Years Later

I wrote this a while back for a writing class I was taking, with wild plans to submit it to some short-story contest or another. I want to say I got lazy and never bothered, but the truth is closer to "I did submit it and it never got accepted".

So I'm posting it below because I like it and would rather put it up on my blog then have it hiding in my Google docs for one more day. It's one of those "mostly true but I took liberties here and there and made some bits up so it'd fit the story better". Otherwise though, this is a pretty accurate story of what my life was like when I broke up with my boyfriend of five years, and moved from our home in San Francisco back to Los Angeles with a mini van full of my sole possessions, including my cat.

Just in case you feel I'm being unfair and over-sharing with relation to someone else's life, I've invited said ex boyfriend to write a guest post and reveal whatever he'd like about our relationship...except that videotape. He's not allowed to talk about that videotape.

Years Later

With a quick twist of the rusted faucet, the whoosh of the water becomes silent, and the bathtub stills. You lean back, resting your head against an expertly placed towel, and close your eyes for a moment. The drip, drip, drip of the faucet helps to relax you. You’ve always liked melodic noises and movement. Watching a window washer squeegee a window, each swipe precisely wiping away a line of water, then the next, then the next. The drip of the faucet has the same affect on you.

It’s your first night in your tiny one bedroom flat. After the two migrant workers left, having carted your belongings from the motel to your third floor walk up, you immediately striped out of your clothes, which were filthy from the newspaper that covered all your fragile belonging.

You try to relax and push out the thought that’s attempting to burrow into your mind: “I wonder what filthy person was bathing in this exact tub not two weeks ago…and did I clean it well enough to rid it of any trace of them?” If anyone ever asked you if you were neurotic, you’d lie and say “no”.

The last month has been a blur, and you’re completely surprised by your lack of emotions regarding the whole damn thing. Despite the fact that you’ve changed your life so much in the past thirty days - that’s its completely indistinguishable from the one you were living a mere month ago - yet you haven’t cried once, is shocking to you. It makes you think of the time he asked you, when you were first dating, whether or not you cried a lot. You had told him “no”, and you can’t remember if you had believed it yourself.

Later, he would tease you after you had cheered up following one of your regular crying jags by mockingly saying “No, I don’t cry very often”. You would playfully slap him and say “Yeah, sorry 'bout that one…what I meant was 'yes, I do cry a lot'.” He would be surprised and probably sad to hear that you hadn’t yet cried.

Although you had been thinking about the possible break-up, which seemed inevitable yet still somewhat avoidable, for over a year, you still couldn’t believe it when you had actually done it. It was on the day of your five year anniversary, which you think has something to do with that neuroticism of yours, and not wanting to say something like “four and a half years” or “three years and eight months” when anyone asked how long you had been together.

It was on the drive home from Lake Tahoe, where you had spent your anniversary. It was a boring two nights (barely talking and definitely not fucking) and you had been picking fights with him throughout the entire drive home. You pulled into the parking lot of a 7-11 because you were crying so badly you couldn’t see the road. You had never yelled at each other like this before…never. Yes, there had been arguments, but there was never anger there. When he exasperatingly asked you “Do you want to break up with me??!” you had fired back “Yes!” before you even knew what was coming out of your mouth. It was silent after that. The only sound made during the drive back was him quietly crying. You felt like the worst person in the world, but you didn’t take it back.

Although part of the break up had to do with you wanting to return to Los Angeles, due to outside issues you had to stay in San Francisco for a month following the break-up. You didn’t hate each other, you were both just really sad, and so you didn’t move out of the house for your remaining month in San Francisco. After a lot of crying, you convinced him that both of you could pretend like nothing had changed for the next month, and that you’d act like boyfriend and girlfriend. He never really believed it, neither of you did, but you acted your parts because the alternative was too painful.

He helped you pack your belongings into the rented minivan on the day you moved, which shows how much he cared about you. He helped you pack up the life that you had shared together, even though it was one he didn’t want to end. He still helped. After everything was packed, you put your arms around each other and lay down on the bed for the last time. You were eager to leave, but it was because you didn’t have what it takes to deal with it. You cleared your mind though, and grasped the situation, because you knew there wouldn’t be one like it with him ever again.

When you said goodbye for the last time, and he watched you drive away, all you had wanted to do was fast forward. You knew that in a year, you would be healed. That you would be sure you had made the right decision and that your life wouldn’t be lived in a waiting room anymore. But instead you experienced every minute of that six hour drive. Even if you had cd’s to listen to that didn’t remind you of him and cause you to start bawling, you wouldn’t have been able to listen to them, as Elvis - your cross-eyed Siamese cat - cried loudly throughout the entire drive, and even more-so when the radio was on. So you drove in silence and talked to Elvis and gave yourself half-assed pep talks when you felt your eyes going blurry from tears. You practiced saying “I live in Los Angeles”, but it sounded insincere.
...

The ringing of your cell phone, perched on the towel you’ve placed on the toilet beside the tub, jolts you back to reality. It’s Alie, and before she even gets the destination of where she’s inviting you to out of her mouth, you’re already accepting. You have tons of unpacking to do, Elvis is freaked out at the new place and needs your company, you have a million resumes to send out…but you don’t want to be alone, so you accept. That’s pretty much what you’re life has been like since you got back to Los Angeles. You had a brief fling with a guy that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t have given the time of day to, but he was a nice distraction, nonetheless.

You submerge yourself under the water one last time. Your eyes are closed and the only thing you hear is the sound that the chain attached to the drain-stopper makes as it taps against the porcelain tub. Ping. Ping. Ping. You count them, and wish they each were a month passing you by.

Ping.
May is gone, and your social anxiety (an anxiety that can only be honed after multiple years as one half of a reclusive couple) starts to fade.

Ping.
June has passed, along with your birthday and the sadness of having no one to wake up next to that morning, wishing you a happy one.

Ping. Ping. Ping.
July, August, September…you’ve made close friends again, and never spend Saturday night alone at home, wondering why the hell you left behind a constant companion for this uncertainty.

Ping.
In October, you take your first trip back to San Francisco, so that he won’t be alone on his birthday. He gets drunk and yells at you…embarrasses you in front of your friends. You remember that he used to do that a lot. From your bed on the couch that night, in the apartment you once shared, you survey what used to be your home. You feel suffocated and out of place. You take the Greyhound home a day early, and spend Halloween with your friends.

Ping.
November passes quickly so that you don’t have to wallow in the misery of finding out he’s dating someone else. All the flings that you’ve had in the past six months sort themselves out, and whatever emotional attachments you thought you’d made, fade comfortably into the background.

Ping. Ping. Ping.
At each passing month, you think about where you were that time the previous year, and marvel at how much you’ve grown as a person and how much courage it took to wade through that emotional muck, never really knowing what would be on the other side. Even though you had doubted it, things really did get better within a year.

That’s all still to come, though. You pull the stopper from the drain and watch transfixed as every last drop of bathwater swirls down with an unpleasant slurp.

Domestic Tuesdays - Bribery Dinner

The thing about friends is that, the more you have, the more people you have on hand to ask when you need a favor. I mean, it's awesome to surround yourself with nice people and everything, but it's even nicer when they have a special skill that they're willing to trade for whatever your special skill is.

