Tag Archives: motha

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas…” I think.

It started with a text:

“Bring warm clothes.  It is f…ing COLD outside and inside.”

Thanks, motha.

No more excuses could be fabricated for my resistance to visit her part of Cali; and unlike most children, I hadn’t fantasized about “getting out of LA” — for my sanity’s sake — and going “home”, since… well, never.  Home had to be wherever the fuck I landed, for at least two decades of my life now.  I hadn’t even let myself the martyrdom shtick since 1994.  It’s just the way our family’s shit sorted itself out.  So be it, eh?

Besides, each on their own, my old folks were kinda rad:  funny and very specific.  And as far as their parental duties were concerned, they had already done one hell of a job considering my Motha’land’s continuous turmoil.

This year, though, after missing all the major holidays in the last six months AND with my plans to avoid my daughterly obligations to visit for Christmas, motha’s birthday could NOT be missed.  Well…  Actually, it could.  And it was.  I had delayed my visit by nearly a week, but bargained that, on my visit, I would deliver a few make-up gifts.  And take her out to dinner.  And bring Starbucks.

So, there I was:  Waking up early, after pulling my chronic, city-livin’ all-nighter, and immediately checking my iPhone for work emails.  Anything to delay the reality of having to get out of bed and getting my ass rolling on the 10-East.  Not once, not twice, but half a dozen times I touched base with my boss, in the morning.  Look at me:  All diligent and nearly altruistic, just mere weeks before bloody Christmas!  While washing up — thirty minutes before my originally scheduled departure time — I missed a call from motha:

“Verra!  Call me vhen you starrt drrivingg.”

Okay, motha.  Will do.

But you know what I hadn’t done today yet?  Yoga!  I’d have to do that before I leave, because my centered self drove much better through every clusterfuck related to other people’s season of hysterical shopping.  So, I did that.

Ooh, and you know what else?  I’d better wash my car too.

In the bathroom of the carwash, another missed phone call from motha lit up my phone screen.

“I’m on my way,” I lied via a text:  My ride wasn’t even getting soaped yet.  “I can be there anywhere between 1:30 and 2:00.”  (Had I noticed:  The case of my unrealistic expectations from the clocks and the traffic of LA-LA had been getting worse?!)

In another thirty minutes, I finally climbed up — then down — onto 10 East.

“DOWNTOWN 12 MINUTES” — the first sign promised.

“I suppose I could still make it by my promised deadline,” a glimpse of hope inspired me to turn on some Christmas music.  “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” I thought and attempted to whistle along.  (I don’t know how to whistle, actually, so I was more like hissing along. Yeah.  I hissed along.)

Culver and Century City zipped by me.  (Or was it in the opposite order?  I had always confused the two.)  Downtown came up on me, in all of its newly built glory, in ten minutes.  Gorgeous!  Completely white and silver, it glistened in the sun.  I checked my car’s thermometer.  Sixty six degrees?  Really?  ‘Cause inside the greenhouse underneath my sunroof, it’s feeling closer to seventy two.  And, as instructed, I was now carrying only sweaters in my suitcase.

I rolled down the windows.  No, wait!  Too much wind.  I just washed my hair and it was doing its Medusa-in-a-Horrid-Mood routine.  With just the passenger window down, though, the car began sounding like a jet plane in the midst of a turbulent take-off.  Plus the smell of dust and endless construction smacked me out of my mood.  With one whack of my fist, I turned off the jolly tune on the radio station.

Too early for Christmas, after all!  Christmas was for other people, and their children heading “home”.

But I — was a busy working girl, wedging in some premature festivities into her life, and mostly out of guilt.

Scarlett Johansson fpr Vanity Fair

The orange diamonds of construction signs were sure to come up in a few minutes and right around the dodgy part of LA-LA, I noticed I was low on gas.

“Shit.  Shoulda done that last night!”

It’s the worst habit of mine:  Procrastinating with gas by thinking that there would be more hours in the next day of LA-LA.  I examined the eroded walls of abandoned warehouses on the side of the freeway and chipping road signs, mostly in Spanish, and decided to see how long my tank would last.

The traffic wasn’t really crawling yet, but I could see a corridor of break lights for at least quarter of a mile ahead of me.  Might be a while, but as we say in the Motha’land, “Whoever doesn’t risk — doesn’t get to drink champagne!”

The itch of my badass-ness needed some background music, so I smacked the radio again.

“Blame it on the ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol,” the new station blasted.  That’ll do for now.

