Shaved

Seven weeks of growth sat on top of my head. A bit longer than an inch, my hair resembled a patch of messy carpet. With no time to groom, I watched my dark brown stubble grow longer and longer everyday. Somehow I made it through the short awkward phase (a phase where I can’t mat it down or prop it up) and then one day last week I made peace with the process and committed to growing it out.

Not having long hair since 2007, I thought it would be a fun experiment to try something new and see if it changed the shape of my face. “Why not?” I reasoned. “Styling and using product can be a fun way to start the day,” I thought.

As you might imagine, this internal debate has been a source of stress for me ever since I was a young boy. (Keep it short or grow it long… that is the question!) It began when I was in fourth grade when I began wearing my hair slicked to one side, completely immovable. Each morning I obsessed over my part, the loose “fly aways”, and my front bangs. As if preparing for a Vidal Sassoon hair show, I spent hours getting it just right. Rock hard from gel, my hair wouldn’t move even in the midst of a category five tornado. So stiff and so shaped, my hair only became disheveled when submerged in hot water. It was fierce! (I even daydreamed of having a personalized license plate reading: STFHAIR)

In the last three years, I lost this life long obsession to attain perfectly groomed locks. Now, like a snake, I prefer to shed what I don’t need: my skin, hair, nails, clothes, weight … anything excessive, and I don’t want it. Long hair falls into this category, something I don’t need to feel like myself, so every few weeks I get it buzzed. I like it extremely short. But because I haven’t had time for any upkeep, I thought growing out my hair would be a good exercise in patience.

Yesterday, however, I hit a breaking point. A quick glance in a mirror revealed my worst nightmare: really bad hair.  With my afternoon free, I drove to the nearest barbershop and asked for the first appointment. Soon a female hairdresser, the person who would eventually rid me of my misery, called my name and sat me in her chair.

Before she whipped out the clippers and did her duty, we joked about my options. I considered keeping it long on the top and short on the sides. “A shapely flattop,” I joked. “Or maybe something like a faux-hawk…?” I came to the defense of my own hair, asking her if she thought I was doing something irrational.

In the end, she agreed with me, and before long, she was buzzing away. And, boy, did it feel good!

Now I’m sure to most, seven weeks doesn’t seem long at all. But to me, someone who values a streamlined existence, seven weeks is an eternity. Seven weeks of feeling unkept, unruly and unattractive. Seven weeks too long!

Time Flies

Walking down the aisle, I get lost in a sea of faces. Maybe the exhaustion is setting in because it’s become quite a challenge to locate my seat. Normally such a remedial task has now become an exercise in mental fortitude.

Finally I spot an open window, next to a homely female, which I know is mine. I squeeze in and settle. Pillow and blanket in hand, I shut the window shade and prepare for the six-hour journey. I open my journal and begin to write.

Coach section. Seat, 39 J. Jam packed flight. Two children behind me. They are restless. Kicking my seat already and we haven’t even left the runway. I wonder if I’ll have to turn around and tell them to “knock it off”. Such a parental term that is. I remember my mother telling me to “knock it off!” when I would bother my older brother on long car rides. I rarely use the term, but now it seems perfectly appropriate with these two brats behind me.

I often wonder how fellow passengers would react if I took that type of tone and caused a scene mid-flight. Like one of those episodes of “What would you do?”, I’m sure an airline stewardess or a female passenger would intervene. Ha! Oh how I can daydream.

Actually I never say much on airplanes. I get in, get out and move on. I stay quiet, don’t leave my seat, and leave my headphones on the whole flight. I stay in my bubble and ask that you respect it.

Even with the tight surroundings, I relish in the free time to unwind and decompress from this second whirl wind adventure to the Big Apple.

Two trips in less than two weeks time. The second being Sunday through Thursday with each day loaded with shoots, scripts, segments and opportunities. A trip loaded with celebrity sightings and encounters (Beyonce, Joy Behar, Elizabeth Hasslebeck and Howard Stern). Experiences I will take with me long into my professional career.

Early mornings, late nights, I struggled with catching up on sleep. I fought the jet-lag and found myself staying up later and later even with blurry, burning eyes.

This trip I experienced a different NYC. One seen from private cars, hotel lobbies, Upper East side residences and high rise offices. It was a New york, I found to be stuffy. And not for me.

No personal time to indulge, no free moment to get lost. Always a schedule, always a time line, always someone in my face telling me where to go. Now I rest and prepare for my life in California, the life I know and love.

