Steak, Medium Rare

Having been completely overwhelmed by India, mind space was required between September and the present with the hope that my thoughts and scribbles would come together and make sense. That said, be forewarned. If you were expecting Eat, Pray, Love or even a melodic song a la Alanis Morissette’s “Thank You India”, it’s not going to happen.

“You go to India and everyone expects you’ll come back the fucking Maharishi”, I mutter half asleep to my roommate after her husband chides her via blackberry that she’s not acting “all Zen”.

But that is just the way India is; everything all at once like the everyday street smells of curry, excrement and jasmine that hit you in a left-right-left combination within five paces. It is where the big bang happens everyday, its own billion-population universe.

Most people I have talked to, travelers from the ‘70s, to the ‘90s, recount memories and experiences that mirror mine, even down to the minutest details. I was grateful to learn that I wasn’t alone in this opinion and even happy to forgo the hoped for epiphany or spiritual enlightenment, although arriving in the chaos of LAX’s International terminal was wholly reminiscent of the country I had just left behind.

Luggage from five different flights was strewn throughout the four carousels and travelers from Germany, India, Singapore, Tokyo and Ireland ran back and forth with large metal carts while airport employees tried to make sense of what was going on. It was as if the universal energy of India had followed me home and sequestered itself at Terminal 6.

And I now that I am home, I want to drive and drive and drive.

I’ve been dreaming of smooth five lane highways that are well lit and hug a pristine coastline. Driving on roads that aren’t crowded with bikes, livestock, enormous flatbed carts pulled by water buffalo, slowed by makeshift mechanics who have removed the front ends of buses and then scratch their heads at broken axels and busted radiators. Roads that weren’t dirty, rocky, smoggy or riddled with bloody car accidents where fatality was certain.

Driving myself instead of being dragged by taxi drivers hoping for a small commission to dozens of factories and bazaars from Pondicherry to Jaipur to Agra to Delhi to Rishikesh, where marble inlay tables, sandalwood boxes, statues of Ganesha, Buddha, and Gandhi, gems and pashminas, silk saris and incense, cotton shirts and kurtas, block print tablecloths are purveyed and displayed in the hundreds. “Looking doesn’t mean buying” the salesmen tell you, but they are hoping you’ll buy. Traveling as a single, white woman seems to signal that you are rich and on a serious consumer jag.

As I board the plane in Delhi, I can’t stop thinking of black boots, which I am convinced are an essential and crucially missing part of my wardrobe. I’m not sure why I am thinking about the black boots. Black shiny high pointy-toed boots, but suddenly I can’t live without them. I spend my layover at the Singapore Airport envisioning my boots and where I will look for them first. I almost settle on a pair of oversize red sunglasses.

On Washington Boulevard, we pass In and Out Burger and my craving suddenly takes a u-turn from black patent leather to meat. Remembering the chickens, pigs and sheep feeding from piles of roadside garbage, becoming strictly vegan was a piece of cake.

I’ve left clothes behind, fled an ashram, cleaned conspicuous wounds from children, hefted bricks in 80% humidity, and led a team of strangers in what I hope was a life changing experience for them. I’m spiritually, physically and emotionally spent. Or perhaps I am in reverse culture shock and filet mignon and retail therapy are my ideal solution.

I call Andy from the car to let him know I had landed who asks me thoughtfully if I want anything. “Ice cubes, hot water, and a steak, medium rare” roll off my tongue without a second thought.

And with that response, I ask the driver to stop at Starbucks for a Venti ice coffee.

One Photo Please

Despite a comprehensive plumbing system, technology prevails in India. "One photo! One photo please!" or "Camera phone? Camera phone?". Once one or the other appears out of pocket, children swarm, all wanting portraits. "One photo" translates to a single shot, one person in the photo, just them. Mothers run back to their homes to bring out newborns peering over your shoulder to see their likeness in digital screens. The team has amassed millions of photos, but we've quickly been schooled in the art of stealth photography.

When I left, people told me that I'd return to the United States with a peaceful look on my face and about ten pounds lighter. I can't say that I've found that recipe just yet. The build has been going well, despite a lot of sick team members. One young lady developed culture shock disguised as a sinus infection on our second day and wouldn't leave the hotel four consecutive days. Others developed typical colds and sun stroke, but quickly recovered. The work is very hard and it is hotter than you can imagine here. Although the humidity has not quite hit Florida in July numbers, it is a close second. Lifting bricks and pans of mortar all day leaves everyone exhausted, and daily we are put to shame by both older women and their daughters who gamely toss bricks to the masons and tote large bowls of wet cement on their heads.

We are hungry all of the time, despite the spicy indian food plentiful at meals and I sense the alchemy of this work added to the combination of India's insanity and the indigent conditions of the village we've become a part of has left everyone speechless and spent. Getting to Mamallapurum will be a great way to end the trip.

