Princess Cut

I’m not going to lie, I was snooping through Google+. It’s been two and a half years since our breakup, but a decade’s bad habit (him) is taking its sweet time to break. What I didn’t expect, though, was discovering the inevitable. Floating about in the People You May Know page was a profile picture of him and his new fiancée. As I suspected, he had quickly moved on while I remained in the same place. The image punched me in the stomach, bent me over, and drew me into the bottom right corner of the three-shot collage. It was a close-up of him slipping the rock onto her finger. Stupefied, I zoomed in, wondering, Is it  the same ring?

*         *          *      

He proposed to me under a red gazebo overlooking the Pacific in Big Sur. We were eleven years, two breakups, and seven months deep into individual and couple’s counseling when he jumped the gun. He had been adamant for a couple of weeks about moving forward with our seven-year old nuptial plan, or else, but he wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility. He hadn’t consistently exhibited the qualities I wanted in a husband-- honesty, loyalty, devotion-- despite the effort, time, and money we had spent on professional help. I shared these concerns with him up until a month before he popped the question but they did not register. He argued these idealistic spousal attributes would come naturally with the title, like a mother’s instinct developing after childbirth. That was the only justification he supplied for his actions and inactions. Hence my hesitation. He wanted me to build a house with him where the foundation hadn’t yet been laid. That was a risk I was not willing take. But he did.

I should’ve known he was up to no good when, for the first time ever, he suggested visiting my sister in NorCal during Memorial Day weekend. He rented a car and followed the scenic route up PCH, a first for us both. A few hours later, he took a detour, guided inland by his GPS through miles of deserted dry hills without informing me of his surprise destination. I was on the verge of a panic attack, convinced we were going to be murdered in the Land of the Lost, when we arrived at La Purísima Mission, the second in my quest to see all twenty-one. We strolled the historic grounds and then dined at a Mexican restaurant on State Route 1 before heading to Monterey for the night. The window behind our booth gave us a clear view of the sun beginning to set and that’s when he rushed my margarita and abruptly asked for the check. He paid, drove further up the highway, and parked at a shopping or business center that made it seem like we were fifty percent closer to the sun than we were before. We followed the crowd to a railing that deterred us from going any further and it was there I realized we were standing on a cliff. Waves rolled angrily onto the shore below and filled the beach with white spume. Icy winds lashed at my face and loosened strands from my hair buns. Miniature cars crossed a stretch of PCH on an adjacent cliff.

There were some trees along the edge but we had an unobstructed sight of the sunset-- blazing ball of fire hovering above the horizon, painting a rainbow in the clear sky in similar fading hues-- when he insisted on getting someone to capture the moment for us. I hated bothering people so I suggested, against my will, taking a selfie. But he persisted. He led me away from the ledge and quickly stopped a woman. I think she said she was from Brazil, visiting on her honeymoon, although I never caught sight of a husband nearby. He proceeded to show her how to operate his phone when the popular red gazebo located between the parking lot and the cliff cleared out. Like a mother scolding her child, he directed me to seize it. I walked over, ascended its two or three steps, and stood shakily underneath with my hands deep inside the pockets of my puffy white jacket. I watched him give her instructions for what seemed like minutes. Then he rushed to my side where we posed for a couple of pictures with the reddish sky in the background. I thanked the woman for humoring him after she took a few shots but he wasn’t done. And she appeared not to mind.

He turned around to face me and went down on one knee. The last sunrays turned his face orange. I was stunned. He had disregarded my concerns. My opinions had not mattered. He was going through with it. It was a nightmare.

You are everything I want in a woman…

I did not pay attention to the words he said. I couldn’t. I was busy conjuring responses that would respectfully decline the question that was to come. I couldn’t say yes just to save face, his ego, or please his audience. Because that would only stall the truth from being divulged in the car. He knew how I felt. He knew what our goals were. He knew the amount work that needed to be done still. Yet there he was, posed for what was supposed to be the first of a handful of magical moments to occur in my life. And I was loathing it all.

