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.

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.

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!

A long, long time ago...

Nine years ago today I put on a cap and gown and graduated from high school with my girlfriends in tow.

Since then, all 5 of us spent time studying abroad... at least 7 universities were attended... multiple jobs have been had... 2 weddings... 2 baby boys... 1 law degree... 1 soon-to-be veterinarian...

Not bad for a group of girls who graduated from public school in Stillwater, MN. I just can't believe it's already been 9 years.

What would my 1999 self think of me now? She'd definitely wonder how the hell I ended up in L.A., a city I never even wanted to visit, breathe in or fly over.

What would your high school self think of you?

This one's for you

You know who you are.

Last night I called you a butthead and you laughed. And that's one of the reasons why after 16 years of being friends I still love you with all my heart.

Singing her praise

Here she is folks. My friend, my work-wife, the one that I can have a full conversation with through a series of squints and eyebrow lifts...Stacy.

There are a million reasons why she is the greatest, but one in particular is something that is just so...her. She likes to send cryptic messages via texting that say things like, "Just bought us concert tickets for the 14th. You WILL be there." Then she refuses to let you pay her back for the tickets, because according to her, you had no choice in the matter and were forced into a fabulous evening against your will. As though the whole event was soley to entertain herself.

At the end of weeks in Europe this fall, there were only two viable reasons for returning to the land of George W. Bush; seeing Teen again and the long-distance promise of a surprise concert with Stacy.

Concert + drinks + friend = FU-UUN.

Tomorrow night she, Adriann and I will be going to see Kate Nash in Hollywood. Another one of Stacy's text message surprises. And I cannot wait.

Scenes from a friendship

Boy and Girl are escaping the ungodly heat of the day by heading out for drinks at the Viceroy on Sunday night. Boy is driving with the windows down and Girl is so distracted by the wind whipping her hair around that she is constantly giving him directions a second too late, resulting in a total of 5 illegal turns. Still, she takes it upon herself to yell at other drivers who insist on proving their status as Grade A Imbeciles.

Girl: For crying out loud, grow a pair and turn! What are you waiting for, a blessing from God above?
Boy: So, your road rage comes out even when you aren't driving? Huh... wouldn't have guessed that one.
Girl: Well, that guy was a moron. There is no oncoming traffic to wait for when the intersection is shaped like a T.
Boy: I think he was trying to avoid mowing over the pedestrians.
Girl: But they didn't have a signal to walk. In fact, the big red hand was specifically indicating that they should NOT walk.
Boy: I can't believe you just said "grow a pair"...
Girl: Call it like I see it.
Boy: Look, the ocean... and the sun is setting!
Girl: I see what you're doing. I know you're trying to distract my road rage with something soothing and it's not going to... ooh, pretty!

Later - and finally off the mean streets of Santa Monica...

Boy: I felt like such a poser.
Girl: Nobody says poser anymore.
Boy: Why is that? What happened to poser?
Girl: I dunno. It's out. We're all posers now. Even the people who in the early 90's were all grunge and "individual" - declaring the rest of us posers - even they are wearing designer crap now and watching the same junk on TV, listening to the same Clear Channel-approved music. Look at Courtney Love. Calling someone else a poser now would be a serious case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Boy: (Long pause to stare at Girl like she has 6 eyes and 3 feet)... What goes on in that head of yours?!

Later still and after a few mojitos...

Girl: Look at that guy! What a nimrod!
Boy: Talk about outdated words. NIMROD.

Oh, did I mention that "Girl" is me? And that "Boy" constantly calling me out on my ridiculousness is what makes him one of my most likable friends? Just another night that turned out to be unexpectedly fabulous...

If you're lucky, into life a little Ara will fall

In my time as a California resident I have limited my cab rides, almost exclusively, to an as-needed ride to the airport. Last night, however, I was instructed by Stacy and Adriann to meet them at Lola's and to take a cab. Half an hour before meet time, I dug my phone out of my purse and dialed up the taxi company. Yes, I was ready now. Send your man and his automobile.

