Pleasure Notes

What was the best place of 2009? Coffee Shop? Pub? Retreat Center? Cubicle? Nook?

I’ve been sitting with this questions for over 24 hours. Why don’t you travel back over that time with me…

First off, I have to admit, I rejected “coffee shop” as the answer. People who’ve spent any physical time with me might be surprised by that. After all, I adore cafes and I spend a significant amount of time in them, being a writer in L.A. and all.

by d1andonlykar1/flickr

Unfortunately, while all that is true, I am still searching for one that hits all the high notes – great coffee, affordable prices, a food menu with which I don’t get bored, comfortable writing chairs, tables the right height, free wireless, welcoming staff, and friendly (but not too talkative) regulars… so, yeah, a cafe is not the best place I’ve been in 2009.

The other four suggestions Gwen kindly provided to stoke the imagination were nixed about 2 nanoseconds after the first.

I’m not much of a drinker and, while I visited some great pubs in Ireland, the pub scene in L.A. is a wee bit contrived.

Retreat centers have been out of my budget this year except through work and then, well, it was work.

I actually pity the people who reveal that a cubicle was the best place in which they found themselves in 2009, and may want to hear more of their stories so I can feel oh-so-much-better about my own life.

And then, there’s the nook…

Production still from Walt Disney Pictures 2005 film, "The Chronicles of Narnia."

I don’t actually think I’ve been in a nook, certainly not the kind Gwen has been in (which actually sounds utterly delightful and makes me think I, too, would have selected it if I’d ever experienced such a thing) or The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe kind (which is the only kind of nook that sprang to mind) because a) I live in a small apartment without large furniture and b) even if I did have large furniture, I’ve never had any impulse to crawl into that sort of thing.

Farm machinery boxes are an entirely different matter, but I had no access to any of those in 2009.

So I was left pondering all the places I’ve been this year and evaluating each. And after much hair twirling, but not enough to make me shave my head, I decided upon three places – the first is a great distance in miles, the second is only a place through which to pass and the third is the closest and farthest from me at any given time.

A GREAT DISTANCE IN MILES

On the opposite side of this country lives a little girl with bright red hair and a laugh that lights up the world. My niece is the most amazing person I’ve ever met. She is only two, but she has power over my universe. Any time I am in her sphere of innocent wonder and ecstatic giggles, I am overwhelmed. Adoration is too slight a word to convey my feelings for this nymph.

Whenever I am with her, even if it’s just through the camera on a laptop, I am in a best place.

by Yiyo

A PLACE THROUGH WHICH TO PASS

A five minute drive takes me to this place. It is marked by a thigh-high cement wall extended further by a chain link fence. It is on the edge of a road. It separates me from what could be a beautiful lake but, in reality, is an artificial reservoir built to quench the thirst of Angelenos. I arrive at this place to begin a walk or a hike or a jog, depending on my ambition on any given day.

It is a beginning and an end, never lingered in too long.

But if I am at this place, I can breathe. Because, if I am here, it means I’ve found time in my day for a moving meditation. I grab the cold metal of the chain link fence and… pull back and… STRETCH. And then I step into a bounty of possibilities – Will I walk or run? Will the deer or coyotes be out? Will I encounter other people? Will I find clarity as my head stops whirring or drift into daydreaming fantasy?

It is quiet. It is ritual. It is necessary. So yes, this, too, is a best place.

THE CLOSEST AND FARTHEST FROM ME

There are moments, fleeting and much too infrequent, when I am completely in love with myself. I cringe as I let those words stay on the page. And yet I will let them remain because, my god, we all really do need to love ourselves. It’s such a challenging prospect for so many of us, however, that we build up defenses against the idea, roll our eyes at the cheesiness of the statement and go on our merry mad way doing everything we can to get others to love us instead. Or at least, that’s what I usually do.

