cross country move – Yellow Brick Missives

April 20, 2014

The Wonder Year

The retail clerk looks at me with such horror that I wonder if I momentarily blacked out and smacked a bunch of orphans before running off with their milk money.

“You know, the cute shorts the gays are wearing.”

He straightens his intensely starched suit and pulls his collar to the side, as if he has a puff of cartooned steam to ventilate. Then slides the slim bag across the counter with a “Sorry, no.”

Which is when I realize that I haven’t changed that much since moving to California. That I’m still the most embarrassing person to be around. Ever.

***

Not long after moving here, Andy and I started fielding inquiries from well-meaning family members — specifically about how we shouldn’t let ourselves get sucked into “the scene” and to always “be true to yourselves.” Which translated to “Don’t get hooked on drugs and lose everything and become an asshole who stops talking to your family and friends.”

But I’m already horrible about keeping in touch (sorry, y’all), and the closest I get to drugs is when I walk past one of the bazillion legal pot dispensaries along Santa Monica Blvd. I’m too old to give a damn about the thumpa thumpa going on in West West Hollywood, and I’m much more enthralled with the quiet, in-bed-by-nine East West Hollywood.

It wasn’t until our gay, man-infested destiny was realized that I learned how much people equate such a move — especially to a big city — with going off the rails and absolutely ruining your life. Granted, it does require a little insanity to drop everything and move — but it’s not necessarily symptomatic of a deep-seated issue.

For us, this whole crazy journey has been about self-discovery and starting anew. Of course, we miss our friends and family at the Center and across North Carolina, and the Boys Clubs at The Borough. But we keep ourselves centered here, in our new home. Because everyone shifts from place to place as they make their way in the world and figure out who they are in this moment and who they’re going to be. And each revelation and stride is tinged with a bit of heroism.

***

Getting settled is hard. After almost a year, we’re just now starting to settle down — the dust isn’t quite as thick, and we can breathe again.

But a year ago, we were moving.

Andy had a job. I didn’t.

We had a tiny, closet-sized apartment waiting for us in Koreatown.

And we wondered if we were going to make it.

But we started gaining steam. I got a job.

We started saving and dreaming and working toward our goals.

And then we moved again. To a place we both love.

And adopted our furry son.

And started acknowledging that we need to give ourselves a little slack — that rebuilding a social network isn’t going to be easy. But it’ll happen.

And that our dreams outside the daily grind can be brought to fruition — that they’re still there, regardless of context.

So as we creep up on the anniversary of our move, we’re finding ourselves just as energized and scared and hopeful as we were a year ago.

And just as we were then, we’re charging headlong into it all — reveling in the ambiguity, and cherishing the experiences to come.

August 31, 2013

Identity Crisis vs. Artistic License

Right after I learn about resource guarding — watching the animal behavior specialist use a dummy hand to pull a laden food bowl out from under the snout of a rambunctious lab mix — we get into a conversation about the politics of blood sports. And then, lo!

“It’s always so difficult — to intercede, disrupt culturally-inculcated rituals — especially with many practices being so deeply socially conditioned. Everything is culturally relative.”

Silence. Cocked heads. My not-so-inner anthropologist reemerges.

***

Driving back, the social worker turned graphic designer chuckles from the passenger seat.

“I was totally thinking the same thing. You know, about cultural relativity.”

We stare ahead at stopping traffic, our banter lost to deafening fire engine sirens.

Two fish out of water and into the fray. But still laughing.

***

Describing life in Los Angeles is like creating a palimpsest — by the time I visually digest some entrancing detail, the whole scene before me gets scrubbed and repainted with new characters, new life. Every single day is a photographic cornucopia. Everywhere you turn, something catches the eye; it’s sensory overload at its finest and most vulnerable. And I’m right there, taking it all in — as creator, voyeur, element — wondering how I’m adding to the portrait of humanity stretched out before me. Feeling like one of Bob Ross’ happy trees — plunked down in some vast vista just for the hell of it.

Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” bleeds out of my cracked windows. The city is grumbling awake around me: the humming cars, echoing honks, socially acceptable running of red lights — all becoming more familiar than alien.

