Project Elegance

Knowing When to Leave the Party

2011-12-29T12:27:00.000-08:00

As the holiday season winds down, and the New Year starts to unfold, we've probably seen enough parties to last us until December 2012. And, surely, there have been some that were grand and you wished would never end...or others that you wished you had declined. No matter which one you find yourself in, there is always a question of how to make a graceful exit.

Knowing when to leave a party is as much of an art as throwing one. You don't want to make your goodbyes while it's in full-swing...or be the straggler being waltzed out the door. The answer can be simple if the party has a clearly defined timeline ("Cocktails from 5 to 8!"), or if you have another obligation to make (a second celebration, an early morning, or a child-minder to relieve). I tend to do one of two things: Make a quiet goodbye (making sure to at least thank the host and wave to a friend or two) before slipping out as unnoticed as possible; or, (especially if the party is hosted by a dear chum) stay 'til the bitter end and the last remnant of the party is in the recycle bin.

You know it's been a good night if you're elbow-deep in soap suds at 4 AM, cleaning the good crystal.

Everyone has a bit of advice to give on when to leave a party. Here's a hilariously serious video on the matter by the Brits at VideoJug.com:

But, of course, it merely comes down to instinct and common sense: Leave while you're still enjoying the night and before you'll regret anything in the morning...which is usually around midnight.

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The party for Project Elegance has been over for quiet some time, but it was one that was so enjoyable, it was too hard to leave. And so I stayed longer than necessary. The purpose of this blog was two-fold: 1) To celebrate the elegance of eras gone by while bringing that sophistication into our modern, hectic lives; and 2) Getting Miss Jenn into blogging (which she does beautifully at FourSeeds). There's a desire to keep going, but not really the time. The focus is elsewhere. So (at least for now), I bid you adieu.

The Facebook page will continue with fun posts and related articles. And, who knows? Maybe there will be another infusion of elegance down the road.

There is much I get to take away from this project: A new perspective on living a beautiful life; a deep love of aprons and gloves (especially those I left in that Manhattan cab); learning to glide and finding my stride. But all the while knowing that elegance is not pretense. It is not something one puts on for the benefit of others. Elegance is something you imbue only for yourself. Elegance should not take away from who you are (yes, I still drop an F-bomb on occasion and have a dark and bawdy sense of humor), but enhance your best qualities. Elegance starts with being comfortable in your own skin.

Thank you so much for being a part of Project Elegance, for sharing your insights and making it such a lovely time. Here's to you, darlings! Wishing you an extraordinarily elegant New Year worthy of celebrating every day! *clink* xo

Five Days, Four Seeds

2011-11-18T10:41:00.000-08:00

Miss Jenn at LACMA

A week ago today, I was in a rush. There was so much to do before picking up Jenn at one o'clock that Friday afternoon. I was so excited to see her, and to have her here for five full days. A gift, considering her last visit was all of 22 hours. We had big plans to do as much and as little as possible. Something we have a talent for.

Earlier this year, Jenn and I had joked that it felt like 2009 all over again. She was doing chemo, and wearing hats and scarves. I was, again, dealing with day job challenges, and the financial side effects of trying to manifest my career. What I hadn't told Jenn was that the week before she arrived, my latest day job ended. I didn't mention it because I didn't want her to worry about me. Because, with all that Jenn has going on, she's the kind of wonderful friend who will fret for my well-being. She's just incredible that way.

That morning was spent doing laundry and dealing with assorted loose ends. Going from one side of town back to the other to fetch Jenn and take her to my little oasis. I was worried I would end up being late to get her, but as it turned out, the timing was perfect. I lapped around LAX until she made her way out. And there she was in her pixie cut, long black coat and fuchsia scarf, chic and as beautiful as ever.

********************

Jenn and I have known each other since the seventh grade. My favorite memories of her were in our high school drill team prep class (that substituted for sweaty P.E.), where we would gossip in the back row while doing high kicks during warm ups. The basketball coach, who served as the "teacher", would often chide us for our chatter, but we never got into real trouble. Our song will always be The Tubes' "She's a Beauty", not only because it was the big routine we learned for that semester, but because of all the memories it invokes.

We always travelled in different circles that would at times overlap. And once high school ended, we went on to our lives, losing contact. I didn't see her at out tenth reunion, but kept an eye out for her. I often thought of her, especially when I worked with a magazine writer who had her name, hopeful, when I received the email, that it would be her. Then, about three and a half years ago, we found each other on Facebook. We started with emails, then long phone calls we called "wine dates" that would happen after she had put her son to bed and her husband was off at jazz band practice. We would laugh and share and catch up on what had transpired over the years. We spent election night together on the phone swooning with hope. Her husband was out of town on a business trip, due home in a couple of weeks. I thought it was odd that I didn't hear from her as much in those following days, but figured she was busy with her life, and her husband's return. Then, I got the email letting us know she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

That was three years ago.

********************

These five days were going to be a vacation for the both of us. Our mantra was: Eat, drink and be merry! We started with Jerry's Deli for a simple meal of comfort food after her bumpy flight that Friday. Then, we flipped out my sofa bed, put on our "jams" and huddled up for a good gab session. Then doubled over with laughter watching "Horrible Bosses". You would think we'd have opted for something more sophisticated, but this was going to be an extended slumber party.

Jenn slept in, as any mother should when she's away from her adorable alarm clock. We met up with another friend from high school for lunch. More laughter and memories flooded our side of the restaurant. After saying goodbye to Debbie, we walked under the gray skies to get a latte then walk down the pier, back by the canals of my Venice, then home. And just as we entered, the skies opened up and heavy rain fell. It was short, but enough to dampen the ground and make the air fragrant.

Saturday night, we made dinner and curled up on the sofa bed watching movies, pausing them when commentary on the film, or life, was needed. This was a perfect way to gather our energy for a day at LACMA on Sunday, where we would see works by our favorite artists (Rothko for her, Kandinsky for me), and see her car (well, one like it) on exhibit in the California retrospective. It was a gorgeous day, perfect to be surrounded by such beauty. We both fell even deeper in love with Los Angeles.

Monday, I got to introduce Jenn to one of my surrogate mothers, Maureen, who has been something of a guardian angel to me. We had a delicious lunch at one of my favorite haunts. Sitting on the patio at Lilly's, Maureen and Jenn talked about how Rothko's paintings breathe, and I was warmed that two of my dearest friends were becoming friends, too.

"I feel like going out to dinner," Jenn said that night. "Let's go to Hal's." And so we did and had our traditional dinner of a shared turkey burger with fries. The best espresso martini-maker was on duty that night, so how could we pass up a sip of that?

We left before the jazz band started, walking arm in arm to the car. "Of course you love living here," Jenn said. "Everything is so inspiring." I looked at her, smiled and agreed, noting the irony that Jenn doesn't see how inspiring she is.

Throughout her stay, Jenn had been posting on her blog, FourSeeds.com, all via her iPhone. I barely had time to glance at a social network, but would catch a glimpse of a post by Jenn, wondering when she had the time to write something. Here I thought she was just texting when I saw her thumbs working the screen. No. She was creating yet again.

For the first time during her stay, neither of us slept like logs. I heard her padding around in my bedroom as I lay in the living room waiting for sleep to come again. Was it the espresso, the fact that it was her last night, or the doctor's appointment the next day that kept us from deep slumber? Perhaps a little of all. When I woke early that Tuesday morning, I noted her postings on Twitter and Facebook at four a.m.

There would be no sleeping in that day...the one day we both could have used it. Instead, we went to The French Market Café, another haunt of ours, for soy lattes and croissants, and conversation. Then, the drive over to Cedars, and the long walk in.

This time, we had more time after the appointment to regroup. Lunch on Robertson at The Newsroom. Then wandering around the famed boulevard to a retail overload at Kitson. Finally, the ride back home before LAX. Even five days wasn't enough time to fit everything in.

Goodbyes are never fun, but they are easier when you know when the next visit is to be. It will be my turn to go up. And I can't wait.

One of the themes we kept touching on was that we can create the life we want, in spite of whatever circumstance seems to be standing in our way. We can defy odds, break rules, set new standards. Statistics should be blatantly ignored. Because we have lives to live, and dreams to fulfill. And there is much more joy and laughter to be had.

Be sure to read the beautiful posts Jenn has written this week (and from the start) at FourSeeds.com.

Autumn in New York

2011-11-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

Walking around after the Whitney, Saturday, 29 October 2011

It was probably the most wonderful belated birthday gift I've ever received. A trip to New York to see my dear friend, Melissa. It was only to be a long weekend, taking the Thursday night red-eye, landing Friday morning, then returning Sunday evening. But it was a perfect getaway, and much needed. It was my first non-work, no obligation vacation in nearly seven years. Yes, it had been that long since I had gotten on a plane purely for pleasure.

I'd kept an eye on the weather, expecting cooler temperatures than the lingering warmth of Los Angeles, and, perhaps, some rain. About a week before, The Weather Channel predicted clear skies and temperatures in the mid-fifties. I was excited to pack my hardly-worn-in-LA-weather trench coat, and looked for a new pair of flats for walking. I could never seem to find the right pair, though. Then, three days before, when I checked the weather report again, it predicted snow on Saturday.

Snow? In October? And me travelling with carry-on?!?

