Alive in Wonderland

It must be love--has to be!

 

Normally, a trip to Target holds about as much romantic sentiment as a ZZ Top song, but not yesterday.   When I was browsing the cosmetic aisle yesterday I came across an unlikely scene.  

There was this big, scruffy looking guy in a Steelers' Jersey on his phone, facing the mascara section, talking to his wife.  This is the one-sided conversation I heard: 

Him: They have one with volume and length or length and waterproof?  

He listens as he takes the mascaras out, reads the back and then puts them back on the hook.

Him: Yes, looks like they're all waterproof.  Oh, here's one with XX Volume and that's waterpoof, too.  I like this one "Power XXL" you should get that one. That's the one I would get.

Given this last comment, he looks around to see if anyone overheard, and listens.  (Spots me, smiles.)

Him: What colors? Brown, brown-black, black, blue--BLUE! Don't get that one. 

He listens some more and finally tosses one into the cart.

As he walked by I said, "How'd you get that job?" He turns back and looks at me, smiles and makes the symbol of a heart on his chest.  

I know! Here was this guy shopping for mascara for his wife at Target because he loves her. 

 It must be love--has to be! 

                                                                                                         

More Orange County Stories:

"Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking" 

"Frenchy's great escape: The problem with designer dogs" 

"Social Etiquette 101: How to get revenge on someone who asked if you are pregnant"

Note to self: Don't ever mention my feature in The Register again

I almost forgot to tell this story.

I was at Chick's today looking for a Roller Skating helmet--which they seem to like to call a skateboarding helmet (notice no caps for skateboarding)-- and I asked the man working there what kind of helmet I would need for Roller Derby.

He then said...hold on...It's replaying in my head in slow motion...like a movie... "Well, I just read a feature about Roller Derby in the OC Register and the pictures showed the girls wearing helmets..." At this point it's all a little foggy, but, I'm pretty sure I two-hand shoved him. I'm certain I touched him in some way. Maybe with just a hard poke on his chest and then I squealed, "I wrote that!"

He was very, very disappointingly unimpressed. I expected at least a small nod and a fresh accolade, but he just said, "Really?" And then kind of rubbed his chest where I most defiantly did poke him.

Later as I spastically tried to call my husband in front of the dressing rooms he said, "I showed that article to my wife and she..." I interrupted, "You showed it to your wife? Does she roller skate? Did she like it?"

Obviously sorry he brought it up again he handed me some things I wanted to try on and shut the dressing room door on me.

Did you ever know you are annoying someone, but feel totally powerless to stop yourself? It was like that. But, made way better than that because he brought up something I wrote. I'm doing it right now, aren't I?

I promise, this is the last time I will bring up the Roller Derby article. Totally moving on...

On a related topic, (but not exactly talking about "you know what" again) I got these pom-poms from my husband for our anniversary last week.

You can get a pair for yourself or someone you love at RollerGirl.

Alive in Wonderland: Supermarket Theory Vlog # 5

My latest video tackles one of the most complex theories facing modern people: Supermarket Theory.

Alright, fine, it's just me walking around the grocery store giving my unsolicited opinion on how they should organize the shelves, harassing the Starbucks' barista, and announcing the breakout fruit of the year.

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking...

I like shopping at Costco. Well, let me restate that, I like eating lunch at Costco. Their definition of a "slice of pizza" does my guilt meter good. "I'll just have a slice," I tell myself, which any place but Costco would be a medium pizza and their audacious cup of ice cream is unmatched--anywhere.

On a recent trip to the Irvine Costco I was strolling down the condiment aisle and I noticed a couple. The woman was positively gorgeous. She had what I call a "bridal look"--perfect make-up and hair, fresh French mani and an ensemble that was (naturally) perfect for the occasion. A put-togetherness most of us girl can only pull-off once in our lives, for the big day. Other than our wedding, the odds of having ALL of these elements working for us on one day are slim--dead zero if you're a mom of kids under the age of ten.

