Rants from a younger, prettier, less pervy, female Woody Allen.

So, what’s up?

My friends and I have been with enough guys who’ve had this “problem” that I’ve felt it necessary to educate the public, meaning, men.

Guys, here’s what to do if your friendly neighbor downstairs refuses to wake up during an encounter with a lady…or a man, if you’re into that…

1. CALM DOWN

I know to you it’s the end of the world, but it’s really not. There are more important things going on in this lifetime (like when the hell is the new season of Breaking Bad going to start?) than what’s between your legs. Anxiety and obsession are only going to make the situation worse. Take a deep breath and RELAX.

2. TELL HER (OR HIM)

I know, you’re thinking you couldn’t possibly tell this horrible secret…trust me, it’s OK. If you suddenly stop things, she’s going to wonder what’s up (no pun intended). If you keep things going without telling her, she’s going to wonder why you’re not getting hard. But if you gently tell her that sometimes this happens, or that this is the first time this is happening, or that it’s the alcohol, or whatever the truth is, then she’ll have a better understanding of the situation and respect your honesty.

Remember, girls like talking, but don’t present the situation as “listen to this horrible thing, I have cancerAIDS and am a descendant from Hitler”. Tell her like it’s no big deal, like you just realized your favorite ice cream shop is out of coffee heath bar crunch. No big whoop, a delivery will probably come in tomorrow.

If she freaks out, then why did you bring such a cruel whore into your bed?

3. KEEP GOING

The party doesn’t have to stop just because your little friend didn’t RSVP. In other words, PLEASE HER. You’ve got fingers and a tongue, use em. Is there a vibrator around? Use it. We’re told all the time that men want sex, and they do! If you suddenly don’t want to keep playing we’re suspicious, and we blame ourselves. Did I say something fucked up? Did I wear too much or too little make-up? Maybe he’s into ugly chicks and I’m too cute? We’ll think of every excuse possible.

Remember though you can’t KEEP GOING if you didn’t TELL HER first. If you skip the talk, we’ll just be confused as to why there’s nothing in your pocket happy to see us. We’re used to feeling a little (or large) somethin’ somethin’ down there, so anything different is going to raise a flag in our heads, that your head doesn’t raise it’s flag, and that this must be normal for you. We’ll think “OMG, he never gets hard!” if we don’t hear, “This is happening right NOW, but I still want to please you, and it doesn’t ALWAYS happen.”

4. EVALUATE

Do this later, when you’re alone and have some time to yourself. Find out what’s going on. Did you drink too much? Is this a hereditary or age thing? Was she too cute and you’re really into ugly chicks? Were you too nervous? Try to figure out the reason and maybe you can find a solution.

5. BE OPEN

Specifically, to pills. Pills can make this whole problem disappear. I know, pills aren’t “natural”. Pills mean you really do have a “problem”. Um, yea, dude, you have a problem…accept it. If you’re one of those “natural” people, I call bullshit. How much Redbull and pizza do you stuff into your face? It amazes me how people will gladly pop a Tylenol or drink liquor, but shove off pills because they’re so “artificial”. In general I think pills should only be kept for the guys with the reoccurring, more serious problem, but if that’s you, then face the facts, buck up and swallow. Remember on Sex and the City when Charolotte’s husband Trey refused to work on his issue down there? That’s just rude.

“But Laura, I don’t need pills, I just drank too much.” Then stop being such an alcoholic! What’s more important, Jameson or pussy? Huh??? Jesus. Spend less time with a beer in your hand, and you’ll spend more time with your dick in her hand.

DON’T

- Don’t say things like “it’d probably be better if you used your mouth.” Um, sorry, as open as I am about being sensitive to your situation, that doesn’t mean I want an uncooked sausage in my mouth. No, use your hand to pull up the mast.

-Don’t blame us, even if it is our fault! If you have to blame us, tell us it’s because we’re too pretty.

-Don’t keep doing the same thing, expecting different results. If this becomes an issue, get it fixed!!

-Don’t tell my mom I post shit like this.

DO

-Listen to me, I know everything.

-Thank me when your penis gets hard.

Why did I move?

I wanted a change. I felt that I just had to start anew and living an artist’s life just seemed more acceptable in LA.

When it’s Friday night in SF, everyone wants to go out and get wasted, and when you need to “stay home and write” you’re easily met with “WTF? That’s lame.” “Come on, come out!” or “We just want to see you.” The pressure to be the perfect friend overwhelms you, unless of course you’re staying at home with your husband and child, then it’s perfectly acceptable, no one bothers you.

I felt that if I moved it would be easier for me to redraw those boundaries with others, I could have a “reboot”, but I forgot that wherever you go, there you are. I brought myself with me, and part of why I couldn’t draw those boundaries before, was because I didn’t stick up for myself. I was the one discounting my work, writing, or painting. Not sticking up for it’s value. Not giving the “fuck you” that I should have to those who belittled my choices.

Getting away was just a way for me to get a fresh start, but I still had to do all the work.

I don’t know why I picked LA, I don’t want to be on TV. I don’t want to go on auditions and read for crappy commercials. Actually, that’s not true, I do. I mean, I do know why I picked LA, not I do want to be on TV and go on crappy commercial auditions. I picked LA cause I had friends there, people who could help me make the transition.

