“What are you smiling about?” 

“Oh, nothing,” I beamed.

“No, you look all glowy. What happened?”

“I just had a really great today, start to finish. And I’m on the last day of my period.”

“Oh, you’re happy you got your period! Was there a chance you weren’t going to get your period?”

“No. I’m not happy I got my period. Wait. Let me rephrase that. I am happy that I got my period, whew,” I said while brushing my hand across my forehead and turning my heads towards the heavens. “But that’s not why I’m beaming. Actually, maybe it is.”

“What the hell dude, I’m confused.”

Silema and I were at Borders to check out that book, The Secret. We were both too cynical to actually purchase the key to eternal bliss but we figured thumbing around it couldn’t hurt. In our attempt to combat the 15 degree temperature swing, we sipped hot chocolates and I filled her in on my day.

 “Here, I’ll do it in Secret speak. From the moment that I woke up this morning the universe has been rewarding me with individually minor but collectively major victories. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and saw the sun was shining… and you know that in San Francisco, that’s reason enough to celebrate all by itself.

“And of course it’s freezing now.”

“But on top of that I had no hang over from last night when I totally deserved one, there was one last Pepsi in the fridge and I found a fresh box of Cheez It’s in the back of the pantry.”

“A champion’s breakfast.”

“Plus, I signed this big new contract this afternoon that I had been chasing for-ever! Now I’ll be able to pay my rent for another 6 months!”

“All the ladies, who independent…”

“Throw your hands up at me! AND last but not least, when I went down to Bloomingdales to celebrate these events by finding a cute new day top, they were giving out free samples of La Mer skin cream…and they gave me two. Word up!

“Oh honey, it’s like Christmas.”

“No better, my birthday ‘cause it was just for me…only I didn’t have to turn a year older. Seriously, I feel like I’ve been living in a tampon or birth control commercial all day. People have been smiling at me, giving my high fives…”

“Really, people are giving you high fives?”

“With their eyes. You know how in those commercials the girls are always so happy to be flowing, whether it’s twice a year or once a month, it’s up to us to decide!”

“And of course you want to go shopping with all of your girls to try on dresses and bathing suits. That’s the first thing I think of doing when I’m going.”

“I’ve had that song, ‘we’re not going to take it’, in my head all day.”
 

I left Silema and headed home to settle in for a night of reality television and pop tarts when I got a call from Paul.

“Hey I’m picking you up. Waylen hooked me up with tickets to see Michelle N’dechello at The Independent tonight and you’re coming with me.”

“Sweet. How much time do I have?

“I’ll be there in like 45.”

“Cool. Call me when you’re downstairs.”

I rushed to my apartment to freshen-up and started analyzing my clothing options. I was sure the crowd was going to be primarily made-up of hippy lesbians and straight guys who were over confident in their powers of persuasion. Finding the right “I like boys but not this boy” outfit would be crucial to my having fun tonight. I decided to go with a grayish silver mini dress and red satin peep toes heels. I was sure both sexes would recognize the thought I put into this ensemble and get my message. The lesbians would see me over dressed and with my shiny shaved legs and know that  I wasn’t one of them and the guys would detect my single status as I was over dressed and clearly starved for attention.

 " I told you were going to the independent, right?” Paul asked as I  climbed into his car, knees together and ladylike.

“Yes, and I know I’m over dressed but I didn’t want there to be any confusion on my status. I don’t want the universe to accidentally have a lady attracted me.”

 When we get inside the white cotton wife beaters and leather cuffed bracelets were in full force. As we moved toward the beer line I got the few double takes that I felt I deserved. I performed my usual mating eye dance (eye contact…look down…back to eye contact….turn away and smile…back to eye contact). Paul handed me my beer and I spun around to see if there were any takers. There weren’t. With that, the floor lights dimmed, fog started shooting from the stage and the concert began.

 “Hey I’m gonna get you a girl tonight,” Paul proclaimed.

