playing possum.

Back before all the trouble started, and for years and years, I woke up each morning with such delicious expectation of the gifts the day would bring you would have thought I had been raised on nothing more than bare-back unicorn rides and Mallomars. Even if there was some petite crise on the table, the dawn always seemed to wash away the grime and bring the shiny bits to the surface. I liked that very much. Liked that I was someone who sought out the golden hue and who always believed life (and people) were wonderful. Then, well, you know, things got shitty. For a long time. 

In Angels in America, Tony Kushner talks about a “painful progress.” How we’ll get there in the end but, boy, it ain’t gonna be easy. I thought about this a lot while wandering through my wilderness and kept wondering when the painful part would end and the progress part would begin. As it happens, they walk hand in hand for miles and miles but then yesterday, out of the sunny, shiny blue, I jumped out of bed like a gymnast and expected again. Expected love and magic and a hot cup of coffee. More progress than pain, I finally felt like myself and skipped outside to see how my roses were doing. That’s when I saw the possum. 

The dead possum. 

He’d clearly put up a good fight but had lost big and we were both bummed out. Him because he was dead and me because I had to deal with his deadness. I sat down with my bad cup of coffee (seriously, can anyone tell me how to make coffee? Feels like something I should be able to do by now) and tried to figure out what to do. 

I thought about waking up Dash and, under the guise of a “teaching opportunity,” have him deal with it but it was still pretty early. Plus, he was wearing footsie pajamas and looking far too angelic to do any “cycle of life” type stuff so I went back inside for another cup of coffee and checked all the rooms to see if maybe there was a boyfriend somewhere in the house that I had forgotten about. That’s when I remembered that my boyfriend Derek had moved to SF a few weeks before and I had yet to replace him. 

I went back to my perch and resumed staring at the possum. I remembered Derek telling me a story about finding possums in his garage a few years ago and I mined my memory for a salient tidbit that might help but all I could remember were the words “possum” and “garage” and they are not as helpful as you might imagine. 

Hyped up on caffeine and adrenaline, I gathered my strength and jittered over to get a closer look. I was surprised to find that the possum - eyes wide open in fear and locked in rigor mortis - looked familiar. He looked, actually, a lot like me. 

A while ago, when things were bad, I tried hard to keep up with the greeting of the dawn but eventually all I could see was the underbelly of the worst parts of being here and that’s when I gave up. Everything was just too hard and too hard for too long so I shut out the sun with bamboo blinds and settled into a matte-finish existence. I got into bed, curled up and played dead - staring blankly at the walls like a mental patient. On the days I had to (shudder) do something, I was more zombie than human – dead-eyed and aimlessly plodding from point A to point B in holey hand me downs. 

The only good thing I can say about this time in my life is that I wasn’t ever truly alone. Penniless, heartbroken, sick – I met zombies of every stripe out there in the night and like Carnies, we roamed together in search of flesh, a lighted house and a nightly occasional glass of wine. We patched up each other’s holes, lent the same $200 around to whoever needed it most and told each other everything would be okay even when we didn’t know if that was true. Then, a few months ago, I realized that the lights were still on at my house so I went home, drew the blinds and let the sun come rushing in like a lost love. 

In the last three years, I’ve had to deal with actual poverty, the changing room at Target and a heart that’s twice been used as a whoopee cushion. I have overcome a lifetimes worth of family tragedy, a kid begging to be sent to a military academy, and a couple of moms on the party committee at school who have ruined the word “cupcakes” forever. Everything that can break has broken in the house. Same with the car. And my hair. 

In the end I had no choice but to MacGyver myself back to life. Using nothing more than a glass of water and a ball of twine, I held on by believing that the beauty of every single thing falling apart at once is that eventually there’s nothing left to break. That’s when you start to build again. You get Amish in a hurry and build the damn barn. Plus, I’m stronger now than I ever thought I’d be. I’m talking strong. Bring it on strong. High five oak trees when I pass them strong. 

When the dryer makes that weird noise or the pipe in the bathroom gives way or the car gets a flat on the freeway or a man tells me he loves me but “can’t” or the phone rings in the middle of the night, I no longer turn around and ask someone to take care of it. I grab the wrench, the manual and the rosary and get the fuck on with it, thank you very much. Besides, who cares if I don’t know how to make coffee? I know how to make a Gin & tonic. 

I looked at the possum and said, “I got this.” I’ve been trying to show my son that his mom can do anything and that strength is the true magic so I wasn’t gonna let a possum undo all my can do. I put on a pair of goggles, some rubber gloves and grabbed the shovel. 

I felt amazing. Look at me! Strong Alex. Oak Alex. Protecting her land AND wearing cute boots! I was high as a kite and then… I couldn’t do it. The thing was just too gross. I ran back into the house and spent the rest of the morning going to the window, hoping each time that the possum would magically be gone. Carried away by a coyote or a twister or that perhaps he’d merely been playing possum and threat over, had skipped away to re-join his people, stuff the turkey and count his blessings - there’s nothing like dodging yet another bullet to bring the meaning of cranberry sauce into sharp focus – but he was still there.

Countless times I headed out to be triumphant. Couldn’t wait to tell Dash how cool and fearless I had been but each time I went back inside and put the goggles away. If my son was going to learn a lesson about strength that day he was going to have to learn it from someone else. 

Eventually he woke up and the neighbor kid, Jorge, came over for breakfast. I told them about the possum and they ran out to look at it. They thought it was gross too but also cool. Cool gross. They yelled for Dean & Karen over the fence and told them all about it. Dean said, “What? You’ve never had possum and sweet potatoes before?” Me and the boys squealed with disgust. 

I’d love to say that I handled it in the end but I really, really did not. Dean talked to Dash about being the man of the house and that the task ahead was for men. I was fine with that. I know my mom marched for equal rights and I know that I can fix a bunch of stuff all by myself now but I am positively 1956 when it comes to this kind of thing so I stood on the porch with Karen and Jorge and watched Dean and Dash put the possum in a bag and throw it away. 

When he was done, Dash came inside, stripped off all of his clothes and threw them out the window. He didn’t ever want to wear them again but a rite of passage had taken place and for the rest of the day he walked around like he owned the joint. I watched his face as he recounted the story later, saw how proud he was of himself and realized I don’t look like the possum anymore. I look like Dash.

the winter ball. the responses.

Despite my assertion that I could, in fact, live another day without seeing a crotch shot, the penis pictures continued to stream in unabated – all of them attached to email responses of every imaginable sort. Poets sent verse, misogynists sent rants, men still living with their parents, or stuck in loveless marriages, sent missives akin to an SOS.

Despite the many differences of my would-be suitors, most fell into one of the following categories:

THE GRAMMAR DENIERS: Men who adore commas, misunderstand semi-colons and are absolutely terrified of their space bar. It also bears mentioning that the bigger the penis, the worse the spelling.

THE “TIRED OF THE GAMES” GUYS: Never got a clear answer on what games they were referring to but my God they are SICK of them.

THE NO BS GUYS: See above.

THE NO DRAMA GUYS: See above.

THE MASSEURS: If I weren’t afraid of the whole barrel thing, I could be getting massages every day for a month, in the privacy of my own home, for FREE and still not run out of offers.

