Paco's Tacos

Tonight I had dinner with my good friend, Missy.

Haven't seen her in a year.

I'm a bad friend.

Usually I'm pretty bad with time: I might not remember that it's been exactly a year since I saw somebody. Sometimes a year feels like a week, or months? I live in a time warp, sometimes. However, we know it's been a year, because her little girl was only six months old at the time. Now? Her kid's a big 18 month old, and I feel like a douche for not visiting more often.

Her daughter is verrry cute, and we spent some time hanging out with the kid and her husband, and wow, that child is sweet. When I got there, I knew she wouldn't remember me, but I was afraid she might cry or get scared when I went over. When I walked in the door, she was in the middle of the laborious task of transferring her plastic alphabet letters, one at a time, from the refrigerator to the washing machine; it just so happened that the door I entered (the kitchen door) was right next to the washer and dryer - I walked in on her holding a big capital letter "F" in her hand. She looked at me, smiled back at me (because if you saw this child, you would smile at her too), placed the "F" on the washer, and plucked off a "D" and handed it to me.

Cute, cute, cute, cute.

We hung out until it was time to put the little girl to bed, then left her and Missy's husband at home, and set off for Paco's.

Oh, what do I care: I gained 1.6 pounds this week. I said "fuck it" quite early in the week when we made these plans, this being the only night that worked for her, and the words "Paco's Tacos" were spoken. Paco's isn't my favorite Mexican restaurant, but it's classic, and dependable. I wish the rice wasn't quite so dry, but still: delicious chile relleno.

It was fun: we may not have seen each other in ages, or even talked, but always being with her is fun, it always makes me feel like a kid again, and we had a grand old time.

...

This has been a really long week. Pat's gone, work's been a bit nuts. I stayed late a couple of nights working on this Excel thing for my boss's boss's bosses (he has two). In other words? the big honchos. We showed them the initial version on Tuesday; by Wednesday afternoon, they'd already come up with additional reports and charts and requested further data... Luckily my boss is going to New Orleans until Wednesday, so I have some breathing room now. I had to ask someone else for the new data, so have been waiting on her (got it right before I left work today to go to Missy's). It can wait until Monday.

I've actually enjoyed my time alone at home. Don't get me wrong: it's nicer with Patrick here! But I've hardly watched any TV, I finally got the kitchen clean; the living room isn't trashed, I cleaned the litter boxes AND vacuumed (Pat's good for cleaning the boxes, but not for sweeping up all the tiny pebbles they kick out or sticks to their tiny feet).

Tomorrow I'm getting another facial (actually, I think I'm getting a body treatment? Some sort of seaweed wrap thing), and the car washed, and sleeping in (obviously these items are not in the right order), and heading down to SM to run "Rhinoceros" again. Speaking of Rhino, here's a link to this week's review from KCRW. And then? Patrick comes home!

I may be tense, but at least my heart is open

Tonight after work, I got a massage.

My masseur (he is male: 60-something, gray-haired, gentle; why does "masseur" always have such kinky undertones?) is a practitioner of reiki, something we've talked about but never really tried. Today, because of a couple of things I told him, he gave it a shot.

Based on what I told him, he worked on my large intestine, my heart, and my lungs (he had some name for what he was doing and what those three organs, combined, are called, but honestly, I don't remember). He talked about acupuncture and a little bit about what he believes and how this shit is all supposed to work. It was interesting, but a bit much to be learning on the massage table: I trust him, and let him do his thing.

Midway through, wait. Midway through that sentence, Patrick called from Santa Clara, and, a good 20, 25 minutes have passed. I've lost my train of thought. Midway through, what? We talked about didgeridoos (he collects and plays them), the flute convention... Oh, never mind. Let's just finish up this story about my most recent massage with these words:

Somehow, based on whatever procedure he was working on me, or maybe based on nothing, he told me that he could tell that I have an "open heart," that I'm interested in stuff and learning... I'm kind of stuck on the concept of having an open heart.

I don't know this is a real thing or what. I'm accepting that an open heart is a good thing, but I don't know. I feel some skepticsm. OK: a lot of skepticsm. But who can say?

Truth Hits Everybody!

As much as I tried to maintain the mystery and not write about it right away, I know the news will be out there soon, so continuing to refrain (and those who know me know that when I have something to say, no matter how stupid it is, I speak first and think later) from sharing these tidings with you all is no longer necessary:

Sadly, Stewart Copeland and I just couldn't work things out.

I know, I know: it's hard for you to understand.

But the more I looked at it, the more impossible it seemed.

For one thing, I have a perfectly wonderful, talented, drummer-husband already. Granted, he does have one flaw (he's not short, but, also? He's not tall); however, Stewart's flaws - I think he he has children my age; we've never actually met - far outweigh Patrick's. Even with Patrick's blessing, expecting to get lucky and find two terrific men in a row was just too much to ask. Who knows what problems we would've have encountered? What would I have done if it had turned out that other than loving Stewart Copeland, we had nothing in common?

I mean, yes - there would certainly have been exhilaration and goosebumps and butterflies, and all that wonderful stuff, and giving that up without even really trying does seem... a waste. Walking away is always hard, isn't it. Getting back to normal will take some time, but I'm sure I can do it.

