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.