Sammi In The City

31 Days In NYC

2009-02-02T21:32:00.000-08:00

As my profile states, since I was a little girl, I've always had dreams of living in a NYC Park Avenue penthouse. But, who needs a dream when you have a NYC real estate broker telling you that you can’t afford your dream? However, because she’s a fellow Leo, a seasoned broker, and a former “Angeleno”, I admired her honesty and candor.

So, on December 31st, 2008, my cross-country movers delivered my things from Los Angeles to my new home, located on the most despised place on earth --Wall Street. Baby steps.

In any event, I swapped my 1200 square foot loft in LA’s Financial District for a shoebox “loft” in NYCs Financial District (FiDi). That’s right, I’m living down the street from NYSE, near Bernie Madoff’s empty office, and more importantly, walking distance to Tribeca.

That’s the fairytale.

But, since relocating to NYC a mere month ago, I may need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Corbin to eradicate the effects of true city life.

This is my story.

CITY “ETIQUETTE”

I loved, and still love my deceased grandfather (Pop-Pop) with all my heart. Amongst being the only man whom I ever loved, he was also a well-respected lawyer, president of The Ohio State Bar Association, and a judge. He was also my first introduction to a vile act that has scarred my psyche until this day. Pop-Pop was a chronic expectorator.

Now, flash forward to 2009 and I am living in the land of expectorators—New York City.

A long time ago, I remembered reading that “back in the day”, spitting was illegal in New York City because it was blamed for the spread of tuberculosis. Apparently, the laws have been spit upon.

During frequent visits to the most amazing city stateside, I would dodge the spit of men that seemed to be flying in slow motion toward the ground. I even remember a couple of guys coming to my aid and yelling at a guy to be careful of where he discharged his phlegm.

But now, having moved here in the winter, the spitting has become more visual. In the creative speak of my friend Brian, “We should call the spit “spitzbergs” because they are frozen … ala icebergs.” I couldn't have said it better!

What really has me spitting mad is that “women” have now gotten in on the act. Yes, women.

In fact, the other day, as I was walking out of the grocery store, glowing over the fact that it was my first trip to a NYC grocery, a young “woman” decided that the thick fluid in the back of her throat needed to be expelled before she headed in to buy her groceries. The sound, the act, and the end result was beyond disgusting. Her act was so mind blowing that I curtly had to say, “REALLY? REALLY?!”

I was so taken aback that I asked three policemen what the laws were about the act in question. To my frozen surprise (partly because it was freezing outside), one of the “gentlemen” said, “WHAT? Youz got a problem with someone gettin’ rid of spit when youz got fairies running around LA?!”

Even though I was speechless, my mother would say that this is another instance when I should have kept my mouth shut. But, why should I when others were clearly opening and expelling from theirs?!

Honestly.

SINGLE IN THE CITY

One of the reasons I moved from Los Angeles is because I decided that after almost 10 years, it was time to start dating before school children started poking me with sticks and chanting, “Spinster Sammi! Spinster Sammi!” It’s bad enough that adults still chant,” Sam I am green eggs and ham.”

So, as soon as I unpacked my computer, I decided to sign up on all of the best on- line dating sites: Nerve, Yahoo, Cupid, and I revisited JDate. Yes, JDate … my dear friend Dina once said I needed to date “her people”.

Anyway, as 4 weeks have gone by, I realized that either someone altered my profile, or at worst, it had been surreptitiously deleted as time after time, the emails I received from all of the sites have been: “We have 0 matches for you” … “Have you thought about adding a different picture?” … ”You should think about dating in Siberia”.

To add to the Ruskie invite, I recently met the few Wall Streeters left in my neighborhood, who invited me to the land of reality. In their beer and Jameson soaked vocabulary, they jovially said, “ If you came to NY to meet normal guys, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Good times.

To say the least, I’m keeping hope alive.

NYC EXCURSIONS

Much like the millions of other human lemmings, I too went to D.C. to engage in the historical moment of witnessing Obama being sworn in as the first black president.

Sure, I expected to be a part of human flesh gridlock, long lines, freezing weather, and probably like other women, I thought maybe I would meet my knight in shining armor. Hey, if it weren’t so damn crowded, I could have picked him out in the crowd. In hindsight, maybe he was one of those men who traded his armor for a full-length fur that I saw so many men wearing.

