Harem of Husbands

Traveling. Ah. Yes. How lovely to spend three weeks abroad, living amongst a fabulous new culture for as many weeks as our slave drivers can possibly spare. Well this year, as odd as it seemed, I choose EGYPT for my lovely holiday. Figuring that I'd be so far away and so out of touch that no one could reach me for their typical vacation taunting questions.

24 hours prior to travel, anxiety. Lot's and lot's of anxiety. Is this trip going to be fun? OMG, what if I hate it and I have to spend the only three week of my year in a HORRIBLE place?

Cut to. Landing Cairo International Airport. Stinky, exhaust fumes, smog... Pollution everywhere. The worst nightmare, is already upon us, and the worst part about it, is that I'm already here. So I can't skip out on the flight now.

Chaos.

"I have to pee." "I have to pee before we clear customs."

I enter the smoke filled bathroom, there are two stalls for this "International" Airport. And people are smoking in them. In walks an Egyptian woman, followed by a team of mini Egyptians, children. Momma Egyptian, immediately turns to the bathroom attendant and hands her the baby in her arms. While the bathroom attendant is smoking up the bathroom, that only has two stalls!

Yikes, this is looking pretty bad. What have we done to ourselves????

Cut to 45 minutes later, 3 marriage proposals, and after we had enlisted the help of two of the hottest tour guides in town.

I guess you could say, as luck would have it, it all took a gigantic turn of events the moment that me and my new traveling companion, SPICE GIRL stepped out on the streets of Cairo. Wow. It's quite lovely here. It's like we're movie stars on the streets of Manhattan, minus of course the skyscrapers and posh clothing.

Here is how it begins. One lovely husband after another falls right into place, though most of them were named Mohammad, they were all rather adorable and charming.

First, Mido (real name Mohammad by the way). Perhaps the hottest man alive on planet Earth. He begged me to talk to him. How often in La La Land has any dame been begged to merely speak to the most beautiful man on the street? Never I say! Well, that would be a never for me, of course. Even pleading with me to be his wife. And still to this day, a few months after departing my beloved land, still begs for my hand in marriage.

Second, Meyer, this story will follow this blog with a much longer blog, it will be titled, "Cheating Allowed, Only In Egypt, The Undersexed Girls Guide to Not Getting Laid."

Third, the most important of all, every street vendor, taxi driver, fruit stand guy,
concierge, etc. These were the best. Everywhere Spice Girl and I went, they whistled, they charmed, they flirted, they proposed, they cut their prices, they were for all purposes, puddy in our hands. These Mohammad's were truly amazing.

So here it is, the book of Mohammad's:

1) Mohammad, tour guide to the South Africans. He likes hash, coffee, loud women (oooh, I fit that description), and most importantly, he's not accepting a nice free piece of ass without having to chase it!

2) Mohammad, the jewerly salesman, he only spoke French, but managed to figure out how to say "I love you," in English. And by the time I left the store, could even propose.

3) Mohammad, the art dealer. Ah, lovely. The art dealer, perhaps my favorite. He managed to allow me to talk him down from $340 American Dollars to $100 American Dollars and he even through in a couple of bonus pieces. This Mohammad was the first to actually offer me camels, but of course those camels were offered to my tour leader. Apparently, since it's a trade of possessions, I could never actually own the camels.

4) Mohammad, the street vendor. "How many camels?"

Did I open the door of the camels with the art dealer?

5) Mohammad, the head maid guy/towel creature creator. Everyday when Spice Girl and I arrived back to our room, there was a Mohammad waiting by our door, awaiting our reaction to whatever new animal had taken over our room during our absence. The person sitting on the bed dressed in Spicy's clothing was the scariest.

6) Mohammad, the bartender. He got me drunk, I still can't figure out how he didn't get me to marry him in my drunkened vacation haze. It must be due to lack of experience with the wand of pleasure!

I won't bore you with the rest of them, however, they certainly were the highligh of the trip. And here's the absolute best thing about having all of the Mohammad's, I could pack them in my huge suitcase, bring them home with me, and if I choose to hide them from each other, to avoid any outrageously jealous outbursts, I would never have to worry about getting their names mixed up!

But seriously, right now I'm not ready for one boyfriend (or boytoy even apparently), so for now I have to pass. But be assured that when I'm thirty five and the clock is ticking... I'm moving to Egypt. Someone there will certainly give me the little bundle of responsibility that every woman dreams of!

Giving up...

Giving up, it's one of the hardest things to do. And people give up on lots of things dreams, lovers, or even friends.

They say the more you love someone, the more you can hate that person. Well...

You know, the feeling you get when you meet the man you think you're going to marry. That feeling that makes your toes curl, your heart flutter, and your eyes water. Yes, that feeling, the one that makes your words come out all wrong, your hands sweat, and your brain to think things that make absolutely no sense what-so-ever. It's not about sex, or anything dirty, it's simply about the person's body chemistry that makes your blood pressure rise.

Now imagine the opposite of that. This is where the "hating" part of the equation comes in. There is a flurry of wailing tears, of rage, anger, frustration, and pure disappointment. Disappointment because we all struggle to allow ourselves to be vulnerable to each other, and then after we piss ourselves in front of God and everyone else, we get pissed on.

So finally, after years of loving, hating, and feeling completely devoid of feel over one man. I decided that enough is enough.

Giving up. One must give up at some point. Move on.

And even allow ourselves to be vulnerable again.

So I give up, by being the adult, I say to The Writer "I can't do this anymore, we must move on."

He replies, "You are absolutely right, I need to get my shit together. I drank too much, I party too much, I have too many other girls in my life..."

SHRREEECHH. Halt.

"Other women??? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, cheating on me?"

Wait, we're breaking up. I don't want to know about your life, or ANYTHING ELSE, that includes the other hoochie mama's you have coming around."

Ended.

So I thought. Until I started getting 11pm-2am texts and calls. "Hey B-Rabbit" blah blah... always oddly uncreative coming from one of the most talented writers alive.

I ignore.

The text/calls become more and more, until I decide perhaps maybe this is physical, we can just fuck. Every once in a while, at 11pm-2am we will decide to use each others bodies as lusty playgrounds, full of the excitement and joy we have giving each other for a very long time. Hum. I like this idea. It's free unattached sex, from someone I know can do it to me right!

We text sex for WEEKS (but it feels more like MONTHS).

"I can't wait to feel you big hard cock slide inside of me again."

"I want you to sit on my face."

Stuff like that... but obviously it gets dirtier.

Finally, after hours of debating a date, we choose Friday night. (In my mind, a Friday night, that's a date night, what if I get a date for that night and decide to go home with him). Instead, my date was my typical Friday night date with all my girlfriends and a bunch of booze. I got drunk. I forgot. Was at another man's house, finishing off a bottle of wine, hitting a pipe.

The writer, he got upset. This time he broke up with me. Some long email about how much he loves me and didn't think "hitting and quitting with me was such a lovely idea."

Whew, OK, maybe I didn't get laid this weekend, but at least I got rid of the man I have been trying to get rid of for years now.

Fourth of July, away for the weekend with another man. What happens, the asshole texts, and calls. Good thing I didn't get service.

It's as if he knows when I'm with another man, and comes back into my life at that moment.

I WANT TO GIVE UP. I WANT TO MOVE ON. I really want to be able to let go. But when I hear his voice, or feel his touch. I melt. My body hurts, my eyes water, my hands sweat. I am in love with a man who can't love me the way I need to be loved. And times isn't healing. It isn't helping, if anything it makes it harder.

So, today, I give up on the idea of being truly in love with only one man. I give up on this idea, because I have realized that I will always love more than one man. The one that I can not have, The Writer, and whomever I choose to exchange vows with.

In Da Club

So, Saturday night, against my most sacred beliefs, I went to a Hollywood club with a handful of hot, sexy babes. We dressed in our hottest, BCBG dresses, and red bottomed shoes, then hopped in the nearest cab. In hopes of finding the love of our lives, heading towards the Hollywood sign, we were free to roam the streets with the most beautiful men and women in the world. Until of course, everything came to a screeking halt.

That was the moment I realized my whole love life was quickly falling apart. The warning that some women are still single because they are too picky, or too flaky, or play by the wrong "rules", or some women put off the "get the hell away from me vibe." UGH. Am I one of those women OR is that I find myself too good to be swaying from side to side in the sweat pool, on the dance floor, and with a shit load of horny, drunk men who have no manners rubbing against my lady lumps. No, I don't want to give you my number. I don't even want you to take me to the nicest restuarant in LA, and have me sip the most fabulous martini's in town. What I do want, is for YOU to leave me alone.

Cut to. The next morning. Waking up in a pool of drool, and reaching for the dreadful person I managed to drag home with me. I keep reaching. and reaching... nothing. No one.

OH NO.

This is happening to me. Finally, after all the years of finding myself laying next to one big mistake, whose name I have either failed to get, or neglected to remember, I have gotten what I always thought I wanted. This morning, I have graduated to waking up, realizing that ending up alone, watching the cartoon network, is boring when there is no random guy to laugh about it with.

Am I getting to old to bring someone home for a romp in the sheets? Or did I get too drunk?

Or perhaps, I have found myself to be entirely too good for any man alive.

I think for now, I'll settle with believing that I got to drunk.

We'll face reality another morning.

Looking for someone or anyone??

