Praise for Pumpkin Season

This past Thursday I woke up feeling normal and then around mid-afternoon it hit me. It was October first. Which might be insignificant to most people but I happen to have an intense dislike for this particular month for one really big reason. The 28th of October will mark the nine year anniversary of the death of my younger and only sister. It should be old hat by this time, but every year, as the date approaches, it gets a little harder to breathe, the smiles don't come as easy and tears flow a little faster. October is also the harbinger of the holiday season, two months filled with occasions that are still joyous but will never again exist in my life without the salty-sour tang of bittersweet. And finally, in mid-January, a season that begins in October with a memorial of her exit from this world, ends with another memorial of the day she first arrived.

A very good friend has often said, in regards to the loss of her own sister, "A world does not exist where my sister did not die." It's a poignant statement, and a potent reminder to me that the life I am living is the only option I get. I'm certain that what I've gone through presents a strong argument for my right to wallow in sorrow and self-pity. To blame everything that is bad in my world on this one defining moment. To let it make me bitter and angry. But that's not really my style. Not to mention the fact that my sister would kick my ass if she caught me doing any of that. So to that end, it's high time I took a moment to remind myself of some of the things there are to like about October.

A Change in the Air
Yes, even in Los Angeles, we have at least a semblance of seasons. And because we have an Indian Summer, with temperatures still peaking in the triple digits late in September, it's usually not till October that we get our first glimpse of fall. Today was just such a day. When I opened the back door to let my dog out this morning, there was a crisp coolness I hadn't felt in quite a while. It lingered despite the sunny day and I found myself reaching for a long sleeved shirt and pulling out my favorite pair of bunny slippers for the first time since spring. When summer comes around, I'm usually ready for warm nights and a chance to pull out my sundresses. But once the soaring temperatures that take up residence in the San Fernando Valley have outstayed their welcome by hanging around in late September, I always find myself yearning for a chance to break out my overzealous collection of cashmere sweaters. I'm probably going on twenty-plus, and yes, I know I have a problem. Sure, we'll probably have a few more warms days ahead, later this week, in fact. But I doubt it'll break ninety, and soon enough, the cooler weather will win out, and my only challenge will be which color to wear.

Tasty Treats
Some of my favorite things to cook require a proximity to the holiday season and the aforementioned declining temperatures. Pies and soups and foods with the rich flavors of sage and cinnamon don't go well with a scorching hot day. October means the start of my favorite cooking time of year. A chance to break out my butternut squash soup recipe, a time to roast, well, anything, and a perfect month for a hot apple pie, fresh from the oven. Plus, October means that Thanksgiving is just around the corner and that my annual Christmas party, which is partially an excuse for me to cook for three days, will come quickly on it's heels. Cooking has always been therapeutic for me. The process both distracting and soothing, and the end result rewarding.

Halloween
It has always been one of my favorite holidays. A chance to dress up and play make believe for a night is a thrill that to be perfectly honest, has not waned all that much since I was a little girl. And in the years following my sister's death, the holiday has provided a welcome distraction. Each year, the challenge of coming up with and creating a new costume has been a creative outlet for my pain. And the Halloween festivities have been a welcome celebration on the heels of a tumultuous day. A chance to let loose, let my hair down, or put it up, and for a few hours, be anyone else but me.

I'm not saying I don't have bad days, because I do. And I think I'm probably entitled to a good cry or a day in my p.j.'s every now and then. But I don't want to throw myself a pity party everyday for what has happened to me. I don't want to let it run or ruin my life. And sometimes, the joy is in finding the little things that make you smile along with the tears. Like a new cashmere sweater on a crisp fall day. Or a slice of warm apple pie, topped with a great big gob of melting ice cream. Or a day when it's okay for even an adult to wear a pair of wings. Reminders that even in this world, the one where my sister did die, there are some pretty okay things.

Taking Flight

So admittedly, it's been a while. Life somehow seemed to get in the way of a regular post to this blog. Which theoretically means I've been out living my life instead of writing about it, and is a good thing. So let's just go with that. It relates to my topic anyway. My current environment, which I'll get to in a moment, got me thinking about the idea of facing fears. Which may mean owning up to exactly what you are afraid of in the first place, i.e. difficult challenge number one. And then it comes down to determining whether or not that fear is actually holding you back in life. If so, it may well be time to face it, head on.

