Fridays by the Swamp with Deafie

My plane lands in the Florence, South Carolina airport. Or, rather, my “plane” lands in the Florence, South Carolina “airport.” I had taken one of those puddle hoppers that are, I suppose, the closest thing we’ll ever get to a real live Magic School Bus. You know - the type of deal, where instead of saying, “Flight attendants prepare for take off,” the pilot announces over the intercom, “Brian, have a seat.” These Greyhounds with wings always scare the Bejesus out of me, as their stability depends largely on whether there is a breeze, crosswind, or swarm of gnats.

Just landing feels like a real accomplishment, so my spirits are high when I touch down. Until my writing partner calls. He’s delayed five hours. Now, I am great at killing time in airports. I can spend an hour trying to justify buying the newest US Weekly - ‘It’s a Britney one!’, have a glass of wine and a quesadilla because it’s not nine a.m. where I’m from, and silently judge people based on what they’re reading - Dr. Phil in hardcover? That’s simply unforgivable.

So, there has to be something here to keep me occupied. I scan the room (yes, the room) and find: five rocking chairs, a stack of Clarendon County coupon books, and a snack bar comprised of three bolognae sandwiches circling sadly around in a vending machine. Looks like I have five hours to take in not so sunny Florence. I approach the TSA officer who sits with his feet propped up on a rocking chair. “Hi. My friend’s flight is delayed, and I have a lot of time to kill. Is there somewhere around here I can walk to?”

He looks at me for a few moments. “Walk to?”

“Yeah. I have a while, so...”

“Closest restaurant’s a mile away. So...no.”

“A mile I can do. Which dire--”

He calls over his buddy the luggage searcher, “This girl wants to walk. To the restaurant.” They both have a nice belly laugh at my expense. Baggage Checker shakes his head, “They’ll think she’s one of those girls,” One of what girls? A local cheerleader? Can I still pass for high school? “Those girls?” I inquire playfully. TSA guy nods humorlessly, “A lady of the night.” It’s noon. I’m wearing a flannel.

“Oh. Well, I live in L.A. I think I’ll take my chances.”

I head toward the exit, and they both bid me farewell with a look clearly means “Pity.”

“I hope you have a knife,” says the TSA guy. Who just saw me walk off a plane.

I hit the streets, and right of the bat, I am disappointed to see that I won’t be rubbing elbows with any local harlottes. There is no one on the frontage road. It’s actually quite peaceful. I trudge along, taking in the swamp on my right and the charming hum of puttering Chevy mufflers to my left. Just before I arrive at the restaurant - I do see something that may spell trouble - a giant lighted arrow with the word ‘Klassy’ spelled out in flashing bulbs, resting all lonesome like in the soil. How am I going to walk past this without succumbing to the urge to steal it? I remind myself that I won’t get to eat lunch for a while if I go to jail, and carry on to Nick’s Diner: specializing in down home cooking and Thai food.

I open the door. Every fork in the place stops scraping. Twenty white guys of varying levels of obesity stare at me. “Hi. I..uh..table for one.” A teenaged waitress with a sweet smile and a fierce tramp stamp seats me. The old fat whities gradually resume their conversation, but stop every few seconds to watch me do bizarre things like take out my notebook and look over the menu. I’m tempted to try something off the Thai portion of the menu, but am steered the other way when I notice that one of the options is ‘Pad Thai with Liver and Onions.’ So, grilled cheese it is, and I sit back and let the smell of smoking butter and frying cigarettes whet my appetite.

An old gentleman one table over is the first to break the ice. “Where you from?”

“Who, me? California.”

He nods kindly, “I can’t hear you.”

“California.”

“I’m hard of hearing.”

“I’m from California!” The place goes silent once again. Deafie chuckles, “Sweet girl.”

By the time I’m done with my sandwich, the place is empty, save me, Deafie, and the waitress. It’s by no means my idea of a good time in here, but my only other option is the rocking chairs at the airport room, so I decide to stick it out as long as I can tolerate listening to the waitress express her love for cheese, grits, and sleeping. I tell her I’ve never had grits, and Deafie responds with another chuckle, “Happy Thanksgiving.” All three of us could easily just be supporting characters in one of the others’ dreams.

When old girl starts telling Deafie about how she’s too smart to get pregnant, I know it’s time to head out. I ask for the check, and Deafie becomes very adamant about giving me a ride back to the airport. I almost accept his offer, except that by this point, I’m not sure his ears are the only thing on his head that don’t work correctly. He continues to insist and, I find myself clutching my vital organs protectively and yelling “Really! I’m fine!” I run out the door so fast, all I can hear as it closes is, “Sweet girl.”

