Find Me I'm Yours

by Hillary Carlip

  “Charming comparison. So I’ll take it even further—Jason assaulted your trust. He murdered your confidence.”

  She was right. But it didn’t make it any easier.

  “And I’ll kill you if you ever go out with him. And I’ll never speak to you again… well, because you’ll be dead.”

  “All right, OK, I won’t see him,” I said, to get her off my back. “I wouldn’t want you to be stuck in some women’s prison with Crazy Eyes and Taystee because of me.”

  “Where the only sex I’d get is with an inmate or a screwdriver.”

  Coco and I binge watched the first two seasons of Orange Is the New Black together, each in one weekend.

  “Obvs by just looking at your sheroes I can tell that staying strong is on your mind, too,” she continued, pointing to my nails, which seem to be the only place I make art lately, if you can even call it that.

  “Exactly.”

  “Would you just freakin’ break down and try the dating site I’ve been on your case about? It’s different than all those cheesydates.com sites. It’s for creatives. That is if you really consider yourself one.”

  “Ouch. ISH. Lame strategy.” I took a breath. “Maybe I’m just not ready to move on yet.” I shifted the focus onto Coco. “So what are you doing tonight?”

  “Helping my friend Mark with his art opening next week.”

  “Is he the one who recently broke up with his girlfriend?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Coco pulled out a cinnamon toothpick and started sucking on it, a habit she started almost a year ago after she quit smoking. At first she was all into e-cigs (of course smoking them in an Audrey Hepburn Breakfast at Tiffany’s long cigarette holder!), but decided she had to give that up once vaping became so trendy. I can only imagine what she’ll come up with next if cinnamon toothpicks become all that.

  “I’m surprised you’re not pushing Mark on me.”

  “I would, but it’s too soon. He’s still fucked up over his ex.”

  “Hello?! EXACTLY my point! Why can’t you see that about me?”

  “The difference is Mark doesn’t WANT to settle down, and that’s pretty much all you think about.”

  “How could I not when I’m surrounded by weddings and honeymoons all frickin’ day long?” I squirmed, uncomfortable with how desperate it was all sounding. “It’s not like I need a man to validate my existence or anything. And it’s not even like I have to get married per se. It’s just that I’m a typical Libra. We’re all about partners.”

  “So then why are you even questioning me? Try the damn creative dating site!”

  “All right. Fine. Let’s do it. Where do I start?”

  “Well, it’s your lucky day,” Coco said excitedly. “I already saved some videos of a few of my top choices.” She pulled up the website in one click.

  “Uh, you seem way into managing my love life. How’s yours? Are things OK with Blake?”

  “Of course,” Coco answered, a little too quickly.

  “All right, what’s up? Talk to me.”

  “Nothing,” she said, a little too emphatically.

  “Did Blake do something?”

  “No. Definitely not. That’s pretty much the problem. He does nothing anymore.” She pulled a tube of dark red lipstick out of her purse and reapplied it. Coco can be wearing no makeup at all, but she’ll always have lipstick on. “He joins bands, then quits or gets fired, and sits on the couch all day and night playing his guitar. How do you become a rock star on the couch? Don’t you actually have to get up and rock?”

  “That’s rough,” I said. “But I know how much you love each other.”

  “We’ll figure it out. But this is about you right now, not me. Come on, let’s look. Wait till you see Theodore Helmsley!”

  We went to Coco’s choices and watched:

  www.CreativeMatchmaking.com/mytoppicks

  “OMG, that guy is a riot!” I said, laughing and cringing at the same time. “And the other guy, I just want to kill myself. But I don’t get why you picked them. If this is a dating site for creatives, shouldn’t their videos be, uh, a little more creative?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And why the chick?” I asked. “Her video was rad, especially compared to the guys, but you know I’m a bi-nosaur. That was a long time ago.”

  “I wanted you to see hers to convince you to do your own video for the site. Treat it like a short film. Do costume changes. Weird locations. Special effects. Then you’re not chasing after any of the guys, they’ll all be chasing after YOU!”

  “Hmm… strategy. I like how you’re thinkin’.”

