hi hello.
I hardly visit anymore, I’m not very sorry, though it’s a bittersweet departure. Call it age, call it time, the importance has faded. But I’ve come here to share that M and I are moving in together this weekend. I realize the weight of this, as I lay in my nearing bare bedroom, floor lined with boxes and giant ikea bags filled with the possessions I’ve accumulated the past 3 ½ years I’ve lived here.
I moved into this North Hollywood house at the tail-end of 2012. I live with Russell, Maggie, Helen, then Kai who was replaced by Alex. Spudlee the frenchie dog came about in the past two years too. It’s been a full house to say the least, and this little room my sanctioned dwelling. But the past year I have been itching for my own place. Call it age, call it time.
I didn’t anticipate living with him yet. We had casually mentioned moving in together in conversation from time to time. Casual in the ‘Oh, that couch would fit our style if..’ or ‘If we ever lived together we’d probably have a record-listening section’ kind of casual. It was a floating thought I hadn’t focused on grounding.
But now it’s here. You just can’t plan for it sometimes, you know? Life sprung on us and the decision was made swiftly. We found our place fast, and now we’re packing boxes, sharing a home.
I’m very nervous because cohabitation to me means an eventual staleness and neglection of our relationship. (Obvious tell on how I feel about long-term commitments lol). But I’m also happy to be nervous. I’m honored that we’re choosing this. We picked each other. And if it all ends horribly and I’m back to a bare room and floor lined boxes, it’ll be fine. I’ll feel fine. Call it age, call it time.
5:52 pm • 2 June 2016 • 2 notes
You know, now that I think of it, this whole year is punctuated by my 30th birthday. It is many moon cycles from now (November) but its mattering is a string to which all my thoughts are tied. Why I chose to cut my hair, my anxiety of impending skin softening and hips widening, my anti-social behavior, the need for settlement into my own place, the need for security and stability, my exhaustion, my hunger. Everything feels like a moment before 30. Thirty is still young but it’s not very young. And though I am youthful I know I’ll no longer belong in Neverland. But while I’m still here, I’ll enjoy the ride.
Just three weeks ago I was in Europe. M and I, along with his coworker and his girlfriend, traveled to three countries in 6 days. With a day and a half spent at each. In London, we stayed in Shoreditch. He and I had been to London before, so we skipped out on all the tourist spots and just spent our day without tracing our steps. We ate breakfast at a small hole-in-the-wall baegel shop in Brick Lane. I liked how the old lady working the till referred to everyone as darling. They all do, there. It was cold everywhere we went, and it made me like it more, an emphasis I wasn’t in LA any longer. We popped into all the vintage shops, I bought a pair of used lace up boots. We took pictures by street murals, we held hands in the park. We pub hopped about and drank a delicious un-pasturized pilsner urquell. On our last evening, we missed the Jack the Ripper tour and got hot chocolate at a chocolate shop instead, where the two till gals in their early twenties was blasting Beyonce and I danced with them. No matter where you are you in the world, you bond over Beyonce.
We took the train to Amsterdam. Our first evening there, we ate at a recommended traditional dutch restaurant called Moeders, which means mother. The walls were lined with photos of moms- floor to ceiling, from visitors and regulars throughout the years. I don’t have a picture of my mom that I carry with me and it made me think of when she’s eventually gone, if I would. Our airbnb was above a gift shop in a quaint little street in the neighborhood of Jordaan. I loved it so much- temporarily living there, even though one night, as I was putting on pants by the window, I caught the old man with white long hair and a beard directly across the way staring right at me. We were a 15 minute walk from a lot of areas, particularly the red light district. I was very curious about the windows and I kept wanting us to walk down the alleyways so I could see all the women. Many of them looked bored, on their phones, applying makeup. Few of them looked sad. But mostly they were the ones with the power, and I liked that the most. I had lost my phone that first night and miraculously found it 45 minutes later in the bar ball pit I had jumped into. The next day, we took part of the canal water tour up to a diamond museum. I bought a fuzzy maroon beret at a vintage shop. It started snowing as we walked about and it was magical. For breakfast, we had giant dutch pancakes and valentine’s night, my bf and I got high and watched a sex show. Maybe porn and media has made light of sex, but seeing real people having intercourse directly before my very eyes wasn’t nearly as shocking or awe-ing as it may sound. I still have the penis shaped lollipop they gave me at the entrance. A lollicock, they said.
