Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro

I remember the first time you went home for Thanksgiving. We’d only been dating a few months but you had already become the most important thing in my life, the most valuable. We made plans. In my room I kept a little stuffed mouse you’d given me, and when I was sad, or things at home were just too much, it comforted me to stroke his fur. It was like a small piece of you to have with me all the time (and I have it still).

So when you had to leave, I was upset. I hadn’t been apart from you for that long before, and I’d really been excited at the prospect of having a real boyfriend during a holiday. I knew it was silly, even trite. But I couldn’t help it. For me, nothing had lasted more than a month or two before you. I’d never had that experience, of being able to share those times with a man who meant something to me. I grudgingly accepted that I’d just have to wait a while longer, and asked you to call me as soon as your plane arrived. You took off.

And then, I don’t know why, I became convinced that you were about to be in an accident. Sometimes I get a gut feeling that something is about to happen, and it does. And sometimes I get a gut feeling and it turns out to be a paranoid fantasy. Usually, it’s the latter. So I sat in my kitchen by the phone, worrying and waiting. If I knew any better I could have looked up the airline and just checked on the flight status from time to time. But I didn’t know any better, and even if I had, I still would have been sick over it until you landed.

A dozen scenarios played out in my mind. The nose of the plane dipping into the runway, sending it cartwheeling down the black strip. The engines bursting into flames mid-air, for no good reason (Can that even happen?). It was before September 11th, otherwise I’m sure there would have been at least three hijackers involved. In any case, the result was losing the most precious person in the world. I cried. I cried thinking that after all that bullshit I’d finally found The One, and that he was about to be taken away. My savior, my future, my heart. My long-awaited Knight.

As it happened, your plane did not crash into an ocean (even though you weren’t flying over one). It was not attacked by gremlins. Lighting, hurricanes, and flocks of errant birds were all absent. Your flight landed safely and, although it was some time later than I’d expected, you called me. I don’t know if you remember that phone call, and to be honest I can’t recall whether I shared with you how anxious I’d been. Part of me thinks I wouldn’t have, because letting someone know how much it would mean to lose them is dangerous; it gives them so much power. But part of me remembers that I was different then, that I wasn’t so afraid. Maybe I did tell you. I don’t know. I do know I didn’t always express how much you meant to me, when I had the chance. I think a part of me was always waiting for the crash.

I’m back from New York. And even though I know I was supposed to power through the jet lag and not fall asleep til my regular bedtime…I am weak. I woke up at 1am PST this morning to catch my flight and got to LAX just after 11. One very interesting shuttle ride later (during which I played Goodwill Ambassador of Hollywood to a group of six Brit boys–one of whom was suffering from motion sickness, poor thing–they seem to be everywhere lately, Brit boys, I mean) I was home, about 2pm. I had to staunchly refuse the Russian driver’s offer to take me to the best soup in Los Angeles. I had great plans for this evening, including sushi, movies, and driving my car aimlessly. But after checking messages I decided to have a brief rest…which turned into waking up at 9pm. I am thinking about unpacking, or writing a little bit about the trip (Where do I begin? The foray into Washington Square at midnight? The worst karaoke performance ever? The mystery puddle?) but I’m afraid I’m still not up to writing something that isn’t riddled with grammatical errors. Is it one of whom was suffering? I’m not even sure.

Overall, the trip was amazing. It felt great to just disconnect from everything. My phone died during the flight there and I’d forgotten my charger. I could have bought another one but decided against it. I checked email maybe twice while I was away. The first few days, we went at a breakneck speed…but packing three days’ worth of sight-seeing into one leaves you pretty exhausted after a while. The last couple of days were spent at a more leisurely pace, the final day was really just recovery from such a grueling schedule (read: extremely hung over). With few exceptions, I saw everything I had missed on previous visits. A few of the overriding impressions I came away with: I still LOVE riding the subway and really wish that L.A.’s was better, New York is a place I’d move to in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for those pesky “seasons,” Walking justifies cannolis, and guys in business attire are undeniably hot.

