My Weblog

Live From Oregon

I know that I've completely neglected my beloved blog, but I truly have a good reason! I've moved to Oregon... Corvallis to be exact. It all happened so quickly that I didn't even have time to post about it because I had to pack and make arrangements for the movers. And then when we landed in Oregon, we had to find a place to live. This past month has been such a whirlwind of boxes and bubble wrap and espressos that I'm dying for a moment to catch my breath.

Why Oregon, you ask... first and foremost, we have family here and we've missed them terribly. Raising a baby far away from your loved ones is horrible and I don't recommend it to anyone. Now I feel so much happier just to be able to see people that I enjoy on a daily basis. Bruno and I didn't have that in Michigan, at least not until the very end. (Ironically, we befriended our new neighbor shortly before we moved and found that we loved them very much (hi Ladies!). It made leaving that much harder!)

The second reason we chose Oregon is that we needed to be surrounded by like-minded people. In Michigan we were choking on "W" stickers and "support the war" rallies. Finding a fellow liberal was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. We did find some kindred spirits but the majority of people that we encountered were so different from us. I tried to be tolerant but it was getting to me. So now we're living in a town that was voted one of the top 10 greenest cities in America. That alone should tell you something. Now we have the opportunity to really get involved in making a difference for the planet. I need this. I need to live somewhere that people are mindful of their actions. And now I do.

There are other reasons we moved here, such as the amazing beauty and the fact that it's a small town with awesome coffee shops on every corner. Oh yeah, and there are a million and one thrift stores here and a river that runs right through town. There are hiking trails everywhere and we live on a hill that overlooks an amazing valley on one side and mountains on the other. We pass by alpacas and sheep every time we drive down from the hill. And there's a red barn below us that actually has farm stuff in it- because it's on a real farm! Can you tell that I'm excited?

I'm planning on taking pictures and posting them soon, however I suck at taking pictures. So I might just "borrow" some good pictures from Nora since she's a real photographer. She actually wrote a wonderful post here about the glorious day that we had last weekend (with pictures and all)! Check it out and pretend that I wrote it.

Visual DNA

Coming at you live from Oregon! Yup, I've relocated, but I'm still my same grands self... Just a bit more granola now.

Thanks IrishGoddess for this fun little time waster! Check out my visual DNA...

Read my VisualDNA™     Get your own VisualDNA™

Samba

I've been going through some old stuff that I wrote back when Bruno was away in Italy and I found this piece. I had forgotten about it, yet I love it so much. Maybe one day I'll expand upon it and see where it goes, but for now it is simply a vignette. I call it "Samba".

____________________________

She watched the candle flicker, the light dancing off of the cracked crimson glass that housed its flame. She found its jumping erratic movements intoxicating and stared at it until her vision became white and she was forced to look away. It took her eyes a moment to adjust and she found her every view obstructed by the image of the flame, it’s spirit lingering on and refusing to let go. The backs of her retinas ached from the brazen intrusion of the candle. She wondered why she had stared at it when she knew that it turned out the same every time- blinding and painful. Yet she knew that she would do it again. She would do it thinking that maybe this time things would be different. Maybe this time…

The thought haunted her so she picked up the closest thing to her, a sugar packet, and busied herself reading the label. When she caught a flash of the waiter in the corner of her eye she dropped the sugar and attempted to make eye contact with him. Feeling her eyes upon him, he turned and recognized her signal for another round: a finger pointed to her empty martini glass. He mouthed the question, “One more?” and she nodded her consent.

The waiter disappeared, the entire exchange taking less than 10 seconds. It was the most contact that she’d had with another human being since, well, since her last drink had been ordered. But before that, it had been days.

She hated her isolation and she hated herself because she was her own captor, her isolation self-imposed. Some prisoners had lived their entire lives behind bars, dreaming of a life on the outside, yet here she was, on the outside, and jailed by her emotional walls, her self-loathing the key to her lock.

She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and stared. “How could that be me?” she thought. Only her eyes belied the truth within her soul. They stared back at her, dark yet hollow, devoid of warmth or emotion or the sparkle that had occupied them once upon a time. The rest of her face was pretty enough. If she wore sunglasses, she could even be considered beautiful. But her eyes stole her beauty. There was no light in her prison and no room for beauty to grow, to flourish. Nothing was nurtured where she was. She was where people came to die, as she herself had been slowly dying, each day bringing her one step closer to her final freedom. She smiled, the thought of the end bringing her a sense of melancholy happiness.

