A Month of Somedays

Summer is ending. And it’s not just the warm weather (or endless-seeming heat wave) and long days that are fading away; so many other things have come to an end. Good, bad, indifferent or appropriate, loose ends have been tied, questions answered and natural resolutions occurred. Spring shot it all into action, bringing my past into my present. By summer, my future had come into clearer view.

I don’t believe you can go back. Though, sometimes, you find yourself doing just that. I was brought back in touch with Masters when I went to Manhattan. He was still in the city working. Having received his graduate degree, he’s now teaching at his alma mater, warping young adult minds, writing freelance and working on his novels. Six years ago, Masters and I had an ill-fated, long distance, telephonic callationship. Suffice it to say, two, broke, struggling writers who cannot come up with the funds for consistent cross-country travel should not bother being involved. It seems romantic in theory, but the reality is harsh if neither one can afford the airfare. Phone calls and emails can only take you so far. We did the push-pull of wanting more but not being able to have it. Sweet conversations turned into terse talks because neither one of us was getting what we needed. Finally, I cut the phone cord. Even though the feelings lingered, I kept them at a twenty-eight-hundred-mile distance. After all, what was the point? He was there, I was here, and the space between wasn’t getting us any closer to something real.

We had stayed in touch off and on over the years, though not always on the best of terms. I refused to flirt and found his late night calls more annoying than charming. Do you like the phone ringing at 2:30 AM? On a weeknight? And I mean my time, not his. The guy should have a breathalyzer attached to his phone. Still, I thought it would be nice to see him while I was there. Surely enough time had gone by for us to move beyond what was and move forward to something new. Like an actual, grown-up friendship. We made tentative plans to see each other, understanding that my schedule was unpredictable and his was pretty booked. We stole some time on a Sunday night and met for wine at a Spanish bar.

I had no intention of reopening the door to our past. We would be friends, and that’s it. I even donned my most “I’m so not sleeping with you” ensemble: Plain, white, button-down oxford and jeans; hair not redone; makeup suitably subtle. The conversation was kept safe. Respectable physical distance maintained. My plan was going along famously, surviving even an Irish pub crawl, until he insisted on helping me get a cab. I asserted that I was more than capable of hailing my own taxi, but he wanted to play the gentleman. He failed at that when he pulled me into a kiss before I got into the yellow sedan.

Damn. We still had it.

I rode back to my apartment with furrowed brow. Perhaps it was nothing more than the Guinness mixed with fond memories and jetlag. Still, I had a feeling that I was being haunted by history. You have to understand, I had just taken a job that I had ten years earlier, gone to my twenty-year high school reunion two weeks before, and now had made out with a beau from half-a-decade ago. There was a hell of a lot of karma closing in. It was enough to make your head spin. Mine surely was. Like the candy floss I had for dessert the next night.

Masters wanted to see me again, and I couldn’t find a reasonable excuse not to. So we grabbed time again on Tuesday and the Friday before I left. In true “us” form, we did the push-pull thing back and forth during the week and ended up having a huge fight on Friday night. And when I say huge, I mean apocalyptic. I really let him have it. It had been a long week and a hard day. Mix physical and emotional exhaustion with some truly stupid moves on his part, and you get a rather unpleasant public display of agitation. But, if you are going to explode, there’s no better place to do it than in the back of a cab in New York City. I got into another taxi and went home.

Two weeks went by before we spoke again. Feeling terrible over my end of the fight, I offered an apology the best way I knew how…email. He accepted, offered his own set of sorries and then we talked. A lot. About why we did the push-pull, what we might be afraid of, even about going to Ireland together in the fall. After two-point-five hours on the phone, it seemed the wounds were healed, but a question mark still lingered. So, the next morning, I did the unthinkable. I invited him to come to L.A. and stay with me through the month of August. While it might seem crazy, I thought it was the saner move than just going off to Ireland for a week and potentially ruining my favorite place. We needed some sort of test-drive.