My special skill just happens to be cooking, so that's what I traded mine and Alie's friend, the lovely Kathryn, for when we needed her mad video editing skills. You see, aside from the McNuggetini video (filmed, directed, and edited by our awesome friend Peter Atencio in exchange for, that's right, a home cooked dinner), Alie and I have recently shot our second video, the Ham Daiquiri.

That's right: a Daiquiri with ham in it. And not just ham - liquid smoke, too! Yeah, it was pretty...ummm...interesting. Anyway, Alie and I did our very best to edit the video, shot by my big sister Leah who is always willing to lend an expert hand with a camera in it, using iMovie. But after about 20 minutes, we realized it was futile. Enter Kathryn. While she futzed and fiddled with the video, cutting out at least half of the instances of me responding to Alie with "that's right!" (oh my god someone hit me in the face next time I say that), I went to work on making a dinner yummy enough to thank her for her hard work.

Mediterranean Pizza With Homemade Feta

I've been eyeing the whole wheat pre-made pizza dough at Trader Joe's for some time, and this was the perfect occasion to use it, seeing how we had this huge jar of homemade feta cheese, gifted to Alie by an awesome coworker.

Breathtaking.

I was running late to Alie's and everyone was hungry by the time I showed up, so I didn't let the pizza dough sit the requisite 20 minutes, which was a mistake as it was really difficult to handle cold.

Alie helped me with the stretching, as I got super annoyed with the dough and had to leave the room to have a moment with my glass of wine. Keep in mind that whenever you over-knead a dough or over-mix a batter, you're going to end up with something quite chewy or tough, so you always want to handle with care.

Since we had the amazing feta, I decided to go a Mediterranean route with the toppings. Above is canned artichoke hearts, kalamata olives, and roasted red pepper - all chopped. All these ingredients are super cheap, as was the dough, so this pizza (assuming you don't spend too much on the feta) is really affordable.

Instead of using pizza sauce, which didn't really mesh with the other components, I spread a thick layer of pesto over the uncooked dough.

This feta was probably one of the best I've ever tasted. While making my own cheese sounds a bit too time consuming for my lazy ways, it really was a better product than anything you can find in the store. Here's a good feta cheese recipe, if you're so interested (you show off, you).

Holy christ, this was a simple dinner to make. About 25 minutes in the oven and Alie's apartment smelled amazing, and the pizza was perfectly crisp on the bottom and the cheese all bubbly on top.

A salad on the side, and we were ready to get to work on the video.

Wait, somethings missing...

Oh right! Pineapple slices soaked in rum! How could I forget???

You can view the completed Ham Daiquiri video here. Thanks so much to Leah, Kathryn, and our friend Dan Samiljan who finished up the editing the following night (I made him soup and apple muffins, but they didn't turn out so well).

Cheers!

I've Got Problems

That morning I had told my sister that, yes, I wanted her to tell my mother about what I had been doing. I had been up all night thinking about it, and I had come to the realization that my problem, at least this one, was out of my control. My body, which was gaunt and sickly, yet not unlike the body of Kate Moss who was my then-idol, agreed with my decision. Tell Mom I have an eating disorder. Yes, that will solve my problem. I didn't have the guts to tell her myself, so I laid it upon my big sister's shoulders.

Instead, though, I got caught with drugs that day. Well, actually, I got caught with "paraphernalia", as the last of my drugs had been snorted up my nose in the library bathroom just moments before I was caught. That was my one saving grace. Instead of being taken to juvenile hall by the police officer that came to interview me (I saw the pity in his eyes, it hurt) and charged with possession, I was whisked off to rehab by my mother (I saw embarrassment in her eyes, that hurt too).

I was ten days away from my 14th birthday. I was still high on drugs, the kind that make you happy and helpful while you're on them, so I cheerfully chatted with the attending nurse as she went through my luggage, picking out the things I couldn't keep while I was locked up - the things I could potentially try to kill myself with once the drugs wore off and I became depressed and despondent. I was put in a room, a large room not unlike that in a three-star hotel, with a small blond girl from Santa Ana. She had beautiful hair, and I remember being jealous of the fact that she could wear a tight ponytail, and when she took it out, there was no bump in her hair from where the rubber band had been. You obsess about shit like that when you're high.

I was shy the first couple of days, then quickly acclimated myself to the routine and the other girls, who were endlessly entertaining in their one-up stories and crisis. I was eating on a regular basis, something that was closely monitored, for the first time in months. I remember that one of the privileges you gained when you were well behaved was that you were allowed to eat in a group with the other well-behaved patients, including those from the men's unit. I feared and avoided this, as one of my biggest road blocks was eating in front of guys. So I was well behaved, but flew under the radar as to avoid confronting my fear of being viewed by the opposite sex as a glutton.

When I left, 14 days later, one of the tougher girls commented that I'd be back. "They always come back a second time", she said with a knowing, sarcastic smirk, her years of hard drug use already starting to show on her young face and behind her faded blue eyes. It was her third stay, and I silently promised myself that I wouldn't be back. I wasn't like her, I told myself. Although I continued to use for a few more months, I quit on my own accord when I realized how stupid everyone around me was. I stayed home and read Stephen King books instead, ripping the paperback cover off after I finished each one, a dozen or so in all, and tacking it to my wall.

Drugs haven't really appealed to me since then. Even the socially accepted ones, the herbal and the once-in-a-blue-moon psychedelic just feel like a chance to get sucked back into that world. I feel lucky to have escaped it. I don't have to tell anyone about it today. Looking at me, you wouldn't be able to tell I was a troubled youth who almost ended up going down a way different path, so really, I don't need to share this with anyone. But if you know me at all, you know I like life stories - telling them and listening to them. This is just one of my stories, and I'd be lying to myself if I didn't share it.

Narrative of a Failed Relationship

We're both too flawed...that's why it didn't work out. Well, we're both too flawed, and he fucked his ex girlfriend. THAT is why it didn't work out. Although, I had a glimpse of it not working out before he told me, in a misguided act of coming clean, about the encounter with his ex girlfriend. We had a big blow out and I told him why he wasn't good enough for me - he had too many demons, that I needed more than he could give, that he couldn't live up to the image of my ideal companion - that he didn't even want to try. So that's why it didn't work out; we're both too flawed, he fucked his ex girlfriend, and I demand too much from people.

It's sad though, and I can't seem to shake it even though it's been over for a couple weeks, and we haven't spoken since our last misguided attempt at staying friends that involved too much tequila on my part and ended with anger and frustration on his.

He reminded me of so many people in my life that I want to fix, and that's really my main problem with relationships of all kind, I think. I'm drawn to the flawed ones. I like when they need TLC and comfort. I want to make things better and provide normalcy (as if I even have it to offer), and I've realized this through therapy, that it's always been my role to make things better, to soothe, to fix with a joke and to change myself to suit the manic person's mood. My mother - it all started there, but it's moved from her to the guys I choose to love. This one in particular though, I hadn't felt this way about someone in years.

It's difficult to see myself as the antagonist in this story because I really did want it to work out, but I know he's definitely not the villain, and since I see everything as a narrative, doesn't one of us have to be? Can't the fact that we're both flawed be the antagonist? That we've both spent our lives as sensitive people who can't help but be affected by other peoples personalities, reactions, and flaws. That just living our lives has turned us into people who have a hard time with relationships...well can't that be the antagonist of the story, and he and I, the innocent victims, well can't we be the heroes? I like the story better that way.

