MyAdultLand

It saddens me, but I knew the day would come. My mancub has left captivity to explore the jungle. I’m happy for him. No, I’m downright proud of him. He’s practically a full grown man now, and I like to think I played some small roll in making him the man he almost is today.

But it leaves a huge gaping void in my life. One that’s going to be so much fun to fill!

So I’m recruiting a new mancub.

Job Responsiblilites: be available for last minute repair calls, road-trip calls, whatever calls. Must be keenly intelligent; must clean-up well.

DESIRED EXPERIENCE: restraint; some general contractor knowledge and application;

DEMONSTRATED SKILLS: intuitive neck rubs; mounting heavy objects on cheap old shotgun apartment walls; stuntdriving; comedic timing; flirting

JOB REQUIREMENTS: must own car and valid driver’s license, must have respectable toolbox, toolbelt preferred; able to life heavy objects; cell phone with lots of minutes on monthly plan; take direction well; know when to give direction well; politically incorrect and not easily offended; must have good old-fashioned manners; can-do attitude.

Submissions accepted until position is filled.

Please leave contact details and feeding requirements in the comment section.

Good times on the road.

Well, I did it. I released the mancub from captivity. It hurt a little. But it was time. And it was a fun — and mother of God was it long — drive. But that’s what you get when you borrow a nearly 20 year-old car that feels like it’s going to explode if you go above 65. With no CD player or satellite radio. Oh, and no AC, which is normally not a problem in February. But this is the Soutwest, and these are times of global warming… I’m sorry, I meant to say Climate Change. And even though I was in the best of company, I WAS DYING. We were both dying. It was the longest motherfucking drive ever. Ever.

But an important journey it was. For the thought of him running free in his natural habitat, the impossibly beautiful desert of the southwest, fills my heart and my head with indescribable joy. And titillation. There goes one tough act to follow.

Mainly because I love the desert of the southwest so much. It’s also where I grew up (though in a neighboring state). No place feels more holy to me that the desert.

Nonetheless, this gives me an excellent excuse to visit the desert more often, and a cozy place to stay while I’m there. I’m liking this new arrangement already.

Filling my tank.

I should really aim to find a new mancub with roots somewhere really exotic, someplace I’ve always wanted to visit. A destination location. So that next time I set him free… well, you get the picture. Venice. Barcelona. Hawaii (been there, but I’ll go again).

Door close, window open. Door close, window open.

A) Company

B) A second life as an installation in a touring museum exhibit!!!

That’s right, don’t be so quick to throw out those old mementos and relics that only serve to remind you of the broken heart you’ve suffered (or caused).

Come to think of it, Who is quick to throw this stuff out? A lot of people save this stuff: old photos, old gifts, old stuffed animals won at the state fair. Some save them for the happy or bittersweet memories they conjure. Some save them as a badge to remind themselves of the pain they’ve survived and learned from. And others never throw anything away and their homes look like the inside of a junk drawer.

I had one such of these relics. But of course, I love a good ceremony. So years ago I had my way with my memento.

It was a letter I wrote to a certain someone, about 15 years ago. I never sent it. I’m not sure I ever meant to send it. Sometimes I just write a letter to gather my thoughts, and then just keep it. It was a sort of “I love you this isn’t working why can’t we make it work blah blah blah” letter. Not a breakup. But not a lot of hope left in them there words either. But then… the guy beat me to the punch. And I didn’t protest. I knew it was the right thing to do. So we split and he moved to LA and I got my own flat (still here — GOD BLESS RENT CONTROL) but refused to give him my new address & phone numbers because though, on occasion, I may cave and dabble in martyrdom; ultimately, It Ain’t Me, Babe.

I kept the letter. It got old. My life changed. I moved on. I moved. Moving means shedding belongings — at least when you live in the Tiny-Apartment-World that is San Francisco. I was also getting rid of a mirror. Say, there’s an idea.

I saw it. Didn’t know if it would work, but I saw it. Shards Of A Broken Loveletter. So I glued it to the back of the mirror… then shattered the motherfucker. Whipped out my X-acto knife to finish the job, put the shards of broken mirror/loveletter in this glass column, to sort-of give it that natural history “preserved specimen” presentation… And that was it. It’s lost all emotional impact for me. I just thought it looked cool, so I kept it.

