At the ripe old age of thirty-one I decided to live alone for the first time.
At eighteen years old, I moved out of the house I had grown up in and began a cycle of living with boyfriends and roommates that continued into my early thirties. After a bad break-up I decided to step-out, and face the world, solo at last.
I found an apartment on Cherokee Ave. in Hollywood. A small one bedroom / one bath that allowed dogs, I had a Lab Retriever and a Chihuahua at the time. The neighborhood was brimming with transient addicts and tranny hookers that would wander the streets at all hours looking for some depraved action.
Although it was supposed to be a secured building, the front gate didn’t latch and often there were sketchy ganged-out teens loitering around the garage. A freaked-out friend had given me a small bottle of mace that she suggested I carry when walking the dogs. I took that mace everywhere - to the laundry room, to the mailbox, down to my car, I even slept with that bottle of mace on my nightstand.
A few weeks into my solo girl-power sojourn I started to feel more anxious than usual. I had been battling anxiety forever, taking Celexa since I was twenty-five. One late night I was in my bedroom with the door locked (as if the pin bolt would somehow protect me from home invaders) worrying about earning some much-needed extra cash. I was a casting assistant’s assistant who now needed to buy a larger bottle of mace and maybe even a taser gun. It was fun living alone, right?
Anyway, I needed a second job, so I prowled Craigslist and immediately stumbled upon an ad that seemed to speak directly to me.
It read: Anxious, Need Extra Money?
The advertisement turned out to be for a clinical trial for people who suffered from anxiety. Perfect! I called the center first thing in the morning. They explained that I would have to stop taking my current medication, then they would give me a physical along with a full blood panel to ensure that I was healthy enough to participate. This was amazing! A physical, talk therapy, new meds and a paycheck? What a win, win situation!
Two weeks later I had the physical and with a clean bill of health they sent me home with a week's worth of pills that may or may not be Gabitril (it was a double blind study) so I was either getting the Gabitril or the placebo (sugar pills). I was told that the medication must always be taken with food. A few times when in a rush to get to work, I slipped up but didn’t notice a difference.
About 3 weeks into the study I began suffering from acute anxiety, it was worse than ever and I was slipping into insomnia. Leni, (one of my closet friends who also suffers from anxiety) and I were spending the day together thrift store shopping. I told her that I was convinced I was on the sugar pills and was feeling awful and thinking about quitting the trial, finding a new doctor and getting some real medication.
She said that her brother, Theo – who we were meeting later for dinner - had recently started taking Gabitril and found it very helpful. Theo told me the drug was helping, his only complaint was when he took it on an empty stomach, it made him feel as if, “my head is floating off my body". Well, I never had that feeling and now I was certain I had been taking sugar pills. I asked Theo for his Psychiatrists number.
On my drive home it started raining. By the time I got home it was pissing down. Lying in bed, locked in my room, staring at the bottle of mace on my nightstand, I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I needed air, I tried to open the window but it wouldn’t open. In fact not one of my six windows would open. I called a friend who lived nearby, hearing the panic in my voice he offered to come over with some WD-40 and pry these ancient bitches open. Success! Finally fresh air, I managed to get a few hours of sleep.
I called Theo’s doctor at 8:00am sharp. Luckily he had an opening at the end of the day. Yes! Tired from only getting a few hours of rest, stressed out from an exhausting day of work, dredging across town in rain soaked rush hour traffic and trying to find parking in Beverly Hills… I burst into tears as soon as the doctor asked what was wrong.
I told him the whole story and he agreed that I was most likely on the sugar pills. Not only did he think Gabitril could be beneficial for me but he also prescribed two types of Xanax (the regular kind along with the XR time-release which would hopefully prevent the panic feeling) and he gave me a prescription for sleeping pills.
He then offered me two options for treatment. #1. I could see him weekly for talk therapy along with taking medication, or #2, I could see him every other month to check in about the meds. He told me to think it over and we made a phone appointment for the following week. I left his office and headed straight for the nearest pharmacy where I filled all four prescriptions.
That night I started the Gabitril, and I took a sleeping pill.
