mona lisas.

five years ago, today, my now ex-husband and i went to a wedding together. the only reason i even know this is because someone in silicon valley came up with this idea to create 'facebook memories' which is really just a cyber vault way of reminding you, in a completely unsolicited manner, that "oh right. that happened."

so yeah. we went to a wedding. we had been separated for exactly four months and five days.

after all, we were still the millers.

after all, we were still navigating through the greatest pain that either of us had ever experienced.

after all, we were still committed to remaining as friends.

after all, we didn't really know what the fuck we were doing.

so we went.

he wore a tuxedo and i wore a plum-colored dress and was told by a number of people about how skinny and great i looked.

i wasn't skinny and looking great because i had all the sudden taken up yoga and an eye-roll worthy diet consisting of kale salads and fruit smoothies. i was skinny because i was dead inside and hadn't eaten solid food in exactly four months and five days.

but i thanked those who were naive to my current reality and danced the night away anyway.

we had sex that night. and again a few months later.

ask me why, and i would give you the same response that i would give you if you asked me how many pennies it would take to fill the room i'm currently sitting in.

which is: "how the fuck should i know."

because i don't.

there's that overused and tirelessly cliche saying that goes along the lines of something about how certain people come into your life and quietly leave, while others will come into your life and leave tiny footprints on your heart and you are never the same again.

truth.

cliche, but truth.

five years later i wrestle with that cliche a little, as i sit on a pile of shit otherwise known as "hey thanks, twenty seventeen. you've been the year of loss and tears and i'm over it and also fuck you."

but it's also been the year of great gains and i need to remind myself of that, despite the fact that my eyes are wet and swollen today. and possibly again tomorrow.

this evening, i nestled up to a kitchen counter in a home i don't own, in a town i don't live in, across from a dear soul who genuinely cares about mine. over matching bowls of ramen, we discussed love and loss and the power of goodbyes. we talked about the cathartic act of writing, which i suppose is why i'm here now. revisiting this place far sooner than i ever anticipated. we talked about loving ourselves more than loving others and taking chances in spite of outstanding odds and mounting fears. we talked about this year. the year that took many things away from me, physically and otherwise. but also the same year that welcomed into my life invaluable lessons, irreplaceable people, life-altering experiences, and an amount of self discovery that in no way has done anything less than morph me into a better version of the person i was meant to be.

this was the year that i was reminded of my value. this year reminded me that i am better than what a select few people of the past had sometimes lead me to believe. reminded me that love is possible, and could begin to make it's way into my orbit again. it was the year that i walked through central park, holding his pinky with my forefinger, while realizing that there will be unplanned and unexpected moments in life when your soul aligns with someone else's at the just the right split second, and the entire universe makes sense again. even if it's just for that moment.

and even if it might have been temporary, it existed.

the wet and swollen eyes help me now understand that it was real.

the tiny footprints lay on my heart and i will likely never be the same again.

additionally, elton john was mistaken when he said that rose trees never grow in new york city.

they do.

it's like riding a bike. i think.

i missed my flight, which really did me no favors except for squeezing an extra five hours out of this west coast experience which i will fondly refer to as "Two Weeks of Living Amongst The Grapes." 

someone should write a book and title it that.

maybe that someone should be me.

upon realizing i would be spending an additional unwelcomed five hours in an airport, which by all accounts is my idea of a waking nightmare, i figured i had about three or four different ways of occupying suspended time. i don't fare well when being asked forced to sit still for extended periods of time confined to uncomfortable furniture and recycled air conditioning hovering somewhere around 57 degrees.

this is probably why i don't work in a bank.

but alas, i could:
(a) find a bar and get bombed. meh.
(b) walk around and buy things i don't need. also meh.
(c) pick a fight with TSA for trying to confiscate the shell casing from my grandfather's funeral. super meh. i'm trying to get home, not in lockup.
(d) write.

so here me is.

i haven't been here in a bit. and by a bit, i mean five years. and while i find it painfully familiar, i'm also not entirely sure i know how to do this anymore. or maybe it's a bike-riding situation and i just need to find the pedals again. my legs are longer than they were the last time i was here, so it's quite possible that i just need to adjust the seat a bit.

