Dear Life(123)
“I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”
We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.
“You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”
“We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.”
Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.
“Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.”
I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.
***
“I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…”
I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”
“But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”
It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children.
In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.
Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.
I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista.
That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.
In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there.
“I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.”
“You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out.
“But he has a nice car…”
Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.”
“You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.”
“I don’t twiddle myself.”
“Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.”
She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene.
“Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.”
We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me.
“Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy.
Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy.