Marriage

Note: I originally wrote this post on October 5, 2008, a month before Barack Obama was elected president and Proposition 8 passed. I was one of those people who didn't think the State of California would vote to strip away people's rights. I am one of those people who is still heartbroken because it did. Yes, this post is dated, but I still feel like putting it out there.


Most of my childhood friends are married. The two people who know me the best as an adult and who I can't imagine not having in my life, are married. My brother and cousin, two of my best friends, are married. My parents, pictured above 38 years ago on their wedding day: still married. And this weekend I'm excited about celebrating a friend's impending vows. At 30, I am no where near marriage and have never really thought seriously on the subject. But lately, it seems worth talking about.

Over the summer, the California Supreme Court overruled the ban on same-sex marriage. It was a great day. I remember reading a story in the Los Angeles Times about a long-time couple preparing to marry. While shopping, one of the grooms' mothers said the sweetest thing about her future son-in-law: "'Kevin's a 10," Peggy Waters said. "All the women Paul brought home, I never liked. This is still a dream come true.'" I cried. I talked to my brother that week and he said with sincere excitement, "Isn't it great?!" Yeah, it is. I cried again.

This fall, there's a proposition on the ballot to overturn the court ruling. It seems like things are leaning toward most of the state voting No, but it's close, and with Sarah Palin in town over the weekend, I'm sure she's drumming up support for her team. The sad thing is, Barack Obama is kind of on her team too. Sure, he's all for equal rights and opposed Prop 8, but he is against gay marriage. I don't get it. Everyone who gets married is not doing so to uphold ideas and intentions written in the Bible. Some do, and that's fine. Men and women can get married for whatever reasons they choose—money, status, companionship. They don't have to have the "right" reasons to say "I do," although, more times than not, we assume they marry for love. It seems sensible that women and women, and men and men should be free to do the same.

There was a story in yesterday's New York Times about the Manhattan Marriage Bureau, a city office where people get married. The story was about how the office is in the process of upgrading to look a little more festive. What struck me where the several photos that ran with the story. A man in khakis and an oxford and a woman in a skirt and cardigan married each other. One woman got married in a geometric print dress and another chose to wear romantic white ruffles. There was a man wearing sneakers standing next to a woman in knee-high boots. And my favorite, a shot of a couple from the back, both in jeans.

These people all have their reasons to get married, just like the people I know and love who are married. What matters isn't why, but that they all had the choice to be married. And why shouldn't we all?

Skunk Love

I have referenced my fear of skunks before. It may be irrational, but it is not unfounded. Skunks stink. Skunks spray. If a skunk sprays you, you stink. This would not be good. I think it would be quite terrible.

I remember when I saw my first skunk in the neighborhood. It was dusk and I was driving home from work. He was standing in the middle of the street. As I got closer, he refused to move. I had to swerve at the last minute to miss him. He never budged. It was then that I decided he was out to get me. I named him Damien. I wondered if it fought with the possums or cats in the neighborhood. (I once saw a gang of about six possums stubbornly standing in the same spot in the street. I imagined they were shooting craps.)

My apartment is often invaded by Damien's scent. It is strong enough that he could be sitting across from me on my futon. One morning I walked out to my car and mysteriously, it smelled like skunk. At night, when I hear rustling in the brush below my window, and that smell accompanies it, I imagine it is Damien, coming by to remind me he is out there, waiting for me. Sometimes I imagine he just outside my front door.

I would have been willing to chalk this up to paranoia. But not anymore. Recently, while sitting on my patio reading, I witnessed my neighbor, who lives below me, having a conversation with our landlord, who lives above me.

Neighbor: Good day sir. Your skunk family is back.
Landlord: Is that so?
Neighbor: Yes, they come around 9:30 every night.
Landlord: We used to have a female, male and a little one. You think the family is still together?
Neighbor: I'd like to think so.
Landlord: So would I.

Confirmation! It's true! It's not just me. The skunks do loiter around. I have reason to want to be in before nightfall. I have reason to watch my back.

The funny thing is, I think I may be the only one who is afraid. Clearly my neighbor and landlord were speaking of the skunks with some level of affection. There is a mural underneath a freeway overpass nearby, reflecting scenes of the neighborhood. Quite prominent in the painting is a large skunk. One of my neighbors who lives down the hill actually said to me, "I kind of like the skunks." I was speechless.

Maybe Damien is not out to get me, but I don't like my chances if he ever catches me out after dark.

