Awkwardly Social

Laying in bed this morning buzzing from an impromptu bottle of shared champagne, my face pink with the flush of a new crush, my cell phone started to chirp. Messages tumbled in from an old flame, a new flame and a close friend. As I fumbled through my responses, I hoped I wasn’t calling my new flame the awkward pet name I have for the old one. It would be more difficult to explain than one can get into over text. I hoped I didn’t tell my old friend how much I wanted to talk to her tonight, she would have found that odd.

I finished tapping out hasty replies to everyone, thinking, ah yes, the power of flirting and spilling secrets via garbled and funkily worded messages, when the phone rang.

He sounds exactly the same. We fell into our shared cadence easily. Him making me guffaw until I couldn’t stop coughing, me making him laugh until he felt like he used to, back when we stayed up all night in his smelly apartment dreaming about making movies and falling in love. He’s my constant. I’m his Velveteen Rabbit.

God, I never thought about it that way before. He actually did get sick, I actually did get discarded. I’ve since changed from the girl who would do anything at his fingertips to a fully functioning human who makes decisions and those involve saying the word no, sometimes. We remember each other fondly, but our lives don’t fit. We had a special place. And we both honor that.

By the time we hung up, I started kicking myself for ever letting him go, but then I flashed to a horrible night where everything went wrong and our fight was so vicious and vindictive I never thought I’d speak to him again. We’re with each other in a parallel universe, of that I’m sure. I think about the Tamara over there, living that life and wonder if she’s having as much fun as I am. I hope she is. I hope she’s figured out what to do with her hair.

I dragged myself home early yesterday. Something I rarely do. Everyone said I sounded like shit, and consensus was all I needed to plod home to my dirty sheets.

After I tried to watch TV without throwing things during the commercials (I miss my Tivo), I decided that the fight my body needed to do would be best performed if I wasn’t conscious. I put Lula’s leash on and threw on a sweatshirt over my hideous ratty t-shirt and slumped out the door.

He was walking down the stairs with a bottle of chilled white wine.

“Hey, do you have a bottle opener?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I turned back towards my apartment and he followed me.

“You have to stay out here though.”

“Wow, you’re a very private person.”

“No, I’m a slob. I’m embarrassed for you to see my place.”

I brought him the corkscrew and he opened the bottle right there on the stairs.

“What’s with the white? You have a lady upstairs?”

“Oh, no, this is all for me.”

While I watch him totally wreck the cork, I think about his forearms. I’m a sucker for forearms. Then I cough.

“You sound like shit.”

“I’m sick.”

“Well, get better for the weekend, we have a lot of drinking to do.”

I scrunched my arms under my boobs, hoping he wasn’t noticing I was totally braless, smelled like a sick bed and kind of hot for him right then.

“Oh, I’ll be ready.”

It must be the ex-boyfriend’s influence. It’s my only excuse. I wasn’t like this before him. And now I’m not sure I can help having these things fly out of my mouth. It’s uber confidence and I know it can be off putting. I know this because I was on the receiving end of it for 3.5 years. But you have no idea what I’m talking about, so let me back up.

I was sitting in a swank restaurant in the Beverly Hills Hotel drinking a spicy bloody mary to ease the hangover of doom when he complimented my blue eyes. I was in no position to be confident. I was wearing workout pants, a tank top, and a hangover. Normal girls say, “Thank you.” Awkward girls would make some excuse about how it’s just the sky is so blue that day. I slipped my dark sunglasses back on and said, “I know. They’re awesome.” After you say something like that, you wonder if your mother can hear you. You wonder if she did hear you what she would say. I can hear the disappointment in her voice, “Oh, Tamara.”

After two bloody mary’s, we went on a long hike up into a canyon overlooking the Pacific. I have an easy time talking to him, mostly because I’m in that place in my life where I have nothing to lose. There is no pressure to succeed in a relationship at the moment after such a disasterous end to my last one. And as we were walking back down the canyon, I fell. Like, fell down. Almost into the depths below. Hi, I’m awesome? I mean, it was bound to happen, but yeah. Look into my beautiful eyes? I’m shuddering just thinking about it.

We’re both unapologetic drunks. It’s nice to be around someone who not only doesn’t judge you for wanting to drink and smoke after a cleansing hike, but would have been sad if you had said no. We went to a dive in Santa Monica and I got carded. Was it that I ordered an Absolut and tonic? Is that something a kid would order? Or that it was kind of dark in there and I was wearing workout pants, a tank top and a hangover? Whatever the case, I was thrilled. Sign me up for more hungover hikes if it makes me look 20 again.

It was one of those dates that had a good pace and a nice end. But I feel like I can’t write any more about it because I’m in an awkward place in my head at the moment. I’ve never been a person who dates a bunch of different people, or who makes out with strangers on her back stairs. And yet, here I am being that person. It’s going to be tough navigating this place and the darker regions of my head for the next couple of months, so you might have to be patient with me while I try to figure it out. The one thing I think we all can agree on, I have nice eyes.

