Welcome Home?

I moved into my new space in Oceanside, moving in being a relative term. I have an air mattress and eight boxes of heels (four of those serving as a nightstand).

The house I'm renting a room in is beautiful; new, with painted walls, spacious rooms, and bathrooms with decorative towels. I'm kind of afraid to touch anything, I tiptoe around but still manage to make a racket. I feel silly, like Jane Eyre, the mental estranged roommate emitting sinister noises in her back house burrow.

I am not sure how my new town likes me. The first morning I got a sixty dollar parking ticket (street cleaning). The second day I set my car alarm off in the Ralph's parking lot and frightened a passing little girl to tears. The third day on my moving misadventure I, in an attempt to carry three shoe boxes and a glass globe lamp, lost control of the armload and watched it slow motion fall to the ground and shatter.

As I reviewed the carnage of flinty, frosted glass pieces and spilled purple suede booties I felt that perhaps Oceanside does not want me.

I recently interviewed the owner of "Kindred Journeys" who is also a psychic. After our interview, I was flitting around the sun spackled store, photographing it. She asked me how long I had been doing this. I told her I was new. She told me I wouldn't be in North County for long. She said I was going to move closer to the city, for a job I would get with my persona (does this mean I has no skills? and what type of job would hire me for my lamp dropping, children scaring persona?)

She gave me a sixth month deadline.

Oceanside is preparing to eject me.

I'm kind of pissed. Why don't you want me, O-side? Okay so I clutter your neighborhoods with glass debri, make your children cry, and get in the way of clean streets.

But I like you. I'd like to make this relationship mutually beneficial.

I was in the Walmart trying to buy a correctly sized curtain rod and was stopped in the parking lot by a man asking me "Hey, girl. You from around here?"

Dammit. Again?

He was wearing a long sleeved button down, unbuttoned except for the top one. Wifebeater underneath, cargo shorts, and a sideways trucker hat.

"Hey girl, are you from around here? Why your wearing those boots? Are you from Texas?"

I looked down at my cowboy boots, cursing them for betraying my non-local status. Damn you. Damn you, because as much as I try to smile and eat Mexican food, and shop in local stores, and not get lost while driving, I am still just a big haired Jane Eyre who it seems cannot escape her true, tourist nature.

It's not like I haven't been down this road, but this time I am far more determined. Soon you will learn Oceanside, all the things I can do for you. You will learn I am an amazing happy hour partner, fun, interesting dining companion, drink orderer, funky white girl dancer, enthusiastic shopper, sweet listener, and naive, unscathed, not-yet-soured-by-life reporter.

Forget cowboy boots. Get ready for these babies:

The Christmas Spirit.

So it's Christmas Day.

I'm wearing my best robe, new watch and ring, having just ordered my new ridiculous shoes online; my feverish, narcotic consumerism is finally laid to rest. The order promises 1-5 business days. I am satisfied.

My mother gave my sister and I two movies, very specific ones. My sister received The House Bunny and I was gifted Ever After. She said that she chose them deliberately, for each of us. Telling Fernando (my sister's boyfriend who is staying with us over the holidays, poor guy) to cover his ears, she said that the films were important because both of the heroine's men accepted them for who they are, and that is what my sister and I deserve in our lives.

Looking over at Fernando and Sash, who look like a precious happy family of kittens framed by the gleaming of multi-colored Christmas lights, I deduct.

"I feel like this one is directed at me."

My mother is laughing and tearing and denying, and we all giggle a little. It smells like bacon and coffee in our home, it's dark because of the weather, and our 7 dollar Christmas tree is trying its hardest to stand impressive

My sister is leaving for Germany in a few days to study abroad. I am moving to Oceanside, with bills, a job and young, tumultuous adulthood. But for now we get to be playmates and well-read Cinderellas, eat bacon and drink mimosas. Real things like goodbyes and men with so-so character get suspended for the time being; we all play a part in this Christmas Story.

But perhaps, like Ebeneezer finally comprehended when he threw open the blinds and ordered a turkey, that the realizations of Christmas can be the prefaces to life in the New Year. I think I have a extremely handsome Prince, sans tights and a horse (or with?), and Sasha totally has the boobs for Playboy. A Goodbye is not forever and I know at least 5 people to adore me for exactly the insane wench I am.

Merry Christmas.

Daily Happy

Recently, I had a...er, I guess you could call it a reader, mention my lack of reporting on my day-today experiences or reflections that make me happy. Instead, I let loose a slightly more composed collage of an angsty stream of consciousness narrative to be the stormy little raincloud blocking an onslaught of UV Rays.

Um, I'm protecting you. From ignorance and skin cancer.

But in all seriousness, there are many day to day moments that make me happy. Little scenes of minute satisfaction that I sometimes skip over in light of a good, cathartic bitch.

Buying thai tea boba in downtown Oceanside and the bespeckled lady already knowing who I am. Then subsequently spilling the neon orange liquid on the corner of my white blouse.

