Today I met Judy for lunch, and we sat and talked for two hours. It was the best I’ve felt in weeks, because we are in somewhat of the same place in our lives. I wish I could elaborate on that some more, but I really can’t. All I will say is that she understood the level to which I was hurt and in a lot of ways, metaphysically kissed it and made it better. She also gives really good hugs.

I talked about this on my Facebook page, but I will talk about it here because it bears repeating…. a conversation I had at The Daily Grill (but I won’t tell you which location to protect the ignorant). The setup is that I got to lunch really early, and ordered a glass of iced tea. When I got it, they hadn’t added water to it (or so it seemed).

Leslie: This tea is really, really strong. Could I have some Half-and-Half?
Bartender: I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.
Leslie: …………….
Waiter: ……………
Leslie: Cream….. Milk……
Waiter: OH!!! (blushes)

So I wait until our appointed time and it turns out I am in the wrong location. I look up the address to where I’m supposed to be and it says it will take me 30 minutes to get there. I told the manager to call over to the restaurant where Judy was and tell her I was on my way, then Ubered my way across town to shave off time. It was easy, considering how much caffeine I’d had while “waiting for Judy.”

We have this incredible lunch and then she walks me toward the bus I need, wherein I see a Jonathan Adler store across the street and proceed to FREAK OUT. My Kindle cover with the question mark on one side and the ampersand on the other is Jonathan Adler, and he uses punctuation in a lot of his designs…. for instance, I saw a pillow duvet with a question mark on it and it was all I could do not to run up to the counter and say, “SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY!” I resisted only because they were $125 apiece. Because of course they were.

I decided that even though the store was kind of out of my price range, I still wanted to spend as long as I could there…. and then, something so spectacular appeared in the corner of my eye that I whipped around and bought it. The setup is that years ago, I was shopping in Williams Sonoma and they had a tomato soap that sent me over the moon. It was expensive, so I did not buy it. When I went back, it was gone, and I haven’t been able to find it since…. and by “years ago,” I’m pretty sure that W. had just taken office. So, anyway, I see this tomato lotion out of the corner of my eye, and I ran over to it and picked it up. It smelled JUST LIKE the tomato soap I’d found years ago. I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass again, because lotion is one of those things that lasts me ten years.

And by tomato, I don’t mean that it smells like the food. I mean it smells like the vine…. except it won’t kill you. I leave walking on air, because this is the first housewarming gift I have purchased for myself, and it is something I have wanted since the Kathleen years. In fact, Dana will tell you that it is something I haven’t shut up about our entire relationship. Every time we go into Williams Sonoma, “when are you going to bring back the tomato soap?” Now I can stop bugging them.

It is then that all the iced tea begins to hit me and I have to go to the restroom. I stopped for a few moments to check my Google Maps to make sure I was going in the right direction, and then stopped into the Hyatt Regency because I figured there would be a public bathroom in the lobby. I went into the stall and put my stuff down, and when I finished, I picked up my backpack and the Jonathan Adler bag was gone. All of the confidence I’d had all day drained, because losing both my tomato lotion and the money I spent on it put me on the ground. I cried big alligator tears because I thought that the chance of getting it back was nil. I’d probably left it on the Metro, and there was no hope. Plus, I’d been talking to Judy about what happened with Dana and my grief was just under the surface of my skin to begin with, and I just lost it. I wasn’t crying about the lotion and the money anymore. I was fucking up at life. Just STRAIGHT UP.

And then I remembered that I’d stopped right outside the hotel to check Google Maps, and maybe I’d just left it where I stopped. I ran out of the hotel like a house on fire, and when I got to the outside walkway, there was my Jonathan Adler bag, untouched, lotion intact.

That’s when I REALLY cried. What had been lost was found. I wasn’t a failure after all. I knew that I wasn’t, logically, but you can’t tell that emotionally to a person in grief and have them believe it. I can’t even tell it to myself without solid proof. I knew that I’d made a mistake by leaving it behind to begin with, but just the fact that I’d had enough presence of mind to take it off the Metro with me is the only reason I was able to retrace my steps in the first place. That had to be something, right?

I hope so.

I went to meet Prianka at lunch, and afterward, I used Starbucks as my office for a couple of hours because I had some time to kill. My next appointment canceled, so I thought, “I need a haircut and an eyebrow wax.” So I get out my little iPhone and ask Google Maps to point me to the nearest SuperCuts. This is the one time that Google Maps has directed me to the wrong place, so I ride the bus out to East Jesus Nowhere and then walk half a mile and the SuperCuts is not there. I have walked all over DC by this point, to the tune of about five miles, so I just sat down on the ground and created an Uber account. Dorsey came to pick me up within three minutes, and we ended up having such a great time that I told him I was looking for friends and since I had his cell number, could I text him again? He said “absolutely.” Rock star.

Dorsey is from the ATL, and one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my life. However, that’s not what made me want to be his friend (although it helps, not gonna lie). He’s a DC public school teacher, and things go to shit in a way for which he is unprepared on a daily basis. In his two years of teaching here, he’s been through a riot and two kids brandishing handguns at school. If that wasn’t enough, the charter schools offload their poorest students back into their zone schools because it affects the amount of funding they get, and teachers’ salaries are tied to the kids’ progress. So all the kids that transfer in count against him. It is a miserable system, but he says that there are things he loves about charter schools, he’s just not sure what they are. Kidding, kidding. He says that when they work well, they work really well. But the government funding issue is large because it’s penalizing great teachers who have no control over the grade point average of kids who’ve been there six or seven weeks. Additionally, he works in a high school. A large percentage of his students are alcoholics and addicts. He said that the only time he has it easy is first period, because the seniors all show up high and it makes them slow down enough to pay attention. By fourth period, though, the high is gone and the kids are crazy. He knows he’s not supposed to tell them to re-up, but it might make his life easier if they did. He doesn’t smoke at all, so he doesn’t understand how it works. Just that it’s nicer to have calm, focused students than ones who pick fights right in front of him. He told me that the first day, he assigned seats, and a fourteen-year-old said, “fuck you bitch, I’m not sittin’ there.” No ma’amela Pamela. He is from the South. He was floored.

He took the same leap of faith I did…. just packed up his car and left Atlanta the day he graduated from college. His brother went to Howard, so that’s how he got to know the city well enough to want to live here. I told him that the city was inspiring me as well, especially standing on the steps of the Supreme Court as the marriage arguments were happening. I also told him about the guy that told me my dad should have beaten the shit out of me by now. He healed me in no small measure by saying that his dad probably did the same thing to him. If he’s not gay, it was something. I said, “everyone’s fighting their own battles, aren’t they?” He nodded and smiled.

