Desert Exile: Closing Party for the Palm Springs International Shortfest

The condo is fairly silent; the only sounds are the near-constant hum of the air conditioner, and the periodic mewls from the cats as they follow me around and cast me alternately aggrieved and expectant looks. What they want, I have not a clue. (But then, I don't have a clue what I want, either, so at least we're all even.) They won't be getting much attention from me tonight, for I'm engrossed in my toilette.

Tonight's the night of the closing party for the Palm Springs International ShortFest. Two years ago, I had not a clue that the ShortFest existed. I did not know what a Short was. And then a former boss/colleague/friend/mentor gave me a call. "I've got a spare ticket to the Closing Night show and the party. Want to come? Lots of young men from LA will be there."

(Now I can't think of anything less appealing. But two years ago? I was itching to get out of the Desert, or at least get some lovin' before I did.)

So I went. I enjoyed some charming short films--an animated film about a boy and an annoyingly persistent penguin stand out in my mind--and I noticed someone.

"Former Boss," said I, "Who's that handsome man, streaking past like a blonde comet."

Former Boss followed the direction of my gaze. "Oh, that's Himself," she said. "He runs the theatre. I'll introduce you later."

And she did. And then, four months later, we were engaged, and eight months after that, we were married. So I will happily admit to having a soft spot in my heart for the ShortFest closing party.

Now, though, there's no such sentimental claptrap floating about in my brain. I'm in a race against time; I need to be ready to head out the door the second Himself calls. So I twist my hair up, wishing my neck were longer and my face more angular. I truss myself into a halter dress and am momentarily disconcerted by the cleavage which fairly overflows from my dress. There will be plenty of suggestive looks later at the party, but for the love of cats--right now, my girls are an asset. So I'll use them as such, and so shrug off the feeling of uneasy exposure which comes when ever I market myself in a revealing light.

On goes the powder and concealer, the eyeshadow and the mascara and the lipstick. Jewelry takes a few more minutes--nothing necessary on the neck, why should I detract from the natural charms? My hand hovers over a pair of crystal danglies, and then pluck out the Hello Kitty danglies I picked up in Cozumel last year. No sense in being too fancy, and the Hello Kitty earrings will make a quirky contrast to the black and white revealing dress. It's an international crowd which will be there tonight, but despite the language barriers, it always feels as though they follow a uniform fashion code of more hipster garb, or else the very newest casual trend. My garb--very much last year, and JC Penneys to boot--doesn't have a hope in hell of being fashionable, so what's the point in trying to underplay the sparkly, curvy elegance of my halter sundress? It's mine, therefore it's fine. So Hello Kitty earrings are discarded, and the crystal danglies now adorn my ears. They look better with the dress anyway.

This is far more effort than I ever used to put into what I wear. In my early twenties, I usually wore boot-cut jeans, a tank-top, a flannel, Skechers, and a do-rag to my college classes, and was quite happy and almost belligerent in how I sported this look. But the years have changed me--I now try to "dress for the job I want, not the one I have", and while no one would catch me buying Dolce and Gabanna, or some such nonsense, I do try to clean up now. I learned my lesson after last year's ShortFest closing party--I was recovering from a far-too-wild party held the night before (also ShortFest related) and praying that no one recognized me as the chick who had been on the floor of the Ace Hotel's bathroom. I also had not put too much effort into what I wore. Which is of course why it stood to reason that one of the event photographers snapped several pictures of me with my husband, and I think at least one of them ended up in the Society Pages of Desert Life.

Tonight, before the party. I'm not sporting
a hangover this year, thank goodness!

Later:
The party is now over, and I am once more at home, in a comfortable (and ugly) pair of jammies. The party was great; there were so many people that I already knew that I had to spend virtually no time talking to the LA crowd. Yes, I know they are our bread and butter, and I welcome them and thank them, but I don't know them. Working this party scene over the last year, I've come to realize it's not the parties themselves that I dread, it's the having to make conversation with person after person after person whom I have never met. Invariably, they are kind and interesting and sometimes drunk, but it's exhausting. Socializing never sat easy on me; it did and does take a huge mental effort for me.

So I am home, and I have a splitting headache, and my throat is raw from hollering over the music, and I feel drained from it all. But it was a good, good night, with good, good people. And I can retreat back into my hermit cave for another week, and put away the cleavage and the sparkly earrings.

It was a fun night. And who knows? Maybe for someone else, it was a magical night. Maybe someone else met their future life partner tonight at the party. Maybe someone else's life completely changed.

A Lesson on Learning to Love My "Forever Life"

I am just wrapping up my fifth summer in California.

Well, wrapping up isn't quite the word for it, as it's about 11 days from the beginning of fall, and we're forecasted for the low-100s all next week. But hey! That's 'way down from the 116 degree + humidity temps we had at the end of August/beginning of this month. You learn to take what you can get and be happy with it.

