rushing

I’ve been traveling lately. A lot. Much more than usual.
Three countries in two weeks. Eight flights. More shitty airport food than I care to remember.

It’s one reason you haven’t heard from me lately. The other fifty have to do with varying degrees of slothiness, jet lag, and a profound lack of inspiration.

Anyway, one trip was a two-week motorcycle ride through southern Italy. Rome to Sicily.

The other, two days after my return from Italy, was a journey to Tofino, a town on the wild western coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. From LA it takes a plane, a ferry, lots of coffee, and four-plus hours (depending on the weather and road conditions) of driving to get there. To say it’s all worth it is an understatement, so I will not do it that disservice. Just suffice it to say—WOW.

All of this to say, for both it was the journey, not the ultimate destination that captivated me and made me practically pee my pants with delight. Don’t get me wrong, Sicily and all of the cites and towns we visited were amazing and I blow another zipper just remembering the food. But it was the ride each day through the countryside to get there and then exploring the island and making memories with the fabulous people in our group that was—bellisimo!

The same goes for Tofino.

So I was reminded, as I often am, not to rush through things.

Here’s a short excerpt from my self-talk with that part of me that knows more wise shit than I ever will:

Them: Remember, LIFE is the journey.
Me: What?!
Them: You heard us!
Me: I know, but that always gets me.
Them: We know. Maybe, eventually, you’ll remember it.

Here’s the thing: If I were only interested in getting to Sicily, I could have flown directly there, had dinner, taken a selfie, and flown home. Same with Tofino (although the scuttlebutt says that flight is so harrowing you need to carry a change of underwear in your purse). So never mind.

The point is, LIFE is the journey!
Slow down.
Take it all in.
Be grateful.
Have fun.

Amen.

Carry on,
xox

The energy was a bit frantic this weekend and it carried into Monday.

After all, It’s mid December.

I hiked, had some Facetimes with two of my tribe members whom I love, and then before I started gnawing on own arm I decided to make myself something to eat. These days I’ve been preparing a lovely riced cauliflower dish which I convince myself through the power of my mind and copious amounts of butter, salt and pepper, is perfectly steamed jasmine rice.

Some days it tastes like a big carb cheat. Most days it does not. It tastes like sock drawer lint covered in butter, salt and pepper.

I’m doing this during December because I just so happen to have the ingredients for Toll House chocolate chip cookies in the house and so I consider myself armed and dangerous. Dozens of cookies could be baked at a moments notice so I feel better eating them knowing I had something bland, tasteless, and carb free for lunch.

So you can imagine my horror when I opened the butter dish only to find a sliver of butter left behind and none in the fridge. This sliver should have never been left there. It was barely enough to butter one piece of toast. The culprit, and I’m not naming names, but his initials are RB, should have just used it up and left out the empty butter dish so I would have bought butter when I was out shopping, oh, I don’t know, every day this past weekend.

Anyway, I has just enough time to run to the market to fetch some butter for my lint before my friend Kim was due to arrive, AND I had on the appropriate clothing. I have been known to run to the market for a stray ingredient (not big grocery shopping mind you), in whatever I have on in the moment. Pajama bottoms, a stained sweatshirt and flip-flops, shorts, no bra and Uggs to name a few examples. It’s like I’m running out to the garage, not a public place. So…if you ever see me—I apologize in advance.

Today I had on real pants…a bra…and some proper shoes. This is worth mentioning.

So, I raced to our nearby Ralphs, grabbed a butter (salted, of course), and finally, finally, several poinsettia plants that did’t look as if they’d fallen off the back of the truck. I checked myself out at the Self Checkout (because I am so fast it’s not even fair), ran back to my car in a very crowded and chaotic December parking lot and unloaded my one bag while an SUV waited patiently for my primo spot.

In my rush to expedite the entire process and because I was pressured by that freaking SUV, I took my purse out of the cart and put it down in the back so I could maneuver the dog cushions and a rogue rug I’ve been driving around with for the past day or so.

Hey! The poinsettias were delicate and they needed breathing room!

That was my first mistake.

My second mistake was shutting the back when I was finished.
As I flashed a quick smile and an I’m going as fast as I can hand wave (sans the middle finger in case you were wondering), to the waiting SUV, my smile was instantly replaced by the taste of vomit when I realized the back tail gate had just clicked shut and LOCKED itself—with my purse inside.

The last time I locked my keys in the car was…NEVER. I have never locked my keys in the car.

I have one of those new fangled cars that works without keys. It has a push button ignition and the doors will lock and unlock and it will start as long as the key is close enough to smell. I’ve tried to lock it many, many, many times with my purse still in the back seat and the doors refuse to lock. It is smarter than me. It knows things. Yet, somehow the same rules don’t apply to the back of the station wagon.

You know how I know that? BECAUSE I COULDN’T OPEN THE F*CKING CAR!

At least I had my phone in my pocket, so I called my husband who, when he was done laughing, said this:

Me: I locked my purse in the way back of the car.
Husband: How?…Never mind. Looks like you have a walk home ahead of you.
Me: Of course! I can walk home and get the other key! It’s a fifteen minute walk. That’s genius!
Husband: I know. Between the two of us we have one brain that’s firing on all cylinders.
Me: Right?
Husband: Gotta go. I hope I haven’t used my one great idea for the day.

As you can imagine, the SUV lady was NOT happy when I mimed I locked my keys in the car accompanied by the universal forehead slap and the Doh shrug.

So, off I went a walkin’.

