The Great Gastby, Brah

There’s a Guy’s Guy in South Florida. You know the one: rocking (ironic) 80’s sunglasses while posting selfies from the gym. Checking in at the GNC and touting the virtues of the latest keg of Protein Powder. He works at my restaurant and I named him Man Bun.

This isn’t him but it’s shockingly close.

Man Bun and I work different jobs so we never really interact. I’m the one hiding behind the hostess stand, reading Nabokov, and he’s the one pretending to wipe the bar and yelling at the sports people who aren’t sporting as well as he’d sport. At some point during our traditionally slow spring season, Man Bun suddenly turns off the TV with the remote, and when I look over at the sudden silence, out of nowhere he asks me what I thought about Pool Parties. It wasn’t a random question since it was balls hot outside. Never shy about voicing my opinion, I told him I am vehemently pro-pool party. This was the first actual conversation we ever had.
Man Bun begins posting restaurant-wide invitations for a summer-long series of parties thrown at a different pool each week. The servers, cooks, bussers and hostesses dutifully stock up on inflatable toys and beer in preparation, and, sure enough, the Hit Parade begins:

A rooftop haven in Hialeah.
A patio in Punta Gorda.
A kegger in the Keys.
An oasis in Ormond.

As the days roll by, sluggishly, insufferably hot and balmy, each Friday an invitation appears on our kitchen cork board. It pops up out of nowhere, with an alluring photo of the pool awaiting us on the weekend, just around the corner. The photos grew more and more seductive as the temperatures outside skyrocketed, and when my schedule finally allowed a Saturday off, I jumped at the chance to attend the Miami Rooftop event, complete with Miami scene kids and Miami parking hell and all.

barf

I arrived early, because I was distracted and forgot that arriving early is stupid.
Man Bun, who HAD to arrive early because he was the host, showed up shortly after me, toting a cooler full of beer. He pounded a few back, quickly, nervously. When I asked him why he seemed anxious, he told me that he felt a sense of responsibility towards these parties. He wanted just the right atmosphere, just the right mix of people, just the right mix of margarita. It was endearing watching him worry about whether or not his friends were having a good time. On a rooftop. In a pool. In, essentially, fucking paradise.

I was slightly bummed that my boyfriend couldn’t join me — he’d been working odd hours and unable to indulge in pool time. After asking about him, ever polite, Man Bun remarked how lucky I was to be in a happy relationship and that he hoped for a relationship like that one day. When he was done banging bar bitches, of course. He tapped his 3rd Coors to my 1st Tecate and fluttered off to Social Butterfly.

The sun began to set beyond our spectacular view of the neon jungle below. I floated, cloud 9-ing it lazily and gazing up at clouds 10 and 11, which floated lazily in the sky and gazed back at me on my inflatable donut. Just as the dreamy surrealism of swimming in a mirrored liquid sunset soaked in, Man Bun drifted by on a large swan, and we exchanged hellos. I asked him how he was feeling about his turn-out, and he said he was happy, but a little bummed because the one girl he was hoping for hadn’t shown up. I sloppily gestured my beer at the bevy of Miami hotness dangling gym-perfected electrolysis model legs in the pool. Pedicured toes sparkled just inches underwater, like coins in a wishing well. But Man Bun just shrugs.

“They’re hot, yeah, but that’s it. I get bored fast. And I’m bored with being bored.”

He taps his 7th Coors to my 3rd Tecate and Swans off toward the Deep End.
I’m more than a little surprised — I had him pegged as a Shallow kind of guy.

Hmm.

Later, he’s leaning over the railing, staring off into the twinkling lights of the city as they shimmer in the pre-dusk sepia sky. There’s a green light off in the distance. Maybe a house, maybe a helipad. Who knows. But he’s staring at it.
“See that,” he asks, gesturing with his ??th Coors.
I nod, taking a swig of that same 3rd Tecate. (I’m driving home soon.)
“That’s me,” he says. “I’m that green light. I just keep throwing these parties, hoping she’ll show up, and she never does.”
I fail to follow, and he sighs.
“Ah, c’mon,” he baritones, disapprovingly. “I thought you were the reader here.”
“…What book are we talking about?” I ask.
“Great Gatsby, duh.”

Ohhhhh! Now I get it.

The (green) lightbulb pops on. The girl across the water with the green light on her dock, the unattainable symbol of
perfection, and the subject of obsessive desire for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s love story. Man Bun has been throwing these parties not to get girls, but to get a specific girl. He has a Daisy Buchanan!

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m totes Great Gatsby. Whatever.”

He belches and crushes the empty can against his forehead, chucking the aluminum shell towards the trash. Somehow, in the waning light, he still makes the shot, but he’s not paying attention. He’s already mid-canonball once more into the water.
I can’t make next week’s party but send an apology via text, which Man Bun replies to, demanding I bring extra beers next week as penance. Twist my arm. I ask him if Daisy made it to this one, and get a sad emoji in response.
Next Saturday rolls around, hot and sticky, and I had a shit day so I decided to track down the weekly pool party’s address in a suburban neighborhood. Man Bun’s eyes light up when I round the corner. “YOU CAAAAAAAME!” he bellows in his signature Viking yawp, and for a moment I forget how bummed out I am. I hold up two bottles of wine as a salute. It’s a two-bottle kind of night.

“I need a corkscrew, and hug, in that order,” I announce. Done and done. One bottle was for the party, and one was for me. I swirl around in a turquoise inner tube and my own head, both spinning circles. I stare languidly at the dimming sky above, as bats explode from their secret hiding spots and start their morning commute. I’m wrapping my head around some bad news — I didn’t get the Agent I wanted. I’m in a full inner tube with a burst bubble. Writer Problems. I float and grieve and after way too little time I’m out of wine. MORE Writer Problems, and I’m a little drunk and I hate everything.

