The Skirball Fire

-->

Last night I, and hundreds of thousand other Angelinos, received an unsettling Emergency Alert that stated: “Strong winds over night creating extreme fire danger. Stay alert. Listen to authorities.”  To add to the drama of it all, I was on the phone with my sister and the alert disconnected us.  It freaked me out.

While I am 5 miles south of the Skirball fire, I took the alert seriously. I tend to go to the worst-case scenario quickly, but felt only a 5% chance of any fire damage.  This is real progress (if you know me).  I was, and still am, less concerned about the fire spreading our way than about air quality.  I’m fighting a bit of an upper respiratory and thought I might want to be prepared to get out quickly for that reason.

Like thousands of others in a more dangerous situation than me I decided to pack a bag.  Again, not for the fire concern so much as for the air quality.

I grabbed my favorite carry-on and two roomy over the shoulder bags and commenced packing.  The first thing I grabbed was my mother’s 1953 scrapbook that detailed her trip to LA, followed by my passport.  Next, the book my siblings made me for my birthday and the dress I bought in NYC made by a local artist.  The coat my mother-in-law gave me that gets compliments every time I wear it came next.  Then contacts and orthotics and a handful of naturopathic medicines (because I’ve spent so damn much money on them and my husband would plotz.)  Next, my iPad mini and hard drive.  I’d have to make room for the platform sandals with the black and white spotted heels because they were one of kind.  The other 20 pairs of shoes would have to be left behind.  There just wasn’t enough room.  As I packed, I considered that I could get a larger bag but there was something about having to make real choices that, in the moment, felt like a very important exercise.

Because I had time to do this, I thoughtfully considered each decision.  I like this sweater, but it’s served me well.  It needn’t be packed.  What about purses? Just the mustard one… because mustard.  And the embroidered one… because antique.  I grabbed a pair of jeans and a pair of pants and the dress that the husband bought me…because husband buying a dress for me! And a few sweaters, tees, shirts, underwear, socks and a bra.

I looked about the room and in drawers to see what else I needed to grab. I still had room in my bag and I was saving jewelry for last. My mom’s glasses, circa 1960, that I had my prescription put in to.  The Winnie the Pooh wallet that my friend Patrick got me.  I’d leave behind the note cards I’d bought recently and the hats I’ve bought along the way and all the paperwork on my desk.  I left the Route 66 salt and pepper shakers I hadn’t open yet and the stacks of books on my bedside.  But I snapped a picture, so I could remember them.  However, I did throw my Autobiography of a Yogi and my Sibley Bird book in the shoulder bag. 

I stared for some time at the “altar” I keep on top of my dresser.  My mom’s nurse’s cap.  My dad’s bowtie.  The teddy bear from Tom Balke.  My owl from Oaxaca.  My Pope Francis bobblehead gifted by my sister, Anne.  I decided to leave them all.  I thought if there was a fire, or total destruction, they needed to go too.  There was something so magnificently cleansing in having detachment from these objects; knowing they served a purpose for me but that one-day I would and could let them go.

I spent a good deal of time straightening out my jewelry and sorting in “to keeps” and “not keeps” piles.  The keeps could be organized by “Gifts from Nana and Sue Ziegler.  Gifts from Jene Stella.  Handmade and purchased gifts from friends and family. A few items picked up on travels. And the earrings I bought from my friend Pascale last year that are just fabulous.”  All of the jewelry I wanted fit in to a small bag. 

The entire process from alert to packed took me less than an hour. 

Looking around the room I tried to understand the decisions I made.  Everything I could see was a decision of something not to take.  And there was a lot of “stuff.”  I was happy that I could winnow it down to so few items considering I’ve spent a lifetime accumulating (and some three years – for that’s how long I’ve been in LA).  Surely I have more sentimental items at my home in Grand Rapids – but that’s “more” as in content not “more” as in value.  If I had to do this exercise there, I think the result would be the same. 

After I was done, I took the dog, for a walk.  The Santa Ana winds were starting to blow again.  The air was cold, but the wind was warm.  I’ve never felt such a thing. Or at the least, never noticed it.  The winds that were making it so much worse for the fire fighters were wrapping me with a comfort that is indescribable. 

I have been incredibly sad of late.  Each day the political news disheartens me and each new disaster makes me feel like we are closing in on some apocalyptic times.  But those winds… those winds that were making me feel safe and comforted while 5 miles away were bringing terror and destruction showed me the duality of this life and the importance of detachment that I could never have understood otherwise.

No Photo To Capture the Moment

-->

I have been hankering to recreate this idyllic walk I took with Eddie when I first moved to LA two years ago. It always left me with such a romantic notion of the city. Oceanside, beach walk, lollygagging, sightseeing, perfection!

Needing a boost to the mental state, I decided to head over to Santa Monica last night to do just that.

About two minutes in to the drive, I realized I'd left my cell at home. Should I go back for it? Surely there will be photo ops. And the thought actually crossed my mind, “but if I don't take pictures... did it really happen?” Seriously, I am so attached to my phone to capture moments as if to prove they happened (and out of concern for forgetting the memory.) I opted to keep driving. You don't own me, Phone!

