Elisabethan Times

My Day in Photos: 24 January

2012-01-25T16:14:00.001-05:00

Movie poster at bus stop on Wilshire, ping-pong at work, babysitting, fancy lights, Downton Abbey.

My Day in Photos: 23 January

2012-01-25T16:10:00.003-05:00

Colorful sodas at the coffee shop, Spanish wine with dinner, Pablo, Floyd's in Venice.

My Day in Photos: 22 January

2012-01-25T16:07:00.003-05:00

Public speaking, volunteering at the convalescent center (where I had my nails painted by the lovely Hazel), Hazel's sis on her trailer bike.

My Day in Photos: 21 January

2012-01-22T20:19:00.004-05:00

I never get tired of my shower curtain, learning my new iPad will become a constant companion, brunch with new co-workers, and shopping for records.

My Day Day in Photos: 20 January

2012-01-21T23:10:00.003-05:00

My day: colorful scarf, yummy salad for lunch, bought tickets to see Diego Garcia and my Starbucks name.

My night: at a pal's watching Spooks/MI-5 while eating more salad for dinner. I heart salad.

My Day in Photos: 19 January

2012-01-20T17:38:00.003-05:00

I've started sending little photo collages of my day to 2 pals back in Northern Ireland. Our lil' project is in the early stage, but we're aiming to share daily. I thought you might like to see, too!

Do You Pinterest?

2012-01-12T23:39:00.009-05:00

Have you heard of Pinterest? It's become my favorite hobby of late. Members create boards of images, categorized by subject, and share them for other Pinterest users. It's a lovely, appreciative community of creative people. For some, Pinterest lets them collect images from around the web, while other people use Pinterest as a source of inspiration.

However you use it, you'll be amazed at the number of beautiful things in the world.

Here are images from some of my boards:

A floating couch.

A French apartment in Moroccan style.

Ingredients.

Dutch bike!

A sweet lil' face.

Truth

2012-01-10T23:17:00.005-05:00

I started a new job yesterday. And, as you might expect, it's brought up a whole host of questions. My last job started with much potential and hope, yet it ended in a cul-de-sac. I made good friends and learned that, despite my prior desires, I do not want to spend the rest of my days as a copywriter. So that was a much-needed experience.

Back to the new gig. The people are so incredibly lovely. I can't imagine my good fortune at working with such smart and kind people, including my boss. On paper, my boss really is all you could want for a boss. I say on paper because I hardly know my line-manager at this point. Oh, sure, I know things like children's names and after-work plans. I know frequent flier numbers and credit card details. I know that we drive the same car and share the exact same birthday (odd). But that's about it. How my boss reacts to stress? Not sure yet. To my mistakes? Thankfully I have to learn that one in the coming days. To disappointment? Nada. So it's a paper trail and a handful of conversations I have to go on. So far, my boss seems to be Wonderboss.

May I break for a short disclaimer? You won't mind, I hope. I've no idea of this blog's readership. I hope to increase it...maybe. But for now, it's a purely personal space, one that is admittedly self-indulgent. I'm not aiming to meet deadlines so that I can share the latest finds from the glorious Internet; I'm just writing. And I hope now that I'm in this new job--in this new lifestyle--I'll write here more frequently. So, with that in mind, I'm keeping some things very vague. I'd be devastated to air someone else's personal struggle here.

Anyhoo, the weeks leading up to my first day, I had a few nightmares about my new job. The most common issue my sleeping mind struggled over was how cool I am. Seriously. You'd think my mind--sleeping or awake--could tackle more pressing issues, but that's what bothered me. To many, my boss is ultra "cool," and this intimidated me. I could go into detail, but I'll just say when I got access to Wonderboss' rolodex, all my suspicions were confirmed: Wonderboss is the ultimate tastemaker for some, the supreme last word on matters of music for others, and a bit of an idol for a handful. I, on the other hand, am the walking antithesis of Wonderboss.

WB--may I call my boss that?--is a grounded person. Case in point, upon my arrival at the office yesterday, I was given WB's desk...by WB. Where did WB sit? On the desk adjacent to mine because, you guessed it, I was sitting in WB's chair. WB is proud to drive an older Honda Civic. WB flies coach. WB is a hands-on parent. All of these things, WB does with a manner of humility.

I, on the other hand, am wrestling with humility. And it is Wonderboss who has unknowingly pointed that out.

You see, I am sometimes ashamed when I pull up to a valet stand in my 2002 Honda Civic. I blush when people figure out I am 33 and not married/not a parent/not even in a blasted relationship. I want to rush through the conversation when people ask me what I do for a living. Somehow, I've become embarrassed of my life. Yet I chose, and continue to make choices, to live this life. I chose to stay in LA, which led to forgoing a job writing for someone else, which led to taking an executive assistant job with Wonderboss. I asked for this. So why am I blushing and coveting Audis?

In the end, I can only answer by acknowledging I have put my faith in the backseat. Maybe something else drives you; for me, faith in God is my true north. And I can assure you that God doesn't care one bit about the car I drive or what my title is.

We're all struggling to fit in our own skin, I suppose. Some just hide it better than others.

Photo is from the album cover, "All Is Wild, All Is Silent" by the band Balmorhea.

A Loaded Question

2011-12-12T18:12:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately, specifically how my current schedule keeps me from it. I'd like that to change. So I'm looking into making a major adjustment in my life. Stay tuned.
Image found here.

The Life I Should Have Had

2011-11-02T01:39:00.004-04:00

The latest edition of Southern Living arrived in my mailbox today. The cover was adorned with a gorgeous Thanksgiving spread; inside were testimonials of the life I should be leading back in my homeland. Married women, dressed in their Sunday best even though it’s only Tuesday, smile alongside their delicate mantle displays and open-planned kitchens. In another room, two perfectly groomed children do whatever perfectly groomed children do. Upstairs, The Catch watches football.

I probably should have worked a little harder to earn that life. To land The Catch and push out two perfectly groomed children. I should have a smaller waist and bigger diamonds in my life. My mother should live down the street—close enough to babysit but far away enough so as not to annoy The Catch. But I daydreamed through high school, and I focused more on planning for a career than planning for a wedding all through my college years.

So, this is the life I lead instead. In lieu of breezy porches gracefully extending from brick homes, I live in apartments without central heat or air. I’ve forgone streets lined with scrappy pine trees always dripping sap and chosen manicured streets accented with sycamores and coral trees. The air smells more of sage and that powdery sigh roses let out than of barbeques and freshly cut grass. The men here are too busy dating models to worry about finding a mother for an heir. This is the life I lead. And while it’s not gracing any slick magazine covers in my mailbox, this life is all mine.

Image found here. It's a really good issue with some very delish recipes.

A Twist.

2011-10-27T20:39:00.003-04:00

Sometimes change just sneaks up on you!

Found here via here.

This One's For Bryan

2011-10-24T18:07:00.003-04:00

Found here via here.

That Time of Year

2011-08-29T13:52:00.002-04:00

32 years ago today, I discovered my love for cake.

The Tale of the Thirteen Piece Fry

2011-05-16T12:00:00.019-04:00

An Ulster Fry is the stuff of breakfast legend. As you would in England, Scotland or Ireland, you get eggs alongside ham, sausages, and mushrooms with an Ulster Fry. But the Ulster Fry goes a step further by adding fried soda bread and potato farls, oftentimes both black and white puddings, and sometimes a grilled tomato. It's kind of a must for any visit to this corner of the world. The idea of a 13 piece fry, proposed by Anna and Luke's grandfather, sounded heavenly. We decided we would tackle the fry on Monday morning, before I had to depart for Dublin.

And so begins the tale of the 13 piece fry.

We set out for Newcastle (Northern Ireland not England, mind you) and drove through countryside sort of like this. The build up for the fry was massive. This breakfast was becoming the event.

Newcastle is by the sea, though you can't tell from this photo. Do these people know how lucky they are to live in a town with a 13 piece fry?

We park and start off in search of the restaurant genius enough to offer a fry this big. What? The 13 piece fry has been downsized? Never mind. A fry's a fry.

The list of items: eggs, ham, sausage, mushrooms, black pudding, white pudding, potato bread, soda bread, tomato, pancake, and beans.

The tea arrived. Apparently tea is the most appropriate drink with a fry.

And then the blessed moment: the arrival of the fry.

Post-fry.

Payment for the fry(s).

Then we did what any self-respecting person would do; we went for coffee and ice cream. I thought this row of school children we passed was kind of artsy.

The possibilities for ice cream cake personalization are endless.

The sundaes. One was chocolate madness or something-or-other and the second was called pooh bear something-or-other.

My sundae view.

A hard day's work.

And so ends my short tale of the delicious 11 not 13 piece fry.

Re-Gift Prevention

2011-04-26T19:17:00.003-04:00

Here's a clever idea for personalizing a book. And bonus! It should aid in preventing your gift from ever seeing a garage sale or the musty inside of a thrift shop.

Idea came from where else? Martha Stewart.

Good Music is Hard to Come By Sometimes.

2011-04-18T00:36:00.004-04:00

I've been listening to this album since last week. I tend to wear albums out, playing them constantly in my room, at work and in the car until I know them inside and out. Do other people do that? Or maybe it's just me. Actually, it's probably just me. I mean, who else refers to music as an album?

Each time I listen to "You Were Never There" I feel like hopping on a plane to Mexico City, which I am planning to do in July. Hooray!

Album is by Diego Garcia.

Getting Ready for a Trip!

2011-04-14T15:48:00.005-04:00

I'm headed back to Ireland next month. Super duper!! I recently joined pininterest, so I've found myself distracted by pretty pictures for my boards. Here's a photo I pinned:

I originally saw these old travel posters way back in 2007 in a hotel called the Slieve Donard in County Down, Northern Ireland. Then I saw reprints at a LOVELY spot for breakfast in Holywood, Northern Ireland. Oh man is the food good at The Yard. And the adjoining art gallery is swell, too.
You don't have to fly all the way to Ireland to buy one of these prints. You don't even have to buy a print advertising travel to Ireland. This site has prints for sale for other destinations, including Scotland. I'm talking to you, Katherine!
Enjoy!

p.s. hey! I just noticed the tiny photo on that site was taken in The Yard. Huzzah!

p.s. again. I think I really like exclamation points today.

Noted!

2011-04-01T12:26:00.003-04:00

via stumbleupon via pininterest created by littlemissanj.

Ever Feel Like This?

2011-03-28T18:18:00.002-04:00

Pretty much sums up my month! What a sweet girl.

About to Take a Leap of Faith

2011-03-28T17:38:00.005-04:00

Somehow I stumbled across this post on the world wide web, and I am delighted. As a reader, I applaud Penguin for their creativity when it comes to cover artwork. It is exciting to see artists given freedom to create, and this project is just that. I hope to have that freedom for myself very soon.

Work has been tough lately. Not because of workload or because of the actual work, but because I am stuck. I feel taken for granted, overlooked, and it is painful to know I have been lied to by people I trusted. As for my next step, I am not certain. 4 of the 5 schools I applied to have sent rejection letters (or emails. how tacky). Sigh. Tomorrow is another day!

Photo belongs to the talented Jillian Tamaki, an illustrator and cartoonist. Image used with permission.

Viva La Paris

2011-03-03T19:13:00.003-05:00

This video is making the rounds on blogs written by Americans living in Paris. Somehow it captures exactly 2 minutes and 7 seconds of Parisian magic.
Enjoy!

Le Flâneur (music by The XX) from Luke Shepard on Vimeo.

Video by the talented Luke Shepard, a student at American University of Paris. Found via the lovely blog, Pret a Voyager For a behind-the-scenes look at the video, go here.

Gorgeous Wallpaper for Your Desktop

2011-03-01T16:48:00.003-05:00

Ah, Spring. You're just around the corner with your golden evenings, sprays of roadside flowers, lunches outdoors, and a version of Interstate 10 clogged up with sun worshipers looking for a patch of dirt by the sea. Spring in LA. It's just like summer but a little cooler and with less smog.

This lovely image can live on your desktop too, thanks to Shanna Murray.

iPhone Round Up (and my 100th post!)

2011-02-05T12:41:00.005-05:00

This is the closest thing to a snow-covered tree I'll ever see in LA. And I'm OK with that.

Went to my first-ever roller derby match. Too bad the name Bombshell Betty is taken.

Grilled cheese truck = Heaven

Oh Land at the Troubadour. She was really good.

Kind of a genius idea for a Valentine.

Going to My Happy Place

2011-01-18T18:01:00.003-05:00

Today I am wishing I could spend the day here curled up with tea/hot cocoa/coffee and my new Nook.

I found this particular photo on the lovely blog, desire to inspire. It originally appeared on the website for the Swedish company Alvhem Mäkleri & Interiör . I highly encourage a scroll through desire to inspire to see more images like the one above. Sigh.

Live From La La Land

2011-01-07T13:28:00.017-05:00

For anyone who has been brave enough to spend a holiday in Los Angeles, I salute you. And then I ask, "What on earth did you do in LA?" and then maybe, "How did you get around?"

The City of Angels is scattered, cluttered, dirty, pristine, horrific and sublime. It's understandable when someone says they aren't fond of my current hometown, but one should never say LA isn't a lovely city. It is. You just have to know where to look. She's kind of shy that way. Unlike Paris, a city loudly proclaiming her beauty, sensuality and wonderment at every possible turn, Los Angeles is for those who prefer inside jokes.

And so I introduce you to some of my favorite parts of Los Angeles.

Urth Caffe, 6:30ish Friday Night

Peet's., 10ish Saturday Morning
Wow, they do good coffee.

Hollywood Sign by way of Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive, 11ish

The Alcove in Los Feliz, 1ish

Echo Park, 4:30ish

Hollywood again, 6ish

Chateau Marmont, look-like-you-know-what-you're-doing walk-thru, 7ish

Meltdown Comics, 8ish

Birds, dinner and making friends with the people at table next to us, 8:45ish

Amoeba Records, 10ish

Sleep, so we could conquer Santa Monica on a Sunday, 1ish

Pretty Much the Cutest Idea for a Wedding Cake Topper. Ever.

2010-12-29T15:20:00.005-05:00

First, can I just say how much I love blogs? I learn so much and feel as though I travel to beautiful faraway places each time I check in with my favorite bloggers.

Saw the above image on A Cup of Jo, which is one glorious wee corner of the web. The image is originally from a blog called Sweet Paul. Apparently Paul is chasing the sweet things in life. Wise man, that Paul. Original post is here. Another gem from sweet ol' Paul and reposted by Cup of Jo is this clever idea.

I'm currently making a list of wonderful things to see and do in LA for my friend K. She visits next week, and I'm very excited. I'll share that list with ya soon. LA can be confusing and spread out and overwhelming, but it really is a lovely place to explore.

