Walking in the spider web

 I’ve always said the AV is like a spider web .. everyone can find a connection  somewhere and that was never more apparent than today. I got to attend a funeral for an incredible man. A long time AV resident, old school family business owner , family man and friend. I felt like I knew him much better than I actually did just by being a part of the huge celebration. So big it had to be held at our local fairgrounds. From a big catholic family like mine.  The exact same kind of cloth my people are cut from. He’s the kind of person that the collective “we” holds up as the best kind of human.  Honest genuine decent fun hardworking dependable . Seeing all the familiar faces in the building made me proud to be an AV native. These people I was in the company of today are the AV I grew up in. Solid and good. Mark embodied all the things I love about my hometown. One of those people that’s just  GOOD. As a teenager my dad got some work done on my mustang from this business. I remembered the gravely voice  of the guy behind the counter, he made a huge impression. Tucked back in my files was that voice. Once upon time, after a brutal divorce, my first job was as a delivery person and server at a restaurant near his business that  he liked to order lunch from. I remembered the place because of my mustang . Of all the customers I encountered he was the kindest to my tired stressed out,  single mom self. Crusty and sweet at the same time. Flash forward 11 years and my daughter works for his daughter and I got  to see again the goodness of his life. A week before he changed  addresses I got to see he and his adored wife at a local watering hole and to my extreme joy he remembered me. His ginger bitch as he said . This occasion makes me super proud to be from where I’m from and I was privileged to be in attendance today , to know his family and to count his amazing daughter as a friend. Hearing someone say you could see one of his family around town and know they were an Adams. This same thing was said at my uncle Tim’s service and hearing those words again today, hearing some of those songs made me feel like I was at home. How lucky we are to be a part of this tribe of hardworking honest kind people. Godspeed Mark Adams. Find my uncle and have a beer for me… heaven ain’t ready for ya. 

An Investigator in 3 parts - part 2

 When I was freshly divorced and needed a job a friend suggested coming to work with her but I declined due to low self esteem. Wow what a mistake that was but God knows the bigger picture so the next time she asked I said yes- I’ve learned not to say no twice to a good thing. I was scared and nervous but I got the job and that was the beginning of 4 years of big growth. You mean to tell me I can get paid to ask questions! Sign me up! I traveled to Colorado for training broke as a joke with milk money from my parents. Learning that job was akin to drinking water from a firehose but I did it and my self esteem grew, I got to dress up and carry a badge. I was a trusted partner in our nations national security system - an important cog in the wheel. I got to work for a month at a time in my favorite city TWICE. Did I mention I got paid for asking questions?! Simply being my big eared self I was able to take care of my family on my own. I met fascinating, crazy people and I got to go behind doors most people never do. Some days were hard and I cried more than once but I always felt like my work mattered. I had two awesome managers and a host of badass coworkers that became friends. I was important to someone other than my family and friends for the first time in probably ever.  I made connections and eventually got recruited away to my current position. So on the last day as Special Investigator Selsor I packed up all my cool investigator tools and sent them back to the mysterious East coat home office in an empty frito lay multipack box with the chips no one liked as packing material. I gave up working from home barefoot in pajamas to again dress up but this time with a less cool badge. Which brings me to part 3.....

An Invesigator in 3 parts - part 1

 Ive always had a knack for finding things out and let me tell you it’s a blessing and a curse. Coming from the generation and nationalities I’m from there are a lot of things that weren’t considered polite for open conversation. Growing up I often heard “go play and let the grown ups talk” or  “go read a book, I’m on the phone”.  So as I result I developed what my Mimi called “big ears” aka eavesdropping skills. I also learned to read body language and tones of voice. I could fill in the blanks and read between the lines with pretty fair success. Any other information I needed could be patched together by talking to my cousins or consulting with friends. Over the years I honed my skills and almost earned a double major degree in mind reading and assumption from the University of None of my Business. The problem was I happened to be right about 85% of the time even when I didn’t have all the info, which reinforced my idea that this was all supremely useful. Then it just became instinct, my gut and I were pals. I knew if you were sad, angry, scared or lying. I lost friends and relationships over my skills but I never stopped using them until one day my gut told me to leave my husband. For good, and for years after that I ignored my skills because I was raw and broken. It felt like all the things I thought I knew had been a lie. I didn’t want my PhD in other people anymore until one day a friend presented a way to earn money with my skills which leads us to part two..... 

Listen up

Music is my true love. It’s never broken my heart, lied or cheated. It’s always there when I need it. My name was inspired by a song and the stereo was on at my house growing up more than the TV. All the important moments in my life happy or not are attached to music. I’ve made friends solely based on “hey... I like that shirt” when it’s a band we both enjoy. Music, particularly live music, is my therapy. I crave that catharsis that only a pit can give me and this weekend I drove 6 hours to stand shoulder to shoulder in an emptied pool at an abandoned water park with some of my chosen sisters and about a thousand strangers. It’s been well over a year since I had that kind of magic in my life and each sweaty, beer soaked, foot stomped, crowd surfed, sunscreen drenched moment was worth the near heat stroke from the blazing Arizona sun. We sang at the top of our lungs the songs that the stereo couldn’t play loud enough for the past year. We screamed fuck authority with our middle fingers raised in unison. I got to sing Matchbook right next Jason Cruz and as we yelled “ Don’t looks back in anger, don’t look back in anger it’s just a memory” I could feel the past year and all its ugliness fall away. As the day wore on we helped the fallen in the pit, we held up the crowd surfers and tossed them to the front, we grinned bare faced at the beginning notes of our favorite songs one after another. The bands grinned back at us so happy to be back on stage and collectively we shared one of those “stay gold” moments. I feel safer in a pit full of strangers with a good friend on each arm makin the rounds then I do in most other places. It’s home. I grabbed each note, the feel of each sweat soaked body pressed against me, each bit of punk rock goodness and tucked it in my heart for the hard days to come. Walking out under the ragged tiki hut roofs of Big Surf I felt my soul reset and I got all teared up. Looking at the faces of my badass companions with their souvenirs purchased and appropriated, I knew we’d done a big thing that day. Each of us left it all in the pit and walked out renewed as only music can do. 

