Blake smirked. I suspected he was pretty hammered, otherwise he had no excuse for randomly getting so serious. “Mark, I just want you to know that I really love you as a person.” And to make sure I understood exactly what he was saying, he continued, “As a friend. You’re an amazing person. You’re so generous and like no one I’ve ever met before.”
Truth. Still waiting on the rest of the single gay population of Manhattan to get on board with what Blake and I apparently already know as fact.
“How do you feel about me?” Blake asked.
“I don’t really want to get into this,” I replied. I was, meanwhile, wondering why Blake needed to act as my bridge over troubled water all of a sudden. Until now, he had been my troubled water. His sudden interest in my feelings was questionable. I have a hard time telling people how I really feel about them and wasn’t in the mood to get into it. Besides, I’m more of a “talk-shit-behind-your-back-and-wait-until-you-read-it-in-a-blog” kind of a girl.
I figured since Blake was going to be dancing his way across America for the next ten months, and he kept pushing for me to answer the question he already knew the answer to, it didn’t matter.
“How do you feel about me? Just tell me!” Blake said.
“I’m in love with you,” I replied. Stupid! “I think I fell in love with you the second I met you. And I’m pretty sure I’ve thought about you every day since then.”
I am not one to get sappy, but I almost started crying. I’ve never told anyone that I have loved them while sober, and considering I’m pretty sure the only person I’ve ever loved was my first boyfriend, Sebastian, ten fucking years ago and I was completely hammered at the time, this was a big power play on my part.
Moral of the story is: Blake and I ended up fucking like he was going off to war. Technically, I guess he kind of was going off to war in a way. Touring the country and doing eight to ten shows a week can be taxing on one’s knees. While we were making love, Blake, sweating like O.J. in a lineup, kept saying things like, “God, we would be so good together.”
“Shut up, Blake.”
We finished having sex and Blake left. I texted Ron that we needed to have an emergency get-together and he responded that he had news to share with me as well.
Week Twelve
My final week of P90X and I was feeling better than ever. As with any relationship, I was muting Tony Horton at this point and just watching instead of listening as well. We had been together for three months and the sound of his voice was bothering the hell out of me. Instead, I listened to a constant stream of Kanye West, Eminem, T.I., and Barbra Streisand (or as I like to call it, “My Gangsta’s Playlist”) as I worked out. I was so confused about Blake coming over and my feelings for him that every emotion turned into anger, so listening to rap and Streisand helped me not go completely over the edge.
Later that day I met up with Ron for brunch. He had chosen outside seating, so naturally I was chain-smoking.
“Why are you smoking so much?” Ron said.
“I’m a mess,” I replied.
“How is this different than any other day?”
“Fuck you,” I said as I put my cigarette out.
“Is this because Blake came over and had sex with you the other day?”
“How did you know about that?” I asked.
“You wrote a blog about it, you fucking moron,” Ron said.
“I didn’t know anyone actually read that garbage. Anyway, yes, that is why I feel like crap.”
“I know you love him, Mark, but it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry.”
“I know, Ron,” I replied. “I’ve just never felt like this before.”
“I understand, but these feelings will go away,” Ron said. “I’m proud of you, though.”
“Why?”
“Because after two years of not drinking, you allowed yourself to get close to someone and move forward from everything that happened in the past. Even if you never see Blake again, you’ve grown up. You fell in love, you lost your love, you’ve done so much this year, and you’ve managed to do it all without drinking. And body be right! So there’s your silver lining. Nothing can stop you now!”
“And we can build these dreams together. Standing tall forever. Because nothing’s going to stop us now,” I sang.
“I’m trying to be nice and you’re such an asshole,” Ron said.
“You know I love you,” I said as I blew a kiss to him. “You said that you had something that you needed to tell me.”
“Yes,” Ron replied. “I’m leaving.”
“Ummm … okay,” I said in shock. “Where are you going?”
“I’m moving to L.A.”
“When?”
“This week.”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I yelled. “How is that possible?”
“I have to for work.”
“They’re doing this because you’re Asian, aren’t they? Do I need to speak to someone?”
Ron laughed: “No, of course not. It’s just the nature of what I do.” I still didn’t have a clue what Ron did for a living, but pretended to understand, and he continued. “I always knew I was going to have to leave at some point.”
“What about your apartment?”
“The Israeli is going to take over my lease for me.”
“Well, that worked out nicely, didn’t it?” I said.
“Yes. I’ve rigged my iPhone to get my Grindr to work for L.A. residents, so I’ve already set up, like, four dates for next week.”
“You Asians are nothing if not efficient.”
“Fuck off.”
“Shall we get donut ice cream sundaes one last time?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Ron and I gorged on one final brunch and I sent him on his way. I was sad to see my good friend go, but knew he would be back to visit soon, if for nothing other than a great Grindr date.
I made my way home and could finally feel a chill in the air—the seasons were changing at last and I had finally stopped sweating. As I continued walking down my street, I checked Grindr and saw that Blake was 592 miles away, so I assumed he had made it to his first tour stop in one piece. I told him I would try and keep in touch, but I knew the likelihood of that happening was not good. We were destined to drift apart while he was gone. With Ron also leaving, I felt a very important chapter in my life coming to a close. Both Blake and Ron helped me realize that I could put myself out there and fall in love again. I could make new friends, be they Asian or not, and make connections without drinking or actually leaving the house, for that matter. For that I will be forever thankful to the both of them.