Sunlight diffuses through the early morning, smoggy haze, curling around a Korean church cross; it glances along the church-sponsored billboard that faces a Starbucks and reads “What path is right for you?” I consider the message, sip my coffee, then smile at the line wrapping around the tiny building like a fat man’s belt around a twiggy teenager. It seems more people are considering caffeine than the messiah. At least this Friday.

The retiree I pass every morning is just leaving with his towering venti something or other; I’m earlier than usual. Soon enough, the car crawls to a stop again; a man uses an old shirt to wash himself on the sidewalk; before the light changes, he tosses it into his cart, then stoops back inside a bamboo lean-to. A street later, I turn at the 76 gas station where the attendant is buffing the pumps, then pass the crumbling Art Deco radiator repair shop. The strikingly turquoise facade of Mel’s Fish Shack assaults my eyes, and teenagers with bright shoes and leggings lean against the building, rousing slightly at the approaching school bus. Blocks past Jan Ette’s Liquor Store — the broken, disjointed line made up of figures with hardened faces — I turned down an alley, and up to the back of the office.

Where I jot these observations down in my journal, turn a page, and laugh out loud.

Journeys do have a way of morphing you into someone else; not necessarily someone better or worse than who you were. Just another iteration of sorts; someone with a bit more mileage, courtesy of some life lessons.

***

At a manager meeting, the President is detailing the process they had to go through years ago before one of the shelters could be built.

“Well, they had a whole team of, uh, history people who made sure we weren’t building on a burial ground and whatnot.”

I smile slightly — mentally recalling all of ghosts of archaeology projects past and thinking how odd it is that, now, I’m completely on the opposite side of the fence. And how liberating that feels.

That night, I break a juice glass, then mend it — proclaiming, “We have a new bud vase.” As the glue dries, I think about how we’re always changing; figuring out how best to function. One minute we’re someone, somewhere; the next, we’re becoming something else entirely.

***

I’ve written repeatedly about how fun, strange, and bizarre moving across the country has been, and my fears, anxieties, and dreams of what will come on this coast. But it’s really just now starting to sink in that this place is our new home.

That we’re not on some extended vacation.

That my fieldwork days of wielding a trowel and shovel are over.

That this new chapter is as painfully hard to write as it is amazingly easy.

That life is as crazy as it is beautiful.

Even if it sometimes feels like everything around me is new and scary and transfixing and disturbing, it’s all part of the same world. Part of a place that I’m creating — like ripping apart Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, and pasting it over part of some untitled Keith Haring drawing.

It’s all a mosaic. And it works — the subtle control and levity, melding together.

The artist in a studio somewhere, contemplating.

August 14, 2013

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.

“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.

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.

(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.

***

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.

May 17, 2013May 17, 2013

Californian-esque

With a jumbo pack of Scott Extra Soft tucked under my arm, I fumble to stuff the Walgreen’s rewards card into my wallet, crammed full of coffee receipts and a Post It reminder to pay a parking ticket.

It seems my welcome to California will cost us $68.00.

“Hey, it could’ve been worse. You don’t have your California plate yet. And she could’ve cited you for blocking the fire hydrant.”

Andy’s spot-on.

Especially since I’ve just asked the ticketing officer exactly that.

“So, just for my own information,” I ask, kicking an imaginary leaf and looking down at the cracked pavement like a chastised child, “is this for double parking or for blocking the hydrant?”

The weary officer adjusts her iPod earbuds and prints out the ticket from her holster machine. I wonder if the road cracks are from earthquakes.

“Double parking.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry I have to give you the ticket. But I’d already recorded your plate when you came outside.”

I’d been so close to escaping. Yet so far.

The workmen sanding down our building’s now exposed hardwood floors stare on from their battered Previa across the street.

The wind gusts just so, rattling the tall palms, making their lanky trunks swagger a bit–like the legs of skittish Landstriders.

And it also happens to blow the ticket right out of the ticketer’s outstretched hand.

Like a silly country mouse trying to impress my city mouse friend, I make a go for it–hoping she’ll think, Wow, what a standup guy. I’ll cut him a break.

“Don’t worry about it. I can print another.”

Foiled!

I begin to say, “But, that’s littering.”

Then think again.

“Oh, okay.”

The second time’s the charm. (Damn.)