In love, we can explain our experiences as either very different, or quite the same. There are two types, 1) Romeo and Juliet love, 2) giddy, school girl love. So I met a man. A very cute southern man who happens to look like a very cute southern bloke. This is the sense that he wears Oakleys (with the string that goes around your neck), and enjoys fishing (and probably hunting too). But the point is when I met him I felt like a giddy little school girl. The kind of bubbleheaded, giggly, silliness that you don't know where all of that crazy energy came from.

Immediately, I was in love. My palms were wet in anticipation of the first kiss, the first hug, and of course him visiting my amazing digs in the City of Angels (more bumping and grinding, YAY). But it was when he got here, that all of the love in my heart would not ever be enough to want to deal with our difference of opions on many, many, issues.

So, for a moment in time, I thought that I was in love.

Then on my home turf, I got to know my southern gentleman. Quickly realizing that his love of hunting and fishing wouldn't fit so well into my anti-gun, anti-republican, pro-choice lifesyle. I mean I did give money to the Hilary Clinton campagne.

He didn't know what to do when he found himself knee deep in designer shoes, when he walked into my closet. And when he learned that Bloomie's was not a code name for my panties, I think it upset him slightly. But these things never occured to me, until the moment he asked why women would pay so much to buy designer jeans, that's when it dawned on me, that he couldn't be the one for me. He doesn't understand why the only men I will always vow to remain loyal to are Joe, William Rask, Jimmy Choo, and Mark Jacobs. As they are my one and only True Religion.

At this point, I began to contemplate all of my past relationships, and wondered to myself, am I looking for someone special, or anyone who'll have me?

I admit, that I am a little obsessive and even a little compulsive, sometimes a little closed off when it's someone I truly do care about. So perhaps, it could be The Republican, who clearly I will never end up with, who may be the type that can tame this lioness (since he's the only type I can actually open up to). But the reality of it is would I settle on someone less than perfect (for me) because I can't tell the guy that I really love anything at all?

It's highly doubtful, but more probable as I get closer to the end of my child baring years. Hell, I have a ways to go. So I'll just tumble around in the back seat of my car with less the amazing until Mr. Flawless comes along (and stays until I talk to him - I mean eventually you have to say something)!

Wedding Bell Blues

You know how most girls get really sad and teary eyed when they see their best buddies get married. They weep and sob, until the open bar starts. Then it's all about getting drunk, dancing our asses off and of course, getting laid. Also I'll add, for some of us closet smokers, sneaking a few ciggies on the back porch.

Well 'tis the season, eh? I have never been in a wedding before. Honestly, I'd only been to my friend's parents second (and often third) weddings growing up. All of my friends that were married thus far, merely said their vows in front of the town judge, because they were knocked up. So, barring the few courthouse nuptials I had witnessed this year, was a new beginning. I was excited, because people always talked about how great the sex was at wedding, and with my dry spell all of the wedding I was hitting up, there was sure to me a wealth of juicy details for my LA girls.

This year, out of the twenty six of my fellow high school graduates, 12 got married. I was in 7 weddings, and had to do guest book for 2, one of which was my grade school boyfriend, whom we'd promised each other to marry if we didn't have someone by 30. Well, he found someone, and I didn't. So here I am at his wedding begging the guests to give their Johnny Hancock to the overpriced "guest book" which of course they'll hardly ever look at again. Thoughtfully, my gift to the bride was simply not signing. That way she could forget about me, and of course all those battles that they had about her insecurities that she felt about me! After hearing the drunken, badgering from the new wifey, the previous night at the rehearsal dinner, I even gave her the gift of staying out of as many wedding photos as possible. I thought she'd appreciate that, especially since the first thing she said to me when I arrived was, "Damn, how do you keep that body." I politely, declined to give this southern lady my secret, but I did say, "I guess I got lucky" simply sparing her the details of my harsh diet and Pilate's schedule!

Me, no I'm not depressed about the situation here. I'm happy that I'm here on my 10th wedding of the year (this time my best friend who was a year younger than me), I am still single, without even having a man by my side, I guess I could have hired one. Everyone should be jealous, I'm single. Free to roam and travel the world, and bone any many who sparks some sort internal pheromone. I can look, touch, play with anyone I want, and no one will care.

But the sad news is, I'm on the dance floor surrounded by the group of people who used to be my safety net, along with a sea of strange faces along side of them. Several of the familiar people, vowed to marry me. One of which even wanted to marry me for green card, once. I kindly refused, citing we were too young to exchange vows. But who were the alien people around us? Enjoying our fun. And the little rug rats that the girls are ooohing and aaahhing over, who brought them here? My hazy realization was here. I was alone, with no man, no single friend, and no one to dance to with. Not even a single father of one of my friends.

The booze kept me going, and helped with the front of pure bliss.

Wait, I thought I never wanted to get married. What is going on with my clock. It's ticking. Do I want to get married or laid?

Post crisis/Patron shots, I sit on the back steps to the Reception Hall, silently hiding the fact that I'm a smoker when intoxicated, when my best friend, the bride joins me. In a deep southern accent, despite her long standing New York City living, "Brandy, you know that you are my best friend in the whole world, right," the long pause indicated to me that she was going to say something that I did not want to hear. More pausing. Anxiously, I say, "what woman?!?!?" She responds, "Bunny, why are you still single, we are all starting to worry about you? Last night my old man asked me if you were a lesbian."

OH MY GOSH, was I wrong about this. I thought they may be jealous of my single lifestyle, or they didn't think twice about it but now I'm learning that they may thing I'm gay! WHAT THE FUCK!

Undersexed, and overly drunk, my world was spinning. These "married" people are not normal, or sane, I MUST get back to west side of the world before something terrible happens, like a witch trail or worse, more people think I'm not looking for the one thing that I think about every day, hour and minute... dirty, hot, sweaty, hair pulling, sex with a man!

Drunk Dialing

Should be something reserved for the completely wasted. Wait. Sometimes, unfortunately I get really wasted.

Cinco De Mayo.

Yes, friends, this is the day of debauchary. And this year, I made sure that I did it with great dignity. Well that was of course until 1:30am, when I somehow managed to find the number to my ex-boyfriend, from YEARS ago. Ok, maybe more like two months ago, but remember in LA time, that's a decade.

I text "Hi gorgeous, I have a hottie friend that I would love for you to meet."

"Where are you?" He responds.

Where were we. Oh no. I bellow to my impecibly dressed girlfriend "where the hell are we?"

Sunset Beach.

This is the new hot club, I didn't know anything about because I never go to the hip places. Crowds, lines, and cover charges really just aren't my thing. But we were there. And he was jonesing to meet my girlfriend.

Ex-boyfriend, or more honestly ex-hook up, shows up. More like, Jimmy Choo. Yes, the shoe guy. I was so drunk that I wanted to hook my friend up with THE SHOE GUY.

In my drunkened stubber, I yell to the door guy, "let 'em in, he's with me." Looking back on it, the door didn't even know who I was, but to my surprise (now), Jimmy Choo, was escorted to the party.

Cut to....

Next morning.

Aching head.

Blurred vision.

"Shit, where the hell am I?"

"Fuck"

Damn it.

How the hell did I end up here?

I roll over, spot a handful of beautiful pumps, YIKES. I hurriedly try to sneak out, when I hear from the kitchen. "Baby, I made pancakes."

I didn't want pancakes. I didn't want a night of meaningless sex with the man that I truly wanted to pleasure my friend. I want to know where my car is, and if he doesn't know that much, perhaps, just a ride home.

Game over.

I am a commitmentphobe... buyer beware.

Hollywood Wives Club

The entire entertainment industry knows them, they are the busty, blond haired, brown eyed, size two, 35 (but looks 28), women, who were a size zero before they popped out a handful of power-babies. Yep, I'm talking about the once actress wanna-bes that are married to the high ranks of Hollywood players. Upon, thumbing through the trades, over a cup of Joe this morning, I came to the realization that ALL of these women are the spitting image of one another. As a matter of fact, I thought for a brief moment that they are all the same person. Hummm, are Brian Grazer and Jerry Bruckheimer married to the same woman? Or are they all just clones of each other? Or realistically, have they come up with some way to share the same piece of ass, because by Hollywood standards this prototype isn't easy to come by. Maybe, they all just found a way to build a robot that will please them, have their babies, make love to them, cook, clean, shop at Neiman's for the newest, hippest pair of Manolo's, and of course, never give them any lip. It's the Stepford Wives of it all.

They all have the name Mindy, Kitty, Abbey, or Brandy, but for the purpose of this we're going to call them Debbies. In my mind I can hear them saying "like" or "um" before every sentence, and then bursting out with a "NIGHTMARE" when their babies go poopy in their pants. But for some reason I suppose they are probably very intelligent people, perhaps smarter than those of us who actually work their way up in this world. They, unlike the rest of us, have a great deal more power than let's say your typical CAA assistant. And we all know that is where the Debbies met their future hubbies. The blond bombshells where "discovered" after greeting their horny lovers in the overwhelming atrium that is now the former CAA building, fetching coffee, or making copies, quietly setting dates with these then newbies, to go Mr. Chow, or whatever the previous hot spots were.

