What Do You Do for Fun?

Dear Saturday Night,

I hate this question. “What do you do for fun?”

Yoga? No, too impatient.

Hiking? Haven’t in about two years. Haven’t been in the mood.

Sports? Please. I couldn’t catch a ball to save my life. No coordination.

Painting? I actually wanted to pursue this, but Jameth the roommate said I’m too messy to keep an easel in the living room. So there went that idea.

Restaurants? I’m broke and have an eating disorder.

Travel? Yes, but broke.

Museums? I don’t know, I hop from exhibit to exhibit not really absorbing anything in particular. Maybe I’m just not smart enough.

Surfing? Want to teach me?

Photography? Do selfies and screenshots count?

Shopping? See my On the Brink of 30 & Broke post. Also can’t stand on trying clothes.

Theater? Just really not in the mood to sit through a musical.

Skateboarding? Please see sports.

Cooking? I’m scared of ovens and heat the clean up. I’ll eat the food though.

Going to the beach? My gosh, I’ve found one!

What is fun? By day I run, make smoothies that have spinach in them and cater to the darlings of the healthcare field. By night, I turn into a vodka consuming brat who attempts to churn out snippets that will give someone a good chuckle.

So there. What do you do for fun?

Another $400 Down the Tub. Literally.

I dropped my cell phone in the tub. It’s all Miguelita’s fault. I was FaceTiming her after a really long day of medical related stuff. As in organizing a brochure for a physician or scheduling a referral dinner. Very stupidly, I perched my phone on the corner of the tub so I could face her as laid on my stomach sipping my cocktail of vodka, club soda, and frozen fruit. Yes, frozen fruit in my drinks is a new thing. Try it- it’s utterly refreshing and delicious.

I was recounting the sheer drudgery of my day that just completely required a half frozen drink. Now keep in mind, I had already popped a sleeping pill and one xanax, so the only thing I was in the condition to do was lay submerged in this tub or in a bed.

And all the sudden, as Miguelita was saying something that is now completely unimportant to me, it happened in slow motion. The phone slipped from the little shelf in the tub and splashed into the water. My life flashed before my eyes. After all, my phone is the portal to my pitiful existence.

Like a mother going to save her drowning child, I reached into the soapy water to retrieve my phone. The screen was still in tact as I could see Miguelita’s face and movements crystal clear.

“OHMIGODIJUSTDROPPEDMYPHONE!” I yelled at the screen. I saw Miguelita’s face fall as obviously, this is a really shitty thing to happen. She was saying something but I couldn’t hear anything. Oh god, dropping a phone in water really isn’t good. I’ve heard the horror stories but had yet to experience it for myself. It’s 2017 and they can’t even create a phone that isn’t destroyed by some measly water? So rude.

“JAMETH!” I yelled as I jumped out of the tub and flew into the living room, dripping wet and naked. This is not a big deal as we parade around the apartment naked pretty much all times.

“Jayden, what the hell did you do now?” she yelled from the kitchen, where she was probably sautéing onions and broccoli as to accompany her carefully prepared avocado toast.

“I drowned my phone!”

“Jayden, you need to be more mindful…” she started. I rolled my eyes and proceeded to ignore. I grabbed a bag of rice neither of us would ever eat and threw the phone in. Except I forgot to turn it off like a moron. As it flickered and looked as though it was having an epileptic episode, I decided I needed to go to the Apple store that instant to get a new phone. I was half a milligram of xanax and one cocktail down. Could I still drive? Well it was a game I was about to play.

I gunned it down Lincoln Blvd. to the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica and marched into the Apple Store at approximately 8:12pm. The store would close at 9pm. I ran up to the first person I saw and explained the ill fate of my phone.

“Yes, I’m sorry. No one is going to be available for the rest of the evening,” the former high school nerd told me stoically, clearly not understanding I can’t be without mobile for extended periods of time.

I rolled eyes again and walked up to someone else, who was much more accommodating for me. I explained I was under the influence of xanax and was about to fall asleep so I needed a new phone immediately. “No problem, that will be $400,” they told me. I handed over my credit card and cried.

I’m not really sure what I’m even trying to prove. I just know I can’t tub and FaceTime simultaneously any more, it’s too expensive.

The Tights, The Prius, The Dinners

Dear Saturday Night,

My flip flops and I stuck out, and not in a good way, as soon as I walked into the Saturday afternoon “Friendsgiving” party and saw the sea of trust fund babies in their booties that probably cost as much as my paycheck. As soon as I walked onto the patio, what felt like three dozen pairs of eyes, all attached to blonde heads, stared at me and gave me the head to toe look over. Exhaling on a puff of their cigarettes, they decided I wasn’t anything interesting, and went back to their conversations. I looked down at my sandals, which were probably purchased proudly on sale at Target, and felt a knot in my stomach. I was hungover from the previous evening bopping around downtown with a friend in from New York. This little shin dig was going to have to be a quick in and out. “Ohmigod you’re HERE!” the hostess, Rhonda, exclaimed when I tapped her on the shoulder to say hi. “Yeah, and why did no one tell me that when it goes below 85 in Los Angeles, everyone bundles up with boots and coats?” I asked, pointing to my pitiful footwear. “Stop, you’re fine. Get a drink! We’re eating in an hour.” I looked over and saw a table sat for thirty people. As in a sit down dinner. I hated my life. I wanted a bloody mary and to nap in the bedroom with all of the coats, not to sit in an organized fashion with these people. Rhonda discovered she was a lesbian a few years earlier and had just married a woman. So the only men there were husbands of the trust fund babies, or gay ones who were besties with the lesbian guests. I mingled with some of the people Rhonda knew who were transplants, thank god for them, and tried to ignore the pounding in my head. Although the homemade sangria was helping. “Sit next to Colin*,” Rhonda demanded, and introduced me to a lanky guy with some sort of shaggy on top hair cut with the most unfair pair of blue eyes I have ever seen. He told me he had moved to LA years ago from Rhode Island originally to be a yoga instructor. Gay, I thought, and yawned my way through our conversation of how I was hungover, why were people in LA flakey, and how it was still too warm for these sweaters people were wearing. I guess I was yawning at my own self.

Once the triptofan from the turkey really kicked in and I could barely keep my eyes open, I thanked Rhonda and snuck away from the party, without saying good bye to the other guests, not even my new yoga instructor friend.

A few weeks went by I was performing my bedtime ritual of swiping through the men on Bumble. Usually my thumb goes, “left, left, left,” to all these men holding cups of beer, dead fish on a rod, or oversized sunglasses. I mean, why would you wear sunglasses in a picture in a photo where you’re trying to impress a girl? We need to see the eyes. But anyway. All of the sudden, a familiar face popped up on my screen with the name “Colin” underneath. I scrolled through the photos and read the description: “yogi, adventurous, coconut milk maker, techno. tv editor by day.” It was him. “Hmm,” I thought, finding this coincidental, so I swiped right. We matched. Normally, I will not initiate a conversation with a man- I don’t need to chase. However with Bumble, the woman has to initiate a conversation with the man within 24 hours, or the match disappears. I typed, “Hey, I met you before at Rhonda’s party, right?”

I was right. We had.

He told me he noticed my beautiful eyes. Inwardly I rolled at the cliche line, but he had piqued my interest.

A few days later, after a daily stream of casual texting, he asked to take me to dinner, and I accepted. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“It’s a surprise.” I love surprises. As long as he wasn’t going to be taking me for pizza and beer, where my carbophobia would have been in hysterics, all would be fine. I left work early so I could get a manicure, even though men never seem to notice these things, and tried on about four outfits for my roommate before I settled for jeans, a casual white top, brown boots, and a tan leather jacket. I mean, I needed to look good for someone who claims to make their own coconut milk, right?

Colin told me he would pick me up. Pick me up? Wow. Usually they make you meet them somewhere. But then again, it’s not really a swell idea to have random men from online dating picking you up at your house. Who knows who you’re actually dealing with, anyway? But since I had already met him through a friend, I figured he couldn’t be too much of an axe murderer.

When he texted me telling me he arrived, my roommate wished me luck and I took the elevator downstairs, telling myself not to have any expectations of the evening. The minute I walked out the door, Colin stepped out of his Toyota Prius. Here I was, the JAP, going out with a hipster wearing a peacoat, scarf, and driving a Prius.

