The One Good-Bye...An Impossibility

There is a new collection of essays chronicling the complicated relationships between the mother and nanny. My relationship with my nanny, my son's Tia, is no less complicated. It is a strange sisterhood, there is no other word that applies, where we cohabit this delicate balance between employer and employee. And yet, this is one of the most intimate relationships I have in my life. No one else sees so clearly the messiness of two lives with divergent careers and the disappointments inherent in any relationship that spans so much time. There is nowhere to hide when you are feeling bruised, your eyes revealing the heartbreak of your life turning out unlike anything you had ever imagined.

Our Tia, a name we decided our son would use, has been working for us since he was 7 weeks old. We'd hired her when I was 8 months pregnant. And yes, like a nervous Nelly, otherwise known as first time mom, I hid inside my bedroom the first day she arrived making urgent calls to my husband that she wasn't qualified. He quite rationally told me she was going to stay despite my urgings for him to tell her this was all a mistake. I remember she wore perfume the first day, the flowery scent lingering on my child long after she had left caring for him to take care of her own daughter. I now realize why I had fixated on this perfume, as if it were the world's worst offense. I was rejecting the reality that this young woman was more capable, more qualified to care for my son than I was despite my many degrees and 'good breeding' that was a requirement of my upbringing. Yes, in truth there was no way I would have stayed sane without her. After getting beyond the perfume, we forged a bond fraught with all the social, class implications of such a relationship. I knew I wanted her to be at home, to feel a part of our family. There was no way that someone who would be caring for our child should feel as merely an employee. So, in my way, I made it more complicated by forcing us to forget the normal delineations and to create new boundaries. Pretty soon we'd spend the late afternoons sharing a snack and talking about our lives. Or rather, mostly she talked and I listened. And a friendship was borne and a sisterhood--I am the older sister, obviously.

Both of us well up with tears when we mention the inevitable: our good-bye. It is the relationship that defines this last epoch of my time in LA. She has been a constant these last five years of me redefining who I am now that I have this appendage known as the child. We now share much more than our love for my son, who is as much her child as mine. I know my son will be devastated by this loss. But my grief is no less significant, just different. And grief is what I experience when I think about the last day, fast approaching, when she leaves us for good. It is a moment that takes my breath away. I try to prepare for it, but I know it is implausible to me that I will not hear her key in our front door again.

In all honesty, she took care of my son as much as taking care of me. I can recall that day when I was sick with the flu, she took it upon herself to get me a special El Salvadorean soup to cure all ailments. These gestures of thoughtfulness went beyond merely an employee taking care of the employer. They were the acts of affection and caring. I know I will not go out to replicate this bond with someone new. I can't imagine it. It feels adulterous in some odd way. And as we say 'farewell' to this part of our relationship, I know she will always stay in our lives, the way extended families do even if separated by many miles.

Not 8 lbs, but 25 lbs.

I thought that ridiculous bag of flour was 8 lbs. And after baking all evening with still half a bag left, I looked to see how much was inside. 25 lbs. It was at this point that I conceded defeat, and closed up my bake shop. There is no way, even though I am loony enough to try, to get through that entire bag in the remaining days I have left in this house. But as of this writing, I have three cakes and three assorted cookies to distribute.

I do find it fascinating the things that can take over your mind. For instance, I have been putting photos into albums--yes, this is the newest, ridiculous task that has taken hold--and have discovered to my horror that I have no pictures of my son blowing out his birthday cake candles for his 3rd birthday. These missing photos, which I couldn't find on any of the disks, has plagued me to no end. I know, I know, he will survive this tragedy. But still, I've torn apart my already disastrous office to try and locate them. Do I think that these missing photos will be the scar from his childhood to drive him to years on the couch? No, I'm not that insane. But still...it's something that will nag me for days, I'm certain.

I find it fitting that I've spent this time, aside from running around like a lunatic in a panic, taking stock of things: books, music, and our memories, by putting them into some semblance of order. I don't know why this compulsion has taken hold in such a strong manner. But somehow, these things getting organized calms me despite the house resembling more and more of a life coming to an end. This need to not only traverse those things that are as much about my past as this house, but also to place these items into some list, some machine, some book with plastic sleeves has made this transition easier to bear. Yes, the tasks themselves have made me a bit crazy. But again, I'm finding such comfort in all of it.

A neighbor came over yesterday with a gift, homemade, and to share in a glass of wine. These last, unscheduled visits have made me think about the actual day when we will get on that plane for good. And why so much of this is bittersweet.

Home stretch

Today, Tuesday, is exactly a week away from when we will be moving out of our lovely rose cottage. A week, no more, no less. This tree lined street will be the final place we will have lived as Angelenos. Our neighbors will become those names that we address on envelopes once a year during the holiday season. With electronic mail, we may write an email or two during the year that would precede those envelopes arriving in bundles early December. But life being what it is, those cards may be the only reminders we will have about life on this street.

After spending a leisurely weekend, I resumed my frenzy of organizing by day's end. I sat down with all those boxes containing photos of our son, and set to work on putting those pictures into books I had ordered long ago, but never actually filled. Pictures are such an elusive thing, really, if you think about it. As I pored over photos, none dated, so that I couldn't tell if they were pictures from the second year or the third, I couldn't recall why I had snapped that particular shot. The images that we capture--the word capture is apt since that is what we do in essence--becomes representative of time, which is elastic. It's a good marker for time, especially when you see a face mature, or in our age, fall apart, since that is the only way we can record passages. But the image capturing much more beyond that is something the medium can't accomplish. All art forms are limited by the form itself since no one form can fully express or represent the totality of life.

All those pictures of our son made what I had been ruminating and writing about-- the fleeting nature of relationships-- all the more true. There were so many photos of children whose names I couldn't recall. And endless photos of birthday parties, the bane of a parent's existence. The birthday itself is not the problem, but rather what we, the leisure class, have turned the parties into. It is no longer enough to have kids over for a rousing game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey topped off by cake and ice cream. No, now, each party has some theme, in our case, an action hero or two is usually involved. And there has to be entertainment, which I've decided is more for the parents than for the kids since kids being entertained means less for the parents to do. Since we are the leisure class, it involves providing refreshments for the adults. Chardonnay, anyone?

Yes, birthday parties where parents drop the children off are, I'm told, right around the corner. I'm sure that will bring with it another round of problems. Can you picture having to keep 10 or 12 seven year olds' from tearing your entire house apart? Or in our case, tearing apart your condo/coop apartment? And then there will be the one child, whose parents will use this time to full advantage by picking up him or her an hour or two late. Why not linger over that afternoon lunch of braised lamb shanks and a bottle of Cabernet with a skim fat latte since you know Johnny or Sarah is accounted for. Such are the joys.

