Sunlight, Daylight
I jog around my neighborhood in uncharted paths, 'til I just can't jog no mo'. I hop around the cracks and puddles in the pavement, and tried to avoid the probing eyes of gardeners as best as I can. Every house I pass is a new fantasy, and every song on my iPod a new soundtrack to the gloriously sunny scenery.
If I can sneak it in -- when I'm sure that nobody is watching -- I find a patch of grass and I do a quick cartwheel. I think about what my dad told me when I was 13. "You better do this 5 times a day, every day, otherwise you will never be able to again." Well, I didn't do it 5 times a day every day, but Dad, I can still do them. He doesn't know that I have always listened to him, even just a little. I also sneak in pirouettes, whenever I can.
On my way back upstairs today, I stopped for a second and considered the pool in our courtyard which I have long thought of as unswimmable. A neighbor I had seen, here and there, popped out. "Ts'alright, you know," he said with an obviously Australian twang. He was wearing a towel around his waist and had just toweled off from a dip.
"I've never thought of this as anything but not swimmable," I confessed.
"But because nobody swims in it, ts'actually quite clean, and it just needs painting." Good logic there.
Eventually we were chatting amiably about the usual. How long he lived there (2 months), the business he runs out of his house (odds and ends for chicks), his girlfriend (the one), his divorce (so he knows the difference), his time spent in Australia and New Zealand (most of his life). "How odd," I thought aloud, "I have a friend who's pretty into Australia and New Zealand." Daniel insisted that I bring Justin over for beer. He then told me that if I were ever in need of herbs, I should come down and help myself. And that if I wanted to eat lamb, he could make a killer marinade. Then I took a quick look at a bookcase inside his office which displayed all the girly products that his business sells.
Eventually, Ann from upstairs stopped by with her two dogs, and so did Gilbert (zheel-BEHR). I have lived here almost one year and had only carried real conversations with Josh, the guy across the way who smokes so much he looks like the undead. But today, everybody was in high spirits and Manning Place started to look more like Melrose Place.
Only, I don't think anybody is plotting murder just yet. I'll give it a few weeks.
Moonlight, Candlelight
The options in life can be staggering. Truthfully, somebody is always watching out for you -- even when you least expect it. Eve said a few things to me, a few years ago, that to this day I still have not forgotten. She told me about timing in life. She spoke about friends and networks in terms of trees and branches. And I have thought about that so much in the last few months, all the while, thinking, you never quite know what kind of longevity your statements or other people's statements have, once it's uttered. I marvel at the impact that things said in passing have had on my life, and am pleased too at the prospect that something I may have said, may still reverberate in someone's mind.
Anyway, it's far too late to discuss this in detail. But this was an excellent Monday night for meeting old friends, making new ones, and for looking ahead.
I Scream, You Scream
I was walking along, minding my business, when out of the blue colored sky, flash, bam, alacazam, there was one of those ice cream men pushing along a refrigerated cart with tons of ice cream bar stickers on them. I suspected this from 100 yards back when I heard the tinkling bells. Hot damn, I thought, perfect for this gorgeous summer day. I stopped him for a moment.
"Tienes todos estos aqui?" I indicated to the wide array of tacky stickers plastered across the box.
He indicated that he did, except for the Spider Man Bomb Pop. But the Big Sticks, ice cream sandwiches, Nutty Buddies, Chocolate Eclairs, Strawberry Shortcakes -- all fair game.
"Dejame ver el Pink Panther, prendo esto," I said. (Only now do I realize "prender" was wrong for Spanish, correct for Italian.) He took out a few bars and showed me the Pink Panther Bomb Pop, along with the Power Puff Girls and the Ninja Turtles. He laid them out across the top of the fridge door. Fortunately, they all had bubble gum eyes, but were a few different flavors.
It seemed fine to me. So I handed him a dollar, unpeeled my pop, and proceeded along the sidewalk thinking, wow, I'm never too old to be ridiculous.
I thought, what would be perfect with this Bomb Pop but some sashimi and tempura? At Sushi Masu, the sushi chef hooked me up with two extra pieces of salmon and told me with a wink that this was to make sure I'd come back. I love sharp business moves disguised as hospitality. I gave him swift assurances and proceeded along, thinking, wow, the smallest things make my day.
I came home to find a movie playing on TV that had Monty Clift, Elizabeth Taylor, and Katharine Hepburn all in the cast. How could I not place this? I wondered. I had no clue whatsoever even though I've read two different Liz Taylor biographies. I thought Monty Clift's reconstructive plastic surgery looked creepy. So, without checking IMDB, I turned it off and ate my shrimp tempura.