Two of our hosts, Stephen and Dyan, have treated the team to a movie titled "Sivaji", hooting and hollaring with the rest of the crowd for the three hour extravaganza. "Sivaji" stars Rajinikanth, who calls himself BOSS and has his own theme song. Wow! The final number included a spice girls type dance routine with guitars as props, flying machine guns, shot entirely at the new Gehry museum in Barcelona. "Not logic, just magic" Stephen gleefully whispers to me. I am crazy in love with Indian cinema!

After telling us that this would be the third time they had seen "Sivaji" (which is like our "Pirates" in financial success), Stephen and Dyan reveal that they are die hard members of the Kamal Husan "clan", a rival Tamil star. Last week, they presented Katy Leigh and myself with their official fan club t-shirts. India's movie fans go to great length to show their devotion. For example, a "clan" will create large banners resembling billboards with a collage of their favorite stars' photos and films, the lower half displaying smiling faces of the purchasers. These "fanners" are then strung over streets and plastered to sides of buildings, making it clear who the real heroes are.

The film clued me in to the happy disposition prevalent in the people we bustle through the streets with and sweat beside all day. Color and music and magic and faith is embedded in everything they create, whether it be legends or blockbuster movies.

More to come...

Pondicherry at Last

Six of us have brought our Lonely Planet's Guide to India with us, thus increasing the weight of our baggage by about thirty pounds. Pondicherry is recorded as a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of other Indian cities and indeed, it is. Our three hour bus ride from Chennai was an experience, with the same non-traffic rules applying for the two lane dirt highway. It was best to avert our eyes at the on-coming cars, trucks, bicycles and mopeds. As I mentioned previously, three members of the team have arrived on their own due to missed connections etc, and during this trek, I thought of what they would be experiencing, first arriving at a crazy airport in the middle of the night only to get accompany a stranger and head off into the darkness, headlights shooting to the left and right of the taxi.

Pondicherry was once a French colony and a small quarter of the city labeled "White Town" remains home to about 500 French families. White Town abuts the beach with the promenade bustling with "black" Pondicherry every evening, but that is about as close as the two populations get. Even at Auroville beach, people are separated which is odd to experience. A beautiful statue of Ghandi crowns the horizon. August 15 marked the 60th India Independence Day or "Friendship Day", and he has been fully lit up and adorned with floral wreaths of jasmine and coxcomb.

I am moved to tears by the sight of his smile, walking staff, familiar spectacles and pocket watch dangling from his dhoti.

Driving to the build site on the red clay roads and crumbling housing, we are faced with extreme poverty. Despite this, the people are happy and the children run along the side of the bus shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello!". I learn that "Hello" means "Hey You" as well. I will miss this very much when we leave. There is nothing lovelier than a chorus of children's voices greeting you in the morning.

We are working in Chinna Kotakuppam, a small village of 600 which means "small fishing village". The residents were not directly affected by the tsunami, and in fact, they aren't fisherman, but as daily labourers, once the storm hit, work was scarce for quite some time. As this particular village is the poorest of the poor in Pondicherry, the Indian government has extended its tsunami relief efforts to townships such as Kotakuppam where updated housing will certainly provide much needed shelter against the elements.

Seventy brick houses are to be completed in this particular village, each 320 square feet with terra cotta tile roofs supported by palm wood beams. To expediate construction, Habitat has integrated a women's self help group to mobilize labour and produce interlocking bricks used on half of the construction. Both styles of bricks are heavy and are dug right out of the earth surrounding the structures. Clearly we are not used to this type of work. Women with babies slung about their waists were tossing bricks to one another like it was a loaf of bread.

Although we have been laying brick, mixing the morter is off limits. There is a very stern looking man clad in boots fashioned out of plastic cement bags tied at the knees, who stands proudly at the foot of his creation, his stare warning to stay back. I have labeled him Morter Man, Chief of the Cement. When you see his picture, you will laugh. Today he actually waved to me.

In this place, there resides 200 children of all ages, the babies clad in only a red string tied about the waist run to us with big smiles and joyous waves. Other children wear various pieces of old clothing or school uniforms that look like they are in their third generation of use. About 90% go barefoot and have various cuts and sores in different stages of healing or infection. The team was so disturbed by this, we took up a collection and purchased a caches first aid supplies. Everyday for an hour, we've set up triage, and the volunteers who apply an assortment of bandaging welcome an onslaught of complaints, cuts and bruises with the more serious injuries. On a lighter note, one of the children wrote on his hand in english "please can I have one banana?".

More to come...


P.S. In case you are wondering, I have found the best coffee shop and internet cafe in Pondicherry and they know me by name!

India: An Assault on the Senses

I have been here a full week and the words to describe India elude me. Overwhelming is too small. Incredible is inaccurate. Insane is inappropriate. But "an assualt on the senses" seems to fit.

Spending two days in Chennai pretty much primed the group for what was to come. With a population of eight million, the city is as big as Los Angeles, but the sprawl and infrustructure is unlike anything I have ever witnessed. There doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason for anything. Spencer Plaza, the westernized shopping bazaar marks the center of town, and enormous billboards advertising gold, diamonds and silk saris rise above crumbling buildings housing merchants selling autoparts, truck tires, bike accessories. I try to find something to relate to, something that will keep me tied down.