The drive there was quick and easy. This is always exciting (especially considering that an hour earlier when I picked up Eddie from doggie daycare, my 1.5 mile drive home took 30 minutes.) I made it to the beach in under 15 minutes. Woohoo!

I then spent 20 minutes looking for parking. In this time I believe I saw 87 cars pull out of spots and 87 cars pull in to them right in front of me. At 88… Finally! Success! Poor Eddie was going nuts. "Why did you drive me to this fascinating place only to drive in circles?" Oh, just you wait, Eddie, I thought. You will remember! You will love it.

We got out of the car. The place was hopping. It was fantastic. Immediately, I saw a disheveled man approach with a fairly large mutt by his side. I tend to cross away from other dogs because Eddie can be a barker, but there wasn't room to get away. Instead, I tucked in closer to a fence. Then I heard Disheveled Man say, "You got 5 seconds to get that dog outta here lady. This here is a federally trained dog." First, of all, I have no idea what that means? Is he rooting out terrorists on the beach? Checking the immigration status of other dogs? A tax collector? Anywho, his tone was menacing and disturbing. I pulled Eddie to the other side of the sidewalk and gracefully maneuvered out of the way. Once passed me I heard him mutter, "Damn dogs. Damn Women. Damn Dogs. Damn Women." Perhaps, this wasn't going to be as idyllic as I hoped.

We headed down to the beach.  Eddie was in sniff heaven.  So many new smells.  I couldn’t wait to get him on the sand.  When he had sand on his feet before, he went crazy. He ran in circles, back and forth, sand flying in the air as if trying to express to me that sand is the best thing in the world and how could I have kept it from him.  It was one of my favorite moments in life.  I don’t have kids. I imagine it’s what one feels like watching their kid walk for the first time.  Boundless joy. When we got to the sand he ran straight to it, stepped in and pooped.  That’s it.  Just poop.  Then he stepped back on the sidewalk.  I tried to walk him over to another area of sand.  He dipped his toes in and then looked up at me as if to say, “Can we move on? Sand is so two years ago.”

I headed towards the pier, passed a few tourists and an enclave of homeless dudes who seemed to be tucking in for the night.  And, believe it or not, Disheveled Man and Federal Dog were there too. What the what?  He obviously took a different route, but it was a bit creepy.  G-men, you know? Two skateboarding teens whisked by.  Eddie hates skateboarders.  He went nuts.  Barking like a mad dog.  I hoped the Federal Dog Agent wouldn’t come after us. Surely he’d put Eddie in the clinker. I got Eddie to calm down. We walked a few feet and two more skateboarders whisked by.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  Again, I got him to calm down. At that point we’d arrived to an area where a handful of skateboarders were sharing tricks of the trader.  Bark. Bark. Bark.  This was walk was neither, calm, nor idyllic.  It was stressful and annoying.

Did I mention that I was wearing new shoes? At this point the buckle had shifted and was digging a hole in to my ankle that seemed as if it would leave me permanently damaged.  I opted to head up to the street and back to the car for a change of shoes.  Plus, beyond the hotels there were waterfront homes.  I’d noticed them on one of my 27 passes looking for parking.

We headed up.  I felt bad.  There were mostly concrete walls lining the shortcut walk back.  Concrete walls aren’t nearly that exciting to sniff as peed upon trees and bushes.  I changed my shoes.  Luckily, my gym bag was in the trunk.  I headed to see new sights. If I couldn’t recreate my last trip here with Eddie, we coulds make some new memories.

Halfway there, the Mexican dinner I had started to move in ways that my intuition suggested, “This is not going to end well if you keep going.”  I did the pep step back to the car.  Happily, the traffic back was quiet and we made it back quickly.  The whole excursion took less than an hour with a little more than 30 minutes of drive time. (And I made it back in time… if you know what I mean.)

Now I mentioned that I took this adventure for two reasons – to recreate my first trip to the beach with Eddie, Idyllic. Romantic.  And to lift my mental state.

First, in the moment, I was stressed and overwhelmed. Eddie barking, feeling threatened, horrible parking, etc. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I experienced a slice of life in LA and I still pinch myself that I can do that. Thether it turns out the way I hope for or not, I am still living new moments and that keeps me grateful.

Second, I also headed out on this little adventure in part because I was feeling a little down. And more than a little tired.  I needed to clear my head. I’m cutting down on caffeine and I’ve also been beating myself up lately because I haven’t been able to get any personal writing done.  Oh, I’ve done a TON of writing. Work related. But that’s it.  I feel like if I’m to be a good writer, I have to do both.  And I haven’t. So I beat myself up. It’s a pattern.  And as I drove home last night, I thought, I’m so grateful I forgot my damn phone. It’s forced me to write something personal. It’s given me the chance to do the very thing I was beating myself up for not doing.  Turns out “not having my phone to capture the moment,” was the exact thing I needed to capture the moment.

