Cumbia in Carmel

 Los Angeles, California

We flew home from Monterey on Election Day. Our flight was delayed by an hour which stuck us on the 405 at rush hour. I was anxious to get home to watch election returns, and looking forward to finally land back in my home after an oddly hectic travel day. Monterey is an hour's flight away. How is it that our travel time amounted to six hours? You can actually drive from LA to Carmel in five.

I am retired and I am aware that to many people this means travel. Occasionally someone will ask me if I am traveling a lot now that I am retired. The answer is definitively no. Are there places I would love to see for the first time? Yeah, I guess so. Are there places, besides Carmel, that I would love to revisit? Kinda. But the truth is that I really do not like the travel part of travel. And as time goes by, that travel part is enough of a deterrent that I am more or less fine with not traveling much. In the last few years, Joel and I have traveled to New York City and to Santa Fe, New Mexico. They were great, fun trips. But I'm not longing to go anywhere else at the moment, except to return to Carmel. Always Carmel.

And speaking of Carmel, it was a wonderful! The first night there, we met a couple who recommended a restaurant in Monterey. The next morning, another couple breakfasting beside us, told us that it was their favorite restaurant. We ended up going there for both my birthday dinner and our final (and election-eve) night. They had the most insanely wonderful oysters. The first night I followed that with steamed clams. That last night I ordered sand dabs. Both were perfect. We sat at the bar and watched boats pulling into the marina at sunset. Joel had a lively conversation en español with the bar back, Luis, who is also from Mexico City.

One evening, as we had last year, we sat on the stones ringing the median strip of trees on Ocean Avenue, and watched the Halloween parade. The Halloween parade is really a commemoration of Carmel's incorporation 130 years ago. You have to love a city who starts a parade with a police patrol car looping the street while loudly playing the song The Monster Mash. We raced over to AW Shucks as the parade finished, for more oysters and crab cakes.

So there was eating, and walking, and some shopping. We also went out to bars to watch the World Series. Not as much fun as when the Dodgers are in it, but we marveled at how astoundingly well the Brewers played. And then, one night, there was...salsa dancing! It was the first time I have ever danced salsa in Carmel/Monterey. The club was close by, right in town at the Plaza. As we walked in, the young woman working the door (Cal State Monterey Bay, golf scholarship) explained to us that this was a salsa club. It was latin dance and there was a class going on which we were welcome to join. Or we could just watch. I held up my shoe bag. What's that? she asked. My dance shoes. She suggested we just go on in.

And it was a terrific little club. The floor wasn't too crowded. Dancers pretty much respected each other's space. The DJ played great music, and at a volume which enabled you to actually speak to each other. Joel is still leading with his left hand, solamente, but he effectively led me through a couple of salsas, a bachata, and a cumbia. No cover charge and all the free water you needed to drink. It was like a throwback to earlier times. Especially the volume issue. In LA we all wear earplugs. I just don't know why LA is so loud in so many ways.

There not being salsa clubs in the area has been one of the things Joel has raised as a reason not to move to Carmel. Well, we can now check that box. And the truth is, I would move there in a hot minute if he would agree. But for now, it's a we'll see. My salsera friend, Joy, once said that I'll try is the latino no. I'm trying to figure out if we'll see has another meaning or hidden message. I guess we'll see...

Happy Happy Birthday

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California 

One of my favorite birthday cards ever, one that I bought by the score and sent to a collection of friends and family, featured a cartoon of two men seated at a table in a restaurant. The caption read: Boutros Boutros-Ghali and Yo-Yo Ma dine together. One is saying to the waiter: I'll have the mahi-mahi; The other says, I'll have the couscous. Inside, the card read: Happy Happy Birthday.

As I wrote, I sent this card to a bunch of people and told others about the card. Not everyone found it as hilarious as I did. This, I am sure, says more about me than them. I have a rather quirky sense of humor. I will say that my brother-in-law (a four-night Jeopardy winner, by the way) also found it very funny, and I stand by it being so.

So, here we are, back in one of my favorite places on the planet, celebrating my birthday. It's kinda a big one. Back in the day we only considered the decade birthdays to be 'big,' Those and the milestone ones: Sixteen when we got our driver's license that gave us wheels; 21 when we ordered our first 'legal' cocktail. I have great memories of both those birthdays. But I've had some really downright horrific birthdays as well. Birthdays, like life itself, live on a spectrum not a dot.

My last big birthday was five years ago when we were just coming out of the pandemic. Joel took me to a restaurant in West Hollywood where we sat at the bar and ordered oysters. That's been our birthdays tradition since we were first together. We had to show our vax cards to the masked doorman to enter the restaurant. Afterwards, we went to a club to dance for the first time since early 2020. At that time, I was using a car wash service that came to my house during the pandemic, and one of the guys had recommended this latino club. He said it had  featured a band when he had gone the previous weekend. I looked it up online and saw that it was a band we knew well.

We entered the club wearing our requisite masks, and again showed our vax cards. The club was rather dark and fairly crowded, but we found a small banquette table along one wall adjacent to the decent-sized dance floor. Joel went to the bar, and I surveyed the population. I scanned it twice, just to make sure. It appeared that I was the lone non-latino occupant in the entire club. And I felt certain that many of the faces staring back at me realized the same thing.

Now, to be clear, salsa clubs in Los Angeles generally are predominantly latino. But there is always a mix of other ethnicities. There are a fair number of Asians dancing, as well as African-Americans. In early classes, I practiced dancing with an Armenian man. And even though white guys aren't known for their dancing (unless their surnames are Astaire, Kelly or Baryshnikov), I've danced with a few who could handle their own on the floor. But, in this club, on this night, there was only one non-latino in the club, and that was moi.

I pointed this out to Joel when he returned with our water. He had already noticed. Don't worry, he said. Wait till they see you dance. And when the band started up, we walked onto the dance floor. We did not, however, dance salsa because the band who we knew from salsa clubs where they performed salsa and bachata, was only playing cumbia.

For a bit of history, cumbia is a dance that originated in Columbia and then was adopted, in a big way, by Mexico. Joel grew up dancing cumbia from a young age, taught by his mother and aunts. In a salsa club you probably won't hear/see cumbia or if you do, it will be one song. But this club was all cumbia with just a little bachata thrown in for good measure.

When Joel and I were first together, he taught me cumbia, but we don't often get an opportunity to dance it in the clubs. So, on this night, the only white woman in the club danced cumbia all night. I don't generally notice people off the floor when I am dancing, but Joel said we were a big hit at the club. I didn't care. I was simply overjoyed that we were sharing oysters and dancing again after about twenty months of almost complete isolation. It was a big birthday, and a happy, happy birthday, indeed.

Gimme a Hibiki, Baby

Los Angeles, California

By the time you read this, we will perhaps know whether the Dodgers progressed through the post season. What is known is that the regular season is over, so our last 2026 game at Dodgers Stadium is behind us. We don't attend postseason games. They're too important to watch amidst all of the distractions at the stadium, so we watch from home or from our place at the bar in the local restaurant where we often go to watch games.

I got to know the bartender at the Executive Club, which is where we sit at Dodgers Stadium. The seating is only four rows deep and shares the restrooms with the adjacent suites. If you have attended games at Dodgers Stadium you will appreciate this attribute of the Executive Club/Suites restrooms: They are air conditioned! They are also empty, which means no lines. Also no lines to contend with at concessions. We are served in our seats. I do, however, prefer to go to the bar to get my Ride On IPA from Bradley.

It was our last game and for the first time at the games we attended this season, we were losing, so I decided to have a nightcap. Since Ohtani has come to play for the Dodgers, the Executive Club stocks Hibiki scotch. I discovered Hibiki when I was refugeed out to Todd and Christopher's home during the January 2025 fires. That first night driving there, I was beyond stressed, so once I arrived they kindly offered me a whiskey. Once the threat was over and I returned home, I purchased a bottle of it at Costco. It is a very lovely scotch.

So on that last Dodgers game for us, I decided to treat myself to a Hibiki when we hit the seventh inning. As I was not quite sure of Bradley's age and knowledge of classic films, instead of just saying it, I explained what I wanted to say to him: Give me a whiskey, baby. And don't be stingy. I told him that I wasn't sure he would get the reference. He laughed. I get it. Greta Garbo, right? Right!