Domestic Tuesdays - Engagement Dinner

I asked two of my very best friends, Alie and Micah, to marry me over the weekend. After discussing what is my latest of failed attempts in dating-land, and one of them suggesting that I just marry them, I knelt down onto the pebbled concrete before them while they ate take-out sushi from the market in Little Tokyo, and told them that I love them both very much and that I would be honored if they would be my husbands. They accepted, and we all laughed and high-fived as I got back on my feet, straining from damage I've inflicted on my knees in the past 29 years.

To celebrate our engagement, I invited them both over for dinner on Monday night. I had originally bought the ingredients to this meal in order to further woo the man I was seeing, but as I mentioned earlier, I have failed in that aspect of my life, so as fate would have it, I got to make it for two of the most important people in my life...which is a-okay with me!

I must say that this turned out to be one of the best meals I've ever made. It was very simple, yet tasted amazing and looked very elegant. I had never cooked scallops before, but I had gotten a tutorial from my mother a couple months back, so I wasn't too worried. They turned out to be possibly one of the most simple things I've ever made. They're super hard to fuck up, the only rule being that they should be as dry as possible, and to only cook them for about two minutes on each side, so as to not end up with something akin to chewing gum.

Scallops with Brussels Sprouts & Lemon-Chive Cream

The drier the scallops, the better sear you'll get once you place them in the frying pan. To dry, place a couple paper towels on a place with the scallops on top.

Top that with a couple more paper towels and another plate, and let that sit for about 20 minutes while you get everything else ready.

I found a recipe on Tastespotting (omfg I LOVE that website) for scallops with a sort-of brussel sprout hash. Brussel sprouts are my very, very favorite food, and realized I had never featured them on Domestic Tuesdays, so I thought I'd give it a go. Also there was pork in it, which = yes.

To ready a brussel sprout, start by cutting off most of the stem.

You want the outer leaves to fall off, revealing the pretty, unbruised leaves underneath. Normally I would just slice them in half and throw them in the oven with a bunch of olive oil and garlic until they were super crispy and yummy, but this recipe called for sauteing them, which I was skeptical about.

Wanting a starch, but not wanting to make more work for myself. I picked up this pretty bag of mushroom risotto from the market, having no idea if it would end up tasty or just plain gross. It was very simple to prepare: just boil some water, add butter and the contents of the bag and cover with a lid, and then leave it the fuck alone for 18 minutes. Sounds good to me, although I had to resist the urge to lift the lid and stir like eighty times. I'm just that kinda cook (ask my mom, I've ruined a couple of her stews to prove it). I also added about a cup of dried mixed mushrooms, just for the hell of it.

At this point the batteries in my camera died, so while they recharged I did the above prep work. You're looking at sliced brussel sprouts, sliced shallots, chopped garlic, and sliced pancetta. The bowl of white substance is lemon chive cream sauce which is drizzled over the finished dish. It adds a really lovely freshness to the dish, which is a little heavy on the oil and butter.

Alie and Micah showed up just as my camera batteries were ready to get back in the game! What I loved about cooking for them was the low expectations of it all. I mean, I'm sure they knew that dinner was going to be good, but I didn't have to dress up (case in point: my awesomely tattered house-dress), didn't need to put on any makeup or shave my legs in a desperate attempt to seem somewhat domesticated, and didn't need to hide the fact that cooking stresses me the eff out and makes me talk to myself and sweat a little. Bonus - I didn't have to put out on top of making them a fancy dinner.

I love cooking for dudes I'm dating in order to show off what a good little Holly Fucking Housekeeper I am, but fuck that noise. From now on, I'm not cooking for anyone I haven't been with for more than six months. Period.

Okay, I'm done with my dissertation on the bitterness of single girls everywhere. Where were we? Oh right, scallops! So now that you're dried off the scallops, you'll want to salt and pepper both sides pretty generously. I think I may have gone a little overboard with the salt, though. Heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat (don't turn it up high, or it'll burn the outside and not cook the inside at all) until it's shiny (about a minute and a half) and then lay those fuckers on the pan with a set of tongs.

Now this party is important...DON'T FUCKING TOUCH THE SCALLOPS! I mean it. Don't poke em' or prod em', or god forbid, re-adjust them. They're stuck to the pan, which is what's going to give it that perfect sear. Once they're ready to be flipped, about two minutes, they should come off the pan pretty easily. If they don't, give em another thirty seconds. Ditto on the other side.

Stop talking to yourself for a moment and have a sip of wine. You should also stop sweating as you're kinda freaking out your friends.

Yes. Look how pretty.

Once the scallops are done, transfer them to a plate and cover them with tin foil, so they stay warm while you finish the dish. Add about a tablespoon of butter to the pan that the scallops were just in, and use your tongs or a spatula to get all those yummy bits of cook scallop off the bottom of the pan. That, my friends, is called "flavor". Throw in the pancetta, and brown for just a moment before throwing in the rest of the mess.

At this point, your house is going to smell freaking amazing. Unfortunately for me, I have no ventilation in my apartment, so my house continued to smell that way for days.

I placed my cutting board over the pan in order to steam the brussel sprouts as I feared they'd be too under cooked.

Micah was nonplussed by my efforts.

I told him where he can stick it, as any good wifey should.

The finished product (before the lemon chive cream). People, I'm drooling just looking at that. It was SO. FREAKING. GOOD. You NEED to make this for someone you want to sleep with. They WILL sleep with you after eating this amazing concoction. And if they don't, I'll show you a boob next time I see you. I'm THAT confident about it.

Dinner is prepared. The rice was totally amazing, btw. Yay cutting corners!

Everyone enjoyed ourselves, and we all laughed about the fact that someday we'll talk about how we ate scallops during the recession.*

*they were actually pretty inexpensive, as I didn't buy them by the pound, but just bought as many as I needed.

The above shot is what I love about hanging out with Alie and Micah. Anything goes with them, and their friendship feels like the ones I used have in elem entry school, before I got self conscious and started seeing the world differently. After eating the fancy dinner I had slaved over, we all sat around and ate my leftover pancakes from breakfast with my dad the morning before. No one questioned it, or mentioned how weird it was...we just did it and laughed and talked and drank more wine.

I've never felt more unselfconscious in my adult life than I do when I'm around them. They're like the brother and sister I already have, but who went their own way when we all moved out of the family house and are living their own lives, so I got substitutes...or something.

After pancakes, we sat around my house and talked and, yes, drank more wine. I think there was a walk to the store and ice cream involved? Elvis was pleased to have company over, and showed this by sticking his tail up Micah's allergic nose on two occasions.

We talked and talked, and I was just so happy to have them over.


I'm the luckiest wife in the world.

Here's the recipe link on Food and Wine.com. I doubled the amount of garlic and shallot. Also, forget cooking the brussel sprout mixture in a seperate pan. Use the scrapings from the scallop pan instead. Recipe link. Happy cooking, my friends!

Anonymously

I never quite acclimated myself to AA, back during my few-week shot at not drinking. When I look back on it, I realize that I'm just too guarded as a person to share that much of myself with this whole group of people who are so faulted. I know that's horrible to say, but it's the truth. I have a hard time trusting people, letting people into my head.

