Awkwardly Social

I had to drive up La Cienega between Beverly and 3rd and I’ve been on this street so many times before but not this specific turn from 3rd onto La Cienega, sit in traffic, look at Border’s… Wait a second, Border’s is gone!?  And I know the lesson we all learned from You’ve Got Mail was that big bookstores are evil and killing small businesses but, um, now they’re all gone too and where do you go to just tool around and look at books?  The library has its charms but my local branch certainly isn’t designed to get a person dreaming about what I’m going to read next.  Between the crazies earnestly studying up on their back issues of Survival of the Gunniest, and the teenagers using it as a safe place to hang while they avoid their own homes, it’s just not browsy in there. Maybe it’s just because I know I’m merely borrowing the books, not rescuing them from a life of languishing next to a celebrity attempt at YA, or maybe it’s pure consumerism, but I LOVED big ass book stores.  I *soft voice* began to love them more than libraries.

Sure, libraries hold a special place in my heart.  I spent many summer days trying to check out the smuttiest romance novels without having the mean librarian tell me I was browsing the wrong shelves.  Now I spend a lot of time browsing the YA section hoping people won’t think I’m sort of slow and not exactly reaching for new heights in my literary education.

We have a local, small, cute book store on Larchmont, walking distance from the house, but it’s tiny.  I love it but there was something about being in a giant place filled with books that made my heart pitter pat.

The La Cienega Borders is a Chase bank now, and as I drove by I got a little something in my eye.  I mean, who cries over a lost corporate giant with a bad business model?  Not me, that’s for sure.  *ahem*

So, after my barfing Monday morning, there was some groaning and leaving work early and lying about, all accompanied by what I assumed was a raging UTI.  After some calls to various doctors, an antibiotic was prescribed and I took to my bed.  With your niggling thoughts of pregnancy dancing in my head.

I remembered that my sister once had a UTI whilst* pregnant, and that of course, made me think that, oh-ho, I MUST be pregnant.  Because UTI’s are a symptom of pregnancy.  Because my sister once had one concurrently.  This is how retarded I am.

Two days later I was still in agony, so much so I wasn’t able to go running for two days straight.  Some might think that was a convenient way for me to puss out of running, but those people are only partly right.  See, if I don’t run, I don’t sleep.  And guess who gets crazy if she doesn’t sleep!  Ding, ding, ding.  That’s right, this girl.  So after some haranguing by Seth, I called Callie (at her new office, which, I assumed would be a logistical nightmare which is why I didn’t want to call her, which is because I’m extra phone averse when I’ve got a double dose of the no-sleep-crazies) and she fit me in today.

First of all, this is a woman I’ve only seen twice now.  But she’s so extremely huggable-looking, I wanted to cuddle up with her and take a little nap in her lap.  Don’t mind me that’s just the crazy talking.  Sort of.  But I resisted and just undressed below the waist for her.  (She asked me to!  And I left my socks on.)   They tested my urine, and it was totally clear, Also, I’m a clean catch champion.  The nurse started to explain what clean catch was and I was all, stop right there, sister, save your breath, I know how to clean catch!  She smiled.  Weakly.  So, Callie rooted around in there and see if there was something else going on, like, I don’t know A BABY and took a slide from the baby making region and it too, was totally clear.  There was nary a baby or bacteria to be found.

Basically, I have nothing.  Except phantom pain that keeps me from running which keeps me from sleeping which keeps me from being a normal human being.

I have a shrink appointment on Saturday.

*Who was it that hates it when people use whilst, was it you Schmutzie?  If it was you, I’m kind of sorry, but I have an excuse!  I’m tired!  And while seems so boring when one is tired.

“When do you do this recording stuff?”

“Sometimes when you’re in the other room, I quickly set the Tivo and change it back to CNN before you come back.”

“What is this show?”

“Grey’s Anatomy.”

“This is the one with the dude who got in a fight with Patrick Shitfuck.”

“Yeah.  We don’t have to watch it.  I can watch CNN.”

“No, it’s cool.  It’s like watching a music video.”

Three episodes later, I’m sobbing and he’s petting my hair.

“Is that the last one?  There aren’t anymore recorded?”

“There’s one more.  But we don’t have to watch it, I know it’s terrible.”

