So, anyhow, I walked to Starbucks, laptop in hand, ready to resume blogging. I'd lost interest for awhile, what with the daily grind of life and then the feverish craft explosion. I thought it would be good therapy to start writing again. The ebook sales, although relatively small, had inspired me and I had some new ideas percolating. Funny, you'd think that with all the noise and distraction in your average coffeehouse or yogurt shop, I'd prefer to write at home, where it's quiet. Oddly, I seem to concentrate best sitting at a bistro table amid chattering masses of humanity.
I grabbed a skinny vanilla latte, triple shot, and settled into a table wedged into a corner. That's another of my idiosyncrasies. I get nervous sitting in the middle of a room. Why? I haven't a clue.
Anyway, I had finished about half my coffee and was really getting in to the zone when I noticed that someone was standing close to my table, literally at my right elbow. I glanced to the side and saw brown tweed and a couple of leather buttons staring back. Resolutely ignoring the space-encroaching person, I returned my attention back to the screen.
"Why aren't you at Pinkberry today?" The question wafted down from above.
I looked up at the most astonishing woman. Like I said, she was dressed in tweed. A tweed suit to be exact, in the style of the late 1930s, complete with a fox fur collar. I wondered how many times a day she had to lie and say "Genuine fur? Of course not! This is simply a high quality faux!"
"Excuse me?" By this time I'd lost the thread of our conversation.
"Pinkberry. The one in Santa Monica? It's where I normally see you, or did anyhow." She twirled an empty chair around and dropped into it, graceful as a feather, then leaned toward me, chin in hand.
"So, what's up with that?" She delivered that sentence in a sing-song, almost as if she were using the phrase for the first time.
I was speechless. Absolutely nonplussed. As I sat staring at this strange little woman in her veiled hat and matching gloves, I couldn't think of a thing to say. She didn't seem to notice my confusion while she fished in her alligator handbag for a moment, finally holding up a business card. It was actually a calling card, the old fashioned kind that simply has the caller's name printed on it. Whipping out a Flair pen she scribbled her phone number on the back.
"Call me." she said, "The job starts immediately."
Okay, now I got it. She was recruiting for something sketchy like pyramid-scheme fruit drink sales or soft-core porn. Been there, regretted that. I left the card lying on the table between us and said something like, yeah, sure, maybe I'll do that, you-have-a-nice-day, and turned back to my laptop, hoping she'd get the hint.
"Alexis, honestly, this is what you've been waiting for." She leaned closer and touched my hand. I recoiled as if she'd prodded it with the tip of a burning cigarette.
"How do you know my name?" I asked with all the badass indignation I could muster. This thing was definately taking a turn toward Creepytown.
Silently she pointed to the dymotape lable I had affixed to the laptop case with the silly hope that if I ever lost the damn thing someone would be kind enough to call my cell and reunite us.
She uncapped her pen and wrote an address under the phone number.
"Don't bother to call. Just show up at 11am tomorrow." Then she rose from her seat and did the oddest thing. She winked at me before turning to go. Winked at me! I couldn't decide if she were hitting on me, making fun of me, or trying to draw me into a conspiracy. Before I could figure it out, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but a calling card and the lingering scent of "My Sin" perfume.
Life had definately taken a turn, but if it was toward Creepytown or not still remained to be seen.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
A Tower of Pallets and Our Vanishing Sense of Humor
I slept well the night of my pitiful little shopping spree, better than I had in weeks. Next morning I pulled on my pink tracksuit, ran my hair through the flat iron, and set out for the neighborhood Starbucks. It's a little over a mile from Mark's apartment which, I probably forgot to tell you before, is in the valley. Sherman Oaks is a nice place, and all that, but it's not L.A.
Mark's condo is located on the site of a former historic landmark. Back in the early fifties, this crazy old coot named Daniel Van Meter came across a bunch of wooden pallets which had been discarded by the Schlitz brewing company. He drug them home and stacked them into a huge beehive-shaped tower twenty-two feet across and twenty feet high. The city more or less left him alone until 1977 when they told him that he had to tear the unpermitted structure down.