Man Bun is playing ping-pong with what has to be three Victoria’s Secret swimsuit models, but his eyes are on me. He hands his paddle off to a friend in (ironic) lobster-print board shorts and dangles some legs near where I’m sulking in suspended animation. I look at his calves and drunkenly wonder how much of his life he has spent in a gym.

“You cool?”
“Yeah.”

But he sits in silence until I open up. I tell him what’s wrong, and he listens and we joke around. He asks me how things are with the BF, and I perk up as I describe the plans we just made for our next road trip. Seeing his guest more cheerful, Man Bun, ever polite, tosses me a Tecate and a thumbs up and goes to mingle around. Feeling better, I spin and spin until dusk becomes stars and my problems feel smaller and further away, like the little bats as they vanished into black night. Man Bun is back at the ping pong tables.

Later, those tables are turned: I’m sober and he’s not, but he walks me to my car anyway, ever the perfect host. “I’m really glad you came,” he says, opening the door for me. “And I’m glad you and your guy have such a good thing going — he’s a lucky dude.”

I close the door and strap my seatbelt on. He tells me through the glass to get home safe, and through my rearview mirror I see that he stays out on the sidewalk under the singular green streetlight to watch as I drive home to the man I love, and I’m wondering why he doesn’t just go back to his party when I realize…

…I’m Daisy.

The Mexico Plan

In 2011, I was in a terrible, dark place.
Hollywood, to be specific.
I was on the raw end of a break up I didn’t even know was happening, and I was hurting.

Alone again for the holidays, I did what any sensible gal does when she’s bored on Christmas Eve, and called a Suicide Hotline. Not because I needed it. I just… needed to talk. To someone. Over the last few years, I’d developed a nasty habit of hurting myself and I had a sneaky feeling I might take it a step too far if left to my own devices. I just wanted to know someone out there cared.

The dumb thing is, I KNOW someone out there cared. Lots of someones, in fact. I’m lucky like that - I’ve never been at a loss for friends, and my family is incredibly supportive and kind. I knew I could easily get the love and assurance I needed from anyone I reached out to… But here’s the thing:
These supportive, kind, amazing friends and family who love me fiercely?
I love them fiercely, too. They’re the last people I wanted to burden with my problems. And not on Christmas Eve for God's sake. I needed an impartial stranger, who could hear me out, say what I needed to hear and tell me goodnight so I could continue making whimsical holiday magic for the masses at work the next morning.

I live in mortal terror of the Giving Tree Factor. You know the story about the tree who gives literally everything it can to make this kid happy, and the child just takes and takes and then one day *poof* the tree is used up. I’m always keenly aware of these invisible social bank accounts and scared shitless that one day I’ll need someone/something and it won’t be there.

"What's that? Another ride to the airport? Suuuuuure, no problem!"

There are people who have been Giving Trees to me. My brother. My mother. Tiff. Erika. Rissie. Greenwald. My boyfriend. Time and time again they’ve rushed to my rescue and I still feel the deep pang of a debt I owe and can never repay. It’s a unique kind of weighted shame, like a breezy-looking shawl that’s somehow heavier than it should be. Time and distance makes quid-pro-quo impossible, so all I can do is try to be the best friend I can be to whomever I can.

I could’ve called these people. But instead I dialed a stranger.
And that fucking stranger never picked up.

I called some easily-googleable Suicide Prevention Hotline and sat while it rang a few times. I felt those hot stinging embarrassed tears rim my eyes, and I was glad no one could see how weak I was. I look at the tiny tree in the corner of our apartment, and my tears obscure the lights, kaleidescoping them into a small rainbow. I think about how pretty it looks.

Then I realize no one’s picked up. I’m on the floor next to the couch (we still had furniture at this point) and listen to the Holding Pattern loop for a while. It’s not even Christmas music, just some crappy classical piece that’s been played to the point where it’s more static than Schubert.

I listen to the loop. I listen as drunken neighbors argue out in the courtyard, on a loop of their own. My tears dry and the tree looks boring again, and I remember that I hate that tree because Jenn gave it to us and I’m fairly certain Jenn is sleeping with my husband.

The loop continues and my phone beeps. I think someone might be about to pick up, but it’s just my battery letting me know it’s dying.

I think about how odd it is that my battery can reach out to someone and let them know it’s possibly about to die, but I’ve been on hold for 27 minutes.

I unplug the tree, cursing Jenn under my breath, and head to the bedroom to plug my phone into its charger near my nightstand. Then I lay down and just listen. I just listen to the sounds of Christmas Eve happening to everyone in the world except for me. It’s happening to my husband, wherever he is. It’s happening to Jenn. It’s happening to my shitty neighbors. It’s happening to whoever is supposed to be on fucking PHONE DUTY at the hotline.

I picture them having a big office party. Mistletoe, tinsel, eggnog. Whatever the hell figgy pudding is. They’re all there, stuffing their faces with figgy fucking pudding while the phone lines light up - well, like a Christmas tree.

"Keeping the Ho in Ho Ho Ho."

I’m unaware of how much time passes when I get into these states. This is usually the time I’d use to cut tiny chunks out of my skin with razors or scissors. It’s the time I’d use to destroy my finger nails so I’d be hesitant to write on bloody stumps, or cut into my toenails so walking the next day hurts. It’s a Lost Time, when I am lost. And when I felt lost, I’d hurt myself until enough blood was spilled that I felt I deserved to stop. It’s a loop of my own, just a massive negative spiral.

Some clatter outside (read: NOT Santa) jars me from my melancholia and I look at my phone. I’ve been on hold for 3 hours and 37 minutes. I hang up. I go to bed.
And I get up and go to work the next day. The toes of my socks are sticky from blood.

Over the next few months, I start to decide that I’m done hurting myself, and I’m done hurting period. There is no break from the sensation of pain. My entire body aches and I’m tired, and I can’t really let on to how bad I’m feeling. I don’t even want to tell my Therapist, because I don’t want to make him feel bad, like he failed to fix me or something. I sure as shit don’t tell my dad, or especially my brother or my mom. They can’t ever know - I am ashamed and it’s my responsibility to abate my hurting. No one else’s.

