Don't Mince Words

I completed my graduate degree at night while working a full-time job during the day.  When I finished, I didn’t read for a year.  No books, no newspapers, no magazines.  I was so burnt out from school, it was my way to detox and feel in control of my free time.  Since then, I’ve taken classes to meet people with similar interests.  I even registered to start pre-law classes at John Jay, but withdrew after 9/11.

Now online ed/distance learning is the thing and I’m back in a corporate environment that makes you create personal “development” goals.  It’s all monkeyspank, I know.  Anyone that knows me, knows I can personally develop by changing vibrator attachments.  But whatever, I’ll play the game.

I registered for a six-week brand writing class and let me tell you, I’m through with school and admit I’m too old for this shit:  homework deadlines, people that ask dumb questions, and professors that have less professional experience than me.

Deadlines and stupid people?  I can just work late.  I’m back to getting my education through books, documentaries, and life experience.

I woke and treated SB Man’s body like a jungle gym to the point where I knew I didn’t have to go to 24 Hour Fitness.  And, honestly, sex is a much better way to get the heart rate up, right?

Little did I know, a couple hours later my 50-inch Munch “The Scream” blow-up doll would arrive at the office. Without a bike pump or other tool, I proceeded to administer mouth-to-ass plug resusitation in order to reanimate my flat fellow.  About 10 minutes later, Scream was nice and tall and sitting on my desk, greeting everyone that came to marketing.

I was outside contemplating tobacco.  It’s been a long time since I’ve blown that much on a Monday.

I was recently told that I was living my own romantic comedy.  Dot com-crash-to-Wall Street girl leaves New York for Los Angeles for personal growth.  Discovers the emotionally unevolved, focuses on health, gets laid off more, and then moves to a small town where she has a job and a sensible romantic life.

This is finally my fucking movie.  Finally.

Living in New York was truly one of the greatest experiences of my life.  I connected with a lot of smart and wonderful people.  But I also saw the evils.  I lived in fear for nearly nine months after I turned a dirty cop in to internal affairs.  After 9/11, I figured if I was going to get whacked by the mob, it would be a better death than burning in a building.  Needless to say, it all worked out and I happily left corporate slavery and chose LA as my backup plan when San Francisco was still in flames from the dot com bomb.

As I continue to look forward, it’s easy to reflect with the benefit of hindsight.  And I am one of those people who wouldn’t change anything in my life because even the bad stuff shapes the future path.  All those awful Los Angeles dates served some purpose (I know what I don’t want).  My odd projects, contracts and jobs all taught me that no workplace is perfect (I know what I don’t want).  Working is a fool’s errand.  You just have to try to pick your fools wisely.

The same holds true with dating.  When I was in the beginning interview stages in Santa Barbara, I went to the online personals to get a sense of the mid-40s dating scene in Santa Barbara.  Call it socio-romantic ethnography.  My random how-much-does-it-suck inquiry revealed dating there wasn’t much different than anywhere else:  crazy ex’s, drama, kids, liars, and the chemically altered.  And from that honest baseline, I developed a friendship with SB Man through a very, very long interview process.

But that’s not all.

My girlfriends in Los Angeles squealed when I told them that I saw SB Man four times in one week after I moved.  “It takes about six weeks to rack up that kind of time with one man in LA.  No one wants to make that kind of time commitment for fear of looking….available,” one admitted.

In New York, you knew your life was good when the trifecta of job-apartment-love was in balance.  Here, I know that my patience and perseverance prevailed.  I just don’t know how the movie is going to end.

You know you are leaving Los Angeles when you can comfortably throw out your Thomas Guide, the non-GPS bible to getting around.  I knew I was leaving when the fire trucks arrived.

Your layoff lady of leisure is discontinuing her 61-week underemployment lifestyle.  My nationwide job search finds me relocating to Santa Barbara, California for a marketing position with a consumer electronics company. My seven years and a couple odd months in Los Angeles has been plagued with the usual California cliches:  low-speed chases in the neighborhood, workplace drug deals, and who-do-you-know business card trading.  Between the odd work experiences and the tragic dating scene, I would of smoked a 45cal if it weren’t for my friends.

Those same friends turned out to wish me well with martinis at Lola’s on a record-breaking 112-degree day in West Hollywood.  We were enjoying the nice central air when the electricity went out.  We assumed the production company in the back bar blew a circuit while filming.  We continued to drink by candlelight only to discover that the transformer behind the restaurant blew and was on fire.  In typical LA-fashion, we ignored the drama and continued to drink until we were asked to leave an hour later.

That’s the sum total metaphor of my Los Angeles experience:  with shit swirling everywhere, I chose to focus on my career and my love life.  I got no where.

It is time to evacuate.