A Creature Feature Parts I&II

These stories are probably better if you hear me tell them in person because I make the appropriate panicked looks and horrified hoping on one foot but I’ll do my best:

Part I

About a year ago I was shadowing/interning/assist

ing/whatever a dog trainer when he had an event at a huge park in Hollywood that he asked me to help him out with. This was literally the second time I had ever met him. It was a three ring circus sort of affair, there were people with motorized carts moving things from place to place and it was a nice day outside.

All day along I was seeing these strange little black beetle looking bugs running around on the grass. Some lady came over to talk to us and she was wearing a skirt and I watched one of the beetles walk up her leg and I thought to myself Damn I am SO glad I wore pants.

A little while later I was sitting in a chair with my legs up on a box, when I felt a little itch on my ankle.
I reached down and scratched it, but moments later when I stood up, I felt something moving up my leg. I immediately clamped my hands firmly around my leg a little above where the bug was to prevent it from moving any higher.

“There is something in my pants!” I said.
“Your crazy.”
“No, I’m serious, there is something in my pants!!”
At this point he reached his hand out and touched the lump in my leg. The bug clearly did not enjoy being touched and it started squirming around and then it bit me. I screamed (like the little girl that I am).
I should mention at this point that I am whining and probably speaking completely incoherently.
It continued to move and so I finally grabbed my pant leg and felt a satisfying crunch.
I sat down to compose myself for a moment.

When I finally stood back up and loosened my grip on my pants, I was disappointed to discover that the motherfucker was still alive. How did I make this discovery? Ah, I thought you might ask.
It continued to crawl up my leg!!
Now, I am not a scene kid, so my pants are not skin tight, but they are not baggy by any means.
This foul creature was probably as panicked as I was, but I am the superior species (most days) so I’m still not feeling much affection for this hideous abomination.

I clamped my hands around my leg, unfortunately the beetle had now reached mid thigh, but at least I prevented it from going any higher. I was now in five alarm panic mode.
Then the beetle did the unthinkable- it bit me again.

At this point I knew my pants were gonna have to come off.
I voiced this, more like screamed this to the guy I had come with and the small crowd that had gathered to watch me hobble around screaming bloody murder. Yeah, some people actually came to watch. So much for promoting your business, buddy, they all came to watch me take my pants off.

Keep in mind that I hardly knew this guy at this point, and I’m taking out all of my panic and frustration on him. After hearing me say I was gonna take off my pants off, I looked over and he was coming at me trying to wrap this big jacket thing around me.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!” I freaked out.
“I’m sorry, i just thought maybe you wanted to be covered up!”
Poor guy.

Anyways, I finally removed my pants enough to expel the (still alive) vermin from my attire.
Needless to say it’s life ended shortly thereafter (thanks again).

For months afterward, every time I would get an itch on my leg I would start hoping around and find a private place to assure myself that my pants were creature free.

Part II

I no longer have a spaz attack when my leg itches.

Tonight one of my girlfriends was feeling a little blah, so I got my bum ass dressed and went to her house to kidnap her with another of my good friends.
Ever since high school we’ve gone to this park near their houses to talk and vent and it’s just our spot. We feel at home there.

It was a very impromptu hangout after a very long day so I was wearing a pair of sweatpants.
We were sitting around on the jungle gym (no you are never too old for that) and I my leg itched so I scratched it.

A moment later, what do I feel?! Something running up my leg.
I wasn’t fuckin around this time. I grabbed my leg where I thought it was and whipped off them off lightening speed. The bug flys away mostly unharmed.

As I’m sitting on the floor utterly horrified (and pantsless) trying to console myself, what do my bitch ass friends do?
Whip out their phones and take a picture.

I hope a cockroach crawls into bed with you tonight.

I may never wear pants again.

all of this is temporary

-I’m going to preface this by saying that I feel that this blog is going to get really long and jump around, and it’s also going to cover some subjects that I consider very personal, so if you have something unpleasant to say please take it elsewhere.-

I left at eleven am for work this morning . When walked the door there was a maroon dodge something or other parked out on the street in front of my house, and an old man getting out of it carrying a bag. As I waved at him in a general acknowledgment of his presence he came scurrying over to open my car door for me and hug me hello.

