What Can Wait

About a year ago, in Indonesia

A little over a year ago, I took two weeks out of my life to fly to Indonesia with my dad. The trip was logistically near-impossible to manage, and financially unconscionable for the both of us, but once we'd conceived of the plan actually executing the thing didn't even really feel like an option. For two weeks, Dad and I fell completely off the grid, and did nothing but play with manta rays and read books and talk and talk and talk.

My parents and I have always traveled together, once a year at least. I was an only child, so they had a habit of throwing me into the proverbial (or literal) backpack and slinging me along with them wherever they went - riding motorcycles up to Canada, hang gliding on the sand dunes in North Carolina, diving wrecks in the islands. Sometimes when we travel it's just me and my dad - as in Indonesia - and sometimes it's just me and my mom, but more often than not it's the three of us.


Ramshackle Glam’s 6 Most-Read Posts Of 2019

The family ornament we chose to sum up 2019

Well. THAT was a year.

I'm ready to be boring for awhile, please and thanks. Because 2019 was a lot of things - oh god, so many things; all the things - but a snoozefest it was not. I published a book that resulted in the most emotionally intimate and exhausting book tour of my life. I wrote two more that'll be out next year (you can preorder one of them now), and put my seventh (!!!) into contract. I started a new marketing side-hustle, and actually work out of an office (IMAGINE) a couple of days a week now. I moved. Again.


#Micdrop (a.k.a. My Move To Malibu)

You and me both, dude.

I think that what happened over the weekend was that I fell into a fugue state, or perhaps a wormhole wherein the space/time continuum as we know it ceased to exist, thereby allowing the hours in each day to expand in infinite directions. Because that is the only reasonable explanation I have for what just transpired over the course of my move from the Valley to Malibu, which was that I DESTROYED IT.

And by "it" I mean "life."


In Which I Am A Character In An Actual, For-Real Horror Movie

Last night was not the first night that I have appeared in my own personal horror movie. No no - that night happened several months back, on one of my very first nights alone in this house without the kids.

I had installed a very fancy security system that had alerts on virtually every door and window and crack in the wall, and so when I awoke in the middle of the night to what sounded like a moan in my backyard, screamed at the top of my lungs, and then heard my very fancy security system announce "GLASS SHATTER...MASTER BEDROOM WINDOW" you better believe I was up and out and hiding behind the china cabinet in my dining room in .02 seconds. Did I grab a butcher knife on my streak through the kitchen? Yes, yes I did.

The next thing that happened was that a very nice lady's voice came over the very fancy alarm system's very fancy control panel, and told me that she'd alerted the police. She asked me how I was; whether I had a weapon; whether I still heard any noises. Half an hour later, police still decidedly MIA, she and I had become old friends. I knew where she'd grown up, and how many kids she had. I was by then sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the china cabinet with the knife in my lap, explaining to her that I was a newly single mother and that I was alone in my house, not to mention the fact that I was blonde and wearing nothing but underwear, which means that if this had been a horror movie and someone had actually broken into my house, I would be oh my god, so extremely dead. Like, many times over.


My Sweet Girl, Goodbye.

This is the first picture of Lucy I ever posted here.

Lucy’s first name was Rosie; I don’t know if I ever told you that. She came to me as a surprise: A girl who my back-then boyfriend and I were friends with had bought a teacup shih tzu with one blue eye and one brown eye for some unconscionable amount of money at a Malibu pet shop. And then that girl decided to go to London and maybe not ever come back, and so she gave the dog - Rosie - to us. I didn’t know this; what happened was that my boyfriend decided to surprise me, so one day in the fall of 2005 I was sitting at my kitchen table doing whatever, and the door opened, and I saw my boyfriend's nine-year-old daughter standing there. She kneeled down on the floor and parted her curled hands, and this fist-sized ball of white fluff came speeding towards me. And that was it, I was in love. I liked the name Rosie but I wanted her to be my own, and so I named her Lucy. I don't remember why I picked that name, but from then on that's who she was.

My dad happened to be staying at my house that day, and when I ran to tell him about Lucy he'd barely even look at her, so annoyed was he that I’d gotten a dog (too much responsibility, why would you do that, et cetera). But later that afternoon I had to go out for some appointment or another, and so against his protests I left her with him - literally just dumped her on his lap, said “I’ll be back in a bit,” and left. When I returned a few hours later, I walked in to find my father and my new puppy snuggled up on the couch, gazing into each others' eyes.

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