CBS Television Distribution, Warner Bros Television Distribution
I miss places. And sure, in LA, there’s maybe a handful of places where everybody knows your name. Okay, a thimbleful. But a handful definitely know my face–the clerks at See’s who salve cravings for Dark California Brittle, the folks at Mendocino Farms who know me and my Avocado Quinoa Salad order all too well, the seamstress, May, at the dry cleaners who gives me a hug every time I walk in, the juice shop where I hit in moments of desperation and all the time, the nail salon where they tidy up my eyebrows and always ask to clean my upper lip as well, the hair salon where everyone knows me because I’m there too often, the beauty shop where Shadia knows every skin ailment I’ve ever had, the clerk at Whole Foods who calls me sweetie, the coffeeshop packed with cyclists on a Sunday morning where I resist the alluring aroma of freshly brewed coffee and order a iced tea instead, and the other coffee shop filled with yoga pants-wearing bourgeois grabbing lattes when I just want an avo toast – oh avo toast, I may miss you most of all.
I miss all the places. I miss bustling. I have a new appreciation and love of the word bustling. I have an on-going list on my door–the post-pandemic list. It covers all the non-essential things I need to buy like lightbulbs and underwear, non-emergent errands I need to run like the dentist and the dry cleaners for my favorite shirt that didn’t get picked up before quarantine, and all the places and restaurants I want to go–Night + Market Song where J will get the friend chicken sandwich and I will order everything on the menu that’s vegan–oh my god, the mango sticky rice! The mango sticky rice!, Pizzanista for a slice! Slice!, Petty Cash because I like the name and I like a margarita, Sharky’s where my friend’s kids roam free, and even Fat Burger to provide a fast food fix.
I want to be in a crowded place with names called overhead, and music bouncing off the walls, where, pressed shoulder to shoulder, I can hardly hear myself or the person next to me, and yet somehow our drinks still arrive. I want to hear drink glasses set down on tables, clinking with ice and celebration. I want to go to concerts and sing along and sweat till my shirt sticks to my ribs. I want to sit in a restaurant and observe all the trivial conversations around me. Trivial. There’s another word for which I have a new appreciation. Trivial once had a bad rap but now it seems so quaint. I love trivial.
On Week Two of social-distancing, sure everyone around here knows my name, but those are all the voices in my head, or my family on House Party. And the only thing that’s bustling is my freezer with homemade soups. Nothing seems too trivial, though I am sore from a virtual work-out, so I’ll take that for the ridiculousness it is. For now, I’m going to sit in my newly reorganized dining room made up only of a rattan chair to soak in the morning sunlight and contemplate all the loud, clamoring, boisterous, joyful, people-filled times ahead.