Hi, My Name Is Marla and I Live in L.A.

I'll tell you when you really know you live in Los Angeles: When you brush against Justin Timberlake at a party. Yep, that's what happened to me last night. JT and I walked past each other and slightly bumped arms. He was surrounded by a giant entourage, video cameras and lights, while I was trying unsuccessfully not to look like a drooling star-struck crazy person. Lots of other stars were at this party too. In fact, I very well may inadvertently be on "The Hills," which was filming at the party.

The night before the JT/Hills party, I went to some wedding event where they gave out big goodie bags to engaged women at the Four Seasons. It we weird, with models walking around in $5,000 dresses and tables set up with staggering towers of flowers. But I was there for the goodie bag and free champagne. Afterward, my friend Peggy and I, had wine and appetizers at the Four Seasons bar.

Yep, I live in L.A.

Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out...

On my last hurrah in NYC, the city kicked my lil California ass to the curb. Although it was hot, hot, hot in L.A., it had turned to fall in New York by the time I arrived. I was under-dressed and shivering for five days and ended up catching a fierce cold. Yes, I still ate a chocolate croissant, had my hair colored and saw friends -- I can't be put down that easily -- but by the time it came to closing on my apartment, I was so sick and exhausted I could barely focus. It was sad to say goodbye to my place, but I was almost too tired to care. Fatigue and illness are a great cure for nostalgia. That afternoon, Matt's sister, Sarah, greeted me with a hug when I showed up on her doorstep weepy and sniffling and feeling sorry for myself. Thank god for her warm couch and silly TV shows. The next day I was well enough to ... call in sick and get myself on the earliest standby flight I could catch back to L.A.!

Not Again - Yes, Again

The whole, "I'm Leaving NYC" is in the final stages. Tomorrow I fly out of L.A. -- once again bound for my old homeland of New York. My empty apartment, which has been stripped of all its real estate staging materials, awaits. I am a nostalgia queen, so I'm kind of sad. But mostly I'm relieved. I mean, part of me doesn't even want to go to NYC. It's exhausting all this traveling back and forth, saying goodbye to everything again and again and again. But when my hair salon called and said they could fit me in for highlights on Saturday, I booked the flight. So here it is: I'll make the rounds to see friends, eat croissants, go to work in my old office -- and then really start living in L.A.

Hell No, I Won't Go...

The weirdest thing happened today. As a prelude to the story you must know that Matt is in New York for work. We had a rushed phone conversation, which left me with the (mistaken) impression that he was being coaxed into moving back to NYC by his persuasive workmates. After we hung up, I paused to breathe deeply, telling myself not to think about it. But on the way home -- after a pretty damn hysterical and raucus pool party with my new co-workers – I thought to myself, 'There is no way in hell I am going back.'

For so many years I felt like I was on my own in NYC. Here, everything is familiar on a sensory level. And my people are here. In less than four months, I have visited my dad at least three times, gone to Hawaii with my girlfriends, had my college roommate come stay for the weekend and, most recently, gone to the Sierra Mountains with my mom -- a great trip to a place I have been visiting regularly since I was born.

I'm not saying it's forever, but for now it's good to be home.

A Miracle on Cornelia Street

Today, the board of my co-op approved the buyer for my apartment in NYC. When I heard the news I started to laugh and cry from the flood of relief. I have been carrying this apt. with me – it's heavy! – and now I can put it down. I'll miss the place. It was my first apt. I loved it and was proud of owning it, of having my own tiny slice of the West Village of Manhattan. But now I can step into the future – which may eventually include a little Spanish bungalow near the beach!

Spider Hunters

On this blog I have related some of Matt and my adventures with bugs -- specifically the great roach battle of May 2007. (Still, nothing can top our katydid caper in NYC.) Well, last night we the spider fake-out of August 2007.

It started when I was getting ready for bed, spotted a giant orange spider on the wall and screamed, "Matt, come in here now!" We've had enough encounters with bugs for him to know what this was about. "Wow," he said as he came in. "That's quite beautiful, isn't it?" I agreed that it was lovely indeed as I ran out of the room and downstairs to retrieve our official bug-catching container, an old plastic pasta sauce jar we keep under the sink.

Our game plan was that Matt would try to capture the spider, but if he missed and the spider bolted -- the thing was fast and agile -- I'd smash it with a shoe (which, for the record I really did not want to do!) While I was still looking for a hefty-soled weapon, Matt got the container around the spider against the wall. It was pretty easy to knock it into the container and seal the lid. We were about to release it outside when I suggested we look it up online. It's such an unusual bright spider -- maybe we could find out what it was.

After a lot of searching we started to suspect we'd caught a brown widow, which has deadly venom. We looked at each other wide-eyed. Could it be? No. Maybe. It kinda looks like it. Hmmmmm.

During our search, we stumbled onto a project at the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History in which they ask regular citizens to capture spiders and send them in for study. To preserve the spider, the web site suggests sticking it in the freezer for 15 minutes to kill it, then soaking it in rubbing alcohol. Together, Matt and I carried our specimen to the fridge. After what I swore was way less than 15 mins, Matt said it was surely dead and we should transfer him to a smaller container. Indeed, the poor little guy seemed utterly frozen. We slipped him into a smaller Tupperware container and debated picking him up to get a better look at the possible brown widow markings on his belly. But I was jittery and wanted the spider under a sealed lid again.

I poured the alcohol into the small container and Matt said, "Oh he didn't like that," which I thought was odd because the spider was dead. Then all of a sudden, with amazing force, it started to swim -- hard! It was like Glenn Close coming alive in the bathtub at the end of "Fatal Attraction." Like a great naturalist, I screamed and ran out of the kitchen. Matt slammed a lid over it -- and we both had to catch our breath for a minute afterward.

We haven't done it yet, but we're going to bring our spider specimen to the museum, and someone will eventually get back to us and tell us what type of spider it really is -- a deadly venomous brown widow, a common garden spider or something else all together.

Malfunction Light Is Illuminated

I noticed yesterday that the "malfunction indicator light" on the dashboard of my car had gone it. It made me laugh out loud. Of course it did. How perfectly appropriate. "The malfunction light can indicate hundred of potential problems," the VW operator told me, and asked if I wanted to bring the car in for a diagnostic test. Actually, I wanted to say, could I bring my self in. I could use a complete diagnostic examination to try to locate sources of the many malfunctions in my malfunctioning L.A. life.

On the phone, the operator told me the light could merely be calling to attention to a small problem like the gas cap not being put on properly. This afternoon, I popped open the door to the gas tank -- and the cap was not screwed on at all. So I screwed it on tight -- and the light went off. If only it were that simple for me.