  “And even if you don’t find Mr. HIM from it, at least you’ll be making art. You’ve mentioned more than once that you’ve been wanting to expand into film collages, right?”

  “Yeah.” I was overcome with sistah love. “I really do appreash you looking out for me. You’re right. It’s time to take some action.” I got up and hugged Coco, and her toothpick totally poked me in the cheek, which made us both laugh.

  And don’t ya know the second there’s any bright/light levity in the office, the dark cloud that’s our boss blows in. Malcolm looks like a white, suburban version of Bruno Mars, only shorter. If that’s possible.

  “What the hell’s so damn funny in here?” Malcolm barked.

  “Um… isn’t Bridalville supposed to be funny?” I asked, trying to sound sincere. It shocks me on a daily basis how someone with absolutely no sense of humor could have been put in charge here. I guess the joke’s on us.

  “Hey, Boss, have a cupcake.” Coco always knows how to divert Malcolm’s attention, and it usually involves gooey baked goods from Auntie Em’s Kitchen in Eagle Rock.

  Malcolm’s attempts to make up for his 5′3″-ness with a lot of bossy bossiness and attitude are always startling and unsettling—especially because when he’s not yelling or scolding or dissing, he’s telling us dirty jokes that are never ever clever, and could be total grounds for a sexual harassment lawsuit.

  But as much as I’d love to skip out on little bigwig and this torturous hades-hole, I need a steady paycheck to have ANY chance of finally moving out of my HOME hades-hole and away from my roommate—Satan in Stilettos, S.H.A.R.I.

  I cannot even utter her name (or write it without some sort of punctuation). In the almost two years I’ve been living in her apartment, here are just a few things S.H.A.R.I. has taken from me:

  Just a Few Things S.H.A.R.I. Has Taken from Me

  By Mags Marclay

  1). My blue halter top with the mermaid stenciled on it. Gone. She “borrows” all my clothes, and if she even bothers to return them, they’re always stained and stanky. “I didn’t take your skirt,” is such a blatant snow job, when it’s mysteriously back in my closet reeking of Christina Aguilera Inspire.

  2). My phrases and words—she spews them out like they’re her own. Stop the abbrevs, S.H.A.R.; they’re so not you!

  3). I thought this one was the worst (little did I know at the time!). She got the exact same tattoo I have!!!! SWEARS! And it’s not just a tattoo parlor top five generic butterfly or tribal band. It’s of Lucky the Leprechaun from Lucky Charms cereal! She says hers is totally different since he’s holding up a yellow marshmallow star, instead of mine who’s got the pink marshmallow heart! And hers is on her ass, instead of on her thigh like mine. Yeah, so totally and completely different. Now the phrase “Magically Delicious” is forever sullied for me, as S.H.A.R.I. is “Maniacally Deceitful.”

  4). But the tattoo steal was nothing compared to the night I came home late from work and found my BF Jason, who was waiting for me, unwittingly trapped into a lap dance courtesy of my shameless roomie. I walked in just as he was pushing her off him. (This was before he slept with my neighbor, Amanda. I guess his lap couldn’t resist that one.)

  So why don’t I just move out? Well, every time I’ve indicated, mentioned, threatened, and declared, it’s gone a little something like this:

  S.H.A.R.I.: “Go
ahead. Oh, but I’m keeping your last month’s rent, security deposit, and here’s a bill for $1,247.32 to replace the baseboards your dogs have chewed, steam clean the carpet where you spilled red wine, and repaint the walls where you tacked, nailed, and taped your colleges….” (Yeah, she says COLLEGES, not COLLAGES!)

  Between that, and the fact that I’d have to pay an additional first, last, and security deposit anywhere I would move to, I may be imprisoned in this apartment for eternity, Warden S.H.A.R.I. rattling the keys.

  Anyway/anyways/anywho, you’ll get an inkling why Coco and I call her the Stacktress. And the Racktress. And of course the Hacktress, by taking a gander at her website.

  But while you’re there, PLEASE DON’T BUY any of her pinup photos!!! It will only encourage her! (And she makes even MORE money when she has “specials” and sells AUTOGRAPHED pics like she’s some rock star!! What is up with that?!)

