Happy hour at the Hungry Cat, the bar boss' friend's art opening, dinner at Dutch Garden's, sneaking into the Billy Corgan/Dave Navarro show at Muddy Water's, and I've just peeled the lid off the top of some peach cobbler ice cream when my phone rings and a coworker meets me near Mesa Lane to take me to see the moon, shuffling through dirt, any moonlight or starlight hidden by the trees, trusting that each step won't lead me off a cliff, illuminating the way with cell phones only when absolutely necessary, and sitting on copies of the local weekly overlooking the ocean, coaxing the orange half moon out from behind the clouds before it sets with chatter about new crushes and old crushes, and THE MOST INSANE shooting star I've ever seen: it bounced and twirled and, as the coworker said, "You'd have to be retarded to have missed that." I didn't make a wish.
Anyway, that was Thursday.
Last weekend was a lovely little 24 hours in LA, Singin in the Rain on the most perfect summer evening, a screening at a famous cemetery with bottles of wine and picnic fixins, and jogging around a reservoir in Silver Lake and rewarding the effort with a frittata, and driving home slowly, slowly.
In between all that, working on my whole wheat pita bread recipe, working insane hours, working out.
I woke up this morning warm if not hot, relaxed if not refreshed, satisfied if not fulfilled.