Journaling

Personal blog posts from 2012 onward. Still under heavy construction, as I do a final post-mortem on Elliequent & decide what to keep.

Last Year

January 17, 2012

Last year I moved out of the loft I shared with my ex-husband, and got my own place, with my money, not his. Last year I got the last dollar I'll ever see from him. I downsized my entire life to 600 square feet, and felt glorious freedom and terror in doing so. I spent many, many days curled up being sad about the death of my marriage, and being frightened about my future. Last year my dog became my best friend, and together we walked for hours at a time. I talked to him so much in public that people probably thought I was crazy. I talked to him so much in private that he probably thought I was crazy.

Last year I took the Metro to Hollywood and Pasadena by myself, and walked and walked and window shopped and people watched, and sat in coffee shops alone, thinking and reading. Last year I tried to be friends with my ex-husband, and failed. I went to Tucson for weeks at a time, and stayed at a friend's place in Canyon Ranch. I got facials, massages, and nail treatments, and felt, down to the tips of my fingers, how incredibly lucky and privileged I am. I went running in Sabino Canyon and on the horse trails behind La Mariposa. I went camping and watched Chaucer wade knee-deep into the lake to retrieve stick after stick, until the shore was littered with driftwood. Last year I realized I'd rather live in a tiny, roach-ridden walk-up in the city than a mansion in the suburbs. I fell in love with minimalism and came to truly understand that mo' money really does = mo' problems.

Last year I ate peanut butter on celery for the first time, when a 10 year-old introduced me to its pleasures. I perfected my own tomato sauce. I started walking to the grocery store almost daily.

Last year I went to an all-day trance festival, rolled on ecstasy, and danced like my life depended on it. I smoked pot in the penthouse loft of an artist friend, and giggled until I couldn't remember where I was. Last year I danced and danced and danced. I danced at straight clubs and gay bars and concerts and foam parties and house parties and in my own kitchen, while my dog watched. And I drank. I drank wine at dinner parties and tequila at friends' houses and overpriced Ketel One in WeHo bars. I drank sweet tea vodka and lemonade by the gallon.

Last year I had two significant relationships with men. The second one nearly killed me. The first one nearly killed him.

Last year I had the best sex of my life.

Last year I kissed a man two decades my senior, and one a decade my junior.

Last year I got chewed out by a good friend for being a self-indulgent, whiny, self-pitying, and self-destructive little shit. I watched another good friend move to San Francisco and take a piece of my heart with him. I learned a lot about myself, and my limitations and shortcomings. I took at hard, unforgiving look at myself and wrote a list of everything I need to work on. It's alarmingly long.

Last year I discovered Young The Giant, and 7 Minutes in Heaven with Mike o'Brien. I tried to stop reading the blogs of people I dislike, and failed. I started reading novels again. I saw Old 97s in concert, pressed up against the stage like a teenager. I saw Devotchka and went to the Edwardian Ball in Hollywood. I went to awards shows and rallies and protests, a 300-person pillow fight, and a pop up water park. I modeled in a professional photo shoot and I took hundreds of photographs for my own pleasure. I went to museums and parks and beaches, and tried, in my limited, car-less way, to start taking advantage of this amazing place I call home.

Last year I came to appreciate Los Angeles in a way I never thought I would. Yes, there's glitz and glamour. But you can find shitty, superficial social climbers anywhere in the world, down to the most podunk of towns. You'll get out of LA as much as you put into it. Hate traffic? Take public transportation. On a budget? Go to the beach, or Runyon Canyon, or any of the other dozens of free attractions. Don't like Hollywood? Come downtown, where there's a whole different, relaxed and familiar vibe. The culture and energy in this city are like nothing I've ever experienced.

Last year I went to Israel and strolled the cobblestones of Jerusalem and bobbed in the Dead Sea. I went to Bethlehem, the Sea of Galilee, Haifa, Golan Heights, Tel Aviv, and Jaffa. I stood at the Western Wall and listened to the Islamic call to prayer, getting the chills not because it was scary, but because it was so stunningly beautiful to hear. I walked along the cliffs of Masada and I dipped my feet into the River Jordan where John baptized Christ. I looked across the northern border to Syria, where people were fighting for their lives, and felt dizzy at the vast and arbitrary polarity of my existence compared to theirs. I visited a kibbutz where eighteen year-olds from places like Brazil and Iceland came to be a part of something bigger than themselves. At night, after sightseeing, I drank in the mixed, amicable company of Israeli-born Muslims and Jews and Catholics. They answered my pressing, probably intrusive questions about their religions with patience and good humor. I saw the settlements in the West Bank and the wall around Palestinian territories, and watched teenage girls wear assault rifles as comfortably as American coeds wear Coach purses. I got cursed out by an antiques peddler in a street market, for trying to haggle with him over the price of some old postcards. I watched nomadic Bedouin tribespeople - full-fledged, voting members of the Israeli citizenry - caravanning across the desert on camelback. At the Tel Aviv airport on the way back home, I went through eight security checkpoints before getting on the plane. At some moments I felt relief at being an American; at others, shame.

Last year I was 40 miles from the Arab Spring.

Last year I made less money than I have since I was 18. It was more money than some people in this world—many people—make in a lifetime. I spent it on rent, food, alcohol, and premium dog food. Last year I was grateful for the ability to make any money.

Last year I read The Magnificent Ambersons and pledged to read every Pulitzer-winning novel published. I learned "cognoscenti" and "backronym" and "parvenu" and after the death of Kim Jong il, I became obsessed with North Korea.

Last year I stopped and started my blog half a dozen times. I toyed with the idea of multiple blogs. I deleted posts not in an effort to whitewash, but in an attempt to find a solid direction, an identifiable voice. I made grand plans to blog about all the things I was experiencing, and to go back and update my blog with the things I'd been doing months earlier. But I couldn't find the time or energy or enthusiasm for it. Last year I realized that while I very much enjoy blogging, all the really good stuff happens when I'm AFK. Life happens AFK. I can either sit here and spend hours furiously documenting it, or I can be out there actually living it. But I can't do both.

Last year I started thinking about what, if anything, I want to share on my blog in the future. What I want to get out of blogging. I didn't figure it out.

Scrap

January 25, 2012

The same guy who bought my old, unwanted Halloween crap unburdened me of some other junk, too: my wedding and engagement rings. He was a jeweler who'd seen the ad I'd placed on Craigslist: FOR SALE: Huge lot of Halloween decorations. Latex, plastic, stone, and foam props. Window, wall, and table decor. Hanging items. Yard decorations. Vintage items and one of a kind curios. Animatronic and mechanical decorations. Dolls, clowns, gargoyles, mummies, skeletons, skulls, black lights, string lights, candles, candelabras, dusty old books, brooms, bats, demons, fog machines, headstones, black roses, and police tape. High quality cheese cloth, moss, cotton for webbing. If you're a Halloween person, this is your wet dream. I'm surprised it didn't get flagged.

When the man had met me at my storage unit to see everything, his profession had come up in conversation. I told him I was looking to unload my rings, and he expressed interest. A few days later, I walked the three blocks from my apartment to his office. Every time I walk through the jewelry district downtown, I feel like I've stumbled onto the set of Snatch. Eastern European men stand clustered on the sidewalk, talking and smoking outside of jewelry arcades that stretch for blocks. It's a dazzling display of gold, glass, and mirrored surfaces.

The building I visited that day was, however, a typical looking office building, with no flashy storefront. His two-room business was on the eighth floor, and I had to be admitted first by a lobby doorman, then buzzed inside his office. There were cameras everywhere, and I was intrigued by my proximity to (what I wanted to believe were) millions of dollars worth of jewels and precious metals.

When I handed my engagement ring to the jeweler, he examined it carefully first with his naked eye, then with a loupe and magnifying glass. He verified what I knew about the solitaire's quality and weight. He told me something else I already knew, as well: that the resale value of engagement rings is lousy. That my husband had paid a huge markup, by virtue of where he'd bought it. That I'd be getting pennies on the dollar for what he'd spent. I didn't care. I just wanted it out of my life. The assessment he gave was matter of fact; dry. He took an objective look at it, pitted its virtues against its flaws, and decided, dispassionately, what its ultimate value was. It was exactly what I'd done with my marriage. And the conclusion I'd come to was similar: not worth nearly what it once seemed.

Next, he looked at my wedding band, which was inlaid with tiny diamonds the whole way round. I'd always preferred it to my engagement ring, which I felt never fit quite right - never sat the way it should on my finger. So many metaphors, so little time. What he said then caught me by surprise. He asked whether I'd mind if he removed the diamonds so that he could weigh the platinum of the band. I hadn't been expecting that, but I suddenly felt very naive. Of course he's going to take it apart, and sell it for parts. Like a stolen car.

He must have seen my expression, because he said something about it being a potentially painful ordeal - the selling off of the rings. I assured him it wasn't, really. That it was just a bit surreal. He nodded with understanding, and said, "I know. When you're standing up there on your wedding day, in front of all your loved ones, expecting to be together forever..." He trailed off. I didn't correct him. He was still happily married, as far as I knew.

When I left, my wallet slightly heavier for the check he'd written to me, I realized that the physical symbols of my marriage had been reduced to scrap and dollar signs. It wasn't exactly happiness that I felt at that moment. But there was a sense of satisfaction and peace, deep in my gut. It was closure and acceptance. It was really over. And I was really ok with it.

Theme for a late winter fling - Part One

January 26, 2012

summer

Moving day, and two of my friends are helping me schlepp stuff two blocks over from my old place into the new one. We're in the lobby of my new building, waiting for the elevator, loaded down with boxes and bins. I'm exhausted but excited. Ding! The elevator doors open, and a dark-haired young man steps out. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both of which look expensive and fit him well. He's tall and lean but well-muscled, with broad shoulders and a model's features: symmetrical face, strong jaw, full lips. He's easily ten years younger than me. My girlfriend, who's older than I am, shoots me a look as he walks by.

At the park, and he's walking his dog near where I'm walking mine. I notice his excellent posture. He says hello in a cheerful tone. His smile is expansive and genuine. Good god, I think. He really is handsome. He has a chow, a breed I don't particularly like, but I call out anyway, "Cool dog."

"Thanks," he replies. "He takes after me." I'm speechless at this bit of goofiness. It's LA, after all. Be cool or die. I can't think of what to say back, so I just smile and steer Chaucer past.

Late at night, in my building. Taking a load of laundry to the top floor; I'm a hot mess: tank top, sweats, no bra, no makeup, unbrushed hair. The elevator doors open to let me out, and he's standing there. "Oh!" I say, flustered. "Hi there." I silently curse my sloppiness. We step past one another. As I'm walking down the hall, he calls out from inside the elevator, in a slightly too-loud voice: "Where's your smile?" I turn and look back, unsure that I've heard him correctly. He's grinning, looking sheepish and silly and happy. It occurs to me he's likely drunk or high or both. "It's so cute," he says more quietly, just before the doors shut. I stand there for a few seconds, blinking, utterly nonplussed. I vow to never leave my apartment without lip gloss again.

The sidewalk outside my building. I'm heading to dinner with the man I'm dating, who has his arm around my shoulders. He's walking towards us on the sidewalk, carrying grocery bags. As we pass, I meet his gaze. He glances at my date and back at me, then looks away.

fall

The park again, at the informally designated hour for dog socialization and play. He and his dog join the group. Chaucer, who's been chasing a Jack Russell, breaks off from playing to greet them. It's the first time our dogs have actually met, and after a moment's consideration, Chaucer decides he's none too impressed. The feeling, apparently, is mutual, and before either of us know what's happening, there's snapping and lunging and barking and mayhem. We get them apart. I'm mortified and apologetic. He's polite but seems kind of annoyed. I drag Chaucer off. "Thank you," I say to Chaucer as we walk home. "I really appreciate the cock blocking you did back there." He trots happily alongside of me, wagging his tail and panting. He glances up at me in response. No problem, his look seems to say.

The building lobby, in the late afternoon. We're both walking our dogs. They're returning home; we're leaving. I yank Chaucer out of the way, scared of another scuffle. "No, no," he says. "Let's let them try again." I hesitantly agree, and let out the slack on Chaucer's leash. There's a second or two of calm sniffing, and then it's tooth and nail and chaos again. After we break them up, we each try to put the blame for the fight on our own dog. He says something about his having rescue issues, while I explain that mine has a newfound intolerance for anything more threatening than a shih tzu. This is the first time we've exchanged more than a few words, and I detect a mild Northeastern accent. Once Chaucer and I are alone outside, I remind him what an asshole he is. The characterization doesn't seem to bother him.

winter

Late night on a weekend, in the lobby of my building. I'm waiting for the elevator, which has been slow all day. He walks in the front door, says hello, and positions himself in front of the other elevator. He glances over at me, then up at the floor indicator above my elevator, then at the indicator above his own. "I'm going to win," he says. I'm tipsy from being out all night. I look over and narrow my eyes: challenge accepted. A few moments of silence while we wait and watch. Ding! He spreads his hands and smiles. See? I laugh, and we step into his elevator together. He relaxes against the wall, and I mirror him on the opposite side.

"How was your night?" I ask.

"It was good," he says. "I had a show." We're both drunk and rather shamelessly staring at one another.

"A show?" I inquire.

"Yeah," he says. "A gallery exhibit. I paint." As I'm getting out on my floor, he tells me the name of his website and encourages me to check it out. "My email's on there," he adds. "In case you see anything you like." I'm not sure if I'm being hit on or sold something. I bring up the site as soon as I get back to my apartment. I'm afraid I'll forget the address by morning if I don't.

The site is a comprehensive portfolio of his various creative works. There are images of his paintings, which are large, mixed media stencils of Hollywood icons. There's a link to a blog with short stories, and several clips of short films he's written and directed. There's a photography gallery, with mostly portraits, cityscapes, and some architectural shots. I read his bio and glance at his Facebook page and Twitter feed. I sit down and compose an email.

Hey Greg, it's Ellie, from the building (with the killer dog who's not really killer, except, apparently, where your pets are concerned). Thanks for sharing that link. Very cool stuff. Although, if you want my advice, you really need to expand your talents a bit. Film, photography, art, and writing only? I mean, no offense, but that's pretty weak...

I save the draft and go to bed. The next afternoon, I review what I've written, but make no edits. I click send, and almost simultaneously, a realization hits me: unless he assumes the numbers in my email address stand for July 5th, he's going to infer that I'm thirty-six years old.

That night, I receive four long paragraphs in reply, the wittiness of which give the impression that there's a good deal of thought behind them. And possibly some alcohol. In the letter, I'm invited to come see his paintings in person, in his apartment, which is six storeys up from mine. I'm still not entirely sure whether he's trying to sell me something, so I reply with equal playfulness, while making a point to assure him of my destitution. The invitation is enthusiastically repeated, along with more witty repartee. I text the phone number that's part of his email signature, and he texts back.

We message one another here and there over the next week, bantering and battling wits, and the following Sunday, he invites me up to his apartment for a drink.

Theme for a late winter fling - part 2

February 12, 2012

It's past four when he texts. I'm awake, of course, watching Netflix on my laptop, bleary-eyed and knowing I should attempt sleep, but stubbornly refusing to try.

I inadvertently beat a guy up. I mentally assess whether or not I'd be able to bail him out of jail, if need be. I have no money and no car. So, no.

What?? Are you ok? By way of answer, my phone rings. His speech is slurred. There was a disagreement, at a bar. Jumbo's Clown Room, actually (I chew amusedly on this detail). Some guy refused to move, he needed to close out his tab, words exchanged, a sucker punch thrown from behind. The details aren't clear or particularly interesting, but I'm invited to come upstairs for a full account. I hesitate. These late night/early morning visits are catching up with me, and I'm already exhausted. I also have plans to work the next night. I should definitely hang up, close my computer, and crash.

"I'll be up in a few minutes." I can hear his Cheshire grin when he says "Ok, see you then." Then something mumbled and I make out the word "baby" just before the disconnect. This is a thing between us. He occasionally calls me baby and I scold him.

"Don't call me that," I'll say without much conviction in my voice. I don't explain why it's verboten. I don't need to. The phone rings again immediately. "Yeah?"

"Just before I hung up, I said 'baby,' but I didn't mean anything. I was just..." He trails off.

"I'll see you in a minute," I say, and hang up. As I'm walking down the hall, I hear him step out of the elevator. I turn the corner, and he's wobbling towards me, grinning sheepishly.

"I realized tonight that you look exactly like Joseph Fiennes in Elizabeth," I tell him, as we hug. He ignores this.

"I punched a guy," he reminds me. He's definitely still drunk.

"I heard," I reply, and guide him back inside the elevator. He thumbs "PH" and slumps against the wall.

"I feel really bad," he says, looking suddenly serious. The story is repeated, with new, equally uninteresting details. He seems sobered by the second telling of events, his brow furrowed as he recounts his part in the clashing of egos. Back in his apartment, I sit on his kitchen island, next to his goldfish, who swims in a glass jug filled with nearly opaque greenish water.

"Roscoe needs a change," I observe. "Maybe you could squeeze that into your busy schedule of going out and starting bar fights." He fills the dog's bowl with filtered water and starts to undress, in the middle of the kitchen, with the lights on. Mock pouting, he walks around the corner and gets into his bed.

"I'm not speaking to you anymore," he calls out. "I wanted to see you, but you're just being mean." I climb into bed with him, but leave all of my clothes on. I'm mentally exhausted, but know I won't be able to sleep. He makes a valiant if tipsy attempt to undress me, but I won't let him get further than my socks, which immediately go missing in the covers. I know he's seconds away from passing out. And he does, quickly. I lay there for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of him beside me, warm and solid. When I try to slide away, he wakes up, grips me and whines.

"No, don't. You always leave me. Please stay with me." This is a familiar refrain. I never stay the night at his place, and am given hell for it. I refuse to sleep with him, and I refuse to sleep with him. These are the arbitrary boundaries I have set, and they give me some small sense of control. I relax back against him.

"A few more minutes," I say soothingly. I know he doesn't want to be alone, even while he sleeps. I stroke the tattoo on his upper arm. When I feel his breathing level out, I reach for my phone. Eventually, when I think he's sleeping deeply, I slowly try to extract myself. He wakes and wraps himself more tightly around me, murmuring his objection.

"I have to go," I say softly. "It's really late." His grip doesn't loosen.

"I love you." I hear it, but don't register a reaction either verbally or physically. This is unexpected and mildly alarming, but I know he's just drunk. We've been seeing one another since late winter, but on the most lighthearted and casual terms imaginable: late nights, after we've both been out, separately; each of us wanting the company and comforts of the opposite sex. There are few phone calls, fewer actual dates. He's devilishly clever, so there's lots of text bantering. And there's kissing and cuddling and laughing and drinking and occasionally, weed smoking. It's a relationship of convenience, mutual affection and appreciation, and it's all either of us wants.

That said, I'm more than a little glad he's ten years my junior, lest I crush. Badly. He's handsome and sweet and creative and whip smart, and I'm glad I don't have to take him seriously.

"I love you." He repeats himself more loudly, and I'm forced to reply, a sort of hushing noise that doesn't feel like it adequately addresses the dangerous territory we're skirting.

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know me." I feel slightly defensive when I say this, but it's true. He doesn't, really. The number of 100% sober conversations we've had can be counted on one hand. He doesn't ask a lot of questions of me, nor I of him. I tried at first, but he would deflect and joke his way out of any talk that felt even remotely serious. He wants to be a kid with me, I know. To play up the age difference. It helps keep things safe that way. He mumbles something about my cluelessness or unappreciativeness, and about my being his "favorite of everyone", then grows quiet again.

I lay holding him a bit longer, and eventually make my escape despite his renewed, sleepy protestations. I let myself out in the dark, and pad back to my apartment with bare feet. Chaucer, who is hopelessly in love with him, sniffs me excitedly. I refill his bowl with unfiltered water, and collapse into bed.

Wet Paint

February 14, 2012

I came home from a walk tonight and when I got off the elevator on my floor, I could smell paint. As I rounded the corner in my hall, I saw there was a large poster tube propped against my door. The tube was painted with still-drying black and red hearts. Taped to it was a handmade card, with Elizabeth painted in silver and gold, with flourishes and flowers. On the top of the tube was written Tracy Ellie. Inside was a two by three foot, black and white printed photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, the sky dark with fog. It's my favorite of his shots.

The card was signed, Made with love by your mo'fuckin neighbor, George (which is not his name). I texted him. I love it. I may hook tonight in Hollywood just so I can afford a frame for it.

Theme For a Late Winter Fling, Part 3

February 17, 2012

Seven pm, and he texts. Whatcha up to?

I answer: What's the next question?

Want to get together for a bit? he asks. I glance at my place, take stock of myself.

My place and I are a mess. In a bit?

He says, Can't. Going to Hollywood to talk to a guy. I can't resist: Jumbo?

Don't worry Elizabeta, he texts. I'll find someone else to drive me to the ER.

Later, I'm on my way to the bodega to grab an ill-advised cup of 11:30 pm coffee when I run into him on the sidewalk. He pivots jauntily when he sees me, jumping out of the crosswalk to change course and head my way. He's bright eyed and cheery, and invites me to get a drink and a bite. I make him come back upstairs while I put on a different top, brush my teeth, and grab my ID. We go to Casey's Irish Pub, where we run into a new couple from our building, plus a female friend of theirs. We all team up for drinks and conversation, talking about the virtues of the Rhoomba and whether LSD should be taken after the age of twenty-five.

I end up at a table with the drunk model girlfriend; he stays at the bar engaging in an increasingly enthusiastic verbal pissing match with the boyfriend. At one point, the boyfriend calls over to me from the bar where they're sitting: "Did he make you chili from scratch?"

I look from the boyfriend to Greg, who’s smiling in anticipation of my praise. He knows I absolutely love his chili, and could eat a pot of it. His grin is so silly and guileless and goofy. I want to kiss him.

"Ugh, yes," I say. "So gross. He actually put yams in it. Yams! And they weren't even fully cooked. I was sick for days." Another round of drinks, more segregated conversation. I'm dying. Model girlfriend is friendly enough, but killing my neurons with boredom. He texts from a few feet away, still at full throttle with Boyfriend.

Hey. I text back: Next time we go out, I'm sitting you down at a table with a rock and walking away. Message received. He finds an excuse to get up and come join me at the table. The other girl sits with us. Sitting across from him, she tugs tipsily at his jacket sleeve.

"Hey," she slurs. "I have a question. How come you're so adorable?" I nearly spit beer all over the model. He kicks me under the table. The girl continues examining him. She points at a tattoo on his collar bone.

"What does that say?" she asks, unable to decipher the script lettering.

"It's latin for nice Jewish boy." She can't tell if he's fucking with her or not.

"Really?" she asks, frowning suspiciously. I shake my head, marveling. I have never in all my life met a bigger flirt.

"You do know he lives for this," I tell her. "To have girls in bars ask him about his tattoos?" He just laughs.

"It says memento mori," I say, and swallow the last of my drink, rising to leave. Back on the street, we compare notes on our respective conversations.

"She's a mess," I say. "And he sounds controlling and emotionally abusive, from what she said."

He nods. "He thinks he's very smart." We amble down the sidewalk, pleasantly buzzed and keyed up from socializing. He wants to eat at the Mexican food truck around the corner. I make him choose and order for me, while I try to puzzle out the Spanish on a huge sandwich board. There's a photograph of a goat on it.

"What exactly am I eating?" I ask. He grabs me and we hug, staggering when we lose our balance. When the food is ready, he walks me through the shelf of condiments, pointing out what's spicy and what's not. I don't interrupt, even though I spent most of my life in Arizona. I understand hot sauces just fine.

We eat as we walk slowly down the sidewalk. It's a street packed with bars and restaurants, all expelling patrons. It's two am. We'd chosen the mild and medium salsas, but our lips and tongues are on fire. In his hands, along with a paper plate loaded with food, are a handful of napkins. He drops a couple on accident, but when he sees my look of disapproval, drops a few more on purpose.

"Pick them up," I say warningly. He keeps his eyes on me, still eating, and tosses another napkin to the ground. The sidewalk around our feet is littered with white napkins. "I'm serious," I say threateningly. His eyes twinkle with mischief. I toss my plate into a trash can nearby. "If you ever want your dick in my mouth again, you'd better pick those up." He stuffs his plate in the trash, ignoring me. I grab his hand, and using all of my weight, try to force his arm to the ground where the napkins lay. I can't get him to budge. He's too tall and I'm laughing too hard. I yank his arm fruitlessly, and he starts smacking the seat of my jeans. Bargoers are all around us.

Suddenly he wraps his arms around my waist and launches me upside down and over his shoulder. I shriek. "My phone!" I pat my back pockets to make sure nothing has fallen out. He carries me across the street and towards our building. When he puts me down, I say, "I feel like Satan took a dump in my throat."

He sits on a brick planter by an ATM, and pulls me in for a kiss. Our movement triggers a harsh security light that floods us in fluorescence. "Thank you," I say towards the bank. "Lovely ambiance you're providing." He stands, turns, and starts to tug down his jeans.

"I feel like mooning this building right now," he declares. And he does just that.

Back upstairs, the intimacy feels different. I attribute it to how couple-ish the night felt, socializing as we did with another couple. He falls asleep, and I lay there for a while, looking at the art on his walls. An oversized, unfinished canvas hangs directly in front of the bed. He's doodled on it with spray paint: a stick figure in whose otherwise empty head is written "canvas", with oversized quotes. I sneak out before it gets light.

Theme For a Late Winter Fling, Part 4

February 19, 2012

Saturday morning, he texts. Small talk for a bit, then we drift into more serious territory. Before I know it, we're having a state of the union discussion. I tell him I don't want to be physically intimate anymore. That I still haven't recovered from the emotional devastation wrought by the relationship I had late last year. Which is true, and a large reason why I've never wanted to sleep with him. I've been associating sex with negative emotions since then, and, much as I've tried to get past it, I haven't yet. I've been dialing it in. It's sucked.

I try to explain. That part of me got very badly hurt last year, I say. So to protect itself, it packed the fuck up and left town. I don't know when it's coming back. I miss it, but I don't know how to get it back. This isn't actually the first time I've told him this, but he hasn't seemed to really get it. He seems to now, finally. He tells me he understands, and respects it completely.

I like hanging out with you, he writes. You're amazing.

It's not easy to admit something so personal about what I'm going through, and I say as much. Part of why I'm so upset is I fear you'll jet. And I like you in my life. I love who I am around you. I'm not usually so relaxed and confident and clever.

That's just you being you, he says back. You are relaxed, confident, and kinda clever. We spend a few lines arguing over who's the bigger mess emotionally, and promise to still hang out, provided we can manage to be truly just friends and not ride the fence. However, he says, he likes that I used the word "jet" because it suggests that were he to leave, it would be quickly and in style. And I appreciate that, he says. Better than prop-planing it out of there.

A little bit later, he makes a crack about visiting a wedding chapel downtown. When I don't answer, he nudges, Harhar? I had been busy getting ready for a housewarming party, and explain as much.

That's very nice of you. All those cold houses need help. Is it with a housewarming organization?

Stop it, I say.

I'm sorry, he writes back. But if it's a volunteer thing, I'd like to donate my time once or twice a month.

I have nothing to wear, I whine. I hate all my clothes.

Well you're gonna need to wear some if this place is as cold as it sounds.

—-

This morning, I have computer trouble and text him for help. He tells me to bring my laptop upstairs for a look. We walk his dog together and go for breakfast afterward. I ask him if he has any nicknames for his dog.

"Yes," he says. "Bad dog."

"No really," I say. "What do you call him? You must have some cute little endearments, that you say just when you're alone."

He looks at me, his eyes laughing but his mouth serious. "Syd. Syd Vicious. InSydious. Sydmeister. John Smalls. Mr. Nixon. Fluffy McGee. Malaysia." He goes on for another two minutes, the names growing ever more ridiculous. He doesn't stop to think once. They just pour out of him. I can't get a bite of food down, and I beg him to quit it.

"What?" he asks, deadpanning. "Those are all his names. You asked."

Back at his apartment, I sit on his lap while we reinstall software on my laptop. He plays a song for me. A pair of hot tears catch me off guard. I jump up abruptly to collect myself privately in the bathroom, but he sees my expression and grabs my arm before I can escape.

"What is it?" he asks quietly. "Why are you crying?" His eyes are soft and understanding. It still amazes me how amber they are. I just shake my head, and he doesn't press. "Come here," he says, and uses the corner of his shirt to wipe my face. There's no point in either of us saying what hangs heavily in the air: that the situation sucks. That it's a shame. That we get along perfectly, and we're crazy about one another's personalities. That there is chemistry and strong attraction, despite my temporarily damaged sense of sexuality. That it would never, ever get off the ground because he's ten years younger than me, and that it's better to rip off the bandaid now before we grow any more attached. We go to the couch and he holds me on his chest for the last time.

"Your shoes are filthy," he says.

"That's because they're shoes," I reply.

"No, really. Look." He grabs my phone. "Bend your knees," he commands, and snaps a picture. "See?" He holds up an image of my soles, grey with grime. When my desktop and files finally appear on my computer, I get up to leave. He walks me to the door and kisses my cheek. I hear the door latch shut behind me as I turn the corner of his hall. Back at home, I add the photo he took to an album I've titled "Greg." There are less than twenty photos in it.

Enchante

February 22, 2012

Five am, and I can't sleep anymore, though I've only been down for about five hours. I'm desperate to get back on schedule, and wish more than anything I could let the dog out and then pass out again. I know it's impossible, though. I'm up. My best bet is to stay awake as late as possible tonight. The closer to two am I can fall asleep, the better. That's the schedule I need to be on: down between two and three, up around ten or eleven. It's the only way to survive nightclub hours.

There's no coffee, since I still haven't replaced the french press I broke last week while vacuuming. At Famima, I notice that while I've been filling my cup, the machine is still dripping. A small pool of coffee has collected on the counter. I quickly replace the pot and ask the cashier for a rag. He tells me not to worry about it. Oh, no sweat, he says. I don't get anything to eat.

I fiddle with the layout of my blog for a while, and work on a few of the pages. I revise my statement of childfreedom, though I'm still not happy with it. I don't know what it's missing. I don't know how to say what I want. But I feel ready to write my statement of atheism, and I do so, in one fervid shot. It comes quickly and easily, certain turns of phrase still floating in my mind from the last version I wrote. I re-read it a dozen times, wondering if I should pull a punch or two. But when I open the compose window, I instead find myself pushing it further. I don't want to compromise on it, so I let it stand, heavy and loud and unflinching.

Chaucer and I walk to the park, but it's hot, and we don't stay long. Back at the building, we're joined in the elevator by a neighbor on my floor, a husky man maybe five years younger than me with a floppy haircut and light blue eyes. Greg thinks he's gay, but I can't get a read. He's always very chatty and friendly with Chaucer, and he invites us to see his unit, which he knows I've got my eye on. Same square footage, same price, much better layout. He insists on letting Chaucer, who he calls Big Doggy, come in. While we discuss counter space and pay raises, Chauc wanders around sliming IKEA sofas and Expedit bookcases, still panting from his walk. It's 11 am, and I'm already exhausted. The dog is wiped out from the heat, and I realize if I stay at home I'll want to nap, too.

I run errands while catching up on texts with friends. It's a high traffic day on my phone: A girlfriend is having a small dinner party tomorrow night, and can I come? (Yes.) Another friend asks whether I caught Colbert last night (Not yet). My Vancouver friend sends my first weekly city pic and an update: he and his boyfriend have broken up, and when can I come up north to pull wingman duty? (When I've got the scratch, honey.) Another friend has the girl trouble blues, so I send him a Mom Jeans screenshot.

Greg sends me a pic which I stare at uncomprehendingly. It's the desk in our lobby, and on it are two boxes of plastic dog poo bags—the tear off kind that come in rolls. The bags are always there, for the use of residents with dogs. I see nothing remarkable about the photo, and I say as much. I'm urged to look closer. Then I see it. One box says "puppy poo"; the other, "people poo". It's beautifully done, seamless really. He even got the reflection of the lettering in the desk's glass.

I guess a lot of people from our building have been going number 2 on the street, he says.

You photoshopped this? I ask incredulously.

For your viewing pleasure, he says, with a smiley.

You're insane, I write back. I love it. Back home, I troll job listings. I spend a little while tweaking my resume, but don't send anything out. I don't return my dad's call from yesterday, though I make a promise to myself to send an email tonight. Chaucer's ready for another walk, and since it's so mild after the hot day, we stay out until near dark. He gets an unusual amount of attention this evening. People stop us on the sidewalk, wanting to talk to or about him, wanting to pet him or take his photo. I always forget how huge and out of place he looks, walking through the city streets.

A few steps from my door, a dark-complected man walking towards us calls out and moves to greet Chaucer. He smiles broadly and says something I don't understand. It takes me a moment to realize it's the Frenchman from the creperie around the corner. He doesn't think I recognize him, and he gestures quickly towards his chest and the restaurant. I assure him that I know who he is, and we have a short conversation in French 101. He's solicitous and warm, and encourages me to use the informal construction of verbs. I'm excited when I get out "Le meilleur Croque Monsieur du ville!" smoothly, though I've no idea if I've strung it together correctly. He tells me his name, and says "Enchantee!" as we part.

Cone of Shame

February 24, 2012

At least one of you is having a bad day, I know, because statistics. To you, I say this: It could be worse. You could be a pink Maltese trapped in the cone of shame.

It's vegetable dye, and it's harmless, so please don't go ringing the ASPCA. My girlfriend does this to her dog occasionally, and it's nothing to freak out about. If anything, the dog probably likes it, since she gets twice as much attention and cuddling from it. Frivolous and silly, yes. Abusive, not at all.

My girlfriend threw a small dinner party last night, cuz she wanted her visiting mum to meet some of her LA friends. She recently moved, and I hadn't seen her new place since she'd gotten settled in with new furniture, paint, etc. It looks incredible.

It's a three story loft with a rooftop terrace, smack in the middle of downtown. One of our friends is a furniture designer (he made my bed), so much of this was custom made with extra love and attention. I love, love, love the couch and the whole color scheme: grey, slate blue, taupe. And check out the vintage TVs in the bottom left pic. She picked those up at HD Buttercup.

We had salmon her mom had brought down from Washington, rice, steamed green beans, and lots of wine. Afterward, orange meringue sponge cake! It was so good to get together with everyone. It had been a while. A lot of us have been in transition - personally, professionally, and geographically. But we pledged to make 2012 our closest year yet, and I’mg going to hold those bitches to it. I showed them the videos I made last month, in which they feature prominently. They were a hit.

In other non-news, yesterday an ex did something bizarre to either impress me or make me jealous, I'm not sure which. Both, probably? But it's the second time since I fled his Crazytown that he's gone to such elaborately spiteful lengths to try and bait me. Both these gestures (I don't know what else to call them, though maybe "attacks" is the better word) were delivered via text message. Both times I responded with as minimal and dry a reply as I could.

When I forwarded this latest piece of weirdness to my closest friend, his response was OMFG. That's so fucked up. Jeebus. Which is basically what he said when he heard about the first bit of weirdness. Then last night after dinner, we were talking about this dude's over-the-top attempts to suck me into engaging. He shook his head in wonder and said, "That must be some magical pussy you have, my god. And I'm a gay man, so it feels really weird to have 'magical pussy' come out of my mouth." He looked at me. "But not as weird as it would feel going in to it."

I almost dropped to the sidewalk.

I told another friend who works in internet security. He has the coolest job, actually. He's the guy corporations call when they get hacked. Told me one story about doing what was essentially hand-to-hand combat with Anonymous. Crazy cool shit.

ANYWAY. When I told him about the text from my ex, he hit the roof. He insisted that I immediately sign into my AT&T account to block Crazypants's number, and then email him a screenshot to prove it. I did. His email reply: In accordance with our strict terms and conditions as friends, I will be randomly conducting checkins to the AT&T portal. Upon request you must submit a new screenshot within 5 minutes of request. All requests will come when I know you're near a computer hooked up to the interweb.

The point of this lame story is that I have rockstar friends who took what was an otherwise ugly thing and made something awesome out of it. Dude sets out to crap on my day, and instead ends up reminding me how lucky I am I have to such hilarious, cool, and supportive people in my corner.

I think someone else needs a cone of shame, too.

Lunchable Elevator

February 25, 2012

Greg texts around 2 am on Thursday night/Friday morning to say Someone broke the elevators. I sleep through it, and don't respond until after noon the next day:

Are you ok? Do you need me to call the fire department? I can drop a Lunchable down the elevator shaft... He lets me know he's back upstairs, but he's hungry. Would I maybe just grab the string he's dangling down the shaft and tie the Lunchable to that?

Yeah, I say. Do you want ham and crackers or tapioca and sliced apples?

Tapiocapples for sure, he responds. I inquire about the elevator problem. Did they just not work? Did you have to take the **shudder** stairs? He did. How many breaks did you have to take? I ask. Did you have a camelback?

He asks if he can buy me a cup of coffee, and I tell him I would, but I'm in the middle of something. He writes back: Is it a clever text?

I'm shaving callouses, I say. It's heavy labor.

A little pedegg action? he replies.

I'm floored. You know about the ped egg? HAVE WOMEN NO SECRETS ANYMORE??

A bit later he texts again. Coffee break in a bit maybe? We agree to meet in half an hour. I grab keys, the dog leash, and my phone, and Chaucer and I head out for a quick walk beforehand. It's pretty and sunny, and I snap a couple of pics. We get to the coffee shop before him, so together Chaucer and I watch him leave our building and cross the intersection. (The coffee shop is about a hundred steps from our front door).

Chauc nearly pees himself with excitement when he gets to the table. Greg rubs his head and coos at him. He pulls Chaucer's velvety ears, and nuzzles his jowls, letting the dog lick his cheek. "Jesus, Chauc," I say. "Have a little self-respect. There are tiny hearts floating out of your eyes right now." While he's inside getting us Arnold Palmers, a Neo Mastiff puppy stops by for a visit. After puppy and owner leave, we sip our drinks and talk about the various, familiar homeless people of downtown. We know some of them by name, as well as what to expect from them: this one always wants to talk about Chaucer, that one just wants enough money for smokes.

There's one guy known as Ricky the Pirate, and I've heard it said that he has his own Facebook fan page. Or maybe it's MySpace, I'm not sure. One man we see around is wildly unpredictable and prone to sudden outbursts. Today he's taken a chair a few feet down from us. He's muttering loudly and at one point, throws his cup violently to the ground. It splashes the sidewalk and a pair of pedestrians. Greg looks at me with an eyebrow raised: Should we go? But the man's fit passes, and he walks away, calm again.

Our table outside is next to a window, so patrons inside occasionally point and smile at Chaucer from inside. One young woman and her friend laugh as I allow Chaucer to chew on my straw. They look from the dog to Greg and back again. They mostly look at Greg. I roll my eyes and he laughs. He's not cocky or arrogant, but there's no doubt he's comfortable being a good looking young man. He told me once he loves meeting women. I told him it was scary how similar we are. It's suddenly chilly, so we leave. We get our mail together, and he gets off on my floor, excitedly opening a manilla envelope. Inside are printable sheets of aluminum that he's been anxious to experiment with. Last week it was glue trials. He walks me to my door, where he gives me a quick, friendly peck goodbye. I'm satisfied that we've successfully reclassified ourselves as friends. I set my alarm for seven, and fall asleep. I wake up at four am, twelve hours later. I've slept through an entire night of work. A Friday night. A night I needed, badly. I feel nauseous, I'm so furious with myself. The sleeping problems I've been having have gotten out of hand. I know exactly what I need to do—just stay the fuck awake during the hours I need to be awake and sleep when I should be sleeping—but I'm failing at this seemingly simple task. I try to forgive myself, focus on the things I am getting right, and start my day optimistic and determined to do better.

Pilot Light

February 27, 2012

When Greg texts, asking if he can come by, my place is still a mess from the night before. A last minute invitation to an Oscar-watching party had me scrambling to pick out a dress. Virtually every one I own has been pulled out of my closet, draped across the couch or my desk, or hung in the window.

The party itself hadn't been anything spectacular, but that was mostly because I tagged along with Cameron. I barely knew anyone there, and wasn't feeling especially mingly. I hung back with familiar faces and did my part to deplete the catering table of ahi tuna and sea-salted chocolate chip cookies. The hosts had gone all out decorating, complete with a red-carpet entryway outside their apartment door, and a blow-up Oscar for photo ops.

After the party, Cameron and I had gone to Faultline, though we did even less mingling there. We planted ourselves at the bar and talked for hours, the bartender occasionally buying us shots and joining in the conversation. He clearly had his sights set on my friend. I wasn't in the mood to drink heavily, but had felt it my duty as Wingwoman in Chief to partake.

I'm still feeling the lingering effects of my good sportsmanship when Greg knocks and lets himself in, a heavy glass jug with a narrow neck in his arms. Inside is a plump goldfish named Roscoe. I'm going to be fish sitting for the next five days while he's out of town. Greg puts the jug on my kitchen island, carefully positioning it like a centerpiece. He comments on the spread of formal wear and shoes around my apartment. Though I explain that the mess was occasioned by a party with friends, he teases me, insisting I've been on a date. He takes a seat on my couch, and I sit opposite him on the edge of my bed. We chat about his pending trip, about his work.

After a minute, I stand and return to the business of tidying up. He lays down lengthwise, twisting his body to face me, and extends his arms in a wordless invitation: come. This is a direct, blatant regression of our reclassification efforts and we both know it. But he's an appealing sight, stretched out on the sofa. I can't resist the temptation to be held, so I only hesitate for a moment before laying down with him. And that's when it happens. It's something in the kiss he gives me, gentle and soft. Reserved, even, as if to acknowledge that this is an anomaly in our new paradigm. As if reading my mind, he confirms this verbally. "I know we're just friends. But I like kissing you." But whereas before when he'd kiss me, I'd feel myself floating away mentally, detached and frankly, uninterested in the physical experience of it, at this moment, I am very much present. My senses are fully registering, and I am dialed in. What got shut off so forcefully late last year, at the hands of another man, is suddenly back on again. It is unexpected and wonderful and intoxicating. I can't explain why it's happening, but I don't care.

He feels and hears my response, and pulls us upright on the couch. After a few minutes like this, he stands, still holding me wrapped around his torso. He yanks the curtain sheers closed and we tumble onto my bed. For some reason, I'm acutely aware of colors: the white of both our shirts, of my sheets, and of the afternoon light filtering through the soft cotton drapes. The blue of our jeans, which are almost the exact same dye of denim. The red of his lips and the deep gold of his eyes. He knows and understand the significance of my reaction. He recognizes that I'm suddenly miles apart from where I was just a week or so ago. He's solicitous and encouraging, whispering in my ear how sexy I am, and how pretty. In the midst of the passion, my brain takes a moment to pause for gratitude to him. He's refusing to let me worry about his side of things, and insisting that we completely focus on me. It feels like a gift. It has everything to do with him. It has nothing to do with him. What he's passing on to me, I'll take back for myself and use again, without him. We both know it. And that's ok, and understood. It's a beautiful thing.

I won't let things go far. I keep the original boundary I've established in place. But the twenty minutes we steal, before he leaves to pack for his flight, is dreamlike. He holds me, grinning with a mixture of genuine happiness for me and some undeniable satisfaction at his part in the process. "I feel like a shell has broken off of me," I say. "There's a warmth and a glow deep inside of me that I haven't felt in so long. It's like, I don't know...the pilot light got lit again." He tells me that I'm a spectacular person, and that I deserve all good things. He goes soon afterward, assuring me that Roscoe will be fine without a water change.

After I watch him turn the corner of my hall, I return to lounging in my bed, luxuriating in my senses. I feel, once again, like a whole human being. A bit later, he texts to ask if he can stop by again, before he leaves for the airport. He pops in the door to quickly hand me a small plastic container on which he's written in Sharpie: Puddin Pie - **Homemade** "I got the urge to make pie crust last night," he explains. "It crumbled and broke, so I made pudding pie. Chocolate. It's good." He kisses me and turns to go. I call down the hall after him, wishing him a good flight. I make a request for beach pictures from Florida. "Every grain of sand," he promises.

Once he's gone, I rummage in the closet for my Nikes. For the first time in weeks, I feel like running.

Reframe

February 29, 2012

The first part of today sucked could have been a lot worse.

First, I discovered that yet another blog designer had copied and re-sold some of my work been so impressed by my originality and creativity that she wanted to pass it off as her own. So that ruined my morning flatters me.

Then, I acted like an idiot made a mistake and now a friend is pissed off at me mildly annoyed at me. I am mad at myself for upsetting him and feel really low about it can't say that I blame him.

I've been out of touch with some loved ones for a little while, so I feel like no one wants to talk to me assume people are just busy with their own lives. I wish they'd reach out to me. Seems like a good opportunity to reach out, say hello, and let them know they're on my mind.

On top of everything, I had run out of half-and-half the perfect excuse to work heavy whipping cream into my morning.

Basically, it seems like the universe is conspiring against me life as usual.

I sent a pic of Roscoe to Greg, to show him how fabulous a fish sitter I am. He texted back saying that he lost his license and passport, and has no ID with which to board the plane home. To cheer him up I told him that Roscoe says he likes me better, since I let him eat dessert first. He answered, Fish don't eat dessert. It's too sandy for them.

I replied that he's awfully clever for a man with no identity,

Hollywood Night

March 8, 2012

Some second-degree friends (now officially first degree) were in town, so I put on a wholly age-and-weather-inappropriate dress, threw on some whore paint, and hopped the train to Hollywood to enjoy an evening of acting like an idiot, because I'd worked the previous 6 out of 7 nights and I deserved to have some fun, damn it.

I got off at Hollywood and Highland, with plans to walk to The Standard (where my friends were staying) from there. I'd called the hotel earlier, and had been assured that it was just a 15-minute walk from the train station. Lying liars and the lies they tell: once off the train and standing on the cold street corner, my map app informed me I had a 45 minute walk instead. D'oh.

Friend with rental car to the rescue! While I waited to be picked up, I took pictures of the sidewalk and street (like a tourist) and picked fights with the preachers proselytizing on milk crates nearby. "Picked fights" isn't entirely truthful. They approached me, and I just engaged, enthusiastically, with my usual But how do you know you've got the right book/god; there are so many! argument. Homeboys gave up on me quickly. They usually do.

We had drinks at The Standard (salty dogs, mmmm), then walked in the freezing night down the street to Katana for dinner. It was a huge treat for me to be out of downtown, one, and two, taken out to a nice dinner. Your blogmistress is stupidly lucky-blessed with awesome friends equipped with expense accounts. We sat on the patio, overlooking Sunset Boulevard, and ate sushi, salmon sashimi, grilled asparagus skewers, rib eye, and chicken hearts (I had one, just to say I did. Chewy, gross, not a fan). And saki. Lots and lots of saki.

At one point, a party of two ridiculously beautiful and quite scantily-clad Australian women and their escort (some former 80s hair band drummer - didn't recognize the name of the group when he said it) decided to join our table. I'm not even sure why; we just struck up a conversation with them as they were being seated near us, and then suddenly, we were an eightsome. Being that I was with three straight dudes, I got mad points for acting as a girl liaison and sealing the deal on that. Meaning, they probably wouldn't have hung out with us all night if I hadn't somehow, like, legitimized their presence by being a woman they could chat up.

I'm nothing if not helpful.

