2015 – Page 3 – Yellow Brick Missives

June 16, 2015

Saying I’m Not Allowed to Call My Dog Whatever I Want is an Insult to Pet Owners Everywhere

Last night whilst scrolling through Facebook, I happened upon this lovely POPSUGAR article, whose author spent one too many paragraphs shaming pet owners – giving them a gut check for daring to think that they have the right to call their beloved fur…four-legged creature-animal-adoptee a “baby.”

I. KNOW. Stop the presses. This is some serious stuff. Call Anderson Cooper.

Just for kicks, here’re a few things about it that make me want to shake my favorite toy until the stuffing comes out:

(1) There is no “local ASPCA” – every SPCA is an independent nonprofit; there is no parent or umbrella organization. (And no, the ASPCA doesn’t practice “trickle-down” donation-granting – the money you donate to them stays right in New York; it does nothing for animals in your area.)

(2) If, as the author alludes, the process of adopting a dog is as simple as saying “that one,” I’m guessing her road to parenthood was also rather impromptu – with a Pinot preamble, perhaps? Reputable animal welfare organizations usually have robust, somewhat involved adoption processes to ensure that the animal is placed appropriately – so that the fit is right for everyone involved. (Obviously, city shelters are overburdened and might not be quite as hands-on, but they’re still much more involved than a point-and-adopt strategy.)

(3) While I’ll never know the pain and discomfort of childbirth – or carrying a child – the author opted for it, so I’d really love it if she’d drop the look-at-me-look-at-me crap. Congratulations, you’re fortunate enough to be able to spread your legs, do YourTango, and nine months later, voila! Baby time. You wanted it; you got it – so drop the mother martyrdom bit. I fully support anyone who wants to be a parent – but I think it’s absurd to consider everything else, every other form of “child”-rearing, to be inept or unequal. If a relationship is meaningful for someone, it’s meaningful. Period.

(4) And yes, you can leave your dog, cat, or parrot with friends, family, or loved ones. Or at daycare. Come to think of it, as a kid, I recall spending most of my summers with my grandparents. And at this thing called – gasp – public school during the day! (*Cue Psycho music*)

(5) Relegating pets to a lower rung than kids is perfectly normal. Sure, if a firefighter has to choose between Sally and Sugar Bear, Sally will probably get priority – as she should. (Unless the firefighter has a furry kiddo and read this article; then Sally better learn how to aim for the trees.) But here’s the problem with the tone of the author’s message – she’s acting as if pets are here as placeholders, that they’re not enough. Not everyone wants kids. Some people can’t have them, or can’t afford the long, circuitous adoption process. And many capable adults have, for years, been prohibited from becoming parents by outlandish, outdated laws.

(6) As a former animal welfare professional, I can say with absolute certainty that my coworkers and friends worked tirelessly with the animals in our shelters. From intake to adoption, they were there every step of the way. They were there when the dog formerly used as bait was rescued, her legs allowed to heal; the cat thrown from a window had her bones reset; the dog left to starve was nourished and reborn; the puppy locked in a trunk was freed and given a new chance. And as we heard their stories and watched their progress, many of us came to consider them “our kids.” Step by step, day by day, they grew and changed and became a new being with the staff’s help, and the help of donors – and went on to lead lives with loving pet parents. So when the author simply glosses over the time and effort shelter staff put into re-raising each animal – before they’re even able to be on the receiving end of a “that one” comment – it’s a slap in the face to those whose professions are geared toward helping our furry brethren.

For instance, one such Chihuahua, my “little girl,” helped countless kids learn empathy and compassion during her nearly year-long stay at the pet adoption center. And when she passed away, my husband and I mourned her as our little girl – not our dog.

Now, I know I just came across as equally as patronizing as the author. But, quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of these holier-than-thou authors castigating everyone who can’t relate to the trials and tribulations of parenthood. All because we didn’t choose that path, or aren’t able to roll around in the sack and make a little bundle of joy. (See, I did make it germane to my discussion! The author’s parental mind reading powers were right!) One day, my husband and I will probably be those annoying parents – but I hope I maintain a bit of perspective while my kiddo is upchucking on my sweater, and her/his furry sibling is weaving around underfoot.