I don't have what anyone east of Arizona would call a proper winter coat. I'd have to make due with my warm, black, turnkey raincoat, scarves, hats and gloves. It all comes down to the layering, anyway. It seems I can over-pack even with carry-on. By some miracle, I was able to make it on the plane with two pairs of boots (one of which I wore), slacks, jeans, blowdryer, makeup, toiletries, three turtlenecks, three long-sleeved t-shirts, a skirt, a dress, socks, smalls, pajamas and a dressing gown, two hats, a clutch, a small shoulder bag, three scarves and my aforementioned gloves. Oh, and a neck pillow for the attempt to sleep during the flight, and my rather large purse. All of which was going to have to travel on the trains from JFK to the West Village on a rather crowded commuter morning.

I've found the secret to a happy flight is to imbibe two vodka tonics before boarding. I typically have vodka sodas whilst on terra firma in order to save calories, but I believe tonic has healing qualities, hence the name, no? Once safely tucked in my window seat, neck pillow resting against the wall, coat draped over my legs, my two long scarves (actually, faux pashminas), were wrapped around me, one draped over my head to block out the light, I slyly put in my retainers and readied for slumber. Unfortunately, I didn't ever actually sleep. I simply drifted in that place between asleep and awake during the gentle flight.

Being a night owl, I can count the sunrises I've seen on one hand. The one that greeted me over New York was the most glorious, and my smile beamed as it levitated out of the Atlantic. By eight, we were on the ground, and I was off to the AirTrain. Even though I had my HopStop directions, I'm always one to ask a New Yorker the best way around. After all, how often have online directions sent you on a goose chase? The nice Metro attendant told me I could take the E train to the 2, quite different from the directions I was given, but I trusted the advice and onto the E I went. I was fortunate to grab a seat next to the wall where my luggage and I would try to take up as little space as possible, as the train started to resemble a sardine tin more and more with each stop.

When I got to Penn Station, where the Metro man told me I should get off to grab the 2, I found there wasn't a transfer to that train. I started to ask those making their way around the station if they could direct me to the 2. This is when I first discovered the amazing amount of people who didn't speak English, but French! Everyone was speaking French. It was amazing. Had I gotten any sleep, I might've been able to conjure together enough high school French to at least say good morning. However, without a cup of coffee, even my English was rusty. Finally, I found a kindly Transit worker for help. He suggested the C train to 14th Street. (Turns out, I could've just stayed on the E. Lesson learned. Also, I love cabs.) Now, I was late and would miss my friend before she left for her two morning appointments. But, I must say, that was rather a blessing. Because, by the time I made my way in my high heeled boots from the subway to her fantastic flat in the West Village, I was a sight, I'm sure. Nothing quite as glamorous as working up a sweat in the cold. (Also, to get into the city for only $7.75 is well worth the adventure.)

Melissa made it back for a late lunch. After dropping off her Boston terrier, at doggy day care, we went to Souen for a healthful lunch...and sake. It was, after all, a belated birthday celebration. One of the things I love about New York (besides there being cheery yellow designated drivers everywhere), is running into people I know. Every time I'm in Manhattan, I always see a familiar, friendly face. That day, it was my talented friend, Jennifer, who spotted me on her way out. Ironically, she and I both live on the Westside of Los Angeles.

Since Melissa had been doing her fair share of travelling in the weeks before my arrival, we opted for ordering in pizza (because you have to in New York) which would go perfectly with the bottle of Veuve she had chilling for me. She is a very good friend. I love that I can have a delicious, vegan pizza (replete with Daiya "cheese") delivered in Manhattan, but not in Venice Beach. Someone must remedy that. Our dinner was a slice (well, slices) of heaven. We watched the finale of "Project Runway" (where my favorite designer finally won), laughed at fond memories and went to bed early.

Saturday, we were up early, enjoyed soy lattes and made our way to lunch. It was raining, and umbrellas navigated the sidewalk. I soon witnessed my first episode of umbrella sidewalk road rage. There was a gentleman crossing the street heading toward us against the light. On our corner, there were four of us waiting to go. The light turned right before the gentleman reached our corner, and I moved to the side to let him through, as one would do. After he passed me, though, we heard him exclaim, "What? You're not going to move for me?!" To which the tall, older gentleman who had been standing behind me said, "No. Why should I move for you?!" Melissa, the younger gentleman who had been on the corner with us and I waited for the punchline, the "How's it going, buddy" kind of break, but these men were serious and the right-of-way argument continued until we were out of earshot. The three of us found it rather funny. Welcome to an inclement day in New York.

We had a change in plan, as Melissa's brother wasn't able to keep our lunch date, so we ended up at the Stage Door Deli just as the snow started to fall. Challah French toast and turkey bacon were perfection on that cold day. And the snow falling was a beautiful backdrop for conversation. Then, we faced the freezing weather, hopped into a balmy cab and made our way to MoMA. I took off my gloves to get out cash for our charming driver and realized about three steps from the closed door that I had left my beloved Isotoner gloves, lined with angel wings, in the cab. The gloves I have cherished for twenty years. I mean, really, I love those gloves. This was the one time I did not ask for a receipt. No medallion, license number or name to have any hope of finding them. They were gone. And my heart broke. The only thing more devastating than that was the line to get into the Museum, which ran down the block. We took one look at the ocean of people inside and opted for Plan B: The Whitney.

Every piece of art was dutifully admired, and we did a fair share of people watching before braving the cold again. I must say, a snow storm without gloves is less fun. But I didn't want to give in. It was too beautiful not to be out in it. But, you must remember, as I was often reminded, I was not wearing boots for snow. I was donning my trusty Nine West platform boots, which are fabulous walking shoes, but not so much slipping-in-ice resistant. This is where watching "Style with Elsa Klensch" all those years ago paid off, because I pony-stomped my way through the snow like a 90s runway model, literally following in Melissa's footsteps, who was kind enough to walk ahead to break up any ice with her snow-friendly boots. Bless her heart.

The snow never stopped that day. While I have been in Manhattan in the dead of winter, during springtime and in late summer, this was my first autumn in New York. We drove past Central Park, the trees covered in white. So much for my plans to see the changing leaves. "Do you want to do the Park?" Melissa kindly inquired. "Nope," I smiled back. Back to the West Village to pick up the pup, run a few errands, and change for dinner.

Hungry from our long, snowy stroll, we did the most uncool thing one can do in Manhattan and had dinner at 5:30, or "grandma hour" as we called it. But who cares? I've done New York City. I've been in limos, worn couture, hobnobbed with celebrities, battled paparazzi. Heck, I've even met Marc Jacobs and Anna Wintour. Sitting at the bar of Spasso, when most happy hours are just getting started, to have dinner with my most darling friend was fine my me. This was not the weekend for clubs and bars; it was time to just be. I was happy as a clam as we dined on the most delicious food (my first foray into chicken liver pate; also, I highly recommend the spaghetti) and imbibed the most incredible wine (which I'm kicking myself for not getting the name of). The staff were dressed in costumes and were serving us fabulously entertaining conversation as well. We ate, we drank, we laughed, and then we took our desserts to go. We had a bottle of rosé champagne waiting for us, and three episodes of "An American Horror Story" to watch. Melissa's new to the series and it was Halloween weekend, after all. And there's no one better to watch something scary with than Melissa.

We stayed up much too late on Saturday night, but I think that helped me stumble upon the secret to avoiding jetlag when flying the red-eye: When you arrive, don't have coffee -- no matter how badly you might want it; Don't take a nap -- no matter how badly you might need it; Do go to bed early -- even though, ten o'clock is really seven o'clock where you reside and it's kind of humiliating to admit you've gone to bed at that hour (which is the second most uncool thing one can do in Manhattan). Then, wake up early-ish on Saturday morning and stay up late on Saturday night (perhaps even indulge in an early dinner). Sleep in on Sunday, have a wonderful deli lunch, then walk around the city much more before getting on the subway back to JFK.

I had packed before we left for our Sunday lunch at Artie's to meet up with Melissa's brother. Of course, I had a bagel with lox, which was divine. We wandered around the city a bit more. Went into a Trader Joe's (because, all of us being from California, have never been in a NYC TJ's), then saw how long the line was and went right back out. It was bright and clear and still quite cold. But another stunningly beautiful day. The weekend couldn't have been ordered more perfectly. And I hated to leave.

We got back to the flat about four-thirty and I rushed my way back to the subway after a heartfelt goodbye. I was already behind schedule. On the train, I went into a bit of a panic when I noted my boarding time was six-twenty for my seven o'clock flight. Golly. I do this all the time. Well, it does make getting to the airport that much more interesting.

I tried to recall how long it took me to get into the city, and it seemed like well over an hour. It was five o'clock by then, and I was growing more worried. I texted my friend: Should I get out and get a cab? She wrote back, "Yes." But, with intermittent reception, I didn't get that message until I was halfway to my destination. I watched the stops tick off the monitor in the traincar. Seven more stops, six, five, four, three...I just might make it.

