Stories R Us

Our stories are us. I see it (hear it) more each day. How I can be talking with what appears to be a person when suddenly a Story takes over. Sometimes new, sometimes ancient. In a blink, a unique being presses play on the tape in their head, and suddenly they speak words they once heard spoken.

We know about the complexities of "cultural narrative" but when you get right down to it, we are Stories. We have our own, braided into our family's, our friend's, our community's, our history's, our oligarch's. Why do you tell the Stories you tell? The ones you repeat? The ones everyone knows. The ones your partner can see coming. The ones you have locked and loaded. To entertain? To be relevant? To push an agenda--maybe not even your own?

When I taught playwriting to underserved teens in Chicago one of our first lessons was about morals and themes. We discussed what kind of bedtime Story might be useful to tell a hypothetical rambunctious child. The students chirped, tales about jumping on sofas and breaking vases. I asked what narratives the students, as South Side high schoolers, don't like. "That Mexicans are lazy!" a guy announced. The class was like YEAH. So, I asked, what if we wrote a Story about a lazy bee who never gathered honey? To teach children to finish their homework? How about that? The class had no qualms. I added, now what if I named that bee Maria Sophia Garcia? NO, they shouted! Sometimes I think about the Stories I love and ask myself what they're saying. I rewatched one of my so-called favorite movies recently to find it still incredible and entertaining but in some ways actually majorly opposed to my values.

In college I learned there may actually be just two Stories: Boy Meets Girl and Jesus. Or, some would argue, A Stranger Comes to Town. Lately I tend to think it's Mother or Father. Which is coincidental (or, not at all) because I learned to tell Stories from my parents.

As a journalist, my dad spent his whole life pretty overtly telling Stories. Other people's, through his own rectangular yellow pad. My dad was often on the move when I was younger. Headed to events or the police station or local board meetings. Then he'd sit at the computer, seemingly tortured, tapping away. As I got older I basically never heard from him without also hearing about someone else's Story--maybe a baker or a teacher or a nurse or a consignment shop owner or an architect he met on a plane. Sometimes a text went along with the anecdote, but sometimes it was only news unfit to print. My favorite memory of my dad is probably the Thanksgiving he chose to write about some pantry service group of women who would be in the Christmas parade, zooming with choreographed grocery carts. We watched the marching band and floats together from the sidewalk, but when the gals with their carts whizzed by he took off down the street after them. I could hear him shout, "HELLO C____ S______ WITH THE DAILY TIMES!" I watched his hat get smaller and smaller. Later we met in the park to watch the trees light up.

It's true he'll try to get the scoop on anyone. We've basically never had a waitress escape my dad's questioning. She'll stop by to top off his coffee and he'll slip a "so where are you from" in. "How are they treating you here?" is another staple. We stopped to talk to a guy in the Cracker Barrel parking lot. We stopped to get the skinny on each card table at the farmer's market. Any shop window can be peered in. But also, there are Dad's Stories. The one about the garage and the one about the cactus and the one about the me and my stuffed animals. Sometimes he'll even ask if he's told me about something, I will say yes, and he will still tell me. I've learned to think of these little globs of history as somehow significant, and I do ask myself why and what they prove.

My mom also has her Stories. I have heard some over and over and some never before. I would say common themes tend to be efficiency, good deals, a twist, doing the right thing, and suspicion. She observes what people say and do and later reflects on who might be a snake. Her Chicago accent very thick and she narrows her eyes and starts with a specific see. It took me many years to recognize she is not a documentarian, but an author--just a different kind. She will report on a fact but twirl in some findings. There is great wisdom I've discovered from these Stories. Not far off from magical realism or historical fiction. The world becomes a paper backdrop and paper dolls with which to exemplify one's own viewpoints. I remember she told me the Story of a middle school teacher marking her test wrong. Later she found out she was right. "Thus began my lifelong journey as a skeptic," she said. We laughed, but where was the joke?

I get my nosiness from my dad, but I get my ability to retell a day's Story from my mom. She basks in little gratitude breaks. After every outing she recaps how we did it just right, or maybe how we'd do it differently if we did it again. At the end of vacation nights we like to reminisce about all we didn't know when we woke up. All we couldn't have guessed! Everything is a little book. You'd think we were reimagining a trip from years ago, when the activity was, in fact, hours ago. My mom will spend five minutes regaling me with how we found a perfect parking spot, even if I was in the the one driving. I think it's nice to know things are nice while they are nice. I like nice Stories. I think we could use more of them.

