Life on Mariposa

I have lived in LA now for 36 days.

For 36 days, I made my home in an apartment on Mariposa Street.

Last night my father said "mariposa, butterfly" before he got off the phone.

Tonight I make a new home.

Mariposa. Butterfly.

You Shouldn't Eat Bread or Cake

The title of this blog is not something I believe. Rather, it is something that has been told to me, multiple times, by a co-worker. A busser, actually, an older man named Jorge or George, depending on who you're talking to.

Louise's is "known" for their fabulous focaccia, served hot and with dipping sauce with each meal. It is also eaten by me and my co-workers when our stomachs are about to give out on us because we haven't eaten in more hours than we can remember and still have more to go, working. This isn't even necessarily a habit of mine yet, more a desperate measure when the salad I had just before work isn't lasting or I was late and haven't eaten at all.

And probably without all of this stomach-ache/my-current-state-of-life knowledge Jorge/George has taken upon himself to remind me about watching my weight. Possibly it is motivated from watching countless girls come to work at Louise's over the years, enjoy the breads and pastas late at night, and then complain or get upset about gaining weight from their gainful employment. Or maybe Jorge/George already thinks I'm a bit too plump to be seating customers to their tables and is just trying to help me keep my job. Either way, I don't really give a shit and it's still condescending to have this 50+ year old man pat my stomach multiple nights in a row now, saying "You shouldn't eat too much bread or cake."

I got it Jorge/George, thanks. I'm aware that if all I eat is bread and cake, I will probably become a bit more pudgy, not to mention experience malnutrition and end up out of work because I am at home, sick. I'm currently doing the best I can: to eat right in this current chaos that is my life, to often come in at least a half hour before work to enjoy my free salad or meal so that I have enough energy to make it through my shift, and to stay healthy and fit while building a new life for myself in this city you've probably lived in for at least the last 30 years.

Call me crazy maybe, but more than worrying about what bread or cake will do to my gorgeous figure (thank you very much) I'm just trying to survive and stay healthy and make it paycheck to paycheck in this already weight-concerned city they call Los Angeles. You're being no angel, Jorge/George, so no thanks for your concern.

God, I wish I could say that to him in person.

Learning to SLOW down, Part III

When I graduated from high school, my soccer coach, John Dawson, gave me a book by UCLA basketball coach John Wooden called Wooden: A Lifetime of Observations and Reflections On and Off the Court. The note inside wished that I keep it to open up from time to time in moments of quandary for possible guidance. It was something my coach did.

That fall, I took the book with me to college and it lay by my bedside for a year and a half before I opened it one night looking for guidance to calm my nerves. It was January of my second year of college and I was about to start a brand-new publication, basically under my leadership. How I approached my leadership would set the tone for the whole publication and be directly tied to its success. Already late at night and needing to get a good night's rest, I sat on the edge of my bed and picked up the book.

Dawson had instructed me to open to a random page when I wanted some advice. My eyes just about popped out of my head as I read the section title I had opened to: "A Leader Can Be Led. " I read on: "Leaders are interested in finding the best way rather than having their own way. 'Because I said so' is a poor explanation for doing something. It's no reason."

This opening and the short passage became my silent motto as we proceeded with the publication and I did my best to take its advice.

This morning I woke from multiple busy dreams to pleasant sunshine and with no reason to rise from bed in any hurry, I turned to my stack of books beside the bed. Last night, I had just finished The Giver, my own version of the-book-I-read-when-I-want-to-remember-what-it-is-I'm-doing-with-my-life, and loved it all over again. In fact, I might just jump back into it for another quick read.

But that left me looking at the spines of my books, wanting to pick different one. I reached for my other easier read Juno & Juliet to relax back into my pillow, but Wooden sat on top and I eyed it once more: I could probably use some advice.

These were the four passages I turned to: "A Lesson on Emotion and Language," "A Reminder: Be True to Yourself," "Make Fate Your Friend," and "Young Folks, Old Folks." Every time I read I automatically heard Dawson's voice, instead of an unknown Wooden's.

The first passage was about controlling one's temper and minding your language, which is always good advice. The latter three, however, seemed even more appropriate. The passages talked about the times in life when big decisions are being made--with carrots dangling here and there--and when and how these decisions or change comes about.

"A Reminder: Be True to Yourself" was pretty self-explanatory--remember what you're trying to do and why you're doing it. "Make Fate Your Friend" talked about a snow storm effecting Wooden's coaching career--if the snow storm hadn't hit Minneapolis, Wooden wouldn't have coached for UCLA, and I wouldn't have this book in my hands.

The last talked about patience. Wooden wrote that youth is a time of impatience, but that old folks can't be too set in their ways either when it comes to making change. I focused on the impatient part. I'm used to making things happen quickly and efficiently, but I'm learning that when it comes to the bigger stuff, sometimes you've just got to be patient and see what fate has in store for you. I don't mean don't act, but sometimes the worry part of me deserves a rest when all I can do is wait.

I've been pondering a lot lately about getting what one wants, and wanting what one gets and my relationship to that idea. Again, I think Wooden knew exactly what I already knew, but needed to hear again: "I believe that things are directed in some sort of way. I'm not exactly sure how. I also believe that things turn out best for those who make the best of the way things turn out."

