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.

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.

Dolce Far Niente

Los Angeles, California

I have always looked forward to Saturdays, though throughout my adult life they have taken different shapes. My late husband, Tom, worked Saturdays for all of our married life. At first, since my employment offered weekends off, I spent many a Saturday puttering around our apartment; then later, in our first house doing odds and ends of homemaking. There was a program on a local FM radio station that played the original cast recording of a Broadway musical each week, with commentary about the production. It was a regular part of my Saturdays, just as later, A Prairie Home Companion became a regular part of our Saturday evenings.

Around the mid-eighties, my best friend, Cindy, and I started taking classes at Jane Fonda's Workout in Encino. We both clearly remember our first class there on Saturday morning, when we warmed up to Soft Cell's Tainted Love (which is the first song on a workout playlist I still utilize). We worked out together on Saturdays for years, at one point joining a walking workout class that met to warm up at 7:30 then took us walking through local, hilly streets. One of those maps took us down a cul-de-sac where we looped and walked back. A few years later, Tom and I bought a house on that very street where we lived together for twenty years.

I still enjoy my solitary Saturdays at home puttering around and attending to a variety of home things. But I also enjoy spending Saturdays with girlfriends. When Lynnette comes to visit, Saturday is our last day together before she leaves early on Sunday morning. And, though Cin is not as available as back in our Fonda days, we do try to schedule one Saturday a month to spend together. And that was last Saturday.

Saturday evenings have had their own rituals. With Tom working every Saturday, he found it hard to race home and out to meet friends. But many of our friends were only available on Saturday evenings. So, we split the difference, and booked out every other Saturday to stay home, cook together, and listen to the aforementioned A Prairie Home Companion. I looked forward to those Saturdays as much, if not even more, than the Saturdays when we were out with friends.

When Joel and I were first together, I missed spending Saturday nights together. Joel works on Sundays, and at that time he started work at 5:00 AM. So, Saturday nights together were, and still are, not feasible. But I still make my Saturdays special. I have a cocktail while cooking, and I cook something special and usually meat-centered. I don't eat meat every night, and I never eat meat on Friday, so Saturday is a good time to roast pork chops, or sear a filet mignon or lamb chops. It's Dodgers' season, so I get to watch the game that evening. I no longer mind being alone on Saturdays, neither day nor night.

But, this past Saturday, I already had plans with Cin when I reached out to my friend, Susan, to see if she wanted to meet for dinner the weekend before. She was booked but suggested the following Saturday, which gave me plans for both Saturday day as well as evening. Generally, more than I want to do, but I persevered.

Cin and I met and traveled together to Gott's at The Farmer's Market, the Original Farmer's Market at Fairfax and Third in the city. These days when you mention The Farmer's Market, people want to know which farmer's market? There are neighborhood farmer's markets everywhere in the LA sprawl. But the original, where I often went as a child and where my mother would buy her fish for our Christmas Eve dinner, is the only farmer's market I go to regularly. Cin's and my plan was to have lunch and walk around a little. But, no, we ended up at Banana Republic where we were talked into re-upping our credit cards for an additional 25% off the storewide sale of 30% off. We bit.

Bags stowed in Cin's car, we headed back to the Valley and home, where I had an hour before I needed to meet my friends, Susan and Beth, for dinner. I spent most of that hour on the phone with Lynnette, telling her that I didn't feel like going. I really wanted to stay home. But, I quickly changed clothes, rearranged my hair which was mussed by trying on tops at BR, and headed out.

We had a lovely dinner, then followed Beth home to her new apartment, where we hung out for some time. This is like high school, I remarked, remembering all the afterschool days when I would hang out at my best friend's home, lounging on the bed in her bedroom, talking about the boys we liked, and the girls we didn't. As simple as the night with Susan and Beth was, it had a lovely impact on me. Before we said good night, we asked each other what we were doing the next day. Susan reported that she was having a pajama day, which sounded like a stellar plan to me.

