Dear Harrison,

Although you only met me once, you may remember me as a shadowy figure next to you in a Thai restaurant where I went with you and your parents when I was in Minneapolis last Spring on business. Weird as this sounds, you may have been a mere 2 months old. In hindsight, this would explain why your Mom was worried that the hanging plant directly over your chair was going to crash to the floor and take you down with it. Your Dad was eerily laid back about it, having just finished reading Freakonomics. One day, when you learn to read, you can tackle this book--it's fascinating. I think you'll like the part about subways system in New York and how they cleaned it up. It's a pretty hopeful tale. ANYWAY, I'm writing to you because your Dad was a bit concerned that I didn't give you a shout out in my lame holiday letter. Your Dad also thinks I wrote about cats in the letter, but that is simply not true. Still, I'm not one to call anyone a liar. He may be tired, or confusing my letter with one from someone who did indeed reference cats. Holiday letters from the childless or elderly are often likely to have tedious descriptions of people's pets doing all sorts of things that you wouldn't even want to see if you were in the same room. Since I'm not old but am childless, I could see how someone might assume that I'd mention cats. But I have a dog. And, as your Uncle David puts it, no one is interested in any story about a pet that doesn't end in the animal either speaking Spanish or exploding. Oh! I hope that's not too violent for you--you are just shy of 1 year old. I don't want to traumatize you! That's something better left to immediate family. I'm supposed to be the fun one you barely know but will someday want to visit because we live in California, and kids like beaches. No trauma here. Unless you are really sensitive like SOMEONE in your family who insisted you get some sort of tribute in a holiday letter, when they didn't write one either.

Anyway, I don't want to bore you & I don't want to overwhelm you with vocabulary words that you're not going to tackle for at least another year. Just wanted to appease your Dad and say hello in the meantime. It's probably your first blog letter. Hey--it's mine too! So that makes it special, even if my blog isn't exactly amazon.com or imdb.com. Y'know, sites that people actually VISIT.

In conclusion, I hope you love your cute cowboy themed room and that you are staying warm in that chilly Minnesota air. I'll see you next May when your cousin becomes a man.

Take care, lil guy...

Love,
Aunty Julianne

Why I love subways and el trains so much...

At the not-so-tender age of 25 I moved to Chicago for a job opportunity that the Universe hurled at me, practically upon my request. I sold my car, packed up my stuff and set off for a temporary sub-let situation with my college friend, Tiiu McGuire. She had a place at the veeeeeery northern tip of Rogers Park, a few blocks' distance west of the lake. My job at the Billions Corporation was 2 trains and 1 bus away, plus 6 blocks of walking. Sounds miserable, but I loved every second of it. Selling my car was a really odd sensation, but the freedom from the expense was pretty amazing. And so I depended on the City to take me where I needed to go. Those hours and hours spent hopping train-to-train-to-bus and back again were some of the best hours of my life. Alone with a Walkman (this WAS 1994, lest you forget) and the rythmic forward thrust of train on tracks, I truly felt that I was In The Moment. I clearly recall looking over the skyline and mouthing the awe-filled words, "I Live Here" on more than one occasion.

The train--and not so much the bus, on account of the overcrowding and apparent distaste for deodorant and/or deep affinity for cologne of most bus riders on my route--the train was practically meditative for me. I remember looking out over yards, some manicured some wildly overgrown some with faded plastic toys. I remember seeing into windows of apartments that felt dangerously close to the tracks. I loved getting a glimpse into all those lives. Some I imagined enviable, some I pitied. I loved watching people board and exit the cars. With packages, with children, listening to music, talking to each other, sitting alone, laughing, muttering threatening Tourette's flourishes...they come and went and I was a part of this coming and going. From all these images I triangulated my place in the city, in the world. I felt both gloriously independent and as though I was a part of something wonderful, connected by the arteries of tracks suspended above it all.

Looking back, I felt more in touch with myself during that time than any other in my life. And since then, when in London, New York and even Los Angeles, while on the train I feel both peaceful and energized. I reconnect with myself and with the world. I revisit the spirit I once had when I was younger, more idealistic and open. I step back in time and feel once again that anything is possible.

And that is the tale of my love of public transportation and how it reminds me who I am.

(I hope with the biggest of hopes that the Red Line is continued out towards Venice so I can get a slice of invincibility on a daily basis.)

Two in one day? You betcha. Topics I might easily cover at the moment:

1. Bitches shouldn't breed. (You know who you are, "ladies")
2. Instant Karma: a rare and delightful treat that cuts the adrenaline rush of a near-miss traffic moment with yelled threats.
3. Mini-Anxiety Attacks. Now packaged in the convenient 5 minute melt-down size, perfect for the office. Paper bag not included.
4. Favorite Shared Dream Ever: The one in the house with all the rooms, when you keep discovering more rooms and each one fills you with hope and possibility. Might run into Linda in one of these dream houses one night - that would be hilarious. (no, actually, that would be spooky.)
5. 9,840 steps walked today. Take that, flabby ass!
6. Moisturizers: Worth the investment if someone ends up actually telling you that you look good wearing red, when in fact, you look kinda bad in red.
7. Destinations Weddings. Breaking my bank with your sweet out-of-town love.
8. Tired Dogs Are The Best Kind. No barkity.
9. I get bored of TV after 2 hours. Does this signal personal growth? Or have I just exited the target demo?
10. An Observation "oh look, you have on a hat" is not the same as a compliment, "oh look, you have on a cute hat that makes you look adorable." And I'm NOT that sensitive to everyone. Just you.