The guy looked like your brother. I don't know your brother, I don't even know if you HAVE a brother, but I bet he looked just like him--just a average guy.

As I maneuvered my massive cart around theirs, I overheard their conversation. She was hanging on his shoulder, her head resting on her hands. It went like this:

Bride: I don't like that brand of syrup, it tastes too...earthy (with accompanying icky look).

Brother guy: Well, it's all natural and it IS from a tree.

Bride: What? No it's not. Syrup?

Brother guy: Yeah. M-A-P-L-E syrup. You know, from a M-A-P-L-E tree?

Bride: OOOOOOOOOOh, that's why they call it that. I thought it was because of the color maple? I didn't know it was from the tree. (Then she laughed and playfully pushed him away.)

And you could tell at that moment it was over for the guy. It didn't matter how stunning his girlfriend was, he just couldn't date someone who didn't know syrup came from a tree. Somethings are just deal-breakers. How could he tell his friends? How could he face his old girlfriend when he bumped into her at The Bean with his new girlfriend who didn't know syrup came from a tree? His ex would just know. She was like that.

I watched their relationship die right there as we all strolled past the gallon sized mayonnaise and teriyaki sauces.

I saw them later in the check out line. She was playing with his hair and talking about making him her special chocolate chip cookies. She seemed sweet and happy as she chatted with other people in their line as it snaked slowly toward the cashier. But you could read it on the guy's face, he planning his exit speech.

Alive in Wonderland on "Funny or Die"

I have my very own channel on Funny or Die. You can go to "Alive in Wonderland" simply by clicking here. It is listed under the channel "Clean" because I shower daily and keep it, well, clean.

I have added two of my videos so far: "Driving the freeways of LA", and "The hidden theme of Legoland."

The way the site works is, you watch the video and at the end you vote "Funny" (you loved it, you're in stitches, did a spit-take) or "Die" (not funny, your bosses video on office safety was funnier, that's four minutes I will never get back again).

This is my favorite video on playing on "Funny or Die" right now: Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrell) interviewing Tom Brokaw. " Me likie"

See more Ron Burgundy videos at Funny or Die

Alive in Wonderland: Driving the Freeways of Los Angeles Vlog #4

I had to drive to Los Angeles for a meeting last week. Though I live in Orange County, I've spent very little time in LA. I recognize some of the street names that line the 5 Freeway, but only from hearing them on traffic reports or because they are famous--like Hollywood Blvd.

When my meeting was over, I headed back to Orange County and made this video. In it, I give you driving etiquette tips, whine about finding an In-N-Out Burger, and reveal one of my deepest fears.

Driving Los Angeles freeways back to Orange County vlog #4 from Suzanne Broughton on Vimeo.

Mother Nature: No match for Twitter

Yesterday we had an earthquake of questionable magnitude here in Orange County. I say "questionable" because the number keeps changing. I am just going to go with magnitude- 5.4 because it backs up my actions in the following story of "The Quake of '08." (Insert flashy graphic with a flipping montage of pictures of books from Cal State Fullerton scattered on the ground and people with their hands pressing their foreheads--music is urgent, but ultimately hopeful.)

When the earth shook, I was sitting on a curb with my kids outside the Orange County Fair waiting in line for it to open. I was among 200 or so of my fellow fair hopefuls and we all seemed to enjoy the shaking very much, thank you. There was a jovial spirit about the quake. No panic, just a lot of joking around about the closest doorway (probably in Centennial Farms' barn) and exaggerated "Thank you's" toward the sky.

The moment the rolling and shaking ended and I knew it was over I reached for my iPhone--to call my husband? To call my mom? To call my friends? No, I am a little ashamed to say, to Twitter.

That's right. I Twittered this, "Earthquake! Not too bad, but biggest one I've ever felt! Kids have a million questions now!"

