The High Road

A couple weeks ago someone sent me an angry email. The email was based upon some incorrect assumptions she made and was the next illogical step after I didn’t return her phone call. Worse yet, the email was rife with misspelled words and incorrect grammar.

Now I am no grammar-nazi, as I’m sure you can gather from my previous posts. That said it isn’t terribly difficult to press the F7 key, or as she would write, "it ins't teribly difficut to press the 7F kye."

But this blog entry isn’t about an ex-friend’s diction, syntax, and imagery issues. It’s about my response to her email.

I sent it to my friends. Two in particular: one who dislikes her more than I do, and another good friend who has never even met her. I even added a note professing my intention not to respond with an angry e-reply, but to “take the high road” and ignore her.

Upon further reflection, it occurs to me that taking the high road does not include e-gossip. For a half a second I felt bad.

Yes people, just a half second.

For then I began to remember why I hated said person. Wait, let me recall those memories again.

Sigh, now I feel better.

Also, it occurs to me that this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s probably not even the worst thing I did that week! Which begs the question: what’s the worst thing I’ve ever done?

While this is difficult to answer because memory and self-preservation work together in a wonky way, I’d have to recall a slumber-party prank from 1988. My friends and I were making crank phone calls. In the middle of the night, I called the home of a girl who I didn’t like. She had a high school-aged older brother who was in a serious relationship with the head cheerleader. I called and pretended to be the girlfriend of her brother. Since it was 3am and I was fake-sobbing the mother seemed to believe me. I asked to speak to the brother, and when his mother told me he wasn’t home, I said I was pregnant and needed money for an abortion. The mother responded by saying, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry” and said she would give him the message.

I’m not sure what happened after that, but I heard the two broke up. I would love to believe that their break-up had nothing to do with my slumber party prank, but there’s really no telling.

I admit what I did was pretty bad. In my defense I was 11 years old. But ultimately I know that if I am ever standing before St. Peter at the pearly gates, that episode, along with my non-belief and other examples of my horrible person-dom, will be at issue.

Now that I’ve thrown down a challenge, what say you?

What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?

The Great Clean-out of 2005

Do you ever have moments of clarity?

Last week I had lunch with my cousin, Missy. She is smart, beautiful, and fabulous and I love catching up with her whenever I can. We were both home for unpleasant reasons. Her mom just lost a long battle with colon cancer the week before her cousin, my uncle, lost his short battle with lung cancer. Despite the horrid occasion for our being in the same place at the same time, I had a great time with her.

Anyway, she used to run a production company in New York and now works in Barcelona. We talked about the entertainment industry, what’s wrong with LA, family, and life transitions. She recounted her most recent life transition. She spent two years dismantling her life in Manhattan; it was an extremely painful process, but one that ultimately allowed her to build a life she loves in Spain. And the tragic death of her mother aside, she’s much happier today than she was before.

As I was sitting there listening to her, it occurred to me that my life is full of clutter.

People who I don’t like, can’t count on, or don’t trust.
Things I don’t really want to own or rent.
Projects I’m working on that don’t bring me joy.

All of this stuff swirls around me blurring my vision so I can’t see what’s really important to me, what I really want.

Maybe that’s what I came out to LA to figure out – what I really want.

Instead I’ve collected more clutter. And while my life out here will provide amusing anecdotes for blogs, cocktail parties, and future creative projects for the rest of my life; I feel a compelling need to swat away the bullshit. To rid myself of the people, things, and projects that don’t feed my soul.

I am almost positive it will be arduous and painful. But hopefully underneath the mountain of superfluous-ness surrounding me is a smattering of that which makes me happy.

So here goes. Wish me luck -

My Favorite Pick-Me-Up


So I'm back from the funeral, ho-hum. I'm tired, depressed, and broke. So naturally, I go for the one sure-fire strategy for lifting my spirits: looking at luxury real estate.

I have no idea why this cheers me up. Nevertheless, over the past several years, I've found looking at multi-million dollar condos, co-ops, and townhomes located mainly in Manhattan really comforting.