Luckily, Delta was the third stop on the AirTrain and I ran to the terminal, along with other travellers who seemed to read their tickets like I do. The security line was double-wrapped around the terminal and they were calling out for the six-forty-five flight. I waited as the line inched. Finally, with ten minutes to spare before my boarding time, I line jumped. I'm not proud of it, but this was a flight I could not miss. The woman holding the rope took pity on me, and let me through, much to the raised eyebrows of the VIP security man. There would be no time for one pre-flight vodka tonic, let alone two. I did have enough time to get a bottle of water and some chocolate (priorities) and made my way to the boarding line. Finally, going through the gate, I was called back and asked to measure my carry-on. While it fit fine in the overhead on the way there, it did not fit in the little metal measurer. I gave the attendant a smile and head tilt with an eyebrow raise. She smiled back. "We'll have to check it. It's a full flight, but have a cocktail on me," she said as she handed me a drink ticket.

Now, I have to admit, my running streak of finding money in New York seemed to have come to an end with only finding a penny in the street. However, a drink ticket was Willy Wonka gold as far as I was concerned. It beat every fiver and tenner I've ever come across on the streets and in the taxis of NYC.

It was indeed a full flight. And, much to my chagrin, I had rather loud, squirmy children seated both in front of and behind me. I needed that cocktail, STAT. When the food cart finally came about, I handed the steward my drink ticket for that vodka tonic and requested a chicken sandwich from the menu. "We don't stock the sandwiches on this flight," he said. I pointed out that they were listed to be on a flight with that departure time. "They don't sell, so we don't carry them. Sorry," he said. "But, to make up for it, the drink is on me."

"Well," I smiled back, "the drink was already free." He handed me back my ticket and a lonely bag of pretzels along with a mini bottle of Skyy and a full can of tonic. I sighed as the boy behind me kicked my seat yet again, mixed my drink and ordered The Help for my in-flight film, hopeful it would help shorten this long flight. Just as the movie started, the steward came back. "Here," he said, handing me the sandwich. "I found this on the other cart. It's on me. Thank you for flying Delta." I smiled and gave him a sincere, "Thank you," then caught the stewardess as she passed and asked for my second vodka. "What would you like to go with it?" she asked with slight concern. "Oh, I've already got the tonic," I assured.

The Help was a lovely movie, and I'm sure I'll enjoy it even more the second time I see it because I really only heard half of it, in spite of my earbuds. Instead of much of the dialogue, I got to enjoy the disruptions of the ill-behaved children behind me. If there was room to rise, I would have turned around, addressed the mother and children, and told them that I'm terribly allergic to children, as they give me an awful headache. The only known cure for this affliction is for said children to sit still and be quiet. Instead, I resorted to a well-time whacking of the boy's table when he was pushing, pulling and pressing on it. After that, I didn't hear a peep out of him. Now I know to do that much earlier in the game.

We actually landed a half-hour early, and my checked bag was one of the first off the baggage claim. A dear friend picked me up and whisked me home. What a wonderful weekend. It was by far the easiest trip to New York I've ever had (in spite of the subway confusion, and children in need of sedatives). As I snuggled up on my sofa to catch that night's episode of "The Walking Dead" (it was the day before Halloween, after all), I made mental notes on what I'll need for my next trip to New York. First, noise cancelling headphones are a must (and these seem nice for the price). Always pack two pairs of gloves on wintry trips. Get a receipt on cab rides...you never know when you might need that medallion number. Wear a watch (because reaching for your smartphone isn't as easy when you're bundled up as checking your wrist). Find a good real estate agent. Because, by this time next year, I intend to be fully bi-coastal. Where there's a will, there's a way. And, hopefully, next year, I'll see the autumn leaves in Central Park, sans snow.

Thank you again, Melissa. xo

Giving It Your Best Guest

2011-08-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

Image via Coastal Living

This summer has moved pretty quickly. How we reached the middle of August already is rather maddening. Once again, Venice is suffering a non-summer, with too many gray days and temperatures that barely crack the 70s. I suppose I sound a little bitter, what with so much of America enduring blistering heat, but one look at my pale legs would tell you all you need to know. I'm in desperate need of some sun.

Sunshine comes in more ways than one. My favorite way is from friends. I was fortunate enough to have two sunny, mini vacations when dear friends, Christina Bilan and our beloved Miss Jenn, came for visits.

Christina stopped by near the end of June for four days. She came right after I transitioned jobs and was juggling an additional three clients. I was in dire need of a break, and her visit made me feel as if I was on holiday. We had no plan, no list of things to do. All we had to do was be. And so we woke when we felt like it, ate when we were hungry, we rarely looked at a clock.

Her first day in, we power-walked down to the beach and through the canals. Then we walked to the French Market Café for brunch, splitting a vegetarian sandwich, which is heaven on bread. After our meal, we wandered up and down Abbot Kinney, where I found an amazing little black dress at Sunya Currie, and I introduced Christina to my old friend, Sofia, at Kamofie. (Yes, *that* Kamofie.) We walked ourselves home and decided to order dinner in; not wanting to admit we had worn ourselves out.

Our view at Gladstone's

The next day, we did Malibu. Lunch at Gladstone's, then a walk around Lake Shrine Temple, which is one of the most magical places in Los Angeles. Tranquil doesn't even begin to describe it. Christina's friend, ended up being free for dinner, so we met him further up Pacific Coast Highway at Duke's where the waves were high and white and beautiful.

Her last day, we ventured East and to The Grove to our haunt, LA Farm. We wandered the shops, toyed with the idea of going up West 3rd, but decided to venture back to Venice. We walked down to the Mexican restaurant a few blocks from my home for some margaritas. The food was incredible, but I think we (or perhaps just me) overdid it a little on the chips.

I couldn't thank Christina enough for bringing the vacation to me.

Earlier this month, Miss Jenn came in for a quick stay. With merely 21 hours to spend together, we made the most of it. I picked her up at LAX after work, donning my new black dress, ready for whatever she wanted to do. She was elegantly carrying only a red vanity bag for her luggage. Très chic, was she.

We spent the evening chatting over Thai food and homemade martinis (well, she had one, I had two), and stayed up well past our bedtime. I stayed quiet as she slept in. After making ourselves presentable, we headed over to the French Market Café for lattes and croissants, then over to her doctor's appointment.

Image via UrbanSpoon

The appointment ran long. Now we both know to remind them she has a plane to catch. We thought we'd have time for a quick lunch across the street, but needed to make our way to the airport. Seeing we had a few minutes to spare, we popped into a Bristol Farms for a quick bite and a little more face-to-face time.

I love having friends come to stay, and only wish I had a room like the one at the top of this post to give them. I don't. They end up sleeping in my living room, which I happily turn into a guest suite. The sofa is to remain flipped out into a bed to make afternoon naps a breeze. It is their room entirely, and they should feel free to keep it as messy or tidy as they'd like. The hallway doorway becomes a clothes rack, because my coat closet is embarrassingly full. While I might lack some of the amenities, there is always 24-hour room service available.

Prepping for guests is part of the fun. Grocery shopping, house cleaning -- what normally are chores become a fun excursion. While I always clean my guest linens after friends depart, I launder them again before a new guest arrives. I think we can all say there is a difference between "clean" sheets and those that are "fresh".

My place is a little on the smaller side, and there's no counter in my bathroom (pedestal sinks are charming, but sometimes a girl needs a place to put her stuff). I make sure to clear space for friends and to let them know where to comfortably put their things, and to feel free to make even more room for themselves if needed. My place is yours. Make yourself at home.

I live on a busy intersection, so my home is not a quiet one. However, I was pleased that both Christina and Jenn said they slept deeply and well. I'm not sure if that was the spell of being on vacation, or if the cotton ball doused with a few drops of lavender oil hidden under the sofa was the helper.

A bit of advice I'd like to share with hosts is to keep digestive enzymes and ginger ale (I prefer Hansen's made with cane sugar and not high fructose corn syrup, and it's available in half-cans, which make them even more perfect), because, no matter how health conscious you may be, you will go off your diet and indulge. Even when those indulgences are on the more health conscious side, stomachaches will ensue.

I can't wait for their next visits, and for other friends to stop by. It's such a treat to find adventure in doing as little as possible while still making the most of every moment. The only plan we need to make is to simply have fun.

Sunny in the 70s

2011-07-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been nearly three months since a post has gone up on PE. There have been lots of changes going on for me, and things are starting to come into balance.

I have a wonderful new day job, which is a nice shift. But, it's also like taking a step back in time. Back to the glamorous, fabulous 1970s.

I don't mean this:

But this:

And this:

I think due to the double-knit polyester, Harvey's Bristol Cream and food on toothpicks, we tend to over look the elegance of the 1970s. But, the seventies are when women's liberation hit its stride, fashion redefined chic, three-martini lunches were still acceptable, people still dressed for the occasion, and intellectuals were celebrities.

Yes, there were gold chains and chest hair, that pesky-double knit and a little bit of chauvinism. But in the seventies, we were athletic (tennis was nearly requisite) and interesting (it took a great effort to avoid the evening news), and quite articulate (swearing wasn't well tolerated, so we had to use big words).

As I watched the anniversary edition of "An American Family", I was taken by the vernacular of that time. The seventies were, in their own way, quite sophisticated. So, this summer, I'm embracing the elegance of that era. Gold hoops, hot rollers, wide pant legs, flowing dresses, and hats.

Déjà Vu All Over Again

2011-04-27T14:38:00.000-07:00

Image via ListVerse

It suddenly feels like 2009 again. And 2009 wasn't exactly a stroll through the roses.