In my mind at that moment, knowing the earthquake wasn't of devastating proportions, I felt the need to tell the world "this just happened to me." By the world, I mean my network of followers on Twitter and the people who read my blog. I wanted to be the first to deliver the news. I really, really wanted to be the first.

Though Twitter didn't take the message at first--it gave me an error--it finally went through after the fourth or fifth attempt. *Whew* I was the only one in line to get anything through at first. The skinny jean crowd plopped down next to me couldn't get a text through even though they "had bars" and the mom with the "Death Cab for Cutie" t-shirt in front of me was having a cow because she left her phone in the car to charge. Man, she got surprisingly angry for a laid back alternative-type.

Turns out, my Twitter wasn't the only victorious message to get "out there" first. This is from Yahoo! yesterday Los Angeles earthquake chokes phone calls, not Twitter.

Yay for us!

As I told my husband the story over dinner I saw his face change as I mentioned that I Twittered the events from the parking lot. "What did you do first?" he casually asked, knowing perfectly well my answer. "Um, I called you second, Honey," I squirmed and tried to read if he was truly hurt or just teasing me about my internet servitude.

I knew it wasn't THE big one, so I was confident he was just fine. Besides, when I did try to reach him the call just failed--failed, failed, failed. So much for convention, right?

There is a part II to this story which involved the man running the kiddie teacup ride at the fair. Some my call him a "Carnie," but pretty sure that is not PC. I will just call him the ride operator at the fair.

Dude, I'm from AT&T

My family and I moved over this last month to a new house. For reasons only known by the old owners, there was no phone service at the house.

(...I see you nodding off...I am going somewhere with this story--promise.)

After arranging for AT &T to come by and fix the problem, I let the security gate know. Like many Orange Countians, I live in a gated community. Ours is one of the more rigorous and nosy of the security gates. These guys mean business with their handheld computers and video of every car that comes and goes.

We Irvine-ites take our unauthorized vehicles extremely seriously and don't take kindly to the "pop-in." In fact, the unexpected visitor can unavoidably have their hopes of a happy surprise dashed by a phone call to the "resident" to get clearance. Sweet flowers or a friendly note to tape on the door? You're not on our "permanent entry list?" Forget about it. A call has to be made.

That's where AT&T comes in. I needed them to get our phone up and ringing. What if I miss a call I desperately need to screen? Seriously, my iPhone can't do EVERYTHING.

At the very last possible minute of their window of time, AT&T shows up at my door. I open it with my usual housewife smile.

"I almost didn't make it in," he gasps. His AT&T embossed polo still soaked with sweat from the interrogation.

"Why, what happened? I told the gate you were coming," I tell him, hoping to distance myself as much as possible from the oppressors.

"The guard said he didn't have a record I was coming and then tried several times to call you, but it just rang and rang...," he explains, now gaining his composure after a few sips of the Diet Coke I always offer.

"They tried to call me on my home phone?" I say, realizing I'm setting him up for his quote of the day.

"Yeah, I told him three times, 'Dude, I'm from AT&T, she doesn't have a phone yet,'" he now obviously feels better exposing the guard as the corporate crony that he is.

"Then he just said, 'Go ahead. You're not a terrorist, I guess. You have AT&T on the truck and your shirt,'" the AT&T guy finishes with a half smile.

Now, there are just so many things in that sentence that are begging for me to comment...Is that what they're looking for? Terrorists who are trying to infiltrate our kiddie pools? And if so, at least he knows a terrorist would NEVER think or have the ability to have a truck AND a shirt with AT&T splashed on it. Terrorists? Really?

I'm just happy for them to keep the random solicitor away and European laundry service pamphlets off my front door.

There's a new boss in Wonderland

Nothing frightens a young writer more then a change of editors. Except maybe the comma **shudder at the thought of misplacement**

I have survived my first change in editors at the Register.