I take the ticket and watch her Prius motor on, then jump into my car–full to the brim from yet another run to the storage unit in Gardena, a fifteen minute drive south on I-110 if I miss rush hour.

That’s when Andy calls.

And while I inform him of my parking maleficence, I take a breath and look around.

A very pregnant woman emerges from our building and dumps bags full of diapers into the already overflowing dumpster, while pulling along the toddling author of said diaper deposits.

A hipster couple down the block disappears into a nearby restaurant, the sign overhanging the entrance spelled out in Korean.

A tattooed man walks on the other side of the road, letting his coned poodle–shaved a bit on the side–pop a squat on a well-manicured, tiny patch of grass fronting a neighboring Art Deco building.

So, this is city life.

***

Two days after arriving at our 450 square foot studio apartment in the heart of Koreatown, Andy and I meet the movers at the Gardena storage unit. And watch as a 28-foot U-haul pulls up to the facility’s side entrance.

As does a pickup truck close behind, with a few unmistakable pieces of furniture in its bed.

The whole rolling shebang, including the truck bed’s contents, is ours.

And while we’re both shifting slightly uncomfortably with the idea that all of our stuff couldn’t fit into such a massive U-Haul, we can breathe a little easier since we snagged one of the largest storage units the facility offers.

Double-plus bonus: it’s right by the massive side entrance.

Had we not nosed into this exact unit on our way out the day before, then requested that one instead of the painfully small units we’d been previously assigned, we’d have been, well, fucked.

And as we watch box after box, chair after chair, sideboard after sideboard get unloaded from the truck, that sentiment is reaffirmed.

“Can you imagine what we would’ve done if we hadn’t gotten th–”

“Let’s not. It’ll give me a panic attack.”

Because, honestly, I’ve sort of underestimated how much stuff we have. I mean, sure, everyone usually does so–at least to some extent–during a move.

But this hasn’t just been a move. This has been a game-changer: A move that has not only required excessive overpacking on the movers’ parts, but stalwart emotional stabilization on our parts.

This move hasn’t been easy.

But it’s gradually sinking in that we live here now.

That realization began creeping into my mind as we sat watching The Great Gatsby last Saturday–the first night we spent in our new apartment. Because we’d intended to see this movie on our first cross country trip. While we were entertaining thoughts of one day living out here.

And now we are.

***

Having been here for nearly a week, we just now made our last run to Gardena for a while.

The apartment is no longer piled to the ceiling with boxes. (And when I write ‘piled to the ceiling,’ I’m not being sarcastic. I mean this little apartment was so piled full of furniture and boxes that the heat the cardboard retained was absolutely sweat-inducing. And the risk of embarrassment so high that we coordinated our leave from the apartment so that no other residents could peek into and see how disturbingly close a candidate this place was for Hoarders. Because the look on the maintenance guy’s face while he checked the gas line for leaks–there was one, by the way [hooray!]–was humiliating.)

Now, though, I just turned off the portable A/C unit because the apartment is cold. (An A/C unit that’s been a lifesaver, even if its purchase triggered a not-so-fun fraud alert from our bank [yay, for not informing them of a ‘travel hold/relocation’!])

And Andy’s on the assembled bed, reading a book from the assembled bookshelf, and drinking water from an unpacked glass stored in an organized cabinet in an uncluttered kitchen free of gas leaks.

And I remind myself to double check about getting the June parking permits from the parking deck operator. Because, despite its grunginess and the verbal spats we’ve already had with The Fast and the Furious-inspired valets working for a nearby restaurant that uses the same deck, having available parking just a few buildings away makes the transition to city-living a little bit easier.

And, all the while, the city hums.

A pop rings outside.

“Was that a gunshot?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Andy goes back to reading his book.

I type away.

We’re home.

May 7, 2013

Doing It

There isn’t anything particularly poignant about the moment.

We’ve just taken a circuitous route back from the only Starbucks within the vicinity of my parents’ hobbit-esque home in the middle of the Alabama woods.

(Meaning, we’ve just driven 30 minutes in the opposite direction of California. Never underestimate the power of The Starbucks on two deprived gays.)

