This is one of my very favorite holidays. I think it's such a hopeful time, everyone looking forward to a fresh start and all. In honor of the magic, I've attempted to learn (half of) What Are You Doing New Year's Eve. It is painfully slow, but remember, I did it for the children. Happy New Year, y'all!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
End of the Year Thoughts
My job is awesome.
Just have to remind myself that from time to time.
It's not what I set out to do, and it drives me bonkers* that I'm not doing what I set out to do, but I am so grateful to have it.
For the sometimes underappreciated concierge, the holidays are a welcome busy season, full of love from guests and gifts from our sweet vendors. After working in NYC last Christmas, I was curious to see what sort of presents might arrive at our desk here in LA. Perhaps an unlimited week of pilates classes? Some rice cakes? Green juice delivered on the backs of sparkling water-quenched Arabian horses?
Nope, LA, you have proved me wrong, as you so often do.
This is why I love you.
After boldly proclaiming that I was taking a break from booze and baked goods (best idea/worst timing) we were given copious amounts of those very things. I've been threatening a Mad Men themed party since moving here in April, and finally my bar cart is ready to host.
So grateful.
I guess that's where I'm going with all of this. I spend a lot of my time thinking and worrying and analyzing and over-analyzing and Chicken Little-ing that I sometimes must remember to stop.
And to say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Lori and I joked way back in March that 2012 was My Year, once I'd navigated rounds of Skype interviews and discovered that I'd have a chance to move back to LA. This would pop up from time to time when seemingly fortuitous events would occur, a whisper, It's Your Year. It has been uncomfortable, as change often is. But nothing worthwhile comes easily. Let's end this year with bravery. Thank you, 2012.
*2013, let's work on this, shall we? 'Bout damn time.
Just have to remind myself that from time to time.
It's not what I set out to do, and it drives me bonkers* that I'm not doing what I set out to do, but I am so grateful to have it.
For the sometimes underappreciated concierge, the holidays are a welcome busy season, full of love from guests and gifts from our sweet vendors. After working in NYC last Christmas, I was curious to see what sort of presents might arrive at our desk here in LA. Perhaps an unlimited week of pilates classes? Some rice cakes? Green juice delivered on the backs of sparkling water-quenched Arabian horses?
Nope, LA, you have proved me wrong, as you so often do.
This is why I love you.
After boldly proclaiming that I was taking a break from booze and baked goods (best idea/worst timing) we were given copious amounts of those very things. I've been threatening a Mad Men themed party since moving here in April, and finally my bar cart is ready to host.
So grateful.
I guess that's where I'm going with all of this. I spend a lot of my time thinking and worrying and analyzing and over-analyzing and Chicken Little-ing that I sometimes must remember to stop.
And to say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Lori and I joked way back in March that 2012 was My Year, once I'd navigated rounds of Skype interviews and discovered that I'd have a chance to move back to LA. This would pop up from time to time when seemingly fortuitous events would occur, a whisper, It's Your Year. It has been uncomfortable, as change often is. But nothing worthwhile comes easily. Let's end this year with bravery. Thank you, 2012.
*2013, let's work on this, shall we? 'Bout damn time.
A Child's Christmas in Wales
Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
- Dylan Thomas
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Sudden Lichen Sightings
Pantone has announced that their new Color of the Year for 2013 is Emerald.
Which makes my baby heart sing, as that is one of my favorite colors. It also happens to be my birthstone. I remember bee-bopping through Wal-Mart at the age of seven, checking out the sweet birthstone jewelry, and experiencing the smug satisfaction all May babies must feel. Emerald! Luckiest! And, though no shaman has confirmed this yet, I'm quite convinced that my aura is emerald and my spirit animal is a snail.
Don't be jealous.
I didn't realize this yearly color was actually a thing until earlier this year, when I stepped into a Sephora and my eyes were assaulted by Tangerine Tango. Everywhere. Orange makeup, orange nail polish, orange feathery fake lashes. Bright orange is a color that does not make my heart hum. It's too...vulgar? Too jumpsuit-on-the-side-of-the-road-Bessie-do-not-give-that-man-a-ride, vulgar.
Ah, but emerald. The Pantone peeps have this to say:
According to their website, in 1963, a man named Lawrence Herbert decided that it was about time to standardize color for those in the graphic arts field, since we all see and interpret color differently. Now many people use them as the "color authority". Neato.
Next time you're walking in the woods (or buying me a Christmas present), be sure to enjoy the Color of the Year.
Which makes my baby heart sing, as that is one of my favorite colors. It also happens to be my birthstone. I remember bee-bopping through Wal-Mart at the age of seven, checking out the sweet birthstone jewelry, and experiencing the smug satisfaction all May babies must feel. Emerald! Luckiest! And, though no shaman has confirmed this yet, I'm quite convinced that my aura is emerald and my spirit animal is a snail.
Don't be jealous.
