Hay gurl!! You found my blog!!
Hay gurl!! You found my blog!!
Not really actual shakin’, just moving to esavandusen.wordpress.com. I am letting Tumblr get back to what it’s intended to be- quick little posts, as opposed to the online location of my sardonic mini-novels.
Hi everyone. Today, walking along the multi-million dollar homes in my neighborhood that we have some how lucked out to live next to from our beach shack, I decided my constitution is much more suited to paint the house than to sit in it all day long, if you know what I mean. I recognize this contradicts the very large however impermanent detail that I am jobless right now, but if we focus on that, then we miss the point.
So, this elicited an alarming interest within, to jot down new opportunities I could explore when the responsible head of gainful employment encroaches on my happy days of leisure [pronounced “leh-zure”]. I thought it fitting as well that the horoscope left for busy Manhattan-ites at the Starbucks on the corner of Manhattan Ave and Highland read for me today:
“Only young children and immature adults throw fits and tantrums. If you’re not happy with your current career, go out and explore new opportunities for yourself, and see what happens.”
For about 30 seconds, I set off on a whirlwind internal rage that went something like, “oh, how DARE you come at me with that, random newspaper horoscope. By the way, this is a journey, not a sprint my friend. I will have you know I have more opportunity in my little finger than…why is everyone staring at me!? I am sweating.”
I managed to come down off of a state only to be described as “unaware catatonic toddler” and discovered, oh dear. I have just thrown a tantrum that makes absolutely no sense, thereby catapulting myself into the very category of “young children and immature adult.” When the haze of my tantrum lifted, I decided the horoscope was not directed at me, but for many other people who hadn’t yet found their true calling. I settled on befriending this horoscope, only making a minor mental note to replace “immature adults” with “adult baby”; it just sounds better. Also, I am not immature. That’s for certain.
Nonetheless, I stayed with my earlier goal of jotting down some new opportunities given my inspiring morning. Here are a few below.
1. Stonework Apprenticeship
With the Spanish-speaking crew erecting the new mansion across the street. Not the entire home, just the stone work. To me this project seems intensely rewarding for many reasons. I could reengage my intense love for the Spanish language, brushing off years of college classes just taking a siesta  somewhere deep in my brain. Also, I would become exclusively familiar with and included in their little Spanish jokes that, by way of using context clues and picking up on tone, I have deduced that they are joking but I don’t understand because I never studied abroad like I so desperately wanted and deserved to. It would be like the last semester of college in Granada, Spain I never had.
In addition, I would educate myself on the wondrous craft of hammering postcard-sized pieces of flat multi-toned rock into cement, creating a beautiful tapestry for all the world to see. Or only those fortunate enough to visit this home, that by my professional real estate guesstimation is in the neighborhood of 3-10 million dollars. So about 10 people.
2. Greeting card writer and maker. Here are a few to start:
a. Sorry about your haircut. I still like you as a person anyway, and I’ve heard lots of others do too.
b. Thank you for having an interview with me! It was fun to feel appreciated and liked. I had no intention of taking this position but it was nice to chat and I liked your office decorations. [in script font]
c. “Assume” makes an ass out of you, and me. [inside: I’m sorry for acting like a daft, unaware asshole].
I’m not sure why my new greeting card business focuses on such niche, mostly negative or awkward situations, but with a little more thought and some corporate funding I can get into some happier themes. Please email if interested.
3. Movie script writer/ concept person. This one needs no explanation, after what I saw on my TV prompt for upcoming movies the other day [see evidence below]. If this is truly a movie that has made it through a script, editing of any version of script, casting, production, film editing and on to HBO, then surely I can compete.
“(2003) Man blinded by toxic waste relies on heightened super senses to fight crime.” What!?
4. Hugh Jackman’s deadbeat girlfriend
5. Jason Statham’s deadbeat girlfriend
Of course, my friends, I am acutely aware that Jason, Hugh and myself are all respectively in very loving, committed relationships. Actually I can’t say for Jason’s after running into him at LAX [we didn’t speak or touch so maybe “ran into” is a misnomer. But we didn’t have to; what we have could be felt by every man, woman and security ID-checker person within seeing distance].
