#54 ME AND HIM=US

My boyfriend and I seem to be on the outs again--what is it with us? I thought he was seeing someone else but do not have conclusive evidence and he dissembles when asked anything point-blank--you can never, ever pin anything on him so easily does he deflect direct implication. Last week I accused him of having a secret life for which he just cynically chortled and went back to his TV program with an air of lassitude; his prince in exile mode. He does not answer my questions or even acknowledge their flimsy existence. Tears give him a rash.

Today I asked him where he had been for the past four days. His answer was brevity itself: “I had to go out of town.” No other woman would let him off with this cryptic, elusive response but I, for reasons of my own, have to respect his gift; his powers of evasion, as if he were a spy, that most romantic of fictional characters. Then again, it just may have something to do with my cowardice, being unable to deal with confrontation, a paltry trait I admit to. After his terse response to my question, I go silent, he stays mum and we try to take it from there.

Me: “So do you want to get together later?”
Him: “Yeah, of course.”
Me: “Should I come over to you or do you want to come over here?”
Him: I’d like to get out, why don’t I come over there…if you don’t mind?” (Notice, he’s walking on eggshells.)
Me: “Yeah sure. Do you want to come now?” (Notice, I’m anxious to see him.)
Him: “If you’re going to be there. It will take me at least an hour on the bus, you know how the 49 is? But I’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
Me: “Okay, I’ll see you then. We can have lunch.” (He loves the rituals of the table.)
Him: “That sounds good. I’ll bring some leftovers from last night, I cooked a bunch of stuff...if you want me to…” (Peace offering.)
Me: “Yeah. Great. I’ll go to BevMo and get us a nice bottle of wine. Do you want red or white?” (Placating fool.)
Him: “Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want. I’ll see you in about an hour, hour and a half at the most. I’ve got a couple of errands but they should only take about fifteen minutes then I’ll get on he bus and be there in maybe less than an hour.” (Renewed enthusiasm, having dodged yet another bullet.)

And so after five days of silence and wonder, we resume our little hazy relationship. I know where he has been, he knows I know but appreciates not having to spell it out. He has been with his ex-girlfriend at her house a hundred miles north of San Francisco. He visits her about once a month ostensibly to help her around the yard that is too much for her alone. At first I was shattered by this knowledge not for a minute buying the yard bit. So much so I gave him an ultimatum: The old “me or her” thing. I even shed a few tears while delivering it. We were having Huevos Rancheros in the Mission. He refused to respond to anything so soap-opera(ish) but held my hand, patted my cheek and asked the waitress to bring a glass of wine, a solution I expect worked well with past girlfriends who were all alcoholics. Over time he realized asking for the dessert menu worked for me.

I didn’t make him state his choice explicitly but I knew if it came down to it, he would choose me. I’m infinitely more useful to him at this stage of his life and his finely-tuned survival instincts know this. He lives by skimming the water’s surface, on the lookout for whatever floating device he can grab onto. I’m it at this juncture: I have a room, a part-time job, a few credit cards and computer skills. He has a floor to crash on at a dour, eccentric friend’s ratty place, no money, zero computer skills and plenty of habits. I’m not exactly a place in the sun but can keep him afloat for at least a day which is as far as he’s capable of visualizing.

What do I get? Well, that is complicated, I might say to sound like a person of infinite dimension but have to admit that what I get is simply his company. I would be alone in my room without him. I would have to have a solitary lunch, probably a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of Chai Spice tea and would definitely not have a nice bottle of wine. I would not make an effort to style my hair, put on makeup or a decent blouse. I would not vacuum the rug or clean the toilet. I would be a paragon of sloth if not for him. I would also not play music or set a nice table. His presence guarantees me a relatively exalted day. He does not deprive himself if he can help it or approve of asperity.

When night falls and we watch the sun setting over the old Gothic church that predominates my view to the west, we will lie in bed together, stoned, talking of art, the mysterious powers of creation and the mystical insights we carry within. We will say things to each other we don’t, as a rule, say to others because no one would understand or find them fundamental. He says I have the true bohemian spirit in a time that is strictly devoted to materialism and I should be proud of that and not fret so much. We go to sleep listening to Haydn or Grieg or if I let him have his way, Mozart. We sleep the sleep of the innocent, all of our cares diminished considerably by lying next to the person who is, in a compelling way, our better half, our more opulent self.

In the morning we go back to being our prickly selves: He has to keep himself afloat for another day in precarious circumstance and I also have to keep myself above water with only a meager raft I keep nailing together throughout the day. The fact that his bulk threatens to sink me makes me edgy and caustic. He responds in kind and we ignore each other for a couple of days before we repeat the whole procedure. We both probably think we could do better but find that the magical bonds, whatever they consist of, have a way of melding us, at least for now.

