Here we go a cougar-ing

One Friday evening, our friend Andrew accompanied us out for an evening of diversions and fine libations. The night was fairly typical: Brendan pedi cab rolled up outside our door, sporting his coveted double cart. we asked him about his finace, per usual, and he informed us that they were still trying to conceive. He also informed us that Sarah does not like her gig as a pedicab driver. I responded, "It takes a special person to really embrace this job."  We were also privy to experience his new trick: a double wheelie with no hands ( i thought i was going to die).

This was one of the first nights that Andrew had explicitly come to Scottsdale to engage in our dalliances. Once inside the W, he learned quickly he has a hit. Dressed in a light blue seersucker jacket ( Andrew, if you read this and that detail is wrong, please, correct me), a wiry, tanned 40 something blonde pounced at him. "You are soooo cute," she shrieked while sloshing her apple-tini, "I love this jacket, this whole--" and just as she began to tug at Andrew's face, timmmber: her left ankle twisted in its platform wedge and she nearly bit it on top of the flourescent floor light below. But by the grace of God who may have a soft spot for vulnerable, inebriated cougars, she caught herself. I felt bad for her, so I told said to her that I had done the same thing the night before. "And I didn't even save my drink! You are so graceful!"

With that, we became a 20 minute fixture in Patricia's world. We were introduced to her friends, one a weathered blonde with the extensions of a 20 year old that really just made her look like a more haggard version of Stevie Nicks. Appropriately enough, she departed promptly to sidle up next to a handsome WallStreet Look a like at the bar. I would momentarily catch Stevie sliding her hand around the man's waist whenever she tilted back her head to cackle loudly. 

We also met Billy, Patricia's personal trainer turned beau. Billy was exactly what one would expect a personal trainer from Boston to be: squat but fit with an accent that still lingered after 10+ years out west. He wore tight light jeans, no doubt to show off his quads or maybe because he really didn't know any better. I suspect a little of both. I began to converse  with Billy while Kate and Andrew talked to Patricia about shoes and other novel, assorted topics.

While Patricia promised Kate could stop in anytime to check out her shoe collection, Billy revealed that he used to play baseball in the minors and of course had to quit for an injury. He now worked as a personal trainer at a resort in Gainey Ranch. That is where he met Patricia. 

"You know, I trained her," He turned his head proudly as if gazing on a Grecian Bust, "she looks great doesn't she?" I smiled... awkward city. 

Since Billy was quite the talker, I decided it was ok to ask details about how their relationship had developed. I received only vague answers in which Billy tried to segue back to talking about his baseball days. I did learn that Patricia's divorce from her former betrothed had almost come to a close. 

"It was really messy," Billy shook his head and looked sad, "But I was good through the whole thing. I didn't start seeing Patricia until they officially began the divorce process." I assumed he meant that he did start seeing her until they were separated.

"That's very moral of you," I responded, eyeing for Andrew to rescue me.

"Yeah well I'm kind of old fashioned," Bill nodded still staring at Patricia who had made her way to the bar for another martini. It was true: Billy was old fashioned, or so far i could tell from his clothes,  and that may have stemmed from the fact that he was, well, old. He looked at least 55 or so. 

I used this moment as an excuse to duck into the bathroom. In the past 20 minutes I had learned about a wealthy Scottsdale woman who left her unhappy marraige to find solace with her personal trainer. It was so .... typical. This was exactly the sort of story I would expect to surface underneath the beach fascade on top of the W hotel. However, I had to give her some credit for not actually having preyed on young men like Andrew. Maybe, Patricia was also old fashioned.  

Exiting the bathroom, I spotted Stevie intertwined with Wallstreet and found my friends crowding around a heat lamp across the bar. Stevie laughed and held on tight to Wallstreet. Which was smart, I supposed, considering that she might not be so lucky the next time she went a cougar-ing. 

collectors items

My sisters and I were collectors of freakish things. In her very young toddler youth, Sarah would collect these stuffed rabbit heads with blankets attached. She had 36 of them. She would pick the fuzz off of them until they were threadbare. My mom vacuumed a lot. I, on the other hand, collected clowns. Well, my collection was limited to three, in a range of sizes. The largest was named Obo, the middle was Cousin (he looked a little different from the others), and the third was Junior (for size related reasons). 

A collection can only have value if its owner believes it does. To my sister, those Playschool rabbit blanket-toy fusions were money. My clowns were top shelf. Losing pieces of these collections meant losing your mind, sanity, and torturing our mother for hours. It was her job to find the things we would lose. 

