Awkwardly Social

A couple of days ago marked the anniversary of bringing a little black dog into my life. She and I have been through a lot in the last couple of months and I have to say, having her around has made everything a little harder and a little easier.

In this photo she’s just about to mouth off to me. It’s adorable and annoying. I want to snuggle her and shush her.

When I get home from work I have her hop onto the bed so I can put her leash on without having to bend over. (Wow, writing it out like that makes me seem really lazy. Hahaha. “Seem.”) And if I’m lucky, she puts her paws on my shoulders and huffs into my face. I think she’s probably saying, “Thank the gods woman, I really need to take a piss.” But maybe she’s saying, “Thank you for rescuing me. I like what you did with your hair. Maybe we should cook some bacon tonight, you look really pretty when you cook bacon.”

I wore this sad little hand-me-down training bra from grade 5 until probably my freshman year of high school. It was the kind that had two little flat triangles of fabric semi-crossed over each other at the point where their angles met. I stole it from my sister’s underwear drawer and wore it secretly. I thought if I wore it dutifully and without permission, my boobs would grow in and a fairy godmother would take care of the rest. I seriously couldn’t imagine my brusque hippie mother taking me into Dillard’s bra department holding up option after option of new less-yellowed-with-age training bras. I didn’t want to hear, “What about this one, with the eyelet lace,” while the old ladies and the college girls stood judging me for buying a bra before it was absolutely necessary. As if I would be keeping a training bra out of some girl’s needy hands because I had the audacity to wear one, before I ever jiggled.

I would lay in the bathtub at night and look down at my sad little flat chest, marking the way the water just blithely lapped over my nipples like they were a sandy lake shore, no obstacles in sight. My hair would form a fan around them, and I imagined I was Lady Godiva, except boobless, and how disappointed the crowd would be to see me glide by naked and uninteresting on my dun Quarter Horse.

I was sitting on the high jump mat, trying to catch a glimpse of Josh and Joe, the high school boys I was so terribly in love with it hurt, and saw Shelly in the distance. She was doing her laps at track practice and she was running like a girl. Her arms were squeezed into her chest and her stride was all off. She was a seasoned track member and a great athlete, but she looked like she had never run a step before in her life. Her male coach called out to her, “Shelly, what the hell are you doing? Why are you running like that?”

She yelled back for the whole track team to hear, “I forgot my stupid sports bra and I’m in serious pain.”

Shelly was a D-Cup.

“Can’t you tape them or something?”

“No, Coach, I can’t TAPE THEM.”

“Well, just hold them up like that, I guess.”

I was mortified. She wasn’t.

It was a summer day about a week before school was set to start. I was going to be a freshman in high school. My sister let me tag along with her to the weight room because… I don’t know why, I guess she liked to embarrass me in public? I’m sure everyone in the gym that day still remembers my sister looking at me, prone on the bench press machine, announcing to the world that her baby sister was the proud owner of a pair of boobies. She called over her best friend Cassie, and half the senior class to take a look, the male half. I have an exaggerated sense of importance, so it could only be me that remembers that horrifying moment marking my passage from Tavia’s little flat-chested sister to Tavia’s little breast-budletted sister, nevertheless, it happened. I grew boobs.

To this day, even though I think they’d be a little more convenient if they were just a touch smaller, I have never had a childhood wish come so completely and perfectly true. Thank you, Jesus, for the boobs. They have come in handy.

It wasn’t romantic or sexy. It was a sad cliché slapped on top of a boring teenage sob story. And there I was, in the McDonald’s bathroom, snorting crystal meth off the back of the toilet.

I had a party to go to that night. I knew the boy that had broken my heart was going to be there, and he would be nice to me but distant and I knew if I got drunk I would still be the same person, but if I did drugs, if I did crystal meth, I would be different. And I wanted him to prove to him that I was different. That I Had. Moved. On. And the thing that I had moved on to was something so much bigger than him. And better. And I was better.

June and Emma were my best friends in the world that summer. I could feel them slipping away. They had been acting strangely, disappearing into bathrooms, leaving parties and coming back like they had just shared the best secret. I asked them what was going on and they would tell me not to worry about it. “God, it’s nothing, stop being so crazy.” They would say it really fast.

