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Finding Waldo

Before the night is out, I will find Waldo 134 times — here, posing next to a gorilla; there, wearing little more than his glasses.

But right now, I’m watching Bruce Vilanch’s ridiculously cute salt-and-pepper pug drag her ass across the concrete balcony. The reverberations of West Hollywood’s Halloween spectacular thrum beneath us– the streets gorged by streams of costumed phantasms. The off-street, dark alleys behind — a cacophony of orgasms.

***

A Manhattan before, I’m rubbing shoulders with dragons and Abraham Lincoln and the characters from Moonrise Kingdom. But I just stay focused on the referees leading me and Andy down Santa Monica Boulevard, through the throngs of carnival-goers.

John blows his whistle with such conviction that he actually parts the sloshed seas on occasion. Shawn clutches his artfully arranged flag, ready to throw it down and declare a foul.

But before we know it, we’ve arrived.

A sexified Angel of Death flutters up the stairs ahead of us, and we sidestep through a nearby door.  A breeze whips up along the walkway as we pass apartment after apartment in the sleek, contemporary building.

John rings a doorbell. A gladiator answers. His white Chihuahua darts out, and busies herself with smelling my feet.  He takes a few steps out, stoops, and scoops up his precious cargo.  Which is how Shawn gets a clear view of the hand-to-sword combat going on in the back room.

The gladiator smiles, re-assumes his sentry post, then motions next door.

“Bruce is there.”

Before we can thank him, he’s returned to his ménage a lot.

And then, I’m pug watching.

***

There are times in my life when I’ve wished for more developed, intellectual thoughts to be rolling around in my noggin than what’s screaming in the fore.  And this is one of them.

Instead of reflecting on the thoughtfulness of our friends — for braving the costumed masses and dragging us away from watching Hocus Pocus in our underwear — or our host’s humor and hospitality — his complete lack of pretension — I’m thinking, I’m watching Bruce Vilanch’s pug drag her ass across the balcony. Incredible.

I snap out of it, and catch then follow Andy’s concerted gaze. And there, placed just so by the television, Bruce Vilanch’s Emmy’s.

“Oh yeah, well, you know Chi Chi, right?”

I swivel back to the conversation and nod. Even if he’d asked us about a chattery dolphin that has a lion’s head and speaks in tongues, we’d nod, zombie-like.

Yes, Bruce Vilanch.

“Well, he lives over there.”

I peer over the side, toward the lighted apartment in the distance, but get distracted by a Rubix cube dancing below.

Finding Waldo...

The world is a bizarrely amazing, small place. 

***

A week later, my mind is goo.

The Merlot is dark and tastes like strawberry jam — a catalyst to wax poetic.

Faces reflecting an internal dialogue —

The laughter,

Wry smiles,

Heavy, somber eyes

The tears.

The animation.

The intimidation.

Emotion overflowing onto asphalt like a dull, constant rain.

We keep to our courses — exploring new avenues,

Detouring around construction,

Hunkering down and pushing on;

It’s all a journey,

And we’re each just one pilgrim,

Traveling.

We stare out from our table at the passing cars as conversations buzz around us. And I lend my ears all around — like hummingbirds, they swallow the lifeblood of others’ lives: the stories that make us something special.

Andy and I stare over our salads at one another, and just absorb everything.

“This is the moment we’ve been working towards.”

He smiles and nods. And the server materializes, resting our plates in ghostly quiet. I push the slightly sticky wine glass stem toward Andy’s. He meets me halfway — near the bread — and a melodic, soft ting bleeds into the surrounding chorus.

Months ago, we landed in an alien place — knew few people; had dreams of where we wanted to start building a life.

And as we peer through the candlelight, we know we’ve found it.

The answer melting into each other’s eyes.

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New Beginnings

A cross breeze gently stirs the blinds in the living room — animating them like a ghostly marionette.

Early morning moonlight glances across the mirrors piled on tables, which are stacked on chairs, which are turned in every possible arabesque-like contortion — everything fitting together in a hoarderish Jenga.

The macaw from the unit across the courtyard rouses, belting out a few throaty caw caw‘s before settling back into her early morning haze. Sweaty socks from our run cling to my feet like a second skin.

The new digs!

And I feel rejuvenated.

It’s a new day. A new week.

A new beginning.

***

It’s hard to believe we’ve been living in California for almost half a year. So much has happened. And just getting out here has been punctuated with every possible test imaginable as we started over.

And now, we’re starting over again.

On the road again...

Almost immediately after landing in Los Angeles, we realized that there’s a certain mysterious gravitational pull to this place. There’s grit and beauty, noise and quiet — everything that attracts and repels.

I never envisioned living in such a large city. But now, the streets are more familiar. The freeways less imposing. Goals seemingly cemented on the horizon — like distant dots — now much closer, more accessible, like low-hanging fruit.

Our time here has been exhausting and invigorating. We both started over professionally. We’ve pushed ourselves out of our respective comfort zones — leaving our loved ones, our friends, in search of some new adventure.

And it’s been hard.

