Umm, do you smell that???

I am going to save you reading this blog, so that I can make sure that you absorb the moral. The moral to the following story is: The Internet is the devil and will trick you.

I recently had the pleasure of spending a ladies weekend in Palm Springs for Paige's birthday. Lots of lounging, amateur barbecuing (only minor hair singeing) and large vegetable carving. The plan was to celebrate another fab year for Poncho Paige and sneak in some spa time. Kyra was the organizer and planner. She did some research online and found a spa for us to relax and have spa "things" done to ourselves. I am an adventurous sort and enjoy getting "off the beaten path". We all perused the website and selected our treatments. The place looked nice. Careful camera angles and a nice font goes a long way, as we later learned. I thought I would try the mud wrap. The adjective that caught my eye in the description was "detox". Well hell! I cant think of anyone who needs more detoxing than me.

So the fateful day of our spa experience arrived and we hustled our way out of town. I guess this should have been the first inkling that things might not be all that they seemed. Once you leave Palm Springs proper it quickly gets dirrtty. I mean a toilet used as a flower planter on the stoop of the mobile home dirrtyy. We were kinda in a hurry due to oversleeping, so we weren't paying very close attention.

We arrived at the "resort" and quickly checked in. We were ushered to the locker room to change and begin our treatment. Paige and I had both signed up for the mud wrap, so we toddled off. The first thing that cause raised eyebrows was the smell. Paige looked at me and said "Do you smell that?". I brushed it off as being the mineral pool. Although as we scurried past the mineral pool there seemed to be suspicious items floating on the top of the water. In the locker room, we were handed robes and towels and lead into a small.....shack, for lack of a better word. We were handed these weird paper items and told that they were our undergarments to wear during our treatment. Basically they were two pieces of toilet paper strung together with dental floss....and not in a good way. There was also a nasty looking shower cap. I was concerned. The attendant (I say that generously) left us standing in the shack (with a dangerously low ceiling - Paige is tall) with our toilet paper bikinis. Paige and I stared at each other and started laughing. There was a shower curtain that could be pulled to divide the shack. We pulled the curtain across and started trying to maneuver the floss. There was no way these things were made for any person that was not an adolescent Asian boy but we sorta draped them across the important parts and hopped on to our respective treatment tables.

What happened next should not be done to farm animals much less humans. Specifically humans who paid to have it done to them. A woman who looked suspiciously like Nurse Ratchet came in wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket. I started to feel the itch of concern. She reached into the bucket and started slapping insanely hot cow dung onto my body. It smelled bad and was scorching. Fortunately it cooled quickly. Unfortunately as it cooled the stinkier it became. So she slogs this muck all over me. I am told to flip over and I get it on the backside (again not in a good way). Fuck, I think to myself, she has the bedside manner of a mortician. Next I looked down to see her unfolding what appear to be someone elses' dirty sheets. Apparently, this was the herbal wrap. Which consisted of being wrapped like a mummy in sheet that smelled as though they had been dipped in a week old vat of Lipton tea. Once Paige and I both completely mudded and wrapped, the woman turned and asked if we would like the shower curtain dividing the space pulled back. "Sure!", I say. I must confer with Paige. I needed to be sure that this was as icky as I was perceiving. As soon as we are alone, I glance over at Paige (our range of motion is severely limited by the sheet wrapped around our necks) we snort and being giggling. We are now forced to stare at the ceiling of the shack which seemed to be leaking some sort of rusty liquid. Great! We were left alone for a while to contemplate how we got into this situation. Then the women were back. I was partially unwrapped and then lead through the locker room, covered in mud and shivering in my wet sheet. She pointed me toward the showers, where I was told to rinse myself off. You don't have to tell me twice. I get under the water and try to scrape the fertilizer from between my butt cheeks. Suddenly THAT woman is back again brandishing a Windex bottle and telling me to step out of the shower. I am thinking to myself "Dude!!!! I am far from clean!!". Have spent nasty nights whacked out on Goldschlager pucking in the trash can outside the local taco stand and felt MUCH cleaner than I do now. She proceeded to spray me down with whatever was in the Windex bottle (I am pretty sure it was some kinda Orange Oil cleanser-for kitchen stove tops) and kick me back out into the locker room.

Now there is violated and then there is VIOLATED. I will say in all candor that it was probably the former rather than the later. BUT if it looks like shit and smells like shit........well, you know.

there is clean and then there is really clean...

