Go Fetch

The last couple of days have been particularly windy in the NYC. And when I say windy, I mean that even with an extra ten pounds of meat on my bones* I am having a hard time keeping my feet on the ground. It's been several days since the dogs have had any real exercise because, lets face it, I'm a lazy slob. Or else I just don't love them. I do, after all, let them fish their food out of the litter box. Hey, you know? Poop is like their chocolate. Who am I to deny them such a decadent pleasure? If that's not proof of my interest in their well-being, I don't know what is. 

This morning I was feeling livelier than usual so I decided to peel myself off the sofa and take the dogs to the park to throw a tennis ball around. Of course I forgot our tennis ball, so I was forced to throw one of the matted, feces speckled tennis balls already in the park.  You know the kind. It's been slobbered over and chewed on by so many different dogs it's hardly recognizable as a ball anymore. It's lost it's circular shape and most of  it's green fuzz. If it were a velveteen rabbit, it'd be real. This seems to make the ball all the more appealing to Valentine, and she's jumping around in circles, eagerly anticipating my throw. I draw my arm back and Valentine races towards the other end of the park. She likes to get a head start on the ball. I swing my arm forward and release the ball. But the thing is, not only do I throw like a girl, and not only has the chewed on lump of rubber lost all the qualities that once made it aerodynamic, it's really windy out. Really windy. The ball does not head in the direction I've thrown it. Instead, it launches right for Valentine and conks her in the back of the head.  She reels forward and all four legs go out from under her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I cry out. I jog over to her and crouch down to make sure she's all right. She responds by wagging her tail and nibbling my nose. Let's try that again, I think. I pick up the ball, she does her happy dance. I hold the ball over my head and she races to get her head start. I launch the ball into the air, the wind picks it up, carries it right to her, and she gets another smack in the head. "Baby, I'm so sorry!" I call out, as if she understands English. I rush over to her and stroke her face, scratch her ears, apologize. She nibbles my nose and my ears and wags her tail to let me know all is forgiven. I reach for the ball slowly, not sure she's still up for the game. The tail-wagging doubles in time. I  stand up and bring the ball over my head and this time, she hangs back behind me. Girl catches on quick. I raise the ball over my head and launch it. She stands about a foot behind me and watches as it sails through the air. "Go get the ball!" I say, excitedly. And then she turns and looks at me and I swear to God, if she had the proper set up she'd have said, "You get the ball, Bitch."

*We'll talk about that later. 

An Open Letter To The Asshole Who Doesn't Know How To Walk Down Stairs

Dear A**hole Who Lives In My Building And Doesn't Know How To Walk Down Stairs:

This afternoon it dawned on me that I owe you an apology. For nearly two years now, I have been quietly cursing you on a daily basis. Sometimes I curse you several times a day. At first, I just prayed that you'd be ripped from a peaceful sleep the way that I was when you stomped up and down the stairs every morning. Then, as I became more and more exhausted thanks to your uncanny ability to wake me up an hour before my alarm goes off every morning, I started praying that you'd break your legs and fracture your fingers. I realized I'd gone too far this morning when, at 6:00 a.m., I asked God to have someone wearing a ski mask smash in your skull, rip out your eyeballs and shove them down your bleeding throat. Just because you live your life with absolutely no regard for other people doesn't mean that I have to. I am sorry that I sunk down to your level. I mean, it isn't your fault that every time you stomp your way up and down three flights of stairs you scare the bejesus out of every dog in the building so that each one starts barking insanely, creating a cacophony of canine yelps that continues for thirty minutes after you are well out of ear shot. It's the fault of the people who have the dogs! Including me! What was I thinking when I adopted those furry friends? I should've known I'd never rest peacefully again, not when a neighbor might feel the need to stomp as loudly and heavily as possibly on each of thirty-six steps. You know who else is to blame, other than you? The building itself. For being so old and having such loud stairs. Of course, no one else who lives here makes as much noise as you do, except for that guy who is always slamming his front door. Except for him, every one else is pretty quiet. But I digress. From now on, you have my word that I will not wish you a slow, painful death. From now on, I will pray that you be killed quickly and swiftly. By someone wearing very heavy cleats.

