We're All Friends Here

My Patented Valentines Facebook Bingo--Feel Free To Play Along

2012-02-14T11:06:00.000-08:00

Tag your friends in the squares and get B-I-N-G-O!

Nose

2012-02-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

The first thing David said when he walked into the apartment this last weekend was "this place is a filthy mess, why is it like this? It's not usually like this."

Sorry David. Nothing really has a place anymore.

Nobody's given a shit about the fingerprints on the bathroom mirror for probably a few months now, and lightbulbs have burnt out and have left empty sockets in their absence. Because I'll at least throw away a bulb.

Here. Take a look at this webcam photo of the state of my living room and kitchen at the moment. He's right. It's not usually like this. We don't normally have a cardboard box being used as a side table, we don't normally have the Photo Booth sign pulled out of the closet. My bike is not usually a coat rack for crap.

Then again David didn't help by leaving his truck vacuum and rice cooker in the kitchen.

I attempted to move things to the house. In fact, the box fort that was in my bedroom has been relocated to the basement. But being given the go-ahead to move boxes, and being able to actually move boxes and not trigger people's emotions are two very different things on either side of a fine line that I toe every time I show my face.

This whole situation has been double, no triple, no...47 edged from the start. From all parties involved.

Here I am moving into my dead ex boyfriend's house, being given something very precious by his family even though I totally broke that boy's heart. And then here I am trying to be happy and excited for my move, picking paint colors and buying new beds for the kids but seeing the sadness of the family leaving their home sweet home.

It's not normally like this. You're not supposed to know the story of the people who lived in the place before you, you're not supposed to have dead boyfriends laughs embedded in the floorboards. You're not supposed to be guardedly guiltily happy about such an amazing thing as a house. And such a beautiful house it is.

It's clear that I'm going to just have to get this stuff done in a rush at the end of the month. I can't keep doing whatever it is that I'm doing to these people by trying to get anything done. Every time I'm there I pick up on the frustration and sadness. Every time I'm there I feel like all of the things that the family should be saying to the one who made the decision to relocate are said to me.

Maybe I was wrong to take "go ahead and start moving stuff in" at face value.

I mean, clearly I was.

And you know me, without any sort of proper coping skills. So I either play the laughter card or the pushy card or the sad sympathetic card and there are signals going off everywhere and I just can't process which ones I need to ignore in order to get on with this and which ones are really just these people telling me to back off and give them some time to grieve.

I have a lot of conflicting feelings right now and no place to put them.

I wish there was some way that I could afford some kind of therapy so I could have the tools to know how to cope with this stuff, though I'm told much of it is learned through age. I feel bad every time I have to contact someone just to talk at them and try to get them to figure it out for me because I can't see past the end of my own nose, I feel like I'm wasting their time. I'm very inward these days.

I wonder how much I missed by not being raised by a solid family unit or anything. I wonder if I have one of those disorders where social cues are unabashedly missed. To me, it's like I just don't understand why "no" won't do. I tried calling first, was told that wasn't necessary. I've tried knocking, and that's too formal too. So I'm just left feeling awkward.

I already know the answer here, which is just to back off until last minute. That's clear to me. But that's only one part of the problem.

See, I get boundaries. I don't get being inconsistent with them. And while we're on the subject, I don't like being mocked for finally having them myself, either. To finally stand up and say "I really don't care if you agree, this is what I need to do for my own mental health and stability" and be continually fucked with and having the big piece of meat dangling before my face with a big smirking "you could have this if you'd just put down that stupid invisible wall" is no way to treat any person.

I hope in my inability to see past my own nose I've not done this to anyone. Because it sucks, and it hurts, and it totally makes me question the practicality of any sort of familial relationships I've tried to go about repairing the healthy way.

To me, "not yet" will do.

To me, it would be appropriate to ask a person to leave instead of the invited guest having to leave themselves.

To me, making sure someone doesn't come and asking if they are is two very different things I've come not to expect anymore.

Or just do whatever the hell you want. People always do.

I don't get it. I feel guilty as hell doing something I was told to do and I'm willing to make things less convenient for myself in order to soothe others. Why is it hard for others to accept the notion of boundaries to the point where they push people away?

I'm not sure where I'm going to end up, is the thing. Inconsistency is all around me and I'm never sure who to trust. Things were so much god damned easier when I just stayed inside all day and never talked to people.

Golden State

2012-02-07T11:32:00.000-08:00

I'm in the place wherever Gypsy is from.

She had to come here and asked if I wanted to come too. I can now finally say I was sort of kidnapped by gypsies.

The ingredients for the coffee drink she bought me at Whole Foods (which I had never been to and will probably never go again) reads "organic brewed coffee, filtered mountain spring water, California almond, organic cane juice, and organic vanilla bean."

No artificial colors, flavors, or preservitives.

I added about a half cup of sugar to this shit just to make it right.

One thing that you may know about me is that I don't normally drink coffee. Well I'm also not normally on this side of the state. Then again, up until a few months ago, she wasn't usually on mine. The thing is that there is a lot of changes going on right now and there are loose ends to tie up, which is why the flip flopping has occurred. Before we can make my side of the state our side of the state, she must close out her books and hopefully pack this adorable diorama scene of little men in the rocks digging for fool's gold that I'm looking at. It's actually pretty bad ass.

There is history in every single place here. Not just in wherever it is that I am at, but in the corners of her old apartment and through the slats in her blinds. *Nods to the neighbor known as Suicidal Tim.*

Ha, this coffee drink says it was formulated to avoid genetically engineered ingredients. Boy isn't that something.

I like peaches and berries and all, don't get me wrong. It's just stereotypical California as opposed to Inland Empire California.

She'd left me here last night in the apartment with the television on, which--come on, the television is just a noisemaker to me. I checked my Facebook and raided her fridge for real food and only found lentil soup and Garden Burgers, and as the TV talked at me I realized I had been stuck with the news.

Oh the news. The news is why I sold our television set and canceled our service back in 2007. It terrified me and held me captive and could make me question the safety of my own light switches. I'd become so obsessed with it, such a "news junky" that I'd wait for one broadcast to end and I'd change the channel to the next newscast. And we're not talking CNN, we're talking local news with Mia Lee on KCAL9.

Strings of robberies two towns over and babies falling into swimming pools and murder suspects.

But seeing what's going on with their newscast, even from just watching the weather segment, I now understand why Gypsy just tells these folks that I'm "a photographer in LA." Because to them, where I'm from is just big gold letters across the bottom of the state labeled "Los Angeles." There isn't even a San Diego, it's like it all stops at LA and San Diego is probably just LA too. Just one of the cool beaches you can like go to or whatever.

I made the mistake of asking where the beach was around here.

Turns out I live closer to the beach than she did when she lived in this apartment, and that is very sad.

So the point A to point B explanation is, "LA." I get that now after encountering some of these people. Especially the Whole Foods people. I never really saw a hipster for real until I set foot in that market and fucking saw the scarf on an employee. From that point forward I knew these people were naff. And if that's not enough, we also hit the local casino and dealt with their superstitious gamblers, which are very different than the ones back at home who think Willie must be bumped into for good luck. Vibes are way different here.

It was a long car drive and I've learned that as much as I'd like to think differently, the middle of California is just empty. And the freeways are shaped exactly like the state. It's kinda crookedy and turny down in my part, and then it's about 5 hours of straight freeway with no curves or much more than a bunch of cows and maybe a few mating sheep. And there's fields and more fields and sometimes there's a canal. Then it turns and there's trees and things again.

I tagged along on this little trip for three reasons: one, I am Gypsy's backup for some important business she needs to attend to; two, I was curious to see my state as I've only really left the 50 mile radius of my home twice in the last decade--once to San Fran on a school trip and then to Vegas to get married; and three, Gypsy is my people and my friend and if there's anyone I want to go on a road trip with it's her forever more.

I generally don't like women but she is my wasband's woman and I don't think he could have done better if he'd married me himself. Oh yeah. Well...life paths, journey, etc. She is my exact, even if she keeps tofu and pesto in the fridge. This is the first time I've ever been away from my kids, if you didn't know. Thing is, as much as I complain about the lentil soup in the cupboard, it makes me smile that it is there because even though this woman no longer lives here, she still keeps food to feed her vegetarian daughter in every space. There's a bag of almonds on the counter and I think the salami I found belongs to Gypsy's father who has taken over the apartment as his home away from home.

I can appreciate that even though she never saw this place as a home--much like how I never fully accepted my flat as my home--I can still feel the motherhood vibes and smell them in the loaf of sprouted wheat bread. It reminds me of home because of all of the weird gluten free items we collect on behalf of Wade, so all of this meat free stuff is hilariously fine.

I met her daughter, which was quite the experience. I generally dislike teenagers and find them hard to relate to, but when she hopped into the back seat of the car she handed over a CD to listen to for the drive. Get this--it was the Lion King on Broadway original soundtrack. It's what she's been jamming to lately of all bloody things, with all the music out there she has to listen to at her stupid little school get togethers and giggly girl-fest sleepovers or whatever in god's name these kids are doing these days. THE KIDS LISTEN TO THE RAP MUSIC or whatever.

But not her.

I told her I'd seen the Lion King Broadway show about 10 years ago at the Pantages (accidental LA name drop.) I also told her that it was my favorite movie when I was about 10. I left out the details about the collection of at least 100 different action figures from the movie that my friend the Bombshell and I would play with in the back yard for hours, posing them on rocks or just setting up anywhere that looked good and pretty enough to play Lion King.

Her voice is quiet and has a very little bit of a Spanish clip to it. But she made up her own words to the African chanting in the Lion King songs. My favorite being "pink pajamas with penguins on the bottom." Sounds just like it.

About that whole TV talking at me thing--it's different when a teenage girl says "we must find and watch this show on Netflix" and then we pull up Workaholics and Portlandia.

Eating my whole foods cake and enjoying a laugh about "bieberhole69" and how the dream of the 90's is alive in Portland, I realized that my menfolk are going to fight over hanging out with her. Willie's going to be all over cooking for her what with her special diet, and David is already in love with the idea that she can teach him bass guitar.

Admittedly I did butter her up a little a few weeks ago when I had an actor from her favorite syndicated television show leave her a voicemail. Right, more perpetuating the lie that Beaumont is anything close to LA. But she'll figure that out when she's here. We're not down here rubbing elbows with anyone but ourselves on a crowded couch. It is only by chance that I have met the people that I have just like it is only by chance that I was born in such a grand and golden state.

I've decided that since she's intelligent and strong and sweet and good yet still a dash of trolly with her "I know your name is Jordan but I'm going to call you Taylor just because I don't like you" ways, I'll deem her Nala. Nala represents Ophelia as the Shakespearean explanation of things goes, but remember that Ophelia was incapable of her own distress. I feel like Nala could and would just go out and get whatever she wants when she wants it. I respect that ability.

And so it is rainy this morning wherever it is that I am--which by now you probably have already pieced together. It really matters not except for googleable terms for the time being. I don't think I like any other part of the state but my own, though driving through to visit is certainly a nice change. The trees are different here, the chaparral that covers my half is different than the scraggly woods and meadows with different birds than the ones back at home. The fridge here whirrs differently than the one back at home. The french fries seem soggier and the neighbors are a whole different set of trouble than mine.

Parts of this place seem the same as down there, with the rooftops that go on for miles in the tract home ranches that populate the earth like a bad breakout. I've barely seen any of it because it got dark too fast but the feel of it, truly, in the atmosphere and all, is just slightly fresher than the air back at home. Not that my air has gone stale, but it's got a familiarity to it. Mineral breaths, I call them. There's got to be something good to that smell. Hell, we're all still alive down there.

This two day trip has not quite shown me everything I need to see before turning the car back around, and that's our next task once I set foot outside of this door. I feel good for having come here, meeting Nala and scoffing at the snobby health food. I am not worried about my kids, I know they are in very good care with Willie--though I do miss Willie. The streak is still running, by the way. 38 days once I come back this evening.

I am thankful for safe travels, for being kidnapped by gypsies, and the taste of Whole Foods and their almond milk craptacularchino.

Maybe it's an acquired taste. Sorta like this state.

Broken Foot

2012-02-01T14:33:00.000-08:00

I walked up the steps of Brilliant Brains Academy with my applications in hand. A PE coach stared at me as he was walking with two students somewhere. Damnit. I'd asked Willie and Gypsy if my outfit was too slut-mom to go handle this but they both said I was fine. I guess maybe it could be worse, but my skirt suddenly felt short and my legs felt all exposed. All the kids around here are in uniforms, and my shirt sports a mustache with the words "over the hill."

I'm never prepared for any crowd, really.

The office ladies aren't like the office ladies at McMansion Elementary. These office ladies are older, not younger, and may have once been my own teachers when I was in this district. It's hard to remember, I've blocked so much from my early grades.

In my mind I'm saying "shit's getting real, I'm enrolling my kids in this fucking district I worked so hard to graduate from." What I really say is that I'm turning in the application to enroll two students. What else I really say is "we're moving to Yucaipa." What I leave off is "not a trailer park." My address on the forms has a real street name.

The crinkly old lady tells me that I must attend the lottery on the 3rd where students names will be picked at random to attend the school. I ask her if one of my boys gets in does it mean the other will too. She says no, and I think of Ty at home getting all weird and crack-addicted to his video games even though we restrict the hell out of them.

We went from an hour a day after work was finished and piano was practiced to weekends only. It's all he talks about even in his school work. He even started playing the music from the video games by ear on his piano--I can't punish him for that! He's being clever and doing something good yet weird and now I understand why Gypsy donated her Wii to a church.

His mind moves me in a way sometimes. I can never tell which way the wheels are turning. But even Mrs. Italian Opera agrees that he needs to be back in school again next year.

Then again if he doesn't get into the Academy it's not exactly like he still won't get into a good school, as my house is zoned for the best elementary school in town.

Why do I suddenly feel like I'm breaking my foot over this?

I've always cared about the schooling. I may not be very involved in the classroom, but then my standoffish nature is the biggest explanation for that. Both kids get high marks and access to books and nooks and answers and telescopes here at home but I'm not the one to step up and exactly offer my services. I was thrown into career day last minute and totally muffed the punt with the kid who said "why on EARTH did you take the color out of that otherwise good picture?"

You know who gets involved is Willie. He signs up for things but still tends to stay out of the PTA no matter how much they hound him. People at the school think he's Wade's dad, which he doesn't claim to be (and Wade wouldn't let him if he tried, as he's just barely getting the concept of "people in the grocery store don't matter, when they tell you that you and your daddy have beautiful hair just say thank you and go back to what you were doing.") He and Gypsy are taking a trip up to the community college this afternoon to enroll, and I'm trying to encourage him to become a PE teacher. He keeps telling me that he only signs up for things because he wants to be sure nobody mis-feeds Wade something with gluten in it but he's actually very good with kids.

I suggested how cool it would be to be "Coach G" and he smiled, kind of in the same way a man smiles when you say how cool it would be to be "Daddy."

I certainly think he's capable of it.

I just don't want him wearing those creepy short shorts like the PE teachers around here tend to wear in the upper grades. Yick.

Look at the improvements he's made in the last two years. He's sober, he's a wonderful step dad, he quit smoking cold turkey, he finally got over his fear of driving and got his license. School is the next logical step for him, especially because nobody thinks he's capable of it.

I told him you have to do more than survive, you have to rub it in their face.

I realized that a lot of what I did in life was in reaction to what people believed I could not do. One of the many siblings I was suddenly placed with as a teenager told me I would be knocked up and end up dropping out of 9th grade. I was like 12 when he said this, the asshole, I wasn't even thinking of having sex yet--hell I wasn't even thinking about thinking about having sex yet. I guess the less people expected of me the more I tried to do. Granted I did not do very well with my education, but I think I internally accepted my damage and accepted that it would fuck up my ability to really do anything moderately important in my life except maybe to be an example of what not to be to others.

I'm there on the ground with my broken foot, the lava pooling up closer and I'm saying "it's too late for me, just--just--go on without me. LIVE YOUR LIVES! RUN YOU FOOLS!"

I try very hard not to taint every person that I touch.

Oh no, I won't be attending any college courses but I'm totally cool with where I am. You though, you should go and be something.

My role throughout my marriage was the butt pusher. "Lookie lookie lookie, deadline is approaching, go get this application turned in." I painted the apartment when the background checking officer from CHP was coming over to pick up paperwork. I burned cinnamon scented candles. I offered bottled water. I guess as I told David "go do it" I was maybe being the most stable I've ever been in life with my position of bossing.

I truly do have low esteem and even lower expectations of myself. The very idea that anyone pays me to do anything still baffles me, and I'm amused as hell by it.

I want to see my children succeed in life because I feel that mostly nobody cared if I succeeded in mine. No one ever really loved me, they just faked it to get money from the government--or at least that's what I feel I became a product of. Perhaps of all the people who passed me around there was more than blood-love tolerance. Perhaps I just don't want anyone to ever have to repeat any of what I was put through, or think the things that I do when nobody asks.

It's exhausting.

I mean I think I've done pretty well but I'd love for all of them to do better.

Etheline

2012-01-29T21:22:00.000-08:00

We took two cars up to Victory lane for the first official load of boxes to store in the basement. It was during that golden hour of the day where everything has a buttery glow, and the view from the yard was of the valley below and the spectacular California sunset. The pond kind of burbled when I walked by, probably because I startled a fish or a turtle on my way to the door. I just walked in, knowing it was unlocked.

Victor's little sister announced me to someone in the other room as I set my stuff on the kitchen counter. She never makes eye contact with me anymore ever since I was given the house, she just looks straight ahead to my middle and kind of says hello. I walked into the dining room where his mom was sitting at the table sorting out what looked to be a junk drawer.

(I refer to these people as Victor's now, even in his lack of existence.)

She's so small, Etheline. And she was never small before but maybe I'm thinking of the young Suburban driving blonde she was back then. Now she sits scrawny with thin black hair but with hardly any age to her. All the housework has kept her young.

I tell her I'm just putting the first of my things in the basement and she tells me to have at it, saying she didn't even want to go down there because she knew her sons didn't clean it out like she asked and she just couldn't face the reality for some reason. But sure enough she changed her mind and charged ahead of me, descending the spiral staircase and discovering just how little they'd taken.

"What the hell? Why did he tell me to send these clothes to Good Will, these are all the clothes he owns! Some of them are his dads! Ugh, what's under this bed? Backpacks? A box full of important paperwork! HE DIDN'T EVEN THINK THIS OUT! Jesus, he wants to keep this armoir-- is it okay if we leave-- no, I'm sorry, I need to get all of this shit out of here before you guys move here because I don't want you to have to deal with it but I don't have any room for it up there! What am I going to do? Nobody helps me! I'm so-- I'm so overwhelmed I've got so much to do and I'm sorry and--"

She went on like this in her frenzy.

Back up the truck-- this woman has been in a frenzy as long as I've known her. Running the two younger boys to their soccer meets between taking Victor and I to the movies, and then throwing a baby in the mix. I don't know how many times she'd cried to me, telling me how stressed she was about every single thing in her life. Sometimes paying me to clean the kitchen because she didn't feel good and Vic would get upset with her if it wasn't cleaned up by the time he got home. God she was nervous about having that baby. God she hounded me about why I broke up with Victor (which we were incredibly quiet about, not really telling anyone for months.)

This woman seems frazzled but then she's always been frazzled. High strung and neurotic like one of those shivering little dogs.

I told her that everything was going to be okay.

What else do I say?

I mean, I'm in this awkward place where I'm sad that her husband is forcing her to move, because I would hate that if it was me (then again I don't get into relationships like that anymore) but I'm also excited as fuck to move.

I tell her that if there's a few things still in the house when I move in it's basically fine. If she doesn't have room for a shelf and leaves it, I'll just use it. And if she changes her mind and wants it back what am I going to do? Tell her "no, that's where we keep our stuff, you can't have it back?"

We walk into the other basement bedroom and right on the dresser that was left behind I see Helter Skelter. I chuckled to myself and said "Ah yes, the copy of Helter Skelter that Victor had checked out from the school library and never returned when they expelled him." I open the front cover and point out the Yucaipa High Library stamp to Willie. So much history here. So much. It's a wonder I'm not nutting up like Etheline.

She breaks down but continues to move things around and complain about her sons who are now grown with babies and babies on the way, but who used to give me Pokemon cards and ask me to watch them play video games.

It's clear by the balled up blankets and stick deodorant that the boys left this place without care or knowledge, or maybe they were running from the sentimental value of the space.

I pick up a book and can tell a story. Do you suppose those boys have just as many stories in the walls here?

I know that the little one is refusing to pack because she says it will make her cry.

I can't be the one to blame. They bought the other house and then offered me this one. It's not like it's the other way around and said "hey I know you really like this house but I need one so could I have it oh thanks yeah sorry your new house will be such a downgrade but it has a better view so FAIR!!!"

Etheline is telling me about all the work she's done and how much she's being told she isn't doing. Degraded. Discredited. Mocked. Forced to leave the house she's made a home for 15 years because the one up the street went on the market at a price her husband just couldn't afford not to take advantage of.

Is it wrong to feel awkward? To be patting her on the back and there there there pat pat pat but also moving my stuff in and wanting to feel excited about paint samples?

God damn, she's talking through tears at me and I don't blame her one teensie bit. Look at what she's leaving behind.

See, it puts me in a weird position. I want it for my own but I know why she's so upset. On the other hand, even if I stepped away it wouldn't change the fact that they're moving, and then they'd have to fill this house with someone else that they trust enough and have a good rapport with.

It's tricky and I'm not entirely sure how to sort it all out.

A Little Dab'll Do Ya

2012-01-25T16:13:00.000-08:00

She left to the airport not long ago to head back to wherever she's from to tie up loose ends and manage her very important arrangements for her very important life. Just when I was thinking that there are too many people in the same room at the same time with PTSD triggering off of each other and having moments, she had a flight to catch.

This is not the end. She will be back. She has to be back. We have her car. Willie even drove her to the airport in her car. This is not the end. In fact, this is the beginning.

Big Vic gave me the green light to give my 30 day, and is even promising me basement space for temporary storage of my boxes as of this weekend. No more box fort bedroom! And he goes "I just don't know what we're going to do with this pool table that's out in the garage, I guess we'll have to figure something out to do with it."

Oh my dear man. My dear sweet man.

It's beautiful out today, and I wore a skirt. I walked into my apartment office after school let out and looked out at the sparkling teal colored pool while the manager finished up a bit of work. Through the blinds the blue was bright enough to hurt your eyes and burn purple blobs into your vision. I waited, holding my left gun finger with my right hand.

The same lady who helped me when I picked up the paperwork eight years ago looked up from her work and asked if she could help with anything. I told her I was going to be giving my 30 day.

I've had my tiffs with this lady. Hell, I've called in to complain about this lady. But she's grown softer over the last few years and so have I. She's grandmotherly, or maybe just aunty. And her eyes were wide as saucers.

"You got a house."

And here I'd planned this whole speech.

I asked if there was a list of things that they'll charge for when I leave, and she said no. But I've had this flat for two years which means I won't be charged for paint, and that a little dab'll do ya on the nail holes. She looked at my file and it turns out that my entire deposit was transferred over from my old apartment, which is shocking as they don't do that here. There's always a carpet cleaning fee, always she said. Even if I got Joe's Carpet Cleaning Service and presented a receipt, even if I submitted lab tests with carpet fiber samples that are scientifically proven as clean enough to perform open heart surgery on, there's a carpet cleaning fee.

How I was not charged is anyone's guess. I at least expected to have to pay for the blinds the kids destroyed, but here we are.

So here it is, crunch time. Everything is sunny and covered in fresh paint, and fields are already green. I'm sure my big trees may even be sprouting their leaves soon.

Fuck me.

And so it properly begins, kinda. Gypsy spending this month with us has been fascinating, even though it wasn't really planned. I'm glad it happened, even though it was all in a tiny space, because if we can get along in a 750 square foot apartment I'm sure we'll be just fine when there's a whole god damned basement. And a man cave. And a back yard. And a whole house.

We did not spend every waking minute together, there were dates and errands and sudden deaths. But there were also giggly trips to the casino and samples at the candy store. Willie has a grocery store buddy, and I have a twinsie.

And David has what may very well be a serious source of happiness in the shape of a very lovely woman. I'm sorry that I will never be able to share her pictures here, I've been sworn to secrecy about her identity.

The story is getting better.

And here's a crazy twist for you, Gypsy comes with a 15 and a half year old daughter.

As I said, very important life.

Things moved very very fast but it doesn't take long to get to know someone and know if they are right for your circumstances. Sometimes you can even tell right away.

Sometimes a little dab'll do ya.

They say that a change is as good as a rest. When I finish with one project and move to another right away it all feels new for long enough to believe that I may actually have, not simply a new role, but a new job. Therefore as I will be moving and packing and all caught up with foster kid triggers and probably dead ex boyfriend triggers (I've been waiting for them to come, and so far I haven't had the dream I'm expecting yet) I am going to attempt not to remain as silent as I've been here as I feel that this is a very big life change that I need to document for myself so that I may reflect back on my growth and struggles.

I am sure I will have lots of reasons to write daily, though I may not be that noisy about it. Keeping the writing and the thinking flowing will give me great exercise.

My apartment is in a reasonable state of livable and I have packed away as much as possible.

Let the games begin.

No Place

2012-01-24T00:51:00.000-08:00

I am so mentally checked out of this apartment that I can't even pretend to be happy or comfortable here anymore. My creativity is zilch, my tolerance is zip, and my pride of ownership is zero. Other than maintenance chores like dishes, I can totally stand to not give a flying fuck about the carpet or the burnt out bulbs that are stacking in numbers.

I attempted to leave today just to Starbucks for writing time in any place but here, but all the stimuli just got to my brain and I ended up fucking around on Pintrest for an hour.

Normally I'd of found inspiration at Starbucks on a rainy day, watching the glistening pavement reflect cars and pedestrians, oil spill rainbows swirling in the gutters. Instead I searched for sugar skull girls and answered texts.

It's getting so small here.

It's not that the people are making it small. It's actually surprising how well we tend to get along considering how much time we all spend around each other all day in such a small space, but certain things help. For example, David and the Gypsy have really good chemistry. This makes me happy because he must now know what I was talking about when I said that he and I had none anymore but that I hoped he'd find it with someone as I had with Willie. Also we all tend to love food and tasty things and to be on the internet. I would actually prefer to be on it less but there is little else to do here.

I think the nights are getting crowded. I get the feeling of invading their space, and we try to keep our sex noises quiet. This is difficult considering Willie and I have literally fucked every day since new years and a little bit before, not always at night and sometimes more than once. We're like ninjas...or Gypsy is just being polite by saying she hasn't heard anything. Either way, we are all of us so much bigger than this apartment. And we are bigger than the nights we spend here with movies or video games and trying not to squeak the bed.

I called Vic tonight to ask about the house on Victory Lane and I was given very good news. They're scaling back on construction and getting painting and flooring done on their new house, which should put me in at 2012 come March.

I am this fucking close to Victory.

30 day notice, a few holes that need patching, and sayonara bitches.

It is sweet as pie to know that we are at the beginning of the end, that this will most likely be our last money order made out for $803 to some corporate whore. Shit's so real we've got paperwork started with the schools. These boxes stacked to the ceiling in my bedroom space will arrive in their new destination and I will be sprawling out in the back yard grass.

It's home, know what I mean?

Not that I haven't been entertained here in the apartment over the years. The big dopey fella who looked into my windows at night, the first six years where I stole an open network for my internet and who can forget the infamous Mustang Sally. The creepy neighbor lady who gives us expired food and now the stupid Dad Boy. The ducks who land in the swimming pool every spring and the kids who start fires in the laundry room.

If I hadn't of lived here I don't know how else my path would have been lead to Willie--though as he and I talk about our lives leading up to this point it's only by chance that we hadn't met before. There were times that we lived in the same area and would have attended the same high school. I'd probably seen him walking on one of my many trips to MoVal back when I was a foster parent. I've probably made eye contact with him a million times before he finally rode up on that skateboard.

Like a punk.

Punk.

Punk ass Willie Dean.

Unfortunately as much as it's a good thing that we are finally in the end game, I still feel like I'm in no place at all. Like I am between every place I need to be and not really connected to any of it.

The Slap

2012-01-18T18:10:00.000-08:00

This last weekend I went with David to get hair cuts. Our girl Holly happened to get a job in the salon that's been in my family for probably as long as the people who own it have been technically considered family. And you know who was there working was the person who is technically considered family, one of my sisters in law.

The last thing this person ever said to me was probably two years ago, and it was a nasty. It was intended to hurt. She said she couldn't believe that David put up with my shit (I was dating Willie at the time and he and I were already separated) and ended it with my family's most favorite line ever, "you're just like your mom."

And then promptly abandoned her husband and child to go live with a man in Vegas, then returning for whatever reason--to pick up the pieces I guess.

As Holly cut my hair, my sister in law talked about things I did when I was a little kid, like the fur coat I wore day in day out and even slept with, and haircuts she gave me as a girl, and created a general feeling of cognitive dissonance for me. On one hand, fuck this person. On the other hand, it's creepy that my ass is kind of being kissed.

It is very important to say that you are sorry, and it is also important to know that I am still likely never going to trust you or like you.

Stop looking at me, I'm only getting my hair cut. Yes I am here with David. Yes he and I are getting along and yes the kids are back at home with their step dad and bonus-grownup. I'm not 7 anymore and I don't need any help remembering what it was like when I was. Thanks.

I'm not sure what anyone really wants from me. I can only really live my life and be suspicious of the olive branches being pulled back to slap me in the face with their spiny fingers, leaving the sting of how I should have known better.

When I envision that olive branch striking me in the face, I see my short haired, blonde, fur coat wearing kiddo self with stinging red streaks across my cheeks and snot and tears dripping from the pain. I may be untrusting and unforgiving, but I've been through enough that life has taught me that being suspicious of everyone's motives is a survival tactic that has proven its self time and again.

We're all learning our little boundary thingies here.

It's so funny. I can sit and talk to Gypsy about our life experiences and how fucked up they are for hours.

Which isn't really funny in the "ha ha" sense.

More importantly, she's got David-Dirckvid down pat because she just fucking seems to get where the guy is coming from. Best of all, she has the patience for him that I ran out of years ago.

You know, David, who calls himself Dirck even though nobody else does. Back when he was Just David and I'd knit him things to keep him warm, only for him to say that they weren't warm enough or that it was just slightly off fitting, or that he totally didn't remember that the Thermos was made of glass on the inside, which shattered when he poured his iced coffee into it directly out of the dishwasher. Who called me to say that he had bugs living inside of his eyeballs, and tinnitus and Chronic Insomnia Disorder.

Who will snore all night and swear to you that he didn't catch a single wink of sleep.

David. Drove me up the FUCKING wall.

"I know you just saw me this evening and we were by a Wal-Mart but I forgot to tell you that I'm like completely out of food."

Which also sort of translates to "I don't like the things that are left."

Gypsy is so good to him though. She'll actually make the drive out to wherever he is and bring him medicine and hot food and comfort. And perhaps it's because 10 years of David has been so much of David that I just don't even hear the desperation in his voice anymore when he realizes what a mistake it was to not take the big bottle of ibuprofen I bought, but I am not going to drive out to take care of him even if he is 40 minutes away unless there's something seriously, seriously wrong and the problem was unforeseeable.

"He was really really hurting!" she tells me when she arrives back at the flat late last night. And I feel bad. He's had back pain as long as I've known him, but he also doesn't do the stretches assigned to him or get out and take walks like he should. And then there's touchy stuff like "Oh your throat hurts and you keep waking up coughing? MAYBE YOU SHOULD QUIT SMOKING, DORK!" I just don't seem to have the gentle nurturing in me like I did long ago.

Don't get me wrong, I have the duty of taking him shopping and then putting his foods away in his truck--even though he tells me that it all just gets mixed up and knocked over anyway, and I am aware of it. There are certain things that I do for David because I love him and I must care for him. I handle his accounts and remind him to make phone calls and play the part of His Official Secretary.

But for the love of god I am so glad for this Gypsy woman. She will drive out there to fix his back, she will drive out there because he wants Indian food.

And he's cute. It's his charm and his sad David voice and it's so easy to fall for. It just stopped working on me so much. She cares that his throat hurts and forgives the cigarettes--to an extent. As a cancer survivor herself, she's not too fucking thrilled with his decision to smoke considering his family health history.

But the girl ain't stupid. She'll bring him the cough drops and also take away his lighter. He'll mope about how he forgot to get paper towels and new socks, and she'll sit with him in the truck and say "Jessie took you to Wal Mart, why didn't you tell her?" As an extension she'll say "Maybe you should list the things you need so you don't forget when you go shopping."

And to that I say that's why I bought you the fucking notepad and the fucking dry erase board and said "maybe you should list the things you need so you don't forget when we go shopping when I took him to his truck the first time.