THE BENEFACTORS: Lots of offers to help pay my rent and bills in exchange for candlelight dinners, a couple cocktails and “lots of laughs.” The only catch being that I must stay “open-minded” because “who knows?” I looked at the tower of bills on my nightstand, covered in cobwebs, and bit my lip. I called Shauna and said, “We all knew it was gonna come down to prostitution eventually, didn’t we?” “Yes,” she said, “yes we did.”

THE NATURE ENTHUSIASTS: They all love the beach. Ditto, sunsets and mountain streams.  These places are their “power spots” and where they feel the “most connected.” I tended to delete these almost immediately because, buddy, who doesn’t love the beach? Ever met anyone who said, “Sunsets, my ass. Every night with the beautiful colors and the overall sense of well-being. Enough.”

THE POT SMOKERS: I had NO idea so many people smoked pot. Or how many smoked pot while also insisting that I smoke pot, too. Some of these guys were super handsome, which I imagine is very important since we wouldn’t be able to do much but stare at each other all day through heavily-lidded eyes after calling in sick to work, eating bags of Funyuns and watching re-runs of Ren & Stimpy.

THE FETISHISTS: By far the most spirited group. One wanted to tell me what to wear and what to eat and I have to say, that sounded kinda great. As chief decider in these parts, the idea of having someone lay an outfit on my bed AND save me an exhausting twenty minutes weighing the gnocchi against the steak, seemed like a vacation. One wanted me to dress up like Marie Antoinette. Another wanted me to dress HIM up like Marie Antoinette. One wanted me to wear panty hose and that’s where I had to draw the line. Amirite, ladies? One asked, “So, where do you stand on the whole rape fantasy thing?” I have to admit that I didn’t know it was a thing and, without even thinking about it, I realized I stand rather firmly against rape. One wanted to go pacifier shopping (don’t ask) and another asked me how many gag balls I currently had in my “collection.” Anyone who’s ever met me knows that this is a ridiculous question as I’m not sure I’ve ever gone longer than five minutes without chiming in about something or the other. I’m sure there are people who would welcome having a gag ball in arm’s reach while hanging out with me but volunteer for silence? Um, no. Anyway, like I said, they were just a super fun group of guys and I wish them all the best.

THE “I’M ONLY HERE FOR ONE THING” GUYS: My favorite being the one who wrote simply, “Wanna get licked and get paid?” Golly, SURE!

DEREK: His email arrived sans photo or fanfare. He was funny and could spell. We had both lived in the same small, San Francisco neighborhood. He had kids, too. After forty-eight hours of reading what basically amounted to the same soft-core porn novel over and over, his lovely and straight forward email floated gently to the top of my mind. Him, I wrote back.

Next up: The Dates.

the winter ball.

In January 1983, the halls of my high school were abuzz with talk about our upcoming formal dance, The Winter Ball. We were excited – booking limos, asking older siblings to buy us rum and going to Macy’s after school to try on taffeta dresses. Since I was only 15 and did not yet have a boyfriend, my friend, Doo, set me up with a guy her date knew, sight unseen.

On the night, Doo and I got ready together and the guys arrived to pick us up. I don’t remember their names but I’ll call my date, Mark. Mark, the asshole. From the instant he arrived, he made a few things very clear: I had given him "lousy" directions to the house, my dress looked “Victorian” and like something his “grandma would wear” and, even though he didn’t say it, he wished he was on the date with Doo instead of me. I know this because after we got to the dance, if I wanted to actually lay eyes on him, I had to figure out where Doo was. Find Doo, find Mark.

In the end, my girlfriend, Ayn, saved me from the debacle. Her date was equally gross so she and I took off in her mother’s car, went to a diner and, corsages wilting, ordered onion rings and milkshakes. We had a ball.

Now, at 44, I can tell you that Mark had the entitlement of Kim Jong-Il, the defensiveness of a hedge fund manager and a pasty, moon face very popular among serial killers. In short, the kind of guy I would cross the street to avoid but, back then, I was just a girl made up of insecure atoms so I thought this is what dating was like and vowed to avoid it like the plague.

While I didn't actually manage to avoid it, I'm happy to report that Mark is STILL the worst date I’ve ever had and I am grateful, really, that I knocked that one out early. As for my best date? That would be the time my soon-to-be boyfriend, John, asked me on our first date, if I would join him for part of his upcoming European bike trip so, on what would’ve been our third date, I flew to Munich. Despite the obvious "international escort" undertones, it's still one of the best decisions I've ever made. The rest of my dating life has settled somewhere in between - not quite horrific but seriously lacking in passports.

I’m thinking about all of this because I just recently launched into an experiment: online dating. After an eye-opening week on Match.com wherein the ONLY specification I listed was a height minimum of 6’, I received e-mails from every man in America under 5’8.” So, I did what any sane woman would do, I canceled my account and headed over to craigslist.

The term, “eye-opening,” takes on a whole new meaning over there at old craigslist. I don’t consider myself a prude at all but my holy goodness, I saw more penises in my first three hours than a porn director after a week of auditions. I thought that eyes were the windows to the soul but maybe I’ve been wrong.

Now, we’ve all heard the scary stories about online dating, and craiglist in particular, so it’s important to note as I regale you with my experiences that I am not giving anyone my real name, e-mail address or phone number. These early days are as private as can be and if I do decide to go on a date with anyone, Kathlyn and Denise are already on deck to accompany me, chaperone-style. Also, while there is no doubt that some people out there are nutjobs who wouldn’t know a boundary if it slapped them across the face, most people are decent and kind and, like me, aren’t sure exactly how to go about dating while also having kids. And a case of the olds.

Here’s the post I put up and now we will wait to see who turns up:

After 2 years on my own, post break up, I think I'm ready to explore again. Not sure what I want, relationship-wise, because I dig having my own space but I don't feel the need to do ALL of it alone anymore. I'm truly new here and after a day of research it's starting to sound like there are a LOT of people pretending to be one thing and actually being something else altogether. That's not me and I don't suffer fools BUT If you're funny and smart and can tell a good story, send me an email.

For the record:

I have brown hair.
I live in a cute Craftsman.
I'm funny.
I love the rain.
I love fireplaces.
I love everything (well, not EVERYTHING, but I see beauty wherever I can.)
I'm a writer.
I want to learn how to make cheese.
I sing all the time.
I have a terrific kid and crazy, lovely parents and tons of friends and a whole life.
I have big eyes and marvel at most everything they see.

Also, for the record:

I don't want to "hook up" today or tonight.
I like massages but I just had one so, I'm good.
I'm not going to start off by telling you where I live or giving out my number because I'm not insane and don't want to end up in a barrel.
I will trade e-mails and see what's up.
I’m a 100% real person.
I know you love your penis and, you know, awesome, but I’m not interested in seeing it quite yet. I’m sure it’s terrific but I’m willing to bet it’s not your best feature.

shake your booty.

Monday

I was on the phone with a friend this morning and he told me he'd hurt his arm at the gym last month, “My shoulder’s still really bad. It’s been like this for weeks and now, well, you know…” His voice trailed off but I knew exactly where he was headed. “And now you think it's cancer, right?” I said. He let out a big exhale and whispered, “Yes."