As dinner was wrapping up, Brunette leans over and asks me what my plans are for the rest of the night. Apparently, they want to steal me away from my manpanions. I think sleazy hair-band-drummer dude was pulling the strings on that. But I was having none of it, and said I'd love to hang out with their lovelinesses more, provided we could all go. And so go we all did, piled into two taxis, to The Rainbow Room, which was nowhere near as cool as I thought it'd be. Live jazz in a sad little attic with nothing/no one of much interest to look at. We didn't stay long.

Back in the taxis, this time to Hemingway's, which was definitely having a ghetto-ish night. There was bumping club music and lots of skin. But we went with it, did shots, and had stupid fun dancing anyway. Basically, it was a wickedly indulgent night of laughs and goofing around, and one that I definitely felt I'd earned.

unexpected

March 9, 2012

Thursday morning, Greg texts to see if I want to grab breakfast. I'm still sleeping off the night before so I miss his message. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I bounce the invitation back, and we agree on Starbucks in fifteen minutes. I get there first, and watch him approach. We see one another and he smiles from across the street. While he's waiting for the light to change, a huge bus passes between us; when the street clears, he's nowhere to be seen. I frown, looking around. Where the hell did he go? Then I see him, popping his head out from behind a wall on the other side of the road. He's a twenty-seven year old man, playing hide-and-go-seek on a busy downtown street corner.

We have coffee and talk. It's casual, friendly, relaxed. We've been reclassified, despite lapses. I'm confident of this. I'm happy to be his friend, because I have truly grown to adore this charming young man, for all his playfulness, his wit, and his warmth. It doesn't hurt that he's so handsome, either. It's undeniably fun, and no small ego boost, to be seen with him in public. A friend of his joins our table outside; they have plans to work together on a project, so I get up to leave them to it. As I'm going, Greg asks if I want to get a bite later. I tell him I've got plans. "Art Walk," I say simply, not elaborating. I've got a date, but I don't feel like telling him. Firmly in the friends camp as we are, I know him well enough to know it might sting a little bit. We're detached, but attached. We're casual, but we care. We've been skirting dangerous territory for months, and I'm about to change everything, by seeing someone else. I'm well within my rights - we are, after all, just friends/neighbors with (some) benefits. I'm just not ready to tell him yet.

Later, my date comes over. I cook. We eat. We drink. We joke and talk and kiss a little. We're having a great time. We head out for Art Walk. We wander, we browse, we stop for drinks at Bar 107. We start to get drunk. We kiss some more. We wander some more. We go to The Association, and nestle into a couch towards the back. We drink and talk and flirt, intensely. The place is packed, the music is great, and we're having a lot of fun. I go the bar to get us a round. On my way back, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Greg. He's grinning as usual, clearly delighted to see me, and ready to hang out. I realize he's come here knowing it's my favorite downtown bar, and that the chances of my being here tonight are great. He has no idea I'm on a date. That is, until he takes in my surprised and slightly anxious expression, and glances downward at the two drinks in my hands. His face falls immediately.

"You're on a date, aren't you?" I don't know what to say. I'm drunk, and don't trust myself to speak. I just nod. I know my face says everything: I'm sorry. I should have told you. Please don't be upset. We're cool, right? We're just friends, right? You knew this was coming, right...?

He straightens up, giving me a look I read as one part sorrowful and one part anger. "I'm out of here," he says. He turns and moves away, disappearing quickly into the throng. I'm bothered, but too drunk and preoccupied with the good time I'm having on my date to feel much more than a medium-sized pang of regret. It's awkward, yes, and a little bit painful. We have, after all, had some really good times over the past few months...but it was never going anywhere. It was just fun. We'll talk about it. It'll be ok. These are all the fragmented half-thoughts that are in my head as my date and I continue our evening.

We leave, briefly hitting Spring Street before starting back towards my place. We're both happily tipsy, arms linked, laughing and enjoying one another's company. Suddenly, I realize I'm looking at Sydney, Greg’s dog, approaching us on the sidewalk. My eyes lift from leash to master: it's too late for either of us to turn away or pretend this isn't happening. Holy hell. What are the chances we'd run into one another twice on the same night. Jesus. A small, awkward, slightly ugly scene ensues: Greg turns his body as we move past, walking backwards, eyes on me intently. He raises his arms in a questioning gesture, and says incredulously, "Really? This guy?" I cringe. I'm embarrassed for all three of us. I know Greg is lashing out because he's drunk. But I know there's some real pain there, too. I'm stammering an apology to my date, who's not exactly sure what just happened, when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, see it's Greg, and stupidly decide to answer. I don't remember what was said. Twenty seconds worth of me trying to placate my friend (my friend, right?), but also trying to enforce boundaries. I'm sympathetic but firm.

I hang up. The texting starts. I'm exceedingly jealous, he writes. I don't reply. I'm busy trying to pick my way through an explanation to my date, of who this person is and what this drama is about. He's sporting and generous and doesn't seem overly perturbed. We've been having too great a time together for him to feel threatened. When we get back to my place, I shut my phone off. So I'm unaware of the texts that continue to come. And I'm unaware of the email that will arrive early the next morning. And I'm certainly, at this point, utterly unaware of what the next four days are going to bring: a completely unexpected flood of emotion that will shake up the lives of two men and one woman. And that is still shaking them up, even as I write the first part of these belated, catch-up posts. I'm unaware of anything other than my date, whom I allow to spend the night with me - something I'd never once allowed Greg to do.

halfway in love

March 10, 2012

Friday morning, my date and I wake up together. We've had a really nice night and I just really enjoy his company. His energy is positive, calming, confident. There is something very sure - and reassuring - about this man, and I like it a lot. I've nothing breakfast-worthy in my fridge, so we walk across the street for a coffee. We briefly discuss the drama of the night before. I'm still surprised by Greg’s behavior, and still unsure how to address it. We're sitting there talking amicably, still getting to know one another, when I glance toward my building. Greg is walking out the front door, his notebook in hand. It's obvious where he's headed: the very cafe where we're sitting.

Holy fucking shit, I think. Are you kidding me?? I'm about to have my third unexpected encounter with him in twelve hours; my date, his second. I don't know whether to warn my date, to brace him for impact or not. But I don't have to, because it's mere seconds before Greg is upon us. The awkwardness is palpable in the hot morning air. Nobody knows what to say, or how to act. Greg gives a perfunctory nod, then disappears inside. I cannot believe the bad luck. My date and I laugh nervously and sip our drinks. I'm trying to seem neutral, unaffected, but the truth is, I'm feeling for Greg. I know he's probably seething at the fact that my date stayed the night, a privilege he was never allowed, and a sore spot between us. A minute later, he reemerges from Starbucks, and walks straight to our table. He puts his hand out to my date. He looks him squarely in the eye, and apologizes. "Hey man," he says. "I just want to apologize for my behavior last night. I know I was a little rough. No excuses, I wasn't a gentleman, and I'm sorry."

There's a brief exchange of testosterone and ego, the depths of which I can only guess at. It's expressed in the nuances of handshake, of eye contact - the man-to-man communique I can witness but will never fully understand. Greg directs his energy to my date, barely acknowledging me. Then he's gone as quickly as he's come. I have no idea what to think about any of this. My date leaves soon after. I walk him to his car a street away. Back on my block, I come upon Greg, who's loading his car in front of our building. At this point, it's comical how many times we've run into another in the past half day. But he doesn't laugh. He slams his car door, walking up to me quickly, and then immediately stepping back, agitated and incredulous. He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. He looks at me wildly.

"Why is it that I never run into you except the one day you're the last person I want to see?" I'm quiet, standing helplessly on the sidewalk. I know we need to talk, but I'm not sure where to start. What's to be said? And why is he this upset? "You let him stay the night?" He looks at me, wounded. "We've been hanging out for months, and you never let me sleep over."

I say his name, pleadingly. "We didn't want anything serious, remember? We talked about it. You didn't want anything. Neither did I. Where is this coming from?"

"Will you go for a drive with me?" he asks. "Please? I really want to talk to you." He's pacing. I've never seen him wound up like this. "I haven't slept all night."

I take stock of myself: I have no makeup on. I haven't brushed my hair. I'm not even wearing a bra. "Of course," I say. We get in the car and head west on Wilshire. He's driving fast, glancing over at me every few seconds. "I didn't sleep," he says. "I woke up every hour to check my phone, to see if you'd texted back. Did you get my email?" I tell him I haven't looked at my phone yet today. He looks directly at me. Again, I ask him to explain where this is coming from. A little bit of jealousy, ok, sure, that I can understand, but...

"Look, Ellie," he says. "I'm halfway in love with you..." He's still talking, but my brain has tripped on these words. He's completely sober. He's had the night to cool off, to gain some perspective on all of this. He can't be serious, but he is. He goes on to say that seeing me with another man was intolerable to him. That it made him realize what I mean to him. That all along he's known it, but maybe it's about time he showed me. That the thought of losing me kept him up all night. He tells me to read his email, which I do. It's an apology for "attempting to chase off" my "beau", but only because he "sometimes thinks I'm the Ellie for him". It ends with him begging me to call ASAP. It's signed, XO, Valentine.

I'm stunned. I did not expect this. At all. The next few hours are a blur. We stop at a camera supply store. He takes me to lunch, a delicatessen where we split a corned beef sandwich. When the food arrives, he moves to sit beside me in the booth. He spreads mustard on my half without my asking. We talk and talk and talk. He's intensely, insistently affectionate, putting his arm around me, kissing my cheek and forehead, gazing deeply at me. I allow all of this to happen, in spite of the fact that I've just sent my date home mere hours ago. I am too bewildered and busy processing to protest. My brain is on overtime; I've pulled out the file marked Greg, the one I'd handily filed away, knowing exactly what was in it and where it went - and now I've got it spread open before me. I have to reexamine its contents completely. I have no idea where it goes anymore. I have no idea where I want it to go. After we eat, we pay at the cashier stand. I make an offhand comment about wishing we'd saved some bread, to feed the ducks we'd been watching through the window, at the lake across the street.

"Could I maybe get a couple pieces of bread, to go?" he asks the cashier. I object, telling him not to be silly. He ignores me. The cashier tells him it will be two dollars for the bread. He asks her whether he can't just add a little extra to the tip line, to call it a day, rather than run his debit card again. She says something about that money going to the server. Unfazed, he says, "Ok, no problem. Just charge it then." He hands his card back to her. "We have a five dollar minimum on debit cards, sir." He doesn't even blink. "Wonderful. Can I please get five dollars worth of bread?" He smiles brightly at her, while I'm dying behind him.

We leave with a small bag containing five slices of bread and a cookie. We feed ducks, ducking and dodging the sea gulls who swarm us from above. He takes a picture of me, into which he'll later photoshop an eagle, mixed in with the various other birds hovering around us. As we're walking out of the park, he puts out his hand, silently gesturing for me to pass back to him the wrapped cookie he'd given me moments earlier. He trots a few yards over to a homeless person laying on the grass. I can't hear the words exchanged, but she lights up and happily accepts the cookie he hands to her.

Back at our building, he asks me to come up and listen to records (actual records) while he works. I oblige, though he doesn't do any work. He just plays music, and sits close to me on an overstuffed chair. At some point, he takes his guitar off the wall, and plays for me. He kisses me, and I allow it, hating myself for playing the lava game at warp fucking speed, but feeling powerless to stop.

I know that I need to get some air, some time alone to digest all of this. That I'm going to have to cut ALL of this off - the date and Greg - until I figure out what the fuck I want. That this is borderline disgusting behavior on my part, and it needs to stop, immediately. In my defense, I'm reeling with mixed, confusing emotions. I'm flattered. I'm intrigued. I'm excited. I'm unsure. I'm scared. I question what's going on, both silently and aloud: he's honest and vulnerable, in response. He doesn't have all the answers. He isn't sure about where he wants it to go, or how far. He just knows he wants to give it a shot, a real shot. My mind is split into two warring factions, one side urging me to go for it, because he truly is an amazing person. The other half is holding back, hung up on two major concerns: 1) My date - whom I really like. Really. And 2) the question of, how much could I really want this, anyway, if how casual it's been has never bothered me before? Eventually, I tear myself away from this confusing, overwhelming space. It's Friday night, and I have to get ready for work.

Tragically flawed

March 15, 2012

When I wake up, I read a text from Greg. It's a copy of the picture he took at the lake on the previous Friday, the one of me feeding ducks into which he'd photoshopped an eagle. I love this, he's sent with it.

I reply: That picture is awful.

He writes back: I like it. It proves that you're not a vampire.

It proves that I'm not pretty, is what it proves, I answer. I tell him that I did well at work the night before, and am going to go pay off my bike.

Want a lift? he asks. I explain that the bike shop is just a few blocks away on Broadway. Want a cohort? he amends. I accept the offer, and a few minutes later, he knocks on my door.

On the walk over, we rehash where things stand with us. I am strongly leaning towards not wanting to get further involved with him. In fact, I am nearly sure of it. I've agonized over the decision to tell him as much, because I can't seem to get my ass off the fence. And he knows it. He acknowledges my reticence, all the while gently reaffirming his own undiminished interest. I tell him that I've grown to adore him so much, to treasure his company and companionship and all of our fun times so dearly, that I'm terrified of what dating would do to our already great relationship. I know he's substantially younger (9 years), and that pretty much guarantees us an expiration date. I know at some point, he'll want someone closer to his age. Someone younger. And I have a feeling if (when!) it ends after getting truly romantically involved, it will end terribly. There'll just be too much pain. We'll have gotten too close, and our friendship won't survive. At this point, I tell him, I value our friendship way, way too much to risk losing it.

I don't tell him that I am also distracted by thoughts of someone else - the person he'd met, and who had sent him into a 12 hour tailspin the week before. I keep that variable out of the equation. And I don't say that this person, during the two dates I'd had with him, has drawn a strong reaction from me, physically. One that's been on my mind, and interfering with my ability to see things clearly.

He argues that we're nearly perfect for one another. That he doesn't care about my age, or that I dance. That everything lines up for us, that we get along like peas in a pod, that we're attracted to one another, get one another's senses of humor, that we have mutual interests. That he thinks we can retain a friendship if it doesn't work out. He wants to try, anyway. When we get to the bike shop, I realize I don't have quite enough to pay the layaway balance, unless I want to nearly clean out my checking account. I tell the guy helping me that I'll be back with the final $90 tomorrow.

Greg steps forward. "If she pays the balance now, can she take it home today?" The shopkeeper and I speak at the same time, him saying "yes" and me saying "no." I know where Greg is going with this, and shake my head firmly. Ignoring me, he takes out his debit card and hands it to the cashier. "Don't accept that," I say sharply. "Seriously." Greg smiles at me. "Come on, you were so excited to get your bike. Just pay me back tomorrow." We go a few rounds of me refusing and him insisting before I acquiesce, on the condition that he lets me pay him back (he doesn't, justifying the gift by explaining that he's made an unexpected repeat sale of one of his paintings).

Greg asks whether I have a helmet, and I laugh. "No way," I say. "I can ride a bike just fine." I look to the shopkeeper for support. "If you're over eighteen, you don't legally have to. But if you're going to be riding at night or in heavy traffic, I definitely recommend it." Greg looks at me pointedly. He knows I'd be doing both. "Uh uh." I shake my head. "I'll be fine." While we wait for them to customize my bike (I've had them add brakes to the front handlebars), we goof around in the shop. He takes a video, making me pose on a tiny kid's bike while he mock-interviews me about my big purchase. He teases me about how excited I am, but he's obviously getting a good deal of vicarious joy out of the experience. He's playful and affectionate, and pulls me to him to kiss my forehead and dance with me. His attention feels good. It always does: like wrapping myself up in a warm, familiar sweater. At one point, he brings me into his arms and playfully sways with me. It's the middle of the day, and we're standing in the middle of a bike shop, in the middle of downtown LA. He tells me if I don't let him take me on a date, a real date, that he's going to have to move away to escape me.

"Don't you dare," I whisper up at him. He leans close to my ear and sings: "I'm leaving, on a jet plane...don't know when I'll be back again..."

"Stop it," I say, punching his arm. He doesn't let go of me.

We've been waiting for some time, and Greg has a dinner date with his mom in a couple of hours. I tell him to go ahead, that I'll wait alone. He refuses. Another half hour passes. At this point, he's almost certainly going to be late to pick up his mother, but he won't leave. He tells me to wait at the front of the shop, and he'll go check on things in back, to see if he can't speed up the process. "You're going to have to come back for repairs and stuff, so I'll be the bad guy," he says. As he steps away, he turns and says conspiratorially, "I'll get you something free. Like a helmet."

He walks back to the service area, and I watch him conferring with the mechanic and shop manager. A few moments later, he waves me over. The shop manager gestures to a table nearby, piled with various helmets. "Let's get you a helmet," the manager says. "What's your favorite color?" I look at Greg, who's smiling, clearly pleased with himself. I won't find out until a couple days later that he's actually had to pay for the helmet.

The bike is ready a few minutes later, and we walk it home together. When we stop at Pershing Square to let the dog pee, he takes photos of me wheeling around on the pavement. My favorite part of the bike is the contrasting white tape I've had them put on the handlebars. I've mentioned it repeatedly to him, and now he teases me by making a point to comment on how cool it looks. I feel twelve and giddy, and he tells me how nice it is that I'm so excited and grateful. Later, he texts me a picture of himself just before he leaves for dinner. He's standing in the mirror, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and looking absurdly handsome - with his middle finger raised to the camera. What's with you and putting birds in all your pictures? I ask.

2 pts for you, he says, In the game of Ellie v. Greg. At work that night, I receive a text asking me if I want to come cuddle after I'm off. Something about it makes me feel panicky. I start to feel extremely anxious about where things are with him. I'm afraid they're spiraling out of my control, and I'm going to end up losing his friendship, if we don't set some boundaries once and for all. I text back, saying as much. I'm offering you my friendship, I say. I hope more than anything you'll accept it.

He doesn't give up. We smile, laugh, and generally adore each other to bits. We're excessively attracted to one another and somewhat mutually in love. The second I stop being all over you, you're gonna come and tell me you've been thinking about me and you might've been wrong again, he wrote. Tragically flawed we are.

What would dating change? I ask, not sure what point I'm trying to make.

I'd wear your jacket, he says.

I need to think, I tell him.

I need to drink, he says back.

Plot twist

March 16, 2012

When I get home from work on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I am emotionally trashed. The texting I've done with Greg that night - and in fact, having spent the day with him - has me completely twisted. One minute, I look at all the amazing qualities he has as a person and that we have, together, and I feel like I'd be crazy not to date him. The next, I feel weirdly like I'm trying to talk myself into it. I'm scared of how bad it will hurt to lose him, when he's inevitably ready to move on from me.

Greg is too lovable, and our paths parallel in so many ways, that I know I can get really, really attached to him if I let myself. I know that if I start regularly sleeping with Upstairs while dating him, I'll fall in love with him. That's unquestionable. Then I'll really be fucked when it ends. I write Greg an email that says, basically, "Friends. That's my final answer. That's what I want: your friendship. Platonic. Please give it to me, because I don't want to lose you."

I can't sleep after I write it. I feel sick and unsure. I second guess myself. He writes back in the early morning. There's anger. Disappointment. He calls me out, fairly, on my many mixed signals. There is also kindness and generosity and understanding and respect. And a promise that I'll always have his friendship, but that maybe it's time we had a little space from one another. I am relieved, saddened, disappointed, and angry at myself - all sorts of messy, confusing emotions. Then, the plot twist comes. My date from the other day texts. He says he's having second thoughts about seeing me again, and about getting further involved (I haven't seen or spoken with him in a week). He says he's scared of getting hurt, and that he isn't sure I'm the right thing for him. In a nutshell, he dumps me. I'm surprised and disappointed, and my ego develops a big, ugly blue bruise. But then I realize how utterly ridiculous I am for feeling surprise. I should have seen this coming, one, and two, I fully deserve it, for having just cold put him on hold while I waffled. After the drama he was a party to, who'd blame him? I sit in the bathtub, stunned not at the fact that I've been dropped, but at the fact of how stupidly chaotic and drama-filled my life has become, in the course of a week. I'm thirty-six years old, I think. What the fuck. I'd been planning to go to work that night, to fully immerse myself in profitable distraction until the whole mess was a few days behind me, but when Cameron texts, wanting to go out, I jump at that plan instead.

An hour later I'm dressed to maim and on the train; we go to Akbar in Silver Lake. We take ecstasy. We dance to 80s deep cuts. We have an amazing, randomness-filled talk about life. We shut the bar down, catch a taxi home, and have food delivered: a huge serving of chili cheese fries. They come with a side of potato chips, and I actually use the chips to scoop up the fries. My name is Ellie, and I get by with a little help from my friends, their drugs, good music, and carbohydrates.

As simple as choosing

March 17, 2012

On Friday, I get an email from Greg, telling me he'd like to go for a walk today, to settle things mano a mano. Before I have a chance to reply, I run into him in the elevator. We both have our dogs, so we take them down to the street together. We walk in silence for a minute before he speaks. He tells me he understands everything I've been saying for the past eight days. That he hates the idea of making me uncomfortable with his overtures. He stops on the sidewalk and looks at me, and I catch my breath, to see how pained and sincere and open and vulnerable his expression is.

"But in spite of everything, I'd still date you if--"

"Then let's do it," I hear myself saying.

The air around us seems to freezes for a split second, while I brace myself for his reaction. It feels like hours. He stares at me, incredulous. If I'd been a third party, I would have looked at me the same way. I feel incredulous. Before replying with actual words, he makes a noise that seems to be equal parts disbelief, annoyance, amusement, and delight. I try to compose myself; I feel like crying. I suddenly want him, and badly so. I feel like I've just jumped off a bridge, tethered only by a rope around my ankle - the other end of which is tied around his waist. Everything he's been telling me since last week has led me to believe that I'll be safe if I take this leap - but I still feel terrified, for both of us. I am in no way sure he knows how fast and heavily I can fall. I am in no way sure he'll be able to keep us both alive. But I've gone and made the call to test us both. I've said the words, and there's no going back. The waffling is over. I know what makes me say it, and I know what doesn't.

I say it because in that moment, I realize how incredible - how miraculous - it is, that after all the hot-cold hoops I've put him through, here he is, still ready to take a chance with me. He's fearless, I realize. Fucking fearless. In that moment, there on the sidewalk, I realize what an incredibly beautiful thing his fearlessness is. How rare and precious it is. It kind of makes me fall instantly in love with him a little bit. Just the littlest bit. It kind of makes me see him in a way I never have before. I realize, suddenly, that I can choose to love him, if I want to. Or at least choose to see if I will. I've nearly rationalized this person out of my life because I've been afraid of what loving him could do to me down the line. But it's as simple as choosing to see it differently: to see the things that are already there (the friendship, fun, laughter), and the things that can be there. I don't say it because this hasn't worked out. I know how much it might seem like that, to someone reading this story in serial installments. But it isn't about that. That's the furthest thing from my mind. It's 100% about Greg himself, and about seeing, finally, how much he's brought to my life - about recognizing that those things could be just the tip of the iceberg. That I'd be a fucking fool to at least not give it a shot. Never regret the things you do in life. Only the things you don't do.

I know I don't need him in my life. I can be perfectly okay on my own. I know that without question. I was prepared to be single, for all intents and purposes, for a good long time, until some of the bigger puzzle pieces in my life fall into place. But Greg brings something really special to my life. He isn't a need, nor am I for him. But we give one another joy. Why wouldn't we want more of it? The next twenty minutes, walking around the block, are a blur. He seems surprised, skeptical, wary, excited, hopeful, happy. He tells me I'm crazy. He tells me he doesn't know what to think, or what to believe. I tell him I completely understood, and don't blame him one bit. But that if his offer still stands, all I'm asking for is one date - one official date, finally. He can't stop smiling, or looking at me. We're giggling. He takes my hand. He puts his arm around me. He tells me we'll have to take things slow, that we'll have to go on one date and see what happens. He says he's scared. I say I am, too.