[You people know I'm kidding with all this, right?]

...

OK: back to reality.

The concert itself was awesome. Yes, there were strange moments: I'm sure I annoyed the woman sitting in front of me when, after they finished up "Don't Stand So Close To Me," I exclaimed, "OK, great guys, now let's do it one more time IN THE RIGHT FUCKING KEY." The slow tempo of "Truth Hits Everybody" was disturbing. Of course there were things I didn't like: the "sting-ification" of some songs, but that's just because I don't like Sting. I don't buy his solo albums, I don't want to hear him play the lute: his music and his style doesn't do it for me. So yeah, of course I didn't like it. But it was thrilling to be there, and just because I don't like him doesn't mean the rest of it wasn't amazing. I was really happy to be there.

Our seats turned out to be not half bad: we were a mile (or maybe two, I'm not sure how big Dodger Stadium actually is) away, but we were dead center. There were maybe 10 rows behind us, not the wall I had imagined. And the t-shirt, while pricey, wasn't as expensive as I expected.

How I Didn't Marry The Man I Didn't Marry

All week, I've been thinking about telling the story about The Man I Didn't Marry (this next chapter was to be called "How I Didn't Marry The Man I Didn't Marry"), but I discovered something real writers have probably known for a long time: when you start with the title, you're in trouble.

And when I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about getting started this morning, the story I thought I really wanted to tell was about my mom's chemotherapy, something I haven't really written about yet.

But then I got sidetracked, and I sat down at the computer, and tried writing that story, and realized that I'm not ready to talk about it in detail yet. It was just last year and it's bound up in talking about my brother (who is fine, now, thank you), and all that stuff is just too emotionally there still. It's in my head a lot, still. So here it is, the original story I meant to tell, the shortened (yes, shortened) version of How I Didn't Marry The Man I Didn't Marry.

It's not that interesting a story, to be honest. I'm talking about all the stuff that happened before I didn't marry him: a lot of details that I do and don't remember, the ones I don't remember (how he proposed, when he proposed) being mostly more interesting than the ones I do. That time consisted of a long build up of me putting the brakes on mentally at every completed detail: restaurant booked - flowers ordered - photographer chosen - dress purchased and fitted... When it was time to buy my shoes and jewelry, I felt so trapped and scared that everyone started asking me if I was getting the "cold feet." My feet were fine: I was terrified. I mean, at each successfully completed chore, I thought: OK, that's one more thing that's going to make calling this thing off just that much harder. I watched the time trickle down to two weeks, and then I knew cutting it any closer would be the wrongest (most wrong? worst?) thing I'd ever done.

Calling it off was hard. Telling his parents: maybe even harder than telling him. Maybe because they believed me right away in a way that Drew didn't. They, I think, saw me for who I was: young, confused, unhappy. Drew, in his sweet and confused way, thought that my request to call off the wedding and not see each other anymore was temporary; he didn't yet know or want to believe that this was it. His parents knew it was for real.

I felt like total shit - please don't think that this was a jubilant or exciting time for me. I was scared, unhappy; lying to him (because until we had our talk, I think he thought everything was just fine and dandy; I'm not a very good actress on stage but I guess I had him fooled. We never, ever, discussed the scary parts about getting married), our friends, and our families: it was terrifying.

But it was the right thing to do. When I tell people this story, I always say, "I couldn't marry him because I could see myself making his life a living hell." It's true. And I will repeatedly say, about Drew: He was (is, just because we haven't spoken in years doesn't mean he's changed) a very nice person who deserved someone who loved him completely, and totally, at the very least, at that moment, on his wedding day. And I couldn't do it.

So there, in a lot of words I sort of didn't intend to write (or I did, and then I didn't, and then I did it anyway), is the story.

(There are a few more details: when I called off the wedding and we broke up, I was working in Malibu, at the Crown Books out there, a job I hated. My best friend and confidant was a red-haired 18-year old boy. I was listening to Jeff Buckley's album, Grace, pretty much nonstop. My car, a 1984 Subaru GL, broke down for good, and my sister sold me her 1987 Toyota Celica for $2,000. I was smoking the most I've ever smoked: 1/2 a pack a day, sometimes a whole pack. Around the time when we were supposed to be married, I came down with a really bad case of bronchitis. After I broke up with Drew, his friends Marshall and Charlie called me about 20 times a day at work, wanting to know what happened - after a few of those calls, my co-workers, who were mostly insane and total dicks, were really nice for a change and told him I was either not there or busy. I lost about 15 pounds.)

Culver City Flute Choir: Concert Night

Well, it's over.Our twenty year anniversary concert was tonight. We had a huge audience, which was quite thrilling, actually. Big thanks to Paul and Patrick, and my mom and dad, and cousin Dominga for getting out tonight.

Now: I'm glad it's over.

Isn't that what I always say? It was hard work. I'm tired, now. And stuffed: I ate heartily.

Here's a picture: me and Julie, playing "Blue Bird;" Patrick took this photo with our little digital camera.