“NO!  I want to see what happens with this whole Denny the ghost thing.  I’m intrigued.  And I like that short, black doctor.  Also the other lady.  They seem interesting.”

“Are you serious?  You’re telling me you like Grey’s Anatomy?”

“I think it might be the best thing we’ve watched.”

Where did I find this man?  This man with the hatred of almost all things mainstream?  Where did he come from, and why does he like Grey’s Anatomy?  And why is Callie a lesbian now?  I’m so confused.

My dad had personalized license plates when we were kids.   Let me stop for a moment and tell you that I hate personalized license plates.  I find them irritating, usually because I can’t figure them out.  And to me, if you’re going to put an inside joke on your car, and your car is something stupid like a Corvette, I’m going to think you’re a douchebag.  I know this is irrational.  I can’t help it. If you’re reading this, and you drive a Corvette with a personalized license plate that only you and four people are in on the joke, I’m sort of sorry that I’m picking on you.  But not really.  I mean, what is wrong with you?  R U LAM?

Back to my dad, he’s a C.P.A. and thought it would be funny to have plates that boiled down his profession to its essence.  C.P.A.s have questionable taste in jokes.  I remember when he drove his little mid-life-crisis-BMW home with the 4M FLLR plate on, my sister’s best friend said, “Oh, that’s cute!  For my feller!  Wait, your mom bought that car for your dad?”  No, that would be Form Filler.  Because of the taxes.  You know.  With the forms…  You might be surprised to hear that my dad also likes puns, one-liners, and Car Talk.

I surprised myself this morning when I gleefully filled out three forms, two for insurance claims and one for a rebate!  And I thought to myself, “For my feller, indeed!”  And then I told Seth to gather up his pending forms that needed to be filled out and that I would do them for him tomorrow.

I can’t be completely sure, because of the whole Republican/Democrat/complete disconnect politically with my father, but I guess there are signs that we might be related.

DADSGRL

I used to love that Hair song, Age of Aquarius, when I was a kid.  Mostly because at that time I was under the mistaken impression that I was an Aquarius and that it somehow had something to do with me, not free love.

I don’t read my horoscope very often (horrorscope) because sometimes I’d rather not know I’m going to be experiencing financial strife, or my relationships will be rocky.   Thanks, planets, I’ll just be over here waiting for you to get back in line for me, fucking someone else for a few weeks.

But I couldn’t help myself this afternoon.  I blame the detox tea I’m drinking.  It’s making me feel like singing “White Boys/Black Boys,” and “The Flesh Failures.” (And also, “Sodomy,” but that’s a different story.)  So I looked up my monthly horoscope and it had this to say:

With the ruler of your twelfth house and the ruler of your third house aligned, some of you will be writing or otherwise communicating your more personal thoughts and feelings, perhaps focusing on the past or more private material. You are considerably more intuitive this year. Your mind often runs along moneymaking ideas and anything that has to do with communicating ideas. Writing and teaching could add to your personal income this year. In general, you have more faith in your ability to make money in 2009, regardless of the current state of the economy! This attitude can certainly bring rewards to you, but you should also be cautious about becoming too starry-eyed about finances–keep it real and avoid jumping into moneymaking schemes without first considering the facts.

Yay.  This is all true and good and thank god they didn’t say this month would finally ruin me financially.  There’s even a hint at something very close to home in there career wise, so wow.

I’m sure they’ll get back to fucking me next month.

A sick feeling washed over me, all the blood rushed from my face and out of nowhere I felt completely insecure about my relationship and was absolutely sure it would be over in a couple of days and I would be out on the street with a stupid little dog, living in my car, unloved and unwanted.  Ah, homelessness fantasies, how I didn’t miss you…

Since we strive to be honest in our relationship, I immediately e-mailed Seth and told him I was flipping out.  He responded saying all the right things and I felt better.  Then I felt awesome.  Then I felt like shit again.  It was a roller coaster of an afternoon.

I got home at 9PM, pulled myself together and we went for a run, which started with a lot of complaining, hemming, hawing, and ended in feelings of badassery.  There is something about sprinting to a finish line while your boyfriend watches you disappear ahead of you that really makes a girl feel like a rock star.