We were sitting in McDonald’s that summer night waiting for Emma’s boyfriend to get off work. Emma didn’t want to go to the party because she hated everyone. June didn’t care where we went as long as it involved drinking and having fun and not watching The Doors for the 50 millionth time. I told them I wanted to go because I figured he would be there. That’s when they told me that while he was definitely going to be there, he was going to be there with someone else.

“He’s been with her since you left for camp.”

“Since before, actually.”

Every muscle in my abdomen was knotted up. All the blood in my body had mysteriously disappeared and been replaced by air. I would have cried, but I couldn’t figure out where my feelings went. I was absent from the room. My body was there, but the rest of me was somewhere else. June and Emma told me to come with them to the bathroom, they had something to tell me.

We walked into the bathroom and they locked the door. June hopped up on the sink and swang her long legs back and forth. She was wearing cut off jeans. She was a gazelle.

Emma stood at the mirror and looked at her perfect bangs and eyelashes. Her pale skin was flawless and her brown hair so straight.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Do what?”

I couldn’t imagine what they had in store.

“It’s crystal.”

Emma held up a tiny bag with dusty yellow smudges and wicked looking clumps.

“What’s crystal?”

“Crystal meth.”

I looked at June. She was staring at me.

“I don’t want to shoot up.”

June burst out laughing. Her laugh was infectious. It felt like a playful tug on your pony tail. She hopped off the sink and hugged me.

“Don’t worry, dude, we just snort it.”

“Do you want to do a line?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how.”

“We’ll show you.”

Of all the things we do as humans, of all our rituals and addictions - the uncorking of a bottle of wine, the crackle of tobacco when lighting a cigarette, the long stretched out moment before a man puts his hand on your neck and pulls you in for that first kiss - nothing quite compares to the way it feels to prepare a line and feel it go up your nose and burn a path down your throat.

I became that ritual and it became me. I still catch a whiff of the familiar smell every now and then when I open my glove box. It is my phantom leg, my dead spouse, the imaginary friend who felt so real.

So that night, I did a line and saw the boy. I tried to make him realize that he had made a mistake. That he was missing out on all this - spreading my arms out wide - but he didn’t care. And I got hooked on the feeling. The feeling that I didn’t care that he didn’t care.

So it began.

I don’t know how alcoholics do it. This morning at 4am when I woke up and felt like I had been hit in the face with a pillow case full of rocks, I wondered what my body was trying to tell me. It could be that my intuition woke me up to tell me my car was getting mangled on the street, or that my liver was having a hard time understanding why I needed that last glass of champagne, or the portion of my brain that’s responsible for remembering things was having trouble remembering things so it was reminding me that there were some things that I needed to remember but it needed a little help and could I just think for a moment about those forgotten things.

Friday night, as I mentioned, I went back to the bar with the bartender and spent the entire dinner that was supposed to be about Allie’s trip to Ireland talking about myself. I don’t know what to say other than I really think this whole celibacy thing is going to end badly. For me. Because my friends are going to kill me.

Saturday I spent the afternoon working with Tara and a guy who gave me his number three years ago sat down next to us, and proceeded to make me think he might be the definition of a Hollywood douchebag, and when he left he gave me his number again. Tara thought I should call him. She thinks it’s a message from the universe that he found me three years later and gave me the exact same line. I told her the universe better keep it’s fucking mouth shut if it’s going to use language like that.

Sunday was spent trying to rally from the cheap chardonnay and expensive Sancerre hangover I had somehow managed to give myself despite the copious water drinking and the 4 glasses of wine spread out over 6 hours. I think not eating had something to do with it. The anorexia diet is hit or miss. I arrived at Catherine’s for the Easter extravaganza feeling a little depressed and bad about myself but was pleasantly surprised that Jonah was in town for a visit. I forgot how much fun it is to have awkward moments with him. The rest of the evening was spent hearing Hollywood insider stories from someone whose path has crossed the path I’m currently on in ways that can only be talked about if I talk about what I do for a living and since I don’t, you’ll just have to trust me that LA is a small, small, very small town.

