Living in Los Angeles is like residing in a snow globe without the snow. Everything is perceived to be perfect until it’s shaken up by a wild fire or immigration march. And for me, this perceived perfection gets to a point of exhaustion and my soul gravitates towards the chaos of New York.
So, I started looking for a way out when I could no longer handle the pressure of having to apply make-up before going to the grocery store. Without even thinking about it, I put my loft on Craigslist and started my search for work in New York. But, after my mother re-assured me that every woman needs make-up, and a friend suggested I take a long walk to clear my head to get a new perspective on my life in Los Angeles, I put my plans on hold.
The next day, I honored my friend’s wish and in my true New York fashion, I donned the black uniform: knee length coat, knee length leather boots, black sweater and jeans. To add a little color to my ensemble, I added my favorite hand-made, Sicilian, plaid newsboy purchased at La Coppola Storta in SoHo.
There I was, dressed and ready to battle the streets of downtown LA – I even had my Ipod playing Bowies “Under Pressure” which gave me a confident Travolta strut. As my music drowned out the noise pollution, I really started to notice the amazing architecture of my downtown ‘hood. Buildings were slowly becoming works of art and their contents were of sudden importance to my life. For instance, I didn’t realize that the pagan ritual store sold scented candles and that there were at least three shoe repair shops around the corner!
This walk was turning into an adventure and amazingly enough, as I walked down 2nd, it reminded me of the West Village, I passed an area around Alameda and thought of the Meatpacking District; and then I walked through Skid Row and it reminded me of the sad souls along the Bowery … only the Bowery is cleaner with swank nightlife.
Anyway, as I stood on the corner in the middle of Skid Row, I remembered someone saying, “If you love something let it go and make lemonade”. And, it was at that moment, I realized I had to stop living in the past and start living in the present and embrace my Los Angeles life. But, should I embrace the woman who’s been following me for the past five blocks?
I turned around, and she gave me a little wave. I returned in kind. Then, just to make sure she was following me, I dipped down a short alley and with her granny cart in tow, she dipped with me.
My guardian angel was a black woman dressed in a thirty’s style coat and hat. Every step I took, she was right behind me. When my music picked up, my walk would quicken and so would my guardian angel. There she was in every reflection, and for some reason, I actually felt safe knowing I had a stranger following me throughout downtown. She even followed me to my front door.
As I pulled out my keys to signal this was my stop, I looked back at her and a wave of sadness overcame me ... I realized that her brief distraction to living on the streets was over.
I wonder if my guardian angel will find a way to make Skid Row lemonade.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
No Need for Speed
In my opinion, the only thing wrong with the concept of speed dating is that the time doesn’t speed by fast enough. I know this because a few days ago, I pried myself away from my computer, tossed my agoraphobia aside, and attended a speed-dating event to prove I could finally find a date in Los Angeles, and keep a man’s attention for at least 3 minutes.
So that morning, rather than being annoyed by my neighbors less than stellar saxophone playing, I opened my windows and invited her “music” into my world. I suppose listening to her struggle with the notes quietly comforted me while I struggled with the idea of paying $35 to meet men.
Anyway, somewhere between drinking my morning coconut water and driving down the 101 headed towards the big event that evening; I got use to the idea of paying for love. But, I found myself wondering what would happen if I actually met the man of my dreams in 2 minutes or less. Would this be our “how we met” story, or would we feel compelled to concoct a new scenario? Or, what if the guy I liked was only there to write an expose on speed dating, and not in the least bit interested in meeting his soul mate? Perhaps my anti-social disease wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
As soon as I walked into the lounge, I ordered my special lemonade libation—lemons, Splenda, and vodka. Unfortunately, rather than calming my nerves, my drink made me manic because it was actually lemonade. Apparently, when I said vodka, the bartender didn't hear me and I ended up with a glass of sugar water rather than a glass of liquid courage.
But, instead of wasting my sugar high, I used it to talk up the restaurant manager, event coordinator, the assistant event coordinator, and a bitter, blond European woman smoking in the back of the room. Basically, what I wanted to know was quite simple--should I stay or should I go? And, more importantly, was a man’s phone number worth $35? Surprisingly, the restaurant manager was the only one who thought I should stay and said I’d make a killing because I was wearing a great outfit AND resembled Janet Jackson from her days on the 80s show "Fame". I didn’t know whether to thank him or ask where I could buy a bottle of Aquanet.
