Romance Part Deuxxx

As soon as she pulled her pants up and left his house, groggy and squinting in the afternoon light, she turned right and headed down the street. She wasn't in her neighborhood and in fact was quite far from home, although the last thing she wanted to do was ask him for a ride. She made her way, passing families, looking down, smiling at little boys yelling in their yards. She turned and was on the main drag now, full of bars, restaurants, shops. She'd been here before, knew the diner well, knew the thrift store where she'd bought broken earrings, knew where this road would take her. She stopped outside a small bar and peered inside--empty, except for one young man reading in a booth by the jukebox. She stepped through the doorway.
The bartender approached, a handsome blonde woman who felt like she should be working in better places. "What'll you have?" The two women began talking, quietly, quickly, and before long they were drunk. The young man stood and put a song on the jukebox. Soon all three were standing by the stools singing along like old friends. The young man excused himself and the bartender leaned in. "He's a good one, that boy. Smart and kind, from old money. Maybe you should talk." The girl smiled. Maybe, she thought.
When the young man came back the girl asked him for his name. "Red." They skipped the formalities and he told her he'd drive her home. What luck, she thought. She realized how late it was as they left the bar: dark now, and the streets calm. They walked to his car and she sized him up: unassuming, boyish, scrawny, almost effeminate. He got in on the driver's side and reached to unlock her door. When she climbed in he took her face in his hands gently and kissed her aggressively. His tongue felt nice but she was taken aback. "Wasn't expecting that", she mumbled as he shifted into drive.
She invited him in. He was a kind, patient lover, attached to her, it seemed, already. She sighed as it was beginning to get light outside and let herself drift to sleep while on top of him.
In the morning, he wanted to know more about her so they explored her belongings--old journals, photographs, memories. She told him a lot but was careful and guarded even though she figured she could trust him. What they have done to me I can do to you, she thought as she watched his docile eyes scan the pages of her diary. They made plans to meet later and she walked him out. She smoked and took a shower and watched the day pass. He called and she ignored. He came by and she didn't answer the door. The next day she wept and wondered where her life was headed.
That evening she went to a party knowing there'd be old friends and booze. She was standing by the doorway when she noticed someone--someone she'd never seen, a man wearing a suit and glasses. Their eyes met and she asked him for a cigarette. He didn't have the kind she liked but the electricity flew between them like a thunderstorm. They shook hands. "Wayne", he said. His eyes behind his glasses--clear green-blue, bright, yellow by the pupil--made her forget yesterday, the day before, other men seeming insignificant in comparison. They flirted and danced, he asked if she was spoken for and gave her compliments. She smiled and threw her head back in laughter only to catch Red staring at them from the porch. Guilt set in.
She left the party alone and found herself imagining what Wayne would feel like and how he smelled. She daydreamed and sighed and kept ignoring Red's calls. When he left a basket of wild flowers on her doorstep she couldn't help but feel like she was making a mistake by avoiding him, so when she couldn't find Wayne she'd call Red and they would laugh and have an innocently pleasing time, cooking or being silly, watching TV, driving to the mountains. But her mind was always wandering, she couldn't concentrate, and when she let Red put his hands on her she'd imagine they were Wayne's.
She couldn't deny herself what she felt so she ended it with Red. Suddenly as it began, she told him to leave her alone, for good, that she didn't like him anymore. Destroyed he pleaded but she wasn't listening. That night she called Wayne and gave him a haircut in her bathroom, letting the pieces fall into the sink and litter the floor. He was sandy blonde and had skin like a clean pony. She knew just what she was doing as she pressed herself against his knee, his shoulders, straddling and leaning in to muss his hair and see what more she needed to cut. He grinned at her then laid his head in her lap when they moved to the couch. Two empty bottles of wine stood on the table as he looked up at her, then rose and sucked on her lips. She felt him and was elated. Their intimacy sent a lightening bolt through her insides.
The next day guilt set in. She called Wayne to tell him no more, that she knew her heart was something only she should look after now. Her mind said to stay away but the rest of her needed a man.
The next night as she waited outside for Wayne to arrive she paced and smoked and thought of her past. He was taking too long. She extinguished her cigarette and stepped from the curb, began to walk. This time there was no guilt, just a long, dark street and the sound of her shoes on the asphalt.

