The Lord Chronicle

I. Am. Tired.

Period.

I’m sitting outside in front of Jamba Juice drinking a Mega Mango smoothie. It could be anywhere, except for the palm trees to my right and also the unfortunate fact that Jamba Juices only seem to pop up in places that have an average year-round temperature of 75 degrees, a truth that makes me resent living in a place with all four seasons.

The location: Larchmont Village in Los Angeles, California. The day: Beautiful. The standard gray morning haze is just beginning to burn off, and the sun is starting to warm the air. Larchmont Boulevard is like a quintessential Main Street, but about four times as long as the typical center thoroughfare. Just from where I’m sitting, I see a Belgian chocolate shop, a French café, three little clothing boutiques, a mini day spa, a book store, and a Blockbuster (where I ended up renting two movies last night so I wouldn’t feel quite so alone in Jeanne’s empty house).

There is a yoga studio a couple of blocks down and people carrying yoga mats keep walking by. It makes me want to grab a mat, stroll right in and get into mountain pose. I stay seated instead and watch the parade of people march by. Perfectly groomed fashionistas, uniformed school girls, smartly dressed businessmen and women, happy mothers with kids, weary nannies with kids, regular old joes and every kind of person in between are out today.

The house where I’m staying is just a few blocks away, and I walked here last night for dinner at Village Pizza, a pizza joint established by a guy from Brooklyn. I am so thankful for New York pie makers and their ability to make the world a better place. A world without them would be dreary indeed.

Larchmont Village is where individually owned stores thrive. I’m not exactly supporting the local entrepreneurs by getting Jamba Juice (the fruity equivalent of Starbucks), but in my defense, I’m planning on hitting up the Larchmont Village Wine and Cheese Shop next to check out their menu. I’ve heard they have a killer sandwich.

In the inviting little town of Sierra Madre, I sit in a coffee shop that appears to be the favorite java joint of the locals on a Saturday morning. The exposed brick walls, old wooden tables and chairs and Americana memorabilia make me feel like I’ve stepped back in time. Behind me sits a mother and her two young boys, roughly about the ages of 8 and 10. They have pulled "Sorry" off the well-stocked game shelf (this place encourages getting cozy and staying for a while), and the younger of her boys starts telling his mom about a soap opera he’s seen as he sets up the game.

"I saw this soap opera yesterday," he states nonchalantly.

“A soap opera?” mom asks incredulously.

“Yeah, it’s on Sesame Street,” the boy responds.

“What?” She sounds even more confused and slightly worried, as if he’s either seen something he shouldn’t, or doesn’t really know what he’s talking about…and they couldn’t really be showing that kind of bawdy, ridiculous drama on PBS, could they?

“Yeah, there’s this bar of soap singing a song. It’s really funny.”

“Oh,” the mom quietly laughs and gives a sigh of relief at the apparent obliviousness of what “soap opera“ usually means. “That sounds like it’s funny,” she agrees.

“It is,” he confirms.

This dialog makes me giggle. I love the innocence of youth and its ability to see things in such a fresh way without the contamination of adult perspective.

All the sudden, “I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by the Proclaimers comes on over overhead, and a feeling of contentment spreads through me. I could get used to this place.

I'm moving in about 3 weeks. I absolutely despise moving - especially when you don't want to move from the home in which you currently reside. Then there isn't even anything to look forward to. It's just packing and sorting and giving away and thinking about having a garage sale, but coming to the conclusion that it's more work I don't need to deal with right now, resulting in the abrupt end of any thoughts about sales. I'm great at talking myself out of things before I even start them.

Moving is also bringing to the surface many memories...mostly good, but hard to think of, nonetheless. With everything so upside down right now, it's sometimes difficult to find the silver lining. However, here is one sterling glimmer I thought I'd share. I just watched the movie "Bella" (I highly recommend it) and was completely struck by how complicated everyone's life can be, and yet, how beauty and joy can still come out of tragedy and unexpected pain. No one is ever exempt from hardships, but it is the steady, persistent, and faithful who get through the most unscathed. Sometimes the lessons that come our way are hard to swallow, but I know that the growth I'm experiencing from these lessons will be invaluable. To best sum up my feelings about all this, I quote Louisa May Alcott:

"I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship."