I tried to tell my husband. I desperately wanted him to fix me, and in some small way I am certain I allowed myself to get worse so he’d feel like he had to save me. Ha, turns out he had no such sense of obligation.* And so I came up with The Mexico Plan.

(You can’t steal this, by the way. It’s patented so don’t even try it.)

I wanted a fool-proof way to kill myself that wouldn’t burden anyone or make them feel sad.
I’d googled overdose recipes, and it turns out that it’s super easy to screw up and take too much or too little and wind up in a coma. Also, even if you do it “right,” you leave a nasty-looking corpse for someone to find. And that’s not nice. That’s not my style.

So I had to find a way to disappear without leaving a body, and I had to make sure people thought that I was happy and fine. I also knew unless I created a window of time, my family would come looking for me, so I figured out how to throw everyone off my trail.

I composed an introspective yet upbeat email to my mom, telling her that I was doing OK but needed to take some time for myself. I told her that I wanted to go camping up in Canada and do an off-the-grid thing I’d been reading about, and reconnect with nature for a while. She knows I’m a nature girl, and I think as worried as she’d be about me being out of reach, she would at least know how happy and excited I’d be about this upcoming adventure. I told her I just needed to recharge my batteries (see what I did there) and then return to Hollywood and work on my career and my marriage. I saved a draft to my desktop with only the dates left blank.

Then I started researching towns in Mexico. My plan was to tell EVERYONE about my Canada trip, then point my car South and cross the border. Once I was a significant distance South, I intended to file or use acid to obscure the VIN number on my car, and leave it in a bad part of town with the keys in it. I’d toss my ID and any passports in the trash.

I’d take a cab to the bus station, then take a bus South down the coast to this adorable seaside mesa overlooking the Pacific. I’d spend the rest of the afternoon loading my pockets with rocks, then leap from a cliff into the ocean and, with any luck, drown quickly.


"Like Casa Bonita, but Deathier!"

By the time my body washed ashore, it would be so messed up by the tides and the rocks that only DNA testing or dental records would identify me. Mexico is not known to be a paragon of Criminal Investigation Integrity, and a dead white girl is the last thing any town needs if they rely at all on tourism fallout.

Plus, remember: no one is looking for me dead. They think I’m alive. In Canada.

"Looks like this case...*removes sunglasses* is a real... CLIFF hanger. YEAOOWWWWWWW."

After I don’t come back when I’m supposed to, my family would start a search, but they’d be looking in the wrong spot and the only logical conclusion would be that something bad had happened to me, or maybe I was fine and just decided to stay lost. I knew they’d hold on hope for the latter, and any pain from my vanishing would slowly, over time, be forgotten.

See? No cleanup! No funeral! How considerate am I?

I sat on this plan for a couple of months, and when I was alone I’d work out the details. Which town? Which bus route? How much gas would I need?

At one point, my husband used my laptop for something and for whatever reason needed to delete his search history. Deleting his search history pulled up my search history, and even though he isn’t the most observant of people, “how many ambien to die no coma” was enough to rattle him. He and I had a long chat with our marriage counselor / my Therapist, and I told them it was just ideation, that I wasn’t actually going to to it.

‘Cause I wasn’t, right? I like to think so.

I took a trip home to visit my family shortly after that, and during that visit, my husband and I agreed to separate so I could “work on myself.” It was my idea, but he all too quickly agreed and immediately moved in with his girlfriend that I didn’t know about.
(Ready for a shock? It wasn’t Jenn! Merry Christmas to all!)
Later that week, on Valentine’s Day, he’d file for divorce.
3 weeks later, he’d tell me he’d been thinking and had decided to file for divorce.
I’d beg him not to change his mind. When he refused, I’d reach for a bottle of pills and try to lock myself in a bathroom. He’d jam the door open and wrench the pills out of my hand.

And in these two ways, I guess he saved my life. One in stopping me short of the cheap way out that night, and two, ripping open a wound that would’ve never healed if I kept counting on him for bandages. I bled and bled (metaphorically and not-so-metaphorically) and cried and crashed and burned for a thousand days. Then, by my own choice, I got better.

I’d like to say my recovery was an entirely healthy process, but there were tons of terrible, delectable mistakes that I needed to make. I had a lot to learn, and as my thoughts unhazed, I began to think about The Mexico Plan. I thought about how within 2 weeks of him discovering my dirty little secret, he was all too willing to let me go.

Maybe he thought I’d go through with it and it wouldn’t have happened on his watch.

*I should take a moment here and clarify that I'm not mad at my ex anymore. I was pretty pissed off for a long time, sure, but there are other blogs you can read for those stories. This isn't a story about what he did or didn't do, but he was part of this story and so he bears mentioning. Don't worry about him. He and I are square.

I don’t blame him for bailing. Having a suicidal wife is scary shit and he is a coward. I should’ve known, but at the time I couldn’t have. It was fine for a stranger to leave me hanging on Christmas Eve. But my husband leaving me (maybe to actually hang) gave me the rage. This rage provided the gasoline for the fire from which my Phoenix emerged.

In the time of my healing, my wonderful, kind, amazing friends and family showered me with love, and food, and safety. My body healed, my mind healed, and it took quite a while, but eventually my spirit came back swinging. So now when you see me smile, it’s the real deal.

When I’m grumpy, or butt-hurt over something, sure I’ll be grumpy and butt-hurt. I’m not ecstatic 100% of the time, and I have my off-days. But it’s been over 3 years since I’ve needed (or taken) antidepressants, and my feels, good or bad, are genuine and manageable. I haven't harmed myself (or wanted to) for 4 years.

"You wouldn't BELIEVE the money I'm saving on razors!"

