I've finally decided my future lies beyond the yellow brick road

I've been thinking about my New Years Resolutions for several days, but try as I might I can't write about my resolutions without writing about all that has happened in the past year. How can we look forward without first learning from our past?

In another life I was a Certified Family Law Paralegal. I was really good at it and the certification was something I worked very hard to achieve. I wanted to be a lawyer. I studied for the LSAT. I worked for several years at something that I didn't really believe I was smart enough to accomplish and every time I reached a new milestone I wondered how I'd managed it. I figured I was just doing a really good job of fooling everyone. I felt like a fraud. Only one person in my life saw me as I saw myself. She was a lawyer in the office where I worked, a bitter woman who, whenever I asked her a question, would snort and say, "It's a good thing you're pretty." Like I said, she saw right through me.

It turns out she and I were both wrong. That's probably the most important thing I'm taking away from 2009. This was the year that I learned I'm smart. I've spent my entire life believing that I'm pretty, but I'm not very smart, so being pretty is the best quality I have. The very best thing about me is the way that I look. My favorite feature's are my eyelashes and my feminine little feet, but I also like how long my nail-beds are and the way my bellybutton is shaped. Never in a million years would I ever tell you that I like my sense of humor or that my favorite feature is the part of me that loves doing math problems.

That's kind of messed up, I realize. But this year I realized it. I became aware of it. That's pretty awesome.

This year I learned that the way I look doesn't actually mean anything. It doesn't matter. It's an accessory. I don't have to play dumb anymore. It isn't endearing or cute or funny and it doesn't feel good. I also learned a lot about my priorities. I learned what I will and won't do for my career. I learned that it's wonderful to make plans and it's wonderful for those plans to change. I learned that what I want will always grow and change because as I reach my goals they will undoubtedly shape-shift and that is the nature of the beast. That is being human.

This year was the year Mike worked his way onto the Deans List with a 4.0 GPA. He finished thirty-four credits and will be eligible for his AA by the end of summer 2010. He became a New York City Emergency Medical Technician. He unearthed all our art supplies and discovered a gift for painting and woodcarving. He spent twenty-one days hiking the JMT with his brother.

This year we learned how to be a family. We learned how to be our own, unique, special, crazy little family. We started talking about babies this year. It's still a ways off, for a variety of reasons, but for the first time in our six-year relationship we're on the same page about babies.

This year we began to explore parts of the City we'd never seen and in doing so, discovered a city we fell madly in love with. This was the year that I found space to stretch out and practice yoga. I rediscovered my love of writing. My blog went from being a place where I whined and ranted and wrote silly things I didn't really care about to being a place where I found peace and solace and comfort and joy.

This was the year I learned how much I love my extended family; my wonderful siblings and my parents, my niece, my nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles. I realized how important my roots are, and how much I have to learn about Michael's roots. I learned that I have a support group in my family; a pep squad and a team of coaches. That even when we make mistakes and hurt each other and get angry we still love one another and we are still a family.

This year I wanted a white Christmas and I got two.

The most memorable moment was when Mike said this is the year he's been happier than he's been in his entire life.

This year I fell in love with my life.

I'm really excited about the new year.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Apple Pie