But anyway, summer is, in theory, ending; the kids are back in school; the orange/red/yellow decorations are out in the stores; people on my blogroll are talking about crisp air and autumn projects and quite frankly, I want to punch them in the face. Really, really hard.

This is not a healthy response. I know this.

So...a few weeks back, I was thinking on this unhappy state of affairs. And then that night I went home and read Single Infertile Female' s blog, and she was talking about her "Forever Life" and how she was afraid that it was going to be defined by fear and loneliness and bitterness and disappointment. What stuck in my head was the term "forever life". I didn't realize why until the next day, at work, when it occurred to me that we all, eventually, commence our forever life.

And I had just commenced mine this summer (of all times!) I cast my lot in with Himself, committed myself to a life with him, for better or for worse. I'm so happy that I did. But. Himself loves the desert; he grew up here, he loves the mountain and the trails and the deadly black widows and velvet ants and rattlesnakes and the roadrunners and the bighorns. He loves it here.

And me, not so much. I dislike being so far from my family; I miss rain and seasons and cold weather; I miss old houses and barns and fields and the color green...well, you get my picture.

But this is my Forever Life. This is it. Himself and I both have great jobs, and coupled with the fact that he loves it so much, it's looking more and more like we won't be leaving here any time soon.

If ever.

It finally sunk in that day at work. In the course of a few hours, I grew up and faced facts: my circumstances won't be changing, so what do I do? Continue bitching and whining and making disparaging remarks about California? That would only strain and perhaps kill my marriage. Quietly resign myself to it and act all passive-aggressively like the long-suffering wife? Unlikely; the act would be too difficult to sustain. So, the third option: Adapt. Like it or lump it or make yourself love it--and do so genuinely. And until you get to that point, celebrate the great parts and learn to cope with graciousness.

I think we can guess which route that I am taking.

It's simple enough--I simply try, day to day, to find the funky, funny, quirky, delightful, gratifying things about living here. I throw myself more into my job than ever. I make a genuine effort to cultivate lasting friendships.

But just now, I learned another thing that I have to do.

A lot of unhappiness comes from comparing yourself and your circumstances to others; seeing what they have and being envious of them. Now we come back to where I want to commit aggravated Internets assault against innocent homemakers on my blog. No so much with the healthy, there.

Just prior to composing this post, I happened upon this:











A real estate listing re-blogged on Hooked on Houses. I am a total sucker for these types of houses, and so I followed the link...

Only to find out that this house is in the town from whence I originally spawned, Milford, Ohio.

It's selling for $189,000.

Of course, I began perusing the link, ogled over the compact little rooms, the hardwood floors, the pleasing reds and neutrals. And then I caught it--that little kernel of unhappiness, starting to swell and explode--and I knew what I had to do.

I closed the tab.

If part of graciously coping and eventually building a genuinely happy life out here depends on me turning away from pictures of My Ideal Life, then that's what needs to be done. Is it sticking my head into the sand?

Well, yes. But whatever works, right? And I live in the desert, so at least there's plenty of sand to go around!L

Five on Friday: The Freaky Fabulous Life of an Un-California girl (Along With Thoughts on Thursday: Living the Life of Someone Else's Dreams)

A little bit of photography detailing the freaky and fabulous things that can be found in the deserts of Southern California.

The tram that takes you from the 100-degree desert to the 65-degree mountaintop in 15 minutes:














The odd things people think it's acceptable do to their undersized dogs:














(This poor little guy does not belong to me, by the way)



The view where I work:

















The sun-drenched beach trips:




















The patriotic Drag Queen Shows:















So, early Thursday morning (like, early early) I had one of my occasional epiphanies.

Himself and I have this dream...not too long ago, we hatched this plan to someday (like, NO TIME soon) move to Asheville, NC. And it's a thought that's been taking root ever since, gaining nourishment from our bad days, our stressful days, my homesickness, Himself's desire for change. We're going to start looking at property there next year.

Already, I am trying to mentally prepare myself for the very far-off day in which we can make that transition. The latest preparations took the form of me doing a blogger search by location, looking for interesting bloggers who live in Asheville.

In my typical Gemini manner, I got fairly distracted very quickly. The blogs that I found weren't what I was looking for; didn't quite capture the fabulousness that must be felt when living in a place like Asheville, NC. Holy crap! I thought. These people live in Asheville, North Carolina, one of the most awesome places on Earth, and they can't even really depict their fabulous life in their blog. I could cheerfully strangle them right now.

And then it hit me--brutally, suddenly, and deservedly, as it usually does. I somehow had a moment of insight beyond my own little life and briefly wondered if somewhere in this country, some young girl is sitting here, daydreaming about a future fabulous life in Palm Springs, searching for blogs which really capture the life that she wants to have some day.

And here I am, epically failing to fulfill her desire.

So, can't promise anything, but Sassy's going to try to inject a little bit of Palm Springs funk into her blogging style. Can't hurt, right?