There was a point last night where I had my hands in my neighbor’s pocket.  My two hands wrapped in his one.  My head on his shoulder. I was cold, he was there. I guess that was a little forward of me, but then again, R put my hands down her shirt the night before.  We’re a friendly building, but maybe it’s time for mittens?

I’m trying to institute a ‘Don’t fuck where you live’ policy for the building.  Mostly because I see these people all the damn time, but last night that stupid rule made me want to punch myself.  He lives right above me.  I watched him walk up the extra flight of stairs (hi, he has a nice ass) and almost told him to at least come sleep on my bed.  An air mattress is no way to end a night of drinking and flirting with your downstairs neighbor, but as soon as I walked into my apartment my clothes all fell off my body and I realized that if he was there, my clothes still wouldn’t have stayed on.  And that might have been a little awkward.  Or not. I heard him walking around upstairs and I wondered how long it would take me to put my clothes back on to go up there and straighten things out.  Too long, was my final estimation.

This morning not having a neighbor in my bed felt good.  I think this rule might have to stay enforced.  For now.

You’re awfully lucky my first video post isn’t me singing karaoke, but I still might regret this and pull it down. Be gentle, I’ve had a rough week.

Say My Name from tkblaich on Vimeo.

The volume is super low. I have no idea why I keep looking up and to the right. Also, have fun laughing at me when I say, “My name is spelt…” Good lord. I don’t think I talk like that in real life. In real life I say things like “spelled.”

After fighting with Premiere’s export settings (I’ll be installing Final Cut this weekend), I finally went with iMovie which is dumber than a box of rocks but doesn’t squeeze me or stretch me.

General wisdom is that most women can find an uncanny resemblance to their fathers in the men they’ve dated.  I’m sure that’s true.  Louie is an only child who loves nerdery in all its forms, tells punny jokes and gives the silent treatment like nobody’s business.  Hi, that’s my father.  Awesome.  But what about the guy that you rebelled with, your dad’s opposite?  Because that dude is popping up like crazy.

I didn’t realize until I took his shirt off that, aside from having a normal sized nose, he was him.  He was the boy I lost my virginity to.  It creeped me out a little.  I could have used a little warning.

He didn’t kiss me or touch me the way Bob did, so his flat stomach and boyish hips were where the similarities ended, but I couldn’t help thinking I had come all this way, weathered all these years, fucked all these dudes, and here I was back at square one.  What was the take-away lesson the universe wanted shoved down my craw?  I still don’t know.  Maybe that every once in a while your past is shoved in your face and you wind up kissing it in a stairwell?

It always makes me a little sad to think about Bob and what I did to him.  The revenge I took.  I really did love him.  I really did trust him and need him in my life.  But I also really needed him to step up and love me back, and if he did, he never let on.

I’m pretty sure my parents thought he was responsible for my wild behavior.  Little did they know my pot-smoking love interest was the least of their worries.  Well, not the least, he was responsible for the gigantic party I threw at my house during Spring Break while my parents were away.  But if he had his way, I would have never done crystal meth and been a nice little stoner chick who gave good head.  He didn’t have his way.  I did crystal meth and I’ve had a couple of dudes tell me I don’t give head for shit.  (Thanks for the honesty!  fuckers.) But that whole week, despite the fact that he stayed at my house, he wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with me.  I was tweaking and he was stoned and the two do not mix.  I don’t think he even wanted to kiss me.  He never understood meth, and he certainly never understood why I would want to stay up all night when we could get stoned and cuddle in my sister’s king sized bed.

When I came home from college for Christmas break, my best friend and Bob were the only two people I wanted to see.  I wanted Bob to kiss me and touch my ear.  He had a thing about ears.  He loved to have your ear lobe between his fingers.  I loved the way he kissed me.  He’s the reason I like to have one hand on my neck under my hair and the other at the small of my back pulling me close when I’m being kissed.  Does everyone like it that way?  If so, why don’t more dudes know this?  I actually had someone kind of lightly put their hand on my shoulder while they were kissing me.  And it kind of creeped me out.  If your tongue is in my mouth, why does it feel like I am getting a polite hug from my grandma’s best friend?

The boy that had Bob’s 19 year old body pulled me back in time.  And I thought about how horrible it felt to lose my virginity with a Rush record playing in the background.  Having Rush play felt even worse than the fact that I was on a dirty couch in the living room of a two room trailer while my best friend and her boyfriend were screwing in the other room that didn’t even have a door.  Welcome to my psyche, it is a white trash romantic.  I don’t know what music I hoped would be playing, but I certainly didn’t want it to be Rush.  And I was way too into grunge to have it be something like Boyz to Men, but can’t a girl get a little Smashing Pumpkins or even Nirvana?  (God, reading those band names and thinking about how bad that first time was makes me chuckle.)

I wonder if I’ll ever see Bob again.  I hope I get the chance.  I google stalked him and I know where he’s living and who he’s married to.  I don’t know what I’d say to him if I do get to see him, except maybe, “Thank you.” Thank you for not blowing my mind with the hot, hot sex our first time. Lowered expectations have certainly been a help.  But also, I want to thank him for setting the bar for fun so incredibly high.  He always made me want to jump off a cliff without knowing what’s below, and that’s something I’ve been missing the past few years.  I just kind of hope I don’t break my hip.  I’m a lot older than I used to be.