So if you are going to hang  onto your badges of heartache, why not reinvent them? Got T-shirt with a logo on it (maybe from the first show he/she took you to)? Stretch it over a canvas and presto! A new dartboard! Seriously, go out and get some darts — that would be awesome if I ever saw that in someone’s home! Maybe you can even make them functional? Decopage your garbage can (or toilet seat)  with old pictures of or associated with him/her? I don’t know, get creative! Have fun!

But back to my object. When I saw that the Museum of Broken Relationships (based in Croatia) was on tour and stopping in San Francisco, I thought “why not?” It deserves a good home. I never dreamed they’d get back to me within 2 hours. But… hey, it was just hours after President Barack Hussein Obama (God, my four favorite words right now) was sworn into office. I just fell head over heels in love with 2009 on that day. And most fittingly, the museum makes its San Francisco debut on St. Valentines’s (reception from 7 – 10pm) day at Root Division, an arts & education non-profit organization that does some amazing work here in San Francisco.

Feel free to bring a date.

Yesterday with the Mancub was the best ever!  Our planned activity was not only a practical one, but a fun one. More painting, but this time for a fun project that’s going to cover the big wall in my bedroom. I got the idea from an issue of Architectural Digest I stole from my banker. There was this picture of a mirror with some textured pattern over it. A $12K mirror. That ain’t gonna happen. But with that picture, my imagination, and $85, my wall is going to look spectacular.

But I digress. So we painted in bright vivid colors while listening to old-school Christmas carols. We actually managed to not track paint throughout the apartment (an accomplishment in and of itself). We drove out to Westlake Joes (super old-school restaurant) and enjoyed the early-bird dinner (GET THE STEAK BRUNO —  RARE!!!) We got an apple pie to go. Slapped a second coat of paint on, heated said pie, drowned it in Haagen Dazs vanilla, and went crosseyed with pleasure. All with the enchanting voices of Bing, Dino, and Rosemary singing songs of Christmas joy from another era in the background.

Best part: Mancubs don’t spit up on you after they eat too much pie. Instead, they rub that lingering kink out of your neck. See, there’s something to be said for child-free playdates! Til next time, when we deck the walls — as my shotgun apartment has no halls — HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Man.

All women Of A Certain Age should have a Mancub. What is a Mancub? He is the Cabana-boy for those us living urban, cabana-less lives. He is a slightly furry, well-muscled puppy. Precious, there-when-we-call, cuddly, and safe. Not too safe. He could make a mess of our lives if we allowed it. So we “train” our Mancub early on to prevent…er, “accidents”, missteps if you will. And they fulfill a meaningful role in our lives. Companionship and affection when we need. Heavy objects mounted to our apartment walls (the best mancub owns a toolbelt — or at the very least a mean tool box. I know mine does) when we redecorate. And what do they ask in return? A hot meal, a nap, a belly-rub. A smart Mancub does not ask for more. And I highly recommend finding a smart one — it will make things much easier. Trust me.

Who could resist having a Mancub? Who would want to?

Cub.

Mine came over last week to hang some cool, long (but heavy) mirrors I found in my basement. The plan was to hang them horizontally, to create 2 parallel long “lines” through my apartment to create the illusion of length. They were stuck together, courtesy of super heavy-duty sticky tape on back. So stuck together were they that when mancub was trying to separate them, one broke (they’re pretty cheap & thin, the mirrors). So now what? This turned out to be a happy accident. We hung them instead vertically in my bedroom, staggered, on a small wall between the window & door. It maximizes light, and looks awesome! AND I now have a full-length mirrors in the bedroom! However, this took longer than planned, and he had to leave for an appointment, I for work. But I left him a key, as he was going to return the next day to hang my closet door (I’d removed it when I painted the bedroom). He did not return the next day. He returned that night, and my door was hanging when I got home from work.

Birthday 2008: Dogsledding just outside Livingston, MT.

Now accepting dares for Birthday 2009. Yes, yes, my favorite day of the year is my birthday. When everyone else has those post-holiday blues, guess what… there’s one more coming, shortly after New Year’s Day! Doesn’t matter that I’m getting older. Who isn’t? What matters is it’s All About Me. And every year, both on the date and throughout the year itself, my goal is to top last year. And this year, I want you to join me. I am soliciting dares for things I should do for Birthday 2009. It can be on the actual birthday itself, or something I must do sometime during the year. Maybe it’s something you wish you yourself could do. Maybe it’s something you think it’d be fun to read about someone else doing it. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My only requests are that it: doesn’t involve harming children or animals, and b. won’t cause my insurance premium to go up. Now put on your thinking cap and start sending ideas! Deadline is midnight December 30, 2008.

