Obviously my tears not about the pet friends in the videos.
It’s a funny thing, life is… all the arbitrary ways we feel so beautifully loved, & the bizarre ways with which we can make others feel the same. This is what life is about… Isn’t it?
I’m frantically struggling to type a two-handed text out whilst balancing my clutch under one arm, and trying not to break too much of a sweat in the sweltering humidity all at the same time, as I heel-toe stride across the top side of Sydney’s iconic Archibald Fountain, hoping I’m not too late. If there is one thing I have learned about Barrister Charles Waterstreet, it is that he keeps a schedule of his own and to no one else’s. It isn’t rude, it simply is. With his biopic hit show still running, Charlie, as I’ve come to adore calling him, is not your average lawyer.
With letting those informational seeds go, my attention turned to my blog – my content had become so serious as the realities in my life in this era are all, very serious. I wanted something light and positive to write about, but I would really have to dig for that subject matter… BAM! My phone started ringing. It was Jeremy’s photo and name, but when I answered, it was a woman. “Hi, this is Jeremy’s wife,” she said.
Like an endless stream of girl’s date nights, she spoiled me always, and most often in the chunks of contracts when she lived in LA. I’d stay up to the wee hours of morning making a Disney Princess-esque mess of her various apartments as I tried on every piece of clothing, accessory and makeup she owned, building grandiose ensembles and snapping away Polaroids like I was Cher in Clueless. And she never got angry with me for it… She’d pass out somewhere along the evening, even if I was on whatever fancy new piece of workout machinery she’d had delivered.
For a number of reasons lately I’ve been spending a lot of time on the Central Coast streets I grew up being driven through and beaches I grew up running around on, with a lot of the very same people who were with me, sharing in those times… Both young and old, blood relation or not, combined these people are the reasons I am the woman that I am today.
Post-9/11 explains so many annoyances of my life – I mean it’s the most alluded to fear-mongering event in my generation, like Vietnam or the Kennedy Assassination are for my parents’, or the Great Wars for my grandparents… Defining moments in history that changed life as everyone knew it. However, I don’t think 9/11 deserves such power.
‘Cause I was gonna be your forever,
You were gonna be my wife.
We didn’t know any better,
Didn’t have a clue about life.
But I was what you wanted, you were what I needed,
And we could meet in between.
We were gonna be the greatest love story this town had ever seen…
“Isn’t it weird how everyone says ‘congratulations’ when they find out you’re getting married?” my childhood best friend asked me, after congratulating me. “I mean, it isn’t like I did something special, or achieved anything?”
“Yeah, so weird,” I agreed. “If anything I feel like saying, ‘Congratulations to me? No, no, congratulations to you! Now that I’m getting married I expect I’ll be less of a bitch.’”
The next thing everyone wants to know of course, is how he did it.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to edit the story of how we met for our friends and family to read on The Knot… Especially since the man I’m marrying is the son of a son of son of a son of a preacher man. No, I didn’t repeat myself, his father is literally the third generation of preacher men. (Is that the correct plural – like saying “Priai,” in LA speak?)
The last blog post I did was a year ago, and it was all about how I decided involving myself with another human – even by the loose means of casual dating – was too much work. So what’s kept me so annoyingly busy? Well, of course irony has. Not a week after I posted Calling In The One, I flew out to be an old flame’s wedding date & came home as his girlfriend.
With the drop of the bouquet I was, (dun-dun-dun)… In a relationship.
That significance being a very true peace that came over me in seeing this kind of love existing around me even as I consciously continue to reject it... There was a comfort in knowing that others are carrying the torch (& the burden) while I remain cocooned in my own space & time resisting the foggy & dull idea of being (dun-dun-dun)… In a relationship.
Dear Missed Connections – to the couple who kissed in the West Hollywood doorway at Norah tonight… Thank you.
Here I was now, examining my bloody hand in the low, glowing yellow light of the street lamps trying to determine if it was worth a Lyft ride to the ER for sutures. My Marine First Aid Officer training (that is a certificate, not a government armed force, just to clarify,) lead me to determine it was an abrasion, maybe even laceration, but it didn’t matter the difference because neither could be sewn back together for quicker healing. It’s safe to say that I have set myself back much further than an extra 15 or 20 minutes…
“Well, I am wearing the same clothes I have been for 2 days now when my luggage went to Texas without me, have about 14% of my voice left, am slightly concerned I'm pregnant by a 24-year-old & I need a job... I am fucking fantastic, thank you for asking! How are you?!”