The Dodgers did lose that night. It was our sixth game during the season and the only one of the six they lost. I used to go to Dodgers games with a friend who had season tickets. When we would walk in for the first game of the season she attended, she would stop, take stock of the atmosphere of the stadium and sigh. She was back to a place she loved. I don't exactly love the stadium, but I do love attending the games there with Joel. So my farewell to the stadium for 2026 was capped by Bradley giving me a whiskey. And he wasn't stingy, baby.

Oops

Los Angeles, California

I was enjoying brunch time with an amiga especial. This longtime frister is so busy in her life that time spent together is indeed special and rather rare. A lovely time was had, catching up on our very different lives, commiserating a bit, and sharing the inevitable exchange about current events. Some topic we were touching on reminded me of something I had seen discussed on Real Time with Bill Maher. I enjoy watching this show (in fact, have attended many tapings of it here in LA). I don't always agree with everything I hear on the show, but I often come away more informed as I often feel the depths of the discussions illuminating.

I also find it somewhat enlightening to try to understand why so many of my friends have stopped watching him. For some, the dinner with Trump was the killing point. Others object to his staunch support of Israel. One friend objected to his complaints about liberals or more accurately, wokeness. On this day, I was surprised that my friend said she had taken a break from watching the show after a comment that he made about Dolly Parton. I asked her if this had been on his show which she confirmed. But as I hadn't heard it, I googled it when I got home.

Yes, he had made an offhand remark about Dolly's physical attributes. We'll leave it at that. The comment was made during his brief stand-up routine that begins each show. It's my least favorite part of the show so I may have left the room to freshen up my cocktail. At any rate, I wasn't aware of it until I read it online. But I will say that I have heard more offensive things come out of his mouth. Still, Dolly is so beloved, and I do get it. You probably shouldn't go after the sacred cows in our culture. Or should you?

I'm not a big a fan of stand-up comedy. Never really have been. I like my comedy situational. I am however a big fan of Marc Maron and also of Garrison Keillor. Granted they are more monologists than comedians (ok, Maron is straddling the line). I have heard Marc Maron make some outrageously offensive comments. But I am too old for cringe, and I find a lot of this, not all but a lot, entertaining. I think comedy is a lot like being in a relationship with a man. Some of it is going to border on intolerable, but all the good stuff provides the reason you stay with him.

Honestly, I think the thing that bothers me about this is how unfunny our world has become because of how easily we are all offended. I came of age in the era of Monty Python, and National Lampoon. I laughed my way through the film Airplane which skewered every racial, ethnic and sexual identity it could lay its hands on. You couldn't make that film today. Really, I don't think Mel Brooks could make The Producers today. When did our culture become so snowflake-infused that any humorous or parody shade thrown is a reason to shun?

And, frankly, haven't we gotten into all kinds of trouble with the hyper vigilant canceling of what we deem inappropriate or offensive? Lest we all forget Al Franken, there is a huge spectrum between the criminal activity of Hamas, Jeffrey Epstein, Harvey Weinstein, and Trump, and the comedians and commentators who might make light of something more deserving of gravitas. I think this is one of the many areas that we liberals have gotten wrong.

And back to Dolly. I do get it. We used to hear that tragedy plus time equals comedy. And clearly no time at all had passed when he made this comment. But, was Dolly's death a tragedy? I don't think so. She lived a wonderful life, beloved by just about all. And since she made so many jokes about her own physical endowments, I'm not sure she wouldn't have had a great retort to Maher's comment. Do I wish she was still here to do that? Of course. We all do. But at the same time, I'm kinda grateful for Bill Maher being here and for the politically incorrect commentary he is still presenting, even with the occasional oops.

Just Like the Old Days

 Los Angeles, California (Yay! Finally, it's time for pumpkins!!)

So, I'm driving around town in my car and still listening to John Mellencamp's music. I haven't put together a playlist yet. That will be a recreation of the setlist he did at the Hollywood Bowl. It is a huge playlist. Something like eighteen songs. He didn't talk a lot in between songs, so he got in a lot of his music. For now, I just random play some of his songs which are now in my iTunes library.

As I'm driving and listening, I'm remembering a time back in 1975, after seeing The Rolling Stones, driving around in my Audi with all the windows down and the local radio stations playing a whole lot of Stones as they were still in town performing. After seeing Paul Simon's Farewell Tour in 2018, I was listening to Paul Simon a lot. It was such a great concert, I just wanted to keep reliving it.

So on a recent day, as I was driving along a boulevard, coming home from running some errands, I was grooving on Small Town, Pink Houses, and Hurts So Good. And even enjoying the rather misogynistic I Need a Lover (it was another time).

For some reason, while I had the music cranked up, a strong memory came to me. It was a year or two before the time of that Stones concert. My parents were out of town and I was housesitting.  I was driving home from my part-time job to meet my boyfriend, David, at my parents' home. On the way, I stopped at Dale's market and bought steak, chicken, salad, potatoes for baking, everything needed for sandwiches, beer and both red and white wine. We were spending a weekend together mostly in my parents' pool.

I was driving my VW, which preceeded the Audi, and had the music cranked up. And, oddly, I remember listening to Alice Cooper's School's Out. It was just the start of summer. And school was out for us, having finished our first year (or maybe two) of college. After I arrived home, David arrived with albums: Allman Brothers' Eat a Peach; Loggins and Messina Sitting In; probably some Bowie and Stones.

The thing about that memory is that I remember the feeling of it so intensely. And strangely, or maybe not so, listening to Mellencamp and looking forward to going to a Dodgers' game with Joel that evening felt exactly the same. The same groove to the music and the same excitement about the coming evening with the guy. Different music. Different car. Different guy. Same feeling.

I love that I can recapture those memories and feel what that felt like. I love that I can experience the same feelings in a different decade. I love that at this time, I can look backwards and curiously realize that I had no idea that this many years later I could still feel this way. And also knowing that, in given circumstances, I will always feel this way.

At the concert, I recorded a video of Mellencamp singing Hurts So Good. It was the last song he played. And when I played it for my friends, Todd and Christopher, I noticed that I could hear myself singing. It is wild! I have videos of me dancing, but I don't do karaoke. Still, there I am, singing at the top of my voice that it Hurts So Good. And that's what I'm still doing in my car, although maybe not quite at the top of my voice. But I'm feeling the joy that I have always felt in recapturing a concert experience by listening to the artist's music, while driving which, granted, is not quite as much fun as it used to be. Although the Tesla experience is a cool cruise while singing along. Ok, for me now, school is out for good. But, I'm happy to report that the music still plays on. It always will. And so will those evocative feelings that come from experiencing it.

We Are Family

Los Angeles, California

Sometimes the universe offers you an unexpected opportunity for connection. At the concerts I recently attended, there was such a sense of unity in the appreciation for the artists, as well as an intense enjoyment of the music. Even our gladness for the wonderfully pleasant evening weather we experience here for much of the summer (heatwaves not withstanding). It was such a unique experience that I wrote two (2 !!) posts about it here. What was going on? I postulated that with all of the profound awfulness going on in our country and beyond, the opportunity to join and share the joy of the music and the generosity of the artists performing, led to an almost frenzied elation.

It is good to feel a part of something. A relationship. A friendship. A family. As I've written before, I don't have my own family. I did not have children. There weren't many cousins, and now, none that I know. The generations before us are long gone. I have been very fortunate to have friends who have included me in their families. Lucky to have met Lynnette's siblings almost from the start of our friendship. And my frister, Connie, who reached out to me in my darkest time and subsequently included Joel and me in their family holiday celebrations. The ironic thing about not having my own family at this time in my life is that I was always someone who relished and looked forward to our family celebrations. I guess life can be funny like that.

So, family-in-a-good-way is how I describe those friendships that can often be better than family and closer than just friends. It is why I use the portmanteau frister to describe those girlfriends who are indeed, closer than friends and better than sisters. These friends mean the world to me, as I have written about, maybe ad naseum, here. I just can't express enough how much these people, some in my life for a decade or less and others for many more, mean to me.

Recently, the family thing came up in a couple of other ways. The first came up as I was lying face down on a massage table. I was with my physical therapist who was doing a treatment for my shoulder. His name is William, and he is wonderful. We talked through all of my sessions, as he did his work and I spoke, muffled through the opening in the massage table. Something that we were talking about led me to exclaim that I have no family. And he immediately responded, Yes, you do. You have us. It is a family business; brothers, a spouse, daughters. It touched my heart that he would say that.

