Dear Magical Half-Korean Baby Jesus

In about 10 minutes I am going to go see my nephew play the baby Jesus in a live nativity scene. He is not really my nephew. He is my best friend's infant son, and we are basically sisters, so I count it.  It counts.  It counts to me.

This magical 3 month old son is the most handsome curiosity I have ever laid eyes on.  He is a gale force wrapped inside a chubby body of love and infinite possibility.  Meeting him has changed my life.  More on that later.

The point right now is that this year has been about change and embracing what change means; what change brings.  When our friend's mother called and said "Our church is desperate for a baby to come be Jesus in our nativity play" She agreed to let Desmond take part.  She and her husband are not church goers or avid Jesus-believers, but they are loving members of the community and certainly not people who could pass up the opportunity to let their son play the messiah.  My friend's husband is Korean and therefore Desmond is half-Korean.  We are all very excited to see some diversity brought into an age old story.  As an actor, I can tell you, playing Jesus looks GREAT on a resume.

Desmond came into my world and it changed.  All of our lives are better because of him.  I am elated to be able to watch him share his magic energy with a community of loving people on Christmas Eve.  I can't believe I am saying this, but he is only three months old and I am already so proud of him.

Desmond, thank you for making Christmas be about something new and exciting.  I am BLESSED to be even a camel in the nativity scene of your life.

Desmond's parents have a blog.  It is wonderful.  I suggest you check it out.
xo

Dear All I Want for Christmas

I can't tell a lie. I love presents. I love everything about them. I love thinking about them, picking them out, wrapping them, watching someone receive them, getting them, UNwrapping them, hugging someone about them, looking at them, playing with them. Everything. I love the whole goddamn thing. Never have a I been a person who is like "oh, no, no gifts please." Ok yes, I understand sometimes gifts aren't appropriate and I'm cool with that, and I also never EXPECT gifts (sorry, Giraffe, sometimes maybe I expect them from you). But, you know, Christmas is an excellent time to be all about the presents. Among other things.

IF I had my way (I don't and at this point I can't be surprised) I would give everyone a present this time of year. For the last six or seven years I have planned out elaborate schemes for how I am going to make everyone I know something just *so* special, and that it will cost no money and take no time. And then the universe is always like PSYCHE. One year I actually bought the supplies to make all these supposedly amazing gifts, dropped a considerable amount of dough, got two or three deep and was like "Oh no. These are ridiculous. No one wants to get these as gifts!" And then I chickened out and also ran out of time. This year I didn't do that but I still kind of wish I would have just gone for it anyway.
 This year, in my family, there has been a moratorium on gift giving. Slowly, over the last few years, we have done less and less and this year it makes sense to do nothing material at all. This news came from my mother and I responded like any adult child would. With understanding and whiny disappointment. Like somehow, if I protest, it will change the state of things. It does not. The state of things is that now more so than ever material gifts mean nothing in comparison to the gift of being together (wah wah!). After collectively losing my Papa in September and undergoing some radical changes in each of our own lives none of us is in a monetary or emotional place to be out at a mall (or on etsy, or in the basement crafting away) procuring objects and stuff to fill our lives. Nobody really needs anything either. (*there is a never ending list of wants, but sometimes wants get set aside*) So this year, my sister (little Boo) and our surrogate brother are coming home, we are going to be with each other and the dogs and call it a day.

 The Giraffe and I are going to move into our first home next month. My mother says that the gift of buying our first house is absolutely the biggest gift we could give each other. Mom, you are always right. Ugh. But what I want to say about this is that there are so many ways you can share and give with someone else that doesn't involve a present under the tree. There are so many gifts that don't cost anything. And this Christmas, my wish list is full of those things. So for 2011, the year of radical change, this is what I want for Christmas:

 +A rad-ass dance party. My mother is legendary amongst my sister and I for throwing great dance parties. She likes to play the Beach Boys and this year she discovered Death Cab for Cutie ("Don't Stop the Fruity". True story.) I might bring a little Drake to the table and Boo can bring some of the hits the college kids are listening to and we can just spend a couple of hours getting down.
 +Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas morning brunch. Cooking for each other is a fun way to share time, and I can pretend to help out by shuffling things around in the fridge since I don't know how to make anything.
+Playing games with our grandmother. She had so much fun watching us at Thanksgiving that she requested to participate on Christmas. It's going to be amazing.
+Taking a scenic walk. My mom lives on a majestic island so there are hella places to move around and enjoy the nature.
+Write a song. Two years ago we made a song at Christmas and I think it's my favorite thing that's ever happened on a Holiday. Our surrogate brother is an incredible song writer, the Giraffe plays drums and the rest of us like to sing. I'd like most of all to make that happen.
+Take photos. Always, all the time, forever.
+Record our New Kids on the Block cover. Boo and I tried to do this over the summer. Now is the time.
+To talk to my dad. He is so far away now (snowbirding) that a phone call will be really special. I can't wait to hear him say how the next lottery ticket is going to be a winner.
+A letter from the Giraffe. When you spend so much time with someone you don't share sentiments the same way you do when you're apart. We used to write a lot and it was one of my favorite things. If he drew a picture of our dog I might poop myself.
+A special night with just my mom and Boo. The trifecta only gets to reunite twice a year so it's pretty bomb when it happens.
+Karaoke with friends. It's overdue, guys. Let's stop talking about it and go sing it out.

 There is a lot to do, but you know, it's been a productive year so I feel confidant that we can keep it going. Anybody else doing a no-presents-under-the-tree Christmas? What's on your no-stuff wishlist?

Saying that being together is the greatest gift is so sentimental it makes me want to barf. But goddamnit it's still true. Goddamnit!