Here's one Paul took with his camera, which is way better: He was able to get the whole finale group in the shot. The reason some people aren't wearing concert black is because we brought in some of our audience (former members) to join us for a little mini-version of the Flute Convention's traditional group playing of Bach's Air from the Suite in D. There are usually a couple thousand flutists playing at the convention; this group of 13 or whatever it is is obviously much smaller, but the feeling was the same.

The big monster flute? That's the infamous double contrabass flute, played by my friend Roland. You have to hear that thing to believe it. The other big flute also belongs to Roland: it was a treat for us to hear both at the same time! That one is a contrabass flute; not as rare as the double contra, it's still really cool, and we're so lucky to have both of these giants in our group.

Mrs. LaBriola

Today I am dressed like my seventh grade homeroom teacher:

Black v-neck sweater, black skirt (it has random stripes stitched on; terrible description, great skirt), BELT AROUND SWEATER, and my Franco Sartos. She would've had knee-high leather boots on, but jeez, it is the first day of summer!

Mrs. LaBriola was I guess pretty fashionable in the 80s when I was in Middle School, but I do remember mocking her for her fondness for belts.

However, what did I know: I thought a "Frankie Say Relax" t-shirt and cut off 501s were the height of fashion.

Why One Beer Makes Me Clean the Bathroom, and Four Make Me Stupid

Actually, that title is misleading. I'm not sure I know why. I only know that cleaning the bathroom is way better than, oh, I don't know, writing questionable email messages (actually, to be perfectly honest, I think the writing in the email messages I've recently sent while high on four beers was fine; I mean, I am proud of my ability to spell while buzzed, to write somewhat grammatically [I do take creative license with some rules, but I think I'm mostly aware when I'm breaking them], to say what I'm thinking... but the messages in those messages... the meaning behind the words themselves: I'm not sure if I thought it through. I'm not sure if I said everything or if I said too much, and that puts me in a pickle. Re-reading is no help, and these were messages that were essentially sent out as if out to the gods: no answers will be forthcoming and none are expected). Originally there was a question mark at the end of that sentence, but now I'm confused.

OK, so maybe my writing isn't as good as I wish it was.

Lest you (I love that word, "lest" - it makes me want to address you as "thou") get the wrong idea: cleaning the bathroom is respectable work. Writing email can be respectable work, when conducted in a sound or if not sound, conscious state. Or if not conscious: a funny state. A slightly interesting state. Not blithering stupidity, no, no, not that state at all.

Yep.

This is just the absolute longest week ever.

We've been planning a party for my boss... her birthday is tomorrow. I fucking hate planning office parties. We took up a collection for buying the gift and cake and crap, and somehow I was in charge of organizing everyone, and everything. Luckily I was able to delegate some tasks to others (decorations, for example), but still. It's a big pain in my butt. Coupled with that (I also like that word: "coupled") is the flute choir concert, which technically I should be practicing for right now. And there are some top-secret gift buying things and flower buying things I had to do. On top of that, Pat's going to training next week in Silicon Valley, and the responsibility of running this household and caring for three very needy cats will be all mine, and just thinking about it is making me a bit wacko. "Running this household" consists of feeding them, cleaning up after them, playing with them (the easiest part of these easy tasks). I keep thinking I will organize and straighten up and throw shit away and whip this home into a lean, mean, clean abode (I do not like that word: abode is right out of Mr. Collins, from Pride and Prejudice) -

but thy knows the truth:

I will be laying on the couch every night watching the Kathy Griffin show, Sandra Bullock movies, "Top Chef" marathons and stopping at the nail salon on the way home from work; reading and eating enormous bowls of popcorn (I haven't had popcorn since February, which is just impossible), reading and eating whole watermelons all by myself; talking on the phone, going to bed at a reasonable hour: I know that my week of being alone is going to be about as exciting and productive as I am on my days off, when my list of things to do gets forgotten the minute I find something to read online.

Anyway.

It's been a long week. Next week will be long, too, but in a different way.

...

Here's a totally unrelated, funny story about my niece:

Yesterday was her birthday. She's nine. We hadn't yet heard anything from her parents about a party; her little brother's birthday is in a week, and they've been having dual parties for as long as he's been alive but I thought I heard their mom say last year that that was the last one...? Anyway, so after work, we called over there to wish her a happy birthday.

Me and her are talking, you know, and I get the biggest kick out of talking to her, especially on the telephone. She's got such a sweet, funny personality. Anyway, so I asked her how school was, and she said something about getting out early. I said, "Oh, was it your last day?" And she goes, yeah. Then she tells me her mom and dad took them to Disneyland, and we talked about that for awhile (Disneyland in the middle of the week! What kind of world are these children growing up in!). Then I asked her what she wants for her birthday (books, which is awesome, because I love getting her books. She needs: Where the Red Fern Grows, The Island of the Blue Dolphins, and some other book I couldn't understand the title of. Anyway, so after devising in my head my plan to buy two copies of each (one for me, one for her: I can't believe I never read those two books), she asked me, "What did you do today?" And I said, "Oh, I went to work." And she asks me,

"Was it your last day?"

...

And in other news: I lost .4 pounds this week, making my grand total of weight lost: 15.6 pounds. I can't fucking believe it. 1.6 pounds and I'll be the actual weight on my driver license. No, wait. 10 pounds AFTER THAT I'll be the actual weight on my driver license. Well: the closest I've been since forever. Good for me.

