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“Sheran James of The Sharin’ Hour on KX 93.5 in conversation with an Hon, a Lady and a Southern Belle. This week, the Sharin’ Hour focuses on Marriage: the ingredients for a successful one, the pitfalls re a bad one, plus related stories from behind the Family Court bench shared by a Judge. This is the third part in the Sharin’ Hour series on Dating, Love, Marriage and Divorce. Interviewees include former Superior Court Judge now Judge Pro Tem MELINDA JOHNSON; Writer, Philanthropist and Advocate THERESE; and traditional Southern Belle “SUSAN”.”
Happy New Year. Welcome to 2013. Did you make any resolutions? This year I plan to record my progress weekly, to help stick with the program.
Number of New Year resolutions made 7.
Week 1. Sunday 7th January 2013
✓Drink less Sancerre.
Progress – Good (if you don’t count New Year’s Day, Friday night and last night’s karaoke session at The Belmont.).
Amendment – Drink Sancerre only on social occasions.
✓ Exercise daily.
Progress – Average.
Amendment – Three times a week.
✓ Write a thousand words of new book daily.
Progress – Slow.
Amendment – If at all possible.
✓ Meditate daily.
Progress – Poor.
Amendment – Starting next week.
✓ Change from AOL to Gmail.
Amendment – Next week sometime.
✓ Quit Chewing Nicorette gum.
Amendment – Tomorrow.
✓ Cancel the gym membership at Equinox taken out with good intentions in January 2011.
Amendment – Tomorrow.
✓ Stop procrastinating.
Amendment – Tomorrow
I am well on my way to being a sober, fit, successful writer with a strong spiritual connection to the universe who communicates efficiently in virtual space. A woman with whiter teeth, fresher breath and more money in the bank.
But I’ve been traveling constantly this last two months; Wisconsin, Chicago, Ohio, Arizona, Pittsburgh, Arizona (again), Laguna, São Paulo Brazil, Dallas, Oklahoma and Vegas. I agree. It’s ridiculous. Nobody needs to go to some of those places and I’ll leave you to decide the ones you may want to skip.
I learned (at thirty-five thousand feet in the air) that we still have the same President. I made it to thirty-six thousand feet without the aid of the pilot.
It’s wonderful to be back in Los Angeles. Yes, it’s so nice to go traveling…but it’s so much nicer, yes it’s so much nicer to stay home. (Unless it’s Paris of course.)
While satisfying my craving for moules marinieres and pommes frites in Bouchon Beverly Hills the other night, disaster struck. I am not talking about the two earthquakes that rocked the area this week, I am talking about the other earth shattering moment when I realized my brand new black patent Louboutin pump was lodged in a tiny grid underneath the table.
The gravity of the situation came in on me instantly. Gingerly removing my foot from the shoe, I inhaled my glass of Sancerre and weighed up the situation. We were deep in conversation, dining with film directors in town for a screening at Soho House. I would have to pick the right moment to interrupt the flow of conversation. It is very unlike me to hold back, but I was becalmed by the magnitude of what was happening.
After a few minutes I left the table and hopped towards the bar in search of a waiter, grateful for my recent pedicure and coral painted toenails. Within moments the news had spread and a deadly hush descended upon the restaurant.
Many iPhone searchlights were employed while the grid was removed. We held our breath as each screw was dismantled with bomb disposal precision. The shoe was held aloft, Cinderella style, the leather glistening in the half–light. A round of applause erupted from adjoining tables as shoe and grid were taken to intensive care.
We waited for the prognosis, while behind the scenes the shoe was given reconstructive plastic surgery. Around our table new friendships were being forged and community singing broke out. Our dining companions, who were from London, observed that in England the best you could hope for would be a quick yank and a trip to the shoe repair. Only in LA would your Louboutin be returned in pristine condition and handed back to you with ceremony, reverence and pride. Only in LA.
We had a great night Saturday. A close friend was turning sixty and you know what baby boomers are like when they get down to party. And so yes, there was much Sancerre, some (very) old moves on the dance floor and okay I’ll admit it, a fair bit of Karaoke. I have a vague recollection of a swimming pool figuring somewhere in the festivities too.
As we were leaving, feeling it my sole responsibility to ensure that the Summer of Love lived on, I extended an invitation to about a dozen people (rough approximation) to come over to our house the next day to watch the closing ceremony of the Olympics.
