Everyone In LA is an REDACTED

by Sarah Fuller

  I had no idea what I’d bargained for when I decided to start taking her to practices. Not only does she learn to master the gymnastics basics, but I get to be locked up with a bunch of parents who don’t know about “quiet” time.

  All these parents have to be cooped up together for an hour in a room while we watch through the viewing window as our children tumble around. And since it’s a small space, others think this is the perfect time to take a call and loudly discuss stocks or remodeling.

  There is a group of nannies who meet to discuss their struggles in the corner, which is always insightful to hear. Apparently, us parents are not supposed to ask if Little Billy ate that day or how many poops he had. Fuck, for a second, I thought this was my kid.

  I don’t have a nanny, though. When I’m at the park and ask a woman which kid is hers, and she says, “Oh, I’m a nanny,” I won’t lie, I stop talking to her. Let’s be honest, we’re not going to have anything to talk about. She’s doing a job, and I respect that. However, at the end of the day, the kid I’m watching, I’m fully responsible for. If Eleanor robs a bank, that shit comes back on me. With Natalie the Nanny, she doesn’t have the same concerns. It’s just a job.

  From attending my daughter’s gymnastic practices, I know about all the drama in the area. I know who is getting divorced, who is looking for work, and who is sleeping with whom. Real important stuff that seeks to melt my brain. I know who is a shitty parent, because their kid throws a fit in the tiny waiting room every week and they literally ask Bratty Billy to “please stop.”

  Fuck! You don’t ask a kid to behave. You put the fear of God into them.

  Then there’s the mom with three children, who doesn’t realize the waiting room isn’t her home and disregards the rest of us while she lets Bratty Billy stomp around the place. She ignores our personal space while she talks to her child loudly in a baby voice.

  Again, it’s quiet time, Marsha. Shut the fuck up and put your toddler on an iPad.

  Bratty Billy, her middle child, who is destined for a lifetime of therapy because of his place in the birth order, kept throwing the glue across the room and stating that it was too hard to paste.

  Yep, Little Billy, that’s why you’re living off the family trust the rest of your life.

  This mom is the one I don’t get. She’s got a young’un strapped to her chest and is smiling at Bratty Billy while he yells in her face. Meanwhile, the rest of us are trying to scroll through Instagram, but she doesn’t give a fuck that I can’t hear Taylor Swift through my headphones because her son is too loud. Half an hour later, the father arrives and walks into the room. She thrusts the baby into his arms.

  “Man, he stinks,” the dad says too loudly, just like Bratty Billy.

  Yes, I’ve been smelling your youngest son’s shit all this time, while your middle child screams about how hard it is to fucking use glue.

  I just don’t get why parents don’t understand how their offspring are ruining everyone else’s lives. I can say that because my kid is too afraid to say anything in public usually. I’ve done my job. You’re welcome.

  In all seriousness, Eleanor is really well behaved because I’m from the south, where we don’t put up with bad behavior out of fear we’re stifling self-expression. Respect and manners are the cornerstones of good parenting. And that means kiddos that when in public, don’t make other people want to kill you.

  I’m not the nice mom who smiles while Bratty Billy says something dumb; I grimace and make threats when Eleanor misbehaves. And we try never to be boring and paste paper together when in public, or talk loudly about how good the glue tastes. I try to keep our activities real, and also entertaining.

  When Eleanor and I pass a complete stranger in public carrying something, I always whisper to her, “Ask him what’s in the bag.”

  Because no one will get mad at a child for inquiring, they usually laugh when mine says, “Hey, Mister, what you got there?”

  I’ve fed her a few lines I’m proud of.

  When we pass a man with a beard, she says, “Hey, you’re not wearing that beard, it’s wearing you.”

  All is fair, dude, your child is somewhere annoying someone, and not with awesome lines.

  When we walk through the parking lot and a car speeds by, Eleanor stomps her feet and yells, “Hey, this isn’t a race track! Slow down!”

