There is a girl code.  And I think I pretty much picked it up over my head, dangled it just out of reach, brought it to my bosom protecting it for a minute, then smashed it to the ground.  Oops.

Here’s what I’ve discovered, I have a bit of a shady moral compass.  It’s being knocked out of whack at the moment by my insane 32 year old hormones that for some reason won’t let me just say no.  The only problem with that is 26 year old boys don’t understand how they’re hurting 20 year old girls by making out with 32 year old women.  But the 20 year old and the 32 year old?  Well, I’ve been 20 and someday she’ll be 32, but right now, she’s not and she probably won’t get it for another long and painful 12 years.  I mean, if she’s anything like me, that is.  God, 12 years.  Those 12 years, quite frankly, had more sour than sweet and I for one am glad I don’t have to re-live them.  My only regret is not discovering moisturizer sooner.  (It’s not to late for you, young people, apply early and often!)

I will say it is fun to make out with someone while they lean against their motorcycle and cars drive slowly by.  Dude, girls are so predictable.  Even the 32 year old ones.

I don’t know what has caused my brain chemicals to calm the eff down, but damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

Last year if I had been faced with a BBQ, a housewarming and a (now canceled) visit from the dude I kissed on the street, I would have been freaking the fuck out.  There would be elaborate plans constructed to get out of it.  All of it.  Sleep, sleep, sleep.  But I had only a slight twinge this afternoon thinking about the housewarming.  In my head I was like, “Oh fuck, you fat socially awkward twit, how are you going to get through that?”  And then I snapped out of it and my brain chemicals were all, “Easy lady, that’s our hot desirable body you’re talking about.  You are a charmer after one glass of champagne.  Besides, three separate dudes made out with you last week, and only two of them were drunk!”  And I said, “Thank you, brain chemicals, for putting it in perspective. “  I turned up my radio and “We Are Rock Stars” by Does it Offend You, Yeah came on and all was right in the world.

Then I started thinking about how even though I made out with three separate dudes last week, there was no panic infatuation.  Before Louie, I would make out with someone, panic and think that they were the last person I was ever going to make out with and immediately try to convince myself that I loved them and they were going to make beautiful children with me.  WHETHER THEY LIKED IT OR NOT.  Hi, I was a peach to be around!  I don’t know if it’s because I’ve now had that long term, loving, live-together relationship (FAIL) and it’s out of my system, or that hello, I am in my 30s and fuck that noise.  It’s nice to make out with someone and then not worry if they’re going to call you.  Even nicer when you hope they don’t make a big deal out of it, and they comply.  I kind of love not being in love.

I have a friend who claims I am not socially awkward in the slightest.  I tell her that she just can’t see how I’m dying on the inside.  But I’m not even doing that anymore.  Am I growing up?  Am I always drunk?  The thing is, I’m not only not dreading this BBQ on my back stoop tonight, I’m actually looking FORWARD to it.  I was looking forward to seeing drinks dude this weekend, but he’s staying put and I’m fine with that.  I cannot wait to drink champagne and toast my good friend on his new apartment at his housewarming.  There will be a lot of people I don’t know around, and guess what?  That sounds awesome to me.

If anyone sees the real Tamara slouching around muttering and trying to take a nap under your bed, don’t tell her where I am.  Pod Tamara is happy.

I seriously hope there are no mind readers around me.  Ever.  Especially these last few days.  Holy naked thoughts.

Also, as a random aside, I want the following play lists:

1. Inappropriate songs to make-out to.
2. Inappropriate songs to teach your toddler.
3. Inappropriate songs to play as you walk down the aisle.
4. Inappropriate songs to sing at a funeral.
5. Inappropriate songs that have popped into your head during oral sex, giving or receiving.
6. Appropriate songs that have popped into your head during oral sex, giving or receiving.

I think someone (points to self) needs to get some.  Some more, that is.

It’s funny when someone knows you well enough to send you a song saying, “You’ll like this, it’s got hand clapping,” and you don’t get offended. Because if someone I didn’t know did that to me, I’d be all, “What the fuck? What am I? Five?”

I wish muxtape had a way to archive your old muxtapes, but it doesn’t seem to. (If it does, don’t tell me. I don’t want to cry (again) this morning.) So if you miss any of the old songs and want to listen to them, IM me and we’ll work something out. My AOL IM name (which I guess you can use on iChat… suddenly I feel old and unable to figure out something as easy as explaining my IM name) is Skootsdcat. I should be embarrassed about that, but guess what? I’m not.

