I watched as my nephew listened to The Beatles for the first time. It was just after one of those now-rare family dinners when my sister, parents, and I were gathered around one table again in the house where I grew up. With my move …
Have you ever spent an entire weekend alone vacillating between Netflix and Hulu and basic cable in your pajamas with peanut butter from the jar and reheated ravioli and felt like a total failure? I have. I open 5 junk mail listicles a day outlining …
Sporadically I’ll be giving in to you youngins with the dreaded Listicle. These lists will take various forms, but will always recap my week.
I shall call this series, The Cluster.
For this week’s Cluster, I’ve written the chapter titles that would comprise the novel version of these past seven days-in-the-life. Full novel to come.*
*But probably most definitely not.
Chapter 1: Private planes and the men who own them: a case study on overcompensation
Chapter 2: My dog’s an insta-whore
Chapter 3: Where’d all the wine go and why is my mouth so purple?
Chapter 4: If Ohio is for lovers, San Francisco is for lovers with unfortunate taste in footwear
Chapter 5: Fresh coat of single, Fresh coat of alcoholism
Chapter 6: The only person to contact me while my phone was off during the movie was my mother
Chapter 7: Your girl she so thirsty. But really, do you have bottled water? I’m parched.
Chapter 8: I’m not mad or tired or sick, this is just my face without mascara
Chapter 9: What’s that and where do I put it?
Chapter 10: I don’t always fall in love, but when I do it’s on the bus
I recently made my first solo pilgrimage back to New York last week. I found, lurking on the streets, the ghosts of who I had been as a New Yorker. Walking down 5th avenue I paused outside my old office building – remembering that summer …
I’m in the bathroom at Tacolicious as I write this in my head. I’m hovering above the toilet bowl as I think of you and empty my bladder. The last time I was here was 10 months ago. It’s the Tacolicious on Valencia where you and I ate on New Year’s Day a week or so after that big thing that changed us. Having just emerged from an event that will forever mark time in our lives, I was with hope and quiet sadness celebrating the turning of the calendar that day. A fresh set of 12 months lay wide open and ready for me to fuck up in a wholly new and unique way. The thought was mildly comforting. We ate outside around the table with Leo. Remember, it was here that we decided that after we finished the queso we’d drive to IKEA and buy bowls to eat take-out ramen from and shelves we’d never hang? You. So attentive. Later that night you assembled Swedish kitchen furniture while I curled up with a book on your couch and snuck peeks while you swore at the pieces of wood in your black jeans and we burned that teakwood candle that you insisted smelled like apple pie. Our lives fusing; taking shape.
I was watching La La Land yesterday and I had a feeling of nostalgia pass over. Watching their relationship unfold and then collapse felt close. And then there she is at the end – watching him play at his jazz club with the man she ended up marrying next to her. And the what ifs scroll of what their life could have been, but isn’t. And from all we can tell she’s happy and content and has a child and wealth, so should we really feel so sad?
I’ve been on a few dates over the last 3 weeks and gone through the motions of flirtatious text communication like you and I used to do. I’ve been out with the sort of men you and I might have made fun of or felt sorry for or maybe just been jealous of. They’re wealthy and successful in a traditional, obvious sense. Which as you know, is never anything I’ve had much interest for.
However we both know I’m in no shape to be seriously considering anyone or involving myself in anything physical. So it’s been a no man’s land dance going nowhere. But a distraction.
I could say I’m not ready or that I’m scared or just not that into any of them. But those are half-truths. I think a wholer truth links back to La La Land. It goes back to the fact that you and I were by no means perfect. We were quite flawed – separate and together. And sometimes that was like fuel on a fire. And we have some growing to do, no?
But we had a universe, you and I. We did, didn’t we? We had our world. So I find myself lately content enough with my immediate life around me, but seeing it from a lens that I used to share with you. And missing your piece in my puzzle in the process. No one’s ever quite understood me like you. Taught me more about myself. Called me out on my bullshit. Been so trustworthy. Done the best you could. You could read my mind. And I miss you like a phantom limb some days.
And then I come back to myself. And I remember. I remember all the days and nights and weeks turned months apologizing. Spent shrinking to fit myself into what you deemed acceptable, not needy, okay, enough, not too much.
I come back to myself. My own hands have been here all along, I’ve just lost my way for awhile. Instead, I’d made a conscious turn into your mouth; actively choosing to be chewed and spit back out. In contrast t’s so nice to meet me again that the highs I felt with you can’t compare. There’s a freedom in my bones that was never afforded in the confines of you.
So with love and a quiet smile, I hope you find what you’re looking for. I hope you turn over your broken parts and examine them until you’re ready to thoughtfully piece it back together. And I hope you do it in a space that moves you. For you. Alone.
I know we’ll both heal and have our own moment of seeing each other through new lenses with new loves by our sides. And maybe it will or maybe it won’t be as poignant as our own little La La Land finale scene. Maybe it will just be normal and right.
In the meantime, goodbye.
In my opinion, humanity can be divided into 2 parts: those who drink Juice Press and those who don’t. The former of course being the woman who has a private yoga instruction in her Soho loft every morning after the nanny takes the newborn offspring …
Yes, we broke up. More on that. One of the many reasons I started this site was to force myself to write. Even when I don’t feel like it or work was tough that day or I’d rather stare at my ceiling in a catatonic …
This blog was born of devious intent.
I won’t lie to you, dear reader. Is it pretentious to address my readership already? Hi, Mom! Either way. I figure we shouldn’t start this relationship with any facades. So again I must tell you that this website was not created under virtuous pretenses. I don’t have a master plan to change your life with fuzzy quotes and cute infographics, help you lose 20 lbs. in 20 hours, or find the love of your existence by picking the perfect date night outfit.
I actually possess little to no useful “blogger” qualities.
I have zero culinary acumen to speak of – opting to usually subsist off of the dairy trifecta from my local Walgreens: yogurt, cheese, and froyo.
I don’t know how to accessorize because I don’t own any accessories. This is mostly because I’ve lost the mate to all of my earrings and layering bracelets stresses me out. Do you know how hard it is to buckle a watch on your wrist with one hand? I’m not an acrobat. Besides – if it’s before 11am I’m lucky to be functioning at a high enough level that I remember to collect the basic items granting me access into society. Like pants. And deodorant. You’re welcome.
Although I’d like to be a self-proclaimed gym bunny, I’m probably closer to a gym rodent. Like a gym platypus of sorts maybe – as I’m known to actively participate in public displays of fitness while wearing thick glasses and a retainer. But does my telling you about abs enhance your life? Probably not. We all know sit-ups and planks exist and if we want to, we’ll get on the floor and flop around like a fish – a la less-skinny, less-Aussie versions of Kayla Istines. Otherwise we will be comfortably rooted in front of Bravo with a freshly microwaved bowl of cheese. If you’d actually like to learn more about my malnutrition and how to microwave a bowl of shredded Kraft Mexican Blend to perfection as a stand-in “dinner”, I’ll be happy to divulge.
Instead, I’m here because I’m tired of the same blogs. I’m tired of reading about the same people who pretend to have the same shit figured out and the same perfectly curated lifestyle. I’m tired of posing for perfection.
This is a creation from a year of lost moments, a broken heart, a few boxes of pink wine, and somehow still a lot of joy. This has begun because I’m exhausted and depleted yet simultaneously utterly brimming and giddy. Because in any given day, we are a multitude of characters, of women, of emotions in one body. And I want to share in the real shit and the real happiness that this human phenomenon brings.
I invite you into my world. I invite you to laugh at my expense and cry with me as we find our voices and pet strange dogs on the street.
Xx,
C
