Awkwardly Social

Summer has finally arrived in Los Angeles.  This morning as I walked out into the muggy, rain speckled morning, and felt the weight of the air, I flashed to summers spent in the mid-west, playing cards in the basement with my sister and cousin, riding bikes to the corner store to buy pop-rocks and blasting through a huge stack of novels.  I had a special childhood in many ways, a charmed life, I have so many good things to remember and summertime brings it all flooding back.

I felt very sad about not getting pregnant in June.  I was so sure I would.  I boo-hooed about it for a day then I read an article about a study conducted that said women without children are far happier than those with.  Even worse, women with children are the least happy when they are physically with their children.  I’m sure there are about a 100 other studies going on right now to figure out why that is true or if it is untrue, and I can guarantee it has something to do with this new theory I’m forming about the bill of goods sold to women of my generation and (I expect) the generations following.  The bill of goods that says you can have it all, you can be whatever you want, you can find the man of your dreams, you can live the picture perfect life and not only that, if you don’t - if you aren’t all of these things - a mother, a college educated career driven woman, and a wildcat in the sack with your loving devoted husband - you aren’t trying hard enough, and you’re a failure.  Hard to believe women would be unhappy when we’re expected to do all of these things and the men of our generation are promised that we will be all of these things - and they don’t have to do one damned thing different except not open the door for us.  It’s a theory I’m still fleshing out, but when I start to really think about it, I start to really get pissed off.

Mostly though, the past few weeks have been spent trying to respect myself.  I learned something about this in therapy.  I spend a large part of my day finding fault with myself.  The part about therapy that really started to get me down, was that I was expected to wallow in the failures of my upbringing.  Wallow in the ways in which I could blame everyone around me for why I am the way I am.  Why I don’t like being who I am a lot of the time.  I want to be perfect.  I want to be thin, funny, smart, talented, productive, positive and loved.  I’m working on the productive and positive parts.  I can admit I’m smart, I can admit I’m talented, I have been praised for my comedic timing, I believe I’m loved and even though I want to be thin, I can at least recognize that my body dysmorphic disorder is often in overdrive and I’m learning to love my shape.   But I want it all.  I want to be able to do the triathlon - but the fact that I have to skip the swim upsets me.  I won’t be perfect.  I’ll be pussing out for part of it.  I am working on forgiving myself for this.  I’m working on forgiving myself for not taking care of my body while I’ve been nursing my depression and my stress.  But moreover - I’m trying to accept the fact that I’ll likely never look like an athlete/model/actress.  It helps that I get to laugh every day with my friend who sits directly across from me at the work, and my Seth who sleeps next to me.  I’ve started running again, after my injury time off.  My ear was bothering me so much that I didn’t want to get out of bed, much less work my ass off trying to keep up with Seth.  But now I can and it feels so good.  Blazing down beautiful streets at dusk with the dude and the dog I love.

I am a lucky girl.

Every night we sit on our front stoop with Lula between us, watching the Hasidic Jews walk by, drinking a tall glass of ice water and basking in these special days we have here together.   In 25 years I’ll look back and have these to add to my long list of nostalgia.  And I’m so very glad.

I’m reading a slightly embarrassing self-help book for writers called Walking on Alligators.  In it there are daily (hourly?) meditations on writing and strategies on how to get your ass into the chair and write.  One of the strategies is to look at oneself and the demons you keep in your closet and use them.  If there are things you don’t like about yourself, use them in characters.  Build those things into story lines.  Use them in your villains.  Use them in characterizations of your family.  Use everything, good and bad.

I have a lot of bad.  I think if we’re honest we all can find a lot of bad.

My demons are plenty, but mostly I feel like shit physically right now.

I am dealing with a bum ear, and those that know me know I’m a terrible sick person.  I need a cave to hide in and someone to throw medicine and food at me from a safe distance.  I am having a hard time hearing on the left side, thrice daily drops poured into my ear canal, congestion, hives, sleepless nights, and all the while dealing with a new daytime situation that has me commuting to the dreaded valley and sitting at a table made of plastic.  It’s a hard knock life, for us.

