Category Archives: magic

A Little’s Enough

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I wrote fan mail once and I mean like once in my whole life. 

I facebooked Tom Delonge from Angels & Airwaves (also Blink 182) and tried at first to NOT sound like a deranged teenager and then gave up because who cares?  I wrote about what his music had meant to me at an especially wounded time.  I went ahead and threw in a “you saved my life.”  I’d be more ashamed except I really truly meant it.

Secret Crowds

Everything’s Magic

Love Like Rockets

A Little’s Enough

 

As I was writing a chat window popped up and “Tom” asked me for my info to send me free tickets.  It was obviously a hacker, and I don’t recall whether I bothered to hit send on my email or not.

All that to say that as much as I like to think of myself as someone who holds her shit together around people who are celebrities, Tom Delonge was above and beyond.  If I met him?  Pregnant and out on rape charges.  That’s how that would go down.

This weekend I had a mild inner ear infection.  The kind that make you dizzy, really, really dizzy.  I spent my weekend on the couch crocheting.  I was feeling better today and in yoga pants I’d put on Friday night and never bothered to change, I took my bike up to the corner grocery store.  It’s important to have a visual of my wet hair, sequined tshirt with cat hair, and bike helmet.  I had about 18 items in my cart but since I’m in that store like every third day I know that the express lanes are often waiting and totally accepting of more items.  I have the decency to pretend to care when I start unloading my items onto the counter. 

“I hope they don’t count past 15,” I mutter to the tattooed elbow in the corner of my vision, just so I don’t seem like the bitch who ignores signs.  Rocket ship tattoos, it registers.  Really awesome rocke- HOLYSHIT.

HOLYSHIT.

HOLYSHIT.

THIS IS HAPPENING.

HOLYSHIT.  I know who that is.  I glance at the clock beyond his head.  Yep, that’s Tom Delonge.  I pretend to consult my blank wrist to the time on the clock.  Still very Tom Delonge.  Stop looking at a blank wrist.  Tom is buying groceries with his daughter Ava.  I am melting down while wearing cat hair, sequins and a bike helmet.  He’s attempting to do normal people things.  I’M attempting to do normal people things while watching him do normal people things.  Do not touch him.  DO NOT BURY YOUR FACE IN HIS TSHIRT AND CRY, VJ.  STOP MUTTERING THESE INSTRUCTIONS TO YOURSELF  TO YOURSELF UNDER YOUR BREATH HE MIGHT HEAR YOU.

He turns and looks at me.  I hope I wasn’t making strange strangled noises, I don’t think I was, but who really fucking knows?  His eyes meet mine and my face splits in an enormous smile and there was a moment of I-know-you-know-that-I-know-and-I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know and Ava said “Daddy!  something I didn’t catch.”

.

.

The cashier said “cash back?” and I stopped blinking. 
“That was Tom Delonge from Blink-182, you know.”
“Was it?”
“He’s kind of the only person that I don’t know that I totally care about.”
“You should catch him in the parking lot.  I’ll hold your stuff.”
“No ……. I don’t think I could do any better with words.”

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Chapter …. Ah, screw it.

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I’ve decided not to try to tell you the long backstory of the man who is now my boyfriend.

I’ve been trying to tell you all along really, and the fact that he’s now my man doesn’t mean the story of his life is really mine to tell.  I think I’d rather tell you about the now stuff anyway, because now I’m allowed to stick my fingers in his hair, and write him sappy love letters.  (Not at the same time, obviously.)

Look at us, in the same space. I'm not sure how to communicate how HUGE this is.

He lives in New York City, and I’m still here for awhile, so that sucks, but that’s only thing that sucks about us, everything else is magical and perfect and impossibly defiant of gravity.

We will be in love until we die and possibly longer, since my atoms love his atoms and atoms last virtually forever.   I know I’m tempting fate to say so, so boldly, but I’m ok with that.  Suck it fate.  I’ve got my man.

We might look like everyone else, but I can’t escape the idea that we’re going to DO something together, something every one will feel.  We might give birth to the AntiChrist, is all I’m saying.

Maybe not.  Maybe we’re not magic, maybe this is just a wickedly strong version of a normal phenomenon, like storms becoming hurricanes.  I don’t really care.  I’m just so goddamn happy.

Career Options

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Jay – “I really wanted to practice some witch doctoring. I need to get back to my roots…string up some shrunken heads…speak in tongues.”

Valancy Jane – “Sweet, can I be a witch doctor too?”

Jay – “You can but you have to develop some kind of craziness.”

Valancy Jane – “Are you saying I’m not crazy enough to be a witch doctor? I’ve never been told I’m not crazy enough for something.”

Jay – “Uh no you’re not crazy at all lol sorry. You’re more normal and stable than you know. Completely adjusted.”

Valancy Jane – “But I WANT to be a witch doctor! Don’t smash my dreams.”

Jay – “lol I had no idea. Lets all just calm down…stop brushing your hair and you’re half way there.”

Valancy Jane – “Done. Ok. What next?”

Jay – “Hmm…I think you have to talk to things that are not human.”

Valancy Jane – “I already do that.”

Jay – “But…you do believe in ghost so I think that should sub for God or anything else.”