I am happy, no, ecstatic to report that the book cataloging is now complete. It only took nearly three weeks, but there you have it. I have decided that each new book that I buy will be immediately put into my unsophisticated data base--it's not a database, but just a list, much like a shopping list. And I'm now on to phase two of music downloading or uploading. It all feels exhilarating to be done with these tasks that was the cause of so many sleepless nights. That's not the truth since sleep is something I get so rarely.

During this weekend of reading, I did rent the first season of "Weeds." What a revelation! It was subversive, hilarious, and biting. I wouldn't say that the writers are holding up a mirror up to those gated communities in Southern California, but when I thought about it, how far from the truth was it? Didn't we see such craziness in that show, "The Housewives of Orange County?" Yes, this woman is supporting her posh lifestyle by dealing drugs, but is her moral lapse any different than anything I've seen on reality television? This show did make me revisit my initial scathing comments about Leslie Bennett's newest tome, "Feminine Mistake." She asserts that women, all women, should continue to work after having children because if the ends up alone because of death or divorce,her economic well-being becomes dire. I thought her judgments toward women of a certain class--this question is again about class--was unduly harsh, probably because she is from this class. But when I think about it, there is much to be said about what she asserts. There are many women, who leave the work force, when faced with working again, find it challenging to find something that will provide an income commensurate with their needs. They will, more than likely, not have the necessary skills, so that they are relegated to taking those positions that require not much more than clerical skills. And yet, I know some women, who are my friends, who are quite thrilled by the "freedom" to stay at home. OK. Let me stop. All I can say is that watching, "Weeds," made me rethink Leslie Bennett's book. Maybe she does having something to say about the new trap we, women, are falling prey to in the guise of "freedom." Don't all freedoms come at a cost?

Memorial Day: No Flags a Flying

It is the holiday when we are to honor those who serve in our armed services. And this holiday should be all the more significant given our current situation. And yet, there are no flags flying anywhere in our neighborhood. Not a one. But I guess that's standard given how most holidays seem to come and go without much notice or recognition in this city. Oh, but then there are the Oscars, which is a holiday on to itself. I have spent many holidays here, and my complaint is how uncelebratory the occasions feel. Christmas here feels unlike Christmas. Yes, we can't ignore the gaudy decorations that line Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, which always feels a bit like Vegas to me. And there the minuscule fireworks on July 4th, which actually occur somewhere in Long Beach, so they can only be observed from a hilltop. Again, less than spectacular. I don't know if it is because the weather here is 70 something for months, and then turns ugly to the high 90's in July. But Memorial Day elsewhere is about the arrival of summer, of pools being opened for the summer season, and most years, a thunderstorm or two to dampen the best laid plans for that summer kick off barbecue. I can remember attending barbecues with my family each year, marking the start of summer when you fall in love with the lifeguard.

This year, I spent the entire weekend reliving my life pre husband and child. My husband and son went to see my in-laws back east, leaving me at home. Let me say that the first day was pure bliss. I went to Noahs bagels (it is the weekend now) with my paper in tow, which I read assiduously, so much so, that some strange man--non-Korean--approached me to strike up an unwanted conversation. I would normally have not been so rude, but I was in no mood to talk to anyone. The one blip to the day was when I was forced to get on a freeway, which I was nearly run off of by a small Latino woman, reaffirming my rule about no freeways. By day two, I'd had enough alone time and was feeling the emptiness of our house, each room in complete disarray.

It's funny, when I first had my son, all I dreamed about was being alone, to resume that solitude I loved. And a part of me romanticizes that period of my life when I was alone to think, to read, to write. But now, the appeal of that time alone seems insignificant. Yes, my son, who embodies boyhood in its fullest, is loud, rambunctious, and incredibly active. He tends to break things, which means our security deposit at our new apartment in New York is money never to be returned. And he is loquacious, something that rankles me when I'm trying to concentrate or just in need of some quiet. And in spite of all that, he now provides the structure to my days that makes sense. I found myself noticing how quiet the house was, how incredibly alone I felt. That's huge for a woman, who loves her solitude above all else.

I went to our neighborhood supermarket, and saw two nuns shopping in full habit. I had forgotten about the convent up the hill below the Hollywood sign. I believe these nuns are cloistered, and therefore don't get outside much. I have always had a thing for nuns, believing in high school that I had the calling, and found myself watching them as they unloaded their groceries on to the conveyor belt. I wondered about the choices we all make in life, and whether any of it is our doing, really. My mom, when I had frustrated her immensely, would tell me that she and my dad should have sent me to the convent as I had requested. I wonder how, if any, different my life would have turned out if I had gone. I'm sure, given my nature, I would have rebelled against the strictures of such a life. And so that I would have left, now a failed nun, to make a life, perhaps not much different than the one I'm currently living. Or I could have ended up Sister Something. It does give one pause, doesn't it? Me with a habit, filling up a shopping cart in some place like Boise, noticing another woman eying me with curiosity.

Driving YMK's Style

I had to go to San Marino yesterday to a needlepoint store. Another confession: I needlepoint, and have for years. I know, all of my 'hobbies' are those taken up by most octogenarians. Needlepoint, I find, is incredibly relaxing, much like the baking. The unfortunate reality is that I needlepoint quickly, so that I'm forever finishing projects that most women have abandoned. You may think that is a good thing, but the cost to finish a needlepoint into a pillow, of which we have plenty, or into a wall hanging, is the price of a small country's GNP. It's absolutely ludicrous, and I only started when I quit smoking cold turkey. I found it was the only thing that stopped me from throwing my husband out of a second story window--really much too low for death, so therefore could only mean a life spent caring for an invalid.

Anyway, I don't go to this store all that often, but I, obviously, needed to go since I was moving. Now, most rational people would have driven there via freeway, even if that freeway was the 210. But no, not me. I have discovered that Mapquest can provide you with directions to any location avoiding freeways, if you so desire. And so desire I did. This avoidance of freeways--I'm trying to figure out how long it would take for me to drive on surface streets to get to Legoland since I've promised my son one last visit before departing and the idea of being on the 405, or worse, the 5 throws me into a profound panic--provides me with an opportunity to see parts of the city that most people don't know exist.

For instance, during yesterday's drive I went past Highland Park, a part of the city that is mentioned as an area of gentrification. And what I noticed were the number of California bungalows that is a mixture of a Craftsman and a simple small house, that was the house De Rigeur in this area. You may think this avoidance of freeways to be a) crazy and b) a waste of time. But I will disagree since this scenic drive through some unscenic areas only took me a mere 30 minutes. Some would argue that I could have done the drive via the freeway, but all of us knows how easy it is to be stuck on a congested freeway, so that the 20 minute drive (notice the freeway only saved 10 minutes) could easily turn into 40 minutes. And for me, it was so much more relaxing, or as relaxing as driving can be for me, which is not that relaxing, but at least I tend to keep the profanities to a respectable level on surface streets, unless in Hollywood, c0mpared to being on freeways. Yes, my husband can't believe I've survived living here for as long as I have given my profound dislike for driving.