Anyway, after parting ways from my travel companions, I rented a car, attended the inauguration solo, and left solo. And, when I finally ditched the strange woman who attached herself to me in the human gridlock, I found my way to the train and decided to take a nap. That’s where the pleasant memories end.

Upon reaching the platform at the train station, and feeling quite rested, I saw the hordes of people surrounding the escalator in the distance. It was like millions of ants on top of an anthill. No one was moving and everyone was fighting for space.

So, once again, I made like a lemming and followed the more resourceful ants and decided to run up an escalator that was going down.

Donned in my swing coat, my fur headband, camera strapped across my body, and my “oh so stylish” snow boots, I made like the spry high school cheerleader / former track “star” I once was, and headed for the escalator that was coming down.

Unlike my days of jumping hurdles, jumping escalator stairs was far different. Hurdles fall when your foot hits them. Escalator stairs going down (when you’re running up) don’t wait for your foot to touch them … they just flatten due to modern mechanics.

At any rate, while running neck-and-neck with the other lemmings, up the downward metal stairs, I got to the top and fell.

Then, as I was being dragged back down, and seeing feet flying by me, I got up and made a second attempt. But, because I thought that a man breezing past me was offering me assistance, I reached for his arm, he kept going, and I fell again. I like to believe that it was an honest mistake.

Finally, I got up once again, jumped to the safe zone, and when I got to the subway’s “promised land” (the landing), I bent over, caught my breath, and looked around to make sure no one saw my acrobatics. Unfortunately, I had an audience, and no one was applauding. But, from an older woman who had just enjoyed the show, I did get, “Baby, are you okay? You fell hard … twice.” I promptly replied, “Yes.”

Trying to act like I was a pro and had performed that stunt on Jackass, I walked as straight as I could to my car (that I parked almost a mile away), amidst tears, while feeling fluid dripping down my leg. Yes, it was the red stuff from within.

To end re-living this nightmare, all I have to say is that putting Purell hand sanitizer on an open wound is not a wise thing. In addition, to add more stings to my wounds, my sister called me “escalator road kill”.

Again, good times.

FEBRUARY 1st

At the end of 31 days I became a 1st time aunt. Meet Daisy Elizabeth.

Sammi In The City …

La Fluffy Farfalla

2008-10-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

Allow me to preface this by stating that as a woman who has curves, I am the last person to call another woman "fluffy". Until now.

About two years ago, on a visit back east, while speaking with an older gentleman about his love of opera, he insisted that if I were going to go alone to my first performance, that I see "La Boheme". He said in his thick Spanish accent, "Darling, you will fall in love with the opera--I promise you." So, making my promise to him, and in the need to expand my cultural base, I purchased a ticket to Puccini's "La Boheme" at the LA Opera.

In my anticipation of attending the Sunday matinee, I bought a black dress and new heels ... I couldn't wait to be amongst other patrons of the theatre ... of the arrrrrts. Actually, sans the black dress and heels, I felt like I was a kid again when my mother would take my sisters, me, and the neighborhood kids to the museum or ballet--it was quite an exciting adventure then, and even now.

After ascending the stairs, my beautiful afternoon quickly became ugly when I was confronted by some of my fellow patrons dressed in "California casual" attire. Seriously, how hard is it to leave the jeans, t-shirts, and flip-flops in the closet, on the floor, or in this case, the garbage? Anyway, I walked past them, had a glass of champagne, and then made my way to my seat after the second bell. All I can say is that before intermission, I was completely captivated; and before the end, I couldn't wait for the beginning of my next Puccini production. My Spanish friend was correct ... "La Boheme" made me fall in love with opera.

Months would go by, and then one day, I saw that Puccini's "Madama Butterfly" was at the LA Opera. Of course, without hesitation, I immediately snapped up tickets for closing night. This time, I was going to be amongst the crowd who would dress for the occasion--the crowd who appreciated the pomp and circumstance of such an amazing event!

Much like yours truly, most of the attendees were clad in black, and some of the men actually wore tuxedos. Champagne was being sipped, women were wearing couture, and I was ready for yet another performance from my Puccini prince.

She walked onto the stage, and for a brief moment, I thought the stage manager sent out the wrong Butterfly. But no, she was there to stay ... for the entire two and a half hours.