And then, in the middle of all of this therapy, I took my shoulder bursitis to the Hollywood Bowl for the Mellencamp concert. It was a warm night but Connie convinced me that I might need a jacket. It spent its time slung over the back of the bench seating. That is, until it fell down. When I picked it up and turned to replace it, I asked the concertgoers behind us if it was ok that my jacket was hanging there into their space. Of course, they answered. We're family.

And, of course we were a kind of family that night, as we joined together to enjoy (and participate in, as there was much singing and swaying) John Mellencamp's very joyous music. Maybe not having a family makes me appreciate those familial moments when someone includes you, even if just by word and for only a moment.

I grew up with Sly and the Family Stone singing We are Fam-i-ly. I never thought about that song much and it is not included in my large iTunes library. But it has been running through my head ever since those two experiences. And how much, in such small ways, we can make people feel a part of our shared experience on this rocky planet. Maybe, after all, we can create a family even if just for a moment  during a concert or when getting to know a family that provides care, as in the case of my physical therapists. Just pondering that brings a warmth to my heart, especially welcome in this currently turbulent world.

Conflict Entrepreneurs

Los Angeles, California

I was reading something recently. This would be a better start to the story if I could cite the source, but it might have been on the site On Being. I subscribe to this and I truly wish I would read/listen to everything they offer as it is a profoundly enlightening source. But, there are simply too many apps and podcasts in my life, so I tend to connect in scattershot fashion. Regardless of whether it was on their site or another (NY Times, anybody?), I want to share that I picked up a term that I found interesting.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and suddenly a non-sequitur, a loaded one at that, gets lobbed into the conversation? And, these days, it is usually of a political nature. I have spent my life amidst contrarians. Neither of my parents were, but my sister's late husband seemed to relish taking opposing views, just for the fun of it. After they first married, my sister and I were having a debate about whether cutting your hair makes it grow faster. She felt it did, which is of course ridiculous. My brother-in-law entered the conversation but before weighing in, he asked who had taken which side. I suppose it is to his credit that he wanted to support his wife, but... not to split hairs here, wasn't that a bit... dishonest? And, just to be clear, hair is dead. How can doing anything to the dead ends of it affect what happens at the scalp and follicle? I mean, trimming the ends can make your hairstyle look better, but speeding up the growth? Uh, no.

Here's the thing, if you have these contrarians in your life, you might notice that they like to find opportunities to lob something at you; some viewpoint or topic about which they already know you don't agree. And it comes in the midst of a conversation having nothing, and I mean NOTHING to do with that about which you have been conversing. You're talking about baseball and bam! Here comes a comment about election fraud. You're talking about a friend's travel plans and whack! Here comes a comment about liberals and socialism. You're talking about a movie you've seen and wham! Here comes a comment about Governor Newsom. I'm not a huge fan of Newsom. I would say I'm kinda neutral as I like some things about him and other things not too much. Grey area, people! Frankly, it is not my job to defend everything that is happening on the liberal end of the spectrum. And, should I want to engage about some liberal or conservative issue, I would prefer to have it served up in an honest manner, not snuck in and dropped like something Wile E. Coyote obtained from Acme Products, Inc.

The article talked about these people and referred to them as conflict entrepreneurs. They are the ones who get off on stirring things up, and they are always on alert for opportunities to do so. And, we innocent ones, wander into this in complete oblivion to the fact that it is lurking. Just waiting for its space to drop. So, generally, we are taken by surprise and have no response until later when we crawl out from under the boulder, alone, (beep-beep) and there is no longer any opportunity to address.

I like to think of myself as a student of human nature. I am fascinated by people; everyone so different and so interesting as they paddle around in our mutual duck pond. So I find it a challenge to figure out what these people get from this behavior. And, whether it comes from some misguided sense of competition. Or low self-esteem (that one's been overworked)? Envy? Or maybe they just don't have the gene to engage in a back-and-forth, adult discussion of issues. They just want to get their own stuff out there, without having to deal with a response.

My father used to say about my grandmother: Don't confuse me with facts as my mind is made up. I was too young to get a sense of what exactly this referred to about my grandmother. I grew up co-mothered by her, but after a short bout of dementia, she passed away in my mid-teens. I do recall her being opinionated. Not a bad thing in grandmothers, especially if it comes with ice cream and candy bars, as it did in Grandma Lillian's case. But I digress...

I like this term: Conflict Entrepreneurs because these people are kind of in the business of conflict and contrarianism. It's not an art. Still, I wonder if they ever sense in any way that they are kind of spitting in the wind. Why not just come inside? Sit down and have a real conversation. Keep the volume down. Stop referring to you people. And, for the love of heaven, stop lobbing your opinions at me. Why are you suddenly expressing your exasperation at illegal immigration? Weren't we just talking about all the pumpkin products at Trader Joe's...?

Cocktails and Snacks

Los Angeles, California

Recently, I had some friends over for dinner. Well, kinda. Actually, they picked up dinner from a local healthy chicken outlet; white or dark meat chicken and two sides. They brought me the Chinese chicken salad I requested.

In anticipation of their arrival, I did some of the things I used to do when entertaining. I set the table, putting out plates, and cutlery wrapped into cloth napkins. I set out glasses for Pelligrino (nobody, I mean, nobody seems to drink any alcohol these days), and a dish of Japanese rice cracker mix. In days of yore, this would have been cheese and olives. And nuts. But as I kept wrapping those things up after guests left, I noticed that nobody, I mean, nobody was eating appetizers or cocktail snacks. The snacks thing makes sense, I guess. No cocktails; no snacks.

The dinner they brought was delicious, as was our lively conversation. No dessert, they refused the cake I had picked up at Trader Joe's (seriously, those little quarter-sheet cakes at Trader Joe's in a myriad of flavors? So tasty! Why bake?). Coffee, anyone? No. They left around 8:30, which is the time we used to invite guests to arrive. I get it. I'm not quite the night owl I used to be. Although when Lynnette is here, we have to force ourselves to stop playing dominos/Yahtsee/Ticket to Ride, around midnight, or so. But as a rule, I'm happy to part with friends around ten or eleven at night. After they left, I did what little dishes there were and watched the entire Dodgers game that I had missed but recorded. And, I ate cake.

And this all takes me back to the recent Mellencamp concert, where I was seated next to a 62 year-old Delta flight attendant whom I joined in drinking, dancing, and singing along with most of the audience. It was so joyful, and I remarked to Joel the following day that I think I need some younger friends.

Don't get me wrong. I love every one of my friends and enjoy the time we spend together. I have winnowed out the losers, and reunited with my ex-best friend, which has been beyond a blessing. But part of spending time with some of these friends is in the awareness that many seem to be eschewing culinary and other pleasures and some of that group are even tracking their personal numbers: Alcohol intake; steps; calories; carbs; glucose. Isn't just knowing these numbers, much less following them daily,  a little... self-absorbed? Like, a new rendition of '60s navel-gazing?

I recently had an incident where my blood pressure was elevated. My ex-best, Cin, suggested I track my BP, logging the numbers over a two-week period so I can report it to my doctor. I thought this was a good idea. I don't normally have high blood pressure, nor do I have either elevated cholesterol or glucose. I take no medication for any of these things. Do I know what my numbers are? No. I just know that my doctor tells me I'm in normal range, and that is fine with me. I want to sing and dance at rock concerts, not look at numbers on my phone. I don't have nor want an Apple watch nor Fitbit. I just don't understand this obsession with daily tracking of the functions of our bodies.

So, tracking my blood pressure, while glad that I did, reminded me of how much I don't want to track these things in my life. I want to dance a lot, drink alcohol when the occasion arises, attend concerts and other events. I want to eat, within reason, everything I want to eat. This might make me sound shallow. I'm not. I'm just retired! And, Cin, the ex-best-now-better friend, remarked to me that as much as she has enjoyed seeing Sarah McLachlan together twice last year, she also wants to attend a concert together where we stand and dance and sing. See, I'm not the only one.

Dolly Parton just died, and it is all anyone is talking about. And rightly so. She was beloved for all she did and was. And in no small part, isn't that about the exuberance and joie de vivre that she demonstrated throughout her life? It wasn't just her hair that was large, she surely lived large. So her death at 80 seems premature, but on the other hand, what a lot she packed into those years. She should be the spirit animal for all of us.

