Awkwardly Social

The minute we opened the gate, I knew.

We had just finished looking at a house built in 1989. An eye-sore in the most desirable neighborhood on the east side, a view of the reservoir, and an interior so hideous I thought I had been transported to a tract home in Phoenix, Arizona and any minute a crystal meth dealer was going to pop out and ask me if I wanted.

Mark, our realtor, is amused - by me, by Mr. F, by us. So after we walked out of the nightmare house on Moreno, I told him that it was too big, too awful, and just not us. Mr. F put his arm on Mark’s shoulder and said, “Look man, that place is a dump, I don’t give a shit how good the view is.” Mark laughed.

We drove through the Silver Lake hills down closer to the flats, closer to Sunset and pulled up to 1325. We opened the gate and when I walked up the sweet brick path to the rounded top door, I knew. This was the place. Built in 1922, with a terraced front yard, two decks in back, a dog door in the kitchen, a spare bedroom so perfect for my office it hurts, and when we walked through the rambling rooms with sash windows and original hardwood, Mr. F knew too.

We put in an offer. If we don’t get this house it won’t be the end of the world, but the beginning will feel that much farther. I want to move in last week.

We pulled into my favorite coffee shop in the city. And Mr. F looked at me. I was beaming. “Baby, this is our neighborhood.” “Do you love it here?” He pulled me into a hug. We’d had a rough morning, filled with anxiety about health and life and how to deal with not knowing some things about the future, and when he put his face in my neck, I knew he was feeling better. “I love it here.”

I think we’ll know on Monday.

You should see my drafts list.  In the past week, I’ve tried to write about a lot of things.

I’ve tried to write about Mercury being in retrograde and how living in Southern California makes it possible to use that as a valid excuse for things getting fucked up at your job.  All that topic deserves is the sentence I just wrote.  Instead I rambled on and on and tried to be funny.  Turns out, I’m not all that funny when it comes to hippy-dippy lifestyle in California.

I’ve tried to write about the ghost that turned up in Mr. F’s apartment and started cooking some ghost mac and cheese, and then some ghost Hamburger Helper.  He was a big silhouette-y ghost.  It barely deserved a twitter.

I’ve tried to write about my trip to a new doctor and how he kind of called me a woman of loose morals, but in a nice way.  Also, he called me a classy dame.  I think he’s a doctor from the past.  He’s Mr. F’s doctor so that would make sense.

I’ve tried to write about returning to exercise.  I did.  A fat teenaged girl on my street mocked me for running with my dog.  If it hadn’t been so weirdly out of the blue, I probably would have gotten pissed.  Instead I get a chuckle thinking about her toad like body running in place sounding off about me running.  It was really quite a picture.  The whole run I thought about ways I could have wounded her with words, instead of just laughing and running away. I think I chose the right path.

I’ve tried to write about how Mr. F’s health report… I still don’t have the words.  I told my mom about his diagnosis, expecting her to be less than happy about the probable outcome.  Instead she told me, “It’s not that bad, you and he should be worried about the economy instead.”  My mom, ever the R.N.  If she was here, she’d probably tell him to take a nap and hand him a spaghetti pot to barf in.  Even if he wasn’t tired, or experiencing flu-like symptoms.

I’ve tried to write about house hunting.  It’s been frustrating.  But now we have a kick ass realtor.  We have six places to look at tomorrow, two of which we’re really excited about.

I’ve even considered writing about seeing a reader of mine, a girl whose blog I read, popping up on Louie’s flickr page.  And how that was weird.  But that’s about all I can say, it was weird.  But I guess given the small town nature of blogging, totally expected.

And that’s about the sum of my drafts folder.  Phew!  Now I can delete those pigs and move on with my life.

I don’t know why, today of all days, I feel the need to disclaim. What you read here sometimes barely scratches the surface of my life and what I’m thinking about, other times it’s coming from the darkest reaches of stuff that should be left unsaid, especially when I look back at some of my melodramatic posts and cringe.

Top it all off with the fact that I’m feeling a little blocked since I stopped drinking. I have words in me, but they come out wrong. They have too many asides and the point seems lost somewhere in the writing. I don’t always drink when I write, but I when I drink I always want to write. Something about that magic elixir that clears away the filter, makes me feel more coherent.

Mr. F and I had a rough week last week. He got test results today that promise a long road of medicine and treatments and lifestyle changes. I didn’t know how I would react, and I really wanted to cry and fall apart a little when I first heard the news, but my friend Catherine said it best in an e-mail to me, “Love means not being able to break down when you want to…” And she’s right.