Sincerely,
Your Neighbor Who Hates You.

Sometimes I'm kind of a dirty hippie.

My adored Kitty wrote this on her blog and so I was inspired to respond.

This past September I had the opportunity to fly to Washington State and spend a week with family I had not seen in a very very long time. Three of those days were spent in Olympia, WA, visiting my beloved cousin Angie, her husband Matt, their chihuahua Chip, and their 8 week old baby girl, Olivia.

Angie and Matt are probably some of the most seriously laid back, chilled out people I have ever met in my life. It is my ultimate goal to be as calm and easy going as they are. Angie is so laid back that when I arrived in Olympia, she handed me her new baby and did not ask for her back for the next three days unless Olivia needed the boob. I couldn't believe someone had trusted me with their infant. I was in heaven. I called it "New Mommy Fantasy Camp". All the good stuff without any of the waking-up-400-times-a-night stuff.

My first evening there, Angie let me put Olivia to bed. I was forewarned that Olivia would cry, long and hard, for a good while before finally zonking out. But not to worry! That is just her nightly routine. All I would need to do is bounce, coo, rub her back and let her cry. So, after her bedtime feeding and burping, after I changed her pants and once she started her nightly bawl, I started rocking and cooing. I was alone in the nursery with Olivia, and she was crying and crying and crying and crying. Screaming. It sounded like someone had just killed her puppy. Actually, it sounded worse. It was starting to make me nervous. I held her away from my body and looked into her little face, twisted with agony, and I didn't see a baby crying. I saw a person grieving. And it hit me, all of a sudden: Olivia is mourning her past.

I have always believed in reincarnation. Say what you will, but I've known too many little children who relate exquisitely detailed memories of lives lived long ago. Things beyond a toddlers imagination. I believe that when we are very small, we are still connected to our earlier existences and that as we grow and age, our minds become clouded with our current lives and everything else is pushed away. It would have to be because how could we function with the weight of our past lives on our shoulders?

As I looked into that tiny, beautiful, sorrowful face, my heart broke into a million little pieces. I pressed her to my bosom and held her there, sobbing with her, gasping with her, grieving with her. Until, at last, she heaved a sigh far too big for her tiny body and collapsed into a deep, sound sleep.

We endure so much in our lives. Even those of us who seem to have everything, who seem to be the golden children, we endure so much. Even in the easiest life there is heartbreak, humiliation, loss, distress. And the wonderful blessings that we have are worth our tears. The love that we've experienced, the joy we've known, all that is worth grieving once it's gone. And then, to start over from the beginning, not knowing what is ahead, not knowing what will happen next, even that is something to endure. And how wonderful it all is. Whether we are wallowing in shit and misery or dancing in a starry spotlight, at least we are alive.

25 things you didn't need to know, but now you do.

Everyone of Facebook is doing this chain letter thing where they write 25 random things about themselves that they think no one else knows. I wasn't going to do it, but then, a lot of people I really love did it and I actually learned new things about them, so I decided to do it too. And then I copied it and pasted it here. Because, why not?

1. I couldn't figure out how to use the 'note' function on Facebook. But then I did.

2. I used to fantasize about living in a place that snowed. Now I fantasize about living in a place that is sunny and warm year-round.

3. My ovaries talk to me every day. They say, "WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO HAVE A BABY, BITCH?"

4. I think if I had a really good camera that I'd be a really good photographer. But maybe that is wishful thinking.

5. I'm painfully shy sometimes and other times I am anything but.

6. I love boys. I feel more comfortable around men than I do around women. I think it's because I grew up mostly with boys.

7. My expectations of other people are so high that I am usually disappointed.

8. I am trying to learn not to have such high expectations of other people.

9. Those people who meet my expectations, or surpass them, become my idols.

10. Sometimes I think that all I want to be when I grow up is a mama.

11. The head casting director of a certain network once told me that I am not worth $5,000. And then I got a job on her network. Das Right. Suck it, I said.

12. I love my family more than anything else in the world. And then I wonder, "So why the EFF do I live so far away from them?" It's because I just have to, right now. They understand.

13. I recently gained ten pounds. I believe I should hate myself for it, and punish myself for it, but secretly, I like how my body looks right now.

14. My husband and I blame our pets for our bad behavior. Someone gassy? Blame a dog. Someone eat all the cookies and not save any for their spouse? Blame a cat. And then we berate them for freeloading. Why don't they get jobs and help out with the rent already?

15. I like the smell of dog breath. I also like cat breath.

16. I get really irritated when my husband leaves his clothes on the floor, but I don't mind if I leave my clothes on the floor.

17. Recently at dinner with friends, I announced: "Oh my gosh, you guys. Do you realize that we're GROWN UPS now?" To which my friends responded: "TRICIA, YOU SAY THAT ALL TIME. YES, WE'RE GROWN UPS. GET OVER IT." I didn't realize I said that all the time. But I think it a lot and it totally freaks me out.

18. I write a blog and I entertain fantasies about it becoming really popular, garnering thousands of readers, and one day supporting my family with its ad space. Like Dooce.

19. I think it's ok that I'm afraid of butt sex. I'm grateful that my husband is not interested in butt sex. I understand why guys like butt sex but I don't understand why girls like it. I, myself, have an intact behimen. I think talking about butt sex is funny. I like words like behimen, resipoo, anal-ease, etc. (That was like, five things, wasn't it?)

20. I have the sense of humor of a 12 year old boy, and I'm totally ok with that.

21. I moved from L.A. to NYC nearly two years ago. Before I left, I said I was moving to pursue a career on Broadway. Now that I've been here for two years I realize that I really just moved because I needed to grow up. I was too comfortable in LA. Life was too easy. I think that moving to NY has been one of the best things I could have done for my spiritual growth. That sounds way cheesier than I meant it to.

22. The highlight of my day is often the email I get from my mama.

23. I enjoy balancing my checkbook, but only when we're not broke.

24. I love to type. I type really really fast. I would love to get a job as a typist.

25. I aspire to be a much better person than I actually am.

It's not the worst thing I've ever done, but it might be the straw that broke the camel's back.

For the second time in three weeks I've spent the last two days fighting off some horrible, nasty bug. This time it's in my intestines. I'll spare you the gory details. When I finally rolled out of bed at 2 p.m. today, I couldn't tell if I was still feeling so horrible because it had been 48 hours since my last meal or because I'm really still so sick. Is that jackhammer pounding away in my skull a part of whatever is eating my intestines or is it because I haven't had a cup of coffee in two days?

Last night at work I was actually feeling so feverish that I think I had a hallucination. I don't know how else to explain the woman who appeared before me as I was trying to close down the office. She looked to be in her seventies and she was wearing a black coat and a garishly printed scarf. Thinking back, it could've been a Pucci scarf. Adam is always pointing out these really hideous articles of clothing people are wearing, things with geometric patterns in colors like puce and mustard yellow and neon pink and saying "OH! That's a real Pucci!" And I'm like, "Really? Someone paid decent money for that? It looks like what came out of my ass when I did that colon cleanse last year." Maybe Pucci is Italian for Pukey. I'm getting distracted. So she's wearing this horribly bright scarf, it's actually making my headache worse, and she's got this crazy little hat on, something with fur and lace and a couple of dead birds. Her make-up is caked on so thick I'm wondering if she's ever actually washed her face or if maybe she just adds more to yesterdays base every morning before she leaves the house. Her eyes are lined in black liner so thick it's scary, her eyelashes are gooped with mascara and her hot orange lipstick is seeping into the wrinkles around her mouth. Her appearance alone is startling, but then she's just kind of standing in front of my desk, swaying gently from side to side, staring at me. I didn't see her walk up or anything, I just looked up and there she was. Staring at me.

"Can I help you?"

"You don't know me. I don't know you. I was robbed today on the subway and I need money to get home." She points to the drawer where we keep the cash register. "Can you give me something?"

"Oh, wow. That's terrible. I'm so sorry. I don't carry cash."

It just pops out of my mouth: I don't carry cash. The truth is, I think I have at least five dollars in my purse, but there is something about this woman that is creeping me the EFF out. I'm watching her sway in front of me and wondering if I should risk offending her by reaching over and locking the door to the reception area so she can't come around. She's just a little old lady in a bad outfit, but something ain't right. And I definitely did not like the way she pointed at the cash drawer.