Our hotel sits to the side of a main road into the city and the street noise is non-stop. And when I say that, I mean it.

Twenty four hours a day.

Horns of various timbre and volume, a quack, a blare, toot toots are all part of the cacaphony of noise. The barely paved street carries and bikes and people and motorcyles and trucks and cars and tuk tuks to destinations unknown. With the sheer mass of traffic, we find it difficult to orient ourselves. Side streets spill over with poor families, goats, dogs, chickens, cows and crude altars. Garbage is everywhere. People stare at us, some are brave enough to say hello.

Despite these bleak images, bright, color abounds from every direction, women in saris float by like snowflakes, scents of sumptuous spices from the street vendors hit our noses and assails the stench rising with the heat. Crammed buses blink multi-colored disco lights on the outside and play Bollywood movies for the passengers. All of the vehicles are brightly painted in yellows, reds, greens and turquoise. The average dump truck is its own work of art. With this juxtoposition, every image is an indelible photograph.

The group has been straggling in. One of the young women received a voice mail on her stopover in Doha that her sister had been hospitalized after a serious car accident and I've driven her back the airport in hopes that she can make it to Cincinatti. She had only just arrived ten hours before. The mother & son team have been delayed in Paris and are due to arrive in two days and after arranging transportation for them to Pondicherry, we pack up our disco bus and head south.

You're Not in Singapore Anymore

What a different a five hour flight makes.

We arrived at midnight in Chennai after the longest flight pattern I've ever traveled. LAX to Taipei, where I was lucky enough in our hour stop to find a Starbucks open at 6:30 AM, hopped back on the plane for a nine hour layover in
Singapore. If Foxwoods is the largest casino out there, Singapore Airport is its sister in size.

From full size gym and swimming pool to XBox center and live Soduko to massage & sleeping lounge to shopping galore, one can keep themselves entertained and fed for hours. Being adventurous types, we cabbed it to town where my traveling companion, Katy Leigh described memories of dancing with the snake charmer at the world famous RAFFLES hotel & long bar twenty years ago at age 8. So, off we headed into a pristine, lush city, where chewing gum is illegal, where garbage is not to be found, and an architectual mish mash of British and Asian culture. Although it was a weekday, the city resembled a ghost town. We found the inhabitants later at the mall where people rushed around shopping for Levis and Nikes. I thought Singapore would be quaint, but maybe I was mixing up my imaginary pre-WWII Asian port cities from movies like "Empire of the Sun" and "Indochine".

Chennai couldn't have been more different.

Bleary eyed and stunned by the hour wait through customs, we were barrelled out to
hundreds of family members and other greeters lining the barriers at the arrival doors to the international terminal. Our driver led us to his "MaxiTaxi" and joined the throngs of vehicles in what seemed to be a late night drag race on the narrow strip towards the outskirts of downtown Chennai. Five cars and/or motorcycles competed to fit into a two lane road, horns at a constant sounding, more for safety issues than for aggravation. "Just letting you know I'm next to you" or "Just letting you know I'm passing you" that sort of warning. The brightly colored trucks and tuk tuks display a painted "Sound Horn" sign on the back as invitation. Even with darkness surrounding us, I kept the window open and took in the energy. Cows lined the sides and medians of the road, trash was swept into piles or tossed to the side of the road, cars and bikes passed each other, people on foot wove in and out of the constantly moving traffic, Bollywood movie signs were tied to palm trees every few yards.

We arrived at the Astok Hotel, a drab little place with lots of men standing around shaking their heads at us. We were not in Los Angeles, nor Singapore any longer.

Tipping the Scales

Out of Love and Better than Ever!
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

From Bridget Jones’s Diary:

COSMO: You really ought to hurry up and get sprugged up, you know, old girl? Time's a-running out. Tick-tock.
BRIDGET: Yes, yes. Uh, tell me, is it one in four marriages that ends in divorce now or one in three?
MARK: One in three
COSMO: Seriously, though. Offices full of single girls in their thirties… fine physical specimens... but they just can't seem to hold down a chap.
WONEY: Yes. Why is it there are so many unmarried women in their thirties these days, Bridget?
BRIDGET: [Laughs] Oh, I don't know. Suppose it doesn't help that underneath our clothes our entire bodies are covered in scales.
[Faint laughter]

When Helen Fielding wrote this, she was probably chronicling a true life situation, her fingers flying across the keys as they tapped out the asinine comments she endured, comments like this one, that can really make your blood boil. At one point, before she started popping out babies with her writer boyfriend, Helen was a singleton. As a single girl myself, I can assuredly say we’re used to it, but every once in a while, something throws you off your unicycle, totally fucking up your day. Mine was a group email concerning the next family get together, namely the 2007 Summer Family Reunion.

