My post-college plan was to stay with my dad in Orange County, get a job as a waitress, save enough money to get an apartment, and move to L.A. I hadn’t spent much time with my father over the last four years. Once I started in college, I quit visiting him for the summer. Moving in with him was going to be weird.
To prep myself I went to visit him for my senior year spring break. I figured I needed to spend a little time to 1) make sure we still got along and 2) meet my new stepmom, Shirley. She’s my third stepmom, with a couple of broken-off engagements in between. She’s the one that stuck. My dad had quit the newspaper business and was attempting to start a wine club, which meant that I got to spend my spring break wine tasting in a beautiful place in California called Paso Robles. Not a bad deal for a twenty-one-year-old.
Shirley and I got along great. I’ve since watched her throw a drink in a twenty-two-year-old girl’s face for calling her an “old bitch.” She’s pretty fantastic. While Dad and his best friend, Joe, were off having meetings at wineries, Shirley and I went to sample the wines with Joe’s wife, Marsha. We got hammered. She was even fine with me stealing glasses from the wineries that wouldn’t let me keep the glass. This is great!
I was relieved that I liked Shirley so much. It was going to be interesting enough living with my dad again; I didn’t want to have issues with her on top of it. They’d only been married for a couple of months when I got there so I’m sure she was thrilled that her new husband’s twenty-one-year-old daughter was moving in with them.
I drove out to California with Logan and two other work friends. We all crammed into my Mustang with a U-Haul trailer attached to the back. When we pulled out of my mother’s driveway, she cried and waved, I cried and waved. It was very dramatic.
It was also the end of June. The drive across country in hundred-degree weather was a fucking disaster. Yes, I had air-conditioning in my car. No, it did not work well. We all hated one another by the end of the trip.
Our pit stop in Vegas turned out to be a few days longer than originally planned; none of us wanted to get back in that piece of shit car. I won a hundred dollars on blackjack, which I spent one morning on McDonald’s breakfast. I was hungover. I ordered a lot.
We arrived in California the week of July fourth. Joe and Marsha decided that they would have a little “welcome” party for me at their house. They had a lovely pool, a nice backyard, and a gorgeous son named Anthony. When I met him, I thought they were pulling some sort of prank on me. I couldn’t believe that my dad’s best friend had a hot Italian son close to my age. I immediately began planning our wedding.
Anthony was a cop. He had a cop body and cop testosterone. It was a little jarring at first. I was used to guys who ran around in tights rehearsing lines and dumb frat guys who ran around in Tommy Hilfigers doing bong hits. But if this was what California had to offer I was okay with it. I have a real thing for Italian guys. Aside from my baseball wife dream, I have a weird fantasy of being married to the mob, but not really like Henry Hill in GoodFellas. That’s too depressing. Somewhere more in between Tony Soprano and Sonny from General Hospital. I’ve also always been pretty horny for Andy Garcia. I know that he’s Cuban, but I can’t tell the difference.
At one point during the party we ran out of beer. Anthony offered to go get some more and asked if I’d like to join him. I followed him out to the driveway. We got into his truck and then I asked: “Are you okay to drive? We’ve been drinking all day.”
“I’m a cop!” he said excitedly and started the engine.
When we left, he kept the window down, then reached out to pull the garage door closed while he backed out, moving quickly so that the door just missed the hood of his truck. He could’ve just used the automatic garage door opener, but that’s the testosterone thing that I was talking about. Nothing really happened during the ride, but at the time it was the best half hour of my life. I felt like I was really going to like California.
Back at the party, Anthony asked if I wanted to take a quick ride on his (wait for it) motorcycle. Now he wasn’t just a hot guy, he was a hot guy with a motorcycle. God had really taken his time when putting this man together. While we went for a little spin around the block on his motorcycle, I imagined what it would be like on our wedding day when we pulled out of the church on his bike. My white dress would be flowing and we’d wave goodbye to our friends and family as all of his cop buddies fired their guns in the air. I have no idea if cops do that at a wedding, but they would do it at ours. Our families would stand together, laughing and crying.
“I can’t believe that my daughter married my best friend’s son,” my dad would say through tears of joy. “This is perfect.”
When we got back to the house, I climbed off and immediately felt pain shoot through my leg. I was a little drunk, so the pain wasn’t as bad as it could have been; sometimes alcohol comes in handy. I looked down and realized I had burned my leg on the motorcycle exhaust pipe.
“Shit, I told you to be careful around that!” Anthony ran and ripped open an aloe plant from the yard (I thought, People have aloe plants in their yards here?), broke it in half, and dripped the aloe onto my new wound. Any pain that subsided had nothing to do with the plant. It had to do with the hot Italian guy standing over me tending to my injury.
Later that afternoon Shirley told me that I was going to need eyelid surgery. She said that if I looked closely at my dad, I would notice that his eyelids are really droopy.
