earning your wings

15 Aug

the last few weeks have been a shit sandwich served with a large side of poopiness.  epic work stress…the kind where i wondered if i would even have a job come monday? oh yes please!  water heater leaking all over my kitchen floor creating the need for an ark to get to my espresso machine? why not?! a nasty-a$$ upper respiratory infection that won’t quit me? give me that!  that fun time when cute gun-play guy did quit me?  yasss girl yassss!!!!!

but in the middle of this swirling feces-fest, i did something kinda cool.

i told a silly story at The Moth.

if you don’t know the Moth, you need to stop reading this RIGHT NOW and check out their podcast now…I’ll wait for you…

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amazeballs right?!

for my Moth aficionados…they do live events in a bunch of cities where out-of-work writers and actors people share short stories on a pre-specified theme.  dubbed Moth-Slams, each potential storyteller puts their name in a hat at the onset and then sh*ts their pants waits to see if they get picked. If they do, they get 5 minutes to wow the audience with a fully-memorized, true story.  once you throw up in your mouth finish your story, judges get all judgey and assign points for overall story, keeping to the time limit (clearly they’ve met me), and the relationship to the night’s theme. the winner of the night (and other nights) go on to compete at the Moth’s Grand Slam.

the best part about these events?  on their website they say, “many of the tellers use profanities that may be offensive to children and their parents.” how can i not be part of something like this?!!

so last weekend when i was listening to my beloved kcrw and they were giving away tix, i took this as a sign from the public radio gods to finally get my Moth on. the theme?  beg, borrow or steal.

prior to getting my a$$ dumped by cute gun-play guy, i decided it would be a great idea to invite him as my date.  since dating in LA isn’t difficult enough…i figured that standing up in front of the person you want to have sex with and 100 other people you don’t (at least most of them) on a stage and telling a perfectly crafted, fully memorized story whilst under the influence of dayquil, zyrtec, and three screwdrivers was a stellar idea.

in my defense he’s a big moth fan too.  and i’m clearly insane.

the entire night was a bit of a blur…see earlier-referenced vodka/OJ dranks and throwing up in my mouth…but this is what i do recall:

  1. my name was picked second-to-last because…of course it was.
  2. i almost missed my name being called because…of course i went to the bathroom when i gave up on being picked.
  3. the lights were REALLY bright.
  4. it was actually really nice to stand in front of a bunch of people and tell the story about the time my brother stole soft-batch cookies from every mail box in our neighborhood.
  5. i don’t think i completely sucked.
  6. a bunch of people actually laughed.
  7. my scores from the judges weren’t great but a few nice people said nice things to me afterwards.
  8. talking of scoring, my date still wanted to sleep with me.

so while i lick my wounds and try to find a reason to shower / stop crying after the last few years weeks of suck-age, i’m struck by the symbolism of the moth.  instead of my life feeling free and fulfilling, its been more akin to being trapped in a restrictive cocoon for way too long.  i keep waiting to emerge from my self-imposed casing as this perfect, beautiful winged soul.  but its becoming painfully clear that i have to earn my wings.  this means fighting for me and being vulnerable and taking risks and asking for help and getting low scores from judges and feeling like you’re going to shart your pants and getting dumped by the guy you were starting to really like. it’s officially time to pull my a$$ out of that dark place that tells me “you can’t, no, you’re not worth it, why bother” and instead, believe that i can fly…

not in a creepy R. Kelly kinda way, though.

ps you can’t talk about moths without talking about the best one of all…mothra. she likes to kick godzilla’s ass and save tokyo. and she looks sassy doing it.  kinda puts it all in perspective. #girlpower

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“If the world lives to see another century, please remember what mothra did for you and the planet you live on.” -Godzilla vs Mothra

thug life

4 Aug angelina-jolie-tomb-raider-gun-babe

howdy, y’all!  since i’m nearly done mourning my aged pubic region, i figured it was time to get back online and say hi!  hi!

it’s been a super busy summer thus far.  i won’t bore you with the details but if i told you i sorted my sock drawer would you actually believe me?  what if i told you i went on a date that included gunplay?