The next day I felt better than I had in weeks. Over the next week on all my new meds I was feeling pretty good. I was back to my pre, post, late-anxiety self.
The morning of my phone appointment I was feeling great, hell I had been sedated for a week! I went into work early that day to call the doctor before anyone came in. I rang him at 8:30 as I was asked. When he answered the phone it seemed obvious that I had woke him. He sounded groggy and asked me to hold a moment. I heard shuffling and coughing and when he returned I told him that I had decided to continue with the option #2. His response was beyond odd, he replied, "I have to be honest with you, I am not sure how the jury will feel about this. Jury's are more sympathetic when the patient is seeking therapy." WHAT? What the hell was this man talking about?
I said, “Excuse me?” He said, “Wait, who is this?” I told him who it was and once again he asked me to hold on. Again with the shuffling, I could hear drawers opening and closing. He said,” Oh, I had the wrong paper work in front of me, yes that's fine, let's get together next month. Call my office and make an appointment.”
Even though I was high as a ten-year old’s fuckin’ frisbee, I knew this guy was off… way off.
But the thought of finding another plan to curtail my anxiety, was, well, anxiety inducing. So I tried to stick it out, but when I went to the pharmacy to pick up the good doctor’s refills there was a second medication, something for depression. I told the pharmacist I never asked for that medication, but he seemed surprised and suggested I contact my physician. When I saw the doctor next, I asked him about it and he said he thought I wanted something for depression. When I told him that never happened he just said, “Well that’s fine, don’t take it then.”
The good doctor continued to fill my prescription, without seeing me, for the next year!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
My Man, Shua
Last year I was dating this guy named Joshua. We had been living together for a few months when he invited me to go to Ojai to visit some old friends. The plan was for us to stay with his friend, Astrid, and her much younger live-in boyfriend, Sage.
Upon arriving at Astrid’s house, she came rushing down the driveway in her Stevie Nicks hippie-witch finest and threw her arms around my boyfriend and screeched “Shua! It’s so good to see you!” Sage ambled out in his wooden clogs to greet us and gave a brotherly shout-out to… “Shua!”
Whoa? What? Who? I turned around to see this mystery man. Maybe someone was standing behind us in the patchouli? No, they were indeed talking about my boyfriend. Funny, I’d met his parents, sister, grandmother, friends, business associates, and his neighbors… “Shua”? Nope, never heard it.
When we settled in and had a moment alone, I plopped down in the comfy hemp beanbag chair and asked Josh why they were calling him by this “Shua” name, as it seemed odd to me. He said, “That’s what they call me here in Ojai.” As if that answer made any kind of sense.
Getting to know Astrid was interesting to say the least. She suggested that Josh and Sage bike over to the local farmer’s market to pick up some ingredients for dinner. She opened a bottle of organic, sulfite free Pinot Gris and began to grill me. She asked for details about my life, about how Josh and I had met and then about - big surprise - our sex life. I couldn’t tell if you she genuinely was interested or jealous. When the men returned, she abruptly changed the subject and the four of us prepared some sort of raw vegan meal that ended up making me feel a little queasy.
While lying in bed under a suffocating cloud of sandalwood incense, Josh told me that Astrid had basically slept with everyone she knew. He told me she had some kind of crazy sex drive and couldn't really control herself and that's why her marriage had failed years earlier. How comforting. I wondered aloud why he was telling me this, when it occurred to me that maybe she had in fact slept with him. I asked, "When you say she has slept with everyone, does that include you?" He simply answered, "You say that like it’s bad.”
Um, let me think.
Well, this one time in college I slept with this skinny Goth guy named Blue-haired Gary. For the record, I wish I hadn’t, but that’s a different story - anyway, we all have a past, the point is, I didn’t invite Blue-haired Gary to shack-up with us in our apartment! And if I ever would’ve suggested such a thing, I’d have fucking cleared it first with my boyfriend.
So yeah, a little heads-up would have been nice.