“By the time he’s eighty he probably won’t even be able to see.”
“Oh,” I replied. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You have your father’s eyelids. They already droop a little. It’s only going to get worse as you get older. You’re twenty-one: That’s the perfect age to take care of it. Insurance will probably cover it.”
Great. I had just moved to California and I already needed plastic surgery. I hoped that Anthony wasn’t turned off by my fucked-up eyelids.
After being in California for about two weeks, I found a bartending job close to my dad’s house. I couldn’t wait to start making some money. I mean, I was fresh out of school and living with my dad for the first time since I was five years old … and he had just gotten married. Everyone involved wanted me in and out of that house as quickly as possible.
When I got off from work my co-workers and I always went out to T.G.I. Friday’s. It was not the club scene that I assumed I’d see when I moved to California; it was that strip mall/chain restaurant mentality that I was familiar with from Arkansas. It made me comfortable and every once in a while I’d feel like I was still back home. The people I worked with were fun and I had officially made my first California friends. The only problem was that all the houses on my father’s street looked the same so more times than I can count I pulled into the wrong driveway only to discover my key didn’t fit in the lock. “I just finished college … it was exhausting” was my constant excuse for drinking and sleeping in. I was actually just depressed because I’d left home, but I didn’t figure that out until later.
Living with my father was when I really began to understand where my conflicting desires in life came from. Most of my life, my dad had a lot of money. When I moved in with him, and when he was trying to start his own business, that had changed. He was basically starting over—a new career, a new wife. It was odd to see, but he was struggling. He worried about money, which he’d never done before. He was still really fun, but something about him was different. I think losing the power he once had in his career humbled him, but as I know him now, I have to say it was good for him. It made him appreciate more the things that can’t be bought. That being said, he’s always loved to go out for drinks. When I was living with him he still let himself go out and have a lot of fun, regardless of the struggles. He was the exact opposite of my mother, and so was half of me.
My plans to marry Anthony were not panning out. So far all I’d gotten from him was a scar on my leg from the motorcycle burn. We’d only hung out a few more times since the party, and it didn’t seem like it was leading to anything else. I figured it was for the best; I didn’t need to get tied up in some messy relationship before I moved to L.A. It was like an hour-and-a-half drive and for that I’d at least need to be getting laid.
A few months later, I went on a weekend trip to Cabo San Lucas with one of the girls I worked with, Danielle. If you’ve never been to Cabo, just know that it’s a mess. The bars are full of people doing shots and falling down. They play loud techno music everywhere you go. You can’t sit at a table without some man or woman coming up to pour tequila down your throat and then shaking your head back and forth while blowing a whistle. It’s awesome.
The first night that we were there we went to a bar called Cabo Wabo. Sammy Hagar owned it and rumor had it he was playing there that night. Danielle and I got as cute as possible and headed out for the evening. We started off at some weird street-corner taco stand that served tequila, then hit the local hot spots. By the time we got to Cabo Wabo, it was much later than we had anticipated and I was much drunker than necessary. We walked in just in time to hear Sammy Hagar say, “Good night, Cabo!” and exit the stage. Perfect timing, as always.
I woke up the next morning on the bathroom floor of the condo that we were staying in. My head was on a towel and I was curled up in the fetal position. I quickly noticed that I was fully clothed, and felt relieved. The last thing I remembered was Sammy Hagar saying good night. I had no idea how I ended up back there, alone on the bathroom floor. I wandered into Danielle’s room to find out what the fuck had happened.
Danielle was asleep on her face. I poked her in the back a few times and she rolled over. She immediately started laughing.
“How was the bathroom floor?”
“Super comfortable. I don’t know why I would bother with a bed. What the hell happened?”
“I have no idea. You said you were going to the bathroom at Cabo Wabo, then I never saw you again. I stayed out for a while and when I got back you were passed out on the bathroom floor. I tried to wake you—it wasn’t happening.”
There was no way I could have walked back; we were a few miles from the town and since I had no idea where I was I would have definitely gotten lost or kidnapped. I still don’t know what happened. I’ve considered getting hypnotized to find out, but I don’t really want to know.
“Let’s go get a drink,” I suggested.
“You’re my hero,” Danielle replied, and off we went to the pool bar.
While we were in Cabo we met a couple of cute boys from Quebec City who were ski instructors. They also loved to surf and told us that they came to Cabo every year to do just that. Both of them spoke French and their English was mediocre at best. Jackpot. The first night we met, one of them and I wound up in the pool at our complex, naked and confessing our feelings for each other. I had landed a French Canadian boyfriend named Marc for the remainder of the trip.