"I got robbed today on the subway and I don't know how to get home. I guess I'll just have to sleep at Penn Station. Unless you can give me some money." I swear she's staring at the cash drawer, but I can't be sure.

"Did you call the police after you were robbed?"

"No. The police don't care. This is New York."

"Well, why don't you call the police and file a report now? They'll give you a ride home afterwards or at least give you a taxi voucher or something."

"This is New York! They don't care! I live in New Jersey! I just need five dollars. Can you just give me five dollars?" Now I really think she's staring at the cash drawer. But I'm feverish so maybe I'm just being paranoid?

"I'm sorry, I don't have any cash. Don't you have someone you can call who can come pick you up?"

"I'll just sleep at Penn Station. Unless you can give me some money."

The whole time I'm talking to her, I'm thinking about my mom. What if it was my mom who got robbed and had to sleep in a train station because she had no money to get home? What if it was my mom asking some girl for a little bit of cash so she wouldn't have to spend the night in a train station and that girl was being a bitch and wouldn't give her any? The thought of my beautiful mama having to sleep in a train station is too awful, so I'm thinking maybe I should figure out a way to help this woman. Except the thing is, #1) my mom doesn't look or act like a crazy old lady. Except when she wants to for fun. #2) My mom would CALL THE POLICE THE MOMENT AFTER GETTING ROBBED. 3) My mom has lots of family members who would drop whatever they were doing to pick her up if she were stranded somewhere, so she wouldn't have to ask strangers for money. I'm also remembering those parables (is that the right word?) from the bible where they talk about the angels going down to earth and acting like sick beggars to see which humans are kind and which are greedy and I'm totally paranoid that God is testing me and that I'm failing. But this woman is creeping me out. And now I'm starting to get mad because I think she's putting me in a really awkward position. I'm starting to feel like this whole "I'll just sleep at the train station" business is a tool of manipulation.

"I don't understand why you didn't call the police after you were robbed. They'd have set you up with a way to get home."

She stares at me blankly for a moment and blinks her goopy painted eyes. "Because I was robbed. I didn't have a quarter for the payphone."

"You don't need a quarter! It's free to dial 9-1-1!"

Just then, one of the therapists comes around the corner. I breathe a sigh of relief because I suddenly realize I'm not alone in the building with this creepy woman.

"Hey, Jackie! This woman was robbed today."

"What? How awful!"

The woman starts jumping up and down. "No, no, no! I don't know her. She can't help me. You don't know me!" the woman is practically yelling at us.

"I don't know you, but I've seen you around before." Jackie replies.

So the woman sways over to Jackie and starts telling her story, how she just needs five dollars, etc. I lock the reception door and stealthily reach into my purse to check my wallet. I figure I'm better off giving her my five bucks and getting her to leave, than having her sway in front of me for the rest of the night. But I also don't want her to see me looking in my purse because I still feel like something is off with her. She's really creepy. Did I mention that?

"I'm sorry," Jackie is saying, "I really don't have any cash. You need to call the police. They will arrange a ride home for you."

I find three singles in my wallet, but that's all. "Excuse me, Ma'am?" I say. "I found three dollars in my wallet. That will help, won't it?"

She looks up at me, startled. "Where'd you get that?" she snaps.

"Um, in my wallet? I just thought I'd double check to see if I had cash and I have three dollars."

"That won't do me any good, will it? I need five dollars. Not three. This is ridiculous." And with that, she storms out of the office. Just like that. I mean, could she have been any more anti-climactical? Seriously? I thought for sure she was going to pull a gun out of her bag or put a hex on me at least. But that's it? She just leaves?

"OK, that was really weird." Jackie says. "I felt bad, but that was weird."

"WASN'T IT?? There was something totally off about her!"

"Yeah. Something was weird. But I'm pretty sure she works here. I've seen her around before."

"She WORKS here? Like, she's a therapist here? Are you sure she isn't someone's patient?"

"No, she's a therapist."

