An Arkansas [Re]treat

It was a journey back to the homeland; a place where no direct flight dares to go, and apparently, where your checked bag doesn't either. Ten minutes upon touching down, we barreled through blackness somewhere between Little Rock and the middle of nowhere. Grandma sat shotgun, already lulled to sleep by the cadence of the interstate. The moon offered glimpses of farmland and rice fields that seemed to stretch for miles, and I felt an instant sense of place. The land felt foreign, and yet brought with it an overwhelming sensation of comfort. And I was so very thankful for so many things, not least of which was a Zimbabwean companion courageous enough to join me on this particular voyage. 

The next 72 hours served up a dollop of joy: an abundance of Southern food (complete with pickled veggies and sweet tea), world record pole vaulting, cold beer, Spanish (err... Spanglish), Razorback football, redneck dancing, foot rubs, live music… all of which were surrounded by fabulous family and dear friends. And set to the soundtrack of James Taylor (at least, that's what played in my head). I saw myself desperate to take in every last bit of it, not stopping short with the last song heard on the radio before boarding my flight (you know there’s magic in the air when Mr Big, “To Be with You” tugs at your soul).

And of course… I managed to capture some of the spirit.

Pole vaulting 101 from world-class Olympians.

Imraan claimed the southern accent emerged just as fast as my sense of nostalgia. I say… that’s malarkey.

A trip to White Water Tavern. 

And surprise visit to see Tony Roncketto at the Thirst and Howl. He has the moves like Jagger.



A quick game of the original Guess Who over brunch. 

Until next time, ‘sas. You are quite the motherland. For that and all it entails, I am very, very #thankful.

A Chance Possum Sighting

It had been a long week. In a land that once felt foreign, but that had begun to seem more familiar than anywhere else I call home these days. I’d made it back to LA after a five-hour flight, past an airport full of costumes, to the delightful quiet of my patio. I could smell the ocean, and at this late hour, I could hear the waves crashing on the beach. I let my elbows rest on the ledge of the patio, and my mind started to float away…slowly powering down… unwinding from the never-ending tornado of details and to-dos that take me hostage through the work weeks.

Just past my immediate vision, I made out movement. I focused my gaze downward, beyond my railing, and although I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I saw a slow oscillation. It was white, and glowed against the darkness. Was it a grocery bag or an animal? There weren’t animals at the beach. There was life to it. I squinted hard, focusing for a solid moment in time until I gasped. It was alive. And there it was… a POSSUM! A possum sighting! My first in years. Slowly, it made its way along the neighborhood halfway house, and under their community van. I crossed the patio to get a better look. From behind the front tire, it peered its dopey head out. I hissed. It ducked. I jumped up and down. There was a flutter of scurrying. Come on little possum. Show me your white snout. I need to see it. I have… to... see… you. A few seconds later, it emerged into the dim street light, its eyes reflecting in my direction as it made its way back into the night. 

And that was all it took . The beach possum that lifted me from my state of exhaustion and indifference to curiosity and wonder.     

From Zero to Sixty - Hey Hey, LA!

It occurred to me this afternoon that this Labor Day holiday marked sixty days since I set foot in California, an amount of time that seems substantial and also lightening quick. To me, it's right about now that you should really begin settling into your new digs, stop taking wrong exits, and start finding your new groove at work (or at least learning everybody's names).

If I was a car, my performance score leading up to 60 mph would be pretty legit.