This was the perfect opportunity to slow down. Something I decided to embrace. I also decided to pay attention. This was my quaint little neighbor hood that I usually race thru at fifty miles an hour. Walking at a decent clip the first thing I noticed were all of the changing leaves. My God! It’s SoCal, not New England, I get that, but still! Look at this!

One thing I could not avoid noticing was all of the smeared poop on the sidewalk. It was like avoiding land mines and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the result of one incontinent canine or that the dog walking people in my neighborhood are seriously THAT rude.

My neighboorhood has real holiday spirit. What I hadn’t noticed before were all of the holiday wreaths. Every single door has a wreath of some kind. Even some gates and garages have wreaths. I even spotted one on the front of a truck. Some of the old-fashioned lamp posts in the neighborhood are wrapped with ribbon and many a mailbox is tied with a bow. Is that a thing? Putting a big red bow on your mailbox? I saw so many, I think it’s a thing.

Something else that was really surprising were all of the phallices drawn in chalk on the sidewalk. I’m serious. I counted five. Is there a band of depraved, sexually precocious six-year olds wandering our neighborhood drawing dicks in colored chalk? Or is this Pompeii? I’m still scratching my head on that one.

By the time I got the spare key and started to walk back it was starting to drizzle. Not enough to get wet. Just enough to frizz my hair into a giant gray afro. Terrifying. But I was glad I had on pants and real shoes because, you know, weather.

After my half an hour walking tour of the neighborhood I have to tell you I was never so happy to pull into my driveway—in my car. The sheer gratitude I felt for reliable transportation and for my swell little neighborhood was barely overshadowed by the fact that sitting happily in the driveway, admiring the white lights of the tree glittering through the window, I suddenly realized I’d left my Christmas tree on the entire time I was gone.

I need to slow down. How about you?
Carry on,
xox

Thank you ancient Chinese woman who is taking an eternity to cross the street.

There is no doubt in my mind that you will celebrate your 102nd birthday in the crosswalk—while we all watch and wait.

I’m tempted to buy a cake and balloons—but I’m pretty sure your resolve to get to the other side of the street is such that you wouldn’t even notice, and I don’t want an entire uneaten cake sitting around my house taunting me.

You see I’m in a big, hairy hurry today and you have forced me to slow down, no make that stop, and cool my jets.

You’ve probably saved my life. Maybe there was a car accident up ahead with my name on it—so thank you.

No, really.
I want to scream at you or nudge you with my car, after all, it’s been over seven minutes and you’re not even half-way across—but I too possess feet that barely walk anymore—a conscience—and I want to go to heaven when I die—where I will wait for you—because you’ll still be crossing this fucking street!

A man tried to help you and you waved him off, so I’ve turned off my engine—we all have. We’re treating this like a train crossing.

But really, thank you oh ancient one, for giving me hope that I will still be getting around and holding up traffic at rush hour (that term is a cruel joke) when I am your age. I can only aspire.

By the way, where are you headed? Where did you come from? What’s your story? Why are you walking? What—no Uber for you?

And seriously, you have the tiniest feet I’ve ever seen on someone over six months old.
How do they hold you up? And I’m not sure about the little black Mary Jane’s over white socks.
They look like doll shoes. As a matter of fact the more I look at them the more certain I am that there is a barefoot doll lurking somewhere in Chinatown.
I would have chosen something more…sensible. Perhaps a cross-trainer. Just sayin’.

Here’s the thing, with all this time on my hands I’ve had a chance to look you over, after all I’m the first car at the crosswalk and you’ve been crossing in front of me for the better part of, well, a damn long time!

奶奶 Nǎinai (That’s grandma in Chinese, I had time to google it).
I like your pointy hat. Although a straw Chinese hat borders on cliché and would not have been MY first choice, I like how it ties under your chin with a red string and shades your entire face. I can see that you go for substance over style. Classics only, no fads for you. Good job.

And Oh My God, can we talk about that face for a minute?
It is the color of latte (which reminds me, I haven’t had my coffee yet—fasting blood test) and is so wizened that it appears that your lines have lines, tributaries that traverse your entire face from the corners of your eyes to your chin. (I can’t see the rest—pointy hat is in the way).

Okay then, gauging from your progress so far, (sitting through four light changes), I’ll have plenty of time to finish this post AND check my emails.

I typically don’t check them while I’m driving, but I can see them flash across the screen when they come in—and of course two that I’ve been waiting days to see, have shown up at the moment I’m least able to reply.

Six hours at the computer—nothing.

Get in the car—every email I’ve ever needed to read, all the answers to all of my questions bling into my awareness—while I’m fucking driving and my hands are tied! (Sorry, remember I haven’t had my coffee and I’m a pint low on blood.)

So thank you ancient Chinese Nǎinai, I’m all caught up now.

I have also finished my taxes, filed a broken nail, plucked my eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and cleaned out my wallet.

Well, look at that! It seems that you are suddenly finished, (you took that curb like a champ)… and I already miss you.

Thank you for all of your life lessons today. You have taught me so much!

You slowed me down. You showed me you can live a perfectly lovely life at another speed besides TURBO.

You attempted to teach me patience, empathy and compassion. (You were successful on two out of three.)

You showed me what wise, ripe, old age can look like. And power. You showed me you have the power to stop traffic.

You schooled me in the millinery arts.

And you made me fall just a little bit in love with you.

So now, the twenty or so of us that have gathered and waited (without honking by the way), for you to cross the street, we have to race away and try to make up the time we’ve lost.

But I’m going to think of you today, traveling at your glacial pace, and wonder how you are and if you ever made it to your destination.

Who am I kidding? I will be waiting for you in heaven!

Carry on,
xox