I Am Leslie Lange

Nothing Is Ever Just 99 Cents

The other day, my housekeeper, asked me to buy myself some hangers. "It will be easier, you know, to hang up your clothes."
So, as I was roaming Desperate Hot Springs, running to the bank, avoiding off-leash pit bulls with my car, etc... I happened to see a sign for a new local 99-cent store. Juana is going to be so proud of me, I thought. I didn't waste money on expensive hangers from Walgreen's.

It takes courage to enter any 99-cent store, because, you know, there's no such thing as a free lunch, freedom isn't free, and nothing is ever just 99 cents. The last time I went, there was a fight at the cashier's station--a fight that lasted a long long time. Hence, the discount was offset by the time wasted, and by that I mean the years taken off my life at the stress of being exposed to a large blotchy-faced white guy (the customer) yelling at a petite, clear-complexioned black woman (the cashier) who told him, "Get out my face you dumb m$#%&." (She was clearly worried about catching his blotchiness.) There was also the time the price of cheap goods was a wait behind this guy whose elbow had a tennis ball-sized open sore, complete with stench and small insects. Would I have paid a few cents more not to have had my face all up in that? Actually, I'd have paid a hell of a lot more--and I work in a hospital.

But all these things were forgotten as I plunged into this new 99-cent establishment. This was going to be different because I was in D-Town. Everything is so crappy in D-Town, I figured the 99-cent store would be actually upscale. So I went in and it was true. The aisles were clean, organized, the shoppers respectful and free of sores. The cashier spoke naught but Spanish, but, hey, that's OK. I'm a proud multilingual (can offend in any tongue). I was so happy to get my three sets of 5 maroon hangers for $2.97 plus the tiny bit of tax.

Then I exited the store.
And there she was.
There she was, pushing what looked to be a baby stroller from K-mart.

She was grubby and there may have been a baby in the stroller, but the stroller was draped in blankets. What kind of blankets? Grubby blankets. There may have been nothing underneath those blankets but a grubby stuffed baboon. Still, the implication was: a baby out in 100-degree weather. She asked me for some change, mumbling something about being out of gas. I gave her several dollars, enough dollars to buy 15 hangers from Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Then I got in the car. Did I think, Gee, I'm glad I was able to help another human being? No, instead, I thought this: Once again, I have not saved money at the 99-cent store. In fact, I spent more money and received lesser quality items.

Once home, I complained about this to Juana. She said, "Oh, but you didn't lose that money because God was watching, and you will be rewarded for this, you know, because He sees everything." This made me feel better, not because I think God is watching me and keeping records, but because Juana is watching..and now maybe she'll forgive me for that big dildo I left in the dishwasher last week. Or maybe she was reminding me, in her own subtle way, that God saw the dildo too.

How to Waste a Perfectly Good Morning

1. Get up early. You’ve got a lot you don’t want to accomplish.

2. Go online and check your e-mail. Read, but don’t answer any of the personal ones. For now, they are merely measures of how well-liked you are.

3. Police your spam. If you are getting a lot of it, use this to heighten your sense of “life spinning out of control.”

4. Check your other e-mail account, the one that hooks you up with MySpace and Facebook. Find out who wants to be your friend. On MySpace, take a time-consuming personality quiz. On Facebook, get sucked into some word game or whatever. Your scores will determine if you’re a genius or a moron (there is no in-between). Play against a friend. If you win, feel superior. If you lose, look for some excuse, and fight back your tears.

5. Check your weight six times: before and after exercising, before and after eating, and before and after pooping. Use these statistics to determine an overall sense of self-worth.

6. Check your book’s Amazon rank. Compare this rank to rankings of your imaginary friends and rivals. Next, check the rank of a literary masterpiece no longer widely read, and if it is lower than your own, think, Yes! I am greater than Henry James!

7. Check your blog to see how many hits it got since your last post.

8. Pet and baby talk your dogs. Tell them the things you really want to hear. Things like, “How could you be so pretty? Huh? Just how could you be so pretty?”

Palm Springs Pride: out, proud, and drama-free

Visit Leslie Lange (me) sporting her new almost-mullet this Saturday at Palm Springs Pride, where she'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive. November 3rd. at 2 p.m.

Mullified

Whoa! Lots of stuff's been going down in Los Angeles lately: Fires, poor air quality, a pending writers' strike (always a writers' strike, never an authors' strike), my favorite Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Hollywood cemetery, and the Murakami exhibit opening at MOCA.