...I want to spend the rest of my life with you…

I didn’t understand why he was proposing a couple of hours after I had made a significant request. During our walk through the mission, I asked him, for the umpteenth time, to cease communication with a specific individual who was detrimental to the success of our relationship, the source of a quarter of our problems. It was the only ultimatum I had ever given him, an easy resolve for someone in love to make, yet he had not complied. I had to assume his lifestyle was more important than me. Postponing an immediate engagement was completely warranted but when he put his mind to something, there was no stopping him. Not even the constant reminder of how far we were from being rudimentary good.

...Will you marry me?

The Brazilian snapped away teary-eyed. I envied her, thinking, That should be me. I should have been the one crying with happiness, feeling giddy and thrilled for the future that awaited me. I should have been jumping up and down, my face hurting, the effect of someone unable to contain her excitement. I should have immediately wrapped my arms around him since that’s how I had long imagined this moment unfolding. But my lack of doting sentiments screamed loud and clear between my ears, This is wrong. The knee, the gazebo, Big Sur, the mission, the car, the trip, this weekend, it was all a mistake. A true and honest declaration of love should have broken down the knight armor I was wearing to deflect his lies and the pain. Instead, I stood unmoved by his words, disappointed in the trajectory of our relationship, and angry for having ridden this emotional roller coaster beyond its expiration date. Because these emotions weren’t unfamiliar. 

When we attended a friend's wedding in March, I could no longer envision myself standing next to him at the altar. It was a first in eleven years. Not even a hologram of me in a white dress materialized in my mind. I shared this somber revelation with him, hoping his reaction would change my uncertainty.

“I cannot picture us up there anymore,” I whispered to him as we faced the enviable pair before the priest.

“Why not,” he asked, a little too casually, less troubled than I desired.

Disappointed, I shrugged unresponsively to push back my tears.

He distracted the ramblings in my head by pulling out a box-- I want to say it was brown but it could have been grey-- out of his coat pocket and opened the lid. He turned the suede-covered cube around and presented the most beautiful ring I had ever laid eyes on, in either display cases or hands. It was, I knew, a one-point-five, princess cut diamond solitaire sitting atop a band of countless stones. He explained he had designed it just for me. It was exactly what I wanted and nothing I had seen before. It proved he had listened to a few things I said throughout the years.

My amazement was interrupted by the memory reel playing in my head twenty-four hours a day. It reminded me of the text messages I discovered in his phone the previous fall that referenced a “she” that was not me. And it continued with the night he lied about going to bed early. It was close to midnight when I drove and parked across the street from his house to make sure he was home. He was not. I hit the lowest point in my life that day-- psycho girlfriend status-- a behavior I am most ashamed of and never care to repeat again.

I looked at the ring and I looked at him. He waited for an answer. The Brazilian did too. The spotlight was on me. I knew I couldn’t say yes but I did not want to say no. Despite everything he had put me through-- the sleepless nights, the tears, the betrayals-- I could not do that to him. If I said no, he’d be gone forever. But there was still hope. We just had to try a little harder. He told me he had gone to confession, after all. Our counselors would help us make our dreams come true.

“You know what I want,” I said. He should have had my wish list memorized by then.

“I know,” he said, smiling hopefully, bringing the boxed ring closer to me.

“I’ll accept under those conditions,” I responded, feeling relieved that I hadn’t agreed to false presumptions.

He stood up and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit a little loose. We hugged and kissed, falling captive to the procedure standardized by romantic comedies and YouTube videos. The Brazilian wiped her tears, congratulated us, returned his phone, and walked away. I, on the other hand, felt ashamed for deceiving her. I wanted to run after her, grab her shoulder, turn her around, and apologize. Because I would have never accepted had she not been present. I was an anxious mess, dreadfully awaiting the circumstances that were to come.

My fiancé put his arm around my shoulders and walked me to the edge of the cliff. We returned to the spot we had originally staked out to finish watching the sunset. I was looking in the direction of the sun but was consumed with too many thoughts and fears to relish in the last sunrays of the day. But then, for a second, maybe two, I was overcome with foreign emotions. I felt relief, safe, trust, comfort, calmness, joy, and peace. I also felt light. It was like an invisible crane had come and lifted a worrisome anvil off my shoulders. And for that moment, he was mine, my fiancé was all mine. I wasn’t worried about sharing or doubting him because he was going to love me and only me. I could envision us travelling the world again and living happily ever after. I felt such an immense love for him that I unconsciously wrapped my arms tightly around his brown bear body, something that did not come easily to me, and rested my head on his chest in the most vulnerable way. My fighting days were over.