My mother is a real estate agent in Ohio, so I've been looking at real-estate either in person or via the Multiple Listing Service since birth. Combine that with my family's constant desire to live in fantasyland throughout my childhood, and you have a 28-year old with an insanely active fantasy life.

You see growing up my family had its financial and emotional ups and downs. Throughout it all we had subscriptions to two magazines: Elle and Conde Nast Traveler, with occasional subscriptions to W and Vogue. We couldn't always pay the mortgage, but I could always read the advice of Elle's E. Jean, or find out which airline had the best first class service to Dubai. And with my parents constantly on the verge of divorce, my fantasy life had to be bullet-proof.

Luckily for me this week, it still is.

In college I discovered the New York Times Sunday Magazine. Every Sunday I would read through to the back, where several of the swankier Manhattan real estate firms listed properties. When I started reading the Times online, I began to click my way through the offerings of Brown Harris Stevens, Douglas Elliman, and Corcoran Properties.

These websites provided even more than the Multiple Listing Service ever did. With each visit, I began to discern exactly what I wanted/needed in a fantasy property. Then last summer a property came on the market that met all of my fantasy needs and specifications. It had an open floor plan, enough bedrooms for several out of town guests, considerable outdoor space for entertaining, and a good Manhattan location, all without being stuffy or too ostentatious.

All summer long, I showed it to friends who humored my constant chatter about finding the perfect luxury property. One dear, sweet friend even came with me to walk by it on a trip to New York last fall. When we walked by the doors were open. There was a wedding reception going on. I took this as a sign from the universe that we should take the private elevator up, but sadly my friend felt differently and decided to stop humoring me that instant.

It went off the market late last fall but is apparently back on the market as of August. You can view the $20 million property at: http://www.corcoran.com/property/listing.aspx?Region=NYC&ListingID=220730

It is simply beautiful. I visited it today and instantly my spirits were lifted.

Last night my flight got in 2 hours late at midnight. After paying $100 to park near the airport for a week, I drove home only to scavenge around my neighborhood for 45 minutes looking for a parking spot. When I finally got to my door at 2am, I had a pile of mail waiting for me. I was tired, annoyed, and quite miserable. But located at the bottom of the pile were my copies of this month's Elle, and Conde Nast Traveler.

I dropped my suitcase, put on my pajamas, and immediately began reading about the new trends in 5 star hotels. I went to bed at 2:30am fully recharged.

Oh yeah, and the best first class service to Dubai?

Emirates Air, hands down.

Things aren't so bad.

Small Talk

"Hi, baby. Now whose child are you?"

"I'm Anika, I'm Brenda-Carol's daughter"

"Oh my goodness. You were that little girl? Why you're all grown up now! How old are you?"

"I'm 28."

"Oh my goodness! You're a lady! I thought you were just out of college! Where do you live?"

"I'm in LA."

"Los Angeles?! Why you're old enough to have a family of your own now. Are you married?"

"No ma'am."

"Do you have any kids?"

"No ma'm."

"Good. But don't you have a boyfriend?"

"No ma'am."

"Why a pretty girl like you with a nice figure, it just don't make no sense. What are you doing out there in California?"

"I'm doing policy work and I've started a production company."

"Well look at that, and no boyfriend to speak of?"

"No ma'am. Would you excuse me, I have to help my grandma with the desserts."



And so it begins...

The Medicare Lounge

I hate chain restaurants. For some reason, I find the mediocre food and staid interior decorating of large national chains beginning with T.G.I. or ending with Garden, repulsive. I guess I feel that when you go out to eat you should either know you’re getting really good food, or you should try something different. You shouldn’t know for certain you’re getting mediocrity. What’s the point?

I do make one exception: the local chain. Local chain restaurants tell a story. They describe where you are, what the people are like, and what the people around you like to eat. I find them fascinating. Whenever I go anywhere, I always try to visit at least one local chain. Even when I go home to Columbus, I do the same.

So now I’m home for a funeral (see previous blog entry) and my mom decides to take my grandparents and visitng great-aunt out to dinner to get them out of the house.

My mother announces, “C’mon, we’re going to the MCL.”

