Because five years is so obvious.



Each day I try to drink lots of water. Lately my measurement has been two pitcher-fulls based on my new Ikea pitcher which I like very much.

So, riddle me this: if I pour water from that pitcher in mixing a cocktail, does that go towards my daily required intake?


Last week B and I trekked to the ever-so trendy Downtown Los Angeles for my sister-in-law's new office's open house. And while we were circling endlessly down one-way streets for a place to leave our vehicle, I noticed something: THERE ARE INTERESTING PEOPLE DOWN HERE. LOOK AT THEM ALL! STANDING AROUND! LOOKING AT ART!

I guess revitalization comes complete with fascinating art-lovers.

Art aside, I've always loved the idea of loft living and peering at all these people in their art gallery aquariums really amplified my romantic notions of gritty urban dwelling.

Suddenly, though, I'm not sure about it anymore. See below for the email I sent the following day:

Not sure if you guys know this but there are hideous giant rats on Hill St. I heard it squeak and saw it scurry. Thank God the bums were there to distract me or else I might have lost it.


That night I awoke with a start: rats nightmares. Yeah. Not so sure about that.



Lately I’ve been thinking I should be more interesting. You know, like people who are cool? They always know a lot of stuff, and a lot of people, and a lot of music and crap like that. And they have varied interests, like other than drinking excessively. They’re the kind of people who know how to update their own iPods and don’t make their husbands do it for them because they never wanted to figure out something simple for themselves. And when they update their own iPod, they probably don’t put “Fergalicious” on it (listen, you need something catchy and upbeat when “you’re up in the gym ,just workin’ on your fitness,” okay? Geez).

I’m honestly really lacking in a lot of those things that make people interesting. Like that aforementioned thing about wanting to do more than get boozed up all the time. For example, if I were not married to my live-in iPod updater, and I had to date online or something, my profile would probably be something like the following: I like to eat food, and drink booze. I hate cats. I like dogs. I think dogs are nicer than a lot of people. I like to laugh at funny stuff. I have 2 brothers and 2 sisters. Um. That’s all I guess. I like good things. I hate bad stuff. The End. Oh wait. Also, work sucks. The End, For Reals.

If I were more interesting, I’d list stuff like all cool books I read or this cool British band that I love that no one else had heard of or I’d include some awesome quote about existence and junk. Also, I’d probably wear more hats and live in New York City. Like all the interesting people. Who ride the subway everyday. And have lots of friends. Maybe I'd go to museums or art galleries.

I dunno, though. It’s kind of nice just mentioning a song that you like and finding it on your iPod later. And not having to make fun of art all time.


How I'm Like Harry Potter

I’m sorry, Environment. I admit I’m a long showerer. I recycle for You and use energy-saver lightbulbs, but I cannot get in and out of the shower in any fewer than 15 minutes. On a good day.

So today at about the halfway point of my long shower, Grandpaw and Dolly Parton went seriously berserk. Barking their little canine heads off. They were so ferocious I honestly started to get a little nervous that someone was breaking into the house. And suddenly, in the midst of their intimidating aural display, a shooting, burning pain zapped through my right calf. I instantly twisted around to look at it, thinking perhaps I’d nicked myself while shaving even though it really hurt more than that. But no, no razor nick. No blood. Just my usual leg with its perfectly shaped triangle scar.

Unlike some, I love 95% of my scars. There are one or two on my face that I might have laser resurfaced someday, but mostly, I like to be reminded of how Marta became Marta and scars are a nifty little roadmap to that end.

This particular scar – the calf triangle – is associated with one of my favorite histories.

About a year and a half ago, I was at MAGIC, hosting a series of segments for my old job. It was a true run-and-gun kind of shoot: just myself and a camera guy, running around the Las Vegas Convention Center for 2 days of blurry, breakneck shooting. Our last stop before racing to the airport to head back to LA was at the Chick by Nicky Hilton booth. We didn’t know if we were going to have enough time to get the interview and make the flight, but we had to try because, you know, Nicky Hilton is so huge and famous (or something like that, I’m told). Anyway, we were waiting in a line that wrapped around the booth with the other would-be interviewers when my triangle scar was singed into my leg forever.

There were little lights all around the base of the outside of the booth and apparently some Einstein hadn’t stopped to think about how surface-of-the-sun hot these little lights get and how someone might accidentally brush up against them. Like me. It was just a fraction of a second, but it left a hot, blistery burn that when it healed weeks later, left a perfectly shaped triangle.

So today when the dogs were barking, and my scar suddenly stung a lot at the exact same time, I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe Nicky Hilton is my Voldemort, perhaps she’s on the front steps right now and that’s why Gramps and Parton are losing their shit*.”

*Nope. Turns out it was just a bum rustling through the recycling.