Everyone In LA is an REDACTED

by Sarah Fuller

  “It’s not about achieving the pose, it’s about being able to breathe,” Sami said, her sage witness reminding me yet again that I was holding my breath.

  Then she fucked everything up.

  “For the rest of the month, I won’t be here. I’m going to a yoga retreat on an island in Newfoundland.”

  Dammit, motherfucker!

  Was it too much to ask that my yoga instructor teach me regularly? I only got to take classes on the weekends I didn’t have Eleanor, and that was barely enough to keep my anger management problems in check.

  The last time Sami had a substitute, the freak brought in a sound bath. The hippie explained that the noise the crystal bowl made when rubbed was “washing the soul.”

  Man, I have heard some hippie-ass-shit in my time, but that had to take the vegan cake.

  “The sound bath awakens your inner guide while putting the ego to sleep,” the dumb substitute said as we all lay in savasana, also known as corpse pose.

  “I invite you all to open yourself up for this concert of the soul,” the instructor said, making a deep humming sound with the bowl.

  I was starting to feel like a popular sorority girl, I was being invited to so many things in yoga.

  I did have to admit that there was a calming aspect to the sound bath, but that might have only been because it drowned out the bass shaking the walls from the spin class.

  When we rose from our meditation, my soul wasn’t singing the tunes it had heard, but I might have felt a little more tolerant of the people crowded around me, even if they weren’t real blondes. No one in LA really is… well, except for me. And Ellen DeGeneres.

  Still sleepy-eyed from nearly falling asleep during the meditation, I blinked at the instructor, a hippie who probably hadn’t changed her clothes in a fortnight. She probably wouldn’t until the next equinox. That’s how you achieve balance, right?

  She’d come around to offer us gentle massages during the meditation portion of the class, which I was much more receptive to since Sami had started touching my butt all the time.

  “Thank you,” I said from a seated position, my hands in front of my chest. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” she said, bowing her head to me.

  I decided then that Sami might not be the only hippie I like. This girl had helped me to create space in my body. And when I wanted to flee from the room, challenged by the pose, her words came at the right time.

  “Remember that bringing your mind back to the present moment is where the magic happens,” the substitute said.

  “That was actually a good class,” I said, rolling up my mat and quietly punishing myself for saying the word ‘actually.’

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” the hippie said, not picking up on my slip. She eyed me a bit cautiously. “What did you dream about last night?”

  For a moment, I was utterly thrown off by the question. There couldn’t be anything more random than this sudden inquiry about my sleep last night.

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

  This earned me a disappointed look from the woman, like I should have recorded all my dreams in my journal next to my bed upon waking.

  “How about you?” I said, trying to be nice.

  “Oh, I dreamed I was swimming with the dolphins,” she said. “I was going to take pictures of them and then decided to live in the moment. When I woke up, I researched the meaning in my books and learned that it meant that not just my mind was open, but my other mind.”

  “Uhhh…okay.”

  Damn, fucking hippies never made any sense. They always made feel high when I talked to them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My Neighbors Can’t Hear Me Scream

  Because I own a cat, approximately twenty percent of men automatically disqualify me on the dating app. Apparently, loving an animal that is distant and stingy with its affection reflects on my character. I think that getting a dog would normalize this effect, but I haven’t figured out which one of my friends’ Labradoodles I’m stealing yet. And I’d have to dye the dog’s fur, so my friend doesn’t recognize that it’s their animal when we’re at the park.

  With a sad face, one of the old guys will say, “That dog looks a lot like Cocoa.”

  Because I’ll not have completed the training to desensitize the animal to its old name, it might look up at its old owner.

  “Yeah, well this dog is pink, not cocoa-colored. Besides, its name is Zuma because I named it after a famous literary character.”

  “Oh, what book is the character Zuma from?” the guy will ask.

  I’ll gawk at him in offense. “It’s from one of mine, duh.”