Now, just in case you're not aware of who Butterfly is--she's a delicate, graceful, 15 year old, Japanese girl who married an American soldier that ultimately leaves her in his dust. Apparently, the casting director didn't get the memo. This Butterfly was a "fluffy" farfalla (portly butterfly), in her 50s, and black. To make matters worse, throughout the production, the actors do a lot of kneeling; and when Butterfly knelt too long, she struggled getting up and nearly fell back down. It wasn't pretty or graceful (it was as if her wings had been clipped) ... neither was her never-ending death scene. It was quite painful to watch her slowly bend down, then lay down, and then engage in a mini-epileptic seizure.

Should I even mention that the curtain was stuck for at least ten minutes after intermission which gave way to hysterical laughter from the audience? Or what about the four or five bows the cast gave while people were fleeing the scene under the cloak of darkness? Wasn't the final performance suppose to be better than opening night? Maybe I was in a time warp and that was opening night? It's as if the entire cast and crew just gave up and gave us the budget Butterfly.

I will never look at an Italian man the same again ... at least those with the last name of Puccini.

Political Pollution

2008-10-13T22:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, I really tried to refrain from writing about this political climate but because it's boiling over, as is my blood, I can no longer hold back.

With that in mind, allow me to preface this by stating that I will make allowances for all of those who have never had the opportunity to travel abroad. And as such, in my opinion, the American media has no doubt condemned you to a life of receiving biased information about the world-at-large … I speak from experience as I did my broadcasting “tour of duty” in Atlanta, Richmond (VA), and Seattle—I know how it works.

For those who live in LA, where the lives of celebrities, weather, and car chases reign supreme in the media, which apparently leaves little time for global matters, you too are exonerated from my wrath.

But, for those of you who have traveled out of the country, and may join me in my angst of pretending to be a Canuck so as to avoid the ever-prevalent anti-American sentiments, and perhaps are tired of being hammered with questions such as: “Why don’t American’s have their passports?” … “Why does America have so much hatred for the rest of the world?” … “Why are most Americans racist?” … “Why do Americans have such white teeth?”, I ask you to read on.

Food for thought:

*If McCain cannot fulfill his duties as president, Palin (attendee of several colleges, beauty queen, sports reporter, mom of 5, former mayor to approx 10,000 residents, and current Alaskan governor) will become president. That is a 50/50 chance.

*How can someone vote for a VP nominee who just got a passport in 2007 and believes that her proximity to Russia gives her international experience? But wait a minute that’s not so crazy … if proximity is the key to being VP, I should go into politics! Unlike Palin, I’ve actually been to Russia, was aboard a nuclear ship that Putin had been on, sailed to the Artic Circle (didn’t see Alaska but saw those white bears that Palin doesn’t think should be on the endangered list), and discussed global warming with scientists. Oval office, here I come!

*Why didn’t Palin site the EXXON VALDEZ case when asked to name any decisions by the US Supreme Court that she didn’t agree with beyond Roe v. Wade? Did I mention that Palin is from Alaska and the incident happened in Alaskan waters? How could she draw a blank? After all, she didn’t agree with the decision! That was Katie Couric … imagine if she draws a blank when it really matters!

*Teen pregnancy is an epidemic—across all demographics. Perhaps hockey moms with daughters should think about the message they’re sending as they vote for a VP nominee / fellow hockey mom with a pregnant teenager. Apparently she wasn’t so much of a pit bull. I can hear it now … “But mom, that Palin girl got pregnant too-can I have my allowance to go to the hockey game"?

*While Palin is condemning Obama for “palling around with terrorists” and questioning his allegiance to America, WHY aren’t the McCain/Palin followers concerned with the fact that Mr. Palin belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party? Yes, THAT GROUP that wanted Alaska to secede from America.

*Obama denounced Pastor Wright but Palin hasn’t denounced the African minister who laid hands on her (YouTube Pastor Muthee). This is the minister who proudly admits to running a “witch” out of an African town. If the tables were turned, McCain/Palin followers would be yelling “kill him” at rallies. Oh wait, they already are.

*Why doesn’t anyone question McCain’s association with Bush whose grandfather, Prescott Bush, (allegedly) helped finance the Nazi Party from 1926-1943? That would have made McCain 10 years old. You know, like Obama was 8 when Ayers was “up to no good”.

*How can people have the audacity to question Obama’s lineage and background but vote for the “Terminator” even though his Austrian father volunteered for the infamous Nazi SA and became a ranking officer?

