The Guest List

**Disclaimer: if you are a NO reading this, it's not my intention to upset you but I need to vent**

What if you threw a wedding and no one came?

A wise, recently-married friend told me “your wedding guests will surprise you.” She related how friends she counted on in her daily life and was sure would make the trip to her wedding surprised and disappointed her by blowing it off. Likewise, acquaintances she wasn’t too bothered about went out of their way to get there. “Either way, you’ll be surprised.”

I took her experience to heart. My invites are out and as they trickle back in I’m duly surprised. When we planned a destination wedding, we knew turnout would be low and we were OK with that. We figured the ones who really counted would find a way to make it. Plus we compiled a weeks’ worth of entertainment and activities so those who make the trip will be able to make a unique vacation out of it. We figured the beauty of the place would be a good enticement to those on the fence. With the falling Euro and the travel discounts we’d wrangled, the enticement seemed complete.

But it’s not that simple. It’s still a crappy economy. People are stuck with their circumstances. People have their reasons to be sure. But their response is simply NO.

What bothers me is that their responses are just that: reasons and circumstances. I get the money reason but really? When I lived in New York I made twenty thousand dollars a year. Not enough to live on especially by that city’s standards. Yet when a good friend got married I somehow managed to not only buy the bridesmaid dress and fly to California for the wedding but also to fly to France for the second wedding (she married a Parisian) and shoot and compile a beautiful wedding album for them. So when it comes right down to it, I don’t buy the money reason. I know from what I made happen that where there’s a will there’s a way. So then that means it’s a choice. I’m hurt that people I thought would be there for me are choosing not to come.

I’m hurt that the very first response I got back was literally the day after I’d sent them out and was a NO. It stung all the more as it was from a family member. Clearly they hadn’t bothered to visit the beautiful and informative website my fiancé spent ages building. Clearly they didn’t mull it over or see if they could make it work for their budget. I wish they’d at least done me the courtesy of holding on to the RSVP card for a few days to make it seem like it merited their consideration.

The NOs have become such a foregone-conclusion part of the day I’m no longer thrilled when I see the little cream envelopes in the mailbox. I sit them in a stack and open them when I’m feeling lighthearted and iron-stomached. In order to protect myself from the daily smack in the face, I have to be done hoping that anyone will say yes.

So what if I threw a wedding and no one came? Well, at this point nothing would surprise me. I’m the queen of throwing parties no one comes to, so really should my wedding be so different? I had hoped that my wedding would matter to friends and family as much as it does to me but clearly that’s not human nature. People’s circumstances matter to them. And being hurt over that is absurd and unfair to them. I get it. The resentment I feel seems self-indulgent and childish.

But it all still hurts.

The wedding’s destination is where much of my fiance’s family live so his side of the aisle is covered. “You just want to be a wedding fairy tale princess,” he chides me as I mope.

“Yes,” I glibly reply. But that’s not really true. I’d be happy with a casual pot-luck. In truth the whole thing will be quite rustic and simple. No tiaras here. I just want it to matter to people that matter to me that this huge thing is happening in my life. If the turn-out at such milestones is any indication of what you’ve accomplished and who you’ve been for people in life, let’s hope I get a bigger crowd at my funeral.

Travels with Dad

One of the things I am most fortunate to have in my life is a father who believes that travel is the best education. After my parents divorce I began by traveling out to visit him. I felt very worldly and grown-up on the plane by myself at five. The flight attendant would hand me a plastic wings pin which I would wear proudly on my cardigan. That was in the days where loved ones could still meet you at the gate and when we landed she’d walk me out to my dad expectantly standing in the boarding area.

Over the years, dad and I have been all over the world together; Europe several times, Africa. It’s our tradition to spend Thanksgiving in Mexico. As a teen, I’d swear after each trip that I’d never travel with him again. He’d do such mortifying things as point sights out to me on tours or talk too loud in museums. But of course there’d always be another trip.

As I’ve become an adult, the mortification has taken on a new flavor. Anyone who looks at us for more than five minutes can see the resemblance between us. I have my dad’s nose, his lanky, athletic frame, the overall shape of his face. Yet as my laugh lines have increased, it’s no longer obvious that we are parent/child. More often than not, people assume we’re a couple. I see the knowing looks when I emphasize to the hotel clerk we need a room with two beds.

