California Here I Come

I’m counting down the days. June 6th I take off for California. A day in Atherton, then off to Napa, I’ll sleep in Dixon and check out the prospects at Davis. Ali is making calls so that we can meet up with Andy in San Francisco. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years. I miss my little Castro party whore. Where has he been? I need the Sun King. My life is in shambles.
I don’t know why I’m so excited. My father will probably kick my ass for not having written more toward the Costa Rica book. I’m working on a chapter now but I keep leaving it on the computer in the office. Someone asked me about the book at a party the other night. I told them the basic premise and she thought it would make a good movie. (Kill me now) I wanted say who do you think it should star Ben Affect and Jen Big Ass. Fuck Me! I was drunk and I stayed nice so ya know I get props. I suppose my credibility wasn’t aided by the fact that my car keys were taken away. On the drive home, my almost equally drunk boss was telling something in great confidence. Thank God, I don’t remember a word she said. We’ve exchanged knowing smiles all week. Only I don’t know anything. I wonder what I agreed to or with for that matter. Hell we could have exchanged fetishes for all I know. Maybe I’m the one who should be concerned. It’s a reasonable assumption because for the second time in less than a week a cyber friend has called me a whore. Perhaps I should be more careful with what I mail to people on My Space. Oh, you know what I’m wrong. One called me a hooker cause she’s a nice girl.
Anyway, I’m going to get to sail in California. Mother Ocean I miss you so; maybe you’ll let your girl get some sleep. I told Jacob that I wanted to move back to California. He asked why and I said to change my life, to start over. What I’d really like is to be back in his arms down some fire road. There is no justice in life; it constantly conspires against you. I’m reading Amagansett by Mark Mills. It’s not a great book but I fell in love with this one sentence. We are like servants, laboring under illusions of self –importance, convinced that we’re the true masters of the house. I think that best describes the false sense of control I sometimes feel. I better have another drink and do something self destructive before I become a total bore.

Writers Will Understand

My mother’s neighbor is a Santa Claus. Mom arranged his first gig and she is responsible for his Santa career. He and his wife are childless and they have known me since my early teens. This past year he could not play Santa because he was diagnosed with cancer. He underwent treatment and has a clean bill of health today. During the long months of chemotherapy, he needed a distraction, so he started writing a story. We encouraged him because him well that’s what you do for a family friend. He became obsessed with the project. He drove my Mon nuts with his stories of getting the thing published. The book is about the real Santa, a Santa who foils bank robberies and cures people of cancer. He told me it’s to help adults believe. During my recent visit home, he called and wanted me to read the first three chapters and offer advice. Here’s where I sound like an ass. I didn’t want to read it, but I offered encouragement anyway. Look, I don’t get home often, it was Mother’s Day and damn me I wanted to spend time with my Mom.
His novel was a hand written manuscript. He paid some woman at the local paper to type it for him and correct his spelling. My advice, write about what you know, speak your truth, keep knocking on doors, don’t self publish no one will ever take you seriously, blah, blah, blah. He says, “Thanks Shef, aren’t we just the two writers chatting, I’ve known you since blah, blah, blah.” I say, “Yeah, I know, sorry I can’t read it, only here for a short time, blah, blah, blah.” My Mother calls tonight saying, “You won’t believe what’s happened.” It took all I could muster not to say, “What my old boyfriend rise from the grave” (See other blog to get reference). “Santa’s got a book deal,” she says. He sent the book to ten publishers. He got three rejections, one offer of a contract, but Simon and Schuster are interested and he’s holding out for the best offer.
I’m happy for him, really. I’m also getting drunk right now. I want to scream at my university, “WHAT THE FUCK DID I PAY YOU PEOPLE FOR.” To quote Jethro Mc Givens, “I hate my life, I hate it, nobody loves me.” If you don’t understand my frustration, bitterness, or drunkenness, that’s okay, writers will understand.

