Friday, January 10, 2014

Wierd raw humanity


One of my closest friends in high school was Felicity. Her name simultaneously reminded me of the show “Felicity,” and the “American Girls” doll by the same name. She was a few years older than me. I was 15/16 during our closest friendship, she was 18/19. Felicity had a 2-year-old son named Zane. I loved Zane, and I don’t like kids. Zane liked to sit in his high chair and fling cheerios onto the floor from a little baggie. He would giggle with such glee, though, that you couldn’t help but think it was adorable.

Felicity had it rough. Her parents were cold and unsupportive. They rejected her to the point that she cut them out of her life completely, because she felt it was healthier. The guy who got her pregnant was a new-ish boyfriend, named Justin, who she thought was prince charming. Unfortunately it turned out he was a petty thug and drug addict—but she didn’t find this out until after she was pregnant. Felicity had to cut him out, too. Not that he cared—he was relieved to be rid of her and Zane (even before Zane had a name). She was so alone; I felt so connected to her…my loyalty was fierce. I would fight with anyone for her.

Felicity’s financial situation was little better than her social one. When I met her she lived in a bedroom of a rental house, off Brooklyn Street (just past the Ave, for my Seattlites). She had been a college student—fine arts major—before becoming pregnant. She tried to make it work, but soon had to drop out. Felicity and Zane stayed in the bedroom she had rented as a college sophomore for awhile…but soon she could not afford it—and her housemates hated the baby.

A few (maybe 3 to 6) months after I got close with Felicity, she felt forced to move. She moved into a studio over a head shop just off Broadway. She didn’t like it—it was noisy and open much later than she would like, plus the neighbors were sketchy—but it was what she could afford that was on the bus line to her job as a waitress at a late night diner (The Hurricane, again for my Seattlites). It wasn’t where she wanted Zane, but she didn’t feel like she had much choice.

As I said, I loved Felicity fiercely. And I found Zane delightful. I did what I could to help her by babysitting when I could—sometimes overnight. It is also true that, as much as she was my closest friend (and she truly was—do not doubt it), I was her closest friend in the world. There is an extent to which I was her only friend. So I spent a lot of time at her place socializing with her as well. Her place was cramped, but I spent a lot of time there. It was vaguely annoying that the only place with ANY privacy was the bathroom, but I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy co-sleeping with Felicity and Zane. It felt so warm and safe. So simple, elegant, and uncomplicated. The blissfully ignorant sleep of a toddler. The exhausted sleep of a hard-working single mom. It is, in an odd way, music to the ears of an insomniac. Sound sleepers seem to help me sleep by osmosis…or something. Fuck if I know.

Suffice it to say, it was inconvenient—but I loved it. We shared dinners of Tuna Helper (which I had never experienced before), and a really big night for us was a dozen doughnuts, 2 quarts of milk, and a movie rental. Accusations were made that she was my girlfriend, and not just my friend. Honestly—I cannot say that I know. She was perfect. Our relationship was easy. The most complicated part of our relationship was that she could not afford a phone. What with the monopolies of phone companies, they are able to charge unreasonable fees. There are other ways to get in touch with people, she could use the phone at work, and there is a legal mandate she be provided an outgoing emergency line without fee. As such, it did not make sense for her to waste grocery money on a phone. Sure it made things harder sometimes, but I wouldn’t hold that against her.

How could I hold it against her? It was her defining feature. It was the single most important thing about Felicity. My best friend for several years. The most important thing to know about my best friend Felicity is that she couldn’t afford a telephone.

The fact of the matter is, though, Felicity’s name did not remind me of the show. The show didn’t come out until a couple years later. That is apparently an artifact of my recollection.  Also?  Zane was a guy I went to school with (that my parents didn’t know). I am pretty sure I got Felicity’s name from the doll. The crux of the story: Felicity wasn’t real. She was an absolute fabrication.

Most of my stories about Zane were retooling of stories my mother told me about myself as a child. I suspect that is why she loved them so much. Why she didn’t question. Why she was too charmed to doubt. Many of my stories about Felicity—particularly the crucial ones—were patterned off things my mother told me about her experiences as a single mother. I guess I left her with the option of questioning her own choices, or leaving my “friend” alone.

To this day, I have never asked. I don’t know if they really believed…or if they just gave up. What I do know is that there were so many family conversations about her. So many with my parents—explaining why I was out all night—and just as many with my sisters—explaining why I was gone so much. Even weirder? My grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins all knew about her too. She was the topic of conversation. Her choices the topic of debate over pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. I do not know if they ever doubted her existence. The only questions I was leveled were: Is she your girlfriend? Are you gay? Does she think she is your girlfriend even if you don’t? What does she want from you? Is she taking advantage of you?

