The thing is, I'm not in a sultry formal ball gown ready to be swept away to a dark lit piano bar, where couples hold one another's hands and whisper sweet, sensuous things over the unscented tea lights. In fact, I own nothing of the sort but a sick fantasy, one could argue, directed by those who had lived comfortably in Hollywood during its heyday. I do my best to imitate some small feeling of grandeur--dousing myself in rosy perfume, carefully applying rouge to my lips, dressing in something deemed above casual. Some steps must be taken in order to escape the humdrum of the everyday. And while I may be seen buying a five dollar meal at the local drive-thru, I revel in those nights that occur ever so often where I may step outside my caste and feel simply... glamourous. Lovely, even.
Call it romanticism, call it hopelessness, but something must be said for those who flee from a dying art and for those who long for its revival.

“Dreams, dreams--always dreams with you; never common sense.”

I love that you care enough to open up your eyes.
Picking up on things that aren't obvious, you have me all figured out.
Cards on the table, I have nothing to hide.
I'm it.
Your salvation.
Pick me up and place me on your shoulders.
There I'll reside forever.
Nothing will harm you again--
My sweet, sweet angel.


Every time I go on these family trips, especially to Hanford, I am reminded of how lonely I truly am.
Hanford sits comfortably in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, where heat rises from the bright cement sidewalks and fog obscures your view for hours. The hip place to be is the bar at Applebee's or cooling off in the run down (and slowly emptying) mall. As dull as this old agricultural town is, the eclectic architecture never ceases to amaze me. Houses inspired by the Victorian era are placed next to a cozy, single-story home circa 1950s. A Spanish inspired casa sits next to a brick Colonial building.




Many of the buildings (especially in downtown) are so old that they're believed to be haunted. One is an old mental hospital and it's said that if you sit on the steps, the head nurse will kindly ask you to leave. My sister and I decided to sit on that front step to see if we could channel anything. The sun was still glowing in the early night sky. Soft jazz played off in the distance. The only thing that startled us was the amount of spiders spinning webs on the steps. Next time I'll have to go much later.

Another great thing about this town is the food. There are two mandatory meals we must have while visiting. One is La Fiesta, easily the best and cheapest Mexican restaurant I've ever eaten at. The other is Superior Dairy, home of the best handmade ice cream this side of the Mississippi. The scoops sit about a mile high and only cost you about four bucks. The architecture goes back to the late 1920s and the old pink booths channel the 50s. One could never grow tired of this place.




That's the smallest ice cream sundae they serve....

I haven't been to the town since I helped clean out my grandma's apartment shortly after her funeral. The more I think about it, the stranger it is to visit without seeing her and staying at that old Victorian home. Once covered with and hidden behind greenery, it now sits out in the open. No white picket fence guarding it from the rest of the world. No wrought iron gate keeping strangers out. No "wilderness" in the backyard to get lost in. The dilapidated garage and shed my grandfather built still stand, though I fear not for long. I miss the privacy of that house. I miss what it meant to me--it symbolized family. Every get-together was conducted there. Since I can remember, I've dreamt of coming home for the holidays with a man on my arm, introducing him to the family and anxiously awaiting my grandparents' approval. It is nice to visit with my great-grandmother much longer than usual (a regular two hour visit has now turned into two days), listening to "nostalgic radio" and her stories--"Why, when I was a kid, we didn't have cars or electricity or air conditioning. But by golly, what would we do without it? I remember when I was, oh, a teenager... picking apricots from the trees, it was 113 degrees outside." I miss my grandparents immensely, though. They left too soon.

The church where my sisters and I were baptized, the church where my parents were wed, the church my grandparents visited weekly--the large window overlooking the front entrance donated by them many decades ago.

Stuck at a dinner party with her boyfriend's distant relatives from Europe, Loren called over the waiter and asked for another glass of wine.
"All right, all right!" One blonde, buxom woman said heartily. "I have one. What one thing would you bring with you to a deserted island? It could be anything, no restrictions! Only one thing. Earl?"
"Oh dear lord in heaven," Loren mumbled as she drained another glass of wine and smiled weakly as the guests took turns contemplating the most creative answer to an unoriginal question.
"An airport," one said.
"A survival kit."
"My wife." Awes filled the table.
"Oh that reminds me of another!" Mrs. Mason said exuberantly. "What would you do if you were stranded on a deserted island with nothing but a belt? Loren, what about you?"
Alcohol now consumed her system and the dinner party showed no sign of slowing down. How she longed to quietly walk away from this table unscathed, catch the L train home and take a long bath. "I'm sorry, what was the question?"
"What would you do if you were stranded on a deserted island with nothing but a belt?"
"What would I do if I was stranded on a deserted island with nothing but a belt?"
"Mhm."
Loren took another large gulp from her replenished wine glass. She set it down gently and leaned back. She exhaled and looked around at the table of pale blondes staring back at her. "Well. I'd hang myself." With a smug smile, she motioned the waiter for the check.