Created from scratch,

by yours truly

~~~

And how was your Thanksgiving?

I took a hundred photos today. I'm only posting three.

Good morning, Mama!

Dopey's back seat. That pizza? It's three days old.

(She's going to kill me.)

Homecoming: August 7, 2009

Back from left: JD, Andrew, George, Chris, Arthur

Front from left: Dori, Kev, Me, Kelsey

8/7/09

Late Night

And then there are these guys:

Best friends since childhood, the two I haven't lost track of. Seeing them again was like grabbing hold of a piece of my past, clutching it to my chest, burying my nose in old memories and breathing deep.

Like no time has past at all, we reunited and laughed and told stories and opened our hearts and still, despite all that has changed in our lives, they are my brothers.

(The gorgeous blonde on the right is Kevin's girlfriend. She's funny, smart, beautiful, wonderful. He's a lucky man, he is. And he knows it.)

8/5/09 - 8/6/09

Lunch with babes

Meet Michelle and Noah:

Michelle was one of my closest friends in high school, but because she was two grades above me, she was also my mentor. She's still a friend and mentor, she has given me career advice countless times, she's referred me to voice teachers and pianists, she's the reason I decided to focus on theatre in college, in fact, she was a big part of why I moved to New York. She has always inspired me and encouraged me. She cuts a path and I follow behind and a little to the left, tramping on my own weeds along the way.

Michelle is the first of my high school friends to have a baby.

I met Noah in May of '08, when he was only a few weeks old. When I saw Mich this month, she told me that of everyone in her life, my reaction to meeting Noah was the best reaction of all. Mike and I had gone over to Michelle's for dinner and as soon as her husband opened the front door and I saw her with a baby in her arms, I burst out in loud, hysterical sobs.

I ugly cried.

Face contorted, snot pouring down into my mouth, the whole thing. I cried so hard I was practically screaming. The kind of crying where you can't catch your breath and so make horrible, terrible, choking, gasping sounds. Mich started laughing and Mike was completely stunned and Mich's husband, Tim, went and hid in the kitchen. Which is fair, because I was acting like a lunatic and he'd never met me, so for all he knew my head was about to explode all over his living room walls. He didn't want to get any blood on his sweater and I respect that.

I immediately excused myself, ducked into the bathroom, pulled myself together, washed my face, and tried again. I walked back into the living room, took one look at Michelle and Noah, and started sobbing again.

Why? It's hard to explain. It's just that she looked so beautiful. And Noah was so small and perfect. And the whole scene was so surreal and incredible and one of those moments when you know life is changed forever in a wonderful, miraculous, mind-blowing way. And also? I want a baby so bad I spend all my time watching live birthing videos on YouTube.

Let's pretend I did not just write that on the Internet.

So Michelle and Tim had me over for lunch on Wednesday, and this time I did not bawl like a madwoman. But when Mich asked Noah, "What sound does a snake make?" and he put his little tongue between his little teeth and went, "Ssssssssssss", I choked back tears. He's incredible. Even when he threw a temper tantrum my uterus did back flips. I just wanted to squeeze him and bury my face in his neck and eat him. I spent the whole afternoon with my hands over my mouth so that I would not lose control and bite into one of his scrumptious little thighs.

Mmmmmm. Babies.

8/5/09

Max the Dog

My friend B.J. (his last name is Serviss. I'm not joking.) has a dog named Max:

B.J. and his wife, Kat, adopted Max from a local adoption group. They were in love with him before he even came home and they made sure that he had all the accouterments he could possibly need to live a comfy, suburban life. They bought him a dog bed for every room of their house, installed a doggy door, bought plenty of toys and raw hides, got him a water fountain drinking bowl, even a food dish that automatically fills at 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day, so that no matter what they were up to, Max would always get fed on time.

About a week after they adopted him, B.J. and Max were out for a walk when a neighbor decided to use his leaf-blower. The sudden loud noise frightened Max and he reared back, pulling his head out of his collar. Before B.J. could grab him, Max ran off down the street. B.J. took off after him, calling frantically, but the dog was too fast. My friend watched, horrified, as Max darted across a heavily trafficked street, dodging cars. And after that? There was no sign of him at all.

B.J. ran back to his house and loaded his pockets with treats and squeaker toys, called in sick to work, then went out again to canvass his neighborhood. With his heart in his throat he walked the streets calling out to Max, begging him to come home. After more than three hours of fruitless searching, B.J. went home to make the dreaded 'Lost Dog' flier. As he sat down at his computer he heard Max's dog bowl ding, then the soft shuffle of kibble being dropped into the bowl. The realization that his sweet dog wouldn't be home to eat dinner was too much for him, and he burst into tears. Then he heard the doggy door slap shut. He held his breath. It must've been his imagination. But then - the familiar click-click of Max's nails on the kitchen tile. B.J. rushed into the kitchen and there was Max, snarfing down dinner. Damn dog knew it was time to be fed and didn't want to miss a meal.

B.J. Serviss, Kat, Me

P.S. Max wears a harness now.

8/4/09

The Getty Villa and Mephistopheles

If you live in Los Angeles and you have not been to the Getty Villa in Malibu, you really ought to go. I'm not sure what it is, maybe it's that I'm lazy, or maybe it's because I have no soul, but I never really want to go to museums. I'm going to be perfectly honest here. I know that I should want to go to museums, but I'd actually rather sit at home with a good book, or a movie, or a cup of tea and someone I love to talk with. However, when I force myself to go along with those I love to museums and what not, I always end up having a wonderful time. The Getty Villa was no exception.

The Villa houses Greek and Roman antiquities, and it is built exactly, to scale, in perfect reproduction, like the Villa dei Papyri, which was partially excavated in Herculaneum, a city buried under ash when Mount Vesuvius erupted in AD 79. While much of the Getty Villa is reproduced work, many of the items are actual antiquities. And everything is stunning. J. Paul Getty built it to house his collection of antiquities, and because he wanted modern people to have the opportunity to spend time in, and understand, what an actual Roman Villa would have been like.

Detail on a fountain

A very small example of how the walls

in an ancient Roman villa would have been decorated.

An actual lily pad excavated from Herculaneum.

(Lie.)

The day was sunny and breezy and perfectly lovely. It helped that the company was so fantastic.

Most of the kids and all of the grand kids. (So far.)

Then, of course, no visit home would be complete without some snuggle time with my favorite reptile. Meet Mephistopheles:

If only he knew how much I miss him.

Oh! How unrequited love burns!

