elliequent

Hedwig

2012-02-24T17:01:00.020-07:00

I'm pretty sure that the best way to classify time is "days on which you don't see a Neopolitan Mastiff puppy" vs. "days on which you do."

This is Hedwig. I first met Hedwig one night a few weeks ago while I was walking Chaucer, and it took a while for the street crew to clean me off of the sidewalk. I had melted into a puddle of useless goo, because he's just more than my weak heart can handle.

Today Upstairs and I met for coffee, and Hedwig and his mom/owner came walking by our table outside. M/O asked if His Wrinkliness could say hello to Chaucer again, who was with us. I was all, Uh, forget Chaucer. I'm about to lay down on the sidewalk and have a freakin' cuddle session with your dog, lady.

Having a Neo someday is a dream of mine. They're my second favorite dog breed after Irish Wolfhounds. So getting to see one as a pup pretty much makes my ~~day~~ ~~week~~ month.

They sat with us for a little bit. While the humans compared Mastiff notes, the canines checked one another out until they both lay down, exhausted from the effort of being so adored.

My blog is fast devolving into Downtown Dog of the Day, but hello. Neopolitan Mastiff. Named Hedwig. Gah.

cone of shame

2012-02-24T09:53:00.020-07:00

At least one of you is having a bad day, I know, because bad days happen. To you, I say this: It could be worse. You could be a pink Maltese trapped in the cone of shame.

"Hi, I'm Lu. I'm wearing the CoS because I won't stop licking my butt. I can't help myself. It tastes as delicious as I look."

It's vegetable dye, and it's harmless, so please don't go ringing the ASPCA. My girlfriend does this to her dog occasionally, and it's nothing to freak out about. If anything, the dog probably likes it, since she gets twice as much attention and cuddling from it. Frivolous and silly, yes. Abusive, not at all.

My girlfriend threw a small dinner party last night, cuz she wanted her visiting mum to meet some of her LA friends. She recently moved, and I hadn't seen her new place since she'd gotten settled in with new furniture, paint, etc. It looks incredible:

It's a three story loft with a rooftop terrace, smack in the middle of downtown. One of our friends is a furniture designer (he made my bed), so much of this was custom made with extra love and attention. I love, love, love the couch and the whole color scheme: grey, slate blue, taupe. And check out the vintage TVs in the bottom left pic. She picked those up at HD Buttercup.

We had salmon her mom had brought down from Washington, rice, steamed green beans, and lots of wine. Afterward, orange meringue sponge cake! It was so good to get together with everyone. It had been a while. A lot of us have been in transition - personally, professionally, and geographically. But we pledged to make 2012 our closest year yet, and Imma hold those bitches to it. I showed them the videos I made last month, in which they feature prominently. They were a hit. :)

In other non-news, yesterday an ex (the one referred to here) did something bizarre to either impress me or make me jealous, I'm not sure which. Both, probably? But it's the second time since I fled his Crazytown that he's gone to such elaborately spiteful lengths to try and bait me. Both these gestures (I don't know what else to call them, though maybe "attacks" is the better word) were delivered via text message. Both times I responded with as minimal and dry a reply as I could.

When I forwarded this latest piece of weirdness to my closest friend, his response was OMFG. That's so fucked up. Jeebus. Which is basically what he said when he heard about the first bit of weirdness. Then last night after dinner, we were talking about this dude's over-the-top attempts to suck me into engaging. He shook his head in wonder and said, "That must be some magical pussy you have, my god. And I'm a gay man, so it feels really weird to have that come out of my mouth." He looked at me. "But not as weird as it would feel going in to it."

I almost dropped to the sidewalk.

I told another friend who works in internet security. He has the coolest job, actually. He's the guy corporations call when they get hacked. Told me one story about doing what was essentially hand-to-hand combat with Anonymous. Crazy cool shit.

ANYWAY. When I told him about the text from my ex, he hit the roof. He insisted that I immediately sign into my AT&T account to block Crazypants's number, and then email him a screenshot to prove it. I did. His email reply: In accordance with our strict terms and conditions as friends, I will be randomly conducting checkins to the AT&T portal. Upon request you must submit a new screenshot within 5 minutes of request. All requests will come when I know you're near a computer hooked up to the interweb.

The point of this lame story is that I have rockstar friends who took what was an otherwise ugly thing and made something awesome out of it. Dude sets out to crap on my day, and instead ends up reminding me how lucky I am I have to such hilarious, cool, and supportive people in my corner.

I think someone else needs a cone of shame, too.

israel: the dead sea

2012-02-23T12:00:00.010-07:00

After spending the first part of the day at Masada, we headed to the Dead Sea for a few hours of floating, mud-slathering, sulphur-soaking, and finally, scrubbing like Meryl Streep a la Silkwood, to get the stink off.

The spa area has locker rooms, showers, a gift shop where you can purchase overpriced bathing suits, and a partially enclosed, heated sulphur pool.

After changing into your swimwear, you walk down a paved path to get to the water. There are lounge chairs on the beach, so you can hang out and watch the fun after you've had your fill.

There was a really curious but enjoyable energy about the place, and about the experience in general. A friendly, quiet, amused sense of intimacy. I mean, here are people from all over the world, come to this very famous place to partake in a highly fabled experience. We're all in bathing suits or underwear. Lots of skin. Few physical secrets remain hidden. It's not the French Riviera; the bodies are imperfect and natural, and average. Everyone's speaking a different language. But here we all are, stepping gingerly across the sharp limestone, wading carefully into the water, and squealing like children (of which there are very few) as we feel our bodies pushed up with weightlessness. You can't help but laugh delightedly, and you look at the person next to you - a middle-aged Eastern European woman with whom you could barely exchange the most minimal of pleasantries if you had to - and you're suddenly sharing an extraordinary moment with her.

It's kind of beautiful, actually.

This was the day I started buddying up with some of the guys from the tour. One of them, a stocky dude, had mud covering every inch of his body. I asked politely whether he'd saved any for the rest of us. He told me later he was terrified to answer me, because he didn't want to engage, not knowing whether or not I was legal. LOL. I love liars and flatterers.

It was nearing sunset, and the quality of light was beautiful.

My dad:

Gah, my hair looks crazy red here:

A friend saw this picture and said, "Oooh, I love the retro bathing suit!" Haha, it was a shirt and underwear. Super ghetto, I know, but I couldn't find a suit I liked before I left for the trip. Ok, that's not true. I found an Anna and Boy one I wanted like crazy, but I couldn't afford it. And rather get something cheaper that I didn't love, I decided to wait until I found the right suit at the right time (read: when I have money to get it).

The area was clearing out since the hour was so late, and I had a few moments to myself to just float quietly while I took in the surroundings. That's Jordan beyond my feet:

Afterwards, you can either rinse off near the water, or back up by the lockers.

I went into the sulphur pool for a little while, after soaking in the sea. That was a trip. Reeks to high heaven, but makes your skin feel amazing. It was pretty crowded, but everyone was talking very quietly and keeping polite distance. It all had a very spa-like vibe which I didn't want to disrupt or intrude upon with my camera. So, no pictures of that bit. But here's someone's YouTube video of it, in case you're curious what it looks like.

I rinsed my clothes off afterward, but they still dried stiff as a board and pungent as hell. I didn't want to spring for the hotel laundering service, so a sink shampooing it was!

I never would have thought I'd get to actually visit the Dead Sea. Very grateful to be able say now that I have.

thanks.

2012-02-23T07:24:00.006-07:00

Few quick programming notes this morning.

1. Thanks are in order. I have been loving blogging these past few weeks in a way I haven't ever. I mean, really. Ever. I don't know who if anyone is reading or cares, but I'm having a grand time just putting it all out there. Here's my life, internet! It's nothing exceptional, but here it is! Look at it if you want, or don't! It's just a snapshot of one woman's existence in the early 21st century. That's all it claims to be. It's a much easier and more fulfilling blog to keep than its earlier incarnations, which were an unholy chimera of political rants and personal scrapbooking. Shit was exhausting, ugh. It was the pictures, they killed me. Here, my new policy of keeping my friends' names and faces off the blog has made all the difference. I can just go live my life and have fun, then tell you about it in a few sentences later, instead of feeling compelled to document it with eight billion photos.

2. Thanks to those of you who are stepping in my Twitter and Pinterest pools (both still very shallow). I've been getting my feet wet slowly on Twitter, though I still have no idea what I'm doing. But I look forward to catching up to you pros, and joining in the conversation. For now though, I'm not gonna lie: I'm really amusing myself with it. Nearly everything I think of to say is incredibly crass and absurd. So I'm sure I'll offend people on that corner of the internet, too. I've yet to pin a single thing on Pinterest. Bit intimidated by the whole thing still.

I'm really going to work on reaching out and getting involved in social media, getting to know the people who for whatever reason give a shit about my life (I know, I know: look who's changed her tune. Look who realized, holy shit, she can have a social web presence AND one IRL at the same time), but first I need to feel like I've established some consistency with it. Blogging, tweeting, pinning, and Instagramming with some regularity, which I couldn't maintain during my divorcepression days. Does that make any sense?

3. The poll I had up for a few days in the sidebar tells me you guys wanna hear about, primarily, two things: dancing, and my search for a jerb. Duly noted. Sadly, I have fuck all to report in the jerb department, and I think writing a post to formally announce that might be just too depressing, and I'd spend the rest of the day with my face buried in a bag of Doritos. However, I can definitely satisfy your curiosity and write some posts about dancing. I actually haven't been to work in a couple of weeks (health issues), so I don't have any fresh anecdotes right now. I will after this weekend though. But for now I can do, like, a night in the life sort of thing. Will that work? I can do that. Also in the pipe line: one or two more posts about my Israel trip, a post about selling my engagement/wedding rings, and one about doing ecstasy for the first time. It's a doozy.

2.22.12

2012-02-22T19:32:00.015-07:00

Five am, and I can't sleep anymore, though I've only been down for about five hours. I'm desperate to get back on schedule, and wish more than anything I could let the dog out and then pass out again. I know it's impossible, though. I'm up. My best bet is to stay awake as late as possible tonight. The closer to two am I can fall asleep, the better. That's the schedule I need to be on: down between two and three, up around ten or eleven. It's the only way to survive nightclub hours.

There's no coffee, since I still haven't replaced the french press I broke last week while vacuuming. At Famima, I notice that while I've been filling my cup, the machine is still dripping. A small pool of coffee has collected on the counter. I quickly replace the pot and ask the cashier for a rag. He tells me not to worry about it. Oh, no sweat, he says. I don't get anything to eat.

I fiddle with the layout of my blog for a while, and work on a few of the pages. I revise my statement of childfreedom, though I'm still not happy with it. I don't know what it's missing. I don't know how to say what I want. But I feel ready to write my statement of atheism, and I do so, in one fervid shot. It comes quickly and easily, certain turns of phrase still floating in my mind from the last version I wrote. I re-read it a dozen times, wondering if I should pull a punch or two. But when I open the compose window, I instead find myself pushing it further. I don't want to compromise on it, so I let it stand, heavy and loud and unflinching.

