Dont Mince Words

When you hit a certain age, you realize there’s no great place to live. You are either in the ‘burbs with the marrieds, or in the cheap area surrounded by young ones and Bud. What’s that leave me? West Hollywood.

I live in the least target-rich environment on earth. But the view is great. At least SOMEONE in LA has a relationship. I love the ‘moes. They do have the best neighborhoods. I’m several doors down from barely-yogurt Pinkberry as well as a one-stop leather shop. And, if I hit bottom, the 12-Step store is right next door.

However, when you live and work amongst the gays, you forget what straight men are. Tonight my libido was resuscitated in Barney’s Beanery, five blocks from my house. There were sports games on and men were watching. As I ate dinner with a girlfriend, I felt like horny teen girl again.

“Look at that one over there with the broad shoulders. He’s not gay either.”

On my way out, I was so dazed by the spectacle, I walked over to an age-appropriate guy, handed him my card and said, “Hi, if you are single and straight, give me a call and let’s get a beer sometime. I live in a gay neighborhood and I don’t see real men often.”

He smiled, introduced himself and said sure. He made my day. Maybe I made his.

After dinner, we walked another 1/2 mile to a work/movie party. There seemed to be an overabundance of straight men there, but they all had that homogeneous LA guy look: emo bedhead, 15 pounds underweight, trying too hard to look hip.

So who hits on me? A skinny, gay black guy with a Yankees cap on.

“Gurl, look at you. You got it going on with that hair. Who does your hair?” he asked.

What response could I give that would repulse him and make him go away, like tossing water on the Wicked Witch?

“Fantastic Sams,” I said.

I want to believe that gay guys have straight brothers or friends that I can go out with. But I think I’m going to stick with what I know: bars with pool tables and sports games are usually full of straight guys. Back to the Beanery I go.

When you are in New York, you go to the Empire State Building. When you are in San Francisco, you go to the wharf. In DC, you at least drive by the White House. No stay in Los Angeles is complete without a visit to a plastic surgeon.

I can now check that off my list.

I’ve never been one of those bad-self-image girls. My boobs dragged the ground in ninth grade. Push-up bras solved that problem. Jiggle thighs can be counter balanced with Spanx. I’ve never been stick thin, but I have been fine with my body. I’ll never forget when my sophomore year college gym teacher pulled me aside in weight training class and told me I had a great body, but I was obviously German and would never be a size two. I smiled and thanked him.

Through out time, the only thing I’ve ever wanted was even eyebrows. Until now. I’ve lost a ton of weight and my empty jelly rolls are getting in the way. During sex, I can feel my stomach sway side-to-side like an obese cat running with a waddle. When I button my jeans, I feel like I have to tuck myself in.

So today I had a consult with a plastic surgeon in….. Beverly Hills. He ended up being tremendously hot. When he walked in his first words were, “Wow, look at that hair, you don’t see that out here.”

I assume he was talking about the color because I see that freshly-shot-of-of-a-canon look all the time on the street. My curls are not that impressive. The flirting continued with the alcohol consumption question.

“Oh, I don’t know, I drink four to six beers a month,” I stated.

“Beer? You drink beer? That’s rare for a woman to drink beer in this town. More points,” he said.

He left the room and I put my blue paper robe on, opening to the front. I was thankful I remembered to made sure my bra and panties matched. He came back and told me to show him what bothered me. I flashed him my jelly roll and he said, “yeah, you are ready for surgery. A couple more pounds won’t matter.”

He then gave me a fake “after” effect and pulled up on my love handles until the skin in my legs and gut were taunt. It was weird and made me feel like I should be dangling on a meat hook in Fast Food Nation. But it was a nice way to see all my glory changed.

I selected December 7th as my surgery day. The Japs may of bombed us in ’41, but in ’07 my fat is getting attacked.

Tomorrow I’ll get my eyebrows waxed.

Today I had two what-the-fuck moments within a two-hour period. Of course, ex’s were involved.

I woke up to an email announcing that one of them was going to be in LA in November and he’d like to extend his visit to see me. While 9/11 sped up our inevitable breakup, what is more interesting about this guy is he married the girl right after me. I can’t tell you HOW many times in my life this has happened. His visit will be interesting. I imagine he’ll have fewer hairs and I’ll have fewer pounds.

When I got to work, I received a call from Circus Boy. His calls are random and infrequent and rarely annoying because how can you hate an ex- that left you to join the circus? I’ll milk that story until the day I die. Anyway, he called to talk about the iPhone and then said, “my girlfriend read your blog and told me you sold your TV. Is that the big one you had in New York?”

How interesting can my life be to a girlfriend? Doesn’t it seem like a truly dysfunctional activity to read the blog of your boyfriend’s ex? I don’t get it. My life certainly isn’t that interesting. OK, maybe it is a tad more exciting than most married people’s lives. But god, you are in the CIRCUS and you get to see elephants crap and you catch the clowns ordering gay porn on the internet. That’s a rewarding day.

Driving home I figured it all out…. It’s a full moon. The strangeness in my life will never be eclipsed as long as I have ex’s around.