everyday new year

My landlord repaved the tiny parking lot behind our apartment. On a Thursday morning, I awoke to find two gruff strangers tearing up the undulating topography of crackled cement. Steam rose from a small sideways cauldron of tar turning in the corner. They wiped out everything leaving a clean slate onto which they put a smooth black layer of asphalt. Everything old was new again.

This morning, I noticed that after only three weeks, a small weed had pushed its way through the new ground and given itself a reason to keep living. I know plants don't "decide" to do anything. They just do. It made me wonder how, under the chemical darkness of a hot layer of tar, a tiny seed could possibly want to face the unknown and grow. Ok, maybe "want" is not le mot juste. But, let's say that there are certain conditions that must be met in order for a plant to thrive. How dire the circumstances must have been for Lil' Leafy here. No sun, no soil and not much water. Somehow, there must have been just a smidge of something magical there inside that little pod and voila, a new headache for the landlord. Tenacious weeds uprooting his fresh new parking lot. It is a victory for nature.

I'm not one for New Year resolutions. I think it's more important to deal with my bad habits and weaknesses as they flare up rather than take stock annually. We are constantly in control of our situations. We choose when we are ready to deal. The boyfriend wanted to stop biting his nails at the end of summer and in two weeks was successful. For anyone who has tried to diet or quit smoking or even quit biting their nails, you know that it takes some perseverance. He bit his nails for a good five years and once he set his mind on stopping, he did. He just did. Lil' Leafy didn't hem and haw about how little sun there was or the gravely surroundings bereft of nutrients. There was no "well, it's a special occasion so I'll just have one more cupcake" or "I'm really stressed out and I didn't realize I smoked half a pack." Some water trickled in and Lil' Leafy just grew.

We all have landlords trying to pave us down. Some landlords manifest in bosses or relatives, others in the invisble shackles that tether us to our inadequacies. But if you want to grow, just grow. Small leafy things do it all year long.

a little something about life

In transit, we pass by millions of people for one very small, very inadvertent moment in time. Getting off a bus, finding your seat on a plane, driving to Vegas on the freeway. There is a glance or a shoulder bump or a wisp of perfume. We are in the presence of our fellow man. This is life. During the holidays, it’s especially chancy and the numbers grow incrementally with the distance traveled. (I’d like to note that just now when I typed ‘especially,’ I actually spelled it ‘ex-specially.’ I gotta go axe my mom to put less rum in the egg nog.)

Two years ago this Christmas, I was a traveler. I took my first trip to New York City. I was going to Manhattan to visit my friend Monique who had moved there the previous year and was still deliciously enamored with the city. My imagination painted a skyline sketched by the movies I’d watched. The streets would be paved with diamonds and the women would be glamorous and thin. I was going to see a show on Broadway. I was going to walk through Central Park. I felt like a country bumpkin on her first trip to a big city.

I believe I flew United on the type of aircraft which had two seats along the windows and a row of 5 seats in the middle. I nestled into my seat, practically adhered to the tiny window with excitement. I was a wide-eyed suncatcher. This was going to be the trip of my life. I hoped that no one would sit next to me so that I could spend the flight shaking with giggly anticipation alone. Unfortunately, my cosmopolitan pink bubble burst as a bearded gentleman sat down in the empty aisle seat and put his attaché case under the seat in front of me. I tried not to pay attention to him but in such close quarters, I couldn’t help looking at everything he pulled out from his bag. He opened a colorful crossword puzzle and proceeded to fill in the blank letters. I noticed that the words were in some Nordic language. I couldn’t tell which one. Was it Swedish? No matter, I’M GOING TO DRINK A MOJITO WHEN I GET THERE!

After takeoff, we were served a ridiculous excuse for a breakfast. I remember looking down at the “eggs” and “pancakes” while trying not to spew my “emesis” into the “barf baggie.” The smell alone made me want to cry and smoke a cigarette or do something dramatic of that ilk. Somehow, Mr. Crossword and I struck up a conversation, commiserating about the questionable maple syrup. He hadn’t slept in twenty hours. He was on his way back from Hawaii on business to New York to see a friend before heading home to Copenhagen (Aha! It was Danish!) He worked for a software company in Northern California. I told him I was going to New York for the first time. I was from L.A. and that I was going to New York for the first time. First time! Whee! He was a very inquisitive man and very jolly. I have no shame in saying that he actually reminded me of a small Santa. I did not, however, sit on his lap.

