GO

There’s a song called “Go” by Tones on Tail that I used to listen to in high school. It was an infectious song that made you want to jump up and down. Back then in the 80s, we used to go to a club called Marilyn’s in Pasadena and they would always play the song at the end of the night. The song would come on and my best friends and I would run onto the dance floor screaming with joy, dancing in a circle holding hands.

I wish I could still feel excitement like that. Most days, I feel hobbled and so damn old for my forty something self. Yes, I know I need to exercise and eat better, but the worse I feel, the worse I eat and the less I move.

Even when we were in France last month, I didn’t feel young and free like I thought I would. I was happy, yet also anxious, worrying about this or that and in constant pain from my foot issue.

Some days, the only place where I feel like me is here. On the page.

It’s as if I am my real self here and all of the other “JEMs” don’t matter. Here, I am only JEM the narrator.

I am not:

The attorney who over preps on a regular basis, and cares so much about her clients that her stomach hurts.

I am not:

The girl who can’t sleep, or the early riser who wakes up and quickly downs two double espresso shots to start the day.

I am not:

The sad girl who drinks too much then wakes up in the middle of the night asking herself if she’s just like her alcoholic father.

I am:

The happy girl who dances to Bowie and The Pixies whenever she can. The woman who loves her two shih tzus to distraction and loves to make her husband pancakes.


I am:

The girl would sell her soul to see a punk or post punk show and who adores The Cure, X and U2 so much that they make her cry when she sees them live.

I am not:

The woman who thinks she is too old, and tired.

I am not:

The girl who weeps every time she thinks of her failed IVF and that horrible day when all her dreams of a baby shattered into fragments.

I am:

A writer.

I am:

The girl who tells herself every morning, “GO!” And then the girl gets up. Maybe not with as much gusto as she had at sixteen, but still, it’s something.

Dreams

Today is a new day. I have been in a funk lately. Upon returning from France, my foot worsened and I was forced to stay upstairs in bed most nights unable to do much of anything.

But this last week was better and today, I feel optimistic. I had a piece selected for a podcast. It is a memoir piece detailing my childhood food memories. The story was a piece I had put in a drawer years before and when I saw a pitch request a couple of weeks ago, I pulled it out and sent it. And, the editor accepted it with minor changes.

It taught me that you just have to seize opportunities. Listen to your instincts and act. Take a leap. Don't overthink it and magic can happen because every action has a reaction.

The next thing on my agenda is to do a dream board. I made one years ago, but it got destroyed and thrown away in a move. A dream board is just that, a visualization with pictures of your dreams on a large board. I plan on making it tomorrow. While making it, I will also verbalize those dreams aloud. An agent. Not only one book, but two or three.

Years ago, I saw a psychic and she told me I would have three children. I always thought they would be literal, but now I realize, after my infertility struggles, that perhaps, just perhaps, those children were meant to have spines made of paper and not of bone.

Putting one foot in front of the other

Like most people, I take my feet for granted. I had been given the gift of mobility. Then all of a sudden, poof, I had it taken away.

Well, not completely taken away because I could walk. It’s just that every step felt as if someone was stabbing my left heel. With a pitchfork.

The issue started a little more than a year ago. At first, it was a mild pain when I stood at work, then more severe, but intermittent. Then it was constant, and every little step I took was agony.

It worsened when we were on vacation in France. I decided it was cab time and while I wasn’t happy to miss the Palace of Versailles due to the walking required, I muddled through and still did the Louvre, the Sacre-Coeur, and the Eiffel Tower, along with other attractions. One day, I walked more than I should have and had to elevate for hours before I could even take a step.

When we got home, I saw a podiatrist. Many call podiatrists sadists, but mine was sweet and especially kind when I cried huge crocodile tears like a baby during the cortisone shot. Imagine someone freeze spraying your foot then jamming a needle into an already tender heel with liquid that feels like nitrogen. That’s a cortisone shot.

Then the podiatrist referred me to a prosthetic device office. When I got there, I was horrified by all of the racks of special shoes thinking, is this what I’ve come to? Suddenly, I remembered when I was seven years old and my mom took me to a podiatrist. They forced me to wear huge, weird shoes with owls on the front, (yes owls!) that were meant to correct my pigeon toed gait, but instead just marked me as a sad, seven year old nerd.

Because of those damn shoes that I wore for a year, I refused to have my eyes tested (owl shoes AND glasses were unacceptable to my seven year old self). I squinted at the board through elementary school and lived in a blurry and fuzzy world until junior high.

Thankfully, the office informed me that I was just there for a brace and a boot. The day brace was annoying, but tolerable. The night boot was awful. I was supposed to wear it at night to stretch the tendons. It basically kept my foot at a 90 degree angle while I slept which was uncomfortable hell. The first night I didn’t sleep and then in the morning, I couldn’t walk without shooting pain in my foot.

Today, I woke up and while I wouldn’t say I am pain free, my foot does feel better. Like most people do, I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other. And maybe I’ll even dance a little. To The Smiths or Pixies of course.

Home

“Oh California, I'm coming home.  Oh make me feel good rock n' roll band.  California, I'm your biggest fan.  California, I'm coming home."  California by Joni Mitchell 

I am home and it feels good.

In the morning, I walked the dogs and got the mail. Eyes squinting, I marveled at the blue sky and palm trees. I watched television with my feet up (Game of Thrones) and told my mother in law about our trip. I called my best friends and sorted clothes and souvenirs. In the evening, stomach rumbling, I went to get fast food for dinner and went to bed at 8 pm with a sore throat. Snuggling into the warmth of my dogs and my (unfortunately) sick and coughing husband in our own bed, I sighed in contentment.