“Um, no thank you my friend but I appreciate you looking out.”

“Olivia, you’re got to be open to new things, new experiences…and then report back in full detail.”
”You and your selfish motivations.”

“You love it”
”Why don’t you just get your wife to…”

“Eh, stop right there,” he said while throwing his hand in my face. “My wife is a beautiful African princess. She would never lower herself to some emotionless act of depravity.”

“But you want me to.”

“And report back in full detail.” 

We shut-up for a few and actually pay attention to the concert at hand. We sway, nod our heads and every now and then wave our hands in the air like we were true players. Out of nowhere a young, petite, blonde chica invaded my personal space and planted herself all up next to me. We were so close our arm hairs were causing static. After a couple of minutes of the cling I finally turned to confront her.

“Hey,” she said before a could get out a little ‘tude.

“Hey, ” I responded.

“You look good,” she continued, smiling hugely, her eyes traveling from my shoes to my lips.

“Thanks.” I was so rattled by her obviousness that I my mind went blank. 
Paul elbowed me and said, “Go head girl.”

“Shut-up.”

 I turn my attention back to the stage but the arm hair shocking was really starting to bug me. I turned to her again.
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]-->
<!--[endif]-->“You guys aren’t together are you?” she asked, again getting her words out first.

“No. I mean we came together but we’re not together, together.”

“I’m married but I like to come out every now and then and hang with Olivia and her people,” Paul interrupted.

“You fucker!” I turned and yelled.

“Your people, huh?” she asked.

“He means black people,” I explained.

“My name is Cammie, Olivia. It’s nice to meet you.”

We shook hands and she continued to ask me the regular get to know you questions. I didn’t want to be too presumptuous so I didn’t want to just scream out ‘I like boys!’ Plus Cammie was kind of funny. Maybe we could be friends I thought. 
Just as that thought entered my head another young petite blonde girl invaded my personal space. This time she was in my face.

“Hey bitch,” she yelled.

“Hey bitch,” I replied.

Her eyes barely open, this little thing was clearly drunk and totally high. Her black leather cuff bracelet and matching belt were both adorned with spikes. Even though we we’re about the same size, I was slightly nervous. 

“Did you just call me bitch?” she asked.

“Didn’t you just call me bitch?”

 “I need another beer. I’ll be right back,” Paul announced as he ducked out of the fire.

“Gina, what the fuck?” Cammie asked.

“Ya, what the fuck?” Gina asked me.

“I don’t know the fuck anything,” I answered.

“What you like her? You trying to get a taste?” Gina continued.

“Look I don’t want to taste anything. I shaved my legs to avoid this kind of mistake.”

“So what, you’re not feeling me?” Cammie asked.

“No, I do…” I began.

“So you do want to feel her?”

“You know what, this is ridiculous. I’m not here right now.

I turn to head to the bathroom when I literally run into Paul and an entire beer spills down the front of my dress.

“Oh damn! I was just in line forever for that!”

“I’m going to the bathroom!” 

When I finally get into my stall a girl next to me screams out, “Does anyone have a tampon?”

“Here, I do,” I reached under the stall and hand her a Pearl girl.

“Thanks so much.”

“No problem.”

We both handled our business and exited our respective stalls at the same time.

“Hey, thanks again.”

“No problem, seriously,” I replied. 

We washed our hands and continued our period talk as we walked out together.

“I’m usually prepared for emergencies like this.”

“Well, you’re lucky you forgot your protection at a concert like this. I’m sure we could find another hundred or so girls in our current condition.”

“That’s true,” She laughed. “My name is Krista.”

“I’m Olivia.”

“Your dress is so cute.”

“Damp but cute. Thanks. You know that necklace would go perfect with my outfit.”

“Ya, it would. Hey maybe we should go shopping together sometime.”

“Sure, we are on the same cycle and all.”