He walked over to me and we gave each other a nervous hug. “It’s nice to see you again,” he said with a smile. “It is  nice to see you,” I agreed. God, he was so tall. An entire foot taller than me.

He opened the door for me and waited until I was tucked into the passenger seat to shut the door. He had a giant glass water bottle in in the cupholder tucked inside of this yarn sweater contraption. Usually the guys I went out with had half eaten protein bars or probably the previous girl’s crusty lipgloss buried in the console.  

“Is it okay if we make a quick stop to Whole Foods?” he asked. That’s like asking a child if they want to make a trip to N’ice Cream.

“Totally,” I said. I could walk through those organic, anti-oxidant infused and overpriced aisles any day.

“My friend is sick, and I promised I would pick them up chicken noodle soup,” he explained. Oh, I thought, and noticed he didn’t specify the gender. He’s picking up soup for a girl when he was with me? Strange.

“It’s someone I work with,” he added. I figured it couldn’t be something too scandalous if he was going to run an errand for a “friend” with me.

Since Whole Foods apparently didn’t do chicken noodle soup, we decided organic chicken and black bean would have to suffice. “So, we have about an hour or so until our reservation at 9:30,” he said in the check out aisle. 9:30 reservation? I thought. Damn, this was late for a school night. Whatever, I would have to put on my big girl pants and suck up the lack of sleep. “I thought we could stop somewhere and get an appetizer first, if you’re hungry,” he continued.

“I’m always down for food.” He drove to Superba on Rose. Perfect, I thought, since I had never been. We perused the wine menu and the appetizer selection.

“To good company,” he said as a cheers after our glasses of wine arrived.

“Do you like chicken liver?” he asked, after we took each took a sip. Oh, no. I hate chicken liver.

“All I remember about chicken liver is that my mom made it once when I was little. I can still taste it,” I grimaced, remembering the chewy texture and awful after taste.

“It’s really good here. The pate,” he explained. Fine, I might draw the line at fried macaroni and cheese balls, but I could at least be open to a protein option I hadn’t touched in two plus decades.

“I’ll try it,” I said. I knew I had just scored a point. This pate concoction was served with a side of bread and raspberries, which apparently just added some sweet complimentary flavor, blah blah, I don’t speak cuisine. I just know the calorie content of most salad dressings.

“This is all you,” I said, pointing to the food arrangement which apparently required assembly. Masterfully, he spread some of the brown mush on a slice of bread and topped it with three raspberries and put it on my plate. I waited for him to make his own so we could endure so called delicacy this at the same time. I bit into it and surprisingly liked the taste.

“Oh, I get it,” I said, thinking either my childhood palate was just underdeveloped or my mother was not the cook I thought she was.

“I told you,” Colin said with a satisfied smirk. After a few  more bites and praises, we moved onto more pressing topic: my sexuality. Not to mention, we had already covered politics, and were both feeling the Bern. Usually on a first date, politics and sex are no-no’s. Apparently neither one of us were good at following the rules.

The conversation began by us discussing our mutual friend, Rhonda’s sexuality. “See, when I met her,” I explained, “Rhonda really liked the D. She even accused me of being a lesbian. And I’m not!”

“I knew Rachel was gay when I first met her. I got that vibe,” Colin replied.

“I guess I have bad gaydar, then. What do I know?”

“So, you’ve never been with a woman?” His expression bordered confusion, as if you know, all women sleep with other women at some point.

“Nope, I’m pretty vanilla,” I said, taking a long sip of my wine. “I just don’t feel like getting down there, you know?”  

I’ve just never had the desire to go eat at that buffet.

“Why, have you hooked up with a guy?” I asked. “Well, one time I was with two girls and another guy. Things got pretty interesting and the girls wanted us to kiss.” I tried not to spit my chicken liver mush back onto the plate.

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“We kissed,” he answered. I should have known better at that point and ran. But curious to a fault, I pressed on.

“What was it like?”

“Well, the weird part was kissing someone with stubble. As in, if you only kiss girls, their face is smooth.”

To run away? Or not to run away? is what most women at that point would have had

in their minds. But, being that I was in the epicenter of Hipster Venice, I decided to not be the typical JAP I can be.

This was a good decision, as our next stop was Djulina on Abbot Kinney Blvd. You know, one of the “It” spots not just on the entire Westside, but all of Los Angeles.  “Oh, nice,” I said casually when Coconut Milk Colin told me where the main dining event was taking place. Dimly lit and absolutely packed, we had to wait even though we were on time for our 9:30 reservation. We ordered more wine at the bar and continued with more PG conversation. “If you could sell anything,” he asked me, “what would it be?” I’ve sold across several industries and products since I was in college, so it was a valid question. It’s also one I don’t have to ponder.

“My book, duh,” I said.

By the time we sat down and were squinting at our 8point size font menus, I was starving. Being that Gjulina is one of those small plate sharing places, we ordered about four dishes to share. Burnt brussel sprouts, roasted butternut squash, that kind of stuff. It was delicious of course, but the portion sizes catered to those with bird size appetites. Oh, Los Angeles.

“How about I come and sit next to you?” CMC asked.

“Sure,” I said, realizing I needed another glass of wine. This shaggy haired, lanky, perhaps a shay of gray on sexual spectrum, hipster of a creature was growing on me. I eyed the table next to us as their waiter brought out what looked like a chicken tandoori dish.

“Wow, that looks incredible,” I said, not even paying attention to the fact Colin was now thisclose to me and had his arm around me.

“Are you still hungry?” he asked jokingly. He was making fun of me.

“Oh god, no. I’m so full,” I lied. Eventually we were buzzed enough that we could take our PDA out of the restaurant, so Colin waived down our server for the check. I didn’t see what the total was, but I know I’m glad it wasn’t being charged to my credit card. I thanked Colin. Ladies, we have periods. Men, they get to pay for dates.

We walked back to his car and turned on the heat. I couldn’t believe it actually got this cold in Los Angeles. It had to be like, forty-five degrees and I was shivering in a leather coat. I asked when his birthday was. “March 23rd,” he said.

“So you’re an Aries?” I said.


“Well, I’m a Gemini,” I said.

“I heard something about Geminis,” he said.

“Oh really, what’s that?” I asked.

“They are really good kissers,” he said with that wicked grin I really couldn’t resist much longer.

“Oh, are they?” I asked.

And suddenly, my appetite was gone. He leaned his face to mine and slowly, our lips didn’t just touch, they began to dance. There are many, many first kisses. Yet there are very, very few memorable ones. Well, sitting in the passenger seat of a Toyota Prius in the parking lot of a restaurant behind Abott Kinney, I kissed a hipster. A whole decade could have passed and we wouldn’t have known it. I’ve had men bite my lips like they were a piece of steak, or engulf my mouth with theirs, and then there’s the whole tongue stabbing situation that can be gag inducing. Of course, I’ve kissed a lot of good kissers too. But this kiss (make out, whatever)- it was like the universe sent to me, perfectly delivered as a message of saying, “Well, Jill, there have really been some douche bags to come your way, so here’s our way of making it up to you.”

Thank you, universe.

When we finally broke away from each other, we looked at each other, not needing to use any words. We both knew we were thinking the same thing, something along the lines of, “Oh, wow.”

“So, would you have said the same thing if I told you I was a Libra?” I asked.

“Yes,” he admitted, while his face was still centimeters from mine. There he was, out in the open about his pick-up artist talent, and I was too busy to process this since my hormones were basking in some teenage-esque post make out bliss. Twenty-eight or eighteen, it seems I’ll never learn to recognize trouble.

We untangled from each other to buckle our own seatbelts. After all, it was after 11pm and much past my weeknight bed time.

When we pulled up in front of my apartment we resumed a second act of that whole high school tongue twisting activity. I was hooked. But at some point, my brain took over and told my mouth to break away before he started to think he would have been invited back up to my place. We sat there, talking about nothingness to avoid the night ending. Just as I was about to grab my purse between my feet and make a grand exit from the Prius, Coconut Milk Colin grabbed his phone. “Oh, my friend who needs the soup,” he mumbled. He didn’t realize, but the screen of his phone was reflecting off of his window and I could see it. He was typing a message into the Bumble app- I recognized the design since I use it. The chicken liver pate curled in my stomach.

“Well, thanks for dinner,” I said briskly. What nerve to type a message to another girl while on a date with moi.