But every once in a while, and rarely as a result of conscious action, I land in a moment, a place, in which I find absolutely nothing wrong with me, in which the overly accomplished critic in my head has nothing to say – about my body, my bank account, my career, my love life, my relationships, my possessions, etc. – and so says nothing.

It is a place in which I simple AM.

That place is utterly amazing.

That place is one in which I wish I had permanent residence.

I’ve been there one or two times this year. And it is, without question, one of the best best places to be.

by LightSpectral/flickr

What best place did you visit this year?

What was my best trip in 2009?

Is it possible for a trip to be the best and the worst at once? It seems so.

I went to Ireland this year, you see. I have red hair, and a wee bit o’ Gaelic blood, and I’ve always wanted to go. And so I put my wish out there. On a sigh. Or, actually, in the middle of a rant among girlfriends. I said, “I’m about to turn 40, my life sucks, I haven’t traveled in years – cause unless it requires a passport, it doesn’t count, and I really wish I could go to Ireland!”

I say things like that on a fairly regular basis.

But on this one day in March, a very dear friend in the midst of all these fabulous girlfriends, actually paid attention. With an impulsive “I’ll go with you” and a wave of her wand – or, actually, a few thousand hotel points – she made it happen.

Before I could take a breath, but just in time for me to dismiss her impulsiveness, she’d bought her airline ticket.

And so, I bought mine.

And we went.

Eight days. Driving back roads as much as possible. Laughing and singing and drinking our way through Kilkenny, Waterford, Cork, Kerry and Shannon before returning to the amazing city of Dublin for a final few days of pub crawling and rugby viewing.

It was green. Very, very green.

The beer was good. Very, very good.

The people were friendly. Very, very– well, not that friendly, but really nice.

And I felt like I was able to breathe again, after months of suffocation.

I was born to travel. I love doing it more than doing almost anything else you can imagine. I hold strongly the belief that if more people picked up a passport rather than a gun, we would obtain peace. I spent my 20s living out of a suitcase. And when too much time has passed between one trip and the next, I miss the freedom, challenge and adventure of travel like an amputee misses her limb.

This trip was stupendous. Even when my friend tripped over a curb our last day and sprained her ankle, thereby putting the kabosh on our much anticipated literary pub crawl. We simply shrugged off the change in plans, as one becomes adept at doing while traveling, and lounged in the hotel room debating the highlights of the proceeding week.

Neither of us had any way of knowing that seven days later, she would be dead of complications stemming from that damned sprained ankle.

I am left with beautiful pictures. Bittersweet memories. An unshakable passion for travel. And complete confusion. I still wade through a shitload of emotions with the weight of molasses. I struggle to reconcile the joy of the trip with the devastation of its aftermath, to retain the hope I rediscovered for myself in the midst of despairing grief for… everything.

There are seven stages of grief, I’ve been told. I thought they would come in a brief, orderly fashion, like months of the year. I was wrong.

And now, I just really wish I could go to some forgotten island in Greece and let the sun and the sand and the sea dissolve all the pain that comes with life. But then again, if I’ve learned one thing this year, it is definitely… be careful what you wish for.

If you’re still reading this, you may be wondering where the hell the positive, pleasurable spin is in all this. After all, this was supposed to be one of the BEST moments of 2009, right? Here’s what I can give you or, perhaps more importantly, give myself…

I spent eight intense, incredibly memorable, very personal days with an amazing woman who gave me more gifts with her friendship than I will likely have time to pay forward.

I journeyed through a greater spectrum of the human experience as a result of this trip than ever before.

And I’ve now been to Ireland.

I can recommend it.

I am working all day today, a Saturday, on my feet, with lots of children and even more people. And once it is over, I must traipse back to my hotel room. I would so much rather be returning to my own home to grant myself the indulgence of  lounging in a nice hot bath – a good book and glass of wine within easy reach, and some Yoav on the iPod. But, alas, I can only dream… And isn’t this the PERFECT bathtub to place in that fantasy?

