Sharing Grass

I’ve never done things the way others do.

I didn’t get a college degree; I got two.

I didn’t date a bunch of losers; I married one great guy.

I didn’t want green grass; but had the lushest, greenest yard in all of Southern California.

Ahh! Life's cruel ironies.

I’d already made the big decision to delete the lawn plus I’d been approved to rip it out but when it came to the logistics of actually removing the emerald green sod I… just… couldn’t… do… it.

The reason? I felt terrible tossing out a living plant—albeit one whose weekly water needs sucked the Mississippi River bone-dry and required a mowing, weeding and fertilizing regimen that was more complicated and time-consuming than a bride preparing for her big destination-wedding day. Nope, when guilt struck me, it hit hard wiping out all the painful months I had suffered maintaining the %#*$ grass and replacing rational thought with sentiments like: 

I can't rip out the turf.  It's not fair to the turf.  The turf was here first.

I was like the woman who was sick and uncomfortable throughout her entire pregnancy, but the moment her baby was born--Whoosh!--she forgot about the previous nine months of agony and got pregnant... again.

My guilt about removing the turf taught me a vital lesson about myself, I had a mothering instinct... for plants.

Clearly, I’ve never done things the way other people do.

Yes I was a plant lover and as horticulturalists know the greatest defining characteristic of plant lovers was, we never threw out plants. No, sir-ee, we shared them! 

In our neighborhood finding someone who needed green grass was as easy as giving away candy bars on Halloween. I looked at my neighbor's brown lawn and sashayed over to Harold and Norma’s house where I found Norman hoisting his American flag. Of course, they'd take my grass because nothing was more American than green grass! Except maybe baseball, oh, and football. Football was American and so was apple pie, hamburgers—and despite the name—“French Fries”, Girl Scout Cookies, yellow ribbons, oak trees, jazz, disco, grunge, crab cakes, the Constitution, throwing horseshoes, s’mores, fire pits, fireworks—okay, okay! So clearly plenty of things were American and food related. But lush green grass was on that "very American" list, too.

“Harold, do you want our grass?”

“Sure I’ll take it,” he said looking at our yard with envy.

“Great!—”

“If you pick it up and plant it over here.”

Now I was a plant lover but not a fool. Doubling my work by ripping out my lawn and fixing up his was not in my grand plan of sharing grass.

"If you want it," I said. You can come get it. Deal?"

Harold laughed and entered his man-cave garage.

I telescoped the area and spotted another neighbor working in his garden.

"Hi Jerry," I said bounding over to him.  Jerry was a San Francisco sports fan, a rose fan and a true plant lover. He had dozens of beautiful roses in his front yard. Of course Jerry would want my grass!

“I hear you’re making some changes to your yard,” Jerry said snipping off a stalk from a rosebush.

“We’re getting rid of the turf.”

"But your grass is real nice," he said tossing a look to our yard.

“Do you want it?"

He shook his head. "But if you're getting rid of any roses, I’ll take those."

Correction: Jerry wasn't a plant lover but a rose hog. 

Maybe I could call a local library.  Donate the grass to them.  Or a—wait a minute.  What was I doing? If I wanted to get rid of the grass in my yard to improve my quality of life and decrease water bills it didn't make sense to pass the grass along to someone else because that meant the total number of yards with grass in L.A. would remain the same.

If I wanted to enact change, I didn't need to share grass but my vision of a water wise garden and push my yard from turfed to turf-free.  Without my neighbors or a charity taking my grass the only option I had was to kill my grass... myself. 

Nope, I’ve never done things the way others do.

Next: Murdering... the Turf

Hollywood Signs

This week I was out and about in Hollywood and from the signs I saw, Angelenos are still funny.

New Yorkers may be tough, Chicagoans friendly, but Angelenos, we have a sense of humor.

Hollywood in Winter

When you're hanging out in Hollywood in the winter the first thing you notice is how similar it looks to Hollywood in... the summer.

The Mounted Hollywood Police is still working.

Restaurants still offer outdoor seating.

And the colorful bougainvillea are still blooming.