I got out of the car and shut the door before he could even give some sort of non-commital good bye.

This is what I was starting to learn about LA men: in the heat of the moment, you might have them under a spell. But as soon as your bodies separated from whatever verbal or physical exchange was happening, it’s broken. There’s always another witch in the waiting.

The Aftermath

Somehow I resisted the urge to reach out to him and I let him come to me, which he did, four days later on a Sunday morning as I lounged around the apartment, hangover depression raging my poor brain cells. For three weeks, we had the craziest wanna-be rapping sexting conversations since he was out of town for the holidays. I started to fall head over heels. I hated my job at the publishing company, was sad everyone had left except me, and literally jolted every time my phone dinged with a new message from him telling me where he was going to lick me, make me wear pantyhose, or make it rain. Who knows how many pairs of underwear I soaked through. Finally, he was back in town and we went out for a second dinner. Flirting, nibbling, some drinking, blah blah. Of course we ended up coming back to my house and going right at it. Coconut milk Colin is literally 6’5” and needs to put on some serious weight, but god he knows how to throw down. My body was practically convulsing for what seemed like hours. At some point, we passed out. Like a psycho I went to the gym bright and early and left him sleeping in my bed. When I came home, I showered and got back into bed so we could go for round 2. Clearly, this was love, right? Running late, I dashed off to work. I was expecting a text all day long, of course, but the phone was crickets. I broke down later and texted him when I came home to find my bed made, the wine glasses rinsed, and the pantyhose he had purchased that we didn’t use on my pillow. Did he like me then? He must have, he cleaned the wine glasses… right?

I got a minimal response even though I attempted to strike up some flirtatious banter. You know me, the girl with a ton of game. NOT, as my phone went to crickets again. For approximately five days. That following Tuesday, sometime in the late afternoon while I was in Ralph’s, my phone dinged. And it was him.

“Hey, I think you’re really sexy and cool, blah blah, had a lot of fun with you, blah blah, going through a lot of stuff right now, blah blah, just didn’t want to ghost on you.”

After consulting about seven people as to how to reply I settled with, “cool, thanks.”

Months and months later he popped up on my Facebook under “People you may know” and I chuckled as I clicked the “Add as Friend” button. He accepted. And that has been it. This is fine by me. It’s funny how you look back on someone you hook up with and think to yourself, “Wait, what? Why? Why all this energy on him?” This is exactly what I think looking back now. He’s a TV editor hippie who drives a Prius, has admitted to making out with a guy, and looks underfed. That’s not Mr. Right for me.

Who is Mr. Right for me? I don’t know. Maybe he’s already circulated his way into my life somehow, or maybe he’s light years away. Universe, only you know.

He’s Not the One Who Got Away

Dear Saturday Night,

Once again, I cheated on you, and I’m sorry, but I had a Tinder rendezvous on a Wednesday evening. My friends later yelled at me because a major red flag appeared in his profile that I dubbed as funny. His info stated, “Please don’t be fat in real life.” I’m well aware a lot of girls will try to pass themselves off as a good 20 pounds lighter than they really are with flattering facial shots that hide double chins and anything south of their collarbones, so to me this was just amusing. He seemed pretty funny throughout our texting bantering, so when he suggested we meet up, I was down. Before any plans were set, I decided I wanted to do things at my speed. On the phone with Miguelita, I said, “Okay, if he is willing to come to Venice and no later than 8-8:30, I’ll meet up with him. After all, it’s a Wednesday.”

“Fair,” she said, not completely supportive of my internet dating habits. But I’ve been very bored lately and very distraught about Celebrity BF’s exit to the South, so I was ready to do anything to get my mind away from his Instagram posts and the isolated memory of our tongues intertwined outside a bar in the valley. Anyway, back to the situation at hand. Let’s call this particular Tinder human Loser Larry.

Within minutes Loser Larry texted me saying, “Abbott Kinney, 8pm?”

Perfect. So far he was staying within my constraints.

My uber dropped me off and I said, “Wish me luck, I’m doing a Tinder date.”

“Oh no, love,” he said with a British accent, “Those are crap.” That was warning sign #2 from the universe.

“I’m wearing a tan overcoat,” his last text said. A tan overcoat? What?

I found the man in a tan overcoat and immediately realized his hair was totally different from the photos on Tinder. He had that thing going on where the bottom part of his head was buzzed but the top part was long and in a short ponytail which he played with continuously, taking it out and re-tying all night. I wasn’t a fan.

“So, Pennylstucky?” he asked me, referring to my home state. “You know 30% of the population lives below the poverty line?”

No, I didn’t know that. I wasn’t really interested in discussing my hometown. I left it for a reason, and just didn’t want to focus a first date on it.

“Wow, that’s a depressing statistic,” I answered.

“Yeah, I googled everything about your town. It seems like one of the worst cities in the country.” Well, thanks for that reminder. I felt defensive oddly. When my friends from home and I commiserate on what a strange place we grew up in, it’s fine. But when an outsider throws down insults, I’m downright defensive. Who are you to bash the land of dive bars filled with toothless wonders, rattlesnake roundups, a lack of passports, and most importantly, the setting of The Office?

We were still standing outside the bar what felt like a good 12 minutes during this pointless conversation.

“So… want to go inside?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, sure.” He seemed hesitant. Strange, it was his idea to meet here in the first place.

“You seem so East coast,” he commented as we walked inside. I learned he was from Nashville. I don’t really know how Tennessee people classify themselves geographically, but they’re definitely not East Coast.

“Well, I am…” I said, agreeing with the obvious.

“So, you don’t strike me as the polite type.” Hmmm, guess he had me nailed. I probably wasn’t that southern belle he was used to.

“Actually I can be polite. You know, to parents, or bartenders and servers.” Why was I defending myself, ew.

We stood next to the bar for what felt like another 13 minutes. So here I am, almost 25 minutes into this awkward first encounter (I can’t call it a date) without a beverage in my hand. This is just not how I roll.

“Shouldn’t we get a drink?” I was starting to feel like the man in this situation.

“Oh, I’m not drinking.” I looked at him confused, especially as he suggested we meet at a bar.

“Oh, are you sober?” I asked. I’ve been out with sober guys before, which I’m totally cool with. But usually they still ask if I want a drink and tell me they’re sober before we meet. Jesus did that for me.

“No, I’m cutting,” he explained.

“Cutting?” That’s what suicidal people did and I’m not sure it correlated with alcohol consumption.

“Yeah, cutting weight. I put on about 15 pounds of muscle, and now I’m cutting calories to make myself more defined.” It took every ounce not to roll my eyes, but i probably did anyway. That is just such a turn-off. As someone who’s struggled with eating issues and my own body dysmorphia, I can’t be around men who are just cutting calories for the sake of muscle definition. I mean come on, a vodka soda is like 60 calories. Just drink the damn thing and do an extra 3 push-ups tomorrow.

“Well… do you mind if I have a drink?” Let me reiterate, I’m at a bar, and yes, one of my interests includes imbibing.

“No, not at all.” Well, at least he gave me the green light.

I ordered a vodka soda from the bartender, and I pulled out my wallet. He watched me hand over my credit card to the bartender and purchase my own drink. This is the epitome of the most ungentleman and unchivalrous behavior as a Jewish spoiled princess who absolutely expects a man to pay for drinks on a first encounter. This isn’t The Netherlands where that whole “going Dutch” thing is in vogue. I cringed as I added tip on top of the $12 drink thinking to myself, Stop going out to get free drinks. They are no longer a guarantee.

He picked out two chairs side by side for us to sit down.

“You seem so serious,” he commented. No, you idiot, I’m not serious, I just am really getting my buttons pushed. After discovering I’m Jewish, his ridiculous questions started.

“What if you date an Arab?”
“Can you bring home a Christian?”
“Do your parents tolerate men who aren’t Jewish?”
“Why won’t you eat pork?”
“Why do you work out at Gold’s Gym if you’re not a meathead?”
“What are your workouts?”
“How many calories do you burn in a day?”