I love it when Dorsey smiles. It lights up my face. Talking to Dorsey was just as much fun as a haircut. It worked out all right.

Dorsey got five stars, and I will be calling him every time I just cannot even with the shoes and the walking and the blisters and the I fell again and hurt my knees. At least this time, my pants didn’t rip.

Small blessings….. and large ones, too.

Pri Diddy hooked me up with a friend who’s looking for content writers in Health and Human Services. Basically, it entails reading long reports and bills and synthesizing information so that the public will understand it. This job is so me that I cannot even. I mean, I’ve worked as a medical assistant, so I don’t have a problem with jargon, and anything I don’t understand about health care is probably an Atul Gawande article somewhere. I have read everything he’s ever written in print, and most of the articles he writes for the New Yorker and Salon. If Dr. Gawande hasn’t written about it, it’s probably not important.

But back to the topic at hand. This is kind of a throwback job for me, because when I was in my early 20s, I was the content editor for UH’s Information Technology News. I am so thankful for that job, because with press credentials, I was able to weasel my way into the law school for a CLE starring……….. wait for it……………………. Helen Thomas. It was a total Wayne’s World, “I’m not worthy” kind of moment. I think I had tears in the corner of my eyes the whole time, because I was sitting 30 feet from the dean of the White House press corps. She was there when Patrick Kennedy died at less than a year old. She was there during Watergate. She nearly beat Sam Donaldson down to get to the phones for UPI on several occasions. It was humbling to a tremendous degree, just to sit in the presence of true greatness.

I am hoping that her greatness will live in me.

When I was living in Portland, Oregon, I worked in a pub called Biddy McGraw’s. My legacy there is secure, because I created their chili recipe. It is still listed as Lanagan’s Pub Chili. #humblebrag Anyway, when I was working there, we had a customer we nicknamed “Bourbon Bill,” because, well, do the math.

Bill asked me about my writing, loudly and drunkenly where the whole bar could hear. “HOW MUSH HAB YOU MABE AS A WRITER?”

I said, “nothing.”

He took all the change out of his pockets and dumped it into my hands. “There,” he said. “Now you’re a real writer.” I cried like a baby, and told him “I will remember this moment every day of my life.”

And I will. The numbers are skewed on purpose, because the plan is to add a fountain pen. The tattoo artist I’m working with gives me my tattoos for free, because I agreed to promote his ink shop as an extra social media job, especially since what I wanted was so small. One of the other artists said that I was unique because he’d never seen anyone get just a price tattooed on them. I told him it wasn’t a price, and told him the story. As a creative artist type, tears came to his eyes, too.

Because he realized that I was real, too.

Amen.

I did a little bit of flooding out yesterday over everything that’s happened the last two years, and it made me so sad I couldn’t move. I just laid in bed with tears streaming own my face, but luckily it was the end of the day, anyway, so I could take off the super suit of confidence and just be leslie. I reflected on how many changes I’ve brought into my life for the better, and when I think about the past, it only leads me to tears and regrets so huge that they won’t stop. Flooding out is not where I need to be right now. I need my focus to be on the funds I need to raise to make St. James and All Sinners a real brick building instead of clicks on a web site.

I have decided that because Maryland real estate is so expensive, I’m shooting for four million dollars. That is a building, maintenance, and an endowment to keep it safe in perpetuity. I am not saying that I can’t do anything with less. I am saying that if my dream is small and easily reachable, it is not long-term enough to provide me with complete and total change inside myself. I do not want to think small anymore. I want to be the visionary that my personality type dictates, and not worry about the small boxes I’ve been pushed into by past behavior.

Plus, especially with a homeless congregation, you don’t reach for four million dollars all at once. You take the widow’s mites and rejoice over each one. Each success builds into the next one. Mine yesterday was not being intimidated by Starbucks corporate saying no. If they continue to turn me down, McDonald’s is my next ask, because I’ve gotten to know the breakfast crew pretty well since it’s across the street from the Metro and I usually walk there early in the morning. Because I know them, I’m kicking myself that I didn’t ask them first. I should have gone to my friends for help, because I promise that if I offer coffee to homeless people, they’re not going to care about the brand. I suppose I just wanted to treat them to something they could not afford on their own.

Larry, the manager at “my Starbucks,” is taking an incredible leap of faith by going to his district manager and asking if there’s anything that can be done. I am not choosing to focus on corporate’s no, but Larry’s yes.

It keeps the flooding out to a minimum when I think about the successes I’ve managed to achieve in the short time I’ve been here, rather than in the clusterfuck I created by divorcing Dana. It is possible I will be single the rest of my life, and I am shockingly okay with it. I move in the world differently when I am alone, but that doesn’t mean that past hurt doesn’t wrestle me to the ground until I say uncle.

To that end, here are some of the things I love about living in Maryland, concentrating on the relationships I have in DC instead of the relationships I’ve managed to crater:

• When Pri Diddy said we needed an epic first convo, I told her that I felt broken right now, and she wanted to see me anyway. Just gave me huge hugs and let me talk.
• Nathan, my cousin, took me out for a night on the town and we walked and talked like the people who have known each other since childhood that we are. You cannot imagine how healing it was for me to hear that he’s sad at how disconnected we’ve become, because it gives me a goal for the future. How are we going to come back together after years of being in different times and spaces?
• I have fallen in love with the idea of “being a Nasser.” Mike, Hayat, Samantha, and Dom provide me with laughter on a daily basis, and support for whatever it is I need. For instance, Mike and Hayat were on the porch when I got home from battling SBUX, and it meant the world to me that they just listened intently and cheered me on.
• I am giving thanks for Dries (pronounced “dreece”), because a conversation that started with him making fun of me ended with a job opportunity.
• I am grateful for Judy, who has known me since I was evicted from my first apartment….. the womb with a view. I am grateful for every minute we’ve spent together in the past, and I look forward to becoming closer in the future. Judy is the type person that I ascribe to be- a citizen of the world and not just the US.
• I am grateful for the relationship I have with DC, and the fact that it is being renewed one step at a time, literally, because I walk everywhere I go. Setting has become character in my need for solitude, because when I stand in places like the Old Supreme Court, I feel like I can talk to the ghosts in the room and not feel alone. And these are some pretty badass ghosts. You could do worse than the representative from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln. You could do worse than Teddy Roosevelt, and Franklin, for that matter. I am grateful for my awe.
• I am grateful and continuing to pray for the homeless people that have accepted me as one of their own: Cookie, Stefon, Rez, BBQ, and a blonde kid who didn’t give me his name, but whose eyes got moist when he said that before he became homeless, he’d been sober for ten years, because it’s almost impossible to stay clean on the streets because you need the distraction from it. He sleeps on pressed dirt and shares his floor with his wife, and if you think that image did not impress on upon me the importance of my calling, you would be wrong about that. It is an image I carry with me daily. Cookie said that when she went to his “house,” even she cried. Cookie is homeless and cries over the plight of others when she cannot help herself. I saw myself in her eyes, because it is the journey I am on as well. I have a place to live, but I am not so different from her after all. We both want to help ourselves, and we are limiting ourselves at the same time. Same software, different case.