*No, this is not a story about a woman and her vibrators. Sorry to disappoint. But I’m sure there are plenty of those out there if you just get your google on.

**

This is the story of a Sunday morning stroll, when Young Master Picard and I encountered a garage sale where these glasses** were on display. After a summer hosting a belated Greek Easter dinner party, a bridal shower, and the usual impromptu gatherings, I noticed my glassware numbers dwindling (and not just the stemware, for a change). This set caught my eye, as from afar it had somewhat of a retro look. The seller told me he’d forgotten he had them, they’ve been in a box in his garage for ten years. I said, “How cool is that, if you have a garage you can find stuff you’d forgotten you had for ten years!” Which led to the conversation of how having a garage can be a dangerous thing for that very reason.

I, on the other hand, have practically zero storage space. Almost everything I own is in plain sight (God, I am so fucked if I’m ever served with a search warrant). Which means to live like this, you have to really love the sight of your stuff, curating your life on a regular basis.

My method is finding that delicate balance between 1. What is precious to me?; 2. What is aesthetically pleasing (and/or how to display things decoratively enough so that they appear to be aesthetically pleasing, when really they’re just “stuff”)?; 3. What is frequently used, so that it needs to be handy at all times?

***

So the goal is to retain only the objects that fit all three criteria. Which are extremely few. I suppose some of my parents glassware*** qualifies, though I tend not to use them during bigger gatherings, as that’s when the most breakage-due-to-silly-drunkedness occurs.

****

More realistic is to keep my “collection” to objects meeting two out of the three criteria: my mother’s manual nut grinder for making the world’s best baklava (precious & functional)****; the Charles Cobelle original painting of a Paris cityscape***** that my ex-husband loaned me $25 to buy on a North Beach corner during the early days of our courtship (precious & aesthetically pleasing).

*****

But these are probably outnumbered by objects that meet only one of the criteria. The remote control, my iPhone charger, this laptop (frequently used). Then there are the numerous precious items, most of which have a happy association with someone dear to me. As for the dozens (make that hundreds) of copies of the feature film I produced & co-directed, “Come Fly With Me Nude” (want one? It’s yours, FREE! — just throw me a few bucks for postage, please): I’ve no idea what category  they fall under… perhaps Parts Of My Life With Which I’m Not Ready To Part.

But a garage full of forgotten memories… some possibly precious, some you were happy you’d forgotten — that is, until you moved and opened that box in the corner under a stack and were forced to remember — that’s something I don’t own. My few hidden items are pretty much in one trunk. A trunk full of of memorabilia from the ’70’s, ’80’s, and ’90’s. Stuff I first started saving because I was an adolescent girl in the late ’70’s, and that’s what adolescent girls do, save stuff. But then when my mother died suddenly when I was 19, I suddenly had a mission: to make sure that if I died suddenly on the daughter to whom (I was sure) I was destined to give birth, she would not be left with the unanswered questions about who I was, as I had been when my mother died; before I could get to know her as someone more than just my mother. So now there is a very heavy trunk full of young me on the top back of a tiny, tightly-packed shelf. Should there ever be a need or desire to pull it down, I know the emotions will flow wildly and deeply and in every direction. Frankly I’m afraid to open it, to be honest, afraid to open those floodgates, knowing why I saved most of that stuff, and the sad fact that, at this age, there will be no daughter with whom to rummage through this museum of my youth and young adulthood. My relationship with all of those long out-of-sight objects is complicated and loaded. Maybe someday there will be someone else with whom to share all of it, in which case it will be a wonderful discovery and rediscovery. I guess that’s what the hidden objects lead us to: rediscoveries, whether we like it or not.

So I don’t acquire much stuff anymore. Not much shopping here. Most of the stuff in my home is either something old and nostalgic, with a forever-precious memory attached, or a gift from someone who knows me and my superb taste well.

If you were having any thoughts of gifting me — and if you don’t know me and my superb taste well — wine is always a safe (and highly appreciated) choice.

I thank you in advance.

I had a conversation recently with a complete stranger. Some of my favorite conversations are with complete strangers. You’re starting with a clean slate and can be the you that you want to be — for as long as you’re able to keep up the act. Admit it, you do it too. Not lying, no not at all. Just omitting all the whiney crap with which we pepper our conversations with friends.

