I'm Grateful for What I Got

This isn't how I would have preferred my life to go I guess. Can't help but thinking of that Lord of the Rings quote where Frodo is like, ah nuts I wish this hadn't happened in my lifetime! And Gandalf is like, my bro same! But that's what everyone always wishes! What else am I to do when faced with the glaring realities of climate collapse?

I still have hope. I believe in solutions I can't fathom dreamed up by brains I haven't heard of created in labs I don't know about. Sounds like a fairytale, doesn't it? Once upon a time, in a far off land, there was a scientist in a tower. She had long blonde hair and needed funding from at least once benevolent billionaire to save the world. One would trot to her window and call up, "Scientist, scientist, let down your hair to me!" She did as asked, letting this lady claw up her scalp every day. But by the end of some time, they'd created something in that bizarre cylinder. Gossip spread to the townsfolk, probably via Gloop, the quirky little guy who brought fresh vegetables to the tower. So the townspeople started coming by too, eventually getting into the habit of making a human pyramid so the scientist could get the bob she always wanted.

I've been talking about silver lining because it's what most unaffected people want to talk to me about. They may think it's making me feel better, but I think it's making them feel better. Though I believe in silver linings. I also believe in the dark gray clouds. One particular cloud has been hovering over me this week, since November really. It's not bad. It's not good either. The cloud calmly reasons, "You've had a really nice life."

The cloud warns that the end could be near. It wouldn't be fair, but maybe I've lived more in these 36 years than others get to in 80. I've squeezed so much into every month and week and day. I've been all the places I wanted to go, experienced all the love I longed for, built a wonderful life of silliness and coziness and adventure with my partner, made art I am incredibly proud of, been blessed with hundreds of beautiful, funny friends and thousands of special acquaintances. I've experienced and explored my special and complicated family. I've put myself in the position to be rejected and ashamed over and over and lived. I've put myself in the position to be seen and beloved and lived. I won a blue bead award at my summer camp when I was 11 and 14. I was a state champion in high school and spoke at all three of my graduations. I wrote my favorite play in 2022. Taylor Swift pointed at me while she sang my favorite song. Last week I gently told a teenage boy he shouldn't joking use the world "cripple" in an elevator at at Embassy Suites. I've taught hundreds of people how to write jokes and five-paragraph essays. I've collaborated with most of my favorite artists, which seems nearly impossible but somehow true. Children have streamed my progressive feminist jokes millions and millions of times. I've watched countless sunsets and many sunrises. I've melted into millions of artistic pieces--the movie Clueless and paintings by Caillebotte and concerts by Something Corporate. I did improv on a cruise ship and under a Taco Bell and wrote theatre in the woods and in airplane lounges. I built fires and made scrapbooks and arranged cheese boards. I've cried until I couldn't breathe and laughed the same. I've told almost everyone how I feel. I gave them the opportunity to tell me. Sometimes they didn't take it. Mostly they did. I'm grateful for what I got.

Cap, just because. 2021.

Don't Let the Days Go By Glycerine

It's the time of year when the sun wakes me and I'm not too cold to stay in bed and not too hot to wrestle out. I close one eye and use the other to look into Puhg's. I decide, urgently, I need to go to a matinee at the movies today. I book the 1 PM Nosferatu in the huge theatre with recliners. I do the Espresso dance work-out and time my shower to be ten minutes flat. I feel determined to make it to the cafe before 8:40, so I can have a few choice minutes with my honey. I fold my vegan bacon slices into quarters so I can eat them in single bites. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. I decide on my black joggers and pink thrifted Scream crewneck. I wear the t-shirt I wore to bed, honestly.

I make it down the street by 8:32. The jolliest barista is in a mask and got a cool haircut. I have too much oat milk and Puhg has too little, so I do some extraction shots with my straw, like a surgeon. We talk about people's odd need to defend systems that don't even serve them and spaghetti vs. waffles. I read two sections of Women Who Run with the Wolves, about the mystical meaning of dolls and naiveté, then jot a list of my favorite art of 2024. I look through my notes from my first play read-through. No one has read a word of this thing yet, and I'm getting nervous. It is boring? I wonder, then, later, no it's it's not boring...it's too cringe to share to even find out if it's boring. I rewrite the notes in better handwriting, with more structure. I outline which scenes I think need reordering and which can be hacked or collapsed. I have to cut about 50 minutes, if not 60! I've never overwritten to this degree! I try to sign a contract for a conglomerate. They forgot to do some paperwork months ago. Two hours after I say I'll review the documents and send them back, they ping me, saying they'd really like the signatures now. I think about all the responses I want to fire off: well I don't actually work for you right now shall I bill you for an hour or two for the rush delivery I have my own life I have other jobs you've actually never ever asked me a single question about myself your folly is not my emergency chill out we live on a rock in space on which everything is controlled by a fake paper currency with no real value. But instead I walk home, open my laptop, sign the documents, and write, "Here you go!"

