There is one damn good reason that I don’t mind that my face today looks as speckled as the egg Lindsey Lohan hatched from. It is because I spent the weekend fulfilling a dream; a cleverly devised dream that allows itself room to stretch and grow and evolve. It is because I spent this weekend learning to surf.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 07/14 at 09:58 PM
Filed under:
Abbey Leroux •
Non-Fiction •
I am not myself
My house is currently in the utmost state of disaster.
This includes, but is not limited to:
• Laundry, though clean, in 6 piles on the floor: Jeans, mine. Panties, Lily’s. Frilly dresses, Lily’s. Pink things, Lily’s. Kitchen towels, kitchen’s. Socks with lace, Lily’s. So typical.
• 1 Selena Tee Shirt. Also clean, and semi folded. But 1 shirt isn’t a pile, is it? (You know, SELENA. Jennifer Lopez? Hellooo)
• 1 vase of lilies, wilted all the way, now sad stalks of greenish brown which reach all the way over the rim of the vase to the counter top.
• Dishes in the sink—dirty. All of them. No, I mean, all the dishes I own.
• 2 (more) piles of clothes on a chair and the couch, costumes from 36 hours of shooting this weekend. They are still on their hangers. Now there is no place to sit
• 1 chocolate soy box drink, ½ full, straw in place. On. The. Floor. I do not know how old, or for how long it has been there.
• All my purses and hats and belts on the floor at the foot of my bed.
• Bath towels? Every single one (6) on the bathroom floor.
• Bills, piled on desk.
• Other papers of mysterious importance…everywhere.
• 2 children’s’ books on my bedside table: People, by Peter Spier, and Lilly’s Big Day, by Kevin Henkes.
• ALSO on bedside table: 1 of my books (Autobiography of Malcom X by Alex Haley) a dish towel, a ½ full bottle of water, and a photo index card.
• 1 more bottle of water, same bedside table. It is a large bed side table.
• A sketch pad of Lily’s, 2’ x 3’, face up on my bedroom floor, on which she rendered a representation of me, in blue crayon.
• 3 reusable Trader Joe’s bags, opened and empty, in the middle of the main floor.
I’m no Donna Reed, but my house is never like this. Never ever ever. It’s a long story, mostly uninteresting.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 07/09 at 09:29 PM
Filed under:
Eve Sturges •
Non-Fiction •
Wearing a white cotton skirt embroidered with flowers and a pinky gauzy blouse, I feel like a dumb little flower growing in a shit field.
Blonde hair flowing, freckle-faced and dressed up, my pretty appearance completely betrays my feeling that there is constantly a war happening – in my history, in our history, into the present and the future – and that a thick rope connects me to it, tied up to a pivotal point in my chest. The rope jerks me back, inward. Makes my heart nauseous. There is a dark whirlpool of Vietnam muck where the rope winds through; a wormhole, spinning deep deep in my chest like an eternally flushing toilet.
Careless, walking steadily down the Manhattan sidewalk with no land mines blowing my feet out from under me. No distant battle rumbling the ground, at least not literally. Ready to break down and sob and kiss the filthy cement. Ready to call my dad and tell him I was a soldier too.
But I look like a flower. I fit in this garden. But my heart… it’s in the shit field.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 07/07 at 09:05 PM
Filed under:
Abbey Leroux •
Non-Fiction •
So, red flag #1: I meet Bob at a club.
I am not the clubbing type, but was visiting friends, who are indeed the clubbing type, and I am dynamic. I can handle it. Once upon a time, before diapers, responsibility, and age 22, I went to clubs. I totally danced and drank fruity cocktails and threw myself into crowds of sweaty meatheads who tossed me around like a lost sneaker in the dryer. I did. And I met boys and had conversations not unlike this one:
Douche Bob: HEYTHISMUSICISISAWESOMEDOYOUCOMEHERE OFTEN????
Me: SEWING MACHINE!
Douche Bob: DOYOUWANTADRINKIAMINAFRATERNITY!!!
Me: BOBBING FOR APPLES!
Douche Bob: IBOUGHTTHISSTRIPEDOXFORDSHIRTINTHEMARINA!!!
Me: I LOVE MANATEES!
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Posted by The Better Blog on 07/02 at 08:31 PM
Filed under:
Eve Sturges •
Non-Fiction •
I meet Bob on the street corner. Not THAT street corner, assholes. A Silver Lake street corner. And actually, I already knew him, but I couldn’t remember his name. And I wasn’t looking for him, it was an accident.