I stepped out onto the balcony and waited, tipping my head back and drinking in the lovely night. It was dark, but it was still in the gorgeous 70s with a breeze to push the curls away from my face. When the minivan cab pulled up and I saw that the windows in the front were rolled down, I was urged by the night to stick my head through the passenger side and ask, "You mind if I ride up here with you?"

We'd only gotten about 3 blocks away from my apartment when we'd exhausted the topic of the fabulous weather. I sat there thinking, "hmmm... another 20 minutes to go... what are some other benign topics?" After a moment of silence, we pulled up to a red light and the driver turned to fully look me in the face before blowing my mind with, "I remember you. I think I take you to the airport once."

L.A. is a city with over 4 million people hustling about. The last time I took a cab anywhere was when I needed to get to the airport for my flight home at Christmas. And he was right, he was the man I'd chatted with the entire way to LAX.

Me: You're right! How could you possibly remember that? It was months ago!
New friend: I remember a Sara. I remember picking a Sara up at that apartment. I liked you. You were nice.
Me: I can't believe the odds of that happening... I NEVER take cabs.
New friend: So, you going out to a club? A restaurant?
Me: Um, more like a restaurant-slash-lounge.
New friend: You got a date.
Me: Ha! Hahaha! Oh, no. Better than that. I'm meeting my fabulous girlfriends.
New friend: So, who you going to vote for in the election? Hillary?

So much for benign. I don't even talk politics with most of my friends, afraid that I'd be unable to stop myself from sucker punching. I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Ara was not to be deterred from such landmines as...

New friend: Guess what nationality I am?
Me: Oh god. I never do that. THAT is just a way to offend people with my ignorance.
New friend: Go ahead, I no get mad!

OR

New friend: How long you live in L.A.?
Me: Coming up on 2 years.
New friend: Where is boyfriend tonight?
Me: No boyfriend.
New friend: You move here for job? You have job you love?
Me: No. I don't love my job at all.
New friend: Then why you do it? Why you not do what you love? You should love what you do.
Me: Well, that's the trick, isn't it?! I can't figure out - still - what it is I really want to do. So for now, job pays the bills.
New friend: Fair enough. So, why you live in L.A. then? You all alone?
Me: No, I'm not all alone. I'm meeting girlfriends that I love and I live right near my sister, who is my favorite person ever.
New friend: Oh yes! You tell me that before! How is your sister?

At this point his phone rang, giving me a moment to stare out the window with my mouth gaping open at the absurdity of it all. FOUR MILLION people. I can't find the cute guy I saw at Starbucks that one day, but I can find Ara, the cab driver who likes to prod around in my soul and make me scowl at the probing questions he considers small talk.

This was even more bizarre than when Laura and I were in D.C. totally sweaty and disgusting on a sweltering, humid summer day and we needed to get to her apartment for the fastest showers and wardrobe change ever to make it to the Lincoln Center less than 2 hours later. We finally found a cab to get us to her place, and not long after, waved down a cab to get us to the Lincoln Center. It was the same dude. Apparently, we were previously so foul and showers were so transformative that he didn't recognize us and had a truly difficult time believing that were were the same mongrels he'd dropped off not long before.

When we finally pulled up to Lola's I was digging around in my purse for the cash I'd tossed in earlier. Ara's accent sometimes made it hard for me to make out every single word, but I swear our send-off went like this:

New friend: You can pay me tonight, or not. I can get you next time.
Me: Ara! I'm going to pay you right now, I just have to find my money in here.
New friend: Ok, well if you want to, but you don't have to.

I handed over the $30 and wished my new friend a terrific evening. As he pulled away and the suited men with clipboards waited for me to walk over with my ID, I stood paralyzed for the second it took to absorb an insane half hour...

I'd found Ara, the nicest cabbie in L.A., not once, but twice. He remembered me. He remembered me telling him about Teen. And then, in the most bizarre twist of all, he told me I didn't have to pay him - that he'd get me next time... as if I was Norm and he was Sam and this was Cheers, instead of a chaotic city of millions that I could easily disappear into.

Moment of absorption complete, I spun around ready to see my girls. I love this city.

Happy February 13th to You!

Happy Birthday, my longest-lasting friend!

When your hair cares enough to reach out & touch someone...