Yeah, I could cover these...but that would mean that I'm shortchanging my pre-sleep reading time, and given that I'm hella exhausted, I'm going to let you do the work with any of the above that you'd have liked to see fleshed out. Mama no got the energy.

Love, International Style

So my man is in London all week. Instant Message has been our primary method of keeping in touch. The 8 hour time difference and the fact that we are both working has really limited the amount of "I miss you" and "He said what" that we've been able to exchange. I have a lot of Me time in the vast lulls between our I'm coming/he's going IM sessions.

What have I done with this time? I've been romancing myself for the first time in years. I've taken myself roller skating, to yoga and on long walks with the dog. I've read to myself. I've written some. I got a facial and then bought--no SPLURGED--on a couple of new moisturizers (something that, according to my esthetician friend, I have needed to change for some time due to the lovely aging process and increasing issues with dryness.) I made a hair cut and color appointment for Saturday. I have been doing some slight home improvement stuff around the apartment, unfettered by the need to collaborate on where exactly the center of a wall is. I've got other fun projects lined up too: going through my closet and getting rid of things I don't wear/like/need/fit to make room for the new wardrobe I've decided to seek out for myself in the coming year. I have my files out, and I'm ready to organize my important papers, with fresh folders and new labelling system. I'm writing some more.

Even though I miss him, I realize how much I missed me too. It's so easy when you've got someone else around to forget yourself or to get lazy and not treat yourself with the respect and care you deserve. And then years go by and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and you look tired, frumpy, encased in a body that doesn't reflect who you are at all wearing clothes that don't fit or that you're just sick of seeing. What an eye-opener. Thankfully, I'm not too far gone. Thankfully, I'm in a place where I can see what's going on with me and feel motivated enough to change what's not working.

Do I miss him? Yep. But this time to reconnect with myself has been priceless. Ultimately, it's a win-win. I don't spend all my time moping and being co-dependent; he comes home to a happy, vibrant woman with a new haircut and a more peaceful spirit and a better looking apartment.

AND when he gets back he'll be bearing London gift including, but not limited to: crazy flavored crisps (Lamb and Mint? Chicken Curry?) and those Percy Pig candies that my friend Judy Jimenez was raving about yesterday!

Cheers!

Bermania!

Rain pounds outside, as it has for the last 24 hours. Palm branches lay like fallen soldiers across the sidewalks of the canals. Alley puddles have grown into pools of 4-5 inches of stranded rain water. My pant cuffs stubbornly refuse to dry from my earlier trip to the trash can, so I contemplate taking a semi-soaked trip to the beach...to see what's going on with the berms.

Last week, I heard that the Venice Pier was closed due to structural damage caused by giant waves. I could not resist taking a walk to the beach to see this oversized, watery demolition team in action. I coerced my boyfriend into a berm walk. We traversed the plateaus that had replaced the peaks of the berms, heading towards Santa Monica on the length of the beach from just north of the Venice Pier. We passed the main lifeguard station to the opposite end of the break and paused to watch the surfers who had been lured there by the promise of 8 foot waves. The waves were big, but not as impressive as I'd imagined. (This, the curse of the overactive imagination.) The berms, however, were majestic. We strode unevenly across them, sinking slightly here and there, eyes darting from ocean to berm peak to avoid tumbling down the steep 15 foot (I'm guessing) grade of sand while not missing the view. The sky was intense--differing in color as you scanned the horizon. From white to deep blue-gray, the water looked brownish in comparison, save for the white peaks on the waves. The waves that just weren't living up to the hype. Figures. We are awfully close to Hollywood here.

A few mornings later, I found myself with dog, back on the boardwalk and peeping between the berms to catch a glimpse of the water. A man told me that the waves had come right up to the seaward edge of the berms the night before, which made me feel a little like I'd skipped the opening act of a concert, only to find out that they were one of my favorite bands. But I was suitably awestruck that the berms could actually prevent the ocean from lapping up to boardwalk! I mean, they're SAND which is a substance that doesn't like to stay put, let alone prevent stuff from happening.

The berms erode overnight and then wave gawkers show up to deplete them a even more during the day. Each evening, the massive yellow trucks rebuild them. When I made the trip to the beach on yet another occasion - this time, a drizzly evening - I got to see this nightly ritual in action. The reberming is a pretty thrilling sight, if I do say so myself. Picture a bright spotlight from the other side of the berm that slowly peeks over the top. All the while, the constant laboring sound of the heavy truck pushing tons of sand into the classic berm shape that protects the rest of the beach from the power of the ocean. Slow and methodical work.

What is it about the berms?!

Drawing me back to the beach even on these rainy, miserable days is the seductive possibility that the berms might fail some night. It sometimes feels to me as though the ocean is reserving its full potential. Humoring us by sending some waves up to lap at the berms, but pulling back just in time. Allowing us to feel that the berms are protection enough, as they have been for countless high-wave winters. Giving us another bit of evidence that our lives are somehow within our means to control, and that outside forces can be thwarted by ample preparation. All the while, the water and wind know otherwise.

These recent rains are cause for concern. In spite of itself, the Pacific might just unleash something bigger than towers of sand can handle. Aware of this possibility (or not allowing themselves to remotely consider laughable the attempt by little tiny humas to contain the ocean,) the men and the trucks are on the beach after the suns sets, like clockwork, doing what they do. They play the odds in a game that they have had a tremendous lucky streak in playing. And so we come to see the berms and look at the sea, and breath in the chilled, clammy air while watching, waiting, looking for a sign that something is gonna give.

The berm is effective until nature decides otherwise. Therein lies my fascination.