Awkwardly Social

Daylight savings time is kicking my ass.  I think I haven’t recovered from the binge drinking I did last weekend.  And I feel a bit concerned about the fact that I haven’t felt the need to wash any dishes other than wine glasses and coffee cups.  There is a terrifying list of cravings piling up in the back of my brain including cheese from a jar, Mudslides from TGIFridays and a very extra large pack of Camel Lights.

It’s just March, right?  March is always bad?

To top it off the forecast is for rain this weekend.  I love it when it rains, but if there’s anything that’s going to keep me in my bed it’s going to be rainy days and no cable television.

Speaking of no cable television, I am jonesing for some Top Chef and embarrassingly enough, American Idol.  Maybe that’s why I feel bad.  I have low self esteem because of my horrible taste in television programming?

Calgon, take me away.  But take the spider living in the tub somewhere else, first.

I would say that I’m a pussy, but that is a loaded word and I like to reserve my use of loaded words for when I’m whispering into a man’s ear to make him hard.

Lie! I use loaded words all the time! I like to unload them on you and make you uncomfortable at the posh restaurant we’re eating at with old people sitting too close for comfort. PUSSSAAAAY!

Anyway, I didn’t call the dude last night the way he asked me to. I don’t have doubts about his motives. I seriously think he’s the kind of guy that would just give me a guitar lesson while talking my ear off about his bass clarinet. Also, to make things more confusing for you, he’s short. And I’m not attracted to actors. I guess I want a tall non-actor who I find attractive to teach me to play the guitar. Preferably one who doesn’t play the bass clarinet. Or any clarinet.

So that, my friends, is my story.

What did I do last night, instead? I went for a run. I tip tapped on the computer and I thought about my friend with the foot fetish. There’s money to be made in feet and I might be willing to exploit that. I can’t decide yet the best way to make the precious, precious foot money, but when I do, I’m sure I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe in a book like Diablo Cody’s - except I’ll keep my panties on and take my stripper shoes off.

Let me begin at the beginning.

My best friend in elementary school played the clarinet. When we went around the room in band class deciding which instrument we would play, she shocked me by choosing the clarinet. I chose the flute. I don’t know why I chose the flute, I don’t know why she chose the clarinet. It cracks me up that in a room full of kids who couldn’t care less about any musical style other than pop, we were forced to pick instruments that most had never even heard before. All I know is that between the flute and the clarinet, the clarinet is quite possibly the least sexy instrument I’ve ever seen. Add to that the sucking on the reed and that whole spit nonsense and I really found it repulsive. The even funnier part of this story is I’m pretty sure Jenny picked the alto sax first, but she was told she needed to move to an easier woodwind. Good teaching, teach!

So with that in mind let me tell you about my Sunday.

Tara and I rallied through our hang overs and made it just in time to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market to get some vegetables for her new juice kick. I bought some flowers, honey, cheese and beet spread. Leave it to me to go to a farmer’s market and leave with out a single fruit or vegetable. Afterwards we went to the most ghetto swap meet in the history of ghetto swap meets including the swap meet that is actually held in the ghetto. Guess whose neighborhood this swap meet is in? If you guessed mine, you are a smart lad or lass.

I didn’t take any pictures there because I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself. Also, I didn’t want my camera to be whisked out of my hands and onto someone’s table with a $50.00 price tag and a how-do-you-do. Tara’s big concern was what kind of people buy deoderant from a table full of things like used nails, obviously hot TVs and a pile of dirty t-shirts. People who live in my neighborhood, that’s who!

I did find this pitcher to put my daisies in, so it almost made us feel a little less dirty. Tara, the queen of loving all things ghetto and urban, got zero enjoyment out of this expedition. As we were heading back to my apartment Tara remembered an ice cream shop. I’ve been on a kick of not eating ice cream. I had had some from the “big break-up ice cream for dinner and possibly breakfast binge” I went on shortly after I moved into my new apartment, but other than that, I just don’t eat it. At least not in public. (Wow, eating disorder alert!) But since I’d dragged Tara to the ghetto swap meet and I was feeling a little sun burned and hot, I magically complied.

We found ourselves behind the most annoying vegan couple I have ever laid eyes on. Vegans are not high on my list of people who aren’t annoying, but this couple took the cake. After they swooned around and hugged each other a lot and order 5 pints of vegan ice cream, we finally got to order. Coconut Thai Iced Tea Ice Cream from Scoops is maybe the perfect antidote to ghetto swap meets and annoying vegans. To top it off, an old friend from film school was there and we got to briefly catch up. She was trying to get time off to learn how to climb trees in New York, I am still getting over a break-up three months later.