The waiter placed her drink in front of her and, thinking that she was smiling at him, smiled back.

“Thanks,” she offered, unsure if it was for the drink or the attention.

“Your welcome,” he gave back and smiled one more time. He looked into her eyes and paused, a look, of sadness clouding his face.

A silent question lingered in the air between them. He wondered what had caused her obvious heartache. She thought he must be wondering what was wrong with her.

She looked away, but he did not. Uncomfortable, she stirred the olive in her martini glass, fascinated by the waves that it left in its circular wake. Her eyes clung to the bottom of her glass, as if all of life’s questions hid in its depths.

He knew that she was aware of him. He didn’t want to walk away, but he didn’t know how to stay.

“It’s on me,” he said, an olive branch extended.

She looked up, and for a moment, her eyes softened.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes never leaving his as she gently took hold of the branch.

Simultaneously, their hearts leapt, neither of them aware of the other’s imperceptible shift.

He walked away, back to his job, and she sipped on her drink. Thoughts rapidly invaded her head and bounced around before shooting back out as she absently stared at the flame flickering brightly before her, awed by its movements, its magical free flowing samba.

Yet Another Rerun

Another Rerun- originally posted... I don't know. A couple of years ago...

Well, my loyal readers (are you out there???), I've made it 100 some odd days without a gunshot or knife wound. Unfortunately however, I did not make it completely unscathed. Last week, my cute little convertible (who is dumb enough to own a convertible, red no less, in the hood?) was stolen only footsteps from my front door. The list of suspects is long and grows with each new hoodlum that I spy in my daily travels. The odds of catching said thief? Dwindling by the millisecond...

My week began like any other in the D. I awoke Monday morning to the smell of coffee (compliments of Bruno) and the sound of undecipherable screaming emanating from my bedroom window. Just your standard a.m. affair. While sipping espresso and smoking my first cigarette of the day I slumped onto the couch and tried to get my eyes to focus through the crust left over from a night drowned out by my OTC sleeping pill of choice, benedryl. As the screaming escalated somewhere outside my humble abode, I remembered that I could no longer put off the dreaded talk that I had to have with my landlord. Today was to be the day. The "I want the fuck out of Detroit, and my lease, please" day.

Bruno and I made awkward movements throughout the house for much of the morning, neither of us comfortable with breaking bad news to others. We ran over our list of "why's", such as: we hate it here, there's a crack house across the street, it's not safe, some crazy homeless guy tried to break our front door down, etc. etc. By the afternoon we had worked ourselves into such a state of fear that we almost opted to delay The Talk and go grab cocktails instead. Almost. Then the crack heads started yelling again and we pushed through our fear.

Our landlord was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He understood. He's from the D so it doesn't scare him like it does us white folks from So Cal. He even had another place in the suburbs that we could move to without having to start up a new lease. The landlord was so nice; he wasn't even going to hold our deposit hostage for breaking out year lease (only 4 months into it...). Things were looking good in the lives of Gigi and Bruno.

The next morning began in much the same manner as the previous morning. Smells of coffee, sounds of crack heads, me on the couch picking crust out of my eyes. Bruno had to head into school so I kissed him good-bye and picked up I-Book to catch up on the latest Hollywood gossip (it's a guilty pleasure- back off!). No longer than 30 seconds had passed before the front door opened and Bruno came walking back in, stunned.

"What's wrong?" I inquired, barely taking my eyes off of the latest "Lohan Gets Fucked Up and then Fuck's Someone Her Dad's Age" story.

"The cars gone."

"What?"

"The cars gone. It's fucking gone."

"No fucking way!" I-Book was thrown aside at this point because frankly, I had my own real life drama going on and Lohan was no longer interesting. I ran out to the porch and found myself agreeing with Bruno. Yup, the car was fucking gone.