Though there is no diagnostic for my life, I'm going to give myself the next best thing: A long weekend out in the desert at my dad's. I'll have some peace and quiet, be taken care of, get taken out to dinner and the movies. Maybe that will help shut off my own malfunction indicator light.

There's No Place Like Home

I made the most of my trip to NYC. I saw a lot of friends, I felt good about work again -- amazing what human interaction and a window can do -- had my prescription renewed, got a really good haircut, vented about L.A., slept in my own bed, saw the trees in full bloom outside my West Village window and had a chocolate croissant from my fave patisserie. There is no doubt I love New York. There is no place like it. But as Dorothy says, there is also no place like home. And for me, California is that. It doesn't necessarily feel that way right now. I'm often confused about where I am and I regularly experience difficulty identifying my car in a parking garage -- thank god for the blinking lights triggered by my automatic key thingy. But I am in this for the long haul, for trips to Hawaii with my wonderful girlfriends, for drives -- instead of flights -- to see my parents, for trips to the beach and the mountains, for a sense that even if my world falls apart, I will be ok because I am home. That is a feeling I never had in New York.

In NYC

I'm in NYC and loving it. The hot humid weather, the familiar streets, all the people walking around, a lively office with actual personal interaction -- it's so good to be here.

Another Day, Another Deal

Lawyers in New York are hammering out yet another possible contract to sell my apartment. It is for less than I'd hoped, but it's a number I can live with. This time, I am oddly emotionally numb to the process. I'm probably just exhausted. Maybe I'll feel differently - pangs of joy or regret - when I got back to NYC on Sunday and spend the night there again for the first time 10 weeks. I'm a little nervous to be in the place - it's so empty and I will be alone. But maybe it's good. Going to NYC seems a little like visiting at ex - there are all sorts of emotions tied up in it. But I'm going to try to focus on the joy of it, the humid heat, my favorite French patisserie, seeing friends, visiting my hair stylist and just simply being in New York.

NYC Bound

It's official. I am going back to New York. The primary function of the week-long trip is work. (We're hiring someone new.) The unofficial reason: Sanity check.

I just can't seem to get my balance in L.A. Maybe a week in New York will help me find my center. I don't know how I'll fit all the actual work in since I've already made appointments with my hairdresser, my doctor, my shrink and my old boss. I can't wait!

A Woman on the Verge

I am on the verge. The verge of what I am not sure. It could be a nervous breakdown. It could be a beautiful breakthrough. This move has hit me hard. Everything is more lonely and tense and trying and financially stressful than I imagined. A ray of light came last week when I got an offer on my NYC apt. -- a good one. And just when we were thisclose to at least shaking on the deal, the buyer backed out. And the jitter of happiness I'd been feeling suddenly snapped. And now I am ready to quit my job, move to the beach, sell my car, stop washing my hair and turn into a professional beach bum. Ok, so it's not that likely I'll do all – or any – of that. But then again, maybe ....

I will say that through this, Matt has been very nice and understanding. Even though he does not like random, destination unknown adventures, he came with me on a drive to Santa Monica yesterday. He did not protest when I told him I wanted to find where Sunset Boulevard meets the ocean. And he didn't complain when we hit lots of traffic on the Pacifc Coast Highway, or when I turned onto Topanga Canyon and couldn't turn around. He looked at our very incomplete map and navigated the way home. For me, driving just to explore, to see beautiful new things and risk getting lost is the kind of remedy I needed. Thanks, Matt, for coming along for the ride.

The Beach, Part 2 and My Fabulous Girlfriends

Today I was feeling like I might suffocate at work. I have no window. I never get up. It’s unnatural. At the end of the day I started my commute home, and then at a stoplight I just decided to turn right and head for the ocean. I called Matt to see if he wanted to come – he did – so I picked him up and off we went. I imagined the wind in my hair, the open road, the ocean in front of us. But apparently the beach isn’t as close as I thought. And there was more traffic than I expected. And each time I thought we were almost there, we weren’t.

But we made it. There were homeless people, as there always are, at the beach. We had to walk farther than I remembered. And it cost 50 cents for a ½ hour of parking. But we walked over the Pacific Coast Highway and looked down the endless coast and I put my feet in the water. We were only there about 5 minutes, but it was worth it.

AND
My girlfriends are amazing. I am here in L.A. doing the best I can. It’s not easy. I’m not quite sure why it’s so difficult, but times have been a little rough. Work is lonely. Commuting sucks. I often feel like I can’t quite get enough air. But my friends reach out to me -- on the phone, in email, in notes, in thoughts and energy. It is amazing to me how much more strongly I feel their support here than I did in NYC. Just being on the same time zone helps. Thank you, my ladies. Love you.

Feeling California

Sometimes California feels so much like home it’s crazy. The sun on my face; the heat bouncing off the pavement; the smell of eucalyptus; the sidewalks on residential streets, narrow and buckled like the ones of my childhood; the warm, dry breeze. There are so many subtle sensory triggers that bring me back to my past, it’s sometimes overwhelming.

I lived in New York for 13 years and after a while I became highly sensitized the memories attached to physical places in the city. Certain corners, bars, parks, landmarks all elicited specific memories of my 20s and early 30s. Here in L.A., places don’t mean anything to me – half the time I am a few blocks from being totally lost – but the feeling of this state, of the topography, the weather, the land is familiar and often comforting. It’s odd to feel both so lost and so at home all at once.

Beach Bound

I've been living in L.A. for nearly 7 weeks and have yet to go to the beach. Even though I have lived here before, the New Yorker in me imagined life in L.A. would include lots of riding my bike by the beach, playing in the sand, watching the sunset over the Pacific. It's not that, at least not now. (I still feel like it could be if I lived in a different neighborhood.) But real life gets in the way. Even here I have to do things like work, shop for groceries, sit in traffic, do laundry and pick up dry cleaning. Still, I'd like to go to the beach.

"Oh, Good God!"

So on my 10-minute lunch break I decided to walk around the block -- literally, out the building and around the parking lot. That's my big outing. Anyway, I see a guy sitting on the sidewalk eating coleslaw out of a plastic container. At first I thought -- because there is nowhere to sit outside -- that he's just a biz dude enjoying the sun, but on closer inspection I see he's homeless. When I get almost to him he yells: "Oh, Good God!" to which I say, "What?" He answers: "You are beautiful!" I laugh and continue walking. Then he adds: "Not only are you beautiful...I just wish I was your man!"