As soon as the sun disappeared behind the extremity of the ocean line, so did my tranquility. The waves crashed noisily beneath but not loud enough to muffle the dread of my workplace. I panicked thinking about Tuesday. If I decided to wear the ring, I’d have to lie to my coworkers. I would be obligated to share my supposed good news as soon as one of them noticed. But I was not in the business of feigning happiness, not for a future with a dim probability of ending in success, especially when those ladies had been waiting for this day to happen to me as long as I had. It would be more embarrassing to report a broken engagement later than a phony fairytale engagement now. I didn’t need their pity.

On Monday night, when I got home, I took the ring off, put it back in its little box, and hid it in my closet. I did not know how long I was going to conceal it or have it in my possession. Only time would tell.

*         *          *

I tried zooming into the picture but my laptop didn’t cooperate. So I drew my face close to the screen instead and squinted at the image, trying to make out the shape of the rock and band design. Even though he told me he had returned it and received partial credit for it months after our breakup-- news that filled me with malicious glee-- I imagined it was the same one so I could say, She is wearing a recycled ring specifically made for me.

I hope he has found in her what I was never able to fulfill for him. Like being able to praise him on the daily for the most mundane things, like taking out the trash. Perhaps she’s the touchy-feely type he always craved. Maybe she has a pet name for him she’s not embarrassed to call out in public. She probably also cooks with love, an ingredient I always forgot to add to my dishes, according to him. I bet she’s also spontaneous and the go-with-the-flow kind he needed to execute his spur-of-the-moment tendencies. And hopefully she laughs at his jokes because God knows I never did.

Whoever she is, whatever her personality, I have but one wish: that he love her the way he was never able to love me. I hope she is his true love, the one woman he craves and wants to come home to until the end of time. I hope she captured his heart and knows how to keep it satisfied. And finally, I hope she only ever knows the honest, loyal, and devoted side of him. That person exists. I know, I witnessed traces of him here and there. That’s why I held on for so long.

“You’ll never find another woman who’ll make you laugh the way I do,” I threatened over and over during our demise.

But I hope he has. I honestly hope he has.

Ode to my Ford Focus

It's time.

My 2001 Ford Focus proved that its life is coming to an end tonight.
It overheated as we crawled through the overpass.
It didn't wait until we reached the red light like it did last week.
The temperature gauge needle didn't stop past the halfway point.
It went three quarters of the way today.

It's time.

I've known for a while this time has been approaching.
I hoped it would come after the holidays.
After I found a new home.
A place with a garage to house my new transportation.
But that would've been too easy.

It's time.

I adopted her in 2004.
With thirty-five thousand miles.
And shiny blue paint with specks of glitter.
She sported a tattoo in the read window that read, Saved.
Because she was salvaged from a horrendous accident.

It's time.

She wasn't a world traveler.
But dared to explore the streets of Hollywood and Downtown L.A.
She drove my friend Darcie to her wedding ceremony.
And found her way to the Riviera in Palm Springs after Susanna and I got lost.
She also offered my parents their first taste of French cuisine in Laguna Hills.

It's time.

She always cared about her looks and well being.
She had cosmetic surgery done to replace her peeling paint.
Her fan was replaced after being stranded at Target.
All but one window has been fixed.
And she got her oil changed religiously.

It's time.

At 109,000 miles, it's no surprise her health is failing.
Her used-to-be tremors have graduated to full-on shaking.
The lights are flickering and the radio shuts off randomly.
Her heating just went out.
And now she's overheating.

It's time.

My mother asked me, Don't you feel bad putting her down? She's been so faithful.
I thought, Of course, she's my first car. She taught me how to drive.
And I buried my feelings instead.
I said, She's a machine and she's done what she was meant to do.
But I didn't mean it at all.