As is the rosemary; upright, prostrate and everything in between.

Newcomers often lament the lack of "real" winter, snow and the change of seasons in Hollywood. But not I. I'm thankful for the sunshine, warmth and color. Together they make winter in Hollywood a beautiful time.

Enjoy the weekend!

Santa Monica Pier in Winter

The Santa Monica Pier is a fun place to visit in the summer.  But spending an afternoon here in the winter has its own unique charms.  Only in cool winter are the beaches deserted.

Can you get unobstructed views of the Pacific Ocean with the afternoon sun.  

Can you go to Pacific Pier Amusement Park to ride the ferris wheel without having your legs stick to the seat with your own wet, hot sweat.  ... Score!

Ahhh, I appreciate the winter joys of this 100 year-old plus pier!

What is a Turf Inspector? Or The Steps to Remove a Lawn

I would have to follow several steps to transform our lawn from a Pebble Beach putting green to a haven for California plants.  Here are the first steps: 

Step 1: In the dead heat of summer grab the water bill and stand in the yard.  Look from my water bill to the lawn and say: I spent that much on this itty-bitty, mini patch of green? 

Step 2: Kick myself.

Step 3: Explore different options of a front yard without green grass.  Like doing a California native plant garden or Xeriscaping.

Step 4: Look up “Xeriscaping”: Xer-i-scape (noun): a decorative type of landscaping developed in the Southwestern U.S. that plunks down cacti, rocks and an American flag to simulate the moon’s surface.

Step 5: Tell the moon and Neil Armstrong, “no offense”, then opt to go the California native plant route instead.

Step 6: Take a deep, deep breath.

Step 7: Decide to rip out the grass, in toto.

Step 8a: Discover that the City of Los Angeles is operating a Turf Removal Program to encourage its open-minded homeowners—or just the stupid ones—to remove their turf to lower their water bills.  To make it exclusive—and oh, so Hollywood—the Turf Removal Program is “by application, only”.  There’s even a red carpet and velvet rope.

Step 8b: Read on the application that the City will refund me some of the costs of this Turf Removal.

Step 8c: Re-read the “refund” part 10 times to make sure I've got it right: The City will refund moi if I ditch the grass?! 

Step 9: Give myself a fist bump for googling this issue so effectively.  Maybe I’m not one of the stupid homeowners after all!

Step 10: Read the application’s fine print stating that L.A.’s Department of Water and Power will send a Turf Inspector to our home to confirm that we have grass that can be removed and we are coo-coo enough to do it.

Step 11: Realize the government will be involved.  Sigh.

Step 12: Complete the first part of the application and mail the sucker off!

Step 13: Welcome the Turf Inspector who confirms we have grass and we are nutso enough to remove it ourselves.  She tells us with a warm smile that we now have 120 days to delete the putting green and replace it with something that will rival the Huntington Gardens, Descanso Gardens and Griffith Park combined.

Step 14: Cry with sheer terror!

Step 15: Realize Rome was not built in a day and neither will our turfless yard.

This process is most definitely To Be Continued…

Who Killed the Grass?--A Mystery

“Morning, Harold,” I said waving to our 86 year-old neighbor as he stood in his driveway.

“Hello,” he said running a hand over his bald head.

“Your lawn is looking… special,” I said gazing at the sterile brown earth in front of his house. 

“I don't need a green yard.”

“Then why are you watering your grass?”

It sounded crazy and it looked insane but Harold’s high-tech, built-in sprinkler system was dousing his dead turf with tsunami-sized amounts of water.  Forget “rotten in Denmark”, something was indeed rotten in the state of my neighbor’s lawn.   

Water was supposed to help grass grow but that wasn’t the case for Harold’s.  In fact viewing his dead lawn was so sad for plant lovers, Shakespeare could have written a tragic play about it.  Its death was so horrific for suburbanites, Stephen King could have written a horror story about it.  Its cause of death was so M is for Mysterious, Sue Grafton could have written a Kinsey Millhone alphabet mystery about it.  But since all those writers were dead, busy or otherwise occupied, I wrote this blog post about it.  Yes, I would get to the bottom of the (duhn-duhn) Mystery of Who Killed the Grass.