I know what I need to do. Flooding out is ignoring my calling and letting myself slip back into the person I used to be instead of the person I am becoming. It is easier when I concentrate on my best friend, a lab named Daisy that lives with Samantha and Dom but is glued to me when I’m around. I tease her that she’s my dog, and she just wags her tail happily. Samantha and Dom are not offended. They know where to go to get her back.

And that makes me grateful as well, that Dom and Samantha don’t mind sharing Daisy with me, because they know that having someone to kiss my tears is important. They know that I am in pain, and letting the tears fall in ablution is necessary. They don’t know much about my life before they met me, only that I am gay and divorced and a writer. None of those things threaten them- they told me to write away about everything, and that it would be cool to have a writer at their parties because they could go back and relive them. I mean, they can anyway because we don’t drink, but hey….. always nice to have support. 🙂

I am so much calmer and more alive now that I’ve given me permission to be me. Flooding out is temporary, but rising with the water level is permanent.

As I have said before, I walk everywhere I go in Silver Spring, because it gives me the opportunity to talk to homeless people as I go. If you want to start a homeless ministry, it’s the best chance you’ve got. Stop trying to do for them and ASK them what they need. You don’t want to spend a metric fuck tonne of money and THEN discover you’re going to the wrong direction. Today I needed to go to the 7-11 to get what my dad calls “road junk.” You know, mindless candy like peach rings and gummy cola bottles…

When I came out of the store, there were two people standing outside smoking with the look of homeless people (after a while, you can just tell when you know what you’re looking for), so of course I stopped to talk. I learned more in those ten minutes than I have in a long time. For instance, did you know that the homeless around here have actually seen Montgomery County employees putting the nicer jackets for the homeless into their cars and taking them home for themselves? They’ve also seen state employees throw crates of toiletry kits into the trash in order to get more money from the government. It’s all about money, especially when you can write off your constituents as crazy addicts.

Cookie told me that there are homeless people that think they manage the other homeless people and I said, “kind of like an unofficial mayor?” She said, “YES! I think I saw an episode of Criminal Minds that called ’em that.” Busted. Dana went through a Criminal Minds phase that lasted days. But anyway, those unofficial “mayors” make the women turn tricks and all sorts of other shady shit. I said that I was thinking about starting a homeless ministry here in Silver Spring, because I could not believe that all the shelters around here were closed from April to November. She said, “Vaya con Dios- you’re going to make enemies before you make friends.” I said, “I know. I’m not scared. I am the nicest person in the entire world until you cross me.” My eyes flashed with determination.

And I did make an enemy today…. but more on that later.

Most of the homeless people gather in the open living room around Discovery Center, so it hit me hard that the best way to minister to them was to go there. My idea is to do a sunrise service because we’d be less likely to get kicked out when there’s no one else awake, anyway. I asked Cookie if she knew BBQ, Stefon, and Rez. She did. I told her to tell them I said hello, and that I couldn’t wait to talk to her again about church outside, because I’m here to help. For the first time in our conversation, I saw a little light in her eyes that wasn’t there before. I wasn’t playing around. I KNEW homeless people, I wasn’t just giving lip service.

So what’s the first thing you need at a sunrise service? If you said anything but coffee, I do not know what planet you are from. Plus, the best advertising I could ever have for a church full of homeless people is “you have to get there early before the coffee runs out.” I started walking home, ruminating on how I was going to provide coffee for my congregation. I walked three blocks before God knocked my punk ass down. “Go to Starbucks,” God whispered. I turned around and walked back to the Metro station, because just past it is the Starbucks closest to the outdoor living room (I don’t know that the locals actually call it that, it just looks similar to the one in Portland, Oregon). I went in and ordered an iced redeye with cream, and asked to speak to the manager, Larry.

I said, “my name is Leslie Lanagan, and I am thinking about starting a homeless ministry in the Civic. I was wondering if you’d donate two boxes of coffee a week.” He said that Starbucks has a corporate donation line, and that I should call them. If they agreed, they’d send him an e-mail and tell him how to charge off the donations, because there’s no “donation” button on their cash register. Because I am ADD and I would never remember to do it later, I called them while I was there. That, ladies and gentlemen, is where the problem began.

I spent 15-20 minutes on hold before I actually got to speak to customer service. The guy on the other end of the phone said that Starbucks has it’s own donation program, so they couldn’t possibly give me coffee. My eyebrows started to go over my forehead. It’s two fucking boxes of coffee. What is their deal? I calmly said, “how does that directly affect my community in Silver Spring?” He said he didn’t know.

That was the WRONG ANSWER ENTIRELY.

I said, “are you sure? I’m from Houston and there are lots of Starbucks that give coffee to non-profits and churches there.” He said he didn’t know how that was. I said, “you know, this is not the Starbucks I know. I know this call is being recorded, so if you’ll pass it up the food chain, I’d really appreciate it.” He said, “you mean YOU’RE recording the call?” I said no, that I’d worked in several help desks over my lifetime and I knew the call was being recorded on their end. Please make sure someone above you listens to it, because the Starbucks I know would never be stingy about two boxes of coffee a week.

So then I get off the phone and go back to Larry and tell him that corporate denied me. He told me that he would talk to his district manager and to call him on Wednesday. Let me say for the record that I made an enemy with corporate, and Larry is on my side to the degree that he agreed to ask. They didn’t have to say yes for me to be grateful for his courage in asking the question. I told him, “thank you so much, because in this situation, I don’t have any power……….. but you do.”

God’s countenance appeared in Larry’s eyes, as if my courage was feeding his. I don’t know what’s going to happen between now and Wednesday, but I know this.

I can’t wait to talk to Cookie again, because her premonition came true. I made an enemy before I made a friend.

And yet, I am still Leslie Lanagan, and I am here to help.

I didn’t get to see Judy today. She had to cancel, but we rescheduled for Tuesday lunch. So excited to have that friend connection back in a daily kind of way, as opposed to only seeing her when I’m in town. Especially because I was living in Portland, I haven’t made my way to the east coast since I left the first time around. I called her today to reschedule, and her slight NE Texas drawl mixed with her “world accent” from having lived in so many different countries just delighted me. Tuesday can’t come fast enough. I am hoping there will be lots of “Steve and Judy” stories, especially since Steve died recently of ALS and I did not get to go to his funeral.