She even knows that this cooler he's begging for isn't going to be the end of his meals-on-the-road troubles, since it will create more dirty dishes than he already doesn't clean, and that cooking anything in that truck is going to cause it to smell like the things that he cooks which will cause him to complain more and probably cough more.

She's so loving and caring and giving and all of the things that David deserves and that I am either no longer obligated to do as his ex or am burnt out on giving as his partner for 10 years.

Thankful. I am thankful.

Everyone needs a Willie, and everyone needs a Gypsy.

Why she read this little blog here and decided that she wanted to be a part of it I will never know, other than she says she was pulled here by some strange force. Hell, I only continued on after the David's Doll chronicles because I felt like the story could be beneficial to someone who found it relevant but had nobody else to speak to.

I saw an ad for an "open relationship" support group on Craigslist that stressed it was NOT a swinger's party and that single men were not allowed, and that everyone was just there to talk. Naturally the next day there was an ad put out by a single guy who needed to have a girl escort him to a swinger's party that happened to be taking place in the same city at the same time on the same day as the so called support group.

It's hard to get in touch with like minded people.

For the gypsy to be like minded and also want to take care of David and bring him a softer pillow and dress him in corduroy is more than I think any of us could have expected. This is an adult sort of extended olive branch of peace, and for once I don't feel like I have to brace myself for the slap.

Spinning

2012-01-14T00:43:00.000-08:00

I'm writing from inside the box fortress tonight, otherwise known as my bedroom. Willie is breathing in air that makes whistling sounds while the wind howls past my crappy apartment grade window screen. The Gypsy is in the room I normally do my writing in, and so as not to bother her I've taken my laptop off of its security cord and into here to maybe say a few things before picking up my e-reader to have at some badly written porn-fiction.

There goes that wind again. Aching and moaning like a sick person.

I suppose it will never stop.

January has been slow for business. I've done one shoot. One. But on the other hand I've been taking a lot of phone calls. I have some contracts due coming up soon here, which is good, but all of the phone calls are for scheduling work in other months. At least I have something to look forward to.

I've come to the point in my big moving process where I have nothing to actually do, though. It puts a damper on things. I've packed everything we're not using, including things I didn't think we'd be packing till the move but I'm just that damn motivated. Hence my box fortress bedroom. My stacked box night stand. The boxes I've tucked my glassware and book collection into. Boxes in the corner that have yet to be filled.

I'm spinning my wheels in the mud.

The latest is that we will move in March, that the city had to come out and look at their new house because of something involving a slope and the nice firemen wanted to see the hydrant. Plans are drawn up and shit is supposedly getting started, and I don't want to be an asshole by calling every day to make sure they put in the phone calls they were supposed to.

I mean I want to do that, I do. But it probably won't help anything and I'd less enjoy making myself to be a pest who has the reverse effect of this move by demotivating them.

Let's say I'm keeping the gun in the holster lest I shoot myself in the foot.

But, I do need to get that 30 day in and start tying up my ends here.

It seems that everyone will be getting a fresh new start with the move. The boys will have a yard and Ty may potentially attend a charter school, which would negate the need for Willie to be home all day and he could get back into working--or better yet, into school. David's all up in this new relationship, which is working out famously I should say, and clearly the Gypsy will be starting over here in "LA" as she calls it.

Wherever it is that she is from, they call where I am from Los Angeles. And that I am a photographer in LA, which is how anyone knows me from anywhere else. It's kind of neat, the Cali mind that we're all down here rubbing elbows with celebrities and taking their pictures. (Actually, I once sold lemons, soybeans and eggplant to Suzanne Somers while working my tomato girl job, and I do have published celebrity photos. So Cal publication, doesn't matter got paid.)

She gets this cool fresh start here in the land of things that are NOT Los Angeles no matter how much you pretend (and there is no reason to pretend, as where I live is quite beautiful) and not to mention be around people who aren't walking around with a head fulla' mad.

I will be excited to have a place separate from the common area to write and work that is also separate from my sleeping quarters or anyone else's sleeping quarters. Or doing stuff quarters. I will have my own doing stuff quarters and for this I cannot possibly be more excited.

In the mean time, it seems that we are all stuck in limbo together. We did not intend to come together this early prior to the move, but we accidentally did and it's for the better anyhow. Now Gypsy, she is a very good person and a very much like me person but there is no need to go into what she walked away from or why she's training us to eat raw almonds. There is nothing to go into with her because I am not her storyteller, she is her own storyteller and she is not ready to come out with it yet. All the reader must know is that she is here, she is a part of my story and will be written into it as it is relevant, and we're glad she finally came along. David is all happy and girl nervous and it makes me happy to be his friend. Silly Dirck.

What I don't know is exactly when we are moving and it is driving me batshit, so I'm trying to pass my time with matching up Craigslist jobs with people who may or may not need them. Example, a model friend of mine who recently became homeless should know about the retired couple who needs help cooking and cleaning and has a trailer for her to stay in. My niece should know that there are guys who will pay to lick feet.

Also I've been writing really bad porn-fiction that is real estate based just to make a few quick extra bucks. It is bad. It is nothing I will share. I am basically just typing what the three of us come up with on boring evenings under a pen name and collecting ill gotten royalties. It's a nightmare.

As I said though, work has been slow.

Tonight David is driving through to home, probably grouchy from scattered sleep and congested from smoking with a cold.

This weekend there will probably not be a single serious moment.

Knowing that he'll be home in just a few short hours, I get ready to shut down and turn in, maybe catching a few digital pages of harlequin romance that bores me to hard sleep.

Citrine

2012-01-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

There is a breath I take when I am near the beach. It's not to smell the air, it's not to intake the salt spray, and it can even happen in January when there's fog and KCAL 9 news vans parked at the pier. If it had a color, I'd be taking in periwinkle. Soft grey-blue-purple depending on the light. And it only happens once because--well come on, I've been to the beach many times but not as many as I probably should, which is why the color sits periwinkle and mixed, not one certain shade or the other.

Did you ever know how lucky you are?

There are these waves and these ambitious salty surfers, and drivers on the 91 with boards in their passenger seat, talking on the phone like they don't even care. A seagull managed to find a big ass whole clam but drops it as I approach like maybe I want it and will harm him to get it. I took off my foam flip flops and wandered away, only for a wave to gently lift them and glide them across the sand to me so that I can just step right back into them. I can barely see the sun let alone the end of the pier as it gets lost in the fog and the only available light is the citrine sunset.

I see the exact beach cruiser that Willie has, but it is covered in rust from the sea air.

All of Newport is like this.

Low tide even means you can walk under the pier and see all the clusters of muscles stuck to the beams. On the pier, a man who is either homeless or just doesn't care that he looks it points out to his buddies a trail of drippings that he swears was made by the king crab he caught. At the end of the pier is a two story bar and grill (the first story is never ever used, but there's a bar there nonetheless.) Being treated to dinner by clients who also happen to be friends, and also happen to be on their engagement shoot, we sit by a big plexiglass wall where we can watch dolphins flip and seals bob playfully in the waves with the surfers trailing not far behind them.

The Pacific Ocean laps playfully maybe an hour from my front door and I never take the time to go visit it. And certainly when I have, it's never been in January of all months.

I have a very strong urge to go back to this place, and nothing, except maybe my fresh lobster tacos, makes me want to go back to this place more than this.

How, in 28 years have I never noticed this? It's Newport, we're not even talking about Pismo or anything special. How is it that "my beach" is Coronado when this is like 55 minutes away?

Clearly, I need to reassess.

The Place

2012-01-02T14:10:00.000-08:00

Cardboard. It's a very nice color, isn't it? Kinda sandy and old and reliable, reminds you that nature is often made of browns. Unless of course you are in Southern California, as I am, where everything is currently lush and green and wildflowers are beginning to sprout in the cracks in the sidewalks. (And you can't prevent cracks in the sidewalks here, that old reliable brown earth stuff? It shiftier than a drunken party clown.)

This isn't just a January thing, it was like this in December too.

Both the early spring and the cardboard, I mean. My fasting python was tricked by the change in the weather the other day and gobbled up his first meal since November, and all that cardboard started popping up filled to the brim in my bedroom. The walls of this flat are bare, shelves that I hadn't intended to clear are disassembled and lacking the things I meant to keep on them to remind me of home or warmth or whatever knick knacks and old cameras remind me of. All but the Poppets are down from the shelves, all but the clothes in our closets and the things we eat from or sit and sleep on are being boxed away and added to the stack.

At night we check the dumpsters for more boxes because my "slow project of just putting a few things away at a time" has spiraled.

I like the boxes. They're a very nice reminder.

It's getting closer to go time even though I'm still without an official update since 12/14, but we all feel this. It drives me. It drives the gypsy girl who, as it seems, we've taken on much earlier as a resident than expected. She's still between this place and the old one, but something tells me--her, us--that it's just easier to be down in this place than any other. The produce is cheaper down this way and it's totally not hard to find hemp milk and raw pumpkin seeds (pepitas, we call them) and sunflower-chokes. Avocados for 40 cents apiece.

She drinks lemon in her water, and god help her she's a god damned fucking clone of me.

So there's a running joke.

She also has an ex David in her life (not David-Dirck) who made her a teenage parent if that's not parallel enough. The joke in her David's family is that the girl her David is currently with is "Gypsy 2.0" because she's so creepily similar to Gypsy.

For anyone who wondered if David's family might like this Gypsy lady better than me--the answer is no. Because the other half of that joke is that Gypsy is "Jessie 2.0."

Did he mean for it to be that way? Did any of us? Oh certainly not. But it's kind of ridiculous how she just sort of clicks into place here, like that tattered cornered puzzle piece that maybe got soft from all the time in the box, but the picture still works and the piece still fits. It's faded, but it's the piece, and it's the only piece that will go.

David, Dirck-David I mean, is happy as a clam. We all are. She's Willie's butt-buddy or something, two Cancers with birthdays just a day apart from each other. I wake up every morning and hear those two either whispering or giggling or whispering AND giggling and then this morning they took off to the grocery store and came back with all this health food and a fat fucking jug of honey.

This weekend was kind of just supposed to be a visit but she hasn't left either.

There is no other place just like this place. So, this must be the place.

And this isn't even the place.

The place at 2012 Victory Lane is the place, and I am waiting for a phone call telling me a ballpark move-in date. I know not everyone is on top of their shit like I am, but to give them some credit I am only so on top of my shit because I am driven by anxiety. When are we moving? When is their house gunna be done? ~~What if something falls through last minute and we can't move?~~ No wait, I pretty much cleared that one up. And I can't be thinking all negatively like that anyway. Chin up, stiff upper lip look at all the cardboard around you and feel comfort.

I have lists. I don't quite have paint samples yet but I have lists. And a new fangled device to help me make lists because Gypsy gave me her brand new tablet/reader thing because she's more of a smart phone and laptop sort of person.

I have the technology. And the persistence enough to make it my bitch.

I'm not OCD level but I am very, very determined.

I tossed and turned last night. Tossed and turned and then posted to Facebook from my device and tossed and turned some more. I read some really bad free erotica from the Barnes and Noble market (seriously, "her orgasm came like greased lightning.") At least I did not disturb Willie who chooses to get up at the ungodly hour of 6 AM to "handle business." Little did I know, Gypsy was also not sleeping and had she seen my post of boredom and sleeplessness she'd of told me to come back out and play. We're just a couple of regular not sleeping people. We're twins.

Except that she seems to have that pale white redhead skin like David that blisters and reddens just from checking the mail, where as I turn brown as a nut in the summertime.

Willie's been out driving all day, driving to the produce market and driving David back to the terminal after garden burger and fresh guacamole dinner. They brought this pretentious natural orange soda from San Francisco with them and left me with five different containers of nuts. And now the air is tepid and my windows are left open to bring in this fresh spring air. I feel like this could easily be a Yucaipa night if just shifted over 10 miles or so.

Is it obvious that I'm anxious to have my answer? I totally feel like I'm chasing a carrot here.

Tomorrow I start work again officially, in that I took to only taking phone calls from new clients after the 19th and asking anyone else to please hold. Things are not super easy to run during the holidays, especially when I'm so into packing right now. Unfortunately, holding my camera feels too much like work to me and so I haven't really been taking any pictures at all. I regret this because I didn't take a single photo on Christmas, and if I ever get around to making that Christmas album I've talked about all these years all 2011 will have is photos of the boys decorating the tree right after Thanksgiving.

I shouldn't have to force myself to take pictures. But then, if I don't, it won't be done. There's a lesson in this.

I need to get out more and do what I used to do, especially now that this place is totally out of control in the green department. The olive trees on Oak Valley flash a light sage and white and almost look HDR against these bright blue skies. Unfortunately, I've encountered some really fun clients who have wound me up tighter than a guitar string thinking that I also double as their wedding planner and will make phone calls to other vendors on their behalf to make reservations and place orders, or who plan elaborate shoots at expensive places and expect that the expense is mine for what they are asking to do. My photography, as a personal craft, has been set down.

Possibly why I am pressing to move so badly when I know it's January 2nd and January 2nd is NOT "January-February" is because I am looking for a fresh routine and it's hard to do this in a place I no longer like, and never truly saw as anything more than a transition home to begin with. It's hard to set up boundaries for myself, like separating work time from play time, when I don't even have a space to do any such thing in. I get my work and my play done in the common area of the living room, which almost always contains at least Willie and now Gypsy and the electric pencil sharpener that Ty comes out to use at least 14 times a day while doing his school work.

Trust me, I love spending so much time with Willie and there's no one I'd rather spend 95% of my time with each day, minus picking Wade up from school and the occasional trip to the store, but when he moved in here I know that I became a monosyllabic idiot who can barely update a blog properly but I mostly blame it on lack of physical space in which to do all of the things I need to do--which are generally contained in one machine. It is not his fault in particular because I do need to know, to myself, that I am the one with the problem.

Mostly a staring problem. At his ass. And stuff...

But I am starting for now with designating certain days for certain tasks, and dividing up the hours correctly and fairly most to me. A clean slate after a short break was just what I needed to grab hold of this thing. Don't count it as a resolution as it's more like taking shit back under control, fixing my heart with all these nuts and avocados and working within the parameters of the workspace set out before me and organizing it all into little boxes--be it cardboard or calendar.

2011's Face Blew Through My Windows And Sent Pieces Flying All Around My Room

2011-12-26T10:25:00.001-08:00

Music: This is tough, I did so little new music this year because the old stuff is just so good. I didn't have much time for the ukulele, but I'm hoping to change that in 2012. I learned what dubstep was, and liked it for about 5 minutes until it made my shirt vibrate (I guess that's how it says good morning?) but Ty started taking piano lessons and is ridiculously good at it. And if you ask Mrs. Pennywhistle, his piano teacher, god himself wanted Ty to have the piano that practically fell into our hands. So I guess the best music of 2011 is the soft silly music of Ty, who writes his own songs and can do neat tricks like switching his right hand with his left hand, or playing one song with his right hand and another with his left, and knows what the circle of fifths is.

Do YOU know what the circle of fifths is? I mean really, mathematically, scientifically know what it is?

Are you also eight years old?

Here he is transposing the Peer Gynt Suite to different keys a few months ago.

Person: This was David's year, hands down. In the spring he finished school, finally got the hell out of those stupid bins, and hit the road. Though he did not see all 48 states or ever whip out his passport, he saw enough to know that California is the only place to be. He's been everywhere man, he's been everywhere. He's been to Nevada, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, Arizona, Colorado, Oklahoma, Wyoming, Montana, Nebraska, South Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Georgia, Connecticut, Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania. All in a matter of like three months.

Getting paid to travel is all he could have ever really hoped for, and now he feels like his job matters. His job moves the country, he is a part of something that makes the United States run--even if it is a bunch of Gucci purses. Besides that, he was finally able to grow facial hair in more than just patches.

Also he's going by Dirck now even though nobody calls him that. Fuck he's handsome, huh? Yes, it's been pointed out to me that I broke up with him right when he got hot. I'm aware of it. I'm still David's Doll, but it's time for him to fly and find his heathen honey like I found mine. And Damnit, he has. Gypsy really is a neat lady you'll be hearing more about. I just don't want to freak out the family members who have just gotten to making eye contact with Willie after two years of him being around (he even got a Christmas present this year!) with too much information to handle at once, lest we be accused of corrupting the children with our "lifestyle." Yes, that same "lifestyle" that David's parents said they didn't approve of and therefore wouldn't come see their grandkids. I don't see how any of that is productive, but I've learned that everyone learns at different speeds. That's okay. David is light years ahead.

Day: April 2nd, the day Willie proposed. Even though it's lead to dates being made and then dropped, wedding planning at the funeral home, dead ex boyfriend's back yard and a sunny yellow vintage dress that will be a challenge to get me into, he did propose and whatever that ends up meaning for future plans I know that right now I have the most bad ass wooden ring and some kind of plan on the back burner for whenever I can get to it. Regardless, that day was so cool. The nature walk, the wooden bench, jam and jelly tasting afterwards. I can still taste the sugary sand of the quince jelly we tried. It was so sunny that day, and the little brown box tied with twine that he pulled the ring from matched the old wooden fences surrounding the merps in the lake. That was a good day, even if you take out the events, it was probably the prettiest one of the year just all on its own.

Month: Spring was good to us. We got a hefty $7,000 tax return not including Willie's, and it made our transition into David's new job a breeze. We paid four months rent in advance and ended up being completely stable on David's tiny externship sized paychecks. I'd say that March was good because we all learned a lot of growth and breathing room. David and I were apart from each other for more than 100 miles, more than 24 hours, and we learned that it's hard. But it grew easier over time. I still miss him hard when he's gone, but then he's always been gone. It helps now that he's at least in the same state. But it was good to get that first month out, and have it be so financially easy on us at the same time. Not to mention, that was the month that I bought a ticket to the circus and ended up networking my way into a booming business this 2011. For not being sure that I even wanted to spend the money on it, going to that circus sure paid off in spades and I'm still getting thwacked with boomerangs from it every now and then. Not just in photography, but hell, that's where I met the snake boy who helped me set up my ball python's tank. It's where I made some friends and learned a lot. What a cool month, March was.

Book: This year I read Pygmy by Chuck Palahniuk, Memoirs of a Geisha, some piece of shit called No Time For Goodbye, The Lace Reader (which was bland and never perked up like I'd hoped) Tethered by Amy MacKinnon, The Patron Saint Of Liars (went nowhere,) and Tell All by Chuck Palahniuk, which I was disappointed with. So of these, the only good ones were Pygmy, Memoirs of a Geisha, and Tethered.

If I were going away for a week and could only take one of these books with me, it'd be Geisha. I've never seen the movie, but I don't think I need to. I was even able to get David to love it even though he felt less macho for reading it in front of a dude on his truck back when he was partnering. Second would be Tethered, which I stayed up until 5 AM to finish one night, that one was damn good. I liked Pygmy just because Chuck finally put out something decent since Invisible Monsters. Fuck Chuck, get with the program!

Memory: Picking David up from the terminal to take him home for the first time. I don't recall it clearly, so many times that I've been down there have been much easier, and why I pick the sad and hard to remember one to be my favorite I don't know. I guess because of how enriching it was to my learning experience, and how good it felt to have him back home again. Or maybe it was how he used to freak out when getting into the car, yelling OH MY FUCK WE ARE TOO CLOSE TO THE GROUND WE'RE GONNA CRASH! FUCK! I'M IN A TIME MACHINE! I AM IN SOME SORT OF TIME MACHINE! JESUS! OH SAVE ME JESUS! FUCK!

Yeah, that had to be it.

PS, I have a little gift for my readers. I know I don't blog nearly as much as I did back in the days of David's Doll, and it's getting worse now that I have a real no foolin' job with this photography business that's got me working day and night. In case you're interested, and you miss the mundane "this is what I did today" posts, you might be interested to know that I fired up my old Youtube channel, and I'm striving for frequent uploads. Enjoy.

Good night 2011, and thank you for everything.

Victory Lane

2011-12-19T18:30:00.000-08:00

I managed to make it something like 16 days into December without getting terribly depressed over something, but that too passed and I'm almost to my birthday.

Look at me all not posting a wishy washy teardrop sadfest post on December 7th, digging up my unresolved feelings of how bad it sucks to have a dead ex boyfriend. I've grown. And, well things have come full circle. It helped that a close friend of mine admitted that she was also going through weird my-ex-is-dead feelings and doing weird things like searching online for obituaries and staying up late to think about the things that I have often thought about, unable to really place it or explain it but knowing that it's there.

But I think I've somewhat moved on from that phase...if not fully submerging myself into a totally new one.

The dead will totally haunt you.

You'd think it'd just be over but then, as I said, things come full circle.

In the beginning of 2011 I decided that my theme this year would be "victory." Like, when someone asks why I still live with my ex I'd say "that's my victory." A very "fuck you" way of saying "fuck you for asking, fuck you very much." I wanted to approach the year with a very take it or leave it stance, and I just didn't want to have to defend myself anymore. I've defended myself my whole life, and I've crouched down and people pleased and god damnit, I wanted to grow from that.

It doesn't help that I thought I was 28 all along. Yeah, somehow I forgot to be 27 and skipped the whole damn age. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I realized that tomorrow, the 20th, is my actual 28th birthday. No use getting upset over it, if nothing else maybe it will work its self out in the end and I'll get an extra year. I don't know how that works, but it's probably more likely that I'm being ridiculous.

Or maybe I could be one of those ladies with a 28th birthday every year. Cakes made by the grandkids, ordered at expensive fish restaurants, all bearing 28 candles. Yes. Although I think my mother did the very same thing. Then again, she wasn't nearly as classy as I am. Or sober.

I got through 2011 with everything intact, including my family. Health is sub-par but I'm doing emotionally better than I thought I could have been this time last year when I wasn't sure I could have sisters and also boyfriends all in the same elephant filled room. But everything has smoothed over, or at least on the surface it has in a "fake it till you make it" fashion, which is totally my victory.

David is out moving America and we're raising the bar for our standards of communication. Talking things out instead of just living with it. Unlike in our failed and vanilla sex life, David and I now have a safe word to use when things get out of hand and the situation is getting too intense for one of us to handle. David, who often says the wrong words, and I who often sounds angry or snarky, have a way of bringing things back to neutral ground instead of reacting off of each other.

"OKLAHOMA, this isn't working for me damnit, OKLAHOMA OKLAHOMA OKLAHOMA motherfucker!"

It's a work in progress. But hey, those words right there, work in progress are all positive and also suggest growth toward victory.

And yes Willie is still here at the end of 2011 and yes I love him and that is unapologetically, brashly, my victory. Everything seems to be working out so well and I'm terrified yet excited that we're gonna go and change it pretty soon here. Not with us, no, the Triforce will always be what it is regardless of the truck's location or who wants to pull on its edges, wrap up in it and gather up a weird collective warmness. It's of course the part in the story where we change where we live. And maybe that's not significant to all folks, but it is to us.

After all, David and I plopped down here in December of 2004. That's seven years in the same location. We had this tiny little tree in a plastic planter that we took with us when we moved from the apartment that was destroyed by water damage. We ate pizza on the bare linoleum floor the night we got the keys. Wade has only ever lived here and we met Willie here.

The move has been a long time coming, and it is in this transition that I feel that in everything I do there is victory and that I have risen above being just a name on a Christmas tree in K-Mart.

Foster kids grow up to have weird lives. Turns out I grew up to have one too, but that's my fucking victory.

Now, not too long after I said the word victory I questioned it because of how Victor-y it sounded. In trying to move away from the damage that relationship caused me and what was drummed up in me in his death, I wondered if victory was too Victor-y of a word.

But I think I've finally just come to accept and love my past, or that part anyway, and realized that no end of an existence of a human being will ever end their existence in your past, or occasionally your future.

Full circle.

I want to show you my new home on Victory Lane.

The nice people who are giving me their house is Victor's parents.

It doesn't matter what happened 10 years ago. His dad told me that when I showed up on their doorstep after reading the obituary. Actually, it does matter, because what matters to them is that I did love their son and I straightened his short life out till the very end. I got him off of drugs and broke him of bad habits and loneliness. I showed the weird guy in the trench coat some respect.

They've moved on. I have too.

Though I will no doubt check on the hole in his old bedroom door from that time he and his dad got in the fight, the one they cover up with posters now.

I'm into entertaining ghosts, which might be why I have such a hard time moving on from my past at times. Old Mr. Shoemaker, the man who built the house, is said to haunt the place. Victor's mom blames it on suction and air currents but a window in the corner of my grand living room/photo studio opens its self. Upward. Which is not something that suction and air currents does because gravity ain't that slow. Naturally it's the window Old Mr. Shoemaker used to sit by and smoke his cigars.

I don't smoke, but I suppose if the mood strikes me I'd learn, just to entertain the old man for a while.

Or myself.

Yes, this is the house I used to go to as a kid, where my photos are on the walls like maybe I never left or maybe I never even grew up.

But I have grown up. Know how? At the big dinner party where the lights were lit In Loving Memory, all these REAL adults with grey hair and careers and pocket shirts and coffee smells asked Victor's dad who gets the house, now that they're leaving it.

Out of all those people, he pointed to me and said "my girl Jess gets it."

I did something. I realize that now and I know that it's not bad. Not bad at all.

The world that you need is wrapped in gold silver sleeves left beneath Christmas trees in the snow.

I won't be starting the new year off at 2012 Victory Lane, but it's close enough for me to feel its comfort.

Snuggled tight and dreaming of not having to write "apartment" as a part of my address. Tinkering with the idea of a cloud painted mailbox. Dazzled by a fresh cut lawn.

Victory.

Love, 2011

2011-12-04T23:54:00.001-08:00

Jess,

You decided to go on an impromptu hike today on your favorite nature trail. You didn't have the right lens and you were all dressed in mismatched outfits, not to mention your hair was shitty and unwashed due to the lack of towels that morning as they were in the process of being laundered and you're one impatient and lazy person on Sundays. But the hike turned into a family photo shoot, and you, for one time in your simpleton life, got photos of your family just being themselves and they turned out to be something to write the fuck home about.

You never get good shots of your own. "The cobbler's children go barefoot," as you tell people.

They're not the same kind of photos you'd take for any other family. You wouldn't allow cool guy hats and cool guy glasses if they weren't all across the board. You wouldn't allow so much dust to be kicked up from the leaves, and you certainly wouldn't stop to take a shot or two of a woodpecker above your head. But that's not how this went because it's them, and they're yours. You have the most handsome men in your life and you are surrounded by them and their love. No one could ask for better.

December is hard, but remember not to press the mirror to hard, lest it shatter.

Look at the now.

Look at him.

Look at them.

Anyway, much luck for the next 26 days.

Love,

2011

Evolved

2011-11-29T14:30:00.001-08:00

I've had many people tell me over the last few recent years how damn good looking David is. And he is. Really. Really good looking. And so much more grown up now that he can actually grow facial hair! I'm currently researching mustache wax because guess who has the makings of a handlebar? Yes, David-Dirck-Whoever has real whiskers now and has trouble drinking his soup cans.

I knew he wouldn't sit on the market for long.

I'm just glad he stopped looking at the barely legal lollypops who he was going after in the first place. Between the one who got pregnant from another guy literally in the same week that David had gone on a date with her, and the pizza girl who made out with him even though she was so in lesbians with the girl who had the baby, and then that Nerdbomber who wanted to literally be his everything (never mind the kids they have a mom lol!) I'm super thankful for how things have changed.

I'd met the Gypsy first. David was still out trucking when she arrived, and fit in very very well. Same type of humor, similar past living situations, etc. I called David and told her this and he asked if she was hot.

"Well," I said, "compared to the 20 pound 17.9 year olds you were chasing before, no."

Later he told me he'd regretted asking it as soon as it was out of his mouth because he remembered that he's not shallow.

No, not shallow, but a pain in the ass picky motherfucker.

It's taken me nine years to get him down pat. To know that he's not a good decision maker and that his brain runs just a little slow because of all that is processing inside, like a very capable super computer that just needs a bit of time to find the information it is looking for. He is funny and good and everything he's been through has taught him well. He needs taken care of, but it's hard not to want to. So sweet, so loyal, so just David.

Back when I Was David's Doll (Blogger archives are still closed but MSN is open) I didn't always tell the whole story, which is why our demise came as such a shock to readers. If you were to skim the archives you'd see that every now and then I'd mention how much he drove me up the fucking wall when he was home on vacation or in my immediate space for too long. I wrote these things with a bit of humor mixed in, but in truth I can really only handle David in small, carefully measured doses.

And that's no way to feel about your husband.

I miss him more now that I understand him better, now that I've taken a step back and really examined the things that made us fail. But even he couldn't see what was going on right before his eyes because he was too darn close to the situation and too set into his routine. Yes, David was an excellent husband so long as what we were doing followed his husband-being routine. It was probably, regrettably, all me. Because I can't stick to routine and I don't fall into plan with others.

Oh how many times did he ask me to close down this blog?

Imagine if I had.

We're All Friends Here was born when we'd finally found a breaking point and had a very sink-or-swim situation. Willie wasn't quite living with us yet and was drinking pretty consistently, to the point where Stacey threw me the question "Have you actually ever seen him sober?" I couldn't say for certain that I had.

There was a point where we were all room mates and lovers and exes and friends, until we evolved to just plain family. I could never write about this stuff as David's Doll.

I joked a few times back when I Am David's Doll was the title that if I ever broke up with David I could change it to I Was David's Doll, then Now I'm {insert name here}'s Doll. But that's far too much not letting go of David and I didn't see it as productive for either one of us, considering these archives will one day be read by our grown up children when they want to further understand the roots of their parents, and then one day our grand children and great great grandchildren.

That's pretty pretentious of me to assume that they'd want to read this garbage. Then again, if I were able to read my great great grandmother's journal, I would. Especially since I don't even know who she is.

I've been asked if there would ever be a possibility of ever going back to David, or maybe just having both of them like I did for a time. My answer to that is always the same.

David is a damn good looking guy. I love him and he is familiar and we've been together for so so so many years that we think nothing of even seeing each other naked or even sharing the bathroom for various tasks. I could totally have sex with David and it wouldn't make a damn difference in our lives. I could do it right now and it wouldn't even be a problem to Willie.

But I don't do that. Why? Because first of all what would that make me if I had sex with someone I didn't even desire but just found convenient? Giving a hand job is easy, vaginal fisting--okay so that's kind of hard core and weird but possible with the ol' high-school-try and three or four bottles of lube (from what I hear, I don't know of this personally.) Despite the rumors in the mommy forums, my high school halls, and within my family, I am not a slut nor am I easy.

Yes I had sex in high school. With my boyfriend of three years. And yes I had sex with David while he was a minor and I was legally an adult. But here we are today.

Plus, I do want to see David move forward and find his Willie. He's not going to go out there and find it if the hand jobs are so easy to come by here at home. Could I physically? Yes. But that would really spoil the point of having David find his own happiness. I'm not an evil bitch queen just stacking up ex boyfriends on my couches and soaking up paychecks, despite those rumors we talked about.

This Gypsy, though new, has made David very happy. He's not being all stupid and OMG I LUV HER like a 12 year old on Facebook. He literally said when I asked how she makes him feel, he said "happy."

Our wedding night was the night when he and I made a pact to always make sure that the other is happy. And two years ago he realized that I had someone who made me truly happy, regardless of what David and I have been through and what we feel for each other. It's a strange agreement and it stopped all the freebies but in the end, as I've said many many many times, the Triforce has never been about sex.

David is a damn good looking guy, and all the girls want him. Chi had a sex dream about him and now Stogie doesn't want the two of them ever left in the same room alone (which is retarded.) That sad girl threw her vagina at him like it was the Sunday paper promising how tight it was and how she's like omg super kinky and she even like does those "passion parties" so she knows a lot about toys (bitch please) and David ignored it because she seemed a little baby hungry and strung out.

To make things slightly more awkward with our potential future room mates, Daily seemed to have a very high opinion of him when she'd met him, and said some off the collar stuff about "if she were single." In fact when she and Brooks were here for Thanksgiving, she lightly flirted with him and got kinda touchy, except that every time she went to touch him she'd shock him. I guess the last time she did it they made eye contact and he could tell that she had those "eye contact with a handsome stranger" butterflies.

Normally this would have caused David to be all "she kept shocking me, it's gonna happen." Especially because she's a super duper cute 20 year old quarter pounder. With an ass. Hell, even I am jelly of Daily's ass.

But Gypsy and him seemed to have a connection that I've only seen him make once before.

Those were the good old days.

David needs to be out there giving girls pre-kiss butterflies and being flattered but spoken for. It is not my intention to stand in the way of that.

Travel

2011-11-28T14:17:00.001-08:00

Late last night my niece arrived to not only scope out the so called "prize box" aka "I don't need a man" box (since all the coupled folks who looked through the box were either confused as to why they'd need them or just found them not rich enough for their blood) but to spend the night somewhere safe before leaving on her two or three week tour traveling with some band I've never heard of.

