Well, it has been awhile, hasn't it...
I'm sure you're all wondering: "hmmm, is Monica still alive?"... "did she die of food poisoning from her own lasagna?"... "was she kidnapped by a band of pirates and enslaved as a wench on their ship?" It's been so long since I've posted anything here, and I'll explain why. It's not because I've been lazy, no no no. Or that life has been boring, certainly not.
Ha ha ha, if only... Gather round, kids, and I'll tell you a tale. Here is the story of "Dr. Stupidlove or: How I Saw My Pseudo Boyfriend Make Out With Another Girl in Front of Me and Learned to Live With It: PART 3 of a 4 PART STORY"
Since it's been months, now, between this entry and the last, I will give you all the run down and the 411, if you will, on the happenings and goings on in my life since, what was it- January? February- the last time I wrote? God. There was a good period of time in which I lost my sense of humor and who the hell wants to read some self depreciating shit? So, last time I left off, we were eagerly anticipating my "keep-a-man lasagna." I made the lasagna for Matt K and, indeed, it was phenomenal. So phenomenal, in fact, that his friends partook and I garnered extra days on my rebound time for however many days it lasted as leftovers. Matt K and I kept carrying on as it were as "almost dating." Life, it seemed, had thrown me a proverbial bone- "hey, whatchadoin" phone calls, "let me come pick you up at work" nights, "cheer for me at my soccer games" sundays, and movies, friends, and laughter galore. What more could a girl ask for, really? Loving life, loving mankind, loving myself... it was a big freakin lovefest for Chissakes.
And so commences PART 3...
On Superbowl Sunday, we had made plans to hang out after I got out of work at 5p, but he decided he didn't feel like waiting for me in the Hollywood area and so took off to Santa Monica to watch the game with some friends out there.
After I was done working, I took 2 busses to get out there and meet him and his friends. Now, I'm as dudelike a gal you'll ever meet, but rarely will I use a football analogy to explain something in real life. However, in the spirit of football and the glory of the Patriots almost perfect season, this one's for you John Madden.
Imagine, if you will, that you're on top of the world- an entire season of perfect games (dates) behind you in the face of the impossible (man telling you it will never happen). You have somehow managed to complete passes and gain rushing yards without being sacked- you are the methamphetamines of life right now, plowing through boundaries like a freakin wrecking ball. You are playing the biggest game you know how and all of your hard work, like mom always said, has paid off. You have rocketed past the regular season, pissed in the face of the playoffs, and have found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. At this point, you're such a legend, the toothfairy is kissing your ass. You are playing your goddamn heart out and the light is at the end of the tunnel. You can see it 15 minutes away. 7 minutes away. 2 minutes away. Now you can taste the Gatorade mixing with the sweat off of Belichik's forehead. You are already celebrating in your mind because you know you're about to land on the surface of the moon and join the ranks of those other impossible dreamers. Life is so great to you right now. You are totally rubbing it in your rival's face. And then, just when you thought your mashed potato life was drowning in gravy and you turn around to the bar to try some scotch and order another beer, in 30 seconds you've been humiliated in public- your foot is shoved so far in your mouth, you're going to have to shit it out- let me just preface this by saying: they were very drunk by the time I showed up- you've looked up just in time to see perfection shatter into a million tiny pieces while eli "fugly mongoloid" manning grins his retard grin and the man you have successfully been canoodling with all odds against you is making out with some chick in the middle of the room right in your line of vision.
*Let me just take a second here to let you, the reader, in on something. One of the many reasons I was deterred from writing my blog was because of this very incident. The next time I wanted to sit down and write, it was naturally going to be about this particular event that had transpired, but had agreed, for reasons you will understand as you keep reading, to keep quiet about it. I break this agreement now, as well as my silence, for reasons you will come to understand as you keep reading.