i had all but forgotten about this space entirely until a few months ago. i met a man in the middle of america, by happenstance completely. about a billion things had to cosmically align for us to end up in the same room, at the same time, but cosmic shit is bigger than me and i don't really try and fully understand it. because as soon as you think you've figured it out, the sun shifts. the stars do their cosmic thing. God says hello. and then you're just back to putting one foot in front of the other while systematically reducing your intelligence level to "1+1=2 and that's all i know right now."

so i try and let happenstance remain happenstance. and pray that the yellow brick road will be kinder and a little less winding this time around.

anyway. it was that man in the middle of america who somehow found this place, liked me enough to read more than i'm certain he found amusing, and suggested i maybe revisit it again now.

so here is me.

i spent the last two weeks of my life looking at this every single day.

every. single. day.

i also spent the last two weeks craving a conversation with someone who disbelieves in a god, or God, or something bigger than us, and asking them, "but, really?"

there's this long road that weaves through the napa valley called "Big Ranch Road." i put almost a thousand miles on a rental car during those two weeks. up and down Big Ranch Road. most of my mornings were met with sights of hot air balloons which filled the sky in a way that flies fill a vineyard in harvest season.

this is harvest season.

flies are a plenty.

the flies like the sweetness of the grapes, and i'm on board with that. the flies like things which are sweet, and i like things which are sweet. we all should. so let's align ourselves with the flies and be less consumed with the over-annoyance of their swarming all around, and realize that we are like-minded in the simple fact that: sweet things are nice.

the hot-air balloons helped me remember why we're all here. we all just want to see this world from a vantage point that is greater than us. we all want to be a part of something amazing.

if i make it back to Big Ranch Road again in my little lifetime, i will consider myself a lucky girl.

i laughed there. in abundance. i cried there. with my heart in my hands.

i lived there.

for two irreplaceable weeks.

mid-week musings. and i need to go food shopping immediately.

sometimes people pay me to sit in my peejays and watch men’s water polo and drool over these greek statues who defy the laws of practicality and put me in situations where i have to try and find enough upper body strength to pick my face off the ground.

[oh hi. have you SEEN them? my god.]

unrelated: i should buy some snacks. or really just anything edible because when you have company over and all you have to offer them is beer or grapes, your hostess status plummets.

here. have a grape.

<slams head into a wall. snacks are good. beer is not a food group. okay, yes it is. cracks the beers and just gets drunk instead.>

and speaking of things that go really well with beer.

S E Q U I N S

(! ! ! ! ! !)

they make you pose in airplane mode.

you really can’t lose.

another thing that is so beyond awesome that it would make your head pop off your spine and roll around on the floor is when your best friend comes and visits you and the stars align and the world is perfect and you are complete.

[also. drawing on random strangers who get inebriated and pass out at pools is pretty awesome if you’re looking for some cheap entertainment this summer.]

and now i’m going to go to the dmv where one of 37 awful things are likely to happen.

because the dmv is the devil.

on steroids.

but it’s time.

i’ve been a north carolina “resident” for every minute since i was born.

i haven’t even lived in north carolina since 1998.

it’s 2012.

i think there’s something that borders illegality somewhere in there.

. . .

wouldn't it be hilarious if you were about to take an international flight and your passport was expired?

why, yes. yes it would be.

wait.

no it wouldn't.

good news is that i have long legs.

. . .

boxes hold shit that you need and probably don't need and both.

they say that moving is one of the top 5 most stressful things one can ever go through.

they say that if you're moving in manhattan, it becomes a top 3 life stresser of all time.

they (whoever they are) are right in ways that i had completely and regrettably forgotten about.

while i technically "moved" weeks ago, "moving" really only meant bringing an air mattress and a suitcase along and leaving the rest behind to deal with later.

later quickly turned into now and i am subsequently living inside this photo.

i wholeheartedly believe that the only way i'm even able to get to the bathroom is because of 15 years of ballet training.

i am taking this flexibility thing to an entirely new level and learning to hold my bladder for far longer stretches than i imagine is remotely healthy.

oh and when it is suggested to you, at two o'clock in the morning, that "doing something awesome" means building a giant three-thousand-pound wardrobe that you purchased at the beloved ikea . . .

it is not awesome.

hilarious and completely stupid, yes.

awesome is debatable.

boys get these ideas of lunacy in the middle of the night because they think they are superhero superpower macho craftsmen ninjas.

when really, they are just batshit crazy.

thank god for 24-hour corner bodegas that sell beer by the truckload.

thank god for that . . .

moving plus working around the clock plus a few other things.

equals.