At the present moment, I'm in London, crashing at the home of generous friend, who happens to be off running around somewhere else in the world. Meaning I'm on my own. This isn't my first trip to London, so I'm starting to feel pretty comfy about the place, but there was a time when it was my first trip, and I didn't yet know the above generous friend. Didn't know anyone in the city, as a matter of fact. About four or five years ago, I took my first solo trip overseas. Flying over on the plane, I was terrified. I've had the great fortune to have a wonderful set of traveling companions in my parents. There have also been a few friends over the years with whom I've had great out of town adventures. It's easy to set off for parts unknown when you've got a partner in crime.

But I was writing a book and the story was set in London, so I needed to do some firsthand research about a city I'd only previously dropped in on for a day or two here or there in my family's travels. And I needed to do it alone. After the death of my sister, there was both a fear of being alone and a strong desire in me to fully understand the limits of my own independence. To know if I could really take care of myself when it came down to it. Which meant facing the fear of being able to travel on my own. So off I went and settled in to my tiny hotel room in a nice part of town. Armed with a map and an unlimited pass to the London Underground, I set out each day with a litany of places to visit, sights to see. And I had a brilliant time.

Sure it was scary at first, and I was careful about my outings at night, but I made friends and found my way around. I enjoyed it so much, I've been back several times and now the city is familiar and friendly. And of course, I still love to travel with others and have had some great trips this past year with my favorite partner in crime, screaming children on flights to Portland aside. And yes, even London is better when you have friends, family, loved ones to share it with. But it's also better knowing that I'm sharing the experience because I want to and not because I'm too afraid to go it alone.

There's a bit of a rush involved with facing that which scares the living daylights out of you. I'll warn you, it can be addicting. And might drive you to some interesting new hobbies. Case in point - I have a fear, not so much of heights, but really more of falling. I descend staircases with a death grip on the handrail, though I am neither old or infirm. I am simply terrified I will lose my footing and tumble to my demise. I cannot stand on a fire escape. I don't like high balconies with low railings. You get the point. After my trip to London, I might have been turning into a fear facing junkie, but I still had my limits. I was not, nor am I ever, planning to jump out of a perfectly good airplane to face that particular issue. And let me just say that I think that is completely okay. Facing your fears is not about how extreme you can be, it's about what you get out of the experience, and how that applies to the bigger picture.

So I took up aerial silks. Yes, the kind you see in Cirque du Soleil, though let me please note that I am not, nor will I ever be as graceful as those talented artists. You will also probably never catch me in a shiny unitard. I approached my first climb up the impossibly flimsy looking fabric with sweaty palms and a racing heart. I'm not kidding. My incredibly kind teacher took his time showing me the proper way to climb and was patient when my first attempt took me only halfway up the fabric, not from lack of strength but purely from a desire to not go so far away from the floor.

Over the eight or nine months I've been in the classes, I've climbed my way to the top a zillion times and learned to hang upside down by my ankles and twist the fabric around me so that I can drop through it and still safely end up hanging above the ground. I don't so much fly through the air as I do dangle, albeit as elegantly as I possibly can. I definitely do not have a future as a circus performer, but I've learned to trust that my own strength and skill will keep me from falling. I'll be honest and say that I'm pretty sure I haven't conquered that fear and I'm still not about to strap on a parachute and find out. But I have learned that I can work with it and that it doesn't have to impede me from doing the things I really want to do. Which is a pretty good metaphor for other parts of my life.

Which brings me to the point of writing this blog. I'm literally facing a fear as my fingers fly across the keys of my laptop, and I'll have a minor moment of panic when I push the publish button. Wondering if anyone will read what I wrote and if they'll like it or hate it. I'm a writer with a fear, not of writing, but of having it read. Oh, not my school essays, or business writing - I've always been confident about my ability to tackle a specific topic and wax poetic on it. I'm less confident about my fiction standing up to public scrutiny, and the personal musings of my possibly addled brain? Those are the ones that really make me nervous. But I'm a writer with lofty hopes of becoming an author one day. Which means I can't be afraid to let people read what I write. That's not true. I can be afraid. I just can't let it stop me.

