More Webster Love

I just had to post this. It was filmed two days before Diabetes Scare 2012, and he's so precious!

Real Writing

My Peace4Kids group called "Love Me Now" making posters about their purpose.

A few weeks ago, I read a blog on The Huffington Post called “The Mom Stays in the Picture,” by Allison Tate. Some of you have probably read it. It’s a real, honest piece about how important it is as a mom to sometimes get in front of the camera instead of behind it, because self-acceptance is so incredibly important.

In the blog, Tate thoughtfully examines her insecurities and seeks to accept herself not only for herself, but for her children.

“But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives,” Tate writes.

Although I’m not a mother, the vulnerability in her words spoke to me. And, given the popularity of the blog post, it seems I was not alone.

Seeing this was affirming for me in several ways. Of course it encouraged me to remember to accept myself (or try!) and to love myself the way I am. For me, this will be a lifelong journey. That’s fine.

But the most palpable affirmation came from Tate’s vulnerable storytelling.

Over the years, I’ve written blogs both here and elsewhere. I’ve written stories anonymously because I wanted to tell a story I wasn’t comfortable sharing publicly. I’ve written stories that omitted the personal facts. And I’ve avoided writing stories altogether. Even this blog, up until recently, has remained somewhat anonymous.

You see, I’ve worried I’d seem self-indulgent or that I’d be judged harshly. I’ve worried that people who don’t know me would find out something about me they didn’t like before they gave me a chance. I’ve done a lot of worrying.

But ultimately, what I learned the night I sat down and read Allison Tate’s blog is that oftentimes, real, true, vulnerable stories directly from someone’s gut can make a huge collective impact on other people.

I know when I read a story I can relate to, something inside of me takes a step forward. I can only hope that when other people read my stories, they feel the same way.

Webster's Story

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

I needed a dog.

I wasn’t completely sure why I needed one, but I knew I did. I also wasn’t completely sure I could afford one or find the time to take care of one. But I knew I needed one. I was 23 and working my first post-college job in journalism. I wasn’t earning much, and my dive of a Hollywood apartment cost far more than it should have by any standard. It hardly had enough room for me and my roommate, let alone a dog. But none of that mattered.

On Labor Day 2008, my neighbor Z and I visited the home of a lady who ran a small rescue group in Long Beach. Upon my arrival, I knew the dog I’d seen posted online wasn’t quite right for me, so I asked if she had other small dogs I could see. She hesitated and then said she had one but she didn’t think I’d like him.

She brought him out in a towel because he had poop on his tail. Having never been too keen on dog smell and slobber and shedding in the first place, it’s safe to say I was apprehensive about holding a dog with poop on his tail. But I held him anyway.

And he melted into my arms like a tired baby, leaning all of his 9 pounds against me and resting his head on my arm. He never made a sound, and once he was settled, he hardly moved.

I couldn’t put him down, so I filled out the adoption paperwork with one hand while I held him with the other. I paid the rescue fee, and he was mine.

I named him Webster, after Webster’s Dictionary. After all, I was a copy editor at the time. Having been born in 1985, I had no idea there had been a hit ’80s TV show of the same name. Oh, to be that young again.

One of the first pictures I took of the little guy

The three of us drove back to Hollywood and stopped at Petco to buy all the supplies we needed. With what money, God only knows.

By the time we got home around 11 p.m., I was in love. Terrified and immensely broke, but in love. Webster, on the other hand, was not.

But who could blame him? As soon as we got home, I whipped out my newly purchased flea shampoo and dumped that little rugrat in the tub. After scrubbing and combing and washing him as much as I could, I used the blow dryer to dry him off. I doused his neck in Advantix and then finally, around midnight, I let him out of the bathroom. After all that, I'd hate me too.

What happened next is still a blur, but somehow someone opened the door and Webster took off down the filthy, dangerous streets of true Hollywood. Barefoot and in my pajamas, I frantically ran after him. So here I am, a barefoot, young (probably crazy-looking) woman running down a Hollywood street at midnight. Awesome.

About two blocks down, I caught him. And I shook with relief. I almost lost him once.

A month or so later, it was clear Webster would never intentionally leave me again. I became his very best friend and he became mine.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

It is clear that every risk I’ve taken for him has been worth it.

Webster has helped me through countless breakups and heartaches, career frustrations and tragic deaths. He has (anxiously) made two moves with me and made each new place feel like home. He snuggles with me when I need it and he gives me space when that’s what I need instead. He is my quiet, calm, snuggly little buddy, and I can’t imagine another dog being more perfect for me.

On Sunday, I took Webster into the vet for sudden increased appetite and unexplained weight loss. All signs pointed toward diabetes, the vet told me. I had feared this would be the diagnosis.

As I waited for test results, thoughts of daily shots and extremely regimented schedules danced through my mind. Though I surely make more money than I did right out of college, the extensive lifelong costs of a diabetic dog ran through my head as well.