-—

That night, we text up a frenzy. We make plans to hang out at the St. Patrick's Day block party the next day, held directly in front of our building. We text-banter nonstop in the hours before I leave for work.

Please please please just stay my friend, he says. I don't wanna lose this. No one else gets my jokes.

I write back: Friends first and above all. Pinky swear.

Ellie, I'm in, he says, and my heart soars a little bit.

We have a poetry slam, while I'm on the train to work: (me) Riding the blue line Someone sits too close; I move Green beer tomorrow (him) He receives a text The phone lights up; so does he Sydney scoffs and turns. (me) A guantlet is thrown Fuck, what rhymes with [his real name]? Dirty limericks rule. (him) Challenge accepted: We pronounce words differently. I say limerick

---

We speak again briefly, after I get home from work. Plans to meet up the next day, while we both are out with our friends. I'm excited about seeing Hollywood U2 again, about watching the concert with him. I tell him he'll find me by looking for the girl wearing yellow + blue instead of green. He tells me to Google "snowclone", a cool word he's just learned. We say goodnight, and the thoughts I have of him as I go to sleep are different than others I've ever had. It's as if he's completely new to me.

I can't wait to see him the next day.

St. Patrick’s Day

March 18, 2022

I can't sleep Friday night/Saturday morning, so I decide to make Greg a St. Patrick's Day card. I cut and color a shamrock and tape it to a piece of folded paper inscribed with a limerick. I sign it XO, a lucky girl, and leave it outside his door. Chaucer and I go for a walk in the rain. He chases a ball on the lawn near City Hall, lumbering and sliding around on the wet grass like a puppy. On the way back, he stops short to nose at something on the sidewalk - a tiny snail. 

When we get home, I finally feel sleepy, so I set my alarm for 1pm and crash for a quick nap. Greg texts while I sleep: Not going to Casey's. I'm gonna be looking around town for a mysterious cardgiver. Cameron comes over, armed with mixers for the bottle of Ketel in my freezer and a tiny plastic baggie printed with the Batman logo. Inside it are some small pink tablets: more of the ecstasy we'd taken a few days earlier. We stop by a neighbor's apartment, where Chaucer is treated to a few sips of beer and his usual overdose of attention. We have drinks and socialize while I play text-tag with Greg, who's already gone down to the street party. 

Live music pours in through the open windows, and I'm anxious to go watch it. The sidewalk is packed with revelers. Cameron and I enter the cordoned-off area through a separate entrance for VIPs and residents of my building - a concession to the inconvenience of our block being ground zero. We listen to music, mingle, and drink some more. By the time we run into Greg, maybe half an hour later, the drugs and alcohol in my system have kicked in. I catch his eye above the crowd; he's seen us first and is already grinning. The three of us spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening together, with breaks to hang out with other friends, walk our dogs, run up to my apartment for refills, and hit the bathroom in Casey's. 

When the U2 tribute band comes on, we wedge our way close to the stage to dance and sing along. Greg leaves to find his cousin, and Cameron looks at me. "He's competing with me." I don't understand. "Because he knows I'm here," he explains, pointing at my chest. "And he wants to be there." Greg comes back, and wraps his arms around my waist while all three of us bellow out the words to Sunday Bloody Sunday. He smiles and laughs every time I spin around to face him. He's rolling with us. I throw my arms around his neck, and he speaks low and soft in my ear: "You're my best friend." I can hear the words perfectly, in spite of the music, and I draw back to look at his face. His eyes are serious but shining. He pulls me back to him, and presses his face close to mine. "You really are." When I pull away to take some pictures and video. I hear snippets of conversation behind me, about me. "...anyone I ever dated would have to get her, so..." 

The drugs, the booze, the music, and the joy of being with them both are almost too much: I'm euphoric. I grab Cameron's scarf and look at him intently. "You taught me to love myself again. Do you know that?" He smiles and shakes his head. "It's true," I insist. I'm choked up, trying not to get overwhelmed by my emotions. "Well that just makes me sad, in a way," he says, "because you should never have stopped." 

Later, we all go to a party on the top floor of my building. Cameron and I grab a bag of Doritos from the kitchen and explore the penthouse while Greg socializes. The host downloads a Dandy Warhols song I want to hear, and we talk about concerts we've seen. I tell Greg I want to show Cameron his apartment and paintings, and he hands me his keys. The two of us walk over alone, and Cameron looks at Greg's work for the first time. I have a curious, warm feeling while he does so: pride. Cameron wants to go out, but though Greg and I try to rally, we're both too tired. We say goodnight to Cam, who picks up his pup from the play date he's been having at my place with Chaucer. 

Greg and I go back to his apartment to cuddle and watch a movie. I sit in his lap while we scroll through the titles on his computer. "Let's watch something sappy," I say, nuzzling against him. We settle on Wall-E, which we watch on his couch, spooning until our eyes grow heavy. Eventually, he carries me to his bed and I doze off with my head on his arm.

Away team

March 22, 2012

Greg texts from Mas Malo, wanting to know if I'd like him to bring me back some chocolate flan. I tell him no thanks, that I'm not a fan of the flan. Neither is he. I'm a creme brulee guy, he says. Then, I adore you.

I respond: Just don't dessert me.

A few minutes later, he sends me a picture: a worm floating in a glass of amber liquid. Good idea or bad idea? he asks. I tell him I hear they flourish in the small intestines of nice Jewish boys. Flourish and multiply, I add.

You're just afraid that I'll get drunk and harass you, he says. Which I will. Then in a bit: Can I come over for a minute? I have a tequila worm and we're gonna do this together. Once here, he tries to convince me to split the worm with him. I refuse. Instead, we cut it and offer half to Chaucer, who wants nothing to do with it.

We mess around for a couple of hours, talking and listening to Washed Out. I slip my bare feet into his sheepskin slippers, clomping around and doing an exaggerated impression of him. I threaten to march over and knock on my neighbor's down the hall, and when I step halfway out my door, he pushes me the rest of the way out and locks it behind me. I'm wearing nothing but underwear and men's slippers. I rap on my door quietly, frantically whispering a demand for admittance. He cracks it slightly, then whistles loudly into the hallway to draw the attention of my neighbors.

When I announce that I'm hungry, he says, "That's my favorite thing to hear you say." I raise an eyebrow; I'm pretty sure there are things he prefers more. He laughs and explains, "No really. I'm terrible at taking care of myself, but I really love taking care of other people. I love feeding you." But I demur. He's spent a small fortune on food, drinks, and entertainment for me; until I can even the score a little bit, I'm determined to provide my own victuals.

He has some work to do, and wants me to come upstairs and keep him company while he does it. But there are some things I want to do around home, plus I'm feeling extremely worn out already: we stayed up until four am the night before, talking and showing one another our favorite YouTube videos. He attempts bribery: he'll order food for me; he'll put on Rear Window; I can bring my laptop and work alongside him.

At this last, I look at him. "Really? You wouldn't mind if I was just working on my computer while you painted?"

"I'd love it," he says. But I pass, lying to myself that I'm still going to vacuum and mop. That I'm going to organize my iPhoto albums, which have gotten out of hand. That I'm going to go for a run. He offers to come back down after he's done with his work, to sleep at my place and be "the away team". He knows I have difficulty sleeping outside of my own bed. "That way you can kick me out whenever, if you still can't sleep. You won't have to get up and leave." But I regretfully decline this offer, too. I'm just too exhausted, and facing down four consecutive nights of work starting tomorrow.

He leaves, but returns a few minutes later with food for me: two varieties of Udon soup from his pantry, and a bottled iced tea from his fridge. I shake my head in wonder, but he shrugs it off. He sits on the arm of my couch, and I stand between his legs. We're lingering, procrastinating the work we both need to be doing. He wraps his arms around me and makes up a silly, nonsensical story about the two of us and a bowl of Udon soup. When he leaves, I try and fail at writing anything of substance. I'm just unable to connect any creative dots. I'm feeling low and down on myself; job hunting is going poorly. Plus, I'm not feeling remotely ready to go back to work tomorrow, and dread the next four days.

Why I’m an Atheist

March 26, 2012

I'm an atheist. Some people like to call me a "militant" atheist, because they think that demonizes me. But I think it's awesome. I picture myself all badassed-out like Lara Croft, armed with weapons that shoot laser beams of rationality and common sense. I will take you and your magical thinking down, muthafucka. Being an atheist doesn't mean I beat up homeless people or eat babies (though they are delicious). It just means I don't believe in the existence of supernatural deities, including Yahweh, Allah, Mbombo, Rod, Pangu, Brahma, Thor, Zeus, Hera, or Atum, to name just a few.

I'm an atheist because I see no reason to believe the Judeo-Christian creation story over any other creation mythology Because I don't believe in talking snakes, consciousness-raising apples, global floods, virgin births, zombies, alchemy, peep stones, angels, ghosts, devils, magical Jesus-flesh crackers, or babies springing from heads. Because I believe that calling these fairy tales "metaphors" is a convenient, modern-day way of distancing oneself from the fact that, for millennia, they were considered anything but. Because I believe it is hypocritical to cherry-pick biblical verses for literalism or symbolism, depending on the stakes.

I'm an atheist because I know the gods people believe in at any given point in history are a result of the wholly arbitrary circumstance of their birth. Because I know that had I been born in 18th century India, I'd have been raised to believe in Vishnu. If I'd been born in ancient Greece, I'd have worshipped Aphrodite. If I'd been born in Afghanistan, I'd believe in Mohammed and Allah. As Mark Twain says, "The easy confidence with which I know another man's religion is folly teaches me to suspect that my own is also."

I'm an atheist because I see no reason to take the bible any more seriously than any other religious text history has passed down, and passed over. Most holy books have more or less the same content anyway. There is very little that's original in the Christian bible. Proscriptions against certain crimes ("sins") have been in place since the development of civilizations. The Golden Rule is a necessary precept for any society to survive. Aesop has more to teach us about wrong and right than the Christian bible, which is a hate-filled tome of questionable authenticity and authority. It contradicts everything modern man has learned about cosmology, geology, physics, physiology, and medicine. It's stuffed to the gills with genocide, murder, incest, slavery, misogyny, and misanthropy. The Judeo-Christian god of the bible is a sadistic, vengeful, and jealous tyrant who punishes thought crimes with eternal physical torment.

I'm an atheist because I don't need an archaic set of rules written by goat-sacrificing tribesmen thousands of years ago to give me a moral framework. Because I believe that determining right from wrong is a matter of personal common sense and collective, societal self-interest. Because the concepts of "sin" and "damnation" are a leash and chokehold created and maintained by tyrants and their lackeys in order to manipulate and dominate others through fear. Because I was born in the 20th century, not the first, and I know that eating shellfish isn't a moral crime, any more than wearing mixed fiber clothing, or walking my dog on Sunday, or having oral sex with my boyfriend.

I'm an atheist because I believe that anyone who tries to tell me an omniscient, omnipotent being would equip some humans with a biological predisposition towards same-sex attraction, and then judge and punish them for acting on it, should stop spending so much time worrying about the personal lives of others and go offer Yahweh a fatted calf. While they're at it, they should sell their smartphones, cars, and homes, give the proceeds to the poor, and go live the Christ-like life they so sanctimoniously cluck about. I'm an atheist because every part of my body belongs to me and me alone. What I do with it and to it is my business, and not subject to the concerns or jurisdictions of others who want to impose their supernatural beliefs on me.

I'm an atheist because I rely on my faculties of reason to make conclusions about the natural world and to determine what is ethical and moral - not the proclamations of old men claiming to have a direct line to god. Because I have and practice intellectual autonomy. Because I won't accept That's just the way it is, and we believe it because it was written in this serious-sounding book as an answer to life's biggest questions. Because I know anyone who claims to represent or speak for a god is a charlatan, a crook, and a liar. There are no prophets, anymore than there are soothsayers, witches, wizards, or tooth fairies.

I'm an atheist because I'm not afraid of death. Because letting go of the need for an afterlife frees me up to fully appreciate the one I've got right now, here today. Because the beauty and wonder of the natural world is sufficient on its own; I don't need it to be filled with invisible forces of good and evil, in order to make sense of things that happen. I'm an atheist because one life is enough. 

Inchoate

March 31, 2022

Things are happening fast. And I'm torn between wanting to share, and wanting to protect and respect what has quickly become precious.

Upstairs is no longer a novelty. Not that he ever was. Not in the dismissive, patronizing sense that one thinks of, when one hears a lover referred to as such. But he has certainly been a muse to me, and the writing I've done about him, up until this point, has been done from a place of (ever decreasing) detachment. Wonder. Fascination, at the connection we've made, and the moments we've shared - the ways he's amazed me.

But that shrinking space of detachment is gone now. Gone, gone, gone. I am attached. We are attached. And I feel a sudden, fierce possessiveness towards the memories we're forming.

And I wonder if maybe it isn't time to draw the curtain on that part of my life.

Maybe not the blackouts, but at least the sheers. Would you forgive me, if I did? Would you understand and respect that, or resent the fact that I've suddenly going mute, after sucking you into the narrative?

A few more glimpses, before I close the blinds, if indeed I do. I don't yet know.

A dark, crowded bar. A kiss. Your lips taste like Fernet. I don't know what Fernet is, or what it tastes like. He gets a sample from the bartender. It's overpowering, and I can't finish it myself.

A Saturday night. High heels, nerves, excitement - but also comfort, familiarity, and easy laughter. His hand on the small of my back as we step across the street. At dinner, he has me draw a grid on a piece of paper. In the first column, write your favorite animal, and give three words to describe it. In the second, your next favorite, and three words to describe that. In the last, your next favorite, etc. It's an exercise to show me how I view myself. A gimmick, of course, but it almost makes me cry, for how spot on it is.

His apartment. Music, wine. I turn my back to him and unbutton my shirt. Jeans, a soft, loose-knit scarf - nothing else. He grabs his camera. The softness in his voice as he tells me to step left, to wait, to look at him. Stay there for just a moment while I check the light. That's great, now let me see that beautiful smile. I ache with jealousy to know he's been paid to do this before. The gentle professionalism in his voice, guiding and kind and solicitous and low. Confident and sexy. I want no one else to hear it.

Music. So much music. We play song after song for one another. It means as much to him, resonates as deeply as it does with me. He gets it. I learn about him through music. Understand him - and what he needs to show me about himself.

Bringing food up to his apartment, and being greeted by his dog in the hallway, a note tucked under his collar. Thankz Ellie.

Intimacy. Words exchanged. Sliding down together, and giving in happily, readily. Vulnerability, and the letting go of fears. Love. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. A whisper in my ear: I'm so crazy about you.

Hi. He gazes at me, and I'm locked in, helpless. You know, when I say hi sometimes, it's because I feel like I'm seeing you for the first time. Some side of you I didn't see before. My heart falls away from me, too heavy to hold because it's gotten so full. I can't reply. How can I reply? Nothing would compare, so I just drink it in and smile, and we press our foreheads to one another.

An embarrassment of riches, in the love he shows. The compliments and consideration, the affection and playfulness. Did you think all this was in here, in me? No, I did not. I had no idea.

Forgive your blogmistress her absence this past week. Forgive her this gushing, incoherent and esoteric string of thoughts, of images. Forgive her for closing one door, because she promises to open up others, wider, in exchange. Forgive her, because she's stupidly, wickedly, truthfully, luckily in love.

smitten

April 4, 2012

I wait until I know he's out for a few hours, then I grab the two down pillows I've bought in the fabric district, a tape dispenser, and the three page invitation I've drawn. I take the stairs up to his apartment, just in case, so I don't bump into him. I prop the pillows in the corner by his door, and tape the pages to the wall.

You are invited to be my partner in feathery violence on International Pillow Fight Day, Saturday, April 7.

Itinerary as follows:

1pm - pillow decorating session (markers will be provided).

1:30pm - caloric fortification (known to some as "lunch").

2pm - journey to battle field.

3pm - THE BATTLE BEGINS (and lo, destruction was wrought, verily).

Please RSVP.

The response choices I gave:

Yes! I'm in! And I seriously can't think of a more fabulous way to spend a Saturday.

Regrets! The first Saturday of every month is reserved for ball-shaving and I missed last month, so the situation is DIRE.

Other (please indicate).

An hour later, he texts. You're the funnest girl ever invented. He comes down for a bit, and we talk and listen to music. I'm feeling a bit stressed about being unproductive, so I pull a Classic Ellie and displace some of my anxiety on to him. He calls me on it. It's your responsibility to take care of your own shit. Don't sleep all day. Get up and do what you need to do. I feel ridiculous. I'm supposed to be the more mature one. Are you sure you have room in your life for this? It takes a lot of energy to be in a relationship, to care about someone else and their feelings. I absolutely do, and tell him as much, but there's still some tension between us. He's internalizing the crap I've just dumped on him, and I hate myself for it.

When he gets up to go, I stand on the bed and wrap my arms around him. I make him repeat after me. My girlfriend is perfect for me....My girlfriend sometimes gets behind on sleep and gets cranky and starts saying stupid shit... I don't let him leave until he's smiling again.

When he turns at the edge of my hall to wave bye, I run and slide to him, sock-footed. He catches me and scoops me up. I wrap my legs around his waist and he pins me to the wall. His eyes break my heart, they're so full and sweet. He buries his face in my hair and says "I'm in love with you," then tells me to say it back. I say it softly first, then louder. Then I throw my head back and yell it, using his full name. "I'm in love with you, Gregory Brett Auerbach!!!"

He goes to work out, and I head out for a run. He texts when he leaves the gym. You're crazy. And lovely. Yelling in the hallway made me blush. And now I'm smiling about it. He stops by later, on his way to dinner with a friend, as I'm getting ready for work. While I chat up his friend, he stands close to me, his hand on my hip. As they're leaving, he leans in and in a low voice against my cheek, tells me again that he loves me. I cannot get enough - of the words, of the way he always puts his mouth close to my ear say them. The best secret never kept.

At work, I receive this: Sorry for getting a little touchy before, you're my favorite person/activity/cohort and I really love that/lover/provacateur/evacateur/promiscumistress/BFF/sex kitten/neighbor/cookmate. I read it several times, my eyes circling back to the BFF bit again and again.

Your sign is the best thing ever created on paper, he says.

I'm pretty sure Martin Luther scooped me with his proclamations, I reply.

He tells me he'd love to see me before I go to bed, when I'm done with work. Your creativity is so sexy, he adds.

When I get home, I go straight to his place, sweaty and flushed from my twenty minute bike ride. He's left the door open, so I let myself in. He's sitting at his new workstation, atop a bar stool under the Edison lights he's just hung. His laptop is open in front of him; I can see he's working in Illustrator. While I lounge in an overstuffed chair and regale him with work anecdotes, he finishes up his project. It's for me - his reply to my pillow fight invitation.

All the while he's working, printing, writing, spray-painting (all out of my view), he tells me how much he loves this, what we're doing - the creative, artistic, silly, playful exchange. I don't know how to tell him how one in a million he is, that he feels this way. I don't know how to tell him that guys don't do this stuff, and it means the world to me, too. Finally, he's done, and he presents his work to me. I'm speechless. He's designed, written, printed, and mounted a multi-media RSVP, complete with gold-leaf feathers on it. It's ridiculous and beautiful and over the top in the best possible way. He's checked boxes that say Hell Yeah! and Other!, and written I'd love to. I've become smitten, enamored, and generally taken aback in the loveliest of ways by the loveliest of girls, Elizabeth Baker. If she goes, I will most certainly be in attendance, in the best form, with the finest and cleanest down pillow that I can find.

I play him some music he's never heard, while he cooks me an omelette. Freelance Whales, The National. He's meticulous about how he serves me, plating it beautifully and adding garnish to the hummus he's put on the side. A fervid love of hummus is the latest culinary commonality we've discovered between us: we could both eat it by the spoonful, and do. We marvel for the dozenth time at how well we "synch up", as he puts it. He shows me some of the early work he's done on his next round of paintings. He plays his film school thesis project for me, and I read some of his shorter writings - pieces I'd skimmed on his portfolio site before, but never looked at closely. He wants to share these things with me, needs to even - but gets uncomfortable the minute I start to compliment his work, which is thorough, thoughtful, and exciting.

I leave to crash back at home; I'm utterly exhausted, and he has an 8am TV installation. As I'm collapsing into bed, the phone rings. He's calling just to tell me how much he cares about me, how happy he is we've gotten together.

I sleep harder than I have in ages.

Prom night ‘12

April 6, 2012

I'm finishing up getting ready when he knocks on my door and pops his head in, peering down to the bathroom where I stand primping. "Are you decent?" I hear two more voices, and before I know what's happening, the snap and flash of a camera catch me off guard.

"It's prom," Greg says, grinning. "We have to have a prom photographer, right?"

My jaw falls open as he steps over to greet me with a hug and kiss and the coyest What? face I've ever seen. More snaps, more flashes. He's brought his best friend (who brought along his girlfriend) to document the scene, to photograph us greeting one another, getting ready, and leaving together. He's been planning this for days, as a fun surprise to start off the night. I'm still processing this information when I realize he's holding a small wooden planter with three orchid stems.

"I didn't think you'd want to be encumbered by a corsage, but I still wanted to give you flowers." He holds up the base, turning it to show me what he's written in marker at the bottom. "See? I inscribed it." I read: Prom Night '12. I quickly run out of ways to exclaim my surprise and delight, and just keep repeating "You're ridiculous," while shaking my head.

We pose for several classic, cheesy prom shots, but his friend keeps snapping even while we properly greet one another, taking in each other's formal wear. It's the first time I've seen him in a suit, and I'm so impressed I'm actually a bit intimidated. I'll spend all night fingering the crisp, smooth fabric of his shirt, which is impeccably tailored and perfectly pressed. His pants and jacket are slim fitting, luxe, well chosen. I'll tell him later that when, in the past, the men in my life have wanted help assembling stylish, polished outfits (and I've faltered, because WTF do I know about men's clothes?), that his ensemble - and the way he wears it - is what they had in mind.

His friend continues to shoot nonstop until we're outside the building, encouraging us to mug and ham for the camera. Greg, who normally hates to have his photo taken, is fully committed and goofy, kissing my cheek, popping the corner of his glasses into his mouth, kicking up his heels. Out on the street, we say goodbye to his friends and grab a taxi. The event itself is much smaller and less formal than I'd anticipated, but the DJs are fantastic and we have a great time talking, dancing, and shamelessly flirting with one another. He says things I never expected to hear from anyone, much less him. He says things I hope I never forget. It's easy and comfortable to be with him. The more time we spend together, the more we realize how alike we are, in our personality quirks (read: neuroses); this amuses us greatly (probably because we both are neurotic).

Afterwards, we get breakfast at The Pantry, feeding one another bites of pancake, of egg-soaked sourdough and bacon. Back outside, we head towards our street before realizing it's too cold and my legs are too sore to hoof it all the way home. He jumps onto a low wall adjacent to the sidewalk and moons the street while I wave down a cab. I climb inside the car and he comes skipping to join me, tucking in his shirt and zipping up his pants while he runs. We sleep fitfully, tangled up in our limbs, the sheets, and a half-drunken desire to make love. In the morning, we lounge for hours and talk. I notice that I'm starting to mimic his speaking cadence - even his accent when it comes out after a few drinks.

He plays Moxy Fruvous for me and rubs my calves (brutally sore from racing him three blocks home a few nights prior). Without accompaniment, I sing Suzanne Vega's Gypsy in his ear, though I forget the third verse. I'm aware as I sing them how well the lyrics fit him. Distracted by the women with the dimples, and the curls.

He shows me two of his favorite short films, and listens thoughtfully, smiling, when I deconstruct Cashback.

"It's problematical," I say, and he encourages me to explain. He understands what I mean by "male gaze" (he's used the phrase himself before), and he doesn't get defensive when I criticize the film both from a feminist perspective and my own personal one.

