Thursday, December 6, 2012

That Awkward Moment When You Realize Someone Thinks You’re a Bimbo


I’m so sick of California.

That is, I love it here.

OK. Wait.

It’s my home. I was born in Los Angeles and raised in the San Fernando Valley. Not that that was such a great thing—my childhood memories aren’t exactly made of Disneyland and hula hoops and cotton candy—but California is what I know.

We do, indeed, pay for the weather. I thought about that this morning when I was scooping Siri and Jaeger's gifts. Where else can I go outside to clean up dog poop and be horrified that it’s been SO COLD* that the ground hasn’t dried up yet from the rains of a few days ago?

(*Low 60s.)

Our state government is totally screwed up** and it’s getting ridiculously expensive to live here. Los Angeles now has the highest sales tax in the country. People VOTED for this. Which really doesn’t matter, because, even if it hadn’t been a ballot measure, I suspect our politicians—who all suck—would figure out a way to increase sales tax by not calling it a tax. IT'S A FEE! HAHAHAHA! WE FOOLED YOU AGAIN!

(**I went to the DMV yesterday to renew my license and they were remarkably efficient.)

Yeah, I generally don’t talk politics. I’ll shut up about it now. 

Instead, how about those property taxes? My house value is down, but my property taxes went up. DOES THIS MAKE SENSE TO YOU?

So I’ve been looking for places to move. Specifically, Nevada. I KNOW. I KNOW. That’s where everyone who isn’t fleeing to Texas or Arizona is moving. Even though I’m not fond of pizza-oven weather, I decided to contact a retirement community to find out what their deal is.

I’m not old enough for a retirement community, but my husband is. I called and asked if both spouses have to be at least 55. The woman who answered the phone called me “sweetie.” She may call everyone “sweetie,” but I’m a grown-ass woman, so I didn’t like it very much until I remembered I’m a grown-ass woman with a teenager voice.

NOT a baby voice. I find it very disturbing when a past-middle age woman has a baby voice, particularly when she uses it to be cute. Echhhh.

I sound more like a teen or young adult. I’ve had this sweetie/honey/darling thing annoyingly happen while I am doing a telephone interview for an article: “Are you sure you got that, honey?”

Yeah. I got that. I’ve been writing professionally for twenty-five years, so yeah, I think so. Thanks.

Anyway, I felt I had to explain to the retirement community lady that I’m a grownup even though I’m not 55.

Which is weird, because I don’t feel like a grownup. It’s funny how, youngish voice notwithstanding, we’re all twenty in our heads—when it suits us.

Click here to hear one of my samples from my voice over website.




4 comments:

  1. Call us crazy but when we retire (that is, when husband retires from Army) we plan to go back to NY for at least a few years (but to be honest, I can't imagine living in Florida). When 65 comes, I've told him we will buy a pick up truck and load the snowblower in the back of the truck. We will drive south, stopping frequently. The first time we stop and get asked by someone, "What's that?" while they're pointing at the snowblower is the place we'll call home!

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  2. What's a snowblower? (Never mind. You really don't want to live in Southern California.)

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  3. No, you need to find snow and you need to own snowblowers. If you get enough snow, you have to figure out how to get your snowblower on the roof without doing any damage. Add some alcohol and a "friend" standing by to take pics when things start to go bad and you're in Canada.
    We're all twenty in our heads up here.

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  4. Can't I just have the alcohol and slightly chilly weather? I'll put whip cream on my Kahlua 'n' coffee and call it "snow." Paparazzi optional.

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