The fact of the matter is pets aren’t children. Children aren’t pets. Sane people know this. If, like the author, I wanted a little being that peed in the toilet, or someone to lisp “I wuv you,” I’d travel back in time and visit myself in third grade speech therapy class after a massive tumbler of Kool-Aid rather than adopt a pet. But you know what I want right now?

An obese, furry blob who wiggles and flashes a toothless grin when he sees his other daddy coming home from work; a stinky furblob under the covers on a Saturday morning; a little man who we call our Baby Boy.

At the end of the day, who cares what I call my little boy-dog? As long as they’re cared for, loved, and tended to, who’s to say your biped trumps my quadruped?

Bottom line: If your purpose as a parent is challenged by what I call my dog, you’ve got bigger problems.

June 2, 2015

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.

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.

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.

June 1, 2015June 1, 2015

Call’em Out. The Haters, I Mean.

Y’all. I think it goes without saying that we’re all thrilled for Caitlyn Jenner. And by “we” I mean my friends and family and everyone in my life who matters.

The haters, however, can suck it.

It never takes long for willfully ignorant trash to voice their opinions, concerns, and general lack of social awareness and tout it all as sound, reasonable feedback. Alright, I’ll go ahead and admit it: I let Facebook fools get to me. There you have it. I’m one of the ones who bites when people say dumb shit, and I let my blood boil at their insidiously inflammatory commentary after the fact.

But you know what? I never regret biting. And you know why? Because those idiots need to hear an opposing view. They’re the kind of people who take silence to be passive affirmation – they’re of the ilk to think everyone’s on their side. When, in fact, most of us are laughing at their ignorance, or being the bigger person and letting it roll off us – using it as an example of “not stooping to their level.”

Well, it’s hard for me to let some things go. Especially when I know first-hand the social isolation, fear, anger, and debilitating sadness that can rack a person who’s questioning their identity. And I can only imagine that such feelings are multiplied exponentially for trans individuals, especially youth.

As I’ve said before, the “T” of LGBTQIA often gets lost in the shuffle – trans lives are so often talked about relative to the periphery, rather than in relation to the whole. But I hope that with more education, as more prominent figureheads (like Laverne Cox and Caitlyn) and local leaders speak up and legislation is passed, that being and identifying as trans will no longer have the added social stigma within and outside the LGBTQIA community.

I hope that people will think before they say completely debased, idiotic things that they think are funny or witty or cute, and really register what those callous remarks translate to, and how much damage they can do. It’s no wonder that so many kids are committing suicide – no matter how closely knit their supportive web, it only takes one horrific, monstrous comment to undo so much. Especially when one’s internal dialogue is already so exhaustively ongoing, stress-inducing, and debilitating.

When I was in high school, identifying as gay – much less trans – wasn’t an option. Liking art, or being overly involved in drama, or just being quiet and reserved had a way of casting you in a less than acceptable light. Anything outside the mainstream was never talked about, and if it was, only in hushed tones. There was only one kid in my grade who came out, and his senior year was made a living hell for it. He was even on the front page of the local newspaper.

Years ago, I reached out to him and told him how much his bravery meant to me – and that I was sorry for not being myself back then. By the time I reached out to him, I’d already put myself through my own trials and tribulations, had already pulled myself back from the suicidal brink, and vowed never to let myself sink back into that darkness. So when I see or read or hear people gleefully, playfully pushing anyone around or making intensely insensitive remarks – even virtually, even about celebrities who will always be in a realm all their own – I open my big mouth, or rap away on the keyboard to let them know that they’re not in high school anymore. They can’t bully and not expect resistance.

Haters will always hate – because, really, that’s all they have. That’s the only way they feel relevant. But decent people can always be decent. You can always speak up, you can always push back; you have a voice, so use it – and use it for the right reasons.

Speak up for those who could use a friend. Speak up for those who don’t have the glitz of Hollywood on their side. Do something to help them find their voice, and help them hear it over the ignorant prattle.

And always tell the haters where they can stick it. And remind them that they’re a little fish in a rapidly drying pond.