In an effort to be a well rounded person I try to expose myself (easy...) to many different cultures. In LA, this is easy. I am often availing myself of the Mexican culture. Hello taquito. I love you. Last weekend, the Korean culture and I got reaquainted. Korean??? Yes. Those Korean gals are clean. I mean really clean. I can attest to this as I have seen the private parts of at least 50 Korean women in one day. Bizarre. Yes. On purpose? Yes. I went to one of the Korean spa's (we use that term losely) in K town (not K-tel). Have you noticed how all other cultures are big on the communal bathing? We ugly Americans are too shy. Well, I am not shy. So lets have a go. At these Korean spas, you can steam, dip, sauna and scrub. Sounds like Burke Williams you say? Not so much...The steam is in a jade filled room (prized in the east). The sauna is in a room that has the ceiling covered with carbon logs (for oxygen promotion). And your dip is in Mugwort tea (good for your lady stuff). My pal and I each signed up for scrubs. We went in, disrobed and entered the bathing room. All shapes and sizes of bodies. It is actually a bit of a boost for the ego. Of course, you are comparing yourself to 50 year old Korean grandmas not Lindsay Lohan. You are whisked away by a little lady in black bra and undies. They (the scrubbers) are the only ones who get to wear clothes. You lay down on what looks like a narrow vinyl cot and she throws a bucket (really) of hot water on you and starts in. She scrubs for a half an hour. There is a lot of flipping back and forth. Limb lifting and gyrating. More buckets of water. Every now and then there she makes a tsk tsk sound, as though you are REALLY dirty. I give her an apologetic look. Like soap hasnt seen my skin in months. I am fearful that she is going in for the slightly OB/Gyn cleaning but she veers away each time. There was multiple dousing again and suddenly you are pushed off the cot and told "Go showwa". As if I needed it.

lying is, as lying does.....

So I was in Vegas with George. Hold that thought.
One of my favorite pastimes is lying. I am a pretty accomplished liar. I love it when people tell me that I don't lie well. I just look at them and think "Oh you poor dear." The first time I went to Vegas I went for 5 days. Overkill, you might say. But I didn't know what I was in for and I was following George's lead. The really odd thing being, I don't care for gambling. It seems like an outrageous waste of money. Yeah, lets play some game where I have to add really fast in my head and give away cash. Huh?? I find drinking to be much more worth my while. So there I was, day 3 of Vegas. I was getting the hang of it. In fact, I was experiencing all that Vegas had to offer. Rock climbing and dirt bike riding during the day (i.e. 5:00pm) and swingers clubs and strip bars at night. Cool!!! I might have mentioned my incredible ability to hold my liquor. This makes Vegas extra fun.
So George and I have been out for most of the night. It is about 3am. Things are really starting to roll. We started off the evening at Cheetas. We had a friend who "worked" there. And I mean worked!!! The key is to go to the strip clubs fairly early, 10pm. This way its not super packed and you can chat the girls up. I love that. Anyway, George and I roll into The Hard Rock Hotel. We scoot our way to the bar and managed to wrangle some seats. George and I had it down to a system. We would get about three cocktails in and then scope the adjacent drinkers. Do they look like a party??? Gullible?? So stupid that they have it coming?? The best is when a guy would hit on me....instant target.
So this guy starts chatting with me. We will call him Ron. I am responsive. He eyes George. George is talking to someone else on the other side of him. Ron and I quickly get to introductions. "My name is Tracy." Nudge to George. "This is my brother Todd." Rons eyes light up. Houston, we have a live one. Ron keeps talking about medical sales or something. He has moved his hand to just above my knee. I grab his fingers and say "Ouch". He is concerned. Are you hurt?? I pull up the edge of my skirt to reveal a huge bruise I acquired the day before while rock climbing. (Note Readers: Large amounts of alcohol consumed increase body's ability to bruise.) "Oh my god are you ok?" The nasty wheels in my head are crankin. I look at him with my best wounded bird imitation, "Todd, gets mad sometimes." He looks confused and then glances at George, who is completely oblivious. "But he is your brother??" Ron struggles. I look at him with slightly watery eyes (easy when you are hammered) and say "We love each other...but...". Ron is getting pissed. Ha Ha. He stands up and walks around to George, who wasn't really making much progress on his end. Ron practically shouts "How can you hit a girl...much less your sister?!". George looks at me. I look and nod. He slowly smiles and turns to Ron "She deserved it, she shut me down that night." Ron is totally sputtering and looks ready to swing. I hop up, grab George's hand and start making for the door. "Come on bro...they don't understand how we feel about one another" planting a wet kiss on him. George is laughing like a delirious monkey and taunting Ron as we push through the front door to the new morning....