I don’t have anything I really want to talk about, I just want to listen. I want to linger over lunch in the way that old friends do, taking our time because it’s been too long. The last meal we had was takeout from Mediterranee (sp?), and Steve’s favorite drink, the Kir Royale (Creme de Cassis & champagne). We talked and talked and talked, and then Steve took us all on a drive, complete with more knowledge than a textbook about DC. Listening to him talk “makes the mummies dance.” You cannot imagine the treasure that DC has lost now that he’s gone. I wish I were closer physically to Judy because she is at least an hour and a half away by public transit, but I live in Maryland for a reason. Mostly that reason is Hayat & Mike. I am not sure I will ever move out at this rate- too happy to be a part of the whole famn damily to want to strike out on my own.

Speaking of striking out on her own, my roommate Courtney has gotten some big shot court reporter job and needs to find housing in two weeks, because the job is an hour and a half away from here by car. I am so happy for her, but sad to be losing my one Whovian roommate. I am wondering if I can convert Nasim. Farsi is her first language, but The Doctor seems to transcend verbal language. The Doctor can say more in one raised eyebrow than most people say in a lifetime.

The first time I told Courtney I was a Whovian, she asked me the same follow-up question the world over…. “who’s your Doctor?” I said, “Matt Smith.” She said, “that is the wrong answer.” Noooo, bitch. No. I’m glad you like Tennent and you are entitled to your opinion, but that’s my motherfuckin’ badass out there. The youngest Doctor ever to have been cast, everyone said he couldn’t do it, and I wept all the way through “Vincent and the Doctor” and sat in sheer awe of “Nightmare in Silver.” I haven’t watched much Capaldi, which is frightening to me, but I just haven’t had the time. As you can see, I’ve been a bit busy lately…. and, like all regenerations, it’s taking me a bit of time to get used to this one. Matt Smith and I clicked immediately because I loved the Amelia Pond storyline from the beginning. The Girl Who Waited is possibly my favorite companion of all time, and don’t even get me started on The Doctor and River Song. I don’t want to sob onto my touchpad.

My aunt just called and said that she wanted to get together because she’s in town. SO EXCITED. It’s been since last Thanksgiving that we’ve seen each other. She suggested meeting at the monuments, which sounds amazing. We just need to pick one. My favorite is Jefferson, but I haven’t been to Lincoln in a long time, and I’ve never seen MLK.

There are so many new things in DC that I haven’t done, and that’s going to be my focus for the next few months. I’ve been to the Newseum, but not since they’ve completely redone it (Best Life Moment: Seeing Helen Thomas’s White House Press Pass). I haven’t been to the Spy Museum or the Holocaust Museum, either. So there are lots of choices, but how do you narrow it down? As I was telling my friend Yahyah, you could live here and explore this city your whole life and never see everything.

Yahyah is the husband of my former youth director at St. Mark’s, Andrea. They live out in Gaithersburg in a palatial house with trees all around and a Zen-like calm inside. I am sad that I am just now getting here and they are leaving in July, but they’ll be back. Andrea has a two year contract to teach English in Abu Dhabi, and Yahyah will follow. Depending on whether they like it there, they’ll decide to renew Andrea’s contract or not. I am hoping that they don’t like it because Yahyah makes the best lamb and couscous in the world, and after dinner, Moroccan mint tea with mint grown in the neighbor’s yard. Yahyah is from Casablanca. I asked him if there was really a bar called Rick’s Cafe. I don’t think he got the reference, but I thought it was hilarious. Or maybe it was that he didn’t hear me. I was eating pretty loud. It’s been a while since I had an outstanding meal, so I think I ate more than everyone else combined, kind of like that scene in Coneheads where they’re at Subway and Connie inhales a footlong……

When I first got here, I’d dropped down to 117 pounds, but now I’m putting a little back on and it is not unwelcome. I was starting to look like an eight-year-old. Now I feel healthier and stronger, mostly because bacon.

This morning my dad took Andrea, Yahyah, and me to Old Ebbitt Grill for breakfast and I had enough bacon that I think I ate an entire pig by myself. When the waiter came to take my plate, I thanked him profusely for being heavy handed with the bacon, an excellent side for strawberry French toast with cinnamon butter.

Let’s just get one thing straight. The best place in town for French toast is my house, after being a brunch cook for so long at Biddy McGraw’s. However, if you can’t go there, the SECOND best place is Old Ebbitt Grill. They gave me four whole slices of bread and I still ate the entire thing. I think I was just happy. Not a care in the world except how am I going to eat MORE bacon? It felt like home there- I asked for Earl Grey and they gave me Stash, which is Portland’s best brand, even though Tazo is better known because Starbucks.

OEG was built in 1856, and it looks like it. The woodwork is outstanding. I could look at it all day. Do you realize that I have eaten at the same restaurant as Abraham Lincoln?

I mean, he wasn’t there TODAY, but…………

Today I am having brunch with a friend I haven’t seen since 2002, Judy Johnson. Judy’s parents were members of my dad’s church in Emory, Texas, which is originally how I got to know her. I was born while we were at Emory, so therefore, she has literally known me my entire life. Judy is an interesting character. After leaving Emory, she went on to join State, appointed to many places but I believe her last assignment was to the Court of St. James.

Johnson is her married name- she was married to Steve Johnson, a fellow diplomat and son of U. Alexis Johnson. If that name doesn’t sound familiar, you can look him up in The Best and the Brightest by David Halberstam. If you sit in a room with Judy, you will never forget it in your entire life. So many stories, so little time. I can’t wait to give her a big hug and kiss and just let her talk about whatever she wants as I sit there, dreamy-eyed, because Judy’s stories are the stuff dreams are made of.

However, I do want to tell a quick story on Steve. When he first took the diplomat’s exam, it was during the Viet Nam war. He was terrified that he was going to be stationed somewhere horrible, and to his surprise, he was sent to war-torn Montreal. 😛

I will have more stories this afternoon, with Judy’s permission. I just wanted to mark this morning as important, because Judy is important to me.

I took a sleeping pill last night because after walking all over DC yesterday, I needed a long period of recovery. I think I was asleep by 10:00, which hasn’t happened since the Reagan administration. I slept deeply, without dreaming, which is also unusual for me. Usually my head is filled with conversations I want to have and how they might play out and a thousand other things I’m “working on.” Seriously, as a writer, dreams are precious commodities, kind of like open letters that have no response except the ones I made up for them. It’s convenient. No one says anything I ain’t tryin’ to herrrrr. It’s safety and comfort in all the relationships I’ve managed to crater into oblivion because I can go back in time, like an episode of Doctor Who all in my head, because I can go anywhere in time and space, and something the Doctor does not have- the ability to cross my own timeline. I don’t know that it makes my relationships better on the ground, but it does ensure that the negative reactions I’ve had in the past don’t dog me until I can’t function.