After breakfast, the conversation un-spooled easily like a yard of satin ribbon. I asked him who he was going home to in Copenhagen and I found out he had a family. His wife was an elementary school teacher. I asked him if they had children and he did. Two boys. They were fifteen and twelve at the time. Did he have any photos? No. He didn’t. It was a shame, I said. A father should always have a picture of his wife and children, shouldn’t he? He agreed. He said he would find some and carry them on his next trip. I figured he was just placating me.

Now I have to say, at this particular point in my life, I was really interested in how couples make marriages work. Oddly enough, I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time but the idea of collecting an amalgam of bits and pieces from a variegated cross-section of strangers appealed to me. A friend inspired me to jot my findings down. So, I pestered many a hitched hiker for information on how to maintain and grow in a relationship. It’s surprising what people will tell you if you ask especially if you are a girl with a dimple. Mr. Copenhagen was a particularly forthcoming subject.

How did you meet? She's my second wife, he said. He had been married to his first wife for five years when things began to go sour. He even mentioned that they had stopped having sex which I found to be an item unnecessarily shared but, you are the most revealing when you are naked, I suppose. I felt very grown-up when he mentioned it. I didn't even need to stifle an embarassed laugh. They had decided to take a trip to Africa together. Perhaps they were trying to rekindle their jungle lovin’. They joined a tour group in Copenhagen and set off for the darkest continent.

On this tour, among the Danish safari members, there was a woman whom my subject found intriguing. He said they would chat about this and that and the other thing, much to the displeasure of his wife. He couldn't help becoming interested in this new woman. After the tour was over, his wife went back to Copenhagen alone. He had found his true love.

Through the incident of their divorce, his ex-wife took everything he had. He thanked God that they didn’t have any children and gladly gave up all his worldly possessions to be freed from their union. He married his African treasure and they have stayed together fifteen years. Every morning, he makes breakfast for his sons and packs their lunches. Then before he leaves for work, he brings his wife breakfast in bed. It’s as simple as that. It is putting someone else ahead of yourself for a few moments each day that keeps them together. “She’s the queen,” he said of her. I believed him. I believed that it was possible to meet your mate on a lark. I believed that there are couples out there who will never part and who make the world a wondrous place worth living in together. I believed that despite the borders and oceans that keep us apart and the anthropology that makes us different, human beings are innately the same with the same desire and ability to love.

I can’t remember all the topics we covered during the five hour flight, but believe it or not, we spoke the entire time. We talked about Copenhagen and Los Angeles, racism and boys. He was inspiring and cheerful. When we began our descent into New York, he wished me a good time on my first trip to the Big Apple. It was hard to say goodbye, to accept that this could be the first and last time we would see each other. We were two passersby who crossed a country together and our moment in time was coming to an end. We had become such good friends by then that we couldn’t part without exchanging email addresses. I told him that if he and his family ever came to LA, I wanted to meet them. He invited me to visit Copenhagen and stay at their house.

As I pulled out my pen and notebook to write down his name, I realized we had not exchanged such pleasantries.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“L-E-I-F,” he replied.

“Is it pronounced ‘leaf’?” I asked.

“No, ‘life.’”

It's not about the destination but about the journey. I don't remember anything about Manhattan as vividly as I remember this conversation. After I returned from my amazing adventure in Manhattan, armed with goodies from Canal St. and subway maps for everyone and anyone, I found an email from my friend in Copenhagen. It was sent a few days after we met and it read:

"Hi Katie...

Thanks again for a very impressive and positive 5 hours flight last week!

I hope you enjoy your days in New York.
I had 2 perfect days myself, I think I saw whatever would be possible in 2 hectic days.
Now I'm back in Copenhagen fighting with my 11 hours jet-lag, but I expect it to be over in few days.

