Awkwardly Social

Ever since I saw Karate Kid, I wanted to have a bonfire at the beach. Today, in celebration of a day that didn’t happen for a friend who deserves better, we hung out at the beach, grilled, and smoked, and drank and tried to make the best of things. My feeling is, whenever there are friends, meat, the ocean and a bonfire, you can’t go wrong.

I haven’t been to the beach in California in four years. FOUR. YEARS? I guess if you grow up in a landlocked state, you don’t really need the ocean. My hair loved it though. Never have I wanted to make out with my hair the way I did yesterday. The perfect mix of tussled and wavy and just this side of stiff and stringy. It was epic.

This morning it still smells like the bonfire. I skipped a second wash so I could hold onto that feeling a little longer.

During college and grad school, if you were looking for me during the day it was pretty much a given that if I didn’t have class or work, I was sleeping.  I’m the poster girl for depressive sleeping.  I got over it for a brief period with Louie, mostly because I felt guilty sleeping all day.  Every once in a while I would indulge in a midday 3 hour nap, only to regret it because then I’d be tossing and turning all night.

Yesterday, with my work status unknown, a pile of laundry that consisted of almost everything I own, a filthy apartment that smelled like dirty laundry and was covered in dog hair, I took a 5 hour nap.  I got a call from Allie around 4.  I slept through it.  Allie and I were perfect roommates for most of our tenure together.  One of us would emerge and be scrounging around for something, usually cigarettes or vitamin water, and the other would stagger out of the bedroom wondering what the hell happened to the day, and was the sun going down?  We would turn on the television and watch whatever MTV marathon was on, always hoping for Real World/Road Rules Challenge because I could ask Allie what season that person I’ve never seen before was from and she could tell me it was from Road Rules Semester at Sea and we could think sadly about our collective failure at not doing a semester at sea.

At 5:30, I finally had enough of the dog hair in my contacts and the smell of laundry and called Allie back.  She, too, had a day of sleeps.  Talking to someone who understands to sleep the day away is so comforting.  She gets it.  She doesn’t judge.  We asked each other if we needed anything, but living so far away is much harder than walking down the hall with a bag of Tostito’s and a vat of Nacho Cheese dip.  Fortunately we’ll be spending a few hours on the beach together today.  Our pale depressed bodies trying to blend in with the people who actually enjoy tempting the skin cancer gods.  If you’re at the beach today, we’ll be the girls in the big hats and the cynical stares.  I plotted out the rest of the day, I don’t have cable or really television anymore, so I decided to go for a walk with Catherine.  Walking around the reservoir is my new Real World/Road Rules Challenge.

Cats cooked me dinner, and I got a call from my manfriend.  I felt like a teenager on the phone, hoping my parents weren’t listening.  I cut the call short.  It was too weird talking to him with adults in the next room.  The rest of the evening was spent trying to decipher the indecipherable movie (even with the help of Wikipedia we were stumped at what the fucking point was, and we’re all people who like a good pointless movie) - I’m Not There (subtitle: Neither is the audience…) - I decided it was time to  drag ass home and stew in my dirty sheets covered in dog hair and regret.

Needless to say, I have two loads in the wash, two in the dryer and the kitchen is about to be scrubbed down.

He comes home on Wednesday.  I’m ready, but not.  Tongue kissing will be much easier without 500 miles between us, that’s for sure.

This is what happens when I get on iChat and talk to my old friend, Hector. If this is not funny to you, you might need to participate in a rousing game of “The Barbarian Horde,” a game Hector and I would play on the bridge outside film school much to everyone’s dismay.

Hector: this guy is the cat’s pajamas!
Me: he’s the bees knees

Me: the bat’s sonar system
wait…
is that one of ‘em?