It took a LOT of effort. It took a LOT of help. It took 10 days at a Buddhism Retreat, 2 days of a Landmark Seminar, and a night in a tree house. It took pasta, and motorcycles and ups and downs, but the point is, IT HAPPENED. AND I AM HERE. And I am happier than I ever dreamed possible. Bad things still happen, sure, but everything from here on out is baby town frolics compared to what I’ve been through.

I’ll leave you with this:
One day, about 6 months after I returned to Los Angeles, my friend Todd and I decided to have a picnic on a Malibu beach. We packed a healthy lunch, and laid the blanket down on the sugar sand. Eventually my eyes adjusted to the dazzling brightness of the sun dancing across the water, and I stared into the cerulean blue and felt the most intense gratitude that I was alive to enjoy it. That I hadn’t poisoned the pacific with my problems.
As we snacked on avocado and strawberries, I realized how immaculate everything is and I exclaimed “it’s the best day ever!” And I meant it.
Then, for the first time in my life, I’d see wild dolphins playing in the waves.
“It’s the best day EVER!” I’d shout, clapping my hands excitedly like a child.
A V-formation of pelicans swooped right above us overhead.
“It’s the BEST! DAY! EVERRRR!” I’d squeal as the rush of wings ruffled the beach breeze.
Later, shaking the sand out of the picnic blanket, my bikini top popped open, exposing my breasts to my roommate, who, without skipping a beat, shouted:
“IT JUST GOT BETTER!!!”
And that’s kind of how life has been since I decided to stick around.

"Like this, but more birds and dolphins and boobs."

Later, that very same evening, I’d go on my very first date with the love of my life.
(BETTERRRRRR!!!)

Boom. Easy, right?
OK, not really, but you have to stick around long enough to see.

I know for the rest of my life, whenever something really awesome happens, (like pelicans or busted bikinis) I will be doubly grateful because I’m aware of how I almost missed it.
So maybe you don’t want to call your friends when you’re going through shit. I get it.
And maybe you don’t want to sit on hold waiting for a stranger who may or may not pick up.
I get that, too.
But don’t you dare give up.

Besides, have you been on a bus in Mexico? They totally suck.

Writer For Hire: At Your Cervix

Ladies, ladies, ladies!
If you are the proud owner/operator of a vagina, I highly recommend you read this. It can save your life.
If you're simply a vagina aficionado, or have friends with vaginas, I ALSO recommend you read this. Because, vaginas, guys.
...Vaginas.

*************

I spent 16 years with the same guy, and when it started to fall apart, I spent a lot of time alone in bed, depressed.
When it finally did fall apart, I spent a lot of time also in bed, cheering myself up. But this time I wasn't alone.
(Shameless Winky Emoticon.)
My "number" is still in the single digits, but clearly I had some lost time I needed to make up for.
I got laid, got some great stories, and unfortunately, got something else:
...HPV.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I don't have HPV anymore. I am healthy, clear of the disease, and Planned Parenthood has stated that my vagina is "so clean you could eat off it." So, hooray for me! I was lucky, but not everyone is - and HPV can be pretty dangerous. I was shocked at how little I knew about it, so here's what I didn't know and what you should be aware of, you hornball sexkittens...

"Page-ing the owner operator of the pink vagina parked illegally in the chair..."

HPV is something people don't talk about. It's not a glamorous or humorous STI, so it doesn't get much limelight, but it really should and here's why: IT CAN KILL YOU DEAD, LADIES.
-80% of sexually active adults in major cities have some version of it.
-Most of us don't know we even have it.
-There is no test to determine whether or not a guy has it - they can be carriers and never know. Totes unfair, right?
-There is, however, a test to determine whether or not girls have it - but it's not fun.
-Guys can carry it with no symptoms.
-Girls can carry it with no symptoms. I had it and didn't even know I had it - everything looked and felt perfectly normal.
-You can get it even if you and your partner are using condoms. (Suuuuper unfair!)
-HPV stands for Human Papilloma Virus. The booksmart part of me who aced all her sex-ed classes knew that it meant genital warts. But that's totally not it. There are dozens of different strains of HPV, all with different calling cards. Most of them have zero physical symptoms except for one, and it's a kicker: HPV can give you cervical cancer.
If you have a cervix, cervical cancer can kill you.

There is one silver lining - if you stay healthy, your body can "clear" the disease. It takes, on average, 2 years but it is very possible.
However, if you have an aggressive type of HPV, or you let it go unchecked because you didn't know to go get an annual pap test, you can die. Dead. And then you can't have sex anymore.

I'm a catastrophizer, so naturally, I was at defcon 1 upon hearing that I had HPV.
Everything I'd learned in school (condoms, condoms, condoms) about protecting myself had let me down, and here I was, newly divorced and scared shitless that I was going to die from snatch cancer.
I was terrified, because I didn't know the facts.

Guess who else didn't know the facts: the guy I was seeing at the time. Whom I foolishly called for comfort.

Let's call this gentleman "A."
Could stand for "A-hole," could stand for "Andrew." But to keep his identity (and callousness) a secret, we'll stick with "A."
I didn't have insurance, and this was before ObamaCare, so I went though a Christian Clinic to get an annual woman's health exam.
I had no reason to assume anything was wrong.
As soon as the clinic called me with abnormal pap results from what I assumed would be a perfectly routine pap smear, I thunderstruck to find out I had a stealth STI I didn't even know I had. I was extremely upset and the clinic did little to assuage my fears, telling me that I should come in for further testing but that if they determined that I had an STI they had to "report it."
WAT.
TO WHOM DOES MY VAGINA REPORT TO EXACTLY?
"Bullshit," I say.
Then they told me about the additional cancer risk. Ughhh. Gutpunch.
I felt like I'd been poisoned.

I called "A." for support and to tell him I probably had HPV, which most likely meant he had it too and would be a symptom-less carrier.
At which point he promptly freaked out and asked me where I got it. Because there's, like, no way it could've been him.
He's CATHOLIC, for fuck's sake. They don't get diseases!