So here's my confession: I love a good catcall. Obviously, I have a self-esteem problem, but a "hey baby, you look good" always makes me smile. In New York, men are constantly yelling at women. I got used to at least weekly affirmation from strangers. So this made me feel right at home.

L.A. Style

I did something I bet a lot of native Angelinos have never done -- I took the Los Angeles City subway. Yeah, baby. That's 'cause I'm an NYC girl.

The funny part, of course, is that I had to drive to the subway.

Should I Go Back to NYC?

My hair needs coloring. And I have to visit an eye doctor. I’d like my hair colored by James at Devachan on Broadway. And would prefer to have Dr. Viola Kanevsky on Columbus Avenue in New York examine my eyes. Could I go back to New York just to visit the doc and colorist? A couple of weeks ago Matt went back. Ok, so he was there to see his mom and sister, but he also got a haircut at his barber on Thompson Street. That made me jealous. How many beauty/medical needs do I need to accumulate to justify a $400 plane ticket? Hmmmm....

Branching Out

Today at work these things happened:
1. Someone stopped by my office to say hello.
2. I had a meeting with three other people
3. There was a going-away lunch for someone, which I actually attended.

It’s a big day at work when I get to talk to people besides on the phone.

I also made plans to have dinner with an old college friend next week. And this weekend, Matt and I are driving to the desert to see my dad. We’re doing our best to have social lives. I wish -- and Matt really wishes -- that he had a pal or two out here. He has vowed to call some of his sister’s L.A. friends, which would be great because they're people he is connected to, instead of people I'm connected to. Matt’s sister mentioned coming out for a visit. Sarah, if you see this, think about coming out soon!

AND
Wacky Things About L.A.
-- Sometimes it strikes me as so weird that everyone drives around at speeds in excess of 40 mph on city streets between these little white lane lines – I mean they are just lines on the ground, not a force field! Besides that line, the only thing between my car and someone else’s car is a few feet of air.

-- Our neighbor Susan is 101 years old. She comes up to my chin, which makes her about 4 feet tall, she's very sprightly and loves to leave us bags of her Meals on Wheels leftovers.

-- Seriously, no one walks here.

A Crack in the Wall

For my entire New York life I hunkered down thinking to myself, “Just get through this.” Whatever it was – jobs I hated, boys not calling, crippling loneliness – there was nothing to do but hang on. I refused to let the city get the better of me. It made me strong. But it covered me a tight protective shell that made breathing difficult. Now that I am home again, it's starting to crack bit by bit.

Last night Matt and I rode our bikes to El Coyote so we could have as many margaritas as we wanted without drinking and driving. When I first suggested it, Matt looked at me like I’d asked him to walk barefoot through the subway. But once we were on the ride, the warm wind on our skin, he seemed to love it. And on the way home, after a dinner of enchiladas, heaps of fresh cooked chips, guacamole and carnitas, I felt alive and free and like I had gotten away with breaking the rules as we pedaled through the dark the three blocks home.

Today, I was late for work and I didn’t care.

This afternoon, after a brief stint at the gym, I lay down on the grass in the sun to stretch and meditate. I didn’t mind that the grass was itchy or that I might have looked silly.

Slow steps toward letting myself breathe through the cracks in the armor, toward living a life not just hunkered down.

What the Hell Time Is It?

I am living double life, if not a triple life. I reside in L.A. now, (which is in the same time zone my parents live in, though I keep forgetting that.) But I basically work in New York. Almost everyone else on "my team” at work is in NYC. When they want to meet at 2 p.m., they mean 11 a.m. for me. When my boss says I am expected to work until 7:30 p.m., he means 4:30 p.m. I am constantly counting forward and backward three hours. And I’m horrible at math. At first it was easy because I was in a New York mindset and, like all New Yorkers, assumed everything revolved around the city. But I’m slowly drifting into Pacific Time. In fact, I’m in “in the middle of the Pacific time” since I just got back from Hawaii. It’s technically three hours behind Calif., but in practice Hawaii operates on “island time,” meaning slow, relaxed, unhurried time. Of all the time zones, island time is by far the best. Being back in the PT zone kind of sucks, even though it’s warm and sunny. I guess I want warm and sunny -- plus snorkeling, sea turtles and Mai Tais.

I Have Left NY

It's been over a month since I left NYC and I feel it. I feel far away. In fact, just yesterday I was really far away - in Hawaii. Here's a picture of it.

Pizza, Wine & A Night Out

The title of this blog post is what I needed to kick back into gear. (Well, those things and for my new co-workers to speak to me, which several did today. Yay!)

Last night Matt and I were feeling low. After work at 5 p.m. we took nap. But then we hauled our asses up, hit the gym and then went to this little hole in the wall place called Andre's for pizza, which rocked because it reminded me of some old New York joint. It was cafeteria-ish with bad lighting, a few crying kids and nothing in the way of ambiance. But the place was packed with regulars who seemed to know the staff, and it smelled delicious. It's $5 for a bowl of spaghetti! While we waited for our pizza, we studied this funny mural painted on the wall of Andre, presumably surrounded by famous Italians -- Sophia Loren, Al Pacino, Frank Sinatra, Robert De Niro -- and the woman behind the counter gave me two tastes of their gelato (roasted banana and chocolate). At home we drank wine, ate the pizza and watched the French Open on Tivo. It did wonders.

Tonight, Matt stayed home to do one of his favorite things - sleep. And I met my friend Tobias to see what the L.A. version of The Moth is like (it's an urban storytelling group that started in NYC.) Let's just say it was not New York. But Tobias and I had a great talk, we left early to have tea down the street, and I blasted the radio and didn't get lost on the way home. All and all, a success.

Catching Up

A lot has happened in the last week. I have gone from kinda liking L.A. to kinda not liking it. I can’t pinpoint an exact reason, but this feeling of not belonging, of not knowing where anything is, of being afraid of getting lost, of always having to find a place to park is getting on my nerves.

Today, Matt and I walked around the entire perimeter of the Beverly Center trying to figure out how to Enter Bed Bath and Beyond. Turns out there is NO entrance from the street. And yesterday, we got way lost on our way to Burbank Airport, which we drove to as practice to make sure we could find it. Well, we can't. It's so frustrating.

After the Burbank debacle, we drove to my college campus, which was my previous L.A. experience. It's quite different than my current life. Oxy is idyllic and quiet, protected and green. It was a good place to learn and read and drink and flirt and be away from home. But it's not L.A. life.

Matt is going back to New York. He's going to see his mum, who is there now but will be leaving soon, and his sister, who is doing very well in her recovery from hip surgery. He misses them a lot. This move to L.A. is not going over well with him suddenly. The out of place feeling I wrote about earlier is even worse for him. But today (Sunday) we played tennis and bought bedside tables and walked to our new brunch place. That was good.

