Love! Love! Love!

Sometimes I'm on the fence about whether real love truly exists.
I mean, it must. That's why there are lots of chocolates and cards sold today.

Because people are in love.

I'm also on the fence about whether or not I've ever felt this love stuff. I mean, when I'm in it, I believe that I'm in it. But when I'm not in it, I don't have a clue if I was really in it. You get me?

Either way, I definitely know that I want it. And in that spirit, The Huffington Post has published the piece I wrote about just that a few months ago right here. It all starts here on this blog that still nobody really reads. Except you. YOU! I love you. You, I am sure I love. You are the one.

Here's a dose of sappy love on your Monday of San Valentin:

You Can't Buy Love at the Drive-Thru

Here is a couple truly in love. It exists! I think.

You would see the biggest gift would be from me...

For my entire childhood, I lived on the wrong side of town. In hindsight I can see that the invisible dividing line through our town was a bunch of bologna, but in junior high I was obsessed with being the coolest and therefore mortified by the location of our house and its general design. Now, I see our house as the beautiful hard work of a single mother, but at the time it disgusted me. Our appliances were old. Our carpeting was brown. And our bathtub had stains in it.

My friends had nicer houses, and I idolized them for it. They all seemed so normal-- they passed friendship notebooks around and had really stylish bangs and parents that were still together and not gay. They all lived in close proximity on the OTHER side of town so they could get together more often without me. And Lawrence, my ego who totally lacks self-esteem, just KNEW they were gossiping all about my shitty house and my weird dad who wore leather vests.

Acceptance from these girls meant more to me than my Beanie Baby collection. So, one day I convinced the entire clique to come over for a slumber party. I rejoiced when they all agreed. Even Tammy came; she was the prettiest one who had boobs first. We talked about boys and our vaginas. We gossiped about everyone at school.

Then, things took a bad turn. One girl thought she saw a doggie toy on the floor and, when she picked it up, found that it was actually dog diarrhea. If that wasn’t bad enough, we awoke at daybreak, excited to start the day with pancakes. And there it was... a dead, rotting mouse next to Tammy’s perfectly perky head.

A dead mouse.
It scurried under us in the night and keeled over right next to the most popular girl's head. Great.

I already lived on the trashy side of town, and I had forced my friends to come over, touch dog poo, and sleep on mice.

Horrifying.

Worst slumber party ever.

But it’s not because my house wasn’t perfect that my slumber party failed. It’s mainly because my friends weren’t really friends. They were judgmental and mean and not at all nurturing. I don’t blame the actual people for acting this way. For spreading rumors about my nipples or tricking me into sitting in chocolate pudding at lunch. I blame the age. All girls seem to go through this horrible time period of feeling ugly and treating people uglier. This time period alone is the main reason for my indecision about having kids. Ah! So scary.

I’m proud to say that my friends today would have no problem waking up on a mouse at my slumber party. I mean, they might not be happy about it. But I wouldn’t fear that they’d go talk about me behind my back. I wouldn’t think they’d condemn me from hosting slumber parties. They would simply think it hilarious, and it would be a funny story to be told at any gathering and most assuredly at my wedding. Because true friends don’t really care if you have mice or if you buy all your clothes at TJ Maxx or if you stick your hand in your pants at the movies or if you live on the wrong side of town. Real friends accept you no matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. Even if you don’t have good bangs, which I still don’t.

It took me a long time to find them, but I finally did. In college. At work. In random classes. On this very blog. I finally have those real friends who love me even after knowing me really really well... even after knowing I talk about poo and never clean out my trunk and don’t own underwear. My self-esteem changed and so did my friends. To mirror Ellen and the rest: it does get better.
Phew.
Seriously.

Being a writer can be a lonely road. I am often holed up in my apartment for weeks. My friends get it. Once something gets published, it’s like I have my own PR system, as my Facebook friends distribute it like confetti. What support! They’re proud of me. And I'm proud of them too. And it feels so good. Love feels like swimming in a bowl of whip cream. Even the friends I have never met, who stop by here every week, bring me such inspiration and motivation with their own gifts that I love and accept. I feel so lucky to have all kinds of friends who color my life with so much love. So, thank you. For you, I am so so so grateful. I can’t imagine what life would be like if I still had to watch what I said or keep secrets or worry about what rumors you were cooking up.

Please come have a slumber party any time (sans mice). You’re always invited (but give me some notice. I know you love me anyway, but still I’d like to be wearing clothes when you come).

Thank you for being there. And being here. And being you. And being amazing.

My head is a quilt.