My cure-all for writer’s block is going to an afternoon movie by myself. I sneak in a corndog and strawberry milkshake, sit near the very top and wonder why the hell the other people in this theatre aren’t at work. After being inspired by the screenwriter’s ability to finish his/her job, I usually walk home confident that I can knock out at least another two or three paragraphs of my own.

So the other day I was in need of motivation and I  headed down to the clean theatres at the Bloomingdales mall. It’s chick flick season and I’m in heaven over my choices. I settle on something starring Jennifer…. Paltrow …..Roberts and look forward to not running in to any one I know. Just as I sink in to my seat I hear it.  

“Hey Olivia!”

 When I was 8 years old my mother told me she named me Olivia because it would sound romantic when my husband would call for me. At the time I thought ewww. These days I just wished it didn’t sound like a castration.  

The scream is coming from the lower part of the theatre. The lights are dimmed so I thought if I put my head down I could pretend to be blind and deaf…at the movies.

 “Olivia, I’m right here!”  

I feel bad and acknowledge the wailer. It’s Mike. Mike is a short Philippino guy, probably around my age who happens to be disabled. He lives in my building. He uses a walker, the kind that you see some elderly people using with tennis balls on the front feet. He’s innocent enough, with one beige front tooth and all,  but he’s constantly popping up, nervously flirting with me.

 “Hey Mike,” I say while throwing a wave. I’m totally embarrassed. Yes, there are only 6 other people in the theatre but that’s not the point.  

“Your hair looks different!” he roars.

“Does it now?”

“Maybe you washed it?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m mean with something different.”

“Ahh,… maybe.” Great! Now the whole theatre thinks I don’t wash my hair. What’s Mike doing in a Sarah… Jessica…. Biel movie anyway!

I’m quickly saved by previews. “I’ll catch up to you after,” he screams.  

I couldn’t relax the whole movie. There was no way I was going to get out of there without having to talk to Mike again….and having him point out an incoming pimple. So I play nice and just walk out with him.

“So you like tootsie roll pops, huh?”

“I do. They are a handy little treat,” I say while innocently twirling a grape one in my mouth.

“ I do too. Chocolate is my favorite.”

A little creeped out by that comment, I reach down in my bag and pretend my phone is vibrating and tell him I gotta jam.

 I leave feeling bad for not feeling bad about being kinda mean to disabled Mike. I can’t help it, he gives me the willies.  

Later that week Pete, the friendly ex, sends me a text about a party he wants me to attend with him that night. It’s one of those ‘I don’t like him/her but maybe you will ’ parties. Always up for another excuse to make fun of strangers, I agree to go with him. On the way to the party I tell Pete about disabled Mike.

 “You know the guy probably never talks to girls. He just gets nervous ‘cause he likes you.  You better be nice.”

“I know and I am. It’s just hard to be nice when he kinda makes fun of me.”

“He’s not making fun of you. He just doesn’t know what to say.”

“And he pops up everywhere. Or I’ll hear him screaming my name from a distance and then I have to wait for him to kind of scoot over and catch-up to me.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You know I don’t mean to be mean. It’s just whenever I’m around him it feels like I’m in one of those horror movies where the killer moves slowly and no matter how fast you run he’s always just over your shoulder.”

So we make it into the party and it doesn’t take us long to realize the place is filled with losers.  

“So this is what you think of me, huh?” I ask laughingly.

 We decide to make the most of it and challenge each other to find the saddest story in the room. We separate and eaves drop on the conversations. I over-hear discussions about Dancing with the Stars, mittens for kittens and favorite karaoke songs. And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse… it doesn’t. I meet Dylan, a hot younger than I bartender. We chat about music and what we want to be when we grow-up. I give him my number and we make plans to have dinner next week.  

“So I think I’m the winner tonight,” Pete says. “ I talked to a girl who said she if she could any one in the world she’d be the lead singer of the Pussy Cat Dolls.”

“Wow that’s unbelievable. I’ll give you that round.”