I would rather he ask me how many times I fart in a day. That would have been more entertaining to answer. At some point I finished my drink and asked, “Well, what do you want to do now?” I felt uncomfortable ordering another drink and the bar started to fill up with real drinkers, so it was pretty hard to hear over the music.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked. Yeah, thrilling, a walk. But whatever. I kept looking at him as we spoke and tried to imagine him shutting up and maybe just what it would be like to kiss him. And then to have sex with him. But with that damn ponytail flopping around like Pebbles from the Flinstone’s just wasn’t doing it for me. My face must have scrunched into an expression of disgust because he asked if I wanted to go our separate ways. I felt under pressure and like a bitch, so I apologized and said the last sip hit me hard.

We got up and strolled down Abbott Kinney, talking about how I came from a poverty stricken town and he came from one of the nicest counties in the country where all the country-music producers and execs lived. Hooray. I might not have been the richest kid in school with Daddy as a surgeon or a hot-shot local lawyer, but I wasn’t exactly poverty stricken. Two blocks later we came to a red light across the street from an always crowded ice-cream place called Salt & Straw. Well, it wasn’t like he was going to want to eat any of that nonsense.

“So, shall we call it a night?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Okay, get home safe,” he said, with an awkward pat on the back and strolled away, leaving me alone. I was just blown away. I called an Uber and in the 4 minutes I had to wait, I hopped across the street to the convenient store and stocked up on five Quest bars because that’s what I eat, and a bottle of water. I got home, got naked, and recounted my evening to Jameth with my stash of protein bars and a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table.

“I need a drink to recover from this,” I said, pouring a hefty vodka and club soda into a glass. It wasn’t even 10pm, so I didn’t feel too guilty drinking at this hour.

“Namaste girl,” she said, lighting this incense thing she believes will cleanse our house’s toxins and my aura. She’s currently dating a guy I’ll call Geffen, so she’s pretty much on cloud 9 constantly. He’s normal- he pays for drinks and consumes them as well. Maybe one day I’ll find a Prince Charming who pays for drinks, waits for me to get into Ubers safely, and actually contacts me for a second date.


Loser Larry and I never spoke again. Let’s just say I didn’t shed any tears over that.

Sometimes… Just Doesn’t Click

Dear Saturday Night,

I’m sitting on an airplane reflecting on this short scenario as I fly home for my now dead grandfather’s funeral. I guess I don’t need to mention that he’s dead with the word “funeral” in the same sentence. Not only do I feel like garbage because I couldn’t sleep last night, I’m stuck in the middle seat and absolutely can’t get any shut-eye, so I’ve caved and spent a cool $29.00 for WIFI for the duration of this cross country flight. So lame, right? Do I pop an adderral and bang out this little tale? Should I go to the back of the plane and buy a $5 bloody mary because what the hell I’m grieving, right?

So anyways. Back to the original story at hand.

I should have known it wasn’t going to work as soon as I sent the text and it turned green. If you don’t have an iPhone, that can’t be a good sign. In a moment of weakness and loneliness, I re-downloaded Tinder and got my thumb to work. It had been approximately 23 days since my last penetration, and I was willing to say however many Hail Mary’s necessary to get some male attention.

After god knows how many swipes of meatheads, nerds, swingers looking for a third, men who probably didn’t speak English, men who lived more than my 5 mile maximum radius requirement, I finally stumbled upon a milk chocolate specimen from Texas who worked at Samsung. He was declaring something along the lines of, “Southern gentleman who’s been in LA for six months and is hiding here until trump is out of office.” BOOM, sold. The rest was “love basketball, whiskey, traveling, blah freaking blah, same shit.” But I liked the Trump bit. So I swiped right and we matched, obviously.

Within minutes he messaged me the usual, “Hey, Jay, how you likin’ LA so far?” which at this point, really makes me yawn. But whatever. Better than the “Heyyyyyyyyyyyy,” or an eggplant emoji. I answered with my usual bullshit of how great the weather is, how ridiculous my car insurance and state income tax are, how you have to pay for bags at the grocery store, but hey, THE WEATHER IS SPECTACULAR. Fast forward to the part where we exchange phone numbers. Once I entered his digits into my phone, typed some stupid message, hit the send button and the screen turned green… as iPhone users, we shake our heads in disapproval. But you know what, I was going to ignore those millennial sentiments and continue this conversation with Mr. Texas Edward.

That week I met with my therapist and told her the story. We’re working on my system for “filtering and discriminating” men in my life. Apparently my “net” is cast too wide and I let anything in that swims by. I find this to be rude because I don’t tell her about every little douche who hits on me at the bar to whom I roll my eyes and walk away. I told her with pride how the night ended compared with the usual conclusions of sloppy, unfulfilling sex. Okay, I ruined the ending. We went out and didn’t have sex.

I’ll tell you why. I had him meet me at the bar where I was with a few other friends, and sited Daddy Bartender (see the Man Guide for details). Thankfully, this is a large venue and it happened to be extremely crowded, so I was able to separate my “date” running into Daddy Bartender and me awkwardly having to put foot in mouth.

Although Texas Edward was a swell fellow, we just didn’t have that chemistry. As in he didn’t seem like a complete asshole, so therefore, why would I like him?

Plus, I kept “going to the bathroom” so I could say hi to Daddy Bartender who proudly told his friend after smacking my butt, “She likes it when Daddy gives it to her.” I can’t say I didn’t like it. Eventually I got too drunk to stay out and texted Celebrity to ask how his weekend was. He FaceTimed me right away and was in bed, telling me that he was going to Louisiana to shoot a new TV series the next morning. My heart sank. I guess I wouldn’t be seeing him for a while.

Back to Texas Edward. I guess I should just know better than to think about getting involved with someone whose texts turn to green after hitting the send button.

And yes, I did go get a $5 bloody mary since I’m in mourning of my deceased grandfather. I actually got two free ones since the flight attendants felt sorry for me. Hooray for a bereavement flight.


Texas Edward texted me the next day and asked what I was doing. I told him whatever my plans were. I’m sure it involved boozy brunch. And that was it. Another one in and out of my life just like that. What else can you expect from a Tinder date?

The Hometown Heartbreaker

Dear Saturday Night,

Almost a year after living in Los Angeles on the evening of April 19, 2016, I found myself idly looking through Facebook’s “People you may know” list one night as I lay in my bed with the portable air conditioner on blast. I still can’t believe how facebook is so damn smart to know who I may know. Half of the time there are people whom I’ve only had a quick phone conversation with after matching on Tinder… or worse, slept with thereafter. (Zuckerbgerg, how DO YOU KNOW?) So anyway, I come across someone from good old home. Let’s call him Grease Fingers (I’ll explain why later). We had two things besides growing up in a pathetic part of Pennsylvania: I went to college with his younger brother, and I had, also ehm, entertained one of his friends for a night in a girlfriend’s hot tub. But this was circa 2008, so that doesn’t even count. Without much thought, I clicked the “Add as Friend” button. Immediately I got a message, “Dallas girl, eh?” (Dallas = Pennsylvania, not Texas, k?) Some witty banter later, we discovered we lived about a mile from each other within this ginormous metropolis and that he actually owns a shop fixing used motorcycles (non-Harley’s, by the way). During the course of our text-sation, Grease Fingers must have decided one of the following:

  1. I might be cool
  2. I could be funny
  3. I may even be a combination of the two
  4. I just look to get some dick on Facebook

Because, he asked me to come by the motorcycle shop the following day.

“We can have a beer,” he typed casually.

“You mean, a vodka soda,” I replied back. This face bloats from beer. I won’t stoop to that level to impress someone I haven’t met.


So naturally, I cleared my schedule after work which was filled with nothing and “inked” this date right in on his terms. I mean, this wasn’t a date or something. I was just going to meet a new… friend? Motorcycle fixer? Hometown homie?

Then I did my homework. Recently broken up with a 3 + year relationship with a very plain Jane blonde as depicted by the facebook photos that had never been deleted.

“Yeah, she was cheatin’ on him or some shit back around the holidays,” my college friend Jack told me, who also happened to know him. I called him on the way to meet my coworker for lunch, which was going to be the finale of my excruciating four hour work day. Hey, if the publishing idiots were paying me a crap $500 + commissions a week, who had the audacity to tell me to work a full day? (This job was for a publishing company. Again, this company remains anonymous.)

Jack was friends with Grease Finger’s brother in college. Anyways. My stomach did a slight lurch, although I didn’t know why. I didn’t even know this guy. I’d just seen some facebook photos of a guy wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and long hair, longer than my own hair. He certainly beat to the beat of his own drum as there were photos of him wearing a bird’s beak on his nose reading a book to a child, or sitting blindedfolded with a cigarette in his mouth. Clearly someone in his life was some sort of aspiring photographer or everyone he surrounded himself with did a lot of drugs and did weird shit. Probably the latter.

