Clean, sparkling, scented...love

From the moment my eyes opened at 5:00 this morning, to splashing tomato bisque on my shirt at lunch, until I left work at 6:15 tonight... I was having a rough day. It was the equivalent of having my brain whacked repeatedly with a Nerf bat during an all-day-event I will kindly and diplomatically generalize quite simply as "InDesign software training."

When I finally got back to my desk tonight after a day in the training room, I was greeted by the day's waiting work, 3 bills to pay and a gentle email from my mother reminding me that I hadn't sent out the blank "thank you" cards I'd been carrying in my purse since the last week in April. After dragging my tired, brain-beaten mess-of-a-self out to the car, the drive home through hideous L.A. traffic expounded my need to fight off: 1) the urge to cry, and 2) the strong desire to veer off at the nearest exit and find a dark bar. I only screamed at 1 car, told another who tried to side-swipe me to go f**k himself and proudly refrained from using the clown horn embedded in my badass of a Toyota. It was one of those days where upon finally pulling into your parking spot you wearily shove it into park, lean your head back and close your eyes for one final deep, slow breath. Turning the car off, you convince yourself that the day is done. You survived. Tomorrow can't be nearly as nightmarish in the most cliched of ways. Surely.

Slow steps to the front door are followed by sluggish struggles with the deadbolt. Limply pushing my way through I surprise Teen, who has used her key to get in and borrow my computer while hers is in the shop. But lucky for me - and unlucky for her - Teen is not the kind of girl who can borrow a computer when it is surrounded by the unkempt mess of someone who can no longer be bothered to care. (Or so it would seem to Teen, who is THE CLEANEST and TIDIEST person I've ever met.) In a move so very Monica from "Friends", she even brought over her own cleaning supplies.

When I wearily schlepped my way into my own home this evening, I found it cleaner than it had been in months. She had loads of laundry going and throw rugs were already hanging to dry. It was absolutely amazing and smelled even better... in that lovely scented candle + cleaning products kind of way.

The bed I'd left in tatters early that morning now had crisp lines worthy of a home catalog. Floors shone, toilets sparkled and every little pile of "stuff" I'd left out had been condensed and re-categorized according to Teen's strict standards. I can now actually see my desk.

On a day when my world found too many annoying little ways to kick me in the shins and pull my hair, Teen decided to shower me with love. Undeserved, unrequested, unexpected, clean and pure L-O-V-E. I mean, she scrubbed my toilet and shower, for crying out loud. Without me knowing! She's friggen amazing; a better looking version of Mr. Clean... with hair.

One is an expert at being clean and organized...the other is too tired to give more than the hint of a damn anymore. *Sigh*

It was the sisterly equivalent of grabbing my day by the proverbial horns and showing it who's boss. And Shelley better start answering my phone calls if she's going to have a snowball's hope in hell of living up to little sister's new standard! I'm thinking extravagant care packages and endless calls from the 3 munchkins...(Hi Shell! xoxo)

A lesson on life...from Cha Cha

Yes, you may start most things by following the social norms...because it is what is expected. Following the rules can sometimes get you exactly what it is that your heart desires. Like ice cream with blue sprinkles, eaten politely with a spoon and a dignified pinky in the air.

But there usually isn't much adventure in being a rules man. And sometimes being polite only gets you so far. Afterall, there are morsels in life that are out of manner's reach. There is ice cream left in the rim of the cup that the spoon cannot scoop out. So you make a decision: keep the pinky in the air with your supposed dignity in tact, or dig right in and get what you want.

Life very often tastes better when it's a little messy.

Running away with the circus

Tomorrow is my birthday - and I greatly dislike my birthday. Extra attention usually makes me blush and squirm, but more than that, I’m the type to reflect on what exactly I did with the past year that was bestowed upon me. And it never seems enough.

A couple weeks ago my girlfriends and I were going over the list of what I could call accomplishments for year 27. It went something like this:

LO: You got a promotion at work!
Me: Ok, that was huge. Good one.
(Silent pause while we all think some more.)
LO: And you were employee of the month!
Me: Ridiculous, but true.
(More silence.)
Me: Ok, that can’t be it. Otherwise I’ve done nothing but work this year. And that’s just too horrible to be true.

From there, it was just grasping at straws…

You got a new roommate!
I took a couple of long weekend trips…
You went to a taping of Hell’s Kitchen.
And I negotiated lower rent!
You finally painted again…you’ve been wanting to do that forever.

I had been wanting to paint for forever. And now, this giant beauty is the apple of my living room's eye.

It was a few days later that I decided I wasn’t going to let that list stand as it was. In reality my 27th year was mostly about work, but I wasn’t going to let it go out like that.

Step 1: Appease my family…
...And spend a lovely Saturday morning sipping coffee while getting my hair cut. It wasn’t until I saw this picture after a family weekend in Arizona that I realized just how long my mane had actually become. Teen’s been threatening to drag me into Petco ever since, while my mom has all but begged.