NYC State of Mind

We had merely 36 hours on the ground, arriving early Wednesday morning and departing late Thursday morning. A whirlwind trip to the greatest city in the world. Unfortunately we never left the parameters of our hotel. No chance to walk the streets to feel the pulse of the city, no chance to shop and indulge in the best labels of fashion, no opportunity to sip lattes or eat crab cakes.

We landed, we checked in, we performed, we slept, we exited.

Now a few days later, I find myself sifting through memories from my first celebrity dinner party. I recall funny gal Kathy Griffin twirling around the 35 million dollar mansion and making jokes about pasta and Hollywood. Soon after famed chef Rocco Dispirto spoke to me about a mutual project on which we both worked.

At one point, I glanced across the room to see talk show host Rachel Ray whisking in and whisking out while filling the room with her signature laugh (and ass!). Near the end of the night, model Tyson Beckford made jokes about what’s in his DVR, while NYC Housewife Jill Zarin confessed to feeling like the outsider who was mistakenly let into the inside.

Though not an actual guest, I can say I managed to rub elbows (while holding a camera, no less) with some charismatic A-listers. The moments string together like a foggy, surreal movie, (Was I really there?) a movie I’ll never let slip from my mind. Even still it was such a strange, surreal reality: one that can’t seem normal to anyone there.

My Weekend in Laguna

We arrived early Saturday afternoon to ideal local weather. Sunny, breezy conditions. No clouds on the horizon. The sun high in the sky. The surf a bit rocky, yet nothing big enough to scare away the bravest of young beach goers.

An ocean front room with shutters that opened to the smell and sounds coming off the Pacific, I ran to the balcony immediately. Listening to the sounds of the ocean waves crashing onto the beach was the best way to unwind from the bustle of Los Angeles. I kicked up my feet and shut out the noise of my own thoughts.

I don’t often visit this sanctuary, but when I do make the trek down south to Laguna Beach, countless memories float to the surface of my subconscious. I connect to a place and community I once called my own. A time when my family united, summer after summer, to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and put aside personal feuds and disagreements.

Remembering these moments, of summers spent lounging on the beach, of lunching with my great, grandmother Nana, of snacking on tuna sandwiches and sitting on the upper deck of her Tudor mansion, of enjoying the sunset with the “adults”, grounded me in gratitude. I realized what a blessed childhood I had - one filled with more good times than bad.

As an adult I returned this weekend to celebrate an anniversary in my personal life, and even with a new perspective on life and a new view of the world,  I found myself admiring the same restaurants, street signs and local nurseries I did many years ago.

Missing Moria

The runt of her litter, Moira was born a fighter. So small she was, escaping from an opening in our backyard fence several days after we brought her home.

Thirteen years young, Moria died early from stomach cancer in 2004. In my heart she remains.

Today I wonder, “Do all dogs go to Heaven?”

Rainy Days

The rain continues to fall onto the dry, Los Angeles streets, causing drivers, pedestrians and tourists to duck for cover. (Rain in LA? No way, Jose!) Sometimes pitter-patter, sometimes thunderous roar, this recent atmospheric noise helps me sleep at night and puts my soul at ease. I find I wake more rested than nights when it’s silent in the city.

 A wet February, we are having. A wet February, we need, indeed.

Yet we, the people of this great state, find the weather an inconvenience, even though we know the facts and statistics about how our local lands desperately need the rain. Now a break in the storm gives us time to regroup before a second prong will batter the coast later this evening.

Soon, the clouds over Southern California will burst with moisture, drenching the drought ridden earth, soaking the plants and washing the city’s pavements free of its dirty sins.

Let it fall, I say, because I’m staying inside with nowhere to go.

An un-balance

A new job and its long hours left me with little rest and zero free time. Every day for five weeks, I spent 12 hours on my feet, commuted 60 miles round trip, and absorbed the emotions of countless personalities.

Night after long night, when my days were finally over, I arrived at my home, walked through the front doors, and collapsed onto my couch. Most nights I fell asleep in front of the TV, other nights I was luckily enough to make it to bed. I lead a Groundhogs Day exsistence.

Soon everything faded into the background, as my work life became paramount. Friends became strangers, strangers became friends, meals became snacks, weekends became weekdays. My life disappeared. These circumstances are not out of the ordinary for those in my profession: round the clock emails, phone calls in the early morning, stress and caffeine fueling an endless cycle.

Even when the expectations and responsibilities are known from the start, an experience like this can knock you from your feet, creating an un-balance.