We had gotten to Cabo flying standby on some buddy passes. Don’t ever do that. We got stuck there for three extra days, waiting to get on a flight. We’d also been staying for free in that condo because it was owned by a friend of a friend I knew from bartending. So for the unexpected extra days it was occupied by other vacationers and we had to scrape together money for a hotel. We didn’t have much and winded up staying in a place so small that the toilet was in the shower.
When I finally knew I was getting on a plane, I called my dad to let him know what time to pick me up at the airport.
“Sorry, sweetie. Shirley and I are both busy tonight. Just grab a shuttle or even a cab. It won’t cost much,” he assured me.
Even though I only had seventeen dollars in my checking account at that point, it wasn’t the cost that bothered me. It was the fact that I didn’t have anybody picking me up at the airport. Family was supposed to pick you up; at least that’s how we did it in Arkansas. It was something that I was used to and now that I’d moved to California yet another thing had changed. The adult me now knows, get your own ride to the airport. Getting to and from the airport in Los Angeles is much different than in Arkansas, and it isn’t worth the hassle. If you’re reading this, which you better be, sorry I didn’t know that then, Dad.
When I finally got to Dad and Shirley’s I went straight to bed. The next morning they were both acting not only normal, but super happy, so I decided to let the airport thing go. I didn’t have many people to hang out with so I figured alienating them was not in my best interest. Instead I told them all about my trip and how much fun it was. I left out some details that most daughters should leave out—like how I had put myself in the position of getting date-raped by a Mexican cabdriver, and couldn’t say with complete confidence that I hadn’t been.
Surprisingly, Marc and I stayed in touch after the trip. He emailed me in broken English and I attempted to write at least one sentence in French with each response. I always had my English-to-French dictionary next to me when composing an email to him. It was fun to have a long-distance romance, especially since all I was doing in California so far was sleeping late and serving chicken wings.
Eventually Marc decided that he and I needed to see each other again. He invited me to come and stay with him in Quebec for a few days. He told me he wanted to fly me there and that the trip would cost me nothing. It took me about four seconds to agree to go.
When I told my dad that I was going, he was confused.
“How can you afford to go to Quebec?” he challenged.
“Marc is paying for everything!” I explained, excited.
Shirley was not confused—she was thrilled. She loved the whole story: I’d met a hot guy on vacation, we were still talking, he wanted to fly me out to visit him.
“This is so romantic. You’re going to have a great time!”
“Slow down, Shirley,” my dad warned her. “Why would a guy pay for some girl who he just met …”
It hit him. He looked somewhere in between proud and horrified.
“I have a conference call,” he mumbled and quickly exited the room.
I didn’t stop him and ask him why he had a conference call since he was still unemployed.
During the flight to Quebec, I was nervous. I’d never done anything like that before. In fact, it was really out of character for me. Although I have done a lot of things that probably seem irresponsible to most people, I didn’t and still don’t tend to make big moves without agonizing over it for days. For once, I had just decided to go for it. I liked Marc, he liked me, and I felt like that was all I really needed to know.
I had made some good friends over my first few months in California, but I was still lonely. I thought perhaps Marc was exactly what I needed. He was a ski instructor and I had no idea how to ski. I had an opportunity to learn something from him. I didn’t want to miss a real chance at an adventure—that would have been irresponsible.
Marc greeted me at the airport with a huge smile and two great biceps. He was even cuter than I remembered. He even surprised me with his English. I could instantly tell he’d been working on it.
“Have you been learning your French?” he asked.
“Yes!” I lied, hoping he wouldn’t test me.
He then said something in French.
“Learning it and hearing it out loud are two different things,” I explained. “Let’s just speak English.”
“Okay,” he agreed. God he was cute.
I stared out the window the whole drive to his apartment.
“It’s beautiful here.” I smiled.
“In French we say—”
“I said we’re speaking English, remember?”
His apartment was great, which was a relief. Most important, it was clean. I don’t want to date a guy I’m going to have to clean up after. His place was also well decorated and really cozy. I did notice one big problem and started to panic: There was only one bathroom and it was smack in between the bedroom and the living room. This offered very little privacy. No way was I going to risk going number two in Marc’s apartment and getting caught. It took me until I was thirty-four to live with somebody and even then I insisted on two bathrooms and zero discussion about what went on in them. Maybe that sounds weird coming from a girl who likes whiskey and baseball, but people have their lines and that is where I draw mine. I had to figure something out.
We spent the next few days going to long lunches, meeting his friends, and going out for drinks at night. Every place that we went, the first thing that I would do was go to the bathroom. After about my fifth time doing this, I returned to the table to find Marc smirking.
“You wan nex time I go with ewe?”
“What? Where?”
“I get it you go every time. I didn see the hint but now I see.”
He thought I had some weird fascination with public bathrooms.
“No, I don’t want to have sex in the bathroom. I’m just …”
He was still smiling.
“Sure, next time meet me there. I’d really love to have sex with you in a public bathroom,” I lied. It was better than the truth. Now I’d just never be able to go to the bathroom again, ever, unless I was prepared to fuck him afterward.