I pondered all of this with Renee at lunch, who studied his facebook photos. “He looks wild, be careful,” she told me. Go figure. God forbid I find myself a nice, khaki pants wearing financial planner with a pocket protector.

I left lunch, took a second run around the beach, did my laundry, and of course, straightened my hair. Grease Fingers had told me to come by the shop around 6:00, so at approximately 5:47, I told him I was calling an uber. I texted my girlfriend Ally about four outfit versions, because she had also met him years ago as well through an ex-boyfriend. “Be really casual, Jay. Like, no heels. He is not a heels guy.” Ugh. Whatever, I didn’t know this guy, it wasn’t a date, why did I even care what I looked like? I settled on skinny jeans, wedge sandals, and a loose black tank top if you care. It was about as casual as I could get before throwing on sweatpants.

My uber pulled up to an address which was a barber shop on Lincoln Ave. Barber shop? I walked in, clearly confused. A hair dresser looked at me and said, “Looking for the bike shop?”


“It’s in the back,” he pointed to the back of the barber shop which when I looked up, realized was only divided by some plywood. Not really sure of what the hell I was getting into on this April 20th, I walked over the plywood, when I saw a guy wearing old jeans low on his waist with a dirty white t-shirt. He made the 10 foot trek towards me and leaned back as he stuck out his hand.

“I’m Grease Fingers,” he said, trying to hide the fact he was giving me the one over look. I let it pass. I’d check me out too.

Note: He did not actually introduce himself as Grease Fingers, he used his real name.

“Hi, It’s nice to meet you” I said, doing the same thing and shook his extended hand. He obviously worked on motorcycles, as his hands had that remnants of dirt and grease. I also tried to decide if he matched up to how he looked in photos, which was hard to do considering he looked different in each photo. The first thing I noticed after the half dirty hands was that he was wearing some sort of band aid thing over his nose. Had he gotten punched? Was he airing out some straggling cocaine? I had no idea. I decided not to ask.

“Come see the place.” It looked like any other mechanic-repair type shop would, plus a few collectibles of random artwork hanging on the walls. And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a giant tank. A chill went down my spine as I realized that could only mean one thing.

“What’s in that tank?” I asked.

“Two snakes.”

“Oh my god,” I shook my head away from that thing. I can’t even deal with a photo of a snake, never mind the real creature mere feet away from me.

“I used to not like snakes either,” he told me. But then apparently, he met these little guys and fell in love.

“You said you wanted vodka, right?” he asked. I nodded. He grabbed a helmet and gave it to me.

“What?” I asked, confused. He walked out towards the back of the shop, where a collection of motorcycles sat waiting to be worked on.

“No place sells liquor within walking distance. Hop on,” he said and jumped on the bike.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and now I’m standing with a helmet, expected to get on the back of a motorcycle with someone I met five minutes ago. I guess I had to be game.

“Can you help me with this?” I asked, trying to finagle with the strap and attempting to not look too pathetic. I tilted my chin up so he could maneuver the straps and prayed there weren’t any visible unplucked chin hairs.

“Alright, hop on,” he said as he pulled the strap tight. He started the engine and I knew it was do or die. So I decided to do, and if I died in the process, oh well. I climbed on like I was mounting a horse and grabbed his waist from behind, like I’ve seen in the movies. He didn’t flinch, so that must have been a good sign. He slowly rode through the back alley to the main road and veered through the traffic. Two sets of thoughts flashed through my head simultaneously:

Holy shit. I am on a motorcycle and if we fall, what the fuck was the stupid helmet thing going to do for my precious head?

Holy Shit. I’m on a motorcycle and this is just fucking awesome.

And five minutes later all the euphoria and fear ended when we pulled up to a small liquor store. I browsed the selection, doing my best to pretend like the candy didn’t exist even though at this point I was starving for something other than the lettuce and grilled chicken I had eaten at lunch, and grabbed a few bottles of club soda. At the cash register, I perused the bottles. Grease Fingers said, “I’ll pay if you pick out the small bottle.” Ew, he’s cheap?

“Okay, then,” I said and asked for the smaller version of a fifth of Skyy. Because, if I tried to ball out with some Goose or Kettel the kid would have probably left me there.

He paid and we hopped back on the motorcycle. I needed some of that vodka now. Two mini motorcycle rides and facing two snakes were making for quite the day. We got back to the shop and his two minions were still fiddling around with wrenches and other pieces of metal that I knew I’d never be able to wrap my head around. As much as I declare that I love to run away from the suit and tie world of corporate America, when you throw me into a loose world of hipsters and bikers, I clam up. Yes, I felt weird, so I reached for the vodka, making sure those snakes were out of sight, and asked for a cup. Grease Fingers actually got up and came back with a freshly cleaned bronze moscow mule mug. It was time for a heavy pour. Three drinks later, we were sitting in the tattered chairs around the work table next to each other reminiscing about dumb Pennsyltucky stuff and how cool we were for getting out. Maybe our knees were even touching. I stood up and realized how drunk I was getting when I announced I needed to use the lady’s room, or men’s room, or something. Sitting on the toilet seat, I observed the bathroom walls were covered with newspaper clippings of hot girls and a sign on the wall that read,

“Don’t do school, Eat your drugs, Stay in vegetables.”

“Do you guys eat around here?” I asked when I came back to the table. The two minions were still around, metaling away with different motorcycle parts. Anyone else might ask what they were doing, but let’s be honest. That shit would go right over my head so I didn’t even bother.

“Yeah, we can go somewhere and get something to eat,” Grease Fingers said. He gave the boys close-up instructions and I called us an uber to meet my friend Maya and her boyfriend at a dive bar that apparently Grease Fingers also frequented. As soon as we got there, I bugged the bartender for a menu. We agreed to split an order of quesadillas, sweet potato fries, and a california styled chicken salad. Meaning, I’d eat the salad and he’d eat the carbs. Maya and her boyfriend at the time, who sucks so he isn’t worth naming, were playing pool but stopped to meet Grease Fingers and say hi to me.

“What’s with the thing on your nose?” Maya immediately asked. Jesus Christ.  

“It helps me breathe better.” I can’t play sports so I watched from the sideline as they all shot pool. Without warning, Grease Fingers grabbed the stick and shot every solid in on the first try like it was no biggie. I was impressed.

Let’s fast forward to an hour or so later when we were really losing our coherence. “I know you slept with everyone in my brother’s fraternity,” he said to me as Maya and no-name boyfriend were playing that stupid hockey puck game. All that my brain was processing is that I was a slut and a “clackclackclack” of the puck and I wanted to scream. “What the fuck?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. Literally, I had slept with ONE fraternity brother. “I don’t care,” he said.

“Well, I do, that’s not true!”

“Jay, I don’t care, I wanted to meet you anyway…” We started bickering over the who said she said and Maya and no-name stopped their game and began staring at us.

“What the fuck is going on with you guys?” Maya asked.

“He’s accusing me of being a slut.” I wanted to leave. This was ridiculous.


“Grease Fingers, your brother is full of shit, sorry. Even ask Jack.”

“I don’t care,” he kept saying. Who the hell brings this up the first time meeting someone? Even though as the night went on, I felt like I’d known him for years. And in a way, I had. Everyone from home is connected when we’re in unchartered territory like a city across the country. It’s just the way our town is.

Then the strangest thing happened. He tried to kiss me. I ducked away. “Come on, why won’t you kiss me?” he asked.

“You were just calling me a slut, and now you want me to kiss you?” I asked. I was disgusted. Then I kind felt turned on and I wanted to kiss him too for some reason.

“Please?” he asked, looking at me like a puppy. God I’m such a sucker.

“Maybe later,” I said trying to get back the upper hand. As long as I had something he wanted, I was good. That’s the same with any man though.

Maya pulled me aside. “How long have you guys known each other?” she asked. “Oh you know, since today.”

“What the fuck? You guys are fighting like you’ve known each other for years.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird.”

Twenty minutes later, Grease Fingers and I somehow decided to take a walk. We didn’t get very far, just a few feet from the bar.