 Holler at Santa for me, tell him I'll get to him next year.

Dear Just Be Grateful

So a while back I had this great idea: Take one month out of the year, and dedicate it to being thankful. Really focus on making it a point to share with the people in my life through a letter, or a phone call, or a nice cup of coffee or WHATEVERITMAYBE what they mean to me and let them know that I am thankful to have them in my life. This sounded like a great idea to me. Because I do feel so thankful. And I believe I should share that. I figured, yeah, it would be like a month of gratitude. Yeah, and November would be great because Thanksgiving is going on and people already have friends, family and togetherness on their minds. Yeah, I thought, it's going to work out great. And then do you know what I learned? IT'S ALREADY A REAL THING. NOVEMBER IS GRATITUDE MONTH. Some group or dude or foundation or greeting card company already made a gratitude month and it's already November, and everyone in America knows that apparently except for me.
UGH.
It was just like the time I thought that I invented facebook. (true and tragic story)

To learn that my amazingly special plan had already been thwarted by it's preexisting popularity, coupled with the totally unattainable scale of my idea led me to do nothing. I thought a lot about my gratitude in November, as I have been doing a lot lately. I put out a lot of vibes about it. Which has to count for something in the grand scope of the universe, but I didn't actually DO anything. Which left me feeling a little bit like I had failed.

But here's the thing. I have been feeling grateful a lot lately (as I literally just said). This year has been a motherfucker in it's proportion of devastating, difficult, triumphant, and beautiful events. The last half of it I have felt constantly awed and humbled by how amazing everything is. And how incredible people are. And how powerful self-love can be (laugh now, that shit is real). And the truth is that even though I didn't make a banner with everyone's name on it and stream it from heaven I truly feel more grateful than I probably ever have before, and living with that and walking with it in my life is, in it's way, doing something. So I guess I just want to say...I mean, I guess what the point of this is (besides that I need to do more research before thinking I've come up with an original idea) that de-elevating my level of expectation for how I express gratitude does not, at it's core, de-value the gratitude itself.
And I would have liked to have given you all handmade cards with the most epic thank you of all time, but this year I've just been too fucking busy living my life. And that's part of what's great here. I am finally much closer to living my life at the mammoth capacity I dream of doing. So I'ma keep putting out the vibes and know that living with gratitude is, well, not an act, but a lifestyle.
Thank you.

Dear Attack on the Feelings OR Attack of the Feelings

I have a lot of feelings. We know this. Having a lot of feelings makes one a Feeler, and thus, also very sensitive. Being sensitive can prove useful in many situations but can also be, as many can attest from having to endure, extremely annoying, tiresome, confusing, etc. Sometimes I even bother myself with all my feelings and how they make me sensitive. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be around my feelings and so, I can only imagine being a person on the outside of them. And so for those times, I'm sorry everyone.

Recently an acquaintance who is thoughtful and big hearted, and undeniably less of a Feeler asked me in earnest "Do you think your life would be better if you had less feelings?". We laughed, because it's a hilarious question for being such a serious one, and then I had to think about it for a second. "No," I said, "I don't. Because this is how I am. This is the kind of person I have always been. And I have discovered that if I don't embrace it, that is when it becomes a negative thing.". We talked about this theory of managing one's feelings a little bit all the time and that, in doing so, you are honoring them & acknowledging them, and that they stay healthy that way. Instead of being a Feeler who oppresses and ignores their feelings, which undoubtably produces explosive, toxic, or unhealthy results. Think of a rotting leftover sitting inside Tupperware. I am what I am, you know? A potato is a potato.

So, this conversation, this question, is something that has stuck with me. I consider this when I am getting annoyed at all the feelings I'm having that I wish I wasn't. I have to remember that I am actually annoyed with the fact that I'm not processing a feeling, not the fact that I'm having one. So then I have to do the sometimes laborious work of sitting beside the feeling and figuring it out.

Which brings me to a night like tonight.

Very relaxing day: I showered, cruised the internet for some new karaoke songs (whatever, you know you've done it), had a much needed conversation with the old madre. Very lovely evening: spent time with close friends, went bowling, ate good food. Then I came home, put down my shit, and started to have a terrible feeling. I put on sweatpants and looked at Facebook. Still a terrible feeling. I cuddled various things (the Giraffe, Walter, a cigarette). Still a terrible, gross feeling.
The feeling, you may be familiar, is an impending sense of doom. Everything was awesome today, and I am sitting here with a nagging sense of impending doom. Sometimes that feeling makes me think we are about to have an earthquake, or that maybe I forgot to do something important, or I am being sent to collections, or somebody died--but none of those things are true. Sense of impending doom. Then I think "Maybe I should do something productive" (read: clean, meditate, do something for someone else, pay a bill, start a project). But I know none of that is going to help. Also, meditating for me means sitting on a floor, covered in dog hair, with my eyes closed, wondering when I am going to start feeling like I'm meditating. Then, tonight, I even thought "maybe I should...pray?".

Ok. Alright. Ok. You know what? PRAY? Something is seriously wrong here.

I am feeling a sense of impending doom for SOME reason. And it is either an attack on my feelings or an attack of my feelings. I'm not sure which. But it's an attack, and a person who doesn't pray is clearly having an issue when they consider randomly starting at an anticlimactic time like this. And as a Feeler, I certainly can't go to bed unless this is somehow resolved.

But how do you resolve an issue if you don't know what exactly it is? How do you process a feeling if you can't figure out why the fuck you're having it? No, seriously, I'm asking. I mean, as a Feeler I have gotten very skilled in the ways of discussing, embracing, and managing feelings. But the impending sense of doom is usually a stale mate for me. Tonight, I have no reason to feel this way.