It's time.

She's been reliable.
She's compact and good on gas.
She fits my family perfectly and comfortably.
She's always had my back.
She's my first car.

It's time.

My first baby in the Fall of 2004, when she was clean and shiny. 

Home

A cell phone is ringing in another room-- once, twice, three times-- the alerting chimes a nuisance to my ears, like a mother shaking her school-aged child on a weekday morning, but I don't have anywhere to go, or anything to do, it's my Thanksgiving break and I refuse to open my eyes, so I try to shut out the bustle of the city, East Los Angeles, the town I was born and raised in, my home again for a week, where caged birds sing at sunup, and neighborhood dogs bark in chorus, where music in English and Spanish blasts from residences and cars alike, and the youth rev their engines without consideration-- they mute television programming and interrupt a good night's sleep-- this is the norm around here, a norm I am no longer accustomed to, my senses spoiled by a quieter environment, the place I've called home for ten years now, my apartment, fifty miles away, tucked in the middle of a large apartment complex near a university, where pets are not allowed and the street hubbub is a short block away, at least that's my estimation if I have to put the distance from my door to the main gate in layman's terms, but I'm not in Kansas anymore, despite my efforts to ignore the commotion, I hear my mother outside, muffled through the walls, which explains why the phone keeps ringing--four, five times-- she's talking to a man, and I want to know who he is; I can't blame someone for keeping me up if I can't put a face to them, he can be anyone, the possibilities are endless, ranging from neighbors to those strolling up and down the street, because my parents talk to everyone, and everyone stops to talk to them, usually to compliment their garden or ask for a bundle of medicinal herbs they've spotted on the other side of the white picket fence, this is a friendly community, and their friendliness is contagious; I greet more people while washing my car in the driveway than I do all month at my complex, but right now I'm being nosy, an inherited characteristic I keep subdued but can activate quickly under any circumstances, which is what I wish I could do with the blankets, command them to extend over my head, because I want to be sleeping, this is my ultimate goal, which I'm losing hope on, especially since rattling pipes have taken center stage in my conscious, making me wonder, Is someone watering the lawn, but it rained last night, I know it isn't my mother just rinsing a pet's dish, either, because the buzzing in the pipelines is continuous, like gallons of water falling from the highest slide in a water park, and I have the urge to check up on this matter, but I crush it by initiating mindfulness, Ignore it, I say, taking a deep breath and focusing on the darkness that is my eyelids, but laughter steals my attention, Who is she talking to, I demand to know again, and a woman with a high pitched voice joins the mix--they're trying to kill me-- she's my parent's tenant, I positively identify, who lives with her family in the one-bedroom rental behind our house, and the exchange proceeds with my mother greeting her son, Hi, Andrew, while the phone continues incessantly--six, seven times-- beautifully muted like stars scattered in a black sky behind a full moon, the morning isn't letting up, this town is running on Energizer batteries, coffee, or, more likely, super-powered DNA, after all, it is composed of immigrants, some who ran across the border like my father, others who hid in trunks of cars like my mother, which means there's courage, dedication, strong will, and work ethic deeply rooted underneath the fruit trees and nopales throughout the yards, and it renews itself and emanates daily in the air we breath, it's the air I'm breathing, calling my name, begging me to rise like the birds, the dogs, the workers, the water from the ground, and I cave, peeling the covers off me, but I halt in the hallway because the sounds I've been receptive to are swooshing in my head, I'm unsteady, it takes a minute for them to settle into a puzzle composed of over-sized pieces, that's when I'm able to pinpoint her location--my mother is behind the house-- I trail her through the back entryway, pushing the door she left ajar, where I catch Andrew standing on his porch, staring back at me, and I worry my bedhead is frightening him so I wave calling truce, then proceed into the crisp autumn day that envelops me in goosebumps, causing the hairs on my body to stand, my warmth piercing the air like rocks shattering glass, and it's surprising to see my mother enduring the chilly temperature, but not startling to see her bent over a patch of spewed soil, Look what the cat did, she says upon seeing me, and by cat, she means a stray, I though I'd hidden Tuxy's catnip, she explains, picking up a flower pot on its side, but he managed to knock it down, and I acknowledge her by responding, Your phone is ringing.