I didn't realize this yearly color was actually a thing until earlier this year, when I stepped into a Sephora and my eyes were assaulted by Tangerine Tango. Everywhere. Orange makeup, orange nail polish, orange feathery fake lashes. Bright orange is a color that does not make my heart hum. It's too...vulgar? Too jumpsuit-on-the-side-of-the-road-Bessie-do-not-give-that-man-a-ride, vulgar.
Ah, but emerald. The Pantone peeps have this to say:
"Lively. Radiant. Lush… A color of elegance and beautyThe Executive Director of the Pantone Color Institute mentions that the human eye sees more green than any other color. Nature, baby. (Also, how does one get to work at the Pantone Color Institute? Can one apply for the Plastic Things On The End Of Shoelaces Artisane position and the Namer Of All Nail Polish Colors position at the same time?)
that enhances our sense of well-being, balance and harmony."
According to their website, in 1963, a man named Lawrence Herbert decided that it was about time to standardize color for those in the graphic arts field, since we all see and interpret color differently. Now many people use them as the "color authority". Neato.
Next time you're walking in the woods (or buying me a Christmas present), be sure to enjoy the Color of the Year.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
The Massage
She'd kinda gotten a little set in her ways. Living in that trailer, eating that canned tuna, never seeing nobody, it was what it was.
Then the money came in.
She moved to a real city in Florida. Every week, she'd walk back from the Piggly Wiggly and pass The Healing Hands Day Spa. It was one of them real nice ones that cost you an arm and a leg for a massage. It never felt right, to pay that much for something that disappears as soon as you walk out the door.
Just plain selfish.
Might as well use that good money on somethin tangible, like paying off the QVC card.
Then, after a particular rough week, burning pain from her neck down, she decided, "To hell with it. I'm gonna see what they can do."
It was dark and cool inside, and there was music playing that sounded like them nature CDs at Target. She made a mental note to go pick one up later.
In the room, she got nervous. Disrobe? Disrobe what? She decided to leave on her undergarments. She wriggled under the sheet and faced down, as instructed. She was glad her masseuse was a female. Not one of them fairy men or, worse, someone who'd think scandalous things while looking at her. The therapist knocked on the door; she was young and Asian. At least she spoke English. She began with her shoulders.
It was the first time the woman had been touched in years.
It was, Lord, she couldn't begin to describe it. She dozed off twice, swaddled on that table like a newborn. The only thing that she disliked was when that girl worked on her legs. It was ticklish, and she tensed up every previously relaxed muscle.
But by the end she felt like a million bucks. Like a dream version of herself. Floated, or zombie-walked out the door and into the sunshine.
She wanted to call her ex-husband, she craved to be touched some more. Her heart was as wide open as the sky.
Best damn money ever spent.
Then the money came in.
She moved to a real city in Florida. Every week, she'd walk back from the Piggly Wiggly and pass The Healing Hands Day Spa. It was one of them real nice ones that cost you an arm and a leg for a massage. It never felt right, to pay that much for something that disappears as soon as you walk out the door.
Just plain selfish.
Might as well use that good money on somethin tangible, like paying off the QVC card.
Then, after a particular rough week, burning pain from her neck down, she decided, "To hell with it. I'm gonna see what they can do."
It was dark and cool inside, and there was music playing that sounded like them nature CDs at Target. She made a mental note to go pick one up later.
In the room, she got nervous. Disrobe? Disrobe what? She decided to leave on her undergarments. She wriggled under the sheet and faced down, as instructed. She was glad her masseuse was a female. Not one of them fairy men or, worse, someone who'd think scandalous things while looking at her. The therapist knocked on the door; she was young and Asian. At least she spoke English. She began with her shoulders.
It was the first time the woman had been touched in years.
It was, Lord, she couldn't begin to describe it. She dozed off twice, swaddled on that table like a newborn. The only thing that she disliked was when that girl worked on her legs. It was ticklish, and she tensed up every previously relaxed muscle.
But by the end she felt like a million bucks. Like a dream version of herself. Floated, or zombie-walked out the door and into the sunshine.
She wanted to call her ex-husband, she craved to be touched some more. Her heart was as wide open as the sky.
Best damn money ever spent.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Holiday Best
Tonight I get to attend my first holiday party of the year. My dress is a grownup version of something I might have dreamt up in 1994. Which means velvet. And a little poof of the sleeve.
This got me thinking about how whenever I envision holiday party fanciness, I think velvet. My mother sewed adorable velveteen Christmas frocks for my sister and I, which is probably where all of this started.
Still rockin those bangs.
I was also obsessed with Samantha Parkington, American Girl, who sported a similar holiday dress to this one, only in blue velvet. With lots more lace. In my mind, lace = romance = can't ever have too much.
I think that's what it is: These fabrics still make me feel regal, noble, timeless. In velvet, I'm Anastasia Romanov, I'm Scarlett O'Hara, I'm Jo March.
Velvet has always been associated with royalty. It was originally a silk pile weave (expensive...royalty...fancy) and now can be made from all sorts of fabrics. The soft pile gives it the furbaby feel and sumptuous color it is known for.
Yes, my holiday frocks and fabrics of choice are inspired by nobility, as well as by David Bowie and Stevie Nicks.