It was a beautiful weekend, hot and clear and full of the kind of random moments I imagined when I was a 20-something speeding by the I-10 exit for Los Angeles wishing I could just turn the wheel and head west. I spend so much time now trying to convince myself that I love LA, and then the city kisses me on the cheek with a full weekend of happy coincidences and meaningful glances, and I wonder how it keeps moving and how I ever got so lucky to be caught up in the flow. And I realize that I don’t have to remind myself to love the city anymore, I just love it.

A girl has to be careful about interpreting every move, every glance as something directed at her, for her.   But I’m guessing that someone coming around to the other side of the bar to wrap your pitiful knee in ice is not in the job description.

I brought my own ziploc.

He took care of the rest.

My sister turns the big three five today. Which means she’s been putting up with me for 32 years. In honor of this momentous occasion, I have uploaded a series of pictures of the two of us for your delight and our embarrassment.

Like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives. /sap

This one is my favorite because I can kind of hear my parents off screen telling my sister to move closer to me. I can’t figure out what exactly I’m wearing, especially since it seems like we’re at Tuzigoot, which is not exactly the place you want to be wearing an ill fitting sun dress, socks and clogs. I don’t blame her for not wanting to stand close.

Here are a couple to wet your appetite for the awkward years.

And finally, conclusive proof that we were indeed a little bit white trash.

Happy birthday, Tavia. I hope to embarrass you for at least another 35 years.

Her English wasn’t great, but I could totally understand her.  I couldn’t understand why she thought the down button would bring us to the upper level of the parking garage.  I guess she thought because the numbers were smaller as we went up, it was more like going down.  Learning a second language is hard, but learning about elevator logic is definitely harder.

I was running full speed to make the light so when I passed him I barely even gave a sideways glance, it amazes me that I heard the whole sentence, “Do you believe in reincarnation?  Because I want to be your cow.”  I have no idea what it means, but I thought it was hilarious and giggled for the next couple of blocks.

Her vicious dog happened to be a pit bull, she refused to shorten his leash and let him growl and bark menacingly at Lula.  I shortened Lula’s leash so much that I was practically choking her so we could get by without the pit bull catching a piece of her.  I will never understand why people think it’s OK to let their dogs lunge at the end of a too long leash without so much as a correction.

I sat down to tell you how I don’t know what has gotten into me lately with the drinking and the eating and smoking (I know! I know! two years down the toilet.  Never fear I only do it when I drink… oops), but then I realized that I know exactly what has gotten into me.  I’m a little sad.  Not weepy or maudlin, but kind of rocking back and forth between the sink is full of dirty dishes and the up late cleaning and organizing and worrying about the sink being full of dishes and they all appear to be wine related.

To top it off I got my cell phone bill.  Rather, I saw the amount my cell phone company auto-deducted from my checking account and I had a minor moment of terror.  The money is still gone.  It was rightfully deleted from my account (thank god for that Oscar bonus) but yeah, that’s going to put the final nail in the coffin of my trip to Mexico and Belize.  I really couldn’t afford it anyway, but I was imagining how nice it would be to stick my feet in that white sand and listen to that Caribbean breeze rustle the palm fronds.  Oops!  Now I’m weepy.  That did it.  So, I’m not going.  I will probably use that miles ticket to pop in on Kristin (who has generously offered her guest room), because Canada is almost exactly like Mexico right?  Just to the north instead of the south.  I just have to figure out if I want to put Lula through a kennel stay and for how long.

The upside of all of this stupid overwhelming blergh is that I haven’t been peeking (not even once!) at you know who’s page of you know whats.  So I think it’s finally the end of that.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  Anybody have a cookie?  And a brownie?  And maybe a plate of cheese?  And are you eating that donut?  Or that one?  And can I get some macaroni & cheese on the side?

