Saying Yes to Adventures (Blog #113)

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When I woke up this morning/afternoon, the first thing Bonnie said was, “Would you like to go on an adventure?”

“I sure would,” I said. “Does it involve leaving this couch?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It involves going to a wig shop.”

“Then yes, I definitely want to go on an adventure.”

So that’s what we did–we went to a wig shop–but only after we had coffee and tacos. I mean, no one wants to shop for “spare hair” on an un-caffeinated, empty stomach. That’s just asking for trouble. Anyway, I’ve never been wig shopping before, so it was like an education. There were wigs of every size, shape, and color, and Bonnie taught me about about curls, tight knits, and lace fronts. “It’s an entire world,” she said. “An entire world.”

This afternoon we went back to Annie’s Plates studio to hang the rest of the curtains and put together a piece of furniture for the reception area. Hanging the curtains was “just okay,” but I can’t tell you how much fun I had reading the instructions and putting together the furniture. (I know–it’s crazy–a man who reads directions. What can I say? Miracles never cease.) I guess it reminded me of working with Legos. You start off with a bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about, and then all of a sudden–something wonderful appears.

Voila!

This morning I got a message from my friend Micah. Micah and I graduated high school together–our class had a grand total of twelve–but I don’t think we’ve seen each other since, except on Facebook. Anyway, he said he noticed that I was visiting Austin and that he was too–and would I like to get together?

“I sure would,” I said.

Another adventure.

So this evening Bonnie and I met Micah and his wife, Lindsey, in downtown Austin at a restaurant called Searsucker (it’s like the pants, but spelled differently and tastes better). Y’all, I don’t mean to sound like a total redneck, but this place was fancy. I mean, the men’s bathroom was fancy (I didn’t go in the women’s). They actually had throw-away hand towels with their name printed on–every–single–one. I was totally impressed. First the bar I went to the other night has a box of condoms in the bathroom and now this. It really is the little details that make you feel important.

So get this shit. No fewer than six different waiters–each one of whom I’m pretty sure had a thirty-inch waist–came to the table to ask if we were done with our cheese board EVEN THOUGH there were still three pieces of cheese and two pieces of bread left on it. Like, You’re not planning on EATING that are you?

Well, yeah, we were. I mean, is that the wrong answer? Are you not supposed to eat the food here?

Anyway, after a delightful evening of appetizers, drinks, and conversation with Micah and Lindsey, Bonnie and I ran a quick errand, and then she dropped me off at a swing dance at a restaurant that had a dance floor made out of old bowling lanes. How creative is that? Well, the dance was about an hour’s walk from where we are staying, so I wasn’t sure how I was going to get back. (Bonnie had stuff going on, and Austin told Uber to go screw themselves.) But–honestly–I’d had enough to drink that I wasn’t worried about it. “I’ll figure it out,” I said.

So just about the time that the dance was winding down, Bonnie walked through the front door and said, “I went back to the place to change before going dancing myself, but I remembered I gave you the key.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “I guess that would come in handy.”

So bummer for Bonnie that she got locked out of the house, but yippee that I didn’t have to try to navigate my way home with the brainpower you get when you have a disappearing cheese board and three scotches for supper. (I can’t imagine it would have been pretty.) Well, as it turns out, Bonnie and I were both craving breakfast foods, so we stopped at an all-night diner, where I ate chicken and waffles and drank two more beers (I had one at the dance)–because all of that seemed like a good idea at the time.

When we finally made it back to where we’re staying, Bonnie took off for her late-night Kizomba dance, and I walked to buy a pack of cigarettes–again because it seemed like a good idea at the time. (Like you’ve never done anything you’ve regretted later.) Anyway, on the way back from the gas station, a guy sitting on the curb asked if I had a light. Well, whenever that happens and I don’t have a lighter, I always feel so useless, like maybe how Clark Kent would feel if little Timmy were stuck in a well on a day when his Superman outfit just happened to be at the cleaners. But tonight I was like, “You bet I do. I JUST bought it.”

Here I am to save the day!

Well, the guy says he has his own smokes–American Spirits–but they’re in his backpack. So he starts digging around in there, digging around, but not finding anything. And I’m just standing there, like a slightly impatient, kind of tipsy superhero with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, if you can imagine that sort of thing. So I’m waiting, and the guy’s still rifling through is backpack and says, “DON’T WORRY, I’m not going to pull a gun out of here.”

Well, I hadn’t thought of that, but I immediately thought, What if he has a gun in there? What if I die over a pack of Camels and the twenty-four dollars in my pocket? That would seriously suck.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. As it turns out, the guy was drunk (too), and he invited me to sit down. Why not? I thought, Yet another adventure. So he started talking about this guitar, this cheap piece of shit he bought on Amazon. “I know it’s nothing special,” he said. “But this case, it’s got all these bumper stickers on it. This case has been all over with me.” And then he told me about some of the places he’d been–Louisiana–Florida–I can’t remember where all. But Florida is where he got the bumper sticker about equality. “I like girls,” he said, “but if you’re not hurting anyone–and it doesn’t involve animals or children–I don’t see why it matters who you sleep with.”

“Why don’t you take some of my cigarettes,” I said. “Here, take a bunch. I really don’t need them.”

So he took a couple but kept searching his backpack for his American Spirits. I said, “You’ll find them later. It’s like when you try to remember a name, but can’t, and then you eventually remember it when it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, a name always matters,” he said. (This next part is where his drunk wisdom started to miss the mark.) “Not everyone is born with a silver spoon–or a golden spoon–or a platinum spoon–in their mouth. But a name–that’s something.”

“What’s your name? I said.

“Woody. My name’s Woody.”

Bonnie and I have talked a lot this week about meaning, the way we as humans interpret the events in our lives, whether or not everything is random. I’m open to the idea that it is, but I personally like the thought that reconnecting with an old friend in one of my favorite cities or sitting down with a stranger for a cigarette aren’t accidents. I can’t say what it all means or if it does even, but I can say what it means to me. I really have come to see life as an adventure to say yes to, and that includes wig shops and small reunions and talking to people I wouldn’t normally talk to. From the outside, maybe it looks like a bunch of pieces of wood and some building materials, maybe it looks like a bunch of bumper stickers slapped on an old guitar case. A bunch of random pieces, everything scattered about. But put it all together, and Voila! All of a sudden, something wonderful appears–a piece of furniture, a life, an entire world.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When we expect great things, we see great things.

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The Book of Yourself (Blog #112)

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This afternoon Bonnie and I started hanging curtains at Annie’s Pilates studio. (Are you on the edge of your seats yet?) I say started because we only got them hung in one of the two rooms, since we ran out of time because earlier we decided to 1) sleep, 2) pack to move from one Airbnb to another, and 3) eat tacos instead. Anyway, it’s all coming together. Here’s a picture of the reception area. I’m in love with the colors, as well as that awesome  coffee table and the black bowl on it that holds all the chocolate candy (not pictured).

