I’ve had two serious relationships since I’ve lived in Los Angeles. My west coast operational definition of serious is a) they know my last name; b) they know where I live; and c) they say they are emotionally evolved enough to want a relationship. In both cases, the liaisons dissolved on or before the 60-day mark and made me create my “locals need not apply” rule.
Since dating Real Guy, my east coast fan base has expressed deep concern that my writing career will dry up. “If you are off the market, who are the fruits and nuts going to date and what are you going to write about?” Even Real Guy is wondering. “I haven’t checked dontmincewords in a while. Do you have anything to write about or am I doing to have to “do” something?” he asked.
I refuse to be that sunshine-and-roses yeah I meet a great guy girl. OK, I am, but I’m not going to make that the focus of my existence. That’s no different than moms that brag about their kids – for decades.
Instead, I’m going to give you the commonalities of the few successful relationships I’ve had. In every last one of them, it’s all about bodily functions and communication. I need a guy that can tolerate me peeing with the door open while I tell him random bullshit. I need a guy that can snicker and see the beauty when I accidentally rip a wicked, nasty fart. I need a guy who knows I hiccup when I’m full and can say, “no more for you.” I need a guy who can lie in bed and talk for hours about more random bullshit.
Real Guy and I were at a B&B in the lower Sierras for New Years. I broke my vegetarian rule and had three ounces of hamburger on the Eve. The next morning, I paid dearly and sat dying on the throne. I flushed and sprayed and shut the door. He wanted to go in immediately after and I begged him not to. “Please don’t. It’s a hazmat,” I explained.
He went in and said it smelled like roses. That’s when I realized. It’s nice to have a man who thinks my shit doesn’t stink.