Dont Mince Words

Since I have a dog to walk, I’m outside a lot and have met many of my neighbors as a result. I’m in West Hollywood, so I can safely assume all my neighbors are gay. While it’s not a target-rich environment, I’m still my smiling, giggly self – a female minority in a sea of dripping hot homos.

A few weeks ago, two tremendously good looking guys walked out of a house five doors down as Tex and I were crossing their path. I smiled and said hi. They replied with the same back. Today, the same tall hot guy got in his car as I walked by. He drove north, turned around, and slowed down when he passed me. He made a u-turn and came back and parked in front of the house and jumped out his car. Tex and I were in the gate when he ran to the driveway.

“Hi, excuse me. I have a question I need to ask you,” tall hottie said. If I were in a straight neighborhood, this is when I could expect the “does the curtain match the drapes” question. But, in West Hollywood, I had no assumptions.

“Sure,” I said then we introduced ourselves.

“Do you have any satin pajama bottoms I can borrow? I have a party to go to and I’ve spent the day at the Abbey and I’m too fucked up to drive,” he explained.

Satin pajama party. That’s gay, right? The Abbey is a wonderful bar and restaurant, but it is the epicenter of queer in WeHo.

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear pajamas,” I responded.

“Oh, OK. Ah, do you have a light,” he asked holding his Parliments. He looked me up and down and followed-up with “you don’t smoke do you?”

We said our good byes and he got back in his car, turned around, and parked the car in front of his house.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door while I was making Tex’ dinner.

“Hello again,” I said when I opened the door.

“Hey, so I’ll pay you to drive me to Ross to get the pajamas. I really can’t drive. Do you party?” he asked, pointing to his nose.

“I’m more of a wine girl. I actually have to meet a friend in a half hour for dinner, so I don’t think I can drive you,” I replied.

“I can tell you are a good, wholesome girl. Ok, no biggie, just thought I’d come back and ask,” he said.

“Where’s this pajama party?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s at my house. Why don’t you stop by 812 later when you get back,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. His follow-up question was even more straight, “do you live alone?”

At this point, Tex had a very timely and audible where’s-my-dinner-bitch groan. I told tall hottie I had a house boy living with me right now doing chores and supervising contractors.

We hugged out and said goodbye.

It wasn’t until I put Tex’ pan of food on the floor that I realized that I had been hit on. I repeated the story for my girlfriends at dinner.

“You wholesome?” they said doubled over laughing. “He obviously was on drugs.”

And those drugs delivered the best and most convoluted pickup line/strategy of the year. Now that I know there are some token straights in the hood, I’ll have to start working other blocks. Hopefully Tex can pimp out his wholesome mommy to some sober guys.

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.

I try to participate in the public transportation experience in LA as often as I can; however, in nearly five years, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had the thrill of a bus or subway ride. It’s usually because my car is in the shop or I have jury duty.

If you admit to riding the bus in LA, you’ll usually hear the backwards scream followed by, “but why?” My first ride was on the Venice Boulevard line. I was a very white girl on a very brown bus. My Spanish is still limited to nachos, burrito, cervasa, mommasita bonita (which my college dishwashers told me described me), and whatever total Sesame Street recall I may still have. Wouldn’t you know, some guy on the bus called me a mommasita bonita probably figuring I didn’t know what it meant. I looked at him and said, “GrassEous.”

On Monday, I dropped the car off and rode home on the Santa Monica line with the trannie hookers, the “help”, and stoner musicians. At this point in LA public transportation experience, I can usually count on a verbal interruption, especially on St. Patrick’s day. This time it was, “hey red, nice hair and Chuck Taylor’s.” I smiled thankful it was something nice in English.

This morning I got on an empty bus. Just me and an older woman. I sat two rows behind her. Once the bus pulled out, she turned to me and said with a Russian accent, “Are you awake?”

“Barely. Do I look that bad?” I replied.

“No, no,” she said holding a pamphlet with an image of Jesus praying on the cover.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t do Jesus this early in the morning. Do you have any Red Bull?” I said, securing firm placement stoking the fires of hell.

When I got to the office, I asked a few coworkers if I looked like I needed to be saved. The consensus was I just need a haircut and I need to get laid.