What I was doing during all of those days, all of those nights…a topic for another time. But I cannot help but feel some guilt: My family always asked if Felicity was taking advantage of me, but clearly it was I who was taking the advantage.

More than that, I feel sadness. My closest friend for 2 years was a figment of my imagination. I could tell you what she looked like, what she sounded like, how she acted, what her experiences were…The things we agreed on, the times we had fights…I wasn’t psychotic. I just knew that a lie had to be real. No one believes unless you make it so real they cannot ignore it. And at 15/16, I didn’t get what was creepy about creating such an elaborate lie. And I didn’t see how much of me the lie consumed. There were other things that consumed me, but there is an extent to which Felicity took energy I could not direct towards real life. Moreover, Felicity allowed me the freedom to devote my time to things I did not want anyone to know I was doing—hardly the recipe for lasting relationships.

Perhaps oddest of all (perhaps), Felicity was initially constructed to protect one person from my association. Eventually she extended far beyond him, but all of the best parts of her were drawn from him. I told my family about him through her. And he was a great influence on me. He has made me a better person…but I made his life worse. And I can never change that. And for that I am sorry.

Wow. What a downer. I do not know what this story means. Or if it means anything. Or if it was worth telling. But it strikes me as fascinating that I created a person from thin air. It was a mantra of mine around that time that, “Parents believe what they want to believe.” The thing is, it wasn’t just them. I created this person that many other people asked about for years. I do not know if I am impressed or disgusted.

Mostly…I think I just wish I could meet her. For real. Felicity…if you are out there, and you read this…I miss you.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Damnit, I am gonna do it. (Oh, and: BE AFRAID!)

So, who the hell fucking knows where this (blog) is going--if anywhere. (And likely it isn't. Let's be honest.) But, I like writing, so let's do this shysa! Besides, it is all in good fun. And who the mother-truck doesn't like fun?!

Anycow, I promised NOLA pictures, and this is just a sneak-peak. (SO MUCH SHYTE TO GET UP HERE!) The following picture, well...I have commentary, but I don't think I can possibly "introduce" it. There is no damn preparation. I sure as shit didn't get any.

Sitting in a bar in NOLA with Chaseycakes, our first night there, after 14 hours of travel...and we stumble upon a "drinking festival" of sorts. Some sort of international group that gathers to get piss drunk and they all have steins and necklaces (and some of them have vests). It was kind of like a "biker gang" for heavy drinkers that don't like to drive.

Anycow. Among them was a gent (so to speak), with long hair and wizard-ey looking robes, that (as it turned out) had tattoos of...ummm...note? So, without further ado...

The Rape-iest Tattoo EVER.

The orange blur in the lower right hand corner is Minkey. He is an Anxiety Monkey. You will hear more about him soon. He works hard for the money. So you better treat him right.

AND. (For the record.) He did not touch that tattoo. No one did. At least not in my camp. I think it is some weird rapey voodoo curse thing. If you see it, I would recommend not touching it. (Minkey sure as shit wasn't gonna "touch it.")

Another "gent" we met was named "Lamb." That is what his necklace and the lanyard on his stein said. This is him, attempting to lick Minkey.


Suffice it to say, although Lamb was perfectly pleasant--fun, even--I was not going to allow him to lick my Anxiety Monkey. He could lick himself. His nose, if he was so inclined--which apparently he was...
That's right, back the tongue away from the Minkey...

Lamb was actually pretty pleasant. Funny, enjoyable...not the sort of person you tell what hotel you are staying in, but perfectly lovely. I am sure he would have loved to make time with Chaseycakes--that was obviously not happening--but his real goal seemed to be the leftover food on our plates. Amusingly, this particular festival/crawl's participants seem to spend their nights on  random resident's floors and feed themselves by scrounging fries and abandoned food. Good for them, I suppose.

As Lamb explained it, by avoiding paying for room or board, it allows the patrons of the festival/group to travel almost constantly and work rarely. As it happens, I never eat as much food as a restaurant gives me, and I rarely take food back to hotels when I am traveling--so they got half a dinner. Good for them. Wish I could do it--but that lifestyle just isn't for me.

So, more to come. No more rape-ey tattoos, though. Though definitely some possible whores (with all respect, just listing a profession--not a judgement), and some certain (or nearly) whore-houses. It may have come to pass that Minkey and I swung around the stripper-pole at a whore-house. Maybe.