Now, there were really only two sources it could've been: either my ex-husband had tracked it in off the streets, or it was "A."

"A." insisted it wasn't him. Since I couldn't exactly vent my frustration on my ex, and most guys never even know they're carriers, I told "A" to check his facts and get back with me. "A." is convinced Planned Parenthood is the devil, and gets all of his sciencey information from trusted Catholic sources.
"A." then has his roommate call me to be the voice of reason. "A's" roomie is a smooth-talking Englishman with a penchant for one night stands. As a self-diagnosed sex addict, the roomie is well-versed in matters of the genitalia, and called me back to console me with his adorable accent and inconceivable misogyny...

"You probably picked it up from a public toilet seat, love," he croons.
"THAT'S NOT EVEN POSSIBLE ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS" I screeched back.

If only...

Yes, he was serious. He swore I couldn't possibly have picked up an STI from "A.," his Catholic condom-hatin' roomie, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had a girlfriend back home when he and I first started dating. Clearly he could do no wrong. Clearly I picked it up from a toilet seat. Because, science and stuff.
(This man is also an actual part-time Life Coach. Ladies beware.)

Eventually "A." got checked, and proudly told me it came back negative.
Of COURSE it came back negative. It never shows up in tests for guys, so unless he had visible symptoms, he'd never know if he was a carrier (or Patient 0.) At my urging, he told his (now) ex-girlfriend, who may have wound up sharing this with both of us at some point. I'm sure that was an awkward conversation.
She was tested and it came back negative. I told "A." that it can take several months to show up in tests, that it wasn't an instant-results kind of thing.
"A." grew really cold at that point, and although we'd ended our romantic relationship months before, this was the spectacular end to our friendship.

I felt violated. I felt maligned. I felt misunderstood. I felt tainted. I felt dirty and I felt stupid. Like I didn't deserve to enjoy my body anymore. I felt a deep sense of shame and worst of all, a pervasive sense of dread and fear haunted my love life.
I'm pretty sure that film "It Follows" is about HPV.
Never a single symptom. Never any warts, bumps, never any pain.
Just an all-consuming terror that my vagina would grow cancer cells and kill me. Probably overnight, in my sleep.

I told another boyfriend about it. I'm convinced this man could not have been a "donor" because of the nigh-virginal state he'd been in when he met me. He hadn't been sexually active for years, so even if he'd been a carrier it would've passed long before he had a chance to pass it on to me.
However, since there was a chance I passed it on to him, I had to call him up.
At which point HE freaks out and calls every girl he's ever hugged or cuddled. He looks up HPV, but he looks it up on WebMD and chooses to focus on the worst case scenario.
Sure enough, one of his ex-girlfriends (with whom he'd had a walk down memory lane after he and I parted ways) has cancer. But it's THROAT CANCER. And she's been a heavy smoker for years.
Tragic? Yes.
My fault? Fuck no.
But naturally, he blames me. Awkwardness ensues and I feel like a monster.

Cut to a year later and it's time to call upon the good people of Planned Parenthood Los Angeles to test me and see what stage I'm at...

They tell me this...
There are three kinds of "danger levels" from HPV:
1) slow-growing, non-agressive HPV THAT COULD CHANGE AT ANY TIME AND KILL YOU AT ANY TIME YOU WHORE
2) Medium-speed, Holy Shit Keep An Eye On This It Could Turn Into Cancer Any Minute YOU WHORE, and
3) Cancer, you're dead. Or if you're not, they have to cut out pieces of your cervix with a small chain-saw so you'll WISH you were dead.
Guac is extra.

Fortunately, there are ways to test what kind you have.
First, you get a pap smear (a simple swab-rubbed-against-your-cervix-test) to determine whether or not you have cancery cells.
It's not fun, but it's not too painful. You'll just feel crampy the rest of the day, no big.
Then you wait 2 weeks, and if they call and tell you that you have cancery pre-cancerous cells, they'll need to perform a culposcopy.

A culposcopy is when they take what feels like a serrated jack-o-lantern scooping tool and rake-scrape it along your cervix while peering up your cooch with a microscope. It's grand.

So grand, the first time I had one, I got up from the table, threw up on the clinic floor and passed out from pain.
I woke up in the chair I'm pretty sure they place girls in after they have abortions. A heated massage chair, pulsing with soothing electric waves. I struggled to keep my eyes from tunnel-visioning out again as I heard my roommate's name being called in the waiting room.
My roommate, an officer and a gentleman, came to the back of the clinic and scooped me out of the chair and carried me Whitney-Houston-Kevin-Costner-style to his car and drove me home.
(Fun fact: my roommate is not tall in stature, but incredibly strong. When he carried me, I had a bizarre vision of those mighty leafcutter ants or whatever hoisting dead bird carcasses home for food.)
My insides hurt like hell and I cursed "A." with every pothole we hit on the way home.
In keeping with the theme of unspeakable pain, I laid in a fetal position on the couch and stared at "Birdemic" on Netflix. I'm loaded up on Ibuprofen while my other roomie fed me coconut soup from my favorite Thai place.
My roomies were pretty freakin' awesome.
I felt better in a few days, but had serious cramps and spotty bleeding. Plus the blood and other goodies that came out were stained with iodine dye, so it looked like a load of coffee grounds were seeping from my vagina directly into my panties.
So not sexy. But better than not knowing if I was precancerous, cancerous, or just plain fucked.

Planned Parenthood called me in a week with the results, and I guess I won the HPV lottery: I had the slow, only marginally scary kind of precancerous cells. Unlike the Christian Clinic, Planned Parenthood took the time to actually talk with me about HPV, and assured me that lots of women have it. I was pretty emotional still and told the nurse that I didn't know anyone else who had it. There was a long pause, and then she said "I had it. And I cleared it, and I'm healthy. So don't worry."
She told me tons of people have it and just never know, but I still felt awful. Like I was being punished for something.

