Recently I have gone back to work. It is exciting as the first day of school-- are they going to like me, are they going to become my friends, will they think I'm funny, competent and nice? Are they going to be nice, competent and funny? WIll they be kind? How much are they going to pay me?
I started this position on my birthday. Yes, my birthday-- the day I usually lay around the house in maribou slippers and a black silk robe eating nothing but all things chocolate. This year, I had spent a little over eight months like that, having been out of work for way too long. So instead, I poured into some pantyhose, slapped on my happy face, and tore over to New Jersey to start working.
New Jersey? New Jersey, you say? Yes, the big NJ, the Garden State, the most beautiful place in the world. Here's what I like about working in New Jersey....
1) Everything is cheaper
2) I get to take a boat to work every morning, and take one home every night
3) The view is of Manhattan-- the skyline is amazing. And I do not have to be in Manhattan to enjoy it. No sucking on bus fumes, no running around at the crazy people. I get to watch it all from here-- with Vinnie, and Toni and Gina and Danielle.
4) Everything is a little bit slower, except driving. That's faster, but, somehow it works.
5) Big hair, big shoes, big men. No cardboard cutouts, no clothes hangers, very few metrosexuals. Real people, with real jobs who are nice and friendly and hold the elevator for you. And call you sweetheart. And mean it.
Here's what I don't like about working in New Jersey
1) .....
2) I heard that the winters aren't great.
3) No payless shoes around the corner.
Other than that I am at a loss.
The job itself is interesting, if a bit on the easy side, with a lot of man power work behind it. But it will be fine. It will give me ample opportunity to write to my little darlings (that is you, mon ami), and take a gander at the beautiful skyline. Every day. From my cubicle.
Oh, did I say I had a cubicle, because I have a cubicle. An actual cubicle. I will be able to put my stuff up, and lock my drawers, and have a space that is mine all mine. Yes, yes I will.
I love looking at the men on the ferry with me. Big hunky men, who have hunky jobs, that smile at me. I am relatively interesting, bombshell-esque, and am a new face, so really I am fresh meat. I like that. Apparently NJ likes a little meat on their bones.
Hmmm. Maybe a move is in order.....
Monday, June 20, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Big Girl on Goodbyes
Recently I have had to say goodbye to two great friends.
Saying goodbye is never easy. Well, saying it is-- goodbye. But the memory is still there. And really putting them to bed is a whole different story.
Someone once told me that being with someone, even for a short time, and having nothing between you and them is a gift. It is pure. Both of these men were taken quickly and had short lives. Both of them I loved, albeit in different ways. Both of them I had nothing inbetween.
Eric. Eric and I met in a class. Eric was the first man I ever asked out. Let me take that back. Eric was a guy when I met him. He was laid off from his job, struggling to be an actor, full of laughter and frolic. We actively ignored each other in a class, until the final day when I said "You would be stupid not to ask me out." he did, although he waited two weeks, calling and saying "So, am I stupid?". Yeah, for sure a guy.
We went out for a minute and a half. That's as long as it took me to realize that Eric was going to be a great friend. Not in that "oh, not dating material" because he was; cute, funny, smart as hell, full of laughter, great friends with both men and women. But he was more of the kind of guy I wanted to learn from, not be with. From him, I began to understand men. Really, men are simple, at least simpler than I had previously experienced. They want for very little; to be useful, to be loved, to be praised and worshipped at times, and to be providers. I was not in the space to actually have this in my life, so friends we were.
Eric pursued his dream, and moved to LA to become an actor. We had many conversations about him moving-- what would it take, how he would do it, where he should live. How he could market himself out there. Having been an agent and manager, I set him up with an agent friend out there, who sent him up with someone else, and I believe that is how he got work. He would call or email me to let me know how he was doing.
I went out to LA to visit family and friends in 2003, but didn't call to tell him I'd be there. He tracked me down, and we spent the most glorious day at Disneyland together. We tried on hats and made funny faces into Desha's camera, we sang the Muppet's theme song over and over, and had drinks with Diane and the crew from Disney. When we said goodbye, I let him know how much he meant to me, that he was the first guy I had ever asked out, and that I was very proud of him for following his dream. He said "I'm a man, not a guy.". I told him that when I asked him out he was a guy, but now he was a man for sure. We kissed goodbye, and he tooled off in his little car.
I said then, not knowing how true it was, that that was the last time I would see him. Now, I see him in dreams, in memories and in pictures, but interacting with him now is a little more difficult.
And then there is Mills.
Millsie.
David Mills and I met through friends of friends, lots of drama at a time when we could have all done with a little less. Mills and I would spend out wee hours of the morning on the phone talking about pop culture, screenplays and life in general. Our first real conversation was when he called at 1am, coming home from a gentleman caller's house, and telling me he had broken his promise not to sleep with anyone until the third date. I just listened. He said:
"You're not going to shame me"
Why should I? Do you want to be shamed?
"No, it's just... well, call Kim, and you get no judgment."
And that's how it was.
Mills and I also spent some time out in LA together, just an afternoon I had off of work, and he was out visiting friends. I took him to the San Fernando Mission, where we sat on the great lawn and smoked cigarettes, where I told him the story of my gramma and grampa's wedding at that very church. We went to the Madonna room, where there are several Madonna's of varying sizes and colors-- which was hysterical because Mills, well, being gay, loved Madge. Anyhow, as we were trying to pick out the Madonna that best represented ourselves, the lights went off, the music shut down, and we booked out of there. Both of us thought it was because we were being sacrilegious, however, it was just a room on a motion sensor with a timer.
"I for sure thought there was a bolt of lightning with my name on it"
Me too, sister.
We drove back to LA, blaring Eva Cassidy on the rental car's stereo, feeling the music. We spoke about her untimely death, and said words to each other. That we should know, ever in case of anything.
"I love you. I want you to know that."
Me too sister.
Mills and I drifted, no real reason, just drifted. We got back together at a friends wedding, and had a great time, just doing what we did well, taking orders, giving orders, and making things happen. Mills and I met up on the dance floor for some "Holiday" and boogied until our feet hurt and all the cheap champagne had sweated through our designer clothes.
In hearing of his passing, I was speechless. In a daze. No more Mills? No more Mills. No more 2 am phone calls about Britney, no more faithful MTV watching, no more fabulous facial products to scour. No more crashing in the West Village when I have had too much to drink, no more laughing about anything. Gone.
But he's still here. They are both still here. I have two angels looking over my shoulder, one guiding me into great relationships with former guys who are now men, making me laugh, letting me be vulnerable and another who I can hear reaching for the high notes as Eva soars into a gospel number-- and then points out the best styling lotion for my over frizzy hair-- on sale, in stock, with a coupon. In pictures, in memories, in goodbyes.
In goodbyes for now.
Saying goodbye is never easy. Well, saying it is-- goodbye. But the memory is still there. And really putting them to bed is a whole different story.
Someone once told me that being with someone, even for a short time, and having nothing between you and them is a gift. It is pure. Both of these men were taken quickly and had short lives. Both of them I loved, albeit in different ways. Both of them I had nothing inbetween.
Eric. Eric and I met in a class. Eric was the first man I ever asked out. Let me take that back. Eric was a guy when I met him. He was laid off from his job, struggling to be an actor, full of laughter and frolic. We actively ignored each other in a class, until the final day when I said "You would be stupid not to ask me out." he did, although he waited two weeks, calling and saying "So, am I stupid?". Yeah, for sure a guy.
We went out for a minute and a half. That's as long as it took me to realize that Eric was going to be a great friend. Not in that "oh, not dating material" because he was; cute, funny, smart as hell, full of laughter, great friends with both men and women. But he was more of the kind of guy I wanted to learn from, not be with. From him, I began to understand men. Really, men are simple, at least simpler than I had previously experienced. They want for very little; to be useful, to be loved, to be praised and worshipped at times, and to be providers. I was not in the space to actually have this in my life, so friends we were.
Eric pursued his dream, and moved to LA to become an actor. We had many conversations about him moving-- what would it take, how he would do it, where he should live. How he could market himself out there. Having been an agent and manager, I set him up with an agent friend out there, who sent him up with someone else, and I believe that is how he got work. He would call or email me to let me know how he was doing.
I went out to LA to visit family and friends in 2003, but didn't call to tell him I'd be there. He tracked me down, and we spent the most glorious day at Disneyland together. We tried on hats and made funny faces into Desha's camera, we sang the Muppet's theme song over and over, and had drinks with Diane and the crew from Disney. When we said goodbye, I let him know how much he meant to me, that he was the first guy I had ever asked out, and that I was very proud of him for following his dream. He said "I'm a man, not a guy.". I told him that when I asked him out he was a guy, but now he was a man for sure. We kissed goodbye, and he tooled off in his little car.
I said then, not knowing how true it was, that that was the last time I would see him. Now, I see him in dreams, in memories and in pictures, but interacting with him now is a little more difficult.
And then there is Mills.
Millsie.
David Mills and I met through friends of friends, lots of drama at a time when we could have all done with a little less. Mills and I would spend out wee hours of the morning on the phone talking about pop culture, screenplays and life in general. Our first real conversation was when he called at 1am, coming home from a gentleman caller's house, and telling me he had broken his promise not to sleep with anyone until the third date. I just listened. He said:
"You're not going to shame me"
Why should I? Do you want to be shamed?
"No, it's just... well, call Kim, and you get no judgment."
And that's how it was.
Mills and I also spent some time out in LA together, just an afternoon I had off of work, and he was out visiting friends. I took him to the San Fernando Mission, where we sat on the great lawn and smoked cigarettes, where I told him the story of my gramma and grampa's wedding at that very church. We went to the Madonna room, where there are several Madonna's of varying sizes and colors-- which was hysterical because Mills, well, being gay, loved Madge. Anyhow, as we were trying to pick out the Madonna that best represented ourselves, the lights went off, the music shut down, and we booked out of there. Both of us thought it was because we were being sacrilegious, however, it was just a room on a motion sensor with a timer.
"I for sure thought there was a bolt of lightning with my name on it"
Me too, sister.
We drove back to LA, blaring Eva Cassidy on the rental car's stereo, feeling the music. We spoke about her untimely death, and said words to each other. That we should know, ever in case of anything.
"I love you. I want you to know that."
Me too sister.
Mills and I drifted, no real reason, just drifted. We got back together at a friends wedding, and had a great time, just doing what we did well, taking orders, giving orders, and making things happen. Mills and I met up on the dance floor for some "Holiday" and boogied until our feet hurt and all the cheap champagne had sweated through our designer clothes.
In hearing of his passing, I was speechless. In a daze. No more Mills? No more Mills. No more 2 am phone calls about Britney, no more faithful MTV watching, no more fabulous facial products to scour. No more crashing in the West Village when I have had too much to drink, no more laughing about anything. Gone.
But he's still here. They are both still here. I have two angels looking over my shoulder, one guiding me into great relationships with former guys who are now men, making me laugh, letting me be vulnerable and another who I can hear reaching for the high notes as Eva soars into a gospel number-- and then points out the best styling lotion for my over frizzy hair-- on sale, in stock, with a coupon. In pictures, in memories, in goodbyes.
In goodbyes for now.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Big Girl on Community
Why is it that as women we tear each other down?
I am looking at a post I was working on, one about my former boss, and in reading it I saw that all it was about was tearing her down, making her less of a human to account for my in-humane-ness. Can I fogive a former boss for wearing purple blush-- yes. Can I let go that I was let go for no real reason-- sure. But what are reasons anyways-- they are just little excuses to tell ourselves why we can or can't.
But back to women on women (no not like that). Recently I helped some friends move, and I spent the whole time judging and criticizing my friend for not having her stuff perfectly set to be moved. That she was unorganized, and a mess, controlling and overly concerned with the hand mirrors getting put in the right room. Who cares? Actually, she got ready to move in less than three weeks, while working a full time job and cleaning out another's apartment (David, we miss you). Six years of stuff accumulated, seven different roomates which on first glance of move out, looked liked they moved, however left remants of their lives behind -- cleaners, food in the fridge, books or electronics that never quite worked, etc.
This is my friend I love. She would do anything to make sure I was doing okay.
I give up. Why do we have to tear each other down?
Just recently, Mama Sugs moved in. It is like being in a womens studies, queer studies, African studies class all the time. It is the best part of education, where I am developing ideas, learning and growing. She points out injustices I have never noticed, never seen, nor never done anything about. And what keeps coming up is why do we tear each other down?
So I ask, instead of tear down, why not celebrate?
My mother, on the eve of me going to college warned me about women that wore scented oils and didn't shave, and listened to Melissa Ethridge (before she was out). She said "Please don't be like them." So I stayed away from womens studies, I stayed away from any woman who was too manly, too alternative and instead surrounded myself with men and women who were anything but that. I felt like an outsider, always wanting to express something bigger than where we were going to eat, or who was dating who. I wanted to get at the life stuff, the what am I here for stuff. The stuff that may make a difference. I spent the first weekend of Melissa E.s album release listening to it, connecting to it, feeling like "Yeah, that's right!". I was concerned it was making me gay. I was concerned for the stolen kiss I shared with my down the street neighbor years before, for my lesbian drama teacher, for all the women I had met who had treated me in kindness and respected my opinions-- who I found out later were part of a community that I did not belong to.
This community, my mother was so scared about, is just women. Women who love women, who are trailblazers, who are out there just for being themselves. Women accepting women, just as they are.
But broaden it out, what if, just for a moment, women took the day off from gossiping about one another. They spoke only about positive aspects of each other. We celebrated our differences, that I wear my hair long, and you short, that I am large and curvy and wear red lipstick and you are small and wear no makeup and eat food only from plants. What if we took on that we celebrate each other, for the ability to give birth, for our size, for our ability to communicate, for our hearts and tears and our profound love for one another. It is not about, as my mother thought, being with women who sleep with other women. That hasn't made me gay, and I am sure it never will. But what if it was about creating women as powerful loving beings, no matter what our skin color is, no matter what our tags inside our clothes say, no matter how long we spent in school or how much money we make.
What if, for just a day, we could get past all that other stuff, and stopped tearing down. Once I heard that if you are not expanding you are contracting. So let's expand our hearts, and accept women just as is, no matter who they love. No matter what they wear. Even if it is purple blush.
I am looking at a post I was working on, one about my former boss, and in reading it I saw that all it was about was tearing her down, making her less of a human to account for my in-humane-ness. Can I fogive a former boss for wearing purple blush-- yes. Can I let go that I was let go for no real reason-- sure. But what are reasons anyways-- they are just little excuses to tell ourselves why we can or can't.
But back to women on women (no not like that). Recently I helped some friends move, and I spent the whole time judging and criticizing my friend for not having her stuff perfectly set to be moved. That she was unorganized, and a mess, controlling and overly concerned with the hand mirrors getting put in the right room. Who cares? Actually, she got ready to move in less than three weeks, while working a full time job and cleaning out another's apartment (David, we miss you). Six years of stuff accumulated, seven different roomates which on first glance of move out, looked liked they moved, however left remants of their lives behind -- cleaners, food in the fridge, books or electronics that never quite worked, etc.
This is my friend I love. She would do anything to make sure I was doing okay.
I give up. Why do we have to tear each other down?
Just recently, Mama Sugs moved in. It is like being in a womens studies, queer studies, African studies class all the time. It is the best part of education, where I am developing ideas, learning and growing. She points out injustices I have never noticed, never seen, nor never done anything about. And what keeps coming up is why do we tear each other down?
So I ask, instead of tear down, why not celebrate?
My mother, on the eve of me going to college warned me about women that wore scented oils and didn't shave, and listened to Melissa Ethridge (before she was out). She said "Please don't be like them." So I stayed away from womens studies, I stayed away from any woman who was too manly, too alternative and instead surrounded myself with men and women who were anything but that. I felt like an outsider, always wanting to express something bigger than where we were going to eat, or who was dating who. I wanted to get at the life stuff, the what am I here for stuff. The stuff that may make a difference. I spent the first weekend of Melissa E.s album release listening to it, connecting to it, feeling like "Yeah, that's right!". I was concerned it was making me gay. I was concerned for the stolen kiss I shared with my down the street neighbor years before, for my lesbian drama teacher, for all the women I had met who had treated me in kindness and respected my opinions-- who I found out later were part of a community that I did not belong to.
This community, my mother was so scared about, is just women. Women who love women, who are trailblazers, who are out there just for being themselves. Women accepting women, just as they are.
But broaden it out, what if, just for a moment, women took the day off from gossiping about one another. They spoke only about positive aspects of each other. We celebrated our differences, that I wear my hair long, and you short, that I am large and curvy and wear red lipstick and you are small and wear no makeup and eat food only from plants. What if we took on that we celebrate each other, for the ability to give birth, for our size, for our ability to communicate, for our hearts and tears and our profound love for one another. It is not about, as my mother thought, being with women who sleep with other women. That hasn't made me gay, and I am sure it never will. But what if it was about creating women as powerful loving beings, no matter what our skin color is, no matter what our tags inside our clothes say, no matter how long we spent in school or how much money we make.
What if, for just a day, we could get past all that other stuff, and stopped tearing down. Once I heard that if you are not expanding you are contracting. So let's expand our hearts, and accept women just as is, no matter who they love. No matter what they wear. Even if it is purple blush.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Big Girl finds NOW
"i don't want to be the person who blindly shoots an arrow into the side of a barn, and paints a bullseye around wherever it lands."
I realize, after sorting through countless amounts of text, drawings, black ink on white paper, verse and prose, that this is my life. It is a road map of who I have become. Wow. This sucks.
I have a trunk at the foot of my bed that has about 25 journals in it. From highschool up till now. And in 2 of them, every page including the last page is filled. I had so much to say, the margins are filled, the pictures are drawn, and those journals are loved, they are creations of joy and celebration. Two.
So out of 14 years of journalling, I have a half a year of pure joy. Because I have been living as if tommorrow is a better choice than today. As if I will take what I can get is better than asking for what I want.
I once watched a man jump off the bridge-- not like an extreme sportist, but a guy at the end of his rope that bit the bullet and jumped. He lived in "Now". And I get that I don't want to do that. He chose NOW, and although sad (he ended up fine, in Bellvue, a couple broken bones and some therapy for a couple years) he couldn't wait one more second for life to end. Conversely, why not NOW to live my life. Why not say the "I love you" today, rather than waiting until the right time? Why not NOW? Why not.
Reasons are useless. Especially the useless reasons. Those are the ones that are bad bad bad. Those are the ones that say it is a better idea to buy a new journal and start over than to finish the one you have because it is not pretty enough, or it's a little messy or it's not right, or that poem is too sappy and it sucks, or your mom really isn't that horrible of a person, or your mom really is that horrible of a person and you are just being nice, or you sound like a fraud and snotty or you are not even dating the guy that you started the journal for, or you are dating the new guy and can't have the two of them sharing a space in the same bound book, or you forgot where you put that one. The reasons that say it is better to constantly start over than finish something as it meant to be done.
Okay, Big Girl-- it's time. Time like NOW to just make your life be it, be the thing you have wanted it to be. It's time to be the one. The ONE.
It sounds so 'and the force be with you' right?
Or is that 'peace be with you, and also with you'?
I get Catholic and Star Wars references screwed up-- sorry.
So what's the gap? Where can I put more cheese into my holey swiss cheese life? Where can I finish what I have started?
What I am taking on:
1)Being cause in my own life. I get what I want when I want it. I ask for what I want, what I need. I am all there is. Career, job, finances, fun, play, travel, relationships, writing, love, friendship, home, family, health, well being, fitness, spirituality, all of it. I say it, I create it, and it is so.
2)Take on my at stakes. Stop painting the bulleye around the arrow wherever it lands. Swing out, shoot for the target and then if, just if, it doesn't hit, own up to it. And when it hits, experience the victory. Do not, repeat, do not create spin-- false victories. Do acknowledge at least five victories a day. Create a victory journal-- and it doesn't have to be new. It can be in addition to one you already have, and it will house all the victories. Along with the relationships of past, bitchy conversations with people who are no longer around, and poems that really do suck.
3) No more gossip. If you can't have a conversation that empowers others, then it is a conversation not worth having. Other people don't walk around half dead, you just walk around killing them off.
4) No more deciding for other people what is to be shared or not. Walk around and share like your "Do I sound like an idiot?" filter is on backorder. Share even when your "they think I'm weird" filter sets off bells. Talk to people that are in your "no way, get out of my face" radar, and listen. Everyone has something to say, make sure they are heard, and you are heard.
5) Let yourself be squishy. Even if you just try it on for five minutes at a time, just be squishy. Let people love you regardless. No matter how much you want to puke. Just be loved.
6) Today is all I have.
7) No promises to look good. That means, no promises to make yourself look good when you have no intention of following through.
8) Be the person/coach/friend/girlfriend/partner you know yourself to be. Borrow someone else's eyes and look at yourself to remind yourself who you are. Bodacious, generous, loving (squishy), powerful, and the ONE.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Big Girl finds Home
How Long 'till I go Home
During the dog days of summer, I wonder why I left the cool ocean breezes of San Diego, the pink into purple and then misty gray violet sunsets. I wonder aloud how anyone could have survived without air conditioning, in a tenement building during the turn of the century (when, as the news reports, it was the hottest). And often I pose this question to no one inparticular, How long 'til I get to go home?
I grew up feeling like I would never ever leave the Golden state of California, the ocean, mountains and desert all within an hour's drive (depending on traffic). That I would meet and marry my high school sweetheart, have three kids by 27 and own not only a house but a minivan/station wagon//SUV gas sucker. I would spend evenings carting around children to various play rehearsals, dance recitals, soccer and football practices. I would stand in the bleachers and yell when my kid hit the ball, knowing full well that he is just as scared of a 40 MPH ball being hurled at him as I am. I would celebrate accomplishments by driving to 31 Flavors and getting double scoops, just as my parents had done with me. Evenings would be spent barbeque-ing hot dogs and hamburgers as the kids swam in the pool, soon to be wrapped in towels fresh from the dryer.
Instead, my high school sweetheart never materialized, nor did the college sweetheart, not the 20-something man-boy. So I moved to follow my passion. I think. At the time it seemed logical, move to be closer to my parents (who, incidentally were forced from their bliss into CT, deperately searching for some kind of Mexican food to remind them of home), to become something in the theater, to be closer to NYC. The capital of it all. The cartoonish fantasy of having a job that made a difference, and being someone that people back home would be jealous of, was just that, a fantasy.
But I stayed.
I moved into the City, with the help of two friends, and became a New Yorker. Becoming a New Yorker is instantanious. It happens when you move in, and recieve your first piece of mail, with your name on it. It proves to someone that you live in this great Metropolis, that you are part of the living breathing machine of NYC. You now become the tour guide for wayward tourists, the flop pad for friends from back home, a reference guide for all things designer, coutre, or city-like. People, not from here, are in awe of you, your job is that much more exciting, your life is that much more fabulous, and you actually become even more glamourous than you thought possible. And you become settled.
After a while, peole get to know your face, and eventually your name. They recognize you on the street, and may mumble a "Hi" if provoked. You move into your apartment after three years of living out of boxes, actually paint the walls, and your furniture is bought, not dragged in off the street. You make friends, and they become your family-- you do weddings, birthdays and parties, and you get to intimately know the local car service drivers. You know the "best" take out places, the "only" 24-7 deli, and the great place to get coffee and Hummentasha (and actually know what that is) on a Sunday morning. You wear shoes that are comfortable to walk and stand in, and sometimes, with the right amount of cash, you can actually wear those "nice shoes" out to a bar, because you have enough to take a cab home. And you start feeling as glamourous and carefree that everyone back home thinks you are.
Every once in a while, the weather shifts into overdrive-- the blistery cold of the winter, the melting humidity of the summer, and you are holed up in your apartment, away from the elements, watching MTV or TLC or BBC and you think, what am I doing here?. All the bad stuff comes out, the garbage smells, you have no equity because you can barely afford rent, much less an apartment for sale, the guy downstairs is playing his cello again at 4:30am, the early morning subway crush with the guy that's going to play the saxaphone loud and out of tune, and the fact that you are alone, with no one to spend the time with because he's holed up at his apartment somewhere else.
So I wonder still, how long til I get to go home?
And the weather clears up, and the sun comes out, and the humidity dips or the snow melts. I walk outside to get a breath of fresh air, and say hi to my neighbors on the stoop, to Jack and Sammy at the Deli, and to the nice woman who sells me my paper every day, who yells "Hello Friend" (which are the only two words she knows in English) from her third floor walk up. And I discover something. The fantasy of California is just that, good memories with a big "what if". This is home, my home. With all the good, and all the bad. Being here makes me stronger, feel more alive, as I brave the elements and the City itself, constantly battling against something to get to where I need to be.