2009 came crashing down around me just before my birthday, which happens to be 9 April. After the phone call, I stood there with nothing. The startup I had been working for had lost their funding, and my promised pay along with it. Of course, I found this out after I had mailed my rent check. Timing is indeed everything.

That year, the ninth of April was on a Thursday. I had several friends meeting me for dinner that night to celebrate. I felt like doing anything but. I spent all of lunch crying with a dear friend, debating whether to cancel dinner, wondering how I was going to manage. {As an aside, most writers have a nasty habit of living paycheck to paycheck, focusing all energy and effort to writing, not growing the career of the day job(s). That haphazard lifestyle was working fairly well until the economy went pear-shape in 2008. By 9 April 2009, my whole world went topsy-turvy.}

My friend talked me in to keeping my dinner plans. I did my best to put on a smile and eventually relaxed into the festivities. There's nothing that pleases me more than seeing my friends together, -- who typically see each other once a year at my birthday -- chatting and laughing amongst themselves. I have many wonderful people in my life. And those wonderful people got me through that unpleasant year.

The next day was Good Friday. I rose early and got into my car for the drive up to see Miss Jenn and her fine men. That was a difficult time for Miss Jenn, as she was going through chemo and additional pain caused by scar tissue. But, though neither of us were in our best place, we could find plenty to laugh about. She was trying to gain weight, so there was always something to eat. And many, many cups of tea. The kettle was always at the ready.

As tough as 2009 was, and it was brutal at times, there was a lot of love and hope and joy, and strength found and nurtured and shared. As Mr. Dickens said, it was indeed the best of times and the worst. Although, having just typed that, 2009 also gave a shift in perspective. Maybe it wasn't the worst of times after all. But it was certainly double-dipped in merde on occasion.

Last year's birthday was the do over. It was a lovely, long weekend that made up for the previous year. 2010 was the year of playing catch-up, trying to make up the ground lost in 2009. And it was more or less a blur of a year because I kept rushing through everything hoping that would make things happen faster. You see, I have two films sitting on the development shelf waiting to be funded. And if there was a way I could get one of them done, well, then I could really get on with living my life.

But, I'm still waiting for that. Not only the funding but the getting on with my life bit. Still waiting and hoping and holding my breath. It's surprising I'm not a shade of Tiffany Blue. I somehow remain a normal color.

At the end of January, the smaller of the two films had interested investors. In February, I was writing another draft. In March, I was finishing it. At the same time, I was working on getting my pet project into a festival of sorts and all the application filling-out that takes. By the end of March, I became aware of the fact that I had not given out my two-month, save-the-date notice my friends come to expect. Then I became aware that I didn't care if I celebrated my birthday at all. Then friends started calling and emailing. "Isn't your birthday coming up?" they would inquire. "What are we doing for it this year?"

This year, 9 April was on a Saturday. And, this year, I wanted to keep it simple. About a week before, I sent out an email suggesting a happy hour fête at a local French restaurant. Cheap et chic. There were to be eight of us. Which grew to ten. And then, that Monday, I felt a little unwell. By Thursday, I had to cancel a meeting and go home early from work. Friday night was particularly unpleasant. And Saturday morning, I realized I had to cancel my own birthday party. Truly, there was no way I could put on a brave face and rally for that. Besides, I will still looking for the culprit who gave it to me. I certainly didn't want to share that with people I love.

Five days and eight pounds later, I emerged. I went back to the restaurant with a friend on the following Thursday night and had my first solid food in a week. It was heaven. But, shortly thereafter, the familiar rumblings started.

The startup I work with was running low on funds. The financiers for the little film couldn't reach an agreement. And there I was staring 2009 in the face again. Miss Jenn was also having flashes of 2009. We joked that it seems about right. The Real Housewives of New York are in full swing, and, back in 2009, when she and I weren't watching marathons of Bravo together in her living room, we were instant messaging as we watched together from our respective ZIP codes. Yet, as familiar as this feels, it's not the same.

2009 was an unkind teacher, but it instilled a deep wisdom in us. Yes, I'm afraid that I will fall back, but I'm determined to go forward. I have no control over what happens, but I do have a say in how I respond to whatever circumstances I find myself. That's the gift I was given in 2009, and am reminded of now.

The other gifts I was given then was double-over laughter with the occasional snort. An adorable alarm clock. A magical coffee maker. Bearing witness to a beautiful sisterhood. And a deep understanding that we really do determine our own fate, even if it seems like we have no say in what comes our way. Sometimes, we just have to ride the waves and let the current carry us. And, when I find myself facing that wind, I picture Jackie on a boat, and sail through it as elegantly as I can.

Image via TheRedVelvetShoe

Concession Stand

2011-04-06T14:35:00.000-07:00

Image via Love Your Place

I have a list -- perhaps you have one, too -- of things I would really like to treat myself to. It's more of a figurative list, but it's indelibly marked on my mind. The lovely little luxuries that must wait until I have more time and/or disposable income. Until then, I make concessions. I thought I'd share some of them with you:

Want: Laura Mercier Oil-Free Tinted Moisturizer ($40)

Got: Almay Smart Shade Tinted Moisturizer ($10)

Who has time to find the perfect shade of foundation, especially at a drug store? Not I. This one does the guessing for me at a quarter of the cost of my dream tinted moisturizer. Luxury can wait.

Want: Lancome Definicils Mascara ($29)

Got: Neutrogena Healthy Volume Mascara ($9)

Definicils was always my favorite mascara and I was loyal to it for ages. But now, not only do I not want to spend the $30, I don't want to go to a department store to get it. I'll grab the Neutrogena when I'm at the drug store picking up my dentifrice.

Want: Botox ($500)

Got: Cetaphil ($10)

Well, secretly, who doesn't want to try Botox? Me? I'd just like a little around the eyes; my forehead is fine. Until then, it's all about the moisturizing, and Cetaphil is a simple go-to. And that huge bottle for $10 will last quite a while.

Want: Laser Hair Removal ($1,000+)

Got: Daisy Razors ($8)

I dream of the day I will no longer have to shave or wax. Until then, those little pink razors do the job just fine.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But things tend to look a lot better when they aren't costing a pretty penny.

Dollars and Sense

2011-03-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

Image Via Today's Getaway

Part of this whole elegance project is to streamline my life. Make things as easy and organized as possible...while working more than forty hours a week. And getting enough rest to keep those dark circles at bay. One of the more challenging projects I have is to find elegance in my finances.

Pardon me. I had to pause for a moment to stop my eyes from rolling.

The last thing I find to be elegant is banking and bill paying, or balancing a checkbook. As a matter of fact, I haven't reconciled my accounts since the mid-1990s. But, I do have QuickBooks. A rather old version of it, but it still works. I typically spend the weekends in February inputting the previous year's debits and credits into QB to prep for the Ides of April. And, every year, I vow not to repeat that mistake. Every year I promise myself that I will be more diligent, stay on top of my bookkeeping. Yet, every year, I let myself down.

The irony is that I keep books for my clients. When I consulted, the first thing I would tell new business owners was to invest in Quicken or QuickBooks and be meticulous in their accounting from the get-go. Make it a priority. Isn't it funny how we can fail to heed our own best advice?

Let me be honest. Money and I don't always get along. He's been rather a cad to me, and I prefer to ignore him than confront him with his series of disappointments. But I want this year to be different, so it's time Money and I make our amends.

Yes, I spent the weekends in February catching up on 2010 finances. But, this time, I took it a little further. After entering my bank accounts' information, I input my credit cards, too, a step I never took for myself. Now, all of my financial information is up-to-date and in one place. While my version of QB doesn't allow for direct connect, I am able to down-then-upload transactions from my bank. I don't use my credit cards that often, so those charges can be entered manually as well. Now, each Saturday morning, as I watch my home redesign shows and sip my tea, I do a few minutes of bookkeeping.

I can't say that it's very glamorous, but it is simple, and almost effortless. Having everything organized in that arena makes my finances feel elegant, even if they aren't always pretty to look at. And I'm learning that, while ignorance may be bliss, there's an elegance in knowing.

So, if you've been avoiding any cads in your financial life, take a lesson from this longtime procrastinator: Dive in, the water's fine. It doesn't take that long, and you will feel much better when you're done. If you don't want to invest in software, perhaps a service like Mint.com would suit you. If you do prefer to utilize software, Quicken is very easy to use and will link easily with all of your personal accounts and will input and match your transactions. QuickBooks focuses more on business, and not all personal credit cards will work on the direct connect feature. There are also many smartphone apps to help you keep track of where your money goes.

Also, if you are like me and don't like paying bills, sign up for autopay. It's a little slice of heaven, and I've never had any issues in the many years I've employed it. Bill Pay, too, is another lifesaver. You don't have to worry about finding the envelope or searching for a stamp.

And now I'm beginning to look at my finances in a different way. As if they were the foundation garments to a wonderful wardrobe: absolutely seamless, supportive and comfortable. Yes, that might indeed be a stretch of the imagination, but it helps. And with that aspect of my life well on its way to being elegant, I can focus on things more fun. An overdue dinner party, perhaps?

The Overwhelm

2011-03-22T21:55:00.000-07:00

Image via BU.edu

Last week...well, last week was rather.... Let's just say that last week was challenging. On a multitude of levels.