One thing I can say about traveling via roads is how it provides you a truer picture of the socio-economic landscape that is LA. There's no road that does this better than Sunset, if you take it from the PCH all the way past Broadway into downtown. This drive is the one that shows you the immense wealth here, and the immense poverty. And how those two stratas are separated by a mere 4-5 miles. It's fascinating if you realize that for most who reside in the Palisades, Mandeville Canyon, Bel Air, Holmby Hills, Beverly Hills, West Hollywood--it starts to get less genteel after Doheny since you can't help but notice the tattoo parlors and sex paraphernalia stores--, the poverty you notice on the corner of Sunset and Alvarado is another city entirely. And since this city is one of the most segregated I've ever lived--this is not an indictment, but a statement of its vast geography and driving culture that separates communities--I can see how easy it is think 'your LA' is one that is about sun, nice cars, farmer's markets, and your personal trainer. I once told a woman at a needlepoint class in Brentwood that it was easy for her to assume she wasn't racist since she never had to think about it in her every day life. She lived in Brentwood, drove a three mile radius to do anything, and never confronted her own prejudices by having to cross paths with too many "black men" or "Hispanic men" that might make her uncomfortable because we know how ubiquitous they are in Brentwood and the Palisades.

After departing the needlepoint store, I drove into Old Town Pasadena via roads--such a hyper-real city since all of it is faux, replicated to make one feel like you are in a small town or smaller city--to go to the Container store. You can imagine how much this store appeals to my obsessive, organizational tendencies. It was almost as good as going into the shoe department of Neiman's. I said almost. The interesting thing about this store is that they provide valet service, can you imagine?

The thing about driving is that it shields you from confronting the realities of life that is less attractive. What it does is not only shield you as to make you impervious to the imperfections of a city that is about those who have and those who serve those who have. The invisibility of those who ride our buses--yes, the fare hikes are needed, but unfortunately those who will bear the brunt of it are the same ones who can least afford it--are the ones that will determine this city and this state's future. It is their children, the same ones that are not getting educated, that will not be able to fill the jobs that will require the most bodies: education and health care fields. Oh, let me stop. I didn't mean this blog about my quirky, crazy driving habits to turn into a philosophical rant about what we Angelenos need to do to insure our state's future.

So, after leaving Old Town Pasadena, I drove home via Colorado Boulevard, again avoiding the freeway. When I got to the corner dominated by the humongous box-like structure of Costco, I glanced up and noticed the charred hillside. The trees that were still standing looked fossilized, as one would imagine the landscape to look if our world were to experience a devastation of the apocalyptic variety. The hills that are green during the winter, rainy months, and brown during the season of drought, looked beautiful in its haunting quality. For the briefest moment, all the cars disappeared, the noise of the radio faded, as I believed myself alone, the only survivor. God forbid.

One's Trash, Another's Treasure

I just watched a woman, who didn't look as if she was someone accustomed to "dumpster diving," drive up to our house in her sedan, stop, and load one of our badly damaged dining room chairs into her passenger seat. I then watched her examine the other items left out for the trash people to pick up, opening up metal file cabinet drawers, looking at the computer desk.

Watching a stranger pick through my trash made me reflect on that old saying about what one views as dispensable, someone else may view with renewed, appreciative eyes. I thought how this applies to not just inanimate objects, but also people. Let's face it, we all go through a lifetime discarding not just objects, but people that we had thought worthy enough to call a friend. And how quickly our opinion of them from affection to disaffection can turn them into a pariah, or worse, simply no longer existing. This is the most apparent in divorced men and women, who become the object of someone else's ardor, their shortcomings, all well documented and commented on by their former spouse, becomes muted, a mirage, making him or her suspect that their former spouse was really deranged. And not the other way around.

So, in this time of downsizing, I'm realizing how few people one needs in life to keep you sane. I don't know if I am intentionally withdrawing or it is as much a mutually agreed upon withdrawal. All I can say is that my email box is not as full and the phone a bit quieter. I think this new quiet is as much my doing. I realize how much easier it is to make my departure without drama or fanfare. Therefore, this new distance, metaphorical and real, will set a new direction for each relationship. And how long that relationship may or may not endure.

After a punishing day of sorting, chucking, and general crankiness--the only break coming when my friend showed up to lend a hand--I fell into bed ready to stop my head from spinning. And like everyone else in the country, I turned on the television to watch the finals of "American Idol." Yes, the young girl who won is lovely, lovely voice, pretty face. Right, right. But the part that got my attention was when the grating host--no man should bleach his hair--announced that 76 million people voted for this finale. 76 million, which is more than President Bush received in the 2004 election. And certainly more than what John Kerry received in that same election. So, if "American Idol" were based on candidates ability to discuss foreign policy initiatives, discuss economic policies and solutions, and other issues that plague our country, we could have a beautiful, 17 year old as Madame President. Or rather, Mademoiselle President. I just found those numbers staggering, really. Who are all these people who actually phone in to vote on a talent show--we know we've hit a new low in cultural legitimacy if we are borrowing shows from the UK and Europe--that is barely a step above the gong show. The one thing this show has done is to display the vastness of our country, in terms of geography, but also tastes and the range of talented people hidden in those small towns where no one ever seems to leave, and if they do, usually for the wrong reasons.

My friend, who came over and helped, also sat with me as we drank a cup of coffee in the middle of the day, which I view as so decadent, in light of my insomnia. We also shared a piece of the coffee cake I had just baked. There was something a bit 1950's housewife-like about us sitting at my kitchen table, drinking coffee out of mugs, and daintily biting into my coffee cake. But for me, it was hugely reassuring to have her there, to share in the details of her life, such a far cry from the disarray evident in every room of my house. After loading up her car with things I no longer needed--again, such a good friend--I didn't watch her drive off, but rushed back into the chaos that is my house. This extended 'adieu' is worse for me than anyone can realize.

Vice President Al Gore Meets Spinal Tap

Last night I attended an evening sponsored by Writers Bloc, a nonprofit organization that brings writers to LA for talks and readings. Yes, the cultural emphasis in LA is on the movies--just go to the Arclight on any given Saturday night to see what I'm talking about. This group, which I found after coming back to LA after grad school, has brought some interesting writers over the years. And last night was Al Gore being interviewed by Harry Shearer at the Wilshire Theater about his new book "The Assault on Reason," on the market yesterday. I'm not particularly wowed by politicians for so many reasons. But I went because it was something 'intellectually' stimulating offered in this vast city. Look, I spent the other night watching the last episode of "The Bachelor," so I'm not all high and mighty about culture. And let me say, that last episode was compelling stuff--how, and why do these women go on this show is something that never ceases to fascinate me.

