Dont Mince Words

My holiday postcard minimum print run is 500. My card list is 200. Each year I try to find ways to distribute the excess. I’ll hand them out in the office, to the guards, to the postman, and to waiters with the tip.

This year I got a little creative with the extras. I decided to serve my country by mailing these things to the troops in Iraq. I assumed they’d bring great joy IF the boob and leg exposure wasn’t stopped short at the border.

I opted to go with Any Sailor given my ties to the Navy (and because I love saying “Hello Sailor”). These poor guys have pretty decent duty stations compared to the Air Force missile cornfields and Army bases inland. So imagine leaving a cushy port town and being sent to a sandy destination with burqas, not bikinis. That’s gotta really suck.

Today I received my first thank you call from a petty officer stationed in Kuwait. He wanted to let me know my sense of humor was tremendously appreciated. “We get so much mail from 9 year-olds and grandmothers. It’s nice to have a woman write that is intelligent.”

Apparently, I have nice legs too, but that could be the sun blindness talking.

So, no matter what your political affiliation may be, I strongly encourage you to send some kind words to those serving in the war. A little goes a long way during the holiday season.

I have a new hobby and it’s one I thought I’d never take up – at least in Los Angeles. It’s part Heathers and part Mean Girls and it gives me great satisfaction.

My new pastime is rejecting men. Well, wait. I’ve been rejecting men for years in this town, but now I have a new, honest comeback to their “hey you want to go out” requests.

“That’s nice of you, but no, I have a boyfriend,” I say. Then I hang up giggling while jumping on my bed and twisting my hair. This is something I don’t get to say often and it’s liberating.

This boomerang guy and I have had three dates in three years because he’s a flaky writer who also does production on the road. Our annual conversations are about our writing projects with a dash of personal catch-up. Boomerang was shocked and disappointed I wasn’t available.

“Well congratulations. Let me know when you break up,” was his response.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, because if I were ever to be single again, you’d so be there for me.

Thanks, but no thanks. Real Guy is more than enough for me right now and he’s already survived three dates with me.

I hadn’t had a date since August and chose to focus on work and health. Those were more productive diversions. I never expected to meet a man the old-fashioned way – in a bar.

A married, former co-worker suggested I go with him to a bar in Montrose that was frequented by NASA/JPL employees. The prospect of meeting a rocket scientist intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure how I’d relate to those guys since I’d never been to a Star Trek convention. But I went figuring a girl’s gotta drink.

I met Real Guy (RG) a couple days before my trip to Hawaii. I knew within 10 seconds of meeting him that he was a guy I could like. He was outgoing, opinionated, funny, and cute. As he played pool, I told co-worker to be my yenta and pass my number on, if RG was interested.

When I returned from Hawaii, I was busy and didn’t return to the bar until I heard that RG had been asking about me. When I arrived, he stopped playing pool. The chemistry was immediate. We sat and talked for seven hours. We went out the following three nights. The conversation and humor overflowed.

There’s not an online dating search engine that can recreate the randomness of this meeting. I’m not sure where this will lead. What I do know is all my online dating profiles are closed. If this doesn’t work out, I’m back to working the bars, or the docks.