OTHER THINGS:
Last weekend, I went bathing suit shopping. Until a couple of years ago, I never understood why women freaked out about shopping for swimwear. I am petite and didn't used to have much to freak out about body-wise. Maybe that's what made this time was so thoroughly horrifying. Let's just say my entire body sags more than it used to – but the butt is really not a good scene. A bikini is out of the question -- so I have resorted to bathing suit SHORTS, which is humiliating because everyone knows shorts are for hiding butt fat. But it's not as humiliating as having my bum exposed. For the entire day after that shopping experience, I was depressed. (The good news is that the reason I went shopping for a bathing suit is that Matt and I are going to Hawaii!)

Also: I got really sick the other day. Food poisoning (from Whole Foods, I think, since every meal I ate that day was from there!) I spent about 8 hours getting sick. The following day my stomach muscles were so contracted I could not stand up straight.

'I Kinda Like L.A.'

I said those words as Matt and I drove home from a night hanging out in the garden restaurant of Chateau Marmont. While we were there, I drank wine and we all laughed and the heat-lamps kept us warm and the setting was private and beautiful. Jason, who was staying there, gave us the grand tour of the old-fashioned homey rooms, the adorable secluded bungalows, the heated pool, the grounds with lush plants and sweet-smelling flowers. We did not spot any celebs (though I'd heard Lindsay Lohan could show up there after being busted for a DUI) but felt like we were hanging with the beautiful people for a night.

On the way home, Beck played over the stereo, the traffic moved quickly, the lights of the city shown brightly and I felt happy to be heading to our little home at the Park La Brea in the heart of Los Angeles.

"Everything is Different"

Matt said to me yesterday "everything is different about our new life – and even we are different." What's weird about moving to L.A. is that everything is different and everything is the same. In a way it feels totally foreign – yet everyone speaks English and uses American money and drives on the "correct" side of the road. There stores are the same – StarBucks, Gap, Banana, Crate and Barrel. Still, everything feels different – the weather, the quality of light, the people I see every day, the scents in the air, the way I transport myself from place to place. In a way it seems like people should be speaking a foreign language or we should be converting dollars into another currency because then we'd have a real excuse for being so out of sorts.

Random Notes: Tonight we have plans to go to the Chateau Marmont with our friend Victor and his friend, Jason. It's super Hollywood – where lots of celebs hang out. We are sooo, L.A. I can't even believe it. And, last week Matt went to the second to last night of American Idol, which is also so L.A. it cracks me up. And, we saw Sheryl Crow shopping for furniture.


New subject: When I was still in NYC, I found a stash of money I had been saving. It was a huge wad of $1 bills that I'd put away for 2 reasons: First, I had read "Rich Dad, Poor Dad," which suggests putting away $3 a day (I never did this, but sometime put in $2 and for a while was really into putting away $1 a day.) The second reason was Sept. 11. In a disaster, the ATMs might not work and I might need some cash on hand. Thus the wad of $$$. Matt saw it and laughingly suggested that if I brought all those $1 bills to the bank, the teller would think I was a stripper. Later, at the bank the man looked at the pile of money and raised an eyebrow – he totally thought I was a stripper! So I said to him, "It's my terrorism money," which made him look alarmed. "I mean, I had it in case there was another attack," I said. He looked at me like I was crazy, gave me nine $20 bills and was probably so relieved to see me go. (I have no good reason to tell this story, but it's been rattling around in my head, so I figured I'd write it down.)

Starting From Scratch

The board of my co-op in New York rejected the buyer for my apartment. When I heard the news, my stomach literally dropped like I was on a roller-coaster. I began to cry. I closed the door to my office. What's weird is that I knew this would happen. They were taking too long to decide. I have been sensing it would not work out, but I tried to ignore. Now, it's real.

I am upset. I am angry. I am a money panicker. But I have gotten advice from some wise women. Matt's sister, Sarah, told me that although it doesn't seem like it sometimes, things work out for the best in the end. (Sarah, you can correct me and tell me your exact words.) My mom told me that when she is going through something difficult, she thinks to herself: 'This will all be over in a year, maybe not in a week or a month, but in a year this will be done.' And my co-worker Emily, who was once rejected by a New York co-op, told me my apt. is great and it will sell. So I choose to believe these words.

Tonight, Matt and I are getting together with some good friends, Tobias and Michael, to watch the finale of "Lost" and order pizza. I'm so grateful to have that simple pleasure of friendship.

Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

On Saturday, Matt and I were unpacking. It was sunny and I felt good about finally being able to locate some of my shit. If our life was a movie, this scene would be a montage of opening boxes, folding sweaters, moving furniture and smiles. But it's not. In the afternoon, Matt sat down in his green chair – the beautiful, cushy chair that he had long before he met me – and stared out the window. "Are you ok?" I asked, and rubbed his head. "I need some alone time," he said – curtly.

It scared me. Matt does everything right. He follows directions while making pasta. He shows up to work early and stays late. He drives the speed limit. But I don’t think he likes it, and I'm afraid that one day he will just say, "fuck it," and drop out – of everything. It seemed to me that sitting in the chair and staring at our new lawn, he was about to bolt – from California, from his job, from me.

About 15 minutes later, I walked into the living room and he was still in the chair, this time quietly snoring. Oh, he was just exhausted.

On Monday, he called me sounding like he'd been drinking a lot of coffee and said he was about to get a car. I knew he'd seen a used Volkswagen GTI with low mileage advertised at a dealer, so I asked, "Is it the GTI?" He paused for a while then said, "Yes." To be clear, I asked, "Is it the used one?" "No," he said. Turns out he was about to lease a brand new GTI, even though we had talked about buying a used car. Then I realized that mostly I had talked about that. He'd listened and said nothing.

A few hours later, he drove up in his new car, excited and panic-stricken as we both tend to get after spending large sums of money. (In my case, that is anything over $120.) We sat in the car and he told me that getting it means that we are really going to give Calif. a chance – for at least three years, which is the length of the lease. I told him about how worried I was he was going to up and leave during that alone-time in the green chair. He told me not to worry and not to say that. Then we went inside and ate tamales.