OK, enough lollygagging.
Nessun Dorma, Least of All Me
I told Inna once that I couldn't fall asleep unless "Three's Company" was on. Unfortunately, that never creeps around until the second hour of the new day. Just what is so damn calming about Jack Tripper's foibles, I don't know. But I've always been greatly attracted to the mindless.
I tried to get to sleep hours ago, with fond hopes to energize for what promises/threatens to be a very full day tomorrow. And then, lying on my back staring at the ceiling fan, I thought, "
Fock it" and just crept towards the computer. Don't blog, don't blog, I told myself, trying to spare online media storage of another prattling entry, full of nothing. I did well by working on some Bar stuff. But then... all closure in my life, whether they be experiences or just the day, finds itself in writing.
We were at Cafe Tartine tonight, which I was so pleased with. There were four diners in the entire restaurant, and we had the whole front room to ourselves. It was so French, right down to the perfect portions and Coq au Vin on the menu. I passed up wine at that meal, just to come home and find that another couple of bottles had opened here as well. I passed up that round, too.
Off to bed sans vin. Somehow I began thinking about the past again, and the idea that nothing could or should matter as much, as it did back then.
Now how vague is that? So you see what I mean about avoiding late-night blogging...
But, good news: "Three's Company" is on. Bonne nuit.
Have Shoes, Will Travel
Paul once spent three days with me in Nashville and was patient and chivalrous as I tried to hunt down the perfect piece of fried chicken. So it was with automatic delight that I went to see him get hitched, in what was probably the social event of the season for our long-departed law school crowd.
Without having been told, Paige and I knew we were charged with the task of reconnoitering information for our Denver office. So, armed with this season's strappy heels and spring season handbags, we pulled our plus ones to the Mission Valley Marriott. Traffic congestion on the 5 forced us to arrive fashionably late. Luckily, the only real repercussion of tardiness was getting the flotsam and jetsam of the shrimp cocktail tray. More luckily than that, I'm a staunch believer that extra cocktail sauce can remedy just about anything.
And we were not so late that we could not "celebrate good times, come on" when it began blaring on the speakers. So we made the rounds with those people that had once been a part of our daily legal eaglery*, shaking hands and exchanging half-hugs and nodding ever so politely. Many in utero babies and new platinum bands on ring fingers. And a host bar at a wedding always makes the progression of the party seem like Rome burning down. (Anybody see
Quo vadis?)
I also thought that the tossing of the bridal bouquet was rigged. I was vehemently waved onto the dancefloor to participate, with impatient "what's wrong with you?" gestures. There were three "botched" throws and redos, before the bouquet plopped onto the patch of floor in front of me and the girls formed a small opening to allow me to grab it. "What the hell," I thought, and snatched the wilting white roses, flinging it up in dejected victory.
Back at our table, the antics were picking up. Chris, Paige, Justin and I had some kind of nonsensical conversation about arm hair. I was jocking Justin's shirt. Justin W.'s male buddy-cum-date** was slowly becoming
la vie de la fete, complete with Russian accent, and the waiter forced us to concede that he was a Jeff Foxworthy incarnate. I spent ten minutes trying to figure out what you called meat cooked in pastry before asking Cirrus once and for all, who folded her napkin in her lap and answered politely, "Wellington." But I believe the best part of all was being ribbed once again by Dean, something dearly lacking in my life in the last year.
We were neglecting a whole other part of the San Diego posse so, at Cirrus's predictably perfect suggestion, we headed to the JBar downtown. The last I remembered, the area was a sprawl of decrepit warehouses, but now it was a confectionery of brightly colored buildings wrapping Petco Park. I blinked, and there was Erik and Natalia. And eventually we were all upstairs and I was passing cocktails around. Bluish lighting, full-bodied Shiraz, a sea of best buddies, with the promise of Cantina in the morning.
The next morning, efficiently planned logistics found us all seated together at Cantina in Pacific Beach. After I got caffeinated, all the stories told were making me giggle. Nothing better than talking shit and shop over protein scrambles and organic coffee. The only thing I regretted that morning was not knowing that the sour cream was actually horseradish cream sauce for my roast beef hash. I didn't even take one bite of beef with that horseradish cream, and now the recent jonesing for prime rib is acutely worse.
We headed back to Big Bad LA by way of Coronado and PCH. I thought about my books waiting for me at home, so lonesome and clamoring to be opened. I won't tell them where I went, though. They'd only be jealous.
