Minor Renovations

Tonight I had to pull sections of an old journal for a piece I'm doing with Mortified next month. I ended up reading all of my college entries. And it was far from mortifying. That kid was so kind! I thought she'd be more embarrassing than that, but I'm absolutely inspired by that optimistic little vegan. Despite all the misspellings, there's a lot of insight in there. I was so patient with the people who were mean to me. And MAN, was I mean-girlsed in college (fucking dancers).

This was probably the saddest thing I found.

This was the start of my junior year in Pittsburgh, about a month before I met "THE ONE" to wreck me for all others. But at least I was briefly happy with him in between all of that. And he's no longer the pinnacle of anything in my life (though I have been known to download his music now and then). If anything, his existence gave me hope that there were other vivacious, adorable and crazy-fun men out there. He was a good distraction from the shit-storm on the cons side of that page. Only in a young mind can "car being repossessed" stand alongside "bad haircut." And that fucking cat! At least I learned early on that I'm a dog person.

I started seeing a psychiatrist. I had a therapist after 9/11 who cut me loose a few years ago. But after some history repeating itself, I decided I needed a tune-up. And that's all I thought it would be. But when I gave this woman the rundown of my damage I started to cry. I was surprised by that. She told me I don't play the victim and that's good. But then she served up a heaping amount of tough love.

I felt like total crap afterwards. Thanks to that therapy session there was a wall up between me and the love I have for myself. But my new psychiatrist is right. There's work to do. I don't want to seek out anymore men who resemble my dad. NO DAD. It never happened before. But the last two I loved had way too much in common with that guy. I need to find out why. And I need to see it in men before I love them.

Had a super fun visit to the doctor for leg pain just before seeing my psychiatrist (I make full use of my health insurance). They performed an ultrasound on my legs. Standing on a slanted metal table, my dress hiked up around my waist, a strange man rubbing slime and instrument into my thighs, I resembled The Bride of Frankenstein. The ultrasound screen looked just like the ones people post pictures of on Facebook - it was that curved triangular shape. But instead of a baby in its middle there was a weird, long vein that I'm not supposed to have. It runs from my hip to my ankle and its killing veins in BOTH of my legs, causing me pain. It was dark in the room and a strange man was rubbing jelly on the inside of my thighs. I made it even weirder with awful jokes. He politely laughed and then I became fixated on the screen for a solid thirty minutes of him squeezing my calves so they'd produce a whooshing sound, sending blood back up to my thighs. It made me feel like a human harp. I told my sister-in-law about it and we laughed harder than I ever thought possible: "My baby is a big, dead vein! I want to post the ultrasound to Facebook with, 'I'm having a vein!" When they told me about the procedure - A HOT WIRE BEING POKED DEEP INTO MY MONSTER VEIN - I accidentally asked, "Is this like an abortion where someone will have to take me home afterward?"

The female doctor smirked a little and said, "Yeah."

I almost said "abortion" again as in, "Not that I know! I've never had an abortion! I've been on the pill since I was seventeen!"

But something in me exercised self-control.

Leslie came over tonight and offered to take me home after my vein abortion, prop me up and watch endless Netflix until my pain and/or drugs wear off. She drank her first beer in front of me tonight. She used to be a Mormon! I LOVE IT! I love her. She said, "Angela, it's like a root canal for your leg!" I hate this extra vein. Extra vein, extra foot bones, but NO DAD.

Side note: I'm going to the podiatrist next after my last foot doctor informed, "You didn't evolve properly from apes," while pointing to an x-ray of my extra foot bones.

My old blog described what happened to Mr. No-Dad. Then some trolls attacked a podcast I did with Dailysonic years ago and resorted to throwing up mean details about my past - "daddy issues," they said. But if I really had such issues wouldn't I have an Instagram account filled with photos of my boobs and butt? Maybe. I don't really know how it works or why girls reduce themselves to just those parts. But I'm trying to figure it out. And when I talked about my dad I didn't cry. I don't cry. He's just another bi-polar guy I used to love (for reasons I'm about to discover, there are more than one of these).

As always, I AM IMPROVING. I'm going to keep this journal close. This kid really knew what she was doing. Maybe with some guided meditation and hypnotherapy from my awesome new hippie Jew psychiatrist, we'll get somewhere with all of this. I've never had a repressed memory OR abortion! I know some of you will read this and think I'm over-exposed right now. I feel it a little - a raw nerve. A killer vein. But I take pride in how good I am at taking care of myself. I'll feel shame when I do something wrong. For now, I'll curse my monkey genetics and take extra care to floss - Lord knows these things come in threes! 

Cool Hand Pube

Tonight I came home. Or "home," rather. The moment I stepped from plane to New Jersey I felt defeated. Traffic over The George Washington Bridge was terrible and my cabbie was a last-minute-swerver to the very last turn. The girls peed on the ol' shrubs outside our building. There's a nice new paint job on the elevator. But when I opened the door and it was dark in my old home, full of opportunity to not at all suck, the first thing that hit me was THE SMELL. It's as though a dead hooker is hidden beneath the floorboards masked only by floral-springtime-synthetic-cancer-causing-freshness. I left this place CLEAN. Drawers were wiped out! Hairballs were removed! All bathroom surfaces were wiped and shiny! Now imagine the opposite. Welcome home.

I started to cry. It felt as though everything was broken and filthy. Three of my best friends moved out of the neighborhood since I left and my next door neighbor defriended me on FB, probably because I handed him an asshat made of his own flesh after a rape joke ON MY WALL. Not in my house, pal! Back to what else shouldn't be in my house...

Dead roaches. Plural. Under the kitchen sink. Most of the lightbulbs are dead. What's deader than a hooker under my springtime-Downy floorboards? ALL OF MY PLANTS. I started to cry while typing that. Yeah, I'm crying. Over PLANTS! Two were miniature African Violets raised from babies. AFRICAN VIOLETS! The easiest of all!!! Most are my other African Violets. Even my bounty of Wandering Jew is crusted up and dying. And now for the part where I throw myself on top of the coffin... The terrariums. If instead of "the knoll outside of Camelot" I'd been going for "Swamp Thing's paradise" then they're perfect. It's as though NOTHING WAS WATERED FOR NINE MONTHS and then she hosed them down.

I'm heartbroken. I could've given these little guys temporary homes. But they're all so easy and she said she'd ENJOY killing, er, caring for them. WHY NOT THROW THEM AWAY?! Why leave their carcasses for me like some kind of serial killer?! I took PICTURES of each one and included the care instructions before leaving - all of which were so simple - in a super easy plant guide! That's adorable! Who could kill the little green babies of someone so precious?! This is just like that Bjork movie.

Uh huh.

All the way home I got Buddhist on myself, preparing for the worst with, "Things, SHMINGS! It's LIFE that matters!"

Well, those little guys WERE alive. I have such a headache from the smell. Goddamnit, what is this?! THIS is not the home I loaned out for nine months. I'm not even angry. Just defeated and sad. My plants. I bonded with those little guys. But I guess had I really loved them I wouldn't have gone traipsing (or I would've given them a REAL home first). So easy!!! They were SO EASY!

Everything is horrible. Except that it'll be fine once I figure out how to get that stranger's pubic hair off the bedbug cover on my mattress and get some re- FUCK!!!! FUCK THIS! THIS IS A NIGHTMARE! When Freddy Krueger appears over my bed I'll just tell him, "Do your worst - my plants are already DEAD!"

My feet are filthy despite her exacerbated FB post about sweeping and mopping. Maybe by "sweeping" she meant "killing" and by "mopping" she meant "drowning."

Driving up Broadway I looked up at the shitty, overcrowded buildings and waited for it. I looked up at my own building and into the park across the street and I waited. I'll go to Grand Central this week and meet up with Margot for Joe's (JOE'S!) I'll stand still and look at the constellation painted on the ceiling. I think Grand Central is my most favorite place in the city. I used to feel it there and up and down Broadway. I used to feel it from the plane, from the bridge, and definitely looking up at my little home - wanderlust. NYC was a world I would conquer. My apartment currently embodies all the things I hate about this town: Decay, stench, disarray, and desperation. (And DRAMA, apparently!) Shut up, the part of me that isn't fully submerged in this misery, just shut your whore face!

