There’s No Place Like Home

Good morning. Be advised: I’ve had coffee. You can approach.

As recorded in this un-posted post, I found Wednesday a little challenging:

Oh my gods. Do you ever just have those days where everything you do turns into a giant poo ball? WELCOME TO MY TUESDAY!

But really. It’s 11:30 and this is all I’ve accomplished:

(1) Sent a query.

(2) Wrestled sidewalk meat away from Toby.

(3) Sent the WRONG FUCKING cover letter for a particularly interesting job.

(4) Gone Devil Wears Prada on the asshat moving company that still owes us for fucking up some of our furniture.

(5) Deleted yesterday’s three job rejections, including the one for this job.

(6) Repeatedly screamed “FUCK the FUCKING FUCK!”

(7) Guzzled a pitcher of iced coffee.

(8) Realized that some people’s dogs on Instagram/Twitter/Facebook have more likes/followers than my blog.

(9) Read about a stay-at-home gay dad turned writer, checked out his Instagram feed, and was bombarded by shirtless photos that made me want to EAT A CAKE AND THROW IT UP JUST SO I COULD EAT IT AGAIN.

(10) TYPED EVERYTHING IN ALL CAPS.

I’m in such a foul mood. And the most annoying thing about it is that it’s one of those that I know I can snap myself out of, but I sort of don’t want to at the moment. I JUST WANT TO GIVE EVERYONE MY RESTING BITCH FACE AND END IT WITH AN ALL INCLUSIVE MIC DROP.

Not only did everything in the world rub me the wrong way, but I’d completely misplaced Wednesday.

forgifs.com

source

I haven’t hidden the fact that moving to Seattle has been harder than I initially thought it’d be. I figured we’d land on our feet like we always have, and I’d snag one of the bazillion nonprofit development jobs floating around, and we’d live contentedly happy lives smack in the middle of Capitol Hill and marvel at the amazingness of life.

That’s just not how it’s panned out.

Granted, we like where we live and we’re constantly marveling at the amazingness of life, but we’re also aware that this move has drained us a bit. What’s more, it’s reminded us of what we’ve been missing, and what we want.

Last weekend we ventured out to immerse ourselves in Seattle’s LGBT community (after all, one of our goals before moving out here was to get more involved), and we figured we’d do that by going to visit the location of one particular organization that seemed to be a crazy-awesome hub for LGBT activism. So, fortified with coffee, we set out with equal parts exhilaration and anxiety – because starting over in a new place is always difficult, as is meeting new people.

We walked up, got excited by the fluorescent sign, swung open the door, and walked into a tiny room stacked with books – whose keeper was completely passed out at his desk. After tiptoeing around a bit, stoking the now smoldering embers of our excitement with the slightest fuel – LOOK, THEY HAVE AN OLD, YELLOWED COPY OF SUCH AND SUCH – we started heading for the door, at which time the attendant awoke. I asked him where the “larger center with which this place is affiliated” was located, and just got a blank stare in response. This was it. Thoroughly dismayed, we donated the few bucks we had in our wallets, thanked him, and left.

To the organization’s credit, it was there – present for the community as a resource and support; that’s incredibly important and I don’t mean to minimize it.

But the fact of the matter is, over the past few years, we’ve craved community on this coast and haven’t really found it. We’ve been fortunate enough to meet wonderful people and make a few friends. Still, even in the liberal enclaves, we’ve yet to encounter anything remotely as accessible, opening, and welcoming as the community-centric LGBT Center of Raleigh – where we met, and a place we love.

LA seemed more about appearance and income brackets than community.

Seattle seems more about fragmented, insulated social bubbles into which it’s nearly impossible to break.

Naively, we were expecting that same sense of community from our Raleigh days to be amplified in these larger, more liberal cities. Instead, it’s been the exact opposite. And the very particular sense of loneliness that’s resulted has been what’s been pushing us to move around, to find a fitting answer – even when the most logical solution has been staring us in the face.

Wednesday night, after Andy surprised me with tulips and a sweet card even though I was being a monstrous beast, we chatted over pizza and peach pie. And then watched Revolutionary Road. Whenever we’re thinking intensively about the future, and any big changes ahead, we always watch it.

We watched it when we decided to venture out to this coast.

So we watched it again when we decided to move back.

Wednesday was a big day.

***

So, we’re giving ourselves a year or so before we head back – after all, we just got to Seattle and there’s a lot of interesting stuff here to explore, and things to learn.