Well, Van Meter was having none of that so he marches down to the Cultural Heritage Commission and convinces those guys to designate it as a Historic Cultural Monument. When asked why the commission agreed to Van Meter's request, the then-commisioner replied, "I don't know. Maybe we were drunk. It was the funniest thing we ever did."
In 2006, Van Meter's estate sold the property, bulldozed the mouldering old pile of termite infested lumber, and built the apartments.
Somehow, I think the days of designating a pile of kindling as a landmark site just for the fun of it are long gone. R.I.P. Daniel Van Meter.
Mark's condo is located on the site of a former historic landmark. Back in the early fifties, this crazy old coot named Daniel Van Meter came across a bunch of wooden pallets which had been discarded by the Schlitz brewing company. He drug them home and stacked them into a huge beehive-shaped tower twenty-two feet across and twenty feet high. The city more or less left him alone until 1977 when they told him that he had to tear the unpermitted structure down.
Well, Van Meter was having none of that so he marches down to the Cultural Heritage Commission and convinces those guys to designate it as a Historic Cultural Monument. When asked why the commission agreed to Van Meter's request, the then-commisioner replied, "I don't know. Maybe we were drunk. It was the funniest thing we ever did."
In 2006, Van Meter's estate sold the property, bulldozed the mouldering old pile of termite infested lumber, and built the apartments.
Somehow, I think the days of designating a pile of kindling as a landmark site just for the fun of it are long gone. R.I.P. Daniel Van Meter.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Craft Photos!
Mark, god bless his little heart, found some pics of our craft projects from the Ventura Swap Meet. He sent me this, of headbands, and promised more to come. Too busy right now for a full-on post. Back soon with the next installment of mi vida loca...
Monday, May 19, 2014
My New Avocation
Before I bring you up to date on the new vocation, I wanted to insert this little tidbit: I'm a writer! Yes, as in author! Never in a million years would I have thought I'd someday be writing fiction, or anything else for that matter. True, I don't have an agent and I have a growing stack of rejection emails from 'real' publishers, but I also have a total of $67 in royalties sitting in my paypal account, courtesy of Kindle.
My first few stories were sort of a compilation of this blog, heavily embroidered. Then, out of nowhere, this new, completely foreign and unrelated story lands in my head. At first I just ignored it because, well...because it's smutty. Not sex-with-animals-and-dead-people smutty - that would have sent me to a shrink post haste - no, just erotic stuff between sailors, boarding school classmates and two fifteen-year-old boys (except for that one is actually a girl), set in the late 1800s.
I know, it sounds awful and gratuitious but, honestly, the thing presented itself to me completely formed. All I was required to do was type it up. It nagged at me until I finally sat down and transferred it to my laptop.
I wonder if that's normal, for a book to write itself in your mind but without any awareness of it happening until it's essentially formed? I didn't just sit down one morning and decide to write about boarding school sexual abuse, runaway teen brides, and homosexual sailors. Now I've got this unpublishable book on my hands that can't find a home because of the 'underage' sex. In 1876, fifteen-year-olds were marrying, raising families, working, running countries, and everything else a mature human does. Now, thanks to the seizures the publishing world is having about erotica, I have to change a perfectly plausible story?
I did get some great advice from the moderator over at smutwriters.com. She suggested I treat the underage sex referentially instead of explicitly. That felt okay when I read it, I mean, my story didn't jump up and scream "No!!"
I'm rambling, I know, but this writing thing is so new and exciting that I just wanted to squeeze it in before going back to the life update. Okay, now back to our regularly scheduled blogging...
My first few stories were sort of a compilation of this blog, heavily embroidered. Then, out of nowhere, this new, completely foreign and unrelated story lands in my head. At first I just ignored it because, well...because it's smutty. Not sex-with-animals-and-dead-people smutty - that would have sent me to a shrink post haste - no, just erotic stuff between sailors, boarding school classmates and two fifteen-year-old boys (except for that one is actually a girl), set in the late 1800s.
I know, it sounds awful and gratuitious but, honestly, the thing presented itself to me completely formed. All I was required to do was type it up. It nagged at me until I finally sat down and transferred it to my laptop.