well, for those who know me may be surprised that actually 50% of the above is true…and it’s not the socks. btw, anyone know of a good sock organizer?  asking for a friend.

as you know, my dating life tends to be a fun potpourri of weirdness mixed with more weirdness. 2016 continues to not disappoint in this regard.  The year started with a bang when i went out with someone so beautiful it actually hurt to look at him…only to find out after a while that he was born in seattle the same year Nirvana released “Nevermind”.   yes, he was so young he could’ve been the naked baby swimming on the cover.  as someone who was old enough to be his mother already an adult the first time grunge came around, i had to release the boychild back into dating pool and wash all the cougar residue off my person. but can i just say hashtag mamma still got it?!

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then there was the broody latin musician (yes another f*cking musician…insert eye roll here) who loved mezcal, frank zappa, disfunction, his upright bass, co-dependency, and coco (often in that order).  while he, too, was caught and released…i carry with me a new-found love for mezcal and musician-avoidance.

and most recently, there’s been the special agent, law enforcement guy person who isn’t 22 nor a functional alcoholic to whom i can legitimately ask, “is that a gun in your pocket or you just happy to see me?” promising, right?!

it all started in that romantic “boy meets girl on bumble” kinda way.   hot worldly boy asks awkward weird girl out for dinner.  awkward weird girl says something sarcastic and then accepts. awkward weird girl then has a lovely 5-hour dinner with hot worldly boy where she manages to not really eat a lot because she’s too busy being nervous and awkward…but don’t worry about her because she goes to the del taco drive-through after said date and inhales a ridiculous amount of meat and cheese and crunchy corn shell goodness.  clearly awkward weird girl didn’t screw up too badly because hot worldly boy asks her out again…this time to do something she mentioned she’s never done…

shoot a gun.

i’ll give you a moment to laugh and/or scream “NOOOOOO!” or run for cover.

indeed, if you’ve read more than two of my blogs or have been around me IRL for more than 86 seconds, you know i have ZERO business having anything more dangerous than a plastic spoon in my possession.  and even with a plastic spoon, i would likely find a way to break off the spoon part, trip, fall on it and poke both my eyes out.  so the idea of even being within two football fields of something as powerful and dangerous and scary as a gun is pretty ridiculous.  but hot worldly guy was clearly having a bout of temporary insanity  amused by my trepidation and was piqued to see me face my fears.  and if you happen to ever read this hot worldly boy, i swear i am NOT afraid of heights or sharks or the dark or neil diamond or tapioca pudding.

so i put on my butch-iest outfit which sadly meant i couldn’t wear cute shoes (SCOFF!). hot worldly boy told me to leave the heels at home without me even asking which means he somehow already understood my undying love of hot shoes (SWOON!).  so after dusting off my sneakers and a baseball hat, i jumped in my car to face three of my greatest fears…1) firearms 2) the 710 freeway and 3) wearing athletic footwear on a second date.

when i arrived, i almost jumped back in my car because hot worldly boy did something so horrendous that even now i have a difficult time mentioning without tears.  yes, he had the audacity to wear a boston redsocks cap (yes, aunt ellen…i know you’re crying now too..i’m so very sorry).  i immediately yanked it off his hot worldly head and threw it as far as i could.  ah, relief.

once i got over my shock and anger because everyone knows the bosox suck hard, he commenced with an in-depth firearms training.  he laid out all the disassembled parts of the gun in front of me.  he told me what they all were and how they worked and how they were put together.  i just sat there trying not to freak out as this was the closest i’ve ever been to a gun and omg SCARY SCARY SCARY! at some point i think he realized i was having a minor psychotic break and kissed me.  right out of a rom-com movie, that kiss made me pull my sh*t together and helped me feel more grounded.  so note that if you’re ever in a crisis with me, it’s probably a good idea to shove your tongue down my throat.  hashtag the more you know.

when the lesson was done, we jumped in his car where he had special music lined up for the occasion.  when Straight Outta Compton started blaring from his speakers, i nearly cried tears of gangster joy.  my NWA brothers took all the anxiety away, and suddenly i was ready to put a cap in some paper’s a$$.  hashtag thug life

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how i thought i looked

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how i really looked

and while i nearly crapped my pants ran out of the range 1,478 times during our session, i’m very glad i stayed and shot 3 rounds. and quite well i must admit.  i can’t say i’m going to join my local gun range tomorrow or even have the desire to shoot a handgun again.  but this experience allowed me to both face my fears and put my trust in another human being…two things that i often suck at.  so thanks hot, worldly guy.  that was pretty cool.