The merger to continue onto the 10-East looped around the graffitied walls, arid lawns and long dead flowerbeds.  With one-eighth of my gas tank, I was speeding and leaving the City — exhausted by traffic, lack of time and money, never-ending construction and unrealistic expectations of its dreamers — behind.

(To Be Continued.)

Karma isn’t a Bitch. It’s a Cunt.

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Please don’t wake her!

She had flown in the other eve from afar:  One of my East Coast guardian angels who, over the course of our decade-long friendship, had seen me wrestle with some serious shit on the way to becoming the rad broad that I am.  (Motha tells me modesty doesn’t run in our fam’.  “Repeat after me,” she orders me around:  “Lucky you — to know ME.”  Obediently, I follow the lead.  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion!)

Back to my sleeping angel. Born on some exotic Mediterranean coast, just like the gypsy scribing this rant blog, she had never settled — for a place or a man unworthy of her stunning self.  Instead, she continued her flight across the skies of the world, occasionally marking her coordinates with a post-card to me.

And I?  I treaded upon the ground beneath, looking up only when I’d trip myself up:

“Did you see that?” I’d ask the skies of those multiple cities in which I played hide-and-seek with my homes and loves.

“I think:  You’re amazing,” the voice of my girl would ping-pong from one timezone to the next.

Alas:  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.

So, I’d scape myself off the ground, relocate my gravity and resume the epic search for the next city in which my love could be hiding.

Last night, while the angel dozed off on a floor pillow underneath a caramel-colored light that blended with her skin tone, I was alerted by messages from two women in the midst of their heartaches.  One had just tripped herself up on her intuition:  She was not getting the love she needed from a man.  The other — tumbled over the limbs of her lover who, while stretching those and putting on his running shoes, suddenly wanted to “pursue other options”.  One was a grown woman who, in this ever-so-transient city of LA-LA, knew better than to expect for a man to stay.  The other — still a baby, a girl-child with no more than a single previous heartache — was straining her eyes at the horizon in an attempt to see just what her leaving lover was referring to.  But no matter the drastic difference between the two hearts, both women were in the midst of being left.

This isn’t about your shortcomings, dear baby-boys; for we all have a share of those.  (What did I tell you?  Never underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion.)  Besides, no matter how much this ranty cunt wants to unleash, I have a sleeping angel in my bed.  So, I better keep my voice down.

It’s really simple, baby-boys:  The size of this world is overwhelming, I know.  I’ve earned myself some badass calluses treading it.  And as my angel tells me, it is indeed worth every curiosity and wondering eye of yours.

But behold:  KARMA.  It’s bad enough you might have inherited some shitty one from one of your previous lives.  (I know I have!  Otherwise, why the fuck am I trippin’ so much?)  So, in this lifetime, I’d suggest cradling that bitch as gingerly as your manly arms allow.  And when you make a choice to leave a woman (especially a good one), I recommend to do so gracefully.

(I know, I know:  Break-ups are messy.  In the face of a departing love, shit get thrown around; and usually both parties are equally guilty at betraying their former loving selves.  Shiva knows, I’ve climbed over enough ruins of my own post-break-up war zones:  I threw shit — he threw shit right at back me; I ducked out of the way; I slipped up on that same shit; I fell.  But if you are the one doing the leaving, have some mercy — have some grace! — and don’t destroy your new ex.)

I’m aching:  As of last night, the world included two newly single girls.  (As if it needed more of us!)  And I weep, my dear darlings, not just for the fact of that very injustice (because I think, my two girls — are amazing!); but for the brutal destructions the two departing men have chosen to leave behind.  I cannot even bring myself to reiterate the laundry list of their grievances with my angels.  (NEVER underestimate the power of a woman’s compassion, I warn you!)  Instead, I’ll reiterate this:

If you want to leave — for Shiva’s sake, GO!  But don’t rough handle your former love — or your karma.  Just like you, we will eventually “pursue other options”:  other homes, other cities, other loves:

“When he’s ready to love me again, someone more capable might be loving me,” the baby angel wrote to me last night.

So, please leave us behind unscathed.  Because when you choose to love a woman (especially a good one), you’ll no doubt leave a mark.  But when you choose to leave her — marking the territory is simply brutal and selfish; and unworthy of your former loving self — your BETTER self — and of your karma.

Ah.  I hear a shuffling of feathered wings…

Sh, my beautiful baby-boys:  I have a gorgeous angel in my bed.  Do YOU?