  When I got the cat for Eleanor, I told her that he had to be named after a literary character.

  “That’s the rule,” I stated firmly.

  “But I wanted to name him ‘Twilight Sparkle’ or ‘Princess Celestia’,” she said, referencing My Little Pony.

  I shook my head. “Those are mouthfuls, and he’s no princess,” I said, looking down at the black and white kitten who only weighed two pounds. I’d gotten him from the animal shelter, unlike my asshole neighbors who got their dogs from breeders. Hadn’t they listened to Bob Barker? Spay and neuter your pet to control the pet population, don’t breed a bunch of animals so that mutts congest the animal shelters.

  “I always name my animals after literary characters,” I explained to Eleanor. “I’ve had Gatsby, Huxley, and Ginny. This little guy will be named after a famous character like Harry or Finley.”

  “I know that Harry is from Harry Potter,” Eleanor began, “but where does Finley come from?”

  I gawked at my child in offense. “Have you not read any of my books?”

  She shook her head. “I’m only five years old.”

  I rolled my eyes. Readers always had excuses. “Finley is an acrobat in one of my series.”

  The kitten, who’d only cost me five dollars—not three thousand—jumped out of Eleanor’s arms and climbed up my drapes.

  I raced over, yelling as he clawed up the once pristine fabric.

  There was also a real safety issue with him being on the drapes. When we’d moved into the townhouse, I’d hung those drapes myself. Not having to do any handiwork for the twelve years before, my toolbox skills were seriously rusty. I literally ended up nailing the drapes into the wall after stripping a dozen screws. It’s not safe to even stand under the ones on the northern side of the house; they will stay in the house when I leave because they can’t come down.

  After encouraging the little fucker down, I handed him back to Eleanor. “Take your cat and teach him some manners.”

  She smiled at the little guy and said, “I think he’s an acrobat. I’m naming him Finley.”

  I was about to smile with pride when little Finley sneezed on my child. Later I would realize that five-dollar kittens adopted from the animal shelter actually cost five hundred dollars, after all the vet bills are paid.

  Finley has since grown up to be a fine member of the household. He is a lovely companion to Eleanor, following her around dutifully. I can often find him lounging beside her while she plays with Legos in her room—a set of toys I desperately wanted when I was little. I also dearly wanted to play with my brother’s Transformers and Hot Wheels, but he would have punched me if I ever touched them. Instead, I was given non-engineering toys like Barbies and baby dolls.

  And that’s why I can’t do math. Thanks, Mom.

  Finley growing up with Eleanor has worked out great. He’s protective of her, constantly watching over her every move. He also thinks I can’t feed her properly, which is quite astute since everyone knows I can’t cook. I usually just slice up cheese and veggies and throw them on the dinner table. I think I’ve gone more than six months without using the stove. Not the microwave, though, mind you. I’m not a fucking hippie who is scared of the radiation that thing gives off. It heats up my tea, and sipping on green tea is the only humane part of most days.

  Beca
use Finley must suspect that I’m horrible at providing a balanced diet for my daughter, he delivers a mostly dead lizard to her almost every day. He has a cat door that I should board up, but I’m too lazy to be a doorman and frisk him upon entry. So because I’m lazy and an inept cook, he likes to leave these tailless lizards under her seat at the dining table.

  I think when I start screaming, “For fuck’s sake, not again!” Finley thinks I’m praising him in Catonese for bringing in another bloody lizard. I’m not.

  I then hurry off to grab the broom and dustpan, also known as the “mostly-dead animal removal device.” Hurrying over to the lizard, who is playing possum, I get it trapped and take it outside, where I chuck it into my neighbor’s yard. I reason that they won’t notice the dead lizard, with all the beer cans and flea market finds littering their patio.

  What’s most surprising about my little hunter is that he is confined to a small patio and still manages to bring in quite a few pests. And he won’t leave the patio, even though he can climb the various fruit trees.

