Missing Friends

My day was interrupted yesterday by a call. It was one of those calls that are so welcome, a call from a dear friend in LA. It seemed she was headed to New York, surprise, surprise, and hadn't called earlier until she had ticket in hand, her arse nearly in the seat. She is the kind of friend where distance is of little consequence. It is a relationship that seems, to the rest of the world, inexplicable, yet it is a relationship of the best kind--the one of the heart. It is the kind of friendship where you feel safe enough to show your bruises, those wounds that are shielded, held tight against the rest of the world. She is also the kind of friend that makes you laugh at yourself, herself, the world, and sometimes just laugh for no real reason. Even though we don't speak much, our daily contact broken, our relationship is still intact, the affection and fondness never dimming despite the distance. She is also the kind of friend always on the ready to share a bottle of wine or two, or in our case, three or four.

It was after a call from our other friend, we were a trio, that I felt a momentary, heart-stopping sense of loss. I'm happy here, yes, and the work of constructing my life and my work is all consuming. And perhaps that is why it's been easy to keep my head down, bury myself in words, my son, my husband, and push aside the sadness of so many I miss, especially my girlfriends.

She called from the car as it lumbered its way through Queens, headed toward the city. With little prompting, I got up and raced to meet her at her hotel. As we sat in a French Bistro, another bottle ordered, the miles, physical and metaphorical, disappeared. We were again exchanging confidences, our hearts reconnecting in a way that only women can do with one another. See, men may be for some of us the framing of a house, but your girlfriends, well, they are the trimming that makes a house a home. Without them, it would be just plaster, structure, and an empty shell, no matter how strongly constructed.

This morning my head was a little fuzzy, my heart just a bit heavier, missing my girlfriends.

Farewell 2007

The time has come, the end is fast approaching when we can count 2007 as the present. This day is a strange mix of melancholy, wistfulness, and a sense of anticipation. It is a holiday that I have never really understood. Perhaps, my views are colored by the fact that once the clock strikes at midnight, it also becomes the day I become a year older--A New Year's Baby. I've always lamented my birthday coinciding with such an occasion, synonymous with champagne and a crystal ball dropping. The years I've received combined birthday and Christmas gifts is enough to make one wish for a birthday that coincides with the day of the Black Plague's devastation around the world. I know I will surely receive calls from friends, it is a very easy birthday to remember, their voices hoarse from the previous night's festivities. Aside from the birthday issue, this holiday is one that makes me feel wistful more than anything else. Even the song we're supposed to cap off the occasion singing is a bit maudlin, if you really listen to the lyrics. It is one of those songs that makes me feel teary, no matter, where, or how badly it's being sung.

This year, no different than any other, is again a bit wistful. However, this emotion is not nearly as strong or overpowering as in year's past when this event was marked three hours behind the rest of my family's, and I would awaken to a sun-filled day where floats of flowers and other edible items would parade down Colorado Boulevard. But like years past, it is a time to reflect, to mourn the people or places now far away, and a time to reassess for the upcoming year. This need for everyone to take a moment and to think long and hard, unless you're out at Times Square with all the people who probably frequent cruise ships, is something that should occur daily, but for some cultural reason is only encouraged once a year.

This year we will, including my gourmand son, be heading to Bolo for an early dinner. This request, unfortunately, came from our five year old and not one of the adults. I try not to imagine how much more obnoxiously precocious he will be in a few years time after living here as a New York City kid. I dare not try to picture him wearing Ascots to events, but one never knows when you have an only child. My son has requested we cap off the evening with a rousing Family Dance Night. Yes, we are a strange lot, but hopefully all this exposure to good music will prevent him from listening to any artist coming off of the Disney Channel.

New Year's Resolutions will abound as each news report and the food channel will devote whole segments or shows to healthy eating and losing weight--the new cultural obsession for all Americans. We will not think about the significance of a woman killed halfway around the world where the new year will surely bring about more calamity, the rumble of it just barely audible in the din at Times Square. The passing of such literary giants as Norman Mailer will be reflected upon the pages of Time Magazine as they list those who have left our world during the year of 2007.

I try and not think too hard about all that awaits, personally and professionally, in the upcoming year. I have a massive load of pages to revise, a child to get into a New York City private school, and a permanent home to find. As one ages, our grandeur for our lives take on a more realistic shape, one becoming more philosophical about change, some of it unwelcome. There is just the tiniest hint of apprehension with the anticipation. One hopes family, particularly your aging parents, are healthy, that friends will remain married, their children unmarred by fate that can make God and life seem unbelievably cruel, that your own marriage will continue to grow and change as your bodies do the same, and that it will all end on December 31st much as it had in years past--wistful, melancholy, and anticipatory. Amen for just such a year, indeed.