I went to bed feeling like things were good and boy did my subconscious reward me.  I had this ridiculous summer camp dream about all the boys being completely in love with me and trying to hug me inappropriately and I would push them away with a laugh and hold up my be-ringed hand saying, “I have a boyfriend!” and wow, I let it go on for so long, this boys being all excited about me and me being all “he put a ring on it” that I managed to turn my alarm off and sleep right up to the moment I’m normally getting in my car and pulling out of the driveway.  It was not awesome.

Thankfully, Obama was in town this morning so at least there wasn’t any traffic.  Oh wait… they closed the freeway pushing all of that traffic onto Olympic and they closed all of Century City!  Guess how I get to work in the morning!  I take Olympic through Century City!  Thank you, semi-non-dirty dreams about camp and also thank YOU, Obama!  You truly made my morning interesting.

Mr. F has two plexiglass tables. I believe they are from the 80s. I hate them. But he knows that. That’s not what this is about.

I call them the pyrex tables. This makes him laugh every time. I can never remember what the word is, and pyrex is pretty close to plexiglass in my head word catalogue.

For a really long time, maybe until this moment, I could never think of the word used when a team really fucks up and performs way under expectations. I always come up with “bust” first. Then I try to use it in a sentence and it’s wrong. “The Phoenix Suns really busted when they played the Chicago Bulls.” “Our Varsity boys basketball team always busted in the playoffs.” The word I used to always have to look for was “choke.”

Sometimes when I’m writing I just type without looking at what I’ve written, and I’ll go back and I’ll have written words close to the word I was thinking about, similarly sounding but wrong.  Just now, in the above paragraph, instead of team, I wrote time.  Maybe I have early onset Alzheimer’s.  Or maybe I’m having mini-strokes.  Maybe this is all normal.

I wish I could see the word catalogue in my head and figure out why some pathways are always busted, and why plexiglass and pyrex are always next to each other, virtually interchangeable. I wish there was a way to put imagery to the vast expanse of neurons and cells that somehow come up with words and language and make me stutter when I’m trying to remember that Jarrod is Jarrod and not Jordan.

I guess I just wish I could see the backstage area of my brain, the kitchen, the editing room, the “making of Tamara’s thoughts” documentary. If that doesn’t separate me from my semi-retarded dog who believes any small thing that moves is asking to be chased, I don’t know what does.

Sunset Junction is this weekend, which marks the fourth anniversary of the beginning of the Louie time period. I’m not going to the street festival this year because, a - I am kind of against large crowds at the moment and b - the bands always kind of sound like shit anyway, c - I’ve already seen The Black Keys (with Louie) and d - live music isn’t really my thing, throw in a bunch of people who don’t live on the East Side but think it’s ‘cool’ and I’m out. The festival always marks the end of summer for me, so that’s… I was going to say good, but it’s not the word I’m looking for, seasonal? Reassuring? I guess I always like summer to end. As much as I love the tank tops I’m always kind of happy for t-shirts. (haha! I live in So-Cal, I don’t have to wear fall clothes!)

Last week I spent a night at my place for a change, and when I walked in I was overpowered by the stench of rot. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t the dog, there was a possibility it was either the garbage or the dead goldfish that had been stewing in it’s bowl for a week and a half, or that I really was dead, and my corpse was so rotten that my ghost could smell it.

Instead of doing the normal thing and taking out the trash and getting rid of the dead gold fish, I went to bed with the windows open and a sheet over my face. I woke up periodically throughout the night thinking to myself, “Wow, it really still smells in here.” Which led to anxiety dreams of how I could possibly manage to take out the trash and empty the gold fish bowl. Here’s how my dreams would go. I would be standing in the kitchen, tying up the bag of garbage from under the sink, I would take that down to the trash. Then I would scoop out the dead gold fish, but not be able to put it in the trash because I had already taken the trash out. And so I would stand there with a dead gold fish dripping dead gold fish juice on the floor.

I’m not really sure what that all means, but in the morning I took out the trash, then I scooped out the dead gold fish, and was standing there holding the dead gold fish in the net trying to put a new bag in the garbage can while it dripped dead gold fish juice on the floor and I got really irritated with myself about how my dream warned me about this very situation and I just did it anyway. I am really dumb sometimes.  Also, listen to your dreams!