My friend asked me to note his screenplay. I've read five of his projects. He's worked with me so long that my rate has more than tripled since we met. I still discount him, which isn't great business, but sometimes other things matter more. The first act was hilarious, two and three could use shaping. I type up my findings while fielding all the Coffee Pings. Coffee Pings are so cute and validating and a tiresome never-ending Hollywood boulder to roll. One of my Conglomerate Producers is tapping me for a different comedy project and wants breakfast Thursday. The social outreach gal from the activism group wants to Zoom about my play. The college director checks in about the Saturday reading start time, yes 7 is great and I'm bringing a new scene I exclaim. My old college professor pitches an idea for a guest lecture. The most whimsical playwright I know texts thank you for my contributions to her writers' group yesterday: "smart thoughtful kind meeting everyone where they’re at - just so good." She wrote this incredible piece about a haggard woman who runs a grant program for a sociopath and I laughed my butt off reading it. Another bite from an LA director about a regional theatre producer I should know, I say I'll follow up. Grief asks if I can attend a game night with executives next week and Buckle says we're overdue for face time so I open my calendar and volley 16th afternoon in WeHo and Roll: "Want to get a coffee sometime soon? I would like to sit in your glow for a bit :-) " A trickle of gals RSVPing yes for our next gab sesh. Different Conglomerate says their client is two months late on my notes, but go ahead and bill for the commercial now. That random $300 gig money gets wired. I get overwhelmed and text Gos about how horrified I am that we've been witnessing/normalizing a genocide for over a year! I'm sorry but it makes me completely break-down once a week or so! I'm seeing dead children every day! Intentionally dead children! With bullet wounds in their heads! How are we just walking around listening to pop music and eating pretzel bites!

Thirty minutes later I'm in the AMC parking lot blasting "Karma" and pre-ordering cinnamon pretzel bites. I smuggle in my own can of Diet Cherry Coke. Everyone flipping loved this film, and it just didn't hold me. That's fine, I'm glad I went. Three other people were in there. I clapped for Nicole Kidman alone. I reemerged like a vampire from her crypt at golden hour. I walked along the busy street to the promenade, fully basking in the California winter. Got a falafel bowl. The owner was scooping hummus today. I trotted around remembering being a teen at the mall. When I got back to my car I decided to do another lap, then another. The line was long at In N Out, two girls drink Frappuccinos, I pass an unhoused woman with hair over her face one way and again on the way back. Notably, she has a new Target bag.

I decide not to play music and take the long way home, through the park, by the old zoo. It's a gorgeous windows-down winding drive. The runners are out and the kind of cars who don't rush to be the first to zip through an intersection. I'm very proud of how I timed it all. The darkness, just creeping up on the skyline as I pull into my apartment gate. Puhg came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. We thought about if things we do are responses to or reflections of our stimuli. He went on a walk, so I wrote this. Felt like listening to Glycerine by Bush.

We live in a wheel where everyone steals / but when we rise it's like strawberry fields.

Looking Backward Might Be to Only Way to Move Forward

If I had to describe 2024 in one word, I think I'd choose "stuffed." I swear I've lived so many years in this one. Like some kind of hot pocket. Only instead of broccoli cheddar I microwaved a steaming square of winter, spring, summer, fall.

January was like a sunny snow globe. I spent a lot of mornings in cafes writing my novella. Mostly I was alone, but my schedule was so consistent when friends would text “we should catch up!” I’d say, “well I’ll be sitting in this exact seat with half an iced oat latte for the next five hours if you’re free now.” And often, they would be. In the afternoons I’d do tedious administrative tasks and write my Toy Conglomerate series. I went to the movies all the time with Puhg and also with myself. I scurried around Los Angeles for a solid month finding the final theatre showings of Eras. I’d usually pre-order cinnamon pretzel bites and an XL Mr. Pibb.