“Let me kiss you,” he said looking at me with a tenderness he hadn’t shown when I arrived at the shop. Maybe it was just the alcohol softening him.

“Ugh, fine.” And there we were, two Pennsyltucky kids making out next to the parking lot of a Venice dive bar.

“Come home with me,” he said.

“No, I’m going home to my house,” I declared about 85% wasted and proud for standing my ground.

“Let come back with you.” Again, the puppy dog look.

“Ugh, fine.”

“Can you call the uber? My phone died.” Of course Grease Finger’s phone died.  

In lieu of my stupid vision of going home, sleeping fully clothed and spending the night cuddling and deep kissing, we were both mostly naked (I think my bra was still on or something stupid) and his face was buried not kissing my mouth, but my supremely wet vagina. “God, I really need to stop doing this… this meeting a guy and letting them rip my clothes off and go to town on me because I’m just a hornball,” I thought to myself as he swirled his tongue and pushed his fingers deep inside me. And then it happened. He slipped his pinky slowly into my butthole and OH MY GOD, all the sensations sent me wild. I was probably screaming so loud poor Jameth could hear me in ecstasy, but oh well. Of course at one point he wanted to have sex with me and I slammed my legs shut and adamantly declared “NO,” like the good little girl with morals I was clearly not emulating. And then we passed out. But hey, I kept my legs shut.


The next morning,  he propped me up on my bathroom sink where he knelt down and went to town again, even though it was light and I had no clothes, so I felt supremely exposed and I wanted to die. After that, I told him his nose was going to smell like my vagina since it still had that stupid nose-strip thing on it. He later texted me and said, “My nose smells like you.” Days later, once I realized he wouldn’t be calling or texting regularly, I came to another conclusion: I had caught the worst STD of all. I caught feelings. For countless months, I agonized over when he would contact me, what other girls he was screwing, why he didn’t want to date me.

If I were to write this from a place of anger, I would rant about the money he asked me to borrow, my birthday he refused to acknowledge, the times he was supposed to spend time with me but instead bailed, the broken promises, the emptiness and sadness I felt when he would leave me after a night of two or three rounds of intense sex (I caved in about six weeks). At the end of July, after one rendezvous, I thought we were going to meet up after a concert he went to. Instead, I saw a photo of a screenshot of a text message with him and another girl flirting and talking all “I’m gonna smack your ass” dumb motorcycle hippie talk that is so stupid because hippies don’t even talk like that. I was so enraged I looked at Miguelita and said, “Fuck this kid. I’m going to run a marathon.” Two months later, I ran the Long Beach Marathon.

But I’m writing this from a place of acceptance. A month after I ran the marathon, he contacted me while my parents were in town. Instead of ignoring his texts and phone calls like I should have, I picked up and immediately called an uber when he invited me to the dive bar where our original first escapade took place. A couple drinks later, me telling some fat coke head that Grease Fingers was my fiance and bought me a cheap engagement ring, and watching the fat cokehead yell at his anorexic girlfriend, we ended up in an uber back to my apartment. And I let hell break loose. As he lay in my bed naked thinking he was about to get fucked, I diarehead out all my angst and pent up emotions. He stared at me with his mouth hung open. He’d never seen me stand on my own two feet and prove I have a backbone.

“Why would you want to be with someone like me, Jay? You’re beautiful, you’re smart. You know I love you.”

He loved me?

God that kid always knew what to say.

“Can you come lie down next to me now?” he asked. I was still standing in front of my bed this whole time delivering a theatrical monologue that could have been chronicled in some version of “Crazy White Girls” if it exists.

I changed out of my stupid skinny jeans and white top into an old life insurance t-shirt and $3 sweatpants from Wet Seal with holes everywhere and climbed into bed, snuggling into the little spoon position. He smelled like oil and metal but I didn’t care.

“Can we have sex now?” he asked after a few minutes. I thought about it. Yes reader, I know you’re probably sitting there thinking, “Ew, gross, no, he’s an asshole. You’re going to catch the Feelings STD again, after you’ve finally gotten over him.” And I was over him. I was also horny, so whatever. The next morning, he was still depressed over some shop bullshit, so he pulled out the coke the drug lord had supplied the night before and did a line on my kitchen table. It was 10am. He tried to pour himself a glass of wine but I explained it was my roommate’s, and not mine to give. Respecting other people’s food and drinks isn’t something he’s very skilled at. Once that summer he stuck his greasy paws in Miguelita’s box of cereal and tossed a handful into his mouth. She proclaimed his fingers as greasy, disgusting, and let him have the whole box to himself.

Standing in my Saturday morning uniform of spandex, a sports bra and my running shoes impatiently waiting to go on a run, I surveyed the scene and realized something. This was a tortured person. No one needs to snort lines of coke off my kitchen table at 10am. As a borderline alcoholic, I’ll accept the need for a glass of wine. He was in pain as he found out he may be losing his shop for whatever financial reasons. I felt sorry for him. I didn’t want to date him. I wanted him to just find peace with himself, just as I want to find peace with myself. Two tortured souls does not equal a harmonious partnership, even I know that.

But let’s not get carried away with my newfound wisdom. I still periodically drunkenly text him and call him to the point where he finally picks up the phone and says, “What, Jay?”

I’m telling you, I have some serious game.

As I finish writing this on May 13, 2017, Miguelita reminds me, “Hey, he asked to borrow a shitload of your money. Why don’t you just hit him back up to pay your taxes?”

And this is why you’re my best friend, Miguelita.

Grease Fingers, until we meet again.

The Start-Up Company’s Office Christmas Party Thing


Dear Saturday Night,

I’m sorry, but I cheated on you. It’s nothing personal. The event I am documenting took place on a Friday. After an extremely long day of a conference phone call with my boss and some dumb shit outsourced medical billing company, I dashed home to get in a rigorous run and a shower to clean away my sweat and shave away the winter long leg hairs. What was I last minute skinnying and de-hairing myself for? Why, nothing less than an open bar Christmas party that I had been asked to attend with a male friend as his date. Note the open bar part. That was what enticed me to go. I love my friend Jeremy, but charity banging a tech start up, puffy-vest wearing nerd with black spectacles was not in the works for the evening.

“Don’t worry, I am asking you to be my date as a friend,” he said on the phone earlier that week. Poor guy. I’d met him about five months earlier and I knew he was dying for some action. And I can’t deny the fact that with enough vodka and tequila shots, I’ll pretty much let anything in between my legs.

“I appreciate you being up front, Jeremy.”

So there I was, blow-drying out the sweat from my hair after the stupidly long run, when my best friend, Miguelita called. (Note: Her real name isn’t Miguelita, but she likes to be called that.)

“So, Mama,” she starts, “remember when you drink and somehow you tend to you know…”

“Bang whomever?” I finished for her.

“Right. And you don’t like this guy. So what’s our plan of action so that you don’t go home with him?”

“Miguelita, he lives in fucking Topanga. I’m not going to Topanga to get laid. And I am not bringing him back to my apartment under any circumstances. I’ll just stuff my face at the event, and that way I’ll be to bloated to think about sex.”

“Okay, fair enough.” She seemed to agree.

“God, I wish you were here to help me pick out my outfit,” I thought out loud as the straightener singed my still damp hair, which of course burned my scalp. I’ll never learn.

“Oh great, fashion show time,” she replied a bit sarcastically for my liking. “I guess Jameth will have to do it.” Yes, Jameth, my size 0 roommate, would have to do it.

“Jameth, I need help!” I ran into the living room naked clutching two dresses and a few pairs of shoes.

“Oh, Jay, what would you do without me?” she asked looking up from a plate of kale and roasted brussel sprouts with caramelized tomato. I’d probably look like a circus clown, to be honest. Jameth is very honest and tells me when something “doesn’t flatter my figure,” aka, I look fat. We decided on a deep cranberry dress and brown booties. After a quick uber ride to the Santa Monica destination, Jeremy actually met me outside the car. “Bar first,” we decided before mingling with anyone. The outdoor terrace was frigid but at least there were heat lamps scattered throughout to huddle next to. Not that we were going to spend much time next to the heat lamps, as they weren’t next to the bar.

Some version of a martini for Jeremy and a Kettel and soda for myself. Nothing but the best for Jay on someone else’s dime. After schmoozing with the “CEO,” I realized I was pretty drunk.

