I was at Ivan’s house the other night for one of our bimonthly game nights when my friend John showed up. John is the man who introduced me to Jimmy Voltage when we were in Oxnard. He finds my dating adventures hysterical and is always asking for full reports on the men I have gone out with.
“So have you begun to categorize them?” he questioned me over our game of Cranium.
I thought about it and fear I might be. There are definitely types that I can spot off the bat, and those fall into four categories:1. We will be attracted to each other.
2. He will be attracted to me with no reciprocation.
3. I will be attracted to him with no reciprocation.
4. We will both fail at attraction mutually.
William and I fall into this last category. I walk into the restaurant and know this immediately. And I can see on his face that so does he. The Williams of the world and the Kristens of the world were not meant for each other. I’ve never been able to figure out why, until William starts talking about how much he hates Sandra Bullock. She’s an easy target, but William takes her much more personally.
William is pretty laid-back, so I am rather surprised by the venom in his eyes when he tells me, “I was watching her in an interview once, and just her voice. Oh my God, that voice. She is so fucking obnoxious. I kept wanting to turn the TV off, but I hated her so much I just kept watching.”
Wow. As I think about it I realize that I am probably pretty darn close to a Sandra Bullock in his mind. My voice is too loud, my laugh too incessant, and my need to explain, divulge, and carry on, annoying.
Ivan’s other friend Ric was also at the party. Months ago, I went to brunch with Ric, Ivan, and Ric’s two-year-old son Nathan. I fell in love with Nathan instantly. And when halfway through the brunch, he slid his hand up my arm, looked me in the eye and said, “Mommy,” I was sold.
Ric is in an unhappy marriage and started calling me his second wife. I let him because he’s hot. And sober. And with a full tattoo covering his back, kind of dangerous. I drew the line, however, when we were walking down the Venice boardwalk, each holding one of Nathan’s hands, swinging him into the air, and Ric referred to me as Nathan’s second mommy. I don’t know Ric’s wife, but I can promise that I would not want the father of my children assigning the title of “Mommy” to any other woman but me.
So when I walked into the party, and the first person I saw was Ric, something in me lurched. Nathan was also there, but I tried to keep my distance from both of them. Even when Ric pulled me into his lap, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing his ring, I knew it wasn’t right and wasn’t good, and I’m done being interested in men who do those sorts of things. I made sure that I was not on Ric’s team for the board game and sat across the table to give myself distance. That didn’t stop Ric from sliding his hand across my shoulder blades when he walked behind my chair to go to the kitchen. And it didn’t stop me from being a little wistful that I want a Nathan of my own as I watched him quiet and observant as the adults laughed and acted silly and cooed in his direction.
“I fear that you are going to hate men by the end of this book,” John said as he leaned over while the other team argued about their Word Worm question.
“Really, John? God, I think it’s going to be quite the opposite.” And I do. I am beginning to see that attraction isn’t about the other person, it’s about us. I don’t take William’s lack of interest personally. And I doubt he takes mine as that. We just know what we like. As he waxes on about house music and the clothing line he once did and as I wax on about living in South Africa and 1980s country music, it’s okay that we don’t find a common bond. We take up the time talking as two humans can and do.
And I wonder, what kind of fit am I looking for? Because if neither the artist (#20), the electrician (#6), the TV writer (#1), the medical technician (#4), the bar manager (#5), nor the tennis pro (#15) will do, what will? Should I find another intellectual movie producer like Oliver or lovable fashionista like Sabbath or goofball prince like Frenchie? Because though I might have loved them all, I am not sure if any of them fit, either. That the illusions about what my life would have been like with those men are actually delusions is another silly fantasy I torture myself with as entertainment.
William and I finish dinner. If I could have broken the second part of our date, I would have. But in the end, I am really glad I didn’t. Because Cool as Ice has aged like a fine fucking wine. And I am truly grateful to William for taking me out. Because without that date, I don’t think either of us would have seen it. And when he tells me how I can find furniture-making classes in Los Angeles and how to upholster a couch, I know that this was a Saturday night well spent. So John is wrong to think I will hate men because I am learning an enormous amount from them. I am learning what I like, and what I don’t like. Whom I should get closer to, and whom I should stay the hell away from. And I am learning a lot from each man himself. As I get out of William’s car, I know we won’t see each other again, but I don’t leave with any hard feelings.
At Ivan’s house, I said goodbye to Ric just as coolly. I knelt down and gave my true love, my little Nathan, a hug. He hugged back, which is odd for Nathan. I think he respected the fact that I stayed away from his dad, but he’s only two, and I don’t think he is that observational yet. Earlier in the night, Ric had remarked when I showed him the peach tart that I made, “How are you not married?” For a long time, I thought it was about me. That I was missing something. But I am beginning to think that’s it actually about them—about these men I am having the chance to meet and date and get to know. And I am just going to have to go through a lot of different patterns before I find the one that fits.