For those of you that don't know me well enough and the off chance that you actually follow this journal, welcome to the soap opera that is my life...*
Ha ha ha. Wasn't that a great analogy? Sometimes I effin crack myself up, I'm so good. In fact, I'm so good I have to leave the bar and go outside, the bar I've traveled for an hour and a half on 2 busses to get to to hang out with said less than perfect MVP dickwad of the year. HA. Ha ha ha. HA! It's hilarious! So funny, I could almost punch something. And most likely break it. But then, I'd be a sore loser- I mean, just because you played a perfect season doesn't guarantee you the Superbowl, as we've learned. And, there's got to be a professional level of sportsmanship happening, the ever polite shake of hands at the end of the game, right? So, I put on my Brady gameface, head back into the bar, jaw set like I stepped on a rusty nail and loved every second of it.
Now, if you've so far enjoyed this story, prepare your rubber mootandas
because here comes the part you'll piss yourself over. I walk back into the place, and my very drunk male counterpart is sulking by the bar. I come over, deciding to give the benefit of the doubt, hear the guy out- the "maybe I've missed something and shouldn't jump to conclusions" logic. I ask him why the long face and he tells me he's just gotten told off and almost choked out by his friend while I was outside. Apparently you can miss a lot in a few minutes, so I goad him into continuing. I ask, "Well, why would your good friend that's been hanging out with you all night suddenly fly at you like that, Matt K?"
Is the answer:
a) Matt K accidentally spilled his drink all over him
b) Matt K called him an asshole or
c) Matt K made out with the guy's sister after hanging all over me for the majority of the night?
Let's have some Jeopardy music................................
What did you all wager? If you've chosen option c, you are correct! TA DA! You are so smart, you are so smart! S-M-R-T... DOH!... Sorry, just having a laugh over here, recounting this particular tale always makes me a little loopy. The best part about all this is the way he said it to me, like I should take pity on him because his friend just set him straight for something he not only deserved but that I was almost ready to knock him out over. Men. And, here I was thinking that at 31, they've got to be smarter, no? HA. Ha ha ha. HA! Just having another laugh, my b.
You know, believe it or not, this was not the end of the road either for Matt K. I was so hurt, pissed, and disappointed by him and the whole situation, I said fine- be by yourself, you obviously have chosen by disrespecting me to go on your own. And you know what? He figured out he had been wrong. Maybe they do learn things by the time they're 31 after all? The one thing that redeemed him the most, besides following me around like a puppy dog the whole next day, was the fact that he felt so guilty he helped me move all of my stuff starting at 8a the following morning. It was very convenient, actually, and scored enough points for me to move past it, but not enough that I avoided bringing it up in jest or rubbing it in occasionally. You can't just get away with murder, you know. After what I call "that fateful day," Matt K was on his best behavior. In fact, it truly seemed to me like maybe the recent events had shown him something, proven my metal and my worth, burned through the fog of non-commitment, plus my shit finally came from Boston so I had a bed and clothes and decorations and pictures AT LAST!
Life had thrown me a speed bump, but my struts had handled it beautifully. Matt K asked me the next day if I would please refrain from telling people in my life about his Facesuck Fest 2008 so as not to scew their views of him before he even got the chance to meet them. I agreed and so have kept my mouth shut, but have suffered severe writers block in the meantime because I couldn't not write about this first. Life continued on, easy as pie- more soccer games, more outings with friends (his and even my own), more dinners cooked, and dreams shared... It was the life, really. Even when Matt K fell alarmingly ill, I sat up with him all night rubbing his back, took him to the hospital in the early hours of the morning, went to work for 12 hours, argued with insurance companies and 800 number hotlines for a good 5 hours, procured a prescription, filled it, and took care of him again the next night- whatever you want to call it- naive, stupid, gullible, in love- it was a great almost but not quite relationship and I was truly happy.