Mephistopheles was the very first gift ever given to me by my husband. Only at the time, he wasn't my husband, not even my boyfriend. It was the fall of 2000, and Mike knew I'd dreamt of having a pet ball python for years. When he gave me Meph, the snake could barely curl 'round my neck. Now? Now he's over five feet of gorgeous, scaly perfection. We could not figure out how to safely bring him across the country to New York, so we left him in the care of our very dear friend Cade. And Cade has taken wonderful care of him! And, hey! If you ever feel like taking a road trip across the country and bringing Meph along, I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE HIM BACK. (And I think Cade would love to give him back.)

Have you ever seen something so

gorgeous in your entire life?

8/2/09

Good Morning, George! Happy Birthday!

Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie

Kissed the girls and made them cry

When the boys came out to play

Georgie Porgie ran away

That is what I used to say to my friend George whenever I called him or saw him or hugged him. Until about a month ago when I thought about it for a second and realized it actually isn't a very nice nursery rhyme. That Georgie Porgie guy is kind of douche nozzle. And my friend George? He's anything but.

George and I have known each other since the 3rd grade and I like to tell people that I spent a lot of time that year bouncing basketballs off of his head. For fun. But actually? I did that in 7th grade. When I knew better. My next memory of George is when he showed up on the first day of school in tenth grade with a present he'd brought back for me from his summer abroad in Greece. It was a t-shirt with dirty words on the front. My father hated it. I wore it to school once and got in trouble. I wish I still had it because I could totally get away with it now.

George is the kind of friend who, when you are ill with food poisoning, will drive over to your apartment with 7-Up and toilet paper and feed you chips of ice and hold a cold cloth to your feverish head and assure you that you are actually not dying. If ever you feel like you're losing your shit and you think the world is caving in and you are ready to give up, George is the friend who will firmly tell you to calm the f*ck down because you are not losing your shit, the world is not caving in, and when all is said and done you will be stronger and happier than you've ever been. And you believe him because he sounds so sure of you. George is the kind of friend who brings you souvenirs when he goes on vacation and burns you CD's of your favorite songs and lets you put labels on all of his belongings, just because he knows it makes you laugh. He's the kind of friend who will plan a birthday party for you that involves a trip out of town to a place you've never been, all your friends in tow, and money to spend while you're there. And he'll even invite your jerk-off boyfriend who he (rightly) can't stand. George is loyal and kind, funny and smart, and he stands up for himself. When things go wrong, he makes you talk it out and if you lie and pretend like everything is ok, he knows you're lying and convinces you that he will still love you, love you even more actually, if you'll just tell the truth.

George moved to New York in 2005. When I moved to the city in 2007, he met me at the airport, even though he didn't have a car and had to ride twelve different trains and spend a million dollars to do it, he met me at the airport and spent my first weekend in the city with me, so I wouldn't be afraid. I can be a big scaredy cat sometimes, but George is the kind of person who encourages bravery. So he met me at the airport and spent the weekend with me and bought me a subway map and showed me all around town. We rode the Staten Island Ferry and said hello to Lady Liberty. We wandered around the East Village with a freezing wind that blew like hot sand in our faces. He took me to Grand Central Station, made me keep my eyes closed until we were standing in the very middle of the action so that I would be surprised when I saw the gorgeous lights and constellations on the ceiling of that truly grand train station. He spent the whole weekend with me despite the fact that my bathtub was in the kitchen and the toilet was in a small closet next to the bed, the door nothing more than a set of venetian blinds. (YAY FOR NEW YORK APARTMENTS.) On subsequent weekends he took me to see live bands and he showed me around Long Island and took me to dinner and when I went back to Los Angeles to get my husband, George stored all my crap, ALL MY CRAP, in his bedroom for two weeks until I could move it into my new apartment, so that I wouldn't have to pay for storage.

These things are but a fraction of the things George will do to show his love. He is a remarkable man. A man who goes above and beyond to take care of the people he loves. If you know George, if you have the opportunity to become his friend, you are blessed.

I am blessed.

George, Happy Birthday. I love you forever.

Kiss Goodbye

Writing this on July 30, for a photo that was taken 7/25/09. It was the only photo I took that day and Mike will probably be annoyed I'm posting it, but what's a girl to do? I love that face so much, it's hard to find words to explain it.

Today we leave for California. We have two lovely women from Ohio staying in our apartment, taking care of the beasts, the worms, the little potted garden. We'll be staying with Mike's brother and his family for a couple of days and then Mike and his brother will start their near-300-mile journey along the John Muir Trail. It will be 23 days until I wake up and see that beautiful face on the pillow by mine. I am very much looking forward to his safe return.

Once Mike hits the trail, I head back to The Valley, to spend time with family and friends. I plan to keep up with Project 365+, taking photos every day. Wouldn't you know it though, my laptop is on the fritz, so I have no idea if I will be able to post while I'm gone. Check back periodically, but I can't promise I will post between now and August 10. Of course, that just means double the posts when I get back!

All of my love,

t.

7/25/09

Would you like some heavy sighs to go with that nostalgia?

Spent my yoga hour this morning pouring over old photo albums. Feeling so nostalgic I don't know what to do with myself. Is it because I'm on my way back to The Valley for a visit? Heading to the childhood homestead always brings up memories long forgotten. But if they've been forgotten, are they really memories?

Or maybe it's Jake.

My beloveds, circa 1995

(From left: Joe, Me, Jake, Rachelle, Michael, Anthony, Ty.)

My beloveds, circa 2008

(From left: Joe, Anthony, Jake, Michael, Me.)

Pieces of the puzzle.

The strangest part about losing Jake this past March, was that I had only just reconnected with him. When I flew to Seattle for Anthony's wedding in September, I hadn't seen any of my cousins in eight years. EIGHT. How did I let eight years go by without seeing people who I love so dearly, who I treasure so? But that is how life works. We all let those eight years slip by. And then there I was, home with them again, and it was as if no time had passed at all. It was just me and my cousins, my best friends, the people who I love like no other, they share my blood, those beautiful, wonderful men. And I thought to myself, every moment that I spent with them those three days, I thought: Never again. Never again will I let so much time pass. Never again will I lose touch with these, my blood and soul.

Six months later to the day, Jake was gone. All of the visions I had of us as old people, our grand babies on one another's knees, telling stories of the past to our children of the future, all those visions changed. Jake was gone. Jake was part of the past. That was it. One last hurrah and he was gone.