“Do they feed us, Jeremy?” I asked, realizing I needed to consume something other than liquid fermented potato and carbonated water. We walked over to the buffet and I scoped the scene of fattening lo mein, white rice, (ew), and then finally, some “chicken” and broccoli dowsed in some brown sauce. I skipped on the white carbs and settled for a small plate of the questionable meat and veggies. I should mention this was an Asia venue. Surprisingly, we were also surrounded by a bunch of Asian techies. Probably because as a tech start-up, that’s the employee demographic. What? Like how many African American coding nerds do you know?

I could tell throughout the night he wasn’t sure how to introduce me. The drunker he got, the more apparent the look of desire in his eyes became. I noticed it, but shrugged it off. Just, those damn black spectacles really didn’t do it for me. Plus he had been talking about how much weight he had gained from traveling and that really wasn’t making me creamy. Miguelita’s words began to haunt me. “You don’t like him, don’t have sex with him.” Which I have done plenty of times. I just get extremely drunk and my legs part like the Red Sea. We ended up going to some after party with another party of two. I don’t want to use the word “couple” because Jason and I are not a couple. The girl, let’s call her Jessica, was my age, except she was married and had this thing called a four month old baby named Ella. And she was “breastfeeding” Ella. So now I know all about formula and having a newborn. It was a new form a birth control. Around 1:30 I got real hungry since we know what my pitiful dinner consisted of.

“Jeremy, I need food now.”

“Take some of Ella’s baby formula. I’m sure Jessica has some stored in her boobs.”

“Gross, Jeremy.” Although what do I know, maybe it’s not so bad?

“Look, either I need you to Postmates me some food, or I’m taking an Uber home.” He couldn’t get the food delivery app to work, so I called myself an Uber.

“Thanks for bringing me around tonight, Jeremy,” I mumbled as I stumbled out of the house. See, I could go out and make it home alone. I know I left Jeremy with a boner, and he has since gotten his payback.


Ironically, only weeks after this party, I was let go from my job. I cried on the couch for a week and then decided to start my own business. I’m not going to go into much detail, but it does involve medical practices. Jeremy does some of the same work I do and luckily for me, had too much work on his plate. So, he farmed out the work to me he doesn’t give a shit about… at the rate he negotiated. Needless to say, our relationship has moved from him wanting to bang me to him constantly yelling at me for the work I do/don’t do, and apparently having an “attitude” or something weird like that. Who would have that the tables would end up turning? This is just life, I suppose.

The “Charity” Pussy Buffet


Three of us in various styles of tight black dresses click-clacked our high heels into Saturday evening’s charity event, an evening dedicated to raising money for African children who were in desperate need of plastic surgery. I mean real plastic surgery, not the breast augmentation kind. The “oh crap, half of your mouth is disfigured,” kind of reconstructive cosmetic surgery. During the evening’s auction, the dear office manager’s husband, who couldn’t even have a moment to check out his wife’s stunning attire, whispered to me with a forlorn look in his eyes saying, “Well, it’s all for a good cause. It’s all for the kids.”

“Oh yes, it’s for the kids. It’s an excuse for doctor friends to get together, throw money around, and hit up the open bar. Don’t kid yourself.”

He smiled and started to relax a bit. “I like your honesty,” he said. Which I appreciated, since usually, most people wanted to slap me for it.

In the midst of cupcakes, tarot card readings- which predicted I will meet a man traveling, yet I don’t have any plans to travel- I was approached by the charity event’s star, a plastic surgeon nonetheless. In all fairness, the charity event was to raise funds so he can take time away from performing breast augmentations, vaginal rejuvenations, and reshaping bumpy noses to work in the some of the poorest countries in the world where the people really need reconstructive surgery and definitely don’t care how their labias look post child birth.

He dressed like a total boss in a black suit and purple silk shirt attire. I had to force myself to turn away- he was a very close colleague of my real boss. And the more I turned away, the more I found myself wanting to run to him.

“I want you to dance with me,” he would say, passing by me to chat with his guests. I’d giggle and keep walking. The more we drank, the heavier the flirting got.

“Make sure you dance with me,” he said pulling me towards the live band. But my boss was standing right there, so not much more than a few side by side sways and clapping to the beat was going to happen. At that point, one of the other two clickity-clacked, black dressed friend stepped out. “I gotta meet a date,” she proclaimed at 10:30. The other clickity clacked girl, who happened to be my roommate, exchanged a side glance with me.

“Good luck with cultivating a relationship at this hour,” we telepathically thought to each other about our friend, whose life revolved around acquiring an engagement ring.

“Have fun,” I said as she walked passed us. If only I knew what fun was in store for me.

Eventually, the charitable portion of the evening concluded, and the ‘real’ party began. My boss and his botoxed bitch wife came over to say good-bye to me. “I love this fur vest, Val!” I exclaimed with as much LA enthusiasm I could muster, East-coast heartedly.

Her duck lips gave a slight smile. No verbal response necessary I suppose. After the raffle, where the free vaginal rejuvenations, Botox injections, and various goodies were given out, the band closed up shop and the doc began playing some hip hop jams. But the bar did not close up. My cup of vodka and cranberry juice never went empty. And when it did, the bartenders popped bottles of champagne for me. I was starting to realize these doctors really know how to get down.

“I know you want to dance with me,” Doctor Kid whispered in my ear as he grabbed my hand and began twirling with me. I think I surprised him as I was able to follow his lead of twists, dips, and twirls. Yeah, I danced for a solid 12 years growing up so I kind of have some moves when I’m somehow not tripping over my own two feet, luckily. Somehow we ended up in his manager’s office where I was straddling him on a chair, our mouths intertwined in a furious passion. He lifted me up on a make-shift desk and pulled down my underwear and parted my legs. Jesus Christ, how did I get myself in these situations?

I made no fuss as he yanked my body towards the end of the table and dove head first into my freshly shaven, very pretty vagina, if I may say so. I leaned back, feeling like such a bad girl. Gosh, what would my boss say? What the hell, he’d high five Doctor Kid. The door was shut, but not locked. At one point when he came up for air, my roommate, who had been doing yoga headstands on his freshly painted white walls in the room where everyone was dancing, traipsed into the room.

“Jayyyyy,” she drawled drunkenly. Oh my god, what is she doing in here?

“Come over here,” Doctor Kid ordered. Oh my god, what is going on?

Immediately she hopped on the table next to me and he slid over to her on the swivel chair and yanked her panties to the side and started licking her. I stared. I closed my eyes. Was I about to have a threesome? What had come over Jameth? I was turned on, nervous, excited because this had never happened, and of course, kind of jealous that he had just gone from one pussy to another. He must have sensed my flip-flopping emotions, because he popped up from her vagina and explained, “Now, I can’t leave Jay hanging here, and swiveled back over to my vagina, leaving Jameth to watch.” She was in a drunken haze, her legs spread open. Not wanting to miss out on any action, she jumped off the table purring, “Yes, yes, kisses for Jayyyy,” and began kissing my neck. And then my exposed chest.

I was turned on like hell yet extremely perplexed because this is also the roommate who tells me to be more mindful if I spill my coffee on the counter and leaves me a to-do list when she goes on three week traveling escapades to Asia.

I tried to let go and “be in the moment,” but my body tensed, even though I had Jameth licking my neck and Dr. Kid working his tongue and fingers between my legs as though I was being prepped for some extensive surgery.

Jameth, ever the energy-feeling, observant yogi,  must have sensed I was on the cusp of either climaxing or collapsing. “Ummm, I’m going to go home, guys,” she said, pulling up her underwear and her dress down.

Dr. Kid looked up from my spread labia. “What now, so soon?” he asked. Jesus, christ, I thought. Just let her go, I can’t do this sharing thing. I’m such an only child.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to let you two have some fun.” And with that, she tossed her hair and headed out the door. I loved her right then.

Soon after she left, we took the party from his office manager’s table back to his apartment where I really got thoroughly examined with one particular medical instrument. In the morning, we stopped at Starbucks. One guy kept staring me up and down like I was some hourly hooker to the point where Dr. Kid looked at him and said, “Something you say, man?” I was scared for a show down. I think the guy was scared too, because he went back to staring at his coffee instead of my really short dress / cellulite.

After his oatmeal and banana and my large iced coffee, he dropped me off.