SO MUCH TO SAY.

(!!!!!!!)

tomorrow.

tomorrow will be the day.

this is where we are. this is who we are.

[i’m digging the blue tile.]

you’re giving times square a run for her money.

and god knows, there’s nothing worse than times square in the summer.

and often in the winter, too.

110th street stop: glad to know you.

the second round of this.

well, that was weird.

unexpected spacehog appearance at the brooklyn bowl.

where we went to eat because it was across the street and has rock ‘n roll fries.

and because we can get in with no hassle.

friends in high places.

[my fiends are so so connected. or just own great joints. or both.]

it brought it all full circle and left me with my jaw on the floor.

it’s like they can read my mind.

two point five hours of straight up inspiration. even of the home decor kind.

edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros.

last night.

at the roseland.

KILLED IT.

killed it.

if you haven’t seen them live, run.

do not walk.

but you can skip.

‘cause they are a skippy kind of bunch.

and you guys, THIS.

is going in my bedroom.

it’s happening.

or a smaller, less global-size version of it.

china ball lights are sex pot.

i fumbled with how i would rig it and then i realized one of my best friends is an interior designer and rigs shit for a living.

good shit.

like the china ball light that will be going in my bedroom.

it’s your word to God’s ear. and everything else will just have to be.

east harlem is an oasis of purity.

[um, what?!]

just as long as you understand that it’s not greenwich village.

[well. um. duh.]

and so long as you don’t wander past the jefferson projects at night.

[huh? that’s 2 blocks away! and for 5 months out of the year, “night” begins at like four o’clock!!]

and don’t wear any jewelry.

[hang on. i’m a girl. come again??]

just keep your wits about you.

[okay, done. check. i’ve lived in these parts for long enough to know even that.]

 

i will say this about it, though . . .

it’s about as authentic as they come.

[and i like love that.]

and not riddled with the yuppie imports of select neighborhoods which will remain unmentioned.

[who has time for that anyway? oh wait. i’m an import. scratch the import bit.]

it’s as raw as the infection once was that sent me to the emergency room.

[which was well over a month ago. meh. moving on.]

he tells me there’s a cuban joint on the next block with great food.

[i can do cuban food.]

the fire department is within spitting distance.

[ya know. in case i want to set something on fire.]

and the bar next door is hailed as the dive of all dives. and only plays country music.

[okay, this will work. i can tap into my southern roots while getting knee-knocking drunk on the cheap at the same time. two birds. one stone.]

 

i can promise you absolutely nothing except this . . .

i will rock it.

[one way or another. and possibly multiple ways. yes. multiple ways.]

this is what happens at 2:00am when your best friend decides you need to pretend you are an artist (you’re not), slaps a 90”x 70” canvas to her wall, hands you 20 cans of paint, and says “go.”

there are few things i wouldn’t do for my friends.

there is almost nothing i wouldn’t do for jordan.

friends since we were fourteen, she taught me the meaning and importance of road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.

[do this. it’s amazing. just bring some red bull.]

she tells me like it is and accepts it when i do the same.

she’s abundantly funny.

and makes me asks me tells me is my wingman to do some crazy shit.

[like road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.]

so it was only appropriate when, at 2am a few nights ago and in the throws of trying to redecorate her west village apartment for the NINE THOUSANDTH TIME, that she would ask me to paint her some art.

[you mean me? as i survey her otherwise empty apartment, hoping someone else is standing in the middle of the room. wearing a smock.]

and only appropriate that i would so quickly oblige.

