Find Me I'm Yours (7 page)

www.dogparksla.com/photos

Who is that in the photo gallery?
The dog with the polka-dot tongue!!

Well, the pic doesn't bring me any closer to detecting where it was taken. So, L.A. peeps, do you have any idea which dog park is in the tape or the pic above? Help a sistah out.

Click here to take my poll:

(If ya didn't go there, here's what I asked.)

I know it's not Silverlake cuz I'm there all the time with Boo and Toupee and I know that terrain like my own backyard (if I ever had one!).

It was time to take matters into my own hands and contact Dog Park L.A.'s webmistress, Sandi Stern, “Mother of Roxy, Max, Sydni, and Rascal (2 dogs + 2 humans—guess who's who!).” And to get what I wanted from her called for some big-time ass kissing. I even found a font to use that felt SO SANDI STERN-ISH, with lots of hearts! (FYI—Hole-Hearted.)

I thought taking the E off the end of my name was inspired, if I do say so myself. Sandi would see us as joined in spelling solidariti.

At least I could go to bed with the image of the dog with the polka-dot tongue instead of visions of Jason with my neighbor, her squeals of delight echoing through my apartment, down the streets of Silverlake.

Progress.

DAY 2 OF THE HUNT FOR MR. WTF

How does your body know that it's Saturday, and sleep right through an alarm for an extra hour? On weekday workdays it knows exactly when to wake up. I texted Coco:

Fuck. At the rate I was going, the only location Malcolm would send me to would be Unemployment.

When I arrived, with an Academy Award–worthy performance as “Wary Fake Bus Riding Girl #3,” Malcolm didn't want to hear a word. I just would have to make it up by working faster and more furious than ever, and that was going to be impossible without coffee, which I wasn't able to get since I overslept (sorry, Lady Macmeth!). Howevs, one of the few perks of working at
Bridalville
was that there was a coffeemaker and an endless supply of espresso beans.

“Thanks for covering for me,” I whispered to Coco as I watched the stream drip into my Hello Kitty mug. As I was about to load it up with Sweet'N Low, my sugar-sub obsesh, Coco shot me a raised eyebrow.

“What?”

“You so have a pink packet monkey on your back.”

“Is that a prob? It's delish.” I tore and poured. “If only Jason had made me this happy…” I didn't want to let on that I had seen my ex, although I was dying to tell Coco about I Fcked Up. “At least I know one thing—Sweet'N Low will never cheat on me.”

“Don't be too sure. It's seeing, like, millions of people,” Coco retorted. “And, hellooo, isn't it bad for you?”

“Wait… I'd place money that you probs downed two martinis with Mark last night, then a bacon sundae when you got home. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“So, I may have a touch of cirrhosis and a clogged artery, but
that's
artificial…” Coco pointed her coffee stirrer accusingly at my cup. “Like the top half of a Kardashian. It's faux.”

“Who doesn't love faux? Faux fur… faux finishes… Vietnamese Pho…”

“You can't distract me with bad puns, dude. Faux Pete's sake, it causes cancer.”

“I appreash the concern, but I Googled the findings after your last outburst. Faux the record, that's a totally bogus claim from the '70s.” I calmly laid out my case like Julianna Margulies on
The Good Wife
—my mother's fave show, which I am forced to watch with her every time I go home. “They fed lab rats twenty-five hundred packets of Sweet'N Low a day. Twenty-five hundred packets!” I shuddered as a pain shot through my back molars—a rat saccharine sympathy pain.

“Ouch,” winced Coco. “Where was PETA then?”

“Right? And still the FDA or EPA, or whatevs agency, couldn't connect the dots from any kind of cancer in humans to my party in a packet. No warning label, no hard facts. So after bitch-slapping saccharine for like forty years, they finally threw up their hands, uttered a giant NEVER MIND heard 'round the world, and we all got the memo. Well, everyone except for you.”

“All right, fine, then party on.”

I threw a packet at her. “You're so busy all up in my biz, I didn't even get to tell you—I found Mr. WTF's dog!!!”