One of the best days was right after his little bout with pain. We went early to Malibu for a soccer game he was playing in. The weather was gorgeous that day- sunny, clear, and a nice breeze coming off the coast. The drive was fantastic, as always-we sang to 80s hair metal and rocked out on the PCH til we got there. I ran into some other ladies I had been chatting with at the last soccer match and caught up with them, enjoyed a nice latte from Starbucks, watched Matt K deliver an effing perfect assist to score the game winning goal, and afterwards headed to a beachside restaurant where we enjoyed a 2 hour wait, several bloody marys (maries?), a few mojitos, and 80 degree weather in the middle of February. Some of you may remember my taunting picture message I sent to you that day on the east coast. We finally were seated, ate lunch, and were on our way out of the parking lot, when we randomly came across one of Matt K's friends, Brad (lovingly known as B-Rad). Anyways, we're so close to escaping when B-Rad in a car full of other people Matt K knows pull up past us and B-Rad jumps out and hijacks our vehicle back to the parking lot, dragging us back to the beach bar where we've just spent the last 3 hours so we can spend 3 more. A number of cocktails I opt not to identify and the addition of another 8 people later, we finally manage to escape the rowdy crowd of people we've been swallowed by and head back home to make some dinner.
On the way, a very elusive friend of Matt K's from Massachusetts calls. I command him to bring himself and his girlfriend by for dinner, along with some chicken, to which he agrees. Tractor meets us over at Matt's wearing a Dunkin Donuts t shirt, which pleases me. I like him immediately. Matt K and I cook together, making a chicken and pasta dish with a white wine sauce, singing and dancing in the kitchen while things boil, sizzle, and simmer. We're both red from our day in the sun, and Tractor and his girlfriend are great company and eager foodies. There are no leftovers, the best compliment of all, and we're all having such a good time that they stay and watch a movie with us, "The King of Kong," an outstanding documentary about a Donkey Kong rivalry between adult men that is both compelling and hilarious. Matt K gives me a back rub while I give him a foot massage. How blissful? How heavenly? How wonderful?
And now, children, for Part 4: "The Milk has Gone Sour and Honey is Just Bee Vomit"
One of the many reasons I hate money is that I have none. Despite the fact that I work no less than 3 jobs, every red cent I make goes to that wretched penny-pinching whore, Sallie Mae. Money pisses me off like nothing else. Talking about it makes me angry. Thinking about it makes me angry. Typing about it right now is making me angry. It is the ultimate catch 22 of our society.
Right after what I like to call "The Golden Sunday," I started to be made aware of the dire financial straits I was currently in. One particular day I can recall, I had just returned from going to the doctor's and was meeting up with Matt K for breakfast. There had recently developed an odd feeling of distance in our meetings, but I pushed it aside. I was frantically trying to apply for jobs left and right, hopefully avoiding being royally effed in a few months when my $900/month loan payment kicked in. So, I wasn't paying particular attention to this imaginary line that sprang up between us like the prime meridian and I was pushing myself real hard with work, frequently pulling 12 hour days and stressing out about an upcoming surgery and the frustration of finding nothing after day upon day of applying to 10+ jobs. LA sucks. It is a city solely inhabited by the frequently unemployed and as such, it is so hard to find a job opening. Everything you've ever heard about being in the elusive "right place at the right time" applies to everything from acting gigs to waitressing jobs in this freakin place. Meanwhile, I get a call while we're out that brings me to the brink of my stress level and makes me burst into tears in the middle of CVS. Classy, right?
I'm not a person that whines and cries. I almost never get my way unless I slave for it, so I learned a long time ago that crying is for pussies and nothing helpful ever comes from it. That being said, I was not only pissed about what made me cry but more pissed because I WAS crying. In a public place. In front of my not-boyfriend. Let me tell you about those non-committal ones- don't cry in front of them. They not only dislike it, they then look at you as if you're some kind of nuclear warhead leftover from the cold war that a sneeze could potentially set off. If I were in a snake pit, but was crying, the non-committing would let me be devoured rather than throw me a line.
Anyways, it was at this point when I was visibly and unmistakably upset about something that his coldness was particularly noticeable to me. He kept me at a distance reserved for those infected with Ebola. Or the Black Death. Like not even a reassuring pat on the arm- just this deer in the headlights look at me, like I had a third arm growing out of the side of my head or that my face was imploding.
