Saturday, September 11, 2010

Shame & Satisfaction

This past week has been still water. No auditions. No jobs. Which was fine, actually, since the gas tank was below E and I had absolutely no cash to fill up my car. So I did what any financially destitute artist would do . . . got stoned and watched the Golden Girls.

When my unemployment check came in, I called Em over to drive me to the bank. She showed up and we tried to keep a conversation going as we chugged along the freeway.

Me, "So, I sent Abe an email for closure and wrote him this text: 'I sent you an email that is important to me. No response necessary."
She said, "Why did you say no response necessary. Now he isn't going to respond."
Me, "He is doing the exact opposite of everything else I say, so I thought I would tell him not to do something . . . to do it."

Am I endlessly pathetic, or what? Eh, whatevs. I would rather be the one to hope for the best and reach out, than be the one who gives up and shuts down. At least that's what I tell myself at night. I am ok with looking like a fool in exchange for the occasional letter, which really does help me. I am not ashamed, I am just a really, really good girlfriend. (ha ha) I don't have the heart to disappear like they do.

She said, "I am still feeling a little fuzzy from last night."
I said, "I feel stoned."
Em, "Are you sure you aren't?"
Me, "I don't know. Time is moving so slowly right now, I have no way to tell."

The depression was sinking in this week. If I don't work, my mind gets dark.

We went to the bank and then stopped off for hair conditioning packets and coffee. We were in her truck and she was trying to light her cigarette. I offered to help and shook the lighter up and down.

I was telling Em how I hung out with an old college buddy Tuesday night. He asked if I had any ganj and invited me back to his apartment in Venice. I walked in and sat on the bed with my little tupperware package to pack the first bowl.

He said, "You don't waste any time, do you?"
I said, "I am going through a break-up. I don't let a moment of noticed sobriety pass me by."

The flame jumped up in from of Em. "Finally!!!" she said as she sucked in the smoke. "I can think now, what were you saying?"

I love her.

She spoke to me about something called Fashion Night Out in the Melrose area. A new thing in LA, I guess. The invite was hard to read on our iPhones but we decided to get out and keep the blood moving.

I went to Ross with my birthday gift card I was holding on to for 9 months to buy something to wear, anything but my few default dresses. Some of my clothes are from high school. It makes me crazy that I never have money to buy my own clothes. With all the hand me downs and Christmas clothes, its hard not to be embarrassed and constantly feel out of sorts. Especially when people start to notice you are wearing the same clothes to set over and over. And now, since I started dieting as an actress, they are all a size too big . (Important note: dieting as a regular person goes in another category entirely)

Usually, I hate shopping, however dresses are the exception. I walked over to the dress section, size 6 . . . fucking hallelujah. I started seeing things I liked, the first few came with a mild justification and a "Just to see what it looks like." Then I started pulling handfuls of dresses off the rack. I said to myself, "You're freaking out." Another handful of dresses. "Freaking . . . out."

I hang my head in shame and satisfaction.

We all assumed the party was really not going to take off until after 10pm (like all good parties). Jaq and I arrived at 10 and the Fred Segal event was out of alcohol. We walked through the store because that's what people were doing. I made eye contact with men through the crowd like a pin ball machine. "Gay" "Gay" "Gay" . . . Jaq seems to find the tall, skinny boys after her first panoramic scan. That's her type.

Usually, I am not attracted to men right off the bat unless there is something unusually appealing about them. The male models were too pretty. The young guys too young. The old guys too old. And everyone else too confident. I don't know- smug. I just don't think I am in the mood to date.

We were supposed to meet up with Em and some of her friends. We went to Betty Johnson and found wine to be drunk. We were only given a 1/4 of a plastic cup's worth by two men wearing shirts, one pink and the other black, with the words "Boys (heart) BJs" on them. West Hollywood indeed.

A tall, skinny boy (hot white trash, it does exist) approached them, slurring that he didn't like the implication of their shirts. I knew Jaq would be all over this kid and somehow we got on a sidebar conversation with him. My argument was that you can't give girls blow jobs. How did we arrive to that conversation point?:

-Boys (heart) blowjobs
-Moron, "Not all boys enjoy giving them."
-Wine Pouring Gays, "Its more about receiving them."
- Moron, "Then put everybody loves blow jobs"
- Me, "But girls can't get blow jobs."

In the Land of Stupid, sometimes you need a point by point in conversation. Moron's argument to me was that he blew his girlfriend like a trombone and she would achieve orgasm. Jaq laughed and I was enjoying the visual as he used two hands to build his hypothetical vagina in mid-air so we could witness his talent.

