liz in la

bass guitarists still light my fire

Tonight Em & I made a pilgrimage to the suburbs to pay tribute to Journey, to see a Journey cover band called... wait for it... Don't Stop Believin'. 

I'm sure Agoura Hills works for some people, but about forty five minutes out of LA proper I began to wonder if not bringing my passport had been a bad idea. Perhaps I should have dropped Bartleby off at Trilby's, just in case. Somewhere past Calabasas it occurred to me that I forgot to get my final Hep B vaccination. Then, the radio stations stopped transmitting. It was eerie. There was a WalMart. 

We found our exit, but after that, became hopelessly misdirected. Apparently, google maps can accurately chart the ghettos of New Delhi, but not the wilderness that is Agoura Hills. We stopped at a McDonald's for directions. That was a hopelessly futile idea and in retrospect, I wonder why I ever thought it might work. I blame Agoura Hills, it discombobulated me like some of those planets that Captain Kirk visited while captaining the Enterprise.

Waiting in line at will call for our tickets, another thing became clear about the nature of wilderness. Wilderness is freaking cold. Christ on the cross, it felt like Canada.

The band however, pure awesome. I've been lost when it came to bass players since I was 20. Drummers, vocalists - eh. Even the normal guitar players don't do it for me, the bass guitarist is where I live. I dated three back in college. One I dated for a couple of months. The fact that he was a college drop-out working at a fast food restaurant, compounded by his inability to spell had a dampening effect on my passions. That is, until I went to a show and saw him up on stage with that bass guitar. Then there was a lot of not wearing pants in a meaningful way. I threw him over for a sculptor. But that's another post.

So I was not surprised tonight by my attraction to the bass player of the Journey tribute band. His name? Tony Love. He was H-O-T. But it was dampened by the realization that the jean jacket, with no sleeves and the giant peace symbol necklace would be hugely embarrassing beyond the confines of the stage. Also, his profession, bass player in a Journey cover band would not be something I would willingly share. I dare say, I'd likely lie and tell people he was a surgeon. 

yes Ms. Benetar, love is a battlefield

My ex was a domineering control freak who enjoyed reading books designed to help him subjugate and eviscerate his enemies. Sun Tzu's The Art of War, Machiavelli's The Prince, The Laws of Power, etc. etc. You pick up things being around this level of obsessive neurosis.

I caught some of the sickness. I like to be in control, I calculate where the high ground is, I capture it early, and hold it mercilessly. I learned that the most powerful tool in any relationship is the act of withholding. (Because what's the use of having a fucking carrot if you can't dangle it?) It's warfare, and yes, Ms. Benetar, love is a battlefield.

Today I experienced a complex of physical and emotional changes, including depression, irritability, appetite changes, water retention, breast soreness, and changes in muscular coordination. There were remarkably intense moments of rage. At one point, a co-worker reached for my pen, and I hissed at him. In other words, welcome to day three of the PMS jag from hell. I lost my temper and because of this, I also lost the high ground.

I should have hung up the damned phone the minute he asked me, in a bemused and consequently agitating tone of voice, if this was PMS. I told him that I could be cranky any day of the month anytime of the year. It's not hormones, I informed him, it's bitchiness. Also, he now knows to never insinuate such a thing under any circumstance. I didn't feel it was necessary at any point to concede that he was totally correct.

This was an argument about sex -- and we haven't even had it.  Just know I shouted odd, mildly funny things for about thirty minutes. Things like "Liberal does not mean whore! In fact, the biggest man whores I've ever met were ALL REPUBLICANS." He might have taken that one a little personally. I went on to expound on why simultaneous, multiple sex partners is a bad idea. Citing that it's unhygienic and punctuating the point by yelling HERPES -- I think three times. Could have been four.

In short, my position was that it is far too early to be playing with party hats and giving each other cookies. He finally conceded, validating my position. Victory, right?

It should have been, but welcome to my brain on estrogen. After all that ranting and shouting and inchorence, I realized that I didn't want capitulation, I WANTED to be wrong. I went into this argument explaining why I wasn't ready to have sex. And then he agreed with me that it's too early, too soon for a commitment, too fast to know if we should take off our pants. HE AGREED WITH ME.

Now I'm really mad.

what the hell

Trilby's son is 13. Up until very recently he was a little boy. Of late, he's gangly and grows sparse facial hair. He's also cultivated the charming habit of addressing his dissatisfaction by drawing in a huge breath and exhaling while muttering "What the hell." It's super endearing and became Darla's and my mantra for the weekend.