“Tell Jameth I say hi,” he said after taking my phone number. We both knew this was going nowhere, but whatever. He was in his early 40s and still needed to play, as I learned. He had a bucket list to check off before settling down. Who was I to argue?

I hopped out of his Jeep and waved good bye. Whatever, it was a lay.

The Aftermath

“What happened last night?” I asked him as I awoke from a heavily vodka induced coma. My cemetery mouth yearned for water and my foggy mind yearned for answers. Him of course being Dr. Kid. He looked at me somewhat perplexed. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“Ummm, no,” I replied, noting that my black shirt and bra were still on, but underwear and pants were missing. This was the second time I woke up in Kid’s bed on a Sunday morning, so I doubted we got all born-again Christian and had a night of cuddling. After all, the first night I had an evening with Kid, which was just the week prior, my roommate somehow finagled her way into his office where his face was entrenched in between my legs. She conveniently swooped in and spread eagled herself next to me, resulting in what I now refer to as Dr. Kid’s pussy buffet.

“We had anal.” STFU. Literally, I’ve had it up the poop-shoot once in my life, and it was under the spell of a very coked-out, super hot guy I stupidly rendez-voued with on occasion. It was not something I planned on engaging in unless I was in a committed, monogamous relationship. I’ve had my fair share of men try to “slip” it in the back door, as if I can’t differentiate what hole it’s going into. Such stupidity on their end, and such stupidity on my end for repeatedly sleeping with these idiots.

“Excuse me?” I asked Dr. Kid, really confused at this point. I squeezed my butt cheeks as if that would clue me in. Fail, they felt fine.

“I bent you over that chair,” he said pointing to the chair in the corner of his room, “and I fucked you in the butt.” Ugh, his vulgarity was too much for my tender ears at this hour.

“But, I don’t remember,” I pleaded. I really didn’t remember anything past leaving the drive-through in his panty-dropping Porsche 911 stuffing my face with only the egg part of a McDonald’s McMuffin, because, carbs. And stumbling through his apartment building barefoot because, stilettos.

Dr. Kid shrugged. “Well, it happened.”

“But, why?” I asked, huffing and puffing.

“What, did you want to save it for someone special like your husband or something like that?” he asked, clearly confused.

“No, not exactly…” This was just a lot to take in. “Do you have a toothbrush?” I asked, my thoughts going back to the dry Voldemort-ish feeling in my mouth.  Graciously, he materialized from the bathroom with a new toothbrush still in the packaging.

“It’s your lucky day.” I stumbled out of the bed and put my arm up to my forehead to shield the bathroom light.

Ugh, Colgate, I thought disapprovingly as I pushed the toothpaste onto the brush. My dad told me years ago it can cause canker sores, so whenever I see it on someone’s vanity, my mouth twitches. But whatever. In this case, my disgustingly Sahara desert dry mouth wasn’t going to argue. After my teeth felt clean and my breath felt passable, I crawled back onto the bed.

Dr. Kid, while apparently very into charging through the back door, is also a very soft-spoken, thoughtful individual, whereas, I am highly-emotional, irritable, dramatic, and loud. Not much different than a kindergartener.

“So how did that happen?” I asked.

“You wanted it.”

“Oh puh-lease. I do not go around asking for butt sex.”

“You wanted it. In fact, you even grabbed me from behind and pushed me in deeper.” This was too much. I grabbed the blanket and submerged myself completely under the covers.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t a slut shaming  house.” Oh great, a playboy mini-mansion judge-free zone. Just great.

“This just can’t be. I don’t remember.”

“Well, don’t drink to the point where you don’t remember anything, it’s not healthy.”

“Oh well, thank you dad.”

We bullshitted for the next half hour about why he chose his profession, plastic surgery, which he refers to as a “highly technical art form,” and what my hobbies are besides running and binge-drinking. I have yet to come up with an answer. With only 24 hours in a day and that thing in the way called work, how many interests can hold one person’s attention anyway? So sneakers and vodka it is.

“Tell Jameth I say hi,” he said when we pulled up in front of my apartment building. This felt familiar…

“I will,” I said with a fat eye roll.

“So uh, I’ll see you when I see you,” Dr. Kid said stupidly.

“Don’t worry,  Kid, there’s always next Saturday,” I said hopping out of the Mercedes Jeep and stumbling towards my apartment building door. It was time for my butt hole and me to confront Sunday.

I’m on the Brink of 30 and Broke

Dear Saturday Night,

My birthday is June 6th. I’m going to be 30, and it’s 2017, so you do the math if you care what year I was born. So there’s the “date” everyone has each year, and it’s not with a significant or potential significant other. No, it’s much more complex. It’s TAX RETURN FILING. Now, if you’re a steady-eddy W2 filer who hasn’t fucked around too much all year, you send your shit to an accountant or to TurboTax and await a nice paltry sum from the IRS so you can either pay off the fucking Christmas credit card debt or plan some little vaca for you and BAE.

Well, some of us happen to collect W2s from multiple states, because like, Daddy still “employs” us from the East Coast. Now, as a California resident, apparently you just have to pay more in state income tax than the Joe Shmo’s on the Atlantic. Except New York- don’t ask me about them. That’s above my pay grade.

Long story short (and very expensive), I OWE money to the IRS. I will not be planning some little winery adventure to Santa Barbara or taking a weekend getaway to sit on my ass in Palm Springs while some gay man massages sunscreen onto my naked back. No, instead I’m going to have to owe a few thou to Uncle Sam.

Considering I can’t even pay all my bills on my own, because, #LAlife is expensive, how am I going to accomplish this? Apparently I’m not allowed to commit suicide. I mentioned this to my parents and they told me to get a hold of myself, that I was being dramatic or something rude.

The point is I’m about to be 30 and I’m sitting here, clocking in at 7:37pm on May 9th wondering to myself, “How am I going to get this extra $$$?”

I have nothing of value to sell. I shop at Target. I doubt if I put scotch tape over the “Mossimo” label and write “Christian Louboutin” on my four year old booties that Ebay will like that very much.

Savings? What? Been saving myself for a rich asshole, I suppose. But as far as a rainy day fund, nope. Don’t got one of those.

An escort service, you ask? Oh yes, contacted two. One didn’t answer. Guess the headshot photos I uploaded were too ugly or boring. One service did actually contact me, but they keep calling repetitively, and I honestly am now too chicken shit to set up a meeting with the head pimp-daddy, because I can’t bear to get dressed in some skimpy dress just to appeal to a dirty old man who wants to play with my barely B-cup boobs. My father would be utterly distraught and god knows I’ve put that man through enough shit since I was about 11.

So, what is my plan?, you may be wondering. Well first of all, I’ve decided to quit the weekly therapy sessions at $75 a pop for me to drive to West LA, sit in front of the Asian-American judgmental bitch for 50 minutes to watch her sit in that so stoic manner as I whine about my very white girl problems. I will also stop going out so much as Ubers are  not only $5 per ride as I pretend they are. So I am not developing the habit of drinking more at home. But that’s okay. It’s cheaper and I don’t get hit on by strange men in my living room.

I’m still debating about my once every couple week mani-pedis. I really hate having shit nails.

No more daily salad bars at Ralph’s or Whole Foods. That’s really adding up. Frozen vegetables and veggie burgers it is.

Guess I can’t even shop at Target. I’ll just have to raid Miguelita’s closet when I want to go out.

So much for going sky diving for the big 3-0. That shit is expensive. I do not have a generous boyfriend to pay for such an adventure.

Between three grandparents dying in two weeks, having my heart broken by Morocco (you’ll find out about him), and finding out I’m in that nasty thing called debt, my appetite hasn’t been as ferocious as it usually is. I shouldn’t even write about this, I’ll probably jinx myself and just turn into a lard with enormous love handles and five chins.


If I’m going to be broke, I might as well be skinny.

The deal is I’m writing this blog as a way to anonymously publicize (that’s probably grammatically incorrect, whatever, get over it), the idiocies I entrap myself in, the sexcapades I engage in, or whatever other bullshit comes my way. I titled this rant “Dear Saturday Night” since usually these events occur on Saturday evenings. However, when they haven’t occurred on a Saturday, I will be transparent and explain that I’ve “cheated.” If one day this brings me some monetary fortune, then you know, thank you very much and go me. But really, this is for you, Dear Reader. My only hope is that you will chuckle a little, cringe, or you have to, just point and laugh.

And here I am,