I awoke to my husband watching the Barcelona soccer game. “Can you make bacon and eggs?” he said in a gravely voice, eyes watery from his cold. “Of course,” I said and put bacon in the defroster and grabbed the last three eggs from the fridge. As I cooked, I made a grocery list and waved him away when he tried to watch me cook.

In short, I was home.

It felt surreal and real. The spoiled shih tzus whined. I fed them and gave them medicine and walked them. The sky was grey. It was drizzling and it reminded me of our first day in France.

Maybe, I thought, beauty is everywhere and in everything. Especially, here at home.

An IE Girl in Paris part deux

We’re here. In Paris. Adrian is sleeping while I write this. I can hear the traffic beginning outside, but because it is six am, the city is still sleeping and is quiet.

The Eiffel Tower is outside our window. Literally. We are staying at the Pullman, an English hotel. I chose it for the view.

We checked in yesterday after a whirlwind of a trip with my first cousin Pascale and her son Xavier. They treated us so well. We stayed with them in a small town called Quincampoix. They picked us up from the airport on Friday and it was a two hour drive back to their beautiful home in the countryside where we drank wine and ate cheese while getting acquainted.

On Saturday, they took us sightseeing in the stunning medieval town of Roune (where Joan of Arc burned). We saw the Notre Dame Roune (a smaller version in their city) and the gothic law court building.

The next day (Sunday), we went to the beach town of Dieppe. It was so picturesque that words won’t do it justice. That night, Pascale and I had a nice talk and connected both as family and friends. She felt less like a cousin, and more like a sister.

Yesterday, after a fond farewell, Pascale and Xavier drove us to the train station in Roune. It didn’t start out auspiciously. The tickets machines were all broken so we had to stammer through broken French to try and buy tickets from the conductor who, it turned out, spoke English. We barely made the noon train and sat on the steps of the train rather than dragging our luggage to look for a seat. About thirty minutes in, the conductor came by and directed us to leave our luggage and took us to seats. The train was more Bart like than train like, but after a little more than an hour, we were in Paris.

We found a taxi and zipped through the Parisian streets. The traffic was like New York on steroids. When I saw the Eiffel Tower, I lost it. Completely overwhelmed I looked at Adrian and with tears in my eyes said, “I can’t believe we’re here.”

What I really meant was (to quote the Talking Heads), how did I get here? As a young girl, I used to dream that one day I would travel to different countries, but I always thought it was just a dream. And to be here, in the city of love and sophistication is unbelievable. But believable too. And I know that I am privileged to be here.

Yet, I still have to be myself too, so sophistication aside, today I will be wearing my Ramones shirt and I am going to walk Paris and remember I’m still me.

JEM is in Paris!

An IE Girl in Paris

We did it. My husband and I got on a plane and flew to France. It wasn’t easy. My husband had to close his dental office. I had to take a week off and make arrangements for my mom to stay with my 85 year old mother in law Orieta that we care take for. I had to set out my dogs’ medicines and a list of numbers. I made up the guest room for my mom and our master bedroom for my nephew who might visit while we’re gone. It seemed insurmountable at first. I literally screamed while packing, frustrated that I couldn’t fit my boots in the suitcase. 

But, it finally all came together. We flew ten hours and arrived at Charles De Gaulle at 8 am. I didn’t sleep on the plane. Instead, I watched a movie with Julia Roberts about a family struggling with addiction, a BBC David Bowie documentary, and then a Joan Jett documentary called “Bad Reputation.

My first cousin Pascale, along with her son Xavier, picked us up at the airport. They live in a beautiful and quaint town called Quincampoix. It took about two hours to get there. We drove on highways, and then on small country roads, passing the lush green countrysides of France. We drove through many small towns with cute fairy like houses. It felt surreal. 

Still on fumes from no sleep, I managed to stay awake. We spent last night drinking wine and munching on bread and cheese. We talked about our fathers and families. And marveled that we’re together in France. I never knew Pascale’s father, my uncle. He died a few years before I was born. I kept thinking how happy my father would be to know I’m here.

The town is lovely. There is a wonderful Parisian bakery, a gorgeous church, a small little library and a cemetery. I know it’s a cliche to say as a goth girl, but I love cemeteries. Their headstones are different, longer, all marble and ornate. 

This morning, we got up early (it’s 9 am now) and walked to the bakery. We bought croissants. They melted in the mouth. 

I felt alive as I walked in the drizzle. The sky was grey. My mood was not. I felt alive. In love. And happy. This American girl is in France and on Monday, we are taking a train to Paris.

Life is fucking beautiful.

Why

People often ask what I want to get out of my writing. Fame? Fortune? What I want is much more abstract. It’s the knowledge that I’ve made a difference.

When I was growing up, books were my solace, my everything. I fell into them to escape. To this day,  when I read a great book, I fall into it. I disappear. All of my worries fall away.

That’s what I want my book to be for my readers. I want a young girl to see herself and know she’s not alone. That the chaos will end. That she can create the life that she wants for herself even after making a mistake.

When I dropped out of high school, I thought my life was over. When you’re seventeen, the world seems so small. I felt as if I’d never get out of Ontario and the IE. But I did. Los Angeles, Houston, San Francisco. I chose to come back.

That’s, ultimately why I love memoir. The art in showing the circular nature of life, the connections.

And in two weeks when I’m in Paris, I will remind myself.

I made it.