Big picture: Fuck it. This was a social experiment. Can I detach from aaaaall my wonderful THINGS and run amuck? YES. This is just the part in Alien where they wake up and their bodily fluids go crazy and they're all, "Where am I?! Whatthewhat?!" Give me a few days. I'll be flame-throwing like a mutha-fuck.

I was hungry. So I ate a Guinness. Incidentally, the inside of my fridge is the only thing that doesn't stink. She left a card and a bottle of something cold and fancy in the fridge. BUT THAT DOESN'T BRING MY PLANTS BACK! Or fix my broken toilet seat. Ohmygod, and I'm totally serious about the pubes. It's okay - I have my old mattress cover to put on. I lied and told her it was torn but really it had a pee stain on it (show me how to feel shame and I'll do it).

I wrote this other thing I was gonna publish about how madly in love I am with my sister-in-law, my new tenderhearted nephew, and the husband/dad version of my brother. I'll write that again with fresh brain, though hopefully not springtime-toxic-garden-freshbrain. Uuuuugh. Smells like a candle shop in here - a really inexpensive one.

I think it's over between me and this town. NYC is such a beast of bounty and crazy and awesome. But I see through it now. It just looks looming and high-maintenance and exhausting. No wonder we all drink so much here.

Some things happened to me recently. I'm planning to write about it but I have to say that everything is different now, and not just a little different. I mean upside-down different. Imagine lunching with Jesus and getting all kinds of insight with very little direction. THAT'S where I am. I haven't found anyone to talk to about it yet because I'm going to sound crazy. Crazy AWESOME! (No, just crazy. I couldn't resist.)

When I opened my locked closets with that old-timey key I've been toting around for nine months, I stared at the mounds of CRAP I'd deemed SPECIAL enough to lock away. And I burst into tears. Because it was bullshit. Responsibility to materialism overwhelmed me. But I had to stop crying because my lil' dogs are powerfully empathetic and rushed in like cartoon ambulance drivers with a gurney to fix me.

The girls are sleeping at opposite ends of our couch. Makes sense considering they were crammed into a pet bag for several hours. In Nashville we had a long enough layover that they got to ride an escalator (I WAS TERRIFIED, WHY DID I DO THAT?!) And get a potty break. Then I snuck them on the SECOND flight of the day! I LOVE free stuff! And don't you dare judge my dog smuggling - they count as a carryon. It's a victimless crime. And if airlines gave points for pet travel I'd reconsider my... (LIES!)

My apartment looks so crummy. She didn't even put my rug back. Everything is packed up and funky! That awesome kitchen faucet I installed is falling apart and the sink is cruddy. BLEH. Alright, focus Lovell. Get your head in the game. You've got pubic hair in your sleeping quarters and one beer in yo belly. Whatcha gonna do?

Drink another Guinness.

Fuck this. I'm a zen master. Worst case scenario: A dead hooker is in the floorboards. Best case scenario: A dead hooker's in the floorboards and my press interview meme goes viral.

At least she left beer. Tomorrow is a new day to figure out how the hell I'll escape from New York next time. This life is such a funny little thing. I stopped taking all of it too seriously. Things, SHMINGS. Plants, SHMANTS! (Okay, that last one was forced.) I've loved and lost yet again. I'll probably cry tomorrow as I give them burials at sea (I don't know why flushing creatures I've loved is easier on me than putting them in the garbage).

Oh dear lord, I'm totally going to stand over the broken toilet seat weeping. Great. I know I'm making way too many terrible movie references tonight, so let it just be implied that I'm the Scarlett O'Hara of plants never going hungry again.

(drops mic)

(picks up lint brush) 

Mossless

I'm in LA! Just spent a few weeks in Florida and bachelorette-partied it up with the most lovable sister-in-law of all time. I AM IN LOVE WITH MY BROTHER'S FAMILY! It feels like we're finally part of a REAL family, which is surreal, lovely and the cause of me bursting into tears quite frequently. I slept like the dead in their home, which is rare for me to do anywhere. But now I know to gauge sleep like that with happiness. SXSW was overwhelming and I think the fact that I mostly hated the crowds means I'd make a great Austin resident. We'll see about that. LA is also tugging at my untethered heartstrings. So far I'm still open to just about anything - even staying in NYC (OH GOD, someone save me from myself). 

Oh, and THIS happened! 

Twitter has turned out to be one of the most rewarding relationships of my life (that statement is definitely a cry for help). Been doing some soul searching, as the kids call it, and I'm feeling like myself again. No, that's wrong. I feel better than myself - detached from things that don't really matter. Been letting the guilt of eating pork flood my heart since it's always so good for animal friends and my thighs. I've been getting back in touch with that twelve year-old kid who cried when people ate cheeseburgers in front of her. Okay, so I ate a cheeseburger last night, but it was grassfed. Get off my case, I said I'm GETTING in touch - she's very hard to reach! 

My original plan was to be a wife and mother. As a philosophical type, I think I'd enjoy the enrichment of raising children. But I've yet to find anyone other than my gay BFF who I can trust to stick around (therefor, I still consider having Gabe masturbate into a turkey baster). I wouldn't call it "having bad luck" since I've had a lot of fun along the way, though I've yet to find love that sticks. After a recent heartbreak sent me reeling, I got to ask myself a very important question: What else makes me happy?  And I keep asking it. Being childless, jobless and unattached to anyone or anything allows me a certain luxury. 

I CAN GO AND DO WHATEVER I WANT. 

Sometimes I think about the night I won The Moth and how good it felt to make so many people laugh just by being myself. I might want to do comedy. Even though I bombed the other night. Not entirely - there were laughs. But I wasn't properly prepared. Think I did it on purpose. I wanted to see if a lil' tanking would erase this desire. Unfortunately, it hasn't. I'll be back onstage this week, this time with more jokes prepared. There's a de-sensitizing process that has to occur between me and the stage. When I get back to NYC I'll be tackling standup there too until I conquer it. I have a Zenful attitude about it (which is how I got onstage in the first place). NYC is fun. I get to do lots of literary events and readings. But live comedy is SO CHALLENGING! I can't enrich my life with babies, so I'll get on a stage and bare my busted up lil' soul for a while. 

And then we'll see where that leads. 

Guess I kinda sorta want to act again. My ego is such a little thing now that I could handle it. Plus I don't take it too seriously, so rejection and auditions would go more smoothly than they did in my teens and early 20s. I mostly want to get back to performing my own writing, and not for money. I just want to be fulfilled. And I'm a feminist, goddamnit! No one is more annoyed by the "husband-baby" talk than I am. But I wanted it. And now I'm letting go of it because it'd be like holding onto a grenade. I'm focusing on something else. 

If after a lot of stage time and open mic nights I still feel this way, I'll probably have to come back to LA. It makes me a little sad - like I'm giving up on the baby-husband combo. I could've had it with several really lovable people, but settling down often involves settling. I don't want perfection. I just want a partner whose presence is better than alone time, or at least he enhances it. 

My heart's still a little broken. Think this last one was worse than my divorce. But I guess they always feel worse than the one before. Nah, that's not true. My divorce was easier than the one before it (in my ex-husband's defense, I was really, REALLY excited to break up with Mormonism). I have definitely loved some exes more than others. The last guy hit as hard as first love, which will teach me better than to love a fellow fire sign. Can't wait for it to stop resonating. My plane stopped in Kansas City, Missouri. I walked the dogs in the cold air and thought about how close he was. When the plane took off, pointed west, I couldn't even look at the ground below. I'm glad I had him to love though, even just for a few months. As Walt Whitman put it, "We were together. I forget the rest." 

Austin felt like home. LA feels like an adventure. NYC feels like an ex who escaped from prison but he's hot and funny and great in the - dammit, New York! All along I've been worried that I'd move back out to LA and challenge the pants off myself. But hopefully I'd have the sense to move to Glendale this time cos I'm too old for this gangbanger shit. If I can just break free of NYC I'll feel like an addict with a thirty day chip. Today as I walked to Larchmont to feast on my FAVORITE sandwich at the little place my ex and I used to frequent, I thought, "Maybe I could be bi-coastal!" Maybe! 

I did a ridiculously fun podcast the other day that felt rewarding in all the right ways. I was also extremely candid, offensive, and sloppy with the gals on it. I felt embarrassed thinking about how certain people who love me will feel when they listen to it. But you know what? If you love me you KNOW I'm a flailing, endearing mess with way too much confidence! Almost feels like I NEED to come to LA to burn up some of that. And there's a man (or several) out there who will love that about me. I can't help it about me - it came out in childhood. If it makes any difference, I'm sure I annoy myself far more than anyone on the outside. 