I don’t know why I give such a crap about what strangers think but I do and this assumption offends me to no end. God, no! I want to shout. I’m not the kind of woman that would be some old guy’s trophy wife! There’s a thirty-five year difference between us, get your mind out of the gutter. Are you blind? Can’t you see we look alike?!

To combat these tawdry assumptions, I very maturely make a point of slipping into any conversation that might arise that we are in fact father/daughter. If there’s no conversation, I’ll loudly call him ‘dad’ for those casual listeners on the pool deck, or tour bus or whatever.

This year’s trip to Mexico was no different. We met another vacationing family with a hen-pecked husband and brittle wife. After talking with them for more than half an hour, I went to change for dinner. The disapproving wife leaned over to my father and asked, “come on, is that really your daughter?” When dad reported this to me over dinner I was doubly offended. Not only was she assuming me to be “one of those women” but even after our familial conversation, she was basically calling me a liar.

I have to wonder why it is so unfathomable to people that a father and daughter would travel together. We saw a mother/daughter pair at our hotel around our same ages and I’m pretty sure no one assumed they were a May/December lesbian couple. Is it only with the full compliment of family members that such travel becomes acceptable? If my dad had a wife would it be OK? If I had a husband? Kids? Whatever the case, it’s certain we remain an oddity…and people’s minds are in the gutter.

It drives me nuts but maybe it’s not the worst thing. Over the course of our week in Mexico, we became friendly with our waiter, Jesus, at our hotel restaurant. One night, apparently feeling he was on more personal terms with us, Jesus asked “so are you two honeymooners?” Et tu, Jesus? I was mortified yet again. We were standing at the hotel restaurant entrance and I could feel the room lean closer to hear the sordid details of the silver fox and his young missy. Here, I thought, is my opportunity to set everyone straight. Years of pent-up witty quips massed at my fingertips.

“No, this is my dad!” I blurted.

Now poor Jesus was mortified. He apologized repeatedly for having offended us while my dad assured him it was fine. The ears in the restaurant shifted away and dad and I went for our evening walk.

Somewhere in the course of the night, Jesus decided that if I was traveling with my father, I must therefore be single and available. The next day at breakfast, he greeted us enthusiastically and I figured at last I could relax in the comfort of knowing our fellow hotel dwellers at last knew the truth.

Then Jesus told us the story of his night. He had returned to the hotel around two in the morning but security wouldn’t let him in. He had been determined to give me a red rose and apparently had made quite a scene including trying to scale a wall to get past security. He didn’t notice our creeping unease as he recounted his ardent love.

“Please, Senor,” he put his suit to my dad. “I must be allowed to give this rose to your daughter or I will die. May I have your permission? What is your room number?”

Dad fudged, asked for the check. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“OK,” Jesus mooned after me. “Be careful, baby.” He said in a tone dripping with possessiveness and drama.

Dad and I hightailed it out of the restaurant. That was the last meal we ate at the hotel.

So maybe being assumed to be the trophy wife isn’t such a bad thing even if it turns my feminist stomach. Perhaps cheap misconceptions are worth not being courted by an off-balance stalker. Either way, travels with dad continue to be one of the more unusual adventures of my life. And, as dad has always believed, travel is an amazing education – in the oddities human behavior more than anything.

Made In China

One of my favorite things about a trip to Italy is the shopping. OK, I can’t say favorite really. I’m not much of a shopper girl and my favorite things are more intangible:

Raindrops on Tuscan sunflowers and whiskers on…old men sitting in piazzas, bright copper coffee makers and warm welcome greetings. But that said I do like coming home with a few select items that are several years ahead of American fashion.

Back when I lived in Italy shopping was careless. I could pick up a dressy shirt for $6, a knit sweater for $15. The prices were decidedly Old Navy. In the years after when I would visit Italy, I’d always get my friend to take me to the Italian equivalent of Payless Shoes. I’d come home with five pairs of amazing, fashion forward, Italian leather shoes for $100.

Then one day a new plan for the future was revealed: the Euro. I heard the death knell of fabulous Italian shopping sprees. I was there for the 2001 change over and it wasn’t pretty. Prices went up overnight to compete with the rest of the continent.

