The Patina of Newness Sickness

Shit I’m going to be late and I’m wearing the worlds highest heels. Come on parking fairies find me a spot up close and personal. I creep down Hollywood peering out the window, hoping for a miracle. Eureka! There’s one right in front. Unbelievable. It’s little tight, but I can do it. Flipping on my blinker I throw the car in reverse and start to whip it around. Then I remember one important detail. I’m not driving the Little Pipper. Slamming the breaks I gulp in a huge rush of air. Holy Moses Batman, that was close. Gazing with longing at the tricky, but do-able spot, I start to chicken out.

What if I scratch the rims trying to get in it, or heaven forbid, ding the fender? That would be a tragedy. Hell, even if I do it right the guy behind me could bump me when he tries to pull out. I mean it is Friday night, and there is a good chance he will be drunk. Let’s face it, even if he was stone cold sober it is an awfully tight spot and he may just be an impatient person unwilling to do the back and forth process it would require to get out without bumping me. My mind goes mad with a torrent of possible scenarios, all of which involve my brand spanking, shiny new, pristine, black, BMW, officially named Lola, getting damaged. Bloody hell, I’m actually considering letting this prime piece of parking real estate go? Obviously I’m suffering from a severe case of the Patina of Newness Sickness.

Laugh all you want, but you know what I’m talking about. You get a new car you have been coveting for some time, and you are totally irrational about taking care of it. You wash it twice a week. You never park under trees. (We all know pooping birds live in those green, leafy hazard zones.) You don’t let your friends eat in it. (Are you kidding me? The smell of food!) You park out in the boondocks. (“Hello! Of course, we have to walk. Haven’t you heard about door-dingers who drive beat up old Chevy’s and target shiny new cars?”) You never leave gym bags lying inside to taint your brand new leather car smell. Under no circumstance, at no time, are Big Gulp cups allowed! (Can you say, “Sticky, syrupy spill hazard waiting to happen?”) Sandy beach feet and bags are also forbidden. (“Sorry folks it’s a glacial cold shower in the nasty beach stall, or a walk home. It’s only forty miles and sand never comes out.”) You are so anal, every time you parallel park, you make your friend get out and show you with hand gestures exactly how far you are from the curb, so you won’t scrape your rims. If you pull up and the valet guy smells of stinky, you get right back in and cancel your plans for the night. (Let’s face it, it’s impossible to get body odor out of a car.)

Then your car gets its first injury. The fat lady who parked next to you when you weren’t looking shoves her door open with all the force of a hurricane and leaves a clearly evident dent. One of your craftier friends sneaks 7Up in a water bottle into the car, and sure enough spills it. You cry. You cry big crocodile tears. If you are me, you may even have a full blown hissy-fit on the culprit, but it doesn’t make any difference. Your car is still damaged. Only now, they feel bad, and you feel even worse. (I highly recommend avoiding the hissy-fit part of this step, but go ahead with the tears. You earned them.)

Then the second injury occurs, and this time you cringe. You don’t quite cry, but you feel that helpless sense of doom. It seems whatever you do you can’t keep this car looking, smelling, and feeling shiny new. The third, fourth, and fifth injury have pretty much the same affect, and by the time you have your sixth injury you have surrendered to the concept of driving an old beater. When the dashboard gets ripped apart by an inept stereo thief, when the driver side door gets backed into by an SUV, and when the stinky smell of hot dairy from a mocha that was dumped by your best friend greets you every time you enter it, you think,

“This car has character.”

Now you can park anywhere you want, eat and drink anything you choose, and you save tons of money on car washes (because really, what’s the point?) Your car has now become what it was originally intended to be: a means of transportation that makes your life easier, more pleasurable, and more efficient.