  I’m grateful that we live in an area that has beautiful parks, schools, and resources. I’m sure the children will all go on to do things, but I’m going to be honest. They are all assholes, even mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I Live On A Tangent

  “You have three phone dates?” Pelé asked with disbelief.

  “Yep,” I said proudly.

  “When?”

  “Tonight,” I stated.

  “Wait. With three different men?”

  I nodded from my place on the reformer machine. “I’ve slotted them in at 8:30, 9:15 and 10.”

  “What if one of them runs long?” she asked as I slid the strap up my leg to finish the buns series.

  “It will be like a radio show. I’ll be the host, and they’re the guests,” I explained. “I’ll just have to keep them on schedule. I’ll set my Google Assistant up to remind me. I’ll have her say something like, ‘get off the phone, bitch, you’ve got another caller on the line.’”

  My friend Alissa gave me my Google Assistant, not because she’s a good, caring friend, but because she was tired of listening to music through a shitty speaker when she came over. The first time she had dinner at my house, I used my tiny Bluetooth speaker, which had always worked just fine for me. Alissa works for a major music company, so that shit wasn’t going to cut it for her.

  “My ears are bleeding,” she complained, listening to my music whine through the speaker.

  Since I’m pretty sure I’m tone-deaf, I didn’t understand what the problem was.

  The next time Alissa came over, she brought me a present. “A vendor gave me a bunch of these high-end Bluetooth speakers. It’s much better than that crap you make me listen to music through.” She pointed to my tiny, old speaker with a bitter look.

  I would be typing this book on a typewriter if I could. I have had the same laptop for ten years. Yes, because I’m cheap, but also because I was born old. New technology is weird for me to adapt to. Even after I got a new computer, I kept it in the box and used it as an ottoman for the first six weeks. Setting the thing up and moving everything over gave me serious dread. And I usually tell myself that the inferior technology I’m using is good enough. I’m trying to get over that limiting mindset.

  Thankfully, my friends are helping me.

  I went to grab the speaker Alissa was offering me. She pulled it back, giving me a cautious look. “You have to get rid of the crappy speaker, though. That’s the deal. I won’t allow you to listen to anything through that.”

  Damn, she was demanding. I reasoned it was for my own good.

  Alissa watches my cat, Finley, when I’m out of town. I thought that meant she’d feed and water him, scoop up his poop and play with him a little. I didn’t realize that meant she’d search my house, invading my privacy.

  “You didn’t get rid of the speaker,” she texted me one day.

  “I put it in the bathroom,” I replied. “It’s now solely the speaker Elle uses for listening to Harry Potter while she’s in the bathtub.”

  “I told you to get rid of it,” she warned.

  “And I figured that since it’s such a shitty speaker, it should go next to her bath so that way if it falls into the water, there’s no harm.”

  She seemed okay with that for the moment.

  However, the next time she came over, she had another gift. The Google Assistant.

  “You already gave me a speaker,” I said, pointing to it in the corner. “And also, you know that I hate those damn things.” I scowled at the device she was holding, which was probably recording all my words.

  “That’s Alexa,
and she’s a dumb bitch,” Alissa explained. “The Google Assistant is smart.”

  When George and I were together, he would annoy the fuck out of me by repeating himself to the dumb device.

  “Alexa, turn off the living room lights.”

  Five seconds later, when the lazy slut hadn’t done anything, he’d say, “Alexa, turn off the living room lights.”

  Because he likes to waste his own time and mine, he’d say it five more times. Meanwhile, I’d just get up and turn off the living room lights.

  Then when I was talking to myself or scolding the cat for trying to lick the wall, Alexa would chime in, “What is that? I didn’t understand.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, whore,” I’d say. “Go back to your brothel.”

  “I promise you,” Alissa began, “the Google Assistant is helpful. It’s plugged into the search engine, and you can ask it anything.”