The sky is overcast and the wind jostles the loaded-down car a bit, causing momentary white-knuckling. It’s been an unseasonably cold past few days in Alabama; but, hey, there’s no such thing as global warming or climate change, right?

Right. (Insert eye-roll here.)

But in this moment, I realize something.

We are actually doing this.

I turn and squeeze Andy’s leg.

“We’re moving to California.”

He turns and smiles.

“I know.”

***

Not to beat a dead horse into an Alpo can, but the past few weeks have been nuts.

Just to recap:

There’s what I’ve come to call the Ten Minute Moment: ten minutes during which Andy resigns from his job, then gets the offer from his CA job.

Followed by a series of Academy Award-worthy ugly cries. (Mine.)

Then, a few days later, a completely unexpected relocation offer from said CA job.

Followed by more joyous, ugly cries. (Me again.) And the transport of Andy’s Prius onto a car carrier.

All of which inform the direction of a professional move, during which I answer the movers’ questions whilst they indirectly box me into the back room Cask of Amontillado-style. (I become ravenously hungry, and slightly claustrophobic.)

And three days of sleeping on hardwood floors, with only three extra duvets as bedding. (Yes, we’re so gay that we had three extra duvets laying around.)

So, before we know it, we’re cramming the last of our things into our remaining hatchback, including five incredibly fragile Art Deco mirrors that we should’ve let the professional movers crate.

And piercing the 6 AM Saturday morning silence with our car horn, bidding adieu to the wankers next door–who’d celebrated the end of finals all night long.

***

A visit to Alabama comes and goes, and I’m reminded of how lucky I am not to have a normal family.

(Because I think it’s completely normal to leave the dinner table right after a conversation about finding a rare Mexican scorpion in bed with you, only to sit back down to a conversation that ends with, “So I’m still trying to figure out what marketing has to do with falconry.”)

More importantly, though, I’m reminded that we’re doing this.

We’re making this happen.

We’re not on another road trip.

We’re not going to have to worry about traffic on the way back.

Because our path is going to end just before the Pacific.

And the road we’re taking to it is wide open.

And the grass on either side is slightly greener.

Bursting with color.

April 30, 2013

Hands-off Moving

I’m not really squeamish.

But as I watch the 23 year-old crater sandwich two marble slabs together and haul them out of the room–his legs shaking, on the verge of buckling–I nearly vomit.

This is the same crater whose foul-mouthed friend has just regaled him, and me, with his latest family drama.

“My brother, he just got busted. Momma and Daddy found everything. So he’s under, uh, house arrest.”

They both disappear, leaving me to the sounds of ripping tape, boxes banging around, and the thump thump thump of the handtruck lumbering down each entry step.

***

Never did I think such hands-off moving would be this stressful.

Granted, it hasn’t really been hands-off. Having found out only a few days before that a professional moving company was going to be contracted to pack, load, and move everything across the country, we’ve already done a massive amount of packing. And spent the unexpectedly exorbitant amount of money on supplies.

You know, that packing tape and bubble wrap you always convince yourself won’t cost a small fortune? Those boxes that you’ll just “get from the grocery store for free.”

Right.

Now, I think it’s only a tad normal to take a little offense to the amount of re-packing that’s happening in the front rooms. I mean, I could’ve sworn I’ve packed everything to withstand a two-story drop.

But with every box I glimpse being assembled, and tape gun running empty, I realize I may have overestimated my abilities. And underestimated the degree to which moving companies have to protect themselves against damaged goods.

Still, I can’t complain. After all, the whole deal has been an unbelievable boon at an incredibly stressful time.

With Andy finishing his last week of work, and me furiously packing the bits and bobs we have to take with us–like, say, the fire extinguisher one of the movers just handed back to me–it’s going to be a sprint to the finish, whether we like it or not.

As we’ve found, moving across the country is a whole other beast than moving to a neighboring city. I mean, sure, we knew that before. But as I’m watching the movers wrap every single painting–without trying to seem like that helicopter owner–I’m realizing how much time has been invested in this new chapter.

***

Right now, with pallets of boxes on the front porch, and rooms still full of furniture and boxes, it’s hard to believe that in less than four days, Andy and I will be pulling away from the curb for the last time.

That the place we’ve called home will be empty.

That our departure will be another person’s homecoming.

