Los Angeles – Yellow Brick Missives

July 9, 2015

Downsizing Space, Upsizing Life*

The other day I was reading this hilarious tiny house post by the witty blogger behind Hipstercrite, and found myself screaming, “GODDAMMIT, YES!”

Let me first caveat this by saying that, like Hipstercrite, I wholeheartedly acknowledge all the positive things tiny houses represent: environmental conservation, recycling (e.g., you quite literally poo where you eat), de-materialism (it should be a word), blah blah blah good things. Hell, my parents live in a semi-subterranean, off-grid hobbit house in the middle of the woods. (But it’s more than one room.)

I get it. Being good to the earth is awesome.

But you know what else is awesome? Being good to yourself. Which means giving yourself space enough to think, eat, contemplate life’s mysteries, watch movies, and poo without the smell competing with the chili bubbling on the stove outside the tiny house’s bathroom “door” (it’s a curtain, y’all).

It’s no secret that I love talking and writing about design, mostly because I don’t know the professional ins and outs, and wing it whenever I’m decorating our apartment. But I have to say, if Andy and I ever moved into a tiny house, we’d probably end up getting a divorce approximately 6 minutes after walking through the door. (Although it’d probably make for good reality TV: Two Gays, One Tiny House, and An Obese Chihuahua: Who’ll Come Out On Top…or Dead?!)

We both love having our own space. Which is why our historic apartment in Raleigh was amazing. In fact, the other day Apartment Therapy re-posted our House Tour in their “Pride at Home” series following the SCOTUS decision. That was pretty awesome, not just for its timing and the fact I finally felt like an all-star, but also for the window it gave us into our lives a few years back.

We re-toured it, and remarked about how most of the stuff we saw has since been sold or gifted away. (And it also gave me an opportunity for ample self-loathing when I saw myself in those skinny pants, and my hippie hair. Oy!) Then we looked around our Seattle digs, and realized just how much we’ve downsized since moving from North Carolina to California to Seattle.

I mean, when we first landed in California, we were in a 450 square foot studio apartment in Koreatown, and most of our stuff was in a Gardena storage facility (oh, how little we knew the geography). Which, coming from our 1,100 square foot historic Raleigh duplex, felt like a glorified walk-in closet.

Thankfully, the only thing we did right with that apartment was sign a 6-month lease.

And then we were off to West Hollywood – a step up space-wise with an actual bedroom and generous living-dining room. Still, it was maybe 850 square feet – quite a bit smaller than what we were used to. Thankfully, it had a great deal of built-in storage – so all of our random crap (and some furniture) was stowed away.

But then Seattle happened. We loved the new-old space immediately. But when the boxes kept coming and coming and coming, and the movers bid me a “good luck” with nods to the cardboard box forest behind me, I realized that this apartment was quite a bit smaller than our WeHe digs. (We never knew how big our WeHo place was, because the square footage was never listed.)

Not only that, but we have one closet.

And when I mean one closet, I don’t mean one walk-in closet and five other closets.

I mean one closet in the whole apartment. Granted, it’s a walk-in, but when you factor in all of the random domestic detritus you always need but have to store (towels, blankets, clothes, coats, umbrellas, ironing board, cleaning products, that one box of holiday decor you allow your husband to have…), you need at least two closets. The only other “closet” we have is completely occupied by our stackable washer-dryer, for which I’ll gladly sacrifice the space.

Honestly, though, as annoying as it’s been having only one closet, it keeps us honest. No hoarding clothes or shoes or furniture. Our space is full enough now, so anything new we bring it means something else goes out.

Except for Fiesta. There’s always room for rare I-will-cut-you-for-that Fiesta pieces. (One of the main reasons why we could never live in a tiny house.)

We’ve culled a lot. And when I mean a lot, I mean that the only decorative stuff we have is what we see (except for some framed art under the bed – that ain’t going anywhere). And the only furniture we retained are pieces that pull double-duty, except for those necessary chairs. So our sideboards and cabinets hold dishes (all of which we use) and DVDs, and all of our clothes and shoes and coats and tools and gardening supplies are stored in the bedroom dressers and walk-in closet.

Even though this move was exhausting because of majorly downsizing, it was totally worth it. Do we love stuff? Absolutely. But we don’t need more of it to feel like we’ve succeeded in life, nor do we need a tiny house to convince us that we’re leading a quintessentially “simple life.”

And while this is the smallest apartment we’ve ever lived in (and will probably ever live in), it goes without saying that it’s still more than most folks in the world have. There’s something about living in a small(er) space that anchors this in the fore of my mind; it reminds me to be thankful for this little slice of life, and to cherish everything in it – because what we’ve chosen to retain is what we feel matters most.

Plus, it’s sort of fun transitioning formerly decorative stuff into the functional realm (e.g., the dough bowl that used to hold pine cones in my parents’ house, looked Spartan and old and beautifully empty in our WeHo apartment, and will now be turned into a container for a succulent garden in Seattle).

But there is such a thing as too small a space, and I need more than one pan to cook with.

My ideal is to have another bedroom for guests (or, you know, a kid) and another bathroom. (I also like to occasionally channel Mary-Louise Parker in The Client and tell Toby that all I want is “A little white** house with a walk-in closet.” (Nix the white.) It’d also be great not to have to design everything along a wall in our living room, but I’m done worrying about “design rules.”

I think our space works just fine, and doesn’t look half bad either. So while we won’t be investing in a tiny house anytime soon, I’ll take some of the tenets from that ascetic lifestyle and map it onto our slightly more material-bloated, less claustrophobic 745 square foot Capitol Hill perch.

After all, Toby’s not about to pare-down any of his toys.

(*I’m pretty sure upsizing isn’t a word. But it should be.)

April 21, 2014

Will Lap Dance for Luxury

I can’t dance.

If I learned anything from being called to the front of my ninth grade Physical Science class by a perverted coach-teacher and made to perform the chicken dance so that my team could earn extra credit on the next test, it was that.

Not that my team cared. After all, my tragic display gave them just enough time to tear apart my notebook whilst copying my homework.

Go team!

Anywho…

Now that Andy and I live in a big city, it’s hard not to have our daydreams of owning a home almost forcibly ripped out of our heads by cray-cray real estate prices.

But I don’t care. One day, we’ll own a cute little house. I just know it.

And I hope it looks something like this Craftsman that we drool over every single time we’re en route to Runyon Canyon.

It’s the last former rental in a now thriving pocket neighborhood — full of beautiful, insanely well-maintained bungalows and cottages. I mean, I love this house so much that if it was a ~~halfway handsome~~ man, I’m pretty sure we’d have a threesome.

I mean, check out these stone…piers.

And that wood..work.

Okay, I’ll stop. You get it: I want a house. And I know we’ll have one.

Until then, I’ll be more than happy with our apartment — a fortuitous find on a nice, quiet street in the heart of West Hollywood.

And sure, I’d love it if we had a little outdoor space all to ourselves. Like a lovely balcony that we could flood with light at night to showcase to the envious gays lurking in the darkness listening to us laughing about how rich and wonderful we are.

Not that I lurk. *Creepy giggles*

But don’t we always want a little more?

Just one more big ass slice of that American Dream pie that we’ve been forcing down our gullets for so damn long? We always want something bigger and better and generally amazing.

Rather than the simple beauty right in front of us.

Like one of my anthropology professors once said, it’s all about learning to see — and see what’s really important.

It’s looking around at what we have, and what we’ve accomplished — being proud of that.

And working toward our own definitions of success and happiness. Be they made of mortar and wood and stone, or paper and ink and fond memories.

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.

April 4, 2014

Surviving Fabulously

Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.