Teen finally won. While bellied up to a bar on Friday afternoon she dug out her phone, called the salon and made an appointment for me the next morning. Enough was enough. Time to start 28 a little lighter. (P.S. It’s still long, just no longer of the Cousin It variety.)

Step 2: Act my shoe size, not my age…
...By following a great lunch on Saturday with a hilarious time at the seedy Fox Fire Room with Stacy and Teen. The $4 cocktails were flowing, as were tears of laughter. We made friends with an old man in gym socks that we referred to as “Baby.” And a couple of hours later, when we reemerged into the blinding daylight, we did what anyone would do. We went to the batting cages. Helmets on. Balls flying. Kids and their parents staring. Teen ending up with 2 bruised and swollen fingers. An afternoon to remember.

Step 3: Join the circus…
...Something I’ve always wanted to do. Years ago I loved skydiving and rappelling down a cliff and have since longed for the rush of doing something that scares the crap out of me. It was time to try the trapeze. And Teen was joining me, whether she wanted to or not.

It. Was. Amazing.

It took a lot of practice… but we flew, and finally learned how to get our knees on the bar so that we could seconds later hang from them, and even better – learned to do it all with the right timing…

And yet, what seemed like great victories was apparently mere practice for the main event: THE CATCH.

First me...

...then Teen

There are bruises, muscles that ache to the point of immobility, sunburns, skin missing from various joints… and it all feels pleasantly like a badge of honor. I did not one, but TWO catches. I don’t know how to properly explain how exhilarating it was…but I do know this: THAT is how you end a year with a bang.

Still, painting, promotion, trapeze and weekend trips aside, I think this picture is probably the most accurate of me at 27: smirking in the sunshine and sipping white wine. And when I put it like that, well, maybe this year wasn't so disappointing after all.

Stay tuned.

Ode to L.A.: Neighbors

There have been times when we've lived thousands of miles apart after a childhood of living across the hall. My toddler self once got in trouble at daycare for "rescuing" her from her crib so she could nap in the "big bed" with me. It's always better to be close.

She's my bestie and as adults we now live 5 blocks away from each other. And I have to love L.A. for making Teen my neighbor.

Ode to L.A.: Variety is the Spice of Life

One city, so much to offer...

Great hiking

Fantastic beaches

Spectacular music venues

The best movie theaters

Sprinkles cupcakes

and endless summers

You have to work at being bored in L.A.

Ode to L.A.: What Light

I will never tire of the light of L.A.'s setting sun. Depending what part of town you're in, it may be reflecting off the windows of a high-rise, creating sharp shadows in the canyons of the mountains, or bouncing off the Pacific and casting a pink glow on the sand and palm trees.

Everyone needs a bit of time in the pink now and then. Rosy glows are just so very flattering...

Ode to L.A.: Spoiled and Stuffed

Maybe it has to do with getting older. Maybe it's about the location. Maybe it's about why I am where I physically am and what drives me. Maybe it's a combination of all these things. It probably is...

When I lived in Boulder I had the eating habits of a typical college student: I occassionally cooked, sometimes had pizza, sometimes went out for sandwiches or burritos, and most days lived on whatever I could quick grab in between classes.

In Sydney food was the last thing on my mind. There was a whole country to explore. Beer to drink. Trips to take. Fascinating people to meet. Absolutely impossible classes to struggle through with a packed Nutella sandwich to tide me over in between - along with a flat white from the beach side cafe to wake me up. I lived a block from the beach... 75% of the time I could not have cared less about whatever I ate to sustain me through the day.

Very different was my summer in Boston, where I was just so broke that my meal budget was about $2. The roommates all contributed to the communal pot of what could be salvaged from our miserly jobs - leftover fake Italian and Starbucks pastries. I remember eating at maybe a handful of proper restaurants and not once making a meal that involved multiple dishes or fresh vegetables. That was the summer I learned to combine rice, a can or corn and a can of tuna - dry, unflavorful and nicknamed "cat food" by Joyce. It got me through... and since she lived off Easy Mac I didn't really take her critiques to heart.

San Diego taught me to appreciate the small places that are off the beaten track... The bizarre burrito place in the strip mall, where the tablecloths are bolted to the tables. The hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that lets you linger at your table for hours. The breakfast place on the main drag surrounded by surfboards and run down apartment buildings, with the sounds of the waves crashing from a block away providing just enough distraction to keep the tourists from swarming the place. Still, every time I take a mini-break in San Diego, I make sure to eat at all of these little gems.

But L.A. has maybe surprised me the most, because this city has managed to bring out the food snob in me. These days all I ask is for a free night, an engaging dinner companion, a coveted reservation and a few glasses of wine. Oh... and bites of food that habitually make me pause before murmuring OhMyGodYum under my breath. That, my friends, is my perfect L.A. evening as of late.

