A New Morning Ritual

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

(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?

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

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

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

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

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.