Typo

Earlier today, I put a new event in my phone calendar and didn't pay much attention. I'm meant to pick up my brother at the Grammy's Foundation on Friday.

When I double checked my calendar tonight to prepare for the next couple days, I noticed I had "Granny's" scheduled for Friday.

As I read the word Granny...I froze for a second and had to re-rack my brain.  I actually believed for a moment that my granny (who passed away years ago) was in my schedule.  In a few seconds; I saw her house, her hair and a delicious Little Debbie waiting at her bedside.

So appropriate.  She'd be proud of my Friday, of my month, of my brother's year.  But she'd also remind both of us to mind our manners and to not forget where we came from.

I could be totally wrong.

We live in the periwinkle apartment by the sea.
My neighbors live in the red, echoey apartment a few steps further from the sea.

And I hear their every move.  Seriously.

They listen to NPR starting at 3am.  They watch TV until 2am.  They type, they wash dishes, they vacuum.  They seem to have conversations IN my room.

They're a couple in their late 70s/early 80s and I swear the old man character in Up was based on my neighbor.  However, my neighbor embodies only the sweet, slightly oblivious version of the character in the Pixar movie.

His wife is mean.  M-E-A-N, mean.  She's annoyed with him before he even begins a thought.  Before he can ask a question.  Before he moves, shuffles, breathes.

A common dialogue in their household is:
Wife: "I'm leaving, okay?"
Silence.
Wife: "I'm leaving, OKAAY? [sigh, grunt]"
Husband: "Oh, okay. Have a good day."

Wife: "Yeah. Bye."

Husband: "What?"

Wife: "BYYYYYYYE!"

You need an entire summer with your windows open to fully understand.  But it makes me sad.  Makes me question marriage.  She seems to genuinely hate him.

However, from the small talk my roommate and I have had with Mr. Up, they both played professionally for the philharmonic.  And there are days that the most beautiful violin music seeps out their windows and it's as if I'm at a live concert.  As I hear the notes and the music peaks, I imagine those are the moments they are still in love.

It's hard to say who is playing.  And I can't decide if I want it to be HER as he is reminded of the moment when he fell for her. As she plays, he forgets the moments she's consistently annoyed with him and is just happy they're in the same room.

Or if I want it to be HIM playing as she sits and closes her eyes and quickly falls back in love with him; even if just for that moment.

Doesn't matter really.  When there's music coming from those windows, there are no voices and I close my eyes and see them smiling at one another.

Girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do.

Amazing advice, right?

Driving home tonight after drinks with a friend and feeling inspired, I shuffled back and forth between Love Line and any song that I recognized on the radio.  As I was blocks from my house, I heard the first two notes of a song and immediately could see myself in 5th grade, heartbroken, phone in hand about to call the local radio station and make an honest request.

"XL 106.7 DJ, I dedicate this to Tony Citeralla, I miss him."

I can't remember what happened.  Did I awkwardly, pre-maturely break up with him and then dramatize it?  Did he break my heart? (as 5th grade broken hearts go...)  I can't remember.

But I CAN remember every single word, every single beat to Nothing Compares 2 U, by Sinead Oconnor.  And I forgot how good it feels to belt out every word.

I remember being in 5th grade.  I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Roadside Love

I took one of the canyon roads to the Valley today.  At the base of the hill, there was a handmade, painted sign that said:

I [heart] my Angil.

About 500 yards further, there was another, smaller sign made from a different piece of wood that said:

I [heart] U 2.

Gratitude.

I've been so engulfed in trying to raise money for our little project this fall, that I hadn't fully realized the feat we were attempting.  Once we launched our fundraising campaign, my only thought was, "This has to happen.  It will happen.  There's no turning back."  I put my head down, got sucked into social networking and was attached to the internet: Every. Waking. Moment.

After finally getting a good night's sleep and waking up to the 6-digit figure in our PayPal account - it hit me.  That's a ton of money.  And it all came in 5 and 10 dollar increments from our friends, our family, fans and supporters.  It came from people who didn't have $5 to spare, but they believed in us and pledged anyway.

It still doesn't feel real.  But I'm counting each and every dollar as a little piece of sunshine.  Mostly because each one of those dollars has a person attached.

I love strangers you see so often they feel like friends.

There is a father/son duo that takes their morning walk everyday through Palisades Park as I sweat my way through boot camp.  I've never eavesdropped on this 40-something dad and his adorable 3ish-year old. I usually just see them pass and think, "Wow, people in Santa Monica are beautiful. What the heck is in the water?"

Today, I thought I heard someone speaking much too loudly on their cell phone and interrupting our yoga-esque cool down.  Half-annoyed, I turned to see who the perpetrator was and realized it was my favorite little duo; no cell phone in sight.  He was praising his little boy for picking up a piece of trash in the park.

"That's like when daddy goes surfing and sees trash in the ocean.  I pick it up and put it in my wetsuit to help keep the ocean clean.  And you're doing it here to keep the park pretty.  I'm so proud of you." 

Bonding together in crappy times

I am an official financial contributor to the City of Los Angeles.  I'm, like, a professional.

Today, not only did the City of LA tow my car, they left a pretty red and white ticket on my windshield for an extra $158 on top of the $262 it cost to get my car back.  There's no sunshine in any of those numbers.  And I wasn't smiling as I was stranded at a Hollywood coffee shop calling friends for a ride.

However, when I arrived at the tow lot, things got a little sunnier.

It's not a welcoming place; with it's coded metal gate and uniformed staff standing behind bullet proof glass with a speaker and small slot to pass my credit card through.  But as I walked up, there were two other "official contributors" trying to retrieve their cars.  They smiled through their frustration and said, "Welcome to the Los Angeles towing club.  You're an official member now...isn't it exciting?!"

This put me in a slightly better mood as I hopped on the golf cart with one of the Hollywood Tow staff members to find my car.  He couldn't have been nicer.  I had already planned to enter this place with a calm demeanor -- I mean, it's just their job...not their fault.  But this guy made it so easy.  We commiserated about the City of LA and how much they charge for everything and we shared stories about being locals and still making stupid tourist mistakes.

All in all a good experience.  But talk to me when I can't pay rent next month.
Whatevs.