And now, seven years later, I wistfully long for the days of separate currency and my beloved Lira the way my parents yearned for past realities like the roller-skate-waitress diner and afternoon stick-ball games. Golden times lost forever.

Still, the cache of bringing back those fashion-forward Italian goodies is strong. No one can dress like the impeccable Italians. No one can design like they can. So this trip I held fast to my boorish Euros and carefully bargain hunted.

Not finding anything within reach of my budget on my own, I asked my friend to take me to the Italian Payless again. Alas, even there, a mere pair of strappy sandals amounted to $140. There was no way. I was glad I’d shopped as much as I had before the Euro and the tanking of the dollar since it appears those sprees are lost to me forever. I am stuck with mere American clothes.

On our last day in Italy, I passed a purse kiosk in an American-style mall. There I found a fabulous turquoise bag. It was cute, a little audacious, pretty hip and best of all: very affordable. I brought it to the cashier as my one shopping conquest of the trip. Of course being a kiosk, the purse sure as heck wasn’t designer. I checked the label: Made in China. I hesitated. China is not exactly design cache capital of the world. Then I figured what the heck? I had no other wardrobe items to show for my trip and I decided the key was this: it may have been Made in China but my purse was Bought in Italy. Given the economy, that in itself is a fashion victory. Just like old times.

La Dolce Far' Niente

I am a blessed woman. I come from a family that values travel as the best education. One of my favorite bragging points about myself is that I’ve been to every country in Western Europe and about half of Eastern. But anyone who knows me, knows I have one true love: Italy. I knew there was something special between us when I came home from my first multi-country hop, walked into my high school English classroom and burst into sentimental tears at the sight of a Florentine Duomo poster.

Once again I am even more blessed. I got to spend July with my beloved. And my boyfriend too (an Italian, of course). We celebrated our year anniversary with a UCLA writing intensive. As always I never want to come home from that magical country and upon yet another tearful return, my BF asked me: what is it about Italy exactly that has such a hold on me? Not that he’d argue with my opinion but he’s pretty content here.

I could say the food, the people, the language, the history and all of the above are true love motivations for me. My BF argues it’s possible to get all that here: there are some (a teeny handful) of good Italian restaurants here. I have lots of Italian friends here. I can speak Italian with them or with the BF whenever I want. I have my kitchen geared for Espresso, not drip. But there is still a missing intangible that I love. The sum of Italian life is greater than the parts. The best I can come up with is: I love Italy for how I feel when I’m there.

To put it in context, it helps to understand that I was stressed out of my mind before our trip. Broken out worse than ever, trying to get distribution for one film, find financing for another, attach my favorite BSG star to a third, prep pitch materials for CAA for a fourth, AND struggle to turn a floundering company into a non-profit, AND work enough hours at that and several other freelance gigs to make a month’s income in ten days so as to pay my rent before leaving. I was pretty much stretched to the breaking point. But then, that’s nothing unusual for life in LA.

And then there’s Italy. Even there for a writing intensive and working from 8am to 8pm there was such joy. I stopped worrying about just when something got done and noticed it always got done just fine. I took pride in arranging breakfast and cleaning the kitchen after our troop of nine writers. Even the simple act of stringing up laundry to dry in the sun was enjoyable. It’s not just the air in Italy that makes me enjoy life there, it’s the breathing room. Nothing is done in fretta.

And then the weekend came and no matter how much work loomed before us, we hung up our weary laptops and went out and enjoyed. And didn’t feel guilty about it. This is a particularly American concept. Guilt about pleasure. Feeling that we have to earn happiness instead of just being entitled to it and blessed with it by nature. The Italians think we’re crazy for this, and they’re right. I took time to enjoy my life in Italy and I still came home with a great new script. (Hey CAA, dysfunctional family road movie?)

And that’s my missing intangible. I no longer believe in killing myself to get ahead. I renounce my devotion to the church of “the one who gets the most done wins.” I have discovered something truly remarkable in Italy: The weekend. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. I hadn’t seen one in real life in years, not all at once. And now I get them once a week. It’s amazing. You should try it.

I absolutely, categorically refuse to work on the weekends. I even hung up on a Red Cross Blood Drive guy: “Buddy, I’m happy to talk to you about giving my blood on Monday but today is Sunday.”