When I got in my car I was extremely uncomfortable.
This man is my grandmothers.. boyfriend? manfriend? special friend? I don’t really know that they’ve defined their relationship as of yet as they’ve only been seeing each other a month. I know this because he sent her an anniversary card. In an effort not to speak ill of my grandma (as I generally consider her to be pretty swell) I’ll merely say that her past is colorful. When it comes to men, my grandma sure likes em. Mr. Bob is not the first and he is unlikely to be the last.

So herein lies the question: Why does this make me so uncomfortable? I’ve been doing a lot of “soul searching” (i hate that term but it seems appropriate here) lately and this is what I’ve come up with:

1. I’m no good at relationships. Guys like me, for the most part. I like guys, for the most part.
I mean, I’m certain I’m not into chicks. I’m not any good at relationships with my family either. My mom gets me, she’s the person in the world that I am closest to. She knows things without me telling her. I fucking love my little brothers in a ferocious mother bear sort of way, I hate to see them upset and I get a little irrational when they are. But that about sums about it up. I’m fiercely protective of my great grandma, shes 93 and cries at the drop of a hat so I do my best to keep the hats off the ground so to speak.
I think I might be a little bit jealous. I want my grandma to be happy but it’s difficult for me to watch her find someone yet again. She has a habit of dropping everything else in her life (including me) when there’s a man around. This guy calls constantly, he turns up every weekend wanting to spend time with her. I can’t remember the last time a guy called me just to say hello. This sounds ridiculous, I’m sure, I’m jealous of my grandma, how effed up is that?
I want to like her new.. whatever he is, but I haven’t hardly spoken to her in the last month except in passing.

2. This guy keeps hugging me. Every time he does, I die a little on the inside.
He smells fine, I think he’s clean, he’s not a lech as far as I can tell, but I HATE being hugged by 98% of people. I don’t know whats wrong with me. There is something about being pressed up against someone’s body that feels extremely personal to me. My grandma and I were talking a couple of months ago (this is the first time we have ever lived together) and she asked me if I didn’t like her. I said “of course not, why would you think that?!”. She replied “Because you spend a lot of time in your room alone (see above) and every time I hug you I feel you stiffen up and I can tell you don’t like it.”
How. Fucked. Up.
Honestly, I have a hard time typing it out. My own grandmother thinks I don’t like her.
I don’t know whats wrong with me.
I hug my good girlfriends on occasion, usually one or both of us is crying or it’s been a really long time since I’ve seen them.
I hug my mother, but only when I come or go because I live in another state. When we lived in the same state I hugged her occasionally.
In general when I’m seeing someone I do hug them but not until or unless I’m feeling pretty comfortable with them.
This is obviously a problem but it’s not really one I know how to fix. I could just hug everyone until I become desensitized to the act, but honestly, there’s a certain meaning to my hugging and I’d hate to cheapen it.

My grandma and her special friend are not the end all be all of this but all of this has gotten me to take a good look at my life.

I think it’s about time I admit it.
I’m not really happy here.
I go to work, I come home.
I don’t like my job, I can’t quit cause I’m a “responsible adult” and I don’t know what else I’d do anyways.

I’m extremely lonely.
I have friends. I have a lot of friends, and I’m busy most of the time between work, school, and my friends.
But that does not constitute connection.
“What is about people? We all need to be loved but why is it that as soon as someone tells us they love us we run scared?” (I stole that from HBO)
Don’t get me wrong, there’s a select couple of people I know I could always call no matter the day or the hour without fear of what they might say.
And if your my friend reading this, please don’t think I don’t adore you or think that this means I don’t feel close to you, it doesn’t.
My loneliness is mostly my problem.
I don’t tell people when I’m hurting, usually when I cry it’s alone, and I don’t share the most intimate details of my life with my closest friends, and if you happen to be testosterone orientated, well fuck, why bother, I’m never going to trust you.
It’s an uphill battle with me.