LA -- So Far Away

It's now nearly a month since we departed LA for good, just three days shy of that one month mark. The time has passed swiftly, despite spending our days idling away on the beach. The water is now warmer. The days longer as the sun sets well past 8:00 PM. I've spoken to two friends from LA since leaving. All of the emotions associated with life in LA is packed away, almost neatly. I haven't yet reached the state of nostalgia or sentimentality, but each day brings new emotional distance, a distance I had craved and now have. The pull of glancing backwards is almost gone. I know our New York apartment is getting organized as my husband opens and unpacks boxes after work. He now views his life entirely as a New Yorker, LA now just a part of his past. I, for obvious reasons, can't say the tether to my previous life is that easily severed. I am still between places, between lives.

I am cherishing my time here on the Vineyard. It is the perfect antidote for the frenzy and emotional turbulence of the past few months. This island, our family oasis, is what any doctor would have prescribed. But it is still strange to be so in between lives. It is as if my life is a perfect triangle, LA, the Vineyard, and New York. And I've only made it from one point to the second with a wait before completing the triangle. Yet each year on this island brings another level of ties to this place as more faces from the beach now bear names, sometimes even phone numbers getting exchanged, promises for drinks made. One of those familiar faces now with a name searched for my son on the beach. She found me and asked us to come sing 'happy birthday' for her daughter's 6th birthday. Each of us was given a perfectly made cupcake with pink frosting and a maraschino cherry on top. It is these moments of connection that weds our family to this island, our family now becoming part of this legacy of those who summer here.

All of our mail, forwarded from LA to New York, now arrives bearing yellow stickers with our new address. I've received a stack of New Yorkers waiting to be read. Each of this is a daily reminder that our lives are unfolding in this new place, in this new era, so to speak.

Good-bye LA, FINALLY!!!

This is our last day here. I got in last night very late, so I was exhausted, to say the least. We drove around the early part of the day, and had lunch at our son's favorite Korean restaurant. It all felt uneventful, another sunny day maneuvering through the traffic. We have left our temporary housing by the Grove, and are now at a hotel by the airport since we have an early flight out of the city for Boston, and then to Martha's Vineyard. It is funny how detached I am from the reality that until last week I lived here. Today, my nanny served as chauffeur since I was carless, my car on its way to Martha's Vineyard. My husband handed over his car to its new owner, who will hopefully enjoy the low gas mileage of that hybrid. We ate at our neighborhood Trattoria, one last time. We drove past our old house, saying our final farewell to our little Rose Cottage. I think I have spent all the emotional wattage during this month since all I felt was relief. I am looking forward to unpacking our many suitcases, unpacking boxes in our New York apartment, setting up our new life.

I'm certain this chapter of my life will feel meaningful, at some later date. I'm sure I will make references to LA, almost nostalgically, sentimentality wrapped up in each wistful remembrance. I know my next novel will be set in LA. With the distance, I will be able to write about his strange, dystopic city, so I can make sense of the myriad of emotions it has brought forth for me during my many years here.

My son, who is sad, but is being stoic about the rapid changes his life has undergone, is still the happy kid that he has always been. He said good-bye to his Tia without much fanfare. It was when his Tia and I hugged that each of us broke down and sobbed. I know I will miss her presence, her constant presence in my every day life. I know I am ready to forge ahead, but losing her is still immense.

From our window, we can see airplanes lifting off and touching down. It seems fitting my last memory of LA is with airplanes in its evening sky.

2nd to the Last Day of Driving--Thank the Lord

Today marks the second the last day that I have to drive in Los Angeles. You have no idea how excited I am about this prospect. But if you've been reading my blogs, well, you know exactly how ecstatic this makes me. Today was also my son's preschool graduation--I know, such a ridiculous idea for someone so young. The director asked each child, "what they were to be when they were grown up," in her Croatian inflected English. There were a number of police officers, a few fire fighters, one or two princesses, two ballerinas, one doctor, one scientist, one military, one singer, and our son, who proclaimed to want to be a Master. All of it, the performances, which is nothing more than a bunch of children colliding into one another while the parent population coos, was a bit too much. I know I sound cranky, but I'm starting to feel like the guest who overstayed their welcome by one day too many. I know it's time for me to leave when the sight of three year olds dressed as surfers is irritating.