Who am I kidding though? I am nowhere near that point and I have every intention of being completely irrational as long as I possibly can. Pulling away from the Rock Star spot, I proceed to drive my Little Lola approximately twenty miles away before I find a Patina of Newness worthy spot. Climbing out and I begin the long hike back. Never mind, that by the time I arrive the party will be ending, the sun will be coming up, and I will be in serious need of foot surgery to remove my permanently embedded high heels, at least Lola won’t have a scratch. Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t care what you say, that’s got to count for something.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved

The Pussy Exchange

“You’ve got to be kidding me? Who wrote this bullshit? That is the sixth smoking hot woman in his bed in less than 48 hours. Where does he think he is? New York?”

“Baby nobody claimed this is a reality show.”

“Yeah, but please! This is such a false representation of reality it’s a peak into a delusional guys wet dream.”

I’m finally watching my first episode of Californication with the Magic Man. Since the show started everyone I know has been bugging me that I have to see it, that it is such

“…an honest, no holds barred representation of LA.”

That’s probably what is throwing me off.

All I want to know is, what LA on what planet are they talking about? This clearly isn’t the LA located in sunny California that I live in. If there is one predominant fact about the sex life of this city it is that nothing is given away!

It’s an ongoing joke among all my friends, male and female, successful and not, that there is no such thing as free sex in LA. Every thing has a price. In fact we often wonder as to the sexual statistics of LA versus say New York. If the sexual climate of the Big Apple could be compared to a high school dance where passions ignite and are acted on, Tinsel Town could be compared to a strip club where the goodies are offered in a tempting display and then pulled away until you pay the right price to touch. It’s no joke. Sex is commonly used as a commodity in Hollywood, not a natural explosion of passion, lust, or love. New York has the Stock Exchange and LA has the Pussy Exchange.

In the Big Apple the primary commodity is stock. In Tinsel Town the primary commodity is sex. The entire entertainment industry is built from the ground up on the sex sells philosophy. It infiltrates everything. It’s not just limited to business. People live and breathe their work. It doesn’t stop when they go out and play. In fact, mixing business and social climbing is an absolute must. They barter what they can offer you (or pretend to offer you) against what they can get from you. As a result you cannot socialize and party in this town for long without quickly learning the nature of human interaction and your personal market value.

It’s a fascinating phenomenon. Girls end up having no choice but to take one of two roads to their sexuality being treated as a commodity. They either go by the “what is rare has more value” philosophy and play very hard to get, so they won’t be thought of as cheap. (Which in some cases forces them to say no and repress their natural instincts even when they would like to say yes, because they can’t afford an Easy Girl reputation.) Or, they try to prove their nymph-dom by showing off their sexuality and putting out for everyone who offers them something (connections, prestige, presents, film parts, etc.) thinking their obvious sexuality will increase their value. (Men really dig manipulating this group. It’s so much fun to use a girl’s insecurity to your advantage.) Sadly, both ways of operating are unnatural and decidedly unfulfilling when it comes to sex and relationships. Both operate against your natural inclinations.

It’s a real tragedy. It hurts the men as well. Even decent guys become forced to play by the rules of negotiation, or end up alone. I’m not sure how it can be fixed. I suppose the only hope is that men and women, one person at a time, find a way to separate business and pleasure, and put the pleasure back in pleasure by treating the opposite sex as human beings and not a commodity. It will take some really honest, fearless individuals to do it, but I honestly believe it can be done. Look at the Magic Man and I. We met on the open market in Tinsel Town and we did it. I wasn’t a commodity to him and he wasn’t buying me. We were simply two individuals, who gave each other a chance and loved what we discovered.

However you slice it though, there is no way in hell a self-deprecating, one-hit-wonder author, who isn’t loaded, and doesn’t promise endless connections and parts, got six separate first-string-hotties into his bed in 48 hours. Maybe it would be a bit more believable if there were a few desperate, second or third-string chicks, but all first-string NO BLOODY WAY!

Pushing play on episode two, I decide, what the hell, it may not be accurate, but aren’t I the one who always complains about reality shows? At least this sexy! Let’s face it, wet dreams are always more fun than real life. At least this writer has a vivid imagination. Just when the next person comes up and tries to tell me what,

“…an honest, no holds barred representation of LA...”