It's not because I don't want to show people the real me, but because I don't trust most people's intentions. Basically, I think you're full of shit until I know you well enough to know otherwise. The one girl I even considered getting beyond that point with, a pretty girl who shared for an hour at a meeting, looked at me in that same way when I asked if we could get coffee sometime. She didn't trust my intentions. I don't blame her.

That charismatic guy leading the Monday night meetings? The hipster with the mustache and warm greeting? I dated him when I first moved back to Los Angeles. He used me, was a total jerk, and now I'm supposed to act like he gives a shit that I'm not drinking anymore? The girl in the back row, the mousy one who doesn't talk and looks like she's quietly judging you? She's a friend of my ex, and she IS judging you. But she's only given up drinking - she still smokes pot on a regular basis, and I've never felt comfortable around her. Are we supposed to exchange numbers and call each other when we're feeling weak?

That guy with the full sleeve of tattoos who just shared with the group tonight, telling us about all the people he's used and how difficult his life has been...he's asking to exchange numbers now, and I can honestly say that if he ever calls me and tells me he's having a hard time and wants a drink, I won't return his phone call. I don't trust his intentions. I know that's wrong, I know I could be wrong about him, but that's just it...I'm flawed too. And come to think of it, I could really use a drink.

Read about my stint in AA here, here and here.

Past, Present, Future

Sometimes I feel too young to already have a past. Sure I have my childhood and all the stories that I've accumulated since then - the deaths, births, heartbreak and joy. But sometimes that feels like it's just an accumulation of emotions, so that one day, when I reach a certain point, I'll be ready to face my REAL future with maturity.

But then I watch videos like this time lapse one of San Francisco, and I think to myself "I had a life there once." It's my past now. Three and a half years of my life that I'll never experience again. It was three and a half years spent in a city that was new to me, with a man who I'll never know so intimately again, and his child who will never be my stepdaughter, as I used to wish so hard that she would become.

There are so many things I've been wanting to blog about this week, but my thoughts just won't get straight in my head. I want to tell you about all the exciting things that have been happening since we posted our McNuggetini video on You Tube, but I can't let myself voice them yet.

I want to write about my camping trip with my dad, and tell you about what it's like to be the product of a divorce, but I don't have the right prose for that yet.

I want to show you photos of my apartment - of the joy it brings me as I fix it up and make it my home - but the photos just aren't turning out quite right - they aren't showing what I see when I look around at the place, and picture it in my mind.

I wish I could tell you all about the guy I've been dating for the past couple months, but even I don't know what to say about that yet - I'm happy when I'm around him though, I can tell you that much.

I'll get to all that though. Just please know that I'm itching to tell you all about how exciting everything has been, and to tell you the stories about my life that make up my past, but have also made me into the person who can't wait for her future. So be patient with me.

Photos by '>the awesome Lou O'Bedlam.

Domestic Tuesdays - The Recession Goes Domestic

When I posted last week about being kinda in the hole with my finances and how much it embarrassed me, so many of you commented that you were in the same situation. I also go SO MUCH advice and great tips that I'm sure will help me get my bank account out of the negatives (yes, I was overdrawn again this month...sigh). Since so many of you admitted to being unable to save money too, I thought I'd give some of my own advice when it comes to curbing back spending, as I'm actually not totally brain damaged when it comes to cutting corners and not spending an entire paycheck in one fail swoop.

For me, that area of expertise is packing a healthy breakfast and lunch for work instead of eating out. Sure, it's not brain surgery, but it's something that I've noticed a lot of people in my office avoid. Personally, the thought of spending money on a "meh" lunch or even a pretty good one during the hour allotted to me in the middle of my eight hour work-day seems like such a waste. In fact, I almost always refuse to buy anything, even on those days I've forgotten my lunch. Bringing a healthy lunch to work increases my happiness twofold: I'm saving money, and eating healthy - this way, I don't feel [as] guilty when I order that bacon cheeseburger when I go out with a friend to dinner. Problem solved!

So for this week's Domestic Tuesday, I'd like to show you what's in my lunchbox today. I have to be at work by 8 a.m. everyday (oh the humanity!!!), so I bring my breakfast to work, too, as I am in no way a morning person, and getting up early to eat breakfast would take more willpower than I have at this point in my life.

My favorite breakfast lately is plain yogurt, berries, flax seed oil, and granola. I don't like buying individual tubs of yogurt because they're a lot more expensive than buying a large container and then just separating it out into tupperware (plus most of the brand names have high fructose corn syrup in them). Fresh berries are great, but mine always end up going bad before I can use them all, so I like getting frozen. My favorite granola is Maple Pecan from Trader Joe's, but this Pumpkin Spice was cheaper so I grabbed a bag of that this time.

I throw the yogurt and berries into a Tupperware with about a tablespoon of flax seed oil (it's SO good for you!), and then put the granola in a bag to mix in once I get to work. It's yummy, filling, and healthy.

For lunch, I usually make a big pot of something like chili or penne with sausage and eat it throughout the week, but I'm trying to eat a little lighter. I started with a package of whole wheat lavash bread, but you could use pita or a tortilla. Instead of using fattening mayonnaise (which I'm not a fan of anyways), I bought some white bean and basil hummus, and spread that on thick.

At my local ethnic market, sliced turkey was $2.99 a pound. I always buy freshly sliced meats and cheese from the deli counter at the store. It's usually cheaper than buying the prepackaged kinds, and you can order only as much as you need (being a single girl living alone, this helps a lot).

Next, veggies! I used red pepper, tomatoes, and red leaf lettuce, with some fresh cracked pepper on top.

Next, wrap that fucker up!

I am a HUGE snacker. I eat a little something about every two hours, and NEVER let myself get hungry. I've always been this way, and I've always been thin...just sayin'! Aside from the turkey wrap and granola/yogurt is a fig bar, an apple (which I love to eat with a string cheese), a bag of prunes (don't judge!), and three (yes, three) dark chocolate covered pretzels for that inevitable afternoon sweet craving I always have.

Bringing your lunch can get boring, so it helps to have a cute bag to make it more exciting. And yes, that's a Red Bull cola. What can I say? Coffee and tea don't do it for me anymore.

Scene from today's lunch break.

Scene from today's "Scenes From My Lunch Break"

(can we laugh real quick about how many tries it took me to get this photo correct using the automatic timer on my camera, and how many up-skirt shots I ended up with as I bent over to sit down??? There was a homeless man watching bemusedly the entire time.)

What's your favorite money-saving tip?!

Scenes From A Not Broken Camera

I dropped my nice digital camera a couple weeks back, and I have yet to send it in to be repaired. In the mean time, my generous friend Alie has lent me an older camera of hers to use, but I only bought a card reader for it this past weekend, so there were a ton of photos on the camera. Here are the photos:

I went to San Francisco for the weekend and was really nervous about it, having only gone back twice since I moved away. There are still so many places that hold strong memories for me, and I'm nothing if not nostalgic. I ended up having an amazing time though, and it felt like I sorta made peace with the city, for as lame as that sounds. I love it there, but I was so happy to come home to my Los Angeles.

The weekend was particularly sunny and warm, so we grabbed ton of cheese and fruit, a couple beers, and wasted the day in Dolores Park - people watching and talking. It was lovely.