And I think that's the point, really. It's okay to have fears. In fact, it's pretty darn normal. And some of them are good to keep in your back pocket - they keep you alert, they keep you honest and sometimes they keep you safe. But if it's a fear that's ultimately holding you up in life in some way, whether you're afraid to love, or to begin or walk away from a career, or to try new types of food, or whatever it is for you, be it monumental or seemingly insignificant, I say dive in. Face it, embrace it. You might not get over it, but you just might get through it and you'll probably learn something about yourself when you get to the other side. Maybe it'll even be something good enough to make you go back for seconds.

Baring Body and Seoul

Up until yesterday, a trip to the spa, to me, was about big fluffy robes, soft music, dim lights, artfully draped sheets and a nasty dent in my credit card on the way out. But after spending the better part of the late morning and early afternoon at The Olympic Day spa in Koreatown, I learned that I'm more than okay with another type of spa experience altogether. One that requires a little bravery, a dose of open-mindedness and a definite sense of adventure.

Following my visit, I tried to a little research into the history of the Korean bath house experience. Though my Googling revealed that there are Korean day spas in almost every major city in the US, an obvious testament to their popularity, there was little in the way of historical information. What I did discover was that bath houses were first built in Korea around 1925 to cater to Japanese colonists, though they quickly became part of the Korean culture. Families would go to the public bath houses, which were segregated by sex, and scrub the life out of each other around tubs of scalding hot water.

As running water became a more common amenity within the home, bath houses transitioned into luxury destinations, where you could pay someone to the the scrubbing and washing for you. Recreational and communal areas were also added as well as specialty baths and steam rooms for soaking and purifying. The elements of the Korean bath house seem to be fairly uniform from what I could tell, after my cursory research attempt. From the types of soaks and saunas available, and to the overzealous scrubbing techniques, right down to the black bra and panties worn by the little Asian women who are armed with two brillo-like pads, ready to buff you till you shine like a newborn baby. I did say a sense of adventure, remember?

To be fair, I did know what I was getting into. Before I made the suggestion to a few girlfriends that we hit the spa for the day in honor of the birthdays of two of them, I read the reviews on Yelp and checked out the spa's website in detail. I was a little nervous about the descriptions of the scrubbing techniques, but I was prepared for the nudity and even for the ladies in their undies. And I was certainly ready for the Goddess treatment package, which promised an hour and forty five minutes of bliss at a third of the price it would have at Burke Williams.

The lobby of the spa was small, but nicely decorated and filled with high quality products for sale. The women at the desk checked us in, processed our credit cards and handed us robes and towels. The locker room was simple but clean and we undressed, robed up and headed into the actual spa. The Olympic Spa is for women only and once you go through the doors into the wet area, towels and robes become unnecessary, if not impractical altogether. It is customary to shower first so we all rinsed off and hit the pools. This was not all that different from a trip to good old BW as nudity in the saunas and hot tub is also common practice there. The difference here, is that very few women felt the need to robe back up in between pools.

There was a hot tub, a cold water plunge and a tub filled with something called Mugwort tea. It's supposed to have healing and detoxifying properties but all I noticed was that it was really really hot and I couldn't see my feet through it's murky depths. There was also a wet jade stone sauna and a dry sauna. I tried everything but the dry sauna, which has never been my thing, and then wrapped back up in my robe for a nap on the traditional heated stone floor in the dressing area.

I was back in the wet area in time for one more quick dip in the Mugwort tea before a little lady in a black bra and panties called out the number on my wrist band and led me to the treatment area, which consisted of a row of tables covered in vinyl that was inexplicably printed in Burberry plaid. As I lay face down in all my naked glory, I honestly found that I did not care that there were another women doing the same near me, or that I could hear the sound of the water splashing in the pools and the low hum of chatter. As my treatment began, it was both a bizarre and beautiful experience.