UNLESS you count all the ancient issues that still need to be resolved, which usually involve other people, and cannot just be pulled out of the attic of your cruddy brain and heaped back upon the other person with a "hey, we need to resolve this old shit so I can go to sleep tonight" at 2am at random. That's a selfish, inappropriate, and harmful way to deal with the rusty junk that may create a doom-sense at any moment. If the doom-sense is stemming from old, unresolved issues, then you just have to suck that shit up and make a mental note (promise, vow, whatever the fuck) to approach it and deal with it at a respectful time, like a LADY, and move on with your night.

Ok, so, maybe that's what it is. Maybe I'm thinking about a lot of vintage (sounds cuter when you use that word) events that need conversations and apologies. Could be. If I owe you one (and I probably do) then it's no doubt coming, but don't worry, it won't be tonight. I don't know about you America, but if I've hurt a person, or something has ended badly, or I tell a lie, I carry that shit around with me until it's resolved. It don't go away. So that could be what's happening here. My moral and responsible compass has been lasered in pretty tight lately, so perhaps the old shit is seeming a little more nasty and apparent. Or maybe my highly responsible lifestyle is making me feel confused because I'm not so used to being on top of my shit. Or maybe I'm afraid it won't last. Or maybe, because my responsible lifestyle has found me spending so much time by myself, I'm feeling a little over the "me" time and needing more of the "we" time. Or maybe, these days, when I do something flaky--something I would have done dozens of times a day in the past--it festers inside me because that's not the way I aim to live my life anymore.

All very good guesses. We are making a lot of progress here, America. Let's take a stab and assume that each of the aforementioned possibilities is going on. Ok. So. That would mean there are several issues on the table that need to be dealt with. It's 2:30 in the morning. Here's a prescription:
+ Consider the old issues. Pick one that is within your control to fix. Determine a hypothetical scenario where it would be appropriate to address that issue. Remember the hypothetical and put it to action when the time is right. Also, forgive yourself about it first. Everyone fucks up.
+ Accept the fact that you're maturing as a person, and that it is actually possible for you to become more responsible. Look at your life. That shit is really happening. You are really doing those responsible things. Be proud of who you are right now, and don't condemn that person because the 22 year old you didn't have their shit together this much.
+ Get over the fear that it won't last. Adults fuck up all the time. They are also still pretty responsible. Fucking up doesn't do automatic take-backs on all the responsibility you've fostered. You're just a different kind of dweeb now. You pay you're bills on time, you like to read home repair magazines and watch 48 Hours Mystery. Because, for one thing, you're an adult.
+ Stop spending all your time by yourself. Keep spending time by yourself, just do other stuff too. Remember when you used to spend all your time with other people? That shit wasn't good, either. Balance, man. You gotta find the yin and yang of social life. Man.
+ There's a difference between being flaky and doing something about it, and being flaky and using it as an opportunity to do something about allll the other times you've been flaky in your life. Forgetting to email your boss back or not meeting your friend for coffee is bad, but they don't need apologies detailing each email you never responded to or every cappuccino you let get cold. They don't care! Appologize for the one thing that just happened and move on. You've got to give This Guy (yourself) a break. Also, realize that maybe they don't care as much as you do. Because, maybe, it's not the end of the world. (Maybe, you little Feeler. Huh?)

Alright. Awesome. Great job, America. Maybe you will find this useful in the future if you're a Feeler. And maybe you can orate sections of this at a party when talking about what emotional nutjobs people like me are. Either way, thanks for sticking around.

I'm taking these feelings and going to bed.
Mama

Dear Watching Someone Die Part 3

The act of honoring someone's life means also having to acknowledge your relationship with that person: who you were to each other, what your relationship truly consisted of, and what made it unique. This can be difficult if acknowledging your relationship also means embracing the magnitude of it for the first time posthumously. This is true for me in the case of my grandfather.

My grandfather, "Papa", passed away September 1st at his home in Tacoma WA under the care of my grandmother. They would have celebrated their 62nd anniversary next month, but, as my grandmother put it "we didn't make it so it doesn't count". He outlived the expectations of the doctors who quoted us a timeline of "a couple of days to a couple of months" in June. It is still uncertain what he ultimately died of, though if "being tired" is a COD then perhaps that was it. He was waiting out three possible fatalities: the cancer that had spread from his bladder, kidney failure, or heart failure. At the time he died we hope (though we don't know) that he was ready to go. The state of his living life was so terrible that my mother says she can't imagine he even wanted to hang on much longer. He could not longer get out of bed, couldn't sit up, was on a steady supply of morphine which distorted his reality, had stopped eating, and stopped drinking water. He was smaller than a young boy. In a rare moment of conceding defeat my grandmother offered him beer and wine, to which he replied (perhaps for the first time ever) "I don't even want that".

I saw my grandfather two weeks before his death when my sister and I had the disturbing task of going to say goodbye. For real. Not with a "see you soon" attached at the end. We had to say the goodbye where you look someone in the eye and mutually acknowledge you will never see each other again because one of you will be dead. It was painful and actually very beautiful and touching, and it is something I will write about later. This time is meant for something a little different.

I have been deeply affected by my grandfather's passing. In his passing I have discovered that while all children love their grandfathers, not all of them have had relationships as intimate and unique as the one I shared with Papa. I have learned that he was the Patriarch of our family, not just because he was the head of it by generation but because of who he was as a person; we individually lost someone with whom we had a special relationship, but we collectively lost the silent captain of our ship. I have realized the love I have for my family and my want to be around them is wider, deeper, and more full than my 23 year old self gave me credit for. And I have been emotionally overturned to find that what he meant in my life was a more powerful symbol and force than I had ever known while he was alive.