“Harold,” I said putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Turn off your sprinklers, your lawn is dead.”

“It’s not,” he said shrugging me off.

“It’s brown.”

“It’s winter!  Everything’s brown in the winter.”

“My lawn is green—” before I could finish he'd turned on his heel and disappeared into his garage.

When death happened to your own lawn, it was hard to accept.  Harold was in a state of denial but that would not stop my investigation.

Just then a black pickup truck arrived hauling a rake, a lawn mower and countless kitchen sinks.  Out of the cab slid a mustachioed man in a plaid shirt and straw hat.  Ah-hah!  I clapped my hands.  I’d found the killer! 

“Excuse me,” I said sprinting toward the mustachioed man.  “But I’ve seen you loitering around these parts.”

“I’m the gardener for Mr. Harold,” he said unloading a trash bin.

“You’re also responsible for… killing his grass!”

“No,” he gasped.

“Yes!"  I said peering at his face.  “Because killers always have mustaches!"  

“Not Hercule Poirot,” said the Gardener.  “Or Tom Selleck as Magnum P.I. or Tom Selleck as Jesse Stone or Tom Selleck as anything actual—”

“Stop!” I said.  This clever killer was trying to throw me off his tail by appealing to my love of Agatha Christie and classic TV shows of the 1980s.  Well I wasn't born yesterday. 

“All those men were good guy investigators and,” the Gardener continued, “had mustaches.” 

Hmmm.  He had made an astute point; astute enough to make me think I had been born yesterday.

I returned to my own property to examine the facts and drink a latte.  Not necessarily in that order.  Fact: Harold’s lawn was dead.  Fact: The Gardener didn’t do it.  Fact: What was that rotten smell?

I rushed outside to see Harold’s lawn covered in a layer of dark brown.

“Your grass stinks, Harold!”

“Bull crap,” he said.

“Then your nose is broken because—”

“What you smell is bull crap.  Bull crap mulch.  I use it every year,” he said pointing to his yard.

“That’s what killed your lawn!” I shrieked.

Harold shook his head then proceeded to tell me that mulch made from bull crap was often used in Los Angeles because 1) It was organic; 2) A fertilizer rich in nitrogen, potassium, calcium and zinc; and 3) Hollywood was full of it.  

I checked with other long-term Angelenos and their annual fertilizer of choice was… bull crap. 

If B.S. couldn’t kill Harold’s grass, who or what did?  Leaning against my car I stared at his dead lawn.  I was still there when I saw Harold partake in the common water conservation practice embraced by L.A.'s hippies: he parked his car on the lawn, soaped his vehicle and washed it clean. 

“That's what killed your lawn!” 

“I always wash my car like this,” Harold huffed.  

“But have you always used this soap that's biodegradable and phosphate-free?”  I said stabbing the label with my index finger. 

“I changed soaps this year.”

“When did your lawn die?”

“Last year—”

Ah-hah!  Ah-HAH!  "Being half-green killed your lawn!”

His head drooped to contemplate his formerly green patch of suburban idyll.

 “… My lawn is dead,” he sniffed. 

“I know,” I nodded.

“I killed it—by accident.”

“I know.”

“I tried so hard to make it grow.”

“I know,” I put my hand on his shoulder.  This time Harold didn’t shrug me off but accepted my sympathy.  We stood in silence over the corpse.  A good murder investigator never gloats. 

Back at my office, I closed the file then… did a little dance.  I did it, uh-huh, I figured it out!  I solved the Mystery of Who Killed the Grass!  Yes!  Uh-huh, I rock, oh yeah!

The Inspector

"Do you live here or there?" the woman in the polar fleece jacket said crossing the street and approaching our yard.

"Who wants to know?" I said not disguising the suspicion in my voice.

"It's just you were moving the garbage bins around at that house," she said jutting her chin toward the house that Mr. Wonderful and I shared. "And now you're picking up palm tree debris from this yard," she said indicating the patch in front of Harold and Norma's house.  "So where do you live?"

"Who are you?"