And then I ran over a pigeon. It did that stupid suicidal thing where it just didn’t fly away so I just ran right over it. I mean, there are a lot of things I will swerve for, pigeons aren’t fucking one of them. I looked into my rear view mirror and I didn’t see it, but I had definitely heard a slight thwack when it went under. So I was a little confused about where the fuck the stupid thing went. But two seconds later I forgot about it. Because pigeons are not something I worry about. I could give a fuck.

As I was walking Lula that night, I saw a pigeon carcass all the way on the grass. It was in the same area of my pigeon hit and run so I assumed it was the same dumbass bird. But this pigeon had no head. So I either decapitated the pigeon and it ‘chicken-with-its-head-cut-off-ed’ all the way to the grass, or I stunned the pigeon and one of the local pain-in-my-ass dogs that run lose even though they have owners picked it up and ate it’s head off. I’m not sure which story I’d rather believe.

The pigeon’s body remains unclaimed.

This is what happens when I get on iChat and talk to my old friend, Hector. If this is not funny to you, you might need to participate in a rousing game of “The Barbarian Horde,” a game Hector and I would play on the bridge outside film school much to everyone’s dismay.

Hector: this guy is the cat’s pajamas!
Me: he’s the bees knees

Me: the bat’s sonar system
wait…
is that one of ‘em?

Hector: yes
also ‘the whale’s song’

Me: awww
the elephant’s tale

Hector: the rhino’s spleen
Me: the badger’s lisp
Hector: the brontasurus’ molars
Me: the alligator’s eggs
the swamp’s gas

Hector: the dragonfly’s arms
Me: the cockroach’s anntanae

Hector: the crocodile’s throat
Me: the snake’s tuxedo
Hector: the turtle’s knuckle
Me: the unicorn’s tears
Hector: the hippo’s lone hair follicle
Me: the giraffe’s stillettos
Hector: the beaver’s breath
Me: the coyote’s cigar
Hector: the wolf’s ear canal
Me: the puma’s pumas
Hector: the stork’s brain
Me: the cockatiel’s ring finger
Hector: the clam’s hand
Me: the sparrow’s dagger
Hector: the lemming’s waist
Me: the playtypus’s humility
Hector: the stoat’s youthful exuberance
Me: The goat’s cornea
Hector: the octopus pustule
Me: the parrot’s vagina
Hector: the boar’s diaphragm
Me: the lion’s paw pad
Hector: the cheetah’s wind

Me: the jackal’s onesie
Hector: the ferret’s femur
Me: the caribou’s capillary
Hector: the baby bird’s leg
Me: the hamster’s comforter
Hector: the bear’s neck
Me: the cougar’s hindquarters
Hector: the great white shark’s stare
Me: the blow fish’s pocket watch
Hector: the canadian goose’s nasal passage
Me: the swan’s reflection
Hector: the eagle’s purse strings
Me: the polar bear’s pinkie
Hector: the penguin’s sternum
Me: the sturgeon’s general warning
Hector: the falcon’s overdue books
Me: the rottweiler’s bruised ego
Hector: the kitty kat’s spawn
Me: the race horse’s jockey
Hector: the antelope’s second wife
Me: the orangatan’s psychiatrist
Hector: the jellyfish’s former best friend
Me: the spider monkey’s mother-in-law
Hector: the ant’s cousin’s aunt
Me: the mollusk’s daughter’s teacher’s band
Hector: the frog’s hypothalumus gland
Me: the barn owl’s crate of figs
Hector: the rodent’s indifference
Me: the sand piper’s broken wing
Hector: the coral’s lost dreams
Me: the fruit fly’s shortened life expectancy
Hector: the crane’s eyelashes
Me: the salmon’s row of decorative blue glass bottles

Hector: the chicken’s failed attempts at flight
Me: the garden snake’s fur coat
Hector: the kangaroo’s botched plans

Me: the pterydactal’s daughter out of wedlock
Hector: the sabre toothed tiger’s normal, less threatening teeth

Me: ohmygod, that one WINS! you win it!!!!!!!!!!!

My computer would like to say something to you:

Dear People of the Internet:

01001001001000000100110001001111010101…

Love,

MacBook