On my way back, I find a grocery store, and leap at the opportunity to waste a little more time. I’m in the wine aisle trying to decide if it’s easier to walk a mile with four bottles or two magnums, when a grocer walks up to me smiling. I wave back, timidly. He continues smiling for so long, I’m convinced he thinks I’m someone else. Finally, he announces proudly, “I saw you walking.”

“Thank you?”

On my walk back to the airport, I enjoy a smattering of horn honks and tapped brakes from fellows making their way down the highway. This must be what it feels like to be famous: garnering attention from even the most mundane activities. I may be walking alongside a cricket infested swamp, lugging bags of wine, Cheez-its, and peanut butter, but I can’t help but feel down right ‘Klassy.‘ They love me here, they really love me. Either that, or “Sweet girl,” and “I saw you walking,” are just a Southern gentleman’s way of asking, “Excuse me ma’am, but are you a lady of the night?”

A Little Life Lesson

It's five-o-five p.m. and I've barely finished work. I have exactly the right amount of time to drop off some Fed Exes, run home, throw on a dress and some make up, sit in traffic, and get to my downtown show on time (ish).

I fling on my lap top, scoop up the envelopes, and haul ass out of my boss's backhouse-turned office. I fly toward the Volvo - and directly into a yellow police line.

Goddamnit.

A grisly crime? On Miracle Mile? Couldn't they wait until after rush hour? I find the police that came with this line and demand answers.

"Hi! My car is on the other side of this line, and I really need to get home. Is there anyway you can just let me slip by? I have a show tonight, and I still have to straighten my hair."

I wink and shift my Fed Exes flirtatiously. He crosses his arms and nods his head 'no' with that shit-out-of- luck smile they must teach you in cop school.

"Sorry. It's a potential bomb,"

For the love of -- a potential bomb?! Potential bomb just means some idiot kid thought it would be funny to prank call the police from a pay phone. I know because I was friends with those idiots growing up.

(*Side note to the friend who shall remain nameless because I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on terrorists threats -- Thanks again for calling in that bomb threat to Camarillo High in Spring of '99. On behalf of all of us, thanks for jeopardizing your right to live as a free man so that none of us would have to, like, go to Chemistry that morning.)

What am I going to do now? I have to get to my Volvo. I turn away from the cop and power walk in the opposite direction.

Two blocks down, three blocks up, and one block over (the LA equivalent of running a marathon), I end up at another intersection with another cop, and another piece of police tape standing between me and my car.

I flag down cop number two. "Hi! Look, I know there's a 'bomb threat,' but -"

"Why are you putting quotes around 'bomb threat', ma'am? Do you hear that beeping?This thing is real."

"But - "

I stop and listen just to humor him. Sure enough, there is a persistent beepbeepbeep in the background.

"Really? That's from a bomb? Like, for real?"

"For real. Now, I don't want to blow up, and I certainly don't want you to blow up, so I'm afraid I can't let you past this line,"

Oh my God. I'm going to have to walk all the way around to the other side of the intersection. It is now five-forty-five. My timeline is officially shot. I hurry up the street. My lap top beats repetitively against the side of my leg. I'm sweating all over the damn Fed Exes. And the beepbeepbeep reminds me that I might die a fiery death this evening.

I finally get to the other side. The sun is setting. It is now six fifteen. There's nothing I can do now but wait and/or explode. I call my cohost and tell her I'm going to be late/and or blown to smithereens, and I resign myself to sitting on the curb and waiting for this catastrophe to finish already.

Suddenly, a giant truck marked BOMB SQUAD pulls up. It is as tall as a house and is made out of the same material as Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator costume.

Its back door opens. A ramp unfurls, and out rolls none other than an actual legitimate robot.

A cute one. We're talking like a Wall-E or an R2D2 situation.

The little guy wheels his way down the ramp and up to the front door of the bomb house. His skinny robot arms grow longer, and he picks up the bomb! Just when I think I couldn't be more worried about his little robot safety, a trap door opens on his stomach, and he throws the bomb into it. The door closes. The beepbeepbepping stops. The entire neighborhood rumbles in the sunset as the bomb detonates inside the robot.

And that's that. Seriously. I really saw this.

