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November 18, 2004
Who Am I?
I’m a completely different person.
I’ve been actively petting a dog. For years, I had convinced myself that I was deathly afraid of all animals. I do not go to zoos because I don’t really like looking at real animals in spitting distance (on TV, fine). I especially don’t like looking at them all miserable and locked up for human amusement. Lions and monkeys and llamas and giraffes do not give a shit about us and they sure as hell don’t look happy when we’re staring at them as they shit on their babies and graze on fake grass. Zoos are just rude, in my opinion. So are pet stores in malls. Why would you want to be able to purchase a dog and an iguana in the same place you buy Kiehl’s and throw pillows? Now, this dog shit. My boyfriend has a dog that he really loves. And I can’t be that evil bitch girlfriend that never touches the dog or demands that the dog be outside when I’m around. I’m fucking around, you know.
So I decided to make the best of the situation. Granted, I hate white dog hairs on my black clothes but that’s nothing a roll of duct tape can’t fix. Yesterday I questioned my entire 25-year dog trauma when I was sitting on the floor, petting the dog happily as I baby talked to it. I instantly got up and said out loud, “What the fuck is this! Who am I?” Then the dog tore up my favorite magazine and now I’m over him again. Just ate right through Nick Lachey’s face. I think the dog is confused about my bipolar attitude toward him. Plus, the dog only understands Spanish so when I have to say “you’re so cute” or “sit” or “no” or “that’s my sock you, you dog” I have to pull out all kinds of seventh grade Mr. Rosete’s class. Now, I will say that when the dog cranes his head back to put his mouth near my hand, I do hyperventilate. The mouth area of the dog is the real problem. It looks like it’s in attack mode at all times to me. Even on cuddly little white dogs named Paco. Why does the dog only understand Spanish? My boyfriend is a true genius, that’s why.
If you’re wondering why it takes me forever to post a new entry, it’s because my boyfriend’s mother read the entry about my terrible night with the mixing of the vodka and the whiskey and the vomiting in eyesight of Boy George. Of all the stories she could have read, she read that one. Um, poetic license is all I’m going to say. Anyway, after she read it, she asked her son if I had a drinking problem. No, but why should she believe it! I’m the crazy shiksa off the Real World if you ask her! So there goes all my dignity. I had a few shards of dignity left, hard to believe, but I did. Writer’s block, pity party, straight up stage-my-own-death embarrassment, whatever you want to call it, that’s why I don’t really post anymore. I have to just work through it and get over it, I guess. Coral and Spriteboy made me stop overreacting and told me that I’d be an asshole if I quit doing the site just because of this one incident. You can thank them for my continued showcasing of my own demise. You know, it’s so much less about the stupid website though, and more about my absolute need for her to like me. I like her. She’s adorable. It’s only fair that she likes me. Besides, any mom should love a girl that voluntarily cleans her son’s house in his absence.
Yes, I’ve been going off How Clean Is Your House? style up in here. After President Bush was re-elected, I sunk into a deep depression and decided that the only way out would be to see my precious nugget boyfriend even if it meant fucking off my LA life for a whole month. Whatever, you only live once. Plus, the second I saw Elisabeth Hasselbeck’s bitch face all happy about Bush’s win on The View, I knew I would need some boyfriend stability to keep me from shoving my middle finger in the face of any Bush supporter.
So, I’m in New York now. Long Island to be exact. Anytime I tell my friends from Manhattan that I’m here, they all scoff at the idea that I’d like it. I love Long Island. I don’t know what their problem is. The accent, the diners, the eyeliner, the French tips – all of it is fascinating! Besides, Amy Fisher is trolling around here somewhere and I can’t wait to meet her. I’ve never known anybody that shot a lady in the face. Long Island Lolita was the best news story ever back in the day. She writes a column for the local paper out here. Do you know how exciting that is?
My phenomenal multi-talented boyfriend goes to work during the day. I should go into the city and live life, but my eczema is tripping because it’s freezing! So I’ve been cleaning like it’s 1999. Like the Armageddon is coming. Toothbrush to tile type shit. Mostly out of boredom, partially to be Super Girlfriend and a little just because the house itself is so wonderfully laid out and I like to look at it all done up. Amazing feng shui.
I thought my mother was a packrat with her moist towellettes and soy sauce packets in her wallet, but my boyfriend is even worse. Who needs 12 cans of coconut milk and why are they on the same shelf as the oatmeal dog shampoo and the fluorescent orange hammer? He did just move into this house so nothing has a home and stuff is everywhere, but still.
I’ve been making him go through all his clothes like I’m Oprah and he’s Gayle. Do you love it? Is this flattering? Is this the image you’d like to portray? If not, it’s getting donated. I don’t even think he knows that I get all this crap from O Magazine and from watching daytime television, but he thinks I’m so smart. I did this whole thing with him where I made him go through his home and describe every room, and then tell me what he’d like the room to become. Then, as if I had stumbled upon some straight up knowledge, I was like, “All these things you’re saying honey, they are a reflection of you. You are your home and your home is you. Don’t you see! When you say this is cluttered, you are saying your life is cluttered. Let’s un-clutter together!” I even did the Iyanla Vanzant fist pumping moves, the Vanna White underlining the letters move, the Barker girls showcasing the prize move. I’d even step back, close my eyes for too long of a pause, put my hands together in prayer by my chin and then quietly look up and say, “Yes!” after he said anything. I’m a homemaking lifestyle guru to him. I’m no professional relaxer, no nighttime reality TV watcher, no overly opinionated nobody. I am somebody to him and I love it.
I really don’t have time to being doing this website mess right now. I have to go practice my cooking. I call myself making a Thanksgiving dinner next week. Yes, me! I’m so the person that still measures out exactly two cups of water for Ramen and I call myself preparing a turkey. I think I might just go the roasted turkey breast route. The neck and the giblets and the butt of the real turkey are really freaking me out. It’s the total apocalypse. I’m petting dogs and cooking in straight up suburbia. There are small boys playing soccer in a field across the street, and I can hear them every afternoon. The sanitation man knocks on the door to politely tell me that the 50-gallon garbage cans are not “standard”. The meter maid comes over and checks the water reading whatever-and-such. I gave a little boy six quarters so that on Friday he can get two of his favorite ice creams from the real ice cream truck that comes through the neighborhood. My hormones, my environment – everything is freaking me out. All I have on Long Island that keeps me in my LA space is my daily Coral calls regarding Jeopardy! and the West Hollywood gossip and my turquoise pumps (so not winter attire) that I sometimes wear while cleaning.
And the saddest part about all of it is that while I love my boyfriend and I love his suburban lifestyle that he’s earned and created for himself, sometimes I just want a martini on hot pink cocktail napkin. I really don’t have a drinking problem though. It’s the aura and the vibe of the martini that I miss. Come on, if you could see me right now you’d wonder who I am. I’m wearing a nightgown and a hooded sweatshirt with my hair in a bun while I eat Kix and Google vegetarian menus for this phantom dinner I call myself making before 5:30 tonight. I’m excited about The Apprentice which comes in t-minus nine hours, and I can’t wait to bake my cookies. I’m a crazy person, I tell you, a crazy person.
Long Island is pretty cool though.
Posted by melissah at November 18, 2004 11:14 AM