Both my parents' Stories have been known to change. A historian and Storyteller myself, sometimes these revisions give me pause. What is even true if Stories change? Especially if Stories are us. Then again, then again, what will be true if we don't change? And if we are changing and we are Stories, how could I expect anything different?

Christmas Pop-Tart

Before we drove out of Phoenix, Puhg and I stopped at the hipster coffee shop. We’d already been, the day before. I outlined a short story idea, a cool dude complimented Puhg on the Suns jacket I thrifted for him, and we both drank iced mochas.

We took the trip to celebrate Puhg’s dad’s birthday. At the sunny event I drank four ginger beers and ate a bunch of pizza and wore a plain white t-shirt. Madwomaning like you wouldn’t believe. The sunset was very pink, watched it with Puhg's aunt. Later we got breakfast burritos with the best green sauce ever. I sat outside on Kale’s porch, then stuffed my face while her husband told me about his recent friend break-up. I was bold enough to say, It seems the root of your friction is that you think he thinks he’s better than you. How much of that is based on his actions toward you vs. your own bruised self esteem? We figure some things out before I have to go lay on the floor with headphones in watching the final livestream of Eras.

Saturday night I got dinner with Shellz at Cornish. We riled each other up, as we do, and laughed, as we do. We saw a play because I wanted to see the play and also because I hoped the theatre company might do mine one day. I ran into a dear friend in the lobby. We hugged forever and then she introduced me to the artistic director, who seemed cold and uninterested. I cried on the car ride home about it, of course. I’m desperate to get this piece produced. I have some of the greatest minds in comedy behind it and yet!

I talked to another Broadway producer about it two weeks ago, the dramaturg for the most prestigious award in playwriting a few days after. They both confirmed, the play is excellent, but the industry is collapsing, and artists who aren’t independently wealthy are kinda out of luck. It felt nice to be told. I looked up the playwright for the piece I’d seen. I guess it was “good”? It won a Pulitzer. But, man, it was nothing new! A realistic examination of the working class. Okay so WHAT? I muttered in my head as the cast bowed. No levity, no solutions, just sort of: wow, have you considered some people are poor?! Aren’t we brave to think about that?! Just as I suspected, the writer attended one of the country’s most prominent art academies and then two Ivy Leagues. I don’t care if I sound bitter! Sometimes I think we’ve been taught that bitterness is inherently bad because it’s a necessary ingredient to achieving class consciousness! But I’ve also observed, people who are Oops All Bitter lose their ability to make beautiful art. A little bit goes a long way, I guess, like the dark chocolate shell around a scotchmallow from See’s.

Monday was for bonus Shellz lunch. The same vegan place we’ve been going since we were 23. She still pretends it's going to be bad. It's tradition. I had my beloved Thai peanut salad, drafted the short story. I drove to the mall in sunshine and picked up Puhg from the movies. When we first started dating he said he’d never go to that mall again because he worked retail at Levi’s there during college. This weekend, while waiting for me, he walked to the storefront and took a selfie. More spinach cocktail pasties with Kiles followed by the dreamiest banoffee. I asked everyone if they’d like any, served one bowl, then stood in the kitchen devouring the rest.

So on the way out of town, I order an oat vanilla latte and peep the pastry case. There’s an adorable sprinkled pop-tart filled with maple apple butter, apparently. I tap on the glass. That, I say to the barista, the cute little Christmas thing.

So YOU, she says, as though we’ve ever met. I laugh so fully then say always great to get a chuckle in before 9 AM. She nods to the other barista, says they're always chuckling. A couple chuckleheads, I encourage. That’s what they call us, she confirms. Reality has melted away. You should work here, she says, you’d fit right in, we’d all be chuckleheads. I agree, of course. I eat the pop-tart when we’re back in LA. At night. On the couch. It’s delicious.

