Courtney Love Me the Sunset Strip

If you could see my hair right now, you would be so distracted that you would not be able to read this. I can't even remember what I did yesterday to make it this big today. It is one of those days where I catch the CATS looking at it in wonder.

What I am saying is my hair is not small today. My hair is never small, but today it has achieved new not-smallness.

Perhaps I will actually shower after blogging, and it will calm down. Then again, maybe it won't.

So, we tried to spend money on Friday night. Have you noticed that this blog is more and more about times we caved rather than times we have NOT spent? Still, we are now up to more than $12,000 and it is April, and last night I cooked the deliciousest dinner (yes, I have a degree in English). I am getting good at the cooking, as is Marvin Gardens, but he always could cook.

Marvin Gardens is way more of a grownup than me. When we met, he had books of STAMPS and he didn't bounce checks (he also didn't write $1.65 checks to the deli all the time, like I did) and he owned plates and bowls and stuff. Really, I cannot imagine what attracted him to me, unless he was looking for someone who lived like Courtney Love without the money.

Last night I made salmon, which you should eat because apparently if you eat it you will never die. Here's what you do. My mother taught me this. Eight hundred times. I have literally called her 800 times and said, "What is that salmon recipe again?" and she always sighs beleagueredly and tells it to me. So here it is.

You mix brown sugar, balsamic vinegar and Dijon mustard to taste. Slap that salmon in the mix, then put it in your oven's grill for like 10 minutes (till it flakes). Oh, it is good.

After reading this, you may wonder why I needed to call my mother for a repeat of this fairly simple recipe. Please refer to paragraph five, wherein I am Courtney Love without the money. Or drugs.

Getting back to the point, which I alluded to 20 minutes ago, we made plans to see a band called The Fab Faux. They are a Beatles tribute band, and no, we are not obsessed with tribute bands. The Fab Faux was playing at the House of Blues, which is on the Sunset Strip, which is basically the busiest place humanly possible to be on a Friday night.

Here is why I do not think doing things like this is remotely fun. Okay, so I leave work after a HARROWING week. On Friday I did not even get to go to lunch, and no matter how hard I worked, still had just as much work waiting for me in my rack.

I left at my regular time, because I was ready to have a psychotic break if I didn't, (and also because I couldn't SEE. I need to get that LASIK so bad. Or at least the bifocals.) and I drove all the way home, 16 miles, one hour and three minutes of driving.

I got home and fell face-down on the floor for about 15 minutes, then dragged myself onto the couch, with -- yes, Lisa -- my coat still on. Oh, how it bugs my friend Lisa when I do not take off my work things after work. She used to come over at 8:30 at night and I would still have on my blue suit, and you'd think I'd have given her mother a butch haircut, she was so annoyed.

After about five minutes of couch-lying time, in bounces Marvin Gardens, who did not have to work that day, to scream, "We have to go! Get ready! Whooooooo!"

Sometimes I wish I were an old maid.

I decided the least I could do was to put in contacts. Yes, I was going to wear my work clothes to the House of Blues. Yes, I was going to go to the House of Blues with my hair like that. But I was NOT going to go in my glasses.

Marvin Gardens watched me as I put in a contact, took out a contact, blinked, put in the contact, took out the contact, rubbed my eyes, swore, put in a contact, said OW! and took out a contact. MY CONTACTS WOULD NOT GO IN! At this point, I was in tears, literally and spiritually, and I put on my stupid glasses, which at this point were hurting my nose because the glass in them is so thick, and, looking like the ugliest person possible, left for the House of Blues.

And how do you think traffic was, getting to the Sunset Strip? Do you think it was fine? Remember the beginning of The Beverly Hillbillies, where Granny is riding on top of the car in her rocking chair? Remember how they smoothly drove through traffic, pointing at things? Yeah, that never happened. A woman riding a rocking chair in a car? Sure. Smooooothly gliding through the streets? Guess again.

After ANOTHER HOUR in traffic, we finally got to our destination, so that we could go around. and around. and around. the strip looking for parking. Oh, there are parking lots that you can pay to park in, but they are like $15 or $20, and SOMEONE, whose name I will not mention, but who was in the car with me, will NOT pay to park even if he is taking me for a tracheotomy.

We circled so many times that we turned to butter, eventually finding a spot on the street with clear, simple rules for parking. Seriously. That was the sign. I made Marvin Gardens give me the camera, which usually I am not allowed to touch, (see Courtney Love reference again) so I could photograph this sign, which was clearly written by Ernest Hemingway, as it is so simple, yet powerful.

After earning our PhDs in sign reading, and determining we could indeed park there for all of two hours, we walked to House of Blues, only to STAND IN LINE FOR 40 MINUTES. The doors were supposed to open at 8. They didn't. We stood in the cold, the wind whipping my hair to and fro, in front of a British guy, whose accent I enjoyed listening to, and a guy who does photography for Howard Stern. Listening to them was fun until my feet started to go numb. I was wearing heels, which when I had them on at WORK, where I could actually SIT in WARMTH, felt just fine. But STANDING on Sunset BOULEVARD for 40 minutes, I lost all feeling in my toes and most of my positive feelings for Marvin Gardens.

Finally, some guy came around asking if anyone wanted to sell their ticket and thanks to all that is holy and merciful, Marvin Gardens said yes. Then he and I (Marvin, not the ticket-wanter guy) went to this place that used to be the Schwab's where Lana Turner never actually got discovered, and we got tea. Where I discovered that that ticket-buying guy was a scalper. I had been so glad that he was able to get in to a show he wanted to see SO BADLY, he was willing to humiliate himself all up and down Sunset Boulevard asking for tickets.

I guess I am so not Courtney Love, am I?