Back to the conversation: The subject was travel, for the most part. Drive vs. fly; solo vs. others, 5-star vs. backpacking. etc. etc. etc. And the fact of the matter is, we decided, travel is travel. It’s all good, it’s all relative.

And then he said, “it’s as though you shed some of the identities you’ve taken on with each step away from home, the world seems sharper and vivid.” And long after the conversation ended, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.

Why do our identities bring us down so much that the world improves when we shed them? Shouldn’t these identities — since the are after all a part of us — enhance our daily experience here (and during travel) that much more, giving us an enriched perspective?  It’s as if we send someone else out there, the part of ourselves we like, the part that can relax, “just be myself”. So are we not ourselves at home? Sure there’s work, family, obligations, etc. But that is all part of one’s “self”. I mean, I get that travel is freeing and liberating and fantasy-filled and not a realistic existence for which most of us could trade in our “real lives”. But it’s that state of mind, that here-and-now, that we can keep.

Then why don’t we? Why not make that one of our many identities, in addition to offspring, spouse, parent, employee, home decorator, carpooler, choc-o-holic, sex-goddess, etc.?  Why not approach every step away from our front door as an adventure, a journey, a trip in and of itself? Actually, it is when you think about it. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You know what will probably happen — probably what happened yesterday. And the day before. Wake, shower, coffee, drive to work, banter with colleagues, work, bathroom, coffee, email, work lunch masturbate etc etc etc blah blah blah.

But you don’t know for certain; this may be the day your CPR skills are put to the test when you pull over to help an accident victim. Or the day when you find a complete stranger at the gas station is so intriguing that you make up some lame excuse to be “…going to the mall too! Gee, what a coincidence!” Or any number of scenarios that definitely did not happen yesterday. I think it’s called living in the present. I think we’re supposed to do that while planning for the future and learning from the past. Something like that.

Back to travel & the whole identity thing. I think about this a lot lately because as you know (if you’ve read any of this blog before), I blew up my life as I knew it over a year ago. And in the explosion, I lost some identities. Your dad dies: you’re no longer a daughter. You and your husband part: you’re no longer a wife. You leave your job: you’re no longer a bartender. You put your filmmaking on hiatus: you’re no longer a filmmaker (and no longer call that community your own — and that was my community). All I know: I’m a writer. I’m a yogi. I’m an athlete. I like my wine and I love to cook and there’s a few more things that are a little personal that I’ll just keep to myself. I want to feel alive, even if it hurts sometimes. And these days, I throw stuff at the walls. A lot of stuff. See what sticks. See what my new Identity is going to entail. It’s interesting to say the least.

Which is why I like traveling. I don’t just like it; I feel most calm,  most “myself” then: Because people may ask out of curiosity “what do you do?”, which is shorthand for “what do you do when you’re not standing in that spot talking to me for the first time?” But they don’t really care. Think about it. When you’re at home, if you go to a party or a bar or meet a friend of a friend, that’s the inevitable question. And one I honestly don’t know how to answer right now. But when you meet someone when you’re traveling, no one cares about what you do, your past, your plans when the trip’s over. It’s all right here. It’s all right now. We’re interested in the person before us at that moment. That moment is all that matters. Sure, it could change our futures. Don’t bet on it, but you never know.

The hell with all this existential crap. I want to talk about travel some more. The above-mentioned stranger asked me where I’d like to go next. Here’s what I came up with off the top of my head.

1. Copenhagen (at Christmas): Saw it on a billboard when I was living in London and I fell in love. Hans Christian Anderson stuff.

2. Barcelona: Spaniards are HOT! Plus it was my daddy’s favorite country when he lived in Europe for 6 months after WWII. He said the people in Spain were the nicest. Plus, Spaniards are HOT!

3. Greek Isles: I did the National Geographic mainlands-in-the-off-season-tracking-down-the-village-where-my-grandparents-were-from thing. Now I want the sexy beach experience. And Greek food… oh, the food.

4. Venice: Just look at it, that’s why.

5. Tokyo: Never been anywhere in Asia. Tokyo just seems to have this incredible, one-of-a-kind energy. And the surrounding countryside.

6. Safari in Africa: I imagine that would be like stepping back in time. Plus then I’d get to wear a cute little safari outfit.

7. Desert of Arizona and Utah. Actually, I’ve already been to both. I grew up in Vegas and the only redeeming quality of Vegas in my opinion is the surrounding desert. That said, it pales in comparison to the deserts of Arizona and Utah. I don’t know if I believe in God, but I do believe in the desert.