 - Number of sushi outings - five.
- Nine sock buns sported, some more sizable than others.
- Two clown sightings, one doing physical activity, strangely.
- One leopard jumpsuit worn and owned.
- First designer bag purchased! I feel beyond badass with my new Kate Spade.
- One discovery of a super cheap and talented shoe-repair guy.
- A dozen jogs on the beach, one barefoot. The latter does not come recommended.
- Six round-trip flights in and out of LAX. Enter the land of frequent flier status.
- One California driver's license earned; California tags received. One subsequent custom melody invented out of my license plate letters.
- Half a dozen crosswords completed, minimal cheating used.
- One solid bond formed with a canine named Bumble Bee.
- Two sets of out-of-state visitors hosted. Both emerged unharmed.
- One professional photo taken. First airbrushed action.
- Two trips to the Culver City stairs, an outdoor climb that puts any stair-stepper to shame.
- One Desperate Housewives character sighting.
- Eight episodes of Dexter watched.
- One weekend escape to a mansion in Santa Barbara.
- Countless sunsets taken in.
- One hike in Malibu with my former ballerina roommate.
- Four pedicures, three of them decent.
- One Miami Vice party hosted.
- One visit to the Getty Villas. One Egyptian mummy viewed and appreciated.
- Thirteen neighbors acquainted with, several on a beer-drinking level.
- One game of beach bocce ball attended.
- Number of neighbor's cars damaged by your garage door opening into it - one.
- One trip to Huntington Beach
- Half a dozen baked potatoes consumed.
- One mouse (or rat) sighting. Fortunately far from the beach, so I can stay off of countertops... for now.
- Three Breaking Bad episodes devoured.
- One profanity-laced client conversation endured.
- Hours of my life lost in traffic.

Seemingly a great snapshot of what's to come. And we don't even have Imraan yet!

In hot pursuit of a place called home.

The feeling of "home" is an interesting emotion, one which seems to fade in your 20's... especially, if you're like me and move from city to city. I remember when I lived in Arkansas, the company I was interning for actually did field research on this idea of home; in many instances, people didn't describe a physical place, but instead, a feeling of being near family, or otherwise emotional connections they had with the people, the culture, etc. For me, a self-admitted literalist, it's perhaps always been more about a physical place (and sometimes certain foods, like loaded baked potatoes). But as I've moved far away from my home town - the past few times on my own - one of the first things I find myself relentlessly seeking, is that irreplaceable comfort and sense of place.

This past week, as I've continued to yet another city - one which I cursed, badmouthed and looked down on for a good portion of my adult life - I found myself starting to open up to the possibility that Los Angeles could someday get there. 

The operative word being, possibility. LA definitely has a long way to go. A resident for all of 9 days, it's been entertaining and intimidating getting acquainted with my new digs. Things feel alien from any place I've ever resided, comical in myriad ways, and mostly, like a permanent vacation. Some of my initial observations might take some settling-in to, in good ways, and some less-so. 

Like being fully clothed in my beach neighborhood - very uncouth. Talking on the phone while driving - not allowed! Or the reality that everything actually is overly picturesque and beautiful -- and we're talking everything... hedge-lined grocery cart holder lanes, ornate bus stops the size of my bedroom, you name it.

Or dumpster diving - a completely acceptable full-time gig (although it shouldn't be hard to get these heathens on my side, given my glass consumption track record). Surf boards decorate most cars. Streets are silly names, like Sepulveda and Rosecrans. Parking and traffic - of utmost importance and integral in every conversation I'd had so far. 

And there are also the things I can get used to, of course... like super, super friendly neighbors, and lobster abundance [so long as you avoid the innards]... 

...Mountainside and beachside jogging paths...

...And patio-time on steroids (epic location for crosswording).

So far from where I sit, it feels a lot more like a quaint beach town than that of the bustling metropolis of Los Angeles. If I can keep it that way... we might have some real promise for a beautiful friendship. 

A lesson I've learned already - things aren't always only what they seem. And it doesn't hurt to eat a baked potato, too. Just in case.

The Underworld: A Ballad for the Oriental Iguana

There are actually no words.

My bulletproof week. Well, theoretically.

It’s been a while since I’ve set aside the time to write. I don’t plan to bore you with the justifications. But leave it to the universe to pull me out of my voiceless comfort zone, and to throw me a few bones this week.

And with bones comes a great story.

I’m lucky to be alive. No seriously. I seem to have mastered the artistry of cheating death. I’m not kidding. Not once. But twice. IN ONE WEEK people.

[Insert dreamy harp sound effect.]

There I was on a Sunday morning, an innocent trail runner and a pathetic-looking one at that. Not unlike writing, it’d been a while, so I found myself clumsy on the loose gravel, each stride coming down harder than the one before. It was Mother’s Day, and I was determined to do a number of things in honor of Suzie Bell, my fabulous mother. The first on the agenda, naturally, was running.