Here I am, getting sentimental. Blabbering on and on and on. Forgive me.

So I'm gearing up for another trip home, this time to my California home, to see my other boys. Only, they are men now. And they are mostly strangers.

These were the boys who helped form me. My chosen cousins. The ones who were there when my blood-related were too far north. But then life happened and we've all gone different ways and most of them lost track of me or I lost track of them and it doesn't really matter because I don't know where they are or what they're doing or how to find them. And if I found them? I wouldn't know what to say.

Is that what nostalgia is? Grieving for the past? Childhood gone? Remember when we felt so young and strong and full of ourselves? Remember when we were so sure of who we were and how our lives would go? Remember holding on to each other, laughing, wind in our hair, cigarettes dangling from baby lips, so sure we'd be like this forever? How could we ever be any other way?

George looked the oldest of all of us. I don't know how old he was when he started smoking, but he was the reason we all kept up with him. No one ever carded that face for cigarettes, which kind of amazes me because, underneath all that burly man-fur is the babiest of faces. Greek God in training.

Of everybody, of every friend I've ever had, George's is the most consistent face in the albums. He has always been there, we have been through our share of shit that is for sure, but he has always been there.

Dave and me, Vice Versa, junior year. We thought we were the hottest kids in town. The cats pajamas, were we. We spent the weeks leading up to the dance on the phone every night talking about what we were going to wear. My dress was black velvet, his vest was red velvet. He found me a corsage with red and black roses. He introduced me to Nine Inch Nails. He made me the star in the slasher films he shot in his mom's garage. I thought I'd always be the star of his movies. What happened to those children who loved each other so much? Where did we go?

The first day of school, senior year. Check out my drivers side back tire. I drove all the way to school like that, drove all my friends out to lunch, and didn't even notice I had a flat until I was on my way home that afternoon. That car was dubbed 'The Go-Cart' by Josh, because of the way it sounded when I drove it. One day I dropped it off for an oil change and when I picked it up, my mechanic was flushed and restraining his voice as he tried not to scream at me. The sound? The go-cart sound? That was my radiator, hanging by a thread. The damage that was done to it told a story of months of neglect. You can tell why it's a good thing I no longer own a car.

My high school sweetheart. First love. I thought I was going to marry that guy, probably until my second year in college. Somehow, we've always kept in touch. When he was in the city last winter, he called me up and we met for drinks. I still have the locket he gave me for Christmas senior year. It still has his photo in it. A relic of olden times.

Oh, Kevin! WHAT DID YOUR MOTHER THINK? Vice Versa. I rebelled against my broken heart by going with a girl. Actually, it was the four of us girls, pictured here. I think the boys were secretly hurt that we hadn't asked them to be our dates, but we were on a rampage. MEN WERE THE ENEMY. We girls were at Jenny's house (she's the pretty redhead) getting ready for the dance when all the boys showed up with red roses. We chided them for crashing our Girls Only party and kicked them out. Heartless, heartless girls, were we. Kevin was the only boy from our group who made it to the dance that year, some girl from someone else's clique asked him as her date. And he got all four of us to pose with him for a photo, which I'm going to bet made the other boys, the ones left at home, very jealous.

George and Nathan. This was taken at my 18th surprise birthday party. Nathan, Nathan, good old reliable Nathan. Whatever happened to Nathan? I adored him so. I named my pet rat after him. (I considered that a compliment.) Biology was my favorite class sophomore year because I shared it with George and Nathan. I went through a Super Christian phase junior year and made it my mission to "save" Nathan. (I know. It's offensive even to me.) So, I'm going to save Nathan, I honestly can't remember why I thought it was Nathan who needed saving, but he goes along for it. Every Sunday I drive over to his house and pick him up in my Volvo and he says goodbye to his mom and she says, "Got your wallet? Got your keys? Got your smokes?" and I drive him to Christian Youth Group where he sits, a very patient Jewish boy, in a circle on the floor of the church singing Beatles' songs, holding my hand.

What happened to Nathan? Where are you, Sweet? What do you remember that I've forgotten?

My first memory of Kevin is of him accidentally elbowing me in the face, and when I started yelling about it, he stuffed my head in his armpit and started wailing, "OH NO I BONKED YOUR MELON!" Over and over again until the tears streaming down my face were from laughter. A few years later he was asking me to prom on Valentine's Day, while trying to stick his hand up my skirt. He did not succeed with my skirt, but I did say yes to prom. His parents bought us swing dancing lessons and for six weeks before the dance I showed up at his mother and father's house in those hooker shoes and practiced swing dancing with them. On prom night, we were the best dancers on floor.

And shall I address the fact that his pants are around his ankles? Or should I just let you invent a story for that?

My best friends. Senior Prom. From left: Nathan, Russ, Me, George, Kev, Josh and Tomi. My blood-brothers. We were going to be like family forever. I really believed that. Did they? Or did they know better? Did they know it was just temporary? That life would happen and we would go our separate ways? We didn't mean for it to work out that way, but we were children and then one day we weren't anymore. Sometimes I wish I could close my eyes and be there again, just for a minute, to soak it all up. Breathe it in, relish it, then tuck it away in my pocket, take it out later and admire it. My childhood. My own little men. My first loves. There is so much I don't remember. Small things that slipped through the cracks, things I imagine are shining like jewels just beyond my reach.

Our whole lives ahead of us and nowhere to go but up.

7/24/09

This counts. IT COUNTS.

Adam took this photo so technically it doesn't count. Technically. But I've never been a very technical person and this photo so perfectly captures my absolute favorite moment of this day, more so than any photo I took.

Our first two years in this city were so hard. A hardness I couldn't have prepared for, a hardness that we're both still not sure how we managed to survive. I know I can speak for Mike when I say we both felt isolated, terribly alone, out of place. We worked our tails off to make a cruddy rat-hole a cozy home, but we didn't have a family to share it with. Yes, we had each other and our animals, thank goodness. But, and I can't speak for Michael on this, I am used to having a huge family of relatives and friends that I can surround myself with at any time of day or night. But in New York? There wasn't anyone.

Yet.

It takes a long time to forge the kinds of relationships that become like family, whether you are blood related or not. That was not something I understood until I moved across the country. It has really helped that Adam, one of my very closest chosen family members, moved here in September. But it has also helped that we've been here a while and the people who were strangers two years ago, are friends we've known for two years now.

