It wasn’t always like this

Let’s rewind to almost a year ago.

I had been working two jobs- a freelance client opportunity and a full time “mundane” office job in downtown Los Angeles.  After years of trying to make it (between freelance and temporary contract jobs amongst other life matters) I found myself not only capable of doing it, but doing a fantastic job at that.

So much so that I had saved and had no worry or care when my then boss at the time tempted not give me time off to spend my 30th with my best friend in Seattle.

I had conquered a mountain of debt, spent several thousand dollars in investments into personal matters and was thriving.  I had worked hard and it was finally paying off.  This was a milestone moment and I was going to take it.  Thankfully it was approved and off I was on my first real vacation trip on my own in ages.

Something curious about the time?  I was also single.

Sure I had gone out on a few dates here and there but it wasn’t anything major.  Hell, it was one of those experiences that had it’s magical moments but we both knew we weren’t ready or able to give the other the fairy tale happily ever after tale at the end.

When I left for Seattle for that trip last May I didn’t have a real care in the world.

I was whole.

I was complete.

I had no one but I felt like I was everyone.

I was awesome.

It was all going to be alright because I made it alright.

I was enough.

And it was absolutely amazing.

When I think about how far I’ve come from that, and how far I was before I got there in the first place, it’s kind of difficult to wallow in sadness for too long.  Yes, I’ve had probably a million moments of sadness.  I know that there likely will be more where that came from.  But there will also be that many moments of joy.

I learned that magic isn’t just something that exists in this world, but it’s created.  It’s an internal choice.  It’s an external mission.  It’s often great shared (and sharing I would find is also its own process at times, especially in the dark hours) but… it’s also great when it’s not.

In Seattle I spent my time primarily with Jo.  We had a blast talking about the past.  About the moment when I couch surfed at her place when I had a bump in the road.  About how we missed being roommates.  About the silly stupid stuff that best friends talk about and miss when they are miles apart physically.

However that trip taught me so much about what companionship was and balance that…

The day I arrived we were to meet up with a few of her friends who were also in town.  The night was amazing.  I hadn’t previously met these women but they treated me like they had known me for years.  It was heartwarming.  A reminder that strangers are just people waiting to be friends.

And then there was that last day.  With that trip, as with the next that followed, the last day would be my day.  It was to be treated completely at my whim.  The day was whatever I wanted.

The last day was always the best day.

On my rush to the airport that day I ended up on the train where an old man started talking to me.  We talked about being strangers.  We talked about the town.  We talked about destinations and the future.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked me.

“No.” I said with a laugh.

“Why not?”

“I don’t need one.” I said with a smile.

For all those times when things are hard, this post is to remember that day.  It might feel like ages away but it really isn’t.  A person is capable of going farther than they would imagine.  No matter what the hardships… no matter how bad it seems like it could possibly be (and it was pretty bad), it can always get worse.  Or…. it can get better.  You just have to suck it up and believe.

Remember what it was like to believe.

Once Upon Our Time

The clock continues to tick. There never seems like there’s enough time. It’s getting closer to the “end” and I’m trying to keep as positive as possible- as that’s what you’re supposed to do on the internet or something, right?

Meanwhile the sadness starts to enter a little bit by little bit as it’s time for our ways to part a little (read: feels like long) while. And a lot can happen in that time spent alone… a lot of growth and wonderment and strength… which you’ve helped me gain with your presence and you will again with your absence.

It’s strangely bittersweet how all of this sadness is paired with the happiest I have ever been with someone. Never before have I truly felt the level of compassion, selflessness and sweetness that has been bestowed upon me by close friends. I’m hoping that it continues as this holiday season will be a hard one for me… it’s shaping up to be one with me absolutely alone.

Oddly enough amidst all the things shattering around me with losing my job right before the holidays, family shunning me from holiday activities because I am with someone, the lease running out on my apartment….
[Etcetera, etcetera]

At the end of it all there’s a light and it never goes out… and it could be more brilliant than I’d ever dreamed of.