"I don't mean to make you upset--"

"Then tell me who you are!" I said rushing her like an NFL defensive tackle.  

"The Inspector for your Turf Removal!"

Gee, why didn't she just say so?  

A funny thing happened once I became a homeowner, I became suspicious.  Suspicious of everyone and everything. Who's walking up my driveway? Whose car is parked in front of my house? Whose exhaling their dirty halitosis breath in my neighborhood air space? It was as if I were a one-woman Neighborhood Watch committed to eradicating the unknown for the known and passing out breath mints to strangers who needed them.

Another funny thing occurred with home ownership, this one related to possession. I referred to everything as mine: my kitchen, my house, my yard and Mr. Wonderful's weeds. Okay, the good things were mine the less good things were his. It reminded me how it had been for my wedding. As I recall Mr. Wonderful was present on that fateful day playing a major part in the "I do" department, but when all was said and done, it was my beautiful wedding, my fun reception and his expensive open bar bill.  

So when this smiling female inspector started asking me questions without identifying herself, my suspicious shackles were raised as high as Mount Shasta.

"I had to come approve your application for the turf removal," she said visibly unsettled by my nearly-played defensive tackle. "You are removing your turf, right?" 

"Yes I am!" I said and just like that, my attitude toward her did a complete 180 degree turn.  I went from untrusting to "you're my BFF!" so fast I got whiplash.  I can only imagine what it did to her.

Standing beside her I watched as she expertly examined our emerald green lawn, as she pleasantly chatted about the benefits of planting California Natives and as she graciously gave me a drip kit to irrigate our future turf-less garden. In short, she was a delight!  

"Come back any time!" I said waving to her. She smiled and said she would when my bland green yard was transformed into a colorful floral garden.  I can't wait!

Next Step: Removing the Turf!

Deleting the Lawn

“Your lawn is so lush,” our nosy neighbor said adjusting the baseball cap on his bald head.

“Thanks, Harold,” I said sweeping the driveway.

“It’s like a putting green.”

“Thanks—”

“You must be proud of it.”

I shrugged.  “We’re ripping it out.”

“What?!”

Before Harold collapsed from shock, I grabbed his 86 year-old elbow and steered him into his lawn chair.  He shooed me away cursing “these days” and “idiot young people.”

I think he meant us.   

As first time homeowners, Mr. Wonderful and I were learning about our suburban neighbors’ fascination with The Lawn.  In a nutshell: 1) Grass ruled and 2) The greener, the better, which was great if you lived in Scotland where it rained 490 days a year.  But we lived in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley best known for its hot, dry, desert-like conditions where people had to morph into snakes to survive.  This climate explained why Hollywood thrived here and nowhere else.  It also explained why green grass was hard to grow and even harder to maintain. 

In retrospect maybe it was this difficulty that made grass so desirable because our neighborhood was full of verdant front lawns fed by sprinkler systems that were more complex than NASA’s Mars Rover Program and dispensed more water on a daily basis than Hoover Dam, most of which flooded the adjacent streets and sidewalks.  If concrete grew with H2O, our street would be as tall as Universal Studios’ Black Tower skyscraper.  Now wouldn’t that be awkward: driving up to the 30^th floor and taking the elevator down to the entrance—

But I digress.

Mr. Wonderful and I could do a lot of things, one of which was doing without the lawn, and its requisite watering, mowing, fertilizing and bragging rights.  With all the work we had to do on the house’s inside, we didn’t need any more work on the outside.  After a few inquiries with the County I learned they were actively encouraging homeowners to rethink the lawn. 

“What do you mean?” Norma said as she handed a glass of water to Harold sprawled prone in his lawn chair.

I shrugged, “They want us to remove our grass.”

“What?!”

As Norma fell over I slid her 85 year-old frame into a lawn chair next to her spouse.  In unison they clutched their hearts.  I was ready to dial 911, ready to follow their ambulance to Burbank Hospital where they’d be treated for dual quadruple heart attacks.  I was ready to explain to their doctor: “All I said was we were removing every blade of grass from our lawn when—boom!—their hearts stopped—” 

Thump!