I was zoning out in the security line and leered to the other end of ridiculous flashing lights of paparazzo and saw his beautiful, rugged, handsome, chiseled, accented face I’ve admired since the first Transporter, and then saw a tall blonde girl hiding under a faddish cowboy hat made out of felt, the very same color as the brown crayon you never wanted to use as a young coloring book artist, because it closely imitated the very unappealing tone of excrement. This mystery woman and I did however resemble one another in the height and hair department, propelling a conclusion perfectly foregone that I could somehow sweep her legs when he was busy getting his photo snapped, slip her some tranquilizers and shove her in the trash just outside gate 43. Thus, allowing me to sidle right next to his broad shoulders and no one would be the wiser. I didn’t have time though, as I don’t generally travel with tranquilizers and I was too busy looking her up on Wikipedia to discover her name is Rosie and that she’s a Victoria’s Secret lingerie model. This lead to the steadfast conclusion that, because she was named “Rosie”, a model, and they’ve only been dating for 1 year, that the relationship couldn’t be stable. Just a hunch.
6. Stay at home mom/ work out nanny. There are clear pros and cons with this one:
Pros: There is a curious little congregation of moms who meet a few times a week to work out with a lady who from my purview is a self-proclaimed trainer, identified by her hat and matching shirt that says, “Fit for Mommy, Fun for Baby” or something equally embarrassing for everyone involved, including those innocent children. The pro here is that if I were a nanny, I could meet up with these ladies and have the BEST beach bod ever. Maybe I wouldn’t even need a baby. I could just find one of those off-road 3-wheeled strollers that they all have, which assuredly you make payments on like a car, and I would stuff mine with a cabbage patch kid. I might even win a few of their mommy mini-races because my baby would never cry, and I could off-road and take short cuts in order to win and bask in the glory of both hot mom-ness and peer appreciation. Oh the status I would have amongst these other ladies of leisure!
The con here is the obvious embarrassment factor(s) of being part of an organized mommy workout, a situation akin to out-of-water synchronized swimming + stroller. A small price to pay for amazing beach buns, if you ask me. Also, pretending to have a baby might be illegal. I haven’t gotten that far yet.
Cons: There is a terrible storm cloud of a stereotype that looms in Manhattan Beach, or probably lots of places, for women who show themselves in the daylight during otherwise “working” hours. This ghastly daytime appearance bellows mockingly, “Hey look at that lady. She is SO spoiled and does nothing but work out all day. Honestly, what does she do? Ugh. I hate that lady”. Now dear readers, there is strong potential this stereotype was fabricated based solely on the observations and freedom-lusting by yours-truly, during an intense time of general irritability and bitter displacement as a working girl [I had an advanced case that I’m pleased to say is clearing up].*
*On further thought this Con is being thrown out, on the grounds that I’m not certain I can be bothered with what other moms or nannies or passers-by care about what I do all day. I have come to appreciate these people. Maybe they own their own LA cupcake business, the decadence of which I so willingly used to partake, and they work within the confines of their safe, happy little kitchens? [Although I think baking out of your kitchen with intent to sell in California is illegal, a tidbit I learned from a campaign that went awry. Maybe advertising does serve a purpose…] Those delectable little treats have to come from somewhere. Or, maybe these ladies have actual sugar daddy’s. And in that case, who gives a shit? I’m pretty sure the world will still turn. Why should I care if a lady wants to work on her buns all day instead of a conference report or integrated media approach utilizing core channels based on target-appropriate location? I really shouldn’t be bothered. I have my own ridiculousness to pontificate over (see volumes 1-5). Case closed.
7. Newspaper horoscope writer
Duh. Obviously the one at the MB starbucks needs some serious ayuda if I’m still lamenting over it.
8. iPhone/ Blackberry/ Android app developer, “Spittr”
Spittr is quite simple. It’s an aggregation of anything one publishes online – Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, YouTube – that has been agreed to post by its owner after having a blood alcohol level of at least .10. I know this seems high but really it’s not. In fact, I’m convinced if we did a quick survey, 90% of tweets have been alcohol infused way beyond this level. How else could a giant stream of bullshit be so popular? I will tell you- because we are all drunk with visions of increasing our Klout score, and we are all in on it together. We’re all trying to make ourselves popular, so why not “follow” each other around, thank each other for following, and reposting stuff so that we hope new idiots will follow us, all for the sake of an arbitrary number to keep ticking up and up. It’s the largest and most flawless experiment for narcissism. Brilliant!
Once I figure out how to authenticate blood alcohol level via cellular device, I will let you know.