Might go to London for a month. I could take the dogs and then run amuck around Europe from there - WITH TWO DOGS?! We'll see. But I could. Just need to generate a wee bit more money. A girl I adore is running around Sweden and we might pair up for the sort of debauchery that makes one happy about being sans man or infant (god, I hate this recurring theme). 

Decided I will probably self-publish this Mormon memoir. As I said, my ego is a little nub of a thing now. I don't need a "real" publisher - I need MONEY. I will see much more of the latter if I self-publish. There was an incredible panel at SXSW about self-publishing that changed my mind about landing another lit agent. Besides, I live off the sales of self-publishing! That's amazing! I've queried just two agents in all this. The first loved it but they're no longer dealing with memoirs. The second has yet to reply. So we'll see how much I bounce around on this. 

I keep trying to see the big picture. It all feels like a cartoonish tragedy where my rabbit hole got flooded and now I get to move somewhere better and make a lot of new, fun friends along the way. Maybe there will even be a wonderful, supportive love interest and we end up sharing a bigger and better rabbit hole with a bunch of little - oh, shut up. I just hope the soundtrack stays good (I made us a mixtape!) Now I have to go eavesdrop on Sally Draper and her coffee date friend. She just said Matt Weiner told her mom not to get her acting-coached! I feel like paparazzi! I love LA! (Crap.)

Lesbie Friends

Yesterday was the greatest. I heard back from my editor telling me to basically see whatever I want at SXSW and write about it. Got some quality writing done, landed another lil' gig that pays all crazy-like, and I ordered a NEW MacBook Air! Whaaaahoooo! As I was falling asleep I told myself, "Today was exceptional. So tomorrow is probably gonna suck."

And it does. To start, there's no snooze button on someone waking you with, "You've slept nearly eight hours, anything more is a sign of depression!" Writing is just meh today, and then over lunch Gabe and I discovered that my childhood idol-turned-mentor blocked me on Facebook! Gabe's friends with her. Those talentless kids who also took voice lessons are friends with her. Even her ex girlfriend is friends with her. What did I do?! I was her favorite!

I should start with the tale of her ridiculous talent, beauty and charisma. When I was a kid, she was perfect. She was my Madonna (of course I mean the singer). She was a rather successful stage actress who found a place for me under her wing. After a bad Dorothy Parker habit of mumbling, she helped me grow into the loud, proud and somewhat obnoxious beast I am today. Even at the lowest point in my life this woman brought me back. I thought our relationship was Pygmalion. Now I'm wondering if she saw it as Frankenstein-ish.

This is the third lesbian to block me on Facebook this year. The first was a sweaty girl from my knitting group who took my hands into her clammy own and repeated, "Boys are filth, boys are dirt," after I'd been cheated on. When I confronted her via email on why I'd been defriended, she replied only, "Go with goddess."

She was the only member of our knitting group to never have alcohol when she hosted, so not a major loss in the friendship dept.

The second girl was my best friend in high school. She was secretly in love with me, though pretended to like boys, and finally confessed just as Gabe and I were falling in faux straight teen love. I couldn't handle it. It was too traumatic to think the girl I'd been so intimate with had sexual desires involving me. My behavior towards her then remains one of my greatest shames - which is what I messaged her on Facebook. Just an apology and told her how wonderful her life looked (she's a photographer now who does a lot of eating disorder stuff). I didn't expect to hear back. More importantly, I didn't expect to be blocked. But I was.

And now the most exquisite and amazing woman I've ever known has blocked me too. She was the only one who could pull my teenage heart up and out of the Romeo and Juliet-like despair of learning Gabe preferred Romeo and Romeo. She hadn't just broken down and rebuilt my singing voice, but she is also one of the people responsible for changing me from girl to woman.

And now she wants nothing to do with this woman. It's confusing but it doesn't hurt the way I thought it could. I feel flattered. Obviously I did - or am - something so jarring that she had to block it from her daily view. I'm the kind of person that people love or hate. On the plus side, I get a lot of good, solid love this way.

That girl from high school who took secret pleasure in me trying on bras never heard a mean word from me, despite how hurt and scared her affections made me feel. I told her I couldn't handle the news and that was that. For me. For her it was probably crippling. I wish for the sake of our fantastic friendship I could've flipped it. But there's only so much you can do at sixteen years. Only the disappearance of this last one - my late and great lady idol - resonates. The other two felt like a child beating on the bottom of a pot for a few minutes. The shock of this last one was a hiroshima to my heart.

Though I'd like answers, my own imagination will surely top any explanations they could give: They loved me - inappropriately and too much. Sure. I'll take it! Or they hated me. One thing I've learned in this wacky ol' world is that it's nearly impossible to hate anyone you didn't first love. But I do think this reinforces my theory that I would've made a far superior lesbian or man. Whatever I am, flopping around from emotionally-unavalable man to emotionally-unavailable man, is quite endearing. And there's just something about invoking such severe emotions in people that I can't help feeling flattered by.

Sure, I'll go with goddess. But I can't guarantee she'll like it. 

The Next Best Thing Interview

I was tagged by the adorable and talented writer supreme, Kate Hill Cantrill to participate in this new interview project sweepin' the nation called The Next Big Thing. Writers answer a set of questions regarding their recently published book, a forthcoming book, or a work in progress. Then we tag other writers to do the same. I'm going to conduct my interview based on the memoir I've been writing all year (YES, memoir and I can HEAR your eyes rolling).


TNBT: What is the working title of the book?

A Wolf In Sheep's Magic Underwear
How a Psychic Girl Converted to Mormonism for True Love

Obviously, that's a working title and I realize it's working too hard. You think the wolf is my ex, but he's wonderful and sweet (and rather sheep-like in the religious sense). I'm the damn wolf. But did I jump through enough hoops to wear their magic underwear? You buy the book and tell me! (Just buy the book, I already know how it ends.)

TNBT: Where did the idea come from for the book?

I fell in love with one of my best friends and he told me he couldn't bear to love me back knowing that we'd be separated in The Celestial Kingdom (ie, Bonus Level of Mormon Heaven). So with a bottle of wine in my belly, I told him, "Take me to church!"

He did and two months later I was baptized. David Archuleta attended (and he sat with me every Sunday that he was in Hollywood). But it wasn't as simple as getting baptized. Mormons have a whole slew of rules. A big one for me is that gay love doesn't count. Many "Christian" churches threw money into Prop Eight - money that could have been better spent, oh, I dunno, FEEDING STARVING PEOPLE. It's nearly impossible for me to show support, let alone tolerance, to such a wasteful act of bigotry. What would Jesus do? Block the unions of consenting adults who love each other or save thousands of dying children? RIGHT.

Another problem was that I couldn't have coffee, non-herbal tea (bye, bye green tea and your fabulous antioxidants), ALCOHOL, or ALCOHOL (the latter was a pretty big deal). Not to mention how outright sexist the Mormon church remains. Women get to plan parties or have babies. That's basically the gist. And as if that wasn't enough reduction of my character, to be together forever we would have to be "sealed" in a Mormon temple. But to obtain the Temple Recommend, I would first have to give 10% of my income to the church - an organization that considered my gay loved ones to be second-class citizens. And after we were sealed, I would have to wear the dreaded Mormon garments. The thing about their garments is no more tank tops, skirts above the knee or low-cut ANYTHING. I would even have to wear my bra on the outside of them. This life of modesty and restraint was the farthest thing from what I wanted. But I did want him.

TNBT: What genre does your book fall under?

Comedic Mistake Memoir. But also... Spirituality. I pray. I believe in stuff, but nothing to which a Hallmark quote is applicable. And I found something in Mormonism that I never expected - something that reinforced my sense of a force greater than us. Mormon people are REMARKABLY GOOD. I went looking for religion as a teen and was kicked out of a Baptist church not once, but three times (a lady). I've had some serious Shirley MacLaine-esque encounters that will require a second book (though a three book deal would be a dream!) I know there's more than just us. But I don't believe for a moment that it's the mansions, Cadillacs and perfect bodies that Mormonism promises for its heaven. (Seriously - each one of those three things is mentioned in the hymns.)