Groggy from the morning, I was tuned into my favorite NPR podcast, Radiolab, and thoroughly tuned out of my surroundings. It wasn’t until I’d made it half way that I noticed the flit of black specs darting in and out of my line of vision – one, then two, then three, four… A flash realization jolted my mush brain awake, and a montage of news stories citing killer bee attacks in Arizona began to play.

What do I know, what do I know, what do I know? Bees… They will sting you and send signals to the other bees and kill you... 40 stings kill a man… or is it 50? You can out run them… can’t you?  RUNNING. You can outrun them. They’re not distance bees. Something about ¼ of a mile… No time… I think one just stung my elbow…

I was like a flash of lightening released into the Arizona wilderness,  with fear in my heart and a dangerous level of hope that I could beat the bees. At one point I remember rotating my head backwards to see if I’d gained distance from the hive, and I could see their dotted outlines still close on my tail. That was the moment I pulled out my headphones, got serious and ran full speed ahead. It was one of those surreal moments that I recall (a) being one of my easiest runs of all times, likely a personal record for pacing and (b) a moment in which pride and grace was thrown to the wayside. I didn’t stop running until a few miles later, and I’m pretty sure I shouted warnings like “killer bees!!” and “run a quarter of a mile!!” to unsuspecting passerbys.

But by the time I reached my car, I was alive. And my getaway dive into the driver’s seat was nothing short of the caliber you’d see in a James Bond movie.

Fast forward from Sunday to Wednesday morning.  A mere three days later. I approached my vehicle, again in the early seven o’clock hours. Only to find I’d been the survivor of a drive by shooting. And Sam (the car, for those who somehow don’t know! )… Sam was the victim of this battle.

Yes, those are bullets. Also a victim, the nearby Palm Tree... 

But after a little CPR...

... We were back in business. 

Turns out, the entire street got shot up -- old cars, new cars, black cars, white ones, green ones. It felt reminiscent of a war zone as I gazed down the palm-lined street in the aftermath; each victim had its wounds exposed, their once intact shells glistening beneath them in remains of broken glass and rubble.

It brings the question of chance, and random occurances to front. Why was I, the innocent hiker, chosen by this swarm of bees? Why was my car selected as one of the few to shoot in the street? Why was the street itself selected? Why this night, when half the days of the month I'm not even home?

I just might have gotten my curiosity back. 

The LADY IN RED. My muse. Or my siren.

In my overly rational (well, mostly) life, I don't often chalk up occurrences to fate, or tell myself "it was supposed to happen." No, a lot of time there's a very good reason for the way things happen in our lives. We make decisions and choices, and sometimes a coincidence occurs. But this one... this one is different.

EXT. PHOENIX STREET - SUNRISE.

I'm driving to work, not unlike most mornings, with NPR occupying my audio capacity, and my mind holding hopeful focus on all the things I hope to accomplish in the day. My commute is short, ridiculously short, really. Depending on the single traffic light, it could take anywhere from three to five minutes. I find myself cruising through the green traffic light, celebrating the victory of catching it, and seeing a red figure ahead. Not wearing my glasses, it was a distant red blur until I came nearer. Enter LADY IN RED. (This made me pull in a picture of the Lady Chablis, but of course this isn't her.)

She possessed a powerful stopping power... and a vibrancy separate from the standard transient crowd in downtown Phoenix. It should be noted that this is coming from a girl not wearing her correctional eye gear and prior to having her coffee. Cherry red high-top sneakers. Faded red denim jeans. A red knit blouse. A mahogany cane with an exaggerated arc for her grip. And a glimmering tiara, to glamorize the look. She had posture that reminded you of some sort of royalty, and at the exact same time, she had a toughness that screamed mobster.

On this first encounter, I simply paused. No work. No NPR. Just genuine curiosity about this very unique character that for whatever reason, encapsulated me for that moment. On the walk from my car into the office, I wondered where she'd been, and where she was going.


EXT. PHOENIX STREET - SUNSET.

I found myself in the car again, the day's activities mostly commanding my mental state, squinting towards the distant sunset to determine whether I might squeeze in a run before the darkness falls. It's a personal rule of mine that if I go running in downtown alone, it can't be at night.