Now for that glass of bubbly!
Nail Salon
She took her time selecting the perfect red. A List by Essie was the winner. Sometimes the name matters, she thought. If she was prepping for an important occasion, she liked to choose a name that would embolden her, that would somehow fit the person(a) she was going for that evening. Absolutely Shore, Neo Whimsical, Wicked, East Hampton Cottage. Other times, she was just reaching for a bottle that seemed recently opened. One that wouldn't clump and would apply smoothly. Such was the case today. She'd never been to this salon before and was the only soul in the place. Must've just opened at ten.
It was dead quiet, and the little nail technician/proprietress turned on the radio. Christmas music filled the space. The woman didn't speak to her or ask her any questions, so she turned to face out towards the window. Felt a little awkward to stare at the woman while she was working. Something so intimate in the act of massaging another's hands. "Silver Bells" came on and a memory pushed into her mind.
It was dead quiet, and the little nail technician/proprietress turned on the radio. Christmas music filled the space. The woman didn't speak to her or ask her any questions, so she turned to face out towards the window. Felt a little awkward to stare at the woman while she was working. Something so intimate in the act of massaging another's hands. "Silver Bells" came on and a memory pushed into her mind.
She was back in college, tucked away in the costume shop. It was drizzling back then, too. The shop was located right off of the stage. Most of her time was spent inside that theatre building, and she especially liked to be there on rainy days. The costume designer was out of town and her much-maligned assistant was running the class. Everyone was silent, but seemed content. She looked out the small windows near the ceiling. The needle pushed into the fabric, and back out, in, and out. She was hemming and the little "cross the street and pick up your neighbor" instruction would occasionally come to mind. She felt pride when her stitches were tiny and even. It was soothing, didn't feel like work. Christmas music was playing and she thought that soon she'd be back in her hometown. She'd see old friends, try to ignore the distance that had been creeping between them. She'd hope to see an old love, would stop by places they used to frequent together. Most times that would result in a "He was just here!" and she'd think to herself Always a little bit behind, now aren't you?
Years later, that thought still pulsed through her mind.
She stepped out onto the street, her nails polished a classic red. Maybe it was taking her a little longer than most, but she was finally on her way.
Years later, that thought still pulsed through her mind.
She stepped out onto the street, her nails polished a classic red. Maybe it was taking her a little longer than most, but she was finally on her way.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Slightly Lachrymose Sunday
So we meet again, Sunday.
The sky is weeping. Very unusual for Los Angeles, but I can't say that I'm complaining. It's been nice to have a break from all of that sunshine and to wear my Hunters once again. They've been waiting patiently for some good splashing.
Throughout the city, lamp post decorations tell me it's Christmastime. I don't believe them, not quite yet.
In an attempt to feel a little more festive, I found this magic:
That's our ukulele teacher. Isn't he swell?
I suppose if I were to get out of town and head towards the mountains it would help me realize that it is indeed December. Big Bear or Mammoth would be lovely. I'm also dreaming of a tiny solo day trip to Ojai (pink sunsets!) or my favorite, Palm Springs. Here's to hoping I can retire there and live out my days as a lounge singer in one of their octogenarian-approved piano bars. Either way, it's about time to rent a convertible, grab my uke, hit the spa, and not think about a single thing.
The sky is weeping. Very unusual for Los Angeles, but I can't say that I'm complaining. It's been nice to have a break from all of that sunshine and to wear my Hunters once again. They've been waiting patiently for some good splashing.
Throughout the city, lamp post decorations tell me it's Christmastime. I don't believe them, not quite yet.
In an attempt to feel a little more festive, I found this magic:
I suppose if I were to get out of town and head towards the mountains it would help me realize that it is indeed December. Big Bear or Mammoth would be lovely. I'm also dreaming of a tiny solo day trip to Ojai (pink sunsets!) or my favorite, Palm Springs. Here's to hoping I can retire there and live out my days as a lounge singer in one of their octogenarian-approved piano bars. Either way, it's about time to rent a convertible, grab my uke, hit the spa, and not think about a single thing.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Sickly Languid Sunday
Spending a very quiet night at the hotel, and I am battling a case of the sniffles. Lori has a sweet friend visiting from Australia, and he gave me some magical "down undah" cold meds.
In between sips of ginger tea, there's been lots of time to google all sorts of fun things:
In between sips of ginger tea, there's been lots of time to google all sorts of fun things:
- Cabins in Big Bear
- Perfect Black Suede Oxfords
- A new set of Wheels
- 1940s Hairstyles (complete with bangs)
- New Specs that remind me of Anna Karina (The Waldo!)
- Anna Karina (Perhaps the only lady to give Audrey a run for her money)
- Maria Taylor shares my birthday!
- The song we're learning in ukulele class makes me happy and sad
- Kierkegaard
Monday, November 19, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Happy
I think the universe is trying to test me today.
It's nine o'clock on a Sunday night, and I received an outside phone call (a.k.a. from a non-guest, not even staying in the hotel) asking for a barber, right now, for his boss. Ten minutes later, another gentleman called asking what I had to do to get an acoustic guitar in his room by tonight.