Mormons have a saying: Fake it til you make it. After my hope turned sour I tried faking it to be with this man I loved so madly. But you can't force yourself into a Joseph Smith shaped box for anyone. However, since my bout with Mormonism I now consider myself a closet Christian. I'm not at all religious, but I strive to apply Jesusisms to daily life. I do the same with Buddha, too. I treat Christianity as a philosophy instead of a religion and it's really working out. I'm kinder, more patient and more charitable with my time and gifts. Sadly, there's no place to meet up with likeminded types on Sunday mornings other than brunch with my Jewish or gay friends. I believe in a "god" who doesn't have access to us. I believe in a "god" who can't hear us. And I believe that any woman or man who tells you they know how it works has given up on freethinking. To me, that's the ultimate sin. Nobody knows. And that's the point. If religion saved anyone then we wouldn't have such a bounty of church leaders molesting children. I realized something while soul-searching for a year and a half in this marriage: We are all children. No one has it together. And we need to treat each other with the kindness, delicacy and TOLERANCE that we show to our young children. WWJD? That. He'd do that.

TNBT: What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Ryan Gosling and Jennifer Lawrence (What?! I want the kids to go see this and learn from my mistakes!) They're great actors, not to mention that I'd eat three day old sushi left at room temperature off of either of their bodies. And if they were in my movie there's an exceptional chance of that happening, right?

TNBT: What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

While working as a popular phone psychic, a liberal feminist falls for a remarkably handsome and hilarious Mormon fella whom she must marry just to maintain an adult relationship.

TNBT: Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The crazy-ass life I haphazardly signed up for and a beautiful man whose babies I wanted to push straight out of my girl parts. But mostly sweet-talk like, "I can't fall in love with you here and be separated in the afterlife, broken-hearted for all of eternity." I knew we probably wouldn't make it, but I loved him so much and I'm kinda proud that I'll try anything once. Even goddamned Mormonism. I'm still hoping that afterlife is real, mostly so I can kick Joseph Smith square in the dick.

TNBT: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

People get raging curiosity boners when they find out I've worked as a psychic. I almost had a job as "Busty Ghost Hunter" on Bravo, too. Much like when I was vegan, I don't make a lot of fanfare about being psychic. It brings on a lot of negative attention. I don't have anything to prove. Plus I think we're all psychic. It's like being able to run - some people do it faster and more gracefully than others. That's a terrible example, but you get my point. Unfortunately, the church doesn't even allow people to practice their psychic abilities on others except for the guy (male - NOT female) who issues Patriarchal Blessings. The church appoints their version of a psychic to tell your Mormon future.

Anyone curious about the inner workings of Mormonism is going to enjoy this tale. I made it into the sacred temple only once to perform Baptisms for The Dead. That was actually the straw that broke my back. The temples are, yet again, a waste of money. WWJD? Throw BILLIONS of dollars into temples, malls, and those creepy hunting reservations where wildlife is trapped for you to shoot it (yep, they did!) Or would JC be like, "Got two coats? Give one away! If your temple is so sacred, why do you need DOZENS of them? Feed some of these starving people!"

It all felt so hokey and wasteful. And believe it or not, my heart was absolutely open to this being "the one true church" as they claimed - as they all claim, I suppose. I wanted it to feel right. I wanted to give myself up entirely to this faith and live happily ever after with this lovable man. But an open heart wasn't enough.

TNBT: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Represented just as soon as someone emails me back (crosses her fingers and prays to gods and goddesses that only psychics know about). I self-published a few things and the payout has been great, though the reviews are about as iffy as my first marriage. Speaking of cults, don't write about Disney in a critical tone unless you want a lot of freaks all up in your life.

Now look at these super dooper writers I just tagged! Please check them out next Wednesday and don’t forget to check out Kate The Great! Up next: David Ellis Dickerson, Vickie Fernandez and Ann Rushton. 

The Descent Into Spinsterhood

Tonight I'm listening to Martha Wainwright tell me how she doesn't have children or a husband. And neither do I. So what the fuck am I doing in the midwest?!

I'm bored. I am painfully bored. I am so skull-smacking-against-the-wall bored that I made Mom go to a trivia contest with me tonight at the library. I wore HEELS. To the LIBRARY.

We all knew this would happen. And it's probably for the best. Like a junkie locked in a room as the drugs seep out through their pores, I'm forced to reckon with myself.

WHAT DO YOU WANT?

I'm terrified of being asked this question. Because I'll probably lie. And I hate lying. I wouldn't lie on purpose. I just don't know.

I should probably move back to L.A. Or at least Santa Monica. It's a little more human there. We'll see how it goes in October. It's horrible that the only place that makes sense to me is New York City. It's like my abusive ex who keeps getting out of prison and fucking my shit up. It slams me against the wall, tears my favorite dress, and then breaths into my ear a little too heavily, "You know we belong together."

THEN it does something disgusting to me that I shouldn't like. No one should like that. But I love it.

I need a beater guitar to practice on again. I need to run at least four miles a day and write my four thousand words. No matter where I end up, this has to happen. No wonder I have no husband or children - I can't sit still long enough for such things to happen to me.

Something horrible is happening. Ragweed is prison-raping my face. Really - that's a fair metaphor. THE PAIN. THE INESCAPABLE INSUFFERABLE AGONY. You can't know it. No one can help me. My gums, eyes, sinuses and entire skull are all relentlessly fucked by a weed. I can't sleep. After experimenting with five allergy meds it seems only Benadryl has any affect. BENADRYL. Good luck staying awake to run, write or scream out your frustration. Yes, good luck with all that!

So bored. Soooooo bored. I go to Wal-Mart a lot where I feel like a goddamn supermodel. And a traitor. I don't like giving them my money! Sometimes I just walk up and down the aisles and leave. But tonight I did for whiskey. And then I rented Moneyball from the Redbox, made a hot toddy, and lucidly came onto Brad Pitt via slurs at the TV as Mom continued to ask how long the film was. It was like a lost scene from Grey Gardens. Flash forward to twenty years: Raccoons are in the attic, I've pulled out all of my hair, and I'm fucking tap-dancing on the landing with the taxidermied carcasses of two Pomeranians under each arm.

I should steal a car and drive to Texas to see Gabe. And then I'll drive to Livingston to visit Steven through plexiglass, buying him all the apples, salad and watermelon the prison vending machines have to offer. They don't get raw food at meal time. Steven hadn't had watermelon in fourteen years. Way to go, Texas. Then I'll drive to North Carolina and see how long Kyle would let me sleep on his couch. I wouldn't be happy though. I'd be wondering what comes next. That's what I always do during my in-between days. I am unsettled and searching. Ask Joni Mitchell - she knows.

I could buy a car, but stealing one feels like it would take me to a new plain. Stealing a car could be a new form of enlightenment.

It's obvious that no one's touched me since... January? December? I can't even remember the last time. Someone who knows me well told me recently that I have very high standards. "Is that a bad thing?" I asked. They didn't answer.

"When the days are short and the nights are long
It's a different world

Where the rules are wrong

And I, I will go home with who

Whoever is sure
Are you sure?
And I don't care if you love me tomorrow 
just love me tonight
and I'll be alright..."

Wainwright reminds me of the nights in my dorm room over Washington Square Park listening to Cowboy Junkies. I'd disassembled all of my roommate's furniture and stashed it before she arrived. No one knew what happened. They gave her another room and I was able to stay up all night writing, dangling my legs out the window as the sun came up over the park. I was only twenty-two then. So wily. I could've gone anywhere. But I ended up in NYC. Maybe I chose wrong?

I'm a little homesick. If I were there I'd get overdressed and go to the east village with Lex or Ella. And then what? Wallow in a hangover tomorrow? It's not like I make out in bar bathrooms (anymore). It's not as though anyone ever actually meets someone worthwhile in a bar. It's not as though I remember anything after the bar.

Eye of the tiger. I came here with a purpose. Allergies have been robbing me of my days. It's awful. I take Benadryl, pass out, shuffle around, watch Breaking Bad, take a nap, wake up, can't remember Breaking Bad, watch it again, repeat.

How could I know I was allergic to Ragweed?! I've always been in cities when it's in season. SAFE. IN CITIES. Even 9/11 ended eventually!

