Getting Out of Myself

I have been moody and whiny for the past few days. I really got my pout on last night while watching a show about traveling across Vietnam on motorbikes. "I want to go there," I said, to which Matt answered, "I know you do." The implication -- at least how I took it -- was that there is no way in hell Matt wanted to go to Vietnam and therefore I would not be able to go either. When I think about it, I am too lazy and weary and worried to go to Vietnam right now. But I do feel like going somewhere I have never been before: New Orleans, Austin, Texas, Memphis, Tenn., Nashville. I'm gravitating toward my fantasy of meandering through a small sounthern town talking to neighbors and drinking sweet tea. Sigh

Feeling Our Age?

Suddenly, I feel like a grown up – and in this case it's not in a good way. I had dinner with a friend tonight who is turning 40 in a few months. Though he said that he's not really worrying about it, it's clear that he's losing his mind with dread. Another friend, who used to be a wildly dressed, semi-irresponsible, spaced out single New Yorker, told me that she recently went shopping for "sensible shoes." This is a woman who once wore vintage skin tight shiny green silk pants a see-through floral top and gold impossibly high stilettos to a random loft party in Brooklyn – just because. Yet another friend emailed me today apologizing over typos in her previous from yesterday. Clearly frazzled, she wrote, "Sometimes it's just so hard to get it right." How right she is. As for me, I am suffering from carpel tunnel syndrome or hypertension – whatever that is, I just know I am hyper and tense – over BlackBerry emails that start at 5 a.m. and go until midnight, and daily barrage of a million, zillion little problems and hurdles and negotiations that seem to make up the life of a working adult these days.

All the craziness just makes me wish I was an ageless, freewheeling European neighbor draped in a beach towel and sipping Pellegrino.

Envy

Matt is in New York – and I am not. Ironically, I wish I was in New York – and Matt wishes he was not. When he described the city over the phone to me as "humid and muggy," my response was, "God, I love New York." I fell in love with the city during summertime. And I miss it during summertime.

Envy Part 2
Some new European neighbors have moved into the house next door, and for the first time I get the whole 'keeping up with the Joneses' thing. These newbies have fabulous, expensive looking wooden outdoor furniture, and they actually use it. They have beautiful potted plants and a watering can and all sorts of fancy life accessories. Not only do they have all these things, but they appear to be happy all the time. They are constantly drinking Pellegrino outside and drying out their colorful beach towels and barbequing. As a neighbor, it's exhausting.

We bought three plants last week – and one is already almost dead. We decided to look at outdoor furniture -- and it's outrageously priced. Tonight when I came home, one of the neighbors was using his MacBook Air laptop and resting with his feet up. I tried to hide my bag from Chipotle and pretend that I was not about to go inside, turn on the TV and chow down.

My People

Last night, Barack Obama cinched the Democratic nomination for president. I so wanted to sit at home and watch his speech, to see the elation of the crowd, to feel part of it. But I had made a promise to myself that I would attend a storytelling performance called The Moth. In New York, I performed at the The Moth a lot and I miss it terribly. On my way over to the bar where The Moth is held, I listened to Barack on NPR, moved and thrilled about the possibilities of his presidency. But part of me felt sad because I didn't have anyone to share it with. As I swung open the door at the bar, a dark joint called Tangier, Barack's voice and cheers spilled out onto the street. Inside, at least 40 people stood transfixed and smiling, clinking glasses and giddy with happiness as they watched the rest of his speech on TV. I had no idea it would happen, but there on a Tuesday in Silverlake, I found my people -- Barack supporters.

But there was still The Moth, which was being held in the back room. When I got into the back, I was disappointed to see that the show had already started and I'd missed putting my name in the hat. (At The Moth, people who want to tell a five-minute story put their name in a hat, and 10 people are picked.) The place was packed and I was alone, but I found a little spot on a step and settled in to listen to the stories. It was raucous and touching and fun. I started to talk to the woman next to me, who was also alone and seemed cool. Then the fifth storyteller got up -- and I knew her! Wendy, a woman I did stand-up comedy with nearly 10-years ago in New York, was hilarious and fun just like I remembered her. And seeing a familiar face made my night. At the intermission, we talked and hugged and reminisced and I felt a rush of belonging. When I left for the evening, I was giddy the possibilities of connections.

Yoga Dreams

When I close my eyes at the end of yoga class to relax in Shivasina pose, I am in New York again. I can see the high tin ceiling of the room I practiced in for the last five years. The traffic outside is the intersection of Broadway and Houston. People are teeming in and out of Crate & Barrel. Then I open my eyes, startled at the unfamiliar room and unfamiliar faces and sad for a moment that when I go outside, I'll cross Fairfax and get into my car rather than walking toward home along Bleecker Street.

The Sweet Scent

Now is the exact same time of year when I left New York last May. I remember being so upset that I wouldn't get to see the tree bloom outside the window of my West Village apartment. In the end my place took so long to sell, that I did see it. Now, living in L.A., there is a different kind of springtime feeling. The jacaranda trees are in bloom, with their beautiful violet flowers. When I take a walk in the evenings, their color seems to vibrate in harmony with the blue of the sky as it turns to dusk. And the flowers here smell so sweet -- half the time I'm not even sure which flowers are making the sweet scent -- but it wafts through the evening air as I walk to unwind after dinner. And it's lovely.

California Dreaming

What could be more L.A. than the Oscars? So, I went to the show. I was backstage with the rest of the plebian press, but hey, I was at the Oscars. Though I kind of dreaded it ahead of time, I actually had fun. I am a worrier, so before I got there I worried about my dress (the megaphone-using Academy person told us earlier that a "black-tie means a floor-length gown," which mine was not); I worried over parking and the shuttle bus scheduled to take the press the 10 or so blocks to the theater; I worried my computer would not work. But when I arrived, I looked nice with my new short haircut and black dress, parking was a snap and my computer worked. There was a festive, celebratory vibe backstage. Giddy press members all looked their best and munched on sandwiches and cookies. And when the Academy Award winners came back to talk to us, they were high on life and adrenaline. Many of them talked about going for their dreams. And that sounded like a good idea to me.

A Life Apart

My cousin Adrian died this month. I had not seen him in eight years. I flew into Portland, Oregon where he lived -- where much of my family lives -- for the memorial service last week. Adrian, who was only 35, had a heart condition his whole life, so we knew he was a bit more fragile than most, but he never saw it that way. In our family, Adrian was always the one who reached out to keep in touch. He wrote emails, sent cards and made calls to stay connected. He spread the news of births and new jobs and good wishes between a clan of disparate and busy family members. Sadly, it was Adrian who brought us all together again after all these years.

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.