I tell you all about it because I learned a valuable lesson that day:

Sometimes, you may come across obstacles in life that seem frustrating, but don't allow yourself to freak out. Sit back and relax - maybe, just maybe, you're about to see a bomb exploding inside a robot.

Old School

Hello lovelies,

I'm in South Carolina this month, writing a musical, which is consuming all of my brain...SO, here's a left over essay from a salon I did last year, cause Mamma's too tired to make dinner. Enjoy. xx.

People wonder why I hate Frank Sinatra. Well, you would, too, if you listened to him while lifting weights in a room full of eighty-year olds, every morning for two years.

Now, I’m a girl who likes to say yes. If you ask me to go hiking, get high, or give blood, I will tell you, yes. But when my phone rang one morning, and the woman on the line said, “This is Beverly Hills Adult School. Would you be interested in teaching our Senior Citizen’s aerobics class?” I was hesitant to answer.

I only worked as a substitute so that I could write while the kids watched a video. And my idea of weight loss was replacing meals with coffee. Or a cocktail. “Ms. Barker? It pays thirty-five an hour,”

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, that’s a yes.”
Working out with old people. How hard could it be? I told myself that, the first morning as I laced up my ironic Reeboks, told myself that as I trekked up the stairs to the wrestling room. Told myself that until the moment I was standing in front of sixty-three old ladies, wearing dance pants and expectant smiles. Jesus Christ. I had to work out with these old people.

“Okay, hi. I’m Tess. Your teacher,”

“She’s cute,” said one. “So perky,” gushed another. This might actually be fun.

Until class started. “Okay, time for weights,” I guessed.

“You don’t have any weights?” asked Mimi, adjusting her sequined leotard. “I do,” I said, defensively. “I just...No, I don’t, you know, own any weights,” Silence, and then a collective tongue click. “Okay, lift your arm over your head,”

“What muscle is this good for?” hissed a woman in ballet slippers and plastic optician glasses. “The arm muscle. Okay, now curls,”

“That’s not a curl,” chuckled Lois, a bottled red head in a Chanel jumpsuit.

“Maybe we should build up to this,” I said, brimming with unfounded confidence. “Time for dancing,”

Now, dancing I had in the bag. Aerobics is one of those things you can fudge. Just keep your hands pretty, and you’ll look like you know what you’re doing.

Or, you’ll scoot across the mat, slapping your feet and calling out arbitrary numbers. Anyway, that’s what happened to me. The back half of the class stopped, crossed their arms, and stared. The front half kept scooting with me, but it was purely out of courtesy, the way one forces a chuckle for a comedian who’s bombing.

“Come on! This is supposed to be fun!” No one cracked a smile. Even the nice ladies in the front were giving up. Now, any improviser knows, when you’re stuck, just say something and commit. Even if what you say is, “Do the cowboy!”

That’s right. The cowboy. I hitched my knees and cocked pantomime guns. I made shooting sounds. Jaws dropped. People left. I gave up the ghost and ended class. Or tried to. But they mobbed the exit.

“You didn’t do any exercises,”

“Have you ever danced before?”

A Persian woman summed it up nice and succinctly.

“That was terrible,”

It was. But I didn’t care. I nodded calmly, like a worker enduring one final patronizing remark from his boss before heading to Mexico with the night’s deposit. If there’s one thing I’m proficient in, it’s leaving a job, and I’ve never been so ready to step up to the plate.

Then Lilianna, a Swiss woman with a face like warm bread dough, ruined everything. She handed me a cookie. “For a sweet start,” Goddamn it. I couldn’t quit now. Someone had brought me a cookie.

So, I went home, and for the first time in the history of my day jobs, I exerted some effort. I googled the muscular system. I watched a DVD called Cardio Dance Party. I went to Target and bought some weights.

The next morning, to my delight, the students who I had truly appalled had dropped, and only the mildly annoyed remained.

When it was time for dancing, I threw on a down tempo version of “Gloria” and got to doing the grapevine. The song was so slow, that we weren’t so much dancing as taking a stylized stroll. Old people music isn’t exactly conducive to shaking ass. Still, I got through it without a mass exodus, and decided to kill some class time with a nice long break.

I pretended to write lesson plans in my notebook. Dan and Dot, a couple in matching velour, approached. “Hey, Boss. What do you do besides this?”

“I’m a writer and a comedian,” I confessed. Dot’s face lit up.

“Our daughter is a writer,”

Dan chimed in. “Tough life you chose. But you’ll be alright. You got good looks, kid,” Dot smiled apologetically, the way I’m sure she has at many a waitress.