Something rather unfortunate happened at that moment. I finally snapped. Everything that Detroit had thrown at me over the past 4 months amounted to this. In this town, you cannot win. And like any madman (or madwoman) I threw my head back and tossed out an eerie peal of laughter. Laughter escalated over the rooftops of the dilapidated burned out homes all around me. I laughed so hard that tears ran down my face and I nearly choked on my own delirium.

I continued laughing when I called the insurance company. I laughed harder when I called the police station. I laughed the entire cab ride from my house to the rental car agency and I laughed when I signed away my life on the dotted line of the rental policy. I laughed while I sat in the police station waiting to fill out a report. I even laughed when giving the cop the details of the theft. The laughter didn't stop until these fated words were spoken by the attending officer:

"You had full coverage insurance so it shouldn't be a problem."

Full coverage insurance? You mean I need full coverage in order to be reimbursed for my dearly departed car? That isn't standard with my policy?

"I don't have full coverage insurance. Just the minimum that's required by the state." I had stopped laughing.

"You should probably speak with your insurance company then..." He looked apologetic, and I actually believe that he felt sorry for me. Shit, I felt sorry for me.

I can't really recall much of the hours or days that followed that. A blur of crack heads screaming and me staring off into space. That must be the second stage of grief. It is now a week later and I have a new car. I'm only in my apartment for 10 more days and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this car won't be stolen. But hell, this is the D. It will probably be gone by tomorrow morning.

Rerun #3

Crack Business Rule #1: The Customer Is ALWAYS Right!

100 days without a gunshot or knife wound!!!!!

This morning there has been a steady stream of crackheads outside of my flat, screaming, pissing and making a general nuisance of themselves. If anyone is actually out there reading this (and I suspect that no one is, so this is probably pointless to say) I would like to set the record straight and say that, when I use the term "crackhead", I am not making a broad or general statement about a certain group of people. In fact, the term crackhead is being used in the most specific sense of the word. There really is a crackhouse across the street. They really do sell crack. There really are crackheads milling around my neighborhood at all hours of the day and night.

Now, I don't buy or do crack, but I'm a pretty smart gal and I've figured out the way the business works. When crack is for sale and the crackhouse is open for business, there is a light on in the front window. It only took me a couple of days to figure that out. But their customers are not so smart.

This is the way that things should operate at the crackhouse:

Customer drives up to house in rusted out shitmobile, the sweet lament of Miles Davis' horn wailing softly from the interior. Seeing that the light indicating "open for business" is blazing in the crackhouse's window, customer softly taps the cars horn ONCE, to alert the dealer of a potential sale. Dealer promptly comes out and the two people conduct their business in hushed undertones, shielding their illegal activity from the neighborhood around them. Transaction complete, the dealer and customer do some complicated handshake that is only understood in the world of hoodlums and boybands, and quietly go their separate ways.

Alas, this is how it usually happens:

Customer drives up to house in rusted out shitmobile, pumping undecipherable rap music that suspiciously sounds like the inside of my head after a three day bender (I guess). Customer sees light on in window and proceeds to lie on horn for ten minutes while shouting from the car window, "HEY! HEY! YOU HOME?" Finally, dealer comes out of house and yells at customer. Customer yells back. I don't know what they are saying, or whether or not they are, in fact, angry, but this is usually when I head to the bathroom to lay down in the bathtub, safe from any unexpected exchange of bullets that might take place. More yelling ensues that I now can definitely not understand, as I am curled up in the fetal position in the bathtub. After about 15 minutes the yelling dies down and I am free to return to my living room and resume work.

There are the occasional deviations to this scenario, such as when the light is not on but the customer thinks that the crackhouse dealer just forgot to turn it on. This is usually followed by an escalating round of racial slurs shouted up at the broken windows on the second floor. If the crackhouse is occupied, which I suspect that it usually has a few cracked out ho's lying around at any given time, then they can surely hear the rantings of the lunatic needing a fix. Their entire top floor has only boards across the windows, so sound probably travels easily through the openings. In spite of lunatic rantings, no one comes out to deliver said "package", further inflaming the perilous crackhead. In one final fit of rage, the crackehead unfastens the button on his pants, pulls down zipper and takes a whiz on the crackhouse's trashcans, forever teaching them the first lesson of running your own business: The customer is always right!