Like its 1999

Ok, so I was one year off but I didn’t get invited to my Junior prom either.  Hell my Senior Prom was spent with my first love hanging out at his house until a horde of friends crashed it.  There was a multitude of reasons why I didn’t end up going to prom:

• It cost too much to go (oh the joy of dating broke artists even back then).
• I wasn’t asked.
• I was asked but my date flaked.
• Etcetera.

So high school was a bust as far as prom.  But what about the countless other Proms thereafter?  Frankly the same things as I already stated happened.  But more so, I wasn’t invited even though I knew about the events.  

This year has been… a complete change.

The LA Derby Dolls are hosting a prom tonight and for the first time ever I will be attending a prom.  Today after work I’ll be going home to primp and prepare for a Rock vs Rap themed prom.  At nearly 30 this feels a bit silly to be so excited about.

Per request-

Mia: Don’t you hate that?
Vincent: What?
Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it’s necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?
Vincent: I don’t know. That’s a good question.
Mia: That’s when you know you’ve found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.

That, my dears, was my weekend.  But you’re going to have to wait to hear that tale.

With that, the sound begins again.

I know that it has been awhile since I’ve done this.  So much has been going on.  But don’t fret.

I have not stopped writing- I just changed mediums for awhile.

I have not stopped dating.

I have not stopped smiling.

(Non sequitor.)

I have not died.

(Well, that part is only partially true.)

I still exist.

I guess part of what happened is, as generic as it may sound…

life.

I was walking through the art supply store yesterday waiting for my friend to be free to cut me some canvas.  I can’t remember the last time I painted.  I was inspired and felt it was time.

My weekend had been a blur.  A punch drunk fury of hours come and gone like a gust of wind.  Perhaps the rain this week washed away more than just a few dirty streets.

I think I know what I’m going to paint.

My best had to help a customer.  I found myself lost in shelves lined with magic.  I called the one person who I knew was a combination of both worlds.

“Grandma what are you doing home?  You’re supposed to be in Dwight enjoying your childhood memories.”

“Next weekend.”

“I want to have sand in my paint but I forgot what I need for that…”

“To thicken it up you need a medium.  Or you can just use oils because its thicker.”

You see, and this should not come as much of a surprise, but my grandmother… is an artist.

“Grandma I had… All I want to do right now is paint.  I want to hike and paint and watch sunrises and sunsets over the city and paint for awhile.  It’s been too long.  I have a lot on my mind.”

“I think thats wonderful.  Do you still have those brushes your aunt and I bought you years ago?”

“I do.  I’m going to have to dig them out.  I’m buying a couple of artist pallates.  I want to go to the beach and paint so I want something that if I lose I won’t be super upset about losing.”

“Buy a plastic one or get paper ones for that.  Best bet would be plastic. It’d be easy to clean.”

“Grandma, tell me about how it was to date in your time  What was that like for you.”

“I don’t talk about that.  I did date before your grandpa but I’m a very private person.”

Oh what she doesn’t know…

We walked around and talked about life.

“Why as a society are we brought up and told “Be honest. Be yourself.  Be open.” but then when you actually are, people crucify you for it… because there’s something about them that they can’t fully express and they’re envious… because you are the colorful painting and they are stuck in black and white.”

“Because people are hypocrites!” She said with a laugh.

I guess that’s part of why I took a pause.  My scrawlings, despite being vague and relatively ananomous nature have been both uplifting and the knife of the final move of my demise.  Despite my openness about this blog before I ever even enter into anything, men seem to become entransed by the words and then… when the plot really thickens and the soufle is in the oven… well, they fall short.

“Choose your words wisely.  They make or break you.”

I am not broken anymore.

I may not be that black and white picture all of the time but…

Life has been busy.  I have eased into a semi normal lifestyle believe it or not.  I have slept some wonderful nights and I have also tossed and turned with dreams of a ghost.

But those tales shall come later.

Know that I have been to hell and beyond and… it’s good to be back.  We have a lot of catching up to do my friends.  And thank you for the messages telling  me to get back to this.

More later.  But for now?  I have to get dressed.  Someone got a normal 9-5 office job downtown.  Mind boggling huh?

Cheers,

j.