I wonder if that's normal, for a book to write itself in your mind but without any awareness of it happening until it's essentially formed? I didn't just sit down one morning and decide to write about boarding school sexual abuse, runaway teen brides, and homosexual sailors. Now I've got this unpublishable book on my hands that can't find a home because of the 'underage' sex. In 1876, fifteen-year-olds were marrying, raising families, working, running countries, and everything else a mature human does. Now, thanks to the seizures the publishing world is having about erotica, I have to change a perfectly plausible story?
I did get some great advice from the moderator over at smutwriters.com. She suggested I treat the underage sex referentially instead of explicitly. That felt okay when I read it, I mean, my story didn't jump up and scream "No!!"
I'm rambling, I know, but this writing thing is so new and exciting that I just wanted to squeeze it in before going back to the life update. Okay, now back to our regularly scheduled blogging...
Friday, May 16, 2014
Today is the First Day of the Rest...(Nevermind, You Get the Drift.)
The day after Mark and Kurt staged their little intervention, I got up early, showered, shampooed, and set about pulling my life together. Kurt's comment about reiventing myself kept rattling around in my head. I tried to tell myself that this tragedy was really an opportunity slough off the old, center my chi, and discover my true focus. I talked a good game but I wasn't really buying it yet.
You don't understand, until you've lost everything but the clothes on your back, exactly what that means. I didn't even have a bra! I'd been wearing panties under my pj bottoms, thank god, or I would have had to sneak a pair of the boy's boxers because I won't go out into the world without underwear. No. Ick! Not going to happen. Even still, I did have to borrow Mark's robe while I washed my few pitiful garments.
When my clothes were dry I reached for the pretty pink sweats but decided on the levi's-and-Bijan combo instead. I felt safer in it, like a disguise I suppose. I scraped my hair into a ponytail, jammed my feet into the new flip flops, and set out in Kurt's Toyota to do some serious hunting and gathering.
First stop, Dollar Tree for sunglasses, fingernail polish remover, cotton balls, toothpaste, comb, blah, blah, blah. At CVS I found a few good-quality cosmetics including a beautiful true-red Milani lipstick and nail varnish to match. Matchy-matchy usually isn't my thing but I thought it would be interesting with what I had on, my Alia, and even the Juicy outfit - red and pink together always reminds me of Valentine's Day. I picked up a knockoff of the Naked Basics pallet for my eyes, a set of Ardell demi-wispy lashes, some Volumnious mascara, a set of Eco-tools makeup brushes, a nice BB cream by L'Oreal, blush, bronzer, and moisturizer. This, plus a few more essentials, knocked an $87 hole in my VISA card.
After that, it was off to Target for some undies, decent casual shoes, and a handbag. The undies were easy. I just grabbed a few lacy pink things on sale and a molded-cup nude bra. For shoes, I settled on a minimal-strap, toe-ring flat thong sandal by 'Sam and Libby' in a beautiful rose gold color. They would work with the tracksuit, the jeans, and the Alia for a dressed-down day look. I also found some slip-on 'Converse' low-tops in cream canvas with pink roses printed on them. The whole experience made me feel like Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman'. Except that my benefactors weren't sleeping with me and I only had enough to cover one-quarter the original retail cost of my burned-up handbag. Speaking of which, I found a cute messenger bag in olive canvas with these awesome little crocheted and bead-detailed flowers appliqued on it. It doubled as a laptop case.
After all the shopping I had $3.76 left on the card, which I got in cash at Target. Alimony was still a week away. I'd called Barney to tell him what happened and see if he would cut my check early but he and the bimbo were on vacation again - in Fiji this time - and couldn't be reached.
After taking my stash home, I plugged in the laptop's charger and lay down for a nap. The next day I planned to take my three-bucks-and-change to the nearest Starbucks and blog about my adventures before hitting the pavement in search of gainful employment.
We can file what happened next under 'Be Careful What You Wish For'.
You don't understand, until you've lost everything but the clothes on your back, exactly what that means. I didn't even have a bra! I'd been wearing panties under my pj bottoms, thank god, or I would have had to sneak a pair of the boy's boxers because I won't go out into the world without underwear. No. Ick! Not going to happen. Even still, I did have to borrow Mark's robe while I washed my few pitiful garments.