But that has nothing to do with this. I keep thinking if I just keep writing, something good will eventually come out. Bear with me while I try to creep through the cobwebs of my sober brain.

—-

We are an interesting looking couple to say the least. He has crazy gray hair and interesting taste in clothing, ranging from ratty preppy polo t-shirts from the 80s and incomprehensible denim from the 70s, to concert t-shirts from the 90s and expensive jeans from last year, all topped off with fancy sunglasses that he almost always wears inside. Me, well, you know what I look like. Generally I’m in a casual dress and flip flops with either a ridiculously inappropriate handbag from H&M, or a book bag from NPR, stupidly long reddish blond hair perpetually looking like it’s 6 months overdue for a haircut.

When we are together, we are almost always touching. Sometimes it’s me with my hand stretched out behind me hoping he’ll pick up the pace. Sometimes it’s him with his hand on my hip bone pulling me close, making me feel like our bodies were somehow made for each other, 21 years apart. People tend to remember us. He doesn’t blend, and when I’m with him, I don’t either.

We had explored the entire lingerie department in Nordstrom’s trying to find a couple of nightgowns that didn’t have animal print, old lady flowers or SLUT written all over them, when finally we found a couple I could stomach wearing and he could stomach looking at, when we walked over to the counter to pay. I looked at a bottle of pink liquid sitting innocently on the counter and read the label, “Lingerie Wash and Stain Remover,” and I snorted. Mr. F looked at it and said, “Stains. I guess it’s better than saying, “Removes Blood and Shit’.”

Then he handed three white nightgowns to the young cashier behind the counter as I was laughing into my sleeve. She looked at me and said, “Oh, it’s good for all kinds of stains. You know, like even on your shirt.” I replied, “Or the blue dress you wore on your second day of your internship at the White House.” And she tried not to laugh, but I could see the chuckle building up in her.

Some hijinks ensued with Mr. F’s credit card, we’ve got a regular slap stick routine going with his card and him losing it and me finding it and then him losing it again, and the lingerie lady behind the counter was watching us and she smiled. “You guys are so fun.” “Really? We’re not just annoying and disorganized?” “No, you’re such a good couple.”

And I don’t know what else to say, except to say that we are. And I can’t imagine the next part of my life without him. How that’s possible just 6 short months after I met him, I don’t know. But here we are.

Normally on Saturday mornings, we wake up all tangled together, purring and cooing and generally being the most disgustingly in love couple you could imagine. Then we drag ourselves away from each other for just long enough to shower and take care of weekend things that need to be taken care of. Mr. F arrives at my doorstep at around noon and off we go to Dusty’s where all the waiters know us and they give us a cozy booth, a glass of wine for me, a bottle of Chimay for him, and we sit together and coo and purr and generally act like the most disgustingly in love couple you could imagine.

We both haven’t had a drink since the premiere on Monday night. Him because of some impending (possibly ominous, and awful, and life changing) test results, me because I’ve been so sloppy lately it’s been embarrassing. I decided to take a month to see if I could get straight, he decided on doctors recommendation (and my nagging insistence) to take a booze break as well.

So this Saturday morning rolled around and we woke up all tangled together, both of us a little confused as to how we could continue with our day without the promise of a nice chilled glass of wine and a bottle of beer to start it. We had two realty appointments to keep, and a whole stack of other places to call. We dragged our unshowered and depressed bodies out of bed and into the silver tank. Meandering through the streets of Echo Park and Silver Lake. We looked like a couple of refugees, lost and bewildered.  Well, if refugees were ever to ride around in a silver Mercedes.

The worst place we looked at was on the best street. It was the bottom half of a duplex with an upside down floor plan, and a basement so creepy I knew I would never have a good night’s sleep there, especially when the owner started showing us dark and cobwebby and murky storage spaces that opened up from the back of closets. She led us into the basement, where the master suite was. Opening a closed door that swung closed as soon as we stepped in she said, “It’s so weird, I don’t know why that door doesn’t stay open.” I gave Mr. F a look, and he gave me one back. She opened up a small closet and then unlatched a creepy door deep in the back of it and showed us a terrifying, unfinished hunchback tall storage area that looked like it extended down the entire length of the house and Mr. F in his perfect deadpan said, “That’s where we’ll hide the bodies.” I started to laugh, and the woman looked at me and earnestly said, “It’s a little creepy. At first it really bothered me. But we’ve come to an understanding…” And she trailed off, and I knew this was a place I would never live, no matter how much I liked the street. She straight up admitted the fucking place was haunted.