When The Weather Matches Your Mood

2010-12-20T23:16:00.004-05:00

Heard it has been raining like mad back in L.A. Here in South Carolina, the skies are clear, and the air is cold. I've taken to wearing a big puffy coat from L.L. Bean with a faux fur collar around the hood. Anna Wintour would surely approve of the faux fur. For those who have never experienced L.A. in the rain, you've missed an interesting thing. People are on edge. Not the razor edge you find with the Santa Ana Winds, but a eery when-is-the-other-show-gonna drop edge. Or a this-is-cool-for-an-hour-now-when's-it-gonna-stop edge. For the few of us who absolutely love the stuff, rain is a welcome change from the sameness that is the climate of L.A. We don't have seasons, we don't have weather. We have climate. Dear Angelenos: it will pass soon. Promise. 'Til then, take this opportunity to curl up with a good book, slow down and maybe enjoy a warm coffee beverage from Coffee Bean/Starbucks and be joyful you aren't suffering thru chattering teeth and snow. See, there's a rainbow at the end of all this rain after all--you aren't in North Dakota.

Tomorrow I'm off to North Carolina to visit a dear friend from college and her brand new baby girl, Stella. Then I'll head to my grandmother's house. There's bound to be a river to pass over and woods to go thru.

Photo taken somewhere in the stretch of sea between Italy and Greece on a very windy day just before a terrible storm. A storm with apocalyptic rain, waves and wind. I was younger then and sulking about something. Probably about having my picture taken.

Window Into Another World

2010-12-07T13:18:00.004-05:00

I found myself talking about The Satorialist several times over the past weekend. At one point, I commented on how alike the patrons of Intelligentsia in Venice and the people of The Satorialist, frozen forever on street corners, were. A quick scroll through the blog offers a glance at so many fascinating stories--snapshots of people taking risks, people making statements, people blissfully unaware.

The above picture has become a favorite, an image I share with just about anyone who comes by my desk for a chat. I adore that wee boy's half smile, the way he tugs at his shorts, the pom poms on his socks. He reminds me so much of all that I love about Madrid: the classic architecture, the vibrant personality of the city, and the constant juxtaposition of history and present-day.

Image found here and taken by this very talented gentleman.

Made it to Friday

2010-12-03T13:49:00.004-05:00

Time for a nap.

Image found at Lolita

My Dreams Are Built On This

2010-12-02T15:25:00.004-05:00

Wow. This picture pretty much sums up the substance of my dreams: stories. And I'm not just talking about the dreams you enjoy while sleeping. I daydream about characters I've met in novels, writing my own stories, and piecing together the stories of everyone around me.

Want to make sure all the credit due is given for this photo. I found it on Style Me Pretty, a wonderful blog that centers on weddings and happens to be a great source of inspiration for design. The photo was taken by the talented people at Mango Studios in conjunction with the clever people at One Fine Day.

The Story That Ate All My Time

2010-10-25T02:00:00.004-04:00

I've been working like a mad woman on a story for my grad school applications. I should get a medal for getting this far, but I'll settle for a fancy pumpkin coffee drink at Starbucks.

Here's a small blurb from the story (it's called What Might Have Been Lost):

My brother’s confession is terrifying, like being blinded by sunlight after living in the darkness of a cave for weeks and weeks. My mind struggles to make sense of this new bleached-out landscape, to decipher where the hem of the sky meets the ground, to distinguish angels from chimeras. My brother’s life was not full of affliction, as I had imagined. Instead it was saturated with remorse and the constant hum of longing. It occurs to me that I have wasted time on my hands, the result of building houses from ash. But thoughts like these are weak aftershocks today, flashing and then fading to black before their strength can be registered.

“What do we do now?” I ask. David has his arms by his side with his palms open to me. He looks like he is preparing to receive a heavy load.

“I’m not really sure. Javier certainly won’t be conceding the election, and I doubt he will condone any sort of public ransom payment. I suppose he could be persuaded to a quiet payment if the funds weren’t associated with him, but I think it might be best to exclude him from the equation all together. What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I can’t pay what they want, that’s for certain. And I don’t have any allies here outside of our family. I could maybe contact the American embassy, but what can they do? They would end up working with The Lieutenant and his staff. I don’t know if I can just cut Javier out. It seems like he is who these people are really going after anyway.”

“There might be one option,” my brother says, sinking back into the couch. He is silent for a while, staring at his hands, before he continues speaking. “Ursula and I both have extensive insurance policies, which provide access to a professional negotiator in situations like this. I don’t know what can be done, but I know that negotiations have worked in the past.”

“What would that mean for Sophie?” The question comes out so softly, I’m not sure David heard me.

“Well, it would be tricky. We would have to stipulate that both Ursula and Sophie are returned alive for the ransom.”

In response to this kindness my eyes sting, and my chest shakes. I cover my face with my hands and cry. I cry for the 7-year old boy who was pushed off a bridge by his brother. I cry for the lonely 18-year kid old who left home and never looked back. I cry for the adult who is consumed with the fear of losing his wife, his identity, and his purpose forever. I cry for hope I never knew existed. David comes to the window and embraces me.

“I am sorry,” he says, and he means it.

iPhoto Roundup

2010-09-21T17:04:00.004-04:00

My most favorite painting. It lives at The Getty Museum here in LA, lucky for me.

This is the view from a friend's home in the Pacific Palisades. AH-MAZING way to start the day.

I aged one year last month, and my friend Meghan was incredibly thoughtful and celebrated with me by making a delish dinner and a homemade cake. The bottle of wine was a purchase I made last year at a wine tasting room in Los Olivos, CA, which you can read about here.

A nice motto for life. Even better for the workplace.

I'm watching a friend's cat. His name is Wally, and he likes to garden.

Cake and I Go Way Back

2010-08-29T20:15:00.002-04:00

When Workouts Don't Really Work Out For Ya

2010-07-23T14:54:00.008-04:00

Yeah so this working out thing ain't so fun sometimes. And while it may not be fun, working out can sometimes be funny. Disagree? Allow me to tell you a little tale that involves myself (well, duh), Allison, and Chelsea. Allison and Chelsea work in my office. Allison was a professional personal trainer just a few months ago. Chelsea has youth on her side in a big way.

The setting: The Stairs In Santa Monica. As in, that's what people call them 'round these parts. (and also on the Travel Channel whenever some chirpy travel host comes to L.A. to film a segment on "Top Ten Places to See in L.A.!")

The time: Workout Wednesday. As in, that's what Allison and I call the one day of the week when we get together to workout. (usually this entails Allison exercising some mad athletic skill while I exercise my right to walk like a grandma at the mall.)

So we arrive at The Stairs In Santa Monica around 6:30--in the evening. I haven't completely lost my mind to go and climb these stairs in the morning. Here's an image, so you can visualize what I am referring to when I say The Stairs In Santa Monica

Yeah, so see how there are mountains? And a valley? Well, The Stairs In Santa Monica literally scale the side of a cliff. There are actually two sets of stairs--a wooden set of stairs and a concrete set of stairs. The wooden set of stairs has 189 steps (of torture). The concrete set of stairs probably have the same amount of steps with an added bonus, the concrete steps are steeper.

Most people climb the stairs a couple of times and then hang around at the top of the stairs, posing as though they are being photographed for the cover of Shape Magazine. It's actually quite ridiculous and pretentious. People do push-ups on the sidewalk. Trainers say things like, "Oh the shaking in your legs is good. If you feel like you're going to pass out, just sit in the grass and drink some water." Girls do yoga...in the grassy median...in the middle of 4th Street.

Allison, being a former trainer and all, can climb the stairs a half-dozen times without much problem. Oh, and she runs a half block after she climbs all 189 steps. Chelsea, thinking this was normal behavior perhaps, did as Allison did. I, on the other hand, climbed the stairs ONCE and then went for a walk.

I walked past the asphalt push-up competitions, beyond a clump of people huffing and puffing as they posed along the guard rail trying to look like they weren't about to die, and around a pair of yummy mummies yacking it up about a sale at Fred Segal. I walked to the only thing I'll really miss about L.A. when I leave again--the curve of the coastline from the Pacific Palisades to Malibu. I imagine what each of the lights dotting the hillside represents: a woman from East L.A. tidying up a kitchen the size of her studio apartment, plush leather couches, shiny Audis parked in a row, a family eating pasta around a giant wooden table bought from a fancy shop on Melrose, lazy dogs taking in million-dollar views on back porches. Sometimes I imagine I am far away from this city, maybe in the tiny village of Deia off the coast of Spain or soaking up Italy's Amalfi Coast.

I think this view is the reason I work out at all.

After my walk down Adelaide Drive, I see Chelsea emerge from the canyon red-faced and panting after 5 climbs up the stairs. Her legs are shaking like Jell-o, so she decides she needs to "walk it off." I take her back down Adelaide, towards the ocean. The view is so stunning you can't help but forget about the fear of your heart literally pounding its way out of your chest. Soon Allison joins us. She has climbed the stairs 6 times, she thinks. So the three of us walk around this make-shift outdoor gym on the edge of a canyon.

Now, this being L.A. and people being people, you are watching other people while they watch you. Women size other women up and men, well who knows who these men are sizing up. As Allison, Chelsea and I were walking back in the direction of our car, I watched the faces of three guys posing in workout positions. (I say posing because these guys weren't sweating a drop, hadn't climbed the stairs once, and looked like they would be more comfortable in front of an Excel spreadsheet than they would be in front of a stack of dumbbells).

First they saw Allison, the trainer in cute green shorts. Eyes boggle. Then they see Chelsea, the college student with youth on her side. Eyes boggle again. Then they see me--the chaperone in old yoga pants.

The line between The Palisades and Malibu

Flash Cards Only Work When You Look At Them.

2010-07-15T20:26:00.004-04:00

I've been studying for the GRE lately, a topic that I will discuss a bit more in a post later. Well I should say I've had good intentions to study. And you know what they say about good intentions--a highway to a very hot place is paved with those.

Anyways, I've been sorta studying vocab words and word associations and yucky ol' math. Every day I carry flash cards to work in a nice cotton bag covered in tiny flowers. The cards are divided into three stacks: words I know, words I do not know, and word roots Kaplan says I should know.

I'm packing up now to leave for the day, and I just realized that I haven't taken one look at my flash cards this week. Or my math problems. Or the word roots Kaplans says I should know.

Sigh. Maybe the GRE will give me some points for good intentions.

Hello, From the Friend Zone

2010-06-16T20:50:00.003-04:00

This past Sunday, I saw a friend of mine named Michael. Our conversation went like this:

"Hey, Elisabeth."

"Hey, Dude!"

And that is why I am writing to you as a permanent resident of the "friend zone."

A Visit From the Sibs

2010-06-03T00:47:00.006-04:00

My sister and brother are coming to visit on Friday. I anticipate we will do the following:

*Please note this list is not conclusive, is likely to change and will certainly involve some bickering*

Eat at In N Out. My money is on a trip to In N Out right after they land. Bless the person who thought to put an In N Out right.by.the.airport!

Try some delish Mexican food.

Go see a movie, preferably at the Landmark. That's my fave place to see a flick in this town.

Eat at In N Out again. My brother will demand it.

Have a treat at Pinkberry. I will demand it.

I'll point out all the people who are crazy as hell in this town. (Too soon for the MJ poster? My friend Alex thinks so but not me!)

Smog. Crazy people. Food from trucks. I'll introduce the sibs to another LA institution.

On my wish list: sushi at Katsuya. DELISH!

In N Out. Again. Because we can't pass the In N Out by the airport and say no.

The beach. 'Nuff said.

Also, we plan on taking in a Dodger game. I would say that we are planning on taking in a U2 concert, but that got postponed to who-knows-when.

Wow. My list includes a lot of food. Good thing today was workout Wednesday!

I Take and Take and Never Give Back

2010-05-11T20:46:00.003-04:00

Dear Internet,

Yes. I know. You are very cross with me. This relationship has become one-sided. I just take and take from you (in the form of watching music videos and reading articles and laughing at blogs). And I never give back. I'll try to be better. Promise.

In the meantime--a thought. You know how sometimes you listen to a song and you're just hooked by a line or a note? You think, "WOW! This song is so moving." Or you think, "What does THAT mean?" Then you (well, you're the Internet, so I mainly refer to myself) look up the lyrics. That song that was so clever turns out to be kinda dumb. The weird lyric turns out to be kinda poetic.

Internet, I discovered a couple of songs like that this week. They are from "Boxer" by a band called The National.

1."Green Gloves"
I love the bass line in this song.

2.Then there was "Slow Show"
I hear this bit, and it made me laugh: "wanna hurry home to you put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up"
And then I read the rest of they lyrics, and they weren't as sweet of an image. Oh well.

3."Racing Like a Pro"
I thought the lyric was, "you're racing like a pronoun." Huh? Turns out the lyric is, "you're racing like a pro now." Internet, you'd make the same mistake, too, right?

So forgive me for being a selfish friend, Internet. I'll write you soon. Hopefully tomorrow as the boss is away!

My love forever,
Elisabeth but never Liz

iPhoto Roundup

2010-04-13T19:38:00.007-04:00

Two of my former co-workers got married a few weeks ago. The centerpieces were very nice, and mac n' cheese was on the menu. Delightful.

Me, waiting on a friend in the bathroom of the venue for the aforementioned wedding. It was a very "LA" place. The venue was called The Smog Shoppe because, well, it used to be a smog shop.

Now before you get all concerned and call me a klepto, know that the bride OK'd taking centerpieces home.

A different couple and a different wedding with one thing in common--delish food.

My dad thinks today should be a state holiday for California. The Dodgers play at home for the first time this season. Official start of long afternoons and crowded beaches.

Significance

2010-03-25T00:28:00.006-04:00

Last month I took a trip to Scotland to visit my dear friend, Katherine. One sunny afternoon, Katherine and I visited a used-book shop near her flat in St. Andrews. Here I found a beautiful leather-bound volume of John Keats' poetry.

One of the poems, "Walking in Scotland," caught my eye as I flipped the old letter-pressed pages during my first night as owner of this book. Keats captures an aspect of Scotland--and Ireland and England and Wales, for that matter--that is hard for a visitor to articulate. Well, it's hard for this visitor to articulate.

"There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain..."

The poem, to me at least, articulates the feeling of significance that seems to quietly rise up from the shores of these tiny bits of land that once seemed to conquer every corner of the world. Each castle and stone bridge has a long memory of battles fought and love won and adventures sought.

Lately I've been feeling quite the opposite--very insignificant. I feel as though I will always live hand-to-mouth each month. I am discouraged in the departments of love and looks. I am tired and bored. I feel invisible.

But I know I am not alone in these fits of melancholy.