May you... continue to believe for the rest of your life that I am the very best at making music mixes... always have conversations over the phone with your dog in which you speak baby-talk (ha!)... love your hubby more and more with each passing Fargo day... and forever be my friend - if for no other reason than for me to be able to brag to passersby that I'm still friends with someone I met in kindergarten.

xoxo,
Me

P.S. Sorry for the lack o' birthday card... I'm hoping this will suffice. *Grin*

Because no mention of you this year would be complete without beautiful you in your beautiful white dress...

Where to draw the line?

I officially have a work-wife. We've joked about it for months now as our projects have continuously intertwined, keeping us here till all hours of the night, forcing us to call each other even after we leave to talk about which vendor is sending proofs for approval to our personal emails at what time in the middle of the night. We eat together, text each other when stuck in morning traffic and basically spend more time with each other than we do with family. It's an uncommon relationship to have with a co-worker; lucky for me she's first and foremost one of my favorite friends. I've often wondered if it's because of our work situation...or in spite of it...that we continue to enjoy each other. Really though, I don't dwell on it too much because I'm usually too busy laughing at whatever it is that Stacy has just said.

A few weeks ago, close became on top of. Certain areas of the company are now under construction and as a result Stacy and I became refugees, relocated to a small conference room on the other side of the office for about 2 months.


I took this picture of Stacy and our...stuff...to show a friend of ours that we weren't exaggerating when we said we basically sat on top of each other. Upon closer inspection I realized that the sqaure foot of table we each have as a work space can quickly become a complete disaster. Also, we consume a ridiculous amount of beverages.

Today, the excessive number of cups, plus the fact that I'd lost my mind, resulted in Stacy asking, "Is this mine?" We'd recently come back from The Coffee Bean, she with a medium coffee, me with a small americano. With eyes glued to my monitor, my right hand had reached out and grabbed the wrong coffee, leaving my small cup on her side of the table. As I'd gulped down that sip of coffee, I had thought to myself that it tasted strangely different than the previous sips, but clearly I'm very busy and important...too busy and important to pause and wonder why exactly my tastebuds were telling me something was wrong.

Stacy: Is this mine?
Me: Whaaa?
Stacy: Huh?
Me: Oh, for crying out loud. I just drank your coffee! Sowrry!

Cups are exchanged and then Stacy removes the plastic lid and tosses it in the trash.

Stacy: It's not that I think you're yucky, I just don't want to take any chances with getting sick.
Me: I'm not at all offended. I drank your coffee because I'm a brainless imbecile right now, so you do what you gotta do.

Stacy giggles and seems to be inspecting for any cooties that may have jumped from lid to cup. I pretend not to notice and secretly wonder if it's because my lips feel particularly dry just then... Do they look as dry as they feel? Can she tell? And where's my bleep-bleep lip balm gone to?!

Me: No wonder it tasted funny...it had Splenda in it!...yuck!...and non-dairy creamer!...ugh!
Stacy: AND I have the tickle of a sore throat! Hahahaha! That'll really teach ya!

I guess this means that we're extremely close friends, but not to the point of sharing hot caffeinated beverages. Considering our current arrangement of sharing whatever is on our monitors, whatever is said during phone calls, every yawn and outburst of frustration, and that - horror of horrors - there is someone there to watch you as your mind goes blank and you stare at the wall...well, I'm ok that we appear to have drawn the line at beverage swapping. I really do hate Splenda and non-dairy creamer.

The rock, the sea and this year's me

2007 was a dang good year, providing more happy moments than I could have wished for. The last couple of weeks kept in tune with the rest of the year and were like the big shiny bow on top of the Lexus in those cheesy Christmas commercials I always wish I was starring in.

Christmas at home in Minnesota was full of surprises…quiet, lovely, smiley surprises. Setting the pace for the week was a girls lunch years in the making where a couple of hours of laughter and stories and getting acquainted with the current versions of each other all served as a reminder of why I’ve loved these friends so much for the past decade, regardless of the fact that I’m not the best at keeping in touch.

