Glitter

Los Angeles, California

My homekeeper, Ana, is helping me clean and organize my kitchen cabinets. No small thing, this. I moved into my home twenty-three years ago, and put my things away where I thought they should go. The kitchen in this house was designed when previous owners, who oversaw the renovation, combined the original kitchen and the den into a large, open space. I have a lot of cabinets and drawers, which I have divided up into twelve units for this project. During the week, I remove everything from the wide drawers, and in most cases, cabinets both above and below. Then, each Wednesday, Ana cleans them, while I sort the contents and replace. I haven't been replacing as things were, but rather moving things around in the kitchen I now know so well, so that frequently-used items are closer to my chosen workspace. A workspace which is one of four, one on each side of both the range and the sink, which are housed in two separate islands. A lot of room to move here.

The kitchen could use updating, and I toy with the idea of doing so. It was the next project up, after a remodel of my guesthouse. But with the loss of Kevin, friend and contractor extraordinaire, I have stalled. So, for now, cleaning and reorganizing will suffice for progress.

I am giving away a lot of things. At this point in my life, I need a lot less and feel encumbered by the too much. I am also breaking things... a lot of things. I don't know if this is because the new normal in my life seems to have brought clumsiness in its wake. Or, if it is a message from the universe to not value things that will not be around forever.

Recently I broke a favorite tiny, handled dish. It was distressed red ceramic, and a perfect vessel for a pat of butter or olive pits. Then, I managed to break the second, and the last, of my white ceramic spoons with the handle in the shape of a bunny. It was my soft-cooked egg spoon, sparing me the unpleasant, metallic tang of a regular teaspoon's reaction to yolk. I loved it for that, as well as the cheeriness of the bunny handle. But, gone...

This week I broke an aqua-colored, irregularly-round dish in which I often served pistachios or the cacahuates estilo Japonés which Joel buys for me at Vallarta, the local pan-Latino market. There are a lot of dishes that I would have gladly have given to ceramic dust before this one. How is it that I keep breaking my favorites?

I have come to think, in that crazy way that I often do, that this is a lesson from the universe. It is telling me: Don't get too attached to things... nor to people, in this life. Is it possible, I wonder, that the universe wants to advise me to have an attachment disorder? Isn't there too much of that around with so much fear of intimacy or rampant social phobias? Not going there, so maybe it is just a sign that I need to let my attachments, the connection that I feel to things and others, be fluid. Some things, and some people, serve a function at a certain time. They are not meant to be crazy-glued in your life.

My little cousin, Caryn, so called because she is six-months younger than me, is now struggling with brain cancer. When we were eighteen, we spent one of those crazy, magical vacation days together in San Francisco. I don't know what it is about The City, but so many of my glimmering memories of perfect days happened there. We saw Lloyd Bridges while we were waiting to catch the Hyde Street cable car on our way down to the wharf. He was wearing a black turtleneck, had a shock of white hair, and the bluest eyes west of Paul Newman. On the sidewalk, in front of Ghirardelli Square, someone handed us a jar of mustard, asking us to hold it up while he took our picture. In a store we always frequented, Takahashi Imports, we both bought the same greeting card. It said (and I paraphrase): If you love something, let it go. And if it comes back, it's beautiful. What was even then, years after the summer of love, so touching and evocative, now seems, well, pretty stupid. Because the truth is that the things and people we let go, rarely come back to us. But that doesn't mean that it's not right to let them go.

I have just received word that my waitlisted Tesla 3 is ready to configure for delivery. This car is going to be a blast! But I am reminded that when I sold my absolute favorite car ever, my 1978 white convertable VW bug, to the actress Maura Tierney, I cried when she drove it away down my street. The next day, I was still sad to have given it up, even though my new BMW was safer and better. When I arrived at an aerobics class and told a classmate about my sadness, she said: Well, if you feel that way, it was a mistake to sell it. (So... Why don't you just take my sadness and pile some of those Acme anvils right on top of it?!?) I staggered into therapy under the weight of this. But my therapist rightly pointed out to me that there was nothing wrong with making an informed decision to do away with something, but still mourn its loss. Selling the car was the right thing to do, in spite of the sad parting.

