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I’m back.  In a manner of speaking that is.  I’m in a place where my office is as big as a living room and I have an upstairs and while I keep trying to hate it, I can’t. I just can’t. This after being dead and coming back, months in rehab, and finally being dragged back and forth across this country puppies ferried around as well. (Let me tell you, Oklahoma has THE most impressive dog park/rest stop ever!)

So I decided to break the silence, a least for my people here on FI and yes, if you’re reading this consider yourself thus,  and tell you that’s the reason for the silence for so long.  I’ve barely had two seconds to communicate anything to anyone and finally I am able to take a miniscule breath after realizing I have no soda anywhere near me so I’m forced to drink diet Cranberry juice (kind of good with no acidic tang) as I remember leaving the only place I’ve ever known in my life.

Oh, I prepared for it. In fact I’ve spent the last five years preparing for it, looking at the house and property I lived in for over forty (yes 40) years, trying to burn a hole in my retinas and my memory  so that I would never forget the hellish/sometimes astonishing life I would leave forever. I drove past my childhood houses trying to remember them but I only have memories that are fleeting and intense since the neighborhoods and the houses have deteriorated or been torn down for new, cookie cutter residential districts. Believe me when you expect to never leave and have built your whole life around a place/lifestyle/dreams (starting to sound like Stevie Nicks here) leaving is the hardest concept to accept.Leaving and never coming back? Damn near impossible. 

I always expected to die in Los Angeles. In fact I did. In 2015 two weeks before my birthday I suffered a full-on cardiac arrest (not a heart attack) and died literally on my living room floor in front of the computer, my mom and two hysterical puppies. When I woke up fully from the resulting coma I was in a rehab hospital. It wasn’t traumatic for me (I told my sister who was traumatized, that it reminded me of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer sees the entire movie about the woman who wakes up from a coma & says ‘Oh, Doctor, I feel so refreshed!’) but it was for my entire family and friends who got all of their friends to pray for me; we’re talking a mass in Rome for me 5,000 people there, friends who belong to giant churches of 1,000 or more parishioners (and not all Catholic either) to people on my cousin’s radio show (God only knows how many people that request  reached) and finally on my social media. Why any of these people would pray for me, I have no idea. I’m bitchy, arrogant, and nothing close to a saint.

And yet God does have a sense of humor. Okay, a sardonic, dark sense of humor but a sense of humor nonetheless. I DID die in California. He brought me back. (I think all those people praying for me must have driven Him insane and He caved.) Be careful what you ask for, it isn’t a joke my friends.

I did lose it once. As the plane banked from LAX and over the Pacific I looked out the window and cried. It was the first time leaving was a reality for me and I just lost it. I was exhausted from the flight–no Xanax this time–actually I was exhausted from the fear of flying and looked wearily at my new home. It took a few days to get oriented to both the house and the time change (still haven’t gotten over that) but every time I expected to hate something about everything here, I loved it instead. I don’t even miss Cali. Not the least little bit.

Very funny God, very funny.





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