I know I’m a total egomaniac for assuming you even care, but in the coming days I hope to write a little bit about it. First, though, I have to get Doug, Rina, and Steph to sign Release Forms. They may prefer I change their names…

I’m back from New York. And even though I know I was supposed to power through the jet lag and not fall asleep til my regular bedtime…I am weak. I woke up at 1am PST this morning to catch my flight and got to LAX just after 11. One very interesting shuttle ride later (during which I played Goodwill Ambassador of Hollywood to a group of six Brit boys–one of whom was suffering from motion sickness, poor thing–they seem to be everywhere lately, Brit boys, I mean) I was home, about 2pm. I had to staunchly refuse the Russian driver’s offer to take me to the best soup in Los Angeles. I had great plans for this evening, including sushi, movies, and driving my car aimlessly. But after checking messages I decided to have a brief rest…which turned into waking up at 9pm. I am thinking about unpacking, or writing a little bit about the trip (Where do I begin? The foray into Washington Square at midnight? The worst karaoke performance ever? The mystery puddle?) but I’m afraid I’m still not up to writing something that isn’t riddled with grammatical errors. Is it one of whom was suffering? I’m not even sure.

Overall, the trip was amazing. It felt great to just disconnect from everything. My phone died during the flight there and I’d forgotten my charger. I could have bought another one but decided against it. I checked email maybe twice while I was away. The first few days, we went at a breakneck speed…but packing three days’ worth of sight-seeing into one leaves you pretty exhausted after a while. The last couple of days were spent at a more leisurely pace, the final day was really just recovery from such a grueling schedule (read: extremely hung over). With few exceptions, I saw everything I had missed on previous visits. A few of the overriding impressions I came away with: I still LOVE riding the subway and really wish that L.A.’s was better, New York is a place I’d move to in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for those pesky “seasons,” Walking justifies cannolis, and guys in business attire are undeniably hot.

I know I’m a total egomaniac for assuming you even care, but in the coming days I hope to write a little bit about it. First, though, I have to get Doug, Rina, and Steph to sign Release Forms. They may prefer I change their names…

My birthday weekend was full of mixed feelings. [Edit: Here there was personal stuff that happened which gave me those mixed feelings, which I have decided to remove] I heard from people I didn’t expect to, and didn’t hear from some I did expect to. But something I’ve learned lately is that the only reason I’m ever sad, or disappointed, or anxious, or unhappy–it’s because of the expectations I have. Often unrealistic, always overemphasized…I want so badly for everything to be perfect all the time. And the truth is that nothing is perfect, ever. I know that, I mean I’m aware of that. But when I’m tense there is something inside me like a tea kettle–quiet at first but rising to a fever pitch–when I can’t get something to be just right.

Last night I was at the second of six sessions of a silversmithing class I’m taking. I had brought my design for two hammered silver circles (for earrings). The teacher sat me down with a sheet of silver that I’d stenciled the circles onto, and a small saw, and told me to cut them out. The blade of this saw is hardly wider than a bit of dental floss. The teeth are nearly invisible. To cut, you must keep it perfectly straight, and apply minimal pressure using up-and-down strokes. The blade should pull itself into the metal. If you bend it, or press too hard, the blade breaks.

I began cutting into the metal and immediately broke my blade. Finding another saw, I sat down and tried again. I had almost made it from the straight edge of the sheet to the beginning of my circle when I realized I didn’t have an apron on, and metal shards were floating down onto my knees through the holes in my jeans. I carefully balanced the interlocked saw and sheet in one hand and reached for the heavy denim apron with the other. Again I heard the sickening little ping of the blade snapping in two. I had made hardly any progress on my project, I’d broken two blades, and I still didn’t understand what I was doing wrong. But I was determined not to ask for help again and be the one who didn’t get it. I found the replacement blades, figured out how to load one into the saw, and sat with my (now loathsome) silver sheet again. Holding the sheet in my right hand and sawing with my left, I used force. I pushed the saw. And it seemed to work! I got a quarter of the way around my circle but then couldn’t turn. I was on a straight line and the blade was locked into it. I tried to back the saw out carefully, up down up down–ping! And I lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt every frustration that I’d been pushing down bubbling up to the surface. Fortunately our stations are enclosed and very private. I wiped my cheeks and turned to see that the class was gone. Our instructor sat at his bench soldering tiny brass rings.