But there’s a certain sense of relief knowing that we’ll be returning to a place that’s felt more like home than anywhere we’ve lived – a place where we can make a difference, contribute to the community, and feel a sense of belonging that’s been so lacking out here. Plus, whenever we decide to become parents, we don’t want to raise our kid in a liberal bubble, but we also have to be somewhere where we, too, feel supported and at peace.

Until then, though, we’ll keep our heads up and enjoy our time out here – with our Raleigh goal always in sight. And while our journey on this coast may end, we’ll still learn plenty of lessons while we’re out here.

And gladly take them back home.

Succulent This!

What a witty title. It’s like I’m channeling my inner hormone-raging teen who doesn’t know the first thing about sexy time.

Anyway. GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER AND INTO THE DIRT.

Since Andy has been traveling like crazy, I figured a great way to relax him would be to make him help me bring my crackpot idea of an indoor succulent garden to fruition. Especially since all the herbs I planted died in the past few weeks’ heat wave – except the mint, praise be (because if that goes, we’re doomed).

See, both of us appreciate the calming effects of indoor greenery – especially since we haven’t had anything approximating an outdoor space since Raleigh. And even that was pretty hazardous. BUT NOW, we have a teeny succulent garden in an antique dough bowl. Because we’re raging gays who love to incorporate antiques into anything we can.

How do you construct this wonderful, life-changing succulent garden, dearest Green Guru? you’re asking your computer screens.

WELL, let me show you.

Step 1: Get Yo Antiquin’ Pants On!

If you don’t have superfluous antique dough bowls laying around, you’re a loser and you should hate yourself. Just kidding! You should pride yourself on not being crazy hoarders like us. But if you love American Primitive goodies, or want a unique planter, waddle to your nearest antique store and poke around their outdoor stuff, or look for an old utilitarian box like this one that we just sold.

Get an old box or something

So, like I was saying, find this amazing thing and hold it up so that your photographer can take a cheesy, not-at-all-staged photo.

Completely natural photos are the best, aren't they?

(Also, be sure to wear a shirt with a socially conscious message so that Dan Savage will see your blog post and exclaim to his lovely family that they should go out and do this project IMMEDIATELY and then invite us over to ogle it and laugh at the world in all its weirdness.)

Step 2: The Secret Ingredient!

Add obese Chihuahua.

Toby is the secret ingredient

Kidding!

Step 3a: Walk the Line[r]

Since I didn’t want to damage the actual dough bowl, I made makeshift “liners” out of two large compostable bags (got them at Target). And then I nested a small plastic water catcher in the bottom center, on top of the bottom liner. This way, any water that percolates down should get caught in this reservoir.

Dough bowl lined

Step 3b: Start Layering!

I layered a bit of Cactus Mix (small bag) atop the bottom liner and in the reservoir – just to help absorb any percolating water.

Start layering!

Step 3c: Layer 2 (Take Some Scissors to That Old Bag)

Unlike the bottom liner, I perforated the top liner so that most of the holes were over the plastic reservoir in the second liner layer – so that any percolating water would most likely funnel into it.

Planting with scissors!

Step 4: More soil!

Add soil little by little, spreading it out to leave about an inch of the exposed bag layer around the bowl’s circumference.

Soil, soil, soil

Again, I didn’t want the soil directly touching the wood, so the exposed bag around the edges is for buffering purposes. (Plus, whenever I need to refresh the soil, I can dust off the edges and pull up on these bags – bringing each layer out in one large section.)

Spread it out!

Make sure your hair is perfect

(Also, make sure your hair looks decent.)

Step 5: Succulent Staging!

Unpot, arrange, and plant your succulents as you’d like.

Succulent staging

(Double chin optional.)

Plant'em!

Step 6: Roll the Bowl!

To triply protect the integrity of the wooden bowl, we cut a paper towel roll into strips (length-wise), and then cut those in half. We bent each along the middle and arranged them around the circumference, to (again) direct water to the center and down to the reservoir. (This was totally not part of the original plan, but makes the next step so much easier.)

Paper towel roll border!

Ring around the dough bowl

Step 7: Sprinkle in the Sparklies

Use decorative stone fill (or marbles, or googly eyes) and in-fill the space behind the cardboard pieces, and then cover them – working your way to the middle. We completely filled the outside areas and over the tops of the bags and cardboard first, and then moved inward. We didn’t cover the soil completely around the succulents, just so water could get to the roots a bit more easily.

Step 8: REVEL IN YOUR GREAT CREATION

You’re done! You’ve re-purposed a beloved antique and given it a new life.