I got to visit with my ex boyfriend's daughter, whom I met when she was just a little girl. I can't believe how grown-up she is now! I had to stand on my very tip-toes just to be the same height as her. She's a lovely young lady and I'm so glad she's still in my life.

The view from my friend Becky's house, overlooking the Sunset district. I crashed on Becky's couch after a night spent drinking at a gay bar, and woke up to her two adorable kittens playing on top of me. That was a good way to wake up.

I had my obligatory cappuccino It's It, although I must admit it's not as thrilling now that we here in Los Angeles can get them (albeit only vanilla) at any Albertsons grocery store.

I came home to find my friend's cat visiting me and Elvis for a couple days while my friend was out of town. He's kind of a brat, but a charming kitty, nonetheless.

He's no match for this fellow, though.

A couple of Scenes From My Lunch Break

My first honest-to-goodness Korean barbecue experience. It was beyond words.

It was my sister's birthday yesterday and she celebrated by throwing a cupcake and champagne party. Don't you just love her dress?!

She baked ALL these cupcakes, aside from the small ones which I bought, my plans to make vanilla cupcakes with salted caramel frosting having been thwarted by a hangover.

Happy Birthday, Lee Lee!

I got to hang out with my brother and his adorably pregnant fiance. They're such a cute couple.

I felt the baby kick! It was freaky! Really though, I can't wait to be Auntie Georgia. Oh, I also cut all my hair off, my decree of "No Haircut in '09" falling by the wayside after I realized that long hair made me look like a soccer mom.

Return of the cute haircut.

Finally, please follow this link to You Tube, where you'll find the finished McNuggetini video. That's right, we made a video. Watch as we guide you through the step-by-step process for making our most famous concoction: the legendary McNuggetini cocktail! Enjoy!

P.S. Thank you SO much for all your wonderful comments and excellent money advice in my last post. You guys really are the kewlest, nicest readers a girl could ask for.

Overdrawn

I've been having some, well, difficulties with money lately...and when I say "lately", what I really mean is "my entire adult life". It's an embarrassing thing to discuss, especially with people I'm not close to, because it makes me feel like such a failure to be twenty freaking nine and still have an overdrawn checking account somewhat regularly (at least lately). Shouldn't I have this shit figured out by now? Shouldn't I have even a LITTLE bit of savings tucked away in case of emergency?? Doesn't everyone else???

I guess that's part of my problem - the whole "I SHOULD be able to do this" thing. The fact is, I have a good job in that it's steady work and pays relatively well - compared to my expenditures (yay cheap rent!). I don't have a school loan to pay off (yay dropping out of college!) or much in the way of credit card debt, so technically, this few-days-before-I-get-paid almost overdrawn freak-out I have every month should be able to be avoided. Somehow though, especially in the past few months, I've gotten into the habit of spending my entire paycheck days before I get my next. It's scary. It's depressing. I don't want to be like this.

But it's always something though, ya know? Rent needs to be paid, so there goes a big chunk of one paycheck. The next paycheck should be mine to save (or spend...no, save) but I didn't pay my phone bill last month because I was broke so I have to pay that x's 2...and, oh shit, I have NO food in the house because I've been avoiding Trader Joe's like the plague because I don't want to spend money, but that just means I have nothing to bring to work for lunch, so I've been spending money on take-out, so I do a Trader Joe's trip and end up dropping like eighty bucks. I need to go to Target for my prescription, and pick up some trivialities that end up totalling almost a hundred bucks, somehow.

Ugh. I don't want to live like this. I want to save money, I want to have a cushy pillow in my bank account "just in case". I've done it before, in fact it used to be my norm, so why is it proving to be so difficult lately? I can't pinpoint what's changed, but I'm guessing it's my attitude towards spending. I have a hard time saying "no" or "I can't afford it right now" to both my friends and myself. I know the tips and tricks for going out and still saving money, but I have a hard time being okay with needing to do that every time I go out. I shouldn't have to. I don't wake up at 7 a.m. every morning and spend my entire day in an office so that I can bring a flask with me to a bar.

Sorry to sound complainy. I know I'm lucky to have the things I do, and that my problems are insanely trivial compared to many. But I guess that's the most frustrating part about it: I have opportunities, good luck, and knowledge...so why is it that I STILL can't get my shit together???

Tell me, how to do you save money? Any tips on how to change bad spending habits?

Deal?

I woke up last night somewhere around 3 a.m. with a purring cat on my chest. Half awake, I padded to the bathroom for a middle-of-the-night pee and marveled at how much the sound of my slippers shuffling against the hardwood floor mirrored the sound my mother makes when she does her own late-night slipper shuffle. Another begrudged tick on the "how I'm like my mother" list. After I had curled back into bed and the aforementioned cat had once again cozied himself against my body (much to my contentment), my mind started wandering - half awake and half in dreamland.

This is a normal occurrence for me - these late night, somewhat insomniatic fantasies. Last night I imagined that I was on the game show Deal or No Deal. This isn't a dream I'm telling you about, lest you think I'm one of those annoying people who thinks anyone is interested in her dreams (I know that the only time anyone wants to hear about someone else's dreams is when it's about them, or there's naked people involved), but what I'm speaking of are more like daydreams,with some misfiring neurons due to recent REM sleep thrown in for good measure.

Anyway, Deal or No Deal. I was wearing my yellow blouse with the ruffled bib and a high waisted skirt in navy blue. I looked adorable, and my family and friends cheered me on from the audience as I had to decide between the remaining two suitcases, one containing a million dollars or something (the number kept changing) and the other a paltry amount. I don't remember what I chose, but I fell asleep thinking that first thing in the morning, I needed to figure out how to register to be a contestant on this game show.

When I got to work this morning I remember that there had been something I wanted to do. What was it??? I knew I had to finish watching this week's episode of The Biggest Loser (a show I just started watching and am totally enthralled with) and that it had been painfully long since I posted a blog entry, a thought which came with the familiar overwhelming guilt I've come so accustomed to in my writing career...but there was something else. Oh yes! I wanted to...sign up...for...Deal or No Deal??? What the fuck? I've watched that show like twice in my entire life, and why the hell would I even get on it if I had the patience to register myself for it?!

Anyway, the point of this story is that they're not casting for Deal or No Deal right now, so I'll have to think of another way to become rich and fulfill my middle of the night fantasies. Or I could just gain 200 pounds and get on The Biggest Loser. Man that's a good show.

What's your most random fantasy?

Honest Scrap

The lovely LBN over at I'm Just Saying was sweet enough to gift me with an Honest Scrap award for my last post which, from what I can tell, is just a way to get me to spill ten secrets about myself. But, seeing how she is a long-time reader, regular commenter, and all around great gal (and hell, I'm running very thin on blog topics these days anyway) I'll indulge...with six secrets.

1. I have a bit of a clothes shopping addiction. I can almost guarantee that I have more clothes than you, and that's not something I'm bragging about as much as admitting as a fault of mine. I am quite proud of my wardrobe though, as it consists mostly of lucky thrift store and estate sale finds mixed with children's-section Target finds, and off-the-rack Forever 21 purchases that you'd almost never guess were sweat-shop made. I also have that annoying habit of responding to a outfit complement by divulging the price of whatever item in question by exclaiming something along the lines of "Oh this dress?? Paid FOUR bucks for it at a thrift store in Burbank!"