The next few days were more than awkward. Here I was staying in this woman's house, who had at one time been my boyfriend’s lover and all over town people were calling this man a weird name I’d never heard before. Ojai is a small and precious upwardly mobile community northeast of LA that attracts comfortable shoe wearing hippie millionaires, disaffected rich kids, and wanna-be artisans. It’s filled with crystal shops, metaphysical healers, massage gurus and even pet psychics, “Honey, do you think the hamster needs a shrink?” I couldn’t help but wonder, who was this guy I had fallen in love with and why did it take this life-coach infested place to make me realize how different we really were?
I later found out that Schua <ə> is actually something in the dictionary; it's a kind of non-vowel, a neutral sound between two consonants that kind of sounds like a flat "e". When I told Josh this, he became excited at the thought that maybe he should just use this unpronounceable, strange and confusing <ə> as his signature.
When he asked me what I thought, I watched him for a long moment.
“Perfect.”
Upon arriving at Astrid’s house, she came rushing down the driveway in her Stevie Nicks hippie-witch finest and threw her arms around my boyfriend and screeched “Shua! It’s so good to see you!” Sage ambled out in his wooden clogs to greet us and gave a brotherly shout-out to… “Shua!”
Whoa? What? Who? I turned around to see this mystery man. Maybe someone was standing behind us in the patchouli? No, they were indeed talking about my boyfriend. Funny, I’d met his parents, sister, grandmother, friends, business associates, and his neighbors… “Shua”? Nope, never heard it.
When we settled in and had a moment alone, I plopped down in the comfy hemp beanbag chair and asked Josh why they were calling him by this “Shua” name, as it seemed odd to me. He said, “That’s what they call me here in Ojai.” As if that answer made any kind of sense.
Getting to know Astrid was interesting to say the least. She suggested that Josh and Sage bike over to the local farmer’s market to pick up some ingredients for dinner. She opened a bottle of organic, sulfite free Pinot Gris and began to grill me. She asked for details about my life, about how Josh and I had met and then about - big surprise - our sex life. I couldn’t tell if you she genuinely was interested or jealous. When the men returned, she abruptly changed the subject and the four of us prepared some sort of raw vegan meal that ended up making me feel a little queasy.
While lying in bed under a suffocating cloud of sandalwood incense, Josh told me that Astrid had basically slept with everyone she knew. He told me she had some kind of crazy sex drive and couldn't really control herself and that's why her marriage had failed years earlier. How comforting. I wondered aloud why he was telling me this, when it occurred to me that maybe she had in fact slept with him. I asked, "When you say she has slept with everyone, does that include you?" He simply answered, "You say that like it’s bad.”
Um, let me think.
Well, this one time in college I slept with this skinny Goth guy named Blue-haired Gary. For the record, I wish I hadn’t, but that’s a different story - anyway, we all have a past, the point is, I didn’t invite Blue-haired Gary to shack-up with us in our apartment! And if I ever would’ve suggested such a thing, I’d have fucking cleared it first with my boyfriend.
So yeah, a little heads-up would have been nice.
The next few days were more than awkward. Here I was staying in this woman's house, who had at one time been my boyfriend’s lover and all over town people were calling this man a weird name I’d never heard before. Ojai is a small and precious upwardly mobile community northeast of LA that attracts comfortable shoe wearing hippie millionaires, disaffected rich kids, and wanna-be artisans. It’s filled with crystal shops, metaphysical healers, massage gurus and even pet psychics, “Honey, do you think the hamster needs a shrink?” I couldn’t help but wonder, who was this guy I had fallen in love with and why did it take this life-coach infested place to make me realize how different we really were?
I later found out that Schua <ə> is actually something in the dictionary; it's a kind of non-vowel, a neutral sound between two consonants that kind of sounds like a flat "e". When I told Josh this, he became excited at the thought that maybe he should just use this unpronounceable, strange and confusing <ə> as his signature.
When he asked me what I thought, I watched him for a long moment.
“Perfect.”
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Iron-Fisted Grandmother
Last year my 82 year-old grandmother was mugged walking home from a casino at 3:00am on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. Unlike most kindly grandmothers who are home and asleep in the middle of the night, this was a typical night for mine, who spent most evenings at the craps table, sipping bourbon into the early morning hours.
