Friday, January 28, 2005

Dear Diary: Number 1

Dear Diary,
Today I met the man of my dreams. And, when I woke up the next morning, he was still there! I told him to get his lazy ass out and get a job…the bum.


Dear Diary,

Well, I did it. Yes, I bought the schooner. I wanted the yacht, but I already have two of those and they just sit there. I only use them when my waterbed is on the fritz and I want to add a little motion to Raul’s loving notions.

Plus the schooner’s cute.


Dear Diary,

My skin is as smooth as butter, as soft as rose petals. Yes. It is suffering from my neglect. Back to the daily spa treatments I go.


Dear Diary,

Today I read and read and read an amazing book from sun up to twilight. And tomorrow looks to be no different. *sigh* So much to do…so little time.


Dear Diary,
I’ve designed another fashion/jewelry line. It’s already being heralded and bickered over by three major designers. *Yawn* Where’s Raul? I wonder if we could fit on that schooner…?


Thursday, January 27, 2005

Releasing...like some pre-oil slicked goose

I did finish my book, you know. Honestly! It’s just in my (read: my computer at work) hardrive, and not in the blog I’d started. But, with encouragement I might be coerced into bringing it out into the light of day.

I’m easily tempted…really. Cars, candy and the world should suffice.

Merci.

I feel like writing today.

Let me loose the dam and let flow my sad, pitiful and somewhat funny in a “what the hell? How the hell?” kind-of-way stories.

1) THE CASE OF THE BAD BAD HOUSEMATE

It all started on a dark dank evening. I was in my office…er bedroom trying to sleep when I heard a clunkity-clunk of chunky shoes walking down the hallway’s wood floor. I peaked out my door, and there stood my landlord and her… the skank..I mean lady--no, I mean skank in red. Okay, I'm sorry. I'm exaggerating; she wasn't dressed in red.


In the first two months of her moving in I end up driving her around to pick up her car or drop her off somewhere for different reasons (one of them being that she'd passed out on the floor of a parking lot and had to leave her car there after some cops put her in a cab ride home). At one point she even had the nerve to ask me to rent a car in my name for her to drive until she could get her car out of impoundment!

Apparently I had “soft-ass sucker” like engraved in my forehead and eyeballs and oozing out of every orifice because that’s the only way I could see anyone who is a virtual stranger asking someone to risk their name, credit and all that for them like that. Especially when, unlike me, this roommate has family mere two hours away, vs. my closest peeps being halfway across the country.

Seems to me that if your own family won’t stick their neck out for you what the hell makes you think I would?

Anyway, the drama-queen had a story every day of the week about who’d done her wrong. I finally realized the she likes to hear her own voice. And, that she creates a life instead of just living it. And I was the unwilling audience until finally I just started smiling and retreating to the peace of my bedroom. That’s when she started getting more irritable, unpredictable, mean and finally, violent. The bitch kicked my bedroom door twice. And, at one point she actually had provoked me enough that I was verbally telling her to attempt to fulfill one of her threats just so I’d have just cause to start pulling hair, kicking and grabbing a knife.

I was about to enter into this girl’s mad world. And, I didn’t see any easy path out of that craziness. So, finally I moved (as of last Friday, Jan. 21st). And, on that night as I packed my stuff and after I’d passed by her, boxes/bags in hand and let her know that I was moving. That night she says to me that she hates to think that I’m moving because of her. That’s she’s not a bad person. That she really does care for me.

And I, the whole time, am thinking she is one messed up chick. And, I must’ve been pretty messed up in my own way to deal with this shit for so long.

2) THE PROBLEM WITH CARS
…is that they break down. And, not only do they break down, but they do so after you move much further away from where you live and go to school. A move you’d made under a desperate need (see above anecdote).

It’d been sputtering the day before but the car-ah drove smoothly to work the following morning. That afternoon as I headed towards class it began coughing and weezing and jerking. I made it to the school’s lot and put two bottles of Mobile One (the good stuff!) in her gullet, hoping that would appease her.

But, no. Several hours later I was leaving the school in a sick little car that strained to accelerate after each stop. I blamed the street lights for their reds. I blamed the cars in front of me for not running yellows and the pedestrians for the fact that to run them over would delay me even more. I’d get stopped for the cops and then my car would never start!

Anyway, I make it onto the highway at a blazing fifty miles per hour. Only a few minutes pass before my car’s little spirit crossed over. And, I nearly make it off my desired off-ramp before the speedometer slowed and lowered as the car’s last bit of get-up-and-go got up and went. I managed to pull over to the side. I walked about a hundred feet to the intersection, knock on a stranger’s door. (Sidenote: The owner of the house just happened to be an actor who’d appeared on t.v. a lot. Funny thing: in times of desperation…that still matters!) I use their cell phone (because I had forgotten mine at home…of all days!) to call my mom who has crucial numbers on file. After being unable to get in touch with a few people already in the area I resorted to calling a friend of mine in Hollywood. She popped over, urged me to care enough about my car to call AAA and to get my car towed to the house.

