Sorry folks, but I asked mom to cough up the Kaluha cake recipe and she offered a surprisingly terse, “with my last breath.” Now, my mother is one of the most loving and giving people on the planet, so I’m thinking she’s secretly heard from the FDA and is getting ready to cash in big time…I’ll keep you posted.
Alright where was I? Oh, yeah, headed out the door to find someone who could help dislodge the pumpkin seed stuck inside my throat.
To set the stage, I live in a NY style high-rise condo building where everybody knows everybody’s business because–despite the sales pitch–concrete walls do talk.
I head next door and, just before knocking, I stop. Sure, my shallow breathing has me woozy and my throat is starting to burn, but I can’t stop thinking about the last time I was in their home…
My neighbors are a lovely Ukrainian couple with a bit of a swinger stank on them. Forgive the judgmental verbiage; I’m a big believer that marriage should only be defined by the two people who signed the license. If those two people choose to screw other people and they’re both cool with it, I’m cool with it. Usually. It’s just something about it going down right next door that creeps me out.
To be fair, I don’t know for sure if they’re swingers but the husband is forever roaming the building Hugh Hefner style in his cheap red satin-esque robe, with an embroidered yellow dragon slithering across the back and tufts of gray, wiry chest hair popping out the front, and his “stuff” just a swaying hello down below. No boxers, no briefs, no nothing.
Now the wife’s sort of a looker for an older white lady who lives well but can’t afford botox or skin peels or any of the things older white ladies rely on to age gracefully. Correction. American older white ladies. Europeans tend to embrace their wrinkles, which is incredibly sexy. Loving who are you, flaws and all. Initially, I really dug this about her. I still dig this about her, I just wish she’d stop winking at me so much. And no it is not a medical condition. I asked.
When I first moved in, I stupidly told them I was writing a book about woman who was writing, or rather not writing a book as the character was mending a broken heart while experiencing the worst case of writer’s block. To ease her pain, everyday at 5 o’clock she’d venture out for a much-needed cocktail. Her one happy hour of the day. Since I’m no dummy, I realized that in the interest of research, I too, could venture out every day for a cocktail and write that shit off. I had me a good old time on Uncle Sam, trust and believe.
Somehow my neighbors decided that when I wasn’t cocktailing at the Four Seasons or The Peninsula or some other hip LA establishment, with sexy people and top-shelf liquor, I should cocktail with them in their matching robes (though hers is green), in their tiny home (identical to mine except I hired a professional contractor to do some upgrades and Hef Jr. went the DIY route). Let’s just say, since he’s almost as old as Hef, has a bad back, and is not a contractor, professional or otherwise, it could be worse. After two glasses of the headache inducing Two Buck Chuck vino they usually serve, you can hardly notice the lumpy drywall patch job especially with the bold gold vertical stripped wallpaper crudely plastered over it.
The first two times we cocktailed went fine enough. They really are lovely people. But the third day the wife knocked on my door, I tried desperately to beg out of it…
Does Tamara fall victim to the old-school swingers? Does she make a run for it? Finish the thought at UrbanThoughtCollective.com.
Tamara T. Gregory is a writer/producer/traveler. Happily single (yes, there really is such a thing), she is an expert on the dating game. Her debut novel, Passport Diaries, is an LA Times bestseller and is soon to become a Hollywood motion picture. The book is available at http://www.passportdiaries.com. Gregory’s X…WHY blog is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.