I have found some pictures to include in my handluggage for the future. I'm learning!

Have a good time, hope to meet you again some day in the future!


Leif"

thank you for choosing SBC

Oh technology, you fickle so and so. You render me a caveman with your whims. This weekend, I was setting up my new office in the spare bedroom at my apartment. I am a caveman who likes to write. The internet, which had been working just fine a few hours earlier during my first cup of morning porn, suddenly went out. I'm not talking dial-up internet. I'm talking full on wireless DSL. I was baffled. All I did was move my laptop into the office. The wireless card had never been closer to the router and still, nothing. Son of a...!

Now, as the charlatan geek-caveman who set up the DSL and installed the wireless router, you'd think I'd spring into action with an arsenal of fancy code or passwords or administrator logins. No. I am a caveman and after batting the computer back and forth a bit with my hairy mitts, I restarted (rebooted, as us techies say.) It didn't work. I looked at the DSL box and the internet indicator was lit but, with my derring-do, I turned the box off. When I turned it back on, the internet light was out. It was a tell-tale sign. Whenever an indicator light is unlit, it means caveman go shopping. So, I went shopping for some baking supplies at Surfas, the most wonderful store in West L.A.

After a half hour wandering up and down aisles of bulk Valrhona chocolate and silicone muffin trays plus the inevitable travel time, I returned to my apartment an hour later with the full expectation of seeing my internet up and running. My hopes were dashed as the light was still out after a repeat on/off attack. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this final straw. It was time for the last resort. No, not clubbing the thing with my mallet fashioned from a petrified tree branch but, calling India.

After being funneled through a series of "Press or say "One"" prompts, I got a staticky human being on the phone.

"Hi and t-ank you for choo-ing SBC In-ernet Se-vices. My na-e is Scarlett, how can I he-p you?"

O'Hara or Johanssen? Or fever? Bless their accent elimination classes and culture-sensitivity training. Let's make the customer comfortable by each choosing the name of a celebrity or movie icon that U.S. residents would be familiar with and recognize. I'm sure it was just her stage name. Scarlett politely asked a litany of questions about what kind of computer I had, the lights on the DSL box, the router and what not. She was very kind and really wanted to help me get to sigalert.com so I could check the traffic on the freeway. While she was conducting a check on "something," we sat for a moment in an easy silence. Then...

"So, Kat-e, did you h-ve a ni-e Than-sg-ving?"

Hi and welcome to the Township of Awkward, population me. I wasn't sure how to respond. It was such an American question. Am I racist to conclude given the static, the accent and her faraway sound that she actually WAS far away and that any specific answer on my part would probably be moot? Caveman confused.

"I did actually. It was very nice." No need to share the details of renting a car and driving up the grapevine to Stanford to watch the Notre Dame game with the boyfriend. It's just unnecessary. But when someone asks about your holiday, you ask back. "Did you celebrate it? I mean, I'm assuming you are in India. Are you in India? Do people celebrate American Thanksgiving there?" And do they think that Americans are offensive, ignorant little shits who only know about eating cows and asking stupid questions?

Scarlett was three times a lady. "Yes, Kati- I am in Ind-a. Some pe-ple cel-brate T-anksgiving, some don't. I did. I saw my paren-s and my gran-pa." Wow, anyone who visits their grandpa is a friend indeed. So we got to talking about Thanksgiving traditions. She asked me for specifics.

"Well.. we eat a turkey and stuffing. Stuffing is like, bread crumbs and vegetables that you put inside the turkey. I guess that sounds pretty strange, huh?" Betcha they don't teach you nitty gritty stuff like this in your American culture class. No, no, they just teach you to say the customer's name every time you start a sentence and to replace "yes" with "sure." Scarlett told me to unplug the router and plug my computer directly into the DSL box. I did and the internet was revived. I reconnected the router, rebooted and everything was fine. "Power cycling," she said. I grunted. I was going to have to say goodbye to Miss O'Hara now that her work was done.

