Don't Mince Words

I received a reminder that ex’s are ex’s for a reason. Circus boy called. He’s a guy I dated in New York before I moved to California. His most notable relationship error was leaving me at his family event to go help an ex-girlfriend who was “stranded” on the side of the road. We broke up and he left and joined the circus.

Seriously, the circus. Now you can say you know someone who was dumped for Ringling Brothers. Anyhow, five years later, I still receive random emails and calls from him which I don’t mind because I know he’s always good for material.

Today was no exception.

After the catch-up small talk, he told me he was engaged. This is not the first time in my life an ex- has called to basically say “look someone else likes me and maybe for a long time.” Congratulations. And you are calling me because…????

Because his wife-to-be, who sells cotton candy and concessions for the circus, is getting ready to launch a porn site and they wanted to enlist my marketing expertise. Yeah, I know, WTF?

“You know, I’m focusing on a job search right now and don’t have a lot of time for freelance. My best piece of advice would be to make sure the HTML copy is relevant so that you can pull rankings in organic search,” I said.

But the good times don’t end there. He announced they might be quitting the circus when it gets to Arizona so that they can go and live in Las Vegas. “I think that’s a smart choice for you two,” I said.

Let’s hope what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

I just had an ex- call me and tell me he loved me and he wanted to “correct this shit.” Stay tuned. He’s 3,000 miles away and we broke up 12 years ago.

. . .I can’t make this stuff up.

My tax credit posted today. What a fucking crock of shit. It won’t even buy me two tanks of gas. I would of done better if I had “qualifying children” but apparently my $10 bag/week of Hill’s Science Diet dog food isn’t stimulating or qualifying enough. If only I had the time to purchase a kid from Namibia instead of rescuing a very old dog.

My $240 vibrator, which was probably made in China, stimulates my bush a hell of a lot better.

Don’t forget to vote in November.

Since I have a dog to walk, I’m outside a lot and have met many of my neighbors as a result. I’m in West Hollywood, so I can safely assume all my neighbors are gay. While it’s not a target-rich environment, I’m still my smiling, giggly self – a female minority in a sea of dripping hot homos.

A few weeks ago, two tremendously good looking guys walked out of a house five doors down as Tex and I were crossing their path. I smiled and said hi. They replied with the same back. Today, the same tall hot guy got in his car as I walked by. He drove north, turned around, and slowed down when he passed me. He made a u-turn and came back and parked in front of the house and jumped out his car. Tex and I were in the gate when he ran to the driveway.

“Hi, excuse me. I have a question I need to ask you,” tall hottie said. If I were in a straight neighborhood, this is when I could expect the “does the curtain match the drapes” question. But, in West Hollywood, I had no assumptions.

“Sure,” I said then we introduced ourselves.

“Do you have any satin pajama bottoms I can borrow? I have a party to go to and I’ve spent the day at the Abbey and I’m too fucked up to drive,” he explained.

Satin pajama party. That’s gay, right? The Abbey is a wonderful bar and restaurant, but it is the epicenter of queer in WeHo.

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear pajamas,” I responded.

“Oh, OK. Ah, do you have a light,” he asked holding his Parliments. He looked me up and down and followed-up with “you don’t smoke do you?”

We said our good byes and he got back in his car, turned around, and parked the car in front of his house.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door while I was making Tex’ dinner.

“Hello again,” I said when I opened the door.

“Hey, so I’ll pay you to drive me to Ross to get the pajamas. I really can’t drive. Do you party?” he asked, pointing to his nose.

“I’m more of a wine girl. I actually have to meet a friend in a half hour for dinner, so I don’t think I can drive you,” I replied.

“I can tell you are a good, wholesome girl. Ok, no biggie, just thought I’d come back and ask,” he said.

“Where’s this pajama party?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s at my house. Why don’t you stop by 812 later when you get back,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. His follow-up question was even more straight, “do you live alone?”

At this point, Tex had a very timely and audible where’s-my-dinner-bitch groan. I told tall hottie I had a house boy living with me right now doing chores and supervising contractors.

We hugged out and said goodbye.

It wasn’t until I put Tex’ pan of food on the floor that I realized that I had been hit on. I repeated the story for my girlfriends at dinner.

“You wholesome?” they said doubled over laughing. “He obviously was on drugs.”

And those drugs delivered the best and most convoluted pickup line/strategy of the year. Now that I know there are some token straights in the hood, I’ll have to start working other blocks. Hopefully Tex can pimp out his wholesome mommy to some sober guys.