Today I spoke with three friends. One was fearful about an upcoming change in jobs, another was full of regret for her decision to enroll at a particular school, and the third was discouraged about learning that a guy she hoped would be was actually not to be. In all of these conversations, I wanted to say, "Woe is I! Listen to my pathetic lot! I'm eternally dateless! I'm earning less than all of my friends! I drive a Civic that is covered in dust and dents! I'm so selfish lately I can hardly stand to be around myself!" But I didn't.

Instead I listened in amazement at the words of encouragement that came from my mouth. In this dark place I seem to have taken up residence, I somehow saw light. As with many people, I presume, depression a loyal friend to me. But I am glad to know that this friend, very much unwanted, is not making the decisions around here like it once was.

All of which reminded me of something Katherine said over a pint back in Scotland, the gist of which was: "It's not what we dream that matters. It's what we do when we wake up." Very wise words.

And now for a few photos:

Short Story: The Spoon

2010-03-10T20:59:00.003-05:00

Dear Internet -

Yes, I know. I owe you pictures from my trip to Scotland and Ireland last month as well as stories of the grand and not-so-grand adventures that have kept me too busy to write to you. For now, a peace offering in the form of a tiny story I wrote for a writing class last year.

***

The spoon belonged to a set of flatware called “True Rose”. Purchased from a JC Penny’s wedding registry, the spoon was tucked inside a velvet pouch before embarking on a life of transit between drawers, bowls and dishwashers. The stem was graceful and strong; embossed scrolls defined its edges. At the tip, a tiny rose.

To bend the handle, a bit of force had to be applied, for the spoon’s stem never intended to be shaped like a tear. Once the stem bowed and weakened at the center, the spoon could wrap itself around a finger. The spoon became more than a vessel for Cheerios and Fruit Loops.

The spoon was passed—from a girl with brown hair dyed shades of gold and honey to a boy called Tom. The shallow palm of the spoon held one tiny rock. A flame danced along the smooth curve of the spoon, and the rock began to bubble and hiss.
First came the smell of marshmallows roasting. Then, like a marshmallow left to rest over a campfire for too long, the caramel aroma burned. By the time the spoon held only liquid, the room filled with the acrid smells of ammonia and sulfur.

Oh sweet alchemy! Several drops of poison transformed despairs into moments of escape. In the darkest of night, time lost all power. A deep, soul-full horn signaled that somewhere, away from here, a train snaked through the thick Pentecostal pines toward the banks of a river.

The spoon sat on the coffee table, its warmth fogging up the glossy cherry finish. The belly of the spoon was now charred, bearing the color of grief.

No Easy Way Down

2010-01-18T16:21:00.004-05:00

Last night I returned from a bachelorette weekend on Mammoth Mountain. The bachelorette party included: snowboarding, skiing, a fierce gondola ride up a mountain, Ovaltine with fancy marshmallows, knitting, crocheting, delish food, a whole bunch of laughs. The bachelorette party did not include: cheap liquor served in a plastic cup molded to look like a you-know-what, walks of shame, poles--other than the ones that accompanied the skis, of course.

Today it is raining buckets in Los Angeles, and I love it. I'm using the day to sit on the couch under one of my beloved Avoca blankets and tap away on the computer keyboard.

Here are photos you may enjoy.

Acting like grown-ups in the village of Mammoth.

This was taken from the enclosed gondola. At one point, music played from speakers either outside or in the gondola (my friends and I couldn't figure out which). It was like the mountain had a soundtrack!

After taking a gondola ride to the top of Mammoth Mountain, I enjoyed watching brave souls board and ski their way back down the mountain. I was in a comfortable little building outfitted with these nifty telescopes. The brave souls were in the elements, outfitted only with nifty jackets lined with zippers and micro-fibers.

The mountain. So you're not supposed to point cameras directly into the sun. But I'm still a novice, so I pretend not to know these things. I still like the effect, and I love the brilliant blue sky against the snow.

Obviously I'm not indulging in extreme winter sports as evidenced by my wellies, which are typically worn on a farm or while working in a rain-soaked garden. Nonetheless, they looked super cute on the top of this mountain where only "experts" dare tread. I especially liked the handwritten note on this sign that said, "No Easy Way Down." They must not have heard about the gondola rides.

The S Matters

2010-01-11T01:56:00.005-05:00

It's funny how some people automatically assign nicknames to the people they meet. As in, during the first introduction. For me this usually looks like this:

Me: "Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm Elisabeth."
Them: "Hi, Liz. It's nice to meet you, too."

What tha? Liz? First--the obvious fact that I have an S in my name and not a Z, but no one ever seems to notice that, so we will just move on from that point. Second--who told you that Liz was OK? What if I prefer Beth or Libby or Betty? We just met. Nicknames are terms of endearment and seeing that I just said we've just met, how are you that close to me to assign me a nickname?

And why do I care so much?

Well, I'm not the only one who cares about the spelling of my name or what I am called (nothing profane, please. my mom's reading this). I have several friends with names that are beautifully spelled-out in a way that isn't likely to be found on a plastic keychain at the mall. They, too, have issues with the whole I've-known-you-since-middle-school-so-why-are-you-still-spelling-my-name-wrong thing. They also struggle with the whole I-have-to-spell-out-my-name-every-time-someone-else-writes-out-a-name-tag-on-my-behalf thing.

Why does it matter? Because your name is unlike any characteristic you have. Your name is your identity in a crowd of complete strangers. Your name is like music on a radio station only your ear can tune into. Your name is the very essence of you.

Indulge me in a brief bunny trail, and I'll bring things back to this point. This morning I spoke in front of my church about the community group I am in. The thought of public speaking with a microphone makes my knees tingle even now as I think on the very act. I am not a professional speaker; I am not an actress (though everyone else in this town sure seems to be one); I did not ask to speak in front of two seas of blank faces staring right back at me (and occasionally yawning). But the topic was important to me, so I did it.

My community group was sort of an accident. I'm really not sure why I signed up to be in one. I guess I signed up because I was looking to make more friends at my church, to make more friends who share my faith, and probably to meet a guy who shares my faith. I feel like a complete oddball in this town, and I guess I was looking for a place where I wouldn't feel quite so odd. Whatever the combination of reasons, I am very happy I signed up. The friends I have made in this group have been such a treat. We haven't really met as a group for that long, but we have bonded in a sweet way rather quickly. It's like having a second-cousin in town. They aren't quite at the sibling ranking, but there is a comfortable level of familiarity that prevents me from feeling completely alone out here in this scattered city.

It's a lot of work to create and maintain community. It's a lot of work to show that you care for other people and to be their community. This is something that I am trying to be better at. Mind you, this goal isn't related to a New Year's resolution because I'm not doing those this year. It's more of a life goal, a trait I want to develop and groom for the rest of my life. I forget birthdays, I forget to email, I am selfish and talk about myself first when I meet a friend for coffee. But I try very hard to not misspell a name of a dear friend or in a professional setting. It happens, no doubt, and when it does I sternly remind myself of the correct spelling and vow to try harder next time. When it happens to me I feel an immediate unfamiliarity, as though I am in a relationship where I love him more than he loves me. It's not the end of the world though, so I just get over it.

Back to this morning. A good friend of mine sat next to me before I was to give my little talk the first go-round. She opened her bulletin as I fumbled for gum or a mint or whatever it was I fumbling for. She nudged my arm, pointing the bulletin. And there it was: Elizabeth

I thought: "Well, if I royally mess up I can just blame it on that girl, 'Liz.'"

Tales From the World Wide Web

2009-11-23T17:27:00.007-05:00

Dear Internet,
I've neglected you for far too long. I am very sorry. A new post to come shortly. Until, please enjoy these things that have made me laugh or just plain ol' happy.

From the blog My Parents Were Awesome

The amazing book and blog 1,001 Rules For My Unborn Son

The New Moon Sountrack

Particularly these songs:

New Moon [The Meadow] - Alexan...

Possibility - Lykke Li

No Sound But The Wind - Editor...

Life Changes You. So Does Death.

2009-11-12T00:54:00.006-05:00

My head is currently swimming with questions and sadness, and I don't want that to spill over this blog just yet. Instead, I am posting a story I wrote for a creative writing class that I just finished at UCLA. The assignment was to find a picture of a person we did not know and write a story about that image.
This is the photo I used:

The story I wrote is below, though the girl in my story is not the woman in the photo but someone finding her own two feet.

After Daddy died, Mama moved us three kids from Alabama to Minnesota so we could live with her Ma and Pa. We left our white house on Willow Tree Drive on a Friday morning and pulled in the driveway of Ma and Pa Regan’s on my 16th birthday, four days later.
Mama didn’t waste no time getting me and my sister in school. Sandra and I both started at Rawlings High, the same place where Mama went, just a day after getting to town. Little Tommy went to a grammar school across town.
I thought moving would be a good chance to change my name. All my life Mama and Sandra and everybody else called me Geraldine. I just hated it. So I thought I’d go by Gi-Gi instead. The name didn’t take at home, but the teachers didn’t know that.
There was a lot different about Minnesota. Sure we had winters in Alabama, but they were nothing like the miserable winters that come north. And the kids in the North ain’t at all like the kids in the South. They dressed a little better up there, and they all talked like they read dictionaries before bed every night. They hardly ever said please, and they weren’t polite about gossiping. In Mobile we’d at least wait until you were around the corner before starting in on the name-calling. My first few days at Rawlings, I caught hell because of the way I talked. Then the kids started in on me about my clothes. After that I stopped paying any mind, and I ate my lunch in the library.
It was like that for about four months, I guess, when one day a girl in my Biology class asked me if I wanted to sit with her at lunch. I thought, “My stars!” and tried not to grin like that Cheshire Cat. The girl’s name was Judith, and she had a strange way of talking too. I sorta frowned when she told me she was from Maine because that meant she was a Yankee, but I was so happy to have someone to talk to, I was willin’ to overlook that.
Judith and her friends smoked, colored their hair, and kissed boys in the janitor’s closet. Smoking wasn’t so bad once you got used to the sweet tobacco scratching at the back of your throat. And I’d always wanted to be blonde like Marilyn Monroe. Try as I may, though, I always felt like I was tagging along. Boys didn’t take a shine to me like they did to the other girls, and I only smoked at school. Mama woulda smacked the fire out of me if she caught me smoking in the house. So I wore more eyeliner than any other girl, and I kept quiet.
One afternoon, Judith talked a couple of us girls into cutting class. We went to Conrad Department Store to try on fancy hats and gloves. Usually bracelets and rings were behind a glass case, but that day there was a tray of sparkly stuff sitting out on the counter. I saw the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—a ring with a pearl sitting right on top. I rubbed my thumb over the smooth pearl and watched how it disappeared under my palm.
I could hear Judith hoopin’ and hollerin’ over near the belts, so I went to join her. It was about that time that a man pressed his claw of a hand into my shoulder and boomed out, “Young lady, just what do you think you’re doing?”
Judith and the others stared at me wide-eyed and pale for a split-second before running off.
At the police station I had my fingers smashed in ink and my picture taken twice—one looking in the direction of a secretary typing away at a little desk and another looking right at the camera. The police didn’t really talk to me, just at me. A detective named Mr. Falls told Mama that I was probably doing it for attention—what with the move from Alabama and Daddy’s passing, but that weren’t true.
For once, I just wanted to keep a little something beautiful for myself.

New Work Digs

2009-11-08T00:29:00.004-05:00

The company I work for, VEVO, recently moved into a new office. A new office that has a koi pond, a policy that allows pups to roam the grounds as they wish, and a bamboo forest. Well, it's sort of a forest.

Here's a glimpse of the kitchen. And some crazy chick named Elisabeth.

Photo Tour

2009-10-16T17:37:00.006-04:00

I recently purchased a real camera. Pity I've been so busy lately with my writing class and various other activities--I haven't had any time to use the thing. I am hoping that my schedule opens up very soon so that I can take loads of pictures and learn more about life with a grown-up camera.

For now, a few photos:

Learning how to use the camera with a hot chocolate playing the prop.

Taken while on a walk in Santa Monica. I haven't even begun my introduction to the art of retouching photos. This one is straight outta the box.

At book club last night with Lulu, the puppy.

Songs for Crushing

2009-10-06T01:02:00.005-04:00

Those who know me well know that I'm not much of a dater. However, I am a master at the art of nurturing a crush. I don't get them often but when I do, katy bar the doors. Not to fear--I'm not the sort who stalks and calls at all hours of the night. I tend to be the opposite, actually. After about a week of a crush, I usually want to be rid of it. It's a scary thing to be crushed by a person who hasn't a clue of your feelings (or sometimes even of your existence).

I've carried this current crush around since the Spring, and it has become suffocating. My mind wanders back to this particular person at the oddest of times (traffic, cleaning the kitchen, making copies at work), and my imagination seems to take off like an Olympic sprinter. I act shy when I'm normally quite outgoing, and my nervousness turns normal actions into bizarre actions. Case in point: I did a slight curtsy once when shaking this person's hand. Strange. It is as though I am not myself.

Recently I heard someone compare a crush to an idol. And with an idol, it is the worshiper who is seeking control over the relationship. Given that most idols are made of wood or metal, it is very easy for a worshiper to have the upper-hand in the relationship. As for my crush, I guess I look to create a controlled environment where every comment is insightful and full of wit, and every day resembles a photo shoot for a J Crew or Boden catalogue.

As I'm looking over this post, I am cringing with embarrassment. Who gets caught up in a crush after high school graduation? Well, it turns out quite a lot of people crush. I've noticed coworkers declaring someone a crush with enormous pride on Monday and then tearing that person down on Wednesday after they've been sighted smoking or wearing pleats. I've noticed movies where a crush leads to true love and sunsets. I've noticed that I am swallowed up by my insecurities. I've noticed that I'm jealous over the most trivial of things, and that is such a heartbreak to me. But it is not my crush who delivers the heartache; I'm the only one breaking things around here.

But, as one friend reminded me, crushes aren't all bad. Somehow they can inspire a bit of hope. I don't know why in the midst of feeling vulnerable, insecure and like a three-year old hoarding blocks on the playground, I am hopeful that someone will soon come along and walk beside me. I feel genuine excitement when I listen to a coworker outline details of her upcoming wedding. I am thrilled to the point of throwing air punches when I talk to a friend who has recently entered into a new relationship.

So that's where I am. Fighting off this crush as though it were the flu and feeling more like a middle-schooler than an adult. I prefer myself with no strings attached or distractions. And this poor man has me all tied up in strings.

Here's some music inspired by the art/war of crushing:

A song for when I want my way:

Please, Please, Please, Let Me...

A song for what I wish for one day:

You Picked Me - A Fine Frenzy

A song with a beautiful idea:

No One's Gonna Love You - Band...

Maybe someone is singing this song somewhere:

For Elisabeth Wherever You Are...

