My neighbors swore they were going to have to call an ambulance each time they saw me zip past their house almost 20 years ago. An active runner and hiker, I was determined not to let 35 extra pounds and an expanded circumference get in my way. Of course not. Neither would most of you. With the nesting complete – cozy flannel, vintage-style cowboy print sheets and dust ruffle, a pricy pale oak crib and changing table set from Bellini (thanks, Mom and Dad), disability paperwork from my office filed, the Lamaze classes under my loosened belt, I was ready to rumble – and especially determined not to waddle – if that was physically possible.

From 1988 to 1995, we lived in a historic district in Pasadena called Bungalow Heaven, the largest concentration of California Bungalows in the nation. The bungalows built in the ‘teens and 20s were known for their front porches, and indeed, our neighbors sat on them, on oak rockers, wicker chairs, and redwood benches. Community began on the front porch. Passer-bys exchanged hellos, whether they knew each other or not. Most likely they did. The Bungalow Heaven Neighborhood Association really brought us together; we met at the church up the road – with childcare provided, I now noted. House tours. Halloween parties. We often gathered at McDonald Park, a hilly, mostly barren expanse of land owned by a McDonald family from the area, who generously offered a matching fund to build a new climbing structure and build mature shades trees for a real park. We knew our neighbors for several blocks east and west, north and south to the busy East Orange Grove Boulevard where we lived in the semi-Colonial constructed in 1918 when the streets were only dusty roads - and certainly no paved sidewalks.

“It’s time for that baby,” Mrs. Cookie insisted one summer morning, remembering that my due date was June 25. Her nome de neighborhood was in honor of the Snickerdoodles she baked religiously and the kids and adults alike devoured. ”Here’s a couple cookies,” she said. “One for that handsome husband of yours.” Both cookies were quickly consumed before I circled back home. I blamed a couple of pounds on those buttery morsels, but that was half the fun of baby fat.

Soon, there’d be a little Waldow-Lutwak who would make a happy mess of his own cookies. We had hoped sooner, but it was already June 30. And I continued to wind around Chester and Hill and all the Pasadena streets with views of the San Gabriels. Depending on the time of day, I walked and saw the construction guys going off to their work sites, professors in Volvos racing to Claremont, downtown city planners hopping on the bus - years before the Goldline,  A wonderfully transitional area that was filled with caring families - young and old. New arrivals and some who had called this area home for over 40 years.

My first pregnancy at 38 was so welcomed. We were just about to embark on the rocky road of fertility treatments, but lucked out after we upped the sperm count. That handsome husband of mine was informed that he needed to put the brakes on bike rides. Hot testicles produce lazy-ass spermatozoa. (Old eggs were the other side of the equation, but that is another tale for another time.) Along the 40-week gestation adventure I was in one car accident on the freeway, a couple of slip-and-falls and a  broken chair which sent me to Labor and Delivery at Verdugo Hills Hospital in a comical panic. (And that is definitely a story for another time.) Our son - Geraldo Waldow - the working title with a journalism theme since my husband and I met as reporters at KPFK radio – was to be born in Glendale, a far cry from Cedars Sinai where one would expect a nice Jewish boy to make his first appearance - the hospital where my mother, my husband and I were delivered.

So I continued to walk, counting down the past-due days. Some neighbors joked that I was going to walk that 4.26 miles to the hospital….

But sorry to leave you hanging.  I need to walk right now on this Mothers’ Day in Beverly Hills. With new set of neighbors and sadly, no front porches, I still say hello to strangers, tourists, and occasionally, friends and the owner of the corner grocery store.

In the midst of this writing, I just received a sweet text from Ben from Chicago So, okay, I will finish.

He was two weeks late, and Dr. Nelson said we’d need to induce, although I went into labor just a little on my own just under the deadline. I’ll spare you the drama, but after  18 hours of labor, the perfect 7 lb. 9 ouncer made his first appearance in Glendale.

“Happy momma’s day” was the text that appeared in the voice bubble on my smartphone. At 8:57 a.m. the message was unexpected and uncharacteristically early for this perpetually late kid. That all I really need for Mothers’ Day. Now, I am going to walk.

Do you think they noticed me - waiting at the curb? OK, I’m wearing black jeans and a black cashmere sweater, but the natural canvas shopping bag I’m carrying is off-white. Valet attendants from Spago’s and Mastro’s zoom through the streets like it’s their personal Autobahn. Standing at Clifton Way and Crescent Drive – one of busiest residential intersections bordering the business district, I’m about to step into the crosswalk. Hey, I just need to pick up a couple of things at Whole Foods. I hold up my phone and wave it like a warning signal. If there is one intersection that could be upgraded with flashing lights embedded in the street, this is it. I avoid the other intersection down the street – Dayton and Crescent – where driver after driver goes the wrong way on the one-way street by Rite-Aid. Beverly Hills topped the state’s ranking for the number of vehicles hitting pedestrians per population July 2009 through July 2010, as I wrote about in beverlyhillspatch.com. What is the next step to make these streets safer?  