The Dove

I was afraid I'd get bitten, but I tried to pry the dog's mouth off Tigs' throat anyway. I stayed calm. The other dog's owner was screaming and it wasn't getting us anywhere. The dogs rolled and snapped and held onto each other's loose fleshy parts. Eventually I got a hold of Tigs and called to the screaming man to remove his animal from my dog's neck. The man was sweating and the dogs were panting. I told him I knew it wasn't personal and Tigs and I walked home.
Once inside, I was able to examine Tigs' body. There was blood deep in his ear and he wasn't acting right. Then I noticed his ear was detached from his head, at the base in back. I could see all the way through.
I put Tigs in the car; we drove to the emergency vet. Once they got a look at him, they decided they needed to shave his head to get a better handle on the injuries. They sedated him, stapled his ear back on, closed another puncture wound, and we went to the waiting room for our bill.
Tigs doesn't take to strangers, especially ones wearing big coats. He barked as a woman approached the vet door in her Ugg boots and puffy jacket. She entered exclaiming she'd called about the mourning dove she held in a cat carrier by her side. Its eye was falling out, she said, it needed help. The staff took the carrying case as the woman explained she was a vegan animal rescuer. I guess she didn't know her boots are made from sheep. She noticed Tigs and asked if he was a rescue; I said yes and he reluctantly sniffed her hand. The doctor returned and told the woman there was nothing they could do; the wild bird was badly hurt and had a broken wing. The woman's cell phone rang. She told the doctor as she answered that she needed to be with the bird. The doctor told her they'd already given it its fatal shot. This upset the woman greatly so she hung up her phone. She insisted on seeing the dove before it died. They brought the withering thing into the waiting room and the woman cradled it to her chest. She whispered to it and I looked at Tigs head.
I felt that bird leave its body and had to fight every urge to cry. Sometimes I think I breathed that little doves soul right into my heart.

Romance

The girl waited on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. She folded her arms across her chest and stood, looking from right to left. It was night and there was a breeze. She shivered a bit and folded her arms closer. He’d told her he’d be there. She didn’t want to miss him; although she’d been waiting 2 hours already, she didn’t dare go back inside. Cars slowed as they passed her. Some drivers ran down their windows and turned their heads in her direction. She only scowled and looked the other way. She felt cheap; she felt foolish. She didn’t want to be outside so late at night.

Although the street light was comforting, the air kept getting colder and still there was no sign of his car. She stepped away from the curb and turned her back to the street. She deposited 25 cents into the slot in the pay phone that was stuck to her building. She dialed his number. After 4 rings he picked up. She told him she was cold and worried and he sounded annoyed. When she told him to forget it he turned on the charm. He told her he’d be there real soon. She sighed, hung up the receiver, and smiled slightly to herself.

She smoked a cigarette, she waited. She ran inside and got some gloves, a can of beer, and sat down on the curb. She stared at her feet and wondered what she was doing in the gutter. Strange young boys walked behind her on the sidewalk. She was out of the light and low down so they couldn’t see her. She felt like she had an advantage over them: she was perched between 2 car bumpers and could see them pass under the street light, but they couldn’t see her. That felt good. She smiled again, this time letting her teeth show and a quick breath come from her nose.

Finally, when the sun was almost rising and she felt delirious from lack of sleep, she stood up and hobbled towards the pay phone. She knew he wasn’t coming; she knew he’d never come. She knew she couldn’t go back inside. She dialed a number from memory and pretty soon a red pick up truck was idling in the street, the fumes from its exhaust like warm breath in the pre-dawn chill. She climbed in the passenger’s side as the first ray of sunlight illuminated her hair. She always hated this time of day.

She smiled as she looked at the driver. “Long time”, he said. “Yeah, you look good,” she replied, still smiling. “Where to?” he asked her. “Anywhere, I don’t care.” He shifted the truck into drive and smiled. She lay her head back on the headrest and was soon asleep.

It was mid-morning by the time the truck stopped. She opened the door and stepped onto the asphalt. There were clouds in the sky now, but it was humid and muggy. She squinted in the bright grey light as she walked towards his house. He walked beside her, then took her arm and quickly, jokingly, twisted it behind her back. They walked inside his front door and he pushed her onto the couch. “Like before?” he asked as he started to unbuckle his belt. “No,” she said and he stopped. “This time, pretend you love me.”