I’d just popped in my contacts when it felt like a car crashed into a line of overloaded washing machines over and over and over again. Which is when I ran into the bedroom, grabbed Toby, and stood in our bedroom doorway. Toby farted. The ground kept shaking.

It only lasted five or so seconds, but it was a bizarrely disconcerting feeling to know that the very foundation on which we’ve built our lives was dancing a tectonic jig.

Then, last Thursday, as we watched crazy American Horror Story alien encounters and Jessica Lange’s futile attempts to defeat Satan, the ground rumbled again.

At first, I thought it was the aliens, then Jessica Lange. So only after ruling out aliens and starlets did I make the leap that it was, in fact, another earthquake.

One thing I’ve learned about California is this: if you’re ever in doubt that you experienced an earthquake, just open your windows and listen for the nearly immediate sound of news helicopters thrumming through the skies searching for a story.

So to put my mind at ease, and make use of some of the random crap we’ve hoarded away, I spent the better part of an afternoon assembling our earthquake kits. So, without further ado, here’re some of my recommendations for surviving fabulously (that is, if we’re still alive to take advantage of all of these preparatory measures).

(1) Water. Don’t feel like devoting a shelf of valuable storage space to water jugs? Use those extra decanters you have floating around — fill’em up.

(2) Picnic items. Because every day is a picnic when you don’t have a kitchen anymore. And when else are you going to use that TWA silverware your grandmother apparently stole many moons ago?

(3) Knife, scissors, and blunt instruments. These are especially useful if the earthquake coincides with a zombie apocalypse.

(4) Can and wine opener. Because.

(5) Candles. Preferably nicely scented ones. Like ours: cinnamon bun, apple pie, key lime, and ylang ylang. Because there’s nothing that quite reminds you of home like ylang ylang.

(6) Compasses and a map. Not that I’m the best at orienting. But if we’re talking a scenario like The Road, a compass can’t hurt. If nothing else, you can throw it at a crazed cannibal. And get an updated map. Not this cool one I found in a Deco pencil box.

(7) Toiletry bag. Because what else are you going to do with all of those swiped motel soaps and shampoos? And if you forget toilet paper, you’re a dumbass.

(8) Safety pins and Ziploc bags. Those pins kept your JNCO’s up in high school. They may do the same again.

(9) Batteries and cordless iPhone charger. (I bet you thought that charger was a vibrator. Which may also be necessary.)

(10) Record book. For all of the writers out there.

And don’t forget the puparoos. Even though I stocked Toby’s kit, he also made his own list.

(1) All stuffd aminals. My Squirrel. Squirrel funny.

(2) Fud.

(3) Tweatz.

(4) Probiotic, so I dont haz explosive poo.

All joking aside (since I always turn to humor when I’m anxious, which is most of the time), the Big One is bound to happen sooner or later. And we may as well be as prepared as we can be.

And face it fabulously.

September 17, 2013

The Scarlet K

Mid-conversation, I see him.

He sees me.

“Holdonaminute. Ihavetorunfromsomeonerightnow.”

I tighten my grasp on my phone, and hightail it across the street.

He quickens his trot down the block.

“JESUS! JESUUUUS! I JUST WANT TO SAY HI, JESUS!”

But the light changes in my favor and lines of cars drown out his messianic entreaties.

“Sorry, I just had to outrun that Jesus guy.”

“Who?”

“One of the reasons we need to move.”

***

Living in a big city has already taught me a lot about people — how much we can be pushed and pulled in a given day, how we can sometimes lose our humanity. It’s made me appreciate the rough beauty that accentuates urban landscapes — like rouge on ruddy cheeks. And how transfixing people can be.

I see things that move and disturb me, and make me wonder where in the hell decency has gone.

But it also makes me appreciate how we all come to determine where it is that we belong — feel comfortable, want to put down roots.

And K-town is most definitely not it.