Le Sigh.
Earlier this afternoon, I was snapped at for something I had done according to standard procedure. This was immediately followed by me sobbing alone in the bell closet.
Rough day.
These are the times that lead me to daydreaming about working with small animals or children.
Or running away to Italy.
It can get overwhelming sometimes. And perhaps other people deal with these things differently...better...than I do. They can keep a positive outlook, and never struggle with the Chicken Little mentality. And I try to be cognizant, I really do. Just a slight tweak, a shift in thinking that reminds me of all I have to be grateful for. Most of the time it works, and I come out on the other side, still a touch sad, but ready to keep on keepin' on.
I was ready to count this day as one of those unsalvageable, just no good, roll up like a burrito in my comforter when I get home days.
And then my sweet friend brought me a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar. I'm tempted to crack it open right now at the desk but that is so not standard procedure.
Moving onward, here's to dancing and practicing that ukulele and being kind to others and being kind to myself and listening to music and maybe making some music and falling back in love with acting and traveling and exploring the possibility of teaching or dogwalking or anything else that might bring more happy days than not.
It's nine o'clock on a Sunday night, and I received an outside phone call (a.k.a. from a non-guest, not even staying in the hotel) asking for a barber, right now, for his boss. Ten minutes later, another gentleman called asking what I had to do to get an acoustic guitar in his room by tonight.
Le Sigh.
Earlier this afternoon, I was snapped at for something I had done according to standard procedure. This was immediately followed by me sobbing alone in the bell closet.
Rough day.
These are the times that lead me to daydreaming about working with small animals or children.
Or running away to Italy.
It can get overwhelming sometimes. And perhaps other people deal with these things differently...better...than I do. They can keep a positive outlook, and never struggle with the Chicken Little mentality. And I try to be cognizant, I really do. Just a slight tweak, a shift in thinking that reminds me of all I have to be grateful for. Most of the time it works, and I come out on the other side, still a touch sad, but ready to keep on keepin' on.
I was ready to count this day as one of those unsalvageable, just no good, roll up like a burrito in my comforter when I get home days.
And then my sweet friend brought me a bottle of wine and a chocolate bar. I'm tempted to crack it open right now at the desk but that is so not standard procedure.
Moving onward, here's to dancing and practicing that ukulele and being kind to others and being kind to myself and listening to music and maybe making some music and falling back in love with acting and traveling and exploring the possibility of teaching or dogwalking or anything else that might bring more happy days than not.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
The Couple
"Do you ever, like, put off going to bed? Like not because the day was so awesome or anything but because you can't deal with all the things waiting for you tomorrow?"
"Hmm. No, I can't say that I have."
"Oh. What's wrong with me then?"
Nothing. It's not all about you. I promise.
"Well, anyways, tonight was totally like that 'Romeo and Juliet' movie, like at that party when they're in that bathroom all wanting to do it because they see each other through the fish tank and then he grabs her arm and they're running running running? I saw this guy tonight and he totally looked like someone I know, but, like, less broken? Like younger and handsome. And I kept staring at him and he kept pursing his lips, watching the party. Then I kept staring at his mouth. He didn't grab my arm though. He didn't really pay me any mind. Now that I think about it, it wasn't like 'Romeo and Juliet' at all."
"Did you ever see the Zeffirelli film?"
"Um, no."
Can't say that that surprises me.
"Alrighty, I love you. Going to sleep. Turn out the lights before you come to bed, will you?"
"Will do."
"Hmm. No, I can't say that I have."
"Oh. What's wrong with me then?"
Nothing. It's not all about you. I promise.
"Well, anyways, tonight was totally like that 'Romeo and Juliet' movie, like at that party when they're in that bathroom all wanting to do it because they see each other through the fish tank and then he grabs her arm and they're running running running? I saw this guy tonight and he totally looked like someone I know, but, like, less broken? Like younger and handsome. And I kept staring at him and he kept pursing his lips, watching the party. Then I kept staring at his mouth. He didn't grab my arm though. He didn't really pay me any mind. Now that I think about it, it wasn't like 'Romeo and Juliet' at all."
"Did you ever see the Zeffirelli film?"
"Um, no."
Can't say that that surprises me.
"Alrighty, I love you. Going to sleep. Turn out the lights before you come to bed, will you?"
"Will do."
Cornucopia...Corn-o-wha?
Well friends, Thanksgiving is next week and I'm feeling pretty grateful; how about you?
Which got me thinking of all the festive things we learned about in grade school, my favorite being:
Turkey Hands...I'm just gonna wait while y'all click on that. Impressive huh? I especially like the turkey hands on chest t-shirt and this little class project:
Some teacher must have been reading Fifty Shades of Grey during recess and felt inspired to create this masterpiece.
I also remember discussing the Cornucopia every November, as if it were a totally natural, commonplace thing:
2nd Grader:
Yes indeed, we have moved on to bigger and better Thanksgiving things such as eating, drinking, tryptophan, and more eating.