Home.
Never thought I'd say it, but I am home.
For now.
During the dog days of summer, I wonder why I left the cool ocean breezes of San Diego, the pink into purple and then misty gray violet sunsets. I wonder aloud how anyone could have survived without air conditioning, in a tenement building during the turn of the century (when, as the news reports, it was the hottest). And often I pose this question to no one inparticular, How long 'til I get to go home?
I grew up feeling like I would never ever leave the Golden state of California, the ocean, mountains and desert all within an hour's drive (depending on traffic). That I would meet and marry my high school sweetheart, have three kids by 27 and own not only a house but a minivan/station wagon//SUV gas sucker. I would spend evenings carting around children to various play rehearsals, dance recitals, soccer and football practices. I would stand in the bleachers and yell when my kid hit the ball, knowing full well that he is just as scared of a 40 MPH ball being hurled at him as I am. I would celebrate accomplishments by driving to 31 Flavors and getting double scoops, just as my parents had done with me. Evenings would be spent barbeque-ing hot dogs and hamburgers as the kids swam in the pool, soon to be wrapped in towels fresh from the dryer.
Instead, my high school sweetheart never materialized, nor did the college sweetheart, not the 20-something man-boy. So I moved to follow my passion. I think. At the time it seemed logical, move to be closer to my parents (who, incidentally were forced from their bliss into CT, deperately searching for some kind of Mexican food to remind them of home), to become something in the theater, to be closer to NYC. The capital of it all. The cartoonish fantasy of having a job that made a difference, and being someone that people back home would be jealous of, was just that, a fantasy.
But I stayed.
I moved into the City, with the help of two friends, and became a New Yorker. Becoming a New Yorker is instantanious. It happens when you move in, and recieve your first piece of mail, with your name on it. It proves to someone that you live in this great Metropolis, that you are part of the living breathing machine of NYC. You now become the tour guide for wayward tourists, the flop pad for friends from back home, a reference guide for all things designer, coutre, or city-like. People, not from here, are in awe of you, your job is that much more exciting, your life is that much more fabulous, and you actually become even more glamourous than you thought possible. And you become settled.
After a while, peole get to know your face, and eventually your name. They recognize you on the street, and may mumble a "Hi" if provoked. You move into your apartment after three years of living out of boxes, actually paint the walls, and your furniture is bought, not dragged in off the street. You make friends, and they become your family-- you do weddings, birthdays and parties, and you get to intimately know the local car service drivers. You know the "best" take out places, the "only" 24-7 deli, and the great place to get coffee and Hummentasha (and actually know what that is) on a Sunday morning. You wear shoes that are comfortable to walk and stand in, and sometimes, with the right amount of cash, you can actually wear those "nice shoes" out to a bar, because you have enough to take a cab home. And you start feeling as glamourous and carefree that everyone back home thinks you are.
Every once in a while, the weather shifts into overdrive-- the blistery cold of the winter, the melting humidity of the summer, and you are holed up in your apartment, away from the elements, watching MTV or TLC or BBC and you think, what am I doing here?. All the bad stuff comes out, the garbage smells, you have no equity because you can barely afford rent, much less an apartment for sale, the guy downstairs is playing his cello again at 4:30am, the early morning subway crush with the guy that's going to play the saxaphone loud and out of tune, and the fact that you are alone, with no one to spend the time with because he's holed up at his apartment somewhere else.
So I wonder still, how long til I get to go home?
And the weather clears up, and the sun comes out, and the humidity dips or the snow melts. I walk outside to get a breath of fresh air, and say hi to my neighbors on the stoop, to Jack and Sammy at the Deli, and to the nice woman who sells me my paper every day, who yells "Hello Friend" (which are the only two words she knows in English) from her third floor walk up. And I discover something. The fantasy of California is just that, good memories with a big "what if". This is home, my home. With all the good, and all the bad. Being here makes me stronger, feel more alive, as I brave the elements and the City itself, constantly battling against something to get to where I need to be.
Home.
Never thought I'd say it, but I am home.
For now.
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