*I am amazed at the ignorance of people who believe that because of his name, Barack Hussein Obama is obviously an Arab terrorist. Does my name make me a Jewish guy? Or, maybe it makes me a deceased black comedian who converted to Judaism? I guess our national security needs some more tweaking if this alleged terrorist has made it this far in a presidential election!

*When McCain / Palin say, “We will win this war” … what does that mean? Exactly what are we winning? Why are kids who joined the military for economic reasons still dying in Iraq? Although they found Sadam in Iraq, they didn’t find weapons of mass destruction, and what else won’t they find in Iraq? You betcha--bin Laden. Think about it, shouldn’t they have found him by now? Even if he is found, this killing will go on and on because WE CANNOT "win" against Jihad. It's like we're fighting for apples and they're ready and willing to die in the name of Allah. Whatever Bush and his men did to warrant an attack the magnitude of 9 11, he screwed us big time!

*McCain isn’t a maverick. He was a POW who opted not to be released by his captors. That makes him something else … not a maverick. There are a lot of POWs—should they all run for president?

Things people have said and my response:

“Palin is like my next door neighbor -she would make a good president”
“Yeah, I'm not too sure I want my VP cracking open a can of beer, winking across the table, and incorporating phrases like "Joe Six Pack" while foreign relations are being discussed with other heads-of-state. But that's just probably me being elitist."

“I’m not voting because Hillary isn’t on the ticket”
“Hillary would be proud that you’re throwing your right to vote down the toilet—did you know that she supports Obama?”

“I’m gay but I’m a Republican – I don’t want my taxes raised”
“Great, vote for someone who openly says she tolerates you.”

“I’m concerned about the safety of the country … Obama doesn’t have experience.”
“I’m concerned about people who yell out, “Kill him!” at Republican rallies. Oh, and people like proven domestic terrorist Timothy McVeigh--remember him? Oh, and Palin with all of her “international experience” who could inherit the title of Commander-In-Chief. Oh, and a trigger-happy “maverick” who would rather shoot first and ask questions later. Oh, I'm also concerned about people who think that as long as America is the only country that’s allowed to have the most weapons of mass destruction, we will be A-OK.”

“America isn’t ready for a black president”
“So the fact that he graduated from Columbia, then graduated magna cum laude, with a J.D., from Harvard Law School, and was the president of the Harvard Law Review doesn’t mean so much because he’s bi-racial? Let me guess, if he finished 5th from the bottom of his graduating class (say 894th out of 899) and received over 100 demerits while for example, at Anapolis, that would be ok? Personally, I don’t care if my president looks like an Umpa Lumpa—I want him to be intelligent, not a "maverick".

"I'm voting for McCain, not Palin."
"I have no comment."

Whatever the outcome, I hope that on the morning of November 5, we will ban together and support our new president because whoever inherits the position is going to need it!

New York Fashion Week

2008-09-06T19:23:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing that makes you feel connected to NY, it's the celebrated Fashion Week. And yesterday, I lost my fashionista virginity as I attended my first show, on opening day, under the tents at Bryant Park.

As I was with the designer's (Rubin Singer) friend, we were whisked by the long line of people waiting to get past the red velvet rope. Then, after we were given access, we walked into the venue, onto the plastic cover catwalk, and then found our seats. Luckily for me, I actually had a seat ... with my name on it. Sure, my last name was misspelled but at least I wasn't one of the unfortunate souls who had to lean against the wall.

Another perk to being with the designer's friend was that prior to the show, I was given backstage access to use the little girl's room. As I walked past security, down the stairs, and through the maze of amazon stick figures, I realized I was behind enemy lines. There I was, in the midst of those who design unrealistic clothing for the average woman and all I could do was look for the loo!

Usually, when you open the magazines, you see fashions that are completely unwearable. Unwearable unless you possess the hips of a pre-pubescent boy, shoulders of a wire (not padded) hanger, and the height of a small giant. But, hot designer Rubin Singer really captured the essence of what women really want AND can actually wear. Unfortunately I couldn't click fast enough and didn't capture the best pictures.

On Tuesday I head to the Dennis Basso show ... hopefully my trigger finger is in better shape! Stay tuned fashionista friends.

Re-Cap of Standing on the Arctic Ice Cap

2008-08-20T02:41:00.000-07:00

"Walking On White Mars" The mini-doc: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USSXFBO1SIo

Although I could write about my excursion (or “Arctic cruise” as some have put it) in the format of a full-length article; I’ve opted to bullet point a few of my Arctic Circle highlights in order to save the special moments for myself. Please be advised as this is in no specific order.

*Our silver passport covers that Brian purchased for our trip made for various conversations/ stares/ glares from Los Angeles, to London, to Helsinki, and finally Murmansk, Russia. He bought them as a symbolic gesture to the Arctic ice … I bought Arctic Blast gum.

*Murmansk, Russia, the port city of the Russian nuclear fleets was what one would imagine a post-WW II city would look like—especially because a lot of the buildings were still damaged from WW II bombs. But, since the weather was unusually warm for a Russian July, we were handsomely rewarded with a long bus tour (sans air conditioning) with scenic visions such as residents riding their bikes in Speedos.

*When we opened our door to our cabin, I’m pretty sure we both blacked out due to the shock of our “quaint” quarters / home, for the next 17 (I think) days, in the middle of nowhere, and with no one to run into (literally) but each other. However, that little room surprised us, as there was ample storage space for Brian’s arsenal of camera equipment and then our clothes. I’m just glad there was enough room for my furry boots I’ve had since high school. The bathroom was the size of my closet (and it’s not a walk-in) and the shower curtain had a way of sticking to you like a layer of blue skin. But hey, that’s nothing when it comes to taking 5 consecutive days of cold Arctic sea showers. That’s right, until the Swiss boys pounded it into my head that our nuclear ship had energy to waste, and that there was no way I should be taking cold showers, I finally let the blue knob run for awhile and VOILA! … it flowed hot water just like the red dial flowed cold. Who knew? Yes, apparently not me.

*As many women know, relying on hair appliances while traveling overseas can be a touchy subject. So, just in case, I brought 2 flat irons. And, before I went all Three Mile Island / Chernobyl because my 1st flat iron didn’t work, luckily for me and Brian's sanity, my 2nd one did. Not only did it work in Helsinki, it actually worked on the Russian icebreaker. Unfortunately, because there was so much voltage pumping through it, it would smolder like the remnants of a small campfire … Brian would probably say forest fire.

*At first, my workouts on the ship were brisk walks from our cabin to the bar located across from the library. There, I discussed the days events, wrote in my journal, laughed with new friends, played Scrabble (American vs. UK English Scrabble), and refined my palate with that of Russian Standard Vodka. FYI—Vodka means “little water” and after drinking this, I can understand why Russian’s drink it like water! But then, after I found the workout room, which had 3 spin bikes that looked out of the porthole, I decided that that’s where I would spend my free time. So, both times, I gazed out of the porthole in amazement that I was working out in the Arctic Circle. It didn’t hurt that one of those times I was working out next to Pewyter (one of the Russian security men). However, there’s only so much communication one can do when Russian is the spoken language … he tried.

*Seawater, plus laundry on a Russian icebreaker, equals hurty clothes. HURTY. I’m pretty sure they hung our clothes out to dry in the night sea air and then delivered them the next morning after they chipped off all of the icicles. I still have abrasions from my t-shirt. It’s either from that or from “refining my palate” at the lounge.

*If I mention that the food was prepared by an Austrian chef (and his crew), three times a day with meals such as Piccata of Monkfish, Pork Medaillon Gratinated with tofu, and desserts called “Hot Love Sundae” (which was prepared on my birthday and the pastry chef Wolfgang knew who I was—in a platonic sense of course), would that make it seem less “expeditiony”, “excursiony” and more “cruisy?? Would receiving a birthday cake while the whole dining room sang Happy Birthday seem too fluffy for a hard-core trip to the Arctic? Eh, who cares?

*Brian can actually speak Russian. Albeit broken Russian but it really didn’t stop him from communicating to the crew that it was wrong to throw garbage bags into the ocean. Yeah, he’s my environmental hero and Al Gore would be proud. However, I have to say, after Brian asked the captain a few too many questions about the nuclear reactor, and then caught the crew garbage dumping onto the ice (which he also witnessed them garbage retrieving from the ice), I was concerned that one cold night, we would get a knock on the door and Brian would be whisked away to Siberia. Or, at the very least be made to shovel coal into the nuclear reactor.

*The 24 hours of daylight was something so bizarre. One minute you’re at a seminar at 3pm and the next minute you’re back in that damn lounge across from the library until 4am ... I'd now like to thank the makers of Visine.