Despite the seeming chaos of our brief little adventure, I’m sure I’ll need to do it again. I’m sure Eddie would be game. He had a great time.  He’s a dog.  Besides, you never know what story lies in wait. Maybe the next time it will be idyllic and romantic.  Gotta keep hoping.

Ten Minutes Prep Time

-->

-->

Tonight I baked for the first time in a long time.  Like I don’t remember the last time I baked. In my lifetime I’ve made Christmas cookies a handful of times...Tastee bars for a party or two. And I’ve made my mom’s chocolate pie, but that’s really just stirring and pouring and putting in a store bought crust, not baking.  But since I’ve been binge watching “The Great British Baking Show” on flights lately, I’ve had a real hankering to bake something.  Plus, our neighbor gave us a ginormous zucchini that he grew in his garden.  This was going to happen. I found a recipe on-line for Gluten Free, Vegan Zucchini Muffins.  It said that the prep time was 10 minutes and the baking time was 20 minutes.  Perfect!  I had a friend coming over for dinner at 7pm and it was 4pm.  I could do this.

First I went to Whole Foods. I picked up all of the items I needed for the recipe (which was nearly every item.)  Gluten Free Baking Mix, Baking Soda, Baking Powder, Vanilla Extract, Pumpkin Spice, and Walnuts.  Turns out I had the coconut oil and coconut palm sugar.  Woohoo.  For some reason I also bought unneeded cinnamon. "Oh well," I thought. "This is going to go so well, I'll bet I'll use it for another recipe another day." The trip to the store took about 20 minutes.  Then I popped in to Big Lots around the corner to buy a muffin tray. 10 minutes.  Total drive time between both locations and to my home (Friday LA traffic… 2.5 mile radius) 25 minutes.

Okay!  5pm, no problem.  Ten Minutes prep… and go! 

I opened the recipe. “Things you will need,” I read.  Oops.  I don’t have a mixer.  I Google “Can you use a blender instead of a mixer?” Read 5 different answers. Get overly consumed by the number of differing opinions.  Decide I better mix by hand.

“Mix dry ingredients in small bowl.”  Okay, but where’s a measuring cup?  This is the home where I rent a room.  My roommate is out.  I can’t find a measuring cup.  Time’s a tickin’.  I decide to just use one of those glass measuring cups…  the kind best used for liquids. It’s a pain in the arse to measure out 1 cup of flour in a 2 cup measuring cup used for pouring, but I get it figured out.  I easily find the measuring spoons.  I add all of the dry mix items together, look up and 20 minutes has passed.

I’ve used up my entire 10-minute prep time and half my bake time and I’ve only mixed four ingredients. 

I mix the eggs until they are light and go to add the coconut oil.  “Oh shit!” I think. I’ve got to melt this.  I find a small pan and melt the coconut oil.  While I’m doing that I cut and grate the zucchini.  Then I realize the coconut oil is bubbling.  “Oh shit!” Did I burn it? Can you burn it?  It will have to cool a bit now so it doesn’t cook the eggs.  I feel really smart even if its not true.  That sounds like something they would say on “The Great British Baking Show.”  “Crikey, she almost had the winner, but Edwina’s coconut oil cooked her eggs.”  I add the sugar to the eggs and find that I’m doing an exceptional job of mixing despite the fact that I’m not using a mixer.  I fold in all the ingredients (after letting the coconut oil cool for a few minutes). 

I look at the recipe one last time, to make sure I didn’t miss anything.  The picture shows these lovely little muffins in these adorable little paper cups.  “Wait? What the hell?  Paper cups? My mom always had those in the house.  Those little muffin cups.  Damnit all to hell.”  I don’t have those. 

I have to run to the store… again.

This time I’ll go to Von’s.  It’s close.  I’ll just walk.  And half run.  I don’t want to mess up my neck from a recent chiropractor appointment.  “Don’t run! He said.” Time’s still a tickin’.  I go to grab my wallet in the jacket I was wearing the last time I was at the store (less than an hour earlier).  It was in a pocket.  Not anymore. I can’t find it.  I look all over my room.  In my kitchen.  Three times I look in the jacket pocket.  I go out to my car. I look inside and out.  I consider all of the things I’m going to have to cancel.  I ponder whether or not I can borrow cash from my roommate to make it through the weekend. I wonder how much I’ll need to make it through the weekend.  I wonder how quickly American Express and Visa can replace my cards. I consider that I should call Whole Foods and see if anyone turned in a wallet.  I look one more time in my bedroom. It’s not on my desk. Not on my bedside table.  Not in the chair or on the floor.  I move a notebook that’s on my bed.  There’s my wallet.  Under the notebook?!?! I don’t have a clue how it ended up there, but I’m grateful and I take off out the door running to Von’s.  Well, running then walking… neck adjustment.

I find the muffin papers quickly and head to the Express Checkout.  Each of the two women in front of me have 15 items exactly.  Not less than 15 items.  15.  I hold my one little package of muffin cups out in my hand displaying in such a way as to invite one of them to say, “Oh Gosh, you only have one item? You should go ahead.”  Neither makes the offer.  I pay for my item and head out the door, briskly walking – like mall walker walking.  When I get home I look at the clock. It’s 6:00pm.

