By IN LA BY HEIDI MANTEUFFEL
Just like the side view mirror of an Audi A6, things aren’t always as they appear. That goes hand in hand with learning to discern people from your first introductions to them.
“Wow George, you’re much … shorter than I expected.”
“You’re not as attentive as when we first met.”
“You have more facial hair in a woman than I was looking for.”
No one is hardly who they seem to be at first. And apparently from the responses I’ve received from SMDP readers, this is particularly the case with me.
“You’re nicer than you appear in your column,” a friend of the family admitted to me after I spent some time with her.
She’s not the only person that’s told me I come off as caustic.
From this, letters to the editors and e-mails I’ve received, I’ve come to surmise that some readers think I’m ridiculing the city of Santa Monica with my column. Who knew I could do so much with a lap-top and SpongeBob screensaver?
I know I should take this seriously, but those of you who know me, just picture me planning out my maniacal scheme to undermine Santa Monicans with my underling Gazpacho.
We’re in a dark alleyway behind Gotham Hall, dressed for evil success. Gazpacho keeps a lookout for lost tourists that could reveal my plan in no discernible language. I hold the map to the city’s demise in one hand and my Maglite in the other.
“Let’s put a comment about parking here, no air conditioning here... (rubs hands together) Yes, Gazpacho, I think our plan to piss off Santa Monica is coming together quite nicely.”
Those of you who don’t know me, take a seat. Not because I’m going to tell you anything riveting. It’s just hot outside, and there’s no reason to over exert yourself.
It’s so odd. All my life I’ve gotten nothing but “darling” and “sweetie” from Von’s baggers, customer service reps and the masses of people I don’t even know. They’re all ready to pinch my cheeks and feed me butterscotches from out of their lapels and pants pockets.
But individuals I’ve encountered through my column think I’m this bitter grandmother, waiting for my weekly Tuesday visit so I can complain about my raging hemorrhoids.
How am I labeled saccharine sweet or maniacally underhanded by people who don’t even know me?
Basically it comes down to me either being a Precious Moments figurine or a ’50s horror movie (Heidzilla) with bad special effects.
And with those choices, I can’t decide which one is better to be associated with. Also as an aside, I’m curious how people would find me menacing from that goofy picture of me attached to my column. I think it shouts more “Do you know where my neck went?” than anything else.
For the record, it’s not that I don’t like Santa Monica. The weather is great — except this warm streak right now — the city is fun, artistic, etc. I even like my neighbors. And no, I don’t cut people off with my cart at Ralph’s or take Little Debbie oatmeal cream pies away from young children at recess.
I do take their milk, though. But why wouldn’t you have qualms about where you live? No city is perfect, and it’s much more fun to talk about the shared frustrations of people rummaging through your garbage at 8 in the morning than say how nice the beach is every week.
Maybe Santa Monica is that perfect to some, and maybe Arnold was never on steroids.
But I would worry if I didn’t think it was bizarre when strange men propose to me on the beach, and homeless men try to help me pick out books at Borders. If I didn’t think twice about situations like that, I would have to address a letter to myself: Heidi, Don’t take books or engagement presents from strangers. It’s for the best.
Sincerely, Heidi Odd things do happen in Santa Monica, and what would be even crazier is to not write about them. (Heidi)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on July 26, 2005. Read the original PDF.