“Let’s get back to work,” I called out. The class, now broken into silver haired school girl cliques, grudgingly made their way back for ab work.

I hovered my legs just above the ground, then checked to see if the class was following. Silence. Confusion. Then, from the back of the room, “We’re not all twenty, sweetie,”

Point taken. I led them through a few stretches, then mercifully released them.

At home, I searched for CDs that would be good for dancing. Unfortunately, my selection of Easy Listening was a little sparse. But then, I stumbled across my show tunes CDs. I made a play list fit for a West Hollywood karaoke bar: All that Jazz, Summer Lovin’. Then I came across my boyfriend’s Best of Frank Sinatra. Maybe for weights. And Moby for sit ups…

The next morning, I played Pennies from Heaven as we lifted dumb bells. Constance, a bird of a woman, lifted soup cans in place of weights, and sang along. “I listened to this when my husband was just my boyfriend,” She dreamily lifted a can of creamed corn over her head.

“Watch your grip, Constance,”

Then, All that Jazz came on. Trumpets sounded. Bebe Newirth’s voice whispered “Ah cha,” and the women in my class lost it. I led them through jazz boxes and Charlestons. At the point in the song where Roxy kills her husband, I urged them to get their guns out. The routine was a success. I applauded them and threatened, “I’m going to take you guys on the road,”

Mimi and her entourage skipped up to me.

“Did you see the movie Chicago?”

“I did. I loved it,”

“You should go see 42^nd Street,”

“At the Ahmanson? I’m dying to,”

Finally, people who I could geek out on musical theater with.

As the weeks wore on, I lived up to what I had said in desperation on the first day: that this was supposed to be fun.

My students and I gossiped about our mutual love for George Clooney and Las Vegas. They would tell me what it was like to be married for fifty years. I would tell them what it was like to do stand up at a dive bar. At Christmas, they put together cash and gave it to me in a card. I planned a yoga sequence to Carol of the Bells. When it was someone’s birthday or anniversary, we had bundt cake and milk in the bleechers.

But all bizarre things must come to an end, and as I got busier, I realized I would have to quit teaching. For the first time in my history of quitting day jobs, I was sad. These people had become my little seventy-year-old babies.

The day I quit, I stood before them, anxious. Would there be tantrums? Charges of betrayal? A mutiny? “Guys, this is going to be my last week,” Their smiles deflated. I took a deep breath and braced for impact. But not one of them complained. Instead, they did what only a room full of grandparents would do. They hugged me, and wished me good luck.

My students are still stitched to my memory, tied to a myriad of songs. When I hear ‘I Will Survive,’ Dan is there, telling me to “Turn it up, Boss!” Lois lives in the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack, singing along through brightly made up lips. But Frank Sinatra, I just turn off. There’s only so much one can tolerate of that.

Prilosec Before Swine

I was early to my show in Brooklyn, and the bar was cash only, so there was only one thing I could do: sit by myself at a booth and start googling 'Swine Flu Symptoms'.

Yes, I realized it was two months after Swine Flu was really in vogue, but I was fairly certain that my sister had it, and I was sharing a hotel room with her.

A word about my sister: You know that friend who can pound a fifth of whiskey and a twelver of Tecate, and still carry on a conversation with job interview-level lucidity? She can drink him under the table, then wake up at the crack of dawn, drive four hours, and compete in a rollerskating competition.

This week, however, we were in New York City, a Type-A night owl's haven, and the evening before, she'd actually uttered the sentence, "I don't want to stay out very late tonight," - her version of saying "Call a Priest," so I knew it was time to get googling.

Fatigue. Nausea. Headache. Cough. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Christ, were the WHO people staying next door at the Belleclaire?

When the host of the show approached me, I was still sitting solo, zooming in on the word VOMITTING, which is always a fun way to meet new friends.

"Tess? Show's about to start," I'd been so engrossed in my diagnosis that I'd forgotten to write a set list. I closed my phone and set aside my pandemic pipe dreams, for the time being.

The next morning, she wasn't doing any better. I, having spent the better part of a train ride the night before googling 'Risk Factors' tried to subtly assess the situation.

"You still have headache?"

"Uh huh,"

"This sucks. I wonder how you got this. Maybe at the park, or on the plane, or, have you or anyone you know, been in direct contact with anyone who's visited Mexico City between April and June of 2009?"

"Teresa. There's no such thing as Swine Flu."