Bob is an actor and was just performing with a friend of mine. So when I saw him on the corner, instead of yelling “BOB!” I yelled “HEY! NAME OF THE PLAY!!!” He turns around. He’s just hanging out, handing out free tickets, doing some PR for the show. (P.S. Great Show. If you know me, and live in Los Angeles, email me and I’ll tell you all about it, and may even be willing to see it again.)
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/24 at 09:00 AM
Filed under:
Eve Sturges •
Non-Fiction •
It is no secret among the psychology community that internet addiction is one of the most rapidly growing behavioral trends in the world. People simply cannot live without checking their email multiple times per day (you never know when that important email is going to show up!), checking those news websites (maybe there is important news that was just added!), or simply aimlessly wandering the annals of cyberspace. Recently it dawned on me that we are a lot like pigeons in our endless patience with the internet and its rare fruits.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/20 at 06:35 PM
Filed under:
Ted Grudin •
Non-Fiction •
hard to explain where i am. many places, many faces at once. pace of life observerved in footnotes, felt completely in the blood level. with the thinker’s eye i stomp grounds clearing space for those i keep safe. some would say this is all nonsense, all uncalculated words, for fear that the strange connection of splattered thought may actually have meaning and illustrate captures of life only a voodoo man like myself has strength of soul to witness. i exist in babylon. allowing myself to be confused to better understand the beast i feed from and ultimately must drive an ambivalent stake through.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/14 at 02:37 PM
Filed under:
Christopher Longoria •
Non-Fiction •
Bob is a high school teacher at an affluent all girl’s high school. He has a nice body underneath his tight red tee shirt. His arms are tattooed with some sort of “Opposites” theme. One arm says “lover,” the other, “hater,” etc, etc. Curly hair, in a Jewish type way. He’s Jewish. He’s an artist too. He had me at “I drive a scooter.”
So we agree to meet for a quick dinner, and I choose a pho joint around the corner from my house. I really need dates to be local; my psychological survival in Los Angeles depends on keeping drive time to a minimum. (It’s not a sex thing. I mean, I enjoy entertaining fantasy, but let’s get real: I’m a chicken, and I hate first-night sex)
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/11 at 12:44 AM
Filed under:
Eve Sturges •
Non-Fiction •
I stared out the window, squinting into the blinding light, and let myself cry. Only a couple of tears actually fell, but I felt the familiar brow-knit face-scrunching that accompanies a major sob lurking beneath the surface. All this over a seemingly inert mass of dirt and frozen water. A mountain. Instead of the typical girl crying over the heart-wrenching separation from her long-distance lover ("We’ll be together again before we know it” he says into her hair as she weeps in his gentle embrace), I am the girl gazing from the airplane window trying to keep it together over Mount Rainier.
I can’t explain what brash and brave force of nature churned within me the moment of our approach the day before in Mt. Rainier National Park. Something beyond my control and comprehension caused me to immediately declare “I wanna climb it. I’m going to climb it.” But knowing two of my best friends’ ears were at my disposal quickly made my statement, which may have seemed flippant to people who don’t know me as well, a Mission Statement.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/07 at 12:13 AM
Filed under:
Abbey Leroux •
Non-Fiction •
1. You Do Not Talk About Mom’s Club.
2. You DO NOT Talk about Mom’s Club.
OH. Sorry. That is for something else, unrelated to this blog. Disregard rules 1 and 2.
3. All men, boys, and guys with whom I go on a date will from now on be named Bob. If his name really is Bob, he will still be Bob. I originally was going to use John. I—innocent as I am—was thinking it was a reference to “Dear John” letters…. But everyone else thought I was referring to men who pay for hookers. I have yet to receive any financial compensation for time spent with a man. So: Men=Bob. Mmkay?
4. I will number all dates arbitrarily, and in no particular order. This is to further protect…Bob. And myself, really.
5. I imagine that rules 3 and 4 will confuse the fuck out of everyone, including myself. I am so subversive and rebellious, bucking the system! (Insert maniacal laughter.)
6. If you are one of my Bobs, I suggest you read no further. This blog is a writing exercise for myself, for the enjoyment of others, at the exploitation of you. Go read something else. For G_d’s sake, GO READ SOMETHING ELSE.
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Posted by The Better Blog on 06/07 at 12:12 AM
Filed under:
Eve Sturges •
Non-Fiction •