Laundro-Matt

My boyfriend's name is William. Matthew is his middle name, but since he is a "the third," he's chosen to go by Matt for most of his life.
I already had 14 Matts in my phone when I met him, so when he suggested I enter his number, I asked him if he'd rather be the 15th Matt or the first Will. I reminded him I'd already dated two Matts to disastrous results.

He asked me, "on a scale of one to Ryan Gosling, how sexy do you find the name 'Will?'"
"Baby Gooses!" was my earnest and eager reply.
He chose WISELY, and has been my Will ever since.
But I'm not one to let a name stand in the way of a Titular Pun, so here it is:

The Laundro-Matt blog...

When I first got married to my ex, way back in 2004, I'd moved straight from my very sheltered life at Mom and Dad's to living with my (at the time) husband. I was super new at adulting, and in one of my many, many classic newlywed mistakes, managed to dye most of my husband's underwear and socks a delightfully cheery shade of pink when I washed them with a rogue red sock.

My ex took it in stride, but he was quick to suggest that we separate our laundry from that point on. He took care of his stuff, I took care of my stuff. And I profoundly regret agreeing to that, because it set a precedent for Not Figuring Shit Out Together.

Six years later when he suggested we separate our marriage, so he could take care of his stuff and I could take care of my stuff, I took the bait. And that was the beginning of the end of things.

A year later, when my whirlwind disaster-journey landed me safely living with my then-boyfriend Paul, I wanted to do everything I could to express my gratitude for the multitude of kindnesses Paul had shown me. And so I very bravely did a load of his laundry.
*author's note: Laundry = Love. Kudos to any man who does his ladies' laundry. And ladies, if you're doing laundry for a man you're not living with, you are a chump.

For those of you following this blog, you may recall how profoundly struck I was while feeling the heft and weight of his jeans as I'd folded them. These were his working pants, in which he installed theatrical lighting. They were rugged and coarse and very different from my "girl jeans." The density of these pants caught me off guard, and I realized: I'd never folded "guy clothes" before. I instantly felt a bittersweetness strike my heart. I wish I'd folded my ex's jeans for him. I wish we'd tried to try. I wish he hadn't given up so easily.
But it was just easier to separate.

Cut to 4 years later. Present day. 2015.
I wind up working away from home more frequently than my boyfriend, and often I'll come home to find he's done our laundry. This is miraculous in and of itself, but my favorite part is the elaborate thong-chandeliers he makes while drying my delicates from our ceiling fixtures.

This, but like, hanging artistically from our kitchen light. It's good stuff.

Keenly aware that I was slacking on my end, I insisted on helping with the next load.

Our heaving hamper finally let us know that today was the day. My boyfriend loaded the first load of our clothes in the washing machine and dryer downstairs in our building's tiny laundry room. I took over after that, and throughout the day, I made trips up and down the stairs, to the clothesline and back, and performing the sheet-folding dance in our tiny living room.
Later, true to form, I overloaded the washing machine and caused it to break.

This much, times, like, five. Oops. I always assume if the lid closes, it's good to go.

In sheer denial and ignorance, I loaded our sopping wet clothes into the dryer and broke that too.
I made a guilty run to the LaundroMat down the street with the last of the whites as my boyfriend attempted to repair the machines I'd murdered.

Finally, with a view of a California sunset kissing the drought-yellowed hills, I'm folding our clothes.
His clothes. My clothes. Our clothes. There's the batman shirt that he always wears. There's the grey H&M shirt he wore out to our friend's birthday party. A replay of the days we've lived the past month flashes as I fold. We've had a lot of fun in these clothes. And also out of them. My mind wanders...

And then I get to his pants.

Shorts, actually. Cargo shorts because he knows how much I love their pockets. He purchased them in duplicate so he'd have a place for my phone when we walk. A special pocket for chapstick because he always has chapstick and I fucking love that about him.
I feel the weight and the heft of this fabric, feel their rugged velcro and zippers in my fingers as I flip them neatly in half, then half again.
I remember my guilty confession to him about how I ruined the laundry, how I was sorry, how I'd fix it.
And I remember him telling me not to worry, smirking and saying that he'd give me plenty of opportunity to perfect my technique over time. Lots and lots of practice, he says. And I am grateful, because his first instinct wasn't to bail.