She's not a groupie, she says, because she's not sleeping with any of the band members.

But she's traveling with a band for no pay and selling their merch.

She's 22, I'm not her keeper.

Dahlia had planned to leave early this morning and hit us up asking for how to buy food for the road since we're pretty experienced with that sort of thing. The mens here all like my niece and will snuggle her because she's weirdly cute and oddly familiar in that she's so much like me and tells stories about me that even I can't remember to tell (see also: Poke'ball full of pills incident.) Her and David have matching penguin tattoos, even.

She told us all night of her recent pulling away from everyone and everything including me and her current troubles and statuses and hardships. Most are preventable. Most are inconceivable. But who am I really to judge when I myself refuse to step in lest getting my hands dirty in something I can't probably even tear out? It'd be like uprooting a tree with a spoon.

But we have a safe couch to crash on and though David was gone shortly after he nuzzled my armpit and said bye to my still asleep face, she was not. She was here, even until 9 and then 10 she was still here. Texting and trying to get a hold of people and not taking it as a sign from the universe that perhaps this whole trip was a bad, bad idea.

The girl who IS fucking the band members, a sad girl we allowed here only for a short time before discovering her ability to compulsively lie her way through any given five minute period, is not on good terms with her either (or anyone for that matter from what I've come to understand) is most likely going to find a way to either steal from Dahlia leaving her helpless and without money in some far off land, or ditch her somewhere leaving her in some far off land, or at the very very least annoy her to the point of not enjoying her trip, which would be a bother but not the end of the world.

I tried to at least encourage her to think about not going. Failing that, think of the absolute worst case scenario and decide whether or not she could live with that scenario playing out. Can you see the means without the end? But she just very casually went, and truth be told, I know I'm not the first person to say these things to her.

The whole thing seemed unorganized, in my opinion. Checks not going through to secure the van and the trailer, the drummer still passed out drunk at his house in Hemet, needing to be in Fresno by 4:00 and still not having left by 12, you know, bunches of bullshit. And still my niece the Dahlia continues on. Probably to never return. And there ain't a damn thing I could do to stop it.

It sucks because her whole goal, or so she says, is travel. You know, David gets paid to travel--though he's basically on a California only route with occasional stops in Vegas or Phoenix, and it would be a perfect opportunity for her to just go out for a week, be safe, and eat things out of cans. She's family and therefore legal to ride with him after some paperwork signing. There's nothing to see in Ohio anyway, and The Golden State is just so very large and full of beautiful places that look nothing at all like the Inland Empire.

Even I have wanted to go out in the truck, but David doesn't encourage this behavior because he says that it's boring and loud and smelly and there's only one bed, which we'd have to sleep in at the same time due to the fact that--well, have you ever tried to sleep in a big rig while it's moving? I guess the answer to that is in the question with the key word being "try." Fact is, you don't. And the only concern with sharing a bed is that, well...David and I stopped sleeping in the same bed quite some time after we'd totally forever broken up and stopped having any kind of sex because David gets sleep-grabby. Willie also gets sleep grabby but that's generally all right because I want to have sex with him.

Sleeping in a truck in a small awkward bed with David could totally get weird, considering where our relationship is now (bestest of friends forever) but I think it would still be worth the risk to travel safely. I wish my niece would see this. Then again, David getting sleep grabby with her would be tons more awkward than it would be with me. All safety concerns aside.

Travel is an interesting thing. I generally dislike travel, as proof of my tendency to stay relatively still. We recently met a traveler though, and I hate to call her a Gypsy for the reason that it's a very unoriginal sort of name and it often includes negative connotations, but I guess as she'd introduced herself as nothing but a Gypsy she will forever be branded as such.

Gypsy approached me on the internet of all places to say that she's been reading my story here for a few years now, and that the idea of travel appeals to her so much that she thought she might sneak some in with Mr. David who is, among other things, a professional traveler.

See, she thinks being up on a big smelly big rig would be worth it too.

And I felt that it was weird in that she seemed to be asking permission to seek out David and discuss with him his travels, since I sadly had to break it to her that only family could come along and only after lots of red tape and paperwork. On the surface it's like, I'm not David's keeper, but in reality I am totally David's keeper. I've had him since he was 14 and his family hasn't really been involved in his/our lives on any sort of stable level. I'm half wife half mother. I watch him lick postage stamp stickers and scold him for not dumping out pee jugs on the truck. I put away his food for him. Fuck, I take him shopping! Willie does his laundry and makes his coffee and really, David's basically our child-king on this island of misfit toys.

I was told when Willie joined our island that the internet's extreme dislike of him was caused by my own fault of painting David as such a hero all these years. I guess that is just so because nobody could understand what there isn't to love about David. Oh god, there's plenty that I love about David and will always love about him. But he's a pain in the ass and, fuck, we grew up. Madly in love at 16 is not the same as bills to pay and trucks to drive. I've said before that I respect young love, that I know it is intense and it goes fast, but that it doesn't totally last forever because it grows into other things.

The kind of tree you can't just uproot with a spoon.

Regardless of the gypsy's intentions, I don't think it was totally planned that she would be invited to stay in our home, have some of our turkey, and then be the reason for David's brightened moods and giggle fests.

I am ridiculously proud of him.

Her presence made Thanksgiving interesting to say the least. She's funny in the way that your redneck cousin would be with crude jokes and odd stories, except that if you take away the hillbilly and add some class and life experience instead. Funny and odd stories remain, but the overbearing sometimes embarrassing stuff just isn't there, even if you look hard.

I try to figure new people out without giving them too much undeserved credit. I try not to assume that the good in people will always overshadow the bad. I do like her and I am proud that David has taken some initiative without curling in a ball or throwing cookies and calling me from the truck in a panic that he can't go back in somewhere because he embarrassed himself with a waitress (it's happened I don't know how many times.)

I do that trick I was trying to tell my niece where you assume the worst possible scenario and decide whether you can live with that or not. The means with no end.

I just hope David could live with that.

I may be his keeper but I'm not responsible for his feelings.

All in all I just think a little bit of wisdom comes with travel. David's certainly gained some, and Gypsy is so elegant and refined yet tongue-in-cheek trashy like us with her mimosas and gypsy stories.

I can only hope that some kind of wisdom is imparted on my niece on her travels, and that she stays safe and I'm just paranoid Crazy Auntie Jessie.

Settled In

2011-11-25T14:56:00.001-08:00

My doctor's appointment did not turn out as I had hoped. Hungry and impatient from having not remembered to eat breakfast before leaving (it was early and it required a drive) I'd forgotten things like my ID and the first day of my last period. But I had remembered that this actually happened to be the 28th day, so a little math and calendar science on the helpful girl's part was all it took to get things back on track.

The trouble came with the Nursie, who gave me a frowny face. Okay, things aren't super bad, all of my "girly bits" as she called them checked out okay, but I showed her my high blood pressure journal. That morning my top number was high but the bottom number was running perfect, and though my numbers have gotten much better than what they were just a few months ago, the Nursie made the frowny face.

Nobody wants a frowny faced Nursie.

Especially when she's so gal dern cute when she says "Okay now dear, I've got my toys all nice and warm so you don't go running down the hall from me. We'll get the results of this and I'll send you a little love letter in a few weeks to let you know how it went." The portly sweet heart who makes "hot dates" for your ultrasound appointment.

So fucking cute. Regardless of the fact that I don't actually see Long Glove I still love love love my Nursie.

I was sad to see her frown.

We did the awkward dance of "why don't you have a family history" and "your body is speaking and it's time to listen to it." I told her I was watching my salt and how that alone has caused the numbers to be better, but she still gave me a stern warning about needing to do more.

Today I sit among a pile of scattered boxes. We're not moving yet but this event reminds me that soon we will, and the task of finding someone to dwell in our basement will become more important. Today I sit among Christmas lights and resin Santa statue filled boxes. There's a smattering of glitter on the coffee table. And yet we still have not had our Thanksgiving meal yet as David has not come home, but nostalgia won and as per tradition the halls are decked the day after Thanksgiving. Real Thanksgiving.

But the Thankful Tree stays up, and so does the turkey pine cone. For this meal we will mix the two holidays because who the hell is going to tell me not to? I want my lights up, as well as my pilgrims and leaves. At least until the Sunday after.

This will be our last holiday in the flat. In Apartment Life. And I am so fucking done, more fucking done than ever.

We'd considered filling our basement with Chi and Stogie. They're nice folks, into neat stuff like old 80's punk bands and...playing dead. Chi was the girl who took a slathering of chocolate syrup for some kind of murder scene art she had imagined and wanted to be a part of.

Nice girl. Nice nice girl who cuts shirts and ties lavender and works out the big clumpy knots in my back. And he is covered in tattoos he does himself, somewhat still wrapped up in the old punk protocol and dreaming that the teenagers will think that he's a radical.

As eager as she was to join us when I had first brought up the idea, I had a gut feeling that it wasn't a good match. I knew that either they weren't quite our cuppa or we weren't theirs--friendship and kindness aside, there are certain criteria we are looking for in a basement dweller and I knew from the start that Stogie and Chi did not totally make the grade.

They were sort of like candy. There it is, super irresistible in a bowl and all, and though you know you shouldn't you end up having too much anyway and being terribly full of regret.

Hungry for action I've tossed the idea around to a few folks. I don't like not being able to feel the ground below me and I need to at least find a path to a solid plan. Not having all the details worked out has made me wickedly unsure of myself.

I asked one of the moms I do monthly baby portraits for just to let her roll it around in her mouth a little bit. She likes the idea, but isn't sure what her own plans are yet enough to really say "oh wow yes this is just what I've been looking for when can I go see the place?"

I also asked a young couple I only really met recently through business.
Daily and Brooks fell into step with us fast, like we'd known each other forever. They came out for portraits and ended up staying till 3 in the morning, except for the 20 minutes or so when they went to Wal Mart so they could buy the makings for a Frito Pie for us.

Daily helped me out at that fundraiser that turned out to have bombed, and also has a ball python like I do, except her snake is named Dead.

Brooks is the Spanish bubble-butt whose shit she wrecked, if you'll recall. They are truly good natured people, the type who hold hands and pray before their meals and think that raiding a closed amusement park from the 70's for their engagement shoot would be tops. Nice nice kids, especially the way Brooks kept throwing up random middle fingers at the "do not enter" signs.

For the record, we had permission to be at the park.

They like my couch and I make them laugh. I mean you need more than that to declare them basement dweller material but they're good just the same.

I just don't know though.

I don't think any of it will feel real yet till the lights are up on our house and we're seeing the construction start on the house that the owners are moving into. I'm on my toes though and I know they're on theirs, because they're the ones who are making two mortgage payments currently. I just want to get settled in.

The Good Doctor

2011-11-18T00:05:00.001-08:00

I've discovered something very strange about the workings of my body.

I'm tired, always. I've been tired for as long as I can remember, whether I sleep for 3 hours or 12 or 15 I'm fucking tired. Tired does not equal sleepy, but it certainly counts as fatigue. This is not the discovery.

The discovery is that when I am feeling the most tired, like couch nap or early bed time tired, I also start to crave salt. If I give in, even with something like a low sodium pickle, suddenly I'm not tired anymore and I'm up for another 2-3 hours.

I even tested the theory yesterday when I was so tired that I could have crashed on the couch right then and there at 7:00 in the evening. (The couch, if you haven't met it, is part of the family. It heals you like magical spring water from ancient Indian sacred grounds.) Because Willie is the fixer of all of my foods, I asked him to make me a few of those big chewy microwavable pretzels that come with the do it yourself salt.

There was so much salt on them that I actually scraped it all off the second one with my finger, but sure enough my heart was racing and pounding around in my chest like a wayward quarter machine bouncy ball and I was up till 1 AM.

So it's a good thing I discovered this.

It's a bad thing that I don't know how long I've been doing this.

I had never gone to the doctor about my blood pressure. I got my blood pressure pretty much under control with diet and exercise, though I haven't been out much lately due to this being my busy season for photography and all (lots of running around for a few hours at a wedding = a week of sitting at a computer.) Therefore I decided that since I'm not really a fan of going to county anyway, even if it is $50 a pop, I'd just hold out on the doctor till everything settled down.

Last time I was at county, they accused me of being a drug addict. Last time I was at the little LLUMC satellite urgent care we have in town--well the time before last I mean--I had 12 abnormal ekg's. The last time I suppose was when they thought I was having a stroke and wheeled me back out to my car with instructions for David to take me to the ER down the street. That was a long time ago. Almost three years ago.

But it just so happened that while picking up some spray paint for a project I had in mind, Dr. Long Glove's office rang me and I thought, what the hell could they want? Turns out I'm due for my annual and they were hoping to schedule an appointment for me.

Dr. Long Glove is the man who delivered Wade. A damn good doctor with a damn good staff. Too good to be true for Medi-Cal and IEHP, but there he was on the list. Though, some time after Wade was born this doctor stopped accepting state funded patients, and some time after that he even left the building.

His new building is basically a vagina day spa. A front office that looks like a living room plucked from the pages of one of Martha Stewart's publications. And it sort of kind of is a day spa too because they have flyers everywhere for "clean birth," which is really just a nice way of saying "wax your junk before having your baby." This place is fucking amazing. For the brief time that we had Blue Cross, this was my haven for all things look-inside-my-vag.

Things are different now, in that we have a weird sort of coverage that I don't know how to explain except that if we visit the doctor or go to the hospital, we pay the bill and send in the receipt and the company just writes us a personal check for the amount. Whatevs.

They offered me a spot and I decided to bloody take it.

Granted the good doctor is busy with the ripe ones, and I am anything but ripe if not completely infertile anymore (I mean really) but I will get to spend time with his Nursie. Nursie is your sisterfriend. She is your grandmother, your aunt and your cousin.

God am I glad to have held out for the good doctor and not the shitty county one. Not that they're heart specialists or anything but they do take my blood pressure and may be able to assist me in some way.

I feel bad though because last time I was there it was because I was missing periods and having all kinds of weird shit going on with my joke of a cycle. She asked if it was due to stress and I swore to her that I wasn't stressed at all! Why would I be? Willie was finally with me for good and everything was going along so very well. Honestly, most of the time I don't really feel stressed but the knots in my back I guess say otherwise.

And believe me, the knots are there even if I can't feel them till they're worked out. Like buttons working their way open on a shirt, they push through the holes and release under the right amount of pressure.

My appointment is coming soon and I suppose I should really really really cut back on the salt. I mean, I have basically. My biggest thing right now is cranberry juice (the real shit not the cocktail) and Subway turkey breast sandwiches. They're all I eat--with maybe just a little Ben & Jerry's. They're easy to consume while sorting through hundreds of wedding pictures. Not that I won't cave for one of Willie's home made pot pies. Good god.

And I've been drinking my water. Lookie the proof.

That's my off brand camel-pak that keeps me very hydrated while I work. Not that it keeps my head from sweating under all my hair but I am a water drinker fo sho in the best of times and the busiest of times.

If nothing else, the good doctor will be on my team of people and things that help me heal.

Also, BAM!

2011-11-16T15:04:00.001-08:00

That's just Wade's report card. Now Ty's are done a little differently and won't be ready for a bit (not that there's any different results to expect,) so instead I'll show you how he did on his mandated state testing.

Bam.

Purpose

2011-11-09T01:38:00.000-08:00

I had intended to sleep but it got complicated after some meth head outside started yelling at his girlfriend. He raged out and I lost my sleep appetite. He stormed off and all, and now it's just me and the dark and the windchimes.

The wind is howling tonight like it does in old spooky movies. Winds here get crazy and the weather gets cold. 44 degrees cold even.

I'd spent part of the day with my favorite stray, Mr. Steppy. He doesn't come by much because there are always girls to chase and things to procrastinate, but while Willie was out running errands he and I looked at a blog that features really wacky and insane kinds of sex toys. Like dick-butts and boobs with vaginas and talking dildos. Yes, the dildos talked and said how beautiful you are.

He's seeing a number of women right now. The Mormon cougar lady, the ex J-Dub, and the broken punk rock beauty school grad. He said he needed a new pair of nipple clamps and you know, he just doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd have nipple clamps. Or an account at a website that sells them.

We all have our prize boxes.

Granted I should have been editing photos and not gawking at the shit on his screen, but I can't help admitting that I find what other people are into fascinating, especially when it gets into that weird nipple clampy stuff, which is not my cuppa or anything.

I tell him "you're the nicest guy I ever knew." And I tell him "you need to move forward. Like, fuck all this medical field bullshit, you're not a people helper. Help the computers, I mean you're so damn good at that. You have the brain for it and you're not getting any younger."

So damn good. He is at the computer things. Or anything electronic.

One time, he hooked up a weak little vibrator that was mailed to me for an assignment to a battery he'd taken out of an electric wheel chair. That sucker bounced around for a good 30 seconds until melting on the inside and killing the motor.

I hate seeing him stuck and not making moves. I hate seeing anyone with their wheels spinning in the mud, especially my closest longest time friend.

The good news is that David is finally falling into synch with his job--not so much his whole "new identity" thing. He got all re-inventy and find himselfy and then even got all I've made a huge mistake with this truck driving thingy. But now he's cool. Less bitching about the job, which is very taxing on his brain but it's exactly the type of job his brain needs.

He says he likes it now because he feels like he's helping move the country. It's not like a cheeseburger ordered at a drive through really makes waves, but delivering freight does. Even if the freight is retarded, like ladders for the Discovery Channel or a shipment of Coach purses. He also deals with food and medical supplies, and he goes on about how just four days of all trucks being stopped in the US would create total chaos.

He's found meaning in his job which has caused him to become very motivated.

Motivation can be hard to come by, but then right now a lot of it is inspired out of desperation. For example, the only reason David looked into trucking was a chain reaction to Willie losing his job. He'd originally looked into Waste Management and wanted to know what he'd have to do to drive for them, but then googled around and found the schooling for the license and learned that there's a hell of a lot more he could be doing with it. And he learned that even in this economy, trucking is the one industry that is still booming.

Stogie, Chi's boyfriend, has now signed up for trucker school and is on his way into the same company. Perhaps they'll team, now that there's a $6,000 bonus for teams, and perhaps Stogie and Chi will move into our basement.

WITH OUR INCOMES COMBINED...we'd be ballin'. Jesus.

I'd gone to see Chi for the first time in a while yesterday. That speed bump on the back of my head, which feels sort of like a brain-hotdog needed worked. I mean a hotdog attached to my skull can not be a good thing, for whatever reason it could be there. (Nearest she can tell, it's not the vein that's all big, it's the muscle and skin around it that's either protecting it or pissed at it.)

Chi would push on my shoulder and I'd feel popping sensations deep in my back, like if you were to gently pop your knuckle. It was a release. Of what, I don't know. It feels like buttons undoing themselves on a shirt one by one. She thinks she's found the spot causing me the most pressure, and it's weird because it's the one spot that's not painful to have work done to (I'm a total baby when it comes to massage. I'm not a touch person.) The side she thinks is the trouble side contains no popping or opening shirt buttons, but she swears she feels things moving.

The reason she thinks this is the spot is because when she works it I feel an unrelated pain in my spine diagonally from the spot, and also the hotdog gets all hot and tingly. She instructed me to boil towels and place mint in them and soak the spot on my back.

I have no fucking clue if it makes sense.

Chi and Stogie are still new. Nice people, but new. But comfortable for the most part. I mean while I was in my underwear getting my rub down Stogie came into the room a few times going I'M NOT LOOKING I PROMISE and it's like...I don't give a fuck if you do, bro. And I really don't. They're sweet people and they have cats and would probably be good people to live with. I don't see them as the type to leave out nipple clamps or scream at the top of their lungs about pussy at 11:45 at night. Plus how could I not take advantage of the fact that at any time of the day I could get Chi to pull on my shit and make the hotdog go away?

God that just sounds wrong. But you know what I mean.

Living with someone else is a totally weird concept for us, but it's something we knew we'd have to think about doing even before we were offered this house, back when we decided that it was time to move the fuck out.

I'm thinking too much again.

But ya know, I was totally sleeping till that crack head started yelling. I've actually calmed down from the initial hype of OMG HAUSE in my daily life, and I talk about other things...like nipple clamps. And pot pie. I held my snake today since he pooped out his rat and is all done digesting. I read a nice book and sent an invoice and edited some pictures. I had morning tea and drank cranberry juice with dinner. It's not super one track around here, it's just that I got woken up and now my mind is calculating its things. Whether I want it to or not.

I don't know, maybe I'm like David in that I enjoy a sense of purpose.

Moving Back

2011-11-07T01:50:00.000-08:00

Is it bad that I am already mentally arranging my small collections of things, like books and old cameras and dumpster night stands, in the house that isn't even mine yet?

I shouldn't. I don't want to get too attached only for something to change last minute, but in reality I've got the yes and I'm just taking it for what it is instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't think it's the worry that something will change last minute that bothers me, it's the onslaught of questions that are surely to follow when the rumor comes full circle and I start getting questioned.

Remember, I have family who read here and report everything.

To an extent, I'm bracing myself to be trolled.

Okay, so Willie slipped and accidentally said what city we're moving to when his sister was here. His family is the main group of people I need the information to stay away from, but now that his little sister knows the name of the city, everyone is going to know the name of the city. It's not a big city, but it's not going to be easy to find us in it either. Even David's family won't really know, as the neighborhood is remote and it's nowhere you'd accidentally drive by and see our car.

The other slight problem is that it's somewhat embarrassing. The zip code is the only catch to this thing.

I'm going to put it the exact way Willie puts it.

We're moving to Yucaipa. We're getting a really good deal. It's a really nice area. Not a trailer park.

Because moving back to Yucaipa is a little bit like being handed a Coors Light when walking into a party that's out on someone's lawn. Like being one of the idiots again. It's one of those beautiful high valleys in California with only one main road and snow twice a year, but the people--it's the people who are fucked. Not to mention most of the city is pockmarked with empty fields and churches. Lots of weird druggy shit going on in the lower parts, but people are stabbing other people just to get into the school district.

Or that's a lie, I'm not sure. When I was there they banned Huck Finn and glorified football scores over 9/11 tributes. Also they let a teacher with a revoked credential work there for like two years, when a simple google search reveals even today that the guy was up to all kinds of sexual misconduct, which lead to his shit being pulled in another state.

Then again, I'm not thrilled with Beaumont's district.

So anyway, not a trailer park. I can't stress this enough. In fact there aren't any trailer parks in any direction for at least three miles. Please do not think of it as "moving back to Yucaipa." I'm not like those people my age who move back to Yucaipa. I just happened to catch a lucky break and an offer I can't afford to refuse.

Does that make sense?

My family is kind of sort of from Yucaipa. I was born in Redlands (closest hospital) and raised in Y-Town's fun little neighbor Calimesa for the first eight or so years of my life until my dad died and I was bounced around for 10 years. I graduated from their high school, and managed to make my way out of not only the zipcode but the whole of San Bernardino County. My first time moving out I was in Mentone, and I did briefly move back to my sister's when Ty was born, but those people with that old saying ain't kidding when they say there ain't no going home again.

As for the details of where exactly I am going and the deal I was offered--I can't get into detail about it, but I'm sure someone out there has figured it out by now. Or they haven't, because you'd never guess.

It's in the zipcode. That's all I'm going with right now. I'm sure I'll come up with a fictitious street name when I really sit down and think about it.

NOT a trailer park. Just want to make that clear.

Oh and it's not a prefab either. The house outdates most other houses in the zipcode and also is haunted by the guy who built it. If you believe in that sort of thing.

Jesus. If something falls through I will not be making all of these special apologies for the city any longer, because if it weren't for this deal I would never ever be moving back.

I just hope nothing falls through. And it shouldn't.

This is why I can't sleep tonight. I can't be sitting here in the dark mentally painting rooms and placing bookshelves and picking loquats without keeping in the back of my mind that it hasn't happened yet. We're still on a handshake deal here, hell, the owner's new home hasn't even begun renovation yet which is the one thing we're waiting on, hence the January-February move in date. Which will probably be March unless they get them some damn good men on that house. Then again, I know very little about timely construction as I have a brother who always did the projects in the houses I lived in that would leave me with bare insulation-exposed walls for six months at a time. Boy I remember the day I came home to drywall and practically hugged the shit, getting gypsum dust on my face and hands.

The other day when I picked those wet pomegranates from the freshly rained on bushes I imagined what the place was like before. The other times I'd walked that street and never really noticed the whole damn row of fruit trees just producing their fruits. Then again those trees are technically the neighbor's and I'd never walked past their house before, but it's one of those neighborhoods where it's okay to just take fruit from a neighbor's tree, or even feed leftovers to the neighbor's dog. Not the kind of neighborhood where Mom Ladies drive by yelling, or mean old men play mind games with little girls.

Today Willie's sister came over asking for a ride to downtown for her and her friend. Immediately he said no. She said she really needed to go because her dad's been promising to take her shopping for two months but he hasn't felt good.

"Jessica your dad is drunk, not ill. He needs to take you shopping."

She seemed to understand, but clearly she doesn't fully understand that we're just a place to sit over here, we aren't getting involved any further. We have food to spare and it's cool if she grabs a plate, but we can't be giving her rides. That's how Amber Alerts get sent out. Who knows, maybe he even told her to come ask us. Sadly, there's too much risk involved. There is no way to just do something nice for this child.

He's promised her coffee dates when he moves. But she can never come to the house, ever. Because with her comes the knowledge of where we live and the potential for her to be bribed into showing someone where. I done seent it before. She'll talk if offered something she wants, after all of what little she has.

I don't particularly want to be bothered at this house, and I'd like a smooth transition with a clean slate. I know, want in one hand etc, but I feel like this is a big step in the whole personal boundaries direction. I'm already shutting down access to my financial details, not really getting into specifics anymore. We're being offered a great deal on a HOUSE, not a trailer, and that's all anyone needs to know.

But I still can't stop thinking about it. I'm excited. I'm totally putting all my eggs in this basket and loving every sleep deprived minute of it.

Think of me--with a kitchen window.

Think of me--with a lawn to yell at someone else to mow.

Think of me--getting the mail without using a key.

A picture out of Better Homes and Gardens Magazine.

I need to go get a massage tomorrow from the girl who trades me for portrait session certificates. That speed bump along the back of my head is just so damn bothersome and I need it to be less speed bumpy.

I wonder if a house would make the speed bump rise or fall.

I wonder if I can just get the massage girl to move in with me.

There are literally thousands of things to think about and I literally can't stop thinking about them. I don't even know where to put my desk, or my books, or where I'll keep my bike. I'm not sure it matters at 1:48 in the morning on November 7th, 2011.

Here's hoping it will matter some time in February though.

Somewhere Thats Green

2011-11-05T00:52:00.000-07:00

My god. I've practically done it.

Yesterday was all uncertainty and anxiety and what ifs, and today is...well mostly lots of that still but today it came with a yes and a guarantee and even a little real live turtle who lives in the pond out front.

I went to that scorched hillside today in the rain and overlooked all the green and lights. I stole pomegranates and zucchini from unwatched bushes and touched the wet leaves of the barren loquat forest. I kicked leaves that are mine and turned doorknobs--I padded across the floor in my Mary Janes.

I'm told that I have the go ahead.

I looked out at the forever city grids below, and the snow frosted hillsides that look close enough to touch. It's not the place I wanted to be in. It's not a place I'm very fond of, but it's practically been handed to me on a silver platter.

"Idyllwild," I told Willie's sister. "We'll probably move to Idyllwild." If only that were the truth. Sometimes I still say I lived there even though technically it was only Poppet Flats. Poppet Flats is a cocoa mug with whipped cream fog nestled below the mouth of what you'd call Idyllwild.

If only this was the truth about where I am now going. I'm not sure I want to say where I'm going, so for now I'm going to say that I am going to Poppet Flats because it brings up nice memories, like of butter dishes of sliced cucumber at dinner and lace tablecloths. I'm unsure of whether I want to explore the potentials of my new home in full by writing about it. If I say Poppet Flats, it still makes things feel unreal from what they really are, which makes me feel safer.

Just a little street in a little suburb, far far from urban Skid Row.

A match box of our own. A fence of real chain link.

Actually I did not notice any chain link. This place is too nice for that. Too nice for us, really. But we've got to take it, because I don't know if it will ever be forgiven or forgotten if we don't.

Not that anything will happen until after the new year.

The last time I moved I did it via wagon. We'd been offered a flat after our long stay over in the apartment. They'd cut us a deal we couldn't really refuse, so we took it. We thought having our own lawn would be nice, except that we can't let the kids out to play in it because three cars have crashed in our front yard in the two years we've lived here. And also Willie's family yells shit as they drive past us.

This is no place to raise kids.

I feel like if they don't get the proper room to run and stuff they'll stay all small, like goldfish.

When I brought all of my stuff over during the day, loading it on to my wagon and pulling it up the walk way, I had it in my mind that this place would not could not be my forever home. And god how it made me feel like shit when they referred to me as a "permanent resident." Especially since we'd just been approved for a $125,000 home loan and were in the market for a house. Taking the sweet deal on the flat meant a little extra money to get the ball rolling on house hunting, not that it ever panned out.

I'd had to repaint over every drop of paint I'd put on the walls just two or three months before being offered the flat. I'd painted the place because of the cop who was coming to interview us when David was getting into CHP. The richest butterscotch walls, dark forest greens, I stayed up all night with that day glow green bathroom. I rocked that officer man's socks!

And then he got dumped.

He asked if I would paint the walls in the flat like I did in the apartment, and I said no. I couldn't paint like that again. It was too much work and it was never really ours.

I never painted here or tried to coordinate like I did over there.

But I'm getting so so ahead of myself. I'm not there yet and I don't plan to be there yet for some time, but still I was given the "yes" and that's all that I need to hear to totally count all my chickens before they've hatched and eggs in baskets, cats on racks etc.

It's hard not to get excited though when you're standing on the edge of realizing a dream has actually seemed to come true.

I feel like perhaps I am the captain of a great ship and that I'm finally leaving the harbor. My inner harmony seems to be rippling in the wake and setting the people around me at ease. I can actually, for once, give myself a clear vision of the boys being bettered and given something they deserve. A yard. Somewhere that's green. Bugs and plants and rocks and razor scooter jumps.

I will kill them if they build and razor scooter jumps. Those little things are so dangerous.

I am in such a good mood and it's already 1:00 in the morning.

GORGEOUS

2011-11-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch.

I also can't sing, but I will and do.

It is possible that I've found a place to go.

And it's not so much that I'm worried about cursing the chance of getting the place by prematurely writing about it, because the theme as I'd mentioned before is getting the hell out of the flat as soon as possible. It's more like I'm actually gunning for this and if it doesn't happen then it'll just be another year of feeling flat in this flat. Flat and nowhere to go. Flat and deflated. Flat and done.

The place I dare to go could have a cool fake name like Fiji or something, but where I'm going--or could go, might go--is nothing Fiji-like. If I were to go to a place, if I do go, it'd not be here and it'd not be easy to find because it would be the last place you'd look for me.

Maybe if you want to find me you'd look for the scorched hillside and the valleys in my past. Where I came and went, where I was placed, where I was never found.

Except that this time I'd take my family with me.

And I'd never tell a soul--well, none that I haven't touched.

It seems that a house has opened up and that it needs to be filled for just about the right price. The people in charge of the house could easily put me inside of it and I'd have much less to worry about in time. I would probably inherit a whole new set of trouble but it wouldn't be the same trouble, and it would turn into a new place that'd smell like home.

I mean, home...home is one of those things that becomes the place you've stayed the longest. Where I may go is not like going home again, because really I'm not so sure that I ever had a place to call home in any sense of the word. Except the flat and the apartment I had before the flat. This complex, it used to be home but now it's all bitter and jaded and fuckity.

I've got a speedbump going across the back of my head. Narrow and thick and slender like an eel attached to my brain that needs to be unlocked and coaxed away. This can't be a good result of the things that have been going on.

His little sister comes over here one night and tells us that as punishment for coming here her dad sent her to the mental hospital. He does this periodically to take away all her credibility and gives her a nice little "history of mental illness" she'll have to report later in life. This last trip, they had her choose five positive words about herself, and then choose her favorite of those words to make a beaded bracelet with. She chose the word GORGEOUS. And she gave the bracelet to Willie.

Every time she's come back, which has been more frequent than normal, she's been happy to see the bracelet still there. It's rainbow colored and on an elastic string, and she laughs and tells him he's GORGEOUS. Proud of the bracelet, he tells everyone who asks about it he's GORGEOUS.

She brought over some old photos that we all laughed over. Particularly the one of Willie when he was 11 and looking like a typical evil red headed pyromaniac shit. They're bonding over old wounds and all the weirdly fresh ones. Like she could be the only potential relative who gets him and who he gets.