Lately I just haven't felt so alone. Or isolated. And certainly not out of place. Our shiny, new apartment is almost always full of people, laughter, and music. Cocktails flow freely and the food is always delicious and we always stay up much later than we should. And I am so, so, so grateful for that.

I picked this photo because even I can see the happiness on my face here. Mike and I did not know the photo was being taken, so what's captured is a totally genuine moment. And I realize that it looks like I am strangling my husband, but really what I am doing is scratching under his chin, something that both of us think the other couldn't possibly love as much as we do. But we both love it. Oh, how we love it.

07.08.09

And his eyes were full of soul

When I was in college, I met this boy named Reynier. (Pronounced like ray-near.) He wore about a hundred friendship bracelets around each of his wrists, all frayed and faded, you could tell he'd been wearing them for years.  I always wondered: One from each of his friends? 

Reynier was beautiful. Soulful eyes, perfect skin, full lips, a little on the scrawny side, but still. I remember sitting with him at lunch - he was a vegetarian - talking about the difference between eating meat and eating vegetables. I'd be sitting there with my cheeseburger and he'd be eating a salad and he'd be saying, "Ugh. I just think meat is gross. It's all ... squishy. Vegetarian food is all vegetables; crunchy and fresh." 

And I'd argue, "Cake is vegetarian and squishy. Veggie burgers are vegetarian and squishy. Jell-O is vegetarian and squishy." 

"Jell-O has gelatin in it." 

"So?" 

"Gelatin is made from the hooves of dead horses." 

"..... WHAT?" 

"You didn't know that?" 

I haven't eaten Jell-O since.

Reynier was born and raised in New York City, a place I had never been to. I was born and raised in The Valley, my childhood home within walking distance of three malls. He didn't have a drivers license because he either walked or rode public transit everywhere he went - and no one thought he was weird, in New York. Even though I could have walked to any of the three malls near my home, I had a drivers license and a car because if I didn't? Everyone would have thought I was weird.

One day I was driving him to the supermarket and he said to me, "How many times have you been pulled over?" 

And I, thinking that he, being a public transit-using New Yorker, just thought that every L.A. driver got pulled over on a regular basis. And since I had never ever not once been pulled over, I thought that I would really impress him. Really boggle his mind. He'd have a new respect for me, a driver who had never been pulled over. "I've never been pulled over. Not once." Then I batted my eyelashes, to remind him how pretty I was.

"Really? That's weird. Because you drive like you're drunk."

Nowadays, Reynier is a Los Angelino and I am a New Yorker. Or on my way to becoming a New Yorker, at least. Once in a while one of us will catch the other one saying something on our respective blogs that is just outlandish and ridiculous, an all encompassing sterotypism of the city that the one is from and the other lives in. I'll say something like: "All New Yorker's are lazy! They have to have their groceries delivered!" 

And he'll respond, "I was born and raised in New York, you freak, and I never had my groceries delivered." 

And then he'll write on his blog, "Los Angelino's don't know how to drive in the rain!" 

And I'll respond, "Dude..... you're totally right." 

We've each left our homes, our families and our friends, and moved to the other's city to pursue our wild dreams. Reynier has worked tirelessly to push his directing career and make movies. Every time I hear from him he's writing, writing, writing, going to meetings, making pitches, shooting something. It's incredible. He's a powerhouse. I want some of him to rub off on me. And his hard work is paying off. Several years were spent on the film Replay, two of them on the festival circuit. Now, this multi-award-winning movie is available for your on-line viewing at www.stopchasingme.com. I highly recommend checking out the chronicles page, as soon as you're done watching the movie and telling your friends about it.

This short film is a thrill. The camera work is gorgeous, the editing is flawless, the score is stunning. And I can say I knew him when.

Consilio et animis, Reynier.

After brunch with friends.

Me: No, I was ready WAY before you.
Him: Um, whatever. I only got sidetracked because I was waiting for you.
Me: BUT I WAS READY TO GO.
Him: YOU'RE ALWAYS THE ONE WHO'S RUNNING LATE.
(Awkward pause.)
Me: We should stop arguing. We're making our friends uncomfortable.
Kevin: No, no. It's ok.
Me: Than why do you look so uncomfortable?
Beth: He always looks uncomfortable after he eats.

Eclair, anyone?

The other night I was invited to a pot-luck dinner party. I'm pretty shy, so I was a little nervous about going because, since Mike had to work, the only person I'd know at the party would be the hostess. When I arrived, I was greeted by a sign on her front door which read: "Let Yourself In!", so I did. I found all the party guests in the kitchen, gripping their bellies in laughter, captivated by a story being told by a pretty red-head. 

"... and I guess they were pretty drunk or whatever," she was saying, "and he missed, and she was all, 'GO AHEAD, I LIKE IT IN MY BUTT'!"

People were laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their faces.

"Wait! It gets better!" Her cheeks were pink with excitement. "Because then, they were totally going at it, and suddenly, SHE POOPS ALL OVER HIM!" That's when she noticed me hovering by the door, a tray of chocolate eclairs in my arms. 

"Oh my goodness, honey! I am so sorry. You must think I'm awful for telling such a story!" She looked genuinely embarrassed.

"Actually," I grinned, "I think I just fell in love with you."

To talk rapidly in a foolish or purposeless way.

There's this girl I know named Lana. She's a nice girl, very friendly, smart, talented. I met her through a friend and I liked her from the start. We exchanged email addresses and we've recently started hanging out.

The first couple of times we got together, we met up for coffee and our time was limited by the fact that I inevitably had another commitment that day, leaving us with only an hour or two to chat. I liked her so much that I invited her to a little gathering at my apartment with a few other friends. I baked cookies and served tea and coffee and it was really very lovely. Or at least it should have been.

You know that character on TV, the woman who can talk and talk and talk and talk and she won't notice if the person she's talking to is asleep, has left the room, or is dead? That's Lana. Every time anyone else tries to talk, she talks right over them. She's like a loud lawn mower and we are blades of grass. I don't think the girl breathes because that day she came over? I waited for her to take a breath so I could at least squeeze in an "Mmm hmm" and I never could. She told every single story she'd ever told me over coffee and when she got through those she told stories about hangnails and splinters and the time her cat hid under her bed. She told stories that ended in, "I'm not sure why I told you that, but it reminds me of this one time when..." and then she'd launch into another tale so boring I wanted to saw my ears off with a pair of rusty nail scissors. It would have been less painful than listening to her talk.