I knew it was the engine. I’d already been told it was dying but that as long as I kept the oil up I should be okay for a while. Okay, maybe I wasn’t as diligent with the oil as I meant to be. But, I wasn’t bad, either.

Either way, it’s not the alternator, as the tow guy had suggested, giving me a slim glimpse at hope that has since been painfully ripped from me. Don’t know what it is. Will hopefully find out Saturday.

Can’t fix it now, whatever it is. Bringing me to a conclusion:

The habit of being broke is a habit I’m breaking. That is a condition no one should be used to.

3) THE GOOD THING ABOUT FRIENDS:
Is that they are there. And, that they’ll drive twenty minutes from Hollywood just to pick you up in Pasadena after you call them from a stranger’s cell phone to get a ride home—even when home is twenty minutes away in another direction.

4) THE GOOD THING ABOUT BAD THINGS:
Is realizing how important and how needed it is to be a good friend. And, hoping that you can be that to someone(s). Without bitching about it or feeling the need to exalt yourself. Well, you can still exalt yourself. Just forsake the bitching, that would be good.

I think I’m becoming a better friend. I’m learning that it does call for sacrifice. But, that lamb of personal space and time and comfort is worth its weight in…I don’t know what word I’m looking for—relationships? Bonds?

Much to learn, have I. The saga continues. p.s. Me am not Star Wars fan. Though Yoda his speaking mimic I a lot.

Another good thing, the tow truck guy didn’t charge me for the one mile over AAA’s limit that my tow went. And, the actor guy who let me use his phone and sit to watch for my friend on his wicker chair on the porch was really nice and even called my mom on his phone to make sure that I was okay. Isn’t that amazing?

And…hmmmm…I guess another good thing is this story. It’s something I’ll refer to while sharing funny anecdotes with other good people during better times.

So, What I realize is that writing makes me happy. If only for the moments that I’m doing it.

Down side: I quirrel away in my own, warm little world and my ailing social tendencies become even more withered and disfigured.

Funny thing, I think I like people. I think I like being around them and communing(?) with these creatures. But, in times like this when I feel so helpless and so full of doubts, the written world is the only place where I have some control. Where I am queen. Where I am right and alright and not awkward.

What a great place. Kinda lonely. Though I don't feel that until I leave it.

Another Day...Another Holler

I’ve decided that I don’t give a shit. Although I do. But for now I’m going to indulge my despondent, rebellious, mad-at-this-unfair-lopsided-world perspective. I’m going to not only indulge, dammit. I’m going to swim, float, submerge and drink in the cynicism.

So, I see that it’s only been a month since my last post. I’d suspected longer. Maybe I’ll keep this one up, eh? Eh? (I think I was Canadian in another life…oh, that’ right: I don’t believe in past lives…so I guess that theory is out the door.)

Was that funny? You know people are always laughing around me. I’m funniest when I try not to be.

Next step is to be laughing with them. That’s the key, the goal. Maybe that should be my New Year’s resolution. I don’t make those anymore. Why set myself up for failure? Instead I make grand goals and rejoice in the little accomplishments made along the way.

Don’t I sound wise? I am. This is true.

I’ve come across an independent blog- an anomaly I will now name “Indeh-blogs.”

The Black Cloud.org….oooohhhh, sounds so scary and ominous, omnimous, omnimal, optimal…whatever. Hee, hee. He makes me laugh.

At him, of course. No, dammit. I lie. I fib. (“You're fibbing, fibbing, fibbing!” circa a "DuckTales" episode featuring a golden harp. Of course, you have no idea what I’m talking about, but if you do, I love you. I do. And, very much in the LA way of loving you. No, scratch that. In a much more innocent version of the LA way of loving you. Just know that you are loved. A la Ryan Seacrest)

So, anyway, I lie. I jealously laugh with this writer of “The Black Cloud” of doom.

Anywho, have I mentioned my ho-tosity? My ho-itude? Today, I hate being a temp. I don’t like the people or the duties or the pay. Today. Yesterday they were fine. But, grrrr…people! Vent, vent, grrrrr….aaahhh, grind teeth, roll eyes and storm out.

No, I don’t feel better. I want to go home to my yacht and sail the high seas and sip eggnog out of a wine glass while leaning up against someone I love (and not in the dirty LA way).


I want to go home. I want a home. Gah…I’m leaving