Californication is, don’t’ be surprised if I stick a sock in it!

As long as you don’t call it by something it’s not, I can enjoy it for what it is; pure, sexy, well written entertainment.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved
photo © 2007 Annique Delphine All Rights Reserved

Super Soaker

Holy Moses Batman! Is this Super Soaker never going to stop? I mournfully gaze outside at the torrential rain beating down on our usually sunny Tinsel Town landscape. Last night when I went to sleep I did something I haven’t done in a very long time. I said a prayer. That’s right, I caved and attempted communication with the Fat Man upstairs. The way I saw it, I had finally encountered a situation none of my big shot friends here on earth had any control of, so as a last resort, precautionary measure I asked the Fat Man (who, frankly, I don’t really believe in, but desperate times call for irrational measures) to please turn off the celestial sprinkler system that is terrorizing the citizens of sunny California. For those of you conscientious folks concerned about the drought we have been in, I didn’t ask for a permanent shutdown just a temporary sanity abatement, as I have been sinking into what can only be defined as a full fledged mental mudslide. I tell you in LA it’s not only the houses that slide off the high places when the rains fall, it’s also the sanity and general happiness quota of the residents sliding too. I am a classic example.

I, the formally webbed foot, gill sporting, child of Seattle have to admit; I’ve gone soft. I’m not sure how it happened.

When I first moved here, I made fun of all the folks who pulled out their winter coats when it dropped below 70 degrees. What was wrong with all these panty-waiters? Didn’t they know 65 degree’s was still shorts weather? I, like all the fanny pack wearing tourists, sported my short-shorts, tank tops, and sundresses that first winter. I even donated all my coats and winter clothing to the local thrift store. I was showing the natives, by example, how foolish they were and teaching them the ridiculousness of their bundled up ways.

When it rained for a measly couple of days and the locals all acted like a blizzard had wiped out the village, I gave them the Seattle Veteran Pep Talk. It goes something like this…

“You call this rain? A couple days of showers, followed by blue skies and sunshine. Why I’ve gone six months, one week, and three days before without even glimpsing the sun. There were periods of gray days when I even questioned the suns actual existence (not in the existential way, but in the real practical, physical, “ Mommy, are you sure there is a sun up there?” way).

My mockery and abuse of the locals’ softness was endless. Endless until the second winter that is.

Suddenly, winter number two, I found myself turning blue and shivering from exposure whenever the temperature dropped beneath a toasty 80 degrees. The heater went on, and every skimpy, inadequate item of clothing I possessed was layered on top of each other for added insulation. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had to humbly march myself into a clothing store and shell out an obscene amount of cash for a coat. If you will recall, all mine were warming less fortunate souls who shopped one of the many L.A. area Goodwill Store’s. I seriously considered digging through those Goodwill Stores myself in a hunt for my beautiful warm coats, but the thought of paying again for things I had given away was just too much to bear, so I let go of that fanciful idea and ponied up the cash for a new one.

Worse still I found myself slipping into minor depressions every time some bothersome cloud hid the sun’s rays. Soon, I was convinced I suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Also known as SAD. (The perfect nick name for a handy new disease that is a result of sunshine deprivation. You know my fondness for self-diagnosed mental illness labels and the ready excuses they give one.) Anyway, I digress, the point is; I really do suffer every time it rains for an extended period of time. I find myself locked up at home doing nothing. Even answering the phone seems like a chore. It’s as if every drop of rain is a personal attack on my psyche. In Seattle we would call it a Monday (or any other day of the week) and go on with our life. Here we call it a winter storm and everything comes to a screeching halt. Oh how the mighty fall!