My acuma, Noh (acuma means Aunt in Korean) started off by scrubbing the life out of me, not once, but three times over. I'm fairly certain I'll be free of dead skin for a good long time after her attentiveness to practically every, yes every, part of my body. It honestly wasn't that painful, though the stomach was a little sensitive. She thoughtfully avoided my nipples, and each round was finished with buckets of warm water splashed gently across my body, which I found to be a new and lovely sensation. Next she poured so much oil over me that I felt like a baby seal in the Exxon-Valdez spill, and proceeded to knead every last knot out of my body. Between the relaxation and the overzealous oil application, it was a wonder I didn't slide right off the table. Then there was a scalp treatment with more oils and something cool and tingly, a facial with massage and a mask and a thorough hair shampoo and condition, done right there while I was still lying down. She toweled off all the excess oil and finished with one last massage, leaving me covered in a light lotion and something herbal and menthol across my back and shoulders. Ah, bliss. I drifted back into the locker room to change and face the real world.

Okay, yes, it was odd to be that naked during my treatment. It was odd to have my acuma smack me lightly on the butt every time she wanted me to turn over. It was definitely strange to have spa treatments performed by a lady wearing only black Jockey underwear. It all took a little getting used to. But I had such a sense of ritual during the experience, like I was part of a tradition and a community. It also seems like, in Western culture, we've become overly aware of our bodies and nudity. That to be naked is always either ostentatious or sexual in some way. Presumably, as women, we see a naked body at least once a day, maybe less if you have something against showering. So what's really all that strange about a room full of them? For me, nothing.

Don't get me wrong, I still like a trip to a spa that involves big, fluffy robes and water with cucumbers and orange slices. But seriously, if you're watching your nickels, have some dead skin that needs tending to, or just want to try something new, head to the nearest Korean day spa and leave your inhibitions at the door. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm glad I did.

Storytelling Volume 1

This week I seem to have been hit in the head by a big, ugly writer's block. It happens, even to the most prolific of writers, or so I'm told. In my defense, I have churned out two short fiction pieces for writing contests in the last few weeks as well as a soon to be published blog on a site I've recently become a contributing writer for, The Wing Girl Method. In light of this week's lack of inspiration for my own blog, I thought I'd at least share a little of my fiction writing with you. I wrote this piece a few years ago - it's more character driven than plot heavy, my little homage to a very creative mind I know, and interestingly enough, about writer's block. I'm sure I'll be back in full form next week, but in the meantime, enjoy!

New York Boy

The bluish white glow from the small screen of the laptop computer dimly lit the face of the young man as he sat hunched over the keyboard. The hazy glow barely permeated the pitch black of the basement apartment he shared with an army of water bugs and at least one mouse, who seemed to be a part-time resident. Where the mouse went on vacation, the young man was never quite sure. Maybe a time share in the Florida Keys. Maybe he went there with the water bugs, who also took a winter hiatus from sharing the tiny kingdom that the young man called home.

But now it was summer, so his studio apartment was fully inhabited by all its tenants. And it was late, far past the witching hour and yet still time to go before the sun would begin its morning route across the sky. But the young man rarely slept, so it was fitting that he live in the city that never sleeps. A city of skyscrapers and taxicabs and Broadway shows.

His long fingers tapped the keys, the noise a comfortable reminder that the words were coming, flowing out of his mind and into the computer. A thin line of sweat trickled down his back, a reminder of the sticky humidity that was the mark of a New York summer. He paid no attention, dressed only in a pair of boxers and white socks to combat the heat, he had long learned to ignore the sweaty discomfort, knowing that his reward at the end of writing would be a long, refreshing shower before he settled into bed.

He was the picture of a young artist if there ever was one. Lean and angular, good looking in that way that catches you off guard as if you weren’t expecting it, but suddenly finding that you can’t ignore it. And yet, in that moment, still quirky, with hair standing on end, impervious to gravity without the aid of styling products, and eyes slightly bloodshot from the late hour and the long evening at his thankless job.