There are so many more, I can’t even keep them all straight. I suppose I’m still riding the wave of freedom and so literally anything is a possibility, sort of like when the Little Mermaid discovers there’s a real world outside of the ocean, and sings a song about it.
So my friends, this list is a silly one (sort of), but today I hope you all are discovering new worlds, even if they seem out of reach. I hope today is a day you feel excited about something new and different. Tell someone about it, but don’t let them sway the intent of your original thought. A lot of times I think we get distracted about a perfectly good first inclination, that gets diluted by self-doubt or others’ opinions.
Go discover. Tell someone, or don’t. And have fun :)
 “nap” en Español
 “help” en Español
Happy after-Easter everyone. In celebration of Jesus’s resurrection, and the return of whatever vice you may have given up, I thought you might enjoy a recap of a recent reconnection with an old, very old interest.
Now that life affords me the luxury of going on mini dates with myself, I woke up last week in search of a little culture that I suppose I always knew existed, but given obvious time dedication to a very illustrious and steadfast career from 9-5p*, I hadn’t yet indulged in museum visiting. I wasn’t really sure where to start, so I googled “LA museums”. Is that an oxymoron? Anyway, I settled on the Los Angeles County Museum of Art [LACMA]. *No one in advertising works 9-5p only. This was just a test to see if you were paying attention.
Before I forget, do not ever, ever unless you’re held at gunpoint, and maybe not even then, park at the museum parking garage at Wilshire and S. Curson. It’s 3$ for every 15 minutes, or 18$ maximum. I had a few things against me, preventing the very clear understanding that this was a dastardly and unacceptable amount to pay for parking:
#1: I am practically an adult baby when it comes to parking somewhere I’ve never been. I have to turn the radio down all the way to concentrate, and even then it’s like I have a sheet over my head.
#2: A feverish and reckless state of excitement to get to the museum.
I guess only 2 things, but formidable nonetheless. So, I sailed swiftly and unwittingly hours later into said maximum 18$ territory by the time I retrieved my car. For 18$ I would have expected my parking spot to contain a hidden car lift, and an entire Formula 1-esq pit crew to outfit my car with brand new everything- maybe even a signed head shot of Jenson Button left lovingly in the front seat; I don’t think that happened, I for sure didn’t see a photo.
Moving on from my obvious disdain for this parking structure, in thinking that if I said to someone,
“hey, I hung out at the George C. Page La Brea Tar Pit Museum today”
it would sound way, way less awesome than,
“hey what up you guys. I hung out at the LACMA on Thursday, what’dyoudo?”,
I started earnestly toward the cool, seductive light show display at the entrance of the LACMA. Now, the problem is, I have parked on the side of the museum that first you have to walk by the La Brea Tar Pits. Which literally is a smelly, bubbling pit of tar with some weird mechanically-charged fake elephants pretending like they’re stuck. Seriously who wants to look at that sad mockery of something that happened tens of thousands of years ago?
Well, I did. What happened next was a beautiful blur of dinosaur bones spurred by a forgotten kindergarten lust for information about anything related to old dino bones. Suddenly, I could not see the LACMA, or even know that it existed. Almost instantly my mind was held hostage by an old 5th grade dream of becoming an archaeologist/ dino bone excavator, and questions flooded my brain. Why was there a random tar pit there all that time ago? Why didn’t some cro-magnon man save those poor elephants and more importantly the cute baby ones? How many old dino bones could there possibly be in this pit, and when can I find them and put them back together?
Overwhelmed by questions and excitement, I threw visions of looking cool and saying “LACMA” down the toilet, and made a beeline for the entrance to, you guessed it, the George C. Page Tar Pit Museum. Now, let’s put this into perspective quickly.
Here was the goal:
And here is where I chose to spend my day:
Staring up at the entrance alone was enough to make me think, hmm, maybe Mr. Brady and the Aztec Indians collaborated to build the George C. Page Museum, La Brea Disoveries building. I didn’t care. My serotonin levels were off the charts thinking of what awaited me inside this curious building from the future. Or from the 1970s. Either one.
I will spare you with the hilarious details of standing in line next to a 6th grade field trip, and get to the good parts. I walk in, mystified at all the treasures behind glass, years of excavations and trips to uncover bones, and display them in tiny cases hung on the wall with detailed description for young minds [and mine] to relish in. Oh the mysteries!