Oh! Bonus Shot:

The Liberal Pet Policies in Public Buildings:

Erring on the Side of Hope

California is...an interesting place. To most, it's a glorious place, with the promise of sunny, temperate days, glitzy glamorous nights, and plenty of potential success and dreams to lure many an unsuspecting soul here. But there's so many invisible (and sometimes visible) hazards. There are so many faultlines, ready to rupture and break us all apart.

So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.

He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.

Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.

But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.

The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.

As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...

Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.

I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.

That's Great it Starts with an Earthquake

It was not how I had intended to spend my Easter (AKA Zombie Jesus Day). I had not particularly desired or planned to spend it on the couch, wheezing hacking gagging snotting my life away and reading the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel series. I didn't intend to be left behind as Himself went roving through the wilds of the high desert. And I sure as heck didn't intend to be preparing myself to kiss my ass goodbye and readying myself to potentially depart this plane of existence.

Okay, yes, in hindsight, that statement is a tad melodramatic. I tell you what, my people, it wasn't so over-the-top of a statement yesterday when I found myself realizing, "Hey, that's NOT a delivery truck..." It was, in fact, an earthquake. A big one. The Big One? I didn't know. All I knew was that, each time in the past, these little rumblers have been over within seconds, before I had time to react. And I had grown complacent as a result. And yesterday, when the floor started bouncing and the walls and ceiling began to shift, I thought "Earthquake! Don't move, it'll be over soon...now...now...now?" And it kept not being over. The shaking kept on, and the shaking got worse, the rumbling grew louder, and may I re-iterate that the floor was bouncing. Things that are unmovable shouldn't...well...move. I finally felt my limbs begin to unfreeze, and I got off the couch and went to an inner doorway like they always say (I'm pretty sure "they" were never in an earthquake) you're supposed to do, and that's when the shaking got to be the worst. The beautiful old antique grandfather clock that Himself has had for many years, and has not worked of its own accord in the same time, was swaying back and forth so violently that it was gonging as though it were high noon.

And then it ended.

I was choking on my own fear (as opposed to the nasty phlegm which has taken up residence in my body since I got sick), breathing in short, tense gasps. I didn't know where it was, or how big it was, but my instincts told me that it was BIG. (The longer the earthquake goes on for, the bigger it is, usually). I called Big Sissy in New Jersey to let her know I was 0kay. And then I bought two one-way, non-refundable plane tickets to the Midwest.

Okay, not really, not that last bit. In fact, being on the phone with Big Sissy helped calm me down. And we didn't lose power, and nothing broke, and frankly, we got off very very lucky. But still? I'd rather have ham and chocolate easter bunnies than this s*^t.

Balls McCarthy, though, I'd take a tornado any day!

A strange victory

It's strangely cloudy tonight, cloudy and gloomy like it used to be back East, in a different land, in a different life. Under normal circumstances, I'd think there's a freakish change in the weather coming. But tonight, I'll accept it as the gift that I'd like to think it is...a birthday gift, of sorts. Three years ago today I came to California.

I keep typing sentences, inane sentences with these empty, vapid words that clutter up the page, kind of like the cheap trinkets and knick-knacks and cosmetics and accessories I buy that are actually worthless, just cluttering things up. I don't think there's any words I can really summon to effectively describe these last three years, and the hopes and disappointments and realizations and resignations that I encountered...there are no words that can effectively summarize the life--such as it is--that I have made for myself here.

It all simply comes back to that thing that my friend Deshka and I told each other, over and over, during that bleak winter and spring of 2006:

It is what it is.

And so it is just that--it is I, who sacrificed a good man to my stubbourn pride within six weeks of moving here. It is my life here, my life of work and not much else. It is the consequence of me trusting one too many of the wrong kind of man, the bad kind, one too many times. It is the friends I have made here, the younger-than-me girls that seem to have it more together than I do, the older-than-me women who talk (a lot) about plastic surgery, it is the harsh sunshine and relentless dust, it is the bird that sings every night, just after midnight, right outside my bedroom window. It is the stubbourn, dogged and ultimately fruitless commitment I maintained for two of those three years, commitment to a boy that didn't really want me that much. It is the gut-numbing, limb-freezing terror that siezes me every time I feel the floor tremble or hear the windows rattle. It is the Pacific Ocean, still freezing cold and foreign to me, it is the three-hour-time difference between me and those who know me and my life, it is the three years of priceless work experience, it is three years in which I can count on two hands the number of cloudy days we've had.

It is all of these things...until it just isn't anymore.

I don't know when that will be. A month ago, the thought of staying here for countless more years made me want to weep with frustration and fear. Tonight, as I drink a glass of Shiraz and listen to the fan hum behind me and keep one eye on the chick-flick I've got playing, and as I watch my cats fight each other, annoyed with the vigorous brushing I gave them both, I understand that it doesn't just happen right now, overnight, on demand. I don't know when it's going to happen. And right now, at this moment, I'm okay with it.

That feeling will pass. But it's here for now, and for that I am grateful.

Happy birthday to me.