Happy New Year's Eve

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!

Continuing the Great Gingerbread Tradition

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.

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

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:

"Lively. Radiant. Lush… A color of elegance and beauty
that enhances our sense of well-being, balance and harmony."

The 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?)

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.

I'm gonna be real brave and share this. Still learning; please keep this in mind. Thank you :)

Be back soon. Or I'll fly to the moon.

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.

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.

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.

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.