I broke the blade three times and I still can’t do it, I told him. I held the broken saw and mangled silver sheet out to him. He made me feel better about the blades because they’re pennies apiece, and covered in our lab fee. Then he took the saw, replaced the blade, and cut a perfect circle effortlessly in less than a minute. He put it in my hand, smiling, and told me with playful condescension, You’re tensing up, that’s what’s wrong. The first thing you need to do is not care. Next week you’ll do the other one and you’ll see. Exasperated, tired, hollowed out by having coped with so much in a few days I climbed into my car and had a good cry down Sunset on the way home. I thought about how long I’ve been striving for unrealistic ideals, trying to make things turn out right when right is unreasonable, putting pressure on myself and others until we all break. Beating myself up. Hating myself. And as a result not being able to comprehend how someone else could actually like someone like me. The cry continued upstairs, in my bathroom, on my couch, and over dinner. Then I was all dried up.

I don’t know if I’ve made much progress these last few years, but I’ve made a lot of realizations. And that’s something. Next Monday I’m going into that class and I’m coming out with a circle, because I won’t try. It won’t be perfect, probably not even close. I’m going to break some saws. I’m going to be the best fucking not-carer they’ve EVER SEEN!

So I was about to sit down and watch Lemony Snicket, which I picked up at work today, and I remembered the date I was on when I saw it in the theater (2004?).

His name is Mike Kent. He works at a coffeeshop and plays in a band. I know, I know. But wait, it gets better–he’s 34. I know! How DO I find them? So needless to say he’s charming, witty, and adorable. Also a deadly flirt. He introduces himself to me one night when I am hanging out in the back of the coffeeshop being broody. He’s the kind of person that enjoys confusing others; saying things that are bizarre or cryptic, just to have an advantage over them. Usually I find this manipulative behavior juvenile and obnoxious. But for some reason, on him, so cute! We make a date for the following weekend.

We meet at Versailles and both have garlic chicken. He tells me about this girl he’s been seeing, how he bought her a perfume but wasn’t sure if she’d like it and what did I think? I ask What kind of perfume? He doesn’t know, but it was on sale at Sav-on. I tell him that perfume is usually a very personal choice but I’m sure she’ll like whatever he picked out. Then his phone rings and he answers it. To his credit, he does walk outside to finish the call. He comes back, shaking his head, That girl is crazy. Same girl? No, different girl. He’s marking his boundaries and if I want to join in, I’d better mention at least two other men I’m more interested in than him. I get it, but I’m not going to play his game. We split the check (actually, he was short a couple of dollars), then take his car to the theater. He puts his feet up on the seat in front of us and talks during the movie. Afterwards, we call it a night.

Inexplicably, I can’t stop thinking about him. And of course he doesn’t call for more than two weeks (during which time I have to avoid the coffeeshop and the whole neighborhood, in fact). When he finally does, it’s to ask in that blase way of his if I’m busy, then and there. Before Smart Helena can think up a good answer, I’m saying No and Sure I’d love to see you. I meet him at the apartment where he lives with his ex-girlfriend’s parents…oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, so I meet him there, we hop in his car, and he says Well, let’s start with a drink. That usually sounds good to me, so I say where would you like to go? But he meant the liquor store and not a bar. He buys a 40 oz. of Miller and I grab a pack of Guinness. At this point it’s like I’m in fucking Backwardsville. This guy couldn’t be a bigger loser. So WHY do I like him more and more? On the way out, he tries to get me to go next door into the Pleasure Chest (a sex shop on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood), and calls me a prude when I refuse. In his room, I drink enough of my beer to not be rude. We kiss and he immediately tries to take my pants off. I leave. He doesn’t call anymore. And I am totally, completely crushed.