I give you - Muxtape #2

1. U.R. A Fever - The Kills - I find myself singing this when I’m sitting at my desk. It’s catchy.

2. Salute Your Solution - Raconteurs - I open my windows and sing this at the top of my lungs. I rarely salute when I do this. Operative word, ‘rarely.’

3. Grace Kelly - Mika - I heard this on Jonesy’s Jukebox yesterday and had to get it. I hope you like it as much as I do.

4. Believe - The Bravery - (God, another one that’s been on Gossip Girl.)

5. Hit Me Baby One More Time - Travis - This cover cracks me up.

6. The Way We Get By - Spoon - There’s hand clapping in this one. Actually, it might be a drum beat, but it sounds like hand clapping to me.

7. crash the party - ok go - this songs makes me want to go drinking on a summer night.

8. Psycho Killer - Talking Heads - One time a friend of mine got this on a mixtape from a boy that had kind of a psychotic crush on her. And it freaked her out. It made me laugh. I think if anyone put this on a mixtape for me, I might have to marry them.

9. Heartbeats - The Knife - I want to get all sweaty and have you press against me while this song plays loud.

10. Dropped - Phantom Planet - Hand claps. Enough said.

11. I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’ - Scissor Sisters - The only thing I like more than hand claps? Laser sounds.

12. Easy Girl - Coconut Records - Easy girl, that’s me.  Except not in the way this song describes.  hee.

So, I still get music from the ex boyfriend, and while it’s downloading over iChat, we talk. Here is a recent conversation. With some of the details left out to give us a PG-13 rating.

me: but half of it i can’t even blog about

the ex: why not?

me: i would feel weird if they saw it
and i trashed them

the ex: but see, then you end up with someone who is also cool with that

me: right

the ex: just go, “new guy. dirty dirty sex things. feel like a rock star. boom.”

the ex: Awkwardly Social, by Tamara Blaich

me: hahahaa

the ex: edited by Louobedlam

me: hahahaaaa
that’s hilarious

the ex: {published author}

the ex: so hilarious, you gotta post it

me: i think i’m going to
Also I want the new Radiohead.

I was talking to a friend the other day about how I have come to realize that being 30 is actually pretty awesome.  I’m having the best time.  It’s weird and sometimes awkward and I’m doing some inappropriate things with inappropriate people, making me just verging on this side of being a whore, but 30 has been bringing the fun, and I have been accepting it.

I know it’s totally boring to read about how things are good and I can’t give any details.

But, well, things are good.  And I have another secret.  It involves slightly not so legal things and going to bed (but not sleeping) at 3am (yes, again with the late night.  What’s up Los Angeles?  You can’t get a damned decent night’s sleep?  No wonder you’re always cutting me off and swerving in and out of lanes.  You are sleep defuckingprived) and kind of getting my face kissed off.  There is a point when stubble is too stubbly and you should probably stop kissing the person you’re kissing, but um, I didn’t.  Hi!  I have a red face this morning.  For more than one reason!

I wonder if I’m going to remember what this was about when I look back at it in 3 to 5 years, you know, just after I get out of prison for having so much goddamned fun.

Goddamnit. If I can make it through these next two days, I am owed a gigantic pool sized dirty martini. No, make that an ocean sized vodka martini up. Two olives. Don’t worry, I’ll find the olives in all that vodka. I have super-sleuth capabilities when it comes to the green be-salted devils.

I haven’t been drinking this week because I wanted to see if all the wine I’ve been consuming had something to do with the tummy I recently started sporting. I was worried that it had more to do with being in my thirties than drinking wine, but I’m here to tell you, I had a wine belly. Didn’t know it was possible? Well, now you know.

Oh holy crap, I just remembered something! I was talking to the ex last night, telling him how embarrassing it is that I can’t keep my mouth shut about my stupid blog. I know, I know, it’s not like I didn’t tell the drinks guy’s friends to read it, but I seriously didn’t expect that they would remember. (Hi! I’m a dork. See: My entire archives!) And the ex was all, “Oh, yeah, funny you should mention that. When people asked me how the breakup was going, I would just refer them to your site.” Gulp. I told a friend about it this morning and she started cracking up. She was like, “I hope you don’t get mad at me for saying this, but um, that makes me kind of like him again.” Goddamnit. Why can’t he just be hateful and horrible?