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ps can we go to del taco next time?

grey gardens

14 Jun Funny-Old-People-21

 

so let’s just get this over with…

i found my first grey pube.

i like to think that i’ve lived an interesting life. my purposely vague few dozen years on this earth have been filled with a healthy level of turmoil mixed with a splash of discomfort and a dash of disappointment, rounded out with a dollop of surprise and adventure.  as such, i’m not easily shaken by life’s little twists and turns.  if my emotions were personified, they’d be a husky midwest girl who doesn’t bat an un-mascaraed eyelash when she has to evacuate into a basement to evade a twister or deliver a two-headed heifer with her bare hands.

and while i actually haven’t delivered a baby cow or evaded a tornado…i’ve ran after a purse snatcher on Chicago’s mean streets. and in complete anarchy against social norms, i’ve actually worn brown and black together. twice. clearly i’m a woman who’s feathers are not easily ruffled.  and cumulative fucks given?  about 0.25.

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and let’s be honest..getting older doesn’t come as a surprise. we grow up being warned about the weird things that happen as we age.  my sudden butterscotch and black licorice cravings? they haven’t caught me off-guard.  the ever-growing need to look things up on urbandictionary.com?  disappointing, but understandable at my age (note: do NOT look up “truffle butter”).  my desire to tell kids to get off my lawn?  completely normal per what i’ve been told.  in fact, i’ve been awaiting the harbingers of old-fogeyness with a mix of giddiness and resolve.  mostly cuz my t*ts are still quite perky.

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but hello?!!! why have ZERO old people prepared me for that first glint of silver DOWN THERE * points to my crotch *??? THIS BASICALLY MEANS I MIGHT AS WELL BE 116 AND OMG HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE WHEN MY BOOBS STILL LOOK THIS GOOD AND CLEARLY THIS IS OFFICIALLY THE OFFICIAL END OF MY YOUTH, WHICH HAS BEEN SQUANDERED WATCHING OLD GOSSIP GIRL EPISODES, EATING STRING CHEESE AND INTERNET SHOPPING!!!

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so as i try to sober up find meaning in all of this, i’ll be distracting myself with ordering a life alert, watching grey gardens because those ladies know how to get down with the old and crazy, and seeing if urban dictionary has a term for my crotch plight…

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and if they don’t, someone might have submit “grey gardens” for their consideration🙂

 

 

 

nightcrawler

30 Nov K72A3451d.tif

whatever.  you’re mad at me.  i get it.  the whole “not writing” thing has gotten out of control and i totally suck.  why should you forgive me for going MIA for 3,459 years when there’s important things to discuss like how basically everyone in hollywood is schtooping their nanny. and how amy schumer and/or her smokey eyes + coco need to be best friends.  oh, and this?! i deserve your full ire.  but in my defense, the last few months have been a bit unbearable.  not “living with a kardashian” horrendous… but it’s been pretty gnarly.

it all started with my new job.  after only two weeks, i realized that i worked for the devil. sadly, my devil boss-person didn’t wear prada nor did he look like meryl streep.  instead, he has weird feathered hair and a propensity for screaming whilst shaking uncontrollably from a super-fun combination of rage, narcissism and possibly alcoholism. this was some next level hostility, y’all.  and as the days crept along, i prayed for an escape out of hades.

but instead i got rats.

there is nothing that instills more coco dread than vermin.  show me a picture of mickey mouse and i’ll show you the need for an involuntary 72 hour psych hold…and better throw in a lobotomy for good measure.  so when i came home on a sunday after work (note: when you work for satan you work on weekends. all of them. because clearly there wasn’t a labor movement in hell), i went immediately to the kitchen to drink a bottle of vodka feed stella the cat.  it was then i noticed those small, brown vermin calling cards around my stove and the cat food.  after having 2,389 panic attacks and googling “voluntary psych holds”, i went to home depot and bought every pet-friendly mouse trap they sell. all of them. and it was in that moment that i transformed from cute sassy coco into rambo.