It took my parents coming into town for me to realize how much of a food brat I had become. Everywhere Teen and I wanted to take them they saw as either extravagant or a huge inconvenience. Teen and I simply saw it as, "if we're going to eat, we're going to eat something good." To them, the drives were long, the parking impossible, the waiting time totally ridiculous, the crush of people insufferable, the noise level obnoxious and the prices completely outrageous. To me and Teen?...just another Saturday. Naturally.

It all got me thinking about how incredibly spoiled I had become in the restaurant department. And also, how incredibly tollerant. Let's examine the recent evidence, shall we?

Dolce: Maybe slightly past its prime, but still delicious, still fun and still one of the best places in town to spend a Monday night, thanks to their 50% off food special. Teen and I have both spent a birthday here, and Mom and Dad were treated to the full-blown Monday night madness.

Dolce: the Monday night favorite

Pizzeria Mozza: Currently so very, very popular that a table is still impossible to be had even when you call a few weeks ahead of time. But on a very, very good Saturday recently, Teen and I went to LACMA to see the Vanity Fair exhibit and later found ourselves on two bar stools at Mozza. There was delicious wine, drool-worthy pizza and the most divine caprese salad ever created. I kid you not. I'm a caprese maniac and this was like no other.

Caprese has never had it this good. I'm not kidding. Not even in the slightest.

Melrose Bar & Grill: Cozy, great wine, friendly staff, with homemade pita and mussels that are worth the work, this place is my idea of casual-devine. Sometimes Teen going on dates with wonky weirdos has a total silver lining...like discovering this little beauty for us to return to.

Melrose Bar & Grill: Grab some friends and let the good times roll

Duke's: I don't know where you head for a drink on a gorgeous day, but I'm curious if it can top Duke's in Malibu. More than once I've sat back, enjoyed a cold Mexican beer or chilled glass of white wine and watched the dolphins arc across the water's surface. Sundays in my life have never before been so lovely.

Seriously? Malibu earned its reputation. Nevermind...you can't top it.

Cecconi's: Well, I saved my favorite for last. This super new hot-spot I discovered during its first week of being open to the public (the one and only time I have accomplished something so monumental and simultaneously insignificant). Teen and I scored a reservation for a Friday night at 10:00 - the last night of their 50% off food opening celebration. And let me tell you, at 10:00 I had to wait in a massive line just to check-in, only to find that our table of course wasn't ready yet...so we happily bellied up to the gorgeous bar for a glass of wine. (Those blue chairs are HEAVY, so bellying required a bit of muscle...meaning that dragging my chair closer to the bar counted as my daily workout. And yes, I realize it's a very good life when this is your workout.) Anyway, the Scallops, Pancetta & Rosemary and a glass of wine is something I plan to return for again...and again...and again... Imgaine the arm muscles I'm going to have after dragging those blue bar chairs around so much?!

L.A.'s most beautiful restaurant...

...and our favorite table in the city

But, hey, when I need to be brought back to reality, you need not worry, I'm totally capable of doing it myself. Afterall, my other favorite and often-frequented establishment is 100% delicious-kitsch...

In Studio City, Hugo's Tacos is home to my "Burrito Bowl with Chicken & Honey Chipotle salsa"

L.A. has the oddest things in the weirdest places - and Hugo's Tacos is one of these: An organic-friendly fast food place in the middle of the valley near the on-ramp to the 101 freeway. Or, as it is known to me, "Burrito Bowl Heaven that Makes My Head Sweat. Every. Single. Time."

And herein lies one of the many ways that life in L.A. has changed me forevermore. Dining out will never be the same ho-hum experience it was before. Food will never be hoped to be anything short of gorgeous. Setting, decor and scenery will from now on always weigh-in. An expectation has been set. A standard to be met.

Dear L.A., you culinary cornucopia, you... you have spoiled me, stuffed me and quite possibly made me a bit of a snob. And I absolutely adore you for it.

Hugs and kisses,

Me

Ode to L.A.: The Cool Girls

I read once that wherever you may be, it is your friends that make your world. And that means that Larry, Curly and Moe here make my world in L.A. Actually, their names are LO, WetHead and Blondie…or Adriann, Stacy and Ashley. And even though Ashley now calls Chicago home, she’s still my L.A. lady.

This city of celebutantes gets a bad rap for being the holding pen of the world’s most shallow. I won’t refute that completely, I’ll just say that you have to weed your way through the muck to find the good ones. And they’re so worth it.

Day trips to Santa Barbara. A whole vineyard of wine drunk happily. First dates, blind dates, breakups, makeups and breakups again. Packing up, moving, unpacking and decorating. Horrendous roommates. Great birthday celebrations. Entire conversations spoken in code. Fights, pouting, huffing, pointing and laughing. Shopping. Cursing like drunken sailors on leave. Tequilla shots. Grocery store runs. Long dinners at the taco stand near the freeway. New jobs. Sharing hair appointments. Dancing. And always - always - laughing.

