\”God. I remember you gave me Paper Life by Tatum O\’Neil
and I read that before and during my flight. I said to the lady
next to me while the captain said we\’re approaching LAX.
\”Wow, LA is sure cloudy today\”.
The Lady looked back at me \”Honey that\’s not cloudy, that\’s smog\”.
My Best Friend B texting me back after I wrote to her about my
thoughts on Los Angeles late last night
I know for sure I was the oldest one at Taco Tuesday last night. For sure, the oldest one. And the only one with grey hair. It didn\’t improve my mood to hear the waiter call me \”Girlfriend\”.
At least a half a dozen times.
Thanks \”Girlfriend\”, I will get your order right up.
Here\’s your water \”Girlfriend\”!
Don\’t worry, I gotcha, \”Girlfriend.\”
I am not, I hope I am not a grumpy old lady. Although at fifty-five, I looked in the mirror this morning and I swear I am looking more like my grandmother everyday than my mother. And I love the phrase \”girlfriend\”. I use it too. I just didn\’t feel like a \”girlfriend\” last night. I tried. I tried to have a good time.
My nephew ordered me sweet potato tacos that were probably some of the best tacos I\’ve had. It\’s just that I was missing Scott and holding back the tears during dinner. I didn\’t want to cry around all the \”girlfriends\” half dressed up for the night, baring skin in overcast grey (smog?) cool weather.
Sweet Potato Taco
That\’s the thing about grief. You think it\’s lifted. You think Grief went on vacation until it gobsmacks you in the middle of West Hollywood on Taco Tuesday among the Kardashian look a likes and some hoping to catch a glimpse of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Or is it Ashton Kutcher these days?
I made it through dinner holding back the tears trying to lose myself in the pink glow of lights and chips with salsa.
Another thing, it kills me I\’m losing spending time with my nephew when my thoughts are on missing Scott. He wouldn\’t, doesn\’t want that. I know he wants me to live a good life.
After dinner, my nephew drove me through West Hollywood to Beverly Hills. I caught a glimpse of The Beverly Hills Hotel when we drove by and I saw the mansions, a third of them dark (second homes?) and the rest with gates, fancy cars and lights. I tried to feel the energy, feel the neighborhood beyond the opulent wealth.
I felt nothing, almost nothing except for the faint ghost of isolation and loneliness.
Driving through the boutiques in Beverly Hills, I noticed right away the absence of garbage, not one cigarette butt in the gutter, not even a flick of ashes. The garbage cans were neatly lined with nothing in them. No bags skipping across the pavement like plastic tumbleweeds. No tents, no encampments. No homeless, not one person losing his mind in public on a drug trip. The sidewalks were washed. The windows so clean, not even a thumbprint could survive.
I was missing the graffiti before we reached the end to the other side.