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in a matter of minutes, my kitchen looked like a mine field, with every inch covered with some sort of mouse-murdering apparatus. thankfully my neighbor let me sleep on his couch that night while i waited for my kitchen to transform into the vermin killing fields.

the next morning we anxiously entered ground zero to find that nothing had transpired. by then my saviors aka the pest control guys were on their way.  after a thorough investigation, they let me know that it wasn’t bad.  it appeared that my unwanted visitor came in through a small gap in the window screen and that they were drawn to the cat food.  they were pretty sure that it was only one…tops two mice.  “just?!”  i asked if they were going to set off an atomic bomb in my apartment since that seemed like the most appropriate response.  instead, they set a few more traps, shook my hand, and told me to call when i caught something.  which meant i went back to home depot for even more traps (including one that electrocutes these vermin f*ckers), cried a bit, then got the f*ck outta there and spent the night at another dear friend’s house.

when i came home the next morning, i saw the realization of all my nightmares.  sticking out of my vermin-electrocuting trap was a long-a$$ tail and a body that told me it wasn’t a mouse but in fact a F*CKING RAT! my beautiful, clean, quaint apartment was invaded by a rat!  after having a brief but poignant nervous breakdown, the pest people came back and let me know that i wouldn’t die and that my rat problem was likely over and that i should probably breath and no i shouldn’t ask the air force to carpet bomb the building.  to which i said, “LIKELY over?” and they said “yes” and that they were convinced there wasn’t more than one of these f*ckers from what they saw.  to which i replied, “you’ve seen poltergeist right?  just when you get carol-anne back from the tv and you think everything is ok but then you get pulled up your bedroom wall and skeletons start popping out of the pool. how can you promise me we don’t have another poltergeist-like situ here?!” they held back their eye rolls, patted me on the back, and told me to get some rest.

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basically my life

after two nights at friends’ homes without incident, i came back to my apartment. finally the coast was clear!  i quickly passed out on my bed with the promise of a vermin-free apartment. but within a few hours i found out that one of the worst ways to be woken up is by the sound of an electrocuting rat trap doing its job.  Yup, rat number 2.  i also found out that night that one of the worst ways you can try to go back to sleep is in the back seat of your fiat because there is no way you’re ever sleeping again in your apartment.

rinse/repeat…landlord called again. pest control called again.  coco crashes at friend’s house again.  another rat is caught again. it was then i was convinced we had a situ like in amores perros when that cute, sweet dog gets eaten by rats in the floor. i poured over the internet through my tears, trying to find a hotel that’ll take a useless an oblivious cat and her sleep-deprived lunatic owner…something a lot harder than it should be.  once a pet-friendly room was found (shout out to my peeps at the Pasadena Super 8!!), i manically threw random clothes and some toiletries in a bag, stella in her travel case and escaped my living hell.

as i pulled out the driveway i realized that I didn’t have a litter box for stella.  instead of returning to ratopia, i decided to take a detour to my local CVS for kitty supplies.  mind you, i hadn’t slept in days, i’d been crying for nearly as long, and it was also that time of the month. so pretty much i couldn’t have looked worse if you paid me.  i wandered around the over-lit aisles looking for something that i could turn into a makeshift litter box and started crying again because ALL I F*CKING NEEDED WAS A LITTER BOX AND CVS COULDN’T EVEN HELP ME WITH THAT!   i found a picnic tray that had high enough sides to transform into a litter tray…and somehow i also found goldfish crackers, a bottle of wine, and a bag of mini snickers because one should eat healthy during crises.  While in line to pay, i kept dropping the bag of goldfish crackers which made me start crying yet again (notice the trend?).  the gentleman behind me picked them up twice for me, and i thanked him profusely and mumbled something like “FML”.  he chuckled…then all of a sudden he blurted out uncomfortably loud, “hey isn’t that jake gyllenhaal in front of you?” and sure enough, i never noticed through all my whimpering and dropping sh*t and feeling sorry for myself that THE HOTTEST MAN IN HOLLYWOOD AND BASICALLY MY SECOND-RUNNER-UP TO GEORGE CLOONEY WAS IN FRONT OF ME WAITING TO BUY AN ORANGE EXTENSION CORD!!!!!!!!