I knew Masters was going to take August off and go to the Catskills, of all places, where there was a free place for him to stay via a family friend, in order to work on his book undisturbed. With that amount of free time on his hands, I saw this as an “If Not Now, When?” situation. Someday had come, as far as I was concerned, and so I offered up my home for him to write and for us to experience reality. The reality of two writers, that is. We needed to spend quality time together, day in and out, so we could see what it was we really had, and if it could last longer than a phone call and some stolen time. And, if it could survive both of us in creative mode, as I would be working on my book, too. I told him to think about it, it was a big step. For him, it came down to finances, which I well understood, and finding a subletter. So, I left the offer on the table and waited for him to come back with his answer.

I needed an answer of my own, though. I found myself wondering why did I give this guy such a hard time? He was obnoxious and arrogant at times, absolutely, but he also had many fine qualities and characteristics. We couldn’t deny the connection we had, and enjoyed the story we could share of how we came to know each other. I wondered what we would find if we both dropped our guards and didn’t have the luxury of running away; hence, the offer to stay with me. We needed to see what we really had, decide if we wanted it, then find a way to make it work.

Being an Aries, I have to examine the big picture, look at all the potential problems and find solutions. It takes me about five minutes, if that. It’s what makes me good at what I do, and awful at letting the man in my life figure things out on his own. This time, I was determined to let Masters do just that. I was going to let him hang himself, or pull himself up, by his own rope, without any hints from me on which direction he was headed. It was bad enough that I had already done the flight research (who knew Continental was cheaper than JetBlue and offered better airports?). I wanted him to make his own choice. Rise to the occasion, which was something I had waited for him to do since the beginning. So I resisted the urge to remind or cajole. And, while I understand the money situation, I also know that if a man wants something, a man will find a way to get it/have it/make it happen. He had ample time to procure another writing gig, or even just cut back on his bar bill. If there was a want, he could find a way.

Then again, he is a guy to whom things come rather easily, and usually free of charge. The women in his life cater to him. Doors open for him, he doesn’t have to work for much. But he would have to earn me. I rooted for him quietly, waiting for him to surprise me and prove me wrong. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t come, no matter what words he said to the contrary.

“I’ve got good news and bad news, baby,” he said. He went on to tell me that his aunt had called and the Catskills house was his for as long as he wanted it.

Um, that wasn’t news as far as I knew. The place was his from the get go. So I waited for him to finish, wondering which part of this was good, and for whom.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied.

“So, do you want to come and stay with me in the Catskills?”

“Nope,” I answered.

“Have you ever been to the Catskills?”

“Yes.”

“Well, have you ever been to the Catskills with me?” His pitch was getting higher.

“Once was enough, thanks.” I couldn’t hide my irritation. Seriously, what part of a job didn’t he get? I had one, a new one, and couldn’t take time off. Even taking a long weekend to visit him, the hassle of getting myself to the remote location was not enticing, nor cost-effective. Going to Manhattan is one thing; going outside of Manhattan is…well…pointless.

He kept going on about how the house was free and so wonderful. Hey, so is mine. All he had to do was cough up the airfare. It’s not like getting to the Catskills was costless. Cheaper, yes, but can you put a value on spending time with me? Well, it seems he did.

“Baby, I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to come to L.A.,” he placated.

“Let’s just not go down that road,” I said. It was just that. Just as simple as that. I got off the phone before I gave in to the urge to school him in semantics.

One of the more aggravating things about Masters was that, for a writer, he was quite lax with his words. Still using the surfer lingo from his Ventura upbringing, which I find terribly grating, he didn’t understand why I would ask him to define my gender when he used “dude”, “man” or “bro” when talking to me. He was good at tossing words around without respecting their meaning. I’m the type of woman who believes that if you are going to bother saying something, you had better mean it, understand it, and own it. I don’t say things just because they sound pretty or are provocative or pacifying. But he did.

“Baby...” he said on a later call.

I let him know that his “baby” days were over. He was no longer allowed to call me that, nor any of the other endearing terms he offered up.

“Am I in the doghouse?” he asked. There were times I wondered if he had brain damage or was some sort of functioning idiot savant.

“More like you’ve been demoted,” I advised.

There wasn’t time to get into it. He had to go, and I had to move on. For a guy who seemed to always have something to say about what we would/could/should do someday, he was easy to let pass a month of somedays when it was offered. I didn’t hear a Plan B, or when he would come out to LA. He did ask when I would be back in the Apple. Funny, no? Still, as irritated as I was, I was relieved to have my question clearly answered. Yet, that wasn’t the last shift to hit the fan.

