My Crumbling Empire

I’m beginning to think I may have joined the wrong gym. I just wanted a place to get out of the house, do a little cardio and boost my serotonin. But I’ve discovered that everyone there is training for some kind of competition that involves rippling muscles, grease and hair that, no matter how it’s styled, looks out of place on their heads.

During my intake interview, the instructor informed me that I was in danger of becoming “skinny fat”—which, I was told, means that I’ll look good in my clothes, but a person will be able to mush the flab on my arm without trouble. She then had me feel her biceps to get an idea of where I want to be. I told her that I was happy with just losing the baby weight for now. She did not look pleased.

The other tip-off that these might not be my kind of people occurred when I showed up for my first workout in my favorite exercise gear: a snug-fitting hologram shirt that from a distance gives the appearance of a ripped male bodybuilder’s torso, but up close displays my excess tummy flab. Instead of laughing, they looked at me sympathetically and told me not to worry, I’d get there, and then continued to encourage me throughout my workout. I imagine they all talked about me after I left. “Poor Ami, she’s not fooling anyone with that shirt.”  

Also, the people who work out at this gym are comfortable enough with each other and themselves to squeal like fat kids on Tater Tot Day while doing their sit-ups and bench presses. I promised myself a long time ago never to make sexual sounds while working out. That’s why I can’t actually play music on the headphones I wear so no one will talk to me: I’m afraid that I may not hear myself grunt, or that I’ll fail to regulate my breathing.

In addition to my new gym, I’ve started a raw diet. So far I am on my eleventh day of totally raw food. After about the third day I lost interest in trying to reproduce my favorite non-raw snacks. I tried a cookie called a Raweo, but in addition to its awkward name (it’s too similar to the name Rory, which comes out more like a disabled slur), the snack itself is not very good.

On the fourth day, feeling a bit lightheaded and not wanting another salad, I retired to the computer room, where I discovered that a friend had left his e-mail account open. Usually I’d close it, but hungry Ami decided to comb through the mailbox, searching for any mention of my name while muttering to myself “Let’s see what’s really going on” and “We’ll get to to the bottom of this”—not really sure what I was trying to get to the bottom of. When I found questionable material, I started shrieking to Ethan that we had a crazy person on our hands. He looked at me for a long time before pointing out that I was the one ferreting through someone else’s private e-mails.

I explained to him that I need something to replace the sandwiches that normally occupy my 9 p.m. time slot  and went about my business, occasionally shouting “Will you get a load of this guy?” “What a psycho!” and “Ohhhhh, I got your number now, buddy.”

I am starting to wonder just how healthy this new diet is.

I’m pretty sure that my neighbors gather in their kitchen at night while I’m doing dishes, turn off their light and watch me. Our kitchen sinks and windows directly face each other. It’s a bit awkward because they haven’t come over with a welcome casserole or baked good of any variety, and we’ve been here for well over three weeks now—plenty of time to get settled in.

I’m still hoping etiquette will prevail and they’ll do the right thing. I try to ignore them when we happen to be in the kitchen at the sink at the same time, but I can’t help but notice when the entire family is crowded in the kitchen and suddenly the light goes out. There’s no way they could all get out of that room so quickly. What are they doing—feeling their way along the wall for the exit? No, they’re watching me.

Maybe I’m paranoid because I’ve thought about turning off my light and watching them, but I haven’t done it.*

So far we haven’t met any of our neighbors. The only encounters I’ve had with the people I live near have been casual. I’ve taken free pots from the front of the house of the peeping toms and exchanged glances with the overweight gangsters in puffy coats who shuffle by our front yard with contrived limps.

Once the kids fell asleep while we were driving home, so I stayed in the car, eating a veggie wrap, and stared at the old lady next door as she changed a light bulb on her porch. I couldn’t believe it—I must have stared at her for 15 minutes and she still didn’t feel compelled to introduce herself, offer me a welcome wreath or pastry, or invite me in to look through her purse or open her mail.

The thing that disappoints me about these rude neighbors is that they’re the ones I want to be friends with. Once you cross over to Grant Street, it’s no man’s land. I may sound like a small-town girl, but there’s an ’80s model car completely full of trash and five-gallon buckets of mysterious brown water on Grant Street. People park in the middle of the sidewalk and leave their old Christmas trees to brown in the sun. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you don’t want a casserole from someone who lives in a camper shell that rests on cinderblocks. The secret ingredient is usually fiberglass.

We’re really happy with our new home and we’re glad we could stay downtown, but I have a feeling that if we were on the other side of Chambers, where the houses cost $50,000 more, we would have gotten food.

* Update: At this point, I have watched the neighbors. They don’t have any drapes and they watch a lot of television. I like to watch them watching television. Some might say this behavior makes me a creep. I say it makes me an artist.

Ethan and I have just gotten back from dinner at Hazel’s. Hazel is Arnica’s mother, the wonderful lady who took me in when I had nowhere to live and made me get my act together. Eventually.

Hazel lives on a peacock farm with some of the most boring people I have ever encountered. How many times can one person remind everyone that she didn’t like beans as a child, but now finds that, as she ages, she’s really, really starting to like beans? Yeah, guess what, Jen? I know you didn’t like beans as a child. You tell me that every goddamned week. And guess what else? I didn’t care the first time you told me. What’s that? You think seaweed smells fishy, do you? That’s fascinating. Oh yes, I agree, water is good for you. Just shut the hell up about your goddamned food observations, will you?

