To Hop or Not to Hop

Los Angeles, California

I cannot imagine how my mother came to make Hoppin' John for our family's New Year's celebration. As far as I know, none of my family hastens from south of the Mason-Dixon, and it is certainly a southern tradition. But Mom picked up recipes and ideas from the homemaker magazines of the era, and she also had some superstitions about luck. She and my grandmother loved to play slots when we happened to be in Nevada, and Mom continued this on later family cruises. Once, when I dipped into her bucket to pull out a handful of quarters (daughterly entitlement), she stopped my hand. She then reached into her wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. "Here," she said. "Go get quarters." I pointed out that she had a full bucket of quarters. "You'll steal my luck," she said. I took the ten.

Perhaps the concept of starting the year with good luck, that which is said to come with the eating of Hoppin' John, appealed to her. So on January 1st, we ate Hoppin' John, a dish which at the time I found rather starchy and bland. Nevertheless, after marrying, I continued the tradition after finding some new. and perhaps fancier, recipes. I had become rather partial to red beans and rice, but that wasn't going to cut it in the luck department. By then I was reading Gourmet, (pre-Reichl Gourmet, when it wasn't yet necessary to know the antecedents of the pig before you cooked sausage). Thus, my own Hoppin' John experiment began. I ended up with a recipe made with dried black-eyed peas and Andouille sausage. But, as with buffalo wings, the real magic was conjured with the hot sauce; in this case, Crystal Louisiana hot sauce. And as with most stewy things, with making the dish in advance.

After a decade of so of marriage, my sister, who had also carried on this tradition with her own recipe, remarked that every time we ate Hoppin' John at New Year's, either as a family at large or in our individual homes, we had the worst year. I began to track this: Years begun with Hoppin' John versus years sans the dish. I came to believe she was right. The years which we began with this tradition didn't tend to pan out. The years without seemed better. And cut to recent years when I began attending an annual open house at my friends, Lisa and Steven's home. They serve tacos. That seemed to work... until 2020.

Last year I ran across a recipe for Black-eyed Pea Cassoulet. I was in. The taco party had been scrubbed, and I was completely on my own having spent a FaceTime New Year's Eve with Joel. The cassoulet could have served about twelve. It was good, but most of it went into the freezer. And so the year began. On January 31st I received my first vaccine. By summer, Joel and I welcomed house guests, attended a game at Dodgers' stadium, and started to dance again. And then... do the words Delta, Omicron and breakthrough ring any bells?

So, it is now time to make the decision. Hoppin' John or no Hoppin' John? I lean towards the latter. Whatever 2022 will bring will not be determined by luck. It will be determined by knowledge, attention, and an ability to delay gratification. That will be the goal in my home. Joel votes for tacos, and I think I quite agree. 2020 aside, I have to think that a year that starts with tacos can't be all bad. So, to hop or not to hop, that is the question? Clearly Covid waves aren't about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, rather about the slings and arrows of stupidity. And if tacos are a cure for that, then this is what I am thinking: Perhaps we should feed them to the world? A happy, healthy, and liberated 2022 to you all! Be safe out there... 

One Clear Moment

Los  Angeles, California

I recently discovered that I had two posts with the same name. It happens. I have been writing posts since I started my blog in 2010. And I don't always track as well as I used to. So as I wrote the title on this post, after doing chores around my house this morning with my July 4th, 2010 playlist cranked up loud, and hearing Little Feat's One Clear Moment, I momentarily pondered. Have I written a post with that title before? Easily searched, but I decided to wing it. Live dangerously, right? Danger I can live with.

My posts generally start with a title. Something suggests itself. It can be a song title or whatever. But once I have that title, I begin to write in my head. Your head is not a good surface for creation of any lasting quality. I have often thought that my best, Pulitzer-winning writing often occurs... in the shower. By the time I dry off, I have lost it. I know how Coleridge felt when that salesman knocked at the door (I just threw that in as an inside to fellow English majors).

This Little Feat song, One Clear Moment, was the first song I put on Joel's birthday playlist, which is an abridged version of the playlist I created for my salsa party last month. I have always liked this song, a lot. But today, as I was doing laundry, sorting clothes from my closet to give away, cleaning up my kitchen, and chasing stray ants (OH NO, is this the beginning of a summer invasion?!?), I really listened to the lyrics of the song and felt its connection to how I am doing at this point in time.

...Ah, gimme that one clear moment

I can turn your head around

All I need is one clear moment

To get you back up off the ground.

It's not what the song is really about, but here in July 2021, I am still looking for clarity. That one clear moment, if you will. Covid case and hospitalization numbers are ticking up, thanks to the Delta Variant. And in Los Angeles, we are the first county to re-mandate mask wearing. And yet today, I passed a woman walking into Whole Foods wearing a mask that stated: This mask is useless and so is our governor. I'm sick of this fight. I'm sick of people talking about terrorists as if our greatest threat isn't the homegrown ones in the MAGA hats. I'm sick of it all. And yet... my 2021 pledge was to avoid politics on the blog, so I must at least attempt to demur.

I was not a huge fan of Little Feat, but when I hear their music, I feel happy. Granted, happiness is not a lasting state of being at this time. But it is coming. I have to believe it is coming.

My third set of houseguests arrive tomorrow afternoon. Diana and Brendan have been coming to stay for about fifteen years, mas o memos. They originally came with their daughters who slept feet-to-feet on the sectional den sofa. Our routine has always been much the same. We hang by the pool all day, eat and play cards all evening, then sleep in, hang around with our coffee and tea all morning. Rinse and repeat.

With summer, with houseguests, with Dodgers baseball: It all seems like normal life, right? Except it doesn't. It seems like Abby-normal life. And as it goes on and on, I wonder if it will ever really seem normal again. I don't mean free from the fear of a potentially-deadly virus. I'm vaccinated, and I will be boostered as soon as advised. But this new world, the one in which bad bevavior is sanctioned and modeled. I really want to get away from it all. Just give me that one clear moment.

My friend, Larry, recently read a book I recommended about the American ex-pats living in France after WW1. Is there a place like that where we can go? I am so proud of being a Californian. My roots here are generational, and I cannot imagine not thinking of myself in terms of this wondrous state. And as a Californian, I am a proud citizen of the United States. But we ain't so united anymore. My houseguests who arrive tomorrow are a native San Franciscan and a Canadian, raised in Montreal. I once asked her if we could live in Canada and the answer was no. But while waiting for my one clear moment, I ponder: At what point will other countries offer us political asylum, as this Trumperland population continues to mutate and multiply? And does one clear moment perhaps translate to getting the hell out of Dodge?

I do not watch political news on television anymore, and I have cut my online news notifications to a few conscientious sources. You just can't be involved in a practice of meditation, and then take in all this dreck. You just can't.

And so, moving on in search of my one clear moment. Or, maybe just to listen to Little Feat. How bad can the world be when you have access to music like this? I hear you callin' for some sympathy. I got the answer that can set you free.

If only...

From the desk of: Is it November yet? I thank you for reading my blog.

Solstice

Los Angeles, California

It was not triumphant, but it was a return to salsa dancing. We had been talking about it. California fully opened up, eliminating the restrictions in response to the Covid19 pandemic, on June 15th. Daylight was increasingly stretching into the evening. The solstice was on its way. And we had been talking about our return to share a dance floor with others, and not just at my house.

We chose a Sunday night at a club in Tarzana where we had danced in the past on Sunday nights. I cannot exactly remember when we were last there. I know we were there on New Year's Eve 2019. Joel was sick. He had been feeling better, but then his cough got worse again. Covid? We now know that it arrived sooner than we had thought. So, maybe it was. I left for Phoenix about eight weeks later, so I am assuming that we danced during that time between December 31st and the beginning of March. But memory does not serve. Regardless, our return to salsa occurred on a Sunday night, just a few hours short of the solstice. I reminded Joel: The last time we were here, Trump was still president.