When my clothes were dry I reached for the pretty pink sweats but decided on the levi's-and-Bijan combo instead. I felt safer in it, like a disguise I suppose. I scraped my hair into a ponytail, jammed my feet into the new flip flops, and set out in Kurt's Toyota to do some serious hunting and gathering.
First stop, Dollar Tree for sunglasses, fingernail polish remover, cotton balls, toothpaste, comb, blah, blah, blah. At CVS I found a few good-quality cosmetics including a beautiful true-red Milani lipstick and nail varnish to match. Matchy-matchy usually isn't my thing but I thought it would be interesting with what I had on, my Alia, and even the Juicy outfit - red and pink together always reminds me of Valentine's Day. I picked up a knockoff of the Naked Basics pallet for my eyes, a set of Ardell demi-wispy lashes, some Volumnious mascara, a set of Eco-tools makeup brushes, a nice BB cream by L'Oreal, blush, bronzer, and moisturizer. This, plus a few more essentials, knocked an $87 hole in my VISA card.
After that, it was off to Target for some undies, decent casual shoes, and a handbag. The undies were easy. I just grabbed a few lacy pink things on sale and a molded-cup nude bra. For shoes, I settled on a minimal-strap, toe-ring flat thong sandal by 'Sam and Libby' in a beautiful rose gold color. They would work with the tracksuit, the jeans, and the Alia for a dressed-down day look. I also found some slip-on 'Converse' low-tops in cream canvas with pink roses printed on them. The whole experience made me feel like Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman'. Except that my benefactors weren't sleeping with me and I only had enough to cover one-quarter the original retail cost of my burned-up handbag. Speaking of which, I found a cute messenger bag in olive canvas with these awesome little crocheted and bead-detailed flowers appliqued on it. It doubled as a laptop case.
After all the shopping I had $3.76 left on the card, which I got in cash at Target. Alimony was still a week away. I'd called Barney to tell him what happened and see if he would cut my check early but he and the bimbo were on vacation again - in Fiji this time - and couldn't be reached.
After taking my stash home, I plugged in the laptop's charger and lay down for a nap. The next day I planned to take my three-bucks-and-change to the nearest Starbucks and blog about my adventures before hitting the pavement in search of gainful employment.
We can file what happened next under 'Be Careful What You Wish For'.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
A Bit More about Bijan
My beloved Bijan shirt has deeper significance to me so I thought, before I leave the topic entirely, I would elaborate. Here's my Bijan story...
Way back, shortly after I moved to L.A., I briefly dated a much-older man. He took me to Beverly Hills and treated me to Gucci shoes and an exquisite hour at Bijan. I've always been secretly impressed when it comes to lavish wealth, but pretended to be blase on principle. The House of Bijan managed to crush that principle beneath it's custom-shod heel, while simultaneously making this provincial, obviously unimportant nobody feel welcome and even a little special.
As we approached the locked front door I was a little apprehensive - I seem to remember a sign indicating that admittance was 'by appointment only'. I could see some beautiful people sitting around on leather sofas, drinking wine. "Oh swell, now someone's going to call security..." was what came to mind as my date rang the buzzer. Or maybe he just knocked on the glass, I can't remember.
I do remember that it felt like walking into a Faberge egg, filled with Faberge eggs. The place was a jewel box, filled with gorgeous clothes, fabulous flowers and, breathtakingly, a magnificent staircase with furs, sables I think, tossed over the railings.
What impressed me most, however, was the workmanship of the dress shirts, especially the beautifully detailed and eponymous seam tape. Now, I may have been a relative hick but I'd been reading Vogue since I was twelve so I wasn't a complete rube when it came to fashion. Consequently, the eight-hundred dollar price tag did not amaze me.
Looking back now, I think that if I had asked my date to buy me one of those luscious white shirts, he probably would have obliged. I was, alas, not nearly as pushy then as I am now so I settled for two seventy-five dollar t-shirts.
I used to tell myself that one of these days I'll find the perfect vintage white Bijan dress shirt which I'll buy and wear with my ancient 501's, my hot pink Gucci lace-ups, and an enigmatic smile.
I'm not sure if it actually qualifies as irony or not, but it's certainly harsh that I had to lose almost everything for that shirt to finally waltz into my life.