I review the recipe one last time.  I haven’t mixed in the walnuts yet but I decide to make a few of them without, so this will work great.  The recipe says to spray the baking tin with Canola Spray.  Hm.  If I’m supposed to spray the pan, why would I need muffin cups?  I Google, “Can you bake muffins without paper cups?” Turns out there are several reasons that argue for and against, but apparently you can.  Realize the picture has nothing to do with the actual recipe.  Realize you’ve gone to the store, on foot, doing your best to not run despite needing to get there and back fast, adding 12 minutes to your prep time, for nothing. 

Pour three muffins in to the canola sprayed tin, add the walnuts and pour the remaining.  I have made enough mix to make 12 small muffins.  Put them on the rack in the oven and set the timer.  6:10pm.  The muffins would be ready at 6:30pm. 

I start dinner, scrapping the idea to make a salad too, because I simply won’t be ready in time.  Besides, we’ll have muffins. 

I check the oven at 15 minutes.  I feel like a contestant on “The Great British Baking Show” who stare intently in to their ovens praying for a rise, praying for consistency, praying he/she will know exactly the right time to remove the baked good. I remember my mom always using a toothpick to see if baked items were done.  I use a fork. I’m feeling good about this.  They have risen.  They look good.  I haven’t been this happy in a while.

When I remove them, I am giddy.  They look perfect.  I can’t wait to eat the first one. I open it and watch the steam escape.  I imagine Mary and Paul pushing the fingers to check consistency.  It's perfect. It's moist. It could have used a bit more pumpkin spice, but by and large, it’s really, really good. 

Friend arrives.  I’m late on completing dinner, but it’s okay, because she’s happy to try the muffins.  She prefers nuts, but since I don’t remember which one’s had the nuts and which didn’t, she’ll just have to guess.  She chooses right. She finds it yummy and even grabs another.  My roommate comes home.  She has a muffin.  She finds it yummy. Even encourages me not to add more pumpkin spice to the next batch.  She thinks they're perfect.

It took 2 hours and thirty minutes to prepare Gluten-Free, Vegan, Zucchini muffins that should have taken thirty. But you know what?  Totally worth it.  Tomorrow I’m making 12 more. Maybe I'll add cinnamon.


NOTE:  This is the recipe - https://alittleinsanity.com/gluten-free-zucchini-bread-recipe/ and I used Pamela's Baking/Pancake Mix

Fighting Crime at Equinox

Char (my roomie) bought a lovely blue shirt that she decided she didn’t want.  She gave it to me.  I rarely buy blue colored clothing and yet I have on standby a few pieces of jewelry to match any shade of blue. Not matchy matchy. I’m not that person. Just matchy. 

In prep for the day, I put the new shirt in my gym bag and grabbed a blue and silver butterfly necklace.  Perfect.  I grabbed my fabulous black and rhinestone prescription cat-eye glasses that would work well with the silver in the necklace and the black in my pants. I put them on my head.  Not my face.  If you know me, glasses spend as much time, if not more, on my head than on my face.  Then I dug through my rings and found a beautiful silver and royal blue artsy number I bought in a store off piazza in Lecce, Italy.   When I slipped it on to my finger I got a pang in my stomach and thought, “I’m not going to have this ring by the end of today.”  I often have random negative thoughts.  It’s my gift.

Then I headed to the gym. After a great workout (next to Mel Gibson, by the way, who has exceptional calves but a surprisingly big pot belly), I headed back to the locker room.  Perhaps I’ve mentioned this to you before, but EVERY time I change in a locker room I get PTSD from my 7^th grade under-developed years when our gym teacher used to stand there and watch us to make sure we took showers.  Ew! That painful memory never goes away. Add to that, I still feel like I’ve yet to develop. So I tend to be hyper-modest.  I’m one of those women that has perfected dressing and undressing completely wrapped in a towel.  If they had locker room burka’s, I’d be first in line. 

Before my shower, I removed my glasses and set the ring on top of my bag in my locked locker. After my shower, I headed back to get changed.  There was one woman changing and another seated on the bench checking messages on her phone. I pulled my bag out and set it on the bench next to the phone woman. I donned my glasses and took a quick look for messages. There were none. I put the glasses back on top of my head and scoped out the corner closest to my locker to work my magic changing methods.  At one point, before I was all bra’d up, my towel started to slip.  I reacted quickly to keep it from falling but my glasses flew on to the floor next to the woman changing. I picked them up quickly and set them on my bag.

The changing woman then said to the phone woman with a Russian sounding accent,  “Can you please not be on your phone in this area?” The phone woman was confused. Changing woman clarified, “Can you just check your messages some place else? There are signs everywhere.  I don’t want to accidentally get my picture taken.” (I thought maybe she’d like a locker room burka too.)  Mildly irritated, phone woman left and changing woman proceeded to tell me that someone took nudies of her through another person’s cell phone and made her pay $4000 to get them back.  We chatted a bit.  I put the clothes I needed to wear in an accessible location in my locker so I could change with my back to her.  I was so proud that I could carry on a full conversation with her in such a way that suggested I was entirely comfortable.  I was not. She left, none the wiser.