I feel like the endless 'farewell tour' is also starting to wear on me. How many times can you say 'goodbye' without is sounding hollow and meaningless? It's not fair to those who've spent time planning these evenings, but the weariness has settled into my body. It is all I can do to not want to just stay in bed for the next 18 hours until I get on the plane for Aspen. I know, such an immature way to deal with the stress of saying farewell.

I did find myself driving a bit aimlessly today. Hard to imagine, but there you have it. I shan't miss any of it, not the driving certainly. Or the turning right on red--a right as much as breathing for Angelenos. Or the drivers who believe themselves to be on the Autobahn, whizzing past me at ridiculous speeds on residential streets. Or those who seem to be chatting while driving. No, I feel like I age 10 years each time I get behind the wheel to go anywhere, and since you have to drive to get anywhere, you can imagine how old I must feel after so many miles driven here.

So, tomorrow, my last day of driving will be celebrated with me releasing a big sigh. I have often felt as if I were holding my breath whenever I was behind the wheel of any vehicle. And so now, I can sigh since I am bidding a hearty, thank the Lord, adieu to that necessity.

The Art of Friendship--Learned Behavior

The art of friendship is learned through your friend or friends--this I've learned these last few years. This behavior of conduct is not something natural, but learned through many years of being in friendships. From the earliest stages, you know that there is as much chemistry, kismet, attraction, and affection that draws two people to forge this bond that can be more intense, more intimate, and more honest than marriages, and certainly relationships with your siblings. Let's face it, some are better than others at the art of friendship. And then there are the masters, those who truly raise the bar when it comes to the commitment, empathy, love, and patience required in nurturing a long term friendship. I hope for everyone they are lucky enough to meet such a master once in their life because it will forever alter how you behave in friendships.

It has been my luck to have met my master, some seven years ago. Perhaps it was the timing of when we met--I was less adolescent, more ready for a relationship that was so equal in the giving and taking--or it was just one of those fated intersections. Whatever the reason, my master has continually shown me what it means to be a friend, and more importantly, how to be a friend. All of us behave in any relationship with some self service. Let's face it, we're all a bit selfish and narcissistic, some more than others. To truly give to another without strings attached is unique, if not an impossibility given our natures. Some of us like being needed--crisis mongers, they're so called--and swoop in when someone is in crisis, fueling their need to be in control. Some of us like to hear about other people's woes, not because we really care, but because it sometimes makes us feel better to know someone else's life is more f**ked than your own. Some like being given anything--attention, gifts, your time, your ear--with no ability to reciprocate in return. Some like being given a ready-made therapist. Some just need social outlets because they are incapable of being alone. Whatever the causes, most of us are guilty of some, if not each of these limitations, depending on the relationship. And each relationship serves the different selfish needs within us.

Then there are those, who arrive to help, not because they need to feel better about their lives, but who know no other way to be. They arrive for both celebrations and those tragedies that befall all of us: death, divorce, health crisis, depression. My master was just one of those individuals. Not only in our relationship was she so present, but I watched her behave in the same manner with each of her friends. Her ability to give of herself seemed boundless. She was the type of friend, who would cancel a lunch with me because another friend had suffered the loss of her aged mother. She knew no other way than to go sit with her friend suffering such an immense grief, which really is so unappealing compared to an afternoon of gossip and good food. And when she called to tell me, I knew if the situation were reversed--I, the grieving friend, the other the lunch date--she would do exactly the same thing. I sometimes marveled at her accessibility for each of us, and let me say, all of us knew what a treasure she is, so there is quite a coterie of us, vying for her attention. No one got any more or less attention, care, affection than the next. That's not to say, she suffered from some pathology where she didn't distinguish, but rather her ability to give was as immense as the lusciousness of Versailles. Because of this first hand experience with my master, I've become a different kind of friend--the kind that is more present, giving, selfless, and patient, or rather, my efforts to be all of these things have reached a new level of consciousness in me.

Today was our last lunch together. Up till now, I have shed very few tears about leaving. If I cried each time I had a last dinner, coffee, or lunch with someone, well, I would have been a mess for an entire month. The tears came today. The thought of not seeing her, even if a couple times a month for our lunches, is a loss I will grieve for a long time. I know we will see one another again since we both love to travel. Yet the immediacy of being a mere twenty minutes apart is now gone forever. We will have to cram in a weekend, or a week long rendez vous, all that defines our friendship. We will now be friends, who live 3000 miles apart. Yet I know, if I called with a crisis, she is the one person who would make time for me, whether by sitting on the phone or arranging a visit. See, she's the master, and she simply knows no other way to be. I wish for each of you, just such a friend once in your lifetime.