I saw a woman the other day who was so obviously brimming with positivity that the sun was leaking out of her pores. Beautiful skin, shiny hair, a smile that could make even Mel Gibson love Jews, she was pure radiance. I asked her secret.

“I am grateful for everything in my life,” she beamed.

Well, good for her.
Good for freakin’ her.

Since seeing the third world and meeting people who’ve never even heard of pizza (probably the biggest tragedy in poor countries), I’ve also been on a quest for gratitude. I wake up in the morning and listen to the birds and smile at all the things I’m lucky to have and know (friends, family, toast, a good brain, tea, pumpkin pie, a hot shower, etc.).

And then I look in the mirror.

I see stringy hair and boring. I know I’m not hideous. But it’s just how my brain works. When it comes to myself, I see the negative first. My mission for this year of being thirty is to fully and completely accept myself, mind and body. It’s so hard. Because part of being human is to be hard on ourselves. It’s how we get better.

We can deliver a heart-wrenching motivational speech that rivals that of MLK Jr. People will cry out from the audience. Old ladies will faint in their wheelchairs. The country will finally feel united. And we’ll get off stage and say, ‘It totally sucked. I messed up two words in the third paragraph.”

Our immediate focus is always on the negative. I can take anyone else's situation and see the positive in it: You got pushed off a cliff by your fiance and broke your spine, but at least now you know he's not right for you. But when it comes to myself, I’m too harsh. I’ll look in the mirror with gratitude, and my ego, Lawrence, will appear and tell me how my hair is too thin and my skin looks like that of a confused teenager. (Lawrence is a dick. You can read about him here). I’ve worked so hard this year to accept these two last parts of me. I’ve used affirmations. I’ve meditated. I’ve accepted my anxiety, my control issues, my man problems. But this whole hair and skin thing is a real pisser.

The tragedy of how unimportant my skin and hair are in the grand scheme of things is not lost on me. This is why it’s all so frustrating. There are people in the world who have never heard of PIZZA! There are Indians who are sleeping in train stations with flies all over their faces, and all they want is a pair of clean underwear and a sip of clear water. And here I am bitching that none of the expensive cleansers in my medicine cabinet has made me beautiful like promised. Gross. I want to punch myself. But that would just be anger towards myself for not accepting myself, and that would mean even less self-acceptance.

My friend Katie came over the other day, and we were talking about ourselves, like prima donna narcissists often do.
“I hate my hair. It’s too thin.” she said.
“I hate my hair. It’s too short.” I said.
“Your hair’s great,” I said.
“You hair’s great,” she said.

Then it donned on us. We’ve known each other for five years, and each time we see each other, the conversation is the same (after the very important social commentary about globalization and other such paramount themes). We’ve always hated our hair. Even after accepting so many other parts of our selves, we can’t get over our hair.

“Let’s finally do something about it,” I said.
“Extensions,” she said.

I am not one to get fake things. I had fake nails throughout high school. I have banished such fakeries. Yet we did research. We made appointments. We sat through pain. We now have hair.

We have hair! We have hair that's long and silky. And we can look in the mirror and love it. But it’s fake! And it’s sewn into our scalps.
That’s right. We can only look in the mirror and love ourselves now that we have another person’s dead hair painfully sewn onto our heads. How odd is that? Humans are so strange.

After looking at all the options, we decided that weaves were the way to go. It took us an entire Saturday in a no-frills hair specialty spot with the worst logo ever. Seriously. Why make a ‘before’ picture your logo? That’s like making an empty plate the logo for a restaurant. Or some really sweaty man the logo for an air conditioning company. Not smart. BUT... We don’t judge a hair place by the logo, so we walked in for a day of fun. It was seriously fun.


You know those stereotypical black barber shops where all the men sit around and talk about life? This was the female version filled with women getting weaves while watching ‘The Best Man’ and commenting about Morris Chestnut’s private life and Hugh Jackman’s abs. I felt very welcomed into the weave community. And what a community it is. Holy mackerel. The women told me how to spot a weave, and man alive, so many women have weaves! I have been comparing my shitty hair to the luscious locks of plenty of women for so long and it was all for naught because so many are fakes.

What exactly is a weave, you ask? Well, besides a shortcut to self-acceptance, it’s a bunch of human hair that’s been dyed to match yours. D’Lisa, the weave specialist who only books appointments through text messages, finds the perfect spot on your head for the weave. She marks it with a Sharpie and then twists your own real hair into a tiny braid. Once that’s finished, she takes a thick, curved needle and sews the hair onto that braid. Like she’s making a quilt. Like your head is a big fucking Afghan blanket. And then it’s done. Then you have long hair that you can love for at least 6 weeks.