I was understanding and supportive because irrational cancer scares based on nothing more than the wind and some article I just read are my thing but I had to ask, "Is there such a thing as shoulder cancer, honey?" Because that's a stretch - even for me. "Since when does something have to be an actual thing for you to invest in it?" He had me.
 
Tuesday

As anyone who knows me can attest, I have a flair for the dramatic that borders on the Victorian and am unbelievably susceptible to the power of suggestion. Life has been heavy with drama for the last 40 years so now I live in a perpetual cycle of waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Also, my shoulder has been hurting ALL day.

Wednesday

I told a friend about my shoulder and she said, “Now that you mention it, I’ve got some stuff happening with my stomach that I’m not crazy about. Think I’ll see if I can get in to see my doctor.”

Wouldn’t it be great if doctors were just always available and close by? I mean, technically, they are but I wish I had one sitting on the end of my bed at all times just waiting to answer questions cause I'm multi-symptomatic, as a rule. My doctor’s all the way over in Century City and all he ever says is, “Will you please stop diagnosing yourself on the Internet?”
 
He also refuses to let me have a supply of antibiotics on hand just in case, refuses to give me a blank prescription pad AND he doesn’t work on weekends which is the only time I ever think I have something.

Thursday

Just got a call from ANOTHER friend who’s worried about some blood work she just had done and now we have to wait until Monday to hear the results. I groaned and said, “What's wrong with you? You know you’re only supposed to get tests done on Mondays so we can spend the following weekend celebrating your clean bill of health with booze, cigarettes, Xanax and cheese.” I swear, some people.

Shoulder still hurts and now my knees are doing this weird crunching thing whenever I stand up.

Friday

For most of the 90’s, I was totally convinced I had AIDS due to my heavy dependence on hysteria so, one day I called my therapist for an emergency phone session. “I don’t know,” I said, “I just feel funky.” I listed my symptoms and recounted my sexual partners (and the deviant histories I had made up about them) and said finally, “I know it. I’ve got AIDS.” She said, “You. Wish.” Then she hung up on me.

Saturday

Woke up feeling like we’re all ridiculous - myself, most of all. I don’t know why I’ve spent so much of my life MSUing (making shit up) but I'm getting kinda sick of it. I want to fully embrace a relaxed and groovy approach to life (and somehow instantly have a yoga body and poised demeanor) instead of just dabbling with the idea but, God, it's hard to change these stripes.

I'm thinking of this because my friend Piper is coming over this morning for a visit. We haven’t seen in each other in years and just reconnected on Facebook. I'll tell you, all the "what ifs" are kinda hilarious until you make a plan with a friend who actually has fucking cancer. Which she does. I just found out.

Later...

We had a really nice visit. We caught up and laughed and for a while avoided the whole cancer topic altogether but then we took a breath and just dove in. I’m glad. I’d hate to be one of those friends who can’t handle talking about what’s going on for her because of narcissistic concerns about my own health. I listened and asked questions and was generally there in the room with her but a couple of times I caught myself thinking, “Oh God, what am I going to do if I get cancer?”

So, turns out, I’m one of those friends after all.

Later still...

Been listening to LeAnn Womack sing, “I hope you dance,” for the last two hours. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Monday

Went to go visit my “blood work” friend at her office to wait for the results and everything came back clean. Huzzah! Apropos of absolutely nothing, her co-worker was wearing a blue bracelet that said, IT'S ALL GOOD, and he gave us each one to wear because he said they were lucky charms. I put it on immediately.

Tuesday

Got the gig to write short stories from an ad I answered on Craiglist. Can. Not. Believe. It.

Thursday

Just found out I booked a commercial I auditioned for. Can. Not. Believe. It.

This week is like the complete opposite of that week I had last May. Never taking the bracelet off.

Monday

Piper and I were supposed to meet for dinner but I begged off so I could work on the short stories in an effort to meet a deadline for once in my life. She said she was fine with it but something in her voice told me that it wasn’t actually fine so I changed my mind and we met up for a smoothie.

Turns out, after some hope-filled months, she went in for her regular treatment today and the doctor said he was “worried about something” and now she has to go in and get a different kind of scan. FUUUUCCCCKKKK!

She is so upbeat, even though she’s stressed about it, and I just don’t have a clue how she does it. I fall apart when I have to get a routine pap smear so, yeah, I’m basically just retarded and pretending (badly) that I’m not while she is just about the coolest person in the history of persons. I took my bracelet off and gave it to her with instructions not to remove it until the scan results come back. 

On the way home I found myself running some kind of complicated algorithm in my head: how many friends I have x how many friends have cancer x what the National figures are x what my odds would be in that group but I’ve always been shitty at math (and now friendship, I guess) and didn’t come up with anything. When I went to brush my teeth, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. 

Tuesday

I woke up this morning and had an epic panic attack. I barely made it to the wardrobe fitting for the commercial but once I got there I started to calm down until… I got a phone call with bad news about Slim followed immediately by an e-mail with bad news about Dash. It was clear I wouldn't be breathing normally for a while.

I’m not going to lie, I thought about getting the bracelet back from Piper because it was kind of amazing how soon things got wonky after taking it off but I’m not calling MY FRIEND WITH CANCER to ask for the bracelet back. I mean, after you make a call like that, what’s next? Slapping babies? Teasing kittens?

Wednesday

Today was the first day on the commercial and I found out I wasn’t going to get as much money as I originally thought, which meant that paying rent would be, um, hilly. I eyed my phone, pre-set to Piper's number, and bit my lip. Instead of making the call, I took a walk over to craft service because my Jordan Almond addiction is getting pretty serious and that's when I saw the penny. 

The skies had been overcast all morning but at that moment the sun slivered through and made the copper sparkle. I don't know why but a wave of calm came over me so I picked the penny up, put it in my pocket and decide it would be my new lucky charm.

Thursday

I called Piper and told her the story about my run of bad luck. I wasn’t going to because I didn’t want her to feel self-conscious about being totally greedy in keeping the bracelet to herself but telling it was also proof that the bracelet really was a good luck charm and that's news she might want to hear. Plus, there were some funny bits and I knew she'd laugh. She did. She laughed for a long time on the phone and then called back later to say how much she appreciated the break from all the shit her brain is telling her.

I think that maybe one of the reasons we’re back in each others lives is that she reminds me to get my head out of my ass and I make her laugh. She won’t know this until she reads the blog but she’s actually the reason I went on that audition in the first place. She’s showing me a different version of how to live. One with more pep. And more grace.

Friday

Still don’t know when Piper's going in for her scan but now we’re thinking that the doctor may be the actual drama queen in all of this cause all she has is back pain and everyone we know has back pain. I've been thinking about booking on our friendship the last few days because there’s a big difference between getting together for a quick cup of coffee with an old friend who's suddenly very sick and signing up to stick around for the duration. Staying put and witnessing the unfairness of her situation is sometimes maddening enough to want to pull all your teeth out in protest but I’ve wholeheartedly decided to stick around and here’s why:

She was awesome long before she got the diagnosis and she’ll be awesome after she kicks it’s ass. She is exactly like all of my other friends – twisted and kind and smart and open and talented. I'm crazy about her. I have no idea what she sees in me but I’m psyched that we got thrown back together again. Life is better since she reappeared because that’s how it is with great people... they improve the conditions.