I responded to yet another Tinder-defending text message as (illegal) fireworks went off above Sunset Boulevard, but I kept walking away in the steady knowing that There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind… And there out of the darkness, one of them arrived.
The truth is, every time I meet a man that I have chemistry with, my mind goes into what could be… I find it a truly liberating experience of positivity because it doesn’t come from a “crazy” begging-to-be-filled void, but rather, an inspiring option for building something greater than either of us could alone. I mean, imagine it for a moment that this person truly wants to create a life with you, even if just for a little while – what beauty or change could we mold... How much easier could it be to reach higher... No hold’s barred… What could it mean to try?
Two years ago I was on a soul-searching, summer solo road trip through Middle America… I was looking for the happy version of myself, which I had evidence enough to believe existed, even if it had become a bit of a tall-tale by that point, when he asked me to dance on the edge of the floor at Legend’s Corner in Nashville. We watched the next 3 sunrises together.
After swapping things car to car in the parking lot post Patys breakfast, my Mom & I hugged goodbye. I made it halfway across the street before turning back, tears swelling in my eyes as the words left my mouth, “Mama, I’ve been trying to talk myself out’ta this, but I need to say it just so I know I said it…”
There is sorcery in this space – this bubble of fearless acceptance, that can’t entirely be explained in words – it is the same feeling I have had in the most spiritual places in the world.
I was 17 the first time I clerked at a polling station – partly because I got the day off school to do so, plus extra credit in Mr. Snively’s American History class, & partly because I knew that I didn’t yet comprehend how remarkable it is that we have the right.
The distinctive seatbelt ding of FlightTrackPro informed me your plane left the ground the very second the little green light of my hotel room door clicked open - our cosmic timing again tied together, albeit crossing opposing thresholds into very different & very distant, spaces. You hadn’t responded to my text, not because you didn’t have the time, but because you continually want to remain aloof & show that you are indifferent to me.
That is, if Scott’s mother refused to relinquish subliminal control over my days, my choices and my womb. The irony to me has always been that had she just let go a little - I would have given her the best of what she desired & more... If only she had let it be my choice to make.
“So what was Hobart like?” he asked me once we settled into our balance on the trapezes, headed straight out to Mother Pacific in the exact opposite direction of the above mentioned sail.
“It changed who I am,” I replied, and then it was quiet, other than the wind.
When people discuss the Nor-Cal/SoCal Feud, my defense remains that San Fran is a segregated city where cultures choose to remain in the locales of their own comfort zones whereas in LA, we tend to pierce one another’s social circles daily - crashing into plans & other’s ways of doing things relentlessly.
I was a teenager when I started going out in the city & every chance I got, I'd suggest we wander by The Standard on Sunset Blvd to catch a glimpse of The Box Girl on display for the night.
In my unyielding desire to absorb as much of god’s amazing world as I can - those breathtaking things that are both beautiful & horrific – I asked to join Scott at the weekly NA meeting where he stands as secretary. I wanted to understand more of addiction, a plague that I believe is entirely within our control to be abolished, but also recognize, not until we understand the in’s & out’s of it’s creation.
I hadn't see him in 25 years when he walked into the bar - & would’ve continued through life never knowing the difference, if our childhood friend hadn’t died.
Most people wouldn’t put working in oil & gas on one’s resume as the build-up to be the Secretary of the Interior - that is, the President’s cabinet position which oversees the protection of the United States’ national parks, fish & wildlife, land reclamation & Indigenous American affairs…
…Where the gun play ring all day… Some got jobs & some sell yay, others just smoke & fuck all day… I have spent one night in St. Louis, Missouri – & it happened to be the first Ferguson Riots.
I recently gave notice at the upscale, corporate clothing store I’ve been working at the past few months in Beverly Hills, but not without doing my best to make the higher-up’s know exactly why.
After standing in the small, dimly lit room at the top of the stairs for a moment, the bed slid back and a secret door appeared; the pretend whore winked at me when we caught eyes and as we made our way down the dark stairwell below I could feel the surprising, lapping waters of a confused memory arriving, like the unnerving forewarning of a flashflood.