As many friends as I had, I still felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. It wasn’t SF or LA that was lonely, it was me, I was lonely.

Add to the shittiness of loneliness and craziness of being in a new town, the fact that I couldn’t find a job.

So I went to an “open call” where a restaurant had put on a craigslist ad that they were hiring 18 new servers, several bussers and kitchen workers. As I approached the door I looked up to see the new “Pho Citi” sign. Pho, that’s Vietnamese food. OK, I’ve had Pho before, you don’t really need “servers”.

I opened the door to see over 40 people sitting down waiting for their turn to interview. At various booths the management were interviewing whatever chump sat in front of them. I sat down in between a Hispanic woman about my age and some young kid with spikey hair. The Hispanic woman looked up the restaurant on her phone and we checked out the menu…where nothing was over $8, and stated that the business was open 24 hours…

I’ve always been a waitress, and the reason is because of tips. Without them, you might as well be sewing shirts in China. Tips are what turn a $9 an hour job into a $19 an hour gig. Most people tip based off the price of the bill, an $8 bill? Someone would probably leave you a dollar. The last thing I want to do is work the graveyard shift for a dollar per ticket. Actually, the LAST thing I want to do is give Dick Cheney a blow job, but working for Pho Citi is a close second.

The kid next to me was chatting up an older man and trying to sound sophisticated, mentioned his favorite book, “Ya know, it’s just like George Orwen’s nineteensomething, ya know like that book I’m talking about.” Yea, I like, totally, know.

20 minutes had already passed and there were still several faces ahead of me. I was going to be here for an hour, I knew it. For what? To interview at Pho Citi?? I glanced over to the interviewers, where I overheard one ask, “So what brings you to Pho Citi?” I tried to think of how I would answer that question. “Desperation?” No, that’s not polite. Don’t say that, Laura.

But I couldn’t think of anything besides an utter lack of hope that would be an honest answer. So I said fuck it. I said good bye to Yolanda, told the young man he was thinking of 1984, by George OrWELL, and walked out. I strutted down the streets of downtown Los Angeles until I came upon a Mexican Restaurant, where I went in, sat down at the bar and ordered a margarita.

I sat there licking the salt off the rim, wondering what I was gonna do next. How was I going to swing this move if I didn’t start working soon? I knew there was still one option left…to call, (gulp) Outback Steakhouse. So that’s what I would do. I let out an exhale. Dived into the tortilla chips, and ordered another margarita. And a Tecate.

That night I had a nightmare about Outback, this is common among servers, always freaking out and dreaming that they have the entire restaurant as their section, no one is happy, you’re running back and forth, bringing A1 and sides of ranch to people who have left the restaurant because you took too long.

The thing is, my entire career working at Lovejoy’s, – the cool, eclectic, unpretentious, small business owned, Tea Room I work at in SF, – I only had one serving nightmare. In it I dreamt that we accepted American Express, so I was actually dreaming about making the restaurant better and more accessible to the guests. Without even working at Outback for one more day, I had a serving nightmare. Little did I know the true nightmare would be the reality of actually being there again.

The bushman’s shirt is the most unflattering uniform to ever grace a woman’s curvy physique. The bread oven burns your arm with the slightest miscalculation. Just working for a corporate business, brings you customers who treat you as if you’re the help from 1776. Gone are days of “This is so fun!” and “I love this place!” that I heard at Lovejoy’s, back are the moments of “this steak is RARE, take it back!” and “Why can’t I switch my baked potato for shrimp?” and “Can I get some A1?” Yes, yes you can get some A1 for your filet…

My co-workers were a mixture of really cool amazing people, like Jose and Ottavia, who would help me in an instant and other not so cool peeps, who had worked there for 8 years and thought their shit didn’t stink. The worst though, was the boss.

I had heard how the manager, Lee Kan, was a horrible person, but I though I could take it. I knew he was capable of flying off the handle, and I thought well, I’ve certainly yelled at others for not taking and baking before. (Note: “Taking and baking” is the process by which Outback employees TAKE a warm bread loaf from the oven and then should BAKE a new bread loaf, to ensure that the next server who approaches the bread oven, is greeted with warm bread. This simple, rhyming concept, has somehow been ignored by millions of Outbackers every year.)

I thought we could bond by yelling. Until he yelled at me, for the stupidest thing ever. Even to explain it seems ridiculous now, but basically he yelled at me and some other server for not “sharing a party” which actually, we did share, we both just didn’t take the order. It didn’t matter that I made all the drinks, cleared all the plates and refilled the bread. Without both of us taking the order, we weren’t “sharing”.

It didn’t matter that my Outback never followed that policy and I wasn’t told that by him when I started in Burbank. He was furious. He paced back and forth, slammed his fists down on trays and screamed so loud that anyone in the restaurant (or nearby universe) must have heard. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A grown man was throwing a hissy fit.

I walked out of the kitchen and just stood there with a blank stare. One of the bussers came up to me and told me not to worry. That “sure, he makes a lot of money, but he’s not happy. Me? I make little money, but everyday I try to be happy.” Damn straight, Poncho. Damn straight.

Lee apologized to me, with an apology so “passionate” (his word) that he was spitting on my face. It was over for me though, I had already checked out and knew I wouldn’t be back. I stood there smirking, accepting the apology. I walked up to the bartender, “Is Lee an alcoholic?” “Oh, yea. And a coke-head.”