February felt so exciting. A month of being at Marv’s house for a dinner party then jetting to NYC for Galas and truly life-changing shows. Sipping Shirleys in the lobby with my mother and hoofing around Central Park and chuckling with my high school bff and going backstage to hug TF and AP and seeing my old pink friend and my first editor. Finally caught Covid, but I recovered just in time for a magical Arizona getaway to see Olivia Rodrigo with my sister and meet Shells’ baby. Conglomerate hired me for a couple commercials, and it was revealed, I am their most prized writer. How to leverage that, working on it.

March was unpleasant. I’ll be the first to admit. Deals fell apart, execs waffled, bosses bossed, bosses didn’t boss. We went to a wedding in Ojai for people I didn’t know, and I danced with the force of a million angsty teen girls to "Mr. Brightside.” I posted up by the dessert table and ate every single petit fours. I was so moody Puhg and I whisked off to Mexico, where we ate the most delicious tacos and swam in the incredible sparkling pool and got upgraded to a condo, which was honestly too big. But it did come with its own little waterfall, which I goofed in for hours and hours in between reading a dumb book I bought off TikTok about not believing everything you think.

At the last minute we decided to see to the total eclipse. The nearest city was Dallas, and the flights were horribly expensive, but we couldn’t stop bringing it up—a sign. What an incredible feast it was. Got to see summer camp friends and walk around that One Cool Area and eat fresh bagels and I had the sudden idea to send a copy of my manuscript to my old English professor, who gave me very helpful notes.

I spent most of April running logistics for my book. I was irritated often and at least once a day deep in a pit of gripes about some shipping issue or flakey talent. Or maybe I was just, generally, completely overwhelmed by my own cringe. My sister visited for one day and we almost went to a bakery to write but last minute went to Universal Studios instead. Oh god, we had fun. Trotted around the Mario Land of the late 90s and both stood, cheered, screamed for the Waterworld Live Show, an image of which I just rubber cemented onto the top of my 2025 dream board.

The book events were incredibly special, and I’m immensely proud I got her in four stores. Around fifty people came, and I made a connection with each one. I made hundreds of rainbow cookies and we all sang acoustic “Cruel Summer” in an art gallery, to get back to what I was saying about cringe. I wrote an essay about it. I wrote another essay about confidence. I wrote another essay about consciousness and 22 essays about the Future.

Two jobs came up that I didn’t know if I wanted. I applied, which wasn’t unfunny, and didn’t get either. But unlike the Alice of 2018 or even 2022, I didn’t really care. It happens more often than not now, that I am relieved when I am rejected from a windfall of cash. Maybe I’m meant to be saying other things. In the meantime I get hired to write a TikTok, which goes massively viral in 48-hours, and brings 20K followers to the company. I am begged to page-one revise a M*nster H*gh commercial and punch up a pilot for Marv.

I finished out the project I once loved that turned into a project I resented, and we never said goodbye. I stood up for myself and was invisibly punished for it. I wrote about that too. I listened to TTPD four million times.

My other play broke my heart a million times over. I have cried so many tears over this stack of paper. Once I couldn’t even stand up I was so devastated. Laid on the ground letting the ache out, clutched at chair legs. I worried I had developed some intense disease or might need jaw surgery. Puhg told me I’d been chewing in the night, and I couldn’t speak freely anymore. Once I dissolved the fancy contract all the pain vanished. I tell Shan about it and she says, “The body keeps the score.”

Shan was a big character in 2024. So were Seline and Grief as always. One is fun and the other meets me in reality. The group watches Survivor less often, but still. I do a handful or improv shows—one an all-time favorite, with LA. It feels incredible to finally be here: I don’t need to rehearse or plan to crush. But then I get shut out of another show (a free late show that does not matter AT ALL) and I am so mad I stomp out of the theatre early.

I’m terribly embarrassed about how insane I feel on my birthday. I pick at myself, almost until I bleed, but then I have a little gathering on the side patio instead. I wear my white cowboy boots and bring the gals smol gifts I found just for them. A banana clip or socks or cherry earrings or a Japanese surprise ball.