Sleepless

I recently went home for a few days. I called my Grandmother prior to my visit and she told me the oddest story. She said that she was walking to her mailbox when a man got out of his car and approached her. She told me that he hugged her and called her Grandma. She didn’t recognize him and she asked him to identify himself. He said he was an old friend of my brother and me. Then she said the name. I promise you that he was never a friend of my brother. However, he was an old lover of mine. He didn’t live in that neighborhood anymore and the whole incident sort of bothered me.
The affair ended badly. I was only 17 when it started and it was rather scandalous considering the difference in our ages. Shouldn’t I have been in school instead of carrying on an affair? Well, I wasn’t in school. I graduated high school early, too early actually. I was smart and driven unfortunately, there was no money for college. I tried to work instead, but jobs for 17 year olds were not plentiful. I was offered and accepted a house-cleaning job, his house. He lived in my Grandmother’s neighborhood. Now the picture emerges. Why the men in my family didn’t try to kill him escapes me. After it started, we were very open about it. I guess my mother and the rest of the family knew how willful I was and they felt that any attempt to dissuade me might backfire. I was left, with a lot of grumbling from my mother and step dad, to learn a lesson on my own. I did, but it took, on and off, a couple of years. I put the incident with my Grandmother out of my mind.
A few weeks later, I’m at home for Mother’s Day and my Mom and I are chatting over coffee as she read the paper. She folded the paper down and peered over it giving me this funny look. Then folding the paper in half she said is this him, while showing me this man’s picture. It was his obituary. I took the paper from her and answered in the affirmative. I read it and thought God he was young. Cancer, I’m assuming was the cause, he smoked. No wife, no kids, and his devout Mother obviously had a great deal in input on the write up. There was a glaring typo which made me upset for a couple of reasons. One, at least your obituary should be free of errors and two, I was mad at myself for noticing the typo. I thought shouldn’t you be able to turn that off at a moment like this you callous bitch. The paper said that he had been ill for some time. Then I remembered him at my Grandmother’s mailbox. He knew he was dying. What was he doing, retracing his steps, thinking about me, trying to make amends, or simply reconciling his life? He died the day before I came home. Many thoughts ran through my mind. Should I stay an extra day and go to the funeral home, no, too many questions to answer there. Did I owe something to him or the past? Love is a weak, fleeting thing. I handed the paper back to my mother. Later she asked me if I was finished with it because she wanted to throw it out. There was that look again. What was I supposed to do, clip out the obit, laminate it, and use it as a bookmark. No Mom I’m finished with it. Now I’m not sleeping again, two, three days without much rest. I keep seeing his picture. It was really a good photograph of him. Obviously still handsome and a man women would sill want. I wonder who took it.

Chance Meeting

I met someone, someone I would like to know better. I wonder if I‘ll get the opportunity. If he starts weighting the pros and cons, I think he will come to the brilliant conclusion that I’m not worth the trouble. In fact, I’m willing to bet that he runs for the hills screaming, the horror, the horror, while burning my phone number. At best, he’ll say to himself, “What the hell was I thinking.”
I asked myself, “Self why are you such a nightmare?”
Self answered, “Because you are a married nightmare you big stupid or did that slip your mind?”
“Geez, that totally slipped my mind. I guess that makes me a bit of an inconvenience.”
“Ya think!”
So if I never hear from him that will be completely understandable, regrettable, but understandable. I didn’t lie about being married. I was very upfront about it even if I didn’t answer his questions about my husband. I appreciated that he let me off the hook when he saw that I was not immediately forthcoming.  I just didn’t want to talk about it or get into specifics. I’m wondering why I behaved that way. Usually I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know about me. Why so closed. Maybe I felt like I needed to explain myself. You know what, I can’t, and it’s too complicated. If I heard that it’s complicated crack from a man, I’d say bullshit. At least that’s what I would have said before. What’s strange is that I don’t feel guilty.  I always thought that I’d go through some painful transformation. It didn’t happen. Everything unfolded calmly and naturally as breathing. I was abnormally comfortable with him. It was nice, very nice. He is much too young for me on top of everything else. I said I would never get involved with someone younger again. My husband is younger than I am.  I don’t have a single male friend who would have a problem if the roles were reversed. A man and a younger woman is a cause for celebration in the male realm. Why am I allowing cultural programming to affect my feelings for another person? Am I trying to equate age with maturity? That is not necessarily how it works, does it. Well, I’ll see what happens. At any rate it was very nice meeting you.

Me

A friend emailed this to me some time ago. She said it was me as a South Park character. The hair is the wrong color and it's longer, at least it is now. The rest is pretty acurate. For the record, I have a glass of wine in my hand at the moment and I don't believe I'm drunk...yet.