“What, you didn’t come up with anything?.”

“Actually, I think I got a date.”

“No way. Who’s the guy?”

“His name is Dylan and…. he’s a bartender.”

“Uh-huh. Did he promise you free drinks for life or something?”

“Shoot, I forgot to ask. There is one catch though. He wants to be a professional wrestler.”

“Shut-up!”

“I’m serious. He said he’s training to be a pro wrestler like Macho Man Randy Savage.”

“And you’re going to go out with him?”

“He’s cute! And maybe he’ll body slam me…or pile drive me.”

“Or throw you from the top of the ropes.”

The next day on my way out I stopped to check my mail. There was a note on the box that said  that I had a package at the concierge’s desk. I go by and Victor, the concierge guy, has a snide smile on his face.  

“Whatcha got for me?” I ask.

“Some sweeties for the sweetie!”

It’s a giant bag of tootsie roll pops with a note from Mike. Embarrassed, I grab it and rush out the door. As I stuff the treats into my bag, while at the same time trying to read this note and answer my phone, Mike pops up.

“You got my present!” he exclaims.

Freaked by his surprise entrance I drop my phone and pieces go a flying.

“Ya, thanks. That’s super nice of you.”

I scooch around collecting parts and put my phone back together.  When I look up I see Mike twirling a tootsie pop in his mouth.

“Chocolate is my favorite.”

“Yaaa. I prefer grape. I think there are actual nutrients in grape. Thanks again Mike. I gotta jam.”

After a weekend full of higher than usual amounts of Mike sightings and screamings (Safeway, the lingerie department at Nordstrom and Cold Stone) Tuesday finally arrives. I’m meeting Dylan for dinner at the Salt House. I’m totally cute. I’ve got on a new dress from Saks that I couldn’t afford,  high-high heels and tons of make-up to hide underneath. I catch a cab with ease and tip big. Feeling pretty good about myself, I slink into a seat at the bar, order a glass of champagne and wait for Dylan.   

After a few minutes I check my phone. It’s fully charged and there are no missed calls or text messages. I wait some more. I call Melissa, my best friend who lives in Pennsylvania so I don’t look like a loser.  They’re 3 hours ahead in PA. so if she’s out she’s buzzed by now and probably has a good story she could tell me while I wait.  But she doesn’t answer. He’s 20 minutes late. I order another glass and give him 10 more minutes and try to not look like a hooker waiting to get picked up on.

Times up. I’m both shocked and appalled. Not just because I now can’t wear this dress for at least another two weeks but because I also realize that there would be no pile driving or suplexes in my immediate future. I look around the room and everyone’s in twozees or fourzees. I begin to feel low. And just then I hear a clankity clank sound coming from behind me. It’s disabled Mike. For some reason I’m glad to see him.  

“Hey Olivia!” God the yelling.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I ask him.

“Good. I just finished eating here with my grandma. We’re sitting right over there.”

I wave to grandma.

“It’s really good,” he continues. “Are you here by yourself?”

I’m tempted to lie to avoid an awkward insult but I decide to tell a half truth. “Ya. I just stopped in for a quick drink and now I’m going to meet my girls out.”

“Well you look amazing.”

I’m touched. “Thanks!” I’m glad somebody noticed.

“You do have a lot of make-up on but it looks good.”

And there it is. “Right. Thanks Mike. I’ll see you around, alright?”

“Have a good time with your friends.”

“I will. You have a good night too.”

During my cab ride home I call Pete to help me sort out my feelings.  

“Macho Man Randy Savage just stood you up?!”

“Shut-up, man. I’m vulnerable.”

“I’m sorry pookie. I hate to say it but I could see that coming. Wrestlers are notoriously flakey.”

“Only I would accept the invitation of, and then be stood up by a guy training to be a pro wrestler. Disabled Mike was there though, having dinner with his grandma. He came over and said I looked amazing but had too much make-up on.”