Michael Lee/Black Brandon

Fall is around the corner and I will be faced with the decision of what shows to add to my TV watching itinerary. I will remain faithful to Heroes, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles and 30 Rock. I'll probably try out Fox's Fringe because Joshua Jackson remains one of my favorites. I'll also watch the first few episodes of the new 90210 on the CW. That's right, I'm going to watch a trashy teen drama. I have my reasons.

One reason is that the "Walshes" (I don't know the name of the new family, but you know whom I'm referring to) are relocating to Beverly Hills from Kansas City, Missouri (my hometown, represent!). Another reason is that one of my favorite characters (Michael Lee) from one of the best shows I've ever seen (The Wire) is one of the show's stars. He plays "Brandon" (known as Dixon on the new 90210). Tristan Wilds, the actor who played Michael Lee, is black. On 90210, his character was adopted by the white "Walshes" in Kansas City. My friend Kellye coined the nickname Black Brandon and probably no matter what roles are ahead in Tristan Wilds' sure to be long career, he will always be affectionately known as Black Brandon (at least to Kellye and I).


The other day, I was at the intersection of La Brea and Wilshire, and saw men putting up this corner billboard. I did a triple take. There was Michael Lee/Black Brandon, sitting in a pool, smiling—something I never witnessed him do on The Wire. I am curious to see how this tough kid, who while on The Wire was weighed down by the ugly streets of Baltimore and was also quite good with a gun, will transform into a happy-go-lucky teen in Beverly Hills. Very curious.

A Good Day

I moved to the east side of town about a year ago. Where I used to live, I could ride my bike to work in five minutes or leisurely walk in about 25 minutes. Life was good. I had little use for my car, and with today's gas prices, I long for those days. Now, I live just close enough to work that taking the bus isn't saving me any money and it costs me more time. But I do Go Metro from time to time because I am pro saving the Earth.

At any rate, now I drive to work. On the first day of my 28-minute commute through city streets, I saw the most delightful thing: a Sparkletts delivery truck. I was driving behind it. Headed due west, with the sun to our backs, the rear sign of the green truck sparkled. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The name Sparkletts spread out in chunky raised white letters surrounded by a rectangle of large dangling blue sequin. They shimmied with the movement of the truck and playfully caught the sun's light. I loved it. I decided this was a sign. If I'm ever behind a Sparkletts truck in the morning, that means it's going to be a good day. A great day.

When I first moved to Southern California, I saw Sparkletts bottled water around and I thought it was chintzy. The name is a little trivial for something as essential as water. Wouldn't you want water who's name implies strength like Arrowhead or something foreign like Evian or Pellegrino, which people have been safely drinking for years? Sparkletts wasn't a name I could get behind. I couldn't take it seriously.

But now it doesn't matter. During my morning trek along Beverly Boulevard, I smile when I see the Sparkletts truck. I know it won't make much difference if I'm going to have a good or bad day, but it doesn't much matter because in that moment I am happy. I'm thinking about all the good things that could possibly happen in a day and it makes me hopeful.

This morning on my walk I encountered three(!) Sparkletts trucks. I can't wait to see what this day is going to bring.

Portland

Portland is where I've been for the past four days. My friend Raquel lives there in an old church that's somewhat outfitted for living. There are bedrooms and bathrooms and a large kitchen. However, to watch TV (I woke at 6 a.m. Saturday and Sunday to watch Wimbledon) I had to climb a steep ladder to a loft above the baptismal. There was good food, good weather, good friends, good beer and most importantly good times. The bird above, I believe, is sad to see me go.


8:08 p.m. Waiting for fireworks at the Willamette River. It didn't get dark until a bit after 10.

Stained glass in the sanctuary/living room/dining room of Raquel's house.

Afternoon tasting at Laurelwood Brewery.

Afternoon tasting at Double Mountain Brewery, Hood River, Ore.

Brunch at The Broder on Clinton Street.

Molly is Moving

Recently, many of my friends have abandoned Los Angeles. Some say they will be back. Others, I know, probably will not. Molly is the latest to defect. She lives about 12 minutes away from me, a rare quality to find in a friend out here. In a few days she will live about 41 hours away, in New York.

Last week was one of packing, organizing, purging and selling. Along with other friends, I tried to help. We all had our own philosophies on what to do with her things. Pictures of ex-boyfriends? Trash. The automatic 35mm camera? Sell. Her library card? I think it got tossed. Then there was a notebook from graduate school with piece of paper taped inside. On that paper was a poem that Molly had written when she was a child. Her mother had typed and mailed it to her with a note for inspiration. Keep the whole notebook? Someone thought she should.