The Never Agains

 As I’m lounging in my nightly bubble bath it occurs to me there are quite a few things I’ll never do again in my life. I’ll never have my very first kiss again, never feel those butterflies in my stomach as the handsome young man touches my cheek just before he kisses me and my shirt smells like Ralph Lauren’s Polo for hours after he leaves. I’ll never lose my virginity again and then sit on a porch looking at the night sky, wrapped in a scratchy peach bedspread sharing a clove cigarette with the love of my teenage life.  I’ll never give birth again. No more epidurals or big, post delivery granny panties for me. It makes sense of course, those times in my life have passed but the realization of it is sitting weird with me. Who knows why this hit me tonight besides maybe the water being too hot. Nah that’s not a thing. If your skin isn’t tomato red when you get out did you even take a bath?? But I digress .. back to the never agains. Sounds  like bad 90’s pop band am I right?  Lots of firsts aren’t supposed to be repeated. They’re supposed to become never agains. Like the first time I lost a loved one and had to figure out what to wear to the funeral, what to say at the wake. Or the first time I got pulled over or my first car accident. Some never agains are bittersweet.  I’ll never wear a big, white wedding dress again, standing at the top of an aisle with my Dad waiting for the music to start but I’ll also never have my heart broken again like it was that first time. Nothing ever hurts that bad twice.  Some firsts I’ll never forget like that first kiss or the first time I took a pregnancy test and wasn’t scared of  the results. Some lasts I can’t remember. I can’t remember the last time I went out to play with my friends in the neighborhood. I don’t remember the last time I hugged my grandparents before they each got sick and things changed. I’m probably not supposed to remember those lasts. I do remember the last time I didn’t trust my gut and doubted my instincts when it came to a relationship, I remember the last time I got played. Those are more never agains. I guess what I’ve come to realize as the bubbles all pop and the water turns cold is that it’s ok to have a case of the never agains. It clears space for the firsts that are yet to come. 

Right combination

Fairly certain I just need the right combination of coffee, moisturizer, music and maybe an inspirational movie in the back ground and I can handle anything. I can tackle the pile of paperwork on the desk, I can tackle the after holiday rubble in disarray in the garage and I can even address the ugliness of a dormant, winter yard in SoCal. What I can’t ever seem to fully conquer is my heart. My silly, romantic, idealistic heart. I haven’t found the correct combination of anything that can help me tackle that. It rules me more than my brain most days. If you asked me if I was “into” hearts I would have said no and then I noticed I have 6 hearts tattooed on my body. I have about 10 Christmas ornaments with hearts on them. I love hearts including my own. It’s been broken, tossed aside, ignored. underestimated, operated on and yet it still works. It pumps the blood and holds all the most important memories. So I’ve asked my heart what the right combination is and here’s what it told me-it requires respect, humor, reciprocal effort, honesty, fiber. lots of hugs from my kids, Sunday dinners with family a bit of exercise and as much music and inspirational movies as I can absorb. This is what’s needed to keep it in good working order. I doubt I’ll ever be able to reign in the idealism or the hopeless romanticism. Maybe it’s not supposed to be reigned in. For today I’ll just catch up on some movies, put a moisturizing mask on my face, handle that paperwork and order some Metamucil. Good working order indeed. 

The Waiting Room

Ahhh the waiting room. We’ve all been there ... The chairs suck, there’s no snacks and it’s always the opposite temperature from what you want. You can smell the despair around you. Anxious energy abounds. You could be waiting forever it seems as your left butt cheeks starts to tingle just before it goes to sleep. There’s an old saltine cracker wrapper crunching under the bottom of your foot as you try to stomp your butt cheek back to life. People are starting to stare. Let Em! They have their own wait to suffer though this one is yours. Maybe you’re waiting for a phone call or a visit from a loved one, or a hated one. Maybe you’re waiting for the beginning of that hyped up fresh, new start everyone’s been talking  about. Maybe it’s the end you’re waiting for. The end to grieving, to pain, to self doubt, to the bullshit you’ve been choking on for too long. Maybe you’re just waiting to find out what the fuck it’s all about. Maybe it’s all of the above. Here’s what I’ve learned about the waiting room 1) it’s a great Fugazi song, 2) you’re not allowed to stay there forever there’s simply not enough room for everyone. 3) this too shall pass. Stick with me, I’ve been here before and I found the vending machines last time. I can’t fix it for you or for me but I promise to hold the kidney shaped, pink plastic barf bowl for you if you hold it for me. Together we will make the best of the waiting room.  Now ... do you have quarters?