This time I did catch the light. Red hues shone from the setting sun, from the stoplight's reflection on the hood of my car, and again, there was something more in the distance. Stepping onto the curb with the same confidence as before, LADY IN RED made an appearance. Although this was a day later, she boasted the same red getup, complete with the shiny tiara. Same air of a rough past. Rousing in me the same level of wonder. I actually shouted in my car "There she is AGAIN!!!" but managing to stay in my lane, and arriving home that evening to recount the sighting to my boyfriend.

He challenged me, "Write about her. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't."

EXT. TARGET - DAY.

I was late. Nearing running from one meeting in downtown to the Target on the north side of town. This little supermarket optical center was the only place I could get a same-day appointment for contact lenses, and I was catching a flight the next day to snow ski, an activity I knew I couldn't just "wing" without eyesight. Feeling lucky to have found a parking spot near the front entrance, I bounded out from the car toward a clearer future.

Meeting my exact path of entrance at that exact moment was the LADY IN RED. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared, my jaw dropping to the pavement. This was days later, and well across town. Thinking back, I don't know if I actually said 'wow!' aloud. It was one of those moments I felt paralyzed.

My odd behavior didn't phase her, and she continued on her path towards the garbage can. Up close, I now noticed a red leather purse, and dangling in between her dark fingers was the shiny tiara. She approached the garbage, taking her wooden cane and slamming it against the side, as if she was shaking up anything that might be inside. It made a loud cracking noise. This act gave her great delight, and laughing to herself, which then escalated into a cackle coughing fit, she continued on her way, leaving me standing stupefied. I squinted to see which direction she would choose once inside. The automatic doors closed behind her. And the red figure turned into a blur. And then finally, it disappeared.

CUT TO BLACK.

the 6-word challenge

I have to admit, an NPR story this week has left me pretty inspired. It came as a surprise, as I found myself listening to my usual news chatter and slowly easing my way into the day with a cup of hazelnut coffee, and gliding from room to room in my green moisturizing socks. Morning Edition reported on a story about something called The Race Card Project, in which folks can submit their thoughts on culture and race in the form of six words. It apparently came from an old legend from Hemingway, in which he claimed that any writer worth their salt can tell an interesting story in six words. Hemingway's example was a powerful one - "Baby shoes for sale; never worn."

So I thought I'd take the challenge myself, and apply it to my life right now, today -- as I know it. 

Looking the part, behind senseless curtains.

Call it a work in progress, Hemingway.

Exercising “Sound” Judgment

2013 has had me on somewhat of an inward looking kick, and I’ve felt more determined to understand the stupid, and often irrational workings of my inquisitive mind. When you really stop and consider all the things racing through your brain in any given day, or any given hour for that matter, it’s pretty intense. And in my case, it’s more telling than I’d perhaps liked to face. Let’s take a look-sie.

1:17pm – I found myself pulling into one of my favorite hike/trail running destinations, and snagging the last parking spot in a 15-space lot. I punched my fist upward through the sun-roof in celebration.  I’m the absolute best at getting parking spots!, I thought, feeling mostly great about life.

Hitting the trail and switching-on my trusty podcasters, I realized only one ear bud worked in my headphones. The worst. I scaled the mini-mountain, straining to hear of an apparent endemic sweeping the country called vocal fry - the Valley-girl manner of speaking, which is low, shaky and annoying. I tried to mimic it aloud while passing several hikers with unnecessary walking sticks. I judged them for needing hiking sticks on a trail flat enough for me to run. Whatever. I kept trudging along, arriving upon a group of women all craning their necks upward at the final sliver of the trail leading to the summit. Knowing my eyesight and the ridiculousness of even trying to make out what they were staring at, I breezed by the ladies and made my way directly into their visual trajectory. What if they’ve spotted a wild animal? A javelina, or Mountain Lion? Wouldn’t they alert a fellow hiker? Probably not, since women are vicious and I’m wearing my running tights. They make me seem even skinnier than I am.

1:45pm – On the summit and no wild animals to boot. I looked out at the endless horizon, and the expanse of the city spread all around me. Seemed hazy. I descented carefully at first, and then stretched it out into a jog. Hearing the pitter patter of my footsteps, hikers ahead would scoot to the right to let me pass. I’d exhale some form of a ‘thank you’ as I passed, except at the same group of unnecessary hiking stick folks, who scooted to the side and instead yelled “THANK YOU” to me as I passed. Whether they were mind readers or not, it fueled the duration of my run.