So, if you notice a bit of extra angst on these here pages, I will just tell you, I’m working some things out, and this is my safe place.

On the upside, I got to go to the Dodger v. Yankee game tonight, something I had been looking forward to for a while.  And aside from the extra obnoxious vibe of Dodger fans, it was good to be back at the park.

If you watched the Obvious Big Awards Show all the way through to the credits you saw my name. Good for you, kids who watch through to the credits, good for you.  This is the first time I’ve worked on that show while also working in a big office with a lot of people who watch that show and watch the credits to see if they know anyone else who worked on the show.  So I got some text messages and then puzzled looks in the office.  “How exactly did you have time to do that?”  I exactly don’t sleep more than 3 hours a night and weekends are not my own.  That’s how.  So glad it’s over.

Also, I didn’t watch the show.  Not one frame.  Except for the frames I slaved over.  I saw those frames a lot, but the frames that were broadcast in between those frames, I didn’t see.  That’s a first for me.  Lately I’ve been acting too cool for school, like, I’ll wear colored tights, knee high boots, my hair in pig tails, vintage jean jackets, Ray Bans and an attitude that says don’t fuck with me, and it’s carried over into my television watching.  Basically, I’m sort of acting like a hipster.  It’s a total chore and I’m very bored with it.  Sometimes it’s no fun to hate everything.  Anyway, if a show is in prime time, I don’t watch it.  I make exceptions only for Grey’s Anatomy and baseball.  I don’t even know what I’m talking about right now! That’s how hipster I am!  Ironic!

So between moving, going to Vegas with my mom and sister, and working two jobs one of which I recently tried to compare to Shakespeare (I couldn’t actually figure out the comparison, I just muttered something about sisters and a plot to dethrone the king, and everyone thought I was on drugs, that’s how tired I am), I’ve hardly seen Seth, much less had time to get myself knocked up.  So, no baby, which is a shame because I have a lot of eye rolling to do about the joy of motherhood that’s going to have to wait another month, at least.  I have no idea how this whole getting pregnant thing actually works.  I know in theory you’re supposed to have a lot of sex and it’s supposed to be at a certain time of the month, but now that I’m actually trying to get pregnant I feel like that’s very vague.

Ok, back to Shakespeare.

In addition to freelancing this weekend (I will be so happy when people stop dying and/or the Obvious Big Awards Show deadline for death is reached), Seth and I continued our quixotic search for a new place to live.

The requirements are, we thought, not that big a deal, especially since I just recently decided that I don’t care if I live in Silverlake anymore.  I’m not completely sick of it, but I’m pretty close.  A friend of a friend suggested we look downtown, and this friend of a friend got on the phone with me and talked me into it.  She was very persuasive.  I’m glad she wasn’t trying to sell me Amway, I totally would sold my soul.

So I did some Craigslist hunting, got drunk at a downtown diner, and we went open house-ing.

The first place we saw was Penthouse 10.  I immediately fell in love.   It was three stories, open floor plan, had a private rooftop deck that was two stories, it was way below what we are spending now, and it was quite possibly the closest thing I’ve seen in real life to where I imagined fancy rich people who lived in cities would live.  It was that good.  We also looked at Penthouse 8.  Identical to Penthouse 10, except it was 80 square feet smaller and $285 cheaper.  I don’t understand downtown.  I mean, they’re basically giving these places away.

We were discouraged by the lack of parking in the building, so we went down the street to another open house and I almost threw up we were up so high.  I took a picture of the roof of my dream house from the roof of the vomit tower.

Then I slowly backed away from the edge and wiped the sweat off my palms.

We spent two hours in Penthouse 8 and Penthouse 10.  I was sold.  We were approved.  Then we went home and started talking about living downtown and how walking Lula alone at night might be sketchy and how we loved the space but it might not actually be big enough to contain all the shit we’ve both accumulated in our lives.  It was sad.   I might have cried.

