This one time I went to Santa Barbara

Since having some time off from work, I decided to visit my friend Manisha who lives in Santa Barbara.  I made a stop in Glendale for lunch to see old friends and colleagues from DreamWorks and forgot how spoiled I once was.  It almost felt as though it was an entirely different place than I remember with few familiar faces and so many changes.  For the people that I did know, it felt as though no time had passed and yet the years made their mark on our faces and careers.  Everyone kept running toward their goals and ambitions while I decided to go for a walk instead.

A few hours later I was at a wine bar called Kalyra in Santa Barbara that looked like a tiki room.  Manisha thought it looked like the Elephant Bar but didn’t want to insult the owner.  We opted for a wine tasting and eating basketfuls of their breadsticks.  While Trevor poured various wines we guessed where he was from. 

Manisha looked at his fleece jacket and said, “I bet he’s from Oregon.”

I listened to his accent and settled on Northern California.

“So are you from Santa Barbara?” I asked.

“No, I’m from Northern California,” he responded.

I smiled widely at Manisha.

There was a private event at 5:45 p.m. and we were technically not supposed to be there anymore but we decided to push our luck and stay.  The owner appeared suddenly and he looked like a character out of a novel and I told him so.  He had an Australian accent and a layer of a speech impediment on top of that which made him more endearing.  He told us how he came to own a winery with his brother and that he once wore a wig as a barrister in England.  Manisha asked him all these law questions while I watched decorations being hung for the jewelry show we were crashing.  The jewelry designer liked using feathers as materials for earrings and the owner, Martin, joked that it looked like bait for bass fishing.

The next morning I borrowed a maroon bike from a former roommate from Croatia and pedaled all over Santa Barbara for the first time.  Manisha and I joked that God wanted us to go bike riding since the sun was out despite the rain from the prior evening.  There was a lovely bike path we took and I followed Manisha, watching her extend her right hand to high five the foliage and stand on her bike to touch the branches of trees.  I felt like I was in a movie and wished I had a video camera to document our journey.  We took turns saying hello and good morning to the cyclists and joggers we encountered and made fun of those who didn’t.  “Oh I guess he couldn’t hear us say hello through his thick helmet,” I said.  We sang snippets of songs that had the word spring in them and all I could think of was “spring time, la la la la spring time” from the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Manisha jumped off her bike as we stood at a pier, reading the signs about prohibited items and activities.  “Do you think we are allowed on the pier if we walk our bikes?” she asked me.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, “ask him,” as I pointed to a man driving a state truck.

No one knew officially but said it should be fine.  Manisha informed me that UCSB stands for you can steal bikes so we clutched them in our hands against the cold pier air, her tires clicking like crickets. As we walked, we chatted with the fisherman and learned that the best bait are mussels scraped off the side of the pier.  One man wearing a sand-colored sweatshirt with the hood tied around his face said he caught a one armed crab but threw it back.  I felt sorry for it but he said its arm would grow back with time.  At the end of the pier where the wind was the strongest, there was a group of three men, each with long hair and a beer in hand.  The one with visible tattoos and golden rings on every finger owned a series of tattoo parlors named Precious Slut. 

I said, “I understand the precious part but why slut?”

“That’s my name.  It’s on my birth certificate too.”

“Your legal name is Slut?  Wow, your mother must have quite a sense of humor.  What is your middle name?” I asked.

“Brian,” he responded.

As we walked down the pier, the man who caught the one armed crab said they caught a baby leopard shark but threw it back too. 

Manisha was unconvinced.  “I bet they made that up.”

“Why would they make that up?  We aren’t even wearing any make up.”

“I don’t know, but you can’t believe fishermen.  They always say, I caught a fish this big.” 

I laughed at her logic and chuckled to myself for being there in the first place.

This one time I went to the vet

Today I had the unfortunate task of taking my two cats to the vet.  I have never owned a pet before meeting my husband (unless you count the time I owned two beta fish and a few little African frogs that met their sad demise) so I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  It finally occurred to me when I tried forcing, coaxing, trickery and bribery to get our 13 year old Kitty into her pet carrier.  After my pathetic attempts to put her treats in the carrier I had to shove her in there against her own free will.  I should explain that Kitty does not like to be picked up and does not like to be confined in tiny blue spaces.  She expressed this to me with her claws attached to my neck and a lovely gash on my arm.  I felt like Peter Pan battling against Captain Hook.  ("Say your a codfish!")