After the mugging grandma moved out here to Los Angeles to be closer to us, her family. My dad asked me to help my newly relocated, vulnerable grandma out whenever I could. Wanting to help, get closer with her in her last years, and of course, make her life a little easier, I made sure to see her at least once a week.
Now when I used to visit her back in Atlantic City, we always did a lot of the same things, but I was a kid, happy to be away from my parents’ watchful eye. So I was happy, and I never really questioned it. Our routine was a little quirky, but fun. However, the L.A. version of grandma is a whole new kind of grandma… a stealth force, iron-fisted grandma, who would bitch-slap General George S. Patton and laugh at his cry-baby tears. And now she’s mine. Every week we run errands… lots and lots of errands.
My grandmother’s name is Verna, she’s a lifelong, heavy cigarette smoker, and she only smokes one thing - Virginia Slims Luxury Light 120’s, which are apparently hard to find. CVS is the sole destination for her favorite vice. And not only do they carry them “but at a great price” according to grandma. So CVS is always the first place on the list.
Next we hit Rite-Aid where she buys TreSemme Freeze-Hold Mega Fast Drying Hair Spray. They do sell this at CVS, but it’s over 79 cents less at Rite-Aid, so, of course, she has to buy it there. Smart and Final is third in the batting-order; she likes their Green Apple lollipops covered with caramel. She claims they help her smoke less although I have yet to notice a decline in her three pack a day habit.
Up next we go to Pavilions to get Milk Chocolate Covered Dove Bars, for some reason most stores only carry the Dark Chocolate variety. These might as well be dipped in bacon fat as far as Grandma is concerned, so, ok, Milk Chocolate it is. Always.
Our last stop is Ralphs and although they’re lacking in the Dove Bar department, their prices are substantially lower than Pavilions. This is where she does the remainder of her shopping. The average time spent in Ralphs is about an hour and a half, although once recently on a sweltering afternoon we were there for over two hours, but that was because the manager had to explain to grandma that you can’t just break up any half dozen eggs, and that only particular egg types are intended to be sold that way. It was a heated discourse that my grandmother eventually ended with a dismissive flail of the hand, while saying none so quietly, “Ah, what kind of schlub works at the grocery, anyway!”
In addition to our destination hit list, the reason shopping with grandma takes so long is how she insists on following the grocery manifesto in the exact order in which it was written. For example: milk, paper towels, bananas yogurt, and tissues. She will go to the dairy section and grab the organic lactose free milk, go find the pick-a-size paper towels, get the (not too yellow not too green) bananas and then head back to the dairy section for whatever yogurt is on sale just to make her way over to the paper goods aisle for the second time for the tissues that do not contain lotion. It’s the most inefficient way I have ever seen anyone do just about anything and this is why we are there for hours and most of the employees know us by name. I’m surprised they don’t charge us rent.
I once asked her why she shopped in this rigid “letter of the law” style and her response was that Los Angeles grocery stores are different from the ones in Atlantic City. Now I speak pretty clear English… but, seriously, what the fucking hell does that mean? Is she suggesting that produce and paper goods are always in the same aisle back east? Uh, maybe, but somehow I doubt this, as all stores pretty much keep like items together. This incredible logic has very little to do with the store and everything to do with the grandmother.
I haven’t even gotten to our bi-monthly trips to Target. Wait, is that my cell? What do you know, it’s Grandma, she needs me to come over to help her return something to the 99 cent store. I think we’re getting closer.
After the mugging grandma moved out here to Los Angeles to be closer to us, her family. My dad asked me to help my newly relocated, vulnerable grandma out whenever I could. Wanting to help, get closer with her in her last years, and of course, make her life a little easier, I made sure to see her at least once a week.
Now when I used to visit her back in Atlantic City, we always did a lot of the same things, but I was a kid, happy to be away from my parents’ watchful eye. So I was happy, and I never really questioned it. Our routine was a little quirky, but fun. However, the L.A. version of grandma is a whole new kind of grandma… a stealth force, iron-fisted grandma, who would bitch-slap General George S. Patton and laugh at his cry-baby tears. And now she’s mine. Every week we run errands… lots and lots of errands.