Now, they not only didn't have to fetch too much coffee in their assistant days, but they dinner at Koi or Geisha House weekly with people like Jennifer Aniston and Halle Berry. And for the lesser powerful players, they brunch with say, Eva Longera, at Toast on Saturday mornings. So, rather than wasting their time "working" their way up, they figured out an easy way to do. I'll just marry into it. WOW, impressive. You can marry into it. Who knew hot, previously poor, women could make it so far in this world (if you consider your stint in Hollywood living in "this world"). As a matter of fact, a lot of these girls, are running their old man's company. If not in title, they are at least running it from afar (or from home), and having worked for Hollywood's elite, I personally know that they at least have a corner office in the building that's far superior to those who actually run the company. They drop in to show their faces, occasionally, and when they do the entire building must be spotless. No loose papers in site, all in boxes must be perfectly placed, and we must see ONLY black on the desks. A massive email goes out to the entire company to "straighten up" their work space, before she comes in. What is this, a power trip?

Anyhow, as it all works itself out, I don't fit this mold either because I have blue eyes rather than brown, nor was I built in some factory out in Tarzana. But the truth of the matter is that I don't want to be one of these women. I would rather someone marry me for my wealth and power. Perhaps it's just an ego thing, or maybe I actually have a work ethic. Whatever it is though, so far it's working out quite nicely.

Does Phone Sex count

Does phone sex count as actually having a sexual experience with someone? Well here's the logic, if you can openly discuss your needs and desires with someone on the other end of the line, then you are being intimate with them. Others will also say, "getting off, is getting off, no matter how you do it." Well the reality of it is this, sometimes, you are having phone sex with a man who has no idea that you don't think you're having phone sex with them. Like for instance, Rollergirl was on the phone with a new lovely man that's she's seeing. And she was sitting outside on her patio enjoying a ciggie, when all of a sudden, he says "Oh My Goodness, I'm cumming."

WHAT?!?! Are you serious? I thought we were just enjoying a nice chat about the weekend and now you're all of a sudden doing that. She thinks to herself, "I thought I had to actually do something, like put my mouth on it, or sit on it, before that thing would erupt." Apparently this is not the case. That thing will detonate, with almost no warning. Could this be because he's not had much ass for the past few months. Poor guy.

OMG, what if that means when she finally sits on it, is this going to happen too quickly?

Holy crud, what if it's small? Will he be a bad lover? Is he selfish? Questions are running through her head about what their experience will be like.

She immediately jumps off the phone and calls me for advice.

"Bunny, we were on the phone talking about mountain biking, or something completely non-sexual and all of a sudden he blurts out, 'I'm cumming.'"

"Are you serious? Dump him." I insist.

There's something really odd about a man who has issues with sex. And those issues can be as simple as turning an innocent phone conversation into phone sex. Or sometimes, it's that a man has a tiny garden tool, or the man juice squirts out too quickly. Whatever the problem may be is not our concern. The concern we as women have, is similar to the standards that you hold to us: If you can't please us in the beginning, then you're not going to be able to please us in 5 years from now. So we move on, much like you would if our lovely LA Fitness bodies aren't perfectly pressed when you finally get our clothes off.

We like to be pleased, and taken care of. This isn't just about money, it's about how we feel about ourselves... and this could be quickly taken care of if the man compliments us frequently or just figures out a way to make his ladies toes curl in sack.

Friends with Bennies

The friends dilemma. Yea. We meet up for drinks, have martini's, head back to his place, and make crazy love to each other. The next morning I wake up in the arms of someone I've known for years, but don't really know anything about him. It's nice, warm and cozy there, but I know that this is as far as it goes.

Then, of course, we tend to not speak to each other for what seems to be weeks, however, by the calendar it's more like 4 or 5 days. And usually the next time we see each other is at 1am, post many cocktails with the girls. This happens sporadically until one party decides they are tired of being used, and quite frequently, it's the female part of the equation. Some people like to hold on to this relationship for as long as they can, because occasionally these relationships (if you can call it that) turn into more, not normally though. I personally, am tired of being the "one night stand." I am exhausted by laundry list of "what did I do,""why am I not good enough," and "how can I change it." So typically I choose to bail on it. I don't like holding on to the what ifs, or maybe laters. For me it's all about right now. And if right now isn't happening, perhaps we can revisit it after some time has passed.

Anyway, skipping ahead to the point, all of a sudden this cultural phenomenon, has become the norm. We have more lovers than boyfriends. More dates than days in the week. More sexual partners than underwear. Wait... maybe that's what is wrong with me. I don't have that much sex. My particular "one night stands" are usually just long nights of kissing and cuddling. Holy Shit. Maybe that's why I'm single. I don't give it up enough.

There is so much propaganda on the subject of dating, that I don't know what to believe anymore. Do I wait a particular period of time to engage in the horizontal shuffle? Should I do it right away? What about the three date rule? Fuck, do I call him ever? What if he doesn't call the next day after we hook up?

Ok, now you know that I am totally neurotic. But seriously these are the things that I think about when I meet someone new that makes my little heart flutter. I am so freaking confused, I don't know what to do, when to do it. Or how to do it. And most importantly, it then becomes not even worth the bullshit that I have to put up with to "not be lonely."

You know I'm not a loner, by any means, but I must admit to all of you that I would in fact rather be at home on the couch alone than to have to deal with the shit you have to endure, just to get a good fuck. I mean, procreation is suppose to be easy right? Not that anyone is trying to procreate, but the act that leads to it is quite nice. That's why we do it. I can promise you one thing, if God didn't make the act of making babies so pleasant, no one would have them. Do you know anyone who WANTS to stay up all hours of the night, changing poopy diapers, and getting spit up on?

The point. The point, Bunny. Try to stay on track here.

Friends with benefits. Does it work? In short, nope, it never does, however, we all know that when it comes to matters of the heart (or in reality, knowing you have someone to snuggle up next to on the couch every night), this is probably not an easy question to dive into. So here's the reality of it: The idea of sleeping with someone with absolutely no intentions of furthering the relationship, is perhaps your only viable option in Los Angeles. So I say, go for it!

The Language Barrier

I say Potatoe you say PoTAtoe. I say "make love," you say "hit it."

In every generation, between great nations, and in most neighborhoods in LA, the fact is that there is a language barrier between all living souls. But the biggest, and by far the most challenging one is the difference that lies amidst men and women. When a man says, "I could fall in love with you," it typically means "I'm have a really great time with you right this minute," or "WOW, this is the best sex I've had in a while," but it absolutely does NOT mean "I love you."

My all time favorite miscommunication is, when I say I want a Coke, it means a REGULAR COCA COLA. I don't like the taste of fake sugars, in hopes of keeping my body in tact. I work out, spinning classes, yoga, mountain biking, those types of things that allow for me to indulge myself in regular sodas, occassional candy bars, and popcorn at the movies. And believe me, I know the difference.

But the most notable one that I want to point out is this, Jimmy Choo once told me a story about a woman that he was dating. She was stunningly beautiful. Tons of fun, and enjoyed all of the same things that he does. In his mind, this person was someone that he could see himself marrying her. Sounds like your modern day love story.

Well, it was until she made the unfortunate statement "my mother has one eye and my sister has down syndrome." Although I have to admit, this is not the sexiest thing to hear come from your lovers mouth, this is however, something that I would never hold against anyone because I try not to make snap judgements.

That night when Jimmy dropped her off at her apartment, he told me, and I quote "I felt so terrible telling her that I would call her. But I knew then that I would never call her again. It was heartbreaking to let her go, but in the end, I knew that I couldn't marry her. And why waste my time dating someone that I would never marry."

REALLY? I understand someone in their late 40's putting a lot of thought into who he's going to marry. And better yet, I understand that men think about who's going to bare their children. However, honestly, why can't a successful man who stands up to people all day long, stand up to this woman and say to her "I am not interested in seeing you anymore," or just drop her off without giving her the expectation of a future phone call.

Do men not think before they speak, or do they really believe that they will break a woman's heart if you there is no follow up call?

Honestly, did you ever think that perhaps the girl with a mother that has one eye and the retarded sister maybe even told you that so that you would stop calling her. Ever think of it that way?

In conclusion, this tale as old as time, is one that can make us pull our hair out, or we can just except that we will never be the same. If we were, it wouldn't be as much fun!

The City of Devils

Yes, the real relationship problem that I have these days is not with the men that I date, it's with the city that I live in. As weird as this concept may seem, it's true. This city makes me feel awful when I cheat on it by traveling to other cities with the hopes of making it my new home, it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up when it gives another woman a better life than me, and most importantly, it treats me like shit the majority of the time and I continue to come back to it. As a matter of fact, I can't imagine being with another city. I would rather be abused by LA than treated like a queen in Lexington, Kentucky. You ask women, why they would choose to stay with the man that smacks her around while there is a man who not only wants to give her the world, but is madly in love with her. The answer is because some women enjoy being emotionally tormented. I never saw myself as one, but now I know that I am. I am learning to except myself as I am. To clarify, I don't like physical abuse, only mental. So, friends, I will never leave LA. I wouldn't even consider Manhattan.

I don't know who declared this city of smog and concrete the City of Angels, but I proclaim it is in fact the City of Devils. The City of Devils, in a "naughty kitty" sort of way. Like, if you're being a bad boy today I am going to need to get you home soon, so that I can spank you a little. No not a little, I want to wear your ass out! It's the Colin Farrell of it all. The left coast being where all of the "hoodlums" traveled to, in search of fulfilling their greedy little desires.

The truth about LA is all of the little demons from all over the world have managed to find their way into the 465 square miles that makes up LOS ANGELES. This is the city of vein. A place where people care more about who they are wearing and what new fancy diet they are on, than they do about being happy. Actually, being happy equals, being hot. So in theory, the hotter you are, the happier you are!