Why? Why is it so hard to tell someone to fuck off when it would actually be useful? When they need to be told that? Why do I need to win them? It’s like I am watching myself do these things, unable to intervene. My brain is outside of my body, but it’s completely helpless. It watches me the way people watch bad slasher movies, saying, Naw man! Don’t open that door! Don’t open that–aw, damn! What a stupid bitch!

And then she gets ripped to shreds but no one feels sympathetic. When the credits roll you see she didn’t even have a name, just Girl #2.

Still, a thousand times over, I’d choose to be the idiot rather than the thing behind the door.

It probably wasn’t THE first thing you got for me. The first thing was probably dinner, or flowers…after that, but before the earrings at three months, and the necklace at six, there was the book.

Continue reading Little Prince (This one hurt.)…

“Self-fraud”

Today I went and had my fortune told by a palm reader off the Century freeway. I’ve always been interested in a reading, but never had one done–other than as a kind of gag at a Halloween carnival. A girlfriend suggested I try it; she said it had given her some clarity, and clarity is something I could use a bit of, so she took me. We walked into the front room and were asked to have a seat on a brocade-upholstered bench with a filigree back. To my right was an enormous and elaborate arrangement of week-old white roses. Their wilting musk and sagging necks inspired a slight sense of dread. Figures of saints stood in spot-lit alcoves and looked benevolently down at us as we thumbed through celebrity gossip magazines and waited to be seen. A girl emerged from the kitchen in the back of the house and asked me to follow her through a set of french doors covered by ivory lace.

Continue reading Story-time…

Today I was out in Burbank and decided to run a couple of errands I’d been putting of for ages. One was to drop by my old production office and pick up tapes of the shows I worked on (since I’m cable-less and don’t get MTV…yeah I know I’m really missing out). The other was to pick up an item I’d took to be framed in March. Of 2005. It’s a series of animation cells that were given to me back when I worked at the front desk at MTVn’s corporate office. Bill Oakley and Josh Weinstein came in for a meeting, and I remarked how much I loved Mission Hill. They were surprised I’d even heard of it. A few days later, Josh came back with three cells and a background for me. I was thrilled! It sat in a folder for almost a year. Then I took it to the frame shop, near the office I worked at in Burbank. They made a mistake in framing it. I left it another few weeks. Then the gig was over and I started working in Hollywood. And then it was just out of the question. Go to Burbank? On a weekday? Way over THERE? Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

They’ve been calling me once a month for a year. Actually, JoAnne has been calling. I feel like I know her. Sometimes we talk, sometimes she just leaves me a message. I give an excuse and apology, say I’ll be there to pick it up any day now.

Well, that day was today. I parked in front of the shop and actually got nervous. What if JoAnne decided to lecture me, like a dentist, about having neglected this task for so long? In I went, to the pick-up area. A young girl approached me, and I felt relieved. JoAnne sounds older, at least late 40’s, she has a sort of smoky voice. She asked my last name, and I said, “Lazaro. I think maybe I’m a little famous around here.”

The girl, and a voice behind me said at the same time, “Oh, YES!” I turned to see the woman that must be JoAnne regard me over her glasses.

I began apologizing profusely. I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’m not in this area much anymore, actually I’d been out of the country for a while, actually I go out of the country fairly regularly, and that’s why I haven’t had time to stop by. I heard the apology become a small fib, then a pack of lies, leaping out of my mouth with a life of their own, entirely beyond my control.

“Oh really?” asked the girl while JoAnne pulled my frame off the shelf, “Where do you go?”

Questions. She was asking questions! What to do…”Oh, you know. Africa, India, wherever.” Had I said that? I’ve never been to Africa. Or India. And who talks like that? Douchebags, that’s who. I’d become a lying douchebag in order to avoid the judgment of total strangers. This was WAY worse than saying, “Why, of course I floss regularly.”