Boo says we should all move to Santa Monica. Most of my life I felt like I was waiting for an arrow to land on something and point me in that direction. Ask anyone with their sun or moon in Sagittarius. We all feel the same way. Kids. Husband. Those things are anchors. I was content a few times in my life. I will be again. I just need a worthy anchor. (Feminists, hold your stones! I'm half kidding!)

But right now I'm bored. I'm soooo boooored. The crickets aren't. Their fiery little cries egg me on as though they've been reading what I'm writing - as though they have edits for me. I wish they sounded more like they were telling me to go to sleep though.

Came out here a vegan. HAH! Good luck finding sustenance that's organic, let alone animal-free. And no one recycles here - NOT EVEN ME. I could - I have to do research, ask around, make a special trip with recyclables to a facili- FUCK! Can you believe this?!

Brooklyn was just called the most expensive city in the world by some depressing report that I didn't read. And that's most likely where I'll end up. Though I'd rather go to Austin, even with all that nasty ragweed. I'm afraid of going back to New York. Over and over and over. How will I have a garden, a porch, a pool or even a measly yard? Fuck you, Brooklyn! If I say all the mean things I said to make my exes stay away will you too?!

YOU GET SICK TOO MUCH. YOU'RE NOT AMBITIOUS AND YOU DON'T EXERCISE. YOU SUFFOCATE ME. I THINK ABOUT ALEC BALDWIN WHEN WE HAVE SEX.

I might just need to get laid. But I haven't been able to have casual sex since long before my first gray hair. So how does that work?

These thoughts shouldn't be here for you to read. I know that. But I don't care. This is a mood. A spell that will pass. But there's truth here too. It's all rather self-righteous and repetitive, if you ask me. What a dizzy, whiny, ridiculous girl. If I could kick my own ass tonight, I would. If I could stand outside the house and shout, "I know you're in there," and somehow SHE would come out, I'd definitely kick her ass. While the neighbors watch. And one of us probably wouldn't even be wearing underwear under our dress.

There's a website that predicts allergy attacks. Tomorrow is supposed to be a bad day. I'm fighting a sinus infection. Today was low pollen. I got some stuff done. I felt good. But tomorrow it won't be so easy.

I just wanna be held, just ONE NIGHT while I sleep. That might help. That's not so crazy. There! I know what I want! Held! For a night! Or several! Or a lifetime if he's wonderful and doesn't have to say he's sorry all the time because he's not a fuck-up. But for now I just wanna be held a little. I feel like I'm a reeling top. I need someone to pull me back in and help me sit still. Just for a night.

WHOA. I "need" someone? Interesting. I am a companion creature, after all. We all are. Dogs, cats, peoples. People who need people. People who need cats.

If the allergy predictions are correct I'll be awake again in about four hours. It'll be cold. And dark. So I'll put on the furry robe I got at Goodwill for $3. When Dolly saw me in it she barked, probably mistaking me for a muppet. I'll make tea and work on my book. I hate writing this book. The other day I wrote about the time Logan found me crying big, fat, hot child tears cos I'd hit my head on the sharp cabinet. He was napping and surprised me as I sat silently weeping on the couch, a bag of frozen peas to my head. We'd been married less than a week.

"You're clumsy and sweet and I love you so much."

Then he taped a hunk of a tea towel to that corner so it couldn't hurt me again. I started to cry as I wrote that but the tears were dry this time - the opposite of those voluptuous beauties I cried so heartily when I was loved.

I only think about him when I'm writing this book. And that's why I have to finish it immediately. Thinking about him and painting him in this light is awful. And my allergy days prolong my agony by dragging it out.

I just broke my rule that I won't write about Logan anymore on my blog. But he is what I write about all day. My hope is that he's okay and done wrestling with the demons he thinks I pulled out of him. Love makes us face things about ourselves. He'd never been in real love before. He feels like something that happened to me ten years ago. My breakup with New York City is fresher and more raw than my divorce. But for what it's worth, I pray for him to whoever is listening. I want him to get better and be happy.

I think about Luca mostly because he was from Italy and told me wonderful things about myself. He was my opposite and I still love him very much. But if you were to ask him about me, he'd tell you that in all the years we shared beds off and on, I wouldn't let him have sex with me and that I had British sensibilities, even though I always forgot to take my shoes off in his apartment. I just wanted someone that beautiful and interesting as a pet - a thing I could try taming. I never dreamed of marrying him or having children. It's a good thing to love outside the box now and then. I would touch his face, listen to his stories, and fall asleep with him wrapped around my backside. And then, just like my little red earred slider, I set him free. She slipped into the turtle pond of Central Park and something tells me he's not so far away. But I wasn't meant to be with either of them longer than the time we spent entwined. And I can't imagine loving anyone or anything temporarily ever again.

Hopefully I'm meant for someone. Sometimes I wish I hadn't evolved so far past casual sex. Such a waste of my good years. Sex is important. I think that's something the Buddhists got wrong.

I'm less bored after exercising some of this. And Ryan reminded me that Project Runway has a new season - That will be perfect to watch when I'm doped out of my gourd and dressed like a muppet. I want to write fiction again. I need to make money. And then I need a house - I NEED a house! Fuck my boredom - I want it. I want some roots and NOT in Brooklyn. Fuck Brooklyn! I paid eighteen dollars once for a beer in Brooklyn. Do you know how stupid that makes me feel?! I want a little pool and a big garden and a porch swing and a fenced in yard and a big dog and a small chicken coop. Okay. Eye on the prize. And I might need to buy a crappy car. If I could drive far away sometimes and sit very still somewhere new I think I'd feel better. There are things I like here - people too. Everything from the flesh hanging on your bones to the roof over your head is temporary. Everything is what YOU make it. I'm going to make mine great - better than great. I'm going to finish writing this gapping wound of a book and then write some fun, profitable stuff. I'm going to keep running and hopefully get held. It will all be quite wonderful. Just as soon as this ragweed fucking dies. Then I'll live again. 

"To be someone, no one is needed." - But it helps.

"I had a bad dream," he said, inching his bones to mine. I reached out my arms and he pressed his cheek to my own, breathing in violent spurts.

"Wanna tell me about your dream?"

He sighed and said, "No."

I haven't had the energy to push men lately. Even when they're only five years of age.

Alexander is one of my truest loves. I knew him before he could convey his desires or fears. And I loved him instantly. In fact, as soon as I saw him, at about four days old, I burst into tears. He and his sister are my loves at first site. I know this is probably because we share DNA but it's also because they are the sweetest, most hilarious children I've ever encountered. (I would like to believe a sense of humor coasts throughout our DNA as well.) I slept in Alexander's bed every night for a week. The first night he woke and cuddled up to me instantly, sleeping at least six hours in my arms. That first night I had a long moment of holding him and feeling whatever seams contain my pessimism burst. It was like the first time I saw him - tears of joy flushed my face that July and I could only speak gibberish as Boo laughed at me gushing over her sleeping baby. It wasn't the kind of joy in Christmas carols - I feel pure elation in the company of Alexander and Maggie. They are each a little world consisting of the purest, most lovable things. They are perfection.

"Me free! Me free!" Maggie shouted as I lifted her from the van and ran with her all the way to the bathroom at Community Aid. After we'd peed in front of each other, I lifted her to the sink and washed her hands.

"Angie, me get pretty dress too?"

No way was I taking her back to the van after yet another flawless Captain Caveman impression. I placed her in my overloaded cart and selfishness slunk away as we shopped for her teeny tiny size. I am in love with Maggie. Especially after she buttoned, zipped and tied me up in the various dresses I'd found before my aunt called, asking me to take Maggie to the bathroom. A few times Maggie repeated me, agreeing, "Angie, that dress is weird." No one corrects her use of "me," instead of "I" and the day it slips away from her dialect will devastate me. I bought her a strawberry dress that matched my own for just two dollars. The last time I visited them wearing only dresses, Maggie insisted she would only wear dresses from there out. I bought her a pair of pink heart shaped sunglasses that matched my own. She said to me in the van after I'd buckled her in (I was the only one she permitted to do so the week I was there, or hold her hand), "Angie, when me big, me wear all of your dresses too!"

It thrills me to think that as my skin frays and boobies sag, Maggie will be coming up like a little green clover patch, eager to inherit everything I've grown too modest to wear. I'd give her anything. I can't even explain the love that swells inside of me for her and Alexander. It takes all of me just to convey it.

