One's Woman's American Reality is Another Man's Prison Bitch

Yesterday, a gentleman on Portland’s public transport tried to befriend me. His opening line was “So I just got out of Federal Prison...” First of all, that was a rather unfortunate opening line. That said, I felt a lot of empathy for the young man. I could relate to him in many ways. No, I have never been in federal prison and I would have never in a million years opened with that line; however, I know what it is like to come back into American Reality after being absent from its capitalistic clutches for so long and having to deal with everything being different. The culture shock is so incredible that your sociability plummets, although, I am sure this gentleman’s ability to follow social cues before prison was probably dismal at best. He had the charm of an ape on acid. It did not help that he had that Dungeons and Dragons meets your everyday electrician look about him. Due to these unfortunate attributes you just knew he was a prison bitch. None of which helped his case. Also the shoving his phone in my face and asking how his Prostitute iPhone App worked did not endear him to me whatsoever. “They just keeping wanting to buy me” is not a good pick up line.

In all seriousness, I understand, even if minutely, the loneliness and disconnect this man is feeling. I’ve felt it so often the last 10 years that it is now a second skin. I am currently battling with these feelings in Portland. I’ve been here 9 months. Long enough to give birth but not long enough to make  good friends who are not always hopping on planes to escape the monotonous rain and hippienesss . Its a definite limbo. The funny thing is though that I thrive in Limbo. I have for years, but usually I have countless, somewhat, stationary friends to enjoy limbo with.

After running off the tram and away from the ex-convict and possible prostitute, I met with my one and only stationary Portlandian friend. She too just moved here and is trying to create some sort of lasting community. So many things are going her way. The Gay Marriage Ban was lifted so now she can take the next step in her long term relationship, she got a kick ass job in non-profit in which she actually gets paid with real American money, and she lives in a killer part of Portland; however, she too is battling with making those non ex-convict friendships here. We might live completely different lives and have totally different goals but at the foundation of it all we are fighting the same battle: debilitating loneliness.

After my lunch date, I trudged home on the light rail with a new sense of camaraderie and understanding. I was not wholly alone. Even my roommate was dealing with her own form of loneliness. Except her loneliness was in the form of the show “What Not to Wear” and www.Christianmingle.com. She just wants another person to share her adventures and fashion trends with; however, she quickly realized that Christainmingle.com was not the answer to her loneliness prayers. If anything it was a very biblical nightmare.

With that said, there are moments that I do secretly revel in the loneliness--  those moments when its just me and my thoughts. And sometimes I even enjoy those rather uncomfortable interactions that happen on Portland's public transport. They make me aware of my own social short comings. They also make me aware that no matter how alone I might feel that I will never ever be desperate enough to befriend a man who’s opening line is “So I just got out of Federal Prison..."

Tangled Up in Boredom

Most of my days as a newbie flight attendant are spent on reserve. What does that mean? Well basically it means sitting for hours on end, some times days waiting for one simple 15 second phone call. Often times it’s worth it. Other times....you find your self going beyond insane with boredom. Some of the things that one has done while being on reserve would make anyone cringe, and sometimes they are just down right creepy. The other day I found myself lying on the carpet in a floor length gown and a beanie moaning “Save meeeee” to my roommates potted plant....then I proceeded to have a conversation with it.  Boredom can make anyone go nutty. Anywho, this song perfectly illustrates how I feel while waiting for the illustrious phone call:

Im Sorry I Threw Up All Over Your Cat

“ 'I am sorry I threw up all over your..’  does that say ‘cat’?’ I read allowed the shaky white icing on the poop brown cake. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and my day just got interesting.

“Yes. It’s an inside joke. I was going to write ‘ Im sorry I threw up all your semen’ but thought it was a bit too suggestive.” This is Kate. Kate and I met on a cold Christmas day in Portland. We were both delirious and ended up bonding over a cup of nasty orange juice and the stories of our unfortunate love lives. I had ended a 6 year long transatlantic relationship a year prior and she had just ended 6 controlling years with her ex-fiancé. Now a month later Kate was sitting at my table with a weird homemade cake, a hormone induced chocolate craving Filipina roommate, and a decision. The decision: to give the cake or to eat the cake.

“Yeahhh...You can’t give him this cake.” I said with determination.

“But why?!”Kate said defensively.

“That’s exactly my point Kate. Why? Why would you give him a cake?! ” 

“Because a cake says 'Im sorry, I want to get back together'?” Her big blue eyes filled with longing but her voice sounded unsure.