2004 Me is punching the lavender-scented laundromat air.

It's OK that I made a mistake. It's OK to keep trying.
Clothes are going to keep getting dirty and machines are going to break. Laundry gets ruined occasionally.
(In my case, twice every 10 years.)
But he doesn't mind.

I finish my folding and place the stacks of fresh clothes in my bag, ready to come home to someone who makes me feel shiny and clean.

LA Stories: Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines (in pieces)

When I was 8, and living in Omaha, I saw the friendly neighborhood tom cat attack a baby rabbit from the nearby woods. I loved this cat- hell, I love just about all animals- but he was killing this ball of bunny fluff. I don't know if rabbits can scream, but in my memory it's screaming, terrified. I scared the cat away, wrapped the bunny in my sweater and rushed to a neighbor's house. The lady who lived there was a vet, and as she took the blood-soaked bundle from me, she promised to do everything she could to save the bunny.

Yeah, he totally looked like that guy.

I came back a few hours later to check on it, and found the tiny animal backed up, nose quivering, into a corner of an empty aquarium. The vet had told me it didn't look good, but I could hold it if I wanted. I scooped the trembling, warm body out of the tank and cradled it against my body. I held it for a moment when I sensed it going limp in my arms. I looked down into its glassy little eyes, and, just for an instant, looked back at me before they glazed over and dulled.

I watched as the little flickering spark behind the eyes faded into nothing, and the rabbit died in my arms.

I cried for hours. My mom held me, her own baby bunny, in her arms and told me all the soothing comforting things moms say when their child witnesses Death for the first time. It was the worst, saddest thing I'd ever seen in my young life.

In my ongoing effort to Never Date Actors, Ever, I continued "online shopping" and came across The Pilot.
The Pilot is 6'1'', slender, with a wicked sense of humor and a vague resemblance to Daniel Tosh. SOLD. He texted me constantly- he was a master of sarcasm and very attentive. He made a massive effort to get my attention, and he got it.
We set up a date, met officially, and hit it off. He's funny, smart, successful, and a competitive triathlon enthusiast. So far so good.

But the best part about The Pilot was how he looked at me. Whenever I'd meet up with him, his eyes would light up and sparkle like two greedy diamonds. He knows he's funny, but he thinks I'M hilarious. He told me he'd never met a woman who could keep up with him, with his sense of humor, get and appreciate his jokes. Sure, whatever- I was just thrilled to be LOOKED AT like that. I wanted to be coveted. That light in his eyes made me feel like some precious object.

That's right babe. SPECIAL.

Over 4 or 5 dates, I grew to like him. I liked all the benefits that came with dating a person with a "real job," and I loved his razor-sharp wit. The only part I wasn't crazy about was that most of his jokes were mean, or really offensive. Don't get me wrong- there's a time a place for that, for sure- but in moderation. Sure, I might crack a joke about the guy convulsing in his wheelchair, but I'll deliver the joke with rolled eyes and some sort of hang-dog posture, or use inflection to imply some sort of remorse, like I'm AWARE that I'm totally going to hell. The entire point of laughing at stuff we're not supposed to laugh at is to take away the brevity of the situation. The Pilot seemed to be missing this crucial element in his humor, but I figured time would tell if he was genuinely funny or just kind of an asshole.

(Hint: he's kind of an asshole.)

The other weird thing about The Pilot was that as much as he liked to joke about various insensitive subjects, he CONSTANTLY would joke about how small and disappointing his penis was. It was his favorite thing to mention, and he brought it up all. the. time. Like, REALLY pushing the issue. I assured him I didn't care, but I'll admit his never-ending referrals made me curious. Was he kidding? Was there a possibility he was NOT kidding? Like a poorly drawn illustration outside a Freakshow Tent, the advertising worked and now I wanted to know what the buzz was all about.

I was dating The Pilot while taking a regular nighttime regimen of prescribed Ambien, which is notorious for aiding and abetting bad decisions. I was also still at a point in my divorce recovery where I'd not yet learned to sleep by myself, and I'd rather sleep next to Someone, Anyone, than sleep alone. After some late night video games and probably too much to drink, The Pilot invited me to spend the night at his superluxe townhouse. The promise of morning omelets was on the table, and I acquiesced, with the caveat that there would be absolutely ZERO fooling around in bed. That I was taking Ambien. That it affected my decisions and my memory. And that no matter what I said AFTER I took it, I did not want to get intimately involved with him. He promised me that that was not a problem, and he'd be a gentleman.

