Feeling Lucky

Feeling Lucky

Yesterday was one of those days. I don’t have them often, but when they happen, I just shake my head and wonder, “How did I find my way here?”

There I was, sitting at lunch, trying to decide if I’d have a piece of baked eel sushi as a follow up to my spicy tuna roll when my partner’s cellphone rang. She took the call and, before we knew it, our evening was planned. We were going to help a friend out and be messengers for the night. Our task, deliver a check to a fancy dinner. That’s all we knew. “Call such and such number and things will be set up,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

Always ones up for an adventure, we made the call to such and such number and found out we’d be having dinner with Al Gore. It’s always fun to see Al speak, so we figured we’d have some stuffed mushrooms, chicken satay, and a drink as we enjoyed our evening out with 200 other people. People watching is never a problem for these two messengers.

While the evening out went against our general rule against going to the westside, we plodded along Wilshire to our destination for the evening. Turns out, the dinner with Al Gore wasn’t for 200, it was a backyard dinner party for about 80. And, Arianna Huffington was there too! I think it’s because I’m a blogger, but seeing her was almost better than seeing Al Gore. In this regard, I share a friend’s secret crush on Arianna. “She’s wicked smart and a confident independent thinker who just says what she thinks,” my friend says.

While I didn’t actually get to talk to her (or Al for that matter) or get any pictures (I kept the camera in the back pocket of my suit pants—no crazy photog in me), I did manage to grab some evidence of my evening with Al and Arianna. Here’s a picture of the purloined placecard settings. Yep, that’s mine too. I tell you, this messenger even had her own place at the table.

Purloined Placecards

But wait, the luck didn’t stop there for me yesterday. As I was driving home, before dinner with Al and Arianna, I received another phone call. This one equally unexpected.

It was from a client. A client I rarely speak to, but who, for whatever circumstance, has me on his list of people to call when he has tickets. I’ve never been invited to use his tickets before, but because Wednesday seems to have been “see if Laura is available at the last minute day” I received an invitation.

Want to guess the event?

Lakers game against the San Antonio Spurs. Floor seats, under the basket.

I hope that lottery ticket pays off too. This may be my lucky week (even if it has me feeling a little like Forrest Gump—you know, working my way into places where I’m really not supposed to be).

First Date

First Date

I have a pretty good memory.  I mean, I remember almost every class schedule and teacher I had from kindergarten through the 12th grade.  But certain memories elude me.  Among them, a memory of my first date. 

This realization dawned upon me recently as I heard the story of one of our niece’s first dates.

To start, her story goes, she didn’t know it was a date.  As many a girl does, our niece thought she was just “hanging out” with a group of friends who wanted to go to a movie on a Friday night.  One boy was paying special attention to her, but in her mind, that didn’t mean she was on a date.  Nevertheless, she accepted the attention and was soon hanging out mostly with him as the group made its way to Target, the parental pick up spot of choice.

While our niece and her young suitor wandered around the store, she reached into a bin of m&ms and snagged her finger on something.  Whatever it was, it cut her.

Her suitor, wishing to be a gentleman, expressed concern, but also told her he didn’t like blood.  She tried to shield her finger from him, but when the depth of her wound finally freaked her out a little, she showed it to him. 

The boy fell.


Onto his face. 

Apparently, he really did have a violent reaction to the sight of blood. 

His friends tried to help him.  His parents arrived.  Other parents arrived.  He was finally taken to the  hospital.

Our niece was brought home.

In the next few days she found out he’d needed 14 stitches to close up his chin and the area around his lips. 

Although I feel bad for the boy, I am glad my niece has a memorable first date story to tell.  And, because our family is full of storytellers, and others who appreciate stories, I’m glad someone will remember even if she doesn’t.


Behind The Scenes

Behind The Scenes

I’m amused by the things you learn when you step back from things you focus on too much.  For example, although I try to be a diligent blogger and update the blog every few days (because I don’t want to lose any of your attention), my highest traffic-volume days have been every single day over the past two weeks–when I haven’t really updated the site.  The reason–the purple trees are blooming and I wrote about it last year.  For those of you who didn’t find me by googling “purple trees” or “purple blooms” or “purple flowers” or “pasadena purple blossoms.”  Here’s what all the fuss is about.

Busy With Other Things, But . . .

Busy With Other Things, But . . .

I’ve never been much of a photographer.  My shots are almost always crooked, out of focus, or just plain bad.  I mean, on family trips, taking pictures of exactly the same thing, from exactly the same spot, with exactly the same camera, my sister’s pictures always came out better than mine.  I guess that just explains why I got the sports gene.

Digital cameras have, thankfully, freed me from some of this photographic deficiency.  My current camera’s small size allows me to take it everywhere and just play.  Here’s a shot I liked from a recent walk.  Can you tell what it is?

Down the Hill


Memory Is A Funny Thing

Memory Is A Funny Thing

I was arguing with a friend today about how old children are when they start to remember experiences they’ve had.  I argued for six being the right age, based on my own early memories.

“I remember getting my first bed when I was about six.  I was so excited,” I recalled with a smile.  “That lasted all of about one evening, because then my mother told me I had to start making my own bed.”


Whatever Happened To . . .

Whatever Happened To . . .

This weekend I received the announcement for my 20-year high school reunion.  I’m a pretty faithful reunion-goer, and it’s a local event (Queen Mary), so I quickly made my decision to attend.  Then, because I know it’s always best to have a small group of people to share a reunion with, I sent out an e-mail asking who was in for our night of remembrance.

Reunion angst is a funny thing.  The responses I received described the need to lose 40 pounds before September, the worry of not having anyone to talk to, and a fear of returning to teenage routines, “Can you imagine the story, Woman Aproaches Friends at Reunion, Asks ‘Why Don’t You Like Me?'” one friend wrote.

High school wasn’t the high point of my existence, but I also didn’t hate it.  I’m hoping people show up, because I do treasure the shared experiences I had with these people who shared space and time with me for four years in the late 80s (and my hair looks soooo much better now).