Don't Mince Words

I’ve revised the Kubler-Ross grief cycle to consider the emotional states of dating in Los Angeles.

Shock stage – initial paralysis after a few bad first dates and remembering someone telling you you’d have to “import” your men if you lived in Los Angeles.

Denial stage – continuing to date because you can’t believe it is really that bad out there.

Anger stage – frustrated and mad, you now date as if it is a revenge fuck. Each date gives you more writing material and you just get angrier.

Bargaining stage – seeking in vain for a way out of dating. You volunteer more and do anything for distraction.

Depression stage – dating in Los Angeles is not going to change.

Acceptance stage – moving forward by adopting a dog and revising your vibrator collection.

Last night I came to the realization that I may never get laid again. Tex and I watched “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” in bed. With each bark, he’d cock his head and stare at my 20-inch monitor while I giggled. I can’t remember the last time I laughed in bed. At this point, I’m not sure Tex would give up his spot on the queen-sized for a man. Well, maybe for a remastered version of Lady & The Tramp.

At my age, not a lot of new stuff happens to me. Admittedly, a lot of bizarre things occur when I go on dates in LA, but that falls into the bad date bucket. This weekend I had two unusual events happen to me.

The last time I wore a bikini, my age was a single digit. While visiting my 70-something Aunt, she suggested I go to water aerobics with her. I didn’t bring a suit. She went into one of her many hording closets and pulled out a bikini.

“Wow, Aunt Marna, this looks like it may be from the ‘60s and could fit,” I said.

“They don’t make them like that anymore,” she said like a typical old person.

It did, indeed fit and had those mid-boob seams that come up from the rib to the nipple to create a torpedo tit. Everything was stable and in place. I survived water aerobics and had no wardrobe malfunctions, but I may have shocked a few of the old folks with my tattoo.

On Independence day, we were driving back from a winery with the dog in the back seat. I was the last in a long line of cars hauling ass down Route 1. A cop in the opposite direction 180-ed and pulled me over. 75 in a 55. The CHiP was not amused when I said in my best F-me voice, “you know you are my first, sir” when he handed me my inaugural CA speeding ticket.

“I don’t know about that ma’am.” he replied and then walked away.

I want to believe I was his funniest and most sober traffic stop of the day. Maybe he would of laughed if I had my bikini top on?