April 30, 2015

Strategery, Y’all.

Toby stares up at me, his blobby tail thudding on the linoleum. I plunge the French press and glance at the stove clock. I’m a few minutes late for the meeting.

Thankfully, I don’t have to brave the 405 this time – I just have to take a few steps into the living room. Andy sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the open laptop. I slide a cup of coffee over to him, and set the stove timer.

“The clothes will be done in twenty-five minutes. So let’s get started.”

Andy flexes his fingers and then launches into his spiel. Our first strategy deployment session as a couple has officially begun.

***

When we first realized that Seattle was actually happening, we began to strategize – figure out what this next step will mean, and what kinds of things we’d like to have accomplished by the time it inevitably ends.

Which is why we’re sitting on the floor, filling a Saturday morning rapping out pages’ worth of personal and professional benchmarks, then cutting it down to a page of essentials.

With the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles constantly making us sweat, we’re craving the ability to loosen the reigns, breathe deeper (and fresher air), and re-center. Now, it’s not going to happen overnight, and it’s going to take a lot of energy. And it’s not like Seattle is going to be some magical cure for our wanderlust, or a fairyland where all our dreams come true.

In reality, it’s going to be damper, hillier, and hipsterery. And I’m down with that. After all, I much prefer jeans over shorts, and if I ever have to pick between a wannabe Ken doll and a wannabe Emo rocker, I’ll always pick the latter.

Still, what’s becoming more and more important to me is rekindling my passion for art…

for community engagement…

and for the outdoors and gardening.

Sure, I spent more years than I can remember traipsing through the woods, but it’ll be nice to revisit them – and not have to wade through droves of tourists to do so. And it’ll be insanely cathartic to get back to photography and painting – two passions that’ve withered faster than a grocery store-bought basil plant in the California sun.

But more than our personal passions, we’re starting to plan, plan, plan – beyond our usual Excel spreadsheets. We’re entering that phase of life where life goals are more here-and-now than down-the-line. We ~~have~~ want to act, and start doing rather than dreaming.

We’re going to fine-tune our lives and keep ourselves honest. We’re going to enjoy the little things, but remember the bigger picture – and push to bring it to fruition. So I hope that during our time in Seattle we have fun and learn a lot.

But more than that, I hope that we become the people we want to be for a long time.

April 28, 2015

The Social Construct Wars

Between the news from Baltimore and the Supreme Court, social media consumers are undoubtedly gorged with tragedy, violence, and anxiety. All in all, it’s a horribly normal state of being.

We want answers. We want resolution. We want peace and security.

But above all, we want a quick sound bite that we can use to wave away all of these issues – freeing their cobweb-like hold on our minds and congratulating ourselves that we’ve donated $10 to Nepal relief – so we can go about our day as if nothing has happened. Again, it’s all sadly status quo.

And I’m just as guilty of it as anyone. But today something just snapped. I’m tired of reading all of the erroneously overwrought statements about how “certain people” should act. You know, black people.

Sorry, I should’ve whispered “black” or, at the very least, put it in smaller font. Because that’s how we talk about others, in hushed tones, looking over our shoulder for added emphasis. Just like with “gay” people, or “brown” people or, you know, “the handicapped.” Like the people “over there.”

It’s all about distance, even if what’s happening – who it’s happening to – is writing itself into history right outside your door. Because as long as there’s a mental gulf in place, you don’t really have to think about it.

***

A few weeks ago, on a longer than usual trek up the 405, my stop-and-go journey came to an abrupt stop on La Cienega, just before the Beverly Center.

Goddamn traffic. It’s Friday. I just want to go home.

I leered at the base of the hills, the apartment complexes taunting me like desert mirages. But horrible traffic is par for the course. So I prepared to wait.

And as I turned up a random song from Brand New, I noticed a crowd gathering on one of the intersection’s corners.

Something’s happen…

I didn’t even finish my thought before a tall woman with a long, curly wig cut across the crosswalk and fell prostrate in the middle of the intersection. Then the chants started, and protesters began moving into the street waving handmade posters. I cringed.

Of course this has to fucking happen right now.

And then I heard it.