You have to love a city that gives you such loveable friends. I love you, L.A. (when I’m not loathing you, that is.)

Ode to L.A.: Star Sightings

It’s been brought to my attention that I have again neglected my blog and all 4 of its loyal readers. I’ve also started receiving emails asking if I am, in fact, still among the living. I am.

Keeping in touch? Yeah, not one of my strong points. I come to terms with it slightly more with each passing year and each frustrated voicemail by those I love most.

It is Monday and I have a plan. I’m thinking that maybe if I have a theme for this week, I’ll post more. And maybe – just maybe! – I’ll post every day for a whole stinking week! Half the trouble with posting to this thing on a regular basis, is that at the end of the day, when I theoretically should write, if I’m even home, my brain has turned to mush. I’ll sit down and think, “What to say? What to say? Hmmmm…. Budgets. Referral program. Loyalty program. Purchase orders. Invoices. …. Crap, look at all that laundry! Did I pay that bill? Screw this, I’m getting a glass of wine.” That’s how it goes. And then I ignore the blog until my brother-in-law drops it into conversation on a regular basis that I happen to be the worst blogger ever. *Sigh*

Not this week though! Because this week, which is extra lovely with breezes carrying the scent of flowers and sunshine lingering into the early evening, is my love note to my city. My ode to L.A.

And because L.A. often means celebrities to those that live here – and especially to those who don’t – here is my list of celebrity sightings as best I can remember. And I’m not including any cheats of those that I’ve met or seen through any kind of “industry” connections. These are simply what the city has offered up to me (plus one San Diego sighting, because it was my favorite). If you know someone I've left off, go ahead and remind me. I'm happy to make this an ongoing list.

Adrian Grenier – being his totally laid back self at my favorite San Diego breakfast spot, The Mission
Robert Downey Jr. – skipping (I swear) into Toscana to pick up a takeout order
Kevin Bacon & Kyra Sedgewick, Marcia Cross – perusing veggies at the Brentwood Farmers Market
Tony Danza – chilling at the bar in Drago
Milo Ventimiglia – lifting weights at the gym (thereby explaining to me why girls ever wear makeup to the gym)
Whoopi Goldberg – sitting on a bench waiting for a bus in the valley (Ashley can back me up here)
Fergi & Josh Duhamel – on a flight from Minnesota to L.A.
Seth Green – flying Southwest from Phoenix to L.A.
Kevin Dillon – stomping around a Starbucks parking lot in Malibu
David Hasselhoff – giving the “peace” sign to Pinkberry employees
Luke Wilson – driving a snazzy car too fast in Brentwood
Natalie Portman – looking like a lost 12 year-old while checking in to the Palihouse in West Hollywood
Justin Chambers – buying the most hideous Christmas ornaments The Grove could provide
Henry Winkler – chatting with diners as he left Pizzicotto
Donald Faison & CaCee Cobb – getting in my way at The Grove
Isla Fisher – uber pregnant and buying ingredients for spaghetti bolognese at Trader Joe’s
Victoria Beckham – leaving Cecconi’s with her entourage
Fisher Stevens – going through security at LAX (I’m a big fan of the movie Only You and I bit back the urge to beg him to say, “Ittly!”)
Scott Adsit – dining at Swingers

Updates:
Christina Applegate - buying books at a West Hollywood Borders
Hayden Panettiere (with Milo Ventimiglia - again) - pushing food around at Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood

What's a dollar really worth?

I have 2 soft spots that go hand-in-hand here in L.A.: Starbucks and the homeless. At a couple different locations I even have some "buddies." The Starbucks I stop at before getting on the 405 comes complete a pal who upon seeing my car approaching waves maniacally and then stands in a spot in the street to save it for me. As I park he jams change into the meter, buying me enough time to drink a landslide of lattes. My other favorite one walks miles around Brentwood and in our exchanges we've high-fived, made small talk and he once asked if he could stand at the street corner with Teen and me as we waited for the light to change. These men I will give money to without hesitation. I believe that they're good people who have stumbled into a hard life. (I guess it could just be a minor case of yuppie angst, but I don't think my lifestyle quite qualifies me to be a bonafide yuppie.)

Most who are with me as I hand my hard-earned and meager money over to the homeless on occasion usually just shake their heads quietly, signaling that my behaviour isn't exactly the norm. I've never minded. I've always understood that maybe they've chosen to believe the stories about the "fake" homeless people who at the end of the day jump in their SUV, or believe that everything you give is just spent on alcohol. I don't deny that those things may happen... I just don't let it deter me.

And then Friday happened.

