distractions

A bass drum thrummed like a heartbeat behind the wall next door.

No big deal. There were only twenty of us, sitting on the other side, in lotus, attempting to meditate.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Is that Drake? I wondered for a hot sec.

I’ve participated in that Sunday morning, nine-thirty meditation for six months now and this was the first time the thump thump “music” had encroached. 

Huh. Interesting. 

That wasn’t the only thing that was different. 
Laurie, our usual teacher, and the ONLY one I’ll go to because she isn’t twenty-two, with a Valley Girl accent, spray tan, and a whopping year and a half of mediation under her Gucci belt—was absent. 

In other words—there was a sub.

I tried my best not to get all twitchy, but I’m not a fan of substitute anything.
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, Veggie burgers, Vegan cheese—just to name just a few.

I could feel the anger rise up inside me. My ears caught fire and I started clenching my jaw like I was arguing a case before the Supreme Court. “Your honor, YOU can’t handle the truth!”

In other words, I was losing my shit—in meditation class. Which translates, in every language known to man and some that aren’t, as an “epic fail”.

Every fiber of my being wanted to jump to my feet—flip a table—start a fire—spill hot coffee—and then race to my car.

Repressed rage, party of one?

‘There’s a reason Laurie’s not here,’ the calmer, less violent part of me reasoned as it gorilla glued my butt to the cushion. ‘Stay and figure it out 
Maybe this woman will be good. 
Maybe you’ll learn something. 
She’s just different, not BAD.’

Fine. You win. (But insert resting bitch face here.)

So I did. And she was, maybe not better, but really, really good.

Then, in the middle, just when I’d started to drool, the thump thump began.
Huh. Interesting. Drool. 
Seriously? Drool.
I’m so glad I’m in here and not in…drool.

When we came out of mediation, the first thing Kim, the sub, remarked on was the thump thump.

“Does this always happen?” she asked the class. Half shook their heads no, while the other half said yes, which wasn’t true, but that’s what happens when you ask a group of people to weigh in on anything. 

“Because I have a thing with ambient music,” Kim-The-Sub confessed, ratting herself out.
Oh, really? Over the years I’ve struggled with the frustration that comes from trying to meditate in a city like LA. Don’t get me started on leaf blowers!

Anyway, I could relate so I went full meerkat.

“Ever since a Buddhist retreat in 1999 (okay, how much do I LOVE that not only was she was alive in 1999—she was at a meditation retreat!) music seems determined to interrupt my meditation. From jinky Tibetan street music, to heavy metal, to the ice cream truck, it’s all out to get me!”

Makes sense, right? That explained why that strange thump, thump tried to interrupt our class for the first time in well, ever. 

Because just like the rest of us, Kim brings herself wherever she goes! She has her narrative—about annoying music— complete with traveling evidence!

Can I get an amen? Because, I mean, who doesn’t love proof of the obsurd fact that we bring our shit wherever we go?

I’m feeling warm fuzzies for Kim-The-Sub who may have just rocketed to the top of my list of favorite meditation teachers. 

I’m thinkin’ she’s a keeper.

Carry on,
xox

I’m doing it you guys. Every minute of every day so far. I can’t help myself. I am completely and unabashedly obsessed with the property NEXT DOOR to our resort.

When we arrived earlier this week all of the shutters were down.
It was closed up tight. Like the legs of a Catholic school girl, tight. Well, being that I was a Catholic school girl once maybe that’s a bad example—but you know what I mean. Shuttered up. Closed.
“Nothing going on here, move along”, kind of closed.

While the lovely young man was giving my husband the tour of our room I was craning my neck to the left, hanging precariously off the balcony to get a better look.

“So…what’s the story over there?” I asked our sweet guy trying to sound nonchalant, less like a creeper.

“Those are private condos”, he replied, kind of annoyed that I had interrupted his prepared spiel and he’d lost his place and was going to have to start all over.

Private condos. With their own infinity pools. And a sandy private beach. Me likey.

Now, our resort is nothing to sneeze at. It is gorgeous squared. But I can’t help it—I’m intrigued.

I hear you. Mind your own business. Isn’t that what you’re saying? Well, cut it out.

The next morning I asked the woman who was dropping off towels, “Why do you think no one is at those private condos over there, why are they all closed up at this time of year?” So I at least sounded like I knew what I was talking about and less like a curious paparazzi, I added, “After all, it’s the height of the season.”

She shrugged (in the nicest possible way), then as she closed the door she dropped this cryptic little grenade with a thud right at my feet: “They will come.”

My, how Field of Dreams of her.

Now, the second thing I do in the mornings is to check on the shutter status of those condos.

The first thing I do is pee. The third thing I do is wish I had a pair of binoculars. I’m just too embarrassed to answer the expected probing questions: “Why? What are you going to look at?”, or I’d ask for them.
The staff here is so solicitous they would print some on a 3d printer for me if I wanted them to.
But I can’t stand the preliminary scrutiny.

I want to stare at those condos over there! Are the shutters open? Are there signs of life? What are they up to over there? You know, stuff like that!

Mind your own business lady.
Fail.
Here come the Federales to take me away. At least I have a nice, new pair of binocu…

Well, while I was looking away, you know, living my life, sure enough sometime during the day yesterday, “they come”.

Not only were the shutters pulled aside, several of the large sliding glass doors were thrown open so I could see inside!!! I got so excited I almost dropped my mojito.

It was a vision right out of a magazine. All white interior with large modern art and white furnishings just as I had imagined.
You see, I had imagined an entire scenario over there. Hey, I’d had three whole days!
Three days inside this head is more than a lifetime to most people.

I had manufactured the craziest shit going on over in the private condos.