I finished dressing.  Phone woman came back.  “That was weird!” she said.  I explained in more detail that people really do need to be careful and that things like that can happen.  I went to put on my jewelry.  I couldn’t find the ring.  I looked for my glasses.  They were gone too.  I found my butterfly necklace shoved in a side pocket.  I looked again for the ring.  Gone.  I looked again for the glasses.  Gone.  I asked the phone woman.  “Did you see my ring and glasses?” She hadn’t.  I emptied my bag.  I packed my bag.  I emptied my bag. I packed my bag.  I looked through the wet towel bin where I had dropped my towels and so had a dozen other women.  No sign.  I said to the phone woman, “Do you think she could have possibly stolen my ring and glasses?”  “I KNEW she was shady!” the phone woman said.  I said, “Yeah.  And isn’t it interesting how she didn’t ask you to leave until AFTER I dropped my glasses on the floor and then put them on my bag.  She must have seen them and wanted them.  She got you out of here.” Crazy?! She proceeded to tell me how this gym is notorious for people getting things stolen.  Even a gym where Mel Gibson exercises?!?  Humanity can really disappoint.

I was devastated.  First of all, I couldn’t give an honest description of the woman.  I was so concerned with not being seen that I wasn’t paying attention.  Second, I can’t believe I let this happen.  In addition to being hyper modest, I’m hyper aware.  And with my propensity for negative thoughts, I’m always on the lookout for hooligans.  Plus, that accent?  That story?  She was a grifter.  I had been "grifted". 

I reported the theft to the front desk person who called over the manager.  She’d have the cleaning staff look for it.  I knew they wouldn’t find it.  I looked.  Plus, that thought that I had in the morning.  “I’m not going to have the ring by the end of the day.”

The ring was special, but it only cost $15 euros or so.  Cheap, but meaningful.  The glasses were prescription but not nearly as expensive as far as frames go. $200. But I bought them especially for my Route 66 journey.  They were vintage looking.  They were my first “I’m going to California purchase.” It wasn’t the money. It was the violation.  I was sick to my stomach.

As the manager took down my information and the front desk people expressed their sorry’s, I realized and then shared, “Well, it’s a great lesson in attachment. As long as I stay attached to things, I’m going to keep losing them.  I have to learn to let go.”  The dude at the front desk said, “Woah. That’s a great way to look at it.”  I was grateful to have a moment of reasonable clarity.

On my way to my next appointment, the chiropractor, I called my husband.  He knows that I have spent a third of my life looking for things I’ve lost (that 9 times out of 10 turn up). Yet, his response this time was compassionate.  “I’m so sorry.  You must be so sad.”  Then he said, “You have to fill out a police report.” 

“They won’t investigate my glasses and ring.” 

“They might not,” he said, “but if they know who was in the gym at the time, maybe they knew who this woman is.  Maybe she had a record.” I said I’d wait to hear from the manager, but would probably do it.  I shared with him the thought I had about the ring earlier in the day. “Wow. Your intuition is amazing.”  Yeah. That's true.  That felt good.

Next, I texted with my trainer at the gym.  "Does this happen often?"  She told me it happens all the time. She’s shocked at how much stuff gets ripped off there. 

I thought more about calling the police and I’ll admit I had a little bubble of excitement thinking that maybe I could stop some petty crime ring at the Equinox.

At the chiropractor I imagined what I would say when he asks, “How are you doing?”  Will I tell him I was just robbed?  How do I say it in such a way that doesn’t sound like I’m being too dramatic? I was feeling really dramatic.  He asked and I opted to just an “I’m pretty good.”  Because really, I am good.  I am at a chiropractor getting a much needed adjustment that I can afford and I came from a gym where I worked out with a trainer next to Mel Gibson (despite the fact that I would have preferred it be Mel Brooks, but still, kinda fun.)  I took a deep breath and felt better.

I left a message for the manager on my way home to make out the police report.  Then as I was sitting in LA traffic doing some of the recommended neck stretches from the chiropractor, I remembered something.  I was wearing a gold necklace too.  It had a beautiful lotus flower pendant on it. My heart sank. Then I thought, did that woman really get my glasses? My ring? AND my gold lotus necklace in the one minute I was turned around to change?   It just didn’t smell right. 

When I got home I emptied my gym bag again.  It took me less than 10 seconds to realize I had tucked my glasses, ring and gold necklace into my tennis shoe.  From the time I had picked up the fallen glasses, to the time the "thief" left, which was probably a total of 4 minutes, I had forgotten that I had tucked everything safely in to my shoe.