Since I’ve always been the uber-productive efficiency queen, my new ‘I get time for me’ policy is unsettling for those who always counted on me to get the job done no matter what. But that’s OK. No one ever died from waiting till Monday for a return email. OK, maybe in a medical emergency but I’m not a doctor and you can’t email me your pancreas. Nope, I am strictly enforcing my lowered productivity.

The funny thing is, my face has cleared up for the first time in years, I’m still getting stuff done on time, and I have more energy. I am actually enjoying life in LA again. Not pining for Italy quite as much as usual. In real world terms, I still get the work of two or three normal humans done in a week but for me that’s a big lazy shift from four or five.

There really is something sweet in the doing of nothing. And in allowing myself to see that as necessary rather than indulgent. Really, it’s acceptance that I’m in fact not a machine and an honoring of my humanity. Italy was trying to give that to me all along with the Baci and gelato and Illy Caffe and sunshine on medieval cobblestones and fireflies in the deepest Umbrian night and the good friends who bring half the town to welcome your visit and the slow mail and ridiculous bureaucracy and la bella figura and the roadside chapels and the little Italian cook who thinks you’re crazy for loving her homemade truffle lasagna like it was filet mignon and caviar at a five star restaurant because that’s what it is…Italy was gifting me this and I finally accepted. While I’ve always had Italy in my heart, I finally really got some of it in my life. Grazie, amore mio. It only took me twenty years to get it.

It Balances Out: Stench Update

Funny how things come around to you. My cousin arrives for a visit today and as much as I've cleaned post subletter horror the place still just doesn't feel clean.

I'm watching a neighbor's cat while she's away and her cleaning lady - the neighborhood gem - came by today and asked me what to do. Since my neighbor is away, the place is just as clean as it was when she cleaned it last week. We came up with a few deep clean things for her to do and then she looked at my place and said "then I'll just clean your place."

"Oh I don't have any money to pay you." I demurred, longing for the amazing clean I'd seen her cause all over the 'hood. It's been a dream of mine to someday be able to afford her once a month.

She looked around the place, smiled at me and shrugged. She showed up half an hour later and now it's like my entire place has been cleaned by magic fairies. Things I didn't know could be shiny are shiny. Everything smells good. There is no dust or pet fur anywhere. I told her about the Kid's mess and she shuddered. I told her that her showing up and doing this for me today was like a miracle. She just smiled and went on her way.

My cousin should be here in an hour. I got to focus on work all day. And my place is cleaner than it's been in the five+ years I've been here. I'm left with nothing but gratitude. And lemony-fresh everything!

The Stench of Travel

I should have known when he got lost three times on the way to the interview that something was amiss. Three times on my street, mind you.

I have never sublet my place before and I am super-territorial when it comes to having people in my personal space. My mom says on baby play dates, I’d never let the other kids in my room. But I was going to be out of town for a month and by missing that month of work a month’s rent was just too much for my bank account.

I hadn’t been able to find anyone decent and was about to give up when I got a call from the Kid the day before my trip. Definitely not the sharpest stick but he seemed like a sweet kid: just here from up Seattle, looking to start his graphic FX career. Said he didn’t drink or really know anyone so I figured we’d be good there; no wild parties at my place. He was pleased by the cleaning job I’d done so I figured he was a neat guy and I could expect to find the place like I left it.

Most importantly, he said he had cats back at home and he’d take care of my sweet, loving, low-maintenance cat. We went over the fact that I lived in a coyote zone and the cat could not, under any circumstances, be let outside. I should have known when the cat wouldn’t go near him. I should have known when he asked me to “get rid” of my comforter so he didn’t have to be around the cat fur. In the end, there were lots of “I should have knowns.”

I’d been in Italy a week and a half when I finally got to an internet café. The first message I saw was from my dad: The cat is fine, he’s resting at the vet. And so started the saga of subletter hell.

My inbox was filled with rants and pleas from friends and neighbors. Turns out the Kid had decided that the cat was “unsanitary” and had kicked him out of the house. My neighbors had mobilized trying to get him to take the cat back in but he cussed them out and told them if they put the cat inside, he’d just kick him out again. Meanwhile, he was blasting music, up all night and drinking all my liquor.