I could see it because I had experienced the same crap for years, because I dated an alcoholic with a temper. Someone who could lose it at any moment. Someone who treated me like shit, who pushed me when he got really mad, and who I finally got away from. I wasn’t going back. Sure this guy was different, he wasn’t my boyfriend, he was my boss, but I was done. No more would it be OK for someone to yell at me. Homey don’t play that.

I texted him a few days later that I quit and he texted back “acknowledged”. Without the little (piss poor) money I was making at the Outback, I wouldn’t be able to swing living conditions in LA any longer, so I said good-bye and headed home.

I tried looking up actions I could take against Lee, but there’s no “my boss yelled at me” police, so I gave up. I knew it was a personal issue with me (and general human kindness) and I was OK to walk away from it. In fact, it felt good to walk away. To not put up with any more drama.

Besides, I realized everything I wanted was back in the city, that the grass was just as green, I just needed to hop the fence to see it for myself. That if you can find your people in LA, they are the shiniest diamonds ever, you just have to dig through a lot of shit. That even though I loved those diamonds, I was getting too tired of digging, I just wanted to go home, where I knew where all the diamonds were, no digging needed.

My time in LA was short, but it was worth it. I learned about me. That I’m always looking for more satisfaction than I’m willing to give myself. That the same sun that shines there shines here, just as bright, with no meanie-bo-beanies yelling at you.

She wore way too much make-up. So much, that I actually spent valuable time wondering just how I could break it to her. I tried to think of how I could turn it around, make it sound like a compliment, “You’re SO pretty, you don’t need that much make-up!” Really, in the sunlight you could see the blush lines and I was becoming embarrassed for her, but then I realized I should’ve been the one embarrassed.

Any time I would go out with her, any boys we’d meet, they’d all ask about her the next day. Not me and my “just the right amount” of make-up. Her. They wanted her. Every guy wanted her. I guess I just accepted that to be the way it was, until the one guy I wanted, wanted her too.

He was way too young for me. I asked my friend, “How the hell do you hit on a 21 year old?” and she replied, “Did you offer him cookies and milk?” thus, his nickname was born.

Cookies and Milk was charming and smart. We hung out one night after class, smoking in my car, talking for HOURS. After the second time, it was clear there was something there, and by the third time, when he said, “This is when the conversation gets awkward.” I said, “Maybe we should stop talking.” Which led into the best make-out session ever.

Every time I talked I to him, I could feel myself falling for him. I remember one day we were painting in the same room and after class he was telling me all about how he would set up a sink trap to catch the paint solvents at his studio when he would return home. This kid had it all figured out, I didn’t quite understand so he drew me a little diagram. I tried not to make it obvious in that moment, but right then, I fell.

I tried my best to live in the moment and get what I could out of him while he was here, before he would leave me to return home, halfway down the California coast. But he was so insistent on not starting anything because he’d be moving at the end of the semester. We’d vow to not “start anything”, then get drunk and I’d wake up in his bed, though we never went all the way.

I believed what he told me, mostly because my ego couldn’t not believe him, but then, when he asked her out, I was crushed.

Of course, her. That’s original. But how could I blame him? Who wouldn’t like her? She was beautiful and thin, smart, lighthearted and funny. Every girl wants to be her, except she is her.

She immediately told me after he asked her out, because she knew of our short lived fling, and later another friend told me “That’s a friend, keep her.” Later though, I wondered, was she a friend? Is that what a true friend does? I couldn’t help but wonder if she got some kick out of it. That once again she was the envy of all men in sight.

I felt bad jumping to those conclusions though, because I really liked her too. I remember taking her home after class one day and laughing my ass off as we got stoned and talked. I hadn’t laughed that hard in days, maybe it was the weed, but I suspected it was more likely her.

For weeks after I wondered if she thought about it like I thought about it. Did she pity me every time she saw me? I found myself copying her, wearing my hair the same way and putting on more make-up, and when I did those things, I would always get compliments from men. Heh. Here I was trying to think of a gentle way to inform her of her exorbitant make-up, while I should have been asking her for advice.

I tried to forget the whole ordeal. I tried to push him out of my mind. The semester was over, he was gone.

State the facts: He never felt the same way. And IT’S OK.

I didn’t need him! Cookies and Milk is bad for your health, anyways. As my friend said, “It’s time for some Godiva and Wine, move on, girlfriend!”

Damn straight! I deleted his number from my phone to make sure I had no drunk dials in my future, and moved on. I painted, performed, yoga-ed. I opened up to other guys and set my sights on the future.

Then he called me.

On my birthday.

I looked at my phone and wondered what funny number this was. I dialed my voicemail and suddenly a rush of anxiety washed over me. It was him, leaving me a message. He kinda stuttered and seemed goofy, but I was still charmed.

He was calling me. This boy who I threw myself at, was CALLING ME. Why? To “catch-up”? What does that mean?? Did he know he just so happened to call me on my birthday? Why on earth was he calling me?

I wondered how I should act when I called him back. I could be super sweet and funny and that would really show him that I’d moved on. Or I could call him and just be friendly. I mean, if I’m gonna build this friendship with this guy, I should start thinking about him as just a friend. What can I learn from him? What can this experience teach me?