Yesterday we made two trips to the same store to buy an essential oil diffuser for Annie, but none of us could get it to work today. So we made another trip, and while Bonnie drove, I read one of the five books I’m currently working my way through. When we got to the store, the girl behind the counter looked at us like we were idiots and didn’t know how to operate a machine with only one button on it. “You could always call the company and see if they could help you,” she said.

I immediately wanted to pull my hair out.

No.

I wanted to pull her hair out.

“We just bought this, and it clearly doesn’t work. I personally don’t want to call the company and waste any more time,” I said. So the lady ended up calling the for us, but guess what? The company was closed for the day. So rather than take a dumb store credit, we walked out not only with a broken diffuser, but also with higher blood pressure.

Think of Jesus, Marcus, think of Jesus singing Kumbaya. Come by here–me–come by here.

In need of a break, Bonnie and I checked into our second Airbnb for the week and poured ourselves a couple of beers in the frosted mugs we found in the freezer. (Talk about a classy joint!) But on the serious, this place is super duper cutie pie. (Hi, my name is Marcus, and I talk like a junior high cheerleader.) It’s a bungalow behind a main house, so it sits back off the road.

Here’s a picture of the bed, right as you walk in the door. Notice the lamps on the wall are table lamps that have been mounted sideways. (Everyone should be so lucky.) Anyway, I love creative people.

Here’s my “bedroom,” which is also the dining area. That’s a vintage lamp above the table, and the couch transforms into a bed. Also, the vinyl floor is by Allure and comes from Home Depot, which I only know because I installed one just like it once. (It’s okay if you don’t care. I really don’t either.)

Outside there’s an honest-to-god fish pond with a waterfall, which I can hear running now. It’s beautiful and relaxing, but it’s not helping me stay awake to write.

While Bonnie rested earlier this evening, I read more in The Artist’s Way. I’m currently on week four of twelve, and although I’ve been really pleased with the whole program so far, this week’s assignments include something called “reading deprivation,” which is exactly what it sounds like. No reading–for a week–seven whole days. Uh, wait, but I read all the time. I’m currently reading five different books. I’M AN OVERACHIEVER. I can’t–stop–reading. But I guess that’s the point, to give yourself a break, to focus more on what’s going on in YOUR head rather than someone else’s.

Shit. No more escaping into books.

So after a momentary internal temper tantrum (and finishing the chapter of the book I was reading in the car earlier), I stacked up my books, my Kindle, and even a magazine and shoved them to the other side of the table. Honestly, it felt like locking my own offspring outside in the cold. I’m sorry, Daddy’s got other things to do right now. But he loves you–never forget that–and will be back in a week.

For dinner Bonnie and I walked to a place called Haymaker for sandwiches and drinks. Y’all, my Bloody Mary had a Slim Jim and a piece of cheese in it. How cool is that?

Welcome to Texas!

After dinner I’d planned to attend a swing dance while Bonnie went to the first night of the Kizomba (Latin dancing) festival she’s attending this weekend. However, I was pretty wiped out and decided I could use some time to myself, since asking strangers to dance and meeting a lot of new people can take a lot out of me. So instead I went for a walk, learned a little bit more about the layout of Austin, and came back and took a bubble bath in the most adorable little bathroom you’d ever want to spend time in. Check it out.

I actually spent over an hour in the tub, something I rarely do. I dragged a little cabinet over, set my laptop on top of it, and watched the first episode of Will, TNT’s new series about William Shakespeare. Then I dried off and plopped down on the pull-out couch and watched the second. The show’s pretty good, and apparently Shakespeare was a PILF. (The P stands for playwright. Figure out the rest.) I seriously thought about binge watching all the episodes, but I’ve got this blog thing going on, so I exercised self-restraint. (It does happen occasionally, but it’s not currently happening now with regard to the potato chips I’m eating.)

At one point during the show-watching (not in the bathtub), I picked up my phone and clicked on a couple of articles that had been posted to Facebook. But in the middle of reading the second article, I remembered that I’m not supposed to be reading, so I stopped. This could be harder than I thought.

Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to this not reading thing. As much as I enjoy reading, it’s always on my “to-do” list. I see all the books I own and all the others on my Amazon Wish List, and it feels like I’ll never get them all read. (I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but you probably won’t.) So there’s always a slight amount of internal pressure–read more, learn more, grow more, BE MORE! The thought of shutting that down for a week sounds nice. Plus, it will give me more time to do other things–practice yoga, sing Kumbaya, get mounted sideways.

A girl can dream.

The more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside you, the happier you are.

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me she didn’t have any friends with whom she spoke every single day. Even with her best friends, she said, they only spoke once a week, twice tops. “I spend that time with myself,” she said, “I work on myself.” Well, at the time this wisdom was easy enough in theory but harder in practice. I had a number of friends with whom I spoke or communicated with daily, and I couldn’t see that changing. However, eventually, all those relationships failed or morphed into something else. As a consequence, I’ve spent a lot of time alone over the last three years. Sometimes it’s been difficult, of course, but I know myself better now than I ever have. As it turns out, the more you get to know yourself, the more honest you are about what’s actually happening inside of you, the happier you are. If you stay on the right path long enough, I imagine you get to a point when you don’t have to have all the distractions–watching television, texting with friends, reading five books at once. Rather, you simply read the book of yourself, the only book you truly can’t do without.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"It's never a minor thing to take better care of yourself."

 

 

Polishing My Mirror (Blog #111)

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I must be over exhausted and overstimulated. Austin will do that to you. I started the day with butter coffee (it’s a thing), ran errands, errands, and more errands, and ended it all with swing dancing to three different live bands, two of which included western swing and steel guitars. Be still my heart, y’all. I could seriously fall in love with Texas, all its dancing cowboys, all it’s tattooed ladies. It may have already happened.

There’s a really strong chance.

Also, I found out there’s a beer called “America.” What can I say? I pledge allegiance. God shed his grace on thee.

This afternoon when Bonnie and I left the house, I somehow forgot my phone on my bed. I seriously don’t know how it happened. I mean, I might as well have left my penis behind–that’s how attached I am to my phone. And yet, I survived. The world didn’t stop spinning. That being said, I don’t have a lot of pictures to share from this afternoon’s adventures. Try not to be too upset.

The two big miracles today were 1) Bonnie and I convinced Annie that it was a good idea to have an area rug in the waiting area of her new Pilates studio and 2) we found curtains (for two separate rooms) we all agreed on. These are, of course, interior design miracles. The plan tomorrow is to hang the curtains and put together some of the furniture for the studio, so I’ll post pictures then. (Trust me, I won’t leave my penis–er–phone behind again.)

