San Diego, CA, Summer 1985

 

Aug. 2

The moon looks like it's been full for three nights. The first day we came, I sat on a high stool in the kitchen, eating a bowl of red raspberries with a spoon. Last nite we went to Andrew's apartment and drank rum and Slice in a Jacuzzi.

Basically, it's hot, it's be-yooo-tiful, have a nice day! Those girls are P-I-G-pigs! Ms. Beaver's hungry.

We went to Tijuana a couple of days ago. It didn't feel like a foreign country, it felt like a theme park, Mexicoville. I felt rude, an ugly American because we knew no Spanish, we expected them to understand us. They must hate us, their dignity gone, exploited. We come and we want, we expect filthy streets, beggars, tacky souvenirs. 

 

Aug. 6

I woke up this morning and my right eye was swollen half shut. For the past few days I've been constantly close to tears, glad I was wearing sunglasses on Rodeo Drive, in the dark backseat driving home. It was one of the greatest weekends and yet in many ways I feel worse than I ever have in my life.  

We stayed at the Tropicana, Rm. 200. In the lobby was an 8 and a half by 11 black and white photo of Chuck E. Weiss, crouched over, rolling dice, signed, "I planned on staying here a couple of weeks, but I ...(something like) I ended up here for a year...My home, Red beans and rice, Chuck E. Weiss.

We went to the Palace. Cover charge was $10.

We shopped on Rodeo Drive and Melrose yesterday. First thing in the morning, I bought a $5 map of the stars homes. As soon as I got back in the car and realized what I'd done, I was flooded with guilt. (The night before, we had eaten at a Beverly Hills cafe, The Cheesecake Factory, and after a huge meal, Chuck threw up in the bathroom.) We drove down to Rodeo and the first store I found a beautiful denim dyed-sky-blue oversized jacket and tight peg-legged jeans that made me pretty. (I don't belong in this country.) (Tonya said I should see a therapist.)

Aug. 8

 

The severe dread is balanced by the euphoric fun. We ate at a sushi bar in Los Angeles. We dressed up and paid a $10 cover to get into the Palace. We went to the Hard Rock cafe, in the front there's a picture of the Doors outside a real Hard Rock cafe in London. Yesterday, we all got our hair cut and Tonya got a blond streak. All of this was wonderful and happy. 

 

But. "Stress," whined/moaned Chuck/Charles. They were amazed, then angry because I wouldn't buy anything. Charles was frustrated because he couldn't understand. 

 

"You're hypocritical," they said. "You eat nice restaurant food that you don't need and yet you won't buy clothes that make you look better than I've ever seen you." 

 

 They think it's because I'm not progressing at the same rate they are, improving like they are. Because I'm afraid. Chuck compared it to giving up liver for Lent; I'm not making a big change. It sounds true enough to be very scary and yet my sinking suspicion of why I'm doing it is even worse: I'm beting everyone at their own game. Instead of trying to be the newest, most beautiful, most trendy, I've stopped fighting. And yet by denying their values, I'm better than they are. I'm as self-conscious and self-centered as ever. And Tonya's advice to see a therapist for my guilt problem -- "You're depriving yourself, why can't you live a normal life?"

 

Ha! Of course M.B. told Jeff. I would love to get back at her by telling her about John. Too mean.

 

Of course John Perry told "Mom" we were staying with Chuck. But, but what? I'll be back in S. Bend in about 2 weeks.

 

 

 

Aug. 14

 

Sometimes Tonya and I feel like an old married couple. We have fun and lots of laughs on vacation and then back home, there's just not much to talk about. We go to places, shopping, out of eat and there are long silences punctuated by small jokes followed by polite laughs and lots of questions. How's Heather? How's Sonya? When do you get your schedule? Have you called Chuck?

 

We came back and "Mother" nearly died at my haircut. "Cindy, I'm afraid to ask you what you did on your vacation." I wish I could have laughed at that.