A job that had simply come after thousands of other jobs and before the next job. It didn’t really matter what he did, it was simply a way to get to that place, the place where he knew he would be one day. He saw it in his head and knew it in his heart, and so he stayed up late and forced the words to come, sometimes screaming at the roadblocks, determined to tell his tale.

The tapping slowed and became intermittent. And then it stopped. It was going to be one of those nights, the young man could feel it. The wellspring was drying up, the words ceasing to exist in his brain. It was as if the canvas was suddenly erased and he had to start all over again, only he had forgotten how to paint. A frustrated sound somewhere between a sigh and a swear word, escaped his lips. He got up to pace and found himself hindered again by a maze of cups. Big, bright, 99 cent stores specials, all bought with the express purpose of trapping and suffocating the dreaded water bugs, who simply did not pay enough rent to share the apartment.

The frustration welled up in him as he danced around the cups in an effort to release the tension. An onlooker might have been frightened to witness this mad sort of jig performed by a crazy-haired artist in his underwear who was still swearing, only much louder now. His blond curls bouncing, the frantic young man finally reached for the phone to call the other coast, where surely someone who cared would still be awake.

“Just tell me how it ends!”

“How about like this?”

“That won’t work, I tried it already.”

And that was how it would go. This was the pattern, the cycle of creation and frustration that held the young man trapped in a small but mighty battle to rip the stories from his mind and put them to paper. So that someday, he could switch on the television, or enter a quickly darkening movie theater and see his own face staring back at him, bringing life to the words he had penned. Evoking them in such a way, that the viewer was instantly caught up in the struggle. The struggle of the character, and perhaps a hint of the struggle of the young man.

And they would see at that moment, what he feels certain might just be a stroke of brilliance. A young man who perhaps has struggled, torn between his frustration and his tenacity, portraying a young man in the midst of his own struggle, wracked by despair, living out a story written by the young man who knows he will yet struggle, faced with uncertainty but armed with determination.

For he knows, even down in the dark basement, where the glow of the computer screen is his only light, and his roommates are rodents and water bugs, that someday he will come through. That he will be back on that sunny coast, where the heat still permeates the summer months, but it is dry. And there is air conditioning. He will be the one in the chair, talking about struggle and fear and the joy of seeing your dreams come to fruition. He will succeed. He must. He is an artist. There is no other way.

Extreme-ly Worth the Price of Admission

The eclectic crowd. The light show. The wannabe opening band. The earplugs I was eternally grateful for by the end of the evening. Friday night at the Wiltern in Hollywood. Ratt in concert. Yes, you read that right. As you've probably guessed, I wasn't exactly the one who made the plans, though I wholeheartedly agreed to them, if for no other reason than to have the experience. But you know what? Despite the nearly five hours of standing and the disturbing sight of an aging rocker in tight, laced-up pants, and thanks to the performance by Extreme and my boyfriend's body shield between me and the unwashed, un-haircut masses, I honestly had a great time.

We made our way there amidst the Friday night traffic, and after a brake-addled journey and a trip around the block, we left the car in a nearby garage and headed in. A new spot for me, The Wiltern is an old movie theater that has been converted into a live music venue. Standing room only on the floor and seats in the balcony. Only the best for us, though. We were in the pit, and despite traffic delays, we got there early enough to grab some drinks and still garner spots in the front row, up against the railing, just a couple of arm's lengths away from the action on stage.

The margarita was strong. The warm-up band was not. While the guitar player was decent, though I'm still not sure about his decision to relax his natural afro and grow it long in the interest of having something to thrash about, in keeping with the hair band genre, the lead singer of Swirl was to me, the consummate poser. Again with the long hair, which he repeatedly flung in an overzealous arc, not to mention the black, black and more black and the sub-par voice sending out vocals I was fairly certain weren't worth the effort it would take for me to decipher them. And really, Swirl? Like a chocolate and vanilla frozen yogurt? That name doesn't make me feel like a badass, it just makes me hungry.