[sure. it’s only 2am. this will undoubtedly be incredible. just don’t hold your breath.]

and so, it began. what began? i wouldn’t actually know until it was sun-up 7am and i could barely see straight and had already made a 5:12am run to the bodega across the street for a 6-pack. don’t judge. and by god if you ask me to do something with so much lunacy behind it as paint you a massive mural at 2am, you can bet your sweet ass i will make a run for a 6-pack at some point. if you want a beer too, get your own.]

oh. so you really weren’t kidding about this project. fantastic. i’m only 3 seconds away from passing out, but BRING IT. MEASURE THAT SHIT, HOMIE.

okay, hang on. this thing is a beast. and you want me to do WHAT with it exactly?

because it’s now about 3:47am, you batshitcrazy perfectionist.

i’m really tired. can i please stop soon? like six hours ago soon?? like how did you rope me into this soon? oh yeah, and now it’s my birthday (for reals) and i’m going to be a zombie all day. thanks. let’s do this again sometime never.

aaaaannnndddd now it’s seven o’clock in the morning. i’m done. i hope you love it. (she does.) and i hope you don’t put it on the curb like you did those bedside tables you made me spend 49 hours in ikea mulling over.

and i want to go home.

i NEED to go home.

I’M. GOING. HOME.

except that i’m not.

because now you want me to overanalyze some army green metal desk that you think is going to change your life.

well, here’s my 2 cents.

i hate the fucking desk.

it belongs in an insane asylum.

and right now, so do i.

an irishman tends bar in a mexican restaurant in little italy.

and that is why i love new york.

mexican radio is likely one of my favorite places in this town and i'm not even sure why except that i've never been able to spend fewer than 8 hours there, or had fewer than 39 margaritas, and certainly never had fewer than way too many inappropriate conversations while positioned tummy-facing-mahogany.

i'm assuming it's mahogany.

then again, i couldn't care less. at all. margaritas will do that.

atop a stool, and power driving green mac n' cheese [why was it green again? is this a mexican thing i'm apparently super virgin to? because holy hot damn, that shit was food on crack-infused steroids.], i tried so eloquently to describe the love affair i have with the eastern shore of maryland and why i think certain male and female "landscaping" options border on just plain silly.

[i may or may not elaborate on that at a later date. i probably won't, but if i do then rest assured it will be detailed and educational.]

17 of 39 margaritas later, this bit of information fell into my lap:

"marcy, the reason people fall in love with you is because you say weird stuff like 'i grew up like a pirate.'"

huh.

um, thank you?

and.

um, what?!

this should be titled: why brunettes have more fun and kick more ass. but i’m actually going to title it: top 2 reasons not to leave your iPhone in the port authority bathroom stall.

this was apparently  t h e  w e e k  for stealing phones.

it’s like the assholes of the world all got together and said “go, team, go.”

and then i said:

“hey, assholes. hows about you go get yourselves some JOBS and buy your own overpriced handheld device.”

here are the reasons why the above situation blows.

[apart from everything.]

1.) you don’t got a phone no more.

2.) you gots to buy a new one.

[secretly i was just searching for an excuse to drop a quick four-hundred bucks on something i’ve already bought. twice.]

 

and then i saw this and everything was instantly better.

 omfg.

to all past, present, and future love interests of my life:

if you buy me this, i’ll shoot you in the face.

me thinks today would be a stellar day to play a round of hookie and go to the beach.

me also thinks this is just not going to happen.

there are people to meet.

a person to greet.

and a one o’clock meeting in midtown that’s going to throw that daydream believing situation into an overdriven level of impossibility.

[monday, you are awesome.]

only one of these things interests me in the slightest. allow me to bust this secret wide open and let you know that it’s not the meeting in midtown.

 

in completely unrelated news . . .

[which isn’t news at all.]

here’s something to either make or break your monday.

and you’re welcome.

i can’t for the life of me remember how or where i acquired this piece of photographic wonderment, but i do remember posting it on facebook (because why the hell not) and having someone ask me if i was related to these people.

bitch please.

[although for half a heartbeat, i won’t argue that i sort of wish i was. because this looks like a real good time.]

i’m not sure which part i like better:

the american flag wall art, the old lady vomiting into a plastic trash can while also palming a can of what looks to be coors light (boot-n-rally, granny . . . boot-n-fuckin’-rally), or the fact that the dude with the sweetass haircut is tripping his balls off on booze.

or meth.

or both.

and i’m not even going to mention the orange polyester.

except that i am.