I've got one of those, my niece is like that for me. Black sheep of the family that nobody wants to get. Superficial relationships that turn into diddly squat once the inner dysfunction starts to show up.

It's nice and all that this girl has been coming and all. She's not in the right place, and we've done everything we could as bystanders to change that but at the end of the day we're powerless. I gave her a pamphlet about periods and birth control, Willie gives her spaghetti and sugar. He gives her hugs and wears her bracelet and lets her know that it's okay to not lie. Sometimes her stories are so elaborate that there's hardly any point to them at all.

She stayed home from school today because she didn't get any sleep last night and her feet hurt and she was barely able to walk and then she threw up and also her brother threw a ball at her which made her cough up blood.

Also she has nerve damage in her legs from the time Leo's girlfriend Fishnets slapped her.

Also something about laryngitis and strep and tonsils and gallstones.

God, there's nothing to do. Nothing left on the list of things that we could possibly do...it's all been done.

So moving on...because here is a place that is no longer home, a place that we've outgrown--and though staying provides a place for our shelter, and her occasional escape, how much longer could we feasibly do this shit?

I've been offered a house, a way out, a place to go. And it's GORGEOUS.

It'd be far away but only a phone call from anything in all directions, except the directions we don't want to go.

I'm tired of my house being yelled at as Willie's mom or Steve drive by. I'm tired of the crazy neighbor woman who gives us expired things, and stuff on my porch I didn't ask for. I'm tired of getting stared at and questioned by people in the complex who know who we are even if we've never seen them a day in our life.

I'm tired of the laundry room being locked or the machines being broken. I'm tired of feeling guilty for not wanting to stay.

I want things to change. I want to go. I don't want to jinx it.

Give me liberty...

Fuck.

Untitled Work

2011-10-31T11:50:00.000-07:00

So I did my first charity event this last week. Like my first "this is my business and I'm working a booth and I'm raising funds" kind of deal. I wasn't raising money for anything truly noble like sick babies or disease research, but it was charity just the same. It's a step in the right direction anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I do charitable things very quietly and never even attach a business card to it, like when I'm called to the mortuary to photograph a baby by request of the grieving parents. I don't do that for pay and if the parents wish to speak to me the mortuary has my number and they can get it through them. I also did a military wedding for free once because their photographer ditched them less than two weeks before the wedding and they didn't have the money to pay me. Plus I do little tiny nice things that trickle down, like feeding Willie's little sister who I know isn't getting nearly enough at home, try as she does to convince me there's anything other than beer in her fridge.

These aren't seemingly like big impact charity things, more like random acts of kindness, especially feeding the girl. But as a once hungry child myself, I know that when my older brother came by my shitty house once a week to drop off groceries, he'd always bring me vanilla ice cream. To this day I remember the ice cream being half melted and soft by the time he'd bring it in, and I imagined that it was how clouds must taste. I wondered if in heaven--if my dad who had recently gone (back when I believed in nonsense like heaven) was eating vanilla ice cream clouds just all day long, not worrying about it running out, not worrying about a thing.

That brother is still my favorite.

So impact--I guess the impact of something you do is immeasurable as it trickles down.

I was raising funds to help rebuild and restore a historic hotel in Corona. Is it cancer? No, and it's not hungry children or anything like that either. But it's history and should the museum be able to resurrect the hotel jobs will be created. So there's that trickle down right there. My company's name and my ever so small donation were a part. Like the dollar from my lunch money I put in that Red Cross can they had at my high school when 9/11 happened. At least I did something instead of doing nothing, you know?

The event was actually a pirate themed haunted house. It was supposed to be huge and have press coverage and radio stations and thousands of dollars raised. There were supposed to be multiple vendors and catering and all kinds of good clean family fun--like with bloody knives and shit. You see, the now defunct hotel is on the grounds of this park and museum that pays homage to the acres and acres of lemon groves that Corona used to be, and on these grounds there sits an old old house that belonged to the man who owned the orchards.

Tragically, that man was struck and killed by a train and his head was found 45 feet away from his body.

So when they say "haunted house" they do potentially mean haunted house, but they filled it with pirates and bloody mermaids and stuff for effect.

I wasn't in the haunted house, I was actually a the vendor. The first night there was a lady doing face painting who got pretty pissed off that not everyone clamored to participate in the event as there was no press, no vendors, and hardly any people coming through for a scare. And I mostly attribute the lack of traffic to starting the thing on a Thursday. She said something about having paying clients and how she does a lot of charity work and how this wasn't worth her time. I get that, to an extent. But that lady lived around the corner from the place, I'm coming from 45 miles away every night. I did not donate all of my proceeds to the museum, but I didn't plan on making any profit either as I genuinely set up the price of a photo at my Photo Booth as just enough to cover gas and pay an assistant an exciting $1 per photo.

It's charity work, it's not glamorous.

Well, face paint lady took off and I was literally THE only vendor at the event. My studio lit glowing umbrellas drew people to me all bleary eyed asking where the haunt was, and of course we'd direct them. Then my assistant, a girl who had her pictures taken about a month ago or so named Daily would be all cute in her short tattered pirate dress and ask the people exiting the lemon groves how the house was and if they were scared--this after listening to them scream for the five minutes or so as they made their way through the house and maze. Though some of the screams belonged to the sirens. (None of the screaming bothered the neighbors of the museum, I'm told. But last year they did get upset about the chainsaw choir.)

I wasn't the only one who ditched the event though. Volunteers backed out constantly, even Kohl's backed out. I was supposed to come with a team of zombies but my zombies all became groupies for some band you've never heard of. Never fear though, as Daily had a little hipster friend come help us and be all ironic. I got her a nice new portrait for her acting portfolio. This one should totally be her cover.

(PS, you have no idea how hard it is to take pictures inside of a haunted house. I went through announcing that I was a photographer and Daily would shine flashlights on the actors as it was PITCH DARK in there except for a few candles and a black light every now and then in the maze. I'm thankful as hell for my Speedlight.)

It was an interesting time hanging out at this place, which also serves as an art gallery, miniature railroad association, and spiritual center. That photographer Mari, who got me in on this project and then was not able to participate due to having a lumpectomy the day before we started, she goes to the spiritual center and is always inviting me to go to their drum circles and reiki nights. The museum docent, as in the lady in charge of this entire haunted house project, does tarot card readings. Hell, Saturday night there was also a wedding going on while a medium was talking to ghosts. Real no fooling ghosts.

Okay, I'm not SUPER into that stuff, like in the sense that I believe in things and I know things but not enough to drop any money on it, but the weird thing is that while I was at this place I was weirdly psychic and intuitive as fuck.

Example 1: The cute little 12 year old boy dressed as a hot dog who was selling hot dogs started hanging out with my crew and he told us that wearing this hot dog costume was actually him living his dream. His whole life he's wanted to be a hot dog, and finally his mom stood in line for two hours at Party City and bought him a $30 hot dog costume. He says, "My brother wanted one too and was begging my mom to buy it for him. Guess how old he is?"

I said 22.

"He's 22. How did you know that? I mean...like out of all the numbers how did you guess 22?" I told him I didn't know and it stopped his story telling dead in its tracks.

Example 2: We got to talking about zodiac signs, Willie, Daily and I, and the docent lady is there. She asks us to guess what she is. Daily and I look her over, and Daily says "well she's sweet and strong," and me I just kind of look at facial features nowadays, and we both say "leo" at the same time. Turns out we were right.

But it doesn't stop there. I then say "And your birthday is August 2nd." She turns and fucking looks at me like I was the one talking to ghosts. Then she gave that knowing "the force is strong with this one" head shake and walked away.

How did I just, like, guess a woman's birthday? It was weird.

The photo booth running was fun. It's always fun, as the people get all excited about my collection of feather boas and the gas mask and the little chalk boards. Plus it was nice to see the people when they came out and get feedback on the house. Three kids came out crying, one was bawling and one was a little girl who "told that monster to go back into his cage." She also demanded that one of the monsters protect her, and he took off his mask and held her hand as he guided her through the rest to safety.

Of course teenage boys are never satisfied. "Wasn't scary at all," they'd tell cute little Daily. Daily speaks teenager, so she was able to lure them over to pay for a picture. I'm serious, this girl is 20 but looks about 15 and I kid you not this one 12 year old just like BUSTED out a fat wad of $1 bills. "Make it rain brah!" she tells him. Aw yeah, she earned that dollar-a-picture paycheck.

I liked hanging out with her too because her boyfriend is also Spanish and also has that round Spanish bubble butt like Willie's. She's insecure and jealous and was amazed when I told her that someone on Facebook messaged me to say that Willie should strip (I agree but he's too shy,) telling me that she's far too delicate to listen to such things about her own man from another girl.

Naturally I trolled her and told her to send his skinny boy with a big Spanish ass my way when she was done. Without missing a beat she tells me "You don't want my sloppy seconds, because you know I wrecked that shit."

I lawled. I'm going to keep her.

She did tell me too that Willie is the sweetest guy she's ever met, and was really sorry about how the "red heads have no souls" joke made him all teary eyed. She told me that I've got a really really good guy and that she's happy for me.

Steppy helped out too, since he's in this weird transition of wanting to go into a new line of work but he keeps putting off going to school, so his evenings are clear to just sit around and be "security" for Daily and I. Plus he drove out there two nights, though it drove me crazy because he insisted on taking the 10 to the 15 because he swears it's shorter than the 60 to the 91 (it isn't.) It was nice to hang with him though because I never do get to see him anymore, and he's ever so broken and weird in a loveable way.

Though I did raise an eyebrow as the docent's sweeter than sugar golden retriever Bacon sniffed his hand in curiosity from not too close up, then growled and turned away.

Through it all we barely made any money for the museum. We barely made enough to cover gas. But I just committed to something and stuck with it, which made my business look awesome to the museum people. They're putting me as their preferred wedding photographer even. I just loved how she said over and over again "I'm not worried, you're Team Terwilliger" and even how my team had its own spot on the list of volunteers. Not all of the names on that list were ever checked off as present, but damn if I didn't get something done with the people who were there.

Does it pay to do charity work? Absolutely. And now I'm jumping in to help the park do a winter wonderland. Guess I'll have to find a good fat suit because Willie's my Santa.

This whole thing was awesome. No matter what anyone says. The people who ditched lost out.

In closing, my most half assed pirate costume of the entire week (keep in mind that I was just using my regular clothes and a gypsy shawl and a bandanna most of the time, lol.) 80's pirate. Like, ARRRR.

I never said I was good at this.

Your pal, Jessie T.

In Waves

2011-10-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

One more call for votes on my photo. Thanks to everyone who already has :)

I clear the coffee table of the teapot and cups that we'd finished 20 minutes ago. Some Pier One number I picked up at an estate sale for $2, the kind that I fill with dollar store green tea because there's nothing fancier to buy around here. All the tea rooms get closed, all the herb shops never make it beyond their once upon a thyme pipe dream "bring alternative medicine and loose leaf tea joy to the people!"

My cup is sticky with a sugary coated rim and Lip Smackers kisses. It's the first cool day out (with a 30% chance of rain even!) and I think about how I could have used this weather this last weekend with all those family shoots I did with the angry toddlers and couples in sweaters pretending it's fall. Willie and Ty are off on a bike ride to turn in Ty's school work to Mrs. Italian Opera and I think about the conversation we had over tea this morning. Morning Tea, or whatever.

First I told him about how one of the photographers I've crossed off the list texted me this morning at 8:00 to ask about the charity event I'm doing this week. Odd, since she's the one who set it up for me. I told her to hold on a few minutes because the chirp of her text woke me up. I got out of bed to use the bathroom, brush my now short and super easy to manage hair and read for a few minutes out of my current bathroom book, "Tethered."

I answered her within time about the mandatory dress rehearsal and how I won't be in the haunted house so she can hang with me since my photo booth will be set up away from all the scary things, and I know how she's afraid of scary things.

I told Willie how she accused me of being short with her, and asked me if I was mad at her or just too busy to write long responses. We both chuckle when we look at my simple flip phone with its traditional numeric keypad that isn't so fun and easy to text on. My texts are always short and to the point. Though I don't want to work with this person on a professional level anymore, I'm okay with her as a person and I wasn't intending anything personal in my short answer.

Willie laughs and says "That's just you. People always think you're mad at them, or stressed out or something. You've never been any of that, you're just you, and you've got that energy that fills rooms you're not even in. Look at all the trouble you start on the internet without meaning to. Your energy travels in waves."

When I explain to her that nothing is wrong and that my phone is just old fashioned, she brings up her many crises, how things have been tough for her. She lost a friend to breast cancer last week and this week she's being biopsied for the same, but she sends her "love" to me and Willie.

God I hate when people use that word.

I don't hardly love anyone and I certainly don't love acquaintances. And I will be seen as cold for only seeing her as such but it's hard for me to take in "friends!" I get burned time and again by people I think are my friends, hell, I can't even claim family outside of this little five that we are.

While I was in there sleeping, Willie was going on his morning walk with Ty for PE where he saw his brothers. One was coming into the complex wearing sweats like he'd been on a jog (Leo looks like the before picture, just sayin') and the other was ditching school. They all ignored each other, the ditcher muttering something to his friend about "that's my BROTHER" in a weird yucky sarcastic tone and taking weird paths through the buildings to avoid running into Willie again.

It does hurt, he tells me, to have family here that wants nothing to do with him. How they'll come over to "make amends" and then turn their head when they walk past each other on the street. You think Jessica's been back? You're wrong. And we knew she wouldn't be, just like the rest of them. "It's not easy for me," he says, but what choice does he have?

I tell him that while taking David back to the terminal last night he apologized for the whole Wii spilling thing. He told me that somehow the whole Christmas thing didn't click with him, and that he really didn't mean to tell the kids about it. He was looking forward to getting one because of all the educational stuff they make for the system, and how he's bummed that he blew it.

Good thing I went and put one on layaway anyway then.

It's a good thing we're picking up business because November has some expenses, like my appointment with Dr. Long Glove that I have to pay cash for, plus the piano teacher has been pumping Ty up and getting him all excited about recording then springing on me last minute how much it's going to cost. I recognize everything she did, it was all a sales pitch. Getting the kid all excited about it first, and then waiting till the end of the month and also picking a day and time claiming "busy schedule." I know this tactic because to an extent I've used it myself. If I need money and I've got an indecisive potential client who I know is just going to put off scheduling forever, I'll give them a date and a time and they almost never refuse.

But I think she thinks too that my "cute little pit'cher taking side thingy" is my play money. It's not. It's paying my bills because David's just not getting the miles right now. Nobody understands that just because I book a wedding I'm not exactly all set and treating myself. Ha! I get a pedicure once a month to prevent ingrown toenails and I have a lady who ships me cupcakes from her bakery in exchange for sending her clients. I still check the dumpsters for recyclables. My pretty Pier One tea set is from an estate sale.

It's coming time again for creative planning, that's what the weather reminds me. I no longer cook but when I do, it's Thanksgiving and I'm stirring cranberries as they pop and squeak in turns. I think we'll also have meatloaf on the table this year. Willie does a great job of stringing the outside lights, he's already done our orange ones for Halloween and every time I go outside at night the glow feels romantic and I am reminded of Christmas.

It's tea weather, but the coldness only really comes in waves. Next week it will be summer all over again.

2011 Has Been Going So Well

2011-10-20T15:05:00.000-07:00

Yep. Classic "totally clueless" David behavior.

First time we're able to really buy the kids a nice gift for Christmas thanks to Wal Mart bringing back the layaway program, and he tells Ty "yeah, Mom and I are totally gonna buy you a Wii."

Ha. Awesome. Thanks.

Not that they don't enjoy their classic systems (Ty beat the original Zelda in a day--I don't think I ever beat it EVER) but I've been picking up quite a bit of business and I thought it would be nice to get the kids something modern, especially since toys pretty much suck nowadays. Hardly anything makes it to the next Christmas, and hell, hardly anything makes it from their birthdays to Christmas. Then again they're rough on everything.

But, you know, that's David. Absolutely no common sense but so intelligent that he can't get out of his own head. This makes me worry for Ty because Ty is even smarter than David, is now playing two different songs at the same time on the piano and playing music backwards (kinda creepy) and now he's quit band because he doesn't like the kids.

We want to socialize him but he chooses not to get involved. I worry about what kind of monster we've created.

Sure having a high IQ is really neat and may take him places in life, but I seriously worry about stunting his growth. In the mean time, kids are assholes and it's hard to push him to grow and interact when they're like that.

Aside from Ty's growing and learning experiences, I thought I'd get him something nice for Christmas, something that makes him cool to other kids rather than just cool to the 30 year olds who come over and ask if he has Toejam and Earl for the Genesis, or want to play F-Zero on his SNES.

We're thrift store people, we're not television watching people but rather internet people, but it can be nice sometimes to own something nice.

I can't really remember the last time I was surprised on Christmas as a child. I don't ever remember getting some big grand holy grail thing. I remember in my teen years in October when I discussed with my sister that a digital camera would be an acceptable birthday-Christmas present (since they're only five days apart) because its value and its intended use exceeded my want to open separate things. And believe me, I am NOT a fan of the combo. I've had this rant before.

There's never been any way for me to just grab up one of those Pow Pow Powerwheels, because Black Friday always happens at the end of the month and the end of the month is when I can't spend any extra money.

My income isn't really bringing in much "extra" money, but instead making up for the reality that trucking isn't all that it's cracked up to be, but making payments on something would be rather fucking sweet this year if the end result is a real "wow" toy.

I thought, you know, their usual avalanche of Hotwheels (you can never go wrong with cars) and the filler stuff, a remote controlled something, a new bike for Wade, and a Wii. They'd be set for life.

Fucking David. This is a perfect example of how he drives me absolutely batshit. Because not only did he do this, but he does not understand what the problem is.

There's still time to think. It's not even Halloween but the thing is that the layaway is already happening. My car is registered and I've got a decent little event going on at the end of the month plus a jam packed portrait session weekend starting with today, not to mention a party I got snagged for and the little wedding I picked up, I figure I can at least plan ahead.

And just not fucking tell David anything.

I mean is he completely serious?

Completely? Serious?

I love him. But he is also a butt cheek. I can't stand it.

I am getting everything done this year damnit. 2011 has been going so well and I won't wrap it up with any crappy loose ends.

Intact

2011-10-18T23:58:00.000-07:00

I never get to see much of my friend Steppy anymore. He lives in this house now with a bunch of room mates and he has all these girlfriends who aren't really his girlfriends. Every girl is more or less "an experiment to see how not attached I can get" only he gets all attached and balls to the wall because...well, we all know how my friend Steppy is.

But once a week or so he comes by and I beat him over the head about school and girls and feel like an older sister. I am not an older sister. I am not Steppy's sister. I am not older than Steppy. I also do not have things all figured out but it's nice to talk from the position I am in about how I got it and how I maintain it, and how we adapt and grow with the needed change of the system: change of jobs, change of people, change of heart.

Well anyway, Willie went out to take out the trash and never came back in, though I heard his voice through the outside wall of our front porch. Spying (because I do bitch shit on occasion) I spot him standing there with this petite woman and at first I think it's my friend the Bombshell, but this girl was thin and Bombshell is currently with child.

Turns out to be his 12 year old sister.

That ain't no woman. But she's wearing too much eyeliner and her boobies are just boobs now. Regular boobs. And oddly enough she has the exact same haircut and fresh haircolor as me (sorta, in that I attempted the shade she ended up with but it's still fairly red.) She's wearing cheap jewelry and hipster frames with no lenses. She's wearing dirty mismatched socks and no shoes.

Fuck, Jessica.

Willie tells her in his brother voice that he doesn't like the makeup and that she's 12. I butt in as I walk Steppy out to his car to say that I'm no expert in makeup as I wear none myself, but that maybe the eyeliner is too much. I tell her "that's what the girls do when they're going to the club," and the boys occasionally when you're talking about clubs like Das Bunker but I don't say that to her. I tell her to go lightly and just sort of accent "what god gave you." I follow it up with the defensive "I work with models and heavily made up brides and make up artists pretty much all the time as a part of my job," and she seems to like what I said but I know she won't adhere to it.

Once again these kids are on our porch. Well, not so much Jesse. He's smoking pot now and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the Marlboro 72 butts and the empty Budweiser cans behind dumpster number 4 are his. He kinda went with the "yeah my dad's a big ol' mean abusive drunk" until he started turning into one too. His sister tells us that she's constantly accused of being on her period and that she has no bed to sleep in anymore now that Leo and his girlfriend sleep in it. The girl instead sleeps on the couch with her bed pissing dad, which sounds like thousands and thousands of super awesome functional not creepy and totally appropriate ways to parent.

We asked if there was food in the house yet. She said yes, "beer and lettuce for the turtle." She also said that she had a savings that she uses to go buy food when there isn't any in the house. She says she takes pills now that keep her from hurting herself.

Our front porch is the place we convene with the extras. We have chairs, and we bring out pork burritos (she's not allowed to eat pork, or really much of anything for that matter) and we give them a place to sit. We listen. He hugs, but that's never really been my thing.

We do the best we can. And yes, we made mention of it to who it needed to be mentioned to.

Not that it ever does any bloody good.

I feel sometimes like I work too much, like I'm missing things with my boys, but then again so is David and so has David since day one. But regardless of how busy I may be with a phone call and a calculator or a set of fresh family portraits I'm here, and I am approachable, and I am totally sober. I get to enjoy them while also being less stressed over them, and I get to teach them to always strive to do the most good.

We don't have much--in theory. But Ty has a piano (free or not it's still a fucking piano) and we've always got good food, even with Wade's fun little gluten and lactose free diet. My kids don't have a Wii or a DS (but they do have SNES and Sega Genesis and all the fixins.) They love yard sales and Dollar Tree and Del Taco coupons. They have souls and their needs are met.

It sucks to remember sometimes that mine weren't. And it still shows on Willie's face and in his shaking hands and timid actions that his weren't, and also that it bothers him that he knows it's still like that where he came from. For all the neglect and abuse he went through after those two kids were born, for them to now be abused and neglected because they're not cute anymore and there's always room in the fridge for more beer...I know it messes with him.

If there was a way to get him into therapy or some kind of talk group I would.

Al Anon is off the table. It's held at a church I do business with and shitting where you eat just feels weird.

Unless you're a turtle. Then shitting where you eat feels fine I suppose.

To have to take such a far away approach is saddening, and to go through with it and stick to it is even harder.

I don't think I'll ever know how to handle every situation correctly and to follow the best path because of how screwed up I am, not just because of my past but also because I'm human and that never puts things in anyone's favor, unless we're talking about using food bowls as toilets because MOST of us have that one down pat. (I love the little animals of the world but seriously guys...)

What I do know is that I'm getting better at saying no to things and using that really cool "boundary" word that I only really learned about this year. I've surprised myself at how much I've found it applies to. I eat a really yummy dark chocolaty snack and remember that I too can self destruct if not given the proper care and motivation in keeping up with the good things that save you.

Boundaries. Dark chocolate regimens. Dark chocolate regimens. Ice water. Dark chocolate regimens.

Remembering that the little turtles in the pet store are very very cute but that they shit in their own damn water.

I know Willie feels somewhat of an obligation to help those kids at times, but he also knows now that they're not his kids, and that he can't be their parent. He tried, he failed. He's really good at knowing the difference and knowing what his limits are.

One must put up barriers to keep ones self intact.

Tip

2011-10-17T01:00:00.000-07:00

I still need help keeping the vote count up on in the photo contest. If I win all 2012 newborn sessions will be free. Also, I'll be grateful as hell. Please vote it up!

I've really learned a lot in the past two years about the whole alcoholism thing. I am the child of an alcoholic, I've been exposed to them intermittently throughout my life, and it wasn't until I got to be an adult that I could really comprehend what goes on with these types of people.

I'm extremely proud of myself for getting better at knowing the difference.

I've realized that I have made the mistake with even interacting with a few of them lately, but then it's hard because I always find out too late that they're damaged and by then I've already made dinner plans with them or something and everything ends up out of control. The good news, however, is that I've learned to step away even when I find out too late, both tactfully and without damage to myself.

When I was trying to be a nice guy and let people shoot with me at weddings to build their portfolios (which saved my butt the time I almost died, so there are two sides to that coin) I ended up getting two photographers involved that turned into serious problems. One just became a flake in general, and the other was actually drinking champagne from the tables.

The first person I mistook as a functional alcoholic, but he turned out not to be very functional at all. That's a situation I'm easily able to say "sorry but I don't have any more opportunities for you" without any further issue. Friendly person, friend-ee person, friendish fiend or fiendish friend, I choose how often I allow contact with a person and how close they're allowed to get to me.

The second person has been very point blank easy because of the incident I witnessed while this person was representing my name. Not just my job or whatever, but it's my name.

I never said a word to the person, which may have spoken volumes because I didn't even ask for the photos they took at that event and furthermore I don't want them. This was weeks ago, we've spoken here and there but I've not asked for a thing when usually I'm all about asking for the things right away.

I've learned that the more a person says they're not drinking, they're drinking. Probably more, and probably right before and after they finish that sentence.

Willie's step dad, Steve, he's trying this whole "nice" thing at the moment. Fascinating since neither Willie or I want anything to do with his existence. He'll ride by on the motorcycle and wave after passing (to which Willie responds by yelling that he's a fucking bitch--without the kids around or anything, of course) or if we should meet one another in passing he'll say "good evening." We'll ignore, and he'll say "okay."

They're tricky with their ever changing moods, but I've got these drunk guys a little more down pat than I ever have before.

But along with these crazed weirdos who do it to themselves there's also the ones who get fucked up as the result of the person who is drinking. There's all this data out there that says they develop characteristics and they end up with specific stress factors and little triggers. This seems to be across the board. There's even something that suggests that children of alcoholics have a hard time comprehending abstract concepts.

I'm having a hard time comprehending that.

I remember on my first day of college I was walking through the halls of the building with the big loud bell tower, and there was a group of white haired suited types all standing around laughing. They smelled like coffee. Totally confused by where I was supposed to find my classroom, I stopped to ask them for help. They explained how to get there but they didn't use any hand gestures and I ended up going the wrong way.

One of them must have felt sorry for me because he ended up walking me not only to the elevator, but got on and rode with me and took me to the classroom and wished me luck.

I basically can't learn things unless I'm touching them and doing them. That's me. And this makes me not very good at school unless the ceramics class counts as school because I was fairly good at handbuilding.

I've gotten pretty good at handling the phone calls. Because yes, one did call me saying "I know I posted on Facebook that I'm drinking, but I'm not really drinking. I just want people to think I am."

Yeah.

I watch as at least 20% of the people on my friends list give their kids away on the weekends, post crazy bar, party, tattoo, piercing, or just otherwise annoying cell phone pictures and then complain about being too tired for work or being broke.

It seems like they always have money for alcohol. And tattoos.

I'm a square and I have no friends and I "changed" Willie and "control" David but man, we're all children of alcoholics here and I'm scared to death of not knowing the signs and accidentally interacting with someone I thought I could trust.

It makes me not want to trust anyone.

It makes me sound and feel paranoid.

It doesn't take much to tip one way or another with these things.

A Brief Discussion About Young Love

2011-10-13T13:18:00.000-07:00

Hey, I still need votes on this picture. I'm currently in second place, but if I win I'm giving back by making all 2012 newborn sessions FREE. Let's make the number climb! Vote vote vote! Thank you!

I sat with one of my newlywed brides on her sofa the other day while I delivered her package. This bride is not much older than I am , just about five years, and one of the things she didn't know we had in common was the teenage parent thing. She was 15 when she had her first, and so was David. In case you aren't caught up or haven't done the math, I was 18 and freshly graduated when he and I started dating.

I never mention it because I feel I've reached a point where I don't need to explain anymore. I'm over the people pleasing part of my life, and I thought I'd never ever get here.

But I have. And I feel privileged to be older. This is the oldest I've ever been and I'm happy to be here.

She waited until after the wedding and honeymoon and all to announce that her daughter, who is 18, is pregnant. The father is my dead ex boyfriend's brother--the boy who used to give me Pokemon cards and caught me a baby striped bass in Lake Mead.

And so, the bride and I had a brief discussion about young love.

"I have nothing but respect for it," she said. "It's intense, it's maddening--"

"It makes you stupid and crazy," I said.

"It doesn't last," she concluded.

It hit me that I'm at the point in my life where I know that. I've reached that age. I'm in the know.

She's a woman who married an older man, who gets called a "cradle robber" at work. She knows. She's in that know too. There is something far different about the way I feel for Willie and the way I felt for any of the boys from my past.

Granted Willie and I had a shitty rocky start, and I used to get all anxietal about things. I think much of it was forced bloodflow getting all locked in that knotted up neck of mine. The way I feel about Willie feels more adult, like I'm in the big girl club having secret access to the stuff they all high five over.

It's nice to feel this way because when I got my first rights of passage into being a "woman" or whatever you'd call it, I was too embarrassed to say anything. Too embarrassed to ask for pads, freaked out about wearing bras, curious about my sister's makeup but clueless as to how to put it on or let alone ask. That little girl had massive C cups in 7th grade that she hid under 3X sized shirts.

I couldn't even really get excited about my pregnancies because I was under such scrutiny from everyone at all times. When I excitedly asked about the possibility of a baby shower, I was snapped at and told that if I didn't stop asking I wouldn't have one at all.

This is why I've always felt awkward.

Though I loved David I always felt like I had to explain David. I still do have to explain him, I supposed, like when people ask why my kids call their dad "Willie."

"He's not their dad," I explain. And I'm asked how David feels, and I just tell them that we're all friends here. "Do the kids call Willie anything special? Like Pop or Daddy-Willie?" they ask, and I say no. He's Willie and he knows his place.

It's hard to explain how David and I just weren't really right for each other. We get along well, we're the best of friends, but I suppose the easiest way to explain it is that if you fall in love with two people, you should always stick with the second because if you really loved the first you'd of not fell in love with the new one.

Young love seems to have a lot of uncertainty, which is sometimes how it gets to be so turbulent. Young love has all this new leaf tenderness to it, a green forever feel, whereas this stage I'm in now where I feel all knowing and let in on a secret or something has a goldaline glow. More heavenly than rainbows, which are full of promise and hidden treasure. Being older has more to do with knowing than promise and treasure.

There are grumpy old folks at Dennys who sit and hate each other over poached eggs. I don't know what that part is like yet.

But I am approaching 30 and I feel like, yeah, I get it. Not quite red hat status, but maybe pink ribbon.

Young love is totally something that never comes back. I envy Willie a little bit because he's got a tinge of it. But he also tends to adapt to his environment so he's got a bit of the adultness mixed in. He's 24 though, but maybe his scale is automatically bigger. Being stretched across a time span might give him a different outlook.

Soft silly music is meaningful, magical.

An Air Supply song where all the lyrics are about feelings and dreams. It's different than a Stater's run for Ben & Jerry's.

It's different, for sure, than knowing that without tradition you have no history.

It's knowing that after a certain point, that there ain't never going back home again, sweetie.

I'm re-reading a manuscript I wrote in 2009. It's all about young love, and every word I wrote drips with that nervous tension of uncertainty. I could publish it if I wanted to after some editing is done, and I will, probably before I'm 30 just to stake claim on how well I'd pinned down those young love feelings before I knew what this golden love is with Willie. Yes, the book was written on my balcony in my old apartment while David delivered pizzas, before my phone started ringing off the hook with people booking me for weddings.

It's fascinating to see how much it all seems to change.

I am broken, I am healing and fixing, and passing the tip I got from the bride onto the pedicure girl with her stack of young love bills to pay. And it's trashy to say this, maybe even pretentious because it wasn't a lot of money, but it reminds me of that old White Diamonds commercial where she gives her earring to the gambler and says "these have always brought me luck." Not that I'm Liz Taylor status by any means going to the little family run Mexican beauty bar having a white girl do my toes in festive dayglow orange, I'm just saying that passing a little something on to someone who passed a little something on to me--well it just made me feel all pearly.

I don't take anything for granted.

Still Point

2011-10-10T15:36:00.000-07:00

(Shameless self promotion: Please vote on my photo in the Redlands Pumpkin Photo Contest on Facebook. I'm proud of this pic and I'd love to see it win. Tell your friends!)

Things have been so weird lately, but it's always seemed that the weirder things are the more normal they are for us. Being non traditional in life means the occasional slinging of weird shit our way.

I live in a postcard town and live a life that you wouldn't write about on a postcard. I'm handed strange contradictions like the photos of the kids in the fall at the pumpkin patch where they're in flip flops and sunglasses because this is Southern California and October is still pretty hot here. We all end up splitting ways in the corn maze of doom and I realize that its full of stinging nettle. That's life. That's how it always turns out. The wholesome family activity will leave you itching.

I get a call from David who is elsewhere in the corn maze. He asks "where you at?"

I tell him that I'm in a corn maze.

And if that isn't exciting enough, after finding the four secret locations in the maze, we were rewarded with rubber bracelets advertising the pumpkin patch's website.

Money well spent because you can't recreate this anywhere. You can't redo your child's childhood. You can only hope there's less stinging nettle around the next turn.

I'm thinking it's time to move though. Not from this postcard town or the stinging nettle patches, because in Southern California it's either stinging nettle or San Bernardino and nobody wants that. It's more a matter of feeling like I'm being crowded out of my little flat, not by all the stuff especially but more like by the crazy fucking people who have been leaving weird things on my porch in the night and sending us badly addressed wedding invitations and people screaming things at our flat while they drive by.

I think I truly am the luckiest, and if I count up all of my luck at once I can't really complain about the bad. I have a situation that when properly understood is pretty sweet, but there's this weird flying baggage that comes figuratively zooming through my front window and it makes me want to change at least the one thing I am no longer attached to, and that is my location. I'll bring all the stuff and people I like with me, but I'm thinking that it's beyond time we get the hell out of here.

Not that we're in any sort of position where we will be able to make this happen easily or in a timely manner.

One morning we woke up to a beach towel on the welcome mat. It was weird and random and we thought perhaps someone thought it was ours, maybe that we'd left it in a dryer, or it was the thought that counts most. I mean we do tend to be known as the people who visit the dumpsters at night, but we aren't digging through them and we aren't really grabbing things, just recyclables and maybe a shelf or two. If someone thought we needed a towel, it's whatever. And it certainly beats the neighbor woman bringing us maggot covered broken radios "thinking we might want them." Then again, that girl knocked.

The second morning was a few days later, and at 6:15 when willie stepped out to check the weather there was a tote bag on our door containing crackers and butter.

Now things are getting WEIRD.

Perhaps this person thinks we're going hungry, and that we're desperate enough to eat an open container of crackers. Perhaps the person is on some kind of program with a food bank and had one too many pounds of real Grade A butter. Around here you sometimes get the neighbors who ask you for a little gas money but repay you in gallons of foodstamp bought milk--which is totally illegal and kind of sad and weird. And I've been offered pasta that just came with the rest of the stuff they like from the church that gives them food.

But those people are up front about it.

Leaving crackers and butter is maybe a nice thing, but it also brings to my attention that you're creeping around my front door in the night while I sleep, and it makes me put up my security camera and my "armed response" sign.

And that's why you always leave a note.

But on the other hand, don't address the note wrong and put Willie's stepfather's building number and drive by to get our building number and come up with a convoluted bullshit drive by address that ends up being delivered to the apartment manager's office because the postman's head exploded.

(Example: Our address: 111 Tigerlily Court. Apt. G. Willie's step dad's address: 666 Tigerlily Court Apt FU. Address on wedding invitation: 666 Tigerlily Court Apt. 111.)

Nothing makes me want to go to a wedding less than when I don't give a fuck about the person sending the invite, let alone when they get our address wrong, and further still it drives me away when I see three wedding registry cards included in the invite. I'm no Miss Manners, but I know my wedding etiquette.

Then again I wasn't even invited. Which to Willie is also an insult in and of its self.

I've had enough of this family blow off shit from both sides. Which is why we're not even having a wedding of our own. And even still I don't know when that will be, nor do I want anyone to come. I've got nobody to zip up my dress, walk me down the aisle, or explain the paperwork I still don't comprehend. It's madness and I have other things to do.

Today is our two year anniversary, by the way.

You know, the internet thing has been rough since 2005, all the drive by comments and the dull roar of the people talking. It doesn't matter, it's the internet. But it's being left on my porch and screamed in my ear by a voice on the phone who is convinced that I write about my trials and tribulations because I'm greedy and looking for sympathy.

But nothing is worse than the feeling that my home is out in the open, like I've got neon signs inviting everyone to point and yell. I see boundaries everywhere now that they've been brought to my attention, and I feel helpless to protect the ones that are being crossed because I live where I do and who I'm by.

Yet I fear that we'll never get out of this place.

My wheels are stuck spinning in the mud, it's the still point where everything freezes, the root of all the empty spaces we don't have. It's what creates the pattern. I make the best of what I have and I stay protected within the walls--after all, it's only butter and wedding invitations, but leaving behind the things you're done with when you're still in the very same spot you started makes very little sense.

I wish I knew a way, any sort of way to jump forward.

It's a whole different life than it was six years ago, but surely we can't ever be contained within the same barriers that put us in each place.

I remember a time when heavy footsteps in a dusty thrift store next to a stack of books approached me and the person they belonged to had eyes that fell on me and into me and cramped me all at once. And I remember being given a rose in a dream that I didn't want. I remember a high school dance and I remember a boy who now tells me that there's nothing outside of each other.

Cop cars, old street cars, plates of spaghetti.

I can still feel the approach to this day, much like the crooked basket with its warm wet wicker strands not quite holding together. I have been young. I have been closed off. I have found the still point and it always revolves around the very same thing.

Staying any more in this moss soaked river side place is eternally just giving me a starting point to be forever angry.

We've got to get out of this place if it's the last thing we ever do.

Quick Note:

2011-10-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

To the person who is leaving things on my front porch in the night,

Please stop. Your attention is unwanted.

Also, please take note of the "no trespassing" sign. Furthermore, we do live on private property.

If and when I find out who you are, I will call the police.

I do not play games.

-JT

Open Promise

2011-09-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

Promise me...

Promise me I'll never forget that I do like this. I like very many lots of things but I especially like this.

The long hours, unexpectedly walking through clouds of headache inducing perfume, the ending notes of one last song with its sighing violins and tale of love.

I have had bad experiences at weddings. I've dealt with mothers. I've dealt with drunk brothers. I've let entirely too many photographers come "help" and I've been handed, I shit you not, over processed frilly la la 1982 soft oval vignette around EVERY FUCKING PICTURE.

I've had to wish David well as he started checking out and doing his own thing instead of being on my team, I've had to now wish Rey well too now that he's pursuing his music career instead.

I've dealt with paperwork. And smack talk. I'm breaking way more than even and this is only my second year of weddings. Year number three is already being booked.

I like it, I do. I like soft petals on the aisle and teenagers learning about rouge. Beige bra straps and snow peach lipgloss.

Men who get pedicures.

Men who cry like babies.

Eating sausage biscuit breakfasts and three cheese potato with tri tip dinners.

Fancy little bubble wands and a bite of a too sweet cupcake.

I want none of it for myself and still intend to elope, but I like it for others. And I like photographing it. Like, a lot.

A few months ago I met this bride in my dead ex boyfriend's backyard--which happened to be the place that I considered getting married to Willie because they kind of dared me to. She booked me and handed me all of her baby photos along with all of her man's entire collection and asked me to carefully turn them into a slideshow for them.

Normally when I am handed a pile of photos it's not for a happy reason. Funeral slideshows make everyone all teary eyed and even for me the lines tend to blur even if I never knew them. I think it's the music. Because I've done some pretty intense work behind the locked doors of a funeral home, but I tend to disassociate when I do that and perform my task deliberately and without emotion. Music makes me swell, and it can also make me hurt. Those kind of slide shows are hard.

But the cheery Starbucksy music of this show full of fat baby faces and t-ball and pony dreams was nice. I knew they would like it.

Of course, the night they got it the couple texted me at 11:30 at night to tell me that they cried and held on to each other when they watched it. They said they knew it was late but they had to tell me right away, they said.

And I stressed the day of their wedding because I'd lost Rey to car troubles that were sort of a prelude into the whole going back to music anyway thing, and I stressed because one of the people I allowed to come shoot for portfolio work was late and not following directions, but the fact is that I had Willie filling in and being all super awesome camera guy #2 (shooting in manual mode and everything!) and Penny who I've liked since we walked in step off a curb together at an event a few months ago (and who generally takes kick ass photographs.)

Everything went well. Super well. Ceremony was perfect, everyone was where they should be, and while everyone was getting settled in with their food the big screen projected the little menu for the slide show DVD. It was a simple menu that just shuffled around a few of the photos from the 15 minute show, and I sat with my feet dangling from the stage while talking to Penny and overseeing the photobooth madness and what not.

I looked over to see the bride's sister...and I can't find the words to describe the emotion on her face. As everyone around her joked and conversed, she sat with her mouth slightly agape with her hand over her chest.

I'd been with these people all day and had a little leeway to joke with them, so I said "Jeez girl this is only the menu!"

Without taking her eyes off the screen she walked over to me and Penny.

"That's my baby sister," she said as one of the bride's baby photos flashed on the screen. "I'm ten years older than her, but we shared a room. And she'd want me to pick her up out of her crib so she'd go eh! and I'd take her out...she really was my real live baby doll." A studio type photo that I remember saying "age 9 months" on the back took the screen and she said "I...I remember going to take that picture..."

It was emotional as she stood there in...nostalgia land I suppose. More emotional than when the bride explained that the jewel hanging from her wrist was made from her dad's ashes--and you know I don't do daddy stuff so well at these weddings. It was this moment where this woman was seeing her baby sister for the first time in 30 years on the day that a woman now stands laughing in a gorgeous champagne colored wedding dress with her handsome faced groom.

She stood there as the menu cycled through its little repeat of photos, flashing, calling up old memories.

The DJ dismissed the next table to go get food and the bride's sister wiped her eye carefully as not to smear her makeup any further.

"There's a lot of open promise in pictures," she said, and walked back to her table.

Thrive

2011-09-21T18:34:00.000-07:00

And so the snake arrived. Cold, scared, and hungry, he arrived and was immediately handed to me "here take this or something" style, which was not what I was ready for. All in his s-curve, but about six times smaller than I imagined him, much like returning to a childhood hangout only to realize how small it is now that you're grown.

The snake...I pretty much like him. He's grown on me quite fast, partly because of his mellow nature and partly because the stripes on his face remind me of the brown and yellow marble cakes my sister made when I was no taller than the kitchen counter and also of baby ducks.

I'm terrified of snakes. Yes, terrified, and rightfully so. But I look at this little guy and just kind of feel the need to love it and pet it and name it Brahm. (Though Fudge was also a consideration. But that name might better suit a turtle.)

Shortly after I got him, the herpetology student who handled the snakes at that circus I shot at a few months ago came over early the next morning and set me up with the proper tools for taking care of a ball python. I did not know he would need to be kept at 60% humidity. I did not know that the log he came with wasn't the right kind of hide. I did not know that the heat from the bulb wasn't quite emitting down to his rock, but I did know that after the kid whipped out a fancy infrared surface temperature measuring device.

So now aside from having this powerful, squeezy friend who will almost certainly grow to be bigger and bite me when I least expect it, I even have a nerdy little project on my hands. I have to keep the temperatures right and make the humidity just perfect, which is a challenge here in my area where the heat is dry and overpowering.

And that's not all, because he came with a huge 55 gallon tank that needs cleanup and is currently a little too big to house him, so project vivarium here I come!

The fact is that when I do things I tend to go balls to the wall with them. Also, I like for things I am responsible for to thrive.

The kids are also an excellent example of our quest to thrive here. Ty's been in his piano lessons for six months and is writing his own songs along with transposing assigned music, and today we visited Mr. Long And Winding Road to sign up for band. Seeing him with his golden hair struggle to carry that trombone case across the schoolyard made me realize that he reminds me of...me.

"He's my only 3rd grade trombonist ever," the dude tells me.

Ty licks his lips and blats a gigantic fart note through the melodic chainsaw instrument and it's clear he's obviously mine. Yup.

And Wade with his ballet, he's doing great and all and got "dancer of the day" Monday, only to get home from school on Tuesday to tell me "Aw, I'm late for running club! We have to go back to school!" I had no idea what he was talking about but he insisted that we go back and that I bring five dollars with us.

Turns out running club is indeed real and it's a club where they run. He ran a full mile and a quarter then slept for 12 hours, completely missing dinner. If he wants to do that twice a week to earn prizes from his little student store, hell, more power to him. Best five bucks I think I could possibly spend right now, right along with the $5 I spent to sign Willie up for ballet, which is of course free after the initial signup free since he's a boy.

I really like to get "involved." I really like to make things go smoothly. I really like to make sure everyone thrives.

One of the things that I love about caring for this snake is the careful arrangement of his log and his rock and his ugly pothos plant. It's a bit of a nesting thing for me, like when I take over David's truck.

Oh god, David's truck.

First time I went in it crap was everywhere. Windex next to his bread, porn next to his silverware, and worst of all GALLON JUGS OF PEE next to his gallon jugs of water. I took care of the situation and organized things a little better, making a space for food and even a space for pee--but he MUST promise to dump it when he gets a chance and not let it build up like that anymore. I told him it was weird and if he wants to meet girls he has not not hoard his pee.

I can't believe I had to have that conversation with him but you'd be surprised at some of the weird shit he does.

As for me I'm moving forward. I'm still eating a diet largely consisting of cream cheese on whole wheat and a few squares of ultra dark chocolate a day. I don't think I've had a diet DP in a week (even though I only buy those little tiny cans now.) I crave things like water and cranberry juice and I read somewhere that the vinegar in pickles is supposed to have magic blood pressure lowering qualities.

It's living. Not quite thriving yet, but I'm not sure I'll ever get to a point where I feel like I've made it to the top. Only the people around me.

They say that watching fish has a soothing, calming sort of effect on the heart. Amazingly so is watching this snake. Okay, feeding him is intense. But the rest of the time if I catch him hanging out on his water bowl or heading from one hide to the next it's really nice to just sit and watch him. And the weird undulating movements he makes as he crawls around on my arms reminds me of a tiny massage.

I want to make everything perfect for him and make his little snake butt grow bigger. (Rats help.)

It's really kind of cool to be able to take a step forward away from fear and make a new little friend. Plus other friends like the sweet herp student who handed me a poop collection cup and said "we want to be sure he doesn't have any parasites."

Okay, Willie can handle that. He handled scooping Wade's poop when we checked him for parasites.

I don't have to do everything.

A Handle On My Fear

2011-09-15T01:20:00.000-07:00

I thought, maybe, that if I were to have one of those fancy sand ceremonies at my wedding, I'd give a vial of sand to everyone in the audience and ask them to pour in half of the sand, but to keep the other half as a reminder to be supportive. Of course, the magic of the sand ceremony is that it "blends" the parties together, and furthermore that nothing the couple will ever go through will be as hard as trying to separate all those grains of sand.

That's all sweet and sentimental but really, when you get down to the nuts and bolts of it, those little half filled vials will be forgotten in cars, left on the seats, or deliberately tossed from the junk drawer one spring cleaning session.

I don't much like people.

I don't much like involving them in my personal affairs.

Telling a story and representing it is one thing, but to ask for audience participation is...probably a little much to ask.

I thought about this drop dead gorgeous soon to be bride I met with a few weeks ago who loved my work because of how I feature hands. I may not get a shot of the bride and groom saying "I do" (I have people for that) but damn if I won't get the groom's hands fidgeting, the ring exchange, and the hands held in prayer. The girl says to me that the reason she likes it so much is because her man is in the military and they're often apart for long periods of time, and so their thing that they say and share between them is that "home is in each other's arms."

I was distraught when she called me just four days after paying her deposit in cash saying that her man had been deployed and that the wedding was off until...to be announced. It made me sad. And I try to at least become aware of these people's stories, if not for just knowing who they are but for the kind of moments they'll create at their wedding. When he proposed he just held her in his arms at home one afternoon, foregoing the Riverwalk and all the fancy restaurant ideas.

They are actually really in love. I don't want to say that it's rare but...I've seen some shit.

I think about all the ways that Willie and I are awkward. Not with each other but with everyone else. Not really wanting to truly know Willie and expressing their discontent for our out of the norm sort of thing that really isn't that out of the norm, I know that anything formally put together would leave a gap where those people were supposed to sit in the seats to spectate. And Willie's side...well Willie's side has always been pretty lonely. Especially now that his mother is for sure twacked out on drugs and Leo's made it pretty astoundingly clear that he's to immature to handle any sort of adult relationship with his brother, I feel like it would be a gathering of the six photographers that I know and like one or two people coming from out of state who probably should just save up their frequent flyer miles for something better.

What amazes me is how much the whole "wedding" idea has really been blown for me in doing what I do. I've seen drama. I've seen mishaps. I've seen things that can never be unseen. The magic is gone. I see too many brides put money into special unity candles with initials and poems on them just for a gust of wind to come along and ruin their little ceremonial plans. Dresses don't end up matching and zippers break and makeup gets smeared.

And everyone says to me, "I'd go to your wedding."

Hell, I'd go too if it wasn't so damn expensive.

This whole blood pressure thing has got me a little bit thinking that I can't be putting my money where my mouth is when I've got kids who are in very expensive lessons. Granted Wade's ballet class is free, we still need to buy the tickets to the damn shows and the outrageously priced professional DVD's and all those pairs of shoes. And now Ty is joining band along with his private lessons with Mrs. Pennywhistle (that are expensive as balls) and plus they're getting all older and stuff and probably deserve $5,000 worth of things to make them smart and happy more than I need to wear a puffy dress and pour sand in a jar in front of a bunch of hostile people.

Somewhat hostile.

Granted we were shooting for 2013 and we hadn't placed a dime into anything as of yet. We can't. But we researched and we plotted and bookmarked until our fingers bled.

But what if I have something else to pay for in 2013? What if I don't even make it that long?

Look, when I really want something, I mean really truly want something, I get it. At the end of the day I ALWAYS get my way and I feel like a mother fucking boss because of it. More and more every day. A year ago I saw a bike down in San Diego, decided that I wanted it to be mine forever more, and a month later I'd saved up enough funds to buy one just like it. I have the things that I want, or variations of them, and I rarely have to settle for not getting my way.

The other day Daryl says to me that I'm lucky because I've got this team of awesome people who just totally take care of me and look out for me, and even he is becoming one of them. He took me to the Royal Falconer and I had a big no-no French Dip, which was admittedly a lot of sodium on my part but hell, the second I walked in the door at home and said that I probably needed to combat some of it, Willie's bringing me dark chocolate and ice water and blending me a smoothie.

Shit's run. I like it. I'm mostly happy if not for a little bit worried about my health and making sure that my boys succeed.

And though my blood pressure has improved greatly, pulling like 123/81 or like 125/72 daily instead of 145/87 like I was getting, I'm probably (but hopefully not) experiencing my last years. I don't want this to be, and I'm not going to totally go nutso and live like it is in the sense of sobbing all the time and telling people how special they are, but I've come to terms that this could totally be it. I've always guessed 30, 35 at the latest, and I am nearly 28. Time to get a move on.

My will is done, as is David's. We didn't make a thing of it and had a fun little get together for the witnesses to scrawl their John Hancocks, making it all official and such. I've got a nice little "goodbye" page typed up for my blog for whoever has admin access should it need to be published...which I suppose it will at some point, if not in the next few years. (It's in the Pages element, like where I keep the disclaimer and stuff. Don't read it now, it'll depress you.)

Well now that stuff is done, so it's time to elope with the super hot man of my dreams who I am so in love with it makes me want to giggle. And then, troll bitches and stop holding things back.

You know, it's amazing that I see boundaries everywhere now that they've been taught to me.

I'm not going to allow any of these newby wedding photographers join with me to get their experience and shit. I'm tired of babysitting. And I think I over complicated a really awesome thing with just the job that Rey and I can do side by side, maybe with the occasional third shooter. Too many hose beasts and ninnies out there who just want to get theirs and maybe end up becoming more of a hassle than the quality of their pictures is worth. I'm done trying to help other businesses, it's every man for himself and I've already got the ones I want on board.

And you know what else I'm going to do? Get a snake. Yes, that's right, a snake. I was bit on the face by a 17 foot reticulated python when I was five, ever since then, understandably, I've been quite phobic of them. But then when I met that nice little ball python Fluffy at that one photo shoot, I thought maybe I could have one too someday and I would learn not to be afraid of it.

Well then it just so happens that Daryl is in need of a new home for his baby ball python who is tame and comes with a big tank and whose current name is Herman (which I will be changing to Braham.) Some time in the next few days, I'm going to get to handle a snake, and it should turn out to be a very fear overcoming experience. Plus I can use him for naked chick photo shoots. They say Cleopatra even wore one around her wrist. Imagine me steppin' out with a snake as a scarf or head band, not afraiding of anything.

I'm going to live as long as I possibly can but I'd rather take control of things and live my life as not so much of a reaction to the situation I'm in, but as a series of decisions I'm informed enough about to make.

I want to feel both secure and content.

I generally feel those things, but I really just want to own them.

You know, ball pythons tend to become aggressive when there's something wrong with their environment, like if they don't have enough heat or any good hidey-holes to ball up in. Because they feel unsafe they're always in defense mode, which is why they might strike or get all jumpy and upset or maybe even die.

Changing my whole diet to the point that the smell of salty or buttery foods makes me sick to my stomach and then cutting out trying to calculate how much feeding the people we assume would show up to my dead ex boyfriend's back yard seems like a really easy way to make things a little more secure so that I can feel content.

And yes, maybe at some point I'll wear the quinceanera dress and do a ~~dollar dance~~ awkward hug dollar round up. Someday, if there's money and enough reason.

Even David is simmering down. No longer with this "finding myself" shit that was making him depressed because there was nothing to find and he was running out of places to look. Just working, doing his thing, exploring options for the future. He tries not to dwell and just wants to get the rent paid, knowing that there's always awesome food to come home to.

The whole "just keep working" thing has been effective for me because instead of trying to figure out the skeletons in my closet and remember all the dark spaces and blank spots, I've put myself to the task and made myself into a very busy business person who is fully entertained.

I may not ever know what makes my legs twitch or what happened that time I blacked out, but at least I'll hopefully get a handle on my fear of snakes thing. I don't have time to be angry at the unknown. But I do have time to cuddle a loveable squeezy reptile. I'll make time.

First things first though, eloping. Quietly, cheaply, and freely. Let's do this.

Sober

2011-09-06T02:40:00.000-07:00

Actually, it's not okay.

I've been following a strict diet. The Mexican food at the wedding didn't count. It's the only not on the list thing I've had in three weeks.

Okay, so we joke about it a little. I'll post photos of myself with my silly scarf wrapped head to Facebook and offer to do psychic readings. Between Chi and I, my massages are called hand jobs (her boyfriend knows too, otherwise it would be really awkward when he reads a text from me asking her for a handy.) We fist bump when my blood pressure reading looks good.

So this isn't like serious serious time or anything. I may be worried shitless but I'm still making some light of the situation.

And I can deal with the girl who got in my face telling me to smoke a bowl and it will even out, and how I was reckless for not even giving it a chance. (It wouldn't help things, by the way.)

I can deal with the heavy eye roll I got the other day when I was asked if I'd been to the doctor yet, and I said no because I need to register my car first.

I can even deal with assholes on the internet playing doctor.

But you know what's not okay was when I was trolled about food today.

I got used to that nasty dark chocolate. In fact, I've actually grown to like it, and Willie has too which is really interesting because he hates chocolate. He's enjoying the bitterness of the cacao based bars, because they remind him of the super hoppy beers he likes. We've discovered a really neat common interest, and we even have a little "stash box" for our dark chocolate. It's fun because it also encourages me to eat it in hopes of lowering my blood pressure.

Tonight I selected a loaf of french bread from the bakery and bought a salt substitute so we could rip and dip pieces in salted and peppered olive oil. I even bought a bottle of Martinelli's (10 milligrams of sodium!) to go with it.

This was all of course a precursor to the dark chocolate platter I set up as the main course. Different bars, different brands of dark chocolate along with some interesting little tidbits to try them with: fresh raspberries, plump little blueberries, and even red hot peppers. I wanted my tongue scorched and then soothed by berry juices. I wanted to kiss him with chocolate breath. I wanted to have a dirty little sinful evening of fine chocolate tasting.

Man I felt cool.

I probably shouldn't have bragged about it on Facebook though.

This lady I barely know responds with something about bacon. And Rey chimed in.

Et tu Rey?

Rey, who was giving me all kinds of encouragement and information the other day about his own battle with hypertension, and encouraging me to "stick around" for my children, and not really correcting his family when they thought I was his wife.

Bacon bacon bacon. Okay. To counter my chocolate feast they must brag about bacon. Or something.

Well anyway, it was kind of stupid but it turned into a "ha ha you can't eat that" kind of situation and my feelings were hurt. It's not that big of a deal it's bacon, but actually...it's not okay.

Changing my diet like this is not easy. I mean we already avoid fast food because of Wade's gluten allergy, and I generally ate healthy before, but when my choices no longer involve things I love like spaghetti and sausage--not even every once in a while--it upsets the whole family's apple cart. We no longer buy beef or pork and here Willie is making separate meals for not just Wade but me too, though he does tend to eat what I'm eating unless there isn't a lot of it.

Changing the habit of falling back to default menu items like ramen and fried chicken from the deli on busy nights is not a simple task. I'm hungry all day long and I honestly have no idea what to even buy most of the time.

I guess I just sort of feel like the sober one that's getting trolled by alcoholic friends.

Having that happen just hurt my feelings.

The chocolate party was fail for the most part anyway. Willie had no idea what I meant with the bread and oil thing, was totally turned off by the first two chocolates we tried (they were made with cocoa not cacao so he bitched) and he even seemed a little reluctant to set up my tea set. We never even opened the Martinelli's.

I myself discovered that the dark Dove chocolate with hot chili pepper is fucking amazing though.

He finished off the bowl of fruit and I just went to my computer. There were more "ha ha" back and forth comments about the bacon in response to my chocolate party.

No such details will spoil my plans. That is the kind of girl I am.

So this is two in the morning and I am drinking mineral water. I can't sleep but at least I'm drinking the right things. I made art this evening. I put up my autumn decorations. We picked all the songs for our wedding ceremony (all string quartet tributes.)

Things are beautiful.

And hey, I did get a perfect blood pressure reading the other day. Too bad it didn't stick but I think the spike might be caffeine induced/related.

What I don't want to seem like is one of those insane crash dieters. I got a little bit of that the other day when I was eating my cucumber sandwich while everyone else ate pizza. I was asked if I lost any weight yet and I said I didn't know because I really don't bother with numbers or anything like that. All I know is that for six years, they've stayed the same though my shape seems to have not, with pant sizes going down and leg muscles getting bigger.

Willie is good in that he finds my new health needs a top priority, as do I. He even defended me when Rey and that bacon lady started trolling. But I see him running out of ideas too, even if the Mrs. Dash did excite him for a second there. But I think my sensitivity goes beyond him in that I've got nobody to really discuss my fright and my concern with. I've got information people, that's all well and good, as is the personal chef. But in being the whole backbone person and strong silent mother type I can't properly...

I can't properly tell anyone that I've had serious knowing since I was little that I don't live very long past 30.

Even the gypsy palm reading stuff says so. Just look at my palm, the life line. It stops just short of the 35 mark.

I've always sort of known it and I'm not fucking done here but nobody listens. Willie's in denial, as is David, and I'm always seen as crazy or over worried. I feel ill about it, and I don't want it, but I can't make it go away. None of it. The blood pressure, the weird intuition, none of it and it probably doesn't help to be so worried about it.

What I know is that I can't commit to it because I haven't even thrown the kids proper birthday parties or taken them to Disneyland. I feel sometimes like I'm stuck inside of my own mind about it because nobody will listen. Like it becomes taboo to mention it because it might self fulfill.

I don't want it to, but that first blood pressure reading I got just pretty much set the stage for everything I've ever thought was going to happen around these years.

I hope I'm wrong.

I have a place to write, and that's good. But the space here is totally invaded and it only comes through in justifications and waves. Though I do pat myself on the back that I'm not using it for social media and connections and Adsense. My shit may be fucked up, but at least there are no ads in the sidebar.

When I was last reprimanded for airing grievances I was told to keep it under the mattress like everyone else. But time and again in my life even that form of jotting down has been violated.

I could make everything private here but then I feel like my story isn't getting out, when the other thing I've always known is that I have to fucking tell my story. Every fiber I'm made of has told me that I'm supposed to write this, just ask the four year old me who began to narrate goings on in her mind and judging the size of a book filled with my story using my dirty little hands spread inches apart.

What I choose is my voice.

What's a boy supposed to do?

Comments closed today. I can be reached at my usual locations.

The Golden Rule

2011-09-02T02:18:00.000-07:00

I don't have as much work done as I was hoping to before the wedding I'm shooting with Rey in a few hours. My workflow slowed down when I saw in the photos what I'd originally called "zombie mouth," which generally means a little bit more work to reverse the visual damage from guests eating a bright blue cake, and so I wasn't able to quite get through the back stretch.

Every muscle in my shoulders and neck is tired. Not sore and stiff like when I wake up in the morning sometimes, but instead they feel like they're being relieved of some burden although the damage seems to penetrate deep, layers and layers under what's been worked.

I do my daily recommended "chin tucks" (almost wrote "chin fucks," sorry) and I can now feel muscles being pulled in the middle of my back half way down my spine. Who knew that your head controlled your back? I mean I guess it's all connected, but the good news is that when I get my next rub down I know right where the muscles are and which ones need to be worked. I feel it up to my ears, and the good news is that the lump has gotten a little smaller.

Further good news, I pulled one hell of a nice set of numbers today on the arm squeezy machine. My best was 124/73 and my heart was only going 89 beats per minute. I brought down that bottom number, and the other two readings put my top number in the low 130's, this after a few days of taking a break from the arm squeezy. I wanted to see if the anxiety of having high blood pressure was actually raising my blood pressure, and perhaps maybe it was.

I'm trying to get back in the swing of things. I'm not back to riding my bike yet, it's far too hot and last time I made it up a hill I was pretty dizzy in a scary way, so for now Charlotte May is parked. Still, I've been going on little neighborhood walks to pick sunflowers and lavender and dainty little corabells. Or I think they're corabells. A lot of plant life I know was wrongly taught to me.

And now I'm faced with a wedding. This isn't my gig really, it's Rey's but we're kind of a team and we've gotten really used to working with each other. Rey and I can communicate from across the room without words with all this eye contact and a few head nods that we do. At a wedding a few months ago we sat in the grass under an apple tree changing lenses and he told me that once upon a time he dated a deaf girl and they did the same thing for two years--communicating without words.

He's a really cool person. I'm really lucky to have him in my life.

I'm ready for the heat though. I bought an off brand "Camel Pack" so hydration is just a few inches from my face at all times. We are shooting at a ranch with an old timey saloon complete with ragtime piano and all the fixins, and the only thing I fear is that I won't be able to control myself when it comes to the food. This is Rey's family's wedding, and Rey is Spanish. Not quite how Willie is Spanish, I mean Rey actually speaks the language (and if you've ever heard real Spanish as opposed to Mexican/Californian Spanish you know that there is a huge difference) and his family cooks the real shit. Like Victor's Gramma Josie real shit.

Spanish food, though full of salt, makes me weep. I swear to you that I weep.

At the reception after Victor's funeral, I wept not only for the boy and for the past, but for the fucking chicken verde. Hell, I even ate that nasty nopolitos shit because I am full of painful, incurable nostalgia.

"Oh my god Gramma this is so good," sob sob sob, "Jesus," sob sob sob, "I'm sorry for your loss is there any more?" sob sob sob.

One thing that is good is the nice set routine I have. I no longer work Mondays at all since that's the day we meet with Ty's homeschool teacher to turn in his work, and Wade's tap/ballet class, AND Ty's piano lesson. I don't even edit on that day.

I've got my little cheap-o special that I'm running on Tuesdays this month, Wednesdays are generally when I schedule bridal consultations, plus I have Friday-Sunday for shoots (though I won't have time for any more art shoots until December at this point, if that.)

Thursdays are some of my favorite days though. I get to watch Willie do ballet with the girls, pas de deux it's called. Okay, so he's still a little clumsy, it's only his second class. But he takes his role very seriously and you can just tell by looking at his face that he's really concentrating.

The Golden Rule, the teacher taught him, is that you never let a girl fall. If she is dancing with you she is your responsibility and if she hits the ground it is always the man's fault. The two older men in the class demonstrate their ability to keep the girls from falling completely forward when they lean to do their pretty arabesque. Willie is still new but he puts his hands exactly where he is told and steadies the twirling girl in front of him, who is literally rotating on the surface area of just her tiny tippy toe.

It's hot. So hot. He's strong and serious and slightly smirking, mostly because it's hard not to giggle when you've got a room full of 16 year old girls giggling about silly 16 year old girl things.

The teachers, I know, are cautious to get excited about having him just in case he bails. But nah, he's not bailing. He's always wanted to dance, it gives him something to focus on, and I know he likes the responsibility he's been given with that Golden Rule they talked about.

I'm half of where I'm at myself because of him. His nature is to care and to be that strong guy that holds up ballerinas or catches fainting girls like me. The other night I complained to Mari that he lets me sleep in too late.

"He knows you need the sleep," she said.

"But I've got things to do!"

"Let him take care of you. He's so good at it and you deserve that right now."

The more I think about it the more I realize that he truly does put forth all his effort into taking care of the four of us. Not just me, not just the kids, but David too. I don't know if it's entirely because he's the little home crab Cancer stereotype, but he just also seems to really have this way about him that he'd...never let a girl fall, know what I mean?

I sent him out for ice and a little bag of the 72% cacao chocolate that I ended up getting used to, and he came home with a whole armload of different varieties of dark chocolate. And he high fived me when I showed him my vastly improved arm squeezy results.

If the ice in my cup melts he's quick to replace it. And he eats all this non salty food right along with me so I don't feel alone.

And the girls, by the way, they may be in their little pointe II class, but they're still clumsy too and they wobble like a not quite centered ball of clay on a pottery wheel. It's a lot of responsibility to keep them from face planting!

I know that tomorrow he's going to see that I was up posting to my blog in the middle of the night and talk to me about the importance of sleep. He'll make my berry omega 3 tea and tell me to take it easy and that he's packed extra water but that he wants to see me drink it all.

I won't drink it all.

And I never was good at the pottery wheel.

Just ask anyone who has one of my funny lipped bowls from high school ceramics.

God damn though. Sometimes I really look up to and admire Willie. He's come a super long way in the time that I've known him. Over a year now cigarette free, muscular as FUCK and almost a fully licensed driver. And now he's doing ballet, which he largely did to be a good role model for Wade.

I've got cool people on my team right now. Real cool people.

And Willie.

I know Willie won't let me faceplant. It's the Golden Rule not to let a girl fall.

If This Doesn't Make You Smile

2011-09-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

...then you pretty much have no soul.

Just

2011-08-29T02:48:00.000-07:00

I ate a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich on whole wheat today while everyone at the photoshoot I orchestrated ate a larger than usual pizza from one of those cheap hole in the wall places. A pizza that one of the models actually wiped with a paper towel to soak up the lake of grease on top of the plastic cheese, even when my ex boyfriend Victor's aunt said that she mixed the grease with vodka and it was fine.

Man, that lady was talking about 40's, margaritas, and mixing practically everything in the beauty salon with vodka. She's so funny and special, and I'm really glad to have spent some time with her and his mom, my last minute models.

Work today was a lot of down time. Literally a boring headshot shoot, is how I advertised it, but it was all in the name of gathering portfolio material for my hair and makeup artist while also taking some pictures that will replace the sorely outdated ones that the family hair salon has on its walls.

My niece had a key and a generous Non who allowed us to use her shop today.

Everything was legit. Too legit to quit.

Of course except for the make up artist running late and one of the "models" having to duck out and leave before even getting done.

I'm getting better at orchestrating shoots. Hell, I did my part, I was there, and I brought water for everyone. And Non's shop is gonna have some spectacular boring headshots soon enough. Every day I'm hustlin'.

There was downtime. Lot's of downtime between the models getting done up and it's the most I've ever got to sit at a shoot unless you count that wedding a few weeks ago, but that was more of an emergency. A down time for me. It was hot in that shop, even with the air on it seemed like all the breath made it humid and...wait maybe it was just humid today. But it was good because nothing was broken...except the toilet, but we think that's something Non already knows about, and a round of models were paraded through and left with cute hairstyles and a promise to be contacted when the photos are done.

It felt good. So good. I love it, even with the dramatic models and the late MUA's. I love it.

So when Chi put me down for my second round of massage, and felt all the tension in my neck and shoulders that is causing my circulation problem, she asked what on earth I could be stressed about so fucking bad that it's got me passing out at weddings and shit.

God. Life?

I don't know what to say.

It's like when the ladies at the nail salon say in broken English "you bite nails!" and look at my hands, astonished. They pick up my hand and turn my fingers and tisk tisk tisk and ask if I want manicure. "Just feet, thanks" I remind them. I'm not made of money, I get my toes done once a month to keep my toenails from becoming ingrown (I stopped biting those when I could no longer bend that way, probably when I was six or seven.) "Why you do so much?" they ask, and my answer is always a very heavy "I've been through a lot."

I haven't known Chi very long. And I tell her a little bit about what I went through to get Willie, and what I went through with his family, and I touch a little bit on my family and the things that I'm not supposed to say.

I think god damn too, about what Victor's mom told me today in the shop.

About how she watched Victor die.

His mom, who is actually his step mom as his real mom is kind of one of those Mom Ladies like Willie's--well actually they were both in the room when he started doing something kinda weird, she said. I don't know what she meant but her body jerked a little and kind of rolled in her shoulders in a way I can't describe as she said it. And that she and Victor's Mom Lady watched him flatline.

Medical personnel tried to revive him for a time, but there was nothing they could do to save him. His Mom Lady hit the floor and his mom carried her into the waiting room where his dad and little brother sat waiting.

She didn't really say what that was like. All she said was "it was just..."

And she told me that they'd kept a part of his ashes for his wife but that she never came to claim them and they never heard from her since.

I wonder in a weird part if I could have them, but I'm not sure that they're mine to take.

She offered me her backyard to get married in. She was serious. Her back yard is the same yard I knew when I would come over in high school, but improved vastly with way green grass, lilac that blooms in the spring, a gorgeous fountain, a fire pit, and the most amazing tree ~~house~~ resort I've ever seen in my life. It's three stories tall and it has a grand staircase!

You know, Willie had a dream one time where Victor hugged him and said that if he'd of met him when he was alive he'd of changed. Willie said he could still feel the hug when he woke up.

Damn. Willie's usually the one with the everlasting hugs that seem to cure people and make them feel lifted.

I learned once through hypnosis on David that Willie and Victor were brothers once in some other life. And considering Willie and David's past life history, man. I think it's cute that Willie keeps the little poppet I bought after Victor's death to represent him on his desk. That's the one poppet I always tend to hide.

I love Willie so much, and people who obviously love me still have offered me a strange proposition: getting married in the back yard of my dead ex boyfriend to my second husband who they've only met once or twice.

I want it but I'm not sure why I want it and I'm not sure that it's healthy to want it, considering.

I mean it would be cheaper than dealing with a venue. And I could put a gypsy tent in the top of the tree house that I could come down from--possibly wearing fairy wings. Possibly.

See I think of all this whimsical shit rather than figuring out why my neck is practically a rock tumbler.

I felt a weird thing move in my shoulder when Chi pressed on it good. She called it a knot, and though she worked it for a while, after the foofy leg and foot junk I called her back to the trouble spots I feel. Mostly the center of my neck, my shoulders, and though she avoided the bump on my head she touched something else up there that made me just shoot with pain. If a person can shoot with pain, I don't know, it's 2:30 in the morning and I've had a rough day, so take it as it is. As the bump is low on my head, the spot was high and a little to the side. Tender wouldn't even describe it. More like delicate, like she almost broke my shell and she was only using her fingertips.

We worked together to know what is the source of my trouble, but when it became more than physical I had no clear answers.

Maybe my blog, which was once my own little form of sorting things out and getting my own brand of therapy, is no longer an awesome common ground to come to when I need to because when certain things get mentioned phone calls are made and then I get told to quit rocking boats. Not that it super stresses me out that I've got family who reads here in the normal sense, after all this thing is public and it's always gotten me into trouble since week two back in 2005. More like...it's annoying in the sense of people listening in on your therapy sessions through a glass pressed to a door.

There's nothing I can do about it. I can give up something that I love and that has always helped me because it's the logical thing to do, but then where would I put it?

Like my dead ex boyfriend's family...it's probably not the most logical and sane thing in the world but they have always been very loving and they have always helped me--hell, they even have my pictures on the walls of their home from back when I was dating Victor, all proud in my marching uniform with my whack fucking hair and shit. Getting married in the back yard where Victor and I used to play with his puppy probably isn't the most logical thing to do, but I have a wedding I'd like to plan someday and...where else would I put it?

I think a lot of it really does come down to dysfunction, even when I have wonderful things to look up to. Like my photos hanging in a salon in Redlands and a boyfriend who tells me that I am beautiful at least six times a day.

Greedy for the good things as well as the bad.

Not everything is in my power and I can't always have it both ways. I can't have a blog and expect it not to be read by people who wish to do me harm. I also can't expect every model to act professional and for make up artists to arrive on time at every photo shoot.

I can't even hope for a bitty slice of pizza that won't contain less than 4,000 mgs of salt.

FUCK.

I'm hungry. And it's been so hot this week.

Heavily,

Jessie, who has been through a lot.

The Support Team

2011-08-26T17:50:00.000-07:00

Ghirardelli Intense Dark Midnight Reserve, 86% cacao. All natural, it boasts. I take one bite of the square and I immediately know I've made a huge, huge mistake.

"What's wrong?" Willie says. "Why is your eye twitching?"

On the inside I'm crying. On the outside I'm gagging and chewing with my mouth completely open. "Yuuuuum," I say with a worried, sarcastic voice. I offer him a bite, and at first he refuses but then he realizes that he's being kind of mean if he doesn't.

The guy who drinks the hoppiest of the hoppy beers cringes and says "FUCK THAT'S BITTER"

Welcome to my new hell.

So many things to learn, so many labels to read. So many questions yet to be answered. Not until I can get to the doctor.

It started with that fainting spell I had at that wedding, the throbbing pain in the back of my head and the mysterious squishy bump that the kind witch doctor determined was a fun little blockage in the vein that brings blood to my brain due to all the tension in my neck, which is also subsequently crushing my pituitary gland. Not that carrying heavy ass cameras around my neck helps either.

But the other thing that has been discovered while wandering around the grocery store with an ice pack strapped to my head with a pink skull covered scarf is that I have high blood pressure. Why I was drawn to the arm squeezy machine that day I don't know, but I've gone back every day ever since and though it may improve for a day or two it always shoots back up.

By high I mean top numbers in the 140's, bottom numbers in the 80's, heart rates of like 110 on a good day, but I've made the thing say 120.

By high I mean that I'm 27 and I don't smoke.

By high I mean...something's wrong.

Heart stuff scares the shit out of me. I'm not handling this emotionally well at all, which can't be good for things. Because I've been trying for two weeks to eat avocados and fish and not have any salt--hell, I've given up soda and all forms of caffeine. It's not improving. I'm starving, and it's not improving.

Yes I think about my high school boyfriend having a stroke and a heart attack and never coming out of his coma. Yes I think about that. And I think about how I have no idea what the hell is going on with me. But right now, I won't be able to pay for a doctor's appointment for a few weeks, so I'm on the everything-else plan.

But I've got a good team.

Willie is cooking me good things. Healthy things. He brings me a cup of heart healthy berry tea every morning and cooks up my fish when I say I'm hungry. He won't let me eat the things that I want, and makes me eat the things that I need...like fucking ass chocolate bullshit crap. (One square a day...one square a day...that's all I need to commit to...one square a day.) He brings me ice water and makes me oatmeal baths. Then again he does most of this stuff anyway just because he's nice. But he's extremely determined to fix me.

Then there's Chi, who does massage. Luckily my witch doctor can tell her what to do, since she's not quite as experienced with massage, what with being fresh out of school and all. But she works on my shoulders and neck and tries to get the blood to go to my brain, and she does it free of charge because she's excited about making me better. One of those sweet genuine people. One that I'm really glad I met.

Stacey of course is the witch doctor who controls the massage girl's massages and puts me on the special diet, tells me when the numbers are too high and that my "overall pattern is improving." I mean if I can harass anyone about what the numbers mean it's her, and she's always been sort of an outside family person for me. Family in a good way, I mean. Like in the "supposed to" way.

David isn't here very much, but when he is he's good at keeping me in line with what I eat. Then again he always has, and that's kind of been a problem. But for the most part he just sits in as moral support and answers late night phone calls when my heart is racing so fast that I can't sleep.

Mari does reiki. I met her in that SMUG group and we ended up clicking pretty well. She's an old Spanish lady and she was the one who was helping me the day I passed out at the wedding. She starts telling me about reiki and I'm like DO IT and the next thing I know...whoa. Reiki, in case you're unfamiliar, is energy work. And it's a bunch of hullabaloo and magic stuff, I know, but when I was laying there and feeling as if someone with the lightest touch was running their fingers over my shirt, and I opened my eyes to find her hands about six inches above me...whoa. Shit got real. Mari is also helping me free of charge.

Wouldn't it be nice if the real doctor was the same kind of nice as my friends?

Well, he's not so I've gotta wait. David's truck was out of commission for a little while there and I had some people not make their payments on their wedding deposits this month, and now the car's due for smog and registration, so I've gotta wait. Hopefully not very long.

But the few answers I've gotten have kind of explained some other things. Like why the back of my head hurts, and why I sometimes have totally unexplained panic attacks, unprovoked by anything to actually panic about (except "hey we're not getting enough blood up here!" and "pumpin' this shit like we've got a rock concert goin' on in here!")

Blueberries, time and patience, and Rey is telling me it's weight related. It could be, I suppose. But I have been this same weight since Wade was born (except now I have more muscle and less fat) and my blood pressure has never been a problem. Could the years have worn it down?

What fucking years? I'm not even 30.

Look, I don't even miss cheeseburgers or ramen or things full of salt. I've found alternatives. But I'm grasping at strings trying to pull myself back up and they keep breaking. My support team is strong, and the numbers are real every time I sit down at that arm squeezy machine, but in the back of my mind I still feel like someone will come along and accuse me of faking it.

There's the support team and there's the not so supportive at all team. There always is.

2011 was going so well. I've just got to make it through the rest of the year. We're almost there. Unfortunately I still have more of that nasty fucking dark chocolate and I'm going to feel guilty if I don't eat it.

How's that for irony? Guilty for NOT eating chocolate.

Low Low Low Low Low Low Low

2011-08-15T04:41:00.000-07:00

According to Daryl I handled the situation with complete professionalism. Without missing a beat, "Okay everyone look at me, smile, one two three click click okay great and now Daryl I'm gonna let you take over from this point."

Pale as a ghost, he said. And sweating buckets according to Mari. Then like a boss I walked across the little nature trail, laid down on the front porch of a pioneer house and all of it just went black.

Out like a light doesn't even cover it.

Swirling, heavy, sick. Roasting fire on the outside of my body with Arctic ice on the inside. Heart pounding but not really feeling full of anything. If I am a cat, that was life number four escaping.

But the happy couple continued on with their photo session, my assistants carrying on without their leader, directing and posing and friendly cheery nice. The pictures go on and nobody in the wedding party has any idea.

Proud mostly that I'd made it through the ceremony and 90% of the formals, as the color came back to the world I thought yup, I'd drank water and to top it all off I'd grabbed lunch with my crew as we'd arrived to Granny Smith's much earlier than we were contracted for just in case the bride changed her mind and did indeed want photos--any photos at all--before the ceremony. She didn't. I wasn't even let into the bridal room. We ate.

Wondering what the hell happened I sat up. A kind uncle asked if I needed water, "oh sure, that might be nice," and the sweetheart went all the way back to the restaurant to bring me one of their plastic cups filled with crunched ice and tap. At this point the wedding party is wondering not what happened to the main photographer (which means that my crew is most excellent clearly) but why they couldn't just do pictures in the courtyard.

Explaining formal entrances to people who have no idea what a formal entrance is, let alone formal photographs, let alone...well never mind. I had my water and Daryl and Mari helped me down the hill.

"What the hell happened?" Daryl asked, and at this point I was kind of glad that Daryl is only 30 and also that Rey was not here because Rey would have daddied me and I'd of eaten it up hard. I'm trying not to fall in dad with anyone, particularly Rey, so Daryl's funny goat face was sweet and trustworthy like David's. A slight lack of concern like David's. This made me feel at home.

But then Mari was all Spanish godmother on me, wiping sweat from my brow, holding my hand and helping me walk down the hill--try as I did to stop her. "Slow down!" she'd demand, and I told her no, I needed to get inside and have a sit. Her and Daryl needn't worry about me, I'd hang out inside the restaurant and try to get my footing back.

Mari reluctantly left me to go join Daryl. I sat inside next to Ms. Zelda who said she'd heard about the spill and asked if I wanted salt in my water.

"What the hell does that do?" I asked.

"I don't know," she replied. I'm crazy about her bouffant. She showed me her surgery scar and made me touch a lump under her arm that she said was an implant and asked if I could be pregnant. "No, actually you just are sweetie, don't need no test to tell you that."

I've met this woman three times. And I'm pretty sure she's wrong.

Pretty sure.

Her, Scott the owner and the pretty wait girls took turns bringing me wet towels. Every time I tried to stand my head would pound to the floor and I thought "god fucking damn."

I love this little cafe in the woods. Quiet, yummy food, free wifi, and a whole mess of people with a whole mess of hospitality when you randomly take ill and--

Fuck if I feel unprofessional.

Daryl and Mari come back in while everyone's out there eating. They want to know what happened, and I tell them. I tell them I blacked out and I fibbed a little and said that this never happens. Okay...so I fibbed a lottle. Not a little. A lottle. But it's not like it happens every day. It's just...it just happens.

"Are you diabetic?" Daryl asks and I tell him that I am not, and that I have recent bloodwork to back it up. I have a milk allergy but I haven't had anything recently and there wasn't even any cheese on my sandwich. I tell him and Mari a little bit about those 12 EKGs that were suggesting that I'd had a heart attack, but that this was at least a year and a half ago.

"The Zelda lady thinks I'm pregnant," I said. And like photographers fucking would, Daryl called dibs on maternity photos and Mari claimed her right to photograph what she is convinced will be a red headed baby.

"But guys, I'm not, so let's not do this."

I mean it'd be fun to think that this would be the cause of yet another blackout but let's be real. It's 4 AM and I'm not even remotely asleep yet because I heard a noise and started to panic.

The panic attacks are far less frequent anymore--or they were, I should say. Things got really quiet and easy there and then something triggered and I started flailing again.

Fainting though, this is unexpected as hell. It's always been hiding in the background but I thought we were done. I'm eating now and I'm...you know, not getting haircuts.

I'd faint in kindergarten without food in my tummy, and for a time whenever my sister in law attempted to cut my hair everything would get black and I'd hit the floor. I remember the first time it happened was when she laid me down on her and my brother's bed and brought me a glass of warm Dr. Pepper.

To this day Dr. Pepper is my favorite drink of all time. Don't bring me anything else.

The second and third time it happened I was accused of faking it.

I'm always accused of faking it.

I fainted at school a few times on days that I got my period. I stayed home from school one time because I'd fainted in the bathroom that morning, though Jim and his wife accused me of faking sick.

Remember the time I passed out in science? Or in 9th grade when Justin W. carried me to the office because I'd done it again?

Remember...waking up and realizing what had happened while I was out.

Remember...driving myself to the emergency room because there was far too much blood coming out and my vision was far too dark for this to be normal after baby type stuff.

I've had fainting spells my whole life. But sitting in that cafe I can't be all admitting that or anything. "Must be the heat, ah ha ha ha," oh god.

And fuck my sister in law, okay, because as much as she thought I was faking it to get Dr. Pepper, I got my haircut a few years later up at my foster parent's house and you better believe I hit the floor.

Band camp. Band camp is a perfect example. I've got those cut off shorts and the shoes with no laces, everybody in the band was looking at me. I hit the floor, next thing you know I got low low low low low low low. Blood pressure. Low blood pressure. I'm like a girl in a rap song but with far more mysterious medical problems.

Jesus.

I've suspected epilepsy for some time. I have no idea what is involved or how much it costs for a diagnosis. And would it matter? What would they do, medicate me? Tell me to stay out of the sun? Exercise? Don't exercise? Smoke the devil's lettuce? Eat more nuts? Less?

Once again I feel trapped by my own inner workings. I've gotten to a place where I care far less about my emotional problems and my shitty childhood than normal, but then I hit the floor at a wedding and I think "yeah, something is still up."

Chilling on the sofa in Granny Smith's one of the pretty waitresses happens by with a smaller glass than mine. Still plastic, larger ice.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Oh, do you want a little somethin' somethin?" she asks me.

Hell, I'm half conscious and impressionable. Let's do this.

I take a sip of what I'm told is triple sec, raspberry something, and sprite. Tasty, but no. Alcohol isn't my thing and of all of the times for it to not be my thing...this is pretty much it. I've got a crew covering a wedding that I'm getting paid to shoot, and I'm up in the apple hut with a god damn mimosa.

I mean if nothing else makes me feel like a boss...

I've got to get this thing checked.

Lost And Lonely

2011-08-12T01:32:00.000-07:00

It's the sound of my own stomach burbling and popping that's keeping me awake tonight. It seems like all of my posts are generally written after midnight lately, even if I trick people into thinking that I write at four in the afternoon. Nah, that's just scheduled posting in action.

This time of day--morning, night, whatever--really is the only time that I am sort of by myself. Sort of in that the house is full of sleeping bodies, and I'm just the odd one out. Pooping my guts out because I didn't care that ice cream was a bad idea.

Having all the constant companionship I get from having Willie around has far more strong points than weak ones though, even though it's hard for me to concentrate on things like...well this. Writing. I've got no flow anymore, the magic seems to be gone.

But the good things...

I am constantly graced with the sight of yummy washboard abs more often than not
Children cared for/subdued so I can work on photos (since that's my cash flow)
The sound of running dishwater and it's like 10 feet away instead of right in front of me
Sex on demand
The ability to run to the store really quick (or send him in my place) without having to make it a big kid related ordeal
Safety and protection
I love him very fucking much
Anything I want to eat whenever I want it, no questions asked
A constant sidekick to laugh at my jokes and encourage my trolling
Horribly out of reach itchy spots on my back scratched till I'm bleeding and drooling all at once
Couch snuggles for no other reason than "hey look, the couch."

I look at Willie and I know he is family. Not even the kind of family that takes your pictures off the wall because you're no longer cute and little and now you're a fucked up adult who brings around some boyfriend dude.

I've questioned whether I am codependent in the past. Or if I am just searching or longing for a placement. When I am upset I know that I want to talk about it to someone, and that I tend to cross boundaries and let them be crossed just to keep a person sometimes. But since we're all designed to be together, what with our puzzle piece junk and what not I'm probably just experiencing the normal sort of feelings that we come pre programmed with, just to a different sort of degree since I don't really have that other sort of place to call home sort of feeling.

I am reminded of what is missing at weird times. The other day Willie gave me a bowl of home made mashed potatoes, only they smelled and tasted exactly like the ones from KFC. The mashed potatoes from KFC remind me of my dad because we both loved them, and one time I remember I ate his order of potatoes too and he was really mad. I don't remember the rest of the story, other than I think it involved making an "I'm Sorry" card and putting it by his medicine, but the flavor, the patchy cloudy memory, it picks at my deep buried issues and makes me sad for not having a family.

But then I know that Willie is in there in the bed and he's warm, and the kids are tucked in and passed out till the sun wakes them at six--

And this is where I start to think about David.

David has consistently been on his way out the door throughout our entire relationship. And it's not just that he's been working to support the family the whole time, it's that he's always literally been heading out the door every time I turn around. It's always bigger and better travels, and the desire to go for careers that pull him away from home. Remember, before truck driving it was police--more specifically CHP which would have been a six month academy up state plus a year in Los Angeles plus being gone all the time because he's a cop.

David's always had wanderlust and exists on his own channel. He's very intelligent, and yet he lacks basic life skills like mailing a postcard and flirting.

Poor fucking David. A girl at a truck stop gave him free coffee, so he decided to go to Subway and buy her some cookies to say thank you. Instead of handing her the cookies and saying thanks or maybe trying to chat her up, get a number, etc, he freaked out and threw the cookies at her and ran out of the building, then called me and told me that he had to pee outside now because "she's in there" and he was to embarrassed to go back inside.

God. Damnit.

You want to know why this whole "open marriage" idea never took off until the marriage was in the toilet anyway? David's got no game. And that is really sad because he is pretty cute. Though the 70's porn 'stache is certainly strange and fantastic all at the same time.

David is pretty much better off with the wanderlust though because the guy has always driven me absolutely fucking crazy. Pre Willie, post Willie, doesn't matter. He's picky and indecisive and has serious hypochondria.

"I only got four hours of sleep last night. I think I have chronic insomnia disorder."

"There are bugs living inside of my eyeballs."

"My piss is clear and I don't think my body is absorbing water."

"I am thirsty with every muscle of my body and I think my liver may be swollen."

"The microwave gave me breast cancer and I think I'm gonna throw up."

People sometimes ask me what I'll do if David ever finds someone, finds his Willie. Well one thing is for sure, we're sticking together for at least the next 12 years, that's just in the cards the way it needs to be played, no ifs ands or buts. We've got kids and we've gotta co parent 100% of the time--because it goes beyond just being here and who drives to the piano lessons. Fact is we'll be together for the rest of our lives because of these kids and also because we love each other, and we're all friends here. David is my family.

But hey, if there's someone out there who can make him happy, and maybe help convince him that leprosy isn't that common, god I just hope she calls soon. Not like I'm trying to pass him off, and I do realize that it may complicate things in my happy little bubble, and there's always room for shit to change, but...god.

I guess I don't have a point.

The fuck? Since when do I only have 12 years left before the kids are legal adults? I mean, not that being 18 makes you an adult any more than stuffing feathers up your butt makes you a chicken. Believe me, I know all about it. The adult thing, not the chicken thing I mean.

Okay. So having children with a person, even if you're no longer married, does not absolve you of your duties as a parent. If you procreate, you've got a duty to that person you made for the rest of your life. See, that's my goal. Not shoving them away or taking their pictures off the wall just because they're grown, even if I have more.

I'm not sure that I'll have more but it's almost happened twice now and it is bound to happen again at some point, perhaps when the timing is better.

All I know is that for the ones I already have, I don't ever want them to feel lost and lonely like I do at times when I've got nothing but a blog or a Facebook to update about music lessons and trampoline scars. At the same time, I want them to grow up and find someone who will make them happy in whatever way that is.

Homey

2011-08-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

The question is why do people who are hurt and struggling tend to attract to me. I don't give money. I rarely hug. I don't sympathize. People seem to be drawn to me in a way that they can't really explain. It goes along the lines of that thing that the one girl said about me having such a strong energy field because I'm doing so much healing on my own.

Perhaps because I am not a sad girl, the sad girls come.

Chi is not a sad girl. She is half chihuahua and fully loyal. She has a boyfriend named Stogie who poured chocolate syrup all over her and helped her climb into a dumpster for a photoshoot a month ago on the day I met them. They were sweet and brought me Starbucks, just as promised when we met at the train station.

Now they're a regular set of friends. Mind you that not everyone who comes here is a friend, but Chi and Stogie have quickly earned their place.

They are not sad. They are not flakes. They even brought birthday presents for Wade and bring us banana bread. The biggest thing I like? They don't drink or pop pills or anything. The devils lettuce--Stogie's got his card (and isn't overly defensive about it) and Chi smokes out her grandmother on the weekends...which I guess if you're going to smoke anyone out, your grandmother of all people seems like the right fit.

Well, right isn't the right word for it, but you know.

I spent the weekend cutting holes and strips and tying knots in shirts. Shirts that belong to me, shirts that belong to Willie, shirts that never fit me and either now do or instead look super cute on my niece. The thrift store had their monthly 50% off sale and I grabbed a few bowling team shirts (go team Steamin' Weenies!) and a hilarious shirt featuring the Starbucks logo that says "Fivebucks Coffee." The shirts were a quarter each. And the sad girl who was with me found an amazing deal on a shirt proclaiming "the black man is keeping me down."

The sad girl cut hers into tube tops while crying through phone calls from her alcoholic boyfriend who threatened to pack up and leave every five minutes if she didn't come home. Meanwhile, Chi had come over with some of Stogie's old shirts and the two of us went into my room to slice and dice. Stogie worked on my niece's birthday tattoo in the kitchen, and over the buzz of his needle I told Chi about how I've reached a point in my life where I don't care to explain myself.

"I don't really care about religion," I told her and she nodded. "I don't really care if my boob falls out of the shirt I'm wearing because I'm wearing this in a very I don't care if you see me as opposed to an I do care and I want you to see me kind of fashion." Again she nodded. The difference being that I'm not making any tube tops, but if the boat neck comes down too low then to hell with it.

To me the cut up shirts aren't about showing skin, but rather saying "I stole all of my boyfriend's shirts and slashed them up but he can't really say anything because I look awesome."

I let him keep a few. Don't jump to conclusions.

Me and my boat neck shirts are pushing away from the dock, man.

And yes, a few are going to have to stay inside or over another shirt because I get scissor happy pretty easily and those shirts make me into an accident waiting to happen.

This girl Chi though, she worked by my side as she complained about her room mates and their dirty room and dishes. I invited her to walk to the little patch of lavender I know that grows in a nearby park, and she followed me. Holding the little basket and everything, she followed me and even took over snipping when my back got sore.

Which by the way, if my back gets sore it's no longer a problem because she's a massage school graduate. Anytime something hurts around this girl she pokes something else and the pain goes away. That's a level of service I can love. Especially since she fixed my concert related injury within minutes of it happening.

I told her that picking lavender is a calming and homey routine for me now, which is what I've been craving. No time to knit sweaters or really do much of my own personal photography projects since I'm busy doing paid gigs, and the ukulele and piano time don't really cover the homey feel for me.

It could be my need to nest, which I rarely do because Willie does all the cleaning, and the need to nest probably got sparked by all the Hoarders I watched. I mean at least I got to "fix" David's truck. His shit was all unorganized, forks with the DVD's and what not. I went in there and made him a snack shelf AND a meal shelf and made a note to bring tape next time for the photos I gave him.

I do not fuck around, son.

The lavender has that periwinkle smell from my childhood of rubbing pussy-willows through my fingertips. Soft, organic, plant matter. Like clouds that can't decide whether they want to be grey or light. With Chi I sat on the back patio and bound bundles with twine while a few from the day before that had dried smoldered and let off their daphne smell in a seashell I found in San Diego.

"It's the weird things you do for your home that make you feel, I don't know, all earthy and stuff," I told her. And I told her that white sage is the traditional cleanser, but something about sage burning reminds me of people trying too hard to be wise.

"Lavender," I told her, "is the money weed."

The Work Is What Counts

2011-08-05T15:20:00.000-07:00

I think the reason that I've been so up and down lately with my new rush of people in and out of the flat is that it's changed the energy in my space. Sad girls let their sad hang in the air and abnormal boys with big ear holes share their frustrations but never really solve anything.

After that show Hoarders really freaking me out, the carpet was scrubbed, the back porch was swept, and I even went on an evening bike ride to gather some lavender from a little patch I know about. I've tied it in a bundle and left it on a shelf by the family pictures, and I think perhaps I will start making more of these bundles for my house guests as a sort of peace offering. It makes me feel kind of earthy in the same way that having a wooden engagement ring does.

I've cleaned and sorted. And wouldn't you know that I was the one scrubbing the carpet? That's rare. I don't clean anymore as Willie handles all of it. It's nice to have the help, and I don't miss dish duty but it's nice to clean your own things sometimes. I even dusted some of my old cameras and moved some poppets to new spots. I set up my little Stonehenge and Easter Island statues that Steppy brought me and put fresh flowers on the kitchen table.

I even, if you can believe it, delved into my locked box full of reviewed toys that never see the light of day, and picked out the things that could go. I used to pride myself on having a large collection to show for my side work as a toy reviewer, but I'd often run out of room and the favorites have been chosen. Though I've let a few go in the past, it was time to clean out more. Anything porous was tossed, anything silicone was boiled and put into a ziplock bag and set carefully in a basket where curious house guests can choose them.

Better than ending up in a landfill.

I've always liked to collect things. As a teen it was weird but I had a shoebox full of my used up chap sticks. Sometimes I'd even save letters. I've collected yarn in the past, but I've let it go by the bagful to people who have more time to knit it into things, the last of it going to an eager girl I call Chi (short for chihuahua because she's hyper and excitable and little.)

The poppets were fun to collect when I had the random money for them, but the shipping practices are shoddy and on the rare occasion that I buy one it either shows up broken or not at all. I bought one in 2011. I got my money refunded and also eventually got the poppet.

But the toys needed to go. I guess you can say that I've got mine and I'm getting mine regularly and though there are always uses for having them around, it was time to let these things go. As neat as it is to have a box full of them, the box will fill again so long as the review program exists.

I still collect things, like the old cameras of course, but I would also like to start new collections and I don't know if this is bad. Some of the things I have considered collecting are pieces of art created by friends, bandannas, and peace pipes--like real legit peace pipes made from antlers and shit for smoking flavored hookah tobacco. For a minute we had a hookah and I think we all smoked a very sticky cantaloupe tobacco until we got kind of bored with it. It seems like a neat thing to do with the guests, along with sage burning. The sage burning is fab and we try to invite people to do it with us.

I have a lot of blankets, too. Mexican yoga blankets are my newest craze, and I find them at the thrift store for about a buck every time I go. They're nice for that sleepy time grief yoga I did at the mortuary for a while, not that I ever really do it on my own or anything, but maybe I should start. Maybe the yoga and the yoga blankets and the lavender and the sage and the wooden ring--maybe they all point toward where I should really be concentrating my spiritual energy.