Then, he went on about how he is in medical school, something about transferring to a Mexican school and being a professional soccer player. Then towards the end, he said he and his girlfriend just broke up. Of course.

The problem with my sarcasm is that I am sarcastic so much people mistake my serious conversation for sarcasm. So even when I am trying to have a real conversation a few shades into dumb, Jaq was laughing. I could tell he was catching on that we weren't taking him seriously. He slurred, "You shouldn't make fun of the successful." Say it, don't spray it.

Jaq was interested. Probably a genetic match for her. So I was patient and just wanted to look at pretty dresses.

A group of people asked if we could take their picture and the 23 yr-old medical student/professional soccer player (not) said, "I don't do stuff like that." Nice. So I took it then had the delightful pleasure of watching a homeless man walk in to the store and stare at everyone from the top platform leading into the main show room.

He stared at them. They stared at him.

Em arrived finally with her friends, a couple chicas and some gay gents, and we walked up and down Melrose looking for a bar or a party. Nothing. Fashion Night Out started at 6pm and was withering out and dying. So we decided to go 80s dancing and said goodbye to our gay escort. It hurts to lose the gays, they really make an evening complete. I long for their friendship. (sigh)

There is a club on Hollywood called Perversions. On Friday night, its called Clockwork Orange. I used to go there when I was in Grad school and eventually dragged Not for Profit there on birthdays. It isn't too crowded and the main floor is great 80s music. There are two other rooms, Top 40 and Electronica.

Now, there are rules for when I go dancing:

A) Usually, I don't drink because I need my balance and sweat it all out anyway. This evening I made an exception, not sure why.

B) I do not want to meet men when I am dancing. I just want to dance. When approached, I tell them I am a lesbian and introduce them to a girl friend. This is kind of a risk because in the case the man gets more excited, you have a harder time shaking him off. That said, I was introducing Jaq as my girlfriend and she is very good at shutting guys down right away. Still not sure how to do that.

B1) When all the girls went out to smoke, I stayed in and danced with a guy that looked like a tall version of Pedro in Napoleon Dynamite. Now why did I make the exception for Peach Fuzz Mustache? Well, dorks and nerds aren't confident enough to hassle you. They usually don't jump into dirty dancing right away either so you can have a nice arm over shoulder dance with Pedro and cut out as he pulls you in closer. He won't bother you again. Rah Rah for low self-esteem.

C) I always hold my drinks and my purse.

Em asked to jump on stage to dance- which was open for anyone to dance on. We put our purses in one central area and danced. Occasionally, I would pick up my purse and hold it over my arm while dancing. Em got me another drink and I chugged it, stupidly. I was already feeling dehydrated and woozy.

There was a cute, olive skinned boy I danced with who never touched me. He asked me if I would consider being in his comedy improv group. I gave him my card. I wonder what it was about my Sir Mix A Lot (though released in 92' was still played last night in the 80s room) that inspired the offer. We'll see if he calls.

There are few things in the world I enjoy as much as dancing to 80s music. I can't stop when I get started. I will get cramps in my side, parched, sweaty, hoarse, tired . . . but one after another, the songs made me dance more and More and MORE . . . wait, where was my purse?

Gone. FUCKING GONE. Bunny, Em's friend, said she was guarding the purses all night. It must have been slipped off my arm when a guy came up behind me to dance. That happened like 6 or 7 times. Or it fell off my arm while I was dancing. Or . . . wtf? Doesn't matter. SHIT.

I went down to the security guard and told him my purse was missing. He said he couldn't leave his spot. I said, "Can't you tell the guys at the exit?" You know, to see if someone walks out with it. The security guard says, "You can walk over there and tell them yourself." So I did, fucking useless.

The lights went up and Em, Jaq and the two new friends went through the club like mad women looking for my purse. I had a tab at the bar and the bartenders were ignoring me. I shouted, "Can you sign me out!!!?" I was LOSING my shit.

Bunny came walking up with my purse. I showered her with gratitude and then saw my wallet and phone were gone. My car keys were left behind. Bunny said, "Security said they grabbed him and he dropped the purse and ran." I know what happened, Security grabbed the purse and let the fucker go. Apathetic meat heads.

Thank God I have my car keys, I don't have a spare. Ok- despite my little prayer of gratitude now as I write this, last night I threw my purse against the wall and shouted, "I lost my boyfriend now I lose my fucking purse! FUCK!" (guess I am not over Abe yet, I was feeling over it) Everyone was telling me to calm down. I have had all day to ponder how else I could have reacted; what if I was a man- it would be expected I throw something, right? What if I was totally calm, that doesn't seem human . . .

Instead, my tears started pouring out. Here it came, my annual, public and very emotional break-down.