I called my girlfriends, “What should I do? When should I call him back? How long should I wait? What should I say?” Each girl had her own advice, all good in it’s own. Until one suggested the unthinkable; don’t. Don’t call him back.

“But…but, I want to call him back.” I could feel myself acting like a child. I mean, if I don’t call him back then I’m being all resentful and he’s gonna think that’s weird, and…and… “Just ask yourself this,” she said. “If you call him back, is there anything he can say that’s going to make yourself feel better about yourself?”

No. There’s nothing he can say. Nothing at all.

“Don’t call him back. Take the win. You won. He contacted you last. The ball was thrown in your court, and you don’t have to play. YOU WON.”

I won. I don’t hate him. I’m not in love with him. I’m just done.

I won.

So I didn’t call him back.

The truth is I always had feelings for him and he never felt the same way. That’s OK and there was never any obligation for him to, but if I called him back those feelings would still be there. I didn’t want to be his friend, I wanted more. I have PLENTY of friends. In fact, many more friends that would never have done what he did, because they are my true friends.

And then, he called again. So I caved.

We talked on Skype for hours. It was fun and flirty, and exciting. Then he told me he was wrong. Was a fool. That I was always the one he clicked with and he made a mistake asking her out.

Was this really happening? My fantasy was coming true! Then, before I knew it, he said he would be back in town for graduation, so like a chump I invited him to my party. He asked if he could stay with me and I said, “Sure, on the floor.” but we both knew he’d be in my bed.

He came up, came to my party and back home with me, but it wasn’t the same. Everything with him was this big struggle, and I was over it. The luster was gone, he wasn’t what I wanted. He stayed over, but we never went all the way, and I left for Europe the next day.

When I came back, I worked in SF, moved to LA and put him behind me. I vowed to only fill my life with people who deserved me. Who treated me kindly and brought me happiness. I wanted so much more, but in reality there was no reason for it. He brought nothing but frustration and sadness to my life. OK, fine, he was really good at critiquing my paintings (and pulling my hair), but that was it.

So on Thanksgiving Day, 6 months after I’d last seen him, I deleted him from my fb. It felt great and freeing.

It took him a while to figure it out, but come January he called again. I was on the phone talking to a new guy, a nicer, way cooler, one, when I saw a number I didn’t recognize. I ignored it, and when I heard the voicemail, my jaw dropped. He sounded urgent, but there was no reason to be. “Oh my God, Laura, alright. If you do not call me back tonight, I’m never talking with you again in my life. Fucking, call me. Later.”

I didn’t even recognize his voice till the second listen through. Did I just win, again?! This time it didn’t faze me. I was over it. In fact I thought this message was bullshit. Who does he think he is? “I’m never talking with you again in my life?” Good! That’s what I wanted! That’s what I was trying to do, take out the trash.

Do I hate him? No, well kinda, no seriously, no. I don’t hate him. If I see him at a concert or a gallery, I hope he’s well. I hope he doesn’t have AIDS, well maybe the virus HIV would be cool, but not full blown AIDS. Honestly though, I hope he figures out what’s ailing him and has a wonderful life, I just don’t want to be in it.

I won, and winning feels good.

I packed up all my belongings, stuffed them into my parent’s garage, took what I had left, and drove to LA. Once I got into town, a perfect house-sitting situation fell into my universe, and I had a roof over my head and a dog in my lap.

With the rising sun of each morning, something strange started to happen, I would lay in bed at 7am, just staring at the clock. I didn’t want to get up. I couldn’t get up. I was paralyzed. What was the rush? LA would be here tomorrow. Why couldn’t I just lay here? For today. Just for today.

So I did. I laid in bed, determined not to feel guilty about it. I brought myself down here, that was enough for now, right? My throat felt sore, maybe I was coming down with something. I told myself to stop being so hard on myself. That I needed this trip, to help me to move on.

Did I just say trip? I was already thinking about going home. I wanted to give up. I wasn’t considering this a move. I wanted to turn around, drive home and not have to face these thoughts.

And that’s when I realized it, walking around the apartment of my best friend’s boyfriend, holding a pair of dirty pants. (My pants of course, not my best friend’s boyfriend’s dirty pants.) In that moment I knew it, I went on that trip to Europe so I wouldn’t have to grow up.

I stared out the window, sad. I was 29, jobless, homeless (so to speak), single, alone. I think the dog knew something was up, cause she jumped off the couch. “No Maggie, now is not the time for a walk. Laura is having a third life crisis right now.”

It was true, everything I did, was to put off life. I stayed in school, off and on for almost 10 years, because I was scared. Scared to finish, to finally have to make a choice. To decide how I would structure my life, to provide for my future. And now the future is here, and come time to finally shit or get off the pot. So I went to LA, and took a dump.

Day after day, I stayed later and later in bed. I drank, I met friends. Each day someone talked me out of not running away. To give myself a chance, to give LA a chance.

So naturally I didn’t listen to them and I worried more. “But I could go home! But the Holidays are always so good to me financially, why did I leave? Did I make a mistake?”

The next week I was set to stay with my best friend and her roommate. To qualm my fears, the roommate suggested I do something she has done twice in her life to aid her in making big decisions: On pieces of paper, write down your options, fold them up, put them in a bowl, put it up somewhere high, stick your hand in, and choose.