  Here she is clothed, so you can only imagine…

  Check out “more” of her at www.ShariActs4U.com

  (Oh, and see if you can find the insane pic where her knees are up and they look like they’re her boobs. Would anyone really buy a photo of a girl with knee boobs?!)

  Coco’s fake laugh jolted me out of my S.H.A.R.I.mare, signaling that Malcolm had just told one of his idiotic filthy jokes. He repeated the punch line, “Liquor in the front, poker in the rear,” and I joined in with more of a faux chortle than a guffaw (I change it up for Malcolm).

  Very happy with our response, boss man took a red velvet cupcake and strolled out in his three-inch-heel lady boots. Coco picked up where we left off.

  “So when do you start filming?”

  “Really?” I grabbed a cupcake, too, since Coco always brings extra for us both. “You think I should go for it?” I was already having doubts.

  “Absofuckinglutely!”

  “OK, but I want to use a real camera,” I said, licking the frosting off my top lip. “No iPhone bullshit with some trendy filter app. I’d even get a Super 8 if I didn’t need a projector and screen! Don’t ya think?”

  “Fine, whatever it takes.”

  “So where can I get a camera?”

  And simultaneously, like we were Siamese twins conjoined at the larynx (would that be Siamultaneously?), we both said, “Craigslist.”

  So I guess I have a date tonight after all. I’ll be hanging out with Craig.

  Chapter 3

  What is it that makes someone think someone else would be interested in buying a tarantula for $15.00? Or for that matter, who would offer a hand job in trade for tickets to see a giant panda at the Washington, D.C., zoo?

  I spend hours of my life on Craigslist. When I’m not trolling for better paying, less torturous jobs, I’m reading my fave things, the Missed Connections. These listings bring strangers together who experienced a brief moment of serendipity, and then take it a step further, trying to actually find the boy or girl or man or woman or other that they had five seconds of eye contact with (or even just spied from afar), buried among thousands of mundane postings.

  “You were wearing a red hoodie in CVS, buying Gas Ex.” “Burger King Cashier—you were on a headset and said, ‘Thank you for your order.’ I said, ‘You have a great voice.’”

  TOTALLY HOT, right? But who am I to judge? Maybe if I did a listing for even ONE of the random strangers I cruise on a daily basis, I would find my missed connection.

  Before I even had a chance to get to the FOR SALE section to look for a cheap video camera, there was a knock at my door. My kids jumped from the bed and went crazy barking. I have two dogs that I rescued—one in Echo Park and the other on the Hollywood Freeway north, where she was running through traffic. Somehow I single-handedly managed to stop the cars and scoop her up like Xena: Warrior Princess, only stupid.

  I did everything I could to find both their owners, and when I couldn’t, I tried to place them in homes. Uh, for about a week until I realized Boo (shout-out to my first love!) and Toupee (well, she looks like one!) would be best off living with me even though the TWOCtress is allergic. Or maybe BECAUSE she is!

  “Maggie!” S.H.A.R.I. called out in her sickeningly coy, manipulative, super-sweet voice that grates on me EVEN MORE since I caught her trying to grind herself into my boyfriend’s lap. “Can you help me zip my dress up?”

  Seriously? I mean it’s no surprise she can’t fit her surgically enhanced XXX-large lassies into her dress all by herself, but she has to ask ME to help? What’s next, “Will you adjust my thong a little left so it goes right into my crack?”

  “All right, come in.” If I were going to be her dresser, she would have to go on her date with an allergic reaction runny nose and itchy eyes under her Latissed Miss Piggy lashes. Fair trade.

  She backed a few inches into my room, lifting her bottle-blonde hair up off her spray-tanned shoulders. “I’m having drinks with a big producer who works at Paramount.”

  Well, a fitting studio since I have no doubt that after drinks, the Pair will Mount. Not that I have a problem with that, just as long as it’s not with one of MY friends.

  “There you go,” I said, once she was fully zipped in.

  “Can I borrow your black boots?”

  Having an identity-stealing roommate is one thing, but does she have to wear the same size shoe as I do? “Sorry, I’m wearing them tonight.”

  “How about the black strappy platforms then?”