We arrived home (by taxi of course) to a flooded kitchen and after much drunken mopping, turned the water off at the mains and fell into bed at around 2am. So I blame dehydration for the fuzzy feeling in my head early Sunday morning when I dragged into the kitchen on about four hours sleep and my husband asked what time people were coming over that afternoon.
‘What? People? But we don’t have a screening room.’ I thought.
Also I looked like I deserved to look.
‘This is not good’ I thought,’ but I hate to let people down.’
Preparing to entertain while a plumber lies horizontally on your kitchen floor surrounded by the contents of your sink cupboard provides something of a challenge, as does moving at speed, in a hundred degrees of heat to pick up the phone calls from people wanting your address.
‘My prowess as a hostess is legendary.’ I think. ‘They will be expecting British flags on the gateposts, replica gold medals on ribbons, field and track games… oh! yes and food and drink.’
It dawned on me very slowly that we didn’t have any of the above or for that matter running hot water or clean towels. At the time also I didn’t know that our cable TV wasn’t working.
And so it came to pass that contravening all fire regulations, we squashed into my husband’s home office. Sitting cross-legged on the floor and flopping onto cushions we watched the extravaganza on his wide-screen Mac. We sang along with Eric Idol. We who ‘Always Look On the Bright Side of Life.’ We drank copious amounts of wine out of plastic cups and thrashed the air to ‘Talking About My Generation.’
I swelled with pride for a country I left eleven years ago. We ate cold leftover chicken from Saturday’s party and ended the evening pretty much where we left off twenty-four hours before; in the pool, a happy band of grown-up hippies remembering that ‘All You Need Is Love.’ Oh! And yes wine and music. That too.
“Whatever for?” I hear you ask, “For plumbing is not at all glamorous.”
I understand your concern, but I am not aiming for the mechanical or messy side of things. I want a job in their office answering the phone. Yes. That’s right, the ‘electric telephone’ as invented by Alexander Graham Bell.
Last week I had faucet issues. When I called Challenge a woman answered the phone. Ah ha! A human being on the other end of the line. In the background the phones were ringing off the hook and there was much yelling. It was frenetic. I was put on hold the old-fashioned way, hand held over the receiver so I could hear the mayhem. Missing drivers were being located, time frames re-arranged, apologies given. It took me right back to my days in PR.
Now we are not talking Mad Men era here. A mere ten years ago, PR offices were vibrant adrenalin pumped hubs filled with cigarette smoke and coffee cups, whirring fax machines and thumping copy machines. It was messy, unhealthy and exhausting but it was high energy and there was a visceral connection with people. (Why do I hate the word co-workers?) Anyway the graveyard silence of offices nowadays scares me; everything sliding in and out on email from claustrophobic cubicles.
Yesterday I abandoned my work, husband, friends, family, life as I know it, my Mac, iPad, Facebook page and emails. The phone remains unanswered. I haven’t managed a single Tweet in forty- eight hours. This could be my final blog. I can think of one thing and one thing only- ‘What time do they open?’ YES! Target has opened a store in my neighborhood.
Yesterday morning I pushed that giant red cart up and down its glorious aisles, adrenalin coursing through my veins as I scanned the newly stocked shelves. I had to stop for breath by the storage section for fear my heart would give out. I should have been in training for this for weeks. That way I wouldn’t have had to stop to refuel at Starbucks. This should qualify as an Olympic sport right up there with synchronized swimming and javelin throwing. It requires focus, discipline, stamina and a killer instinct.
I spent the afternoon in a frenzy; scraping stickers off glassware, yanking tags off bath-towels, rearranging drawers, alphabetizing kitchen cupboards, flinging out the old and realigning the new until spent and exhausted I fell into bed. Then springing up next morning with the lark, I was there again as the doors opened at 7 am.
I’ve always been interested in the Chinese art of Feng Shui, the first rule of which is ‘no clutter.’ Apparently when energy can’t flow easily it stagnates and all sorts of things can go wrong in particular areas of your life. Overstuffed cupboard equals overstuffed mind.
This morning while taking a break from closet clearing to make space for all the hangers, shoe-racks and shelves I planned on buying today I checked my in-box to see that India’s Summer has a great book review on- line in Barnes and Noble – Unabashedly Bookish. Right on Target!
10 Questions for the author of India’s Summer: Click here to read article