21
Date Twenty-One: The Sparkling Ribbon of Time, Act I
The Griffith Observatory was first unveiled to the Los Angeles public in 1935. It was the same year they founded the program that keeps me sober. In 2002, right before I moved to L.A., they closed the Observatory for renovations. And so I remember being at numerous rooftop parties during those years, staring up at the crest-line dome and asking repeatedly because I was typically drunk at rooftop parties, “When do we get to go?” Oliver had promised to take me once it reopened, but by the time it did in 2006, Oliver and I were a long-extinct planet.
When I came to L.A., I didn’t have many preconceived notions or images about the city. Sure, I had seen the Hollywood sign and some vague pictures of Malibu, but most of my expectations came from years of watching MTV Raps and Boys in the Hood. I thought the whole place was going to look like South Central. But the one image I did carry, the one glimmer that this town was about more than movie stars and boob jobs and Ice Cube, was the fact that somewhere in that city I had never seen, sat the Observatory.
Like all things I deem special in my life, I decided the scene had to be just right for my first visit. The perfect date to take me up to Mount Hollywood on his motorcycle, the vintage dress I could wear, and the air of romance that I was determined would be felt like an earthquake up at that great, looming building I saw every night as I drove home from work. When Jimmy Voltage invited me there, it was as though he knew about my lifelong fantasy, and I felt like it was a sign from God that he had chosen the locale. Whoever would think to invite me to the Observatory, one of Los Angeles’s most popular landmarks, but my soul mate?
But we never made it, and I think the sign from God was, “Not yet, Kristen. Not this way.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find once I got there. Stars, Los Angeles, Keanu Reeves? But I always knew it would mean something. It was the grand evidence that my city was built on poetry, not pimps.
The weekend before Siren left, we went up to the Observatory for my first time, and though we hiked instead of going by motorcycle, and though I wore leggings and Nikes and not the vintage dress, and though the only romance we felt was the one we share for life, the scene couldn’t have been written any better. Because it was my last weekend with my friend, I didn’
t think about Jimmy or Oliver or what’s missing from my life. I just knew, like a rock of solid truth, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Which is why I confuse myself when Superman Peter asks me if I want to go hiking, and I suggest the Observatory. Again? I was just there, the memory with Siren still potent, and though I might have an addictive personality, good luck explaining an obsession with a seventy-year-old building to anyone. Also, by our third date, I think both Peter and I know this isn’t going anywhere. After he returned from London, it took us nearly three weeks to set up the date, and apparently the only time either of us was willing to sacrifice was during the day. Peter picks me up in his Volvo station wagon, and it fits his careful lawyer personality to a T. He explains he got the car so that he could go on bike trips. He hadn’t mentioned this yet, and so I ask, “Oh, do you go biking often?”
Peter shrugs. “Not really.”
It’s funny, but I have begun to notice this trait in men. When they first meet you and are excited, they are enthusiastic about everything: the coffee, their hobbies, work, life, the moon. Once they decide they’re not interested, everything ends in a shrug. I take Peter on the trail that leads through Griffith Park up to the Observatory, and we relax into the easy banter of two friends going for a walk.
Peter has never been to the Observatory, and I get excited as we turn the corner, and I get ready to show him the startling white view that greets you at the top of Mount Hollywood. But Peter doesn’t say a word.
“Isn’t it great?” I ask.
He looks around at the Asian tourists, people taking pictures. “Sure. It’s like the Empire State Building.”
I want to scream, “No it’s not! It’s the Observatory!” But I don’t because that would just be weird. I lead us inside, and I am quickly engrossed by all the exhibits and illustrations that break my heart. Like the fact that we are made of stars and that one day our sun will die and that we will never know the end of the world because it’s too far for us to see, and no amount of human willpower can get us there anyway. We walk from exhibit to exhibit telling light-hearted jokes, and I wish we were able to engage in these lessons of the solar system on a more romantic level. Instead, we start going our separate ways through the museum, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by the greatest sense of loneliness. How I wish I was with someone who was as wowed by this world as me. How I wish I could walk hand in hand with some man who looked around and asked questions and felt the same pressing mortality that I do when I realize that we are so, so finite.
Peter and I walk downstairs to what is quickly becoming my favorite exhibit at the museum. During the renovations, a woman named Kara Knack donated over 2,200 pendants, brooches, earrings, and other costume jewelry to what the Observatory calls, “The Sparkling Ribbon of Time.” Each little gem stands for another era in the creation of the universe. From the big bang to the present, it shows us how long it has taken us to get here and how very short of a time we all get to stay.
The Wednesday before, my boss Noelle called me into her office. Recently a manager position in our fundraising department had opened up, and I got the feeling by all her dropped hints that it might be mine.
“How hard are you willing to work?” she asked me.
“Noelle, you know how hard I can work. I’m already taking classes in fundraising. This job is for me.” I didn’t stutter. I didn’t doubt myself. Just as fate brought me to our wonderful organization so many years before, so fate created the perfect job into which for me to move.
Noelle took my hand in hers and smiled. “It’s yours.”