Tonight I went to a dive bar called The White Horse. I’d been warned that it smelled like urine, and it did. (Nothing like the aroma of piss on a hot day.) But once I got used to that, I had a fantastic time. I actually knew a couple of people there, and met some others. My friend Laura that I saw last night was there for part of the evening, so we danced several times. So get this shit. After one of our dances, a stranger came up, introduced himself as Jessie, and gave me a shot and Laura a beer because he liked watching us dance. (I think that was a first for me.) He said Austin had been his dream city for four years and that he just moved here three days ago. How cool is all that?

Here’s a picture of Jessie, me, and Laura (in order of appearance). Cheers!

Here’s a video of the second band, The Gin Racers. Ugh. One of my friends said this kind of thing goes one ALL THE TIME in Austin. As the t-shirt on the bartender said, “Only an asshole wouldn’t have fun here.” (My apologies if that’s you.)

In addition to wonderful live music and dancing, The White Horse has this other thing, a shelf above the urinals in the bathroom. I’m sure that doesn’t mean much to you ladies, but it was perfect for resting my elbows on–well, one elbow anyway–and I kept thinking, If I had a beer, I could set it on this shelf while I pee. Anyway, I thought it was seriously considerate, and if it were up to me, there’d be more shelves above urinals in the world. (Make America Great Again.)

After leaving The White Horse, Bonnie and I stopped at the closet food truck we could find, and I got a brisket sandwich (the guy gave me extra brisket because they were about to close) and some sort of barbecue mac-and-cheese sitution. Y’all, it was delicious. As Laura said yesterday, “There’s no reason to eat bad food in Austin.”

Here’s a picture. Practically health food, right?

On the surface, today was great. And it was great. I got a lot done, ate a lot of good food, had a great time dancing. Underneath the surface, I’ve had a headache for three days. It kind of comes and goes anyway, but it’s been worse since the car wreck. My muscles are tight and basically like, “What the hell?” Additionally, I’m kind of worn out and do have a small knot on my neck from the bee sting yesterday. AND I have a toenail that looks like it’s going to rot off because it apparently takes a hit when I run uphill or downhill. Anyway, my body’s not exactly doing what I want it to. (Is anyone’s?)

So yea. I’m sure I could find some other things to be frustrated about if you’d like me to go on. You know how little things add up. Personally, whenever things in my physical world and body aren’t going completely my way, my tendency is to feel hopeless and defeated. But I’ve been trying–trying– to work on patience, to not demand perfection–whatever that is–in this moment, maybe ever. It’s not easy.

Tonight at the dance a handsome, smooth-chested guy that looked like Ricky Martin on steroids struck up a conversation about dance and said he’d just taken his first lesson. Like a lot of people in his same position that I’ve talked to over the years, he said, “I’m not very good.” To which I replied, “Just shake your bon-bon.”

(I didn’t actually say that.)

The universe isn’t going to strike you patient.

Anyway, whenever new dancers say that to me, I think, Of course you’re not–that’s why you take lessons. Unfortunately, I’m finding that learning to be patient (with my body, myself, or even someone else) is a lot like learning to dance. You can’t just wish it to happen. The universe isn’t going to strike you patient. You have to practice. And that means there has to be something for you to be patient about.

A stiff neck maybe. Perhaps a relative.

This afternoon I picked up a book of poems by Rumi, the Sufi mystic and poet. I’ve been wanting one for a while but couldn’t find one that was “just right” until today. I’m not very far into it yet, but there’s a short poem that’s stuck with me this evening. It says, “If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?” This I think means that the process by which we step into our full glory isn’t always a fun one. Getting ourselves clean of internal frustrations and resentments isn’t pleasant. But we can’t let ourselves come apart at every unpleasant thing. Rather, if we can endure the rubbing, hopefully we’ll find ourselves capable of reflecting more light, more patient and therefore more in love with the world around us.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Love  is all around us.

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Hooray, We’re Here! (Blog #110)

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Bonnie and I spent all damn day shopping. Well, okay, I slept until noon, AND THEN we spent all damn day shopping. FINE. We also stopped for tacos, and–out of the clear blue sky–two Old Fashioneds poured themselves down my throat while I just sat there and let it happen. I mean, you have to pick your battles. ANYWAY, except for all of that–we spent all damn day shopping.

It was exhausting.

We bought a welcome mat at Target that we thought would be perfect for Annie’s Pilates studio. We didn’t tell Annie, so don’t go blogging about it or anything. Anyway, it’s super cute and–well–welcoming. Not only is it in the color family of the studio (teal, turquoise, blue, cyan), but it also says, “hooray you’re here!” Hooray, you’re here! What a perfect message–here could mean here at the studio–here in Austin–here on the planet. I just love it. I’m seriously considering buying one for my house–except I don’t have a house. Of course if I did, I’d probably have to put a note on the door that said, “Welcome mat does not apply to 1) government officials, 2) anyone trying to convert me to a religion or sell me a vacuum cleaner, or 3) little children hocking raffle tickets, buckets of popcorn, or overpriced candy bars.”

In those cases, Hooray, you’re leaving!

Here’s a picture of me and a pillow from Target that says, “Every day is an adventure.” I tried to look as unexcited as possible because I like ironic humor. Well, shit. The grammar nerd in me is not happy, since I just noticed that whoever made the pillow wrote “everyday,” instead of “every day.” One word instead of two. First the president and now this. Seriously, folks–we’re going downhill fast.

Here are the tacos we stopped for, at a place called FoxHole. Technically only I stopped for tacos because Bonnie stopped for pizza. But since I ate half of it, I guess I stopped for that too. Anyway, it was a delightful lunch, and the moral of the story is–shopping burns A LOT of calories.

After refueling, we went to Z Gallerie (and a hundred and three other places) in search of the perfect curtains–which are apparently harder to find than the Holy Grail. (Later we did end up with something that MAY work but has to be ordered.) Anyway, we certainly had fun trying. Check out this cool plate Bonnie found. The text on the plate is probably a more accurate description of what transpired at lunch than the one I just offered. It says, “Butt weight…there’s more.”

It’s funny because it’s true. Don’t you hate that?

Before the shopping ended, while we were at a cool store called Arhaus (is a very, very, very fine house), I got stung by a bee. You read that right–a honey bee stung me. There I was, minding my own business, doing my small part to rid the world of ugly window treatments, and one of God’s little creatures planted his stinger right in the middle of my throat. Ouch! I was at the top of an escalator when it happened, felt a little prick on my neck (there’s a dirty joke there somewhere), and ended up brushing a freaking bee off my skin. Well, I immediately stepped on it. (Sorry, not sorry, fella. You fucked with the wrong guy.) And don’t even think about judging me for killing that son of a bee. (See what I did there?) He started it. Plus, apparently honey bees die when they sting someone anyway.

Here’s a picture of the stinger that little jerk left in my throat. Bonnie pulled it out. Yeah, Bonnie!