As the crew changed over the stage, the crowd began to fill in. The bands people had really come to see were up next. In the intervening weeks between the purchase of our tickets and the concert date, my boyfriend had played the music for Extreme and Ratt, several times, so as to familiarize me with two bands that to be brutally honest, I really knew fuck-all about, save for their biggest radio hits. He even made me a CD to aid in my rock education, and after several passes, I had already determined that I preferred Extreme to Ratt. A second cocktail and a run to the ladies, and I was back in my front row spot and ready for Extreme to hit the stage so I could rock it out.

They didn't disappoint. This probably only mattered to the women in the crowd, but they're actually a reasonably attractive band, on the whole, especially for the metal set. And the lead singer is borderline sexy, in a skinny, bleached-blond spiky hair kind of way. He's like the Sting of hair bands, with sinewy arms and tight black clothes and deep yoga-like postures peppering the physical aspect of his performance. Then there was the guitar player, Bettencourt. Look I know as much about guitar as I know about the bands I was watching (i.e. practically nothing) and even I knew that was serious business. Their big hit ballad, "More Than Words," was predictably a crowd pleaser, but even when I didn't know the songs, their musicality and stage presence made them a band worth watching. And rocking out to. I'd go see them again, in a heartbeat.

I was a little sad when they left the stage. After about a half an hour in the presence of the headlining band, I really wanted them to come back and play another set. To be a little fair, just a little, by the time Ratt took the stage, I had already been standing in one place for about three hours, save for a couple runs to the bar and the bathroom. Plus the buzz of the cocktails had worn off and my boyfriend was now having to use his body to shield me from the crush of metalheads trying to get closer to the action. When they hit the stage, the sight of the lead singer's old man belly over his too-tight, over-studded pants and not nearly far enough under his too-short t-shirt that read "I love Nymphos" almost had me heading to the back of the theater for a slightly less advantageous viewpoint. Look, I give these guys props for still rockin' after twenty-five years, I just wish they would do it in a little more clothing. On a side note, I originally thought his shirt read "I love Memphis." Until he took off his vest.

And it didn't get better. The music was loud and just a little too heavy in the metal for my taste. The sound was crummy and you could only understand the lyrics when you took out your earplugs. Bad idea all around. Towards the end, we were both tired. Tired of standing, tired of avoiding the flying hair of die-hard head-banging fans, tired of getting knocked about by the mini-mosh pit next to us. But we stuck it out to hear the bands finale, and their biggest hit, "Round and Round," before we made our way out of the pit, now littered with empty cups and discarded wristbands. The night air was refreshing, the sound of quiet in the car welcoming and the waffles and french fries at Mel's replenishing. And the joy of taking off our shoes and getting into bed? Priceless.

The thing is, despite the ache in my lower back and my obvious lack of affection for metal bands named after rodents, it was truly a great night. Because thanks to my boyfriend's penchant for 80's metal, I discovered some great music. Because thanks to said 80's metal genre, I got my first chance to break in my new cowboy boots (and yes, if you read my blog from last week, I did only keep one pair) and wear my fabulously awesome cut-up and restitched rocker girl concert t-shirt (it said Ratt because we couldn't find an Extreme one, but it was still awesome)*. And because at the end of the day, it really was about the experience of it all - the proximity of being in the front row, the music, both good and bad, the crazies in the crowd and the feel of the strong pair of arms that kept me safe from their flailing bodies, all the way to the last reverberating note. See if you can get all that at the movies.

*If you want to make an awesome t-shirt like mine (and you know you do) go here and watch the video. The chick in the video is a little annoying, but it's pretty easy, even after a couple of glasses of wine (I'm just saying) and it really comes out looking great! Two tiny little tips though - don't cut it as short or as narrow as she does (which means you can lace it tight and your sides won't show through) - still super cute, just less trashy.

Goin' Country

This afternoon I ordered four pairs of cowboy boots on Zappos.com. Yes, four. However, I am only allowed to fall in love with one pair. Something I will probably have to remind myself of more than a few times. The rest are going back. I repeat, the rest are going back. Only the cutest, best fitting pair gets to stay. I promise. Oh, and contrary to what you might believe after reading that, I'm not about to blog about shoes. Again. After I ordered the boots, I got to thinking about the fact that I grew up in Texas. And even though I've spent almost half my life with a permanent address in Southern California, there's just something about the Southwest, or the Old West, or the Wild West. Whatever you want to call it, since Texas really falls into a category all its own. Something that sticks with you, no matter where you are or how long you've been away.