But what’s been borne out of this entire process has been something indescribable — a feeling of possibility. Of realizing that so many things we thought were so completely unattainable six months ago are now dancing around our fingertips, and we just have to keep reaching for them.

Leaving everything — and everyone — you know for something else, some nebulous blob of unrealized and somewhat unformulated goals, can be so overwhelmingly painful and draining that it’s easy to crack and crumble.

And we’ve definitely had our low points here. But through it all, we’ve kept going. And now, we’re in a place we’ve wanted to call home for six months.

We’re making friends. We’re laughing more. We’re breathing deeply, and drinking it all in.

Koreatown served its purpose. It was — and will always be — our first nest in California.

But West Hollywood is home.

Home

An apple we reached for and grabbed.

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I Can Be My Hero, Maybe?

He’s not wearing a red cape, nor is he rescuing orphans from a burning building. He’s just standing there. Smiling, watching the motorized world go by and accepting the occasional Good Samaritan’s coin.

A dry erase board hangs on the pole behind him, swaying slightly in the passing cars’ collective wake.  It reads: “I am here to support you. And you me.”

Below it hangs a framed poster – the glass cracked, shards missing – with an image of a woman with 1990’s hair leaning seductively against a Porsche, the hand-scrawled message reading: “No criticizing or complaining. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

The light changes, a car honks, and the mid-morning rush to work continues. His smile never breaks.

***

Radiohead’s “Karma Police” is lulling my hazy mind into mental balance, just as my stomach starts gurgling.

This isn’t a soy mocha.

This is what you get…

But then “My Humps” cues up, and I’m doing my best to twerk in the driver’s seat. Then, as I’m mouthing along with “No no drama…you don’t want no drama…” and waving my finger from side to side, I glance in my side mirror and stop cold.

Part of my mirror’s message about objects being larger than they appear is centered and framed by a white painted square on the dumpster, the subtle message reading, “Hey.”

I’m quiet. Then belt out, “…gurl, heyy!”

Then, I’m back to the music – getting this party started with Pink. But that moment – that bizarre realization of something reaching out and shaking me – has an oddly grounding effect.

It reminds me of the importance of stopping to read the world – the ways I can try to see things differently, embody them, and weave them into my day to lift my spirits. Not complaining about this or criticizing that. Just taking it all in.

To glean from the most random acts the slightest scraps of heroism – the ways we encourage one another to realize our potential, our dreams; to employ infinitesimal coping mechanisms to get through the seconds, minutes, hours, days – the vastness of time; to conjure a smile out of a sullen visage – like a rabbit from a magician’s hat; to have the courage to apologize and mean it when we’re cruel.

To reflect on where I’ve been and how I’ve gotten to this particular point in my life. And to have a little bit of pride about it all.

***

My new favorite barista has just finished calling me a slut after learning of my first tattoo’s location – her fluorescent red fingernails grazing my shirt.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really strike me as the kind to have a tattoo, much less a massive chest piece.”

She nods to my tattoo, exposed by my partially unbuttoned shirt. She smiles, shifts slightly in her acid wash overalls, then regales us with a few stories of her tattoos before leaving us to our sweating caramel mochas.

Andy and I smile at one another, take a few gulps, then get back to writing.

But something about the whole exchange strikes me – the way the tiniest peek of my tattoo unlocked her desire to tell us about the people behind her ink – and it makes me realize something. That I’ve always wanted to be someone who surprises people in unexpected ways – someone who has a little edge and smarts underneath it all.

***

Being a late bloomer doesn’t have many perks. Throw in jacked up teeth, a lisp, and the most protracted prepubescent period in the history of the world, and self-esteem wasn’t exactly in high reserve.

For so long, I aspired to be like anyone else – someone attractive, fun, mysterious, and a little bad ass: all of the people I never saw myself even closely resembling. So I just kept being myself. Changed with new experiences – struggled and won, got stuck in ruts, and played a violin or two in a dark apartment, thinking about how hard I had it.

But it hasn’t been until recently that I’ve realized that most of the people I aspired to be like as a youngster have since settled. And I’ve kept going. Because I have a lot to do, and only one life to sandwich everything into.

Which is maybe why the last voice over in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button resonates with me – because it reminds me of how each of us can be heroic by leading the life we want to lead.

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

And so far – over these nearly 29 years of life – I feel pretty good about who I’ve become and what I’ve done.

I’ve taken a stand against bullies. Told people the hard truth. Been daring. Fallen in love. Soldiered through hard times and learned from them.

But most importantly, I’ve become the slightly barbed, quirky person I’ve always wanted to be. I own who I am, and draw strength from it. And doing so makes me feel excited – like the moment before walking through a door to a room full of friends.

Like I can take on anything if I pursue it with gusto.

Like realizing that the hero I wanted to be was here all along – just wearing glasses instead of a cape.

Glasses and capes.

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By the Book

It started in seventh grade, right after I read The Giver.

A literary retrospective. Ah, the early years.

Like spirit energy driving a planchette, my love of history guided my hands over the names inside my textbook covers. Not the carefully printed, typed names of politicos and social figureheads: the clumsily curious scrawling of past students.