Hector: yes
also ‘the whale’s song’

Me: awww
the elephant’s tale

Hector: the rhino’s spleen
Me: the badger’s lisp
Hector: the brontasurus’ molars
Me: the alligator’s eggs
the swamp’s gas

Hector: the dragonfly’s arms
Me: the cockroach’s anntanae

Hector: the crocodile’s throat
Me: the snake’s tuxedo
Hector: the turtle’s knuckle
Me: the unicorn’s tears
Hector: the hippo’s lone hair follicle
Me: the giraffe’s stillettos
Hector: the beaver’s breath
Me: the coyote’s cigar
Hector: the wolf’s ear canal
Me: the puma’s pumas
Hector: the stork’s brain
Me: the cockatiel’s ring finger
Hector: the clam’s hand
Me: the sparrow’s dagger
Hector: the lemming’s waist
Me: the playtypus’s humility
Hector: the stoat’s youthful exuberance
Me: The goat’s cornea
Hector: the octopus pustule
Me: the parrot’s vagina
Hector: the boar’s diaphragm
Me: the lion’s paw pad
Hector: the cheetah’s wind

Me: the jackal’s onesie
Hector: the ferret’s femur
Me: the caribou’s capillary
Hector: the baby bird’s leg
Me: the hamster’s comforter
Hector: the bear’s neck
Me: the cougar’s hindquarters
Hector: the great white shark’s stare
Me: the blow fish’s pocket watch
Hector: the canadian goose’s nasal passage
Me: the swan’s reflection
Hector: the eagle’s purse strings
Me: the polar bear’s pinkie
Hector: the penguin’s sternum
Me: the sturgeon’s general warning
Hector: the falcon’s overdue books
Me: the rottweiler’s bruised ego
Hector: the kitty kat’s spawn
Me: the race horse’s jockey
Hector: the antelope’s second wife
Me: the orangatan’s psychiatrist
Hector: the jellyfish’s former best friend
Me: the spider monkey’s mother-in-law
Hector: the ant’s cousin’s aunt
Me: the mollusk’s daughter’s teacher’s band
Hector: the frog’s hypothalumus gland
Me: the barn owl’s crate of figs
Hector: the rodent’s indifference
Me: the sand piper’s broken wing
Hector: the coral’s lost dreams
Me: the fruit fly’s shortened life expectancy
Hector: the crane’s eyelashes
Me: the salmon’s row of decorative blue glass bottles

Hector: the chicken’s failed attempts at flight
Me: the garden snake’s fur coat
Hector: the kangaroo’s botched plans

Me: the pterydactal’s daughter out of wedlock
Hector: the sabre toothed tiger’s normal, less threatening teeth

Me: ohmygod, that one WINS! you win it!!!!!!!!!!!

First of all, thank you for all your kind words about my confusing drunken post.  If it’s still unclear, join the club.  I got laid off.  If you have been in this position and you, like me, lived paycheck to paycheck with no safety net, you know how scary this can be.  If not, you are very fortunate.

I’m still waiting to hear about that interview I had. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.  In the meantime, I’m sort of paralyzed with fear and dread and wishing there was a way out of this, but currently the only thing I can do is keep looking and keep waiting, which is not my strong suit.

I went for a run last night, hoping to sweat away some of the stress, and it helped momentarily.  My current philosophy is that if I could just keep running forever all of this will go away and I’ll be somewhere else.  Not exactly the most healthy of strategies, but those of you who know me, know I’m not the most healthy of individuals.

After pouring myself a tumbler of wine (I broke my last white wine glass two nights ago) I called the new guy (dude, I seriously need to give him an alias, typing the new guy all the time gives me a pain in my brain) and I have to tell you, he’s the shit.  The absolute shit.  He comes home next week which will inevitably change what we have going on, but we both are sort of under the impression that it will change it for the good.  I want to tell you more about him, but I’m sort of protecting this thing we have.  I know that sounds little precious, and I hate being precious, but that’s where we’re at.  I have no idea how long it will last, but for the moment, it’s just what I need.

So internet, keep thinking your good thoughts if you have a moment to spare.  I can use all the help I can get.

I’d like to warn you that a bottle of wine was purchased, and drunk, and I’m not ashamed to say that this is a drunk post.  A drunk, rambling post that I might delete tomorrow.  I had a day, ladies and gents. I had a fucking day today, and if that means I get to drink wine and talk to a man that might be the guy, fuck it all, bring it, universe.  BRING IT.