Clueless

After writing a blog about patience,  I sit here today and await a couple of emails today.  As we all know, Gmail decided  to implode.  In its wake of refreshing, I elected to waste some time taking a Facebook quiz…

Of which, the following question comes up that I am clueless as to which one to answer:

How would you describe yourself?

• Simple
• Elegant
• Rebellious
• Crazy
• Glamorous
• Chill
• Modern
• Adventerous
• Traditional

Why?  Because I admit, I’m a bit of all of the above.  I have my moments where I am just a touch crazy.  As an artist, its rare when there is such a thing as complete sanity.  For the most part I’d like to say though that I am very simple, occassionally glamorous, traditional but quite modern at the same time… etctera.

What I want is something like all of this…

“I want a blend of simple, fiery, easy going, passionate, madness, comfort and adventure… unattainable.”

I know exactly what I want and who I am… and yet here I am… clueless.

Labels.

I love thee and yet, you are ridiculous.

(Gmail please work soon.)

Submission

Despite that I would more or less admit to being a switch, and am obedient in matters with the lover that makes it past my microscope, in some ways I feel as if I am constantly being tested with submissions.

Two things are at the top of my mind:

My submission to a 9-5 steady gig, and.. ____.

Patience.

I’m folding 1000 paper cranes right now for my documentary project.  This should be helping, but the road is not always easy getting there.

I want a pair of ruby slippers.

I want to close my eyes and fast forward to the happy ending.

I have found that my expectations in other people, my wants…

there are very few people in this world that are ever going to meet them and it’s a bit…

What happened to chivalry?  What happened to manners?  What happened to dazzling a woman and paying attention to detail?

I was taken back by my own failure to do the latter recently.  Had I done that, perhaps things would have been different.  Lessons learned and steps back taken.  I don’t think the world is a lost cause.  I just wish…

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place like home.

There’s no place….

I need to go back to work.

Patience, oh virtuous one be with me evermore.

Gold stars for you: Moving is more than moving

I haven’t talked to her in a few months.  We’d said that we were going to talk more.  We used to be best friends.  You know, back before he happened.

I introduced her to her boyfriend- a guy I knew from a website around the same I started to date Big.  While we all know what happened with him, her relationship, though cross country not only lasted but she arrived in New York this week to take up residence to be near him.

Her sheer amount of patience through the struggle of being away from the person she loved for so long is admirable.  I envy her in a way.  It is not something that I think I could have done.

Her cross country love story- from Alaska all the way out East, gives me a bit of hope.

Everything is possible if you add heart and push yourself.

So while I push harder than ever to get through some of the things going on here, my bag is a carry on tote.   These cranes will continue to be folded.  And perhaps wishes and dreams really can come true… but only if you give yourself entirely to the goal.

Here’s to fighting to making that move… everyday closer to that one bit of manifest destiny that resides within each and every one of us.

And with that, I have to go back to work.

Gold stars to you my former best friend.  I miss you.  Congrats on making it home.

I aspire to be a cat burgler minus the cat and the burgler-ing

In the silence, come the answers.

If you really want to get an idea of how someone’s life is, you can just go inside their home and let the stuff do the talking. They say that you can tell alot about a person by their home.  What they don’t tell you is that this is a pretty good gage at how their life really is.

You see, things contaminate our every existance.  The collection of ones “junk” and organizational systems show you more than you would ever imagine if you only pay attention.

For me, today marks a new direction of sorts.  You see, I didn’t end up in Los Angeles originally because I wanted to.  At least, it wasn’t my first choice.

After leaving San Diego and on to Bakersfield (the armpit divider between southern and northern california) I vowed that I would move back to the one place, despite having grown up in an entirely different state, that I was able to call “home.”  I even kept the same area code on my cell phone.  If you see the 858, that would be me.  I will always be an 858 girl.  Except now, I will also be a 310.

After my divorce, I struggled quite a bit.  I had been that “stay at home mother” working jobs that I could do from home and then when I hit the ground running, he just stayed in place.  It wasn’t a surprise to anyone that had met us or even see us together.  I was that wild horse and he was just… not the running type.

I remember the day it happened… or well, the “it’s time to realize that no one is going to give a crap about you but you” moment.  After I got let go from my game mod job due to being late because of spousal abuse, he hit me again.  This time, it was with an eviction notice.