I stumbled down the hallway and into this little dark room with lots of families and field trip classes, and sat down to see a giant screen:
Oh, right on time. It’s a sign for sure. I wish that baby would stop crying. Maybe that’s a sign…
And so it begins. Millions of years of history summed up in 10 minutes of one cinematic masterpiece, using a new form of documentary I hadn’t yet experienced. A mixed media treasure of still photography, cartoon, and black and white film:
Duh, I knew that! How exciting. I am entranced.
An invitation. “No thanks” I decided, but very much appreciated there is an actual handle/ pulley-like system that simulates tar entrapment at this very museum.
Oh no! A cartoon reenactment of a tar trapped horse. I am all for education, but I began to wonder if the little children sitting next to me were afraid. I mean, we have just viewed what usually typifies a happy cartoon forest scene, literally get demolished and eaten by a steaming pit of tar right before their very eyes. No one seems generally panicked, so it keeps going.
The movie ended eventually, and I wandered around some more and I felt alive with the connectedness to something I used to enjoy. In a few short hours I had reinvigorated a part of something that once interested me. Purposefully hidden of course. I can’t really go around telling people I used to want to go on dino bone digging trips in Europe with my babysitting money. Although in some circles I suppose this childhood dream may be respected, cultivated or even cool [okay not cool], but in my experience it’s better left dormant. Like really all the way dormant.
The point I will try to make here is this: during times of wondering what you’re doing, or wanting a little more information about who you’ve become in order to be greater, go waaay into the dormant places. Go back to when you didn’t have so much responsibility, and take yourself on a date. Oh, a quick word of advice and this is important- go by yourself. It will enliven you. It will inspire you. You will be surprised. The reason this works, is that it will come from you. No one else. That’s the best part :)
Hi everybody. Quickly if I may, as there isn’t presently a greeting card (until I invent one) that reads, “thanks for the congrats on quitting my job!” or, “thanks for believing that, by quitting my job, it doesn’t mean I’m pregnant by a sugar daddy”, I’d like to take a moment to thank all of my lovely deadbeat supporters for their kind well-wishes. It’s not easy leading a life of nothingness in order to achieve everythingness, as is the point of all of this dribble. So, I appreciate it everyone, truly I do.
And another thing that occurred to me, to be clear I don’t have any kind of sugar daddy, as is the connotation with “deadbeat”. I mean yes that would be nice, but seeing as I’m ridiculously stubborn and independent I’m not sure I would allow that sort of nascent and eventually deleterious behavior, for fear of becoming an insane monster. So, no.
As day 12 of business-free life approaches, I’d like to recap a litany of recent adventures that led to:
advantage: Esa life discoveries, yeah!
disadvantage: anxiety and missing life’s point, boo
Last week was my official city of Angeles love affair week. The cataracts of stressful working life lifted to reveal lovely events.
Here’s a quick list:
Sunday: Jen and I drank champagne and made cookies in a bribery attempt to win neighbor friends. UPDATE: cookies have yielded 1 thank you note. As mentioned yesterday, I will apprise you on any fantastic yacht party invitations I was expecting and am sure to receive.
Monday: Drove to Silverlake to the tune of Lindsay Buckingham’s “Holiday Road”, then discovered a cool coffee place. Also it smells like laundry detergent and eucalyptus in Silverlake.* [*only in certain parts; be forewarned that some areas downwind you may experience an olfactory sensation akin to shoving your face into an armpit that has been drinking cheap whiskey]. Went to Wacko, weird indie quirky bookstore. It’s amazing and teaches you about cool LA stuff.
Tuesday: Joined an orchid forum, then within hours watched the last of my orchid flowers fall off in contempt, as if to say, “hey dummy, you should know how to do this.” Oh well. Thought about going to yoga, walked to yoga, went to yoga, walked home from yoga. Big day. Made dinner. No one died. Victory!
Day: Manhattan Beach Public Library card ownership!! Internal debate on whether to become a tutor for those looking to learn English as a second language, OR join a Scrabble team that meets Thursdays, OR attend Success with Succulents, by the MB Botanical Society. Learned it was National Public Library Week, commemorated by the small Chinese man behind the counter giving everyone a Hershey’s kiss. How fing cute is that!? It melted in my computer bag later. That’s ok. :/
1) tried new gastropub City Tavern. Good but kinda snobby for no reason. Cheesy poofs on the menu on a giant cliché chalkboard in the back. Found that endearing at first, then kinda stupid. The poofs, not the chalkboard.