“TRANS LIVES MATTER! TRANS LIVES MATTER!”

It was like someone threw a bucket of cold water over my brain. I was immediately incensed by my former thoughts. Of course this matters.

But pretty much everyone around me, save a few taking photos, leaned on their horns and yelled unintelligible gibberish out of their partially cracked windows. I inched up as car after car made a U-turn, adding to the vehicular welter around us. Just a few car lengths from the intersection, I kept my gaze fixed on the woman in the street – she’d draped herself across the intersection like a speed bump; she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Just then, my phone rang. Andy’s voice came through the car speakers before I realized I’d hit “Answer.”

“Hey, what the fuck is going on? I’m stuck on La Cienega.”

“I must be just ahead of you. It’s a protest – a Trans Lives Matter crowd. We’re not getting through.”

“Goddammit! Why do they have to do this today?”

He quieted, and then, like me, realized what he’d said. “I mean, it’s just inconvenient. They have to know that being this close to WeHo, they’ve got plenty of support.”

We decided to turn around about the time the helicopters started circling, and the fire engines pulled up. But even over the sirens, I could faintly make out the chanting.

***

Weeks later, Andy was trying to counteract a case of insomnia at 3:00 AM, but nothing settled him.

“I’m going on a walk.”

I grumbled something unintelligible about not doing it because it was so early. But I heard the lock click over before I finished, and dozed back off. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

“I JUST GOT DETAINED BY THE POLICE!”

I bolted upright. Toby snorted awake beside me.

“Wait, WHAT? Where are you?!”

“I’m on my way home. They thought I was a robber or something and put be in the back of their patrol car and asked me all of these questions.”

Now I was completely awake.

“WHY IN THE HELL WOULD THEY THINK THAT?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back. Apparently, there was a break-in somewhere around here.”

“Did you at least have your license?”

He paused.

“No.”

I facepalmed in the dark. This is something that Andy and I always sparred about – always taking some form of ID with us, even when we’re going out front with Toby.

“Just get home safely.”

A few minutes later, Andy came in and relayed the whole story – clearly shaken, and more awake than ever. Long story short, there was a robbery and apparently someone saw Andy walking around the block in his hoodie, and misidentified him as the suspect.

“Are you fucking KIDDING ME?”

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, “Thank the gods you’re the epitome of a WASP.”

It was horribly true. In that moment, all I could replay was the scenario going wrong, not being able to be in touch with Andy, not knowing where or how he was. And all I kept thinking about was how things would’ve been different if Andy were a racial minority. Had he been black, would the police have suspected him more? Would he have even been able to call me? Would he have been hurt?

This isn’t an illogical jump. West Hollywood is about as racially diverse as Orange County. Had Andy been black or Latino or Indian, he most likely would’ve been detained much longer than he was, and possibly arrested. As much as we’d like to think our police officers are above racial profiling, they’re biased people just like you and me.

But through that uniform, those biases can morph into disturbing behavioral practices if left unchecked.

Now, I’m not saying every law enforcement official is a racist, classist, homophobe, or any of the other horrible things people can be. What I’m saying is that officers are people, and everyone needs to be educated and re-educated on a routine basis. I’m just saying that everyone in a position of power ~~may~~ would benefit from an Anthropology 101 primer. Because by page 10, the differences we use on a daily basis to pigeon-hole and judge people are brought into sharp relief for what they really are: social constructs perpetuated by us, oftentimes through state-sanctioned violence.

Gender? Race? Labels for constructs we’ve developed to try and isolate and explain difference and constrain people.

And while we keep perpetuating these constructed differences, we neglect to see or address the root cause of social upheaval – social fissions and fractures that signal that something in this crazy-ass social structure we’ve developed just isn’t working. Instead, we throw a hashtag on it and dust off our hands.

#blacklivesmatter

#translivesmatter

#alllivesmatter

#lovemustwin

We reduce the work that needs to be done to a few characters on our smartphones. And then we disengage completely.

But you know who can’t disengage? People fighting for their lives – black, white, brown, trans, gay, straight, queer, differently-abled. People who take to the streets because their brains can’t handle another damn hashtag; they crave resolution and demand immediate answers from those in power. And their emotions bubble over. I can’t fault people who’ve had enough – who march and demonstrate and do what they must to be heard. Many of us have been there.

