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.