In Darla's honor, I threw a small get-together at my house Saturday night. My neighbor stopped by, drank half the wine and then commenced making sexual comments and disparaging remarks to the female guests. He asked my sister to accompany him upstairs, and I'm thinking it wasn't just for neighborly hospitality. Having crossed the final line, I threw him out. Yes I did. The new guy was sitting on my couch. I stalked back in and said, "Hey, dude with the gun. Way to have my back."

He responded, "You handled that. It was hot."

He finds my sassy temper sexy, because of this, he gets to be a named character, from here known as Shane.

The next morning, sleep deprived and hungover, I took Darla to LAX, where Shane arrests people  works. I rolled out of bed with unbrushed, unwashed hair, no make-up and wore track pants, a sweatshirt, glasses and flip flops. Shane called on the way and asked what terminal we were going to and told me he'd meet us there. I rebuffed him, siting my hideousness. Next to me in the car, Darla confirmed this assertion by loudly yelling, "She really does look like hell." Thanks. Thank you.

Darla and I stopped by the donut shop on the way and there she convinced me to buy him a donut and let him meet us. Fine. But I was fully prepared to blame her if he never called after that.

As we crossed to the terminal he was waiting in the distance in his uniform. With his utility belt. And gun. And a myriad of other shit tacked to him on every sleeve and pocket. I will admit this. It was totally hot. Never have I ever thought I would have that reaction. Because in my soul I see myself as a peaceable anarchist, a hippy, a non-conformist and men who carry a gun while in uniform (sexy, sexy uniforms) represent the man --the law, the rules that are KEEPING ME DOWN, harshing my mellow. You know, because I'm wild. I smoke a joint twice a year. Sometimes, when I'm feeling reckless, I like to drive TEN MILES OVER THE SPEED LIMIT. Yeah. That's right. I Am Dangerous.

He hugged me, and inadvertently stabbed me in the cheek with something sharp tacked to the shoulder of his uniform. I handed him his donut and watched him eat it.  And it was endearing. It was downright fucking cute. Then he carried Darla's 1500 pound suitcase down the stairs to curbside check-in.

Tonight he made me dinner. I was dubious. I was wrong to be. The food was delicious and he grilled it in a manly fashion. He carries a gun and he cooks.

As if this all weren't unfair enough, he drove the final nail in the coffin with the admission that he calls his Grandmother everyday on his way into work. His Grandmother.

What the hell?

the eagle has landed

Darla flew into LA last night and we did some sister bonding over tacos. It was taco Wednesday, you know, because taco Tuesday would have been too predictable. 2 tacos, $2. It's insane, but not to worry, once you add tequila to the bill the tab comes out to a slightly higher number.

Then I took her to experience the grocery joy that is Trader Joe's. It's a hectic place and people in LA are not renowned worldwide for their patience or their manners. A guy bumped into Darla, muttered "excuse me" in a hostile manner and then shuffled off to buy bean sprouts. I erupted in laughter, because when that guy bumped her, Darla whirled and fixed him with the Cabbot Unintentional Have No Idea How Scary I Look Death Glare. I've been told all my life that I do this - with absolutely no idea I'm doing it. After I stopped laughing, I informed Darla of the magnificent evil of that glare. She didn't even know she'd done it.

And there you have it, genetic testing unnecessary -- we are family.

continuing my obsessive love affair with my iphone camera

 

it's cricket season

Stupid good luck omens. Why do luck omens have to be so damned loud, and repetitive and NOCTURNAL? For the love of Christ, it's superstition alone that is keeping me from the shrubbery outside my bedroom window, armed with roach spray and a bad attitude. Apparently, my goodwill towards Crocket & Kringle was passed down as lore to this new generation of idiot bugs.

It's like Chinese water torture. The chirping, the incessant, repetitive CHIRPING. What in the name of all that is holy do these things have to be so HAPPY about?

Nothing. And I'll tell you why. They eat dead leaves and other dead crickets. They live all of two freaking weeks. That horrid sound they make involves rubbing their elbow on their knee at a rate of 62 chirps a minute, the point of which being to attract a female. That just sounds freaking exhausting. I'll also let you in on a little secret, the asshole outside my bedroom window has been trying to find a girlfriend for a week straight. I'm going to guess he's a loser idiot bug. He can chirp all he wants, but it is clearly not making up for the fact that he is balding, a bad speller, doesn't tip valets and thinks that farting is charming -- whatever those things are in cricket equivalent.