I’ve been reading “The New Codependency” by Melody Beattie, and it’s kind of a love letter to me. She says that things like people being in trouble and wanting to help, like trying to get an alcoholic to stop drinking, are NORMAL reactions to loved ones being in trouble. Codependency is normal behavior taken to an extreme unknown to God and man. The people you are trying to help don’t need that kind of help. Sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away, because detachment doesn’t help them. It helps you. Obviously, trying to control something as gigantic as alcoholism isn’t going to work. You detach to keep yourself from going crazy. Setting boundaries has always been a nightmare for me, because until now, I have given til it hurts and given til I feel better. In some relationships, especially when I was young, I lost my entire identity except “support person.” This is because I did not allow myself to have my own dreams and the ability to take up space in the world.

The problem started when I got into the relationship with Diane, because I was so young I hadn’t had time to build my own dreams before I got sucked into someone else’s. I was content to let her shine, because she could. Opera singer. Conductor. Educator. Badass. I couldn’t compete with it, I could only go along with it. I have no doubt that my love was a great thing for her, until she became old enough to discover what codependency meant and get out of those relationships, but I did not age with her. I was still in high school…. which started the pattern that I was the crazy one. I wasn’t crazy. I was just much, much younger. I was varsity and she was major league. It arrested my development greatly, but I didn’t realize it until I started working on myself and realized the lack of coping mechanisms that other people had that just didn’t grow for me like they were supposed to- 14 years old in an adult body.

Now that I’ve done so much reading and self-introspection, I don’t have that anymore. I don’t have that drive to just be “the support person.” I am a leader, and I know it. If you’ve ever seen me preach, you know what I mean. However, preaching at Bridgeport was a mixed bag, because on the Sundays that Diane was there, I’d look down in the middle of a sermon and she’d be bawling in that “my little girl’s grown up” sort of way. My mom says that my grandmother was the same way when my dad preached in front of her. It was so sweet, and it’s one of the things I take with me as I navigate leading people I don’t know. By “mixed bag,” I mean that my memories with Diane aren’t all sweet and mother/daughter/sister/friend. It was always easier for me when she wasn’t there, because of course I wanted to stop preaching and just hug her. Of course I did. When she was in front of me, on the front row, seeing and hearing her emote took me to this place of “why can’t you be like this in my daily life? Why don’t my feelings matter to you except when I’m in front of a crowd?” The disconnect was palpable, and one of the things that kept me working on that relationship far longer than I should’ve, because it clouded my interactions with other people to a frightening degree.

I saw all relationships as ones where I needed to give of myself, hoping that they’d take care of me in the same way. Unless those people are as codependent as you, it’s not gonna happen. No one is coming. No one will help you. Life is something you have to navigate on your own, because a “relapse” into codependency is life-sucking. Love shouldn’t have to hurt, and for me, it has. I have lied and manipulated to hide who I really am for as long as I can remember, because showing someone the real me would cause them to run away… I was sure of it. This became a self-fulfilling prophecy because I wasn’t working on relationships to make them last. I was working on them in terms of hiding the real me so that all the outside world got was a shell, and they could fill out the rest on their own.

When I have let people into my inner sanctum, they’ve found the mixed bag that I have. So much power for good lost in behavior patterns that haven’t lifted because I don’t know how. It is the journey of my life, becoming whole and secure in who I am, because I cannot deal with life otherwise. I do not have the tools to give everything of myself and expect that I’ll be taken care of, because I won’t. People can smell codependency a mile away, even me, and it is ironic how freaked out I get when people want me to take care of them if it’s something I don’t want to give, even though I have been on the other side and expected people to jump in for me whenever I’ve asked….. even when it’s something they don’t want to give, either. I just run away, because it’s not that I am not capable of caring for others. It’s that I do not know how to operate a healthy relationship without lapsing into codependency, so I ask too much of people. I know I do. But that is because self-care is so foreign. Self-soothing is right out.

Or at least, it used to be. I am waking up to the fact that I haven’t been whole, that I’ve expected too much because I’ve given too much and can’t understand why people don’t respond to me in the same way I respond to them, because they have boundaries and I don’t…. the first moment I realized that I was getting healthier is when I did not take off my coat and give it to a homeless person, because it occurred to me that I would be freezing if I did. In the past, I wouldn’t have let it be an issue. I would have just been cold and dealt with it. Keep in mind that I am not saying that giving your coat to a homeless person is wrong. I am talking about the phenomenon that I would literally freeze if it meant saving someone else and forgetting entirely that self care is wearing my own damn coat.

I am waking up to an enormous degree, and all that I ask is that you continue to be the listening ear that cheers me on- not to take care of me, but to encourage the work I’m already doing. I know that there’s lots wrong, but until now, I did not have enough self-preservation to see why I needed to do it.

I also literally just woke up, and now I am off to make black tea with milk and Splenda. The best part of waking up, in my humble opinion. Coffee used to be that for me, but I like the ritual of tea. The tea and I both steep, just not at the same rate.

My dad and I started the morning at Union Station, where we had breakfast and then walked over to Pete Olson’s office in the Rayburn building so we could get gallery floor passes for both the House and the Senate, and scheduled a tour with a red-headed toddler (seemingly). He must have been over 21, but I’m not so sure. He looked a little like if William F. Buckley and Molly Weasley had a baby. As we were walking toward the House gallery, I stopped into Eleanor Norton-Holmes’ office, because I had heard of her my whole life, the “shadow congressman,” but I didn’t know what she looked like. They told me that they were glad I stopped in, because she’d be arguing today over a bill for DC, limiting reproductive rights in The District. I said, “I don’t even know what to say to that…. the stupid. It burns.” They told me they were glad to have me as a constituent (I didn’t bother telling them I lived in Maryland, because correcting them after the fact seemed rude). I told them that I was glad to be standing on the right side of history on this one.

Speaking of history, when we got upstairs to the gallery, Holmes-Norton took the floor and explained passionately why the bill was terrible for DC. When she sat down, the conservative asshats on the other side started using the same tired old argument for limitation on reproductive rights they’ve used for the last fifty years and I have a feeling it will still be voted down now. I mean, we’re not just talking about Roe vs. Wade. Let’s talk about Griswold vs. Connecticut. It’s not just women at issue- men as well. The state was found guilty of restricting access to education on reproductive rights, which also teaches men that in order to avoid pregnancy in their partners, they probably ought to wear a condom. Griswold established the right to privacy in marital relationships, which is honestly the illegal bus the pro-lifers are driving right now.