That we won’t get to see the friends and chosen family we’ve made as much as we’d like.

That we will actually be en route to our new life.

A life full of unknowns, save one.

That we will happily make it count.

Together.

April 26, 2013April 26, 2013

Learning to Swim

There’s something jarring about seeing all of your stuff laid out, taken out of context, and shoved together like some sort of fallen, avant garde Jenga tower.

There’s a bit of humor in it.

And sadness.

Plenty of mixed emotions you can’t quite pinpoint.

But your resolve to start over unites the amorphous piles. After all, why else is this stuff–the piecemeal, materialistic summary of your life thus far–scattered about?

***

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. And not just because our apartment looks like an episode of Hoarders. (Not really. I don’t think?)

Part of this whole starting over bit is reflecting on what’s instigated it. And since my congested self has been up since 2 AM, I figure it might be a good time to take stock of what’s been packed into the past year.

So, I just started sifting back through earlier posts, gaining perspective on how I’ve changed since starting this rambly little blog.

And I found this incomplete, unpublished post from 31 October 2012: “Drowning.”

Do you ever have those moments when you realize you’ve been slowly drowning, halfheartedly flailing about like some extra in Jaws? When you see that your attempts to stay afloat start dragging others down into the murky depths? And there’s no lifeguard on duty.

Then something clicks inside your head–tells you, Float, you fool!

So you stop fighting, calm down, reorient yourself, and start managing your new course with the current. Gently directing yourself in the direction you want to go, instead of splashing about and making a ruckus. Because, with your mind focused, you realize (1) You’re scaring the fish and (2) The water is only a foot or so deep. You’ve got this.

You just needed to experience that loss of control to realize that you can take the reins at any moment, right yourself, and stand up if you need to.

So it came as an odd surprise that during a recent paddle through tumultuous mental seas, an excerpt from a poem I wrote in seventh grade popped into my head.

“…He pulls me up

And I am relieved

To be saved

From the raging sea…”

Even while I was writing it back then, I wondered who exactly “he” was. My father? Some “He” I’d learned about in CCD? Some Jesse Bradford doppelganger patrolling the beaches, searching for someone to rescue?

But with life’s latest volley of social obligations, work stressors, and health-related issues, I read it with new eyes–some with a bit more experience behind them than the ones in that seventh grader’s body.

He is me.

I’m the author of my life.

I can always re-learn how to swim. Even in vast, stormy seas.

I can make it just fine. As long as I remember I’m my own life preserver.

Now, it’s pretty clear that I was trying to navigate the disgusting depths of my toxic job. I probably wrote this around 6:15 in the morning–about ten minutes after my hour and a half drive to work, and a few minutes after my bazillionth Starbucks mocha of the month jump-started my brain.

But there’re parts of this that still resonate, which is why I find it so interesting. Especially now, as Andy and I are closing up shop in North Carolina.

So much has happened since I wrote that blurb.

We’ve done a lot.

Realized the untenable nature of our jobs–how each has been a complete succubus, draining us of our fun-loving personalities.

Set out on a cross country journey to find what it is that we’re looking for, and ending up in Los Angeles–where we’ll be living in almost two weeks.

Made hard decisions, and took life by the reins.

Laughed and cried and wondered how in the world we were going to do it.

Known that we’ll do it somehow, despite our fears.

And acknowledged that our happiness is worth fighting for, and that apathy and complacency have no place in our lives.

Amid everything, we’ve had one another. And I know I couldn’t have done this without him. I’ve never had someone provide the specific kinds of support, love, and compassion he’s shown me, and I’m still sort of blown away by it all. Ultimately, though, I’m grateful.

So, I was wrong while “Drowning.”

He’s my life preserver, keeping me afloat.

My swim instructor, advising me to stop splashing around.

And current, pushing me forward.

April 25, 2013April 25, 2013

Leaving

Leaving a place is never easy.

Even if you’re completely disgusted with the political climate. Or the actual climate morphs you into a disgusting sinus-y blob with legs.

Because the reason you moved to Point A was, at one time, just as important as why you’re deciding to leave for Point B.

And every little thing you’ve learned, and every single person whom you’ve befriended along the way has become a thread in the fabric of your life.