Cheesecake Hell

I'd never heard of the Cheesecake Factory until about a year ago when I visited my dad for Christmas and, to my horror, we ate there. I say "to my horror" because as a New Yorker, I am trained to hate all massive, giant-portioned, grossly slick chain restaurants. Now, we live across the street from The Grove -- an amusing, terrifying yet convenient mall -- in which a Cheesecake Factory in housed. Matt and I ate there last night -- at my suggestion. I figured it's close, cheap and easy. But halfway through our meal I was overcome with a nearly uncontrollable urge to run out of the restaurant. A huge family was milling around next to our table, scooping their heaping leftovers into boxes; the air conditioning was set on full blast; my grilled chicken was dry and overcooked. It took every once of willpower I possess not to jump up and run out screaming.

I've actually had this feeling a lot since moving to L.A. I'm not comfortable anywhere. Everywhere I go is too cold, crowded, unfamiliar, loud or whatever. I'm constantly wanting to leave wherever I am to find a place where I feel at home. That might take a while.

After the Cheesecake Factory ordeal -- poor Matt had to talk me down from my freak out -- I cam home and passed out on our mattress with all the lights on and still wearing my glasses.

This morning Matt summed it up best: "We probably shouldn't be eating at places that have the word 'Factory' in the name."

Cheers to that.

It's Cold Here

I have never understood why everyone thinks California has such great weather. Maybe I'll get it in say, October, when it's still 70 degrees here and 50 in New York. But every morning I wake up freezing. And at night, it's frigid. It's MUCH colder than it was in my West Village apartment. I'm walking around here in a fleece and flannel PJs. I know what you are thinking: "sexy."

My dad warned me about something called "June Gloom," which is apparently a weather pattern in Southern California where its cloudy and gloomy in June. Well, it seems to have started early. Plus, this is the most beautiful time of year in NYC. And I miss it.

Also: I had a shitty day at work.

And: Communting sucks.

P.S. We now have a garbage disposal and a dishwasher, which we keep forgetting about. Matt just asked me what could go into a disposal, then decided to just throw everything into the garbage instead. I have been washing all our dishes by hand. It's funny…Yesterday we were walking to our car after shopping at Whole Foods to drive the 2 blocks back to our house, and Matt said. "I'm already used to it here. I'm serious! I'm used to it and I like it." I'm not used to it at all. And I don’t think he is either. He'd had a gin and tonic when he said that.

Jungle Jim and Jane

Matt and I both think of ourselves as kind of nature people. We watch a lot of programs on the Discovery Channel, and Matt has a near-encyclopedic knowledge of animals, insects and undersea creatures. But of course as New Yorkers, we have not had much chance to encounter actual living things other than rats in the subway. During the last three days in the desert, however, we've had all too many run-ins with "nature," which all have wildly challenged our self-image as nature people.

Roaches seem to have chosen my father's home as their summer vacation destination. Matt and I have seen no fewer than six monster-sized roaches, and have had two epic, multi-phase, mulit-weapon battles with them, which include Off, Windex, several shoes and lots of primal screaming. In addition, we have been taking long lovely walks on the walking trail behind Dad's house. It offers beautiful views of the valley, a bit of exercise and, of course, more nature. We have seen roadrunners, quail, a bunny -- and we witnessed one bird of prey kill a mouse and fly off with it. We also spend much of the walk swatting at insects, cowering from bees and generally being fascinated by and frightened of every buzzing, flying, swooping thing that comes near us.

This morning, while we drank coffee outside, a humming bird came to drink the nectar of a plant that hangs directly next to the table where we were sitting. We were a foot away as it flapped its wings madly and used its little tail for balance. We could literally feel the wind from its wings. I've never been so close to a humming bird. The experience turned us back into nature people (though I was bitten by a bug while we sat there!)

L.A. Has No Heart

I got a car today - leased a VW Jetta 2.5. I only vaguely even know what that means, but the car seems sturdy, I like driving it, the cost was decent and our sales guy, Uncle Barry, was raised in the Bronx so we had a New York connection. When you buy a car you are forced to explain yourself a lot: People want to know what your last ride was (the subway) and how many cars you've had before (1 - my dad's) and who your insurance carrier is (what insurance?). When people find out that you have just moved from New York to Los Angeles, they all say things like, "Whoa! That is quite a change." Or "You must be going through some major culture shock." One woman at the car dealership said that she'd always dreamed of going to the city, but is scared now. When I asked why, she said, "Terrorism." That made me sad. The best reaction was from the Geico insurance guy on the phone. When he saw our former address -- which was in the West Village -- he said, "Wow, you were really in tthe heart of New York City. Now you're in L.A. It's so spread out. That city has no heart." And I felt homesick.


Also: My dad is much better and will be out of the hospital, we think, on Tuesday.

The Unexpected

I thought moving to L.A. would be tough. I did not think that on the day I arrived, my father would be in the intensive care unit with a massive infection in his throat, face and neck. But that is what happened. Matt and I spent one day and night in Los Angeles -- mostly observing the plastic surgery victims who populate The Grove shopping mall -- then we drove to the desert where my dad is hospitalized. And suddenly I am talking to nurses and leaving messages for doctors and helping my dad. This is most unexpected.

When I moved to New York at age 22, I lamented that my parents were not around to help me. If I had been living closer to them, they would have bought me furniture and fed me home-cooked meals sometimes. Instead, I did it all on my own. Now, 13 years later, my parents are the ones who need help. And I am here to do it.

This Is It

Today is my last day in NYC. It's beautiful here. I'm wearing a dress - and no jacket - for the first time this year.

My coworkers had a lovely surprise goodbye party for me with champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Last night, I went for drinks with all my pals from my old job at Fox. We met at the bar where every single Fox goodbye party is held. Tradition.

This morning I did something very important. I wheeled my very old, rusty flat-tired bike out from behind the other decaying bicycles in my backyard, cleaned it off a bit - then took it over to a funky bike shop near the Hudson River. I left a note on it that read, "I know it doesn’t look like it, but I was once deeply loved. Then my owner let me fall into disrepair. But with a little work, and a new tire, I could make someone happy again. Can you help?"

Maybe that was psychotic, but that bike really helped me explore NYC and I could not just abandon it in the backyard to die. I think it will be taken care of.

There's more to do here, but I have said my goodbyes -- to people, to the city, to my young self -- and there's nothing else I can do to prepare to leave. So, tomorrow I will fly out of here.

Bits and Parts…

The tress are really starting to bloom outside my window.

Today is my 35th birthday.

I finally visited the Frick yesterday. It's beautiful.

At our engagement/going-away/birthday party I cried, but mostly I had a wonderful time. Lots of friends came. The sun was out. We drank crisp white wine. We sat outside in Tribeca. It's a good way to say goodbye.