Chaucer and I walk to the park, but it's hot, and we don't stay long. Back at the building, we're joined in the elevator by a neighbor on my floor, a husky man maybe five years younger than me with a floppy haircut and light blue eyes. Upstairs thinks he's gay, but I can't get a read. He's always very chatty and friendly with Chaucer, and he invites us to see his unit, which he knows I've got my eye on. Same square footage, same price, much better layout.

He insists on letting Chaucer, who he calls Big Doggy, come in. While we discuss counter space and pay raises, Chauc wanders around sliming IKEA sofas and Expedit bookcases, still panting from his walk.

It's 11 am, and I'm already exhausted. The dog is wiped out from the heat, and I realize if I stay at home I'll want to nap, too. I run errands while catching up on texts with friends. It's a high traffic day on my phone: A girlfriend is having a small dinner party tomorrow night, and can I come? (Yes.) Another friend asks whether I caught Colbert last night (Not yet). My new Vancouver bestie sends my first weekly city pic and an update: he and his boyfriend have broken up, and when can I come up north to pull wingman duty? (When I've got the scratch, honey.) Another friend has the girl trouble blues, so I send him a Mom Jeans screenshot.

Upstairs sends me a pic which I stare at uncomprehendingly. It's the desk in our lobby, and on it are two boxes of plastic dog poo bags - the tear off kind that come in rolls. The bags are always there, for the use of residents with dogs. I see nothing remarkable about the photo, and I say as much. I'm urged to look closer. Then I see it. One box says "puppy poo"; the other, "people poo". It's beautifully done, seamless really. He even got the reflection of the lettering in the desk's glass. I guess a lot of people from our building have been going number 2 on the street, he says.

You photoshopped this? I ask incredulously. For your viewing pleasure, he says, with a smiley.

You're insane, I write back. I love it.

Back home, I troll job listings. I spend a little while tweaking my resume, but don't send anything out. I don't return my dad's call from yesterday, though I make a promise to myself to send an email tonight.

Chaucer's ready for another walk, and since it's so mild after the hot day, we stay out until near dark. He gets an unusual amount of attention this evening. People stop us on the sidewalk, wanting to talk to or about him, wanting to pet him or take his photo. I always forget how huge and out of place he looks, walking through the city streets.

A few steps from my door, a dark-complected man walking towards us calls out and moves to greet Chaucer. He smiles broadly and says something I don't understand. It takes me a moment to realize it's the Frenchman from the creperie around the corner. He doesn't think I recognize him, and he gestures quickly towards his chest and the restaurant. I assure him that I know who he is, and we have a short conversation in French 101. He's solicitous and warm, and encourages me to use the informal construction of verbs. I'm excited when I get out "Le meilleur Croque Monsieur du ville!" smoothly, though I've no idea if I've strung it together correctly. He tells me his name, and says "Enchantee!" as we part.

I send a tweet, and realize I'm fast becoming addicted to saying ridiculous, even scandalous things on Twitter. It amuses me enormously to not censor myself, to say things I'd normally only say to friends after a few drinks. I realize I need to write a post admitting I was wrong about Twitter, too.

It's 8:00 pm, and I have six more hours to go.

a tour of my 'hood

2012-02-22T15:08:00.026-07:00

I've put up some real teal deers lately. So today I thought I'd shut my mouth and just take you on a walk. Here are some things I saw this afternoon, running errands around my neighborhood.

Clockwise, from top left...

1. My building. You can't see my unit, which is on the interior, where I get the twin bonuses of almost no light and a complete lack of privacy.
2. My street. My building is down to the right; you can just make out the edge of it. Back behind my right shoulder is the US Bank Tower (the super tall building you see in establishing shots in movies). To the left is the Millennium Biltmore. This is a stretch Chaucer and I walk at least once a day.
3. A marquee on Broadway. Friends, family? I'd like to be remembered this way when I kick it, kthx.
4. A redonk puppeh on Broadway that I almost kidnapped.

1. My old building (the shorter one on the left). This is where my husband and I lived when we first moved to LA, and where I spent the most miserable and lonely year of my life. Cheers! On the left hand side of the street I'm looking down is the world-famous-but-not-really Bar 107, where westsiders come to slum it and drink PBR with our native hipster population.
2. The train station around the corner from my apartment. This is where yours truly boards her favorite mode of transportation to get to ballet lessons.
3. Produce stand in Grand Central Market, where I shop for cheap heads of lettuce that are only slightly rotten. A little extra dressing and you don't even notice!
4. The bar below (technically adjacent-below) my building, where I sometimes get sequestered with Maxim models.

extra bechamel

2012-02-21T15:07:00.035-07:00

There's a creperie around the corner from my apartment, and every couple of weeks, I'll treat myself to one of their Croque Monsieurs. The owner/operator is a swarthy Frenchman, and extremely flirtatious. He'll call my order out unnecessarily loudly (the cook stands right behind him), while giving me an inexplicable wink. I interpret this wink variously as Oh, cherie, the deliciousness that you are in for! or Ne t'en fais pas! I will tell no one of this salty, starchy indiscretion! or We'd be hot in bed together, non?

His wife takes my money at the counter, and encourages me to add an Orangina to my order. I don't, because I can't look at the bulbous bottles without thinking of my husband, who used to pronounce it orange-jī-na, to make me giggle. I feel bad when I don't tip her, but at this point in my life, I can't afford to tip for counter service. She looks and sounds exactly like the woman that played Mary of Guise in Elizabeth, and I'm intimidated by her.

I watch the cook make crepes while I wait. He dispenses batter in perfect circles, and after it firms up slightly, slices bananas for filling. His fingers are so deft and quick that I don't even see the blade move. After the first time I watched him, I looked up the name of the special rake-shaped tool he uses to spread the batter. I was disappointed to learn it's called, predictably enough, a crepe spreader.

The creperie is conveniently located across from a salad restaurant, so if I'd like, I can sit at the window while I eat, and watch better dressed, healthier lunchers meet up to dine on more nutritious fare.

I usually get it to go, instead.

I haven't worked up the nerve to tell them to hold the pickle. I made the mistake once of asking the owner to hold the Bechamel sauce, because I thought it was some kind of mayonnaise. He enthusiastically disabused me of this notion, explaining that it's just flour and milk. When I told him that, in that case, the Bechamel sounded great, actually, he decided I needed extra sauce on my Croque Monsieur. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the standard dosage would be just fine. Now every time I order, he reminds the cook, "Extra Bechamel for mademoiselle!" And winks at me.

I don't want to seem ungrateful or fussy, but I don't want them to waste their pickles, either, particularly if I'm already taxing them for more than my fair share of Bechamel.

I looked up "gherkin" because I seem to remember it has an alternate French name, as well. It does. Cornichon.

Take that, crepe spreader.

israel: masada

2012-02-21T01:00:00.014-07:00

One of the most interesting historical sites we visited in Israel was Masada, which I've heard described as the Israeli Alamo. That definitely doesn't do the story behind it justice, but it's a starting point.

On the drive down to Masada, which overlooks the Dead Sea, we passed packs of camels in the desert. I didn't do much to quiet my squeals of excitement (I was the kid who, growing up in the Midwest, never tired of calling out when I saw cows along the freeway), and Ezra, our tour guide, promised me I'd have a chance to get up close and personal with one of them before long.

He totally delivered.

At a stop halfway between Jerusalem and Masada, we pulled over for a few minutes of photo-opping with this lovely creature. It was all very tragic and circus-like, of course, the camel decked out in garb and forced to sit-stand-turn-sit for the amusement of bus loads of tourists. I felt awful for the animal, though he (she?) seemed to be healthy enough (because I know so much about camels). I was the only one of the group who wanted a ride.

Yeah, I don't know quite what that pose was. The poor thing probably just wanted me the hell off her back. And as you can see, I was photobombed by the entire tour group. So much for a clean, picturesque backdrop of the desert. I fully deserve it for participating in animal exploitation.

Masada is an ancient archeological site, 1300 high feet, atop a huge plateau. You can either take a gondola lift to the top or hike up a few hundred stairs:

The view from the top, looking back down. You can see Dead Sea in the distance:

The catwalk leading to the main site:

The fortress of Masada was built as a refuge by Herod in 37 BCE, and was a Roman garrison until 66 CE, when it was overcome by Jewish extremists called the Sicarii. The Sicarri settled atop the mesa, and used it as a base to harass the Romans.

In 72, the Roman governor Lucias Silva led a legion to lay seige to Masada; in order to breach the fortress, the soldiers had to build an embankment by moving thousands of tons of stones and earth. Details vary by account, but it's certain that this was an epic feat of construction. It took the Romans months and the use of a battering ram to finally breach Masada's outer wall. However, when they finally got in, they saw that the 960 inhabitants of Masada, rather than submitting to Roman rule, had committed mass suicide.

Legend goes that, since Judaism forbids suicide, the inhabitants drew lots to decide who would kill the others (including women and children), and who would remain the last man standing, and would have to kill himself alone. The defenders' leader, Eleazar, ordered his men to leave their stores of food intact, in order to show the Romans that they had been alive and thriving, but had chosen suicide over slavery. The story was relayed at the time by two women who had survived the killing by hiding in one of the cisterns.

The air was so crisp and fresh, and you could see clear to Jordan, across the Dead Sea. I wandered off alone and sat on the edge of one wall for a few minutes, trying to imagine what it would have been like. Seriously, think about that. Every single person you know, including your parents and children, faces one of two choices: become a slave or be willingly murdered (prohibited by your belief system). My biggest problem today was running out of olive oil.

The site was beautifully and painstakingly maintained. It had been partially reconstructed, and wherever new stones had been added, there was a black line to delineate the difference. You'd never have been able to tell, otherwise.

painting on an inner chamber

muffin spencer-devlin

2012-02-20T01:00:00.003-07:00

Saturday was a friend's housewarming party in Silverlake. Before myself and a couple others headed over there, we stopped by another friend's new apartment in my old building to see his latest decorative touches, including faux brick paneling he added to a support column. It looks amazing, but what kills me is that this is the exact same unit I had (only a floor below), before I moved to where I am now:

My place never looked 1/10th as good as this. The photo on the credenza is actually of the building itself, taken early last century (!).

The party was fun, and my friend's new house is adorable. It's the perfectly sized bungalow for himself, a roommate, this little scamp, and this young lady. Huge backyard on a hill, from which he can see the Hollywood sign, great details in the architecture, and gorgeous original wood floors. Really happy for him. He threw a rockin' party, complete with having hired the hot dog cart-lady from outside of Faultline to come serve in his backyard. Oh, and hand soaps. And an amazing mixed drink made with pear vodka and fresh basil.

Best part of the night was getting to see a friend and his boyfriend, who I didn't even know were in town (they thought I was in Arizona still). They're from Vancouver, and have been back and forth over the past several months - he's a clothing designer, who's been hired by a company in downtown LA, but has been going nuts figuring out the whole work visa thing. His boyfriend is a hair stylist who I'd not gotten a chance to talk with much before Saturday. And I freaking adore him now; we hit it off like crazy, bonding over Brazilian blowouts and wedding DIY.