Afterward, we took the train to Paris. I have longed for Paris for nearly two decades and here I was, meeting my dream city. M and I stayed at an airbnb in the 19th arrondissement, which is ways away from central Paris, which made for the most challenging trip. My three years of high-school francais was most helpful as we navigated local neighborhoods and non-English speaking parisians. I ate croissants and had plates of bread and cheese and engorged myself with steak frites. I enjoyed a pink rose with dinner while watching a fotbal match amidst a thickening lay of cigarette smoke. We visited revered bookstore Shakespeare and Co that I’ve known about and read about for years. We bought a poem. We also got lost 3 times by my partner’s misdirection, which eventually drew me to tears, but I still made it to Montemarte and visited Amelie’s restaurant. I ordered a creme brulee and cracked it with a spoon. I only saw the Eiffel Tower in its night gown, but oh, it’s still a beauty.
Everything happened so fast, there’s not a lot to be nostalgic over. All the details a watercolor memory. “How was your trip?” is met with “It was good.” And it was.
11:17 pm • 3 March 2016 • 1 note
“
Patti Smith was 29 when she recorded Horses. Joan Didion was 29 when she wrote her first novel. Tina Fey was 29 when she was named head writer of SNL. bell hooks was 29 when she published her first major work. Oprah had just turned 30 when she got her first local TV talk show.
There is a reason “boy genius” rolls off the tongue more naturally than “girl genius.” By the time most of us accept the fact that we have earned this label for ourselves, we are most decidedly no longer girls.
”
—
Ann Friedman, “In Which We Can Feel The Horses Long Before Horses Enter the Scene” (via thatkindofwoman)
Of note as I turn 29 this year
(via josephgordonloveit)
Reblogging in my 29th year.
(Source: lisaprank, via josephgordonloveit)
4:02 pm • 24 December 2015 • 2,440 notes
Hello, Tumblr. Been a little bit. This is me from this week, when Matt picked out this outfit for me to wear to a client premiere and he was very proud about it.
6:10 pm • 12 December 2015 • 4 notes
chinuplittlepup:
We’re telling you that this is something that definitely happens to
women all the time. But fine, deny our perception of the world.
Master of None’s non-subtlety took some getting used to and I needed a few episodes in to really enjoy it, but THIS. This scene was so important to watch with my boyfriend. My many feminist rants over the years have worn him thin, and much like when a parent constantly nags a child, he doesn’t really hear me or doesn’t try to see my complaints the way that I do anymore. So to have my feelings expressed exactly as I want it to, in an easily consumable package, said by characters written by Aziz Ansari- a male comedian he likes, was so incredibly vital.
Sure, it can feel like Aziz is mansplaining feminism. And I wish that my boyfriend would really listen and take in MY accounts, as a woman and as a female, as non-exaggerations. But in this society and culture, it IS helpful to have a man explain feminism to another man. To have one like Aziz, who is respected and revered in pop culture, openly rep his feminist state. We need more male allies to further eradicate the negative connotation of feminism and to open that dialogue with other men.
1:24 pm • 18 November 2015 • 4,299 notes
I’m 29 now.
I turned 29 on Monday and I haven’t had pause to journal as I used to on a notebook or on the internet, but I am very comfortably settled into this age. I wake up with ease at an early 7am and I sometimes drink coffee. I listen to podcasts on my long commute to work, where I’ve been now for a little over a month. I risked a late career shift, but for the first time, I feel growth and stability. For the first time, I have health benefits and the dream of having my own place is close enough to reach out and touch.
I sleep well before midnight, without perusing pages of the internet. I’m tired so early these days, and I like it. I like this way of living. This quiet, sustaining life. My once outstretched friend group has raisined. I can count the amount of close friends in LA in one hand. And part of that is growing up. Part of that is only keeping quality to permanence. Everything now feels more so.
I’m still in love and it paints a gloss across all my days. But also, I’m in love with me. I’ve been with me for 29 years. I’ve never felt so fitted into this skin than I have lately. I’m proud of my insistences to change, to mark, to move. I’m proud of what I’m building towards, even though I don’t know yet what I’m creating. I’m creating. And I’m 29 now.
10:51 am • 6 November 2015 • 1 note
Just brought out my box of halloween decor again this year and forget how amazing I am.
(Pics from a previous Halloween party with everything up)
10:22 pm • 5 October 2015 • 1 note