But I can't for the life of me remember what a cornucopia is or what it represents.
Googling "cornucopia thanksgiving" provided several magical 1-800 Flowers arrangement pics, and then what I was hoping to find:
Also known as the horn of plenty, it's from way way way back when, but we really associate it with Thanksgiving.
But that was all I found.
Wasn't it a gift or something from the natives?
Googled "cornucopia thanksgiving gift indians" and found this:
No one knows when the first Thanksgiving truly was, and apparently the cornucopia has just been hanging out as the symbol for that holiday. All I can discern is that it comes from ancient Greece where it would have been made from a goat's horn, and nowadays is typically a basket, full of squash and other seasonal veggie bounty.
Perhaps that's why I couldn't remember the significance of the cornucopia.
It's simply a centerpiece.
And just for that, I'm gonna make one this year. Happy Tofurky day!
Which got me thinking of all the festive things we learned about in grade school, my favorite being:
Turkey Hands...I'm just gonna wait while y'all click on that. Impressive huh? I especially like the turkey hands on chest t-shirt and this little class project:
Some teacher must have been reading Fifty Shades of Grey during recess and felt inspired to create this masterpiece.
I also remember discussing the Cornucopia every November, as if it were a totally natural, commonplace thing:
2nd Grader:
We decorated our cornucopias today. Have you even heard of them before?3rd Grader:
Duh, we made like fifty cornucopias in first grade and twenty in second. We've moved on to bigger and better things this year.2nd Grader :
Like what?3rd Grader:
Like Pilgrim hats. And Indian headdresses.
Yes indeed, we have moved on to bigger and better Thanksgiving things such as eating, drinking, tryptophan, and more eating.
But I can't for the life of me remember what a cornucopia is or what it represents.
Googling "cornucopia thanksgiving" provided several magical 1-800 Flowers arrangement pics, and then what I was hoping to find:
Also known as the horn of plenty, it's from way way way back when, but we really associate it with Thanksgiving.
But that was all I found.
Wasn't it a gift or something from the natives?
Googled "cornucopia thanksgiving gift indians" and found this:
No one knows when the first Thanksgiving truly was, and apparently the cornucopia has just been hanging out as the symbol for that holiday. All I can discern is that it comes from ancient Greece where it would have been made from a goat's horn, and nowadays is typically a basket, full of squash and other seasonal veggie bounty.
Perhaps that's why I couldn't remember the significance of the cornucopia.
It's simply a centerpiece.
And just for that, I'm gonna make one this year. Happy Tofurky day!
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Jelly Bean Dinner
Short and sweet: I ate jelly beans (Trader Joe's "real fruit" brand) for breakfast and dinner. Rough day. Which got me to thinkin'...Can one subsist entirely on candy? And if so, for how long?
The answer, my friends, is blowin' in the internet winds:
My Week of Eating Nothing But Candy (!)
The answer, my friends, is blowin' in the internet winds:
My Week of Eating Nothing But Candy (!)
You're welcome.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
The Elevator
The lady went to pay for her appointment at reception.
She tapped a red nail on the desk, then brought it up to tuck a cotton candy wisp of blonde hair back into her bun.
Yet again, she had to remind the male secretary the amount she should be charged. It was sliding-scale, and perhaps she should feel bad about how little she paid, but she often watched him taking money from other patients and she was paying far more than most.
This is fair, she thought, with a little jerk of her head.
She eyed the secretary as he swiped the card; he seemed to sense this and fumbled when handing her a pen.
He's always staring up at me from that chair, she thought. Examining her face whenever she walks up to him to pay. As if he takes pleasure in the fact that she'd likely cried for an hour straight. Pervert. He probably gets paid in free therapy. Seems too incompetent to hold an actual paying job.
The transaction was complete and she click-clacked into the hallway.
See ya next week, Slob-o.
Pressing a red nail to the elevator button, the doors immediately opened and two men scurried off. She wondered where the lift had come from; wasn't this the lowest level?
Stepping in, she realized another guy was still on. He hit floor 3 and she checked to see that L was lit up.
They began their ascent. The guy looked at the lady. Her pale skin flushed with the realization that her sunglasses were in the car. Her eyes must look like all hell.
"What's on that floor? LL?" he asked. "I've always wondered."
She turned and focused her gaze, really looked right into his face. She had crazy wobbly anime eyes, she felt it.
"A counseling center," she said, more forcefully than she had meant to.
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, processing what that really meant. "Ah," he said.
The doors opened and he wished her a good day.
She responded in kind, and as she click-clacked out the door, a strange thing happened. She truly wished for that, felt that it might be attainable.
A good day.
She tapped a red nail on the desk, then brought it up to tuck a cotton candy wisp of blonde hair back into her bun.
Yet again, she had to remind the male secretary the amount she should be charged. It was sliding-scale, and perhaps she should feel bad about how little she paid, but she often watched him taking money from other patients and she was paying far more than most.
This is fair, she thought, with a little jerk of her head.