Which, by the way for all you menfolk out there reading this, please understand that doing this only serves to upset the female even more. Maybe not outwardly, but your lack of concern or caring undermines what little sanity they are clutching to at that point. Regardless, Matt K took to ignoring me, watching TV, playing video games, and finally offering Scrabble as an alternative to get me out of the dumps. He's 31, what can you do?
This was only the first of a string of hang out sessions that were extremely awkward for me to gauge. It was like a hurricane had come and blown out his flame. I wasn't sure what had happened or transpired exactly- for awhile I was upset with myself because I immediately blamed myself for probably doing something stupid, but then as the distance grew and there came more days between phone calls, less offers to hang out, me having to get myself to where he was- not even hearing an offer of a ride even though I payed for his gas on several occasions and come to my place? HA. Forget about it- then I started to get righteously pissed. I became desperate. My brain couldn't handle the overload of so much work, no sleep, money woes, and trying to decipher the sudden change in messages I was receiving from this guy. I broke down and wrote an email- a "what the fuck" email. A "I'm not here for your convenience" email. A "If you want to be my friend now, fine- just effing tell me what your deal is" email.
*Ladies- please note: this is NEVER a tactic that should be resorted to. It certainly does NOT have the desired effect, nor does it deliver the "wake up call" you feel will magically materialize for your male counterpart. In fact, this leads only to more awkwardness and the advent of really lame parting lines when you do hang out. For example, not long after this, I was actually offered a ride to work one afternoon and, upon exiting the car, I got a "Good Luck" issued at me. I was like- really? "Good luck"? That's what this has come to? We've regressed from sharing our lives to "good luck" in a matter of 2 weeks?
Call me a Suspicious Suzy, here, but it seems to me like something I'm not aware of has happened while I wasn't looking. Like maybe another lady has crested the horizon. I'm not sure, but what I am sure of is this: unless I took a dump in bed, there is no real reason for the cold shoulder to be introduced. But, maybe I'm wrong- Men, I appeal to you. Shed some light on the situation. I'm at a loss, here. What is the root of this scramble for escape. I was holdng on with an open hand, here. There was no arguing. The asshole even made out with someone else and I got over it. I mean, really- what the hell do I have to do, what more can I accept, how many times can I compromise til I get something worthwhile to fret about? To invest in? To have care back? From this point on, the story goes totally downhill fast. There are only 4 more interactions with Matt K from where the story leaves off to present day.
1) he visited me in the hospital for like 25 min when I had foot surgery and has since used this as leverage to try and make me feel bad/guilt me into not thinking he's a asshole.
2) he offered a "pity" hangout session with me that could only take place in a small window of time the night he was taking off for 2 weeks to New Jersey (that pit of filth and despair that I like even less now that I've dealt with someone from it), not to mention that he hadn't even bothered to call or text me after coming to see me in the hospital to see how I was doing on one foot, to see if I needed assistance. Or groceries. Or a hand with something. Or wanted some goddamn company. Then had the audacity to tell me I was giving him grief about being the shittiest friend I've ever had because he didn't want to date me, which Matt K- if you're reading this, and I hope you do so you can finally understand though I've tried to tell you several times- is totally off the mark. If you claim to be someone's friend, you check in on them once in awhile, especially when they have surgery and are limited to one leg and crutches and work 2 jobs. And your bullshit excuse of playing 3 soccer games and TRYING TO HAVE A LIFE over that 9 day period of time? If you manufactured a line of Lamesauce and packaged it in Lamesville, Lameland, USA, then marketed it through Home Laming Network with some lame slogan on it for a lame 3 installation payment plan, it wouldn't cover how lame that excuse or reasoning was for not taking 2 seconds to type "hello" or "are you ok" on your lameass cell phone that you lamely bring out to show everyone how lame you are at all other times of your lame existence.