Right. Choose my fucking future from a bowl. That’s the answer.

I waited till she left and I ran to get the paper. I wrote down “Los Angeles” on one slip and “Bay Area” on the other. I folded them and placed them in the bowl, and placed the bowl up high on top of a book case. Then I waited.

I walked around trying to figure out what what supposed to happen next. Was the universe going to decide my fate? Tired of waiting, I reached my hand in and pulled out…

So that was it. A feeling of calmness washed over me. Picking Los Angeles didn’t mean I was imprisoned here for the rest of my life, it just meant for now, I’m supposed to figure out something here. So I left it at that. I would stay until my money ran out, which would probably take me to New Years, and if I hadn’t found a job, then I could just go home.

I would have a job at home, plenty of places to stay until I got my own place. No failing, just learning.

Then I wondered if my being here had a bigger purpose than I expected. I have two friends down south who are going through some difficult transitional periods. One, after facing political turmoil is forced to move back in with her psychotic mother and pay the price of not getting herself together. The other, manipulated by a previous alcoholic boyfriend, is trying to claw her way out of the rubble that he left her standing in years before.

In each of them I saw myself, and I couldn’t believe they were talking to ME. For advice? You want ME to give YOU advice? Really?

When you envision yourself as “broken” you always find it strange that another would value your opinion on, well…life. That what you have to say or that your ideas, may not only be valid, but good and valued.

Maybe I’m supposed to be here to help these ladies. Maybe I’m supposed to be here so they can help me. When one of us was falling apart, the other was there to put us back together. (Who knows what would happen if we fell apart on the same day?!)

Maybe if I go home in 2 weeks, or 2 months, or two years, doesn’t really matter for me, but it matters in that I helped them, and they helped me. That I tried to be there for them and stopped worrying so much about what’s going to happen to me.

Then I wondered if I’m fooling myself. Is this the lie I have to tell myself to live? To get by? Is this the delusion that I need? Just like others delude themselves with religion? (Not all others, don’t get your panties in a religious bunch.) If I just believe “X”, then I’ll be OK?

If this is the lie I need, then I want the lie, because reality is being a little bit too much for me lately.

I’ll take the lie, with a side of writing and dash of compassion. For me, writing is my own personal Jesus.

I fly back to the US on Independence day, into New York’s JFK airport. In Brooklyn, my dear friend Tonya and her boyfriend Joe put me up for the entire week that I’m there. We have wonderful shenanigans galore, and they are so kind and generous to me.

My last day in town I’m set to perform with ComedySportz New York. The food I had bought has run out, and I nibble a bit on Tonya and Joe’s food. In the fridge is a half eaten chocolate, waffle, cookie. I pick it up in wonder, “Is this what skinny people do?? Eat sweet things, one tiny piece at a time? That must be nice…”

I break off a piece, and bite into it, the chocolate is rich and decadent. I’m surprised at how sensational it is in my mouth. Maybe that’s why it’s in the fridge, half eaten, because it truly is too rich to devour in one setting.

I sit down, relax. I watch Toddlers N’ Tiara’s, a show that Tonya insisted I add to my television viewing schedule. She was not mistaken, this show is phenomenal. Small children are being wretched little, entitled, assholes, with more make-up on than Tammy Faye!

I write, I take a walk, I take a nap. I wake up and I feel stoned. I assume I’m just detoxing from a week (or 6) of partying and traveling. My body must need to get these molecules out somehow. I’ve had acid flashbacks. I know how this works.

Hours have past and I make my way to the theater district for my performance. I’m feeling really sleepy and need to get a coffee, but since I’m unfamiliar with the area, I’m not sure where to go. Man, I feel really tired.

I place my hand on the doorknob to ComedySportz and then it hits me…that chocolate, waffle, cookie, was a SPECIAL chocolate, waffle, cookie. I’m high. I’m stoned. I’m on drugs. Holy shit.

Now let me inform you of something right here. I don’t, no, I CAN’T eat weed. I’ve smoked weed since Clinton was in office. (I inhaled, he didn’t.) I’ve smoked…wait, Mom, stop reading. Seriously. OK, fine, I’ll wait…

She gone? OK good. I’ve smoked from joints, pipes, bongs, water-pipes, water-bongs. I’ve smoked out of an apple, for Christ’s sake!!!! Well technically an apple and a pen, it was my 16th birthday, but back to the point, I cannot eat weed. Something strange happens. I get tired and moody. I feel like I’m melting. But instead of feeling like I’m melting, I ACTUALLY THINK I’M MELTING. Call 911, get an ambulance, someone do CPR on me! I just ate a cookie! I’m melting! I’M MELTING!

Reason #2 why this is BAD: I’m set to perform a show…a family friendly improv show. You know what is not considered family friendly? SMOKING WEED. Well technically you’re right, I didn’t SMOKE weed…but still! Drugs, family, bad, OK? That’s why I asked my mom to leave earlier.
I walk inside and immediately ask where I can get a coffee. The caffeine is able to trump most of the pot-waffle, the show goes great, I am able to perform, and pride myself on being able to pull it together, to portray (I hope) a fun, energetic, un-high performance.

I then head to Boston, which is quaint, nice and small, and…boring. There’s too many joggers and polo-ed shirts with little alligators on them here. Where am I, the Marina?

