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?