To say goodbye to Papa has been to understand that in many ways he was the strongest male figure in my life. The most constant. The most forgiving. The most unwavering and unquestioning. I have been blessed by walking a weird road full of strong father figures and male role models. My own father, my step father, uncles, educators, mentors, patient friends. On this road Papa met me at my birth, and stayed with me until the end. As a child Nanny and Papa moved when we moved, always to be near my sister and I. In the wake of my parent's divorce they took over transportation and caregiving responsibilities. When I was 12 they became my co-guardians. I lived with them half the week and Papa walked me to and from school everyday. When I was in college and my hair was cotton candy pink or electric blue he would laugh each time, confused and delighted by the new color choice. When I graduated from college he may not have understood why I decided to go so far into debt for an education in art, but he was so proud that he flew across the country (despite his illness) to watch me, the first woman in my family, graduate. After my family was rocked by the early death of my cousin in 2005, he confided in me "One thing, Carlee, that I would like" he said "before I die, is to watch you get married." That desire may have left his memory the moment it left his mouth, but it has stuck with me all this time. And I did cry for the fact that I was never able to give that to him.

He never asked me to explain myself. He never needed to know why I was who I was; he just really loved that person. He never told me that I needed to win or to be the best because, he told me, I already was the best. He held me up in respect and admiration from infancy into young adulthood, while I was preoccupied with doubt and self loathing. He is a person with whom I am fortunate and gifted to say I have no issues. No issues that were resolved and none that went unresolved. This is a rarity even with those we share the deepest, most loving connections. The revelation of this truth has been a palpable and moving discovery. It has freed me and enriched me. It has informed my ability to strengthen the relationships I have and to honor in truth the one which we shared.

I cary many gifts from him with me today: the gift of his love, the gift of love for others, the gift of family, the gift of respect and community and the ability to enjoy small moments. How you can reflect on someone without sounding dweeby I may never know, so please excuse the wrote sentiments like "carrying gifts, blah blah blah".
For the journey I am on in my life this has happened at a fortuitous time. The last six months I have been building, defining and strengthening the relationship I have with myself. To understand the relationship between us and the love he had for me does a great deal in helping me continue to understand myself. I am grateful for his memory for many reasons, but today that is the one I am giving thanks for.

Thank you.

Dear "Eventual I Told You So's" pt 3

It's time to announce / call "dibbs" / preemptively complain about things that are going to get cool again. Or for the first time. Or for the second time but everyone will pretend like it's for the first time.

+Belly button rings (thanks Glasses)

+Sunflowers and Daisies. And people are going to wear that shit on clothing and jewelry. Hella jewelry.
NOTE: Apparently it's SO already happening. the cuties at xojane totally beat me to this one. I got 'em on the sunflowers, though!

+Celestial patterns. Specifically moons and suns. This was really popular for dweebs like me when I was in the 6th grade. They all had chubby faces, too.

+"Bad" Looney Tunes. Gangsta Sylvesters, Naughty Tweeties, Tazmanian Devils in sideways baseball caps and muscle tees. And Slutty Betty Boops! I googled this Betty Boop situation only to discover that there are still quite a plethora of topical (and slutty) Betty Boop shirts being made right now, so maybe I'm actually not in the loop about that already being a thing. Again. Or maybe it's more of an "underground phenom", in which case you should probably stock up on some oversized tees with slogans like "mean girls rule the world" and "License to thrill" so you can be one of the people to cry "I was doing it first!" when Urban Outfitters starts re-issuing them. Again. For the first time.

+Beading! You can take your rehashed obsession with sunflowers and moons with chubby faces and put them on things to wear! Or mob on down to the bead shop, buy a loom and some seed beads, and spend the afternoon making "intricate" bracelets to share with your friends! Beading looms are great for making accessories to show off at your next outdoor concert or trip to the Bite of Seattle. It's the perfect marriage of Native American Obsession and Eternal Cat Lady. It's only a matter of time.

+Silverchair and Desree. Both of these artists deserve a comeback and you know it.

+HEMP! If beading and sunflowers are going to get popular then right around the corner MUST BE the always-in-style, always appropriate hemp necklace. Trade with your friends! Put your ancient Summer Camp craft skills to use! EVERYONE LOVES SOME WOVEN FUCKING HEMP AROUND THEIR NECK!

While you think that over for a minute I'm going to go put on my still-cool babydoll dress, drink some iced tea from a can, practice my slam-poetry, listen to Third Eye Blind and hunt down one of those super feminist "SLUT" rings for my bellybutton.

xo
Mama

Dear Watching Someone Die Part 2

"He's fading pretty fast," My mother says on the other end of the line. This feels very practical. We are having a practical conversation about the end of my grandfather's life.

"I think you need to come down and see him. And you can stay with him while I take Nanny to buy some new shoes." Yep. Yep, ok. Practical. My grandmother really needs new shoes. This will be a nice thing for her. And I can sit and talk with him or watch him sleep or listen to the television. In my brain I think "Yes, ok, I'll go say my goodbyes. On the only free afternoon I have. This will work out nicely." But what my body does is fall down onto my bed, what my face does is deform itself into the world famous ugly-crying-position, and what my voice does is whimper out "What if he dies while I'm alone with him?"

This, all of a sudden, is the worst thing I can think of. We know he's dying, and now he's dying at an acellerated rate. It could happen any day, any minute. What if it happens while my mother and my grandmother are out at the shopping mall buying sneakers and I'm all alone with him? Am I in charge of trying to save him? What if he falls over? What if I have to pick him up and I break him? What if he's choking? Do I let him choke? I am terrible at CPR.