There is bad judgment and then there is....

So I was out one night with a friend. I don't remember where I was or who I was with. It is not crucial to the story. But we wrapped up our evening fairly early and went our separate ways. My way being the path straight to hell. I wasn't feeling totally finished with my evening (this is bad, see Tiki Ti) so I decided to stop off at one of my favorite watering holes, Tom Bergins. Please note it is a fav due to the close proximity to my home. Stumble stumble. So I play this little game with myself. I tell myself that if there is parking out front, I should go in (again Tiki Ti). This usually leads to disaster. There is parking, I go in. I order my usual. Bushmills neat with a water back. That's bartender talk for those of you who have never served the swill. I feel that this drink selection sets me apart as a person who knows their booze and can hold their liquor. Why I find these things important I have yet to understand.

I sit at the bar and quickly strike up a conversation with the drunks around me. Drunk people are so easy to talk to. It is starting to get pretty late and people are straggling out. That is with the exception of the drunks I was chatting with. Apparently, I learned that night, there is the after 2 crowd at Bergins. I am talking with these two guys who work together at a restaurant. One is the chef and the other is the manager. They mention the name of the restaurant. I had heard of it but never been there. It is one of those pricey hip spots. I only go to cheap hip spots. One guy, the manager guy, is starting to put the moves on me. Once I realize what is happening, I kinda take a personal inventory. "Am I drunk?" "How drunk am I?" "Can I maintain a vertical stance to at least 2 minutes without bobbing and weaving" Hmmmmmm. Houston...you know the rest. It is apparent to my would be suitor that I am what is typically called inebriated. But lets call a spade a spade, I was shit faced drunk. Mr Manager offered me a ride home. That would be great, I slurred. Before I proceed let me tell you that this is the Gods honest truth. I remember standing up. I remember walking to the door. Then......nothing.

There is bright light beating on my eyelids. I crack one open and survey the room around me. I have never seen this room before. I take note that I am lying on a couch. An ugly couch. I am naked. I have a condom stuck to my leg. There is some sort of smelly blanket covering me. I shut the eye and take inventory. What day is it? Do I need to be at work? No, I think its Saturday. I am in the clear on that one. Next, remove condom from leg. Gingerly. Trying not actually touch much of it. Do I have bruises or cuts? Nope. Do I feel as though my hoo-hoo has been abused? No. Okay. I have clearly done a bad thing and now is the time to cut and run. I am naked. I prop myself up and see that I am in some pseudo condo that some guy has made an attempt at furnishing, but got caught at Pottery Barn and never made it out. There are stairs. There are my clothes!!!! There is my purse!!! Hot dog!!! I roll off the couch and snake my way commando style through the condoms on the floor. Thank god there were condoms. I pull on my pants, socks and shoes but there is no top. Fuck! I glance up the stairs. HE is up there. I do NOT want to go up there. Fuck! I creep up the stairs. I am very good at this by the way. I have been sneaky since way back. There is one bedroom. I inch open the door and spy my top on the floor. He is sprawled on the bed. Sleeping. I am able to retrieve my shirt and scamper back down the stairs. Success!!!!!! I let myself out of the Pottery Barn Den of Doom. I am hightailing it down the hall when I think to look in my purse for my car keys. GONE! Holymotherfuckershitshitshit! There is only one place they can be. Back in the Den of Doom.

There is no option. I contemplate breaking in but this is a fairly new joint and pretty secure. I go to the door and ring the doorbell. Avon calling! I ring it a lot. Come on Mr. Dirty Manager! Wake up! He comes down and answers the door. Needless to say, he is confused by the sight of me at his front door. Not passed out on his ugly roll arm sofa. I pull myself together and with the very last shred of integrity I have I say "Hi, Sorry to wake you up but I think I left my keys here last night." He is clearly perplexed. Thinking to himself, "you never left"??? Uh hold on, he says. He returns with my keys. Lord knows where the hell they were. "Thanks a bunch. I gotta run. I see you later!" I practically sprint down the hall. When I go out the front door, I look back. He is still standing at his apartment door in his boxer shorts, scratching his head.