I finally make it home to SF, it’s freezing and I feel home.

The biggest realization I got from my trip is that I didn’t appreciate what I had until I ran away from it. I took everything at home for granted. My job, my friends, my space. (Heh. Remember myspace?) I just assumed I should have all those things. That everyone should have those things. I didn’t understand that I was fortunate, that I had worked for those things and won them. I went out searching for something more, and the more was right at home.

Fuck 9-11. Fuck anyone who works at any “border crossings”. Fuck the damn UK and fuck their stupid questions.

Trying to get past the security check from Paris Nord to London is ridiculous. I got asked 20 questions with literally only 6 minutes left to spare before my train departed. I understand that I was supposed to be there 45 minutes beforehand, yet with the retardedness of public transportation I arrive with only 15 minutes before departure. I waited for a bus that came 15 minutes late, which then in turn made me have to wait 7 more minutes for the next train, and then transferring, etc.

I had to fill out the a form for the UK border crossing, but…ummm, why? I can travel from Switzerland to The Netherlands, Germany, Hungary, Italy, France, all with the ease of a bird of flight, but crossing a large body of water provokes Chris Hanson like interrogatory scrutiny??

This border patrol woman wouldn’t let go. (Please add snotty British accent.) “Where are you staying?”

“I don’t know, some hostel.”

“You have to fill out the address.”

Um come on lady, no one has ever traveled through Europe before not knowing their destination? You do realize I could LIE and write 123 Fake St. Don’t you???? What does it matter?

“I only have a couple minutes before my train!”

Cunty Mc Brittish Bitch: “Well, if you would have filled the form out properly, there wouldn’t be an issue.”

This is where the lovely British accent and proper grammar, start to get very annoying. She didn’t say “it” she said “the form” and her accent was the cherry on top of my “I’m not a fucking terrorist, I just didn’t put any make-up on, let me through so I can catch my train” sundae.

So, like a true terrorist, I fake it and write down a made-up address.

“Why are you traveling?”

FOR FUCKING FUN, BITCH! You’ve never come across a fucking wandering, college graduating traveler? Cause I have, in every city I’ve been in. Also, most of them have no clue what hostel they’re staying in till they get there, and then figure it out.

What did people do before the internet, where they really were playing hookie? Oh right, before the internet was before 9-11. A time where you could board a plane sans Benefit’s under-eye, erase paste and not be mistaken for the newest face of Al Qaeda. An era in which not everyone was under suspect of taking control the cockpit of a train and driving it into a large building.

Which now that I think of it, sounds even more ludicrous. Why are you suspicious, lady? What could I possibly do? The train is on train tracks, I ain’t taking it any where it could possibly do any damage. And I ain’t using proper English, just because I’m headed to your country. Ya know what? Fuck you and fuck the English!

“For fun. Vacation, um, holiday. I’m just traveling around Europe.”

“Where have you been?”

Seriously? I’ve been traveling for a fucking month, it’s 7am, I’ve been up since 5 and went to bed at 2, and you want me to recite every city I’ve been to??!?!? Haven’t you been reading my blog? How about this, bitch, I give you my card, you check out my blog when WE ALL HAVE TIME, and you let me get on this train.

I rattle off about half the cities I’ve visited.

“Who are you traveling with?”

“Myself.”

“You said ‘We’. ‘We’ve been traveling around Europe.’”

“No, I didn’t say that. If I did, I didn’t mean to, I’m tired and, nervous and worried I’m going to miss my train. I’ve always been traveling by myself.” Ahem, again this would be a lot easier if you would just read my blog.

I also hate when people do the “You said” business. That’s great. OK, um do we have a time machine to go back and really find out what I said? How about we go with what we know to be the present, and in the present I KNOW I didn’t say “we”. If I did, I was referring to the royal “we”. So fuck off.

This feels like it goes on forever, and she asks some more questions about how long I’ve been traveling, etc. I say May 22, but then the paranoia starts to creep in about every little word I say. Well I left on the 22nd, but technically does my Visa say May 23rd, because that’s the day my flight landed? Should we have said the 23rd? Did I just say ‘we’? Is she right? How am I supposed to get this bomb on board??

Come on lady, all I’ve had is an espresso and gummy worms for breakfast, let me past this security check point.

Here’s the point: At the end of the day, what does all this do? Does this prevent anything? If anything, we could probably guess that well organized terrorists would be much more thorough in their approach and have a whole spiel memorized. So asking everyone 100 questions about why they want to come to your country and help your economy by spending their hard earned money there, is just like asking a dog why it poops, or asking a man why his dick is so small. It’s pointless and rude.

Work with what ya got.

And yes, I did catch my train, with about 30 seconds to spare.

Today I ate three balanced meals.

Today I didn’t snack mindlessly.

Today I sat down at the kitchen table for each meal and ate without T.V. or a book or a podcast. Today, I just ate.

Today I asked myself what I was hungry for, and the answer wasn’t food…

Today I looked out my window and watched the rain.

Today I felt depressed.

Today I pushed the cat away.

Today I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

Today I worked on a painting and made progress.

Today I sat in the car and cried. I cried because I loved him and he never loved me back. I cried because I finally was willing to give up and admit defeat. I should have given up months ago, but I was too stubborn, or sad, or hopeful to do so.