She eyed the secretary as he swiped the card; he seemed to sense this and fumbled when handing her a pen.
He's always staring up at me from that chair, she thought. Examining her face whenever she walks up to him to pay. As if he takes pleasure in the fact that she'd likely cried for an hour straight. Pervert. He probably gets paid in free therapy. Seems too incompetent to hold an actual paying job.
The transaction was complete and she click-clacked into the hallway.
See ya next week, Slob-o.
Pressing a red nail to the elevator button, the doors immediately opened and two men scurried off. She wondered where the lift had come from; wasn't this the lowest level?
Stepping in, she realized another guy was still on. He hit floor 3 and she checked to see that L was lit up.
They began their ascent. The guy looked at the lady. Her pale skin flushed with the realization that her sunglasses were in the car. Her eyes must look like all hell.
"What's on that floor? LL?" he asked. "I've always wondered."
She turned and focused her gaze, really looked right into his face. She had crazy wobbly anime eyes, she felt it.
"A counseling center," she said, more forcefully than she had meant to.
He leaned back and looked at the ceiling, processing what that really meant. "Ah," he said.
The doors opened and he wished her a good day.
She responded in kind, and as she click-clacked out the door, a strange thing happened. She truly wished for that, felt that it might be attainable.
A good day.
When you first get to LA
You buy a Thomas Guide.
At least, that was the case up until a couple of years ago. On the first page of every How to Be an Actor (a.k.a. Waitress) in LA book were two instructions:
1. Get thee to the Sam French
2. Pick up a Thomas Guide
So I popped into a bookstore, purchased a Not For Tourists (NFT, LA 2006 edition; did they stop making those too?) and my spiral-bound, twenty pound Thomas Guide.
It was truly indispensable for apartment-hunting. I'd slam on the brakes somewhere around Koreatown (Craigslist neighborhoods were Greek to me at that point) and the little grid system would help me find my way to each potential dream home's address. It also assisted later on when I was driving from audition to audition, flipping that massive book back and forth and putting everyone on the streets in grave danger. Often I'd arrive only to discover I had not allotted enough travel time and wouldn't make my appointment at all. This is when I'd begin to cry at the steering wheel, smearing my expensive photo paper headshots. Ah, those were the days.
So where did the big map book go? Perhaps the advent of GPS and iPhones have rendered them useless? Did the company fail to get with the times?
I googled "thomas guides" and discovered that they were created by the Thomas brothers, cartographers who started out making little folding maps and guidebooks for California in the 1940s, which paved the way for the beloved atlas books to follow. They created a unique page-by-page grid system that was adopted by so many throughout the West. Yellow Pages would list their page and grid locations in their ads, and many Angelenos still remember their childhood home's coordinates.
Here's what an older page looks like:
It appears that a few years back Rand McNally and Co. bought Thomas Bros. Maps and that kind of assisted in their decline. As did several unfortunate CEOs and a whole lotta outsourcing to India.
Some of the guides are still produced today but apparently the quality has diminished. Sad. I wish I'd kept mine around, if anything to see what has changed in the years I was away. But I chucked that twenty pound paperweight on my cross-country drive to New York City.
At least, that was the case up until a couple of years ago. On the first page of every How to Be an Actor (a.k.a. Waitress) in LA book were two instructions:
1. Get thee to the Sam French
2. Pick up a Thomas Guide
So I popped into a bookstore, purchased a Not For Tourists (NFT, LA 2006 edition; did they stop making those too?) and my spiral-bound, twenty pound Thomas Guide.
It was truly indispensable for apartment-hunting. I'd slam on the brakes somewhere around Koreatown (Craigslist neighborhoods were Greek to me at that point) and the little grid system would help me find my way to each potential dream home's address. It also assisted later on when I was driving from audition to audition, flipping that massive book back and forth and putting everyone on the streets in grave danger. Often I'd arrive only to discover I had not allotted enough travel time and wouldn't make my appointment at all. This is when I'd begin to cry at the steering wheel, smearing my expensive photo paper headshots. Ah, those were the days.
So where did the big map book go? Perhaps the advent of GPS and iPhones have rendered them useless? Did the company fail to get with the times?
I googled "thomas guides" and discovered that they were created by the Thomas brothers, cartographers who started out making little folding maps and guidebooks for California in the 1940s, which paved the way for the beloved atlas books to follow. They created a unique page-by-page grid system that was adopted by so many throughout the West. Yellow Pages would list their page and grid locations in their ads, and many Angelenos still remember their childhood home's coordinates.
So in the back of the guide would be the listing of the street addresses by name and then broken down by number (say, W. Sunset Blvd. 8000-9000) with the page number and coordinates to see exactly where on the page you were headed.
It appears that a few years back Rand McNally and Co. bought Thomas Bros. Maps and that kind of assisted in their decline. As did several unfortunate CEOs and a whole lotta outsourcing to India.
Some of the guides are still produced today but apparently the quality has diminished. Sad. I wish I'd kept mine around, if anything to see what has changed in the years I was away. But I chucked that twenty pound paperweight on my cross-country drive to New York City.
