Breakfast At Tiffany's




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I’m Black Inside

Part of: LA , Seinfeld-esque

Breakfast: "this apple walks into a bar..." cereal bar from Trader Joes's

11:09 AM

Wake up. For some reason I’ve been extra tired lately and have been opening my eyes at exactly 11:09 AM. I wake up before then, but I don’t have to get out of bed until I read on my clock that it’s after 10 AM. Must look up significance of “2” in numerology book.


Take Tropical Emergen-C. I was around a cougher the other day. I take homeopathic magnesium, a chocolate Viactiv calcium chew and B6. That should cover everything.


Turn on my computer to check e-mails while simultaneously making a few personal and business calls. I’ve temporarily misplaced my calendar. Where’s my promised Palm Pilot from SBM? I was supposed to have it a couple of months ago. Then again, the actress in my French class has a phone/PDA. That would make more sense. Can I afford one? Negative.


I look for my numerology book and find my misplaced A Moveable Feast by Hemingway. Now I’m reading three books. I thought I’d broken this habit.


I’m hungry. I want a scone. I need to exercise. Bikini 4th of July. Need to get a bikini wax.


Look in mirror. Hair is greasy—must take shower before walking to Third Street Promenade. I’m hungry.

12:05 PM

I check my ass in the mirror, craning my neck until it pops. Now I can cancel my appointment with the chiropractor. The pants are not ass-flattering. I pull on a pair of cropped white yoga pants. My hairy legs don’t look so hot.


Decide on hand-me-down red, Gap sweats that are bootilicious. Feel refreshed, but hungrier. Finish last business call.


Street cleaning. Will I be back in time? 49-dollar ticket. Move car, except there are no spaces. Park behind a religious organization a few blocks away. They won’t tow me.


Off to Promenade—what time does farmers’ market close? Put sunglasses on, though it’s completely overcast. Wet hair does not chill me, but I zip up my gray sweatshirt anyway. It doesn’t cover the cinched in waistband of my sweats, so I look like a dork.


Make it to Rockenwagner’s Bakery stand. My German buddy is packing up. He’s the coolest German I’ve ever met, and his accent doesn’t make me want to slit my wrists—it’s kind of cute, really.

The guy in front of me is getting two pretzel breads with melted cheddar cheese. He gets a discount. Panic sets in when I realize that there are no scones. My smile turns downward.

“Already closing?” Another guy asks.

“I’ve been working since 10 last night,” German explains.

“Any scones left?” I say even though it looks bleak.

“One ginger.”

It doesn’t look appetizing. I shake my head no. My buddy slips me an oatmeal cookie with some golden raisins, funky nuts, etc. The cookie is perfectly golden brown. The oatmeal cookies I had before were always good—but this one is perfect. It is almost as good as having a scone. My smile is back.


I sidle up to the bar at Broadway Deli. Where to sit? On the Broadway side with the sorority girl tourists or the promenade side with a couple of seats keeping the cute guy (with the sorority tourists?) and the nice looking Englishman with the navy-blue baseball cap far enough away to ignore or engage.


Order a Diet Coke instead of coffee. It’s kind of sticky outside. Decide I should eat something more substantial considering the time. Watch one of the sorority girls eating her French onion soup at a painfully slow pace. Soup sounds tasty. Order vegetable soup and hope it’s good.


English guy answers his cell phone and starts talking loudly. Oh, he’s one of those people.


English guy gets off the phone, and we end up conversing. It’s his birthday. He tells me about how he went to a trendy steakhouse the night before and mentions various bartender friends.

“Do you work in a bar?” I ask.

He laughs, “No, I’m a screenwriter.”

“English and a writer?” I look at his Heineken suspiciously.

“Hair of the dog,” he says avoiding my eyes.

“Are you a writer?” English Man says, pointing at my small notebook in which I have been writing a character sketch.


“So, what’s a typical day in your life like?”


Walk home and take another shower.


Arrive at a boutique to hang out with the owner/designer, co-designer and an assistant. I’m getting more info for a major fashion etc. magazine because I’m pitching the editor tomorrow.


A glass of red wine is offered, and I accept.


I shake hands with another employee, and he off-handedly asks when my birthday is. I tell him.

“You’re very creative and get bored easily. You don’t like people telling you what to do. Oh, you’re black inside—meaning you tell it like it is and don’t put up with B.S.”

We both laugh. He gives me his card. His specialty is numerology.


I finish my wine and say my goodbyes. “I’m going to grab a quick bite before my French class,” I say mentioning the trendy LA restaurant next door.

Co-designer laughs. “We flip a coin to see who picks up our orders from there, except for the main designer who can vibe them out.”

I leave on this note of refreshing dialogue.


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