With age, grew the sophistication of our collections. We used to frequently visit Greenfield Village in Dearborn, MI which, in a sentence, is time warp into pre-industrial America-- hello Firestone Farm and Glass blowing shops. In this magical land, it was easy to get sucked into the looniness of muslin dresses and horse drawn carraiges. Here, my requirements of life were simpler, my expectations weaker. Though my sister and I loved nothing more than vomit worthy roller coasters and carnival rides, suddenly, a ride on a turn of the century Carousel with wood carved horses (along with 1 cat, and 2 dogs) was the cat's pajamas. We were tugging at our mother's petticoat, "Mummy, dear, we would fancy a ride on the carousel, oh please do say yes!"

At the end of a good afternoon's mosey 'bout a few displaced farm houses, school houses and that wondrous carousel, we hit the souvenir shop. Again we tugged at our mother's purse strings, "Mummy, can i have a penny for a peppermint stick or a pack of lemon drops?" The candy we would have turned our nose up at or disparaged as old people candy from our halloween baskets was suddenly a prize. Inside the souvenir shop, we were grappling with our last chance to embrace a yesteryear we never ever knew and would soon discard once we stopped at Bennigan's for dinner out on the way home. At home we wouldn't spend hours boiling water over a cracklin' fire or charcoal homework inside primers. We wouldn't save our pennies and knickles for cinnamon sticks and roasted peanuts. No, we would gorge ourselves on the latest gel filled gummy candy and dabble with Rollercoaster Tycoon on the IBM. 

The prized posssession of the gift shop, the coveted prize, though, was not a mere penny sweet stick. We had higher expectations than that. 

Along the back wall of the gift shop were baskets of rabbits feet, all different assorted colors, individually dyed and shaped. My sisters and I poked through the baskets, speculating about which ones to purchased, based upon a variety of qualities. Did it have a protruding nail or some defect in its bone structure? Were we interested in a full sized or a mini foot ( the mini ones were from baby rabbits, I suppose, and were cheaper but probably should've been more, considering that they were kind of like a delicacy)? We held them up to the light and squinted like diamond prospectors in the mines of South Africa. The feet smelled like a nature center, or like the prairies that Laura Ingalls Wilder frolicked through daily. These were the toys that children had to play with in days of old we assumed (completely untrue), and we needed to fit the role. 

According to some sources, rabbits feet were old good luck gems. We just liked to collect them. My favorites were a miniature magenta one and a white one- au natural and free of dyes. I stored them in the top drawer next to my socks and potpourri satchel my grandma brought back from Ireland. 

One day, bored of my rabbits feet lining my drawer, I took them out and put them to use. Inside my closet, I hung them from the metal shelving units, added to control the excess of Lee jeans flooding out into my room frequently. With a little handy work, giftwrap ribbon and tape, I created a montage of rabbits feet hanging from the shelving units. 

Then I lured the family cat into my room and placed her in my closet. Voila- a workout center for the cat. For about a week, the cat lived in my closet. I heard the thunk thunk of her batting the rabbits feet back and forth while I did my homework. 

After the cat tired of the project, I did not dissemble it. I left them hanging, though one by one they managed to disappear, either slipping away into the abyss of my shoes or into the cat's mangled toy collection. They left naturally though, slipping away in the night, in the company of a new collector or just because they weren't so timeless after all. 

An indecent proposal

"Guess who texted me at 2:30 last night?" It is Friday morning and I am in my typical half coma. Every morning, after snoozing my alarm six times, I run into the wall and door frame to the bathroom and, somehow, manage to throw myself together in about 15 minutes. When Noreen comes into the kitchen to tell me about her late night text, I am standing up and eating Rice Krispies in the dark because, like I said, I am only physically awake.

"Who?" I ask through snap crackle pops in my mouth.

"Chase!... not Bouncer Chase but Chase who used to live here!" Noreen laughs. Chase is a guy who Noreen had a crush on for five minutes. Literally five minutes, as in while transiting from one bar to another. By the time we had reached destination number two, Noreen had announced her crush was over. This was about six months ago. He would certainly fit the bill as a stranger friend. 

She continues to tell me that in the voicemail Chase had let her know that he was stranded in Old Town and was too hammered to drive home.

" And then he started begging me to answer the phone, saying "Please, Noreen, I will have to sleep in my car if you don't answer!" I'm glad I didn't hear my phone! How awkward... you can't just call a stranger friend with a request like that!" She skipped off to get ready for work. I mulled over what she had said and dumped soggy cereal down the drain. 

I tried to decide if this was the most inappropriate phone/ text proposal delivered to/received by a stranger friend. Earlier in the week, Noreen had received a text message query for dinner and a movie from bar-backer at a club that shares the same lot as our apartment complex. This message, however, was nothing new. Frequently, she would receive these message. Frequently, she would not respond. Then it would happen again and again. Ground Hog's day, amnesia, or denial, you pick. 