At least I've got an iPhone.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Ukulele
Translates to "jumping flea" in English.
This comes from when the tiny instrument was first introduced in Hawaii. Apparently the performer's fingers hopped about the uke with great speed?
I just started weekly ukulele lessons with Lori and am hoping to be playing mine with bed bug fingers in no time!
'Til then, let's watch something adorable, shall we?
This comes from when the tiny instrument was first introduced in Hawaii. Apparently the performer's fingers hopped about the uke with great speed?
I just started weekly ukulele lessons with Lori and am hoping to be playing mine with bed bug fingers in no time!
'Til then, let's watch something adorable, shall we?
Friday, November 9, 2012
Before Tapping Came Hambone
So each day Julia asks that you write three pages of mind vomit immediately upon waking to get those wheels turning. She also asks that you take your "Artist Child" on a date once a week. It has to be something that you'll really enjoy, and you must go alone.
Tonight I'm going on what will likely be one of my favorite Artist Dates since 2007. Tilly and the Wall are playing LA for the first time in years. They are magical for so many reasons, but I love them mostly because they do something truly badass: their percussion comes from Tap Dancing. And stomps and other fun things, but, seriously, tap dancing.
I've been a tapper since before I can remember (really, I was dancing at age 4 and don't recall a thing before I turned 5) and today I realized that I didn't know too much about how tap dancing came to be other than from minstrel shows and some Irish stepdancing (remember Riverdance, and Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance?!)After doing a bit of googling: "tap dancing beginnings of" I found a little something called Juba Dance which is also known as Hambone.
Y'all, that's me!
Heather Anne Moody, initials HAM, college nickname Hambone (thank you Chris Chamblee, Professional Actor) and I've never even realized my namesake is a dance?
Juba originated when American slaves weren't allowed to have drums (out of fear they'd create a secret percussive code) so they worked out some percussion action with own their limbs instead.
Hambone paved the way for one of my greatest joys in life, tapping!
And now to give you an idea of just how amazeballs it can be:
And that, my friends, is Hambone.
The Studio
It wasn't until she was leaving, walking down the narrow hallway covered in headshots, that she felt it.
Or the absence of it, rather.
She had not been to this studio in four years, since she was dutifully making the audition rounds at her agent's request. Every single time, she'd walk in the door and her chest would tighten. Girls would be tucked into every corner, legs blocking the hall, stretching and chatting.
Cacophonous, she thought now.
She'd tuck her head and push through, all the way to the back entrance, to the parking lot. There she could breathe, stand in the sunshine, and begin to warm her muscles.
She'd see girls she recognized, well, she used to in the beginning. In the beginning she'd usually have someone to pal up with, someone to chat with to take her mind off of her nerves. At the end, she mostly felt older than the other dancers. Out of place.
She would line up to register, hand shaky with self-doubt. Thank them kindly, and pin a number on her chest.
Learning the combination, she used to push right up front and center. Towards the end she'd hang in the back. She was much taller than the other girls. It was fine.
Things got better once she started moving. She'd usually gain a bit of confidence when she sensed she was picking up the steps more quickly than the others. She'd laugh a big full laugh when the director or choreographer would make a joke. Show them how sweet she was, what a joy she'd be to work with.
She would often be called back. She'd walk to her car and phone work, "Hi! I just got a callback! Yay! It's at 3, so I'll just be an hour or so behind. Thank you thank you thank you!"
Always a callback, never a job.
She'd begun to turn down auditions. Tell her agent she had work. The woman didn't get her anyway. Woman, hah, they were probably the same age. Always submitting her for things that she was obviously so wrong for. Waste of time.
And that was it.
She stopped dancing for a few years. Every once in awhile she'd catch something on TV or on YouTube, and her heart would hurt. She'd take a class here and there, and it almost made up for everything else. She'd throw herself into yoga, and because the city was so big, there was always a new-student-month-unlimited-deal she could afford. She'd hop to a different studio when the month ran out. It was almost the same, she thought. More practical, even.
And then she woke up.
She came back.
She was moving at a snail's pace, but moving nonetheless.
Or the absence of it, rather.
She had not been to this studio in four years, since she was dutifully making the audition rounds at her agent's request. Every single time, she'd walk in the door and her chest would tighten. Girls would be tucked into every corner, legs blocking the hall, stretching and chatting.
Cacophonous, she thought now.
She'd tuck her head and push through, all the way to the back entrance, to the parking lot. There she could breathe, stand in the sunshine, and begin to warm her muscles.
She'd see girls she recognized, well, she used to in the beginning. In the beginning she'd usually have someone to pal up with, someone to chat with to take her mind off of her nerves. At the end, she mostly felt older than the other dancers. Out of place.
She would line up to register, hand shaky with self-doubt. Thank them kindly, and pin a number on her chest.
Learning the combination, she used to push right up front and center. Towards the end she'd hang in the back. She was much taller than the other girls. It was fine.