I’d wonder how they’d made it through lunch every single day. What locker they’d had. Who they’d called friends.

While I languished somewhere between 2x + y — they had the real answers; they knew what was past the “=” sign. After all, some of them were already in high school. And more were in that nebulous ether of “after high school.”

I’d ponder if they were big timers — the types of people I knew I’d never be, but had long equated with my narrow definition of success.

I’d wonder if they were ever like me.

***

It’s bizarre how we seem to hang our personal histories on some of the most unstable years of our lives — like soaked trench coats on a rotted hall tree. The days and weeks and years locked away in the towns and cities where we were born.

Where some settle. Where others vow never to return.

The night of high school graduation, a friend of mine said one of the most depressing things I’d ever heard.

“These are the best years of our lives. And now, they’re over.”

Behind me in the school’s football stadium, the din of recent graduates rose and fell, like a breathing wild thing.

And I thought, is this it?

***

Andy and I sit rapt in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, nursing our sweating vodka tonics — and rolling our eyes at the absurdly large Venice Beach apartment they’re able to afford on one hourly paycheck. But what’s even more annoying is how far Romy and Michele go to shoehorn themselves into some personification of success.

It’s shudder worthy. Mostly because it reminds me of high school. And all the characters wrapped up in that angsty narrative — preps, jocks, band geeks, artists, nerds, holy-rollers, and grungy goths. And somewhere in that welter of teen angst was me — an offbeat with little sense of self, trying to please everyone.

So why is it that we focus our collective lens on that part of our past — on some of the most inconsequential people in our lives? I mean, sure. Plenty of people remain friends with high school pals. But more often than not, most of us sever ties the minute we toss our caps into the air.

Still, like Romy and Michele, so many of us fantasize about waltzing into a high school reunion. Just to show’em.

Who? The people you haven’t spoken to in over a decade. The people who knew you as a prepubescent blob with little to no self-esteem.

Does it matter who they’ve become? Who you’ve become?

Do you really think that, should you return, anything — much less in such a charged context — will be different? That everyone will be the people they’ve really become rather than their high school persona?

I think the only reason I’d ever go to a reunion is to see who’s still around. Because the fact that you’re here — on this side of the grass, as a friend once said — means that you have a story. That, somehow, you’ve made life work.

And I love hearing stories. Especially from people who’ve made complete 180’s — who, like baby sea turtles, hatched, took a chance, and skittered through the relentless gulls to discover new currents.

Because it makes you think about your own journey.

***

The movie ends, and I go to take a shower. Steam starts fogging up the mirror, but I have enough time to assess the stubble, weigh the pros and cons of shaving. But then I step back and just look, thinking about the me of today, and the me-as-Romy or Michele — noticing how different I am.

How I’ve made the years work together to form this reflection — a man who’s grown into his nose; embraces his facial scar; smiles crookedly with straight teeth; constantly battles his curly hair; and always remembers the meanings of his tattoos. Whose journey has taken him through two states, five cities, and a shotgun spray of jobs — through an intervention and reincarnation. Through thick and thin; oil and water.

Toweling off, I hear Andy call from the next room.

“Do you think we’d have ever been friends in high school?”

“Probably not.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I mean, who really knows who they are in high school? We were all just trying to survive.”

My mind drifts back to a view of the ocean, from the vantage point of fragmented turtle shells — bits and pieces of which are lodged in tiny paddle prints leading to the open water. I think about how grand it’s been to be tossed and turned by the seas, pulled out far and away from where I hatched.

Out of the surf.

Riding the waves of success and failure. Emerging from the surf refreshed and renewed. And beaching myself on a new shore. Where I can make a new, lasting home. And acknowledge that I’ve made it all happen.

And then another image comes to mind — a current student in the same English class, maybe with the same teacher, running their hands over my name and wondering who I am, where I’ve been. And if I’ve succeeded.

And what exactly that may mean.

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A Chance Metamorphosis

The minute I walk through the door, I know this isn’t our future home. And so does the aged landlord’s grandson who — resigned to his teenage fate of shuttling Gramps around — sits on the stairway, just beyond the front door.

Meh.

“So, you got other places you’re lookin’?”

His eyes belie a subversive hopefulness.

“Yep. A slew. But this is really nice.”

A knowing, wry smile cracks along his jawline as he scratches the back of his neck. But his grandfather doesn’t want compliments. Just absolutes.

“You both — you and your friend — have job, yes?”

“Yes, we both have jobs.”

He stares hard, as if trying to elicit a confession. But I stare back, unblinking.

By now, we’ve recited our lie so often it’s become irrefutable truth.

Through machinations and occasional subterfuge, we’ve wrapped our larval plan in a cocoon — spun by equal parts frustration and desperation — and transformed it into a winged bastard. And we fly on its tattered wings — right into the gaping, beastly maw of the unknown.

“I see there’s no electrical outlet plate around that plug.”

I point toward the kitchen counter. His concentration breaks, and five excuses tumble out of his mouth. I don’t really care. I just want to leave, and need something to occupy his attention.

***

“But you’ve seen this place, right?”

Friends — a pack concerned and intrigued — ask repeatedly.