I can barely contain my excitement about this! The MCL Cafeteria is a Columbus, Ohio institution. They serve a heart-healthy, cafeteria-style menu in a pastoral, nursing home-like setting. They cater almost exclusively to the elderly. I haven’t been to the MCL Cafeteria since we took my great-grandmother 10 years ago.

It’s only 4:30pm and already the evening is shaping up to be full of entertainment.

By the time everyone is ready to leave it’s 5:00pm, pushing our arrival time to 5:30pm. Damn, we’ve just missed the busy dinner hour, which is of course, from 4:00pm to 5:00pm.

We’re living life on the edge, eating late, taking no prisoners.

Using my grandparents’ handicapped sticker, we manage to find excellent parking. As the three over-80 year olds attempt to climb out of my mother’s SUV (this takes 15 minutes) I notice the parking lot resembles a Buick dealership, with the occasional Lincoln Towncar and Cadillac sprinkled about. Not the new fancy Cadillacs featured in many a rap video, but the Eldorados and Coup DeVilles of the previous millennium. The boat-like variety my grandparents own.

As we enter, we’re met with a sign advertising several new options to the menu.

Try Our New Teriyaki Pork Loin*!
“This is the best Teriyaki Pork Loin I’ve ever had!”
-Robert from Pataskala
* (Heart-Healthy Menu Item)

“Hey look here, New Teriyaki Pork Loin. That sounds good, huh?” says my grandmother, upon reading the sign.

“Robert from Pataskala seemed to enjoy it.”

“Quit being a smartass!” says my mother, while hitting me upside the head.

Sadly, I wasn’t even being a smartass.

Okay, maybe a little. It did look good; I just didn’t feel that “Robert from Pataskala” was a viable spokesperson. I don’t even know him. He’s not the mayor, or even the mayor’s grandmother. Why should I care what a random 85-year old man from Pataskala, Ohio thinks about the pork loin? I mean, what are his credentials?

But it worked on my grandmother, so I guess it was effective.

After collecting my tray, I begin reviewing the menu items. The menu is posted in gigantic lettering in two places to give everyone and their grandmother many opportunities to read it. As if that wasn’t enough, it’s a cafeteria, so everything is laid out in front of you. You simply look and point to what you want. From there any one of the several minimum wage-earning, but highly patient high school kids serves it to you over or under the sneeze guard. The whole operation runs quite smoothly, with the young employees patiently shouting to the hard-of-hearing customers while gingerly handing them plates of boiled sole, mashed potatoes, and D-Zerta Jello.

For those of you not in the know, D-Zerta is a brand of low fat, low sugar, low ____, gelatin.

Yes, I looked it up. No, I did not try any.

Since I’m the first one through the line, I go find us a table. After searching the pastel colored, wide aisled dining area, I settle on a large table by the window, away from the speakers playing beyond smooth jazz. The artwork on the walls makes me think sadly of Bob Ross’s untimely death. I wonder if he would eat here if he were still alive today. What would he think of the bucolic scenes on the walls? What was the artist’s inspiration? Has the artist tried D-Zerta?

By now everyone has joined me at the table and the conversation begins. My grandmother is simply raving about the pork loin. Apparently, my skepticism of Robert from Pataskala was unfounded.

My grandfather points out that at age 28, I’m the youngest one in the restaurant. As I gaze at the sea of canes and walkers lining the dining area, it occurs to me that if I weren’t here, my mother would win the youth prize at the ripe old age of 61.

I glance out the window to see an Urgent Care Clinic directly across the street and a Sunrise Retirement Community next door and think this is the most brilliant location ever conceived.

My thoughts are interrupted by my great-aunt.

“Blanche, I never thought I’d see the day…”

“What do you mean, Beverly?” says my grandmother.

“Well, I never thought I would see the day when you‘d be as big as you are now. You used to be so thin, remember Brenda-Carol?”

“Yeah, Aunt Beverly. Everyone gains weight, as they get older. I used to barley be 100 pounds. Now I’m a size 6!”

“Not me,” says my great-aunt. “I’m still as thin as when I was a girl.”

“Well, Beverly, you’re not well! If you weren’t as sickly as you are you could probably keep some weight on. But with you being ill all the time it’s no wonder you’re so thin.”