* Thanks, J., was this non-exclusive?
** Forgive me, J.
Fitness Comes First
It was one of those weekends that will go down in memory as one of a kind, that one you look back on in many great stories. Years will go by and I'll speak of the weekend in June where we did so much. And so I am presently frustrated that instead of looking back with colorful imagery and fanciful descriptions, I am instead more preoccupied with some indefinable, inconsolable amount of stress.
I feel as if I want to just fall back somewhere and be caught. I would never say this out loud. (But I'll put it online.) Maybe it's just lack of quality sleep that's talking. Maybe this Forensic Files marathon is really becoming a downer. Maybe all the driving around Southern California today has turned me officially batty. And it's just all this that leads me to imagine myself like the burnt end of a candle.
I had a lot of great conversations this weekend, things laughed at secretly and openly. I had a few introspective exchanges that I desperately hope do not turn me into a cynic. There are people I miss and people I do not wish to see, along with the understanding that this week, I cannot see the people I miss and will have to see the people I do not wish to see.
I think tomorrow, I will do justice to the past two days and properly blog it. When you check back, you will be pleased because I'll definitely give it a glittering review. But right now? I guess I just need some rest.
One thing I know for sure: this week, things will change.
The Perfect Woman
Yesterday's bonne surprise was a postcard from Egypt, or as my foreign friend says, Egitto.
Today I talked with Friend, who had to endure The Breakup Conversation with one of two girls he's dating. Friend broke it down thusly: she did all the "right things" and was therefore exactly not his type.
"What are the 'right things'?" I needed to know.
"The right things are stopping after two drinks; needing to study for med boards; calling me and asking 'how my day was'; being concerned about me."
I was sort of alarmed. The "wrong things", and accordingly, the ones attractive to him, are when she can drink like a sailor, is quirky, off the cuff and easy... going.
I felt that I was sort of doomed. Am I one of those "right things" girls? Have I lost my edge? By doing those "right things," inadvertently or not, have I entered an age bracket of women who are pleasant, well-meaning, and pathetically in search of The One (or The Juan, as Friend says)? But on the flip side, how much longer can you be the vomiting party girl with the lower back tattoo that is so old it's sporting stretch marks? It's not like that girl has so much fulfillment either as her head hangs over the bed wondering why she drank so much Grey Goose the night before. (That's a random example, I'm not at all talking about the Montmartre thing.) Right things, wrong things, I'm still convinced that a girl can really have it all and be it all, at any age. It's Friend who has to catch up!
So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head.
Step outside, summertime's in bloom.
Stand up beside the fireplace,
Take that look from off your face.
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out.- Oasis
Insomniac Music Theatre
Time moves too slowly, too quickly, but it's inexorable and it begs me to get to sleep. But I can't. And when I was in college I would watch the VH1 Insomniac Music Theatre with the boys one floor below me, but these days I can't even find it on TV unless I awake at some ungodly hour. And as I tossed and turned in my all-white bed tonight (the lack of color which is ordinarily calming), I thought, I have to create my own little insomniac theater. I have to entertain myself and lull myself to slumber, because nothing else appears to work.
For a few days now, I have devoted a lot of thought to prime rib. I just want to eat it so badly and I want someone to go with me. Right now, it seems like the funnest and greatest thing in the world.
I never should have had that double decaf Americano tonight at Novel Cafe. You know, decaf is really just less caf.
Sleep well... when you finally do.
Rio, Sydney, or Marc Jacobs?
Janet asked me if I wanted to go to Rio in August. Josie asked me if I wanted to go to Sydney in December. I asked myself if I wanted Marc Jacobs in June. There are no right answers here, just many more hours of work ahead to justify even one of those options.
This morning I remembered the day where I was at the Mercato delle Gaite in Bevagna, about three years ago, this time of year. I was the only Chinese person there, prompting a kid to run from me screaming to his mother that I had almond-shaped eyes ("Lei ha occhi a mandorle!"). We sat at long communal tables to eat and they served us pre-made food that was heavily salted and supposedly traditional medieval fare. I also took a couple of pictures with goats.
Last night, I woke up spontaneously around 4:30 am and thought that I was in a hotel somewhere not here. It either felt like I would be getting up to the take the Bar exam or getting up to board a plane at Stansted. Whatever it was, I had to get the Brady Bunch on TV Land to help me get back to sleep.
I'm also glad that Jennifer Aniston is finally going to
come clean about the breakup. After seeing Mrs. Smith, you can't help but draw the same conclusion that Mr. Smith would not have been able to resist. She's frickin' Lara Croft, man. Brad found himself the only woman in the world who was more fit, more thin, and with a bigger rack than Jennifer Aniston.