Walking in was particularly odd. There are now metal detectors at the door. Joel said: Good. Imelda was not there, and will not be there taking money and fastening wrist bands. Bad. We walked in wearing masks, greeting the only two people we knew: the promotor, Jose, and the bartender who amazingly remembered our standing order even after more than fifteen months. Music was playing, and the dance floor was empty, until...

We were the first and only people on the dance floor. Later that evening there were more people, but it never became crowded. A few people we knew, including Joy and Alex, arrived and joined us on the floor. I worried about my stamina, but it was not a problem. What was a problem was the ridiculously sticky floor; the even more ridiculous volume of the music, and a later-evening crappy DJ playing an abundance of bachata, which we can dance to but it's not the first thing on our menu, and other music which was not salsa. A lot to complain about, but it ultimately didn't matter. We were back.

We didn't stay late. At a certain point when we were dancing cumbia, the DJ (crappy DJ) cut into the song with a different cumbia. At that, Joel was done. I came home, my dress sticking to me from sweat, but feeling the familiar peace of mind that comes with doing something physical that you love doing, and which especially comes in the resumption of doing that thing that you love after a protracted and crazy hiatus. I showered, climbed into bed, and slept well.

The following day was the solstice. There was still light in the sky close to 9:00 PM. Joel and I talked about salsa. How can we carve the time out of his schedule to do more salsa? There was a time when we danced three or four times a week. A consistent time when we danced twice a week. And that would be the goal, now that we are post-pandemic and just a week post-solstice. Life is busy, but carving out the time for something that feeds your soul seems essential. The truth of this is that the pandemic has taught us something. It taught us YOLO. You truly do only live once, and we learned that we can lose a full year out of that life. So it is now all the more important to realize that making time for the things and the people we love is NOW. Otherwise the equinox will be upon us and we will be still making plans for the future. Now is the time to realize plans. And for Joel and I, now is the time to dance. Thank you for reading my blog. And for you new agers and druids out there: Happy Solstice!

Blue

California, California...

This week celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the release of Joni Mitchell's album, Blue, released in 1971. And that summer is so very clear in my memory.

It had been two years since the summer I had spent in Hawaii with my friend Pam. After the vehicular deaths of our friends and Waikiki roommates, Larry and Ray, there was a swift unraveling of that group of friends. I think it was painful to be together, painful to feel the absence of two such integral members. And we were so young, without the tools to handle grief other than to try to get away from it. As if.

In 1971 I was back at home, and back in school at a local community college. But it was summer, and I was not working. I was also not in a relationship, but hanging out with some high school friends, including Debbie, who we called Clev in abbreviation of her last name. Clev was my best friend through most of high school, and who would remain so through college. And I think it was she who heard about the party.

Parties in those days were casual, or perhaps more appropriately called loose. It was pretty much just a gathering of kids and a smattering of a variety of consciousness-bending substances. If you were lucky, there might be beer. Usually there was cannabis, more or less always available. In this era of Covid, I squeamishly remember how much was shared in those days. Sometimes someone would forage up one beer, and we all drank from that bottle. For certain, we passed things around.

Somewhere during that night I found myself in conversation with David. We had graduated in the same class at the same high school, and I recognized him by sight, but had never known him. I had never even spoken to him. But now we were in a lively conversation. He seemed to like my hair, worn in a loose shag cut. And he said that he remembered me from high school. He added that he remembered my eyes. What about them? I asked. That they were different. I later told Clev that he had said that. Do you think he means different from each other?!?

David drove me home in his funny little Fiat, which another friend described as being shaped like a top hat. Sometimes I see these models in old films set in Europe, and I am reminded of him. On this night, he had lost his ignition key, and scrounged around in his car for a tool to start his engine. He found a carpentry device, a square ruler, and remarkably it started up the little Fiat.  Losing his car keys wasn't the only clue that led me to feel he was a bit too untethered for me. I directed him through the back streets to my house, a circuitous route, designed to not be able to replicate. And when he asked for my phone number, I transposed two numbers.

The next day he showed up at my house and rang the doorbell. I went outside and sat with him on my parent's lawn, under a walnut tree where a neighborhood boy had long ago carved our initials inside of a heart. My friend, Therese, was spending the night, and we were leaving in the morning to drive up to San Mateo, where my sister and her husband had recently moved. And it was there, in San Mateo, that I happened into a record store and saw Joni Mitchell's new album, Blue. I bought it, and at the same time I also bought The Who's Who's Next. David would take me to see The Who later that year. A stunning concert, part of the Who's Next tour, at The Forum in Los Angeles. And we would see Joni Mitchell several times in the coming years at the Universal Amphitheater, which became one of our favorite spaces to see outdoor, summer concerts.

Perhaps my travel from trying to elude David to beginning a relationship that lasted five and one-half years was partly attributable to Joni's Blue. Blue taught me that it might be ok to be tortured in love as long as you were also enraptured by it. Her songs were about emotional intensity and sexuality, as well as the freedom of a love affair danced away in a taverna on a Greek island. I didn't just listen to Blue. I lived it. River became the anthem to my heartache just as Carey remains an anthem to freedom and joy. It still shows up on the playlists I create. All I Want will forever be about the hopes I had as I fell completely into love with David. He was my first. He was passion, heartache, and ultimately is now my friend. And all of the memories of those years, our return to college together, and the final tumultuous breaking apart, are entwined with Joni's music. There was a time when I could not listen to her music anymore because it evoked a memory of despair. But that is long past and this summer, Blue will be in rotation.

A close friend once made a comment to me, derisively, about someone she knew "being in love with love." I said nothing, but felt grief for her. There is nothing, nothing in my experience, no drug, no epic experience that compares with falling completely and passionately in love with something or someone. Nothing that makes life worth living more than those pivotal moments of euphoric transcendence whether brought about by theater, a concert, dancing, or especially time and intimacy shared with a lover. Without those epiphanies, my life would be flat. And if you haven't experienced this, I suspect that, whether you know it or not, you haven't fully lived. Life is good mostly, but those moments -- the rest of life is only spent living in the comfortable spaces between. Those other times are my drug.

There is certain music that I think of as the soundtrack to times in my life. Stevie Wonder's My Cherie Amour will always bring to my memory a ride from Waikiki to the Honolulu International Airport, sitting in the back seat of some large American sedan, on Larry's lap. All of us singing; Pam and I later crying at the airport as we regretfully left the summer on Seaside Street behind us, and boarded the plane to take us home to LA... barefoot. The Rolling Stones' Beast of Burden takes me back to my first car with a built-in cassette player, a brand-new convertible VW Bug, white with a black top, which I kept for ten years and then sold to the actress Maura Tierney for $100 more than I had paid for it new. And, Luis Enrique's Yo No Se Mañana, which is Joel's and my very special song. My life's playlist is long.

I have written here before that Sondheim's Move On, and his No One is Alone have helped me move through rough patches in my life. And, I suppose I did move on from Joni and from Blue. But, oddly, as I look back, Joni also gave me a sense that no one was alone with feelings of angst and passion, those feelings that my generation wasn't quite sure how to manage. We mostly got through it all. And Joni was there. And still is. I listened to My Old Man recently and realized how well it not only fit my feelings for David back in the day, but describes the relationship I share with Joel. He's a dancer in the dark.