So, this event attended by many 'liberals' and 'environmentalists,' all driving to the evening in their Range Rovers, Mercedes, Volvos, and Toyota Prius, held the potential for an invigorating evening. The theater, which is quite large, was packed. I mean, it wasn't standing room, but to an oversight on my part, my friend and I sat up in the nosebleed section.

I wish I could say that the evening was scintillating, revealing, inspiring, something close to a revival meeting. All I can comment are the following: Harry Shearer was annoying in his need to be funny; Al Gore's professorial commentary was as exciting as watching one's toenail polish dry; the woman who had brought her crying 18 month old was diverting, if not truly maddening; and the Fait Accompli was in watching all those people, desperate to get their newly purchased copy of "The Assault on Reason" signed by Al Gore, rushing from the auditorium before the talk ended. Let me say, the evening was lacking.

People departing before the end of performances was something I'd grown accustomed from my evenings spent at the Disney Hall when half the auditorium would empty by intermission. I thought this a particularity of concert going, but now realize that it might be symptomatic of the general impatience of our culture. Think about it, we all skip from channel to channel, searching for something that would compel us to sit still. We skip radio channels with the same frenzy, or worse, now we just avoid having to subject ourselves to anything that we don't pick by getting Sirius radio or listening to our Ipods. We barely sit through an evening meal that extends beyond an hour and a half--all of us rushing from the table to get home to our Tivos and remote controls. And then there is the issue of driving to such an event where you can foresee traffic snarls that would test the patience of Mother Theresa. So, people rush, depart, leave before the end of anything they have spent the time and energy planning, attending--requiring driving, by insuring that they get home with their humors in tact.

Today is the day that I will finish the book cataloging. Yes, I'm newly energized to get that task finished. And to confront the boxes of pictures and empty albums. You can see where this is going next, right? Right, endless hours of me sitting, sifting through photos, stuffing in some chronological order in books that I had purchased years ago, but never seemed to get around to filling.

This move, more than anything, has been fascinating as each task offers me the opportunity, some of which is alarming, to traverse my mind at work--or not. Each pile, intended for something or somewhere I'd determined, is, again, another revelation about my mental well-being. Perhaps, well-being is a bit too hopeful. But at the very least, my mental state. And the baking, well, that offers hours of diversion since the ordered steps of baking requires my mind to focus in a way that is impossible whenever I walk into a room to confront the enormity of sorting, chucking, and organizing.

I just read this morning's paper and learned that a Korean restaurant I frequent was the scene of a double homicide. And that one of the men killed was found behind the counter. I can only assume it is the man that always seats me at my table when I enter around lunch time alone and with a book in hand. Here is another secret revealed: I love eating alone. I find it incredibly relaxing. It helps to recharge me in ways that eating with people does not. I usually go to some restaurant with my newest New Yorker or book. I eat, read, and savor this time alone. There's something about being anonymous, unnoticed by other diners, which is a reprieve from my life. And it is something I've done for years.

Well, the oven will be turned on for hours today since I've found another recipe that is luring me into the kitchen away from the endless tasks that I should be attending to.

Dismantling a house, a life...

Our house now bears the look of lives in transition. Pictures are coming down from walls stacked on the floor, furniture being moved into rooms as others get emptied to allow for us to sort our belongings. Everywhere I turn there seems to be another pile of things. I thought a great deal about how all of us spend so much energy and time putting a home together, how important all of this is to the perception that your life is ordered and manageable. But perhaps that was paramount for me to feel settled here since my life in LA has felt much like an exile's in a foreign land, the yearning for the return home the one constant refrain. And like I had said earlier, there is something terribly liberating in shedding all that I had held on to for sentimental reasons. Really, is there any reason why a 40 year old should still be carting around papers written for her AP English class in high school? I am editing my life with a newly discovered ruthlessness, something that will, hopefully, keep our lives in New York from resembling the craziness of "Sanford and Son."

Over the weekend, I took and sold half my cookbook collection. Oh, I did mention my 'thing' for books, right? It also extended to tomes of the culinary variety. And since our house's pantry begged to be filled with a large collection, collect is what I did for the past five years. Now, in all fairness, most of these books were given to me as gifts for birthdays. While at this secondhand bookshop that specializes in cookbooks--it was the epitome of a used bookshop with narrow aisles blanketed on each side by floor to ceiling books--I couldn't pass up two Junior League cookbooks from the South. These books offer a narrative of lives lived in places that sound exceedingly exotic to me. And most of the recipes for their baked goods are always yummy and homey in that old fashioned way we, or rather, I'm always searching. This might have something to do with the fact that my mother didn't own a measuring cup and never baked, so that each and every one of my birthday cakes came from Peter Pan bakery. Of course when my husband saw me entering the house with a wee small bag, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to point out that the purpose of this exercise was to unload not reload. Ha, ha.

I have now baked two or more items each day. I find it incredibly relaxing and reassuring to hear the whir of my stand mixer. I'm scouring old cookbooks for recipes I've never tried. When I'm overwhelmed by the cupboard jam packed with stacks of pictures--let me say I'm not as obsessed with cameras as is the stereotype for "my people"--I just walk into the kitchen and turn the oven on. I don't turn it on to stick my head in to pull a Plath, but rather to bake something that will fill the house with tantalizing aromas. Now, the funny thing about my obsessive baking is that I don't really care for sweets. I'm more of a salt person. But there you have it.

It's a funny thing when each meeting turns into a potential 'good-bye'. I've decided to avoid all 'good-byes' by not ever saying it. It's a good ploy since no one, especially me, is left feeling that sense of loss that this lunch, this coffee, is the last one for a long time.

Liberation

All of this purging is starting to feel liberating--just a tad since the other thing it has done is to illustrate the ways my obsessiveness took a turn for something beyond healthy. Yes, if my husband found one more box of Christmas ornaments, I think he would have had me committed. See, I like Christmas! And I like, or rather, collect very fancy, expensive Christmas ornaments that I buy the day after Christmas at Neiman's. Yes, I'm one of those insane people standing outside Neiman's at 7:00 in the morning to make sure I get in the doors first, lest I lose out on that brown faced Santa that cost as much as rent for some that may live in places like Nebraska. So, he has put all of my collections in the middle of the basement, hoping, I'm sure, to cure me of this ridiculous behavior. And yes, I was a bit alarmed to see the piles of boxes. And I will have to downsize since I'm sure our place in New York won't be big enough for two trees. Don't ask. But how do I get rid of these beautiful, delicate items that bring me so much happiness, for a couple of weeks in the month of December?

I have had the foresight to get rid of all the Halloween items to our friends, who would appreciate the scarecrow and witches. I know that people will marvel at the excesses of my time in this Suburbanopolis. And I take full responsibility for all of it, no matter how absurd. And believe me when I say that it is beyond absurd.

So, the one dumpster that got filled has been replaced by another, waiting to be filled. And fill it, we will this week as I make my way out of my office into the kitchen. Such are the joys of my days at the moment.