My closet:

2. I blame this quirk of mine on my mother, although she can blame it on her own, too...actually, this tradition may have even started in the old country, for all I know. The mothers of my family, when taking their child to pee, would always make this noise to hurry it up. It's supposed to mimic the sound of water running, although why they didn't just turn the damn water on, I'll never know.

"Pssh pssh pssh," in rapid secession. Anyway, the point is that noise got ingrained in my psyche, and I'm unable to pee, even when I HAVE. TO. go, without making that noise under my breath. It's embarrassing, but I can almost guarantee I'll pass it along to my kids, should I ever have any.

3. I dropped my new camera the other night and I think it's broken. Okay, I KNOW it's broken. I CAN NOT be trusted with electronics and other niceties.

4. I once fed sand to a baby.

5. Sometimes...oftentimes, actually, I'll happen upon a menu for a restaurant via some food blogger and even if the restaurant is halfway across the country, or even around the world, I'll take a few minutes and read (i.e. drool) over the menu and pick out what I'd order if I were there.

This morning I did it with Shake Shack via Smitten Kitchen even though I have less than no plans to visit New York anytime soon (I'd order a 'shroom burger and cheese fries, fyi). Have I ever told you that I'm astounded that I'm not fat?

6. Whew...okay, this one is something I'm afraid to admit, but I might as well just put it out there so you know the type of person you're dealing with. Let me start by telling you that I have a bit of an obsession with all things olfactory - I have since I was a baby. I used to walk around with my thumb in my mouth and my yellow "blankie" that was knit by my grandmother jammed to my nose between my free fingers so I could sniff all the lovely odours that accumulated on the well-worn blanket. My mom had to pry it from my fingers while I slept just to wash it.

Although Blankie has been retired to a cozy spot in my closet, my obsession with scents continue. I involuntarily inhale strangers as they walk past me, as I find people's distinct scents to be so telling. And finally, a confession that I admit to very, very few people: the smell of my cat's breath is one of the most comforting things to me. When he yawns, I inhale with great gusto, taking comfort in the familiar stench of his cat-breath. There, I said it.

Okay, your turn. One very honest thing about yourself, please!

The Secret Life of a Blogger or Two Months with an Ok Cupid Account

I have a confession to make. It's something I'm a bit embarrassed about, even though I told myself I was partly doing it so I could blog about it. I guess that may have been an excuse though, because it started sometime in May and ended (badly) in August, yet I still haven't gotten around to writing about it. Don't judge me now, okay? Promise? Pinky swear? Alright, here goes: for a little over two months, I was a member of an online dating site, and even went out with about six dudes that I met through that site.

I'm still single, so I guess you can surmise how well that endeavor turned out. I was a bad blogger and didn't take detailed notes or record any specifics in order to document the undertaking...hell, I don't even remember all of the dude's names, having only gone on more than one date with two of them.

My first Internet date was with a cute, older graphics designer who looked strikingly like a fit Simon Pegg. He was one of the first guys to contact me after I created my profile, which I wish I had saved cause, god damn, it was witty. A cute user pic and a the blanks filled in with "earth", "wind" and "pizza" in the required user description of "I am *blank*, *blank* and *blank*" assured me a slew of nerdy dudes vying for my attention.

I couldn't believe how nervous I was before this first date, considering I had gotten to know this guy over numerous emails for a week or two beforehand, and had no doubt I would like him. Internet dating horror stories of people looking nothing like their photos in person and worrying that we'd have nothing to talk about plagued me until I opened the door and found a handsome man waiting to take me out and show me a good time. He was sweet, interesting, and funny, but I didn't really feel any connection between us, and when I went on my first date with the next guy and felt actual sparks fly, I knew that #1 was destined to be a single date only.

Date #2 made up for his lack of height with his tremendous silent poise, which made my heart race a bit when I first saw him walk up to me at our intended meeting spot at the Fairfax flea market. His bright blue eyes were piercing and even more dramatic because the rest of his face was hidden behind an unruly beard (something I'm quite fond of). We went on quite a few dates before I realized that his silent poise was almost impossible to crack, so I moved on.

In between date #2 and my final date, there are a slew of nice, charming, attractive guys who had interesting, promising careers and seemed genuinely interested in me...none of whom I felt any connection to or impulse to get to know better. I must say that going on date after date with guys of this caliber and feeling NOTHING in the way of flutter in your heart or fire in your loins can start to make a girl feel like there is absolutely no hope for her, and that she might as well resolve herself to a life of feline companions and solo romps with her vibrator.

By the time my last first dates rolled around - the second to last being a cute but nerdy motorcycle aficionado with a passion for falafels - I got myself ready with less enthusiasm than I can muster even for the gym. I smudged some makeup over my face, donned an acceptable outfit, and trudged to our designated falafel-eating meeting spot, bemoaning the loss of that wonderful nervous feeling one is supposed to experience when dating. He was nice, I was charming, neither of us bothered contacting the other after our first date.

My online dating life ended with a mean, 3 a.m. drunken voicemail from the very last of the contenders who wanted an explanation as to why "Los Angeles girls suck". Sadly, I couldn't give him that explanation, and we went our separate ways. He was a funny, intelligent Ira Glass-look-alike from Chicago who was going to school for a noble profession. He was so right on paper, but I realized I had dodged a bullet by following my gut and ending things with him when he left me that message.

I took my profile down the next day.

I'm blissfully, happily single again.

Have you ever gone on an Internet date? Tell me your happy and/or horror stories!!!

Hungover, Per Se

I have a hangover today. Not the kind of hangover that makes me want to barf, thankfully, but the kind where I just want to EAT until I burst. What I wouldn't give for a steaming bowl of wonton soup right now.

I had a date last night that started off promisingly with a shot of Patron, but went downhill when I told this person, whom I've been dating for a spell and have become quite fond of, that I don't think he's "healthy" for me. Have I mentioned I'm not very good at this whole "relationship" thing? I guess it's not that I'm not "good" at it, per se, but more that I'm just so damn guarded of my time and emotions, and how little of them I'm willing to invest in someone I'm not 100% sure will appreciate them.

Having spent five years in a pretty damn good relationship, and the subsequent pain-filled break up that I initiated when it had passed its expiration date makes a girl not want to give her heart to someone who isn't perfect for her, ya know? But how does one know if there's potential unless the proper time is given to figure it out, right? Sometimes I think I'm a little too blase about dating though, and too quick to write people off when I find one little chink in their armor.

I don't know what my point is. I get annoyingly ruminative when I'm hungover. Also hungry. What's your favorite hangover/sick food?

Dying In Car Accidents

I have a somewhat involved history with people I know dying in car accidents. This is in the front of my mind today, as I found out this morning that someone I'm acquainted with died in such a fashion over the weekend. It's my biggest fear - car accidents - both for myself and more so for people I know and care about. It's a thought that keeps me awake with anxiety some nights, and on other nights is an intrusive, obsessive thought that requires half a Xanax to quell.

The first two boyfriends I had, both important ones in their own right, are dead. The first one died in a flash flood while driving through Nevada with his very best friend by his side. Is that a actual car accident? I'm not sure, but it's an easier way to explain. I found out about his passing while sitting on the bed of the second one, who died a few years later when he drove his damn car off the freeway and into a wall. I think about them sometimes...not about what they were like when I knew them, but about their last few moments of being alive. It haunts me, and I think of alternative scenarios (being a person who daydreams constantly) in which I somehow save them or warn them beforehand.