She recently told me, “My doctor’s don’t think I’m gonna make it, but I do.” And that right there is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard. Ever. So all we have to do now is let the bracelets and the pennies do their jobs and get on with it. I think she’s gonna make it, too. I really do. 

In the meantime, there’s life happening every day and no one's life wants to do all the work. We must chip in. Instead of staying in the what if (fear, fear, fear) I want to reinvigorate the abandoned campaign of ravenous living. The shoulders and blood tests and stomach ailments and funky knees and panic attacks are distracting us from the banquet. Not to get all “I hope you dance” on you but seriously you guys...

Let's dance.

southern cross. part II.

Before I even got on the boat, my curls had started to droop. I wasn’t crying anymore because I was too busy far-away gazing, for real. I was NOT feeling sun kissed and free, as I'd hoped, only that I was unfit to take the test. Bernadette, who despite spending years surrounded by salty dogs, turns out to be one of the gentlest people I have ever met. She pulled me aside and took me for a walk along the harbor. “I take it you’re having some marital challenges,” she said. I nodded. She asked me if it being over was a good thing or a bad thing and I said both and she said that if there was any part of it that was good then there was always hope and besides you're alive which is a great thing so, why not sail?

The other students were making their way down to the boats and I joined them. I grabbed the bag that holds the jib sail and threw it on board but I was still firmly rooted to the dock. Many times in the last year, separation has felt like being thrown into the deep end of the ocean with nothing but a bucket of chum and even though I’d kept my shark phobia in check, suddenly it was all I could think about. Captain Elliott said, “How’re we doing?” I bit my lip and scanned the surface of the water for fins.

He said, “You missed something while you were, um, on the phone and it's important to know. If you do happen to sail into the wind, all you have to do is steer a few degrees in either direction and things will get quiet and your sails will fill up again and you’ll get moving.” Then he gave me a big smile.

The world is filled with accidental Buddhas and I am always so grateful when I recognize them. I keep my eyes open everyday and seek wisdom and solace wherever I can find it, then send up prayers of thanks to whoever it is that organizes the chance meetings and the random doses of humanity. Some of the greatest lessons learned have come from strangers - bakers and oil change mechanics and crossing guards and Bernadettes and sailing instructors.

I asked Captain Elliott if there would be circles drawn on the water, like there had been in class. He shook his head but told me I’d be fine without them. I don’t know. I like it when people draw me pictures. It's comforting. If someone had drawn a diagram at the beginning of my relationship with Peter that showed that we would be happy and then we would have a baby because of all of the happiness and then we would become fried and start to fight and that I would balloon to 200 lbs and that we would stop having sex and stop making eye contact and that we would both develop sturdy drinking problems and end up living apart, it might have been easier. But it doesn’t work that way and maybe not having pictures is good. Maybe we should be grateful for the bends in the road, for the inability to see too far ahead.

I went aboard and hoisted the jib and remembered my thighs, instantly. I had no idea there would be so much squatting in sailing but my legs are broken down because of it. The boat we trained on has a really low boom and it will smack you upside the head if you’re not paying attention. I don’t know how many times you have to get hit before you commit to a permanent crouch, but for me, the answer was two. Two times. So, my thighs were trembling but the pain got my head in the game and Captain Elliott put me at the helm straight away so it would stay there. It was a different boat, bigger and fancier, so I had to focus like a microscope but I got us out of the slip and under sail and we started the test.

I did it all “beautifully” until we got to that damn figure-eight drill. My white whale. It seems that I can turn from starboard to port or the other way around but the full circles have fried my brain and I was bummed because they are so cool to do. I know this because I did manage to do it once. The sails go from being pulled in tightly to released fully and they swing from one side to the other and back again and the boat keels at an extreme angle while people yell, “jibe ho!” It’s all very America’s Cup and exciting. When someone else is doing it.

And someone else was doing it. Kids. Little kids. Alone, learning the drills in their own small, individual sailboats! They were all over the harbor and they really had their shit together for 10-year olds. Hell, they had their shit together for anyone. I make it a point to never get jealous of anyone shorter than 5’ so, even though I was a hopeless case, and even though I was having my ass handed to me by a group of show-offy midgets, I gave the kids a big thumbs up and started breathing for the first time in a long time. I had officially failed the figure-eight but I didn't care. I was just so happy all of it was over.

Everyone had their turn at the helm and once the test was done, Captain Elliott took over and sailed us out beyond the breakwater and it was awesome. That man can sail the hell out of a boat. I started having fantasies of being a sailor’s wife and knitting him wool sweaters and wringing my hands with worry during storms and watching Deadliest Catch on a loop and then the boat started to bob like mad. Up and down and side to side as if someone had set the ocean on the spin cycle.

Suddenly, everything pressed in so closely together - fear and excitement and loss and joy - all of it rushing in at once. Dash's birth, a vacation to Hawaii, fights, scars, sleepless nights. The first kiss and the last. Moving in and moving out. Assembling a crib, a high chair, a BBQ. Green lawns, pool parties. The roof man and the cable man. A new kitchen. The details and lists of domestic bliss. One drink, then 100. Deaths and altars and a wedding file stored away in a box somewhere in the garage. Favorite meals. Father's Day. Mother's Day. In-laws and Christmas. Love letters and photographs. History, shared. The dark and then the dawn. Hope.

I started to laugh. At first, kinda trembly and unsure but then fully and tearfully and wonderfully. I don't know what came over everyone, they were probably running over their own lists, but pretty soon we were all in on it, laughing and holding on for dear life, and I thought this is exactly what life feels like these days - funnier than I expected and wholly dependent on gravity. When I started the blog and told people what I had chosen for my first challenge, I got a lot of, "Why sailing?" If they had been there at that moment, I would've said, "This."

I don't know if I will ever sail again but I like that I can. I like that when I came home, I could add the tool to my belt and cross the word off my list. Everybody's fine. Better than that, even, and I don't think there is failure if you try. A successful relationship is one in which you loved and were loved in return - so hats off to Peter and I because we did and we do and we will. There's a line in the song Southern Cross that goes, "Somebody fine will come around and make me forget about loving you." No, thanks. I want to remember it all.

Once we leveled off, Captain Elliott looked at me and said, "Well, you suck at sailing." I nodded in agreement because I really, really do suck at it. The sun was setting, as if on cue, and turned the surface of the sea from blue to gold. I was really pissed I hadn't curled my hair. "So," he said, "if not a sea captain, what's next?" I looked out at the water. All of the fins - real and imaginary - were gone and in their place a million fireflies had just begun to dance.

"Everything," I said.

southern cross. part I.

"When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you’ll understand, now, why you came this way.”
 

My sister, Slim, and I were latchkey kids. Our parents had split up years before and our mom had gone to work full-time. Without adult supervision, we would spend weekday afternoons eating our body weight in cinnamon graham crackers, peanut butter and popcorn and loll about the living room like baby elephant seals. Since we were hippie-ish, we didn't own a TV so these living room picnics were accompanied by hours of music, each of us taking turns as DJ.

I was 12 and Slim was 10 so we listened to a lot of Donny Osmond and KISS but we always liked our mom's music best. We would sing anti-war ballads with Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, choking back tears of regret, and swoon over love songs by Cat Stevens that filled us with longing and expectation.