Going forward, I will continue to set out cocktail tidbits for my guests. I will continue to offer them cocktails, beer and wine (mine is a full-service operation). I will continue to pay exorbitant fees for concert tickets (because I want to sit close to the stage). And I will stay up late, because I can. Life is short. The remainder of our days have dates. Numbers. Those are the only numbers I want in my awareness while I continue to live, eat, drink, dance, and sing throughout all of the days ahead.

And Then, We Danced

Los Angeles, California

A year after my trifecta of death year, which was when I lost my closest, beloved friend, my mother, and my husband in one calendar year (even just typing that makes me sigh greatly...), Joel and I observed New Year's Eve with friends. When raising our glasses for a toast to the new year, I added on that I made it through the entire year without someone dying on me. I guess that landed as a bit of a shocking downer, but it was a good thing. Something worth celebrating, even though the grieving was continuing.

So, that's my preface to the blatant obviosity of writing that some years are tough! I could recount all of the years in my life that have been hard (1963, 1966, 1967-8, 1972, 1997-98, 2012-2014). These dates are, of course, meaningless without elaborating on what made them so challenging. I could recount this all in a memoir, but... yuck.

Anyway, 2026 has been wracked with injuries that actually occurred to both Joel and me in 2025. We've endured my sciatic flare-up, his work-related shoulder injury, then my shoulder bursitis followed by his shoulder surgery. There's been a lot of limping, sling-wearing, heat and ice applications, Advil-administering and moaning. What there hasn't been is a lot of dancing, which is at the top of the list of things that run both Joel's and my engines. From Cinco de Mayo 2025 to now, there hasn't been much. Weirdly, a DJ played some salsa at our local Greek Festival this past May and we were able to dance to half of a Marc Anthony song. Joel had surgery about six weeks later.

So now that summer is in full force, we decided to attend one of the Sizzling Summer Nights events at The Autry Museum here in LA. It can be a lovely experience, on the courtyard surrounded by the museum which shades us during the 2-hour, early-evening event. It is often a band we know, including my favorite LA band, Ricardo Lemvo and Makina Loca. Back in my early salsa days, I recall hanging out at a table with Ricardo and the owner of the club, while we waited for salsa class to end and social dancing to begin. It's not Joel's favorite band, but he agreed to go out, just to be amongst salseros we know, and to hear the music. Dancing was not an option...

...until, Joel held out his hands. Can you do this? I asked. And, yes he could, leading with his left hand. It was a little weird, and a little awkward, but we were dancing salsa. And we followed that up with a cha-cha. That was pushing it, so when the song ended, we quit. A couple was walking by and stopped to compliment us on our style of dancing. If they only knew, I said to Joel afterwards. We have gotten a lot of compliments over the years, but that was always for two-handed dancing!

Anyway, the beauty of it was that we danced. And, like the short dance at the Greek Festival, it will get us by for awhile. Joel has started PT just as I am finishing my PT. I suspect we will be dancing again, hopefully even more regularly, sometime this fall. We'll take it slow. I think, as in most things in life, slow is underrated. The important thing is, as The Kinks sang, Don't Forget to Dance. We definitely won't.

Hurts So Good

Los Angeles, California

While last week's Sarah McLachlan concert evoked a multi-leveled response encompassing micro and macro upheaval and challenges, plus reminiscences, this week's concert was on the far other end of the spectrum. 

In celebration of her birthday the following day, I took my friend, Connie, to John Mellencamp's concert at The Hollywood Bowl. After Sarah's Greek Theater Concert, the Bowl seemed ginormous! And it was filled to the gills with all levels of Mellencamp fans. Of course you always expect to see devoted fans at any concert you attend, but I'm here to tell you, true Mellencampers are fervently dedicated!

It was interesting to me that the fans of Sarah brought a level just short of mania to her concert last week. The intensity of response to her music was more than I had experienced at her other two concerts which I had attended last year. She seemed surprised as well, as she kept turning to her guitarist and making that gesture with her hands and arms like What is going on here?

I decided that this reaction to Sarah could be attributed to the world in which we are currently experiencing so much vitriol and evil, which has permeated so much of our everyday living. There is a feeling of helplessness in the knowledge of what is going on with the daily flaunting of our nation's constitution, customs, and mores by those in power. So maybe when we music lovers are put into a situation where goodness and connection are provided, we just lose our minds.

I figured the audience experience at Sarah's concert was a one-off. But no, the much larger audience who came to hear John Mellencamp's music was just as jacked up. And I mean that in a positive sense. They were happy, grateful, and joyous to the Nth degree. They sang, they stood, they applauded mid-song.

And just a small anecdote. When Mellencamp sang the lyric: And they vacation down at the Gulf of Mexico from Little Pink Houses, he stopped the song to question whether it was still called the Gulf of Mexico, adding that he had heard somebody was trying to change that. The audience broke into wild cheering and applause and above it all from the audience came the shout: He's a fucking asshole! Applause and cheering went to that infamous Spinal Tap's level eleven.

Our seats were on the aisle in the bench section which is on either side of the boxes. I always look for seats in that section and these were pretty close to where Joel and I sat in 2018 when we saw Paul Simon during his Farewell Tour. Next to us were two women who were hugely devoted fans and they knew the words to every song. And while it can be annoying when people sing along with a concert (much more so if it's a revival of a musical theater production), this ecstatic audience singing along with every song actually enhanced the experience and didn't detract from actually hearing Mellencamp's voice. It was just too much fun to be annoyed by anything.

The next day I met my friend, Beth2, for breakfast before my physical therapy appointment for my ongoing shoulder issue, and I ran a few errands after PT. And all of the time I was in my car driving to and fro, I was listening to a mix of John Mellencamp's greatest hits. It was a hot LA day (it's been a hot LA summer), but I cracked my window so my hair could blow in the wind, and I sang and sang to all of the music I had heard so joyously the night before. I was still singing when I hit the elevator at the medical building and ran into my therapist, William. How was the concert? he asked. Fantastic! I'm still singing Hurts So Good! And the beauty of it all was that there was no hurt at all, good or bad. The afterglow of the concert felt so blissful.

When the Dodgers win, the stadium plays I Love LA. Now, anyone up on their Randy Newman knows this song is not a celebration of LA, but irony is lost on most people, including, evidently, Dodgers management. But there is something in the sentiment of the title of that song, that I think real LA natives feel. LA has changed monumentally. There are so few of us natives amongst all the millennials who flooded in to work in "the industry." It will never be the LA where I grew up. But every so often after summer nights at these glorious outdoor venues experiencing the  transcendence of hearing stellar music under the stars, I truly do think I still love LA. And now, kinda loving John Mellencamp's music more than I ever did before.

Resonance

Los Angeles, California

I thought to call this post Sarah, Part Three, but I frankly couldn't remember if there was a Sarah or a Sarah, Part Two. And, resonance fits here, so that's what it is.

Cin and I went to see Sarah McLachlan last night. It is the second time we've seen her together this year, and the third time I have seen her in the past year. This concert was at The Greek Theater which is such a lovely venue tucked into the hills of Griffith Park, LA's largest park and nothing whatsoever like Central Park in Manhattan. It's wild, mountainous, and topped by the famous Griffith Park Observatory featured in films like Rebel Without a Cause and La La Land.

We had amazing seats, fourth row of fixed seating, in the center, on the aisle. And we were just coming off of a heat wave so evening temps were comfortable without sweaters or jackets.

Before the concert started, we conversed a bit with the couple who were seated next to us. He asked me if I had seen Sarah before and I told him, rather sheepishly, that it was my third time seeing her this year. So you're a big fan, he stated. I told him why. There is not an emotion nor an issue that I have ever experienced in my life that isn't expressed in her music. I asked him if it was his first Sarah concert and he said it was. So what brings you here? He told me that he works with substance abuse patients and her music often resonates with what his patients are experiencing, especially Angel. I can see why. She speaks to wounded souls. He replied that there are a lot of wounded souls out there. We're all wounded souls, I said.

Turns out that he is a psychiatrist who runs substance abuse as well as related programs at UCLA. Since Cin is a psychotherapist, they connected and after the concert, he offered his card to her In case I can help in any way.