Nirvana by Bathroom Tomorrow

If you’ve been around here for a while, you already know I have a thing for bathtubs. But I just stumbled upon this one and immediately got giddy. It’s made by Bathroom Tomorrow, a design company in Bangkok – I swear, design out of Southeast Asia and Japan continually amazes me. It’s so fun, romantic, silly, gorgeous! Someday, I really must own a home with many bathrooms so I can remodel the hell out of them and have a different style bathtub in each one.

For now, I’ll just ponder on the best bottle of wine, grooviest tunes and most appropriate book to accompany this particular tub… definitely champagne of some sort… Mazzy Star from the speakers… and maybe a picture book of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, do you suppose?

Available at Target

Whenever I travel by plane, I make sure I don’t have to check any luggage. It’s too much of a hassle. And normally I do a very good job of fitting everything I need for wherever I’m going into my trusty, old, beat-up, green carry-on bag. This time, however, I misjudged the weather. I checked the five-day forecast online and saw that it would be damn cold here in New Jersey – keeping in mind that I’m now a delicate SoCal creature who cranks up the heat when the mercury drops below 75 – so I packed a winter coat and some long-sleeve t-shirts. And guess what happened? A picture-perfect autumn day! So now it’s not cold enough for the winter jacket but too crisp for just the shirt. What is a girl to do? I went shopping. As luck would have it, my business meeting took place directly across from a Target, so I popped inside. Lo and behold, I found this adorable red-check vest and instantly fell in love.

Now, I don’t even normally wear vests – my arms feel so abandoned. And plaid tends to give me flashbacks to the 80s and lumberjacks – neither of which is a good thing in my memory. But this thing is actually flattering on me! (I’d include a photo of me modeling it but I didn’t pack my connector cable for my camera either – it’s been a hectic week, folks!) More importantly, it is warm in all the right places. No embarrassing headlights on this girl – woo hoo!

It comes in a bunch of different colors, though not black and grey which would have been nice.

I never would have considered purchasing a faux-fur trimmed, plaid vest if I hadn’t found myself shivering in the Garden State. Now, I’m going to rock it everywhere. In fact, I’m wearing it right now. And I’m utterly cozy and happy.

So this is my truly unexpected pleasure find of the week.

And I’m starting to like New Jersey.

Price: $29.99. Available at Target and Target.com.

Image via Sarasota Coffee Company

Halloween is over – thank god – but the piles of candy remain to taunt me. For most of the year, I can ignore all those delectable favorites of my childhood. Most of the brands I like best don’t get huge marketing budgets attached, which means I truly forget they exist for about 358 days of each year. But for some reason, during the seven days after Halloween, they come back to haunt me – all those retro brands that kids today eye suspiciously when they empty their overflowing pillowcases at the end of their night knocking on strangers’ doors, and then toss off to pushers parents, who then carry them to offices and let loose to seduce hapless “adults,” like me.

I have no power to resist the pull.

Which is why I’m currently suffering from a sugar crash of magnificent proportion… If only you could see me now!

So you can understand how I was caught unaware, here’s what happened…

I was at an event last night. With tons and tons and tons of candy. So much candy, in fact, that we were told to take some home with us. And who am I to refuse a direct order? Particularly when said candy is the good stuff – Sugar Babies and Pop Rocks and Tootsie Rolls and Nerds and– well, you get it. Besides, it was free and we’re in a recession and I have to spend the weekend in New Jersey. So, really, it’s remarkable I didn’t leave with the entire supply.

Instead, I thought it would be a good idea– and here, as any addict can tell you, is when I should have walked away but, alas, did not– to take a handful, or three, of Sugar Babies packets to accompany me on my lonely and long-ass-with-a-lay-over plane ride today. Security really should have stopped. I was PACKING, I’m telling you!

Then, it got ugly. I’ve eaten destroyed the seedy evidence of my debauchery. But I was not at my most lady-like today. And now, even though the trail of tears wrappers is gone, I am left feeling like crap and needing to mainline some protein STAT.

At least this only happens once a year.