It sounds great. There’s just one tiny drawback: you have hair sewn into your scalp! It feels like I’m wearing a bathing cap made for a 3-month-old. Sometimes I want to rip it out of my head, but I saw her sew that shit in there and I know I’d be pulling out scalp skin and possibly exposing brain matter. So I suck it up and leave it in. Just so I can have long hair.

Just so I can have long hair!

One day I will get to the point where I don’t need this hair, the point where I can look at bare me in the mirror and love everything about what I see, including every single one of my real and short split ends. It will be a glorious day and sunlight will shine from my pores. And then Lawrence will come around and say, "Man, you have a lot of pimples."

I'm not only the president, I'm also a client!

Thanks, Annie and Danny

I've been crying a lot lately. Not because I'm pathetic (maybe because I'm pathetic). Not because I'm drinking wine alone (maybe because I'm drinking wine alone). But mainly because I'm a cheeseball and I can't get enough of this video.

You may have seen it already. Watch it again.

It's a real love story, and I love that it exists. This stuff really exists.
Phew.
I've been holding out for this kind of love, and it looks like it's not for naught. If Danny and Annie could find it, I can find it.

People may think it's weird to be in your thirties and single. Many more traditional types might consider me to be a dragon or an alien or perhaps an old maid because I'm thirty and I don't yet have three kids and a large ass. But I'd rather wait for this than be mediocre married early. Thanks for reminding me, Annie and Danny.

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

As long as they laugh, it's all ok.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Sex at the Salad Bar

Thanks, friends, for your concerned emails and for looking at me with that signature head tilt as if I’m a Haitian orphan. It’s sweet. I get it. I sound lonely and pathetic. Two weeks ago I admitted to trolling the Craigslist Missed Connections and last week I wanted someone to hold my hand while I fell asleep. If I’d read this blog, I would have been barfing all over the place and then weeping for pathetic old me.

Sigh.

It’s true that I want to be in love. I said it last week, and I can’t take it back.
But you know what’s worse than NOT being in love?
Dating.
It’s much, much worse.

Dating has so much potential to be amazing-- the excitement of this new person who could possibly end up playing a huge role in your life. But then there are the smiles that melt into pained grins. And the guys who arrive an hour late. And the same conversations about siblings and birthplaces and parents. And the fake offering to pay the check. And the men who let me. And the texting afterward.

It’s all so gross.
And although I do want to be in love, I don’t want to be a dater. In fact, I’d like to announce that I’m done dating. I’m out-dated. I’m a Dater Hater. I hereby declare that I am retiring from the dating scene until 2011. No more no more no more.

This means, of course, that I should probably stop shopping at Whole Foods.

Shopping at the Whole Foods in Venice beach is no ordinary grocery experience. This particular Whole Foods is a meat market. And it also sells meat.

There are more single people in this place than produce. And the cornucopia of promiscuity is obvious with every squeeze of a cantaloupe. There are skinny girls in daisy dukes, tan yogi men in scarves, salty surfer boys, and hipsters in V-necks. They’re all dripping with sexual tension as they measure out the bulk flax seed. Scooping peas from the salad bar is the new porn. You can’t pick out a bok choy without someone complimenting your pink aura or saying, ‘You must be tired because you’ve been doing downward dog in my mind all night.’

It’s just disgusting.

And also really fucking exciting. Because there’s nothing like the hope that fills your whole being when you spot that man with the smoldering eyes in the freezer section.

THAT is the best part of being single-- the hope, the anticipation, the numbness, the excitement of walking into the cookie aisle and knowing that any one of the men eyeing the gluten-free chocolate chips could be the man you wake up to for the rest of your life (And the fact that you can eat two PBJs for dinner in complete silence while naked.).

Was someone saying something about love? Maybe I prefer a lifetime of titillation at the salad bar. Now that I’m rethinking it, I can’t give it all up-- the hope, the men, or the Kashi cereal. I think it’s about time I come out of retirement.

Who wants to take me out to dinner? I promise to offer to pay and not really mean it.

I'll take three cheeseburgers, a Coke, and a large love

I’ve spent my career convincing people to buy things they don’t need. And in order to do this, I’ve lied. I’ve made teenagers think they had to have video games. And when I wasn’t sure if my lies would really ring true to them, I surveyed their peers and conned them into telling me what tricks I could use. Before that, I made men and women ages 18-45 believe that they could really benefit from eating tacos and ice cream from Jack-in-the-Box. And when I wasn’t sure that they’d fall for it, I spent days making those tacos and ice cream look so absurdly delicious that they had to say it: I want that.