I decide to make a commitment to Pride for June, I tell Grief. Nik and I go to the comedy theatre to see the queer ensemble and get ice cream after. I go to my first Dyke Day, which is the most organized, respectful adventure. I watch a Drag King perform “Blank Space” in the blazing heat and sit on a blanket as the entire world chants HOT TO GO. I split a cab there with Jordy and we, against all odds, end up on the sidewalk leaving together. Rain and I go for Mexican and get into it. “How did you get out of it?” I ask her, and she explains she had to rot. I try it that weekend, “rotting.” It works! For some reason, I recognize, it’s easier for me to rot than relax. Both can even look like laying in bed watching TV. But for some reason, the rot resonates and the rest doesn’t.

The turning point may have been the pool. The going every day. I let the wind blow me, and it blew me into writing with an iconic comedian and mentoring the girlies and analyzing (in depth) concert livestreams. I like being in the pool group: the two-toddler fam, the immigrant teens, the one chubby older man, and the guy my age who always brought a small hot coffee and old headphones.

My sister and mom visited, and we crammed eversomuch into one weekend! The woodland stand and facials and beach and Twister, followed by Twisters plural. I remember my mom holding my paw when the aunt tells Helen Hunt to keep working on Dorothy. “You’ve been chasing these things since you were a little kid. It’s what you do. Go, do it.”

The summer fun is fun. Bleachers and Joyce Manor at The Greek. Going to the waterpark and watching the Olympics at the movie theatre on a weekday morning, only stepping out to take a call from my theatre lawyer. The night Puhg lost his job we went to the pizza shop and I gave him a card with a shrimp on it. The day he started his new gig last month we went to our main haunt and I left a bright blue note on the table. There was that Sunday morning I posted up tapping away on god knows what by the bookshop, so I could drop off another sticker stack, and I see no fewer than six improvisers swing through. I take these opportunities to encourage them. I’ve spent a long time being ashamed I want to change the world with my art. Seems narcissistic. But I finally understand the truth: I want everyone to change the world with their art. Before I go to Illinois I pull off some kind of collaborative magic and start working with AB, it’s decided, on a Saturday night over clinked pink grapefruit while she is dolled up for the Emmys and I have secretly just slammed a whole plate of nachos.

The Prairie State is full of memories and long walks around the river and hot pink sunsets and a hike up to Starved Rock and tea at the Drake and bagels and art and a party, with just the cream, I think. I love all my lives and also don’t miss a single one. When I get back to California, I find a new therapist. I love her office, behind a red oval door, near a citrus tree.

It happened slowly, but I communicate like a true professional. I have excellent boundaries and don’t accept just any job offer. I don’t follow up with people anymore either. It’s too clear an indication of the rest of time, I have learned. You can burn your pitch decks.

There were two Arizona trips—one for Mothers’ Day. We have brunch and go to Nordstrom Rack. Kale and I have dinner at Cornish and she says, too seriously after a year of applying to hundreds of jobs, “I’m so glad my mom is dead so she doesn’t have to see what a failure her daughter is.” By the time we return in December for Puhg’s dad’s birthday, she has the best job she’s ever had. Far far better than any of the others she tried to get.

In September we went to Washington to stand in the quietest spot of moss and marvel at the old red sign. We saw the film festival shorts twice and enjoyed them more the second time? The gang went to Applebee’s and visited the high school movie set. I blasted Letters to Cleo while we turned the corner. Everyone was out of their gourds at dinner, the waiter gave us separate checks. Puhg got a truck and returned it. One of our favorite mornings of the year we got up before dawn to hit the drive-thru of Mochamotion, listened to all of Red TV on the long leaf-lined roads. Beach exploration and musing about Twilight and finally a sunny veggie burger, a seagull joined us. We laugh our heads off over fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me, fool me five times you’ve fallen into my trap.

October was simply the best. Maine for the wackiest little gig in a beautiful little house alone, and then with my sweet family. I am empowered by this $800 gig. I sing my heart out to hundreds of people each night, pretending to be a fire-starting teen or a crossing guard or a haunted old woman. My mom and I drive to a tiny town and eat fiddleheads. My sister and her husband and I have blueberry pie. It feels so funny and wonderful to see them in the same shops I used to buzz around back when I was 26. Puhg and I get maple cold brews on the way to the airport. It’s a ten minute drive. AND THEN I GO TO NEW ORLEANS FOR ERAS. A top weekend of my entire life! HITS DIFFERENT. Super super, that’s what we are.