Reading over the information concerning sleeping arrangements, I learned that “single people can have the pull out sofas”, as if to say, “Too bad! We get the beds, but you losers get the couch!” Such is the fate of the unmarried. You’re relegated to the pull out, sharing a bed with your mother, or the twin bed in the moldy basement. And add to the equation the enormous pressure a steady track record of not bringing a man to meet the family causes and you’ve got the beginnings of one hell of a pity party.


I suppose I could hire someone to accompany me to the Reunion, a la “The Wedding Date” ensuring a suite for two. And perhaps he’d be a gigolo with a heart of gold and PhD to match and we’d end up married in the forest of the Grand Tetons, but that isn’t very realistic. But you can see why movies like “The Wedding Date” are written. We are our own genre. The Single Woman. Nobody questioned my Aunt Judy when she showed up solo at family gatherings, in fact she was treated rather like a Queen, but then again, she was divorced. Some may see this as failure, but most will reason: “Well, at least she was married”.

As I slowly approach 40, the thought dawns on me, they think I’m becoming a spinster. True, I’ve had several failed engagements due to my appealing quality as the rebound girl. I’ve certainly dodged more than few bullets, but isn’t that God’s protection at work? And while I’ve been trying to realign the steering on my relationship vehicle, just because I haven’t been married doesn’t mean that I’m a freak. And it doesn’t mean I’m gay either. I include this because indeed, I’ve had more than a few of my own assine Bridget Jones-like experiences. One I’ve been mulling over since my dad’s funeral when an Uncle, apparently having left his tact at home, opined, “You know, if you wanted to bring your girlfriend, that would be OK”. Thoughts of flying kung fu stars spun through my head. It wasn’t enough that I had just watched my father die, drove through a rainstorm that in hindsight rivaled Katrina, sat through an appalling ceremony in a town not my home, but I had to listen to this shit?

What would possess him to say something so dim witted during the most emotional event in my life? Oh…that’s right. Here I am again, without a mate. I guess that leaves me open for public assault, thoughtless commentary and lumpy pullout sofas. I rely on the sizzle of snark, replying “Listen,
Angelina’s on location, okay? Do you have to rub it in?” and walk away leaving him with a perplexed expression. And believe me, if I were into the ladies, I’d be out and proud of it, but the fact is, I really am holding out for Angelina.


I have faith that one of these days, I'll meet Mr. Right. That's what keeps me out there, volunteering, going to the dog park, accepting all invitations, including countless weddings, (against the advice of David LeBarron who knows how depressed I get afterwards), racking up ridiculous registry debt.

Which begs me to clarify something. The big misnomer movies have led bleeding girlish hearts to believe is that your beauty and charm has struck Prince Charming dumb since you caught the bouquet and he simply cannot wait another second to whisk you out on the dance floor during the theme to “Titanic”, however, the truth is when you get to be over 35, bachelors at weddings are about as rare as a dodo bird. And when they do exist, most likely, one of the single females will sniff out any availabilities early on, regardless of age or temperament, and proceed to hunt down and eliminate the competition. Being single can make women crazy, but stupid observations, like “Why aren’t you married? You must have a problem. You should really think about that”, can really drive you over the edge.

This is what my dear Uncle advises me over the summer when I crashed at his place, on the sofa, I might add, while driving across the country to my 47th wedding, the 13th I’ve been a member of party, and my 2nd time as Maid of Honor. I’m not close to this Uncle. We rarely talk. He’s definitely not a father figure to me. However uncouth, he personifies what other people are thinking. My defense had been fortified, but someone so obtuse would not think success and happiness was a truthful answer, so once again relying on my wit, I take a cue from Elizabeth I, responding drily: “I am married. To England”. Friends, you have to find the absurdity in these situations.

Society seems to have a problem with Single Women. Bridget/Helen may be right. There must be scales on our skin, some inexplicable defect. When I’m at my craziest, I can convince myself that plastic surgery is the answer, my fatal flaw being my less than ample rack. Imagining the next time I hear “You’re still single?” I can reply, “You know what? I blame my mother. She always told me I’d be huge like my Nana, but wait and watch as I did, hoping for Playboy breasts, they've never gotten bigger than they are today. What I really need are some saline C’s to add to this package.” I imagine the look on my Uncle’s face when I get the chance to use this little revelation on him.

Would I trade my situation for an unhappy marriage? Absolutely not. I have a great life, one that I created, one that I love. But allow me to let you in on a little secret. We don’t yearn to be a solo act. It’s not a lifetime goal, at the end of which we are awarded with a crown and a wreath of gold. Even the uber single and fabulous Carrie Bradshaw wraps up her six year on screen stardom sashaying down the avenue with Mr. Big. So we press on, hopefully with some grace, dignity and a sense of humor. Auntie Mame makes the best of it with her boozy buddy Vera Charles until she meets Beauregard. Of course, he eventually falls off a cliff, leaving her a widower, (and a millionairess), but you get the picture.

As for the reunion, I’ve conjured up my fabulous Aunt Judy, and reserved my own lake front cabin. Maybe I’ll be joined by the spirits of Mame & Vera and we’ll toast martinis in the moonlight. And I’ll hope my Uncle gets the pull out sofa.