Sure, it was the boots that got me on the topic today, but it was the reason spurring the purchase of said footwear that has really been the biggest reminder of my long but still firmly knotted ties to my native state. Country dancing is a combination of mostly line dancing and two-stepping, with a few other specific partner dances thrown in. I hadn't done much of it in a long time, and certainly not in a fifty-mile radius of Los Angeles. Until I had the good fortune to come across a guy, who among his many other talents and noteworthy attributes that make me feel quite lucky to be in his company, loves to go country dancing and happens to be damn good at it.

After our latest visit to In Cahoots in Fullerton, I came to the conclusion that a replacement for my last pair of cowboy boots, discarded sometime before the new millennium, was long overdue. I'll admit that I'm a little too much of a girly girl to wear my chucks to the dance club, and anything with a heel over two inches is an impairment in a style where there are lots of stomps, kicks and shuffles. So now I'm eagerly awaiting their arrival and am ready to test them out. Seriously folks, how can you not love the two-step? It's a dance you can do forwards and backwards, facing your partner or side-by-side. You can do it fast or slow, twirl till you're dizzy and attempt moves like the butt spin or a back flip. Though a note of caution on the last one - don't try it when you're legs are tired, you might not find your footing when you come down. Which will result in you failing to extract the upper half of your body from around your partner's arm, leaving you looking like a demented pretzel. I'm just saying.

Somehow in the process of reuniting myself with my old friends, the Two-Step and the Tush Push, I've also discovered a new appreciation and enjoyment of country tunes. It might have also been helped by my boyfriend's variety of musical tastes and DJ-sized knowledge of music. I don't love all country music and I don't love it all the time, but there are some catchy beats and country's definitely got some of the funniest, most entertaining lyrics in the business. I dare you not to tap your boot and hum along.

And can I just wax poetic for a moment about a love that's held fast and true, despite many years in the land of sushi and vegetarianism. Let's talk about steak and Tex-Mex. I am a card-carrying red meat eater. Yes, the rarer the better and if it's still mooing a little when it comes to my plate, that's okay with me. Thanks to places like Maestro's in Beverly Hills, you can get a good cut in California. What you can't find is real Tex-Mex. Oddly, no Mexican restaurant in LA seems to know what queso is. You ask for it here, and you get a plate of melted cheese. Yes, I know. Weird. There's good Mexican food here, which is why I don't run screaming from the place. But for the great stuff, it's a three hour jaunt on American Airlines and a car ride to Cantina Laredo.

Thanks to mail order shoe companies, die hards who are determined to keep country dancing alive, if not in Los Angeles proper, then at least pretty close to it, iTunes and a steakhouse in Beverly Hills, I've found that even though I've been in So Cal a long, long time, I've still got a handle on where I came from and can enjoy some of Texas' finest gifts. Because there's nothing quite like hot bowl of chile con queso with a an icy cold margarita, a pair of boots that fit just right, a song that makes you giggle and tap your toes, or cute boy who knows how to "push his tush." The saying is true, as it turns out. You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the girl.

London Calling

I have a favorite city. It is not the one I live in, nor is it the one I grew up in. It's not even close by, which means I don't get to spend time there nearly often enough. I'm not sure if I will ever live there, or even if I would absolutely want to if I could. But when I'm there, usually for one week out of the year, two if I'm lucky, it's feels like I'm both on a fabulous vacation and right at home.

I know some people think I'm crazy for being crazy about London. It's busy, it's crowded, it costs a fortune to take a taxi anywhere, it costs a fortune to do just about anything and you need a compass to find your way through the seemingly plan-free street plan. All of those things may be true, but it's still my favorite city and I personally think the absurd pattern of streets just adds to the charm. But if you're still in doubt, let me elaborate on some of what makes London my favorite home away from home.