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if you haven’t seen jake in “nightcrawler”..what the f*ck is wrong with you?!!! seriously if you haven’t watched it we can’t be friends.

so let’s recap…rats, next-level sleep deprivation, ugly crying, more rats, period bloat, hands full of junk food and cat litter…and i get to meet jake gyllenhall when i look worse than the above-pictured Poltergeist closet-ghost.  clearly i was getting some sort of kharmic beating for being mean to that girl who picked her nose in the fourth grade.  he sexily sauntered up to the next cashier as whispers gathered around the store at the realization that JAKE FREAKING GYLLENHAAL was with us mere mortals doing things that would almost make you think he was one of us…until you looked at his perfect hair and chiseled chin and did i mention that ridiculously cute butt?!! and then we were reminded that we were actually in the company of a god.  a hot, talented, taught-a$$ed god.  mesmerized by this perfect deity, i didn’t hear the next cashier screaming at me that her register was open.  i slowly walked by him, drinking in all his perfection and feeling unworthy to share the same oxygen. i was paying for my cat litter and goldfish and wine when i noticed from the corner of my eye that jake was done and walking towards me.  part of me wanted to shrivel up and disappear…but something deep inside me spoke to me and said, “coco…pull your sh*t together and look him in the eye and give him one of your trademark ‘hey i’m a sweet innocent girl but i’d still give you an HJ in the parking lot if you ask'” smiles. and sure enough, i flashed him a cheesy, awkward coco smile.  to which he returned one right back at me as he walked away with his orange extension cord and my heart.

so jake…if you happen to be reading this…thank you.  you made a shittacular week into something amazeballs.  and if you’re not super busy, i wouldn’t mind if you night crawled into my window and kept me up for a few nights if-you-know-what-i-mean-wink-wink.

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and don’t worry…the rats are gone. but sadly so are the goldfish and mini snickers.

the magnificent seven

21 Jul

it’s been exactly 564 days since I had a boyfriend. note that I use the term ‘boyfriend’ loosely…while the last one did possess the maturity a 12-year-old boy and, yes, he was a friend (mostly when he needed something), he bore little resemblance to what the average person would consider a boyfriend.

that is, unless their boyfriend sucks.

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last year’s break-up baggage sometimes felt too heavy for my little shoulders. however, one of my favorite coping strategies was imagining that said baggage was actually beautiful vintage steamer cases from Louis Vuitton…and all-of-a-sudden-like things felt better. hey, my dysfunction only deserves the best! after months of dragging around my new emotional steamer cases and swearing and crying and wishing heavy things would fall on said ex, i slowly noticed small cracks form in my emo fortress. at some point, i actually began to entertain dreams of a day where i might perhaps have a non-shitty boyfriend! you know, the kind that DOESN’T play drums/owe you money and DOES have a car.

a girl can dream.

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in my pursuit of happiness in this “post-crappy-boyfriend” phase, i’ve dated exactly seven men. i’m not sure if seven sounds trampy or lame…i’ll leave that up to you, my savvy reader. to be honest, i actually thought I’d be in double digits by now because Tinder and online dating was supposed to be my dating panacea. but while others swear by its ability to find Mr. Right (Now), for me it just stokes my very real stranger-danger issues. and despite the fact I’m still somewhat bitter that i still spend most nights alone as the shitty ex bypassed karma is chillaxing with his new fiancée who’s practically half my age, this new era actually hasn’t been that bad.

in fact, it’s been moderately magnificent.

as such, i like to refer to this cadre of man-meat gentlemen as “the magnificent seven”.