*Going from open water to seeing / breaking ice and feeling like you’re in constant turbulence is sensory over-load. Watching my fellow passengers’ weeble wobble was somewhat hilarious. It’s amazing what one finds humorous in the middle of nowhere.

*If you could imagine what it was like for early settlers at sea to see land in the distance for the first time in months, that’s what it was like when we were told we were descending upon 90 degrees—the Geographical North Pole. If I can remember correctly, we all were told that when we wake up, we would be at our destination. So, for those of us who never slept, we just knew that the ship had stopped and then I think we went to bed at around 3am. When we woke up, I looked outside my window where I saw a huge red circle formed on the ice with a sign in the middle that read “90 degrees North Pole”. Next to the sign were picnic tables and BBQ grills. Very interesting. Much like on Christmas morning, I sprang out of bed, jumped in the shower, cranked up smoky (my flat iron), put on my winter gear, and headed outside! AMAZING! I walked on the Arctic ice cap … I was walking on (what I call) WHITE MARS!

*Brian did the Arctic plunge as did many others. Brian cut himself on the ice—as did many others. Personally, I felt like I had done the Arctic plunge 5 days in a row with my cold showers AND I wasn’t about to stand in all of my glory waiting for my turn to jump in water filled with large chunks of ice. Uh-uh.

*What is the worst-case scenario when traveling to the Arctic? Well, I guess perhaps a polar bear could attack you because they have an insane sense of smell. But, that would only happen if one of the AK47 toting Russian security guards kept chatting to cute girls when he was supposed to be on the lookout for polar bears when we did helicopter landings.

*I don’t know about everyone else but I often felt like I was on the hit 70s show “Land of the Lost” ... especially when I came face-to-face with polar bear dung while climbing a hill that resembled Devil's Tower. On this particular excursion I expected to see a Sleestack come out from behind a rock formation and throw a net around me. But, the closest thing I got to adventure like that was when I got stuck in a bog, started sinking, nearly lost my rubber boots (like the boots that were stuck in the bog next to me), was pulled out by Raja, who then got stuck, and then we both walked to the rocks in our muddy socks putting our boots back on.

*Seeing my first total eclipse on my 40th birthday was magical and has been magical.

Well, I think I’ve written just enough for you, while saving just enough for me.

DASVIDANIA!

Pictures taken by the amazing photographer John Weller.

Sammi In The North Pole

2008-07-18T10:38:00.000-07:00

Finally, a man I adore popped the question!

That's right, one Sunday afternoon while sipping champagne, and sitting poolside at Brian's home, he asked the question that would forever change my life.

In his deep voice, accompanied with an inquisitive look in his eye, he asked, "What are you doing from July 18th to August 4th?" I thought about it ... went through my mental calendar, and then quickly said, "Nothing ... just turning 40 on August 1st ... why?" And then he simply asked, "Do you want to go to the North Pole with me?"

The NORTH POLE? Santa's home? A kid's dream come true? Alaska?! I'll finally get to touch MENDENHALL GLACIER? No.

See, like many kids, I was under the impression that the North Pole was actually near Alaska. It’s icy, cold, and that’s where one may see a prancing reindeer—or at least a prancing moose. But now, it’s pretty safe to assume that’s Santy's vacation home because the actual North Pole is off the coast of Russia ... at the top of planet Earth ... where SPF 70 is probably required by law. So, in reality, the reason why Mr. Claus’ face is red isn’t because he’s jolly-- it’s because he’s under the depleted ozone and he has gin blossoms (or in this case vodka blossoms). Mystery solved.

Now, what mystery truly needed to be solved is how we're getting to the North Pole and what in the hell we'll be doing when we get there?! But, because Brian has the mind of a genius, the generosity of that Santa guy, and triple the adventure streak of yours truly, everything was already full steam ahead ... literally.

We will fly into Helsinki, and then head to Marmansk, Russia, where we will board 50 Years of Victory (which I don’t understand because this is only their 3rd voyage), a nuclear powered, ice breaking, Russian tanker, manned by an attractive Russian crew.

For the following 14 nights and 17 days (which I’m still trying to figure out), we will experience Artic life from a birds-eye-view and capture these images on all 4 of Brian’s high-powered cameras … which, by the way, shouldn’t be difficult because it will be daylight for 19 hours a day.

From helicopter drops on icebergs (or probably ice cubes by now),
to hopeful polar bear sightings and whale watching, our eyes will see the effects of global warming up close and personal.

