Live From La La Land

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

The S Matters

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.'"

Photo Diary

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.

The Girl With Pineapple Juice In Her Purse

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.

Three Decades Worth of Thought

For a lot of people, the start of a new year is cause for reflection. You know the drill - regrets, achievements and resolutions all washed down with a thin glass of bubbly. I've never been huge on resolutions, though. Sometimes I consider declaring the upcoming year to be the year I will try to learn more French or I will learn piano. While I may say these things to myself, I never say them out loud to other people. I treat such statements as guidelines or a gee-that-would-be-nice goal. Life is too short to stress out about resolutions made while a stereo blasts Prince in the background and you wear a paper tiara.

But birthdays are another matter. To be completely honest, I've been dreading this year's birthday (30) for over a year. Now, I know what you're thinking, 30 isn't such a big deal! In fact your thirties are the time in your life when you finally come into your own. It's not the number that fills my stomach with dread but rather where I am in life.

Before I moved to Belfast, I thought about what I would do once my year abroad ended. Would I return to L.A.? Would I move to another city? Or would I move back home to S.C. I felt that I had missed too many things in the lives of my sister and brother and that I would welcome a holiday that didn't involve LAX, so I chose to move back to S.C. While I am glad to be near my family, I feel completely like a fish out of water in my hometown. It seems that no one wants to hire a girl from L.A. who worked in the record industry for a time. And they certainly don't want to hire a girl who volunteered for a year for Habitat for Humanity in a country that, to them, doesn't really seem to need a lot of help. This market is too small for event planners and youth marketing specialists and guerilla marketing agencies. It is a round hole and I am a square peg.

In just under two weeks time I will turn 30. I will be living in my brother's old room in my parent's house. I will probably have no new freelance work lined up and, since my temp agency seems to be M.I.A., no temp work on the calendar. My dwindling savings account will continue to dwindle and the maintenance-required light will still be shining in my Civic. I will celebrate without my brother and sister because they are in the habit of doing other things on August 29th.

But honestly, who needs a house of one's own at 30 or a corner office or a picture-perfect family sitting like ducks in a row on the front pew of church? Who needs a BlackBerry bedazzled with crystals or a Polo-clad boyfriend driving a Range Rover? Not me.

No, I will enjoy things they way they are because I know this is exactly where I am supposed to be right now. I am thankful for the opportunity to get to know my parents even better that I could have living 3,000 miles away. I am thankful for the wee bit of freelance work that has come my way. I am glad to be rid of selfish and unkind friends. And I am so very honored for the incredible friends I have scattered across The States and Northern Ireland.

Besides, I hear 30 is the new 19 or something like that.

The Wall That Sue Built

Yesterday I received this photo from a friend I shall call Sue. The arch is feature of a wall Sue is building as part of a dry-stone-walling symposium. You may see a bunch of rocks cleverly stacked to form a pretty wall with a curved opening. I see courage and ambition.

You see, a year ago Sue decided to pursue a rather obscure hobby called dry stone walling. In the States we don't see much of this art form outside of New England and pastoral parts of Kentucky. Most of our stone walls are held together with mortar and usually conceal a row of neatly placed cinder blocks. And you won't see lots of stone walls establishing the perimeter of ranches or gardens - that's what picket fences are for. But in the UK and Ireland, stone walls rule. And many of these walls don't require a drop of cement to stand tall and strong for hundreds of years. Instead, stones are stacked in such a way as to prevent the occasional cow from tipping the whole thing over.

Sue, it turns out, has always had an eye for stone masonry and a fire in her belly for running her own business. These two things haven't always been at the forefront of her mind, though. Right after university she pursued another hobby as a career and had a terrific run at that for a long season of her life. That season has now ended and she hopes to continue working in a field that she is passionate about even if the odds are, pardon the pun, stacked against her.

So this idea of pursuing a unique hobby isn't a new one. And certainly the idea of turning a hobby into a career isn't a novel idea, either. But it is a rare thing indeed to see someone dig up the courage to leave their home in a beloved city and move back to their childhood home in an effort to to pursue what they really want even if that means starting over. Since she made the decision last year not to settle for just any career, Sue has attended several conferences and symposiums where she has built a large ramp, created a diving wall to keep sheep in place and restored an old cemetery wall.

Sue and I both know that the business of being self-employed is not an easy one - we have our mothers' examples to teach us that. But I am so thankful to have a friend walking the exact same road I am taking at this time. It seems that when either of us is, again pardon my pun, at a wall, we have the other to lean on.