Many advertisers will tell you that they’re simply helping their clients get the word out about their products. Or that they're creating art that people want to see and pass to their friends. But I think those people also believe that you can’t get a girl pregnant if you hold your breath while ejaculating. Because the amount of inventing and manipulating that goes on before a campaign hits popular culture is pretty ridiculous. And the amount of money spent on getting these campaigns to market is even more so. We could probably end world poverty for the price of two Nike spots.

We spend months at our stale desks deciding what a brand’s stance should be. Most of the time, we make up everything or we make a huge deal about the tiniest bit of info. Volvos aren’t really safer. Proactiv doesn’t really work. And McDonald’s surely isn’t healthy all of a sudden just because it added salads to the menu.

I’ve always felt uneasy about making this my career. Ok, more than uneasy-- more like a douche bag full of puss, which is way grosser than a regular old douche bag. The yucky feeling crescendoed until I popped and left town for most of 2009. I took off and didn’t watch one commercial or even TV (except when I was lonely in Vietnam and saw Dreamgirls and an American Idol from 2005).

But now I’m back and things are askew. This time advertising has manipulated me.

I’m working on an account that shall remain nameless. This mysterious account won’t allow lies in its advertising. And it holds tight to the rule that every couple featured in its ads must be deeply in love. At first I scoffed. Then I laughed. Then I paced around in circles. What? This goes against everything. I was ready to jump back in and invent more lies like the one about how cows in California produce better cheese.

But no! Instead, this client spent its ad money to fly real couples to LA for the shoot. They put them all up in hotels and even gave them care packages! These couples got the royal wardrobe treatment and took to the sets like movie stars. But they were REAL. And in LOVE. And I was shocked.

We filmed for eight days. Eight extra long days of watching pairs and pairs of happy soul mates traipse around Los Angeles. Normally, when happy soul mates vacation in front of you, it’s maddening. I take comfort in my single bitterness. I’m just fine alone in my endeavor to spend my life with the option to rub my naked ass on the couch whenever I want and never ever clean my shower if I don’t feel like it. Single! Independent. Don’t need me no nobody.

But that’s before I was surrounded by 52 couples who can’t live without each other. That’s 104 hearts filled with emotion and love and compassion for that perfect person who isn’t a dream but a real match who feels the same way back.

And so I realized: I want that.

I knew I wanted that before, of course. But now I really want it. Because I've seen the commercials. And because it might be nice if there was somebody to pull my socks off when I’m too tired or tell me the funny things about his day or help me cheat at Skee-ball or hold my hand until we fall asleep.

The karma bell has rung. Making these ads has manipulated me into wanting something I don’t have. And this is much worse than all the manipulation I’ve ever created. Because you can’t buy love at a drive-thru.

I’ve spent my career convincing people to buy into advertising. And now advertising has convinced me to buy into love.

I hate you, Advertising. I always have.

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.

A day for all fathers. Even dead ones.

People with dead dads don’t usually love Fathers' Day. It sort of says loudly, ‘Hey! Look at how everyone has a dad except you!’ However, since ads for toolboxes and necktie sales are blowing up, we might as well take the day to remember our dads and acknowledge them even if they’re not around.

I especially would like to pay homage to my pops, the weirdest and coolest dad I ever had. Here ya go, Daddy-O:

As a three-year-old, I thought you were a giant. I could sit in your size fifteen slippers. And when you came to pick me up at pre-school, I would wait for the top of your head to bob around the glass above the lockers. You were the tallest dad, and of that I was proud.

You had the driest sense of humor. I barely understood you back then, but now I think we’d crack each other up. Now I'd get your jokes. I wish you were here to discuss the state of Saturday Night Live. And politics. I bet we’d have drinks until late and laugh, laugh, laugh.

You always loved a nice scotch. And after a few, there was no doubt I’d find you sleeping in a chaise at any given family party. You had a snore like nobody I’ve ever known. Silent yet never unnoticed.

I bet if you were alive, I would call you up and ask you to read the newspaper in an accent. You should have made a living out of your impersonations. You could imitate any stereotypical twang, from ‘ghetto black dude’ to ‘Harvard scholar’ to ‘Indian 7-ll owner.’ I can’t believe you didn’t harness that. Or maybe if you had, someone would have shot you.

I think by now I would have persuaded you to go on Jeopardy. You were considered a genius by Mensa standards, and I’m sure you could have won us millions of quarters from Alex Trebek. By now I would have appreciated your intelligence. Back then I just thought you talked too much. But seriously, Dad. I asked you if unicorns existed and you spent two hours talking about all the different horse species and where the myth of the unicorn came from. Thanks, though.