I wanted to tell her that it isn't like Terrorism, a fabricated ideal made stronger by people's belief in it. It is a simple, concrete, highly infectious virus, generally transmitted via respiratory secretions. I figured, though, that everyone dealt with their diagnosis in their own way, and who was I to pass judgement?

My judgement day came when I returned to LA. I woke up expecting to make up all the work I'd gotten behind on, and was instead met with fatigue, nausea, headache, and, oh shit, cough. I was so weak, I couldn't even focus on the T.V. I was barely able to walk Gatsby down the street, and it took every last inkling of energy to open my computer and once more google the ol' symptoms, just to be on the safe side. I matched five out of six of them. Well, it wasn't like I didn't see it coming.I collapsed on the couch, and tried to picture the newspaper article, "West Hollywood Woman, 27, confirmed case of Swine Flu," Sure, it would be buried on page 13, but I wondered if I could use it in my press kit.

I was still immobilized when Jack got home from work. "You poor thing!" he brought me water and gave me a hug. "I know, it's awful. I think I have Swine Flu,"

He leaped away from the couch and started spraying the kitchen with bleach. "You don't have Swine Flu" he took out the gloves and sterilized the coffee table. "Five out of six symptoms,"

"Uh huh. Is there anything I can -"

(from outside, at the bottom of the stairs)

"Do for you?"

I mumbled something about calling the Associated Press and fell back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up, still sick, and not sure how to break the news to my friends and loved ones. I figured I'd get the Tamiflu, and then quarantine myself for the seven day period when it is contagious, because, I would tell them bravely "Swine Flu stops with me,"

That afternoon, Jack took me to the doctor, which, for an uninsured person such as myself, is a bit like saying "Let's have lobster and champagne for breakfast!" One only does it once a year, at most, and only for very special occasions. As I waited in the lobby with all of the regular sick people, I wondered if the doctor even knew what was in store for her. Would I be her first Swine Flu case? Was it like when someone wins the lotto at your liquor store? Would the WHO send her a little certificate to be displayed proudly at the receptionist window?

I passed out in the examining room and woke up to the doctor asking why I was there. I figured this was merely a formality, as I'd already told the nurse what my, ahem, symptoms were. Still, she didn't seem to have a clear cut idea of what was wrong with me, so I thought I'd steer her in the right direction.

"I have fatigue, nausea, headache, cough, and I'm vomitting," I winked, then coughed under my breath, "H1N1,"

She examined me then nodded gravely. "Okay, you have some kind of severe cold, and also upset stomach. I'm going to give you some Prilosec, and Claratin, which you can get over the counter,"

Severe cold? Upset stomach? Over the counter? The one time I was springing for a real doctor and not WebMD, and I was getting the 'Take to Asprin and Call Me in the Morning Treatment?!' I was appalled.

Apparently, I was also Swine Flu free, as I did feel better a day or so later. I still do not, however, share my sister's view that "There is no such thing as Swine Flu," nor do I regret the countless hours that I spent laying on my couch, obsessing over what kind of mask to wear next time I fly. I only hope that before the next time I get sick, the media finds another virus to glom onto and inflate to epic proportions, because it feeds my hypochondriac mind in a way that is so much more engaging than just watching Price is Right.

You, Me and the Bear

Okay. Let's start with the hair. The summer before 9th grade, I was on the phone with a friend, absent-mindedly giving myself a trim. Unfortunately, I underestimated both the duration of our conversation and the absence of my mind, and when I hung up the phone, I was horrified to discover that I had accidentally 'trimmed' myself a set of short, uneven, horrendous bangs. Think Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber meets bad facsimile of the Bettie Page 'do. Oh God. I already had braces and bushy eyebrows my mom wouldn't let me pluck. These babies made it official. I wasn't awkward. I wasn't goofy. I was just unattractive.

I threw on a thick headband and went over to my friend Brooke's house to spend the night. Brooke was a year older than me, so I respected her opinion a lot. "What's with the stupid headband? You have a zit on your forehead or something?" I nodded my head 'No' and shamefully pulled it back, the way a sobering drunk might reveal a fresh tattoo bearing the slogan 'Powered by Deez Nuts'. Her jaw dropped.

"Oh no."

"I know,"

"Oh, God,"

"I know,"

"What are you going to - "

"I don't know,"

Brooke thought for a minute before breaking the news to me gently. "There's really only one option," she apologized, as she led me to her sink. She pulled a can of Gillette from her medicine cabinet and worked it into a lather before spreading it onto my bangs. "I mean, you're just going to have to get rid of them. They're just..." She handed me a fresh razor, "Awful,".