Photo Diary

2009-09-18T19:41:00.003-04:00

For my birthday, my friend Meghan accompanied me to the Santa Ynez Valley (just outside Santa Barbara) for a day of exploring. Here's a photo taken at a lavender farm.

It was very hot that day at the lavender farm.

All that heat and lavender works up quite a thirst. Here is an amazing wine bar in Los Olivos, a town in the Santa Ynez Valley. Meghan and I enjoyed a flight of wine with a flight of mini-cupcakes. Pure genius, I tell ya.

The following weekend, I joined my friend Julie and her sister Lauri in Palm Springs for Labor Day weekend. Here's a photo from a night out. Mind you, our nights out revolved around delish food and usually ended early enough for us to make the most of the ac in our hotel room.

Apparently I need to master the art of Seven-Up Floats.

Sometimes God Takes Song Requests

2009-09-15T02:11:00.004-04:00

It is a rare moment when I can recite a poem or lyric, so when it comes to church hymns I usually get the chorus but not much else. There are three hymns I can almost sing entirely without the aid of a hymnal: “Amazing Grace” (an obvious choice), “Be Thou My Vision”, and a hymn I learned at university, “From the Depths of Woe.”

That last one, though a bit dark, is a cherished one for me even though I've not heard it since my school days. I had often thought of jotting down a request to hear that hymn and slipping it in the offering plate on Sunday, but I never did. Rather, I opted to periodically remind God that I'd really like to hear that song.

I finally heard my request this past Sunday, the 13th of September, the one-year anniversary of the weekend my sister fought an arduous battle with crystal meth.

I don’t recall the exact date my mother frantically drove from place to place desperately seeking help for my very ill sister. I don’t recall how my dad told me my sister had been admitted to the hospital. By phone? In person?

Instead I remember the grief of finding a charred spoon and crusty needle in my sister’s eyeglass case, the drive up Highway 14 to collect two Rubbermaid containers holding my sister’s worldly possessions, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent that permeated the house where she had been staying.

There was nothing to say, so I tried to provide my mom with a reservoir of energy and assistance. At one point, late in the night of that hellish first day, I was asked to buy new clothes for my sister. You see, a body expelling poison is not kind to the wardrobe. In the darkest of night, I headed to a nearby Wal-Mart. There, standing under blinding fluorescent lights, I stared vacantly at rows of bedroom slippers dyed pale shades of pinks and blues. I reached for pink, my sister’s favorite color, and allowed myself to ask the question I did not want answered: “What if, this time, she doesn’t win the fight.” I must have been a sight, crying over fuzzy slippers in a Wal-Mart at two in the morning. Or maybe not. This is Wal-Mart I’m talking about after all.

A year later, in the high school theatre that houses my church on Sunday mornings, I allowed my mind to return to that hospital room. My sister was in the bed, sleeping. My mom was in the recliner next to her, distraught, lost, and desperate. There were far more questions than answers, and fear constantly hummed in the back of our minds. I could see all of these things clearly even though I was a year older and now on the other side of the country.

And then the pastor said a word of encouragement from 1 John while the piano softly announced that God had indeed granted my request.

A portion of "Psalm 130 (From the Depths of Woe)"

From the Depths of Woe I raise to thee
The voice of lamentation;
Lord, turn a gracious ear to me
And hear my supplication…

Though great our sins and sore our woes
His grace much more aboundeth;
His helping love no limit knows,
Our utmost need it soundeth.

Casualty of Photography

2009-09-02T19:31:00.003-04:00

This made me laugh out loud.

(This image comes to you from The Sartorialist. If you haven't seen the site or the book, I highly encourage it.)

I Still Really Like Cake

2009-08-29T01:12:00.000-04:00

30 years ago today, I discovered my love for cake.

A Little Rock N' Roll With Your Move?

2009-08-26T21:01:00.004-04:00

So after the whole break-in incident at my apartment, I got outta my lease. Mind you, I've just condensed a bunch of days and calls and angst into one sentence. My former landlord gave me just over a week to completely move out of the crime scene--just in time for some poor unsuspecting university student to move in.

In that short amount of time, I hustled to find places to store my things. Boxes of pots and pans went to my friend Meghan's apartment along with my KitchenAid stand mixer (shout out for the best appliance EVAH!). Clothes and such went to my friend Karen's. This left a mattress, desk, bookshelf, a couple of lamps, and boxes of books without a home. I stressed. I worried. I called Public Storage.

When the time (2 weeks to be exact) came for me to move into my new apartment (complete with a roommate I don't know), I decided I'd had enough of lifting and sweating. So, at the suggestion of the aforementioned Karen, I called a company called The Real Rock N Roll Movers. I kid you not. I was promised two rock n rollers, a truck, and a trailer for my tiny move.

The day of the move I met the rock n rollers at the storage unit. They were a few minutes late, but that's to be expected I guess because we are moving on rock n roll time here. The two gentleman (let's call them The Blonde and The Brunette) were both outfitted in skinny jeans and black T-Shirts emblazoned with the company name. The Blonde hopped out of the truck to greet me while The Brunette pulled the truck/trailer combo around back. I noticed that The Blonde's toes were sticking out of his black high-top canvas shoes.

The conversation went something like this:

"Hi, I'm Elisabeth."

"Hey, I'm The Blonde. How's it goin'?"

"So far so good."

"Yeah, yeah. You ever have one of those days when you wake up in a good mood? Well, I woke up in a good mood today and, like, I'm just hoping it lasts the whole day because it's the best feeling, man. You know what I mean?"

Conversation like this continued during the move. We talked about bands (duh), how downtown Los Angeles was becoming super trendy, some loft that was available for rent downtown, a music festival that had just taken place the day before. Oh, and I asked a TON of questions. My questions resulted in the following information:

1. The Brunette and The Blonde are indeed in a band together
2. Apparently moving is a good hangover cure
3. The guy who started the business is very organized. And he plays music
4. My move was one of the smallest they'd ever seen (score!)
5. People are rude--especially when they hire movers and haven't packed a bloomin' thing

My entire move lasted less than an hour, and I didn't even break a sweat. And at the end, The Blonde and The Brunette invited me to a gig. How many times have you moved and gotten an invite to a show?

Ah L.A., you are bizarre.

Photo Diary

2009-08-20T20:33:00.007-04:00

Here are a few photos I've saved up on my phone over the past few weeks.

The Coastline in Ventura County

Stopped here with my parents on our way to dinner in Santa Barbara. Yup, we drove to Santa Barbara just for dinner. And why not? It always seems exotic to say you drove to another town for a meal. Like, back in South Carolina I might say: "Last night I drove to Pickens for dinner."

Miles and Miles to go

You drive a lot in LA. Sigh.

Guys and Dolls at the Bowl

My friend Karen was kind enough to invite me to sit in box seats at the Hollywood Bowl. To repay her kindness, I literally tossed my salad at the woman sitting in front of us. In the same box.

Common Ground

Sometimes friendships are built on childhood memories or shared work experiences. Not so for Meghan and me! Our friendship is built on a mutual love of food, Gilmore Girls, and coffee. Here we are in search of the perfect iced coffee (I think we found it!) and a replacement for a beloved red velvet cake that was served at a now-defunct restaurant called Doughboys. Sadly, the cake in the picture didn't quite match up to Doughboys'. (but it was still pretty good!)

The Girl With Pineapple Juice In Her Purse

2009-08-17T18:57:00.004-04:00

There are many good things about LA. For example, people seem awfully fond of this perpetual sunshine. There are also many bad things about LA. That perpetual sunshine can be redundant, and people can be a little on the superficial side.

So it isn't surprising when an Angeleno permanently latches onto the arm of a person who is true to their word. Especially if that person is wearing super cute red peep-toe pumps and strolls up to your bar two nights in a row.

Dear Internet, allow me to acquaint you with Carolyn. She is unlike any other person you've ever met. Sure, she has all of the obvious traits you want in a friend: funny (check); smart (check); cute shoes (see above). But in addition to all of that, Carolyn kicks butt and takes names in the kitchen. She needs only a tiny taste of your grandma's famous lasagna before she can divulge grandma's top secret ingredient (it's probably nutmeg, btw).

On Saturday night Carolyn, our mutual friend Karen, and I had plans to meet up for dinner, which would be followed by the movie "Julie and Julia." After the movie we'd go for a drink at the somewhat swanky bar and restaurant located below the theater.

By coincidence, Carolyn had been to this bar the night before with a few other friends and had sparked a debate so big the bar staff were STILL talking about it the next day. Basically it went down like this--a barman I shall call Duke insisted a Mai Tai was tastiest when made one particular way that omitted pineapple juice; Carolyn cried foul. Mai Tai without pineapple juice?!?! How could it be? Since the bar was sans pineapple juice, Carolyn vowed she would bring in her own juice so that she could introduce Duke to a most delish Mai Tai.

And that's how I ended up with two (or was it three?) cans of pineapple juice in my purse on Saturday night.

After the movie, which I thought was very good, we made our way to the bar. There on the bar, I set the tiny cans of pineapple juice I'd been hiding alongside the can or two Carolyn had smuggled in. We got some sly glances and odd looks from the people around us, but it was Duke's reaction that was funniest. He wasn't shocked that there were 4 tiny cans of pineapple juice on the bar. No, he was surprised that the girl from last night came back. What?! She actually did what she promised she'd do!

Carolyn made her special Mai Tai for Duke from the CUSTOMER'S side of the bar. Duke tasted and declared Carolyn's Mai Tai to be sweet.

Enter another barman I shall call Dick. As if working from stage directions, Duke went who-knows-where, and Dick planted himself firmly in front of the pineapple girls while loudly making drinks for other patrons. We girls sipped Mai Tais (made by Duke, not sweet at all) and tried to ignore Dick's constant racket as we talked about what girls usually talk about: what we're looking for in a guy, Christian Louboutin shoes, sexing up the wardrobe a la Color Me Badd, and what we're looking for in a guy.

I don't know how, but Dick ended up in conversation with us. Well, mainly Carolyn. The scene was so hilarious I couldn't do anything but watch and laugh. Dick is a fan of putting loads of bitters in drinks. He also likes to show off. He tried to flip a few bar items in the spirit of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but ended up throwing things on the floor. Um Dick, we noticed. He debated drinks with Carolyn, and conceded that she knew her stuff.

He also hurled the most debilitating insult Carolyn's way. While discussing LA restaurants and chefs and other LA-isms, Dick suggested that Carolyn was from a town way east of LA called Rancho Cucamonga. She gasped and hid her face in her hands. A bar staffer restocking glasses laughed so hard I thought he'd drop those glasses. "WHAT!" Carolyn shrieked. "You think I am from Rancho Cucamonga?"

Seeing as Dick is from Minnesota, he recognized that by keeping her word Carolyn didn't exactly act like a LA native.

But for a girl from the 310, Rancho Cucamonga is akin to saying you are from East Deliverance, California.

Perspective

2009-08-11T23:00:00.003-04:00

The past few weeks have been chaotic, exhausting, and incredibly challenging. It feels as though I am on a treadmill in which the slow-down button has been removed. I've avoided writing at all for fear that the negativity constantly racing through my mind would seep out through my fingertips to reveal my true Debbie Downer self.

So here I am--rising from the funk I've been in, reminding myself to get over myself, and trying to keep things in perspective. And nothing puts things into perspective quite like a life and death situation.

I was probably running through all of the reasons I should be mad at the world when I received an email from my friend Karen last week. The email contained a link to a news story NBC News aired about a woman named Linda Russell, a very dear friend and mentor to both Karen and me.

You see, Linda decided to donate a kidney to a complete stranger just because she could. A great-grandmother (yes, that's right), Linda is the picture of health thanks to years of exercise and proper diet. Not only is Linda disciplined in matters of health and fitness, she is a woman of remarkable faith. I can count on my hands the number of times I've gotten up before the sun rises; Linda is up everyday before the sun even has a chance to think about rising. She uses this time of quiet to pray for others--as in, not praying for herself like I probably would.

When Linda decided to donate her kidney, she pictured a surgery to be followed by a time of recovery and then a trip back home. Maybe the recipient would send her a card down the road. Maybe not. Linda wasn't looking for a pat on the back or accolades. She was giving a part of herself that could save someone else's life simply because she could afford to. Turns out Linda decided to donate a kidney at the very time a doctor at a hospital in Georgetown decided to do something historical. At first, Linda wasn't so keen on the idea of having a microphone pinned to her shirt while she talked about her kidney giveaway. But then she thought about the people who would watch that interview and the opportunity to raise awareness about all of the people struggling with a life full of needles and dialysis machines.

So, she got over her tendency to avoid cameras and did this: Donor chains give hope to transplant candidates

You can also read the article here.

And you can see Linda's inspiring interview here.

Is It August Yet?

2009-07-24T18:38:00.008-04:00

This week has been long and full of visitors--some welcome, some not so welcome.

Saturday: a Coldplay concert with the brother, who is in town with my parents for a visit. That's Chris Martin's head on the screen. You might have to just trust me on this one.

Tuesday: the brother checks out my favorite LA bar with me.

Wednesday: came home to a missing window and a missing laptop. Now I hate my apartment.

Thursday: watched a movie made by my first crush above the pool of the hotel where my parents are staying this week.

The Pizza Text

2009-07-12T17:01:00.005-04:00

When you think about it, internet dating is a lot like interviewing for a job. You comb through descriptions you are know are exaggerations, distribute personal information about yourself that is probably exaggerated, dress to impress, and (sometimes) pray for a call back that will lead a second date/interview.

Both are exhausting and require a thick skin. It also helps if you have a good sense of humor about the whole thing, as my friend *Audrey* does. Cue the story about Audrey and her pizza text.

Audrey has been on a particular dating site for a little while now. She has gone on dinner dates, wine dates, beach dates, and hiking dates. Audrey is very smart, funny, a great listener, authentic, and--this is important--very fit. So when *Vince* asks her out for a date at a wine bar, Audrey says, "Sure. Why not?"

Upon arriving at the wine bar, Vince tells Audrey that he has changed his mind about his venue of choice. Instead of hanging out at a wine bar, they should get pizza and ice cream instead. Being the good sport that she is, Audrey says this sounds like a good time.

There they are, eating pizza (Vince = a couple of slices / Audrey = one slice) and covering the usual first-date topics. The date ends, and Vince tells Audrey that he had a nice time and that he would like to see her again. Truthfully, Audrey tells Vince that she will be traveling over the next several weeks. She suggests that maybe they meet up for a bicycle ride in two month's time when she is back in town for a weekend.

Two months pass and Vince texts Audrey about meeting up for a bike ride. That day, over lunch at work, Audrey tells the story of Vince and their pizza date to a small group of coworkers and asks for advice on how to proceed. You see, Audrey really wasn't that into Vince. She hoped that her being away for two months might allow him to get distracted and move on, forgetting about that whole bicycle thing.