Straw

On Friday we went to the movies because why not try. Saw Heretic. It was nice. Then crossing the street back to our parking spot, some guy in a white sports car zoomed across the intersection, turning left, nearly hitting Puhg. I screamed, so the car swerved--nearly smashing into me. The guy's window was open, and I screamed, "STOP!" at him, tears in my eyes.

He laughed at me.

I screamed after him as he drove off. I rushed across the street, shaking, and as I did another guy in a sports car zipped by. He rolled down his window and yelled, "YOU SHOULD KEEP YOUR HEAD UP, BITCH." Pugh threw the last of our fountain soda toward him as he burned rubber away.

I burst into tears and ran into Puhg. We walked down the street, me crying. "Oh," Puhg said, "Your...straw." The metal straw I keep in my purse so I don't have to use plastic around town. Like that even matters. Or ever mattered. There's microplastic in every single food we eat and beverage we drink.

Anyway, the straw was in the soda cup. Puhg turned around, squinting into traffic at night. "It's okay," I said, "I don't want it anymore."

At home Puhg gently suggested I could have put myself in danger, yelling at that guy. "But he almost killed me," I said. "I know," he said.

The thing about me is, I'm not just gonna stand here and let myself be killed.

Community Is The People You Know Jack Told Me

In the morning no one wanted to say it out loud. I was up at 5 AM, seeing what there was to see. Puhg decided not to be on his phone, wiser than me. But I needed to witness it. Present tense also.

I texted the gals I'd started texting at night. When ____ texted me the news, before it was official. It happened in ten minutes, I keep saying. At 9:20 I didn't believe and by 9:30 it was done. So the gals being, Cass and Shell and Nini. My mom called. We'd scheduled to talk a few days ago, because she was going on vacation, not for any other reason. I walked my usual path, the bees, the trees, and the hill that opens up into skyline. I try to express, I just don't understand reality anymore. How long is there until? I can't remember if I took a shower.

Seline texted she was sobbing, walking her husband, a middle school history teacher, to school. I was crossing the boulevard, felt a huge sob in my chest and just started bawling in front a crew of folks headed up the mountain in tall socks. Met Pugh at the cafe. Immediately, the two cutely-dressed 20somethings next to us started chattering about improv classes. I had to get out of there.

I missed the start of my writers' group, but I decided to drive over for the last half hour. Triscuit offered to buy me a coffee, even though is younger and poorer than me. We talked about Parable of the Sower and who feels what level of severity. District said he was horrified, but we just have to make it through. Triscuit and I, less sure. Lan, the wisest, chooses to listen, with his dog on his lap. She has heavy eyes and doesn't know anything. District said he was excited for the Wicked movie, and I said me too. We need to sing karaoke, he said, and I agreed. He said we should sing "Loathing." I said it was too appropriate. What IS this feeling, I asked? He began singing, and I didn't leave him hanging. I drove home listening to "All Too Well (Ten Minute Version)" and hit that little rewind button several times so I could scream FUCK THE PATRIARCHY ten times in a row. Parked, I watched my clip of Taylor Swift singing in live.

I had one work email to answer, which I did. I went on the internet for a while, panicking and hoping. Wrung my hands. Thought a lot. Jack and I had talked so much about revolution in New Orleans. He writes me that in hindsight, that conversation was so important the entire universe brought us together for it. Reminded Diz to eat lunch and vice versa. Crab had asked if we could meet. We hiked up to the Hollywood sign. We started talking about the real things, but soon she started talking about work and projects so I put on a mask and didn't like it. It was 80 degrees in November. I wore shorts and a t-shirt and came down sweating. My sister and I talked on the phone. We talked about trying and creativity. I text AB safe travels because she was starting on a new movie. "What a shit show," she says, followed by gratitude we get to do art and live in LA. Rain and I texted crying emojis, enough said. EDS asked how I was and I said he knew and I asked him and he said same. We went down to the dark place.

I'd sent Lavender a screenshot from Sex and the City Tuesday morning. Lavender asked if it was a real line from the show.  "Shall we get more coffee or shall we get guns and kill ourselves?" Neither of us knew. At 5 PM yesterday she texted me, "First of all I love you and am sending you light and love." Then she said she didn't even look it up, she remembered, exactly what episode the line was from. Carrie and Aidan had just broken up. I wrote back, "You starting with obligatory light and love is so dystopian hilarious." She said she knew.