This man who has helped raise me and care for me my entire life is fading fast. A euphamism I roll my eyes at though is still one of the only accurate ways to describe what is happening. He has been a strong and handsome tree trunk, with a full cinematically sculpted head of silver hair. Now he is collapsing in on himself. He weighs less than I do, and his hair is wild and crazy. He looks like a holocaust victim trying to be a Gene Wilder impersonator. This is my grandfather. This is not my grandfather.

I cannot come to terms with this paradigm.

I cannot be the one in charge of him in what could be the last moments of his strong handsome tree trunk life.

I have had a lifetime of sudden deaths and painful blinsiding necessitations of saying goodbye. My relationship with grief has been built on the foundation that you say goodbye and then spend years coming to terms with the tragedy and dealing with the grief. Putting the pieces back together, painstakingly, over reflection and memory. I have never been given the morbid experience of knowing. I do not know how to deal with this kind of death. If he got hit by a bus? I am all over that. I have training for how to be sad and carry that with me. But he's just sort of slowly (or, more rapidly now) losing his life? No tools. I am not equipped to process this. I'm feeling it and I don't even know what it feels like. I don't even know how to label these feelings.

An old man comes into work. He orders a muffin and a cup of coffee. He wants a large paper cup but he only wants to fill it half way. "I couldn't possibly drink all that!" This man and I talk sometimes. He has a full head of cinematically sculpted hair which looks like he dies it brown. He has wrinkles and smiles. On this day, he orders his half full cup of coffee and his muffin ("that looks like the best one in the case!") and he shuffles over to his seat, and I am slapped in the face. By something. I don't know what it is. I turn my back to the room and pretend I am making coffee and I begin to weep. Just uncontrollably weep. "Get it together," I say. "I can't," I say. Truly, I can't. I just have to hide my face and weep. Eventually I stumble upon the grand discovery that this man makes me think of my grandfather. And I am crying because my grandfather is dying.

I am crying because my grandfather walked me to school in the morning when I was in 7th grade. I am crying because as a child I loved to be naked, and would run around his house parading my nudity, and he would throw his arms up exclaiming to my grandmother "Jeeesus Christ, Vianna! Get some clothes on that girl!". I am crying because that was his way of delighting in my freedom. I am crying because he never disapproved of anything I have done. I am crying because after my cousin died he told me privately the one thing he wanted before he died was to watch me get married. I am crying because I am not married, and I am crying because he probably doesn't even remember he said that. I am crying because on father's day after I had gotten my first tattoo, which was his tattoo, my mother made me show it to the family and amidst the squaks of disapproval and my grandmother scolding me, he smiled and slapped me on the back, right on the fresh tattoo, because that was the only way he could express how proud and honored he was. I am crying because in all the years I lived with him and close to him we spent a lot of time not talking. Because our relationship didn't necessitate words. I am crying because growing up with a revolving door of male figures to look up to he was the one constant. I am crying because when my father needed a stiff shake back into responsible parenting my grandfather gave it to him. I am crying because there have been nearly 20 times that doctors have told us he would die, and they've always been wrong. Except for now. I am crying because I've been breaking out in hives and I'm pretty sure this is why. I am crying because nothing in this world can replace who he is or what he has been to me. And nothing should. And I am crying because the weight of that absence is being felt while he is simultaneously still on the planet and that makes me feel sad confused and guilty. I am crying because I cannot stop my life to be with him. I cannot ask for free time or not go to work or tell all the obligations that have me way too busy "Sorry. I can't right now". I am crying because it's happening no matter what. It's happening. He is dying.

Today I go to say goodbye. Maybe I'll get another chance. I am not sure though how many times I can handle believing I have seen him for the last time. Today I am saying goodbye. With hives and body odor and malnutrition I am going to sit with him and his crumpled little body and Gene Wilder hair. And I probably won't even find it in me to tell him how much I care. We will probably just sit. Because this is the way this happens. The anti-climactic, burdensome, sorrowful, regret-filled, totally uneventful act of watching someone die.

Dear: Watching Someone Die Part 1

A list of things you think when you find out someone you love is dieing:

+I am going to cry in this parking lot and I might not ever leave.

+People walking by probably think my boyfriend (the Giraffe) just beat me. I should stop crying long enough to smile and wave at them so they know it's ok. "Hey guys, everything's cool over here! Just casually chilling in this dirty parking lot!"

+I wonder if I will look back on this as one of those profound moments and say "I was starving and standing in a Blockbuster parking lot when I learned my grandfather is dieing".

+I'm so hungry but now I can't imagine eating. What if I never eat? What if I do eat? Is it inappropriate to eat while I am so upset? I want a Big Mac. Is it right or wrong to treat myself with shitty food product right now?

+I should start writing my speech for the service. I want to make a speech. Who in the family would I notify about calling dibbs on speech time? Oh god, I am trying to call dibbs on my beloved Papa's posthumous time and he's not even dead yet. Fuck me. Don't say anything. Maybe just start writing the speech in your head.

+I have so much acne. I never imagined I would have such rampant acne at almost 30. These are going to scar.

+What if Papa dies on my birthday? Will I ever be able to enjoy it again?

+Friday's my birthday. Did the Giraffe get me anything? I shouldn't act upset if he didn't. Even though I will be really upset.

+OK, well, we know he's dying. People always say this is good because then you get to have closure, you know, say your goodbyes. You get to, like, have those talks about how important your relationship has been and how much they, you know, impacted your life, and then they can tell you they're so proud of you and, you know, death isn't so scary, and they feel ready to go etc etc etc. And then you can have, you know, like total blissful closure. NO. That is not going to happen here. My grandfather is not that type of man. There will be no emotional purging followed by a calm sense of peace. There will be awkward bedside comments about the weather and how work is going and how still you're an actor and a writer who doesn't make any money. But you'll make it sound really good. Yeah, you'll just have to make it sound really good. Like, lie and stuff. That'll be nice for him. Give him something pleasant to think about.