Ex Rayted

I woke up Sunday morning filled with inexplicit hope -- and for nothing really tangible, because as I tried to pinpoint from where my elation stemmed, I was stumped: it wasn't him, it wasn't work, it wasn't anything I could see near, just a promise of something better.

Perhaps -- as I imagine I hear over the water when the dog makes noises like the front door closing -- you'll appear and call to me as I step from the shower. You'll drop what you're holding and embrace me through the sheets of wet hair that will cover my face, and I will be having a lovely day so I'll look perfect, barefaced in my bathrobe, and you'll be accepting of my flaws anyway. We'll stand in the middle of the floor for some time, me dripping, and you'll let me cry into you and you'll press a tender cheek to the top of my head. I'll know that you've learned something; I'll know that my bed is no longer your cage. We'll lie down and watch TV like it was yesterday, except you'll never want to leave because you've changed. What bothered you before is now endearing; what scared you before is now appealing.

The next day we'll wake up late; our alarms didn't go off and the sky looks too dark. We'll reach to open the curtain together and see the melted skyline and crumpled buildings beyond the one we're in. We'll see the palm trees are burnt, the silver sky heavy with ash, the debris that once was a neighborhood, everyone else permanently asleep. The dog will look at us and we'll look at her and then each other. We'll stare out the window and hold each other by the waist and laugh like the night before and sigh.

Terror Hits Home

Yesterday on my lunch break I was driving on Westwood Blvd., looking for a parking space -- to no avail -- because I forgot my lunch and thought Baja Fresh sounded good (I work like a 10 minute drive from Westwood Village). So anyway, it was really hot and sticky and I was very annoyed and I was waiting on the corner of Wilshire and Westwood to turn right onto Wilshire to circle around again, when I saw this lady with a cast on her leg and a weird skirt crossing the street coming towards me. I watched her for a moment, dragging this suitcase behind her, and then she placed it against the lamp post right at a bus stop on the corner. She then ran back across the street into traffic and was flailing her arms all around and almost getting hit. I looked at the bag, which was essentially right next to my passenger window, and I started hyperventilating, like, this is a bomb and it's going to explode and I'm going to die. I was flipping out and honking at the guy in front of me to GO and then I Finally turned the corner and called the police and they sent a helicopter (which I only heard because I was at Jack in the Box at this point). The cops called me back later to ask me which direction the lady had gone and I told them "South on Westwood" & that's the last I heard.

If I were to die today

Today there is no internet in the office, and by the time you read this, there must be. But as of now, Monday morning is a vast wasteland of cold tea and solitaire. I mean, I am literally spacing out: my eyes are glazed over, I’m clicking my mouse and pretending I am doing something, anything, but the truth is I can’t even concentrate on the card game I am feebly attempting to play. As I sit here bored to tears, one question keeps popping into my head: why do I hate my job and what other job would I enjoy more? As mentioned before, I think most people dislike their mundane day-to-day existence, but we’re talking about me, and I can’t really think of anything that would make me want to get out of bed in the morning. Alright, that’s not entirely true: when I’m cuddling Sadie and she is so soft and adorable lying on me, not wanting to wake up either, I feel I must set an example, and I get up so we can both pee and eat. But I’d just as soon get right back into bed. Then, of course, there’s the weather; I have to admit, a sunny day is a great motivator. But mostly it encourages spending time outdoors, not in a stuffy office. I suppose if I didn’t have the pitfalls and distractions of modern life, i.e. drinks, cigarettes, caffeine, steroids – which slow me down from heavy use the night before – I wouldn’t feel so goddamn sluggish all the time. I have a hard time feeling energized, even when I drink my huge mug of breakfast tea, and I always feel foggy, lifeless, tired. So I think to myself, is there anything in the world I could be doing right now that would take that feeling away? Sleeping, for one, would help: I can’t remember the last time I got a solid 8 hours. It’s been weeks. (Not that I’m complaining; when I’m up late having fun, I always use the excuse “you can sleep when you’re dead” to try and make myself feel better as the clock ticks closer to dawn. And I believe it, to a certain extent, but there’s always an inverse: if you feel like shit because you’re so tired all the time, isn’t your quality of life diminished?) As I sit and write this, the theme song for TV’s “The O.C.” comes to mind inexplicitly. Maybe I think it would be fun to not work at all, to have rich, rich parents and a large trust fund, to sit around in Santa Monica or wherever and paint or whatever, to go crazy. Because honestly, that’s what would happen: I need structure, even though I hate to admit it, and when I’m not at work during the day it makes me feel…funny, like I’m an actor or a student or a bum. Something about it doesn’t feel right. And if I had a home office (doing what, I don’t know), you can guess how much work would get done: I’d see a stretch of lawn that needed wildflowers strewn across it (because I’d definitely live in a house if I had a home office, and a house with a huge yard and trees and everything), I’d snack, I’d run pointless errands, perhaps to pick up flower seeds, I’d play with the dogs or stare at myself in the mirror for hours, analyzing how my face has changed since I’ve gotten older. Also, I’d smoke and think too much and feel a little too sorry for myself (as I am wont to do when I am home during the day). Don’t get me wrong: when it comes to my band, music, booking gigs, rehearsals, personal scheduling, or anything involving my boyfriend, I am on it like stink on fancy French cheese. I get into manic mode and nothing can stop me. I’m professional and tenacious and helpful. But give me a project, say, tracking down all the Christian bookstores in the United States and Canada – as I was asked to do here recently – and I lose it. I feel like crying and running away and I start to whine inside. On those days, I would much rather be wallowing in wealth and self-pity than the bastardly internet with its cursed Christian underworld. Being a stay-at-home mom, which would, in theory, give me both the structure of a daily guideline and the freedom of not having a boss, is not something I could ever see myself doing, mostly because I don’t particularly want to be a wife and my hair is way too high-maintenance.

