Confessions of an Addict

The first month of this new year is on its last legs and I have slept in my own bed, in the year 2013, seven times! If I hadn't pulled out a calendar and actually counted the days, I would have guessed a lower number. And even though this current incarnation of "my" bed has only been mine for four months, I really like it, and I miss it when I'm away. It's a futon actually, on a raised and slatted platform, and my pillows (just two) are like little rectangular clouds under my weary head, so I get this whole firm and comfy-cozy thing going all at once. Add to this my organic cotton sheets, my handmade quilt (every inch of which was lovingly sewn and quilted by my second-oldest sister) and my extra blanket made from recycled saris, and you've got a pretty darn dreamy, sleepy-time adventure. So why, pray tell, when I'm nestled all snug as a bug in my proverbial bed rug, am I now pining away for something as silly as...television?

We don't have cable here in Casey in California's home in the Valley, but three out of the four homes I've slept in the other twenty-four nights this year, sure did. Philosophically, I'm not a fan of having a television in the bedroom, but man, I surely have enjoyed it -- philosophical viewpoint aside. It's sort of decadent, no? Burrowing into your nest for the night with the soft glow and low murmur of an old black and white movie in the background. Or the welcome company of a beloved film you've seen so many times you can recite the dialogue, word for word. Even just a well-worn anthology that feels like family or a long lost friend.

Ah, who am I kidding? Heading back out to the dez this morning which means woohoo! Project Runway tonight!

My January Daze

Have I really gone twenty-two days without posting a blog entry? Has this month really been that busy? The short answer is: yes.

The holidays are a distant blur and right after those wrapped up I flew to Baltimore for a ten-day visit. Even that seems like it was months ago! I spent every minute of those ten days hanging out with Jack and my family and my friends and watching some amazing kids play some badass rock and roll! Well, every minute except the 1,440 of them I spent having a stomach virus instead, but other than that, it was a good visit. I like Baltimore...let me rephrase that...I like my people in Baltimore and I like some things in and about Baltimore. Like the kid I saw in Hampden playing outside, hopping down Chestnut Avenue on his pogo stick. I mean seriously, where else but in that neighborhood are you going to spy a kid on a pogo stick? That's something to like, I think. And my people, I do like my Baltimore people. I miss my Baltimore people. I even had good weather while I was there. Which can be hard to come by in January in Baltimore. It was a good visit. Celebrated my mom's 89th birthday. Watched the Raven's win - twice! Made it through a twenty-four hour bug. Got my hair did. Got a new tattoo. Got to see my kid a lot. Spent some quality time with my family and my bff K and the X and my dog and my SLBC. And rocked out at eight (maybe nine, I lost count) SoR Baltimore shows in three days! It was a good visit. Exhausting. And illuminating. And confusing. And sickly. But good!

It was good to get back to Cali though, too. My bed and my stuff and my California people. I unpacked, did a few loads of laundry, and repacked, because three days after I got back from Baltimore, I dove straight into a twelve-day puppy sitting gig in the dez. Good work, if you can get it! The weather's been great. The puppies are adorable. The house is cozy. The friends are fantastic. And the hot tub is, well come on, it's a hot tub - in the winter - in the high desert - how do you think it is?

Although it's been busy and hectic and even a little unnerving, I can certainly think of worse ways to spend the month of January.

Run, Rabbit Run

Ah, the holidays, here and gone. I’m a bit thankful for the swiftness this year, though. Christmas and New Year’s 2012 had a little more heartache than I would have preferred, but they will ultimately be remembered for time well spent and time spent well in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

I was driving from the desert back to LA yesterday, deep in thought about the year past and the year ahead and contemplating last year’s mantra, unfold. That was a really tough one for me. I do tend to try to make things happen, instead of letting events organically unfold, hence the year’s intentions. In retrospect, I recognized lots of times I was not as successful as I had thought I’d been, incorporating the concept into my daily life. As always, I had my iPod on shuffle and turned up to eleven, and as I was beating myself up about when and where I could have done better, a song came on, that on almost any other day I would have skipped, but for whatever reason, yesterday, I let it play:


Breathe, breathe in the air.
Don't be afraid to care.
Leave, but don't leave me.
Look around, choose your own ground.


And I realized, I just need to take it a step further. And I remembered a word that had resonated with me a few months ago, when I saw it painted on the side of a barn, in that favorite place of mine.

So this year’s mantra is similar to last’s, but maybe it’s just a way of giving myself a second chance. After all, that’s what New Years are all about, right?

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.