Don't Hate the Girls

Since my apartment is becoming the spot for hanging out, I’ve had to make a change in my habits, but it’s been worthwhile. I’ve been hosting band practices and whatnot, because I have a big living room with high ceilings, and I’m always volunteering my place as a meet up spot. I’m learning to clean up as I go: wipe down counters, put dishes in the dishwasher at the end of the day, vacuum up crumbs when I see them, put away my laundry - that sort of thing. The point is to maintain a consistently clean space. I can’t live like a messy teenager anymore! It’s not good for my brain. And the process is provides sweet comfort, as if clearing clutter in the physical clears clutter in my mind. I want a space that, if someone were to knock on my door and ask for an impromptu hang, I could invite them in without feeling panicked about the state of my room. Perhaps this is also my childhood flashing its lights in the rear: we always had a messy house (to my standards), and even now, I get straight to work sweeping floors and mopping. It’s a woman’s duty, society says…

I hosted art night after work a few weeks back. It was me, Lanae, Lexi, and Joyce. I brought markers, color pencils, watercolors, and a bunch of other supplies I’d bought on one of my whims, when I felt the need to create art of the visual kind. Most of it went unused, and I’m sure it’d have sat in my room untouched forever. Yes, writing and music are arts, but is it something I can hold in my hands (well, yes, you can hold a book or a CD in your hands, but I mean, to read or listen to music requires an action of sorts, a physical action, but you can just look at a painting, and you see it, there is no further action beyond a glance, unless you wish to analyze it’s intricacies). There’s a poet I like, Will Alexander, and he’s a real poet, he’s been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and everything. He’s also a visual artist, he draws his own covers and they’re beautiful too, these abstract pieces reminiscent of both cells and flower petals, a distinct representation of organic life that only his brain could conjure. It must be nice to have a collection of work that you can say is truly yours, from cover to cover.

I’ve thought about putting together a chapbook. My official chapbook will be through an esteemed publisher (or a prestige small print/indie publisher), but a personal chapbook could be interesting, like those zines people create, a piece of myself in print, and I’d share a few copies for my friends. Thinking ,,, I’m conjuring the vision as I write ,,, Erika’s Husband: Chapbook edition?

During our art session I attempted to write, it was as successful as you could imagine. Then the girls got hungry and we went back on forth on the food options. We decided on Chinese takeout to mixed results. The wontons I paid $7 were not the meat stuff food pockets I envisioned. Instead, I received what was essentially a bag of chips. I thought wontons always had a filling? Not only that, but the honey walnut shrimp was so coated in mayo that it was nauseating. The chow mein was good but there was a ridiculous $2 upcharge for veggies, so I settled for plain. The Mongolian beef was solid, no notes. The General Tso’s chicken was better than average, tasted like actual chicken instead of some undiscernible mush. Next time we’ll just have pizza.

I put on an episode of Braceface, my obsession at the time. It was an alright show, but at some point, I was only slogging through episodes to see if “Braceface” (Sharon) would get back with her ex-boyfriend, Alden. Never mind the fact that they were a terrible couple and nobody should be in an on-again-off-again relationship at the age of 14. The episode I played starred Braceface’s friend, Dion, and a man named Houston. Braceface tries to set them up together, because in her mind, oh he’s gay and this guy is gay, they must be together. Of course, it is a disaster. Dion isn’t interested in being set up and isn’t looking for a relationship. He’s happy with the way his life is, making beautiful gowns and playing tennis.

With the TV as a backdrop, Lexi and Lanae demonstrated methods of interacting with the male species in a nighttime environment. It is year of 2026oyfriend, right? Eye contact, maybe a hand on the shoulder, light laughter, an easy smile. Joyce enjoyed the flirtatious showcase. I practiced next, but these things don’t come naturally. Is this what I want?

Another night we went to Cobra, this time Joyce stayed home although she did join the pregame, where we played a game like “this or that.” First, we went to Charlie’s (?) which was very gay, loved the drag queens. We hopped in the Uber, and I didn’t realize we were headed to Cobra until I stepped out of the ride. Internally, maybe externally, I groaned.

Mistake #1: Thinking of Cobra as an obstacle to escape rather than an experience to enjoy.

I wanted to leave at 1am, but we were there until the lights came on.

Mistake #2: Being too concerned about the restraints of time instead of melting into the motions of the seconds.

The room was dark and sticky and shaded in green. We spent some time dancing, during which Maya secured free drinks for the group. A man in a loose button up circled groups of women like how a shark might stalk a school of fish. He tried to dance with us too, but Maya scared him off. At the bar, a shaggy man in a gray t-shirt approached me. Nobody likes me, he lamented. Then he looked me in the eyes and asked: Can I kiss you? He inched closer, my face scrunched up and I could barely turn away fast enough. I felt his lips brush my cheek, and I almost puked all over the place.

The one decent man that approached was an ASU student.

Mistake #3: Being so offput by the environment of Cobra that I let it disillusion myself to the potentially normal men, men that would probably not be the loves of my life, but at least a love for the night.

The young gentleman took the rejection respectfully and faded into the crowd. Cobra continues to be odd and hazy.

Some other fun: I hosted another art night a few Saturdays ago. We colored and watched this show about a hot guy that was revived after dying in the civil war. We also watched some classic episodes of Steven Universe, one of the best shows ever created (I’m so glad we are all in sync about this). Unsurprisingly, I still know most of the words to It’s over isn’t it. One of my favorite episodes: the time Steven proposes to Connie, which was an absolute disaster, but it was everything leading up to it that I loved, and I always asked myself, even as a child, does a love like this truly exist? To want to be one with the other, one person, one mind, forever? Is that even love?

I finally visited that restaurant, The Starving Artist, across the street from the Rebel Lounge. It’s loud, there’s plush seating, tables, a bustling bar, and a corner for pool. Maya has this card game We’re Not Really Strangers and we have been using that to explore our interior selves. What I have learned about Maya, Joyce, and even myself - we are beautiful, mentally ill dreamers. I would not change a thing.

Going out on a Monday, why not? It wasn’t a whole clubventure, instead we went to Wilderness DTPHX. The girlies got their cocktail soft serves, which Joyce remarked tasted like straight alcohol. Comme ci, comme ça. I got the Wilderness fries, they were good, but just slightly stale and overcooked. I also liked the variety of sauces they had (even though they were $1 each). We played more of the game are we really strangers. There was a question like - what’s your mom’s name - and I couldn’t answer it. I don’t know why. Why must I conceal? I should open up more, like a clam on the beach.

The last question of the night: What do you crave more of? Respect? Sometimes I feel I am not taken seriously. Well. I take myself seriously and that is enough. A woman of depth!