My Ninety-third Day

So, what have a I learned living, working, and playing in and around the city of angels for the past three months? Well, this, for starters:

Not working is better than working.
Getting a paycheck is better than not getting a paycheck.
Not working and getting a paycheck is my goal for 2013.

The desert is better than the city.
The beach is better than the city, too.
The city is pretty great.

Traffic on the surface roads is better than the traffic on the freeways.
The surface road traffic is horrible.
There is no sufficient way to describe the horribleness of the traffic.

I really, really, really love the sunshine.
It never rains in California is a lie.
Even the rain is a little more tolerable here.

It's amazing how much stuff you can live without.
I regret selling and giving away some of my stuff.
I still have too much stuff.

There are some really interesting and cool people out here.
It's never too late in life to make new and amazingly great friendships.
Family comes is lots of different forms.

I miss my family, a lot.
I miss my friends, a lot.
I miss pizza and beer a lot too, but that has nothing to do with moving to LA.

Some people will never cease to disappoint you.
Most people will never cease to surprise and delight you.
People in southern California don't need an excuse to gather to eat and drink and be generally merry.

The holiday season is a bad time to move away from home.
There's probably not a really good time to move away from home.
Adventures are worth it, no matter when or where they take you.

I Am Not Miranda

Met Pumpkin and a few of his posse at a little holiday party last night in downtown LA. Went straight there from work, had a couple glasses of wine and nothing to eat, so was starving by the time I got home. And, that's when I almost choked to death on a bite of hotdog. I couldn't swallow it or cough it up. I couldn't speak or breath. For a split second I honestly thought, I'm going to choke to death, alone, in Casey in California's kitchen. How weird would that be? Those were the exact thoughts that went through my head. I was Miranda in that "Sex in the City" episode where she's choking on take out Chinese and throws herself onto the edge of the kitchen sink to dislodge the chicken and broccoli and then calls Carrie all freaked out that she's going to die alone in her new apartment and her cat will eat her. Luckily, Casey in California doesn't have a cat. I would have called K if it weren't for that damn time difference thing. Carrie and Miranda were always in the same city. Well, except when Carrie moved to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov. But, I digress. Clearly, I was in fact eventually able to cough the dumb dog up and out of my esophagus. Or trachea. Wherever it was. My throat still hurts. I may never eat another hotdog. Alone anyway.

I Love You

I come from a incredibly loving family. We show each other our love all the time. We gift thoughtfully always and lavishly when we can. We happily spend inordinate amounts of time together. And we are generous with our help and support. We don't, however, utter those three little, yet powerful words, linked together, to make that one perfectly wonderful statement.

The first time I remember my father actually telling me he loved me was a moment in 1989ish. I was living in New York City at the time, and it was the beginning of my dad's impending failing health. I had come home for a visit and because my dad was in the hospital. Most of the details of that particular trip home are no longer a memory, but I distinctly remember my father laying in his hospital bed, hooked up to dozens of tubes and machines and IV's. Visiting hours were ending for the night and I leaned down to say goodby and give him a kiss on the cheek and he kissed my cheek too and just said it, "I love you". Just like that. Like it was no big deal. My head exploded. I was angry. The only possible reason I could think of why he would say that to me was because he thought he was going to die and that scared the hell out of me. Growing up, I never questioned my father's love. He didn't need to say it for me to know it was there. Or so I thought.

You never think of a loved one's terminal illness as being something to be thankful for, for any reason, until you meet or hear about someone, who lost a person they desperately loved, suddenly. X's dad just died in his sleep one night. X had spoken to him on the phone the day before, but rushed off because he was busy at work. Many year's later, he still hasn't forgiven himself. Jack's paternal grandfather choked to death in a restaurant while on a business trip. Jack's father never had the chance to say goodbye. People die in accidents and unceremoniously in their sleep every single moment of every single day. Amidst the devastatingly horrific events that unfolded in Newtown two days ago, among all the discussions concerning mental illness and gun control and random violence clamoring for attention in my head, the one thought I could not shake was the desperate hope that when those children and teachers left for school on Friday morning, that someone they loved who loved them right back said out loud to them, "I love you." Not just so they heard it, but also so the one's who love them, who now have to live without them, had had the opportunity to say it to them.

