Layla's Dark and Foreboding Weblog

It's certain things in life, a smell, a picture, hearing someone’s voice, that bring up memories, whether welcomed or not. Yesterday, I bought a flip photo frame and spent the evening picking out photos for it. I used to love going through pictures. I'm not one to throw any away, though I may not be in touch with the people in the picture for whatever reason. There are shots of ex-boyfriends, ex-friends, family members who I never see. But, they're there to remind you of moments, good or bad.

Of course, the majority of photos I have are of P. We were together from 1993 through 2001, so that's really a lot of memories, and a lot of pictures. Sometimes I cry when I look at these, sometimes I laugh. There is one set in particular that I took when P was still living at home with his mom, and he was always so uncomfortable in front of the camera, so I forced him to let me take a whole roll of him, just him. When I look at those pictures, and the innocence and hope and beauty caught in each one, that makes me sad. Sad for what could have been for him, sad for what we've lost.

Being the compulsive one that I am, thinking about that always gets me going to the next level. I think about the downright shitty things that have happened in my life, to me, to my family. No, I don't mean it in a "woe is me" sort of way, more like, "wow, what next". I think about my aunt and uncle killed in a car accident in '98. I think about P. I think about my brother T, who in my heart, is lost to us. I think about my new baby nephew L, who will never know the heritage that supported his father, merely because of the bigotry of his mother. I think about how I f'd up my high school and college career to party and drink and fuck and fight. I think about how sad I feel when people tell me how much potential I have. I look at my pooch, and think about how I'll feel when he dies. I obsess about losing my own mother. I think about my niece and nephew and how pure and perfect they are, so completely trusting and loving, and how soon that's going to change growing up in a society like ours.

But then, I think that there just may be hope. My SO, M, has an attitude rarely seen in another human. He is completely and totally in touch with all of his feelings, and completely aware of how they affect each person he's with. He can meet a complete and total jackass, and find something admirable. He can walk into a room of strangers and walk out with a group of friends. He can argue a point that he is passionate about, listen to another opinion, and turn around enlightened. Granted, he's not perfect, but if anyone can put up with my shit, the drama I create in my own mind, he's close. He went into this relationship with me knowing full well the shit that I had going on in my life. I told him I had baggage, more than most. He said it's not baggage: it's life. Baggage is what drags you down. If you learn from what life has dealt you, then they're merely experiences.

I know that I'm at a point in my life that I really have the opportunity to fuck up royally, or grab hold of this chance and grow the fuck up. I'll be 29 in 13 days. It's time. And for once in my life, I have someone who doesn't question my motives, who will support my wackiness, who will listen to my impassioned speeches and rants about something he already agrees with, and tells me I'm brilliant. My mother told me, when M and I started dating, just let him love you. Stop pushing away, stop thinking that everyone is out to get you, and just let it happen. I did. Don't you fucking hate it when mothers are right?

Posted by layla at 10:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Funny how things change from one locale to the next. While I ate Chicken Parm Hero’s in New York, I ate Chicken Parm Subs on Cape Cod. I now eat Po’ Boys.

There are some things, though, that are universal. Like driving. It seems that everywhere I’ve lived, except for New York, bad drivers are like a plague. You see, there is this adorable little stick that comes out of the side of your steering column, and you may be shocked to find out that it’s not called “pretty arrow shaped light on dashboard maker”. It’s called a “turn signal”, or if you’re hip with the auto jargon, a “blinker”. Odd as it may be, these nifty devices help when you want to maneuver in traffic. Say you want to change lanes. Instead of stopping and sitting there in a lane, looking like the idiot you are, simply click that “blinker” in the direction you wish to go, and voila! Other drivers are now aware of your intentions, and may, in fact, let you go. Crazy, huh? Other times you may want to use this device: making a turn. No, really! Ever notice that people may sometimes beep at you for sitting in the road? Bastards, right? Well, it seems that mind reading, while very common, is not universal. A lot of times those people may not realize you want to make a turn, and may try to either (a) pass you on the left, a bummer when making left turns with the crunching metal and all; (b) get out and punch you through your window; (c) drive over your car with their big, big SUV.

It’s every day since moving to the sweltering city of Dallas that I’ve had a near-death experience on the freeway. At least once per day I come close to peeing my pants in my car. I mean semi’s cutting off semi’s. Big, gas guzzling Hummer’s weaving through traffic at 75MPH in the rain (oh, have I mentioned the Biblical Flooding here?).

Ok, so back to the regional differences. In San Francisco, where I lived and worked for the better part of seven years, we had things that would irk us. People calling the cable cars “trolleys”, or tourists calling the city “Frisco”. No biggie. In Dallas, as is true in most of Texas, people are proud. Proud to the point of psychotic. You got a flag? I got one bigger, redder, whiter and bluer. You got a truck? I got one louder, higher and with a big-ass fuck off “Proud to be Native Texan” sticker. You got a barbeque? Mine can cook up some of the best gosh darn bbq this side of a mules ass. Proud to be Texan. Proud to be an American. Proud to Vote Republican. Proud to Have Hemorrhoids. There’s more pride here than a bear in chaps strutting down Market Street in late June.

At my old SF job, we had two conference rooms: The Big Conference Room and The Small Conference Room. At my current temp assignment: The Long Horn Conference Room (read: Big. Big like steer.) and the Star Conference Room (read: Not as big, but nothing is “small” in Texas).

All that said, Texas is good. Dallas is a fine city, if you know where to go. My friend Z visited me last week, and said the same thing I did when I first came here last year. “It’s not what I expected at all.” She said she liked it. She was waiting to see cowboys and gun racks, and we got ‘em, but we hide ‘em well. In Arlington. And, sad for me, the town on “King of the Hill”, Arlen, is fictitious. Bummer. And we got some great BBQ here. And damn fine Cajun food. It’s different for sure, but if everything was always the same, wouldn’t it get boring?

Posted by layla at 09:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)