“Doc?  You’re on the floor clutching your chest.  I’ll call 911!”

Luckily none of this happened because Harold and Norma were vigilant about following a strict vegetarian diet meaning that, with my stress and arteries, I was imminently closer to a suffering a heart attack than either of those octogenarians. 

But I digress.

“Remove your lawn?!” Harold said fanning himself with the newspaper. 

“That’s madness!” Norma said fanning herself with the business section.

“We want low maintenance,” I said.  “So we’re replacing the grass with—”

“Concrete?!” Norma gasped.

“Over my dead body!” Harold said struggling to his feet.

I ordered them to relax or I would give them a heart attack with a free knuckle sandwich.  I proceeded to explain how Mr. Wonderful and I were planning to remove our thirsty green turf and replace it with California native plants indigenous to Los Angeles like: Manzanita, Toyon, Ceoanthus, California Poppies and Cacti.  These natives had spent thousands of years adapting to the unique climate of Southern California, so they were prepared to thrive in our blistering, dry summers right along with Hollywood’s cruelest snakes.

“Sounds nice,” Norma said.

“Thanks—” I smiled.

“It’s… different,” her spouse said.

“...Thanks?”

“These days," Harold said "you never know what idiot young people will do.”

This time I knew he was talking about us.  But I didn’t care.  I did not digress from my water-wise plan for a grass-free yard.  Come summer I’d have a beautiful garden and he’d be watering the street.

Ha!

Next Step: The Inspection

P.S. If you’re interested in deleting your Southern California lawn, click here for more information! 

New Year’s Resolutions

“It’s a new year,” I said to the cat as he walked into the living room.  “So it’s time for new resolutions!”

Jackson jumped on the armchair.

“And new beginnings!”

He curled up in a ball.

“And new habits!”

He yawned and fell asleep.

“Or… we can just keep doing the same old thing.”

Like a revolving ferris wheel, as each January comes around it happens: I begin the year with super intentions of becoming a smarter, fitter, more chocolate-free person.  And by the time the Super Bowl arrives, I’ve dumped my super intentions and I’m just scarfing from the candy bowl.

Well, NOT this year, my friends.  I’ve embraced 2013 with superb intentions that I will keep.  Starting today!

Resolutions:

1. Sleep every day.  (Done!)
2. Eat every day.  (Done!)
3. Exercise every day.
4. Connect with friends.
5. Disconnect from those who aren’t.
6. Read a new book every month; at least. 
7. Talk about what I read with others.  “Hey, I recently read Little Bee by Chris Cleave and thoroughly enjoyed the rich language and engrossing story.  If you have a chance, you should check it out!”  (Wow.  I’ve already accomplished three resolutions!  Why did I think this was going to be so hard?!)
8. Continue redoing The House.
9. Don’t cry because we still have so much to redo on The House.
10. Tell people I appreciate them.  “Hey, I appreciate you.”  (Done!)
11. Remember to share the good times with my family, friends and Mr. Wonderful. (Done, done, done!)

Okay, so today I only accomplished five of my 11 resolutions.  But tomorrow will be better.  And if it’s not I’ll follow the cat’s lead; just curl up in a ball and sleep away the rest of the year...  On second thought, if a feline's life isn’t a kick in the pants to practice my resolutions, I don’t know what is! 

Here’s to making and keeping new resolutions!  Cheers!

New Year’s Eve!

“Happy New Year’s Eve!” I said greeting Mr. Wonderful at the breakfast table.

“Hmm,” he said sinking into a chair

“The last day of the year!” I said sliding toasted English crumpets in front of him.

“Hmm.”

“What a beautiful time to reflect on what—”

“Can you save the happy talk ‘til after I’ve had a coffee?”

It was true: I was a morning person, Mr. Wonderful wasn’t.  I was a reflective person, Mr. Wonderful wasn’t.  I embraced vacation, and Mr. Wonderful… didn’t.  So while I loved this time of year with all its celebrations, twinkling lights and champagne imbibing, Mr. Wonderful couldn’t wait for it to be over so he could return to working and sucking down six triple espressos before breakfast. 