We also had a hoot leafing through a copy of High Performance Hair (published 1986). Hello, feathering, back combing, leg warmers, and shoulder pads. It was 200 pages of pure Rad. One of the models featured was a professional golfer named Muffin Spencer-Devlin, which I have decided is the greatest name of all time. I made my new Canadian bestie promise to send me weekly pics from Vancouver, and he made me swear to come stay with him for a few days at his apartment in the city. I've never been to Vancouver, so I'm going to take him up on that offer.

Later, some of us hung out at my old building, had drinks, and watched SNL shorts.

theme for a late winter fling, part four

2012-02-19T22:00:00.014-07:00

Saturday morning, he texts. Small talk for a bit, then we drift into more serious territory. Before I know it, we're having a state of the union discussion. I tell him I don't want to be physically intimate anymore. That I still haven't recovered from the emotional devastation wrought by the relationship I had late last year. Which is true, and a large reason why I've never wanted to sleep with him. I've been associating sex with negative emotions since then, and, much as I've tried to get past it, I haven't yet. I've been dialing it in. It's sucked.

I try to explain. That part of me got very badly hurt last year, I say. So to protect itself, it packed the fuck up and left town. I don't know when it's coming back. I miss it, but I don't know how to get it back. This isn't actually the first time I've told him this, but he hasn't seemed to really get it. He seems to now, finally. He tells me he understands, and respects it completely. I like hanging out with you, he writes. You're amazing.

It's not easy to admit something so personal about what I'm going through, and I say as much. Part of why I'm so upset is I fear you'll jet. And I like you in my life. I love who I am around you. I'm not usually so relaxed and confident and clever.

That's just you being you, he says back. You are relaxed, confident, and kinda clever. We spend a few lines arguing over who's the bigger mess emotionally, and promise to still hang out, provided we can manage to be truly just friends and not ride the fence. However, he says, he likes that I used the word "jet" because it suggests that were he to leave, it would be quickly and in style. And I appreciate that, he says. Better than prop-planing it out of there.

A little bit later, he makes a crack about visiting a wedding chapel downtown. When I don't answer, he nudges, Harhar? I had been busy getting ready for the housewarming party, and explain as much. That's very nice of you. All those cold houses need help. Is it with a housewarming organization?

Stop it, I say.

I'm sorry, he writes back. But if it's a volunteer thing, I'd like to donate my time once or twice a month.

I have nothing to wear, I whine. I hate all my clothes.

Well you're gonna need to wear some if this place is as cold as it sounds.

This morning, I have computer trouble and text him for help. He tells me to bring my laptop upstairs for a look. We walk his dog together and go for breakfast afterward. I ask him if he has any nicknames for his dog. "Yes," he says. "Bad dog."

"No really," I say. "What do you call him? You must have some cute little endearments, that you say just when you're alone." He looks at me, his eyes laughing but his mouth serious. "Syd. Syd Vicious. InSydious. Sydmeister. John Smalls. Mr. Nixon. Fluffy McGee. Malaysia." He goes on for another two minutes, the names growing ever more ridiculous. He doesn't stop to think once. They just pour out of him. I can't get a bite of food down, and I beg him to quit it. "What?" he asks, deadpanning. "Those are all his names. You asked."

Back at his apartment, I sit on his lap while we reinstall software on my laptop. He plays a song for me. A pair of hot tears catch me off guard. I jump up abruptly to collect myself privately in the bathroom, but he sees my expression and grabs my arm before I can escape. "What is it?" he asks quietly. "Why are you crying?" His eyes are soft and understanding. It still amazes me how amber they are.

I just shake my head, and he doesn't press. "Come here," he says, and uses the corner of his shirt to wipe my face. There's no point in either of us saying what hangs heavily in the air: that the situation sucks. That it's a shame. That we get along perfectly, and we're crazy about one another's personalities. That there is chemistry and strong attraction, despite my temporarily damaged sense of sexuality.

That it would never, ever get off the ground because he's ten years younger than me, and that it's better to rip off the bandaid now before we grow any more attached.

We go to the couch and he holds me on his chest for the last time. "Your shoes are filthy," he says. "That's because they're shoes," I reply. "No, really. Look." He grabs my phone. "Bend your knees," he commands, and snaps a picture. "See?" He holds up an image of my soles, grey with grime.

When my desktop and files finally appear on my computer, I get up to leave. He walks me to the door and kisses my cheek. I hear the door latch shut behind me as I turn the corner of his hall.

Back at home, I add the photo he took to an iPhoto event I've titled "Upstairs." There are less than twenty photos in it.

theme for a late winter fling, part three

2012-02-17T07:24:00.038-07:00

Seven pm, and he texts. Whatcha up to? I answer: What's the next question?

Want to get together for a bit? he asks. I glance at my place, take stock of my state of personal hygiene. My place and I are a mess. In a bit? He says, Can't. Going to Hollywood to talk to a guy. I can't resist: Jumbo?

Don't worry Elizabeta, he texts. I'll find someone else to drive me to the ER.

Later, I'm on my way to Famima to grab an ill-advised cup of 11:30 pm coffee when I run into him on the sidewalk. He pivots jauntily when he sees me, jumping out of the crosswalk to change course and head my way.

He's bright eyed and cheery, and invites me to get a drink and a bite. I make him come back upstairs while I put on a different top, brush my teeth, and grab my ID. We go to Casey's, where we run into a new couple from our building, plus a female friend of theirs. We all team up for drinks and conversation, talking about the virtues of the Rhoomba and whether LSD should be taken after the age of 25.

I end up at a table with the drunk model girlfriend; he stays at the bar engaging in an increasingly enthusiastic verbal pissing match with the boyfriend. At one point, the boyfriend calls over to me from the bar where they're sitting: "Did he make you chili from scratch?" I look from the boyfriend to him. He's smiling in anticipation of my praise. He knows I absolutely loved his chili, and could have eaten a pot of it. His grin is so silly and guileless and goofy. I want to kiss him.

"Ugh, yes," I say. "So gross. He actually put yams in it. Yams! And they weren't even fully cooked. I was sick for days."

Another round of drinks, more segregated conversation. I'm dying. Model girlfriend is friendly enough, but killing my neurons with boredom. He texts from a few feet away, still at full throttle with Boyfriend. Hey. I text back: Next time we go out, I'm sitting you down at a table with a rock and walking away.

Message received. He finds an excuse to get up and come join me at the table. The other girl sits with us. Sitting across from him, she tugs tipsily at his jacket sleeve. "Hey," she slurs. "I have a question. How come you're so adorable?" I nearly spit my beer all over the model. He kicks me under the table. The girl continues examining him. She points at a tattoo on his collar bone. "What does that say?" she asks, unable to decipher the script lettering.

"It's latin for nice Jewish boy." She can't tell if he's fucking with her or not. "Really?" she asks, frowning suspiciously.

I shake my head, marveling. I have never in all my life met a bigger flirt. "You do know he lives for this," I tell her. "To have girls in bars ask him about his tattoos?" He just laughs. "It says memento mori," I explain, and swallow the last of my drink, rising to leave.

Back on the street, we compare notes on our respective conversations. "She's a mess," I say. "And he sounds controlling and emotionally abusive, from what she said." He nods thoughtfully. "He thinks he's very smart."

We amble down the sidewalk, pleasantly buzzed and keyed up from socializing. He wants to eat at the Mexican food truck around the corner. I make him choose and order for me, while I try to puzzle out the Spanish on a huge sandwich board. There's a photograph of a goat on it. "What exactly am I eating?" I ask. He grabs me and we hug, staggering when we lose our balance. When the food is ready, he walks me through the shelf of condiments, pointing out what's spicy and what's not. I don't interrupt, even though I spent most of my life in Arizona..

We eat as we walk slowly down the sidewalk. It's a street packed with bars and restaurants, all expelling patrons. It's two am. We'd chosen the mild and medium salsas, but our lips and tongues are on fire. In his hands, along with a paper plate loaded with food, are a handful of napkins. He drops a couple on accident, but when he sees my look of disapproval, drops a few more on purpose. "Pick them up," I say warningly. He keeps his eyes on me, still eating, and tosses another napkin to the ground. The sidewalk around our feet is littered with white napkins. "I'm serious," I say threateningly. His eyes twinkle with mischief. I toss my plate into a trash can nearby. "If you ever want your penis in my mouth again, you'd better pick those up." He stuffs his plate in the trash, ignoring me.

I grab his hand, and using all of my weight, try to force his arm to the ground where the napkins lay. I can't get him to budge. He's too tall and I'm laughing too hard. I yank his arm fruitlessly, and he starts smacking the seat of my jeans. Bargoers are all around us. Suddenly he wraps his arms around my waist and launches me upside down and over his shoulder. I shriek. "My phone!" I pat my back pockets to make sure nothing has fallen out. He carries me across the street and towards our building. When he puts me down, I say, "I feel like Satan took a dump in my throat." He sits on a brick planter by an ATM, and pulls me in for a kiss. Our movement triggers a harsh security light that floods us in fluorescence. "Thank you," I say towards the bank. "Lovely ambiance you're providing." He stands, turns, and starts to tug down his jeans. "I feel like mooning this building right now," he declares. And he does just that.

Back upstairs, the intimacy feels different. I attribute it to how couple-ish the night felt, socializing as we did with another couple. He falls asleep, and I lay there for a while, looking at the art on his walls. An oversized, unfinished canvas hangs directly in front of the bed. He's doodled on it with spray paint: a stick figure in whose otherwise empty head is written "canvas", with oversized quotes.

I sneak out before it gets light.

Dancing. Again.

2012-02-16T04:47:00.007-07:00

Figuring out where to dance in LA was like deciding which of Chaucer's turds to scoop up first. I didn't like any of my options, so I more or less held my nose and just picked one.

Yelp, online dancer community forums, and the club websites themselves were my only guidance. But each of those resources has pitfalls. Yelp tells me everything about what it's like to be a customer at Club X, but nothing about being an employee. Dancer forums are unreliable and largely outdated. Club websites tell me about the owner's taste in web design, not what I can expect from his actual business.

I chose based mostly on two factors: proximity to my apartment and positive Yelp reviews. I don't want to get any more specific than that for safety reasons. Suffice to say the club I'm at is within both train and biking distance.

I called the club one evening to ask whether they were hiring (though this is a formality - clubs will take on as many girls as they can). I was asked three questions: Have you danced before? Are you in really good shape? Are you over 19? I answered in the affirmative. I was told to come down the next day, and to bring everything I needed to work that night. When I hung up the phone, I stood in front of the mirror running my hand lightly over my stomach. I can do this.