First, the devastation in Japan. Earthquake, tsunami and the threat of nuclear meltdown. How does one wrap one's head around all of that? I cannot. All I can do is give what I can. A small donation. Prayers. Hope. And that will likely be on a repeat cycle for the foreseeable.

*********

There are times I must remind myself of this project, of putting elegance into my life each day. That becomes more difficult during times of chaos -- and chaos takes on a very relative meaning these days. Finding the time, the patience, the discipline to imbue elegance into a situation that is anything but can be quite the travail. But that's what I signed up for when this began. And it has changed my life in really wonderful ways. Still, finding a way to keep up with what was started is an ongoing challenge. There's a long list of things I wanted to have done by now. I wonder if I will ever get to it. This means something to me, and I wish I could focus on it more. But there always seems to be more to do.

*********

"I know this sounds silly," a friend said on voicemail, "but, as I was standing in the middle of my room -- which is a disaster, by the way -- trying to figure out how to tackle it, I really, really wished you were here...not to help me clean, of course. Just tell me how to start."

I laughed when I heard her message, understanding the week she was having, as well as the one I was attempting to "enjoy". I'm not so much the Queen of Clean as I am the Empress of Overwhelm. I'm sure you can relate to that title as well. I rarely, if ever, get to enjoy doing one thing at a time. It's an endless multitask. Deadlines perpetually loom causing less pressing things pile up until those begin to seem insurmountable, too. Sadly, I've grown accustomed to this. But, even though it's familiar, inevitably, it throws me off balance and, sometimes, into a freefall.

Funnily, it's rarely the big stuff that topples me...it's all the little things that overwhelm me as they avalanche from the pile.

Last week was full of stress and pressure and time constraints and attempts at meeting everyone's expectations all the while attempting to lower them, if only to a human level. One of the joys of working with a startup company is that, when it all starts coming together, it all happens at once. Everything needs to happen now. As in right now, not tomorrow or next week, but the second you can get it done, and even that might not be soon enough. Adrenaline rushes are nice from time to time, but they do grow tiresome when they come so quickly that everything goes into a dizzying blur. All I could do was smile, take deep breaths, and bring chocolate to work.

And then the little things started falling by the wayside again.

The Guinness chocolate cake I intended to make for St. Patrick's Day was one of the misses; something I had been planning since January. St. Patrick's Day is one of my favorite holidays. Yes, I wear green, and drink Guinness, and love brown soda bread -- the kind I indulged in at Bewley's on Grafton Street. With my new convection oven and springform pan at the ready, I was so looking forward to making my first from-scratch cake. And a cake should be an easy thing to make, no? It doesn't take days and days to conjure up. It is, after all, cake. It was just another one of my PE projects that haven't come to fruition as I hoped or planned, which is just a little frustrating.

While work grew more hectic, my nights and weekends were dedicated to a rush rewrite on a screenplay the director wants to shoot in May. That forced another priority shift. The draft got done, but it delayed my tax preparation, which puts my relationship with one of my best friends, who is also my CPA, in jeopardy, because I always seem to send her my prep work around April 2nd. And, please, don't mention proper housecleaning.

Then the little things have piled up and they begin to feel insurmountable.

Walking out of an office of chaos and into a home of chaos makes it difficult to invoke any refinement or grace in any way. Ironically, it's in the midst of nut factory that we need the serenity of elegance most. The only solution is to do something that helps put things back into perspective. That might be as simple as making a cup of tea, or pulling out red linen napkins to spread on desk and lap to make a hasty lunch a tad more chic, or a last minute dinner out with a dear friend at a favorite haunt. For me, it was all of the above.

Like any storm, the chaos, too, does pass. Work is finding it's balance. My tax information went off to my beloved CPA in the mail today -- a personal best. The cake will happen soon enough. Perhaps I will make my own birthday cake this year. Stranger things have happened. The draft of the script was well received...only five pages of notes, and a meeting to squeeze in somewhere. I'm beginning to tackle things from Cast-Aside Mountain. Oh, and miracles of miracles, I'm back to waking up at five o'clock to fit in a morning workout...and, somehow, I'm also able to make my lunch and be on time for work.

The thing about making it through the overwhelm (yes, a new noun), is that it makes us more able, not less. We come out of it stronger and wiser, and, in a strange way, ready to take on more. It also makes us really want to go on vacation. Or, perhaps, that's just me. But that's way down the line on my to-do list.

*********

It can be overwhelming to see the unimaginable devastation that is happening around us. Sometimes, all we can do is send in a donation, a good thought or prayer. Sometimes, these situations help put our lives into perspective and make us less likely to take things for granted. Compassion, appreciation and love are epitomes of elegance.

Inner Drive

2011-03-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

After a year of commuting from Venice through Mar Vista, Santa Monica and Brentwood, dealing with stop signs and red lights and people who clearly don't understand the urgency of a morning commute, to get to Pacific Palisades for work -- a mere seven-mile drive that would take a half-hour to navigate -- I made a bold move and decided to take Pacific Coast Highway instead.

Pacific Coast Highway is not only the less reliable route, it is the least reliable. Known for its closures and gridlock, and lack of side streets to serve as escape routes, PCH also offers a beautiful view.

Image via TravelPod

And that view is worth the unreliability and utter unpredictability of PCH. Each morning, I am captivated by the whitecaps racing to shore. In the evening, I watch the Sun take its slow dive into the water, casting sherbet hues in its descent. My commute in can be anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes (but, usually, it only takes twenty), and anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes to get home (but, usually, only about twenty). What took me so long to make this decision to change course?

I like predictability. I also like to be able to re-route myself if traffic gets snarled. PCH takes both of those factors out of play. It removes some of my control. But, as I try to master being in the moment and learning to go with the flow, PCH is the perfect instructor.

There is no rhyme or reason to the traffic on PCH. Some mornings, it's a clear and all the lights are green. Others are congested with cars and I hit every red light. The rest are somewhere in between. I tried to find a pattern in it. Was it like this every Wednesday? No. Was it because of the weather? No. It just was. And that unpredictability taught me to simply take a breath, whether it's a quick drive in or slow, look at the ocean and say, "Thank you." I'm grateful for either the easy commute or more time to watch the waves and the birds and the clouds in the sky. Either way, I win.

I also stopping listening to the radio while I drive. As much as I love music, Los Angeles radio is a wasteland. (There's only so much Green Day and Thirty Seconds to Mars a girl can take.) My CD player broke ages ago and taking my iPod on such short journeys makes little sense. (Also, I have Angry Birds on it. Exactly. It's best to leave that at home if productivity is at all important.) I now have silence serving as my soundtrack. And that only adds to the beauty of a peaceful commute. Phone calls? We'll that's another beautiful thing about PCH: spotty cell coverage. On PCH, I can only be and drive, take in the view and smile.

Community

2011-03-01T17:54:00.000-08:00

Image via ModernRetroWoman

We are honored that BlogHer thought enough of our "Pedals" post to share it on their website. (Thank you, Rita.)

If you are a blogger, thinking of becoming one, or are a fan of it, consider becoming a part of the BlogHer community (gentlemen are welcomed, also). Oh, there's no fee or monthly dues or anything like that. It's more like a modern sewing circle or quilting bee. A place where you will meet others, have a chance to chat and exchange ideas, thoughts, opinions and come together.

I must admit, I had been blogging for nearly a decade before I became a part of BlogHer. I'm not much of a joiner, you see. But, within minutes, I had met some extraordinary women: Anaiis Flox, The Bloggess, Deb on the Rocks, Kristy, Maggie Dammit, Andrea and our own Melanie. These women have made me laugh, cry, think and have given me support. I consider them all friends, even though I've only met one in person at this point.

Being an author, I joined The Red Room, a community of writers and readers, where I met Ericka. Yet another friend I have yet to meet IRL (that's web speak for "in real life"), but whom I respect greatly for her talent, humor and grace. It's rather amazing the connection we can have with virtual strangers...or should I say virtual friends?

Social media has changed the way we look at relationships and engage in them. Those we follow on Twitter or friend on Facebook without knowing them personally are something like the pen-pals of this modern age. We share things -- the highs, the lows, the silly and the serious -- and come together as if there were a needle and thread pulling us together. Even if it's only through the web of the Internet, it is a strong community.

Thank you, BlogHer, for your part in it and for giving us a place to "sparkle".

A Winning Weekend

2011-02-26T15:00:00.000-08:00

Grace & Audrey at the Oscars via LoveAudrey

This weekend is one of my favorites of the year. It's glamorous and silly, heartfelt and corny. It is the weekend made up of Film Independent's Spirit Awards and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' Oscars.

I have been watching the Oscars since I was six. Probably before that as well, but with intent and rabid appreciation from that age. They have changed over the years. Ratings seem to be more important than celebrating the winners. I'll never quite understand why there has to be song and dance numbers since it is neither the Grammys or Tonys; to me, that just eats into the heartwarming words from the filmmakers who have been working at their art for ages, and finally recognized only to be interrupted by the orchestra after ninety seconds. A little rude if you ask me. I love the speeches. There's always at least one that will bring tears to my eyes. A few that spark joyful applause, and maybe one or two which will cause a groan.