We discussed the hunt whenever Malcolm was not hovering nearby, and worked straight through lunch. At 2:15 I stood up for the first time, and went into the bathroom to check my email. Sure enough—GOLD.

I texted Coco from my toilet seat perch.

OK, it didn't even occur to me that if/WHEN I found the right park, I might actually
see
or
find
Mr. WTF! Could it be that easy? Doubtful. He said on the tape
clues
in
locations
and on
websites
. Lots of
s
's.

He was not about to make this ssssimple.

DAY 2—AFTERNOON

I was so grateful that Coco was helping me (despite her reasons), that when she said we should divide and conquer, I agreed. She headed out to the park in North Hollywood, and after I walked ten blocks back to where my scooter, Lola, was hidden, I rode to Laurel Canyon.

Going to a dog park alone felt like I was cheating on Boo and Toupee. Believe me, if I could find a basket big enough for the scooter, they'd be with me always. Or a sidecar would be cool, but then they would have to wear goggles, or
Doggles
, and that would be totally humiliating for them.

Dog parks in L.A. are almost as hot a pickup spot as bars. Guys might as well just walk up and sniff your ass. There was no sign of Mr. WTF, or the dog with the polka-dot tongue. All in all, Laurel Canyon was pretty much like every other dog park I've been to. Same clumps of grass, dirt, gopher holes, stinky garbage cans with flies hovering over them, and one dog cuter than the next running around yipping and chasing dirt-encrusted tennis balls. Except one thing stood out. A GREEN BENCH. WITH A TRASH CAN BEHIND IT. It had to be the one from the video!!!! My palms started sweating. Either from the excitement of my discovery, or from anticipating what I knew I had to do next.

I am a shy person by nature. When I'm around people I'm comfortable with, I can be the life of the party. But put me in a room (or park) full of strangers and it's altogether a diff story—I'm pretty much mute. But I couldn't give in to insecurities now. I had no choice but to muster up my anti-shy courage and make a move.

“Excuse me,” I said as I walked up to each stranger. “Have you seen this dog around here?” I showed them the pic from Sandi's gallery on my phone. Out of eleven people I got four nos, five don't really knows, and two yeses! Pretty awesome average. Except what came after each of the two yeses were just more nos. No, I don't know who the dog belongs to. No, there's not a certain time I always see it. No, no, do not know.

I sat down at a picnic table and started to text Coco about the green bench. And then something caught my eye. Was it there for me? Was it the clue I was supposed to find? For all I knew, even if I was at the right park, the clue could be hidden under a pile of dog shit.

I texted the pic to Coco. She hit me back immediately.

At least he covered more than one base! How considerate.

I looked up the site on my phone—it was just some apartment building in Venice. Could Mr. WTF live there? Did he leave another clue there? What else could it be? I texted Coco back, then her me. She didn't see anything obvious, either.

Coco knew exactly how to get me. Going out to dinner would mean some food that was actually hot and not out of a bag, like my meals of Funyuns and Keebler's E.L. Fudge cookies. (The elf on the box is cute, and even sexier as the shape of the cookie! And so what, I have a thing for elves and leprechauns. Is that so wrong? Maybe if I were a few inches taller I wouldn't!) Perhaps some food that belonged to an actual food group would ignite a temporary superbrain that would be just what we needed to get closer to cracking the case.

DAY 2—NIGHT

Why do couples feel entitled to parade around holding hands in public? It's like dangling pastries in front of a diabetic. I love sitting outside at any of the restaurants or cafes in our hood—until I have to watch the spectacle of happy lovers.

Coco chose Umami Burger just blocks from our apartments (she and Blake live about ten streets away from me on Micheltorena). And I couldn't have been more delighted about her restaurant choice as I sank my teeth into an Earth Burger (mushroom and edamame patty, white soy aioli, truffled ricotta, cipollini onions, lettuce, slow-roasted tomato—I mean, come on!). It felt like finding someone on Facebook that you went to elementary school with—“Sure, I totally remember you, Real Food. We used to be so close. I always liked you. I'm sorry that I haven't kept in touch. It's complicated.” I'd have to leave out the reason—I'm flat broke—because who from your past really needs to know that?