Now, hold on to your seats, because here's a shocker: I'm an idiot. And he's not a gentleman. (What a tweest!)

We fooled around that night- no sex, but close enough for the dramatic reveal that HOLY SHIT HE WAS NOT KIDDING ABOUT HIS PENIS. I vaguely remember him apologizing for it and me assuring him that it really didn't matter, that it wasn't a big deal.
I guess that was the wrong thing to say, but what else can you do when confronted with something like that?
I suggested he think of it like those little Vienna Cocktail Sausages that sit on fancy crackers at a party. Small, but still entertaining?

Not this bad, but close.

Ambien sunrises are weird enough, but I knew the lines had been pretty blurred in the wee hours of the morning.
The sun came up, and The Pilot climbed out of bed and started dressing in his lycra bike shorts. I realized there would be no omelette.
"Walp," he says, "I got 15 miles to ride, so..."
He wouldn't look me in the eye. I caught a glimpse of his profile in the bike shorts and wondered if he was somehow embarrassed?

I was confused. I had no idea where we stood. He'd wanted me, right? Enough to directly violate a trust I'd given him?
That must mean he wants a relationship with me, right? (Forgive me, I'm really stupid in the mornings.)
"Hey, no problem- and if you like going alone, I'll head on out- but if you want some company, I'm happy to go with you. Either way, no worries."
He perked up. "Really? You'd go 15 miles with me?"
"Sure, why not."

We make awkward small talk while I pick up a bike, and head to the trail.
We make awkward small talk while we bike 15 miles. FIFTEEN. MILES.
There is no mention of his ridiculously small penis on this morning. Odd- it was usually his favorite subject.
At the end of the trail, he tells he he's going to go to his swimming lesson. (Triathletes, right?!?) I wish him good luck and thanked him for the bike ride. For the first time all day, he looks me in the eye- and it's cold. Dull and glassy. Like a dead rabbit.

"See you later," he says, and PATS ME ON THE BACK GOODBYE.

Wow. Thanks pal. Buddy. I half-sit, half-stand on my bike, absolutely mackerel-smacked. Hadn't we gotten closer last night? Hadn't I just biked 15 fucking miles with this guy? So HE can joke about his dick, but I can't?

Got it.

He stopped calling and texting after that. I think I must've texted him a day later, because the last communication I received from a guy who used to text me non-stop was the tell-tale fatal missive...

"k."

The light had faded. The spark was dead, gone. It was over. And worst of all, there had been no omelette. AGAIN. God dammit.
Sweet dreams and Flying Machines in pieces on the ground.

As I watched him pedal off, I packed the bike in the backseat of my convertible, a day older, a little wiser and sore as hell for all the wrong reasons. I remembered that little bunny dying in my arms, and this time, though there would be no tears on my part, I was still sad that The Pilot's insecurity was our undoing. Maybe we could've been good together, maybe not- but we'd never get the chance to find out. Not because his penis was small, but because he was a little dick.

EPILOGUE:
The next person I dated owned his own airplane and had several pilots on call. I made certain to never ask about their penis size.

LA Stories: Rack Focus

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank God for unanswered prayers... I wrote this a few months before I met my boyfriend. I really wanted to share this story, because it's a good reminder that great lessons can be learned from relationships that don't work out the way we want. This helped me learn to appreciate the right qualities, and recognize my Soul Mate when I met him.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rack Focus is a camera term for changing the focus of a lens during a shot. Things that were far away suddenly seem crystal clear and close, and things that were very close somehow blur and obscure themselves. It's a cool trick, but it's also a total mind f*ck when it happens to you personally.



Over the last month I'd been dating an independent filmmaker. A very good one, too- creative, insightful, socially-conscious, kind. In getting to know him better, I discovered that the reason I'd never found the qualities I wanted in the actors I'd been dating was just that: I'd been dating ACTORS. They're lovely, but while I would stare at their beautiful bodies and faces, watching them shakerball yet another protein shake and pretending to be fascinated by the details of their work-out experience that day, I'd forgotten that actors ACT. They PRETEND to do stuff. I somehow blinded myself to the fact that putting on an Egyptian God costume does not make one an Egyptian God, no matter how well they fill out the headdress. *

*My actor friends- if you think I'm writing about you, I'm not. The fact that you're self-aware enough for that concern eliminates you. The ones I'm referring to are not my FB friends or blog readers. You're wonderful and have treated me well. Go back to your protein shake. ;)



This guy, a Producer, Produced. He made things happen- and he didn't brag about it. We chatted about a film festival and went off on some tangent about bats. He didn't mention he'd won the festival. It wasn't until I visited his home and noticed the gold records on the wall that we even spoke about his musical career.