Why I HATE the Cold

1. Shorter days.
2. The toilet seat is freezing.
3. Water takes forever to warm up.
4. I wanna die when I get out of the shower.
5. Applying lotion with my bare hands is self torture.
6. My clean hair doesn't air dry and leaves a wet stain on my shirt instead.
7. I itch and scratch until I see blood.
8. The floor feels like an igloo even if I just tap it with my toes.
9. I wanna scream every time a metal zipper or button touches my skin.
10. I have to wear leggings under my jeans.
11. Jewelry feels likes an ice cube upon initial contact.
12. I have to layer up before I go outside.
13. Headaches from the bitter air kissing my head.
14. My car windows and mirrors have dew or, even worse, frost, that I have to wipe or scrape off when I'm already rushing to work.
15. The car heater always blows cold air in my face before it kicks in.
16. I have to peel off the layers I throw on after I arrive anywhere.
17. Extra layers mean double the laundry accumulated twice as fast.
18. Instead of making me happy, ice cream makes me cold, which makes me grumpy.
19. My feet cramp up at night thus forcing me to wear cozy socks to sleep.
20. Even though I have flannel sheets, I still take minutes to warm up.
21. Changing positions at night causes head-to-toe chills as my body adjusts to new grounds.
22. The dreaded icy trip to the bathroom in the middle of my sleep.
23. I have a permanent runny nose.
24. The wind makes my eyes watery.
25. My nose is always red and cold.
26. My ears are chilly.
27. Raindrops on my windshield at night are tricky to decipher: are they reflecting lights or real headlights?
28. I can't just sit comfortably on the couch in a tee shirt without a blankie or sweater.

Full Moon Hike

I saw an invitation to a full moon hike in Joshua Tree about a month ago on Facebook. It was scheduled to begin at 9pm and last about an hour and a half. I got so excited that I quickly conjured up the crazies that would humor me on this adventure: Jackie and Michael, of course. Without asking them, I called the number on the post and made reservations for three.

A couple of weeks later, I started considering camping the night of the hike. I knew it was hot as hell in the desert but we would survive one sleepover in the wilderness. When I assured myself that it was more sensible to stay at the park overnight than make the 1.5 drive home at 10:30pm, I suggested it to the crazies who ate it all up.

I hadn't camped since I was a kid. My family and I spent many summer weekends in Lake Perris with aunts, uncles, and cousins and the essentials were still sitting in my parent's garage. All we really needed was an overnight pack anyway: chips, beer, a light sweater, and a change of clothes. I wasn't the least bit concerned about the trip until I came across an instant tent being sold at a swap meet. I didn't even know there was such a thing-- preattached legs that you unfolded and extended-- but I wanted it, needed it. It was the only thing that made sense, a tent that practically set itself up in five minutes. It was essential for our late and dark encampment. But I couldn't buy it without researching it first, reading reviews, and watching videos to see if it was worth the excitement. After I was convinced that this tent was exactly what we needed, my mom and I spent two hours looking for my sleeping bag before my dad drove me to Wal-Mart. I paid $80 more for the camping gear there than I would have at the swap meet but at least I knew I could return it if need be.

Beautiful view on our way to Joshua Tree. 

Upon our arrival at Boy Scout Trail, we were invited to take a peek of Saturn through their fancy telescope. Jackie thought they had stuck a sticker on the lens because the image was so clear and perfect, rings and all. I wanted to ask if I could take a picture with my camera but since I wasn't sure it would work (would my lens actually capture a photo through their viewfinder?), I kept quiet. The park rangers then explained the rules for our hike which included no flashlights or flash photography during the one mile trek. The only luminescence available to us that night would be the moon. I accidentally left my camera on the Aperture Priority function as I rotated through them trying to find the best one for the occasion and surprisingly, I captured some awesome shots that would have otherwise been black images. 

Adventurers. 

Joshua Trees.

The moon, not the sun, I swear.

One of my favorite shots that night.