And the snow, oh, the snow! While a white Minnesota Christmas is nothing new, it was the first time in a long time that I actually got out into the stuff… Teaching Paige that when the snow is too deep for her shorty toddler legs, I'll walk in front so she can walk behind in my footprints. Making snowmen for the first time in years. Standing outside chatting with Popi, buried under layers, feeling the tickle of the falling flakes and loving how silent a slow snowfall makes the world...allowing only for the crunching of boots and the distant scraping of shovels. White peace.

I spent the whole week thinking, “I love that this is my family.” (Now, that wasn’t a surprise, but is just too wonderful a sentiment to go without mention.) We did some coffees at The Bean, a couple of dinners with a couple of drinks, a movie, Chicken Salsa Chili at our favorite St. Paul haunt and Paige’s birthday party, but that was it for activities. For the most part, we were hanging out at home, playing in the snow, making each other laugh and doing nothing in particular. It was fantastic.

When we got to the airport both Teen and I had the blues. It had been too good and gone too fast. We weren't ready to go just yet, so we consoled ourselves with the knowledge of how remarkably refreshing it is to see the palm trees of L.A. after a week of cold; it would be good to be back, we were sure. However, standing at baggage claim in the wee morning hours of Dec. 29, we were both starting to feel rundown, both whining about a sore throat threatening to damper our post-Christmas glee.

And so it was that on New Year’s Eve we were not feeling up to any kind of grandiose plans. Seeing as I am not New Year’s biggest fan to begin with, a quiet night with Teen sounded perfect. And it turned out to be exactly that.

We began our fond farewell to 2007 on the Santa Monica Pier at sunset, each with a rock in hand. After watching the last bit of sun drip down into the ocean, we poured into our rocks everything from the past year we were ready to let go of – everything we wanted to change. I silently visualized it all going in until the rock felt just a little heavier…and then the toss…in that split second while my rock was airborne, I exhaled and my hopes for the new year were swept out into the wind, now swirling around the city with those supposed angels. The things from the past year that brought us down were now just tiny ripples in the Pacific. With them lost at sea, we were free.

So, with freshly lightened hearts we doubly indulged: we tried a new restaurant and it was The Lobster. The last peachy tints of daylight were spent with drinks and tuna carpaccio, sitting under twinkle lights and watching the ferris wheel spin and the waves roll. Then, as supper time rolled around, we headed off for our reservation at our favorite restaurant, where we again treated ourselves – this time to three scoops of gelato for dessert.

A couple of hours before midnight, feeling as though we’d already had a complete evening, we were back at Teen’s, happily popping open champagne, having a PJ dance party and gabbing the rest of the year away. As New York’s 3-hour-old confetti began to fall on the TV screen, we heard loud, distant booms outside. “Fireworks! Get your shoes on. I’ll grab our wine glasses, you grab the keys! Hurry! Get to the rooftop before they’re done!” So, the first few minutes of 2008 were spent on a rooftop in West L.A. wearing my pajamas with polka-dot ballet flats (i.e. looking ridiculous), clinking glasses of Sauvignon Blanc with Teen while fireworks went off all around us. And I thought to myself, if this is an indicator of things to come, it is going to be a spectacular year. But oh, how the mighty do fall.

The next day I woke to what turned out to be the beginning of strep throat hell. By Friday afternoon I was too loopy with fever to drive myself to the doctor (I was too weak to even walk or stand for more than a few minutes at a time). As the doctor said of my “severe strep throat” and 102º fever, “Wow. You’re really sick!” And while good old 102º had me clammy with sweat and my head resting on the wall behind my chair, my days-of-fever cooked brain was screaming, “Stop pointing out the obvious and give me drugs! NOW! Or so help me I’ll get my sister from the waiting room to come in here and slap you around a bit!”

That’s been the best thing about 2008 so far. Teen. My savior in a little red Honda picked me up and drove me to the doctor in the mess of rainy L.A. traffic, sat in the waiting room with no good magazines for company, took me home, made me soup and burrowed into a nest we made on the couch for hours of Sex and the City, handing me tissues at the beginning of episodes where she knows I always cry. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be back down on the pier right now with another rock, hastily jamming the past 4 days in, demanding that the universe allow me to start the year over and imagining myself as a major league pitcher while flinging that thing as far away from me as I could get it. But my worst bout of illness in years opened my eyes a little more to how lucky I am to have Teen…and that’s just too good to toss out to sea. That, I’ll keep with me for quite awhile.