I decided that because dreaming of work woke me up in a cold sweat at 5 a.m. I deserved a latte before heading into the office extra early. I saw a homeless man as I was parking and he looked extra sad and dirty, squinting in the bright morning sun. As I walked toward him I was fidgeting with my wallet and realized that I was fresh out of any change other than stupid pennies. I dug out a dollar and folded it up, passing it off with a, "Good morning!" before he could finish asking.

Ten minutes later as I was trying to drink latte, walk and put on sunglasses at the same time I saw something that startled me enough to make me stumble slightly. No, no, no. That can't be the same man I just gave my last dollar bill to... talking on a cell phone!

How do you have a wireless plan? Where did you charge that thing? Who are you calling that is not willing to help you out or take you in? I realize I shouldn't judge because I know absolutely nothing about this person and I won't let it stop me the next time I meet someone who makes my heart hurt... but he, in particular, won't be getting anymore from me should I ever see him again.

While I did spend the rest of that day wanting my dollar back, I'm mostly annoyed at him now for making me just a little more suspicious... a little more cynical. Goodness knows, I'm plenty cynical as is.

Hungry Cat

Hanging out with a bunch of men who are all prettier than me is no new experience. I'm just trying to remember which one of these evil geniuses had the idea to take the group shot when only I had been served dinner. Yes, yes... there's the one who's just letting herself go as the rest of them gingerly sip cocktails while dreams of dramatic cheekbones cloud their vision.

Hungry Cat in Hollywood... where the boys really did eat eventually. And it was delicious.

What humiliation I won't put myself through for some rare face time with one of my favorite friends...

After 7 years of friendship, heretofore, our new favorite picture.

Down the street and across the universe

At around 10:15 tonight I wandered out onto the balcony for a bit of fresh air and a little quiet that only comes from sitting in the dark. My laundry was humming along inside, the Oscars had finished a bit ago and the pots and pans from dinner were soaking in the sink. It had been a good day; a slow, peaceful day where I actually took each moment as it came. A welcome change from the days where I'm constantly trying to plot what ideally should come next.

I sat outside sipping on a moderately priced cabernet, observing the apartment building across the street that is practically begging to star in a movie. With its buzzing, rickety gate, decades-old hanging light fixtures and giant, swoopy apartment name on the side, it screams, "I am the home of a struggling L.A. genius! Someone on their way up or on their way down will nurture a brooding, yet often hopeful outlook on life from within my depressing and totally missable, slightly dilapidated walls."

Totally missable, that is, if you're anyone other than the girl who lives directly across the street, who often has nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of people who buzz themselves in and slam their ways out of "The Saltair."

Tonight my eye was caught by the angel-like lights circling above the neighbors' retro home. It was a signal that just a few miles away, at locations I pass on a regular basis, the city's chosen few - the world's chosen few, really - were out celebrating the night away at lavish parties across town. So close, yet an entire world and reality away.

My mind started drifting, thinking how nice it was that the weather had stayed mild, maybe even warm enough that the actresses in their slinky gowns wouldn't be too cold. Then I realized that they were probably freezing after all, as their body fat was likely around only 20% of my own.

With a grumbling, "Screw them!" I threw back the last sip of wine and marched inside to retrieve the last bits of laundry. Maybe there isn't a snowball's chance in hell of me ever looking like the dowdiest one of them, but I read half a novel today, did 4 loads of laundry and made a fairly tasty dinner in one pot out of the misfit ingredients I could find in a kitchen that hadn't been treated to a grocery run in about 3 weeks. I challenge any one of them to say they've done the same anytime recently. So there.

I come from good stock

I find this picture to be wonderfully telling of my family...
L-R: Sweetheart, Amused, Appears to be making armpit noises.



We're a complex bunch. 'Nuff said.

After 4 years of waiting...

Today is absolutely terrific. Today, January 20th, is so completely wonderful that it didn't even phase me when I tripped running up the office stairs this morning and landed on my blackberry, jamming enough buttons in the process to dial China and check in with those guys. Today, Barack Obama, whom I have been applauding for over 4 years became the 44th president. And because sometimes things happen exactly as they should, it was Barack Obama who escorted W. out to the helicopter that would blessedly remove him from D.C. As it pulled off the ground and the Obamas and Bidens waved, the group I was watching with began to smile and wave as well. Buh bye and good riddance.

We all have different ways of bidding adieu... Stacy was anxiously waiting for live coverage of the helicopter being beamed back up to Bush's home planet... Teen and I will be having celebratory cocktails tonight... and KROQ's Kevin and Bean put together this little farewell to commemorate the end of the road for W.

What a good day.

Most Ridiculous Fortune. Ever.

"Wow! You have a secret message from your teeth!"

It was discovered today at lunch that Stacy has for years carried the above fortune cookie message in her wallet. Apparently she's still waiting for her teeth to divulge their secret.