My dad had been called and he made the trek (bless him) from Palm Springs and plastered the neighborhood with missing cat signs. Meanwhile, he gave the Kid a lecture about responsibility which the Kid flipped out over and then later came simpering back with “Please sir, I’m not a bad guy.” But he didn’t help find the cat.

As the Kid vacillated between hostile and obsequious, my dad checked out my place and reported the floors strewn with beer bottles and spills, garbage overflowing and crap everywhere.

“Get him out of my house! Refund his money, I don’t care! Get him out!”

My dad however, found the Kid’s prescription stash: lithium and other anti-psychotics which his research told him were “for schizophrenics and severely suicidal individuals.” Given that he’d already essentially tried to kill my cat without remorse, dad decided it was best not to rile the Kid up and let him be. Afterall, he knew where I lived.

I hadn’t thought to email the agreement I’d made the Kid sign to anyone and now was trapped oversees without legal right to do anything to the madman living in my home. I bided my time and made it back to town at the end of the month, fuming over my hurt kitty and upset neighbors. The Kid tried to claim our agreement gave him the place for two days longer. He was wrong.

I arrived home expecting some cleanup but nothing could have prepared me for what I found. All my rugs and bedding including blankets my grandmother knitted were outside, under my stairs. My later confrontation of the Kid over this oddity resulted in “well it’s not like it rains here.”

Inside, the floors were covered in spilled beer and bottles were everywhere. My pictures were rearranged on the wall. My belongings (towels, toiletries) were mixed in with the trash (which included empty bottles of my dog’s pain prescription). My CDs were missing in large chunks, my furniture was rearranged in the oddest places (all my shoe racks were rearranged, still in my closet but just in a different order). My floor was scratched. Entire cabinets of food empty. My bed covered by just a sheet. And the whole place vaguely smelled like a port-a-potty. Shaking with fury, I took pictures of everything and set to cleaning.

As the cleaning progressed I found his stay was the gift that kept giving. I tried to make toast only to discover he had apparently do so as well...after putting jelly on the toast. How does one make it to 28 and not know to put the jelly of after the toasting? Out went the toaster. I found my underwear drawer wide open and a vat of my cream on the bedside table. Just - Ew. Out went the cream and into the washer went the entire contents of the drawer.

The Kid would be coming over that evening to collect the last of his stuff so I bagged it all and put it in the garage, careful to put his full ashtray in with his clothes (he smoked in my house!) Adding to the overall oddity were the several bibles I found. I imagined he’d found Jesus in a failed rehab attempt and knew this meant he’d be totally righteous in his defense of his crackpot actions. I also knew, this evening would be my chance to present him with his invoice for loss and damaged per our written agreement. Given that he was clearly off his rocker, I didn’t expect much and would be afraid to push to hard for what I was owed but I knew I’d at least feel better giving him a bill. So I cleaned and cataloged. But as much as I cleaned, the house smelled like pee. I scowled at my dog who clearly had needed to re-mark his territory. I picked up my cat from the vet and found he’d lost half his body weight and was losing his fur from malnutrition. If I made it though our meeting without killing the Kid, it would be a miracle.

He arrived that evening blithe and happy, alcohol on his breath. I began to go over the list and he produced many of my missing items from his car. “Oh I just borrowed all these CDs to rip at work.” And what in god’s name made you think you had the right to do that? I silently screamed, Dad’s admonition not to rile the Kid up ringing in my head.

I tried to casually ask for his dad’s number knowing the Kid would be useless in terms of the damages despite our written agreement. Dad had informed me that with all the drugs and alcohol the Kid forgot conversations, details and promises from one hour to the next so I figured I could use this in my favor.

“What do you want to talk to my dad for?” He stared daggers at the ground like a kid who’s just been caught in the act.

“I talked to him before, said I’d call him when I got back but I lost the number you gave me” I lied.

“You don’t talk to my dad. You deal directly with me,” he growled.

“OK. I just said I would call him…”

“He doesn’t even like me calling him, he wouldn’t want to talk to you.”

So much for that idea. I couldn’t restrain myself from asking what on earth he’d been thinking when he’d rearranged my shoes and left my bedding outside.