We finally tear ourselves out of bed to walk the dogs and get coffee across the street. When I spill my caramel macchiato down the front of my favorite Free City t-shirt, we both laugh at me.

The sun is strong and it's a pretty day.

Wordless. Full of words.

April 10, 2012

It's just past seven in the morning when my father calls. I'm asleep - we both are. It's the first night Greg. and I have spent together where I've really, actually slept, and well.

The night before: running together in south central LA, then wandering around the Arts District, shivering and holding on to one another in the late night cold, clad only in t-shirts and sweat pants. "Ok, we've got a budget of $20," he says, peering into his wallet. It becomes an adventure, and we weigh our options carefully: hot soup, to warm us up; bubble tea, in Little Tokyo; Pinkberry; drinks at a lounge where jazz singers are having an open mic session (our first choice, but the menu prices force us back on our way). We choose a tiny sushi joint, ordering the most food we can for $10 - shrimp and vegetable tempura, and soup.

"If you don't charge us a split plate fee, we'll have more to tip you," Greg tells the server, with a smile. We're not charged for the split, and the sushi chef even prepares a couple of complimentary tasting dishes for us: savory chicken meatballs that crumble in our chopsticks, and thinly sliced Kobe beef of which Greg feeds me the lion's share. Everything tastes scrumptious to me, starving and cold from our long walk, though I refuse to eat the shrimp tails. "Come on, they're fried," he cajoles, but I'm having none of it.

Afterward, we amble back through Little Tokyo, talking about work, career options for me, the who-knows-maybe possibility of living together someday down the line. I tell him how fun and exciting it is to have an artist for a boyfriend. He tells me he's in it - our relationship - for the long haul. I tell him I am, too. He says the thing he's been saying for weeks now, and the way he says it - with that soft, happy smile and slight shaking of his head - makes me believe it: We're so great, baby. We're so great together. He tells me there are no "buts" with me. No problems, or issues, or exclusionary clauses to loving me.

Later, I'll tell him how easy it is to love him. That I've never known a man so easy to love, in fact, or who's made it so easy. You cleared out all the obstacles. You made a path for me, I'll say.

We take our remaining $7 and go to Yogurtland, where we guesstimate serving sizes by the ounce, trying to squeeze out every last dime. I'm a novice at self-serve fro-yo, and make my selections cautiously. "There are no rules here, you know." His eyes are bright. "You can even put toppings between layers."

We nearly nail it, coming in at $6.36. "We can still afford another cherry," Greg says, half seriously. "Grab one." I push him away from the counter, and we sit and gorge on nearly identical choices in flavors and toppings: dulce de leche, cookie dough, vanilla, cookies and cream, caramel syrup.

On the walk home, I'm asthmatic from the cold. Greg wraps his arms around me from behind, lifting my arms above my head and pressing his chest to my back. He instructs me to take slow, deep breaths, holding and exhaling with me while I try to fill my lungs.

Back at his apartment, he tends to his sick dog while I play my favorite numbers from American Idols past, and make him watch Johann Hari's speech about religious fundamentalism. When he takes issue with part of the speech and I get defensive, he calls me on it.

"Don't steamroll me," he says. "Just because I can't formulate my arguments as quickly as you doesn't mean I don't have something worthwhile to say. Someday you're going to talk right over someone who has some great, Christopher Hitchens-esque point to make, and you'll never even get to hear it."

Later, we get silly, looking up the words to the diarrhea song (the condition of which is affecting his dog, terribly) and watching funny YouTube videos. When I nearly fall out of his lap, hysterical, during my favorite Quiznos commercial, he shakes his head in wonder, staring at me. "Who are you," he asks, not for the first time. He shows me a mock-up of four versions of his latest piece, and we're in agreement on which one is the best. We don't go to bed until past two am.

- - -

When the early morning call comes, I send it to voicemail without much thought. My dad knows the chances of me being awake at that hour are slim to none; he'll be expecting me not to return the call until later. We sleep until 11, and Greg makes us breakfast: eggs, bacon, broiled tomatoes, hummus. I hand grind coffee beans, which he then carefully brews in a pour over, using a drip kettle; he explains how the process keeps the grounds from becoming too bitter. When I help him unload/load the dishwasher, he comments on it, appreciative, and gets excited when he sees I've made his bed for him.

It isn't until after noon that I listen to the message my dad has left. His voice is hoarse, strained. He's in the hospital. Pneumonia. It's nothing to worry about, he says. He's going be sent home within the next day, barring any unforeseen complications. He doesn't leave the name of the hospital in his voicemail, and when I call his cell phone back, he doesn't answer.

I get online and start calling hospitals near the small city where he lives, outside of Tampa. The second one I try affirms he's checked in, and connects me to his room. His room number is the same as my apartment number. His voice sounds strong when he answers, and when he hears it's me, he exclaims excitedly, the phrase he always says when I call, his New York accent still thick and comforting to me: How ya doing, child?

He tells me he's about to be discharged. He tells me he's had three days of tests, at the hospital. He tells me he's just spoken to the doctor, an hour ago, and just gotten his diagnosis.

He tells me he has small cell lung cancer.

He tells me that the prognosis is not good.

He tells me that they want to start treatment immediately. That he told the doctor no one was laying a finger on him until he spoke with his daughter. He tells me he'd like to see me, and my heart splits, to think he thinks he needs to say it. Of course, I mumble, biting my tongue to not cry. I'll be there tomorrow.

Everything after that gets blurry.

He says something about making decisions. I hear the phrases "end of life" and "quality of life", but they sound as if they're coming from far, far away, or through water.

After we say goodbye, I go upstairs. Greg tries to hold me, but I'm too angry to stay still. So, so, so angry. There's no correlation, there's no point in tying the two things together, but I do it anyway: I've just lost my mother, less than three years ago. It's juvenile and self-indulgent and I know better than to think there's some force of judgment at work anywhere in the universe, but all I can think, over and over, is it's not fair. Both my parents, before I'm even forty?? It's not fair.

I clench my fists and yell and run to Greg's bathroom where I clutch at towels and cry out in rage. When I come back out, I apologize, and Greg shakes his head. "What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for. You wanna scream? Scream. You want to cry? Cry. You want to hit me? Hit me."

I feel stupid, useless, helpless, self-conscious. I don't know what behavior is appropriate. I'm angry at myself, because my tears feel like they're for myself. Like self-pity, which I have no business feeling. "Let's be productive," Greg says. He books me a flight, using his own miles, and necessarily paying for it because he's done so. When I ask him to, he reads to me from his laptop about small cell lung cancer. He doesn't say much, but I can see what he's not saying, in the way he glosses over paragraphs. He finally just looks at me and shakes his head. "Is that enough?" he asks gently, meaningfully. "It's cancer. Even if it's toe cancer, it's never good."

When I break down, he holds me tightly and tells me that it isn't necessarily a death sentence. Options. Treatment. But I know my father. He's the man who always swore he'd put a bullet in his own head when he started to feel his vitality slipping away.

I can't imagine the ways this is hitting him.

Greg tells me not to worry about us, but he makes me pinky promise I'll not stay in Florida forever, that I'll be back. I look him in the eye and tell him I may have to stay for a while, that I don't know what my father is going to want to do, or what to expect. He understands, he says. "We'll figure it out." He puts his forehead against mine. "I'm so sorry. No one should have to deal with this. Not you, not him. But you don't need to worry about us. Take that off your plate." He reminds me that I have good friends who love me, who'll help me (Cameron has already agreed to take care of Chaucer while I'm gone) - that I have a new boyfriend who'll do whatever he can to support me.

He walks me back downstairs, not turning or walking away until I've shut the door in front of him. "There's no reason for you to be alone right now," he says, but that's all I want. I want to write and eat and hold my dog and catch my breath. He doesn't let me go until I promise to have dinner with him tonight, again tomorrow before my red eye, and to let him drive me to the airport. When I object, saying how much I love the Flyaway, he gets genuinely upset. "If you take the Flyaway, I'll never talk to you again. Do you understand? I'm driving you to the airport. That's not open to negotiation."

Once alone, I don't write or eat or do anything until I type the words into the search engine.

small cell lung cancer

Crash course. There are two stages: limited and extensive. I read: The median survival rate (the time at which 50% of people have died and 50% are still alive) is 16-24 months, with a 2-year survival rate of 40-50% -- though only 10% of people with limited stage disease show no evidence of cancer 2 years after diagnosis. The survival rate at 5 years is 14% with treatment.

For extensive stage small cell lung cancer the median survival with treatment is 6 to 12 months with treatment, and only 2 to 4 months without treatment.

I read more: Only about 6% of people with this type of cancer are still alive 5 years after diagnosis.

I stop reading. I hold my dog. I write. I catch my breath, and take a deep one for what lays ahead.

Blake

April 11, 2012

I spent most of yesterday afternoon curled up in bed, trying to keep perspective and rehearsing cheery-sounding greetings in my head, for when I see my father tomorrow morning. At some point, Greg knocked softly on my door, but I had nothing, nothing, nothing, so I didn't move from where I lay. When I didn't answer, he duct-taped some flowers to my door, and texted:

I stole some flowers from downstairs but you're out. Just to be clear, I fully agree that I was an underachiever in just grabbing one stem. In the future, I'll steal for you in bulk.

I told him to come back, and he crawled into bed with me and lay on his side, watching me talk.

"I have some good news," he said. "I have business in Florida, in about a week and a half. I'll get to come see you." His family has a home in southern Florida, about three hours from where my dad lives, and since he's done some networking with galleries down there, at first I believed this. It was a lie of course, and he admitted it.

"I can't come out with you tomorrow, that'd be overkill and you have to get your bearings. But I can come out in about a week and a half. We'll go to Disneyworld." he said. "You shouldn't be alone out there. You don't need to be." I asked if we could go to the aquarium, where there was a really cool jellyfish tank with ultraviolet lights. "Whatever you want," he said, and touched my cheek.

I warned him that my father's house is...eclectically decorated. That it has multicolor walls. Orange. Sherbet green. That they're hung with a random assortment of tapestries, cheap tribal masks, and maps. That any cabinet not crammed with books is filled with horrifying tchotchkes.

"The place is sort of insane," I explained. "In fact, I haven't been there since he got that cat last year. I'm worried for the cat's sanity."

Greg said it sounded fabulous and he was looking forward to meeting my father. We talked about not knowing how long I'd be gone. When I started to get anxious, he told me to relax.

"We'll figure it out. You don't know anything yet. What's important is that we love each other and we want to be together." For the dozenth time, he made promise not to move to Florida permanently. And he reminded me that there was no reason for me to stop writing while I was gone, or to stop looking for work.

Around nine, we walked to the grocery store for dinner supplies. Before I could stop him, he marched straight to the seafood counter and asked the butcher for a live lobster. My protestations were, predictably enough, ignored.

"Can you take off the bands now, too?" he said to the guy. "We like to live dangerously." The counter guy pulled a fat, maroon-colored lobster from the tank and held it up for our inspection. When it started to thrash its claws about, he announced it was a good choice.

"They're supposed to be lively," he explained. "That's what Martha Stewart says."

So we named her Blake.

We carried Blake home and I popped into the bathroom while Greg unloaded the groceries. When I came out, he asked me to check on her.

"Is she still in the bag? I put her in the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator." When I opened the fridge to look, the drawer was empty. I peered around for minute, frowning, before I saw him grinning at me.

Blake spent her last minutes of life in Greg's kitchen sink (having first suffered the indignity of being sniffed and rebuffed by Sydney), after which I was given a chance to a) leave or b) at least avert my gaze for The Killing. I chose to watch, fascinated, as he butchered the beast. We stuck her in the oven along with some asparagus that we dressed in soy sauce, and Greg showed me how to clarify butter. He kneeled down and looked at our dinner.

"Is it supposed to still be moving?" he asked. I sat on the floor, indian-style, to watch the lobster steam and twitch. Fifteen minutes later, we feasted straight from the trays, using our fingers to tear meat from shell, and feeding one another drippy, buttery bites of animal and vegetable.

Afterwards, he made me wait on my favorite lounge chair while he sprinted across the street to Famima for a surprise. When he came back, he unloaded a bag with four tiny containers of Haagen Dazs, milk, and various kinds of cookies, candy, and my favorite cereal. He pulled out Hershey's syrup, peanut butter, and a banana from his pantry, and a Magic Bullet from his cabinet. I stared at the bounty, terrified, and he lifted me by my waist onto his kitchen island, to watch.

"Shakes," he explained. "Endless varieties. Anything you want."

"You're making me a shake sampler?" I asked.

“A shake flight," he corrected.

Under my direction, he made two shakes before we had to let Sydney out for a pee. I borrowed a huge hooded sweatshirt and a pair of his Converse, and shuffled down the hall with him and his dog, sucking my cookies-and-cream shake through a bendy straw. When we got downstairs and he saw that it was raining, he ordered me to wait inside. "If she opens that door," he said to our doorman, "tackle her."

I let him get two steps out in the pouring rain before carefully stepping out after him. The sidewalk was slick and I had to slide my feet along so as not to slip in his oversized shoes. When I caught up with him, unsuccessfully trying to convince his dog to step into a puddle-filled tree well, he shook his head at me.

Back upstairs, he showed me something he'd spent the day working on: an idea he had for a new line of work he'd been experimenting with—one that would be both labor and technically intensive, but really interesting, and hugely marketable. I told him how much he impresses me, and he dropped his eyes and stepped away, smiling, in the way he always does when my praise pleases but embarrasses him.

We debated several movie choices before I realized I really wasn't up for anything, that I wanted to be done thinking, and to just sleep. I thanked him for being a spectacular boyfriend, for spending the day taking care of me, doing things to distract me. I pointed out that over the past days he'd spent several hours helping me in some way: cooking for me, doing work on my apartment (a panel/rod of my curtains came out of he wall), doing thoughtful, fun things to make me happy.

"I'd do anything to make you smile," he said.

I didn't sleep well, but that had nothing to do with him. Or Blake.

My Father’s Yard

April 15, 2012

Wild things grow in my father's yard.

Things lush in texture, riotous in color. Things unnamed and unknown to him. He couldn't tell you the species or genus of the plants, the trees, or the flowers that bloom outside his windows, or how best to care for them. But bloom they do, because in spite of his inattention they've managed to get what they need to survive. Sunlight. Soil. Water.

Which is not to say they couldn't do with a little help. Some pruning, some pollarding to clear the way for new growth.

If he brushed away the fallen, dried leaves that crunch in clusters along the walkway, it would be easier to reach his front door. If he tended to the weeds that threaten to choke the more delicate flowers, he could better see their blossoms. But he doesn't think to do it, and they live on in pretty, if precarious, complacence.

If he watered the roots of the tree that dominates the very center of his yard, it might bear fruit. But though its bark is brittle, its limbs are sturdy enough for anyone wishing to climb them.

Unsupervised, unmanaged and unchallenged, these growing things have become defiant, unruly. They thicken and thrive with a tenacity that their well-watched cousins in other yards needn't have.

Wild things live in my father's yard. He protects them, from a distance.

A duck has taken refuge against the west wall, under the spare bedroom window. She must feel safe, nearly shrouded from view behind fronds the size of dinner plates. Her white face, red rimmed eyes, and green-black body are exotic, and they captivate me. But when I try to creep closer to examine her nest, to look for eggs and take pictures, I am scolded and shooed away. Just leave her be, my father says. She aint bothering anybody. The duck has a frantic look about her. She meets my intruding gaze head on, and I have the feeling that even one step closer would move her to aggression.

My father doesn't seem to mind the downy white feathers that litter the landscaping and stick to his doormat. In fact, I suspect he takes a certain pride in the fact that she chose his yard to make her home, of the dozens that line his quiet street. At night I can hear her plaintive cry, and I wonder what need she's communicating. My father, on the other side of the house, sleeps through her call.

When, months ago, a kingsnake took up temporary residence in the lanai, my father chose retreat over confrontation. Rather than try and run the snake off or have it professionally removed, he recused himself and declared the patio off limits until the snake was done with it. He'll go when he's ready. He got in there; he can get back out.

Around the yard is a tall wooden fence, long since sun-bleached of whatever rich brown color it once must have boasted. It's dry and splintered, and while the grooves in the grain draw my eye in, I know better than to run my fingers down them. Rusty nails and jagged knots poke from it in irregular intervals. The fence was there when he moved into this house years ago, and he never so much as weatherproofed it.

But it keeps his yard safe enough.

My father doesn't spend a lot of time in his yard, or, I imagine, thinking about it. Inside, his house is a testament to his own interests, carefully curated with the furniture, the curios, and the decorating touches it took him decades to collect and perfect. But the things that grow and bloom and drop and die beyond his immediate sight don't trouble him much. When I show him close-up pictures I've taken, showcasing the glorious pinks and reds and purples of the wild things that flourish, right under his nose, he nods dismissively. He's unimpressed.

The wild things will keep growing, anyway. They'll keep coming to his yard for shelter, shade, and safety. And he'll help them find it, in his way.

Bonnaroo 2012

June 14, 2012

There's a mechanical problem, minutes before we're supposed to take off from LAX. Already on the tarmac, we're taxied back to the gate, where we wait for nearly two hours for a new plane. Chaos, angry passengers, frustration. We jockey for position along with the other Bonnaroo-bound: there are only so many seats available to Dallas/Forth Worth, where weather is precluding all flights to Nashville. We don't make our connection, or the next two attempts at stand-by, so we have to spend the night in Texas and miss the first evening of the festival. At the steakhouse in the hotel where we stay, Greg plays up our plight to the server, who comps us a bottle of wine and desert. We take these back to our room and gorge ourselves in bed.

An early morning flight to Nashville, a hurried check-in to our hotel (where we score a jacuzzi suite), running to catch the bus to the festival. We're there by one, barely missing The Kooks. We quickly learn that our VIP upgrade affords us some huge advantages: no waiting in lines, exclusive seating for big shows, access to a large, air-conditioned tent filled with couches, cushions, free fruit, and cheap massages, incomparably cleaner/larger bathrooms, and remote concert viewing, should we choose.

We stumble around, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the festival grounds, by the sensory overload of things to see, to hear, to smell, to touch, and to taste. It's a bit intimidating, like arriving a week late to summer camp. We try to get our bearings and find a sense of belonging in this pop-up community, but there's very little time to get acclimated before the first show we catch—Two Door Cinema Club. I'm excited to hear some tracks off of an unreleased album, and Greg hoists me atop his shoulders during my favorite song. He pivots so I can videotape the screaming, cheering, waving crowd around us. Girls in dangerously little clothing crowd surf above us, and a guy nearby climbs the rafters for a better view.

Bonnaroo is like nothing I've experienced. Sun, skin, and sound everywhere. Carnival rides and games, food trucks, colorful tents crammed with crafts, art, and clothing, a water slide and oversized fountain, and a sprawling campsite with its own small village, all spread out over 700 grassy, tree-filled acres. Throngs of people, mostly young, many beautiful, nearly all thrilling to natural and man-made highs. Drugs everywhere: smoked, swallowed, shared and sold, all in plain view. We watch kids barely out of their teens pose for photos with acid tabs on their tongues. Over eighty thousand people are here with us, being flooded with music that pours from every corner of the grounds. It's positively surreal.

We wander in wonder at this small city, and plunge headlong into a three-day binge of our own illicit hedonism. We've come prepared, and we've been looking forward to this weekend for months. We feel no hesitancy and no shame about what we're going to do to our bodies and brains. We've earned the shit out of this weekend, emotionally, financially, and physically.

Our first roll kicks in while we watch Trampled By Turtles, and it's pure heaven. Dusk, and the sting of the sun is finally off of our bare shoulders and legs. We're sitting on a blanket-sized piece of vinyl fabric that I bought in the fashion district, just for the occasion. I picked the most colorful, silly, and happy print I could find—bright blue, green, and orange whales. This mat becomes an invaluable part of our Bonnaroo equipment: lightweight, waterproof, and fun, it's the perfect no-fly zone for when we need to carve out a little space from the crowd—not to mention put a layer between us and the dirt and bugs.

As the bluegrass notes wash over us, in the sandy area that divides the standers from the sitters, I'm physically unable to stay still. I jump up to dance while Greg remains seated, chatting with our neighbor on the ground. They talk about psychology and other randomness, passing a joint back and forth, happily crossed-legged on the ground despite the fact that everyone else around them is on his or her feet. I touch the back of Greg’s neck every few seconds as I dance, both to keep my bearings and to connect with him. He smiles up at me, telling me how much he loves the moment, the experience, me. It's an intense joy for both of us, that lasts song after song after song. When the opening strings of Wait So Long hit the air, everyone goes wild. Greg leaps to his feet, then kneels and pulls me atop his shoulders, where I stay for the duration of the song. He bounces and sways, holding my legs tight as we both belt out the words we know and love by heart. I dip my head and kiss his face, upside down. From my vantage point I see the hundreds of frenetic, ecstatic people singing along with us. The lights are synched perfectly to the tune, and our senses are saturated in every way possible. We leave the show electrified, and stay that way for the next three days.

There are over 150 acts at Bonnaroo, and it's impossible to see every one. We follow the schedule we've set for ourselves loosely, coming and going from the eleven different stages as we please. On our way to watch some electronic, for example, a strain of lo-fi indie pop will float to me, and I'll pull Greg off in its direction. This is par for the course, all weekend: we're flexible, high, and just happy to be within a minute's walk, at any time, of some of our favorite music in recent years. We follow beats as we fancy, depending on the whims of desire, hunger/thirst, and state of mind. It'd take pages to detail the entire weekend, but I can at least list some highlights:

Top Ten Eighteen Bonnaroo Moments, In No Particular Order (except #1 really was #1)

18. Sunday night, stopping randomly at a small stage, headlined by some band we've never heard. Less than a hundred people are watching, but the twangy country sound fits our mood. We dance beside a small canopy with stringed lights woven in its branches, oblivious to how we look to anyone but each other. We cross arms, grab hands, and spin, and I take one of the most vivid mental snapshots of my life: my boyfriend's laughing face, the lights and trees blurring behind him, and beyond that, paper lanterns aglow and adrift in the sky.

17. Stomping and sloshing my way through the mud on Sunday, being so glad for my rain boots, and loving the feel of the light, warm rain on my skin.

16. Watching a paper lantern being lit and launched, a few feet away from us, at Red Hot Chili Peppers (the cheers from the crowd are deafening each time one is successfully set afloat in the night sky—we see dozens over the weekend). When it dips back down into the crowd, threatening to crash, a woman catches it and gives it the push it needs to get skyward again. The crowd roars with approval and excitement.

15. The heady feeling of freedom, to be there with Greg. Just us, doing as we please. No obligations or responsibilities to anyone other than ourselves and our dogs, waiting for us back home. Recognizing and appreciating the fact that we can do this again—anytime we like, in fact—finances allowing. We're that free. It's intoxicating. The sense of well-being and connectedness, with my boyfriend, with the world at large—with myself. Finding the first true moments of peace and contentedness since my father died.

14. Discovering Major Lazer, based on a tip from some young'uns we meet on the bus.

13. Skrillex. Mind = blown.

12. Walking by Radiohead, but not actually stopping to watch them. This is strangely awesome. I don't remember where we're going or what exactly we're doing, but we just aren't feeling Radiohead enough to stop and stay at the stage. It's enough for us to be nearby, see the stage, and know we are hearing Radiohead live, and go on with our night. Totally surreal moment, getting to make that choice.

11. The Shin's performance of Simple Song, which has become my favorite track of the past few years. I'm obsessed with it. We watch the show from the VIP section, just high enough above the crowd to have a great view but still feel in the mix. It's drizzling rain, and Greg wordlessly takes out his hoodie and wraps me in it.

10. Walking in to the festival one afternoon while The Beach Boys are playing. We stumble straight into the venue, packed with three or four generations of smiling, singing concert goers, chanting giddily to songs they've grown up with. The group sounds exactly the same as their records.