So, cut to another year later. Things are great and I'm totally in love. I met an amazing guy who I can see a future with, and oh crap we're having The Sex Talk. And here's the part where I have to tell him I have This Thing, and he'll think I'm a whore and leave.
He'll tell me to avoid toilet seats.
...But he doesn't. Instead, he does his research and finds out that oh hey, a LOT of this is going around. And he understands that even if we use condoms, he may become a carrier and never have any way of being tested for it.
He responds by immediately making a visit to Planned Parenthood himself, and getting tested for everything.
(Just ask for "The Works." It's on the Secret Menu.)
He's clean as a whistle. And I'm about to ruin that, because he really wants to put it in me.

Cut to ANOTHER FREAKIN' YEAR LATER...
I'm still in love! Same Guy! We're still doin' it!
I go to my annual Planned Parenthood appointment and get my pap. It's abnormal and I have to come in for another culposcopy.
Fuuuuuck.
I cry a little. I'm so tired and over it - I just want to feel clean again.
Boo. But I'm a big girl now, and this is the price I pay for having The Sex. I have to be responsible, it's just... why is no one else talking about this? Why am I the only person I know getting tested for this stuff? I know I'm not the only one who has The Sex, so why do I feel so alone in this? My boyfriend is amazing and supportive, but then, it's not his cervix about to face the melon-baller.

I suck it up and borrow some xanax from a friend and endure my second culposcopy with significantly less pain.
No vomiting or fainting. (I'm a pro by now.)
I'm making jokes about how if I get 10 culposcopies, my 11th should be free. That they should punch my culposcopy card with the same punch they just used to take a nip out of my cervix. I am loopy and delightful.
Then the receptionist who checks me out tells me not to worry, that she had HPV too and recovered 100% from it.
I am relieved to know that I am among at least 3 sexually active adults in Los Angeles.
Later, they call with the news. I still have it. I still have slow, slightly-less-terrifying HPV. They tell me I probably won't die from cancer in the next 12 months, and to come back in a year. I feel dirty and ashamed. God dammit.

Over the next calendar year, I open up to 3 girls about my HPV. One has it, one HAD had it. But we all shared this amazing AHA! moment where there's this wave of relief that someone else is going though a hell we thought we faced alone.
The third gal is kind of a slut and should probably go get tested, bless her heart.
I feel better. I feel... better.

And better, and better, and better.
I take care of my immune system, get rest, and load up on healthy foods and exercise, per the instructions from my doctor.

CUT TO PRESENT DAY:
I have my annual pap, courtesy of Planned Parenthood.
I bite my nails for a week, and then, they call with the results:
(dramatic drumroll, please)
I am 100% healthy and fine. My body has cleared it, I no longer have HPV. Clean, pure, healthy happy vagina. So clean you can eat off it!
And I am elated. I feel exonerated in some way. Like I completed some sort of punishment.
The last vestigial souvenir of my single days is gone and finally, it's just me and my guy.
The one who trusted me and never made me feel dirty. The one who stood by my side and loves me unconditionally.
The one who can put it in me.

Ladies, (and dudes who read this,) I can't even begin to tell you how amazing it feels to have this hanging axe over my head removed. This dark Spectre is vanished, gone for good. I feel foolish that I didn't know about it, and I feel lucky I had the "good" kind. I feel even luckier that it cleared my system and, if I stay healthy and monogamous, I'll never have to deal with it again.

But if I'd let shame or "A." or guilt stop me from being diligent about my own health, it could've gotten ugly fast. It terrifies me how little I knew about HPV - and I consider myself pretty educated. Walp, now I'm even MORE educated, and if this inspires even one of my readers to go get checked, I'm happy to share.
Yeah, it's kinda embarrassing. But so are half my blogs, so, whatevs. It's never been about maintaining some perfect appearance. Sometimes it's about sharing what we know for the greater good. I waited to share this story, not because I was ashamed, but because I really wanted to have a happy ending to it.
And I finally do.
And you will too, if you take care of your health and GO. GET. CHECKED. (you whores.)

Ahh I'm just kidding. You know I love you.

********************************

I got this amazing, exonerating, Governor's-reprieve phone call from Planned Parenthood the same day Will (my boyfriend) and I'd decided to go for a hike, letting me know I was healthy and fine. We'd chosen a hike with a specific purpose - I had a book to drop off. I'd long since burned the wedding promises my ex had vowed, then broke. I'd burned mine too. There were no words left to keep once my ex left. But we'd written them in this beautiful red journal, a leather-bound book our Officiant would hold and read from at our wedding.
I'd exorcised the offending pages from the book years ago, but still couldn't bring myself to destroy such a beautiful blank journal with so many clean, empty pages left to offer. I also didn't want to ever use it again.

Here I was, stuck with this gorgeous journal that I could neither keep nor destroy.
I lamented the situation to my boyfriend, and he suggested we leave it up on the top of a mountain overlooking Burbank - the home of the Magic Tree, which has become a popular spot for meditation and reflection for those able to make the strenuous hike, and the journals left and donated up there would become communal records of joy, life-lessons, heartbreak, triumph, despair and ultimately, love.
I was absolutely all for this idea. I loved the chance to turn a loss into a gift.
The call came as we were in the car on the way to the hike, so we stopped at a coffee shop and the very first entry in the journal is now my own story of triumph and recovery.
In 100-degree heat on one of the hottest days of the year, we climbed together.
The air was hot and the book kept slipping in my sweaty hands but we climbed on, sometimes only a few feet at a time.

Eventually, (one legitimately strenuous mile later) we get to the top and I add the book to the box of journals at the summit, at the base of a tree which serves as a living symbol of love and dedication.
I left the book there. I let it go.
When we arrived home, I hopped in our pool.
I was still in my hiking clothes and as the grit and grime from the heat left my body, dissolving invisibly within the crisp cool water, I felt clean for the first time in a very long time.

