Dirty Ponytails and Mint Leaves

I’m in San Francisco this weekend, and it makes me wonder: Why don’t I live in San Francisco? I’m in a café sitting on a ratted couch while a lady in a tie-dyed shirt strums a guitar. The place is packed with patrons straight out of Reality Bites. There are a few dogs, lots of laptops, and plenty of fancy coffee brewed one cup at a time. The tables are communal, and strangers make eyes at one another while pretending to study. All the furniture is from the Salvation Army and as dirty as the baristas’ ponytails. I can’t help feeling that I really fit in here. Not that I’m dirty. It’s just that everyone fits in here. Nobody’s propped against the wall asking ‘Who the hell are you?’ with their eyes like they do at my favorite café in Venice. Nobody in here is wearing make-up. And people are actually reading books and not scripts.

It is so refreshing to eavesdrop on people who aren’t talking about The Bachelor and their recent failed audition. Although, that’s not fair. They could very well be talking about that here, but I can’t tell because the tie-dyed lady is going to town on her vocal chords with her rendition of “On Broadway.”

I’m clapping and tearing up at the beauty of her ability to just do what she loves in a cafe all day without the anxiety of making money from it. I’m imagining a life here, a Victorian walk-up down the street with wood floors and lots of windows. The parties I’d have. The books I’d write from this very cafe. The dirty ponytail I’d wear. The cool hipster glasses I’d get.

Uh oh.
I just saw a barista pull a mint leaf from a real plant and put it in a tea. Maybe this place is actually too hip for me.

It seems like I do this with every place I visit. It’s so much more fun to imagine how great life could be if only I moved. If only I had more money. If only I could get a better job. If only I lived in Bali or Laos or Mumbai. If only. Everywhere I go I imagine a life there that would be so perfect and so much better than whatever setup I have at home. I compare.
But I think my goal is to be happy with what I already have. Imagine that.

For most of my life that’s been a scary thought. That would be settling. That would be deciding that what I have is enough. And how could a shitty apartment with a popcorn ceiling be enough? How could adult acne and a job I don’t want and a coffee addiction be enough?
Fear!
I’ve finally realized that I’m always waiting for the calm to come. Waiting, waiting, waiting. As soon as I have my dream house and my dream job and a relationship all sorted out, THEN I can settle down to the thought that I am enough.
But how long is that going to take? If I keep waiting, I’ll finally feel whole right about the time my tits are rounding the corner to my knees.

Instead, I have to trust the process. If I know I’m on the right path, then every part about it is enough. We don't buy puzzles already put together. We buy them because the act of putting them together is fun. (When I say 'we,' I mean me and my nerdy friends who have been known to delight in matching sky colors to form the outline of a Tuscan landscape. Ok, it was just me and no friends were involved.)

For now, my puzzle piece is a cute little apartment in Venice that, yes, has a popcorn ceiling and I love it anyway even though it’s not in San Francisco or India or Bali.

Uh oh.

Tie-dyed just sang ‘Landslide’ and some other man/woman (80% sure she’s a woman) sang along from across the cafe. This is riveting entertainment. Nobody is that confident in Venice unless they're homeless.
I really love it here. So, maybe... maybe just this one time, everything I just wrote is bullshit and I do have to move. Just this one time.

*Note: This mural sits in a random alley in SF. There's a baby exiting the vagina of a woman who seems to have had her face darkened and ruined by pregnancy. This is why I fit in in San Francisco. This is why I'm never having babies.

Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands

This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It's here if you haven't seen it).
And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal-- to make people feel something.

But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
I gotta hand it to him-- the man was an ace at surprises.

When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

And then 14 years went by.
And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

Now... on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

Me: Dad, I can't believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It's hideous.
Dad: You look fine. I'm the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you'll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
Dad: Nah, I think I'll head out in 1996 instead.
Me: All righty then. It's been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.

It's here. F.

I’m about to enter the fourth decade of my life. Tomorrow. TOMORROW!

I have tried unsuccessfully to halt time with my mind power. Remember how I wrote here about how it’s really no big deal and I’m ready to embrace it? Well, I changed my mind. I’m suddenly uncomfortable with the thought. I know: It’s just a number. And everyone who lives to at least 31 goes through it. But I’ve noticed a few things happening to me that nobody else seems to be talking about. Those who hit 30 don’t tell the whole story. It’s like the birthing process. After you have gone through it, you say, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad after all. Tee hee hee.’ But that’s because you’re blinded by a cute little baby and plenty of drugs. So you keep mum about the fact that you laid out a hot turd on the table, and then your friend freaks out because she thinks she’s disgusting when she lays out a hot turd on the table. Guys, we gotta tell each other this stuff. For each other. For mankind.