I didn't stay in pajamas all day, but I made it past noon before turning to workout clothes so I could get in a workout. Besides that, I puttered around my home, putting things back into place and rearranging objects that bring me some joy. I thought to get into my closet and cull out some clothing to make space for recent purchases, but I never got that far. As evening rolled around, I made myself a gin and tonic, roasted a pork tenderloin and brussels sprouts, and watched the Dodgers game that I had recorded from earlier in the day. Truth be told, I didn't really accomplish much over the weekend, except spending time with good friends, one of whom supplied See's candies and Baskin-Robbins ice cream while we hung out at her place. Their company provided the sweetness of doing close to nothing. Or as the Italians say: Dolce far niente.

CHIPS

 Los Angeles, California

My father was not a police officer like my friend Max's father. But he was a strong believer in law and order. I went through my own times (mostly my difficult teenaged years) rebelling against law, order, and rules of any kind. I came of age at a time when schools dictated the length of the guys' hair as well as the length of us girls' skirts. It was a time of mini-skirts. They actually made us get on our knees as our dresses or skirts were supposed to touch the ground in that position. What craziness.

I clearly remember a long ago friend of mine, who was editor of the school newspaper and had obtained a scholarship to UC Berkeley, being pulled out of the waiting-to-be-marching line at our commencement celebration, because his hair was too long. After the Boy's VP moved on, we called to our friend to get back into line with us. He uttered the memorable line: Fuck it, I'm going to see Hendrix. The weekend we graduated, there was a rock festival in the Valley and Jimi Hendrix was performing that night.

Now, years have passed and I am no longer rebellious against law and order. I understand that there is a good reason for rules and that understanding comes from seeing so many people feeling entitled to not obey them. Our world has become a free-for-all when it comes to driving; behavior at concerts, on airplanes, on dance floors, in church. Everyone seems attuned to the beat of their own drum which clearly pounds out a message that they should go ahead and do whatever they feel like. I could illustrate many examples here, but won't. I just want to stress that I obey rules and laws. I think it's vitally important to a civilized society that we all do.

However... I drive a Tesla 3. It's my second one, and like the first one I purchased in 2018, I have not attached a front license plate. Now, I'm not the only one driving around in a Tesla without the front plate. I would say that here in LA, my rough estimate would be that at least thirty percent of drivers of all makes of cars have not put that plate on the front of their car. Why, you might ask. Well, for me, one of the things I love about the 3 is that it is very unornamented. There's just not a lot of stuff. No dashboard, just a screen. And the outside of the car, especially the front, is clean and streamlined with no grill nor ornamentation of any kind. But it's not just that model of Tesla, I see LOTS of other makes of cars driving around without front plates. Again, I'm guessing about 30% or more. So I got especially irked when last week I was pulled over by a California Highway Patrol (CHP) officer and issued a citation for not having a front plate. Ok, yes, I realize the California Vehicle Code requires that we have plates front and back. But, again, a whole lot of people are not doing that. What a whole lot of people are doing is speeding, driving very recklessly, and running traffic signals. In fact, where Mr. Chips pulled me over, he could have watched people running the light at the intersection while he was running my license and registration! But no, he was too busy writing a citation to a very polite driver with a clean record who he complimented on being "respectful" to him. My brain was screaming What the fuck is this jerk's problem?!? But I smiled, thanked him for alerting me to the law, took the citation, and muttered asshole as he walked away.

Let's go back. I am so not a scofflaw. I don't like that I have to compost my garbage, an ordinance that started last year. But I do it. I brake for stop signs (which frankly, no one else does in the neighborhood where I reside). I'm a good citizen in almost every respect. But, I don't want a fucking license plate on the front of my aesthetically pleasing Tesla 3. And it annoys me that I will need to put it on and take myself to an LAPD station to have my citation cleared, while most other Tesla 3 drivers are driving their cars with clean fronts. It makes me mad as hell, but, I'll do it. I'm just not going to commit to what I will do with that plate after I do it. Know what I mean? Get the picture? And the (license plate) frame?