June and July had come and gone. By then, I saw more changes on the horizon. I treated myself to a new computer — something I do about every seven years or so — went wireless and got busy writing. I was plowing through a new version of the novel and expected to be done with it by the end of September. Everything seemed to be going swell. Until I heard I had a certified letter waiting for me. When that occurs, you’ve either won a lottery, or are getting into a lawsuit.

I didn’t win the Lotto.

A “cease and desist” letter was served. It seems my book infringed on someone’s trademark. No, I didn’t check for that. A publishing rookie move that a first-time author/publisher is bound to make. The thought of having to rename my book was devastating. Trust me, if I could’ve come up with a better title, I would have.

I spent the first weekend in August in a twist. I put together lists of titles, emailed my friends for a consensus, narrowed the title list down, and fought a losing battle with tears. It was no time for insipid phone calls. Especially not from a cell phone. Masters made an attempt to be a support for me digitally, but I’m not really going to open up on a call that might be dropped. Besides, if he wanted to be there for me, he should’ve been here, don’t you think? And so I let him know his time would be better spent packing for the Catskills. I had a tome to re-title.

For those of you who bought the original Guide, keep your collector’s item. In another week or so, you will find A SASSY LITTLE GUIDE TO GETTING OVER HIM on the shelves. Who knew one little word would cause so much trouble?

Before August was over, the new job came to an end. You just can’t go back. Things are never the same, and rarely are they better. That’s not to say they are worse. They just are what they are. It’s simply something you left behind, and it stayed there for a reason. And it shouldn’t be sad, or hurtful, or even surprising. It should be looked at as a confirmation that you have grown. You have moved on. And so have they.

“Someday we should get together for lunch or a drink or something,” another old friend suggested. I smiled back and said, “That sounds nice,” knowing that someday rarely comes around. But, if it does, take it lightly. It’s a gentle time to hold, and it usually doesn’t last for long.

New York is Spittacular!

I love New York. (And, no, I’m not talking that ho from “Flavor of Love”. Mr. Sharpton, if you have seen that show, you can’t argue with me on that one.)

As a native Los Angelena, I never thought I would utter (or write) those words. But I love New York. There. I said it. Deal with it.

It had been ten years since I'd been back to the Apple. Two trips were planned in 2001, both in September, neither ever rescheduled. I missed going there and was happy when the chance to go came up. The plan was to go for seven days, but it was extended at the last minute. Ten days in New York still isn't enough to do and see all that you want to do and see. But it is enough time for you to miss your car, your TiVo and the life you left back home. Yet, strolling around the city, which always embraces me, I started to fantasize about living there...if only for a short while. And that is so not like me.

New York has changed since my last visit. Of course, she has suffered a great loss. And time does change everyone and everything. But when I heard folks say, "I'm sorry" instead of "Watch where the hell you’re going!" when they bumped into each other, I bruised my jaw on the sidewalk. I thought it might be hallucinating from the jetlag. But it turns out that New York has mellowed with time. Don’t get me wrong; the edge is still there. But it’s so endearing when a New Yorker catches him/herself being super nice. They kind of stop for a second and check themselves, then let a little grin slip over their lips.

I lucked out on the weather when I went in early May. It was gorgeous. Warm days, cool nights and just a few days of rain, which I love. I didn't even mind the slight stick as the humidity rose. The days were just too beautiful to be bothered, though the swap cooler drips were a bit irksome. My initial reaction is always, “Is that rain or spit?” It’s easy to forget the window ACs and to walk a bit further from the buildings. And walk I did. Everywhere. I revelled in walking to Starbucks each morning, to the grocery store and deli, walking everywhere I could before I would hail a cab. (That's another thing that's changed...gone are the $5 cab rides across town. I nearly choked on my first $16 fare.)