(Cue disturbing “Fruit of the Loom” jingle.)

Speaking of those threads, over the next week we’re going to try and sew as many of them together as possible. Into a warm, fluffy sweater.

(Cue Weezer’s “Undone.” No?)

Alright. Enough with the textile analogies.

***

Even though we’re both so ridiculously excited, we also realize we’ll have to say goodbye. Goodbyes are never fun. Because I’m terribly awkward, and probably say things out of nervousness that, in turn, make people want to forget me.

Plus, I’m an emotional Italian. (I can say that!)

Still.

I thought we’d have more time to see everyone, make the rounds. Have a drink here, a brunch there, and we’d be able to leave everyone who’s become so important to us with one last memory and a smile.

But then I look from the calendar to partially packed boxes to all of our furniture to that Post It reminding me to reserve a goddamn Penske, and acknowledge that I’m a gross, sinus-y blob with legs.

And that’s when it hits me: we won’t be able to do everything one last time, nor see everyone for dinner.

But, we’re going to try.

But in case we can’t make it to each and every one of the haunts we’ve so cherished, here’s a non-exhaustive list of everything I will miss about North Carolina. (The everyone’s are, thankfully, too plentiful to distill down to a list. Y’all know who you are, and know that y’all are awesome.)

In no particular order, I give you the things that have made North Carolina home over the past seven years:

The LGBT Center of Raleigh: No words could describe how much we owe the Center, and the amazing friends and chosen family we’ve made there. After all, without the Center, I wouldn’t have met this guy:

Sanford Antique Mall: Jenks and John, Julie, and all of the great antiquey characters that make it awesome (including the Sanford dahlings).

Porch-hopping with the Sanford dahlings. So much wine. So much debauchery. So much fun.

The Borough: Liz and the amazing Borough crew make enjoying Boys Clubs and Uberwisconsins and Boys Clubs that much more fulfilling.

Benelux Cafe: Steven and his wonderful crew, and their large soy mocha + banana-chocolate chip muffin = Saturday morning bliss.

Making a home with Andy, and then having it featured on Apartment Therapy.

Oakwood Historic District: A maze of amazingly beautiful houses, each of which makes us want an historic home that much more.

The Rialto and The Cameo: Theaters like these are becoming scarce, but there’re plenty of good memories here with great friends, and a wonderful mister.

Father & Son Antiques: The crew is always great, and there’re plenty of MCM gems just waiting to eat away at our wallets.

Irregardless Cafe: Three words: Challah. French. Toast. That is all.

North American Video: As the only independently-owned movie store left in Raleigh, it gets major props, especially since our DVD collection has blown up thanks to their amazing sales.

Early-morning faux zombie attacks. I’m now fully prepared to respond. *Grabs nearby blunt object*

Sugarland: So many cupcakes, so little time.

Moonlight Pizza Company: Best. Pizza. Evahhh. The End.

Foster’s Market: Baked. Goods.

Quail Ridge Books & Music: One of the only independently-owned bookstores in the Triangle, where I got to meet a few of my favorite authors. Like, Sarah Vowell, Celia Rivenbark, and Amy Sedaris.

Weaver Street Market. Hippie paradise? Yes. But I can overlook that. Especially when there’s olive bread and wine handy.

David’s Dumpling and Noodle Bar: Do yourself a favor and order the Singapore Rice Stick Noodles with Tofu. You’ll be glad you did.

The Cheshire Cat: Our Fiestaware collection has grown from the goodies stocked here.

The Remedy Diner: Best Bloody Mary in Raleigh. And the Flame Job isn’t bad, either. (No, it’s not something dirty.)

***

Now, there’re also things that I won’t miss–aside from the cray-cray state government. Thankfully, the cons are much fewer than the pros.

Again, in no particular order, I give you a few of the maddening moments/things over the past seven years.

The terrifying moment when I realize I’m doing laundry at a laundromat that shares a parking lot with a K&W Cafeteria. At noon. There is no escaping the Le Sabre-Buick- Cadillac pile-up.

That stoplight at Woodland and Hillsborough. Please take longer. After all, I still need to catch up on a week’s worth of news, and listen to a podcast before you turn green. (Actually, most of Raleigh’s stoplights: GET. SENSORS. INSTALLED.)