I could barely contain my laughter. You see, this was all said in the most pleasant, loving, Mid-Western way possible. It was almost as if my great-aunt was merely astonished that my grandmother was now a size 10. And my grandmother retorted with nothing but concern over my great-aunt’s various health issues.

Who’s the smartass now, Mom?

East Coast: 2, West Coast: 0

I've been living in LA for almost a year now, and I'm not in love. Perhaps it's because instead of channeling my homesickness for the East Coast into constructive activities desgined to help me feel at home in the West, I compare every aspect of my life here to my old life there.

Take for instance, driving. I hate it. I didn't do it regularly before I moved here. I've never even owned a car. Now I spend hour upon hour sitting in traffic. I think people out here think this is normal. It's like an invisible addition to everyone's list of things to do:

1. Go home
2. Get ready
2-Invisible. Fight traffic
3. Meet friends

or worse:

1. Get up
1-Invisible. Fight traffic
2. Go to work

This is no way to live. Instead of accepting these lost hours as part of life in SoCal, I spend my time thinking about how I used to walk to work back in DC. How traffic used to be for the poor slobs who lived in Maryland or Virginia, not me. I was special. I was an urban dweller.

So when I sat in traffic at 6:30am yesterday, trying to get to the airport for an 8:30am flight, all I could think about was how my life used to be so much easier when I was back East. It didn't help that I was travelling for a less than pleasant occasion. My uncle was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, and though he was given four to six months last week, my mother told me he wouldn't make it through the week. I rushed home in the middle of producing a new play and starting a new job to say goodbye. But there was no rush on the I-10. Just a slow, tedious crawl leaving me with nothing to do but sit in my car and contemplate life. Or the lack of it.

During my two-hour commute to the airport I couldn't help but think of my 20 minute taxi ride to National Airport in Arlington, VA, or my 40 minute train ride to BWI Airport, or my 50 minute bus ride to Dulles Airport in Godknowswhere, VA.

I actually thought longingly of a 50 minute bus ride to Godknowswhere.

Of course, I missed my flight. They put me on another flight two hours later, which just left me more time to sit angrily at the airport and think.

LA traffic sucks.

East Coast: 1, West Coast: 0

When my aunt died 5 years ago, my brother, who has lived in San Francisco for 6 years, told me that emergencies make you realize just how far California is from home. While I now appreciate growing up in the Mayberry-inspired suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, I didn't really have a great need to go back, other than for the yearly family reunion and/or Thanksgiving, Christmas, or the occasional unpleasant emergency. Living on the East Coast since college, I've always had the ability to fly home to Columbus quickly and without much effort. It didn't cost much, it took no time, and if I was ever bored (which I was, often) I could go back early on any number of flights. It was this convenience I previously took for granted. And it was this convenience I thought about for the entirety of my four hour flight.

Never before was time of as much essence as it was yesterday. In the two previous family emergencies the family member was already deceased. One was my 97-year-old Great-grandmother who, while no spring chicken, was in fact a pretty hardy lady who was old when I was born, so the whole thing was still a shock. Still no rush, I came the next day; the funeral was two days later, then I was back in DC.

My aunt died unexpectedly. It was miserable. I came the next day. My brother showed up two days later, after much maneuvering. We attended the funeral, hung out with the family, then I went home.

But this time, he wasn't dead yet. I was rushing home to say goodbye. I needed to get there. But I couldn't make it go any faster. I had no control of traffic. I had no control of the plane. I couldn't make the country any smaller, the miles any less. All I could do was sit there for hours, and hope I made it in time.

I got off the plane after four hours, with a layover and one hour of flying to go and I checked my messages. There were two, one from my mom.

"Anika, it's your mom. (Sigh) Call me when you get this."

And right then I knew. I called but I didn't need to. He died a half hour before I got off the plane.

I didn't make it.

I still had two more hours until I reached Columbus. I had two more hours to sit and think about the funeral I was about to attend; about my mother being the only sibling left; and my grandparents dealing with the death of yet, another child.

But surprisingly, all I could think was this:

East Coast: 2, West Coast: 0