I started to lose my centering before 2009 began. The Holidays took me for a wild, emotional ride, including a weekend trip to New York City, where in bone-chilling weather, I braved the crowded, Christmas streets to catch a glimpse of those famous department store windows. People all around shopped till they dropped, making their final, frenzied flurries to the finish line. Twas a whirlwind end to a fantastic year, but I returned home unrested and restless.

I stopped writing in the midst of the seasonal festivities and travel, and very quickly, time passed. Two months whizzed by without a word written, and soon my life became an unrecorded existence. Or, my existence became nothing (special) recorded.

Yet all along, like a thorn in my side, or the nagging pain of a splinter, I felt the pull to return to my writing. For me, sharing my experiences connects me to my bigger picture, connects me to you.

Today I return to my balance beam of life. I take back the center. I fight for my footing. I strive to create continuing and lasting harmony in all areas my life.

To balance a career, a busy personal life, the responsibilities of raising a dog, household chores, family time and “me” time is a feat only the most skilled multi-taskers can conquer. And now that it’s all said and done, I don’t know if I can consider myself among the multi-tasking elite.

I’m working on it, though. I hope to become one soon.

Decoration Nation

I always make a big deal of this time of year. I suppose I adopted it from my grandmother, who spoiled my family, year after year, with more gifts and goodies than we knew what to do with. In a selfless attempt to make up for what she didn’t have as a child, my Nannee played the role of Santa better than anyone I’ve ever known.

Each year, as an annual tradition, my brother, cousin and I scavenged through her Bible-sized, Sears catalogue and circled the toys, books, candies and electronics we wanted. Next to these felt pen markings, we wrote our names and prioritized which presents we wanted most. Then we waited. And waited. And waited. 

We waited nearly two months before we discovered what was underneath the tree on Christmas morning. Every year, we were never disappointed. With little money and lots of credit, my Nannee bought bounds of presents for the entire family, which I know made her happier than I’ll ever understand. For her, the gift was truly in giving. 

Over the years, the way I celebrate the Holiday season has changed. Growing up and moving out, naturally changes everything, but even through all the transitions, my family puts aside our issues and makes the most of the season.

Earlier this week, my adult family brought out our own Christmas decorations and toasted the holiday season. Much to my enjoyment, up went the tree, the lights, the ornaments, the garland, and even the two turtle doves. 

We didn’t spend the time hassling with buying a fresh tree because, we thought, it’s too much of an ordeal. Traveling to the lot, shelling out $75 dollars, lugging it home, watering it daily, yet still worrying about it drying out, we opted to put up a fake tree.

I admit, I do miss the smell; and even though its snow isn’t real, our tree is just as beautiful as those from years gone by!

Tis the season!

It’s beginning to look a lot like …

Everywhere I looked the colors were changing; all around were signs the winter season had arrived. While on walks along the banks of the lake or in the back yard of my cabin, simple sights and sounds inspired my tired eyes (and mind). The crisp mountain air, the smell of burning fire wood, the sound of pine needles crunching, these were a few of my favorite things to capture my attention during the Thanksgiving weekend.

I spotted this frozen leaf on the road during an early morning hike with my dogs. As if it had been pressed in a book for years, it sat perfectly flat on the concrete, frosted with ice and snow.

In the pine needles several yards from the bank of the lake was the skeleton of this rotten, dead fish. 

One happy tree, bursting with life, stood tall and proud as the sun combed through its needles. 

It’s amazing what one weekend away can do for a tired, restless soul. 

Giving Thanks

The first sign of the impending holiday season is served at Starbucks the day after Halloween. On this day, the baristas begin dishing out red Christmas themed cups, and the countdown begins. From this day forward, we are reminded, it is on its way. Shop till you drop! Eat till you’re full! Consume, consume, consume!

Four weeks until Christmas morning, and five until the end of the year, I am ready for time away from my normal life and routine. I’m ready for some rest and relaxation, ready to kick up my feet and eat.

I usually become reflective this time of year; the cold weather and long hours of darkness cause me think about what I’ve accomplished and where I want to go in the coming year. But it’s also time to reap the rewards of my hard labor and enjoy what I’ve created for myself.

This year my family decided to pack up our Thanksgiving celebration and relocate for the long holiday. We will retreat to the mountains, rather than spend it at my mother’s home, and hibernate for a few days. Away from the hustle and bustle, surrounded by the people and animals who matter most, my family will come together and reminisce about years gone by. People laughing and sharing favorite memories over food, drink and warm fires.

In today’s world, with the economic stress, international uprisings, and transitioning powers at be, I will make an extra effort to pause to reflect on those things for which I am most thankful. And I hope you do to; the world needs more love from me and you.