The fascinating thing is, I am the rule, not the exception in Tinsel Town. Formally tough New Yorker’s, Chicago-ites, Londoners, Swiss, and Mid-Westerners go into total hide out hibernation mode for a few drops of rain. Stores close, restaurants are emptied, and nightclubs look like ghost towns when the sky spits. People get grouchy and mean, and if you are unfortunate enough to have to drive on the roadways during the downpour you can bet on encountering road rage at least a dozen times, not to mention the totally inept drivers who have no idea how to deal with less than perfect conditions. Fifty car pile-ups during a rainstorm are the norm. Shockingly it appears paradise is not a breeding ground for tough cookies, but rather mushy wimps. Who knew?

Closing my shade on the nasty view outside I decide clearly there is no Fat Man upstairs concerned about one little missy’s general disgust with his irrigation plan. Last nights desperate plea was an exercise in futility. Well fuck it! If you can’t win, surrender gracefully. I march back to my bedroom, pull back my down comforter, and crawl my wimpy ass back in bed. If the day is not ready for me yet, I’m not ready for it either! This bloody Super Soaker can spit on some other poor sap. I’m storing up energy for the next blast of sunshine. My heels are currently in hibernation.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved

Perpetuator of the Crime

“I came eleven times you stupid bitch. Top that!”

I watch in total amazement as Rocket Scientist, a fuckable blonde sits across from me posturing her anger, down the table, toward the totally unsuspecting Girlfriend of Bozo the Banger. Fortunately there are too many seats between us for Girlfriend to have a clue what’s going on, but that doesn’t stop Rocket Scientist from spouting off to impress her friends about what a bitch Girlfriend is. Luckily Girlfriend has no idea that she has been cheated on and is now being viciously attacked by one of the cheat-ies, so I can merely sit back and watch the lunacy unfold. Now I understand why the entire world is screwed up. If there are women like Rocket Scientist on the planet, no wonder our whole sex comes up short in the male female dance.

Magic Man and I are out to dinner with the Man in Black and a large group of his friends in Cabo San Lucas, where we came to celebrate New Years Eve. Strawberry Kisses caught me up on all the shenanigans that took place last night, so I’m fully aware of the back-story.

It seems, Rocket Scientist, in a drunken, fuckable, stupor, brought Bozo the Banger home last night, and fucked him. (Despite knowing that he was on this trip with another woman.) Apparently, she faked eleven orgasms during their thirty minute Tequila induced marathon. (Let’s face it, there is just no way in hell Bozo the Banger is capable of giving a woman one real orgasm, let alone one shy of a dozen, so we don’t believe her on that count.) Then tonight, as coincidence would have it, Bozo the Banger was invited to the same dinner as little miss Rocket Scientist. When he showed up with his Girlfriend and totally ignored Rocket Scientist she became incensed with outrage. (Her outrage is justifiable considering she put eleven orgasms worth of acting into making this schmuck feel like a stud, and he doesn’t even give her a howdy-doo tonight.) What is not justifiable and simply blows my logical mind is; why the fuck is she mad at the victim and not the criminal?

I’ve seen it before in Tinsel Town and it never ceases to blow my mind. It’s like the victim of a mugger going to court and finding out that their mugger had also mugged other victims. Then at the trial instead of testifying against the mugger they get mad at the other muggee.

“He’s my mugger! He liked mugging me more. I bet he didn’t make you see eleven stars when he punched you out, and stole your bag.”

Where is the logic Rocket Scientist? Did Girlfriend come to your house last night, use you, and leave when she was done? Did she walk into a restaurant after using you the night before and pretend you don’t exist? Did she lie to you and tell you she was single? Did she make you feel like a meaningless pussy to shove a hard cock into? Why the fuck are you mad at her? Isn’t she the poor unsuspecting victim who believes her man loves her and is faithful to her? Isn’t she clueless that you are sitting at the other end of the table hurt by her mans use of you? Don’t you think she would be outraged, offended, and hurt if she knew what a dick he was to you and her? If anything, why the hell aren’t you on her side against him? Looks to me like both of you got burned and walked all over by him. Call me crazy, but if there is someone to be mad at here I think the choice is obvious.

“Whoo hoo!”