He just got more confused and agitated. “I just treated your stuff like I treat my own stuff or like I’d treat any friend’s stuff. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

Yikes. I tried to remind myself I was not dealing with a rational adult. This was one broken puppy. In fact it was like talking to a petulant 13-year old, not the 28-year old who actually stood before me. Not the calm, clean Kid who I’d interviewed the month before.

He saw the vet bill on the invoice and freaked. “I am not paying for that. I’m not even apologizing. That cat is annoying.”

“But you agreed to care for him. You knew he couldn’t be outside here. You took responsibility for a living thing.”

“He wouldn’t shut up.” He got more and more angry and I could see we weren’t going to get anywhere. "If you want more money out of me you'll have to take me to court." Don't give me any ideas, buddy. I figured I’d be lucky to get any money out of him for the more than $500 of damages I’d calculated so far. I cursed myself for having failed to get a security deposit.

We walked into the bedroom where he saw the bedding I’d rescued from under the stairs hanging out on the railing to air out. He got sheepish. That’s when I got the capper.

“Oh um, yeah. Sorry about that.” He pointed to a stain I hadn’t noticed in the middle of my removable pillow-top. “I got really drunk on 4th of July and had an accident.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You peed my bed?”

“Yeah but it’s no big deal. I was just going to go to Cost-Co and get you a new pad thingy.”

I choked. “This was $400.”

“Ooooooh. Sorry. I guess I will pay for the dry-cleaning from your invoice then.” He produced $40 from his wallet – all he had on him – and left, reminding me to call him if I wanted him to do some motion graphics work on my new website. Yeah, sure, disgustoid. You'll be my first choice.

It was only after he and his frenetic black cloud of energy were gone that I peeled the sheet back from my bed. The egg-crate pad still there reeked of pee. I chucked it. And the coup de grace: my beautiful custom mattress sported a four-foot dried pee spot. How much do you have to piss yourself for it to soak through a mattress pad, a four inch wool pad, an egg-crate foam and still leave a four-foot spot? That little fucker.

I apologized to my dog for blaming him for the smell and I set to work washing every linen in the house in the hottest, soapiest, bleachiest water possible. Thereon followed three days where I treated the mattress daily to new and inventive treatments to neutralize urine stains and odor. After all this, I could ill-afford $1000 for a new mattress. I slept on the couch and talked to friends and family. I apologized to my neighbors for subjecting them to the 28-year old bed-wetter. I wondered about tracking his dad down to pay for a new bed.

“Pet cruelty and bed-wetting, key commonalities among serial killers,” my federal officer friend advised me.

“That Kid’s a loose cannon,” dad railed. “He’ll kill himself or someone else before all is said and done. Leave him well enough alone.”

Great. And I had invited this horror into my home - into the family that is my neighborhood. Good freakin’ god.

“Did you actually think renting to that idiot was a good idea?” My business partner asked me. “I mean are you really surprised he acted like he did – apart from the bed-wetting of course, who could see that coming?”

“Yeah, I really thought it would be OK. He seemed like a good kid. He helped me with stuff I was trying to do when he first showed up. Seemed kind and reliable. He sold me a pack of lies and I believed it. And the salt in the wound is he gave me such a money sob story that I cut $300 off the price.”

“Damn, you’re trusting,” she chuckled.

Pollyanna strikes again.

“You only got snowed by him ‘cause you weren’t listening with your heart, you needed the money, you listened from there,” the Vargas Girl advises me. She’s totally right. I wish I had been able to listen with my heart. No money was worth the trauma to my home and my usually independent cat who still won’t leave my side lest the bad man come back.

After eight treatments and three steam cleanings, the mattress is sleepable again. The only odor now is chemicals and vinegar though I dream I am sleeping in a urinal. I smudge-sticked the whole house and covered the bed in rose water. It took me three days to clean and put everything back to rights.

If I have to look on the positive side, and you know I do, it could have been worse. At first I didn’t think so since the Kid’s behavior and attitude were, as one friend put it “just appalling.” But the more friends I talked to the more subletter horror stories came out: the friend who came back to find her subletter had invoked occupant rights and she had to fight for three months to get him evicted and get back into her own home. The friend of a friend who’d gotten a bounced check from their subletter and come home to find the place cleaned out and gutted – like even sinks and fixtures gutted.