I am now on the sidewalk. I look at my cell phone, it is 7:23am. Ugh. That's nasty. I begin to look around for my car. I walk back and forth, up and down his block. It is 15 minutes before I remember. My car is at Bergins. I am not. I am far away. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, cant a girl catch a break? Apparently not. I begin what will become the longest walk of shame I have ever had to tread. As I come around the corner many many many blocks later, I see Bergins. With my silly car parked out front. Safe and sound and ticket free!!!

I hop into my car and set my purse on the passenger seat. My bag falls over and out tumbles a men's watch. A really nice men's watch. I have a vague recollection of people showing off and trying on watches. I don't wear a watch. I hold it in my hand and consider returning it......for 16 seconds. Fuck that!!!! I may be a slut but I am not going back to that guys place. Enough humiliation for one day. (My sister later gave that watch to her boyfriend. He wears it to this day. She didn't ask where it came from.)

And that my friend is the story of Table 8.

yes Virginia, the rock opera does still exist but it might hurt you

So I had the strange and bizarre opportunity to experience an actual rock opera recently. And yes, it almost hurt me. But I have lived to tell the tale.

First, lets lay the blame on Summer shall we? Who, of course, will pass the buck to Jack her erstwhile co-worker and carpool bingo partner. Jacks pal was going to be playing with this band, the Kooks, at Mr T's Bowl and it was certain to be a hoot. Or at least this was how it was reported to me. Well, I am game for just about anything and Jack is a nut. Yipee!!

So we head out on a rain swept night to see what this was all about. For those of you who don't know, Mr' T's Bowl is an actual bowling alley although it is rarely used as such. But it comes equipped with a black lit bar that shows everyone's undergarments through their clothes. Good times! And to add interest to the setting, the bar seems to be staffed by this odd woman who looks like she came over on Ukrainian sex trade boat. But I will say she can sling the drinks. (Summer will contest this.) Once we entered, acquired Jack and some cocktails, we began to take a look around. We started to notice that the crowd was more varied than usual. You have a good grip of the swing vintagey types, the sorta indie rocker types (that are trying soooo hard to fly the freak flag) and then the requisite neighborhood winos who are in love with the Ukrainian bartender who is probably selling it out the back door. The odd part is the high percentage of people yammering away in German. German? Well, apparently the band opening for the Kooks is a German swing band. Hence the swing types. I have no idea what their name was but I can say in all honesty, they were good. Really good. And long winded. They played for what seemed like forever. Finally they wrapped it up and it became apparent that the majority of the patrons were going to be leaving. Oh dear.

Summer and I venture into the bar to replenish before the Kooks. It is around this time that I learn that they will be performing an original rock opera based on the book of Genesis. Huh? I will admit that my bible knowledge is rusty (read non-existent). I consider ordering a double to steel myself against what might be coming but Summer and I are rapidly running out of dough. Hmmph. We hold our drinks in a death grip and head towards the stage. The smallish stage is populated with a very strange group of people. The lead guitar, who is seriously wishing he were Sebastian Bach. A keyboard player who appears to have just finished administering a junior high algebra test to his students. A bass player who looks like a bloated Vince Vaughn. On drums was the person we knew, Coprock. There was another person tucked in the back by Coprock but for the life of me that is all I remember. And then there are the singers (ahem, vocalists). The male portraying Satan appears to be a down on his luck Rob Zombie who is clutching the lyrics for dear life. Lillith is embodied by a woman who seems to have been plucked from a Renaissance Faire (I hate that fuckin "e" on the end. And don't get me started on shoppe!!!!). Her corset is really tight and her boobs are trying to spill out the top. Satan is really hoping they do too. And so they sing. There is some narrative to try to hold things together and let the audience know what the hell is going on. Well, we don't care. It sucks and we are trapped. So what do you do in this situation???? Scope the room for wacky people, of course!!! After a cursory sweep of the room, one person came to all the girls attention. Indie Hot Guy. What the hell was he doing here? Seemingly alone?? Was he foreign? Lost? Really incredibly bored??? We speculated for quite a while but never came up with a satisfying explanation because we were immediately distracted by "the dancers". Somehow some people had managed to pour enough Heineken down their throats to think that this particular rock opera was danceable!!!! Holy Hats!!! Initially it was just a couple. They were sorta gyrating. Sorta wobbling. But they were soon joined by Really Drunk Scary Girl, who thought they needed company. I was sitting next to Paige and we were transfixed. This woman was defying all laws of gravity staying upright. She was less than three feet from us and we thought she was goin down for sure. I started to position myself to block the falling body, glancing nervously at Paige. Raised eyebrows. And then as quickly (or not) as it started, it ended. Lillith was spent and couldn't breathe in the corset. Satan needed to take his heart attack pills. We clapped enthusiastically. More out of surprise that it had been fairly brief (as far as rock operas go) than actual appreciation for their musicianship.