I cried to say good-bye.

That’s what I did today.

I arrive in St-Germain-en-Laye and I’m lost. I don’t see the bus Jean Pierre (the friend of a friend I’m set to stay with-also  come on, “Jean Pierre”…could we be any more French?) told me I would see, so I get on another bus that seems to have the same stop. Once off at the stop I don’t know where I am, and everything is in French. Uhhhh, so rude.

Finally after walking up and down the same street I see the surf board on his gate that he told me I would see, but the gate is locked and if anyone is home, they aren’t hearing my knocking. I walk around to the front of the house, but there is no answer there either. I open my computer and by the magic of the internet I am able to get online and call Jean Pierre (JP) from Skype. Voila, we have a connection!

JP greets me, with no shirt and no shoes. He shows me around his beautiful, tri-level home, I meet his lovely wife Sofie, and his wonderful children. The bottom floor consists of his painting studio. JP lives in France and is a painter. I feel like JP should come to America and stay with John Smith who lives on a farm.

His house is adorned with his artwork and it’s beautiful, what a relief. There’s nothing worse than enjoying someone’s company and then having to tell them that you hate every one of their art pieces or think they’re a hack. Not JP though, his work is stellar. I hop on the computer and pull up my website to show them my work, which impresses them both and JP tells me has much respect for me.

JP gives me my space, buys me chocolate croissants and cooks me home style French food. He lets me join him in his painting studio for a class he’s teaching and the other students are so nice to me, even though we both barely speak a word of each others’ languages.

The next day, armed with JP’s bike(and a joint), I ride up to the city center and enjoy the beautiful sights St-Germain-en-Laye has to offer.

The plan for the evening is to go to JP’s art opening in Paris. There’s one little problem though, if Sophie can’t find anyone to watch the kids, then it’s just JP and me, and then of course, we would take the motorcycle, and not the car. Of course, because the motorcycle is so much faster with all the Parisian traffic. Of course, of course.

And that’s a teeny problem…because…I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before…so of course, Sophie can’t find anyone to watch the kids…of course.

I walk down the stairs dressed in all black and red lipstick, I figure it’s fashionable enough for the art world, and nice enough to die in (just in case). I nervously put on the only helmet of 3 that actually fits my big head, and hop on the back of the motorcycle. Sophie smiles and waves as we ride off, and my hands grip onto JP for dear life.

I’m trying to be cool, to relax, but my heart is racing. I tell myself that JP does not have a plan to kill me and even if he did, a motorcycle accident would be a poor plan, because then he would have to kill himself as well. I ask myself, “Does this man know what he’s doing? Yes. Do you trust him? Yes. Then stop worrying, shut up, hold on and look around you…You’re in PARIS. Do you know how lucky you are?”

I wait until we arrive in Paris and dismount, before I announce that the ride had been my first and I was a bit nervous. JP tells me I have nothing to worry about, if I trust him. I tell him that’s exactly what I told myself, so I drop the worry.

We head inside and the art is spread throughout the hallway and offices. Outside there is pâté, wine, pâté, violin players, pâté, pâté, pâté. I don’t know what’s up with the French and their blenders, but the food is phenomenal.

Everyone here is “bourgeois” as JP says, in their fancy clothes, the men with their ascots around their necks and the women with their dogs in their purses. I muster up enough courage to say, “Vin rouge, s’il vous plait.”

As JP is schmoozing it up with all the big shots, I walk around the art to admire it some more, but the power goes out. The light from outside is enough to light some rooms, but other areas, stay dark and the sun is setting soon. After I tell the 3rd person who tries to talk to me that I don’t speak French, another man comes up to me and says, “You only speak English?”

He’s one of the other artists and I start to talk to him about his work and his process. I tell him a bit about my work and he wishes he could see it, so I give him my card, and he gives me his. I’m a million miles away from home, but exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I watch JP and he truly is a master of his work. Not just how he paints, but the way he interacts with the curators and the art enthusiasts. He’s charming and kind, and can make everyone laugh. I see JP as a guide to help me in my own artistic future. In my mind the actual art is only half of the equation, the business relationships you form with your patrons is just as important. In a way, JP is putting on a performance, and man, he’s good at it.

We ride back, stopping to enjoy the sights of Paris and to grab Indian food. The waiter at the restaurant tells me that I should “be careful” with the extra spicy sauces provided with our meal. Now, yes they were spicy, very spicy, OK, I checked to see if there was hair growing on my chest, but, I could handle it. JP, however, was sweating bullets. He wiped the sweat away from his brow and gulped down glasses of water (rookie mistake).

I felt a sense of pride, of power, of Americanmexicaness. This girl has cojones.

I’m so grateful for the kindness and love that JP and his family showed to me, and for the inspiration that he gave me by showing me the possible life and future I could have as an artist.

The next morning I have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to catch a bus to make the Eurostar to back to London. I’m almost home, I can taste it.

I’m back in the city of light, and this time the weather is warm. I decided to stay at the same hostel that I was at 2 years ago, because the people were friendly and it was easily accessible. Also, it’s cool to see how things are the same, the familiarity gives me a happy feeling in my tummy.

Because of the train delay fiasco, I’m over two hours late for check-in at the hostel. I walk in and the man working behind the counter/bar is tall and skinny, older, and hot in a Mick Jagger sort of way.