But just as he has been worth those other risks, so also would he be worth this one. We’ll take this next step together, I realized.

The call came yesterday that he did not have diabetes but simply needed a diet change. And I cried I was so happy.

Far too often, it takes the dread of something terrible to make a person appreciate how good they have it. Today, I’m grateful for Webster. I’m grateful that at least for today he’s still healthy. He’s still mine. And I am his. He is worth it.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

Who AM I?!

I went to Michael's, the art store, to buy things for a couple projects. I had started these projects with good intentions.

I needed to get supplies to kick off the toy drive I help organize at my office for the kids at Peace4Kids, the group I volunteer with on Saturdays. And I was buying cake-decorating supplies for my friend's birthday cake. See? Good intentions.

The store was a zoo. By the time I was in line, I'd been there for nearly an hour. The man in front of me told the clerk he'd had a helluva time finding the pieces he needed to complete his holiday wreath. To which she replied, "A wreath? What's a wreath?"

My head went into text-speak. "SMH," I thought, while trying not to actually physically shake my head. A Michael's craft store employee who doesn't know what a wreath is. No wonder I couldn't find anything I needed. I tweeted this sentiment above while in line.

When I got to the register, I asked the young girl, probably about 20, how she was doing. With a very cheery, sincere smile she told me she was just glad to be here, working. I asked if she was being facetious, and she said, "Nope, I'm glad to have extra hours and to earn money. I'm saving up to buy a car."

Immediately I regretted this tweet. This wasn't a lazy employee who didn't care to learn about the items in a craft store. She wasn't some ignorant, clueless girl who didn't know what a wreath was.

She was a hardworking woman, just happy to have a job. She's working and earning money to buy her own car. She also was aware enough to ask what a wreath was, which takes courage and shows a desire to learn.

What kind of snob am I that I would fault some minimum-wage-earning 20-year-old for not knowing what a wreath was? She's working at Michael's. Depending on her background, income and upbringing, she may never have had a wreath. Wreaths are decorative items people buy when they're not busy worrying about food, bills and school.

Who am I to be so judgmental? Who am I to be so elitist? Who am I?

I'm someone who has been fortunate enough to get an education and keep a job. I'm someone who understands that some people are less fortunate, and generally, I care about them. I am also a professional editor who pronounced "misled" as "myzld" for years into adulthood. It doesn't mean I'm not good at what I do, just that I always have room to learn. Just like the Michael's craft store employee who didn't know what a wreath was -- she has room to learn. We all do, right?

Obama and a Hug From the Universe

I prepped all the taco toppings Monday night and marinated the chicken. The plan was to come home after work the next day to a fully prepared meal so that we could flip on the TV and get straight to watching the election results trickle in. 

Tuesday night, after anxiously checking the news during my final hours of the workday, I finally got home. I checked the simmering seasoned chicken in the Crock Pot then flipped on the TV. 

And something disconcerting happened. The TV did not turn on. On election Tuesday. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to you. But me? Well, I panicked. My friend K, who came over to eat dinner and watch the results with me, walked in. I told her the news. In a tizzy, I called my landlord. Of all days, today the roofers had come to redo the roof, he reminded me. And they’d knocked down my satellite dish in the process. Freaking marvelous.

There was a brief moment I worried this would ruin my night. My natural inclination was to let it. But then I decided my presidential candidate was going to win, and I would do all I could to enjoy it. We quickly shoveled in our tacos while calling nearby bars to see who was broadcasting the news. We grabbed our jackets, poured the remaining margaritas into to-go cups, and headed out.

We ran into my very fun neighbor guys on the walk, and they told us the election had been called; Obama won. I let out a little whoop. My night was made. It didn’t matter that I was now surrounded by Republicans. We walked to the bar together and watched the speeches and talked and joked and enjoyed fun inter-party banter.

There was no way I would’ve had as much fun just the two of us sitting in my apartment, though we can be a lot of fun. We embraced the misfortune of a toppled satellite dish. We broke party barriers and broke L.A. misconceptions about neighbors not being friendly. We said yes, and it was worth it.

It kinda felt like a trust game I played with the universe. The Universe caught me when I thought the night was plummeting down. And we still got to enjoy these delicious, completely homemade chicken tacos.

E - I - E - I - O: Everybody should have a catchphrase!

Old MacDonald had a farm; E-I-E-I-O

We wanted pizza, so we wandered down to Joe's Pizza on Broadway for a couple slices. Not that we were drunk by a long shot, but after a couple beers, crusty, cheesy pizza seemed just the thing to end the night. 

The little pizza shop isn't anything fancy. It's a little grimy with only two high-top tables and a small counter with stools facing a wall. It's New York style, so thin crusts covered in simple toppings with garlic powder, oregano and crushed red pepper to shake on top. Simple and pure and delightful, especially after a beer or five.

As J pulled out her wallet to pay for her slice, a grizzly man poked his head through the door and hollered. (I say hollered because that's really what he did).