So, yes Virginia, there is still rock opera out there. Stay the hell away from it!!!

why tiki ti, why?

So I had dinner with Summer the other night. We met for drinks and dinner at Colombo's in Eagle Rock. It is a kooky old school steak house with paintings of naked ladies on the walls. You can see the appeal already. Summer was stuck in traffic so I was one up on her when she arrived. We sat down for dinner and began the usual dissection of how weird life is and our lives in particular. After a good girly dinner of salads and appetizer (and a 1/2 carafe of wine, nice hustle Summer) we wrapped it up and headed home to our individual estates to collapse into bed. OR NOT! By now I had a nice lube going and I wasnt feeling like heading home quite yet. (Summer is going to kill me). I took Sunset home for some site seeing. I saw the Tiki Ti!

http://www.tiki-ti.com/

If there is a parking spot out front, I am going in, I think to myself. I had my camera and decided this would be a great photo op. Of course the parking gods were on my side (or not). I went in and knew I was in trouble. It is a tiny place, 12 stools. And people were packed in. The air was thick with smoke. You can actually smoke there! I sidled up to the bar and tried to decide what to order. I asked the bartender (who looks like he just graduated from high school) what is the specialty? A "Rays steak" he says. It is loud in there mind you, but I nod and he begins the complicated process. A drink is placed in front of me and I pull out the card. Not so much. Cash only. I have to hustle to the Mexican joint next door and get cash. When I return, my drink is right were I left it. I look at my neighboring patrons suspiciously. Oh well. Sip. Delish! There is lots of shouting Toro Toro! I dont know why. I shout too. Everyone around me is talking to me at once and I am taking their pictures. There is another guy there with an ancient polaroid and he starts snapping away too. I finish my first drink. I learn that drink is not called "Rays steak" its called a "Mistake". Uh Huh. Next is the wheel of drinks where you spin the wheel and thats what you get. I ended up with a Brazilian culo, I think. Let me comment that all of the drinks taste pretty much the same. Rum Rum and more rum! But it was a party. Everyone loves a girl with a camera. It dawns on me that I need to pee. I head through the bamboo curtain into the bathroom. This is were we have the problem. The bathroom is narrow. I shut the door and set my purse on the floor (it looked clean). I do my business, wash my hands and decide to reapply gloss. I lean over into my purse, way over. I am wearing 4" platforms. I lose my balance and crack my head on the sink cabinet. I see stars. Little tiki stars with hula girls. DUDE! I straighten up and grip the sink. I am not going to barf. I reach back and check for blood. I am clear. I shake it off and head back out. My judgment might have been clouded before but now it was in a deep SF fog. Another drink. Lords knows why. There is lots of discussion about dirt bike riding (I have only been once), kicking heroin (never done it) and strangulation during sex (I take the 5th). I had to get out of there before it spiraled out of control. I said my goodbyes to all of my new best friends (again???)and dodged several offers for a ride to my car (we all know what THAT means) and headed home. I woke up the next day with a monster run hangover and the vague knowledge that I had given my number out to some Bulova salesman. Damn the rum!

The book thief

Whenever I think I am a good judge of character, I think about this experience and slap myself silly.

I do the internet dating. I am not wild about it but it is convenient and provides some sort of a filter for the multitudes out there. Not a very good filter but a filter none the less. Let me add that I have met several nice guys through the internet dating. I will expand on that another day. My profile is on the Nerve personals site. I choose Nerve because I thought that I would get someone who at least knows how to read.

So I get this email from someone called Hemingway Hero. My interest was peaked. Someone who actually knows who Hemingway is. Trust me, this is not a given with the general pool of males out there. He and I chat back and forth. His emails are charming. He quotes John Berryman to me. I am interested. Very interested. Back and forth all day (on the company dime, of course).