"Are you sure?" I took a deep breath, staring into the mirror.

"Oh, yeah. You can't start high school like this."

One scratching swipe of the Bic, and a chunk of them hit the sink, leaving a gaping hole smack in the center of my hairline. This is when it registered. This was a really shitty idea. Still, there was nothing I could do but man up and finish the job. It was like being an executioner who's only half killed his criminal.

Scrape after difficult scrape, I kept at it, until I'd annihilated every last banglette, and successfully given myself a nice, clean shaven forehead. Brooke laughed. I cried. Neither of us brought up the elephant in the room: that she really should have told me "Just let them grow out. You'll look normal by the middle of July,"

Now I was destined to be a homely social pariah by the middle of July, and that wasn't the worst of my problems.

I was also involved in community musical theater.

At our community theater, Denny's was the place to be apres show. It wasn't just that it was the only place open after 10:00. There were waffles and milkshakes and giant banquet style tables where the whole cast would gather round, laugh about the night's show, and talk shit about anyone who wasn't there. There was also a waiter named Chuck. He's the man in the picture.

Chuck was quiet and slow and could be seen around town bicycling with his huge helmet on, or buying cases of Cadbury Eggs at the local Rite Aid. Where he really shined, though, was on the job at Denny's. He loved to entertain large parties, and did so by approaching our table with a gleam in his eye, presenting, for our amusement, his blood pressure machine.

Yes. Blood pressure machine. The kind with the digital reader and the velcro cuff that you pump with a rubber squeezer. In a way, it was endearing that he wanted to share with us his favorite toy. We'd put the cuff on our friends, read their vital signs, and then continue laughing and daring one another to drink half 'n' half or hot sauce. Still, we couldn't help but be a little weary of Chuck. It could have been the sheepish grin he always had on his face when he asked "Would you like something to drink?" Maybe it was his black nursing shoes, or perhaps it was that uneasiness that one invariably feels when a stranger asks you to play with his medical equipment.

Let's just say he wasn't the type you'd want to single you out one night after a performance of The Wizard of Oz. You wouldn't want him to make a come hither motion at you that was so awkward it brought the whole party of self absorbed show folk to a dead silence as he presented you with a giant stuffed bear, leaving you powerless to do anything but giggle nervously and wonder how long he'd been planning this for, which is too bad; because that is exactly what happened to me.

"Thank you?" I tried to avoid eye contact with him, but that meant looking at my friends, who just made me laugh harder. He stood there nodding proudly.

"It's really nice. Thank you again,"

He stayed right where he was. What did he want? A hug? That wasn't going to happen. A handshake? A high five? How does one properly address a gift giving server with irregular blood pressure without going against everything their parents ever told them about not talking to strangers?

"Can I get a picture of just me, you and the bear?" He mumbled.

He had transported the thing on the back of his ten speed, I guess it was the least I could do.

I'm I did, too, because after this night, Chuck never spoke to me again. It was embarrassing, actually. I'd brag to my friends about Chuck My Stalker, and we'd go into Denny's only to have him ignore me completely as he handed the blood pressure machine to a girl on the opposite end of the table.

Clearly Chuck didn't have a long term obsession with me, so why did he chose me of all girls, to give the bear to? I have a sneaking suspicion it was the bangs. Did he think my mangled hairline put me on his level? Did he assume that anyone who would do that to their own face would be willing to take attention anywhere they could get it? Or did he suppose that having faced the reality that I would go into high school looking like a horsey goon, I had given up on taking life seriously and would take any bizarre or creepy turn of events as a joke? If so, he was right. He got the picture.

If You Could Read My Mind

So I'm walking Gatsby today, and these two women of Unidentified Eastern European Descent, who I assume are a too-lenient young mom and teenage daughter with a nose ring team, spot him and start cooing like Russian canaries. This happens a lot. I have an adorable dog. Whether I'm sporting a night gown with Universal Studios cap (Shut up. I got it in sixth grade) at the crack of ten, or drunkenly stumbling with the pup for a three a.m. pee, it's a reality I've learned to deal with: I walk the little guy, people are going to stop to pet him.

