The Marilyns' of Hollywood

       Every afternoon at precisely 4 o’clock the older women of the Hollywood Towne House descend like a flock of tired geese into the vestibule of our dated apartment building. These women, ranging from 70 to 100 with their walkers and canes are defined by the surrounding decor. An obscenely large Warhol-esque Marilyn Monroe painting presides over their space like a crumbling figure head of days gone by. The 1960s wood paneling adds another element of nostalgia to the scene; as does, I'm sure, the faded china green walls and green linoleum which I liken to melted mint chocolate chip ice cream that has been dropped in the dirt. These Marilyn's sit for roughly one hour to “discuss" the weather or the overpriced rent. I'm not quite sure. They throw around their period names like it is a Dick Tracey movie. Maud this, or Betty that. I imagine in their eyes that their conversations are full of sentences that in turn are full of descriptive words, colorful adjectives, and a few wild hand gestures. But for onlookers their conversations are hardly that. It is a discussion in slow mode...or no mode.  Their “talks" instead involve a lot of staring wistfully out at the roundabout or grunting to one another listlessly while their bodies sag into the ornate and very uncomfortable baroque chairs.
 
    I am fascinated by this world of women who have said so much in their lives and are now exhausted by it all. Many of my neighbors brusquely walk by without even so much as a breath between them.  Me, well lets just say I learned from my father, for when I enter into their walker jungle I can’t help but shout. One of the few men of my past liken my entering a room to a fishing boat that has been tossed at sea into a terrible shit storm. I can’t just pass by listlessly, I must disrupt absolutely. With the Marilyn's I do precisely that and I do it marvelously.

Before I disrupt their silent interaction I become a voyeur. I study their weathered frowns, manically frizzy or puffy hair, and slouched posture. They are bored with life....Then I gather myself and enter their lounge like a fireworks display. My favorite part is seeing their eyes go from dead to twinkling, their posture from unforgiving to straight and welcoming, and their droopy cheeks become propped into tent like smiles. They always ask “Lexie, where have you gone today!?” and most of the time I answer honestly but sometimes...sometimes when I see that their smiles are less broad or their eyes a little less twinkly I stretch the truth just a little.

“I just got back from Spain. It was amazing! I met a man named Hugo who had an unbelievably delicious six-pack and olive skin. He didn’t speak a word of English and it didn’t matter. I liked him all the same. We drank sangria every day while he gave me these incredible foot massages that made me comatose. But to be honest my favorite part was simply eating tapas while watching the European world pass me by. It was beautiful....But I am exhausted. How are you ladies?”

The Marilyn's smile and laugh and for just that brief moment feel young again. These women are my past and they are my future.

When I leave them I always peak around the corner to see how the scene has changed since I first spotted them from the roundabout. I always notice their eyes are a little bit brighter, their smiles linger, and their posture just a little less sagged. The Marilyn’s of Hollywood, if only for a few moments, had just gone to Spain.

My Non-Romantic Forever: Charity Shops and Pancakes

I met my best friend in a small little restaurant in Scotland after two months of solo traveling. I would love to say that at the precise moment she walked into the shop door that our eyes met and it was platonic love at first sight; or perhaps that I knew Ms. Pancake would be my non-romantic forever; however, that wasn’t the case. Instead, I was shoveling haggis and mash potatoes into my face at such an alarming rate I am surprised I didn’t choke. I was more willing the food into my starved traveler body rather than actually tasting it.  She saw me packing food into my mouth laughing obnoxiously and I saw her standing there in typical stoic early Ms. Pancake fashion...translation she looked like a bitch. Needless to say we did not “bro-out" on our first meet up. Instead, Pancake and I bonded a few days later in a pub, beer in hand. It wasn’t the alcohol that helped us bond, nor the dancing. No it was the one thing that would be the scaffolding to our budding relationship. We bonded over being the embarrassingly cheapest people we knew. More specifically, two words were spoken that night that sealed the deal: “Charity Shops”, and that was it.

Charity shops are the UK’s equivalent to Goodwill stores in America except the UK shops have a very charming and quaint vibe. On first inspection an American could mistake an Oxfam Charity Shop for a boho boutique. They also have that musty smell like an old fur coat that has hung in the hall closet for the last 20 years. Goodwill’s on the other hand are massive warehouses of pestilence. I firmly believe that they would sell used needles and dead bodies if they could make a buck. Anything is a go. David Sedaris once wrote about how he contracted crabs from a pair of Goodwill pants all for the price of a few dollars.

Being a hypochondriac germaphobe, visiting a Goodwill is always an interesting endeavor. When I walk into one my body does two contradictory things. It cringes from repulsion and buzzes with excitement. I imagine watching me wandering the warehouse floor would be more entertaining than watching two drunken transvestites fighting in the crowd of a sporting event. I have the token “stink face” as I pick through the racks.  I try on clothes like I’m forced to wear a homeless person’s pee rag. But after several scalding hot washings (both my body and the clothes) I am tickled by my find. I brag like a hipster (definition: today’s version of an alternative hippie). Under the surface I know I am a fake because hippies aren’t afraid of what might be hidden in polyester.

I still held onto my new world stink face as I perused the shelves of the quaint Oxfam Charity Shop; however, in the UK my stink face was seen as just being British. I no longer was rubbing elbows with crack addicts or chain smoking grandmas in a large warehouse; instead, I was skimming the shelves with the cool college students of Edinburgh University or the cute old granny’s in tartan. I was hip and I had my future best friend on my arm.

Our first charity shop purchases have become tokens of our earlier friendship. She still has her first edition Harry Potter Philosopher’s Stone, and I still have that New Look black zip up shirt (albeit with several more holes and a potent smell that I don’t recall came with the initial purchase). This seven year long friendship has grown beyond the mutual love of all things frighteningly cheap and into a love for life, adventure, and each other. However, we will always feel closest when are filing through the racks at the nearest goodwill with the transvestites and prostitutes of the world. Ms. Pancake you have indeed become my non-romantic forever.