I have allowed myself time to meet with a friend or two. And today was no exception as I allowed myself the mental, physical break of getting out of the house and away from piles of crap. And it was after the pleasant hour that the reality of not having those times with some of my dearest settled into my chest. And with it, an ache.

And no, I have not finished cataloguing my books. But it is on my agenda for tomorrow, if I can get tear away from the paper shredder.

One dumpster full, another to go

We have managed to fill one dumpster with another to arrive on Monday. This might sound promising, as far as the decluttering goes, but it's actually not since I haven't made it out of my office. We have so many other rooms to go through. In our basement, which I now call the "Land of Waste," I discovered a large box filled to the brim with white plates from Ikea. Filled to the brim with these plates. I couldn't even recall why or how I purchased so many, and for what reason. But there you have it. I've decided to use each plate as a the dish which my baked goods will arrive. The more I bake, the more plates will disappear from below our house.

We did our usual Saturday morning bagel nosh at the "Korea's Noah's Bagels." This week, it was standing room only inside. Again, it was much easier to count the non-Koreans, numbering three and a half today than it was to try and count the Koreans. It seems to be a particular favorite among those Koreans probably doing door to door preaching. I think they're Jehovah's Witnesses, if you ask me. Or maybe they're Mormons, doing their missionary work.

I wonder if life in New York will be full of such busyness. I can, and usually do, spend the better half of a Saturday doing my marketing. I'm hoping and praying that there will be great delivery services for groceries. It is New York where anything and everything can be delivered.

All I can say to that is Hallelujah!

Lists, and More Lists

Well, I have one remaining bookshelf to confront. That's not true. I have one shelf of the bookshelf I cataloged yesterday and one entire bookshelf. This is an impossible task, really. Or it is for me. I am forever opening a book, something I'd read years ago, and reading a page or so. That then makes me want to go to another book by the same author, which is in another room. Or worse, it ends up in my growing pile of books to savor this summer or to send to New York. I realize I should have done such a thing years ago. Why, you may ask given my obsessive nature and, newly discovered, ADD. It's clear I would, should never work in a library since I would end up in the same stack for hours on end as I pore over T.S.Eliot's Four Quartets again. Or, I should have worked in a library, but I would have been fired for being so easily distracted and for disappearing endlessly. But given the gentle nature of librarians, they would sit me down to explain why working in a library was not the best job suited for my easily distracted nature.

My husband did ask me why I was obsessed with the need to make this list. I didn't have an answer that would take away that look of concern mixed with alarm on his face. But it's now apparent to me why I've been obsessed about this list. It's the one thing that I feel in control of. Does that make sense to anyone? Everything in my life feels a bit like the haphazard piles, ever growing, that now take up half the floor of my office. And this time spent poring over my books--my mom has threatened to ship the other part of the collection housed at her house all these years--makes those piles fade away. It is the only time when the frenzy inside my head seems to calm down. And so, that is why this task, which should have taken all of one afternoon, has dragged on for a week. It allows me the space to quiet and to reflect on what is ahead, what I'm leaving behind, and what all of it means, will mean to me and my family.

It's no surprise that books have, again, become my refuge and salvation. They have been the one constant in my life. Nothing reassures me more than a pile of books--yes, there is never just one book, but a pile--on the bedside table. The biography of Michel Foucault, which dissects his life in relation to his work and writings, is a book that I have been reading for 7 years. Yes, 7 years. The book is quite dense, as are his works for those who are familiar, so that consuming more than 10 pages at a time is all I can muster. It is now in that pile to be sent to New York. And I have vowed to finish it this upcoming year.

I will end today's post with Eliot.

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation...

One of my tutors in London, now quite a well-known literary critic, wrote a critical study about this particular poem. When I was studying with him we were reading Shakespeare. We adored one another as student/teacher, both a bit nutty, obsessive, and in love with language. The best story of our time together is how I made him sit in line overnight with me to purchase tickets to see Daniel Day Lewis perform Hamlet. So, there we were, huddled with others, drinking coffee, making jokes about how insane all of this was. The wait was well worth it since our seats were second row orchestra. The night of the performance, David ran into a mate of his from Cambridge, I believe, who was an actor with the RSC. For some reason, David volunteered his ticket next to me for his friend's seat much farther back. He later explained that he could hear the audible gasps, coming from my seat, hence the reason for the seat change since he knew I would embarrass him in my adolescent idolatry of Day Lewis. I only just recently purchased his book dissecting this poem. I think it ironic that this piece resonates with both of us. And yes, his critical book is on my pile bound for New York.

High Brow Claims Charles Mingus

My husband and I subscribe to the Disney Concert Hall. It is our attempt to be cultured, such the high brow aesthetes that we are. Last night was our last to attend a show there. We like to remind each other that we can now go to Lincoln Center to hear the Lincoln Center Jazz. It seemed fitting that our last at the Disney hall was to here Charles Mingus' "Epitaph," an epic composition he worked on his entire life and only played in public once before his death. OK. I have studied music, play music, am an avid music lover/listener, but nothing blows me away as listening to Jazz musicians play. I can here the melody, but how they here the tones above and below the melody to me is art at its most impressive. The Disney Hall, a building that seems to jut out of the earth in all of its swirls and swoops, is a hall where there is no bad seat, really. And since the building opened, we have probably sat in every section, moving from section to section.

In one of the movements of this epic piece (we had to leave at intermission since this Magnus Opus was 19 movements), Charles Mingus and Max Roach had played this part of the piece together where each got to improvise on their respective instruments.

Let me say that I did own the requisite number of famous jazz albums, but I was far from a true aficionado. My husband, during the very early part of our dating days, invited me to a Max Roach concert at the Catalina Room--at the original location on Cahuenga. Being 26, I showed up not having a clue who or what Max Roach did, more concerned that I look cute for this new boyfriend. When I realized that he was a drummer, who would be improvising a great deal, I turned to him and said, "He plays the drums?" Despite my ignorance about jazz music, he still hung in there. I can say that my knowledge about jazz has improved only a tad bit since that first outing. It also felt as if everything had come to its full orbit since we saw our friend last night, the same one who had accompanied us on that date to hear Max Roach. So, there we were the three of us, again going to hear jazz, this time in a symphony hall instead of a small jazz club.

Now when I go to listen--I've heard some great musicians--I listen with the ears of a neophyte. There's always a moment during these shows when the music fades a bit and my mind wanders. I love going to this hall as much for the people watching as for the music. The way this hall is designed and where our seats are, I can watch everyone in the hall. You can learn a great deal about people by watching them in such an unguarded moment.