In November my reality collapsed, I led women’s groups, got pneumonia, and somehow went for a last swim. Henne hosted me in NYC, where I did nothing but cough in the shower and guzzle emergen-c. That’s not true--I also saw Stereophonic, which I loved, from the very back corner of the balcony, surrounded by Hall’s wrappers. The play workshop renewed my belief in myself and humanity! All 16 students impress and stamp on me. My director met with me a few days ago, at the spot with mirrored halls and incredible hand pies. We are going to make it happen, she keeps assuring under the winter sun. For Thanksgiving we made a vegan loaf.

December threatened me! Too much to do, but the bow was a long and beautiful Christmas. Tattoos, chocolate oranges, sits by the pool, Little Dom’s salad, names from a Tupperware, a hill scramble at golden hour, Puhg’s pancake birthday and later vegan hot dogs. I get overwhelmed and say, I’m sorry it’s hard to love me. My sister explains it’s not hard to love me but hard to support. “Amen,” Alice Sr. chimes.

What am I missing? (You see what I mean about “stuffed”?) OH GOD SWEET POTATO. The ever present lump who used to keep me up late chewing, who now resides so deeply in a shavings pile I will actually reorganize my entire morning around her sniffing snoot if needed! She is smart and she is fuzzy and she smells like the forest.

Our building manager passed away, and I still can't believe it. I don't want to take any more people for granted. She always called me "sweetheart."

I’ll need more time to think about all my favorite art of the year. Off the dome: Problemista and Perfect Days and Chappell and Sabrina and Wicked and Still Mad and OH MARY. Photo finish, one of my favorite arts of the year was Once Upon a Mattress with Sutton and Ana. It’s rare you know you’re in the presence of a genius geniusing. I’ve been blessed to see it many times in this one itty bitty life. Maybe that’s my purpose, to be a mouse near lions.

Today I wrote this blog post at the cafe, had a waffle (it’s a holiday, I screamed at the barista), and attended a sound bath. On my intention card I wrote I’d like to leave “control” behind and bring “lightness” into the new year. I got two (!) vaccinations yesterday, with no side effects. Talked with my sister and mom about resolutions, texted with my dad about Bob Dylan. I’ve sent mail and organized the bookshelf and paid my last bills and did the math on my spreadsheet. I wrote 930 hours and produced 1242 hours. That shakes out to about 17 hours of writing and 23 hours of producing per week, with no weeks off. I made 65k.

I finished the first draft of my newest play on December 23rd, 2024! I will begin revisions on January 2nd! I am so confused and terrified about the year ahead! I have few resolutions and fewer goals! But I will! Be doing a reading! Of this play!

Christmas Eve for Sickos

Filled an empty See's box with grocery store gift cards for the neighborhood baristas. Puhg and I did the NYT puzzles as a gal yapped loudly next to us, a realtor who spoke rudely about her renters and their pipes. Read some of Women Who Run with the Wolves and jotted ideas for an essay about destroying capitalism. Finished the episode of Station 11 I fell asleep during. Got excited for my next play workshop, realized it would be the same exact date a previous workshop (defunded) fell apart.

I really wanted to enter the holiday without deadlines, so I wrote my Megacorp x Megacorp commercial from 4 - 6 PM. The sun served as my ticking clock. Sent the script away, ah. Put on my coat, stuffed my purse with candy, and hoofed into the night. It was very special club of us, everyone who went to the Vista on Christmas Eve to see a 3.5 hour historical drama about immigration and architecture. In line for popcorn I smiled and waved at a guy, then asked, wait--how do we know each other? Turns out he works at one of my haunts, we'd just never spoken. "Hi, sicko," Puhg said. And then we saw Jack Black, in bright pink shorts, walk by. Later, a guy who lost Survivor.

Right before the movie began my dad called, so I went outside to talk with him while the previews rolled. I stood in the alley with my hood over my eyes. There was an intermission, which felt so cute and quaint. The entire place was abuzz with folks running into each other and refilling their pop. Everyone liked the movie, you could just tell. Applause etc. We decided to wait for the credits to end before braving the chilly California night. The streets were truly empty. We trotted the mile home, jaywalking for fun and spinning under the hung lights. We talked about art and if the journey is actually greater than the destination. Maybe the destination gives weight to the journey--has anyone ever considered that?

At the last stoplight (red and green) Puhg opened his phone to the ham cam app. She had just gotten up, was drinking water. We tore down the sidewalk, bursting in the door in time to grab her. "Christmas ham!" we cheered at her. And she blinked--because hamsters don't know about holidays, but I like to think they can sense them, in their tiny hamster hearts.

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.