A cynical kid at heart

There are few advantages to living in L.A. around Christmas time. The palm trees swaying in the background only make a mockery of the front lawn Frostys and if you stare at the Christmas tree at The Grove long enough, you start to wonder where exactly they had to truck it in from, because it surely isn't local. This year has been more festive-feeling due to the "winter" weather we've had the past week or so. Temperatures in L.A. proper have dipped into the 40s and people have totally lost their shit over it.

It's about as plausible for Santa to make his L.A. rounds in the slightly warmed driver's seat of a Lexus SUV, his sack made by Louis Vuitton and his fluffly white eyebrows styled by Anastasia - as it is for him to glide around the solar-panneled roofs in a sled hoisted by flying cousins of the moose.

But then again, there is Disneyland. And a chilly day spent dodging strollers at the happiest place on earth amid the lights and decorations is just what I needed to lift my Christmas spirit.

Truth be told, it was even better than I was hoping for. It's shocking to discover how wonderful it is to feel like a kid again - if only for a day.

Hard at work

Winner of the best monkey impression at the the 16th summit of the Asian Pacific Economic Cooperation. Other talents include pretzel choking, confidently speaking nonsense and an 8-year record that has him in the running for the title of Worst President in History.

If a picture is really worth a thousand words... oh, Bushy Boy, you wouldn't even need to speak your trademark nonsense for us to understand exactly what you are (or more acurately, are not) capable of.

Doors are hard.

The cost, very high cost, of a Presidential pardon.

Same response to dealing with someone who is a little icky at the moment.

Wishing for lightning...

My thoughts exactly.

Scents of self

Last night I had the most unexpectedly wonderful night.

The plan had been to meet Stacy for a little shopping and Sunday night movie, but a black cloud started to appear over the night when the traffic congestion to park was agonizingly not moving anywhere for what seemed like forever. I deduced, while shifting my car into park to relieve my aching braking foot, that everyone on L.A.'s west side was trying to get out of the choking smoke and raining ash that had been blocking out the sun for the weekend. Well, I couldn't blame them; it was disgustingly, sneezingly awful. But... Stacy and I made these plans before the whole of Southern California burst into flames, so therefore everyone was invited to get the **** out of my way!

I've lived in L.A. long enough to occasionally be able to read the writing on the wall - or in this case, read the non-moving traffic in a claustrophobic parking ramp. The movie I had been dying to see (an occurrence which only happens about once a year) would be nearing full...for the showing that didn't start for another 3 hours. I could just sense it. And sure enough, at 4:30 the 6:00 showing of Slumdog Millionaire only had 2 seats in the front row open. "Okay," I exhaled, "how about the 7:30 show?" Yes, yes, fine, I'll take those seats in the fourth row.

After finding Stacy in the crowd and breaking the news of the fourth row seating debacle we headed to the Nordstrom's sale and got down to business. My curly-haired friend bagged a spring grass green cashmere sweater for a steal and then wanted to know what it was that would suit my fancy?

First floor. Total indulgence, please.

Shoes and purses turned out to be so picked over that the best looking bag we saw was by Juicy. And I am not a Juicy girl (much like I will never - never! - be a girl who purchases Jessica Simpson products). On the way to the jewelry cases we were meandering through fragrances when something made us stop at a display of ungodly expensive body soufflés. Before I knew it, my nose was in the jar labeled Almond Coconut Milk and Stacy was firmly reminding me that, "the last time I smelled a lotion and made those noises you made me buy it because you said you'd never heard that kind of yummy noise coming from me before. And you know what? Best purchase I ever made. You have to buy that. Hello?! You LOVE coconut!"

Me: "What? When did I do that?"
Her: "Target. The 'lemon cookie' lotion."
Me: "Oh. Yes, I'm very wise. (pause) This is going to be expensive though!"

And then a bubbly sales girl was at the counter and the three of us spent an unknown amount of time yapping, with me and Stacy asking question after question, quickly finding a routine where one asked a question as the other busily stuck their nose into another tub of lotion and then demanded that the other smell it immediately. Before I knew it, I had French Vanilla on my hands, Almond Coconut Milk on my arms and a spritz of the Nuits Enchantées parfum on my wrists - all subtly combining into the most heavenly aroma.

To our credit, we walked out of Nordstrom's for a diet Coke break without making any purchases just yet. Because, really, you never do know how a fragrance will settle. Just a few weeks ago I had spritzed the crook of my arm with something that on first whiff wreaked of shoes. I had been horrified and Sephora stupidly doesn't have a sink or high-powered hose for such situations, so I'd had to live with it. And an hour later, it had sunk down and mellowed out into a lovely warm scent, but who the hell would want to smell like a shoe everyday during the transition period?