I’m yanked out of my reverie as Rocket Scientist, grabs another shot and pounds it down like water. That is the third shot she has done in ten minutes. Some people would argue that women like her simply enjoy sex, they find drunken one night romps to be fun, my talk of being used is totally misguided, but I would disagree. If it were just fun sex, she wouldn’t be so angry with Girlfriend today, amused and cocky maybe, but not so frantically upset and hurt. No it wasn’t just sex for her. She had misguided hopes of something more the next day. Clearly Rocket Scientist has a sensitive heart. What she appears to be lacking all together is a brain.

I feel like yanking her out of her seat, and marching her outside to give her the mother of all self-respect lectures. Silly girl, don’t you know, getting shit faced drunk is the guaranteed way to end up tomorrow night in the same situation as your are in tonight? Why there are at least five more spoken for men at this table. Being as they are all from Hollywood, odds are at least one more of them would would be happy to ride your ass tonight and ignore you tomorrow, comforted by the fact that you won’t be the least bit upset with him.

Come on Rocket Scientist, lose your outrage and clean up your act! You’re no victim here. You are the perpetuator of the crime. Assholes count on women like you. Without you they might have to treat all women with respect.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved

The Pink AMX

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not going to let you buy me a dress.”

Strawberry Kisses informs the generous sounding Miss Priss.

“Don’t worry it’s not on me.”

What the hell does that mean? Strawberry Kisses and I watch as Miss Priss proceeds to pull out seven different credit cards, from seven different men. Our jaws hit the floor.

Now I’ve been in several long-term, live together relationships and I have never in my life had a guys credit card. What the fuck is Miss Priss doing to earn her SEVEN!!!?

As I contemplate the absurdity of this revelation I come to the stunning realization that this explains a lot of the fancy cars and amazing wardrobes of the masses of models in Tinsel Town.

Men I’ve dated in the past have asked me why I’m not rolling in the dough like all the other lovely creatures prancing around LA. My explanation was, they must have family money. I happen to know for a fact they never book jobs. Now I realize it’s a whole different kind of family, known specifically as Sugar Daddy.

Sure, Sugar Daddy is a phenomenon anywhere in the world you have wealthy men and broke, beautiful, women, but here in Tinsel Town we’ve raised it to an art form. In fact, it’s so common I’m thinking about making a proposal to American Express for a new special card to identify the Sugar Babies by; the Pink AMX.

How would it work? It’s a companion card (literally and metaphorically) to the Black Centurion. When you receive your Black (stating your eminent importance in our modern society) you automatically receive your Pink (passport to pleasure). Then it is your choice to gift it to whomever you deem deserving; be it your spoiled rotten Princess Daughter, or your very own favorite Sugar Baby. Of course, the items purchased on the Pink will never show up on your Black bill. They will be secretly sent to you, so as not to reveal any indiscretions. And certainly, you can have more than one Pink. That is entirely up to your financial resources and varied tastes.

I’ve even come up with the marketing slogan. Drum roll please,

“Pink AMX, all the places you want to be. Cut a line of coke, or get your cut in line.”

Girls all over town will be fighting for this exclusive status symbol. Chicks with seven cards, like Miss Priss, will be outdone by a Sugar Baby with one Pink. Not only does it say,

“I’m a kept woman.”

It also says,

“And, he’s fucking rich!”

I’m yanked out of my creative musings by Strawberry Kisses,

“I think I’ll pass.”

Apparently she is not willing to profit from Miss Priss’s, how shall I say it, wide open position in life. Good job Strawberry Kisses!

Miss Priss shrugs. Two things occur to me at the same time; first, this is going to make a fantastic story, and second, the Kisses and I going to have one hell of an amusing conversation after we leave Miss Priss! I want to know which suckers (or should i say suck-ees) gave up their plastic to this little slut. Kisses got a much better look at the wallet then I did, I'm dying to know what she uncovered.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved

I'm All Souped Up

“Knock, knock.”