Excuse me, I'll be out on my porch, talking into the shrubs, explaining to the cricket that he's a huge dork who will never get laid. And will be dead by this time next week, a virgin.

final random thoughts

20.
I'm roasting a tofurkey for dinner.

21.
Criminals are jacking with my scheduling. I'm dating a law-enforcer. He carries a gun. On the one hand, it's kind of hot, on the other -- really? That doesn't seem like something I would be into. However, there is one thing I know, I have no idea what I want or need, just lots of ideas about what I don't. And he's a Scorpio. Dear God, prepare for impact.

22.
I have always wanted to live in a castle.

23.
Darla is on a business trip out here this week. I'm so excited. We will be tearing it up. Beware.

24.
I haven't had a doughnut in like two years.

25.
I bought blue chenille to reupholster my couch. It is lovely, however, after having purchased it and set up the sewing machine, I have run out of motivation. 

I'm not nice

With full knowledge that trashing your family on a blog is in bad taste, buckle up kids.

My sisters are exempt and awesome, as is the maternal side of my family. The Cabbots are not.

My Grandfather went in for surgery today to clear blood clots from his legs. He pulled through, seriously, this guy has more lives than a cat. My cousin showed up at the hospital today, after not speaking to my Grandpa for about five years. She's an excellent Christian. See how all that church pays off, making you into a really fine person. To posthumously quote my father, "I don't know who she's trying to impress."

The thing about my cousin is that she never had a personality. And I've known her since she was born, so trust me on this one. It made her boring, yet, very easy to get along with. However, in recent years she has developed one, and it is bitchy. Stupid and bitchy. Stupid, ignorant, narrow-mind, self-righteous, hypocritical, uber-Christian conservative and bitchy. Wait, I'm just getting warmed up.

My sister and her boyfriend went to the hospital, too. They met when I was back visiting in September. I stalked the cute respiratory therapist and gave him my sister's number, with the help of my other sister. He was Grandpa's respiratory therapist and yes, I stalk men in hospitals -- but not for me. Hey, life happens. You never know when or where. Apparently, some people find this tacky. Those people can go fuck themselves. My sister, from here  known as Darla, told my cousin how they met.

My cousin said, "Wow. Way to take advantage of Grandpa's situation."

DEAR CHRIST, WHY AM I NEVER PRESENT WHEN PEOPLE SAY SHIT LIKE THIS?!

A
You haven't visited him in 5 years. Shut the fuck up.

B
Remarried, divorcees with fake tits should not throw stones. Ever.

C
Y'all think I'm hardcore. Darla makes me look like a peace loving hippy. That bitch is lucky she escaped with all her limbs. And teeth.

D
She still rats her hair. I'm not sure how that is exactly a rebuttal to what she said, but I felt it needed to be noted.

The cousin asked Darla how I'm doing. Darla said I was good. NO. Tell that whore I worship Satan and assist at an abortion clinic.

As the cousin was leaving she gave Darla her number and asked her to call if there were any updates. After she left Darla handed the card to our Uncle and said, "Sorry. You drew the short straw."

I love Darla.

stuck in traffic on the way to the opera

badass matchmaking mojo

My Auntie L gave me a plastic figurine when I was about 5 years old.  Five frogs rested on a lily pad and the base read, "You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your handsome Prince." I feel she hexed me. I called her out on this over the weekend. In reply, she snorted and said, "Yeah. It's my fault and has nothing to do with your lovely personality."

One of my oldest friends called out of the blue yesterday. She's a married mother of three. She was driving yesterday, pondering why I'm single and trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. I actually appreciate this, as she's always been able to pinpoint my faults with laser accuracy. And while it stings, she is never wrong. She called to tell me her epiphany, which was that there is nothing wrong with me. She said that I know what love is, and is not.  According to her, I have an amazing sense of what love is, as proven by the fact that I shoved her into the arms of her husband. I literally did this, adding "Kiss him!". I am at this moment responsible for introducing five couples. I have a long and storied history of shoving people together. My tactics lack subtlety, but are very effective. My little sister can attest to this.

Then today, I was chatting with a couple I know who are expecting their first child. The guy said, "Without you, we probably wouldn't have ended up together." I was shocked and confused. Apparently, he had been wooing her with emailed poems for months and she hadn't responded to his overtures. Ready to give up, he asked me if he should continue and I asked him if it made him happy to send her poems. He said that it did, so I told him to keep doing it until she asked him to stop. She didn't ask him to stop.

I had a 12 year relationship. It's true, I've had my turn on the merry-go-round. I found it dizzying and most days, severely lacking in merriment. Yet, I'm back in line to try it all over again. I have recently met a man that I quite like. I think it's my turn. For real.