But a funny thing happened while sipping diet Cokes the size of our faces... amongst conversations about family birthday parties, apartment arrangements and why some families deem it a good idea to hold a reunion at a mall food court?... we couldn't stop smelling my arms and wrists. (It was a wafting motion with sniffing, basically.) And I thought of all the reasons why right now was actually not a good time to buy myself a present: 25% of my office had been laid off on Friday, I'd just found out last week that my living situation would soon be changing and would likely result in at least some kind of financial repercussion, the holidays were approaching... But like Stacy said, I don't ever have a reaction like that to something - and Friday's lay offs had actually been round number 4 that I had survived, so maybe I deserved a little gift.

Plans were formulated and last sips of diet Coke were sucked down before we were purposefully headed back to Nordstrom's. And there, under the hot spotlights, I asked for the parfum and the gift set of the body soufflés, which Stacy and I later divided: she took the Crème Brulee (which gave her a skin a yummy salty top note and then melted into subtly sweet caramel) and I took the French Vanilla and, of course, the Almond Coconut Milk.

An hour after our purchases I was in the dark of the fourth row, watching an absolutely fabulous movie (go, go now to see Slumdog Millionaire), constantly sticking my wrist into my face for a secret whiff that always resulted in a small self-satisfied smile. Now, THAT is a good purchase.

I've never been one to have a signature scent. In high school and college I had a new perfume every school year and as an adult, I've shifted between lighter and heavier smells with the changing seasons. And recently, I've been insatiable about it. Constantly sniffing every bottle in every store; never committing... never loving.

Until now.

Now - today - I can't stop inhaling the cozy scent that lingers around me. Maybe it has something to do with having such a great time in the purchasing of it and loving the movie that I disappeared into while stealing little sniffs of my wrist... maybe it's those happy associations that make me think that this inviting, slightly sweet, non-artificial, wrap-you-up-in-a-decadent-blanket-and-sunshine-at-the-same-time fragrance is...just...so...me.

Tonight, and ten hours after applying some parfum and French Vanilla soufflé, I pushed open the door with Stacy one step behind me as we defiantly strutted out of the office. "My god, you smell delicious! It's like a waft of lovely trailing behind you!... And at the end of the day, too!"

I'm hoping that it's a sign of things to come; goodbye sadness and stress, hello lovely.

For old times' sake...

In continuing my ecstatic wave goodbye to W., I've placed below an article, "The Big Boss of the World," that appeared in Australia's Sydney Morning Herald on November 3, 2004. Written by my most favorite of writers, the uber-talented expat, Bill Bryson, it is an attempt to explain the Bush / Kerry election to the people of Australia. I've read this article too many times to count these past four years and so it seemed fitting to include it in my ongoing adieu.

The Big Boss of the World

Brain versus corn ... Kerry is perceived to have the intellect, but cannot inspire his supporters, while Bush seems able to do almost anything - such as eating raw vegetables - without denting his folksy image. Photo: Reuters

George Bush, the regular guy happy to feed a live fish to his dog, is up against a man with the hair to be president and an air of unconquerable aloofness. Bill Bryson untangles the contenders.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the mysterious bulge in George Bush's jacket. The idea that Bush might have been wired for assistance has a kind of endearing charm. With the best will in the world - and of course I am not offering anything as generous as that here - you have to concede that a radio transmitter would explain a great deal, not least Bush's interesting tendency to order himself to pipe down at odd moments in the debates.

Days before any thought of wireless nefariousness entered my head, I remember being struck that Bush referred to the Italian Prime Minister as "Sylvia Burrus", and then a minute or two later, when the name was no longer conspicuously germane, blurted out "Silvio Berlusconi" as if it had just miraculously come to him. Which, as we now know, it may well have.


What is interesting in this is not how swiftly the story faded from the nation's attention - news is really just a series of nano-events these days - but how little effect it had in its brief spell of lively consideration.


Bush, I'm told, could have walked up to the lectern with television rabbit ears strapped to his head and it would have made little difference to how most Americans perceive him. Those who dislike and distrust him do so maximally already, while those who adore him are equally unwavering in their devotions.


For those of us who are not on the adoring end of the equation, the question that naturally springs to mind is: what would it take to get people not to want to vote for him? One quality that doesn't seem to matter as it once did - and I am sorry to bring it up because it is an awfully touchy subject - is the matter of presidential intelligence.


Consider an interesting historical parallel. In 1976, while wooing Mexican-American voters, President Gerald Ford was presented with a large, freshly made tamale to pose with. The tamale was wrapped, in the traditional manner, in a corn husk to keep it warm.


Unfortunately for his reputation, Ford proceeded to try to eat the whole thing, fibrous husk and all. This was roughly equivalent to sitting down to lunch in a diner and trying to eat the place mat. He looked so foolish that millions of people decided not to vote for him, and instead we got four years of Jimmy Carter and his very odd family, which was a national sacrifice, to be sure.