We left shortly after telling the woman good luck. She stood there in her driveway with her long, perfectly toned, tan legs, and her t-shirt proclaiming “FUN” looking like she didn’t know the meaning of the word, like she needed to convince everyone around her that she wasn’t as freaked out as she probably had been for the past five years living in a fucked up, upside down haunted house.

We sat in our silver refugee mobile and I got a little teary. Mr. F pulled out his phone, “Fuck this, I’m calling my old realtor.” And he did. Gary answered after the second ring, and Mr. F said, “Look, Gary, I am in love, I need a house, like yesterday.” The wheels started turning and Monday we’ll have someone showing us houses that don’t have ghosts and rickety staircases and neighbors who hold weekly yard sales.

We pulled into Dusty’s and the hostess tried to seat us at a table, when one of our favorite waiters swooped in and seated us in a huge booth, “Good to see you guys again. How’ve you been?” “Long story, but we’re alive.” “For now.”

It was a long Saturday, some really good, some really bad moments, but whenever either of us starting flipping out the other was there to prop the flipper-outer-up.  There’s a possibility Monday will bring nothing but more bad news, but right now, I’m happy to be sitting in his office writing these words, listening to him work.

Mr. F told me to watch this video. And we were sitting there watching it together, and there’s this moment where the Idol taps his spoon on the jam jars, and Seth said, “He just wants some jam!” And I started laughing, and he started laughing and I had to pause it for a minute because, Christ, we all just want some jam, baby.

It’s a creepy little movie, but excellent in many ways.

Last night we had to grab a cab to make it the last 4 blocks to the parking structure. I was a vodka tonic, a glass of champagne and a martini and a half in, empty stomach, wearing a pair of high heels that weren’t made for walking. I was a handful to say the least and Mr. F couldn’t take it. Then I started one of my awful messy conversations about shit I don’t talk about when I’m sober, mostly because I bury that stuff pretty deeply but partly because it doesn’t really affect me when I’m not shit faced.

And this morning things came crashing in and, deep breath, I’ve made a decision to stop drinking. Maybe not for good. You know, one day at a time, all that bullshit. Fake it, ’til you make it. Slogan, slogan. Fuck A.A., I don’t believe in God.

I hate being so dramatic, but today was one of those days I can’t write about here. I wish I could write about everything that happened. Everything we all went through and are going to be going through for the rest of our lives. It’s just that I can’t. So instead I’ll tell you that if you ever thought that good thoughts and the power of positive thinking could change the world like I have in the past week, you were wrong. I was wrong. But the funny thing about it is, here I am still hoping that if I keep thinking positively things will somehow get better.

Today starts a new period in my life. To mark a new life phase normally I would have a drink and celebrate it, no matter how awful the new period looked. But now that I’m in this new period, drinking is off the table.

I’m sober.

And this is the part of the television movie where the audience gets a good feeling, a hopeful feeling, that maybe things are going to be alright for this girl, now that she finally got her shit together. But here I am, the heroine of this particularly awful and obvious and telegraphed television movie, thinking if there was anything I could do to stay the fun drunk, I’d do it. There is. And I can’t.

And I’d love to tell you why, and if you know me in real life, just ask, I’ll tell you. I just can’t here. It’s not appropriate. I will tell you it has nothing to do with anything that happened to me directly.

So, don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do? I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to become really familiar with Pellegrino and all of its friends.

Mr. F will be here shortly to pick me up for the premiere.  I’m kind of wearing a dress that could possibly by mistaken for maternity wear.  Which is hilarious because as I was dashing out the door to catch my ride to the airport at an ungodly hour my sister called out to me, “You should start taking folic acid!”  She was recalling the conversation we had the night before about how in a couple of months Mr. F and I going to start considering what it would mean to have, what do you kids call it? Oh yeah, unprotected sex.  I think it’s hilarious that of all the things to say to me before I left that was the one that came to mind.

She and I had probably the most quality time together we’ve had since before she had her babies.  We sat up and talked the night before the funeral, going over all the stuff we usually go over, but it felt different because I had her all to myself.

The funeral wasn’t all that sad.  I know my dad is going to miss his mom, but we all knew her quality of life was gone and she really wanted to get to heaven to start telling grandpa he was eating too much chocolate.

97 years is a long time.  And my grandma apparently spent it collecting costume jewelry.  Much of which I took home with me.  That and her wedding band.  And her high school class ring.  I wore them on the plane home because I didn’t want to lose them.  And I would look down at my hand and wonder at all the years she wore it.  All the times she took it off to put on her jasmine smelling lotion.  I wondered how many times she sat it down and panicked when she couldn’t find it again.  I wondered if it ever slipped down the drain and grandpa had to fish it out.