So the evening with Sarah's music was a lot about touch, connection, emotions of joy and remembrance. And just to recap, Cin and I have known each other since 1977 and have been through a lot together: Divorce; deaths; aging, and a separation when we put our friendship on hold that grew to fifteen years. So when Sarah sang I Will Remember You, the song that used to remind me of my dad but now is only about my late husband, Tom, and I wept again as I had in the other two concerts this year, she put her hand on my arm. By the time Sarah came back out to sing Gravity and Angel in her expected encore, we both cried through both songs and made a stack of our hands on top of each other's.

I was reminded of a concert I attended with my friend, Holly, in San Francisco. She lost her husband, Doug, the same year that Tom died. Neither of us were prepared for James Taylor singing Fire and Rain, with the lyric: But I always thought I'd see you again. We ended up in each other's arms, tears streaming, by the end of that plaintive song.

The thing about last night's glorious concert on such a lovely Los Angeles night, is that we both knew that we were willingly and wantingly walking into that experience. And yet, we also sang Ice Cream with the entire audience, and rocked to Building a Mystery. Her concerts span the spectrum of emotions and as I write this listening to a scramble of her music from my iTunes library, I feel the resonance of what her music means. What it means to me.

In the years before Tom died, I noticed that he was flat. We could be doing or experiencing the most joyous activity or event, and he was just emotionally flat, no matter what. I am someone who über-experiences my emotions. Dancing brings me joy, but occasionally it tips over into rapturous joy. I felt the same after seeing Candide at LA Opera, or after my one and only Rolling Stones concert in 1975 (Tour of the Americas, I still have the T-shirt) attended with my great love, David, who was (is?) the biggest Rolling Stones fan ever. One night after attending a screening of Ken Burns' newest documentary at the Museum of Motion Pictures in Hollywood, I was so elated at the surprise of Ken Burns showing up and speaking (and doing a Q + A afterwards!) that my friend, Karen, remarked to me the next day that she was surprised that I was so hyper after the event. I guess elation can come across as hyperness. For me, it is that unexpected joy that can possess you when you experience something truly special. It doesn't happen often. But, truthfully, I have always lived for those stellar moments.

And the thing is, that it seems to always happen when I see Sarah. Something about the music, especially the lyrics, and her distinctive voice. I texted Cin this morning that we should see her every time she is touring. It can be our thing, I wrote. She texted back I love it!!! And maybe that's the biggest thing. That hearing and feeling the love on that stage and in that audience. You just knew that everyone was feeling it. And it is something we need so much in these terribly dark and corrupt times. So today, I am listening to her and it is bringing me the resonance of last night's concert of tears and joy. And I just cannot wait till she comes back to town again.

No Problem

Los Angeles, California

For the first, what, fifteen-plus years of blogwriting here, I ended each post thanking whoever was reading my posts. And people were and are reading it. I have the stats to prove it. But I've never been quite sure of who I was thanking. I haven't had a comment left in years, and that's ok. I was never much for interacting in that way. And, just between us, I'm not really sure that my gratitude was genuine. I mean, did I need to thank people for reading, when I truly wasn't writing it for anyone to read? Granted, it is different than my journal, where I do write the most intimate things. While I shudder at the thought of anyone reading what I write there, my blog is more or less public so I do acknowledge that there are readers. But in 2022, I stopped ending my posts with that grat note to them.

I hoped that leaving off that polite, grateful acknowledgment didn't mean that I had become part of the rude group. Gratitude is important. Manners are important. I will once again touch on the No problem response to Thank you. When I hear this, my brain still echos: I didn't ask you if there was a problem. I said "Thank you." Growing up, we were instructed in the niceties of Please and Thank you, as well as the responses of It was my pleasure and YOU'RE WELCOME (shout intended)! But life changes and change succeeds. Joel says that No problem in business means It's my job, you don't have to thank me. In other words, we shouldn't be grateful for someone who is just doing their job. But, I think we should. Granted a thank you is not a given. But I think that saying it's not a problem somewhat negates the expression of gratitude.

I'm rather certain we have all noticed that the attention of customer service has become very unfocused. A while back, I had two delivery services who actually did damage at my home. And I tipped the first one, discovering the damage after they left. That was on me. But they knew when they left that they had not fully assembled the item of furniture they had delivered, and that they had rammed the furniture into a freshly painted wall several times, leaving two 4x6" scraped, black marks on the wall.

On the next delivery, I advised a delivery truck that I had a large tree above my driveway and a tall truck would not be able to access the top of the driveway, so the product, an appliance, would need to be dollied the last few feet. Instead, they backed up the driveway, slamming into the tree and severing a very large branch. It sounded like they had hit the house! They did not receive a gratuity from me. In fact, they received a claim against the company they worked for. The owner actually called them stupid when I relayed what had occurred.

I suppose the worst offenders are the package delivery people. I can't tell you who is the worst. For a long time I thought it was Amazon, especially when they were utilizing gig economy (I like to call this gag economy) people driving their own cars or rental trucks. But, while I seldom utilize Amazon, the problems with deliveries continue. The USPS is not great with packages. They no longer ring doorbells, and packages delivered by them, as well as by the other delivery companies, are left wherever, even in downpouring rain. At the present time, UPS seems to be the most conscientious in my neighborhood, but this can change at any time as route drivers change. I suppose these are first world problems, but having grown up at a time when people took more pride in their work responsibilities, I find it quite frustrating. When my sister's boyfriend, Jim, was in the army and stationed in Vietnam during that scary time, our regular US postal carrier would sometimes find a letter from Jim's APO address when he returned to the post office after his rounds. He would make a special trip to deliver it to my sister on his way home. A big difference from what we now get from the postal service at twenty times what we were paying for postage back then.

I think expressing gratitude is a fundamental first step in courtesy and social discourse, and is important when dealing with anyone in the workforce. My late husband used to say that he wouldn't give panhandlers any handouts, but was happy to generously tip workers, especially the busboys, car wash workers and others who were clearly at minimum wage. While he was a generous tipper, he didn't approve of the abundance of 'tip cups.' He said that no one tipped him for doing his job. He wasn't happy that I was paying more to my hairstylist for an appointment, than to our doctor. But he strongly believed in rewarding people who worked hard for little money. So I continue that by tipping workers and delivery people. Just not when they take out a tree on my property.

Still, gratitude and gratuities aside, I did decide to forego the message of thankfulness at the bottom of each post. Actually I didn't really decide, I just stopped doing it. After all, I am providing something by writing. If that is appreciated, fine, but I don't expect to get thanked. But if you are feeling grateful and want to say thank you (or even send a tip my way - I'm joking!) for whatever my posts might provide for you, I will respond, just this one time: No problem.

Shohei 300 / Bronte 310

Los Angeles, California

Shohei Ohtani just hit his 300th home run, but I beat him by ten. Ok, not home runs, but blog posts. Still, while it's not 310 dingers, I think it's an accomplishment. Back in the day, when I started this blog, the blog universe was packed with blogs of all kinds. I didn't pay a lot of attention, although there was a food blog, Orangette, that I loved. I knew someone who started a blog, and I think I wrote about this in an early post on my own blog. I sent her an email to check in on her and her life, and she responded : If you want to know how I'm doing, read my blog. That seemed a little self-involved (which frankly confirmed what I already knew about her), so I didn't.

It would have never occurred to me to start a blog had I not had a conversation with someone I met in Lake Tahoe. She was a recent graduate with a master's degree in Journalism. And she had just started a blog. I told her about my misgivings about blogs but she pointed out that it could serve a function for my writing. Even on my second martini at the bar where I met her (she was a part of our group and I had been introduced to her), this seemed to create the necessary lightbulb over my head. As she described it, I could make it a writing practice. I let this marinate for about six months, then decided to utilize blogger.com, which she had recommended, and I designed and started this blog. I made a contract with myself that I would write two posts every month. As you can see here to your right, I mostly lived up to that, though there were a few years when I relied more on my personal journal for my writing, as I utilized it as one of my tools to dig out of a dark hole of grief. Later, just before the pandemic, I decided to say sayonara to my blog. And then, with all the time I had each day as we hunkered down, I pulled back that final farewell post, and kept writing.

I don't know how Ohtani feels about his 300th home run. I mean, it's not like he isn't doing phenomenal things in almost every series he plays. If I were, heaven forbid, to go back and read every post I have written, I am sure I would be chagrinned to read some of them. Certainly during the demon President's first term, I unleashed a lot of what our team was feeling: Frustration; disbelief, and intense embarrassment. A case could be made that I should have saved that for my journal, but what the hell. It's part of the 310. And maybe if I were to go through all of my posts, I might find a gem or two.