Me: "Um, wow."

Him: "Oh- thanks. Those were a lot of fun."

Me: (looking closer) "Wait- they're gold but they say platinum on them?"

Him: "Yeah, they're technically platinum, but these were freebies from the record label and I didn't wanna spend money on some award that's just gonna hang on my wall. I think you have to frame them yourself, too."

Me: "Riiiiight. I totally hate it when I have to do that."



When I first met him, I wasn't sure if I was attracted to him or not. He definitely wasn't my "type," but then, to date, my "Type" has been a terrible choice. Once I was able to get to know the Filmmaker better, I'd become a smitten kitten. His home, his attitude, his acoustic guitar collection, everything was warm and inviting and authentic and real. I was completely blown away by how his mind worked and his ability to create and actually DO the things he set out to do. He writes, directs, produces, works equipment, on-set landscaping, everything. We watched a movie together and he sat at his piano and effortlessly duplicated the musical scoring. Suddenly I realized- my bar for dating had not merely been set higher, it had been moved to another PLANET. I'm so used to being dazzled by someone's (shall we say) package I stopped looking at the content. This man amazed me with his quality of character and actual substance. Granted, I have a puppyish enthusiasm for people but whereas I'm easily impressed, it takes a lot to inspire me... and I was inspired. Seeing all the Good this guy was able to accomplish for others reminded me that I want to work harder so I can do more Good, too. Jesus isn't that why I started writing in the first place? So I could provide a voice and make a difference? This guy is making a difference. I wanna play too.



Gradually, date by date, over sushi, stargazing/shivering in a hammock, curled up for a Netflix night or holding hands at the Arclight, I became convinced- THIS was who I wanted. I never once saw the man drink a single protein shake. It seemed like he was actually enjoying my company, rather than looking for another fan to worship him. (Again, something new to me.) He listened to my ideas, read my writing, encouraged my suggestions, and even gave me a shot pitching to his production company. He didn't need me, and I didn't need him- but it was really nice to feel brave enough to want someone again. And I wanted him to want me too.



In addition to all this, he was super respectful of my limits and my comfort level progressing with beginning a physical relationship with someone. I was looking for something real, and I wanted to be smart and take my time. We actually talked about it and seemed completely on the same page and kept things at a PG-13. He invited me to spend the night, and I did, sleeping so soundly in his massive soft warm bed. The beautiful shades of sunrise woke me up in the morning, casting stripes of amber and gold on his antique wooden furniture. I was startled at how natural it felt, and began to sense the beginnings of a closeness I'd not felt in a long time.

Slowly focusing in, becoming clearer as some stray dust motes dance lazy choreography trails across a 6am sunbeam. I swear my life has lens flares.



So when he called at 6:30pm on a Sunday and asked what I was doing, like, RIGHT NOW, and did I want to go to the Hollywood Bowl for some outdoor music, I leapt at the opportunity. I met the Filmmaker and his best friend in Studio City and we headed for the show.



The Hollywood Bowl had been on my Bucket List since childhood, when Looney Tunes would always set Bugs Bunny's operatic fiascos there. Bugs would swap places with the conductor and shenanigans ensued. As a child, I was given a snowglobe with some LA landmarks inside: Griffith, the Hollywood Sign, the Capital Records building and of course the Hollywood Bowl. Time and time again, I'd wind it up and gaze into the world of swirling glitter, watching it settle in the itty-bitty amphitheatre seats leading down to the miniature famous scallop shells, as "Cal-i-fornia, Here I Come" twinkled and chimed from the music box in my hands.



I'd seen the Bowl while hiking, too, still from far away- about on par visually with the size ratio of my snowglobe- so distant, so unreachable. Still very much behind glass and a thing for cartoons and fantasy.