I nervously picked up Frankie in my arms (since I didn't want to spent $45 at Petco on a carrier), slung Kitty in her carrier over my shoulder along with my purse and plopped them in the car.  Of course, twenty minutes later, Kitty got out of her flimsy carrier by pushing her head through the zippers and I was afraid I looked like a crazy cat lady.  I had to pull over three times and hold Frankie in my right hand as tightly as I could while driving with my left hand praying that the three of us make it there in one piece.

Thankfully we arrived at the vet safely with no bodily harm.  The only real pain I felt that day was hearing my little Frankie cry when the vet gave her a shot.  I had to turn away and cover my eyes and even then I almost cried.  I felt ridiculous crying in front of the doctor and his assistant but I couldn't help it.  I guess I really care about my little cats, battle wounds and all.

This one time I attended my grandfather's funeral

This past Thursday my husband and I drove to Tucson, Arizona to attend my grandfather's funeral.  When I was a little girl, my family and I made this journey at least once a year during the Christmas holidays.  My father cracked sunflower seeds while he drove and burst out in song to a mixed tape of Frank Sinatra and Louis Prima.  My sisters and I listened to our walkmans and took as many naps as humanly possible.  The road was an endless stretch of desert with scattered cacti that my father would name given that he grew up in the desert.  

The next morning my family and I got ready and wore a dress I have worn to three funerals.  Sadly, I call it my funeral dress.  What I remember most about that day was watching my five year old nephew David attend his second funeral in the past seven months and trying to see things from his perspective.  He seemed proud to be dressed so nicely in his suit and have his hair combed perfectly.  I noticed that he was particularly interested in catching the fallen flower petals from the boutonnieres of each of my grandfather's seven children.  In his hand he clutched red rose petals torn to shreds from so much human contact and was eager to catch the three peach-colored rose petals fallen on the aisle.  There was a large photo of my grandfather smiling behind his black signature moustache and David asked his father, "Papa, where is Grandpa?"  In my head I responded, "he died and they burned his body.  His ashes are sitting in that little container underneath a tablecloth.  That's all that's left of him."

After the service we went to the cemetery where the Honor Guard unfolded and folded a flag with precision while my nephew found little treasures he gave to his mother.  He handed her a red plastic heart and a fallen silk flower from someone else's arrangement.  She said, "thank you mijo," while he smiled at her proudly as someone pretended to play taps on the bugle.

Later that night we went to my aunt and uncle's house and re-watched a video of my grandfather over the years that ended with a karaoke clip of him singing "My Way" by Frank Sinatra.  It was as though he came to life for an instant, his face hidden in the shadows.  He had a scotch in hand as he sang, "And now the end is near, and so I face the final curtain.  I've lived a life that's full.  I traveled each and every highway and more, much more than this, I did it my way."  As he sang, "regrets I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention," I thought about my disappointment that he and my grandmother didn't attend my high school graduation, hoping that was one of his regrets, that he was somehow apologizing after all these years.  I'm sure that everyone had their own interpretation of what he meant by those words.

Hours later my cousin Clayton sets up the karaoke machine and we sang "Chicago" and "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra.  Then the familiar tune begins of "My Way" and we sang out loud, all of us, changing the words from "I did it my way," to "he did it his way."  Tears swelled in my eyes and a giant knot formed in my throat as we said goodbye to him.

This one time I went to Urbn

Last night I met my friends at Urbn, a formerly abandoned warehouse that has been transformed into a sophisticated, hip bar that opened in November. I was impressed before I even walked in.  It is as if you are suddenly elevated to the top of the social ladder by just being there, by knowing of Urbn’s existence.  The minimalist design with brick walls, granite countertops and a giant fan that looked like it was once an airplane propeller reinforces this fact. 

Aesthetics aside, the true test of a bar is their alcohol selection and had I been a beer drinker I’m sure I’d be impressed.  A chalkboard toted their draught beers with a colorful representation from several local breweries.  Being a hard alcohol drinker, however, I was more interested in their cocktails.  I scanned the draft and classic cocktail menu by drink name and envisioned the characters from the 1960’s period television show Mad Men ordering a Tom Collins, Old Fashioned and Rob Roy.  Even though my tastes are on the contemporary side, I batted my eyelashes and smiled sweetly for the bartender to surprise me with a vodka-based creation instead.  I chuckled to myself at the thoughtful person who took the time to slice jars full of cucumbers, lemons, and limes while he carefully poured Chambord, Cointreau, Citrus vodka and splashes of whatever juice they had available.  He even twirled lemon peel around his finger to garnish my chilled martini glass.  I was impressed before I even took a sip.  The martini was just what I wanted without knowing I even wanted it.