I'm leaving New York

Saying Goodbye

This morning, Hank, an older guy who has lived in my building for 30 years stopped me on the way down the stairs to wish me luck and give me a hug (not in a creepy way). Also, another guy who lives there and who voluntarily tends to the garden told me he'd look after my plants if I leave them in the backyard for him. It was sweet.

I feel oddly compelled to go around to everyone I vaguely know in my neighborhood to say farewell -- but realize this compunction is probably psychotic. (When I was young and we moved, which was A LOT, I'd go around saying goodbye to every inanimate object in the house!) I'd like to say to my drycleaner, "Thanks for cleaning my clothes all these years, and mostly remembering my name - even though I have no idea what your name is. You seem nice and I'll miss you." And to my laundry person: "You never destroyed any of my clothes and only once did an unidentified pair of men's boxers end up in my laundry bag - Thanks! I'll miss you too."

I did tell Charlie, the ex-Mafia guy who sits on his stoop across from my apartment, that I was leaving. He gave me a 'good luck, kid' kind of farewell -- but that was like 2 weeks ago and I think he's annoyed that I am still here.

People say New York is this big anonymous city, but really every neighborhood has its regular fixtures. I don't know everyone's names, they don't know mine -- but there is a cohesiveness I'll miss.

6 Days Left...

Freaking out...

Our days now are full of goodbyes. Tomorrow we're having a farewell, engagement birthday party. I hope I can make it through. It's funny: one of the reasons for leaving the city is that because it felt lonely. But of course, now that we are going, I see we are surrounded by friends.

Crazy Empty - Except the Bathroom

I was only there for the beginning of the move -- and it was actually weirdly fun. There were four guys suddenly in our studio throwing all our belongings into boxes, ripping tape with their teeth, banging pots and pans, shoving pillows in with DVDs. We were listening to the radio -- Michael Jackson and Madonna -- and the sun was shining. It was like, 'Hey, we're moving to California and we're having a party!' Only of course, we didn’t know the guys and we were paying them $2,000.

Matt, who was in charge of hiring the moving co. and whose job it was to oversee the move, was hysterically oblivious to all crazy activity. At one point he turned to me and said, "How's the move going? I don't really have a sense of it." We live in a 400 sq. ft apartment. But he exercised the most amazing focus - on his computer, which was perched on the radiator where he was working. It cracked me up.

I left halfway through the move, when I was satisfied that they'd packed most of our stuff -- and left the things we asked them not to pack. In my infinite wisdom, I put everything that we are keeping with us to bring in our suitcases in the bathroom, so the movers knew that the bathroom stuff was all staying. Later I spoke to Matt when the move was done. He described the apartment as "crazy empty -- except for the bathroom, which is very full."

Chaos

Our apartment is in chaos. All our patings are leaning against one wall. Suitcases, shoes, files, bags, loose papers and boxes are everywhere. I'm almost looking forward to the movers coming tomorrow because then at least the apartment will be neat. In fact, it will be almost empty. But we're still going to live in it for 10 more days. We haven't quite figured that out. I think we're in denial - at least I am. It's funny, the thing Matt and I are most anxious about it that we'll have no TV. We live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and we're not huge TV-watchers anyway, but after a long day at work we sit down in front of the tube. It will be interesting to see how we do without it. I feel like we'll be camping - in a West Village apartment.

This morning we looked at the lease for our new apt., which apparently probably has lead paint, asbestos and mold. "It's only 6 months," Matt said to me. Indeed.

The Movers Are Coming, the Movers Are Coming...

The headline says it all. Matt has been in charge of hiring movers to pick up all our stuff, load it into a giant truck and deliver it to us in California. As much as I've wanted to avoid dealing with it -- because that would make the move really, really real -- they are coming. Soon. I only have 3 days left in my fully furnished apartment. On Tuesday, it will be barren and I won't be able to ignore this monumental change.

Things I've Done in New York

In every city there are BIG THINGS to do -- museums to visit, sights to see, restaurants to eat in. As I count down my days in NYC, I thought I'd make a list of things to do that I haven't done here. So far I have come up with, visit the Frick Collection. I'm proud that that is the only thing I can think of. I've spent my 13 years here well -- experienced the city, lived a NY life. If you have suggestions for things I should do in NYC, please, please let me know.

In the meantime, here are some of the things I have done:
Gone to the top of the Empire State Building, visited Ellis Island, toured Governor's island, ridden my bike around Staten Island, taken my life in my hands - at least 5 times - by riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, gone from tip to tip and side to side on Roosevelt Island, taken a ride on the 59th Street Tram, danced on top of a speaker as a go-go dancer at CBGBs, taken African dance lessons in Harlem, visited the MET, the Whitney, the old MoMa, new MoMa and even the interim MoMa, P.S. 1, The Museum of Natural History, The Cloisters, the old Hayden Planetarium (but not the new Rose one), gone to a wedding in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, checked out the Orchid show at the Bronx Botanical Gardens, eaten Italian food on Arthur Ave. in the Bronx, eaten seafood on City Island, worked for a sex writer on Central Park West, shopped for food the day before Thanksgiving at Fairway (an experience not for the faint of heart), fallen asleep on an decaying pier in Redhook Brooklyn on a lazy Sunday, gone on a ride-along with NYPD on the Lower East Side, witnessed a shooting, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade from a 5th floor window on Central Park West, ridden my bike all the way around Manhattan, run a race around Central Park, taken a carriage ride in the park, rented a boat in the park, had high tea at the Plaza Hotel, gotten kicked out of the Campbell Apartment (for wearing sneakers), eaten Easter brunch at the Rainbow Room, danced and drank martinis as Windows on the World, lived in Williamsburg before it was hip, dated a musician, been to Sting's dressing room at the Beacon Theater, watched a fashion show at Bryant Park, went ice-skating at Woollman Rink as a light snow fell, eaten a pastrami sandwich at Katz's deli, owned real estate in the West Village, fallen in love, been heartbroken, found the man I will marry, seen the UN Secretary General Kofi Annan going into his Sutton Place mansion, attended the American Theater Wing luncheon, been a New York City Grand Juror -- during grand jury appreciation month!, attended the best picnic ever with a giant Puerto Rican family on Staten Island, eaten dinner (several times) with an ex-cop who was carrying a gun, attended the U.S. Open, played ping-pong at the West Side park, watched movies on a rooftop in Brooklyn, interviewed Al Pacino at the Tribeca Film Festival, saw Alan Cumming in Cabert, performed stand-up comedy all over Manhattan, sat next to Salman Rushdie at a movie screening. I'll add more when i think of it.