"K-tie, I wou-d like to call you t-morrow to make sure y-ur c-nne-tion is still OK. What would that be alr-ght? When would be a g--d time?" Well, how do you like that? For all the stigmas of India being a third world country, Scarlett was an example to be followed in the realm of customer service, follow-up and sincere dedication to one's chosen profession. I told her that I wouldn't be home the next day but I would be home in the evening on the following day. She said she'd try me then. We said goodbye and I suppose I could have told her another little tidbit about my American life. I was off to a Christmas party at the two-bedroom condo of one of my fabulous gay friends. When she called in a couple of days, maybe I would fill her in on the merry antics of a dozen homosexuals in various stages of inebriation, falling over one another with laughter while watching a DVD of a black female comic doing raunchy stand-up. No matter. Caveman pleased. Scarlett gave a damn.

all growed up

I have a fulltime job. I earn enough money to pay for an apartment far far away from my parents. I don’t eat inappropriate amounts of candy. I have my own car and a license to drive it. I keep my cuticles clean. I pay taxes. I make my own doctor’s appointments. I drink alcohol occasionally at parties with people who also have fulltime jobs and similar or heftier financial independence. I can speak pseudo-intelligently on a myriad of useless topics. I wear Banana Republic. All in all, I feel pretty adulty.

This weekend, I was cleaning up some old boxes that had crept to the back of the closet. These are boxes that span the ages. My compartmentalized history filled with everything from elementary school book reports to last year’s Christmas cards. I rediscovered many goodies: letters from the people I left behind in Toronto, odd stones from the beach, a funny candle, the journal I kept in China, my organic chemistry modeling set (I once had the ability to make methane and I don’t mean after Mexican food), a bookmark that never felt the papery pinch of a novel’s spine and of course, a handful of photos that my mother didn’t take hostage for release in the album she always talks about putting together. It’s one thing to see baby pictures of yourself. You can’t relate to you at age 3 with the cowboy shirt and the one pant leg all weird and the Buster Brown shoes. You don’t remember that shirt thus you don’t remember the horror of having to wear it. It is another thing to see a photo you yourself took…at age 12…of the cutest boy in school…Adam Polesel.

Adam Polesel was a demi-god among geeks. He didn’t care about junior high conventions. He would walk, nay saunter, down the hall past the coat hooks and the cubby holes with the stride of a panther, in control and completely feral. He was 14 and selective. He possessed the wherewithall to only associate with the popular girls. Despite the way I have blossomed after 28 years, I was not a member of this subset back then. Back then, he was the unattainable. Back then, I didn’t know exactly what it was that I fantasized him doing with me, but whatever it was, it was probably naughty and would involve a couch and chewing gum.

I held him in my hand. Ooops, the photo I mean. I fell into the euphoria of that moment when I, 12 years old and awkward with my mother's camera in hand, walked up to Adam Polesel in the schoolyard and probably said something lame like "Can I take a picture of you?" I think my best friend Vera was with me for moral support, my wingman. I don't recall what he said but I snapped the picture and kept it. Oh, Adam Polesel, tall and lanky. Dark blond hair, cool blue eyes and SO badass. There he was in his red t-shirt that hung on his broad shoulders. His scrunched up face, his tongue stuck out at the camera. Oh, Adam Polesel, you dirty boy. Put that tongue back in your mouth and take mine with it.

This is not the first time I have stumbled face to face with him since the torrid photoshoot. When I moved to LA, I'm sure I packed him up. When I moved out of my parents' house, we met again. But something was different this time, this chance meeting. Adam Polesel looked familiar but not because he conjured a memory. He looks like someone I know. Brad Pitt? What is it about him? Who does he remin--

"Whatcha got there?" asks the boyfriend.

HOLY CRAP.

"Who's THAT guy?" he inquires.

Um...