His outright dismissal of this final holiday of the year made me think he was missing the forest for the trees.   

“There’s no point to New Year’s Day,” he said grinding more coffee beans.  “It’s just another excuse not to work on some arbitrary date on the calendar.”

Au contraire, mon ami!  Okay, I’ll admit, the time from Halloween to December 31^st is one long string of holidays and fun.  But what’s wrong with that?  We worked hard all year long, so couldn’t we take some time to reflect on what we had done for just one day a year? 

He shrugged.

I attacked his disaffection with another analogy.  If the year were our high school term paper, January introduced our hypothesis of what we wanted to gain and prove in the year.  February, March and April explained Point Number 1—work hard.  May, June and July discussed Point Number 2—work harder.  While August, September, October and November rounded out this three-part theme paper of your life by explaining Point Number 3—combine hard work with the people and things you love, in other words PARTY!  Finally December reminded you of your hypothesis by repeating it—on December 31^st—with the question: Did I achieve my goals for the year?  Yeah or nay?

Mr. Wonderful shrugged.

How could I get this idea through to him about the value of New Year’s Eve? 

It was just after noon so I grabbed a bottle of chilled bubbly from the refrigerator and popped the cork.  I poured it into two champagne flutes.  The liquid bubbled, its foam rose to the rims then swiftly sank to just half a glass. 

“Fill them up more,” Mr. Wonderful said.  “They’re half empty.”

“No,” I shook my head.  “They’re half full.” 

He cocked his head then smiled.  “You’re right.” 

New Year’s Eve was a day to enjoy what we had achieved in our life’s term paper of the year, not what was lacking about it.  It wasn’t something to rush through to get back to work but rather something to savor.  He tapped his flute against mine and we sipped the bubbly and enjoyed our half full glasses. 

Worrying about what we’re going to do next year?  That’s something we can think about… tomorrow!   

So in the meantime, Happy New Year’s Eve!

Sleepless in Seattle—The Trip

If you’re sleepless, go to Seattle.  There’s so much to enjoy in the Emerald City that if you don’t sleep, you can discover it all—as I learned over the holidays.  Here are some highlights of a trip to this City on Elliot Bay!

Going to the Public Market to see the fishmongers handle the live fish so quickly the gilled critters “fly”.

Walking to Pioneer Square, the old heart of the city.  Although with the totem pole, maybe it should be called “Totem Pole Square”, just a suggestion…

Visiting the new Seattle Central Library designed by award-winning Dutch architect, Rem Koolhaas.  I relished being inside this inspiring, light-infused glass space.  Judging by the number of people using the library they felt the same way.  Or else Seattle has a whole lot of homeless people…

Experiencing the Space Needle.  It’s so touristy, cliché and completely silly but going to the Space Needle for lunch was... a major highlight!  Despite the clouds, the 360 degree views of the city, bay, boats and planes were stunning and—bonus!—the food matched the views.

Seeing the King Tut Exhibit at the Pacific Science Center.  This huge, fabulous exhibition included some very fine pieces of Ancient Egyptian art.  The exhibit recreated the Boy Pharaoh’s tomb—complete with Antechamber, Annex, Burial Chamber and Treasury Room—just as it was when British archeologist, Howard Carter, discovered it in 1922, more than 3,000 years after it had been sealed.  Many of the items originally found in these four chambers were on view in simulated rooms, which meant moving through the exhibit I felt like Mr. Carter himself.  To borrow a phrase: it was “bloody” impressive.

Doing yoga in the park with a friend.

I also drank coffee, walked in the rain and… drank more coffee.  If these sights won’t keep you up in Seattle, the caffeine definitely will. 

So go, get yourself to Seattle!  And bring an umbrella!

Happy Christmas!

During this festive time of year the decorations of Christmas red and green and Hannukah blue on this Christmas tree reflect the inclusiveness of our society.  I love that Christmas is big enough for everyone!  On this happy day I'm hoping that you get--and give--the gifts of peace, prosperity and happiness!  

To all a Merry, Happy Christmas!