My favorite, though, was Crosby, Stills and Nash and my favoritist favorite was the song, Southern Cross. I would listen to it over and over and study the album cover until I could practically smell the ocean. The three musicians gazed at the horizon at sunset, in silhouette. Poetry. I knew that if I ever sailed around the world, I would feel like I imagined they felt – sun kissed and free.

On the last day of class, I knew my time had finally come. I curled my hair and practiced my far-away gaze in the mirror. The plan was to get to the bow of the boat as soon as possible and act out my version of the album cover. Before my modeling assignment, though, I had one last class on shore.

As always, our chairs were formed in a semi-circle directly in front of the big dry erase board Captain Elliott uses to draw diagrams and charts and nautical whatnot. That day, he had drawn a huge circle with marks all around it, some squiggly lines representing wind with a "no-no" line through them, and a struggling, little sailboat in the middle.

He told us that we can never know which direction the wind will come from and we should never steer directly into it because the sails will start to luff wildly and the hardware will bang all over the deck and the noise will become deafening and then the boat will stop, dead in the water. I drew a circle in my notebook and wrote, "Avoid loud. Avoid stuck."

Then my phone rang.

Lately, Peter and I have been getting along like a couple of real grown-ups with their acts together but something was in the air and from the moment I said, “Hello,” we tore into each other and had one of the worst fights of our 8 year relationship. And we had it, on my end at least, in front of everyone at Bluewater Sailing School, despite my running to a hiding spot around the corner of the building.

I don’t remember all of what we said because I was in a hopeless and raging state from the start but wherever it is I thought our separation would take us, I had been off by a mile. I told him we needed to go see someone to talk - he said there’s talk and then there’s action - I said, okay, I am never moving back so, there’s an action and he went silent and I started to cry and the relationship was over just like that. It had been over for months but this was over over.

You don’t always know your last whatever is going to be your last but I knew that this was the last time we would ever fight like this. The last day we would be intimately entwined in this way. We might fight again but my feeling was that it would never have the same bite or urgency. The final showdown was long overdue, for sure, but still so surprising once it happened and, God, so sad. I sobbed and then he said something that pissed me off and I said “FUCK YOU,” a hundred times in a row. Then I hung up on him, which I still regret.

When I skulked back to the chairs, Captain Elliott was all steely focus at that dry erase board of his but the students were looking at me as if they had been told NOT to look at the crazy lady but the drama was just too delicious too resist. If the shoe had been on the other foot, I would’ve been pure eyeballs myself, so I get it. You want to. But. You. Can’t. Look. Away.

I slumped in a seat, hiding behind my sunglasses, and watched my modeling dreams evaporate. I looked up at the circle on the board and thought about wind and the Southern Cross, "And we never failed to fail. It was the easiest thing to do..."

second acts.

PROLOGUE

The theater is dark and packed. Outside it’s a hot and cloudy afternoon in New York City but inside dawn is about to break over the English countryside.

From the moment the curtain lifts and Mark Rylance begins to act the acting out of his role as Rooster Byron in the play, Jerusalem, the audience leans forward and this is where they stay - edgy, open, grateful. Two and a half hours in and they’re a mixture of exhausted and exhilarated and everyone wants more.

Rooster, who the playwright has put through hell, is banging on a drum and bleeding from every orifice. His home is about to be bulldozed, all of his friends have left, his child has given up believing he will ever be the man he’s meant to be and his last hope - that a giant he’d (maybe) met near Stonehenge will appear to save him - is nowhere to be found.Literally beaten and spiritually broken by circumstance and his own failings, Rooster calls forth each of his ancestors by name, demands their assistance at the top of his lungs and drums until his palms are as purple as plums. He is stripped down to his most human self, desperate for transformation and, somehow, impossibly, filled with hope.Then… the trees on the stage start to sway wildly in an off-stage wind. Then… heavy footsteps - a giant’s footsteps - loud enough to rumble the theater - can be heard approaching. Then… the curtain comes down. Hard.

It takes me a second to realize I’ve stopped breathing and started crying. Everyone has. I’m swept into the thunderous applause - hooting and hollering for a standing ovation that lasts FIVE minutes. I look to the man on my left, a stranger before that moment, and we clasp hands, beaming at each other like a couple of headlights.I’d forgotten how community is always thisclose, just waiting for me to show up. I tell the stranger this. He nods and smiles. I yell over the audience, “Everyone is just waiting for everyone to show up, right?” He nods again.

A few minutes later, while washing my hands in the ladies room, I catch my reflection in the mirror – red nose, swollen eyes – and think of the horoscope I’d read two days before: “A journey or a meeting takes you back in time and you may be surprised what you find buried under years of neglect…”

ACT ONE

The biggest surprise was the journey itself. Because of the terrorists and their big bag of bullshit I have a fear of flying so crippling that I haven’t left the state of California in a very, very long time. If I can’t get there by car, it’s off the list. In my microscopic corner of the universe, they really did win and I hate myself for letting them take what had been, up until then, an incurable case of wanderlust.

For years I was always just getting back from somewhere or just getting ready to go. I see photos of myself, each dated before that Tuesday morning – Vietnam, Paris, Austin - and squint to make out the woman who believed the world was tiny - the one who wanted to see every centimeter - and I barely recognize her.

In place of actual travel, I’ve spent my time logging on to airline websites and planning routes to places I’ve yet to see, knowing full well I won’t buy a ticket. I look at my friend’s Facebook pages stuffed with photos of their great lives until, utterly disgusted with myself for being such a pussy, I eat entire tubs of whatever I can find that comes in tubs.You see, the thing is, I used to be kinda cool. Now I’m not. During the early days of the blog I set out to accomplish a weekly challenge so I could go back to being cool but I haven’t been able to keep up with it because I’ve felt like a fraud. How can I write about the glory of this life and the big banquet we all have to eat from if my only daily activity is walking to the mailbox and back? My “existence” has been equal parts fear, poverty and terrible luck - luck that can only be attributed to a lifetime of bitch slapping leprechauns – and I’ve had nothing to say.

But then, out of the blue, Roni called and offered me a trip to NY. She has always been positively Amazonian in both her generosity and her lust for life and she’d been worried about me for a while. She’d wholeheartedly supported the divorce and the writing but had grown weary of my recent disappearing act.

“I’ve had it with you,” she said when she called that night. “You’re coming and I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit excuses. Waa-Waa to someone else, just get your ass to LAX and I’ll take care of the rest.” My fear of flying is nothing compared to my fear of losing Roni’s respect so I tried to remember how to pack a suitcase, lubed up for my TSA search and found a seat at the gate with a view of the bar.

I took one, two and, finally, three (they were small) Valiums and in a dreamy haze I saw the writing on the wall. Literally. A part of the terminal was under construction and on a dusty support beam someone had spray-painted: Ub4. I stared at it forever (I was really, really high) and burst into tears. Some of the other passengers eased away from me or pretended not to stare as I tried to make sense of what had happened to the b4 me.