The third was a best friend from high school, who had long since gone the way of typical high school friends - which is to say I didn't speak to her much, but whom I thought about warmly from time to time, always assuming that someday we'd catch up over drinks and memories. I found out about her fate after finding her older sister's website, and the subsequent memorial page she had created for her. Her sister and I emailed back and forth a couple times, with her last email ending in the wise words "don't drink and drive".

I guess I'm a little traumatized from all these happenings, not to mention the memory of the aftermath of the accident I witnessed as a little kid. I deal by convincing myself that death, specifically ones caused by car accidents, are just part of life. I try to tell myself it won't happen to me, but even by writing that out and posting it on my blog, I feel like I'm condemning myself to such a fate. I guess I'm more superstitious than I lead myself to believe.

What are you terrified of? Lets all put it into words, and convince ourselves that by doing so, we're lessening the chances of it actually happening.

Rez Walk

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my car after having just laced up my running shoes. I lean back in my seat and switch off the radio with an angry twist, as I hate talk radio and I'm already in a bad mood to begin with. I hide my purse in my back seat, my car key tucked safely in my pocket, and wait for her to show up. Just as my mind begins to wander to some ugly thought, as it tends to do when I have too much time on my hands and, like I already said, am in a bad mood to begin with, she playfully jumps up in front of my parked car, startling me out of my daydream.

I flash her the biggest smile I can muster, and no explanation is needed as to why it's less that my usual. She already knows I'm feeling melancholy - that's why were here, that's always why we come here. We're both wearing weathered cut off jean shorts that are normally reserved for running errands and indoor wear only. My hair is mussed beyond repair and I probably have smudges of mascara under my eyes. It doesn't matter though, this ritual of ours isn't one of vanity.

We start up the hill at a brisk pace, arms pumping at our sides, and get right down to cases without missing a beat. "So," I start, and ask her about her job, specific details of her love life that only I know so intimately, as I've been following them for the past two and a half years - the duration of our friendship, and make her dish about the lurid contents of our 4 a.m. text conversation from the other night. About halfway around the reservoir (a popular place for walkers and joggers in east Los Angeles), the conversation effortlessly turns to me and my woes. "What happened the other night?" "List the things you're unhappy with about your life." "What can we do to change those things?"

By the time we start our second loop around the reservoir (or "rez", as we refer to it in text messages), I'm developing a mean blister on my left heel and my bangs are plastered to my forehead with sweat...but I'm snorting from laughter at the schemes we're cooking up, and we're sharing stories of our families that are heartbreaking yet cathartic. I always know she'll understand where I"m coming from. I know she won't judge me, and that if I need to talk about my problems the entire 4+ miles, I'm not being a burden to her, because she knows I would do - will do - the same for her in the future.

Two and a half years ago I asked her, then just a friend of a friend who intimidated the hell out of me, if she wanted to get lunch. I waited for her outside a shop on Hollywood Blvd. and, in the socially terrified state of mind which I was in at the time, was convinced that wouldn't show up. When she finally did (late, which I now know is just how she do) I had a lump in my throat from worry.

She's now my closest friend, someone I can't imagine my life without...really and truly CAN. NOT. imagine being okay without her being a text message away. She makes me laugh uproariously, seethe with anger when she's been wronged, and my own heart aches when she's hurting.

When our second lap is finished, we high five, throw some encouraging sentiments back and forth, and get in our respective cars and drive in different directions home. I turn up the radio, which has thankfully now switched from talk to music, and let the cool night air flow into my face until I stop sweating. My mood has lifted considerably. My smile is genuine now, and I'm ready to face the rest of the week, whatever difficulties are thrown in my direction. I'm lucky - so incredibly lucky - to have a friend like her.

Before I'm 30 - Try Uni

Do you know what that little plate of blurry grossness is, my friends? That is my latest conquest in my "Before I'm 30" list...one that I would just as soon forget. I lucked out by finding myself at a quiet and upscale little sushi restaurant on Friday night with a date who was just as clueless as I to the delicate yet acquired taste of this dish (and also not-immune to my batted-eyelashed pleas to join me in my adventure).

The Japanese waitress scoffed at us mildly when we ordered it, and we told her when she dropped the plate of that it was both of our first tastes, hoping it would endear us to her a little. It didn't. As soon as I stuffed the large mouthful into my maw, she flounced over and asked me how I liked it, to which I could only gesture with a enthusiastic thumbs up, when really all I wanted to do was spit the mushy mess into my napkin. Somehow I swallowed, though, and pleaded ignorance and apologies to my date, who was equally aghast at the texture of this supposed delicacy.

We cleansed our newly matured palates with cold beer, warm sake, and later two of the largest cupcakes I've ever laid my wide eyes on. I think I'm going to need to follow this tick off my list with something a bit more pleasant, such as making out on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland or going camping.

New Age Bullshit: Not Just For Hippies Anymore!

Oh my...I've been a bad little blogger, haven't I? I think this might be the longest I've ever gone without a new post, and I'm truly sorry for that. But lest you think it is you I've been ignoring, my dear readers, please know that my lack of writing in ANY form has gotten so bad that my therapist and I have devised a plan in which I set my cell phone alarm to go off at 3 p.m. everyday, at which point I set a timer and drop everything, forcing myself to write for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes! I have forty eight sets of those everyday, and I have to literally force myself to use up just ONE of those sets!

In any event, I'm happy that I'm at least able to write once I sit down and super glue my fingers to the keyboard. The words flow, I adore doing it, and some really great prose comes out of this stubborn brain of mine. Slowly but surely, I guess.

As for the aforementioned therapy, which I've written about here and here...well my goodness, it's going so well! I feel as though I'm actually making progress, instead of just sitting in a small room, droning on and on about my childhood to someone who couldn't care less, which is the norm, I've found. Progress towards what, I'm not exactly sure yet...a better outlook on life? an understanding of why I get sad and stressed out, and a better way to cope with those feelings?

My therapist is very analytical, and I enjoy discussing the reasons behind my feelings and actions with her. It's as though a light bulb will go off in my head and I'll laugh out loud at myself at so easily falling into obvious patterns, once she explains them to me. One thing she mentioned that I found quite intriguing, which she brought up after a particularly bad week I had, was how easily we revert back to our childhood emotions when things don't go as planned.

I consider myself a mature person, emotionally reasonable and with an intellectually sound mind, but how did I deal with rejections when I was a child? What were my first thoughts when I couldn't master something (math was a big one) or a plan I had made failed miserably? I beat myself up about it, that's what. I blamed every failed attempt and every misstep on myself, and took it as evidence that I sucked as a person. So when setbacks occur now, although I have become a confident adult, I haven't yet learned a new way of perceiving those setbacks, and regress back to my old negative and self loathing patterns.

I dunno, it may sound a little new agey, but I thought it might be helpful to any of you who have the same thought patterns as myself. It's really a great way to look at therapy, too, for those of you who have never experienced it and are afraid to try it: it's just a means of maturing your reactions to those inevitable ups and downs we experience in our lives. It's learning a new way of interpreting your reactions, and calling yourself out on your own bullshit, self critical explanations for why things go wrong. It's working for me, 100%.