It makes people angry. Really angry.

The four people in front of me, when the opposition started speaking, stood up and held a giant DC flag, draping it over the railing (a huge no-no) and yelling “DC VOTES NO! DC VOTES NO!” I was just about to jump in with them when I realized that a) it was against the rules b) they were dragged out and arrested.

At that point, I said to my dad, “I have to get out of here or I’m going to lose it.” Both sides of the coin deserve to be heard, but when you’ve heard the same argument as a woman and lesbian over and over and over why your rights don’t mean as much as his, it’s hard to sit still. My dad came out a few minutes later and then we went down to the cafeteria. I was boiling and I needed a Coke Zero, STAT. We chatted and played with our phones until it was time to go and meet William F. Weasley our tour guide, which was totally worth it. I got to stand in the original Supreme Court, where Marbury vs. Madison was decided. Jill and Lindsay will flip their shit (my sister, Jill, and I were all in Con Law together). I STOOD IN THE ROOM WHERE JUDICIAL REVIEW WAS CREATED, BITCHES. The only other person that it meant something to was my baby giraffe tour guide. But we each had THAT LOOK. You know the one. The one that comes from “this is my first time in DC.” It wasn’t, by any means, but that’s just the look I’m talking about. Wide-eyed and unbelieving at everything because it’s like believing six impossible things before breakfast. You mean Thomas Jefferson has stood RIGHT HERE?” Locals get over it quickly. I feel like Mr. Smith every single day.

Perhaps this is because I know what I lost when I left Virginia the first time, and I don’t want to let it go ever again. Going back to Virginia was not what mattered to me. Anywhere in the Metro area is fine. Just don’t take away my wonder. Just don’t take away my awe. Let me fall in love all over again.

Later, I saw three Marines having their picture taken on the steps of the Supreme Court. I got unbelievably choked up, and took each of their hands into my own and said, “thank you for your service.” I have been taught to say that over the years, along with “thank you for your sacrifice,” because you never know how the soldier feels about what he/she has been through and you never want to be offensive. But service and sacrifice are universal regardless of political affiliation. It’s just a way to give back from a grateful citizen, which I desperately am. I sleep better because I know they’re out there, protecting me even when they don’t want to. Because frankly, sometimes knowing me makes me harder to protect. 😛 Anything I can do to support those who serve me without being asked is another reason I love being here- I see service men and women all the time, and I am adamant about going up to every one. At National Airport during Christmas of 2011, I cried like a baby from the outside door all the way to my gate.

Can I move somewhere else?

DC VOTES NO!

Last night my dad took me to a little bar after dinner called “Off the Record,” in the basement of the Hay Adams hotel. The guy next to me started laughing because I ordered whiskey and a beer back, and they brought me the tallest beer I have ever seen. I picked up my cocktail glass and said, “I meant that I wanted this size.” The waiter said, “here, that’s what we call a back.” It was delicious, but I didn’t finish either drink. I ended up sleeping most of the way home, because I’m not much of a drinker, especially now that I do not work as a line cook. My tolerance level is way, way down and I have no interest in bringing it back up again.

However, I did spend a lot of time talking to the guy who was laughing at me, because his making fun of me led into the traditional, “so what do you do?” conversation. He’s some kind of trader, and was VERY interested when I said that my passion was social media and blogging. He gave me his card, and told me to call him- that he might want to do social media for his own business. We liked each other immediately. He said that he was a “Rockefeller Republican.” I said that I was a “Clinton Democrat,” and there wasn’t much of a gap between the two. I asked him what he thought of The Tea Party, and he said, “not much.”

That was the right answer.

And now I’m thinking that I need to go to Off the Record more often….. Because hey, the drinks might be a little pricey, but if it nets me a job worth bank, maybe it’s just an investment. I like DC Brau. I could get used to it. 🙂

When I was working at University of Houston, my boss had us review him as he reviewed us. I want to take an inventory of what I’m doing, so I’m turning the circle toward me. I can’t conduct a meeting as fast as my boss could, but let’s at least hit the hot points.

Dana and I have been planning to see each other in DC since I left. Now she says that she might not have time because her friends and family are more important than I am. I told her, “I get it. I won’t call again.” It irritates the piss out of me, but she’s my ex for a reason. I have met so many people here that I’m not really interested in revisiting the past. It’s probably better that we don’t see each other anyway, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sad about it. I originally called because we both need to go to the bank to sign documents to get her accounts out of my login screen. You would think that would be important. Apparently, not so much. We’ve banked at B of A since, well, forever, so I had this vision in my head of meeting in Columbia Heights so we could go to some type of cool restaurant and shoot the shit until the sun goes down. But that’s my dream, not hers, and what are you going to do?

Walk away. If she doesn’t care that I can see all of her transactions and transfer money in and out of her accounts, I cannot help her. I just don’t want to see them. I don’t want to know where she is and what she’s doing based on the transactions that come in. It would be handy if we were still together because we could bank together from separate cities. But we’re not, and I want to move on. The worst part is that I thought she was still dedicated to being my friend, and her voice on the phone with me sounds different than it ever has. I want no part of it, and if you can’t tell already, I am being a little bit judgy. This is because I cannot even. There are nights when I lay in bed wondering what the fuck I did with my marriage, because it broke over the two years I spent changing my core. However, as I was doing the work to be who I am, Dana wasn’t. We just couldn’t stay together because I was a totally different person to her.

I am a totally different person to myself, too.

Checking myself into Methodist psych ward was the best thing I ever could have done for myself, because it gave me new context for old problems. I react differently, I see differently… and honestly, the moment it happened was when I put on my glasses- even before going to the hospital. I could literally Think Different. However, thinking differently does not happen in a moment. It is a lifetime process. My glasses were just the lightbulb, because I carried myself differently when the prisms kicked in and made my left eye stronger. Monocular vision affects the way I hold my head and my posture, because in order to function, I have to move my head to see everything around me. Monocular vision means three things- no depth perception, no angle of convergence, and no peripheral vision. The journey into stereo is not complete, but I want to work on it. As I said before, my autobiography is called “Staring at Myself,” so named because I only have stereo vision if I am looking at my nose. I have to train my eyes so that they track together even when I’m not looking that close. Some people use beads on a string because it gives them a focal point and they can gradually move the bead back on the Z axis to get the stereo to stick around. I have tried the bead method, and it hasn’t worked so far… mostly because it gives me a raging headache to “practice.” This one change, though. I have had glasses before, but there weren’t prisms in there so they didn’t work.