Who was I before Dash or the troubles with Slim? Who was I before the bust up of the family? Before John broke my heart? I’d gone from a globe-trotting, table-dancing bon vivant to a woman too self-conscious to go to the market because there was no money for an eyebrow wax. I’d stopped having sex and stopped dreaming. I’d started chewing my nails to the quick and stopped writing. 

They called for us to board and by the time I found my seat in the seventeenth-hundred row, in the middle of two smelly fat guys (fuck you, leprechauns) I not only didn’t care if the plane went down, I was kinda hoping it would. I ordered a Gin & Tonic and assumed the crash position.

Once airborne I pulled out the computer "to journal." I decided to use the 5 hour flight like an archaeologist at a dig – sweeping away the dust to uncover the bones – and the hope was that by the time we landed, I would have answered the riddle of my own antiquity and emerge from the skies re-born.I drank the gin in one swill. It reminded me of my flight to Europe the summer I graduated from high school. It was the first time I’d had a grown up cocktail. Before then it had been rum and Coke (without ice) out of someone’s trunk at the Marina Greens in San Francisco but suddenly drinking was less about unprotected sex and throwing up into the bay and more about pretending I was French. I thought about my cousin, Taj. He and I had gone on that trip to Europe together and in a few hours (God willing) I would be at his apartment in Chelsea.

I tried to write, tried to sweep away the dust, but mostly I stared past the gut of my fellow passenger and out into the inky black sky. There is a piece of evidence missing from my memory, I know it, the one that will crack the case but before I had the chance to figure out how to get the me before to merge with the me now, I passed out.

ACT TWO

I’m on the rooftop at Taj’s apartment. The deck is covered in silver paint and when the sun bounces off, the reflection clears up everyone’s skin. We’re all so beautiful. I’d forgotten. Flowers of every conceivable color and shape bloom in big pots. There’s food and wine and easy conversation. Taj and his wife, Rey, embraced me with such force upon my arrival that I haven’t been able to stop smiling.I can see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building from my perch under their painted umbrella. The city sounds like summer. We sit around a table holding hands. It’s hot out and my face hurts from all the smiling and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.

Taj and Rey live life out loud and this enthusiasm emanates in every thing they do – how they speak, love, cook, decorate – everything a wild mixture of Dominican, Pakistani, Italian, French and American. No sentence commits to a single language. We yell across the roof to each other (and to our friends who have joined us) “Tu quiero, caro mio! I am so happy to see you. Basta – it’s ridiculous but, you know, Je t’aime, mija. Really. Mangiare, tutti.”

It’s. Heaven.

We stay on the roof for 10 hours – from the moment I arrive until we force ourselves to go to bed. They tuck me in with kisses and as I fall asleep I realize that Roni has given me the most extraordinary gift – she has forced me home to find myself even without knowing that is what I’ve needed the most.

Over coffee the next morning, Rey shows me a book called Color, by Victoria Finlay. “Alex!” she says in her delicious accent, “You MUST read this book! You must!” Everything Rey says has an exclamation point at the end of it. I curl up on the sofa with the book but first she says she wants to dress me up. She has a major job in fashion and the closet to prove it. She’d taken a pass at my suitcase and cocked her head to the side, confused. Didn’t I used to dress with some panache? What are all the jeans doing here? Why so many t-shirts? She looks at me with sympathy. “Oh, Alex! Cos'è successo, mi hija?”

She brings me an outfit and begs off for a live out loud day in the city. I’m to dress and head out too. I’m to explore and feel the sun on my face. “Cara,” she says, “it is what you NEED!” I do as I’m told and I have to say, I feel great. It’s been a hundred years since I’ve worn something that wasn’t utilitarian and a strut appears in my step. Like the THUMP-THUMP bass from a lowrider's speakers, the city is vibrating with activity. Everything and everyone synchronized. The cobwebs begin to loosen.

I take the subway to where it all began, the house I lived in when I was a little girl. I stare up at the façade, look down the street and see Slim toddling behind me calling me Ax. It’s not easy to remember something so sweet in the context of knowing what would happen later but I keep breathing.
In her book, Finlay tells the story of visiting the cathedral in Chartres when she was a little girl. Staring up at the stained glass window, her father told her, “It’s 800 years old and now we don’t know how to make that blue.” I know about this. The lost formulas, the terrible yearning for a hue.

I walk to the apartment I was living in at the height of my bon vivant-ness only to find that it’s no longer there. The symbolism is not lost on me. I remember the Feast of San Genarro – how I used to watch it from my fire escape. Eating hot zeppoles out of a paper bag, I would watch the neon lights from the Ferris Wheel bounce across my legs.I get a coffee from Dean & Deluca and see myself coming into the store the day before Thanksgiving in 1992, the first time I ever made the meal on my own and remember how much everyone loved my pumpkin cheesecake.

I hop on the train to midtown and swing by the old showroom building. I used to work in fashion and as I step into the air-conditioned lobby, it all floods back – the trade shows and sample sales. I remember a fake fur I bought, how I used to wear it like a robe after baths and how I can’t remember the last time I let myself be naked. I run to meet Roni at the theater.
At the curtain call, Mark Rylance, still out of breath, told a story: “One night after the show, a woman came up to me backstage and said, 'The last time I was covered in blood, listening to a drumbeat and waiting for the giants to arrive was the day I was born.'”

When I leave the theater the skies have turned yellow and it’s started to drizzle. I'm more grateful for this than I can say. The rain has always been special to me and tonight it feels like a gift. Even though I’m dressed for a runway, I decide to walk back to Chelsea.

Along the way, I see a writer at her computer inside a Starbucks. For some reason she looks up at me and we smile at each other. I'm so glad I’m a writer. I see a woman with her son. He’s about 9 and she’s dragging him behind her, trying to keep him under their umbrella. I miss Dash, fiercely. I'm so glad I'm a mother. I see a woman in her early 20’s screaming into her iPhone at a boyfriend. She’s drunk and her friends are trying to calm her down. I’m so glad I’m 43.
After months of feeling like my personal soundtrack has been scored exclusively by cellos, I start to hear new music. Specifically, Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone only - because of the weather and being in NY and wearing a necklace that costs a year’s salary – I hear it in some dance techno beat. “How does it feel to be on your own?” Fucking amazing.

By the time I get back to the apartment, I'm giddy with anticipation. For what, I’m not sure. Taj and Rey are gone for the night so I decide to go on to the roof and enjoy the view. As I walk through the door, a huge gust of wind comes up and slams it shut. The clouds open and it begins to pour down rain. I turn to go back in but the door is locked. It’ll be hours before anyone knows I’m here and the umbrella is gone.

Leprechauns.


I have no choice but to find a chair and embrace my predicament and in that moment of resignation I find the missing evidence. Yes, my life used to be different but it wasn’t necessarily better. It was exactly like it is now. Good and bad. Mourning for any moment before this one stops making sense and the road I’ve been on to find myself forks to the right.I tilt my face skyward and recognize this for what it is. Baptism. Then... footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

A giant's footsteps.

sigh.

the darwin awards.

A few weeks ago, America was subjected to another beauty pageant. I’m not sure what these events are supposed to be about but to me they’re just a clarion call that summer has arrived and, like hot dogs and the beach, they tell us that the time for serious thought has been suspended. It’ll be cotton candy and romance novels until the chill returns and thinking can re-commence. In truth, I’m kind of fine with that. Sometimes my head hurts from all the thinking so I welcome any break in the festivities.