Oh, and don’t worry. I’M OKAY. My throat didn’t swell up, and I didn’t stop breathing (except to drink a beer later). I’ve had more of a reaction from a mosquito bite. Go figure.

Tonight I went to a swing dance at The Fed, The Texas Federation of Women’s Clubs. The Fed is housed in a gorgeous–gorgeous–historic building with a beautiful–beautiful–ballroom. Tonight was my first time there. Anyway, I ran into my friends Matt and Laura, who were two of the first people to start teaching Lindy Hop in Austin. I told them I wanted to move to town, and Laura said, “Come on! This city will love you.” Matt added, “Most of us artists have day jobs, but those are easy enough to find.”

It was the perfect thing. Most the time when I travel to dances, people are “nice.” But only now and then do I get a warm welcome like the one I got from Matt and Laura, one that ends with the exchanging of phone numbers and an “I hope to see you later.” Honestly, it felt like–Hooray, you’re here!

Later Laura introduced me to some friends, and when I mentioned I’d like to move to town, one of them said that jobs were hard to find. Like, Uh, good luck. And–internally–the weirdest thing happened. Normally I would have been immediately discouraged, started thinking about how difficult it would be when I finally get around to moving. But instead I thought, “That won’t be my experience. Jobs are easy to find.”

When the universe speaks–listen.

When I got back from the dance, I went for a long run, and I started thinking about how much my perspective has changed since starting this blog. Earlier today I told Bonnie that I thought all the lessons were actually learned over the last several years, but that I’ve only taken ownership of them in the last three months. Plus, I’m believing more than ever that I’m connected to something much bigger than myself. Lately I’ve been saying and writing the affirmation, “My dreams come from God, and God has the power to accomplish them.” My friend Suzanne says, “First you know something, and then you KNOW something.” That’s all I can tell you–now I KNOW it–when it’s time for me to move and when it’s time for me to get a job, I will.

There’s a quote by JD Salinger that comes from one of his short stories that says, “‘I was six when I saw that everything was God, and my hair stood up, and all,’ Teddy said. ‘It was on a Sunday, I remember. My sister was a tiny child then, and she was drinking her milk, and all of a sudden I saw that she was God and the milk was God. I mean, all she was doing was pouring God into God, if you know what I mean.'” What I love about this quote–God pouring God into God–is that it makes me feel better about those Old Fashioneds pouring themselves down my throat today. It was like–holy. It also reminds me to have faith. God can get God a job, if God thinks God needs one. As Caroline Myss says, “Life takes care of life.”

So get this shit.

When I got home from my run, there was a book sitting on my dresser called What the Bee Knows. I guess I took it out of my bag yesterday. And since–you know–I just got stung by a bee, I figured I ought to pick it up. (When the universe speaks–listen.) Well, the book was written by PL Travers and is a collection of essays about myth, symbol, and story-telling. So I flipped to the article with the same title as the book and found out that bees, in all time-periods and cultures, are a symbol for life–life as immortality, which could be seen as one thing changing into and out of many forms. God pouring God into God. Fascinating, right?

Butt weight–there’s more.

I suppose it’s ironic (funny) that in a number of languages the word for bee means “life” or “living,” especially when you consider how easily bees die when they either sting someone or get stepped on by a pissed-off curtain shopper. But just as Christ spent three days in the grave, bees spend the winter (three months) in their hives, only to reappear in the spring (raised to walk–er–fly–in newness of life). So today I’m reminded–by a bee sting of all friggin’ things–that although parts of our lives pass away just as insects and even people do, new parts of our lives continually spring forth. Life itself marches forward, every day is an adventure, and one part of God is always saying to another, “Hooray, we’re here!”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"There are a lot of benefits to being right here, right now."

Let’s Taco Bout Gentrification (Blog #109)

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Last night I slept on the futon in what used to be our dining room so my sister and her boys could use what used to be her room, where I normally sleep. (That was confusing even to me.) Anyway, I think I slept for two hours before my nephew Christopher woke up with a full tank of gas and essentially started crowing like a rooster, at which point my sister said (in the loudest whisper I have ever heard), “BE QUIET. YOUR UNCLE IS TRYING TO SLEEP!”

Trying, of course, was the operative word.

I’m just going to put this out there–I don’t think my nephew really gave a shit. I mean, I used to work at a summer camp. Asking a seven-year-old to be quiet is like asking a newborn puppy to kindly not shit on your brand new shag carpet. Good luck. But I do think my nephew tried–for a moment–and I guess that’s what matters.

There’s a saying in life–know when you’re licked–so I went ahead and got up and made half a pot of coffee for me and my sister. Upon seeing the pot only partially full, she said “That’s cute. You must not have children.” Point taken, lesson learned. While we both drank what coffee we did have, my sister scrambled eggs, and then we ate breakfast together while the boys fussed at each other and the younger one, Ander, got in a fight with the coffee table and lost.

Don’t worry, kids are practically made of rubber.

After breakfast my friend Bonnie picked me up for another road trip to Austin (Yippee!), which is where I am now. I wish I could make the ride down here sound terribly interesting, but there’s only so much you can say about borrowing and drooling on your friend’s neck pillow or buying a bottle of Coca-Cola because it has your name on it–almost.

From now on, you’re welcome to call me “Marco,” but if you think I’m going to answer “Polo,” you’re sadly mistaken.

When Bonnie and I first got to town, we stopped by her daughter’s new Pilates studio, which just opened today. (Part of the reason we’re here is to help decorate the studio.) From there we checked into the Airbnb where we’re staying for a few days. Y’all this is my first Airbnb experience, and it’s so neat. Really swell. I guess they are all different, but this one is part of a lady’s house that’s been sectioned off, and it’s super cute, super eclectic, super Austin. Here’s a picture of the couch. Later Bonnie hung the sock monkey from the chandelier. (Why not?)

Here’s a picture of the front door taken from the couch. The stained glass window has a piece of tin foil on one side, but Austin’s the type of place that makes you think maybe that was part of the design. Bonnie said, “I love that everything is unique. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is too matchy-matchy.” I said, “It’s nothing like a hotel. It feels like home.”

There’s a note on the refrigerator with the WIFI network and password. Get this shit. The network is named “Dogs Against Gentrification.” (Crazy, right? Like dogs give a shit–about politics, that is. I know, I know–Keep Austin Weird.) Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that I had to look up gentrification, which turns out to be the process by which a home or neighborhood is made to conform to the tastes of the middle-class. (Apparently it’s a big deal here.) Also, gentrification can be the process by which a person is made more refined or polite. (Think about what they did to poor Eliza Doolittle.)

This evening Bonnie and I walked to a restaurant called The Austin Taco Project, and it was ridiculously tasty. One of the advertisements said, “Let’s taco bout it,” so I think I’m going to start using that in all it’s varied forms–Let’s taco bout it–We can taco bout it–I’d like to taco bout gentrification. You know, stuff like that.