You see, my ex husband fled to be with his new girlfriend that he’d met in a video game while I was away at a conference trying to find my next job.  I wish I was kidding.  Unfortunately, I am not.

A little bit different than your "average" Love tap

He’d promised me a lot of things when first got together.  And I believed every single one of them.  Why?  Because I was an idiot.  Even after all was said and done he’d made me yet another promise-to pay the rent for the remainder of the lease.

Liar liar pants on fire.

I guess I should have saw that one coming.

I had so little money then.  I was but a broke artist, though when I was with him, I rarely was able to create.  But that’s another story.

I was a victim then because I allowed myself to be one.  While it is a part of my past, and thus, a part of my identity, I’ve come to peace with it.  There are so many stories that proceed this.  So many tales that I am forever thankful for being able to experience.  Even if it took a man hitting me for me to wake up, get started on the road to independence, and really live life again.

Dead eyes. Lost inside. Circa marriage 1.

When I moved to Bakersfield, it was rushed.  I never wanted to move back there.  I fought it as much as I could.  But it wasn’t time for me to be home yet.  And at the time, San Diego didn’t feel like home anyway.

I remember how much disarray my apartment was.  I moved from a 2 bedroom condo in a upper middle class area of San Diego (Tierrasanta to the locals) to a studio hole in the wall in Bakersfield. Why there? Nepotism.  My cousin was the landlord originally.

While I wasn’t completely unhappy in my time there, you could tell that inside I was miserable and my apartment showed it.

I looked for things to make myself happier.  The things that had the greatest effect were those of which were most childlike in nature. One of which, won me the nickname of “the mermaid” as this curtain hung over my bed (which ironically, is still over my bed to this day) because, well that was the only thing I could find to cover up the institution-like window.

These are a few of my favorite things

I found it in a box one day somewhat randomly.  It had been something that my dad had given me for my first apartment years before I got married.  My husband and I thought it was too ridiculous to ever use.  I’ve come to realize that he was just a stick in the mud.

That curtain got me into trouble too.  I hung it in the window of my street facing apartment.  When the blinds were open or up, it was no mistaking which unit was mine.  In the mornings the sun would shine through it and the colors would pop.  Trudging along in Bakersfield, it would make me smile to come home to my one piece of sunshine.  My landlord didn’t agree.  She thought it was tacky.  She also dresses like shes ready for the nursing home and she’s not even 30.

While living in the apartment, I serendipitously met a wonderful pair of friends- Drew & Leah.  (Ironically, they lived across from my soon to be future bat from hell landlord.)  They helped to make that place somewhat bearable.  But unfortunately, they couldn’t make that place home for me.

beach balls are serious business

Because only the raddest dare rock bling on their coffee mug

My grandmother is a packrat.  She has amassed a great amount of wonderful junk.  So much so, that she has 2 houses full of it.  They say this behavior is generally inherited.  Hands raised for being a statistic.  I wonder if there are meetings like AA.

I later made  a brief stop in Claremont- suburbia upper middle class Los Angeles near the dreaded 909.  It was my dad’s compromise to not sending me back to San Diego, despite challenging me to find an apartment there in a few hours and well, I won that bet.

Claremont was… alright.  The village was a bit like a mini San Francisco.  Except San Francisco has a ton more and is a place I would actually consider living.

City of numerology

It hosts… the number 5.  Looking around you will see that it repeats numerous instances throughout the town.  There are 5 colleges.  There are 5 movie rooms at the theatre.

This is where I started to get a bit of OCD cleaning traits.  Part of me believes it may have been a positive after effect from my volatile relationship that I had with Big (the obsessive compulsive cleaning emotionally unavailable guy from San Diego).

I dumped quite a bit with the last move, and this one as well.  My roommate was also an artist (read: slob).  But here I found myself cleaning up after her.  Frankly the mess bothered me.  That, and she had animals.

And while I was happier there than I had been in Bakersfield, you could tell in my eyes if you were paying attention, that it still wasn’t quite right.

Porch sweeper, dream sleeper

As my lease came to a close I knew that I no longer wanted to be there.  I was working my ass off and reaping nothing in return.  I barely had time for me.  It was work work work.

