Glass Menagerie

A tiny dinosaur figurine is on the kitchen counter.

The stegosaurus, I believe he is a stegosaurus, with that picket fence-back? Was never that into dinosaurs...so violent, so reptilian. Much preferred unicorns, which were every bit as fantastical but fuzzy. What I did know about dinosaurs was that I'd surely have been a brontosaurus: all long limbs with a penchant for leafy greens and meekness.

I walk over to investigate; Stegosaurus awaits my mother's return, the smile still on his face. Bits of paper towel and crazy glue surround him and I notice his injury: a broken tail. It's a familiar sight, this porcelain animal hospital. I'm home.

My mother collects these figurines, always has. She also collects crystal animals, which are of a higher class, and therefore safely stored to sparkle away in their display case. These guys are older and have a home (literally, it's a wooden shelf shaped like a house, with teeny nook-rooms for each figurine) on the wall.

The wall. I imagine all the crystal animals saying, "Oh, it's a great place to visit but I'd never actually want to live there." Takes a certain amount of grit, I'm sure. Many a tiny animal has hurled himself, premeditated or otherwise, into the abyss that is our dining room. My mother will always nurse them back to health, no matter how small the fragments, no matter that the superglue mars their original form.

"Do you collect anything?" The question was posed to me recently. It took a moment to answer; I pride myself on living simply. I also tend to move homes often, the one upside being a frequent purging of things.

Several years ago my mother began gifting me crystal animals. She's since taken to asking what I would really like (sparkly creatures couldn't keep my fingers warm in Brooklyn). Perhaps I didn't seem terribly enthusiastic about the little guys, and my significant others couldn't appreciate their beauty. Either way, they stopped coming.

A couple of weeks ago I was packing for my most recent, and likely not my last, move. I found a little ball of tissue paper that hadn't been unwrapped since New York.

Inside were my crystal animals. A bunny, a turtle, a duckling, a cat. All were broken save for the cat. I touched their fragments. The Swarovski facets were just as lovely as a diamond ring, the kind of beauty that hurts.

I rolled the animals back into the tissue and packed them away. "They will need mending", I said aloud to the empty room. "They will, they will, we will."

Spectacles

Today I wore my glasses. Which I almost never do, save for bedtime. I’ve always been one to prolong a night’s end. I’ve hosted parties where I’ve nodded off on the couch, crystal in hand, because I couldn’t bear the thought of missing one thing. When I was younger, I’d lament my poor vision and the frames I’d have to wear. I couldn’t dance properly (pirouettes are difficult enough without your eyewear flying from your face) and I especially hated them during sleepovers. We’d stay up, tiny girl voices chatting and gossiping and dreaming, until it was finally time to drift off. Removing my glasses signaled the end. The end of the night, the end of the fun.

Today I wore them all day long. I just removed them and glanced at my face in the mirror. And looking back was a lovely, hazy, softer version of myself. I had such a tremendous moment of loving what I could see. Of being kind to myself. I’m ready to curl up in bed, slip off my frames, and end the night. I’m not afraid of missing a thing. I’m carrying that kindness with me, through the darkness, until the light pours into my little white bedroom.



The Must

Couple of things to do in LA this week, as filtered through my curious brain:

“Unleash your inner fair!!!” is the theme of this year’s LA County Fair, opening Friday in Pomona. Not sure about y’all but I’m unleashing my inner fair, at the concierge desk, as we speak. Hope our guests can tell! Get up close to marine animals including sea lions, sharks, and mermaids. Yes. Mermaids. Indulge in such culinary delights as Krispy Kreme Sloppy Joes and, well, I’ll just stop there. Catch the End of Summer Concert Series featuring artists including Demi Lovato and The Bangles. I like to sing “Manic Monday” around my non-hospitality friends, especially when my work week begins during their Sunday brunch. Try it, so fun and confusing for them!