There are moments in my life that I feel like I’m the main character in a movie or at the very least a cool commercial.  I felt as though I was in an alcohol commercial as I sat on an ottoman so large it could have been a bed, chatting with friends, sipping my tasty cocktail, and listening to my favorite music such as Metric and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.  It was that perfect. 

Before I left, I asked the bartender behind the spelling of the name Urbn.  “It’s because we are too cool for vowels,” he said. And even though he’s technically wrong, he’s also very right.

This one time my grandfather died

I was at the Getty museum waiting for my friend Manisha to meet me for a very cultural Saturday evening when I received a phone call from my mother.  She said softly, "I knew you would be upset if I didn't call you since I know you are out right now, but your grandfather just passed away."  I don't know what I said in response but we exchanged a couple of sentences and hung up.  Immediately I texted my husband and I got in trouble from the security lady for talking on my cell phone when I answered his call.  She was nice about it, plus she had no idea that my grandfather just died and my husband was calling to console me.  Part of me wanted to explain so that she'd feel sorry for me or be nicer to people who answer their cell phones in museums but I kept it private.  In fact, I didn't even tell my friend about it just in case it would change the dynamics for the evening.  So I pretended as though nothing happened.  


I looked at art, feeling consoled by the pastels and use of color by the painting Starry Night by Edvard Munch.  I was deeply touched by a series of photographs by Song Yongping.  I'll let you look at the pictures and then tell you what the placard said.


http://www.getty.edu/art/exhibitions/new_china/song_parents.html



The placard read:  Song Yongping, a first-born son, sought to balance his artistic career with care of his invalid mother and father as part of his expected duty. In 1998 he began photographing them in a series called My Parents. Using a confrontational approach to portraiture, these images combine performance with elements of everyday familial life. Karen Smith, a writer and art critic based in Beijing, described the photographs as "...a testimony to family bonds, and a sad glimpse into the lives of the masses caught up in the tidal wave of change in China today." The strength of this work is in its collaborative nature. Song Yongping, while tending to his parents' needs, was given the opportunity to honor them by sharing his art making with them. In recording the eventual loss of his parents in 2001, he created a lasting testament to their lives.


I felt connected to Song Yongping for a moment, as though I was meant to view his photographs at that particular time in my life.  Part of me thought it was too revealing, how could his parents agree to let their son take pictures of them in their underwear, with his father's catheter hanging from his penis.  But as I continued seeing the series of photographs, especially the last one with its chaos and distress, I understood what he was trying to tell me.  I understood how much he loved him and what their death meant to him just from six photographs.  I have no artistic means to demonstrate the loss of my grandmother and then six months later my grandfather but my sad little words.  Sometimes if I pick the right ones in the right order it can be a visual painting.  Here is my crude representation of them:


I remember my grandmother's laugh, the way she would light up when she saw me and the smell of chili powder in their Tucson home.  She loved garage sales and walking in her bare feet, her second toe adorned with a white gold ring.  When I was younger she would play dress up with me and dab me with a miniature bottle of her perfume.  She overused the word "beautiful" and signed her cards with a loopy happy face.  I thought the space in her neck would make a perfect hiding spot for some of my necklaces.  There is a tape out there somewhere with a recording of my grandmother singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with my asthmatic sister. Every time I hear that song I think of her.  When I would talk to her on the phone or write her letters she had a way of talking about me as though I was someone very special.  


I remember my grandfather's long black moustache, his elegant clothes and his passion for baseball.  He would always dress up when getting on an airplane meanwhile I opt for comfort in glasses and yoga pants.  He was kind of scary when I was younger, I think it was the authoritative tone from his years as being a principal.  They lived in Ecuador for a year and brought me back an indigenous looking doll that I would play with while speaking only in Spanish.  I still have it.  There was a poster in my grandfather's office that captivated me of Emiliano Zapata with the words, "It is better to die on your feet than to continue living on your knees."