"What happened, ma'am?"
"It's tye dye."
"Just in the corner?"
"..."
"I spilled"

The owner at Ocean Breeze Flowers giving me a hug because I started tearing when I read a letter that was written to him by an elderly woman who had her spirits lifted by an arrangement he created.

Getting a call back from a boutique owner I had been hounding for a week.

Being enthusiastic and sweetly silly at a Piano Bar.

Driving to downtown San Diego and seeing the way the buildings look at night, and for the first time being conscious that I can be a part of it all.

Walking in downtown Oceanside, crying because I'm tried and people think I'm trying to sell them things instead of learning their stories, and see a 5 oclock orangey-red setting sun juxtaposed with the gray blue of the water and sand.

Getting an "I love you" text before I even wake up in the morning.

So yes, even though I spill shit on myself daily, sometimes get job-ly frustrated, and every once in a while go all CWFM (Crazy White Female), I would say life is good. It's so good that I haven't even needed to purchase a pair of unreasonable shoes to fill voids. In fact, I have been stomping (literally, I stomp) around my new little coastal town in a pair of tough, flat Cowboy boots and couldn't feel more powerful.

And that my friends,for this height obsessed young woman, is true happiness.

Bye Bye Libido

I've just moved to a new town to start my shiny new job.

It's exciting, and my job is the kind of position I waxed poetic about when I was 19. The type that is like "If I could just have that opportunity..." Now that I have that opportunity all I can think about is deadline and rent and my disintegrating desire to be a sensual, breathy female.

I had a nice, handsome young man mention his appreciation of my, er, face the other day at Starbucks. I dumped my old man laptop case, camera case, notepad, reporter's handbook on the floor, wiped my nose and said "Huh?"

"Huh?" Like I just woke up and my mom was trying to tell me to let the dogs out.

"Huh?" Like I'm drunk at a Mexican restaurant and somebody is trying to tell me I have cilantro giving me a gap tooth.

"Huh?" Like I don't know what a penis is, or what boys are.

As I scramble to find living, handholds, and time to do my rapidly frizzing hair, my 22 year old sensuality has flown right out the window with my ability to complete my "Complete by Xmas" reading list.

I thought I had it in the bag once, get all dolled up with lipgloss and mascara, fly shoes, inappropriate dress. Have a couple of cocktails and feel all diva-like and unstoppable. I often live my life by my ability to curiously outfit the situation. Now I'm wearing jeans and a tired expression that is a constant manifestation of my dirty Starbucks "Huh?"

Good! Job first, annoyingly fleeting sexuality second.

Right?

Right?!?!?!

Good for all of you young voyeurs into the job world, work your overtime hours and still manage to bang your dome on the headboard regularly. I guess I shouldn't complain though, it's not like I don't have a man constantly pining for my attention (to detail) and time (for meetings). His name is Michael. Booyah.

He's my editor

Inquisitive is a Euphamism

Sometimes, a situation seems so detrimental that life beyond the present, living, breathing, pulsating, sensual life seems as impossible as locating two matching socks.

I can always recall moments like these, although their severity fades in memory. Because life always goes on, the morning always comes, and there you lie, alive, awake, musing at a painting that you wanted to tear off the wall and put your foot through six hours earlier.

I am a detective. I am also a slight masochist. Not a sitcom masochist, all trussed up in leather and chains, but a mundane, everyday pain-chaser. You know how they say the truth hurts? Well I like to find out the truth. I like it very much.

Being on the hunt for the truth means you become a devious snoop. Sometimes I hear the theme for the Pink Panther whirling in my head as his phone sits unguarded, three feet away from my itching fingers, accusing. Then begins the internal battle.

Angel/Chill Girl: Don't be a nutjob, don't be a nutjob. Walk away from your impending snoopery and go watch TV.

Demon/Crazed and Convinced: UM HELLO?! GIRL YOU'VE GOT LIKE FIVE MINUTES. START DIGGING.

It is interesting that while in plight for the true intention of unanswered phone calls and cloying love texts that one begins to stretch meaning out of a message like "Loves" or "I like hotdogs." Suddenly the everyday communications of coed friendships become chapters in their love story. They met up at a place called Loves! It's probably a sex store! They had kinky, better sex! She likes his hotdog!

And while I am in heated, feverish pursuit of what he means I overlook the log in my own text inbox. They say things like "I love you" and "I miss you," but the words don't mean as much when they are said to me. I am more interested in what is being said to others.

And here's where the irony of "the truth" knocks the wind out of me. I have cast aside the potential happiness for my own happy kid story because I am way too into my spidey sense for foul play. When somebody says to you "I love you," you should not be thinking "Yes me, but who else?" You should be thinking I love you as well. You're perfect. Isn't this fun? Aren't we lucky and fun?

I have decided to lay my expectation of the truth in the present moment. I want to feel the love I know is there all the way to my snoopy little toes. It's possible, because I am willing to put down the fingerprint kit and extend an undusted hand of trust.