Being the cute, athletic, curvy woman that I am, happiness is suppose to be FAR from my emotional vocabulary. But somehow, in my gigantic size 4, I have managed to become the "jolly" girl. Always full of laughs, fun and every once and a while I like to throw out a good joke.

But still, through the laughter, my suppressed tears are causing me an abundance of sorrow. This pain has caused me to serial date, break the 90 day rule, and find a way to only fall in love with those who will never love me back (which I'm not 100% sure that these are all bad things and no I'm not in denial). Now that I am somewhat aware of the problem, although, still not ready to admit it to myself, I should try and figure out a way to fix it.

Move back to North Carolina, you say? Well, that's just impossible. Although I admit, deep within my soul I am a good southern girl, I actually break out into hives when I go back to that place. The people there are married with children, I actually cringe a little bit at the thought of children being in the same room as me, much less, the idea of actually having my own to care for. This would only cause more pain and suffering for other helpless souls.

Believe it or not, I'm tough but fair. I am doing us all a favor.

Not to mention, there's no Starbucks or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Henderson, NC. Come to think of it, there's no coffee shops at all there. No lattes? Perhaps this is why I break out. Oh yea, and I'd have to trade in Bloomingdale's for JC Penny's. Do we even have a JC Penny's in California? What do they carry there? I imagine it as being this place filled with crocks and miserable employees desperately trying to sell a few pairs of last years Prada's and clinique makeup. Or worst, second hand Prada's and cover girl. AHHHH, can you imagine having to live your life in someone else's shoes? Or even wearing the worst make-up on the planet, that they animal test on? The thought of that makes me see how important, enduring this misery is probably the only way to live.

The truth of the matter is this. I'm in love with having a dysfunctional marriage to Los Angeles. And in my eyes, I prefer living in the blue.

Texting

Texting, a fabulous new method of communication or passive aggressive correspondence?

I choose, the latter. Texting is fabulous when you're out with your girlfriends at a club and need to get a quick message to the ladies. However, when you're dating someone, and your only method of communication is texting, there's a problem. I just don't understand how someone can feel like they have a connection with someone that they only text message with.

I mean in true Los Angeles fashion, it's the perfect method for you not to get close to someone. It keeps the distance of cellular airways between you.

Maybe I'm old fashioned. But I just can't build a relationship with someone who simpily will not call me.

Texters need not apply.

Mixed Signals (Part 3) - Am I the Problem?

Dating. It's one of those things, some women are born to do, and, well, the rest of us, just fuck everything up. If you haven't already realized, I'm the type that wasn't born for this. I don't have the nurturing instincts required to keep a man around. I do, however, love sports and am up for doing just about anything outside. And during football season, in my house it's on all day. My favorite summer activity involves, baseball, hot dogs and beer. You'd think that I am a man's "dream girl" but when it all comes down to it, I'm just one of the boys, who happens to have a great rack. Is this a pro or a con though?

Well the reality of it, is that I love who I am. So I'm not going to change, but it does suck when I meet the man of my dreams and manage to muster up the courage to tell him that I'm crazy about him. Then there's dead silence. The moment becomes awkward. Someone must say something. I don't know what to say.

"You know you're my best friend, why would we go and mess that up?"

I want to do is yell, I like being fucked too. I want to make love with someone for hours then wake up in someones arms. But unfortunately, the response I get from that usually begins with 1am text messages from lover boy.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I land a good man who wants to stick around?

Should I become less sporty and more girly. Ew. Not me. I don't do girly.

Perhaps, a loveless future is ahead of me, but at least I know I will die alone knowing I didn't change myself for anyone. Not even this city. The city of devils. Well at least we know it's full of devils.

WEEKLY LESSON - Dating Your Boss is Never a Good Idea

Can you imagine, post company Christmas party, waking up realizing that you're not at home? Fuck, Shit, where am I, how long will it take me to get home? What time is it? Is traffic bad on whatever side of town I'm on?

Then you look over and realize that the man lying in your bed is the super cute Bossman, that you have been crushing on for several months now.

OH MY GOD! I thought he was so freaking cute, adorable, with that super cute meaty athletic type. I knew he had the most inviting personality for me, and all but he is going through that divorce. His Old Lady does call the office often. I believe she may even know my name by now.

And realistically, I work for him... although often I have dreamed about him calling me into his office as if I'm in trouble and bending me over the desk, so that he can administer a spanking.

Back to reality, Bunny.

So as I get out of bed, quietly, in hopes of not waking the Boss. Aspiring for him to forget about last night before he arises. Maybe he had those Vodka Martini's too.

I guess, it probably was not a good idea. Perhaps, I should just call in sick!

To Leave Your Toothbrush?

Upon awaking at your first time lovers house, realizing you're already late for work. Baby, hello, please wake up. I'm late for work and desperately need to brush my teeth before I go... do you have a spare? "Sure, under the sink." my new cutie mumbles as he rolls over. A hushed giggle comes over me as I hurry into the bathroom to freshen up, as best as I can.

Quickly, I rush through the motions of washing off and brushing away. Then, all of a sudden the next question pops into my head, SHIT, do I leave behind or carry away? This is one of the most important decisions one has to make in the beginning of a relationship. And since the majority of my relationships don't go much further than this, I must make sure that I choose appropriately.

The dilemma is this: if I leave the toothbrush behind, I am sending the message that I am in fact planning on returning for another romp. Or wait, does that means that I don't need the toothbrush anymore because I already have one at home. Does taking the toothbrush tell my new lover that I'm not interested in another sleep over. SHIT. I just don't know what to do.

After minutes of deliberating and before I realize that I'll be getting an earful from the boss man the second I arrive, not the mention the fact that I'm going to be wearing the same clothes that I wore for my date last night.

In a moment of pure desperation, I opt for trashing it.

Throughout my hung over, day, I stress about what message I had sent to my gorgeous new beau. I really want to see him again, perhaps I should have just left the toothbrush and if he didn't want to see me again because it scared him away... that would be that. NEXT.

Crap, why isn't it that easy when you're in the heat of the decision making moment?

THEN, OMG, he's calling.

Do I answer? I'm busy at work (or actually still debating whether or not throwing the toothbrush away was the right thing to do). Or do I just click "ignore"? Oh wait, I know what people hit "ignore" because it goes straight to voicemail. No ignore. Stop ringing. I am tired of thinking about it.

I can't listen. AHH. My hands are sweating. I'm a bit out of breath. And I feel like the walls are closing in on me. FUCK. OMG. What am I going to do? Breathe, calm down, relax. The only thing you can do is either go on with your work as if you didn't know that he had called, OR check the message.

I go on with work. Continuing to silently obsess about my date, my night with my date, and my morning of hell, bogged down with choices to make.

Cock in the Hen House

The weirder the guys you meet, the more you learn about what really goes on in the brain of the gents, right? This weekend, while away with my girlfriends, there was a man, he was cute but not gorgeous. Your typical surfer, pot smoking, dude that you would absolutely NEVER bring home to your family. Opted for the GED rather than finishing high school. But who can blame him, in reality, who has time for high school? Patty was his name. He was fun, no real charmer and certainly no winner, but fun non-the-less. Minus the creepiness, he could have been fun to roll around in the sack with. But I can't do this somewhere where the girls will find out about it. First thing in the morning the girls will begin mocking me one over Sunday lattes at our brunch spot.

"Bunny, seriously. You always pick winners."

"At least this time he has a bike."

Yea, busted. I love having a dirty little secrets occasionally. It's fun. No strings attached. Perfect for me and my commitment issues. And it allows me focus solely on my work issues (as I have tons of those). I get all the play I want or need with none of the bullshit.

Oh yea, back to Patty. He picked up one of the girls from the weekend. He even came back to the hotel with Denise. They left the hotel for a romp in the bushes in route to the nearest 7-11 for some late night ciggies.

In the morning, when we all woke up, we were certainly relieved to find that Denise made it home alive and seemingly unscarred.

Patty was gone, for now at least.

After wine tasting since 10am, a few of the girls and I opted to skip the afternoon nap for some mid-day cocktails. At the local watering hole we had carelessly chosen, we run into a far more direful Patty than we had met the night prior. We're drunk. And all I can think is, if we're really mean to him, he'll just go away.

YIKES.

This is decidedly not the answer to the creep alert. I think it made it actually made it worst.

Sunday morning, it's time to head home post our incredibly fun weekend. Everyone was packed and in the car. When suddenly, out of no where, Patty pulls up on his BMX. He's there to ask me if I'll take him snowboarding. Oh God. When did I even tell him that I snowboard? Shit. Did I have that many martini's after the winery tour?

OMG, I'm being stalked, and I don't think anyone knows it. Fuck. What do I do? Ignore him? Pretend I didn't know who he was? Perhaps they all think he's there for Denise. Oh good. Whew. One bullet dodged. But I certainly need to figure out what it is that makes men tick. Because every time that I am 100% positive that something will work, I'm embarrassingly proven wrong.

Single's Ads and Internet Dating

One of my best friend's from High School, CountryGirl, called me this morning at 7:41am. Yes, she's on the east coast, but she's smart enough to know that 7:41am is quite early over here on the west side of the world. Not that she woke me up, because I'm a big ball of energy and I am always up this early, however, let's face it, there are just certain times of the day that aren't appropriate to ring someone.

Anyway, she calls. I pick up "house of beauty this is cutie," I sing this only because this is how we have been answering each others calls since way before caller ID came along.