One thing about internet dating, I don't like a bunch of back and forth over weeks. I figure, lets get this show on the road. A couple of emails, a phone call or two (I often skip this step) and then meet somewhere. I always meet them in a public place and have my own escape vehicle. Now let me preface this story with this statement, I was coming off (6 months into singlehood) a 6 year relationship I had ended. My mental state was a little weird but I thought I was solid. Ooops!

So after a day or two of emailing sexy poems we make a plan to meet for drinks. Friday after work at Pinot Hollywood. A dark, well populated bar with multiple exits. Now I had seen his photo on his profile. Cute, not too cute, bookish with a good smile. Glasses. I love boys with glasses. So I walk into the bar. Late (always be late so they get to see you walking in) and I scan the room. All the way across the room I see him. We make eye contact and he stands up and watches me walk across the room to him. Very chivalrous and sweet. I sit down and immediately I have a positive vibe. Hmmm. We order drinks and start the chit chat. Mind you we are in the darkest corner of the bar next to the fireplace. Very romantic. We talk about our families and work etc etc. I learn that he is a literary agent at William Morris. He then turns around and hands me a book. "I brought this for you". Its the Berryman he had been quoting. He then proceeds to open the book and read to me. I shit you not. Mind you, we were 3 cocktails into it but I was floored. We keep drinking and talking about books when he leans over and kisses me. I love it when the dude makes the first move.

It gets late, the bar had practically emptied and all rational thought left with the last patrons. I suggest we get something from a liquor store and head to the beach. What the hell was I thinking? No one has ever figured that one out. He is all for it. We leave his car behind (Note: always stay with your car! You can throw the guy out and keep on driving if you have to.) and head to Santa Monica....from Hollywood! We stop at a liquor store and he grabs a bottle of champagne (my favorite!). We find a spot on the side of the road by the Chart House on PCH and climb down to the rocks. He finds a flat rock and clears a spot for me. He shoots the cork into the waves and pours into the cups I "happened" to have stashed in my car. He holds my hand and we sit and drink the bottle under the full moon(seriously). By the time the bottle is empty, I am so shocked that this guy exists that I cant stand it. I ask him to come home with me. We head back across town to my place. We are stumbling and peeling off clothes as we bump down my hallway. We fall into my bed and I am stoked. Yes! Sex! No. He wants to wait. He is so overwhelmed with my wonderfulness that he just wants to soak it up. You can imagine my confusion. Isn't that supposed to be my line? A line I rarely press into service, by the way. Sex is good for you and should happen as frequently as possible, practiced safely of course.

That was unequivocally the most romantic night of my life. And this took place a few years back. We wake up the next morning. There is none of that next day weirdness. We didn't have sex so there is nothing to be really ashamed of. Except maybe all of the silly gushing at each other. I drive him back to his car and we make plans to get together that night. He comes over that same night under the pretense of watching Hitchcock movies. Once he is there it is evident that we wont be watching anything other than my undies flying through the air. He walked into my apartment, took my hand and led me straight to the bedroom. We never even turned the TV on. Yes! Sex! He stays over. The next morning he says all the right stuff. I am amazed at my luck. He walks down the apartment building hallway, stops and looks over his shoulder and gives me the strangest look. It was a look of confusion. I gaze back not really noticing.

Monday is the next day. I go to work and I do something I typically do before ever going on any date. I Google him. I am attaching what came up.

http://www.lapdonline.org/releases/1999/99_09/fcd2.htm

Holy shit!! He is wanted!! He is a rare book thief!!! The attached report does not show the mugshot that was originally included in the information. Which is too bad because it has the numbers under his head and everything. I am freaking out!! My whole family is in law enforcement! Why would he steal books? I pace around the balcony of my office and mentally prepare myself for the call. The call to find out what the fuck! I call him and get his voicemail. I leave a message that sort of goes like this, "Hey Zeke, I know this will sound weird but I Googled you and I have learned that you are a rare book thief. I don't know what to make of this. I thought you might have mentioned going to jail or being arrested or something. Anyway, if you could call me back and we could talk about it, I would love to hear about it." BARF!!!! I completely wheezed out but I liked the guy.