“When you pay your own bills you can live wherever you want to.” dad told me.

“I already do pay my own bills dad.  I’m going home.  I’m not happy here.”

He shoved a pennysaver in my hand.

“There’s apartments in your price range right here.  Do it.”

But I’d already met Steve (my roommate) then.  Another after effect from dating that same OCD douchebag many of you all know and sometimes love.  I’m only half joking of course.  He’s got a good heart when he choose to share it.

But enough about failed romances, back to my roommate!  Little did I know from that fateful night- the tweetup in LA hosted by Greg Barnett, that I was on the way home.

Why hi, nice to meet you soon to be roommate!

Yes, I said it.. home.

I’ve lived here a year and yet, you wouldn’t know it from my room.  There are still quite a few bins out.  Clothes strung everywhere.  My closet is full of hangers.  My dresser is near empty.

Today is the day that that changes.  Consider me booked with being boring for the interim.  I was due for a responsible day or 3.  Have to balance with the karma and all.  I secretly aspire to be more boring (but never really boring) anyway.

I didn’t want to move here when I first got here.  I wanted to be in San Diego.  It is the one place that I’ve been able to call home.  But I know now, that it will not likely be where I hang my… wigs.

Dear San Diego,

I must profess my undying love for you.  You are the lover I will always come back to.  But you are also the one where I won’t end up with until possibly the end of the movie when my ashes are sent among the city after I expire.

I have fallen capture to Los Angeles.  It’s “cesspool” of fun carried me away.  My childhood dreams and fantasies… never forgotten but evolved into things you just can’t give me.

I’m “unpacking” today finally.  It took me a long time to get here.  This is my home now.  You will always have… pieces of my heart, but I’m afraid you will have to share me.

Ours is a tale that will live on forever.  Written in granite amongst the waves and never to be washed away.

Yours Always,

Jennifer

***

Dear Los Angeles,

I just broke up with San Diego.  I let her down easily.  I think she bought it.  She doesn’t know I’ve just been toying with her.  She’s wonderful but it just wasn’t working out.  I’m a terrible person.  Comfort me?

By the way, I have something else to tell you:

You have yourself another lifer now.

Cheers,

Scandalous

It’s time to take more ownership of my stuff and not the other way around.  But hey, at least I’ll have plenty of junk to send my mother right?

The list blogs: things I dislike about living in the metro

I live so far from home and wouldn’t trade where I live for a moment (well except perhaps for SF or SD but that’s different).  But then there’s a few things about here that really suck in comparrison to suburbia.

Hobos- They’re everywhere.  But in the metro they’re crazier, scarier, and ruder.  However, they seem to be a bit more honest to some degree.  Panhandlers in suburbia have to hide their booze/drug/ sexual operation desires, whereas here they’re at least upfront they’re not buying food with the money you give them.

Public Transit- it may suck most everywhere else (and this doesn’t include you SF) but in most major metro areas, the busses especially are rarely on time nor are they comfortable.  You get what you pay for is an understatement.

Parking- Oh god.  This could have subcatagories.  In fact, I think it should.

1. Meters- fill it more than you think you’re going to be there.  If you’re late even one minute the maid will not give a crap.  Either hack the meter or always carry quarters.  Trust me.
2. Parallel parking- You don’t seem to get enough practice with this in suburbia.  But people in the metro really don’t give a crap about making it easy for you either.  Be there early.
3. Size issues (parking)- I love when cars just don’t pull up that maybe 2 ft ahead so someone can park in front or behind them.  Thank you resident asshat.
4. Street sweeping- Multiple vehicles and streetside parking is a nightmare here.  It’s like an orchestra of when I have to move what.  Those tickets aren’t fun either.
5. Valet ripoffs- They want $15-25 just to move your car 500 ft and park it.  What an awesome waste of money.  And sadly not everywhere with a bike lets you get out of Valet even if they can’t park it.  Which is a waste times 2.

Roads- the upkeep on the freeway and major roads is substandard.  In some ways this is really not a good city for scooters or bicycles.  Thanks for the encouragement for polluting less to the environment mr Govenator.