Sun-filled Days

Whenever I tell people I'm moving to New York, they say something about the weather--that it is too cold, too snowy, too unlike LA. As someone who grew up with weather, the idea of going where we have weather and not climate is not something I spend any time worrying about. But I do think it is so fascinating how many people talk about "THE WEATHER," in capital letters. I have to admit when I first moved here the idea of sunbathing in November to be a novelty. I spent my first Thanksgiving at Newport Beach where I sat around all weekend in a bikini, barely covering up for Thanksgiving dinner. That sun-filled weekend was a far cry from the previous year in Maine where it snowed the entire weekend.

Despite the supposed mood-lifting properties of sunlight, I quickly tired of the blandness of so many sunny days pouring into the next. By October, I am starved for a bit of gloom. I also think this perpetual sunshine is what keeps the city, and its inhabitants, suffering from a delayed adolescence, or as I say, the Peter Pan Syndrome in perpetuity. It's easy to delude yourself into thinking you are younger than you actually are when you don't have the usual seasonal markers, alerting you to the fleeting quality of time. This Peter Pan Epidemic manifests in men dressing much younger than they should. And women trying too hard to dress like their teenage daughters. Shouldn't we give up the low slung jeans and t-shirts with cute, or worse, offensive sayings after reaching our thirties? Just because our bodies may look decent in pencil jeans doesn't mean we should still be wearing them. And if our wardrobe looks like a page ripped from US Weekly, perhaps we are not in tune with our own maturity, or our chronological age.

I always joked that LA is the one place where you could plan an outdoor party in June, a year from now, and be fairly confident that the day of the party would be sunny. This certainty of weather remaining unchanged does something to a person's psyche, I'm convinced. I think it creates an unhealthy detachment from your surroundings, in some strange way. And it helps to perpetuate life being lived inside a prefab-plastic bubble. There is nothing more life affirming as a good storm, whether it involves snow or rain. Life affirming, you ask? Well, it is since is lets you know how little control you actually have over such things as weather, so therefore life is affirmed in the certainty of the uncertainties. So, you acquiesce that you are one minute part of a much larger world. Life affirming, I say. This perpetual sunshine fills you with a sense of control, which is, so obviously, false. And I think, ultimately, depressing.

I won't go into how depressing it is when it does rain since this city, which is not pretty with sunlight, is downright distressing when it is wet and gray. Somehow the downpours feel punishing, as if we are paying for all those days of blandness. I won't go into how treacherous the roads become when it's rainy--all those idiotic, distracted drivers, who don't know how to drive in precipitation is terrifying enough for anyone to want to to barricade themselves indoors.

When I left LA to go to grad school in Boston, no less, I was a bit worried about weather, especially New England weather. Everyone, including my parents, was worried for me, fearing my blood had thinned during all of my years in Sunny LA. I have to say, yes, I watched the weather reports daily, a bit obsessively since I never knew whether that umbrella would be needed later in the day. But in actuality, I found the weather quite unremarkable. Yes, there were snow storms when I would stay indoors to watch the downy flakes come down, blanketing roof tops, cars, and the street. What I had forgotten from my childhood was how quiet the world becomes when covered in white. Yes, the snow becomes ugly after a day or two, and the icy patches are no fun when you're walking. Yet, I found each of the seasons, in all of their drama, quite glorious. There's nothing quite like putting on that sweater on a crisp fall day. Yes, the winter can be wearying, especially by late February. And I'm sure, I will be singing a different tune after a long, arduous winter when all I'll want is a bit of sunshine, the sunshine I had deemed as bland while here in LA. But again, I feel like the ever-changing days helps you to mark time much more realistically. The seasons are literal and metaphorical, no? Spring is birth, summer youth, winter death, and fall old age. Each time a new season announces itself, we are reminded of life's interior clock, ticking. I think these reminders essential to keeping you aware of life on a larger scale. When those dramatic gestures or reminders are no longer so readily apparent, you have to search much more assiduously for them. And thus, time feeling at a perpetual standstill, adding to a surreal quality to life here.

I also attribute the constant sunniness to why all the holidays seem to arrive with so little fanfare, feeling less celebratory, but more a requirement. Face it, there's nothing more depressing than seeing Santa Claus among Palm Trees. Or it was for me.

