the ugly earring

Last night driving up Western Blvd. heading toward a used bookstore on Franklin Blvd, Christmas lights adorned a Korean church where a large neon cross and strings of primary colors formed the shape of a Christmas tree. Peer down a side street near the church, and notice how modest houses are lit up, blinking, with plastic Santas and reindeer. This is December in Los Angeles, 62 degrees and sunny. My very first Christmas away from home.This past week has been a collection of “remember this when you’re in a better place.” Where to begin? My bathtub is clogged and filled ankle deep with stagnant water. I’ve already had to stand in this ice-cold murk for two days since the maintenance men have not yet come. It’s disgusting and defeats the purpose of scrubbing between the toes. But, I continue to stand in it every morning at 6:45am. A beast of habit? An insecurity of having an offending odor? Whatever the case, it’s humiliating and cold.

Anyhow, that’s situation number one. Situation number two and three have been resolved but since I haven’t blogged in almost three weeks (shame on me) I will add them. Johann, the stray cat, who randomly appeared on my windowsill months ago escaped the other night and in full heat has, I assumed, knocked up every stray she-cat in the neighborhood. All day yesterday, a motherly knot of worry settled into my gut. “Did he get run over by a car?” “What will he eat?”

The night he vanished, Jimmy and I were in the courtyard past 2am, trying to seduce Johann near enough for us to catch him. He wasn’t interested. Instead, he was mesmerized by the scent of his old feral ways, and the domestic lessons we had taught him were wiped bone dry from his memory. He wouldn’t let us near him. He saw the distance of freedom and quickly jetted away. Jimmy said, “He’s not coming back—I saw that LOOK in his eyes.”

Jimmy was wrong. The cat came back. Yesterday, he reappeared in the kitchen window hungry, tired and reeking of outside. His beautiful coat caked with dirt and oil. After he ate, he paced nervously, letting out several heated meows while peering outside of the window with his ears erect. And just like that, on and off like a light switch, he looked away from the window and returned to the docile housecat rubbing his rear against Jimmy’s pant leg. Situation two: resolved. But now, he needs to get fixed ASAP.

Situation three: Money. Or, the lack of it. Somehow, it’s hard to believe how broke I’ve become. Though I work a decent job with good pay, all my money is gone before it’s even deposited. Is it just me or is this how most Americans live? Struggling on the brink of poverty, from one paycheck to the next, neck-deep in debt? One of my best friends Cindy sent me a link earlier this week (http://msnbc.msn.com/id/6740726/), which helped shed some light on this increasing epidemic hitting most of us in our 20s or early 30s. Though most of us are paid more than minimum wage, the cost of living (rent and utilities) in any metropolis cities is astronomical. Right now, I’m paying about $753 for a studio shoe box in the hood, and my utilities amount to about $100 a month. And that’s a bargain in Los Angeles! In Phoenix, however, the same amount of money could be used to pay off the mortgage of a cute two-bedroom house.

When things such as my computer or car break down, it feels like the whole world is dumping rocks on my shoulders. Suddenly, all my problems surface. How will I find the money to get Johann fixed? Sebastian has ear mites! My car keeps dying at every stop light and intersection! Jimmy can’t find a job! My computer is broken and won’t turn on! I can’t afford Christmas presents!

And then the breakdown, which came on a Sunday morning after I had prepared a nice breakfast: a tofu scramble with leftover sautéed red peppers and some loose vegetables lying around in the fridge. I was trying to make the best of what we had in the house. So as Jimmy and I are feasting away on our meal, he says to me, “Look at your bread.” I’d already eaten half of it, of course. So I look, and there staring back at me like a big old wart–Green Mold.

I tell myself on a daily basis, all of this is humbling and only temporary. I cut the mold away and eat the good part. I cry on the phone to my dad, and he tells me everything will be fine. The boyfriend tries to ease my burden by shaving the cat and mopping the floor. Take a couple of deep breaths. I need a book, a sanctuary, a new escape.

As I drive toward the used bookstore with a couple of dollars in my pocket, the world around me–the dilapidated store fronts, the tired houses–is decorated with .99 store Christmas lights. I notice a young father walking with his children. They look happy. A festive gait is in their footsteps. He is holding his child’s hand while a younger one sits on his shoulders. The little one hugs a toy UZI gun and wears a Santa hat. They’re heading toward McDonalds.

It breaks my heart, and I want to yell out the of the car window, “It wasn’t the Indians who were the bad guys, it was the cowboys!”