When I was six years old I asked my grandfather, "Grandpa, if you could choose, who would you rather be, a boy or a girl?"  He humored me and said, "well, God made me a boy so that's what I would choose."  I pressed him further, "but Grandpa, are you sure?  You don't want to be a girl instead?"  He insisted, "no, I wouldn't."  I argued with him, "but Grandpa, girls get to wear jewelry and make up and dresses."  I'm told he gave my parents a look and that was the end of that conversation.

This one time I was chatty

I haven't written an entry in awhile so this may very well be a worthless one but perhaps I can pull something out of my pompa to fulfill the request of a friend who asked for the next blog entry.

I was going to write about this random guy I met the weekend before Valentine's day.  My husband and I are stuffing our faces full of greasy cheeseburgers at Bare Back Grill in Pacific Beach at the bar since it's Saturday night and there were no tables to be had.  I can tell this guy is alone and seeking conversation since he asked the bartender if he watched the Ohio State vs. Wisconsin basketball game.  I took this opportunity to keep him company since he was alone the weekend before Valentine's day because I'm such a nice person and sure enough, he opened right up.

"Why, did you watch the game?" I asked.
He smiled and turned to me, his face visibly red against his pale skin.  "Yes, I sure did!"
"Who did you want to win?"
"Wisconsin.  I'm from there."
"As in you used to live there or you are just visiting San Diego?" I asked between mouthfuls.
"Oh I'm just here for the weekend," he said playing with the straw in his water.
"You are purposely here in San Diego the weekend before Valentine's day by yourself?  There's got to be a story somewhere."

He proceeded to tell me that his girlfriend of a year (maybe two?) gave him an ultimatum and he knew he wanted to marry her but he just wasn't ready.  It seemed like her mother was pushing her to get married and he was torn since he cared about her but he just didn't want to be forced into such a big decision.

I also met another guy this past weekend in LA while visiting my friend Michelle.  We bare the frigid air in Santa Monica and end up at Circle Bar.  His friend buys us a lemon drop shot and I start talking to Daniel.  He's about 37 years old and his girlfriend of 12 years gave him an ultimatum.  I had no pity for him.  Our conversation went something along the lines of...

"Your girlfriend dates you for twelve years and just now gives you an ultimatum?"
"Yeah," he says, shaking his head.
"Your girlfriend has got to be the most patient woman on earth!"
He laughs and says, "you are funny."
"So you don't know if you want to marry her after dating her for twelve years?"
"Well she was different."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"When we dated for six years she used to hang out with her friends a lot.  Recently she's been getting her act together since she wants to get married."
"How old is she?"
"35."
"35!  Her eggs are practically all shriveled up by now!  You aren't getting any younger.  God, I can't believe you don't know after twelve years.  Grow some balls!"
He just laughed and laughed meanwhile home girl is turning grey with her shriveled up eggs in a relationship with a man who doesn't know if he wants to marry her.

Okay last story.  Same weekend, different bar.  I went to O'Brien's before I went to Circle Bar and overheard an interesting story that I simply had to take part.  I literally said, "oh this sounds like an interesting conversation, mind if I join in?"  Okay so I had a drink or two but I can be rather social when I feel like it.

The guy and his friend seemed eager to share their tales with us.
I slurred, "okay start over."
"From the beginning?" he asked.
"Where it's relevant," I said.
"Okay, so I'm dating the sister of the CEO of my company who is 46 years old."
"How old are you?" I interrupt.
"29.  She's 17 years older than me."
"17 years older than you!" I exclaim.  I shake my head.
"Yeah, and I want to break up with her but I don't know if I should find another job first."
"Well, why do you want to break up with her in the first place?" I ask.
"Because she's 17 years older than me."
"Oh you suck!"
They laugh and I say, "okay, here's what you do:  first you have to find a new job and second, you have to break up with her.
"I already tried to make up an excuse because she doesn't want to have kids and I told her how important it is to me to have children."
"Did she buy it?" I asked.
"Well, then she said that she's in love with me and that she'll have kids with me if that's really important to me."
I kept repeating what a miserable person he was for being involved with her in the first place, asked for pictures of her and then offered him my last piece of advice.  "Here's what I would say to her.  I would say, I wish I was ten years older, whatever you say, do NOT say you wish she was ten years younger.  And tell her honestly, I am not man enough to be with you.  That you don't deserve to be with her because frankly you don't.  So at least that way you are being honest."  I'm pretty sure I said it much more eloquently than that but his friend really liked it and he said he was going to use that.

My parting words to him were, "I really like your jacket.  Where did you get that?"
"My mother gave it to me for Christmas," he responded.