Calm and I were in the car one day awhile ago and he got a call from a friend. They had some business stuff and some friend stuff to discuss so spoke for a few minutes and at the end of the call, he said to his friend, "Great to talk to you, I love you, (insert name of friend here)." Simple, right? It was so effortless and so warm and so sincere and just, lovely. I was awestruck. I remember thinking at that moment, I could never say that, like that.

I had an overwhelming urge last Friday to call everyone I know and love to tell them, "I love you, (insert name here)," but I didn't make a single call. Except to my son. I tell Jack "I love you" all the time. Every chance I get. He though, is the exception to my "I love you" embargo. My entire life, I have, well to say I've struggled would be putting it mildly, it's practically a phobia, but struggled with saying those three little, yet powerful words, out loud to anyone. My family, my friends, or my significant others. Maybe the not hearing it made the sentiment too precious. Too important. Too scary, even. I'm not sure yet, what I'm afraid of exactly. Maybe it's as simple as being afraid of not hearing it back. But, the hearing it back isn't what's important, is it? I mean, hearing it back is wonderful, but it's the saying it out loud and meaning it. To tell someone "I love you" is indeed precious and important and yes, even a little scary.

My 2013 New Year's resolution will be to say those three little, yet powerful words, linked together, to make that one perfectly wonderful statement, as many times, to as many of the people I love, as I possibly can.

I could start today, I guess, and probably should, but like all good phobias, baby steps, people. Baby steps.

General or Otherwise

On my way to visit Pumpkin in the hospital, I was reminded why I love California:

Then, I was reminded how much I don’t miss a hospital.

Soul Salvation by Fiver

Last Friday would have been my brother’s sixty-first birthday. I can’t even wrap my head around that fact. In my mind, he is forever thirty-something. He was fifty-four when he died, but he was thirty-something to me, even then.

I didn’t remember my brother’s birthday on Friday. It’s the first time I didn’t remember his birthday, on his birthday. I was super busy on Friday, kid and puppy sitting for a friend all day long and then hideous traffic getting back to the Valley from West Hollywood that made my commute twice as long as it should have been. Had been planning on driving out to the desert that night, but by the time I finally made it home, I was too worn out to even pack. And, if that all sounds like bad excuses for missing my brother’s birthday, it’s because there’s no excuse for not remembering my brother’s birthday.

I remembered on Saturday, because Saturday would have been my dad’s eighty-eighth birthday. Or as my dad would have said, just to get a rise out of my mom, the first day of his eighty-ninth year. I was finally packed and on my way to the desert, and talking on the phone with my X when I realized. I was astonished. And devastated. X tried to make me feel better by telling me it was a good thing, it meant I was moving on or something like that. Nice try. But, I never want to move that far. I spent the bulk of the rest of my drive in tears, completely guilt-ridden.

My first stop in the desert was to pick up The Empress Mr. Chin. We were going to run some errands for her party the following day. I began unburdening my guilty soul to her the second she got into the car, when we turned the first corner from her house and there he was, my brother, in his usual form - a small, brown, adorable bunny. My heart and guilty soul felt lighter the second I saw him. I stopped the car and watched him hop across Mr. Chin's neighbor’s yard and into the bushes and realized I was smiling.

Happy birthday, big brother, and thank you, for letting me off the hook so quickly, and much too easily. It was just like you.

Intervention Anyone?

I've had sleep issues for as long as I can remember. More specifically, lack of sleep issues. Does anyone have too much sleep issues? Narcoleptics, I guess. These days though, I seem to have given up sleep altogether. Unless it's the morning, when I should be getting up. Then I could sleep like the proverbial baby, well except for the daily trash truck and/or recycling truck and the incessant gardening with power tools. I don't know what the neighbors are growing out here in the valley, but they certainly do enjoy landscaping in the early a.m. hours, with as many pieces of motorized equipment as they can possibly get their hands on.

But actually going to bed and sleep at a respectable time of night? What's that? You would think this lack of sleep pattern would translate into blog postings, wouldn't you? Lots of late night/early morning ruminations on all the oh so deep thoughts swirling around in my head that are seemingly the cause of my awakeness? Nope. Apparently, I just desperately need to get caught up on The Tudors or Breaking Bad or Weeds or 30 Rock or...I haven't even started Downton Abbey yet! #addictedtostreamingnetflix #helpme