Ever So Helpful
If you've been to England, then you know that they drive on the opposite side of the road. Meaning the traffic is coming from the opposite direction that we as Americans are used to looking. Thankfully, most intersections have "look left" and "look right" helpfully painted on the ground at the start of the crosswalk so you can be certain you won't be surprised by the oncoming traffic. And then there's the Underground, which is in my opinion both the easiest subway to understand and navigate and the cleanest. At some stations, there is a recording reminding you ever so kindly to "please mind the gap" between the train and the platform. And if the general politeness and helpfulness of the city planning wasn't enough, just ask someone for directions. I've never had someone ignore me or refuse to help me, unless of course they were travelers too and didn't speak the language or know where they were any more than me. I was once lost near Borough Market, trying to find my way to the Millennium Bridge and a very nice cell phone sales guy with a head full of flaming orange hair gave me directions not once, but twice, laughing a little when I showed up for a second loop but more than willing to point out the path again.

Hyde and Seek
Without a doubt my favorite city park in the entire world, Hyde Park has a little bit of everything. It is a way to get from West Kensington to Oxford Street when you want a little break from the bustle of the city. It is a place to sit by a pond or stroll through the trees. And my favorite, it is a place to rent a lounge chair for a pound or two, grab an ice cream cone from the vendor if it's a rare warm day, and sit and pound the keys of my laptop while the world wanders by. I've seen family picnics on the grass, orations and rallies at Speaker's Corner, young lovers enjoying a sunny day, kids playing games, even a wedding party. When I'm there on my own, it's a place I yearn to share with those I love.

Tomato-Tomahto
If you can read English, a walk through London shops is entertainment in its own right. Yes, technically we speak the same language. But even though we use the same words, they often mean different things. A Big and Tall store in London is called High and Mighty. A shrimp and rocket sandwich won't shoot you to the moon, but it will have a healthy dose of arugula along with the shellfish. Trousers are pants and pants are in fact, underwear. A macintosh may well be a computer, but it's also a raincoat. A trip through the market or to a restaurant is sometimes a puzzle-solving exercise. I happen to love puzzles. Bubble and Squeak anyone?

These Boots Were Made for Walking
Okay yes, it costs a small fortune to take a taxi anywhere in London. But the beauty of London is that most of the time, you don't need to take a taxi. I've already said that the Underground is easy to navigate and pretty darn clean, but a lot of times, you don't need that either, if you've got a perfectly good pair of feet and some decent walking shoes. I've easily spent a day in the city without taking any wheel-based transportation at all. It's not a big place and if you've got a little stamina and a healthy does of curiosity, walking is the way to go. You get to see the things you would miss otherwise. Plus you get to burn off the fish and chips you ate at lunch and not feel guilty about the sticky toffee pudding you're planning to have at dinner. Speaking of toffee...

Oh, My Sweet
There's a lot of negative press surrounding English food. I happen to love it, particularly when it comes to dessert. The English call all desserts puddings, something that took me a trip or two to figure out. Incidentally, they call all Indian food, Curry, which was a problem for me since I happen to love Indian food, but detest yellow curry. But back to my sweet tooth. There are a couple of traditional English desserts that to me are without equal in the States. Sticky toffee pudding is one. It's kind of a cake with a toffee syrup on top of it. Incomprehensibly, there are actually dates in the recipe, though you can't taste them at all. It's all brown sugary, buttery, gooey goodness and I'm getting hungry just thinking about it. A close runner-up is Banoffee pie. Now, how we never managed to figure out that if you put bananas and toffee together in a pie it would be nothing short of divine, is beyond me. To all you naysayers about English food, have some fish and chips followed by a slice of banoffee pie, and I think you'll find you stand corrected.

Not to quote from a Julie Andrews movie, but these are just a few of my favorite things. I really could go on about what I love about the place - the historical sights, the quirky pubs, mushy peas, how the yogurt is weirdly better over there, crumpets, Borough Market, Spitalfields, my crazy friend Barbara, the bathtub at my friend Andrew's house and yes, even the rain. It's far from a perfect place, and it's not the only city I want to see, but for an adventure, a break or special trip to share, its the perfect city for me.