Viva Las Vegas

Last week, while I was in Canada for work, my baby brother sent me this text message:

He sent this on the heels of 45’s latest idiocy that ended up inviting threats from the holders of weapons of mass destruction. These weapons have been tested and could easily make it to the West coast, most certainly putting my Los Angeles apartment at risk.

He had the foresight to jokingly tell me to remain in Canada should we suffer a tragedy at the hands of terrorism that could span the Pacific Ocean and reach LA. 

What he didn’t warn me was to stay in Canada just in case a fellow American checked into a hotel with his own weapons of mass destruction in my favorite city, my true home, Las Vegas, NV. He didn’t tell me not to go to Las Vegas, like I do most weekends. My baby brother wouldn’t think to warn anyone against attending a music festival on the Vegas strip on a Sunday night. The threat according to him, and many of us, is coming from the outside. Yet, we find ourselves mourning the loss of 59 human lives and the forever-devastation to thousands more because of one US Citizen with more weapons than any human being needs. 

I cannot articulate how much of a home I have in Las Vegas. It is equally as difficult to compose the proper words to convey how this massacre has had an effect on me and everyone I care about, especially my loved ones close to the scene of the crime, but I am attempting it because in these times, I write. In these times, I put words down and I brain-dump because every single thought in my brain is trying to come out and it’s the only thing I can do right now to help, even if I can only just help myself by doing so. I may not have an original thought to share and I may not be an expert on “feeling” but this is what I do. In these times, it’s what I can do to feel some control over a senseless tragedy.

I grew up in New York and I was still living there on September 11^th, 2001. I watched our first responders in Mt. Vernon, NY fly like bats right into hell. I held candles at the local vigil and felt united with my fellow New Yorkers, and the world, after the horrific scene that transpired at the hands of outsiders. This – feels – no – different. 

This is terrorism.

This is not the hotel’s fault. This is not ISIS. This is not a sect of religious extremists carrying out a message. There is no amount of explanation into the psyche of the US Citizen that did this that will provide any comfort and nothing will justify it – it’s terrorism. 

One person was able to acquire weapons, both legally and illegally, that are entirely unnecessary for a private citizen to own and that one person knew well enough to keep it from those closest to him. That one person took 59 lives and changed countless more in a matter of minutes. That one person was a white, male, United States citizen. 

And then there is the aftermath; nothing short of inspiring. I’m not at all surprised to see the 6-hour wait at the blood banks, or donation centers turning away donations because their needs are met, or my dearest friends clearing their schedule to provide rides, food deliveries, comfort, support, supplies, and more. I’m not surprised that the community has come together in the wake of devastation to prove there is good in this world. I’m not surprised at the amount of texts and phone calls I have received to make sure I am okay and everyone I love is okay. None of this is surprising because I know what we are capable of. It’s simply a goddamn shame that it’s asked of us – but so be it. 

This happened to all of us. We are not okay. But we will be. 

Now is absolutely the time and anyone who says otherwise has an agenda.

My home… Las Vegas, Nevada – I want to know what happened in Vegas can help change the nation. 

It's Feminine or Feminout

I cannot determine whether I'm hyper aware or it's getting worse - but something has definitely changed.

Chalk it up to the flood of hormones, be it a low dose birth control pill, or chalk it up to the surroundings closing in, the pigheadedness of my fellow person, me being a bitch (more about that later) or any number of things but it's there. This is a real thing and just within a few days I have noticed it, maybe for the first time.