Did that actually happen? The whole thing was so bizarre it kind of seems like a dream. And I genuinely hope she didn't spend the night at the train station, but I mean, if she was really so desperate, why didn't she take my three dollars? Then she'd only need to get a hold of two more. And why didn't she call the police after getting robbed? And why did she wait until 10:15 p.m. before trying to figure out a way to get home to New Jersey? And also, if she was an angel sent by God to test me, am I going to hell now? Because I really think God shouldn't send creepy angels to test us. I mean, seriously. At least play fair, you know?

Reminds me of my college years.

This little kid has just had his tooth pulled by the dentist and he's still feeling the effects of the gas. Watching it was like living in the dorms again.

Happy Birthday, Adam.

I remember exactly the first time I laid eyes on the man I would marry. I remember the first time I saw the girl who would become the best girl friend I'd always dreamed of. But I can't tell you anything about the first time I met Adam*. My first memory of him takes place after we'd already met and become friendly, sometime during our first year at Cal Arts. It was dinnertime and we were sitting in "the caf" at a table in a little alcove that looked out over the balcony. There were probably five or six other kids at the table - it was our usual dinner group. I must've been eating stir fry that night because at one point I thought it would be funny to fling a spoon full of rice at Adam's face. Not that stir fry makes me want to fling rice, I'm just saying I had rice available and I thought it would be funny to fling it. That was right around the time that everyone thought it was funny for Amanda to call me "Bitch" instead of "Tricia", so I figured everyone would think it was funny if I threw food around. Turns out I was wrong. Adam was so mad he jumped up from the table and stormed off. He didn't even finish his cheeseburger and fries. I felt like a world-class jerk. I was afraid he'd never forgive me.

Ten years later he is the only person from that table I still talk to, and yet, I can't remember how we met. I can't remember how I got him to forgive me for that rice incident (though I can say that he absolutely HATES it when I tell that story - sorry Adam!) and I can't remember anything about how our friendship grew over that first year in college. But I know that by second year, we were inseparable. I remember long nights playing solitaire on his computer, sitting on his lap and laughing for hours. I remember karaoke at Mulligan's, the only place in town that didn't check ID's. Even back then, and still to this day, when he sings I go weak in the knees. I remember movie nights and deconstructing Shakespeare together and driving around Stevenson Ranch aimlessly. We did two shows together that year and we were in all the same classes. He gave me the worst haircut I've ever had in my life and then he called his boyfriend who came over and gave me the best haircut I've ever had in my life. He was one of the only people I could count on to steer clear of drugs, but he didn't judge me when I experimented. He showed me the beauty in real designer bags. He stood up as my best man when I married a gay boy and then he held me together when my heart was crushed into a million pieces (multiple times). He threw me one of the best birthday parties I've ever had. I've lost sleep over his broken hearts and tended his black eyes and cooked his dinner. He's treated me to cocktails and defended my honor and soaked up my tears with his sweater. When I married my soul-mate, he accepted this new man as his brother. When I was getting ready to move across the country he came over and cleaned my apartment just so we could spend a few extra hours together. We know how to push each other's buttons and we know how to admit it and apologize when we've hurt each other. He's the perfect friend for a wild night on the town or a cozy night on the couch. He is as loyal and protective as a mama bear. When we're together our bellies ache from all our laughter. He waits outside the bathroom for me when we're out and he doesn't answer his cell phone when we're spending time together. We worry over each other and confide in one another and adore each other. We are so alike that sometimes I would swear we share the same genes. When he moved to New York, I told him he was God's gift to me. He cried and said no one but his mother had ever called him a gift from God. But that is what he is.

I don't know why I can't remember meeting Adam. It seems almost as if one moment I did not know him, and the next moment he was so absolutely enmeshed in my life it was as if he'd always been there. As if all of my life before, there had been an Adam-shaped empty space and when we finally collided, we fit together so perfectly that there was no need for a recognition of a specific moment of meeting. We just joined hands and kept going, laughing all the way.

Adam, you are my brother. Happy Birthday, beloved.



*Adam is Archie from this story. When he read it he was all, "Why didn't you use my real name??" He's even as much of a narcissistic exhibitionist as I am. I love him.