You know what else you were good at? Wrapping presents. I used to think divorce was the way to go because of the silent competition between you and my mom on who would give better gifts. Yours always looked like they were wrapped by fairies. Ha. HA!
That just came out on accident. I wasn’t purposely calling you a fairy.
But let’s get that out in the open.
You were gay.
How cool is that? I love that you were gay. I love the fact that you had the courage to say it and live it. I'm so proud that you didn't stifle yourself, even if it meant divorce.

Unlike many at the time, I thought nothing less of you. You were my dad. That’s it. My big and tall gay dad. I know you knew I supported you. I know you knew I stood proudly in the audience watching you sing in the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. I really was proud. I wish I had made that more clear.
But I was thirteen. I didn’t really know how to talk about my feelings so much. Now I’m much better. I bet now we would have long conversations about how it felt to finally be your real self or your first experiences frolicking with men. I would love to know.

But thirteen was bad timing for me. I was insecure, ugly, and trying my hardest with padded bras to be popular. ‘Faggot’ was the most common insult in junior high. So I told you to tone it down when you came to the suburbs to watch me lead cheers.

This has been one of my only regrets. You built up so much courage to let your real self out after so many years, and here I was asking you to put it back in once in a while for the sake of my popularity.

I sometimes close my eyes and wish that had never happened. But time never lets me change it. If it did, I’d have completely erased the whole Hammer pants trend (You, by the way, were the first to tell me that those were out of style and that I should stop doing my bangs. You were right! Sorry I didn’t listen. You were gay; I should have known.).

Now that I see this whole life thing from a different point of you, I would have treated the entire situation differently. I would have told you every day how proud I was of you for finally shedding the weight of your lifelong secret. I would have talked to you about everything. I would have asked more questions and given more hugs. I would have screamed to all the cheerleaders that I had the hippest, coolest, gayest dad around. I would have made shirts that said MY DAD IS A FAGGOT AND I LOVE HIM. I would have gotten NBC news to do a story on us and how cool we were together. I would have bought us matching earrings. I would have made all my clothes out of rainbow flags and worn them every day.

But I didn’t. So I’m doing it now.

I’m saying it here: Dad, I’m grateful that you ever existed. And that you were a bizarre quirky soul. You were silly and neurotic and cynical and hilarious. And I learned from each and every little piece of you. And I keep learning from the short time I got to experience life with you. Because you are half of me, and I happen to really like that half. I wish you were here so I could hug you harder than ever and tell you that you mean a lot to me. And tell you that I accept you just as you are. And wear your shoes.

James R Sala, original hipster 1948-1996

Sorry Nic. Maybe it's the odd spelling of your name.

I hate Nicolas Cage.

I hate when I find pubic hairs on a toilet seat.

I hate how airlines charge for baggage.

I hate my hairy toes.

I hate when people see a flaw in my personality and try to teach me a lesson.

I hate the words ‘musings,’ ‘rogue,’ and ‘happenstance.’

I hate when people refer to themselves in the 3rd person. Laurenne thinks it sounds hoity toity.

I hate knowing that I will one day emit an old-lady odor.

I hate when people fart on planes. And when it's me, then I hate myself.

I hate talking about the weather.

I hate being around very negative people who hate everything.

I hate that I hate that Paris Hilton has a shoe line. That doesn’t deserve my hate.

I hate eighties music. Yes, even Madonna. Whatever.

I hate that nothing lasts forever. Especially fruit.

I hate that I spent too many years caring about being perfect.

I hate that lots of us work really hard so some bossguy can make money.

I hate that we’ve created some weird societal norms (drinking milk from animals, high heels, shoving plastic balloons under our chest skin, etc.)

I hate that so many people are so scared.

I hate that we still don’t know what happens after death. Come on. Just tell us.

I hate outlet stores. Always so much anticipation and then only irregular socks

I hate that I hate stuff. Why can’t I be the joyful kind of girl who motors around town loving everything? Especially Nicolas Cage. What did he do? I don’t know. I liked him in ‘City of Angels’ and then bam: hatred.

Thankfully, I do love way more often. I love jungle gyms, friends, vacuuming, handwritten letters, burritos, pool parties, pictures, and finally peeing after holding it forever.
Laurenne loves more things too but doesn’t want to bore you with those musings. (Man, I hate that sentence.)