How about you? Have you ever been to a therapist? What was your experience like?

Passing Notes

It was a crisp weekday morning - a perfectly ordinary San Francisco day in Fall. It must have been during my period of unemployment, after being fired from an office job that had long past its expiration date in terms of enjoyment anyway. The unemployment checks had been rolling in, which when added to my nightly tips at my waitressing job, left me happily and unexpectedly brimming with superfluous spending money and free afternoons.

I was waiting patiently for a bus at West Portal Station - my destination must have been the Mission district, as this was where this particular bus was destined for. Perhaps I was headed out for some shopping, or lunch at my favorite tapas restaurant that boasted lunch specials and cheap bottles of foreign beer. Maybe I was on my way to the small, privately owned women's spa that had a single-person steam room and a sun deck that allowed one to bask, unabashedly naked, in the sun - youthful tits pointed upward like an offering to whatever Greek God controlled such things. Whatever the case, there I sat on the bus bench, immersed in a book, minding my own.

What I do remember about that day, or what I remembered last night as I was falling asleep, three or four years after the fact, was the little blond girl, and the handwritten note I gave her grandmother.

She was a matronly, but still youngish woman sitting as poised as one can muster when perched in a fold-out seat. Slightly grey hair in a shampoo-set, wearing a sensible and tidy cotton outfit, clutching her gargantuan purse firmly in her lap while her little granddaughter - perhaps nine years old - ran rabidly and enthusiastically around her. The little girl asked her grandmother silly, nonchalant questions that were met with short, aloof answers. When the girl curiously ventured toward me, much to my delight (curious children always delight me) she was scolded for "annoying" me before I could croak out the answer to her question of what I was reading.

She twirled and flitted around the bus stop, ignorant to the annoyance in her grandmother's voice which grew more hostile with every innocent question (ones so charming I giggled behind my book at their creativity). She'd throw me a glance every few moments, to which I'd smile a silly smile and a wink to let her know I was in on the joke. Her grandmother noticed our exchanged, and told the girl to "quit showing off" her voice dripping with hostility.

This woman's behaviour upset me on so many levels, and I felt my heart growing heavy with disdain and. The little girl with tangled hair, wearing a mismatched outfit - she reminded me of myself as a child, you see. "Weird" - I got that label a lot. I didn't fit in. I was silly and imaginative and languidly backstroked through a world of my own creation - fueled by books and the view of the world I gleaned from them. It hurt me so much not to fit in, but I had no idea how to change. The teasing, the name calling, the ostracization. I'm so glad I learned to accept and embrace my mind, instead of conforming to the norm like I was supposed to.

While we sat on the bus, myself a couple rows back from the grandmother and her unique little ingénue, I composed a note to the older woman. The little girl was too young to notice that the grandmother disliked her, but I could hear it in her voice and it made me sick to my stomach. I had no idea how long they'd be on the bus, so I wrote quickly and ferociously, my hand cramping from my tight grip on my pen. They started collecting their things and pulled the "stop requested" lever somewhere around Guerrero and 22nd. I hurried to finish the note.

I don't remember what I wrote, but I do remember my heart racing as I wondered if I really had the nerve to hand the note off to this grandmother, to this angry old woman. It wasn't a mean letter, nor hurtful. I wrote about how her daughter was fun and creative - so full of life and that one day I hoped to be lucky enough to have a child like that, that it wouldn't be long before the little girl stopped caring what the woman said, and either mirrored her grandmothers disdain, or worse, stopped being creative altogether.

"You dropped something," I said to the grandma as she made her way towards the back door, and handed her the note.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she took the note from my hand with a politeness she obviously reserved for strangers.

That was it. I don't know what happened next. She got off the bus and perhaps threw the scrap of paper away, thinking it was trash. Maybe she read it right there on the street and angrily threw it into the gutter, and was even meaner to her granddaughter for the rest of the day. Maybe she stuck it in her purse and read it when she got home that evening, finding it when she rummaged through her purse, looking for her keys.

Maybe it made her sad. Maybe it made them closer. I'll never really know. I'm glad I did it though. I'm glad I'm still that bold little girl I once was, who is silly enough to imagine that she can make a difference. I hope that girl at the bus stop is, too.

The End of the Drumming Stage

Just a week shy of what would have been my two year anniversary of my very first drum lesson, which subsequently led to my purchasing my own drum kit, forming a couple ill-fated bands, and paying for some very rewarding drum lessons, I sold my drum kit. A week ago a man came to my apartment after finding my drums listed on Craigslist, negotiated with me on the price of what had been one of my most treasured possessions, and then handed me cash and walked out of my apartment with my drum kit while I held the door for him on his way out. It made it a little easier for me that the drums were for his 17 year old son - his very first kit after deciding to take up drumming - but I'll admit that it still stung just the slightest.

When I decided to take up drumming two years ago, I was in a very low place in my life. A few months prior I had left San Francisco and the most important relationship of my life and was now struggling with building my life back in Los Angeles. And is was a struggle. Previously a confident, social person, I now had panic attacks on my way to gatherings which under normal circumstances wouldn't have elicited a second thought from me. I still wasn't sure I had made the right decision in leaving San Francisco, or that relationship, and I was lonely and sad and my life was in limbo.

Drumming became part of my new identity, in my mind. It was novel to be part of something I had previously only watched from the sidelines, it was a great topic to bring up when I was floundering socially, and it felt just SO GOOD to be excited about something new - to have daydream fodder that didn't involve mistakes I had made or catastrophes that could potentially occur. I started playing in a band with two awesome girls, led by one of my closest and most trusted old friends. I was slowly starting to be happy again.

I bought a cheap drum kit off Craigslist from a young guy in the Valley. We packed the nicked and time-warn burgundy kit into my '87 BMW and when I drove off he texted me and asked me out on a date. I declined, but I felt so awesome - I was a "drummer" - I got asked out by dudes who thought girl drummers were cool. I set up my kit in the small rec room below my bedroom in the house I lived, in Silver Lake. I practiced frequently, I took lessons from a great guy I had met serendipitously, I'd lay awake in bed at night and picture myself on stage at my favorite local venues - opening for some friend's band with my all-girl band. I was a drummer. It felt amazing. And I must admit I was pretty damn good, too. Drumming made sense to me, in a way which no other instrument I've tried to master ever had.

Deciding to sell my drums took some time, but by the time I posted them on Craigslist, I was sure. I never played anymore, they were taking up a huge corner of my apartment, and every time I looked at them I felt guilty. After a visit from an awesome Feng Shui expert (which I plan to write about in the near future) who told me that it wasn't healthy to have that sort of thing (an ignored, guilty-inducing thing looming in the corner) and instead had some great ideas about what could be done with that corner, I was ready to sell.

So I did. And I feel okay with it. I kept my drum sticks, though. They're sitting in my roller skates - a decorative piece in my comfortable and eccentric living room. One time, years back when I lived in San Francisco and was still happily in relationship-land, I went for a spin on those roller skates and fell so hard on my tailbone I still wake up in the morning with pain today. My now-ex boyfriend had to come pick me up in his car, as I was in too much pain to get up and walk. I haven't put on those skates since. So there they sit, two relics from my past. Two of the thousands of pieces that make me who I am: a happy, curious, enthusiastic person, who loves to experience life, and is ready for the next stage.