Finally, I'll close this long-winded, practically stream of conscious entry with these words:

This is my 200th post on Blogger, and while I am pleased to still be here, and have posted something almost every day for the past couple of months, it would make me very happy if whoever you are out there reading this might write me a comment and say hello. Wouldn't that be fun for you? Instead of listening to my stupid stories, you could say something to me for a change. Go for it, my friends in Spain and Finland! Readers in Japan and Mexico! Kalamazoo and Riverside! San Francisco! I think it's totally cool that you're out there, but I have no idea what you're like. So wow, click on the "Comments" leak and write something! Come on, people, I know you can do it.

Stewart, I'll reply to your message privately.

Caller 21

On my drive home tonight, KLOS was giving away tickets to the Live Earth concert in New York on July 7. They were looking for Caller 25.

I dialed the number on my cellphone, and a man answered.

He said, "Caller 21!"

I said, "Shit!"

So close - !

Monday night treat

Pandora's finally playing my song again!

At 11:11 p.m., 11 minutes after I said I was going to bed...

You're in Tokyo but I'm not!

Show, Saturday, Flowers

After a blah day, I can say this much for myself: I had a perfect show last night.

In the car on the way up, my friend Bo told me to "relax," which people have been telling me for years; finally I listened. Who knew it was that simple?

...

Argh! I am finding myself remarkably unmotivated to do anything yet again.

...

My friend Sarah graduated this week from UCLA with her MLS - her friend Mary threw a party for her but unfortunately I couldn't go, because of the show. I was very disappointed to not be able to see Sarah in her triumphant moment, but I wanted to do something nice, so I ordered some flowers. Do you recall the photo I posted a while back of my co-worker Louise's flowers? They were from a shop called Tic-Tock in LA on La Brea, and I visited their website - they have beautiful arrangements - and ordered some for her. She emailed me this morning with a photo: they're gorgeous! On Thursday, I called over there to confirm the delivery time, and when I called, asked if it was possible to see a photo of them; it wasn't (but it should be!); the guy I spoke to was really nice (now that I think about it, that guy also told me to "relax" but in a slightly different way than Bo did) and calmed my control freak tendencies. Well, for the moment. I'm sure they'll resurface any day now.

More crap on Friday

God, I've done nothing today. Yes, I went out to Borders, weighed in, I started one measly load of laundry, started the process to get my blog included on the massive (and probably useless) blogroll at blogher... but these were the things I hoped to accomplish today:

1. Finish the kitchen (packing up all the stuff to be sold at the July 7 garage sale)
2. Practice for the flute choir concert on June 21
3. General cleaning and picking up around the house, especially my "office"
4. Getting in a nap and/or some reading time
5. A phone call to my friend, Missy

Now I'm listening to FM 94.9 (The Replacements: pure, perfect, pop), thinking about taking another shower? Seriously, that is not on my list of things to do. I think it's because I do want to nap, but I just can't see myself wasting time that way. Instead, if I take a shower, at least I'm doing something one could see as being "productive." If one were really dirty, which: I am not.

Laundry. Must do laundry.

A crash of rhinos

Click on the title of this post and you will be directed to the feature in the LA Weekly on City Garage Theater's production of Ionesco's Rhinoceros.

It's Franny's birthday!

Franny, the world's cutest kitten, turns one year old today.

My kitten! She's not a baby anymore! In fact, she broke a window yesterday, the little punk! (No cats were injured, no escapes were made... it was an incident with the scratching post. Someone was a little too excited.) What's next? Sneaking out to go out with boys!?

...

and in other news: 9 DAYS TO THE POLICE!

How I Met The Man I Didn't Marry - Updated

After I graduated from high school, there was about a two week period there where I didn't hear from my senior year boyfriend. He left for school fairly early, and in person, we hadn't really discussed our plans. Honestly, I just thought things would be the same, only with me there and him somewhere else. Talking about it seemed like opening a can of worms I didn't want to open. I was going to go to community college and work, and see him sometimes, but I didn't really have big plans for us. Turns out he didn't either.

Eventually I received a letter from him: perhaps his first communication since leaving? I don't remember. This was in the days before email, and neither one of us had a lot of money for long-distance phone calls. I didn't know how simple it could've been for me to hop on a bus and go visit him, or get a ride. I was still a kid, living at home, and I thought separation was the way it was going to be for awhile.

Anyway, so he wrote me this letter. I have to tell you: this guy, my boyfriend at the time, he was a special guy. He never wanted to hurt me. But he did want to grow up, and I think somehow my lack of forward motion (which I've lacked in many key moments of my life) scared him. So he broke up with me in the nicest way he could: in a letter. This is another letter I sort of wish I'd kept - imagine the lessons that could be learned from that letter!

So I went through all the typical emotions: disbelief, crying, and then straight to anger. My feelings were hurt, but secretly? I wasn't surprised. I felt like I should've been pissed off and I had a right to be pissed off: so I was. I managed to contact his best friend, who was still in town somewhere (it took a series of phone calls, I seem to remember calling people I had never spoken to in my life, getting numbers from people I wasn't really friends with, just to track down his friend), and I somehow talked him and his girlfriend into driving me all the way up to my now ex-boyfriend's school.

