the streets of santa monica...

04.27.09

On Friday night, I had the option of going to a play on campus, where I would be surrounded by the glow of art and the friends and acquaintances who were busily creating it. But I had my fill of the Hills in the last few days, days that were filled with the usual difficulty of putting together a weekly publication almost singlehandedly. All I could think of was the long drive home to the Westside, so I decided to get it over with.

I called Shiho to see if she wanted to grab some dinner. My erstwhile plan was to drop by Beadniks, a bead shop on the Promenade, to drop off a resume. I had decided that I need a part-time job to help with saving up for a new apartment, a laptop, travel. I had cobbled together a resume that highlighted my jewelry making skills, including my recent experience teaching beading at David’s studio, a credential that I hoped would not be made much of, since I have not spoken to him since December.

I wandered into the shop and asked for Ermie, one of the proprietors who had answered my email query about employment. I gave her my resume and chatted with her and two employees who were trying to decide how best to display one of their recent necklace creations. It’s been so long since I’ve looked for a job, even a part-time commitment such as this. After we chatted, I browsed the shop and started to wonder if it’s such a great idea to work at a place that you would enjoy being a customer as familiarity breeds contempt. I could see myself getting overwhelmed and beleaguered at the prospect of having to help visitors come up with innovative jewelry designs while neglecting my own muse. I left them cordially, but feeling undecided as to whether or not I would return with a completed application.

I met Shiho at Anthropologie, an establishment whose French flea market aesthetic belies the upscale pricing of its wares. Still, I am very fond of this look and blithely told my freelancing and therefore spending cash-free friend to simply look upon shopping the Promenade as visiting a museum, to get ideas and then purchase similar items from more recession-friendly merchants.

We walked several blocks to Musha, a trendy Japanese fusion restaurant that she had warned me would have a very long wait on a Friday night. It was getting late and I was starting to get rather hungry, but felt optimistic that we would be seated relatively soon. When we got there, the host told us that it would be a 35-40 minute wait. When someone puts it in numbers, it becomes all too daunting, so we left and settled for Wahoo’s Fish Tacos next door, where despite the friendlier prices and perfectly fine food, nobody was waiting to dine.

Shiho is one of my oldest friends. In the approximately 15 years we have been friends, she has not had a boyfriend. In those same 15 years, she has watched me fumble from relationship to relationship to failed marriage to disastrous rebound relationship. And yet, she still seeks my advice on how to attract men.

An admirer once said I was cursed, that there would always be men wanting me because of my looks, intellect, humor and personality. I have to admit that I enjoy a certain popularity among those who have recently acquired either their drivers’ licenses or Medicare. Guys my age don’t seem to be all that interested, and frankly, where we were about ten years younger, I was not at all interested in them. Now that the playing field is narrowing, I find myself feeling on the sidelines. They are all taken, recovering from being taken, or perpetually single for very good reasons.

We commiserated over our current manless state, she demurring as usual with the fact that she wants to have a bona fide job before tackling this dilemma. Fifteen years ago, she said she didn’t want a boyfriend at all so that she could pursue her dream of being a freelance illustrator, which is what she is now. Now that she is one, she complains of not making enough money with the enterprise, which does not surprise me. Creative people are never paid what they are worth. But I envy the fact that she went after this dream and got it, something I have yet to achieve with my own writing.

You could say that I am equally dismissive of my day job as she is of her independence. I am a public affairs writer at a four-year university. I am privileged to meet and write about some really exceptional people there. But I often feel like little more than a PR hack, having to put the best face on the dull, corporate posturing of campus events and politics.

I have always baited Shiho with the proposal that I go along on one of her speed dating adventures, purely for observational reasons. I would never take anyone seriously that I met at such an event. She always reminded me that I had a boyfriend, which up until now, I always did. I said that I had already fulfilled her stern recommendation of last winter that I stay single for at least three months. She agreed, and said that she had heard of a meet-up group that gathered over ethnic food under $10. I accepted with more enthusiasm for the prospect of cheap, exotic eats than the possibility of meeting a single gourmet male who is as disillusioned as I am.

We strolled back to the Promenade’s main drag sipping tea, catching up with the news of our respective lives and commiserating over our lot as the token spinsters of our circle. Actually, I vehemently forbade her from ever using that word again, for its conjuring of eccentric, vaguely unattractive females who are meekly resigned to their position. We are neither of us unattractive, although I have to admit we are both rather eccentric. And as for resignation, the fear of the end of every hope is beginning to loom for me for the first time. I hate to think of how many years she may have been feeling it before.

When Dorothy Parker wrote that nothing eases the heart like a satin gown, it’s evident she did not live in West Los Angeles. There is gastronomic therapy within reach, especially for despondent females with a sweet tooth. Although we had decided on our Spartan dessert of green tea (me) and a nonfat mocha (Shiho), we realized as we marched toward the ocean that the infamous Xooro, a trendy purveyor of pretentiously artisanal churros, was in our path. We decided to splurge.

We walked into the antiseptic, overly-lit shop, where a digital screen rotated between menus. We both were intrigued by the maple bacon confection, salty and sweet combinations being a trend du jour in confectionery these days. We decided to split one and waited for our order.

I was still trying to absorb the menu screen should there be a return visit, or should I be so overwhelmed by our dessert’s quality that I would want to order another one on the spot. The offerings of “Mexican” and “Spanish” hot cocoas caught my eye and I asked the young man behind the counter what the difference was.

“Mexican cocoa is made with grandma cocoa,” he said.

“You mean ‘Abuelita,’? I asked, referring to a popular product available in most grocery stores in Los Angeles.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, half-smiling at my recognition.

I continued to ask questions in my exasperating customer way, inquiring about the health benefits of the rice bran oil they use to fry the churros and the actual size of the pastries. At some point, he excused himself and returned a few minutes later bearing a paper wrapped cylinder on a plate. The end that was exposed looked like it had been coated in sawdust and there were two plastic forks on the plate.

We proceeded to unwrap the churro and tapped ineffectually at it with a plastic fork. Finally, I broke it in half and took a bite. He had warned us that the maple filling would have turned to liquid and would run out of the pastry tunnel, which indeed it had. The “sawdust” was the bacon component of the churro, which lent it a slightly salty taste, but did not fill my craving for the chewy, sweet smokiness of actual pork product. And the pastry itself was not too sweet, but was sort of tough on the outside, lacking the yeasty welcome of regular dough.

Still, it was dessert, so we made the best of it. I was sort of disappointed that they had, as our host had described earlier, increased the size of the pastry, but I guess for $3.65, people expected more than just an 8-inch churro. We finished and left Xooro without regrets, but also without anticipation of a return visit.

I was turning into my usual pumpkin self after 9:30, so we headed back to pick up her bike from the rack and she walked me to my car in the structure. On the way there, I noticed that under an sign that read, “Design Within Reach” on the window of a tony furniture store, there was a homeless person sleeping mummy-style in an unfurled sleeping bag. I said nothing until we had crossed the street and then embarked on one of my diatribes about the travesty of how some of the highest priced real estate in America provides a literal bedroom community for the disenfranchised.

Throughout the evening, she had congratulated me on my uncanny sense of direction and recognition of landmarks, which I rely on in lieu of my lack of mapreading skills. When she had left, I paced the three floors of the parking structure in a panic because I could not find my car, which I had parked there three hours before. In a flash of remembrance of the last time this happened, I realized that my car was in the parking structure on the next block and sauntered over, where the car was exactly where I had left it, in what would be considered a perfect parking spot right next to the elevator.