“Well, of course.”

It’s not exactly a lie. I mean, we’ve seen the place online. And plenty of beautiful places in person. But most of the beautiful, spacious places will suck our savings dry in months.

I wouldn't even put up a shower curtain.

Still, we solider on.

Eventually, we’re able to twist our lie enough to convince a property management company to lease us a studio. With an LA address in hand, we prep for the next step: the cross-country move.

But then, less than 24 hours later, we get the good news. The bright light at the end of the increasingly long tunnel is suddenly blinding us rather than teasing us from afar.

***

Now, with our six month lease nearing its end, we’re channeling optimism while scoping out new digs — with a new budget, and a new outlook. Because this new place will be much more than a landing spot: it’ll be a launching pad.

So we want it to be right — to have the things that will make us want to call it home, the bones to massage and mold into aesthetic, functional bliss.

That’s where a list comes in handy. A list of things that each of us has compromised on in the past, and later kicked ourselves for.

Everyone has their own wants and needs, but here’re a few that we’re longing for — hoping to find on the other side of the soon-to-be-opening doors of our future.

(1) Pet friendly. As if we weren’t going to adopt a pet soon enough, I had to go and get a job at an animal welfare non-profit. (Shucks. Hello, three-legged corgi-pug cuteness.)

(2) Light. Six months is a long time to come back to an apartment facing a plain concrete building. *Sad trombone.*

(3) Parking. It’s LA. And we’ve been having to park in the same parking deck with vehicular fossils from the LA riots. And deal with opportunistic, asshat restaurant valets parking us in. Enough said.

LA riot fossil, and parked in cars. Thanks, opportunistic asshat valets from across the street!

(4) Charm. Living in an apartment that’s basically a square, white, sterile box is what I imagine hell to be like. If I believed in hell. And while our little studio is cute and funky, it’s the little part that gets us.

(5) Space. Sure, we culled a lot. But we still have pretty things. Many, many pretty things.

(6) Location. While West Hollywood wasn’t at the top of our list initially, hearing about its enforced rent control moved it from bottom to top. Talk about a versatile list.

(7) Green space. This one will probably be relegated to the “sacrifice” list. But the inner gardener in me can hope.

(8) Kitchen. I’d really like to avoid having to perform Matrix-esque moves to get the Brita out of the refrigerator.

I have to inhale to get to the fridge and back.

***

From previous hits and misses, we know all too well the importance of holding out for what feels right. But we’re also well aware of the fact that our wants will have to acquiesce to needs, and those to reality.

Still, two gays can hope.

Regardless, the most important thing for us to remember is that, whatever mix of wants/needs we get, we’ll make them work — transforming them into something fun and useful.

Something to build upon.

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Dining on Life and Leaving Myself a Tip

Andy and I are easing into our first attempt at establishing a new Sunday tradition: Cafe Writing Time (CWT). Not to be confused with its more annoying relative, CMT.

A chocolate croissant the size of a Yorkshire Terrier is plated in front of me, and the ice is still swirling in the fresh mocha sweating near my hand. And then, amid the writing and remembering, I venture into that annoying time suck: Facebook.

Chocolate + bread + massiveness = amazing.

And there, I read an article that makes me laugh and nod. But then I keep reading, and the grasp on my mocha tightens, and I want to throw it out the window, past the man on the sidewalk wearing massive headphones and using a broken balustrade as an ad hoc microphone while he waits for the bus.

***

Good writing elicits emotions — good, bad, or ugly cry worthy. It works you up and makes you ask questions: Why in the hell am I reading this? Who the fuck cares? Who made this person an authority? Why can’t I ever get anyone to publish something of mine?

You know, the essentials.

So I give the author props for doing just that. And I don’t disagree with a lot of the things she wishes someone would’ve told her. But there’re a few that just get my blood boiling. Partly because I’m emotionally reactive and tend to shoot off at the mouth. But mostly because I’m tired of reading the same things — the whole “giving up control to a greater power” line or “argument” people use to rationalize life (which is the most contradictory enterprise ever).

Of not getting the other — less rosy — take on things.

Now, some folks may just mark me as a crazed atheist or godless heathen or insane gay or all three, and they’d be dead on, regardless of their choice. But I think the author sells twenty-somethings a bit short with haphazard advice. But then again, according to her, twenty-somethings’ minds are jelly and fairly incapable of rational thought. (Alright, I’m paraphrasing.)

So, instead of blathering on and advising people I don’t even know about how they should act — or with whom they should have a relationship, or to whom they should listen — I’d like to tell my early twenty-something self a few things.

Dear 21-year-old Matt,

Stop plucking your eyebrows with such conviction. You always look startled. Now, listen up.

(1) More often than not, patronizing people will try to shove off their life lessons and sell them as fact, faith, or inspired wisdom. You’ll come to find that they lead really dull, empty lives filled with missed opportunities that they’re trying to reclaim by hogging your valuable time at the party’s punch bowl. (Or they’re just trying to get in your pants.) Most of their sad soliloquy is drivel, and the rest will fade into the background as it should. Because, really, you’re at this party to have promiscuous sex with someone else, so leave the pontifying to the evangelicals on television wrenching money away from hollow shells of human beings, cross that living room floor — channeling the confidence you lacked at middle school dances — and introduce yourself to the hot guy on the other side of the room. No, not the one drinking Pabst. The other one.