I always thought it was a neurological problem and there was nothing anyone could do. Then I picked up “Fixing My Gaze” by Susan Barry and I was proven wrong, both by Susan herself AND the great Oliver Sacks, who wrote a brilliant foreward. For the uninitiated, he wrote Awakenings, later made into a movie that still gives me a great excuse to have a good cry. 🙂

Sometimes I’m a big crybaby, because I have to get emotions out. I am not happy until the ablution has taken place. I don’t want to stuff down my feelings, and I don’t want to eat them. I love the line from Will and Grace. Will is talking about going to visit his family for Thanksgiving and tells Grace that his family uses the buttons on their clothes to hold in their feelings. I have been like that my whole life, because especially as a preacher’s kid, I was in “show mode.” I don’t have a “show mode” now. I am as authentic as they come, so of course I say things without thinking that have the power to undo marriages and friendships, because I know that my friends shouldn’t have to handle the shitshow I become when angry.

I learned an important thing from the last two years. If Dana or anyone else gets pissy with me, HANG UP and think about it for a while instead of just exploding all over the place. Instead of yelling at her and causing a scene from a time zone away, I calmly said that not planning time to visit me was thoughtless and kind of mean because I’ve been looking forward to it hard core. Not that I am trying to accuse her of anything, but like I said, it seems urgent that our money is disconnected and I also wanted to show her my version of The District.

That being said, if I don’t get to see her, it worked out the way it was supposed to. But Pride is that weekend, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with than Dana. But I won’t. I’ll go with Prianka and Elena, making other friends as I go along. Surely at Pride there are people who will adopt me as one of their own. In these cases, it’s usually large groups of gay men that need a hag to drive them home. The last time this happened, I was handed the keys to the most expensive car I have ever seen. I told the drunk gay boy that I wasn’t a very good driver, and he told me to drive it like I stole it because that’s what insurance is for.

I didn’t take him up on it. I drove so far under the speed limit that cars were passing me on the right, and I didn’t care because to me, driving like my grandmother was going to save him a claim. If I remember right, it was a loaded BMW, the kind meant for an autobahn because it can do 140 ain’t nothin’ to it. If you hit the accelerator, it only takes .5 seconds to back into a parking garage pole or something similar… oh, and did I mention it was snowing?

I love the snow. It’s white and pure, something I strive to be, and fail the way all humans do.

As I stood out in front of the Supreme Court, I walked around all the anti-gay protesters and knew that I had to get away before I would lose my shit in front of them. One particularly goaded me, and I told him that I would rather live in the depths of his hell than be thought of as a fucking asshole. Of course he was waiting for it. They always are. He told me that my parents were terrible, that if they’d done their job I wouldn’t be in front of the Supreme Court, that my father wasn’t a real Christian minister because he would have beat the shit out of me by now, etc. I should have walked away long before I did, but eventually I said, “your God is too small…”

And walked away.

Today the Supreme court will hear four cases on marriage equality, and there are already thousands of people in front of the SCOTUS building. I will join them shortly, because I need caffeine first. Let’s not get stupid. But at the same time, I am going to inhale it because I can’t miss one more minute. Today, if the arguments only take a few more hours, it might be the last time in which I ever feel like a second-class citizen.

When I was a kid, gay people were sick. Gay people had something wrong with them. In some parts of the country, this is still considered true. However, the year I came out (1990), it was much more widespread a notion and much more believed. Never mind that I was only 13. Never mind that I’d never had sex in my entire life, so therefore the promiscuous argument was out. Never mind that all I wanted was to hold a girl’s hand without feeling like I was going to get beat up in a parking lot somewhere and left for dead.

Yes- my fear was that real. Why wouldn’t it be? At the time, there were beatings in the Montrose regularly. I had to watch my back, and I did. I walked around town with no small amount of fear, and the idea that children cannot come out as gay, as we know now, is ridiculous. By the time puberty hits, people may not have kissed who they love, but they know who they WANT to. The problem is that when it is realized that kids are straight, there is very little incentive to try and change it. Not so with gay kids. Most of the time, their parents think it’s a phase.

I’m 38 now. Still love women. Longest. Phase. Ever.

Today, I am hoping to grow in the fullness of the law, because where the law goes, so does the rest of the country. Maybe in time, I will not have to worry about going through a small town and getting my ass kicked just because I look a certain way. Yes, I dress like a boy. No, I do not wish to be one. I wish to look preppy, sharp, clean… and I smell good, too. 🙂 To think that anyone would want to physically injure me over it is ridiculous, and yet, those pockets of (in)humanity exist, even in liberal places like Maryland, DC, and NoVA. Even when I was married to Dana, I looked around when I gave her affection in public because I could not turn off the internal homophobia running through my brain that says I do not deserve to be able to give Dana affection in public, because it’s just not “normal.”

I’ve always felt normal. What’s their problem? Hopefully by the end of the day, they won’t have the right to have one.

It’s amazing how fast I have acclimated to living in DC. It’s like I just dropped in and picked up where I left off. It’s a weird feeling that I’m NOT homesick. I mean, I miss my family, but outside of that I am so glad to be here that I cannot EVEN. I am still looking for a job, but I have some leads. I went in and talked to the managers at Five Guys, Starbucks, and Petco. All of them have online applications, but I wanted them to remember my name when the electronic submission comes through. I would prefer the job at Petco because I have run my own fish tanks since I was a kid and it’s insane how much useless knowledge I have running about since I didn’t bring my fish tank with me. I may need to get a goldfish bowl for my room, because it’s amazing how much I miss them. They’re my inspiration when I get writer’s block. I just watch them until an idea pops into my head. I don’t remember who said it, but one of my favorite quotes is “what partners of writers don’t understand is that we’re actually working harder when we’re staring out the window.” For me, it’s staring at a fish tank. We had a gift exchange at Alert Logic when I was there, and one of my coworkers got me a one gallon aquarium soI could have a betta on my desk. I named him Tester, because of course I did.

Even without a fish tank, I get to stare at plenty, though. When I am feeling writer’s block, I go to the Zoo. As long as I have a full battery on my laptop, I have plenty of time to watch animals and get back to it. It’s amazing how much inspiration one gets from an elephant.

Actually, my favorite animal is the giraffe. No kidding. I think they are the most beautiful creatures in the world, and I could look at them all day. Ditto with Zebras. There’s a reason my favorite gum is Fruit Stripes. 🙂 Both animals just feed my soul, and seeing them play in the sunshine while I’m thinking is such a good feeling. I love this city, because there is so much inspiration for FREE. If I had to pay Houston prices to look at giraffes, it just wouldn’t happen. I think it’s almost 20 or 30 bucks to go to the Zoo in Houston, and it’s like a Zoo with one dog….. a Shih Tzu. After I pay the admission fee, I am intimidated by $4.00 bottles of water.