What I have found so fascinating during our subscriptions to the Disney is how jazz, a form of music that had struggled to achieve legitimacy, has now become high brow. I think about Pierre Bourdieu's, "A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste." These jazz musicians, dressed in tuxedos, are now on this stage, still swinging as if they were playing in a smoke-filled club. And instead of the "hip, artsy" patrons, who would frequent these clubs, usually in not so great areas, the seats were filled mostly with men in suits and women in dresses. Although this is LA, so there were just as many people wearing jeans. It is significant since Charles Mingus, who had studied the cello, never had the opportunity to play with the great symphonies of the country because of his race. And now to have his composition treated with as much respect as a composition by Beethoven says more about the cultural wars that are waged unbeknown to most of us. Who or what decides what "art" form is now legitimate, changing the ways in which we consume the art form?

With the plethora of self-created videos available on the net, will reality television, at some point, achieve middle brow status? So that "American's Next Top Model" will be recast in one of those old movies houses where they used to only show Charlie Chaplin movies? It is something for us to consider. Just think, you could be sitting in a dark theater, munching on popcorn, as you watch Tyra Banks, swiveling her head and telling some emaciated teenager that she doesn't have what it takes to be a Top Model.

Dumpster Heaven

I've spent the first part of the day sitting around being useless as my friend worked on my lap top since that will be the only computer I will use in New York. This friend, now more family, is the older brother that I wish I'd had--yes, he doesn't like to admit that he's older. He never seems to run out of patience with me since I'm always asking him for help with some annoying thing that has me flummoxed. If I were to list all that he's done for me these past seventeen years, well, it would make this blog ridiculously long and tedious. When he left today, we didn't say 'good-bye,' truly an impossible notion for me. How do you leave behind someone who has become part of your foundation, the foundation that provides support unnoticed by the rest of the world? I know there will be no replacing him in my life. How could anyone get so lucky to meet someone as generous and caring as him a second time? I am ecstatic to report that he left our house with a pound cake, one of the two that I baked yesterday. I have two cakes baking today for distribution tomorrow.

My office is now full of piles of stuff, some that will end up in the dumpster due to arrive tomorrow, and others that may get donated. It's becoming clear to me why people move to the suburbs and stay. All that space creates the illusion of need. For instance, I found a large box of envelopes, the kind of box used by companies that actually send out a fair number of correspondences, in the back crevices of the cupboard in my office. Now, why would any normal, non-business person have a need for such a large box of envelopes? If only I could say that was the only large box of a useful item, perhaps not so useful in such a large quantity, that I have discovered in my house. I suppose it's all that Costco living that suburbanites seem to relish. No doubt I fell prey to the lures of that warehouse, full of things that no sane person needs in the ridiculous quantities that we all bring home. Hence, the industrial size bag of flour, the reason for all this frenetic baking.

I'm nearing the end downloading our CD collection. I don't know about any of you, but I'm always creating soundtracks for different periods of my life. Or certain albums become part of the mosaic of my time in a specific place. London is all about 10,000 Maniacs "In My Tribe" album. My summer at Ewha University is all about New Order, Andreas Wollenweider, and Salt and Pepa. My time at Yale University Press is all about Babyface's "Whip Appeal." My sophomore year of high school was UB40's "Labour of Love." My first fall in LA was Seal's first album. It's amazing how certain albums transport you to such specific memories. Or they do for me. My husband would never admit, but I've secretly believed he fell for me because of my music collection, which he found impressive for its expansiveness. Yes, I did have Miles Davis' 'Kind of Blue' among the many others, all of which I still own today.

So, this time of transition, purging, and farewells is all about Prince's cover of Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," which I'm listening to endlessly as I drive down familiar streets, seeing everything through new eyes. It's a wondrous thing to see something you've driven past a zillion times, truly noticing it as if it were the first time. I'm trying to, like everything else I seem to be cataloging in my life, take note, storing the memories of squat buildings, houses with extraordinary gardens, trying to drown in the images of this town. Yesterday as I drove to pick up a friend, I was teary, again Prince's song played over and over again, as I realized that I will not be driving to her house to pick her up for much longer.

When I'm tucked inside on those snowy days when venturing outside is too uninviting, I will, hopefully, remember the burst of Fuschia colored bougainvilleas in our backyard. Or the hummingbirds that seem to love our rose garden. And if the pictures are too dim, I will simply put on the song from this time and remember the insane baking and stress of trying to move our family 3000 miles away.

Mindfulness and Meditation and Parenting, Only in LA

The title for this blog is taken from an information sheet sent home with my preschooler. Under that New Age title was a list of websites and instructions for Beginning Mindfulness Meditation and Mindful Parenting. The paper listed "useful" information with titles like: Everyday Blessings--The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting. The paper was printed on both sides with these gems. My son's preschool, although a Christian school--of a sort that is liberal, light on doctrine--is not one of those Hippy-Dippy Schools, such a special breed in LA. We chose this school precisely because it wasn't uber-liberal. My neighborhood was full of parents, who didn't want to impose boundaries on their children lest their child's self-esteem get damaged. This may sound fine, but it is not fun when your own child is crying about wanting a toy and the other parent has just informed me she doesn't believe her child(ren) have to share. And since sharing is one of those principles stressed in our household...you can imagine how torturous all of this is since you now seem like a special kind of monster in front of your young child.

What also annoyed me about this paper was the implication that none of the parents were doing it quite right, as if anyone does any of this right. And in essence, the school director is imposing her own set of beliefs. And this is especially rich because the director is childless, so she can talk about "mindful parenting," since her day ends at 5:00 and she never has to negotiate with a child, for what seems like absolutely everything in a 24 hour cycle.

Excuse the irritable tone of this entry. I've been busy downloading, or is it uploading, our CD collection to our Ipod since our stereo with most of our music collection will be in storage. I've also baked three cakes and have cataloged 3/4's of my books. As I had forewarned earlier, this cataloging is taking forever since I'm rediscovering books I need to read again, so now I have a nice, healthy pile of books which will get shipped to our apartment in New York. And since I won't be purchasing any new books during this year despite the proximity of the Strand bookstore...

And in truth, the enormity of what is ahead takes hold of me at unexpected moments. Sometimes I feel giddy about the possibilities of what could be. And at other moments, I am bereaved by this door, physical and metaphorical, closing. It seems somehow predestined that we turned 40, and are now about to start life anew in New York. I realized that most transplants who come to LA are either running to whatever it is they think this city will fulfill while others are running from whatever it is that they are running from. For me, I wasn't running here for something, but running from, and in truth, running from a broken heart. So, this bereavement is as much about missing friends as it is about that time in one's life when anything and everything is possible, when you are quite innocent, when you can dream big, gigantic dreams since life hasn't, gently or not so gently, kicked you in the ass. And so now as I start my middle years and all that means, I'm heading to another unknown. This time, the dreams are less grand, but rather, my hopefulness is about life filling out in the ways that makes the every day bearable: to be surrounded by friends, to have a career that is fulfilling, to have a marriage that is honest and loving, to have a home that serves as refuge for those days when the world is too imposing, to have one's health, and to always be able to laugh at oneself and the ridiculousness of it all. Now that I'm rereading what I've just read, I realize what a tall order those wishes actually seem since those simple desires are sometimes the most elusive and difficult to achieve.