(2) Learn everything you can, whether through failure or victory. There’re lessons to learn with every missed opportunity and sealed deal. The real crime is not being open to experience both in equal measure.

(3) Sometimes, life is like an imbalanced dryer: You’ll think you have the right measure of friendship, family, and happiness until you throw everything together and set it to “spin.” It takes a lot of trial and error to get through an entire cycle without your life shutting down. You’ll get it eventually. You just have to keep at it, and take some of those tattered sweaters out along the way. (Plus, they shouldn’t have been in there in the first place!)

(4) Don’t listen to people who claim they have it “all figured out.” They’re the biggest bullshitters of all. In case you missed it, revisit (1). No one has it figured out. Mostly because everyone has a different “it” to figure out. That includes your parents and grandparents and educators. (After all, they’re people, just like you. You’ll realize this when you get shit on during graduate school.)

(5) Friendship is like the ocean. (I know, what a painful analogy! [I sort of hate myself for it.]) There’re high tides and low tides. But keep yourself anchored. Chances are, you’ll figure out how to keep your head above water or, at the very least, your feet ankle-deep. Acknowledging that friends will have kids and drift; move and drift; seem completely absorbed by their new life and drift; or be happy in a far away place and drift doesn’t mean that they don’t think of you, or value the time y’all spent together forming the friendships that y’all did. Life speeds up, and it’ll be hard to keep in touch as much as you’d like.

(6) There’s a reason that, throughout the course of human evolution, basic instincts kept some of our ancestors from becoming dinner. So, listen to your gut. Not some voice from the clouds. Because that most likely means someone spiked your drink.

(7) Experiment responsibly, but only if you want to. Peer pressure is part of life. Good friends will try to get you laid. And better friends will know when you just need a good, stiff drink and carbs. And amazing friends won’t dub you a social pariah for wanting to do nothing more on a Friday night than order in, watch Death Becomes Her, and fall asleep whilst swaddled in a Snuggie. (Actually, scratch the Snuggie. It’s just creepy.)

(8) Faith and prayer won’t save you from anything — they’ll just make you feel as though you have reliable outlets to channel all of the guilt you feel when you see photos from Third World countries, or help you rationalize buying a shirt that probably cost a Bangladeshi garment worker their life. The world can be cold and calculating. Once you realize this — and that good things won’t always happen to good people — the faster you’ll realize how you can do as much as you can for as many as you can.

(9) If you feel as though the path you’ve started paving for yourself isn’t the right one, don’t beat yourself up for leaving it. (Because you’ll do both.) You’ll meet so many more people who hate what they do for a living than those who do. And while you’ll initially think it’s a personal failure to acknowledge that you’re unhappy, you’ll come to realize it’s one of the most liberating experiences you’ll ever feel. Especially when you do something proactive about it.

(10) Being an asshole doesn’t help anyone. Especially not you. So don’t be an asshole.

***

Sure, this isn’t anything ground-breaking. Especially since I’m ridiculously sarcastic. And I sure as hell haven’t had the Huffington Post beating on my door to write an advice column.

But you don’t have to be an authority to know what works and what doesn’t.

You just have to be honest with yourself and anyone who asks. Even if it hurts. Because all things super saccharine belong in cake recipes, not life.

Because life is a whole bunch of recipes — and it’s up to you to make up your own damn version. After all, you’re the chef.

So, whip it up.

Sample it.

Spit out the sour.

Revel in the sweet.

And move on to the next course.

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Back to the Grind, But Not Ground to A Pulp

“Every household should be able to support a gentleman.”

Norman laughs over the phone, letting his eggs cool on the stove.

“I never knew what my friend meant by that until I retired. You know, when you have time to stare at your wiggling toes and think, ‘What do I want to do today?’ So now, what do you think you’ll do when you have idle time again?”

I retrace my week, mulling over my attempts to balance a new job and a sustainable, feasible post-workday routine. Then furrow my brow.

“Well, when that time comes around again, I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

Time–that once idling beast–has become ever so elusive. But hey, I’ve expected nothing less, especially now that I’ve transitioned from homomaker to working gay.

***

It’s never easy to get back to the grind.

And moving across the country, stuffing one quarter of our belongings into 450 square feet, and navigating a metropolis makes it that much harder to make the transition gracefully.

The other 3/4.

Especially after I spent five months wondering how I’d escape the shades of degrees past and score a job I’d find intellectually stimulating and personally gratifying while Andy started his new job.

But I did.

Still, I’ve been guarded throughout this entire first week. Like I’m steeling myself for some insidious harbinger–or Ron Pearlman–to reveal how this job will be another nefarious succubus. A boil on my face. A pox upon my house.

You get it: past experiences have gifted me with a healthy helping of job-related paranoia, which has complicated my ability to ease into this new position.