The problem isn’t just the inane food dialogue, it’s also the pace at which Jen speaks. She’s a “groovin’ hippie,” and everything comes out very slowly and deliberately. A simple “Hey, how did you like the rice? I put peppers in it” takes a good 45 seconds to ooze out.

Jen’s boyfriend—I’m just going to be honest—has the worst hair I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s so bad I get shivers whenever I stand near him. It’s long, down to his hindquarters, and dreaded. He then pulls half of it up (the Christian half-ponytail I hate so much) and lets the rest cascade down his back like some horrible, filthy waterfall. He doesn’t talk at all, which I find less boring than having to feign interest in Jen’s stories. “Please, Jen, tell me that madcap story again about how you didn’t like beans as a child—you are too much!”

We know the evening is winding down when the conversation turns to salt. By this time my jaw is sore from making “what the fuck?” faces at Arnica and Ethan during Jen’s lackluster, coming-of-age food tales. At least we eat in the dark, where my observations can’t hurt anyone.

1.  “I generally don’t like things that come in log form.”

2.  “There’s no law against Charlie.”

3.  “They can kill me, but they can’t eat me.”

4.  “I don’t want to hear any shit, just peel the goddamned potatoes.”

5. ” We’ll be safe once we get on the street. Out there we’re just like any other sedan.”

When I was a teenager, my mother dated a narcoleptic named Clay. He wasn’t allowed to drive and would often fall asleep suddenly while yelling at the television. He did speed and lived on a diet of fish filet sandwiches that had been liberated from the dumpster. Sadly, that’s about all there was to Clay: fish filet sandwiches and frequent involuntary naps.

One year for Christmas, I accompanied my mother and Clay to his family home, where I met his three nephews, one of whom had a very noticeable weight problem. The brawny nephew was a huge fan of the Dallas Cowboys and accordingly received a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt as a gift. It was hard not to share his enthusiasm for his new gift; he was just so happy. A nice, new shirt that would display his affection for the team, his team, loud and clear across the front: Dallas Cowboys.  Who would have guessed that, when stretched across his elephantine torso, it would no longer read Dallas Cowboys, but rather Dallas Cow.

Before Clay, there was Jim. Jim claimed to have been a hit man. He drove a red Camaro that, in my opinion, really dated him—it hadn’t been cool to drive Camaros for at least seven years. He had a lumpy, inconstant face and lived in hotels. I liked visiting with my mother while she was dating Jim. Our meals consisted of gas-station cheese and candy, and as we ate, Jim would regale us with tales of the fugitive life.

Then there was Ralph. I never actually got to know Ralph, but have come to refer to my mother’s time with him as her “glory days,” by virtue of the endless supply of trucker food that flooded the freezer and threatened the seams of the pants of anyone spending sufficient time at their home in Fernley, Nevada. I visited my mother in Fernley just once. They lived in a large house in the suburbs. During my visit, she emerged from the back bedroom just a handful of times.

The last boyfriend my mother had will never have a proper face. When I was 20 and living in Redding, my mother spontaneously showed up at my house to introduce me to her new companion, bragging that he was two years my junior. I didn’t bother to look at him. Two days later he stole her car, crashed it into a ditch and took off. At least that’s the story I heard.

For the past seven years my mother has been dating a woman named Jay. This is the longest relationship I have known my mother to have. I’ve got no stories or observations about Jay—she is an enigma. I don’t know where she came from or what is going on in her head. From what I can tell, my mom dishes it out and Jay takes it. Somehow it works itself out.

Ethan ran over my foot with our car today. Actually, he didn’t so much run it over; he just parked the car on top of it. The pain is nothing compared to the humiliation of screaming at the top of my lungs in front of the kids and the neighbors, “Ethan, there’s  a fucking car on my foot! Fuck, balls, get this fucking car off of me! What the fuck are you doing—there’s a car on my foot!”

I often lie in bed, fantasizing about the opportunity to act cool and unaffected by horror and pain. If a car had been parked on the foot of fantasy Ami, she would have simply gestured with her chin and casually said, “Yo, bro’—there’s a car on my foot.” But no. Real-life Ami had to flap her arms like a chicken and scream like a fucking maniac in front of the neighbors she has yet to meet.

It’s exactly the kind of scenario I would have loved to witness from my kitchen window.

5. She doesn’t care for gold jewelry.

1. She can really chop garlic.

2. She can move furniture.

3. She has a nice figure.

4  Did I mention she can chop garlic?

Dear Rachel,

Being a bell ringer for The Salvation Army is nothing to brag about. You’re lame.

Ami

!. He hates the smell of banana in a hot car.

2. One of his most traumatic childhood memories was the time he dropped his Hostess Snowball in the sand at a beach, rendering it inedible. It would be great if I could stop there, if the traumatic part was that Ethan lost his delicious snack cake to the beach. But that’s not what was so upsetting to him. His father’s reaction to his frantic attempts to salvage the confection is what burned the incident into his mind.

As Ethan concentrated on brushing the sand away from the unfortunately chosen treat, his father towered above him shaking his head in disapproval. Had it been any other treat—a Twinkie, a Ding Dong, a Home Run pie—the sand would have come off with ease. But this was a Snowball. The sand had embedded itself in between each little chunk of red sugar, and Ethan’s father was sickened by the desperation with which his son tried to save the delicious snack.