"Bunny, OMG, I'm getting married! He finally asked me. Can you believe it?"

Mental note to self "you must pay more attention to what other people are saying to you. Listen, when others are speaking. It is NOT all about you Bunny!"

Shit! I didn't even know that she was dating someone and she's telling me "he finally asked me." Clearly this is someone that I should know about. Shit!

"Wow, CountryGirl, this is amazing. I'm so happy for you." Still wondering who the hell it is she's marrying and why I can't for the life of me remember who it is. So I pry, "CountryGirl, I know you've told me this but how long have the two of you been dating?" She replies, "Since August. We met on match.com. Don't you remember, you met him at my Christmas party?"

Wow, it's nice to know that she's marrying someone so memorable.

Back to the reality of the situation. My mind begins going crazy with questions that I know are inappropriate to ask "WHAT? Since August? match.com? I thought match.com is where you went when you were looking go load up your 'sexual partners' list. But people can find hubbies there? Do you think they have a 'rich guys seeking trophy wives' section?"

Ok, I so it happens, people search the personal ads, and meet online, I can realistically understand this concept. We do live in the 21th century... but come on. How do you explain to your kids, "Honey, Mommy and Daddy, met online and got engaged in less than six months? And I didn't think that daddy was actually a serial killer." But then I thought about where I come from. Most people back home are already married with a few kids and probably even one on the way. At least CountryGirl made it through her twenties before marriage. But I still don't get it. SIX MONTHS. Do you think perhaps my loyal friend has been searching and searching for an old man to have and to hold til death do they part and just couldn't find any takers? Fuck, what if I don't even find any takers? Shit. I'm in full panic mode. I can't let this happen. Everyone will start getting married. It's like the old saying "one bad apple spoils the bunch." Quick think of something.

"CountryGirl" I say "We're just not old enough to get married. And I don't want to talk about it anymore. Call me again when there's a date!"

"We're getting married in June! Having a nice small ceremony in town, we'd love for you to come. Can you give me your address so that I can send the invitation?"

Wow. I ponder to myself, "Are we old enough to get married?" Quite frankly, the idea of being with only one man for the rest of my life scares the shit out of me. I'm a city girl now, we simply just don't get married.

I guess, the only thing I can say about the situation is this: Thank goodness she didn't ask me to be in the wedding. I should surprise myself with a nice pair of Manolo's for the money I just saved!

Self Help - Commitaphobia Intervention

With my new found self diaganosis that I am in fact a commitaphobe and *I* am the problem in the majority of my relationships (and with everything else in my life, including but not limited to, work contracts, rental contracts, pretty much anything that requires some sort of commitment to), I have decided to seek help. Due to the fact that my current employer feels that I should be poor while I'm young (hence the lack of Manolos in my life), I can't afford to go see a certified psychologist. So I will have to put my BA in Psychology to work (finally that degree is doing something for me), and began weeding through all of the infomation I can get and provide myself with a bit of self help.

Through my search, I have found a wealth of knowledge about dating. First, let me start by saying, there is some WEIRD shit out there on the world wide web. Perhaps, one of the craziest things that I've found is a website dedicated to it's loyal readers of single, down on their luck (with women), men who can not seem to land a woman. Below are a handful of "lessons" that should either make you laugh at the thought of someone being so desparate that they need this site, or cringe because your mama never taught these things to you:

1) Learn to strike up a conversation.

Seriously, if there is a man out there that doesn't know that you have to strike up a conversation with a woman in order to begin a relationship with her, then I hope they won't practice on me.

2) Avoid asking single women out on a Friday or Saturday night.

Ok, if I don't know you, you get weeknights, Monday or Tuesday probably. If I know you and think you're ok, you could manage to swing a Wednesday or Thursday. My best friends, and men that I'm having sex with get Friday and Saturday nights. That's the rule. Everyone human out of college should know this rule.

3) You should only unsuccessfully ask a girl out three times.

If I like you, I will say yes (or offer another date if they one you have choosen doesn't work). If I don't I will say no. Once will do.

4) Have every detail of the date planned, but make it seem spontaneous.

I don't like spontaneity on first dates, or 10th dates. When you're taking me out, make reservations, pick the restaurant, and have alternatives. The more you think about, the more it's apparent that you like me.

And for good measure I'm going to add one more rediculous dating tip that you guys are getting off the web.

5) Convince the girl that she is more interested in you, than you are in her.

Wait a minute, you're absolutely suppose to be smitten over me. I will except nothing less. Bunny, is a self lover, not a self loather and in the end isn't that what you're looking for?

So my point here, the reason it seems like no one can get it right, is because men are learning from men who by the way are quite clueless. My problem with commiting is this: My needs are clearly just not being met! So be a man. Talk to me, make the plans for our dates ahead of time, be decisive, and love me first.

Serial Dating

It's a game we like to play in this town. We like to date and date, in order to not become attached to anyone. This sport, keeps us from ever falling in love. Protecting our fragile little hearts from feeling any fraction of pain. Also, this keeps our egos in tact. We continue to be the people that we always thought and knew we were!

The question is, if we keep ourselves from falling, what happens when we meet our one? That is, if "the one" exists.

Well I have met mine. If there's truly a person for everyone then I know mine. He's fabulous. He makes my heart flutter, my palms sweat, I get so nervous I can barely put an entire sentence together. So what next? For me, RUN. Run as fast and as far as you can. Go quickly. Be mean, make him hate you. Oh yea, and date as many jerkoffs as you can (and make sure that he finds out about it) so that you can push him further and further away. Then, of course, send the occasional drunk text message or when you're really drunk and away with an incredible power couple, you even call a time or ten.

Ok, if you haven't already noticed, I am a bit OCD. Almost to a point where I should actually seek help. And after learning that men really are from Mars and women really are from Venus, and nothing we do will ever make sense to the opposite sex. I realized, perhaps, I am wacky when it comes to dating and nothing will ever be easy in that department for me. But let's look at the facts.

Everyone in LA does it, this serial dating thing. Well at least, that's what I think in my mind. And no one really wants to commit. I mean, why would you want to commit when there are so many options in a single city. So many hotties that turn their heads and stare when you walk by.

Ok, perhaps, it's time to sit down and realize the truth about serial dating. According to everyone else in the world, most notably Jason, mine and Bella's one time encounter in Big Bear, being single sucks. I mean seriously, does it really? Is it so bad being able to do whatever you want whenever you want and not have to call someone and tell them what you are doing.

Is it really so bad when you meet someone who makes you melt when you hear his soft sexy voice in the southern accent that you so adore (but only on this man). "Hi B," he says to me. My heart crumbles into my tummy. My palms get sweaty. I get a little teary eyed (OMG, don't tell ANYONE that I can actually get teary eyed). This man makes me a little crazy, in a good way. But why do I persistantly run. I've ran so far and for so long, I'm pretty sure, he may be gone forever.

If he's one in a million, there's bound to be many more right?

Loner Drunk

You know your life has started to spiral downward when you wake up with a terrible headache, water is the only word you can manage to mumble, and you can barely remember the details of last night. The one thing you do know, is you didn't accidentally sleep with some unassuming young stallion, because your night of debauchery began and ended at home with a single glass of wine with your dinner for one. Yes, drinking on the couch, alone. The glass turned into a bottle and had you not been so drunk you could barely walk to the bathroom once you "broke the seal," you would have stumbled to the liquor store for another bottle.

Last night, this depressing person was me. I was not depressed, or upset about anything. I just started and couldn't stop. The despairing part of this story is that nothing fun or interesting came of it. I suffered all morning for nothing actually. And being that it was a Tuesday night, there was nothing interesting on television either. I entertainmented** myself with an episode of WHAT ABOUT BRIAN and WITHOUT A TRACE. It's interesting how satisfying it is to watch someone else surrounded by people and enjoying what life is really about. Wild, unattached, sex.

**Defined by Pete's dictionary: entertained by (lowbrow, pop culture) entertainment.

Grown Up Mean Girls

Work. This is a place that we go to become miserable. No matter how much we loved what we did on our first day, by the 90th, it's fun no more.

My first day at the new company, began with me saying how fabulous the energy was in the office. The girls included me in everything, they set me up on dates, included me in their daily lunches discussions, and for the most part, we were putting on makeup and braiding each others hair.

Then of course, as time goes by, it slowly goes from this blissful place of employment to living hell. I just don't know what it is that happens to people when you get to know them. The truth of the matter is that in the real world, it seems, as if people just don't like other people. It's not me or something I said or did, or even the fact that sometimes I don't wear deodorant.

This persistent problem in modern society is caused by Narcissism. No one in this town can actually begin to think about what the cause/effect of their actions will do to the rest of the world because they don't possess the ability to even think about anyone other than themselves. As a matter of fact, considering, that we are in the business of providing fun, fearless, entertainment as a method of escapism, bringing people together for to enjoy a night in watching our favs such as Grey's Anatomy, Heroes, 24, etc and for a fun date night to the theater. Our jobs are to supply everyone else in the world fun. This may not seem like it's saving lives, but in reality, when you're in the middle of that dreaded notes session or screening, and you realize someone forgot to tell the director that we were having this meeting. It hits you like a ton of bricks. THIS IS LIFE THREATENING. IT MAY ACTUALLY KILL SOMEONE TO MISS A MEETING. Ok, in reality, no one dies from missing work. But for some reason people around here just don't get it. It's egotistical. And for the most part since the majority of the people working in this business were actually the last person picked for every kick ball team they played on, missing a meeting means this to them: WE DON'T LIKE YOU ENOUGH TO INCLUDE YOU. Or one of my favorites: YOU'RE WORK ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU TO BE INVITED.