His friend (look, I think the parties have all been identified before. My ex? Adam. His friend? Sean. I don't remember Sean's girlfriend's name. Laura? I remember she had a reputation for being a little bit out of control) needed new tires, so we all headed to FedCo for him to purchase some new ones, and then? We hit the road.

Hopefully I was silent all the way up there, but chances are I wasn't. Sorry, Sean; sorry, Laura or whatever your name was: deep in my heart I am a drama queen. I don't think Sean had been up to visit Adam yet, so finding his dorm and everything was a bit of an adventure, and once we did, well, the shit hit the fan.

Adam, Mr. Nice Guy, was just that: a gentleman, and apologetic, and probably way embarrassed by my performance. Eventually I calmed down, the spoken issue being "why didn't you just tell me in person," which really wasn't the issue at all - but still, we worked it out, and me, Sean, and Laura headed back down home. I really do owe Sean something for that trip: I probably didn't have any money for gas or anything: he did a nice thing, there, and for nothing.

The summer marched on. I had my job at the bookstore, and I was all registered to go to West LA College (no car, and SMC was way too far for me. I was never brave about riding the bus), so I worked, hung out with Rachel and Amber, and Kim, Becky and Laura (another Laura) at the store, and prepared for school. Wait, no, did I prepare for school? I didn't give a shit about school - I thought it would be interesting to be in college, but I had no idea what "college" was supposed to be.

Once school started, I was pretty disappointed. West LA might be a good school, but I took all the dud classes that first semester. I wanted to learn something, maybe, but I was totally unmotivated. That's nobody's fault but mine, but still: I felt like an overgrown high schooler, and I wasn't learning anything. There I was, riding my ten-speed to school, not doing my homework, not getting up in time for my early classes, and it felt just like the twelfth grade, minus my friends.

Then one day, I was leaving campus on my bike, and I ran into this guy Mark, who I had known in high school. He was a few years older than me, but had played the trumpet in the marching band. I remembered him, because he was sort of a kook. With him that day? Drew, The Man I Didn't Marry.

Against my better judgement, I gave one of them my phone number (Mark really was a total nutball in high school; he was from another planet. Turned out he was from a great planet, and he was a good friend, but I didn't know that right from the beginning), and one of them called me.

We were all from the same town, and I'd grown up knowing about Drew (his younger brother was in my class) and knowing who he was (his friends, the year he was a senior and I was a freshman, possessed something special - I was a bit obsessed with all of them*), but never really speaking to him. He was a bad-ass in high school, walking around with his punk rock attitude, his hair dyed black, his gorgeous scary girlfriend, and the rumors about being kicked out of his house and kicked out of private school, and sleeping on the floor at his friend's house, and being drunk all the time. When we met after high school, he smoked, he had long hair, he had sweet, pretty eyes and he was nice. He was nice, but he seemed dangerous. There is the key, I think, to everything.

We didn't get together right away. Mark had a party and I went to that, where I was awkward, dressed strangely, shy, didn't know what I was doing or what kind of person I was, and there could've been a spark there, between me and Drew, or maybe I just hoped there was. I sort of wanted him, but at that point, I didn't really know why. It was a test, maybe. It was me wanting to want somebody. And he was a good choice. Also, being friends with him gave me an instant group of friends to hang out with, and I loved that. We studied together, hung out at each other's houses, even mine (something my friends rarely did), went places and did stuff: these were fun times.

There was another girl in the picture. I'm not sure if he liked us both or if I just thought he was into her more than he was: she was pretty and also a little dangerous, and I'd known her since she was a little kindergartner and I was a big second grader and her mom used to come to school to play the guitar and sing with us: there was no way I was going to let this chick win him over. But I was scared, because she was confident, and I wasn't.

One night we went somewhere: I don't know whose party it was. I do recall that it was in east Culver City, on Clarington Ave., in one of those really big apartment complexes. I'd never been there before, but Culver City is a small place - wherever you are, you're only six minutes from someplace else on the other side of town (well now the traffic makes that about 20 minutes, but in those days...). I was pretty new to partying: aside from a couple of silly drunken nights with Amber and Rachel, and the stories previously told with Rick, and a few others not told about with Adam, you could probably count all the times I'd been drunk on one hand, or maybe one hand plus a couple of fingers of the other; getting drunk on a regular basis was a whole new world to me. And I was what? Eighteen? Nineteen?

So we were at that party, and Drew was doing his whole social butterfly act - he could be very charming and nice to talk to, and people liked him because he was a great guy and a lot of fun at parties. He liked to "philosophize" (later this habit of bullshitting would drive me insane, but it was harmless). I was probably sitting in a corner drinking beers and getting drunk and not really noticing.

One of the people he was chatting up was that girl - the one I wasn't sure about, the pretty, confident girl. Did I mention she was petite? She had a sense of style (it was the 90s: her style was "nuevo hippy chick")? She was blond? Seriously, me versus her? and I thought I had a chance? At that point I knew I couldn't compete, and knowing that, I, in a wild moment, took off. I just left. (Before I left? I chipped my tooth on my beer bottle. My dentist was able to grind down the other one but my two front teeth are now fucked up because of this night. This night permanently affected my facial features.)