Laundro-Matt

My boyfriend's name is William. Matthew is his middle name, but since he is a "the third," he's chosen to go by Matt for most of his life.
I already had 14 Matts in my phone when I met him, so when he suggested I enter his number, I asked him if he'd rather be the 15th Matt or the first Will. I reminded him I'd already dated two Matts to disastrous results.

He asked me, "on a scale of one to Ryan Gosling, how sexy do you find the name 'Will?'"
"Baby Gooses!" was my earnest and eager reply.
He chose WISELY, and has been my Will ever since.
But I'm not one to let a name stand in the way of a Titular Pun, so here it is:

The Laundro-Matt blog...

When I first got married to my ex, way back in 2004, I'd moved straight from my very sheltered life at Mom and Dad's to living with my (at the time) husband. I was super new at adulting, and in one of my many, many classic newlywed mistakes, managed to dye most of my husband's underwear and socks a delightfully cheery shade of pink when I washed them with a rogue red sock.

My ex took it in stride, but he was quick to suggest that we separate our laundry from that point on. He took care of his stuff, I took care of my stuff. And I profoundly regret agreeing to that, because it set a precedent for Not Figuring Shit Out Together.

Six years later when he suggested we separate our marriage, so he could take care of his stuff and I could take care of my stuff, I took the bait. And that was the beginning of the end of things.

A year later, when my whirlwind disaster-journey landed me safely living with my then-boyfriend Paul, I wanted to do everything I could to express my gratitude for the multitude of kindnesses Paul had shown me. And so I very bravely did a load of his laundry.
*author's note: Laundry = Love. Kudos to any man who does his ladies' laundry. And ladies, if you're doing laundry for a man you're not living with, you are a chump.

For those of you following this blog, you may recall how profoundly struck I was while feeling the heft and weight of his jeans as I'd folded them. These were his working pants, in which he installed theatrical lighting. They were rugged and coarse and very different from my "girl jeans." The density of these pants caught me off guard, and I realized: I'd never folded "guy clothes" before. I instantly felt a bittersweetness strike my heart. I wish I'd folded my ex's jeans for him. I wish we'd tried to try. I wish he hadn't given up so easily.
But it was just easier to separate.

Cut to 4 years later. Present day. 2015.
I wind up working away from home more frequently than my boyfriend, and often I'll come home to find he's done our laundry. This is miraculous in and of itself, but my favorite part is the elaborate thong-chandeliers he makes while drying my delicates from our ceiling fixtures.

This, but like, hanging artistically from our kitchen light. It's good stuff.

Keenly aware that I was slacking on my end, I insisted on helping with the next load.

Our heaving hamper finally let us know that today was the day. My boyfriend loaded the first load of our clothes in the washing machine and dryer downstairs in our building's tiny laundry room. I took over after that, and throughout the day, I made trips up and down the stairs, to the clothesline and back, and performing the sheet-folding dance in our tiny living room.
Later, true to form, I overloaded the washing machine and caused it to break.

This much, times, like, five. Oops. I always assume if the lid closes, it's good to go.

In sheer denial and ignorance, I loaded our sopping wet clothes into the dryer and broke that too.
I made a guilty run to the LaundroMat down the street with the last of the whites as my boyfriend attempted to repair the machines I'd murdered.

Finally, with a view of a California sunset kissing the drought-yellowed hills, I'm folding our clothes.
His clothes. My clothes. Our clothes. There's the batman shirt that he always wears. There's the grey H&M shirt he wore out to our friend's birthday party. A replay of the days we've lived the past month flashes as I fold. We've had a lot of fun in these clothes. And also out of them. My mind wanders...

And then I get to his pants.

Shorts, actually. Cargo shorts because he knows how much I love their pockets. He purchased them in duplicate so he'd have a place for my phone when we walk. A special pocket for chapstick because he always has chapstick and I fucking love that about him.
I feel the weight and the heft of this fabric, feel their rugged velcro and zippers in my fingers as I flip them neatly in half, then half again.
I remember my guilty confession to him about how I ruined the laundry, how I was sorry, how I'd fix it.
And I remember him telling me not to worry, smirking and saying that he'd give me plenty of opportunity to perfect my technique over time. Lots and lots of practice, he says. And I am grateful, because his first instinct wasn't to bail.

2004 Me is punching the lavender-scented laundromat air.

It's OK that I made a mistake. It's OK to keep trying.
Clothes are going to keep getting dirty and machines are going to break. Laundry gets ruined occasionally.
(In my case, twice every 10 years.)
But he doesn't mind.

I finish my folding and place the stacks of fresh clothes in my bag, ready to come home to someone who makes me feel shiny and clean.

LA Stories: Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines (in pieces)

When I was 8, and living in Omaha, I saw the friendly neighborhood tom cat attack a baby rabbit from the nearby woods. I loved this cat- hell, I love just about all animals- but he was killing this ball of bunny fluff. I don't know if rabbits can scream, but in my memory it's screaming, terrified. I scared the cat away, wrapped the bunny in my sweater and rushed to a neighbor's house. The lady who lived there was a vet, and as she took the blood-soaked bundle from me, she promised to do everything she could to save the bunny.

Yeah, he totally looked like that guy.

I came back a few hours later to check on it, and found the tiny animal backed up, nose quivering, into a corner of an empty aquarium. The vet had told me it didn't look good, but I could hold it if I wanted. I scooped the trembling, warm body out of the tank and cradled it against my body. I held it for a moment when I sensed it going limp in my arms. I looked down into its glassy little eyes, and, just for an instant, looked back at me before they glazed over and dulled.

I watched as the little flickering spark behind the eyes faded into nothing, and the rabbit died in my arms.

I cried for hours. My mom held me, her own baby bunny, in her arms and told me all the soothing comforting things moms say when their child witnesses Death for the first time. It was the worst, saddest thing I'd ever seen in my young life.

