Dont Mince Words

I heard Oprah once said that if you want a man in your life, you have to imagine him and create him in some sort of collage and then he will manifest. I got as far as buying magnum condoms. And you know me and condoms, I buy them and they often expire. In fact, my Aunt and I gave my last big batch of expirees away with our drink tips on a cruise a few years ago.

GC has been back in New York for five days. Tonight, in preparation for our reunion tomorrow night, he asked me if I had a condom preference. No guy has ever asked me that. Of course, my preference is a condom without holes, but most of all just having a real, live guy to fill one is preference enough for me.

But, wow, thanks for asking.

I spent the first four years in Los Angeles dating voraciously, trying to make up for my career-first East coast days. I’m now a dog owner, which has kind of changed my outlook on dating. You are going to have to be better than my dog and my vibrator to get me out of the house.

That rule quickly changed on Thursday for the veep debate. I had a gentleman caller (GC) over for drink Palin Bingo. GC and I were re-introduced a few months ago by a mutual friend and have had a great time bitching about dating in LA, getting fit, writing, and everything in between. It was nice to have a man over. I didn’t have to leave my dog.

But Tex quickly established who was top dog when he crawled on to the sofa and pressed his nose up to GC’s hip. I was permitted to sit sideways beside the boys. After a few “mavericks” and “main streets,” Tex realized this guy was ok and he demoted himself down to his day bed on the floor. GC was approved.

Tex is the big brother I never had. He watches my back. Thankfully, he leaves the room when he hears the vibrator.

There are times I miss Brooklyn. Good bagels. Real pizza. Funny Jews. It was very apparent last week I wasn’t anywhere near Brooklyn when I went to my corner market.

I’ve been a shut-in since my foot surgery, but felt strong enough to venture out, primarily for fruit and human interaction. I put my backpack on, grabbed the leash, and Tex and I crutched up to Santa Monica Boulevard. I tied him to the tree in front of the market and I went in.

Bodegas in NY have everything. Sewing kits, beer, cheese, you name it. The markets in my neighborhood are run by Russian Jews. All food labels are in Russian. Their customers are stereotypical sad Russians sporting scowls. My gimpy WASPY self was happy to be around the old world Jews, just for a change of pace. I grabbed some tomatoes, grapes, dark rye and waited in line and stared at the deli case which had a variety of beet dishes. I suppose Russians like their root vegetables.

When I finally got to the register the woman before me was almost out the door, but was speaking very loud and pointing. I realized it was Tex. I hobbled to the door as she continued to speak her Russian blah-blah to me. I smiled and said, “He’s old and very, very friendly.”

She seemed surprised I wasn’t a native speaker. Maybe my bed head made me look more Russian. “Oh, he is beautiful dog. You see he is very old soul,” my rectangular-shaped neighbor in a polyester dress told me.

Back at the register, the owner tried to up-sell with potato pancakes and other bakery items. She then went to the meat case and pulled out what looked like a one-inch diameter Slim Jim dipped in battery acid. I can’t begin to tell you how many un-nameable cow parts I saw there. “It will make you well,” she told me. I thanked her and stuffed my backpack.

I’m now doing much better and Tex and I can make it the four short blocks to Whole Foods with one crutch. I may go back and visit my Russians, but for now, I’m back to English-speaking WeHo gays and Hollywood Jews. These are my people. Besides, Whole Foods has bagels.