I have learned a lot about subletting from all this:
- Get way more than you think you need – specifics – in writing
- Ask about prescription drug use
- Get a security deposit

- Pack and lock away all valuables, files, and important foods
- Check references!
- Give the contract you sign to friends and family so they have authority to act
- And never, ever, ever sublet your place

The other positive is that the boyfriend and I have already begun breaking down all this fury and incredulity. We’ve roughed out an outline for a new horror script: The Subletter. Mwuaah aah aah aah!

Party of Three

Cabo, Part 2

Cabo is no longer the bargain it once was. It’s pretty much like being in an American colony. It’s like Palm Springs with an ocean. Price-wise, you might as well be in Tokyo.

My boyfriend joined my dad and I several days after our bumpy arrival and we were horrified to discover that our lunch of two quesadillas and two margaritas cost us $70. But then Dad’s favorite trip pastime is to moan about “how much more the food costs this year.” Thanksgiving traditions are important. This year saw some shifts in ours.

This was the second time I’d brought a boyfriend with us. But this time was vastly different from the last time. Last time, dad and I had known the guy was on his way out. That time Cabo was a final try in a relationship that had been sliding downward for some time. Dad had known that, despite the presence of a boyfriend, he was still my number one guy.

This year – this boyfriend - was different. This one wasn’t sliding. This one wasn’t making me miserable. Dad knew this one loved and adored me. Like he did. We three sat on the beach where silence and book-reading replaced the engaging, get-to-know-you conversations I had envisioned. It was, in a word, uncomfortable.

Despite my best efforts to get things rolling with conversation topics of things I knew they had in common, it felt like we were all floundering, wondering how we all fit. And the truth was I didn’t know the answer.

In the past, I’ve been fortunate enough to go on many exciting jaunts around the world with my dad.

“I’m sure lucky you’re still single and can go with me!” Dad always chirps.

Yeah. Me…too. Of course, I’m grateful for the travel opportunities and to spend time with a wonderful individual like my dad. But like any single girl who dreams of marriage, it feels like a back-handed compliment; ‘good thing you’re still such a loser!’

At the same time, it’s been the prevailing dynamic for the better part of my life. My parents divorced when I was three. At five mom remarried. At nine I moved to San Francisco to live with my dad. It’s pretty much been the two of us ever since. Through the teen years I was naturally convinced he was the biggest asshole on the planet. But as I finally matured through college and after, we developed a very close friendship. I know I am his number one girl and, one engagement aside, he’s always been my number one guy. Faced with the real possibility of that dynamic changing, we’re all a bit off balance.

Dad left the beach on our last day feeling like a third wheel despite my best efforts to set aside time just for us two. I was wracked with guilt for somehow failing to be a dutiful daughter, a good girlfriend and get my two primary men to be best buds.

Safely back in LA where the quesadillas cost a few bucks like they’re supposed to, I moped around my boyfriend’s house.

“Honey, it’ll all work out,” he comforts me.

While I feel it’s partly up to me to create a new dynamic that works for everyone concerned I know it’s up to dad to come to grips with me leaving the metaphoric nest.

As for me, the best adjustment I can make is grounding myself in that there is no number one. There is just love. And plenty to go around.

No Thanks (Giving)

Cabo, Part 1

“Sorry again for the delay, folks. We’ve just gotten word that there was a baggage problem. Apparently a suitcase burst open and the guys are trying to put it back together before we can shut the cargo door.”

The passengers on our flight to Cabo collectively groaned. We’d been stuck at the gate for over an hour. Everyone knew it was their bag.

But the thing was I knew it was ours. That’s the kind of day it was.

We’d gotten to the airport late thanks to an unannounced off-ramp closure off the 405. In truth we’d been there in time to make the flight but the check-in counter folks debated about letting us through security so long we’d missed it. This set off a mad chase to find another flight leaving that day. After running back and forth between terminals 4 and 6 at LAX several times, the reluctant Alaska folks had finally issued a ticket credit American could accept and we were booked on the next American flight. Which was then delayed two hours. Which then sat at the gate for an hour.