I guess you will have to wait and see.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Ummmm...Stuff. And things! And this little mark: ~

I hate posts about how sorry bloggers are they haven't been posting. So I am gonna skip that. (You either know or you don't care.) I also hate lack of context: So I will tell you that in the last year I have moved in with my partner, started a new business, quit an old job, and made a lot of life changes. (This, you already know. Or...You don't care.)

The thing is...I need to vent. I am boiling over, I want to be crazy and destructive (see: younger me). I think this is a reasonable alternative. So. I had great plans for my return to blogging. I have pictures. I have stories. I have idea on top of idea. I hope you get to see them. Apparently, I am doing this first.

So. (Apparently, I do that now, too. Treat "So" as a reasonable sentence. I also, apparently, now use the word "apparently" too much. We will discuss my obsession with ellipses at a later date...)

Let us say I have a..."friend." We will call her...Roxy. She is dear to me. A piece of my heart. Damage to her will mar me forever. With pain, with guilt, with sorrow, with anger...with so many things I cannot describe. There is not a name for our relationship. It is simply true that she lives inside me, always.

Roxy called me tonight. And I failed.

I failed: utterly, completely, and totally.

My phone died earlier in the day. It was charging in the other room. I thought I might have heard it ring...but I thought nothing of it. I thought it was another mom with news I didn't want to hear...guilt from a neglected friendship...Fact of the god-damn-matter is...I KNEW I should have checked, but I didn't.

Well...Not for about 15 minutes, at least. And then I did. And I found that Roxy had called me not once, but twice. I would have run if I'd known it was her. I promise. I swear. On anything, on everything.

So. (Again. Ugh. Learn English, self.) I have a voice message of Roxy sobbing to me. About her current sorrows. About feeling "out of control." About "not knowing what" she is going to do. It isn't good language.

I only missed it by 15 minutes, but now she won't pick up my calls. She just texts to say she is "fine."

Rumor has it, she is addicted to heroin. Rumor has it, her boyfriend has had her hooked on pills for years. Rumor has it, she kicked him out today. Rumor has it, he is hiding her property from her--trying to hold her financially hostage. Rumor has it, he has hit her--Rumor has it, I have seen mild versions of this and done everything I could not to call the cops/hit him/shriek at him/make his life hell because she asked me not to. Rumor has it she changed the locks and is scared he will break in tonight. Rumor has it she won't let any of us who want to keep her safe near her (even if I am 3000 miles away) tonight.

Part of the problem is, I know the statistics. If he is abusive, now is when she is in the most danger (from him). If she is an addict, now is when she is in the most danger (from her use). If she is as alone and terrified and depressed as she sounded, now is when she is in the most danger (from herself).

And I can do nothing.

I am impotent. I am useless. I can do nothing.

Except say: I am sorry. I am sorry I missed your call. I am sorry I am 3000 miles away. I am sorry I told you to always have cab fare home, but forgot to tell you what to do when you hit rock-bottom. I hoped you would never get here. I hoped you would never need to know. Roxy, I have failed you (yet again, but that is an apology for another time. I am still haunted by the sound of your voice drifting through my wall...)

I really hope you make it through. No one knows where you are. Your excuses are...just that. Please live through tonight. Please. Please. If I had a god, I would beg him: Please.

Live through this experience. Live through this addiction. Come out the other side. I am so scared for you. I hope I get to show you this some day. Because you are okay, and we can look back on the dark times. We won't "laugh" exactly, but we will smile the grim smile of amusement and experience that comes from living through dark times and finding the good stuff again.

I REALLY want you to have the good stuff.

And, if you are not Roxy, thank you for bearing with me...or at least skipping over. The number of tears I have shed writing this convinces me of the necessity. I will try to get back to the drunken fun soon...

Come back Roxy. Even if you can't be Chow Lee anymore, or my Honey Bunches of Oats, just come back safe. You are so very loved.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Fucked up bitch, reporting for duty!

So this is the obligatory "I am sorry I am such a lame ass and forgot how to blog, but I really miss it, and you, and blogging, so I am gonna come back and try again, and I really hope you still like me" post. But rather than telling you all that stuff, I am just going to think it and expect you to know it. (The holiday brings it out in me. Passive-aggression always makes me think of home...)

Speaking of which, happy bunny/shagging day! Not much on the jebus, but I like getting down--so to celebrate, I got laid this morning. And then I made eggs. I know you wanted to know. That's why I told you.