3) After a whole month of not seeing each other face to face and still being on somewhat "friendly" terms, I tried to get my stuff back. So instead of handing it to me while I waited on the corner for him to show up at his apartment after 3 days of trying to get ahold of him and finally texting me a meeting time and then not being there when I came by to collect, he instead chose to drive up, jump out of his car, leave it on the doorknob of his apartment like a pussy, jump back in his car, and drive away, all the while snickering with his 34 year old friend in the front seat of the car when I call him to tell him to come back because I'm standing right fucking there.
4) Lastly, he comes sauntering into my bowling alley last Sunday with a shit eating grin on his face, flanked by two pals from out of town, and spews this "heeeeey, long time no see/ funny seeing you here" crap at me, insulting my intelligence with it and forcing me into meeting these friends of his politely even though I had visions of assault dancing through my head, meanwhile taking them around my place of business where everyone thinks he is a dog for the way he dropped me like a sack of rotten potatoes, then coming back up to where I'm stationed - helping people - and waiting for me to finish up so he can ask me a slew of questions as if he didn't treat me like a piece of shit/leave me standing in front of his building/keeps insisting on how he's my friend though this is the first time I've laid eyes on him in over 6 weeks since I was in the hospital... I mean really, does he think I'm freakin retahded, ova he'e?
everyone, meet Kenny, the retarded white siberian tiger...
So, dear reader, it turns out that Matt K was no better than that other LA trash I had come across before meeting him. In fact, I have learned, and am now able to report, in answer to one of my first poll questions- it IS actually better to be hit on by those who smell like shit. At least they aren't sheisty and underhanded and you know what you get when you look at them. My film partner, Kristen, laughed at the story of Matt K and congratulated me on surviving my first LA man. She suggested creating our next script around stories as wildly entertaining and ridiculous as the story of Matt K, as well as a collection of other works that her and I have a bevy to choose from. Oh well, what can you do?
You live, you learn, you get rubber mootands, because I'm pretty sure this isn't the last thing we'll all shit ourselves over.
Apologies for the long absence in communication. I assure you, after this labor of essay writing, the rest of the stories will flow like the wine I consume on the West Coast. Til next time, dear readers.
Cheers!
For those of you unfamiliar, bunions are these very unfortunate bone deformities of the foot. From participating in the study, I've learned the following things: 1) Bunions are genetic and they are not because of the kind of shoes you wore as a kid. 2) They form because of an extra bone that grows in between your big toe and second toe, pushing your big toe knuckle outward and forcing your toe inward to counteract and keep your balance, only getting worse over time until your toes are totally sideways or you can't walk at all. 3) If not taken care of early enough, surgery can be very difficult and painful, and recovery requires you to sit in a wheelchair for 6 weeks or more. GREAT! I called the 800 number immediately. Aside from all this other information, they make your feet fugly. I haven't been able to wear open toe shoes for my entire life. Not even flip-flops for God's sake. Can you imagine? Life without flip-flops? Awful! Traumatizing! And trying to buy shoes?! Good luck, arthritic bump on the outside of each foot... I wanted a life free from fugly foot disease, a life where I could try on and buy ANY pair of shoes I wanted, a life where the corrective surgery not covered by my insurance company would be provided unto me for free. Voila, my induction into the Bunion Research Study commenced. 
Run by Lotus Research, a team of very capable medical people that were super nice and very accommodating, the study was simple: answer our survey questions, qualify for the study, meet the doctor and take x-rays, schedule a surgery date, a couple of days in the hospital, and subsequent doctor's visits and equipment-- on them. Oh, by the way, we'll pay you for it too- nothing much really, just $1,000! All you have to do is fill out a survey on your pain every 6 hours... Sounds easy? It was! Too easy. I had my right foot operated on first, since that one was further along in the bunion development than the left. It has pretty much completely healed inside and out: look at how straight the bastard is! And the left foot has gone off even easier than the right-- minimal swelling, not too much bruising... I didn't even need crutches this time! AND this study paid more than the first, gave me 4.5 days in the hospital being waited on hand and foot (literally), and offered much better drugs. Incredible. I only wish I had another foot to have an operation on. Next step: custom insteps.