Seline invited me to happy hour with she and Jello. Perfect, I thought. I stopped at the store, where my cashier asked how I was and I said good! you?! because I am so irritatingly trained to perform being good all the time. As the cashier was saying, "I'm good thanks for aski--!" I interrupted. "I'm actually not good. I'm not good at all!" He nodded and stopped talking to me. I walked down the street in my new black jeans listening to the bridge of "But Daddy I Love Him." I ran into Mand and Jia on the block, walking a dog and a baby. Jia's face was tear-destroyed. She said her walls were up. I asked Slou if she knew of any hiding basements in Toronto. I told C I'd work for his rights. Grave put me on a group text with our third friend, asking if we were in the organizing meeting for the climate group. She said she'd fill me in later. I felt guilt then thought louder NO I DON'T.

The gals all independently ordered nachos. As each plate came we all politely said, "Everyone help yourself I'll never finish these!" Then we hunched over the feast and gobbled every shred of cheese, deciding which version of Keanu Reeves is most attractive. I said Nancy Meyers or Bill and Ted. Seline said The Lake House. Jello mentioned Speed. The fourth, a movie I didn't know. Then Seline told us her husband knew it was going to happen. History teacher, I thought again.

I walked to the massage shop. The front desk gal said they were very busy. I had asked for my favorite specialist, but she was in Thailand. I asked when she was coming back. Never, actually. I got an hour massage from someone else and tried to feel all the knots in my back rolling around but still spent half the time in my head, thinking about climate collapse.

I zipped home for Survivor, my escape, but ended up crying because Jeff Probst basically forced a vegan contestant to eat chicken. "I hate him," I said to Puhg. And right then and right now I do. I fell asleep on the couch but woke up to hold Sweet Potato. I fell asleep again.

because its you

I’ll never get over it. I heard “argumentative antithetical dream girl” live. I screamed it, even. Next to two of my closest friends. We met when we were 11. And only now, in our 30s, can we begin to understand what that meant. As we sit in the fancy restaurant with honey butter biscuits and tiny dishes of pasta, brought by our waiter, who wears a pin that says, “we’re all just dogs in god’s hot car.” I didn’t know Belle moved in 6th grade or what Diz’s calendar of black dots meant. And now I do, and now we laugh over beignets and grief. 300 take-out coffees later, or at least three French Quarter cafe au laits later.

This weekend was an all-time golden life highlight. Trotting around, lured into charming shops and funny bars by the constant Taylor Swift blaring. At the airport I yell “1-2-3—" before climbing in the cab, a Swiftie shyly mutters back: “Let’s go, b*tch!” And I do the same thing on Friday afternoon at the hotel pool, the sea of eager girlies chiming in before I cannonball. On Saturday the chant booms, the Superdome quaking in girlhood. When it’s one for the money and two for the show during “Champagne Problems” I see all the hands in front of me whip forward, just like I always do when I’m in my car or bedroom, listening alone.

I had no plans Thursday night, but when I landed, I found Gos had texted me. He was in New Orleans! Total coincidence. We walk the Halloween streets. Folks on a balcony hold up a sign that says, “Show Us Your T*ts.” Gos yells up, “I got rid of mine!” We split hot cauliflower and all our memories of the old comedy theatre. He’s happy. Life is long.

On Friday I am much too excited to sleep when the gals do, so I head to Bourbon Street alone. I get a slushy that tastes like wedding cake. Not sure what it’s usually called, but there’s a temporary sign slapped on the machine: “Love Story.” A bouncer beckons me into a bumping party. I jump with a hundred strangers and emotionally belt “Out of the Woods” with a circle I’ll think about for a while. After an hour of non-stop Swift, the DJ starts “American Girl” and the crowd boos. He puts his hands up, like we’re shimmery cops, and presses play on “Style.” YOU ALREADY PLAYED THAT we screech. He says into the mic, “Wow, Swifties let you know fast!” And he desperately picks a folklore track.

