Streisand?”
“YES!! YES!! Little bit. Barbra Streisand.” I don’t take it as an insult. Because I get that. Often. And I don’t even look like her. But I kind of dress like her. Or rather her in the seventies. As my friend Siren says, “All sweatery boots and tight pants.” I would have liked to have shared her brilliance with Phillipe, but it was terminology like “sweatery boots” that was making it easier for me just to stay silent.
“So would you like to get some food?” Phillipe asks.
I look at the time on my cell phone, “Oh well, it’s getting kind of…”
Phillipe interrupts, “Of course, I should say, I do not have enough money on me for two people. You pay for you. I pay for me.”
“Yeah, I really should be going,” I say, standing up. Because as much as I like the image of dating a French artist with a motorcycle, I realize that in this case, it would only be another fantasy. A celluloid still from a silent film that always sounds interesting when you’re scrolling through Netflix, but gets boring before you’re halfway through. And I know that’s not the movie I want to be in; it would only be a really bad sequel to the masterpiece I made years ago. Today, I think I’ll let that film reel crackle into oblivion. I will kiss that Donkey Prince on the forehead, and I will leave him standing in the rearview mirror of my Parisian taxi, forever waving goodbye.
3
Date Three: Normies
I’m rather excited for my second date with Richard. I see him as a perfect opportunity to find romance in reality. I even get a little dressed up for the date and talk to my mom about him minutes before he arrives. We drive to the restaurant, and it hits me—Richard is a “normie.”
Being a normie is not a bad thing. Most people would say it’s rather good. A normie is the nickname we alcoholics give to non-alcoholics. They drink in good measure, they don’t overspend, they might have done drugs, but they’re by no means addicts. They’re just people who for whatever reason didn’t come out quite as crazy as the rest of us. They follow directions. They pay attention. They don’t even have eating problems. Honestly, we try to be like them every day. Many of us not-so-normies even go on to marry them, and interbreed. But it can be hard. Because they want to do things the right way naturally, and we have to work at it all the time.
“It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Richard mutters as we walk up and down Ventura Boulevard, in search of the Hungarian restaurant where he made our reservation.
“Maybe Nancy fucked up,” I suggest. I am trying to be funny because I am not as freaked out about the missing restaurant. Unfortunately, I think my stab at humor is just riding Richard’s nerves. Richard drives a Prius, and Nancy is his OnStar navigator. I call all OnStars that because, well, it makes sense. Richard, however, trusts Nancy. Strike one against him. I know it’s not fair of me. Maybe it’s even downright bitchy, but I can’t understand how people can’t find their way without those things. And the restaurant in question was around the corner from an apartment building Richard had lived in for years. I have never lived in the Valley and actually find it to be a bit of Kryptonite to my otherwise heightened sense of direction, and even I could have gotten us to Ventura and Campo de Cahuenga without Nancy’s soothing yet slightly irritated voice giving us the most boring route possible. I think Nancy is exhausted. She’s just a burned-out phone sex operator who dispenses the easiest means possible to what could be a far more interesting journey.
“Richard, I think this is it.” We are standing in front of an Indian restaurant with the same address as the Hungarian joint that once sat in its place.
“Well, they could have told me that when I made the reservation.”
“I’m okay with Indian if you are.”
“I guess. I
“YES!! YES!! Little bit. Barbra Streisand.” I don’t take it as an insult. Because I get that. Often. And I don’t even look like her. But I kind of dress like her. Or rather her in the seventies. As my friend Siren says, “All sweatery boots and tight pants.” I would have liked to have shared her brilliance with Phillipe, but it was terminology like “sweatery boots” that was making it easier for me just to stay silent.
“So would you like to get some food?” Phillipe asks.
I look at the time on my cell phone, “Oh well, it’s getting kind of…”
Phillipe interrupts, “Of course, I should say, I do not have enough money on me for two people. You pay for you. I pay for me.”
“Yeah, I really should be going,” I say, standing up. Because as much as I like the image of dating a French artist with a motorcycle, I realize that in this case, it would only be another fantasy. A celluloid still from a silent film that always sounds interesting when you’re scrolling through Netflix, but gets boring before you’re halfway through. And I know that’s not the movie I want to be in; it would only be a really bad sequel to the masterpiece I made years ago. Today, I think I’ll let that film reel crackle into oblivion. I will kiss that Donkey Prince on the forehead, and I will leave him standing in the rearview mirror of my Parisian taxi, forever waving goodbye.
3
Date Three: Normies
I’m rather excited for my second date with Richard. I see him as a perfect opportunity to find romance in reality. I even get a little dressed up for the date and talk to my mom about him minutes before he arrives. We drive to the restaurant, and it hits me—Richard is a “normie.”
Being a normie is not a bad thing. Most people would say it’s rather good. A normie is the nickname we alcoholics give to non-alcoholics. They drink in good measure, they don’t overspend, they might have done drugs, but they’re by no means addicts. They’re just people who for whatever reason didn’t come out quite as crazy as the rest of us. They follow directions. They pay attention. They don’t even have eating problems. Honestly, we try to be like them every day. Many of us not-so-normies even go on to marry them, and interbreed. But it can be hard. Because they want to do things the right way naturally, and we have to work at it all the time.
“It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Richard mutters as we walk up and down Ventura Boulevard, in search of the Hungarian restaurant where he made our reservation.
“Maybe Nancy fucked up,” I suggest. I am trying to be funny because I am not as freaked out about the missing restaurant. Unfortunately, I think my stab at humor is just riding Richard’s nerves. Richard drives a Prius, and Nancy is his OnStar navigator. I call all OnStars that because, well, it makes sense. Richard, however, trusts Nancy. Strike one against him. I know it’s not fair of me. Maybe it’s even downright bitchy, but I can’t understand how people can’t find their way without those things. And the restaurant in question was around the corner from an apartment building Richard had lived in for years. I have never lived in the Valley and actually find it to be a bit of Kryptonite to my otherwise heightened sense of direction, and even I could have gotten us to Ventura and Campo de Cahuenga without Nancy’s soothing yet slightly irritated voice giving us the most boring route possible. I think Nancy is exhausted. She’s just a burned-out phone sex operator who dispenses the easiest means possible to what could be a far more interesting journey.
“Richard, I think this is it.” We are standing in front of an Indian restaurant with the same address as the Hungarian joint that once sat in its place.
“Well, they could have told me that when I made the reservation.”
“I’m okay with Indian if you are.”
“I guess. I
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