Timothea was sleeping when Henny called back.
“Hello?”
“Timothea.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Henny.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to cover me in Vaseline.”
“For a hundred dollars, maybe.” Timothea was not surprised that Henny brought up the Vaseline, because he had asked her to do this special favor for him about a week prior to this phone call on her voicemail. At the time she had called him back and left this message:
“Hello, David, this is Margaret. I don’t think I have enough Vaseline.”
He left her this message:
“Mishka, I think I will be able to provide the Vaseline. Ha. Ha.”
And she, this:
“Shoo be doo be do be do.”
So now, in the late afternoon sun of her nap, she was very calm and composed when he asked this seemingly strange question.
“For a hundred dollars, maybe.”
“I need you to just cover the top half of my body. Then I need you to help me apply papier mache and then later, somehow, get it off of me without stabbing me.”
“Or with stabbing you.”
“Or with stabbing me.”
“I don’t know. I have to think about it.”
“Okay.”
“Can I call you when I’m awake?”
“I need you to cover me in Vaseline.”
“Goodbye.” Timmy hated it when Henny didn’t answer her questions. It was like he wanted to be as difficult as possible but somehow also thought it was endearing. Timmy did not feel endeared to him. She was just annoyed.
She rolled over in her bed and tried to readjust so that she could fall back asleep. She was tired, so tired. She had been out until 2:45 in the morning and then had to get up by 4:45 to work at Starbucks. Then she came home and had been trying to nap all afternoon. Her phone kept ringing: Arielle, Dacia, Mama, Tessa, Jeff, and now Henny. She didn’t think to turn it off, because what if someone had something very important to tell her? Her bed was warm, and soft, but she was in the place of consciousness that does not allow for comfort.
She let herself fall hard out of bed and hit the ground with a thump. There were bills scattered under her desk- all paid, but disorganized. A stack of CD cases propped up another scattered mess of papers- memorabilia, she called it. She stood up and felt her face frowning.
“Mmmfff.” She let a lot of air out through her nose all at once and moved toward her door. She paused to touch a strand of pearls hanging from her rack. She let her hand rest inside the long loop.
She decided there would be two stipulations to the deal if she did decide to cover Henny’s torso in Vaseline.
1. There would be no talking allowed, except by her.
2. She would get to pick the music. She had already decided on Damien Rice.
She did not think he would approve of her stipulations, but he really
did need someone to cover his torso in Vaseline, and like all forms of prostitution, there is always a price.
I went to a show in downtown Portland tonight alone. It was satisfying in a very specific way and I thought a lot about drugs and lights and connection. Is it possible for me to find connection the way I found it in Los Angeles? How will I go about meeting people? I don't have the Sirens, or Cruiser, or the jazzers. I must find my own niche.
Then, I went to Voodoo Doughnut, the best all-night doughnut shop round these parts. I got a Captain Fancy (a doughnut with vanilla frosting and Captain Crunch all over the top. It actually doesn't have a name but I told them tonight that they should call it Captain Fancy and they seemed to like that idea). I looked through the records that they had on sale and saw Bruce Springsteen. I almost bought it and sent it to Nathan Gadd because there was an eerie resemblence between Nathan and Bruce on the back cover of the album. Right down to the chest hair sticking up through the v-neck undershirt. A quick glance at the huge gold chandelier and I was off.
Coming home from work today, I realize several things:
1. I spend however much money I have.
2. I am going to have Free Time this week. To do whatever I want with. What should I do?
3. My room needs vacuuming very badly, as does the house, since I told Tim I would do it before and never followed through (whoops)... I may just clean the whole damned house today!
4. I have to take a nap before I do that.
5. I love boys.
A comment on my previous blog:
Please do not think that because I am currently experimenting with graphic design that I am in any way falling back into the habit of mutilation. These pictures I am going to post are merely representations of the disorder itself- they are altered by mine own hand to reflect a really difficult thing that I have dealt with in my past. The pictures are in no way representative of my current state of being. Rest easy, kind readers.
I want to eat everything.
I want to breathe and see and face more things than are possible to breathe and see and face.
This is my moment of ultimate desire.
This is the time I feel the most will.
I don't know if life could get much better.
After Thursday I will have Free Time.
Stacy and Carson are coming to visit and I get to see Carson play here in my town.
I have an incredible new job nannying for Jillian and Raymond and Ian and Evan... great hours, great people, great kids, great house, nice drive... starting the beginning of May.
Even my financial situation is not as stressful as it could be.
I recorded three monologues last night at Matt's house. Seth, Mark and Justin. Eric Trules (my old monologue teacher) is talking with NPR to get some of our pieces on the radio. I did Seth in one take so I might go back and do it again.
And lastly, tonight I'm going to see Azure Ray at Berbati's Pan in downtown Portland.
These are all good things.
Thanks to Rob Roellke:
funny Jewish comedian Julius Sharpe
I'm meeting tomorrow with my old boss Jillian to talk about the possibility of nannying for her and her brand new twin boys. They're like, a month old. I am way way psyched.
I wondered today, what is more beautiful? Fourteen sheets of newsprint fighting jiujitsu outside of the bank in downtown portland or swirls and sworls of coffee and whipped cream clinging onto the stainless steel sink for dear life? I guess we'll never know.
On a more focused note, the dissociative disorder has surfaced once again. I was really good: all through the Sirens tour I was sure to not pick and keep everything fresh and friendly. I also, however, let my nails grow out long. Now we have to evaluate this situation based on several factors:
1) I just got on my Tampax surfboard to ride the crimson wave, which of course means I've been a little more broken out than usual. Always happens round this time.
2) Since my nails are longer, the effects of the picking are much more pronounced and the results I get are a lot more satisfying (for those of you just tuning in, I pick at tender skin on my body when I get upset about things, or unbalanced... it's a dissociative / associative disorder I lovingly picked up in college. The main areas of attack are my breasts and arms and face.)
3) I just quit my job. My financial situation is about to get really, really ugly. That's not an easy thing to digest.
4) I'm on the downside of the manswing. Used to be "yay for guys, they kiss and touch me! Relationships are unnecessary for me now, I'm Independent!" where now it is, "gosh, I wish I had a boy to touch and kiss me all the time, not just late on Saturday nights or when I'm under the influence. It'd be nice to have someone to care for."
So with all of those factors, it's easy to understand where I am with the whole picking situation. It doesn't make the marks any less red or the fingernails any duller. It just means I sigh with understanding after a session instead of sighing with frustration or confusion.
On the other hand, I am genuinely trying hard to curb it this time around. I'm making the most conscious effort that I can to avoid the pulling up of the shirt or the reach down the front or the curl around the back of my arm. I really am. I allow myself face picking to distract, but really, that's just like burning your hand with a cigarette to take your mind off the gunwound.
It's so interesting to me, the picking disorder. It brings to mind so many memories of emotional pain, but I really wonder what the chemical or physiological process is. What is it that takes the physical pain and translates it, electromagically, into some kind of coping mechanism? How does the slice of my fingernail equal a stitch in my heart? Really, it can't be truth. It's not truth. It's just magic. Fake. Mirrors and smoke, that's my disorder. Mirrors and smoke.