Here is the latest "Alive in Wonderland. "

My editor of Alive in Wonderland at ocregister.com is deserting me has moved over to the SPORTS PAGE! THE SPORTS PAGE, of all things. Keith Sharon was the one who gave me the spot on the Morning Read and has been my biggest supporter. So, from the bottom of my insecure writer's heart--good luck and thank you, Keith.

I've decided to be positive about this since Keith has been so great to me (and because when the Ducks' season is back in full swing I might want to write a story for him).

(Keith and me at Mustard's, picture by the wickedly talented Lisa Mertins.)

The new boss in Wonderland is a tyrant named Andre Mouchard. He's widely feared at the OC Register for his searing anger... "Click Here To Read The Rest of the Story..." Don't forget to select "recommend" at the top of the column.

The Muffler Story vlog #3

You have to wait until the very end for the punchline: My favorite kind, staring me as an idiot.

Wanderlust for the perfect bra

Recently, I went on a mission. Not a spiritual one. Not a do-gooder one. A mission to find the perfect fitting bra. I heard rumors that one was "out there" somewhere and when I say "out there" I mean at Nordstom. There, I was told, they have trained professionals with tape measures around their necks who knew their AA, B, DD's.

(That's right, I said AA.)

Some of you might be thinking, she means an "A." No! There is a size called "AA." It's smaller than an "A" and, I think, the most delightful of all bra sizes. Not just a silly "A" and not all show-off-y like "DD".

I'm getting ahead of myself.

So I found myself at Norstrom, face to face with a bra "pro." At least I think she was a pro, she had a real notebook and everything. She was all of 20 year olds and she had recently had eyelash extensions that she "just totally loved." So good. Let's call her "Jen." Jen was very skillful with her measuring tape and listened with compassion as I told my story of the hours spent scavenging through the random A bins at Victoria Secrets sales, the poor sales person sent to the "back room" to find a smaller size in a bra I loved (only to come back defeated and empty-handed or sometimes never to return), and the years of wanderlust looking for the perfect fitting bra.

She scribbled down my numbers, tilted her head and then she said the words that changed it all: "You're a 'AA', not an "A."

"Really?" I said in surprise (not to be mistaken with disappointment). "I didn't know there was such a thing. 'AA,' really?"

Jen nodded sadly, her eyes filled with compassion behind their perfectly coifed lashes, "Yes, it's (pause...she collects herself) smaller than an 'A', " she barely finished.

"Great! Do you have these 'AA' bras of which you speak? Can I try one?" I said with renewed zeal and hope.

She trots off and brings me back five or six. The whole time I'm making jokes like, "So you must have an overstock of these in Orange County...Do you offer a discount on the smaller sizes?" That kind of thing. Obviously not embarrassed or ashamed.

I like the way I am.

After one last crack, something like, "Have you ever sold one of these at South Coast Plaza? Will there be any special ceremony or fanfare?" Ms.-all-of-20-years-old, new-eyelash-extensions, never-stepped-foot-outside-Orange-Countys-limits said, (dramatized pause) "It's okay, you have a pretty face."

Gee thanks, Jen.

Some of my compadres...

Outtakes from Alive in Wonderland

These were the "Best of Times"

There I am, graduation from 8th grade from the now-defunct Park View Elementary in Huntington Beach, 1982. I love this picture, braces and all. It brings back that afternoon in June so many years ago with crystal-clear glee. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

Do you remember that feeling of being young and completely unfettered and joyful? School was over and I had the new world of High School waiting for me after a summer of going to the beach and hanging out with my friends. I wasn't being hammered by the worries of adulthood, or even the jittery angst of a teenager.

I would give anything to have that feeling just for an hour today, but I think it's reserved for kids of a certain age. Every cliche of youth seems to reveal itself as true as the years pass in the blink of an eye. (Oh look, there's one now.)

I think the innocence and simplicity of that time is best characterized in the inscriptions and signatures in my old Junior High yearbooks. I found I was drawn more to those than to who was voted "Class Flirt" or who won the baffling "Citizenship Award." The girls professed their undying friendship and the boys proclaimed with astonishing (and soon fleeting) clarity their true feelings.

