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.

We were waiting for our dangerous garage door of death to make its rickety rise open, when a bug landed on my arm.  I yelped and almost smashed it, but looked down and saw a heavily spotted ladybug.

“Make a wish!”

I did and I’ll let you know if it comes true.

I’ve had a weird weekend.  Fits and starts, naps and late nights, books and movies, tv and radio.  It was a gorgeous day today and now that the Yankee game is over, I can relax or start worrying about not sleeping tonight.   Maybe I’ll do both.

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 have some things to tell you, but I also have a Sangria recipe to track down. Priorities, people!

In the meantime, let me tell you, it’s creepy seeing a mushroom cloud on your horizon.  I’m worried about the ponies firemen, the dogs people who lost their homes, and the morons people who refused to evacuate.  But I’m also worried about normal shit like my sister and my niece are coming into town and will the hurricane currently swooping up Baja make it uncomfortable at Disneyland.

I’m only human.

Now, off to find that recipe.  I’ve got some fruit stewing to do.

On Sunday, I pulled a muscle in my neck trying to be cute while getting out of bed.  That’s the full story.  I feel pretty lame about it.  It still kind of hurts.

There was a weird mail situation wherein someone stole our mail, then returned it to us all opened and crumpled.  I guess they felt bad after seeing my credit card balances.  And my bank statement.  I know I would.  But for a minute I thought it was some kind of blog stalker sending a weird message to me.  That message being, “I know where you live and your mail sucks!  Keep it, asshole!”  Then I realized I was being paranoid.  Also, the biggest expert on threat assessment (I’m too scared of him to even name drop him here) told us that we were being weird and paranoid.  So, there’s that.

The rat is gone.  The exterminator set some traps and sprayed some rat repellent and since then, we’ve been rat free.  Which leads me to believe that the rat saw the writing on the wall and split.  I like to believe this war is over, but rats… man, until you’ve seen one in your own kitchen, you can’t really know how you’re going to react.  Lula on the other hand, is a bonafide rat dog.  Too bad she couldn’t close the deal.

And speaking of Lula, did I tell you she bit an opossum’s butt?  Sort of?  It was more of a love nudge with teeth.  I know general wisdom on possums is that they are ugly, but I’m here to tell you they can look so cute.  Especially when dangling their little asses over our deck and Lula is trying to disembowel them (albeit badly).

Sorry about his paw there.  It’s really disturbing.  Don’t look too close.  I don’t want to alarm you, but it might have human fingers.

How many of you wish you lived in my house now?

I got my car back!  After much hemming and hawing and trying to figure out how to get my car, my plates and return my rental all in one morning, I gave up.  I managed to convince myself that somehow I would be ok without a car.  That just releasing my car into the wild would be better for all involved.  Taking the bus would be far superior!  I overwhelm easy.

Seth swooped in to the rescue.  It’s really quite refreshing to be able to just say, “Look, this series of things that needs to be done is overwhelming me, can I have a xanax?  And will you return my rental car?”  And half a xany and a call to Enterprise later, I’m in my car with a new set of plates, sitting in traffic with no air conditioning.  There was a small part of me that wondered if I could convince my insurance company that the thieves stole my air conditioner out of my car and have them replace it.  Thankfully that small part of me is easily silenced by good sense and the knowledge that I don’t really drive my car that much anyway.  Now and then we’ll take my car if we need to pick up something large (like a BBQ - OMG, we’re getting a BBQ!!!) but mostly we take Seth’s car.  Because we are not fools who drive cars without airconditioning when there are air conditioned cars to be had.

I almost didn’t recognize Affnuf when I saw her.  She looks so adorable and clean.  I can’t believe what a difference a wash makes.  Hi, I’ve had my car for a year and a half and haven’t washed her once!  See also, oil change…

So, this weekend I’ll be getting an oil change, a car alarm and a BBQ.  Or maybe I’ll just sit around and think about how overwhelming all of those three things are and read a book instead.  You just never know!

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.

I get up every morning and immediately let Lula out the front door so she can leave messages in the grass for the aliens. Seriously, why do dogs make it seem like they are doing “Very Important Work” when they are looking for the right place to pee?  Some mornings it cracks me up, other mornings I want to shake her.

This morning I was distracted by a beautiful sunrise.

Which is probably exactly what the dogs and the aliens were hoping for.

Last night I was laying semi-unconscious on the couch, watching Mr. F rearranging boxes so the cleaning crew could access the floor. Lula was on her brand new gigantic bed beside me. Miles was playing on iTunes. And I started to cry.

I have no idea why.

It wasn’t a sad cry.

It wasn’t a tears of joy cry.

I think it was an emotional exhaustion cry.

I had spent 2 hours getting irrationally angry at myself for being such a slob while I cleaned my old apartment. Spent 40 minutes loading the last bits and pieces of my life in 201 into my tiny Honda Civic. Spent 30 minutes unloading my car while Mr. F was on a wild goose chase for nails to fix Lula’s dog door. Spent 30 minutes aimlessly walking around the new house trying to figure out where, exactly, I was going to find my one clean bra. And then when Mr. F walked in the door, spent 20 minutes trying to fight off eating food. I finally lost that battle.  It turns out that when Mr. F asks me if I want food and I say no, he cooks it anyway and puts it in front of me and there I go, eating.  Good man, that Mr. F.

Mr. F asked me why I thought I was feeling emotional. We have lots of these conversations, getting to the bottom of what’s bothering him, what’s bothering me, so things don’t build and fester and create boils and infections. As we talked through it, I realized that I was just a little wistful about the end of that drunk, slutty, rebellious period I went through. I was so completely ready to be done with it, but I think it’s important to say goodbye to those times in your life properly with a little bit of emotion and maybe a few tears. Then, when it’s all said and done and your next phase has started the baggage has been unpacked and fresh starts are all queued up.

This morning I woke up and walked into the living room, and it was like Christmas morning. Out of extreme chaos, Mr. F had made our packed to the gills with boxes house a home. And I can’t wait to get home to him tonight and every night.

Stress is bubbling around the surface.

In the next two weeks I have to rent my apartment, move two apartments into one, and… it seems like there are a few more things that I should add to that list to make you feel the growing panic I feel, but that’s it.  I have to move.  That stresses me out.

The big issue here is my lease.  I’m leaving two months early.  I just spoke to my landlord and apparently if I can find someone to rent the place, I’m good to go.  Know anyone who wants to live in ‘charming Koreatown’?  No really.  If you know anyone who’s looking for a seriously affordable apartment that I’m leaving with a lot of good energy, (unlike the haunted one I left before this one), tell them to e-mail me.

I’d like to say that this move I’ll be better and won’t cart another years worth of stuff over to the new house in boxes that will never be opened, but I cannot guarantee that.  Mostly because, I still have two boxes sitting in the corner of this apartment that I haven’t opened in over two months.  I only opened them 2 months ago to see if I could find my car title.  My car title was in a box of unopened mail I had stashed under my bed 9 months ago.  There were Christmas cards in there.  I have issues.