  “Nope. Sorry. Those too. I’m going to some weird gallery opening,” I started lying, something I never used to do before I met the Lacktress, “and I’m going to wear one of each.”

  As much as S.H.A.R.I. wants to mimic my every move, I knew this would be going a bit too far for her.

  “Whatever,” she said. “ACHOO! ACHOO! ACHOO!” She sneezed three times as she ran out of the room. Boo and Toupee were doing their jobs. As an added bonus, they even chased her down the hall, barking.

  Since I slept at Jason’s most nights, I had spent more time in the last five and a half weeks at my apartment than I had in the entire two years since I moved in. That was utterly S.C.A.R.I.

  Back to the task at hand. I scoured the ads on Craigslist, looking for video cameras in L.A. under fifty bucks.

  OK, how could there be three different cameras (JVC Digi Camcorder, Sony Handy Cam, and an RCA Camcorder) for sale, and on each ad it said that the seller ‘lost the charger at Disneyland’? It’s either a theme park epidemic, or a total scam, and my money (if I had any) would be on the latter.

  And what’s with the misspellings, peeps?! One “missed placed” the lens cap, and another “mipsplaced” the charger. I found the lack of proper spelling more concerning than the mipssing items.

  AND just like the lack of production values on the “creative” dating site videos, don’t people get that maybe their item would sell faster, or for more money, if they took a picture of it, say, on a solid background rather than next to their cat’s litter box? Or on their dead grandmother’s paisley bedspread?

  The smart thing to do would be to research the difference between all the cameras offered in my low-income category. But I’ve never been one to do the smart thing. I just looked for ads that caught my eye.

  And one definitely did.

  YOU WANT MY CAMERA? CAREFUL, DESTINY INCLUDED

  I clicked through and didn’t even care what the ad said, or if there were any mipspellings! I was sold by the pic alone.

  COME ON!!! Who does that? And what about the viewfinder? That was exactly the entire reason I was getting the camera to begin with! To make art AND find my match! So, HELLO hella destiny!!!!!!

  The rest of the ad was short, and charming:

  “I know a MiniDV is kinda old school—that’s the point. This camera is guaranteed to make you look at the world through a special lens. Intrigued? You should be. And it’s only $43.00 but for you—I’ll give a 53 cent discount making it $42.47. What have you got to lose?”

  OK, I had to meet whoever placed this ad. Man or woman, straight or
gay, young or old, I was sold.

  I dropped an email that said that the ad was killer, and I wanted to buy the camera. Seconds later, I thought about writing back and saying OOPS, NEVER MIND! Really, how can I justify spending $42.47 for another project I’ll probably start and never finish? I can’t have my “destiny” to be flat-busted broke until I get paid in eight days. I made a list of everything else my cash might be better spent on:

  Everything Else My Cash Might Be Better Spent On

  By Mags Marclay

  1). Paint, card stock, leafing pens, adhesives, foil tape, ephemera from flea markets, etc.—supplies for my collages so I could actually make some art!

  2). SAVING (what a concept!) so I could move out someday in the next century!

  3). A plane ticket to go home to NY to see Cooper, my seventeen-year-old tech-wiz pothead brother.

  4). Contribute to an animal shelter, a homeless shelter, help feed the poor, clothe the needy, end discrimination, build schools, or even get a child’s cleft palate fixed through Smile Train.

  But I’m seeing this as an investment in my future, where my financially stable husband will say, “No need to work at a dead-end job, Mags. Stay at home in our beautiful two-story Craftsman house and focus on making your art,” and then I’ll churn out tons o’ work that I’ll sell at top galleries worldwide, and I’ll have so much more than just $42.47 to give—for multiple cleft palate surgeries!

  Before I changed my mind, I closed out Craigslist and FaceTimed Cooper. He surprisingly answered (usually he ignores my semistalking).

  “Yo, Bro. What up?”

  “Nothin’ much.”

  It’s like pulling teeth getting Cooper to talk. He was lying on his twin bed in his dark bedroom. “How’s school?”

  He shrugged. “Sucks.”

  “What else is going on?”

  “Nothin’.” But then he did something out of the norm. He sat up. And even turned on the light. Then he looked straight into the camera at me. “Do you have $500.00 I can borrow?”