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.

The Shake Shack in Hollywood

Wake up before the alarm, to a text, asking if I can hop on a show this Friday night. I can! A dance workout, put pumpkin rolls in the oven. Wear my new concert t-shirt. It's baby blue and reminds me of how fun it was to scream "Constant Headache" at The Greek in a row by myself.

I trot down to the coffee shop to meet Puhg for a latte. The barista working, my favorite, a young director. I journal and jet of by 9:10 to meet my writer's group for breakfast in Hirshy's beautiful backyard. I make a big deal about taking the last apple pop-tart and then don't even finish it. Shawl texts me we could write at a cafe together for an hour. I'd have to bail early and consider, as I do often these days, how much to amend my life to accommodate famous people. But the cafe is only five minutes away, so I go and order two eggs and and a lemonade and gab with the funny star. After she leaves I write a scene of my new play, make it home by 2.

Answer some emails in bed. Set up a coffee with AB for next week! Hit the pool. Read my fat Madwoman book, swim, swim, swim. In the deep end I find a bee. I use a leaf to air-lift her to the ledge. Every lap I take a peek. She seems to be breathing and drying, like ohmyGOD what was that all about?

Shower and get ready in a jif. Decide to go with grey dress and bubblegum lipstick. Hop in a cab to meet my manager at the Shake Shack on Hollywood Boulevard. If you live here, you never go to Hollywood Boulevard. It's funny to sit waiting for her around all the tourists. K___ is quite late, but I don't mind. I practice my Japanese. She shows up with her magic company credit card and I get to eat a veggie burger and Coke. And we gab about all my meetings from the week and how hopeless this industry is. But it feels better, when I'm laughing about it, eating a free veggie burger and Coke.

We walk two blocks to the networking mixer and stop to enjoy bits from the walk of fame. I take a picture with Bette Davis's star. Feels important at the time. At the mixer I see a writer I know, who immediately tells me he had to get a survival job in marketing. We run into a theatre producer and I feel myself ooze. I'm sick of oozing. We chat with another exec, clink classes with a couple other writers. One is so fresh-faced and nervous--I admire he came to this big group thing alone.

The pack heads to the theatre on foot, and we watch a brilliant production of Company. My dear friend R___ waves to me at intermission. She's wearing a bright yellow dress and looks anxious. In Act Two I spend a lot of time thinking about my own work. I try to stop myself, but inspiration can't always be tamed. My manager and I gossip out into the night and go to the chic ice cream shop to discuss everyone we know in the context of the musical. Once my mouth is black from brownie batter I call Puhg to pick me up. My manager reassures me, we are getting by. We're cockroaches, but we're alive. And then, a cockroach crawls up from the wall behind her and threatens to jump into her hair! I pull her away in the nick of time.

At 11 Sweet Potato is up, lying very flat but happily in Puhg's shadow. She gets an apple slice.

Float Away Then

On a gust of wind. I'll float away, maybe like an old party streamer, but let's not kid ourselves, more accurately, a piece of garbage. A piece of garbage so unwanted that whoever threw her out couldn't even be bothered to make it into the trash can.

She's lifted from the sidewalk and spins up and up in a gust. Maybe she'll get stuck in a tree, or maybe she'll just land at the dump. Where she's always belonged. It was nice pretending for a while. It was stupid, but at least it was nice.