A couple of our male coworkers counsel Audrey on the situation. "Don't lead him on," they say. "Be up front about not feeling a connection," they advise.

So Audrey calls Vince and thanks him for his text. She kindly explains that while she had a nice time on their pizza date, she didn't feel a connection with him. Vince says he usually gives people two or three dates before he decides if there is a connection or not. Audrey says she respects his time and thinks it is important that she is honest with him. They say goodbye.

An hour later, Audrey receives another text from Vince:

"You were very presumptuous just now. You really should go on a bike ride with all of the pizza you eat."

WOW. WHAT A GENTLEMAN. It's a wonder women aren't beating down his door.

A Weight Off My Shoulders.

2009-07-08T20:37:00.005-04:00

Thanks to a hectic work schedule, a trip east and other commitments I made even though I hadn't the time, I have neglected my writing. In this absence of jotting down notes and stories, I have missed the revelations and feelings of purpose that find me when I write. So in the spirit of hopping back on the horse, I'm tackling a subject that I rarely speak of: weight. That is, my weight.

A few years ago I read an article about a very famous fashion designer who decided to lose quite a bit of weight a little later in life. I don't recall many details about the article (there might have been something about a ridiculous lettuce diet), but what I do recall is the sentiment this designer made about his decision to alter his lifestyle so drastically that every inch of his body was impacted. In short, he said that he desired to wear smaller clothes more than he desired eating sweets and lounging around. I'm totally paraphrasing here, but that was the idea that stuck with me.

It's been about 5 months since I found that same desire, and while my results have not been so drastic as to have been chronicled in a fashion magazine, my change has been noticed by coworkers, friends and family. And of course by me.

A strange mix of guilt and pleasure whirls through my mind each time I measure my progress by way of my reflection. I find a bit of joy in seeing my arms and legs advertise the results of my crawling around on the floor each morning to do exercises with names like, "the dying bug". And I feel victorious watching the pale marshmallow-like rolls of my stomach shrink. In all this, though, there is a sadness--maybe a mourning--for the chances I let pass me by because I was too self-conscious. For the embarrassment I felt because of my body. It's easy to just be yourself; it's much harder to actually love yourself. For this I am sad: that I haven't always loved myself.

In this process of change, I have noticed that I watch people differently than I did a year ago. Before, I looked enviously at women with smaller waists. Now I wonder what battles they fight with their own bodies. It's a curious thing to be a woman in LA, in America, in Western culture. You are celebrated for losing weight and whispered about for gaining weight.

So that is where I am now. I don't have a radical diet, and I don't go to the gym anymore. Instead I opt for water over soda, salad over bread, and I make it a point to get out and walk 4 or 5 times a week. I've also started minimizing time with friends who have been a drain on my mind and spirit. It's amazing how much better you feel when you don't have a Debbie Downer constantly moaning in your ear.

A funny post soon, I promise. But for now I hope this brings a wee bit of encouragement to someone somewhere.

Week In Review

2009-06-12T19:47:00.006-04:00

Whew! What a whirlwind the past 7 days have been! The week started on Monday, as weeks usually do, with me *technically* starting a new job. I still work for the same boss, and I still drive to the same building I did last week, but this week the company signing my checks changed. More on this development later.

I've been a busy little bee with my beloved iPhone the past few days. Aren't you lucky to enjoy the proof here:

I've discovered a new place to walk after work. The view reminds me of how glad I am to have quit the gym.

The dog: Lady. The house: my fave.

I wish I could post the smell of these peonies online. The best smell in the world. With one exception--the smell of a huge wad of cash in my hand.

Lunch at In-N-Out with some peeps from work. Yum.

Artichokes in bloom. Yes, that's what happens when you just leave artichokes to do what they will.

The Funny Face With A Missing Mole

2009-06-08T20:56:00.005-04:00

I'm beginning to think that I am God's very own comedy channel. Case in point: my visit to a new dermatologist last week.

I should clarify. My trip to one of the select doctors who specialize in treating "stars." This doctor has a skincare line and frequently finds his name in the pages of "Allure". There are a lot of these doctors to the stars, and they all seem to have offices on one of two streets in Beverly Hills. I once saw Goldie Hawn entering one of these buildings as I was leaving.

Anyway, back to the office visit. The staff seemed bored. That is until the visiting Neutrogena rep handed out full-sized bottles of face wash to each of the ladies. (Maybe Neutrogena isn't kidding when they say doctors recommend it?) After answering "no" to a bunch of questions about skin diseases, I was called into a little office at the end of the hall. An assistant who had recently scored two bottles of face soap asked me a few questions about smoking, drinking, cancer, and the purpose of my visit. I was there to see about a mole on my hip and some small moles under my eyes. Right. She said could see the moles under my eyes. This was a little confusing to me as the moles are not pigmented, and she was standing pretty far away from my face. "Wow. These people are really good," I thought.

45 minutes later, the doctor-to-the-stars came in. He, too, asked some general questions before saying: "Well, here's what we can do. We can take one off your face today. You can see if you like the results. And then we can go from there."

So I said sure. He numbed the area by injecting me with a needle...on my face. Then with a swift movement, one mole was gone. I was handed a mirror and asked to examine the results. My only thought was that it looked like the injection site was bleeding more than the site of the incision. This is why there are doctors to the stars! They are fantastic!

"We" finished off the visit by removing the hip mole (ouch) and going over the instructions printed a small slip of paper entitled "WOUND CARE". Then I made my way to the front desk where the ladies were still talking Neutrogena, and I made an appointment to return in 1 month.

Because I had been at the office forever and have recently embarked on the drink-as-much-water-as-you-can-possibly-stand challenge, I asked for the key to the loo. There in the dimly lit, marble-tiled restroom, I re-examined my face.

You can imagine my surprise when I looked at the mirror and realized HE CUT OFF THE WRONG MOLE!

All my life I have had four distinctive moles on my face, and now one of them was...missing. It was a moment so ridiculous that I laughed out loud, which was a bit awkward because half of my face was still numb. I felt like one of those stories where someone checks into a hospital with an injury in their right arm and wakes up the next day missing their left arm.

I called my mom after the visit to share the absurdity that was my Thursday morning. She gasped, then laughed, and we both decided that if this celeb doctor didn't notice those tiny moles, they certainly aren't a big deal. It was inevitable that the missing mole would one day have to be removed since it is there in plain view of the sun 24/7.

If I'm being completely candid, and why not at this point, the purpose for visiting the dermatologist that day was primarily motivated by my vanity. The small flesh-colored moles under my eyes are barely noticeable. But to me they are huge billboards that shout, "I'm turning into the crypt keeper!" If this doctor, with his huge magnifying glasses, didn't object to my tiny moles, why should I?

As for the missing mole, I'm surprised people still recognize me without it.

Coronas, Basketball and Topless Women: A Terrible Way to Meet People

2009-05-26T14:42:00.009-04:00

I'm just gonna cut to the chase. At 30, being single isn't so much fun.

I don't normally talk about dating (or the lack thereof) or my faith, but last night I experienced something so ridiculous it was both hilarious and incredibly depressing. What to do with a story like that? Tell it to the World Wide Web!

I begin my story 5 weeks ago on a Monday night. My church--well I'm not technically a member yet because that process is lengthy and so involved that I half expect the pastor to ask me for a DNA sample--held a series on Christians, dating and sex and blah blah blah. I stopped attending lectures on the subject of being single a while ago; I'm practically an expert on the matter. But I'm new at this church that I'm almost a member of, and I thought this would be a good way to meet people. It was a good series; I learned a lot, not just about the wild world of being single, but about myself. So that was indeed a good thing.

To wrap up the series, the church hosted what I can only describe as a mixer for those who had attended the series. And so begins my encounter with Coronas, basketball and an illustrated poster of a topless woman.

I only went to this mixer (that's what I'm calling it even though I imagine this label would make the church staff cringe) because I have always griped about how churches never do enough to encourage people to meet. "Suck it up," I thought. "Just go and have a good time. At least you'll meet new people." So I talked a friend who doesn't go to my church and didn't go to the seminar into going with me.

We arrived about an hour after this mixer began and promptly ordered 2 Coronas from a surly woman in a low-cut tank top. The Lakers were playing and every.single.tv.in.the.place was blaring the game. My friend and I were talking (yelling) at each other over the roar of the crowd when several kind people introduced themselves to us. I haven't a clue as to the readership of this wee blog, so I'm just gonna say there was interesting conversation, dull conversation, a new friendship forged over a mutual love of coffee, a person who talked so much you couldn't get a word in edgewise, and a person who spit in your face when they talked.

My friend and I spent the evening smashed between a wall, the bar, and a beer pong table. From our viewpoint we could see the entire crowd, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. There was the single woman in her late 30's I met once who had that I-am-here-to-find-my-husband-and-you-are-competition look in her eye. She couldn't be bothered to be polite to my friend and me because she had a single pastor from our church centered in her crosshairs. I thought the poor man would be trampled by her at one point. Then there were the guys who so badly wanted to know if you were The One that they asked embarrassingly intimate questions before you had the chance to tell them your name. When it was apparent that my friend and I were not The One, these boys wandered off mid sentence.

At one point, my friend and I were actually having a pretty funny conversation with a guy I shall call John Coltrane. I was on my 6th or 7th glass of water when I turned into a total klutz. I knocked my friend's cup of water all of the floor, caught my jacket on a nail, and, much to John Coltrane's amusement, my wildly flailing hand slapped the bare boob of a woman featured on an old Buzzcocks poster. Turns out this poster was directly above my head the entire night. That might explain why a lot of guys constantly looked in our direction.

It was then that I decided I was tired. Tired of talking, tired of being claustrophobic, tired of wading through nights like this.

I haven't a clue as to why that "roofie bar" was chosen as the place to host a mixer for people who just finished a lecture series on Christians and dating. It was as though the church said, "let's see how well you swim when we throw you in the deep end without swimming lessons!"

I left that circus feeling incredibly disappointed and discouraged. I can only relate it to a line from a book I read where the author said something to the gist of Christians who try to date and follow God trade with a currency the world doesn't use anymore. If I can't meet like-minded guys at my own church, where else am I to go? Does no one else value the same things I value? Granted, I only met a few people, but the scene was so similar to the pub I used to go to. Only at that pub I wasn't shouting, and I was surrounded by friends--not people putting the pressure on to quickly determine if you were their wife before moving onto the next woman at the bar.

My gut reaction to that dismal failure of an outing was to quit. Why bother putting yourself out there when all you ever get is disappointment? But then I emailed this story to a friend and laughed so hard as I pictured the ridiculousness that was last night.

So while I will more than likely never go to another gathering where everyone has a target on their back (a.k.a. mixers for people without significant others), I'm not going to give up on finding someone who still trades in my currency.

Either that or I'm going to start trading in credit.

My Fashion Icon Cooks a Mean Irish Stew

2009-05-19T17:16:00.005-04:00

On Sunday, "60 Minutes" aired an interview with Anna Wintour, the matriarch of the fashion world. The interview was interesting and safe. Ms. Wintour is an incredible editor--no doubt about that. She is perhaps the only woman who could tell Oprah Winfrey to lose 20 pounds and not get slapped in the face for it.

Every month Ms. Wintour tries her hardest to persuade me that someone like Giselle Bundchen, with her linguine legs and flat tummy, should be my fashion icon.

This morning, as I was pulling together a few cookbooks for a coworker, I chose my fashion icon. When I lived in Belfast, I watched Rachel Allen's cooking show regularly. Ms. Allen is from Ireland and teaches at the Ballymaloe Cookery School in Cork. In each show, she was laid back and often cooking with pink pots and spatulas. Even though I've never met Rachel Allen, I felt her clothes said a lot about her personality: detail-oriented; conscious of style without being obnoxiously trendy; feminine; authentic. I couldn't tell you what kind of personality Giselle has (she's usually photographed sans top).

So I declare the Irish chef Rachel Allen to be my fashion icon.

(I found this photo at nydailynews.com)

A New Morning Ritual

2009-05-06T19:04:00.004-04:00

I've never been a morning person. I could very well stay up all night and watch the sun come up, but forget trying to wake me from a deep slumber to witness a sunrise. Lately, however, I've been waking up at least an hour before my alarm sounds. Minor miracle, people.

Because I'm not an early morning person, I don't know what to do with myself during this hour. For the last two weeks my mornings usually looks like this: wake up around 6am, stare in disbelief at my clock for a minute or two, put on an Edith Piaf album, and stay in my bed, wondering what people do at this time of day. When you're just sitting there, a fan blowing your curtains all over the room and Edith singing about love and loss, your mind starts to wander. This is about the time I burst out laughing.

Every single morning, without fail, I get an incredible case of the giggles. It is an odd way to greet the day, really.

Yesterday, I thought about how people use words incorrectly.

For instance, I once read a query letter for a novel about a character who tried to mustard up her courage.

And another time, a friend told me that she had an affliction for fast food chains.

I'm starting to look forward to my early morning laugh fests. Although, I can only imagine what my neighbors must think.

On Returning to LA, Wilting Blooms, and Starting a Hair-Care Regimen

2009-04-26T18:35:00.005-04:00

(The sun setting over millionaires in Malibu)

Some people move to Los Angeles for the weather. Seriously and truly, they do. I am not one of those people. I moved to LA (the first time) to work in the music industry. And it was work that brought me back to LA two years after I thought I’d left for good.

Having never lived in a place where snow piled up to the windowsill or driveways demanded clearing right this very instant, or you’re not going to work, mister!—I cannot say how much the promise of steady sunshine would be worth.

Instead, I grew up with an abundance of sun and humidity accompanied by a constant breeze of AC. Surviving a hot day called for a glass of iced tea and a medal of honor. The humidity kept my skin looking dewy and young. At least, this is what I told myself when I ducked into public restrooms to mop up the sweat dripping from my armpits.

These days, the California sun annoys me. That is something I have noticed. I have also noticed that I am older, much older, than I thought I was. Obviously, I realize my age. I’m not that far gone. It’s just that what I remember looking like isn’t showing up in the mirror or on glossy 4x6 paper. There are lines that weren’t there before. And my hair. Oh, my hair.

Yesterday I went to have my hair cut and engaged in a long discussion with a nice hairstylist named Ryan—or something like that—about what happens to your hair as you get older. For those of you not in-the-know, your hair gets thinner and duller and not so Pantene-like.

I told Ryan—or something like that—I was using a product meant to encourage new hair growth. He said the product I was using was indeed marvelous, and, yes, it was working. (Hooray!) But, he quickly added, that product was too harsh for fine hair like mine. He recommended another product that would be a little kinder.