So here are some things that have been happening to me...Er, I mean... They’re happening to a friend of mine. And I heard about them. So I am going to just pass them on. For the children:

1. Random hairs. Thankfully, I am not a man, so they aren’t yet coming out of my ears. But they are popping up in the most random spots. I pulled a big black one from my stomach right now. And another off my chin yesterday. My chin. I mean, my friend did that. Yeah, not me.

2. Adult acne. We’ve covered this. I read up on it. Estrogen levels begin to drop at 29.5, according to Marie Claire. Great. Lovely. Thanks.

3. Bones. Whenever my right knee bends, it sounds like a newborn chick is crunching itself out of its shell and vomiting. Yes, that’s exactly the sound.

4. Metabolism. I used to wish myself skinny, and I’d be skinny. Now, my hips just grow.

5. Cellulite. Yep. There’s more of it. Either it’s because I’m getting older or perhaps it’s because I spent the last year eating absolutely anything I wanted. I mean, that’s what my friend did. And said.

6. Brain. I claim to be such a grammar and spelling stickler but lately that shit comes out all wrong. I spelled ‘zoo’ z-e-w the other day. Zew? Is that a gross version of the zoo?

Ok, so there. It’s out there. Unlike those before me, I have laid it all out for those who come after: 6 reasons why 30 IS BAD despite the fact that everyone says it’s not so bad.

Time for the positive spin. Because that’s who I’ve become in this old age: a quite positive gal. Thankfully I didn’t become a janitor or ice cream man, the two professions in which I hoped to succeed back when my 8-yr-old self was dreaming about my 30-yr-old self. Ice cream man would have required a sex change, and I’m saving that until at least 55 (I want to get as much vagina action as possible beforehand). Oh yeah, positive spin: Six reasons I am ecstatic about turning 30:

1. I don’t have to go to any more tailgates, red cup parties, or beer pong events. Sure, thirty-yr-olds do those things. But I don’t like standing around, getting wasted, spilling beer on myself, and talking about sports or who I know. I’ve never really liked it, and everyone’s always given me shit about not partaking. Now that I’m thirty, I finally qualify for the ‘too old for that shit’ excuse.

2. By now, I have learned to trust myself. Phew. What a relief. Life’s gonna be just fine (And if it isn’t, I have a new theory about what happens after life; I’ll get to this some day when we have more time and we're a little tipsy and it seems like there's nothing else to talk about.).

3. The next ten years are filled with absolute possibility. I’m reading a choose-your-own-adventure, and the amount of adventure before me is overwhelming in the best possible way. Shit’s gonna happen, y’all.

4. Thirty is serious. People will hear that I’ve made it into the secret club of thirty and really want to take me seriously. Maybe, you know, someone might say... “Hey, Laurenne. You’re 30. You want to write for the Sarah Silverman show?” or perhaps, “Wow! You’re 30? I’m a literary agent, and I’ve been looking for a thirty-yr-old to write a very popular book series that will lead to movies and action figures.”

5. I’ve been contributing quite nicely to social security for 16 years. I’m not rich, but it’s nice that I no longer have to share a bed with five girls when we go on vacation or ask for a cup for water and then fill it with Coke or say, ‘Well, your tacos were two dollars more than mine’ when splitting a bill or ask friends for gas money. Finances of the early twenties sucked.

6. I have been alive 10,950 days. That’s some serious experience up in this here noggin. I have heard, read, seen, smelled, and touched a whole lotta stuff. I know what’s up. Yep, I know what’s up.

After all, I guess 30 is cool. What up, Thirty? How are you today? Come on in. I accept you and all that you are. Except for the chin hairs and cellulite. Please. Give those to Forty, and we’ll be all good.

A decade is ten years. That's a long time.

It’s April 8th, 2010.
I have one month left of my twenties.
Holy.
Mackerel.