However, I will GLADLY pay whatever they want for drinks at our Zoo, because hey, I got in for free. They also have one of my favorite foods…. ice cream with M&Ms in it, in a vending machine so you can still eat it when the Zoo closes and it becomes, for all practical intents and purposes, a jogging trail. It’s almost enough to make me start running…… almost. I really need to run on a treadmill first, because walking all over DC has given me shin splints like a mofo. I have Mobic and Tylenol on board and it still hurts, mostly because Mobic will stop the pain, but it won’t keep me from walking and re-injuring myself. I can’t not walk. It’s my lifeblood, the thing that gives me endorphins and stories for later. I meet people. I talk to people. I hear their stories and because I probably won’t see them again, it’s a stranger on a train interaction (sometimes literally) that I feel okay writing about because I don’t even know their names.

The only thing I don’t like is that I look approachable, and I am asked by homeless people for money ALL THE TIME. I don’t give them any, but I am convinced that there is some sort of jackass magnet on my forehead that says, “please tell me your whole life story.” But then again, as an introvert, I kind of want to hear it. I’m trying to find the balance between “I don’t have time- fuck off” and “tell me everything about you in 20 minutes.” BECAUSE THEY WILL. And then there are those people who tell me their stories whether I want to hear them or not. Yesterday a lady told me all about her grandkids in Minnesota. The baby is cute (really? Never heard that one.). Generally, those people are called “tourists.” Locals have their headphones in, and do not want to engage. I don’t do that anymore, because when I can’t hear the overhead, I tend to go a couple of stops past the one I originally intended. Since I don’t have anywhere to be yet, it doesn’t bother me. If I was commuting into work, that would be a major problem. So, better to leave off the headphones and listen to the conductor.

I took a break from writing and now I’m at Teaism in Dupont Circle, or as we gays lovingly call it, “The Fruit Loop.” Literally walking around Dupont Circle is the reason I don’t have a car. If you saw it, you’d know why. I have been stuck in that mofo before, and as a result, I never took my car into DC again. I had to have a car last time we were here because I lived in between Van Dorn on the Blue Line and King Street on the Yellow Line, so walking was convenient to neither- the worst place in DC ever. I didn’t mean my neighborhood. I mean that if you don’t live within walking distance of the Metro, you live in DC, but you’re not doing it right. DC is not meant for driving. It’s too small, and everyone who already lives in the District has taken up the majority of the parking (and rightfully so). So when you talk about the Virginia and Maryland cars as well, you’re talking road rage as you circle the block fifty times and you’re 30 minutes late for a meeting and 2 minutes from the restaurant.

Silver Spring is the first stop in Maryland, so everything is convenient to me. I go into DC all the time just because I like it, but I don’t really need to- most of the stores in which I stop are either walking distance or a short bus ride, and there is a bus stop at the end of my street. For those in the know, I live right off Colesville and Indian Spring. The neighborhood is very well-to-do and safe, kind of like living in the suburbs and yet, doesn’t feel like it. For my Houstonians, it’s kind of like living in Bellaire or West University, because Silver Spring is still inside The Beltway. It’s a nice mixture of urban and rural- not as busy as the city. It’s Portland-ish because it’s a city, and yet, laaaaaaaaid back. What do I mean by that? People will not push you down trying to get past you for the bus.

We also have a theater called The Fillmore. Stone Temple Pilots are coming, and I cannot decide whether that’s cool or I’m old.

It was like a scene from the movies. We were on our cell phones, trying to find each other, and then BAM! I must have sounded like a howler monkey, because my voice went up into the stratosphere (or, as a trumpet player, the Faddisphere) as I looked at Prianka for the first time in years. She’d lost over 100 pounds, due to diet and becoming one of those freak runners that’s training for a 50k. But she was still the same old Pri that I know. We picked up like five minutes had passed between us. I hugged her so hard I didn’t want to let go, and then we walked from the Columbia Heights Metro station to a great vegan restaurant. Seriously the best facon I have ever had in my entire life. I don’t know what they put in it, but I am almost sure it is crack. It was the first vegan bacon I’d ever had where I was like, “could you make me six pans….. thanks.” I got what was called a Texas burger- bacon and cheese on a whole wheat bun and a patty held together with sunflower seeds and awesome.

After lunch, we hiked through the zoo because it was close and I wanted to see the pandas for the first time since I was eight, but the Panda House was closed. The reason I haven’t seen the pandas since I was eight is that I’m pretty sure the Panda House was closed the entire time I lived here before….. The only other thing that interested me was the Reptile House, but even I chickened out at the last minute. Some of the snakes and lizards are the most beautiful in the world, but others are from the country of “Nope.” So instead, we just stayed on the main trails. I was telling Pri that when I lived in Portland, I’d become somewhat of a hiker for real, that I was comfortable with switchbacks and incline, and she freaked out, because she has never been able to convince any of her other friends to go with her. This is because hiking for the uninitiated is ALSO from the country of “Nope.” So we’re planning hiking trips and going to see Armin Van Buren and Childish Gambino this summer.

She and Elena, her fiancee, are getting married on May 16^th, so we only got to spend about four hours together before it was time for her to go home and get back to the planning, because of course now it’s crunch time/freakout mode. I know four hours seems like a long time, but we’d not seen each other for, honestly, I don’t know how many years. Maybe 2008? I forget. But sufficed to say, it’s been a long time and the epic first convo could have gone on for four more. We talked about the places we are in our lives, and Pri Diddy and I are walking the same path, but we’re at different points. She’s a lot further along than I am, especially since she’s discovered the incredible endorphins that come with exercise. I told her that I was finding the same thing- that I walk at least four miles a day to ensure that not only do I get endorphins, I get a fair amount of sunshine as well. The only problem is that at four miles a day, the tread is already starting to wear off on my shoes…. not necessarily something to be proud of, per se, but it does show A for effort.

Unfortunately for me and my weird eyesight, today I tripped over a raised manhole and scraped the hell out of my knee, ripping a hole in the nicest pants I own (I dressed up for company). Prianka was so great. She’s all like, “do you need to get some new pants?” I was touched that she’d take time out of her day to help me shop, but at the same time, the object of the game was to walk and talk with her. I could deal with a hole in the knee of my pants if it meant more time on the trails with her. A little road rash never hurt anybody, and when I checked my knee when I got home, it was not nearly as severe as it felt in the moment.

And now I am on the front porch of my house, as per my usual, relaxing at the patio table and looking out over the neighborhood. It’s peaceful and quiet because Mike, Hayat, and I are the only ones home. Mike is washing his car as I type this, and the soap smells like cherries and apples. The sun is shining brightly…… outside, too.