It’s been several months since I gave him his ultimatum. We both prefer not to remember such earthly prosaic flotsam. He has not been home for several days and I’ve stopped calling. I fume and think he is quite rude: I asked him to let me know when and if he “had to leave town for a few days,” that I wouldn’t object, that sneaking away was not worthy of us. He was vague but half-heartedly agreed knowing some things are unavoidable but could not, from habit, make promises easily. It turns out there is a message on my cell phone with those very words, and the assurance he will call me in a couple of days. Surprisingly, this helps me enormously. I can use a break anyway.

He will always return to me, I think. I will skip lunch altogether today, avoid the mirror and read novels all afternoon. The fact that he is floating out there somewhere makes me happy enough. It’s all the assurance I need for right now; it gives me time to repair the raft.

#53 PROUD GRADUATE OF FUNNY

Well here we are in Day Five, the final day of “Put Some Funny In Your Writing.” It was a long slog for various reasons; I’ve had some personal troubles flay me just before we began and none of it adds up to funny unless you are a masochist which I am not. On the first day we were told to look at ourselves, our own life and start there. We were told to find the humor in ourselves before we take on the rest of the world. A little self-deprecation will get the ball rolling, we were told. I did not have to look too far because I was roiling in self-flagellation--where to begin? There's so much to work with.

We then went on to look at the newspapers for some political satire. There was a pile of misery within that realm and though I could have made a mockery of many items, a specialty of sorts, I dropped the ball. I can’t find the humor yet in massive unemployment, foreclosures, homelessness, credit card default, boarded-up storefronts and crooks cashing in. I can only dread what’s coming which will be more crime, more despair and more families falling apart. That is the saddest thing in all of this. Am I being funny yet?

If you’re waiting for me to be funny, I don’t think it’s going to happen in this workshop. I have so much anger I’m not sure I can turn it into laughter. No one else has been very funny either. Everyone tried but maybe we’re not a funny bunch or in a jokey mood although we were assured that in hard times, humor is the best antidote so let it rip.

President Obama is not a comical figure so even the professional comedians are having trouble. They miss the good old days of President Bush, everyone’s favorite target, and really there was no end to the funny business with that poor guy though he himself has a good sense of humor and can dish it out. President Clinton was a gift from the gods of ribaldry.

All the really ridiculous people have been weeded out of Congress, the news media operating as a quick-flush system somewhat like a drive-through car wash: Slap them up, drown their rusty excuses, rattle their windows of opportunity, flush the dirt from their underbelly, rinse them of the collected grime, quick-dry their tears and send them home cleansed, but not necessarily refurbished.

Today we’re back to self-deprecation, having come full circle. I have a pile of concerns but notice that an anger I thought disappeared after high school when I melded into those good old hippie days of promise, pot and pretty delusions is back in the forefront of my psyche. I forgot it was there; an inner demon who, having been ignored for years has regained the spotlight. Who knew I needed a shrink to help me slough off hidden wrath that was hiding in the shadow, the shadow personality we’re now told we all have? No surprise to me, but I had actually thought all the pot had mellowed me and the ire I once felt, for of all things, my parents, went away when I went away. Now I find out it’s been here all along holding me back, according to the shrink I should never have started with at this late date. And I’m sticking with the term “shrink” because I’m hoping she will shrink my anger into something manageable, like simple loathing. She said it’s okay to use terms of derision if it will help me. She has a maternal side I find comforting but do recognize sarcasm when it’s directed at me.

Shrinks can be funny. Books and movies often portray them in a silly light. My shrink, Michelle, is not, thus far, particularly funny. I make a lot of jokes, she brushes them off until she can stand no more and asks me pointedly if I am using humor to deflect from my a) anger, b) bitterness c) churlishness. I said d) devastatingly discordant dissatisfaction. She was not amused. She never is.

You would think a sense of humor would be necessary in her job but she says, on the contrary, it is never wise for a therapist to jest, lest it be taken for ridicule which the patient may or may not be able to handle. She has to remain professional, that is what she is paid to do, she said dripping with consternation. She added that she leaves the jokes to comedians and suggested I do the same as they have not gotten me very far to date. Point taken. They’ve gotten me into this game of visiting a shrink late in life when I should have it all figured out by now. Who knew I was so fallen? I thought I was just forsaken. Sometimes I wonder if I need a pastor or a priest, maybe a rabbi to figure things out but how would you figure out which one of those characters would work for you? Rabbis are often funny in movies. Would that be an advantage or a disadvantage? I’d prefer a few jokes to help me face my inner brat but as Michelle said, where have they gotten you so far?