I'm pretty sure pedophilia isn't legal in this state or any state for that matter...not even in a state of stunted maturity. Hi, my name is Katie and I'm 28 years old and I'm dating a boy in junior high. (Note: The boyfriend is old enough to vote and rent porn.) For all I've done; graduated from college, got the fulltime job, dated a handful of Asian boys, hung out at the Spelling mansion, I've curated my accomplishments with a discerning eye and I have found happiness with a spitting image of the junior high idol I could never get close to. Adam Faux-sel is finally mine. He stays over at my apartment, brings me juice and helps me frost cupcakes for a friend's birthday. I know that last bit may make a few of you ill, but get over it. The Adam Polesel as boyfriend revelation was quite disconcerting. Did I grow up at all? Did I change? Who was I then and who am I now? Maybe I was my truest self back when I knew nothing about the grown-up world. Or maybe I was harangued by the media long enough to only lust after the tall, blond haired, blue-eyed apex of silver screen sexuality. Or maybe attraction is hardwired into our genes and I was born to crave the Leonardo DiCaprios of the world. It IS called physical attraction, isn't it? Physical meaning unavoidable, inexplicable, NECESSARY. Regardless of what drove me into the arms of my prepubescent fixation's long lost twin, score one for playground validation.

They say you look to date people who remind you of your parent of the opposite sex. It is a relief to me that I'm not dating a balding Chinese man who can't explain football to save his life. Instead, I've got a Humbert Humbert complex. While I never got within two feet of Adam Polesel, my Dear Diary pinings have finally come to an end. I'm dating the cutest boy in school. He's tall and handsome and all-around dreamy. And he even has his own apartment with a huge couch for plenty of chewing gum hanky-panky.

ring ring

In the game of courtship, prizes appear early on in the race. A runner’s high is but a sneeze compared to the euphoria of new romantic conquest. For women, it’s a giggling, bubbly, sparkling whirlwind of being picked-up at your apartment and escorted to the local hot place. I made that up, “hot place.” I like it.

Prizes are awarded. The leanest, healthiest, most symmetrical females get the bouquet of flowers, the sash of a new dress and shining metals. I'm not not even talking gold…I'm talking about the bling bling platinum. They’re smattered with compliments and glances both loving and pervy. And in turn, the male competitors get what else, the choicest females on their arms. Women become the prize. You work hard, you get your Blackberry expensed, you show a little chutzpah and you have blondie with the good skin and the 23” waist, getting chatted up by the bouncer who wishes he was you.

Things go well. Many dates are had. After a while, women are passing the display cases at Tiffany’s, their eyes caught by the dancing wink of a princess-cut solitaire and deep down inside, the little girl in them gasps and squeals. They observe their beaus with caution. Maybe they bring it up. Maybe they let it go. Maybe love happens and the beau sneaks back to the fabled store and picks out a two-month’s-salary-stunner. Two month’s salary. I am stuck on this standard. This yardstick. This rule of thumb. Two month’s salary for a shiny rock on a shiny wire. Wha?

They decide on a nice place for a special dinner. He plays it cool to downplay the potential surprise. Is she onto him? Does she have her suspicions? Maybe. They arrive and rose petals are covering the table by way of a bribed maitre d’. She’s giddy. Maybe she’s starting to suspect. They sip champagne and talk about work and their love. At the end of the meal over cappuccinos and flourless chocolate cake, he gets down on one knee next to the table and her eyes are watering up. He brings out the velvet box and opens it. The tears are spurting forth. He asks her to marry him and she’s bawling. She’s done. Everything she’s worked for up to this point has paid off. Maybe she’s crying out of relief. Maybe she’s honored that he’s giving up the prospect of new ass. I think she’s crying because this is the last time he will EVER spend two month’s salary on any one gift just for her.

If that’s how you want to play, let’s play. If a woman gets a fancy ring for dating and staying faithful while the sex is good and the love handles are absent, she should get TWO fancy rings after ten years of worth of marriage and childbirth and midnight feedings and sore throats and picked-up dry cleaning and home cooked meals and relatives who trashed the guest room and not so exciting sex and the tepid attempt at rekindling it and compromised schedules and missed nights out with the girls and loving a man who had a bad day for weeks on end. What does she get after twenty years? Not a pear-shaped diamond but pear-shaped body. Bags but not Louis Vuitton, the ones under her eyes. Kids who talk back and make him stressed out as if work wasn’t cutting it at that. This is what’s fundamentally wrong with the prizes we get when we’re young and taut. Which woman wants to work towards an anniversary dinner at Marie Callenders? Sure, it’s the thought that counts… but when you’re young and in love and you’ve just been proposed to, you can’t flash a thought in front of your co-workers. Your girlfriends won’t gush and scream when they see the thought he picked out. Tiffany’s stays in business for a reason. It’s all about the engagement rings, not the wedding bands or the watches. But in life, the most difficult race is the marathon, not the jockeying for position. It’s gritty and beautiful. It’s filled with Play-doh and first Christmases. It’s ever-changing, morphing from one dull week after another into a college graduation and a first job and then back again to dull. It is this endurance for the cross country adventure that merits the medals… bronze, silver, gold, platinum. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but they're just pebbles to a woman who has won the race even though she may deserve them more.

white

"Mark, the children. MARK! The CHILDREN!" A large, maternal looking woman points an insistent finger just past her husband's right leg at two, zippy blond messes who are presumably their offspring. Mark didn't seem to be paying attention but turns and quickly rounds up the cherubic blurs. And thus begins the holiday season.

It's two days after Thanksgiving and I am standing in the entrance of Pea Soup Andersens. It's the mecca of pea soup lovers. A long time ago, the Andersen family settled in California and started selling pea soup to travelers rolling up and down the West Coast. Seriously, it's some really good pea soup. Thick but not too thick. Green but not too weirdly green. It warms. Whenever I drive up north, I have to stop for a bowl. It's my tradition.

I really love Christmas. I love the idea of cozy and cinnamon and mittens and frosty breath and rushing around with packages for the people you love. But in Los Angeles, when I wear my mittens people say "How cute... mittens." This is not the holiday I grew up with nor imagined after seeing many a television special. It's 70 degrees and I'm putting on a scarf and a wool sweater. There is no frost on my breath and as Christmas carols play inside my head, I am confronted with the incongruous images of LA Christmas.

...Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring ting tingling too... Traffic on the 101 is SO BAD. I'm 20 minutes late for work. This is more like a sleigh crawl than a sleigh ride. I want to impale myself on my stick shift.

...And since we've no place to go, Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow... I'm putting on my sunglasses because there are no clouds but plenty of airheads and no snowflakes, just cocaine.

...Have yourself a merry little Christmas...Make the yuletide gay... I make my whole year fucking gay and I'm fucking fabulous.

...Silver bells, silver bells, it's Christmas time in the city... And I can't find my phone. I can hear it ringing but I think it fell under the passenger seat.

Oh the jubliant tones of the French horn. Ah the choir. There are moments when I am whisked away to a festive alternate universe where mistletoe is for real and barns still exist for parties. Men wear top hats and children say "please" and "thank you" instead of "chickenhead" and "it's on and poppin'." They don't mean Mary Poppins. But when I thud back to earth, I'm in a fluorescent daze. Where's the country home with the big huge window where I can decorate the twenty foot Christmas tree? Where's the sleigh with the Clydesdales and the big heavy blankets for my lap? I don't want to watch the fireplace on TV, I want to have it in front of me, threatening to singe-slap my eyebrows while I scald my tongue on creamy homemade hot chocolate. Oh yeah, and why am I not White with blond ringlets and rosy cheeks. I'm dreaming of a White Christmas. White like the Brady Bunch.

I'm going to ask Santa for a new skin tone this year. I want to go caroling. I want to travel back in time and ride a fucking sleigh to the county post office to send my Christmas cards back east. I want to have a glittering laugh and sip egg nog in a high collared white shirt and a big hoop dress. I want a oil painting of a holiday season. No online shopping, no Starbucks gift certificates, no bbq on Christmas Eve. I want it old school with real sticks of cinnamon and the real Tchaikovsky conducting the Nutcracker ballet. I want pine scented everything. I want to attend a Bing Crosby concert where he does his weird talk-singing through all the hits. I don't want to sit on Santa's lap, I want to imagine his fat ass leaving me a wooden pony or a tea set. I want cookies with more chocolate chips than ingredients listed on the plastic packaging. I want, I want, I want. Maybe I am not so old-fashioned afterall.