Caught In My Web 🕸️

A LOVE STORY. VALENTINE'S DAY EDITION.

In last week’s paid post, I announced I wanted to tighten the circle here. I’m keeping the Caught In My Web 🕸️ series open to free subscribers. All other posts will be paid for the foreseeable future, except for a few. These posts will be a bit more personal, like next week when I share my personal writing desk and altar space with more memoir pieces peppered in. I pride myself on creating a safe space where we can get candid in the comments, and kindness is the law. If that sounds like something you would like to be a part of, I’m running an Aquarius Season/birthday sale for February. 25% of an annual subscription 💌

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Her name was Towanda Ximena Josefina Bartholomew Webb and she was the love of my life.

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on her lacquered purple frame and black knobby wheels. The sky cracked open, and a pillar of light shot down from the heavens directly onto her. Suddenly, a choir of angels was heard singing the most sublime hymn of exaltation, signaling that our meeting had been divinely made.

She was mine, and I was hers. 

We belonged together. 

That December, I asked for a new bike for Christmas, but not just any bike—the purple Huffy mountain bike with black splotches ordained to me by God himself. My sister asked what I would want instead, in case a new bike wasn’t possible, and I replied, “Nothing,” and I meant it.

There was nothing else for me but Towanda.

It was that bike or BUST. 

Besides, what good were years of Sunday sacrifice attending catechism then mass if I couldn’t use the power of prayer and some bitter bratty stubbornness to make my dream come true?

When Christmas morning arrived, she was sparkling underneath the twinkle of the Christmas tree lights, and I knew my life was changed. 

She smelled like fresh from the factory rubber and endless possibilities.

Maybe God was real.

*

I christened her Towanda because that was the name of Idgie Threadgoode’s alter-ego that empowered her to commit acts of valor, like rescuing Ruth from her abusive husband in Fried Green Tomatoes, a film my mother and I loved. Ximena because that was one of the names I had picked out for my future daughter. Josefina because that was my abuelita’s name, and I was forever salty that hers was not one of the three middle names my parents gifted me upon my arrival on earth. Bartholomew because it was a fun mouthful to say out loud, and Webb because, as the first of my middle names, my mother would lovingly call out Jenovia Webb when I did something adorably mischievous, always with a smile on her face.

It was the summer of 1994, the first summer after my brother and parents died, and Towanda was my divine chariot, delivering me from years that felt like my inevitable immurement. 

When my father was alive, he bought the entire block we lived on and then swiftly swooped in to buy the house that was catty-corner from us when it went up for sale so we wouldn’t have close neighbors. Minimal straying beyond the 10-foot hedges surrounding our property was rarely permitted; usually, only my brother was afforded that luxury. Machismo life.
Talking on the phone, going to anyone’s house, and attending birthday parties were out of the question. My classmates eventually stopped inviting me, knowing my answer was always no. Attending school was the lone respite from my father’s iron fist.

People in the neighborhood were so terrified of my father that when they passed our block, they would walk on the street instead of our sidewalk or choose to walk the uneven terrain in the park across the street to bypass our property altogether. 

I remember finding a newspaper clipping in one of the desk drawers where my mother used the typewriter. My father had murdered someone on our front porch, and it was ruled as self-defense. I’m sure the fact that he used to be in law enforcement and knew the judge personally helped tremendously. 

I felt no shock, only reinforcement of what we already knew. 

This was not the first person my father killed, and it would not be his last. 

After he died and the shock subsided, it felt as if someone unlocked my prison cell and flung the door wide open. 

I wouldn’t understand just how free I was until that summer. 

*

June, 1994.

The summer of Tevin Campbell, Salt-N-Pepa, SWV, Xscape, Jodeci, and En Vogue albums on repeat.

The summer of cutting my own bangs (they were actually cute).

The summer of riding Towanda to Nikki’s house first because she lived on the next block, then her and I swinging around the corner to get Adriana, then all of us mobbing over to Aquila’s house to complete our bicycle girl gang. 

The summer my sister said I could go anywhere on my bike as long as I stayed in the neighborhood with the girls and was back before sunset. 🤯

The summer that changed and saved my life.

For the first time in my little girl existence, I got to experience what childhood could feel like outside of school with friends and without the looming presence of my father lurking around every bend of my heart.

A whole new world, a whole new me.

During those three months, I was doing one of two things: screaming at the television while watching Days Of Our Lives with my brother or riding Towanda with the girls. DOOL became our emotional support/escape show that summer. Stefano DiMera, Billie Reed, Dr. Marlena Evans, and Kristen Blake, we loved all the crazies. I can still hear: Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives whenever I think of that time. Watching that soap opera was one of the only things that made us feel somewhat normal in our stormy sea of batshit crazy circumstances.

Most days, I would leave early in the morning to meet up with the girls, come back for lunch—when Days Of Our Lives aired—and then return to the great wide open.

Our neighborhood was teeming with adventure.