Happy Mistake

Today I got off the subway one stop early -- totally by mistake. This is a train ride I have taken every weekday for six years and have never once gotten off at the wrong stop. I was thinking of New York. My mind wasn't on the present. By the time I realized I was at the wrong stop, I was already up the stairs and on my way out of the station. Upon exiting, the first thing I saw was the gleaming top of the Chrysler Building. What a beautiful sight. I'm so glad I got off at the wrong stop.

Spring Has Sprung – Thank God

We slept with the windows open last night. Today, I noticed the first leaf on the tree outside my window has sprouted out. The birds are ecstatically chirping. It's spring in New York. The streets of the West Village feel light and giddy. Pink cherry blossoms and bright green new leaves, tulips and daffodils are everywhere. It's been a long winter, (and the temperature is supposed to drop again for a few days) but when the spring comes to this city it's magic. This is the time of year I would normally hop on my bike, feel the warm breeze on my face and glide around the city to see what's new. My bike's in storage with a flat tire and soon it will be on a giant truck on its way to Los Angeles. For some reason, that kinda kills me. I need another New York bike ride or two before I leave. It's the only proper way for me to say goodbye.

Also: Sarah made it through surgery! I got to visit her in the recovery room for all of two minutes, but she wasn't all drugged out and in pain as I had imagined. She looked excellent. Yay!

And: My apartment is in contract. Yay, again!

Countdown: 15 days left in NYC

What the F Is Up with Park La Brea?

So we've been "approved" to move into Park La Brea in L.A. I'll say again, it's kind of a weird place, but I for one am super psyched that our little "townhouse" has two bedrooms, two stories and a patio. That rocks! But the woman who signed us up – our leasing agent lady – quit days after we were there and moved to the desert. Now, I have left three messages for other Park La Brea people asking for our contract, trying to figure out our new mailing address and minor details like that! And no one is calling me back. And it's pissing me off.

Good Luck, Sarah

Thoughts go out to my future sister-in-law, Sarah, who is having serious hip surgery today. Saw her last night and she was really nervous, but I know she'll be OK. We had dinner with the whole family -- including her mom and dad who have flown in to be here. Here we are. And here's a link to her blog.

Don't Cry For Me JFK Airport

Saying goodbye to NYC goes in stages. Yesterday, was the stage where I cried over JFK airport. I got teary as Matt and I flew over Queens and made our descent from London. The thing is, it felt a little forced. I was thinking about riding my bike around Brooklyn and Queens, which I used to do a lot and which I'll miss a lot. But then I started thinking about how this was going to be the last time I'd land at JFK. It seemed like something I should be sad about. I always get bummed about "the last time" I do/go/see anything. So I kind of forced the tears out. When I turned to Matt and told him why I was upset, he had to work to stifle a laugh. I mean, JFK is a complete pit. It's one of the worst airports I've ever been to and I think about that every single time I fly there. There might be a lot of things to cry over about leaving New York, but JFK airport is not one of them. (Oh, and don't get me wrong - Matt was very sweet about it and assured me that I would indeed fly into JFK some day again.)

London Calling

It's been a few days since the last update because Matt and I went to London. We were there because Matt's best friend, Oliver, just had a baby with his girlfriend, Dagmar, and Matt is the Godfather. I wasn't going to go -- I only have two weekends left in New York City! -- but decided to do it and am glad I did. The baby, Imogen, is adorable and was so much fun to get to know. She has 2 settings -- silent and screaming. Here is a picture of the latter. Maybe it's not right that we took turns taking pictures with her while she was hysterically crying, but how could we resist?

Imogen has the lung capacity of three grown men, so I was nervous that she would really put the acoustics in Westminster Cathedral to the test during the baptism -- but she slept through the entire thing, even when the priest took her hat off and dumped water on her head!

As for London, we didn't spend much time in the city. Ollie, Dagmar and Imogen live in Peckham, which might technically be London, but isn't in the city itself. Still, we did have a drink by the Thames and dinner in a pub with our old friend Amy. And we popped by the London office of the magazine I work for. See how I wrote "popped by" ... After 3 days there I took on a British accent. I'm so Madonna!

My Precious Shredder

Who knew that shredding would turn me into Gollum from "Lord of the Rings"?

My filing cabinet is overflowing with bank and credit card statements I've been accumulating since 1994 – so I bought a cheap shredder to make a clean start. As soon as I had identified the first batch of shreddable material, I plugged it in and started letting the paper fly. The sound of its jaws ripping the paper into tiny bits was deafening, but I felt a kind of obsessive glee over the destruction. Matt, who was watching a nature show, gave me a death look. (Really it sounds like an industrial sized blender making mixed drinks out of granite.) I did a few more shreds until Matt yelled, "I'm watching something. Can't you shred another time?" I was disappointed, but he was right.

Over the next few days the shredder seemed to call to me like the ring calling to Gollum. I'd slink by thinking of it as my preciousssss shredder, wanting so badly to go to it. By Sunday morning, I'd accumulated a big pile that needed to be shredded. Though it was only 8:30 a.m., while Matt showered (poor guy had to work) I put on some coffee and cinnamon toast for him. Behind me, the shredder seemed to call out! I felt an overwhelming need to shred. I thought, 'I'll just do five pieces.' But when I'd done five, I wanted to do five more, then five more. After a few minutes, Matt rounded the corner into the kitchen, a horrified look on his face, and shouted over the growling machine, "Marla!" Immediately, the trace was broken and I rocked back on my heels away from the shredder, dazed. "It's too early," Matt said. "People are sleeping." I hung my head, ashamed, then asked: "What time is an acceptable shredding hour?" He said maybe 10. I managed to hold off until 11 -- then shredded the shit out of everything.

Me & NYC

It's pouring rain. I simply couldn’t drag myself to brunch on the Upper East Side with my friend Catherine – so we had a phone brunch instead. I sat in my PJs watching the rain wash down the window and catching up with her. When we talked about my decision to leave the city, I said that I'd never really thought of New York as my "home." "Really?" she asked. "You seem like such a New Yorker to me." It was great to hear. "Thank you!" I said. New York has been my home, really, and I am a New Yorker – mostly.

Since I graduated from college, the main thing I have done with my life is move to New York. Asked what I planned to do when I was 22, I answered, "I'm moving to New York." My whole schtick is that I moved here with $1000, no friends, no job and no place to live – and I survived. For many years, surviving in the city was all I cared about. No matter what happed – broken hearts, shockingly low bank statements, layoffs and loneliness – I stuck it out in New York. As friends came and went, flirted with life in the city, I was always here. But now I'm ready for a new adventure.