When I got home, I reached for a P90X DVD but realized that since I had doubled up earlier in the week, I was finished with the workout system. My time with Tony had come to an end as well. I looked in the mirror and saw a different person from the one I had seen at the beginning of the summer. There was more definition in my arms and chest, and my stomach was finally flat.
I sat on my couch and lit a cigarette. It seemed that even though I had changed inside and out, I had come full circle and was back to where I had began my summer. At least now I had not only my Marlboro Lights, but a six-pack as well.
SEARCHING FOR JACKIE COLLINS
After three months that involved a rigorous workout program, getting his heart shattered into a million pieces, and canoodling with an Asian, our heroine found himself lonely. Well-toned, but very lonely. In another stroke of genius, Mark decided he didn’t need a man to keep him company when he could get a dog.
After my mess of a summer, I still found myself longing for the companionship of another. All my life I had wanted to be a middle-aged woman and soon realized I was quickly becoming one. Night after night I would come home, alone, watch the daytime television I had recorded from earlier that day, and proceed to eat my feelings for hours on end. I needed to find a new outlet before I undid all of the hard work I had put into having the perfect body. Since I couldn’t seem t
o find a boyfriend in this godforsaken town, I decided it was time to get a dog, because at the end of the day, it’s nice to have someone to come home to. Someone who is going to love you no matter what. I figured since I would eventually have to feed and walk the dog every day, it would have no choice but to love me back. The best part about the situation is, the dog can’t talk back, unlike every fucking boy I’ve ever dated. This whole dog situation may be even better than having a boyfriend and my best idea ever. For months I had been searching the Humane Society’s database for just the right dog until, finally, I found him: a Maltipoo that was missing an eye.
It was instant love. This poor thing had been hit by a car and left for dead with its eye hanging from his socket. Now I’m not really a firm believer in love at first sight, except for that pesky time with Blake, but you know what they say: “You don’t believe in it until it happens to you.” And apparently, it was about to happen again.
The next day, I literally ran to the Humane Society to pick up my new best friend.
Once I got there, I filled out a mountain of paperwork, and after about a half hour, a lovely shit show of a woman named Bonnie came to greet me. Bonnie was a shambles. Her hair was a mess, her outfit was a mess, and her nails were a mess. Because of that, we’d hit it off right away.
“I’m Bonnie,” she said.
“I’m Mark,” I replied.
“Damn,” she said, “you are just about the most gorgeous man that has ever walked through those doors. Did you know that?”
Bonnie had my number then and there. I was buying whatever the fuck she was selling.
Bonnie sat me down and we chatted. I was pleased to find out that Bonnie had the filthiest mouth of anyone I had ever met. We sat in a room filled with dirty cats and I told her that I wanted the Maltipoo with one eye.
“I want Jackie Collins,” I said. “You know, the one that was hit by the car.”
“OH MY GOD! JACKIE COLLINS WAS HIT BY A CAR?” Bonnie yelled.
“Not Jackie Collins the author. Jackie Collins the dog—the white Maltipoo with one eye. I’ve decided I am going to call him Jackie Collins, after one of my many idols in life. Looking into that one eye, I saw something special.”
“Oh.” Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. Heaven forbid a car had hit the real Jackie Collins. I’d be wearing black until she was nursed back to health. “That dog’s name is Mischa.”
“Yeah, I don’t like that name,” I replied.
“But Mischa is a boy. You can’t name a boy dog Jackie Collins.”
“He looks like a Jackie Collins to me, and I’m the one buying the goddamn thing.”
“Whatever,” she said. “You can’t have Mis—I mean Jackie Collins. At least not that Jackie Collins.”
“And why the fuck not?” I said.
“Because he was hit by a car, Mischa—I mean Jackie Collins—is very temperamental. He cannot live with other dogs and your roommate has two of them. He attacks other dogs. Besides, if your roommate has two dogs already, why would you want another one?”
“Because,” I said, “I don’t think my roommate’s dogs like me. They’re always peeing on my shoes and I think they’re plotting my death. Perhaps they’re planning a horrible Jet Ski ‘accident,’ but you can never be certain about these things.”
“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, but there are plenty of other dogs that are just as ready for a new home,” Bonnie said.
“I don’t want any other dog. I want that one-eyed little monster.” I continued. “You see, Bonnie, I’m blazing toward thirty at lightning speed, and the closest thing I’ve had to a relationship was a half-Mexican playboy who has since been shipped off to do dinner theater somewhere in the Ozarks. For the past six weeks, all I’ve done is sit on my ass and eat while watching daytime television. I need the companionship of another or ten years from now, Oprah will be doing some sort of special on me titled ‘The Six-Hundred Pound Man Who Hasn’t Left His Couch in a Decade.’ I mean, ratings would explode, but I can’t be that six-hundred-pound man, Bonnie, I just can’t do it! And since no man will have me, I believe a one-eyed dog is the most logical next best thing to save me from my gluttony!”
