Good Mourning!

12:32 a.m.
My eyes were wide open. My heart was beating—fast. I hadn’t worked out since 8:30 pm., why was I unable to relax? My mind was just as it normally functions: thousands of subject clouds competing for time to become actual thoughts… But no rest for this woman was in store.


Perhaps if I go to bed, my body will slow down and rest. I forced myself between my mint green floral sheets that felt so crisp and smelled so clean. I slid into the folds and smelled mountain springs and “home” but couldn’t calm myself down. I turned on my bedside iPod player and searched for a soothing song. Yet, my heart was still pounding. Imogen Heap, Coldplay, Elvis Presley, Enya, William Orbit, Feist… None of these artists could quell the pitter-pattering of my heart and many mentions in my mind. I was in active motion but lying completely still.


Then the tossing and turning ensued. Searching and searching for the perfect position to fall asleep in seemed pointless. I would just turn and rotate round and round. I sat up pounded my pillows, adjusted my hair (that I wanted to remain completely flat for once) so it wouldn’t tickle my neck, causing yet another need to move. I sighed heavily and tried to breathe slooooooowly…

1:36 a.m.
Are you kidding me? “SLOW DOWN HEART!” I kept telling myself. It was torture that no one was awake, or home. “WHY AM I STILL AWAKE?” It was almost as if under the influence of a strong narcotic, driving the heart to pump as if it were in a marathon. But it was something else. Something was bothering me.

What could it be? I had just enrolled in the GMAT prep course to ease my mind about a very difficult test. I had my letters of recommendation being sent to me the next day at work. Bills were paid (and on time)! Outfit for tomorrow picked out and hung, complete with accessories on the hanger. No morning meetings. Alarm set. So what could it possibly be?


I tried to hone in on my thoughts: lassoing every one of them to see if they merited my deprivation of sleep. It was that moment, (well actually 2:34 a.m.) that I shut off the iPod and listened to the tune of my thoughts: I was mourning the loss of someone I did not even know yet. How extremely odd.


I subconsciously imagined the person that will enter my life, but hasn’t yet. I felt the loss of their presence when I hadn’t even experienced it. I could only fathom the type of person I would create for myself. Surely not anyone perfect, because that wouldn’t be a right fit.

I imagined a product of all the men I dated (their good qualities that is) and subtracted all of the qualities that didn’t work with "us." I gave him a face, a build and smelled his fresh cologne. This man did not resemble a celebrity. He didn't have a fancy name. Just the man that will lead me, let me lead him, laugh with me, laugh at me, support me, fulfill me, educate me and be my partner in all that we do together. I pictured this man loving my friends for who they are, not lusting after them, adoring my family for their flaws and fancies and most importantly, tossing my dog Ruff the ball over and over per his slobbery request.

I could feel this person was missing. It was palpable. I grabbed my own shoulders, gave myself a hug, let a tear roll and turned over and fell asleep.

Eat Your Heart Out [In] LA

My Dad introduced me to the splendor that is LA. The food, museums, culture all stem from the Castro side. (Not to say that my mom's side lacks all things mentioned, but for the geographical area given-- LA = Castro). A great deal of his family live in Santa Monica, Westwood, and then some migrated to neighboring areas of LA (Reseda, Pasadena) but we always went to LA for the food... In short, growing up with a Jewish influence in life meant eating in LA. Junior's Deli, Musso & Frank's, Nate n' Al's, Pacific Dining Car, Hamburger Hamlet, anything on Fairfax and other assorted restaurants in the LA area all come to mind when I think of the Castro side of the family. Especially after my grandmother's death last April, the walls that hold up those aforementioned establishments have a renewed meaning.

Pacific Dining Car: Styled after a classic 1940s dining car on, what else: a train. The employees are reminiscent of black and white movies, tuxedo shirts, bowties and classic lines. The atmosphere reeks of refinement and vintage glamour. The Pacific Dining Car was (and is) the Castro favorite for almost every occasion. My Dad loved train sets when he was little and apparently his love for it transcended into adult life and into the Pacific Dining Car. He would eat steak, prepared medium rare, because anything else would be "preposterous."
Grandma Lily, the epitome of a lady, sitting in those chairs and booths with her perfect posture; would order the Cobb salad, finely shopped and tossed with bleu cheese dressing ("Roquefort please," she would say). She had a petite giggle, but strong words since she was (by default after my grandfather's death) the matriarch of Daddy's family. My Uncle Leonard, would be in the bar car drinking Bombay Sapphire on the rocks (with an onion), giving my sister and I sips until our eyes drooped. We would wobble back to the table where my Dad would look at us, shake his head and sigh. My older sister and I would laugh and wink back at Good Ol' Uncle Leonard.
My Auntie Diane would exclaim something embarrassing audible enough for the whole restaurant to hear and we would all laugh… I mostly remember filling up on bread, because Lord knows that is my favorite thing at any restaurant.

Junior's: Grandma Lily would always select this. Junior's in Westwood, a Jewish delicatessen and bakery—pretty darn authentic and famous among the LA community. A sort of 70s feel with deep booths, partitions and windows that allowed you to view neighboring shops and oh yes, the Westside Pavilion. It was her favorite, which makes it particularly hard for me to go back there.
My dad always got the Deli Plate with assorted meats, cheeses, olives and other deli goodies; Grandma Lily, real Matzah Ball Soup; myself, a Tuna Melt (which I could smell from a mile away for some odd reason) on real rye bread. I loved eating the pickles in the center of the table, impersonating our rushed waiter with a strong Jewish, New York accent. Undoubtedly we would always get the same table, every time, even after a long Sunday wait of dozens of people before us. After lunch, my dad would order Hamentashen from the Bakery for us to enjoy on the car ride home. My dad would pretend they were little triangle shaped hats, another childhood favorite of his…

Nate n' Al's: A similar experience like the above, but always for breakfast. My mom would get her hair done at Christophe down the street on Beverly and my Dad would take my sister and I to Nate n' Al's for lox, bagels and luscious clouds of cream cheese.
The lighted server numbers on the wall reminded me of how my Dad must have seen restaurants at my age. Slippery booths, dark lighting, very cool, very retro I thought. The nostalgic, rude, barking waitresses with nylons and nurse shoes were somehow comforting there to me and still are.

Grandma Lily's: After lunch, we would always go back to Grandma Lily's apartment off of Overland to recap our lives. My Dad would sit in the same chair every single time, pick his fingernails and check on Grandma Lily and her lifestyle. She thought the squirrels outside were "evil" to her plants. My sister and I would stare at the Lenox candy dish that had the same candy in it for YEARS, pondering how anyone could let candy sit uneaten.
I would kiss the tall porcelain cats good-bye, hug Grandma and go. The whole time I would tell LA, the city that fed me "good-bye." It was daunting to go back there last April, file through her delicate, vintage jewelry and handbags, and to see that porcelain cat, staring at me sadly. I gulped down the urge to cry several thousand times while sorting through her things, thinking back on the Sundays where we would eat together in LA.

She was classic. She was "vintage." She was LA.

LA was her city (and mine) to eat. It was an end of an era in LA for her, and the beginning of mine.