Someone told me the other day, as I complained bitterly and drunkenly about my current situation, that I was a good worker, that I had it in me, and I protested, admitting for the first time that I spend the majority of my day coming up with ways to look like I’m working, to see how fast it takes me to minimize the game that’s on my screen. I am a poor, poor subject when it comes to exemplary workplace habits. But that’s because you’re not challenged, my dear friend proclaimed, and while that’s true and so very sweet of him to say, it made me wonder: do I want to be challenged? What does that entail, exactly? Does that mean I’ll be doing more work? More shit I don’t care about and don’t want to do? Maybe it’s a fundamental problem; maybe I dislike the system, the idea that I’m only helping the rich get richer and, to quote Dolly, I’m spending my life putting money in someone else’s wallet. Even if I made a great sale or came up with a life-altering idea, I wouldn’t really get credit, and I wouldn’t really see the direct results. Going unnoticed: now that’s something to make me feel challenged.

This same friend told me that his biggest fear in life is obscurity, and I could not agree more. Not that I have a sick obsession with fame or celebrity or anything, oh no, but I don’t want to die not leaving some sort of impact on the world. And it could be small, that’s okay with me! And as the same fucking talking-loud-and-saying-nothing women cross in front of my desk on their way to the bathroom, I think even if I could get them to realize how asinine their lives and conversations are, if when I first met them and they admitted to being obnoxious and vacant, if only I hadn’t just smiled and nodded, if only I’d said, “I look forward to it” or some such sarcastic comment, if only I’d said what I thought, I would have left some impact on this earth; I would be remembered as being brutally honest and straightforward. It would make people respect me because everyone secretly dreams that they are that person: the wise-cracker, the sardonic asshole. Everyone loves an asshole. And this makes me get very angry because I think about my general attitude lately, how I’ve been kind of complacent in certain circles, how I’ve been talking a whole lot of nothing, how I’ve been feeling a bit unlike myself, a bit too nice, a bit too quick to smile first and complain later. I don’t like it.

When I started this job, I came in for my interview on the verge of vomiting from a terrible hangover. I didn’t give a fuck. I sauntered in, not giving a damn either way if I got the job, and guess what, I nailed it. I was jovial and agreeable, but still real, yo. I was me. And on America’s Next Top Model (and thank you, VH1, for rerunning all of season 1 yesterday as I sat trapped in the desert), the girl who won pulled it off partly because she was incredibly photogenic and had fabulous genes, but also because she “didn’t care what anyone thought about her. She’s always herself.” And that is my mantra. Maybe it’s cliché and maybe it’s terrible timing, but I’m sick of me. I’m sick of being so careful. Some of you (hello? Anybody there?) might be thinking, “you? That’s crazy talk. You always say what’s on your mind.” But think about it: when was the last time, with the exception of being wasted, that I was actually, viscerally, obnoxious? I mean, in your face, badass, unruly? I can’t remember, and I want so badly to be. I want to shake up the system. And maybe that’s the key: maybe just by being you, maybe just by holding on, keeping your fire lit, keeping the thing that makes you different from everyone in the front of your mind, maybe then all the other stuff falls into place. Career, love, bullshit: having integrity and fucking shit up are what life’s really all about. Because honestly, if you can’t live harmoniously within yourself, what the hell is life worth? Already I feel more clear-headed.