SABRINA CARPENTER duet of "Espresso" and "Please Please Please." I had to sit down after. Mind fully blown. Throat shot. Earlier I’d told a random girl from New York, I’d love to hear a slow piano-fabulous “Welcome to New York.” Ten hours later, I do. I time travel to 2017, that depressing summer I couldn't find any work and ended up teaching drama at various summer camps. A first grader in the arts cabin pointed her finger at me one morning and commanded, "LET US DANCE TO WELCOME TO NEW YORK." And so I did. Meanwhile in 2024 the three of us make friendship bracelets and do our make-up and spit toothpaste in the sink while someone else curls her hair while someone else applies glitter freckles. It’s not unlike the summer camp bathhouse.

A stranger from the internet finds me to give me beads that spell “your ivy grows”—a sign. Blondie wore her lavender dress like I did. The psychic says, “definitely” and so say we. Belle watches her daughter’s softball livestream. Diz on the hunt for a soft pretzel. A stadium worker goes to the back to find some, hot and fresh. I give her beads that say “Swiftie” and I feel like we’re friends for all time. At airport security the woman who checks my backpack sheepishly asks if I’d like to donate any bracelets, and boy would I! I give her one that says "The Man U Script." She shakes it proudly on her wrist. I observe as our doorman becomes progressively sparkly all day. A very drunk guy corners me, says he’s so impressed by the culture, said he cried after a girl gave him a friendship bracelet. “I’ve never felt so welcomed before.” Yeah, man, I want to say, f*ck the patriarchy. We sing it loud and proud where football lives. The tiny gal in front of us dances in the aisle, proudly reciting if she were a man, she’d be the man. The itty bitty who gave me a yellow circle of “YBWM”—I’ll never trade it.

When it was all over, I was so fed I couldn’t even taste the bitter of bittersweet. We poured onto the street, completely shut down. I spy a woman in a gown getting her feet rubbed at a dinky massage parlor. Belle started chanting “Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead!” and it caught like fire, until there we all were, marching through the city like a femme rage army. We sign a fan’s white dress with our favorite lyrics. I write in Sharpie, “we were in screaming color.” We ended up in an air-conditioned room playing music videos. “She’s so young,” we keep marveling. So were we, I think. So were we.

On Sunday, with only an hour left in the magical city I decide to walk to the park. But on the way I see a familiar shop. The spot I had my tea leaves read when I worked on the cruise ship. Too kismet to pass up. The medium reads the cup, explains I don’t need anymore big dreams. I need to find people who will help me make my dreams a reality. I'll never get over it, how it hit different this time.

The Summer My Mother Made Grape Salad

 It was

a terribly gloomy June,

plans made of cheese cloth

and dreams cracked in half,

the summer my mother made grape salad.

It wasn't

for lack of trying.

I went to parties and cafes and community events at the Ruby place.

I wrote every day and I went to the pool also

every day. No,

really, I went for two months straight. Never missed

in my pink two-piece that's disintegrated now.

Faded into oblivion, caked in dirt.

I read all of Madwoman in the Attic and half of Still Mad.

I listened to Sabrina Carpenter and Charli XCX.

I had the young ones over to prep for SNL auditions

and discuss how to fight for a Free Palestine.

I rolled my eyes at the old ones, resentful to lose what I never gained.

Puhg and I went to the movies so often,

and I always liked it. Sometimes we went with another couple.

Sometimes I wore a mask. I said yes

to just about every comedy show, and I walked

home from UCB many nights, often singing the bridge of "But Daddy I Love Him"

while hiking up the big hill on Western. I saw coyotes twice and my hamster

only if I got up in the middle of the night.

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb to watch Eras livestreams and managed my Etsy shop.

My mom and sister visited in July. My mom had mentioned making the grape salad for the Fourth.

I hadn't had it in twenty years. She made two tubs, no thanks to me.

I ate through the glop for weeks. The crunch of brown sugar and the softened pecans.

There was power

in many moments! To see my own book on the shelf,

all the miracles my partner makes to make our life

so much better. The run-ins around the neighborhood and cackling with Tira

and when she apologized.

All the validation

that assured me

and assured me there is nothing stable anymore--

do with that as you will--

the summer my mother made grape salad.

Kia His Car

The frog was the payment. $3000 to replace the car battery. But the walk over was pleasant, at least. ApplePay feels magical when you’re buying a little treat and evil when you’re dropping an entire paycheck. BEEP there goes the money.