  We fired the puppy up, and I asked it the most random question I could think of.

  “Okay, Google, how tall is Gary Lightbody?”

  Without missing a beat, the Google Assistant answered, giving me the exact height of the lead singer of Snow Patrol, also my future husband as soon as he changes his first name. We all know I don’t date Garys. Sorry, no exceptions.

  “That’s pretty impressive,” I told Alissa.

  “And it has games that will keep Eleanor busy,” she stated. “However, the same rule as before applies. You have to get rid of that shitty speaker. Move the other one to the bathroom, this will be your main one.”

  I agreed without hesitation because I’m a liar who has no remorse. There was no way I was putting my second best speaker in the steamy bathroom where the cat was always knocking shit down, trying to trip me to get into the shower. Seriously, that fucker watches me shower every morning. He prowls back and forth in the bathroom, waiting for me to get out of the shower so he can lick up the water in the tub. It’s impossible to relax with him meowing at me and watching my every move. If I lock him out, he rams his head into the door repeatedly and scratches on the wall.

  I need a restraining order from my cat. He’s like a bad lover. He wakes me up in the middle of the night, pounces on me first thing in the morning, demands my attention right after work, and watches me when I want privacy. I’ve been doing what I do in most relationships and become super neglectful in an attempt to wean him off of me. It’s not working.

  Since receiving Alissa’s gift, I have found that the Google Assistant is actually helpful. And one of the best perks is that it’s like a babysitter for Eleanor. During “quiet time,” I hand her the portable speaker, and she goes into her room and asks it questions. We may not be all highbrow with a nanny, but we make do.

  Okay, I kind of got off on a tangent there, but in my defense, I live on a tangent.

  I’d gone from not dating at all during the summer to having three phone dates in one night. That was progress. I was getting out there, even if I was staying in so I didn’t have to wear pants.

  “What are phone dates?” my friend Sue asked.

  “Just a chance to get to know each other briefly before we plan to drive across LA for a date,” I explained.

  “Is it like an interview?” she inquired. “Can you ask them stuffy interview questions like where they see themselves in five years? Or what their ideal relationship is like? Or what’s their best and worst quality?”

  “I think that would come off as a little intimidating,” I stated.

  “Yeah, and then after they answer, be all click-clacking on a computer like you’re recording what they said, just like a good human resource representative would do,” she said with a laugh.

  “You’re a sick person and will ruin my dating life if left in charge of it.”

  “Yeah, I will,” she agreed.

  Throwing yourself onto the dating market brings the hounds back to the yard, I’ve noticed. Not sure if that analogy works, but I mean exes. They’ve all come back, bringing their gifts and such.

  Connor called me an hour before my back-to-back-to-back phone dates.

  “Hey,” he said, an awkward quality to his voice.

  “Hey,” I said, programming my Google Assistant with the times for the “interviews.”

  “I sent you a gift,” he stated.

  I sighed. “No,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “I know how much you’ve been wanting some diamond stud earrings,” he stated proudly.

  Fuck my life. I let out a measured breath. “Connor, you realize we’re not together anymore, right? That means you’re not supposed to buy me gifts.”

  “I know, but I’ve been thinking about it and…”

  Here we are again… I interrupted him before he could do much more thinking. “You live far away. I like my space. We were great together, but I’m just not ready for what you want,” I explained.

  “But I think that if we just try…”

  “And you sent me a present?” I asked.

  That was going too far. He was trying to buy my affection, yet again. It did feel nice to be spoiled, I’m not going to lie. It was nice that he remembered I wanted another pair of studs, although diamonds…that felt serious. I wanted them, yes, but not like this. Not right then.

  Finally, I shook my head. “I can’t accept your gift. I’m sorry.”

  “What if I gave them to you in person?” he asked.

  I hopped up from my reading chair. Oh, fuck! I looked out the window to the front step. If he was there, I was calling the cops.

  Thankfully, he wasn’t.