Then this morning I told Seth I didn’t care, I wanted to live there and if they would agree to let us move in on the 15th for half month’s rent that month, I wanted to do it.  So, we put in our offer.  And we were shot down.

So, here I am, thinking about that rooftop deck and all the parties I won’t have there.  Whatever.  *sniff*

At least we had sex in there, so we know what that’s like.

I met the ex-wife this weekend.  It was fine.  I was overly smiley and gracious and felt like an idiot every time I talked to her like I was talking to a small child or a distant aging relative.Then I got sick during the graduation ceremony (nerves, morning sickness?) and threw up in my mouth almost not making it to the bathroom.  I had to buy a ginger ale and a bag of pretzels to settle my stomach.  It was kind of gauche to be walking around a test kitchen of amazingly beautiful pastries made by the graduating class, munching on Snyder’s of Hanover mini-twists.

We are staying in an insanely huge room overlooking Lake Michigan, Hermes and Michigan Avenue.  It’s lovely. But the view I’m most interested in is here.  Yeah.  That’s the webcam overlooking my stupid dog.  She’s the big dog in the small dog area.  Poor ol’ Lu, couldn’t handle the large dog area.  She seems fine.  I miss that stupid rat.

We’re off to the art institute, and then some shopping.  I like Chicago.  It’s snowing.

I’ve been unemployed for a week now and I’m sort of reveling in my housewifely duties.  This is odd because I hate doing things like calling people to schedule appointments and going places to drop things off or pick them up.

I’ve scheduled the maid. I’ve dropped the dog off at the groomer.  I’ve called the pest control company to come check that there aren’t any dead rats in the attic.  I’ve taken Seth’s suit to be hemmed and cleaned.  I have the cable company coming to fix up the guest room with cable for the kids.  Called my anxiety prescription refill in, even though I hardly feel anxious.

So… basically, I’ve done absolutely nothing.  I’ve scheduled people to come in and do some things.  Or taken things places to have things done to them.Which, makes being a stay at home non-mom super awesome!  This may come as a surprise, but I didn’t know that the modern housewife in Los  Angeles doesn’t actually do anything, which makes me think I might kind of like this gig…

All that free time to, what?  Um.  Write, I guess?  Work out?  Go to the myriad doctors I have scheduled?  Volunteer?

Um…  I cannot fucking wait to go back to work.

I don’t want to be that annoying girl that’s all, my therapist says…  and in therapy I learned… So, at the risk of only writing about my therapist this, my therapist that, I am writing this.

I had just finished up therapy this afternoon, after some weeping and kleenex shredding, my therapist said, “I hope I didn’t ruin wherever it is you’re going right now.”  And I said, “Oh it’s ok, I have a hair appointment, so I’ll just talk to my other therapist about what you made me talk about today, and she’ll be nice and wash my hair and not make me talk about hard stuff and I definitely won’t cry in her chair.”  He laughed.

So, at my other therapy appointment, for my hair, I was talking about how things were kind of awkward with Seth’s son last time he was here, and that he’s coming into town again, and maybe things were awkward because of the whole Seth and me talking about having a family of our own and I would imagine some kids wouldn’t handle that well.  And I love my hair stylist because she looked at me and smiled, and said, “Oh wow, you’re thinking about having kids?”  And it was probably the most non-judgemental amazing response I’ve ever gotten from someone about my reproductive future.  There was no “Really?  Why the fuck would you do that?” eye-brow of disapproval, there was no “Oh god, not another chick who wants to procreate” smirk of superiority, there was no “You’re going to ruin your life!” nose flare, and there was certainly no “Are you sure you want to do something so hard” head tilt,  just a sweet smile and a happy congratulations for me and my idea of making a family with the person I love most in the world.  And it felt amazing.  I didn’t realize how much that was missing.  And now I know exactly how to respond to anyone else who ever gives news about having children or career or both or neither, just smile and be happy for the person who’s giving you the news.  That’s all they want, and it may be the first time anyone has ever done just that for them.