Speaking of macaroni and cheese, when Louie abruptly moved out and took all of his stuff with him he left several half empty boxes of cereal and about 10 boxes of Kraft Mac and Cheese.  I piled them on the book shelf I didn’t want to have to deal with (which now sits nicely against my wall and holds almost every one of my books) and told him that he had left “some shit and he better come pick it the fuck up.”  I wish I could have seen his face when he saw the all those boxes of stupid cereal that had been languishing in the cupboard. His look probably wasn’t as satisfying as I wish it was.  When I came home that night all the stupid cereal boxes and the macaroni and cheese were gone, but the big bookshelf of doom remained.  That stupid bookshelf (the Expedit from IKEA) was a pain in my movers’ asses, and might be about to fall apart at any minute, but now that I have it full of my books and used as a place to put my tchotkes I don’t really even think of it as something we bought together.

That is, until Catherine and I went to IKEA this weekend.  Holy giant memory of picking that out.

So.

Here I am, drinking a non-fat latte, wishing I had a cigarette I could smoke and hoping this wave passes soon, because I have some serious shit to get done these next couple of weeks and I won’t be able to do them if I’m constantly being consumed by my need to consume.

Anybody have a bowl of mixed nuts?  Or just a jar of peanut butter?  Maybe a glass of wine?  Just give me the bottle.

The bartender. Oh, the bartender. On the one hand, it’s their job to treat you like the prettiest girl at the bar. But on the other hand.

I just sat here for a second thinking what could possibly be on the other hand. Still stumped.

I will say this, there’s nothing sexier than a man who knows about wine. Actually, there are a lot of things sexier I’m sure, but after dating a man who can’t tell the difference between a glass of grape juice and a half-way decent cab, it was refreshing to have someone drink a glass of wine with us and know what he was talking about. He had soft hands.

I always have the best time at that wine bar. We met Matt, a man who was eager to talk about our respective racks and what we should be doing with them in order to snare a man. Or, I think that’s what was going on, I was too busy making googly eyes at the bartender. He might be reading right now. I gave him the web address. That’s another embarrassing drunk girl thing to do, “HERE’S MY WEBSITE LET ME SHOW YOU IT.” At about that point my $5.00 ring flew off my hand and onto the floor. I spent a few seconds with my ass on the stool and my head down by my feet. I’m flexible when I’m drunk. Single men take note!

I have no clever closing for this, but I wonder what a drunk girl is to do at the end of her night when it’s clear she’s not going home with the bartender. Should she give him her number? Or just awkwardly hug him and stumble out of the bar? I think you can guess which I did.

My friend, Shea, (I think I can call her my friend, if not, ummm… this is awkward) had some questions about lighting. I, the former cinematography teaching assistant that I am, drew her some diagrams. One of the things I maybe felt a little miffed about in my relationship with Louie was that he rarely asked me for technical advice, and when he did ask and I did give answers, he never seemed to… not ‘appreciate’ it… I guess acknowledge that I had given him answers. He usually sort of left the conversation more confused, maybe more frustrated, and definitely not thankful. Which, come to think of it maybe has something to do with the way I gave answers. Hmmm… If I had a therapist, I would totally spend a couple of sessions on it. My dad used to drive me crazy with the way he gave answers to questions, maybe I’ve turned into my dad! Or worse! Now I can’t think of anything worse then the way my dad would give answers!

*cough* Look over there! Yeah! It’s a lizard climbing on the wall! Inside! [Has the subject been effectively changed yet?]

Anyway, I loved being a cinematography TA. Wait, that’s not true. I loved being the person who had the answers, I did not love it when people didn’t use their listening skills and then would fuck up their slides or flash their film load or call me at 10pm on a Friday evening when I was drunk and ask me for the number of Castex. I loved showing people the guts of a 16mm camera, and I loved stringing up 16mm print. And for the time that I was doing it, I loved lighting. Something about having all that power in my hands really made me wet. [Too far?] And I have to say, since we’re talking about me being wet [are you totally uncomfortable?] I have had more set crushes on gaffers and ACs (the guys who pull focus) than any other position. Gaffers because they are generally not as fat and lazy as grips, and ACs because they were always the ones with the most free time to flirt with me.

Shit, I need to get my hands on some motion picture film. And shoot something. It’s been too long.  Film makes me hot!

Here’re my rusty ass drawrings.