I don’t talk about my life during the 9 to 6, and I stand by that decision to not really talk about it, but I think it’s important to mention that beginning July 4th I’ll no longer have a 9 to 6 existence.

I found out today I was losing my current 9 to 6, immediately got an interview and tomorrow (today, it’s after midnight) I’ll find out my fate.

The universe has it in its head that it’s funny to break up with me on a Monday morning.  I got talked off the ledge from some really great friends who cooked me shrimp and served me wine and listened to me from hundreds of miles away while I smoked and compared this day to that horrible day six months ago when the rug was pulled out from under me in a completely different way.  I survived that, they told me, and here I am talking and living and breathing and laughing, so I’ll survive this, they surmised.  But fuck it, will I?  Do I want to go through this again?  That was a dark fucking room I was in, thank god my friends opened the blinds and had a few parties and brought me food, because today, I forgot to eat.  And those of you who know me, know that’s a level of insanity brought on only by extreme terror and pain and trauma.

It’s awkward to talk to the new guy about why this is so fucking PTSD for me.  But I told him.  And he got it. And I’ll tell you now, it’s because every time a 17th of the month hits, I think about that morning.  And this new complication of not having a paycheck or a safety net is hitting me about as hard as not having a boyfriend who lives with me and shares my bed and loves my dog.  He, this man who knows me from my voice on the phone and the way I drink like a fish at Figaro and the Beverly Hills Hotel, patient as a sloth trying to reach the next branch, said all the right words and took all the correct pauses and listened as I choked up about that old failure.  That six months ago failure that is now rearing its head at this new fucked up situation that I can’t talk about because it happens between the hours of 9 and 6.

So here I am, people.  This is as low as it gets for that 9 to 6 place and this guy who knows me, but doesn’t know me, listened and understood and was there to make me laugh when I, shell shocked and broke as the day I was born (broker, actually), had to sit and tell him that I’m still holding on to another horrible day that shook my life up.  And he’s been there.  Maybe you all have been there.  Maybe you haven’t, but you will be there.  Or maybe you’ll be lucky enough to never be here.  But there he was.  Not a knight in any kind of armor, but a voice from a long way away and a promised shoulder and a knowing phrase, and this is what it feels like to be cared about.

And now I’m going to bed, because I’ve achieved that level of buzz that allows me to shut off those voices and stop hearing that doubt.  I’m supposed to get a call tomorrow, and if you could cross your fingers every once in a while, like you did for me and 201, I’d appreciate it.   If not, be prepared to visit me in debtor’s prison.  Blogging from skid row doesn’t sound like fun.  It sounds smelly.  And stabby.

Good night.

I got a text from a friend last night.

It’s hot as fucking balls, want to go to a movie?

Yes!

We ended up at Figaro, drinking a couple of bottles of Sancerre, talking too loudly about how hot it was, how awesome it is to fall for someone, how if you’re not careful your heart will get smashed, but how if you’re too careful you’ll miss the best parts. We talked about shit. The shit stored in your body. How our bodies can only be what they are. How to let go of the dysmorphia. How it’s impossible to.

We walked to The Drawing Room. I wasn’t immune to the fact that the two places I was drinking at that night were the two very different scenes from two very different first dates. One ended in a 3 and a half year relationship. One is still waiting to discover what’s going to happen. There are beginnings and there endings everywhere I go. Los Feliz holds a lot of them for me. I love Los Feliz for that.

The Drawing Room was nice and cool, but by then we had born the heat for 20 hours, we knew that the next day was going to just be another repeat. How do we get through it without killing ourselves.

I ate a dirty dog and hoped for the best. It’s all you can do when it’s never going to cool down and you can’t bear it, but you have to, so you do.

Fucking mother fucker of all things fucked, my feet are goddamned killing me. I slipped on a brand new pair of cheap-ass, totally discounted, snake skin, grey, peep-toe, open backed pumps and walked around in my apartment for two seconds. I looked at my dress and decided I needed the height, so after the two second test, I deemed these pumps suitable for a night at an art show. I am such a moron.