But first, about that BC pill, I'm 32 years old and for three weeks I was on the pill for the first time in my life. My body is a clock, and I typically know exactly when I'm getting my period. This has only ever not been true when I quit smoking, like really quit... for like months, which made me two weeks late, and more recently when I planned a trip to Spain and, two months before, decided to go for my own record of 17 days in a row of Bikram yoga. Normally, a regular practitioner, I attend 5 times a week, trying not to take more than one day off in a row unless I'm visiting Vegas for a weekend. But I was stuck in Hell-A for 17 days and for those 17 days I kept myself sane by practicing every single day, and my period ended up being a week late. A whole week - which was due to interrupt the already, purposely scheduled first week of August trip to Barcelona. See, I would have been done with my period by August 1st... I would have been. So, I panicked. Not that the guy who would be traveling with me would stop having sex with me but a period is a goddamn burden. There are cramps and too many trips to the restroom and, being in hostels and hotels, a fear of staining if you want sex to be what sex should be - fun. So, like I said, I panicked. I did a billion searches on the internet, ate tons of gram lentils (look it up if you want to try to "naturally" delay your cycle), decided to just go the hormone route and got the pill to try to trick my body into not having a period in Spain, because it wasn't supposed to anyway! Well my body fought back and I started bleeding the day we landed on August 2nd and, as of this blog, haven't stopped. I'm done with the pill.

But I digress - hormones.

This past weekend, I was invited to an art walk. There was this sweet little gallery in East Hell-A that a friend's friend's girlfriend owned or managed and we went. We went and we walked and we ate tortillas and I drank a $6 IPA, walking around with this beer like it was Vegas. I had such a wonderful time, and my ego was stroked by her friend's flirtatious cousin. He told me how beautiful I am, how my eyes are amazing and he cannot stop looking at them, but not just my eyes - everything about me. My hair, wow, and my legs, my god. But those eyes, goddamn, he could look at them forever. On and on and on. This was before we made the round of other galleries and when we returned, sitting there, he picked up right where he left off. I like to think I know the appropriate time to throw the "boyfriend" word out there and I had done so. Even if it wasn't true, I would have by this point. But what is it gonna take to get my number?
Literally nothing.
Do you want to go to a wedding with me tomorrow?
No. I don't.
What about next weekend? Can we do something then?
I already told you. I have a boyfriend.
But what is it gonna take?
This went on and on and on. Don't get me wrong, we all know attention is nice - and I'm no stranger to those of us that hold off on the relationship disclosure because we like the attention from someone else, I'm a pro at that, but this was more than persistent and flirty. This was downright disrespectful, and I know how to flirt and I know how to bust balls. This was a goddamn lot to take.
And when it wouldn't stop - I literally had to warn him that I was about to get mean.

MEAN?!! I was going to get mean?! Yes - because there was no other way this guy was going to leave me alone if I wanted to continue to keep my body in that spot where my friend was enjoying herself. And for a moment, I felt bad, which I absolutely should NOT have felt bad about. This person was not respecting my desire for him to stop hitting on me, not respecting the relationship I told him about, not listening, not caring, not letting up until I literally said, "I'm going to have to start being mean to you if you do not stop - this is enough."

It was so disgusting to me that I had that twinge of guilt. I could not believe the amount I endured and how he blatantly repeated himself with no regard for my comfort.

When I got home that night, someone in the parking lot, presumably a neighbor, yelled out, "hey, girl! Hey,, you! girl!"
Call me a romantic but that just doesn't do it for me and I find that ignoring it is a lot nicer than what goes through my head anytime I hear it.
"Girl, damn, neighbor.. that's how it is?"

I walked upstairs scared that I would come out to a keyed car or punctured tires later.. because I didn't respond to the sweet talk.

Here I sit, as I type this, after having seen a filthy movie in a packed theater tonight. I could not help but notice when the cartoon Douche on screen announced what he was, for the comedic reveal, the guy sitting next to me whipped his head to face me and waited for my reaction. **this is where I wonder if I'm just hyper-aware, hyper-sensitive, or if people can really be this (insert your own adjective here)

Before finally retiring to my room, still feeling somewhat normal and only slightly phased, I had a conversation with a neighbor who I actually speak with somewhat regularly. He knows I work in the sex toy business and asks how I got into that business...
...which inevitably leads to him asking why?
...which obviously leads to him asking if I've ever done porn.

...which was the straw that broke this lady-camel's hump, friends.

I've always been proud to be the woman I am - I can take it as well as I can dish it out, and I know that flirting is human nature, it's sales, it's banter and wit. I can take a compliment (better from a stranger than someone close to me) and I am definitely not sensitive - I assume if you are reading this, you probably wouldn't use that word to describe me.


