Don’t you hate it when bloggers post about how they’re crying all the time and you’re like “Fuck, post something happy already, you Old Ass Emo Wannabe. The Smiths are done. Grab a tissue and some Jack Daniels and shut the hell up!”. Beyond the fact that you are a bit of a pottymouth, you are right. I had a fantastic trip to California and I’m sure you’d much rather read about that than another whiney little diatribe about My Body. Or My Hair.
In case you’re new around here, I was raised in California. I had no idea that I was proud Californian until I moved to Texas. Rather, until I was legally bound by the sanctity of marriage and all that is holy, to move to Texas. I believe the Bacefook group “Bitch Please…I’m From California” sums it up best when it it’s strict membership selection criteria:
You know you’re from California when…
- All the porn you watch is made here.
- You can wear sandals all year-long.
- All the TV shows “other” states watch get filmed here.
- You don’t call it Cali (that’s how we know you’re not from around here).
- Your sense of direction is dictated by the ocean: Toward the ocean= West, Away from the ocean= East.
- The only bugs that you worry about are electronic.
- Your monthly house payments exceed your annual income.
- You pack shorts and a t-shirt for skiing in the snow, and a sweater and a wetsuit for the beach.
- Your governor can kick all other governors’ asses.
- Your coworker has 8 body piercings/tattoos you can’t see.
- You leave for work an hour early to avoid weather-related accidents when it sprinkles.
- Your hairdresser is straight and your plumber is gay.
- You have to leave the company meeting early because Billy Blanks himself is teaching the 4:00 PM Tae-Bo class.
Oh, and I got to meet Geek Hiker!
He is the fifth blogger I’ve had the privilege of meeting in person. I think there’s some natural barrier-less THING between bloggers. I mean, we tend to share some pretty raw and personal things in our blogs. But I always worry that I will come off as TOO familiar. Like I’ll ended up shouting, “That story your wrote about having to get that bottle surgically removed from your ass was HYS-terical!”. Because, let’s face it, I do have a tiny bit of shyness about me in the real world. In my blog I’m all sass and candor; in real life I am thisclose to humping your leg, hoping you’ll like me.
My first meeting was with Dingo and Blakspring in New York, where I arrived an hour early and proceeded to engage in my own happy, happy hour. I tried to teeter on my cute shoes and forget that my dad told me I looked like a hooker when I hugged Dingo. Luckily, both ladies are wonderful and I had nothing to fear. It wasn’t the awkward first date-like experience I had anticipated. My second meeting was with I Pick Pretty and TUWABVB here in Austin. I have yet to write I full report on them, but don’t take my persistant laziness as a reflection on either. They are beyond lovely and we’ve actually met another time since then. Each time I arrived an hour early and summed the god of liquid courage to keep me from shouting inappropriate things in public spaces. Only this time, I was rushing between events/activities/fetes so there was no drinking involved. Geek Hiker met me in my raw state, like crudité. Sweaty, cellphone-checking crudité.
Of course, he was not at all socially awkward as I had anticipated- which I told him and later thought may have seemed a tad condescending and rude. (Hey, you call yourself a GEEKHiker and I make some Sheldon-like assumptions about you) As long as I’d lived in San Diego, I’d never toured The Midway (a Navy aircraft carrier-turned museum) so it was a fun way to explore and get to know each other (read: had enough stuff to distract me if he turned out to be a big, hairy weirdo). I probably giggled more than I needed to and initially made those jokes you make with people who know you really well, until I remembered he doesn’t know me that well. Yeah, there was a joke about me peeing that pretty much dove off the ship and drowned itself in the bay. But we had fun touring the ship and trying to ascertain why anyone in the military would allow themselves to be called “Bushwacker”.
It is my professional opinion that the boy is single because he is not in the right place. He doesn’t seem to fit in L.A. and it is my prediction that, if he moves to a place, he will find “her”. There’s something to be said about time, place, and manner. A friend of mine had this high-powered corporate job in San Diego that she quit and moved to Northern California–where she is making less money and househunting with her new beau. I’m sure all of his readers have advice about how he will find the woman who is right for him, The One he doesn’t have to decode or guess about. The One whose sitting wherever she is in the world, patiently waiting for him (and his camera) to arrive All-in-all it was a great experience and I would highly recommend it for anyone meeting him. Although, you may want to bring batteries because he ran through those pretty quickly….for his CAMERA, you dirtyminded, sickos!
This trip home hit me in my core. In that place where we realize what moves our hearts and, now that we know it, can’t live without it. Although, I am not ready to stretch my ladyparts in order to plunk out a kid, it’s a lot less scary. Three of my girlfriends have kids that I got to hang out with. I watched them each talk and play and make sense of the world, and I am sad that I am missing it. Sad that I won’t be there to see them get ready for the first dance. Or wipe a tear after the first heartbreak. Or when they open that college acceptance letter. I mean, I will be there for the big stuff- graduations, weddings- but I won’t be there when that mean kid teases them about her hair, clothes, or whatever nonesense kids kind to distinguish themselves from each other. I’ll just be that brown lady that sweeps in and out of their live, who’s loud and says things that make her parents chuckle, always drinks out of small glasses then sleeps late the next morning. I’ve seen a new style of parent, one that I can actually manage. One where the mom isn’t consumed by baby, that doesn’t lose herself to be a mom. A mom who is making it work her way instead of doing what is expected. I can handle that kind of motherhood. Only, without all the pooping and crying.
This trip reminded me that I am officially old. Going to a club with $40 cover and $12 cocktails makes little Suze Ormand holograms pop on your shoulder, yammering on about making sound financial decisions. Rooftop bars and European boys who focus on cleavage like heat-seeking missiles is annoying. Observing the girls who believe the only way to satisfy their inner attention whore is by grinding on each other like ameteur porn stars is just sad. Cozying up with your girls in a plush corner couch beats dancing with the drunk whose fingers believe they exist to penetrate fabric. And that it turns you on.
This trip filled my soul and it had nothing to do with the palm trees, the breeze from the ocean, or the fantastic Italian food (which I ate nearly every day).