I think I have a need for it, but not so much of a need that I need to be ministered.

I think by thinking about trees and flowers and blankets I stay calm and detached.

Sometimes by staying detached I can better help my loved ones.

It all comes down to the environment that I'm trying to create, and I've had such a strong need to create and recreate my environment lately that I know something in me is off. My mind goes back to this house I was in up in the mountains with my friend Rey. It was the day he was naked. This house...this house was fucking cool. There were shelves upon shelves of books, watercolor paintings of feathers and dragons, an Ouija board sitting on the couch by the front door as if the game was always in play.

The homeowner had an assortment of odd instruments, like a water theremin and steel drums made from the bottoms of propane tanks. His deck overlooked the creek and on the railing was a random dried sunflower. Wouldn't you know that as I looked through the collection of crystals and rocks in his kitchen window, I found a few poppets even? A gift, he said, from a friend in Canada. I laughed.

At that house I listened to an acoustic version of a rock opera about ghost hunting and a beautifully creepy song about a serial killer called "knife" and we ate hand made pasta on ceramic plates. Like, pasta from scratch. Like, plates made from clay.

I have an urge to have a house more like this.

I want to find the time to finish making my tarot deck.

I want to play rock operas on the ukulele or Imagine on the piano and figure out how to make pasta or train Willie to.

Maybe start having art night here again.

The work is what counts.

Order And Pianos

2011-08-04T11:48:00.000-07:00

It's hard to pinpoint anything to write about this summer because it seems to go by every day with something more and more unplanned and I feel like I just sort of found the new norm for life right now. I've been putting up those boundaries, sometimes after I realized they've been crossed, but I learned at the Kansas concert where I was assaulted that there is nothing quite like having your boundaries physically crossed to remind you of where all of the invisible ones are or should be.

Not just because pain its self is a quick reminder, but also because...who the fuck gets assaulted at a Kansas concert?

And who actually has members of Kansas yelling at your attacker to "get a grip" and "knock it off" I wonder?

I've started living outside of myself again, just watching at times.

But what grounds me is when someone says that Willie and I are the type of couple they need to hang around more. That our flat, though sometimes the ground zero for strange midnight conversations with sad girls and photoshoots behind closed doors, is a happy normal family sort of environment. There's something about it that makes them feel comfortable.

For even though the adult time is set up to be a blast, the kids are fed first and at the dining room table. We keep the noise level to a minimum. You know why nobody drinks here? There are far too many rules, and we enforce them.

Yet I've never really felt like this flat was "home" until two things arrived recently. One is a charcoal drawing that one of the sad girls drew of me as a valiant centaur with my bow and arrow drawn. I have flaming hair and a flaming tail and my boobs look fan-fucking-tastic. It's the second time that I asked for someone to make me a piece of artwork only to receive an unexpected likeness of myself.

Something about the photo balances me. It reminds me that I am not only clearly the most bad ass of the zodiacs, what being half man half horse WITH A WEAPON...I mean if you look, no other zodiac can be considered armed and dangerous. Sure Scorpio has his poisonous stinger but Sag is packin'. I am a warrior. I am in charge here.

Though the oil painting likeness of my 25 year old self is still one of the first things I'd grab of my possessions if there were ever a fire, I feel like this centaur centers me. HA! It centaurs me. I should really start saying that when people ask about it. "Oh that up there? That's my favorite piece of artwork. It really makes me feel centaured."

The other thing that arrived that makes this place feel a little like "home" is Ty's piano. I've been trying to acquire a piano for years. The one that belonged to my half siblings' grandparents was nice and all but it ended up sitting in a carport for years and who knows what ended up living inside of it. I'd also been offered one for free that was 100 years old and white with gold cherub artwork, but David's dad refused to help us get it because, I don't really remember...it was heavy and it was too much gas and we didn't need one or something.

It was so coincidental how the Kimball fell into our laps. I expressed to Ty's piano teacher Mrs. Pennywhistle that I would like to have a real piano for him to practice on now that the music shop had a real one in the practice room instead of the keyboard, and how I'd seen them for about $1200 used at a few other music stores, but that I didn't have the money to be doing that. She said she'd keep an eye out because sometimes people get rid of them for $200, or sometimes they're free but they're in serious need of tuning and repair.

A week later at his lesson she told me that the church she teaches at was going to trash this Kimball they had because "it doesn't play." She told me that she worked with it a little and it does indeed play, it's just that you have to wiggle the dust cover in a certain way, and with a little bit of setting up the piano plays just perfectly. She said she talked to the music minister about her very talented student who could really use it and would really like to have it, and the next thing we knew it was ours.

I've always felt like a piano was a piece of furniture that made a place an official home, especially if someone actually knows how to play it. (I kinda do. My memory is coming back to me, but Ty has his first solo and it actually sounds like a real song.)

When people come over, sometimes it's hectic. Sometimes they are never invited back. There are also those who don't see the richness in having order and pianos and not having televisions. Though the other day I watched me some television at my sister's and learned about the Hoarders show. One guy had so much stuff on the stairs that he had to slide down the railing to get around. It made me quite paranoid and thinking that maybe I was a hoarder and that our flat wasn't clean, so we cleaned out some closets and organized the prop department into bins and I made Willie throw out those damn feather pillows that made a mess of the place.

If nothing else it made our flat incredibly clean and even more inviting now that the first thing you see when you walk in is a piano and there is no longer a feather-splosion on the floor by Willie's roost. There's still a feather-splosion every time the cockatiel decides to flip the fuck out, but at least I know that there is a box in the closet where I know I will find all of the hats and wigs.

Perhaps having people over, and having them come back has been a pattern in our lives that needed to be established. I kind of like being the auntie that people come to visit, even if I do get overwhelmed at times. I just need to enforce the rules on when to keep that door closed.

Secret Lover

2011-07-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

When I closed my old blog's archives and started up We're All Friends Here, my tongue was firmly in my cheek as I typed those words into the little Blogger title bar. It started off as a little bitch phrase stated when people get hostile that I turned inside out to include some and exclude others (Except For Those Of Us Who Are Not) as if I am the leader of some great club and only certain members are invited. And you may never know which side you're actually standing on...friend or foe?

I hear myself repeating the phrase when I explain the living situation. I also reprimand anyone who refers to David as "baby daddy" because David is so much more. He is The Father Of Our Children and also My Best Friend and Life Companion and my Family.

We're all friends here...it's so funny because at the time I had very few friends. Okay, so I had one friend. Maybe two. And the neighbor with all the food.

My how things have changed since then.

I've met a lot of people in 2011. A lot more than I ever really thought I would. I blame the boom on Facebook, as I've discovered this whole thing called "networking" and it's made me a very decent cash flow. Pictures get taken, then they're shared, then someone likes them and contacts me and then it just goes viral from there.

If my blog were as popular as my social network of clients and contacts...well wait, I've been there too, and it's not nearly as beneficial. The popularity of my blog (that was never popular to begin with) has come and gone, and now I am satisfied to write for my own pleasure, chronicling my growth and backslides and happenings and non happenings in a completely self indulgent way. Someone is always out there reading this, and it's still fun to share. No matter how many times I think of stepping away, I'm compelled to keep putting shit on blast here. The whole concept sort of has a life of its own.

This was once a story packed with uncertainty, embarrassing head over heels love stories, and crap tons of defensiveness and "you'll never understands." Now it's the somewhat normal life with a twist and an exploration of boundaries.

I'm still trying to figure out what boundaries are. But I usually find them once they've been crossed. It's kinda like using the bottom of your foot to feel for shards of glass on the kitchen floor after a cup got away and shattered. You can't see the glass, but once it cuts your foot you know.

All of these extra people have caused me to exercise finding all those invisible boundaries. I am indeed slowing down on needing to over please people, something I made a habit of as a kid when I just wanted someone to fucking keep me for once, but every once in a while the lines become grey and I need to ask for direction.

I've got to be in charge when it comes to my involvement with things.

It makes no sense for me to do other people's bidding, even if you're gonna pay me for it.

I can't be responsible for other adults. I can't be guilted because someone else didn't wake up in time, or return something that wasn't theirs, or repeat over and over to JUST STOP. These are the people who are walking into the kitchen barefoot without a care in the world, assuming that my blind little foot pats probably scoped out any danger.

Do the dirty, painful, bloody work for them.

I've run into a few instances lately that have made me question why I ever wanted to help in the first place. Then again, there's a difference between "helping" and "doing for."

I need coaching on my reactions to things sometimes. "How should I respond to this" or "I'm completely lost and I have no idea what the fuck to do" are my two biggest ones. But it's up to me to follow through. I make plans based on what I find out to be the best course of action and I try my best to stick with them.

Unfortunately, as I privately discover these boundaries as the people I've allowed around me keep crossing them, I tend to treat them like a secret lover. I have these boundaries, I know about them, but I have a hard time expressing that I have them. Possibly because most of the people around me lack boundaries too. Not that it's a negative thing to have them, but it's almost a peer pressure sort of situation.

It's like when I say that I don't drink and all the person has to offer at their house is alcohol. I gladly stick to water. Believe me, I've tried to find a way to drink--perhaps by enjoying wine--but wine just makes me angry. Two sips in and I'm yelling at chicks I barely know about how I out rank them. I hate feeling angry. I hate yelling and I hate the taste of alcohol anyway. So even if all you have is Tecate, I'll stick with water.

I've got that part down.

But when it comes to being asked for help, I've really got to stick to my guns about how much I can do. I do pat myself on the back though because I've really been putting my foot down by helping on some kind of condition, like I will help you file your restraining order but you have to stay away from him, or I will let you come and eat here when you have no food but please do not make a mess of my house. I know and respect myself enough to be able to put a cap on things I allow into my happy little home.

What I don't like is the resulting guilt trips--scratch that, BLAME that gets shoved on me when I need to step away.

But I don't feel that I can even begin to express that because it makes things so much worse in so many more unimaginable ways. When I was a teenager trying to fit in it was necessary to conceal my boundaries as I would have concealed a secret lover because being a prude while also being outlandish and free spirited and all that jazz is frowned upon and then you have no friends. When you're a teenager you're expected to give up your common sense and prudishness to the group and then all go do dumb shit together.

Sign the dotted line, please.

And nothing has really changed when it comes to the 20's either.

I think this may be why I never kept many friends around until we were ALL friends here.

My Alcoholic Friends

2011-07-15T01:34:00.000-07:00

It was a few weeks ago, probably on Willie's birthday that I was sitting out on our front porch in the chairs that management has asked me to remove because people might trip over them if there was a fire--but I've not removed because I've seen many apartments and flats in this complex with lots of crap to trip over that's been there for years.

So fuck that, I sat out in my chairs on what was probably Willie's birthday, or maybe earlier.

Anyway, I get dive bombed by this orange bug. It's small and glassy and loud and I think people call them Japanese beetles, but it mostly resembles a butter toffee peanut with wings. Real buzzy and crashy mother fucker, running into shit all clumsy and making clicking noises as he taps the porch light with his little bug body.

This thing is flipping and flapping and we were just talking--I swear I think we had company, or maybe we were just talking to the lady next door, I really can't recall because we have a lot of traffic here at the flat now with so many friends who visit. But then it crash lands on the walk way in front of me and boy the top of him must be weighted down more than the bottom because all I know is this thing is twitching and kicking its legs and spinning around on its back in classic "Eeeeh! Eeeeh! EEEEH!" fashion.

My instinct was to smash it, but I did not follow my instinct because I'm trying not to smash so many things these days. It's my attempt at being more passive and peaceful. Even though I'm pretty good about not bringing home wriggling sea creatures from the beach when I visit, I'm still in a rush to kill intruding scary winged or legged things until I remember my zen like teacher Mr. Naked Rey who I've watch sweep ginormous penny sized picnic ants off of the sidewalk into the dirt at a wedding shoot and think that I could (and should) be more like that.

So being passive, I watched the beetle bug scramble around trying to flip its self over. A nearby stick called out to me and I thought "yup, I could use that to flip him back over." All it would have taken was a second or two of my time to scoot him back onto his feet again so he could rear up and fly into the plastic covered porch lights and make all his buzzy crashy sounds. I watched as the bug would slow down and get tired for a little bit and kick slower, but then gain a second wind and fight fight fight again.

But I must have waited a few seconds too long because Willie's foot came down and smashed the little bug and immediately put a stop to the scrambling. Still mid conversation, he walked over to the grass to wipe off the bottom of his shoe.

The reason I did not pick up the stick was not because I was lazy. I sit way hunched over anyway and I could have just reached out and picked it up off the ground. The real reason was that I wanted to see if the bug could upturn himself and fix the situation he'd gotten himself into. Helping with the stick would have been kind on my part and all, but I really truly wondered if he could do it on his own.

Then just like that he was a smear on my lawn.

Maybe self rescue was a little too much to expect from a little orange toffee bug.

I've upturned myself, is how I feel about 2011 so far. I mean holy shit I was floundering but then nose to the grindstone and I'm in business. I may not be able to totally fly yet, but I've managed to avoid the boot.

And I wonder if it is possibly the human thing to try to reach out a stick to the ones around me who scramble around on their backsides trying desperately to make that flip, or if it's more human to feel like it's not even worth it to reach for the damn stick because the fuckers are going to end up on their backs again eventually.

Don't get me wrong, I like the people I'm encountering. I like the people I choose to spend time with.

Sometimes.

I also see so much of the bad shit that puts them on their backs: unemployment, abuse, alcoholism. I look at these things and it's like, what good would flipping them over do if they're just going to use the opportunity to crash into another fucking porch light?

I get very angry at times and I feel like I could let a lot of forgiveness flow through me if I try, but I also feel like forgiveness makes me naive and even a little selfish. I understand why people do what they do, how they get to the places that they are, and god I wish nothing but good luck and joy to them. Maybe I feel the way I do because I feel like I've leveled up and I'm kind of the squarish Auntie who Tells Everyone What To Do But Never Does It Herself. Then again, we're talking about things like:

No you may not have an open container in my car.
We can get arrested for tresspassing
I'm pretty sure going to school is a good idea so long as you finish what you start
As awesome as it would be to have sex, no.
Those applications won't fill themselves out
Thanks for calling and telling me you weren't planning to show up, asshole.
Holy crap, you sent the guy's wife an email about your affair, now break it off and stick to it you fuck.

I'm not sure if I have one of those "rescue" reflexes but I do not fucking want one. I think I'm fighting one. I know that I occasionally let boundaries get crossed and then feel like an idiot when I try to fix the situation later. I know that I will let people walk all over me just to make them happy, which means I get swindled out of more shit than the person deserves sometimes.

What I do want is to see them pick up their own stick. Or keep fighting the good fight and instead of opening their legs, kicking them. Hard.

I love having the happy little flat with the good energy flow and the yummy food. I love inviting the guests to hold the Mag Light while Willie and I check the dumpsters for recyclables and treasures, and letting them take home the treasures on occasion. And I love when someone brings their bike and wants to go riding. I never had anyone to ride bikes with when I was a kid but now? When I can be out at 11:00 at night with no consequences and no one to answer to? That's my shit.

I have to keep in mind that though I am doing very well I am not in a position where I can really help anyone else. I mean I've got connections to jobs that I can get people in with, but they have to want the job. We're talking "walk in and tell them I sent you and you will be hired on the spot" stuff and there is vehement refusal. We're talking "walk away from this situation and I will give you free shit as incentive" and they're like "lol nope."

I've got to stop caring so much.

This must be how some people get to be so cold.

It's not like flipping a switch though, going from caring to not, it's more like I've run out of sticks and there's a hell of a lot of boots out there waiting to smash my alcoholic friends and my shit kicking lazy bums and also my starving artists.

What am I talking about? They were never mine to begin with. I have to learn to stop claiming them, too.

I think at the same time too that they have to want to be saved. Yet I get a weird sense of longing when I realized that being the square who does nothing and scolds others reels people in closer to me.

Lately it's been said to me that I have an incredible energy field that is so strong that it messes with people's minds. That green aura the pretty senorita said I have puts off something that people can't quite put their finger on--they're drawn to it but it's overwhelming which is also why they take off running. And it's true I guess because Willie has seen it in action, people talking to me and then all of the sudden they excuse themselves and have to go. Or how I can never say anything to anyone without it coming off as bossy, or bitchy, or smartass, or scary. Most of my blog followers hate me, always have for six years, and yet what am I really doing to them really? I'm not invading their space with my internets, but they're filled to the brim with contempt for me and my lifestyle.

Why?

I'm square! I totally wasn't high or tripping balls or anything when I watched that bug scuttle upside down on the pavement, just really focused. My kids are taking private lessons in fine arts and I stopped posting ukulele videos. I totally try to learn from the mistakes that were made in my childhood with me by not applying them to any future transactions. I do the best I fucking can with what I'm given.

I'll drink tea from metal bowls and I try to stay out of the paths of people who I'm pretty sure are just full of use and abuse. I'll go about my day in a timely manner. I'll go up and have a meal at the restaurant that is driving me so much business and has put eight weddings on the board for me since May. I'll call people "sir" even if they're five.

I think to some extent I need guidance. I seek it sometimes when I end up in a situation that makes me feel all burbly and awkward and ask "what do," but it does occasionally suck to not have someone who is older and functional and who knows all of my past to push me in the right direction. Don't get me wrong, one of my dearest internet friends who has followed me from the beginning has been at the receiving end of these "what do" texts, but I still have to fill her in on shit and sometimes I feel angry and weirded out when I can't explain things just the right way.

What I want is for someone else to pick up the stick some time. And what I want is to see less crashing into the porch lights. What I want to see is progress. I don't want to be the only one with my head above the water, I don't want to be the snob who is no fun.

God there are so many things that look like fun. Get me one of them 420 cards and eat me a brownie and be like "aaah." It sounds like fun, but the raids and occasional appeals and crotch sniffing pups do not. So instead I just have wonderful, wonderful sex in copious amounts and feel all "yes siree" that way.

Everybody's got their something.

But in staying who I am, where I am, I'm losing people. Even Steppy, clearly. Maybe I should make an attempt to hug him more...or at all. Seems how I've grown used to the touching of the people.

Then again, the ones who I want to stay close to are staying exactly where they are, if not moving in a few inches at a time.

Well anyway, the troubled bugs better flip the fuck over before they become smears on my lawn. Only now, it's my foot that's about to come down.

Strange

2011-07-11T15:15:00.000-07:00

So I'm quite proud of myself as I've managed to get a lot of things done and only half the year is over. And if I did not directly do it myself, I was involved in neat things that amount to happy feelings for me.

I've obtained the rights to a piano. It is a beautiful classical Kimball that needs slight structural repairs as it seems it may have been dropped at some point and abandoned ever since. As of now, it is sitting in a church, well known as broken and unplayable but Mrs. Pennywhistle (Ty's tiny Irish piano teacher) has tweaked it enough that it will in fact play as long as you slide the dust cover in at a certain angle. It plays beautifully. I even have a team of men who will help me lift it, and a smaller team of men with ADHD who can be set on projects and who already know how to take apart a piano just from looking at it for 15 minutes and then taking it apart. Fucking monkeys, I swear. But I've always wanted a piano, especially since Ty is blowing through his lessons and proving to have inherited what musically inclined genes David passed down to him. (Though I actually have more experience in music than David, David is far better. I pluck silly strings and bend notes, it's not at all the same as what David possesses. I can't come close to that knowing.)

I have been spending an incredibly large amount of time with my niece. We're the only people in our family who like us, is why this is special. We're only five years apart and lived together at various stages of our lives, like when she was a tot and my dad was dying and then again after my other brother kicked me out of his house when I was 15 and my bedroom at my sister's was a pile of drywall on the ground due to remodeling. She remembers things that I've blocked, like the Poke'balls full of pills that I took to school and spying on Santa gifts. We're so much alike that we could practically be sisters, as she gets bubble gut from dairy too and she also does that thing where she thinks about how every single person she meets has sex. I've done that for years and had no idea anyone else did that. It's unstoppable. Together we raid abandoned houses in the night and troll people hard, and the trolling can sometimes involve ice cream and the trolling can sometimes involve Facebook. Sometimes, just sometimes, we go to the pool.

Plus it helps that the other day we were driving by a yard sale and saw a sweet fucking bike. It was baby poop green and old with a long back fender and being horny for green bikes I encouraged her to ask the price. She didn't have enough, and I can't just be up and buying bikes right now, but with her birthday coming she was able to score the last bit of change for the situation from another person and now Groucho lives at my house for safe keeping. A 1965 Schwinn Suburban in nearly perfect condition. Some rusting, a scratch here and there, but even the brakes still work. A little chain lube, some riding to condition it, and she's got herself a sweet ride. Let me tell you, they don't make em like this anymore. It's a gorgeous addition to the pile of wheelie things in the back yard (that my bike is not a part of as it lives inside due to its value) and it means lots of night rides with the two of us going out with Otter Pops hanging from our mouths with the wind blowing in our faces.

Another thing that happened that was good was that I registered Wade for another year of tap and ballet and received $10 off the registration fee. Class is still free for him, as it is for all boys, but even the $25 fee will eventually be covered because the school is buying the photos that I took at the dress rehearsal as their "professional photographer fell through and delivered nothing." I didn't even edit the snapshots I have. I think I set the thing to f4 1/160 iso 1600 and rapid fired for five hours. I've never photographed anything like that, and it is hard because of the movement and lighting, but hey they want my shit. I walked in to register him and they said "You're Wade's mom, the photographer..." Yup.

Furthermore the dance people started gushing about Willie. Yes, Willie. He was a volunteer at the performance to watch the kids backstage, mostly just boys, but when he was in charge of Wade's little class of girls plus one he was the only parent to have their group under control, sitting against the wall eating grapes. Of course they all eyeballed him suspiciously at first, as they do to any man who chooses to hang out with tiny ballerinas back stage, but when I came in to the studio for registration they couldn't stop telling me how amazing he is with kids and how much they all liked him. I thought "yeah, me too" but then I asked them something. "Can Willie sign up for ballet too?" Thing is that Willie, if you haven't noticed, is lean and muscular and...well he's earned the nickname "Legolas" as the dude is so lightfooted that he doesnt even leave footprints in the sand on the beach. Willie can fly. I've seen it. And when he was 15 he wanted to join ballet classes so he could throw girls in the air and do what he's practically built to do. I explained this to the dance studio owner and also Wade's teacher and began to say that yes he WAS going to do ballet when he was 15 but his step dad--

They cut me off and said "We hate it when that happens." I didn't even have to finish the story. I know that they've heard it before. After all, there's a reason that they make classes free for boys at the school. Anyway, long story short, Willie was enrolled in the Pointe II class, which is a very advanced level of ballet. That's where they need the boys. And it's a good thing too because Willie is a young and handsome dude so he'll match the age group he's dancing with, unlike the old men dads they have coming in to fill the parts as it is now. Plus, it will encourage Wade to stick with it. Registration for Willie was just $5, and his classes are also free. Best $5 I spent all summer.

Also, David is breaking away from his team mate who is a complete idiot. He can't tell left from right, he gets them lost constantly, he got in an accident and tried to blame David because David should have seen the other vehicle he hit and failed to warn him, he's lost the truck on more than one occasion, and he failed to take the truck in for repairs last time they were home for vacation so the truck wasn't ready when they were about to hit the road, forcing David to take three extra days of no pay. Things are supposedly going to get a lot easier, plus since he won't be sharing a truck I won't have to drive all the fucking way to Fontana at 1 in the morning to pick him up. He also said that on his latest outing he ate a real Georgia peach, some lot lizard knocked on his cab door and another one tried to follow him into the bathroom at the truck stop, and also he learned that when you hit fireflies with an 18 wheeler their guts glow all over the fucking wind shield. Awesome.

We are still a strange little family with a strange little story. And things are going very very well at the moment. I've got two brides who want to give me money this week and I'm expecting a check from the magazine for the Pat Benatar pictures any day now. Also I have an amazingly comfortable floaty thing for the pool and the water is looking nice right about now.

Hit List

2011-07-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

Aside from being accused of hiding Willie's little sister here one afternoon when she'd gone missing (and she does go missing a few times a week,) including the very dramatic "YOUR BROTHER IS CRYING HIS EYES OUT!" texts that we ignored, largely because we're dropping the rope and also because his brother had been here about two minutes before looking for the girl and was very much not crying his eyes out, we've heard nothing.

Which is great, because it's better than hearing something.

All we hear is the firecrackers lit by the neighborhood boys, hot summer rain, and the AC on full blast both in the flat and in the car.

It's good to just have nothing for a while.

So the good news is that a magazine contacted me saying that Pat Benatar herself directed them to my Flickr and asked them to use the photos that I took of their concert a few years ago. True story. And it's believable too because Pat's husband has actually been using one of my photos on his website for a few years now. The voice on the phone told me that Pat and Niel have a lot of good in studio pictures, but not very many good ones of their concerts. But they liked mine. And so they had the magazine guy contact me.

And I'm still an idiot with a camera shooting fish in a barrel at a free concert in a park.

Even better? Those pictures were from my old point and shoot. Before I understood the difference between optical and digital zoom.

Admittedly, they're not the best pictures in the world. But hell if they don't mean something now.

The magazine is not only paying for the use of the pictures, but they're also doing a write up about my business (who knows what that will actually entail) and pasting a black and white of me holding my bitty Rebel with a honking telephoto lens and fancy looking flash unit smiling and leaning over the railing at a museum up the street, copyright Ms. Gina D, right next to it.

This will be my second magazine. The first was a Medline publication called "Healthy Skin." Also, I did catalog work in the underbelly/back rooms of a funeral home but it wasn't necessarily published so much as it was printed and used in house.

This one's a Southern California publication, so it's actually going to be relevant to my market to have the write up and the website blurb and what not.

Perhaps the strangest thing is that when I told David--well I didn't actually tell David, David told me.

"Yeah so Pat's going to ask you to go on tour with her to get some good concert pictures for them."

That sounds like total bullshit to me. He's been holding his pee in too long on that truck and it's starting to corrode his brain. But it was kind of weird that it was all very Déjà vu for him.

But I've committed to this year's summer concert series via bicycle to get more pictures of famous musicians that end up on Wikipedia articles and attract attention from the stars themselves. Ha ha ha, I may be some asshole with a d-slr, Mr. Rick Springfield, but when they do a "Jesse's Girl: 30 Years Later" article in some magazine you've never heard of, oh you'll be hitting my photostream friend. You'll be a callin.

I feel fortunate. Fortunate and boss. Three Dog Night is already down and the Bangles are next on my hit list followed by the Commodores and Kansas.

So I'm living in la la land but at least I'm not living at home.

They've got their Canon Mark II's, and their name brand designer dress shoes.

They've got excitement, and life by the fistful. But I took the pictures. I guess that's the point of it all.

Now I Know The Difference

2011-07-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

The last we'd heard from Willie's Mom Lady was about a month or two ago when she'd copped an attitude and blew up my phone. I predicted that she'd make contact some time around his birthday, as she always seems very tender and reunion-ie around birthdays from what I've observed.

From the very beginning of meeting this woman, I've been very cautious about getting attached or letting my guard down. I knew about her criminal record, her record with Willie, and about her nature in general. I knew she'd been a victim of abuse her whole life, and tended to project a lot of what has been done to her onto her children and everyone around her. So I personally handled her with gloves and tried to stay neutral.

Now the bitch is blowing up my phone.

Looks like I'm 2 for 2 on the whole having a batshit crazy mother in law thing. Possibly the trouble is that i keep picking emotionally fucked up people with childhoods of questionable functionality.

I mentioned a while ago that in trying to fix myself and move forward from the things that damaged me in my life, I am staying away from people that I know use or abuse substances. I've actually tried to actively do this my entire life to some degree. I reprimanded my brother for smoking pot when I was 8. I used to blow lines of coke off of the mirrors they were randomly piled up on in my mom's room. And then later, I refused to date any boys who smoked. When I took a liking to Victor, I appreciated his scary trench coat in the Post Columbine 1999 high school world, but when I found out that he smoked weed and had a tin full of LSD dipped Altoid candies, I said "this won't do."

Now, some would call that controlling. All his friends did, anyway, the ones he used to party with. Call it what you will, but when that boy died his parents thanked me for getting him away from drugs and alcohol, because from what they tell me in his short lived life, he never went back to it.

There was lots of stuff that I couldn't fix with him, because it's true that you can't change people or even wait around for them to change. But I did change that. For good.

David's parents ended up being a root cause behind our breakup. They were assholes and he had trouble standing up to them. Years of buildup with snotty comments, fights, baby snatchings, and arguments over whether being his wife gave me any sort of right to help him plan his future all built on a marriage that we totally didn't even want to have. The strings that held David and I together were frayed from the start, even though we'd always started with the best of intentions. We still have good intentions, which is why we stick together and live the way we do.

We're all friends here.

Except...well, you know.

Willie's mom popped back on the scene with all kinds of apologies for not having contacted sooner. And in the last few months that Willie has talked to her, he's realized that perhaps she is not sober.

See, it's cool being sober because you know when other people are not.

But with the recent developments regarding his little brother and sister coming over hungry and dirty and crying and scratched, Willie wanted not to hear about her job (which she always rambles on about because it's her excuse for everything, including why she's dropped at least 30 pounds since I met her when he moved in) but instead what her plan of action was to rescue the children from their abusive, alcoholic father.

She'd talk for a minute about it but then change the subject. He'd stop her and put her right back on the subject at hand, which should be way more important than some lady being caught drinking at work.

He asked her point blank if she'd pass a drug test. Her answer was "...yeah, I could"

Not like if you asked me if I'd pass a drug test and it would be like "yes, gimme that cup over there."

It was very much like she was calculating something, or maybe just outright lying.

Where things took a turn for the worse was when he asked her why she'd been so rude the last time they'd spoke. She denied it. And then when I chimed in in the background saying "oh yes that did SO happen," it turned into a rage fest of some of the most classic lines I've ever come across, including (but not limited to as there are about 50 different texts and I won't bore you with them all here:)

I didn't apprecite you screaming at me n accusing me of texting you like that n havin ur girlfriend in the background screamin too so I hung up. I wasnt angry at you when I was textin you. I was frustrated but not at you. I was also texting other people at the same time including the person I was mad at and I was answering this person's texts with just the word whatever so I must have sent that to you by mistake. Sorry. My bad. N my phone blew up the next day at work so thats why I couldnt respond. Its not an excuse its the truth.

I wasnt angry at my son, jessie, so please stop trying to turn him against me.

Keep in mind that we're not even responding to any of this in any way, shape or form, and they just keep rolling in.

I wanted to do something with you for your birthday but obviously thats not gonna happen cuz YOUR BIG MOUTH GIRLFRIEND HAS TO GET INVOLVED AND THINK NEGATIVE ABOUT EVERYBODY. THAT'S OK. GOODNESS ALWAYS WINS SO YOU GUYS WONT BE GOING ON TOO MUCH LONGER. SHE CONTROLS EVERYTHING YOU DO. YOU CANT EVEN HAVE YOUR OWN PHONE. HOW SAD IS THAT? ANYWAY I DO LOVE YOU N WILLIE N WISH WE COULD GET TOGETHER BUT I CAN SEE JESSIE WONT ALLOW IT SO THATS OK. I WILL PRAY FOR YOU CUZ THERE IS A GOD AND HE DOES FIX EVERYTHING.

lol, Willie and I are rarely separated, so of course we share a phone. Not even David and I have our own phones, we're piggy backing off of Steppy's plan as extra lines and have been since before I even met Willie.

I know you cant help it cuz you had such a rotten childhood but the past is the past so you shouldnt dwell on it. You should put it behind you and accept the positive person that gad gave u n that is my son so be happy and not grumpy n judgemental

This one also made me lol because at first I thought she was talking to Willie about his rotten childhood. Please remember that this is the woman who says that it's Willie's younger brother's fault that she has child abuse charges on her record because he shouldn't have sought medical attention for the wounds she inflicted on him with that extension cord. But then once I realized she was talking to me I was even more amused.

Want some more? Oh let's see...

U r very smart. I didnt mean anything bad. I just wanted to talk to you. Have a good night n I hpe you have a good birthday. I wanted to see you but I can see that will never happen. I can see you getting married without me there too. Oh well. There's nothin I can do about it. I love you unconditionally n NOBODY CAN CHANGE THAT GOOD NITE

and I cant believe that you wouldnt even help your own brother and sister but you help her kids. I guess family means nothing to you. That is so sad. I hope god forgives you for that one. Family is supposed to have unconditional love. I will always love you. I am just not happy with a lot of your choices but you have to live that life not me.

I did have some baby pictures of you n some with you and my mom and great grandma. I was gonna give them to you on your birthday. They are still yours if you want them. See? My love for you is unconditional! You can shut me out of your life but you will never stop me from loving you!

You can put curtains on the windows but I will still watch you pee! Ugh...