A few nights ago I ran five miles. I stopped because I wasn't completely convinced that I was safe from hurting myself since I hadn't warmed up. But I was fine, so I walked one last mile on an incline at 4.4. I felt like an animal. Then I came home, showered, and put on the same dress I've been wearing for nearly a week. It's about four sizes too big but I cinch it with the tie in back. It's a halter made of dozens of patches, all of them pinkish. I found it hanging in my favorite thrift store and because I am always kind to the owner who has just two words of English in her, she gave it to me for three dollars. I thought about taking it in since I just fixed my sewing machine, but I like it like this. Love at first site - don't try altering anything you love. As soon as I started loving everyone and everything as-is, I grew happier.

Margot warned me about being too happy alone. She said not to get too used to it because soon it could change. But I've envied Margot for years in her gorgeous upper east side apartment that she OWNS! She wakes up, reads or writes, goes to work, has friends over, and nobody messes with her time and place. A beautiful actor from Italy once told me many things, but the thing I liked most was, "Don't live with someone. No one is worth compromising your creative space."

I don't entirely believe that. I just know I haven't lived with "him" yet.

Forgot how to put makeup on the other day. It had been a while. I just feel smallish and circular - like I could roll anywhere, get lost under anything and find my way back. How can you apply mascara to such a thing? I'm kinder than I've ever been. Ask strangers. Ask the people I love. You gotta give love to get love. Kindness generates its kind.

I spent about ten days in Hannibal for Tom Sawyer Days. I saw the two little girls it came down to when I'd judged the Tom and Becky pageant two years earlier. There were three judges and I pushed really hard for my pick - I was most passionate, actually - but I always thought about the girl who didn't get it. I felt horrible guilt - even scolded Mom for asking me to judge. The two girls are gorgeous now and apparently, great friends. Wearing the bonnets from their original Becky costumes, I watched them order coffees. They didn't recognize me as I sat near them on mismatched couches at the coffeeshop. My eavesdropping lead me to peace over the whole thing. I couldn't believe what little women they'd become - and so polite! So beautiful! My brother and his family (he just became part of an amazing trio) commented on the kids of Hannibal. There's a sense of pride and respect in most of the people coming up in that town that escapes their peers in other parts of the country. It's an easy town to love. Even the horse and buggy on Main Street is cruelty-free! The beautiful beast doesn't even start until 6pm due to the heat and the boy who drives and owns the buggy is a gem of a fella. 59th Street is ruined for me as long as the city permits all the tortured horses to shlepp tourists in and out of traffic. A horse is hit by a car nearly every month now and don't get me started on their "living" conditions. I got giddy each time I saw the boy and his horse gallop down Main Street. Things are real in Hannibal. I've grown sensitive to that. I don't want to become insensitive again. That's why I'm leaving the city.

One sticky, summer Missouri night I was invited on a motorcycle ride by someone who tugs at my curiosity. But the ride was foiled. Later, as I stood near the mud volleyball pits, I ran into someone of the charming, darkly funny and tall variety. We ended up breaking off from the crowd and found ways to talk about religion and politics that didn't seem to make either of us cringe. Not long after, we highjacked a tandem bike and rode it up and down Main Street. Drunks called out at us as my dress blew up around me. It was the greatest non-date of my life. But I drank too much because I don't know how to drink anymore. I forget about it most of the time unless I'm in a bar - OH! Drinks! Of course! But I hope to get better at the forgetting than the drinking. I'm still getting used to what curbs me these days. I've changed. As Sondheim put it, "Once you see, you can't stay blind." I'm still feeling out whatever it is I've seen.

Someone has been very persistent with me - Alpha, I suppose. And it doesn't seem to work because I don't take well to being treated as Beta. This has forced me into all kinds of self-examining poses. Had an interesting epiphany about my childhood damage and the sort of man it leads me to love. It was good to know but sometimes it's hard to reckon it with what my heart thinks it wants. I'm chaste in the Buddhist sense. I've been working for clarity. Until someone is worth fogging up my rearview mirror over, I can wait to let him blow up my brain (and oonderpants).

I say "him" but there was a night with a girl. It didn't happen but it could've. I felt so boring the next morning - so hetero. She was gorgeous and funny and I was confused. But I am what I am. Maybe after menopause when my hormones shift I'll take another gal to my bed. But for now I crave the ying-yang of my opposite gender.

Ended up in an old email folder as I was rummaging for my favorite offensive forward to send to a friend. I used to get soooo many love letters! From people I'd never even met! Glad I saved the non-creepy ones. There were three from someone in particular who was also a writer - a good one. I googled him but it's like he stopped existing. So I replied to his seven year old message. Better luck putting it in a bottle and tossing it into the Hudson. It's not out of romantic curiosity - he just sounded like my kinda people. We were born days apart too. Hope he's not dead. He threw around the word "love" so carelessly that it wouldn't really surprise me if he'd jumped off a bridge by now. Ya gotta keep your perspective. Easy to say as someone who's guilty of the same offense. Nah, I just love that easily. This is something I intend to keep doing.

A somewhat famous writer messaged me in wooing tones. I am still stumped. And flattered. And quite good at remaining realistic. (This has happened before between me and "famous" writers.)

Someone told me I reminded him of a colt - that I'm youthful and full of energy. He used to be in a relationship with the lead actress in the film I've seen the most times. I was bewitched. Then he asked me to send him a picture of my ass. Neeeigh.

I'm running because I'm not fucking. I'm running because my mind cannibalizes itself each day that I don't work out. I feel too good for everyone and I don't mean self-righteous. I mean GOOD the way grandmothers are good - the way brownies are GOOD. The way Maggie and Alexander and their little bubble worlds are GOOD. I feel honor roll good. Wholesome. Unspoiled. Now that I no longer get shit-faced the option of casual sex seems non-existent. But I guess it's been about seven years for me and the disconnecting kind - maybe longer. There is no point (pun intended!)

I found a wonderful gal to take my apartment until May. She's an opera singer, and not like the one above Ginetta who insists on serenading us daily, straining for notes she was not meant to reach. My neighbor gave me a skeleton key that locks all five of the closets in my apartment. But some of the locks didn't work. I can do anything - anybody can. It's how I learned to knit. It's how I wrote a book. It's how I fixed my sewing machine after breaking it yet again and not wanting to pay $120 to fix it this time. It's how I moved to New York City without ever having been here (in this life, anyway). With that in mind, I removed then pulled all the non-working locks apart and laid them out. Then I took the one that did work and opened it up. I looked it over and reset the others to match. Some needed WD40, some needed Gorilla Glue. They all work now. I can pile my treasures high, lock them away, and run amuck. I come alive when I'm traipsing. I don't mind falling flat on my face now and then in the name of a good adventure. I fall down in public far too frequently to carry fear of such things. Really - every once in a while I completely collapse. But it builds character. I believe I was born with a fixed amount of blushes and burnt through them by the age of twelve. Boldness can lead you down a stupid path though, that's for sure. It's taken me so long to grow up. Many friends confess jealousy of this, but I wanted a different path. It doesn't matter though because this is the one I'm on.

I'm in love with John Irving. Been reading A Prayer for Owen Meany and I'm wilting inside over it. He is my literary Elvis. Normally, I swoon for gay male or female writers. Margot met him and said he was suave, handsome and flirty. Maybe I have one blush left in me. I can't read this book everyday. It's too rich. It's too much. It's a chocolate mousse sprinkled with cocaine. I can't digest it too quickly.

I'm going to Hannibal. Then to L.A. Then to Austin. And somewhere in there, I hope to use that apprenticeship to the writers' retreat in France. I feel like that's the place to wear the same dress everyday while scamping around with filthy bare feet and talking about fiction writing. I might be wrong, but I feel like I could get away with discussing anything in France. I feel like I could find whatever part of me is dangling overhead right now.

Sometimes it's not about being well written. I'm not going for anything with this post - I just felt like I needed to rustle a bit, make a little noise. Doing so in the past lead to all of those great little love emails from strangers. Those were gifts. Each one is a heart poured out and I wish I could give them something as precious in return. I don't want validation that I'm attractive - I want it for the noise I make. Okay, and for being attractive, but I know that's just a fading illusion.