This is why at first, I'm not phased when the mother-daughter pair drops to their knees on Santa Monica Blvd. and hits him with the usual barrage of questions and back handed compliments, all delivered in dripping, sotto tone, "What are you? You like to eat, don't you? You're like a chubby sheep with horrible breath. Yes, you are." Thirty seconds of this I tolerate. Like I said, I'm used to it. But beyond that, it just gets awkward. How long am I supposed to stand lurking over my dog and his harem, acting like the useless dumb human, the blonde chopped liver? Ninety seconds deep, it's really getting uncomfortable. There's only so long I can pretend to be interested in the pile of barf and cheetos in the gutter. Further, these ladies aren't even talking to the dog any more. They're taking turns sucking on his hairy mouth and squeezing his belly so hard I may soon have a new vomit puddle to focus on. I want to speak up for poor Gatz, tell these women enough is enough and remind them that surely they've crossed mother/daughter tongue swords in the midst of this canine 'seven minutes in heaven,'.

I am, however, far too nonconfrontational for that, so I just pull on his leash and make a mental note to have him tested for doggie oral herpes.

At this point, Young Mom leaps to her feet and gets in my face. "I do spiritual readings. I am getting a very strong read from you." Nose Ring Girl leaps up and nods in agreement. I want to tell them I don't believe in that crap, and they're making me late for my mid afternoon jelly and crackers snack, but again with the no balls thing, so I offer every pussy's favorite form of rejection, "Do you have a card I can take?" Young Mom fishes through her purse. She can sense that she's losing me. Her eyes grow wider. Her accent gets thicker. She's entering act-like-a-real-psychic mode. "Who is this person you've been having trouble with lately? Someone who you're having a disagreement with?" She shoots me a 'gotcha' look so severe I'm forced to rack my brain. Bank of America? But I always disagree with them, and they're not really a person. Dr. Phil? Is it really a disagreement if he doesn't know I exist? Pineda the parking enforcement guy? Finally, I just have to break the news to her gently. "I'm sorry, no. There is no one."

She quickly switches to psychic go-to number two,"You're heartbroken over a man. You don't know if he's thinking about you." Poor old cow. She pulled the love lorn card on me, the serial monogamist, me the who's had a boyfriend longer than Scrubs has been on the air. I don't want to tell her this though. I'm afraid it will break her little gypsy heart, so I smile nervously and respond, "Maybe?"

"Maybe!" she and the kid think they've got me. They move closer in. Mom slaps a pink business card into my hand. "You're smiling on the outside, but inside you're sad." Hmm...kind of like someone who's stuck uncomfortably between the faces of two aggressive Natashas?

"I'll think about it," I smile even bigger.

"You haven't been happy in a long time," she hits back.

I nod, and giggle nervously and again try to defend myself with, "Maybe?"

I scoot away.

"You used to be happy!" is her last and best sales pitch, which she hisses at me as I writhe away with my has-been dog, reading her card as an assurance that I'm giving her psychic wares some serious consideration.

Available for Parties. Fabulous. What social gathering is complete with out an off putting woman bombarding my guests with negative blanket statements. Perhaps she does requests: "Can you just remind everyone that we're all going to die, and sprinkle in a little 'you don't think you're good enough,' and 'you'll never be truly happy'?'"

I don't think I'll hire her, though. If she was truly psychic, she would have read my level of poverty and known that I don't have money for a Pinkberry, much less a psychic. She would have known I felt bored and neglected as she and Nose Ring made me into my dog's wing man, and she would have known that the one pressing question I would like an answer to is: "How old will I be when I get my pet monkey, and will I allow strangers to violate him, too?"

Suck it, Neighbor

I don't want to be writing this right now. I was trying to take a nap. Don't judge. I've taken mid afternoon naps since I was a teenager, and I'm so addicted to them I'd probably need the sleep equivalent of methadone to kick the habit. Plus, at least twice a year, yahoo news posts an article about how beneficial power naps can be, and if there's one source I trust, it's yahoo news. Sadly, howver, it looks like I'll have to trudge through the remainder of my day sans delicious nap because once again, my neighbor is singing in the shower.

And this isn't your run of the mill shower singing. My neighbor, a wiry legged man with a five o'clock shadow/tan in a can blonde with a D cup is practicing his/her (depending if it's day or night) rendition of 'Cocaine is a Girl's Best Friend'. It's a catchy, fun little number set to Marilyn Monroe's 'Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend', and she is pulling out all the stops. Full vibrato, lots of pizzaz. I can hear the jazz hands through the wall. There's even a section where she breaks it down, belting at full throttle: "I ain't talking 'bout no crystal meth. Co-caine..is a...gi-irllls beeest fr-ieeend!" I would be annoyed, but I know she's got a gig tonight hosting Bingo at Hamburger Mary's. Besides, he/she's not my most annoying neighbor.