In my ongoing effort to Never Date Actors, Ever, I continued "online shopping" and came across The Pilot.
The Pilot is 6'1'', slender, with a wicked sense of humor and a vague resemblance to Daniel Tosh. SOLD. He texted me constantly- he was a master of sarcasm and very attentive. He made a massive effort to get my attention, and he got it.
We set up a date, met officially, and hit it off. He's funny, smart, successful, and a competitive triathlon enthusiast. So far so good.

But the best part about The Pilot was how he looked at me. Whenever I'd meet up with him, his eyes would light up and sparkle like two greedy diamonds. He knows he's funny, but he thinks I'M hilarious. He told me he'd never met a woman who could keep up with him, with his sense of humor, get and appreciate his jokes. Sure, whatever- I was just thrilled to be LOOKED AT like that. I wanted to be coveted. That light in his eyes made me feel like some precious object.

That's right babe. SPECIAL.

Over 4 or 5 dates, I grew to like him. I liked all the benefits that came with dating a person with a "real job," and I loved his razor-sharp wit. The only part I wasn't crazy about was that most of his jokes were mean, or really offensive. Don't get me wrong- there's a time a place for that, for sure- but in moderation. Sure, I might crack a joke about the guy convulsing in his wheelchair, but I'll deliver the joke with rolled eyes and some sort of hang-dog posture, or use inflection to imply some sort of remorse, like I'm AWARE that I'm totally going to hell. The entire point of laughing at stuff we're not supposed to laugh at is to take away the brevity of the situation. The Pilot seemed to be missing this crucial element in his humor, but I figured time would tell if he was genuinely funny or just kind of an asshole.

(Hint: he's kind of an asshole.)

The other weird thing about The Pilot was that as much as he liked to joke about various insensitive subjects, he CONSTANTLY would joke about how small and disappointing his penis was. It was his favorite thing to mention, and he brought it up all. the. time. Like, REALLY pushing the issue. I assured him I didn't care, but I'll admit his never-ending referrals made me curious. Was he kidding? Was there a possibility he was NOT kidding? Like a poorly drawn illustration outside a Freakshow Tent, the advertising worked and now I wanted to know what the buzz was all about.

I was dating The Pilot while taking a regular nighttime regimen of prescribed Ambien, which is notorious for aiding and abetting bad decisions. I was also still at a point in my divorce recovery where I'd not yet learned to sleep by myself, and I'd rather sleep next to Someone, Anyone, than sleep alone. After some late night video games and probably too much to drink, The Pilot invited me to spend the night at his superluxe townhouse. The promise of morning omelets was on the table, and I acquiesced, with the caveat that there would be absolutely ZERO fooling around in bed. That I was taking Ambien. That it affected my decisions and my memory. And that no matter what I said AFTER I took it, I did not want to get intimately involved with him. He promised me that that was not a problem, and he'd be a gentleman.

Now, hold on to your seats, because here's a shocker: I'm an idiot. And he's not a gentleman. (What a tweest!)

We fooled around that night- no sex, but close enough for the dramatic reveal that HOLY SHIT HE WAS NOT KIDDING ABOUT HIS PENIS. I vaguely remember him apologizing for it and me assuring him that it really didn't matter, that it wasn't a big deal.
I guess that was the wrong thing to say, but what else can you do when confronted with something like that?
I suggested he think of it like those little Vienna Cocktail Sausages that sit on fancy crackers at a party. Small, but still entertaining?

Not this bad, but close.

Ambien sunrises are weird enough, but I knew the lines had been pretty blurred in the wee hours of the morning.
The sun came up, and The Pilot climbed out of bed and started dressing in his lycra bike shorts. I realized there would be no omelette.
"Walp," he says, "I got 15 miles to ride, so..."
He wouldn't look me in the eye. I caught a glimpse of his profile in the bike shorts and wondered if he was somehow embarrassed?

I was confused. I had no idea where we stood. He'd wanted me, right? Enough to directly violate a trust I'd given him?
That must mean he wants a relationship with me, right? (Forgive me, I'm really stupid in the mornings.)
"Hey, no problem- and if you like going alone, I'll head on out- but if you want some company, I'm happy to go with you. Either way, no worries."
He perked up. "Really? You'd go 15 miles with me?"
"Sure, why not."

We make awkward small talk while I pick up a bike, and head to the trail.
We make awkward small talk while we bike 15 miles. FIFTEEN. MILES.
There is no mention of his ridiculously small penis on this morning. Odd- it was usually his favorite subject.
At the end of the trail, he tells he he's going to go to his swimming lesson. (Triathletes, right?!?) I wish him good luck and thanked him for the bike ride. For the first time all day, he looks me in the eye- and it's cold. Dull and glassy. Like a dead rabbit.

"See you later," he says, and PATS ME ON THE BACK GOODBYE.

Wow. Thanks pal. Buddy. I half-sit, half-stand on my bike, absolutely mackerel-smacked. Hadn't we gotten closer last night? Hadn't I just biked 15 fucking miles with this guy? So HE can joke about his dick, but I can't?

Got it.

He stopped calling and texting after that. I think I must've texted him a day later, because the last communication I received from a guy who used to text me non-stop was the tell-tale fatal missive...

"k."

The light had faded. The spark was dead, gone. It was over. And worst of all, there had been no omelette. AGAIN. God dammit.
Sweet dreams and Flying Machines in pieces on the ground.

As I watched him pedal off, I packed the bike in the backseat of my convertible, a day older, a little wiser and sore as hell for all the wrong reasons. I remembered that little bunny dying in my arms, and this time, though there would be no tears on my part, I was still sad that The Pilot's insecurity was our undoing. Maybe we could've been good together, maybe not- but we'd never get the chance to find out. Not because his penis was small, but because he was a little dick.

EPILOGUE:
The next person I dated owned his own airplane and had several pilots on call. I made certain to never ask about their penis size.