“Gotta love his honesty.”

“I know. Maybe I should just settle for Mike. He could be my disabled boyfriend. We’d get great parking spaces…but we’d have to sit close to the movie screen.”

“You’re just thinking out loud now, aren’t you?”

“Ya, I was just picturing our lives together. I think I’d probably get annoyed at the clank sound sooner or later though, you know.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“But what if he’s like that disabled guy from ‘There’s Something About Mary’ and this is all a hoax?!”

 I change out of my clothes and wash off my layers of pretty. I didn’t have dinner but being stood up has left me without much of an appetite. I could, however, always use a little dessert pick me up though. I remember my gift from Mike. In his honor I pull out a chocolate tootsie roll pop, lie out on the couch and prepare for a new episode of Nip Tuck.

The great folks on patrol here told me to stop inviting people to read my diary. Weird. I took down my entries asked them to remove my profile altogether. As you can see they haven't. If I ever really disappear you can reach me at oswilley@hotmail.com

MY DRY HUMPER

In order to drum up some business I drug myself out to a social mixer thingy at the Bubble Lounge. I hate these things because they’re usually all about collecting business cards that will only end up on the bar or rediscovered in a jacket pocket months after the fact. But again, I need to make nice and find some clients. John lost 2 out of 3 of Ro Sham Bo so he was my wing man for the night.

We walk in and the place is packed with beautiful yuppies, buppies and guppies eager to discuss the declining stock and dating market.

“What you got going on up there, Borat?” John asks while pointing at my eyebrows.

“I know. I feel like Guy Smiley. My eyebrow lady has been in Vietnam forever but I refuse to go to anyone else.” I put my hand over my brows. “I feel too ugly to be here right now.”

We head downstairs to the party in the basement. Everyone is dancing and drinking like they didn’t have to work in the morning so John and I quickly joine the party. While we dance in a ‘we’re not together-together’ way I spot a familiar face. He’s a medium height, kinda skinny white guy with dark hair, big blue eyes and a huge smile. I drunk stare him for a bit trying to figure out how I know him. After awhile my liquid courage kicks in and I head over to solve this mystery.

“Hey do we know each other?”

“No,” he says. Just like that.

“Umm, okay.” Embarrassed, I start to walk away but I know I’m going to be bothered by this if I don’t insist. “Dude, I totally know you from somewhere.”

“I just have one of those familiar faces.”

“Do you live at the Beacon?”

“I used to.” And that’s how I knew him. Two years ago I answered his ad on Craigslist.

“Ya, and you didn’t pick me.”

“Ah no, you didn’t pick me.”

“Whatever, I knew I wasn’t crazy.” John and I join him and his boys at the bar, exchange business cards and take turns buying each other rounds. Even in my intoxicated state I decide these guys were only moderately attractive. But they were nice and laughed at my jokes. THE way to my heart. After a few more rounds and some poorly told work jokes/stories midnight arrives and John’s had enough.

“Alright, we’re done,” he declares as he pulls me aside.

“But I’m having fun.”

“O, these guys are dorks. Trust me. You’re sporting the goggles and you don’t know.” Just then Jacob hands me another Greyhound.

“Alright big girl, call me tomorrow.”

So I stay with the boys. We discuss politics, the Aids epidemic and the ever increasing level of green house gas emissions….NOT. When closing time finally arrives we all stumble out together but immediately split up in to teams and begin the hunt for an empty taxi. A total mess, Jacob and I run around with our arms waving exchanging kisses as each one passes us by. After some time we finally find a vacant one and somehow make it to the front of my building. As sad as it sounds, I seriously don’t remember the ride home.

“Ohmigosh. I’m so sorry,” I say as I come to and realize where we are. “You are welcome to stay over but I’m totally not going to sleep with you. I’m sorry for not saying something sooner.”

“That’s cool. We can just crash.”