This, however, was not nearly as bad as the text sonnet incident. A few months ago, disillusioned young man had fallen haplessly in love with Noreen. He was a poet of sorts who also happened to work at Burberry. In the course of his unrequited affair with my roommate, he had scored a beautiful  pair of Burberry leather pumps for her at a 90% discount. He had also given her a copy of an F Scott Fitzgerald book, Tender is the Night ( I am fairly sure that he wanted to parallel Fitzgerald charades in his own life). Noreen is a reasonable person. She did take the shoes (I mean, she would've been an idiot not to), but did not tease him with equally poetic responses. Instead, she didn't respond. Despite little to no communication over the course of the summer and early fall months, this young man continued to harbor amorous feelings for my roommate. And then, one evening, while we were getting ready to go out, he texted her to tell her that he was out of rehab (again with the F Scott parallels) and then texted her a sonnet meant to define her beauty. Noreen opted not to respond (though, apparently, no response is far to ambivalent and still leaves a window of opportunity for adoring strangers). 

There is that early 90s Demi Moore-Robert Redford-Woody Harrelson  flick called “An Indecent Proposal” where Redford, incisive mogul, propositions Moore, beautiful and poor but happy, for sex in exchange for some obscene lump sum of cold, hard cash. Moore and her husband, Harrelson, cede their morals and dignity to have their fantasy lives at the expense of another man's fantasy. Moore has sex with him and, ultimately, her holy union of marriage deflates from jabs of lust’s spiked heels.

This is not to say that the messages strangers send to my roommate are quite at this level of intensity or, by any means, requisite of a truly moral agony. In the movie, Gere has the cajones to proposition Moore formally, as if carrying out strict business. These strangers, however, whether propositioning via love sonnets or seeking shelter from many a whiskey’s storm, do so by weakly leaving voicemails or text messaging. Another friend of mine frequently receives nude photo texts from a narcissistic man who went on not more than 2 dates with last year. Said texts are angled to emphasis his ‘roid ravaged torso and, naturally, his member (though I have to wonder if this man has some sort of photo shop option on his phone). These are always amusing and I am quite glad someone out there is willing to entertain a roomful of girls at his own expense. I have to wonder two thing: 1) how long did it take you to snap that self photo of yourself, sir? and 2) Do you really have nothing better to do on a Saturday night? I have also received my fair share of provocative text messages, though I will not go into detail in order to protect those involved. But, in all honesty, could you imagine this bro hand delivering my friend that same picture? Indirect communication is easier, less accountability and almost never any need for follow through.

In lieu of these assorted digital age messengers, one evening, Noreen experienced a sincere, face-to-face love proposal. This proposal came from the rickshaw driver who willing carts my friends and me from venue to venue. Often, he is waiting at the gates before we even give him a call. His name is Brendan. Brendan did time for selling some assortment of drugs, some of which I am guessing he is still doing, and currently resides in a motel downtown. This one-liner paints a pretty bleak picture of our friend, who is quite possibly one of the most genial characters I have ever met. For this reason, I always compliment him on his calves and occasionally buy him a slice of pizza or a grape soda. This seems to go further than actually paying with currency. He has become a phenomenon known as: Brendan-Pedi-Cab.
Brendan has been carting us around on his pedi-cab or rickshaw (whichever bike cart cab descriptive noun best suits your fancy) since last February. Over this period of time, our friendship with Brendan has certainly blossomed to the extent that we are pro-bono work—or so I thought. As it turns out, Brendan had other ideas.

Around August, Brendan informed us that his girlfriend, Sarah, was pregnant. We looked at each other and responded, “Wow!.... congratulations???!”. Brendan didn’t catch the cautionary measures enlaced in our congratulations. He turned back with a radiant smile while simultaneously popping a wheelie over a pizza box in the road.
“Yeah! We’ve been trying for a while!” He looked like the proudest rooster in the barnyard. I thought to myself, one man’s worst nightmare is another man’s dream. Anyway, for the next few week s we would ask after his, er, fiancé as he now described her. One night, as we routinely asked Brendan about his future offspring, he looked back and shook his head, “She miscarried- we lost the baby.” Kate, Noreen, Erin and I looked at each other- brows raised, mouths paralyzed as we tried to find a tactful transition. Luckily, Brendan saved us himself by shrugging, “ Hey, more reasons to keep trying!” We looked at each other, let out deep breaths.
The first weekend of October, we went out to celebrate the end of Phoenix Fashion Week. On this night, Noreen left us briefly to meet up with a friend at E-4, a club that is vaguely reminiscent of Legends of the Hidden Temple, stocked with men that are bigger creepers than the temple guards.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said as she bounced from Dirty Pretty, “ I’m just going for a minute.” She pranced out of the bar.