I have to put She-lock to rest. Girl is getting out of control.

On the other hand, if She-lock ends up knee deep in the shit she originally sniffed out, I wouldn't want to be around. In fact, I'd take myself, my painting, and my most comfortable leather shoes and start running.

I Never Do This

I'm not a huge picture poster, but I ADORE Grace Potter, and always search for pics of her. Then I was browsing all my inspiration folders and realized its nothing but a montage of all my women crushes. I love women! So much! So instead of me blabbering about feelings and happy hour, and sad moments, I just wanted to remind myself why the world is good, and beautiful, and wonderful.

1. Laura Stone. Size 4 Successful Model! Vogue did a profile on her hip hardships in the size -3 industry. Whatever. REBELLION!

2. Katherine Hepburn. An original diva. Unknown, she demanded a higher salary than they were offering her on her first big film. That's how you end up with 1200 a day!

3. Nicki Minaj. I watched her documentary on MTV. She is weird, bossy, and strong. She is tough. Her album is doing really well, she's had Lauryn hill comparisons in terms of her lyrical ability, and many of the online responses have been PAH! I've read some of her lyrics, particularly Roman's Revenge. Eminem raps of the track, and his words seem to have a better narrative, but her rhyme schemes are impressive (hailing back to freshman year poetry ha) She reminds me of Emily Dickinson...it doesn't really seem to make sense, it sounds weird and makes you uncomfortable, but that's its purpose. I'm pulling for her. I see brilliant.

4.Sophia Loren. Done.

5.Anna Karina. Jean Luc-Godard's muse, French new wave siren, tiny fleeting bit of a human being. I like looking at photo's of her, she seems rather incapturable by still film. She is wide-eyed on subtle on screen. I like her mystery.

6. GRACE POTTER. I have only seen her perform on TV or youtube, but I feel the vibrations! She is fearless, sensual, powerful. I like her voice and how she extends herself through her sequins. Role Model.

Great Expectations

I have a problem with daydreams.

As soon as I get a whiff of something that could be potentially enjoyable, I whip up a spectacular scenario and just marinate in it for a few days.

So what, right? But it's bad. My fake expectation is grounded in so little reality that I am usually always so disappointed I lapse into brief social comas. Here's a metaphor for how wide the gap is:

Let's say I turned on the divine seductress within for 1o minutes and secured myself the best kind of date: casual drinks at some spunky local watering hole. So far, so good. Then, when I'm at the office revamping the lede for the piece on January's "Foodie Finds," my currently reality will slip away in a mist, and just like the movies, I launch myself into a first date of epic proportions.

I'll probably be wearing a navy sleeveless well fitted dress with a deep v-neck. My hair will look exceptional, yet casual, and my height will be a good 5 inches higher thanks to fall's new platform mary-jane. I smell better than Elizabeth Taylor will ever smell, and look 5 pounds thinner.

My date is handsome, busy, has great, hulkish shoulders and sits by politely while I discuss my favorite authors. We get a bit drunk on expertly mixed wells, eat very little, and have conversation rhythm that all the blazer and dress clad couples envy; they shoot looks of jealousy over the platters of exotic french fries and fancy mayo. We're the Norman Rockwell of dates. We sparkle.

I am so exuberant about my fantasy date (which by now I have reconciled will be an outline for the actual event) I hum happily to myself while trying to find the perfect adjective for a cilantro chutney. I come up with "smooth." My vocabulary is affected.

Then, reality hits. The waterhole is spunky, yet booze soaked. There is beer on my shirt and hulky shoulders is late. The french fries are domestic, and the conversation is about about as interesting as my analysis of Jersey Shore after a second shot of Jameson. "Pauly D is hilarious! OH YEAH!"

The worst is watching a fallen hero. In my daydream he was charismatic and humble, brutish but shockingly funny, and nice as a button. In real life he is just drunk. And drooling. And doing a Van Zant impression that looks more like a seizure. We don't sparkle, We reek. Of whiskey, bad decisions, and my souring disillusion.

This is what I do, again and again: set myself up for a rather spectacular fail. Could anything ever be as good as the Norman Rockwell date? No! I don't think my own birth was as cool as that. Why do I insist on great expectations?

Though, every once and again, these expectations allow me to be blown away by the unexpected. A walk in a park, a view that makes you cry, champagne in pajamas, takeout and football, catching the last 15 minutes of happy hour with an old friend...these are the moments that even my daydreams can't touch because they are so honest and simple, free of outlines or guidelines or 15 dollar well drinks.

This is a new sort of contentment, one that cannot be replicated in fantasy or used as a premonition. It is the redemption to what had fallen, the soft light of sun after a piss storm.

So while I am busy banging my head against a wall watching my sloshed date writhe on the floor during the climax of his air guitar solo, the universe is getting ready to suprise me with a real life daydream, free of expectations, but full of everything great.