kept the lifeless braids as a reminder to never again go cheap with the hair.
Apparently, however, looking like a lunatic entitles you to one good school picture. In the fourth grade my hair was shoulder length, dark brown, and a perfect complement to my hazel eyes and snazzy JC Penney blouse. To this day, I feel like my inner child is the smirking girl in that picture. Unfortunately, the next good hair day wouldn’t come for almost 10 years.
By the fifth grade, the braids were back and I didn’t have any friends, family members, compassionate souls, or fairy godmothers willing to take pity on me by telling my mother that I was beginning to hit puberty, that my face and body reflected it, and that the continued use of braids through junior high school would only foster a hair-body disconnect that would lead people to whisper that my real hair had been ravaged by disease and that the braids and bangs-starting-at-the-back-of-the-head were just a wig.
By the time I was 12-years-old, braids and a chest had given me a Bavarian bar hussy-look. Given the choice of anatomical words beginning with the letter “B” which had appeared on my body, I was glad that people decided on “Laura Big Bangs” as my nickname.
Sometime between the seventh and eighth grade I also decided to break out of the school-geek role I had earned, so I ran for student body president. I ran against a smart girl with good, wavy (not crazy) hair. In an upset spurred by the rhyming campaign slogan “Laura Genao the Cow,” my coalition of smart kids, gym rats, and juvenile delinquents thrust me into office and toward another hair-style change.
The traumatic experience of a haircut that left me looking like Richard Simmons, keeps me from remembering much about that salon experience, except for I’m glad we did not do it before the election.
The hair situation in high school didn’t improve. I suppose I was just fortunate to have attended high school in the eighties, when hair was generally over blow-dried, over gelled, over moussed, over curled, over crimped, over frizzed, over dyed, and sometimes all of the above at 
the same time. While I was guilty of prepping my hair for the curling iron by spraying it with Super Extra Hold Aqua Net and then rubbing Dippity Do hair gel in it, there was no damage I could do to my reputation with a bad hair style as that which I did with my choice of fashion. Really, contrary to what anybody might tell you, a shirt with a blue life-size tiger face on it, matched up with a mane of curly hair and braces, is not fashion forward.
(to be continued)
© Laura Genao 2006
Helicopter Parents December 5, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in Breaking News, This Crazy World.add a comment
An article in Forbes magazine recently described “helicopter parents.” These people are “[w]ell meaning but overprotective, [and] now hope to guide their children’s job hunt.” Such parents apparently, “attend job fairs, accompany their adult children to job interviews, and even make their interview appointments.”
The article took me back to the sixth grade when my mom walked me to the first day at Nimitz Junior High School and didn’t leave until a half hour into homeroom. She stood in the back of the classroom/bungalow and assessed all of the pre-teens. She was scared the cholas would “get me,” because all the other parents ever told her about the school was how many cholas went there. I was glad to see that by the end of the eighth grade, my mom had seen that the two chola sisters in my homeroom class were very cool and had graduated just like me. They’d also help me wise up and learn how to deal with things on my own–I didn’t need my mom to come to the first day of high school, college, law school, or any other new endeavor with me.
© Laura Genao 2006
How much is too much? December 4, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in That writing I mentioned, This Crazy World.1 comment so far
A couple of items in the New York Times caught my eye today. They were a blurb on one of the perks in the retirement package of an executive at Anheuser Busch, a story about how investment bankers try to move the timing of certain deals so they can collect two bonuses off of the same deal, and an article that tries to find out the truth of a researcher’s finding that there aren’t more minority partners at large law firms because minority lawyers don’t have good law school grades. These articles caught my attention because of the gluttonous excesses they describe and, moreso, for what they say about what some people will take, what others will do, and what others are unwilling to take, ask for, or live with, in the pursuit of happiness. (more…)
Walking in L.A. December 3, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in Breaking News, Los Angeles.add a comment
My life in Los Angeles rarely involves walking. I don’t take leisurely walks here like I used to in Boston, or Philadelphia, or New York. 
Here, you drive places as if on a mission. You don’t just go pick a street and walk until it ends. You don’t get off a train and just figure on finding your way back. I miss purposeless walks, where you just pop into shops and find new things.
Today, my mom decided we should take the Gold Line train at Avenue 26 into Union Station and start a walk at Olvera Street and end it in Chinatown. We had a daytrip unlike any other we’ve ever shared to this place. (more…)
On Retirement December 1, 2006
Posted by notoriouslig in Breaking News.1 comment so far
Today was the last day at work for many people at my company. Some favorable tax treatment for people retiring before December 1, 2006, made it so that a lot of those eligible actually did retire. One assistant retired after 22 years.
I attended the reception in her honor today. While I was there I ended up talking to two attorneys who’d been at the company for 37 and 22 years, respectively. I don’t know that there’s anything, other than breathing, that I’ve ever done for that long. I mean, look at my history:
- School–21 and then some years. (14 years (preschool through grade 12), four years college, three years graduate school (and two semesters of required education school coursework to retain my emergency teaching credentials));
- Attorney–about seven years (three and a half at a large law firm, another three and a half at my current company);
- Paying off educational loans–ongoing, looks to be about 15 years when all is said and done;
- Work as a journalist–about two and a half years;
- Work as a teacher–about two years;
- Part-time job at Kmart–about two and a half years (about six months split evenly between a cash register and a deli and the rest in an appliance department);
- Work as camp counselor–about 10 weeks;
- Length of time between traffic tickets–about four years;
- Time since last haircut (not a trim)–about 15 years; and
- Time since last recurring nightmare about being smothered by a falling feather–about eight months.
I’m not sure what this list says about me, except for that I have a very short attention span (or that I’ve yet to find my true calling).
© Laura Genao 2006