Wanna taco bout tacos?

Anyway, earlier today Bonnie and I taco’d bout pet peeves, specific phrases people use that drive us up our respective walls. Bonnie said she hates it when people say, “You’re having too much fun,” as if there’s a limit on how much joy a person is allowed to experience. I said I hate it when people say, “You should be ashamed of yourself,” as if any of us needs any more fucking shame in our lives. Lastly, I said I hate it when people say, “You’re being selfish,” which–rather than being a simple and accurate observation–is more often a technique used to get someone to behave the way someone else thinks they ought to.

At some point while seeing my therapist, I saw a picture on Facebook of a couple of people I don’t particularly like or admire, people I used to hang out with but don’t anymore because shit happens. Anyway, these people had the nerve to be together, in public, apparently having a good time. I mean, they were actually SMILING. (One of my friends tells a story about a movie or something in which one character says, “What? You just expect them to spend the rest of their life poor, alone, and brokenhearted?” To which the other character says, “Is that too much to ask?”) So I told my therapist about this, including the part that I hated that it bothered me at all. I said, “Obviously they can do what they want.”

She said, “Yeah. They’re–autonomous.”

This is a concept I have to keep reminding myself of, and although I don’t know much about gentrification, it sounds a lot like not respecting another person’s autonomy. I mean, it’s easy to do. I make judgments about other people’s behaviors all the time. You’re house needs to look a certain way. You’re having too much fun. You say fuck (more than I do)–you should be ashamed of yourself. Why didn’t you call me back? You’re being selfish. But the fact is that everyone–everyone–gets to decide what’s best for him or her. And so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s frankly none of anyone else’s business, including mine. (Ouch. I hate that.)

But the great thing about recognizing someone else’s autonomy is that in so doing you also recognize your own. As it turns out, whenever you give respect, you get respect, at the very least from yourself. And something wonderful happens whenever everyone makes their own decisions and doesn’t conform to what someone else thinks is best. After all, conformity is the stuff hotels are made of. Whereas that’s nice enough for a weekend, who’d want to live there? No, it’s much better when each of us is unique, and the lot of us aren’t perfect or too matchy-matchy. I’m sure the dogs against gentrification would agree–that’s when it feels like home.

Of course, if you think otherwise, we can always taco bout it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Love stands at the front door and says, “You don’t have to change a thing about yourself to come inside.”

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When God Speaks the Loudest (Blog #108)

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Last night–er–yesterday morning (whatever)–I went to bed at seven-thirty. The sun had been up for over an hour. I woke up at three in the afternoon, the latest I’ve slept in a week. It felt glorious. Having absolutely nothing on my agenda, I spent today reading. I even took a nap. Currently it’s two in the morning, and I’m still tired. But I’m committed to writing, so I’ll be awake for a while. I know that a lot of people wear exhaustion like a badge of honor, so I’d like to be clear–I’m not trying to put myself on a cross or anything. I’m just stating facts.

This evening my sister came to visit with her two sons (my nephews). The older one, Christopher, is seven and almost always bouncing off the walls. Tonight was no exception. As soon as he popped out of my sister’s car, he ran and gave my mom a huge hug, then sprinted to my dad and hung from his neck like a piece of jewelry. And then he (FINALLY) saw me, and as I scooped him up in the air he said, “I’m as tall as the house!” While all this went on, the younger boy, Ander, hung back and quietly observed. He’s three now, and he’s only recently gotten to the point where strangers–and by strangers I mean me–don’t make him cry. (What can I say? It’s a gift.)

Here’s a picture of Christopher with the Star Wars Lego set my mom gave him tonight. He said it was “the best gift EVER,” and immediately started to put it together. You’ll notice he’s wearing a t-shirt that says “limitless,” which I assume refers to his energy levels. He reminds me of that pink bunny with the drum, the one that keeps going and going. You should see what happens when my dad gives him candy.

I guess your perspective changes with age. Since Ander was born, I’ve been someone he’s been “not so sure” about. But tonight, he must have seen me differently, since we played ball together for the longest time, and he was giggling and laughing. He even let me pick him up. Mom had given him a little book that played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and Dad suggested I take Ander outside to look at the sky. So that’s what I did, and even though it was still light out, there were a couple bright spots up there. I’m guessing at least one of them was a planet, but like a toddler (or I) can tell the difference. Either way, I pointed at the stars/planets, and Ander tilted his head up in wonder.

Christopher’s perspective, in his words, is currently, “Everyone in this house is OLD.” And whereas I remember thinking about my parents and grandparents like that at his age, the older I get, the older “old” gets. I mean, it’s DEFINITELY not thirty-six, even though it is probably time to stop saying “totes,” “on the serious,” and “fo sheezy.”

Believe it or not, the boys eventually wound down and went to bed. (There may have been Benadryl involved.) So for a while it was just us adults, and my sister and I had a conversation about my sleep schedule. She said (in my own words), “I get that some people are night owls, but you’ve taken that concept to a whole new level. Couldn’t you write earlier, go to bed earlier?”

Well, this is a conversation I’ve had more than once in the last few months, about how my days and nights have been flipped around, how there are some days when I only see the sun shining for a few hours. Honestly, it’s not the easiest way to live, especially on days when morning doctor appointments are made. I mean, let’s face it–the world runs mostly on daylight. That being said, I can’t tell you how much I’ve come to love staying up late. This afternoon while I was reading, there was so much noise–the television was on, the dog was barking, and my parents were up using the ice machine, running the microwave, and sneezing (I mean, it is their house). Plus, the phone was ringing, and cars were going up and down the street.

So much noise. So many distractions.

But now, at three in the morning, it’s blissfully quiet. The air conditioner is running, a fan blows from a room down the hall, and every so often a mouse patters across the living room carpet. (I try not to think about the mouse.) But otherwise, it’s just me, the sound of my breath, the gentle clacking of the keyboard. I can actually hear myself think. Plus, almost every night something shows up on the page out of nowhere–it’s like I’m taking instant dictation from the divine–and I’m starting to think having solitude and quiet makes it easier for that happen. It’s like God comes out at night because he doesn’t like distractions anymore than I do.

I’ve heard that it’s a universal experience for people to wake up at three or four in the morning, which is why some people call it the witching hour. But I’ve also heard that that is the time when the world is most quiet, that between three and four in the morning is the best time to meditate because that’s when God speaks the loudest. Of course, when most of us wake up in the middle of the night, we just go back to sleep. That’s what I’ve always done. But now that I’m a night owl, I’ve gotten in the habit or going for a jog around one, two, even three in the morning. It’s cooler then, and I don’t have to worry about developing skin cancer or getting hit by a car. Almost always when I start out, I don’t know what I’ll be writing about later, but without fail, before I get to the tennis courts half a mile from the house, an idea has presented itself–out of nowhere. Just like that, God has spoken.