The next day, I started getting ready at four in the afternoon. Buffing, shaving, oiling, lotioning, primping, preening, curling, and making up. I only packed one outfit in my bag. Seven inch acrylic heels with clear bases and black patent leather uppers, a pair of thigh high argyle socks, ruched black panties, and a sheer red Cosabella bra. I stopped at Wallgreen's on the way to the train station to buy gum and a padlock.

Auditioning to be a topless dancer is two parts depressing and one part hilarious. As with everything else in dancing, a sense of humor and ability to not take one's self too seriously is essential.

Here's how it goes: A girl takes off 97% of her clothes, and someone - almost always a man - evaluates her body with varying degrees of scrutiny, depending on, essentially, how high end the club is, and how attractive the other dancers. Sometimes girls will be asked to perform on stage. That's never happened to me. The only other "audition" I gave was in Las Vegas years ago. I, along with two other girls, changed from street clothes into our costumes, and walked in front of the club manager. That night, I was the only one asked to stay. That's not to say I was (as arbitrarily determined by one man's subjective gaze) any better a physical specimen than the other women. But I was extremely young and fresh faced, and that was the vibe of that particular club, at that time.

It's a weirdly matter-of-fact exchange of power. A girl is sized up, valued/devalued. Commoditized. How much money can this girl make me? In this way, the manager has the power to determine her fate. But I'd argue that the dancer potentially has some power, too. If she's pretty, if she has a great body - and, bonus! a great personality - he'll want her as an employee. It's in his interest. One great looking girl will attract another great looking girl to work there, and so on. Better girls (better should really be in quotes) = more customers, and wealthier clientele. And pretty dancers who are smart will leverage their looks not just against patrons, but against their employers, as well. More on that later.

While I stood there making polite small talk with this man - a pretense for him to surreptitiously check out my body - I couldn't help but feel like I was cashing in my chips. Collecting a blank paycheck for the weeks of amped up workouts, the nutritious eating. Even the social graces I've acquired over the years. I'm in pretty good shape for a 36 year-old woman; I won't discount that. But my smile, combined with an ability to put men at ease and get the conversation focused on them...that's where the money is. And honestly, it's not as deliberate and manipulative a maneuver as that sounds. Most of the time, I'm genuinely interested to hear their stories. I pride myself on having a cocktail's conversation worth of knowledge about a lot of topics (thanks, NPR!), so it's actually kind of fun and intellectually stimulating to engage with men of different professions and walks of life. In the past two weeks I chatted up a civil engineer (who was tickled pink when I could discuss light rail and the specifics of the LA metro), a graphic designer (!), an artist, and a tortilla factory owner, among others. To be a successful topless dancer, one needs to channel her inner geisha. And this is one aspect of the job I genuinely enjoy.

Anyway. I got the job. I very much like the club itself, if not the location. Again, I don't want to get too detailed lest I give away where I work to any would-be stalkers, but it's clean, large, well-appointed (as these things go), and fascinatingly high tech. The managers are extremely nice and easy to work with, and the girls are some of the friendliest I've ever met. (In fact, small world - one of the girls and I worked at the same place in Arizona, years ago. She's super, super cool and down to earth. Older, like me, no children, huge dog freak.) The only things I don't like are the clientele, which, with a few notable exceptions, is not my target market (more on that at some point), and the tip out rates, which are insane. The club takes a huge cut of our earnings. It's a complicated system, and I don't want to get too specific (because, again, that could give away my location), but as an example - if I earn $200 with one customer, the club takes $60 of it immediately. But when I talk about my earnings, I will always talk about what I walked out the door with.

In California, there are two types of adult clubs: fully nude, where no alcohol is served, and "bikini bars", where alcohol is served. At these clubs, girls are only allowed to take their tops off onstage (and have to remain at a remove from any tippers near the stage). Tops stay on at all other times, including during lap dances. This is completely different than Arizona and Nevada, the only other places I've danced.

I did not know this. No one told me this.

So, here I am on my first night, doing my first round of dances, boobs free and clear, la dee da, feeling all psyched to be making $20 in 2.5 minutes, when the DJ coughs meaningfully behind me. "____," he says (my stage name). "You need to leave your top on, hon."

This was my first performance review, in other words. My customer service was too good. I am such an overachiever.

I'm sure I'll be relating many an anecdote about work, so I'm not too worried about getting out every detail about the place, about how dancing works, etc. right now. But I'll summarize how things have gone. I've worked two of what I consider "long weekends" - Thursday through either Saturday or Sunday. The first, I made just under $1k in four days, working 4 hour shifts. Not terrible at all, and nothing to complain about. But the whole point of doing this is to be able to do so little of it that I can get a 2nd job - a REAL job. I need to have enough time and energy to be able to mount a professional life more or less from scratch, at 36, with nil experience or marketable skills. I have my work cut out for me. Dancing is exhausting, truly exhausting, especially at my age. So while I don't want to seem ungrateful to make $250-300 for a few hours of working, the fact is, I need to make at least that, if not more. The next week was much better. I made just about $1200 in three days. So I hit my goal and could take Sunday off, which I did.

So! Thaaaaaat is where I'm at, and what I've been doing in that area of my life. More updates on the remaining corners of my universe soon...

we could have paradise

2012-02-15T23:29:00.002-07:00

I've been obsessing about infographics and banners lately. Making these got it out of my system a little bit.

Feel free to use, repost, etc.

wet paint

2012-02-14T22:39:00.010-07:00

I came home from a walk tonight and when I got off the elevator on my floor, I could smell paint.

As I rounded the corner in my hall, I saw there was a large poster tube propped against my door. The tube was painted with still-drying black and red hearts. Taped to it was a handmade card, with Elizabeth painted in silver and gold, with flourishes and flowers. On the top of the tube was written ~~Tracy~~ Ellie. Inside was a two by three foot, black and white printed photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, the sky dark with fog. It's my favorite of his shots.

The card was signed, Made with love by your mo'fuckin neighbor, George (which is not his name).

I texted him. I love it. I may hook tonight in Hollywood just so I can afford a frame for it.

Meanwhile, in other Valentine's related news, one of my friends gifted his girlfriend a framed copy of his (100% negative) STD results.

theme for a late winter fling, part two

2012-02-12T10:54:00.001-07:00

It's past four when he texts. I'm awake, of course, watching Netflix on my laptop, bleary-eyed and knowing I should attempt sleep, but stubbornly refusing to try.

I inadvertently beat a guy up.

I mentally assess whether or not I'd be able to bail him out of jail, if need be. I have no money and no car. So, no.

What?? Are you ok?

By way of answer, my phone rings. His speech is slurred. There was a disagreement, at a bar. Jumbo's Clown Room, actually (I chew amusedly on this detail). Some guy refused to move, he needed to close out his tab, words exchanged, a sucker punch thrown from behind. The details aren't clear or particularly interesting, but I'm invited to come upstairs for a full account.

I hesitate. These late night/early morning visits are catching up with me, and I'm already exhausted. I also have plans to work the next night. I should definitely hang up, close my computer, and crash.

"I'll be up in a few minutes." I can hear his Cheshire grin when he says "Ok, see you then." Then something mumbled and I make out the word "baby" just before the disconnect. This is a thing between us. He occasionally calls me baby and I scold him. "Don't call me that," I'll say without much conviction in my voice. I don't explain why it's verboten. I don't need to.

The phone rings again immediately. "Yeah?"

"Just before I hung up, I said 'baby,' but I didn't mean anything. I was just..." He trails off. "I'll see you in a minute," I say, and hang up.

As I'm walking down the hall, I hear him step out of the elevator. I turn the corner, and he's wobbling towards me, grinning sheepishly. "I realized tonight that you look exactly like Joseph Fiennes in Elizabeth," I tell him, as we hug.

He ignores this. "I punched a guy," he reminds me. He's definitely still drunk. "I heard," I reply, and guide him back inside the elevator. He thumbs "PH" and slumps against the wall. "I feel really bad," he says, looking suddenly serious.

The story is repeated, with new, equally uninteresting details. He seems sobered by the second telling of events, his brow furrowed as he recounts his part in the clashing of egos.

Back in his apartment, I sit on his kitchen island, next to his goldfish, who swims in a glass jug filled with nearly opaque greenish water. "Roscoe needs a change," I observe. "Maybe you could squeeze that into your busy schedule of going out and starting bar fights."

He fills the dog's bowl with filtered water and starts to undress, in the middle of the kitchen, with the lights on. Mock pouting, he walks around the corner and gets into his bed. "I'm not speaking to you anymore," he calls out. "I wanted to see you, but you're just being mean."

I climb into bed with him, but leave all of my clothes on. I'm mentally exhausted, but know I won't be able to sleep. He makes a valiant if tipsy attempt to undress me, but I won't let him get further than my socks, which immediately go missing in the covers. I know he's seconds away from passing out. And he does, quickly. I lay there for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of him beside me, warm and solid. When I try to slide away, he wakes up, grips me and whines. "No, don't. You always leave me. Please stay with me."

This is a familiar refrain. I never stay the night at his place, and am given hell for it. I refuse to sleep with him, and I refuse to sleep with him. These are the arbitrary boundaries I have set, and they give me some small sense of control.

I relax back against him. "A few more minutes," I say soothingly. I know he doesn't want to be alone, even while he sleeps. I stroke the tattoo on his upper arm. When I feel his breathing level out, I reach for my phone. I entertain myself for a while by taking photos of him curled up on my chest. Eventually, when I think he's sleeping deeply, I slowly try to extract myself. He wakes and wraps himself more tightly around me, murmuring his objection.

"I have to go," I say softly. "It's really late." His grip doesn't loosen.

"I love you." I hear it, but don't register a reaction either verbally or physically. This is unexpected and mildly alarming, but I know he's just drunk. We've been seeing one another since early winter, but on the most lighthearted and casual terms imaginable: late nights, after we've both been out, separately; each of us wanting the company and comforts of the opposite sex. There are few phone calls, fewer actual dates. He's clever, so there's lots of text bantering. And there's kissing and cuddling and laughing and drinking and occasionally, pot smoking. It's a relationship of convenience, mutual affection and appreciation, and it's all either of us wants.

That said, I'm more than a little glad he's ten years my junior, lest I crush. Badly. He's handsome and sweet and creative and smart, and I'm glad I don't have to take him seriously.

"I love you." He repeats himself more loudly, and I'm forced to reply, a sort of hushing noise that doesn't feel like it adequately addresses the dangerous territory we're skirting. "Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know me." I feel slightly defensive when I say this, but it's true. He doesn't, really. The number of 100% sober conversations we've had can be counted on one hand. He doesn't ask a lot of questions of me, nor I of him. I tried at first, but he would deflect and joke his way out of any talk that felt even remotely serious.

He wants to be a kid with me, I know. To play up the age difference. It helps keep things safe that way.

He mumbles something about my cluelessness or unappreciativeness, and about my being his "favorite of everyone", then grows quiet again. I lay holding him a bit longer, and eventually make my escape despite his renewed, sleepy protestations.