The Cameron Village Harris Teeter parking lot. Quite possibly one of the worst-designed parking lots I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing on a routine basis. Too many dings in my doors to count.

The way I-40 drivers will careen off the road at the first sign of rain, or put on their hazards and drive three miles per hour.

The black mold growing in my basement apartment in Chapel Hill.

The painted-over black mold growing in my Sanford house.

McNutterpants.

Bubba trucks. Sure, they’re everywhere. But at least it’ll be less likely that I’ll have to deal with sitting beside a jacked-up 70’s Chevy pickup with car-sized tires in CA. (I’m sure your penises are sad.)

Farmhouse Fraternity. (See “Bubba trucks” above.)

Capital Boulevard. *Shudders*

***

As with everything, I’ve tempered the good with the bad and have managed to stay fairly stable. Life is always a balancing act, and each of us always has to make sure to keep the two sides in check.

To enjoy the little things that much more.

To revel in the tiny victories, glittery or not.

To laugh at the absurdity.

And revel in the ambiguity.

Because each of us has to leave at some point.

And choose which memories come along for the ride.

April 16, 2013

Space: The Final Hair-Pulling Frontier

Yes, I fully admit that I have some Trekkie in me.

And I’ve definitely been channeling Spockisms as Andy and I navigate the ever-exhausting process of relocating to LA.

You know, live long and prosper and Luke, I am your father.

Wait.

Lately, though, I’ve been mixing my frustrations with a wee bit of something else. Just to take the edge off.

No, not Grey Goose.

Positivity.

Positivity is abso-friggin-lutely crucial. Because, as we all know, negativity leads to Revolutionary Road endings.

*Shudders*

Regardless of the highs and lows of this emotional roller coaster ride, I’m so insanely excited to start a new chapter. And while it’s scary to move, the whole pill is easier to swallow with someone by your side.

After all, in this quest to embrace what really makes us happy and develop it into something sustainable, we’re going to go at it full-force–holding onto any jobs we’re able to land and use them as vehicles to get to the next phase of our lives together. And while naysayers or skeptics may think we’re irresponsible or unrealistic, I find myself not caring.

Because this journey is ours to take.

And I hardly think we could ruin our 20-some years of life by exploring a road to happiness.

Plus, we have to do this. Because, as a good friend advised, each of us has to assess how happy we are with three of the big things in life: (1) Partner; (2) Job; (3) Location. And, as she said, “If you’re unhappy with two of these three things, you need to try something else.”

As it just so happens, both of us are tired of the latter two. (Although I probably drive him to think about 1 every now and then. No? Good answer, babe.)

So why not try something new? Something we want to do?

***

While the past few weeks have been excessively exhausting, we’ve learned a lot, and have gotten closer. That’s what experiences do: test your resolve to keep going forward. And, to quote Susan Sarandon in Elizabethtown (again), “All forward motion counts.”

So, as I pull things out of closets, and we reassess how much we really like that chair, or decanter, or set of dishware, we’re becoming much more adept at identifying what it is that we want to define us: not stuff, per say; rather, experiences that bring us together and help us realize how little we need to be happy.

And realizing that, in a month’s time, we’re going to be back in California.

At this point, just getting there is a victory. Because we’re doing something important: we’re forging a path set out by no one but us. And, after all of our efforts, “the only real failure would be to stay.”

(Our friend is very wise.)

***

Speaking of being victorious by the mere fact of getting out to LA, let’s talk a bit about space–that nebulous thing that separates this dynamic duo from the West Coast.

Now, I’ve always been fascinated by space and our relation to it. (A fascination that was only fueled by MA thesis research, and reading books like Space and Place by Yi-Fu Tuan, and other lovely things by Tim Ingold.)

So, as we manage downsizing from our massive Raleigh apartment to an LA studio, I’m finding it interesting how we compartmentalize space, and the significance we map onto it once it’s bounded by four walls and a roof.

I mean, really, differences in space are slight, and may only be distinguishable by being coated with pollen or decorated with an Eames lounger.

It’s all about what we read into spaces, and how we relate to them. So if we interpret space as not ever being ours to bound and populate, then maybe the best way to respect it is to re-tune our materialistic consciousness away from overburdening space with stuff, and practicing austerity.