Man,  if you could read my paper diary right now.  There’s some salacious shit going on.  If I know you in real life I’ll fill you in.  If I don’t… well, I’m sorry, you should take me out for a drink sometime.  I’m totally easy.  About secrets, I mean.

See you on Saturday.

I’ve been meaning to write about him for a long time, but it was a little awkward when I was in a relationship with someone else (who I loved) to talk about the one who got away.  Escaped away?  Slipped away?  Was pushed away?

The moment I met him I had such a visceral reaction that I was sure I hated him.  This is called chemistry, I believe.  I don’t think he’d said more than one word before I started rolling my eyes and sighing.

We were in this intensive first semester filmmaking class together.  It was a course that prepared me for the most vicious criticism, taught me how to criticize with care and kid gloves, and I credit it for my thick skin when it comes to my creative pursuits.  Every 3rd week we would show a film we had made in class.  He showed his film and I was particularly brutal in class and in my written crit.  I don’t know if it was that every dude in the class had been making these horribly violent sexist women-in-peril films, or that I needed some way to get under his skin, but I laid into him.   So much so that I think the whole class was like, “Relax, Betty Friedan.  Christ.”

And that night he called me.  And he called me on it.  He explained himself.  And I was so taken aback that he actually listened to what I had to say, and defended himself (quite eloquently) that from that moment on I was smitten.  And then in the weirdest way to get me to like you, he left this psychotic nonsense voice mail message in this half-language and a weird voice that had quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me in it.  And we were inseparable.

And what we had together was volatile, exhausting and a little fucked up, but it was passionate and exciting and hilarious.  I have known one other person in the world almost like him, and he broke my heart in a million pieces. So with this one, try as I might to let it be just fun and sexy and perverted and awesome, I pushed and pushed and finally he just had enough.  And he was gone.  It was almost a relief.

We’ve since made amends and I still feel that magical spark when I talk to him but I rarely see him.  He and I will always be inappropriate with each other because we have no control when we’re together.  He is in love with his girlfriend, and there are lines we don’t cross, but I can’t help but feel like if I hadn’t pushed quite so hard, and broken us quite so sharply, we would still be together.  And that would be a problem, because I seriously can’t get anything done when I’m around him.  All I want to do is play and fight and do it.

He told me today over IM that half the time he loved being with me, but the other half of the time I was so impossible to be around that he thought I hated him.  I responded, “That’s because half the time I was crazy about you and the other half I was just crazy.”

And that’s the trick, isn’t it?  It’s so hard to find someone you’re both crazy about and is crazy about you, but it’s harder to find someone who can also deal with your dark side.  And it’s not that he couldn’t deal with it, it’s just that he brought every extreme to the surface. We were always operating at such an intense level that everything was felt like a knife, and delivered like one.

Which is partially why Louie was such a breath of fresh air.  We weren’t out of our minds.  But it wasn’t enough for either of us, because we just couldn’t get to that crazy place enough to keep us through the down time.  We were just two people who lived together, by the end.

I’m not insane enough to believe I’ll ever find someone like him again.  After all, he is still (albeit platonically) in my life and I can’t imagine having two people like him exist in my world.  I would die from exhaustion.  I think now I’m too old and jaded to ever have it again, anyway, much less look for it. So it’s my phantom arm.  My missing pillow case.  My full-fat ice cream.  And I think someday I’ll be ok with that.

Since I’m here with a blank page and nothing else happened to me this weekend other than laying in bed naked wondering how much extra heat Lula was adding to the already stifling apartment and thinking if I got her wet it would help but never managing to get up out of the whisper of breeze the fan offered to test my wet dog in the apartment theory, I guess I could tell you about last night.

I’m a little hesitant to write about it, but only because I opened my big stupid mouth and told everyone I had a goddamned blog. Then, when lightly pressed for the URL, I gave them MY ACTUAL URL. Hello, young blogger, learn to tell a fucking lie. Jesus Christ. Next time I will say with pride and a little wickedness in my heart, “Raymi the Minx,” and if called on it later, I will claim no knowledge of ever saying such a thing. “Raymi the Who? Why, I never!”

So, I had a drinks thing last night. In certain circles it would be called a date. I don’t know. I met him at a party. I gave him my number. He called me. We went for drinks and dinner. I guess that’s sort of the definition of a date, but for some reason, I’m not really willing to put that fine a point on it. Gun shy, much?