Now cast your mind forward 28 years to August 2004. Sensing a photo opportunity while campaigning in Iowa, Bush stopped his motorcade and bounded over to a vegetable stand, bought an ear of corn and, as cameras excitedly clicked, proceeded to try to eat it raw, discovering in the process what all other grown people know already - that eating raw corn is like eating raw wheat or raw rice, which is to say not remotely satisfactory.


In the same week, while fishing, Bush tossed his dog a live fish to torment to death on the lawn. I hesitate to show disrespect for the President because, as the radio talk show people constantly remind us, criticising the President (or any of his actions or the actions of anyone who has a gun or wears an American flag on his lapel, or such a person's mother) gives comfort to the enemy, so I'll just say very quietly that both of these incidents made him look just a little bit not-too-smart.


Yet neither action, as far as can be told, affected Bush's standing with the electorate even a trifle.


Just as Bush seemed constitutionally unable to dismay his supporters, so Senator John Kerry seemed throughout the campaign constitutionally unable to galvanise his.


The only thing rarer than someone who feelingly supports John Kerry is, it has to be said, someone who understands what his policies are. It is hardly a novel observation to note that roughly half the electorate has voted not for Kerry, but against Bush.


On the face of it, Bush would seem to have the lead in accumulated negatives. The economy is not looking terribly rosy. The budget surplus of $US200 billion ($268 billion) that he inherited four years ago has become a projected deficit this year of $US422 billion and is heading for aggregated arrears of $US2.3 trillion by the end of the decade.


More than a million jobs have been lost in the same period. The rebuilding of Iraq is such a mess that even many conservative commentators - notably George Will and Tucker Carlson - have become outspoken in their criticism of the Administration's foreign policy.


America has achieved, under Bush's command, the extraordinary distinction of not only failing to find the weapons it sought, but then losing 340 tonnes of those it did find.


The President's approval rating is stuck below 50 per cent, which is hardly a ringing endorsement. He can't even be said to be a hard worker. Extraordinarily, considering all that was going on, Bush spent 98 days at his ranch last year.


This compares with the 19 days of annual vacation that President Bill Clinton averaged in his two terms (though comparisons are perhaps unfair as we now know that Clinton took much of his relaxation in the Oval Office) or the 41 days a year that President Ronald Reagan averaged - which, it should be noted, includes his recovery time after being shot. Bush, in short, would seem to have an abundance of vulnerabilities.


Yet it was Kerry who spent most of the campaign on the defensive. The consensus view seems to be that he has excellent hair and a good presidential manner - and these things count for more than we might comfortably suppose - but that these are offset by the more mixed signals that emanate from his patrician bearing and slight air of unconquerable aloofness.


Specifically, Kerry is smart but not endearingly self-deprecating. He doesn't seem wholly at ease with strangers. He is proficient in French - a language spoken, notoriously, by men who sometimes kiss each other on the cheeks and make faithless allies.


He's married to a woman of independent wealth and mind who looks as if she would have to ask a servant where the brooms in her house are kept. When he puts on a hunting jacket or fishing gear, it always looks as if it has come straight out of the packaging. You kind of suspect he doesn't own a single old hat.


Bush is unquestionably the winner in the regular guy department. Like all successful presidents, he is effortlessly comfortable with ordinary people and wholly unashamed to be folksy, and there is no question that he inspires trust among millions. His wife is adored universally.


It's really only his daughters (who look, as one observer acutely noted, like the sort of young women you would expect to see jumping out of a cake at a bachelor party) who seem a little sketchy, as I believe the younger people say, but they have been kept mostly in the background during the campaign.


On the basis of trust alone, I think Bush has probably got the edge.


Still, this being America, anything is possible. This is a country, never forget, where 11 per cent of young adults can't locate the Pacific Ocean on a map, where nearly half of all adults and a quarter of university graduates believe that the Earth was created in seven days, by God, sometime in the past 10,000 years, and where 20 per cent of adults evidently believe that Saddam Hussein not only had weapons of mass destruction but used them on us.


It is often remarked how worrying it is that half the people don't vote. I think I should find it rather more worrying if they did.


In any case, however accurately pollsters track voter preferences, the critical factors are how many people turn out on election day and where the turning out is done. The US presidential election is not really a popularity contest at all. It's about winning the right states and collecting the requisite number of electoral votes.


Al Gore, as I am sure you will have been reminded many times already this week, received more votes in 2000 than any other candidate in history except Ronald Reagan, and still didn't become president.


The most unnerving fact of all is that about 5 per cent of voters make their minds up on election day. They just see how they feel when they get out of bed in the morning. It is these decisive souls who will determine who leads the free world for the next four years.

Dirty Thirty

Happy birthday, my friend. I don't know what I'd do without you.

My birthday wish for you: that we spend every one of your birthday dinners at Tasca, drinking and eating to our hearts' content.

Chin Chin!