The Spirit Awards are the gold of independent film. Taking place in a tent in at parking lot at Santa Monica beach, they are lively and fun and full of quirk. Last year, they celebrated their 25th anniversary by breaking tradition and moving the ceremony to downtown Los Angeles...and it was just not the same. This year, they are back at the beach, blessed with no rain (it was a downpour last night), but suffering shivering winds. The telecast, however, will not be live. Quel disappointment! Perhaps next year they will go back to what's best about it: the irreverence (which should not be broadcast several hours after the fact). Still, there will be much to celebrate as those who work so hard to put together smaller, personal, more sophisticated fare for us to enjoy. I had the chance to go to the Spirit Awards several years ago, and it is one of the most fun occasions you could imagine.

However, as most people will tell you, the best seats in the house for awards shows are in your own home. So, chill the champagne, whip up the hors d'oeuvres, call the caterer (will it be Thai, Chinese or Italian delivery?), and dress in your best as we celebrate the artistry that brings us our favorite form of entertainment: Feature Film.

Common Scents

2011-02-24T13:07:00.000-08:00

Image via Delish

Has anyone else been slightly disturbed by the onslaught of room fragrances and fabric deodorizers that are being advertised all hours of the day and night? There are the ones you plug in, scented candles, scented flameless candles, ones you set out, those you spray on your fabrics and shoes and clothes. It's a little frightening.

Firstly, do you want to be breathing in those chemicals? I certainly don't. Secondly, do you want something that contains "oil" so close to circuitry and sucking up energy? Not me. And, lastly, just clean your house, have a shower, bathe the pets, take out the trash, et voilà! The odors will be gone.

Let me confess that I am not the world's best housekeeper. By far. The kitchen and bath are always clean and sanitary. The living room and bedroom, however, tend to suffer a bit more neglect. I live on a highly trafficked thoroughfare, and the amount of dust from that is disheartening. Not only that, the noise! I can never have the front door or living room windows open if I want to hear music, a film or a pleasant conversation. Cross ventilation is not something I often enjoy. I've come to terms with these things, but it's still not fun to walk into a stuffy home.

Here are some inexpensive suggestions for having a fresh and clean scented home:

Vacuum - Now, this seems pretty obvious, but one needs to go deeper. Vacuum behind things. Vacuum the upholstery, the blinds and/or curtains as well as the floors. For me, it helps to vacuum my hardwood floors. No amount of sweeping or Swiffering can get all of it of that traffic dust. Believe me. I've been in tears from it. If your upholstery needs a bit of freshening up, sprinkle on some baking soda to absorb the odors, let it sit for 30 minutes (or longer...some even recommend overnight) and vacuum it off.

Mop - Again, rather on the nose, but nothing makes a home feel fresher than clean floors. Wood, tile, laminates, what have you. It will be a breath of fresh air.

Air It Out - Considering it's still pretty chilly out there, this probably isn't high on the list. But, if you want a fresh smelling home, you need to let the old air out and the new air in. Even ten minutes can make a difference.

Scrub - Counters, bathrooms, showers, toilets, sinks, baths -- scrub them down. With a natural, eco-friendly cleanser, of course.

Take Out the Trash...Now - If you've made fish, chopped onions, peeled fruit, don't wait for it to fester in the can. Put the soon-to-be-offending scraps in a small bag and take it out to the garbage before you even set down to the meal.

Now, some of us may need a little more help than that. Rent or purchase a steam cleaner to get into the fabrics and upholstery where the smellies like to hide. A regular cleaning is also good care for your furniture and carpeting. Your sofa may need a bit of help from a concoction of Borax, soapflakes and warm water.

If you have a smoker in the home, get said smoker to quit, or at least puff away outside. If not, you might need to hide bowls of charcoal near the huma chimney to help absorb the stench, and the walls will need a regular washing.

The idea isn't to mask the odors, but to remove them altogether. Once that has been accomplished, you may want to enjoy a scent that isn't of the cleaning variety. Fresh flowers are a nice touch. If you want something a little more lasting, try putting a few drops of your favorite essential oil onto a cotton ball and stashing that under the sofa, in your closet (lavender is known to ward off moths), or in your dresser drawers.

In the bathroom, leave a book of matches. It takes care of, um, well, business, and the sulphur dissipates quicker than a spray fragrance and, um, well, business. If you have a cat, the litter box needs to be tended to at least twice a day. Please. Thank you. Especially if it's sharing space in the bathroom.

If you want to have a fragrance for your home, I suggest natural oils, not synthetic fragrances. Reed diffusers are a nice touch, and subtly distribute fragrance, if the fragrance itself is subtle. Consider that some of your guests might be sensitive to strong scents. Less is more.

And, nothing smells more wonderful than something homemade, be it fresh coffee, a favorite meal, or a batch of cookies. That's always a wonderful way to greet guests. They'll always think your home smells divine.

Assignment: It's in the Cards

2011-02-17T11:12:00.000-08:00

Image via ArtsyTime.com

There's something about shuffling the deck and tossing out the deal that make card games a good bit of competitive fun. There is as much chance to a card game as there is strategy. One can take it very seriously, or just have a laugh.

I didn't get in to the poker rage when that went around, but I did enjoy a mean game of gin or rummy in high school. My favorite game, though, was one I played with my grandfather and favorite aunt and uncle when I was ten: Euchre.

Euchre (pronounced YOU-ker) is sort of a mini pinochle with two teams of two, but played with a standard deck. Numbered cards from 2-8 are excluded and the Jokers are played. My grandfather and I were nearly undefeatable (not a word, but should be), which was just a bit irritating for the other adults. I recall my uncle chiding me for playing my high cards early. "But, that's how we win," I smiled. I knew that I would trump early and my grandfather would trump later, thus making us triumphant.

Another favorite is Russian Bank, taught to me by Melissa Joy Manning. I've only played it with her, and have to have her explain it to me again whenever we start dealing. This game is for two people and must be played with two standard decks of different backs (for separating later). I happen to have a wonderful double deck from the Four Seasons Hotel, one red and one blue procured for just this game. Russian Bank is best played with champagne and/or Oreos from Japan. (Have we ever discussed my profound love of Japanese Oreos? One day, we must.) The game is kind of like a complicated, competitive Solitaire in which you try to unload your cards before your opponent. And, it's quite fun.

And let's not underestimate the joy of a good game of Go Fish. It's so much fun to watch little ones (and some big ones, too), plot with their eyes rising just above the fan of the cards only to hear a very serious, "Got any fours?" Card games are a great way to not only pass time, but share it. And, as Los Angeles braces for a wet, long weekend, perhaps a good deal of good hands are in the cards. Take some time this weekend to break out a deck.

Icon: Kevyn Aucoin

2011-02-15T15:19:00.000-08:00

Image via KevynAucoin.com

It's around this time of year, Oscar season, that I really miss Kevyn Aucoin. He was a masterful makeup artist, in the truest sense of the latter word.

I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to meet Kevyn on several occasions and watch him work. He was incredibly kind, terribly funny, quite smart, very sweet and a wonderful shoulder massager. He and I would have a chance to sit and chat and laugh while the "talent" was on set. And, in those moments, he stole a part of my heart.

He had finished his first book, Making Faces, and was working on Face Forward during that time, wowing us with his transformations. He truly saw the beauty and potential in everyone he met. And he was gone much too soon. His philosophy was clear:

Glamour is not self-conscious; it's not trying too hard. It's just expressing your own truth.

And expressing it well. Here's to celebrating beauty...inside and out.

Edible Art

2011-02-08T16:47:00.000-08:00

Image via Healthy Living

Due to a persistent and pesky stomach ailment, I've decided to try what is known as "food combining"...which is actually more like food segregation, if you ask me. The theory behind it is that certain foods require certain digestive enzymes and that improperly combining foods can lead to low energy and lackluster health. In a nutshell, fruits should only be eaten on an empty stomach and never combined with anything else, meat should never be eaten with carbohydrates but vegetables can be eaten with either meats or carbs, but not fruit. Only fruit should be ingested until noon, and nothing should be eaten after 8:00 p.m. Oh, and forgo vinegar.

Needless to say, this poses something of a challenge.

One can argue that this is a silly way to eat. Of course we can eat everything altogether...it's done all over the world! But, once I read up on the subject, also known as "natural hygiene", it made sense...for me. Even as a little girl, after I ate a meal (meat, veg and potatoes or a standard sandwich), my stomach would distend. That can't be right. In America, we have access to everything imaginable. We aren't limited to what we can grow in our region. It's grown elsewhere and shipped to us. Not to mention much of what makes up the standard American diet is highly refined, processed food and our portions are humongous. How often are our stomachs upset after a meal? Who doesn't have an armory of antacids in their home? I don't think we are meant to eat American for breakfast, Mexican for lunch and Italian for dinner. That's a bit overkill when you think about it, no?

It also made sense to give my system a break and then ease into the day. So, no more coffee in the morning, which is like breaking up with a handsome lover. It's a bowl of berries or tangerines and later an apple. Just fruit until noon (well, there might be a cup of Roobios tea about nine o'clock). The idea is that there are three phases to how our bodies take in nutrients: We eat, we absorb, we eliminate. Following natural hygiene (which is such a wondrously bad phrase for this eating regimen), from noon to eight p.m., we eat and digest, from eight p.m. to four a.m., we absorb and from four a.m. to noon we eliminate. It seemed rather intuitive.