  “No, that’s not a good idea either,” I stated.

  I couldn’t believe I was turning down diamond earring from a man who was offering to travel across the country to give them to me. He had all but promised to carve out his heart and give it to me on a silver platter.

  I eyed the clock. My first phone date was quickly approaching.

  I reminded myself that I’d taken off the summer from dating to spend time with Eleanor. But getting back to dating was for me. I had hardly ever been single; it wasn’t fair to Connor if I took him back, and it wasn’t fair to me if I didn’t get out there and meet new people.

  LA offered a long buffet of pretentious jerks and snotty assholes as potential dates, but I had hope that out there somewhere was a man who was…well, not nice. I don’t think I could date a nice guy. I just wanted someone who could keep up with me. Someone who didn’t mind it when I cursed, and also thought my dry wit was fun and not off-putting. I wanted someone who I enjoyed hearing talk about their day without me going off onto tangents in my head.

  Connor was still deeply in love with me. Just as George had been. And Skyler. Although I’d always appreciated their affection, I’d never completely understood it.

  I guess after all this time, I’ve figured out what I’ve been looking for. And it’s much simpler than I would have thought possible, though it’s something I’m not sure I’ve ever had; not at the age of thirty-seven, when I know who I am and what I want.

  Put simply, I want someone who I’m madly in love with. I want someone who I love as much as the men in my life have loved me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Oh Good, My Child Is High

  The secret to life is to know oneself. And cheese. Smoked gouda and sharp cheddar are the fucking cornerstones of my life.

  Why do I dream about melted cheese dripping off crispy chips instead of seeking a more meaningful reason for my existence? Because life is fucking hard. We’re all struggling. No one is perfect. It’s the reason that we medicate and drown our fears in booze and drugs. It’s the reason that the beauty care industry is a multi-billion-dollar business. It’s why churches stand tall, promising to offer respite for the weary traveler through this abysmal thing we call “life.” None of us has it easy, because to know who we truly are is excruciatingly difficult.

  And so, I’ve resorted to cheese.

  The Pacific Ocean lapped at my feet as I pondered this conundrum
of my life. From the Malibu beach, I could see Santa Monica to the south and the Channel Islands in the distance. Well, I can on a clear day, which this happened to be. The ocean is warmer this year, meaning I can actually stand it. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. I should be running from every wave, trying to keep the goosebumps from rising as each swell washed over my feet. However, this year, it’s almost like a warm bath, which worries me. I’m protective of this place I call home.

  There are four million lost and wandering souls in Los Angeles, each trying to understand themselves.

  In my own attempts to find myself, or at least some enlightenment, I’ve been forcing myself out of my cozy neighborhoods and exploring LA. Yes, I find myself sometimes at the Hindu temple, but I’m not really looking for myself there. Mostly, I’m just trying to learn.

  The neighborhoods of LA are diverse, and I’ve only scratched the surface of exploring them.

  When Eleanor was a baby, I thought it would be cool to take her down to Venice, the place known for its Muscle Beach. Although I did enjoy watching the surfers and weightlifters, I didn’t like the contact high my child received.

  On the streets of Venice, there are smoke shops on every corner, and appropriately, they’re sandwiched between a taco stall and a cinnamon roll store, or something of the like. Being new to LA, I was stunned that one could go into one of the shops and apply for a medical marijuana card and walk out with the real deal. I’ve heard that things have gotten even easier since the laws changed. I could ask that guy I dated, Smoke Shop, but that would involve talking to him again, which might give him the wrong idea.

  I remember Eleanor’s eyes staring wide open as all the strange types passed on the boardwalk, their gross odors catching in the wind. Homeless men pushed carts of empty bottles and cans. Skateboarders swiveled around the chubby tourists. And guys in tank tops walked their pit bulls.

  The ladies are hot, too. All of them inherited the fashion sense that skipped me, and have a body that works those halter tops and platform shoes.