That said, each year the pageants offer us a particularly terrifying contestant (Anita Bryant back in the day and Carrie Prejean in recent memory) and this year was no different. All fifty states (plus our red-headed step child, the District of Columbia) offered up their finest, thinnest citizens and, alarmingly, they had banded together on one topic: evolution.

Of the fifty-one ladies, only two believed evolution should be taught in school. The rest felt either it should be taught alongside Creationism or, clutch your pearls, didn’t believe in evolution at all. My favoritist was Miss Kentucky who said she didn’t think it was a good idea to teach young un’s about evolution because, “scientists have their different theories.” Um, no. They don’t.

A couple days after the pageant, I had a beer with my neighbor, Dean. We sat in the garden and, as he looked around at the flowers and passing clouds, he told me that he believes, “God had a hand in it, somehow.” I was surprised to hear this cause he’s a down-to-earth kind of guy but listening to him sincerely ask his questions about exactly how evolution was possible, I realized I didn’t know nearly enough about the topic so I got to work, Wikipedia-style, and that’s when I met “Lucy.”

Lucy, looking every minute of her 3.2 million years, has been touted as our missing link since she was discovered in 1974. Her remains gave scientists the proof and gave churches the sads. It was an exciting time. Until, someone discovered Lucy’s older sister, Ardi. Clocking in at 4.4 million years, Ardi is the new cause celebre in the evolution debate.

I read all about these discoveries, threw in some Darwin research for good measure, and came up with my hypothesis: I dunno know. Basically, I believe that we evolved from the apes because that just makes more sense to me. But I used to believe in a white haired, robe-y, pissed off God so I don’t think I can be trusted. I mean, I also used to believe that my skin was gonna clear up after high school so, you know, me and my “theories.”

I went to bed the night after my evolulapalooza and thought about something I’d read about Ardi. It seems that the scientists now believe (and she somehow proves) that the reason we went from four legs to two is… sex. If a male wanted to bed a female, he would have to bring her gifts (I’m thinking something in the berries, palm fronds family) but a problem persisted. By the time he got to her, the offerings were all crushed and mangled from the journey.

So the male learned to walk upright in order to deliver the goodies in good shape and get his freak on. I liked this – it scanned with my experience of us humans but it’s hard to put decades of Catholic brainwashing away. Plus, I liked the way Dean’s questions had me thinking about what was possible. I went to sleep surprisingly unsure of my position.

When I woke up, I heard from one of my formerly gift-bearing “males.” I’ve had three co-stars during the last two years: Peter, John and Sam, and now I was on the phone with one of them and he was crying. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

Before this phone call, and for months and months, whenever my girlfriends and I got more than two drinks in us we would plan the downfall of this male and cackle with delight. We would shout, “Karma’s a bitch with a long memory.” We would salivate at the thought of getting him back for his perceived (and sometimes very real) shenanigans. I couldn’t wait for the moment to be a cold ass fish. Couldn’t wait to say, “I told you so.”

Back on the call, I listened to him tell his story – a legitimately sad tale - and found myself feeling sorry for the guy. I had waited so long to feast on his suffering but the truth is, it was just empty calories. I decided to be there for him, instead. I decided to tell him I loved him and that everything would work out. I decided to be his friend, no matter what. Schadenfreude has its place but is decidedly quadrupedal and I like standing up straight. He can still be one of the world’s biggest assholes and I knew I’d probably hate him again soon but everything about the call suggested progress.

Later, I saw Dean working in his yard and went to tell him about what I had learned from my research in the field. “It isn’t Lucy or Ardi,” I said. “It’s me. I’m the missing link.” He looked at me the way he always does when he thinks I've gone round the bend and went back to raking his leaves, smiling. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

It's true, though. I am proof of evolution. The only proof I’ll ever need that we started one place then double back and gallop towards the next.

another brick in the wall.

Each year, from November to June, the Amazon River floods. In some places, the distance between the banks increases from one mile to twenty-five miles as the water rises thirty feet or more. This phenomenon throws one hell of a curve ball to the animal inhabitants of the region as the terrestrial and the aquatic suddenly meet up one day and, like lookie-loos at a Sunday open house, explore each others neighborhoods with a mixture of curiosity and, I imagine, silent judgment.

Benefitting the most from the sudden move are the Tambaqui - a species of fish who swim inland during the River’s swollen months and, taking advantage of their heightened state, eat fruit from the now accessible trees. After months of krill these little gourmands, with their adventurous palates, enjoy some dessert.

The day I spoke with my manager, I hadn’t heard this story yet and was feeling decidedly landlocked so after hanging up with him I took the script I’d worked on for months and threw it in the garbage can. Then I got into bed, assumed the crash position and wouldn’t even allow myself to consider a re-write. Every time I thought about his critique, I saw a brick wall, too high to scale, and realized there was simply no way to delude myself any longer that a career could be made writing. It was time to get a nice, reliable office job and stop with the fairy tales.

After a day applying for receptionist and executive assistant gigs that I was somehow both unqualified and ridiculously overqualified for, I went to splash some water on my face and discovered that the light in my eyes had faded. Poof. Gone.

For years I had been secretly delighted by the sparkle of expectation that always met my gaze when I was brave enough to look in the mirror. Friends had even commented on it, saying it was nice to see "me" back again after the divorce. That day, however, it was snuffed out and replaced by the deadened stare of someone whose dreams had never materialized. I looked like my father and it made me shudder. I’m ashamed to admit that I stayed this way for weeks. I may have gotten out of bed physically but mentally the covers were over my head but good.

I wish I could tell you exactly what it was that shook me awake but I don’t remember anything earth shattering happening – just that I read this article about the Tambaqui, which reminded me to think outside the box, which made me think of Randy Pausch and that’s when everything started to get better.

Pausch was a computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon who is most famous for his “Last Lecture,” delivered to a packed house ten months before he died from cancer. The lecture has over 13 million hits on youtube and I know why: it’s fucking awesome.

In the lecture Pausch talks about the importance of a brick wall – “The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out; the brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They are there to stop the other people.”

I went to the garbage can, swept the coffee grounds and slicks of yogurt off the script and got back to work. Yes, I need a job to put food on the table and, yes, I need a job that provides some security so I can start sleeping again but I can’t give up writing. I won’t. The fruit I’m after hangs from the highest tree so I’m just gonna keep swimming and wait for the flood.

best week ever.

One Friday afternoon last month, I was on the way to pick Dash up from school when I stopped at the ATM and discovered my account was overdrawn $700. This was definitely some shoddy, Brokedown Palace news and I wondered why it is that these things never happen on a Monday morning at 11 when you might be able to do something about them but always at the exact moment that banks put a “Next Teller Please” sign in their window and head off to Happy Hour.

Anyway. After some detective work, it was determined to be an accounting error. That was the good news. The bad news was that no one could tell me when it would be resolved. I knew I would have to circle the wagons and get either very clever or very drunk but, as you know, I’m a hope-y gal and always on the lookout for the magic of small blessings so I remained determined to look at the situation from my pro-jubilance stance: just another in a long line of solvable challenges. Instead, it turned out to be a starting pistol.