The trail.

Group gazing at the moon.

Paparazzi.

The park ranger opened up with this poem: Robert Frost

No flash, all moonlight.

No long-horned sheep here. 

Ant mound, about a foot in diameter. 

Friends warned us about spiders and rattle snakes on the trail before heading to Joshua Tree. But I knew what to expect. That's why I wore yoga pants, so they could serve as an extra (thin) layer of protection in case they attacked me. But we encountered the real danger on our way to the campsite. 

We saw our share of jack rabbits and kangaroo rats on the road. The bunnies didn't appear the least bit fazed by my headlights or enormity of my vehicle (in comparison to their size) coming towards them. Since they blended with the sand on the edge of the path, they probably thought they were safely camouflaged and continued about standing on their hind legs with their long ears shot straight up. The tiny rats, on the other hand, crossed the lanes as if being chased by cats. 

I think it was Michael who read that bees were attracted to air conditioners so we drove with the windows down. The cooling weather invited my arm to play outside where the breeze helped keep my body temperature down. That was until one of those bugs constantly splattering onto my windshield landed on my hand. So I recruited my limb back inside after giving my arm a good shake. It was a fine thing too because a few moments later, a flying object hit my mirror. The thud was loud and hard. Michael immediately confirmed it had been a bat. Jackie and I only accepted his theory after we caught a handful of animals flapping drunkenly in the beam of my headlights. We had just identified that stretch of land as Bat Country when we heard another thump on the frame of my Jeep by my windshield. 

"Roll up the windows," Michael cried. And without hesitation, I followed through, not wanting a fourth companion on our way to camp. I turned on the AC and said, "I hope you guys like bees."

It happened to be the appropriate moment to compare our experience with that of Rory's from Gilmore Girls. There's an episode in season one when she's driving in a rush to her new prep school, cutting through a forest or whatever lies near New Haven, Connecticut, and a deer hits her car and imprints his antlers on the side of her Jeep. The difference was that we had Michael warning us against touching my vehicle's body for fear of contracting rabies instead of searching for the injured critter like Rory and her mother eventually did.

The conversation carried on when we spotted something on the road up ahead. I thought it was going to be another dead rabbit but Jackie and Michael thought it was some kind of bird. How they came to that conclusion I don't know because it looked like a white piece of paper in the shape of a triangle to me. It wasn't flinching so I didn't slow down. But right before I went over it, the thing rose and spread its wings, wide gray ones with white stripes or edges, right in front of my headlights. We screamed in unison and I ducked my head between my arms holding on to the wheel at 10 and 2. On the verge of hyperventilating, I opened my eyes after I was sure I hadn't struck anything else. We couldn't believe why this thing on the ground, an owl, according to Jackie and Michael, had come alive before us instead of flying away sooner. My poor little heart couldn't take it. I was giving myself a panic attack thinking about how I had taken my eyes off the road. I was lucky to have been driving through a deserted popular desert due to the 100 degree weather. I hadn't expected much of a thrill on this trip but I guess I should have. Nature has no plans but I sure did. I needed a drink!

At last, we settled down at the site of our choice being that we had the entire park to ourselves. We set up camp in five minutes, thanks to my handy instant tent, and quickly took in the serenity that was Joshua Tree at midnight. Coyotes howled at the moon and we sat quietly with bottles of Orange Wheat and a bag of chips under the starry sky. 

Instant tent: unfold legs, extend legs, done.

Camping promotional model.

Caught in the moonlight. 

Michael's camera captured the sky beautifully.

Sunrise.

Roughing it.

Can you spot him? 

It seemed wrong to pack up and leave the park by 9:30am the next day so we attempted a hike. We walked for an hour before we made the sound decision to turn back since the temperature had already risen to the three digit mark. We saw some pretty neat creatures on the way, though.

We fell in love with this little guy soaking up the sun. Jackie loved his human pose.

We thought he was albino but Michael noticed the neon colors on his sides.

Jackie and I were in awe of his froggy legs. 

Stairs + 100 degrees = sweat.

Surviving.

Pretending it's cute hiking in the desert in August. :p

Nest.