[Are you wondering about the clarinet story that started this out? I’m getting there!]

Tara and I finally made it back to Echo Park where we worked on a screenplay that’s been haunting us for 4 years. That’s a long time to be haunted by an idea, you might be thinking, but truth be told, it’s kind of a thing that happens to writers who have day jobs and boyfriends and are easily distracted. Anyway, we worked some stuff out, put our heads together and I think we’ve come up with a solution to the problem we were having with it.  We decided with that great break through we needed to eat.

We both kind of were in the mood for a tasty sandwich so we hopped into Tara’s car to go to Alcove.  As we drove down Sunset Boulevard, I saw El Compadre, a restaurant I’ve never eaten at, but wanted to try.  Three margaritas (each) later we decided it might be a good idea to pour ourselves home.  As we walked up Sunset Boulevard we passed by a little cafe that had some people sitting out in front of it.  It’s one of those standard L.A. cafe/coffee shops with big open spaces where doors would be in cold climates and furniture sitting outside.

The men said something like, “Hey, ladies.  How you doing tonight?”  And Tara and I gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.  Then the woman sitting with them told us to sit down and hang out, her friends band was playing.  There was a couch sitting right there and we had no business driving so we sat.

Which is when we were joined by James.  I started to get the feeling that I was on a trip.  You know, when you travel and you just sort of happen upon cafes and meet interesting (possible lunatic) people, but you don’t live there so you just sort of go with it?  That’s how I felt.

James started talking about music and who he had played with and that he was really into the clarinet.  I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud.  I had an image of Jenny sitting with her clarinet in the second row looking like the total band nerd that we were.  He told me that I shouldn’t make fun of it and he disappeared for a minute.

When he came back he was carrying a black case.

“This is my bass clarinet.  I’m really digging it right now.”

He took it out of the case and put it together, the whole time Tara and I are desperately trying to change the subject, to get out of the clarinet business.  I looked over to where his friends had been sitting and they were all inside setting up for the band.  This was going to happen.  We were going to be serenaded by a bass clarinet while sitting on a couch on Sunset Boulevard.  And he played.  And it was fine.  I didn’t explode into nerdy flames and neither did he.  But seriously, no one fucks the clarinetist, do they?

The night went on and his friend Julian came over and sat down next to us.  Julian really had to be somewhere and James was his ride.

I had to be home soon because it was a school night, but James had offered to give me guitar lessons.  I took his number, he took mine.  And normally you would never hear from the clarinet playing guitar teaching Europe loving actor you met on the street while walking to your car again.

He called me yesterday.  I might have a guitar lesson tonight.

Tara, Katie and I closed down the restaurant, and since Tara and I weren’t going home to anyone we decided to go to a bar. Unfortunately, we spent a good 30 minutes of our drinking time trying to find a bar that wasn’t full of Los Feliz losers. I love my old neighborhood, but man is it filled with douchebags. We finally ended up at the Roost, a table magically opened up, and we were left alone until just before last call when the drunk former frat boys now hipsters tried to get us to go to the Griffin, where we had already been.

It never fails to amaze me how someone asking for your number in a bar, based solely on the way you look, having spoken only one curt word to them before the moment they pounce, still flatters. Instead of giving him my number I took his, then he gave me a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek. And the magic was over. Tara fared only slightly better by being asked if she was a hairdresser. Snort. She’s going to hate that I’m writing this, but man if you want to piss Tara off, ask her if she’s a hairdresser, or even better, a waitress. She’s feisty. Which is why I like her. I like going to bars with her because you never know when she’s going to completely lose it and get into a bar fight with a dude who told her she was pretty.

I’m thoroughly enjoying this new phase of my life. There are stumbles and some boring nights alone, but it’s nothing if not amusing to be single and in your thirties. Excuse me, 27.

I would have done just about anything she asked, mostly because she had the authoritative British accent that makes me think of Mary Poppins mixed with Mrs. Doubtfire. She was the kind of boss that everyone is afraid of at first, stupid people remain afraid of, and smart people become her pets. She would call someone into her office, ask them to close the door, then when you were just about ready to burst into tears from fear she would tell you that you were Employee of the Month. Eventually I became one of her favorites and she gave me my first “Big Job” as Assistant General Manager of a 102 room hotel. I miss her but would rather eat nails then ever work in a hotel again.

_____

This post is part of the x365 thing.

I got home last night and was welcomed by the wafting smell of stale dog pee. I took Lula out and returned to the apartment to investigate. I couldn’t find any puddles and the smell seemed to be following her around. So I took a nice long whiff of the dog that shares my bed and boy was I sorry I did. She smelled like the little kid in the classroom who peed his pants and just sat there in it until the spot dried up. Alternate version - she smelled like the hallway of a sketchy nursing home.