So I left the salon, famous for being trendy and affordable, with a bag of product that cost 3 times the price of my haircut all in an effort to fight the inevitable. But this is LA, and age defines you here.

In addition to noticing my dislike of constant sunny days and lines around my eyes, I have started to wonder if I am losing my bloom. That sounds completely archaic, I know, but I can’t think of any other way to put it. Jane Austen gave me this idea of people losing their bloom. Ms. Austen says of her heroine in Persuasion, “Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early…”

This line runs through my mind when I notice these news things about my face.

In response to this absurd thought, I picture myself to be a peony tree. In its early years, the blossoms on a young peony tree are pretty and give off a bit of sweet fragrance, sort of like a whisper. The branches of an older peony tree, however, are heavy with huge flowers, thanks to years of pruning. And the fragrance of that older tree is incredible—like standing before a symphony.

On days when I feel so very un-LA, I wear an extra spritz of perfume and a lot of SPF.

Some Reasons I Like LA:

1. Really good bands play here. Like Travis, pictured above.

2. I have a really great job. These were a gift from my 2 bosses.

I've Arrived. But Just Where Am I?

2009-04-18T19:32:00.002-04:00

A couple of weeks ago (or was it 3?), I went to see Matt Hale perform at The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood. Matt usually goes by the moniker Aqualung, so if you're shopping around for some new albums full of well-crafted songs, look for that name.

When he took his seat behind his upright piano, he announced to us all: "I've arrived." We clapped, of course, and enjoyed 40 minutes-or-so of songs and banter.

I've been thinking about that announcement these past few days. I've arrived. Usually you tell someone you've arrived at a destination as in, "I'm outside your house now," or "I landed at the airport." But we can also arrive at ideas or stages of growth. And those places aren't easily located on a map.

The place I've arrived at recently doesn't come up in any GPS system or on Mapquest. I hardly know what to call this place at which I've arrived. Instead, I find myself frequently (as recently as this morning, in fact) telling people that I'm here in LA for now. Or I'm here at this job for now. I seem to be focusing on "now" a lot, now that I think about it.

A couple of friends recently challenged me to be more aggressive with my career aspirations. For the record, I climbed off the corporate latter a long time ago with no intention of ever getting back on that blasted thing. Well, this place I've arrived doesn't really seem concerned with career aspirations. Instead, this place I've arrived is more concerned with the intangible: relationships, education, experiences. These aren't things usually scored on employee reviews.

While this place may be difficult to describe or locate, I know exactly how I got here. By way of a life-changing year abroad and a challenging year at home. One year gave me opportunities to work with magnificent people who thought and operated completely differently than any of my former colleagues. The other gave me opportunities to work with people I had literally known since my infancy. Both were challenging. Both gave me perspective. And from where I sit now, life seems especially fragile and resilient all at the same time.

This past week my sister completed a long and grueling program that will hopefully right her course. Next week she moves into a new home. In many ways she begins a new life next week: a new job, a new return address to write on letters, a new set of challenges. But I am praying fervently that she savors this moment. For such a time as this, she has arrived at this this season of new relationships and lessons to be learned.

For such a time as this, I am in Los Angeles working alongside incredible people in an incredible field of work. For such a time as this, I am living in a small apartment with a big kitchen and neighbors from far away cities. For such a time as this, I've arrived at this time of uncertainty full of routine.

And I am determined to make the most of it.

My Favorite Part of a Workout

2009-04-07T17:57:00.003-04:00

I know what you're thinking. First, "Why is this photo so blurry?" and then, "What's this validation business when you're talking about a workout?"

1. My gym is serious about their no mobile phone policy. I didn't think the gym peeps would be super appreciative if I whipped out my phone to take a photo. So this was taken on the sly.
2. This is LA. Of course you have to validate.

Yesterday at the gym I had a revelation of sorts. Well, kind of. I don't do much thinking outside the lines of "how much longer" and "get me outta here" while working up a sweat on a bike that goes nowhere. After I decided that having your iPod at the gym really does make that time more bearable, it dawned on me that the whole concept of a gym is kinda funny.

For example, this lady (looked like an executive type that might crush her assistant just by raising her brow ever-so-slightly) was running like crazy while watching a home and garden show on her own personal treadmill TV. When she finished her run, she limped off the treadmill, red-faced with a look of victory: "Look at how much I have just tortured myself. Running away from nothing while running towards nothing."

And my favorite are the people who choose machines right next to the mirrors. I was under the false impression that mirrors were installed along the walls of the gym in an effort to add the illusion of a couple hundred more square feet to the place. No. Mirrors are there so that people can watch themselves as they workout.

It's ridiculous and HILARIOUS all at the same time, this flexing of muscles and hair primping all to impress a reflection.

So I continued to sit on my bike that went nowhere while staring out the window at all of the passers by--people on their bikes going somewhere and walkers headed elsewhere.

And then I remembered this photo I saw in a restaurant in Hollywood this past weekend and it completely summed up how I feel about the g.y.m.

For Lack of Something Better to Say

2009-03-25T19:18:00.006-04:00

I'll admit it--I have tried to write several posts in the course of the past two weeks but haven't actually finished any of those drafts.

So in the absence of wit and stories of interest, I am posting several photos from my phone. Hopefully this will suffice for the time being.

Ain't that the truth.
(Photo taken at Dylan's Candy Bar in New York. I highly recommend it)

A beautiful exhibit now on at LACMA in LA.

Delicious goodie-goodness, served nightly at El Cholo.

Top 5

2009-03-10T18:42:00.003-04:00

A friend recently asked me to list my top 5 can't-live-without albums for a project. Have you ever tried to pick just 5 albums that you couldn't live without? It's hard. Really hard. Especially when you love music as much as I do.

1. Billie Holiday – Greatest Hits (Sony). Sure her vocal range was limited compared to other powerhouse female vocalists, but Billie had the ability to possesses a song in such a way that I swear she lived it. She tailored melodies to suit her—lagging behind the beat just a bit and using inflection to transform the stalest lyric into a scrumptious morsel. This album is my favorite collection simply for the fact that it includes “The Very Thought of You”, a simple and beautiful representation of her talent.

2. Miles Davis – Kind of Blue. Most likely, deserted islands come standard with this classic album. It is an intimate body of work, perhaps due to the fact it was not a rehearsed body of work. It comes alive, somehow, each time I play it. And it always sounds different, as though Miles and his band (John Coltrane!) are jamming together inside my stereo for my own personal enjoyment.

3. Van Morrison – Moondance. The first time I went to Belfast, I half expected to be asked to recite the lyrics to this album before being granted entry into a pub. The stories woven through this album are ingrained in me: I want to be the object of affection documented in ‘Crazy Love’; I hear the fog horn he sings about on ‘Into the Mystic’; I feel the rain pounding down on the county fair in ‘And It Stoned Me’.

4. Foy Vance – Hope. Foy tells stories through his songs the way Leonard Cohen tells a story—so detailed and personal they seem more like personal memories than stories. My favorite track is ‘Indiscriminate Act of Kindness’. Much the way I can see the room Leonard sings about in ‘Chelsea Hotel’, I see the characters Foy creates in this ultimately uplifting song. And that voice! This guy can sing.

5. The Beatles – Rubber Soul. My two favorite Beatles songs live on this album: Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) and Girl. I’ll never tire of hearing John Lennon sigh in the chorus.

What are your top 5 albums?

Gymtastic - Or Not

2009-03-04T13:06:00.006-05:00

This morning I did something that I thought I'd never do. I went to a gym and met with a personal trainer.

I never thought this day would come because
a) I had to get up very early
b) I had to go to a gym
c) The gym I joined is that typical LA place where starlets and business folk go to worship themselves while throwing scornful glances and those wearing size 6 or higher, and I can't stand that kind of place.

My trainer, let's call him Derek, is what you might envision an LA trainer to be: kinda short, buff, and constantly throws out phrases like "I want to motive you to..." He also refers to me in the third person during the workout session.

I arrived at the gym at the very unkind hour of 7:20. The incredibly tanned young man at the check-in desk wasn't especially kind nor was he helpful. Awesome. I couldn't figure out how to work the permanent locks on the lockers in the changing room, so I stashed all of my precious belongings in a locker without a lock and prayed that God Himself would stand guard over my things (especially my iPhone, which I love so very much). Tanned boy was not amused at having to tell me the directions twice. "Um, yeah, so, like you just open the lock, then, like, scramble the code, and close the door. Oh, and you have to set your own, like, code first." He must write assembly instructions for Mattel in his spare time.

Derek was late. 7 minutes late, to be exact. At about the 5 minute mark I thought of grabbing my things and leaving, telling that tan and unkind receptionist that Derek would have to reschedule. I'm paying Derek the GDP of a small country to tell me how to work out, so every minute counts! (Plus, I'd use any excuse to get outta the gym. I detest the smell, the lighting, the clothes, the unspoken rules and etiquette)

Our workout was preceded by a chat about my goals and a little more Derek advertising. Like everyone in this town, Derek is writing a book (fitness) and wants to have a show (preferably with a book deal). Gracious. What did I get myself into?

The workout wasn't especially enlightening, but I learned how to use the machines and where the towels were located (if you don't wipe down your machine after using it, the scornful glances turn brutal). One of my goals is to improve my posture. We worked on this while I walked on the treadmill. Derek stood behind me because all of the treadmills around me were occupied and told me to "stand up like the Queen," "roll your feet," and "pretend someone has a rope tied around your waist and is pulling you forward." This may seem trivial, but I challenge you to try all of these things while walking quickly on a moving belt that is slightly elevated and trying to have a face-to-face conversation with someone behind you. Not so easy. Not so graceful.

Thankfully, my workout ended with just enough time for me to dash into the changing room and find that all of my precious belongings and my magnificent iPhone were waiting for me in that unsecured corner locker. I took my belongings to the showers and kept my eyes focused ahead. Seems many women are immensely comfortable in that public changing area. And yes, I was that girl who didn't get dressed in the common area but instead dressed in the hot and humid shower area. I wasn't about to leave the iPhone in an unsecure location again! Whatevs. That's how I roll since I am apparently the antithesis of an LA girl.

My reward for pushing through this new challenge? As much coffee as my nerves can stand.

Looking VS Reading

2009-02-27T20:21:00.006-05:00

Might I be lazy for a post and direct you to several things I found today on the brilliant World Wide Web? All of these items are courtesy of The Penguin Blog maintained by the kind folks at Penguin UK.

First. A site of book covers. Penguin book covers to be exact. I believe my favorite to be this cover of Jane Eyre:

1,024 more beautiful covers can be found at: http://bookcoverarchive.com/?startrow=0

Second. A wonderful article on design and reading called "In Defense of Readers" by Mandy Brown. Copyright issues probably prevent me from re-posting the entire article here (not to mention the length of the article would dwarf all of my posts), so I shall only include an excerpt.

"The best readers are obstinate. They possess a nearly inexhaustible persistence that drives them to read, regardless of the circumstances they find themselves in. I’ve seen a reader absorbed in Don Quixote while seated at a noisy bar; I’ve witnessed the quintessential New York reader walk the streets with a book in hand; of late I’ve seen many a reader devour books on their iPhone (including one who confessed to reading the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy while scrolling with his thumb). And millions of us read newspapers, magazines, and blogs on our screens every day—claims that no one reads anymore notwithstanding."

There is a bit about the difference between looking at something and reading something. Very interesting.

(my thanks to Mandy Brown, wherever you are)

To read the rest of this article, please visit: http://alistapart.com/articles/indefenseofreaders

It's really very good.

Two more covers to appreciate:

I Made It.

2009-02-26T20:22:00.004-05:00

Dear Internet:

This post is woefully overdue, so my apologies are very much in order.

As you can tell from my subject line, I did in fact arrive in Los Angeles safely. In fact I not only arrived safely, I arrived tired and well after dark. Meghan and Joe were very kind to not only let me sleep on their comfy couch for a week but also to store my suitcases and tote bags in their living room.

Here's what it looked like when I crossed the California state line:

What a strange experience this move has been. As I left the unfamiliar, dry landscape of Arizona and entered a state I once called home, the terrain became recognizable and reassuring. All of the hallmarks of a California freeway welcomed me back: highway patrol cars were the usual black and white sedans with officers dressed in brown uniforms; blue call box signs marked the way down Interstate 10; drivers changed lanes without using indicators or their rear view mirrors.

As I headed west through the desert, the intense California sunset faded into whispers of pink and blue and yellow until all the colors bled into indigo. The desert sky was littered with more stars than I had ever remembered seeing out there.

During my first week here I found a very small apartment near work, I bought new tires because two of the old ones split, I enjoyed a lovely lobster pot pie while watching the Oscars with Meghan and I tried a breakfast place called The Waffle.

There will be much to write in the coming days, I suspect. This place feels more like a foreign country to me now than another state.

1000+ Miles and Two Days Later...

2009-02-13T22:41:00.009-05:00

Last night I stopped outside San Antonio, made friends with the girl at the to-go counter at Chili's and tucked myself into a Hampton Inn. (I can't help but wonder if I am supporting Paris Hilton's lifestyle each time I stay at a Hilton)

Here are photos from today's journey through the grand state of Texas:

Stopped at The Alamo to buy postcards and so that I could say I had seen it.

Just in case you're ever in the neighborhood.

Wondered why Montana is called Big Sky and not Texas. Isn't everything bigger in Texas?

Found joy in the fact that I could indeed go 80mph on the highway.

See? That glorious sign says 80!

Texas.

Way off in the distance, the sun sets over Mexico.

First Stop: New Orleans

2009-02-12T23:56:00.005-05:00

Started the day off with a good breakfast.

Watched the morning commute on the Mississippi.

And decided that I love New Orleans.

Maybe Thomas Wolfe Was Right

2009-02-11T22:01:00.005-05:00

Talk about an appropriate fortune. Last week I got this fortune in a cookie, and this week I packed up my car for a cross-country move.

After a year of trying on my hometown with little success of a fit, I am moving back to LA. I can't help but think that maybe Thomas Wolfe was right.

Second Chances Are Cake Stand Blue

2009-01-28T23:19:00.007-05:00

I have never been so happy to see the backside of a year as I was this past January 1st. There were some good moments, no doubt, but the majority of my 2008 was smudged with the trials and tribulations associated with my sister's drug addiction.

Usually I don't talk a lot about my sister's struggles with crystal meth because I feel that is her story to tell. So I won't be telling that story here. I do, however, feel that I can talk about the 7 years or so I've stood in the middle of the intense fire that engulfed my family. Topics like this aren't really suitable dinner conversation, so I typically reserve this heavier fare for those late night philosophical discussions with my mom or very close friends.

And topics like this aren't really fun to read about on blogs.

But what does make for a good blog post are those moments when you can actually see the storm cloud behind you.