I want kids again. There. I said it. And I blame Alexander and Maggie. I'm in awe of them. I slept in his bed every night I was there and every night he would inch up to me to cuddle. My last night I woke up, sensing him behind me. I rolled over and caught him wiggling against my backside.

"I had another bad dream!"

He was lying. But I opened my arms and he found his usual place against my chest. I pray mostly these days just to pray for that family. I'm sure I don't pray like the rest of you - I pray to the earth, to my uncle who was murdered exactly one month before Mom went into labor with me, I pray to whatever God flies low enough, and to the moon even though it never answered a single request when I was little. I pray the way others make lists. And I believe in my prayers. I ask for the basics: Happiness, patience, clarity, and health. After my stint with Mormonism I pray to be Christ-like. If you apply just the sentiments of Jesus from the bible you'll find yourself living very much like a Buddhist. Don't worry about that son-of-God business. It doesn't even matter. I just want to be kind. I want to be patient. That's why I think I need to get out of NYC. It steps on your toes everyday. And it never apologizes. WWJD? For starters, he wouldn't live here. (Which reminds me of the play I've been writing for years.)

I want to buy a house in Hannibal. I want to paint it pink, along with its matching chicken coop. I'll plant a garden and pour the cement for my own fish pond (I have plans for mosaic tiling). In the winter, I'll put the fish in the Guest Room's claw foot bathtub. There will definitely be porch swings involved. Some of my family tried pushing Pennsylvania on me - why Hannibal? I can't explain it. Midwesterners are a special kind of eccentric. I absolutely love talking to them, even when they're telling me how Obama wants to take their guns away. Everything in that entire town feels haunted, but in the good way. I'm actually planning to write a travel book called Weird Hannibal - or something. That title is half-assed. Hannibal deserves better.

Been making plans, which is always fun. The most fun in making plans is watching Fate take her wrecking ball to them later. Don't get me wrong - I sincerely enjoy not knowing what's coming. When people find out I worked as a psychic they always want readings. There's no way to sway them on how awful it is to know one's outcome. And I warn people all the time about what they're going to screw up next, but they rarely listen.

I saw an incredible psychic perform a show a few months ago. After becoming fast friends with him and his wife, I was comped tickets a week later and took Mom. He told me a few things that are almost too fantastic for me to process. They're things I already had confidence in generating, which is the only way they'd come about, I suppose. But part of me wishes I didn't know. Kinda like knowing too much about a movie before you see it, I guess.

Boo and the kids drove me back to NYC. She took my winter coat back to Pennsylvania so that I can collect it when I visit for Thanksgiving. She told me that when they got back on the road, Alexander asked, "Who did Angie go home to?"

"No one. Angie lives alone."

This made him sad and he asked, "But didn't she used to live with a boy?"

"Yes, but they're not friends anymore."

"He was her boyfriend," Alexander insisted. In his defense, he wasn't able to attend the wedding after a mishap with his grandmother and broken glass.

"He was. But he's not anymore."

"I'll be Angie's boyfriend. I'll live with her when I'm six."

"That's only a year away. Are you sure?"

He pondered a moment then replied, "Maybe when I'm ten or eleven."

Alexander and I are born under the same sun and moon, but they're switched. We'll either butt heads or agree on everything. But for now he lets me hold him when we sleep. I hold onto those moments as tightly as he did my neck after his nightmare. But I can't hold onto anything I want - I can't make any plans. It took me a long time to learn that about myself. I'll breeze about until someone catches me and I calm down like a spayed cat. I hope the right one catches me next. But I suppose I've turned pessimistic since these days I fantasize more about my own house where I could paint anything I please girlish colors, and no one will snicker if I add Bailey's to my morning coffee before I sit around in my underwear writing for four hours in my library which is filled with taxidermied monkeys in fez hats.

In last night's prayer I asked for the kind of man who would allow all of these things while being positively lovable himself. At least I want it again. Feels kind of like I'm coming back to life. There are some children that make you wish you were sterile. And then there are Boo's kids, my second-cousins, yet second to none. Until maybe I pop out a few of my own (MAYBE). It's good to want it again. But it's even better to feel perfectly happy alone. As RuPaul says, "If you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?! Can I get an 'Amen?"

AMEN. 

Impair Your Judgement

At a recent cocktail soiree, a gentleman tried making me guess his astrological sign, telling me Einstein shared it as well. But I knew Einstein was not of the "asshole" zodiac variety, so I told this guy he had to be wrong. I guessed he was fire. He was - MY fire. Oy vey! This Sagittarius (Einstein was actually a Pisces) invited me to go see/hear a band play at played-out ol' Mercury Lounge. I told him I was probably too drunk and he instantly uninvited me. But it was okay - I honestly thought he was gay. Or Jewish.

In honor of that tale, I give you a drink I'm calling Mrs. Parker's Wet Slip. (Dot was half Jewish, I am a self-righteous 1/16th.)

- Buy a can of lychees (actually, buy several because they're quite exotic and you never know when you'll cross paths again).

- Pour about a shot of Grey Goose into a martini glass - no need to use a shaker, for the upcoming bubbles will do your mixing. If you are a writer, pour TWO shots of whatever cheap vodka your last roommate left behind.

- Add a splash of lychee juice from the can and drop in two lychees. Two is my lucky number and tonight it can be yours!

- Top it off with Prosecco (I recommend Lamarca - It's a total lady in the streets/freak in the sheets.)

Sip it slowly because this little vixen should be savored - much like that sunset over Fort Tryon Park that you caught site of after you'd finished your illegal streaming of True Blood (Alcid, HOW did you fit inside that trailer, you beast of a man?!)

"I like to have a martini,
two at the most,
three I'm under the table,
four I'm under my host."
  - Dorothy Parker

Total Eclipse of The Smarts

Two weeks ago as I sat in the mezzanine waiting for Book of Mormon to begin at the big Fan Day show, Lizzie looked at me and asked, "How'd that eclipse work out for you?"

HOLY SHIT, I wrote for about twelve hours that day!!! And then again the next and the next. After months of babbling and writing these long, senseless paragraphs without direction, I finally know what I'm doing. It was difficult because I was still getting over my breakup ("divorce" feels a wee bit too dramatic, even for me). Reliving that crap via a memoir SUCKED. But I kept writing in effort to produce something good. All those months I was mostly just de-sensitiving myself to the topic. Then I threw out most of it and started anew. SUCCESS!!!

This book is going to kick fucking ass. Asses will be fucking kicked all over the WORLD by this thing! I'm excited. I'm doing it.

And on that day as venus was all eclipsing (or something) and everything finally met in the middle to create harmonies, I realized something terrifying: I have to start doing standup again. I have to. It's all I'm good for, the funnies. I feed off a crowd, even when heckled - just ask my brothers' friends. Look, I love A LOT of people. And I'll keep doing that. But most likely I'm never going to hold a man for long because I'm a force to be reckoned with. I love men - I don't wanna belittle an entire gender (like Adam Carolla just did). But for the most part, I've had a bigger proverbial dick than most of the guys I've saddled up alongside. The ones who seem man enough to handle a gal like me are generally too stupid to hold my attention after throwing me around the bedroom for a weekend. The ones who are intellectually stimulating have a whole slew of issues that I just deleted after typing (I would love to turn you fuckers out, but I guess it's not in my nature). I hope to meet a true counterpart, but after Logan tanked I started facing facts - I might never have kids.

I waited for this to make me sad. I waited, waited, and waited. But it doesn't. It kind of thrills me sometimes, especially on nights I stay up til 5am writing and then sleep til noon. And that's not easy to tell friends who have kids. I don't look at anyone with kids and think, "They're living my dream!" I don't envy them. It looks like a lot of monotonous bullshit most of the time. And I was about to pop some out because of course I'd be madly in love with them. I'm sure children enrich lives - I don't doubt it. But looking back it seemed like an easy way to step off of a more exciting and challenging path.

THERE. I SAID IT. Feminists, hold your stones!

I saw someone who I used to love madly. He bought me dinner and we had the weirdest night I've had in many years (and that's saying A LOT since I participated in Baptisms for The Dead). I didn't go home with him - but I could've. There was a moment I looked at his backside and thought, "I still love him. If I want this I could have it." It was as if he'd read my mind when he turned around to tell me, "I always wish I'd found you later in life. I feel like if I'd found you now..."

