Small Life Big Life Still Life

I have been making a concerted effort to need less, want less, have less. I thought I really had the whole “less” thing down. Thought I had edited my biggish life down sufficiently to begin a new, smallish life.

I was incorrect.

There is more weeding to be done. Not only of things, but also of my expectations. It has been a very long time since I rented, and even when I did, I was notorious for replacing floors, ovens, window treatments, all manner of fixtures that did not meet my standards. Yes, in a rental. No, that was not prudent.

I have spent ridiculous amounts of time in hotel “apartments” and managed to adapt rather easily, but here in my perfectly located if not all that well appointed new two-bedroom, two-bath, I am struggling a bit with the ho-humness of things.

I am, after all, quite spoiled.

I have always had two refrigerators and fancy shower heads and great six-burner stoves and ample shelving for the five different shapes of cake pans I possess. An embarrassment of space and ease.

I may choose that life again someday, but for now, it looks like I will be making 8-inch cakes and choosing between 9-and 12-inch tart pans. There is simply no room for it all. I am also learning to make peace with the simple oven and not-fancy fridge. No more filtered water available directly from the door.

I am using ice-cube trays. Me. I am doing that and, God forbid… a Brita. You know--one of those pitchers that filters drinking water. Me. I am doing that, too.

My dog Roxy endured a months-long absence while I worked in Canada. Then a car trip with the amazing David Santor from Austin to Palm Springs, where she hung out with Uncle Michael for a week while I wrapped up the film. When David first arrived at my apartment with her, she was a bit freaked out, but after 24 hours in LA she got with the program, and at the age of 14 Roxy is now a bona fide city dog.

She is a perfect lady in the elevator and has met new dog friends at the pet sitter’s home. She struts down Robertson Boulevard like she owns the joint and has been invited into several fancy shops just to hang out with the beautiful things and people that are all around us here.

I have been traversing the city on the hunt for smaller-scaled furniture and the requisite supplies one needs to feather a new nest. Every street is filled with memories of the over twenty years that I called this city my home. I have felt more keenly the recent loss of my two dear friends.

That building is where Stacey and I used to take Pilates. Up Beachwood Canyon is where we often met for lunch. Long ago, when we were young and feisty. Long before she and her devoted husband and children waged an epic battle against the ALS that would take her from us.

Over there is where Michael and I went to rent a tuxedo for some occasion. The MS had begun to challenge him at every turn, and at one point he reached out to me for balance and we both went ass over teacup onto the road in the middle of an intersection. Then, to make matters worse, we devolved into fits of laughter, which meant that it took forever to get back on our feet. The drivers forced to wait at the green light while we gathered ourselves were not pleased.

There is the studio where we shot Sabrina. That’s the coffee place that Caroline would go to many days and return with an iced vanilla treat for me. Larchmont Village brings up years of lunches and shopping and stopping for cosmetic supplies.

Beverly Boulevard looks mostly the same, though new shops have replaced the old familiars. Ditto Third Street and La Brea. I live quite close to San Vicente Blvd., a street that will carry one across the city in rather reliable fashion. I drove it returning from a late night on set last week and sailed up toward home feeling the warmth of my history with that stretch of road.

So, the shower sucks and I need fourteen more closets, but I am doing battle with my inner brat and if I can get her to cooperate, this place will do just fine. If my ancient dog can adapt to it all, then I can too.

Home Is not a building or a lifestyle. It’s something more than that. Big life, small life--doesn’t matter in the end.

It’s still life, and we are privileged to live it.

On we go…

P.S. I am adding shelves, dammit. I am only human. Also, that nasty ceiling fan light fixture thingy is so outta here.