I’ve spent a lot of time hiding the fact that this day was coming. I omit the year whenever I can. I respond “I’m in my twenties” when people ask my age. Because, for most of my life, I’ve dreaded May 8th, 2010. I've dreaded the wrinkles, the chest freckles, and all the expectations that I failed to meet. But here I am, facing them all. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

And, actually, I don’t really want to.
Because the twenties.... well, the twenties were brutal. Incredibly fun and inappropriate, but difficult. They say the twenties are all about figuring yourself out. But they don’t usually say this until you’re turning thirty. Upon my twentieth birthday, I wish someone would have said, “You’re gonna try a bunch of shit in the next decade. And some of it you’re going to absolutely love. And some of it is going to make you feel either disgusted with yourself or sad or confused or just plain mad. But you have to go through this stuff so you can see what you’re all about. So do it. And don’t look back. But try to learn from every situation.”

But nobody said a word about that. So I found myself waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. And I didn't understand what it all meant, so I just kept waking up in random hot tubs and crying in showers and screaming all the way to work. But I didn’t take the time to learn from all that stuff until I recently took the year off to mull it all over. Here's what I could have learned:

20 - I turned 20 in Spain. This was around the time that I drank too much street calimocho and threw up in my boyfriend’s mouth. No lesson learned then, but upon further review, I should have seen: I needed to control my alcohol. And that the guy who simply wiped his chin and took me home was a keeper.

21 - I got kicked out of a strip joint on Sunset Blvd for being a belligerent eye-roller and taking off my top, even though I was simply a patron and did not possess any of the assets required of a stripper. Should have learned: To control my alcohol. And that I should cross off ‘stripping’ from the list of back-up plans (still have yet to do that).

22 - Freaking out about my steadily climbing grad school debt, I finally stopped drinking to focus on getting a job. I focused a lot on that and only that. So it all went by in a flash. I only remember wearing slutty outfits and having a panic attack that showed itself in chronic foot itch. I was in South Beach! Should have learned to balance.

23 & 24 - I lived in London, Sao Paulo, NYC, and SF. Should have noticed I was more interested in traveling than advertising. WHY didn’t I see that then!?

25 - The chronic foot itch came back on the first day of my first job. All I could think about was the year’s lack of spring break. Should have realized that this job was a mere stone on the path to something bigger. Like most things are.

26 - Moved in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months. Should have learned to NEVER move in with a boyfriend after knowing him three months.

27 - I shot lots of commercials and actually enjoyed myself with clients. Never trusting myself, I cowered in the corner and became the girl who always said, 'I don't know. What do you think?" I should have realized I’m actually good at my job.

28 - I slaved away for 16 hours a day doing more than I could handle. Should have learned how to say no. And that being married to a job (especially one that doesn't really help many people) wasn't how I wanted to live my life. Oh wait, I did learn that. So I...

29 - ...traveled alone and finally learned all these lessons all at once. But most importantly, I learned to listen to myself so that future lessons won’t take another round-the-world trip to sink in.

In honor of these confusing yet exhilarating years, I will spend this last month of my twenties reliving them all. I plan to get totally wasted, travel, fall in love quickly, work feverishly, and perhaps take my clothes off in a strip club. And I will also go skydiving and make an eggplant parmigiana because I want to. Yes! This will undoubtedly be a great month. I will let you know if I make it to 30.

The year was 2000. I wore my jeans up to my bellybutton. My haircut looked like a mushroom, and I drank tequila for sport. And then I wondered why I couldn't meet a decent guy.

Ok, yes I had mushroom hair, but do you see that six-pack? Hot damn. I still thought I was fat. Could have learned to love my body and use it to my advantage. Sigh.

2008. Better hair. No more padded bras. No more tequila. Getting closer. Plus, I finally realized that relationships are the most important! That's when I left everybody I knew to go traveling. I swear it makes sense kinda.

This is the face of learning. Sometimes it takes a wooden pillow and a mosquito net to get the brain to make sense of stuff.

Lessons from someone who knows stuff.

I’ve always wanted to know stuff.
Unfortunately, I don’t.
I mean, I know stuff... But it seems I’m one of those jacks of all trades and masters of none. I hate it. It irks me. I want to be the expert witness they call to the stand to verify something only my keen eye could verify. Or the specialist they call to get a witty and informative quote for a magazine article.

But so far, nobody has needed an expert in the art of plucking ingrown hairs from my leg or in making log houses out of spray-painted straws, two areas in which I’ve been known to excel.
So I’ve been patiently learning a teeny bit each day, cradling the hope that this new knowledge will eventually congeal and become something.

The trip was quite a something. I met lots of knowledge as I skipped around continents. I'm still no expert in any area, but I learned a lot. About life and people and humanity. And I decided to share it. Here you have it... words of wisdom from someone who kinda knows some stuff.

I learned...