Exactly. In this workshop on humor writing that I more or less failed but that does not mean I haven’t gotten something out of it. I found it very therapeutic to scribble all my rabid thoughts and then to read them to my classmates. It would have been nice to get a few more laughs but better luck next time. My husband, Mr. X, whom I introduced on Day Two, thinks I should lighten up, drink more wine and run around naked from time to time. Maybe I’ll take his advice: A drunken naked woman is always good for a laugh. I’ll have to ask Michelle if that could help assuage my furor. Mr. X says if not, it would alleviate some of his. Yet another example of sarcasm. Or is it irony? I really think I’ve learned a lot.

I have written a short story, entirely fictitious, for each day of the writing workshop. See #16 “Not So Doggone Funny,” #31 “Exaggeration vs. Understatement,” #49 “Sarcasm: The Fine Art of Antagonism” and #52 “Funny Or Just Daft?”

#52 FUNNY OR JUST DAFT?

It is Day Four of the workshop “Put Some Funny in Your Writing” and I haven’t been very funny as I’ve admitted in my scribbling of the previous three days.

Our assignment for today is to write a brief monologue for our favorite comedian or if you prefer, write a monologue for your favorite movie star who is not actually a comedian but wants to try their hand at funny.

To get in a funny mood I sometimes pretend I am Larry David. I have no trouble imitating him as it was once implied by my friend that I was a female Larry David and she was wary of me socially, did not want any trouble and when another friend concurred, I was excluded from parts of their life, the fun parts with famous people and parties and rock concerts. How unfunny is that?

The fact is, I don’t pretend to be LD as much as I have that same kind of antagonistic personality; easily irritated by fools, freaks and those who have lost touch with reality but insist on their importance anyway. Let’s just say I know how it is to be the type who puts people off. And yes, I’ve had my share of friends but they drop me. It’s hilarious on TV but no one likes you in real life. I touched on this is Day Three on Sarcasm. I’m a threat but not sure if that’s funny or just daft.

If you were with me in the mall two days ago with my sister you might not find me funny at all but in truth, I was hilarious though I am telling you, not showing you and I haven’t time for showing in this quick exercise that is supposed to be about funny for someone else. Okay, but I’ll make it brief:

A woman in a department store that shall remain nameless, sprayed me with perfume, a brand I particularly dislike to the point of nausea if I get any on me. That could have set me off but I remained cool hoping to escape perfume poison and not end up in the ladies room with my head in the toilet. We were on the fourth floor looking at coats; the new spring selections had supposedly arrived and we were plenty tired of our winter rag and looking forward to something new, something fresh. It was hot in the store, the perfume was making me sick and I started ranting about how there was an entire floor devoted to coats but in actuality, only one coat because every one of them was the same color, black, the same purpose rain & shine, the same material, micro-fiber/poly/latex/rubber-infused/cloth-like substance. This puzzled me as it is a really big store and the variety could have been endless. And although I got a few laughs from other ladies also hoping for a more spring-like coat in, say, coral, white or even basic tan, not to mention the graphics, floral designs and day-glows seen in the magazines, all apparently beyond our expectation, it was somewhat disheartening. Black, take it or leave it. If we wanted black, we could stay with our winter coat, I grumbled to my sister. Everyone laughed and agreed. My sister was tensely pawing through the racks in search of that one treasure buried amongst the dross.

An imperious salesman overheard me since I wasn’t exactly whispering but had begun a whole standup routine on the idiocy of the buyers for this store, encouraged by another woman who added her bit to it, and well, we were on a roll when I was asked to either leave or pipe down and my sister was sorely peeved because we did not get to the fifth floor to look at bras after I told him that I couldn’t help myself so disappointed was I in the coat selection. I insisted he take stock and agree with me. He remained impassive, we were getting overheated, in need of a cooling off and determined to part company if we could only find the exit through that sea of black treachery.

I don’t have time to go into more details of my diatribe because I can’t scribble that fast and we are on the clock but my sister and I did not get a coat that day, much less a bra which didn’t bother me but got her in a snit.

Now, the reason I bring this story into the exercise is because I can see Meryl Streep doing this routine perfectly, but anyone hot flashing or demented by too many disappointing shopping seasons past could do it. That’s all I’m saying and while it’s not riotously funny, it could be mildly amusing on the right person. I did not go into my interpretation of the shoe department, that panoply of torture chambers, fantastical delusion and improbable balancing acts, or the miserably dreary career department; the how-to-dress-for-a-success-you-don’t-really-want-no-one-wants-for-you-but-don’t-worry-you-won’t-be-promoted-in-these-boring-stiff-poly-black-suits-anyway department.