I let myself out in the dark, and pad back to my apartment with bare feet. Chaucer, who is hopelessly in love with him, sniffs me excitedly. I refill his bowl with unfiltered water, and collapse into bed.

the last six months

2012-02-10T08:54:00.001-07:00

So! Now you know where I stood as of August 2011: broke and jobless. I'd long known that going back to dancing was a sort of back-pocket option - I'd banked on it, in fact - so it was no surprise to myself or anyone close to me when I walked through that door again. My friends and family weren't thrilled, and some of the newer people in my life just plain didn't know what to say, but no one was negative or critical. The consensus was something like, "You're doing what you have to do to. You're surviving. Just make it short term, ok? We want better things for you."

I never considered working in LA. If I was going back, I wanted to be in the place I knew, and was comfortable - the same club I'd worked in for years, in Tucson. My boyfriend agreed to watch Chaucer, so I booked a cheap hotel and flight, used my remaining $60 to buy some shoes in Hollywood, and headed to Arizona.

My first trip out, I made about $5k in two and a half weeks. It was intoxicating. Not only was it the first money I'd earned in years, but it was a shit ton of it, and it came fast and easily. I paid bills and got my head above water. I even had enough left to buy clothes for the first time in nearly a year.

A few days into my stay, I got in touch with a friend who has a home in Canyon Ranch. He spends his summers in the northwest, so his house sits empty for months at a time. He let me stay at his house and use his car for the rest of my visit in August. This was a huge, huge help. Instead of slumming it in a crappy hotel and blowing cash on taxis, I had a luxury home and car at my disposal.

Monsoon season had started, and every day I'd wake up to stunning views of the clouds rolling in. There are no sunsets more beautiful than those in Tucson, during the monsoons. In fact, let's take a break from imagining a near middle-aged Ellie tottering around on 7 inch acrylic heels to enjoy a few:

Ok, where we were?

I missed my dog terribly while I was gone. In fact, it was how painful it was to be without him that made me realize I needed to break up with my boyfriend back in LA. Because I didn't miss him. He was - he is - an awesome, incredible person. But I had rebounded straight from my husband into a relationship with him and it wasn't the real thing. We both knew it, had tried whole-or-half-heartedly to make it work, but it was in its death throes by the time I boarded my flight to Tucson. The independence and confidence boost of making money again - of realizing I was going to be ok - was the last nail in the coffin. I was ready to be on my own.

Or so I thought.

Because then I met someone else.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking straight into yet another relationship. With zero downtime in between. Zero. I know: incredibly fucked up and stupid, for myriad reasons. This ended up being one of the worst decisions I've made in recent years...but with a huge silver lining.

The relationship I had with this man nearly killed me. It finally imploded just after Christmas. It started out as a long-distance thing, as I was still living in LA and he lives in Tucson, but very quickly became full time when I (and Chaucer) stayed with him for weeks at a time in the fall. He paid all of my bills while we were involved, because I was not allowed to dance while I was involved with him. Yes. I said "allowed". At some point maybe I'll do a post-mortem on my relationship with him (or maybe I won't - he's consumed more than enough of my time and attention), but suffice to say, he's abusive, controlling, and dangerous, and my time with him damaged me badly.

But, as I said, there was a silver lining. Here's the best way I can explain it: I left that relationship completely shattered, broken into a hundred pieces. I was bewildered by what had happened to me, by the fact that I'd allowed someone to hurt me so terribly. It forced me to take a good, hard look at my life, and to ask some very difficult questions of myself. So as I picked up each of those hundreds of pieces, I looked at them very closely for clues and answers.

I'm still in the process. It's the most intense self-examination I've done my whole life. It's made me exponentially more self-aware and conscious of what I want from life. My time with him broke me down to almost nothing...but it gave me the opportunity to rebuild myself exactly in the way that I want. And so I'm strangely grateful for the experience. But very, very, very glad it's behind me.

As soon as that relationship ended, I threw myself into the process of trying to find a real job, here in LA. The week before February rent was due, I faced facts: I still didn't have a job. I was broke again. I did NOT want to go back to Tucson anymore. It just wasn't feasible - the travel costs, the expense/hassle of boarding Chaucer or sticking him at a friend's, the time and energy lost in the back-and-forth.

The same three choices I'd had last summer were staring me in the face again. I knew that if I gave up the ghost, left LA, tucked my tail between my legs and went home to my dad, my chances of getting stable, long-term professional work would be diminished hugely, if not thrown out the window entirely. There's just nothing doing in the small town where my father lives.

So, I did what for me was much, much scarier than sneaking of to Tucson to dance in a place I knew well - I decided to suck it up and try to find a place to dance, here in LA. I figured that if I made enough to survive short-term, I could start pursuing other work. Real work. Something that could sustain me professionally and financially, beyond the non-solution of dancing.

All I wanted, and I wanted it desperately, was to find a way to make it work. I was more than willing to work my ass off, if it meant I could stay in a place with vast professional opportunity, have a second chance at adulthood, and keep close to the things I'd come to love in Los Angeles: my friends, my beautiful apartment, access to incredible resources of transportation, culture, work, and education.

And that's how I started dancing again, at the age of thirty six, with nothing but a promise to myself to get my shit together once and for all.

And that's why you're reading this story: accountability and motivation.

a contextual history of your blogmistress

2012-02-09T19:53:00.010-07:00

I've been blogging sporadically for the past five years or so, and I know some people have been reading my drivel, amazingly, the whole time. I don't know, maybe these poor souls can't afford library cards or Netflix accounts or something.

But I'm not sure how much anyone really knows of my personal history. And since I've decided to go all-in on this blog, I figure I should address that. I can't expect people to become personally invested in my life if they don't know who the hell I am, or where I'm at in my life. This is obviously a highly abbreviated history. I'm only hitting the points that lend relevancy to my present state of affairs - why I'm doing what I'm doing, both online and off.

I'll start when I was 19.

I worked my first year through college as a barista in a bookstore, then as a waitress. One day, one of the guys I worked with told me I should apply to cocktail waitress at a strip club. He had girl friends who were making a killing doing it, he said. At the time, I was barely surviving on my waitressing wages. It was summer in a college town in Tucson - no one was around to spend money at the campus restaurants where I worked. I was leaving with single digit earnings some nights. So I decided to take his suggestion. I applied at a club down the street from the university, and was hired that day.

I lasted six months as a cocktail waitress. The money was good, very good compared to working in a restaurant. But I saw what the dancers were making - and how easily they made it - and I was envious. I'd also gotten comfortable enough in the surroundings that it didn't seem like such a big deal. So one night, I traded in my cocktail tray for a bra and garter set, summoned every ounce of courage I could, and walked on stage, shaking with terror.

That first night dancing, I made almost $400. From there, it only went up. Most nights I'd make between $500 and $600 - even weekdays. Weekends I'd make closer to $800. There were several times I made over $1000.

I was 20 years old.

It was surreal, to say the least. My classmates were starving students eating Top Ramen and worrying about the return on used textbooks. I had a Platinum American Express card. Kids my age were excited to go to Lake Havasu for spring break. I took my boyfriend to Bora Bora. I lived in the most expensive apartments in the city and bought absolutely anything I wanted. I leased a BMW, then a Porsche. I got incredibly lazy about school. Apathetic, even. I was working for (what I felt was) a near-worthless English degree that would earn me pennies on the dollar of what I was making as a dancer. I'd drop classes half a semester in, then buy a plane ticket to Australia on a whim. I wasted incredible, egregious amounts of time, potential, and money during my twenties. But the money I was earning didn't decrease, even as my age increased, and I couldn't bring myself to stop. Eventually, I got serious about school again, and re-enrolled full time.

I was 30 when I finally graduated. And I was still dancing.

That was when I met my husband. It was only then that I stopped. But I didn't get another job. I became a full time girlfriend, then fiancé.

From 2007 through 2008, I blogged for Weddingbee, a wedding planning site. I stumbled across Weddingbee when I got engaged, saw that it consisted of (unpaid) user-contributed material, and immediately decided that I wanted to be one of their bloggers. So I set up a sample blog, published the required two weeks worth' of material, and applied. The publisher and site creator liked my writing enough, and happened to have a need for an assistant editor, that I was actually offered a paid job as contributing editor. I took it, and did that for a while. I was Miss, then Mrs. Lovebug.

I blogged nearly daily about pretty much every aspect of my wedding planning. It was an excellent distraction from the actual engagement itself, which was disastrous. I don't say that with animosity. It's just a fact: my husband and I never should have gotten married, and I'm pretty sure we both knew it. It's amazing how far denial and an utter lack of self-awareness can take you down the wrong path in life. It's hard to look back at my Weddingbee posts, because they feel disingenuous, and almost manic with a need to project an image of happiness. That's not to say every moment of my engagement and wedding was awful. But things weren't as great as I felt the need to make them seem.

My husband and I separated after two and a half years, in the fall of 2010, with relative amicability and what I hoped was a sincere determination to remain friends. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way, and we haven't spoken in months. Luckily, ours was a relatively stress-and-complication free severance. No kids, no money to fight over (I didn't pursue alimony), very little in the way of stuff to sort out. The biggest question was who'd get the dog.

I got the dog.

I spent several months after our separation in an unproductive, sometimes self-destructive haze of denial and fear. I didn't work. I didn't even try to get a job. Financially, I survived by living on the inheritance I'd received from my mother's death in 2009. Emotionally, I survived by spending most of my time with friends, and the boyfriend I met weeks (weeks!) after my separation. The people in my life did everything they could to try and nudge me in the right direction, but I wouldn't budge. I blogged a bit during this time, on and off. I'd write about the fun things I'd done with my friends one day, and the next, about the crushing depression and despair that would swallow me up unexpectedly. I ended up deleting all of the posts I wrote during this time, plus pretty much everything I'd written since my marriage. It all felt like an incomplete picture, and again, disingenuous. It was around then that I really started to question why I was blogging at all.

When money got thin, I went back to designing blogs, a small online hobby/business I'd created in the years prior. It didn't go well. I was still too much of a wreck emotionally to stay focused, and the technology had long since outpaced my skill set. I'd never been much more than a hack, when it came down to it.

I procrastinated looking for a real job. I was terrified of entering the job market at 36, with very, very little in the way of marketable skills and experience. I'd completely fucked myself by dancing for so long. Writing my resume was a sobering experience, to say the least. Sending it out, to no effect, was the reality check I'd avoided for about a year.

In the late summer of 2011, I ran out of money completely. I had three choices: #1, default on my lease and move myself and my 145 lb dog in with a local friend on the hopes I'd get a job quickly. #2, default on my lease, pack up my things, leave LA, and and move in with my father in a tiny town in Florida. #3, try to drum up some quick cash dancing. Yes, it had been years since I'd set foot in a club. And yes, I was at this point thirty-six years old. But it was, all cards on the table, the one thing that I knew I could do to make money fast. I knew, forgive a brief lapse of humility, that I still looked young enough and good enough to pull it off. And that I was hungry enough, desperate enough to stay in LA where there is so, so much more potential and opportunity, to swallow my pride and do what would seem to most to be unthinkable.