Another little guy. I absolutely adored the bright colors on his side.

Until next time, Joshua Tree. We'll be back soon.

What a Wonderful World This Would Be

Because my sister accepted her first official position as an Associate Clinical Social Worker since finishing grad school in May, celebrating this next accomplishment was a must. While I was thinking inside the box, BJ's and spinach dip, Jackie was dreaming big. She found a bar online in downtown L.A. that specialized in rum, upbeat music, and a twenty dollar membership fee. My natural response to that, of course, was, "What?! I have to pay to get into a place so I can buy a drink?" 

But my sister wasn't relying on my company to commence this new stage of her life. Aware of my home-body tendencies, she and her best friend since middle school started primping with an ETA of 45 minutes. So I contemplated the day's menu: Friday night out or Friday night mani/pedi. I reminded myself that I'd towed my Steve Madden pointy black heels for a reason. I wanted this, especially after returning to work following a two month hiatus and dubbing the past five days The Longest Week ever. I was in desperate need of recharging my batteries and a savory cocktail and music to feed the soul sounded like the perfect remedy I had envisioned. Leaving the killjoy behind, I went to my room to prep my face for the night time look. 

After picking Brenda up, we headed downtown with dread for obvious reasons: traffic and parking. Traffic I could tolerate but it's the parking situation I cannot stand from an ethical standpoint. It's ridiculous that every trip to the hub of L.A. requires what should be called an entrance fee, anywhere between four to twenty-five dollars, just to leave your vehicle in a lot to go spend more money on dinner, drinks, or dancing. Luckily, though, said club was a block east from L.A. Live, far enough from the pedestrian congestion, with a parking establishment directly across for the bargain price of ten dollars. Unbeknownst to me, Jackie had already paid for her membership from home, which allowed up to seven friends to tag along, and we were in quickly without a hassle. $30 spent and the fun hadn't even begun. 

Cool painting outside the club.

The club seemed to be the ideal place for an introvert like me right from the get-go. It was pretty dead, perfect for my claustrophobia, but I guess it was still early when we arrived. The DJ's welcomed us to an island we'd never been, with Caribbean tunes, tropical printed shirts, and straw fedora hats worn by the bartenders. We had been transported to Havana, Cuba in less than five miles and were loving it. We studied the drink menu where all the choices were the right answers. I was deciding between a Mai Tai, Pina Colada, and Rum and Coke. But in the end, I chose a Pina Colada with its promise of pineapple juice and coconut flavors that made my mouth water. And it did not disappoint. My first sip took me directly home where the flavors of a vanilla raspado I had often purchased from the men selling shaved ice in my parent's neighborhood resembled the sweetness of my drink. I was definitely in my happy place, possibly even my new favorite place, but it was too early to tell.  

Brenda and I followed Jackie outside to the patio with our drinks in tow. Two walls were covered in mirrors to make the quaint area look bigger than what it was. There were some shingles on the roof but it was mostly uncovered. Cliques filled every space. Some smoked cigars but most drank from straws inserted in coconut shells, talked, laughed, and danced. Everyone minded their own business, whether they were with their significant other, on a date, with friends, or coworkers. Brenda noticed quickly that most males wore coats which we deemed weird because guys didn't tend to dress up that much to a club. But I concluded that they had enough money for the membership so they could afford to dress to impress. By no means were we complaining, simply admiring. And not only did the opposite sex look attractive, they also turned out to be polite, like the one with three drinks who excused himself when he cut through us to get to his posse. It appeared we had stepped into a perfect world, where people honestly respected one another while having clean fun. That's when I started to believe in the perks of a members-only club.

View from the patio, looking up.

After killing our first round, Brenda put the pressure on Jackie by stating that we were going to burn the cocktail calories by hitting the dance floor. I didn't care, I loved dancing, but Jackie panicked, especially when we were the only ones grooving.

Besties since 1995.

Slowly, more dancers cramped our style. An older couple showed off their advanced salsa moves, a tall white couple with two left feet didn't let that stop them from shaking what their mommas gave them, white girls in tight black dresses with enviable physiques moved side to side, and a Hispanic couple made me wish I had a partner to dance with again. 