Then, on August 1st, we will stand amongst 120 other passengers, at the top of the world, and view totality – the 2008 solar eclipse --- on my 40th birthday.

Absolutely crazy. Absolutely amazing. Absolutely hoping I still have my eyesight after peering into the eclipse.

Bon Voyage! Annus Mirabilis!

Cougars, Lions, and Silver Foxes

2008-05-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

Recently, on a business trip to New York, while also taking time to visit some of my favorite SoHo haunts, I over-heard a guy at Felixes telling his friend that he wasn’t looking for a “cougar” that evening. So, with my inquisitive mind working over-time and a tasteless mojito in hand, I invited myself into their conversation and asked them to please define a “cougar”. And, apparently, I wasn’t the only person who wanted the term defined because a woman who alleged she was twenty-nine, but looked more like a good forty-nine, turned around to tune in.

In any event, this 28-year-old investment banker, and dead ringer for Van Wilder, went on to describe a “cougar” as a woman who’s typically 30-years-old, and out on the prowl looking for some action. That’s right—30. Furthermore, according to Mr. Wilder, this type of woman is usually alone and having a few cocktails (martinis tend to be the drink of choice) while waiting to pounce on her unsuspecting, young prey. In addition, she’s typically attractive, well dressed, and looks like the only thing she’s in need of is companionship from a younger man. But, unfortunately, more often than not, these women take on the appearance of an over-weight, over-perfumed, and grandmotherly type who dresses in flashy clothing. I was speechless and not because I like flashy clothing.

Mr. Wilder, after grabbing the attention of everyone in earshot, with his "poignant" monologue, apparently derived from his sociology class dissertation, asked me my age. Without hesitation, and much confidence, I obliged and said, “I’m thirty-nine, soon to be forty in a few months.” One would have thought I gave away the secret formula to Tide because with much facial contortion, complete with bulging eyes, and the need to use his indoor voice, he screamed, “WOW!, I thought you were my age BUT you’re not only a “cougar”, you’re an old “cougar”!” That’s right-an old “cougar”.

Now, while I don't mind being called a fussy lion, a lioness (as I am a Leo), or occasionally a bitch, I was somewhat mortified when I was called a "cougar" … especially an old “cougar”. I mean one minute I’m being mistaken for a spry 28-year-old woman, and the next, I’m being called an old cat who drinks alone. Either way, I was ready to scratch his eyes out but opted to tame my fury by upgrading my watered-down mojito to a glass of champagne.

Honestly, how is it that an older (usually over 50), attractive man, who's out on the prowl, is called a “silver fox”, but change the gender, drop the age by ten years, and the “silver fox” is miraculously morphed into an “old cougar”? How does a single, "older" woman immediately become a broken down, lonely, old cat on the prowl?

It's been a long night ... it's time to drink my milk and retire to my lair.

Street Meat

2007-11-05T22:48:00.000-08:00

While I’m not like my foodie friend who attends Saturday culinary classes in Manhattan, and whose close confidant is a famous chef, I do know there’s something salty about selling sizzling meat atop a baby stroller. But, I could be wrong.

A couple of weeks ago, as I walked through the Fashion District, my nasal passages were assaulted by a waft of smoke. As I pride myself on my keen sense of smell, I realized that the smoke was attached to the scent of grilled meat. However, what confused me was the fact that there weren’t any restaurants in the vicinity. Then again, as I soon discovered, who needs a traditional restaurant when you have an old baby stroller?

On her carefully designed contraption (a baby stroller converted into a grill), was a feast fit for a king, queen, or just someone spending their day shopping. There they were, on top of her smokin’ stroller--brightly colored peppers and rows of sausages. And, to round out the menu, her friend used a different stroller as a dessert cart to sell fruit and other confections. In a bizarre way, it was like any restaurant with the executive and sous chef working in tandem ... except it was on the street corner and their state-of-the art stove was a stroller.

Normally, I would have kept walking. However, my legs were paralyzed as I stood in awe watching people order their afternoon repast from baby buggies surrounded by wind-blown debris. It was a feeding frenzy like I've never seen.

In any event, here in Los Angeles, every restaurant is subject to a grading system. I’ll assume that “A” is for “all is good”, “B” means “better get your act together”, “C” for “can’t help you if you dine here”, and believe it of not, there’s a “D”—perhaps it means “dine here if you dare OR if you have a death wish”.