Oh great! Who could that be? I crawl out of bed and tug a sweatshirt on over my Rock and Republic tank top and boy shorts. Oh Geez, just what I want, another human being to see me in my sick, disheveled state. I’ve been holed up in my house, running a fever, coughing, and wishing to die, for two days now.

Making my way to the front door, I open it to see a big package, wrapped in cellophane, and a delivery boy’s back as he makes is way down the stairs. What on earth is this? Tearing open the wrapping I discover chicken soup, crossword puzzles, candy aspirin, crackers, and all kinds of other feel better ingredients. Stunned I dig around in the box. Who is this from? It’s the most thoughtful, gift I have ever received in my life and I have no clue who sent it. I spot the card. Opening it, I am met with a shocking discovery. It’s from Magic Man, a fellow I met a mere week ago and have not even kissed yet. We met here in Tinsel Town, but he lives in San Francisco. When he asked me out to dinner yesterday evening, for his last night in town, I had to say, “No”, because I wasn’t feeling well. I can’t believe it. I would have never expected this from him.

The night we met I had him pinned as the quiet, but deadly, dirty, dominant mother fucker who would rip your clothes off and take you in the bathroom at your parents house, all the while getting off on the inappropriateness of it. I certainly didn’t have him pinned as the chicken soup, crossword puzzle type. I’m not going to lie; I liked him for the naughty powerful side I sensed. In fact, my primal attraction to him put me in a rather awkward situation, as I was with another fellow the night we met.

The Man in Black and Strawberry Kisses had insisted I go the Murakami opening with them, and from there to Koi and a party. I had asked the fellow I was seeing to come along. When we arrived at dinner there was a man already sitting at our table. The Man In Black introduced him as Magic Man, a powerful figure in the music industry. There was such a strong force field of energy between us that I literally felt compelled to sit next to him, even though I always sit next to Strawberry Kisses. I was caught in his tractor beams (I know, I know. That language just let my secret out. I saw every Star Treck episode ever made until 1992. It’s not my fault; it’s in the blood. My mom is a Trecky.)

Anyway, I digress, back to the powerful attraction. I know whenever I am that irresistibly drawn to a man it’s because he’s a bad boy, also known as a DMF (dirty mother fucker). I think it goes back to caveman times where the dominant males, who was most likely to get you pregnant, ruled female hearts and bodies. It’s evidenced even in modern elementary school; the boys who pull your pigtails are the ones you crush on. Even better is the secret knowledge, given to the girls by mothers and teachers, that the boy pulling your pigtail is doing it because he likes you. That's enough to make every girls heart pitter-patter. It doesn’t end there though; most girls spend the rest of their lives being powerfully drawn to men who will pull their hair.

The catch is, we are drawn to that type, but we don’t want to live with them. Sure we want the one who can produce the strongest offspring, but we also want the civilized, nurturing one who can help us lovingly raise that offspring. We want the guy who will pull our hair in bed and then hold it out of the toilet when we're sick. In short we want a Pirate/Prince, not one or the other. The big dilemma is very few men know how to embody both. Most men have the Pirate trained right out of them, and the ones who don’t normally haven’t got a single Princely bone in their entire body. It’s really a tragedy.

As I look at my surprising care package, a wave of total exhilaration rushes over my fevered body. Oh my god, I may have just found one of the few living Pirate/Prince’s on the planet. If so this could very well be the beginning of my Happily Ever After, because I love to be a Princess/Whore. (Truth be told, every girl I know wants to be both of those too!)

Now all I need to find out is if my first instinct was right and he is in fact a DMF; who would pull up my skirt and screw me in the public library, in the history section, while covering my mouth and ordering me to be quiet (shiver, sigh). If that's the case, I will have hit the Charity Jackpot! Oh my goodness, I can’t wait to get better and take him up on the date invite. Holy Moses Batman this line of thought is even better for curing sickness than Dayquil! No doubt about it, I’m All Soup-ed Up!