My grandmother’s name is Verna, she’s a lifelong, heavy cigarette smoker, and she only smokes one thing - Virginia Slims Luxury Light 120’s, which are apparently hard to find. CVS is the sole destination for her favorite vice. And not only do they carry them “but at a great price” according to grandma. So CVS is always the first place on the list.
Next we hit Rite-Aid where she buys TreSemme Freeze-Hold Mega Fast Drying Hair Spray. They do sell this at CVS, but it’s over 79 cents less at Rite-Aid, so, of course, she has to buy it there. Smart and Final is third in the batting-order; she likes their Green Apple lollipops covered with caramel. She claims they help her smoke less although I have yet to notice a decline in her three pack a day habit.
Up next we go to Pavilions to get Milk Chocolate Covered Dove Bars, for some reason most stores only carry the Dark Chocolate variety. These might as well be dipped in bacon fat as far as Grandma is concerned, so, ok, Milk Chocolate it is. Always.
Our last stop is Ralphs and although they’re lacking in the Dove Bar department, their prices are substantially lower than Pavilions. This is where she does the remainder of her shopping. The average time spent in Ralphs is about an hour and a half, although once recently on a sweltering afternoon we were there for over two hours, but that was because the manager had to explain to grandma that you can’t just break up any half dozen eggs, and that only particular egg types are intended to be sold that way. It was a heated discourse that my grandmother eventually ended with a dismissive flail of the hand, while saying none so quietly, “Ah, what kind of schlub works at the grocery, anyway!”
In addition to our destination hit list, the reason shopping with grandma takes so long is how she insists on following the grocery manifesto in the exact order in which it was written. For example: milk, paper towels, bananas yogurt, and tissues. She will go to the dairy section and grab the organic lactose free milk, go find the pick-a-size paper towels, get the (not too yellow not too green) bananas and then head back to the dairy section for whatever yogurt is on sale just to make her way over to the paper goods aisle for the second time for the tissues that do not contain lotion. It’s the most inefficient way I have ever seen anyone do just about anything and this is why we are there for hours and most of the employees know us by name. I’m surprised they don’t charge us rent.
I once asked her why she shopped in this rigid “letter of the law” style and her response was that Los Angeles grocery stores are different from the ones in Atlantic City. Now I speak pretty clear English… but, seriously, what the fucking hell does that mean? Is she suggesting that produce and paper goods are always in the same aisle back east? Uh, maybe, but somehow I doubt this, as all stores pretty much keep like items together. This incredible logic has very little to do with the store and everything to do with the grandmother.
I haven’t even gotten to our bi-monthly trips to Target. Wait, is that my cell? What do you know, it’s Grandma, she needs me to come over to help her return something to the 99 cent store. I think we’re getting closer.
Chivalry, My Ass
On Halloween night at Bar Nineteen 12 in the Beverly Hills Hotel, I was hit-on by a man who was 83 years old… I am 35.
It never ceases to amaze me how some men behave. With guys my age, I get it, manners be damned: their mothers never taught them, equality of the sexes, female empowerment, hey, I get it. I’m lucky if a guy holds the door open for me when I’ve got an armful of groceries. But older men? Now that’s a different story. They come from a sepia-tinted time when decorum and social etiquette were everyday stuff. They were weaned on it, like mothers’ milk. Despite my quasi-feminist, post-post modern leanings, I am a girl after all and sometimes I like to be treated like one. So, hey, bring on the old fashioned gentlemen!
After catching up on the heavy drama of our lives for a good hour of so, my friend, Esmeralda, and I were about to leave the bar, when a nattily dressed, silver-fox of a man, named Jarred - I’m guessing early 50’s - introduced himself to me. We were quickly invited to his table, and we ended up sitting and chatting with him. Along with our drinks came the arrival of Jarred’s two friends.
Esme ended up in a deep conversation with Jarred and somehow I ended up with each of Jarred’s friends on either side of me. Frank, a dark haired, Captain of Industry type, claimed to be related to the mob, needless to say I had some questions. Frank said he didn’t want to tell me too much in fear that it would scare me off. Clearly he didn’t consider that having to push him off of me every few minutes was having precisely the same effect. The other friend, Sergio - a spry 83 with a very thick Italian accent - appeared to be more mild mannered, but that didn’t last long.