Oh my, those looks I received as I walked north on Rexford Drive to an event at the Beverly Hills Hotel tonight. Was it my fresh blow-out and natural color from Shades? Hope not. It’s such a thrill when I flip back my silky tresses. Maybe it was the fishnet stockings and Thierry Rabptin boots. It’s true about shoes. Italian leather is sexy. No doubt. But really! A car zips through the crosswalk as I stride across Sunset. A close call. Remember: Even if you walk, carry ID.  WWS Walking while sexy. Time for bed. Will walk in sweats tomorrow morning.

On the 1.24 mile walk back from my bi-annual teeth cleaning by Dr. Howard Richmond at Wilshire and La Cienega, I popped into a shop that has always been closed when I’ve strolled by other times. AFK – which stands for Art for Kids – sells fine furniture for children - manufactured relatively locally in Orange County (a story perhaps for Patch?), and there were signed and numbered prints of Barbie fashions by Robert Best. Small world incident Number 1 - having been on a first name basis with Barbie for almost 20 years at Mattel Toys. Switch gears, and on the wall were some awesome authentic bugs framed in elegant shadow boxes. What better choices for art for children’s rooms than Barbies and bugs! Better yet, I was inspired to frame our collection of vintage plastic soldiers and sell as art! (Let’s see what else I can add to the already full plate, but creating and selling can be a productive diversion. Does Etsy beckon?)

Heading east onto Clifton Way back home, I fell into step with a salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman dressed in black, wool scarf and all. Was I in New York? After a friendly greeting, how could I not start chatting even with him while juggling my reference notes for the social gaming/”gaming for good”proposal for digital dollhouse in one hand and phone in the other?

He was in the area while waiting for his car that was being serviced. Why is this often the only time we explore other neighborhoods? Or even our own backyards. We agreed, for many, it’s true. And he quickened his pace to keep up with me. Deadlines beckon!

Long story short: he was the retired head of marketing and publications for UCLA and former boss of my favorite instructor at UCLA Extension. Tiny world example Number 2. Taking it one step further: his wife promotes luxury travel. Do I ever write travel? Luxury? But of course. I travel - by foot - in Beverly Hills.

Finally I am doing this and I helped promote it on Patch.

After announcements at 9:30 a.m., an anticipated 250 participants will leave Pershing Square promptly at 10 a.m., heading straight west to Santa Monica along our famed boulevard. Estimated time of arrival is about 4 p.m with a celebration at Border Grill Santa Monica. Rain or shine.

 Meet up with the trekkers anywhere along the great wide way. The fleet of feet should hit the Beverly Hills pavement at about 1:45 pm after the lunch break at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). (I’m not sure if they’ll have time to make a cocktail stop at our own The Boulevard while working their way west. Maybe on the way home.)

The pedestrian adventure returns to Wilshire after  exploring other cross-town consourses in previous years. At just 15.6 miles, this is the shortest they’ve ever organized. The first with rain in the forecast, so dress for comfort and the weather.

The walk’s main man is journalist and Franklin Avenue blogger Michael Schneider. He was moved to create the walks after reading the book Wilshire Boulevard: Grand Concourse of Los Angeles by Kevin Roderick (with research by J. Eric Lynxwiler.)

What’s their agenda? Simple: Walk (it’s not a race or walk for any cause) for the love of L.A. and all of the towns — like our own Beverly Hills — neighborhoods and districts in-between. Follow their Twitter to see their progress

Catching the sights at sidewalk level at a somewhat leisurely pace is the ultimate eco-way to see L.A.

The Great Los Angeles Walk 2010 is absolutely free, but make sure to bring money for lunch (gourmet food trucks near LACMA or the museum cafeteria or bring your own.) Sign up and check out frequently asked questions at their site.

What’s the smartest way to get to the start? Leave the car at home, and take the bus. Newbie bus riders should allow for a little extra time. Join me around 8:15 am at the southeast corner of Beverly Drive and hop on the MTA’s 20/720 bus; the header reads Commerce Center, driving east on Wilshire Boulevard. Our stop is 6^th Street/Hope Street and Grand Avenue - exit the back door – with a short walk to Pershing Square (6^th and Olive.) $1.50 each way. Exact change, please. Catch the same bus east to get back home.

So go on down the boulevard – the green way — with some of your new best friends on Saturday. It’s great walk!

Can you walk and laugh at the same time. Of course you can. View this - you’ll be linked over to YouTube - but come on back.  Just watch out when you chew gum.