So, as I finish writing this post, I will download the CD I have of Blue into my iTunes. I will listen to it a lot, especially driving around during our splendidly warm summer nights; the nights of my youth and now the nights of salsa dancing. Though older, I don't feel my age in my heart, nor in my soul. Am I blue? Sometimes. But this summer, Blue will represent something different. It will stand as a brilliantly evocative soundtrack and, in its glimmering hue, for all of the passion and intense emotions that it underscored. Thank you for reading my blog. And, thanks for it all, Joni Mitchell! 💙

 

Lemons

Still LA...

It was stunning for me to check into WWSD and discover I had not written in close to three months! And this coming off of a year where I wrote regularly. So what stopped me in my blog-writing tracks after the Ides of March? Well. several things. Importantly, I was fully vaccinated. And by the end of March, so was Joel. An unobserved Lent passed at sundown on April 3rd, and by mid-April I was able to return to Cathy and my pilates sessions. I began seeing friends. Lisa and I walked and shopped on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. We had lunch indoors at Forma, sharing some wonderful sole and our favorite, Burnt Spaghetti (just take my word for this).

Joel and I began seeing each other every week. And Lynnette came to stay at my home in May, which was for me, a joyful reunion. We visited our friend Larry, and met his puppy, JoJo, named after our hopefully-stabilizing President Joe Biden. Life was moving towards a sort of normalizing, not-normalizing, new normal. If that doesn't make any sense, that is good. Because coming out of this is complicated. Very complicated. And it shouldn't really be making sense at this time.

I didn't stop writing altogether, however. I have kept journals since I was fourteen years old, and incorporate journal-writing into my morning ritual following meditation. And I also created a handwritten cookbook comprised of many of the recipes I cooked during the pandemic year, dated and in chronological order.

What has this felt like; this somewhat-return to the prior life? Well, for me, it has felt strange. Going to restaurants with friends, though I have only done it four times, feels like I am going through the motions. We use the word surreal a lot, but it does fit in these circumstances. I began scheduling work in my home and medical appointments that I had let go for too long. I had highlights installed in my hair. But now, when workers and even my longtime housekeeper Ana, are in my house, I will suddenly hit a wall and my brain screams: Ok, you need to leave! Of course, I don't act on this. I smile, I bear down, I wait. The tools I have to deal with stress usually help me a lot. A whole lot. Mostly in knowing that feelings like that will come and go and can be tolerated, even if they feel kinda awful. Knowing, or even asking yourself, what you can tolerate goes a long way in mediating anxiety.

The mistake I made was in over-scheduling. Almost every day there was something: medical exams; contractors coming to bid work; work being done; resumed pilates sessions; lunches with friends; detailers coming to finally clean up my car, and two days spent in Beverly Hills with medical and beauty appointments. And it was in the 90210 that I snapped. I was talking to Lynnette by phone as I parked in the structure, then left my car quickly without either mask nor the address of the salon. I got out on the street and realized I didn't have time to take the elevator back to my car. But I didn't know whether to walk up or down the street. I know Beverly Hills. Or at least I used to. But I got disoriented, and then I panicked. And then I started to cry. People tell me that I am brave, and I sometimes believe this. But the entire year (maybe the last four-plus with what happened in our country) finally imploded on me, and I began to unravel. Then, I guess the remnants of that brave part of me stepped in. I asked at an eye care center if I could purchase a mask and they kindly gave me one. And after walking a few blocks west, I turned and walked east and found the salon. There is no partial unraveling that can't be re-raveled, even if that's not a word.

With all of this, I do realize that there is a part of the past year that I am loathe to let go. It was the clean slate of each day, knowing that what was not accomplished in that day could easily be accomplished in the next or the one after that. In my post-vaxxed life, what I don't accomplish in a day must be put off as the following days have appointments or outings scheduled. I wouldn't want to give those things up. But I am striving to have balance. My friend and Chinese medicine guru, Cathy, who still guides me through my pilates practice, advises that there is nothing wrong with taking a weekend or a week off the grid and scheduling nothing during that time. But for now, I am in catch-up mode. Catching up with Joel and with friends, catching up with medical exams, catching up with home repairs.

And houseguests. I have houseguests scheduled twice this month and next month my Sonoma friends will spend their annual 3-day stay here. I love to provide this to them as their mini-vacation, spent by the pool during the day and playing our favorite game in the evening. In March of 2020, just before the lockdown, we met in Carmel so that we could share a vacation without anyone having to be the host. Hosting guests, in spite of the fun, can be exhausting. Still, I look forward to this year's summer visit and hopefully to more mini-vacations in the future, meeting them somewhere away from both our homes.

Lastly, I took up the challenge of organizing a neighborhood party here on our street. I reached out to three neighbors, women whom I barely knew, inviting them to my home to pitch my plan. We talked over champagne, and they were all enthusiastic. We picked a date, assigned tasks and a few of us began the work. It could have been a wonderful celebration, but late in the planning process, it became a disaster. One of the things I had pondered during the year was that I wanted to reach out to people, and this briefly felt like a realization of that desire. Unfortunately, the plan went south, and with it came the pain of realization that the women I had reached out to in hopes of becoming better friends and neighbors, seemed to believe that doing the wrong thing is perfectly excusable, as long as you say the right thing to cover. I hadn't seen this coming, and it was hurtful. But, in the spirit of attempting to walk a mile in others' shoes, I have tried to stay mindful that this is a difficult and confusing time for all. Was it handled well? No. But you never know what is going on in other peoples' lives. Still, despite that attempt at compassionate understanding, I ultimately decided to chalk it up to this life lesson: When life hands you lemons; take a good look at who the lemon growers are.

So, moving on, life is returning in an irregular way which is for better, and perhaps a bit for worse. But that is life, right? And the striving for balance is, or should be, always with us. Hopefully the pandemic response is something we will eventually be able to leave behind us as we return to some new normal. I do hope this will include the embraces of loved ones, those big hugs between us and our friends, as these are at the core of what makes life worth living.

Oh, and about that aborted party... Salseros are coming to my house for dancing that evening. So maybe a little lemonade might get made out of those lemons. Or maybe what I should write here is: When life hands you lemons; fuck it. Just dance salsa! Vivir la vida! And, thank you for reading my blog.

Internalizing the Process

Los Angeles, California

And so, the Covid year passed, and for me it passed, more or less, alone. Long phone conversations with Joel, and with my friends, stood in for socializing. I looked forward to my gardeners spending time on my property each Saturday. Usually I would engage in a conversation with them: A conversation about our struggles with learning a second language (Spanish for me; English for him) with the father; a conversation about the Dodgers upcoming season with the oldest son; a conversation about random subjects with the younger son. My other constant was at the small market where I shop on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I know a lot of the cashiers there, and one of the managers well enough to converse (Dodgers a common subject there as well). Lesson being that at times like this, relative strangers can stand in for friends and family.

I am a social person, within reason as I also do enjoy time spent alone. But not this much time spent alone. Still, I am confident that I have done better than most people through this time. I believe that is, at least partly, as a result of how I filled my day with activities and not TV. But it is also about the sheer abundance of time, and the absence of deadlines. Don't get me wrong, this abundance encourages procrastination. And procrastination is one of my more-than-seven deadlies. But there has been a certain luxury in knowing that what doesn't get done in one day can easily be done the following, or even after...

Still, there has been pandemic angst. I often go to bed with some anxiety and wake up in the territory of the blues. But generally, neither stays with me, and lately I have been feeling more hopeful. This could be attributed to the fact that I am fully vaccinated, and Joel will be fully vaccinated when his vacation begins in two weeks. This vacation being something I am greatly looking forward to. But perhaps my hopefulness is more attributable to a practice of meditation which I began a few months back.