Maybe I should move near water so I can actually learn how to sail...

Little by little, I'm starting to feel not quite so void of life inside. Bear with me as I get that project completely off the ground. I haven't felt much like blogging lately, but hopefully, that desire will be up and running again in the near future.

Samantha Who? has recently become a favorite TV show of mine. At first, I began watching it because of the name. Any show with my name in the title is just begging to be watched. In the show, the title character has been hit by a car and has amnesia. At first she doesn't remember her family, friends, occupation, or where she lives, and so on.

Today, I feel I have much more in common with the character than just having the same moniker. It appears I have lost part of my memory.

In preparation for sandal weather, I painted my toenails last week. Yesterday, I looked down at my toes – which had previously all been painted a cheery shade of coral – and my middle and ring toes on my right foot were completely void of nail polish.

Wait…what? I did a double take. All the paint was gone. Not even a speck of color remained. The rest of my toes still looked as if I had painted them minutes before. I began thinking back to the previous days to try to recall a reason for this strange phenomenon. Not a single explanation came to mind. I felt as if I were in the middle of a Sherlock Holmes mystery – “The Case of the Two Paintless Toes."

How did this happen? Had I been hit by a car and developed amnesia? I didn’t think so. But then again, how could I be sure? Well, for one thing, I hadn’t woken up yesterday in a hospital bed. That was reassuring. But the lack of a reason for my two naked toes still left an empty feeling inside, like I should be remembering how it happened, but couldn't.

Maybe I’ve just gotten my TV shows mixed up. Maybe I’m more like Samantha from “Bewitched,” and my crazy Aunt Clara botched one of her spells, causing my two toes to be zapped clean.

Who knows? But if anyone has any clues that would help solve this mystery, please contact me immediately.

This weekend I embark on another adventure to NYC. I love adventures. They make life so interesting. Whenever I travel, something completely unexpected always seems to happen. Those unexpected events are, undoubtedly, my favorite part of my trips...and they usually make the best stories.

Like the time I broke into an Italian airport. I literally pried open the doors and spent the night in the darkened building. I'm not sure I should be admitting this on here. But in my defense, I didn't know airports ever closed, so I hadn't considered that when I got to Pisa's Aeroporto Internazionale Galileo Galilei at midnight I wouldn't be able stroll right in and plop into an unoccupied seat until my flight at 6 a.m. Neither had Bernadette, the American girl I met on the train ride there - we were in the same boat (figuratively speaking...all we really wanted was a plane).

Note of advice: If traveling overseas, don't bet on Italians working longer or harder than they have to. They close up shop when they feel like it, whether it is inconvenient or not to international travelers. And if an Italian security guard comes up to you at 3 in the morning and asks how you got into the secured facility, just tell him "Non capisco" (I don't understand) and act as if you have no clue as to what he referring. He'll think he is crazy and go check the doors to make sure they are, in fact, locked.

But back to the story of breaking and entering...Bernadette and I noticed someone sitting in the dark building and knocked on the sliding glass doors to get his attention and ask how he got in. He motioned for us to try the doors around the side. They were locked, too. So, knowing I basically had the choice to stay outside in the frigid night air for the next 6 hours or wrench the door open, I decided the latter sounded like the way to go.

And that's exactly what I did. Let me just say I'm very thankful Italian airport security is so lax. As I was shoving the doors open and back together (there were two sets), I was half expecting to see an Italian S.W.A.T. team come out of the shadows, throw me to the floor and aim their firearms at my shaking body as I lay with my hands over my head. Luckily, I have an overactive imagination, and not even an alarm went off. When we walked up to the lone guy, we found he was American, too. Yay! He had come in earlier from Ireland and had just stayed inside (smart man). Turns out he was waiting for the same flight Bernadette and I were taking. We bunkered down and readied ourself for a long night of cards and story swapping. However, we were interrupted about 45 minutes later when another young guy knocked on the doors. We motioned for him to go around the side and break in. He did, and then there were four. Funny, but he was American, too! We were all becoming pros at being foreign criminals (and underestimating Italian hours of operation).