2) went to old guy guitar jam session that apparently happens each Wednesday at a dive in Playa del Rey. I hesitate to tell you where because I selfishly would like to keep this little gem to myself. Awesome leather studded giant booths and chandeliers that probably used to live in old mid-western Pizza Huts. I am in love. We were by far the youngest patrons, which I exalted over, likely exposed by my perma-shit eating grin.
Thursday: Downtown LA artwalk. Met up with some friends in a neighborhood loosely categorized as “trying-really-hard-(with-mini-victories)-to-go-through-yuppie-renaissance” downtown Los Angeles. These friends are fantastic and so is their new loft. And they are trailblazers. They fit this description due to their love for the arts, and card-carrying members of a new society I’m calling “Adventurers in Real Estate, America’s Brave”.
If I told my grandmother I was moving to Bunker Hill, she would fly out from her golf course in Lakeway, Texas and light me on fire, at the very notion of an abode with such proximity to Skid Row. Death by fire from her hand is far better. You understand. Well, maybe you don’t but I do.
Friday: Struggling to remember Friday. What did we do? [memory loss is a side effect of joblessness]. Oh, yes. In preparation for impending surf lesson we took it easy and went to a rooftop restaurant and enjoyed the sunset. Although all was not lost in entertainment, we sat right in the middle of a cougar den. I don’t really want to leave you hanging there but I think you’d prefer it.
Saturday: Surf lesson. Yes, surf lesson. Definitely knocked on death’s 59 degree, wet ocean door. This just in: surf boards can double as a fun, buoyant wave-navigating tool/ floatation device, or a murder weapon. A.m. surfing was followed by beach afternoon and scary movie night.
So, my little students of deadbeatedness, this brings us to the core of today’s lesson. When you don’t have a job, or when you are truly open to life’s path, you don’t really have anything to focus on except for what’s directly in front of your face. Hence, the beginning of a life love affair and agreeing to experience waaaay more stuff. [As in yoga when they say, ‘one day the goal is to touch your forehead to the tops of your feet’, a more realistic goal of mine one day is to have a nice balance of life focus and career focus].
You’re able to strangely wander around admiring people and things and what they offer; you’re able to “enjoy the moment”. Usually when people say that I have a strong urge to tell them to suck it, followed by an open-faced slap. But, when you really have let go, you become an open source. Just this last week I talked to strangers, made them cookies, tried to be a surfer and wound up at a new Tequila bar (well new to me) where they make everything by hand and the menu is cardboard w/ marker. Amazing.
I hadn’t all the way felt this realization, until I took Mark to work Friday morning because we carpooled to the skid row loft. In spite of little sleep, not being in shape and wanting to pass out from remnants of the night before, I am fascinated by life. And low and behold, everything is saying hi to me. For example, this building:
“why, hello!” I exclaimed. [No, not out loud. I’m not that much of a cartoon character. Ok 50% chance it was outloud].
Then I kept going, because the Hello banner building, in my .05 second assessment peering through the windows, very closely resembled an advertising agency, which ignited a jet propulsion-style gait right past it. Mostly based on my sheer need to ingest many, many milligrams of caffeine, I landed a few doors down to Teaforest, a cute cute coffee and tea place. I ordered an EPI pen of espresso and then looked over to notice this guy [no, not the slow-looking question mark one, the “hi” one]:
And then, I found myself levitating by the notion that- really we can do whatever we want as long as we are seeing hello or hi. And wondering what amazing thing will happen next. And, the realization that sometimes in our lives we might not afford ourselves the luxury of time to get to know ourselves. In an effort to control or continue or maintain, our luxuries might consist of- “yes! I will take the sports package tires, AND SO I am keeping my job everyone!” [I’m not knocking sports package tires, these are important and very nice], a bigger tv, that shampoo- not the shitty kind, a dog that has a stronger gene pool than your own and cost one month’s rent just to get his papers; he has papers!?…ok I could go on but I think you get it.
Now please know, I’m most definitely not knocking the reputable economy of supply and demand. I totally get it. This is just my experience when your supply has literally dried up, and what to do to get it back.
To close this all up, a few things. I have no idea what makes people happy, but I do know it irritates the shit out of me when people are and I am not, or I can’t cognitively collect a reason why they are, unless I’ve seen them imbibe 83 hand made tequila drinks from Las Perlas after having danced on the 12th floor of an awesome loft building. When I do feel this elusive happy feeling with only minimal amounts of outside stimulation, it appears to be the outcome of lots of listening and openness. I will try to capture this feeling, like catching an endangered white tiger that is nice and wants to snuggle with you and not claw your face off. But then I will let it go, so it can come back.