Inspired by Orangette, I started with the concept of including recipes. But the formatting was time-consuming, and I let that go so I could concentrate on what I really needed to do. To write. While I have the philosophy that I do three things competently (cooking, dancing and writing), the truth is that writing is the one thing that comes naturally, and always has. I don't know how or why, but when I put fingers on a keyboard or hold pen in hand, words and phrases flow. They're not always good, but that's where editing comes in to play. But, sometimes I do go back and I read something that I cannot believe I wrote. Not that it is so good, but that I have conveyed something and now, in reading it, I have no idea from where those words, and the composition of those sentences, came. It's just something I can do.

I was a fairly proficient figure skater. I took to dance from a young age, but salsa was something I worked hard to learn by attending classes, and workshops, and practicing, practicing, practicing. Cooking has certainly come to me through a lot of trial and error., starting from a young age. Writing is different. While I do think my voice can be heard in my writing, as people have commented that my posts "sound like" me, I know I am not as verbally articulate in speaking. That flow only comes through writing, almost as if I am channeling someone else's words. But they are mine now, as are these posts here. All 310 of them.

The Big 60

Los Angeles, California

I believe, fervently, in celebrating birthdays. And I should amend that statement to read celebrating birth months. So when the 'big' birthdays roll around, I am all in on the festivities. As I have written here before, Joel's birthday is just two days before Independence Day (mine just two days before Halloween), so it ties in with a lot of fireworks, flags, and general hoopla. This birthday also fell in the middle of the World Cup games, adding to the elation of this season.

We don't travel at this time of the year. It's family travel time, so a good time not to do so. Our usual celebration for both birthdays is going out for oysters then to a club for dancing. With dancing clearly on the back burner, we discussed alternatives and came up with... going out for oysters, solamente. And that we did. It is also soft-shell crab season, so we headed out to our local seafood restaurant, found a place at the bar so we could watch yet another soccer game, and indulged.

Joel had remarked that it wasn't a big deal to him to have this birthday 'tradition.' But it is to me. Traditions have always been important, and I come by this rightly. My mom was big on these things, and our family celebrated many events in the same way each year. Mom was a lover of green corn tamales at El Cholo, and these were (and maybe still are, I have no idea) seasonal with the season commencing June 1st. Since her birthday was June 2, that was our tradition for her birthday. It was unquestioned, just as having fish for Christmas Eve was the constant for that holiday. At some point my sister had rebelled against most  of our family traditions, attempting to manipulate them with her ever-changing food 'allergies.' But we weren't having any of that.

Besides being our birthdays' tradition, oysters work for us. They are among the very few celebratory foods that Joel and I can share. Not to put too fine a point on this, but Joel is a bit picky. He eats no finned fish, only shellfish. He does eat caviar, but going out for caviar is an even spendier experience than oysters, so we save that for caviar and champagne nights at home.

In addition to the oyster night (no salsa), we went out twice to watch World Cup games. Both times to a restaurant where we go often enough to know the bartender and for him to know what we drink without our ordering: Modelo Negra for J; Casamigos reposado for me. And, we topped off the weekend by attending a Dodgers game and seeing their first extra-innings game of the season, which included a home run by Ohtani in front of thousands of Ohtani-jersey clad fans (including me!). There in the Executive Club section where we sit, our bartender, Bradley, also knows my drink: Hibiki. And, Modelo for J.

I was grateful that this was a good birthday for Joel. Both because it was just before his surgery and also because I felt I fell down on the job on his big 50th. I was in the throes of selling my business at that time, and it was extremely stressful. I don't think I was able to concentrate on making that event very special. For this one, I think I did us proud. And I am happy to think that Joel is finally catching up to my age. To quote Monty Python: Wink, wink. Nod,  nod...

We Need a Hero

Los Angeles, California

Fourteen months ago, Joel took a fall at work and tore the rotator cuff in his shoulder. Since it was a work injury, he was immediately placed on leave under his company's workers compensation insurance. What has followed is too circuitous and, frankly, painful to recount. Let's just say, it hasn't gone well.

My father used to say that if you want something run and done well don't give it to the government. Our experience with workers compensation insurance is that it runs very well, if the object is to insure that no money is expended for the care of the injured. The coverage company, Liberty (yes, that one with the cutesy commercials), denied almost everything that was requested by the physician. The penultimate request was for pain medication, an enhanced plasma injection, some type of ultrasonic/infrared treatment (not too clear on exactly what that was), and PT. They turned down everything except the pain medication.

At each step of the way, doctors, physician assistants, and physical therapists kept asking us if Joel had an attorney. And, finally we got the message and found an attorney. By that time, the osteo surgeon had thrown up his hands and said that the only thing he could ask for, since they turned everything else down, was surgery. The insurance company received the request at about the same time they were served the court filing papers. They approved surgery.

Joel has been in pain for over a year, and while I think he may not have needed, or indeed need now, the surgery had he gotten any of the other treatments requested, he is at the end of his patience on this and just wants to be fixed. And I get that. So, when surgery was scheduled, he was glad and I was resigned. And then...

In preparation for the surgery, an ECG (remember when these were called EKGs?) showed an irregularity. This necessitated a sign-off from a cardiologist, and it was six days before his scheduled surgery. Each day, Joel called the cardiologist's office requesting an appointment, and he was sent back to the referring physician who had done the pre-op exam to fax over an authorization. Finally, the day before the surgery, he again called to request the form. This is what he heard: Well, I guess I could send it over again, but I've already faxed it three times. When he called the cardiologist's office again, they got him in for an appointment and he was subsequently designated as a low risk just twenty-three hours before his scheduled surgery. And, as a result of the 24-hour window closing, his surgery was scratched. And subsequently, rescheduled for four weeks later.

Joel's surgery is scheduled for next week, just a week after his big 60th birthday, which will be just under fifteen months since he slipped on a puddle of liquid detergent, and a month after he stopped working on a limited workload. His employer worked with him. His co-workers worked with him. The only people who didn't work with him were the Workers Comp insurance people.

We hope that the surgeon is the hero in this story, and that he comes through it all well and can return both to work and (more importantly) the dance floor. Then we may need another hero, as I was just diagnosed with a torn rotator cuff! Ok, on what planet does this happen? But in thinking about it since yesterday's diagnosis, I realize that the parts do wear out, and I have spent the last twenty years dancing salsa with my right arm lifted and worked as a lever to turn my body in circles. A bazillion times on scores of dance floors by a multitude of salseros, not all as gentle as Joel. I'm not in that much pain and I can evidently continue working out and lifting free weights, within reason. But I will need to see an osteo surgeon for a more comprehensive diagnosis and treatment plan. The secondary gain and silver lining is that none of this will have to happen through workers compensation. Because in the last analysis, the compensation dispensed in dribs and drabs, is designed to make you give up and deal with your injury outside of workers comp. Clearly, if you want something run really badly, give it to either the government or an insurance company.

My friend, Joan, had to build a gate on her 118-acre property in Santa Ynez. She wasn't completely happy with it, and explained to me that she needed to build one gate to understand the pitfalls and be better able to design the next gate. I think the workers compensation process is a lot like that. You have to go through it once to really understand how it works. Or, as the attorney remarked, how it doesn't work.

Sobriety

 Los Angeles, California

Sobriety. Ok, just kidding. It's a state I might visit, but I would never want to permanently reside there. I like alcohol. They're not called spirits for nothing. A past friend used to say (and this is quite quotable): I hope I never have a problem with alcohol, because I love it so much I don't think I could ever give it up. But lately it seems that everyone is giving it up. Not me, however.

But... I did give it up for Lent this year. I gave it up for the 40+ days that comprise Lent, except for the whiskey I drank on St. Patrick's Day. The two whiskeys I drank that evening at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Incongruous, I know. I shoulda had a Jameson's on Cinco de Mayo to rebalance.

And... since Lent I find myself drinking a lot less. Do I enjoy it less? Of course not. I really enjoy the flavor of good scotch and good tequila. With summer approaching, I had a gin and tonic recently. After reading Stanley Tucci's recent memoir, Taste, I have been jonesing for a negroni. While I used to say that I don't drink a lot, but I drink often, these days I'm not drinking that often. And I find that one is enough, even though I haven't gone past two (or at least not since my thirties have long passed). Days now pass when I don't drink anything. This is partially because non-alcoholic beers have gotten so tasty, especially the IPAs.