It's finished!

And now, our apartment is full of beautiful green things!

More green!

Some of which look like marijuana plants, but they’re totally not. For a second opinion of the marijuananess of our plants, we called Amy Adams, but she was too concerned about her lunatic husband in Big Eyes to be of any help.

Big eyes and eye-popping orange planter

(And pay no attention to that hideous, but necessary fan.)

Now, gaze again upon the beauty and wonder of your creation from another angle. And remember that you did this together. Or solo. Whatever. I don’t judge. You made something cool, and that’s a fun accomplishment.

One last shot

Hopefully I won’t have to write a follow up post explaining that the liners failed and the dough bowl rotted out and all the succulents died.

Until then, we’ll be here in our city garden full of tropical, invasive species that’ll never see the outside world.

Yay, environment! Now, go make something cool – and have fun doing it.

Under the Seattle Sun

Some wise traveler once said, “The more you move, the less difficult unpacking all of your shit becomes.” I’m paraphrasing. Or I may have made it up.

Much like our man-infested destiny out to the Left Coast, we expected a certain catharsis associated with our move from West Hollywood to Seattle. Mostly because we’d been all stressed out in LA, what with the traffic, and the traffic…and the traffic. And plenty of other things.

We were ready for a change, and we got it.

Sure, we went from living in the heart of Boystown to the heart of Capitol Hill, which is sort of the same thing. But at least here we’re not constantly bombarded with Ken dolls coiffing and puttering around in the middle of the day. Or jogging with their shirts off, making the rest of humanity feel like they’re at least 80 and pale and unkempt. Not that I’m projecting.

On the upside, being pale and frequently unkempt and less involved about how you look are three attributes that describe the average Seattlite. We win!

But seriously, we moved here for a change, and we’re enjoying all that comes with adjusting to our new home. And one of the first things we had to do was something we thought we already did: cull.

Our new-old place is great. But it’s a wee bit smaller than our WeHo place, which is saying something. And we have one closet. One. Uno. Which is why our apartment looked like the set of Grey Gardens 2: The Gays Next Door.

At least there's a path...

Big, open spaces. Big, open spaces. And breathe.

So we resolved to do the hard cull. The one you really don’t want to do. But we did.

Out went ALL THE THINGS that we liked but didn’t love, that were cute but served little to no purpose. Anything that wasn’t displayed in WeHo was immediately tossed/shoved into the Donate or Sell pile. We gutted our wardrobes and pared down our furniture. We went through every damn thing, even those fun financial accordion files we all have.

*Shudders*

And after multiple trips to the thrift store, and plenty of rearranging, we reclaimed our space.

A proper, less hoarder-like living room

Our pared down library

Full of DVDs and dishes...

Much more practical pieces...

And now, we can refocus on the goals we set for ourselves when we made the decision to move.

***

Last night, whilst Facebook arguing with idiots about the Charleston hate crime and the Confederate flag, I was listening to Under the Tuscan Sun, specifically Sandra Oh’s come-to-Jesus dinner with Diane Lane.

S.O.: “You know when you come across one of those empty shell people, and you think ‘What the hell happened to you?’ There came a time in each one of those lives when they were standing at a crossroads…”

And Diane interrupts and is like, “Crossroads, PAH!” And Sandra and I are like, “SHUT THE HELL UP, DIANE! GAH.”

S.O.: “…someplace where they had to decide to turn left or right. This is no time to be a chickenshit, Francis!”

Which is why Sandra Oh is my best friend forever.

Every single time I watch that scene, I smile. Because Andy and I have made concerted attempts to not become those people, and our efforts have paid off. It still takes work, just as anything does, but we’re starkly different people than the angry, exhausted shells we were in North Carolina (re: horrible jobs, that glitter incident), and were becoming in LA.

Later on, after listening to her BFF, Diane is Gaying-and-Awaying through Tuscany and is daydreaming about Bramasole, the Italian villa advertised in the real estate office window. And then the fabulous Lindsay Duncan walks up and counters Diane’s woe-is-me self.

D.L.: “I mean, who wouldn’t want to buy a villa in Tuscany. But the way my life is going, it’d probably be a terrible idea.”

L.D.: “Mmhmm. Terrible idea. Don’t you just love those?”

Which is why Lindsay Duncan is my best friend forever. And Diane Lane just decides to buy an Italian villa. (Sidenote: one of my life goals is to be a famous enough writer that I can just buy an Italian villa should Lindsay Duncan sidle up beside me with delicious gelato and say, “Gurl, just buy it!”)