Marc was funny and charming and his friends were just as great. They all found me extremely entertaining, which was a huge bonus. Toward the end of the week, we were going to a party on a big boat. Marc said they had one every year, and that all his friends would be there. Actually he may have said they had one every month—he still got most of his words mixed up. He also just kind of threw in that his mother would be at the party and wanted to know if that was okay with me.
“I guess it has to be okay because it sounds like she’s coming!” I shouted.
“Well … if you dew noh wan my mom to comin is okay,” he assured me.
“No, I don’t really care for a Mountain Dew but as far as your mother goes I just said it was fine!”
He may not have spoken English but he did speak freaked-out woman. He tried his best to make me feel comfortable while I tried my best to figure out why I was so panicked. Sure, for the past few days I had been envisioning what our lives together would be like, but that was for me to do in my head. The second he started showing signs of actual commitment I became my father’s daughter.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” I lied. “Is the fucking bar open yet?”
Despite my irrational fear of Marc’s mother, the boat party turned out to be a lot of fun. I really liked the people that he surrounded himself with. Now all I had to get through was meeting his mom. I wasn’t sure what I was so ramped up about; it was just somebody’s mom. I loved moms! In fact the only mom I’ve ever really clashed with was my friend Casey’s mom, who within three minutes of meeting me insisted that if I was single I must have been molested. And at this point I hadn’t even met her. That would be five years down the road. I needed to calm down. Where did I leave my drink?
When she approached, I saw myself through her eyes. There is the little slut that my lovely son met in that godforsaken Mexico. I can’t believe he spent the money to fly the tramp all of the way here. I knew that was what she was thinking, except in French.
Her name was Lynn and she could not have been nicer to me. She was doing an excellent job of hiding her disdain. She was the only person over thirty there and she didn’t stay long, which led me to believe that she had made a special trip just to meet me, which led me to believe that Marc had asked her to, which led me to believe he was taking things too fast. After his mom left, he asked me how he should introduce me to people for the rest of the night.
“What do you mean? I always go by Sarah,” I replied, clueless.
“I know. But when peeples ask who are you whut should I said?”
“It’s not ‘said,’ it’s … ‘say.’ ”
“Okay, then what should I said?”
“It’s … forget it. When people ask who I am, just say that I’m Sarah, because I am.”
“I know but who should I said you are? Should I said that you are my geerlfrien?”
Geerlfrien. The word caught me off guard, but in a good way. I could be a girlfriend. I hadn’t done it in a while, but I knew for sure I was good at it. I’d been told that in the past. I also liked being one. Plus it sounded so cute when he said it.
“Yes, you should definitely said that I’m your geerlfrien,” I said with a huge smile.
The rest of the night Marc and I were an official couple and I was enjoying it. We got really drunk, danced, and laughed. At the end of the night he insisted that we go eat poutine, which is basically the French version of getting your potatoes “smothered and covered” at the Waffle House. Thank God my new boyfriend liked late-night fast food as much as I did. We polished off four plates of it, then stumbled home to bed.
My last morning there I woke up and desperately needed to go to the bathroom. It might have been nerves, or it might have just been what a normal person does in the morning after four plates of poutine. Either way, I wasn’t going to be able to wait until we went out for lunch to make my move. Marc cuddled up to me and I thought I was going to die. This was not the time to spoon.
“I’m starving,” I told him.
“Let’s have breakfast here. I’ll make,” he suggested.
We’d gone out to breakfast every morning. Now, when I need to go out more than ever, he wanted to “make”? “Sounds good,” I lied. “Do you have eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Strike two. “Potatoes?”
“Uh, no … but I can …”
Oh, thank God. “I’ll go get some!” I jumped up, threw on some jeans, and headed out the door before he had the chance to stop me or tell me that he was allergic to potatoes. I ran full speed to the nearest store and made my way to the bathroom.
That afternoon we drove around a quiet part of the city. It was really pretty but I kept dozing off in the passenger seat. At one point he stopped and grabbed some fresh raspberries off a bush. I was starring in my own romantic comedy.
“Framboises,” he said as he handed them to me.
“Merci,” I said back. I was pretty sure that meant “raspberries are my favorite.”
The drive to the airport that night was depressing, the flight home even more so. I got wrapped up in being his geerlfrien at the party, but once the moment passed I knew that I couldn’t really be. What I wanted was somewhere in California and I had to go get it. There’s a romantic me that has always wanted to be swept off her feet, but the realistic and ambitious me doesn’t believe in the fantasy—and if a guy tries too hard I end up thinking he’s a pussy. While I flew back to my dad’s, I wondered if it was normal that I’d rather serve chili dogs to a bunch of overpaid frat guys than let a hot French Canadian guy steal my heart.