With that game plan in place we head up to my apartment. Jacob immediately heads to the bathroom and I collapse on my bed, fully clothed and with my shoes on. After a few minutes he reemerges from the bathroom with his shirt and boxers in hand. He throws them to the floor, climbs on top of me and we start making out. It’s all good but I’m totally spent. He is clearly more in to this than I am but I don’t have the heart (or the strength) to tell him that I’d rather he just roll over. And then all the sudden I’m transported to high school. Jacob totally starts dry humping me. It starts off gentle but then gets a little out of hand. There’s no way his man child could be enjoying grinding against my Citizens.

“Jacob, what are you…doesn’t that hurt, my jeans I mean?”

“Kind of. Why don’t you...”

“Never mind, as you were.” For the next couple of hours Jacob did his thing. I came in and out of consciousness wondering if and then when he would grow tired of this but the guys got stamina. At one point I tell him that I can’t kiss him anymore because his “face hurts.” With that he gets up and goes to my bathroom. I hear the shower door open and close and figure he’s cooling off so we can both finally go sleep. I was wrong. A few minutes later he comes back to bed and starts kissing me again…. only his face didn’t hurt.

“What? How?” I ask while rubbing my hands on his cheeks.

“I used your razor.”

WHAAAAT!!! And he continues for what had to be another 2-3 hours. Eventually, and without any particular kind of climax he rolls over and we both settle in for a good half hour of sleep.

I live in an alarm free world so when his watch alarm, (that’s right, his watch alarm) went off at 7:30 I almost fell out of bed. I catch myself and catch a look at my humper. John was right, I thought. And he’s going to love to hear this story. Jacob gets dressed, checks his phone and says that he’s got to get to the office. He takes a look at me and looks confused. I throw my hand over my eyebrows and wish him a good day. He leaves without asking for my number or leaving his. I’ve escaped unscathed. I rejoice and go back to sleep.

Around 9 John calls and invites me over for pancakes and to hear details of my adventure from the night before. When he lets me in to his place his dog Seven immediately jumps me.

“No, please. No more. I can’t take it. No mounting.”

“You dork. What the hell happened to you? You’re walking like you just lost your virginity,” he laughs. “Did you give that guy your flower?”

“Shut up. I hurt.”

“You slept with him?”

“No, of course not. The guy dry humped me for like 4 hours. My vagina totally hurts.”

“And you didn’t sleep with him?”

“No! The outside of my vagina hurts not the inside. I feel like I just got my ass kicked. My vagina being my ass.”

“He dry humped you that hard? His used his penis like a little fist, huh, and he was like BAM!”

“I’m going to have to tell people I went horse back riding or something.”

I tell John the whole story and he just laughs at me. “You’re the only person I know who can go out to find clients and bring back a sore vagina.”

“I thought dry humping was illegal for people between the ages of 16 and 68.”

“Why 68?”

“Just seemed like a fair number. I feel like Nancy Kerrigan…why?!”

“You are a dummy.”

We finish breakfast and I head over to my salon. I can’t wait any longer, I have to get my eyebrows taken care of; they’re attracting bad luck. I take the N Judah clear across town to the Inner Sunset and hope that some one in Nail Arts will be able to tame this shrew. When I walk in there are a few women sitting in the chairs in the L shaped waiting area. I tell the receptionist what I need and she says that Gloria will be right with me. I settle in my seat and pick up an Us Weekly from a year ago. Poor Britney. I’m interrupted by the shrieks I hear coming from the back wax room. From where I’m sitting I can catch a glimpse of Gloria going to town on this woman. She’s in there to get her ‘stache and brows waxed but the woman has totally mounted her. “Do you know what that’s about?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.

“Gloria’s really thorough. She’ll do whatever it takes to get any stray hair.”

“Including mounting you?”

See nodded yes. And with that I bowed out.

“I can’t be mounted again for another 3 to 5 days,” I tell the receptionist. “I’ll be back when I’ve fully recovered.”