Guess who's moving?

I smelled it today: autumn's a knockin'.

I closed the window of my room and crawled into bed under my cool blanket and realized that the smell of fall was already here. Love that smell. Could bathe myself in that smell. Bottle it up and sell it, Calvin, and you'll be reigning back on the lofty shelves of premier powerhouse fragrancehood.

Friendly face: Hi, how are you? What's new?
Me: I'm moving.
Friendly face: Congratulations!
Me: Thanks! Can't wait.

Excited to move? No. Excited to get out of the misery that's been my apartment? Si, claro. So I've finally secured an apartment and the roommate situation. Only time will truly tell of the harmony - things can only go so well in theoretical contexts.

But now the stress of moving this weekend is beginning to materialize.

I'm hungry. Man~ Should've ordered that third taco at lunch.

Don't-of-the-Week (DOTW)

Men in white shorts. (Honestly, I'd rather put men wearing shorts, because, shorts are not flattering in any way for the gents, and they should really only be seen on the beach or at the gym. Yup. NO exceptions.) Women in white shorts - well, it's non-discriminatory; no one should wear white shorts.

Clashing sock and shoe combos. Sneakers? White socks. Black shoes? Black socks. I cringe when I see the contrast of the foot-to-ankle attire.

It's August 27th, Everybody!

Come On, Everybody!

It's August 27th. End of August. Labor Day's around the bend. Quickly followed by Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a brand spankin' New Year. So, basically, 2009.

Birthdays and the turning over of the calendar just serve as a reminder of the various things in life I have yet to accomplish. In short, a look at the past, present, and the future. The feelings of self-doubt and utter failures briefly skim across the surface of the water sitting in your pond of realized potential.

I feel a bit stagnant.

This post does not feel complete, either.

Water!

I couldn't fall asleep last night.

The vivid image of my friend's eyelids fluttering closed while her eyes rolled back to the side of her head just before she collapsed in front of me kept flashing into my head.

A wave of panic and you go from a moment of leisure in a club to being gripped by fear.

No OD here. No alcohol, no roofie, no substance abuse whatsoever. Just plain lack of food and water. She was dehydrated and had only eaten a single meal that day, apparently.
But food. And water. The most primitive, essential human needs for survival.

Maybe the most disturbing thing about all this was the nonchalance with which she was already over it. Over the fact that she was unconscious for ten incredibly tortuous seconds, lying on the floor of The Mayan, her friend yelling her name, enveloped in complete surreality of what was happening. The feeling that a dear friend may not be taking care of herself is in the back of your brain, the warning signs, every subtle hint of a red-flagged piece of behavioral evidence suddenly rushes up to the surface of your brain all at once.

I can't stomach this kind of drama. It wasn't even that dramatic - makes sense on paper - 'she was dehydrated, so she fainted.'

But I can't sleep.

Drink tons of water, people. Forget Hollywood. Remember to eat. Multiple times a day.

Estoy enamorada...con una ciudad

Jueves.

Ooh, baby. The chemistry is undeniable - some old flames never die. What's keeping me going this morning and wouldn't be surprised if it kept me running through the end of Thursday's daily grind - is the anticipation of Woody Allen's new flick, Vicky Cristina Barcelona. What's the attraction, you say? Woody Allen's neurotic character-driven dialogue? No. Javier Bardem? No. ScarJo or Penelope Cruz fan? Not quite. La ciudad de Barcelona, hombre.

And, if the film highlights those highly trafficked areas of barça as the reviews have been claiming, I'll be riding a wave of nostalgia. Time can pass by, but that one neighborhood, that one street, will stay forever imprinted on my brain. The old dormant feelings start coming back.

If you have not lived abroad and completely fallen in love with a city, well, you wouldn't understand.

No hay palabras.

COTW

Sharp ties and button-down shirts under sweater vests. I must be on the preppie phase of the cycle.

Kettle corn from Popcornopolis at Citywalk. Crispy, sweet, and salty. Perfect. The pizza place was gross, but the soft pretzel was absolutely golden. Hits, 2, misses, 1.

Stinging Monday.

It is now Tuesday and I've concluded that there's nothing avoidable like the sting of a Monday. I like my job, my co-workers, my office, my three-mile drive to work, and my boss. Monday still effin' sucks. It's more the dread of the work week, and Monday is only the beginning. And work isn't bad, it's going well and yada yada yada. It's just Mondays. Incredibly sluggish and long and depressing and tiring.
Enter Monday night salsa classes. No, wait. Enter Rodrigo, the incredibly attractive salsa instructor.
Hello, Mondays. We meet again.

It's become essential that the priorities of planning activities and appointments arrive at the forefront within the midst of the daily hustle-and-bustle. Something to look forward to that helps you get through the rest of the day, the week, the year. Whatever it is, is much more monumental than you realize.

More on this post later. Gotta grab a bite before we check out this other salsa class.

You mean NORTH ? Protein Berry, and Tabasco! Claro!

"Where do you live?"
"Right above Sunset Blvd."
Really, above? So, does that mean you're, literally in a space that sits physically over the four lanes of traffic? Hmm, interesting. Or you mean you're under Hollywood Blvd.? Because, let's face it, if you're above one thing then you could also be under something else (this is a G rated statement).
Was everyone absent on that same day in third grade? Cardinal directions? Or in kindergarten with the Left and Right designations? North, South, East, West. No, you're not above Wilshire. I think you mean North. Let it catch on like wildfire like it was supposed to twenty-some years ago.