So, this year may have gotten off to a rocky start, but I believe that it’s salvageable. I remain hopeful. And dear little newborn 2008, I’ll give you some advice patented by Popi, “Shape up, meatball!”

For last year's words belong to last year's language

And next year's words await another voice.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

- T.S. Elliot, "Little Gidding"

Like riding a bike

When I was younger I loved to ride my pink Schwinn. Sometimes I would take off on rides around the neighborhood by myself with only my speedometer to keep me company by tracking the miles I'd pedaled through. Other times, I'd be riding a long distance (really a couple of miles) with my sister to the corner store for candy or to a friend's house. I loved it. It was freedom and mobility and the rush of wind on my face and being outdoors...it was exhilarating.

As an adult, I can only think of two times where I've been on a bike. One was while Teen was working on the television show Studio 60 and late one Friday night during a visit I "borrowed" one of the bikes that was used by production people and set off for the mostly empty streets of the Warner Brothers lot. Not only was it my first time on a bike since...I couldn't remember when...there was something magical about riding in the black of a late Friday night through the fake suburban boulevards of the Gilmore Girls set with Burbank's mountain glowing in the moonlight as a background. Again, exhilarating.

Time number two was this past September at Pete's Labor Day party in Manhattan Beach. After a few hours of chowing on burgers, drinking some frightfully delicious Brazilian cocktail as fast as they could be served, losing a few rounds of ping pong to a seven-year-old and eventually getting into the bikini/sun dress combo, it was time to go out into the sunshine of a late summer day. Teen and I borrowed the bikes of Pete and a roommate, told the others we'd be back in a bit, and off we went down the boardwalk, headed for the street fair in Hermosa Beach. Sparkling ocean and sand to the right, best friend in the world in front of me and a warm September breeze cooling me off more and more with each rotation of my out-of-practice legs. It was one of those days where you hear yourself say, "Oh...This is why I live in California."

Both times it occurred to me that the old saying had been proved true. "It's like riding a bike," was exactly, well, like riding a bike. I didn't forget. I may have wobbled some, but I didn't fall. And it only took about a block for the smile to spread the full breadth of my face.

The past two weekends have been wonderful for very different reasons, but at the end of each Sunday I've found myself thinking, "Huh. I didn't forget. It was kinda like riding a bike..."

Last year at this time, there was a group of friends that had quickly bonded and held onto each other for all of the smiles and laughter and hugs that those friendships resulted in. There were a few people whom the group centered around and there were those who were more like drifters because of some kind of connection. Teen was the core, I was a drifter and Mark was a permanent result.

As a drifter, it's easy to feel out of place at first...easy to be uncomfortable...easy to wish you'd stayed at home with a bottle of wine and a chick flick instead of trying to meet new people. But if Mark was there, then I was going to be fine. I'd always have someone to talk to, because he is ridiculously easy to talk to. (Well, at least those first few times. After that, they were probably all hard-pressed to shut me up.) And while he's great for the standard LA "industry" talk, he'll also indulge me in conversations about books, politics, relationships, family, work, creative passion...life...all of it...the full menu. I'd guess that not just in our group, but every group of friends he has, Mark is a core person.

Last December, when he moved back East, everyone took it hard. Eleven months passed in which things changed a little, as they inevitably would, people changed...and then...he came back for a weekend. And I discovered that friendship with him is like riding a bike - I didn't forget how.

He still makes me and Teen laugh until we're dabbing tears out of the corners of our eyes, still does heart-to-heart sessions and is still remarkably easy to talk to.

Teen, Mark, Lemon Tree, Yours Truly

Laughter...for real

Sometimes it occurs to me that Mark sees me like maybe no one else does. Most people think I'm a softy with a side of sarcasm; Mark once told me that I tend towards quality over quantity and that when I cut, I cut to the marrow. He seems to think that I'm full of hard edges and biting cynicism, whereas I prefer to think I truly fall somewhere between the sap and the bitch, but that I'm just so damn good at portraying both, most people peg me for one or the other. He's in the minority and I'm intrigued by that, amongst other fabulous qualities of his.