But after the first week, I’ve realized that it’s less likely that I’ll experience those same problems within a nonprofit context. Because the majority of staffers are personally invested in the mission. Sure, there’re always going to be scenarios with every job that’re less than ideal. But being surrounded by excited, dedicated people is making me acknowledge that I can be happy and content in my professional life.

Especially now that I’m free of my annoying internal dialogue–a recitation of rhetorical questions: Is this really what you want to do? Do you even want to be here? Again, why did you get an advanced degree in something you’re no longer passionate about?

I have a new, clean slate.

And it’s scary. But nested within the anxiety associated with venturing into unknown professional waters is a sense of excitement–of realizing the possibilities of building a new professional life from the ground up.

Knowing that this job can actually compliment my personal life–not hinder it.

A happy, exhausting, empowering first day!

That the wall I’ve constructed between two parts of my life can be pulled down. And I can be happier.

***

And while I know not everything about my new job will translate into some life-affirming revelation, it’s been sort of nice to whir like a crazed blender–experience the emotional highs and reality checks packed into the first week.

Day 1: Exclaim unto ye!

Wee, I have a job again! I’m meeting people! I barely have an email account, so I can’t do much of anything except ride the high of being employed without any responsibilities! I can watch videos of successful pet adoptions! I get a free shirt!

Day 2: Check, check. Reality, check.

Wow, I’m really employed! Everyone seems so nice! There’s a manual I need to read through. And training sessions I need to enroll in. Field trips! More introductions, more people. I’m forgetting names. But am remembering that I manage…people. Uh, right, I knew that. So, how do I submit their time sheets again?

Day 3: *Ding, ding, ding*

And here I thought Raiser’s Edge was a band.

*Ding* (10:42 AM): New message in Outlook. *Ding* (10:44 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:46 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:47 AM): New message.

*DingDingDingDingDingDingDing* (10:48 AM)

Phew.

*DING* (10:49 AM)

Day 4: Broadcasting live!

I’m helping pick up the Pet of the Week. My hands smell like hot dogs and cheese. Wow, this is a newsroom. Where broadcasters melt down. And the Pet of the Week rocks it. And we get lost. And I try to talk like a supervisor and a human. I can remember the building code.

Day 5: Making it work.

Things are coming together. I know where things are. Now I know more about the organization, and can actually speak to specific programs. 

“Can you do this really fast, so that I can get it to the President?”

“Sure thing!”

Sure. Thing. And I can. 

And then an unexpected thought.

Maybe I can do this.

Followed by a slightly terrifying one.

Because I want to.

***

Little by little, it’ll happen. Because baby steps turn into toddling, turn into walking, turn into running. And the hardest part–taking the initiative–is over.

Now, I’m realizing how far I can go.

How easily I can back myself out of a corner.

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Mom-Mau and Me

Faced with the situation at hand, I react the best way I know how: I punch the accelerator. Mom Mau grabs the oh shit handle.

“We can make it!” I shriek, panicking, foot-to-floor.

The driver of the oncoming truck hits his brakes, causing his passenger to lurch forward. Sweat trickles down my temple, and I imagine what’s going through their minds. Surely this kid’s just a bit confused. He’ll realize his mistake.

But I’ve set the station wagon’s course, and we’re not going back. We race forward. Emphatic obscenities sync out of the driver’s O-shaped mouth and, feet from his truck’s grill, I jerk the wheel sharply to the left, toward the parking lot.

The Sable hits the angled curb, and we catch air. Mom Mau screams.

“JEEES…”

We hit the parking lot nose first.

“…SUUUS…”

The hatchback slams down.

“…CHRRRIST!”

And we skid sideways, across two spaces, just missing the mailbox before we stop.

I stare hard at the embossed horn emblem until I can focus. A Catholic medal swings back and forth from the rearview mirror, its glass beads judgmentally tinking tsck tsck tsck. Words slowly bubble to my lips.

“Now, Mom-Mau, there’s no real reason to tell Mom and Dad about this, right?”

Silence.

“Right?”

“Mmhmm.”

Mom-Mau bends forward, her belt still on, and scoops her purse contents from the floor board.

After a few minutes, I feel their eyes. I glance to the restaurant’s glass façade. It’s noon: a full house. People sit mid-bite, mouths agape, staring. I try to fuzz them out.

Embarrassment aside, we’re hungry. We walk in and I order, all the while waiting for an anxiety-fueled fart to emanate from a far corner of the quieted room.

“To-go, please.”

Months later, Mom-Mau’s craving chicken fingers and asks me to take her to the same restaurant. Maybe she’s forgotten about the whole thing. Success! I love old people. She disappears for a minute to grab her purse. I feel like I have a clean slate–unsullied by my vehicular faux pas. Mom Mau shuffles back to the kitchen.

“Oh, and Matt?”

“Yes?”

“This time, let’s stay on the right side of the road.”

***

Two years after Mom-Mau died, I mention the story to Dad, assured that she’d told him. But as he gasps for breath between laughs, I realize she hadn’t said a thing, just like I’d asked.

Mom-Mau, me, and Laura. The early, pre-driving years.

