Urban Thought Collective

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 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.

“But Tah-Mah-Rah.” Wink. Her accent is very dramatic. “There is somethink you must see.” Wink.

And with that she yanked me out the door. This is a woman who survived the Cold War, a communist regime, and who willingly kisses a man who has more teeth than his mouth can hold, my bougie ass was no match for that.

The second I entered, Hef Jr. handed me some champagne. Kick Me in the Skull Korbel. I only mention it, because it’s the only thing that brings on a bigger headache than Two Buck Chuck. Turns out they were celebrating the purchase of a new couch and were anxious for me to see it. How it is I became the tastemaster for the building is beyond me but there I was confronted by the biggest f-ing couch known to man. It swallowed up the whole room. I can’t recall the fabric or the color, just the size. HU-MON-GUS.

“Wow, that’s quite a couch,” I managed to say. “Sit, sit. It feels as good as it looks.” Wink.

I should’ve known better but I sat anyway. My bougie upbringing taught me its good form to obey thy hosts.

“Tah-Mah-Rah, why such pretty girl have no boyfriend?” Wink.

Despite the couch being long enough for the starting line-up of the Cleveland Cavaliers to stretch out and still have room for the coach, the Ukrainians sandwiched me in. Now, where I come from, when three grown folks who’ve been drinking sit practically on top of each other, two of whom are wearing robes, one of whom is not wearing any underwear and they start asking about your love life, something freaky is about to go down. Right?

I hopped my butt up so fast I spilled Korbel everywhere. I felt terrible, but now that I think about it, it must’ve been a pleather sofa, because the champagne rolled off so fast as if it was offended by the cheap ass couch. Needless to say, I’ve never been back. Until now.

There I stood at their door, seriously in pain, yet, I couldn’t bring myself to knock. It’d just my luck that I’d get in there and pass out only to wake up sprawled out on that mammoth couch, the wife massaging my breasts and Hef Jr.’s tongue swishing down my throat (their idea of CPR).

Yes, thanks to their efforts I might survive the pumpkin seed incident, but the heart attack I suffer afterwards will kill me for sure. As I press on to another neighbor’s door, one thought pounds in my head, why oh why, didn’t I follow in my sister’s footsteps and marry a doctor?

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 www.passportdiaries.com. Gregory’s X…WHY blog is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.