I flashed a courteous smile to my mother who, in her infinitely maternal martyrdom had forgone her own good morning cup of decaf for my necessity of regular in an effort to pump me full of enough caffeine to get me coherent and functional and on my way to Phase Two of my "plan"; Operation Cowboy.
I jumped in the shower and pondered to myself as I lathered what in the world had compelled me to pick up my beloved east coast life and head across the country to reside in Bayfield, Colorado, of all places.
I then reminded myself that this all had something to do with the reevaluation of existence. I chose for my companion on this wayward journey one of the few people in the this world to know all the darkest secrets of said existence and STILL invite me to live with her for the next 6 months.
Pulling out of the driveway, Ricky Nelson sang great praises to his sweet Mary Lou, and the hot breeze outside my window carried blossoms of those dearly missed crepe myrtles.
The flight attendants on my flight were, I can only guess, sniffing glue in the back of the plane. Which might explain them blasting YMCA and offering free drinks to anyone willing to dance down the aisle.
Sorry intoxicated airplane workers, this woman doesnt dance to drink. She does, however, drink to dance, on occasion.
My gorgeous partner in crime, my Vogue, met me at baggage claim. From the moment my plane landed I was bombarded with text messages inquiring as to my position. I replied, sadly, that while in a layover in Vegas, I had decided to stay there and try my luck as a showgirl.
I don't think she bought it. She did, however, tell me I would wear the tassels well. I'd much rather see her in tassels. But I thank her, all the same.
Emerging from a thin hallways in one of those rare travel warps where everyone is going only one way, I could see her pacing back and forth. But they had in this airport the kind of gynormous revolving doors that always make me pause at their opening. I have visions of being sliced in two if my steps are not timed correctly. I let it spin around a few time and waited for it to be all mine so I could hesitantly and frantically swing through and embrace my love standing just a few feet away.
We had a roadtrip teaser, with 3 1/2 hours of driving thru New Mexico to Colorado. My window gazing greeted me with rocks such colors Ive never known. These rocks of flame called out to the fire lover in me. They captured my heart with their colors, and I happily burned with them.
Then suddenly, the rock turned to forest. Deer, horses, and hawks emerged. The air smelled of wild flowers. And something was missing....Smog.
Id somehow become accustomed to it again during my time in LA.
There was champagne to drink upon our evening arrival. Melrose place and 90210 to occupy our tired hours. The kind of laughter that brings unstoppable tears has consumed these days of mine. And the hours seem shorter here, somehow.
Ive seen many cowboy boots, but surprisingly few massive belt buckles. I imagine this will be amended, however, when we enter the Billy Goat Bar in Bayfield.
My dear Vogue informed me that I was not to feel as if I had to dance, were I asked to. Slightly offended, I told her, "Just who do you think I am? I'm a New Yorker at heart, after all. No one makes me two step!"
Well, maybe Danny Nucci could. But then, that goes without saying.
I lazily fill out my applications and wait to hear if I will be bartending or waitressing in these coming months.
I spend my unemployed hours reading in her spa's waiting room, taking awe-inspiring hikes through thick forests, driving around the 4 blocks that make up this town, and meeting all the people who Im apparently supposed to remember.
There is always so much gossip in these kinds of towns. It makes me glad I never grew up in a small town. But rather, I emerge into this place as Vogue's "New Yorker". As if the Yankee hat I always have on isn't a dead giveaway, or the seemingly random accent that occasionally appears out of nowhere when I say words such as "coffee" and "door".
Each individual I meet comes with a story once they have departed. His wife left him, she's a total drunk, their mother just died...on and on.
Being the roommate of the town spa's owner, Im privy to all sorts of interesting tidbits. I may not like gossip, but I do enjoy stories.
There was a car theft here the other day, for example. The car was somehow moved without the use of keys or hot wiring from a shopping mall parking lot and moved, oddly, just a few blocks away to the bank.
The mystery intrigued locals for days until it was discovered that an angry individual had moved the car with a forklift because her place of business was in that shopping area, and she simply felt she had every right to control the cars which remained parked there after business hours.
There is a disturbing fact about this small town I cannot quiet let go of. No one locks their doors. Not just their house doors either, mind you, but their car doors. Vogue leaves her keys either on her dashboard or in the ignition. Every time. In my distrust, I grab them on our way out and stick them in my pocket.
Perhaps if the car theft victim had left her keys in the car as Vogue does, the stolen car would not have had to risk damage via the use of forklifts.
Vogue hooked me up with a free massage last week. The second I've ever had. The very first, in Brooklyn, did not end well for me. In fact, where it ended was with my head looming over a toilet bowl. No one told me that it was water I should be consuming afterwards, not beer.
It stirs up all those toxins, you see. And adding more to it is just, well...stupid. Now I know.
Ive also been threatened with a leg waxing. This does not please me. But Im sensing it is inevitable. I sense this, you see, because that is exactly what Vogue has told me.
It seems that I have no say, once I enter this spa, in the things that will be done to my body. Lash tints, I also hear, are on their way. Why people would dye their lashes is beyond me. Why women do any of the baffling masochistic things they do in the name of beauty is beyond me.
Except torturous heels, obviously. I mean, that's just common sense.
But then, I certainly did enjoy gazing at those fabulous models that roamed the streets wild in Manhattan. Seeing as I so enjoy the end product, I should perhaps not mock the process.
Better them than me, is all I can think to say.