In fact, it’s our albatross — a scarlet K. Because it seems like we missed yet another gay memo. Which I imagine to be a glittery scroll that reads something like, “Foolish gays live in K-town. Gurl, just sashay right on by that shit hole, mmmkay?”

As absurd as it sounds, it’s sort of true.

The three gays we’ve seen here look haggard and spent, and seclude themselves in the nicest buildings. And any others just look scared, like they’ve ventured into a haunted house where you can eat Korean barbecue to your heart’s stop. I mean, content.

Every other day it seems like five dorms exploded on the street, with particle board desks, blankets, and broken televisions sprinkled down the block. Sometimes stuff sits there so long, it becomes a reference point. Like during our nightly jogs, I know we’re almost back because we pass the upended chest of drawers that’s been sitting there — tagged with graffiti — for nearly three weeks.

But then, we drive to West Hollywood. Take a deep breath. See the mo’s walking around. Drink caramel mochas. And exhale.

Homos on the range.

***

Anthropology taught me to learn from and respect differences — not to judge people, and take things in context. And, above all else, try to understand. But you know what? Sometimes, I don’t want to understand.

Because I’m at the point now where I’m a damn proud curmudgeon when it comes to certain things.

That I can’t quite go with the flow anymore, and I certainly don’t want to embrace my inner hipster and grab a PBR before flipping my YOLO hat and settling in for the uncomfortable ride.

That I prefer people clean up their messes; that I can’t stand trashy neighbors; that condoms should stay on dicks, not caked to sidewalks; that parents actually do something proactive about their screaming children running up and down the hallways.

That I want to live where everyone surrounding me is mature 98.5% of the time, and the closest thing to trashy is a daddy wearing sequined workout shorts.

In that hallowed place where the scarlet K can be exchanged for a “Haaaaaai!”

July 16, 2013

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.

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

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.

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 3, 2013

What’s in a Year?

Time flies by at such a rapid clip, it’s often hard to pinpoint exactly what’s happened in a given year.

Sometimes, you want to forget things that’ve happened.

But there’re also plenty of moments that demand to be remembered.

And this past year has been chocked-full of both.

So, kittens.

It’s time for a 1990’s-esque flashback.

*Cue the wavy screen*

***

A year ago tomorrow, I was looking a hot mess and prepping for OutRaleigh, the LGBT Center of Raleigh‘s annual fundraising event. There’re pictures to prove how messy and sweaty and generally gross I looked, and how apparent it was that I’d gotten approximately twenty minutes of sleep prior to running around and orchestrating the KidsZone.

Little did I know that I’d meet a particular mister that crazy, rain-filled day. And that a year to the day that we met, we’d be leaving to start our lives in Los Angeles.

Between the time we made it official and now, we’ve gone through a lot.

We negotiated the ever-stressful process of merging households, but were pretty happy with the result.

We suffered through ridiculously long commutes to horrific jobs.

We realized how much said jobs and their respective stressors filtered into our lives and jeopardized our happiness.

We made the decision for me to leave my job.

We traveled across the country to escape, and to entertain crazy plans of one day moving to the West Coast.

We made it there and back again, all the stronger and happier.

We started making strides to realize those crazy plans, and endured a long, agonizing process of job-searching and waiting.

We made the decision to go for it, even though we had no idea if job prospects would pan out.

We slashed our plans down to dollars and cents to make it work.

We screamed and cried and repeatedly questioned if it was all worth it.

And then we screamed and cried when we realized it was.

***

With our remaining car packed to the gills, and Andy’s last day of work upon us, we’re camping out on the hardwood floors of our Raleigh apartment one last night before we start to truly follow our gay, man-infested destiny to the “left coast.”

It’s been a crazy ride, and it’s certain to have even crazier moments as we learn our way around a massive, expansive city. But we’re ready to learn, and eager to explore.

So, kittens. Hold on to your hats.

Because we’re just getting started.

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 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.

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