Photo Diary

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

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

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?

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

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.

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

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.