I chose to leave that party because everything just felt so hopeless. Don't you ever just want to run? I chose to run because it was hot in there and outside the air was cool and the night was dark, and moving fast seemed to keep the sidewalk from rushing up and knocking me in the face. I took off towards Venice Blvd., not really thinking anything, no plan, no route home mapped out, just a vague idea, a word in my head: run.

I got about halfway down the street before Marshall, one of Drew's friends, another guy I've known since the 9th grade, caught up with me (I probably wasn't hard to spot or catch: even sober my idea of running is just a brisk walk). He was probably laughing. I really hope I wasn't crying. I don't know what he told me; he wanted me to go back to the party, and I wanted to get the fuck out of there. I don't remember if I told him what thoughts were in my messed up head? I wonder if he knew? We used to talk on the phone all the time; he was a strange, funny, interesting guy, but I'm not sure if he was a very good listener. Anyway, this night he was in the right place, at the right time: he picked me up in his arms and carried me back to the car. Being carried down the street by him was a crazy feeling - I was flying. I don't remember going into the party. After that, we all climbed back in the car and either went home (I was a mess, though, so I'm sure my home was not stop no. 1) or went somewhere else. I don't know. I just know that my trip down Clarington Ave. was the turning point. That other girl was forgotten, and soon after, me and Drew were a couple.

*In the ninth grade I had a brief, two week "relationship" with one of them. It was short and sweet and totally, one hundred per cent innocent. This was one year before things started up with Rick, and if you remember, I didn't know anything then: at this time, I knew absolutely nothing about boys or how to act around them (still don't!). I mean, the closest to anything me and that guy got was sitting very, very close to each other in the back of Marshall's tiny CRX. What year was that? 1987? Goddamn I got old all of a sudden. I think we went out on two dates: one of them involved a stop at Jack in the Box. (At the other, Drew, who I didn't really know yet, showed up while we were hanging out at this guy's house: for some reason I've never forgotten the clothes these guys were wearing: Drew had a pale pink button-down shirt on with faded black Levis and his big black boots; I think the guy I was with was wearing a gray shirt with a red pattern - I liked that shirt, that's why I remember it - and faded Levis. And probably, checkerboard Vans. Hopefully I was not dressed like a clown.) It was an exciting time, though, and the unbelievable thing is, it was one of those rare times when being obsessed and a little crazy paid off. Well, sort of. It didn't work out, and I was sad; but then time passed, as time does, and there I was with his friend, hanging out together, at this guy's house, and at the very beginning, me and Drew were very demonstrative with each other, if you know what I mean - maybe it was a tiny bit awkward. I don't know how much Drew knew about how I had felt about his friend: at the time it had been a serious, big-time crush that took a long time to get over, and I don't know how they worked it out, that history, there. If I'd been paying attention, I might've learned something about boys. But I didn't.

I've Been Tagged! Again!

Secretly I love filling these things out. Not-so secretly, I'm sure they're boring as hell for everyone else.

Oh, well.

Also, there seems to be one missing. See if you can spot it!

TEN FAVORITES
Favorite color: Red
Favorite food: Corn, tied with garbanzo beans
Favorite month: November
Favorite song: Oh, there are toooo many
Favorite movie: Harold and Maude
Favorite sport: None
Favorite season: Fall
Favorite day of the week: Friday
Favorite ice cream flavor (Why is this such a popular question! Who gives a shit!): Any
Favorite time of day: Quitting time

NINE CURRENTS
Current mood: Tired, with a little bit of aggravated thrown in for fun
Current taste: I do not understand this one
Current clothes: Yellow t-shirt, black sweats
Current desktop: The Police
Current toenail color: None. Thanks for the reminder - I need a pedicure
Current time: 6:45 p.m.
Current surroundings: My messy office. Three cats. Open window.
Current thoughts: You don't really want to know

SEVEN FIRSTS
First best friend: Jeremy from kindergarten
First kiss: (If you believe him) Jeremy in kindergarten (or first grade?). First real kiss? Sometime after that.
First screen name: Fanny Price (Jane Austen character. Most people's least favorite Jane Austen character, but I disagree.)
First pet: Nutmeg the World's Most Super-est Schnauzer
First piercing: Ears, sometime before I was able to give my consent. I was a baby!
First crush: Um... Jeremy from kindergarten
First CD: Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon"

SEVEN LASTS
Last cigarette: Sometime in February, or maybe January. And don't think I haven't been tempted
Last drink: Six beers, a week ago tomorrow
Last car ride: Home from work. No speeding tickets, thanks for asking.
Last kiss: This morning. Pat was asleep so I'm not sure if it counts
Last movie seen: "Genesis In Concert" on TV
Last phone call: Pat called me to tell me he was on his way home from the beach
Last CD played: OK Computer, Radiohead

SIX HAVE YOU EVERS
Have you ever dated one of your best guy/girlfriends? Yes
Have you ever broken the law? Speeding tickets, etc.
Have you ever been arrested? No
Have you ever skinny dipped? No!
Have you ever been on TV? No
Have you ever kissed someone you didn't know? No

FIVE THINGS
Things you're wearing: Watch, earrings, flip flops, t-shirt, sweats
Things you've done today: Gone to work, bought two pairs of shoes, picked up my dry cleaning, wrote a couple emails, fantasy shopped at jcrew.com and didn't buy $900 worth of clothing/shoes (but hey, spend $175 and get free shipping! Code = FSJUNE)
Things you can hear right now: Somebody yelling outside, dog barking, Patrick talking to the cats, NPR in the other room, helicopter
Things you can't live without: Love, laughter, kisses, my flute, something to read
Things you do when you're bored: Internet, email, fantasy shop, watch TV, sleep
[I think I gave you twenty-five five things. I was confused on the concept.]