I’m putting a curb on some of my wilder expenditures now so taking her to the groomer was out. Being up to my armpits in pee smelling dog hair - in.

She isn’t a runner so it’s pretty easy to bathe her. She sort of stands there and shivers. The amount of hair I had to dig out of the drain would astonish you. It was a whole other smaller Lula in there. And yet, she still looks like the hairiest beast on the block.

I decided she needed a little bit of a trim so I pulled out the scissors and accidentally hacked off a bit too much. She’s got a Prince Valiant look to her now.

She has been given several treats to make up for the humiliation.

He was in my circle of friends during my senior year of high school. Sort of a cross between a little brother who you find completely annoying and a boy you know you should really be nicer to because he kisses like a champ. He and I had probably the easiest relationship/friendship I’ve ever had with a person of the opposite sex. Sometimes we made out, sometimes we fought, sometimes we cracked each other up. We usually took care of each other, but sometimes we hung each other out to dry. I have nothing but fondness for him and the way he fit into that time of my life.

I took a little break from the x365 project, but I’m back, baby, I’m back!

I was on the phone with my sister last night, walking Lula, when I had to pause to try to get her to drop yet another chicken bone.  I told my sister that my neighborhood is strewn with chicken bones.  People love to eat chicken on the street here, I guess?  They hate dogs?  I don’t know.  Pretty much every other day Lula has snatched one up and I have to tell her to drop it.  Normally she does, but last night she just swallowed it whole.  Three steps later she barfed.  It was disconcerting that there were no bones in her barf, and then I realized she probably didn’t even eat a chicken bone, just some other food detritus that also litters my street.  This was about the point when my sister asked if I was actually living in Cuba.  Sometimes it feels like it.

I’d like to tell you that I’ve been pretty sad lately. But I don’t think I have been.  I think I’m just bored.  That’s not nearly as exciting or sympathy capturing.  I’m also feeling a little stuck with some of the work I’ve been doing.  I twittered about it and a twitter friend told me to drop one of the characters in the scene to shake things up.  Wow, did that ever hit home.  How prophetic.  Just drop one of the main characters from your life and see what happens…

I’ve been staring at this blinking cursor for 30 minutes now.  (Off and on.)  (Ha. Unintentional pun.)  And I guess that’s all I can muster today.  Maybe I am sad.

I had a full weekend of exploring the neighborhood which included finding my new bar (you guys would love this bar, it’s almost a dive, but not quite, the old men who hang there are just dapper enough, and the young men are aging hipsters with friends who are girls), meeting a weird neighbor with the soft hands of a serial killer, watching some movies that should have been guilty pleasures instead were kind of disappointing, and catching up on my sleep (wondering if two naps means I’m depressed). Living alone has its perks, not gonna lie, but it’s also kind of sad. I love that the person hogging the bed is me. I love that if I want to get up and fuss around in the apartment there’s no one there wondering why I find it so important to deal with the cables of doom at 2 in the afternoon. I don’t love that empty quiet feeling when there’s no one in the next room. I don’t even have a next room anymore.

My second job is ending at the end of March and where normally I’d be happy to get my every other Saturday morning back, I’m kind of sad. It’s easier being busy. My weeknights are always chock full between looking for parking, running the dog and writing the screenplay that never seems to be finished. My weekends are studies in how to get as little done as possible without feeling like I’m sitting around doing nothing. My new apartment is much cleaner than the old one, merely because I have no excuse and the dog hair drifts across the hard wood like a little army of neglect.

I keep wondering when I’ll finally stop beating myself up by looking at his Flickr page. This morning would have been a good time to quit. But whatever, we’re all adults here. There are always going to be women in LA (or any town, really) who want to be photographed with their shirts off. I have been photographed with my shirt off, who am I to judge? I have to stop feeling like everything he posts is some kind of pointed comment on me and our relationship and what was missing and how much more fun he’s having now. I have to stop. It’s not even that I think it’s entirely unhealthy, even though every single one of my friends tells me it’s absolutely stupid and have even offered to go into my preferences and block the site. I feel like a cutter. Like Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary. I just need to find my creepy James Spader. Maybe soft hands like a serial killer can help me out?

One last thing, we went to the creepy bar on my street that will never be ‘my bar’ because they only serve beer and wine from a gigantic dusty jug and as we were leaving a man came up to us and said, “You got lost. You’re lost here. And now you’re stuck in this ugly bar with us.” It felt like the beginning of a familiar song.