+Big Mac. I want to eat that Big Mac. Eating a Big Mac and crying is one of the most pathetic things I can think of right now. Maybe I shouldn't do that.

...And then I collapsed against a lamp post in a going-out-of-buisness Blockbuster parking lot littered with junkie garbage and sobbed. My grandfather is dying.

Dear Material Obsession: So Many Shoes

My mom used to call me "Imelda Marcos". I thought that was only someone an old person knew about. She owned a lot of shoes, you guys. I don't spend a lot of money on shoes but I acquire them frequently. It's kind of a thing. When I left Brooklyn I had to get rid of almost 50 pairs. It's been a few years now. The reserves are slowly being filled again. Can't stop don't stop won't stop.

I am too cheap to buy real mukluks. So I found these spirit boots for hellllla cheap on ye olde interweb. Gets the job done.

I debated for days about which pair of these Jeffrey Campbell 99's to buy. They're all so bomb (dotcom). Even though wounded foot prevents me from wearing heels very often, these special homies make a nice treat for times with lots of sitting involved.

After cleaning out our foyer I discovered how many shoes were being harbored there. All but 2 pairs were mine. There are, I think, 27 pairs here. This is only half, maybe, of my shoe collection.

Clogs?! Well, kind of clogs. Cool clogs. Pretty real.

I waited years for these boots. They came to me in a free pile when I graduated. I am bad to shoes, so these are almost RIP. I'll wear these trusty steeds until they disintegrate. Try as I might (and I do) no replacement can be found.

Dear Sleep

We've been around and around about this. I don't see why we can't just get along.

When we force ourselves to get along you just give me shitty dreams. You used to make me late for things by staying too long, and you'd make me mad all day by showing up late.

Look. It's been almost 30 years. I want us to have a normal relationship. Tell your partner Tired to start coming around more when it's supposed to and maybe we can start working this thing out.

Mama

Dear Old People, I Get It Now.

To all the Old People Across America,

Let me take this moment to apologize, sincerely, from the bottom of my weepy heart, for the loudness I've inflicted upon you. I'm sorry for any hooting I've done under lamplights, any parties I've been a party in, any street jamz I've encouraged the bumping of, any unfortunate shouting matches I've incited--any of it, all of it. Also, this one goes out to all the people in the quiet houses at college, whom I tormented with my late night plucky antics and banshee behavior--you were way ahead of me on the curve into adulthood. So sorry. Because, you guys, I get it now. Being loud around places other people are trying to sleep is FUCKING RUDE.

I am like an angry old man, shaking a veiny fist from my sealy posturpedic bed at all the haters. I am livid at what happened on our Independence Day, because I was trying so hard (so hard, you guys) to sleep. Now, I am not an unreasonable man. Let me explain.

It's the fourth of July: the bi-annual amateurs night (right behind New Years Eve), and there are three kinds of people who participate in this celebration. The party people who want to get wasted and party, the square most-of-the-time-well-behaved normal people who have NO idea how to drink or behave themselves when they do so, and the crazy people who delight in a night they can indulge in their naturally crazy behavior and finally blend in. I don't know who's the worst here. Something about Fireworks makes everyone in America feel they have the license to go fucking craaayzaay. I get it: mob mentality is a really powerful thing and being granted an excuse to be irresponsible can feel relieving. But a cause for celebration should be handled responsibly--controlled chaos, you know what I'm saying?

Right now the Giraffe, Little Boo and I are housesitting in a fancy neighborhood where the lawns are manicured and the windows have views people pay good money for. Grown up land. Were we sleeping in the ghetto of our own house I probably would not feel angry nor surprised. But here we are, in a quiet area, watching over this big house and the hyper-anxious dog who lives there. This dog is nuts. I love all dogs. You know this to be true. But this girl, she has huge nails, which she nervously scrapes all over the hardwood floors all night, she obsessively drinks all the water she can find (even if it's pee from the toilet), and then she has to urinate every 3 hours. Also, her favorite activity is to pace around the bed with her giant nails and whimper. Sleeping has already been a challenge. Last night was enough for me wrap myself up in a straight jacket and hurl my tired body down into the dark of a potato cellar.

While I understand that America needs to let off steam and pretend it's all about our country's independence, I certainly didn't think they would do it in this neighborhood. Everyone shot their wads during the big fireworks display, I get that. We watched it, too. When we drove home it took us over an hour to go half a mile. I get that. Teenage girls walked down the street flipping everyone off because they felt so cool. I get that. We pulled into the quiet of the grown up neighborhood after midnight, and all was calm. That made sense to me. The nervous dog had peed all over the place (probably due to the freaky sound of fireworks and drinking all the toilet water she could find). I cleaned it up, and we took her for a walk. By the time I got into bed it was 1:20. I was supposed to wake up at 6am to start a day full of meetings and work. "5 1/2 hours of sleep? Not ideal, but I've functioned on worse," I thought. Then I set my alarm and tried to go to sleep. TRIED. The next thing I know the dog is circling the bed, scraping her godforsaken nails like some cruel morris code. (*circling the bed, yes. The bed in this house is in the middle of the room. I don't even know how to explain that choice.) Up the stairs, down the stairs. Pacing the front door, circling the bed. Whimpering. Digging trails of anxiety as she goes. Eventually I get up, pissed by the pressure of attempting to get 4 hours of sleep, and let her out. I'm so mad I refuse to look at the clock because seeing how much time has passed without sleep will only make me more enraged. I get back in bed.

