How we got here is a tedious tale and I post here only the briefest of summaries, just so it's on the record : Lost my high paying, high flying, advertising position almost two years ago and limped along with freelance work, waiting "for things to recover". Might as well have been waiting to spot a unicorn. In the meantime, we depleted the savings, cashed out the 401k, and tried to hunker down. But then then my partner was let go, and the death spiral to Bako began. Treading water became drowning, and we sadly had to put the lovely mid-century modern home in the Hollywood Hills, which we'd spent years renovating, on the market. As a short sale. Which is a misnomer, 'cuz there's nothing short about it.
We had always figured, when the time came, we'd just rent a nice apartment in the Westside, store what we couldn't use, and wait out the Great Recession.
But as the months dragged on, with unemployment for him, and meager, pity, freelance jobs for me, things were starting to get scary. Very scary. Like, "what is the going price for a kidney on the blackmarket" kinda scary. So when he was unexpectedly offered the job in Bako, we took it. And by "we", I mean "he". I see the rationale - any income is better than nothing. But really....... Bako?
Anyhow, I've rambled, after promising to be brief. My apologies.
So this blog is nothing but therapy for me. Oh I know, everyone who starts one of these things says that, but they all secretly hope it'll be discovered and turned into the next "Sex in the City". But seriously, I highly doubt you'll be seeing Sarah Jessica Parker on Truxtun Avenue anytime soon. And besides, nobody knows I'm here, and I'd like to keep it that way. I kept my LA pre-fixed cell phone, so everyone thinks I'm still there. My goal is to wait out the storm and quietly return before anyone has even missed me. But in the meantime, the boyfriend has tired of my despair, and "real" therapy isn't an option - I've done enough therapy to know those people are REALLY fucked up.... I wouldn't trust them to water the lawn, let alone hear my thoughts. And other than that.... what? Ending it all, dramatically, Madame Butterfly style, has crossed my mind. Slitting my wrists in the custom designed master bath I waited four years to complete (and will never enjoy) has a certain... drama to it. But the truth is, I could never leave my beloved dogs as orphans. True, they have another "daddy", and there's always the chance he could rise to the occasion and raise them. But knowing him, there's an even likelier chance the side gate will "accidentally" be left open, if you know what I mean. He has the amazing capacity to "disappear" the unpleasantries of his life. He'd make a GREAT South American dictator. I guess that fact that I'm still here is a testament to his love. Right? At any rate, the "concept" of pet ownership has, over the years, been trumped by the poop-scooping reality, and the dog-rearing responsibilities are now solely mine. Not that I mind - I love them to death. Honestly, they've been the only thing to get me through this crap.
So there 'ya go, and here I am. Day 6 in Bako. Nowhere to go but up.