The meditation practice started after a conversation with my friend and pilates/acupuncture/Chinese medicine guru, Cathy. It was in January when we were all reeling from the unspeakable crimes we saw domestic terrorists perpetrating at our nation's Capitol. Capping four years of such unprecedented upheaval, I was feeling distressed in the way that I hadn't felt since 9/11. I had already made the decision to step away from politics here on my blog, but I was still profoundly unsettled by the violent extremism, and the bullying of Capitol Police that I saw on the news on 1/6. Cathy suggested meditation. She didn't exactly suggest that I meditate, so much as share that it was something that was working for her. She was meditating first thing in the morning before she looked at her phone; before she turned on any media. And the next day I did just that. I have toyed with meditation in the past, but could never establish a practice. My mind was too active and the attempt go slow it down was frustrating enough to make me abandon the process. I had tried several meditation apps, which I still had on my phone. This time, the one that I settled on was Insight Timer. In fact, I later deleted both the Calm and the Headspace apps from my phone. Insight Timer is free and easily navigable. On that first day, I cheated by making tea and sipping my tea throughout. There was no way I could do this, or anything else, before drinking my morning tea. But in spite of that cheat, I was able to follow the guided meditation. Did I feel better? Not initially. But what changed for me was that once having completed the meditation, I started my day without a news round-up. I stopped watching CNN, and got back to the more-balanced NPR. I began to get going more quickly in the morning, getting earlier to whatever projects or errands I needed to accomplish.

After about three weeks, I realized that I was feeling better; that my thoughts were clearer and lighter. In the meanwhile, I was able to get vaccinated, so that might have attributed to this optimism. But, overall, I think the meditation has helped a lot. Shortly after beginning the morning practice, I began to meditate at bedtime as well. That continues to be challenging for me, chronic insomniac that I am. But, while falling/staying asleep is still a challenge, I feel I am sleeping better on the whole.

Internalizing the process is my reference to the process of therapy. It means that, after having gone through a successful process of therapy, when you get stuck you rely on what you have learned. I have my therapist in my head. When I have struggled with something, I am able to access where she might guide me in the situation. Much like the title of my blog: What Would Sandra Do, I am also able to think: What would Robbie advise? In spite of having meditated daily for a couple of months, I am not at a place where I have internalized the meditative process well enough to let loose of my guides and allow my mind to provide a blank canvas. But that's ok. Again, it's a process.

I try to work out five days a week. That's my goal. I probably average 3.5 to 4 days per week. I have done this for about a year, pretty faithfully. I never thought I could work out alone at home. I always required a class and instructor, or later, a trainer. When the pandemic started, I did a few instagram workouts with a former instructor. I even did a Jane Fonda workout from you.tube. But I quickly found my way to my own workout. Well, sort of my own. I have had three great workout instructors in my life: Trina; Kim, and Donna. And they all found their way into my workout, providing a foundation for what I created. I could still remember some of their music choices, so even music from each of them showed up in my workouts. Trina's warm up to Tainted Love by Soft Cell dated back to my early days working out at Jane Fonda's Workout here in LA. But mostly it was their cues and corrections that I remembered, having internalized the process through so many years of working out with them.

If you are very lucky, you internalized a process when growing up which made you strong, resilient, and balanced. And this would have come from your parents, your teachers in school, your athletic coaching, perhaps your religious training. If you were not so lucky, and some of this was not so positive, you may have internalized processes later in your adult life. Hopefully better ones to replace those which were not so good.

On a lighter and barely tangentially-related note, the parents of my best friend in high school and college shared a cocktail hour every evening after her father returned home from his work as an accountant. They sat on green leather barstools at the bar in their home, drinking either martinis, Manhattans or Rob Roys. They had a silver cocktail shaker and small martini glasses. That was their before-dinner ritual, where they caught up with their day spent apart. We were too young to be a part of this, but I saw it. And, at the time, I thought it was the coolest thing. To this day, I continue to believe that a shared cocktail hour is a lovely ritual. It's not an internalized process, just a nice, social thing to do when you can. I miss it.

I hope that I will continue with my practices of meditation and working out as we come out of the pandemic. And once we are able to spend time with our friends, I trust that sharing cocktails will again be a part of our social lives. While internalizing a variety of processes is beneficial in life, there is nothing wrong with internalizing tequila when the occasion arises. Especially with Cinco de Mayo up ahead. Surely this, along with other aspects of our pre-Covid lives returning, is something to happily anticipate. I might even meditate on it. Thank you for reading my blog. Don't forget to breathe. And salud!

Montego Bay

Los Angeles, California

I got hit on by an Apple tech. Last month, I bought a new iPhone. This following the new Sub-Zero refrigerator purchased late last year, and preceding the new Apple MacBook I will need to purchase shortly. Ever notice how everything seems to wear out at once?

I purchased my new iPhone 12 at Costco. I'm pro-Costco for a variety of reasons, but I have to say that this was not a good experience. First of all, it took me a total of three visits to two warehouses, and a phone call to another warehouse, before I could convince a salesperson that they actually could order the phone in the color I desired. Now, I should mention that this is a Costco vendor located in the warehouse, not Costco itself. Anyway, there were one or two additional issues which I won't backstory here. Cutting to the chase, the following morning I needed help from Apple. The Apple tech who was helping me needed help from her supervisor (see where this is going? WAY more problems than one should anticipate). The supervisor's name was Andre, and he had a lovely accent that I was unable to place. An African country, perhaps? He helped me sort out the issue fairly easily, and at the end of the call, after he asked if I had any other questions, I inquired as I always do at the end of any customer service call: May I ask where you are located? I don't know why I always ask this, except that I am just curious. He replied that he was located in Florida. Are you asking me because of my accent? No, I replied. You have a lovely accent, but I am just always curious where people are located. He shared that he was originally from Jamaica. Oh! I've been to Jamaica. May I ask which part of the island you are from? He responded that he was from Montego Bay.

Long ago, on a planet far, far away, called my teenaged years, my mother took my sister and me to Montego Bay. My dad, an aerospace engineer, was going through serial employment as the aerospace industry in Southern California was downsizing. He was with a new company and could not take a vacation that summer. That wasn't going to stop my mom. She had us both in Hawaii the previous summer while she and my sister attended summer school at the University of Hawaii. That ended up being most of that summer. This time we were only going away for three weeks. A week in Florida; a week in Jamaica, and a week on Nassau. That last week on Nassau, I met a University of Michigan student traveling with two friends. And that was a high point of the entire trip. Oh to be young and in love on a Caribbean island! But, truthfully, Montego Bay was the experience that was transformative.

We stayed at a resort called The Bay Roc, where we had a beachfront cottage with two rooms, and a patio set in the sand. We had our own beach, the water marked off by breakwaters on either side. Each morning our breakfast would arrive, a large tray balanced on the head of our waiter. Kippers and bacon and croissants and waffles and fruit and juice and coffee all in silver service. We feasted on those breakfasts, seated at our patio table which was dressed with white linens, before hitting the lounges on our very own waveless beach. At night, we showered, dressing up for dinner, and I coiled and pinned my hair up off of my suntanned shoulders.  We walked down the path, squealing at the frogs that jumped across in front of us, before arriving at the torch-and-candlelit outdoor bar and restaurant. I was fifteen, drinking daiquiris or Cuba Libres. My family had always traveled and dined well, but it was the first time I got an extremely strong sense that this was what I wanted to enjoy in the life ahead of me. It was an experience later mirrored in the time spent at The Kona Village Resort. Though the Village was much more rustic and casual. Later, The Bay Roc became the first Sandals resort. My mom, sister, and I did return to Jamaica many years later on a cruise. But we never returned to Montego Bay.