Hearing from God, I think, is worth not sleeping for.

Earlier this week I made an off-handed joke about staying up so late to my therapist during the first part of our session. Later she said, “Don’t judge yourself for that, by the way.” So tonight I’ve been thinking about the internal pressure I put on myself to “be like everyone else,” to get up with the sun rather than the moon. But under the moon, at night, I’ve grown so much more than I ever have during the day. The night, after all, is responsible for this blog. It’s the time when I’ve fallen in love with writing again, and–more importantly–fallen in love with myself again. It’s when my perspective has changed for the better. And whereas the day has only one star shining in the sky, the night has thousands, each one older than even anyone in this house, each one a limitless mystery that has something to teach us–if only we could get quiet enough, see the night through the eyes of a child, and listen with wonder to all God has to say.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In this moment, we are all okay.

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Looking for God in All the Wrong Places (Blog #107)

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Tonight I took Tom Collins on a date to the drive-in theater. Even though we’ve only been together for two days, I’m already in love. He’s super sexy, never argues, and has a firm rear end. Of course, as you may remember, Tom Collins is my new car, which basically means I took myself on a date to the drive-in this evening. And we had a great time, thank you very much–me, myself, and Tom Collins–and one of us really enjoyed his cheeseburger, candy bar, and popcorn from the concession stand. But I’m not going to say who it was.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m working my way through a twelve-week (but not twelve-step) program for creativity called The Artist’s Way. One of the things the author, Julia Cameron, is pretty insistent about is something called The Artist’s Date, a once-a-week ritual that involves taking your inner artist on a creative outing of some sort. You could go to an art museum, watch a play, or–like I did tonight–go to a movie. (Since I’m an overachiever, I went to a double feature.) Hell, I guess you could even finger paint, so long as it’s something creative and no one else does it with you. (Julia is a hard ass on this point–no guests allowed!–but I’m assuming Tom Collins would be an exception.)

Before I left for the movies (Despicable Me 3 and Spider-man: Homecoming) I almost broke Julia’s rule and invited someone else along. I mean, I’m pretty comfortable doing things by myself (and I’m a rule follower), but sometimes it gets old. Plus, for the last few weeks I’ve been more emotional than usual. I’ve cried a lot. I thought someone else would be a nice distraction from all that. But I went alone. I mean, I don’t think Julia would A) find out or B) give a shit or C) track me down and beat me up if she did, but I didn’t want to take any chances. After all, she said The Artist’s Date was one of the things that was “non-negotiable,” and “non-negotiable” was in italics, so she must have meant it.

It may be that the activities in The Artist’s Way are partly or completely responsible for all the emotions I’ve been experiencing lately. As it turns out, when you write down your thoughts every day or take time out to get quiet and be by yourself, all the things you haven’t dealt with yet come hurling up from inside you like undercooked chicken from a fast food restaurant. (It’s not fun–I don’t recommend it.) But really, it’s been like an emotional roller coaster–angry one minute, sad the next, happy the next. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. I wish I could tell you there’s a better way to make progress in life–like cigarettes, liquor, or a popcorn bucket that comes with a free refill–but I guess there’s not. As John F. Barnes says, “The key to healing is feeling.”

I hate that (but it does seem to be true).

Earlier this week, I spoke with my therapist about The Artist’s Way, the blog, and all the writing work I’ve been doing, and she referred to it as “planting a seed,” something that–at some point–would grow and bear fruit.

I hope she’s right.

After the movies tonight I decided it would be a fabulous idea to stop at the casino on the way home. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for a while, was in a good mood, and figured it would be the perfect way for God to rain down showers of blessings in my general direction. I do this sort of thing a lot–not gamble–but try to tell God how he could best provide for me. I come up with fantasies about writing contests I could win or how some random hot guy at the library could propose after we both reach for Liza Minnelli’s biography at the same time. And then, God, it’d be awesome–just swell–if he got down on one knee and said, “I’ve been waiting for someone with stunning hair like yours. And don’t worry about ever working again–my daddy’s rich.”

Well, this may come as a shock, but God doesn’t take orders from me very well, even though I remind him that they are just “suggestions.” Which means I lost twenty bucks at the casino tonight and I still don’t have a ring on my finger. But just to be clear, recently a large junk of my sinus surgery bill was forgiven, and a few days ago I got a sweet deal on Tom Collins. (Plus, I do have great hair, and that’s worth a lot.) So God provides, just never in the way I fantasize he will. I can only imagine he long ago got tired of saying, “Would you give it a rest, Nancy? Relax, I know what I’m doing,” so now he just waits for people to figure it out on their own.

As is the case with many superheroes, Spider-man is actually a real person named Peter Parker who wears boxer shorts and spends as much time fighting zits as he does evil villains. In tonight’s movie, Peter is a high school student, a sophomore, and even though he disappears–every time–right before Spider-man shows up, none of his friends and classmates are any the wiser. I mean, who would think some virgin quiz-bowl champion would be a superhero? Who would look for Spider-man in geometry class? But this is the mistake I often make with the divine–I get so focused on how I think it “should” look and act that I don’t see how it actually looks and acts. I get so focused looking for God “over there” that I don’t see him right here, right now.

There’s a quote by Ovid that Julia uses in her book that says, “Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish.” What I love about this quote is that it reminds me that God always shows up, the universe always provides, but rarely according to our pre-determined fantasies. Obviously, it’s not our job to tell God what to do and how to do it. Rather, our job is to be diligent and to plant seeds, trusting that at some point and in his own way–thank you very much–God will cause them to grow.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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Into and Out of the Woods (Blog #106)

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Some days it’s hard to stay awake no matter how much coffee I pour down my throat. Lately it seems like I’ve been getting close to half a pot a day, which may explain why even at four in the morning my mind is racing and I’m currently thinking about how much fun I could have with a hula hoop or a pogo stick, both of which I suppose are rather Freudian objects. But then again, what isn’t?

Today I finally finished the book about fairy tales I’ve been reading, and while discussing the prince’s slipping the glass shoe on Cinderella’s foot, the author pointed out that it was an act of commitment, like slipping a ring on your lover’s finger. Sounds sweet, right? But then he said that rings represent the vagina and fingers represent the penis, so the giving and exchanging of rings is clearly symbolic of sex (among other things).

I mean, I’ve been to a lot of weddings, but I’ve yet to hear a pastor share THAT tidbit of information.