Labor Day Weekend: As a wee one, I thought this holiday was in honor of birthin’ babies. Boy, was I wrong. It’s to celebrate workin’ hard, of course! Or, get real crazy and celebrate my favorite bundle of joy: The Food Baby. The LA Times is hosting The Taste food and wine festival at Paramount Studios Friday through Sunday. On Saturday, join Michael Cimarusti of Providence and Connie and Ted’s (Responsible for my most recent F.B....I’m sorry, but you offer a hot and a cold lobster roll on your menu? Concierge-ing dictates I order both). Sunday, join critic Jonathan Gold and Sang Yoon of Father’s Office (B.F.B. anyone?) as you enjoy a day of authentic dishes from around the world, courtesy of LA’s best restaurants. Wrap this delectable weekend up with a Labor Day Block Party hosted by Nancy Silverton and lastly, partake in the Cocktail Confidential, hosted by some of LA’s finest mixologists. Labor Day barbeque, smarbeque, I’ll see y’all at Paramount!

Delight

The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.

I remain tattoo-less but if I were to inscribe words on my body, that last sentence is a particular favorite of mine. I'm also considering the state birds of Alabama and California, one for each wrist. However, that frankly seems a tad ambitious so perhaps I'll just settle for a couple of prints off of Etsy.

I was reminded of this quote tonight, while watching two little adorable boys play in front of the lobby mirrors. Starck placed some pretty crazy things in our hotel but the funhouse mirrors are always a hit. The littlest one was very taken by how skinny or fat they made him appear, and he kept giggling and babbling in Spanish and then giggling and falling to the floor. Must have done this nine times. And then I started giggling too, at witnessing his pure joy. His delight was my delight. We've had some very lovely guests lately, and I'm sometimes too quick to stop and pay attention to the gift that is constant, varied human interaction.

Though it was my seventh day of work in a row and I was quite beat, I ended it by writing my weekly little email. I'll share that with you, along with the tiny idea to pay more attention. The ability to be delighted seems like such a given, but it's not. It's absolutely not.

“I'm a perpetual tourist, and that's the best way to travel. Nobody gets used to you, you make new friends without having to hear anyone's everyday problems, and you jet back still feeling like a know-it-all.” John Waters is full of fabulous quotes, most of which are a little NSFW. Google ‘em on your lunch break! Apparently Johnny Ramone was a big fan of his as well. Sunday at 5:30 pm, the 9^th Annual Johnny Ramone Tribute will present an Outdoor Screening of Cry Baby at Hollywood Forever. Special guests include host John Waters, co-star Traci Lords, and there’s even a Ramones look a-like contest. Gonna see lots of vegan leather jackets…

Here’s an intriguing (and free) event: The Cardboard Yacht Regatta will be held Saturday at the Annenberg Community Beach House. Cheer on teams who’ve constructed their own watercraft from cardboard and duct tape.  Each paddle-powered vessel is a work of art, vying for such awards as Best Theme and Most Likely to Sink. I’m already mentally building “Monkey Business” for next year’s regatta.

Did you know our very own Lori Trimble is President of the Los Angeles Concierge Association? (Side note: she likes it when you bow in her presence.) The LACA invites you to our 2013 Hospitality Expo, held at the lovely Langham Pasadena. Next Tuesday August 20^th from 6:30 to 9:30, come mingle with other LA hospitality professionals and vendors. There will be games, prizes, and all sorts of circus-y entertainment!

The Must

I've been writing a little weekly must-do newsletter that is sent from the concierge desk to all hotel employees. Don't tell anyone, but I actually kinda enjoy it. Thought you might, too:

Robert Redford once said, “Storytellers broaden our minds: engage, provoke, inspire, and ultimately, connect us.”  The same can be said for wine and beer.  Enjoy these three things together (!) when you visit Redford’s Sundance Cinema at 8000 Sunset for Next Weekend, LA’s version of the Sundance film fest.  Friday through Sunday, stop by the delightful theater for screenings and discussion panels.  Grab a glass of Sonoma’s finest and brag about how you saw that indie film first. Oh my stars, you’re so hip!