The get-together started at two and was supposed to end at five. I had made plans to meet Adam in Queens by seven. At 5:15 I started to fidget. My other guests were also beginning to fidget. At 5:25 I walked out of the room to answer a phone call and Lana, still talking, rolled her eyes in my direction as if she couldn't believe how rude I was being. At 5:45 I took my dogs for a walk. At 6:15 I cleared all the dishes and washed them. At 6:30 I cleaned up the living room. At 7:00, after I noticed that Joe had fallen asleep on my couch and Lana STILL hadn't shut up, I resigned myself to a life of endless one-way chatter and gave myself a pedicure. 

At 7:15 my friend Shannon left the room to use the bathroom (she couldn't politely excuse herself because there wasn't room in Lana's endless spewing of nonsensical words and boring stories to say even, "I have to pee, I'll be right back,") and when she did, I followed her and cornered her in the kitchen.

"WHY WON'T LANA SHUT UP?" I was more than a little freaked out by then.

"Dude. I don't know. She's awful. I'm starving. I've gotta get out of here."
"Yes! Please! Leave! I can't take it anymore! Take everyone with you!"
"HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO LEAVE WHEN SHE WON'T SHUT UP LONG ENOUGH FOR US TO SAY WE HAVE TO GO?"

Shannon had a point. "Maybe if you just gather up your stuff she'll get the hint?"

"Right. Because she got the hint so well when you cleaned your living room and trimmed your toenails."

But Shannon tried. She really tried and I could see that and it meant a lot. However, Lana did not get the hint. Everyone else, thanks to Shannon's cue, gathered up their things and made their way to the front door while I watched, in abject horror, as Lana followed them to the door and then stood in front of it, her body blocking the exit like a shield, so she could keep on talking. And talking. And talking. For another thirty minutes.

Then I thought, Hey! Maybe if I leave too, Lana will surely have to go! So I put on my coat and shoes and hat and gloves and reached around her, my hand grazing her behind, and opened the front door. She gave no indication of being aware that she might be in my way, but kept on talking. She did, however, grab her things and follow us out the door, and for that at least I was relieved. My plans with Adam might be ruined, but now I could spend the rest of my night in peace.

The group of us left my apartment building and everyone went their separate ways. Except Lana. Dear Lana. Lana stood next to me talking. And talking. I didn't actually have anywhere to go now, it was too late to go to Queens, but I didn't want her to follow me back into my building, so I walked to the drugstore. Maybe, I thought, I could at least get some errands done. Lana came with me. She followed me through the drugstore, in every aisle, yapping while I purchased toothpaste and floss. She followed me to the super market, chattering in the dairy aisle, the shampoo aisle, the coffee aisle, jabbering in line at the cashier. She followed me to the laundry mat and babbled while I picked up Michael's freshly pressed shirts. She followed me all the way back to my apartment where, my throat sore from disuse, I was about to open my mouth to tell her I wasn't letting her back inside my apartment when she said:

"Anyway, I've got about a million things to do tonight. I'd love to keep talking but I've really gotta go!" and then she dashed off down the street.

Have you ever dated someone you didn't really like, who you hadn't broken up with yet because you felt sorry for them because they were kind of a douchey loser? And just when you think you can't stand it anymore, when you think you'd rather have all your fingernails pulled out than spend ONE MORE NIGHT EATING DINNER WITH THIS CREEP, he says he's leaving you because he just doesn't think you're right for him? And you think to yourself, No! No! I was supposed to leave you!

That's how I felt, standing on my stoop, my arms overloaded with shopping bags and pressed shirts. NO, LANA, NO. I WAS SUPPOSED TO LEAVE YOU.

Third post today? WHAT?

I know I can be verbose, so I'll keep it short and sweet. I just wanted to point out that Hawk and Strawberry Cup-Kate BOTH have their interviews up! And love them I did. I had a hard time coming up with questions because I wanted to be thoughtful, but they did a beautiful job of answering!

Thanks again to People In The Sun for getting this all started. Fun it was.

25 things you didn't need to know, but now you do.

Everyone of Facebook is doing this chain letter thing where they write 25 random things about themselves that they think no one else knows. I wasn't going to do it, but then, a lot of people I really love did it and I actually learned new things about them, so I decided to do it too. And then I copied it and pasted it here. Because, why not?

1. I couldn't figure out how to use the 'note' function on Facebook. But then I did.

2. I used to fantasize about living in a place that snowed. Now I fantasize about living in a place that is sunny and warm year-round.

3. My ovaries talk to me every day. They say, "WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE A BABY, BITCH?"

4. I think if I had a really good camera that I'd be a really good photographer. But maybe that is wishful thinking.

5. I'm painfully shy sometimes and other times I am anything but.

6. I love boys. I feel more comfortable around men than I do around women. I think it's because I grew up mostly with boys.

7. My expectations of other people are so high that I am usually disappointed.

8. I am trying to learn not to have such high expectations of other people.

9. Those people who meet my expectations, or surpass them, become my idols.

10. Sometimes I think that all I want to be when I grow up is a mama.

11. The head casting director of a certain network once told me that I am not worth $5,000. And then I got a job on her network. Das Right. Suck it, I said.

12. I love my family more than anything else in the world. And then I wonder, "So why the EFF do I live so far away from them?" It's because I just have to, right now. They understand.

13. I recently gained ten pounds. I believe I should hate myself for it, and punish myself for it, but secretly, I like how my body looks right now.

14. My husband and I blame our pets for our bad behavior. Someone gassy? Blame a dog. Someone eat all the cookies and not save any for their spouse? Blame a cat. And then we berate them for freeloading. Why don't they get jobs and help out with the rent already?

15. I like the smell of dog breath. I also like cat breath.

16. I get really irritated when my husband leaves his clothes on the floor, but I don't mind if I leave my clothes on the floor.

17. Recently at dinner with friends, I announced: "Oh my gosh, you guys. Do you realize that we're GROWN UPS now?" To which my friends responded: "TRICIA, YOU SAY THAT ALL TIME. YES, WE'RE GROWN UPS. GET OVER IT." I didn't realize I said that all the time. But I think it a lot and it totally freaks me out.

18. I write a blog and I entertain fantasies about it becoming really popular, garnering thousands of readers, and one day supporting my family with its ad space. Like Dooce.

19. I think it's ok that I'm afraid of butt sex. I'm grateful that my husband is not interested in butt sex. I understand why guys like butt sex but I don't understand why girls like it. I, myself, have an intact behimen. I think talking about butt sex is funny. I like words like behimen, resipoo, anal-ease, etc. (That was like, five things, wasn't it?)

20. I have the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy, and I'm totally ok with that.