Anyway, I’m short on sleep today because I got up early to go to massage therapy, chiropractic therapy, and physical therapy–all for the second time this week. Considering I also went to regular (mental health) therapy this week, I’ve had about all the therapy I can stand. (Change is exhausting.) That being said, my inner teacher’s pet felt like it got several gold stars in the last several days because my therapist told me that I was out of the woods, meaning that after over three years of therapy, I’ve tackled all the big shit. (Yippee!) She said (oh by the way) I’ve actually been out of the woods for a while now, that if that weren’t the case, it would mean one of us wasn’t doing their job. So that felt good, and then today the new massage person I saw told me my fascia was “very responsive.” (Why thank you, I thought no one would notice.)

But seriously. More gold stars!

If it sounds like my head is getting bigger than normal, don’t worry. The physical therapist, who’d told me earlier this week that I was going to “be cleared” today, told me that I needed to come back at least two more times and that we needed to “try something new.” (Fine. Just don’t take my gold stars away.) Here’s a picture of what we’ve been trying, a moist heating pad and an electronic stimulation machine that feels so good I have to remind myself not to moan out loud. I was told I could ring the bell if I needed anything, but also told, “It doesn’t work for room service.”

Shit.

When I walked out of physical therapy, I noticed a “no smoking” sign posted close to the front door. I suppose this is normal enough for a health facility, but DIRECTLY UNDER the sign was a butt can overflowing with cigarettes.

In addition to being ironic, there are so many things wrong with this picture that I just can’t even. (So I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.) But since I’ve lately found myself in the business of making a therapy lesson out of damn near everything, I will say that the butt can by the “no smoking sign” is obviously enabling. (And that’s not a good thing.) Additionally, I think having a “no smoking” sign directly next to a butt can is a lot like having a boundary without any direct and immediate consequences, which–if you didn’t realize–is no boundary at all.

When my therapist and I first started working on boundaries, I said that I didn’t like it when people picked lint–or whatever–off my shirt because the act often assumes a level of intimacy that I’m not usually comfortable with. (Certain people, like my family and close friends, can get away with this behavior. However, straight women who are in love with me–can not.) Anyway, once after I’d identified this boundary with my therapist, a straight woman who once confessed her love for me leaned over and removed something from my shirt. “Please don’t do that,” I said. “I’d prefer you just tell me that I have chip crumbs on my nipples. And if you absolutely must remove them yourself–please don’t use you mouth.”

Okay, that’s not exactly the way it transpired, but I did ask her not to invade my personal space without permission. Well, it happened a couple more times, and one day I actually grabbed her wrist before her hand could get to the piece of shirt fuzz that was stuck in my five o’clock shadow. “I asked you not to do that,” I said. You should have seen the look on her face–totally worth the entire awkward moment and my feeling like a bit of a jerk. But here’s the best part–she never did it again. Instead she’d say, “You have something on your shirt,” and then passive aggressively add, “I know you don’t like it when I touch you.”

Damn right I don’t.

Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing.

That particular incident may seem like a silly thing to brag about, but it was actually a gold star moment for me. I mean, my therapist has always made a big damn deal about boundaries, and even though I was resistant to them at first, I finally came around. As my therapist says, “Boundaries make people feel safe.” I’ve been thinking lately just how long it can take to really get good at anything–dancing, writing, “therapy shit.” I know that so many times I look up to great dancers and writers and think they “just happened.” But as my friend Barbie says, “The man at the top of the mountain didn’t just fall there.” With anything you’re working on, especially something like boundaries, it’s about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them.

Still in shock about the wedding ring / vagina thing, I will say that the fairy tale book didn’t say EVERYTHING was about sex. Not EVERYTHING is Freudian in that sense. For example, in fairy tales going “into the woods,” like Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood, represents the need to find one’s personal power and inner strength. Of course, it ain’t easy. After all, the woods is where all the scary stuff happens because the woods is where the wolves and dragons live, not to mention the witches who want to bake you into their gingerbread cookies.

So if you want to survive the woods, that means even you nice little boys and girls have to stand up for yourselves, face your dragons, and maybe even sit a witch down for a heart-to-heart and say, “For crying out loud, I don’t like you like that! Get your hands off my effing shirt.” Then that witch will–finally–get out of your way. (If she doesn’t, shove her ass in the closest oven you can find.) I promise, not only will you feel like you’ve just been given a gold star, but you’ll also be more empowered, one step closer to being out of the woods.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When the universe speaks—listen.

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The Magic of Tom Collins (Blog #105)

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Not to be a stereotypical homosexual, but I love (LOVE) a good musical, and rarely a week goes by that I don’t listen to at least one Broadway show tune. All that being said–and I hope I don’t offend anyone here–and by that I mean I don’t care if I offend anyone here–but I’m not IN LOVE with the musical Rent. I mean, I adore parts of it, but I have a difficult time with the soundtrack because of all the “voicemail” numbers and all the BEEPING. Maybe it feels too much like real life to me. Anyway, a few weeks ago–for no apparent reason–I put on the Rent soundtrack for the first time “in a month of Sundays” while driving to Fayetteville.

As I’m wont to do, I eventually settled on a single, solitary song called “Santa Fe” that I kept on repeat for nearly a week. I can’t tell you why, but I must have listened to it fifty times or more. It’s this snappy little tune about a guy and his boyfriend who are dreaming about getting out of New York City and running away to open up a restaurant in–you guessed it–Santa Fe. Maybe my fascination had something to do with dreaming and thinking about what’s possible.

Within a week of listening to “Santa Fe” for the first time (recently), I got the ever-living shit knocked out of me and my car when I was rear-ended in the worst possible way. Within three days of the accident, I knew my car (a Honda Civic) was totaled and that I’d need a new one. So I made one phone call to a dear friend who almost always knows what to do (and if he doesn’t at least sounds like he does). He said, “Go see Johnny Jack in Van Buren. Tell him what’s going on. He’ll treat you right, and if he says it’s a good car, it’s a good car.”

So that’s what I did. On Monday, July 3rd, about closing time, I stopped by Jack’s Motor Company and met Johnny. Initially he steered me toward a Ford Focus, which met all my requirements in terms of price. But I didn’t like it. (I still don’t like it. You can’t make me like it.) But Johnny said I should come back the next day and test drive it. “I’d really like an SUV,” I said. “How much is that Nissan Murano?”

“Too much,” Johnny said. (I’m paraphrasing.)

But then Johnny continued, “In a couple of days I should have another SUV in. It might be just the thing.” And then he quoted me a price that actually seemed doable, probably thanks to the person who sent me over. So the next day, July 4th, I went back to Johnny’s with the intention of test driving the Focus, just to give it a chance. (Everyone deserves a chance.) But when I got there Johnny said, “You’re in luck. That SUV I was telling you about got delivered early.” And there it was, a beautiful 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, freshly cleaned with the stereo blasting one of my favorite tunes, “Africa” by Toto.

Did you catch that the car was a Santa Fe–like the song?