House Sold/Where To?

Working Sisyphus-like on the weeds one weekend, I heard Suzy Orman’s voice on NPR advising, “If it’s not your dream house, sell it!” Despite the amount of TLC I had put into Oak Grove over the past four years, it took me two seconds to answer that question. I added my resolution to downsize to the equation and determined that listing my house would certainly jumpstart this lifestyle change.

However, despite the attempt to overhaul my feng shui, I was unreasonably shaky after Robin drove off with the sofa bed and mosaic patio furniture from Further. Books have been carefully catalogued and packed in boxes. Closets have been emptied. The move has started. And even though it isn’t the ocean side cottage I’ve dreamt about, Oak Grove has been a safe harbor for me.

Of course, what this musing means is that I’ve finally sold my house, listed for almost nine months - a gestation worthy of celebration. It’s been a bumpy road in what we’re being sold as a buyers “market”, but a road that ultimately led the perfect owners to this haven.

Wanting to find the right people became a mission, forcing me to acknowledge the fierce protectiveness towards the sanctuary I created; Jeanette & Hal Whitstone’s address for fifty years and personally designed in 1941 by Lillian Anderson before them. I spent hours philosophizing with my realtor, and after two failed attempts at purchase, the universe answered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That I recognize Oak Grove as home is odd to me, because I when I bought it, I was in the throws of grief and blind love simultaneous attacking my system.

The thing about grief is that it is personal and it can attach itself to you in many forms. Mine was retail therapy, including the purchase of this house, bought at the behest of my boyfriend who insisted that when he moved to Los Angeles, we would need a bigger place and a garage in which to park his aging sports car.

But when I found myself alone while he was off trying his hand at motorcycle racing, I discovered just how much disrepair the property was in, one night coming home to rain running down the walls of the dining room. After calling my angel, Antonio, who hurriedly and rather blindly arranged tarps on the roof, I sat down on the floor and cried.

Eventually, we broke up, but I was buoyed to fully restore and make Oak Grove my own by the prevalent creative energy of my predecessors. And in the next months spent roofing, flooring, painting, and planting, part of me became ingrained in the foundation.

In the past four years, I’ve developed a morning routine; a daily check up on the state of things, coffee in tow, chatting through the fence with Carlos, a source of infinite wisdom, peer in on the gold fish I’ve fed to Koi size, measure the progress of the Madagascar, Arabian, Pink Star, Angel Wing and Night Blooming jasmine I’ve planted, planning for their sweet aroma to fill the yard all twelve months of the year. I note how the lilac vine Hope, Debbie & Nancy presented on my 37th birthday has taken over the lower deck and am awed by the beauty of the sparkling red passiflora Dick & James, my other next door neighbors, presented for a house warming gift.

I gauge the progress of cuttings I’ve brought from Poppy Peak and before that, Silver Lake, of the aloe and other native succulents inherited from another neighbor, and the clivia lillies Hal planted for Jeannette that I’ve separated for James, and the irises he & Dick have separated for me. My Alpine Ginger has finally decided to explode with dozens of white, pink and yellow clusters of bell shaped flowers. I’ve been surprised by the full scented freesia blooming in early spring and cursed the birds for keeping me awake at night with their singing and chatter.

My kitchen sits high above the street at the corner of Wiota & Oak Grove and I often call out from my windows to neighbors, yell at drivers ignoring the Stop sign or quietly sit while an spectacular sunset commands my attention.

Many things happen between the walls of a house. Hearts break, vows are made, new recipes tested, ginger snaps explode in the oven. And there are triumphs, excitement of new love, the thrill of discovering a white owl softly hooting in the night atop one of the large and very old California oak trees.

I think about these things as I take pictures down off the wall and fill in the holes. The house has begun to feel empty and I’m constantly finding objects I don’t use. A veritable plethora of vases, a coral shirt recklessly purchased, things I don’t want to take with me to wherever it is I’m going. And that is a big question mark. As Jeff says, I’m in the great unknown.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for over fourteen years; the longest I’ve lived anywhere since leaving Sudbury on the edge of 17. Our little Cape was the last place I called home, and when my parents sold it, the moving out was painful. I cried everyday until the moving van pulled out of the driveway. It was in this place that I felt wholly myself, where my family was, where both kids and adults shot hoops on the basketball court into the evening, where the hostas my mother planted besides the birch trees on the side yard bloomed and where the stump, a sad empty reminder of the weeping willow cleaved out after it threatened the water pipes, lay among the crocuses in the front yard.

As I contemplate my predicament in the final weeks of escrow, the two new creative spirits that will add their own experiences to the mixture hearten me. During the inspection, while we sat on the upper deck among the treetops, I pointing out the different varieties of plants and narrating a brief history of the property, my heart knew that Tom & Sharon were sent to take over the story.

I’m both scared and exhilarated to think that I’ll be homeless soon, the closing date two days before departing for India as a Team Leader for Habitat. I consciously look forward to getting out of the country, recalling David LeBarron once describing me as a seed in the wind. Perhaps that’s true. I always seem to be moving, on the go, infected with the traveling bug.

