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The girlfriend, or my search for Plus Guest
June 4th, 2008 | 6:33 pm
She tells me her name is Elise and she's driving me in her white Toyota Corolla to this bar over in Silver
Lake called, and I hope I'm wrong on this, "Tiki Tits."
Elise isn't pretty, but she sure thinks she is. She might be cute if I squint and don't look at her rat eyes. Her
hair is neither long nor short and that color that can't decide if it's brown or blond. She is short and sits on a
pillow to drive and wears platform shoes from 1998. It's 2004 and I can't readily forgive this. For now though, I
overlook her looks, her shoes, and her scent (Big Red chewing gum meets potatoes) because it's an
evening out with new people and I need new people. Besides, I just might run into the man of my dreams.
There I'd be: head thrown back in laughter at something one of my new friends has said. He'd notice my
laugh, my smile, and have to meet me right away. He'd cross the crowded room with purpose, knowing that
he could not spend another minute without me in his life. I'd notice him walking toward me and my smile
would fade into something more serious and everyone around us would cease to exist and maybe my
mind's soundtrack would play New Order, because that always makes me feel like I'm in a movie. Or maybe
it's St. Patrick's Day and everyone is drinking green beer and the cover band is playing "Come on, Eileen"
and he'll recognize that I'd never be there and he'd never be there, except that we were meant to meet. And
then we'd slow dance to a Journey song. Hey, that might happen some day.
This is what I'm always thinking. I never allow myself the luxury of Friday and Saturday nights at home, in bed
reading a book, watching a movie, or crocheting, the two dogs snoring drowsily at my feet as is my natural
wont. No. I must preen and slather on make-up and wobble around in heels and jeans that make my butt
look like a juicy onion and a shirt unbuttoned to there with man-trap cleavage and sometimes a jaunty hat. I
must be hopelessly clever and witty and cute. I must put myself out there. It's a mandate, mostly from my
biological clock and from all of the invitations I get that list my name Plus Guest.
Elise found me because I live near her in Burbank and am one of the few 34 year-olds on MySpace, which is
a new thing. I tell people it's like Friendster but with more nudity.
She sent me a message through the website that said, "Hey, you seem cool like me and I need a friend who
is a girl because all of my friends are guys and they all want to sleep with me and I'm not like that."
Well, that's not the most flattering pick-up line ever, but I needed a girl friend, too. Soon we were planning a
Friday night out with her "social group". I wondered why she was reaching out to me if she already had an
entire group that planned events together, but then I found out that she paid to be in it and it's called LA Fun
Singles. I forgot my rule that if the title of anything includes the word "fun," it's probably not. Elise's twelve
phone calls to me during my work day slightly bothered me, but she was obviously a planner and had been
ditched before.
We're there in fifteen minutes and we park after a grueling twelve minutes of her trying to parallel in a space
twice as long as the Corolla and me coaching her and getting carsick. It's a tiny building, more like a big
shack on the edge of Los Feliz. The sign over the door reads "Tiki Ti's." Well that's one piece of good news,
although the other name, the mistaken name, did conjure up images of coconut bras.
"Michelle!" Some guy yells toward the door of the shack as we walk in.
"Hey you!" Elise calls back.
("Michelle?")
Elise leads me to a corner of the bar where there are two bamboo bar stools and we sidle up to order the
only thing on the menu: big sickeningly sweet tropical drinks. There's a sign behind the bar that requests:
Please do not order beer or wine. You can drink those things anywhere.
Elise orders a Pearl Diver and I'm stuck deciding between a Great White Shark and a Sweet Lelani. While I'm
reading the ingredients on the laminated menu placemats trying to determine which drink would sicken me
less, a small man meekly crawls over to our corner and says, between sips of his Kactus Kula, "Hi Christina"
to Elise.
("Christina?")
Elise replies, "Hi McGrady. McGrady this is... "
She pronounces my name wrong and I don't correct her and I just stick my hand out.
As soon as I shake the guy's hand, Elise disappears. Out of a plastic pineapple, I drink myself into a
migraine as McGrady tells me the story of his life, which takes about thirty-three sips. His family once owned
a shoe store in downtown L.A. They gave him all of the furniture when the store went bankrupt about ten
years ago. I imagine his living room with chairs lined up against the wall and the odd padded footrest with a
sloping rubber side and a mirror on the back. Oh, and also those foot measuring things. What are those
called?
McGrady lets me know he's still in the shoe business. Wholesaling. Then, with some Kula courage, he asks
me if I like footrubs and why don't I just slip off my shoe and put my foot up in his lap and he'll show me some
reflexology. I say no thanks instead of vomiting into my fake fruit cup and excuse myself to the tiny bathroom.
I'm trying not to think of the nebbish McGrady and his foot measuring devices while I hang out in the
surprisingly clean, one-stall bathroom.