Valancy Jane – “I had a lovely chat last night with my glass of wine.”

Jay – “Who did you chat with?”

Valancy Jane – “The glass of wine.”

Jay – “Oh…lol do items count? Mmmm sure why not?”

Valancy Jane – “Well, they’re not human. You might say I was communing with the spirit of the grape vines.”

Jay – “Lol maybe…the cows that fertilized the grapes that was later made into wine…I see the connection. Now you have to get an old book and hand write a lot of stuff in it, preferably in a fake language.”

Valancy Jane – “I have a journal in my purse and my handwriting is pretty bad, does that count? Nobody ever knows what the hell I’m talking about most of the time anyway.

Jay – “Lol I think that should count. Can you read your own handwriting?”

Valancy Jane – “Yes.”

Jay – “Oh then you’re good.”

Valancy Jane – “Sweet! Anything else?”

Jay – “No I think you’re good.”

Valancy Jane – “I’m in!”

Zia married Lele.

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She asked me if I could believe it.  I met Zia the same week she met Lele, (although I didn’t meet him until much later) and two years later, to the day, she was marrying him.

They have a large family wedding coming up in Boston, but for various reasons, it was much easier to be legally wed in their home state of California.  Lele was under the impression that they would simply be going to the courthouse some times this week, but Zia …….. well, she sort of owed him a surprise.  Lele’s proposal to her involved her leaving her house thinking they were going for sushi, and ending up in the middle of a Guatemalan lake, looking for a shaman.  Really I’ll let her tell it.

So Zia planned a surprise wedding.  The tuxedo tshirt was bought, the hot air balloon hired, and Lele’s friend Crazy Ray* agreed to come as the witness.  I went through the shocking simple process (in this state anyway) of becoming certified to marry people to each other.

*(With a name like Crazy Ray, I assumed he sold mattresses, or maybe used cars, for a living.  Turns out he’s some sort of UFC fighter, with a neck so large we couldn’t get a bow tie around it.)

I got up Sat morning, pre-ass-crack-of-dawn, (no, really, three thirty am) and drove a hour and a half into a local wine growing area to meet the rest of the wedding party.  You might be wondering, if I donned a clerical collar, the apparel of God’s annointed servants, wouldn’t I be struck down by lightning?  Well, on the drive up, a meteor passed mere yards from my car.  Clearly it was a warning shot, across the deck.  I think He was trying to say he understood this time, but ONLY BARELY.

Photo by Zia

Lele had just been formally invited to his own wedding, via an invitation handed to him by Zia, in the car.  He’d been attempting to guess what had her wake him up so early for, and as close as he got was Renaissance Fair.

Photo by Zia

He was really touched.  He had felt a courthouse wedding would feel “anti-climatic” for he and Zia.

Photo by me, on Zia's camera

Since he was now in on it, I could reveal my clerical collar.  Slowly.  To a beat.  I am a full service minister, folks.

Photo by Zia

Photo by Zia

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Zia gave me the perfect finishing touch, a tiny tophat.  I love the tiny tophat.  I don’t know how I ever existed without a tiny tophat before.  If you asked if I’m wearing it right now the answer would be …….. well, no, but I wish I was.

Photo by Zia

The sunrise ride was truly lovely, and I didn’t flub any of my lines.  The cake, lovingly crafted by Sam, was delicious.  I’ll let the pictures tell the story, because I think they paint a better picture than my words of how adorable they are, and how magical it was to be a part of this with them.

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Photo by Lele

Photo by Zia

Photo by Zia

Photo by Ray

Photo by Ray

Photo by Zia, Cake by Sam

Photo by me

Photo by me

Photo by me

Photo by me

Photo by me

Photo by me

Photo by Lele

Photo by Zia

Photo by Zia

Photo by Zia

Photo by Zia (obviously)

Photo by me

It was so magical in fact, that they invited me on their honeymoon.

And I went.

I’m a FULL.  SERVICE.  MINISTER.  folks.

Going home now …

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… to sit out on the porch and collect more airplane shadows.

See, I’ve always had this superstitution that when an airplane shadow touches you, it’s good luck.  And then I moved next to an airport, something I like to call stacking the deck.  Anyway. 

I’ve been storing up my magic, and now I’m throwing it all Ezra-wards.  If you feel so inclined, join in whatever way you do.

I’m dressed as a GOOD witch. You know, unlike the rest of the year.

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OH. MY. CHAELPHELPS.

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Michael Phelps. Michael Phelps. MichaelPhelpsMichaelPhelpsMichaelPhelps.

Now I’m going to sit back and watch my hit counter explode. Apparently there is magic in the name “Michael Phelps,” and I have no qualms about invoking it for personal gain and/or fame. But it doesn’t stop there, no. Why should it? I’m going to whisper his name gently while asking for a raise. “I really feel (michaelphelps) that I’ve earned it, don’t you?” I’m going to say 37 Hail Michael Phelps to excuse what I did last weekend. (And if YOU say 38, I’ll tell you what I did last weekend.) I’m going to print out this picture, write out my wishlist on it, and mail to Santa, and my grandmas.

If you can think of any other ways to ride this wave (no euphamism intended but certainly also not ruled out), by all means do it. And tell me if it works.