Flip-flops served for walking shoes as I navigated the pavement, but I soon realized the prudence of closed-toe footwear. People spit in New York. A lot. Avoiding the lit cigarette in the hand of an animated chick talking on her cell phone is easy. Scoping out who might hock a loogie is more of a challenge. Men in business suits, guys on bikes, boys in jeans, old men on canes; any were potential spitters. Day in and day out, I would be agog (and agag) at the phlegm and saliva flying, all potential Hepatitis bombs. After a few days, I got used to it, and alertly watched the mouth, throat and jaw movements of those coming toward me. All in a day in the City that never swallows. Yet, there was one I couldn’t get over. The slobberer that stole my heart was the septuagenarian woman who gracefully pulled her walker over to the side of the building, leaned over and dropped a huge gob onto the sidewalk. In broad daylight! It was spittacular. Somehow, she managed it with a bit of dignity, if you can believe that.

My dear friend, Smith, moved to New York at the beginning of the year, and this was my first chance to see her new Tribeca loft. I was so excited to celebrate this huge move with her. The plan was to meet for dinner after we were both done with work on a Monday night. I intended to walk from SoHo, were I was hanging out that day, but after an afternoon of running around everywhere South of Houston in kitten-heeled flip-flops, my dogs were barking. Thirteen blocks (or however many she guesstimated) might as well have been thirteen miles. I hailed a cab.

I had been sick the week prior to this trip and was still from suffering a jolting cough that would strike with violence and little warning. There was merely a nanosecond between the tickle and the choking hack that followed it. Very sexy, I have to say. I sat joyfully in my yellow car, happy to be on my way to Smith’s. The driver and I exchanged pleasantries as we made our way from Thompson to Franklin, then I took a hit from my water bottle, squeezing the plastic to fill my mouth when it happened. The cough seizure. There I was, mouth full of Poland Springs, throat contracting, tickle intensifying. The water couldn't go down. As a matter of fact, it was heading up my nose as I tried to figure out what to do before I ran out of air. I really didn’t want to asphyxiate in a taxi. Or would I technically drown? Either way, something had to be done. And then I did it. I really had no other choice but to spit the water out. All over the floor of the cab. Well, not all of it. Some of it hit the floor, but most of it hit my seat than then rolled back down to my crotch, wetting the seat of my pants. Spittacular indeed. The only saving grace was that I was wearing black trousers. Quel nightmare had they been jeans or khakis.

I took a handful of tissues (probably the least absorbent material on the planet), to mop up what could only have been a few ounces of water (though it seemed like a quart) as I reassured the driver that I had not yakked up anything more than H2O. “It’s just water. Just water,” I assured him, mopping up the mess. Then I burst out into hysterical laughter, the kind that only jetlag, humiliation and a natural self-deprecating sense of humor could bring. The tears that were streaming down my face from the choking fit were replaced by those of unbridled chortling. I’m sure the driver thought he had picked up a loon...or a wacked out hanger-on from the Blohan entourage, who were also in the city that week.

Finally, my damp ass made it to my friend's loft. We walked her darling dog, and aired out my wet end, before going to dinner at Landmarc. We sat at the bar in the tiny bistro, sipping wine as we waited for our table. There, we encountered my least favorite type of New Yorker (although, I will have to say that every city has its own version of it): Spoiled, Pushy, Irritating and Tiresome.

I will never understand why parents insist on taking their ill-behaved spawn out to nice (read expensive) restaurants. As a sometime-patron of these establishments, I don’t mind sucking down my $15 glass of wine with my $40 dinner and $12 dessert (which requires another $15 glass of wine to accompany it), as long as I can do it in the company of other adults, and not with a poorly-reared kid talking loudly, kicking chair legs and, eventually, bursting out into a howling cry. I will also never understand how those parents have the knack of seeking me out and placing the child within throttling distance of me. It’s uncanny.

The AARP-aged baby-daddy forced his way over to the bar area to grab the lone empty chair next to mine where he intended to squeeze himself, the mother of the five-year-old girl who would later drive me nuts, and another woman who looked like she could be the sister of either parent (or a partner in a unique “arrangement”). Smith, who has adopted the easy-going New Yorker status (which was easy to do since she always had the kumbahyah of her native East Bay), spotted two chairs opening up on the other side of the tiny bar, and offered to move us so the “family” could take our space. When the offer was posed to him, the man just looked annoyed, like we should have done that upon their arrival. That just made me want to stay put, but the girl started fidgeting, as children are prone to do, and I knew that the next phase was whining before going into the full-out cry. Better I get into a more neutral corner.