So do it. Do lots of listening. Take a lesson, find a loft to hang out in (get your own, I’m not sharing), agree to go to a stupid dive bar. Make a cookie. You just never know.
Yours in self-introspection and tiger catching,
tres leches! I miss youuuuuu. how is your jobby? mine is great. hehehee
mark and i will be there 4/28-5/1! maybe we can grab a juice or a champagne? or both at the same time?
Yaaayyyy art! (@ Downtown Los Angeles Artwalk w/ 115 others) http://4sq.com/gSsK5S
Chronicles of a Deadbeat Girlfriend: Vol 3, Free Time Heals All [Most] Stupidity http://esavandusen.tumblr.com
What’s wrong with Wednesday? Nothing, I mean, nothing. (@ Melody Bar and Grill w/ 2 others) http://4sq.com/h8gvqT
Hi friends. This is a long one, but bear with me it’s worth it. I could go even more on and on about it but I’ll save it for the novel. Note dear readers, none of this has been fabricated. I couldn’t have made this up if I tried.
Graciously I will admit that prior to deadbeat status one might experience a lag in my general response time to very simple forms of communication- anywhere from 1 day to 2 years. Mind you, I am still in the growth phase so don’t get too excited, however within the last 7 business-free days I have joyfully witnessed an upward climb of epic proportion in my ability to give a shit enough to write back to people, and maybe even reconnect with them. I should rephrase; I always give a shit. I just sometimes run out of time.
Anyway, you kind of just start to refocus a little bit, whereas before, your minutes may have been confounded by a perpetual and unending tornado of ppt decks, meeting notes, wondering who came up with “idea management” in lieu of “account management”, the printer doesn’t work and your Stress Tire is looming…nope, not any longer. In the absence of the tornado, new, better stuff begins to fill your time. And you are able to respond, literally speaking.
The example I’d like to submit is the following email correspondence between myself and my grandmother.
Name, age: “Ma” Freeman, 79 yrs. Last known lag time prior to reply: 8 days [pretty good considering]. Relation to deadbeat: grandmother. Submission media: e-mail.
here’s the house:
My reply to this email is following. Notice how thoughtful and nice I am, and notice how quickly I’ve responded. [Hours, not years]. Also note in a turn of sheer emotion and wine-induced excitement, I offer to actually purchase this house so as to keep it in our family and make her really happy. Let’s also take a moment to remind ourselves I have no job, and if I were to really purchase this house I would have to call Fidelity and tell them I have gone insane and would like to buy a house in Graham, Texas and to please send me my check, the fruit of years of advertising slavery].
Ma’s reply below. Prepare yourself. This is Texas story-telling in the written word. I also have never met Norman and Tinka but am planning a trip ASAP to make sure they’re capable of keeping up my house. Notice this one is just to me, and my adoring yet clearly amateur little sisters don’t get to read it. Ha! Instantly my chest goes forward and my shoulders are straight, drunk with power of knowing Ma and I have now started a very exclusive secret club.
At this stage I am overwhelmed with glee and happy feelings. I love my grandmother and have always been very close to her, but this is a whole new level of personal connection. Her grandmother’s phone number was 29? She went to camp in horse and carriage? Someone’s name is “Tinka” in real life? PS. It took me a minute but “L of L” means “Lady of Leisure”, which she has been one for quite some time now. I think that sounds better than deadbeat. I’ll think about it.
Anyhow, to get to the point I replied some really nice stuff about how much I think of her, how great I think she is, and she responded with:
How SWEET. Seriously. Although enticing, the likelihood of my becoming an Agatha, Willa or Edna is slim, but the point is- these few emails and the sentiment behind them will stick around for a very long time. That along with the prideful feeling that a seemingly insignificant reply can go a long way, and a lot can be learned. Let’s quickly review:
1. My grandmother’s grandmother had 29 for a phone number
2. There is a new, undiscovered Mt. Everest located in West Texas
3. Lady of Leisure can be abbreviated “L of L”
4. I am the favorite as eldest granddaughter
5. Probably I am poised to become the next Edna Ferber, who after looking it up wrote a book adapted for the movie “The Giant”, which I love
So, try it out. Try responding, or better yet- initiating. You never know where it can lead. Let me know how it goes.