Big Boy Christmas Tree

With all the possible ways to decorate a Christmas tree, I loved this one at Bob's Big Boy Diner! Big Boy makes a delightfully irreverent angel.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas Eve full of egg nog and anticipation!

Hallway BEFORE and AFTER--photos

The hallway BEFORE the redo.  Complete with its puke tan/brown colored paint on the walls and ceiling.

The hallway AFTER the redo.  Mr.Wonderful removed the electrical outlet to streamline the small space.  The red walls remind me of our challenging redo journey, which is detailed here. Plus they really make my black and white pictures POP!

Since completing the redo I love walking through the hallway.  It even gets me excited for the next project:... The Guesthouse!

Redoing the Hallway

Mr. Wonderful looked at the hallway quietly.

“It’s small,” I said standing behind him.

He touched the walls silently. 

“So painting it will go fast,” I said grabbing a paintbrush.

He knelt to examine the baseboard wordlessly.

“Imagine,” I said, “redoing a room in just one afternoon!”

“Shhh, don’t jinx it!”

Unfortunately I spoke too soon.  The hallway in question was tiny, consisting of more open doorways than solid walls so I had sky-high hopes of redoing it quickly.  I was hoping remodeling it would be described as “short and sweet” or “done in a snap”!  Instead it was “Welcome to Hell”.

When we moved in the entire hallway was painted a shade I could only describe as puke tan/brown—the walls—and ceiling—all of it was puke tan/brown.  It was as if a dog caked in mud, puke and excrement had shaken itself dry in the hallway.  It was a depressing space too reminiscent of gross bodily functions and had to go!  We redid it in a few steps:

Step 1: Remove paint.  When we removed the puke colored paint we discovered a layer of wallpaper.  It’s not unusual to paint over wallpaper, it just means more work for the re-doers.  Which lead to…

Step 2: Remove the wallpaper and find plaster.  Discovering the plaster meant we’d reached the end of scraping off paint!  Yippee!

Step 3: Sand down the plaster to smooth it out.  When—lo and behold—under the plaster we discovered a second layer of wallpaper.  Plastering over wallpaper was highly unusual, undeniably lazy and completely wacko.

Sooo Step 4: Collapse on the sofa and cry ourselves to sleep.

Step 5: Wake up, drink coffee and prepare for another full day of work on this X%&#$ space.

Step 6: Drink more coffee.  Then suck down three triple espressos.

Step 7: Scrape off the plaster—and the paper stuck to it—all the while cursing the people who did this.  In our zeal to remove the plaster+paper combination we also scraped off plastered chunks of wall, thereby turning our solid walls into Swiss cheese. 

Step 8: Cry some more. 

Step 9: Realize this project gets worse with each passing hour.

Step 10: Remember the original puke tan/brown walls as being highly attractive.  “What an ironic comment on human society to have puke colored walls.  Why did we ever remove it?!”

Step 11: When arms ache from scraping, tumble into bed with a bottle of Advil.

Step 12: Go to work after a weekend of “relaxing” in The House.

Step 13: Smile all week as your friends tell you how lucky you are to be a homeowner.

Step 14: Embrace the new weekend and plastering.  Big whoop.  We mixed plaster and covered the walls and ceilings in a fresh coat of plaster that looked as creamy as cake icing—without the calories.

Step 15: Sand down this coat of plaster.  Once dry, apply a second coat of thinner plaster to smooth out the entire surface.

Step 16: PAINT.  Twice.  Walls and ceiling.

Step 17:  Hang picture frames. 

Step 18: Weep with joy at competing this redo!

Yes, the smallest room in the house took the largest amount of scraping, elbow grease and struggle.  A process I could best describe as “Small and Fighty”.  With this project we went to hell—and back—and the red walls remind me of our journey.  I look at them with a source of pride.  I’m a survivor!

The redo taught me—the hard way—to avoid talking about the ease with which we could do projects in The House.  Although the bathroom is such a small room, I bet we could redo that by lunchtime!

Shopping for Wine Lovers

Wine Lovers dig getting wine gifts and here are some suggestions for Wine Presents !