Idiot.  I first texted my trainer.  “Never mind. I’m an idiot.” She's nice. She just told me she was glad it all turned out good.  Then I texted my best friend (because I had texted my despair with him too.) “Never mind. I’m an idiot.” He responded with an "LOL" because he knows how often I lose, then find, things.  Then I called my husband.  “Guess what I found?”  And he laughed and laughed and laughed, because he too knows how often I lose and find things.  “But you just seemed so convinced this time." he said, "I just didn’t doubt you.”

I was convinced too.  I had made up this entire story.  I made all of the pieces work.  That the glasses falling triggered the changing woman to want them… and the timing of her asking the woman to leave… and the phone woman buying in to it too.  And it makes me wonder how much I make up stories to make the pieces work. I wonder what is real and what is not in all that I perceive.  I wonder about all the stories I write as I go through my day. 

There were more than a few takeaways from this entire two-hour ordeal.  I learned that I am getting better at detaching from things and that the old adage, “if you love something set it free…” is true. I learned that there is a fine line between the stories we tell ourselves and the truth of the matter.  I learned that it is really easy to accuse someone of being a thief when they have an accent (and I am horribly ashamed of this and have much work to do there) And, I learned that my gym, despite having famous people working out at it, really does have a surprising amount of theft. I'll be more careful in the future. But not obsessively careful. I already have enough neurotic tendencies challenging me on a day to day basis. 

And no, I didn’t call the manager and tell her I found them.  One, I was painfully embarrassed. But two, I figure that given that the gym seems to have issues, maybe letting them believe it happened will put them on high alert.  Maybe I helped them diminish the petty crime ring at Equinox after all.  Yeah. Sure. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

My Day In Lansing

-->

My Day in Lansing

Matthew: 22:37-40

Jesus replied: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.   

This is the first and greatest commandment. 

And the second is like it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 

All the Law and all the Prophets hang on these two commandments.

I woke up nauseous.  I haven’t been that nauseous in years.  I chalked it up to mild food poisoning or Trump’s inauguration. This was going to be an interesting day.  First up?  A quick breakfast to celebrate the birth of one of the most incredible women I know (Sheila Solomon Shotwell).  Despite the gift of an anti-nausea medicine that she gave to me, (when did that become how we celebrate birthdays?) I couldn’t quite move past the “life would be so much better if I’d just toss my cookies” feeling.  I suppose ordering eggs didn’t help.

I was hesitant to march on (pun intended), but I knew this would be an historic day. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to show up – for me and for all the women I know and don’t know who are aching to have their voices heard and their rights protected.

With Pussyhats* in hand, we headed to Lansing. I drove to the march with Sheila, Gail and Ann.  On the way, we talked about Ann’s bi-racial daughter who provided the reality check, “Welcome to the suffering I’ve been dealing with my whole life.”  We talked thoughtfully about whether or not the Pro-Life movement should be at the March.  We talked with differing opinions about whether a Nazi should be punched in the face during a TV interview. I was so proud to be traveling with these incredible, smart, strong, passionate women. 

That's me looking like I have to go to the bathroom, but I didn't.

We made it to the march by 12:15pm.  Parking was so easy I was concerned turnout might be small. Ha! I was wrong. To our delight, we parked next to the Republican Party headquarters. (Photo Op! Tee hee.)

 

We made our way to the middle of the capital grounds.  After about 10 minutes I realized I would probably be better off sitting at the nearby Episcopal Church that had opened its doors as a warming station and public restroom.  God Bless the Episcopalians.

I spent the first 45 minutes in a hallway.  Unfortunately it was cold and busy.  And, the first thing that happened was a woman sat down next to me to eat a ham sandwich.  Not good.  The volunteers were delightful, though.  Gail popped in occasionally (always looking for the elusive cake the church ladies were rumored to be serving) and I even got to see my friend, Tommy.  After this kind, 70-year old volunteer scoured her purse for mints for me, I headed in to the quiet sanctuary.  She encouraged me to go there and take advantage of the rocking chairs in the back.

When I took the seat, I looked up and the first thing I saw in all his stained glass glory was Christ.  Jesus, The Christ.  I decided this was perfect.  I had said on my way out the door that I wanted a peaceful day, and well, sometimes you get what you wish for.I couldn’t help but wonder, “What Would Jesus Do?” I was raised Catholic. I’m not a practicing Catholic anymore, but I am grateful for that upbringing, mostly because Catholicism taught me about Christ, his work, his mission.  Jesus was, and will always be, about two things for me...

Love and Forgiveness.

So what would Jesus do if he were at the March? I thought:

·      He’d probably be a speaker.  I doubt he’d be on the agenda though. That’s not his style.He’d probably be hanging out with the people who were even to the Left of the Messages we heard. 

·      He’d be high fiving the Bernie diehards who were gathering signatures to make sure that the two-party system is upended and that money gets out of politics. (Oh man, I bet he’d be turning over a boatload of tables if the Legislature were in session.)  

·      He’d be one of the few people of color at the Lansing rally. I’m pretty sure he’d be one of maybe five people of Middle Eastern dissent.  

·      He’d remind us that he knows what it means to be on a “registry” and that it just spells trouble.