And this, dear reader, is where I humbly submit that maybe, just maybe, my blog has the potential to be somewhat interesting because, yes, dear reader, I chose door #3.

1.28.12

2012-01-28T00:00:00.004-07:00

Sunrise, as seen from my kitchen window:

Songs I'm into lately:

1. Motive - Nobody Eats My Dinner
2. Mike Del Rio - Feel Good
3. Rhett Miller - Cynthia Mask
4. Matt Pryor - Freakish
5. City and Colour - The Girl
6. Psychic Friend - Once A Servant
7. British Sea Power - Waving Flags
8. Bombay Bicycle Club - Always Like This
9. Grafiti6 - Stare Into The Sun
10. Friday Sundemo - Drops

israel: people

2012-01-27T00:00:00.009-07:00

I don't know that I'll ever get over my nervousness, when it comes to photographing strangers in a foreign country. I had a bad experience in Ireland, where I inadvertently terrorized a teenage girl by taking her picture. In my defense, the shot would have been amazing: she was in a full Catholic school-girl ensemble, leaning against the doorway of a pub, one knee bent jauntily. She was beautiful. And she licking an ice-cream cone. But there must have been a miscommunication when I asked her permission, because as I started to frame the shot, she gave me a horrified, bewildered look and shot off. I think I was actually more traumatized than her. I just stood there frozen, my cheeks blazing, feeling like an idiot.

Ever since then, I'm scared of being intrusive, of offending or annoying with unwelcome attention. But as hard as it can be for me to summon the courage to photograph people I don't know in a place I've never been, I do it, because it's worth the occasional awkwardness. When I revisit my travel photos, it's the ones of people that I appreciate most. They're more evocative to me of the experience, more representative of a country than its monuments, or its landscape, or its food. They conjure moments that I remember vividly: my bumbling attempt to speak a stranger's language is met graciously, and I'm granted a few seconds of someone's time - maybe even a smile. Or, the exchange is wordless: I raise my eyebrows inquiringly, and lift my camera slightly. May I? A solemn, almost imperceptible nod in reply. Click-click-click! I check my camera's LCD and look up with a smile: Thank you. I give a thumbs up: I got it.

An exchange of humanity and kindness, in the time it takes the shutter to close.

One of first things I started doing a few years ago is asking, when I arrive in a foreign country, how to say Do you mind if I take your picture? in the local language. But when I asked Ezra, our Israeli guide, to teach me the correct words in Hebrew, he shook his head. "No, no," he said. "Just take the picture. Don't ask. If they get upset, say I'm sorry, leave them alone, whatever, but don't ask. Never ask."

It wasn't long before I understood why asking wasn't a good idea, particularly in Jerusalem. Every single Orthodox Jew that caught me training my lens on him turned away abruptly, or touched his hat to block his faces, like this:

The first couple of times it happened, I was mortified and felt awful. But I figured they were just generally camera shy individuals. No. It's a cultural thing. Portraiture is not welcome in the Old City, and I received a few sharp looks that told me exactly where I could stick my $800 lens.

But while it was discouraging at first, it ended up making for a fun challenge. And it was better this way. I wouldn't expect such sober-minded men to mug cheerfully for me. That would be out of character, unrepresentative, phony. Capturing people in their element, wearing natural expressions as they go about their business - as long as the shot comes out crisp and clear, these, too, are photographic victories. Provided, of course, no one is bothered or offended in the process. And no one was, as far as I know. I got very good at being quick and discreet. I'd find a location with a lot of traffic, frame and focus the shot in advance, then lie in wait for (what I considered) a picturesque composition.

Jerusalem, quite obviously, is an extremely holy place. People come from all over the world to pray there, to press their supplicating hands against the Wailing Wall, and wedge slips of paper into its cracks. Presumably, these notes are filled with their most private and precious hopes and prayers, thought out possibly years in advance of this moment, this opportunity to feel as spiritually fulfilled as possible.

In such a setting, it's hard not to feel a little...boorish, when you want to take their photo.

I didn't stay near the wall very long, for this reason. I tried to make it a surgical strike. I stood back, outside the entrance area, taking it all in for a few minutes and just watching. Listening to the Islamic prayer, broadcast to all the city from a few hundred feet away, haunting and lovely. Then I quickly and quietly approached the wall, snapped what I hoped would be some good shots of the women around me, and backed out again (it's considered disrespectful to turn your back on the wall).

Then I realized that I wouldn't be able to get shots of the men unless I went back to the wall and pretty much dangled my camera over the division (the men's and women's praying areas are separated by a five foot wall). I walked back down and stood on my tippy-toes, peering over as best I could.

You could easily spend days just wandering around the Old City. The winding alleyways and cobblestone corridors are filled with shops, temples, churches, schools. School children play in courtyards, or troop down the street in excited, laughing clusters.

I was completely captivated by these young men. They struck me as the Jerusalem equivalent of the Superbad gang, and I wondered what their experience of adolescence was like:

Outside the city gates, a group of little boys stood waiting with their rabbi for a bus:

Security around the Old City is, understandably, tight. It's pretty surreal to be there and realize you're in the most hotly contested real estate in the world: all three Abrahamic religions stake a claim to the ground you're walking around on - and the stakes couldn't be higher. I overheard someone say at one point, "World War III will be launched over this land right here." Sadly, he was probably right.

There are heavily armed guards at all of the city's entrance gates:

Israel practices military conscription - there's a mandatory two and three year enlistment period for women and men, respectively. All 18 year-olds must serve in the Israeli Defense Forces, though are some exceptions (including Orthodox Jews and Israeli Arabs). Interesting facts: Israel is one of 24 countries that allow openly gay individuals to serve in the military. It's also the only country in the world that requires deaf people to serve (in non-combat capacity). Women are allowed to pursue any position that men may, including combat. The only stipulation is that if the position requires advanced training, her two-year enlistment may have to be extended to three.

I will cop to fully flirting, to get this pic:

To their credit, these groups of soldiers - teenagers, largely - were quite focused on their duties. I had to work pretty darn hard to get any of them to break the fourth wall and look my way.

After serving their two or three year commitment, most Israelis - now about 20 or 21 years old - take a full year or more to travel internationally, before heading to university. This is considered a sort of "decompression" period, after their time in action. When you consider that Israel constantly faces threats from both without and within its borders, and that, no, these kids aren't pulling some cushy reserve time, you can understand how necessary this break is. Indeed, up in the Golan Heights we watched some training exercises with kids - again, eighteen and nineteen year olds - practicing formations with tanks and full artillery.

So it isn't until Israelis are 22 or 23 that they enter college. The age difference in itself is an interesting disparity, when compared to American kids. Now, think about what it is they've been doing for the few years prior: serving active military duty and traveling the world. These young men and women have now seen and experienced things that most grown adults stateside haven't. They're vastly more mature and more...sobered by their experience of life, by the time they pursue higher education. Their world view has been informed and expanded in a way that the typical 23 year-old American's, arguably, has not.

Juice carts are all over the place in the cities. Ten shekels (about $3) for a cup of freshly squeezed pomegranate or grapefruit juice.

Dried fruit is also a popular street food. In the Old City, I bought a package of dried, sugared strawberries to share some of the group. They were gone in ten minutes.

This guy chatted me up outside the food court at Masada:

And this guy caught me trying to get a shot of he and his friend rigging up a boat, in Tel Aviv:

Some muslim men outside a mosque in Bethelem:

These kids were such little hams. A few of them walked by with arms linked chummily, but when I whipped out my camera to snap a shot, another half-dozen appeared out of nowhere, loathe to be left out:

theme for a late winter fling

2012-01-26T00:00:00.018-07:00

summer

Moving day, and two of my friends are helping me schlepp stuff two blocks over from my old place into the new one. We're in the lobby of my new building, waiting for the elevator, loaded down with boxes and bins. I'm exhausted but excited. Ding! The elevator doors open, and a dark-haired young man steps out. He's wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both of which look expensive and fit him well. He's tall and lean but well muscled, with broad shoulders and a model's features: symmetrical face, strong jaw, full lips. He's easily ten years younger than me. My girlfriend, who's older than I am, shoots me a look as he walks by: Yum. I crack a joke about already liking the new place and am gently chastised. For one thing, I'm already seeing someone. For another, I'm not supposed to be looking at, talking to, or otherwise engaging any boys. I am in the midst of a divorce.

---

At the park, and he's walking his dog near where I'm walking mine. I notice that he has excellent posture. He looks over and says hello in a cheerful tone. His smile is expansive and genuine. Good god, I think. He really is handsome. His dog is a breed I don't particularly like, but I call out anyway, "Cool dog." "Thanks," he replies. "He takes after me." I'm struck speechless by this unexpected bit of goofiness. It's LA, after all. Be cool or die. I can't think of what to say back, so I just smile and steer Chaucer past.

---

Late at night, in my building. I'm taking a load of laundry to the machines on the top floor, having lost all patience with the impossibly slow washer/dryer combo in my unit. I'm a hot mess: tank top, sweats, no bra or makeup, unbrushed hair. The elevator doors open to let me out, and he's standing there. "Oh!" I say, flustered. "Hi there." I silently curse my sloppiness. We step past one another. As I'm walking down the hall, he calls out from inside the elevator, in a slightly too-loud voice: "Where's your smile?" I turn and look back, unsure that I've heard him correctly. He's grinning, looking sheepish and silly and happily self-conscious. It occurs to me he's likely drunk or high or both. "It's so cute," he says more quietly, just before the doors shut. I stand there for a few seconds, blinking, utterly nonplussed. I vow to never leave my apartment without lip gloss again.

---

The sidewalk outside my building. I'm heading to dinner with the man I'm dating, who has his arm around my shoulders. He's walking towards us on the sidewalk, carrying grocery bags. As we pass, I meet his gaze. He glances at my date and back at me, then looks away.

fall

The park again, at the informally designated hour for dog socialization and play. He and his dog join the group. Chaucer, who's been chasing a Jack Russell, breaks off from playing to greet them. It's the first time our dogs have actually met, and after a moment's consideration, Chaucer decides he's none too impressed. The feeling, apparently, is mutual, and before either of us know what's happening, there's snapping and lunging and barking and mayhem. We get them apart. I'm mortified and apologetic. He's polite but seems kind of annoyed and pissed. I drag Chaucer off. "Thank you," I say to Chaucer as we walk home. "I really appreciate the cock blocking you did back there." He trots happily alongside of me, wagging his tail and panting. He glances up at me in response. No problem, his look seems to say.