Mick says to me: “You’re late, my darling! I just sent you an email, I was about to give away your reservation.”

Me: “Sorry, my train was delayed, I hope you still have my bed.”

Then Mick says (or what I HEARD him say): “Don’t worry, I’ll be your bed.”

Me: “Well, I hope you’re comfortable.”

Mick: “What? I’m comfortable?”

Me: “You said, ‘I’ll be your bed.’ So, I hope you’re comfortable.”

Mick: “I didn’t say that, but I can be your bed if you like.”

Me: “We’ll see.”

Bam, right away with flirt city, who am I? How much confidence did Rome give me? There’s two American girls in the bar/lobby area and they are cool as ever, within 5 minutes we’re all fb friends and chit-chatting. I love you, Paris.

That evening Mick, American girl #1, and another (male) hostel-goer, and I head to the Eiffel Tower with a sheet, booze and a deck of cards in hand. We play the game spoons, technically we play pens, because we have no spoons, and sit around while we gaze up at the stars and watch the light show that is Paris! This is happening, I’m just chillin on the grass in the most beautiful city in the world. Anyone who doesn’t like Paris can go fuck themselves.

After hanging out, we go back to the hostel bar to party. Mick is sweet and keeps making sure my drink is always full and that I’m having a good time, but his job is not so easy. I’m annoyed. There’s a girl with a baby voice (not American girl #1 or 2, those girls are COOL) and hearing her squeals is driving me insane. Who sincerely talks in a baby voice?? I suppose it’s possible, but really? Come on. Besides BVG (Baby Voice Girl), there are other people (losers) around me asking the dumbest questions:

“You’re from San Francisco? Aren’t there a lot of gay people there?”

Me: “Um…yea. I suppose. Aren’t there gay people everywhere though?”

Dummy #2: “Do you know any famous people?”

Me: “Well, I saw Meg Ryan once…”

Dummy #3: How come you’re not blonde? Do you take surfing lessons?”

OK! That’s it. I’m done, but before I can leave to head upstairs, Mick calms me down and we leave to go drink beers by the river. That night Mick is my bed and he is comfortable, who knew? Did you see that foreshadowing? We don’t go all the way because we don’t have the necessary protection, but Mick is cool, it’s “all about your pleasure” he tells me. Um, excuse me, what? How the hell am I supposed to go back to America where the boys don’t buy your drinks, or open your door? I’m getting spoiled here…and I like it.

Being the hostel whore pays off, and I get free espresso and drinks from Mick after that. Awesome! Mick gives me directions to catch the train and I’m off to see the Palace of Versailles, a place I missed on my last visit to Paris.

I wait in the longest line ever to purchase my ticket to the palace, and then I wait in an even longer line to actually enter. Once inside, the pace of the people around me is like a herd of cows. Slowly we shuffle from one room to the next, everyone taking the exact same pictures.

As we pass each room I wonder why walking around some rich person’s house, taking pictures of all their old furniture and wallpaper, is “normal”. I realize that every photo I take is a duplicate of the person before me. That we’re all having the exact same experiences, through the lenses of our digital cameras.

I know cameras are wonderful and allow us to remember and see moments that our minds may have lost, but I wonder if people aren’t being present because they’re viewing the world through a lens? I mean what’s the point of spending all this money to travel this far and just snap the same pictures with my crappy cannon as everyone else?

I realized I didn’t want my photo album to be the same, so I turned it around and thought “how can I make this into art?” I started taking pictures of people taking pictures. I’m so meta.

It goes with my current painting themes of technology, society, and social interactions. I can’t wait to make one of them into a painting.

After Versighs (swidt?), I decide I need more attention, no more aimlessly walking through museums or landmarks. Last time I was in Paris I went on a free tour from a woman working at the hostel and loved it. What I didn’t know was how very good she was. Now having more travel experience and having gone on other good (and bad) tours, I realize how great Karen is. She is so warm and welcoming, and FUNNY. She really has a unique way of making everyone feel comfortable while showing you the sights of the city.

I asked Mick if she was still around and he said she moved on, to her own tour company. He gave her a quick call and within minutes I was signed up for the next day’s tour, with a friendly discount.

The tour is fun, Karen is her awesome self, but there is another woman on the tour who is almost unbearable. She’s there with her 3 daughters, 2 of them teenagers and one about 10 years old, and all the mother can do is complain. Complain how the French are rude, how no one speaks English to her, how she’s having a horrible time. Lady…you’re in PARIS. I know, you’re thinking what a horrible American, but this broad is Canadian! (We won! USA! USA!)

In those moments though, I really see Karen work and earn her pay. She handles the curmudgeonly Canadian with grace and calms her down, all while still entertaining the rest of us. If you ever make it to Paris, be sure to take time to go on one of Karen’s tours, you won’t regret it.

I say good-bye to Mick, thank him for the orgasms and head out for my next destination. It’s now time for me to go to St-Germain-en-Laye, a town about 30 minutes outside of Paris, 50 by train. I’m worried though. I’m staying with a friend of a friend and I just hope he’s not…well, crazy. I hope he gives me my space, but is also fun. I hope he is nice and considerate. I hope he doesn’t hit on me the whole time and then repeatedly play Billy Joel songs. I hope…

Part deux to come.