I suppose if I felt this landscape of mini malls was paradise then the weather would seem fitting. And I guess that's the conundrum of this city--suburban sprawl with all the urban problems of any other metropolis. Thus, the sun, ever present and shining, feels less like a veil of privilege, but more like Dante's Inferno, particularly in late July and August.

Moving Day a Deux

It is day two of the moving extravaganza. I am now truly a high-tech geek, having purchased a portable wireless card for the lap top. Our entire lives are in boxes marked NY1, NY2, or MVY. We have decamped to one of those horrendously bland, corporate apartments across the street from the Grove for the remainder of our time here. All of our nostalgia about our lovely cottage, really a euphemism for a large box with lots of character, has waned with each box being loaded on to the back of the semi-diesel truck. The worst of our sadness was during the last night we slept in our house amid the piles of our belongings all marked for an intended destination. When the packers arrived the next day--I was nursing a bad hangover from the party I attended the night before--we were just insuring our belongings that we would need the first year was going to arrive timely to our apartment, and not be sitting in some warehouse on Long Island. The house, this place that holds the secrets of any house where lives been lived, where tears have been shed, now looks nondescript; its character, really the character of the inhabitants all removed in one clean sweep. It is now ready for its new owners, to make this place their home, to allow these walls to hold their secrets, fears, dreams, and the sadness of any life.

Neighbors have stopped by to say a last farewell, each one promising to call for drinks, which none of us expect to take place. I drove away from this house without a glance back. I don't know if that's what I'm feeling entirely...I will most likely sneak by and peak at it surreptitiously, allowing myself to be sentimental about it all.

We finished this long day, really the culmination of so much work of all these weeks, at our friends for dinner. I've been thinking about how friendships are, in their own way, an issue of timing really, much like any relationship that is about chemistry, attraction, affection, and intimacy. There are some people that you may have crossed paths with at some earlier point in one's life, yet found them wanting in some way--perhaps not exciting, perhaps too exciting, intellectual, too intellectual, too alcoholic, not alcoholic enough, superficial, not superficial enough. The point is, friendships, like any relationship, is as much about when you meet someone as the individual. I only bring this up because in these last two years, I have have met a few women who are the ideal friends--each sassy, funny, smart, accomplished, and tough--for me. And for me at this point in my life. I think about how ironic this is since I've complained about how so few people, namely women, I've met here are truly friends material. Yes, I have ridiculously high standards, but I'm always seeking the types of friendships that you see on TV shows and in the movies. You know what I'm talking about. It's the foursome, threesome or twosome where they get together for coffee, drinks, or a meal and have an ease about sharing of themselves and their lives. And yes, I've had most of that, but I guess I'm always seeking that posse of girlfriends to see you through husbands, kids, divorces, deaths, and face lifts--if one is so inclined. Of course, just as my life was to take such a dramatic turn...I meet a couple of women, who would be the ideal friends for the long haul. In fact, one friend, really such an ideal mate, is someone I just met a few months before my life was to take such a turn.

Anyway, these friends of ours, had us to dinner, all serving to remind me of the loss of leaving. There is sadness, which seems to linger with each conversation, each meal, yet, I can't help but look forward. Again, I am in that place of looking ahead, yet the tug to turn around overshadows any excitement.

I am no longer a true Angeleno with no address or phone number, other than my cell. Yet, I'm not a true 'visitor' since I still live here, have connections here, my doctors, friends, hairdresser, and all those people who help maintain you or your life all here. But like the packing up of the house, each of these relationships, no matter how tangential or relevant, is coming to an end. When I went to my dry cleaners for the last time, I, of course, brought a home baked pound cake. The Korean owner, one inclined to complain about the weather, asked, "This it?" To which I answered, "Yes, this is it." She went on about how the weather in New York is so bad, her concern written all over her pale face. In that one exchange, so oddly intimate, there was a twinge of sadness for me and for her. I'm certain she and her husband had endless discussions about me--how much stuff I seemed to bring in each week--and my 'black' husband, biracial child, etc. But during these five years, we had built a bond. I'm certain my dry cleaner in NY will be Korean, and we will establish the same strange familial cordiality that I had with this one. I'm sure this new one will find my life as fascinating as this one did--for all the obvious and not so obvious reasons. But again, it was the last time I would pick up my clothes at a place so close to the infamous Hollywood sign, the one image synonymous with dreams being made and dreams being shattered.

Spanglish no more, Spangkorean anyone?