Forgive the sentimental tone. The only excuse I can offer is that I've listened to Prince's cover of Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You," over and over and over again. Yes, despite the mid-life stage, I am still adolescent about such things. I'm hoping that will keep me in good stead, so when our son wheels me into the retirement home, his advice to the staff could be, "She loves 80's music. Just play it over and over again."

Friends Helping Friends

When you are in crisis mode, which is the way I feel at the moment, help is offered by surprising sources. This weekend, help was offered by a "Mommy" friend. I hate to qualify her as only a "Mommy" friend, but I guess there is no other way to categorize her since I met her through our sons. She called me during the week to say she could imagine how crazed I am, so could she take our son off our hands for a few hours on Saturday? Yes, can you imagine how blown away I was by the thoughtfulness of her call? This coming from a woman who works full time, takes care of a husband, and two kids. She is from Ohio, so perhaps that explains. This call was in such contrast to some of my phone conversations with friends, who have said nary a word about how I was doing trying to sort out our lives or offered much help, but who have prattled on for half an hour about why so and so is such a nincompoop. Or worse, prattled on about themselves, so that by the end of the conversation I'm exhausted.

I'm not being fair, really. My friends, those who have been through it all with me, do offer help in ways they can't even imagine. One friend's advice for us to move to Manhattan rather than Brooklyn was hugely important. Her input, gentle prodding, and suggestions was all I heard as we raced around Brooklyn and Manhattan, desperately searching for a place to call home for the next year. An old friend, who really qualifies as family at this point, is coming over to help me figure out my computer. Another friend, a more recent friend, has offered to come over to help me log in my books. That immediately puts her on the list of "new" friend to "permanent" lifetime friend. My neighbor and friend purchased our fake 10 foot Christmas tree, which to me is the most generous thing anyone could do. Why, you are wondering does one need a ten foot Christmas tree, right? Well, when you live in Suburban hell, which is what LA feels like, you can spend endless hours turning your home into a spread from Better Homes and Garden. Or rather, that's the way I responded to life here.

Since this is a post about friends, I'm struck by how tenuous most of our connections are to those we call "friends." When my life was falling apart not too long ago, I found myself calling two people. I don't know why I didn't feel I could call everyone in my Rolodex, or rather my cell phone address book. But when you are in a moment of crisis, things crystallize in a way that cuts through the fat. My two friends, when called, came over to offer their company. There were no words of judgment, no empty platitudes about how this too shall pass, but instead they sat with me as I cried from a place so deep it felt as if my torso was being cut in half. I knew that my pain, all of the messiness of my life, was not going to be recounted, so that your personal pain is nothing more than dinner conversation. These tenuous bonds we spend so much of our energy and time nurturing are, ultimately, as fragile as a spider's web. And so, I continue on, purging all that have defined my life up to this point, physically, mentally, and emotionally. And no, I haven't finished using all of the flour or finished categorizing all of my books.

Bagels, Lox, and Kimchee: Bagels LA Style

On the weekends we drive to Noah's Bagels on Larchmont. The dearth of good bagels in this city could be an entire blog, but the nonexistent bagel shops in our neighborhood forces us to venture to Larchmont, a good fifteen minute drive (in the wee hours of Saturday morning) or a half hour drive (during the hours of 9-7 during the work week). We've been doing this for some time and we've noticed some peculiarities about this particular Noah's. This area, this street, is where money, class, and race collides in a way that is particular to Los Angeles.

Larchmont is adjacent to Hancock Park, an "old" neighborhood of stately homes. The reason for the quotation marks around the word "old" is to point out how relatively new this city is compared to the older Eastern cities. So, these "old" homes built in the 1920's is where the posh Angelenos lived, and continue to live. To the East, really East of Larchmont lies another area of the city, which could have been transplanted from a neighborhood in Seoul, South Korea. For a long time, Koreans stayed in their undeclared boundaries of Western to Vermont. But I've noticed in the last five years that more and more Koreans are leaving the safe haven of Koreatown and venturing Westward, much to the distress of residents of Hancock Park, although none would say as much to me. We, my family, secretly refer to Hancock Park as Hankook Park. The first Korean owned business to spring up on Larchmont, which is a street shorter than a New York City block, was Kiku Sushi. For most Larchmont devotees, they wouldn't have known it was Korean owned, but for me it was obvious.

As a Korean-American, I straddle an interesting fence between Koreans and the rest, but that's another blog altogether. So, this weekend, my husband, our son, and I went to Noah's. Inside, the tables were filled with people drinking coffee and noshing on their bagels. Nothing about this sight was all that extraordinary except 98 percent of the patronage were Koreans. As my husband said, it was easier to count the non-Koreans, numbering at five and a half-- himself and our son included,-- than it was to count the Koreans. Since when did Koreans eat so many bagels?

And this being LA, the Korean patrons behaved as if they were in a bagel shop in Seoul--I'm pretty certain none exist, but for those business savvy souls, open one up and quick--oblivious to the fact that they were, in fact, in Los Angeles. Our family, Korean,--although none would guess outrightly that I am one of their own--Black, and their blended child drew stares. And being Koreans, they stared directly, nothing discreet in their glances. I can usually keep my Korean status quiet if my son didn't always blurt out, "Mom, there are a lot of Koreans here!" See, he understands Korean, not like he knows what they're saying, but he understands that they are speaking Korean. So, there we were, eating Jewish bagels (although my Jewish friends would disagree that Noah's bagels qualifies as a bagel), served by the Latino counter person, seated amongst my "people," all huddled together talking in Korean with their Korean bibles next to them.

Books, Books, and More Books

I've finished throwing out all those pretty cards, enough to have felled a few dozen trees, I'm sure. They are now stuffed, quite unceremoniously, into large shopping bags, which I seem to have in abundance since I collect those as well, and have realized that all of my books will go into storage for this first year in New York. YIKES! Not 'yikes' like I can't live without them, which is partly true, but more 'yikes' like what if I repurchase the same books that I have because I don't know what I have? So, I've come up with the ingenious idea of cataloging all my books, alphabetically by author, and broken up into categories: fiction (by periods), nonfiction, poetry (by periods) and all of my critical theory books. Great idea, right? But you can see how this will quickly turn into something very ugly as I obsess about whether to categorize Raymond Carver as Modern or Postmodern.

I will digress from my purging since I've realized that I need to write about Los Angeles, and less about how much crap I have to sort through before I can leave LA. Last night I attended an interesting cocktail party for women in business--yes, I'm not in business, per se--in downtown LA. Yes, people do go downtown, or at least I do. I'm always amazed I get invited to these types of events since my career is so fractured unlike most of my friends who seem to have such structured days.