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved

Where Your Foot Is, There Your Fortune Lies

If your house were to burn down and you could only save three things; what would they be, and in what order? Have it? Don’t read on before you do.

Ok next question, what are the three most financially valuable things you own?

I pull up the zipper on my beautiful, black, Giamarco Lorenzi boots and revel in that little rush I get every time I step into them. They are the sexiest boots on the planet. Soft, knee-high, leather, with deerskin, cream colored lining; they fit my narrow calves like a glove. There’s no doubt about it; they are the Bentley of boots. As I carefully place their shoebox back in my closet, a funny little thought occurs to me. I think these boots are one of the most valuable things I own. That thought gives me pause. What would be the most valuable? The first thing that pop’s into my head is my car, the Little Pip, but as I consider it’s resale value I come to a shocking conclusion: The poor Little Pipper probably isn’t worth as much mullah as the towering spikes I’m teetering on.

Sure when he was first purchased, brand spanking new, he was worth quite a bit more, but after ten years of wear and tear I probably couldn’t get more than two grand for him if I was really lucky, and the person buying him was blind. Let’s be honest the poor Little Pipper has had a decidedly rougher experience in Tinsel Town than I have. These boots, however, cost 2,300 dollars. I know, get your jaw off the floor. It’s ludicrous! I almost had a heart attack when I saw the price tag, but the ex who purchased them for me had a foot fetish and men with foot fetishes are even less rational about the price of fancy footwear then women with heel obsessions. (Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve decided a full-fledged foot fetish is an absolute requirement for my soul mate. Right up there with a keen sense of humor, a yummy smell, and a brilliant mind.) Contemplating the absurdity of my realization, I do a mental inventory of my entire material fortune. I conclude that these boots are in fact the most valuable thing I own, followed by my computer, and then my car. It’s just so ridiculous I burst into laughter. How apropos!

The thought of my footwear fortune made me start thinking of the difference between a fortune and a treasure. With Malibu on fire and people fleeing their homes, I have been flashing back to last summer when the hills of Griffith Park were ablaze and homes from Dundee Place to Vermont Avenue were evacuated. I had an opening of a friend’s restaurant to go to that night (ironically named Charcoal). I live off of Beachwood Canyon, on the edge of Griffith Park, and though my home was not evacuated, I took a few precautions. That’s right, laugh if you must, but when I walked outside and saw how close the flames had come to my home, I trotted back in and conducted my own mini evacuation, before boogying on over to the festivities. The trunk of the Little Pipper was full of all my worldly treasures. Thank god a car thief didn’t decide to break in that night.

I swear I’m not paranoid. Ok, maybe a little, but it’s understandable. Fire and I have a special relationship. My family home has burned to the ground twice in my short life. That’s right, everything I owned before the age thirteen, when the second fire happened, went up in smoke. The wedding ring quilt that my great grandmother made for me when I was an infant with my fabric from my mothers childhood dresses, my journals which I started at four, my favorite dolls (who were properly commemorated with a funeral in the backyard) and saddest of all, my family pictures. Since this tragic occurrence I have always known what I would save if I had the chance. Sure it wasn’t easy schlepping those heavy photo albums, journals, and my giant computer down two flights of stairs in spiky heels, and it was even less fun schlepping all those things back up the next day. If, however, that fire had kicked those fire fighters butts and reached my home, I would have been one happy little miss that I erred on the side of caution. When your material possessions are threatened, it’s funny what you decide your true treasure is. Without a doubt for me, it was my memories of the adventures I’ve lived and the people I’ve loved in the form of my literary and pictorial recording of it.

Standing on my sexy fortune, I swipe lip-gloss on my lips and prepare to go out and build some more treasure. There is no doubt about it a life fully lived and contemplated along the way is the biggest treasure I can hope to acquire. Let’s just cross fingers that at some point building my treasure also builds my fortune, because I’m not going to lie: I love fortune too! Especially when it comes in the form of fancy footwear.

© 2007 Charity Gaye Finnestad All Rights Reserved