But I am increasingly aware that these boundaries are just crossed, and I have to fight to be made comfortable. I am being watched for reaction and somewhat degraded for not responding to degradation. I am in my line of work, as a woman, because of something... there has to be something... have I ever done porn?

Anyway, I feel bloated and I should probably change this tampon.

I Think I Told Her it Would Be Okay

I think I gave my sister some words of self-proclaimed wisdom a while back...

She was struggling where she was. She hated living where she was living and the plan was to make a move here. She had a plan and a place to go - a loved one to land with. She hated it there, though, the place she was I mean. She would text me or call me almost every day and tell me how hard it was. She was miserable and hurting. 

I think I gave her some advice like "stick it out because you know it isn't forever," and, "stay positive - don't let it win. You're better than that." I think maybe I was supportive and loving. I think I tried to make it clear that she is smart and talented and would be okay, but that she just had to make it through this - and she could because she's strong. 

#TheDollEvolves

I grew up in a very unhappy body. 

I blame no one but myself for how I looked and felt. I was not what I wanted to be and struggled with how to be happy with it. If I wasn't happy, why was it so hard to change it? Hopelessness is powerful. "Why bother," was a screaming thought in my head. 

Without numbers or sizes, because they're truly irrelevant, I was just miserable. I didn't like how I looked and felt. I got winded too easily and relied on being the funny one, the smart one, the cool one - because there was no way I would be the hot one or the pretty one. 

I had no problem making friends or even having a boyfriend. I wasn't technically lonely but there was definitely an inside ache for something better. 

Years before this, I'm playing with action figures and dolls. Not long after I cut all of my Barbies' hair off and colored what was left with vibrant markers, I was dreaming of a Catwoman action figure; her face hidden and her body so strikingly perfect that you could paint a costume on her. The fantasy of so many of my friends... That's what I should look like. And she's got some great quips too. 

I did struggle, those years following. I can't take a compliment. Any shirt that touched my body was "too small" and I got very comfortable in giant garments that would tent around my hideous figure. Alone, at night, I would jog in place while watching myself in the mirror for a few minutes before giving up and crying. Why bother?

It was a simple solution to distract from my insecurities with outrageous hair colors and DIY fashion. Punk rock, or the 90s equivalent, was so full of angst and I could relate to the loathing outside of myself. Anything to make people not see in me what I saw in me. Please don't see how "fat" I am. Please don't compare my lack of cup size to my well-endowed friends. Let me be the cool, funny one that gets sarcasm and can hang with the boys. 

I don't blame Barbie or DC Comics or the fashion industry. I know that these feelings have blossomed in most adolescents and insecurity is not uncommon. It's widespread and terribly unfortunate but the news about #TheDollEvolves hit me in a way that I did not expect. 

I wouldn't wish those awful, crippling thoughts on anyone. I'm not ignorant to societal pressures or bullies, who are usually just as insecure as their targets, if not more than. 

Everyone deserves to feel represented and beautiful. 

Well done, Barbie. 

What we have

I think we could have something beautiful...

Because we already do. 

It Felt Just Like Falling in Love...Again

Desperate for money, like, really desperate, hindsight helped me understand that I should have been more wise with my funds. I'm paying a stupid amount in rent and have basically been broke since moving to LA. Still, I purchased tickets to see a band. Not just any band; Death Cab for Cutie. 

This band has meant so much to me. Their music is touching and dramatic. Their lyrics are relatable and universal for anyone who has ever had feelings - of any kind. I've grown up with them and into adulthood they are, easily, a complete favorite. 

But this isn't a post about the band. It's a post about how I was selling the tickets to the show because it was a lot of money that I shouldn't have spent and faced with the decision to see them live again or making some of that money back, it would have been the right thing for me to take the money. 

So I tried; craigslist, Reddit, Facebook, IG, friends, coworkers. I was contacted several times by interested fellow fans and left totally hanging three times when money didn't come through. Hopeless. 

I had no choice. I would have to go. My ticket would not go to waste. 

My arrival was perfectly timed, right as they began their first song, and I immediately wanted to find all of the people that left me hanging and kiss them. I still do not entirely understand why I was so overwhelmed. I had seen them play five months earlier, and while that was an incredible experience, it did not punch me in the heart the way it did last night. 