I mean, c’mon. I’m clearly not quite right right now, and rather than call a real live person, I’m pouring my soul onto the interweb.

I’d like to tell you I’m working on it.
I am. But honestly, I don’t even know where to begin.

for the everyman, the anyman, and one man

You ever have one of those perfect moments where nothing else exists except that moment?
The whole world could be coming down around you and you wouldn’t care because your in this moment.

The problem with perfect moments is that they are just moments.
And they’re haunting.
So many things will take you back to that moment- a song that was on, something someone says, a whiff of cologne, sometimes they hit you just because.

We leave our imprints everywhere.
We leave our mark on people and we leave our shadows in the places we’ve been.

You may never go back to a place and you may never touch a person again but you’ve left something behind.
There is something there you will never get back.

I’m not a person who is capable of loaning herself out.
I can’t come kiss you and cuddle you and want to touch you and not be attached to you.
My affection is for one person.

I don’t know how you can loan yourself to more than one person.
I understand the notion of dating. Sure, if your single go out and have fun.
We live in a culture where people touch other all of the time. People get drunk at parties and make out and hold hands and put their arms around each other and it’s commonly accepted. The typical greeting these days includes a hug, and depending on whom your hugging, you may be required to stand there for a full three seconds. The more alcohol, the more touching. A hug suddenly turns into an unexpected and unwanted advance.

People who I don’t know very well touch me all the time.
I feel the arm snaking around my lower waist. I don’t know why that’s necessary for conversation.
I feel you licking my ear,you might think your being funny but it’s not OK, I don’t know you well enough for this!
I don’t like clubs, and I don’t like the few bars I’ve been to because I’m just not comfortable with the rapid progression of comfort.

I’m not a prude, and I’m not the ice queen.
Sure, I fake it a little. I smile at you when you greet me over zealously, and let your hand sit on the small of my back for a second before politely excusing myself.

I am capable of showing affection.
I want to be affectionate.
I want to kiss you just because and I want to cuddle with you and linger a little longer than I need to.
I won’t though. Because I refuse to share and I don’t understand how you can spread your affections.
I don’t want to have to convince you that I’m the girl for you.
I’m secretly the biggest sap you will ever meet.
Seriously, it’s pretty bad.
But I have my own complexes and you won’t see that part of me until I’m certain you are mine, at least for now.

I just can’t loan myself out the way you can.
And I gotta look out for myself because no one else is going to.

for you.

I can tell you where I was 365 days ago at this exact time.
I was lying in my bed.
I couldn’t sleep.

You know there’s not a single picture of us?
I spend half my life taking pictures and somehow, in all that time, I never managed to capture a moment with you. Ultimately, I don’t need a picture. I remember.

I’m sixteen years old, I’ve never seen you before in my life,  it’s the very first day of our Jr. year in high school, and your turning around to tell me that our teacher smells funny. She does.
By the end of class, I know your name and your life story.

Fast forward a few months.
We’ve become friends.
Your at my house, my little brothers don’t know quite what to make of you, because unlike a lot of my friends, your actually talking to them.
They like you- you know lot’s of stuff about video games.

It’s our high school graduation.
Your getting a standing ovation.

I’m trying to come see you.
I’m cussing at all the cars around me because there’s traffic and I’m lost and City Of Hope is a hard place to find.
But your happy to see Lauren and I.

It’s a year ago.
Your grandma is gently teasing me because I don’t know what to say to you and I can’t get you to talk to me.
Finally I ask you how you are, and in typical me fashion I just say what comes to mind and say “Hey Brian, how are you? I know that’s kind of a rhetorical question…” And then you open your bright blue eyes and say two words to me: “Rhetorical. Question.”
Today is difficult, there is no contesting that.
I haven’t forgotten you, and I miss you.
There is regrets, of course, as there always is when someone leaves the world too early, but the best way that I know to pay tribute to you is to live.

Just to live.

red, she said

The neighbors think I am a harlot, or perhaps a prostitute.
Is there really a difference?
They shine their brights on me when I stumble from your house, a little worse for a well and entirely uncomfortable.
I’m dysfunctional again, it was always about you, but it was never about you.