Finally seated, Smith and I enjoyed our wine (wisely served in half-bottles...we each had our own), our yummy dinner and the most perfect dessert...Cotton candy and champagne. Yes. You heard me. Perfect, pink cotton candy. With champers. Yum.

On our way home, Smith and I looked at the posting of places for sale in a real estate office window. I began fantasizing about having a place in NYC, and tallying how many books I had to sell in order to make that happen. At the same time, I had to wonder what was happening to this LA woman? Did I really want to move to New York?

Yes and no.

In my fantasy world, I would have a pied-a-terre there so I could fly out and spend some time when the mood struck...and then fly back home to Venice when it got too hot, too cold, or just too much. It's my fantasy world. Let me have it. And, in my fantasy world, I also have a brownstone in Dublin and a little cottage in Tuscany. So there. And the New York I knew and loved wasn’t really reality-based. It’s one of make-believe and pseudo-privilege. The privilege of going there on someone else’s generous dime. Per diem. Nice place to stay. Friends to see. No need to be anywhere at any inconvenient time. Never needing to take the subway or a bus. I’ve never had to suffer the horror of the humid summer, trod through the slush and sludge of winter. Bundle up only to strip down (wait, I have done that one, but only over a few days’ stay). I’ve not had to stress over finding a place to live. Struggle moving furniture. Deal with dragging home hefty purchases. Nope. I get to go there and be fabulous. Even the times I have gone there on my own ticket, it’s as though a red carpet has been placed on the cement for me. I’ve stayed with friends in welcoming lofts or flats, so I never have had to pay for an overpriced hotel. We’ve always managed to fine the best cheap restaurants in town (so we don’t have to split an appetizer for dinner), and, even though I am on a perpetual budget, it’s still all about the cab for me (one subway ride was enough). So I love my particular New York. Very much.

One other thing I adore about New York is that you will always run into someone you know, famous or otherwise, whether it is the rude dude crowding you at the Landmarc bar the night before, or the hot guy from “The Office” walking by you at Marc Jacobs. There’s something comforting about a familiar face in a sea of a million Manhattanites. When I saw our bar neighbor, I had to text Smith a “guess who I saw” message. I had to text her again that same afternoon when I found $6 on the sidewalk. I always find money in New York. And how could you not love that? Sure, it wasn't $600, but it was a partial cab ride or a Starbucks and nice tip. I was careful to make sure there wasn’t anything relating to bodily functions on or around it when I picked it up. Purell is your friend in New York City.

I decided there were two slightly touristy things I had to do on this trip. One was to go to the World Trade Center and pay my respects. The other was to visit my book in Times Square. I took a cab from Gramercy Park to Church Street. I did not know there was a small, antiquated cemetery there with centuries-old headstones marking the departed. It was eerie and heartbreaking at the same time. That place survived when so much was destroyed. I lasted about seven seconds before the tears started to well. I did not want to be the girl from LA crying at the World Trade Center nearly six years later. But that day still has a deep and visceral effect on me. I said a little prayer and began walking to Times Square. I made it to Washington Square Park by the time the rain started. I was wise to pack an umbrella. I would have been such a good Boy Scout.

By the time I got to Union Square, the rain had gone from a spattering to a full-on downpour. I was sliding around in my flip-flops, suddenly realizing that what I was walking in probably wasn’t all rainwater. It was at that odd time in New York City when every flipping cab is off-duty. Have they not seen sense in all this time to stagger shifts? Since I was near the apartment, I threw in the towel. Even though it was five o’clock, I grabbed lunch (still on LA time) and went back home. I never did make it to the book viewing, but I’ll be sure to visit her next time.

On my last night in New York, I was treated to my first trip to Broadway. Being a student of film, I’ve never been drawn to stage work, finding it too acty. But “The Year of Magical Thinking” is beyond theatre. And to be spitting distance from Vanessa Redgrave while she recants Joan Didion’s tragic year, it’s all you can do not to run up to the stage and give her a hug and a cocktail. I resisted the urge. After that magical ninety-minutes, my friend and I made our way back home, deciding to have a quiet dinner in rather than to go out. I offered to pick up the meal than to wait for it to come to us. The spittle of rain accompanied me on my walk. I saw it as New York’s way of kissing me goodbye. It will be much sooner than ten years for me to go back to that spittacular city again.