Black Out This!

What does it mean when you black out?  Like, forget entirely and completely something that actually happened?  And, not the kind of black outs people have after child abuse or trauma, but like – just in general?  Is it just a sign of utter and complete blondeness?  I ask this because I have two very poignant examples. 

A few years ago my girlfriend Kat and I went to Manhattan Beach (that’s in Southern California, not New York) to celebrate the Fourth of July.  We drank and had fun, and so many funny things happened that night that I cannot even go into here, but we drank responsibly.  We cabbed our way around the little party town after we parked my car at a friend’s house near the downtown strip. 

A little incident occurred that evening. While attempting to retrieve my car at the end of the night, we were shocked to see that it was gone- apparently stolen!  Teary-eyed and voices wobbling, we called our respective significant others for comfort, as we made the long cab journey all the way back to my place in Westwood.  I went through the entire process of reporting the car stolen to the police, and dealing with how to get around in Los Angeles without a car, when about six days later, the Manhattan Beach police called me to say they’d found my car, and miracle of miracles, it was not totally destroyed.  I asked my son’s babysitter to take me down to the station, where I hopped in the car with a very nice female officer who drove me to where the car was parked. 

It wasn’t until the very instant that the cop turned the corner on a particular street that the black out began to wear off, and the veil began to lift.  As we neared the spot where the culprits had left my car and I could see my car parked there (in perfect condition), I began to recall a little scenario that had taken place toward the end of our big, giant, Fourth of July celebration. As the cop made comments about how it was odd there were no signs of a break in, and the entire dash and ignition was still intact, (and I in turn nodded, with big, wide-eyed innocence replying, “Yeah!  That’s so weird!  Wonder how they did that?!”) I remembered my girlfriend and I grabbing my car two hours earlier on the evening in question and parking it there (just a half block from where it had been).  I recalled our hobbling over to the parking restriction sign, our faces within inches of it to see whether we were allowed to park it there, just before we went into the all-night cafe across the street for breakfast. 

Now my car sat there in the Southern California sun, with a stack of about 10 or 20 parking tickets piled onto the windshield. I pointed at them, asking, “What happens with those? Do I have to pay those?” The lovely officer informed me that, “No, ” they don’t require victims of auto theft to pay violations on the vehicle.  ‘Ahhhaaa,’ I thought.  ‘Note to self.”  HA HA! 

So, I got into my car after signing the appropriate paperwork, and called Kat.  She STILL did not remember anything. I had to give her a play by play before she would even accept what had happened.

Did we drink so much that we suffered temporary BRAIN DAMAGE?  Or was it our true BLONDENESS that caused the extended black out? 

The second incident happened over four years ago, and I was totally oblivious to it until a few weeks ago. I dated this guy, Spyglass, a few times when I lived here in LA the last time.  We’d met at my son’s hockey games and hit it off.  He was there for his daughter’s ice skating lessons, and just the fact that he was a single dad won me over.  Well, for various reasons Spyglass and I never pursued anything very serious, but we always maintained a “friendship.”  As a matter of fact, it was a very convenient “friendship.” The kind that can be very satisfying, if ya’ know what I mean.  This continued even when I moved to Aspen.  I would come back to Los Angeles on business, give Spyglass a call to meet for drinks, where one thing would lead to another, and I’d end up at his place for at least a few hours.  Sad for a liberated woman to demean herself so, you say?  Well, I’m happy to provide fodder for the liberal femmes out there, as it offered me a moment’s pleasure in a time that I really needed (or wanted) it!    Pathetic, I know. How totally self-indulgent, right? Yep. You got it.  But hey – I was divorced, and discovering what made me happy after many years of being very stifled and unhappily married.  So sue me.  But back then it was just fine by me. 

Until one night, apparently.