“But why? Because you certainly don’t want to get back together. That is why you are here, single, looking at the extra room in my apartment to rent. So I say eat the fucking cake.” I said as I handed over a knife and fork.

In that moment I saw Kate, I saw myself, and  I saw the cake. I was angry and I was angry for two reasons. Angry because one, I used to be her. I was that vulnerable and confused girl two years ago about to give her ex a cake but afraid of what it might mean: reconciliation, familiarity, unhappiness. And second, I was angry because I wanted to eat the mother fucking cake that her ex most certainly would have pissed on and left out for the raccoons. In fact, she had a whole household persuading her not to give away the cake. The Filipina who never understood the meaning or complexities of a real relationship wanted to eat it, I wanted to salvage what dignity Kate had left and didn’t want the cake to be thrown away, and Kate who was searching for a guilt free card wanted to have it make everything better. 

“What do you mean I can’t eat it. You made it for us right?” The Filipina said with one ear turned towards us waiting for a yes and one ear pushed up against her phone listening intently to the compliments from her current beau.

“NO, Kate made the cake for someone else.”

“Don’t give it to him. Lets just eat it.” The Filipina said as she eyed the cake hungrily.

“I can’t! It is supposed to make everything okay.”

“Kate...no matter what the hell happens nothing you do will ever make him feel okay with you being you....ever...”

At this point the cake became our personal motto for relationships. The Filipina was in the business of consuming. Consuming hearts, consuming things, consuming cake. I was terrified to throw something away that was still perfectly good. Good guy, good sex, good friendship, good life, good cake. And Kate...Kate just wanted things to be better, so-let-me-just-give-you-a-cake better.  This is what our conversation developed into. We began getting metaphorical all the while the cake just remained a cake: delicious, tempting, edible... a mother fucking cake.

“This cake is evil. This cake is everything that held you back in the relationship. It’s hate, doubt, misery. This cake is death cake. Take this knife and stab it.”

“But I can’t” 

“STAB THE CAKE!”

I realized then that I was getting confrontational with what essentially was sugar, butter and bread. I was turning into my worst feminine archetype...the emotional female. I was fighting for cake suicide like I was fighting for the suffrage movement. The cake just got personal. I had to get a grip.

“Kate...you weren’t happy. Let it go.” 

And with that she did. 

She stopped, stared at the cake, and before I knew what was happening she had thrown her hands into the frosting with such force that the table shook like a small act of god. She had a manic smile on her face and she pushed her hands in further. Determination set into every crevice of her youthful scowl.  "Fuck the Cake! RIO! YOU-CAN-HAVE-YOUR-MOTHER-FUCKING-CAKE!!!” She then picked up the knife with a triumphant yelp and stabbed the cake repeatedly.

Looking at the pure willpower it took for this young 25 year old to, in a sense, say goodbye to someone she really loved I was in awe. I might have been fighting over cake but she was fighting over her guilt.

An hour later Kate opened my apartment door with a resigned look. “Thanks. Im glad I’m not giving him the cake, but...I miss him.” and with that she left my apartment feeling lonely but a little be more free. She was free from the pressure of being someone else, free of the burden of trying to piece together a very broken and irreparable relationship and free of one very fucked up half eaten cake.

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.

"It Ain't Easy Being Awesome"

"You are really tight...really tight. And so I'll help easy some of that tension by loosening you up."

It has come down to this, 30 plus countries by the time I was 28 and countless awe inspiring moments to only be talked at by a strange Chiropractor like some cheesy 70s porno.

In a moment of desperation and 10 years of growing medical problems and a phobia of doctors I broke down and went to a chiropractor today. As I sat in his trendy 3rd floor office suite, I felt like an outsider. In my converse, ratty jeans, thrift store top and manically frizzy red hair I could not have felt more out of place in his crisp and clean modern office. I stared at his abstract art with confusion and listed off the several ailments I had been experiencing over the years. With each newly documented ailment my chiropractors' face twitched.

"Now Miss R. what is the cause of these problems," The doctor monotone voice wafted over my strayed nerves.

"Traveling." I admitted with a sigh.

"Traveling?...No I mean what specific thing caused these problems."My Doctor repeated.

"Traveling.... My body is falling apart because of traveling." I then proceeded to go through each one of my injuries one by one. "My toe happened in Honduras, my foot in Italy, my knee in New Zealand, my back...well technically from carrying my bag thousands of miles over 30 plus different countries," and so on and so on. "So Doc. I am broken because of traveling."

