I Love It Here

Slept for 10 hours! Popped out of bed like a slice of toast hopped into a Midnights work-out followed by Olivia Rodrigo and even Post-Malone I had so much energy. Puhg headed out for his neighborhood walk in his orange cap. I sang in the shower to Red on shuffle. Sweet Potato woke up! We sat in the cream chair together. I read while she sniffed. Eventually I give her a slice of apple, me a plate of vegan bacon, and head to the coffee shop. I love getting there before 8:30, before any crowds. Puhg and I plot out the day, whether or not we'll see his cousin. We won't but they talk on the phone, near the bagel truck. I write out my Weekly Action Plan as I have every week for the past five years. The secret to my madness. We do our little puzzle and dream about the ocean. Several dogs have a conference on the sidewalk. I read a section of my wild woman book then tap away at revisions of an essay. I send it off to Gos, to see if it's anything. I have vegan buffalo wings with carrots and then we head to G______ to order new glasses. We went to the optometrist last week. It was Feb 10 but felt like Valentines sitting in the tiny office together. The frames I chose are bigger. I like them, but these are the kind of changes I always dread. We zip home in our grey bug, listening to the 80s station. walk down to the grassy knoll at the bottom of the park. I read more and journal about students I remember and eat apple slices in the sun. I listen to "Call It What You Want" and stare off at the skyline. An activist has left me a voice note about a project. I text Puhg asking if he wants candy for the movie later, he says why not. I walk the few blocks to the grocery store and pick up Sour Straws for me, Reese Sticks for him, Girl Scouts are outside. I buy a few boxes. The gals tell me they're hoping for a trip to Catalina Island this year. I smile crossing the hot parking lot, chatter at Puhg once I'm home. Now I'm in the bedroom watching Glow and writing this.

A Nice Day in Hell

Felt like a morning for the Olivia Rodrigo work-out. Puhg was gone, up and out early for a meeting. I didn't need my laptop, so I walked a bit further, to the very hip coffee shop where there's usually a line out the door and barely ever room to sit. Because it was only 8:45 I didn't have to wait for my cream top coffee and croissant. I asked for a paper cup, but the barista said they have a strict no substitutions policy. Then she added she was pretty sure the plastic is compostable. There was one little corner to squeeze in so I did. I sat there for three hours, my neighbors being a guy in orange flip flops who never looked up from his phone, a business man with a tiny curly pet-able dog, two aspiring actors, three girlfriends--one whose house burned down. A lot of people's houses and places have burned down. It's bizarre to overhear multiple conversations per day about it. How the insurance company won't pay for that vintage wardrobe or where the kids are going to go to school now or if anyone else is thinking about renting a place in Joshua Tree for the next six months because the air might be giving us all cancer.

One of my corporate producers approved the new episodes with heart emojis. I confirmed lunch with my friend whose house burned down for next Tuesday. He's moving to the east coast Wednesday. I wrote one of my writers' groups I have to step out. I say it's because I am overwhelmed with work, which is true, but it's more true that I am overwhelmed with other people's misguided goals about our work. The Hollywood racetrack has quietly become a hamster wheel, and I don't like watching people hop on. I've been in the room when powerful people lose their deals, know how many execs are getting fired and fleeing into random careers, usually real estate. 

A new fire pops up, near our family friend's home. AP texts me back, this week sucks. I write that other producer back who kind of wastes my time. A friend reaches out saying she gets what I mean, about how I don't make five-year plans, on principle. I set a meeting with the exec who found a comic for me to adapt. Finally I can scootch back, cross my legs like apple sauce, and get lost in the first feature draft I wrote with AB. I carefully read, surprising myself with laughter, forgetting jokes we ourselves made up. I jot all my notes carefully in a pink notebook.

I munch some vegan wings and carrots and head over to AB's house--reminding Puhg to please call me repeatedly if I don't pick up the first time. AB and I gab in her basement and then talk through everything we'd like to change about our script. We're almost exactly aligned, which is amazing. Her husband tells us congrats and her stylist's assistant shows up with a suitcase of outfits for the festival. AB tries the suit and corset combo, which looks stunning, but she thinks the pants might be too loose. I gesture to my yoga pants, two sizes too big and mutter I'm the worst person to ask. Nevertheless, the three of us squint at AB's crotch, deciding if the word "saggy" need apply. We wrap around 4:30, and I listen to "The Archer" on the pink drive home. The fire has gotten much worse.

I was going to write some emails but don't have any energy left it seems. I read a little of Prep in bed. We think about walking to the theatre for a movie, but it's sold out. I trot to the health food store for Puhg's favorite soda and a candy instead. We can do movie night at home. We fall asleep halfway through Y Tu Mama Tambien. At 11:30 or so we get up from the couch and bring Sweet Potato out. She doesn't run around. She sits on her feet and listens, like a little watch ham. There's another new fire, closer to us, but blowing in the other direction. At 3 AM I wake up to check, still no evac warnings.

Duck Bill

At the coffee shop. Puhg just left. He laughed as he went. I was chattering on and on about something, god knows what to be honest. Sometimes I can’t stop. I wish I could, but on these mornings, before 9 AM, I’m blooming with so many thoughts, grandstanding about art and capitalism and theorizing about myself and everyone we know. I started laughing too and we just nodded at each other. As he stood, he kissed my head and reassured me, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

I chuckled nervously because what kind of person must be reassured nothing is wrong with them, besides a person who is assuredly defective? Puhg shrugged, perhaps reading my mind, “You look at a platypus, and think it’s pretty weird, but you don’t think something is wrong with it.”