Well, I took the car for a spin and fell in love within five minutes. I picked up Mom and Dad, and Dad said, “Bite the bullet. You’re not going to be happy with anything else.” When I got back to the lot, I told Johnny that I wanted it, and he said, “I’ll put a sold sign on it. Whenever you settle the insurance claim, it’s yours.”

It was that easy. I really only had to look at one car.

A little over a week later, the insurance check finally cleared. Today was the day! I guess I thought buying a new car would be a hassle, but it wasn’t. Johnny was awesome. Is awesome. As one friend who knows him said, “He’s the man.”

I’m calling the car Tom Collins, since that’s the character who sings the song about Santa Fe in Rent. And I don’t mind saying he’s pretty sweet. It’s the first time I’ve ever owned a daily driver with leather interior, heated seats, powered everything, tinted windows, and a moon roof. Plus, it’s pretty spacious, the perfect size to host an intimate wedding reception. But seriously, I couldn’t be more excited. I mean, if you have to get slammed in the ass while minding your own business and are forced to buy a new set of wheels, a car like Tom Collins is the way to go. As my aunt Carla said, “There’s a difference between living and living well.”

You may already know this, but Tom Collins isn’t just a character from a musical about being broke and infected with HIV. It’s also a drink–made with gin, lemons, sugar, and carbonated water–that’s been around for over a century. And whereas I’ve lived my entire adult life and never had a Tom Collins, I figured today was a good time to change that. So this evening I celebrated the Santa Fe by going to El Zarape with my friend Justin and ordering (and drinking) the adult beverage that shares the name of my new car.

Well, sort of. My friend Jimmy was our waiter and bartender, and he’d never heard of a Tom Collins. So we Googled it, and he said, “Sure, I can do that.” But when he talked to the other bartenders about it, they said, “The carbonated water will ruin the alcohol. So leave that out, add a splash of Triple Sec, and use another orange liqueur instead of an actual orange for garnish.”

OMG, y’all. These are the kinds of friends you need in your life. Jimmy’s Modified Tom Collins was UH-MAZING. It was basically like lemonade on steroids.

GRRRR.

When Justin and I got back to his house, his wife, Ashley, and her friend Schuyler wanted to go out for Taco Bell, so I said, “I’ll drive!” (I’ve never had a car I’ve been proud to pile a bunch of people in for a fast food run. God. It really is the little things.) Anyway, at Taco Bell when it was our turn at the Drive-Thru, the voice on the other end said, “Just a moment please,” and without thinking I blurted out, “Take your time. Order when you’re ready.”

And then everyone inside Tom Collins exploded with laughter, which I thought was the perfect way to start our new life together.

I’ve spent most of today in awe at the way the universe works, the fact that something that initially seemed awful (my car wreck) turned out so well. Before me, the Santa Fe was owned by only one person, a little old lady whom I spoke with on the phone and told me the only reason she was getting rid of it was because she’d backed into a trashcan and wanted a car with a backup camera. Now that I’ve spent a day with Tom Collins, I kind of want to call her back and tell her how grateful I am she didn’t see that trashcan. And I could just hug my friend who sent me to Johnny, and I’d dance at Johnny’s wedding, except for the fact that he’s already married.

I guess a lot of people would say that my randomly listening to a song called “Santa Fe” a week before my car accident and an old lady hitting a trashcan with her Santa Fe vehicle and then trading it in at the same time I started car shopping were simply coincidences. But at this point in my life, I know better. Joseph Campbell said, “When we follow our bliss, we are met by a thousand unseen helping hands.” Personally, I love this. It’s like I’ve spent so much of my life waiting for something magical to happen, and then one day I realized magic has been happening all around me this entire time, gently waiting for me to notice, to start dreaming again, to believe that anything and everything is possible because–it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Even if you can't be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don't let anyone else tell you differently.

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A Mouse in the House (Blog #104)

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For a while now I’ve been staring at this blank screen wishing I hadn’t made a personal commitment to write every day. I’ve also been wishing I hadn’t promised myself I’d be honest. Seriously, that was a stupid thing to do. Currently I’m tired (I know–we’re all tired–welcome to America), I have a headache, and I feel super bloated because I ate pizza on three separate occasions today, so I’m having a difficult time focusing. Additionally, I really don’t want to write about the thing that’s been on my mind all day, so I’ve been hoping I could get out of it. Like that ever works. Still, for over an hour I’ve been bargaining with the muse. Just give me something else to talk about–like the fact that I spent two hours tonight listening to Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like a Woman, not because I’m gay but because I’m getting paid to choreograph it–that’s interesting, right?

But, “No, it’s not,” the muse says. “Tell everyone your mom has cancer.”

I don’t want to. I’m not ready to talk about it. 

“Do it anyway,” he says.

Oh my god, a mouse just ran across my parents’ living room! Let’s talk about that instead. Mice scare me. If only they were like the mice in Cinderella maybe I would–

“You’re stalling.”

Fine, damn it. But just so you know, I’m not happy about this.

“The mouse or the cancer?”

Either.

So yeah, my mom has cancer. They found it in one of her breasts several weeks ago, maybe as many as six or eight. This isn’t the first time I’m talking about it, just the first time I’m writing about it. (Mom said it was okay.) Originally she was told that it was small, localized, and slow-growing, so the assumption has been that the treatment would be fairly simple. I swear. I think the mouse just made one lap around the entire perimeter of the interior of our home. No wonder he looks so skinny. Anyway, I once worked for an attorney who worked out of his house, and I remember one day him standing in the kitchen with a block of cheese that had mold on it. Disgusting, right? But the man actually took out his pocket knife, cut the moldy part off, and ate the rest of the cheese. (He said you could do that because all cheese is basically mold, but I’m still grossed out.) Anyway, that’s how I’ve been thinking of the cancer treatment, something quick and simple that could easily be done in your own kitchen with a pocket knife if you were brave enough. But even if you wanted to let the doctors handle it–no big deal.

So apparently–big deal. Of course, things could always be worse (things could ALWAYS be worse), but we found out today that the cancer is a little more moldy–spread out–than previously thought. So two days from now mom’s going to get a port, which is basically a funnel they implant in your skin so they can pour chemotherapy into your body like motor oil for five months. After that, the plan is mastectomy, followed by radiation, followed by medication for five years.

As of now, that’s all we know. Also, I think we’re all overwhelmed, which is why we ordered pizza.

The fucking mouse just ran–no, sprinted–across the living room. It was so fast! Maybe I should call it Florence Griffith-Joyner. But I can’t think about that right now. I have so many other things to think about right now. Like FloJo gives a shit. I mean, a mouse just shows up in your home uninvited and does whatever the hell it wants. But of course, you’ve got to try to get rid of it. You can’t just let it stay. Still, I guess sometimes it takes a lot more work than you think it will. And maybe some days you wonder if you’re strong enough for what lies ahead.

Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.

“With the mouse or the cancer?”

Both.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things become ripe when they’re ready.

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