I cried talking to Michele the other nite. Her ideals jsut didn't seem to matter to her all that much. "Please," I cried to her quietly, "please ome with me. Join the Peace Corps with me." She thinks she can write. I know I'm being self-righeous. I have a right to be. I've seen her writing. It's not that hot. And if I've been scribbling for years and I know I'm not good, I think I should be able to judge her who only thinks about it. And when accused, agrees, "yes, I know I'm a terrible person." Sometimes I can't stand her for that.

And "Dad" was frightenly intense and serious when I jokingly mentioned giving away $ to charity. How about a trust fund -- using the interest, not the nest egg?

 

At Age 20, "I Am Past Excitement"

 July 20

I wish my blood would make an appearance and end all this tension. Blah.

My diary from senior year. While I hate now the weird, obnoxious, pretentious brat loser I was in 9th, at times I really love this funny, happy idiot. (But then again, it physically hurts to realize how much I hurt Jim. Over and over and over. Why didn't he give up? I want to apologize.) Of course she made stupid, stupid mistakes and was awfully hyper and was probably so emotional due to her bad eating habits and probably mistaken a good deal of the time about her own feelings...

But reading all those underlines and capital letters and dark print and exclamation marks drives closer to home 1) recent fears of writing badly, stiffly, in cliches 2) the quiet sad noticing that I don't care about anyone. Tonya and I are almost ridiculous, vehemently agreeing with each other and using that laughs that we know but refuse to recognize anymore are only forced politeness. Mary Beth does nothing for me anymore. I have no choice with Greg. John actually bores me. John C., that is. I admit freely that Brett has an attraction to me. A very physical attraction. And Lauren and Jeff, I only long for the past. I feel I am past excitement. It is over.

July 23

Things 2 Do 

    Travelers Checks

    Film

    Tonya

        --Chuck gift?

        --Spend nite

    Postcard addresses

    Fix Budget

    Paper (notice this last)

    Write Jim, Becky, Joe

    Call Di

Hi-i. (Two syllables)

Jim Harrison says: "Nineteen...(among other things)...is the last year that a young woman will marry purely for love." And of course, that's the answer to my wondering why? why Mr. England as the last one? It is also the reason I was so calm, only a little down after finding both Jim and Jeff twice out and driving home without any immediate memories to distract me. The scene I thought of with Jim was easier, simpler, more spontaneous than Jeff"s. I would just ask some questions (of course, it was all tentative, based on his reaction to seeing me) and then say something to the effect: I know this may mean nothing to you or it may be too late, but for what it's worth, I really want to apologize, etc. etc. profusely. He deserves it. Maybe it was simple cause I have so much more to say to Jeff. I want us to kiss both cheeks, be pleasantly, happily surprised and eager to talk.

I must be calm, patient, soothing to Scott, forgiving and forgetting of Carol. 

Jan on the phone frightened me the other day. She sounded like a redneck. Maybe she was just nervous. But I hate having her intimidated or frightened or whatever of me or anyone else. "Mother" is making it all so mysterious. How ridiculous can you get. Shouldn't I be as scornful of my eagerness to get away as I am of hers?

July 25

Tremendous! Listen! It's not what the two of you actually do, the kissing, the touching, the moving, the whispered odd words. It's what he does afterwards that creates how you remember it. (Creates how?)

Yippee! We leave in 3 days!

There's really nothing left with Christy. I don't like any of her friends -- only Annette makes me laugh, so very often I did laugh when I was with them, but it was not for the same reason. I laughed at their characters often. Sherri is wonderful, but silences tell a lot. The only thing in common anymore is music -- great to talk about, true, but it is really all there is left. The pleasantness of newness and discovery is gone.