Way back, shortly after I moved to L.A., I briefly dated a much-older man. He took me to Beverly Hills and treated me to Gucci shoes and an exquisite hour at Bijan. I've always been secretly impressed when it comes to lavish wealth, but pretended to be blase on principle. The House of Bijan managed to crush that principle beneath it's custom-shod heel, while simultaneously making this provincial, obviously unimportant nobody feel welcome and even a little special.
As we approached the locked front door I was a little apprehensive - I seem to remember a sign indicating that admittance was 'by appointment only'. I could see some beautiful people sitting around on leather sofas, drinking wine. "Oh swell, now someone's going to call security..." was what came to mind as my date rang the buzzer. Or maybe he just knocked on the glass, I can't remember.
I do remember that it felt like walking into a Faberge egg, filled with Faberge eggs. The place was a jewel box, filled with gorgeous clothes, fabulous flowers and, breathtakingly, a magnificent staircase with furs, sables I think, tossed over the railings.
What impressed me most, however, was the workmanship of the dress shirts, especially the beautifully detailed and eponymous seam tape. Now, I may have been a relative hick but I'd been reading Vogue since I was twelve so I wasn't a complete rube when it came to fashion. Consequently, the eight-hundred dollar price tag did not amaze me.
Looking back now, I think that if I had asked my date to buy me one of those luscious white shirts, he probably would have obliged. I was, alas, not nearly as pushy then as I am now so I settled for two seventy-five dollar t-shirts.
I used to tell myself that one of these days I'll find the perfect vintage white Bijan dress shirt which I'll buy and wear with my ancient 501's, my hot pink Gucci lace-ups, and an enigmatic smile.
I'm not sure if it actually qualifies as irony or not, but it's certainly harsh that I had to lose almost everything for that shirt to finally waltz into my life.
Monday, May 12, 2014
A Visit to the Edge...and Back
Needless to say, we were all sort of shellshocked for awhile. Kurt fared better than I did because he and Mark were awakened by the neighbor's smoke alarm before the fire spread too far. They grabbed their cellphones and wallets, Kurt's ipad, a few nicknacky things, and even some clothes before heading ouside to check on the neighbors. Kurt actually had a disaster plan in place for just this very thing. He keeps a filebox behind a table by the door. It contains copies of all his important papers, medical records, credit card info, passwords, everything. He tucked that under his arm as he left the apartment.
Mark called 911 while Kurt made sure the neighbors were all awake. I was almost an afterthought. Mark ran around to my bedroom window as the firetrucks pulled up.
Luckily, no one was hurt. The fire started in the wall between Kurt's apartment, number '3', and the neighbor in '2', who wasn't home at the time.
After being checked by the paramedics for signs of smoke inhalation, we drove over to Marks place to sleep for awhile before regrouping. Of course, I had no renter's insurance, unlike Kurt. The upside is that I didn't own much and besides my photographs and the Barney papers, which wouldn't be helped by insurance anyway, everything else was replaceable. I think I mourned the crafts we'd made more than anything else. They represented so much - friendship, hope, budding creativity - not to mention countless hours of work. That part really made me heartsick.
But, time lurches on and within a few days we'd made all the necessary phone calls, Kurt met with his insurance adjustor, and Mark was back to work at his job. For the first couple of days after, I slept on Mark's couch and lived in my jammies - a ratty old tank top and flannel pants with martini glasses printed on them. The boys finally made me shower. Mark thrust an old pair of his Levi's and a tshirt through the bathroom door and tossed my filthy, wadded-up pajamas in the washer. I still have that old tshirt. Its a lovely, washed out blue cotton, vintage 1980s, with 'Balboa Bay Yacht Club' embroidered discretely over the heart.
I was gripped in a state of lethargy. I slept a lot and read Mark's old paperbacks into the wee hours. My brain felt pumped full of concrete and I had a hard time participating in conversation. I just wanted to be left alone on the quiet couch to read and sleep for the rest of my life.
After about a week of this, the boys decided an intervention was in order. Mark came home with an armload of shopping bags-Macy's, Sephora, CVS, and Designer Shoe Wearhouse. They sat me down on my beloved couch, each taking one of my hands, looked lovingly into my eyes, and said "Bitch, this shit has to stop right now!"