I not only desire, but dream of a clean, well lighted place to hang my hat. And when I return without an address or a utility bill, I’m confident the universe will point me in the right direction.

Yes, I Am 40

For my father’s 40th, my mother topped a beautiful three-layer cake with trick candles. Everyone was in on the joke and we held our breath as Bob, always a smoker, challenged himself to blow out all of the candles in one take. With room aglow, he made his wish and extinguished every one, flashing a smug grin to the room until a few seconds later the candles flickered and relit themselves. The look on his face was priceless. He couldn’t quite understand what had happened and blew them out again, as if the first attempt was imagined. It’s strange to have such a brilliant memory of the oldest person I knew turning 40 and then to do it myself.

My own birthday did not have trick candles or even 40 candles at that. My friends were cautious to create a youthful atmosphere, especially given my penchant for lying about my age, a habit started fresh out of college. As the Company Manager aboard the S/S Norway, and essentially the Boss of the theater department, (mostly ex-Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders hastily schooled in tap and put into a 90-minute version of “42nd Street”), I found it worked to my advantage to be a teeny bit older; and really, there was something glamorous about fibbing the years.

What’s funny about this white lie is that I’m finally ready to accept the four decades in my history. I preface sentences with “… well, now that I’m 40” peaking sideways at people’s reactions knowing full well that I don’t look my age. It must be because at 25, rationalizing it was never to late to start early, I made my way to the Lancôme counter at Macy’s 34th Street and armed myself with over $250 worth of products guaranteed to shield me against the aging process. Of course, that didn’t deter me from smoking and drinking throughout my 20s and 30s, but I thought eye cream would give me an advantage. I wasn’t ready for wrinkles, already feeling too old as the date approached.

With the belief that one must fete momentous occasions with a plenty of champagne and a party dress, people crowded into my East 19th Street apartment that March of ‘92. If you were there, you’ll remember David LeBarron singing a medley of highlights from “Evita”, the neighbors across the air shaft hurling cans of Comet at the windows, cops arriving to break up the Saturday night soiree and charming our way out of a “Disturbing the Peace” ticket and around the corner to the Irish bar on 2nd Avenue until the wee small hours. I had everything to live for and somehow it wasn’t enough. The sweetness I felt pretending to be a quarter century while ship bound was replaced by a compulsory pressure to measure up to the achievements of other 25 year olds like Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, Orson Welles, Hal Prince, Dorothy Parker, and even Cameron Crowe.

In retrospect, it’s laughable. Maybe that is the folly of youth, because even though I made enormous demands on myself, it was the same year I left for Paris to work at the Theatre du Chatelet, fulfilling a lifelong dream and memorializing it by getting a tattoo on my right thigh lest I forget the importance of this occasion, which clearly I had.

By this point in my short life, I had graduated with honors from a college I had helped to pay for, spent a semester abroad in Austria, signed the lease for my Manhattan apartment, knew what a carnet was and could fill one out, toured a group of Africans from five different countries, produced a 16mm black and white short, and had fallen head over heels in love three times and accepted my first marriage proposal.

Cut to fifteen years later. With the rings around my trunk becoming a little more visible, this is the moment I’ve finally come of age, as if my past wish for being older and my older wish of being young have finally met. “By 50 I hope I’ll be on an Ashram somewhere inhaling the spirit of life and wisdom.” I say to the party guests during a little impromptu speech. Christine comments as she lights the candles; “Sister, I hope not!” And then the Elvis impersonator jokes that I don’t look 40. “I know!” I exclaim.

And the good news is that thanks to either good living or Lancôme, I don’t feel 40. I find myself liberally tossing around my license as if I might be carded, accepting dates from 31 year olds while trying to negotiate exactly what age-appropriate dress is because by this time, I thought I’d surely be donning Chanel suits like Jackie O instead of my Lucky’s and a tank top.

As I was driving home from Vegas, thinking about the party LeeAnn had thrown me, the friends and family that had flown in from around the country, a vision that wafted in with the soft desert air. If 30 is passing the torch of wild nights and career maneuverings to a 19 year-old, 40 is reflecting on your accomplishments, both in work and spirit.

I thought about the dream jobs and world travels I’ve had, the cache of catchy stories most of you have heard more than a dozen times, the string of ex-boyfriends who make for good fodder when I need something to write about. Every major decision, I’ve made by my own consul, whether it was the college I attended, buying a car from the dealership, or the purchase of the house I live in. I’ve learned to navigate Manhattan, Minneapolis and the Paris Metro. I’ve bought and sold hundreds of items in yard sales, (for example the seven sofas I amassed until I found the perfect one), hosted a slew of fabulous Silver Lake parties that reached epic status in the '90s, and I make a ceviche that garners Lupe’s praise.

But most importantly, to spend a milestone event with people that have been there for you, believe in you, and love you no matter what. Well. The fabulous gown and the Vegas icon in his light blue jumpsuit are just gravy.