In my imagination George Clooney and his uber-skinny wife Amal inhabit the entire top floor, which totally makes sense since I haven’t seen a soul. Not one sign of life besides open shutters. They are stealth those two. They. Are. Pros.
Amal is probably standing right there, turned sideways so I can’t see her.
Smart girl.

On the second story are Cindy Crawford and Randy Gerber…oh yeah and their kids I suppose. But who cares? You guys! Cindy fucking Crawford! Yucking it up at MY private condos! On MY private beach!
I know those two couples vacation together in Mexico. I have it from the most reliable of sources. Instagram.

THAT is the truth. The rest of this is a pack of lies…or is it?

Yesterday I was in the men’s section of the spa (you don’t want to know), where they have the most incredible birds eye view of MY private condos from their window seats, so I ran like the wind back to my locker on the ladies side to get my phone in order to take this picture. I was desperately hoping I wouldn’t have to explain to any indignanat man with his penis at eye level (remember, I’m in the men’s section) why I’m sitting with my face pressed against the glass, taking pictures IN A SPA—and lucky for me, (and him), I did not.

Never mind.
From that vantage point, I had such a great view of their perfect little sandy beach.
It made me want to brave the jagged rocks and pounding surf that surround our resort and Diana Nyad my way over there. But if you remember from the 25 Things You Don’t Know About Me, I’m a weak swimmer and I didn’t want to wash up all waterlogged and choking up seaweed— Hell no! I wanted to walk out of the surf impossibly hot, like fucking Haley Barry in that James Bond film I can’t remember the name of.

So I axed that plan.

This evening there were many open shutters. “They HAD come.”
Still no sign of any human life. Maybe people THAT fantastic are invisible to us mere mortals. I’ll have to Google that when I get a chance.

I’m currently imagining one hell of a New Year’s Eve bash over there after I’m gone.
Fireworks, Casa Amigos Tequila flowing like…Tequila flows in Mexico. The whole shebang. George, Cindy, sideways Amal and Randy…and the kids I guess. In MY beautiful, hillside private condos.

So…are you at least a little like me?
Do you LOVE to look in other people’s windows?
Do you spend hours imaging the going’s on over at your resort-adjacent neighbors fabulous condos?
Do you make up entire lives just-over-there in order to amuse yourself?

You do? Me too! Let’s all fly our freak-flags together!

Or are you thinking this girl’s got too much time on her hands! Mind your own business, Janet! You’re being just plain nosey?
Perhaps.

Am I missing the moment? Probably. Or maybe I’m creating my own. I would be advising you all to be in the moment, wouldn’t I?

Fuck that. I’m having a ball.
Almost as good of a time as the Clooney’s.

Carry on,
xox

I was rushing. Running to meet friends for lunch. I’m you. I’m attempting to fit 700 hours of mindless, holiday bullshit (and some fun), into 24.

I was rushing. Running late ( y’all know how I feel about punctuality). I missed one parking spot. The prime one. The meter right in front of the restaurant. Inside my car, there could be heard a string of obscenities mixed with Christmas carols. That’s wrong isn’t it? Sacrilegious somehow. Nevertheless…I circled around in my brand new car, cursing and FaLaLa-ing my way around the block.

Ah Ha!
Success!
A spot down the street with minutes to spare. I stopped, getting into position to parallel park.
As I watched the cars zipping by me, waiting for the opportunity to back into the spot, I could feel my patience leaving me like a leaky balloon.

“Come on, come ooooooooon!”

There was a pedestrian running along the sidewalk eyeballing the street for a break in the traffic and his opportunity to jay-walk.

Meanwhile, for some unknown reason, the traffic in the lane next to me suddenly screeched to a halt. Rushing. We were all rushing somewhere.

That’s when the motorcycle sideswiped my car. My brand new car. The car filled with foul-mouthed impatience. And Michael Buble.

I felt the jostle at the back of the car at the same time I heard the deafening sound of my side-view-mirror exploding right next to my face. Violently. Loudly. A million pieces flying in every direction.

The motorcycle, in order to miss becoming a splat on the back of the car next to me, veered in between us. Except there wasn’t enough room. As her bike got squirrelly—because she was rushing—the left side of my car took the brunt.

The pedestrian hit the deck as a piece of mirror whizzed past his head.

Stunned and in shock, I slowly turned down the radio. In a situation like this Celine Dion singing “This is The Special Time” is definitely NOT the soundtrack you want playing in the background. After checking to make sure the man with the quick reflexes was uninjured,(which we accomplished with a combination of mime and wild, wide-eyed facial expressions), I zipped around the corner to find the motorcyclist.

I had seen her hobble the injured bike onto an adjacent side street where she was now walking in circles, helmet off, obviously shaken up.

I ride motorcycles. I know that fear, that rush of adrenaline that accompanies a close-call.

We hugged. We checked the damage. Mine was moderate. Purely cosmetic.
Hers was minor except for the loss of her handbrakes. That sucked. That left her with unrideable transportation. A bike dead in the water.

We called our husbands. That call sucks ass.
“Hi Babe, Yeah, I had an accident thingy with the car..”
“Are you ok? Is everyone okay?” You can feel the concern.

We exchanged all of the appropriate info. I was late, REALLY late for lunch. She was going to miss work altogether.

Rushing.
We‘re all rushing, rushing, rushing around like headless chickens right now. You can feel it in the energy.
It’s chaotic and buzzy, frantic and fuzzy. We’re distracted. Nobody is looking where they’re going.
I got it. AFTER I received my Universal slap across the face. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but you can bet now we’re BOTH paying attention.

Let’s all Slooooooooow Dooooooown.

The lives we save may be our own.

Carry on,
But not too fast, I want you all around for at least another year!
xox