Rat out thy neighbor

Unlike the Redwoods and the Lakers,water is short in California. Turns out years of pathetic rainfall means Thousand Oaks will soon look more like the Gobi desert than the lovely Conejo Valley we currently inhabit with millions of rabbits, SUVs and nail salons.

The drought is so bad we'll be down to Twelve Oaks soon if we don't stop watering our lawns during the day, according to the City of Oz.

I guess we won't be vying for the title City of Brotherly Love, either. There's a hotline so you can "rat out" your neighbors for violating the new ordinance. Last time I looked, Stalin wasn't our mayor, but I guess I need to pay more attention.

I have wonderful neighbors. It would be so easy and . . . neighborly . . . to knock on the door and say, "Hey Joe, maybe you didn't know you should turn off your sprinklers. There's a new ordinance. And I promise I won't let my dog poop on your lawn anymore, either. And hey, here's your Acorn. It was sitting in the driveway. Don't forget to read the Hot Flashes column by that cranky old broad Elizabeth Kirby."

In the Acorn a few weeks ago, there was a great letter by BritEl Gibson, age 12, concerned that we are living in a "sci-fi commie utopia future." Now this kid should be mayor. Maybe there should be a new Cabinet post for Squared Away 12YearOlds. I nominate Brit-El.

You know, there are some things I should really be tagged for. Have you ever seen me sneaking out in my sushi pajamas on Sunday morning to snag the paper? It isn't pretty.

You see, my sushi pj's are my favorite. California roll. Eel. Tuna. Salmon hand roll. All plastered on a bed of day-glo lime green cotton, washed so many times the fabric barely clings to the wasabi. They're airconditioned sushi-o-rama, perfectly suited to hot flashes and late night TV. Guaranteed to make your husband hand you the remote and fall asleep before you do.

Maybe the lime green is supposed to represent the wasabi but no matter. It's East meets West at the driveway without the help of Vidal Sassoon or a curling iron and certifiably horrifying.

That's not all. It's the "plugged-in look," with hair that would make you think I've been shot with a thousand volts, and just bending over to get the paper qualifies me to audition for Grumpy Old Gals.

I quickly tiptoe out, hoping no one will see me. Yes, I can still tiptoe. And quickly. If you looked like I do, you'd move quickly, too.

The squirrels and jays are laughing hysterically, wondering just who do I think I'm kidding? They muse over why I wear pajamas with pictures of fish eggs and seaweed. They ask, "She lives in a nice neighborhood. Can't she afford pajamas with polka dots?"

The sleep marks are still ironed to my face. A little spinach from last night's stir fry might still be clinging wistfully to my retainer. And my Brezhnev eyebrows flail in the morning breeze. To say nothing about other parts of my anatomy.

Now that's a violation. You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.