Don't Mince Words

CG: Hey… how’s this for The Passion of Christ Happy Meal tie in at McDonalds…. a grape juice box, some dry crackers and a wash and dry

CG: (to wash your hands of it all)

M a r n a CB: LOL, you are bad.

M a r n a CB: I think I want to go to that movie and make out in the back, just to really make sure I go to hell.

CG: That’s a christian seinfeld moment

M a r n a CB: Only if i don’t swallow

It was a day of firsts for me. It started with a shot of wheat grass juice. It smelled like grass and tasted like freshly mowed greens should – good for you gross. I went hard core and passed on the orange slice chaser. That had to be for pussies. I survived just like I did when mom made me eat liver. Now I’m getting my vitamins a new way. After work, I attended my first yoga class in California. I quickly came to the conclusion that I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

There were men in my yoga class and I think most of them were straight. Real men didn’t go to the yoga studio in my old Windsor Terrace neighborhood. They went to Farrell’s around the corner which was a bar that boasted the freshest Budweiser in the city. This 5:30 p.m. class was about 50 percent men. I was dying. I laid my mat down in the back of the room. Nobody was going to see my fat wide ass. I was going to do the viewing in this class.

I started peeking during downward dog. Wow, nice thighs. I see biceps and a let’s-cast-that-in-marble perfect ass. I had to refocus my breathing. A half-hour later, I did my endurance viewing. Who was going for water and towels? Who was cocky and showing off?

When we got to the floor stretches and final breathing exercises, I returned to center – myself. Then I became very aware of my surroundings. I heard planes flying overhead. I heard buses going by. These were the sounds of my Windsor Terrace yoga studio. My breathing transported me back to Brooklyn.

A few OMMMMMHS later I rolled up and grabbed my mat. I was craving a New York slice and a Brooklyn Lager pint.

I wonder what the guys do after class. Probably wheat grass.

It’s Valentines Day and I’m living in Brooklyn with my girlfriend of two and one-half years. What should I do today? Pay attention to my girlfriend? Take her to brunch? Give her flowers? Make love to her?

Nah, I think I’ll call Marna. She knew me when I was commitment phobic…when I couldn’t introduce her as my girlfriend during three months of non-date dates…. I’m going to call her on Valentine’s Day.

~~~~~~~~~

What a way to start Valentine’s Day, right? You know what kept me sane yesterday? My two good friends from the east coast and more recently from Phoenix drove in to visit me for the weekend. They came armed with flowers, chocolates, and a new vibrator.

We listened to my ex’s voice mail and laughed and headed straight to the Venice boardwalk where we enjoyed a liquid lunch followed by palm readings and Tarot cards. Our hippie prophets told us we are all going to find love this year. We’ve been hurt in the past, but our period of change is almost complete.

I hate the commercialization of 2/14 and the pressure and expectation second-guessing that goes on. Enjoy your friends. Enjoy your lover(s). Make the most of everyday no matter who you are with. Most of all, love like you have never been hurt before.

Look forward, not backwards. Then eat chocolate.

I’ve become one of them….one of those pansy-ass denizens of LA that has a mental meltdown when the near perfect weather changes. Monday night I remembered nothing is perfect and I was born with blonde hair.

I was tired, cold and hungry and decided to gas up during high winds while sheets of rain poured in on me while thinking better now than in a.m. rush hour. I pulled out of the 76 and made it a block before my car died in four inches of water. Now I was really pissed. I should have been home where it was dry planning my next sunny day activities.

Instead, I sat in my car and waited for roadside assistance. An hour later, with the windows fogged up, Juan pulled up behind me. I popped the hood and he listened to the engine grind. He walked up to my window and asked, “Did you just fill up at that gas station?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I bet you put diesel in your tank. I’ve picked up at least 40 people at this very location in my career,” he added.

OK. Terrific. So, I’m an idiot, but not the only fucking idiot in LA.

I found little comfort the next day when Shawn, the Honda Service Scheister, called me. I knew my tank and fuel line needed to be douched. But old Shawn said I also needed brakes and an oil change. When I showed up to retrieve my got-that-fresh-clean-feeling Honda, Shawn gladly swiped my credit card. “Don’t feel bad. It is a common mistake. Hey, at least you get miles on this travel visa,” he said.

After experiencing $1,063 worth of immediate financial carnage, I pulled out and drove west on Washington Boulevard into the sunset with the window down and tunes cranked. I’m OK. The car is OK. LA is back to perfect.

I’m probably the only woman who doesn’t lie about her age. Well, I do like telling 20-something boys I’m 29 just to see if they believe me. However, in the days before and after my birthday this year, I have to say, I’m ready to lie.

“Wow, you are 38? I can’t believe you aren’t married. You are such a catch,” said one random man.

“Men should be laying down in the road to get your attention. Why aren’t you married?” said another.

If it is OK to be 29 and single, then I think that’s the age I’m sticking with.