9. Dancing with wild abandon to Phish, with glow sticks Greg has collected for us, in the misting rain. We wander the outskirts of the crowd, jumping around and laughing like children, lost in the moment and music. Greg completely lets loose and dances with pure, unconscious joy.

8. Trampled By Turtles (especially the moment described above).

7. Discovering the ridiculously talented LP, who Greg's been into for some time, and now I know why. After the show, an older couple approaches us to say, "We saw you guys yesterday, and we just want you to know we think you're romantic and sexy. We'll let you figure out who we think is which." Makes our day.

6. Ritzy Bryan of The Joy Formidable smashes her guitar into the drum set, and the crowd goes bonkers. They do an amazing set, and the girl is a freaking rock star.

5. Dancing at the Silent Disco (everyone is given wireless headphones playing the same live-DJed music). I'm rolling hard, and consequently feel like the best. dancer. in the world. So, so, so much sexy fun. We had plans to go back for another round on Sunday, but it was closed, so Greg proposes we make our own Silent Disco. And that's exactly what we do: we find a semi-private, relatively quiet patch of grass, put on our headphones, and just dance for a while to our own beats.

4. Watching Greg during Dispatch, but especially when they play The General. He's absolutely elated.

3. Mogwai's entire set. Rocking, eyes closed, high as hell. Indescribable beyond that.

2. Young The Giant's performance of My Body, which is pretty much an out-of-body experience for me. I am beside myself. I have never seen a crowd so charged up, and it is far and away my favorite performance of the entire festival.

1. Laying on the grass, on our ridiculous whale sheet, in the middle of the festival grounds at 1:00 am, on a perfect, lovely roll, holding one another, eyes closed in the dark and cold, hearing the strains of music around us, feeling cozily tucked in amongst the thousands of blissed-out people, but special and separate at the same time, kissing for several minutes straight without breaking contact. Now when I ask him for a "Bonnaroo kiss", he knows exactly what I mean.

One Less Bottle

June 24, 2012

It was surprisingly easy to go through my dad's things, after he died. Occasionally, I'd stumble into a moment of paralyzing nostalgia. Some ostensibly harmless personal effect of his—a handkerchief, a slide rule, a Zippo lighter—would reach my hands and burn as if on fire. Just some thing, with the power to trip up my pragmatism, to laugh at it. This is so him, I'd think. Emblematic. Representative. I'd recall its place in my father's life, delicately fingering every facet of the memory. And the breath would be knocked out of me for a few minutes while I let grief wash just over me, unchallenged.

But for the most part, I maintained an attitude of stoic resolve. All this shit has to go.

You can't keep everything, after all.

The liquor posed a problem. Not the stuff that was still sealed—Greg and I didn't have to think twice about what to do with that. We packaged it up and shipped it back home to LA (though sadly, it never made it here). But there were several bottles of entirely decent (even decent plus) alcohol that, as established and accomplished lushes, Greg and I were loathe to drain down the sink.

So we started giving it away.

One afternoon, the cable technician came to collect some equipment. He was somewhere solidly in his sixties, a man whose stooped demeanor and perceptible limp belied an otherwise rugged vitality, and an earnest face. He'd probably seemed sixty-something for the past twenty years, and would probably continue to for another twenty.

As he was putting together some paperwork for me to sign, Greg ambushed him in the friendly way he does. "Sir," he said, "I don't suppose you're a whisky drinker?" He assured Greg that he was, in fact, precisely such a man. And before the technician could say "nonrefundable deposit", his erstwhile customer's daughter's boyfriend was presenting him with a two-third's full bottle of Dewars.

The man accepted the gift with grace. He must have been putting two and two together already, what with the boxes, the general disarray of the house, and the cancellation order he was there to fill. Greg probably confirmed his suspicion when he told the man that the liquor's previous owner would appreciate passing on the bottle to a worthy and appreciative trustee. The man looked at me. He said some kind words. I wish I remember them exactly. Or maybe it's better I don't.

A look came across Greg’s face, and he stepped out of the room with some unknown purpose. He returned a moment later, a roll of blue painter's tape in hand along with a black Sharpie. He tore off a small piece of tape and carefully stretched it across the bottle of Scotch. He spoke as he wrote on it. "The only requirement is that when you pour yourself a glass tonight at home after work, you have to raise a toast and say this." He smiled and looked up from his handiwork to me. I read what he'd written. To Norm. I swallowed and smiled back.

More warm words from the technician. "Wonderful young woman", "good souls"—something like that. Small dabs of salve on a freshly blistered heart. We walked him down the driveway to his truck. He asked my name and shook my hand. Then he had an idea. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll do you one better than just a toast. If you give me your phone number, tonight when I'm ready for my drink, I'll call you guys up, and all three of us can drink to your father at the same time."

I looked at the man. I looked at my boyfriend. I felt, straining its way through the clotted, hard dirt of loss, a tiny shoot of joy. How had they done that, these two men from different worlds, with nothing in common but big hearts and a gift for awing me with their thoughtfulness? They made it look so easy.

He called us promptly at the appointed time. Greg took the call, and put him on speakerphone. He had the man hold while we scrambled to pour our own drinks. All we had on hand was vodka and apple juice. It was perfect. We lifted our glasses and told the stranger on the other end of the line that we were ready. And that's when my heart, already squeezed to near suffocation by this moment, was clenched just a bit more: the man said, "What sort of man was Norm? Tell me about your father."

I made a sound, something like "Ohhh," a mixed exclamation of surprise and laughter and I don't know what else. Oh, wow, I wasn't expecting that and Oh, wow, if you only knew just what a character he was. "He was an engineer," I began, carefully. "He loved to read. He...taught me to question everything." I was grasping, falling. Greg saw it, and chimed in cheerfully. "He was a ladies man, too." We all laughed, and something came loose inside of me. Some knot of sadness, born of the fact that there was next to no one around to mourn my father's death. Next to no family, next to no friends. It had broken my heart on his behalf. But here, now, an utter stranger was honoring my dad in the purest way possible: truly caring about who he was. Making him matter, if only for a moment.

After our clinks and drinks, the man again offered his sincere condolences. He praised me as a daughter, from the little daughtering he'd witnessed that day. He invited us, should we ever find ourselves back in his small town again, to dine with he and his wife. I thought wistfully of that dinner, which I knew would be lovely and probably somewhat life-affirming, but which I knew would never happen.

We said our goodbyes, rinsed out our glasses, and continued sorting late into the night. We had one bottle less to pack.

Black Outlines

June 22, 2012

There are two sides to my father's death. There are the plain, cold facts of what happened, and there are all the little details that fill in those black outlines with color. I need to get them both out of my head. Here are the plain, cold facts.

My first few weeks in Florida were overwhelming to a point of comedy.

My dad had no one but me to take care of him. His brothers and he had long since ceased speaking. There was a cousin, herself elderly, unstable, and unavailable. That was it, as far as his family of origin. As far as his own family? His ex-wife was dead, and his son was MIA. He had no close friends, and certainly none close by enough to help.

So I was it. And I was in way, way over my head.

I can't claim to have hit the ground running when I got there. More the opposite: I faltered and flailed about for the first few days, terrified and in denial of the situation. Feeling sorrier for myself than him, really. But once it became clear that my father was becoming more helpless by the minute, some survival mechanism in me clicked into gear. I made calls, set appointments, did research, and shuttled him to doctors. I wrote lists, asked questions, picked up supplies and medicines. I created three different schedules for pill-taking, in an effort to make it easier for my father to keep track of the seven prescriptions he was taking (none worked). I cooked and cleaned and counseled my father as best I could. When he started to lose mobility, I rearranged furniture, and even sold some things just to get them out of the way. I acted as liaison between him and the panoply of specialists he'd collected in a few short days since his diagnosis.

And speaking of his diagnosis. Here's that, in a nutshell. On April 7, my 73 year-old father was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. They didn't like what they saw, so they kept him overnight, and ran tests. A day and a half later, he was informed that he had small cell lung cancer. I was on a plane two days after that. Four days after that, his radiation oncologist gave him a prognosis of 6-12 months. But the doctors were optimistic about treatment, affirming that my dad would be healthy enough to undergo several weeks of chemotherapy and radiation. They even said he should be able to drive himself to his appointments.

Hearing that, I was utterly nonplussed. It seemed obvious to me that he wouldn't be able to care for himself on a basic level (eating, bathing, etc), much less have the strength to take himself to treatments. But maybe they were right? Maybe the bad state he was in was temporary, and he'd rally? Maybe I could manage his care from across the country at first, coming out every few weeks and stepping up my presence as necessary, as things devolved? I conferred with one of his doctors. And by "confer" I mean, I practically clutched the man's coat lapels, voice shaking, and asked, "What the hell do I do?" He told me my "plan" was a good one, and that'd I'd know when my dad would need more help. I'd know when things were getting worse.

He was right about that. Things got worse, fast, and I knew it. I saw it with my own eyes. Those first few nights, when we were making early rounds to specialists to get a plan of care in place, were hell itself. He had completely lost his appetite, and dropped 20+ pounds in a matter of a couple weeks. He was consequently too weak to move much, but so mentally agitated that moving around was all he wanted to do. The cancer had spread from his lungs to his ribs and spine, and he was incredibly uncomfortable, even with the morphine. He was depressed and afraid. He'd sit in his office chair for five minutes before insisting on moving to the living room sofa, which after another five minutes, he'd want to get up from, and go lay on the bed. He didn't want to wear pants, and I couldn't get him to stand in the shower long enough to wash off. Incontinence kicked in. We (meaning me) were still tweaking his morphine dosage, trying to find a happy(?) medium between lucidity/pain and bombing him into a speechless semi-coma.

It broke my heart to watch my father, always the vainest man I'd known, forced to abandon his dignity in such a manner. As for me, I had no clue what I was going to do. I had no idea what I was facing, or how long my father was going to be like this. It was clear as day I couldn't leave him and go back to California. Did that mean I had to move out here for the next half year, year, to be his sole caregiver? Would I even be able to do that?? What the hell did I know about caring for a sick person, much less one who was dying? Visions of me trying to bathe him, taking care of his bathroom and hygiene, spoon feeding him and checking his IV, managing all those medications several times a day, etc. wracked me. What. The. Fuck.

I was bewildered and lost. When the occasional nurse or insurance person or hospice worker that I spoke to found out I was handling everything completely on my own, the compassion and solicitousness with which they responded broke me every time. I'd chin up and thank them politely for their concern, but inside, the little girl in me was throwing pity party confetti in the air: Yes! I know! It IS incredibly unfair, right? How am I supposed to do this?? After a while, I stopped pretending to be strong and just let them throw their arms around me for a virtual hug.

The kindness of strangers saved me in those days—the acknowledgment and validation that no one should have do what I was doing, alone.

And so the second week went, with him leaning on me more and more every day, literally and otherwise. He didn't want to eat, so every few hours, I'd spend several minutes trying to coax him into a few bites of ice cream, or chocolate milk—anything dense in calories, in an effort to keep some meat on his bones. He was completely at a loss re: tracking his medications, which needed to be taken every two hours. I couldn't trust him to remember, so I gave up on my fancy charts and checklists and just set my own alarm. He became disoriented and confused about place and time. I awoke on Saturday at three am to him calling me frantically from across the house. I found him fully dressed, sitting near the front door, convinced that he was about to be late for an appointment. When I explained that no, he had no commitments that day, he became inexplicably angry and threatened to hit me.

I'd take advantage of his moments of lucidity to talk to him. We even managed, in the first few days, to have a couple of restaurant meals. I sat across from my father and we looked at one another, the dead weight of his prognosis making each forkful feel like a thousand pounds of sand to swallow. We did our best, though, with small jokes and the occasional sincerely loving exchange. I told him in no uncertain terms what he meant to me, and how I credit all my favorite parts of my personality to him. He told me that despite what I'd convinced myself of, he was incredibly proud of me, of who I'd turned out to be.

Back at home, the restlessness was a killer. He just refused to stay still for more than a few minutes at a time. But with every hour, he lost more and more strength and balance. Each time he wanted to move, I had to be there, lest he go crashing to the ground. At first, the support of my shoulder was enough. Then, he'd need me to walk backwards in front of him, so he could hold my outstretched arms. By the time I went to buy him a walker, he was so frail from lack of food that falling was a near-constant concern.

And then he did fall.

At 2am.

And I couldn't get him back up. And he couldn't get himself back up.

Just that morning, he'd been enrolled in in-home hospice. We'd been at the oncologist's, and I had pulled him aside, wild-eyed with lack of sleep, and said, basically, "Look. If you think he's strong enough to undergo several hours a week of chemo, you're out of your mind. And aside from the issue of chemo, I need help. Badly." The doctor agreed that it was time for hospice, even though he still felt confident that my dad could do chemo. We went home and I spent the afternoon learning just how much support I was about to get—I knew nothing whatsoever about hospice. As it became clear that I would have a team of professionals acting as reinforcements, I slowly let more oxygen into my lungs. I can do this, if I have help. Help is coming.

Help came that very afternoon. He was enrolled, the paperwork was signed, and all the ugly but necessary documents placed on file (his living will, his DNR order, his funerary wishes, etc). A hospital bed was set up in the living room, because my father refused to give up the ghost on the waterbed in his bedroom. He was still adamantly insisting, even in his degenerative state, on climbing in and out of it all day and night.

That's what he was doing, when he fell. Trying to get out of the goddamned waterbed. And I was helping, but not well enough, obviously. Because suddenly he was on the ground, moaning in pain, and I couldn't do a fucking thing about it other than try to dial down my hysteria.

That was one of the hardest, most awful moments of the whole ordeal. But it was by no means the worst. No, cancer is an endless swag bag of heartbreaking surprises!

Anyway, I called hospice, who sent help as quickly as possible. It took almost an hour. During that time, I ostensibly sat with my father, covered him in a blanket, held his hand, propped his head, and talked to him (he didn't talk back). But what I was really doing was facing the fact of my father's impending death, and taking the first wretched step towards accepting it.

The EMTs arrived, and lifted him into bed. I got more What, wait? It's only you here, taking care of him? type pity. I ate it up, greedily. His hospice team's head nurse, upon learning of this incident, upgraded him to continuous care—I was told as much over the phone. By 8am, a certified nurse would be there to help, and, I was told, there'd be someone staying with us, at the house, 24-7 from that point on.

Plum Wine

July 2, 2012

Well, as promised, I went to Saturday's Japanese themed party looking a fool. Attempted a sort of Harujuku girl concept that, in execution, was just me wearing a bunch of Hello Kitty crap and looking kind of whorish. Everyone else was awesome—geishas and samurais and a Japanese tourist and even Godzilla. I apologized to my hosts for my C- effort, then proceeded to gorge on their plum wine and sashimi. I'd never had plum wine before.

I really, really love plum wine.

It was a make-your-own-meal kind of deal, with all the fixings and spices for sushi, wontons, salads, and the like. Thankfully the more competent and sober members of the party made sure the rest of us were nourished. After dinner, some of us got high on the roof and told horribly offensive religious jokes. Then we all played charades and got prize bags with our names written in Korean (no idea).

Best part of the night: I got tapped for wonton frying duty, but the girls decided my low cut shirt was an invitation for oil burns. So they took me aside and wrapped my chest and shoulders in Saran Wrap before sending me back to the stove.

Outside lands 2012

August 23, 2012

I've put off writing my recap of Outside Lands music festival not only because I've been a depressed and uninspired sop, but because I have conflicted feelings about it. It was, aside from the music aspect, nothing whatsoever like Bonnaroo. And I loved Bonnaroo. Which is not to say that OL didn't have its charms. It did, and I had a blast. But it was a completely different experience. And I can't say I wasn't warned that it would be, by the comparisons I'd read online beforehand. But my hopes and expectations for the fest were still, inevitably, Bonnaroo-shaped and Bonnaroo-stamped.

Golden Gate Park is beautiful, no argument. But it was effing cold. The fog rolled in on Friday and Saturday afternoon and my ass was freezing (Sunday was much milder). On Friday, I was even wearing a skirt (albeit with thick wool thigh high socks), because my iPhone lied to me about the weather, like a jerk. And it's really hard to get into the mood of dancing, drinking, drugging—whatever your thing is—when you're shivering. So there was that.

Then there was the matter of how congested and crazy it got later in the weekend. Again—beautiful venue. Truly lovely setting, and I enjoyed walking through the woods. But 60,000 people in Golden Gate Park is absolute chaos. There is no flow. Something about the layout of Bonnaroo gave it flow, and there were another 20,000 people there. But navigating Outside Lands, particularly on Saturday and Sunday when the most people attended, was like swimming upstream: an exercise in futility and frustration. The fields where the stages are get completely choked with multiple lanes of foot traffic, and it becomes a twenty minute ordeal just to get in to the area, much less near the music. I missed Alabama Shakes for this reason. My claustrophobia kicked in as I was worming my way into the meadow and I had to bolt.

Also, the sound on one of the stages (the Panhandle) was just awful. Unless you were extremely close and towards the center, the music was a poor simulacrum of what it should have been. For this reason, Washed Out was a huge disappointment for me. Another stage, Twin Peaks, had some sounds problems, too, which is not what you want when you're jamming out to Justice and Skrillex. Finally, the biggest bummer—the festival vibe itself. Whereas Bonnaroo had such an intimate sense of community, stuffed as it was with dirty, sweaty, sunburned, but really joyful people, Outside Lands felt more like a scene. A place to be seen. The fact that there was no overnight camping at OL contributes to this largely, I know. But the crowd itself was very different. A lot more monied, a lot more self-conscious. People in meticulously constructed boho chic outfits who seemed more interested in who was checking them out than enjoying the music itself. I saw a fraction of the amount of unadulterated joy—dancing, singing, laughing, cavorting—as I did at Bonnaroo. And it seemed like people at OL were pushier, shovier, more impatient, less tolerant.

But, like I say, I still had an amazing time just doing my thing out there in the woods. Cue the highlight reel!

Music Highlights

This time around, I made it a point to be well versed in the music I was going to hear. I mean, I studied. I made playlists of all the bands on my schedule, and listened to them exclusively for the two weeks before the festival. This got me really, really excited about it. For this reason, in terms of the music, I got more out of Outside Lands than Bonnaroo.

Where to start.

Of Monsters and Men. Can't even convey how powerful this show was, for me. I started out pressed up close to the stage, because this was my number one most anticipated show and I wanted a fully immersive experience. But holy hell was it packed in tight. And there was a baby hipster couple next to me, a gorgeous young girl and her neck-bearded boyfriend, whose nonstop kissing and cuddling were too much for my newly-single self to handle. After the first track, I retreated to a corner off the side where I could sit by myself and soak up the songs that, truly, have gotten me through some of the hardest moments of my life. And they sounded exactly like the album.

Explosions In The Sky. Have the chills just remembering this one. God, so good. I was in the front of the VIP section, had plenty of room to just shut my eyes and dance. Hypnotizing, amazing set. I was so charged up afterward that I plowed back through the crowd yelling "Yeessss!!! SO AWESOME!" and high fiving any stranger who seemed remotely amused by my enthusiasm (a total of two).

Geographer. This was suuuuuch a kick-ass show. The crowd was totally engaged and dancing, really into it, and he was an awesome performer. Every song sounded just like the album, and the energy was perfect for the late afternoon. I was off to the side alone for a while on this one, drinking wine and kinda half dancing half watching, but got sucked in to the crowd pretty quickly.

Animal Kingdom. Totally rocked. This group should be loads more popular than they are. His voice is so edgy and different, I love it. I actually laid on the ground for most of this show. Flat on my back, just drumming my belly to the beat.

Jukebox the Ghost. If there's one show I'm glad I got to be right up front for, it's this one. They were so, so fun and into it. Really animated performers, and they sounded awesome. They did a cover of I Wanna Dance With Somebody that was a blast.

City and Colour. Watched this with Greg on Sunday, and it was a really nice moment. We sat off to the side, me in between his legs and leaning against his chest. It was extremely mellow and relaxing, and the music was fantastic.

Trampled By Turtles. Intense. Also watched this with Greg. People loooooove them some Trampled By Turtles. You haven't seen festival dancing until you've seen TBT fans stomping and whooping and flailing. I felt closer to Greg than I had in ages which was a double-edged sword, obviously. Enjoyed the intimacy, but knew it was the exception, not the rule. Knew it didn't change where we were at (broken up and at the festival as friends). So, yeah. Intense.

fun. One of the best performances of the festival. That kid is a powerhouse, and he was ALL over the stage belting it out. I've been a fan since The Format, so it was a real treat to see him. He saved Some Nights for the finale, and I was a hollerin' those lyrics, oh boy.

The Walkmen. I liked the Walkmen before seeing them live—now I really have a true appreciation for them. Talk about a voice. Probably the best performance I saw all weekend, just from the perspective of pure talent—and I'm saying that about a group I barely knew at the time. If you like them at all and ever have the chance to see them live, don't miss it!

Wolfgang Gartner and Skrillex. They were right after one another and I was high as a kite. Danced. My. Face. Off. And met some fun people to party with during, too. Perfect ending to the festival on Sunday night (I was alone—Greg had gone to meet a friend for drinks downtown).

Sigur Ros. I'm not a Sigur Ros fan, really, but wowww. The show they put on was jaw-dropping, what with the lights and effects. I can only imagine how it was for actual fans.

Other Festival Highlights

I met some very cool, fun people on Friday night that I spent a few hours running around with. Two guys and a girl. That girl had MAD wingman skills, I tell you what. She procured me for her friends in under thirty seconds, after seeing me near them at Washed Out. We drank together, lamented the horrible sound and our disappointment about that performance, and then ended up dancing and goofing around at Justice and Neil Young afterward.

- Dancing in the dark, steamy, packed Heineken dome. Getting so lost in the music and warmth and crowd and other things, that I blew off a show to stay and dance.

- Dancing at the Digital Music Lounge, in broad daylight, a full, sober crowd watching the rest of make fools of ourselves in an attempt to win free stuff. Didn't win anything, but didn't stay long. Didn't like all the cameras.

- Greg and I had one really lovely moment, on Sunday, right smack in the middle of Sutro field. Pople were swarming all around us, hurrying and pushing and streaming past on their ways to and fro. But he and I sort of just stopped and reclaimed a small space to be what we wanted: calm, happy, joyful—to be, honestly, like Bonnaroo, where people would suddenly start dancing or hula-hooping or kissing or whatever right in the middle of things, and it was not just accepted, it was approved of, mightily. And that's what we did. We just randomly stopped to slow dance for a minute, and to share a kiss. It was nice.

- Dancing late Sunday night in the woods of McLaren Pass to a folk band I'd never heard of (and didn't bother to learn the name of), but who were the perfect night-cap to my lingering, post-Skrillex jumpies.

Non-Festival Highlights

- My very dear friend Chris let me stay with him in San Francisco, which was perfect for multiple reasons. One—it was just so goddamn good to see him. I adore him to smithereens and seeing him is sustenance for my soul. Heart bigger than the state of California and always chock full of the best advice. Two—this was post/kinda during my breakup with Greg and there is no one you want more in your corner, propping you back up with encouragement, humor, and food/liquor, than Chris. Three—his gorgeous apartment is right smack downtown, just a block from the Civic Center where the festival shuttle picked me up every day. It could not have been more convenient.

- On Monday, Greg and I had shrooms (this was the first time for me) and wandered around the city all day and into the evening, before our late flight home. Holy shit. Holy shit. It was a) the best day I've ever had with Greg (which, haha, let's just fuck with Ellie's mind, drugs! thanks!), b) the most enjoyable drug experience I've ever had by a factor of a hundred (suuuuuch a nice, mellow, upbeat and giggly high that lasts and lasts), and c) the first time I'd really spent any time in SF anywhere other than the wharf.