I'm just over a week into this. Visiting a restaurant isn't as simple as it once was. The time it takes to prep and put together my breakfast and lunch has more than doubled. It's a lot of work and a great commitment but, when I open my refrigerator and see such a vibrant spectrum of colors, I know I'm doing the right thing...for me, anyway. There is still my 88% cacao chocolate on the menu and I'll have to figure out how the Guinness chocolate cake will fit in, not to mention cocktails. But, for the month of February, I'll be focusing on creating edible art and making this work long-term. I do feel a difference. And it is one for the better.

Bright Whites

2011-02-02T15:18:00.000-08:00

Image via Crate & Barrel via Apartment Therapy

I have been obsessing a bit about how to get my whites whiter since eschewing chlorine bleach. After a few hits and misses, I find I prefer Ecover, an eco-friendly bleach alternative, but add a few scoops of OxyClean with it for good measure. My whites are white, but they aren't white. I've just purchased my first box of Borax to use in this weekend's laundry, so we'll see if that adds a level of zing to it. Still, I almost feel that I'm adding about as many cleansers to my wash as clothing. Being determined to find a simple solution, I found a few links that give other tips.

Add a few tablets of aspirin, one commenter shared. Boil your whites in water and lemon slices. Hydrogen peroxide was another suggestion. Still not simple, but certainly easy. Let me know if you have an eco-friendly favorite. And I'll let you know how this weekend's experiment comes out.

5 Ways to Naturally Clean Whites

The Chemical Free Cleaning Book

The View From Two Wheels

2011-01-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

Not my bicycle, but a similar view. Via What'sOnXiamen

Keeping up my resoluteness, I have spent each weekend on my bike. Los Angeles has been fortunate to be in a winter warm spell. With the sun shining under bright blue skies, I make excuses to be on it, take it someplace that would be as easy to walk.

I've decided my Schwinn is the two-wheel equivalent of '57 Buick. It is heavy and wide and wonderfully retro. However, without a garage to park it in, it has taken haven in the dining area of my kitchen. Yes, I'm not exactly fond of that either. But, being so close to the ocean, there's no other way to prevent the rusting that has taken over my neighbors' cycles. To accommodate ma bicyclette, I had to downsize my dining table. My charming tile-topped, rectangular table that six could and had squeezed into gave me little option. I carefully removed its legs, wrapped them in paper and taped them up, carried the I-completely-forgot-how-heavy-this-thing-is top out to the sidewalk and affixed the legs to the back. A sassy pink piece of paper shouted merrily, "Free!" And within an hour, it had found a new home.

I considered forgoing a table altogether. I thought I could convince people it was bohemian or something. To be honest, I use the bicycle more than the table. But a girl does need to have a proper table for a proper cup of tea and proper chat with a friend when a friend needs one. Solution: A wooden card table. It was inexpensive enough (at $60) and will later serve as a more sophisticated additional seating or serving option when I finally move out of my dollhouse and get a full set of grown-up furniture. My red patterned table cloth is folded in half over it, fitting nicely for the time being. Pulled away from the wall, the Schwinn is backed around it. I must remove a side chair to get it in and out, which I am becoming an expert at. Out the backdoor, then through two gates, and I am free to pedal about and take in the sights that, while familiar, appear different when not whizzing by them in a car.

I had been under the weather last week, so Saturday's ride was a little tentative. I rode to Main Street to pick up a belated birthday present then rambled down Abbot Kinney. I was beginning to crave lunch, but wasn't sure what to eat and, if I ate the wrong thing, I didn't want to be on my bike. Pedalling whilst in pain isn't exactly a good time. As I made my way home, I made notes of the places I wanted to stop on Sunday.

Sunday means a morning at the laundromat. Not exactly my favorite place, I will admit, but it is time-efficient. Only having to spend an hour there, I try to make the best of it. That morning had be particularly "special". I had IM'd Miss Jenn a few rants about that day's clientele and explained, "I'm donning pigtails and Keds today in an attempt to draw out my inner Hepburn. I think I conjured Katherine, though. She's the more spiky of the two." With folded clothes and groceries for the week, I went home and put everything away in record time. I couldn't wait to get on my way. It was time for lunch, and I knew exactly the place to have it. I put the necessities into my canvas Ireland bag, grabbed my water bottle and copy of Hitchcock by François Truffaut, placed them all in my basket and made my way.

The rules of the road are followed respectfully. I travel with traffic, since a bike is indeed a vehicle. If I am on the sidewalk, I am walking the bike. We are fortunate that there are plenty of bike racks about Venice, and an abundance of parking meters in Santa Monica to secure the Schwinn as I go off on an errand or adventure. One of the most pleasant views I see from my two-wheeled perch are smiles. People on the sidewalk give a pleasant grin or a cheery, "Hello!" as we pass each other, which I gladly return.

*****************

I latched my bike to a meter in front of Finn McCool's, my favorite Irish pub. My favorite seats were open, too. The Fates always seem to be on my side when I'm on my bike. I sat down, removed my sunglasses and pulled out my book. The bartender came by for my order: Potato pancakes with housemade gravalox...and a pint of Guinness. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the Irish harp after the barman walked away and realized with a cringe that, in my black t-shirt, black capris, black Keds, gray cardigan and pigtails, I had done something unintentionally hipster by riding my bike to a pub to read a book. Mais, c'est la vie. Truffaut soon had me laughing, not only at myself, but his misstep into a frozen fountain after first meeting our shared hero, Alfred.

After my delectable lunch was thoroughly enjoyed, and I made my way through the introduction, foreword and start of the interview, I headed back to Venice. Before leaving Santa Monica proper, a quick stop at a hat shop called Fedora Primo. The store holds hats for men and women, plus gloves, scarves and other fun accessories. This was just a quick peek in on my quest to find the right chapeau. This shop offers a wonderful range from fancy to casual. I have a sneaking suspicion I will find something there soon enough.

Back down AK, I popped in to Venice Vintage Paradise, a wonderful second-hand store with a array of vintage tablecloths. The lovely sales lady helped me through the selection to find one that will fit my new table (that has also happened to be one of hers). Unfortunately, their credit card system was down, and I was short of cash. We stashed it away for me to pick up on Friday after work.

"Oh," she said as I left the shop, "what a perfect day to be on a bike." Yes, I agreed. Those are the comments I get most: how much fun riding around on the bike must be and/or that they wished they had a bike, too. As one who was sans cycle for too long, I will say that it is a great fun and quite practical, especially if you live in a congested part of town. My Schwinn was inexpensive, and there other options even more frugal if it's a cost consideration that might keep you from getting yourself on your bike. Even though my kitchen also now serves as bike garage, this is a compromise I'm happy to make. Not exactly elegant, I will admit, but it's a small eye-sore inside compared to the great views I get from those two wheels.

Blue Box, White Ribbon

2011-01-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

"I regret to inform you that we had a Tiffany casualty," Chef Jodi typed in an instant message. I had given her a set of Tiffany champagne flutes for her birthday in November. Her first Tiffany. My first Tiffany had also been a birthday gift from a friend. I think it's an important tradition to carry on.

"I regret to inform you that they were only $15 a piece," I wrote back. While it is always poor manners to discuss the price of a gift, I continued to explain, "I thought something affordable would make the inevitable casualties easier to bear." She does have a Great Dane in the home.

I feel bad for Tiffany & Company every now and again. People simply assume that it is out of their reach, something they can never have. That's just not the case. Did we not learn anything from Breakfast at Tiffany's? There really is something in nearly every price range. Though they no longer have the $9 phone dialer, there is quite a selection in the under $100 bracket (but don't let that search fool you; there's more than they show). The hand-blown champagne flute also has $15 friends in the hand-blown martini glass, and two types of wine glasses. There are necklaces, keychains, money clips and more. A little something for everyone.

Jodi was relieved to find out the glasses didn't cost and arm and a leg. Then, slyly, she shared, "I love saying 'I have Tiffany glasses.' What a great gift. Thank you." It was sincerely my pleasure.

Like I said, I believe everyone deserves a blue box with white ribbon at least once. It's never the price that counts, always the thought. But, what a treat it is when one spies that iconic wrapping, so simple, chic and elegant...and, surprisingly, within reach.

The Perfection of Convection

2011-01-19T15:41:00.000-08:00

Image via Museum Victoria, Australia

As you may recall, my oven is rather unreliable. Sadly, it's not just a few degrees off so I could adjust accordingly. No. It just keeps increasing the temperature just for fun. Even after repair attempt, there was no improvement. It's antique charm makes up for its inaccuracy. But I do miss baking. Knowing that, a friend was kind enough to give me her much-loved and well-used convection oven after moving in to her new home. I happily took the gift. In its day, it was top-of-the-line. It was also big as an ox and heavy as all get-out. It was too tall to fit where my microwave once resided, which was my largest area of open kitchen space. Instead, I placed it on top of one of my built in display cabinets where it fit, more or less. It kind of greeted me imposingly when I entered the kitchen. But, after my first batch of perfectly baked baby buttercream potatoes, I was in love. Sadly, upon its second use, it passed away.

Having had the taste of a properly working oven, I went on a convection quest. What would fit both my meager budget and lack of kitchen space? The answer: A $60 Black and Decker from Target.