  “How do you manage to make the cat mind?” my nice, civilized neighbor asked me one day when I was hanging from the orange tree, picking the fruit.

  “I told him not to, and since then, he knows not to climb the tree,” I stated.

  “But he keeps bringing in lizards?”

  “I haven’t figured out the right translation for that message,” I admitted, my legs kicking as I struggled to reach a plump orange.

  “Do you think that’s safe?” my neighbor asked from the ground, pointing at me.

  I looked down at where Eleanor was standing under me with a basket. “Probably not. Elle, back up in case I fall. I don’t want to hit you.”

  In an unfortunate incident, I’d lost Ginny, my last cat to coyotes. My neighbor had experienced the same tragedy with his cat. Coyotes own the night in this part of LA, waking me up at all hours with their yipping.

  However, if any cat was going to give a coyote a good run, it would be Finley. He’s a hunter, and more agile than even the spriteliest cat, catching only the animals who cross into his territory.

  On Easter morning, I came down to hear a scurrying I associate with trouble.

  I paused on the stairs. “What the fuck are you doing, cat?”

  Finley’s head perked up from the ottoman. Under it, I saw something furry.

  “Oh, fuck.” I sighed, going off to collect the dustpan and broom.

  Rubbing her eyes, Eleanor came down the stairs behind me. “What is it, Mommy?”

  I looked under the ottoman, letting out a breath of relief. “Thank the gods it’s not another mouse.”

  “Is it a bird again?” she asked.

  I reached under the ottoman, shooing the cat away. I pulled out a small, fluffy bunny. “No, for a first, it’s something I don’t mind touching.”

  Eleanor rushed forward, her eyes wide with excitement, having woken up instantly from the sight of the bunny. “Can I hold it?”

  I didn’t think the thing had fleas or teeth that would tear into her. I shrugged and handed her the bunny.

  “Why don’t you release him,” I suggested, opening the back door. “I bet his bunny family is worried about him.”

  Eleanor carried the bunny over to the door carefully and gingerly let him down. Probably not believing that his freedom was real, the bunny remained quite still for several moments before springing off. It was only then that I realized that we’d released the fucking Easter bunny!

  Dammit to hell! I didn’t even make my wish!

  Finley probably gets pretty pissed that we release all of his hard-earned catches, but I couldn’t care less. The cat runs enough of the house. I’ve lost my patience when it comes to pests living in my house. I’m not absolutely certain that I’ve even caught all of the lizards he’s brought into the house, and I fear there might be a family of tailless lizards under the couch.

  Because Finley doesn’t know his true place in the household, he screams at me while I’m in the shower. Eleanor and I like to joke that he’s telling me to get out so he can get ready for work. In our make-believe world, he takes the bus to his accounting firm, where he crunches numbers and bores colleagues with his boring work stories.

  Again, accountants, no one wants to hear about the silly accounting error you found. Ever.

  When I’ve gotten tired of the cat harassing me, and make my way out of the shower, I have to be careful to hold onto the railing, because Finley will trip me trying to get into the dripping stall as I open the door. He doesn’t wait for me to get all the way out before he’s rolling around on the wet surface of the tub.

  Even though I give the cat fresh water every day, he prefers the soapy stuff on the bottom of the tub, licking it up quickly before it dries. Once he’s completely drenched, he goes outside to roll in the dust. Then it’s off to sleep on the white comforter on my bed for the rest of the day.

  And that’s why I can’t have anything nice. Fucking cat!

  In the summer, I was sleeping downstairs because I’m too cheap to air-condition the upper story. Eleanor was at George’s, which meant that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa after staying up too late watching New Girl.

  Side note: my friend, Anne, acts just like Jess from the show, which means that I can’t look at her without laughing.

  Anyway, I woke up to a squeaky noise, like a dog was chewing on a toy. Finley made the familiar scurrying noise.

  I bolted upright. “What the fuck, cat?”