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN TODAY
Work, post office, DSW, dry cleaners

THREE PEOPLE YOU CAN TELL ANYTHING TO
Patty, Bo, and Julie (Julie was just recently added to this list. I knew she was trustworthy but I had never tested her patience until last week. Now I know.)

TWO CHOICES
Black or white? Black
Hot or cold? Hot

ONE THING YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE
It depends when that day is going to come. If you can tell me the date, I'll tell you my plans. I mean, if it's gonna be, like, next week, that's way different than if I've got until I'm 85. You know?

It's not that I lied, it's just that I have one more thing to say this morning:

You're in Tokyo, but I'm not!

Clarification: The Eraser

Today when I was working in the kitchen (you know, I've only been able to fit in a couple hours here and there... it's taking forever, I know, but please. Tell me when I've had time?), I took a good listen to Thom Yorke, and Patrick burned me a new copy of King Crimson's album, "Discipline." And I realized that I was wrong. "The Eraser" doesn't remind me of "Matte Kudesai." Well, maybe a little, there are definitely (in my mind only maybe, but my mind is the only mind of which I have intimate knowledge) similarities, but Thom's delivery of those first three lines is totally ripped off from Prince, especially the way his voice, at the end of "because you want something," dips down rather than coming up (as he does later in the song). I say, "ripped off," but I'm not being critical. I think it's pretty cool, actually.

Tonight's show went pretty well. I forgot one important detail about the CD player, but I think I'll keep it to myself. Other than the mystery detail, I made no mistakes: I'm quite proud, actually. My friend Julie reminded me this morning, when I was emailing her about my obsession with perfection and how hard I take it when I fuck up, that everybody makes mistakes. I believe her exact words were, "it's not brain surgery." Thank God! Can you imagine how uptight I would be then? Anyway, I think I knew that; I just get wrapped up in the things I get wrapped up in, and that makes for these fascinating postings, now doesn't it?

Tonight was the first night in ages where I carpooled with someone and didn't have to drive. Bo's car hasn't been working lately, so I've been quite happily picking him up and bringing him home, but today? Today I officially declared that I am sick of driving. For once and for all (well, no, I'm sure I'll feel differently in a few days, but I think in the last two weeks, I've driven something like 500 miles, which doesn't seem possible, but I think it's real)! Anyway, being somebody's passenger was a real treat for me. I didn't have to fuss with the radio or the traffic, I could put my feet up and take off my shoes and lean back and just ride in a car with somebody, and relax.

It felt good, to be honest.

Once I got home, we watched a movie we'd taped from VH1 Classic... It was a concert video about the band Genesis, I've forgotten the title of it [Genesis: In Concert], but they had Bill Bruford as a special guest. I knew none of the songs, I guess this was recorded right after the exit of Peter Gabriel (and I know zero Peter Gabriel-era Genesis songs)...? Anyway, it's always a treat to see and hear Bill Bruford (unless he's speaking - we've watched some instructional videos of his, and he is definitely not of this world. That guy just has too much information and too much musical genius-y type stuff going on; he's definitely talented and way beyond my reckoning), but I had no idea Phil Collins was such an interesting drummer. The songs themselves... well, for the most part, not especially my cup of tea ("Supper's Ready" was a pretty cool song, but I felt like I had seen and heard the same thing before, thanks to Pink Floyd and Rush). I could hear that they were good songs; I think maybe time has not been kind.

It was definitely interesting watching, though, and I do like many, many Genesis songs. I also liked the idea of there being a moment in time where Phil Collins had a wonderfully flat stomach and hair; I'm sorry, but I've always pictured him as a little tubby, balding - the way he looked in the "Easy Lover" video. But no, there was a point in time when he was a hairy stud, and I'm glad for him.

Oh, and remember how the other day I commented that I had gotten drunk and written things I couldn't remember the next day? I'm feeling like doing that again tonight, minus the getting drunk part. I think I'm going to log off and go to bed before I make any moves I'll regret in the morning. The morning, which is swiftly approaching. Good night.

Sunday Morning, Plus: iPhone

Finally I got to sleep in. 10:30 is not quite as late as I would've liked (after I got home from the theater last night I couldn't go right to sleep), but it's way better than waking up at 8:30, as I did yesterday, or 6, which I'll have to do again tomorrow.