Molly gave us some things as well. I took home three beautiful plants, some tea, homemade preserves, a bracelet, an envelope of change (which will go to my perfume fund) and this sculpture. Molly is an artist, musician and teacher. She made this. He was resting in her shower, staring up at the ceiling. I noticed him when I used her bathroom. He looked lonely. I asked her about him and she asked me if I wanted him. I hesitated. I wasn't sure. She wasn't taking him with her? No. She was thinking of giving the sculpture to her parents because they were probably the only people who would want it.

She said she thought of him as someone from the past. A native who'd been here before us. When I look at him, I see someone from the future. Someone who hasn't come yet. His eyes are a little unsettling, but still, there is something comforting about him.

Bye Molly.

Perfect

Those who know me know that my kitchen is not an ample one. The things that fill it are mostly hand-me-downs (I have a set of pint glasses my brother amassed during his days as a bachelor when he used to frequent Pint Night at the Snake Pit) and tools I've collected out of impulsive necessity (I purchased my only mixing bowl, a baking sheet and a crank, stove-top popcorn maker because I wanted to bring caramel corn to an Oscar party). There is no microwave, but a reliable toaster oven. I have an entire shelf devoted to tea, but the spice section of my cupboard has about four or five offerings. The most constant staples of my refrigerator are beer and potatoes. It is, some would say, a sad sight.

It is so sad that I get nervous when friends venture into my kitchen, even to fetch something as simple as a glass of water. I don't want to be judged for what they see or don't see.

My friend Raquel came to visit over the weekend and we had plans to meet friends at an outdoor concert at the Hollywood Bowl and have a potluck picnic before. Southern California suffered a heatwave last week, so cooking was out of the question. I suggested we go to the farmer's market for inspiration. We settled on black bean salad, with corn, cilantro, mung beans, Blenheim apricots and red bell pepper, dressed with vinegar and olive oil. Yum.

Being more experienced in the kitchen, Raquel took the reigns on assembling the salad while I tried to take an afternoon nap. With it being too hot to sleep, I got out of bed and stood in the doorway of my kitchen to observe. She was cutting the corn off the cob with my one good knife.

This knife is the prize of my kitchen. It was a birthday gift from the Baron and I use it every day. I asked Raquel what she thought of my knife. She gushed about how perfect and sharp it was and how she didn't want to comment on it because she didn't want it to seem like she was slighting me. As though a girl like me, with a kitchen like mine, wouldn't have a knife like that. I told her I wouldn't have been offended if she'd said that out loud. I know the truth about myself and though I may not have much, at least I've got a perfect knife.

Indeed

Game 6: Celtics 131, Lakers 92. Wow.

It's over. I'm glad Boston won. They are clearly the best team in the NBA. But I feel a little said for the Lakers. That had to hurt.

Read about it here.
Hear about it here.

Some Call It Bliss

Last night, gays in California began to marry. There will be more weddings today, and the next day and the day after that. Cheers.

Classic

This is how my father taught me to drink tea. I had a cup this morning in honor of him. Happy Father's Day.

Wildlife

Spotted on a boulder off the driveway. I don't think this animal is native to the neighborhood, but these certainly are. And I am frightened of them.

My Pioneer

I have had countless cups of tea with one particular friend. This picture is evidence of a soothing tea we shared after being lost in the rain in Florence, Italy. She is a baron and she showed me the way to blogtown with her own blog. I recommend reading it while drinking a small bowl of jasmine tea.

Go Green!

The Boston Celtics just went up 3-1 over the Los Angeles Lakers. My brother's text message says it all:

If you want details, read my favorite sports writer's take on it here.

When I got home near the end of the first quarter to see the Lakers up by 21 points, I was wishing it was 9 p.m. instead of 6:45 and so I could turn away to watch So You Think You Can Dance. Fortunately, I stuck around. And it turned out to be one of those games where I found myself doing the most annoying thing—clapping and cheering at the television as the Celtics fought their way back. There were lots of reasons to get excited, Paul Pierce's defense on Kobe, Kevin Garnett's magical ability to reach the length of the court and Ray Allen's pretty left-handed layup. But this text message from my favorite sports writer during halftime elicited the most joy:

I will try to forgive him for The Love Guru. So it's on to Sunday, when hopefully the Celtics will wrap this series up.
Note: My favorite sports writer sent me the above text message because he knew how excited I would be to receive it. He is not a fan.