Dear Blog,

I miss you! We are amazing together-- you with your letters and me with my words.
I started a new job again, so I haven’t been around much. It’s not you though. It’s me. I swear! I know you hate when I say that.
Starting a new job is tough. I have to learn the new lingo, find out where they store the coffee, and discern the best seat in the conference room for hiding during meetings. Plus, it’s now the time to be really smiley and make sure everyone likes me.
This job is stellar so far-- many friendly people who complain about their jobs but not as much as the other miserable people throughout advertising who complain about their jobs.
And my client is a bigtime dating website. Not only has working there made me feel like a mistaken fool for being single, it’s also making me question everything: Relationships. Marriage. Babies. My weird pattern of dating helpless men.
I know you think I should do less thinking and more writing. I should! I want to. As soon as I learn everyone’s name, I will fill you up with long, sexy words. Yes, I will Blog. Oh yes I will.
But now, it’s 1am. Just got home from work a few hours ago. Gonna stream me some Larry David until my tired little eyes see no more. Until my maniacal brain stops imagining a lonely future of pizza delivery and Murphy Brown reruns.
See you soon, Bloggy. Love you. 


One newborn burrito. Hold the oil.

Nine months will have passed by the time I come home. Some of my gossipy aunts are positive I’ve really been holed up in some Arizona ranch for unwed mothers who want to pop out a bastard anonymously. It’s not true. If I’d have gotten pregnant in LA, I would have had the baby and immediately thrust it into the arms of a heartless manager who would exploit its cute little fat face in every way possible so that I could earn all its model wages and take monthly trips to Cancun where I would get bad highlights, eat shrimp cocktails, and float around in those shiny blue pool chairs with drink holders that would support a variety of umbrella-bearing cocktails.

Sigh… Perhaps one day that dream will come true.

For now, I have only Olive, an Indian donkey who thinks I am her mother. She was a newborn when a car or pack of stray dogs attacked her. The villagers put motor oil on all of her invasive wounds to stop them from bleeding. Animal Aid, an organization in Udaipur run by a cheery ex-pat family from Seattle, was quick to come to her rescue. The vets were able to give her antibiotics and a bottle, but they needed a volunteer to give her some love. She’s a newborn!

I heard Olive’s cry and flew to the rescue. My assignment was to simply love her all day long. I bathed her, which took hours. Motor oil and fur can’t get enough of each other. I hugged her. I kissed her. I told her tales of her future as the best concrete carrier in all of Udaipur. I could actually see her demeanor improving throughout the day. Love helps! It's also a battlefield.

She’d wobble around, venture out a few steps on her own, and then come back to touch her soft forehead to mine ever so gently. It was true love on both sides. If my future daughter is born a donkey, I might not exploit her so much.

I am grateful to have met Olive, the donkey of my eye. The previous day, my assignment was to love and walk dogs all day long, and I left feeling like a heartless bitch. Dogs with mange and ticks only got a one-finger petting action from me, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Mange is gross!

Animal Aid helps cows, goats, donkeys, pigs, turtles, really any Indian animal in need. If you're sick and tired of helping all those boring humans in need, send them a donation or get over to Udaipur: Animal Aid

This is Olive before Hydroxycut.


Olive during her long bath.

This is Olive after. You won't get these results from other baths.

This woman is a saint. She patiently picked off dog ticks and broke each in half with her nail. No complaints.

I really really really tried to love this dog as much as I loved Olive.

This vet sticks his hand up a cow's butt daily. Maybe advertising isn't so bad.

One day I will stop thinking animal balls are funny. One day.

Turbans & Goats

I feel like I am painting all Indians a bad color, and this has surely not been my objective. Just like it’s an impossibility to describe the ‘average American,’ an average Indian there isn’t. But in India, the classes are so separated that the tourists unfortunately have more of a chance of coming in contact with a pickpocket than an office worker. So when I complain about the guys who ask me for sex or talk about cocaine, it’s because those are the types who ride the cheap buses with me or are looking me in the eyes while unzipping my backpack.

Just as the country is divided, so are most tourists’ feelings about India: India is hard. Everything is an inconvenience. In the West, if you realize you need deodorant, you can run to the store and be back in 10 minutes. In India, you must fight the taxi driver for a fair price; then you must fight the store owner. And then the store owner might not even have what you want since he didn’t feel like ordering that week, or he might just be closed for no reason. And then when you’re in a cycle rickshaw on the way back, a boy grabs your boob as you speed by. Two hours later you might have deodorant, but you also have three new friends and a bunch of dirt piled under your nails.

But there’s something about India that makes a heart swell and a tourist stay for years. It’s so strange. I often felt like a victim of domestic violence. India would beat me down, but I would continue to love it and come back for more.