There is always some crisis- last year it was when my car burst into flames while I was driving to my sister's graduation in Las Vegas. I got out safely with all my paperwork and luggage (in the 45 seconds it took for the fire to move through my hood to my windshield) Everyone told me to calm down then too . . . and in retrospect I can see that it wasn't THAT devastating. Please keep in mind that I was watching my only form of transportation burn into ashes right in front of me. That warrants a break down, right?

I got on the ground and sobbed. I would scream things like "Why!!" or "My only asset!" The young male police officer who came by told me to calm down and call the insurance company for a tow.

When he started taking my car, I told him the insurance company was coming for it. He said, "Why didn't you tell me that 15 minutes ago?" I said, "Because like most men in my life, I took your advice and then didn't tell you about it." He was smiling on the inside.

Ok, so back at Perversions. 2am. Sobbing. I threw my purse two or three times and screamed, "POOR!!" or something to that effect. We went outside and there was a cop car with two male, 30 something police officers cuffing a dirty hippie. I told them my purse was stolen, and they asked me to wait while they dealt with the hippie. As far as I could tell, "dealing" with a stoner seemed to include staring blankly at each other before uncuffing him and letting him go.

Jaq and Bunny were trying to calm me down while Em texted and called my phone relentlessly, begging the asshole to give it back.

I was crying that way you cry when you are a kid, choking on your tears, mild hyper ventilation. I felt fucked. I JUST paid off that speeding ticket, now the parking ticket and THIS! No phone. No iPhone. How was I supposed to make my acting career work without one. I have no fucking money. NONE.

The cops stood there and I was very bitchy with them, too. I was just SO ANGRY. The cops were shit anyway.

Cops, "So, what do you want us to do?"
Me, "I don't know, talk to security about a description."
Cop (to security) "Do you have the description of the guy?"
Security, "It was the other guys inside, not me."

The cop shrugged his shoulders.

Me, "I guess going inside and talking to the right people would be too much to ask."
Cop, "HEY!" They always say that, like they are keeping you in check.
Me, "Or writing a report, that would be too much too? Of course, relax. Go bother some homeless kid. Far more productive."
Cop (slowly), "Ma'am. Calm down. Watch your tone."

Jaq felt them circling me. She stood up and said, "She's fine, just upset. Thank you for your help."

Me, "Help? Please. To protect and serve . . . what a joke."

Cop #2, "Hey, sleep it off."

Me, "Sleep off one beer? Brilliant advice. That will help a lot, thanks." I actually had a martini and two beers but sweat was soaking through my new dress and I didn't feel drunk. It wasn't the alcohol, it was the getting fucked part that was making me crazy.

Cop #1 turned back towards me, coldly.

Jaq, again, "Thank you! She's ok. I will take her home."

Cop #1, "You have a good night. Good luck with your purse."

Me, "Go to fucking hell." Oh yeah, I said that.


Things I hate about Hollywood cops:
1) How they handle domestic violence cases
2) How long for them to show up to a domestic violent situation after you call
3) How they handle their jobs in general

I cried on Bunny's shoulder, I told her my parents weren't helping me. That I was behind on rent. That I have all these animals to take care of and I feel like I am totally fucked. She said, "Everyone is going through it. Everyone is." Normally, I wouldn't find that to be such a comfort, but it was.

I know more people who are unemployed than employed now. Rod #2 told me the repo man is after his car. I don't have kids or a mortgage. I am not sick, rather healthy, young-ish and pretty. I am one of the lucky ones.

Also- when you look back on the purse incident, I was ridiculously lucky:

1) I used the Ross gift card I kept in my wallet for the last 9 months that day. They would have grabbed that.
2) Keeping a tab at the bar, which was unusual for me, kept my driver's license and debit card safe.
3) I got my purse back and most importantly, my keys.

So, basically that mother fucking thief got an iPhone that was starting to go bad anyway, a couple maxed out credit cards, my Bally fitness card and a whole stash of my business cards. Good work.

Jaq drove me back to her place since we carpooled and I insisted on going back home to my animals. And, of course, I called Abe at a payphone and left a voicemail. I was crying, cold, and just wanted to connect to someone I had been intimate with.

Abe and I had a brief affair, but we achieved a comfort level I don't have with the others. I was also hoping for some right-brained counseling. Mostly just a friend. He never called me back. Right, he doesn't love me. I get it, but . . . I thought the kid had a soul.

UPDATE*** Abe called twice in the middle of the night Saturday. Thanks to my pre-historic new flip phone I couldn't answer in time. I got on-line and had a nice chat with him. Turns out a Costa Mesa Cognac party can throw you into a Singapore time zone.

No comments:

Post a Comment