What I can’t stand is the person who piggybacks on tragedy to satisfy their own endgame, to line their pockets, to cast someone’s livelihood asunder, to divert attention away from the real problem.

We’re fallible beings. We make mistakes. But sometimes those mistakes coalesce into a flashpoint for change. Had the Stonewall Riots and so many protests and marches and non-peaceful demonstrations not happened, would the SCOTUS be hearing Obergefell v. Hodges today? Probably not. So who can say that the protests and volatile confrontations in Baltimore aren’t going to translate into something positive?

It’s certainly (unfortunately) true that violence often begets violence. Or at least that’s what we’ve conditioned ourselves into thinking. But what we often let our minds gloss over is that the same unbridled anger that’s been channeled through violence has also helped propel us forward – through the breaking glass, bloodied fists, and smoking wreckage to today.

And tomorrow.

April 16, 2015

Movin’ On Up. Literally.

We take the turn at 1.5 mph, and hear a bone-chilling clunk-crash-shatter that makes my heart skip a beat. But before we even turn around, Andy and I know what we’ll see.

The project piece we toted across the country, and which has stayed frozen in its “project” state, finally gave up the ghost – shattering to pieces in the back of the car.

I make a feeble attempt to piece it back together, but fail – the broken, newly glued shards slide off a half hour later onto piles of bagged clothes at the thrift store. Instead of slapping them back onto the drawer front, I just turn and run – as if I just lit a firecracker at a gasoline station.

“Go, go, go!”

From the driver’s seat, Andy raises an eyebrow. I jump in.

“DRIVE! The drawer fell apart.”

“Chill out. It’s not like they’re going to run after us screaming, ‘How dare you donate something!'”

True. I dust off my hands, but find them sticking together with residual glue.

“Oh well. The albatross is gone. At least we tried to do the right thing.”

We get back to the apartment and find Toby wiggling around, exceedingly thrilled that his car crate is hogging the space the desk had occupied an hour earlier. It’s something ridiculously minor – the absence of a piece of furniture.

But Andy and I know that this is something more – the start of yet another chapter.

I never thought I’d be the type of person who moved around every few years. Mostly because I loathed it, having been forced to do so as a shovel bum for most of my early twenties. But here we are, nearing our two year mark in California – and commemorating it with a move to Seattle.

And I couldn’t be more thrilled.

***

Right before we moved out here, one of our friends told us that her time in California was like a five-year dream. And it’s sort of been true.

I mean, California is beautiful, and LA isn’t as bad as everyone makes it out to be. Like any new place, we sometimes let the not-so-great things outweigh the good. It’s a big city – and living in a big, sprawling city can wear on you with its grit, noise, and general impartiality for your feelings. But being homebodies makes doing all the things a little difficult. I mean, I’m all about seeing the sights and visiting everything, but I’m not all about sitting in gridlock for hours to get 10 miles outside the city. And I can only tolerate so many TMZ bus oglers clogging the streets and sidewalks. I know, I know.

Wah, wah, wah! First World Problems!

So instead of pledging that Seattle is going to be our “place panacea,” I’m going to view this upcoming move as what it is: a new experience – an adventure. It could last a year or two and end with us returning to LA, or last five or ten or forever. Who knows? The unknown: it’s the part of the puzzle that drives me nuts in all the right ways, even as I’m literally driving toward it.

Like our move to California, our move to Seattle is a decision we made – not one that was made for us. And one of the greatest things that we learned from realizing our man-infested destiny out here was that we can make big changes and be alright. We don’t have to be comfortably settled to be happy. When that moving itch hits, sometimes you just have to scratch and relish the relief that comes with it.

Leaving a place is never easy.

We’ve done a lot in our short amount of time here: Andy switched jobs, I switched careers, we moved to WeHo, got married, cut up our credit cards, adopted Toby and Pearl, and decided that, one day, we’ll have a kid. Did we make a ton of friends and get ripped and have perfect tans 100% of the time? No. Is that okay? Sure.

