Dont Mince Words

I know I’ve threatened to stop dating.  Instead, I added to my arsenal of vibrators.  And I know the definition of crazy, yet I still repeat the same behavior.  Now I’m seriously considering my friends’ advice:  it has to be dating in California.

It’s been another banner month of dating in Santa Barbara as I continue to receive “be my friend” text messages from The Schnauzer.  This time around, I had a momentary twinge of hope when a 51 year-old mechanical engineer wanted to meet me for happy hour.  Several hours before, he backed out because he had to work late.  No biggie, so did I.  But he did stay in touch via text message and let me know he was bisexual.  Right.  With nothing to lose, I got more clarification.  He’s not the shut-your-eyes-and-pretend-the-blowjob-is-from-a woman kind of bi.  He likes getting his ass pumped from time to time.  If that wasn’t enough, he casually mentioned that he liked to dress in drag.  He sent me pictures and, yes, he’s prettier than me and has better legs.  It would be kind of cool to have a boyfriend I could share lipstick and Spanx with, but at the end of the day, I like my cock straight with no deviation.

Saturday I was stood up by a different 51 year-old who confirmed the date four hours prior.  No call, no text, no email, no show. The good news is I got two great glasses of wine in and became the tasting room’s Foursquare major.

I didn’t have to leave Los Angeles to encounter these kind of behaviors.  My short-term solution may be to get a bike.  That’s the only bi I’m going to let between my legs…until I pass a cute guy on the bike path and think, “I wonder if he’s straight?”

In my continuing effort to live a healthy, unemployed lifestyle, I decided now would be a good time to try one of those eight-week, Runner’s World couch-to-marathon training programs. I started week two today and I think I’m going to flunk myself and repeat week one.

I knew this was going to be a harder week, so this morning I suited up appropriately: super-plus tampon, Spanx to give my thighs more zing, and a waist-cincher to support my back. I successfully managed to run two minutes with a one minute break until I hit 15 minutes and realized my heart rate had soared to an unbelievable 175 BPM. WTF. I reverted back to the week one lesson of 1run/2walk.

What doesn’t make sense to me is I can go like a maniac on an eliptical machine at the gym on my off days, but that foot pounding into the pavement seems to freak my body out. Come to think of it, I can have hot monkey sex longer than I can run.

Everyone I know who has taken up running late-life loves it. I’m going to get through this eight-week program even if it takes me… four months. But for now, the only runner’s high I’m going to get is from the beer I have afterwards.

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.