Looking around room, in the presence of so many with whom I have a strong history, a feeling of invincibility overtook me and new dreams sprouted out of nowhere - I want to sell my house, move to Spain, have an affair with a bull fighter like Lady Brett, start an artist retreat, build my own house, plant a winter garden, perfect my French, master the Salsa Dance, learn to fly. With nothing to tether me, the sky is my limit.

Thoreau said, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately. I want to live deep and suck the marrow out of life, to put to rout all that is not life and not, when I came to die, realize that I had not lived."

Somehow, thanks to your belief in me, I had lived into this devotion.

During the long ride home, I let everything fall away and thought about my new life goals. If at this point, the most important is my quest for purposeful work and a meaningful relationship, well, that’s pretty lucky.

And until further notice, I’m 40.

Hypochondria Happens

Leave it to the Divine Miss M to quip, “After thirty, a body has a mind of its own”. Personally, my mind started losing it as well, and thus year 39 launched with what experienced experts might call “growing pains”.

I had difficulty recalling events of the day before. I couldn’t fall asleep. My knees had checked into the school of hard knocks making it impossible to wear the fabulous assortment of heels I had amassed over the years.


During a Passover Seder, I cornered a doctor, and in bad social form, blurted out “I’m sure you hate it when people do this…” … and described my multiple aches, pains and memory problems. She seemed to listen sympathetically, until bluntly cutting in, “You know… we are getting older”. My eyes clouded and I quickly dismissed her prognosis, pressing her to recommend a colleague.

But I was concerned that a “heads up” from my new friend would color a savvy New York doctor. I concluded that adjusting to a new time zone and unnatural cold weather were the cause and immediately forgot about my problems.

That June, I scheduled my annual check up with Los Angeles’ most eligible widower and my general practitioner, Dr. Mitch. Among my other symptoms, something was definitely wrong with my right hip. Applied pressure was agonizing. I looked up into his eyes, asking in earnest, “Do I need a replacement?”

Dr. Mitch has this way of looking at you like you might be crazy, but that he’s going to refrain from judgment and treat you accordingly. I love him.

“Well…” he turned to give me the news eye to eye; “…you’re not a spring chicken anymore”.

Now really. Was this little piece of information necessary?

Nevertheless, I made my “bursa” as in “bursitis”, an event, even affecting a bit of a limp. While most furrowed their brows, those over 40 knew exactly what I was talking about.

My condition required a rheumatologist to administer a cortisone shot. So, following my return from NoLa, I double dosed on doctors, stopping first at Dr. Rinale then onto Dr. Mitch, where my seriously poisonous spider bite turned out to be a mild rash. “Probably sweaty gloves”. These are not the words you want to hear from your soon-to be-fiancé.

During my build in South Dakota, Dr. R’s office called me with the news that my blood work revealed low platelets. “Do I have cancer? I’d rather know now and get the hard part over with” I stoically demanded. “We don’t need go there right now” she replied. “Just come in for another draw when you get back into town”.

Her ambivalent response ramped up the paranoia, and I pestered the group’s retired nurse about her cryptogram. Apparently, it could mean my blood wasn’t clotting properly. I arrived home and immediately fell ill. Dizzy, exhausted, lightheaded, I awaited any kind of scratch to check clotting quickness. I consulted the Angry Man, king of all illnesses. He asked me when I got so Jewish, stating that he hoped I really was sick so I would quit smoking. As he lectured me, I put the phone down and googled “low platelets”.

Clotting wasn’t the only issue. It seemed I could have Bone Marrow Cancer. The symptoms almost certainly matched mine. I made an emergency appointment with Dr. Mitch for the following day, apologizing profusely. Despite the “spring chicken” comment, I still had a huge crush on the Doctor. There is no way I want him to think I’m nuts.

After taking the requisite pulse, temperature, & blood pressure, he banged my head with his reflex hammer and asked me if I heard tones. I knew it. Something was drastically wrong. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to get the tears to roll back into my eyes.

“At first I thought you were crazy”, Dr. Mitch began, “But the ringing and the lightheadedness got me thinking” he said. I asked him, desperately trying to control the quiver in my voice, “What’s your plan?” “Well”, said my future husband, “We’re going to try a couple of things and then I’ll see you next week”. He left the room.

I had Bone Marrow Cancer. Who would be my match? Was he giving me experimental medication? Would Dr. Mitch even consider marriage now or was I destined to die alone, eaten by my cat like the corpse in “6 Feet Under”/Episode 18?"

He walked back into the room, turned to shut the door, and coolly handed over a weeks worth of Allegra D and Nasonex. Sinus medications.

Although my blood work came back normal, I wasn’t convinced that mere dust and pollen was the cause of my memory loss and severe sleeping disorder. I left it to my girlfriends to fill in the blanks. With three almost-professional opinions, it seemed everything pointed to my thyroid. My stomach looked distended. I’d been unsuccessfully trying to lose the 10 pounds I gained on my cross-country trip. Sudden weight gain, incidentally, is a symptom of hypothyroidism.