"How much for a slice of pizza?!" He mumbled something seemingly unintelligible after the question.

The man at the counter acted as though this was a regular occurrence. "$3.50!" he hollered back.

The other man walked back outside.

J pulled out another $3.50 and asked for another slice of pepperoni pizza for him. She did it quietly and humbly. And the man behind the counter turned her down. He proceeded to explain they always kept slices around for the homeless. There's no point in throwing extras away when there are so many hungry people around. Then they took a slice out to the man, who was now sitting right outside the open window in the front of the building.

We sat down on the inside next to the open window and began to talk with the man. Without an agenda and without judgment, we learned about him as he chatted with us and ate his pizza.

The unintelligible mumbling following his first question turned out to be his fascinating catchphrase. After every sentence, the man, whose name is Murray, compulsively says, "E-I-E-I-O." As in Old McDonald Had a Farm. "Everybody should have a catchphrase, E-I-E-I-O," he told us as we all ate our slices of pizza. While I don't compulsively end each sentence with a catchphrase, his was so endearing it was hard to fault him for it.

Murray is or at least was a comedian of sorts, and true to his word, his jokes were funny. His eyes were kind, if not tired and a little runny. After his joke, J told him one of her own. He'd apparently heard it before, but I hadn't. I was touched at her confidence and willingness to engage this man in conversation, regardless of obvious lifestyle differences.

We didn't have to buy Murray pizza. But we gave each other the gifts of human kindness and laughter. After all, man can't live on pizza alone.

90 Degrees and More Than Sunny

We are in the middle of a fall heat wave. It's supposed to be 90 degrees in Santa Monica tomorrow.

The thing about this is that I'm ready for boots and scarves and sweaters. The other bummer is that even though it's still summer temperatures, all the fun summer activities, like Concerts on the Pier (pictured) and movies at Hollywood Forever cemetery, are all done for the year.

It's funny how timing plays so much into my attitude. Really when I think about it, it's amazing that we have such sunny days ahead of us. It's beach weather in mid-October, for heaven's sake. But because summer is over, my expectations have shifted and I have to force myself to remember to be grateful it is so nice outside. Beach day, anyone?!

Picnic and wine time for Best Coast's concert beside the pier, Summer 2012

Savoring Santa Monica

Photo by Marissa de la Torre

We are taking a walk alongside the ocean today, my co-workers and I. The summer has just ended, and in April our company offices move inland. After four summers working right next to the beach, with ocean-view happy hours and free beach parking, easy access to scenic paths for evening runs and opportunities for lunchtime power walks, we’ll be moving to a building-laden, concrete-covered area of the city.

I’m doing all I can to not be seriously disappointed about this.

In the meantime, I’m trying to take advantage of our last six months here. So today, we’re walking at lunch. It’s the second time this week we’ll be getting some exercise and de-stressing over the lunch hour, and I will savor every minute of it.

I’ll so miss the area that has become my home away from home, but I’m trying to see the positives. 

No more tourists clogging the streets! No more shopping temptations! Shorter drive to work (taking my current 12-minute commute to 7 minutes. I know, you feel sorry for me.)

But I know I’ll miss the ocean and my close daily proximity to it, as well as all the bars, restaurants and fun events the area has to offer. $12 just for parking that was once company-provided? Blasphemy.

Favorite Santa Monica Memories and Activities

Daytime walks
Farmers Market Wednesdays

Evening runs

Impromptu lunchtime picnics

Summer Concerts on the Pier

Happy hours on rooftops

Kings Head

West 4th and Jane

The Shopping, oh, the shopping

Stopping to Smell the Ocean

Parasailing is not life changing. I waited two years to check it off my life’s to-do list only to finally go for it. And it didn’t change my life. It wasn’t what I expected, although I'm not sure what that was exactly.

Realizing the voucher I’d purchased a year prior was going to soon expire, I set a date and invited my good friend K to join me. I expected a surge of adrenaline, something to throw me out of my comfort zone or to push my limits. Instead, I experienced a comfort, a calmness I didn’t expect. Here I was, strapped to a harness hanging 500 feet above the Pacific Ocean on a beautiful day – maybe even 76 degrees and sunny. I sat next to a dear friend whose presence in my life makes me feel loved and supported. I could see the outlines of the city that has my heart. I wore shorts, psoriasis be damned. And we watched dolphins dance in the water.

I didn’t realize how quiet and peaceful it would be soaring 500 feet above the ocean. I anticipated it to sound windy and scary. Instead, I took a deep breath and I watched and talked with my friend. I recognized how lucky I am. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to have such great friends and to live in an amazing place. I'm lucky to feel happy, even if only just in that moment.

It wasn’t life changing. But it did make me pause. I stopped and existed only in that moment. I shouldn’t need to go parasailing to live in the moment. I can do it any time I like. All I need to do is stop, look around me and take it all in.