Am I feeling better, healthier, more virtuous? Hmmm. Not really. I would say about the same. Am I sleeping better? Also, not really. So in essence, there is no reason for this, other than perhaps I broke the routine through my Lenten abstinence.

One more thing, however. I am surrounded by teetotalers. Very few of my girlfriends drink at all. Even the ones who used to drink have sworn off. So when I go to lunch or dinner with them, it just doesn't feel quite right to be the only one who orders a cocktail. And that's ok. Joel doesn't drink much at all. I can get him to share a bottle of champagne with me, but that is now drinking to excess for us both. And, of course, when we are dancing, drinking must be tempered as you have to maintain balance for turns. Too much tequila turns one to floppiness. Not a pretty sight in dance.

So here's the problem with all of this temperance. I have a huge bar. And I invested in even more imported spirits to avoid the threatened tariffs. I probably have more scotch and tequila than I can put away during the rest of my lifetime. So I told Lynnette that I was going to leave my stores of liquor to her husband, one of the few fellow drinkers I know. Sadly, he gave  up alcohol at the beginning of the year. You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.

Probably the best thing for me to do at this point is to stop buying booze. I have about a dozen different whiskeys in my bar. Why, you might ask. Well, sometimes I want a specific one to drink. My current favorite is Hibiki. But sometimes I want to revert back to a Macallan or the Johnny Walker Blue Label that Joel gave me one Christmas. Sometimes I switch to Irish whiskey for a time. And don't get me started on tequila, mezcal and sotol. While I have stopped drinking vodka martinis, I occasionally want to shake up a Bombay Sapphire one. And all of that listed above makes up only half of what I have in my bar. Time's a-wasting.

So, sobriety's not in my wheelhouse at this time, and hopefully not at any time in the future. Life's too short not to enjoy, within measure, all of that which is available for us to enjoy. So tonight, when I drink my short scotchtequila or whathaveyou, I will tip my glass and, as I always do, toast Here's to us. Salud!

The First Peach

 Los Angeles, California

When Rogers and Hammerstein famously wrote that June is Bustin' Out All Over, they were talking about the month, not someone named June. And here it is, early in June, and peaches have fully arrived in the market. Usually the first peaches are not too good. Not peachy enough and stubbornly clinging to their pits. This year, however, while the clinging part was still happening, the peach flavor was just like what I remember from high season in previous years. Very delectable and juicy. Very peachy.

Peaches are my favorite fruit. I eat them with cereal, with cottage cheese, in crisps, and out of hand. I pair them with raspberries, blackberries, and mangos. I slice them into tomato salads served with burrata cheese. But probably the best part of peaches is that, like sweet corn and melons, they herald the beginning of the summer.

We moved from Burbank to the center of the San Fernando Valley when I was twelve years old. For the next decade, I pretty much spent summers in our pool, and usually with friends. My parents would come and go on the weekends, coming back home with sweet corn from Paggi's, the stand which was on the property of San Fernando Valley State College (which later became California State University, Northridge, or CSUN). The stand was near the Little League field where the love of my life, a boy who lived across the street and three doors down, played baseball. He was my first teenaged boyfriend, a summer romance that he ended the weekend before we went back to school. I was heartbroken. I know it seems maybe a bit precious to put that word in italics. But, that first love lost is the hardest to get over. Whenever I hear the Dave Clark Five song Because, I can feel that late summer angst again in my heart.

Broken hearts aside, let's get back to the fruit. My mom and dad would wander out on the weekends, leaving us swimming or lying beside the pool, and would return home with fruit and vegetables, cold cuts from the German delicatessen or cheeses from the only Trader Joe's market in the Valley (back when Trader Joe still owned it!). Long around the early evening, my dad would fire up the barbecue and we would shower off, change into shorts and tee shirts (my favorite: Primo Fine Hawaiian Beer tee purchased during my fourteenth summer spent with my cousins in Waikiki), and play card games until dinnertime. Games that would resume after dinner and well into the night.

I think what we didn't get about those summers is that the adults were doing all the work. They were skimming the pool and laundering the pool towels. They were making snacks and meals appear as if by magic. On many of those weekend mornings, we were fed my mother's sourdough waffles, made on a waffle iron set up on the patio table. I am at a time in life where I don't want to nurse sourdough starter, much less get the waffle iron out. And for the convenience of prepared food, Trader Joe's now populate the Valley almost to the same extent as Starbuck's.

But the first peach still heralds the summer of my dreams, which I have written about here before. It is summer spent here at my home, barefoot and in candlelight. And though I no longer spend long days in the pool, I do like to swim and hang out under my patio umbrellas, listening to the sweet music from summer's past. Summer in the City by the Rascals, Boys of Summer by The Eagles. All Summer Long by The Beach Boys. Sure, there are more contemporary songs about summer, but my memories of those long-ago summers requires a more nostalgic playlist.

So here's to those summers past. And to the girl I was in cut-offs and my Primo tees. And to all we can always enjoy every single summer, like being barefoot and in candlelight. And peaches. Always, peaches.

Election Day

 Los Angeles, California

It was election day in California and I had not yet completed my ballot. I woke up early with thoughts of my mother, as it would have been her 106th birthday. Betty made it to 94 and up until the last five years, had a wonderful life filled with education, travel, celebratory events, lots of dinners out, and a marriage with a husband who adored her. But the last five years were beyond unpleasant for her. She ended her life non-ambulatory, deaf, blind, and suffering from vascular dementia.

My dad went fast, lingering for ten or so hours after a heart attack. Funny, but their deaths suited them. Dad would never have wanted to make a fuss or cause anyone to care for him. Mom expected her daughters to be her handmaidens and one of us was till the end of her life. I spent that last day with her, leaving to drive home at 10 PM, after the hospice nurse told me it "wasn't going to happen tonight." The call that she was gone came just after I arrived home. Oddly, as needy as she had been in her life, I believe she spared me being a witness to her death. It was as if she was waiting for me to leave. In the final analysis, one parent went fast and the other unbearably slow. Fast is better.

So, I had thoughts of my mom on my mind that morning as I went through my morning rituals of tea-drinking and meditation. I was finally ready to sit down to my ballot. And to my surprise, I found my father's name as a Libertarian candidate for California governor! And to add more coincidence to this coinkydink, my father was a Libertarian. Do you think they were trying to tell me something?

I completed my ballot, did the rest of my morning rounds of breakfast, bed-making and getting dressed, and left the house to place my ballot in a local ballot box. Then went to Costco, did some marketing, and a Trader Joe's run. As I was approaching my home on the long avenue that runs uphill to my street, I noticed an abundance of water and mud running downhill. I made the turn to approach the cul-de-sac on which I live and saw a police car and police tape cordoning off the entry. And again, it's a cut-de-sac. One way in; one way out.

I pulled over to ask one of the LAPD officers if residents were being allowed past the  barrier. He told me I could not enter the street until the department of water and power came to turn off the water. He also told me where the break had occurred which was on a property that was recently purchased and is being rehabbed. The new owners are not living there, and many workers are there each day. And, for whatever reason, they had dug a very deep hole in the front yard. Bingo...

There is a way onto the street through a large retreat facility that backs up to our quiet street. The facility itself is pastoral with gathering places, dormitories and a duck pond. I used the winding drive through this facility to get to my house. Items from Trader Joe's still in frozen state. Before I unpacked groceries I went to wash my hands. No water. However, since the pandemic, Purell still sits on my counter next to the hand soap located at my kitchen sink.

After unpacking, I called my neighbor. She confirmed that water was out on the entire street. And shared that it had been a terrible day for her, even before the water issue. Thanks to the duckpond we often find baby ducks in our pools. They can get in to the pool, but because of the pool coping, they can't get out. I mean, theoretically they can. But their little brains can't conceptualize that they have to hop/flutter over the lip of the coping. Instead, they just keep bumping into it and landing back in the pool. The solution to this is to fashion a ramp and engage in the tedious process of directing the chicks to the ramp. Last season, it took me about an hour to get this little renegade to the ramp. When you try to nudge them, they dive. Unfortunately, while my neighbor was in this process, a hawk swooped down and grabbed one of the chicks in front of her and her six year-old twins. She was horrified, but one of the boys turned to her and said: Circle of life, Mom.