Things got better once she started moving. She'd usually gain a bit of confidence when she sensed she was picking up the steps more quickly than the others. She'd laugh a big full laugh when the director or choreographer would make a joke. Show them how sweet she was, what a joy she'd be to work with.
She would often be called back. She'd walk to her car and phone work, "Hi! I just got a callback! Yay! It's at 3, so I'll just be an hour or so behind. Thank you thank you thank you!"
Always a callback, never a job.
She'd begun to turn down auditions. Tell her agent she had work. The woman didn't get her anyway. Woman, hah, they were probably the same age. Always submitting her for things that she was obviously so wrong for. Waste of time.
And that was it.
She stopped dancing for a few years. Every once in awhile she'd catch something on TV or on YouTube, and her heart would hurt. She'd take a class here and there, and it almost made up for everything else. She'd throw herself into yoga, and because the city was so big, there was always a new-student-month-unlimited-deal she could afford. She'd hop to a different studio when the month ran out. It was almost the same, she thought. More practical, even.
And then she woke up.
She came back.
She was moving at a snail's pace, but moving nonetheless.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Ayurveda
I've recently embarked on a veggie/pescetarian (pescatarian?) diet. Which is magical, except for the headache I've had for a week now.
This morning, head still pounding, I reached for my iPhone to get to the bottom of it.
Well, first I googled "conor oberst girlfriend". Twenty minutes later, still no definitive answer to that one.
On to googling "becoming vegetarian headaches why".
I stumbled upon the Ayurvedic Diet.
From what I understand, Ayurveda is ancient, deals with different energies (water, fire, air, earth, ether), maybe has something to do with Buddhism, and definitely has something to do with Indian medicine. There are three doshas. These little nuggets rule your general constitution, and there are certain things you can eat and do for yourself to keep your dosha happy.
My dosha is Vata. This means I have a small frame, am usually cold, and am often anxious.
Vata is basically the chihuahua of doshas.
Other doshas include Pitta and Kapha. You can find your ruling dosha here at Deepak Chopra's website.
I have enough whoo-whoo sparkle energy crystal magic in my life as it is, but I can get down with something that encourages me to stay warm, eat a bunch of avocado, enjoy my favorite colors and scents (sweet, heavy, and warm, such as vanilla), and be touched often. Boom, done!
And that, my friends, is Ayurveda. Kinda sorta.
This morning, head still pounding, I reached for my iPhone to get to the bottom of it.
Well, first I googled "conor oberst girlfriend". Twenty minutes later, still no definitive answer to that one.
On to googling "becoming vegetarian headaches why".
I stumbled upon the Ayurvedic Diet.
From what I understand, Ayurveda is ancient, deals with different energies (water, fire, air, earth, ether), maybe has something to do with Buddhism, and definitely has something to do with Indian medicine. There are three doshas. These little nuggets rule your general constitution, and there are certain things you can eat and do for yourself to keep your dosha happy.
My dosha is Vata. This means I have a small frame, am usually cold, and am often anxious.
Vata is basically the chihuahua of doshas.
Other doshas include Pitta and Kapha. You can find your ruling dosha here at Deepak Chopra's website.
I have enough whoo-whoo sparkle energy crystal magic in my life as it is, but I can get down with something that encourages me to stay warm, eat a bunch of avocado, enjoy my favorite colors and scents (sweet, heavy, and warm, such as vanilla), and be touched often. Boom, done!
And that, my friends, is Ayurveda. Kinda sorta.
Hi, y'all
LA to LA has been marinating in my brain (and floating in internet limbo) for some time now.
After years of Tumblr-ing, I realized I'd created a scrapbook of sorts, and am hoping to make something a little more cohesive here.
But, yikes, blank pages are scary. What could LA to LA be?
My initial thought was to document the exploration of my sexy self. I've come a long way from Lower Alabama (to LA, NY, and back to LA) only to find I'm still hanging on to a lot of Southern hangups.
I decided I'd be a good little concierge and Angeleno and kill the nightlife with my best gal Lori. We'd have a little fashiony-lifestyley blog with pictures to prove that I did indeed lose the Wallabees in favor of rocking that miniskirt.
Then life sort of nudged me into considering all of those deeply ingrained hangups and fears.
It reminded me to be brave.
So here we'll explore all kinds of fun things such as:
After years of Tumblr-ing, I realized I'd created a scrapbook of sorts, and am hoping to make something a little more cohesive here.
But, yikes, blank pages are scary. What could LA to LA be?
My initial thought was to document the exploration of my sexy self. I've come a long way from Lower Alabama (to LA, NY, and back to LA) only to find I'm still hanging on to a lot of Southern hangups.
I decided I'd be a good little concierge and Angeleno and kill the nightlife with my best gal Lori. We'd have a little fashiony-lifestyley blog with pictures to prove that I did indeed lose the Wallabees in favor of rocking that miniskirt.
Then life sort of nudged me into considering all of those deeply ingrained hangups and fears.
It reminded me to be brave.
So here we'll explore all kinds of fun things such as:
- Story Time
- What have we learned today?
- Only in LA
- Only in Alabama
- When I grow up I want to be...
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