OK, This Would Probably Be Better as a Journal Entry...

But what the hell?

One unpleasant thing I have realized about myself is that I circle the thing I love, but I will not dive in. I get very, very close. But then I don't go all the way.

And I don't mean just for a minute, or an hour, or a week, or a month. I mean for years, and maybe even decades.

So one thing I have suffered from for years is a fear of diving into the writing I love the most. Not surprising. A rejection of them is a rejection of my real loves, my passion, myself. It is just a lot more scary.

I became a journalist to make myself write. And it did. And I loved it. But I did it for so long I almost forget along the way what it was that I really, really wanted to write.

That is my mama book. And I am trying. I have been rejected by two agents (not the worst record ever) and I am stalled out. I am thinking. But I can tell I am avoiding it. I tell myself I am reframing. Musing. Pondering. Figuring It Out. But really, I am just not doing anything.

So this Sunday, rather than bringing my novel memoir to my writing group, I will bring the first chapter of my book and read it aloud to my fellow writers. I am scared. I am nervous. I will be opening myself up to so much. But I am daring myself to jump in. To circle no longer. To do the thing it is I want to do.

Hold me to it!

An Ethical Dilemma

For all you budding moral ethicists out there, help!

When we moved in our neighbors to the right were an old Lithuanian dancer from the forties (upper apartment) and his renter, an elderly ballerina and choreographer (lower apartment). They are real old Hollywood. Ed had danced in Mary Poppins as a leaping chimney sweep (the longest dance sequence ever in a movie) and Patricia had dated Bobby Darrin. Now they were just our sweet (mostly) elderly neighbors. Patricia was chatty and had a lot of cats (before the coyotes ate them) and Ed was curmudgeonly and whip smart. He kept a good eye on all the neighbors and their predatory practices and always let us know what was going on.

He was getting older. He had AIDS. He had trouble going up and down the stairs. He started having heart trouble. Once Jonathan saved his life. Patricia called him in a panic and said Ed was on the floor in the bathroom and needed help. Jonathan called 9-1-1 and stayed with him when the paramedics and fire engines crowded onto our street. He was gone for a long time. Then he returned. He never acknowledged that he knew Jonathan again. Jonathan thought he was addled. I thought he was deeply ashamed.

Then he ran into our neighbor's gate and crushed it so she couldn't get out of her house and then he crashed his replacement rental car. We wondered if we should report him to the DMV. He was about to pull a Santa Monica Farmer's Market on us, and we would be responsible.

Every neighbor on every side wanted Ed's house. It had two garages and was a sweet little pad. A guy on the corner tried to buy it and was rebuffed. But that didn't stop him from erecting a fence, and then putting doors into the fence so that when he owned it his mother-in-law could walk through. Ed was in the final years of his life and the real-estate vultures were circling.

But the people who always wanted Ed's house most of all were our uphill neighbors. They have 99 steps to their front door and no garage in a neighborhood with a serious parking shortage. It can drive a man mad. And it has. (That neighbor left for a flat place in Palm Springs)

A couple of years ago a new guy bought the house. We like him. He befriended Ed. He helped him out. When Ed had health troubles he made calls for him and took care of him. He was really really good to him.

Here is where the story starts to get murky.

He helped Ed get better health coverage, find a place to stay. He straightened out his health care. He put in a lot of time. For some reason Ed--who never seemed to trust anyone--trusted him. Before we knew it (how did we know it?) he was Ed's power of attorney. Then Ed was out of the house in a nursing home. No scheduled date of return. Then rumors that he had bought the house. Then our lower neighbor was kicked out. Supposedly the 99 step neighbor with serious real-estate ambitions had told Patricia that Ed could no longer live upstairs, because the steps were too difficult (true) so he was going to move into the lower apartment (really? that has a lot of stairs, too). Acting as Ed's power of attorney, he kicked Patricia, who at this point was suffering from cancer, out of the lower apartment. She has an apartment in Bev Hills. Still. Jonathan confronted him. Did you buy the property? How much? Our 99 step neighbor would not answer. He said he would answer on Dec. 31.

By Jan. 15 there were two new couples installed in the apartments. They seem nice. Our 99 step neighbor said he bought the property. Real estate records show he purchased it for $250,000. You can't buy a garbage can stall in this neighborhood for that. But the idea was the he would take care of Ed for perpetuity. How do I know this? Am I filling this in? I no longer know. I have lost track of what I heard from the man himself, and what I heard from suspicious neighbors.

One thing I love about my husband is that though he seems mild mannered, he is the kind of guy who will stand up and speak out when a bully is around. He is not afraid. People always underestimate him, and I adore him for it. Once in Peru a single passenger on a train was bullying all the people around him. Jonathan stepped right in and stood up to him in Spanish.

So now we have witnessed this strange play next door. One elderly neighbor is installed in a rest home, never to return. Another has been kicked out, under a law that allows you to do that if the owner needs the space. And she got her money--per the housing laws. And our third neighbor, bought the property for what is probably a third to a quarter of the actual price. Yes. Even in this housing market.

So here is the question: are we compelled to act? Have we witnessed something unsavory? or something illegal? Was the whole transaction slimy, distasteful and slightly underhanded? Absolutely. But was it elder abuse?

I don't know.

What do you think?

Respond now, because I do not even know if I will leave this post up.

Bad News for Mommies Who Drink

No more wine? No more margaritas? No more Sophia champagne? How is this mama going to cope?

The Circle of Life...in the Hollywood Hills...