I stay with you when I’ve had a few too many.
There’s something so intimate about sharing a bed with someone, which probably speaks volumes about my dysfunctions because I have problems being that close to someone.
I could get there with you but I’ve put you back in your box because I don’t trust you, but is there really anything to trust? We don’t have that kind of interplay.

At the end of the day, your a small piece in a big puzzle.
I don’t like anyone very much anymore.
I don’t like to rely on people, but like everyone else I am human and I need someone to lean on.
And right now, I don’t have anyone to lean on.
I stopped leaning on my mother a while ago, she lives too far away and at some point I suppose you have to cut the cord, but it’s killing me that I haven’t told her a significant detail of my life, I don’t think she could handle it.
My friends don’t impress me. My “best” girlfriend is kind of immature and it’s become very clear that I will always get left high and dry for any guy who will pay attention to her. So I quit leaning on her too.
I need a girlfriend. A quality one.
I probably need to come clean with my mother. I feel that she has her suspicions, she has a frightening way of knowing what I am keeping from her, and a scarier way of dispensing advice without making it clear that she’s aware that I need it. This probably makes her a damn good mom, and if god forbid I ever have children I hope I inherit this trait.

Your a small piece of a big puzzle, but your a big fish.
And I’m holding out for a big fish.
Someday I hope to write about this experience in a way that doesn’t sound angsty but the fact is I’m in the thick of it and I won’t be able to make any profound observations until I have a little breathing room.

an open letter to any man who’s had more than 3 drinks tonight

Dear drunk man (men),

I (the woman) have a handful of experiences with you which have left a bad taste in my mouth. This may be due to the fact that I have not had nearly enough to drink to think your antics are cute, but nonetheless, I would like to lodge a list of complaints:

1. When I turn up to find you chatting up a drunk girl, please do not introduce me as your wife and then whisper in my ear that she “really wants me to fuck her” as she will spend the rest of the evening disillusioned into thinking I want to talk her because she wants to prove she wasn’t after your manly bits. Yes, I know my dress is nice.

2. When you then turn to introduce me to your friend, please do not follow the statement “This is Mychal” with “She has the best ass in the world.” As if this isn’t bad enough, do not round out this little trinity with “Do you want to see it?” Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet, but we don’t like that.

3. That old guy over there is not amused by your consistent atagonizing.

4. Ditto for those girls sitting in the corner and the bouncer by the wall.

5. When you point out your other friend, it is never aceeptable for you to say “Oh that’s ______. He’s married and a total skeez. You should totally go hang on him.”

We (the women) are willing to forgive the drunk man for his transgressions, as we ourselves are no strangers to the funny water, and we know how charming and delightful you are normally, but copious apologies and “I am a drunken idiot” will be necessary.

Thanks for your consideration,
The cute girl who the bartender felt really sorry for.

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One word to describe the last few days: Dysfunctional.

I will write a longer, less ambiguous post about this in a day or so when I’ve fully processed and digested the repercussions of whats gone down.

Suffice to say I have some thinking to do.

I just spilled my guts to my grandma.

And she, eloquent woman she is, said “Well, shit, life gets so fucking complicated sometimes.”

You want to  know a secret?
Underneath this facade of charming unemotional goodness, I am really a big drippy mess just like the rest of you. There is no place where that shines through more than my blog.

And I swear to God, if another man tells me that I’m strong and independant and “not like most girls” I am going to scream. Because your so wrong.
The more accurate statement is that I keep my cool better than everyone else, because I’m secretly a disaster.

Just like most girls, I have my nights when I’m antsy as hell, and I don’t sleep because everything in my life has become overwhelming.
Just like most girls, I sometimes stare at my phone and wonder why in the hell it is not ringing. And then curse profusely when the wrong person calls.
Just like most girls, I cry occasionally. The difference is, I do it alone in the car with the music blasting and I pull my shit together before I leave my vehicle.

I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m a cliche just like everyone else.

And I’m not that interesting unless you spend some time getting to know me.