The next thing I know the sonic sounds of booming, and the cheap flashing of lights rock the house. SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE is lighting off goddamned fireworks. Again and again and again. Much like the gunshots in the ghetto, the sound ricochets off the walls of the bedroom. Where is it coming from? It sounds like it's coming from right outside the window on the corner, but it could be anywhere. All I know is it's CLOSE. It's after 2 in the morning, and someone is setting off gigantic fireworks in the peaceful, rich person neighborhood. Two in the morning!!!!! The dog goes crazy. Between the constant light and sound show coming from the street and the insane behavior of the poor dog, it is maybe a minute before my melt-down button is pushed and I start to lose my fucking mind. I can't call the cops. Everyone is calling the cops tonight. What am I supposed to say? "Hey, I'm trying to be a responsible adult and people are being really rude with their fireworks. Please stop fighting crime and come make them stop"?!??! No. I can't say that. The cops won't do shit. I try to wait it out, thrashing around the bed like a whiny child. Maybe someone else will call the cops. No one does. Bam bam bam. The dog is losing her mind. So am I. The Giraffe gets up and goes outside. "Be authoritative, honey," I think, "tell those assholes to quiet the fuck down". He doesn't. I don't blame him. Then inconsiderates lighting their shit off would just laugh if some square in pajamas told them to quiet down. It just goes on and on and on. Eventually I wonder, who spent all this money on fireworks? Why did they wait until everyone in the world was trying to sleep to set that shit off? How am I going to function on 3 1/2 hours of sleep? Life is so unfair!!! The world is so cruel!!! Woe is me!!! Pretty literally, that's what I was thinking. Somewhere, in all of that mess, my alarm got turned off. I missed my first meeting. No babies died, no bombs were set off, it wasn't the worst thing in the world--but it fucking pissed me off. Now I'm tired and behind schedule.

So here's the deal. When I was laying there in agony, like I was passing a kidney stone or something, I realized exactly how other people must have felt as a result of my behavior. That really sucks. I am almost 30 years old, and sleeping and being responsible feels pretty fucking good, and when people mess that up at totally insane times of the night I get so upset. It's not ok. I was that guy once or twice! THAT GUY, you guys! And you know what? It's so fun to be crazy and irresponsible. Totally fun sometimes. I get it. But wouldn't it be best to have your unbridled fun in a place where it's not at the expense of others? Go nuts and also be respectful? Is that so much to ask? Or take your rioting inside at a reasonable time? See, I still love the insanity. I think that's great every now and then. But the world goes on. People get up and go to work. Tasks have to get accomplished. Things must be done. Getting in the way of that for others when there are perfectly reasonable other places to do your woot-ing and loot-ing is just so disrespectful.

Maybe the rage I felt last night was some sort of payback for all the running around neighborhoods I've done when others were being responsible. Point taken, world. I also see how clearly I do not want to identify that kind of disrespectful behavior with myself anymore. That's what music festivals and camping trips and crowded city blocks are for. Everything has a place. It's important, I think, to be a conscious person in the world, and do things in the right places, at the right times.

We all have to live here.

Now I'm tired, grouchy, and opinionated as ever. But I'm also sorry to all the old people I've ever kept awake. That shit was not cool. Ugh. I'm going to stay in a retirement community for New Years Eve.

Mama.

A Little Help From My Friends

Sometimes you need a little help from your friends. And sometimes you need to shout and rejoice about it like a grizzly bear on a love + magic overdose.

Joe Cocker does it right

These are strange days, and getting old is weird. Sometimes things are sad. But it's also great and unpredictable, and the best part is having people to share it with. (that's the first time you've ever heard such unique and profound words, so just take a moment to really let that sink in. My insight is groundbreaking.) (whatever. It's all true.)

Dear Manners and..and...and everything else PT 1

America,

I am in the business of people. By that I mean, as an "actor/writer/blahblahblah" to know people is my job.

As a human on the planet, to understand people is my duty. Why? Because I have elected to be someone who gives a shit. And that comes with a price. And that price is respect, consideration, empathy, and understanding. I meet all people with inherent respect and the belief that they should be understood. I follow that path until I am proven otherwise.

AND FOR THE RECORD, I do no think it is so hard to like our peers, if we all take a second to pay attention to one another.

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT I DON'T THINK IS ACCEPTABLE???? These things:

I work in the service industry. And I see some unsightly things. Just last week:
"3.30 for a coke from Mexico? NO, that's too much. I won't pay that. We give them too much money already."
--HM. Yes, we do. In the Disneyland of your retarded mind. I am supposed to welcome you and say that you should sit in this restaurant for as long as you like, but you know what, ASSHOLE? Your closed-minded, rude ideals are not welcome here. What I think you should do is go the fuck somewhere else where it acceptable to say such hateful things so openly. This place for lovers is CLEARLY not for you.

AND when you, person, who doesn't eat out very often, asks the price of something and then looks me in the eye and says "No, that doesn't seem like a fair price. I would NEVER pay that". Well, then perhaps you are better suited eating at another establishment, where price reflects quality, and that quality is significantly lower than what we will agree to serve here. We are not gouging you with prices just to get our rocks off. We are buying the best ingredients possible, and we are trying our damnedest to make a marginal profit off of it. You want shitty food, go pay for it someplace where your bill reflects the quality of goods. Want poop? Eat poop. Want quality meat? Eat this meat.

