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.