What friends we’ve made and what we’ve made of our time here are what count.

Not doing those expected Cali things has taught us a lot about ourselves. We’re homebodies. We like movies, food, antiquing, and playing with our pup. We like being snarky and cynical while also trying to do our best to be good people and give back.

I’m done apologizing for not doing the things I’m expected to do, and I’m too tired to care what other people think about what I actually like to do. I’m ready for a change. And all of the life lessons I’ll learn in the process.

Way, way up there.

February 21, 2015February 21, 2015

[Good?] Grief

We eat cold pizza, heaping half-eaten pieces atop one another from last night’s boxes.

The night the pizza man delivered the pies to our door, he couldn’t have known that we were going to pieces on the other side – not even remotely aware that I’d just woken up from a three-hour long nap following one of the worst moments I’ve ever experienced.

Toby gave a half-hearted bark at the stranger in the doorway, and I shushed him, feeling immediately ashamed as I did.

“I have one, too. Thinks she’s a German Shepherd. But she’s only seven pounds.”

He smiled. I handed him his tip. And shut the door before I fell apart again. His comment triggered the flood of emotion being held back by a mental dam.

I walked the pizzas into the kitchen. I stared at Andy. We opened the boxes. We sighed. We recognized our grief, digested it with our pizza.

Because that’s what we’re supposed to do.

This is loss.

It’s a point in time that reminds us of that thin line between living and dying, between here and wherever our mind decides the hereafter resides. Loss seems like a measurable moment, an action; but it’s like a melting ice cube – it expands with each passing hour, covering everything without any sort of pattern or plan. It just keeps going, and permeates everything.

Like most nights when I can’t sleep, last night found me cleaning and dusting, sweeping and wiping the floor.

Clean, clean, clean. I told myself. This will dull the heartache.

That if I put things in their place, it’ll make it easier to process. That if Pearl’s harness and leash and tags are neatly tucked into a box, this grief can be handled, packaged, and hidden away.

That stowing away her food and water bowls and bed would distance me from collapse – that hiding her stuffed rabbit at the bottom of the garbage would free me from thinking about her.

About the end – the moments leading up to our parting: The walk down the corridor. The door closing behind us. The moment the first needle went in and she hugged her paws around my neck then slowly slipped out of my arms onto the table as Andy whispered every sweet thing in the world to her. The moment the technician said, “It will be instantaneous,” and plunged the second syringe’s contents, and the light extinguished from her eyes.

But there’s no escaping it. No amount of diversion will help.

Today, we bought a plant and I told Andy that this would be Pearl’s plant – that we had to find her floral equivalent. Something hearty and prickly; something lasting and strong and beautiful.

Now it’s here in our apartment, illuminated by lamplight. But Pearl’s not.

Her absence is startling. I sit down and my lap isn’t immediately filled by her stretched-out, dozing self. I crinkle a bag and turn around to empty space rather than her shifting back and forth from paw to paw while quietly staring.

The absence, the quiet – these are the avatars of loss that’re the most difficult to process.

But every now and then, between the tears we shed, between the comings and goings and doings, a laugh fractures the silence; a macabre joke. A funny remembrance. A cherished memory.

And we learn something more about grief: that a few dark moments can’t overshadow the best; that our grief illustrates how much she enriched our lives – that the good will supplant the bad, given time.

And we will keep going.

Because that’s what we ~~have to~~ do.

February 20, 2015

Goodnight, Sweet Lady

This is a new kind of grief. An all-consuming one. It comes in waves, rippling beneath my skin, waiting for a jarring shake – a memory, glassy-eyed looks from those who know – to grow it into a convulsing swell. And then, the deluge – quickly followed by the headaches and sleep-inducing exhaustion, the nightmares and debilitating second-guessing.

Two nights ago, the doctor’s medical jargon rang in my ears as I knelt haphazardly on the cold tile floor in the ER, while Pearl dozed in my arms: “cancer-like,” “tumor nodes,” “bone erosion,” “muscle loss,” “swelling around the brain and spinal cord.” All of this instead of what I was expecting: “pulled muscle,” “plenty of rest and relaxation,” “give it a few days.”