·      He’d gather first with the people who held signs that said “Black Lives Matter” because he knows that their movement needs broad support and if this many people came out to one of their marches their voices would start to be heard.

·      He’d hug the transgendered man knowing full well the pain he has experienced getting to this place.

·      He’d hug the woman who held a sign that said CSA Survivor (Child Sexual Abuse) and he’d apologize because society failed her. And he IS society.

·      He would chide those of us who have done nothing to support progressive causes since the election but yell from our Facebook pages and our Twitter how horrible our lives will be under Trump. 

·      He’d remind us to keep the Faith.

·      He’d remind us that we need to find ways to build bridges, not walls and that every time we say that we need to reflect on what that means in our own lives.  Are we building bridges towards our enemies or walls?

·      He’d remind us not to lose our peace over a Tweet or a post or name calling.

·      He would chide those of us who believe violence, in any form, is an answer.

·      He wouldn’t grab any woman by the pussy*. Nor would he boast about ever having done so. 

·      He’d thank St. Paul’s Episcopal Church for opening their doors and say to their leaders, “Now THAT’s what I’m talking about.”

·      He’d tell us how amazing we are that we were able to get through our protest peacefully.  He’d say, “Now THAT’s what I’ve been talking about.”

·      He’d remind us what values he wanted us to remember… to Love One Another, that the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth, that Words Matter, That Deeds Matter (From Matthew: “These People Honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” And Power Doesn’t (From Luke: “You cannot serve both God and Money.”)

·      He’d tell us to stop blanketing opinions (They’re all crazy.  They’re all stupid.)

·      He’d probably make a self-deprecating joke about progressives.  Come On! He had to laugh sometimes.

·      He’d say how much he appreciates Pope Francis.

·      He’d tell us what he really thinks about abortion.  That’s it’s complicated.  That it shouldn’t be criminalized. That he hopes if you were pregnant that you would be surrounded by people that would allow you to feel safe and supported. He’d even remind us that the more access to abortion and birth control pills in a controlled area, the less abortions occur.  Okay, maybe he wouldn’t get all factual on us, but he surely would suggest that more compassion is required for the pregnant woman.

·      And he’d remind us that programs that help young mothers, young children and disenfranchised need our on-going support.

·      And when he was done with all that, he’d shut up and listen.  Because he knows that women, while many of us really really, really love men, we’re more than a wee bit tired of hearing them tell us what’s good for us.

With only a little more than a half hour to go to our departure time, I decided to buck up and take a walk around the grounds.  The dense fog from the early part of the day had lifted and the sun had managed to shine. In January?! It was beautiful.  Protestors had taken to the streets to march.  Their chants were loud, and yet peaceful. I cried.  Women, children and the men who love them gathered together to say, “This is not okay.” Repealing ACA in full, turning back the clock on our rights, destroying all the progress made in the last years, etc. “goes against the fiber of our beings and we want to be heard”.

When I got home, I spent the next few hours in and out of sleep jumping on and off social media. I watched the numbers climb. Los Angeles 750,000, DC 500,000 New York 250,000, Chicago 200,000+, Denver 100,000+, Boston 100,000+, Portland 100,000+, London 100,000+ Lansing 8000+ and on and on and on and on and on.  Amazing.

At the end of the day, still in a nauseous stupor, I hit my pillow knowing that America is a great country. It is flawed. It still has so much growing up to do, but it allowed me and millions of women to march peacefully.  Equally important, it fueled me for the work that lies ahead.

ADDENDUM *Now about that Pussyhat

Just some of the hats made by my sister, Anne.

I wore one.  My sister made it.  I wasn’t sure how to react when she asked me if I wanted one.  My gut said, “Just Say Yes”. I did.  I hate the word Pussy.  It’s disgusting.  It’s pejorative.  It’s a word made meant to make a woman feel shame. It’s a word meant to emasculate men. It’s a word that means you equate my vagina with being weak. It’s a word our current President used in a way that made me feel violated.  It’s a word that when our nation heard our then President-Elect use it, they were so numb to knowing that it was wrong for him to say such a thing that they voted for him anyway. 

A week before the march I saw a little girl wearing kitty cat ears.  She wasn’t consciously trying to suggest she was protesting Trump.  She just wanted kitten ears. I felt like the Pussyhat could claim power for “kitty cat ears”.  I was hopeful that wearing a Pussyhat could claim power for me and for all women.  If someone calls me a pussy or says I’m gonna grab your pussy or calls a man a pussy, we can now say, Pussy means strength and power and fight and control.  Now if you are outraged when you hear me use the word (and I still have to practice saying it out loud) I invite you to be outraged instead at the Man, the Men who used / use it in the first place. 

Story for a Thirty Dollar Discount

-->

Last night* I did a real “writer-y” thing. I attended a Meetup activity for writers, by writers. A group of students from a writing school were performing Moth style in a black box theatre in KoreaTown. It was a small and chatty crowd. I scanned the room for a place to sit. There was a cluster of guys in the corner so I headed that direction. I wasn’t in it for the networking or the dating (which my husband will appreciate), I was in it to hear stories and I thought these gents might provide some entertainment before the entertainment. I grabbed the only empty seat in that area.