You know, keep it simple.

Which is why I’ve become more of a fan of modernist design.

Anyway, I just find it interesting how attached we become to space–something we can’t even touch, but can only describe through feelings we have while navigating through it.

And our responses to it being emptied–unshackled from all of the stuff we pack into it.

And acknowledging, like Andy, that leaving a space is “sort of like a mourning process.”

That, despite our excitement, we’re still mourning the loss of the space’s significance in our lives.

Like the balcony where I pretended to be casually sweeping while waiting for Andy to arrive for our first date.

Like the stairs where he hesitated before walking up to meet me.

Like the rooms he’d later pepper with Mid-Century Modern furniture–once we pinpointed his style aesthetic through antiquing excursions.

Like laying on our bed to share a quiet, reflective moment after we were accosted and called “faggots” by a group of bubbas.

This is the first place we’ve lived together.

The first place we’ve made our own.

The first place I will truly miss.

***

But then, there’re moments of clarity.

Like when I was sitting, running my fingers through Andy’s hair, and suddenly realized that the stuff and space we’d been trying to craft our move around shouldn’t be the foci.

We have to focus on living our lives.

Being true to our feelings.

Encouraging one another.

Learning.

Doing it all in a new space and enjoying the ride.

Knowing deep down that, as my dear friend Norman wrote, we “can work out most anything…even overcooked eggs.”

Knowing that we can always eat around the burned parts and still be nourished.

And keep going.

March 24, 2013March 24, 2013

A New Chapter: Back There

Between intensely suggesting that my tax advisor reassess my taxes for the third time, and thinking about the conversation Andy and I had had the day before, I choked back tears.

But when my tax advisor came up with the same damningly high numbers that I owed in April, she and everyone in the office knew I was a little upset.

Still, she walked me through everything. Expressed her apologies.

And threw in a coupon.

But it made for a long walk home.

After all, I’d have to talk to Andy about this, and how it was going to affect what we’d decided to do.

***

After a horrible evening of talking things through, blankly staring at the television as The Office failed to make us laugh, we went to bed early with the weight of tax burdens coloring our formerly rose-colored outlook a dismal, impenetrable black.

But the next day, my parents reminded me why I’m so goddamned fortunate to have them.

And after I ugly cried and they told me not to freak out, Andy and I were able to breathe once again.

And shore up the crack that taxes had made in our resolve. And savings.

Soon enough, between family and friends offering their support and help, we were again reminded that we have a ridiculously amazing cheerleading squad. And can never express deeply enough how much “Go for it!” or “How can I help?” or “Here you go!” measures up when naysayers have plenty of negativity to direct at us.

So, we’ve decided to listen to our family and friends.

But, most importantly, to our hearts.

So.

We’re moving.

To Los Angeles.

***

Now.

Before you turn to your cubicle or cellmate and say, “They crazeh!” I’ll beat you to it and tell you, “You’re right!”

But if we’re not a little crazy or a little naive, we’ll never take the step. We’ll just languish in the “what ifs,” and will have to drink ourselves to sleep whenever we watch Revolutionary Road.

Speaking of which, we watched that amazingly good movie the night we decided to move. And you know what? It helped.

Because the next day when the tax shit hit the fan, there were lots of questions, lots of “Oh, we’re delusional. This will never happen.”

But before I whipped out a rubber hose and pump, and Andy started screaming, “She did it to herself! She did it to herself!” we kept the plan alive.

By laughing.

By crying.

By imagining that we’d still pursue it, even if we had a giant hurdle thrown in our way.

Because, throughout this process, tenacity is crucial.

Thankfully, we’re both ridiculously stubborn when it comes to folding under pressure.

Even though we know that starting over is absolutely, insanely difficult.

But we’ve each done it before.

And being doggedly determined to try rather than wonder can’t hurt.

***

So, it starts now.

Leaving toxic work environments in our wake.

Telling ourselves that we’re worth more, and can offer more, than the asshats think.

Living and pursuing lives we want.

Retracing our steps.

Learning from tumbles and tribulations.

Cherishing our victories.

And embracing our gay, man-infested destiny as we create a future.

All the way back there.

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