There’s been a good reason you have not heard from me in a while. My last post was the processing of a heartbreak. Since then, I’ve just been cleaning up the aftermath- and then some. I tend to avoid airing out my dirty laundry when I write – just not my dirty mind.
I’ve been consumed by the most massive spring cleaning of my life. During the past 12 months, I changed my career, moved to the suburbs of Seattle from Salt Lake City for an aggressive career boost.
Once I hit that breaking point, I borrowed money to end my isolated suburban lease in one of Seattle’s more affluent neighborhoods and moved to a small studio in the heart of downtown. It was my ultimate down-graded charming urban hobbit home. Able to walk anywhere, I also sold my car. For the sake of the art of downsizing, I parted ways with many of my exotic belongings and prized possessions from my world travels, sold my entire library of music and books on a slew of websites and apps, donated or tossed out my entire wardrobe aside from 2 pairs of each type of article, nearly all of my dish wear, all of my furniture, bla bla bla.
Speaking of bla, I also lost the love of my life to a multi-level-marketing scam, and nearly went bankrupt cleaning up the mysterious bills and debt that followed. My ex is a great guy, but he really hated it whenever I would use the phrase “bla bla bla” and always asked what I meant by it. Every time, I explained that it was nearly equivalent to saying, “etcetera etcetera.” After a few years of him insisting I explain what I meant by “etcetera” or “bla bla bla”, it became clear to me that it was just a deflection tactic so he wouldn’t have to hear what I had to say. You know, everything from “yes dear, you’re a thug, bla bla bla” to “no dear, I won’t drink the cool-aide, bla bla bla” … Ya’ know, the yooj.
In the midst of it all, I was completely revamping my book with my editors, now complete, and completing a big consulting project – not to forget adjusting to my new stressful day job.
Still largely unpacked, I left this weekend for a family reunion of sorts in Arkansas. It would be the first time in decades all my brothers and next of kin on my mother’s side (the closer side) would be under the same roof.
I’d always felt very disconnected from and unrelated to those I was, well, relate to- Be it republican politics, religious beliefs, or the fact that alcohol was often taboo. This time, however, was different. Even though everyone now knew I was gay, I was the only one not married, and the only one without kids. I found something new amidst the tang and twang.
During the peak of our, I’ll call it genetic, inclination to socially and stressfully chowing-down (family time is often both), I heard it. My older cousin across the room said, “bla bla bla.” And then my brother I was talking to said it, and then my 9 year old nephew, and then my mother’s sister… I sat there stunned with a funny look on my face. My cousin’s daughter gave me the biggest, “what the hell’s wrong with you” stink eye and I just roared with laughter. These ARE my people, after all. And as much as we annoy each other or don’t understand who the other has become over the years, we still get each other. They kill me but at the end of the day, I’d die for them.
I’d never lived in Arkansas before and even though that is where my kin dwell, I probably never will. Although it’s somewhere I’ve never lived, or loved, and that it is where my parents grew up before birthing me into a traveling military circus, I realized that it is and always has been, strangely, home. This strange place that brings out a strange accent I never use (unless provoked), where I learned all of my strong unfiltered facial expressions that tend to get me into trouble, the blurting out of truth to people we love, even if it hurts them, and always softening the blow with a “bla bla bla.”
Getting to and from the getaway in the heart of nowhere Arkansas is never a simple feat. After an hour-long drive through the farmlands to the only national airport in the state, my flight was cancelled due to weather in Texas (per always), and my mom’s friend picked me up in her Ford to house me for the night. Of course, she came straight from her honey farm so she couldn’t clear all the bees out of the car before rushing to take care of me. Closing my eyes meditating the panic away as a dozen bees swarmed around me as we drove down the road, her husband just laughed and said, “hope you’re not deathly allergic.” I use to pretend I was allergic to bees so that I wouldn’t be made fun of for avoiding them like a little child. Funny thing is, I did the same to Arkansas. In the end, Arkansas didn’t kill me, so neither would these bees.
I finally got back to Seattle today, beating the massive holiday travel rush, just in time for work at my new labor-intensive job. I walked into my still un-nested urban humble hobbit hole alone, like uncle Bilbo, put my finished manuscript on the shelf, and sat on my new chair. Feet up. Bottle of wine. No spouse. No kids. No bees.
It was good to be home, bla bla bla…
I Can't Take Me Anywhere 