Maybe another piece in learning how to slow down. Thanks, John.

Ode to Pineapple

Bought from street vendors, cut down the street from my apartment into small chunks and placed in a bag for me to eat with a fork or sliced artistically and skewered on a stick in southeast Asia, you are my new favorite fruit.

You make me want to steal a line from a Thai boy out with his friends and whisper softly, "Hello. I love you."

Ode to Sweat Glands

My co-worker Chad and I went for a hike in Runyon Canyon on Monday. A gorgeous spring day in the late afternoon, just before the streams of people came up the ridges with their dogs for a post-work walk. We took the side route up to the left peak, walked the ridge line and came to the higher second peak. LA was there before us, sprawling continuously into the distance of smog. Truly an impressive sight, in terms of what our society is capable of producing and organizing--kind of like our sweat glands.

Granted, us humans didn't create or build our sweat glands and who exactly did is still out for debate, but it is arguable that we wouldn't have gotten this far without the genius structuring and organizing of these particular body parts, our beloved sweat glands.

Take dogs for example. Adorable, lovable, fabulous mammals, but no sweat glands. They may get to live in LA as we do or enjoy an afternoon hike in Runyon canyon with us, but they're not running the place, if you know what I mean.

As Chad put, maybe our sweat glands have had something to do with our success as a species. Can you imagine all the social interaction that might just be a bit more hindered if we were constantly panting to cool ourselves off while trying to talk/eat a meal/have sex? I can, with much laughter, and it leaves me very thankful for those dear ol' smelling sweat glands.

Louise's Dress Code

First Interview, with Anthony (Server Manager, 1)—

What I wear: white tank top, nice light blue top, black slacks, boots.

Anthony: “The hostess can wear whatever they like, you know, professional but also casual.”

My take: Like what I’m wearing, but maybe a dressier top.

Second Interview, with Rodney (General Manager)—

What I wear: white tank top, light yellow long sleeve button-up, nice light brown slacks, boots

Rodney: “The hostess doesn’t have to wear a uniform so you can wear whatever you like. Just, you know, professional and casual at the same time.”

Me, puzzled: “Well this (gesturing to my outfit) is what I consider professional casual.”

Rodney, reluctantly: “Yeah.”

First day on the job, Heather (Server Manager, 2)—

What I wear: orange tank top, beige sweater, brown slacks, boots

Heather: “Look, girlie here thought it was gonna be cold so she wore a sweater.”

Me, trying not to make a screwed up face at her: “Ha, yeah.”

First week on the job—

What I wear: button-ups and sweaters, slacks, boots.

Most complimented outfit: Red sweater with slacks (Note: it’s a low-cut sweater)

Saturday before Easter Sunday, Second week on the job—

What I wear: Teal dress with thick black straps, and white and black flowers with new black flats; I wore this dress to Katie Ford’s grad and my cousin Michele’s wedding (Note: cleavage)

Weather: warm and springy

Servers, who are sweethearts I love: “I love your dress! You look fabulous!”

Later, Anthony: “Erica! I like the change of dress!!”

Me, from the hostess’ stand: “Well, you never know what you’re gonna get from me!”

I smiled like a hostess does and turned around.

Post Notes

In the last week or so I have had the urge to write, but not necessarily the time or brain-space to do so. Excuses, but here are my notes:

Tar Pits/Koons:

I had the afternoon to myself and needed to get out of the house and into the sunshine so I drove down to Miracle Mile on Wilshire and the La Brea tar pits. I found: that the Mother mammoth stuck in the tar is actually on pulley system, moving just a foot or two--maybe to keep from getting stuck?; that the lake has inches, maybe feet, of water on top of the tar but the oil swirls aren't as pretty as ones you find in the parking lot after it rains; classes of school children out on field trip giving the older guitar/banjo/mandolin busker their field-trip-change and dancing steps to the Appalachian music; a little boy with curly black hair "rolling" down the museum's hill of grass next to me, propelling himself over and this way and around in whatever form came natural to him, no matter how contorted he kept on going.

I was wandering, not lost but without purpose, and found myself next store at the outdoor installations at the LACMA and face-to-face with another work of Jeff Koons, Tulips. I chatted briefly with a woman from out-of-town about the ability to make metal looks like balloons, and laughed to myself that this was the 3rd time I'd seen Koons' massive sculptures: once in Berlin (Balloon Flower), multiple pieces in Venice (including a balloon dog and a hanging heart) and now here in LA. I walked around it, then went home.

Dust Settling:

Aside from Grace sustaining her injury to her right rear bumper, she was filthy to boot. In the back parking lot of our Mariposa apartment building, Julia and I washed our cars—using wastebaskets filled with our kitchen water, old t-shirts and soap. The next day I went to my car to drive to work and there was a think layer of dust covering Grace. I wanted to take it as a sign that the dust of everything was settling, calming down, but really it just makes me worry about what is in my lungs. And getting to work was all I really need to worry about.

Photographs Don’t Lie:

Again right before work, I took a few photographs of myself, all dolled up and looking fabulous—the hostess with the “mostess”. I was smiling, but the instant gratification wasn’t so gratifying—you can’t fool a camera; it’s all in the eyes.

I’ve lost track of what this blog is about.