I told Andre that I had been to Montego Bay and that I had loved it. We spoke a bit more about how customers responded to his accent in his encounters at work. Those stories are never good ones, especially in this era when people have been given agency to be so uncompassionately anti-other. Knowing Joel's experience with his Mexican-accented English, it can be soul-wrenching, though no longer surprising, to hear people speak of this experience.

And that was pretty much the extent of it. Until... About ten minutes after I ended the call with Andre, I got a text from him! Hmmm. This is interesting. He texted: I must say that you have a wonderful voice. And then he texted: I couldn't say it on the phone because of my job policy. As I debated what or whether to text back, he called me. I thanked him for the compliment, but cut the conversation short by saying that my boyfriend was calling in. I should have said my son; or my grandson! But, to be honest, it gave me a little lift in the middle of our pandemic winter. And no one had ever told me before that I had a wonderful voice. I'll take that compliment (we should all take all compliments offered). This experience sent my mind drifting to that summer in the Caribbean. To a beautiful beach, to steel-drum music, fresh fruit and flowers, to rum, and a really cute college guy from Ann Arbor. Le sigh...

My new iPhone is red, which is my favorite color, and I'm quite happy with it. It has face recognition, though this gets complicated when wearing a mask. If only Apple had foreseen, they could have engineered retina recognition. But then there are sunglasses, right? Anyway, it is a fun new thing. And these days you have to take heart in everything that you can. Maybe it's not a week in Montego Bay, but still, retaining memories like that is sustaining. And... winter is almost over; I am vaccinated, and, dare I write it? Oh why not? All is becoming right with the world. Thank you for reading my blog.

Ordering Pizza

Los Angeles, California

And then... I took a hiatus. At the end of 2020, I made an executive decision regarding my blog. I decided that I would no longer write about political issues. For those of us who have struggled to breathe over the past four years, we are hanging onto a slim reed of hope that the country will recoup from that madness. Clutching that reed, I decided to step away from the madness. January 6th cemented my resolve. There are many other things that I can write about. After all, my blog started out as a writing practice which evolved into a human interest and food blog. Not sure where I am on the human interest front, and I stopped including recipes many years ago. Now, I've decided that I need to breathe here, and I couldn't do it while ranting about (him).

My friends, Todd and Christopher, dropped off a lovely book for me on Christmas Day (or maybe it was Christmas Eve, I mean, honestly who can differentiate days anymore?). The book, Garner's Quotations, with its eclectic collection of quotes from the New York Times book critic, kept me company through the end of the year and beyond. They must have somehow known that I adore quotes. I love quotes so much that I collect them on the Notes app of my phone. And I regret that while I was listing all the meals that I prepared through the pandemic year, I could also have collected every quote I read during the year, writing them into some sweet little journal. There would be a lot of Voltaire, in case you're interested. But, here is a contemporary quote. I have no idea who said this (if I had to guess, I would say I might have read it in The New Yorker), but this is how I copied it onto my phone: "We should have been very wary about this idea" of taking human sociality -- "incredibly powerful and shaped by a million years of evolution" -- and allowing 22 year-olds in California to reinvent it. Amen.

And, from the British actor, David Mitchell: Internet has made it easier to order pizza and for the truth to die.

I never ordered pizza, nor any other take-out, not once during the year. But I watched the truth continue to die. And, finally, I just thought, I can't do this anymore. Joel and I were starting to argue about politics. AND WE'RE ON THE SAME SIDE! After President Biden was elected, I let out a very loud existential sigh. And then... things didn't actually get immediately better. I know. I really was that optimistic, and that set me up for a crash. So, I subsequently made the decision to step back. And then came January 6th. And, as a result of that, I took the month of February off to regroup. And I began a practice of meditation which is currently serving me much better than CNN.

So, the long and the short of it is, if you are looking for politics here going forward, you are probably not going to find very much of it, if at all. At least not overtly stated. Not that I won't rant now and again. It's in my Scorpio nature. Other than rants, look for some memories, observations and life experiences, maybe humor (at least I think I'm funny). And hopefully more joy as we move along. Or as Smokey Robinson sang: More love and more joy, Than age or time can ever destroy. Now, that's a great quote. One that is worthy of being written down. Happy March! And I thank you for reading my blog.

 

Everything I Need to Know I Learned During the Pandemic

 Los Angeles, California

Did you ever see those greeting cards and posters from the nineties that listed: Everything I need to know I learned from my: Dog; Goldfish; Hairdresser... etc.? They were a play on the feel-good book, Everything I Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten. In trying to put a more positive ("positive", positive?), ok, not a word I like. In trying to put a more enlightened spin on a really awful time, I decided to compile a list of some of what I learned during the past pandemic year. The everything in the title was hyperbole.

I can cook for myself for 300+ nights. I logged each meal I prepared and can look back to see what I was eating from mid-March on. A friend asked why would you do this? If you don't get it, it's hard to explain, but recently, Sam Sifton of The New York Times Cooking wrote that he wished he would have done this. Just goes to show you. And, to come clean, there were instances of slipping down into dorm food. No, not Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (only once in my life), but there were some Roy Choi doctored-up ramen bowls. And that's ok. There were also Friday night meatless dinners, usually pasta. And pork tenderloins, a new recipe for roast chicken, lots of velvety slow-roasted or poached salmon; roasted chicken thighs with scallions and jasmine rice. My go-to salad was Caesar, usually without croutons, but with homemade Caesar dressing. There were very few desserts. I did not bake a cake nor brownies nor a pie during the year. I just haven't much of a taste for sweets except for an occasional Saturday night spumoni ice cream cone, and a run on Yasso yogurt bars that ran for most of the summer before petering out. Ok, to come clean, there was that box of Mallomars, but I never finished it. I mostly avoided potato and tortilla chips as I couldn't get small enough bags to eat. I am tempted to eat the whole bag, so it really needs to be a small one. Plus, I missed the Stuffing Potato Chips at Trader Joe's. Evidently they arrrived and were sold out the same day. That's ok, they'll be back next year. One thing I am very good at is delayed gratification. Maybe that's why I've more or less done ok through the pandemic. Not great, mind you, but ok.

I can cut my own hair. Then again, I have some experience having, in the past, gone at my hair occasionally after not getting the cut I wanted. I got much better at this through the pandemic. It's all about geometry and angles and then cutting into the ends so they lie less bluntly. I have long hair, so I am able to cut the back length. If my hairstyle was short, I would never have been able to do this. Fortunately, I made the decision a long time ago that after going through most of my adult life with a lob or a short bob, I would grow my hair out when I reached a certain age. It was an iconoclastic decision, as we heard when growing up that at middle age a woman should cut her hair and never wear jeans nor short skirts. But that bought into the American youth culture that indicated that mature woman lose their sex appeal. And that led to women trying to hang onto youth through plastic surgery. Eighty year-old women are not supposed to look like Barbie. That's just weird. I always admired women like Sophia Loren, Catherine Deneuve and Sonia Braga who seemed to fly in the face of that and embrace mature sexiness. And I liked the updos that both Hepburns wore as they grew older. My aunt, who was classically elegant, wore her hair in a Hitchockian chignon. As she aged, she switched to a Gibson Girl updo. Even in my thirties I knew that when I grew older I would emulate that rather than the Golden Girls look of my mom's hairstyle. That was a long time before I found myself in the LA salsa community where women can embrace femininity and sex appeal at any age, and for the most part, women have long hair and men have short. But I suppose the bottom line about my long hair is that, like most everything else in my life, it is about how I feel not what I think. And really, if you reflect on the liberation of our times including acceptance of people changing gender, isn't it silly to want to hold women to abide by those old rules? And to throw some judgement at judgementalism, when I hear people criticizing celebrities and others for their fashion choices, I can't help but think that it's a bit... shallow. Why should we care? So, if you want to wear white shoes after Labor Day, go head on, as it is alright with me. After all, I'm the one with the ponytail.