Yesterday we had sloppy joes, grilled cheese, and deviled eggs sitting on a park bench in Culver City. Just slightly unusual. I liked it.
Fighting Words
I'm pretty pissed right now. They posted the sample answers for the February Bar exam and, frankly, they look similar to the ones I spit out. With the mediocre scores they tossed to me, I would have thought that I missed the boat on a couple of the essay questions. But I hit the right issues, especially given the fact that they post two sample answers per question that indicate the slight variation you could have taken. And I don't know that my answers were sufficiently exhaustive -- I'm picking them up soon at the accursed office downtown -- but I am frustrated thinking of the scores they gave me, that boiled down to a couple of subtleties making all the difference in the world. This is just proof that you can't go in there taking chances. Two issues missed in an essay will fail you. A paragraph you didn't get to will sink you for sure.
Oh, well.
That notwithstanding, I had a very good weekend. Tina and I were cruising around in her new Prius on Friday night, in search of I don't know what. (Note: I will never go to the Grand Lux Cafe again. Terrible.) I promised my friend I'd go to the ho-and-thug party he was promoting, but we showed up too late for guest list action and the $20 cover charge offended me. More distasteful than that was the attitude of the girl holding the clipboard, who seemed nauseatingly proud of her sherpa bomber jacket and True Religion jeans. And then we nixed the idea of Trader Vic's, which makes for about eight missed meetings this week with Ramon. Most importantly, Tina was determined to show me every little bell and whistle on the Prius that she overpaid for. Turning up the volume on her JVC sound system was a multi-step affair that involved voice activation and repeated attempts to enunciate, "Raise volume," while she arched her neck towards some speaker by the sun visor. Eventually, I just turned the knob up a hair. Tina-Eugena-Gina-Astrid, whatever her name is, is truly one of a kind.
I rarely, if ever, hit up the Valley, and Saturday presented a rare and welcome opportunity. Marrakesh had bad wine but good chicken, Cozy's had better wine and great live music. The party followed me back to my place. And if there's anything I like, it's being a good hostess.
Afternoon AsideI believe, deep down, that this is what we all want. Especially if you understand Spanish.
Para amarte necesito una razón
y es difícil creer
que no existe una mas que este amor
sobra tanto dentro de este corazón
que a pesar de que dicen
que los años son sabios
todavía se siente el dolor
Porque todo el tiempo que pase junto a ti
dejo tejido su hilo dentro de mi.
Y aprendí a quitarle a tiempo los segundos
tu mi hiciste ver el cielo mas profundo
Junto a ti creo que aumente mas de tres kilos
con tus tantos dulces besos repartidos
Desarrollaste mi sentido del olfato y
fue por ti que aprendí a querer los gatos
Despegaste del cemento mis zapatos
para escapar los dos volando un rato
Pero olvidaste una final instrucción
porque aun no se como vivir sin tu amor
Y descubrí lo que significa una rosa
me enseñaste decir mentiras piadosas
para poder a verte en horas no adecuadas
Y a reemplazar palabras por miradas
y fue por ti que escribí mas de cien canciones
hasta perdone tus equivocaciones
y conocí mas de mil formas de besar
y fue por ti que descubrí lo que es amar
lo que es amar... - S. Mebarak
Pass the Fat, Thanks
What I wouldn't do for some bucatini right now.
When I think about it, last night's dessert was pure evil. It amounted to each person eating an egg, an ounce of chocolate, two tablespoons of butter, and two tablespoons of sugar. All I picture is dropping the stick of butter in the double boiler. But we had salmon and asparagus before that, which I believe is squarely within the Zone. To my fellow diners who regret the moment on the lips effecting a lifetime on the hips, I apologize for the extra mile you will run to keep your physique. But I know that none of us would have passed up that delectable warm chocolate souffle.
When I think about it some more, and on a different topic, my dad is like Mariah Carey. First of all, they both sing. I admit Mariah has more fans than my father. But more striking than that, is that they both spent the bulk of their youth working their asses off and now they are able to enjoy the spoils, and just work as much as it pleases them. I have thought a lot about them both in the past couple of days. Of course, not always as a team.
Happy weekend, amici miei.
Moi et Toi
In French class yesterday, we were practicing our "oi" sounds. Moi, toi, choissir, pourquoi. Our instructor referred to Miss Piggy as having popularized the word "moi" in American consciousness. I smiled, but another student stared at her blankly.