21. I moved from L.A. to NYC nearly two years ago. Before I left, I said I was moving to pursue a career on Broadway. Now that I've been here for two years I realize that I really just moved because I needed to grow up. I was too comfortable in LA. Life was too easy. I think that moving to NY has been one of the best things I could have done for my spiritual growth. That sounds way cheesier than I meant it to.

22. The highlight of my day is often the email I get from my mama.

23. I enjoy balancing my checkbook, but only when we're not broke.

24. I love to type. I type really really fast. I would love to get a job as a typist.

25. I aspire to be a much better person than I actually am.

Happy Birthday, Adam.

I remember exactly the first time I laid eyes on the man I would marry. I remember the first time I saw the girl who would become the best girl friend I'd always dreamed of. But I can't tell you anything about the first time I met Adam*. My first memory of him takes place after we'd already met and become friendly, sometime during our first year at Cal Arts. It was dinnertime and we were sitting in "the caf" at a table in a little alcove that looked out over the balcony. There were probably five or six other kids at the table - it was our usual dinner group. I must've been eating stir fry that night because at one point I thought it would be funny to fling a spoon full of rice at Adam's face. Not that stir fry makes me want to fling rice, I'm just saying I had rice available and I thought it would be funny to fling it. That was right around the time that everyone thought it was funny for Amanda to call me "Bitch" instead of "Tricia", so I figured everyone would think it was funny if I threw food around. Turns out I was wrong. Adam was so mad he jumped up from the table and stormed off. He didn't even finish his cheeseburger and fries. I felt like a world-class jerk. I was afraid he'd never forgive me.

Ten years later he is the only person from that table I still talk to, and yet, I can't remember how we met. I can't remember how I got him to forgive me for that rice incident (though I can say that he absolutely HATES it when I tell that story - sorry Adam!) and I can't remember anything about how our friendship grew over that first year in college. But I know that by second year, we were inseparable. I remember long nights playing solitaire on his computer, sitting on his lap and laughing for hours. I remember karaoke at Mulligan's, the only place in town that didn't check ID's. Even back then, and still to this day, when he sings I go weak in the knees. I remember movie nights and deconstructing Shakespeare together and driving around Stevenson Ranch aimlessly. We did two shows together that year and we were in all the same classes. He gave me the worst haircut I've ever had in my life and then he called his boyfriend who came over and gave me the best haircut I've ever had in my life. He was one of the only people I could count on to steer clear of drugs, but he didn't judge me when I experimented. He showed me the beauty in real designer bags. He stood up as my best man when I married a gay boy and then he held me together when my heart was crushed into a million pieces (multiple times). He threw me one of the best birthday parties I've ever had. I've lost sleep over his broken hearts and tended his black eyes and cooked his dinner. He's treated me to cocktails and defended my honor and soaked up my tears with his sweater. When I married my soul-mate, he accepted this new man as his brother. When I was getting ready to move across the country he came over and cleaned my apartment just so we could spend a few extra hours together. We know how to push each other's buttons and we know how to admit it and apologize when we've hurt each other. He's the perfect friend for a wild night on the town or a cozy night on the couch. He is as loyal and protective as a mama bear. When we're together our bellies ache from all our laughter. He waits outside the bathroom for me when we're out and he doesn't answer his cell phone when we're spending time together. We worry over each other and confide in one another and adore each other. We are so alike that sometimes I would swear we share the same genes. When he moved to New York, I told him he was God's gift to me. He cried and said no one but his mother had ever called him a gift from God. But that is what he is.

I don't know why I can't remember meeting Adam. It seems almost as if one moment I did not know him, and the next moment he was so absolutely enmeshed in my life it was as if he'd always been there. As if all of my life before, there had been an Adam-shaped empty space and when we finally collided, we fit together so perfectly that there was no need for a recognition of a specific moment of meeting. We just joined hands and kept going, laughing all the way.

Adam, you are my brother. Happy Birthday, beloved.



*Adam is Archie from this story. When he read it he was all, "Why didn't you use my real name??" He's even as much of a narcissistic exhibitionist as I am. I love him.

ASS-U-ME

The other night, Archie* wanted to take me out for a celebratory cocktail - his celebration, not mine, but who am I to turn down a cocktail? - so we headed to a gay bar around the corner from the tenement. Now, keep in mind that I am a married woman. For me, a gay bar is like a license to let loose. Put me in a room full of gay men and you've just given me a free pass for a wild night of shameless flirting. In a gay bar I can be as seductive, as dazzling, as gregarious as I want to be, because none of the boys have any interest in me. I can bat my eyelashes, laugh loudly and dance the night away without worrying for a second that I've given someone the wrong idea or that I'm asking for attention that I really don't want. I love gay bars.

We settle ourselves on a couple of bar stools and order two dirty gin martini's from the bartender. Minutes later, we're approached by a second bartender, a tall bartender, a gorgeous bartender with lustrous hair, full lips, broad shoulders and bedroom eyes. He just wants to make sure we've been taken care of and he makes us promise that if we need anything, we will yell for him. And then he starts chatting with us and he lingers, just a moment too long, making conversation. As soon as he walks away I jump on Archie.

"OH MY GOD HE'S GORGEOUS AND HE TOTALLY WANTS YOU."

"He's so hot! Do you really think he likes me? He's soooo hot." Archie has become a drooling, incoherent 12-year-old. That's what gorgeous men do to him.

"Um, yes! He was totally flirting with you!" And then in a sing-song voice: "He wants to marry you. He wants to have your baaaaabies." I am also a chattering, incoherent 12-year-0ld.

Archie is squealing. And panting.

"Five bucks if you get his number."

Panting. Squealing. More panting. "Ok. Ok. This is why you're my best friend. You put money on the table, so now I have to do it."

As soon as the first bartender drops our drinks off, Talldarkandgorgeous is back, to make sure we're happy. "Need anything else? Extra napkins?" His biceps are pulsating. "Extra olives? A foot rub?"

Archie and I start giggling. We're drunk on fantasy. Archie, no doubt, imagining a stellar romp in the sack and me, well, I'm picturing their wedding, the dress I'll wear, how I'll rent out my womb so they can have a child of their own. This is love at first sight and I am going to play Cupid. 

"I'm Trish. This is Archie."

"Justin*. It's nice to meet you." He shakes my hand and then takes Archie's. I watch, on the edge of my seat, as their fingers meet. Their eyes lock. The energy between them is palatable. I grab Archie's knee under the table and squeeze. Justin walks away and Archie and I press our foreheads together in ecstasy.