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and what can I tell you about my magnificent seven? if you’re keeping score, zero out of seven have made an honest woman out of me. one was a weird kisser. another had road rage issues. there was that one that was so attractive that it hurt my eyes. the last one was exceptionally trampy. all have moderate-to-next-level commitment issues. however, the magnificent seven have been remarkably helpful as i pick up the pieces of my black, charred, heart. over bowls of steaming ramen in little tokyo or a bottle(s) of pinot noir in my micro apartment, they were given a glimpse into my extremely fragile and oft bleak emotional landscape and yet actually chose to see me again once they escaped.  they allowed me to cry over my dying cat, a boob cancer scare, my stress-laden job, and George Clooney getting married to that impossibly-beautiful hussy. many of the magnificent seven were extraordinary at the booty call, and if my mom asks, they just came over for breakfast. they’ve texted me silly jokes. made me strong coffee. told me that I’m beautiful and sexy and funny…three things that i packed away in my aforementioned steamer cases only to be forgotten about until recently.

i’ve been fed – my stomach with delicious pizza, my heart with gentle-affirming words. i’ve been courted. i’ve been sought-after. i’ve been kissed on the nape of my neck. i’ve been gifted a curiously-large vibrating dildo. and in the process, i’ve started to feel like “me” again. not the gross “me” who’s puffy from crying and gave up on shaving more than twice a month. no, i’m talking about the sweet, smiling girl with the big heart who isn’t scared to use it again in the quest for love.

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so as i sit here enjoying cereal with a pinot grigio back for dinner (again), i can’t help but to be proud of myself. i’m halfway through 2015 with most of my dignity intact and a zest for life and dating and the idea that my Mr. Right might actually be out there.

so thank you, my magnificent seven for helping me get back on track. but mostly for the dildo because it can be cold and lonely in this big, bad world.

home

13 Apr

dear yazzyhead,

it’s two nights before the anniversary of your passing and i’m a f*cking mess.  mommy was hoping that she was done with all that ugly crying that makes her face puffy for days and would somehow get through this sh*tty week.  and surprisingly, i was actually doing pretty well.  and then all-of-a-sudden, while i was changing my bedsheets tonight, i lost my sh*t.  if you were here you’d most definitely judge me for not pulling it together.  but i couldn’t help but to remember how much you loved clean bed linens and mommy just couldn’t hold it in any more. so now i’m sitting here sobbing and writing and listening to our queen of lesbian rock shawn colvin and missing you more than i’ve missed anything else in my life.

i wish i could say something prophetic about your loss.  but you know what? i won’t.  i can’t.  it sucks and there isn’t a day that i don’t wish you were with me.  i didn’t know i could love something or someone as much as i love you.  i guess that’s what happens when you’re together for nearly 18 years. i still get sad when i clean and find kitty hair.  i feel weird and emotional about getting rid of it which also means i’ve reached level: advanced for crazy cat lady grief. stella kitty misses you, too. i wish you could see how she’s adapted to being the lady of the house. she’s found her voice as an old lady and has become quite the diva.  she’s never been the only kitty and she’s learning to flourish in the limelight.  she’s also going through renal failure like you, but thankfully her kidneys are still fighting to keep her going.  i’m a little less scared as i enter this final chapter with her as you taught me what to do.  i’m thankful that your fight wasn’t in vain, and that sweet stella (and mommy) are reaping the benefits of your experience. we both know you’re watching over us.  and even though you weren’t the best of friends, stella truly appreciates that you opened your home and shared her mommy with her.

i think i’m going to visit the vet tomorrow and bring them something nice.  maybe cookies or chocolates.  they were so good to you, and i really hope they know how much i appreciate how hard they fought for you.  they loved you so much…even though you weren’t their biggest fan.  but it’s ok…you were a momma’s girl and everyone knew that.

once the dust settles, i’m thinking of getting a jasmine plant for the courtyard in honor of you.  i wanted to do that when you first passed but it was too soon.  a few months back, i decided to be a new-age weirdo and bought an essential oil that smells like jasmine flowers. i wear it every day on my heart chakra and it makes me think of you. i know that you’re laughing at the fact that i actually used the terms “essential oil” and “heart chakra” without throwing up in my mouth and that’s ok.  i’m learning to laugh at me again, too.

i still play this pretty much every morning like i did so many mornings with you.  you are and always will be my home.

i love you, my desert flower.  i miss you every day.

love always,

mommy

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yeah dating is cool…but have you ever had stuffed crust pizza?