At the funeral her minister said that seeing us all together was all she would have wanted.  And it was really quite nice to get to hang out with my dad’s cousins, even if they were 98% Republican.  My sister’s godmother, an independent saved us from being completely outnumbered and out voiced.

I probably won’t get back to North Dakota any time soon, if ever.  But I will always remember those crazy hills we coasted down in mismatched bikes and all those bars we ate right out of the freezer.

It’s good to be home.

I was so nervous that Mr. F decided we needed to get a drink in Malibu before we picked her up. Which made us late. Which actually didn’t bother me. Because that meant one more chunk of time in my arsenal of ‘before Tamara met her boyfriend’s daughter’ moments. Also, I’m learning this new thing called living life with a Pisces. The good thing about Capricorns in relationships with Pisces? The Capricorn is forced to chill the fuck out and isn’t always early to everything with pre-printed directions and 6 alternative locations to park. I like to think it helps me fly by the seat of my pants, but honestly it really only makes me nervous and send frantic text messages to my friends telling them we’re running late. Like 45 minutes late. Because my boyfriend is not attached to things like being on time. Wait, that sounded snippy, I guess I’m still a Capricorn after all!

We finally got to Elle’s* apartment and I started to sweat. And I wasn’t wearing deodorant.** There were no more chunks of time left ‘before Tamara met her boyfriend’s daughter’ and now I was going to meet her with an ‘odor’ or at the very least pit stains. We walked up the creepily familiar stairs to her apartment and I hoped she wouldn’t be bitchy. Mr. F had repeatedly told me that everyone loves Elle. Which made me think that I would probably hate her, or at the very least she would hate me. So I did a little out of body out of time work and focused on the window right next to the door that looked exactly like the window of my second apartment in Phoenix. And I started to feel sad about that long ago apartment.  Which was completely irrational. But I went down the path of feeling sad about that apartment anyway because I had 2 split seconds to waste.  And I thought about the sweet sectional couch we bought from a classified ad (way pre-Craigslist), the washer and dryer, the dishwasher and TWO bathrooms. That apartment on Thunderbird road was palatial. And it cost about $850 per month. Then I did some quick math and realized she was the exact same age as I was when I moved to California. Then I got nostalgic about moving to California, but I didn’t really have time to go down that path because my two split seconds of remaining time ‘before I met his daughter’ had finally expired and there she was opening her door.

Her dad has striking blue eyes, but hers are even more intense. And she’s gorgeous. I shook her hand and tried not to say something like, “It’s so nice to meet you!” But I said it anyway. I guess it’s better than saying something like, “I have sex with your dad on a regular basis!”

And the trip down the stairs to the car all I could think about was how in maybe an hour we would get through the awkward part where I stutter a little and make awkward segues, but that in that hour I would probably trip, if not physically than over my words. Then she talked about how her brother’s wife pees on her own hands to prevent a summer skin condition and the ice was officially broken. She warned me in the car that restaurant was ‘kind of full of heads.’ Which I found endearing, that she would want to warn me about that. I told her my uncle likes to kill things and mount them on his walls, and she assured me I’d be super comfortable there.

Saddle Peak Lodge is nestled in the canyon between Malibu and Calabasas. They have $4,500 bottles of wine and a $250 glass of Scotch on the menu. It’s that kind of place. Needless to say, the water buffalo head and I felt very comfortable there. Granted, the water buffalo had been dead and hanging on the wall for 50 years, but you get the picture.

I changed my shoes in the car. I put on my favorite pair of brown heels and promptly stumbled up to the hostess station. I always forget that it takes me a few steps to get my sea legs.

We sat down in the back garden and the sun was setting and it was a gorgeous night.  Elle handed me the wine list and said, “Dad tells me you know a lot about wine, you pick.” I love that Mr. F had told her that specific detail about me. I liked it even more that I knew exactly what to do. If I know anything about alcohol, it’s how to pick a bottle of wine, and how to make it look like I’m picking it based on more than the label. My other uncle, the one without dead heads on his wall, is the inspiration for learning about wine. He has a wine cellar! So I knew how to act when our waiter showed me the bottle and placed the cork by my plate. And thankfully my extensive ‘tasting’ experience taught me how to taste the wine. It actually didn’t matter, no one gives a shit if you don’t know what you’re doing with wine.