Every time I put on a pair of heels that I know hurt my feet, I promise myself I’m not going to complain no matter how much they’re killing me. Every time I find myself at the beginning of the night having just walked 2 blocks (or 7, depending on the location), thinking aloud, wow, my feet are already hurting. Somewhere about 5 minutes into the evening I start scoping somewhere to sit, and telling everyone in ear shot that my feet hurt. Then when inevitably there isn’t anywhere to sit, I start to drink, which makes me tell people more loudly that my feet are hurting. Then when even the alcohol isn’t working, I take off my shoes, and tell people it’s because my feet? they are hurting. And then I walk around barefoot. Sometimes outside. In Los Angeles. (Hint: This is gross and maybe a little dangerous given the amount glass people seem to throw out their windows in LA. Why so breaky, Angelenos?)

I had a relationship with a foot dude. I understand feet. I know what makes them sexy. I know how a high arch peeking out of the top of your 3 inch pump can be seen as a total come-on. I know what to do with my feet if someone is into them. I have used my feet in ways that while in the moment totally not embarrassing, but talking about in mixed company, totally mortifying. I love the way I feel when I’m wearing high, high, super-high heels, and a man walks by and glances at my toes. It’s not the shoes, baby, it’s the feet. But fuck me, I want a refund. My feet are broke down. My toes are tired.

Why do I bother to wear pretty shoes that cut my feet? I wish I could subvert the patriarchy (or whatever) and just say fuck it and wear flats. At the same time, I wish I was one of those women who are always wearing amazing shoes and never talking about how much their feet are hurting. Are their feet even hurting? How could they not be. I know that by wearing heels I’m doing the modern, self inflicted (totally pussy and not nearly as fucked up) version of foot binding. I want my feet to represent my sexuality. And because I’ve dated a foot man, they have. And I’m aware of them. I’m aware of yours.

It occurred to me when I was sitting on the roof all those weeks ago, wearing my most comfortable pair of heels, that even the most comfortable heels fucking hurt after a while. I stretched my legs out and pointed my toes in the shoes, effectively lifting my arch up to peeking out of the top. I had a man sitting on either side of me. One looked down and said, “Wow, you have really pretty feet.” The other looked down and then in a perfectly natural and easy way reached down and touched my arch with his finger, “Yeah… you really do.”

And the thing is, I don’t have pretty feet. If I showed them to you, you’d notice the flaws. You would. But, I know how to fuck with the illusion. And that’s where it gets sticky for me. Shouldn’t I be a better feminist and say “fuck the illusion, this is me?” The problem is, I don’t know as a woman if I’m the illusion - the make-up, the bra, the heels, the hair, the sparkling laugh - or I’m me - the eyes, the guffaw, the blue humor, the shoulder to bitch on.

So I leave you with this, I’m still bitter that my new shoes gave me a blister, but I’d totally wear them again.

In between posting trainwrecky photos to flickr while drunk and sipping ill advised Jalisco cocktails on the back patio with minor reality tv stars, I’ve been busy. There’s a lot of work in forming new relationships. There’s something so completely bizarre about talking on the phone, I’m used to pulling up a person’s blog, figuring out if I like them through their written words. This time I don’t have that luxury. It’s a little fucked up to wish everyone would let me read their diary, but there it is. I want to read your dirty little secrets, so I can close my browser window and move on if I see something that doesn’t fit with my increasingly more lax standards on what it is I need in a person.

The phone rings after nine every night, unless it doesn’t. I sit on the stoop and try to get my neighbors to realize that yes, I’m on the phone. They’re worse than children, they are more insistent and drunker.

I exhale and he hears me. He admires my commitment to smoking. I admire his commitment to Scotch. It’s refreshing to talk to someone who likes drinking as much as I do.

It’s new like a baby deer, wobbly but fresh faced. It still has its fawn spots. It occasionally disappears into the weeds to hide. But it’s incredibly interested in the possibilities. The places we’ll go. The things we’ll do. The hunter hasn’t shot its mama yet.