Saturday, July 27

WE-EL. (As the Chicken Man narrator says) The T.V. is on the blink. The sewer backed up. I didn't get my paycheck. The rash on my arms that I got when I was little is back. I've been shitting, bleeding and eating all day. Jim M's dad has cancer. Ron hasn't got his calculator yet although "Mom" sent it last week. I dropped a watermelon tonite and it cracked on the floor. Nancy is coming over tomorrow to meet Terry Gale, Ron, Jennifer, Stephanie, and Aunt Marge. Jeanne is worried about the pain in her breasts. Jan and Ernie are trying to find a house in St. Louis. Becky will die when she finds out they're moving. Jean and Phil are trying to buy a house. Jeanne got drunk alone last week and when she knocked on her neighbor's door at 1:30 in the morning, four police came. Michele is going out with her friend from work. Jeff said very offhandedly we should go out Sunday nite. I have to pack. We're leaving Tonya's house at 7:00 a.m. Monday morning. I have to finish this 6-8 page paper before we leave. John Perry asked me to go to Cats with him.

But. 

 

July 29

La Brea Ave.

Van Nuys Blvd.

Stax & Sun

This black pen is wishful thinking. We're leaving. Cont. from last page: "Dad" lost money again at the Omaha track. Ron detests the McCullens. Jeff didn't call me.

The BUT was for this minor revelation from Friday night: The "Sheeet. It just doesn't matter, it just doesn't matter, etc."

Later. Continuing /|\ the attempt at fooling yourself that you really aren't frustrated, you really aren't on edge, you really aren't hating yourself is such a nasty feeling, so wretched that to tell you the truth, I don't care if giving it up forever means never having a crush. Fine. I'd be more than happy to sacrifice (all)(the) furious heartbeatings, shameless uncontrollable gruns and "I can't believe it! I can't believe I did that." Oh, I'll still be spontaneous at precious moments, but I'm very happy to be rid of that punish-yourself mentality. 

We are here. The living room was lovely, but the bathroom has a faint stale odor. The towels were brown. "It hides the dirt," I remember someone's mother advised. Chuck's bedroom has a queen sized bed no pun intended, and on the floor, a Sony TV, two lamps and a wicker hamper. The walls are empty, the windows have plain blinds. But the closet is stuffed and under the bed is a hopeless mess of opened envelopes, matchbooks, cologne samples, scraps of paper with first names and numbers, business cards, books, a bottle of Estee Lauder Golden Sun Pre-Tan Accelerator, cufflinks, popped corks. 

Am I so frightened because of Ron's fury? Or because my eyes are hot from lack of sleep? Or because he lives with a balding, chubby foreigner who flamboyantly welcomed us, "You're so pretty! Are you sisters?"

July, 1985, Halfway Between High School and College Graduations

 June 27

We're talking seriously lonely, here. When I had the moles removed, I was grateful just to be touched on my back. 

Last night I dreamed I was telling someone "It's hard work, I mean all I do is work & eat breakfast & work & eat lunch & work & eat dinner & work more. And I'm pulling potatoes, can you believe it? And I like it." Cause that's what I was doing. And after a hard day, we three went to bed, all in one bed. I am secretly pleased we all have to sleep together, I curl up at the bottom across their feet, happy with their warmth, until he pulls him to her and they hug, Eric and Mary Beth. And I watch as they laugh and try to get into a huge house. I have telescope eyes and can watch them climbing up the house and in a window. I'm just still and watch. 

Touch is all I need, letters won't fix it, nor phone calls, not even conversation. And not Christie's dutiful hugs, not "Mom's" irritating embraces. Am I gross if I look forward to dream sex?

June 28

Why don't I face it? I'm never going to be content. I'll always have a nagging niggle in the back of my head. I should have, I should be, I can't relax, I've got the

Later: I am lonely, lonely, lonely.

Home alone 2nite, I sang Another Saturday Nite and I ain't got nobody...and I was startled by the line "oh how I wish I had somone to talk to."

And like an answered prayer, John Perry (I guess Crown Center last summer was the last time I talked to him) called and we talked for two hours.

July 5

Well, Brett wrote (the handwriting and the address on the envelope were familiar but I didn't have a clue until the Dear Cindy) but the joy I have right now is from the Yaz "Only You," my new hair cut and the ice tea. Not disinterested, not not caring, but aloof? blasé? How about, not involved. Yes. I am no longer emotionally involved. 

I'm glad not to have men now. I'm grateful for this respite from them. But I still look at couples. But sex fantasies aren't thrilling this week -- I think: you're putting so much on the line, your face, your self respect, your reputation, your value. How could I trust just anyone to that? I'm too delicate for casual sex. When you touch me, I've sacrificed something for you, I've trusted you with my life. It's too much.

This is a great idea, where are the right words?

This constant contempt, bordering on scary hatred for adolescent girls. "Ooo, look at that girl!" "Gross!" Mean. Looking at people with horrified eyes, like they're ugly bugs. I have to be more accepting and loving, even if they do wear trendy clothes and think it's important.

July 9

I'm in a bad mood tonite because I didn't go running. Tonya came over and of course pointed out the hypocrisies and inconsistencies and illogic of trying to live without spending. And Chuck called while "Mother" pretended to cook dinner. I didn't tell him that I'd missed him. 

I never loved Mr. England, what are you talking about? I don't even think I liked him. I wanted to have him, of course, to be with him and all, but I don't know love. Not Brett either. You can't love someone you can't communicate with.

July 10

Tonner and I saw Greg 2 nite. Of course, she's right, I'm so supersensitive to the past, I don't want to live for it that almost any mention of it brings scorn from me. At times we were easily, gracefully more candid than we'd ever been, laughing at old taboo subjects. But then there was the talk of grades, blandness. 

Driving down Ward Parkway (am I too sensitive because I don't want to drive the same way, go again to Winstead's?) I do notice a difference: I don't care. My heart isn't beating, I'm not nervous. I'm not worried about what I'm saying, I'm not frantically regretting what I said 5 minutes ago.

July 11

What bothers me, I see it now, I always felt like a nymphomaniac, a drunken slut with him. He made me feel that way, I guess I should be fair, but it really seems that way.

July 14

BAD weekend with Tonya. We fought constantly, and it hit the peak in a restaurant, just as the waitress put the menus in front of us, she said "I want you to know you're really pissing me off." It hurt. Familiarity breeds contempt. I feel fat with her, we eat too much, she always mentions my many figure flaws, whenever we're talking, I feel like I'm just poised, waiting for a chance to talk about myself, me me me, I laugh at all her jokes, I feel like her jester. 

"What is she, your slave?" Jeff asked her. "Yes," we answered. 

I feel like I come across as a timid wimp, frightened of offending her, yet to prove the opposite, very argumentative.

Thinking too much of Brett. But could/is it really a coincidence that Tonya told me he had a girlfriend fright before he sent me the Dear Jane? Or that he starts writing again after breaking up with her?

Solution to the Cd problem: bring lot of $ and spend it, subtly, on her.

July 17

Of course when I pulled up to the Tritt driveway, John is just getting out of his car to check out M.B.'s bumper. And like with Greg, no excitement. We just talk and laugh some but no spark. No nervousness. Ooops. I said too much about Jeff. Way too much. Read Oct. 19.

July 19

Can you believe I'm going back? Another Friday nite concert. This morning is amazing. I am SO down. And all because I didn't run this morning. And I gorged last night. But that was because I hadn't lost any weight when I weighed myself yesterday morning. Uggh. This morning I feel sluggish and my skin is dull and pasty. Did I go to sleep in my clothes, without brushing my teeth or washing my face because of last night? Because of driving to Jeff's house -- it took an hour to find it -- and knocking on his door until my knuckles hurt and abandoning the thoughts of leaving a note on the album I'd bought? (Bleh! This feels so tiresome)

And yet, driving home, I didn't feel bad, I didn't feel frustrated or incredibly relieved, or anything. I guess sometime this year, I stopped being able to create romance where it doesn't exist. I guess Mr. E. was my last great Crush.