I sang along to every lyric. I moved and welled up. I took pictures and video, even deleting several apps from my phone so I could utilize the storage. I felt every chord and key and note and word so hard. I was utterly fulfilled. It was something that would make me believe in magic. I was vulnerable and weak and consumed by them. 

Things have been very tough
for me. I have had more obstacles, monetary and otherwise, in the last few months than I have in a long time. I'm disconnected and unsure but last night it became very clear that I love so much and when I allow myself to just let go, like the shirt I was wearing read, wonderful things happen. 

I hope to be consumed by this feelings or as long as possible. Total gratitude. Complete contentment and absolute serenity. I love and I'm capable of receiving that as much as I am capable of doing it.  

Of Course Camels Cry

I have a few favorite postures when it comes to Bikram yoga. The postures, or asanas, that I favor tend to be some of the more difficult, dare I say, "master," postures. I happen to be good at them - not perfect - but I'm good at them. 

Among these is ustrasana. This is camel pose. This posture is the 23rd of 26 postures in a standard class and is the deepest backward bend of the series. I've attached a more adequate description of it. 

What isn't included in the description is the fact that this posture can cause a reaction that has nothing to do with the spine. 

My favorite posture opens the heart. It is common to feel dizzy, nauseous, sick after this posture; even emotional. 

Cut to tonight. 

The room is so fucking hot. I'm pretty sure it's hotter than usual and this particular instructor keeps the heat higher than most. Add to that the new flooring that seems to bounce the 105-or-higher degree heat right back up. The 40% -or-higher humidity is all I feel and I'm directly under a vent that is pumping it directly onto me. 

She has only cracked the door once in nearly 90 minutes, for two seconds, and when she turns the fans on it just beats hot, thick air into my soaking wet and tired body. What crosses my mind, what never crosses my mind, is I'm going to leave the room. 

I never leave the room. As hot and humid and hard as this is, I don't give up. I've never left the room unless time didn't permit a full class. I've considered it - but never like this. I'm planning my escape. The whole time I'm in half tortoise pose, pulling my hips to my heels and stretching my arms out with my nose on the floor, I'm going to leave this fucking room. 

But ustrasana is next. That's my favorite. And when I'm in a posture I may be aware of the next one but it's not something I think about. I can't think. I can only do the posture I'm in and breathe. I can only focus on what I'm doing and when it's time to leave the room, it's time for camel posture. 

And I do it. I plant my knees on the floor and push my hips forward while staring at my own eyes in the mirror. I look spent, like how they make women in movies look when the women are giving birth. I'm red and drenched and even my hair is sweating. My hands push my hips forward as my head drops back and I place my right hand on my right foot, left hand on my left foot. I push everything, stomach, hips, thighs forward. I lift my chest high and my hands remain on my heels. I push and push and push and see the back wall, breathing through my nose. 

Then it's over. Shavasana; corpse pose. I cannot tell if there's noise because I can only hear my own heart pounding and there's no telling the difference between sweat and the tears running down my face as I lay on my back. 

I'm crying. There's no doubt that I'm crying but my gaze is soft and focused on the ceiling and my breathe remains normal. For those 20 seconds I feel proud and strong. My heart is open and I think how funny that is that my favorite posture is the heart opening posture. I think, in those 20 seconds, about my entire body and how lonely it's been. I think of all the places on my body that aren't being touched. I think about the brutal honesty that I've spoken recently. I think of the people I love and how much I love them. I think about how much I love myself and how I could've easily crumbled recently; how I have at times, but I haven't stopped. I haven't given up or caved in. I haven't even considered it. 

My favorite posture opens my heart and leaves me feeling better for it. I cried tonight, and it's happened a little before but never like this. My favorite posture heels the damage done and opens me up to receive more than I could ever imagine. This master posture is late in the class and would be easy to abandon, if that was how I operate. Clearly it isn't. My favorite posture is really trying. My favorite posture leaves me vulnerable late in the game. 

I did not leave the room tonight - no fucking way.