Alright, so I think it is obvious I lack a coherent thought or the ability to organize the dribbles of thoughts currently eminating from my brain hole. As such, I am gonna stop. BUT. I did want to let you know I will be in NOLA this week, and so I anticipate some REALLY terrible-awesome pics for next week.

P.S. When I came back to my blog today, it said the top recent search result that led people to my blog was "fucked up bitch." I thought that was kind of appropriate.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Victoria's Secret is touching my cocktail where it's bathing suit covers...

I found this in my drafts folder. Apparently I made this in February...and then had enough drinks that I forgot to post it...

There are some drinks I am proud of. This is not one of them...

This is pink lemonade vodka and diet lemon-lime soda. It was fucking delicious, I can't lie...But it left me feeling ashamed and dirty. The walk to throw the little bottle away could definitely be classified as a "walk of shame." I tried to capture the color, but that feat was beyond my phone and the poor kitchen lighting. Suffice it to say, it made me think of the line "Pink" from VS. And I think that fits well with the drink.

The "Pink" line is essentially trying to repackage skanky lingerie so that it can be marketed to underage girls in a manner that they will still be able to convince their mothers to let them wear it (or even buy it for them). And that feels a lot like this drink. An adult idea that has been inappropriately modified to suit the tastes of underage girls, while not totally offending the sensibilities of those adults who may happen to see them.

Take home message: Don't tell frat boys about the pink lemonade vodka. Or underage girls, for that matter.

P.S. Don't think I am hating on the skanky lingerie. I'm not. I am not a big fan of VS, but I have drawers and drawers full of corsets and stockings and the like. I just find it creepy when lingerie is marketed towards girls in their mid-teens. They already have WAY too much of a skank-urge. You do not need to be leveling lingerie marketing campaigns at them.

Narsty Mystery Moisture

Am I the only one who overly distresses herself  by wondering about what new sponges (fresh from the package) are moistened with? It creeps me out. Why can't they just sell me a dried damn sponge? It would be lighter and smaller (and therefor cheaper) to ship--and then I wouldn't have to spend time sniffing and poking and feeling disturbed as all get out.

I don't care that it came sealed in a is similar to the feeling I get when someone hands me a moist dollar bill, or when I rest my arm on a table only to discover there is something sticky on it. It is not as bad, however, as accidentally touching the underside of a public table to find a variety of crusty "treasures." And not nearly as bad as plunking yourself down too fast on a public toilet, only to feel unknown moisture seeping through that flimsy paper to your tender rump region.

You know, just in case you forgot any of those gross feelings. So, what about you? Sponge moisture creep you out? What is your least favorite unexpected substance experience?

Monday, August 6, 2012

It's like peeing on stuff, but with tassles.

I still have fantasies of proper posts...but for now we will stick with random facts.

That's a lot of peeing all over your boyfriend's house.
(Who interestingly asserts you can never have too many throw clearly we have different feelings on the matter.)
 FACT: Throw pillows are the girl equivalent of peeing on stuff to mark your territory. Seriously. Think about it--if you walk into some guy's home and he has throw pillows, you know there is a highly involved woman in his life. Whether mommy is still a bit too involved, there is a friend who doesn't realize she wants to be more than a friend, or there is a flat out girl friend or wife. Or, he's gay. Regardless, it lets other women coming into the space know that they should not count on this gentleman as a viable partner. It is one of those gender stereotypes that tends to pan out. (And I hate those, because I hate to think of myself as in any way stereotypically feminine. I'm not saying that makes sense, but just that it is my gut reaction.)

Also? No one really likes throw pillows. I am pretty sure. I don't. I have them, I put them around--but for the most part I find them vexing. Which is another way they are like peeing on stuff to claim it. While an effective method, no one really enjoys it. So the next time someone pisses you off, just rub a throw pillow on them and know that, secretly, it is just like you are rubbing piss on them.

From Toothpaste for Dinner
 FACT: Cucumbers are nasty, but tsatziki is delicious. I don't know how this works out, but I was reminded of it over the weekend when I made super delicious tsatziki (to go on the spanikopita and dolmas I also made) from super-nasty cucumbers. (I just mean that cucumbers are super-nasty, not that there was anything wrong with the ones I used. They were perfectly good, as cucumbers go.)

From Toothpaste for Dinner
 FACT: This comic is both hilarious and accurate. Also, if you did not already know about Toothpaste for Dinner, you should go check that shit out. How could it not be? The little neurotransmitters look like dinosaurs!