Tucking in to the chair was a bit difficult as the guy I was to sit next to was quite comfortable in his wide, Larry Craig-like stance. Squished in, within moments it seemed as though my body chemistry was changing. Can one get a contact buzz sitting next to a guy that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes?

A few hours earlier a homeless man came up to me while I was feeding the meter and asked me if I had water in my car. Okay, first take a minute. How sad is that? I didn’t. But I did have a beet/apple/lemon/ginger drink that I had just bought at Whole Foods. I told him he was welcome to that. That I had just taken a few sips. He said sure and thanked me. He polished it off in three big gulps and tossed the bottle in the garbage can next to us. His arms were dirty and he wore a hospital admittance band around his wrist. It seemed fairly new which was surprising because he was clearly unwashed for a long time. His clothes were filthy. And when I say “filthy” I don’t mean it in the biting, disdainful way I hear my mother say it. Just filthy.

Turns out the guy in the theater actually smelled worse than the homeless guy. I decided to move. The smell would get the best of me. I knew this. I took a look around. The seats were filling up. I went to another spot. “Oh, I’m saving this,” a woman in an out of place, bright orange, business dress shared. I moved on to another spot. “Sorry, I’m saving these seats,” an LA hipster guy said.

“How many seats do you need?” I asked.

“Five,” he said.

Wow. Five. He had lots of friends. I just needed one. I found a seat in the front row. 

I hate the front row. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the back row either. I think life is best managed from the second row. You’re almost up front, but you don’t have to be entirely committed. You care, obviously, you’re sitting so close, but you don’t look overly eager. And if I can get a second row aisle seat – the "I can still get outta here if I want to" seat – well then I’m golden. There was a notebook and scarf on a chair next to me. More seat saving. I was reminded how much of my new LA life I am doing alone. Not complaining. Just observing. 

I was thrilled when the host of the event set up an additional row of chairs in front of me. Thank God. Second row. Then a woman walked in with her gay boyfriend. I’m not sure if she knows he’s gay, but that’s how I’m calling it. You should have seen his wave. Not trying to stereotype, but I’ve seen it often enough. I’ve been in theatre my entire adult life. That over-the-top queenie, “Hey girl! Over here!” wave. It just had a brightness about it that I’ve never seen displayed by my husband or any other straight male friends. I overheard someone say to the woman, “Do people still recognize you from the Bachelor?” I didn’t hear the answer. I didn’t try. I don’t watch those shows. Not judging.

All of the two-together seats were taken. The bachelorette sat next to me in the open seat on the other side. She kept looking forlornly at her gay boyfriend as he tried to find a seat. He didn’t seem to want to sit in the front row either. I leaned over and said, “I’ll just move up. You can have my seat for your friend.” I played it safe. Maybe he wasn’t a boyfriend. I mean he was so handsome and impeccably dressed. Maybe she did know he was gay. Maybe I called it wrong. It could happen. “You would do that?” she said. As if I had just said, “I’m happy to be your surrogate.” It was really sweet. Not at all what I would expect one of those Bachelorette women to say. Okay, shit. Maybe I was judging.

Anyway, it was so nice. I liked her immediately and thought surely America must have loved her too. I moved to the front row. I watched all the performers in their seats on the stage before the show was to begin. They were encouraging each other. Excited. Nervous. “You’re going to be great.” “Give me a hug”. “You’re amazing.” I was so excited to be in that supportive energy. That’s the seat I wanted. On stage. Next to them.

The organizer of the event, who ended up sitting next to me, stepped up to the mic to start the show. She was pleased with the turnout. Her happiness was infectious and her professionalism was greatly appreciated. She encouraged all of us to follow them on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram (writingpad.com). She said you could get a $30 discount on a class if you submit a story with your registration. I was intrigued. I had already been taking notes and knew that I was going to write about this experience before the night was over. If I actually take a class and get the discount, wouldn’t that be like money back in my pocket? Wouldn’t that be as if I was paid for writing something? An LA writing gig. Cool.

She turned the mic over to the instructor who was a Moth winner. I coveted her dress. She, in turn, introduced each writer/storyteller – a virgin, a recovering asshole, a non-equestrian/non- lesbian, a weed mom, a ghosted boyfriend, a Korean loving Oklahoman and a hedonistic Jewish woman with OCD. The performances exceeded my expectations.

On my way out (I was among the first to leave - a first row gift/) I looked around Korea Town. I took in the area. My mother had lived just blocks away from this place in 1953. I wondered if this building was here when she was here. Surely the police caution tape surrounding the building across the street wasn’t there in 1953, but I wondered if she was ever on this street. I was on Western - a pretty busy street. I have to believe she was. I thought on the drive home, “I may not be saving a seat, but that’s okay. I’m in relationship with this amazing city, with its people, with my past, with my mother’s past.” This thought made me very happy. Grateful even. Not alone. Just where I need to be.

*Note: This wasn't last night. It's something I wrote a while ago.