Just a few days ago, however, I was neither of my alter-personas, but instead was back to my sixth grade self.

You see, Teen and I went rollerblading for the first time in 14 years. At a hut near the base of the Santa Monica pier we were handed pairs of rollerblades and nothing else. No protective gear, no instructions on how to strap these contraptions on, no helpful tips, no reminder that the brake is on the back of the right skate...nothing. Eventually memory kicked in as far as getting the cankle-makers on, but then I stood up and Teen had the joy of watching me flail about and attempt to take down an entire row of parked bikes, only to be stopped by her grabbing the first one of them and telling me to relax, let go and not to touch anymore bikes for balance. When did little sisters become the wise ones?

Clearly, this is the beginning. Teen is hugging immovable objects with the Santa Monica Pier in the background

The first few minutes were a little rough. It's hard to enjoy the gorgeous sunny scenery when your eyes are clouded over by images of yourself splattered on the sidewalk, or a repeat of that bike crash from the fifth grade that left you with a funny elbow scar. But then we got onto a smoother bike path and our bodies adjusted to this new way of moving...and before we knew it, we were zooming on ahead, me constantly turning around to smile at Teen and shout "Sister!" with sheer happiness. Or, when we were able to skate side-by-side, coming up with memories of childhood long forgotten.

We weren't skilled by any means...our arms still displayed a bit of a flail and I could occasionally be heard exclaiming, "Ohhh Booooy!" while lurching backwards, forwards and whichever way the bump in the path indicated. Somehow though, we got all the way down to the Venice Beach pier after gawking with wonder at all of the colorful characters filling the Venice markets on the way. Is this Venice? Wait, how did we get down here?! Oh my gosh, we're amazing! I can't believe we just rollerbladed all the way to Venice Beach! Oh...crap...we have to turn around and go back...

Here she comes, folks!

Trying to take a picture Teen rolled right on through my shot...and then we almost fell over laughing

As we turned to head back north, the conversation turned to how much fun we were having, how gorgeous the day was, and that experiences like this - blue ocean, sailboats, palm trees, yellow sun and warm November breezes - were why we lived in LA, despite it's many pitfalls. Oh, and we were also discussing how unbelievably sweaty I was, while also being very excited over the fact that we were actually really enjoying an aerobic activity. A few minutes after discussing how we wanted to buy our own rollerblades and make this route a part of our weekend routine, we were whining about the fact that we couldn't feel our feet, our knees hurt and every muscle below our belly buttons seemed to have joined the strike. Whatever proper blading form we had gained was now lost to muscle fatigue that had us clomping along like rusty robots on wheels.

Still, when we finally rolled triumphantly back into the rental hut, only these things mattered:

1) Neither of us fell!

2) We were both sweaty and happy about it

3) We'd had a total blast

4) We went six miles round trip! On ROLLERBLADES! We are athletic superstars! (No wonder our muscles were screaming and freezing up!)

Turns out that rollerblading with your sister is kind of like riding a bike...with your sister. We didn't forget - we had as much fun rollerblading as adults as we did rollerblading or bike riding as children. In fact, we may have had more fun, because I don't recall as a child continuing to talk about our latest bike ride days later and the fact that we had to do it again as soon as possible. I suppose that has something to do with the difference between childhood and adulthood. As an adult, you have to hold onto the moments and the people that make you that joyful. You have to make a conscience effort to be happy and enjoy life - the full menu of life.

The fundamentals are like riding a bike. Once you've learned how to be a friend or rollerblade, you've got that skill set buried somewhere in muscle memory (even heart memory), waiting to be shaken awake whenever you decide it is time to do so. It's taking it all one step further, turning the people you know and the experiences you have into your own form of bliss, that takes the effort. If you're very lucky, it takes minimal effort.

Lately, I've been very, very lucky. I hope it lasts a little longer, because I haven't always been so fortunate, which only makes me feel all the more blessed in my current state of happiness.

I wish all of you the same, plus a pinch more.

Europe...The Friends

Oh my, it has been a long week. Work has snowballed into 11 hour days, no lunches, spreading work out on the kitchen table while I wait for leftovers to heat up for dinner and soothing my frustration with glasses of red wine. Eventually, I fall asleep after midnight, sitting up, trying my hardest to stay awake for another chapter of Harry Potter (and I'm not ashamed to say that I love Harry Potter).