The bottom line here is. It truly is only about me. That is how people around here feel. And if you are a threat to them, or don't like the guy they try to set you up with (and by the way are up front enough to let the guy know that you aren't that interested) or if you don't like their script, suddenly you're blackballed.

What exactly does it mean when "you're blackballed?" According to my favorite resource, www.dictionary.com, it means: A negative vote, especially one that blocks the admission of an applicant to an organization.

More importantly, the problem is worsened when you it is women working together, they are nice one day, then you realize that you have a knife sticking out of your back. They talk shit behind your back, belittling you. Accusing you of not being good enough. When in actuality the real problem is that these grown up mean girls are actually more concern with their very own lack inability to get the job done, that they must push you out. Put the other women down.

Ladies, this is why we haven't had a President of the United States yet. This is why we keep complaining that we haven't risen far beyond our boundaries. We must come together rather than alienating ourselves. Think twice before you put someone else down or even just act like they aren't quite as good as you are. Because the reality of it is this: usually when you treat someone as if they aren't quite as good as you, it's typically the other way around!

Mixed Signals (Part 2) - Forgotten Phone Numbers

Ok, remember the old man who was sending the mixed signals. Yea, Jimmy Cho, I call him.

So I bump into Jimmy at the bookstore yesterday and the oddest thing comes out of his mouth "I have been wanting to call you, but I lost your number." Ok seriously, the days of losing numbers ended around the time that we all started carrying cellular telephones and has become especially difficult since the blackberry craze began. So not only is this man a liar, but he's not even a good liar.

Well, now, because of the severe case of mental vancer that I have I will begin analyzing here:

Jimmy, takes her on a fun hiking trip. Decides not to like her anymore, but due to her fabulous since of humor and great personality (not to mention how lovely I am to look at), he knew that the possiblity of him actually not calling her again was almost impossible. Jimmy deletes this delicious young woman's phone number out of his phone to prevent any accidential dials. Then proceeds as if he had never met her. (Insert pouty face here).

When he took the call while out of town, he didn't know who it was calling. Makes complete since right. So, the question still remains: why would he tell her that he misses her AND wants to see her again? Truth be known, this was probably accurate, however, for reasons beyond my understanding, he didn't want to see her. THEN, upon bumping into her, tell her that he "lost her phone number." Why not just say hi and finish his shopping. Why is it, that when it comes to men, that NOTHING makes since.

And for Jimmy all I have to say to him is "SCAREDY CAT." Meow.

Jaded Hearts and Wacky Eating Disorders

Lola, our broken hearted temptress, has been officially diagnosed with an urban eating disorder. An urban eating disorder is onset by one's geological location, particularly one who resides in a area densely populated by models and actress' (aka career Bulimics).

Symptoms:

Last night for dinner she ate popcorn, a spoonful of peanut butter, then at 10:30 she finished off what was left of a Tony's frozen pizza. That's not so bad right. Our patient is eating. However, after becoming so guilt-ridden Lola scrambled to the medicine cabinet to devour 3 laxatives.

Rumble, Rumble.

And today, she wants to have MacDonald's for lunch.

Lousy Lay

Think about it. You wait for a man. You let him court you. During this time of course you want to bang him out just as much as he wants to. Then, the day comes. You hit it. And it's the most miserable 5 (maybe less, you know when something is painfully bad, it seems like it lasts much longer than it was in reality) minutes of your time together. He sucks in bed. His penis is a bit on the "small" side. What do you do?

First and foremost, DON'T EVER play on the home field. This is one rule that you should ABSOLUTELY, without a shadow of doubt never ever ever break. When you're playing on the home field you can't get up, go to the bathroom, compose yourself, walk back into your room and say "baby, I need you to go home now." But think about it, if you're at his house you can just slip out. You don't even have to say anything. Just leave. And hope like hell that he doesn't call you a million times to find out what happened to you. Hopefully, he'll know what has happened. I'm sure that his sorry ass has probably done it to some unassuming woman a time or two.

It finally happens. I do it with Happy, and Happy wasn't so happy in bed. Or maybe, Happy was too happy.

I thought men got better with age.

This is no small sexual upset, I'm telling you it was miserable. He's not a passionate lover, he's selfish, and what makes it even worse was that the poor man was terribly uncoordinated. You know even men who don't love you can still be passionate. They can touch you, lick you in ways that make you think of them for hours, days, and sometimes even months afterwards. Sometimes, it's the one night stand that you compare all of your future lovers to, the man that was with you for only a few hours, that does it to you in a way that will make you never forget.

Happy, perhaps you should spend less time trying to conquer every woman in the city of Los Angeles, and more time sleeping with one woman who can actually teach you something. You lack most of the skills needed to make you a lover anyone that I know would want to come back to.

Thank goodness he didn't call me the next day.

Counterfeit Dating

"Her name was LOLA, she was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there" it seemed like she was dating Big P, but in reality, he said she he truly valued her as a friend if they dated it may end. And he'd been sad without her.

Lola, a stunning woman, as all of the fluffs are smoking hot. She met a man. This is no typical man, as he make her body tingle, her veeje ache and sometimes when she is alone thinking of this man, she could even see herself having his babies. Ew. Babies.

When a woman begins thinking about having a baby with a man you know that she's completely smitten. Babies are the thing of the past. There was a time, when making love, having babies, and getting married was the hip thing to do. We're going back to our biological roots.

Back to Lola and Big P, they are friends. Close friends, but not friends with benefits, except for that one time after day drinking during the World Cup. Viva Italiana.

Shortly following their sexual encourter, fo boyfriend, Big P explains to his BFF that the reason this lovely experience can never happen again is because she is much too important to him.

Wait, I want to say that again. A man turned down sex because a woman is "much too important to him."

He's afraid that he will fuck everything up, if they enter into type of committed relationship (or even share a fuck every once in a while).

Still, P man cooks dinner for her, he offers to take her on great snowboarding trips, they fake couple grocery shop together. They watch TV together. He takes her mattress shopping (yes, you heard me right) and like every good man, our loverboy even asks for her permission to help an old lady move, watch football alone, and play poker with his buddies.

Lola, also, is his date everywhere, dinner parties, picnics, work events, they are together everywhere, except when he travels to Atlanta where there is another women (who he openly admits to), this is the woman I suppose he's not afraid to mess it up with.

Like every good man, our loverboy even asks for her permission to do anything.

Lola is "his one." The one that he would marry if he wasn't like every other man in the world and so incredibly non-commital.

Is this the new TRUE HOLLYWOOD LOVE STORY? My fear, is the best man in our dear lives will actually be this counterfeit boyfriend. That the men in our city are so fucked up, that the only way they can commit is by not sleeping with us at all.

Jimmy Choo in the Bookstore

Women have hormones and instints, we get emotional after sex, know when our man is cheating on us, etc. Well, men have something similar. We'll call it the "mantuition."

Defined by Bunny's dictionary: MANTUITION: when a penis bearing human can sense that their last female has engaged in sexual activities with another man.

Classic example:

Last night, I slept with a new man. A fabulous man. Not one I see forever for, but one I hope will be around another month or so.

THEN, OF COURSE, fate be with thou:

Today, at lunch, I run into the shoe man. No, not in the Neiman Marcus women's shoe department. He was walking into THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER, as I was turning the corner.

Freud had it all wrong, it's actually "vagina envy."

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Women are not well equiped with the brain function that allows us to let relationships just be what they are. We suffer from accute neurosis. It's true, all of us do. The housewives, business women, feminist... every woman.

For the majority of my life I have lived believing that I am truly suffering from a terrible psychological disorder. OCD, is what I thought it was for a long time, until recently, when I discovered that I am not OCD. I actually suffer from an epidemic called mental vancer, onset by the bodily hormone called estrogen.

I embrace being of the species that carries this hormore, because this makes me and all of the other vancer patients smarter than the non-estro breed. However, you'd think by now, science would have found a way to make this genotype less concerned about analyzing male behavior patterns and more distressed about female job advancement.

The point, we as the people from Venus, have the problem of always debating whether or not the men in our lives are really that into us. For instance, sometimes we are hanging out with a man who likes playing kissy face with us, but rarely puts in a mid-week phone call. Does this mean that for this person, we're just a piece of ass? What about when he calls 4 or 5 times a day, does this mean that he's madly in love with me, or just desparate for a piece, any piece?

None of it makes since. Why can't it just be as easy as, I like you, do you like me back? Please check yes or no. I mean, I think that we had it right third grade when we passed stupid notes around. At least then we knew what we were up against. Now, dating is clouded with sex, emotions, and a clear failure to communicate.

Now that we're realized that it's not so easy, us women are STILL, years later, pulling the petals from our daisies wondering, "love me, love me not?"

Please, help save the daisies. Send a nice electronic note (as we're trying to save trees too).

Dinner and A Movie - A Dating Survival Tip

NEW FLASH BOYS:

We don't like to pick the place and we don't want to make reservations. So if you really want to go out with us. Just pick something.

It's quite lovely when all we have to do is look pretty.

(NOTE: this will obviously change once the status goes from "dating" to "relationship" then of course we'll make all of the discissions.)