9 Mar

hi, y’all! so what’s up with my looong-a$$ writing hiatus, huh?!!  i wish i had a good excuse like “hey i was supes busy stopping ebola and/or bill cosby”…but it’s nothing that noble.  instead, i’ve been busying myself with some narcissistic self-improvement/creative/dope-a$$ ish that was carefully curated on my extremely important 2015 new year’s resolution list (aka all the crap that i won’t actually do because i have the follow-thru of an ADHD chihuahua i’m WAY too busy).  like, for example…i don’t mean to brag, but i wrote a very special piece about life and relationships and other ridiculous things that i submitted to the LA Times’ column “LA Affairs” in january…but since it’s been 2 months, 23 days, and 6 hours since i hit the “send” button (i mean who’s counting?!) and after checking my inbox and junk mail 1,249 times for a response to no avail, i’m gonna assume that my inclusion of such references as (1) delicious ramen (2) my deep disdain for drummers, and (3) a supreme admiration for vibrators might have been a touch too “next level” for the Times.

Oh and i’ve been really busy trying to figure out how to date.

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Dating at age redacted is beyond weird no matter where you live. But doing so in Hollywood when you’re not a victoria secret model is THE WORST at best…and utterly soul-crushing at worst.  gone are the good-ole days where boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy, boy gives her a 10-carat cartier diamond and boy and girl live happily ever after in the palisades after a few stints at betty ford (oh, and in this aforementioned scenario the boy is george clooney, duh).  instead, if you’re a single gal in LA you have to tinder and match.com and plenty of fish and wear pants not look like a shut-in crazy lady when you go to the fancy grocery store in your neighborhood and try not to fall down/talk to yourself and deal with your real fear of being abducted by your date and waking up in a tub in an undisclosed location somewhere in the valley less a kidney and pay for a gym membership that costs as much as your rent while you wear enough makeup to look not like an extra on ‘the walking dead’ but not too much where it looks like you’re a basic b*tch trying/care and pretend to be easy breezy beautiful cover girl when in fact you are neurotic bundle of weirdness loosely contained by rapidly aging skin that you now have to care about and shave your legs (all of them) which means buying razor blades which are freakishly expensive and consult your astrologist for sun sign and rising sign compatibility and date actors/doormen/musicians/other sundry poor people who are prettier than you (and know it, giving them the total f*cking upper hand) and pretend to like hiking + juice bars + quentin tarantino and answer stupid questions like, ‘omg you are perfect why are you single” when clearly you aren’t perfect because they don’t call you back after the second date.

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it’s all this bullsh*t complexity that’s led me to oscillate between a) embracing the utter hilarity of dating weirdos in a weird town at a weird age in a weird time in my life and not giving any of the f*cks and b) espousing the life of a shut-in while i watch gilmore girls (again) and order flat round carbs covered in delicious meat and cheese while i talk to my ex’s cat about how dying alone can’t be half bad except for the haunting question of “who will delete our porn gilmore girls fun facts search history?”

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stay tuned for the rest of 2015 while the above-mentioned two realities wage war in “livin la vida coco.’  will she actually wear yoga pants AND actually go to yoga?  does she like her date enough to actually consider shaving ABOVE THE KNEE?   will she actually order a veggie pizza for once (who are we kidding…I NEED THE F*CKING BACON DAMMIT!)? will she avoid “that’s what she said” jokes until the 3rd date? you will just have to watch this space…

Just like i’m watching the white space on my ceiling while i wait for that hot guy at whole foods who weirdly just asked for my number even though i looked like i had just rolled out of bed (because i totally had) and might have had pizza crumbs on me and definitely was buying only wine and really expensive hippy toilet paper…

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P.S.

Amy Schumer for President!

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