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.

Yesterday marks the anniversary of the first day of the rest of my life.  Forgive me if you’ve heard this one before, but it’s a story I never want to forget.

I wasn’t completely sure that love was out of the realm of possibility for me, but on that day, I had no idea that I was going to meet the love of my life.  I know that after my break-up and the subsequent dramatic writing that I did here, I became the temporary poster-child for heartbreak.  I still get an e-mail now and again from someone who remembers my story and wants advice on how to stop hurting.  Unfortunately, I don’t know the answer to that, but I do know that the best thing I ever did for myself was be open.  I said yes to everything and everyone and did my best to accept every invitation and show up looking like I wanted to be there whether or not I really did.  And for everyone who’s going through a break-up that’s the best advice I can give.

I like sharing my story because like any modern fairy tale it’s a little less cut-and-dried than “I lost my slipper when my knight woke me from a deep sleep while I was locked in a tower with long hair that was spun out of gold and I lost my voice but my prince rescued me from the dragon and I lived happily ever after” (or whatever).

I was sitting poolside, my feet up on a low table, a rapidly filling ashtray by one foot, a rapidly emptying wine glass by the other, when a guy sat down next to me and introduced himself.  I had never met him before, but I had been told he was going to be there and I had been watching him that day.  He has an easy way about him and I had been watching him for signs of awkwardness, being that he wasn’t a regular member of the group assembled there that day and he showed no sign of being uncomfortable.  So when he said, “I’m Seth,”  I said, “I know who you are.”

Hours later, we had not moved.  We just sat there and we were blown away by the way our lives were connected without ever having met before.  It was already written that we should meet, but if anyone had written it, it would have seemed too convenient, like it was just at service of the convoluted story of Los Angeles at the turn of the new century.  At some point in our conversation we talked about how we should get a drink sometime, and I programmed my number in his phone.   Later, everyone was gone but the host and hostess, and we all sat outside in the dark until it was clear Seth and I needed to go home.

He walked me to my car and we said goodbye.  There was no contact and I don’t particularly remember feeling any electricity, but I do remember watching him walk away down the street.  He has a swagger that comes from his innate coolness, and as I watched him walk away, I had no idea that a year later I would be his partner, but I knew we would have a lot of fun.  I smiled as I drove back to my little apartment and figured he would call or he wouldn’t and I was just going to leave it at that.

He tells me that he felt me behind him as he walked toward his car and that he considered leaning in for a kiss before he left, but that he just went with it and it wasn’t quite right so he didn’t.  And I’m glad he didn’t because I don’t think I was ready then, but a month later when he finally called the number I had programmed in his phone all those days before, I was ready to be kissed.  And how.

So that’s my little story.  It’s not a fairy tale, and the ending is yet to be written, but for me it’s a perfect little anecdote for how simple and easy and complicated and convoluted it can be to meet someone who turns out to be the love of your life.  Now, dust yourself off, put on the outfit that makes you feel like a super hero and say yes.  Your partner could be out there right now.

Two nights ago, I saved a cat from the sewer, I saw two skunks on my walk that Lula was serious about giving what-for, and then past midnight Lula got into a scrap with an animal of unknown origin (it was dark, and I didn’t have my contacts in, raccoon?  cat?  night bird? wraith?).  I think I officially earned my stripes as country girl while I was living in the country, can I have less run-ins with wild life now?  Seriously.

I am in desperate need of a martini tonight, extra olives, best vodka in the house, high high heels and pretty winter coat.  But I have this sneaking suspicion I’m going to get home, throw on my flannel pants and fall asleep in a puddle of drool.  My glamorous LA life is starting to feel like a big fat lie.

I also can’t shake this feeling I’m going to hit a deer on my way home from work.

Send help.

And a bucket of vodka.

Also, an attitude adjustment.