The girl looked at me with big eyes, “Wow, that must be really cool.”

“Yeah,” I told her, “It’s ok.”

I took my shrink-wrapped frame and scurried back to the car. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done! It reminded me of being 17, making up fake identities with my girlfriends before we went out, things to tell boys when they were asking about us. Ok, I’ll be Luna, and I go to Whittier College and I’m studying to be a teacher. No, wait, a doctor. Yeah.

It had been so long since I told anyone something about myself that was fabricated, that I almost forgot it was even possible. Almost exhilarating. Not that I plan to make a habit of it. The problem with me and lying is that I don’t remember things. Even things that are true. So things that aren’t true, I mean, I haven’t got a chance. In spite of my poor lying skills, I can’t help but feel I’m missing out on something…I could be anyone I wanted to. Although ultimately, I guess I’m crazy enough without delusions of grandeur thrown into the mix.

Tonight I was invited by Tarous’ family (if you don’t know, Tarous is the boyfriend, currently in Afghanistan) to celebrate Norouz, the traditional New Year celebration in Afghanistan and various other central Asian and Indian countries. It’s based on the Spring equinox, or first day of Spring, and the term means “New Day.” For this reason, one of the traditions involves buying and wearing all new clothing. And you know I’m down with that!

Everyone who knows me knows I’m hard to get to parties–especially ones where I don’t know anyone. Now, although I’ve met Tarous’ immediate family on one or two occasions, I would hardly say I know them. His mom is a tough sell on non-Afghan girls, but for whatever reason (I think because I’d met and made a good impression on his younger siblings first) has been very nice to me and made some kind gestures that I really appreciate. Because of that, I was really touched by the invitation, and thought it was important that I accept.

I already knew a little bit about what Afghan celebrations are like from Tarous, so I was somewhat prepared. But that didn’t stop me from going all cold and clammy when I pulled up in front of the party and saw silhouettes crowding every window. His older sister, Zitilla (Z, for short), came out to meet and “brief” me a bit at my request. She said, “Well, first there’s talking, then dinner, then dancing, then tea and dessert, and then fruit. After the fruit we are free to go, haha!”

She took me inside and introduced me to everyone in the room. Well, I should say she introduced me to all the ladies in the room. This is because the men and women don’t occupy the same area during a party.

Continue reading Little Helena’s First Afghan New Year…

Tonight I was invited by Tarous’ family (if you don’t know, Tarous is the boyfriend, currently in Afghanistan) to celebrate Norouz, the traditional New Year celebration in Afghanistan and various other central Asian and Indian countries. It’s based on the Spring equinox, or first day of Spring, and the term means “New Day.” For this reason, one of the traditions involves buying and wearing all new clothing. And you know I’m down with that!

Everyone who knows me knows I’m hard to get to parties–especially ones where I don’t know anyone. Now, although I’ve met Tarous’ immediate family on one or two occasions, I would hardly say I know them. His mom is a tough sell on non-Afghan girls, but for whatever reason (I think because I’d met and made a good impression on his younger siblings first) has been very nice to me and made some kind gestures that I really appreciate. Because of that, I was really touched by the invitation, and thought it was important that I accept.

I already knew a little bit about what Afghan celebrations are like from Tarous, so I was somewhat prepared. But that didn’t stop me from going all cold and clammy when I pulled up in front of the party and saw silhouettes crowding every window. His older sister, Zitilla (Z, for short), came out to meet and “brief” me a bit at my request. She said, “Well, first there’s talking, then dinner, then dancing, then tea and dessert, and then fruit. After the fruit we are free to go, haha!”

She took me inside and introduced me to everyone in the room. Well, I should say she introduced me to all the ladies in the room. This is because the men and women don’t occupy the same area during a party.

Continue reading Little Helena’s First Afghan New Year…