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I haven’t been to Palm Springs since I was a kid and I barely remember anything about it. It was entirely Adam’s idea to go and with my parents help (Thank you Mom & Dad!) we scored a fabulous suite at an old famous 1960’s resort. We feel like we’re walking around on the set of Mad Men except that instead of Don and Betty Draper it’s Grandpa and Granny Draper. I swear, we are the youngest people here by at least forty years.


Neither Adam nor I were alive in the 1960’s so we don’t really know what we’re talking about, but it seems to us that Palm Springs, at least the section we’re staying in, is a perfectly preserved 1960’s suburb. I am in absolute vintage heaven. Today, after a relaxing yoga practice, sunbathing, and a quick dip in the pool, we went downtown to shop. We found this enormous pawn shop stuffed to brimming with all kinds of treasures. I bought a pair of really cool 1940’s salt & pepper shakers and a trivet that someone bought in Tel Aviv in 1981. How do I know? Because they wrote it on the bottom! I cannot wait to show them to you.


It’s like stepping into Stepford – impossibly perfect.


I can’t speak for Adam but this is the best birthday week I’ve ever had and it’s not even my birthday!

Two Wiener Palms


Adam snapped this off my balcony this morning. I love the Valley.

I am in Palm Springs for the next five beautiful sunshine-y days. It’s Adam’s birthday and he’s in town from New York and we are going to be pool side starting tomorrow at 10 a.m. I cannot wait.

Yesterday we got together with friends for brunch. Michael took this photo of Kevin taking a photo of Adam and Dori looking at the photo that J.D. just took of them. I’m the one standing on the stairs looking like a red-haired loon.


By the way, my hair isn’t actually red, it’s just a chemically treated disaster.

This morning Adam interrupted me while I was packing for Palm Springs. He was laughing and pointing at our linen cabinet. “You’ve got to see this!”

I turned my attention to the cabinet and it trembled. Then it opened an inch and a black nose appeared. At first I thought it was one of the cats because they love to hide in the cabinets. But it was not one of the cats.


People who own herding dogs always talk about their dog’s instinct to heard everything, but dachshund owners never talk about their dog’s instinct to ferret small frightened creatures out of hiding places.


Poor Amelia. She just wants my wiener to leave her alone.

Oh man, you guys. This is long.

When did I last post? I have no idea. It could have been forty-eight weeks ago. That’s what it feels like for sure.

Life has just been so … life-y lately. I haven’t wanted to write about it because blegh. What a downer. I know I’m in the middle of a transition, and transitions can be messy, but I don’t want to post all kinds of self-pitying garbage every week. So I haven’t been writing at all. And not writing makes me really unhappy, which means I can’t write because I’ll just write self-pitying garbage. It’s an ugly circle.

Anyway, I’m in New York to see the revival of Angels in America, and celebrate Halloween with Adam, my BGFF. We were texting about our costumes last week:

  • A: Do you have your Jackie Kennedy wig yet?
  • T: No, we’re gonna need to go shopping.
  • A: Totally. :-> I can’t wait to give you your birthday present!
  • T: Seriously? My birthday’s not until January.
  • A: Omg, you’re gonna die. It’s the best birthday present in the world.
  • T: Is it alive?
  • A: Kind of? :-/

Last night over pizza he handed me a gift wrapped in gorgeous hand-made paper.

“Open it!”

“I can’t! It’s too pretty!”

“Here’s scissors, just cut into it. But be careful.”

“It feels like ….” I felt the gift all over. Fingertips on hard edges. “A book!”

“You’re so funny. Open it.”

“You do it.”

“Here.” He snipped the tape seals. “Now rip it.”

The first thing I saw was my name, “Frosty” in white glossy letters. “What is it?” I laughed, my eyes welling over because it couldn’t possibly be what I thought it was. It couldn’t be.

“It’s your book. It’s every single blog post you wrote on Frosty-licious, with all the pictures, everything. It’s your entire three-and-half years in New York. It’s all the moments you and Michael shared, with photos, it’s everything.”

It’s everything. It’s incredible. It’s my words on slick glossy paper. It’s warts and all, because let’s be honest, there was a while there when all I did on Frosty-licious was whine about how I wanted to stab myself in the face with a fork because being a grown-up was sooo hard. It’s everything. All the humiliating shit I wish I could wash myself clean of and it’s all the beautiful stuff too. It’s how I climbed out of the cesspool of misery and how Mike and I fell in love all over again, as a family, just him and me and the fantastic army of creatures we call our pets. It’s how we built a life with nothing but our hands and our love. It’s beautiful.

Adam wrote a forward for it, and when I read the first line I started crying so hard I had to put the book down until I could catch my breath again. Happy tears, tears of sweet nostalgia for what’s behind me, tears of gratitude, because it’s incredible that someone sees in my story something precious and worth holding on to. Tears of shame because there are parts of me in that story I wish I could hide, but why should I be ashamed of my humanness? Why should I be ashamed of my darker moments? Maybe I didn’t need to type them out into the Webisphere for anyone with access to the internet, but who cares. We’re all human. We all have our own sewage to sludge through sometimes. It’s what we choose to do with it at the end of the day that counts. I think I’ve learned how to try and choose “deal with it and move on” as an appropriate response to those times in my life and I guess that’s really why I haven’t been writing lately. I haven’t known how to write about my shit without wading in it and I’d like to write about my shit and laugh at it.

Like, for example, how my entire family expects me to cry at the drop of a hat. I totally earned that, I have always cried at the drop of a hat, so they have every right to expect it. I still do cry whenever I feel big emotions, but not like I used to. I think. It’s still up for debate. The other day I cried all during lunch at Goucho Grill, so it might be harder to live down than I thought, but still.

Whenever I start to speak really passionately about something, my brother will jump up and point at me and shout, “No crying! No crying!” and I’m always so surprised I have to start laughing and it breaks up the moment, you know? In a really good way. We have to be able to laugh about our shit.

Have a wonderful Halloween, you guys. I’ve gotta go find a white pillbox hat.