I shared with my neighbor that if she had empty one-gallon water bottles, she could fill them from her pool and use them to fill the tanks of toilets so you can flush without running water. She remarked on how ingenious I was. No, not really, I replied. Just experienced. You learn a lot about working around utilities after experiencing earthquakes in California. And I've experienced a few.

The water returned around bedtime and I gratefully took a shower in sputtering water. I did run water through the faucets and taps throughout the house. Something I have also learned.

Dad didn't win the election. He got less than 1% so he didn't even show up on leaderboards on national nor even local news sources. I thought about him the next day. He would have made a good statesman. He was honest and steadfast in his beliefs, relentlessly moral and ethical, and had a solid sense of civic responsibility. But he felt the military was badly run, and that government screwed up everything in which it got involved. He was a registered Republican, churchgoing Presbyterian, and a 32-degree Mason, belonging to the Al Malaikah Shriners. I married a man who carried the same first name as my dad. Governor/Dad Tommy would have been an asset to California. 

Sandra's Birthday

Los Angeles, California

Sandra's birthday was a week ago and I thought about her all day. I even re-read some emails she had sent to me back about fifteen years ago. I didn't feel sad. Well, a little sad. Mostly, I just missed her.

I love my friends, for all that they bring to my life. Yes, sometimes they make me nuts. And sometimes, I am certain, I make them nuts. But knowing them, even with the nuttiness, is part of the flavor of my life. I feel exceedingly fortunate that I make friends easily and conversely, can let them go when necessary. And sometimes it is necessary, albeit not always without some pain of loss.

Of course not all of our friends are our BFFs. I think of friendships in concentric circles with inner- and outer-layer friends. I had the same best friend, Debbie, through elementary school. And a very close friend through junior high school, my friend, Dayle. Dayle and I danced constantly. We also spent long summer days in our families' pools. But we were not able to go to the same high school so in time we parted. My high school friend was another Debbie, who like elementary school Debbie, lived walking distance from my home. She stayed my friend through college and into both of our marriages, though we have since drifted and lost touch.

Just before I married, I took a job at California State University, Northridge and met my friend, Cindy. I recently wrote about this friendship in The Trio (available here, for free!). Cin and I have had an extraordinary friendship with some ups and downs. But the sustaining element of our friendship is how much we are alike. Uncannily alike. We have a shorthand of understanding that is once-in-a-lifetime unique. And we have similar views of the world, and especially of the ironic comedy contained therein. I recently made a comment to Cin and she laughed heartily. That was good, I thought, so I repeated it a few days later to another friend, and it landed like the proverbial lead balloon. It's not imperative to friendship that you have similar senses of humor. But it does add a sweet enhancement. I recall once having a friend who laughed at everything. So when the conversation transitioned to something serious, or even sad, she still laughed. That was weird.

Lynnette and I have so much in common that after twenty years in a professional relationship, we easily transitioned to close friends. We first bonded over baseball and classic films. She is the friend who feels like family. Something I have none of, and she has a whole lot of. Since she moved away, we try to see each other once a month, not always successfully, but we try. I look forward to those three days together and the routine we have easily established. Her friendship is a gift that came to me at a very bleak time in my life. I once called her late in the evening when I was in distress. It was at the very start of our friendship and she asked no questions. She drove right over.

And then there was Sandra who was in my thoughts recently as she would have celebrated a birthday. Meeting Sandra was serendipitous. She and John were having a drink at the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village when we arrived. At the time, my drink was a vodka martini with a twist. Sandra was drinking a vodka martini with an olive. The bartender, who we all knew well, introduced us. For more than twelve years, Sandra was like a mom/sister/best friend all wrapped into one. Even though we lived a distance from each other, we saw each other about four times a year in Kona, Carmel, Tahoe, and at both of our homes. We traveled together or met in Tahiti, Panama, Las Vegas, Napa, Rancho Santa Fe, and Ojai. We celebrated birthdays, holidays, and just plain friendship. We exchanged book recommendations, and family stories. She reintroduced me to Catholic Mass, something for which I will always be grateful.

We attended a week-long Intensive Spanish Summer Institute together twice. We had our faces painted, wore temporary tattoos, birthday crowns, and even dressed as waitresses at the Kona Village, wearing old uniforms that had been retired. One of the waitresses laughed so hard when she saw us, she sat down on the ground. We got to know other Kona Village vacationers who came at the same time of each year as we did, including Wendy and Barry-the-dentist and Arte Johnson and his lovely wife. Friendship with Sandra was charmed.

On the last day I spent with Sandra before she died, we looked through her old photo albums of the Kona Village. She was very frail at this point, less than three months before she was gone. She turned to me and remarked: We were so lucky to have done this. I knew what she meant. The Kona Village had been a magical place back then. And we had enjoyed it year after year. But, for me, the special magic was in becoming Sandra's friend. And how special it felt just to know her. She herself was magic, in her sunny, accepting approach to her life and the world around her. She was quietly yet unwaveringly devout in her faith. She was kind, greatly fun-loving, and always, always a joy to be around.

I think it was Reader's Digest who I recall having an ongoing article entitled something like The Most Interesting Person I've Ever Met. If it had been called The Best Person I've Ever Met, I would have no doubt in my mind that Sandra will always be that person for me. I miss her greatly.

Place Cards

Los Angeles, California

Lynnette and I were playing Yahtzee (or maybe it was dominos) at the table in my dining room. My dining room is a little askew, as during the pandemic I moved the table into a corner between a bookshelf cabinet and a buffet. I needed room to do aerobics and both the hardwood floor plus the mirrored wall made it the perfect place. And... that was six years ago. Now the table has one of its leaves in so it is a table for six. Joel can't remove the leaf because of his shoulder injury, so the now-larger table still sits towards the corner of the room, and I've found that, even though it looks a little wonky that way, it's perfect for playing games and leaves me all the room I need to traverse back and forth and front and back to my aerobics greatest hits.

So, that's just backstory. The story is that I was putting something away in the buffet and found the small silver-colored box that holds place cards. I haven't had any kind of event at my house that would warrant the use of place cards in about two decades. But there they were, resting in the box. They dated back to a time when i had learned calligraphy and how to do calligraphy with gouache paint. I wasn't too bad at it. Other cards sported names printed with alphabet rubber stamps. Another blast from he past. There were some Christmas place cards with the names of family members. Our family was small and is now non-existent, except for me, so seeing those names felt sadly nostalgic. There were cards for friends and distant relatives who had come for a visit and were included in Easter brunch or dinner. I showed all these to Lynnette.

I did calligraphy before I came up with my brilliant idea that I should limit my interests to three things (see About Me below). I had also learned to knit and golf, took yoga classes, and attended immersion Spanish workshops. My head was easily turned by hobbies that others had pursued. Life was eased by limiting my interests to three. But in looking at those place cards, I was reminded of the time it took to create them. Time which also went towards planning the event, cooking, setting the table, arranging flowers, etc. These days I barely have the time to devote to my three things: Dancing; writing and cooking. Hmmm. Where is the big time leak?

I am increasingly concerned with smart phone use. It started with the awareness of the toxicity of social media. That concern was for people around me, as I never engaged in social media. But recently I heard about the smart phone challenge, and how giving up use of our smart phones for even a fortnight actually increased our cognitive functions. That's certainly a concern, but a greater one to me is how much time I'm wasting. Since I'm not on social media, my smart phone use is mostly for checking texts, emails, and weather. And yes, to come clean, a bit of shopping (never Amazon). I listen to a meditation podcast at bedtime as well as in the morning. And I listen to music stored on my iPhone. At the end of each week, a report pops up that says I am on my phone for about four hours each day. That's a part-time job! With an extra four hours a day, I could pick up an extra hobby or resume Spanish lessons. I could write more posts here, dust off my novel, cook as much as I did during the pandemic.

Someone once said that Facebook should have been called Timesuck. But I'm finding that the smart phone, affording us access to all information at any time, is the real timesuck. Because once you reach for it to check something out, you are in the vortex. And being in the vortex means you are not creating anything.

Looking at those place cards was a reminder of life before timesucking. And made me yearn for those days. Could I undertake the smart phone challenge? Probably not. But I can be more mindful that every time I pick up that phone to do anything other than calling a friend, I am tearing up time which is more precious by each day that passes. Life is made of time. And it is unconscionably true that our smart phones are squandering it.