ON THAT NOTE: Are you vegan? Gluten free? Lactose intloerant? Allergic to peanuts? Don't come to this restaurant. Don't be angry when you do come and there aren't enough choices to accommodate your discerning character slash diet. The people designing this restaurant and menu did not have your single best interest in mind. CLEARLY. They had a vision. Just like the people who make a pizza place think about pizza. The vision of this restaurant is WHAT IT IS. You don't go to a pizza place and ask for a pot pie, so coming to where I work and getting angry that we don't have your dietary options is as retarded. This restaurantis a specific place. AS IN ALL RESTAURANTS, it has a vision. If you don't like it, GOSOMEWHREELSE>>> Be a grown up. Do not complain like a baby.

And you know what you can say when someone graciously helps you out? You can say thank you. Because you know what? If you didn't want the experience of eating out, YOU COULD EAT AT HOME. Clearly you have the resources to do so. Otherwise you would not be here in the first place. People who have no resources are sitting on the corners of out cities, neglected. Not you.

And you know what else you can do, while I'm at it? You can leave a goddamned tip. If you can AFFORD TO EAT OUT, you can afford to show those of us in the industry some respect. That's right, I said it. In some states, we don't get paid an hourly wage at all. We live entirely off of tips. In other states, like Washington, we DO get paid something. It is minimum wage. It is NOT a livable wage. And while I don't want to complain, seeing as I DID choose this for myself (being an artist and all) I think it is a fairly implied rule that when you are going out to eat, you take care of the people that take care of you. Or, you fairly decide not to pay for anyone's time and you eat at home. This is not McDonalds.

If you don't want to do that no one is putting a gun to your head to cook something for yourself. That act is rewarding and I suggest it to everyone. I would also suggest that to an asshole on a tight budget, the grocery store around the corner makes pre-made sandwiches and salads. It is never going to be the quality and experience of where I work, but then, maybe that's not what you want. Clearly.

AND ON A FINAL NOTE, all of you people with shitty babies: stay home. Go to Olive Garden. Go to Red Robin. Don't think your kid is shitty? You're probably wrong. Your kid, if they ever scream and cry in public like a mad man, is shitty. You are truly the shitty one (SEE PREVIOUS POSTS ABOUT SHITTY PARENTING) because you set the precedent for that behavior. You do it in your attention and you do it in your neglect. Our restaurant is not the place for your kid to ruin everyone else's time while you socialize with friends. It is a place for EVERYONE to enjoy themselves. The sad reality is most people don't give a shit about the long week you've had. They just don't want to be bothered by your terrible children while they try to enjoy breakfast. And they outweigh you in numbers as well as good choice making. SO, have the decency to stay home, or practice present parenting when you are in this restaurant. Just out of respect.

Those of you that have wonderful families, you are vital to our community and I thank you for your attentive parenting. Please come ANY ANY ANY time. Also, I am available to cool-baby-sit. Future humans of our world need considerate people like you to guide them, and I would like to foster that growth.

I just. I just do not accept the rudeness. I do not accept the ignorance. I do not accept the disrespect. And I think it is possible for us to live better together.

If I am wrong, consider this my letter of intent to start a commune. I do not accept the shitty haters.
Mama

Dear Seattle Community

This happened

So now. A barrage of angry (and rightfully so) Facebook posts. Leading to arguments on both sides. And comments about people wanting to kill cops.

Does anyone care what I think? Well, here's what I think.

I have a hard time with this issue because I am not someone who works as a legal agent of safety for our community, and I am not a disadvantaged person with mental health issues or substance abuse problems.
It has been an extremely hard couple of years for officers in this state, and especially after an officer-in-training watched her superior get shot to death in my neighborhood last Halloween I CANNOT imagine the fear that is built into the daily work for a police officer. I also CANNOT imagine the way it truly feels to live in a system that underfunds services to help people who need help when you are one of those people.
While throughout history police officers have done things to tarnish their reputation for many of us, and homeless people have done things to sully the way some view human rights and privileges, none of us can argue that life is precious and fleeting. We all have a respect for our own lives, and we should have that same respect for other's.
It seems the real problem (because John T. Williams is already dead) lies within the structure of the society we all live in. Can't there be some way we can use this awful event as an example to learn from, and move forward with the way we train our officers, aid our homeless, and construct our governmental system?
What mayor McGinn is suggesting is on the right track, but still perhaps a tall order for a system that:
A. Let John T. Williams live on the streets
B. Allowed officer Kirk to feel he had to pull a weapon on a suspect prematurely
and C. Let him off the hook even AFTER the police chief Diaz said officer Kirk was in the wrong in is action.

This problem is bigger than weather Officer Ian Kirk was in the wrong or not.
People have strong opinions surrounding issues like this (as they should) and I think that says something. If we are all willing to argue with one another on our social networking devices, then we also need to be willing to have the larger discussion when it matters. And where it matters. About WHAT matters.

Officer Kirk resigned, and please, if you see him serving you a subway sandwich, don't throw things at him. His life is already ruined. Be angry at the system that essentially turned away from him instead of helping him learn from his actions. And when you see the activist groups with signs for John T. Williams, please don't snicker or chide them. They are mourning a person some consider a valuable part of our community.

In fact, please don't do anything at all, unless you are willing to have a voice in fixing the bigger issue. Our community is small, and could easily be one where support, understanding, services, and rules are all reasonable and accessable. This isn't New York City and this isn't Law & Order.

Let's look at the mess, and do the right thing to never let it happen again.

Mama

Dear America, I Did Something

YOU GUYS.

Over the last year(it was a big one, right?) Bill McCool, Mike Strati & I created a show that is now on the miracle that is the internet.

The first episode is up now.

Melinda & Clyde: Ep 1

"Check it out!"...is what I think the people say when they want you to look at something they did.

Please do.

PROOF that it's not all about complaining about how you wish you did something.