About an hour later, Erin, Stephany, and I returned to our apartment and found Noreen napping at the doorstep. “I got locked out!” she exclaimed, hopping up, “and I was so tired! and- oh my god,” she paused, “something really creepy just happened.” It was then that she relayed to me that she had not found her friend at E4. Instead, Brendan showed up and pedied her home, the half block that we live away from E4. When he dropped her off, they had engaged in some conversation about how he had met his girlfriend.
“Well you know,” he had turned back to the cart slyly as Noreen stepped out, “I was holding out for someone else…” Noreen, of course, had probably responded in a jovial tone, “oh who, Brendan, Kate?” Kate is, so to speak, Brendan’s keeper and the one who established the foundation of the friendship in the first place.
“Oh, no,” Brendan had responded, “ I was waiting for YOU!” Noreen did the only thing she could do. She played it off as a joke, though she was very disturbed, and booked it for the locked apartment.

So, here it was, a stranger finally propositioned Noreen to her face. And, this time, on the receiving end, it was so much harder to ignore or just not respond to immediately. It was there, sweating in front of her. And it was no Robert Redford in a corporate office.

Rules are apparently [not] meant to be broken

Usually, crocodile tears do the job. The last time I got pulled over, I was 16 and had blown through a stop sign on a residential street. I was also driving 10 over. When the cop tapped on the window, he informed me of the crime I had already committed.

"Really?" I responded, darting my head around like a crazy deer, "I didn't even see it! I've never driven down this street before!"

The cop took my license and, obviously, had to have noted that I lived two block away. He went back to his car to do the usual cop things, dicking around with his intercom and taking far too long for my taste. However, during this window of time, I had the opportunity to conjure up a good case of tears. These tears were inspired by the fact that I would be banned from participating by any means in my nearly non-existent 16 year old social life if my mom found out about this little incident.

The cop poked his head back in my window and gave me a little holier-than-thou speech about road mannerisms while I sobbed and moaned like a dying cow. Just as I thought he was going to give me a ticket, he noted that it was taken care of, like he was one of Martin Scorses' little mob lackeys, but to a cop mob (definitely not as dashing as Ray Liotta though).

I found out later that the cop who lived across the street had been at the dispatcher's office and had recognized the plates. With a little cop angel on my shoulder, I learned no such lesson from that experience. In fact, I took care to drive over the speed limit and roll residential stop signs at my leisure. I, for some reason, thought I had some bizarre sort of traffic violation amnesty. The cops were my friends, winking at me as I slid through yellows and going for more donuts when I turned left when it said 'right only'. I never tried anything very bold, just the little things, just to make sure I was still in the inner circle.

One traffic law in my top 10 most consistently blown off is the "15 mile/hour" speed limit for about 100 meters in school zones. For some reason, I have always rationalized that that speed limit was a sheer formality and code for " just drive 20 to 25, my friend!". It was in the same genre of parking garage speed limits and still a little less important than construction zone speeds.

Today, I learned that driving 22 in a 15 zone can actually cost one the hefty price of a $180 fine and 6 excruciating hours of civilian torture at defensive driving school, located at some mid-rate hotel about 20 minutes from my apartment. I also learned that cops do not take so well to the crocodile tears of a 23 year old woman.

This morning, while I sat in my car, I came to two irrational analyses of why the cop had pulled me over. Though these reasons were completely untrue, they were exceptionally pleasing to me. First, I decided that the cop had pulled me over because of my Michigan alumni license bracket. I decided that he was an Ohio State fan. My second rational came to me after I handed over my license. I decided the cop had chosen to ticket me because my address is in Scottsdale and he was just resentful because I had driven in from a land where cops have considerably more cushy jobs, a few duis and bar fights here and there. I also considered that he was hating on my gender and either a) his speed dating rounds weren't panning out or b) he was locked into marital slump. Of course, it was impossible that this poor man was just doing his job. Imagine that.

I threw all my cards on the table. Now that my mother no longer controls my social life, I had to think of new things to cry about. I put my head against the steering wheel and imagined our former schizophrenic cat, Carmel (d. 2001), in her final moments, basking in the sun on a windowsill with a lazy, drunk expression on her little face. This is probably one of the most tear jerking moments of my life. To really drive it home, I thought about my pending insurance rates (fortunately, due to cruel and unusual punishment of traffic school, they did not go up) and about the points going on my license. If there's anything that makes me cry, it's getting ripped off.

I pulled into the school parking lot and felt my heart sink as I realized I was out of the inner-circle. Robert Deniro didn't want me. The moment would've been perfect if Cat Stevens' Wild World had been piped in, "Ooooh baby baby it' s a wild world/ it's hard to get by just upon a smile, girl". Along the school fences of the play ground, thirty-some 2nd and 3rd graders gawked at me as I passed. Though I was crying inside about paying 180 dollars, I turned to the kids and smiled, "When you get your license, never speed. it's a very expensive fine."