2:00pm – Driving back, my mind felt light, as it does often after a good workout. The weather was warm, and I embraced it by inviting the sun directly into my lap via the sunroof.  Tranquility. The breeze. NPR game shows. And a disgruntled minivan who cut me off! Maintaining my lifelong principle of showing bad drivers the errs of their ways, I sped up alongside the van to find a middle-aged woman with thick brown bangs, and a purposeful scowl. As I grimaced at this lady, she raised her eyebrow back my way, making it clear her conduct was intentional. Fury. Why is that acceptable behavior? Maybe she’s just having a hard day. Maybe she has had a hard YEAR, perhaps just gotten a divorce, or hates her job. At the least, she’s dissatisfied with her bang situation.

2:07 – I was greeted at the grocery store by a throng of little girls.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” 

“No thank you. Not for me, ladies. But keep up the good work,” I encouraged.

I made a bee-line for the prosciutto, and I thought about turning down the girl scouts, and that maybe I owed them a bit more explanation. Something letting them know I supported them, but that I didn’t eat sweets. Or, that I was on a diet. Or that I was poor.  Or allergic. None of which came to fruition, since as I approached the deli, my eyes were met by the fierce gaze of a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt. His hood was up. I walked by him, feeling preyed upon, but not losing sight of my prosciutto prize. I snagged the last package - I’m awesome at getting parking spots, and bringing home the bacon! – and breezed back by the creeper. He didn’t bother to conceal his gaze this time, and used his head as an extension of the spectating, making sure to pivot precisely as I passed. I wondered if he was a registered sex offender.

2:17pm – Out the automatic doors, and past the Girl Scouts. Why throughout all these years has this organization not considered branching out beyond cookies? They might consider flowers, or gift cards, or something a bit more universally appealing.

…..

This exercise might cause one to surmise I’m a bit of a narcissistic jerk. Some of it comes with human nature. Much of it seems to be attached to my personality. None of it, I hope, should be irreparable. All of it will be forgotten by the setting of the sun, and the indulgence in red wine.  

Hypocrisy Shypocrisy

The first few days of a week of shenanigans with Marcus

Three years ago, if you’d have asked me about children – standard questions like when they typically start talking, how long they wear diapers, what games are fun at certain ages – I’d have stared blankly at you and mouthed something smartass about why I didn’t want to be the type of person who knew answers to questions like that. I wasn’t interested in kids. Concluded I didn’t want them. See, I’m the youngest of three, so the babysitting didn’t fall to me. And instead of picking up babysitting jobs throughout high school, I decided to wait tables at a local Bavarian Buffet, putting my contact with kids at almost zero and my Czech word knowledge at about six.

Fast forward to today, in which my almost three-year old nephew has flown from Ohio to spend the week with me in Arizona. My knowledge and compassion for him as a child (and at this point, it’s Marcus-specific) has ballooned; my Czech word knowledge, on the other hand, has plateaued.

It shouldn’t be a huge shocker really, that we sometimes do a 180 on our affirmations and views on life from our teen years. But it’s been a pretty dramatic U-turn for my life, most notably in how it’s turned me into somewhat of a hypocrite. This week, it's been not at all uncommon to find me doing the senseless things I always found puzzling about adult behavior when around their children. Like making everything a song and dance. Already today we’ve turned simple statements like “We need some fennel” into the hokey pokey. Or, when adults do things in public places that are just plain disrupting to others – like, chanting and clapping and stomping across the grocery store after normal, every-day achievements are met like not screaming. We did that. Or, and I’ve been horrified to come to terms with this one, when you see yourself asking questions directly to the child that are clearly indicated for somebody else within earshot. We all know this passive aggressive move. You know, the comments like, “Marcus, maybe if you ask the nice lady, she will scoot over and let us by.” I did that too. Today. Several times. 

Or just saying the word “potty.” I’m fighting this one.

Guilty of hypocrisy, and having far too much fun with it.  The dynamic duo strike again. It's going to be a great week.