Speaking of suds, the Craft Beer Crawl takes place Saturday and Sunday across seven unique bars and restaurants downtown.  Sample over 100 craft beers hosted by the coolest gals in the biz, The Beer Chicks.

Forget Christmas in July, it’s all about Halloween in August. Travel back in time to the Roaring 20s, and get all flapper-ified at the Great Gatsby Party.  This Saturday, downtown’s historic Park Plaza Hotel turns into the “Gatsby Mansion” with specialty cocktails, swing music, a New Orleans jazz room, and a courtyard where you can purchase treats from LA’s best food trucks.  It’s sure to be the bee’s knees AND the cat’s pajamas!

I now understand what you mean by

This is not the end of it.

And you’re probably right:

The narrative is far more thrilling than the actual events. 

The story will grip you far harder than I ever could. 

Stretch it out, make it span a lifetime, cross county lines and countrysides and children and burials and years and years and years and

Why not? 

It’ll keep you far more fascinated than my actual presence ever, ever could.

Cups

Tiki cocktails led to this. Now can I join the cast of Stomp?!

Sister's House

Step outside and the world is silent, save for the soft buzz from the cicadas.

Eighty-eight percent humidity and seventy-eight degrees. Every single one of those numbers can be felt; they hold real weight. Most who live here stay wrapped in air conditioned comfort, but not you. 

You play Trapeze Girl, an upside down pendulum on the swing set. You’ve still got it. A back flip and your shoes touch grass; you walk to the street. 

You would have pissed your pants to live here as a child. 

The old streets are wide and clear. Homes are bathed in the golden glow that is only possible in Alabama at 7:30 post meridiem. Inside, lights turn on one by one. Outside, street lamps flicker and hum via timer. Too early to be necessary, but orange and pleasant and familiar.

You imagine Child You exploring in the woods, blackberry bushes scratching your shins. Peering around crumbling brick and peeling paint, your head full of romantic notions of earlier occupants. The lingering smell of the poison-spewing vehicle that caused kids to gleefully scream “Bug Man” and run indoors. The games of hide-and-go-seek would have been epic.

You briefly consider asking the other grownups to suspend reality for one moment and to please play with you.

But the sun sets all too fast, and so you don’t. You close your camera and walk back to the house. You hope you hold this feeling, you hope, you hope, you hope.

Concierge-ing

I had to complete a bit of homework for the hotel this evening, and in the middle of it I realized I was totally geeking out and actually enjoying the assignment. This week, each of us had to visit a neighborhood restaurant and share what we learned with the rest of our team.

And I enjoyed writing it so much I thought, why not share it with y'all too? So here's a little taste of what I do on a weekly basis:

As a concierge, we (ideally) try all the notable spots in LA. This helps us guide our guests in the right direction when they're looking for dining options, nightlife, what have you. This week, I was thrilled to visit Crossroads, the new vegan restaurant in West Hollywood. Without further ado, please enjoy my book report/review:

I visited the delightful Crossroads twice this week, first with the LACA board and again on a veggie dinner date.  Apparently I’m a fan.

Crossroads is located on Melrose at Sweetzer, in the building which most recently housed the dearly departed Philippe Chow.  As a mainly pescetarian (but sometimes Pikey-burger fiend) I don’t have the discipline to go full veggie.  Crossroads just might be the push I need.

They bill it as “Mediterranean” cuisine, and it is the only vegan restaurant in the city boasting a full bar.  The space is lovely: décor in dove grey and white, with soft lighting courtesy of several handcrafted chandeliers.  The private dining room off of the front remains, as does the indoor/outdoor dining space that will soon offer a coffee bar and treats for takeaway (think vegan-ified Larder at Tavern). 