  Behind the entertainment center, I could just make out a hairy form. I approached with great caution, my eyes trying to focus. I told myself that what he’d brought in this time was a mouse. A giant fucking mouse. However, once I got up close and saw the long, thick tail curled around the thing, I had to admit to myself that it was, in fact, a rat. A large one.

  “Get it, Finley!” I yelled at the cat.

  Interesting note: when a cat chomps on a rat, or the rodent is hit with a broom, it makes that squeaky noise like a dog’s toy. Apparently, that’s where the noise came from. Art imitates life, so there you go.

  I decided to open up the house and turn on all the lights, not really knowing what to do.

  Finley dutifully went after the rat as I went to fetch the broom and dustpan. However, I realized I had a big fucking problem: I couldn’t scoop up the ten-pound rat like I did with the other pests. Firstly, he wasn’t going to fit. Secondly, I didn’t want to get bit and get the plague.

  The rat came out from behind the entertainment center, winding around the furniture. I don’t endorse animal abuse, but again, I also don’t like the plague. So I slammed the broom down on the vermin. It made that loud squeaky noise, but, undeterred, kept running for the drapes by the dining room. The ones that were precariously hanging, ready to come down with the slightest tug. The rat latched onto the drapes, about to streak up them.

  Fuck, I can never have anything nice. I just knew the fucker was going to tear my drapes to hell, just like the asshole-cat who had brought him into the house in the beginning.

  At this point, Finley was utterly tuckered out. He decided it was time to retire upstairs for a nap.

  “Finley! Don’t you leave me down here with this thing!” I yelled, not even thinking that I could be waking up my neighbors. The asshole neighbors on one side of me had woken me up enough times. It was payback.

  I ran after the cat, carrying him back downstairs, and positioning him as close to the rat as I dared to get. Keep in mind that I was half-asleep and didn’t really understand my options. That’s why when Finley turned his nose up at the rat, who was fucking playing dead, and left again, I sat down on the couch and put my head between my knees. I started going through my options. Do I call the fire department to get the rat out of the house? Do I set fire to the house first and then call the fire department? I didn’t know how to handle this, but I was moments away from moving out of my place, leaving everything to the rat.

  Feeling like I was out of options, I looked u
p just as the rat streaked through the house. I screamed clear and loud, my best scream. The one I would have given if an axe murderer had entered my house.

  The rat, I realize now, wanted nothing to do with me. He hightailed it for the open door, realizing this was his chance to get away from the vicious cat. He leapt through the door and darted out past the fence.

  The next day, still trying to recover from the trauma, I went to my “good” neighbor’s house to apologize.

  “I’m sorry if my screaming woke you guys up last night,” I said to my neighbor, explaining what happened.

  He consoled me and then shook his head. “I can understand fearing what Finley will bring in next. However, more concerning to me is that we can’t hear if you’re screaming.”

  I made a mental note that I needed to get a dog sooner rather than later. As a bonus, with a dog in my profile picture, I’d appear less bitchy, and more guys would swipe right on me on the dating app.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m Like a Nine-Year-Old Boy

  Dating is fucking time-consuming. Just to match with a guy on the dating app takes hours, it seems. Weeding through the profiles is work. And unlike what I hear men on the site do, I comb through the bios and photos meticulously. If there is a urinal in one of your photos, it’s a hard no. If you’re throwing gang signs, I swipe left. If you have more than one photo with your mom, I’m going to pass. My friend Alissa tells me that men have told her that they swipe right on every girl just because they know that, on Bumble, the girl makes the first move. When I painstakingly craft a response to this guy I’ve matched with, he hasn’t even reviewed my profile yet. He’s using that first communication to qualify me, and that’s just wrong.

  I took a break from dating for the summer just because I didn’t have a few extra hours each day to swipe. Once I do match with a guy, ninety percent of them turn into my pen pals. When I was ten, I had a pen pal from France named Pepe. Guess what I don’t need in my life currently? If you guessed another Pepe, you’re correct.