Glitter

Los Angeles, California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hayride

Los Angeles, California

My mom was my sister's Girl Scout troop leader, and I was the troop mascot. It wasn't an elected position. I mean, they didn't really choose me as a mascot, but since I was little, and often hanging around with my mom during the course of their meetings and events, I became that. The young girls were mostly wonderful to me, except for once, when one of them chased me around our backyard with a toadstool in her hand. Girls will be girls. My dad had made sure that I had a fear of toadstools. He was probably aiming for healthy respect, but part of my dad's methodology in protecting us was to make sure we were scared to death of anything that had the power to harm us. So when that scout pulled up that toadstool and took off after me with it, I thought I was going to die. Note to parents out there: There is such a thing as installing an antenna for danger without making your kid into a whimpering scardicat. But I digress...

The troop was going on a hayride, and I was excited about this. I was probably about four at the time. My sister had already "flown up" from Brownies to Girl Scouts, as she is quite a bit older than me, though you wouldn't know it from maturity levels especially with regard to the current care of my mom. Anyway, about that hayride. Shortly before the event I came down with some childhood disease...measles? Mumps? Something. My mom told me that if I got better I would still be able to go. And I tried to get better, but, I didn't. The afternoon of the hayride was fast approaching, and then it arrived. I watched my mom and sister pull out of the driveway in my mom's station wagon. I watched from the window in my bedroom which faced the street. My heart was broken, and I cried as only a broken-hearted four-year-old can cry.

I am so much older now. But when, last Sunday, I missed Josephine's birthday party, at Noypitz in Glendale, because I had come down with some upper respiratory plague, I was sad. And, I was reminded of that hayride, and the disappointment I feel when I have to miss an event. There was a gathering of favorite salseros and there was: dancing, of course; laughter; fun; frivolity, and cupcakes. Carol's cupcakes. These cupcakes:

It was a tough week for salsa dancing. I had canceled plans with Carol twice already, before I woke up with that sore throat on Sunday. I had only danced on Thursday, at a club I don't generally go to. It was an ok night, but not what I would call stellar--stellar being those magical nights which only occur a couple of times a year. But, it probably goes without saying (but when does that stop me?) that even a non-stellar salsa event is better than any night staying at home with upper respiratory distress. And that was Sunday. Today is Thursday, and I'm still in the throes of it.

Recently a good friend of mine, who lives up in Northern California, sent me an email exclaiming that I was out of the darkness and into the light!! She even wrote: HOORAY!! It was in response to an email I had sent her which was, evidently, fairly upbeat. We exchange newsy emails pretty much about the highlights of activities, and I don't think my email was atypical of the usual. Her response took me aback, as they say, because I just don't think of my life in those terms, except at the resolution of a neighborhood power outage. My life is anything but black and white. It is gray to the core, a mix of, amongst other things: despair; distress; family and health issues; contentment; joyfulness; and, as Helen Hayes once said, ecstatic moments. One thing my life is generally not, is boring. And I am thankful for that.

I would say that missing Jo's birthday event fell into the category of health issues. That stuff just happens. But I do regret that I missed it, and that I also missed out on the contentment and joyfulness of those cupcakes, and the possibility of an ecstatic moment while salsa dancing. Still, quoting my mom's oft-repeated quote from the Bible, this too shall pass, and there will be more dancing in my future, on many more nights. And about that missed hayride. I became a Brownie, and my troop went on a hayride that I did not miss. How was that? Stellar. Thank you for reading my blog. Happy birthday, Mama Jo Stardancer! 

Fristers

Los Angeles, California


A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.


Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.


When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.


I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.


When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.