Celeb vegan chef Tal Ronnen was present both times I was dining, and gave us a little insight into the menu.  Some items were inspired by dishes he can no longer enjoy as a vegan (artichoke “oysters” were a favorite of mine) The menu is comprised of small plates, a nice little wine list (we enjoyed champagne from Oregon; quite lovely) and seasonal cocktails.

Crossroads would appeal to our guests hoping to enjoy a healthful, yet elegant, dinner.  I can imagine it would suit vegetarians and curious meat-eaters alike, as the cuisine is inventive enough you don’t feel like you’re missing out by foregoing your steak or poultry.

If y’all want to get your veggie on in an atmosphere a little more sparkly than RFD, Crossroads is a promising new destination.  Let me know if you stop by; I’ll meet you for a negroni.

So there you have it. A day in the life of a concierge.

Actually, here's a little sound clip from this evening, so you can really get a feel for what we do:

(Helpful background info: our lobby features a plastic Philippe Starck-designed pig and horse.)

• Drunk Guest 1: You talked about wanting to ride that bull! There ya are; go for it girl!
• Drunk Guest 2: This thing better have stirrups! *It does not* She mounts the pig, and begins wildly air-lassoing with her right arm.

And scene.

Flowers

The significance is not lost on her, as she arranges flowers in the kitchen.

It gives her great satisfaction, and (dare she admit?) joy, to do so.

Outside, her neighbor is gardening.

Tending to what he loves, constantly shifting things to make life beautiful. If it doesn't work, no matter, he uproots and replants and begins anew.

It is not lost on her that they are doing the same thing.

But.

He is caring for living, breathing things.

She is artfully arranging something that is already gone.

Little Talk

I blame it on the dancing.

What? 

The need to control, to constantly remain composed. To hide any hurt or pain and to be beautiful, always. 

You know what I've found to be a suitable, perhaps superior replacement?

What?

Yoga. 

I'm teacher's pet in class. Which is bad for those other issues. But I feel safe as our eyes lock in the mirror and I recognize approval. I can look as shitty as I feel. I can breathe and realize what those feelings truly are. And I can be ugly ugly ugly. Because it doesn't matter. The inside is becoming beautiful. 

The Parfum

It was always a favorite question of hers, the sense question.

The neighbor boy demanding, "Which would you rather lose? Sight or sound?"

It was a given, at least around the neighborhood, that it would totally suck to be blind.

She agreed, having found a particular affinity for the dappled light on the trail floor, the impossible perfection of the Queen Anne's Lace petals, the watery aqua of her grandmother's eyes.

She longed to be an artist, and to interpret, visually, what so stirred within her heart.

A few years later, she found her sense of hearing to be just as moving.

Now beginning middle school, she visited a childhood friend. Having been given a tiny bit extra for the purchase of an appropriate souvenir, she was instead taken with a Wal-Mart music box. It featured a carousel pony, a mirrored base, and played 'Ode to Joy'. She knew better than to spend the money on that. Yet she could not resist.

What sense would you rather lose?

Later, her sense of smell pushed its way up there on the list.

Bobbing in the river, having thrown the rope, legs exhausted from skiing. That was a very specific, very comforting, sun-baked life jacket smell. The Chanel perfume her father gave that felt so grown-up: it was spicy, mysterious, woodsy, and dried down to honey and peach velvet. It was opulence for the soon to be lady. Comes on bold, only to discover she's just a kitten underneath it all.

She still found the musicality of words to be a treat, a meal, a tonic. If as a child she wanted to paint the truth, as an adult she wanted to say it. She became an actor, and then by necessity, a writer.

What sense would you most like to embrace?

This week, she found herself doing something new.

She was pondering perfumes, her usual signature scents, and how differently each one made her feel. She'd begun to look online, thinking she'd purchase something she'd worn before, something comforting.

"A french cloud of roses, spices, and vanilla" depicted a fragrance she had never heard of. She investigated further. All were extolling the virtues of this perfume, penning virtual odes to it through the years. She wanted to join them, to feel as lovely and special as they described. To wrap herself in the scent that would tell this chapter of her story.  