But I'm going to talk about my hair.

I went to my stylist, Viva, in Palm Springs, sipping decaf while enduring the application of numerous highlights, then skimming a whole stack of fluff magazines as my scalp baked in the surround-swelter of 3 discoid radiant heat lamps. Then Viva took up her shears and razor and commenced doing what she always does, which is chop through my thatch of Bushman-like locks, giving it her best shot to produce something akin to "texture" so that I don't look like I'm wearing a brown bike helmet all day.

"I think I'm going to try something new," Viva said, gesturing across the top of my head. "I'm going to cut it short-to-long over here, and long-to-short over here."
"Cool," I said. "Go for it. Make salad."
"Oh, and what about this?" she said, pulling on the wisps at the nape of my neck.
"Um," I said. "I like those."
"Good, because everyone always wants me to cut them off, but they're my favorite."
"OK, leave 'em."

When I got home that night, Pontifica--on her way to kiss me--stopped dead in her tracks.
I found myself unwilling to register her expression. "What?"
Pontifica took me by the shoulders, and made very grave eye contact. "I'm sorry, honey, but that is darn close to a mullet."

I ran to the mirror, turned to look at my profile, and...AAAK! Indeed it was...darn close to a mullet.

But was it still an attractive sort of mullet? Or even better, a subtle, pushing-the-boundaries sort of naughty self-referencing wink, maybe, to the mullet, without actually being one? God, I hoped so.

Help me decide, please! Come visit my table at Palm Springs Pride, November 3rd at 2 p.m., where I'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive, a book I wrote in my pre-mullet days.

Buy Dyke Drama!

The Cat

Right now, as I sit here typing, a very cute cat is walking back and forth across my hands, artfully stepping over my forearms, tightroping along the tiny edge of desk in front of the laptop's keyboard, and running her tail along my upper lip, which is to say up under my nose. The cat's name is Maisie and she's filled with love for me, and I for her...except for one problem: I am allergic.

Weird Search of the Moment

"new anaesthesia lesbian story"

It's true...lesbians are famous for discovering new anaesthesias, as many pursue the pleasure of "going under" on a fairly regular basis.

The Effects of EMDR

Considering its lack of any vibrating handheld devices, my first EMDR session felt a little anticlimactic. I sat  across from my therapist and talked about the time I flipped the bird at my mother and she responded by trying to break it--that is, my finger. At various points, Dave would pause, ask a few questions, then repeatedly move two of his fingers back and forth in front of my face, as if operating the return of an old-fashioned typewriter.

Example: "So...there you were, doing the Italian "Mama Mia That's a Spicy Meatball" gesture, and you inserted your middle finger in there behind your mother's back, for the amusement of your sisters, but then your oldest sister tattled on you--when she knew what your mother was capable of--and how did that make you feel?" "Um...betrayed...and like I can't trust anyone." (envision the fingers going back and forth for about, oh, twenty seconds or so). And so on...

A friend of mine told me she'd bawled during her EMDR session, but I had an oddly unemotional experience. Sure it was hard to talk about, but enough to burst into tears?

Afterwards, I asked myself: Has anything actually changed?

I'm always thoroughly amazed where vibrating hand-held devices lead me...

Regarding my recent foray into EMDR therapy, a reader sent this comment: "I started that last week...she uses these little vibrating hand-held devices instead of the rapid eye thing. At the end of the session, I was thoroughly amazed where it led me...." Wow! If only my therapist were a) a hot Pontifica-resembling female and b) used vibrating hand-held devices on me! I may not be surprised where the treatment led me, but I'd be sure to get my money's worth. Social phobia? What social phobia? I'm too...ahem... busy, OK?

My Dad

Years ago, my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Once he stopped being able to tally up his own Yahtzee scores, Mom left him, and he moved in with my sister in a town near Austin, Texas. This year he finally had to be placed in a facility that could care for a big strong Italian guy who sometimes throws temper tantrums and has panic attacks. This week he went to the Senior Olympics and won two trophies. One for the "chicken toss" and one for putting.

Asscrack Powder Spritz

Today, I was asked by a 97-year-old man: "Please, help me pull up my diaper." (Not so unusual at the hospital where I work.) I grabbed the back of his Pamper, hiked it gently, and...poof! A puff of baby powder billowed into my face. I then laughed merrily. Why, I do not know. Maybe it was simply the element of surprise. But there was something sweet about it too.

But also something tangy.