Here’s what I love:

1. The Un-Self-Conscious Curiosity. In the West, when we see a man with an extra head growing from his neck, we nudge our friends and try to talk without making our lips move. ‘Hey guys,’ we’d mumble. ‘That dude’s got an extra head growing out of his neck. Holy shit.’ In India, they love asking questions, and I appreciate the openness. They’d say, ‘So why the extra head? Oh, you were born like that? Wow. Where were you born? Oh, LA! Wow, that’s really cool. How much money do make over there? Oh you don’t have a job? And you’re not married? And you’re just traveling alone? Wow, you are in sad shape.’

2. The Food. It’s more than the chicken tikka masala we have in the US. The chutneys, the samosas, the jaleebis, the dosas, the puri and channa! Plus, they pickle anything. Who knew pickled limes and mangoes could taste like magic? Indians knew.

This is a thali that gives you a bit of everything. You eat it with only the tortilla-like bread (roti) and no silverware. It's about a dollar. And it's often served in traditional restaurants by waiters who don't wear shoes.

3. Bollywood - I could watch Bollywood movies on a loop all day. The dancing. The singing. The “acting.” Plus, I love the way the entire country supports the actors. You can find stickers of Bollywood couples on the rearview mirrors of the most unsuspecting drivers. And, depending on the movie, the theater audience jumps up, claps, and screams at the good parts. Going to a Bollywood movie is like watching a film with 300 of your closest friends.

A theater lobby in Jaipur. And you can eat samosas instead of popcorn. Genius.

4. Pride - Indians love their country. They’ll tell you with a puffed up chest where to go. And they’ll brag about how amazing it is. They also celebrate their own successes. If they or their cousin or their son has a PhD, they will make sure you know about it. It’s cute. Americans need some of that self-esteem.

5. Culture - Such rich history and tradition. There are so many rituals that take place at every wedding that Arvind couldn’t even name them all. When the groom arrived on his horse, a group of boisterous women measured him with a string. The guy balked when I handed him something blue. Plus there’s the stopping for tea every hour, the saris, the women who never cut their hair. It’s all so deep-rooted; the Indians are not about to lose their culture no matter how many Western influences come their way.

6. Generosity - I can’t ride a train without a family sharing their feast with me. Or buying me treats from vendors poking their wares through the windows when the train stops. Or giving me advice or phone numbers in case I need anything. I am traveling alone, but I am honestly never alone.

7. Religion - Everywhere you look, you see a devotee. Whether it’s a Sikh in his turban, a Muslim in her burka, or a Hindu praying at one of the thousands of temples set up on the side of the road. Faith is everywhere. It’s beautiful. And it seems to blend like a smoothie in India. The few very devoted in my country blend with the rest like oil and water. Have you ever put oil and water on the stove? Don’t. It starts a fire. Ask my ceiling.

Something about a turban really makes me want to see what is underneath.

8. English - The British influence mixed with an Indian accent is adorable. I want Indians to read me bedtime stories every night.

9. The Media - I devour magazines in India. They are all about 40 cents and keep everyone in the country well-informed about culture, politics, etc. Surely not everyone reads them, but they are cheap and accessible. And in English!

10. Animals - Indians live with animals. Cows, goats, pigs, camels, elephants, oxen... they are everywhere. All the time. Even in the bigger cities. When you are close enough to watch goats communicate, it's easy to see that a few pairs of socks and a couple words are all that distinguish the humans. It sort of makes you feel too indulgent. Why do we need toilets and soft beds when the animals do just fine without?

11. Love - Love in India is different. Of course I met the creepies who wanted to cheat on their wives with a Whitey. But for the most part, Indians have arranged marriages and they stick with them. They marry the right one based on the alignment of the stars, education, and societal status. And then they trust that person to be ‘the one.’ No looking back. No getting divorced like the wamby-pambies we are who give up as if we’re playing a boring game of pinochle.

You must see this movie. The soundtrack will make you cut the most stubborn of rugs.

Goats whose love has surpassed their arranged marriage.

Peeps! And it's not even Easter.

I have fallen in love so many times on this trip (with people and cities and desserts and landscapes) that I fear my heart won’t remember how to function in normal society. I guess I am going to have to keep falling in love forever. With everyday items. That is my plan. What a lovely plan.

I cannot help but give my heart easily to strangers... the wrinkly man who tries to sell me his stomach-curing herbs by rubbing his tummy and making fart sounds. The woman with tattooed eyebrows who asks me a million questions and then surprisingly buys me my lunch.

Sure, a sunset is nice. And a local plate of mee (noodles) goes down with a sigh of satisfaction. But the people are what make it.

