Flourish in Progress

I was rude for nothing today. What a waste.

I like to save up all my anger and aggression for people who really deserve it, like the burly men who bump into my daughter, Cal (petite and easy to miss), and continue to walk away without apologizing or even slowing down. And the mailman who stuffed my fashion magazine carelessly into my mailbox, leaving pages 18-34 crinkled and torn? Stink eye…a really menacing stink eye. Not to his face, unfortunately, since I’ve never bumped into him, but you can bet that when I did it in the privacy and security of my own home, it was still just as scary.

Even after living in Los Angeles for eight years, I’m still surprised when I encounter traffic and I rarely plan for extra driving time to accommodate the pockets of congestion. Like today. I wanted to get home quickly. I needed to get home quickly. Stuck on a tiny road near the Skirball, I exercised my adroit driving skills and switched into a less populous lane. A less populous, closed lane. With no other choice but to inch back into the space that I just left, I signaled and moved back to claim my spot.

It’s a shame the Honda didn’t think that spot belonged to me anymore. I waved bashfully, hoping to catch his attention, praying I wouldn’t hit the cones in the closed lane. The Honda driver clearly intended to ignore me. I waved again. No luck. Frustrated, I lost my patience. Of course, he chose that very moment to notice me. It’s a special day when you’re zoning out on your drive home from work and you catch a woman waving her fists at you and calling you an “asshole,” with an ugly scowl on her face.

I could tell from his startled expression that he had no idea I had been trying to edge into his lane. He graciously slowed down and let me switch. I smiled brightly and waved as I drove off.

Classy.

This week: I will go to a museum. Of my own free will and accord. And spend at least one hour inside the exhibits. No ma’am, the gift shop does not count as an exhibit. Nor the coffee shop. Nor the ticket booth. Nor the bathroom. Nor the IMAX theater.

I’ve visited a lot of museums. Really. If you challenged me to name five quickly, without thinking, just to make sure I was telling the truth, I’d immediately think of the Louvre, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Getty Center, the MoCA Los Angeles, even the Kimbell. I’ve been to every single one of them. Well, sort of.

A boy once invited me to a beautiful party to celebrate the opening of the Lucian Freud exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown Los Angeles.  The champagne flowed freely and I enjoyed spying on the artsy ladies and well-groomed men, preening and kissing and hugging each other. When my friend beckoned me inside to view the artwork, I declined. Go inside and waste a perfectly fresh (and free!) drink? I think not. Still, technically, I have been to the MoCA.

I once used the restroom at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas. I even stopped by the gift shop and purchased a large poster depicting a lovely landscape by Monet.

The chef-d’oeuvre of my museum experience-the Louvre. Yeah, yeah, so cliche. If you’ve ever been there and it’s not your favorite museum, that’s okay. Honestly, I was about to put down Ripley’s Believe It or Not, but Harv just informed me that it’s not considered a “real” museum. Potato, potahtoe.

Poor Harv. The trip to Paris was his 30th birthday gift. I innocently led him to believe that we would spend hours wandering the cavernous rooms, our eyes feasting on all those amazing works of art. I’m sure he dreamt of the Venus de Milo, the Winged Victory, and the lady of the house, the Mona Lisa, for weeks, anticipating the actual meet and greet. I didn’t even mind the hour we spent waiting in line for the admission tickets.

Sadly, we only spent 47 minutes roaming the halls.

Why?

I spotted a stone carving of a man’s head in one of the rooms. It didn’t have a nose. Maybe someone carelessly mishandled it. Judging from the creepy unfinished eyes, maybe the artist suffered from attention deficit disorder. Either way, it was in poor shape. Defaulting to my classy and restrained self, I started poking fun. I even posed in front, modeling a wide grin and a thumbs up sign; Harv snapped a picture. I stepped closer to read the description. Oh. Jesus Christ. I’m not swearing. It was a carving titled Tete de Christ Couronne, or Head of Christ.

See how long you mill around somewhere after you accidentally make fun of  Jesus.