This week I've been moving all of my things from one room in my parents' house to my sister's old room. This is an effort to provide a healthy environment for my sister when she returns to this house for a holiday visit or a weekend stay.

My sister's old room was a bright purple. The color that a high school girl would pick to match her very girlie Pottery Barn bedspread. I guess most people would look at a color like that and be cheered up. For me, though, that color was terrifying and depressing. I think my mom felt the same way when she looked into my sister's old room because she was adamant about painting over it.

So I went to Lowe's and looked at rows of paint samples called "mint gelato green" and "summer sky" and "antique white" until I found a pale blue called "cake stand blue."

As I painted over that terrible purple, I wondered if the walls would forget all that they had seen in this room - if the memory would be wiped as clean as this new color. I thought about how bright the room had become and the promise of new memories to be made in this room.

For my sister, her current state of transformation is not much different from these four walls. She is in a program, as most people politely refer to rehab, and has matured exponentially in a very short time. It's taking a lot of work, but she is slowly shedding darkness and discovering the bright promise of her future.

Ah, Cake Stand Blue. I think you're my new favorite color.

Another year, another Moleskine

2009-01-04T22:51:00.003-05:00

Ah, the first of the year. Time to put away twinkle lights, say "oh no!" to desserts, take up early morning jogging and make declarations of balancing checkbooks and writing more lists on a regular basis.

I say boo to all of these things.

Some people relish the close of the holiday season, but I do not. I adore twinkle lights and using the excuse of December as reason enough for a nice dinner out. I also don't mind partaking in dessert AND jogging.

For me, the start of a new year is celebrated by turning the pages of my new blank (and black) Moleskine diary/calendar. The promise of a blank calendar! After carefully slipping the cellophane off my new calendar, I quickly scribble in important birthdays and anniversaries. Then I flip through the months, anticipating Saturdays spent with coffee and the NY Times, trips I may take, and the adventure a new year can hold.

I also try to begin a new book at the start of the year. I'm boring, so why not? I finished off '08 with "The Picture of Dorian Gray" (many thanks to Katherine for the recommendation of that title while pouring over the classics section at Waterstones).

I'm starting off '09 with "The Reader." It's quite a somber book -- described as morally complex, haunting and philosophically elegant -- but somehow that seems appropriate.

Its subject matter, particularly the relationship between the two main characters, is dark and not for those with a weak stomach. In fact, I have a hard time thinking of people I could recommend this book to who would not find great offense in its explicitness. But I enjoy the challenge of being stretched and questioned by characters who make decisions I would not make myself.

I am promised by the back cover of "The Reader" that the book is ultimately hopeful. Sort of how I imagine my blank Moleskin to be - ultimately hopeful.

I Heart These Posters, and U Will 2.

2008-12-18T23:02:00.002-05:00

I stumbled across The Small Stakes site a while back and since then I've been dreaming about covering my walls with these flippin' gorgeous posters.

The Small Stakes lives here: http://thesmallstakes.com/gallery.php?page=1#

Soundtrack to 08.

2008-12-17T22:07:00.004-05:00

Putting it mildly, 2008 was not especially kind to me. Long spells of no work and serious medical issues with my younger sister made '08 a year I'd like to blot out and do over again. It wasn't all bad, mind you, because there were lessons learned and sweet moments that only come with walks through a valley.

Here's my collection of songs I kept on repeat during various seasons of this past year. Most of them were released a long while ago and very few, if any, would mark me as a hip or trendy sort of person. But I like them and that's all that matters.

Blue Ridge Mountains - Fleet Foxes
I Adore You - Melpo Mene
I Cried Like a Silly Boy - Devotchka
Lovers in Japan / Reign of Love - Coldplay
Sarah - Ray LaMontagne
Hickory Wind - Gram Parsons
Hospital Beds - Cold War Kids
Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon
Many Shades of Black - The Raconteurs
Tupelo Honey - Van Morrison
Starlight - Muse
Satellite of Love - Lou Reed
Feathers and Down - The Cardigans
La Vie en Rose - Edith Piaf
Shot to the Stars - Whitley

Turn That Frown Upside Down!

2008-11-29T21:23:00.004-05:00

The New York Times is a constant source of delight for me. Well, Thursday thru Sunday, that is. Those other days can be a bit lean on the delight and heavy on the sad, sorrowful and cynical.

One example of a delightful find found in the NY times is an article entitled "No Frown Is Left Unturned" (13 Nov). Seems a Brooklyn-based store called Fred Flare has a knack for selling quirky knick-knacks guaranteed to, well, make you smile. Oh how I love their site and all of the random treasures neatly organized both by price and subject. If you are bored and surfing the net, please do take a moment to acquaint yourself with the various treats offered by Mr. Flare at fredflare.com.

You may stumble upon Nancy Drew's Guide to Life:

Or perhaps an Edgar Allen Poe action figure:

Or, if you are really lucky, this incredible tennis racket cover:

Hilarious Christmas gifts, anymore?

I Want to Marry This Video

2008-11-18T23:34:00.002-05:00

Although, I will make it sleep on the couch for at least one night as penance for using the term "douchebag" in the video. People! That is the most lame term ever. Stop using it. I am using "toolbox" instead and will allow you to use it also.

The Art of Loquacity

2008-11-18T22:51:00.004-05:00

I've developed yet another bizarre quirk, folks. I write words that interest me or hold meanings I do not know on an index card or on my hand before adding them to a list of words (and definitions!) I keep in a notebook. Some people collect spoons, others collect cars. I collect words.

Here are some words that have recently joined my collection:

Sardonic
Totes
Gaffe
Desultory
Ridic

OK so not all of these words will impress the fab new people you meet at your next cocktail party, but I don't care. I like them and I try to use them in regular sentences like a regular person.

"I'm not being sardonic with I say that dress is totes a major gaffe and makes her look like she had a desultory shopping excursion that caused her to buy the first ridic thing that fit."

In other news, please check out the EP called "Curse Your Little Heart" by Devotchka. It is beautifully incandescent.

Taking Back My Cardigans

2008-11-12T14:10:00.005-05:00

If you're anything like me, your life is set to music. The album you listened to everyday in the car on the way to your first job. The song that played incessantly on the radio during the summer between your sophomore and junior years at university. The break-up song, the make-up song, and on and on they go.

A couple of years ago I got into The Cardigans. Not that poppy song from Romeo and Juliet, but one of their albums in particular called Long Gone Before Daylight. I noticed a song title called "And Then You Kissed Me" on a friend's iTunes playlist at work and was intrigued.

The album, I found out, was poetic, a bit dark and emotionally raw. It was as if I was reading diary entries written by a more articulate version of me. I loved it and played it constantly. And then a boy was rather unkind to me. The album became my refuge. I would plug in my iPod and walk up and down the beach in Santa Monica after work, listening to it again and again. This album was what I wanted to say to this particular boy, but couldn't quite muster up the nerve without turning red in the face and stammering. So I just listened to the album until I was ready to shake the dust off my sandals and move on.

Every so often since that time, one of the songs would appear in my shuffle list. Sometimes I fast-forwarded, sometimes I didn't. But I couldn't listen to any of these songs without going right back there to that foggy time. About a month ago, however, I decided enough was enough. That boy was a punk and who was he to mar this beautiful collection of songs I had come to treasure?

So I took back my beloved Cardigans CD. Now I listen to it often and form new memories with each song: Autumn drives in the mountains, finding my courage again and locking myself in my sister's old room to write every night.

And let me just say, this album is too freaking good to let a few not-so-great memories ruin it. If you haven't listened to it yet, here is my shameless plug on behalf of this group of Swedes. Get it. Listen to it. I think you'll like it.

What to look for in the record store:

Hey Brandon, I'm Dancer!

2008-10-30T23:04:00.003-04:00

Ok, Ok. I'll admit it -- I like the new Killers song...a lot. I was a hater back in the day because all I ever heard was "The Killers are the next big thing" followed by their many, many, many singles that never stopped.

But today is another day. And I love this video. And I love the fact that the chorus is:

"Are we human or are we dancer"

Me? I'm dancer! (not to be confused with prancer or whatever)

My old friends at Universal won't let me embed the video, so here's the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6r4KT8-VX0

And here is what it might look like when the band plays the song live:

Who Says Vodka's Just For Breakfast?

2008-10-28T14:17:00.004-04:00

When you look over your work history, is there one job that you wish you could just blot out entirely? Maybe go back in time and tell your former self, "Pass this one by. Don't take it. You'll thank me later."

There is exactly one job on my CV that I wish I could blot out. It wasn't all doom and gloom in the trenches of this job -- I did make a great friend out the experience -- but for the most part, it was hell. The reasons for such a sour outlook on my experience can be detailed later, but for now I am focused on the idea of learning from past mistakes.

So, yesterday, I had a 2nd interview for a job that was pretty much administrative and required loads of computer time. The company is one that evokes warm and fuzzy feelings as it does good work throughout the county that neighbors the county I live in. (trying to be cryptic here) While I would have enjoyed about 2 months of this job, I saw yellow flags somewhere around the 3 month mark. Early mornings. Long commute. Very formal office attire. Upping the prescription level of my eyeglasses from all the hours in front of a monitor. I saw these warning flags after the first interview and voiced them to my "employment peeps," but I was encouraged to go on the 2nd interview anyway.

Before my second interview, I thought long and hard about how to strike the balance between blowing the interview entirely and subtly suggesting that I might not be the best candidate for the job. Here are a few things I came up with:

1. Laugh like Janice from Friends
2. Eat blue cheese and roasted garlic just prior to the interview
3. Curse
4. Talk about drinking, specifically mentioning that Vodka isn't just for breakfast anymore. No, I love it right after lunch!

I did none of these things. I did, however, turn the job down. Today I send out emails looking for more freelance work and wonder, but only for a half-second, if I made the right choice. Then I sip my after-lunch martini.

Living In A Deluxe Condo

2008-10-24T09:26:00.007-04:00

If any of you have ever had the joy of house training a puppy, you will be familiar with the term "cage training."

What a cruel-sounding thing to do to a puppy!

At our house, we don't tell the pups to get into their "cage." No, we prefer the term "condo." When the pups come in from the great outdoors, we enthusiastically say, "Go to your condo!" The pups run right into their spacious condo (two former cages joined together to make a penthouse condo) and pick up their favorite chew toys (a pink stuffed stiletto with the label Bark Jacobs or a brown stuffed purse with the label Chewy Vuitton). The life of a pup - ain't it grand?

Abby:

Winston:

When I Grow Up, I Want To Be A Riter.

2008-10-22T15:03:00.006-04:00

When I was about 6 or so, I sat down on my bed with a Hello Kitty notepad determined to choose the course my life would take. I made a list of possible occupations that included:

- Teacher
- Nurse
- Vet
- Riter

Then, I asked my dad to review my choices and tell me which he thought would be the best choice. I'll haven't forgotten his reply after reading over my options: "Well if you want to be a writer, you should probably know that writer begins with a "W" and not an "R."

Tomorrow I head to an interview for a job that I really could care less about. It's a position with a company that does good work so it's not like I am interviewing for a job in a chicken factory or something horrific like that, but it's been a long time since I felt excitement about a job. I blame this on my decision a few years back to stop allowing my job to define who I am as a person. It's hard not to fall into this trap when you live in the States. One only needs to attend a dinner party to see what I mean.

"Hello, nice to meet you so-and-so. And what do you do?"
"Oh, I'm an advertising exec."

See? Right there this person has said, "I read 'Vanity Fair,' wear edgy glasses probably made in Germany and listen to Joy Division in my Audi. (OK so maybe the Joy Division thing is more graphic designer than ad exec, but you know what I mean). We all put people in boxes according to information we receive about them -- their profession, the car they drive or the church they attend. It's normal. It's healthy. But for some reason, I don't want to be defined by a job anymore.

Back to that list I made way back when. I don't know if I'll ever become a "riter," but I did join a writing group recently. I am currently working on something that provides a necessary escape from the often-mundane life I now lead, and this project promises to provide a creative outlet even if my job does not.

Now, let's hope that bit about my terrible spelling doesn't come up in a session with the writer's group.

Continuing The To Be Continued...

2008-10-20T13:13:00.004-04:00

OK so when I last left the story of my recent holiday to Ireland and London, my friend Karen and I were camped out at a Dublin hospital. Apologies in advance, this post will not have very many photos.

May I take a moment to point out that the hospital we visited, St. Vincent's, is located in one of my favorite parts of Dublin, Ballsbridge, which is a second-runner up to my most favorite part of Dublin, Sandymount.

The wait for Karen to see a doctor took many hours. Once Karen saw a doctor, the wait continued for many hours. Lucky for me, I brought Anna Karenina to read on this trip. I powered through almost 300 pages while waiting at St. Vincent's that day. To sum up the experience: the staff was friendly and very busy, the waiting room was like an off-Broadway play, and the casualty area (ER to us Yanks) was crammed full of beds and people.

After leaving St. Vincent's, leg brace and Atari joystick in-hand, Karen and I made the drive to Belfast to visit the fantastic Williams family (minus Anna because she was enjoying her first week at Trinity). We ate delish food and caught up on the events that had passed since I last sat at their kitchen table back in December. From this point, my story seems to have a theme: cute kids with even cuter personalities belonging to friends I made last year.

First, there was my friend Victoria's baby boy Judah. He was born this past summer so this was my first chance to meet him. He was full of smiles and sat on my lap straight away. Next, I caught up with my friend Clare and her daughter Martha. Martha, like most babies, had changed dramatically in the year since I had last seen her. She was standing and laughing and scrunching up her nose when she smiled. Adorable. The third baby I saw was Josh, the son of Peter and Tracy. What can I say about Josh that won't sound like a paid endorsement? This kid was so very cute (in a Baby Gap way) and always seemed in good form even when he had a cold. Josh laughed at my weird faces and endured my strange voices -the ideal audience.

I've never really been one of those people who goes ga-ga over a passing stroller / pram, but with after spending time with these kids, I can see why people would light up at the site of a Bugaboo. Although, I put my foot down at baby voices. I just won't do them.

The last leg of my trip was spent in London. There is an expression I agree with very much and that is, "tired of London, tired of life." I've been to London several times and each time I leave the city with a longer must-see list than when I first arrived. I was very lucky on this trip to be able to meet up with Katherine, a friend I made in my hometown earlier this year. Katherine is currently pursuing a Ph.d at St. Andrews in Scotland. We had a fantastic time exploring the British Museum, trying out new dishes at Wagamama and talking about books, books, and more books.

We also spotted two of England's finest thespians while we were walking through the West End: Jude Law and Rupert Friend. (they weren't spotted together. mr. law was walked past us and mr. friend was talking to several people outside a theatre while waiting for their play to resume)

It was hard to end this holiday, but my seat assignment for my journey home made it bearable. Seat 4A, folks. It will probably be the only time in my life that I will travel across the Atlantic with a wine glass in my hand and my legs stretched out completely before me. I see why people say that Business Class is a necessary indulgence.