After visiting a website specializing in home diagnosis of thyroid abnormalities, I forced Dr. Mitch to recommend an endocrinologist; securing a back up plan just in case. According to thyroidpower.com, it’s common knowledge that doctors misread the C125 and Free 3 levels all the time. They could send me home when in fact I could still be dying.

My sonogram revealed cysts living on my glands. As I prepared myself for surgery and the phone call I would have to make to my mother, the lab doctor, escorting me out the building, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Nothing to worry about, they’ll probably go away on their own. You’re not going to die yet!”

But it wasn’t my thyroid, it seems that eating nuts and sitting for longs periods of time in a car can be rough on the intestinal track and after a three-day cleanse and the addition of seaweed salads into my diet, I began to feel much better.

That is, until October when the palpitations started in. Just as I was about to fall asleep, my heart would begin booming, reverberating through the springs in my mattress. I hated to do it, but I picked up the phone and called Dr. Mitch.

He dutifully took more blood, studied the pictures of my tiny thyroid cysts, administered a panic attack test and scheduled a heart echo. I warned my family. This could be serious. My ticker was torquing and who knew what that meant. Perhaps this perplexed the doctors as well since I never received a phone call from either.

In the meantime, after a year of listening to my failing health, David LeBarron has given me a Hypochondria Wheel, which shouts “Yes, You're Probably Dying!”

As a matter of fact, my hair was falling out in clumps.

Hair loss. Sharp pains in the ear. I lined up the wheel. My illness seemed to be something called “Folliculitis“, however, next to the diagnosis, it read “But you’re probably just aging”.

I didn’t need to hear that a third time.

Celebrating the Dead

Death clouded my periphery towards the end of 2006. People close to me were losing loved ones quite unexpectedly, without warning.

I particularly feel their loss since my father died the same way. It is both shocking and painful when death hits so swift, blindsiding you. The luncheon date doesn’t show up, you don’t hear from your brother that night, your father stares at you blankly while the dentures fall out of his mouth just minutes after he was whistling “Can’t Take That Away From Me” on West Broadway.

Filling the hole left behinds seems impossible. Last week on Gray’s Anatomy, after George’s dad dies, he tells Christina that he doesn’t know how to live in this life without him. Life will never be the same. As we move forward, get back to our jobs, medicate, go away from the scene of the crime as far as we can, we believe that the hole will fill itself. But it remains there, your soul permanently perforated.

And so it was with reluctance that I filled out the form to reserve our space at Forever Hollywood’s annual Day of the Dead festival. Although my brother and I had made a commitment to each other, as written on this blog a year ago, to construct something commemorating our father, my enthusiasm had waned to a snail’s pace. In the weeks preceding the event, Phil and I half-heartedly discussed a few conceptual ideas but I was secretly hoping he would back out so I could have an excuse to stay home.

I suppose this is why I’ve heard it said that death affects the living the worst. Maybe it's the fear of reliving that first moment of loss. In contrast, I’m sure the spirit world is ecstatic when Dia de los Muertos comes along. And my father is not to be excluded from this rowdy group.

After agreeing on who would bring what, we arrived at 9:30 AM and stayed in that cemetery until past midnight. I didn’t imagine I’d spend an entire day among gravestones and all the while, having a ball. We cavorted with skeletons, admired the dedicated and commercialized Ramones fans, cleared the path for hordes of Aztek dancers and performance artists, feasted on homemade tamales and reminisced about our father to thousands of visitors. Once we started, it became easy to talk about him. There were so many quirks that made up his sparkling personality.

We created a simple altar, covering an old card table with chili peppers, charms, sun flowers, a DVD of the Red Sox World Series win, a JFK souvenir, traditional skeletons and the makings for martinis. For our backdrop, Philip had enlarged and mounted photographs which we crudely attached to bamboo poles stuck into the earth. We laid marigolds, sage and clove incense among the candles.

Invariably, his Ted Williams t-shirt on display sparked the question “Did he get to see them win?” and guests were disappointed that he hadn’t until we pointed out a ticket from Fenway where we illegally spread his ashes.


When it got dark, and the temperature dropped, we lit our candles and plugged in the large old-fashioned Christmas lights similar to the ones Bob was caretaker to at our house on Pratts Mill Road.

Later in the evening, I learned that we had brought our gringo approach with us. We didn’t realize that offerings, such as food & drink items, were for the dead. As we talked about Bob, it just seemed natural that someone should start mixing martinis. Philip took the job, and while people gathered around the altar looking at our memorabilia, we passed out lollipops and stuffed olives and recalled especially memorable character traits about Bob. At one point, I looked over at my brother, donning his Sox cap chatting with four visitors, all sipping from concave cocktail glasses, laughing about something, Sinatra softly crooning in the background. I thought Bob would have liked this. A party where everyone is welcome.

Already in the works for next year's festival are designs for an elaborate altar where we plan to grill steak. And I encourage you to celebrate the life of those you’ve loved and lost by joining us at the Forever Hollywood cemetery. To borrow from "The Wonder Years", "Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose.