I'm still here!

No, I haven't posted much lately. Yes, my partner in crime has been blowing me out of the water with his dedication, talent, and insanity. But I am here. And I'm staying. On this blog and in this country. I will not be relocating to Spain or Canada anytime soon. (Congratulations to their citizens, though). I am an American. For better and for worse. For richer and poorer. In sickness and in health. As long we both shall live.

Truth be told, marriage isn't in my life plan. I will happily live with someone and be theirs forever, if that's what the Fates have in store. (Although, I must confess, I don't share a bed well and I like my own space. A lot.) But walking down the aisle isn't something I've ever felt the need for. I've been to many a beautiful wedding and been moved by the love expressed. My parents have been married almost 35 years. But I don't see it in my future - and that doesn't depress me in the slightest. I guess the idea of living in sin is just more appealing to a heathen like me. But for everyone else who wants deserves to get married, I am in full support. I'll happily stand at that altar as Best Man/Man of Honor/whatever on the day BF finds his man (after he gets that restraining order lifted, of course).

And in way, I am married. I'm married to this country I was born and raised in. A country I love. A country which is deeply flawed. A country I believe can pull itself together. The U.S. is a lot like my parents - I know they mean well, I know they're misguided plenty of the time, but when it's all said and done, I wouldn't trade them for any other set of parents. I am who am because of my parents - for better or for worse. And I am who I am because I'm an American. I take all of this talk about the "sanctity of marriage" to heart. And I'm not getting divorced any time soon.

Unless the next country is totally hot, has a great car, and tons of money. ;)

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Sanctify My Love Committee.

I just returned from a Dodger game - the San Diego Padres trounced us. At least they're fellow Southern Californians. I had my annual Dodger Dog (no wiener jokes, people!), a churro (because I couldn't find on on Cinco De Mayo), and a celebrity sighting (Jason Bateman walked by, totally un-Hollywood. He looked good). Life is good and so is living in L.A.

Currently running through my head as I watch the city lights and stars try and out-twinkle each other:

there's no mercy in a live wire, no rest at all in freedom
of the choices we're given, it's no choice at all
the proof is in the fire, you touch before it moves away
but you must always know how long to stay and when to go
- patty griffin, "let him fly"

Scattered thoughts...

It's funny how the people you see become familiar to you. You may not even know their name but you know their face. I hesitate to call it a "connection" because that would imply some sort of communication, but you have something in common with these folks. They are a part of your life. Take the adorable old couple who walk past me every so often on my way to work for example. We exchange our greetings and my day is a little brighter for it. I miss them when I don't see them. Or the cute trainer at the gym who works on Wednsdays and makes me feel old every time he calls me "Sir." I'll miss Peppermint Patty Wednesdays when they're not around anymore. Piglet & Tigger passed away this weekend, a day apart. Those voices, so familiar to children and former children, play over and over in many of our heads. They will be missed even though most of us never met them.

These folks become part of, to steal a phrase from Aaron Neville and the Cotton industry, the fabric of our lives. They are fixtures, familiar things; sort of like signposts, they let us know where we are in the world. When they're gone, the world changes a little and so do we.

I wonder what would happen if we took just a couple of moments to connect with these folks. Yesterday this kid - he couldn't be more than 19 - helped out some girls who were terrified becuase they were on the wrong bus. He reassured them where it was safe to get off and how to catch a taxi so they would feel safer and get there quicker. Thing is, I'm sure this kid is a hustler. He has the requisite backpack. I overheard him and fellow working boy talking shop once. He once asked me for change and was unfailingly polite and thankful when I gave him a dollar. And here he was - this child who life has obviously kicked around - taking the time to help out someone else. He was so sweet I wanted to hug him. He deserved it. Maybe next time I see him I'll say something about it.

There are people like this in all of our lives. Some of them wear business suits and some of them have lip rings. No matter what package they come in, every one of them has a story and it's always more complex than you'd imagine. Lately if life (and blogging) has taught me anything, it's that. I only hope my story can be as interesting and uplifting to everyone else as theirs are to me.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Oddly Introspective Tuesday Committee.

So I figured...

...what the hell? A picture's worth a thousand words, so I can be forgiven that this is my post for the day. Of the pictures I posed for in MN, this one (taken by none other than The Little Prince) is by far my fave. Lucifer snapped about a billion more, so hopefully we'll be able to scan and share those, too. There's definitely a full photoblog to come later, when I can get these damn images resized. In the meantime, here's a slightly blurred me to tide y'all over!

A Gemini in the Twin Cities

I started this post from a most unlikely spot: an internet access terminal at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. My flight was delayed by 45 minutes, pushing my arrival in L.A. back to Sunday morning as opposed to Saturday evening. My long suffering best friend must suffer once more as picking me up then became an even later task than expected. He is the best, as you all know from his prolific and amazing posting last week - I owe him big time. Much love to all those who offered birthday wishes, especially my amazing little sister, who I am now calling Little Star. I missed this blog, and read it daily while I was gone. I hope my return doesn't disappoint - the bar was set pretty high...

*******

Last week, in my first days as a 28 year old, I made my first ever trek to Minnesota. A friend I call The Little Prince lives in Minneapolis. He's an old college buddy of Lucifer and her husband, Cheesehead and has visited L.A. more times in recent years than Cher did on her Farewell Tour. It was about time I returned the favor. I dubbed him The Little Prince for a few reasons. First, I love the book The Little Prince - I even had a chance to read it while I was visiting. Second, he and The Princess are so much alike it's a little scary. Third, when I'm an idiot he makes me feel like a prince. (Good friends have an amazing way of doing that - BF & The Princess also have this particular talent.) Also, Prince is from Minneapolis, so it works on all sorts of cosmic levels.

The trip itself is too much to detail, so I'll give a Reader's Digest version: I was forced to face up to certain fears and crossed several bridges - literally. I may be able to cross the Bay Bridge next time I go to San Francisco without a panic attack. (It will take sometime before I get used to those treacherous skyways, though. I hear they're a requirement in the winter. We'll work on that.) I helped TLP shop for a beautiful Volvo (more fun than it sounds). I got to see all of the old haunts and places where these people I love first met one another (more moving than I can describe). I played Girl Friday all week and discovered an innate talent for keeping track of someone else's life. (More profound than it sounds.) We sang at the top of our lungs on any and all car rides. We walked around the city and I got a sense of the deep history - both of the city and my friends. I tripped over everything - therefore I was dubbed Princess Haha (Haha = falls). I went to an arboretum and a zoo filled with screaming kids and bewildered, yet fascinated animals. I visited St. Paul and reveled in all of the Peanuts statues. I saw a great drag show and made friends with a sweet girl named Jill who sat next to me. I had my first and last White Castle burger - only two bites, though, thank you very much, Cheesehead. The Little Prince and I quoted The Big Lebowski incessantly thurah-ly. I fell in love with the city and at the same time let go of another set of feelings that I couldn't take back with me to L.A. I never got to that tattoo I wanted to get - it's coming soon, though. I took approximately five-hundred-and-one million, six-hundred-twenty-two-thousand, seven-hundred-thirty-one photos. But my favorite things were the moments you can't take photos of.

Obviously, I had an amazing time. It was the kind of trip you never want to end. My senses opened up and I just felt. I lost count of how many times I said, "How am I supposed to leave all of this?" We stayed in the beautiful city of Duluth on my last night there, where I saw my first Great Lake. I wanted to turn into sea foam and stay forever. A fancy thought that passed quickly, but it sounded good at the time. That night, I stared at the stars and fireflies from a hot tub while doing tequila shots.

When I woke up early Saturday morning, I read The Little Prince, which I'd found the night before in our gracious hosts' beautiful collection of children's books. It was kismet. I realized then and there that I had to leave. I couldn't become sea foam. My home planet needed me. It was with that resolve that "How will I ever leave this?" became "How much fun will it be when I come back?"

I was a raw nerve as I said my good-byes at the airport. When I finally boarded my plane I promptly fell asleep under the moonlight. I woke up about thirty minutes before landing time. The children on board (there were many) were getting restless. I could sympathize. We sat on the tarmac for about 15 minutes, waiting for our gate to be free. An adorable baby boy with French-speaking parents began wailing - tired, hungry, anxious to get off of the plane - I felt the same way. I reflected on what I had left behind, what I had brought back with me, and what I was coming back to. Overwhelmed by beauty and gratitude, tears started streaming down my cheeks. And the baby stopped crying. When I saw him and his parents at the baggage claim he was sucking on a pacifier when his eyes caught mine. He smiled at me and I couldn't help but smile back.

About an hour later, I was greeted by the Best Friend Ever at the Flyaway, I took one look and thought to myself, "How did I ever leave this?" We saw a movie on Sunday (see below) - a rare event as we both can't stand most of what's out there - and got back to our old, mean selves. It is good to be back home.

As for what I left behind? I think Le Petit Prince said it best:

"When you look up at the sky at night, since I'll be living on one of them, since I'll be laughing on one of them, for you, it'll be as if all the stars are laughing. You'll have stars that can laugh! And when you're consoled (everyone is eventually consoled), you'll be glad you've known me. You'll always be my friend. You'll feel like laughing with me. And you'll open your windows sometimes just for the fun of it... And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you're looking up at the sky. Then you'll tell them, 'Yes, it's the stars. They always make me laugh!"*

-J.

This post was sponsored by the All That You Can't Leave Behind Committee.

Dedicated the memory of Jamie, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge while I was in the sky last weekend. The day she showed up on the doorstep and wouldn't leave, the click-clack of her paws on lineoleum, the wag of her tail, and that time she stole my pizza slice will be in my heart forever.

It's coming and I'm in just a wee bit of denial about it...

When the clock strikes midnight in just a couple of hours, I'll be 28. The rituals have already begun. Today at work, I brought in a cake, there were balloons and general well-wishes. I've no doubt that tomorrow my mother will call and begin the conversation by describing what her day was like on that fateful June 10 of 1977. I'm sure I'll spin something by Judy Garland - it's her birthday, too, after all. A dinner and some fun with alcohol and a few of my local friends are planned for tomorrow night. A week-long visit to a non-local friend begins Saturday afternoon. The age I am swiftly approaching doesn't scare me one bit. I am reasonably sure this birthday will rock.

So what's the problem, you ask? Well...there is no problem - and I'm kind of at a loss.

You see, I was once prone to throwing elaborate parties, complete with streamers and themes and occasionally costume requirements. My last few birthdays have been ignored for all sorts of reasons. Not much celebrating was to be had. This year I will be surrounded only by people I love and who love me back - folks who have my best interests at heart and for whom I feel the same. I am more stable in almost every way - finances, emotions, housing - than I have ever been. I finally like the way I look in clothes and in pictures again. My love of the written word and spilled onto the internet in the form of this tiny little blog you are reading right now. I can't complain about anything at this moment of my time on Earth.

What a hell of a birthday gift. Thanks for sharing in it with me. Here's hoping everyone's can be this good at least once.

This post was sponsored by the Blow Out the Candles Committee.

Now Playing...

I feel like I haven't posted in ages. With my birthday coming up and some much need vacation on the horizon for next week, I feel like I really need to lay claim or BF might just take over and lock me out while I'm gone...

I love shopping for old records. Digging through the 99 cent bin of a thrift store is a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, if you ask me. It is always funny to see the same records pop up no matter where you are - a lot of old Barbra Streisand (is it me or did she include her name in every album title?!?!) assorted 70s easy listening. There must have been one collective moment where people had a realization about those Helen Reddy albums that seemed like such a good idea at the time. Hear me roar, indeed.

On my most recent excursion, there were a lot of great finds. BF happened upon the best find in recent memory - The Art of Maria Callas. It looked like it had never been played. So-called "sophisticated" music (i.e. classical, jazz, opera) just sounds better on vinyl. Something comes across that doesn't translate into a digital age. I go pretty lo-fi, too: my weapon of choice is a little Fisher Price monaural player that I got at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. That recording of Claire de lune I found this weekend is sooo beautiful coming out of that tiny little speaker.

I often wonder where these records have been and who loved them. That flawless Callas record might have belonged to someone who didn't appreciate the record at all. Or it might have belonged to an enthusiast who knew just how to preserve the record - playing only from beginning to end, never dropping the needle in the middle of a groove, and always making sure dust and other particles had been cleared before playing. Did the voice soar through their living room during big, family dinners or did they listen alone, on headphones while doing the New York Times crossword puzzle?

And if my collection were to end up in a thrift store bin, what will people think? Would be Joni Mitchell collection be the first to go? Would people snicker at those Roxette CDs I've never been able to part with, even though I don't listen to them anymore? (They also seemed like a good idea at the time.) Would they scratch them, would they break them, would they cry when the hammers hit the strings and the opening bars of Coldplay's "The Scientist" begin? And who keeps all of the really great, classic rock and roll records. I've never seen The White Album in the stacks (although I did find Sinatra's Come Fly With Me in the dollar bin at Amoeba).

What can I say? Beautiful music makes me ponder these things. Talk later - some classic Aretha beckons.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Wax In My Ears Committee.

Hey! Have you seen my heart? Pt. 1

Happy June, everyone!

We're back from SF, with pics (see yesterday's post) of the city! Yes, we will get around to posting pictures of us, but we have to find some we like. Oh, the places we've been. Where to begin?

Going into tag team blog.........now. WONDER TWIN POWERS - ACTIVATE! (FYI, J. is in blue, BF's in red).

Waking up at 4:30am is never on my(our) agenda. So at 5:00am, I finally heeded my alarm and began my shower. By 5:45a we were out the door and playing Pumpkin Coach to fetch The Princess. She was ready and we were off. (Which was a small miracle. That girl takes forever to get ready!!) Cue driving through the agriculture lands of Cal-ee-forn-ee-yah with almost no interruptions, save one rest stop where we saw a guy, rainbow sticker on his truck making an obvious bid to cruise - at about 10am. He was so Gross!! Dolphin shorts, greasy pulled back hair, he walked around real funny like something got caught up in his... nevermind. We had to stop at the rest stop because our friend had to pee every ten minutes!!! It later bacame a running gag all weekend for us.
We did make another stop though. I was almost out of gas and was sad I wasn't going to get to stop at my favorite rest spot Santa Nella. That's where Pea Soup Andersen's lives. But we made it and we pigged out on free bread and cheese spread. Princess had never been there before so it was a great treat for us all. She also had to pee again so it was good we stopped. The only weird thing was they had a singing deer in the gift shop. It's like a huge deer version of the Billy the Singing Bass wall mounted annoying plaque. It sang Proud Mary. Annoying. Anyhoo, we gassed up and headed out.

Around the crack of noon, we started passing through Oakland. We then began the obligatory Oakland jokes.(For those of you not familiar, it's a lot like the East Coast's cracks about New Jersey.) We had to pass through those stupid Windmills(see photo below). I hate those damn things. They spin so fast and are so close to the freeway. Yuck. But they are good for the enviroment and from afar are pretty. Then we hit traffic near SF. Tradition to hit a parking lot before being let in to the kingdom. Our friend had to pee again so this mexican stand off between her bladder and my car seat was intense. I was praying she'd make it. So finally, we paid our toll and began crossing the Bay Bridge. Which sucked for me, cause I hate heights and long, high bridges freak me out. All my phobic mind could think of was, "We paid for this?!" He really freaked. It was funny. But not as funny as this one time at California Adventure.... (I thought we agreed never to speak of that).

We crossed the bridge and our lil' Princess couldn't hold her pee any longer. So I pushed her ass out the door at Pier 1 on the Embarcodero. I was yet again stuck in traffic and nowhere near Fishermans Warf where we had planned to stop. So I said I'd park the car and J and P could jump out the car and find a restroom and we'd meet in the middle and walk to the Warf. Well even with cell phones on hand we totally missed each other and I basically walked a mile from Pier 39 to Pier 15 or something. So I walked back and found J and P. So that was how we stepped foot into SF.

Favorite moments:

That short, solo* taxi ride back from Martuni's, with Bob Dylan (he's everywhere I go lately!) singing "Million Dollar Bash," appropriately enough, as I arrived back to the motel. It took me back to that moment in SF almost ten years ago when I first really heard "Like A Rolling Stone" - it was then that I finally got past the voice and bought Greatest Hits at the next record store I could drag my parents into.
**I was solo because BF & The Princess fell asleep way too early, forcing me to venture out into the night like Batman (no joke - I was in all black) and drink by myself. They have an open mike with a live piano player. A really cute little fella did a couple of Brazilian inspired numbers in Portuguese, including a bilingual take on "What A Diff'rence A Day Makes." One girl went up and did an operatic rendition of "Someone To Watch Over Me" that nearly made me weep. Then her friend, a more mature woman, did "Summertime" justice the way only a truly seasoned soprano can. Somewhere George Gershwin was smiling. *J woke me up after coming in from the club and told me he'd been out. I didn't believe him. I was so out of it I didn't even notice he was all dressed up. I don't think I even looked at him. I just wanted to take my contacts out. Everything else wasn't important at that moment. It was his fault. He so didn't try hard enough to wake me up. I wanted to go but we walked like ten miles that day. I was pooped.

My favorite taxi ride was on on way to Castro. We lucked out and got an Irish cabby. How fun. His accent was great. He'd been here ten years and he was so cool. He shared stories and advice on the city. We asked him what was better at night, Castro or North Beach. He said, "You know Castro's gay, right?". I thought that was cute. I love talking to people who have such an interesting life. It's so nice to have these exchanges with strangers.

Is it just me or is shopping better when you're on vacation? Cause I hate to shop for clothes and yet I spent waaay to much at Old Navy and other assorted stores this weekend.

to be continued...