Friday Nights With the Fluffs

In a big city, that is known for it's dating misfortunes, women have learned a way around lonely Friday nights, with the CBS Friday night line up, GHOST WHISPERER, CLOSER TO HOME and NUMB3RS being their only means of contact with the outside world from Friday night to Monday morning.

We have invented the night that we truly long for once a week. The night that surpasses any night of the week, filled with fun, flirty, females, looking for an enjoyable evening. Therefore, no boys allowed! Most of you call it girls night... but the broads I see on Friday nights have become much more than that to me. JuJu Fluff, has been in my life for a good four years now. She introduced me to RollerGirl Fluff, and Roller Girl introduced me to me to GiGi Fluff.

Now, we've become the Fluff sisters.

We share weekly bonding sessions, over good food, good wine, and bestow upon each other each weeks little secrets. (And sometimes, we share our chatter with the boys, bartender, hostess', and waitress' around us. This happens only after a few too many glasses of vino (or Vodka Cranberry, splash of Pineapple Juice for Roller Girl)).

These beautiful, successful, blissful women, have made being a single dame in the LA possible for me. Even though two of them have hot sexy hunks in their lives, and the other has a "special friend," that I don't approve of, but that's a story for another day.

My point of this story is in reference to my earlier rant about Jason from Redlands saying that my single, professional life is "sad." My life is not sad. I have these amazing people in my life. This LA family that I have formed is what makes me happy. With this group of ladies, I don't have the everyday relationship concerns that having men in my life provides. I don't have to worry about what I'm going to wear, when is the appropriate time to engage in sexual activities with them, or if they'll ever call me again. This makes my life so incredibly easy now. I get all of the emotional, and professional support that is necessary, and none of the daily bullshit.

As for my sexual needs, I have all of the appropriate mechanical devices that support this particular desire.

And concerning the rest of my life (work, play, outdoor activities, etc), there are no distractions. Only simply pleasures.

WEEKLY LESSON - Nothing is ever finished

This weeks lesson is "Nothing Is Ever Finished."

All men come back. This is something that I have always known and always believed. I bring up this law of universal energy because "nothing in our lives is final, or ever finished." This lesson is also applied to cleaning my room, my reading pile, and of course, my never ending schedule of events.

The reality of this lesson:

As all men come back, my reading pile will always be out of control, and my room will never permenantly be clean, nothing is ever final. When I clean my room, I know I will one day very soon have to clean it again. When I read a script, I know that more scripts will be added to this pile. No dent will ever be made. And I am certain that every relationship gets one more chance.

Therefore, we should never mourn the end of anything. Rather, let's rejoice!

Last Week's WEEKLY LESSON - The Power of Positive Thinking

Last week's lesson was "The Power Of Positive Thinking."

I came to the profound realization, that nothing we do in our present lives will EVER change our past. Therefore, in order to make the best life for myself, moving forward, I absolutely MUST think positive.

The reality of this lesson:

The day after adopting this new profound look on life, I was wondering around the office all day thinking about nothing but chocolate, chocolate chip cookies. Upon my discovery, only hours later, there was an entire tray of chocolate, chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen waiting to be devored by my growling tummy!

I not only thought cookies right into the kitchen, but I thought the exact cookie that I wanted into the kitchen.

Now imagine what I could do about my job situation, with simply installing this new thought process into my daily life.

Fo Best Friend

You know the story, we're young, professional, single, no family and willing to cut your friends throat to get somewhere in this world. Well, some of us are, unfortunately (but fortunately), I was born without the cut throat mentality. But some of my more careless girlfriends are capable of truly whipping out the sword and slitting the innocent throats of those they pretend to care about. With women, especially, this happens in both work situation and situations involving the opposite sex.

Keep your friends close, but keep your frenemies, closer.

Here she is, my best friend. The one that I truly believe is the only living person on the planet who absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, has my back. Well, now, I'm positive that this is no longer the case. I have a real life "Fo Best Friend" and she comes in the form of someone who I've been friends with for many many years. We have shared ups and downs in our business and personal lives. We have played together, shared together and fought together. We have lived with fumming hearts and lived as a team. But yet, I have learned that this woman is artificially part of my life. She only wants something from me. Somthing of which I have not yet put my finger on, but this woman has taken things from me that I cherish.

I was crazy about a man. He was perfect for me and for the first time I had found someone who truly shares the same interests as me. He loves to lie in the sun and shoe shop, ok for the sake of the accused, I'm keeping the interests annomous, but we love this man and myself truly love doing many of the same things.

Fo Friend adviced, as to how to proceed with this relationship, however, I have my own way of doing things. So I followed my heart. I did what I thought was right.

And for a few minutes, he was crazy about me. We were "dating" and going to do more together and see more of each other. But all of a sudden, he dropped off the face of the earth. Oh well! Remember my moto "the only four letter word in Hollywood is NEXT."

In the end, I didn't mess up. In business, we learn that nothing that happens to us, is truly about us. It generally is about an insecurity within someone else. This was the case in this relationship. Some insecurity was brought out. Be it that I didn't have the same taste in shoes as him, or he was simply afraid to make a commitment beyond the one that we had. (Although I'm commaphobic enough to not push any titles on anyone). Something happened, and interest (on both parties) was lost.

I was actually quite ok with that, UNTIL, I found out that this friend, who vowed not to become involved, was NOW actually involved. The problem with her involvement is that she was not involved on my team.

She was right, no involvement would have been better than stabbing me in the back and taking his side, when, to let the truth be known, she only knows one side of the story.

So what does she want from me. Why stab me in the back?

The lesson: People sometimes unbeknowst of themselves, take sides, and talk shit about people for no good reason. Just because they want to. But in reality, the unconscious choices that we make, hurt all parties involved. Including the man that has lost out on an amazing woman such as myself.

Single in the City

Single, professional, hot, women. That's the hip thing to be in the LA, until of course the word "older" gets thrown into that sentence.

The other day, Bella and I were snowboarding, and we met a man. Jason, he's 28, from Redlands (I have no idea where that actually is, all I know is that it's NOT in Los Angeles county), a snowboarding instructor, and he's super nice. Ironically, this is the first person we have ever met on the mountain. We're riding the lift up with our new found friend and he says, "you girls must be the "typical" LA girls, single, professional, "OLDER" women." First and foremost, let's start by saying WE'RE NOT OLDER. We're young, single, professional women.

But on to the point: Jason, ends by saying "it's really sad, that you guys are living the "professional" life.

What makes my life sad?

Is my life sad, just because I don't have a boyfriend and/or family?

I don't think so. These are my freedom years.

My fluff's* are my LA family. As a matter of fact, I don't trust any man other than my father. So why should I set myself up for disappointment, because someone from Redlands said my life is sad. But, now I'm extremely obsessed with the thought of having a "sad" life. I thought that I have a fabulous life here in the city, where anything that I want or need will always be at my finger tips. And there is all sorts of outdoorsy stuff to do, snowboarding, mountain biking, soccer games, and a daily spanish lesson.

And for the record, I'M NOT OLD!



*This title is credited to someone else, but due to the fact that this blog is completely annonomous, and completely fictional. No real names are ever supplied.

Mixed signals - Anatomy of a Hookup

The boy calls and calls 5 or 6 times a day (this is not including text messages). The girl gets annoyed but actually begins to enjoy the extra attention.

Time goes on. The boy conquers. Beds up with beautiful young woman.

He obliges her, by calling for and taking her on one more date. The calls stop.

However, she thinks to herself... Did I do something? Did I send mixed signals?

She calls. Reaches out. He says "I've missed you, can I see you when I return?" "Of course" she says relunctantly "I would like that."

The gorgeous, much younger than he, woman, truly believes that she was in the wrong, decides to text message, once more, in order to reassure her lover that she is indeed very interested in him. "Welcome home, I hope you have a great day."

"Thx" he responds.

Bunny's Rant begins here:

Now that you know this tragic (for him) hollywood hook up story, my question for you is: Why the hell would you even pick up your phone if you truly were not interested in seeing this woman again?

I understand perfectly that you boys truly ONLY love us because of the tight wet pleasure that we can offer you, however, why would you guys insist on continuously leading us on. You do know that we are working in cooporate America now, some of us are your boss' and most of us are smarter than you. We can take it if you just want one roll in the hay with us. If we call, it's because of our own insecurities, and basically has almost nothing to do with you. So get over yourselves fellas, and don't buy into the fact that we really care about you just because we give it up one night. We like sex too.

And guess what, we like the attention you boys give us, however, there's something that you really should know: We're going to get the attention whether it's from you or someone else.

Bella's Road to Recovery - A woman's guide to love, sex, and marriage (with a gay man)

Bella, my BFF, as we like to call it out here in the big city of Los Angeles, is going through some turbulant times.

Often, she falls for a man who very generously shares his life with her by laughing at her jokes, spending precious time with her (long walks on the beach, etc), and regularly tells her how fabulous her shoes are. Ok, why is this terrible, why would Bella need to recover from constantly falling for men who sound so perfect?

Well, honestly when you think about it closely, you can see where the problem lies. It's in her shoes. When a man tells you that you have great shoes, it typically means that "he's not that into you" or actually the better way to describe it would be "he's not really that into your vagina." He is more than happy to accommodate your every emotional need, but unfortunatly, not your physical ones.