We always think that doing the comfortable thing is the best – that it’s less stressful, more expected. That going against the grain, or venturing outside your comfort zone, is more trouble than it’s worth. But sometimes you just have to look past the terrible what-ifs of any endeavor or dream, and just go with it.

And when you go with it, you should – again, per the advice of our BFF, Lindsay – “Never lose your childish enthusiasm, and things will come your way” and “You have to live spherically, in many directions at once.”

Hell, when Diane finally listens to Lindsay and is all, “WHO NEEDS MARCELLO?” and gives in, she suddenly cooks five course meals for lunch and feigns disinterest when the cute Polish hottie is like, “Here, let me feed you poached pears.” And we’re all like, “JUST EAT THE GODDAMNED PEARS, DIANE! GAH.”

The gist of it all is simple: give in, stop trying, and embrace what comes. Because, as Sandra says later, “Life is strange.”

So while we’re here in Seattle, we’re going to keep working on ourselves – enriching our minds, and following our passions. And enjoying the twists and turns along the way that Diane remembers at the very end, when she’s written another book and is glitzing it up with her new beau and all her fashionable friends in her villa:

“Any arbitrary turn along the way, and I would be elsewhere, I would be different.”

I’ve already got some herbs growing (my green thumb goal for Seattle), the house is in order, and my mind is tuned back to writing – and, you know, looking for a job.

So, here we go again – another turn, another adventure.

Under the Seattle sun...the view from my s-i-l's apt!

Begin Again

Like most folks on Moving Eve, we sleep a combined total of two hours before agreeing to capitalize on our insomnia. It’s sometime around 1:30, and we’re throwing the last remnants of domestic detritus into our over-packed SUV. Toby prances around anxiously, and we load him into his blanket-plumped crate while we wrestle our behemoth 1980’s mattress and box spring to the curb.

Andy loads up Toby while I make a final sweep through the apartment, turning lights on and off one last time and flushing the toilet for safe measure, before pulling the door closed and listening to the last echo of our WeHo existence reverberate on the other side. I lock the deadbolt, and gather and fold the dog hair-caked welcome mat into the brimming garbage bag.

Minutes later, we’re winding up through Laurel Canyon toward the 101 – onward to Seattle.

***

Our cliff-side perch affords a scenic view up the rocky coast to Big Sur. Gravel dust blows from the occasional passing car and rustles the leaves of our broken bamboo plant – nestled in a hoarder-esque pile of luggage on the narrow shoulder.

Lefty loosey. Righty tighty. Right? Right.

Roadside ass-istance

I twirl the jack and ask Andy how everything looks.

“Alright, I guess. I just don’t want the car to plummet off the edge.”

“You and me both.”

We repurpose one of our massive potted succulents as a wheel wedge, along with a large chunk of petrified wood Andy’s toted around since childhood.

“HEY! Don’t put this under the tire, it’ll break.”

I roll my eyes as he shifts it out from under the tire, and rearranges Toby, whose fat rolls drip over Andy’s forearm like jewelry.

Sliding the donut on and tightening the lug nuts feels oddly rewarding, and I cross my fingers and toes that the whole thing doesn’t pop off and fly into the road, sending the car and most of our prized Fiesta finds into the crashing waves below. A cool breeze whips the three of us in the face, and clouds clutter the sky.

“It looks a lot like New England around here,” Andy muses, eyeing the sky and redirecting his gaze to the donut.

It’s the kind of weather that makes you envision Angela Lansbury rounding a mountainous bend on her bike, pedaling her way into a murder mystery. The gravel crunches under the thin rubber as I lower the jack, and we reload everything, casting aside the latest handful of destroyed plant stalks and fronds.

Before we know it, we’re back on track, glancing out at the water-enveloped boulders offshore – the former monoliths now resembling crumbled cookie bits. We putter through wind-eroded canyons and up mist-shrouded mountains as the line of cars behind us quietly grows. By the time we get to Big Sur, we’re praying to the gods of cell phone reception for a few bars so that we can slot ourselves into an appointment at a nearby auto maintenance shop.

We slow down when we see a gas station sign peeking above dense foliage, and pull into the service station – only to be told snippily by the hippie station attendant that there’s no maintenance shop close by. Judging by the crowd waiting in line at the small “Naturey Center” kiosk for homemade granola and hemp dream catchers, I surmise such requests are tantamount to kicking a puppy while eating a medium-rare hamburger and throwing the wrapper on the ground.