Less homestyle cooked food- Let’s face it.  There’s nothing that really compares to some of the homestyle cooked places back home.  Go back to the simplicity and enjoy your meal.. calorie by hundred calorie you have.

Less personable diners- There’s something about a diner back home in the middle of the country and the warmth of the people that makes even a mediocre diner that much better than most anything here in the metro.

No backyards- Growing up in IL I had a house with a backyard.  In the metro area it seems that area is something that only exists in dreams and for rich people.

Overly Expensive without reason entertainment- Sometimes merited.  Oftentimes not.  If it’s on Sunset, it’s likely not.  If its downtown San Diego and nearly $20 for a drink I can get for 5-7, it’s.. not.

Cleaner playgrounds- This is an urban jungle.  Despite the street cleaning the public playgrounds here just aren’t kept well.

Not enough quality doughnut shops-  How hard is it to screw up a doughnut?  Seriously.  This is ridiculous with the amount of sugar encrusted consumerism there is here that finding a good one is a treat.  (Please someone in LA prove me wrong.  The shop also should also include wifi and talkative regulars with fantastic stories)

High cost rent- This one you don’t always get what you pay for.  You could be paying through the roof for a location thats downtown next to Skid Row.  That said I’m extremely fortunate to have found the place I am at for the price I’m at (thank you roommie).

I think that’s enough for now.  I have another list coming up that kind of branches off of this one.  I guess now wouldn’t be a horrible time to go home after all.  But maybe for an actual vacation and not a potential “fun”eral.

Bettie.. who?

She's not telling

Most of my family still lives back home in Illinois.   There seems to be a huge barrier between me and a vast majority of them.  I’d been plotting my escape for as long as I can remember.

I always knew I was different.

A conversation with my mother about weekend plans bid many questions… and resounding answers.

I’m beginning to wonder if I was adopted.

I grew up in Suburbia Illinois in 2 small towns located in the tri-county area of Chicago.  You may remember them from such highlights in movies as: two crazy convicts fleeing from Joliet Prison and a marching band (that was my high school) in some 80′s cult classic about some kid who ditched class and ended up on a parade float.

I wasn’t that far from culture.  In the multiple cities I’ve lived in, I still to this day do not believe there is anything comparable to Chicago.  I have to say that though.  I’m bound by my Italian blood to be tied to a town that hosts Capone’s ghost, real pizza, and the most amazing hot dogs.

I was raised on comic books and holiday season overdosings of the Nutcracker and Gone With the Wind.

So how the hell this even happened is mind boggling to me.  But it went something like this:

Mom: So what are your plans for this weekend?

Me: Well there’s a gallery show that’s closing in Hollywood that I think I’m going to.

Mom: Oh really?  What’s the show on?

Me: It’s a tribute to Bettie Page.  All the pieces are inspired by her in some form or another.

Mom: Bettie who?

My jaw dropped.  Two thousand miles away and I think she could hear the thud.

Mom: What?

Me: Mom do you seriously not know who Bettie Page is?

Mom: No I don’t.  Who is she?

Me: She’s a pioneer in womens sexual revolution.  She was a famous pinup model.

Mom: What’s a pinup model?

I nearly dropped the phone.  I was so flabbergasted with her lack of knowledge on the subject I started to stammer.  How the hell do you explain what a pinup model is to your mother?  How the hell do you subtley touch on the fact that your daughter is a bit of a deviant without having to hear that “You really need therapy” bit again?

Mom: I don’t know what happened with you.  I slept with two people and married both of them.

Yeah, mom well… no wonder.

How the hell did my mother miss out on the tale of one of the most iconic and pivotal women in sexual history?

Me: Mom, she was… very ahead of her time.  The things she did back in those days were not “allowed.”  She was a brave woman who faced much adversity for being confident in her sexuality.  This didn’t make her a bad person however.  In her later years, she devoted herself to church…

Mom: I still don’t get it.

Me: Well the stuff she did was racey.  It was…

[brief pause]

…just google it.

[crickets]

Mom: Well the weather is wonderful here…

I wonder if she’s seen the image above.  I’ll watch my inbox for the self help book in the mail I suppose.