After we were finished with dinner, a friend of his came over and joined us. And then another friend from the restaurant joined us, and then there were plans concocted and errands run, and by the end of the night we were on a rooftop watching a dancer twirl fire while we smoked weed and I tried not to think too hard about how a mere two hours before I knew exactly zero of these people but sort of started hoping they would take me under their wing and give me lots and lots of material for the old writing well.  Because, come on, fire twirling on the roof with an orange half moon rising?

It was 2:30AM. The night was showing no signs of ending, one guy was testing his makeshift cape for wind resistance, a couple had left and come back, I was being inducted into a text message harem (which is almost exactly as hilarious as it sounds), stifling a yawn, knowing I was not quite cut out for this shit. This kind of thing requires training. And naps. Possibly amphetamines. So I left.

He walked me to my car and well, a nice girl doesn’t kiss and tell.

But, since you know I am neither nice nor a girl, I’ll tell you, we kissed. In the street. It was a little dangerous come to think of it. It wasn’t like we were on a side street, we were on Vermont. I could feel the cars swishing right by us, but I almost didn’t care.

And that my friends, is the way to have a Sunday night in Los Angeles.

I was a pretty good kid until I started drinking. Until then, I followed the rules, or at least attempted to make it look like I knew what the rules were. Then alcohol made its way into my life and boy was I rotten. I struggled with all the normal teenaged girl bullshit - the ever changing cast of friends, the girls who love you one day and the next don’t answer your calls, the mysterious entry into the ranks of womanhood and all the games that come with it - but I always wanted to be badass. I know I tried being a girly girl for a while, but when it came down to it, I wanted boys and girls and parents and teachers to fear me. I have no idea what that says about me, other than I’m pretty sure if an apocalypse happens, I’m the chick you want on your side.

The biggest obstacle to my badassery back then was that I was (still am) kind of a chicken. I don’t know how my parents did it. None of my friends had the same fear. I’m pretty sure even the girl who got beaten with a belt until she was 17 wasn’t even afraid of her step-dad. Me? My mom looked at me wrong and I started crying.

I snapped that picture of the 15 on the street light last weekend while I was sitting outside with my big ass 75mm-300mm zoom lens looking for inspiration, and my first experience with that rush you get when you plan and execute and don’t get caught came rushing back. I have a sneaking suspicion if parental circumstances were different, my life today would be that of a criminal. And come to think of it, I’d probably be having a fuck-load more fun.

When you turn 15 and a half in Arizona, you’re allowed to get your driver’s permit. Which means you can legally drive a car as long as you have a licensed driver accompanying you.

Or, if you’re me, you pretend it means you can legally steal your parents’ car while they are out of the house for the night, drive it to ‘town,’ smoke Marlboro cigarettes with all the windows down and drink wine coolers while wishing, someone, anyone will ask you to the dance because they recognize how clearly badass you are. There are many things I’d like to tell my 15 year old self, (like no one will ever respect a wannabe badass who drinks fucking wine coolers) but one of the main ones is, dances are fucking lame, and feeling some 15 year old boy’s sad little erection pressed against your thigh while slow dancing to Journey is never going to be as amazing as you imagined while reading all those bodice ripping romance novels.

It was a Friday night. My sister was away at college. My parents were going to be at a concert in Cottonwood, about a 30 minute drive away from my home town. And I wanted to hang out with my friends. On main street. In my parents’ Subaru. I don’t know, if you’re from a small town, it’s the law that teenagers must hang out in parking lots and talk about the same things they talk about while they’re hanging out at school. What those things were? God. Let’s see here… hmmm. Which boy just drove by? Who had a hickey? Where’s the party was at? Who had a fake ID? I don’t remember. It was boring. I did it anyway.

My driver’s permit was folded up neatly in my wallet. I pulled the Subaru out of the field we kept it parked in, careful to not make any new tracks. I drove to town following all posted traffic signs. Not a very badass move to drive the speed limit, but I was certainly not taking any chances with Camp Verde’s finest. I sat in that parking lot with the back hatch open and the windows down and talked to girls who were talking to boys but never talked to the boys myself, and I thought about the time ticking away. The time slipping through my fingers as I sat there. Turning 16 was going to mean freedom, but it was also going to mean that sitting there in that parking lot with those girls who talked to boys was going to be my national pastime. There wasn’t anything else. There wasn’t going to be anything better.

I drove home with the windows down, airing out the car as I smoked my friend’s mom’s Marlboro lights. I felt victorious. I had stolen a car. I had driven without a license. I had nothing else to do.

15.