...that all people are the same no matter where they were born. Really. We all judge, love, die, urinate, eat, hope. We’re all yearning to be better. Some of us wake up to alarms and some of us to roosters. But, really, we are all the same.

...that most religions are the same. They each answer that annoying question about what happens after life and are based on being good. Really. Hindus, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, Mormons, Jains…. I heard each of their spiels and was shocked at the similarities. To me, it’s like choosing a basketball team.

...how to say no... how to have an opinion... how to ask for what I want. When those in the tourism industry are eyeing you like a lion licking his lips, you better ask them to throw in a Taj Mahal snow globe. You’re paying for it anyway.

...that we are all so lucky and we don’t know it. Advertising and society make us think we need more and more and more and that this more has to be from a certain designer. But, really, we don’t need much at all. I think it’s crazy that some kids in the West cry because they want Elmo for Christmas and some kids in the East cry because they want more than rice for dinner. Crazy!

...that traveling alone for a long period of time is like turning off your life. No bills. No phone. No commitments. No job. Nobody you know. Nothing to do but listen to yourself. I think it’s something that everyone needs to experience.

...that my body is not infallible. Damn! I am athletic and never thought I would feel like I couldn’t do anything. But F! My feet and knees were used to sleeping under my desk. Then I made them get lost around unknown cities for 9 whole months. They hate me.

...that I love writing this blog. Love it! I received encouragements and emails from so many strangers and old friends and worried parents and pissed off Malaysians. I can’t describe the feeling of knowing people are rooting for you. It’s amazing. And I thank you all so very much for being there with me. I will continue writing about how humans in the US are funny, especially the ones in advertising or the ones that interview me for jobs for which I have no business applying.

...that the people who stamp passports take their jobs way too seriously.

...that I’ve deprived myself way too much. Before the trip, I would never think of ordering dessert. Now I not only order it, I eat it slowly, and enjoy every single bite. I'm so lucky to have the privilege.

...to look around! I couldn’t believe that the tribes living in the Papua New Guinean mountains didn’t realize their homes were swathed in absolute beauty. But as I was telling this to someone, she pointed to Venice beach, a place that I take for granted. I saw a cluster of palm trees and it all became so clear.

...that the best times come from the experiences you were most reluctant to have. So now I try to say yes to everything. I try not to let fear be a factor in any decision. Ever.

...to master Sudoku puzzles. What a great way to sharpen the brain fibers.

...that being away from everyone you know forces you to see everyone you know in a new light. I feel closer to many of my friends and family now than I did before I left.

...that everyone’s priorities are different and that’s ok. We’re all just different but neither is better or worse.

...to trust myself. Standing by a decision and not looking back saves loads of anxiety.

...to ask questions. People love to answer. It’s the best way to meet.

Here's a sunset to help you contemplate.

Well, your bomber jacket is nice.

My office sent me to Milwaukee to look at a print ad and check its color. Yes, Milwaukee. Yes, to look at a color. It seemed like it would be an easy task, but of course the color was wrong and I needed to stay up all night to fix it. While driving through the Milwaukee back roads at 4am to go check the color again, I clenched the steering wheel, pissed that this was my life. I felt tears approaching my lids and anxiety holding my jaw taut.

The color never got to be perfect, and I left Milwaukee feeling like a failure. Well, half of me felt like a failure and half of me felt like I was stuck in a joke. Or a Mike Meyers satire where everyone in the film is creating a huge deal out of something so insignificant. Miserable and scared of how my bosses would view the color fiasco, I got to the airport only to find a problem with my flight.

Right when I felt like my body would implode from anxiety, I walked passed an Indian man. He was round and bald and cloaked in a brown bomber jacket. I could see he was bald and the throng of busy travelers could tell he was bald, but the man himself could not see he was bald. Perched atop his head was what looked like the puff of hair that usually lands in the trash after I clean out my brush. He’d poised this tumbleweed directly in the center of his shiny dome in a desperate attempt to convince the world that he was not one who could be classified as bald.

At the sight of this man, my brain could do nothing but make me laugh, and laugh I did for a good two minutes. Not at him, but at the fact that all humans have “problems” that seem so huge to us in the moment but in essence aren’t so important. While I could tell the man that his baldness was really not worth the fretting and styling and grasping at a last-ditch solution of puff-piling, he could probably tell me that the color of the print ad would not be my demise.

Thanks, bald Indian man. I know you don’t think I’m talking to you because you don’t classify yourself as bald, but thanks anyway.