A half an hour later, we’re navigating through a maze of auto body shops and pull into the one whose manager has assured us that they have “exactly one tire” that’ll fit our car. After unloading the trunks’ contents yet again, Andy and I stand awkwardly while passing Toby back and forth. A few passersby eye us suspiciously, and then review our pile of possessions. I wait for them to haggle for the broken aloe plant, or the dollar store broom that always seems to make it through every move. But they just walk on. I try not to take it personally, and wonder aloud why it’s taking over an hour to change a tire.

“Hell, my incompetent self changed the flat in forty-five minutes,” I huff.

“Yep. Their service is for shit. Nice bathrooms, though.”

Toby grunts and struggles to get down, so Andy takes him on a short walk to the most well lit areas of the parking lot. I stare into the garage as a technician lowers our car from the lift, and pulls it around front.

And we roll along.

***

Our hotel for the evening has recently undergone a renovation to make its standard interior appear chic. And nothing says “chic” more than a Jacuzzi next to the bed. I motion to the yellowed bath mat suctioned to the bottom.

Ooooh, classy. Let’s make some memories.” *Wink*

Just to put in his two cents, Toby lifts his leg on the bedskirt. Andy opts for a shower, and I devour our random assortment of Whole Foods impulse purchases – spicy sushi roll, veggie lasagna, and mac n’ cheese.

Early the next morning, I crouch in the hotel parking lot and collect dented canned goods and cracked bottles of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide – the enclosing bag for which ruptured, spilling everything into a messy pool behind the car. As Andy returns the room key, I sandwich everything together with two soaked paper bags, and cram it into a garbage can.

***

While crossing the Sacramento River, an errant, spring-loaded curl flops behind my glasses and I tuck it back into the tightened welter atop my head. Drought-drained lakes and rivers pockmark the browned landscape, and hot air balloons drift up into the sky like forgotten fair prizes.

En route to Oregon, we listen to Sue Grafton’s “K is for Killing” and take in the local scenery. A semi trailer sits in a bed of overgrown weeds just inside a pasture fence, with faded lettering beneath crucified hands reading “His blood, your sins.” But the crimson droplets’ paint has flecked off, giving the appearance not of blood, but confetti.

We take some time in Portland to peruse antique stores, and snag a piece of Fiesta – all the while having Toby tucked in a tiny shopping cart. Then we pull into a service station to top off.

Conditioned by LA’s typically unpleasant gas station excursions, I expect to be accosted for money and check my wallet to see if I have any singles. A man with a 76 shirt approaches the car, and I plan to deploy my auto response.

“I don’t ha…”

“Ready to fill up?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, I can do it. But thanks.”

“Well, this is Oregon. I do it.”

Flustered, I stare blankly at Andy, who suddenly remembers that it’s against the law in Oregon to pump your own gas.

“Ah, right. Uh, then regular. Please.”

I feel rightly disappointed in myself for assuming the worst, and whisper conspiratorially to Andy.

“Do I tip him?”

“Of course not. It’s his job.”

The attendant re-tightens the gas cap and waves us on.

***

Seattle’s green hills are welcomed changes to LA’s browned, scorched earth – and the distant Mt. Rainier seems out of place and alien-like. Winding through Capitol Hill’s relatively uncongested streets, we ease up to our building, write the requisite checks, and get our new keys.

We dance around our new place, despite realizing that it’s a tad bit smaller than we’d remembered. But we’re too tired to care, as is Toby.

Hours later, we literally get a crash course in Seattle living by the driver of a Chevy Lumina, who doesn’t see us yielding to the highway traffic. With only minor scratches to the underside of the bumper, we endeavor on, order our mattress, and sleep fitfully on the hard floor – tossing and turning while Toby dozes contentedly in his plush bed.

Once our mattress is delivered the next morning, we traipse about and try to source most of our needed items from local stores – turning the usually annoying process of getting basic move-in essentials into a reasonably interesting game. Here and there we collect what we need, all the while wondering where in the hell our furniture is and how long it’ll take to get up here.

We get back and I futz around the building, trying my hardest to figure out what’s recyclable, compostable, and trashable – in that order. Three individually marked bags later, I feel like I’m becoming a local – especially when I smack cups and napkins out of Andy’s hands and into the correct containers.

***

Sun fills the apartment, and we sit in the empty living room, listening to the sidewalk conversations drifting up through our open windows.

A new start

We’re at the starting line of a new day.

And we’re just waiting for the bang – so we can take off and begin again.