Note: In the time that I spent writing this post, the crackhouse made 5 transactions. I'm thinking that today might be the day when my illustrious streak of 100 simultaneous days without a gunshot or knife wound comes to a precarious end. Let's hope not, because I don't have medical insurance. And I'm working on a deadline. And I haven't been paid in weeks. And I suspect gunshot wounds are costly...

Another Rerun...

Breakfast at Gigi's: The Early Years
Take Two

Day 93 in Detroit. Body still intact.

While my new home is somewhere in downtown Detroit, my family still holds court on the West Coast. Once a week or so my mother and I play phone tag until we eventually end up catching one another. It usually goes something like this:

"Gigi, this is your mother! Pick up the phone! I know you're there!" That all said to my voice mail.

Mom still hasn't grasped the concept of modern technology and insists that I'm just being a bad daughter by listening to her plead with my "answering machine" and not picking up. I've explained over and over that I cannot hear her leaving messages for me. Yeah, ok, so I can see her name pop up on my phone when she calls, and one could argue that by not answering, I was technically dodging her calls... But that person would be a jerk. And obviously doesn't have a mother.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mother terribly! I always enjoy our weekly chats and usually end up in tears from laughing so hard when we talk. My mom is funny! I'm not so sure that she works at it, like a stand up comedian, but rather, mom's innate funniness comes from a place that can't be honed. You either have it or you don't. Mom has it. And with age, she just gets funnier. I know that she suspects that sometimes I'm laughing at her and not with her, and she's probably right, but mom has a great sense of humor and can roll with the punches. She's not so high and mighty that she can't laugh at herself. Thank god!

So last night, mom and I had our weekly chat and she didn't fail to amuse me. The rundown this week:

1. My brother had a tragic accident with a skill saw and is now living with a height challenged thumb. Admittedly, not funny on the surface, but come on... I can now call him Stumpy! And that's funny.

2. Mom's computer "has come down with a terrible virus"- her words. She told me in a manner that you might whisper to your girlfriend, "I hear Marge has come down with the Alzheimer's". I could almost imagine her shaking her head in serious consternation over the whole downfall of modern technology. When I asked her what virus her computer had (yeah, like I would know?) she gravely told me that it had Spyware. I audibly gasped, but really only for affect, since I don't really know what that is. I suspect that it's something that most computers become afflicted with at some time or another but didn't know that it was deadly.

Sadly, due to the critical state of her computer, mom wasn't able to see the cool pictures that I sent her of the crackhouse across the street from my apartment. I was wondering why I hadn't heard back from her. I figured those pictures would have warranted a "stop what you're doing, drop everything and buy your daughter a one way ticket back to California" kind of response. I was beginning to think that she didn't care. But it turns out that the Spyware disease just ate the pictures. Asshole! I was really looking forward to mom's opinion of the crackhouse. Well, this just buys me time to scoot down to the end of my street and take pictures of the hookers sporting their new spring fashions. Those will make a lovely addition to my crackhouse retrospective. That should really get mom's heart beating!

P.S. Mom, if you're reading this, you know I love you! And I hope that you're laughing!

A Rerun

Since I don't seem to have any time to write new posts I've decided to run some old posts that I'm fond of. This is the very first post I ever wrote:

March 2004

A friend of mine suggested keeping a log of how many days I could go without getting stabbed and/or shot. So far, I'm happy to report, I have experienced neither offense to my person. My mother is happy about that as well.

A BRIEF SYNOPSIS OF MY FIRST WEEK IN MOTOWN

Day 1- Arrived at Detroit International Airport to find snow on the ground. Giddy with excitement, I couldn't wait to see urban squalor! I'm a writer, by trade, and a novelist, in my dreams, and thought that Detroit would provide me with life experience that I just couldn't find living in the posh stuccoed suburb of LA that I had surreptitiously escaped. Unfortunately, it was dark when my plane landed and so all I was able to see was the world's largest tire (Detroit-Motor City) on my way into the city. Downtown Detroit. My new home.

Day 2- Find apartment. Attempt to blend in. Ha! Amazing I wasn't car jacked my first full day here.

Day 3- Found dingy basement apartment smaller than my bathroom back home. Went to fabric store in attempt to "liven up the place". Bought Martha Stewart like fabric for curtains, briefly forgetting that I didn't know how to sew and that I didn't like Martha Stewart. Detroit scared me into discovering roots in my Anglo Saxon ancestors. Didn't know that I was part of Martha's bloodline. Already learning new things about myself.