"HE SO WANTS YOU OH MY GOD."

"I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW I'M DYING!"

"ASK FOR HIS NUMBER."

"HOW?? I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY!"

So we start plotting. Whispering about how Archie will coyly, cleverly acquire this beautiful man's phone number. Archie is uncharacteristically nervous. That's how gorgeous this guy is. I mean, Archie always dates gorgeous guys, but this guy is an Adonis. We come up with a plan and we calm down a little, our conversation developing a natural flow. All the while, Justin is dropping by to check on us, joke with us, tease us, and shamelessly, relentlessly flirt. Before we have a chance to finish our martini's, Justin has brought us shots of something pink, sweet and wonderful. They're double shots, on the house. Just because, he says. A few minutes later, he's back with more. This time he takes a shot with us, proposing a toast to "New Friendships". We are giddy with the attention. Me, because it is fun to be fussed over by a gorgeous boy, especially if that boy prefers other boys, and Archie because, he's going home with a number! (It is that obvious.) When Archie wants to smoke a cigarette, I offer to stay and watch our stools, but Justin says no way, I should go, and he makes little signs out of napkins, to reserve our spots at the bar for us. I follow Archie outside and not thirty seconds later, Justin is outside too. I want very badly to get these two together, so I start asking Justin all about himself, to get the conversation going and also because Archie is too love struck to speak. Justin and I have a great conversation, and because I can, because it's safe, I'm totally flirting with him. Laughing at his jokes, complimenting him, batting my eyelashes, saying witty things. You know. The usual. 

The three of us head back inside, Archie and I squeezing each others hands because HOLY CRAP THIS IS A NIGHT TO REMEMBER, THE NIGHT ARCHIE MET THE MAN OF HIS DREAMS. Even though we swore to only have one drink and now we've had a drink and a couple of shots, we settle at the bar and order two more martinis. We can't leave now. Not before Archie gets the digits. Justin makes the drinks right in front of us and makes us extra - now we each have a full martini glass and a tumbler-full of gin. Dear God. And the three of us are giggling and laughing and having a wonderful time. Justin is flirting, I'm flirting, Archie is grinning so wide his face is about to crack. Archie mentions that I live just down the street and Justin says he works every Saturday and Sunday and we should come in more often! Why haven't we been in before? I ask him what else he does and he says, nothing, he just works at the bar twice a week and auditions the rest of the week. I'm floored. You only have to work here two nights a week? And you make enough to live? I want to be a bartender! How do I get a job as a bartender! And Justin says, "You just walk into any bar, say you want to work there and make sure the manager can see that gorgeous rack of yours."

"Did you just say I should show the manager my boobs?"

"Well, no. Don't be a slut about it. Just, you know..." and then he pulls his shirt off and picks up an ice cube. "You know, you shouldn't like, -" as he's talking, he starts running the ice cube up his perfectly sculpted, naked chest and around his nipples. He's trying to be sexy, and it is sexy, but it's also funny. He's doing a comedy routine. (Or else we're just that drunk.) He's prancing around behind the bar, swaying his hips like a girl and in a high, breathy voice, saying all the things he thinks I should NOT say, were I to interview for a bartending job. "Hey, looking for a bartender? Because I have lots of special bartending skills. I'm really good at making drinks, with my rack, I'm really pretty, and I have a great rack..." he bends over towards us and pushes his arms together, as if to create cleavage. I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Now in his regular voice, "You know. Don't do that. Just be yourself." He smiles, winks, and walks away.

I'm bent over with laughter, still, but Archie looks dubious.

"Oh my god. He is really funny. Weird, but funny!" I say, catching my breath.

"Um, yeah, Trish. And he's straight."

"What? No, he's not. He's been flirting with you all night! He just took his shirt off and pranced around for you."

"Gay men don't use the word 'rack'."

"What?"

"He said you have a 'gorgeous rack'. A 'great rack'. A gay man would never say that."

"Oh, whatever. Straight guys don't bartend at gay bars."

Archie waves at bartender #1 and he comes over. 

"Hey, we're just wondering. Is Justin gay or straight?"

Bartender #1 smiles. "Straight. And his girlfriend just broke up with him a couple of weeks ago. Maybe you can help him out, sweetheart." And he looks right at me.

"No. No. No, nonononono." I hold up my left hand. "Married! I'm married. Married. Happily."

"Oh, too bad. He's been flirting with you all night."

"Me?? No, no, no. He's been flirting with Archie all night!"

"No, honey. He's been flirting with you. I'm gay, though." And he winks at Archie. Unfortunately, he's short and round and funny looking and not at all Archie's type. 

Archie sighs, a huge, heavy sigh. "Well, I'm glad I didn't ask for his number. And hey, at least we got all those free shots." He looks disappointed. I think he's trying to cheer himself up.

"Oh my god." I bury my face in my hands. I'm completely humiliated. Here, I've been acting like a trollop for the last two hours, all because I thought I was safe, I thought it was harmless, I thought I was helping a friend. And really, I've been doing THE EXACT OPPOSITE. I've made a complete ass of myself. So much for that free pass to a wild night.

So. Embarrassing. Seriously. 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Again.

Mike has been bugging me for the last few days to "take down that damn fire-hazard, already". He's afraid we're going to end up those people who still have their Christmas tree up in April. But that little tree has made me feel so happy and cozy for the last few weeks, that I couldn't bear to take it down! Until he told me that his ex-wife used to leave the tree up for weeks after Christmas and in my ongoing efforts to out-wife her, I decided to take it down today.

We had such a lovely, quiet, comfy little Christmas. And I realized that without even trying, we've already developed some of our own little holiday traditions that I will look forward to year after year. Like my (now) traditional mangled and mutilated gingerbread people.

And my (now) traditional blackberry Christmas pie.


And the new tradition of having brown paper packages delivered to my door all week before Christmas, full of gifts from family in California. And without realizing it, just in one Christmas, we accumulated a whole box-full of Christmasy decorations that we can put up next year. This is all very exciting for me and I reflected on all of this as I stripped our little tree and thanked her for giving me weeks of happiness this year.

In other news, our New Years Eve was spectacular, thanks in part to the lovely dinner that Joe threw at his and Adam's apartment.


But mostly it was spectacular because, as you all know because I can't shut the F up about it, MIKE SENT HIS NOVEL TO DAW PUBLISHING HOUSE AND THEN HE QUERIED TEN LITERARY AGENTS.

(Valentine and Theo pose with the manuscript, moments before it was taken to the post office and sent off to Daw.)

God Speed, Shadowline. May the force be with you.

I hope you, too, had a wonderful holiday and a happy new year. May we all thrive, evolve, love, live and learn in 2009.