It's four o'clock in the afternoon. The wave of fatigue has enveloped me at this particular Monday moment. I dream of a smoothie. It is packed with strawberries and bananas and soymilk. I go downstairs only to remember that the cafe downstairs is closed by now. I walk back upstairs. Protein Berry has my name all over it right now. Three more hours until the opportunity presents itself. Woman cannot live on dark chocolate alone.

August 13, 2008
It's Wednesday. Turns out, I like going to work earlier. Less traffic, more parking available, and an earlier day. Still not a morning person.

Note to self: Do not toss empty containers of sesame salad dressing in the wastebasket under my desk. Pungent sweet-n-salty aroma will persist throughout the day.

Thursday, August 14, 2008
Breakfast sandwich: egg-cheese-bacon number on wheat toast. In the kitchen: ketchup? no. tabasco? no. NO Tabasco?!!

VENGA!

I begrudgingly finish my bland breakfast sandwich, but I dream of other condiments. Of the spicy, the tangy, the glorious. Mental note: Must bring personal spicy condiments to work.
At least tomorrow's Friday.

WOOOOOOOH!!! Yeah!!

Are there no happy renters in Los Angeles?

Recovering
Huge blow to the apartment search yesterday. I'm still recovering. I don't even know if I can fully express how stunned and disappointed and pissed I was (and still am) after waiting for my roommates who were twenty minutes late and finding that the apartment we were about to look at and literally steps away from had been rented out ten minutes earlier. I know.
Stunned. Upsetting. Still stunned and upset and disappointed. I could say crushed, deflated, crestfallen. I don't even know which to express anymore. I'm drained. Disappointment can be catastrophic to morale.

Revisiting the road of living by myself and paying a ridiculous amount of rent for that possibility.

Are there no happy renters in Los Angeles ?
I've already found that most people in the greater Los Angeles area, aren't truly happy with the apartment that they're living in. A quick look at apartmentratings.com (and chatting with any renter you know) quickly reveals the truth of the matter. Sloppy paint jobs, incompetent and unreliable management, and a slew of roommate issues to sort through or put up with until one leaves in lieu of life-changing events (marriage, profession, purchasing property, family events). Noisy pets, traffic, and gardeners, cantankerous neighbors, leaking water in adjacent alleys, pervasive aromas from nearby businesses.

And parking! You know how hard it is to find an apartment with parking?!

Breakaway. The Ideal Gentleman Continued.

I need a break from disappointment.

How much time have has been wasted by your flaky, self-absorbed Angeleno frenemies?
I want three years of my life back.

The Ideal Gentleman - continued...

Must be punctual! If you want to impress, you show up on the dot.

Must be clean.

Must not be swathed in cologne such that people in your surroundings are smothered. A faint scent is quite the COTW move.

Must use face wash. Seriously! How many men out there do not wash their faces with a legitimate skincare product? Not talking about bar soap, not talking about the body wash that's already in the shower. No, its not metro, not gay (are all guys in la-la land homophobic?). Its HYGIENE.

Cuts his hair!

Takes out the trash AND replaces with a new trash bag.

If he must be late, must have some sort justified occurrence to have been late. If I'm sitting at a table at a restaurant waiting for your trifling booty to get here, then it better not be for a stop at the florist's for yours truly. Time is more valuable than a few stems that'll die in three days. No triple-confirming with a slew of phone calls. Don't be sorry, be on time.

Why is it the hardest thing in L.A. to get people together in one place at the time they said they were going to be there?

Sigh.

My dream roommate & apartment posting. And new COTW!

Roommate Wanted
Professional twenty-something seeks roommate with similar status. Roommate must not be crazy, dirty, loud, an alcoholic, socially awkward, or an only child. Roommate must have experience living with other roommates. Must not be a moron. Must not have pets, children. Must not have "third-roommate" type boyfriend or girlfriend that stays overnight constantly.
Must-haves: Personality, courtesy, trustworthiness.

Pluses: Speaks additional languages, eats different ethnic foods (i.e. doesn't mind the smell of foods cooking in the kitchen), enjoys going out with friends but also enjoys relaxing at home. Avid watcher of The Office, Heroes, Project Runway, Mad Men, 30 Rock, or The Food Network. Enjoys movies and at least somewhat knowledgeable about pop culture.

Apartment: Must have private room and bathroom, central air, walk-in closet, balcony, laundry on-site. Must not look depressing, outside or inside. Ugly carpeting must not be present.
Location: Burbank/Studio City/North Hollywood. Must take no longer than 10 minutes to get to work. Ideally close to decent eateries. Peace and quiet must be the norm in the neighborhood. Building must not be next door to any working business that has landscapers coming in like clockwork on Saturday mornings at 7:30am. No construction must be in progress within two blocks. No bugs, standing puddles of water, or streaming water from nearby locations must be present.

Required: Parking spot (covered, gated, and not tandem!) Also parking for guests must not be a hellish ordeal.

COTW
Okay, I know it's been awhile - but the potentials for COTW have been incredibly dry lately, which is why I haven't had any to blog about.

Diego Luna. Boyish and charming. Que delicioso. Saw Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights (yep, that's right) and who knew? Something about the cute ones that know how to salsa dance. Seriously not sure why I never noticed him onscreen before. Will have to watch Y Tu Mama Tambien again to see what I missed.

In Fashion: the black-and-whites. Black tie, black jacket, white button-down shirt. Bottoms: antique jeans or matching trousers. With a clean set of Pumas or Chucks. Simple, classic, yet comfortable and adds a splash of cas.