Day 4- Discovered new apartment was conveniently located next to dumpsters of Greek restaurant near my building. Brilliantly deduced this when a cockroach the size of Michigan found a home on my brand new pillow case (perfectly matching my Martha curtains that still were yet to be made). Maybe I'm not cut out for Detroit. Don't like sun, but don't like cockroaches more. And WHY was I now sleeping on sheets inspired by Martha? Lack of sunshine getting to brain.

Day 5- Told landlord to find a new tenant for his basement rat hole. He actually seemed sad to see me go. Probably suspected that my rent checks wouldn't bounce. Ha! Detroit-1, Gigi- 1.

Day 6- Find beautiful flat in a desolate part of town. Only $800 a month and 5 times as big as basement rat hole. Oozing with charm... and a highly suspicious stain on the floor directly inside the front door. Oozing of blood, too? I envision a "caller" with a weapon and a resident with a bullet hole (or three) lying on my beautiful wooden floors, life bleeding out where I now stand to remove my snow boots. Buy rug to hide stain. Take up martini habit to forget stain's existence.

Day 7- Hear first round of gunshots. Hit floor. Miss sunshine. Contemplate moving home and becoming banker or computer programmer.

A Coffee Break

The boy is sleeping and I'm drinking coffee, so for the moment, all is well in the world. Actually, life is great when Archie is awake, but I just can't get anything done. You should have seen my house before I blew through it like a cleaning tornado last night. I think that the mess could be blamed (in equal parts) on the fact that Bruno was out of town for 3 days, my thrill-a-minute depression and the little boy who has taken permanent residence in our home. He's not all that messy but he doesn't leave me with much time to clean up my own slovenly messes. Hence, a house that looks like squatters have moved in. All that's missing are the hypodermic needles littering the floor. And the Colt 45 bottles...

I'm actually feeling a little bit better than I was last week. A big component of my depression is the fact that I weigh more than I've ever weighed in my life. I ate everything in site while I was pregnant and now I'm paying for it. It's hard to look at yourself in the mirror or see your double chin in pictures and not want to hide from the world. But I've known all along that I wasn't going to sit by idly while my waistline continued to expand. I just needed to hear the all clear from my doctor before I could begin working out again. Unfortunately, once I had her permission I no longer had the drive to work out because I was feeling too blue. I've worked through this though and made two very important steps this week: I began taking yoga with Archie and I went to Curves to find out information about signing up. Once I get my next paycheck (yes, I'm back to my old job- don't ask) then I will be a woman of action. Finally.

On the subject of yoga... what a difference it makes to get your body in motion. It was so hard for me to get my butt there but I'm so happy that I did. Archie really enjoyed himself for the first half hour, which had me in stitches. The class is set up so that the yoga alternates between moms and babies. When it's time for the babies to do yoga the moms are supposed to ask the babies if they want to do yoga. It's so funny! So I asked Archie if he wanted to do yoga and he didn't scream so I took that as a sign of consent. He giggled through the entire thing, which of course had me giggling. I actually started crying because he was so cute and having so much fun. But then the fun ended when he quickly decided that he was over yoga, so I spent the second half of the class trying to keep him quiet. Somehow though, I ended up extremely sore the next day even though I don't really recall getting much of a workout.

Anyhow, I know that I said that I wouldn't post pictures of my little boy, but I have to. I don't think that anyone will be able to identify him on the street. He's not famous or anything.... yet.... So, here's some extreme cuteness to melt your heart and set your ovaries into overdrive. I dare you to resist the urge to reproduce! I dare you...

Wherever You Go, There You Are

This past month is the longest that I've ever been away from my blog. I tend to hibernate when I'm not feeling all that grand emotionally, and so I guess that you could say that I've been in a cave without internet access lately. It's been a rough time here and I haven't really wanted to talk about it. Until now.

First, let me say that my depression (because that's really what it is) has nothing to do with the baby. He's fabulous and every day is a joy with him. He's actually the bright spot in an otherwise dark time and I'm so happy for the respite that he provides.

