To Do List

-- Illegally immigrate to another country.

-- Witness a hobo rivalry.

-- Swing from a chandelier.

--Have a popular rock song written about me.

-- Hitchhike anywhere.

-- Get caught up in a Presidential scandal.

-- Try to find real fairies in Ireland.

-- Ride an elephant.

-- Start the next Underground Railroad that frees women from oppression.

-- Get deported.

-- Hug every orphaned child.

-- Write the next great American novel.

-- Maybe start to consider the possibility of an exercise routine.

-- Become skilled as a deadly assassin, just not practiced.

-- Find out if penguin meat tastes like chicken.

Deep Dish

There is a direct, positive correlation between the probability that someone is wearing a fanny pack and the likelihood that there is a kazoo in that fanny pack.

I Heart L.A.

I've spent the last six years lamenting many things about Los Angeles. I've longed for some of the comforts of the Mid-West and the South; things such as long-lasting relationships (all varieties) and stability. Well, it turns out that the cure for this is spending 10 days in Small Town, USA. I have never felt that I had a home, in fact, I have romanticized a transient lifestyle. I get irritated when people ask me if I'm going "home" for the holidays. My family is spread out all over and they all have new families with husbands and children and in-laws. I am just a little lost lamb... okay, black sheep, with no base camp. Or so I thought...

Demystification numero uno: One cannot have deep relationships in L.A.
Now, it is true that many people out here have multiple, shallow relationships with people--what I like to call Social Callers. It takes a long time to figure out who your real friends are and to weed out the ones that keep you in their stable in case you can ever do anything for them. But after a week in North Carolina, I realized that people don't really make too many new friends out there. It's all old high school and college buddies. I have the pleasure of meeting new people all the time, and whether they turn out to be life-long relationships or transitional people, I'm having a great time conquering one of my childhood goals: Meeting everyone on the planet. I have an abundance of love in my life and I will never take it for granted again by assigning it a value of less than.

Myth number two: All crackheads are thieves.
Sometimes, for a dollar or two, a crackhead will head your security detail to get you safely to the bus stop. And they will watch your apartment when the door is unlocked to keep all your stuff safe. Shout out to the drugheads out there!

Debunked delusion number three: You can always go back.
There are big-city people and the rest. I love city life and all of its adventures. There is not enough stimulation in a small city to hold the interests of this girl. I immediately lost myself and started sinking into the sadness of a former pain body that I thought had died. What I had identified as stability was really just boredom of routine and a slow death. Everybody's working for the weekend. In my world, every day is Sunday. Maybe I don't have health insurance or a steady gig, but I'm living my joy, and that is infinitely important to me.

To conclude, I will never say "Home is wherever I have a toothbrush" ever again! I felt a peace the first time I came to L.A. and saw the palm trees. I knew, deep down, that I belonged in a place where these trees could thrive. And now I'm sure of it. "Home" means more to me than it ever has. It took some time, but this little woman has finally found a home.

Dumpster Diving

To this day, I don't like drinking out of plastic, and I think it stems from all the "recycling" from my formative years. The whole family would be out at the lake, and even though hundreds of other people had pushed aside or navigated around the various floating objects, my father always fished them out and brought them home--or worse, made me do it. I think all of the cups in the cabinet had once been floating downstream. There was no amount of washing that could ever make me completely at ease with the scary 32 ounce Big Gulp cup with the slightly gnawed rim. I also had to share underwear with my sisters, so I stopped wearing it altogether. But the worst thing was when someone would have lawn furniture in their yard that was just a little too close to the curb. My father would slow the car down and tell us to jump out and grab this chair or that table. I was always scared that the people weren't really getting rid of these perfectly nice items, and that they would stop me with violence once I set foot on their yard. But that never happened. Instead, we collected other people's discarded or unguarded items until the house was brimming with swag. It is amazing what people will throw away, though I am still not completely convinced that the plastic table with the umbrella stand and the matching chairs was being thrown out by that affluent Texas family.

Tricks Are For Kids

Let's face facts, I used to be a bit of a ho. Many girls go through this phase--if they're lucky it's just a phase. The problem with maturing and coming into my own and feeling comfortable in my own skin is that I still live in L.A. The majority of the people here come to be a star, to be worshiped for their physical beauty, and there's no need to bother with emotional exploration or maturity. The boy buffet was beefy and divine when I was sloring it up. But now that I have blossomed into a woman of substance, I am alarmed at the lack of men in this town. It's wonderful, in a sense, to have a place where people can thrive without playing house in the cookie-cutter tradition. On the other hand, my romantic notions starve to death with no men in sight to feed them. Are there any males in Tinsel Town who are done sowing their wild oats and ready to quit turning tricks?

Down in the Dumps

I will never forget the time I went with a girlfriend, Kara, to the beach in North Carolina. It was a long drive with her parents to their trailer on the shore. I was ready to get out of the tight back seat and get into the sunshine. I opened up my door, planted my feet on the gravel and declared "It's great to be able to walk again!" Then I took one step and fell face first into the gravel. It hurt, but the humor trumped the pain. 

Kara and I were immediately bored in typical teenage fashion. She remembered that there was an arcade not too far away where we could find some entertainment, like cute boys. So we started walking. And we kept walking. Another thing young girls without driver's licenses forget is that what takes 2 minutes in a car is probably 2 miles away. I was getting sick from the heat and the direct sun light. I started to feel that unmistakable gurgle in my stomach. I walked along calmly, looking for anyplace I might be able to use the facilities. No port-a-potties, no businesses, no nothing... Just the ocean and cute condos. So I asked my friend if she thought it was much further because there was an emergency on our hands. We stopped to figure out what to do. I knew I wasn't going to make it all the way back to her trailer and the arcade was nowhere in sight. We discussed the ocean, but even though fish do it, I was pretty sure I couldn't just crap all over myself in the Atlantic. But I had to go--HAD to. So I spotted a darling little condo with a clothesline out front. I thought, a sweet, little old lady probably lives here. She'll let me use her bathroom. So, I knocked. A man answered the door, but I had no time to reconsider. I told him I needed to use his bathroom and that my friend would wait outside, that everything was on the up-and-up. He looked suspicious, but opened the door wider. The place was so small that you couldn't help but see the bathroom from the front door. What I also saw was an entire family. An entire family reuniting at the beach; way too many people for this cramped living space. I ducked into the bathroom without looking anyone in the eye. I was already dying of embarrassment before I even got the door locked and my pants down, but there was no turning back now. I heard whispering by the family in the awkward silence. 

They quickly discovered that I wasn't lying about my needs when the flood gates opened and noises poured from me that such a small girl is unlikely to make. I felt that I was in there for an eternity--the pain wouldn't stop and I knew I wasn't done. I wish I had been wise enough to offer the courtesy flush, but instead I violated a tiny, private bathroom with at least 20 stunned people on the other side of a thin door. Then again, they didn't offer me a courtesy radio play or any distracting sound. 

I emerged an eternity later with a meek "Sorry. Thank you.", as I was being ushered out the door as a pest would be shooed. I could feel the eyes burning into me and sensed that I had just ruined something important. Kara and I began walking back to her place without needing to discuss the plan. After a few moments she finally burst out laughing and we laughed the whole way back. I still wonder if this is a story that they tell at their family reunions in North Carolina. Hopefully they are laughing about it by now. I will always be the girl who desecrated their gathering by defecating all over their joy. I learned something that day about not judging a book by its cover. Clotheslines don't always mean what you think...

All About Steve

Sometimes things just strike you, stay with you, penetrate your psyche. Are these things usually Michael Keaton films where he plays an idiotic clone? I doubt it. But in the case of Multiplicity where the man and the clones are all Doug, but the dumb one calls them all Steve, I have been charmed for the last 13 years. That's right, I have been calling everyone Steve for the last 13 years, and even have my sisters, friends and nephews in on the action. In doing so, I am really making fun of myself--I'm the dumb one. It isn't meant for anyone to take offense, I probably know your name. It's just that the name Steve seems like the funniest name in the world to me and I enjoy entertaining myself. It's always a bummer when someone is really named Steve.