Our time is up, we now have to read what we’ve written to the class. I’m not looking forward to my turn because I don’t think I nailed it exactly but at least I’m wearing a cheerful dress and a good shoe. But someone here is wearing an obnoxious perfume. It’s always something, as Gilda Radner, who knew from funny, used to say.

#51 MORNING DANCE ON VAN NESS

The early-morning hum on Van Ness begins with two cars promptly towed from the front of my building at 7 a.m. Someone overslept and it will cost a bundle. Happily, one guy arrived at the scene of the towing and was able to drive away after they released his small Chevy SUV from the jaws of the tow truck. It then greedily went for an old Toyota that was probably a good car in its day but was looking a little weary though I’m sure the owner will be peeved to see it gone to who knows where. It’s a crummy way to make a living I would think, towing unsuspecting vehicles, but I suppose it could be satisfying if you have a mean streak or unaccountable anger. In any case, the laws of parking have to be enforced; there are not enough spaces for all the vehicles that are driven around this city. Better to take a bus or a taxi--rule of the street.

It’s an overcast morning, a little chilly though the weather report says sunshine in the afternoon. The weather report always says that in San Francisco, the meteorologists rarely vary their forecast even though sometimes a cold rain blankets the city all day. Somehow they never account for it. The radio is now broadcasting Prokofiev's Morning Dance from Romeo and Juliet.

The city is, like every other city, in a recession with high unemployment and a lot of sad people. I am one of them though I expect to be employed this week. I am feeling optimistic about a job interview I went on yesterday where I was finally able to shine. Shining is not getting hired however but I’ll try to stay positive if only for the sake of the children.

How are people enduring this time of such serious repercussion? Our credit is gone, some of us are in default and I can’t seem to think of anything but the economy and my plight, then the plight of the country and then the plight of Europe and I guess I can cover the globe with concern while I’m at it and have a few hours to kill. Mine is just a little plight but still it affects me daily, hourly as it does involve not paying rent and living on the street, not something to look forward to although I’ve never actually lived on the street. Some things are understood.

Everyone is looking for a job, trying to shine a little brighter after being down-graded ever so slightly. Who knew college grads would be looking to work in fast food? Although I don’t know anyone in fast food, I’m speculating based on an article in today’s paper. College grads are bitter having spent so much on their education and getting so little out of it now that jobs are supposedly scarce. I see jobs advertised but maybe the right people do not apply for the right job. This was also suggested in the article. The job interview I went on had more than three hundred applicants, I was informed but many were weeded out immediately for only sending an attachment without a cover letter. “A cover letter is paramount,” I was told. I write well so cover letters are no problem for me and I often get a response even when laced with hyperbole. I expect a good response from yesterday’s interview although am not at all certain. I sometimes mistake an amiable interview with success; I’ve made that erroneous call before. I wish in the case of the beleaguered manager yesterday I could just alleviate his burden and make the decision myself: “Okay, I’m hired. I start tomorrow.”

"And no matter how awful the job is, you have to do it until you find something else!" I sternly tell myself. That is the problem: maybe I'll get the job but then not want it so much. It could be really tedious, the hours and minutes an eternity and I would like to go home and take a nap at some point but can’t, I have to look alive and get through the day while secretly thinking what a mistake this job is, how much better off I'd be tending to my own business which only makes the day more intolerably exhausting.

Thankfully, my car hasn’t been towed. In reality, I don’t have a car which is a relief when you think of what a towing charge plus the ticket will cost. I also still don’t have a job which is a pain; I really need to pay the rent. One is easily evicted from a hotel although again, I’m only speculating, or is it projecting? I haven’t ever been evicted but my time is running out and a job is “paramount.”

I will end this with a note of promise; I really think I got the job yesterday. For once the interviewer didn’t look upon me with a dull disappointed derision for not being his ideal candidate; he may have been dreaming of Tina Fey or Cameron Diaz, depending. You never know what a tired, bored middle-manager thinks during the course of an interview.

No, he was charming, I was charming, the interview was a small miracle of charm. Now I’m waiting for the verdict. I hope he doesn’t take long or I will be evicted. At least my car hasn’t been towed and I have to spend the day retrieving it. The afternoon promises plenty of sunshine if it can be believed and that always improves the attitude. The radio now offers Schumann's famous Piano Quintet, a very fine offering indeed. I’m just waiting for a call and giving you this report that may or may not have any significance whatsoever.