And suddenly, there is was. Or rather, there I was: walking up the winding pathway which deposits you BAM right there in the perfect spot to take it all in. From our seats, I could see the stage beautifully- there was the exact spot Bugs always stood. There was the place the conductor got trapped in the tuba. And wayyyyy up there in the hills, beyond the twinkling lights, was the place I'd hiked and dreamed of this very night.

Rack Focus: It had become real, in the form of an amazing concert next to amazing people. I had my Filmmaker and his friend on my right, and a fun stranger on my left who kept sharing box wine in delicate plastic cups with us. The show was beautiful, and a genial sense of happiness and community permeated through the crowd. We were all the swirling glitter. For an hour or so everyone shared this magic snowglobe existence, and I was elated to check Hollywood Bowl off my bucket list in such a sweet way with a man I was so excited about. Sure, he seemed a little "off" that night, but I attributed it to the uncertainty of PDA in front of his friend. No big deal- I hoped to make up for lost time later.



The Filmmaker had received the tickets from an actress he'd directed before, who was now a performer in the band. When she texted him after the show to see if we wanted to meet her backstage and say hi, we took her up on the opportunity. We'd made it 80% of the way out of the parking lot, but this was too good to pass up, so we turned around and made our path back upstream, where we met her behind the Bowl.



She'd seemed so tiny and far away onstage, and yet, here she was.

Rack Focus: this glimmering 6-foot-tall Music Goddess barefoot in a seafoam green gown. She was gorgeous, and I instantly sensed a connection between her and the Filmmaker, who had seemed uncharacteristically nervous and distant throughout the evening yet lit up in her presence. Especially when she mentioned that she'd be quitting the band and moving back to Los Angeles. This girl is an amazing musician, a talented actress, wickedly smart, and phenomenally beautiful. She was also really, really exceptionally nice and gave off the same aura of kindness and do-goodery that the Filmmaker does. I began to wonder how well they knew each other, but that thought was cut short when the Music Goddess was joking about Hollywood crushes, and how she had a huge crush on an actor. I thought of my old stand-by Hollywood Crush, Jake Gyllenhaal, WHO SUDDENLY WALKED AROUND THE CORNER AND APPROACHED OUR GROUP. He was friends with the Music Goddess (of course,) and chatted with us amicably for a bit before ducking out. Another bucket list item checked off for me.

Again, Rack Focus effect- from a small image on a screen and a tiny portion of my imagination/fantasy, there I was instantly face-to-face in reality with something (in this case Jake Gyllenhaal) which had formerly seemed so unattainable and far away. at one point he'd tilted his head back and laughed, and it was just like when his characters laugh in the movies. I grinned too, enjoying the blur of Hollywood and Real Life backstage at a place I'd only seen on postcards.

As we walked (and I floated) back to the car, the Filmmaker's friend jokingly asked me what I would've done if Jake Gyllenhaal had asked me out.

"I would've simply had to tell him sorry, I was out with someone," I said, gesturing towards the Filmmaker.

"Yeah," the best friend replied, "but it's not like you two are dating..."



It was as if I hadn't realized a knife had been plunged into my heart until I felt it violently twisted and wrenched.



Rack Focus: Everything close and clear suddenly became blurry and wrong.

In the brief moment between the opening of the wound and the start of the bloodflow, I chittered happily away, blowing it off. Denial is kind that way. It wasn't until the Filmmaker mentioned how amazingly funny the Music Goddess was that it really began to pour out.



Uh oh. So she's funny too, hunh? ...This might need some stitches.



Temporarily bandaging my rip with a smile, I continued to wrap my injury with the excitement from the night as we dropped off his friend and grabbed a milkshake and a burger. We were talking, we were laughing. He was looking me in the eye for what seemed like the first time that night. Maybe things were OK.

He invited me back to his house. Delirious from blood-loss and giddy from snowglobe life, I went with him. And life sped from a PG-13 to an R before I really knew what I was doing.

Let me repeat: What I was doing. Me. My choice. Looking for some way to prevent hemorrhaging.

But it was too late and I bled out in a pair of apathetic arms.

As close as the lens was, I realized I couldn't regain his focus.

Later, the words "not quite on the same page" would tumble from his lips, and even though he held me as he slept (as HE slept,) I knew the knife had gone too deep and it was over, like a leaking snowglobe that lost its glitter.

I kissed him goodbye in the unmistakeably cold grey light of a foggy dawn and slipped out the door.

He suddenly seemed very far away.