---

The building lobby, in the late afternoon. We're both walking our dogs. They're returning home; we're leaving. I yank Chaucer out of the way, scared of another scuffle. "No, no," he says. "Let's let them try again." I hesitantly agree, and let out the slack on Chaucer's leash. There's a second or two of calm sniffing, and then it's tooth and nail and chaos again. After we break them up, we each try to put the blame for the fight on our own dog. He says something about his having rescue issues, while I explain that mine has a newfound intolerance for anything more threatening than a shih tzu. This is the first time we've exchanged more than a few words, and I detect a mild New York accent. Once Chaucer and I are alone outside, I remind him what an asshole he is. The characterization doesn't seem to bother him.

winter

Late night on a weekend, in the lobby of my building. I'm waiting for the elevator, which has been slow all day. He walks in the front door, says hello, and positions himself in front of the other elevator. He glances over at me, then up at the floor indicator above my elevator, then at the indicator above his own. "I'm going to win," he says. I'm tipsy from being out all night. I look over and narrow my eyes meaningfully: challenge accepted. A few moments of silence while we wait and watch. Ding! He spreads his hands and smiles. See? I laugh, and we step into his elevator together. He relaxes against the wall, and I mirror him on the opposite side. "How was your night?" I ask. "It was good," he says. "I had a show." We're both drunk and rather shamelessly staring at one another. "A show?" I inquire. "Yeah," he says. "A gallery exhibit. I paint." As I'm getting out on my floor, he tells me the name of his website and encourages me to check it out. "My email's on there," he adds. "In case you see anything you like." I'm not sure if I'm being hit on or sold something.

I bring up the site as soon as I get back to my apartment. I'm afraid I'll forget the address by morning if I don't. The site is a comprehensive portfolio of his various creative works. There are images of his paintings, which are large, mixed media stencils of Hollywood icons. There's a link to a blog with short stories, and several clips of short films he's written and directed. There's a photography gallery, with mostly portraits, cityscapes, and some architectural shots. I read his bio and glance at his Facebook page and Twitter feed.

I sit down and compose an email. Hey ---, it's Ellie, from the building (with the killer dog who's not really killer, except, apparently, where your pets are concerned). Thanks for sharing that link. Very cool stuff. Although, if you want my advice, you really need to expand your talents a bit. Film, photography, art, and writing only? I mean, no offense, but that's pretty weak... I save the draft and go to bed.

The next afternoon, I review what I've written, but make no edits. I click "send", and almost simultaneously, a realization hits me: unless he assumes the numbers in my email address stand for July 5th, he's going to infer that I'm thirty-six years old.

That night, I receive four long paragraphs in reply, the wittiness of which give the impression that there's a good deal of thought behind them. And possibly some alcohol. In the letter, I'm invited to come see his paintings in person, in his apartment, which is six storeys up from mine. I'm still not entirely sure whether he's trying to sell me something, so I reply with equal playfulness, while making a point to assure him of my destitution. The invitation is enthusiastically repeated, along with more witty repartee. I text the phone number that's part of his email signature, and he texts back. We message one another here and there over the next week, bantering and battling wits, and the following Sunday, he invites me up to his apartment for a drink.

letter to a questioning believer

2012-01-25T07:04:00.011-07:00

I'm incredibly excited for you. I, who have been one of your harshest critics. I smiled to hear you say I'm not sure. Aren't those three of the most liberating words you've ever spoken? Doesn't it feel good, to admit you don't know? You're in good company. Nobody knows. Least of all those who claim to.

You're on a path. The same one I'm on, though yes, you're much further behind me. I'll walk slowly, if you'd like, so you have a chance to catch up. There is so much we can talk about, so much I can show you that will bring you joy and peace and excitement for your life. Questions will beget more questions, and you'll fall in love with asking and wondering. Rationality and reason and observation and experience - they are ballast which will give you something sure and strong to cleave to, when superstition and nonsense and fairy tails start to fall away.

You've made strides others don't have the strength to make. You've asked yourself questions they refuse to even consider. Whereas others don't have the courage to even light a candle, you are shining a spotlight. With so, so many people watching. That is a brave and noble thing, and you are to be commended.

Keep going. Keep thinking. Keep asking questions, of yourself, and of anyone who tries to tell you they know The Truth. Keep deciding for yourself. Keep feeling the exhilaration of autonomy.

Look at the world around you. Take in every sight, smell, sound. Once you realize it's all there is, that this life is the only one you've got, it will all become infinitely more precious to you. Every day will be a treasured gift.

Some will try to scare you by saying you're on a slippery slope. And do you know what? You are. You know in your heart that you are. And that's ok. You shouldn't scramble for purchase on ground that won't hold you up anyway. The foundation is shaky - shakier every day. The more light you shed on it, the more you'll see that. Give in, and let your doubting mind take you on a journey. It may be fast and furious or it may be plodding and slow. It may take months and or it may take years. Go at your own pace. Let yourself slide down the slope, because there is something good and firm to land on at the bottom.

There's your good heart and your strong, curious, questioning mind - and those are all you need. You already know it. Don't be afraid to feel it. Some day, you'll even be able to say it. You won't be alone when you do.

israel: surprises

2012-01-24T08:41:00.008-07:00

If I were forced to come up with a one-word description of my trip to Israel, it would be "surprising."

I was surprised by how much I liked the country itself. Israel was my father's suggestion, not my own. Not that I didn't jump at the chance to go, please and thank you very much - but for various, complicated (or maybe not so) reasons, the Middle East didn't rank high on my list of desired destinations. But in every way it could surprise me, it did. I expected to feel "meh" about it, and I was beguiled, in spite of myself. It was prettier, more charming, and more accessible than I thought it would be.

outside the Old City

I know. Metal detectors and machine guns don't exactly say "accessible", but there you have it.

I was surprised by how geologically diverse it is, for a country so small. Israel is about the size of New Jersey. I stupidly assumed its terrain would be much the same all over. But even though it only takes a few hours to drive from the West Bank to the northern border, I didn't think about the variations in elevation, which are substantial. The changes in landscape I saw driving from Jerusalem down to the Dead Sea, then back up north to Tiberias were wholly unexpected, and added a pleasant dimension to the trip - particularly since there was so much driving.

A few shots to show the difference in landscape:

the Dome of the Rock, Jerusalem

Jerusalem, left, and Bethlehem, right

Jerusalem

near the West Bank

the Dead Sea

Galilee

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the tour group experience. My father is 73, and finally starting to slow down. His days of unscripted adventure - at least of the type to unfold in a foreign country - are behind him, and understandably so. So, rather than wing it on our own (as we did in Argentina), we went to Israel as part of a tour group. I expected to feel constricted and bored. Embarrassed, even, to be a tourist as opposed to a traveler. I know: Oh, the horror! But the tour experience was such a delight, truly. For one thing, I was exposed to exponentially more information than I would have if we were alone. When you travel without professional guidance, tour books are pretty much your only source of historical and political context. And smart phones, if you spring for an exorbitant int'l data plan (I didn't). Those, and maybe the plaques/pamphlets of the places you visit. But thanks to having an incredibly knowledgable and enthusiastic professional guide (who'll I'll gush over more thoroughly below) we were relentlessly hammered with enough information to edit the Wikipedia page on Israel, should we so have desired.

So yes, I rocked a headset and a name tag, and I followed a little flag around.

We took turns wielding the flag, like gradeschoolers.

my dad rocks an earpiece and name tag.

reading a relevant bible passage (for historicity's, not religiosity's, sake)

But while at first I felt silly and self-conscious about these trappings, it wasn't long before I gave myself over to the cheerful cheesiness of it, and fully plugged in. In fact, I loved it. There developed a sense of camaraderie amongst the group, despite our socioeconomic diversity. I was the 2nd youngest person on the trip, and the youngest woman by about twenty years. But despite not having any "peers" in the group, I befriended some fun, funny, and smart people sitting (where else) in the back of the bus.

This is Jeff and Claude, single doodz traveling together. They were a couple of my buddies.

One's an ER doc and the other, an ER nurse (a total career change from being in construction all his life! I love that!), and they were more than happy to oblige my morbid curiosity about the crazy things they'd seen over the years. I'll never look at sex toys at quite the same way again.

I also befriended our bus driver, Yuval, who was cool as hell, and became my sort of post-activities drinking buddy. He knew I was itching to get a taste of night life, and offered to be my escort, so I'd feel comfortable and safe going out and having a wild night in a foreign country. Here he is:

Really nice guy, who had interesting things to say about his time in the military (at 42, he wishes he could still serve; I've never encountered patriotism like that I saw in Israel), the conflict in the Gaza Strip, and religion in general. He also acted as translator for me, when I'd want to ask a local a more complicated question than "where's the bathroom?".

It was a relief to have some people to socialize with a bit. My dad was fully absorbed in the trip in his own way, and he's not a particularly outgoing guy. He was also asleep by 8pm every night.

At one stop our tour guide was being so...thorough in his explanations that my inner thirteen year old lost all patience and I invented a game to play with my tour friends back on the bus. It was called Guess That Ass.

I know. I had the once-in-a-lifetime experience of going to Israel, and I took pictures of peoples' butts. I know. I swear I was fully attentive and learning for 95% of the trip; it's just that towards the end, I got a little burned out on all the history, of which there is a lot in Israel.

But far and away the funnest day hanging out was at a winery in Tiberias, where we were guided by vintner and undiscovered YouTube sensation "Shalom". Here's Shalom:

"You want I should show you where we stomp the grapes?"

And yes, his accent was as thick as it looks. The guy was awesome, and my greatest regret is not filming him a little bit, because his mannerisms and expressions were comedy gold. And that probably sounds horribly patronizing, but really, I have the utmost respect for the man. He's very knowledgable and engaging and great at what he does. He's just a colorful guy. In fact, we declared him an SNL character waiting to happen.

That night we bought a bottle of wine and walked down to the waterfront (the Sea of Galilee). We strolled on the boardwalk, wandered through shops, got hammered, and swapped war (read: divorce) stories. Another night, back in Tel Aviv, some of the guys treated me to dinner at a beachside restaurant where we noshed on all kinds of Israeli tasting dishes and a whole sea bass, filleted table side. Afterward, we stumbled upon a chocolate bar, where we picked out two truffles each, which were wrapped and presented to us in a gold foil, embossed box. We sat and savored them slowly, comparing notes while we discussed, awesomely, women's issues. The next day, apparently one of the guys told my dad how impressed he was that I'd "held my own" amongst a table of professional men, which is kind of lulz-y, for myriad reasons, but a nice compliment nonetheless.

And here's Bill, who was with us that night:

Bill went running every night before dinner, no matter what part of the country we were in. He's 72. I love that (though it sobers me a bit to consider he's only a year younger than my father, who couldn't run if his life depended on it). When he found out I'm a runner, he insisted I join him. I declined, disappointed I hadn't packed my running shoes. "I only have Converse," I explained, pointing at my Chucks. "Those will do fine," he said. "Meet me in the lobby at five-thirty." Bill is 6'5", a trial attorney, and a former basketball coach who's raised two of his own daughters and a handful of foster kids. Bill brooks no dissent.

I exchanged contact info with a few people, and we've kept in touch since the trip. Unexpected, really nice connections. But far and away the most unexpected and awesome connection I made was with our tour guide, Ezra.

It started the day we went to Masada, near the Dead Sea. On the drive down, we saw several Bedouin camps in the hills along the freeway. Ezra told us about their culture, customs, and involvement in Israeli society, generally. I was fascinated and intrigued, and ended up in a semi-heated discussion with him about Bedouin women's rights (think arranged marriages and child brides). From that point on, Ezra was my bud.