If nothing else, I feel like this is good exercise. Disengaging, not fighting back, and laughing it off. Five years ago I'd of defended myself. Now I know the difference. I know things like how arguing with alcoholics is always a bad idea because they lack common sense and consistency, I know that addicts never change, I know that a lot of it is projection because she herself has been abused and she's got a lot of misplaced anger.

I've been the catch all for the misplaced anger and if nothing else it's caused me to grow a thicker skin. I got a little bit of the same tummy quiver when she said the same kind of things that David's mom would say, but first of all I am commending myself for being so much stronger than I have been about it in the past, and second of all sad for Willie that his mom is insane and obviously using again.

It was when she started using meth that split them up in the first place all those years ago, and it looks like that's most likely what's going on today.

But the rope's been dropped. And to tell the truth, neither of us have been holding onto it very tightly, we both kind of knew this would happen. Willie is doing well with it I think, except I had to stop him from telling his 14 year old brother that their mother was on drugs again because these kids are hearing the same thing about us from their dad, and most likely now from their mom, and it's time to quietly step away and know the difference.

Now I know the difference.

Motivation

2011-06-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

Summer finally hit and with it came a heat wave. I hear tell that the cherry farms have been waiting on a heat wave to come and finish up the cherry making. No u-pik this year due to unusually cold June Gloom. But man once they're ready...

June has always been a super amazing month in Beaumont because of the wicked weird thunderstorms and occasional crispy frost lawns. This year it stayed a comfortable cool that reminded me of the former years I spent living some other dream in some other apartment. Back when I had that second floor apartment with its balcony that was perfectly curtained by a red leaf plum tree (until they cut it down) next to Mustang Sally and her 11:00 pancakes and perverse sets of lingerie that I was not so secretly jealous of.

I'd sit there in that apartment writing my many great novels--but only some of which were great, and only some of which were finished. It is entirely possible that the stories were left in those walls, on that balcony where I'd work work work and and look down at the night swimmers in the pool, because once I moved to the flat I never picked them up a single time.

I tried to do it at Starbucks since the change of scenery was different for me here, but familiar for me there. And I do still get people asking every now and then when the next book is coming. I tell them I don't know. I tell them I'm really busy, I just don't have the time. I tell them that I've got a lot of weddings coming up, that I'm booked for September 1, 2, 4, 10, 24, and October 1st, plus I've got two 2012 weddings. My breakfast nook was scattered with packages that needed to be mailed, picked up, or delivered, and I know I said I was going to have the book that I wrote about Victor before he even died published by his birthday last year but...perhaps I'm still not ready to dig that deep yet.

When I took this new flat, for a very long time I did not feel at home. At the time, David-Dirck-Whatever was trying to buy a home, and I was rushing around paying old medical bills to keep our credit scores high enough to qualify for the county program that was going to give us 20% down. Shortly after I moved everything over here via Radio Flyer (aka Death Wagon, so named because of a lady who claimed I ran over her child with it even though they had been walking behind me, and told me that my wagon was clearly dangerous and I should check the recalls because it was probably on some list) I met that family, well Steve the Marlboro Man anyway and his little daughter, followed by Willie coming down the street on his long board with his flame red hair, and introducing himself to Wade (a fellow red head) first.

In the walls of the apartment I left, I left the idea of being a happy home maker with a laptop who occasionally published novels. I left behind "David's Doll." I moved into this flat and had no idea how different things would turn out to be.

Proving worth to myself, I rushed out my books. Bombshell's first draft was finished within six weeks and there wasn't even nine months between its release and Golden Dawn's. I have an entire manuscript for the third Bombshell book, and a half written number two because I had done too good on the third to want to finish the second. I've always been motivated to prove that I am good at something. I'm not entirely sure that I'm looking for validation from others or myself. At one point I think the motivation may have been to show up at my 10 year high school reunion having done at least SOMETHING besides have kids.

Now, my 10 year is coming and I'm not even remotely interested in going.

I see how stressed most of the people I went to school with are. I mean some are super wrapped up with their kids, like the girl I knew from Colorguard who puts her daughter in JonBenét Ramsey style kid beauty pageants that I run into on occasion at the dance studio. Nothing really wrong with it in theory, kids are great and important and hell they're my number one concern which is why we homeschool and pay for piano lessons and do all the tap dancing recital stuff. But I also realized that when I talked to people and mentioned being a "stay at home mom" people would dumb down and start asking me about mops and shit. Or they'd ask if I could get my husband to "babysit."

Fuckholes. Parents don't babysit, they raise.

My initial motivation was to give myself a better title.

Oh god how I abhorred being grouped with mommybloggers back in the day.

Fact is, I paid rent last month. And this month. And I actually brought in more money than he did for the month of May. June will just about be neck and neck. Thing is I got swamped and had to raise my rates thinking I'd lose the impulse "wow you're so cheap!" people but I still got bombarded and handed wads of cash.

I'm kind of juggling how it all goes to what and when, and kind of living in la la land but at least I'm not living at home. As if I had a home to go to. I'm pretty sure I burned all those bridges when I crossed them, and then salted the earth so that nothing would ever grow again.

I'm doing well, I'd say. I've recently befriended three different geminis who are all unemployed. Most of the people I care about are unemployed or underemployed, and right now there's just no chance to escape unless you hustle that shit.

June was such a big month last year, as Willie had just recently moved in permanently and was not ready for "step father's day" and unsure how he was going to celebrate his birthday when I'm not really sure he was totally out of the "holy crap I've been abused my entire life and I've just realized it" woods yet.

This year, the kids and I gifted Willie a blender for step-father's day (which falls on the Friday before Father's Day) that he has used to create those same delicious smoothies that I lived off of all during that last summer I spent in the old apartment. Where you add a teaspoon of powdered sugar and use lactose free vanilla ice cream. Except now we use almond milk instead of soy.

This will be my second summer here in the flat, and I am enjoying the scenery, the fresh cut lawn, and the freedom to allow the kids to sell Otter Pops out of the ice filled Death Wagon on the weekends when we want. And I think of last summer, and how Willie caught me a frog in a big pickle jar, and how the moon was brighter than it's ever been on the night that we went to the dry lakes by ourselves on a date. Oh the recyclables. Oh the telescope nights. Oh the free summer concerts--this year we have Kansas and The Bangles.

So much has happened since the summer of 2009, the summer David was planning to become a home owner after being raped of his chances with CHP, which ended with the happenstance of meeting and befriending Willie. Also, a lot has not happened.

If I am motivated by keeping the demons down that are at unrest in my soul, then so be it. But my life is pretty kick ass right now and I wouldn't trade it for anything, and I want to continue to record it as it happens, even if the happenings aren't going as I'd thought they would at some other foreign point in my life.

Morbid Curiosity

2011-06-17T16:45:00.000-07:00

I smell smoke lately. Mostly smoke that drowns out the smell of another fire. And I try to reenact this seemingly crazy scheme by burning incense all over the house.

The incense obsession is nothing new. I remember dancing around with it and whipping the smoke curls through the air when I was small, and then I bought like 100 sticks for $5 as a teenager and choked myself out in my room, which of course lead to being accused of burning incense to cover up smoking illegal things. I totally wasn't, for real. I just really liked playing with incense.

I even tried to make a wolf that blew smoke from its mouth in my ceramics class. I'm not sure what happened, but I could never get the smoke to come out of his mouth. Then again, on a dare, I also created in ceramics a whale that squirts water. The teacher said that she would destroy anything that had strategically placed holes, you know what I mean? And she examined my whale, and she knew that I was really more of a "look at my fairy, she has nipples and boobies" kind of student, and so when I demonstrated that the whale's holes could indeed be blown through and effectively squirt water, I got a warning, but I also got my project fired. I forgot who I gave the thing to. I can only imagine what it smells like now.

I'm fascinated by curls of smoke. I went to an open air market today and bought a few sticks and a wooden tower box that the smoke can pour out of in a sexy ominous way. And I also bought a bundle of sage because it seemed like the right thing to do. I know sage is supposed to be all cleansy, so I'll save that for a special occasion, but I just feel like, you know, burning things.

I've always been attracted to rituals...I guess it's the closest thing I have to a spiritual side. Or I just like to burn shit, I don't know.

I'm super attracted to nature related things these days. Still loving my zebrawood engagement ring, thinking I need to collect more rocks or make more things or eat more leaves. It could be that summer is reaching me. It could be that the oak trees I ride by on my bike are kinda making me think that the more I want to try new things the more I want those things to be old and timeless.

I fucking love my vintage suitcases. I fucking love my treasure chest that I picked up at an old lady's yard sale. I fucking love that more than half of the clothing I own was bought at a yard sale, or found in a dumpster.

I will never appreciate how kinda funny I am.

Tea is another thing that I got obsessed with but I never drank it as fast as I bought it and I wasn't really buying "the good shit" anyway. There are special jelly shops in Oak Glen where I can buy home made apple-cherry butter, the open air markets with sun ripened watermelons and zucchinis, stands at the open air markets where hippies sell incense (and a few glass pipes in the back if you look closely and ask for "tobacco products.") But there are no special loose leaf tea stores. There are cafes, besides Starbucks I mean, but nowhere that you could go and buy you up some herbs and brew that shit hard like a boss in your specialty hand fired whatchamacallit cups.

I like the idea of tea but some of it also tastes like dirt. And there's not enough fire involved (sorry.)

It's kinda fun to play with smoke photography, figuring out what throwing a flash on it does, how to capture its spirals and such. I think there's just something super cleansing when you burn shit though, it's just...fun. And maybe even eccentric. And I am nothing if I'm not eccentric.

I asked around about how the kids get the medical marijuana cards. They all give different stories. Actually, in California, if you even jokingly say "lol are you high?" or "ha ha that's silly, what have you been smoking, friend?" someone is bound to get butthurt and defensive and be all "I HAVE MY CARD SO IT'S PERFECTLY LEGAL AND I DONT KNOW WHERE YOU GET OFF TELLING ME THAT I CANNOT MEDICATE BECAUSE THAT'S RUDE AND YOU WOULDN'T TAKE A CANCER PILLS AWAY FROM A CANCER PATIENT AND IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS HOW I CHOOSE TO LIVE MY LIFE ANYWAY, SO BACK OFF BECAUSE IT'S PERFECTLY LEGAL AND I HAVE THE PAPERWORK IN MY CAR."

Whoa, killer.

I was just asking about how the kids get these things. I guess there are places that charge more than others, and some places aren't even legit, but that even the legit places hand them out to just about everyone who asks.

The one I hear the most is "I have anxiety AND I KNOW THAT SOUNDS TOTALLY FAKE BUT IT'S REAL AND I HAVE MY CARD" etc. Anxiety gets you medicated. The medication gets you high.

I'm just also freaking out because I'm having a hard time with people who are on downers right now.

But asking questions about these things automatically makes you guilty, just like a woman throwing up in the morning is automatically asked if she's pregnant, or burning incense in your room as a teenager automatically means that they're smoking pot.

I'm unsure of it being anything other than sheer morbid curiosity at this point.

Coral

2011-06-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

I've got my own little writing corner in my bedroom again--not that it's going to encourage me to write or wreck journals or do anything of the sort. Actually, I look at the big puffy red chair and the long black mosquito netting that I bought at a thrift store for $7 and think "wow, I should really get some models who are comfortable with erotica to rub each other up in there." I think "sex corner" and I think "just how far am I taking this art thing" and I decide that until I find the right people for the job, I'll use it as a writing corner. I won't even use it for my own sex. It'd mess up the nice pillows.

I realized that my space has become something that sounds like a bad acid trip or a Lewis Carroll story or both. "Hey, can you go grab the ukulele out of the giant tea cup in my bedroom? I think it's next to the bowl of leather whips and handcuffs. I need you to pack it into the suitcase with the plastic lawn flamingos and giant Mardi Gras beads."

And then I bought a really pretty glittery coral colored gown at a thrift store that I intended to wreck by putting it on an ocean wave bound model, but as it turned out it fit me and it made me decide to keep it for no other reason than it was $12 and it's beautiful. Too beautiful. I've nowhere to wear a thing like that but I'd like to think that someday it might find a purpose.

I want some of my stuff back, ya know?

A lady told me that I have a lime green aura. She said, not with total certainty, that it meant I was a healer--not that I was fixing other people but that I was in the process of being healed myself. Which sounds nice and all, really. I'd like some of that stuff back too. If I ever had it, I mean.

I think those kids coming over kind of made me feel violated in a few ways. Because as much as I'd like to help them, I can't. And because it frustrates me to see Willie backsliding when he sits there and defends himself to the accusations that the kids bring over straight from their Mean Old Man.

I swear to god I walk outside and Willie is denying what the old man said his penis looked like. To his 12 year old sister. Who came over asking if the description her father gave her of her older brother's private parts was true.

Fucking fuck.

I was disgusted that this man is seriously that fucking sick that he's talking about Willie's balls to his pre teen daughter. I was even more disgusted that Willie's gut reaction was to pick up the rope and, rather than correct the whole "your dad's a pervert and my balls are my own private business" situation, try to explain why what was said was incorrect.

I understand that they're abused and misguided and providing them a safe haven to run to is the right thing to do. But I'm not sure Willie has recovered enough to handle the obvious flying monkey attacks he is getting. I'm not sure I am either.

I'd taken some stuff down off the walls in my bedroom for a David Bowie-esque lad who wanted pictures taken in here, and in doing so the dream catcher that Step made me wasn't put back. I had a terrible, horrible, rancid fucking dream that night that scared me so bad that I had to have Willie walk with me to the bathroom when I woke up so I wouldn't be alone in the dark.

In my sleep I felt something resting against my back, and then pushing into my spine. Suddenly it was like that Exorcist movie and I was yelling and projectile vomiting and having seizures. Willie was trying to fix the situation by sitting on me, and I remember his eyes glowing blue, and eventually the situation was subdued and I was able to speak a few words normally between screaming out random words--one in particular was "ROSE."

I guess to dream about being possessed is an indicator of helplessness. But then for some lady to tell me that I'm in the process of healing according to the color of my aura indicates that I'm a sucker for superstitions and general tom foolery.

But the dream catcher was put back on the wall and I've had no further incidents. Nor have I had any bad dreams since Steppy made it and put it there.

If nothing else, it acts like a security blanket.

I'm not unhappy with sharing my space with the ones who come here to relax a while, get away from the enormity of their depressing home situations. But in opening myself to having friendships and relationships with strangers again--strangers who may not turn out to be friendly in the end--I have to remember to keep some stuff for myself and enforce those boundaries.

The bedspread is always changed to a prop set that we use for pictures. Never does anyone get photographed on the blankets Willie and I use in our regular life.

Nobody is allowed to make any of us have to defend ourselves to outrageous claims, or lay new negativity on us.

And the sparkly coral dress is not getting ruined. I've decided that it's mine.

Distance

2011-06-08T00:32:00.000-07:00

My legs got all lapped up by ocean waves and my best friend from third grade spent the night at my house four times. A dozen people ate spaghetti and fried chicken in my front yard and a few really nice men have been coming to just sit in my living room to absorb the space.

And I'm thinking I need to put in some cafe tables and buy some surge protectors for all these lap tops people keep plugging in.

I enjoy the company and all.

Nothing is better though than David being home. Or Dirck or whatever he's going by--I'm not sure how that's really working out for him. But he's well...I mean...he's really trying to kick smoking, and he gets really lonely on the road, both things that are his main complaints about his new career. He's kind of still on this "finding himself" kick and is really frazzled in that he still hasn't seen his reflection in the snow covered hills or whatever it supposed to happen and I had to lay it out for him thick.

THERE IS NO OTHER YOU.

There's nothing left to find. You are who you are. And you probably have problems. It's totally okay though, just go with it.

He gets into a big thing about how his dad was never there for him, how he doesn't know anything about his dad nor does he have any fond memories, and how the guy was away all the time. I think the insecurity is that he's worried that because he is having daddy-wasn't-there type issues, his children are going to have the same problem when they're older.

I disagreed with that notion. I mean when he's home he's spending time with the family, we don't own a television so it's not like he's checked out from the situation by watching football or something. This last weekend we finally found out what an Apple Dumpling was together as a family, threw a big ol' get together where he played football and baseball with our kids plus the neighbor boy, plus he helped Ty do his piano lesson homework and he went to Wade's ballet practice. In between all the normal cuddle on the couch kind of stuff.

I know he has a lot of time to think on the open road, because he tells me that thinking is all he does, and I guess he gets stuck in his own mind. I'm not entirely sure that he likes this job, and we both know that it's very much not his forever and ever thing. Then again, he got himself into an industry that is booming in a recession, and the line of work is kind of neat. He gets paid to travel and all, which nobody can complain about.

I pull David up and out of the dark stuff because it is really very damaging and the last thing I want is for him to actually feel the distance. It's all totally physical, which trips him out too, but emotionally feeling distant at times needs a cure. I'm not sure that there really is one, but I did stay up with him till two in the morning to talk about it.

It is weird at times when he comes back after being gone. Like when he mentioned how bright the lights are in the bathroom, and it's like "um, it's been like that for a few weeks," and we're all totally used to it and over it. I'll have him go pay an electric bill or meet one of my newly befriended strangers and I'll kinda feel like he's been gone a lot longer than he really has. I'm sure it feels even longer to him.

I miss him. I do.

Angel

2011-06-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

We drive up this ridiculously long road into nothingness, which says a lot when we'd started in the nothingness that is Yucaipa. Practically up against the foothills, and so close that the peak of San Gorgonio is totally blocked out.

"When me and Alec were up here the other day," he tells me, "we heard all kinds of rattlesnakes."

Right. My biggest fear being snakes and you know, just hand Auntie Jessie the fucking snake farm.

We turn down a dirt road where some old rusty farm equipment sits. A gutted out Spanish style casa sits partway down the trail, and I can see all kinds of cardboard boxes poking out of the windows. There are tractors everywhere, and a tiny little man comes out of the motor home that is situated not far from the casa. I remember him vaguely from back in the day at those family reunions they seemed to throw every month. I'd met him a few times. I remember he looked just like Victor's grandfather, but smaller and with green eyes instead of brown.

Big Vic--though I suppose he's no longer really called that on a count of his son Little Vic being gone--re-introduces me to Uncle Tony, who recalls that I was Little Victor's first girlfriend.

I'm lead over to the barn. This was not exactly what I had in mind, and...neither Vic's mind from what I can tell. He explains that last time he was here it wasn't like this.

I see wood piles, pieces of sheet metal just laying on the ground, both of which make splendid little hide outs for snakes. And when the barn door opens, I see floor to ceiling junk. And I just know, not wonder, but know, that there are a crap ton of fat, happy, five foot rattlesnakes who live among this junk eating rats all day without a care in the world.

"So, is all that just junk in there Uncle Tony?" Vic asks.

"Well...some of it has to go to the dump. But most of it is good stuff in there."

It is not. Unless you're a pack rat, and it's clear that Uncle Tony is.

"You ever see any snakes out here?" he asks. "Because the other day, Alec and I heard some."

"Snakes? No, I never heard no snakes, or seen um or nothing, and I been on the property for ten years."

I remember when he first moved out there. I know that it has its own well because I remember there being problems with it back in the day.

Right, well I'm not sure that I can A. bring clients out to the middle of nowhere to my rattlesnake farm and be all "so, how many guests are you expecting at your wedding?" or B. use the secret rattlesnake clubhouse to store fine artwork between sales and gigs.

Okay.

So.

I was given a number figure. I researched the crap out of what could be done with it.

He's what they call an "angel investor" in that he expects very little control in exchange for helping out a small business with an honest and steady climb. More for fun than profit.

His proposal hooked onto the Fine Art side of the business, an avenue I have not explored because I just lack the funds to be shelling out for a bunch of my stuff to be printed and framed. I usually leave that up to the clients and that's kinda how I do what I do. If this particular aspect of what I do is to be seriously brought to fruition, there is the potential for exposure if nothing else.

I think a lot more research still has to go into it, as far as what actually sells, and what kind of a market there is for this kind of stuff. I already have a feeling that within the next five years this whole business is going to be an empire.

I've had random wads of cash handed to me in elevators before. And I've had people who believe enough in what I was doing that they fronted the money for equipment I needed in an emergency. And now things are taking off and staying steady, I've got long term business plan goals written out and everything. I already know my marketing strategy for 2013. I'm dead damn serious about this shit.

I mean the other thing too is that this man has known me for over a decade. I was a part of his family for three years. Vic tells me that he knows I've always been a go-getter, and that I do not play games.

I've never written a formal business plan for an investor before but I sure as hell did it yesterday. It wasn't even my idea to do this. He came to me. Someone believes in me.

They don't refer to them as angels for nothing.

Arrow

2011-05-29T00:57:00.000-07:00

I think what tears me up the most about this situation is that as much as I can bury myself in my work and get past all this stuff, Willie is still very much living it. With the kids coming here to visit him, and his mom flipping out, he's got a lot on his plate emotionally. But you know, he's grown a pretty tough shell and has learned to drop the rope which I'm pretty proud of him for. He's made some amazing strides in the past year.

His tan skin and flame red hair makes me smile.

The tricky part is that there's another sibling in the mix who is an adult. His younger brother is 20 and also living in the Mean Old Man's place, and it's also his only real full blood brother. Of course, Leo is a complete ass hat.

I kind of know the feeling.

Of having an ass hat for a brother.

I also know and miss the feeling of Leo.

For a time, he and I were buds. And forever, Willie and Leo are brothers. Same exact blood and all. And when Willie shaved off all his hair including his beard, he looked just like Leo and I couldn't even stand to look at him for days. Not after what Leo did. Not after What Leo Did.

Today the stage was set with a sobbing little girl on our porch begging us to call the police for her and to please keep her safe. Something pretty violent happened at home, something that broke the camel's back and convinced her that she doesn't ever want to go back. "It happens every single day," she tells Willie and I. "Please call the CPS and get them to let me live there. I don't want to be afraid all the time."

Fuck.

We've given our food. Our time. Our hospitality every time they came over. Our advice. An escape. Some place to sit down and not worry for a few hours or however long they need. Our promise that we're here if they ever need us.

Boy that didn't take very long, did it?

Re-establishing the rapport and trying to mend the bond between him and his young siblings has been his entire goal at this point, and proving that once you take toxicity out of the equation (The Mean Old Man and his lie that Willie hates them) Willie's just Willie, their brother, just as they'd always known him but better now with his clear head on his broad, muscled shoulders.

"I'm so glad I have someone I know I can trust." And she called me her sister.

God, I'm not ready for family like that again, but I'll do what I can knowing what's been done.

She's sobbing on our porch after I put in the call and Leo walks around the corner, the fucking shit, and asks her if she'd like to go to Starbucks.

"We're waiting for the police," I tell him. "Your sister came over here crying and scared asking us to call the police. Why would she be doing that Leo?"

"I don't know, why would you do that?" he asked her condescendingly.

Hell. Motherfucking. No.

"You know you're a victim here too Leo," I say, "show me where he hit you."

"Show her Leo!" she says.

"I don't have any marks or anything. This is stupid. Let's just go."

"Dude, you need to give a statement to the police."

"I don't even want to deal with that!" he goes, and I go "Your sister is scared. I know you like to deny things, and that's typical for people who are being abused, but just because it goes on every day it does not mean that it's normal."

"Please don't lie to the cops Leo, please."

Leo tries to put his headphones back in. And his dark sunglasses have been on this whole time.

Willie has been quiet this whole time but he goes to sit down. "It's like talking to a fucking brick wall," he says.

"Who me?" Leo asks incredulously.

"Yeah you!" Willie answers back.

"I don't know why this is such a big deal, this is so stupid."

Leo and I, we did shots of gin together once. I don't drink anything, nor have I ever done a shot before, nor was he even close to being 21 at the time. I used to sit on his lap to watch YouTube videos, not as a horny grindy sex time sort of thing, but because his lap was a really comfortable place to sit.

Willie always says how important Leo is to him. Even though his attempt to give him away to Santa as an infant failed, it's kind of a good thing that he was born and all. Jerky, passive aggressive little rag-a-muffin that he is. And I think that because touching Leo is like touching the one I am in love with, I have a sense of familiarity with him that I think only comes with your family types.

Oh, and another thing about Leo is that he's a Scorpio. God I hate Scorpios. I happen to fall into the magical feet on the clouds/head on the ground Sagittarius category.

Well, you know what they say. Sagittarius's arrow is pointed straight at Scorpio's heart.

It's true. Look in the sky some time.

"Leo, I hate you," I say. "You're an asshole," I say. "But I care about you because you are his brother and he is the love of my life."

That was me letting go of that arrow I've been holding. All he could do was hold my stare. Not like I'd let him get away from it.

"You need help, Leo. And right now, your sister needs help. Do the right fucking thing, dude."

Sure enough several cop cars came and Leo gave his statement to the police. He didn't stick around as they took the girl with them to go investigate the scene, he'd slithered off somewhere. I imagine to lick a few wounds.

We saw him walking to work not long after that. He who refuses to make eye contact with anyone who dwells within this fortress I rent called "the flat" only needed a quick curl of my finger for him to cross the street and come fill us in on the details since he was obviously at the center of the action when the police rolled up with the girl to their apartment.

"She's going with our uncle," which I know strikes Willie weird because Leo still refers to the man as their "Dad" (he is not) and when Willie said that the man was not indeed their father a few days before when they'd attempted to speak for the first time in a year, Leo turned his back on his brother and said "well then that's the end of this conversation." Saying "our uncle" when referring to his abuser's brother is like putting him back in that apartment. But he doesn't wince, he simply commends Leo for telling the truth.

For one half second I feel that we're all neutral.

I tell him "your brother and I are engaged."

I let him hold my ring for a second, and Leo makes a show of pretending to drop it, but then examines the ring and marvels at it. Is that a serious fucking smile?

Two cop cars go by and nobody is in the back of either. And nobody appears to be in the back of the third.

Leo moves on his way and I realize that there are only two ways to speak to this lad, and one is in a joking manner and the other is just to cut him deep. Not in an insulting manner but--well, it's said that the reason that arrow is pointed just so at the scorpion's heart is to protect Scorpio from harming others. It's a system of cosmic checks and balances, and it just happens to work out in my favor in that it lets me pwn bitches.

But it wasn't the end of the fiasco. The girl came right on back over not more than 10 minutes later with a bag saying she could not wait there. After the police left, she was ridiculed, told "You're not scared" and to "go change her pad" because she was being a bitch.

Yeah, go change your pad, right. Which pads exactly? The ones her father won't buy her and that she has to borrow from Leo's ex?

Fuck. This.

I'm at a loss. She can't go back. She can't stay here. Her uncle refuses to come over and pick her up from my house and is threatening to strand her.

My fucking god. Really?

Really?

Did you know that Willie's step father still believes that Willie is coming back? That he bitches about it every single day? That nobody will even speak to Willie based on this man's venom? Now Uncle Hero won't come rescue her because omg we don't want to interact with Willie, or worse, that JT girl.

Jesus.

I call the cops. I don't want him to make that move and then I get all accused of kidnapping, but the whole lady cop coming over here and telling the girl that "families must work out their differences and you have to do what your daddy says even if he's disciplining you" doesn't sit right with me either.

Lady cop comes back and fucking carts her back over there, this time with a note in her pocket with my number on it.

I don't know where the hell any of this is going. Leo's all fucked up with his typical child of an alcoholic reaction to smooth things over and ignore what's happened. The kids are...I can't even speak it.

At what point are you choosing the involvement, and at what point are you simply thrust into it?

Straight Forward

2011-05-21T01:44:00.000-07:00

It gets harder and harder to sleep some nights. I snap my eyes open when I start to drift because I hear a noise and I'm convinced that someone is opening a window in my flat somewhere. I'm not sure who I am afraid is opening it, but I've stood at the boys' bedroom door more than once listening for signs that someone has broken in, but also afraid that opening the door is going to wake them because I am just crazy.

Crazy but not intoxicated, which is the story of my life. It's all me, people.

It's fun being responsible sometimes because I just feel like I'm being passive aggressive about everyone who has ever doubted me. It's fun being successful because despite everything, I can do it. I just can't sleep is all. Mostly, it's too many things to fucking think about.

Stress free, drama free, that's the rule around here. I mean as much as possible. Sometimes we still stress about things, like Stabby ladies and their pills and lemon farms, or if you're Willie and you're learning to drive. (He's doing good. And just because I heard a squeal and a loud crash and knew that he was home from his driving lesson does not mean that I do not have faith in him, okay? Step's car just felt like mounting the sidewalk to make sidewalk-car babies is all. A little.)

Mark my words, it is a very big step for Willie to be driving. The one and only time he'd ever been behind the wheel of a car before moving in here was when the Mean Old Man let him put the Jeep in reverse when he was 14, and screamed at him about how he did it wrong from 20 feet away. When I met Willie it was always "I'm going to learn how to drive next week," and then next week it would be "next week," and then after that it would be "tomorrow" and then it would go back to "next week."

Made him sick as shit at first to think about sitting behind the wheel of a car, just because of all the backstory and all the shit he'd been through. Then once he got his permit a few weeks ago he was stressing about not getting enough drive time--which admittedly he wasn't, since we want to get him to test in Step's automatic, because seriously? Taking the drive test in a stick when you're already nervous? Hell mothafuckin no. Let's get the basics down in the easy car before moving on to Veruka the Mazda.

He was all whiny and anxious and shit about not getting a lot of drive time when I told him that I'd driven a total of six times before taking my drive test, three of those were with the teacher. And yes, I held my permit for six months. What happened? I made one mistake while learning with my family (went out the in side of a parking lot drive way) and they were too scared to ever let me drive again. Luckily I did get a crash course in stick-shiftery in a college parking lot before they totally stopped letting me drive, but the point is that Willie had to stop bitching or I was going to fart in his mouth, I swear to god.

I've found that I lack patience anymore. And that I go straight for the throat. Whatever the quickest way to end something is, I go for it. And I think I'm hurting a lot of feelings in the process sometimes, but I think what it comes down to is that I am sick of drama and turmoil and blah blah blah in my life.

It's like, cut the crap.

Quit whining, you'll get to drive.

Sorry, you have an attitude? I'm just not going to talk to you, how about that?

You're scared to lose a tooth because you'll bleed? Oh my dear boy. Have I ever told you about the day you were born?

(I've had to restrain myself on that last one. Believe me, it is tempting though sometimes, but I don't really want to be that mom.)

I did, however, pull him out of school because the principal couldn't get it in gear and I'd hate to have to know that Ty is getting fucked with at recess and no one will eat with him. I didn't wait till 6th grade for it to get worse and for guns to be brought to school or suicide notes to start. I pulled him out and now he's happy as a clam and he plays piano like a...well not a pro or anything, but he jams on that thing and got to choose four candies last week--the most candies he can get at a lesson.

My point is that I'm losing patience. I'm cutting people out of my life left and right. I'm pulling my near and dear ones closer and fighting back more fiercely.

I really, really, really want to pretend to go buy a car so I can quench this thirst I have for salesman blood.

I want to pwn bitches.

I want to encounter a real rattlesnake in the wild and keep a safe distance but not run away like mad.

You know what I did this afternoon? I rode around and hung up "found" flyers for a dog that those kids fucking stole. Willie doesn't like the way that sounds, he says it makes it sound like they went into someone's yard and took it--but we don't know that they didn't. All I know is both kids have come over trying to show it off and be all "isn't she cute!" and it's like um...it's not your dog, and you need to find the owner pronto.

It's a little dog, too. You know how we Californians love our little dogs.

There is the argument that it kinda makes sense that the poor kids are looking for something to give them unconditional love since they aren't getting it at home, but it still isn't right and that is someone's furbaby.

Of course I did all the adult things that the adult in this situation should be but isn't doing. Of course I notified management (dogs aren't allowed here,) of course I called the animal shelters and animal control. Of course when the dog was brought over the second time by the second kid trying to be all "look how cute" I told him that it was not right at all that he was not looking for the owner, and that if he really wanted to man up about things (because his entire motive in coming to see Willie was that he was "manning up,") then he needed to call the animal control people. I wrote down the number for him and told him step by step what he needed to say. I assured him that this is a very dog friendly town and that they have a book full of reported lost dogs that she will be matched up with.

Will he call that number?

Fuck no.

That's why I rode around and put up posters to replace the ones that had been mysteriously taken down right around the same time that the pooch showed up on the end of a leash held by a little girl proclaiming that her new dog was so adorable, huh?

Somebody's got to be the fucking adult.

I don't want drama. I'm tired of it.

Is someone at that house going to figure out that it's my number on the posters? And that the picture on the poster looks a little too fucking good for it to be just some asshole with a point and shoot? At this point I don't give a flying fuck. I want the dog to go home and I want needless bullshit to stop.

I knew with them coming around there would be a chance for drama. I don't want it to be that way. I will not draw things out, I will not play games, I will not mess around with hearts or minds, but instead be straight forward.