After pumping up the volume on my 80s hair and adjusting my shoulder pads, I found my seat at the “older professionals” table. The woman seated next to me, wearing Lee jeans and a Charter Club type blouse, reminded me of the secretary from The Bob Newhart Show. On my other side was a woman who looked like she was probably the former president of her high school 4-H club. Was I in their league or were they in mine?
In any event, before I could finish assessing the attributes of my other competitors, the whistle blew and the dating commenced. With stealth like moves, three older gentlemen descended upon our table and for the first time that evening, I was absolutely speechless.
While Bob’s secretary was busy telling her date that she was a high school principal, I was busy staring blankly into the eyes of Garrett Morris’ clone. Luckily, sensing I was nervous or simply not interested, he started asking me general, harmless questions about my life. And, even though I had no real interest in this man who was old enough to be my father, I decided to play along.
Not only was Garrett previously married; he was also widowed with 2 pre-teens at home. Now aside from being a bit needy in relationships, I also admit to occasionally lacking an internal censor when I’m nervous or at a loss for words. Much like when I asked Garrett if his kids were hoping that he brings home a new mommy. Did I actually say that? More importantly, if I did, did he hear me, and would he actually respond? He did and stoicly replied, “My kids wished me good luck and it was nice talking to you.”
As luck or LA statistics would have it, there were more women than men, and the event ended sooner than expected. But, even though I was pretty sure I didn’t get my $35 worth of conversation or potential dates, I learned a valuable lesson that night ... I have all the speed I need as I live my life in the slow lane.
So that morning, rather than being annoyed by my neighbors less than stellar saxophone playing, I opened my windows and invited her “music” into my world. I suppose listening to her struggle with the notes quietly comforted me while I struggled with the idea of paying $35 to meet men.
Anyway, somewhere between drinking my morning coconut water and driving down the 101 headed towards the big event that evening; I got use to the idea of paying for love. But, I found myself wondering what would happen if I actually met the man of my dreams in 2 minutes or less. Would this be our “how we met” story, or would we feel compelled to concoct a new scenario? Or, what if the guy I liked was only there to write an expose on speed dating, and not in the least bit interested in meeting his soul mate? Perhaps my anti-social disease wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
As soon as I walked into the lounge, I ordered my special lemonade libation—lemons, Splenda, and vodka. Unfortunately, rather than calming my nerves, my drink made me manic because it was actually lemonade. Apparently, when I said vodka, the bartender didn't hear me and I ended up with a glass of sugar water rather than a glass of liquid courage.
But, instead of wasting my sugar high, I used it to talk up the restaurant manager, event coordinator, the assistant event coordinator, and a bitter, blond European woman smoking in the back of the room. Basically, what I wanted to know was quite simple--should I stay or should I go? And, more importantly, was a man’s phone number worth $35? Surprisingly, the restaurant manager was the only one who thought I should stay and said I’d make a killing because I was wearing a great outfit AND resembled Janet Jackson from her days on the 80s show "Fame". I didn’t know whether to thank him or ask where I could buy a bottle of Aquanet.
After pumping up the volume on my 80s hair and adjusting my shoulder pads, I found my seat at the “older professionals” table. The woman seated next to me, wearing Lee jeans and a Charter Club type blouse, reminded me of the secretary from The Bob Newhart Show. On my other side was a woman who looked like she was probably the former president of her high school 4-H club. Was I in their league or were they in mine?
In any event, before I could finish assessing the attributes of my other competitors, the whistle blew and the dating commenced. With stealth like moves, three older gentlemen descended upon our table and for the first time that evening, I was absolutely speechless.
While Bob’s secretary was busy telling her date that she was a high school principal, I was busy staring blankly into the eyes of Garrett Morris’ clone. Luckily, sensing I was nervous or simply not interested, he started asking me general, harmless questions about my life. And, even though I had no real interest in this man who was old enough to be my father, I decided to play along.
Not only was Garrett previously married; he was also widowed with 2 pre-teens at home. Now aside from being a bit needy in relationships, I also admit to occasionally lacking an internal censor when I’m nervous or at a loss for words. Much like when I asked Garrett if his kids were hoping that he brings home a new mommy. Did I actually say that? More importantly, if I did, did he hear me, and would he actually respond? He did and stoicly replied, “My kids wished me good luck and it was nice talking to you.”
As luck or LA statistics would have it, there were more women than men, and the event ended sooner than expected. But, even though I was pretty sure I didn’t get my $35 worth of conversation or potential dates, I learned a valuable lesson that night ... I have all the speed I need as I live my life in the slow lane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