“She took that one to the grave, bless her soul.”

And my atheistic self can only respond, lump in throat, with a decided “Yup.”

 ***

Rarely do I blame Mom-Mau for anything, especially after everything I put her through. But my slight obsession with dollar store merchandise is high among the few. After Pop-Pop died, Mom-Mau came to live with us in Alabama. And while the first few years were punctuated with health problems and depression from losing her lifelong counterpart, Mom-Mau and I maintained a very simple routine.

Most high-schoolers didn’t typically spend their Saturdays hanging with grandma. But Mom-Mau was different. She might’ve been sixty years my senior, but her eyes sparkled with mischief and spontaneity.

Then again, maybe “spontaneous” isn’t the best descriptor for routine dollar store runs. But every visit would seem like a new adventure. Maybe I took too much enjoyment out of seeing our cart fill with the same standbys: Kleenex, paper towels, Palmolive, softener sheets. But I think I just liked her company.

What I enjoyed most, though, was that we’d end each trip at the candy aisle–disproportionately larger than more critical foodstuffs, exactly as it should be.

“Go ahead and pick out a few bags for yourself,” Mom-Mau would say, shuffling over to examine the York peppermint patties and Reese’s, jabbing them with an arthritic finger like they were alive.

I’d inevitably grab a bag of Riesen’s and orange slices, both of which I’d become accustomed to snacking on during junk food binges with Mom-Mau. Although I never really understood the appeal of Werther’s Originals like she did, we both agreed wholeheartedly that marshmallow circus peanuts were never to be trusted nor, for that matter, consumed.

We’d unload our spoils at home and settle in for The Price is Right–me on Mom-Mau’s bed with bags of candy spread across the faded floral comforter, and Mom-Mau sitting in her pillow-cushioned rocker, three feet from the TV.

“You want some orange slices?”

I’d know full well she’d refuse the first time.

“Nah, not right now. Thanks, though.”

She’d keep her eyes on the spinning wheel, rise slightly in her chair, and groan as the participant barely missed the dollar slot.

A few minutes would pass before the rustling of my hands in the candy bags would get to be too much. With her eyes still firmly affixed to the TV, she’d cave.

“Well, yeah, I’ll have a few.”

I’d get up, walk the bag over to where she gently rocked, and wait until she peeled her eyes off the TV long enough to take out a few handfuls. And then we’d be set.

It’d been the same way with Pop-Pop in the Poconos. He’d be stretched across the threadbare, squeaky living room sofa, drifting in and out of sleep as Laura and I sat rapt in The Young and the Restless or a Lifetime movie. But the minute Mom-Mau would make us something and bring it over from the kitchen–setting it down without much to-do or expecting any thanks–and we’d begin munching, Pop-Pop’s head would pop up.

“Hey, whadda ya got there?” he’d ask, his hair askew, glasses crooked, and stomach poking slightly out from under his stretched-out V-neck tee.

“Carrots with Ranch.”

“Oh, okay,” he’d respond, lowering his head. But never more than three minutes later, he’d call, “Mary, how ’bout some of that carrots and Ranch?”

Before he’d finish asking, Mom-Mau would hand him his own plate.

As I got older, Mom-Mau’s and my shared love of food translated into ad hoc cooking lessons over bubbling pasta fagioli, stuffed cabbage, Italian salad, spaghetti and meatballs; the baked goods: chocolate-chip pecan pie, nut-rolls, Michigan rocks, fudge, butter cookies. Our culinary memories were forged through homemade dough and high fructose corn syrup–no waffling, no snobbery; we’d liked both worlds. But as delicious as those creations were, we’d always bond over our dollar store excursions.

Despite their usually absurd, crappy contents, I fervently defend dollar stores from friends who think they’re vile. Which is probably why I make most dollar store runs alone. But I actually prefer it that way.

For me, each one is a memory center of sorts. Crossing the threshold, I feel like a younger version of myself, always looking around for that stooped elderly woman puttering around, poking candy bags.

***

On a recent trip, I pick up a role of aluminum foil– “aluminium foil,” as Mom-Mau would say–toss a kitchen spoon into the basket, and proceed to the checkout counter.  But as the cashier rings me up, I hesitate. Maybe it’s because dollar store cashiers have repeatedly mistaken me for Josh Groban and have asked for autographs.

But this time, that’s not it.

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

Returning a minute later, I toss it onto the counter.

“Is that it?”

“That’s all.”

She totals the order, then slides the Riesen’s into my bag.

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New Storylines

The hipster server sets Andy’s French toast and my bagel sandwich down on the smudged, marble-topped table.

The tabletop makes me think of the conversation I’d overheard between two marble craters days before we’d moved out of our Raleigh apartment.

And as Andy pours syrup over powdered sugar, I remember something else: sitting in that exact same spot months before the craters’ conversation in our quickly emptying apartment; retreating to the familiarity of a homemade mocha and syrupy carbs 3,000 miles away from my home state of seven years, from the man with whom I’d finally made a home; looking out into LA’s great vastness, and wondering where and how we’d fit into it.

Carbs help.