One entire day goes by, it feels like a month. Finally he calls me the following evening. He is like a stranger (perhaps because he is a STRANGER!!!!!) on the phone. In this weird monotone voice he tells me about how the cops (his word) broke down his door and found his stash of stolen books. How many stolen books did you have I ask? Oh, 5 or 6 HUNDRED!!!!!!!! What the fuck???? He gets sent to a halfway house for addicts. He is there for 6 months. The court decided that he had an addition to stealing. Whatever! There is a GIANT pause in our conversation. "Were ya gonna share this with me?" It is in the past, he says. I didn't think it would matter. Huh??? The fact that he was a convicted felon was not the issue here. That fact that it wasn't that "big a deal" was the sticking point. The conversation kinda dwindled. He said he needed to go and he would call me the next day. I never heard from him again. I had NEVER been rejected. I didn't quite know what to make of it. Shouldn't I have been dumping him cuz he's a felon? I wrote a letter to help with purging him from my system. I sent it to McSweeneys (thankfully they rejected it). I am attaching that at the bottom. Its pretty dramatic but it was in keeping with the overall experience. I have had therapy since then.

The moral of this story girls and boys is you may think you know something but you don't know shit.
And always Google prospective suitors (before the date).

An Open Letter to the Man who swiped my heart and is walking around with it in his Kenneth Cole loafer.

I should have noticed it right away. I should have known. But excitement and adrenaline conspired to cloud my judgment. The lack of nervousness. The willingness to talk about difficult things with a complete stranger. This one should have been a red flag. I have been here before (Cliff). Why do you tell a relative stranger about the most difficult experience of your adult life, over Absolut and tonics at Pinot Hollywood? I am sorry your mom died. Man, I hope that wasn't some type of ploy to suck me in. But apparently this is how things are done. You reel them in, and then kill someone off. Yes? Who else would recite poetry to a girl (yep, that's me) on a first date? A blind date no less. And in keeping with this theme, who buys champagne and woos a girl in the moonlight on the beach in Malibu. Never mind that this was my suggestion. Don't listen to me. I am crazy! Clearly, it is a girl that has left her brain in the jar, that falls for all of this. It didn't help that you are nothing like my ex-boyfriend. So completely unlike him, it is as if you patterned yourself after everything opposite. I am weak. Admittedly, you had the advantage of the literary background. I am a sucker for readers, especially ones with glasses. You were chock full of amorous quotes like a twenty dollar whore with condoms. If I could just erase you from my memory. Just whiteout the excitement of kissing you. Completely eliminate how "just right" you were. When did I become Goldilocks? Of course next comes the kicker. You didn't want to sleep together the first date! WHAT? "Can I hold you for 24 hours and then ravish you for 24 days?" Promises, Promises. Did you really say that? I think so. The things that came out of your mouth. God, I should have known. Even the next morning, as I blinked at you over the pillows, I was melting inside. You knew it too. Somehow, I thought the same thing was happening to you. We had breakfast and made plans to see each other that night. Yipee!! The girl who is full of glitter and vinegar had suddenly donned rose tinted Oliver Peoples wraparounds. I bought it. All of it. At full retail none the less! I spent the rest of the day in a minor panic that you might not come back. Why was I so concerned? Why couldn't I keep you at an arms length like the rest? But you came back. Amazing and charming again. This time there was sex. And it was great! Was this some sort of cruel joke? More promises of "never leaving" and "not being able to hold me close enough". No one has stared at me for so long that I couldn't stop smiling with the pleasure of it. No one has ever said that I was remarkable or amazing. The funny thing is, when you left on Sunday and I watched you walk down the hallway I had a feeling I wouldn't see you again. Why? You had done nothing to make me think anything was wrong. Just hours before you had told me that we "felt so right". Then the next day came. Monday. The day that I learned that you were a convicted felon. A serial rare book thief. Would you have disappeared if I hadn't found out? Are you embarrassed or ashamed because I know? I was willing to accept it as being part of you and your past and move on. It was a shock initially. Now I hate that feeling of the blood draining from my fingers. I spoke with you that night. You told me about being in jail and meeting Henry Hill in addicts rehab. You said, "I will call you". I have been told that the experience of you/ the lesson of you is good for me. Laugh. But I know now that I have the capacity to love unreservedly again. That was in question before. But why did this happen and why with you? Where did you go? One minute I was lying next to you with the soles of your feet spooning my calves. The next minute you are gone and it hurts so much that I have to blink a few times. I am certain now that I will never know. I find that incredibly frustrating, almost infuriating. But I would appreciate it if you would take the little piece of my heart that you have claimed and give the rest back. Just take your left shoe off and hand it over. I was thinking of making a hat out of the remains. Something with ribbon and a little veil.