There's also Gloria, the post-op Puerto Rican who has a fake flower adorned crucifix hanging from her front door. Gloria has calves the size of rump roasts and she spends her days alternating between thumping around her apartment in what must be lead soled high heels, and fucking so loudly and roughly, she must make the patrons across the street at the Tomcat cringe. Gloria isn't my most offensive neighbor, either.

Nor is Desiree, my old next door neighbor from downstairs (nee Dimitre, she became Desiree about 8 months after Jack and I moved in. I got her mail while she went to Mexico City to get the snip). Desiree is actually a fabulous neighbor. She works two jobs - check out clerk at Target, and lady of the night. She brings us cookies at Christmas time, and shooes away the homeless when their drunken heckling becomes a bit too abrasive. She also brings over clothes that are too small for her, or as she puts it "not made for big boned girls,". When she was making the switch from Dimitre to Desiree, she brought Jack all of her old man clothes. I accpeted them because I didn't want to be rude. Jack was less than, tickled pink at coming home to a pile of I'm-not-going-to-be-male-any-more hand me downs, but I know deep down, he saw that her intentions were kind. Desiree is actually my favorite neighbor because, while she often seems put together, I think the pressure of holding down two customer service jobs sometimes gets to her, and she's great fun when she becomes scatter brained. Last week, I was driving a friend to the airport at 5:30 am, and I saw Desiree running full speed toward the back of the building. Without me even asking what was wrong, she clued me in, "I threw my purse away!" Who hasn't been there?

My most annoying neighbor is just a plain old straight man. He's overweight, bald, and has a moustache, and has apparently chosen to focus the frustration brought about by these unfortunate facts on us. When my dog barks at the Fed Ex guy, he screams from behind his door "Quiet! Quiet!" When I pass him in the alley and say hi to him, he just averts his gaze like I've asked him for spare change, and mutters, "Hi." He has told us that Jack and I walk really loudly when we're leaving for work in the morning. That's right. We're all living in the midst of a tranny themed Melrose Place, and the daily ten seconds of our footsteps are what he finds disturbing. Now, I'm an open minded person. Turn your tricks, lose your junk, and blow 'em away with your narcotics themed dittys, but dude, don't be a dick.

Hello My Prettys, and Welcome

I've decided to start a blog for the same reason most people do: because I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic. (Coincidentally, these are traits that may also lead one to pursue a career in stand up comedy.) I say 'a touch' narcissistic, and not 'full blown' because I am not enamored with my own image. In fact, looking at pictures or videos of myself is about as enticing to me as an Easter basket full of chocolate malted mayonnaise balls. This is why I do not envy famous actors.

It's bad enough that I'm forced to face my voice and image every time I check my voicemail or get some godforsaken tagged facebook picture in my inbox. I cannot imagine being stuck in traffic next to my big old mug when it's been plastered on the side of the MTA.  

There is also the public harassment to consider. I'm not talking about the mutually beneficial shit show that is LiLo and her Electrical Parade of paparazzi flashbulbs. Even middle aged character actors can have a tough time leading a normal life. I was in Rite Aid yesterday, and Ben from Lost was behind me in  line. Just as he placed his Maalox and Windex on the register belt, the woman behind him assaulted him with a barrage of 'You're Ben from Lost! I love you, but I hate you!" Ben from Lost just nodded patiently, "I understand. I understand." Other customers in the store stopped what they were doing and were now staring at the debacle.

"I mean, I really just hate you, but you're so good! Ew! I hate you!" The stock boys emerged from the back to survey the scene.

  I high tailed it out of there. I may have been buying a wagon load of cold medicine, tea, and overpriced herbal tablets, but this woman was truly sick. After one's early childhood and/or hallucinogenic drug phase, there is no excuse for a healthy individual to mistake fiction for fact. Ben from Lost is just a guy who gets up in the morning, goes to work, and delivers some lines that have been written for him by a bunch of highly paid writers. There is no reason to love nor hate him, and there is certainly no reason to squawk at him in public like you've just spotted the car that's currently being announced on Amber Alert. He's just a person whose job requires him to use his image to create a series that is mysterious, melodramatic, and gratuitously frustrating. That said, I would happily take a bit part on Lost. Like I said, I'm quasi-unemployed and a touch narcissistic.