Kurt whipped out the bags and started dumping the contents in my lap - a pink Juicy tracksuit, some of my favorite skincare products from Sephora , a cute pair of jeweled thongs, shampoo and hair products from the drug store and last, a $200 prepaid VISA card.
They told me all the tough-love crap that you're supposed to tell someone who has been traumatized and lost her grip. It was time for me to rejoin the land of the living and start fighting to get my life back. I think one of the reasons I felt so spun was that I didn't feel like I had much of a life to go back to. "Perfect!" Kurt cried, "Now you have an opportunity to reinvent yourself!"
"Yeah," Mark piped up, "It's like what Burt Cooper said to Pete on that episode of Mad Men where he outs Don - 'A man is whatever room he is in.' You need to build another room. We can't afford to completely restock you, but this is a start. Pay us back sometime, or just consider it a gift, but girlfriend got to get up offa the couch and carry on because this house ain't big enough for three!" He was working his neck like a black girl and I started to laugh, which became great, wrenching sobs. I bawled for a couple of minutes but when it passed I felt better, clear headed. I was back, thanks to a cheesy TV quote and a good cry.
Mark called 911 while Kurt made sure the neighbors were all awake. I was almost an afterthought. Mark ran around to my bedroom window as the firetrucks pulled up.
Luckily, no one was hurt. The fire started in the wall between Kurt's apartment, number '3', and the neighbor in '2', who wasn't home at the time.
After being checked by the paramedics for signs of smoke inhalation, we drove over to Marks place to sleep for awhile before regrouping. Of course, I had no renter's insurance, unlike Kurt. The upside is that I didn't own much and besides my photographs and the Barney papers, which wouldn't be helped by insurance anyway, everything else was replaceable. I think I mourned the crafts we'd made more than anything else. They represented so much - friendship, hope, budding creativity - not to mention countless hours of work. That part really made me heartsick.
But, time lurches on and within a few days we'd made all the necessary phone calls, Kurt met with his insurance adjustor, and Mark was back to work at his job. For the first couple of days after, I slept on Mark's couch and lived in my jammies - a ratty old tank top and flannel pants with martini glasses printed on them. The boys finally made me shower. Mark thrust an old pair of his Levi's and a tshirt through the bathroom door and tossed my filthy, wadded-up pajamas in the washer. I still have that old tshirt. Its a lovely, washed out blue cotton, vintage 1980s, with 'Balboa Bay Yacht Club' embroidered discretely over the heart.
I was gripped in a state of lethargy. I slept a lot and read Mark's old paperbacks into the wee hours. My brain felt pumped full of concrete and I had a hard time participating in conversation. I just wanted to be left alone on the quiet couch to read and sleep for the rest of my life.
After about a week of this, the boys decided an intervention was in order. Mark came home with an armload of shopping bags-Macy's, Sephora, CVS, and Designer Shoe Wearhouse. They sat me down on my beloved couch, each taking one of my hands, looked lovingly into my eyes, and said "Bitch, this shit has to stop right now!"
Kurt whipped out the bags and started dumping the contents in my lap - a pink Juicy tracksuit, some of my favorite skincare products from Sephora , a cute pair of jeweled thongs, shampoo and hair products from the drug store and last, a $200 prepaid VISA card.
They told me all the tough-love crap that you're supposed to tell someone who has been traumatized and lost her grip. It was time for me to rejoin the land of the living and start fighting to get my life back. I think one of the reasons I felt so spun was that I didn't feel like I had much of a life to go back to. "Perfect!" Kurt cried, "Now you have an opportunity to reinvent yourself!"
"Yeah," Mark piped up, "It's like what Burt Cooper said to Pete on that episode of Mad Men where he outs Don - 'A man is whatever room he is in.' You need to build another room. We can't afford to completely restock you, but this is a start. Pay us back sometime, or just consider it a gift, but girlfriend got to get up offa the couch and carry on because this house ain't big enough for three!" He was working his neck like a black girl and I started to laugh, which became great, wrenching sobs. I bawled for a couple of minutes but when it passed I felt better, clear headed. I was back, thanks to a cheesy TV quote and a good cry.
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