It has knobs instead of a digital display. One must turn the timer past twenty before setting it below that time. It isn't necessarily top-of-the-line, but it is light and it fits not-so-imposingly where my toaster once resided. For the price, I can't complain. This worked nicely into my meager budget. The best part? It will easily hold my 9-inch cake round. There will be Guinness Chocolate Cake for St. Patrick's Day this year, my friends! And vegan lasagna in the starter set of Le Creuset baking dishes Chef Jodi gave me for Christmas. In cherry, mais oui. My special Italian Turkey Meatloaf? Oh, yes. And perfectly roasted veg.

Sometimes, it is the little things. And little things mean a lot.

Pedals

2011-01-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

Image via BikeHugger.com

Two friends gave me an unexpected gift this Christmas: A Schwinn. A lovely, retro-inspired cruiser, replete with a basket and bell, in a sassy champagne color with white trim. The handles and saddle are black, and it reminds me of the Schwinn I had as a girl. My first "grown-up" bike. This was a sweet surprise of a treat.

I've been sans cycle since my beloved red Nishiki was stolen over a decade ago. Which is a shame, really, as my part of town has bike paths that will take me to Malibu or Playa del Rey, as well as all the charming nooks around my eclectic enclave. I've missed pedalling about, and have looked on at those biking with an envious smile. But, unlike my sporty cycle, this is a lady's cruiser, with a swayed bar for skirt-wearing. And, once the weather warms, that's exactly what I'll be donning.

The Schwinn arrived Saturday, but was not assembled. Not to worry; I love a challenge. I did the best I could on my own, and with borrowed tools from a neighbor, before taking it to a local bike shop to finish the job...and to make sure what I had done was done properly. (There weren't what one would call "instructions" when it came to putting the cruiser together.)

I got it back late Sunday afternoon and rode it the long way home. The air was rather chilly and the sun was about to set. If I had my night lights on it, I would've gone farther, down to the beach to see the sun drop into the Pacific. Instead, I made the most of those few blocks.

As I pedalled, I envisioned the places I'd go, the errands I'd run, how I would lure friends to join me on two wheels, even if they'd have to rent theirs. Brunch on the boardwalk at Figtree's, or a stop at the Rose. I could easily ride the path over to the Promenade to catch a movie. Cycle to my salon for my Sunday appointments. This, with the air still crisp, a coat still necessary and the sun setting early. My craving for springtime set in strongly.

I knew that every weekend, I'd be on my bike, riding responsibly. Over to Abbott Kinney to meet up with friends. Popping by to see David at Marina del Rey Liquormart to fetch a recommended wine. Stopping off at the French Market Café to grab my favorite turkey sandwich on their delicious baguette to go, or maybe stay and listen to the staff and clientele parlez français. This all fits so nicely into my resoluteness to enjoy doing at least one thing every day, and enjoy it passionately. Of course, if we add up the ocean, my hamlet, a fine wine, good food and great friends, there's much more to enjoy on a simple bike ride.

But, on Tuesday, news came that the husband-owner of the café, Patrice Martinez, died in a motorcycle crash in South America. My heart goes out to his beautiful wife, Agnes, whose beaming smile greeted all who entered their café, the staff and family of regulars that frequented the happily crowded place. I was much more of an irregular in my decade-and-a-half in Venice, but I have always loved that café and all that I have discovered there.

The reason why I share this terribly sad news is this: Life hangs on a delicate thread. In a moment, everything can change. And, as cliché as it may sound, we must make the most of every precious moment we have...because we don't know how many more are to come. I don't mean for this to sound fatalistic; I find it to be empowering. What better reason for living life with passion?

The news came with the aside that Patrice was on a motorcycle trip with his best friend, doing something he loved. Perhaps solace can be found there. For me, the news reverberated a confirmation of the way I want to live from this year forward: With as much joy, pleasure, love, clarity and elegance as I can. And with frequent stops on my Schwinn at places that delight me, including that French café.

(Untitled)

2011-01-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

After the tragedy that unfolded in Tucson this past Saturday, I've been beside myself with emotion. Many emotions, in fact. And while this blog is not a place to vent or platform -- understanding certain topics ought to remain out of polite conversation -- I believe that event, those losses, the shock and horror of it all are a call to us to remember a bit of propriety in how we handle ourselves, and what we expect from our leaders.

Respectful discourse has long been missing in politics, as well as in too many of our every day exchanges. Patience is easily lost. A simple disagreement can become a shouting match. Language tends to go beyond inappropriate. We live in a world of extremes. And, while I am not a shy flower and have been known to vehemently state my case and debate vigorously, what has been occurring in our culture, from schoolyards to Senate campaigns, needs to be addressed...if only on a personal level.

We seem to be too quick to go to the hyperbolic, to exaggerate for effect. We appear to be too slow to question or request facts to support a stance. We are simply too busy to wait, to pause to reflect, to research, clarify, or even to breathe at times. That is the breakneck pace of our modern lives. My hope is that we will slow down. That we will find our patience. Patience with each other, with ourselves, for those who are different, for those who provoke. What we may not be able to be patient for is change. That needs to occur as soon as possible.

Gandhi said: Be the change you want to see in the world. Each day, I strive for that. There are moments, sometimes many moments, when I fail, and fail miserably. But, each day, I strive for that again.

My heart goes out to Tucson, to those lost, those healing, those who witnessed the shock and horror of it all. My prayer is that things may change for the better. May we all strive for that.

Epiphany!

2011-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Yesterday marked the twelfth day of Christmas. That makes today Epiphany. Respectfully leaving out the religious connotations of the day -- with all honor to that relevance and those beliefs -- Epiphany is a marvelous day for all to note on one's calendar. And perhaps yours already has it marked.

Epiphany can serve as the chance to gather friends and family for a final farewell to the holiday season, to meet up with those you might have missed during the chaos, to mark the hopes we hang on the New Year, or to simply keep the festivities going. It's a celebration, and I think we could always use a little more of that.

This year, I will mark Epiphany as I did the New Year -- quietly with a dear friend, a nice dinner and a fine bottle. Last year passed so quickly that I needed the full twelve days of Christmas to catch my breath and catch up, so a grander fête for the day was not in the cards. But, next year, Epiphany falls on a Friday, and I intend to have a soirée. Yes, I'm planning pretty far ahead, but that's part of being resolute. Cocktails and canapés, and a light dinner (something that will keep and guests can serve themselves since Los Angeles is so spread out and plagued with traffic, it's never a good idea to hold up a dinner party until everyone arrives...we'd starve or someone would end up terribly injured in a blood sugar crash). Then perhaps break out the boardgames or simply let the conversations linger.

Some of us just aren't ready to let go of the holidays, while others are ready to get the New Year rolling. Epiphany can bring both mindsets together. Farewell to the old and embracing the new, with another chance to kick up our heels together.

Image via Life Magazine

Resolute

2011-01-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

I no longer believe in making resolutions. My to-do list is long enough, thankyouverymuch. And, by this point, they would only serve to be reminders of what I already know I need to do. Eat more vegetables. Exercise more. Take a vacation. Improve my French. Learn Italian.

Resolutions tend to dwell somewhere between a to-do and a bucket list. It's where lofty aspirations can be noted, but then tucked away. After we jot down those resolutions, how often do we look back at that list? Sure, it's gangbusters in January, but what about March? May? November? And then it's time to draft another set.

Like I said, I no longer believe in writing resolutions, but I do believe in being resolute. And, this year, that is my theme, my keyword, my mantra.

While there isn't a list of hopes or wishes or things-I-should-do, I am resolute in doing at least one thing each day that I thoroughly enjoy. I am resolute in bringing a dash of glamour to even the most mundane. After all, I started the year watching Breakfast at Tiffany's with a Fabergé flute of Veuve and left over Thai. Pure bliss. And, while we are only a few days into this new year, I am determined to keep that bliss going.

And that seems to be a thread that weaves throughout my friends. There's a lack of resolutions being drafted, but a wave of determination to just enjoying everything more. Imagine what a wonderful year this will be if we stick to just that.

Ringing It In

2010-12-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve will be simple this year. Well, simpler than being sick at home, which, for the last three years, I have been. Awful timing, don't you think? This year, a darling friend -- and one of my best from high school -- sent me a text even before Thanksgiving:

What are you doing for New Year's Eve? And, yes, I'm thinking that far ahead.

I could hear her giggle in those words. After I said I was game for anything she had up her sleeve, she mentioned our favorite British pub (not to be confused with our favorite Irish one), and suggested we celebrate UK New Year. On the West Coast, that happens about tea time, which sounded perfect to me.

We chatted the other night to solidify our game plan, and cautiously she inquired, "So, um, how late do you want to stay? I mean, if you want to keep going until midnight, I mean, if that's important to you..." I politely interrupted and said I would be happy if we made it until four-thirty. Post meridiem, that is. Considering we are going to start this celebration with lunch, once we greet the GMT's break into 2011, I would be happy to grab dinner out, or back at mine where she would be guesting. Cabs will be much easier to find before the shenanigans of the night commence. And, of course, I have the requisite bottle of Veuve for toasting, a slew of movies on my DVR and VOD, Scrabble, backgammon and Monopoly if we feel like testing our skills or adding more laughs. We happily agreed to go where the last day of 2010 takes us, even if that's asleep before New York sees the new year.

Wishing you a happy 2011 in any and every time zone.