He only gets better looking so this wasn't easy. And he's brilliant. I went home alone but I didn't have to. And when I got to my fantastic bedroom with its single girl pink accents, I wondered if that guy was as good as it gets. And I left him. Or he just wasn't my ideal match and at least I can leave when that applies. But if I'd really wanted to be married with those baby accessories, he was probably the best candidate so far.

I might dedicate this book to Logan. I love him, though I'm definitely not in love with him anymore. I hope he does well - he's got a lot of odds stacked against him but he has the biggest heart I've ever seen in a heartthrob, despite the mean stuff that came out when he was, er, not medicated. My god, he was attractive. And the funniest - the funnest. I didn't even need alcohol when we were good. I wish it had been him but I'm glad I can see that it wasn't. I've got no more time to waste *trying to fit a square peg in a round hole (*NOT a euphemism). I see ill-fitted couples all the time, clinging to each other because being alone terrifies them. Nothing terrifies me except maybe Celebrity Ghost Story.

From beginning to end of Book of Mormon, I felt like I was in love. I wanted to wrap my legs around the entire show, scream its name and have its babies. I was also THRILLED that I'd never talked Logan into going with me to try winning tickets - his twitching over the blasphemy would've ruined the entire experience, almost as badly as my other ex had ruined the awakening I once had during a three day Philip Glass opera (I joke - it was only four and a half hours). The opera had hypnotized me and afterwards I was on fire. But during our train ride back to Brooklyn my ex looked at me with bitterness in his eyes over the fact that the opera hadn't flipped his switch too. It was eery - his envy over such a thing. And it's one of the moments that carried me through our breakup.

I passed our old apartment over Prospect Park on purpose after a party last weekend. It made me happy - I was happy with him. It made me miss him a little and all the great conversations and adventures we had. It was almost a little annoying that I was missing him so I reminded myself that he'd brought that girl - the one he cheated on me with - to that little home I was adoring. But the image didn't ruin it for me because no one could ruin it for me. I was happy there with him. For three years I was blissed out with someone who fit me very well - despite his panic attacks, hypochondria and jealousy.

The last two loved me as best as they could. But there are holes in them that no one can fill.

I'm going back to L.A. My writing partner and BFF dazzles me with what she's built since being out there. Last time I went out, things fell through with the producer of my lifeguard movie. I was still completely wrecked after having been cheated on too. I didn't know what to put my energies into so I just drank to kill that energy off, and then I wouldn't have to deal with it. Now I want to return to a land of comics where my sense of humor will be rewarded instead of questioned. I've been accused of being in a "dark place" by Facebook "friends." But I haven't been this happy since I ran away to Scotland with locked knees almost seven years ago. My humor has always been dark and I'm done apologizing for the damage that made me this way. Better to find a community who understands such damage and appreciates the end results.

The last few weeks several people - some I'm not even that close with - have reached out, confiding some really grim and impressive secrets in me. While I'm not usually a great secret-keeper, this has been so flattering and affirming that I found myself acting selflessly because there's reward in harboring this stuff for others - rewards I've never known. I can't fully explain it yet, but it's giving me ideas about fiction I want to write in my fifties. I know I'm not supposed to look forward to gravity pulling me apart, but I can't wait to see how good I am in another twenty years.

I'm going to start going to open mic nights here. I have to send this book out soon. I'll be done with it in a month. I'm hoping it'll get fast-tracked in time to fuck Mitt Romney. It's not a Mormon bashing book, and I'm not a Mormon basher - I just despise Mitt and all he stands for. And anyway you cut it, that religion is weird. This book is worlds different than I thought it would be. And it's good. I feel like Gypsy Rose Lee when she finally sees herself in the mirror and says, "I'm pretty, Mama! I'm pretty!"

Bitch, you always WERE pretty!

The doing is everything. Each time I get overwhelmed by the book I tell myself, "One foot in front of the other." A few nights a week, Brandie and I whittle away at what will someday soon be a summer blockbuster and I will AT LAST live my dream of sitting in a theater and listen to people laugh at my writing. After I get book money I'm going to sublet my apartment to some folks (probably Mormons - I still know and love a TON of them) and sublet someone's lil' home in L.A. for a few weeks/months this winter. I just want to get out there, wrangle some gigs, write another couple of scripts with Brandie, and see where it all leads. Writing is lonely but writing comedies alone is near impossible.

One of my favorite sayings is, "Wanna give God a laugh? Tell him your plans."

I could plan to go to L.A. and then end up on a book tour. I WANT THAT!!! Put me in, Coach! I guess we'll see. One foot in front of the other for now. Kicked the mud off a while ago so I can go faster, but all that matters is that I'm moving.

For two years the person I loved most held up everything I was taught to fear and threatened me with it. Instead of Clockwork-Oranging me, he pulled my darkest thoughts into the light where I could finally see they weren't so scary after all. Reminds me of the alligator that lived in our pond. I saw it across the water one day after countless nights of running to and from my car, scared it would snatch me. It was little - smaller than me. We knew it was female because their eyes glow red at night and that was the horror we'd seen in the darkness, accompanied by its croaking. When I finally saw her sunning herself across the pond, all three and a half feet of her, she jumped into the water afraid of me and vanished. I lied to my entire family and told them she was nearly six feet long. I didn't know why I'd done that at the time but now after connecting with all these people lately and hearing their secrets, I have a pretty good idea.

It tickles me to remember how that ominous croaking the lil' lady gator did at night was actually her mating call. Of course it was. She was still afraid. 

"If we're victims of the night, I won't be blinded by the light..."

This morning I dreamt that everyone left - Mom, Logan, my dad (who lives in my dreams only, as Logan often reminded me during our fights), my brother, and my cousins. They left and told me to take the train later to meet them. I said I couldn't with the dogs but they left me anyway, and in a dark, old train car at that. It was filled with junk and ghosts but I wasn't scared. I was annoyed.

Digging through a heap of garbage, looking for my luggage and doggie travel tote, I was suddenly interrupted when a weird little closet opened up and a light clicked on. A keyboard started chiming all by itself - I could see the keys moving as though invisible fingers were falling on them. This reminded me of the overactive light switches in the haunted house we'd grown up in (for real). I approached the closet, pushing my dogs away from it with my feet and the keyboard stopped. I said what I often said to the light switches, yellow blobs, pairs of shoes, and other entities that unnerved me when they came to life in my childhood home: "What are you?"

The keyboard started playing a song.

"Just call me Angel of the morning, Angel. Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby!"

I laughed so hard in my dream that I'm sure had my bed been shared, my sleep buddy would have heard me laughing for real. The lights overhead in the closet turned blue - heavenly - as I laughed. The lights looked just like the old shower light from my troll story. The keyboard stopped and I asked, "You're my angel?"

A weird little two note uptempo bit played that sounded like, "Uh-huh!"

"Have you always been my angel?"

It played a song I knew from childhood and I laughed again.

"I love you," I said. "Thank you."

The lights went out. I closed the closet. I walked out of the train car and lifted my dogs to the ground, trusting they'd follow me without leashes. We stepped into a post-apocalyptic world - my favorite. When I dream of the apocalypse it is always the aftermath. Sometimes I'm running around with a berry in my hand to give to someone I love (like that story from Boston's Holocaust Memorial). I am always barefoot and the skies are always gray. But for some reason these dreams absolutely thrill me. There's no stuff. There's no one bickering at me. I don't even have to wear any goddamn shoes!

I don't think I believe in God but I've met my angel in person. I don't like that term - angel - it sounds like something purchased at Hallmark. It stinks like a sugary candle. But that's what he is, I suppose. I remember him in dreams from when I was a baby. I know exactly who he is and where he came from. I believe in people. I want to believe we go somewhere, ungoverned by a big, creepy, judgmental force. I wouldn't believe in anything except that I've seen, heard, smelled and felt entities around me. I don't think they're around everyone and this makes me feel really, really special. And probably explains why I always land on my (bare)feet.

I used to punish myself with nightmares for sleeping in - guilty conscience. Now the best dreams I have occur in the morning. This changed only recently. Lots of things are changing. But this dream reminded me that loneliness is a sadness left to others. It's not mine and it never will be.

And I just realized something ridiculously obvious - they told me to take the train and in my dream's mind I pictured Amtrak. But I was standing in an old train car. It's so funny - you probably got that from the very start. But I was standing too close to see it.