When we moved to Whitley Heights there were cats everywhere. Lonely women on both sides of us fed a half dozen cats each, and they were wonderful. Theo would watch them through the windows for hours as they slinked through our garden. Then the coyotes came, and ate the cats. But now that the cats are gone, the birds have come back. And now, when we wake up in the morning, our whole house is filled with birdsong. It sounds like they are in the gutters, the trees, the roof, the balconies. They are all singing.

L.A. in the Spring

When I was living in Tokyo, L.A. was my landing place, my stopping off point, and my spot to revisit the culture and country that I loved, but was feeling more and more distant from. I would land at LAX and my beloved friend Jill would pick me up and whisk me back to her apartment with a list of adventures we were about to have. We hiked nearly every national park in California, and did crazy, impractical and wonderful things. We got lost, walked til our feet were swollen with blisters, skinny dipped in frigid mountain lakes and rivers, talked about our lives, sex, our boyfriends, everything. But before we headed off into the woods for our annual retreat there were always a few glorious days in L.A.. And what I remember is the smell.

I remember standing in the dark behind her apartment building in Santa Monica and inhaling the night-blooming jasmine and the pitosporum, and the other sweet, intoxicating smells of LA in the moonlight. I remember driving around at night near the beach, with the windows rolled down, sticking my head out the window and inhaling the essence of sea and the flowers to hold them in my lungs so maybe I could take some of it back with me to Tokyo, land of cement, subways and a few, tired cherry trees.

It is spring again. People say there are no seasons in LA. But only people who have not lived here can say that. LA has distinct seasons, and if you live here for awhile you start to love them: the tawny dry hills in fall, the rains in winter, the green green hills in spring. And, best of all, the smells.

It is that time again. The ground is moist and the air damp enough to hold the fresh smells. At night in our neighborhood you could get drunk from the smell. In the canyons you can smell the sage. it rubs off on your hiking clothes so you take it home in a cloud of deliciousness and carry it into your living room.

Today, after a wonderful hike in Runyon with two of my favorite women Mitch stopped all of us in the middle of an animated, very important women's conversation, put her hands on our arms under a huge tree with tiny white blossoms and said, "Stop. Just smell."

It is the season. The smelly season in LA. It is LAs invisible secret, known only to those who love her.

Is the Original Screenplay Dead?

Every couple of Tuesdays my husband goes out drinking with his strike team from the writer's strike. They drink and talk about the bonds they forged walking on circles on the line. But the truth is, he learned a lot, there. He met mentors, heard career stories, lost weight, and socialized a lot, which most writers crave.

Last night he came home with a revelation. The original screenplay is dead. I wanted to argue, to disagree. But he challenged me, and himself. We thought about the Oscars. The only original screenplay up for the best screenplay award was Wall-E, and it didn't win. Every thing else was based on a short story, a book, or a documentary that was based on a life (the winner: Milk). Same with the nominees for best film. They were all based on something already famous. A short story, a cult novel, a best-selling book.

I know it is because the studios are increasingly risk-averse and need to know, before they commit a dime to anything, that they can back up their decisions with percentages and reasons for success like insurance agents (I swear, this writer got an Oscar nomination in the past, yes, this is a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of the greatest writers of all time, o yes, this book sold millions and millions of copies there is a huge fan base out there).

But still, it made me sad. There are so many great stories. And there are so many stories that are great on film. Not in books. Different stories really do suit different mediums.

I love stories. I live for stories. I love newspaper stories, novels, biographies, fairy tales, and yes, even movies based on books I already love. But the death of anything that is creativity in its purest form makes me want to weep.

But then I think: We can still tell stories. We can tell any stories we want, any way we want. They just may not be picked up by the big studios.

The Gift of Yoga

For his birthday I gave my husband a private yoga session with my favorite yoga teacher, Tara. I knew it was a slightly coercive gift--maybe not the gift he fantasized about--but rather the gift I fantasized about. But, I reasoned, he is getting more serious, we are over 40 now and health matters, and he did his first back bend the other week. It is time for some instruction!

When I told him what I was getting him he was not happy.
"Really?" he said. "Have you already booked it? Is it too late to cancel?"
But then he caught himself, and said he would try if that was what I really wanted to give him. Pretty game. I did promise him that my teacher is leggy, blonde and hot!

I booked it. As the day drew nearer he asked why I hadn't just booked his yoga teacher--he does privates, too. And maybe I should have. I like him. He teaches Anusara at the Y, too.

Sunday morning came and I got the house ready. I swept and vacuumed the floor and rolled up the carpet. I laid out his thin, old, holey purple yoga mat inherited from my dead friend, put out some ice water, lit a candle, and whisked the boys off to the farmer's market to give him silence and alone-time with his hot yoga guru.

He loved it! And he loved her! His face looked ten years younger when I returned and his shoulders were back. He babbled on excitedly about yoga factoids he had never known. (Did you know you are not supposed to just fall to the ground on your belly when you come down from plank to chataranga--correct sanskit spelling here, i do not know--, he asked incredulously? Did you know you are supposed to hold your body four inches off the ground? Everybody in our class just comes crashing down.)

Today he came to my class at the Y and we did yoga side-by-side, panting in each other's ears, sticking our knees and elbows in each other's faces, and throwing each other off balance in half-moon. But he was great! He did three back bends and held his planks. His form is getting better and better. When he went to see his friend for lunch his friend said, "You look more rested than you have in years!"

He had the yoga glow.