I just won solitaire.

Miserable people and their miserable lives

Is everyone unhappy? Does everyone hate who they are, what job they do, and where they live? I know very few content individuals who can find pleasure in the simple and don’t act all stressed out, snobby, rude, and too caught up in their own petty problems to relax and enjoy life. Sure, I’ve been known to be stuck in my own head and complain, be depressed, drink too much, eat not enough, etc., but when I’m feeling low, I know I can go home, lie on my bed, watch The Simpson’s, drink a beer, eat some nachos, hug my dog, and I’ll feel better. My problem of the day may not go away, but at least it will not be bothering me anymore. And also, what’s the fucking point of being a goddamn bitch for no reason? Some people are so fucking snotty and rude without any right to be. I mean, sure, when someone, say, steals your camera from your purse at a party you can yell at them (all night), but when you expect someone who you’ve never seen before to know who you are and then you’re all stinky about it, fuck that. I mean, I’m not a punk, but sometimes it’s easier just to nod and then give them the finger when they walk away. I hate dumb office bitches with no lives. Again, nobody has anything to go home to. Life becomes this awful day to day bullshit with no end in sight. Even if I’m 50 and still typing at someone else’s desk (who am I kidding, I’d kill myself), I will promise to have a good attitude about my life. Attitude, like a drop falling in a puddle, is contagious. Catch it!!

I wish it was the future. In the future, we are going to have so many cool technological advances that we won’t have to cook for ourselves or decide who to mate with. That will be predetermined and decided for us. Also in the future, fat, ugly, sick, stupid people will be eliminated. People with brittle bone disease, diabetes, and ignoramus majorus will not be allowed to breed. Fuck that fuck that, they’ll be killed at birth. Natural selection, bitches. Get with it. This means there will be no more Maury Povich, since his guests will be nonexistent. (“I slept with my husband’s father and I don’t know who’s baby it is”; “I’ve DNA tested 16 men and I still don’t know who I should collect child support from”.)

Rescuing kittens is fairly exciting and only mildly distressing. I can’t remember the last time I crawled beneath an 80-year-old apartment building and got covered in cobwebs just to stop some incessant meowing. Man that thing was little. Luckily my neighbors had a mag lite and an old towel, so now Mrs. Gramercy Dirt Face is resting peacefully in kitty heaven, a.k.a. mom’s house.

So my friends are all like, leave me alone. Stop emailing me all the time, and for the love of god stop calling me at odd hours of the night. Okay, so I never call. But fuck off. I’ve got new friends now. Buck Owens, for one. He doesn’t care if the sun don’t shine, just as long as I love him.

I’m glad it’s Friday, but jesus louises I am so angrified. I was all happy at lunch because I was out of this god forsaken office for 1 hour, and now I’m here and time’s just creeping and I just want something good to eat and a cold, cold Coors light. Plus they keep on asking me to do “work” and I’m like, hell, can’t you see I’m trying to surf the web? They’re so invasive. And it’s not even real shit. It’s banal, mundane, asinine, ridiculous shit that a monkey would be bored with. I’m nobody’s monkey.

Here are some things that are clear: I am going to bring back some words and phrases, although I haven’t yet decided which ones. (And for the record, when the ‘90s come back, you can thank me. I have proof that on new years 2004-2005 I coined that shit. I told everyone it was 1997, and therefore it is. And trust me, the ‘90s will be back. So jump on the bandwagon now, but remember where you heard it.) Also I am starting a list of the 2 kinds of people there are. For example, there are 2 kinds of people: those who watch Friends and those who don’t; those who snowboard and those who don’t. I’ll add more when I see fit.

And a glorious memorial day to all.