Freak Out No. 1

I freaked out on Thursday about leaving NYC. I'd had 1 1/2 gin and tonics, which partly accounts for it (I'm not much of a drinker) but what really precipitated the freak out was that realized I'd planned a goodbye dinner with a friend on the same night I'm flying to London. (More on London later.)

My friend will be out of town for the last weeks of my New York life, so if I don't see her next week I might miss her altogether. I can't just say, "I'll see you when you get back," because I won't be here. I'll be in L.A.

This started me thinking about the things I will miss about New York. One of them is seeing the trees outside my window get their leaves. Right now, the trees are so bare I can see all the buildings that surround my apartment. But by the end of May, they will be so full and green the apartment will seem like a little secluded tree house. But someone else will watch the tiny leaves sprout out of the branches this year.

A Word About Tourists

New Yorkers are used to negotiating their way around tourists. On a day-to-day level tourists are super annoying: In a group, they move like a giant unpredictable – but always slow – blob hogging the entire sidewalk; they stop dead with no warning causing near-collisions among New Yorkers who walk at breakneck speeds; they usually dress with truly atrocious fashion sense (except the Italians); sometimes they even gather in hordes around the front door of my apartment building eating connoli and going on walking tours, forcing me to slink through their midst while half-awake on a Sunday morning. BUT.... I'm a generally optimistic kind of gal, and so I try to see the tourists as something positive. Their presence reminds me that New York City, my home for the last 13 years, is special. It's a place that people read about, talk about, sing about and dream about. People save their money and take time off work just to come here – sometimes only once in their lives. Not everyone loves it. Some are overwhelmed by the noise and crowds and prices and smells. But one thing is certain: No one will ever forget New York City.

We Are "The Others"

So Matt and are watching "Lost" Wed. night. (I'm one of the few people still devoted to the show, and because we live in a studio Matt suffers through it with me.) And the show is doing one of the flashbacks – but this time it's a flashback to the same island where everyone is stranded and it shows the village where The Others have been living. (The Others are the bad people). I gasp and say to Matt, "Do you know what their village looks like?" He shoots me a dead stare and says, "Don't say it." I don't say it, but we both know it: The Others' village looks like the slightly freaky gated community where Matt and I are moving to in L.A. It's called Park La Brea and has these neatly planned identical rows of beige homes with white trim that all look exactly alike. The actual little homes are adorable and spacious, but I feel weird about the identical houses thing. I picture myself more of a beach bungalow type.

My long national nightmare ...

It's Thursday. My real estate agent and I have to decide whether or not to hold an open house this weekend. I so, so, so want this part of moving to be over. I want someone to love my apartment like I do, to promise to take care of it – and to give me lots of money for it. It seemed like that was happening two weeks ago when a woman made the perfect offer. All cash. Closing date just days before my planned move. And she seemed to adore my apartment. It would be in good hands. The fact that it was all coming together seemed like a sign from the Universe that I'd made the right decision, that my life was moving in the right direction after years of not moving in any direction at all. I rarely let myself get excited with abandon. But when that offer came in, I was ecstatic. A day later, the deal fell through. I was so fucking depressed I came home from work, got in bed and cried. Then I sat in the dark drinking wine and watching "Dancing with the Stars" until my fiancé came home. A few days later, the same woman with the killer offer came sniffing back. Our lawyers are talking. Contracts are being drawn up. But the joy has been sucked out. It might go through, it might not. I can't get excited until the ink is dry. And that's why we might have an open house.

Beware the Closet

The other thing that's weird about selling an apartment is that you have to keep it super neat and clean all the time, which is not my nature. I'm more of a semi-neat and sorta-clean kind of person. But my real estate agent (who rocks!) insists that the place look like a model home, or in my case a model room. My studio essentially looks like no one lives here, but people do – two of us – in a 450 square foot apartment. All of our personal belongings are shoved into the closets, which are literally like cartoon closets filled to the brim with mountains of stuff. Move just one item and you could be buried in an avalanche of tennis equipment, snow boots, books and old purses.


Also, I thought of more things I love about NYC:
- Patisserie Claude on west 4th Street where Claude himself makes the most amazing croissants I've ever eaten.
- The Mud Coffee truck. I rarely get coffee there, but I love that there's a big orange truck parked up the block where I can get delicious coffee on the go.

"Chim Chim Cher-ee"

So I'm selling my apartment – the stress of which I can't even get into. But among the things I've had to do in order to make sure my lovely little studio is sellable is to test to see that the fireplace works – by having two chimney sweeps visit my apt. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a chimney sweep anymore. My friend at work kept telling me she pictured Dick Van Dyke from "Mary Poppins" coming to my place with a little soot smeared on his face and a skip in his step. The day of my appointment, the receptionist at the chimney place called to say that all her guys had called in sick because they'd partied too hard over Easter weekend. I wasn't aware that Easter was a big party holiday – but maybe it is among chimey sweeps. Anyway, they came the next day. The whole process took about 20 minutes and involved dropping a line with a brush attached to it down the chimney from the roof, then lighting a small fire in the fireplace to make sure the smoke went up. It did, thank god. The guys were no Dick Van Dyke and did not look like they were going to break into that "Chim Chim Cher-ee" song. But they were nice. And they let me take their picture.

Things I Love About NYC

Since I'm leaving in exactly one month, I've started to conciously notice things I love about the city. (Yep, I'm sorta being super-nostalgia girl, digging myself into an emotional hole, but that's me.) Here are some things I noticed/thought about yesterday.

1. The sun setting over the west side.
2. New sculptures that were installed in Bryant Park - I love that no matter how well you know the city, there is always something new.
3. Qwik Meal on 45th and 6th Ave. I haven't eaten there in ages, but it's a food cart where people will wait outside a half hour for the delicious meals - lamb over rice, chicken over rice, veggies over rice.
4. Riding my bike over the Manhattan Bridge
5. That I always know where I am. (Which is unlike L.A. where I am moving. During a recent trip I practically had a map of the city glued to my forehead.)

From the Past

Last night I got a call from my old friend, Jill. She lived in New York with me during our heyday - the days when were we in our early 20s, dating and staying out late, going to hear bands and not taking anything too seriously. Now she's married and lives in Minnesota with a husband and a cat a career she loves.

She told me it was huge that I was leaving - and I was so glad she did. It's true. This is the city where I grew up into an adult. It's where I became me.

Final Countdown

I moved to New York City when I was 22 years. Now I am a nearly 35. I am leaving my adopted home to return to California where I was born. I have mixed feelings about the choice. At the moment, I'm deceptively calm -- just waiting for a freak out.

I'll use this blog to track the ups and downs.