There've been three times in my life that I've hidden out in a bathroom. The first one was Chris Mendez's 16th
birthday party when I was a junior in high school. My sister, Lisa, and I went, not because we were friends
with the guy, but because the hot band of our high school, Alter Ego, had been hired by Chris's parents to
entertain the guests.
Our parents dropped us off at the Altamonte Eastmonte Civic Center promptly at 6 p.m. on a Saturday. The
party started at 6. How were we supposed to know that people don't really SHOW UP until 7? So it was me
and Lisa in our individual bathroom stalls having a conversation until we heard Alter Ego start to play one of
their U2 or Flock of Seagulls covers.
Then there was the time I hung out IN MY OWN bathroom hoping a bad date would leave. In this case, a bad
date is defined as him trying to "turn the volume up on this date" using my left nipple. TWICE. And yes, he
said those words out loud.
And now the Tiki Ti bathroom makes three. I read all of the dope-themed graffiti, wash my hands about four
times and apply and reapply lipstick a few times, too. Finally, the knocking becomes incessant, so I leave the
bathroom and instead of walking through the bar again, I go out the back door. Around the corner, I walk
toward Elise's car.
I lean against the Corolla because the sugar and the five kinds of alcohol is hitting me hard. Then I realize
the car itself is actually moving. I step away from it and peer inside to see Elise (Christina, Michelle,
whatever!) on all fours on the backseat getting, well, getting LA Fun Singled from a shadowy figure behind
her. She isn't exactly on all fours, though, because she is still holding her drink in the plastic bamboo-like
cup.
I walk swiftly away, down Sunset toward Hollywood Boulevard, reaching into my purse to get my cel phone to
call a cab. This isn't New York where I can just shout "TAXI!" In Los Angeles, you telephone a cab company,
and find a safe place to wait for twenty minutes until they show up. I talk to a hobo who stumbles by while I'm
waiting and I give him a couple of bucks. He tells me he hates sweet drinks, too, but from the smell on his
breath, I wager that there aren't many drinks he turns down. It's sad that the hobo would probably make a
better friend than Elise.
If this is single in LA, it's not fun. To sum up the evening, Elise is indeed "like that." And I'm not like any of it.
Four years later, thankfully, I have real girl friends and it feels good. I don't hide in bathrooms and I'm not on
MySpace. I don't have an official "Plus Guest" but that feels OK, too. I allow myself the luxury of staying home
most nights, although now it's only one dog snoring at my feet.
I know I'll not make it back to Tiki Ti. Ever. Nonetheless, here's my homage.
Comments
June 4th, 2008 | 6:33 pm
She tells me her name is Elise and she's driving me in her white Toyota Corolla to this bar over in Silver
Lake called, and I hope I'm wrong on this, "Tiki Tits."
Elise isn't pretty, but she sure thinks she is. She might be cute if I squint and don't look at her rat eyes. Her
hair is neither long nor short and that color that can't decide if it's brown or blond. She is short and sits on a
pillow to drive and wears platform shoes from 1998. It's 2004 and I can't readily forgive this. For now though, I
overlook her looks, her shoes, and her scent (Big Red chewing gum meets potatoes) because it's an
evening out with new people and I need new people. Besides, I just might run into the man of my dreams.
There I'd be: head thrown back in laughter at something one of my new friends has said. He'd notice my
laugh, my smile, and have to meet me right away. He'd cross the crowded room with purpose, knowing that
he could not spend another minute without me in his life. I'd notice him walking toward me and my smile
would fade into something more serious and everyone around us would cease to exist and maybe my
mind's soundtrack would play New Order, because that always makes me feel like I'm in a movie. Or maybe
it's St. Patrick's Day and everyone is drinking green beer and the cover band is playing "Come on, Eileen"
and he'll recognize that I'd never be there and he'd never be there, except that we were meant to meet. And
then we'd slow dance to a Journey song. Hey, that might happen some day.
This is what I'm always thinking. I never allow myself the luxury of Friday and Saturday nights at home, in bed
reading a book, watching a movie, or crocheting, the two dogs snoring drowsily at my feet as is my natural
wont. No. I must preen and slather on make-up and wobble around in heels and jeans that make my butt
look like a juicy onion and a shirt unbuttoned to there with man-trap cleavage and sometimes a jaunty hat. I
must be hopelessly clever and witty and cute. I must put myself out there. It's a mandate, mostly from my
biological clock and from all of the invitations I get that list my name Plus Guest.
Elise found me because I live near her in Burbank and am one of the few 34 year-olds on MySpace, which is
a new thing. I tell people it's like Friendster but with more nudity.
She sent me a message through the website that said, "Hey, you seem cool like me and I need a friend who
is a girl because all of my friends are guys and they all want to sleep with me and I'm not like that."