I guess that the best way to describe what has happened is that I've been blindsided by emotions and feelings that I thought had been laid to rest. What an interesting phrase to use, "laid to rest", because this has so much to do with the death of my father.

As you may know, my father took his own life in 2001, just a month after 9/11. His suicide was a complete and utter shock to me and rocked me to my very core. I sunk into such a deep depression that I never thought that I would be able to pull myself out of it. But two years later I did. And I thought that the reason that I was able to move on was that I had finally made some kind of peace with the whole situation. I thought that I had processed it and could put it behind me. I was wrong.

Let me go back just a little bit and tell you that my father's death was not the first suicide in my life. Nearly a decade before I had lost both a dear friend and my stepbrother to suicide. Their deaths occurred less than a year apart and were the first time that I had lost someone close to me. And I lost them both so close together.

After my father's death I became terrified of everything. On the day that I learned of his death I was saddled with an anxiety disorder that has never fully gone away. People have said that since I met Bruno my whole demeanor has become much more relaxed, but the truth is that I'm still always filled with some degree of fear or dread on any given day. It's as if any moment the whole world can fall out from under me. I live with that fear and sometimes it's more intense than others.

This anxiety has permeated every aspect of my life. Where I was once a vibrant social being I've morphed into a quiet and reserved wallflower. I used to walk into a room and command attention. Now I pray that no one looks too closely at me. I once had confidence in who I was and now I second-guess every decision that I make and every desire that I have. Somehow I've come to believe that I'm always in the wrong. That my needs aren't as important as other people's needs and that I'm taking up other people’s valuable time. I don't believe in myself anymore. And worse, I don't feel that I can share my feelings with others because I might hurt them.

And then they might take their own life.

This may sound egotistical to you. It sounds completely ridiculous to me too, except that it's the truth of how I feel. I'm terrified of hurting others or even "rocking the boat" because the results could be earth shattering. I feel this way because the last interaction that I had with my father was over a letter that I sent him. This letter told him how much he had hurt me by not standing up for me when I needed him most. I was harsh. I didn't mince words. I wanted to shock him and to force him into some kind of reaction. He was so flat in real life that I had to cut deep to elicited any kind of response from him. But I didn't intend to hurt him. I just wanted to make it so that he had to apologize because he was human and what human could read this letter without feeling anything? And I was his daughter. Didn't that mean anything? Didn't he feel anything for his little girl?

I never heard from my father after I sent the letter. I did however hear from my stepmother. She called to tell me that I had hurt my father very badly and owed him an apology. I never apologized. We never spoke again. Then he killed himself. To be fair, he didn't die immediately after I sent the letter. It was actually 3 years later. But I've never been able to shake the thought that I had something to do with his death. I hurt him and he couldn’t live with himself anymore. Jesus Christ. Do you know how much that hurts me?

So anyhow, all of this background is to show you where I've been in my head, off and on, for the past 5 years. Some days it's worse than others and up until recently it hasn't been too bad at all. But then I had a phone call on Thanksgiving weekend that brought the horror right back into full reality. Someone very close to me had disappeared and we suspected that it wasn't going to end well. I actually spent an entire day thinking that this person was already dead. That he had taken his own life. And I wasn't far off.

When he did turn up it was in a hospital on suicide watch. He had come very close. So close that I can't sleep at night anymore. And when I do sleep my dreams are filled with horrible nightmares that leave me panting for air and drenched in sweat. And I just want to crawl into a cave and sleep for the next millennium. Because if I'm sleeping then I can't get bad phone calls and no one can die and my life can't get turned upside down. Again.

That's where I've been for the past month. Terrified to answer the phone because the news on the other end could be too horrible to comprehend. And sad. Terribly sad. And angry that I live with this fear that feels like it will never go away. And afraid to share my feelings with anyone because the consequences are so uncertain that I can't take the risk.

So, after a two-year break from antidepressants, I'm back on the happy pills and waiting for the bliss to kick in. So far, nothing.

Do You Read My Blog?

I know that it's been a long time since I've written here. I've seriously been toying with the idea of shutting this site down. I'm not sure if I have the time or anything interesting to contribute anymore. What I really want to know though is who is reading my site. Do you read this blog? If so, please leave a comment or email me. Thanks!