Bopped to the coffee shop with the big windows. Promoted my book, promoted my essay, and then Beef showed up. She munched a small croissant as we gossiped, right until I had to rush away for a lunch, at the wooden patio with the exec who said she wanted to pay me five figures to develop an idea and then ghosted my manager for five months. Whatever, now she’s buying me a $20 sandwich. That’s showbiz. In line we see another exec and then we talk about Taylor Swift for most of the meeting.

At home I fire away business emails. I spent the week working on a climate PSA, a Toy Conglomerate script, and my newest play. Plus continued negotiations and a new project. I rush down to the pool by 4 to read and dip before throwing gold glitter on my eyelids and Ubering over to some friend of a friend’s house. It’s where we’re meeting up to carpool to Olivia Rodrigo at the Kia Forum. Buckle is a great concert seat mate. He really lets his emotions out. I don’t take many photos or videos, opting to remember things instead. I am impressed by how much more of a star Olivia has become since I saw her six months ago. She lets the crowd take over, she offers up commercial insights. She is doing a show in a show now. I like the part when we all scream, “LIKE A DAMN SOCIOPATH” and I love knowing whoever she wrote that song about assuredly has friends in attendance. I order mozzarella sticks on the way home. They’re sitting on the ground, waiting for me when I make it back.

I sleep in Saturday, do a dance workout, hustle to the same coffee shop by 11. I clock two hours on my new play. It’s way too long. I’m 2/3 done and it’s already 150 pages. This one is a beast, but I think about it all the time, now that I’ve slotted it into first position. Not a day goes by some line or new accent doesn’t pop into my head when I least expect it.

I eat vegan buffalo wings and carrots, watch part of the John Travolta movie Phenomenon with Puhg. It’s so boring, but I am curious how it will end. Drive to Trader Joe’s for a variety of snacks, read at the pool, hop in, get my hair done. My guy gently checks my political temperature then conspiratorially informs me he thinks 45 is the literal devil. I read Miranda July’s new book under the heater. The highlights look splotchy, which they always do, but who really cares? I like getting shampoo’d in a teal wonderland with a fountain and paying $90 cash.

I shove a hoodie and blanket into my backpack and grab a beach chair and head to the Hollywood Forever cemetery to watch Bring It On. The friends of friends had invited me and I think they’re all surprised when I show up. I talk about ceramics with one, camo pants with another, the ethics of using certain homophobic slurs cheekily with a third. Kirsten Dunst is there and knowing that does enhance the experience. The crowd keeps screaming when her teen character makes good choices. I munch brie and dried apricots and cotton candy grapes and about 20 cookies. Puhg picks me up a few blocks away. I stay up, listening to a YouTube video about changing your mindset and eat about 30 more cookies. In the middle of the night, Sweet Potato gets scooped, and I pet her nose.

At our traditional morning spot, Puhg and I do New York Times puzzles and chat with a barista about The Egyptian. I plot out my week’s goals. I have a deadline Wednesday and I am torn between working on it all day (to get ahead) or "enjoying the weekend." I decided on the second and go to the pool. Almost done with my feminist literature book, dive in, float around. Puhg has a lot of news, but it’s mostly good, I think. Buffalo wings and carrots and then I drive over to the friends of friends joint birthday. Tarp says, “Three days in a row!” And it’s true. We buy bingo cards, and a chicken is in a coop, and the sun is blazing. I pay for valet, drink half a watermelon slushie, am only a little in my head when I gab with my friend who became a gatekeeper who is maybe back to a friend.

Home just in time to Zoom with Cobra. She’s going to work on herself for the next six months, she declares. We laugh about the state of our industry. I wear my lavender romper and head to our Mexican restaurant for a double date. Everyone talks about who they were in high school, we eat four bowls of chips, a plane pens ‘SHERRY” across the blue sky. We walk down to the cabaret theatre to see ____’s work in progress solo show. It’s more heartfelt than I anticipate, a pleasant surprise. I enjoy seeing a dozen or so people from my past but I am relieved when I’ve said all the hellos and can walk home listening to Radiohead. I post photos to Instagram and after Puhg explains Sweet Potato is refusing to come out, I fall asleep.