Peter, this photo was discreetly taken with you in mind:

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

2008-10-15T12:24:00.010-04:00

I returned from my trip to Ireland/N. Ireland/London this past weekend and have loads of adventures to share. So many, in fact, that I think I'll tell my tale in more than one post.

My journey began with an 11 hour layover in Newark on a Thursday. I'm not a huge fan of sitting in awkward pleather chairs for hours on end while being inundated by announcements about watching your luggage, so I took the train into the city and had lunch with my friend Sarah. (quick shout-out for her super blog: www.sarahisabadass.blogspot.com)

Delicious lunch and fantastic conversation - that's what every long layover should include.

I spent my first weekend in Belfast with two good pals: Elizabeth and Ben. We ate good food (a priority for a good holiday), listened to loads of new music and checked out a Belfast band called Ten Gallon Hat & The Big Salute. Great show.

After enjoying a coffee with Elizabeth at Belfast's best local coffee shop, Clements on Royal Ave., I left Belfast for Dublin to meet up with my pal Karen from L.A.

Karen and I spent Tuesday running a few errands in Dublin City Centre before visiting a gorgeous Georgian house just outside of Dublin called Castletown.

Castletown House

I believe this is what Jane Austen had in mind when she described Pemberley.

And here's a nice shot of Autumn on the grounds of Castletown

While in Dublin, I was able to catch up with my friend Anna who just started at Trinity. As Anna is still getting the lay of the land in the way of discovering Dublin's best cups of coffee and spots for dinner, it was important to me that I assist her in searching for her new favorite spots. Our "research" concluded that Bewley's on Grafton Street consistently serves up delish lattes and mochas as well as mixed berry scones.

For dinner on Tuesday night, I insisted that Karen and I meet Anna at an Irish burger place called BoBo's on Camden Street. The place is within walking distance from Anna's new flat and I am sure that she will be back for more BoBo's. (Anna, I think the life changing powers of that burger have yet to be felt). I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a really good burger with a bucket of hand-cut chips.

(I took this photo last year. Bet you never thought of Dublin as a good burger destination!)

On Wednesday Karen and I travelled south to Co. Wicklow to see some of my old favorite spots.

The best Irish shop, Avoca in Co. Wicklow

This isn't actually the shop but it does make for a nice picture. Avoca started way back in the 1700's as a woolen mill and today they still make beautiful scarves and blankets as well as gorgeous food. (and I mean gorgeous. even their soup looks like it came outta Gourmet Magazine)

The Meeting of the Waters, also in Co. Wicklow

Glendalough, another Co. Wicklow gem

On our third and last night in Dublin, Karen and I walked to dinner from our hotel in City Centre. Normally a walk to dinner isn't a highlight of a vacation, but this particular walk sure won't be forgotten by either of us for a very, very long time. Karen is usually very timid about crossing city streets unless pedestrians are given the green light, but for some reason she was especially daring as we crossed a street in front of Trinity College. A woman on a bike came out of the darkness ringing her bell shouting, "On the bike! On the bike!" Seconds later, the woman on the bike was no longer on the bike and Karen was sitting on the curb. The woman on the bike rode away with a torn glove and ripped jeans while Karen hobbled away with a fracture just below her knee and a chipped elbow. I know this because we visited a Dublin hospital the next day where Karen was X-rayed and outfitted with a leg brace that velcroed up the length of her leg and one crutch that looked like an Atari joystick.

Here is Karen post-accident, pre-hospital paraphernalia

And that is where I will leave this story for now.

Eye Give Up

2008-09-23T16:58:00.003-04:00

Apparently I am uber wealthy. Or at least that's what the sign above my head says. I mean, why else would the super-not-so-nice ladies at the eye doctors complex charge me $80 more than they promised my visit would cost? Are twenty dollar bills flying out of my pockets again without me noticing? (like that happened once, ha)

So if any of you out there in Internetland have ever had the joy of ticking the "Self Pay" box on the incredibly long information/insurance/please-sign-your-freedom-over-to-us waiver, you will totally know where I was at approximately 9:45am this morning. I have medical insurance - just not the fancy vision and dental kind. But try telling this to the soft-spoken woman behind the counter manning the clipboards. An eyebrow shoots up. She thinks, "Should I call security?" A distrusting glance is thrown my way. Then she points out the "Self Pay" option on my payment form.

Lady! Relax! Not only will I pay you at the end of this visit, the check will clear and you will have your money by the EOD. That's right! The end of day - as in TODAY!

Now for those of you who nodded your head at the shared memory of also ticking the "Self Pay" box, you will also know that doctors often over-charge insurance companies for everything. Like office visits. This is why it pays to let the kind (but usually not-so-kind) people (usually ladies) manning the reception desk that you do not have *insert specific type* insurance. Usually surrendering this information will lower the cost of your office visit. Unless you go to the blankety-blank eye doctor complex in my town. Then they will charge you more than they said over the phone when you made the appointment and even more than they said when you first signed in with the aforementioned receptionist.

And really, why shouldn't they charge you a small fortune for a nurse to do a full eye exam and a doctor smelling of exotic coffee to breeze in and out of your exam room? They've got a really posh building to pay for! And 47 magazine subscriptions to maintain! And fancy machines to do their work! And don't forget all of those beautiful clipboards! Someone has to pay for it all. And since I have money in offshore accounts that I didn't even know about, I might as well be the one to pony up a small fortune.

Oh well. At least I got new contacts.

Yay for Autumn!

2008-09-22T11:06:00.003-04:00

In honor of the first day of fall, I'm posting a blog entry from the blog I kept while living in Belfast last year.

Here's a tip for those travelling thru Ireland in autumn/fall: fall is not a season but a verb. (Evidence of this gorgeous season in the Mourne Mountains below)

Meghan, This One's For You

2008-09-17T21:22:00.003-04:00

My pal Meghan could be a superstar part-time casting director. She has spotted up-and-coming talent on everything from extras appearing on WB shows (ah, remember that network?), music videos and all kinds of other random places. Me, well I'm not so gifted at the spotting talent game. Until Adrien Brody, that is.

Once I was eating at a restaurant in Silverlake and I spotted Mr. Brody and his mom having dinner. This was pre-Pianist. As a fan of The Thin Red Line, I wanted so badly to go up to the table for two that Mr. Brody occupied and tell him what a fantastic job he did in that film. But I didn't. And then he won an Oscar and kissed Halle Berry.

I won't make that mistake again.

If I ever see Robert Pattinson eating at a restaurant in Silverlake, I will be sure to tell him that I thought he did a great job in Vanity Fair and in Harry Potter. I will tell him all of this because I predict once his little film called Twilight hits theaters in November, he will be a really huge star. Like Jonas Brothers big. I mention the Jonas Brothers because my Robert Pattinson is 22. And I'm - well I'm totally not 22 anymore. But sometimes if it's real dark I still get carded.

The long version of this clip made me laugh so hard because Mr. Pattinson seems very unaffected by Hollywood (pre-Twilight release, folks. Let's see how long that lasts). It is also very funny because it involves a very brave, perhaps very drunk, chick who was totally denied and now that moment lives forever in a little tmz.com video on the Internet. The long version of the clip lives here: http://www.tmz.com/2008/09/05/drunky-to-twilight-hunk-pucker-up-big-boy/

And here is the 14 second money shot:

A Tourist Trap Worth Falling Into

2008-09-11T20:13:00.007-04:00

OK, so this may sound so obvious as a destination for your future trip to Ireland ('cause I'm counting on your coming down with the emerald fever), but I have to give big, big props to the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. It is - in a word - amazing.

The tour is self-guided and is spread over several floors of an old building probably once used for creating that delicious stuff the Irish sometimes call black gold. Once you have paid the 15 Euro fee (for adults), you follow the large black arrows into a dark room. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim lights and for your senses to kick into overdrive as you wonder, "What is that smell? Is that a waterfall I hear?" That joyous smell is of barley, one of the four ingredients used to make Guinness. And yes, that is a waterfall you hear, sort of. It is a ginormous (I'm acting like that is a real word) display of water falling over a glass ceiling that you will walk under, my friend.

There are videos and loads of photos and old artifacts. An entire wing of an upper floor is devoted to old promotional items and adverts.

I save the best part of the tour for last, though. When you finish your leisurely and very educational tour of the Storehouse, you will take either a lift or a flight of stairs to the top of the building where you will be greeted by a FREE pint o' Guinness and this magnificent view:

The waterfall feature:

An old poster on display:

The grand finale:

Promise the next post related to Ireland will not be on the subject of beer or places where you can get beer. In the meantime, if you want to see more of the gorgeous Guinness Storehouse, go here: www.guinness-storehouse.com

Keep Calm and Carry On

2008-09-09T12:50:00.003-04:00

My head has been swirling with thoughts of places and people in the UK and Ireland lately, presumably in preparation for my trip at the end of the month.

I am including an image of this fantastic print created by a UK artist. The slogan serves me well on a daily basis.

The print is a reproduction of a poster produced by the UK ministry of information in 1939. The slogan also appears on T-shirts and bags created by this artist and all items are sold through an online shop.

You can find out more about the artist and the history of the poster here: http://www.keepcalmandcarryon.com/pages/history

The Most Interesting Man in the World

2008-09-07T13:18:00.002-04:00

With all of the mudslinging on TV lately, it is refreshing to spend time with someone as interesting as The Most Interesting Man in the World.

A Pretty Fantastic Place To Lay Your Head

2008-09-02T20:28:00.008-04:00

Hands down, my favourite place to stay in Ireland (Northern Ireland, to be exact) is a place called Clenaghans, located just outside of Belfast. If I didn't have an in with the owners of Clenaghans, there is no way I'd share this little secret with you.

It's a kickin' establishment with one of the best restaurants you've ever visited and 5 absolutely stunning self-service apartments. The small pub adjacent to the restaurant is exactly what you envision an Irish country pub to be: stone walls, corner fireplace burning peat, good banter and endless pints of beer. I honestly cannot praise this place enough to do it justice. Perhaps photos will help my cause?

View from the road

Kitchen & Sitting Area - Apartment 1

Outside View - Apartment 1

Upstairs Kitchen And Sitting Room - Apartment 2

Upstairs Sitting Area - Apartment 2

Oh who am I kidding. My words and these photos do no do this place justice. The remedy? Ring Ivan directly and book yourself a room. Tell him Elisabeth from Habitat sent you.

http://www.clenaghans.com/

A Trip Bourdain Would Envy

2008-09-02T09:12:00.002-04:00

Ok, so I know this isn't a travel blog but since I love to travel you are just gonna have to put up with my nonsense for a few weeks. Why? Because my rents gave me one freaking awesome gift for my 30th b-day. Folks, I'm headed back to Ireland for 2 blessed weeks and as a countdown to this momentous occasion, I will be dreaming about all of my favourite places in Ireland (North AND South!). Lucky for you, this dreaming will all take place here on the glorious World Wide Web.

I'm gathering some photos and info together as we speak (and avoiding my real work for a wee while) and will share these goodies with you soon.

As they say, watch this space. Preferably with a Guinness in hand.

I Like Cake

2008-08-29T09:57:00.002-04:00

29 years ago today, I discovered my love for cake.

Those Epic Music Videos

2008-08-26T15:42:00.002-04:00

Today it is raining buckets (yay!) and it made me think of the video for "November Rain." Oh how I loved that video. Since I've been listening to Muse the past few days, the thought of the video for "November Rain" made me think of this most genius of videos:

Sucked In

2008-08-24T13:08:00.005-04:00

And I do mean that quite literally.

Earlier this month, 2nd of August to be exact, I went to a book release party for Stephenie Meyer's new book, "Breaking Dawn." Unfamiliar with the author or the book, I was informed that "Breaking Dawn" finished a series of 4 very popular books about vampires (mostly good), high school students and the love story Bella and her Edward - a love story to transcend the ages (mostly because vampires are immortal). I had read of Ms. Meyer and her popularity in The New York Times some time back and when the words "youth" and "high school students" were mentioned, I quickly surmised that this series of books would not be for me.

At the release party, my suspicions were temporarily confirmed. As I scanned the very crowded Barnes & Noble looking for the friend who invited me, I saw clusters of middle school and high school kids dressed in everything from A&F polos to head-to-toe black to prom dresses. Yes, prom dresses. It seems these readers really get into character.

My friend and I laughed about how we probably identified more with the parents who brought all of these kids than with our fellow book-release partygoers. But as the night continued, we learned there were many others our age waiting patiently for 12:01 to strike.

There was a contest to celebrate which attendee knew the most about the books, there was a dress contest for the girl who most looked like Bella in her prom dress, and there were homemade T-shirts emblazoned with either "Team Edward" or "Team Jacob." (I quickly wondered if I should have worn a "Team Aniston" or "Team Jolie" shirt to prove that I, too, once held an allegiance to a love triangle that was not my own). Oh the chatter, the constant chatter about characters that seemed more alive than any of us in that store. Heated debates flared around me about who was kinder to Bella - Edward or Jacob? Some of the guys in attendance contemplated the real life of a vampire. Would they shy away from sunlight, as myth would lead us to believe? Would they really not have a taste for soda and pizza or is that just playing into the stories created by frightened farmers living in the Transylvanian countryside?

But then my friend said in all seriousness that she really enjoyed these books and they were really well written. This friend has impeccable taste in books, I must add. I didn't buy "Breaking Dawn" or any of the books that night. Instead I picked up a fantastic biography on Chairman Mao I had been eyeing for quite some time. I did promise that night to read at least Twilight, if not the series.

So with little expectation, I began to read "Twilight," the first book of the series, on Friday night. Today is Sunday and I am a quarter of the way into the second book, "New Moon." (Thanks to another generous friend and fan of the series I was able to borrow the second book yesterday, avoiding the danger of having to wait any time at all before I could continue reading the series).

I must say it is an interesting story Ms. Meyer weaves. Sure the dialogue is at times over-the-top and melodramatic, but that's to be expected of characters in high school. And this Edward seems completely unbelievable at times with his unique talents and gifts, but that's to be expected as well. I think the magic of this book, if you'll pardon the pun, is that the story moves quickly and the writing style feels more like a personal email from your new friend Bella detailing her journey through the murky waters of senior year in a new town. Ms. Meyer doesn't go overboard with physical descriptions of the character, which allows you to slowly draw the faces of each person as the story unfolds. And that explains why so many girls at that release party entered the Bella-look-alike contest. Because they all could have looked like Bella as they read their books.

So if you're just about done with your summer reading list and you are looking for something appropriate for autumn, may I suggest a story of vampires surrounded by the scenery of Washington State?