Driving in LA

This past weekend, I helped a friend move into her apartment in LA. I was mentally unprepared for the concentration and sheer determination it took to complete this task. When we loaded up my (Dad’s) truck, I played a dangerous game of furniture Tetris but managed to stuff four chairs, a desk, and two mattresses in the bed of the pick-up. Then I did some magical knots with bungee cords and secured everything down to a reasonable level of stability.

After the road trips to and from Philly, I felt pretty confident in my packing and bungee-ing ability. And, as far as I know, I didn’t kill anybody with errant, flying furniture so mission accomplished on that front.

However, there were various problems with this driving situation despite the successes.

My two other pals each filled her car with what wouldn’t fit in the truck. We planned a route with the lowest amount of ominous red chunks of traffic and since I could not really see to either side of me or out the back window, we decided on a caravan formation where I would be in the middle.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to keep three cars together on the 405, but it is nigh impossible. And futile. And frustrating. And anxiety-inducing.


Seriously though, even going at disgustingly slow speed, it was hard to annoy other drivers enough to leave our little line of cars. I’m pretty sure most drivers didn’t want to drive behind me anyway because I probably looked like a traffic accident waiting to happen but people loved to cut me off in the front. Which is their right as an American citizen. As an American, it is your right – nay – your duty to annoy and harass other drivers as you feel fit.

I think the most terrifying aspect of the entire ordeal was merging because I was relying on other people’s instincts to move out of the way and sheer luck. I basically kept a pleading look on my face the entire time I was on the road and hoped people understood that I couldn’t see anything. I also put my blinker on and looked to the sides for a full thirty seconds before I took the dive into another lane.

But, let’s be real, nobody cares or cared. They were just trying to go on their merry way and far away from what probably looked to them like a roving furniture store.

 

Alas, I did make it to the apartment in one piece. But not before panicking multiple times and having to give myself a pep talk. You can do this. You’re amazing. You’re in a truck, people respect you. Look how high you are compared to everyone else. You are elevated to the status of Queen and nobody – NOBODY – will take your throne. You will guide your people with a gentle hand but a harsh word. You are the Supreme Ruler of All the Land. 

Unrelated: all of LA hates me.

– Daughter

What Driving in the Snow Feels Like as a SoCal Native

My life.

My life.

In a word: TERRIFYING.

There was a flash blizzard yesterday (that’s a real thing, right?) and I was unfortunately wandering around on campus at the time and had to trudge barefoot, uphill to my car and then drive to my apartment. I seriously needed a Sherpa to guide me back to the truck. It is a harsh, unforgiving land. I saw others fall behind and yell for help, but I did not look back. You should never look back.

Anyway, I finally made it to the summit of Mt. Everest my truck, which was covered in snow and ice. The ice had crept up the windshield so as to completely obstruct my vision. I briefly admired the crystalline patterns of the ice before crying silently to myself. My side windows were frozen in place but with great difficulty, they rolled down allowing the snow to slide off the windows and into my lap. Success!!

It was still snowing at this point so I turned on the windshield wipers. MISTAKE. The wipers smeared ice all over the windshield thus obscuring my view even further. It was like looking out from a submarine porthole. A FOGGY submarine porthole. No, it was like looking out from a foggy submarine porthole while the Kraken shakes the submarine from the outside. Yes, exactly like that.

I drove at a breakneck speed of 5 miles per hour. Sometimes 6 mph when I was feeling dangerous (I never felt dangerous, FYI). I was preparing to go flying into an embankment because I have watched far too many YouTube videos of cars sliding around on icy roads like Michelle Kwan at the 1998 Winter Olympics to expect otherwise.

Between my expert driving and my clever manipulation of windshield wipers, I got back to the apartment in one piece, if a bit anxiety-ridden. Nothing like the East Coast to make you hate winter.

When SoCal people see snow for the first time:

 

The millionth time you see snow:

– Daughter

Paranormal Activity 5 is Happening in My House Right Now

Bird… or minion of the Devil?

I’m pretty sure my zebra finches are the inspiration for the next movie in the Paranormal Activity franchise. Seriously, they are not of this earth; they are unholy amalgamations of terror.

Let me tell you a story, one that has shaped my life in profound ways. Once, when I was young and full of that je ne sais quoi, I had (and still have) a friend with small, beautiful zebra finches. Her finches had devil-spawn offspring and she asked if I wanted a couple. “YES!” I exclaimed in my naïveté. I had no idea I was making a pact with the Satan of birds.

At first, it was exciting. BIRDS! TWO OF THEM! I COULD NAME THEM! I COULD RE-ENACT THAT SCENE IN SNOW WHITE WHERE SHE SINGS IN HARMONY WITH HER FEATHERED FRIENDS!

In my enthusiasm for my new pets, I carefully christened them with names they would be proud to announce and proclaim as their own. I chose their monikers from the Lord of the Rings to remind them of their ancestry in New Zealand. As an adoptive parent, it’s important to recognize your child’s background. I relished the idea of being the most politically-correct, moral zebra finch owner in history. I could not wait to raise them and watch them grow into majestic adults, truly eagles among finches. But it was not to be.

I quickly realized the birds had passed the point in their maturity where they could be tamed. Instead of feathered joys, they would be festering manifestations of hatred, a hatred directed at me. When I pass by their cages, they furiously squawk and I’m sure if they had teeth, they would bite.

These are the demons’ finches’ main activities: pooping, taking baths and pooping in their drinking water, splashing said drinking water onto unsuspecting passers-by, squawking in un-melodic tones at the first sign of light, praying to their Satanic overlords, fighting amongst themselves, and pooping.

I have entertained the thought of making tiny roast finch complete with tiny poached finch eggs but the amount they defecate raised too many questions of possible toxicity. Instead of outright action, I thought I would just wait a few years until they kicked their mini buckets. Mais, non! THEY LIVE FOREVER: 15-20 YEARS. I COULD BE 30 WHEN THEY DIE.

If you don’t believe me, just take a moment to study the picture at the top of this post. That is an undoctored photo. They cast a red aura anywhere their be-clawed feet touch. These winged demons, these incubi of the night, strike fear into my heart even in the safety and comfort of light. Why? Because if light invades their dark territory, guttural peeps meet my ears until I rush over to cover their cages. But as I do – and despite casting them back into their preferred state, that of shadow and darkness – they show no gratitude, no, they know nothing of grace. Their black eyes flash at me, angrily, as I sweep the blanket over this picture of calamity, afraid that the sanctity of my soul is at risk if I stay too long. If eyes are the window to the soul, then truly, these are no birds but creatures that have been borne of the maw of hell: soulless, black, empty.

– Daughter

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