It's funny, though, because here it is 11 now, and my street is so quiet. Patrick is sleeping still. I have the blinds up in the room I'm in so I can see outside, and there are other things I need to do (clean, laundry, take a shower, take a walk, lay out on the grass) before I have to be back in Santa Monica, but I'm not moving towards doing anything else. Just sitting here and thinking/writing seems like an OK thing for me to do right now. It is so quiet! Even the kid across the street isn't playing his usual horrible Sunday morning music (Abba, Kelly Clarkson, etc.). I hear: birds, and the sound of my own fingers on the keyboard.

My friend Bo has a couple of big birds: an African Gray named Mowgli who scares the hell out of me (I bird-sat, dog-sat and cat-sat for him once, and Mowgli came about this close to eating my entire arm. I did teach her to say, "Hi, Mowgli!" - that was my standard cheery greeting, hoping to disguise my fear with a happy voice. If I'd known she was going to repeat what I said when I wasn't there, I would've taught her something more interesting), and another bird that I think is a cockatoo. The cockatoo was given to him and has emotional problems... I wasn't a successful birdsitter. However, I'm not sure that I agree birds should be kept in cages anyway; Bo probably would agree with me, but he loves his birds, and is a good pet owner. He has a kind and open heart toward animals. In Long Beach we have wild parrots, they're pretty cool to see. In Culver City I seem to remember we had a lot of loud annoying crows.

...

I had no interest in purchasing an iPod... I have my Dell DJ and it works just fine for me; it's ugly and lacks all the shiny happy features of the iPod, but it holds all my music and is easy to use, and whatever, it's fine.

Last night I saw a commercial for the new Apple iPhone, and oh my god, I haven't felt the desire to possess something so strongly in a LONG time. It's beautiful! I think I'm in love.

Anyway, quiet time seems to be over. The dog next door has started barking, and Joe is now listening to Avril Lavigne. I think he's washing his car. Time for me to get up and take a shower and start doing all those things I've been putting off during the week.

Tired, sleepy, hungry, and I have a headache.

That's four of the seven dwarfs right there, isn't it?

I was talking to my friend Paul tonight about all the juvenile fiction we read back in the days when we were actually juveniles (I'm a tiny bit older than him; I may still be juvenile in my heart), and I mentioned this series that I used to LOVE. I found them in my brother's room, so my mom picked them up for him originally, but they were awesome. I couldn't remember the names of them, but I did recall that the main character's name was Danny Dunn.

Anyway, came home and googled him, and it turns out this series (Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine, Danny Dunn and the Voice From Space) was written in the 50s and 60s... I just remember loving them! I may have to start collecting them for my niece and nephew (you know when I say, "for my niece and nephew," I really mean, for me, right?).

This has been a really long day... I woke up early in spite of wanting to sleep in, I was up at 8:30. Got up, paid some bills, cleaned a little in the kitchen (again: these daily reports are just fascinating for you guys, aren't they!), then my mom and sister stopped by to drop off my sister's laptop for Patrick to take a look at. I was a tiny bit ashamed at my messy house, but they didn't seem to mind, as my attempts to induce them to stay and help me clean failed. After that I had to be in Culver City for a four hour marathon rehearsal with the flute choir... we're totally getting ready for our big concert. After that? On to Santa Monica for the show, where my job gets easier each time. I knew it would. Well: I hoped.

So today's song of the day is the title song from Thom Yorke's album, "The Eraser." I've been listening to this album for awhile now, and I know I've featured other songs; this one being the first song on the album, I guess it's a little weird that I never really paid any attention to it until now, but the truth is, I tended to skip it to get to Atoms for Peace.

Anyway, today I listened to it while working in the kitchen, and these lyrics actually kinda made me sad. Which normally wouldn't really be a good reaction - but sad songs, to quote Elton John, say so much. No, really, actually I think what I like about it is, it reminds me of King Crimson, who I used to listen to all the time and now I can't find my copy of their CD (my favorite is "Discipline"). I have a bunch of stuff on my MP3 player but that thing has been MIA for awhile. Anyway, I think the song it puts me in mind of is Matte Kudesai. I really really like Adrian Belew's voice - I don't think Patrick sees the connection, and maybe there isn't one? - I'm not sure that Thom's musicianship matches Adrian's, but in my opinion they're definitely from the same planet.

The Eraser, by Thom Yorke

Please excuse me but I got to ask
Are you only being nice
Because you want something
My fairy tale arrow pierces
Be careful how you respond
'Cause you'd not end up in this song
I never gave you an encouragement
And it's doing me in
Doing me in
Doing me in
Doing me in
The more you try to erase me
The more, the more
The more that I appear
Oh the more, the more
The more you try the eraser
The more, the more
The more that you appear
You know the answer so why do you ask
I am only being nice
Because I want someone, something
You're like a kitten with a ball of yarn
And it's doing me in
Doing me in
Doing me in
Doing me in
The more you try to erase me
The more, the more
The more that I appear
Oh the more, the more
The more I try to erase you
The more, the more
The more that you appear
No, you're wrong, you're wrong
You're wrong, you're wrong
You're wrong, you're wrong
You're wrong

Paul Comes Through

So I can hear you now: where on earth are you going to wear those shoes, Irene? Well. You'll just have to imagine the situations. And those situations will arise, I'm sure!

Thanks, Paul! You're a genius! I mean, look how WHITE my teeth are!