ORANGE POLYESTER (!!!)

okay that’s all.

bye.

salt water collides with salty tears and then wipes them dry. or maybe then they just become one. and then you are the ocean.

if i could be a fish, i would be.

a while ago, one of my favorite people [who is currently a wee bit farther away than i’d like …. and without phone or internet, which i like even less …. especially now …. COME BACK …. okay. a few more days …. i can deal ….. ] told me:

“i thought you’d moved.”

i asked why.

[because i hadn’t moved. at all.]

response:

“because you’re always on a beach somewhere.”

and it’s true.

sort of.

well, not really.

i mean at least during the summer months, i spend as much time at the beach as humanly and as inhumanly possible.

if i can be on a beach . . . i can be happy.

[well, really, i can actually be happy anywhere. the beach just amps this up a few.]

so some time spent amidst the salty seas and currents that ran so furiously that we had to abort our initial planned mission and settle for the “megadock” [mega could be a new favorite word. use it in a sentence. twice. and then tell me you don’t feel empowered.] and i found a little restoration.

except for the fact that i slept zero. which is weird, but not. and it reshaped the meaning of “vacay” into something more like “fake it ‘til you make it.”

faking it.

making it.

what else would you like to know?

i’m on a boat. drinking beer. reading a shitty magazine.

i dare you to tell me you’re having a better day than me.

a very short letter to an inanimate entity that may or may not be reading. [file this under: if you put it out there, it just might become truth.]

 

dear east harlem,

please be nice to me.

yours*,

marcy.

 

[*and by “yours” i do not mean you own me. i do that part. you’re just along for the ride. let’s get that clear from the get go. k? k.]

spacehogs: you always knew what you were talking about.

 

big

[BIG]

things are happening.

stay tuned . . .

this will blow the lid off.

and, yes, the above photo is involved . . .

and then this happened.

okay, so you might not be able to tell.

but THAT, people, is a broken nose.

i didn’t get punched in the face except that i absolutely got punched in the face.

by a door.

blood.

everywhere.

on the walls.

[how the fuck did blood get on the walls? he says. i don’t know, jackass, you tell me. you’re the one who opened the door on my face. i said.]

409 and a roll of paper towels handled what looked like a murder scene.

blue moon and an orange is handling how i feel about this whole situation.

it’s multifunctional.

because let’s be honest: solo cups serve two purposes.

one. drinking keg beer like a frat boy who is way too underage to publically manhandle a bottle of some horrifyingly bad beer (think: bud light) just.in.case. the fuzz rolls in and shuts the party down, thus avoiding a free ride to the local slammer for being way too underage to publically manhandle a bottle of some horrifyingly bad beer. (still thinking: bud light)

and.

two. trapping bugs.

i came home the other day from a shoot which had required me to put two feet on the floor before the clock even read anything remotely close to 4:00am and found this.

with explanation.

djm: i trapped one of those long skinny bugs with a thousand legs under that cup.

marcy: okay.

djm: i chased him and suffocated him.

marcy: okay.

 

fast forward to something like 4 days.

it’s still here.

[quite obviously, as i just took this photo 7 minutes ago.]

you trapped it. you deal with it.

i can only imagine what’s inside is the carcass of said long skinny bug with a thousand legs.

but i can equally imagine that while nestling within the pitch-black of its new prison-like environment, and all kinds of pissed off, it deemed it wise to set vengeance upon the human species, thus laying a copious amount of eggs, and is (as we speak) anticipating that coveted moment when the cup is lifted and a billion creatures run full-steam across the kitchen floor.

either scenario isn’t one i’m prepared to take the reigns on.

you trapped it. you deal with it.

and as for the empty arizona iced tea and apple juice bottles also taking up residence on the kitchen floor:

you would think they’re there awaiting recycling day when the world stops for a moment and goes green in attempt to save some sector of the universe.

but they’re not.

there are no recycling options at this (soon-to-be-vacated) abode.

which i think might straddle some line of legality.

never mind moral ethics.