I’m being too vague, but I want to protect the baby deer. It deserves that.

Al’s Famous Jalisco Cocktail - aka The Kenmorian Margarita

Fill a large glass with ice. Pour a two count of light tequila (we use Sauza in the silver bottle) Fill it 2/3 of the way up with Italian Grapefruit soda from Trader Joe’s. Top with club soda. Squeeze in some lime.

Watch as girls take their shirts off.

I was walking up Beverly Dr. (on my way to get a gigantic burrito that would haunt me for the rest of the day) when I heard the annoying scrape of shoes not being fully lifted from the sidewalk. I understand an occasional need to drag one’s feet, but this sounded kind of vindictive and purposeful. She was walking a bit faster than me, so she finally passed and then I stared daggers into her back. Her arms moved funny. It was like her hands weren’t attached correctly at the wrist. They were floppy. It started to amuse me. I started to like the stranger with floppy hands in the striped boat neck sweater. Her hair was that pretty, natural sun quenched blond. Her butt jiggled and it seemed to give her a certain confidence.

Then a horn honked and we both looked over at the Mercedes convertible with his top down screaming at the Honda Accord with their blinders on who had merged into unmergable traffic. I laughed when I heard Mercedes man scream, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, you fucking cunt?!” Because that’s my favorite curse when I’m road raged. She caught my eye and smiled when she saw I was smiling. I loved her sunglasses.

We got caught at the light at Wilshire Blvd. and I stood next to her, wishing my ballet flats didn’t feel like they were glued to the bottoms of my feet.

“I forgot, it’s Friday the 13th,” she said.

“Oh, yeah. Also, that guy was a douche.”

She smiled, “Except I don’t think people really know about Friday the 13th anymore. The guy on the subway this morning didn’t.”

Her skin was enviable, I hoped she was in her 20s. We started to cross the street and we kept talking.

“It’s kind of in the cultural consciousness, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but the movies haven’t been out forever. It still kind of creeps me out.”

“God, the best was when you would have a slumber party on Friday the 13th.”

“Oh yeah! Bloody Mary!”

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board!”

“Little girls are so creepy.”

“Oh, yeah, and someone always pulls out the Ouija board.”

“And asks horrible questions about when someone’s going to die.”

We talked for a while about the creepy shit that happens when a group of girls gets together and fucks with one another through a ’supernatural’ device. Conclusion: Girls are indeed creepy. We reached another stop light. She smiled and said, “Oh, I’m this way.”

“OK, have a great day.”

“You, too.”

I waited for the light to change and my 5 minute floppy armed friend walked away.

I went to an art opening on Saturday.  Because this art opening was for a street artist, held at a sneaker store on one of the hip stretches in Echo Park and I had nothing hipster to wear, I went a little over-board on the high heels.  Three and a half inch stiletto satin peep toe heels.  Of course there was no parking.

Andrew drove around for about 20 minutes before we finally gave up and parked three miles away.  Or, what felt like three miles away as I was tramping up the shattered side walks of a place that gentrification has almost gotten to, but not enough to repair the root damaged concrete in front of the brightly painted craftsman homes.  How do hipsters ride their skate boards there?  Fuck if I know.

By the end of the night, after standing around looking over the tops of the little hipster girls’ heads in their polyester dresses and vintage sandals, my feet were feeling a little stabby.  Catherine bought a single beer from a near dark convenience store, and I demurred drinking any of it because I’m an asshole.  Everyone knows if you get drunk your feet don’t hurt.  The night was winding down, the DJ had stopped spinning but the hipsters weren’t leaving.  Which is why I thank god every day we aren’t hipsters.

I walked across the street and in a pool from a yellow street light, standing next to a sign advertising work for teens (aged 14-24… ick and huh?) I pulled my ratty flip flops out of my bag.  Andrew belted out the chorus to the theme song from Working Girl, and I shoved my 3.5 inch stilettos away for the night.  Let the river run, indeed.