Selfie attempt #1: too dark.

Selfie attempt #2: too bright.

Selfie attempt #3: problem solving.

Selfie attempt #4: problem solved. 

During the second round of drinks (water for Jackie, she had the passenger-friendly vehicle), a couple of guys asked us to dance. They were younger than us but supposedly possessed degrees from various UC campuses as well as private universities. They claimed to be lawyers/entrepreneurs, web designers, and film makers. We learned even more about each other by switching partners and talking about work and familial backgrounds. At one point, the youngin with the green eyes I was conversing with excused himself to get a drink of water. He apologized for the interruption but I laughed it off, thinking it was funny how thirsty he must've been, never considering the possibility he'd been desperate to get away from me; I admired his honesty and dedication to hydration. I took the moment to rest my feet and reapply my lipstick when a tall and slender African American male offered his hand and swept me to the dance floor as soon as the DJ switched to reggae. He bent a foot down to talk to me, which made his long braids fall over his shoulder where I caught a whiff of the pomade he used to keep his tresses impeccable. Even he claimed, too, to have studied at USC and was a self proclaimed movie producer (Oh God. It just hit me: he might have been famous and I forever lost my opportunity at having a lot of money.)

I was completely aware that the men, young and old, could have been bullshitting us about their education and careers. But it just didn't seem likely because they weren't selling themselves. We were simply using our jobs to fuel conversations and establish commonalities like every human being seeks when meeting new people. They shared their dreams and accomplishments and so did we. Our exchanges about politics, music, and Mexican roots created an easy dialogue. The creepy, just-got-out-of-jail feeling that usually came along with guys at bars was absent that night and that realization was great. It was evident that the people who joined this club did so for their love of meeting other professionals and networking within a setting where they could practice what they learned at their last salsa lesson.

The lights came on in the middle of a song and we were all surprised at how quickly the time had passed. I had been sleepier when I first hit the floor than at 2am. The African American man seized the opportunity to ask for my number but I gently declined by expressing my gratitude for him dancing with me which he respectfully accepted without a fight. His reaction took me by surprise since I'm used to some guys begging and pleading for contact information. But Mr. Black Man was a gentleman. We said our goodbyes with a hug that culminated our brief encounter. He took a seat by his friend and I rejoined Jackie, Brenda, and our new friends shortly before the bartender officially kicked us out. We walked out together and chatted a little more outside until their Uber picked them up by the side of the curb.

Once in our car, Jackie, Brenda, and I agreed that the celebration had been a success. Jackie claimed to have been stimulated by the fact the all of the dudes we spoke to were (supposedly) educated and seemed to be following their career goals at their tender ages of 26 and 28. Meeting them had been stress-free because they never made a move or asked us for our numbers, although that might have been due to the number of times Jackie and I stressed how much older we were than them that probably turned them off. Maybe not. Maybe they were really focused on their goals and simply wanted an enjoyable night to recharge for the hustle the next morning. Who knows. But we were glad we were able to drive home without breaking hearts or broken hearts ourselves.

This club definitely had a unique vibe, different than anything I'd ever experienced. Jackie said it reminded her of a happy hour place she frequented in Oakland where status didn't depend on the car you drove but what you had between your temples. One of the guys gave Jackie his business card before heading home and that's how I would describe this members-only club: a networking bar that allowed you to destress after a long work week with a dose of rum, tropical beats, and intellectual conversations. I think I have discovered the answer for peace on Earth.

"Oh, what a wonderful world this would be..."

Incredible Sinking Me

Gilmore Girls

Season 4, Episode 14- "The Incredible Sinking Lorelais"

foreveryoungadult.com

Lorelai: You know, there are very few times in my life when I find myself sitting around thinking, I wish I was married. But today, I, I'm happy, you know? I like my life, I like my friends, I like my...stuff, my time, my space, my TV...

Luke: Yeah, sure.

Lorelai: But, every now and then, just for a moment, I wish I had a partner, someone to pick up the slack, someone to, uh, wait for the cable guy, make me coffee [breakfast] in the morning...

sporcle.com