I can listen to my body. By setting up a fitness plan and adapting it as I went along, I began to pay better attention to what my body was telling me. I have done pilates for a couple of decades, and have worked with Cathy for much of that time. She is magnificent in her intuitive awareness of the body issues of her clients and patients (for she became a practitioner of Chinese medicine during this time). But, because I relied on Cathy, I got lazy and didn't pay enough attention to what my body was telling me in terms of what I needed and what I should forego in movement and exercise. Early on in the pandemic, I realized that I hate walking. For years I have tried to put myself onto a program which included walking, and it never worked for me. I returned to old-fashioned aerobics last March, and have not stopped. I incorporated salsa, weight work and mat work. And somewhere along the way, I actually started paying attention and varying my work by exploring the possibilities and limits of my body in motion. It was revelatory.

Follow the bad thoughts with good ones. Not to be confused with that positivity movement where anything bad happening in life is cast in an altered way. I thoroughly acknowledge the thoughts about what is evil in the world and what is sad and bad in my life. I let them have their full weight. But I have learned not to chase them down the road. I have also learned that there is a peril in positivity. It can keep you from living in all of the rooms of your house, so to speak. But you can follow a negative thought with a hopeful one. Not changing the thought into a "positive" one, but following the dark cloud with some hopeful rays of light. It's a completely different concept than positivity. You're not a kid pouring honey and maple syrup on evil vegetables, because you are secure in the knowledge that once the vegies are consumed, your dessert will follow. Weird metaphor for me, as I actually like most vegetables except winter squashes (which you actually can dress up with honey/maple syrup, but now this is getting crazy and the metaphors have taken control of the post).

There are all kinds of ways to connect with loved ones. I have carried on an email exchange, much like pen pals, with two friends; one new and one a reconnection from the past. Aside from being a practice in writing, it has been interesting to correspond on a variety of topics and get to know them better. One is a girlfriend who lives nearby. The other is a male friend who lives in London. With a few of my friends we have relied on texting. But with most we have connected through making dates to connect by phone or Facetime. The Facetime connections have mostly been happy hours. We spruce up a bit, shake up a cocktail, and visit as we used to, only now virtually. After our catch-up, we disconnect and go off to make our own meals. It's probably the connection that has been the most... human. Good to see faces again. Of course I miss the in-person contact. But sitting with masks on six feet away from each other for conversation just didn't work for me.

Time fills the day. I work out and/or write almost every day, and I have my daily round of things I must do to keep up my home. The one thing I thought I would have was a lot of unscheduled time. But I don't. At the beginning of the first lockdown, I drew up a weekly schedule and while it has evolved, I still manage to fill my day. I might be moving more slowly in order to do this, but I often run out of time to get everything done. How did I fit days spent with girlfriends into my pre-Covid life? Evenings spent with Joel dancing salsa? I think like water filling a glass, time fills the day.

A little bit of TV is more than enough. On New Year's Eve, I heard Anderson Cooper say that one of his hopes for 2021 was that people would stop telling him that he needed to watch Schitt's Creek. I was alone, but I laughed out loud. It seemed that a lot of people spent 2020 watching a lot of series TV. Lord knows I tried. And I did get through and even liked a couple that I watched. But I couldn't sit still long enough. There are just too many hours in series TV. I could barely get through movies. When I said to my friend, Christopher, that I would be thirteen hours closer to death if I watched a certain series, he responded that, no, I wouldn't. Which is true, but it's kind of like the old joke: Doctor, if I give up smoking, drinking, and sex will I live to one hundred? To which the doctor replied: No, but it will feel like it. No doubt, I watched an excess of CNN from October until this week. But a lot of the time it was just background. I did watch the Dodgers play through the shortened season. I listened to NPR. I put together workout playlists on iTunes. I wrote. I read. I dabbled in Spanish online. I resubscribed to the print version of The New Yorker. Meanwhile, I watched the first episode of a lot of the series that people recommended to me. I even made it through most of the first season of The Crown. And I got exercise walking away from all of it.

I will better value a lot of things when life resumes. Time spent with Joel at my house or dancing or watching Dodgers' games at the bar at Sol y Luna. Days or evenings spent with my girlfriends, and with Connie and Curt, and with Todd and Christopher. Finally being able to spend time with Larry. The resumption of Lynnette coming to stay at my house, as often as we can manage once a month throughout the year. Attending Mass at St. Charles Borromeo. Resuming pilates with Cathy and my partner, Beth. Shopping with Lisa at Century City on a sunny day. Having my Sonoma friends as houseguests for a summer visit. Going to afternoon movies by myself. Scheduling a writing retreat in a VRBO in Carmel. Getting to know my new neighbors better, and talking more about scheduling a street party. I wrote this quickly off the top of my head, and it is probably less than half of all I look forward to in the freedom of our future.

The biggest thing I learned was not a surprise at all. It is that I never want to go through another pandemic like this again. Due to its handling, we lost at least a year our of our lives. But the other side of it is, that if someone had told me that I would live this way for a year, I would not have thought I could do it. We did it, one way or another. It was crappy. It was a drag. It was impossibly hard at times. But if you learned more about your strength and your ability to follow rules when rules needed to be followed, you deserve a big gold star. And here is the thing that I didn't need to learn. That sometimes when things are bad, it is appropriate to feel bad. Life isn't designed to be always happy, despite what we all believed as kids while listening to Beatles' songs. Hang on just a bit longer. We are almost out of that long, long, long tunnel. Hey look! ... Here comes the sun!

Thank you for reading my blog.

  

Cup of Ramen

Lovely Los Angeles, California

So, we've hit the point in my Covid pandemic movie, where the protagonist is seriously fraying at the edges. And one of those edges is about food. I have been prepping three meals a day since I came home from Carmel just eight months ago, almost to the day. This week, dinner devolved into soup. Pretty good soup. I made ginger chicken with rice soup on Sunday which lasted two days. On Tuesday, I made a tuscan white bean soup with sage from my garden. Two days. Tonight I had a Trader Joe's Miso Noodle Cup. Ok, I'm not a philistine. I followed my own version of the Roy Choi method, adding an egg yolk, a slice of American cheese, sliced scallions and sesame oil. There is a great debate about this recipe, specifically about the American cheese. People hate that. You know who those people are. They're the ones who write comments at the bottom of recipes on Food52 or New York Times online food site saying what a great recipe it was after they substituted every ingredient and changed most of the method. While I wouldn't eat processed cheese as a rule, in this case it does melt into the broth along with the egg yolk creating a creamy, non-cheesy soup. So, that was what I made, all plunked into a bowl and eaten with a ceramic Asian spoon. On the couch, which has more or less become my new dining room. The old dining room being where I now do aerobics. I did use a cloth napkin, one of my twelve days of Christmas set of... twelve. How many days of pandemic? About two hundred and fifty and counting.

My kitchen is now my workshop, the kitchen table taken up with Christmas cards and other miscellaneous stuff. But before the cup of ramen, before the soup, I was cooking for myself in a more substantial manner. I made enchiladas. I roasted chicken thighs with scallions. I tossed pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil from my garden. And... I'm tired of it. I'm tired of making oatmeal for breakfast. I'm tired of cooking. I'm tired of eating. I'm tired.

Aren't we all?