Spyglass and I had our drinks, we went back to his place, and I do recall being a bit awkward, like not as “lovey dovey” as I could be.  But in MY recollection, I said my good byes, got in my car in the morning, went to work, and flew home, never really to hear from Spyglass again.  I made a phone call once where he promised to call me right back, but he never did.  It had always perplexed me a bit, but I created a picture in my mind of Spyglass meeting the perfect woman, settling down, and letting that deviant part of his life slip silently into his past.

Fast forward to 2008.  I move back to LA and decide Spyglass and I should at least reconnect.  I truly do not want anything from him except friendship at this point, and besides, he is a nice guy, who may be able to send some work my way as I expand my business.  I ring Spyglass and  leave a message (to be “heard” below as portrayed by Spyglass himself) that I’d love to get together.

Spyglass and I get together at his usual after-work stop, the Brentwood Grille.  I sit next to him at the bar, give him a peck on the cheek, and order a club soda (anti-biotic-induced sobriety for the evening).  We chit-chat for a bit, when he weaves into the conversation a sarcastic, “Yeah, I remember our last meeting.” “Why? What do you mean?” I ask.

“You don’t remember, do you?” He asks, looking into my eyes.  “I don’t think so,” I say carefully. “Why, what happened?”

“We went back to my place, and we  — well, you know — and afterward, you got all upset and said things like I only wanted you for sex, and that you were better than that, and you didn’t want to ever see me again. Then you left.”

I think he is kidding, but he isn’t.  I literally have absolutely NO recollection of that incident!  I am dumbfounded, and I tell him as much.  I apologize profusely for what I couldn’t even fathom saying.  It so does NOT sound like me!

“Well, I thought it was weird, because you were always such a sensual person, and to say something like that was pretty odd!”  We laugh hysterically now (or is it just me?). 

He continues, “So, when you called and left me a message, ‘Hi Spyglass – It’s me!  I moved back to LA, and I don’t want to have sex or anything, but let’s get together!’ I thought it was pretty funny!”

“I did NOT say THAT!” I insist.  “I SAID  ‘I just moved back, and I’m not looking to ‘hook-up’ or anything, but I’d love it if we could reconnect and be friends again.'” 

“Well, whatever you said, I thought it was pretty friggin’ hilarious to hear you say that after your last words to me a few years ago!” 

We laugh and reminisce some more, and with that, Spyglass and I say our good nights, vowing to indeed stay friends. For now.

So there you have it. Two VERY different situations, one very BLONDE chick!

Black outs are not for wimps, I tell ya. 

I have to say, it has been quite a ride going from being a sheltered housewife to a divorcee with attitude, to finally being content to just BE.  BE me, in my skin, my hair, my body, my face, my career, my personality – all good.  And BE a mom – and all the wonder and beauty that entails.  Priceless.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone, and if you drink – do it responsibly, would you?

Love you people!  Mmmmmmphhhuuuhhhhh!!

xoxo,

Ms. Cheevious

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Blog content copyright 2008, LISA JEY DAVIS a.k.a. Ms. Cheevious 

Ms. Cheevious is the alter-ego of Lisa Jey Davis (former publicist, and television talent manager, current award-winning writer & author, & health and fitness pro). Though Ms. Cheevious has become known for humor via the blog and social media, offering a lighter and brighter look at life… the blog was originally a precursor to Lisa Jey's long overdue book "Ms. Cheevious in Hollywood" which offers a fabulous, funny peek into what really goes on behind the scenes in Hollywood… a Hollywood with Lisa Jey and her funny “serendipities” in it. Think Lucille Ball meets Chelsea Handler meets the girl next door (with a little chocolate and vodka). It depicts with hilarity the innocent mistakes Lisa Jey made when launched back into the big, bad single jungle, as an unassuming single-mother in the City of Angels. It’s also about the beautiful, interesting life she led while her loving, incredible sons kept her grounded and sane amid fantastic events, new friends, parties and field trips. It also shows the turmoil and heartbreak that comes with dating and single mom life. All blog content © 2015 Ms. Cheevious aka Lisa Jey Davis

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