I know it’s bad form to point out the fact that your blog post has no focus and the ending doesn’t tie up the beginning.  It’s the first rule of Fight Club, but god.  I don’t know what I’m doing here and I have cramps.  So, don’t fuck with me.  Oops, I meant, don’t judge me.  These pretzels are making me thirsty! 

Last night I went on a run. I needed to. The dog’s separation anxiety is back in full force and my stress level has suddenly gone off the charts for reasons I can’t talk about here. It’s all going to pass, but in the meantime I needed to get my heart pumping.

There was a slight problem. The wind was insane. The palm trees looked like they were going to snap off. Palm fronds were littering the streets and sidewalks. The sky looked like armagedon, but there I was running with a little black dog.

It was so totally worth it because I gorged on a cheeseburger and 3 vodka tonics for dinner at the HMS Bounty. I needed a little meat and vodka in addition to heart pumping, I guess.

Here’s some old stats I haven’t put in here:
4/21 - Run 2.1 miles, pilates
4/22 - Run 2.1 miles
4/24 - Walk 3.69 miles with Catherine

4/29 - Run 2.6 miles

5/7 - Walk 3.7 miles
5/8 - Run 2.1 miles

5/13 - Run 2.1 miles
5/14 - Run 1 miles, walk 3.6 miles

5/19 - Run 1 mile, walk 3.6 miles
5/21 - Run 2.1 miles

I gave up mid-week drinking for the most part a couple of weeks ago. I was finding it hard to stop at one glass of wine and then even harder to fit into my new jeans, so I just stopped buying white wine. And lord do I miss it. My offline writing has suffered. My waist line has not.

I am supposed to be working on my script right now, but here I am dicking around on the internet.

Is it weird that I’m think I can hear the bottle of Gordon’s Vodka and the Clamato talking to each other? And they’re saying that I need to pour myself a glass so I can get this script finished? Because I’m guessing that isn’t a good sign.

It’s not that I can’t write without alcohol, I mean, here I am writing. On this blog that pays me zero dollars. It’s just that this particular script is a little painful to write and well, alcohol is a pain reliever. Also it helps get to that tucked away spot where I stored some of those memories.

Maybe I should just have the Clamato with some olives in it.

Did you all just throw up in your mouths a little?

My big worry is that it isn’t just this script. That it will be every script and all of a sudden I’ll be red nosed like a Kennedy. And everyone knows what happens to Kennedys.

Last night it was so hot in my apartment that I decided to prop my door open. Incidentally, door propping is not my strong suit. After failing three times and cutting my foot on the bottom of the door, I finally folded up my ballet slipper and shoved it under there. I think the door or the universe or my dead neighbor was trying to tell me something. Specifically, “Leave your door shut, the 20 year old is on her way.”

When I heard the annoying clomp of a young person slowly plodding up the stairs, I wondered if it would be obvious if I quickly jumped up and closed my door. I thought about it too long because she turned the corner and being the nosy 20 year old she is, she saw my door open and clomped over. And there she stood, in all of her 20 year old glory, at my door. And then, there she was waltzing right into my apartment.

Here is the conversation that followed, almost word for word.  (I have a good memory!)

Her: Hey. You’ve got your door open.

Me: Yeah. It’s motherfucking hot in here.

Her: Yeah. It’s totally hot. God. It’s so hot in here.

Me: [that’s what I just said] Yeah.

Her: So you’re just chillin’?

Me: [puzzled look]

Her: I finally got an air conditioner.

She looks around my apartment. I am embarrassed by the amount of unopened mail piled on my TV and the dog hair tumble weeds flowing across the floor.

Me: Oh, nice.

Her: It doesn’t work though.

Me: oh.

Her: So, your place looks…. better. You got rid of stuff.

Me: [totally offended] Not really. It’s just sort of rearranged.

At this point I was wandering around trying to find the DVD remote so I could pause Michael Clayton, which has been playing the whole time (loudly) right next to her.

Her: Oh, you’re watching a movie.

Me: Yeah.

Her: Oh.

Me: Yeah.

Her: I guess I’ll go then.

Me: Bye.

It was confirmed this morning that she totally knows I made out with her love interest. I’m keeping a close eye on Lula so I don’t find her boiling on my stove.

The only thing about this whole debacle that is bothering me in that niggling way at the back of my neck, is that I might have slightly similar taste to a 20 year old girl from Florida. I honestly thought I was better than that. I mean, come on… he wore leather pants.

I think I’ve officially become one of those people who is always complaining about the drama surrounding them.

“I don’t want any drama.”

“God, why is there so much drama?”

“I just can’t handle all of this drama.”

And then in a moment of self reflection that type of person who complains about the drama, takes a good look at her actions and the people she’s kissing (and telling) and realizes that the drama is self-created.

So. That’s a good life lesson to learn.