I drove the three or so miles to the restaurant, avoiding all freeways, of course, and was quickly stuck in traffic, which snaked down Sunset Boulevard. It's when my car is running, but not moving, when walking would have been quicker, if walking were an acceptable mode of transportation instead of some strange socio-economic statement, that I start my "oh I hate this city," mutterings. Needless to say, there were many expletive filled moments in the car, especially after my navigation device kept insisting on putting me on a freeway, and therefore I got lost since I had to ignore the strange automated voice telling me to turn left when turning left would mean my hands clutching the steering wheel in terror as cars whizzed past me on those five-lane monstrosities called a--FREEWAY. By the time I arrived, I was frazzled and badly in need of a drink.

As I was leaving, waiting for the valet, I gazed up at the two structures reaching skyward. One building was emblazoned with the name of a well-known law firm, the other nameless. I turned around and saw the freeways behind, cars still doing that jerky--race ahead and then stop movement, which is the normal driving pattern on an LA freeway. The heat from earlier in the day had dissipated, the evening turning cool, just the perfect weather for this desert landscape. At that moment, I experienced a sense of loss for all that I was leaving behind. Despite all of my kvetching, this strange landscape has been the place where I became an adult, or so I like to think although most might not agree. And it is here, in this horizontal landscape that meets the Pacific that I met my husband. And since I've vowed to not write about him, but in the most oblique references, I will just say that all those years here were worth it since this is where my heart healed and became fuller than I could have ever imagined.

Papers, papers, and more papers

I am in a wistful mood after having sorted through letters from friends from my high school; letters from my friends I met when I was an exchange student; letters from college friends; letters from old boyfriends; countless birthday cards--one can amass quite an impressive pile at my age; postcards sent by friends from places as far flung as Australia; invitations to weddings, baby showers for mothers whose children are now well into their elementary years; and the thank you notes for dinners at our home, or some sundry gift given on someone's special occasion. I have, since high school, collected, quite compulsively I might add, any written correspondence. Yes, since high school. I might add compulsive to my list of quirky--euphemistic words are needed here--qualities. The worst, but funny part of this strange habit is that I have carted around boxes of these correspondences from Philadelphia to Washington D.C. to New Haven, to Los Angeles, and the countless apartments and houses I have lived since moving west. You can also add peripatetic--the definition that doesn't relate to Aristotle, but to the definition for one who walks constantly--to my list of quirks. And were we not moving to New York, those boxes, unopened for so long, would remain closed, but shipped to the new address. Yes, strange, isn't it? I'm certain that no one I know holds on to these correspondences the way I have over the years. So, for my friends, if you've sent me a card, letter, thank you note, believe me when I say I've held on to it and have now reread them during this period of purging.

After sorting through it all, I am feeling nostalgic about friendships that have endured and those that have not. Each card and letter brought back many of the same emotions I had for that individual during that particular period of my life. It was quite remarkable to be transplanted back to my flat in Camden Town, London, sitting around with my flat mates drinking our way through a bottle of cheap, bad wine, talking about books, films, music, so passionately, the way one does when they're at university. The sad reality for me is that so many of my friends from university are overseas, living in Europe. But what I'm really nostalgic about is the fact that receiving a card these days is out of the norm since all of us use Email as a way to stay in touch. Unlike my compulsion to hold on to written correspondences, I am equally as compulsive about purging electronic correspondences. I'm always afraid that my computer will crash because of information overload. And since all of my work is on the hard drive, I am obsessive--there's that word again-- about deleting emails. Quite a contrast to those boxes, if you think about it.

So, this wistfulness is for the changes in communicating with other people. I can attest that the flow of letters from my friends overseas dwindled around 1992 when everyone seemed to be signed on to an AOL account. The piles I've accumulated over these last thirteen years are for special occasions that call for cards: birthdays, announcements, thank you notes, and a few postcards. Even those whimsical cards with images of exotic locales have been replaced by an email with a picture of someone standing next to the Arc de Triomphe.

As I finally get rid of all those correspondences--I have kept a few, particularly letters--I'm feeling nostalgic about all the relationships that will fade away once I leave Los Angeles. It is just the nature of life, isn't it? I suppose I will stay in touch with a few, but many will become just a part of the landscape of memories I've collected during my time here. And now that I have thrown out all of those cards, I won't even have those reminders. There it is again, that wistfulness. But trust me, I'm not complaining.

DeClutter: Oh Vey!

The first part of my dream is now a reality. I'm trading in a 3000 square foot home (with an additional 1000 square feet of storage space in our basement) for a two bedroom, two bath apartment in Gramercy. Dream?, some of you say, but yes, my dream. No, no, I can't complain about any of this, although the most casual tour of our jam packed house throws me into another panic attack, since I've dreamed, wanted, prayed, yelled, demanded, cajoled, begged on bended knees, sobbed, pleaded, prayed, screamed at God, my husband, and anyone else who would listen to make this fantasy, dream of mine, become a reality. So, how can I start off this new adventure kvetching about decluttering our lives? Right? Right.

But let me say, this task of paring down is like some strange archaeological dig into my obsessions, diversions, and plain craziness. Who, other than a professional baker, needs an industrial size bag of flour? Well, it seems I needed it since it is in our basement. Yes, I bake to relieve stress, although my obsessiveness turns what is supposed to be an enjoyable event into an EVENT. Hence, the very large, very heavy, bag of flour. That bag is just one sad testament to the diversions I've created for myself here to "keep sane," as I would say in my defense to my husband. So, before the movers even arrive, I will be decluttering my life. And in the process, I will be dissecting my time spent in Los Angeles, a city that has been the source of so much of my antipathy, most unfairly, I'm sure.

While I'm sorting through all this crap, I will be baking because that's what a sane person does when they have to move their entire life 3000 miles away. I will be trying to make my way through that bag of flour. Despite all of my ceaseless, annoying complaints about life here, I've been able to amass a wide circle of people who call themselves my friends. Or so they say to me. And at a loss as to how I should say 'good-bye,' I've been struck by such a creative idea: bake each person a goody. I did mention a certain, certifiable lunacy on my part coupled with my obsessiveness, right? Yes, so as I go on endless lunches, dinners, cocktail parties, so many events to say our farewells, I will come armed with a pound cake, or a dozen cookies, or some coconut cupcakes, or a pie, or a Tiramisu, or maybe even an angel food cake. You see the logic here, right? Bake my way through that bag that is used by bakeries, so I don't waste the $8.00 I spent to purchase it. Only if this unusual heat wave would abate, so that my house thermostat doesn't climb into the triple digits after having the Industrial oven on all day. And the fires raging behind our house doesn't threaten the fire department and police department to come to our door to tell me that I have to evacuate. You can picture me, flour all over the kitchen, the Ipod cranked to 10, telling them, "no, I can't leave since I have a cake in the oven."