The following are people who have really made my heart’s dimples show:

1. Doug and Susan - Susan saw me in the lobby of my guesthouse in Alotau, PNG and said I could tag along on her hike to collect plants for a research grant. She failed to mention it was a 7-hour uphill journey through untouched jungle that required guides to machete a path before us. Hanging out with botanists was a hoot. They spoke a language of genuses and species. This Mangifera indica is riveting! Then they let me swing from a tree! I love botanists!



2. Stewart Family - I met Melissa at the meditation retreat in Australia. 10 days later when her parents came to pick her up, her mom and dad refused to let me take the 2-hour train to Brisbane. They insisted on driving me. Then they insisted on letting me stay in their house. Then they gave me a shower and a bed. Then they cooked me dinner. THEN, when I had to get to the airport by 5am, the entire family woke up at 3:30am to drive me to the airport. THEN, they parked, walked me in to get to my boarding pass, AND BOUGHT ME BREAKFAST! Then, they escorted me to the gate and waved to me as I boarded the plane. Yes, they really did all that. And they didn’t steal anything from my bag. I’m still in shock.



3. Fergus Kelley - For work, he deactivates landmines in Laos or treats AIDS patients in Africa. For fun, he visits orphanages or Thai prisoners with unjust sentences. He’s probably the most sincere and compassionate person I’ve met. Ever.



4. Butterfly waiter - When we entered the Butterfly Garden restaurant in Cambodia to a lack of butterflies, we asked the waiter where they all were. “Dead,” he replied completely deadpan. He was serious and his simple clarity still has me laughing two months later. Dead!

5. Bree and her mom - After a two-minute conversation, they had invited me to the party of the year in Alotau. I saw traditional dances, ate wine and cheese!, and met the who’s who of the Papua New Guinean beach community. And they saved me from Mr. Palm Tickler (see below).

6. Nick - This Kiwi actually gave me the shirt off his back when I was cold in Sydney. Who does that? Nick does. After meeting the douches below, this guy restored my faith in the gentleman.


7. Mrs. French - When I lost my camera during a swift trot at the horse camp, Mrs. French spent hours overturning leaves to find it. Don’t tell her that a monkey broke it anyway.

8. Frenchie - Most men are positive that a woman traveling alone must be lonely and horny and yearning to sleep with him. He had no such thought (out loud)! Plus, he spent hours in cafes with me doing crosswords. And he told me bedtime stories!



9. The village trek/pii mai team. Maya, Danielle, Lindy, Erica, Anne, Paul, Pieter, harada, Joya, Mads. Who knew such a random group could get along… a 40-yr-old teacher from Africa, a posh 19-yr-old couple, a bunch of hippies, 2 loudmouths, and some crazies. I’ve never felt so at home.



10. Suan Mokkh nun - she has the smallest voice and emits peace wherever she walks. But her English is what drew me in. “If you know some old peoples, maybe you can taught them this excercises. Sometimes some old peoples have some problems in bones. Arthritis, yes. And maybe you can taught them this exercises to help them. Maybe your parents are old peoples. Or maybe your grandparents are old peoples. You should teach them this exercises. If they are old peoples.”


Unfortunately, there are almost as many people who really piss off my heart. But they make for good stories:

1. Bed masturbator - A French guy I shared a room with thought that, since I couldn’t see him through the mosquito nets, it would be ok to..um…have a party for one. But I could sure hear him. Go masturbate on your own watch, buddy. Sick! I left immediately the moment the sun showed up.

2. Palm tickler - ew. This guy let me know he wanted to do me by slipping me the old tickly-finger-in-a-handshake trick. I felt dirty immediately. To be fair, I probably looked like a prostitute in Papua New Guinea as a woman traveling alone. But still! That trick is so seventies!

3. Cyclo driver - This man screwed me over for a hundred dong. Jerk! Ha, I said dong.


4. Dick in sydney - This jerkwad squeezed my boob quite roughly the moment after the flash illuminated. Then, when I didn’t slap him, he told me he owed his baby momma loads of money because his pull-out method didn’t work during a one-nighter in Singapore.
“Didn’t you wear a condom?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?”


6. Bus pukers - if you get motion sickness, maybe you should find transportation other than public bus. This couple, one of their mothers, and a baby sat next to us at the start of the 12-hr ride to Luang Prabang. All three adults puked the entire ride. Not only did they try to pawn their baby off on us for 12 hours, but they puked in bags, tied them in knots, and left them all over the floor!


7. Thai swindler - A very fat lady at the tourism office with a sweet face and matching voice lied to me about my visa, telling me I had to pay a whole lotta money to renew it. She told me I would get arrested if I didn’t and gave me 10 minutes to decide. The minute I had handed over the money, I realized it was a hoax. Whore.