...and when I first wrote this post last month, that was where it ended. But being tired shouldn't be the end of this. Yes, we're all tired. Not many of us thought it would go on for so long. But we have been a resilient people. And, despite a very vocal minority, we are mostly a population of forthright, cooperative folk. My grandparents endured food rationing throughout the war. There was a gas shortage in the 70s, and you could only gas up on odd or even days depending on your license plate numbers. How many droughts have we always endured in California as well as ubiquitous wildfires throughout the west?  So, if part of the worst of it is soup and HBO for a night, or for three hundred nights; tomorrow the sun will rise on another opportunity to connect with good friends, to write, to anticipate better celebrations of all the holidays ahead. So, while I am spooning up oatmeal and soup like Oliver Twist (though with greater quantity), I am trying to channel Annie. The sun will come out tomorrow... or one of these tomorrows, damn it! And I want to be among the first in line to bring joy back into life: Dancing; laughing with friends; enjoying houseguests and Dodgers baseball, kneeling at Mass in gratitude. I called this post Cup of Ramen, but I should have called it Hang in There. There is more pandemic time behind us than ahead of us. The vaccine is on its way, but until it arrives we need to hang in there for awhile longer. Can we do this? YES WE CAN. Thank you for reading my blog.

That Was the Year That Was, Part Two

Los Angeles, California

After what felt like too much time, our pilot finally came back on to announce that there was a problem with the aircraft. He then said something that you don't want to hear on a flight or in surgery: We're troubleshooting. But before that, he told us that the plane had lost the... elefantes? Huh? Our across-the-aisle fellow passenger leaned in. What did he say we lost? The pilot had a hispanic accent, to which my ear is well-accustomed. But the word for whatever we had lost had sounded muffled. At least I knew it wasn't a wing. We were now back up in altitude, and the passengers were mostly quiet. Our across-the-aisle friend was in texting contact with her husband and was relaying information to us. A lot more time passed without any information from the cockpit. Finally, the pilot came back on to tell us that they would be unable to land the plane in Monterey, and were going to land us in Fresno. Fresno? Dina, across the aisle exclaimed. Why aren't we landing in San Jose? Fresno is about three hours from Monterey. My friends, Brendan and Diana, were at that moment waiting at Monterey Airport to pick me up so we could celebrate our first night's dinner at Rio Grill.

Courtney turned to me, saying that this had happened to her once before, when she was living in San Diego. Her flight had been diverted to Palm Springs, and she had linked with some guys, strangers, to rent a car and drive to San Diego. That's what we'll do, she said. And she and Dina began planning for this across the aisle. I looked out the window. I didn't know what was wrong with the plane. I didn't know what was going to happen. Troubleshoot kept going around in my brain. We lost the... elementes? My phone was on Airplane Mode, but I texted Joel: There is a problem with our flight. I love you.

Courtney and Dina had a plan in place. Finally we were beginning to descend. The passengers on the plane was absolutely silent. I thought Maybe this is it. Maybe I'm going to die. And I never finalized my trust!!! I really did think that. But I also realized that I felt still. Not calm, but oddly still. And I prayed. And then I asked Courtney if she could do me a favor. Would you hold my hand? I wasn't about to go down without human contact. She immediately held my hand in both of hers. And she prayed outloud. Later, we joked about this: Fuck Covid! We're holdin' hands.

We landed in Fresno amidst a lot of emergency vehicles on the runway. But they didn't put us into crash position. I took heart in this. Dina had already said she would drive us to Carmel. She had attended Fresno State at one time and knew the road to Monterey well. By the time we landed, she had reserved a car from Hertz. Courtney was onboard with the plan and was keeping me with her. I was just a go-alonger by this time. When we were on the ground, I saw that Diana had texted me: Are you going to Fresno?!?

Once the door was opened, airport personnel rushed aboard: Omigod, we are so GLAD to see you!! A flight attendant was weeping. The pilot came back to the cabin to explain to us what had happened and why we were in Fresno. Fresno has the longest runway of the three airports: Monterey; San Jose; and San Francisco. There was also less housing around the airport, which gave us pause. They didn't want to let us off of the plane, and when they finally did, they told us to stay close. They were trying to figure out if they could fix the plane. Most of the passengers were saying Forget it and were making plans to find lodging. The weeping flight attendant, who was fairly new to her job, told us she was not going to get back on that plane. Dina spoke with the co-pilot. He explained, in his French accent, that the plane had lost its elevator, which stabilizes the plane and keeps it from flipping upside down as had happened with an Alaska Airlines flight which crashed into the bay near Oxnard some years back. The thud we had heard was explained as their attempt to take the plane off of automatic pilot. It didn't go well, he said. They had lost some of the plane's computer function at that time which was what they were troubleshooting. We really didn't know if we would be able to land it, the co-pilot told her.

Enroute to the Hertz counter at this very small airport (I suspect we were the only flight that landed that night), Dina asked us to watch her bag while she used the restroom. She returned with a pretty young brunette woman, who Dina had found in the restroom, shaking. She's coming with us. Dina got the keys to the Ford Explorer, and we were in the parking lot before anyone else got out of the airport. Courtney told me to sit up front. She got into the back with the newest member of our new group, Camille from New York. There was misting rain. Dina checked navigation. It says three hours, she said. I can make it in two and a half. And thus began our journey.

We were more or less four strangers. Courtney and I, by now, had a three-hour friendship going, aided by thirty minutes of hand-holding. Camille was thrown instantly into the mix. We navigated out of the airport and Dina shortly had us on the highway heading toward Pacheco Pass. I had lost two friends in a car accident on this highway many decades ago. It had changed my destiny. But that was then. This was now. Over the almost three-hour drive (there was a restroom pit stop), we shared stories that I am convinced we would never have shared with acquaintances. Stories of being in school near ground zero on 9/11. Stories of boyfriends and husbands. Stories of divorces and suicides. It was a profound experience with three women who were only briefly strangers. I am convinced that this experience could only happen with women. We all remarked on how lucky we were to have connected. Courtney kept repeating And I wasn't even in the right seat! And I thought about what it would have been like to be sitting next to someone who had kept to themselves throughout the flight experience. Someone I couldn't have asked to hold my hand.

Dina drove us each to our destinations. Camille was visiting friends who lived in Carmel and was dropped off first. We all hopped out at each stop and hugged. We had already shared phone numbers. At my stop, Brendan and Diana came out of our VRBO rental in downtown Carmel to greet us. It was midnight.

Over the next few days we group-texted each other a lot. Dina texted that they were expecting guests for dinner the next night when her husband casually mentioned: Don't you have a rental car to return? She would not accept our sharing the cost of the rental. The next day I texted: Is anyone else constantly ravenous? We all reported feeling some degree of post-trauma shakiness while feeling abundantly grateful for survival and each other.

Dina was home. The rest of us flew home out of three different airports on Monday. Camille flew from San Francisco to New York; Courtney from Monterey back through Phoenix to Austin. Brendan and Diana drove me to San Jose on their way home to Sonoma, so I could fly directly to Burbank. Parking and walking into the airport we immediately saw that life had changed. As my mother would say, you could have shot a cannon through that normally-bustling airport. There were nineteen people on my flight including crew. No one in rows ahead or behind me. I Lyfted home from the airport. Camille and Courtney both texted later when they had arrived home safely. It was March 9th.

On Saturday, March 14th, I had plans to have dinner with my friends, Connie and Curt. Connie texted that we should go out to dinner, so I wouldn't have to bother cooking. I don't think so, I wrote. With this Covid thing intensifying, I suggested it would be better if I cooked. I waited for them on the front porch as they drove up my long driveway. When they got out of their car, I called out Do we hug? Curt said no. I can't remember what I cooked that night. But I will tell you that it is the last dinner for guests that I cooked in 2020. It was March 14th. The Stay-at-Home order started a few days later.