“It’s a no go,” Bonnie replied. “If the other dogs you live with get hurt, there will be big trouble. Let me show you the other dogs.”
“Do they have two eyes?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“I don’t want a dog with two eyes. I want that one-eyed dog.”
“Why the fuck would you want a one-eyed dog?”
“Because,” I said, “a one-eyed dog means business. A one-eyed dog reminds me of myself: a scrappy, misunderstood outcast.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re not getting that fucking one-eyed dog, so let’s move on. You don’t seem to understand, you will not be able to walk down the street without having him attack every dog that comes along.”
“Well,” I replied, “I attack every person that comes my way, so it would be a match made in heaven.”
My new best friend Bonnie had forsaken me. I was determined to get that one-eyed little fucker. Bonnie got so annoyed by my constant ranting that she called over Bill, the dog psychiatrist, to come and console me.
“I wrote a book about this kind of thing,” Bill said. He was cool, calm, and collected; i.e., the complete opposite of everything I am.
“I wrote a book,” I said.
“Did Bernadette Peters do the foreword to your book? Because she wrote the foreword for mine,” Bill said smartly.
“No,” I replied. “She is, however, mentioned twice.” That’s how gay I am.
“Well, then, please let me continue,” he said.
“Wait,” I stopped him. “Do you think Bernadette Peters will meet us for lunch? Perhaps she could shed some light on the situation.”
“No.” He was not having any of it. He was all business and continued. “You simply cannot take this dog home. Mischa—”
I stopped him: “Who?”
He put his hands to his head. “Jackie Collins …” I smiled and he continued. “… cannot be around other dogs. He is socially inept. We cannot in good faith give Jackie Collins to someone who already owns a dog.”
I didn’t believe him. I forced Bonnie and Bill to bring me to Jackie Collins at once. I was furious. I wanted this dog immediately and would not stand for such insubordination.
“I have Mary Tyler Moore on speed dial,” I said once we got to where they kept the dogs. “And Sarah McLachlan for that matter!”
“Shut up, Mark,” Bonnie replied.
Bill got Jackie Collins and when he brought him out, he leaped into my arms and began licking my face.
“This dog seems fine to me,” I said.
“Wait for it,” Bonnie said as Bill went back to the kennel and brought out another, bigger dog. The second Jackie Collins saw the other dog, this ten-pound Multipoo leapt out of my lap and began mauling the other dog. I’ve never had children, obviously, but I became overjoyed watching this ten-pound little asshole take down this thirty-pound dog. It’s what mothers must feel when their child takes his first steps. I was overwhelmed with pride. I loved this dog. Jackie Collins (the dog) was such a little bitch. Sweet as pie when all of the attention was on him, but take the focus off him for even a second and he turned into a complete asshole. Sounds like someone I know. When Jackie Collins was done putting the beat down on the bigger dog, Bill returned sans rape-victim dog.
“You see what I mean?”
“He’s fantastic,” I said as I pet Jackie Collins. “He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a dog. And more.”
“You can’t have him,” Bonnie said. Under different circumstances, Bonnie and I likely would have become lifelong friends, as with every other middle-aged mess of a woman I had met, but right now she was pissing me off.
“So what do you suppose I do?” I asked.
“Get another fucking dog,” Bonnie said. Class act, that lady.
“Mark,�
�� Bill said, “why don’t we call you when we get a dog that we think will be a good fit for you?”
“All right,” I said. “But if you call me and I come here to meet either a two-eyed dog or a dog with all four legs, saying I will be pissed is the understatement of the century.”
I left the Humane Society feeling defeated. That little one-eyed asshole stole my heart that afternoon. According to the city of New York, I am not only not allowed to have a boyfriend, but I am also not allowed to have a one-eyed dog.
FAMILY AFFAIR
Sure, Mark is no Oprah, but who is? Oprah isn’t even Oprah half the time. But his struggles with food are a lesson to us all. Feeling particularly blue after the loss of so many people (and a one-eyed dog) he cared about so much, our heroine decided to take a trip home to see the people who made him the fucked-up person he is today.
When I go home for the holidays these days, my trips are quick and dirty. Kind of like a drive-by shooting, but less violent. The family is usually privileged to see me for about twenty-four hours, nothing more, nothing less. This past Thanksgiving, I sashayed home to see my brothers and sisters and a few new members of the family.
“Look who decided to take time out of his busy schedule to see his family,” my mother said as I entered her home. “You can write about us, but you can’t pay us a visit?”
“Hello, Mother,” I said as I kissed her on the cheek.
“I made food,” she said. “It’s in the kitchen. Everyone has eaten already so you can have the rest.”
“Oh, thanks, Mom,” I said. “Leave the scraps for the former fattie.”
“Shut up and eat.”
I served myself the steak dinner my mother had prepared earlier and sat at the dinner table to eat alone.
“Don’t forget, you’re cooking dinner for the whole family tomorrow night,” my mother said.
One of my mother’s favorite pastimes is talking about what your next meal will be while you’re already eating. It’s one of the qualities I love most about her.
Eating My Feelings Page 19