She hopes it will be the perfect marriage of her favorite senses. She will soon be in possession of a bottle of perfume she's never tested. The sound of the smell was enough for her to take a tiny risk and venture into the unknown. 

Perhaps she'll let her senses lead the way for a bit.

Dream A Little Dream of Me

My apologies that I've been so silent as of late. Mama Cass might've preferred we keep it that way once this video is viewed (sorry Mama) but here goes nothin'. Hope y'all have the sweetest of dreams.

Me

She thinks of her "me-ness".

How it is often appropriated and replicated, or refused outright by others.

She thinks if she could create and put useful things back into the world, rather than tap tap tapping on a touch-screen or keyboard, that she'd feel a little less upset about that.

She'd say, "Here, there's plenty of Me to go around; here's some for you and some for the birds and some for the babies and some for the wind and some for the sun. What luck, there's some left for me, too."

Five AM

I often think of your mother's white cat.

How, at the end, her hair was matted and her movement slow. No one wanted physical contact with her but that was all she craved.

The only place you dared touch was the little triangle between her eyes down to her nose. That was enough for her. Enough to go through the night and wake the next day.

Until, at last, she trudged under the bushes and disappeared.

My cat has curled up beside me. He hums at my nearness, loves to have his back or some part of him touching me. It was not always thus.

He is getting old and I wonder at his change in behavior. How he no longer snaps at me out of fear, how he seems to truly sense when I am unwell. I wonder how many more years we have together.

I used to hate the white spot on his little triangle, the one that mars the otherwise symmetrical markings on his face. Used to think that, besides that spot, he was quite a handsome cat, for trailer trash.

It is now my favorite thing about him. I pet it, as if it gives him power. As if it prolongs the time we have together.

He owns me as much as I own him.

The saddest girl to ever hold a martini

A very kind soul has pointed out that I seem, perhaps, a little sad. 

Well, that internet Heather has seemed a little sad.

I forget that these entries are viewed as a representation of myself and can be taken quite literally.  Oftentimes I'm trying ideas on for size, and that's simply all it is.  I do know that inspiration can strike when times are tough.  I'm unsure of why this may be.  I have only found that comfortability doesn't breed creativity.  At least, in my experience.  If you're too busy snuggling into your lover's armpit, that is the best and only thing in the world.  Perhaps you'll pen love sonnets galore, but, more often than not, you'll be gazing into each other's eyes and ordering Thai food.  Not saying that's a bad thing. 

I've been thinking a lot about creativity and productivity.  I've been wondering why I'm drawn to more solitary mediums lately.  Wondering why so many authors seem so very sad.  Wondering why, from day one, I'd been interested in being directed and molded, the muse and not the maker. 

It's that last little query that has me going today.  I've always been willing to place my trust into everyone else's hands.  I do very little trusting of myself.  And I think it's maybe the kernel of my unhappiness.

So that's what's going on here.  I'm taking control and I'm taking charge.  I'm asking for what I need, and maybe even sometimes for what I simply want.  And I will not be sorry.  This, to me, feels very bitchy to write.  But it's not.  It's absolutely not.

This is one of my very favorite days.  Let's go out and live it, yes?

Dear,

Let me start with an apology.  It will be the last of them.  I'm sorries are tiresome to say, and likely more tiresome to hear.  I'm sorry begins to sound like my cat's plaintive meow, or like walking up a gravel driveway, or like the teacher in Charlie Brown.  It is wind from my damaged lungs, up through my vocal chords, bouncing around my teeth and tongue, and tepidly released to you and the world.  So, for the last time, I'm sorry.

It's not your fault.  I know that now.  I fancied myself an excellent communicator once upon a time.  I was wrong.  I'm still learning what it means to need something, to voice that need, and to hold on to that need, come what may.  There was a time when you'd convince me otherwise, voice your opinion that it was selfish, or foolish, to need this or that.  I'd listen and think, of course, of course you do know better.  I was constantly in a state of flux, my brain working overtime flip-flopping and adjusting to make everyone else comfortable.  But I can't do that anymore.  I'm thirty years old.  Do you see that?  Or do you still see me as I was at sixteen?  When I'd test my boundaries; when I'd embarrass you.  I've been the ungrateful, willful child who pierced her navel, who can't remember driving directions, who sometimes sneaks Marlboro Lights, for all of my adult life.  And I've been trying to patch that up, to be a nice person, to make you proud.  But that has been doing far more damage than good.  It's not your fault because I've never addressed it, never said, this is who I am, and I am different than you, and that should be okay.  I've enabled the very thing that has kept us apart. 

So, if you are the slightest bit curious, this is who I am:

I am silly.  I am creative.  I need to have an outlet for that creativity.  What for some is a childhood phase is for me my lifeline.  I am sensitive.  I am nostalgic.  I need music like I need air.  Eating and drinking are not about simply filling the hole for me.  I'm happiest when I get a few hours of that in the company of loved ones.  I don't give up easily.  I am proud.  I can be indecisive and easily influenced.  This is because I don't trust myself.  I'm working on these things.  I sometimes suffer from depression.  Working on that, too.  I can't be in the house for too long.  I love California.  It feels like it was made for me.  Or I was made for it.  I need trees and sunshine.  I like to be able to practice yoga and to go hiking.  Sometimes both in the same day.  I need other creative people around me.  I will probably live here for a very long time.  Don't take it personally.  I need my space to be clean and to be organized.  Through the years, I've relaxed my standards on this.  I'm not currently attending church.  Don't take it personally.  I find spirituality in the same trees and sunshine I mentioned earlier.  I should probably be working with animals, because people overwhelm me.  I'm girly.  I miss being an actor.  I don't have a lot of friends, but I would do anything for the ones I do have.  If you're reading this, I would do anything for you. 

I hope this helps.  I hope you can still love me.  I hope we can be better than ever.  I hope you trust me and my decisions.  Or at least, that they don't worry you unnecessarily.  I am learning what is best for myself, and I will honor that.  I hope you can understand that that is not a reflection on you.  If you take one thing away from this, please let it be those last two lines.  Oh, and this: that I love you, very, very much.

She also thinks:

There are so so many things held in our hearts.

All we want is to release them into the world, and for someone else to catch them.

To grasp the ribbon at the end of the balloon before it floats away.

And to nod, and say yes yes I understand.

She thinks: 

Perhaps, this is why we make art, and why we make love, and why we make war.

She thinks:

I’m no good to anybody in person. 

 

In person, you can overwhelm me physically, in person, you can silence my words.

Seem eager to own me.

So.

I should correspond only in letters.  Freely, unfettered.  There you know nothing of my fading beauty, of my trouble with living.  Perhaps you hear my voice, or what you remember of it.  Perhaps the musicality carries over in the pretty arrangements of my words.

Perhaps you will think me better than I am.

Perhaps I am better than I think I am.

The letters will be sent by sparrow.  Dropping down, he will land, blinking.  A note will release from his beak.  Should you be inclined to respond, he will wait for you, and then return to me.

This is how it shall be done, she thinks.

One Plus One Plus One Equals Three

I've long been a fan of Dorothy Parker's stories.  After spending most of my Christmas travel time with her, I've been thinking about her excellent he-said, she-said narrative stories (which she claimed were "over, honey, they're over" in this interview) and I can see how she'd also admire Odets, and thought McCullers was "good".

Just good.  My word, if I could scratch the surface of her just good.

However, I cannot imagine she'd much like Jennifer Egan, though she's a recent favorite of mine.  I especially like her last answer in her interview here.  She's on to something.

Here's to 2013, the year of more reading and less stressing.