I had a fantastic, yet exhausting, weekend to break-up the monotony of being a corporate slave...but that weekend deserves proper mention that I am currently too tired to attempt. For now, I find that all my hazy eyes want to rest on are pictures of my favorite friends from my time in Europe. Ahh...still dreaming of Europe...

In my list of great meals, this lunch in Passau will be in the top 5...

Norm and his harem...(L to R: Elaine, Norm, Diane, Mom, yours truly)

All together now... One of the many dinners where bottles of wine and our laughter made us the 6 noisiest diners

Norman and I making each other laugh, as per usual. Say, "ha! ha!" Bamberg!

Something to the left is captivating me and Elaine

Smile! Al, Diane and Norm

The group meets up again in the town square of Rothenberg

With our other favorite new friend, Valentin

And, with my #1 girl, Mom

So tonight, I guess I raise my glass of vino and toast those friends out there who have been a wonderful surprise this past year. To Norm and Diane in Los Angeles, Al and Elaine in Detroit, and my mother, who I'm sure is missing me constantly dragging her around on foot while trying to read German signs, I dedicate my exhausted evening of sappiness to you, my dear travel companions.

One day, you find yourself at LAX dreading the many hours between you and Prague, wondering how your mother and you are going to survive each other for 3 weeks...when suddenly, those 3 weeks are gone, you're back at LAX and you've hugged friends goodbye who you now can't imagine life without. And no 26 year old goes to Europe expecting to hang out with 5 people all over the age of 60, much less to love every second of it.

It's like I said to Teen this weekend, "Life is funny." You just never know what you're going to get if you go with the flow.

What flow am I meant to be going with today? Hmm...

The change of seasons, states of heart & mindset

There's something about fall. Even in LA, where the seasons just feel like varying degrees of summer, there are indicators subtly pointing to the fact that, yes, fall is in the air. Scarves are suddenly available for purchase, football is once again on tv, some leaves drop from their trees knowing that the warm weather is only trying to to blind them to what nature has intended, the days insist on getting shorter and the nights get down right chilly.

So, even though the only football I've seen this season was viewed over margaritas during a Sunday afternoon happy hour in Santa Monica with Christine (also known as Sister, Sissy, Teen & favorite person in the world)...I had purchased a scarf that day (same one as Teen, of course), it was in October, and the sun was about to set all too soon. It may not have been raking leaves or picking my own apples, but it was about as seasonal as I was going to get.

Yes, fall is here. And, in most cases, fall is about to turn to winter, which only becomes a reality for me when I return to Minnesota for Christmas and that first gust of icy wind slaps me across the face in the airport parking lot.

Whatever it is about the fall season, it always makes me reflective. It is always my most introverted time of year. I'll drive home without the radio on - just me and my neurotic thoughts coasting along in the golden glow of late afternoon. I'll happily burrow into a sweater, jeans and my beloved flip flops and sit on a Starbucks patio sipping a soy chai for hours on a Sunday afternoon - just me, my book, my journal and the breeze rustling through the palm trees.

What I still haven't figured out is this: is all this reflecting what makes me miss those select friends with hearts of gold, or do I miss them most at this time of year because they are so far away from me, and with all this introvertedness I've made myself a little lonely? Probably a bit of both, but whatever it is about fall, I find myself aching for the company of certain people.

Today, it hit me so hard I was practically in tears. I needed a big dose of Randell in my life. I was inexplicably sad and all I wanted was to turn back time 5 years and walk out of my room and upstairs to find Randell drinking a latte she'd made herself and watching TV in the living room we shared with our 4 other roommates. I spent more than half of my time in Boulder living with her and there is something about this girl that is just so...good. She has the mystical ability to be the nicest person in the world without also being a pushover. I don't know many people like that, do you?

So, after weeks of being "in a mood" I woke up today and desperately wanted something to change. And deep down my heart cried out for the friend I hadn't talked to in months. Randell's smiling friendship is like a blanket to wrap your soul in on a fall afternoon - cozy and safe, soothing and comforting - a good place to stay for a long time.