Further down the block from Nikki and my homes and across the road from Adriana’s, separated by a creek full of crawfish—the same creek our father would warn us about La Llorona drowning us in if we got too close—was an old cemetery. We would ride our bikes up and down its winding roads, breathless and panting, fueled by curiosity and the kind of fear that felt simultaneously exciting and dangerous. Ultimately, we would get too spooked by something we most likely imagined to go any further, shriek our heads off, and vow never to return. 

Our vows never lasted more than a couple of days. 

There was the park with a massive circle of swings facing each other and the gnarliest slide so slippery you felt as if you were gambling with your 11-year-old life every time you pushed off the top directly across the street from my house. Some days, we pooled our change to buy cheeseburgers, fried okra, and grape soda from Harold’s Prize Package, which had the best burgers in town, or stalked the neighborhood for the ice cream truck. I loved the slushies with the bubble gum ball at the bottom and the baseball mitt with a bubble gum baseball in the center. Two treats in one! 

We often congregated on one of our porches, listening to music whilst discussing our girlhood dreams and ardent desires. Those simple days of connection and laughter carried me through my grief that summer.

There was an ease to life that I had never known before. 

It was the kind of innocent fun and unabashed joy I had fantasized about for years behind the crushing fortress walls of my home, and I was stunned by its proximity when I could finally grasp it in my own hands. 

It was everything I dreamt it could be and remains one of the best summers of my life.

A divine, sacred gift after such a disastrous turn of events. 

My love and gratitude for Towanda pulsed the loudest on quiet rides alone. Pedaling as fast as I could with air whipping across my face and through my long, tangled hair, with my head held high to the sky, I would breathe freedom in with the deepest inhale followed by a long exhale of relief.

This was living!

I was alive!

On Towanda, I was Jenovia, the explorer.

Jenovia, the swift.

Jenovia, the sovereign.

Jenovia, the free.

I was a girl with choices, places to go, and people to see.

All made possible by the faithful steed of Towanda Ximena Josefina Bartholomew Webb.

She transported me to feelings unknown and sites unseen, taught me benevolent fear and true adventure, and was the author of my forever promise to myself: I would never be held captive again, not by fear and most definitely not by another man. 

Then, now, and always, she remains one of the greatest loves of my life.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Towanda.

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Here is this week’s Caught In My Web 🕸️

🕸️ Luther: Never Too Much. This documentary about Luther Vandross was exceptional!!! We laughed! We cried! I want to watch it all over again. Never Too Much is one of the greatest songs of all time and will be played at least 5 times at my wedding.

🕸️ Seeing so many people quitting drinking is fascinating, and I couldn’t love it more. I took my last sip of alcohol in 2019 during High tea at The Peninsula in Los Angeles. I remember raising the champagne flute to my lips, thinking one sip wouldn’t hurt. Oh, how wrong I was. My body has a tough time producing the enzyme that breaks alcohol down, which has become worse as I’ve grown older. Now, I get deathly ill if/when I drink. That one sip was followed by body aches and nausea for two days after. I decided then and there, never again. I don’t use the word sober to explain that I don’t drink alcohol, and teetotaler is out of the question. I’ve found sober implies addiction for most people. It feels like receiving false credit for something deeply commendable. I never particularly liked alcohol and have not missed it one bit since stopping completely. It was as easy as flipping a light switch because my body revolted against it. I wished I would have quit sooner.

🕸️ The Phony Negroni at Lucia Alimentari is probably my favorite non-alcoholic cocktail right now when away from home, which is funny because I never liked real Negronis. Anything paired with Ghia is great, especially ginger beer and muddled rosemary. Joe is also a whiz at making delicious drinks at home! It’s easier than you think and your skin/body will thank you for it.

🕸️ After my husband left me, I paid $70 for an AI boyfriend. Whoa. Glad she got some comfort and also, WHAT?!

🕸️ What drew these 1,300 perfect circles on the sea floor? We may finally know.

🕸️ If you read New York Magazine, sign this.

🕸️ How to Protect Your Eyes While Staring at a Screen All Day.

🕸️ Dark Matter on Apple TV! I was sad when this ended. There were some plot lines that were head scratching but it only made me love it more. If you love time travel and what ifs, this show is for you.

🕸️ Michael Shannon is trying to cultivate detachment.

🕸️ White Lotus returns on my birthday! February 16th!

🕸️ Netflix won the streaming wars, and we’re all about to pay for it. We canceled our Netflix. $24.99 for one streaming service is absurd. I’d rather read a book.

🕸️ “You’re Food and Drink to Me.” A Letter From Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. If you want to read a whole book about their love affair, Henry and June: From “A Journal Of Love”-The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin remains one of my favorite reads of real life romance and desire.

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!
Wishing you all the flowers, treats, and love letters your heart desires! 💌💋

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What Has Been Caught In Your Web 🕸️This Week?

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Love always,

Jenovia

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