I heard Dr. Susan Love speak last week at the Beverly Hills speakers forum about her Army of Women and how they are seeking to recruit one million women for research. That’s not so funny, although Dr. Love has a great sense of humor. She did made a big point that daily exercise - the breaking-a-sweat kind - is crucial to good health and keeping those awful cancer cells at bay. They loved the idea of NetWalkers!

Just a wish. But just imagine. Just bike riders and walkers. One our favorite green writers has the same dream: http://greenlagirl.com/celebrate-world-carfree-day-tomorrow/

Yep. My car has been in the driveway - all day and will remain all night. I walked this morning with our NetWalkers & Co. | Troop 90210 friends and throughout the day, I’ve been writing The Green Files about a waste-free lunch. That’s done. And editing the uSamp newsletter. That’s done. I am still aglow about my online portfolio from popslice: http://ellenlutwak.popslice.com/ Now I need to look around my 1-mile radius and see who I can work for in the neighborhood - and walk to work. Let me know who you know!

It doesn’t take long at all. After a few morning walks when your time is your own and a pay check is occasional, you start to recognize our city’s street regulars. The silent hipster ever attired in a beret and black winter jacket even in the heat of summer — as dark as the shadows where he sits. The immodest athlete in sports bra and bike shorts, be-bopping as she cycles and sings and circles the Flats.

And Mohammed. I’ve been told he’s been seen embarking on a bus with his wheel chair under his arm, but whenever we cross paths, he’s always ensconced in a simple chair, cup in hand. Unexpectedly cheery. My son never let station or situation stop him from speaking to strangers despite the D.A.R.E. sessions at El Rodeo. How he got to know Mohammed, I still don’t know. “He’s not homeless. He teaches me things. He’s a good man,” the kid tells me. And how I decided to trust him as well, I don’t know. Maybe it was utter desperation mixed with fear and sadness that I turned to Mohammed for answers. Will my son end up on the street if he fails another class or comes home at 3 in the morning bruised after being battered in a mosh pit or … who knows what. (At least, he is still working on his Eagle Scout, I comfort myself.) After one such conversation when I saw him at his regular spot on the corner of Rodeo and Brighton, Mohammed scribbled his phone number on a torn-off corner of scrap paper. “Have your young man call me. I’ll tell him what he needs to know,” he said.

Today, there he was again, certainly not on the list of attractions touted by the Beverly Hills’ Visitors’ Bureau. With cup in hand about to ask for something from another stranger, he recognized me. “How’s our young man?” he asks. With my own mix of feelings as a newly minted empty-nester, I answer mostly enthusiastically with some relief. “He’s good; he’s in college. In Chicago,” I say. “Aw right! Give me a hug,” he shouts. And in turn I bend over and get a warm hug from Mohammed. From the stranger. The con in a chair, perhaps, but right now, the good man. Who worried about a kid in Beverly Hills and his mom. “Thanks. It’s expensive,” I say, making that universal sign for money. Mohammed nodded his head. He understood. And today he didn’t ask for anything. Except for a hug.

Someone could get killed. From July 2009 to July 2010, 73 people were hit by cars in Beverly Hills. And with that, the city boosting Niketown and Jimmy Choo was bestowed the dishonor of being ranked number one in the state for the number of vehicles hitting pedestrians per population, according to the BHPD Motor Sgt. Brad Cornelius. Not something to write home about. Especially when your home is Beverly Hills. The findings received page 4 coverage in the Beverly Hills Courier which headlined the story “Motorists Caught in Web of BH Police Sting.” Ah, poor motorists. The news here is that our traffic officers stationed at the corner of Wilshire and Palm issued 53 citations in less than two hours to drivers who didn’t stop when someone - like your kid or your mother or me or you - was walking in a crosswalk. Here we are encouraging you to hit the sidewalks, and - watch out - we’re getting hit!

So what are we going to do about it? To start, spread the word. Get vocal. We suggested to the City Council that they encourage residents to walk to the big foodie soiree on 9-02-10. Let’s see what happens. We forwarded the link https://californiawalks.org/Home.html to one of our school board members. How will the board support walk to school? Get a group of friends and neighbors together like our @NetWalkers90210. Do an article for The Green Files for http://beverlyhills.patch.com More signage. How about more enforcement of the Cell Phone law. Become active in Streetsblog Los Angeles http://la.streetsblog.org/

Admittedly, the issue is a two-way street: pedestrians need to be careful as well. You know about looking both ways before you cross the street. Fahged about it! Take a second look at this one-time sage advice. Look both ways times two. Make eye contact with the driver. Don’t think that because you’re in a crosswalk you’re safe. Au contraire, mon ami. According to Sgt. Cornelius, you need to exercise even greater caution because those lines on the asphalt are just that, painted lines, and it gives people a false sense of security. Less accidents actually happen at unmarked intersections. Stop the texting. Hold that call. And speaking of calls, tell us about your close calls. Or have you stopped counting?

Hey, is anyone out there angry about this? Let us know.