Rather than move on, she caught his vacuous, almost haughty look. "Don't you know Mees Peegy?" she asked him.
He was a very tall Indian gentleman who, from our class conversational exercises, I know works in the beauty industry. "No," he said curtly, shaking his head dismissively, "I grew up in another country." He said it with the air of somebody whose time was really being wasted by such an absurd thought. He sort of folded one hand over the other as if to appear impatient.
I thought that Miss Piggy was an interesting topic to derail class with, and at the same time, an even more interesting item to appear highbrow about. I, for one, remember being a fobby little kid wondering what the hell Miss Piggy was wah-wahing about. A time when I didn't even speak English that well.
Today, I invested more than a few minutes contemplating my personal sense of accomplishment. I felt that, in recent memory, I do not have many accomplishments to speak of. Perhaps that is what sends me racing to the kitchen to tool around, because everytime I cook something I achieve a fine sense of completion and capability. And then I acknowledged that these small victories are taking me away from what I should be focusing on. So then I scribbled down some mantras in my Bar notes, things that are forcing me to heavily reprioritize. You know, the kind of thing that others accidentally see and smirk at because they think you're a nutcase.
A friend told me today, that what it all boils down to is "a numbers game."
Another friend told me that I make things sound so fun.
And, a third friend told me that it only takes two weeks for something to become a habit.
Well, none of those things are related, except that it all meant a lot to me today.
Briefly
Spinning and spinning, round the West Side, planning it all out. The sun beating down only on my left arm. The best damn chicken quesadilla and having had sour cream in three straight meals. Lecons quatre et cinq, c'est tres magnifique. Off to Beverly Hills and back to Westwood for a cappuccino. Things shifting around over there in Pasadena. Cell phone a reliable bearer of surprises. Late night luxury trips.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.- Keane
Honey Blonde and Medium Rare
I don't want to tire of liking Father's Office (the bar, not our backyard in Diamond Bar), but Justin nearly changed that today. To me, arriving there with the crowd is part of the alluring hubbub. Getting your spot in line and scooting quickly into a table makes you a part of the "in" crowd. The promise of the signature burger you hadn't had in months actually adds mystique to waiting. Languishing in the glossy beech toned booths, sipping ice cold light beer, awaiting your aged beef burger is an entirely Zen experience. And the best part is being there as the after-work crowd trickles in, as a sort of contained rabid hunger evolves into the chortling of happy hour.
But asking Justin if he liked it opened a Pandora's box of opinions. "It used to be cool. But now it's so crowded. You can't get a table. Too many people go there now so it's some kind of scene. Now I only go there if I really crave the burger. Horny Devil's a good beer for girls 'cuz it gets them really drunk."
Oh. Well, yes, I guess that's another version of the same story.
Today, I kept thinking, I've heard it all before.
I've heard it all before. And I stared straight ahead with the heavy-liddedness of a fatigued mind. Life is just one long lecture.
And now, a special feature for today:
Diplomacy Award of the Day to Jose L., Jr. Karen: He said, "It's funny how women think men are stupid."
Karen: I said, "Most men are stupid."
Karen: He said, "Well, most women are whores."
Karen: What do you think of that?!
Jose: What do I think of that?
Jose: I agree with both of you.
Leave 'Em Laughing, Then You Go
On account of work this morning, I had the heartiest laugh I've had in a long time. The sad part is that it was unintentionally funny. So I've got to study really hard (once again) to get into this profession, one that is filled with so many preposterous moments that the best thing you can do is laugh about it.
I've made very productive use of MSN Messenger this week. The world really is getting smaller every day, and I can conduct almost anything from the console of my desk. Tippity-tap, now I've been introduced to a new French contact. Clickety-clack, two defendants are being served in Fresno County. OK, I've run out of sound effects, but I really have accomplished a ton more stuff with this keyboard today.
I also spent so much time trying to get some "Wicked" tickets, all to no avail. It's almost competely sold out, and the tickets left are out of my price range. But my interest was piqued and I iTuned Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. Boy, can Idina wail. Really wail.
Yesterday almost totally sucked, but I got to go to Father's Office again, and that part was very nice, indeed.
Morning AsideNot to be callous or anything, but who cares about the Laguna landslide? They have been covering this nonsense all morning on KTTV and as a result, I can't watch
I Love Lucy. I suppose this is a matter of public concern, but to be realistic, this is the type of news that really takes just a few minutes to report. No excessive footage of collapsed roofs and architectural rubble is particularly engaging or some ratings grabber.
And Lucy was in Hollywood, too. Geez.