In today's Wall Street Journal there was an article about the phenomenon of Koreans learning Spanish to better communicate with their employees. And the Spanish workers learning Korean before English since Korean is the second language they hear and speak next to their native Spanish. For us Koreatown devotees, this is not news. I have always marveled at having my Korean groceries bagged by a Latino bagger, who could speak more Korean than I--a slight exaggeration since I can speak as much Korean as a kid in Kindergarten. This cultural intersection is so wholly LA. Nowhere else can you have the concentrations of immigrants that form these pockets of communities where new boundaries, new rules, and possibly a new language--Spangkorean, are created. Buenos dias, ajuhshee! This cultural intersection goes beyond language, and into food, the next universal unifier. There are as many Latinos, who live and work in Koreatown, who eat as much kimchee as a Korean. And on the food shelves of the Korean grocery markets, Korean items like kim sit alongside tortillas, tofu next to Mexican cheese. It is the new world order. Yet, this world of East meeting West, namely the Southwest, is another hidden secret of life in this city. I'm sure until this article came out, very few people, particularly those who have never ventured farther east of LaBrea or east of Van Ness, would have known that this new cultural fusion was occurring blocks from their manicured lawns and gated homes. Yet, this is the LA that is the LA of the future. I predict that this new fusion will result in some savvy chef opening a restaurant of Korean and haute Mexican--kimchee served with chicken in a mole sauce.

These intersections, crashes of two binary forces is what I find fascinating about Los Angeles. This is the heart of the city. It is not in the Entertainment Industry, despite its attempts to appear as if it is the bloodline of the city. It is the unnoticed lives of people, getting up each day to manifest their dream of what it means to live in America, but more importantly, Los Angeles.

Our house is ready for the movers to arrive early Monday morning. All of my pictures have been sorted, organized into photo albums--our memories of life here tucked behind cellophane covers. The strange hollow echo of empty spaces have not set in yet, but I assume this will happen all too quickly as furniture gets carted out of our Rose Cottage and on to the back of a truck.

Excitement and anticipation is settling into my chest, alleviating the empty space of so many good-byes and so many last times. This push and pull of the past and the future is the main emotion now. After today's post, I am going to spend the remainder of my time in LA, documenting my LA with pictures of places that I associate with this city. It will be my pictorial farewell of those favorite restaurants in an ugly strip mall that serve the best shabu shabu or kalbi, those places that rarely get written up in the food section of the Times. Again, when I think about how I'm going to spend the rest of my time here...food is all I think about.

NY1, NY2, MVY

There are a plethora of white papers taped to various piles around the house marked either NY1, NY2, or MVY--Martha's Vineyard. Drawers are being emptied, streamlined, and marked for either of the three eventualities. As of this writing, we will have three nights left in this house. The weather here is fittingly gloomy with the marine layer that keeps the sun from appearing, the closest thing to weather we experience in the spring and summer months. Everything in our lives is being overhauled to fit into boxes, reduced to absolute necessities. And what I'm discovering is that there is a certain liberation in compacting your life to fit inside something easily transported. That four drawer filing cabinet, each drawer begging to be filled with useless, worthless papers, is now in two portable file boxes. Imagine, four large drawers reduced to two! All of this work to reduce has gotten me thinking about the way we live today in our culture of hyper-consumption. Do we really need, not just one, but two garlic presses? Or four sets of measuring spoons? What compels us to surround ourselves with so much stuff, sh**t, crap? Is it to stave off the emotional voids, as if the purchase of that label maker will somehow make the isolation, loneliness go away, even if briefly?

Yes, I own a label maker, although I've never gotten beyond typing in four letter expletives, printing them out, which I found endlessly amusing. Quickly, I had a neat pile of these labels on my desk until I realized how insane this would look to anyone other people, so my half hour amusement ended up buried in the bottom of my trash can. The label maker went the way of most things meant to make our lives easier, getting tucked into some drawer never to be fully utilized. As a writer, I have no shortage of writing tools, all meant to help in my work. I've uncovered a desk drawer of pens, unopened; endless notebooks of varying sizes with half-filled pages of ideas or lines. Again, how does one accumulate so much? I suppose that's a quandary worth contemplating versus so many other disasters that could befall a person.

I did bake a few more goodies yesterday. The idea of not baking in this kitchen propelled me to churn out some coconut cakes and a chocolate Bundt cake. Now, I will spend the rest of the day distributing my goodies and bid 'adieu' to my neighbors.

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?

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.