SUNDAY MAY 8th

It was a beautiful Mother’s Day – the best since I got the gig six years ago. There was $40 in my wallet when I found out I was overdrawn and I had stretched it like taffy. There was just enough left over for Dash’s breakfast, lunch and dinner and just enough gas to get him back to school the next morning when I was sure the situation would be resolved.

Dash was at his most sweet and adorable – making me snacks and showering me with gifts and notes. We’ve had some days recently that were more tense cease-fire than Hallmark card so we’d been in the market for a win and we got it in spades.

Then, Peter called to tell me he had proposed to his girlfriend and that she had accepted. I was happy for them but, even though Peter and I have known for years that we would never want to reconcile, it was still hard to come to the realization that after one year with her he was able to so easily do something he couldn’t do with me after six. I hung up and smiled at Dash but never got my groove back. I couldn’t remember a time I had felt so lonely.

MONDAY MAY 9th

I work part-time as an extra for TV commercials. The work pays well and is super fun but only comes in fits and starts. I had worked quite a bit in the fall but there had been a steep drop-off after the New Year and I’d been living exclusively on unemployment. There was just enough to pay for food, gas, bills and the almost daily ice cream cones and 99 cent store toys I get Dash after school, but absolutely nothing extra. I had decided to start looking for another part-time job because the romance of poverty had faded and I’d grown tired of living like one of the Duggars – all hand-me-downs and home perms – so was smack dab in the middle of resume tweaking when the mailman arrived with my unemployment check. A check that had mysteriously shrunk in size from $900 to $124.

After firing off a panicky WTF e-mail to the unemployment people, I was informed that because I’d been working they'd opened a new claim based on my smallest earnings. The matter was “not open to appeal.” I responded by asking why people who worked and only collected unemployment sometimes were being penalized. “If I’d known that getting a job would end up being my downfall, I would’ve spent my days gambling and getting pregnant in front of the liquor store just like the Republicans think people on unemployment do.” I didn’t hear back.

I called Lucky in a state of pique. She tried her best to calm me down and even offered to FedEx her Starbucks card because it had $30 on it. “They have food there,” she said.* She reminded me of my blessings and I hung up feeling slightly better until I dropped my phone on the stairs of the porch, watching in slow motion as it hit every step before finally landing on the pavement with a crunch.

*I swear to God, if my girlfriends get any more amazing I don’t know what I’ll do.

TUESDAY MAY 10th

My account was still overdrawn but I did have that check for $124 so I headed to various banks to cash it. I needed a phone and my stomach was grumbling but none of the banks would cash it and I couldn’t bring it to mine since the overdraft would just gobble it up and leave me nowhere so I went to a check cashing place and let me just say this: no bueno, no mas.

The first sign I encountered on the bullet proof glass advertised pre-paid cell phones “for prisons and jails.” I stared at it, amazed that such a thing would be popular enough to warrant it's very own sign. The store was well lit which only made the umbrella of desperation that much more visible. I ran out of there as fast as I could, minus the $20 fee they charged.

I went to the Apple store with my $104 and asked for the cheapest phone they had. Turns out the cheapest phone they had was gonna cost $98.99. I bought it. I mean, what can you do? You gotta have an iPhone in this life, right? Armed with $5.01 that I would have to use for gas, I gave the food court a dirty look on my way out of the mall and tried to focus on something positive. Turns out, I could now include pictures in my texts.

I willed the gas tank to make it back and walked into the house eager to jump into the re-write of my TV pilot. It would be my saving grace and I had already started to write a JK Rowling-esque mythology of how ABC would swoop in, buy the show any day now and save me. “It’ll be a great story and I’ll be very stoic in interviews,” I told my agent. “Single moms on the edge are always good copy.” Somehow, I had managed to divorce myself from the fact that that it wasn't just a story I made up. It was the truth.

Nine people had read the script and loved it and all that was left was my manager’s reaction. I had waited two weeks for his call and today was the day. He called and I sat poised with my pen and notepad, expecting to write down words like “inspired,” “fresh,” “exciting.” Instead I sat, shoulders sagging by the second as he told me how much he disliked it. “Was there any character you liked?” I asked after forty-five minutes. “No,” he said.

I got off the phone and watched my amazing story of triumph in the face of adversity dissipate into the ether. I was now officially broke and without talent. I got into bed and stayed there for 24 hours, staring at the ceiling and sighing like Billy Crystal in When Harry met Sally. Sigh… Sigh… Sigh. Also, I cried.

WEDNESDAY MAY 11th

I found $20 in the pocket of the last pair of jeans I tore through and went to the market. Dash was coming home that day and I was relieved I didn't have to borrow money to cover him. After spending a fair amount of time collecting coins from around the house and eyeing his piggy bank like a crack head, holding actual dollar bills in my hand felt like a victory. Then, groceries rolling around in the back seat, the oil light went on. I pulled into a Jiffy Lube to discover that my car requires a “synthetic” oil and that fixing the problem will cost me $80. I told the guy I would take my chances. I rested my head against the steering wheel and wondered what kidneys were going for on the black market. Seriously.

THURSDAY MAY 12th

The commute to Dash’s school is forty minutes, each way. I woke up and realized that there wasn’t enough gas to get him there and back again so I told him we would be playing hooky instead. He was absolutely stoked about this and for a brief, shining moment I felt normal. While he ate pancakes with whipped cream smiley faces and watched a DVD, I hit “refresh” on my e-mail inbox every few seconds waiting for the job offers to come rolling in.

After about an hour, I realized that I would have to do something I promised myself I would never do and downloaded an application for food stamps. After entering in the requested figures, I received a determination: “It appears you are eligible for emergency aid. Please go to your nearest welfare office to apply.”

An hour later Dash and I walked up the steps of the gray, boxy building and even though he had eaten the pancakes and a quesadilla and a green smoothie, I looked at the kid and said, “Showtime, boo. Act hungry.” I know some may think that my bringing Dash was an intentional act meant to garner sympathy and increase my chances and they would be right but, as it happens, I’m not the only one. The place was crawling with kids.

In the end, all we got was a mountain of paperwork and instructions to gather seven billion-thousand forms and come back the following day. Dash, bless his heart, wanted to stay cause there is a special children’s section with a TV and toys and he wanted in. I love this child. I don’t know how but he took any shame and terror I was feeling and turned it back into hope - if only for a moment - but what I've learned this year is that a moment is all it takes, sometimes. We watched Shrek for a couple of minutes and then headed back home.

FRIDAY MAY 13th

Friday the 13th. Pure poetry. I got Dash back to school so relieved that the next three days I would only have to worry about myself. I still wasn’t eating but somehow, between the check cashing place and the welfare office, I could still channel gratitude. There is a very big difference between broke and poor and I knew, as with everything good or bad, a change would come. Plus, I was as skinny as I had ever been. "Hello, hip bones," I thought. "Where have you been all my life?"

For some reason known only to the pack of demonic elves who hang out at my house these days, I decided to pull weeds from my long driveway. It would feel good to be pro-active about something so I parked my car on the street and got to work. A couple hours later I went to move my car back and found a ticket for $58 under my windshield wiper.

It was official. The universe had broken into my house while I slept and tattooed my forehead with the words: OUR BITCH.

To be continued…