Dad and I spend every Thanksgiving in Cabo. It’s a lovely turkey-free tradition. Every year there is some nuttiness at the airport. Oddly, it usually it involves a frazzled mom screaming at me though I am just standing there. As this year's airport ick mounted, I thought I’d rather have endured another unearned screaming than this craziness, and whole day without sunshine.

Seven hours after our scheduled arrival, we landed. And sat on the Mexican tarmac for another hour. Finally, as night fell and we lost an entire beach day, we collected dad’s bag from baggage claim – indeed the burst-open culprit.

We arrived at the hotel to find they’d given our room away and instead put us under the rooftop restaurant which meant no sleep until after they closed at 11pm…or after they opened for cleaning at 5am daily. Sometimes you wonder if you should just stay home. Or, if you’re us, you take the absurdity and run with it.

Making coffee that morning, we found a gigantic spider. I’m talking tarantula proportions. Brown and hairy and thankfully rather dazed. Dad gleefully bagged the furry friend in the Ziplock that until moments before had contained my cranberry snacks. Still in his PJs, he donned the hotel robe and dashed from the room.

After a few minutes the door opened. “Pack up, we’re changing rooms,” he reported.

It seems he’d marched up to the concierge and dumped the spider from the bag onto her desk causing the lobby to erupt in screams. Some even scrambled for cover.

“Was that necessary?” I asked.

“We got a better room.”

“Just because we found a spider in the kitchen?”

“Well. I told them I woke up with it on my pillow.” I swear there was a gleeful glint in his eye.

You had to admire a little creative mayhem from a parent known for practicality.

My Best Collection

There is a boarding pass in my new thrift store book.

A man named Alex Naples flew here from Cleveland on March 14th. He must have been reading this book. The back flap of the dust jacket is still holding a place about fifty pages from the end. Did Alex not finish the book? It’s a sad story about a parent-child rift. Did it touch a nerve and he had to put it down? Take it to the thrift store where I would find it? Or did the flap find its way there, jostled in transit? What was Alex doing in Cleveland?

It seems the beauty of things is in the smallest parts. The tiniest evidence of a life. The things that go unnoticed except by the patient eye. I have become aware that taking the time to notice these details is the most rewarding part of the day. The smell of the orange blossoms on the tree we just passed. The way the light catches in the late afternoon in the uneven paint on my terrace doors. The vines with small blue flowers that stick to my dog’s coat like a fairy garland when he passes through them. I am becoming a connoisseur of the minutia of daily life.

I love collecting snatches and glimpses of people’s lives. Alex could never have known how he’d make my day by leaving his boarding pass in a book he was passing along.

Usually I do my collecting just walking around my neighborhood. Last week I saw a woman tending her garden. I stopped to compliment her on her geraniums. We ended up talking for half an hour. She regaled me with her life as told by the chronology of her plant acquisitions. “We put these in when Reagan got elected. This here was for Molly’s college graduation.” In the end she pressed cuttings from some long, trailing vines into my hands. “Clip ‘em here and they’ll root right up for you.”

I thanked her and walked back over the ridge to my side on the canyon, the vines flopping in my fingers and the spring heat. Vines that had seen presidencies and childhoods pass. Vines that now root in a pint glass in my kitchen.

Another afternoon I saw a wiry old man with papery skin tugging at his tree branches with clippers. I felt compelled to greet him. He stood petting my dog and told me about running in the ’36 Olympics with Jesse Owens and later surviving a Japanese POW camp after his plane went down in the pacific. I lamented aloud that I hadn’t brought my notebook with me. His adventures would make a great screenplay. “Oh they already have,” he assured me. “Nick Cage is supposed to star. They adapted my book. One minute.” He darted in his hillside house and returned a moment later with a copy of his memoir for me.

These glimpses of people always reveal such a generosity of spirit. Almost like looking through a keyhole at a cluttered room and seeing only the brilliant painting on the far wall. The way we touch each others’ lives in these smallest of moments. The kindness of strangers. The ability to be your true self with someone who knows nothing about you. Maybe just your best self.

These encounters create the web of human connection that comforts me when I get too overwhelmed by the big picture. I may not have cracked that character problem that’s been gnawing at my latest screenplay today but I finally met the guy who stands across the road smoking in the evenings. We’ve waved hello for over a year but today I know that his name is Adam and he is a butcher who is tired from standing all day. On a day like this, that’s enough.