We had such an incredibly fun day, just lolling about the wharf, the piers, the gardens. Getting hypnotized by a statue and trying to climb it. Waxing philosophical about life while we looked at cars on the bridge. Staring, mesmerized, at a toddler playing with a puppy in the park. Bumbling around Chinatown, me feeling the sensation of shrooms for the first time, letting the positive vibes wash over me as we examine weird things in apothecary jars. Laughing so much our cheeks hurt.

Later, we ate at RN 74. I was hesitant to go there at first, feeling sloppy in my filthy festival jeans. But I'm glad Greg convinced me to go in, because it was great. We lounged in the bar on a couch and feasted and drank and talked. It was the perfect ending to the day and the long weekend.

Music & Death

August 24, 2012

Last night I met up with a friend who I haven't seen in months. We had a great talk. Or rather, I talked, at great length, and he obligingly listened while I was variously self-indulgent, mopey, maudlin, macabre, and morose. What was I talking about, that would merit such descriptors? Music and death. I've come to be quite the expert on those.

I told him that this year, I've become more emotionally invested in music than I ever was before. I always had been, honestly, but now it feels almost alarming—the ease with which certain songs can bring me to my knees. Take the Of Monsters and Men album, My Head Is An Animal. No really, pack it up and take it away from me, because it demolishes me to listen to it. I can barely stand it. But it's a beautiful sort of demolition. I'm broken down and rebuilt every three or so minutes.

Catharsis doesn't even begin to cover what I feel, listening to those songs. They wrote my life. Those warble-voiced Icelanders just sat down and wrote my life. There's love, loss, grief, pain, hope, comfort, and family to be found in the lyrics. I dare anyone who's struggled to love or be loved by a parent to listen to Sloom. I defy anyone who's fought with depression to not connect with Little Talks.

I discovered My Head Is An Animal around the time my dad died, and it carried me from those black days through the grey ones of losing A. It will forever be a lifeline to a time of pain and growth, and I'm grateful for it. But I'm also unnerved by how easily those harmonies can upend me.

Anyway, that's what I said to my friend about music. Having primed him with this cheerfulness, I proceeded to further lighten the mood with an anecdote about my mother's death.

When my mother died, my husband helped me clean out her apartment. There was next to nothing of value in her belongings, but her pantry was full to overflowing with perfectly serviceable dry goods and non-perishable food. My husband discouraged me from taking any of it, but I did anyway. I don't know what made him uncomfortable about it. I guess just the fact that she was dead? Maybe he found it macabre, to touch the things of a dead person? As if her cold, clammy ghost hands had left cold, clammy ghost fingerprints on the plastic wrap of the paper towels.

Anyway, I took two grocery bags' worth of stuff. Mostly canned food. The sort of crap that probably killed her: Chef Boyardee, deviled ham, salt-laden vegetables. I brought it home and put it into our cabinets along with our own food. My husband wouldn't touch any of it, and neither would I, at first. For months, it lurked in the back of our cabinets, passed over but not forgotten, while newer, fresher, and healthier foodstuffs came and went around it.

Then one day, I opened a can of her chicken and rice soup, and heated it up on the stove.

I ate it slowly, thoughtfully, deliberately. I tortured myself with it. I wondered how each spoonful would taste to her. Salty? Too hot, perhaps? I remembered how she looked when she blew on food to cool it, and I pursed my lips in the same way. When the bowl was empty, I felt sick. Remorseful. Like I'd taken something of hers—something extremely personal—and used it, without permission. Like I was using her. Using her up.

It was a game of self-flagellation that I drew out for the next several months. Something would trigger a memory, and I'd suddenly feel overcome with longing for my mother's arms. But there was nothing I could do. The closest I could get to her was this shitty canned food I'd pillaged from her kitchen. So I'd eat some of it. And again: guilt. I was trying to fill myself up with her, but with each bite gone, there was a little less of her left.

Eventually, all that remained was some plain chicken broth. I took an hour to finish it. Swallow after swallow of cold, oily water. I wanted to cry, eating it, but I couldn't. I didn't feel anything. I wasn't even hungry. I wanted to be close to her, but maybe I wanted to hurry up and get the awful exercise over with, too. I needed to feel her inside me. I needed to get her out of my system.

More than once this summer I've had the full, conscious thought, Thank god I only had two parents. I couldn't do this again. You fight with them. You fight to love them, to understand them, to be understood and loved by them. You struggle to relate to them, to identify with them. You reach an age and a maturity where you finally start to do that, but now you're also old enough to fully appreciate the damages they did to do. You forgive them, or you don't. You secretly wish them dead, or you hope they'll live forever.

Then one day they're gone and no matter how complicated your relationship with them was, you miss them so much you could throw up, even though there's nothing, nothing, nothing in your stomach.

Flour Girl

August 25, 2012

If you want to see an extremely disconcerted dog, take a bag of his human-quality dog treats into the bathtub and eat handfuls of them while you cry. Chaucer wasn't sure whether to be more anxious about my tears or that fact that I was eating his fucking cookies. His head nearly exploded. And don't judge. Do not judge. Those things are delicious.

Lately I've been taking some very large checks to the bank. I keep getting the same teller, a very polished and pretty young woman. She gets a look on her face that belies her curiosity is to why this sloppily-dressed woman in dire need of a manicure and root touch-up is plunking down such heavy coin. So far she's processed the transactions without comment, but yesterday afternoon she gave in.

"I don't mean to be nosy," she started, through the window. And then she trailed off, letting me volunteer helpfully, "My father died." It was at this point that the bullet proof glass suddenly thickened up another inch or so, preventing her from hearing me. She cocked her head and frowned. What's that?

"MY FATHER DIED," I announced, at about ten decibels louder than I'd intended. I could tell by the hush that fell over the crowd of paycheck-cashing weekend revelers that they really enjoyed that uplifting start to their weekend.

My neighborhood is filled with familiar characters. Homeless persons, some mental, some just destitute. Shopkeepers and small restauranteurs that step out onto the sidewalk when business is slow. Street vendors selling melted popsicles and bags of fruit.

There's this one old man who sells water. He stands on corners and under awnings and hawks bottles for half a buck. I think he might be a little bit crazy. He'll call out, "Water, fifty cents!" and then mutter something vaguely ominous under his breath like, "You gotta drink water. In this heat? You'll get dehydrated, you'll see." or "The pipes. It's bad water, in those pipes. People don't know. They'll find out."

For some reason, I love this. His fear mongering sales angle delights me, I don't know why. Probably for the same reason I love doomsday and dystopic movies: I not-so-secretly want to watch the world crumble. Anyway, I kind of want to buy his water, stand nearby drinking it, and nod in agreement at his prognostications. But I'm afraid he'll tell me what's actually in those pipes, and I'll have to find Erin Brockovich.

---

Everything I own keeps breaking, and it's making me feel like a character in a Philip K. Dick novel. There is nothing more depressing than having a house full of expensive broken shit. In the past six months, the following things have crapped out on me, or gotten effed up in some way: My dSLR (in the shop now) My vacuum cleaner (which now emits sparks when I vacuum, adding an exciting element of danger to my housekeeping duties) My french press (which, haha, I knocked over with the vacuum cord and shattered) My electric tea kettle (since replaced) My lamp shades (Chaucer flung brown drool on them) My upright clothes steamer (just straight up stopped working) My floor lamp (the floor step-on switch came apart).

Today, the “unbreakable” container my five-pound bag of flour was in broke. Can you guess how long I let the mess sit on the floor before I finally cleaned it up?

a) 3 seconds
b) 3 minutes
c) 3 hours
d) I'm just going to wait for Chaucer to develop a taste for flour. I

If you guessed d), you get a human-grade-ingredient dog cookie.

Extra Bechamel

February 21, 2012

There's a creperie around the corner from my apartment, and every couple of weeks, I'll treat myself to one of their Croque Monsieurs. The owner/operator is a swarthy Frenchman, and extremely flirtatious. He'll call my order out unnecessarily loudly (the cook stands right behind him), while giving me an inexplicable wink. I interpret this wink variously as Oh, cherie, the deliciousness that you are in for! or Ne t'en fais pas! I will tell no one of this salty, starchy indiscretion! or We'd be hot in bed together, non?

A woman at the counter takes my money, and encourages me to add an Orangina to my order. I don't, because I can't look at the bulbous bottles without thinking of my ex, who used to pronounce it orange-jī-na, to make me laugh. She looks and sounds exactly like the woman that played Mary of Guise in Elizabeth, and I'm intimidated by her.

I watch the cook make crepes while I wait. He dispenses batter in perfect circles, and after it firms up slightly, slices bananas for filling. His fingers are so deft and quick that I don't even see the blade move. After the first time I watched him, I looked up the name of the special rake-shaped tool he uses to spread the batter. I was disappointed to learn it's called, predictably enough, a “crepe spreader”.

The creperie is conveniently located across from a salad restaurant, so if I'd like, I can sit at the window while I eat, and watch better dressed, healthier lunchers meet up to dine on more nutritious fare.

I usually get it to go, instead.

I haven't worked up the nerve to tell them to hold the pickle. I made the mistake once of asking the owner to hold the Bechamel sauce, because I thought it was some kind of mayonnaise. He enthusiastically disabused me of this notion, explaining that it's just flour and milk. When I told him that, in that case, the Bechamel sounded great, actually, he decided I needed extra sauce on my Croque Monsieur. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the standard dosage would be just fine. Now every time I order, he reminds the cook, "Extra Bechamel for mademoiselle!" And winks at me.

I don't want to seem ungrateful or fussy, but I don't want them to waste their pickles, either, particularly if I'm already taxing them for more than my fair share of Bechamel.

I looked up "gherkin" because I seem to remember it has an alternate French name, as well. It does. Cornichon.

Take that, “crepe spreader”.

Percy’s Ink Shop

September 5, 2012

Percy's ink shop isn't his; that’s just how I think of it. It's a chain ink refill store at which I've spent an unfortunate amount of money over the past few months, thanks to all the estate paperwork. Percy is the Eastern European man who runs it, and with whom I've gotten to be friendly.

Percy and I have perfected our ink-customer-and-seller schtick. I come in, angry and frustrated about my piece of shit printer having devoured yet another $8 in cyan or magenta, and he talks me down with a bemused, patronizing tone. Then he spends five minutes campaigning for me to go out with him, while I ask personal questions designed to get him to reveal more bizarre/scandalous details about himself.

Among other things I've learned about Percy is that, before he moved to the states, he was virtually swimming in hot, eligible women, all vying for his attention and money. Percy was a god in The Old Country. Here, he's a pudgy, moon-faced thirty something ink store manager, with a little boy's haircut and massive, dark eyes.

Today I've brought a depleted cartridge of yellow ink. I always put the used cartridges in a little baggie so they won't stain my hands or clothes or purse, but for some reason I feel ridiculous doing so. As if they're toxic, or I'm afraid of a getting a little ink blot on me.

When I walk in, he's reclining behind the counter as usual, talking on his cell phone. He lazily starts to sit up when he sees me, and says, "I gotta go. Customer. Don't worry. It's a guy." His words are heavily accented, and he winks at me on the last one.

"I'm just going to throw my printer out the window," I announce, as he's snapping his flip phone shut.

He cocks his head at me, as if to say Really?? "Why do you do that. I just tell her it's a guy. Now I'm gonna get in trouble, because she hear you."

I remind Percy that he's at work. Does his mistress think his only customers are men? He takes my ink cartridge out of its hazmat container and examines it. "Where is the number?" he asks. I have no idea. Number? "There should be a number on here. A sticker. That's how I know what you have. You take the sticker off, I don't know what to sell you."

I unleash a stream of vulgarity insulting the integrity of my printer, its manufacturers and designers, and making threats towards its longevity. Percy tells me to relax.

"How do men date you?" he queries, not bothering to look my way as he scans the shelves for the correct replacement. "You're crazy. I would lose my mind if I was your boyfriend," he adds.

Speculations about my dating life are nothing new at the ink shop. Over the course of the past three months, Percy has seen fit to 1) try and set me up with various other customers, 2) try and secure a date for himself, and 3) inquire as to the health of my sex life. None of this is done in earnest or with malice. He doesn't take himself one iota more seriously than I take him.

He reminds me that if I were to date him, I'd be "a lot happier and calmer woman." I have no doubt, I say dryly. He wags a small blue box at me as he says, "And I'm not just talking about orgasms." I can't keep a straight face.

"You're insane," I tell him. "You should have your own reality show. Percy's Ink Shop. It'd be perfect for Bravo. All about your interactions with customers, the relationship advice, the inappropriate comments..."

He lights up. "I love Bravo!" he exclaims. "Millionaire Matchmaker!" I am not surprised. I am not surprised by anything Percy says.

"The show could follow your personal life, too," I continue, "which I bet is...fascinating." He knows I'm teasing, and he laughs. He knows full well how ridiculous he is.

Suddenly his face gets serious. He looks at me conspiratorially, as if about to disclose his secret KGB identity. "You know, I'm actually having a background in the jewelry business." And before I can finish the crack I start about Russian mobsters, he's reaching into his pants pockets and pulling out two fistfuls of tiny plastic baggies. I can see immediately that one has a ring of some kind in it, and the others, loose diamonds.

"That's it," I say. "I'm calling Andy Cohen. You need to be on television." I shake my head in wonder. "Percy! What the hell are you doing carrying around a bunch of diamonds?"

He doesn't answer, and just holds out his treasures, eyes twinkling. "Have you ever seen diamonds before?" he asks me, in complete seriousness. I inform him that I am not, in fact, Oliver Twist, and yes, I have seen diamonds before. I remind him for the fifth time at least that I was married (a fact he suspiciously forgets to file away each time) and I even had the pleasure of wearing diamonds.

At this, he pulls the ring out and holds it up between us. I can see now that it's a pave wedding band. He makes as if to slip it on my finger, but I pull away. "Huh uh," I say. "Once was enough."

As always, he discounts my ink, exhorts me to bring my dog next time, and sends me off in a better mood than when I walked in.

des amis

September 7, 2012

Remember my French friend from the creperie around the corner? Well, I've gotten to be buddies with him, in a way. He chats me up whenever he's outside and I walk by, or when I stop in to eat. We limit our talks to the subjects I have the vocabulary to sustain: my dog, food, love - or a lack thereof. For a while, he'd gotten used to seeing A. and I as a couple, and when we broke up, he made his disapproval clear. I guess he thinks because we look good together, we should be together? He always tries to convince me that A. is amoreux de moi. "Non,' I tell him, "nous sommes seulement des amis."

Alex always encourages me to come by more often, to sit and have a coffee with him and just practice my French. "You don't need to buy anything," he assures me. "Just come talk."

So the other day, I did.

I walk in and sit at the counter, where I can watch him and the other cooks smooth out the crepe batter in perfect circles. "J'ai faim," I announce, and he gets to work. He knows I always want the same thing.

We chat a bit while he fixes my lunch, and just as he serves me, I hear the door behind me swing open. I glance backwards and do a double take. Greg's just walked in. He joins me, a bit flustered, saying he didn't know I was here, and he'll leave, and apologizing for being there - and then apologizing for being flustered. I tell him not to be silly and that he should split my sandwich with me, because I can never finish it.

Alex fixes himself a tuna sandwich and sits near us, while we semi-awkwardly catch up. After a minute, we're relaxed and talking like usual. I use my fork to push a small speared gherkin across the plate towards him. "Eat your cornichon," I say.

"That's not a cornish hen!" he says scornfully.

"Stop it," I tell him. I don't have the strength to banter. But he does. He's always on, in the early part of the day. Me, I don't warm up until night.

"Where do you think he gets them? These cornish hens." We're both staring at a tiny, wrinkled pickle.

"Cornwall," I say. "It's like champagne. You call only call it champagne if it comes from the Champagne region of France. And you can only call them cornish hens if they come from Cornwall, England." He grins and I suddenly feel tired.

"Can I have a hug?" he asks. I grant the request, leaning over uncomfortably in my chair to wrap my arms around him for a moment. Alex nods approvingly. "That's what I like to see," he says. "You can only come to my house if it is like that. For wine. You like wine?"

I have no idea what he's talking about. Go to his house? Did I make some forgotten date with my ex-boyfriend to go drinking at the crepe guy's house?

The hug feels like it's lasting a very long time. I warn Greg, half jokingly, that he'd better be careful or I'll hijack his afternoon and throw him in bed.

We finish and Greg walks me out, accompanying me halfway down the block to the dry cleaner's, where he asks for another hug. I oblige again. He rubs my back while we hug on the sidewalk and playfully, inexplicably, calls me "Meatball". I've never heard him call me that before, but okay. I don't have the strength to question the moment or his sweetness. I'll be Meatball.

He leaves and I fetch my dry cleaning and go home alone.

Relapse

September 23, 2012

On Saturday, I wake up to a message from a girlfriend. She's thinking maybe let's skip Chateau Marmont tonight, and just hang out close to home. Maybe go to Autumn Lights, in Pershing Square? I reply with passive aggression that I immediately regret, Whatever you want. I'm disappointed. It had been her idea to go in the first place, and I was excited to get out of downtown. Excited to go to a straight bar, for a change. Her boyfriend was going to come, so I could have done my own thing while they did theirs. And I could have had wingmen, for once.

She knows I'm upset and apologizes for changing plans; she's just not feeling Hollywood. I'm not mad, though, and I tell her. I'm just low and lonely and feeling sorry for myself. Distraction, as always, is my drug. And there's only so much to be distracted by, around the same ten blocks I see all day, every day.

I tell her I'll catch up with her and her boyfriend later, but I have zero intention of fulfilling that promise. I'm spiraling down, fast. Hitting a wall, though it feels more like the wall is hitting me. Before I know it, I'm slumped on the bathroom floor. Where the fuck did this come from? I roll around on the rock bottom for a while, absolutely leveled, before it disappears, just as quickly as it came.

It. Whatever "it" is. Something that can't be defined, but that feels more real than me.

It goes, and a shocking jolt of optimism takes its place. Now I'm laughing. Laughing at myself, even. What the hell was I so upset about? It's a gorgeous afternoon, my apartment is spotless, and a surge of motivation hits me. I decide to get pizza, plug into a quiet night at home, and work on my portfolio. Chaucer comes with me, four blocks, to pick up three slices of Two Boots. I'm feeling up, up, up again.

After I eat, I decide to just swing by Pershing Square and check out Autumn Lights. People milling about draw me in, as ever. Chaucer makes friends. I get a quick fix of socialization. 

A friend calls me as I'm outfitting Chaucer with a glow necklace. She can see me in the park, from her apartment window. I look up and wave, and she and her boyfriend come down to check out the installations before walking to dinner. She and I text for a bit afterward, and it helps me feel less isolated, standing as I am, surrounded by hundreds of strangers. I take Chaucer home, but I don't want to stay in. It's Saturday night, and I can hear the streets below filled with shouts and laughter.

I become momentarily convinced that I am the last single person in Los Angeles.

I go back to the park. I play with Hipstamatic and wander for another hour, before sitting on a low concrete wall, smack in the middle of the park. The park lights are all off, and the various displays of lights, LED sculptures, multi-media projections, lasers, blacklight, and glow paints stand out in glorious vividness. A band is playing at the front of the park, the lead singer of which sounds vaguely like Sigur Ros.

I lay back on the wall, place my phone on my stomach, and close my eyes. I feel intensely, painfully lonely. The crazy thing is, I have turned down four invitations from others, to do things tonight. This is completely self-imposed. An acquaintance is in town; he invited me out when we ran into one another on the street, Friday. A friend-of-a-friend invited me to tag along with him and friends to Nocturnal Wonderland this weekend. Another friend invited me to Venice tonight, to crash their guys' night. And my girlfriend, once she realized how bummy I was this morning, re-issued the original invitation to go to Hollywood.

I turned it all down. I have no idea why. Wait, yes I do. Because it all felt very fifth-wheely. Invitations extended out of generosity. What, Ellie? You have nothing to do tonight? You should come...

I'm making one last walk-through, dawdling before heading back home, when I run into Greg. Rather, he runs into me. I'm watching some kids participate in an interactive visual illusion, when he steps through, momentarily interrupting the exhibit. I'm extending my leg to gently kick him and get his attention when he suddenly notices me. Smiles. A lingering hug. He's on his way to a birthday party, gift in hand. We're not really saying much, just repeating empty greetings, but he's not walking away. I feel myself grinning. I can't help it: from day one, I've broken into a smile every time I see him. It's a hard an impossible habit to break. 

We're standing exceptionally close. I'm fingering the sleeve of his t-shirt, keeping my face cast down, glancing up at him every few seconds. He halfheartedly tells me to stop, his voice low and husky, and wraps his hand around my waist. I laugh, because I have to; it's too much. It's just enough. "Here we are again," I say. "Standing in the middle of some festival, hanging one to one another." I lean closer. He loses his breath, inhales sharply, then lets out a deep sigh. The world feels like it's tipping back into its proper axis. Something, he's saying something. He's been thinking about me today. Is that what he said? Consuming my thoughts. I think that's what I hear. The phrasing is delicious, that I know. But it doesn't matter. I shouldn't listen to these words, anyway. They're candy that melts much too fast on my tongue. A sugar rush after which I'll crash. And crave again.

We're practically kissing, we're so close. His hand moves around to my stomach; he's telling me I look good. I take his palm and place it under my shirt, flat on my bare belly. He makes a noise. All I know, the only thing I can think, is how good he smells, because now I'm putting my lips to his neck. "I still have your boxers," I murmur. "You should come get them later." Now we are kissing, carelessly amongst the crowd. 

I'm being ridiculous, reckless with my own feelings, but it's okay. I feel strangely okay with the gamble I'm taking. What else is there to lose? It's all gone, anyway. And right now I feel more alive than I have in days. The only thing that cuts through the numbness is the feel of his breath on my shoulder. He whispers in my ear, an explicit description of the state I've put him in. I cannot stop smiling, and I don't want him to leave. We finally break the embrace and go our separate ways. As I move through the crowd, I'm convinced my body is glowing just as brightly as the bulbs and baubles they're gazing at.

Back home, I hang Chaucer's oversized, neon green necklace on his door, and text him. I lost my glow sticks somewhere. Would you let me know if you find them? 

Later, connection again. He has new work to show to me, and one piece makes me laugh out loud, the idea is so clever. He also has new music to share, sensual and layered. A soundtrack for the next few hours. The warmth of his touch, his words. I've missed this, he says. You're so beautiful. And the worst, the best, the most confounding and infuriating and satisfying: There's no one else like you. Words, words, words. Words to torture and tease, words that could be truth or lies, words that don't change anything. Sometimes I'm afraid no one will ever love me as much as you do. I lose no time in assuring him that's true. They won't, I say softly, as I move my mouth across his body. I've got words, too.

Relapse. Two steps forward, three steps back. 

Superhero

October 7, 2012

I feel restless, at home today. I don't have any plans for the evening, and know that I'll go bonkers if I spend the entire day and night cooped up in the apartment. So I grab a sweatshirt and head to the metro station. I have no idea where to go. I have no idea what to do. I should have started this adventure earlier; I could have gone to the beach. Now it's already three o'clock.

I'm languid in my movement, even though the temperature is dropping. I'm in the mood to sit back and observe, but against a change of scenery. I wish a moving sidewalk would unroll in front of me, like a red carpet. I don't need the pomp. Just some circumstance.

Below ground, I decide to take whichever train comes first. North Hollywood it is.

Hollywood and Vine. Tourists. Anxious-looking men smack star maps agains their palms and thrust them into the hands of passerby. They ignore me. What is it? The fact that I'm alone? Something in how I'm dressed? My headphones? Or, probably, the disengaged look on my face. I'm strangely flattered, to think I'm passing for a local. Wait, passing? I am a local. I live in Los Angeles. Some day it'll sink in. Probably the one I move.

The walk of fame. Star after star after star. I glance at the names along with everyone else. I know very few, which makes me feel ashamed. I should pick one, learn his or her story. Occasionally, an empty star. Nameless, ready to be stamped with glamour, making all the fame hounds drool.