Well, that's not the most flattering pick-up line ever, but I needed a girl friend, too. Soon we were planning a
Friday night out with her "social group". I wondered why she was reaching out to me if she already had an
entire group that planned events together, but then I found out that she paid to be in it and it's called LA Fun
Singles. I forgot my rule that if the title of anything includes the word "fun," it's probably not. Elise's twelve
phone calls to me during my work day slightly bothered me, but she was obviously a planner and had been
ditched before.
We're there in fifteen minutes and we park after a grueling twelve minutes of her trying to parallel in a space
twice as long as the Corolla and me coaching her and getting carsick. It's a tiny building, more like a big
shack on the edge of Los Feliz. The sign over the door reads "Tiki Ti's." Well that's one piece of good news,
although the other name, the mistaken name, did conjure up images of coconut bras.
"Michelle!" Some guy yells toward the door of the shack as we walk in.
"Hey you!" Elise calls back.
("Michelle?")
Elise leads me to a corner of the bar where there are two bamboo bar stools and we sidle up to order the
only thing on the menu: big sickeningly sweet tropical drinks. There's a sign behind the bar that requests:
Please do not order beer or wine. You can drink those things anywhere.
Elise orders a Pearl Diver and I'm stuck deciding between a Great White Shark and a Sweet Lelani. While I'm
reading the ingredients on the laminated menu placemats trying to determine which drink would sicken me
less, a small man meekly crawls over to our corner and says, between sips of his Kactus Kula, "Hi Christina"
to Elise.
("Christina?")
Elise replies, "Hi McGrady. McGrady this is... "
She pronounces my name wrong and I don't correct her and I just stick my hand out.
As soon as I shake the guy's hand, Elise disappears. Out of a plastic pineapple, I drink myself into a
migraine as McGrady tells me the story of his life, which takes about thirty-three sips. His family once owned
a shoe store in downtown L.A. They gave him all of the furniture when the store went bankrupt about ten
years ago. I imagine his living room with chairs lined up against the wall and the odd padded footrest with a
sloping rubber side and a mirror on the back. Oh, and also those foot measuring things. What are those
called?
McGrady lets me know he's still in the shoe business. Wholesaling. Then, with some Kula courage, he asks
me if I like footrubs and why don't I just slip off my shoe and put my foot up in his lap and he'll show me some
reflexology. I say no thanks instead of vomiting into my fake fruit cup and excuse myself to the tiny bathroom.
I'm trying not to think of the nebbish McGrady and his foot measuring devices while I hang out in the
surprisingly clean, one-stall bathroom.
There've been three times in my life that I've hidden out in a bathroom. The first one was Chris Mendez's 16th
birthday party when I was a junior in high school. My sister, Lisa, and I went, not because we were friends
with the guy, but because the hot band of our high school, Alter Ego, had been hired by Chris's parents to
entertain the guests.
Our parents dropped us off at the Altamonte Eastmonte Civic Center promptly at 6 p.m. on a Saturday. The
party started at 6. How were we supposed to know that people don't really SHOW UP until 7? So it was me
and Lisa in our individual bathroom stalls having a conversation until we heard Alter Ego start to play one of
their U2 or Flock of Seagulls covers.
Then there was the time I hung out IN MY OWN bathroom hoping a bad date would leave. In this case, a bad
date is defined as him trying to "turn the volume up on this date" using my left nipple. TWICE. And yes, he
said those words out loud.
And now the Tiki Ti bathroom makes three. I read all of the dope-themed graffiti, wash my hands about four
times and apply and reapply lipstick a few times, too. Finally, the knocking becomes incessant, so I leave the
bathroom and instead of walking through the bar again, I go out the back door. Around the corner, I walk
toward Elise's car.
I lean against the Corolla because the sugar and the five kinds of alcohol is hitting me hard. Then I realize
the car itself is actually moving. I step away from it and peer inside to see Elise (Christina, Michelle,
whatever!) on all fours on the backseat getting, well, getting LA Fun Singled from a shadowy figure behind
her. She isn't exactly on all fours, though, because she is still holding her drink in the plastic bamboo-like
cup.
I walk swiftly away, down Sunset toward Hollywood Boulevard, reaching into my purse to get my cel phone to
call a cab. This isn't New York where I can just shout "TAXI!" In Los Angeles, you telephone a cab company,
and find a safe place to wait for twenty minutes until they show up. I talk to a hobo who stumbles by while I'm
waiting and I give him a couple of bucks. He tells me he hates sweet drinks, too, but from the smell on his
breath, I wager that there aren't many drinks he turns down. It's sad that the hobo would probably make a
better friend than Elise.
If this is single in LA, it's not fun. To sum up the evening, Elise is indeed "like that." And I'm not like any of it.
Four years later, thankfully, I have real girl friends and it feels good. I don't hide in bathrooms and I'm not on
MySpace. I don't have an official "Plus Guest" but that feels OK, too. I allow myself the luxury of staying home
most nights, although now it's only one dog snoring at my feet.
I know I'll not make it back to Tiki Ti. Ever. Nonetheless, here's my homage.
Comments