I have long-ago accepted that I am, and have always been, a human sponge of feelings. I am a Super-feeler which is a psychological, designated personality type. We super-feelers feel things more intensely than others, for better and for worse. Clearly, I do not have a teflon shell, and, thankfully, the people who know me and care about me are acutely aware of this. Still, I have almost been broken at times by the weight of my emotions, especially when letting myself be harmed by an uncaring friend or family member. But breakage happens, and I am learning to use the tools that I have to let these things and those people go. I don't always do so easily, but, as with the sale of my VW, I have learned to be cognizant that sometimes this is what I need to do.

In Girl Scouts, we sang the round: Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold. I rarely use the word Frister anymore, the term I coined so long ago. Back then, I defined Fristers as: Closer than friends; better than sisters. I saw them all as gold, but there were some who glommed on to the word, while decidedly being neither fristers nor gold by any measure. Now, as with the reorganization of the cabinets in my kitchen, I have learned to value what is true quality, and not be taken in by the faux. We were taught by our grandmothers that all that glitters is not gold. And I am ever mindful of this. With what I have given away, I now have more room for my household treasures, and for new, touch-my-heart friendships. My old friends continue to be gold. Diamonds, even. A reminder that you can never have too many of these. Because, after all, diamonds are a girl's best frister.

Thank you for reading my blog, unless you are Marie Kondo (figure it out...).

Under the Encino Sun

Los Angeles, California (duh...)

Someone has pointed out to me that I have been beating the "some come through in extraordinary ways" thing to death with a stick (see previous posts. Lots of previous posts). I suppose that speaks to how much that sad experience continues to affect me. As far as continuing to remark on it, well, frankly, repetition could easily be my middle name. However, even I can recognize that enough is enough (at least for now). So, with a nod to those who know who they are (and how much they are appreciated)... I will do my best to try to move on. 

Did you read the book Under the Tuscan Sun, or see the (guilty pleasure) movie of the same name? While not recommending either, I am reminded, and I may have written before (again, with the repetition/middle name) about my philosophy, that if you get one good recipe out of a cookbook, it was worth the price (if you are one of us who actually does pay for your books, and if not, shame, shame). Anyway, there was one worthwhile thing that I got out of either the book or the movie (details don't matter here). It was that you start in one place, in your home or rental, and make it yours. You polish, you bring flowers to that space, you prop up that special photo in that special frame, next to the candle. You start.

I have a decently-sized property and it is a lot to manage. And I want it to look feed-my-soul beautiful. Especially in the summer. So this past weekend, I worked hours and hours, pruning, cutting back, planting and encouraging my garden to bloom. It was backbreaking work, literally cutting through thick stems and hoeing through hard ground. But at the end, I sat on the tile steps in my courtyard, sipping ouzo and surveying all I had done. I started with a not-so-small place and made it... better.

Gardening is a metaphor for life and relationships. Are you a garden or a gardener? It is also a hands-on connection to the earth. Not a millenialbabble connection but a real connection. A dirt under your fingernails, your own fresh herbs in-your-pasta connection. I am not young, and my muscles revolt at this kind of labor, but my soul revels in it. For, in Scarlett O'Hara-fashion, this is my land. My home. The place I share with the people I love.

Brendan and Diana will join me here for a long weekend later this month. It will be their first summer visit in five years, and I have been planning our weekend for several weeks now. It will include Joel, and, with Joel, a night at a Cuban restaurant. The following weekend, Lynnette will be here. We had a 90-minute conversation this morning, even though she is in Prague, and I am in Encino. She has been in Europe forever, and I miss her, and look forward to her visit. There will be double-twelve dominoes in June.

Joel's birthday is in early July, and he will commence a week's vacation. We'll be spending Fourth of July with Connie and Curt. But, besides that evening, we will mostly hang out here, relaxing by the pool together. And, of course, there will be dancing in July. 

Karen and Greg (Greg = we were outlaws together) will be here for a weekend in mid-month and we will celebrate Bastille Day together. So, certainly, there will be brie and good bread in July.

After nine very hard years, the coming summer lands on a lighter heart, finally. This was kicked off in a stellar fashion by the Hollywood Bowl concerts in May. And, by the way, the Sheryl Crow/James Taylor concert was enjoyable. But I woke up the next morning, and went immediately to my Paul Simon playlist. That Paul Simon concert was, for me, simply the toughest act to follow. I continue to listen, and learn from his music which was in the background of my life for so many decades. What a gift to come to the party, even if so late in the game...

Summer and all it brings is on its way. If you live in Southern California, take in the light, and the cool June mornings. But, wherever you live, relish in being barefoot and candlelit with good friends (and good wine). After all, this will be the first summer of the rest of your life...

Thanks for reading, etc....