We were all friends and compatriots for the night, huddling close and watching out for each other as the airport slowly came to life at about 5 a.m., making sure we all got on board safe and sound when the time came.

I never talked them again, but I bet we have all included each other in our anecdotes about how 3 Americans broke into the Pisa airport all on the same night.

Definitely something I could never have planned. And that's exactly how I like it.

Here it is. My second post. Bet you thought it'd never happen, didn't you? You probably thought I am one of those one-night-stand kind of bloggers (pardon the slightly inappropriate expression) who posts one time and never makes an appearance again, leaving you feeling a bit taken advantage of.

Well, I'm here to prove you wrong. I'm in this for the long haul.

(Side note: Where did that expression come from? If it has anything to do with fishing, then I'll retract my statement and replace it with "long term." I'm not a fishing fan)

I've been feeling lately (well, to be a little more accurate, I've felt this way for roughly the past 5 years of my life) that I am sort of like a human equivalent of Jell-o on a shiny, plastic plate...slipping and sliding all over the place as the plate is carried around in a crowded room. What I mean to say is, I'm not quite sure where I should be or what I should be doing. Should I stay nicely put in the middle of the plate or slide right off it and onto the shoe of the person next to me? This last scenario sounds dangerous, and yet it might be just what I need. No, not literally. I don't want to nosedive into a loafer - I want to try something big. I have friends who know exactly what they want to do in life and, in the process, are having amazing experiences. While they are out living their inspiring lives, I'm finding myself wishing I could join them, but unsure of how to do it. When is it my turn? When do I make the leap off the plate? Why do I just keep thinking about the million things I want to do and accomplish in life? Why don't I go further than that and actually start doing them? Maybe it's because there are about a million things I want to do, and I'm not sure which direction to go first.

As of right now, my next step is an audition in NYC for a professional musical theater summer program. It's less than one month away. I'm not nervous, but I am curious as to what the outcome will be. The rest of my summer kind of depends on it. What if I don't get in and end up splatting onto the floor in a gelatinous mess? What then?

(Another side note: I don't like Jell-o - it just makes for a helpful metaphor)

Well, that's the great thing about being such non-wielding substance. I may wiggle into different shapes, but that doesn't mean my life is over. In fact, that's an aspect of this life I love. As humans with free will, we are constantly evolving, learning and growing - changing shapes, if you will. Just because I haven't figured out what shape I'll be next, doesn't mean I'll stay in my present state (state of Missouri, state of mind, state of confusion, etc.) forever. It just means that I should have a blast in the meantime, gathering and receiving inspiration for whatever will happen next.

I. Am. Writing. A. Blog.

This seems incomprehensible to me. First of all, let me say that I am not one to jump on bandwagons. Or any kind of wagons, for that matter. The last time I remember being in a wagon, I thought to myself, "It is entirely too cold and this is a ridiculous amount of hay - why am I here?" And I proceeded to jump off of the wagon.

Doing things for the sake of popularity or conformity has never appealed to me. Thus, I have stayed away from creating/writing a blog as if it were some kind catching disease. I just have not had the time or desire to be taken down by the virtual equivalent of chicken pox. And yet, here I am...I have been exposed to the maddeningly spreading red dots, and they have started to pop up when I least expected. And the worst of all...I've started to scratch.

Let me be perfectly clear on this one point, however - I am not starting this blog because I want every one to read it and hang on my every word about the details of my days (although, I'm sure at some point, I will feel the need to vent through my keyboard). After reading a few random blogs over the past few months, I've realized it's a good way to spread my writer's wings (or fingers) and get some well-needed practice in. I like writing. It would be a fabulous realization of a dream to actually write about things I love (or would like to learn about) and support myself by doing this.

So, in an effort to become a better writer (and appease a few people who want to know more details of my somewhat uneventful life as I attempt to make it more eventful), here is my first post.

Doesn't scratching chicken pox leave scars? Sigh...what have I gotten myself into?