Thanks for checking it out at the Central Coast Foodie site and Happy shopping!

The Holidays in Hollywood

Hanukah is wrapping up, Christmas is right around the corner and Hollywood is dressed for the Holidays.  Dressed to the nines, in fact.  Here are some festive images of Hollywood to bring some needed holiday cheer.

 

Happy Holidays.

The French Bakery

“I’d like a loaf of French bread,” I told the bakery clerk.

“We don’t have,” she said in uneven English.

“But your sign says ‘French Bakery’.  What French bakery doesn’t sell French bread?”

She shrugged.  “This one.”

Recently I discovered a French bakery in our neighborhood.  Formidable!  Yet another reason I loved Los Angeles: immigrants from over 150 countries had come to this city of dreams bringing their edible delicacies in tow.  With this local bakery now I could buy a delicious loaf of crusty bread while avoiding French clerks who didn’t care un peu about customer service. 

"Okay,” I said regrouping “how about some light and flaky croissants?”

“We have, but not flaky,” she said tapping the pastry display case at a croissant that was bigger than a bowling ball and twice as heavy.  Listening to her accent I determined she wasn’t French but Armenian.  I punted my plans for a Parisian breakfast.  Better to keep it simple, traditional.

“How about doughnuts?  Do you have those?”

“No,” she said staring at me in silence.  Across the street I heard the church bells chime the hour, then they played Beethoven’s entire Fifth Symphony; once they’d stopped, my ears kept ringing.  But still she didn’t speak or try to sell me anything else.

“You must have doughnuts,” I persisted scanning the display case until I spotted a round pastry coated in powdered sugar.  “Look, that’s a doughnut.” 

“No, it’s bonchi.”

“Bonchi?”

“It's Armenian deep fried, sweet bread filled with cream and covered in sugar,” she said being downright talkative.

“That’s a doughnut!”

“No,” she shook her head “bonchi does not have hole.”

I bought one.  She was right—it didn’t have a hole.  But I was right, too—its taste was pure doughnut.

In L.A. you don’t have to go far to get immigrant attitude or a good doughnut.  But I’m still looking for a crusty loaf of bread.

The Cat's New Spot

"Jackson, I'm home," I said tossing my keys on the table still clutching my plastic wrapped dry cleaning.  There's nothing better than clean clothes free of cat hair; except clean linens free of cat hair.  "Come here kitty cat!"

But the cat didn't come.  

"Jackson?" I said scanning his favorite chair (empty) and food bowl (half-empty).  

I looked under the bed, under the sofa and on top of the refrigerator.  No cat x 3.  

I searched in the washing machine, in the toilets, at the bottom of the pool.  Nothing--thankfully!

I put a handful of kibble in a plastic container and shaking it like a mariachi, danced around the house singing his name, "Jackson, ole!"  Nada.  

Don't panic, I told myself.  Jackson had gone missing before only to be found in the most obvious place.  So.  Don't.  Panic.  

I continued with my routine and swung open the closet to hang up my dry cleaning when I saw black and white fur.  Jackson!  The cat had discovered how to open the closet and had curled up on the clean sheets and blankets.  

"Jackson!  What a relief to find you.  But you've gotten cat hair on all the clean linens."

  

He yawned and rolled over leaving a trail of cat hair in his wake.  He looked so comfortable.

Revision: There's nothing better than clean clothes free of cat hair.  Except... a found cat.

Have a Crepe Day!

Last night I went to bed and it was raining.  This morning I woke up and… it’s still raining!  Which makes five straight, exceedingly long days of rain.  To counteract this feeling a wet gloom, I grabbed eggs, butter, flour and milk and made crepes.  Nothing keeps depressing rain or the zombie apocalypse at bay than hot crepes.  Especially if they’re well dressed.

How to Dress a Crepe:

Step 1 Make crepes.

Step 2 Slather a hot one in jam—like strawberry, apricot, or fig. 

Step 3 Roll up the crepe.

Step 4 Eat the sucker while it’s still hot.

Step 5 Laugh at the zombies in the rain!  

Ha-ha!