Later that day I accompanied her on my first fundraising tour of our Charter School. We showed the prospective donors our incredible classrooms, our children, our belief that we are all made of stars and deserve the chance to sparkle. I never would have expected that this work could bring me such joy. As I watched our kids run up to Noelle, looking up at her as their hero, this woman who has brought them opportunity as much as hope, I wanted to hug her too. Because she did the same thing for me. And now I stand on the verge of that opportunity. As the children I know came up and gave me hugs too, as one of my favorite students handed me a heart she drew for me, as Noelle smiled over to where I knelt, talking with a little boy about his art project, I knew that though I might be willing to do the work, something else quite powerful actually got me here.
And if I could identify that new God, it would be the Sparkling Ribbon of Time. It would be that great mass of energy that got those molecules moshing up against each other in the first place. It would be the hazy clusters of life and movement that keep our earth spinning, that make the mountains form, that show us that we can’t do it on our own. And for every pendant in our own life, for every Jimmy, for every Siren, for every Noelle and new job, there will be another sparkling gem soon on its heels, showing us that we are cared for. Even when we feel absolutely alone while walking through the Griffith Park Observatory, we are cared for.
“That’s a ridiculous illustration,” Peter scoffs. He is standing next to me, staring at the jewelry. He shakes his head, disappointed. “Fucking L.A.”
He wanders off, and I smile. Because he’s right. You could only find such an illustration of God made out of costume jewelry in L.A. And I’m okay with the fact that Peter isn’t for me. In fact, I’m a little excited. Because I wonder what my next gem will look like. I wonder whether he’ll be the bright diamond brooch, or the pearl ring, or the turquoise pendant. I wonder who he will be.
We finish the tour and grab lunch at the museum café. We sit outside and look at the incredible view of Los Angeles, and though we have been able to talk easily on all the dates thus far, we’re a little quiet now. We know we won’t go out again. We sit under a beautiful tree in the shade as the city, in all its hazy glory, spreads out before us.
22
Date Twenty-Two: The Schmoos
I walk up to my Tuesday night meeting for sober people who want to stay that way and have to pause to catch my breath. Jimmy Voltage stands there talking with some small little hipster girl with her tattoos and fringe bag and old fake riding boots. I can hear her giggling half a block away, and I cringe. I try to casually take the last drag off my cigarette, crushing it out with the toe of my work shoe. This was not the night to run into Jimmy. I am not wearing makeup; I am wearing argyle and Banana Republic slacks. There is nothing cool or fringe or cowgirl about me. I look like any other conservative professional, with my hair in a bun and my work bag hanging limply from my shoulder. Jimmy looks up and sees me. He smiles warmly, and so I breathe it in, walk up, and say “hello.” He instantly grabs me in a hug for which I am wholly unprepared, making me practically trip into his embrace. But it is warm and comfortable, and I am sad when he pulls away. The schmoo to whom he was talking still stands there, staring at her competition, and I can tell she is relatively confused as to why Jimmy is hugging the yuppie.
The term “schmoo” is Siren’s claim to fame. It doesn’t stand for anything, except that it does. It stands for the easy girls, and we don’t mean sluts. No, the schmoos are what my gay friend Tommy refers to as “Ikea girlfriends” because you can put them together without reading the instructions. It’s not that they’re not smart. They typically are. They studied women’s history or geology in college. They get graduate degrees in social work. They do needlepoint or garden. They have a dog named after an obscure musician (Costello, or Niko, or even Ramone). And they stand there looking up into the eyes of one Jimmy Voltage, giggling and talking about last weekend’s “show,” and they don’t show an ounce of the insecurity that lies beneath all of our surfaces.
Because the schmoo is lacking in the one thing that makes dating so incredibly painful and awkward for women like Siren and me—they don’t have ego. I mean, sure, they have enough to survive. They’re actually incredibly confident and cool and uncomplicated, but that’s the thing, ego isn’t confidence. It’s the part of you that tells you that you are so much better than the schmo
o, that she is the Ikea girlfriend and you are Architectural Digest. Then you tell yourself, perhaps with some honesty, perhaps with self-sabotage, that you will never win. And so, we anti-schmoos give awkward hugs and sleep with guys on the first date. At times, we act like we are the greatest things on the earth; other times we are on our knees, begging for them to stay.
Three days later, I find myself sitting across the table at Canter’s, a local Jewish deli, with my date Rob. Rob is the organic nutritionist with the PhD. And unfortunately for him, I find myself trying to forget yet another man on one of our dates. But this time, it’s not Oliver; it’s that damn schmoo lover I have been doing so good not thinking about. But perhaps even more disappointing is that between the last date and this one, Rob has shown some disturbing personality trends.
I was supposed to go out with Rob the night before but had gone to the dentist after work and found myself with three fillings and a mind-numbing amount of pain afterwards. I called Rob to reschedule. He had just left work and as I told him about the pain I was in, I could hear him scoff.
51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life Page 12