With that in mind, where is the health department when it comes to stroller dining? What happens if someone gets street side e-coli? Should the fact that there’s no window from which to hang their health grade render these "restaurateurs" exempt from health standards?

Around the world, selling street meat, and other chow, is quite a common scene. From New York’s hot dogs to Paris’ famed rue des Rosiers in the Marais, street vendors are a quick treat while you’re on your feet. Believe it or not, there’s even an award ceremony—the Vendies. But, even though I’ve enjoyed my share of pretzels, roasted chestnuts, hot dogs, and even kababs purchased from street vendors, I find it astonishing, if not horrifying that selling food from a baby stroller is acceptable. Call me crazy, but is selling food from a place where a baby once vomited, or even worse, sanitary?

When I was a little, my mother taught my twin sisters and me to always try anything at least once as it refines the palate. I look forward to my mother's next visit.

Skid Row Lemonade

2007-10-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

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.

No Need for Speed

2007-10-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Denim Diary

2007-09-25T17:40:00.000-07:00

When it comes to trying on jeans, the one place where most women don’t want to do it is in public. But, when I was promised to save a lot of money on designer labels, I succumbed like the rest of the lemmings, followed the long line into the Los Angeles Convention Center, and hoped for the best.

In any event, while the dj’s club style music made the atmosphere outside the dressing room a little more party like, as soon as I tripped under the heavy blue, velvet curtain, into the large room full of mirrors and half-naked women, the dj’s needle seemed to skid across the vinyl, and the party in my head turned my reality into practically every woman’s nightmare—shedding your clothes and inhibitions in a large open room full of strangers.

See the problem with open dressing rooms is that you have to find your space, close to a mirror, and one that doesn’t encroach on another’s territory. For instance, when I finally found my small, sacred spot, another woman thought it would be cozy to share. No, this is not a space I want to share with a half-naked stranger while she attempts to squeeze herself into a pair of jeans by jumping, bending, and squatting in my face.

So, rather than evicting my new neighbor, I gathered my ten pair of jeans, politely vacated the premises, walked across the room, and found prime real estate! It was along the sturdy wall, next to a mirror, and had a rack to hang my unwanted jeans—it honestly couldn’t get better than this! I mean unlike the other wall, this one was stable so I imagined stragecially leaning upright rather than bending over revealing what underwear I selectively chose for the event.

As I secretly laughed to myself at the poor souls who were forced to get naked in the middle of the room, it occurred to me that for that moment in time, we were all searching for the same thing at the same time. We were looking for that piece of clothing that would nip, tuck, hide, squeeze, and ultimately show our best side to those people on the other side of the blue, velvet curtain.

It didn’t matter if the red head was a size 10 and she apparently needed a 12, or that the cute blonde had an amazing figure but more cellulite than yours truly, or even that the woman next to me shared that I wasn’t the only woman with an "ample" backside ... what mattered was that we showed up, en masse, for a common goal.

But, as I stood there daydreaming about our unspoken camaraderie, my dressing room bliss quickly decayed as yet another squatter entered my domain. However this time, since I was standing there with my pants around my ankles, I decided to make a stance and surprisingly, she didn’t leave! Did she feel comfortable invading my space because we had similar body proportions? Perhaps she saw me using the wall as a leaning mechanism and it appealed to her lack of balance? Whatever the case, it’s fair to say that if the dressing room police were on the premises, she would have received a ticket for invading personal space while not wearing appropriate undergarments!

One pair after another hit the floor and I became increasingly enraged that I couldn’t get a pair of jeans over my knees! Meanwhile, in my embarrassment, and to save face, I found it necessary to say out loud that the sizes must have been incorrectly marked or that someone must have taken my jeans off the rack and left me theirs. No matter the excuse, I witnessed eyes rolling and heads shaking … what happened to the sisterhood?! I was there for them as they did everything but grease their thighs with Crisco to get their jeans to “fit”, I cheered them on from the sidelines as they sometimes fell to the floor as if they were making a touchdown! What happened to the sisterhood when I needed a little support?

Either way, after two hours of searching for and trying on jeans, I didn’t know if I had it in me to repeat the process. It’s not like washing your hair where if you skip the repeat, your hair is still clean--I still didn’t have any jeans! But then I began to think that in such a short time, it was I who conquered prime real estate, created a sisterhood, and realized my tucas was bigger than I thought and still got half-naked in front of strangers! Therefore, it would be I who would go one more round and find the jeans of my dreams!!