I’d always wanted a special needs dog. Don’t ask me why, I just did. And we unintentionally got one, along with the added responsibilities of constantly monitoring and tweaking her diet; preempting her seizures by detecting that slight leg spasm, or rapidly dilating eyes; frequent doctors’ visits, only to have some new malady added to her thickened veterinary file.

Pearl was a scrappy, cuddly old lady. She detested primped, white poodles more so than squirrels. Save for one large stuffed rabbit, with whom she had a very ~~humpy~~ special relationship, toys never interested her, much to her brother’s delight. And like any older sister, she endured her little brother’s “look at me, look at me” attitude and just went with it, curling into a ball and snoring through his toy chase rampages through the house.

If you sat for a moment, she’d materialize in your lap, slowly fall back, and descend into a nearly immediate, coma-like nap.

When I first saw Pearl at one of my company’s shelters, she reminded me of a land-strider from The Dark Crystal – long-legged, tiny head, kind eyes. But unlike those gentle giants, she had an edge that most likely came from living on Lawndale’s less than desirable streets.

After I heard her story, and realized that she’d been a shelter resident for nearly a year – just another overlooked, older brown Chihuahua in L.A.’s glutted canine landscape – I knew I wanted to adopt her.

But then Toby popped up on our radar – another older Chihuahua, whose back-story and toothless smile captured our hearts. So Pearl waited. I hoped and hoped that she’d get scooped up. But time after time, her kennel mate would go to a new home, and she’d remain. A repeat participant in one of my organization’s youth outreach programs, she’d helped a number of kids, and learned many new tricks – she even had the certificates to prove it. Still, she stayed.

Until that day last year when we decided her shelter time was over, and she came home with us.

Every day since has been filled with victories, letdowns, and everything in between. Senior dogs come with a lot of baggage, and I will certainly acknowledge that I was a touch naive about just how much more responsibility they are than their younger counterparts. But they’re worth every bit.

As excruciatingly defeating as the news has been, we also feel relieved. And, in many ways, that’s the most painful part. And is unbelievably guilt-inducing. Now we know what has to be done; the ambiguity is no longer stifling.

Making this decision is one of the worst, most charged we’ve ever had to make. And it’s made that much more difficult when Pearl continues to be herself – excited for treats, ready for walks, always up for a cuddle. There’s a nagging dread of wondering if this is the right thing to do.

Hanging on to that last shred of hope is as dangerous as it is common. It’s completely normal. But it’s also destructive – breaks you down mentally, debilitates you physically. So you just have to let go, and refocus your lens on reality.

Pearl is a trooper. But she limps and hobbles now. And yes, she’s excited for treats, but quickly gets exhausted. And while her sweetness remains, it’s cloaked behind a depressive mood.

So she’s been getting anything she wants – constant rubs, cheese, pasta, eggs, painkillers; because, really, what’s the worst any of it could do?

Today is her last day with us. And as cliche as it sounds, I think she knows it. But all that matters right now is that she has a chicken and cheese omelet in her bloated belly, and is snoring in her comforter nest on the sofa.

That she’s loved. And will be incredibly missed. But will always be remembered.

So, sweet baby girl, thanks for everything. Thanks for being a friend.

January 29, 2015January 29, 2015

Bringing Up “Baby”

I don’t know what reaction I expected. But definitely more than a blank stare and half-hearted shrug, punctuated with “So, would you like Jasmine or Black tea?”

My throat, scratchy from the grip of a monstrous sinus infection, croaks out a little fractured air and a tri-syllabic sigh. I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows, across to the blue blip on the far field where Andy putters around in a fluorescent sweater.

“Jasmine…is…fine.”

My mother mills about the kitchen, banging pots together with an unexpected ferocity.

Maybe she thinks it’s a bad idea.

With the terriers’ muffled snores being the only other noise funneling up to the hobbit home’s domed ceiling, even my internal dialogue seems crushingly, boisterously loud.

Well if Mom acts like this, there’s no telling what Dad will say.

And I’m not disappointed. Well, I am. But not surprised. When Andy returns and Dad blows in the side door, I keep the fading conversation stoked, prodding it along with wheezes and coughs, like blunted fire pokers to dying embers.