We ladies from Flight 5905 have stayed in touch all year. Camille's mom, a nurse at Brooklyn Hospital, was one of the first cases of Covid I heard about in the community of the people I know. Sadly, Dina lost her mom later in the year, and Courtney lost her grandfather, neither to Covid. In our own way, we hung onto each other. I have a hope that we will have a reunion some time in the future. We know each other, but we really don't know each other. And it would be interesting to get better acquainted outside of a plane and/or a Ford Explorer.

Of course I thought the flight experience would be the worst thing that could happen to me in 2020. Remember the high hopes that I had for the year back in January? But I am also mindful of the friend who called out: I hope it's a good year! It was not. But we rode it out, for the better and for all of the worst. And now it's behind us, and 2021 has just begun. And what I want to write about that is this:

 I hope it's a good year!!!

Happy New Year to you all, and a heartfelt shout out to the Ladies from Flight 5905.

That Was the Year that Was

Los Angeles, California

On second thought, I decided to reflect back on the year that has just passed. I mean, what the hell, right? This would be a lot easier if we were out of the messy pandemic that has immobilized a great number of us. Not all. But that's another subject.

I ended 2019 dancing salsa with Joel. We left the club around 11:30 as the floor had become too crowded. Women with augmented lips and breasts were there to be seen. There was freestyle, what I call duck-paddling, going on to pass for dancing. Lots of shakin' it. They didn't know how to dance salsa, but they clearly knew how to drink. And they were drinking crappy, sugary cocktails that they also knew how to spill on the floor. Dance shoes are suede-soled. Suede soles are not happy stepping in sugary spills.

I didn't have a problem with leaving early. New Year's Eve has never been a favorite holiday, though improved in recent years. Joel went home to his first love, Buster the Bassett, and I put on comfy pjs and watched the ball drop. I wrote in my journal: It's going to be a good year. Frankly, it was the worst holiday season I had ever experienced, and I was happy to see the holidays and the year ending. I signed off my last journal entry of the year, writing: As Scarlett said: After all, tomorrow is another decade...

The next day I wrote: It is a new time. I went to my friends' always lovely, annual open house. A few of us stayed late, and Steven, our host, rewarded us by playing his guitar and singing Beatles' songs. It was, I thought, a great way to kick off the year. There was one small incident, when someone called out as they left: I hope it's a good year! And another guest commented that she didn't like that. She thought the sentiment of hope wasn't "positive." I recapped all of this in my journal, writing: But it was real. Shit happens, and maybe the most and best we've learned to do is to hope for the best. And that's ok. It's a new year. A new decade. I do hope it's good.

Joel was sick through a lot of January. I wrote in my journal that he was killingly sick, coughing a lot. In retrospect, I suspect Covid, as we now know that the West Coast probably had Covid earlier than once thought. Cathy, my friend and pilates guru, commented that there was something weird going around. A cold that doesn't go away. She was also sick.

Ten days into the year, I spent a day with Lisa at Century City. It was a warm January LA day, and we ate lunch at Eataly, and had a lot of fun shopping and walking around the outside shopping venue together. I did, however, knock her agua fresca to the floor at the take-out place where she was picking up dinner at the end of our day. Luckily, clumsy doesn't really get in the way of a good girlfriend day. January 2020 was already much better than December 2019. I wrote in my journal: I have got lots of good in my life right now.

I got the call in February that a friend had passed away. It hit me hard. I hadn't seen her, hadn't seen them, in the five years since Tom had died. We stayed in touch through birthday and holiday cards. But I knew she wasn't doing well, and knew I should reach out. I just couldn't. They were the couple we saw regularly for movies and dinner and birthday celebrations. It was hard for me, and I couldn't surmount it. Lynnette admonished me that I should make an effort. It was the right thing to do, plus I think she understood that I would feel bad if something happened to either of them. I agreed that I should make an effort. And I said I would. But I didn't. It was now too late to let Susan know how much she had meant to me, but I told Larry that I would be there for him.

Lent began on February 27th, and as in the past few years, I wasn't giving anything up. I've given up enough, I wrote. But I was still in a better place as I began Lent without a practice of deprivation. On March 1st, I went to Mass at St. Charles Borromeo, the beautiful church I attend, which is nicknamed: The Church that Hope (Bob) and Crosby (Bing) built, as it was, at one time, the parrish of both. I returned home, and began getting organized for my upcoming trip. March 3rd was Super Tuesday and my guy, Biden, was doing well. Predictably not doing well in green and ultra-blue California, but everywhere else. I was now packed for the trip and ready to roll.

On Wednesday, March 4th, I flew to Phoenix out of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. We were now aware of the pandemic, and had been advised to wipe down our seat and surrounding area on the plane, which I dutifully did. I had a conversation with my seatmate, who was traveling with her twin to meet a girlfriend in Scottsdale. We landed in Phoenix, and Lynnette was there to meet my flight, having just flown in from Newport Beach. Our annual Spring Training trip had begun. We went to three games: two Dodgers' games and two Giants' games (one being the Dodgers v. Giants). We met my family-but-in-a-good-way friends for brunch and met the new baby, Etta. And we went to our favorite Phoenix hamburger place, Zinburger, where I ate my last restaurant hamburger of 2020. It was delicious, washed down with a draft IPA. We played our favorite game, Ticket to Ride, each night in the bar at the hotel. We didn't realize that we were winding down from normal, and plunging toward a year of immobilization and isolation.

On the afternoon of our third day, Friday, March 6th, we Lyfted to the airport together, and Lynnette waited with me for my flight which was earlier than hers. I was flying to Monterey to meet my friends, Brendan and Diana. As we sat in Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, Lynnette told me that she never talks to anyone in airports or on flights. Even when she traveled with her husband, they didn't talk to each other. That's crazy, I said. I've met some really interesting people and have enjoyed the serendipitous conversations. Sometimes Lynnette and I just have to agree to disagree.

I boarded my American Airlines flight. It was a small plane, two and two with a center aisle. I dutifully wiped down my space with the folded Clorox wipes I had brought in a Ziplock. And... here comes my seatmate. A thirtysomething, pretty blonde with long eyelashes, and a huge carryon. She sat down and pulled an entire container of Clorox wipes out of her bag, like Mary Poppins!

Courtney from Austin, Texas, and I introduced ourselves and we talked through the boarding of the rest of the passengers. Towards the end of this process, a young woman came down the aisle, and stopped at Courtney's seat. I think you're in my seat, she said. Courtney began to rummage through her M. Poppins' bag to find her boarding pass. This took some time, and she never did come up with it. Never mind, the woman said, politely. I can just sit here, she gestured at the empty seat in front of Courtney.

Courtney had connected in Phoenix enroute to Monterey for a girlfriends' weekend in Carmel. And she was lively and lovely. We talked about our lives, and her three school-age kids, and how much fun we were going to have with our respective friends in Carmel. I had a Heineken, she drank champagne, and the flight went quickly. We were descending into Monterey Airport on schedule. And then, in that long space when planes are seemingly floating down to a lower altitude in preparation for landing, there was a shuddering clunk. It wasn't the sound of the landing gear being lowered. And then... we weren't descending. Over an interminable time, it became apparent that we were going back up. About ten minutes after we should have landed, the woman seated in the window seat across the aisle, with the aisle seat next to her empty, told us that her husband was at the airport and was texting her that they were indicating that we were no longer on approach. The chatter on the plane was diminishing. It was getting too quiet.

To be continued...