I can recall the honor and slight terror in being handed a yearbook that needed to be signed. Its owner hovering above me with a look that said, "This better be good. I wrote an entire three paragraphs on the back page of yours and claimed you as a FF (Friend Forever)." So, without the help of spell check and hindered by my disgraceful spelling skills bestowed to me by the education system of Orange County at that time, I did my very best to write something heartfelt and meaningful.

While reading my yearbooks, one thing that popped out at me was the call for me to "Stay Sweet." This was written over and over again: "Suzanne, stay sweet." So, either my friends thought I was in dire danger of crossing over to utter wickedness or it was just a filler comment like "Have a bitchin' summer. See ya at the beach," which also habitually appears in every Orange County yearbook.

I started to wonder what kids who weren't from California wrote in their yearbooks if they didn't have a beach to reunite on in the summer. My husband is from rural New York. When I asked him he said, "We didn't get to have yearbooks." Hmmm, I think this is just another installment in his never-ending quest to prove his childhood was worse than mine...

Some of the comments were touching and sweet. Reading them now, I wish I would have known more about what was going on behind the Vuarnet sunglasses of my Van-tennis-shoe-wearing contemperaries. In some of them, little stories peek through and remind me how important even the most fleeting relationship can be when you are young.

You can look at my yearbooks up in the photo box to the upper right. Here are some highlights:

Yep, Chip did say I was the prettiest girl in 7th grade but, I found out later in my first lesson in the brutal reality that was adolescent boys, mine wasn't the only yearbook where he made this claim.

Paul Frank Sunich, of Paul Frank...you know...the monkey...yes... you've got it, wanted me to have a "Rad summer," which I think he truly meant.

"You have been the best friend a guy could have. When I first came here you were the first one to make friends with me. I always want us to be friends. You are the BEST! and I mean it." Danny.

"I'm sorry I was so mean to you sometimes. I wish we could have been better friends, but I know it's my fault...PS sorry for being such a jerk." Sean

"I like you because you aren't stuck-up like some people!" Nichole

"In 7th grade we weren't good friends and then in 8th we got to get to be good friends and now we are just friends..." Bridgette

When our class graduated, we choose the song by Styx, "The Best of Times," to accompany us down the aisle. We were the first year to break from the standard, "We've Only Just Begun," by the Carpenters.

I remember when they called my name, my older brothers and all of their friends cheered wildly from the back row. I can still see them jumping, whistling and waving their arms unabashedly in the late afternoon sun. I acted as if I were embarrassed by their show, but deep inside I embraced the great honor of even being acknowledged by high school boys.

"Our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime...these are the best of times!" Yes, they were.

"Were you a kid in Orange County in the 70's?"

In the Orange County Register I wrote this list of all the things you might remember if you were a kid, growing up in Orange County in the 70's. Even if you didn't grow up here, some of the things you might remember.

Click here to read it...

Make sure to take the time to look at the 50 or so reader's comments. There are some great memories in there, too.

My appearance on Daybreak OC

Here is the clip of my appearance on Daybreak OC, Orange County's very own morning news program. It's on KDOC from 6 am to 8 am, Monday through Friday. I watch it every morning, which is part of the reason why I was so nervous. Shally Zomorodi made me feel so comfortable and relaxed. If I look at ease in the clip, it's largely because of her.

This video still for the clip is very strange. I couldn't figure out how to change it. If anyone know how to insert a new still into YouTube (beyond the three offered), please let me know.

Exposing Legoland "hidden" Theme Vlog #2

Another vlog I've put together chronicling my family's trip to Legoland in San Diego.

...and yes, I do use the word "Plethora." Every big word I know, I learned from a Steve Martin movie (Watch the Three Amigo's "Plethora" scene here.)