“So…I mean, we’re just, you know, in the…beginning stages of course…” I wheeze.

Andy sits upright and relatively motionless, aside from the slight nervous twitch of his feet.

Mom continues to hum along in the kitchen, and Dad dusts off his gloves, and scratches his head.

“…but it’s something we’re seriously considering. Probably in two to three years.”

Dusk is setting in, and the fading light streaming down the solar tubes illuminates my parents, as if they’re on stage, readying for their monologues. But instead of sagacious advice, or a heartfelt, emphatic show of support, Mom chirps, “Well, yes, that’s a lot to think about. And of course the cost.”

As if conditioned by the word “cost,” Dad exits, stage left – down the hall to their bedroom, and closes the door.

The funny part is we’re not even asking for money. We’re just trying to start an ongoing dialogue about us potentially adding a wee biped to our geriatric Chihuahua duo.

Dumbfounded, I stare at Andy. Mom asks if he’d like tea, too. I can’t stand it.

“SO ARE YOU EVEN INTERESTED IN BEING GRANDPARENTS?”

Mom stops abruptly, as if a sheet of ice has popped up in front of her.

“WELL, of course.”

My mouth hangs open – both to breathe, and to add a touch of dramatic flair. But mostly because my mom’s exclamation is not nearly as glass-shattering as I’d envisioned. This whole conversation reminded me of when I came out – no emphatic exultations, no hubbub. Of course back then I was more relieved than anything. But now, I’m sort of pissed.

Isn’t this what most parents want to hear? That their family isn’t just going to die off?

Instead, the conversation dies off amid my wheezes and coughs. And then Mom slams home the final nail in the coffin.

“Oh, honey. Let me get you set up on my nebulizer. Poor baby.”

***

Nebulized yet snotty, I whisper back and forth with Andy as we tuck ourselves in. Especially since he’s about as pleased as I am.

“I just don’t get why they’re being so calculated with their responses.”

“I know. I mean, let’s be honest, I figured it’d be harder to convince your parents.”

But we’d actually discussed it in a surprisingly thorough fashion. Or as thoroughly as you can without having a bun in someone else’s oven. We’d even gathered around their kitchen table for fuck’s sake!

He nods. I snuffle.

“It’s almost like they’re waiting for us to reveal that we already have the kid, and we’ve kept’em in the garage this whole time.”

“I just don’t get why they’re so…noncommittal.”

“It’s sort of their way of doing things. Especially now. Rather than voicing overwhelming support or utter disdain, they just sort of smile and nod, thinking the non-pushy way is best – less smothering. BUT FOR ONCE, being pointed and direct would be fucking helpful.”

I guess what surprises me the most is the fact that I’m legitimately upset, especially since I haven’t always been on board with having a kid. What’s even more amazing is how much this potential child is becoming more like the eventual child. But first, we have to get our footing – and it always helps when you can count on your family to be there for some semblance of support.

We chat back and forth a bit more, and then fume ourselves to sleep.

The next morning, we putter around a favorite antique haunt with my sister, whose support and perspective we always value. She bounces ideas off of us as we half-heartedly sift through hoards of junk for bits of Fiesta, Harlequin, and Riviera.

“Yeah, you know, it’s weird. You’d think they’d be more excited about it.” She holds up a cup and considers it briefly. “But I just don’t get it.”

All we glean is ambiguity. Which is apropos, I guess – because who really knows what in the hell they’re getting themselves into when they start thinking about having a family. It’s all a welter of confusion and intrigue and terror and exhilaration. More so when you have to intensely strategize the kid’s conception and entry into this crazy world.

Regardless, there’s beauty and comfort in the ambiguity.

Comfort that stems from me indulging the paternal tugs I feel while seeing some cute kid doing something absurdly endearing with their parents, and even whilst witnessing absolute meltdowns in the grocery store.

Beauty in realizing that my hardened, cynical shell is quickly gladly cracking.

Knowing that I may one day be thinking about all of this while running errands, and then hear a little voice from the backseat squeak out, “Dad.”

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