I snap a few photos, wander, listen to The Walkmen. Heaven, on loop. This is depressing me. This was a mistake. There is nothing novel or noteworthy on this stretch. Head shops. Tattoo parlors. What am I doing here? There must have been a million interesting cultural events happening in the city today, that I could have gone to.

There's a superhero on the sidewalk up ahead of me. He's standing alone in front of a costume store, coaxing foot traffic inside. Only, there isn't much to coax. I suddenly realize that I know who this man is. He catches my smile of recognition—though he doesn't know its source—and steps towards me. I'm expecting the advance; from what I've seen, one of his superpowers is salesmanship.

I allow my smile to broaden as I slow to a stop in front of him. "I saw your documentary," I say in as friendly a way I can. It occurs to me that he must hear this all the time, and I hasten to add, "It was great. I think what you guys do is great. You're a fixture in Hollywood, and you make a lot of people smile..." I trail off dumbly, with no idea how to express what I'm trying to say. What am I trying to say?

Superman rescues me. "Oh, thank you. That's very kind," he says. "What's your name?" He shakes my hand, and we start to chat. His resemblance to Christopher Reeve is even more astonishing in person. The jet black curl on his forehead, his sharp but delicate facial features. The care with which his costume has been constructed—and is obviously treated each night upon removal—is moving. It's been a few years since I saw the film about him and the other men and women who make a living portraying famous characters on the streets of Hollywood. But I remember finding it fascinating—finding him fascinating, especially—and I'm delighted to now be speaking with him, face to face.

We talk very briefly about his work, and about the lawsuit he brought against the city to fight for his right to work the boulevard for money, before moving onto the topic of skincare. I've made some flattering (and genuine) remark about how youthful he looks, and he's now reviewing his daily cosmetic regimen for me. He doesn't just use soap, he explains. He uses conditioner, too. On his body. He lets it soak into his skin while he's washing his hair. "See, feel," he commands, lifting the back of his hand for me to stroke.

The graceful way he's holding his arm, and the papery, smooth texture of his knuckles make me think instantly of my mother. But it's more than his skin. It's his dark hair and crooked teeth. It's his whole general physicality, in fact: ectomorphic, fragile in spite of his height. She was the same way. His comportment echoes hers as well. Gentle. Vulnerable and a little bit broken, but with a latent strength. Someone who's had to bear a lot of pain, but is nowhere near ready to give up.

She was the same way in that regard, too.

I'm tempted to tell him how much he reminds me of her. I don't think he'll be offended. I think, in fact, he'll understand that I mean it as a compliment. He seems deeply empathetic. I think that if in trying to explain exactly how he's like my mother, the words become stuck in my throat and I can only shake my head helplessly as my eyes well up, that he won't become alarmed or uncomfortable. That he'll put his superhero arms around me, there on the sidewalk, and give me a superhero hug. And I think that hug might just transfer some of his power to me, in the same way that hers used to.

I think all of that, inside of an instant, as I'm looking up at this kind, engaging, couragous, dedicated, and somewhat tragic soul, whose story charmed me when I paid the DVD store $3.99 to learn its more intimate details four years ago. I have nothing in common with him. I have so much in common with him. We both pretend to be something we're not. We're both a little bit crazy. I want to tell him that he actually is a fucking superhero, for having the tenacity to get up every day, put on a cape and tights, brave the jeers of homophobic assholes, and live at the mercy of people considerate enough to tip him for a picture.

I've worked for tips, too.

I've worn some pretty ridiculous get-ups, too.

I envy his spirit in the same way I envy my mother's, because I'm not always sure I inherited it.

I realize I'm chewing up his time; there are tourists glancing over with interest. I excuse myself to go, thanking him for the chat. He encourages me to visit him again, next time I'm in Hollywood. "I'm here at the shop on weekends until Halloween, but weekdays you can find me at Grauman's. Come say hello," he says, using my name and smiling warmly. I promise to do just that. As I move away, I see a bottle blonde in a tube dress shake out her hair before squeezing against him, so that a bald forty-something in Oakleys can snap their photo.

I'm pretty sure she's not going to tip him.

I'm also pretty sure that the only thing she's going to get out of her superhero encounter is a shitty, posed cellphone pic.

October Weekend

October 20, 2012

My friend Ben had his fashion show on Friday night at Sky Bar in Hollywood. Well, not his, but the shop's where he works downtown. But boyfriend had a huge hand in designing the line, and has been working his ass off for weeks to complete the pieces, and on a deadline - he left for Bali the very next day.

I hitched a ride to the show with another designer friend of his, who was hilarious and sweet and did his best to make me more comfortable at the event (I felt crazy out of place and a bit intimidated, bumbling about with eight hundred fashionistas in head-to-toe editorial).

We sat by the pool, drank dirty martinis, and scouted guys (for him) while we waited for the show to start. At one point possibly/probably the one straight guy at the whole event glanced my way for about .005 of a second, and my companion, who caught the look, informed me that this dood was an ace in the sack.

"O rly?" I asked, laughing. "How can you tell?"

"Well, I have terrible gaydar, even though I'm gay. But I have incredible technique-dar. I can tell immediately if someone is good in bed."

I said that since the glancing dood was actually a bar back working the show, he probably felt just as indifferent to the whole thing as I did, and that would make an excellent ice breaker. We hatched a plan for me to "accidentally" bump into Bar Back Boy and spill my drink down the front of my dress, at which point I would DEMAND a room at The Mondrian, as recompense (etc. etc.). BBB walked by again, this time deliberately holding my gaze, and my new friend busted up.

"Damn girl, don't fall in love! Tonight only."

He wasn't actually even good looking, but it was a fun diversion from feeling painfully out of place in Glamoramaland.

At this the point show started, which basically consisted of models perching on resin cubes behind the pool, while a bank of photographers and industry peeps shot and Instagrammed the shit out of them.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at/talking about, when it comes to high end design, but I had the ultimate tour guide - this design friend of Ben's has worked for Theory and Theyksens Theory, among other lines. He broke it down for me with helpful comments like, "That jacket is nice, but it's a bit derivative of DSQUARED2, two season ago..."

Awesome.

Anyway, I really didn't care about the actual clothes, though it was cool to see some of the pieces I tried on for Ben at the shop when he needed to tweak the pattern, finished in leather, on actual models. Plus, I got warm fuzzies from being able to stand back while everyone was gabbing about the whole scene and think, "Yeah, all that fancy stuff you guys are scrutinizing? My buddy did all that." I know the show was a big deal, and it was amazing to see that kind of talent being beautifully showcased and celebrated, but to me, he's just my awesome, fun-loving friend Ben of whom I have a small cache of bribeworthy, incriminating photos.

And who is now in Bali until after the New Year. :( :( :( for me but :) :) :) for him.

On Saturday, I went with Kerry and Ross to the Taste of Italy festival over at the Pico House. Had never been, but since this was their second time going, they knew the score. They said last year they left hungry, so we spent our time strategically weighing our options as to how to spend our food tickets, so we'd actually be full. We ended up getting stuffed on pasta and gelato, then slightly shitty on red wine. Later, we got slightly shittier at Association and Casey's, and decided it would be a brilliant idea to walk Chaucer back over to their place so he could meet their cats.

Did not document. But was awesome. I think.

multiple copies

November 7, 2012

I'm gearing up to mop when he calls. "Listen, I gotta meet a guy in a little while, but you do want to get coffee?" I ask if he means right now, glancing at my sink, stopped up and full of steaming water. He does. "Meet you downstairs in five," I say.

I throw on my favorite scarf and hoodie, slip into my cleanest pair of Converse, swipe on some lipgloss, and head down. When I get to the lobby, he's waiting just outside the front door, in the crisp night air. The wool of his winter coat feels smooth against my cheek as he gives me a one-armed hug. We grin at one another and start walking.

It's the tail end of rush hour, our bodies and faces illuminated by headlights as we cross the street. I wonder what we look like to those drivers, what descriptors, if any, come to their minds as they watch us walk by them. A thought flashes through my mind, a recognition that how I must look in this moment would have appealed greatly to my younger self. Casually dressed, but stylish. Stepping lightly across a busy city street, in the company of a dark and handsome young man, smiles on both of our faces. My twenty-seven-year old self would have looked wistfully at me, wondering at my life, at who I was and what made up my days.

It's been about a week since we've seen each other, and we've got catching up to do. As we wait in line at Starbucks, he tells me he has good news. "I'm not leaving downtown. I'm staying here." At first I don't realize what he's talking about, but he quickly fills in the gaps. He's found a new apartment, a few blocks away. He's signed a lease and given notice. He's moving out of our building in a few weeks. He looks at me carefully as he says all of this. I smile, genuinely happy to hear he's found a place he likes. I ask questions about it, and congratulate him. "I wanted to tell you first," he says in a gentle voice. "I know I'd be a little hurt if you left." I say it would be silly for me to be hurt; his move isn't something I should or do take personally. I don't even know if I'm staying, after all. Neither of us can really afford our lofts.

"Still," he says. "even though we're not together, I feel like we have a responsibility to protect one another. You know what I mean, right?" He's looking directly at me. I know exactly what he means, and my heart squeezes with gratitude and joy. I add what he's just said to something else he said recently, when I had an exceptionally bad few days and reached out to him for support - which he gave: "I will always be there for you." Lucky. I am so lucky. He's a good man. He's a good friend.

I feel like I could quickly become overcome with emotion, so I glance away. There's a massive clear plastic tube filled with caramel on the espresso machine in front of us, and I point at it. I tell him I'd like to cut the end of it and just suck on it. "Do you think they'd mind?"

"Excuse me," he says to the barrista preparing our drinks. "How much for this caramel right here?" We're informed, unsurprisingly, that it's not for sale. "Well, can we at least touch it?" He reaches over the glass and pokes the tube, which squishes in response.

"Ew, stop," I say, trying not to laugh.

We sit outside for a little while, and he brings me up to speed on his work, which is going great. I bring him up to speed on some nice developments in my personal life, and he's sincere and warm in telling me how happy he is to hear it.

"You bounce back to vibrant," he says. It's not the first time he's said this to me, but I carefully file the compliment away in my mind. It's one I'm happy to have multiple copies of.

It's gotten chilly, so we finish our drinks and walk back. He links his arm through mine as we cross the street and again I wonder at the figure we must cut together, silhouetted in headlights. I briefly rest my head on his shoulder. As we wait on the corner for the light to change, we reaffirm our affection for one another. "I think this is going to be good for us," he says. I agree, because he's right. He won't be far. We can still meet for coffee on a moment's notice, but we won't have the stress of running into one another unexpectedly. We'll be able to bring dates home without fear of surprising the other into painful feelings.

He walks me back to my apartment, coming in to play with Chaucer for a minute, and to fix a few things for me, including my yet-again on-the-fritz printer. Then: another hug, kisses on one another's cheeks, and he's gone.

I walk to my kitchen sink and tentatively stick a finger into the water. It's still warm enough to mop.

Seventy-Four Today

November 19, 2012

1. He loved crossword puzzles.
2. He was born and raised in Queens, NY.
3. He loved roadsters and convertibles.
4. When I was 17, things were really bad for me at home. My brother was out of control, my mother was drinking incessantly, and my grades were starting to suffer. So for my last year of high school, he moved from San Diego back to Scottsdale so that I could live with him, successfully graduate, and generally enjoy my senior year without domestic chaos.
5. He pretended not to love animals—it was his schtick to play the curmudgeonly old man—but he really did. Especially cats.
6. Despite having raised two of them, he was clueless around babies. His idea of playing with them was to shake his keys at them.
7. When we were in Buenos Aires in 2010, he confessed to me his disappointment that I wasn't going to have kids. But he also told me he understood and didn't blame me.
8. He really, really, really listened when I spoke to him. He looked me straight in the eye and heard me.
9. He loved pistachios.
10. And coffee ice cream.
11. He was a very aggressive driver, but a very good one.
12. He'd never kill insects if he could help it.
13. When he lived in Alaska, he used to hunt caribou.
14. He was a very skilled and highly trained scuba diver. When my parents were younger, they traveled the world, and he scuba dived in nearly every ocean. Later, he'd go diving in Lake Michigan, and bring trinkets and things home to me that he'd found in the water.
15. He enlisted in the Navy when he was 16.
16. He was an impossible flirt, often to my mortification.
17. We watched The Gods Must Be Crazy at least half a dozen times, and he would laugh like it was the first time, each time.
18. He had an infectious laugh, deep but raspy. He'd often laugh himself to tears, especially around his clever, wise-cracking brothers.
19. He forgave my brother, again and again and again.
20. He bought me all the books I ever wanted, whenever I wanted them. When I was in high school, he'd let me pile up stacks of them at the bookstore. Later, I had only to mention a title I was interested in, and there'd be a package from Amazon at my door.
21. When I was a little girl, he used to let me sit in his lap and draw small emblems on his sweatshirts, with a black Sharpie. I'd ask him what kind of animal he wanted (hoping he'd say rabbit or unicorn), and he'd say cockroach or spider or fly. I'd laugh and say, "Nooo, something pretty!" and he'd insist, "A cockroach! That's what I want!" So I would carefully smooth out the fabric on his breast, then do my six year-old best to approximate a pair of beetle antennae, or eight tiny spider legs, right above his heart. I told Greg about this one day towards the end, when there wasn't much left to do but wait. I said I could still remember what some of the insects I'd drawn so many years ago looked like. When I finished telling the story, he got up, walked into my dad's office, and returned with a pad of paper and a Sharpie. He set them down in front of me and said, "Show me." And I did.
22. He loved to go tubing on the Salt River. Every year until I left for college, he'd take me and one of my girlfriends, or my boyfriend if I had one.
23. He never wore sunscreen, and was very proud of how deeply he could tan.
24. He tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift, but I was impatient and frustrated, and we both gave up.
25. He lied about his age on dating websites.
26. He loved his extended family very much, and kept up with cousins, second cousins, and even further-removed members far into adulthood.
27. He grew up afraid of his father.
28. He loved cheese and yogurt, but he hated milk.
29. He loved Chinese food, but he hated Mexican.
30. When he disapproved of something, he'd frown exaggeratedly and make a deep grumbling noise in his throat.
31. He'd sing when he got drunk.
32. He loved boxed wine. He drank gallons and gallons of the stuff, as if it were water.
33. He was a pack rat, but a very neat one. When he died, I had to face down an attic stuffed to the rafters with every document he'd ever touched—but it was all perfectly organized.
34. He regularly wrote letters to his congressmen and the president.
35. He often wrote letters of complaint and commendation to companies he'd done business with.
36. He was incredibly vain about his hair, which was thick and soft, and which he let grow long enough to wear in a ponytail. When he was dying, one of the hospice nurses would comb it out for him gently before binding it back up again. He'd already lost the ability to speak, but we could tell he enjoyed that.
37. He was the most stubborn and proud man I knew.
38. He taught me to question everything and everyone, including myself.
39. When I was a little girl, we used to sing The Unicorn Song together.
40. We sang On Top of Spaghetti, too.
41. He loved Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. And Crystal Gayle.
42. He was mechanically-minded and could fix almost anything.
43. He could explain how almost anything works.
44. He was vicariously vain about my looks; he often told me how proud he was, that I was pretty and fit.
45. He always called me Deborah or Deb, but never Debbie (Elizabeth is my middle name; I only started using it when I moved to LA).
46. He never once touched me in anger, or physically punished me.
47. When he was really angry at me, he'd say I was just like my mother.
48. He taught me how to ski.
49. He had the best vocabulary of anyone I'd ever met, including all of my college professors.
50. He loved the ocean.
51. When I was younger, I'd lay next to him, following along while he read Stephen King novels that I was too scared to read on my own. He'd say "ok?" whenever he got to the bottom of a page. When I caught up, I'd say "ok," and he'd turn the page for both of us.
52. In the later years, after the divorce, when my mother was at her worst, at her weakest and sickest and most unhappy, he'd help her out. He'd send her money when he could, and talk to her for hours on the phone about my brother.
53. When I was a teenager, he teased me about being flat-chested. He said once, "Not exactly a sweater girl, are we?"
54. When he found out he had cancer, he told me how proud he was of me, of the person and woman I'd become.
55. He loved to make me spaghetti. Overcooked, with sauce out of a jar and a massive amount of Kraft parmesan on top.
56. He loved to make me bagels from the freezer. Lender's garlic bagels. He'd split one, still frozen, on a plate, and carve huge chunks of Land o' Lakes whipped butter on top, then microwave it until the bagel was soft and the butter melted. To this day, I don't think I've ever had anything so delicious.
57. He loved maps. His walls were covered with them.
58. He had a master's degree in engineering.
59. When he was in his 40s, he went back to school to study pre-law. He then went on to attend law school, though he didn't finish.
60. He lived in New York, Michigan, Alaska, Arizona, California, and Florida.
61. He didn't sing along to the radio, but he'd make a curious whistling/hissing noise that drove me crazy.
62. He loved Trident gum.
63. He was a true libertarian. Not the bullshit, hateful Tea Party variety that the Republicans have appropriated and whose beliefs they've tried to skew. True, hands-off, do-what-you-want libertarianism. He believed in women's rights, reproductive freedom, and marriage equality.
64. When he was dying, he was very restless, even though he had no energy with which to move. He was always trying to sit up and hang his legs over the hospital bed; but after days of not eating, he didn't have the strength to do it. Pillows didn't provide enough support for the position he wanted to be in. So during those last days, I used to climb into the bed behind him, and use my own body to prop him up. The nurses would help me sit him up, turn him sideways, and slowly scoot him to the edge of the bed. Then I'd wedge two or three pillows between my own back and the railing, and use my chest and shoulders to support his weight. He would lean back against me, relaxing, finally calm. All he wanted was to feel his feet on the floor, just for a little bit. He couldn't speak, but he seemed happy to be exercising some control over the situation. I'd talk in a low voice, close to his ear, and tell him how much I loved him. He couldn't see the tears streaming down my face, and he didn't know how helpless I felt. He didn't know just how much strength it took for me to do that. But he seemed as content and at peace as he could be, in those moments, resting against me. Later, A. would tell me that it was the most selfless thing he'd ever seen, the way I used my body to help and hold my father. I didn't get to hug my dad goodbye, not in the traditional way. But I got to do that.
65. He regretted falling out of touch with his brothers.
66. He took every pain to make sure it would be as easy as possible for me to handle his death, logistically and financially.
67. His favorite boyfriend of mine was my high school sweetheart, JJ. For decades after, he'd ask about him, always seeming surprised when I told him, "Dad, I haven't talked to that kid in years. I have no idea how he is."
68. He grew up going to Coney Island.
69. He had a tattoo of a pair of lips on his butt cheek. He got it in the Navy as a rite of passage when he crossed the equator.
70. He loved Elizabeth Taylor and Natalie Wood.
71. He loved, loved, loved chocolate.
72. He had a beautiful smile.
73. When he died of small cell lung cancer, he hadn't had a cigarette in his mouth for forty years.
74. He would have been seventy-four today.

Mason flew in late Wednesday night, and at the crack of dawn on Thursday we hopped in a rental car to head to his family's annual Thanksgiving reunion in Fresno, where I would be a complete stranger.

The drive was uneventful save for how stupidly excited I was to be out of the city, shouting and pointing whenever I saw distinctly non urban things. "HOLY SHIT! COWS!" ...  "Oh, look at the colors of the treeeeees!" ...  "Hang on. I have to get a shot of these power lines. There's just open sky behind them!" He'd barely pulled in to the rest stop when I jumped out of the car and made a beeline for the OMG red leaves on the ground. There was also fog, which M. was less than thrilled about, but which I just thought was fun, in a creepy movie sort of way.

Incidentally, this was the first time Mason had ever been to a rest stop. Ever. I don't know, I think he could have shown a little more enthusiasm for the experience. I personally think rest stops are fascinating. They're these desolate, metaphoric and literal way stations that exist in between everything. In between destinations. In between stories. I'd love to spend a day at one just talking to random people on their way elsewhere, find out who they are and where they're going. And why. 

On the way, we did a quick drive-through of Visalia, so I could see some of his roots. He ragged on the town, but I found it sweet. I mean, you’ve gotta have a little room in your heart for anyplace that has a Candy Cane Lane. It doesn't get more earnest than that. Mason pointed out the hospital where he was hatched. "Only baby born that night," he said. "There, I mean."

Eventually, we got to his aunt's house in Fresno. She greeted us outside, on the quiet, tree-lined street where she lives, and ushered us into a modest but lovely home, frozen in time in the way that only an eighty year-old's is. Knick-knacks, carefully maintained but out-of-date furniture, and decades' worth of framed bragging rights lining a prominently featured bookshelf. 

We entered the house through the garage, and I barely had time to get my bearings in the crowded kitchen before an elderly man came charging at me with open arms. "I'm Uncle Bill," he said. "And I give hugs to pretty girls." And so it was that I met my new favorite octogenarian, a man who'd spend the day going out of his way to make me feel as welcome as possible in unfamiliar, emotional pang-inducing surroundings.

He was warm, spirited, and utterly engaging. He started chatting me up immediately, and pulled me back into conversation whenever he saw me getting overwhelmed by—or left out of—the bustling family scene. I was the only non-family member there. He asked me about my background, my interests, my political leanings—Mason snapped got a shot of us bonding over a shared love of Christopher Hitchens.

In Bill's previous, pre-retirement life, he worked in retail. When I asked him what he'd done for a living and he said, "I spent most of my life in women's clothing," I decided I was going to adopt him as my uncle, too. He invited insisted Mason and I come to Georgia to visit him, and I pretty much decided on the spot that I'd be going alone if I had to. 

There's been a lot of loss in Mason’s family—not just his father, but a few other family members, as well. There's almost a complete generational gap between grandchildren and surviving grandparents. In a fucked up way, this made me feel even more at home there. Little Orphan Ellie wasn't the only orphan.

The other person I bonded with was M.'s aunt BG who was AMAZING. I'm not even sure how to explain this woman. Eighty-something firecracker who got absolutely plastered and spent the evening variously assaulting me with vaguely TMI family history, harassing the one teenager in attendance, and complaining about the food. All of this with language that would make a sailor blush. She was a riot in the best, most lovable way. Straight out of central casting, she is the perfect, slightly loopy great-aunt who adds hilarity and a touch of scandal to Thanksgiving dinner. 

I was a total interloper, but everyone was very kind to me. And I enjoyed seeing a family do the family thing: laugh, love, talk, connect, argue, snipe, and then laugh and love some more. A couple of times I overheard myself being talked about ("...both her parents...so sad...very sweet girl...") which kind of made me feel like I was floating above, looking down at the scene in a detached way. Me? They're talking about me? Why, what's the...oh. Oh yeah. But the moments of feeling maudlin and self-indulgent were few and far between, because I really was mostly busy enjoying talking to everyone.

Dinner was your typical Thanksgiving affair: jovial, boisterous, with occasional awkward silences when sensitive subjects came up. And the food? Well, nothing can touch my mother's Thanksgiving meal.

Nothing.

But I'll tell you what. Each bite was delicious if only for the fact that I was so, so, so grateful to be in the company of loving, welcoming people - and my best friend - eating turkey and stuffing and cranberries, rather than holed up in my apartment alone, munching on frozen pizza.

Everyone hugged me goodbye, and I purposely saved Uncle Bill for last. Saying goodbye to him was surprisingly sad-inducing, in much the same way that it was hard to say goodbye to Ezra, in Israel last December. I don't know what it is about me and old men. But damn do we connect.

I didn't get emotional the whole day, which I was rather proud of. But once we got out the front door, the tears hit. It wasn't as bad as my father's birthday, which had me positively wracked, sobbing for hours in the tub. Thanksgiving was always the holiday I spent with my mom, and that loss isn't quite as fresh. But just being around a family - god, the envy. Palpable envy that makes my stomach flip even now, if I let myself dwell on it. 

But I won't. Because I'm a damn lucky girl, all things considered.