I got my soy chai, positioned the chair so the 4:00 sun would warm my face, dug my phone out of my bag, called my old roommate and felt my body breathe deep and relax at the sound of her excited, "Hey, Sar! I was just thinking about you today!"

Magic.

I don't know how she does it. (I also don't know how she teaches high school math, but that's another kind of mystery.) I don't know why I react to fall the way I do. And why it sometimes feels good to be melancholy, well, I don't know that either. I do know that I plan to keep Randell forever. We met at 18 and I hope that at 88 we're still running to the grocery store to buy a 4th of July sheet cake that we will bring home and eat on the living room floor with no plates, just 2 forks.

For the love of Randell

"No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth." - Robert Southy

A first time for everything

To blog, or not to blog? It was never a question I'd considered until I met Stacy and Ashley.

In a lot of situations, there is a certain amount of heckling I can take. The merits of Angelina Jolie? - yeah, I'm not buying it. Bangs in 2004? - hell no. Facebook? - no. you wore me down with myspace. facebook ain't gonna happen too . Sheer leggings under an ass-grazing skirt? - I'd rather stuff sausage casings for a living than try to stuff my sausage thighs into those unflattering footless tights, thank you.

Yet, with all of that stubbornness buried in my core, something clicked when it came to my dear-hearted friends consistently insisting that I needed a blog. The nagging, along with my boredom and supreme hatred of my job, combined into a super-force that today I could no longer ward off.

These friends - these LA heartmates of mine - have led by example with spectacular blogs of their own that I can't help but compulsively check out.

Stacy - my friend of friends in LA. I see her 5 days a week at work, and that still doesn't quench my thirst for her company. More than a perfect companion for shopping, drinks, dinner, concerts and endless weekday lunches, she is that rare one whom you allow to really see you. Chomping down burritos and frozen yogurt. Reclined in your sweats, laughing your ass off at The Office. Talking about various foods that gave you various kinds of stomach issues. Spraying her with beer as she makes you laugh so hard that your pursed lips cannot stop the force. And the one where conversations actually happen without words - a secret language of the eyes is all that is needed to convey, "Oh yes, I absolutely heard what our giant HamHole of a boss just said. Meet you in the hall to debrief. Go out separately so as not to raise suspicions of our venomous rants." Not that long ago, while looking at her own blog she scolded, "See!? See here where all of my best friends' blogs are listed? Where are you? Why don't you have a blog for me to read?!"
She is a total jeanyus and you can find her occasional outbursts at Brains.

Stacy discovers coconut margaritas in Santa Barbara

Ashley - whereas Stacy seems to oftentimes live in my brain, conjuring up the exact same thougts I am brewing, our girl Ashley is like no one else we know. It's so easy to get caught up in the side of Ashley that loves baking, subscribes to Town & Country, takes fall roadtrips for the sole purpose of frolicking in an apple orchard, lives in the cleanest and most organized apartments I've ever seen, and keeps a box full of goodies like glitter, Elmer's glue and Crayola markers just in case of "creative emergencies." And while all of that is fantastic, it is by no means her full story, which makes me love her even more. This is a girl who went to the US Naval Academy, where amongst other things, she was forced to sleep with her rifle for a week after accidentally dropping it, and where she had her personal space invaded by a sergeant sticking his face into hers to scream that she and her peeps were, "Mickey Mouse Cotton Candy Faggots." (Mickey and gang are a bit offended, I'm sure.)

Totally unpredictable and constantly entertaining; such is Ashley. And now that she's gone and done the unthinkable - moved away from me to Chicago - I get a regular dose of her fabulousness at A Bird's Eye View.

Ashley loves Starbucks and scarves even more than me

Which all leads to me sitting in front of my computer starting a blog about nothing in particular. Someone wise might advise me to stick to what I know, but I am an expert on nothing (aside from spending money and annoying my younger sister). My clumsy accidents, my family, what makes me laugh and what makes me mad, my friends, my triumphs and failures, and my stumble through this uncertain life with arms stretched out before me feeling my way along...these are the things that I'm sure I'll be writing about, because if I had to pin it down, I'd say that really, all i know is this...