But now, that mental noise has been quieted. I’m not staring into my brunch like a fortune-teller into a crystal ball.

Mocha or crystal ball? A bit of both.

We eat, laugh, and digest the morning, and all the mornings leading to it.

***

Later that evening, we’re settling in for a double feature. Revolutionary Road fades onscreen and I’m thrown back to the day we made our decision to move. And the torturous day after, and the weeks of wondering, hoping, scrimping, and pushing that followed.

The kind words and cheers to keep going.

And the ecstatic moment of realizing it was all worth it. The whirlwind move, and the journey out here. And the continuous momentum required to stay centered and focused.

***

A few days before I got my job offer last week, I’d read a blog post that detailed the difficulties facing today’s younger generations–specifically the drying job well and the market’s increasingly competitive landscape. But the thing that really stuck in my craw was the overtly negative tone–the insinuation that we’re completely screwed.

To be certain, we’re not exactly operating in an economic environment where we can easily rebound from job loss without having a developed contingency plan. But instead of dwelling on the gray lining, we all have to find that sliver of silver that’ll keep us pushing toward our goals.

Since getting to CA, I’ve been writing and applying for jobs and writing more to try and land a job that I find personally fulfilling, but doesn’t consume my life–doesn’t derail what it is that I truly love to do: write. We’ve been so conditioned to focus on one thing at a time and think that there’s no time to pursue one’s passions while working a full-time job. But with my new job looming, I’m feeling increasingly motivated to juggle more balls–to keep writing, to flesh out business plans, to look to the future more as an untapped well of possibilities rather than a dried desert.

***

Paris, Je T’aime queues up, and Andy and I get completely lost amid the competing storylines. I’m quickly reminded that life can be a general mess.

Just as I think, This movie is so weird. Surely, Maggie Gyllenhaal is in it, her French-speaking self skitters across the screen to buy a joint. But then Juliet Binoche chases after her dead son’s ghost and tips a glass to Gena Rowlands. And then, there’re mimes. Two mimes. Two. And then a blind guy gets dumped. Or so we think. And we feel bad because he’s really upset. But, oh, it’s just the struggling artist, Natalie Portman, kidding around. Silly Natalie Portman. But do we ever see the two hot gays from the beginning again? Of course not. But we do get to see Elijah Wood sort of kill himself in a tragic attempt to become a vampire’s lover.

Like the movie, life is full of oddities, characters, and experiences–some good, some bad, some just plain weird. But its chaos can also be beautiful.

***

The movie ends as abruptly as its first scene. We lay on the bed, watching the credits.

“So, I’m confused. How did the mime go from sad to happy?”

Andy gets up and impersonates, moving his hands over his face, producing a frown, then a smile.

“Up is happy, down is sad.”

Then I guess we’re up.
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Rekindling the Phoenix

The morning is off to a rocky start. Still drowsy, my mind is being anything but cooperative.

Give me more coffee.

I blog, browse Facebook, send off another job application, and refresh my email.

Garbage. Spam. Spam. Garbage. What the?

Now, you’re seeing things.

I stare at the subject line: “Conditional Job Offer.” Dumbfounded, I open it. Read through the content. Scream. And nearly hit my head on the apartment ceiling.

Fine. Enjoy this. But after you come down, we really need to reconsider coffee.

***

My mind brims with the possibilities. Everything that Andy and I have been talking about doing “one day” or “when we have the means” is one big step closer to becoming a reality.

Leaving our closet-sized Koreatown studio for a West Hollywood retreat. Adopting pets. Starting an online antique business. Socking-away money into savings. Traveling.

All because we’ve kept pushing the boundaries instead of settling for comfortable.

***

Right before we moved out here, I was reading a blog by someone who’d made a similar move to California. But he’d moved pre-recession, and had a lot more money saved up than we did. Still, he’d packed his car, left a job he’d loathed, and vowed to start over. It took a lot of work, but it only took him a month to get a new job and start re-building his life.

I’d rolled my eyes at the tight turnaround. Sure. I’ll be able to do that, too. Especially in my field.

But I knew then that I wasn’t going to be searching for a job in cultural resources. I wanted a change, and this was the perfect time to embrace it. So I opened myself up to other opportunities and took a long, hard look at my experiences and what I could cobble together for myself. And it’s paid off. Because I stopped looking to my degrees for all the answers–and started looking in the mirror.

The road leading to this morning’s joy-filled email wasn’t paved with rainbows. It took a lot of work, and a lot of self-confidence I didn’t have when I started. Because I had to remind myself how to dust myself off and keep plugging after repeatedly reading “We wish you well in your employment endeavors.” Both of us have had to keep pushing one another to get the payoff. Because it only takes one offer to negate multiple rejections.

So now, two months after moving here, I have a job that I’m excited about. Not just because it’s another paycheck, but because it’s something that’ll make me feel worthwhile–like I’m making a difference. Plus, I’m in a better place to realize that, while it may be great, it’s still a job. And a job isn’t life. It can improve it, but it can’t be its substitute.

So while this is just one step of many more, it’s one we’re taking together. As we begin realizing that we’re the architects of our future.

That we can build something spectacular.