Last call was announced and the three men tried to convince us to go back to Sergio’s suite where he would cook “the best Italian food we had ever had” and then we could all go swimming. As if this was EVER going to happen.
When the check arrived Esme and I went out on the balcony to have a private chat. As we were talking and laughing about the surreal septuagenarian quality of the evening, our waiter came over and tried to hand us a check. Without even looking at it, I told him to send it over to the men who had so kindly invited us to their table for a drink. The waiter told me that they had requested it be sent to us.
Um, well… what?
Just then, Sergio swaggered out to find me and asked if I would be interested in getting a room for the night with him. I could hardly believe what was happening. These three aggressive men, who wanted us to go home with them, sent us a check for our drinks! Really?
Jarred and Frank walked over to us and asked if we were ready to head over to Sergio’s. Esme is much more reserved than me, she was happy to pay the bill for us both. It had absolutely nothing to do with money; this was about so much more. I spoke up, the three men stood there while I told them I thought they had a lot of nerve sending us a bill for two drinks after being so aggressive and all the while hoping we would go home with them. What the hell! They all denied that they had been the one to send the bill our way, looking at each other as if to blame the other one.
The bill got paid, I am not sure how they resolved it and I don’t care. Needless to say, the aging lotharios were left to carry-on without us.
Ah, chivalry!
It never ceases to amaze me how some men behave. With guys my age, I get it, manners be damned: their mothers never taught them, equality of the sexes, female empowerment, hey, I get it. I’m lucky if a guy holds the door open for me when I’ve got an armful of groceries. But older men? Now that’s a different story. They come from a sepia-tinted time when decorum and social etiquette were everyday stuff. They were weaned on it, like mothers’ milk. Despite my quasi-feminist, post-post modern leanings, I am a girl after all and sometimes I like to be treated like one. So, hey, bring on the old fashioned gentlemen!
After catching up on the heavy drama of our lives for a good hour of so, my friend, Esmeralda, and I were about to leave the bar, when a nattily dressed, silver-fox of a man, named Jarred - I’m guessing early 50’s - introduced himself to me. We were quickly invited to his table, and we ended up sitting and chatting with him. Along with our drinks came the arrival of Jarred’s two friends.
Esme ended up in a deep conversation with Jarred and somehow I ended up with each of Jarred’s friends on either side of me. Frank, a dark haired, Captain of Industry type, claimed to be related to the mob, needless to say I had some questions. Frank said he didn’t want to tell me too much in fear that it would scare me off. Clearly he didn’t consider that having to push him off of me every few minutes was having precisely the same effect. The other friend, Sergio - a spry 83 with a very thick Italian accent - appeared to be more mild mannered, but that didn’t last long.
Last call was announced and the three men tried to convince us to go back to Sergio’s suite where he would cook “the best Italian food we had ever had” and then we could all go swimming. As if this was EVER going to happen.
When the check arrived Esme and I went out on the balcony to have a private chat. As we were talking and laughing about the surreal septuagenarian quality of the evening, our waiter came over and tried to hand us a check. Without even looking at it, I told him to send it over to the men who had so kindly invited us to their table for a drink. The waiter told me that they had requested it be sent to us.
Um, well… what?
Just then, Sergio swaggered out to find me and asked if I would be interested in getting a room for the night with him. I could hardly believe what was happening. These three aggressive men, who wanted us to go home with them, sent us a check for our drinks! Really?
Jarred and Frank walked over to us and asked if we were ready to head over to Sergio’s. Esme is much more reserved than me, she was happy to pay the bill for us both. It had absolutely nothing to do with money; this was about so much more. I spoke up, the three men stood there while I told them I thought they had a lot of nerve sending us a bill for two drinks after being so aggressive and all the while hoping we would go home with them. What the hell! They all denied that they had been the one to send the bill our way, looking at each other as if to blame the other one.
The bill got paid, I am not sure how they resolved it and I don’t care. Needless to say, the aging lotharios were left to carry-on without us.
Ah, chivalry!
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