My TV Debut on Daybreak OC #1

My first television experience is now behind me, but I am still talking about it (and you thought I was impossible after McSweeney's). I wrote about it in my column: My Television Debut.

This vlog includes the whole saga--from nausea to the best message ever from my mom.

Hazel gets excited

My dog Hazel gets excited when she knows she is going somewhere fun--me too.

Where have all the cowboys gone? Oh, here they are...

Where have all the cowboys gone?... oh, here they are!

In line at Peete's talking to their controller, speeding down the 241 on a conference call with clients, in the waiting room of their urologist whispering their lunch order to their assistants--they're everywhere. You just need to know what to look for...they're cellphone cowboys.

I first noticed these fellas at a party at my husband's friend's house. These compadres truly adored their cellphones. They shined them. Showed them off to each other and wore them on their hip like a good six- shooter.

When we arrived at the party all the men greeted each other with hugs and slaps on the back, then we all sat down at a big round table beside the open fire of the outdoor flagstone fireplace. All the men slid their phones off their belts and laid them on the table in front of them.

One of the men pointed at my husband's phone, "May I?" Getting the nod from him to examine his BlackBerry, he picked it up and tossed it lightly from hand to hand. He then quickly slipped it into his belt clip, taking it in and out a few times. "Smooth," he complimented. "BlackBerry World Edition 8830, nice." Next came the questions: How's the reception? Easy to email? Is it Bluetooth-compatible?

Here, at the very mention of the word "Bluetooth" all the men perked up..."Yes, I'm going to get a Jawbone." All the men "Ah'd their approval of the idea and then in unison spoke of the freedom offered by the hands-free device--driving, eating, typing...

"Fetching stray cattle, maybe," I thought.

I got the impression that these men, if left in the wilds of Orange County without their trusted cell phones (slash internet access) by their side, would be rendered helpless during an attack of tardiness or a brutal deluge of urgent calls and emails.

They would surely perish in the harsh wilderness of disconnection. Cell phone cowboys needed their guns phones to survive in their frontier. It makes perfect sense to me.

After all the men had finished admiring they all sat back deeply in their chairs. Wearing their Tommy Bahama shirts they looked up at the stars, clear and bright in the San Juan Capistrano sky. The night was quiet and still. The crackling of the fire and a random ringtone every so often was the only thing that broke the silence.

(Photo lifted from the Etsy store of Emporium 51. Go there=see fun stuff)

Ways to amuse yourself in Orange County

I don't care for Starbucks, I much prefer "The Bean." I can be fiercely loyal to ultimately pointless things--like coffee, shampoo or ....

When circumstances such as location or parking make Starbucks more convenient (which is almost all the time), this is how I make the trip worth it ...

When I order, I act like I have never stepped foot in a Starbucks in my life and need an enormous amount of help ordering.

At the counter I stammer, "Hmmm, what's popular here?"

The stunned barista usually says something like, "Hot or cold?"

To which I reply, "Oh, I don't want anything to eat, just a coffee."

Stumped, cashier most likely will say, "No, do you want a hot drink or cold drink?"

Then I spring a look like it's the first time I've ever heard of an iced cold java, "Oooo cold coffee? I'll have one of those."

You see where this is going ... We go through the various choices – blended, on ice, caramel, vanilla, mocha, whipped cream – and with each suggestion I get more and more excited at the idea of it.

"Great! I'll have a small iced mocha coffee," I finally say.

This is where it gets really fun. An employee at Starbucks must be mandated to never utter the words "small," "medium" or "large," so they always repeat it like this, "That will be a tall iced mocha."

"Yes, a small iced mocha coffee," I 'repeat' back.

"Okay, a tall iced mocha," they 'repeat' back.

(Heeheehee ... properly satisfied now.)

My best friend and I just did this at a drive-thru Starbucks yesterday--they really WON'T say anything but the Starbucks sizes.

I always tip big for being such a jerk and I never do it if there is a big line--I'm not THAT mean. I NEVER do this at The Bean, ever!