I left the doctors office an hour latter feeling like a limp noodle, a noodle who felt compelled to share this odd experience with a friend. They seemed just as shocked at my seeing a chiropractor as the chiropractor himself and so I found myself being asked the same question "Why and How?" and I responded with the same short reply I had given my doctor just minutes before..."Traveling."


His response was one I had not expected. My friend replied with “It ain’t easy being awesome.” And then proceeded to send me a link to this video:

The video I cant really explain other than to say it is a work of animated cinematic genius. The "Awesome" comment on the other hand, now that got me thinking. It is really tough to be awesome (I mean if I define awesome by the description of one who has been in awe and seen awe inspiring things). For instance, I easily look 5 years older than I actually am, my once thick beautiful ginger curly locks now have the consistency of a bag of half eaten brown straw,  I have had at least 3 broken bones, 2 surgeries, cuts, stings, bruises, scars, parasites, weight gain, weight loss, and emotional scars to last me a life time. My body is a fucking battle ground. Some days I mentally go through my travel scars out of amusement. 

With all this said I sometimes forget that the things I have been through are not normal. Talking to my Filipina roommate, who massages gold onto her skin daily and sleeps on a bed of swan feathers and broken hearts, I have realized that my life is her worst nightmare. "You mean you sleep on sheets that are not at least 1000ct?” If she only knew about the Hungarian Hospital...

Hitch hiking on the side of a road with cast and crutches on a daily basis was and IS my reality just like cracking backs is to my Chiropractor or shopping for high end jewelry and sugar daddy's is for my Filipina roommate. Its my normal and even though my normal has left me battered and bruised I wouldn’t have it any other way...that is until my doctor comes at me with a needle. As the Filipina says, “Back off bitch!"

My Reality: Furries and Human Bitches

Yesterday I walked into an elevator and was greeted by a furry and his human bitch. I just shrugged off the odd picture with no more enthusiasm than it took to press the elevator button. Upon exiting the lift I was surrounded by more people in very odd animal mascot costumes being followed around by men and women with dog collars and fluffy colorful tails. I chalked this all this up to my lack of sleep and kept walking. It wasn't until I got outside my hotel and got some fresh air that it hit me. I just walked through a crowd of Furries in my Denver Hotel....  This incident has made me realize that my reality has definitely become other people's surreal.

SO what is reality? Is it this? A grown human wearing a life size animal costume? As the day carried on this question started to plague me. 

An hour later I arrived at my friends graduation party where I was thrown into Bolder's idea of reality. I was enthusiastically shown astrological charts, ironically discussed the fascinations that a wealthy German had with destruction and watched folk dancers prance across the backyard. It was an invigorating experience yet confusing to navigate on only 3 hours of sleep. I kept pinching myself. Is this really happening? 

With a heavy heart I left my Bolder friends and made my way back to my hotel where I had to swim through the giddy zombie wolves,  furry dogs and human bitches back to my room. 

The next morning I trudged down to the front desk and was a bit disappointed when the foyer was empty of all its previous animalistic activities. It was as if I wanted more odd things to challenge my sense of reality. Alas my flight home provided that for me. 

When I caught this gem of a T-shirt I began to think what an odd choice of clothing to wear in public, but then I got to thinking. For this gentleman this rather ridiculous shirt is completely common place. In Alaska this is normal...In California or Portland some hippie would probably throw paint on him or tofu pieces. But here among the moose and diehard Republicans he is accepted. It is their reality and because I live here it is sort of mine as well. 

After I deplaned my flight I got to thinking about this T-shirt and was buzzed out of my thoughts by a Facebook message. I looked down at my phone and read a message that my travel buddy and best friend RP sent to me and a few of our other travel pals. 

These messages are not rare. In fact, I receive one from RP about every 2 months or so when some stranger pops up on her newsfeed or sends her a message. This is our reality. We have traveled all over the world. Met people from all 6 six continents, and have come face to face with creatures that would frighten even the most brave of men. Example:

Bull's Balls

MeatBall

But our memory is shit and so we rely on these quick FB messages to set us straight and often time the answers and realizations are quite amusing...

So again I ask what is reality? Or better yet what is my reality? Is it petting a tiger? Is it people who get a thrill out of dressing in mascot costumes? Or is it old men in inappropriate T-shirts? These are all trick questions because...“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” ― Albert Einstein