He made a point of making himself particularly accessible, helpful, and friendly to me. In the Old City, when he'd notice me trying to get some particular shot (usually involving the stalking of children or rabbis or other unwilling subjects), he'd slow the group down to give me more time. When one afternoon I expressed a desire to leave the group and go exploring alone, he discreetly took me aside to give me some advice about how to handle what he called the "inevitable" and unwanted attentions of local men. (For the record, only once was I ever made to feel uncomfortable, and that was partly my own fault - more on that later. But I've traveled solo before. I went to both Greece and Australia alone, and I like to consider myself somewhat travel savvy, as a woman.) When my dad was being crabby and indecisive at lunch - and I was losing patience - Ezra quietly and calmly took charge of the situation and ordered for him. When he saw me struggling with getting good, low-light photos, he came over and demonstrated how to use settings on my camera I'd heretofore been unfamiliar with. On the bus, he'd come back to my seat and I'd show him some of my favorite shots from the day. At various stops, when there'd be down time, we'd seek one another out to chat about the place - or even just share a few moments of companionable silence, while the others hustled around snapping pics and hunting for souvenirs. He'd tell me about his travels (the man has been everywhere; next on his agenda? Trekking Burma. I die.) and career as a life-long freelance tour guide (since he was 24!) What an incredible life.

Ezra was unfailingly cheerful, diplomatic, engaging, energetic, and warmhearted, and I just adored him. I clicked more with this 63 year-old man than I've clicked with anyone in years; he just kinda got me, in a really lovely, fatherly way. When I had to say goodbye to him, I bawled. Bawled. He got pretty emotional, too. Even now I'm getting choked up thinking about him. Such an amazing man.

I made a very special friend in Ezra, and I'll never forget him.

2010

2012-01-24T00:00:00.001-07:00

American Wife

2012-01-23T06:39:00.013-07:00

American Wife is the story of a quiet, mature, and passive girl of modest, middle-class origins who falls in love with a boisterous, childish, and narcissistic blue-blood of unlimited privilege and means (but stunted emotional and intellectual growth). That man eventually becomes the president of the United States, and Alice finds herself in the curious and somewhat surreal position of being a "secret" liberal in a very conservative space. In other words, it's a semi-fictional re-imagining of the life of Laura Bush. While the names of all the key players of the administration have been changed, as well as locations and some other historical/geographical details, the actual persons on which the story is based are immediately recognizable.

There's a strong sentimentality for the Midwest, which, being from Michigan, I identified with and appreciated. The Great Lakes states aren't the sexiest setting, but they're evocative in their own, esoteric way. And I loved the character of young Alice. Sittenfeld created a girl who, even in grade school, has such a strong, sure sense of herself (and of right and wrong) that one can't help but root for her - even when her life grows more tragic by the minute. Indeed, the disastrous and disturbing set of circumstance on which the entire plot hinges is established with a series of scenes so vivid and unexpected and horrifying and believable, I couldn't look away (I was reminded of The Dive From Clausen's Pier). It was these moments like those, that constitute Alice's formative experiences, that I found most compelling. I loved watching her perspective on life form. There are also some intriguing supporting female characters, though at times it felt like all they did was talk about the men in their lives. So much for the Bechdel test.

But while the story remains her own, the overbearing presence of Charlie (representative of George W. Bush), necessarily sucks away some of the momentum of Alice's narrative. Though I guess that's largely the point. Alice is a woman who has perfected the art of self-sublimation. She stifles her own needs and impulses in order to support those of her husband. At any rate, that's where I lost heart. Alice as a protagonist is incredibly appealing in her younger years. But the passivity with which she accepts her husband's increasingly bad (and at times abusive) behaviors was hard for me to stomach. The more selfless, generous, and gentle-hearted she appears, the more selfish and mean Charlie seems to become.

The last fifth of the book felt disappointingly abridged to me. Rather than flesh out the story of Charlie's governorship and journey to the White House, Sittenfeld chose to condense those years into a sort of montage that, while consistent and colored with enough detail to carry the story to its present-day closure, felt abbreviated. And, this must be said, a good portion of the book's closing feels like one big apologia for W's warmongering. Yes, there's introspection on the obvious, prolonged cognitive dissonance with which ~~Laura~~ Alice must grapple in her role as first lady. But Sittenfeld is far too forgiving, far too lax in her approximation of Alice's complicity.

So sayeth this liberal, anyway.

Still, on balance, a good, compelling read that I'd recommend.

Hear the NPR interview with Curtis Sittenfeld about American Wife here.

last year

2012-01-19T01:40:00.059-07:00

Last year I moved out of the loft I shared with my husband, and got my own place, with my money, not his. Last year I got the last dollar I'll ever see from him. I downsized my entire life to 600 square feet, and felt glorious freedom and terror in doing so. I spent many, many days curled up being sad about the death of my marriage, and being frightened about my future. Last year my dog became my best friend, and together we walked for hours at a time. I talked to him so much in public that people probably thought I was crazy. I talked to him so much in private that he probably thought I was crazy.

Last year I took the Metro to Hollywood and Pasadena by myself, and walked and walked and window shopped and people watched, and sat in coffee shops alone, thinking and reading. Last year I tried to be friends with my husband, and failed. I went to Tucson for weeks at a time, and stayed at a friend's place in Canyon Ranch. I got facials, massages, and nail treatments, and felt, down to the tips of my fingers, how incredibly lucky and privileged I am. I went running in Sabino Canyon and on the horse trails behind La Mariposa. I went camping and watched Chaucer wade knee-deep into the lake to retrieve stick after stick, until the shore was littered with driftwood. Last year I realized I'd rather live in a tiny, roach-ridden walk-up in the city than a mansion in the suburbs. I fell in love with minimalism and came to truly understand that mo' money really does = mo' problems.

Last year I ate peanut butter on celery for the first time, when a 10 year-old introduced me to its pleasures. I perfected my own tomato sauce. I started walking to the grocery store almost daily.

Last year I went to an all-day trance festival, rolled on ecstasy, and danced like my life depended on it. I smoked pot in the penthouse loft of an artist friend, and giggled until I couldn't remember where I was. Last year I danced and danced and danced. I danced at straight clubs and gay bars and concerts and foam parties and house parties and in my own kitchen, while my dog watched. And I drank. I drank wine at dinner parties and tequila at friends' houses and overpriced Ketel One in WeHo bars. I drank sweet tea vodka and lemonade by the gallon.

Last year I had two significant relationships with men. The second one nearly killed me. The first one nearly killed him.

Last year I had the best sex of my life.

Last year I kissed a man two decades my senior, and one a decade my junior.

Last year I got chewed out by a good friend for being a self-indulgent, whiny, self-pitying, and self-destructive little shit. I watched another good friend move to San Francisco and take a piece of my heart with him. I learned a lot about myself, and my limitations and shortcomings. I took at hard, unforgiving look at myself and wrote a list of everything I need to work on. It's alarmingly long.

Last year I discovered Young The Giant, and 7 Minutes in Heaven with Mike o'Brien. I tried to stop reading the blogs of people I dislike, and failed. I started reading novels again. I saw Old 97s in concert, pressed up against the stage like a teenager. I saw Devotchka and went to the Edwardian Ball in Hollywood. I went to awards shows and rallies and protests, a 300-person pillow fight, and a pop up water park. I modeled in a professional photo shoot and I took hundreds of photographs for my own pleasure. I went to museums and parks and beaches, and tried, in my limited, car-less way, to start taking advantage of this amazing place I call home.

Last year I came to appreciate Los Angeles in a way I never thought I would. Yes, there's glitz and glamour. But you can find shitty, superficial social climbers anywhere in the world, down to the most podunk of towns. You'll get out of LA as much as you put into it. Hate traffic? Take public transportation. On a budget? Go to the beach, or Runyon Canyon, or any of the other dozens of free attractions. Don't like Hollywood? Come downtown, where there's a whole different, relaxed and familiar vibe. The culture and energy in this city are like nothing I've ever experienced.

Last year I went to Israel and strolled the cobblestones of Jerusalem and bobbed in the Dead Sea. I went to Bethlehem, the Sea of Galilee, Haifa, Golan Heights, Tel Aviv, and Jaffa. I stood at the Western Wall and listened to the Islamic call to prayer, getting the chills not because it was scary, but because it was so stunningly beautiful to hear. I walked along the cliffs of Masada and I dipped my feet into the River Jordan where John baptized Christ. I looked across the northern border to Syria, where people were fighting for their lives, and felt dizzy at the vast and arbitrary polarity of my existence compared to theirs. I visited a kibbutz where eighteen year-olds from places like Brazil and Iceland came to be a part of something bigger than themselves. At night, after sightseeing, I drank in the mixed, amicable company of Israeli-born Muslims and Jews and Catholics. They answered my pressing, probably intrusive questions about their religions with patience and good humor. I saw the settlements in the West Bank and the wall around Palestinian territories, and watched teenage girls wear assault rifles as comfortably as American coeds wear Coach purses. I got cursed out by an antiques peddler in a street market, for trying to haggle with him over the price of some old postcards. I watched nomadic Bedouin tribespeople - full-fledged, voting members of the Israeli citizenry - caravanning across the desert on camelback. At the Tel Aviv airport on the way back home, I went through eight security checkpoints before getting on the plane. At some moments I felt relief at being an American; at others, shame.

Last year I was 40 miles from the Arab Spring.

Last year I made less money than I have since I was 18. It was more money than some people in this world - many people - make in a lifetime. I spent it on rent, food, alcohol, and premium dog food. Last year I was grateful for the ability to make any money.

Last year I read The Magnificent Ambersons and pledged to read every Pulitzer-winning novel published. I learned "cognoscenti" and "backronym" and "parvenu" and after the death of Kim Jong il, I became obsessed with North Korea.

Last year I stopped and started my blog half a dozen times. I toyed with the idea of multiple blogs. I deleted posts not in an effort to whitewash, but in an attempt to find a solid direction, an identifiable voice. I made grand plans to blog about all the things I was experiencing, and to go back and update my blog with the things I'd been doing months earlier. But I couldn't find the time or energy or enthusiasm for it. Last year I realized that while I very much enjoy blogging, all the really good stuff happens when I'm AFK. Life happens AFK. I can either sit here and spend hours furiously documenting it, or I can be out there actually living it. But I can't do both.

Last year I realized how precious privacy has become, in this age of information ubiquity. The distaste I had for Facebook hardened into pure disgust, and I pulled back out once and for all. I decided never again would I include other people's photos or names on my blog without their permission. I realized that other people are not props to be trotted out onto the virtual stage of my life. And yet, I feel an urge to share, to show. To celebrate and honor the love and laughter my life is (usually, but not always) filled with. This seemed like an elegant, if abbreviated solution.

Last year I started thinking about what, if anything, I want to share on my blog in the future. What I want to get out of blogging. I didn't figure it out.