So the night progressed and Elle and I talked about everything.  Boys and ghosts and what we were going to wear to the premiere and being 24 and the meaning of life and how to get to where you want to go and how to know when you’re there.  I got up to go to the bathroom and I told them not to talk about me.  When I returned, Mr. F blurted out, “We were just talking about you!  She was telling me how pretty and smart she thinks you are!”  And Elle blushed, “Dad!  I told you to wait to tell her.”  It was adorable.  They are cut from the same cloth.

The night was finally winding down and Mr. F and Elle wanted to show me around the place.  Haunted library and all.  We walked up a little path and into the rustic library with African wild game mounted on the wall.  Elle went to the book shelf, tipsy, and a girl after my own heart.  She pulled a book out and said, “I think I’m just going to take this one home.  No one reads it here.  I feel bad for it.”  She jammed it in her purse.  “You pick one too.”  So I did.  She’s a Pisces, born one day before her dad, and it totally shows.

We drove her back to her apartment and I hugged her goodnight.  And Mr. F held my hand and we walked back to his car.  “See, I told you you’d like her.”  And he was right.

*Elle is not her real name. Nor does it really fit her. But I’m trying something new called, not outing every single person in my life especially when they don’t read things like blogs.

**Mr. F doesn’t like it. He wants to be able to lick my armpit without getting a mouthful of Secret. File that sentence under things I never thought I’d write.

I’m trying to write the words about meeting Mr. F’s daughter, but I’m faced with some stuff. Some heavy stuff that involves Mr. F, and looming test results that follow a weird biopsy analysis/diagnosis and I just need to close the laptop and go the fuck over to my boyfriend’s house and keep a stiff upper lift and a positive attitude, when really I just want to grab him and shake him and tell him he’s not allowed to get sick for christ’s sakes! He promised me 20 good years!

So, friends, what do you do when you’re freaked out? I like to eat all the M&Ms at work and fantasize about smoking cigarettes, obsess over Dr. Google and how fucked up it can be to read about possible outcomes for diseases someone may or may not have. How about you?

When I told Mr. F I wanted to go to a Dodger game, it was partly to cross off another item on my 101 in 1001 list. When he seemed totally excited to go and started talking about Manny Rodriguez*, I got a little worried. I mean, I just wanted to go and eat a hot dog and hear the crack of the bat, and he was talking about actual players and Joe Torre and how in the hell did I start dating someone who actually enjoys baseball, and was he going to start listing stats and make me pay attention at the game and how would that be any fun?

Then I remembered that his son plays professional baseball in Europe and I calmed down. I mean, it’s not like he’s some kind of sports freak, or maybe he was! Maybe he pushed his son like crazy to be a baseball player and his son, just to please him, kept playing, and then when he couldn’t take it anymore he moved to Europe and that’s when Mr. F followed him out there and told him he had to be a baseball player no matter what!

Actually, I didn’t think any of that. I mostly thought about hot dogs. And how many I could eat without feeling really guilty. The answer was high. And, maybe I was too, but more likely I was drunk. So I flat out asked him, “Do you like, LOVE baseball, or… Because I just sort of want to be at the ball park. I like the atmosphere and hot dogs and my grandpa watched baseball…” And then he stopped me and said, “Look, man,” sometimes he calls me man, “I just love the inherent drama. Also Manny used to live at the Ritz in Boston, which I dig.” And so I breathed a sigh of relief and told him that we should get tickets, thinking one Saturday in late summer we’d catch a few innings from the nose bleeds, eat a dog (or seven!), drink a beer (or 3 vodka tonics!) and be done with it.

A few weeks later he said he got us tickets. Good tickets. Enviable tickets. For a night game. And there were four of them. So we invited the newlyweds and set out for a game at field level, third base line, free food, and interesting insight on one of your friends (Ands’ has a favorite re-up, who was sent back to the minors and then got asked back to the Big Show, his name is Somebody Dewitt.) (His first name is not “Somebody.”) (His last name might not be Dewitt.)

There is something so magical about a baseball diamond. I know, I know! Baseball is boring! I agree. Wholeheartedly. But when you’re at field level and you can see Manny walking by and the crowd does the wave and people all sing the ball game song, and there are free Dodger dogs, you kind of overlook the fact that not a lot seems to be happening. And then after two vodka tonics and some peanuts and a serious moment of celebrity stalking, you realize that a lot is happening. And after that a bat breaks, our re-up hits a homer and the Dodgers win!

I am so glad I put this on my 101 in 1001 list. Even if I checked it off a month too late.

*His last name is Ramirez.  I’m a dork.