By the way, the gay man, is truly the only example of the perfect human being. They come equiped with sensitive feelings and emotions, while lacking the "cut the other woman's head off" intuition. They don't size us up, they only tell us the truth. They tell us when something (fashionable) doesn't work, when our shoes are out of style, and offer us the best relationship advice. In fact, these boys understand the way love and relationships really work (Except of course, their own, because we all know that no one understands their own relationships. Not even the experts.)

Two types of men fall for her: the valet at every bar, club or resturant that she visits, or men who first meet her when she's in her scrubs (not the doctor scrubs, this is a term meant to discribe her workout or moving clothing).

Then of course, there's the relationships that she so lavishly adores:

The relationships that habitually begin with a man complamenting her wardrobe or her quick wit and sharp tongue. These are things commonly imply that the man with the flirty remarks, is not in fact, hitting on you. He is just telling you his thoughts. (side bar: this is a trait that straight men lack, saying the truth about his feelings aloud in mixed company. Straight men typically flirt by saying "you're hot" or "sexy girl" or something that sounds like it should come out of the mouth of a 16 year old.)

There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Recovery begins with "realization of the problem." This is the first step for all addicts.

Then, she seeks therapy and as prescribed:

Bella sets out to date a straight man. Simple enough.

She finds one rather quickly, and we'll call him "The Salsa Dancer." Don't fret because he has the word "dancer" in his name, this latin lover is quite the straight man. He's handsome, flirtatous, and a rock solid salsa dancer (which is important to Bella, but not manditory).

They flirt and tease each other on the dance floor. But then, (like most men) he doesn't call. His emails seem completely uninterested.

What is poor Bella to do? Now that she's actually dating straight men, she's learning how terribly flakey these playboys are and most importantly how jaded and fucked up they all are.

Now's she's going to need therapy for her therapy!

Ex Factor

Love either exists on a deeply profound level in which I have not yet grasped, or not at all.

My general rule for one nights stands, causal sex encounters, and even relationships, is this: ALL MEN come back. It may not happen in a week, or a month, or even a year, but eventually, they come back. What causes this phenomenon, I am not yet certain of, however, be assured that it does happen. It could be they date and date, then realize that no one is quite as good as you were, or perhaps, they never stopped thinking us and finally get the balls to call, or something strikes a memory from the "good old days."

Well, imagine my surprise when 5 months ago, an old flame returned to my life. He shows up, takes me to, what I thought was just a friendly meal. Cut to: The "walk me to the door" moment, the realization hit me, I am indeed being pushed back into the enemy territory. He likes me. Shit. Fuck. What the hell am I going to do?

I have this fabulous (who turned out to be not so fabulous), man that I've just started seeing and now this man (the EX man) shows up at my door, ready to wisk me off of my feet. UGH. Of course, this is how it typically happens.

Fast forward: 3 months.

After deciding to try and make this second chance work, even post him not calling for two weeks over Christmas, nothing at New Years and no plans to see each other for 3 months. Here we are, meeting up in Sin City for a weekend. He's made plans for dinners and shows... and he seems to be excited to see me.

It was a disaster.

I ended it.

But remember "the golden rule," THEY ALWAYS COME BACK.

It's been one week and one day since I broke it off. Heard him say, "this could never work, we're too far away from each other." And now he's calling again. To be my friend.

I don't want to be friends right now. I want to be left alone. In silence. For me to sleep with random men, just because I'm angry and hurt. I'm hurt because I let you do it to me again. I'm mad at me.

Ok, ranting done!

The French Girl

Today, I woke up in a panic. A small little rat is racing around my room. I thought for sure, that if I found a rat running around the room, I would never be THAT WOMAN. The woman who thrusts herself onto something with the goal of getting as far away from the little mouse as possible. But, it was me. I became in an instant the exact cliche that I feared I would eventually become.

The irony of this story is, once I actually woke up, and realized that there was actually no rodent racing around my room. It was in fact, an incoming text message. A text message from an old flame of mine. He's cute, successful, and tons of fun. It was a small heart break to give him up, but remember, the only four letter word in this town is "NEXT." Anyhow, this fantastic man (barring a few minor details that could be better), is now texting me again. HOW EXCITING.

Here I am at 5:30am basking myself, full of joy and happiness, that is until I actually read the text.

"I just met a beautiful French woman who looks just like you. I hope you are well...."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

I don't care who you have met or are meeting. Or much less do I want to have the visual of you boning another me. There is no "other me." I'm the only one in this story. Tis' me who is the main character. No French hoochie mama, actress wanna be. Ok, perhaps, I'm overwelmed with one of the deadly sins... JEALOUSY. But hey let's face, who else could be as fabulous as me?

I would have prefered the rodent playing basking in my dirty laundry.

The 90 day rule

Ok, we have all heard of THE RULES and the more popular book HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU. These books offer nothing but the absolute WORST dating advice ever. I, the incredibly talented, strong, confident woman that I am, will admit to reading them, and in some cases even following these "rules," and totally ruined some of the best relationships that I could have potentially been involved in. You know girls, sometimes, it just happens, you sleep with a man, and he doesn't call. But us broads are actually, sometimes, just as guilty of being the relationship terminator. And believe it or not, I think, gentlemen, may actually have feelings too. Sometimes, I, in fact, don't know who stopped calling who after a passionate love fest.

SIDE BAR: I don't actually call men, EVER, not because this is one of "THE RULES" that I actually always abid by, but because, I hate talking on the phone.

The point here is, perhaps, in some cases, I was actually responsible for being the post sex quiter. Women are allowed to be the "one night stand" shot caller. Sometimes, we don't have to wait to have sex with a man. If he is indeed worth our time, he will want to call after sex. If not, oh well, another one bites the dust. My question here is this, why is that we women think that it's not ok to "sleep around?"

I know, you fellas out there are thinking, HELL YEA, preach it girl. But this is not about you. That's what the lovely ladies' problem is: we can't do something completely satisfying for ourselves. If we do, we are not only judged by YOU fellas, but we are also judged by our peers, the women that are suppose to stand beside us, walk with us, understand us, and most importantly the people in our lives that can only make us stronger.

So, my point... A very close girlfriend of mine pointed out that she doesn't sleep with a man until 90 days has passed. My thoughts, at first, WOW, this girl has got it right. But after having the chance to process this thought, I realized, that this is the exact attitude that continuously makes us secrataries rather than, presidents. We can not continue to look at ourselves as someone who has to "play the game" in order to get them to like us. Wake up gals, it's not about THEM, it is indeed, ABOUT US.

True Religion

The truth about religion is a tough one to wrap your brain around, unless you look at it literally.

According to my new found favorite website www.dictionary.com, religion is: a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, esp. when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.

Ok, now that we are all in understanding as to the "actual" definition of the word is, let me explain to you what the "literal or Los Angeles" sense of the word means.

Some of you are thinking that the Religious divide is between the Christian or Western world, if you will, and the Muslim or Middle Eastern world. However, this is infact, not the case. Here in the biggest melting pot in the world, Los Angeles, we know the truth about spirituality. We know that true creed, is all about what we wear (and in some cases what we drive). And for us big city folks, our diety is denim!

This ritual, is now being taken over by the people from Mars. That means that MEN are moving into our jeans. And by saying that I don't mean "getting lucky" or "hitting it" or "taking off our jeans," I mean dudes all over the world are enjoying our pants ladies. The lovely, soft, already well worn dungarees are overworked by the "hunters and gathers." First, it's our jeans and before long, these people will be wearing our shoes.

Poker Face

I'm a good southern girl, with good southern morals. So when I up and moved to Los Angeles, as only you can imagine, the dating learning curve has been quite steep for a "good" girl such as myself. No one explained to me the horrific truths about courting in this sesspool of beautiful, undernurished, walking imbeciles. But of course, I, being the trail blazer that I am, have put on my poker face, headed into the big city, and managed figure out a way to make it a bit easier for you men out there...

Here are some good old fashioned lessons that I believe all of the devils living in the city of Angels should know:

1) Fellows, being intimidated by us is absolutely NOT an excuse not after 30. If you don't know, it's ok to ask.
2) Rumor has it, that you guys don't like being chased. Well, news flash, women, don't like chasing men. So don't make us. If you like us, call us. If you don't call us, make it clear that you just want to be friends.
3) Even if we are smoking hot, and perhaps in reality the most beautiful woman you have ever seen, we still want to hear you say it.
4) Love is something that a lot of women don't believe in anymore. It is most definitely because of you guys. Restore our faith.
5) We like flowers, but we love waking up in your arms.
6) And if you're going to call us the next day, make sure it's because you want to, not because you feel like you have to!

Crossdressing for dummies

Crossdressing. It makes you powerful, playboys, feel like men huh? Well, remember that next time you decide to let us in on your little "fantasies" that when you fuck us over, we will tell ALL of our friends. So, if you don't want us to send out the "all company" email, either don't share your dirty little secrets, hide the extra large women's clothes that you harbor in your closet, OR just call the next day. You guys, say that we're the emotional ones, but as soon as your buddy you share a cubicle with starts ignoring you in the office, because he's afraid that you're really gay, and you start crying about how shitty we are... remember how logical it all really is.

To make it perfectly clear I have made an outline:

1) Don't tell me that you can ONLY get off when wearing women's clothes.
2) Hide the extra large clothes that are in your closet. (we know if you are in bed with a size 4 tonight, that you are ABSOLUTELY NOT in bed with a size 14 tomorrow night).

OR

3) Just call us the next day.

So, for all of you women wanna bes, it's simple. Don't fuck us, and we won't fuck you. Literally!