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Choosing Civility: The Twenty-five Rules of Considerate Conduct Blow Me Blow Me Half Broke Horses The Glass Castle Steve Jobs

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Welcome to my blog on dating in Los Angeles.  I hope you find my real life stories and anecdotes on being smart, sexy and single in the City of Angels as amusing (and tragic) as I do.  If you enjoy reading my posts, please share this blog site with your friends, family, loved ones, and less loved ones.  

Please check out my Sex and the City style novel Blow Me—available now in e-book and paperback on my website and lulu.com. Also available in ebook on amazon.com and Google books.


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There comes a time in every woman’s life where she’s sweating bullets in the checkout line at her local pharmacy as she unpacks a bunch of random items, hoping the person standing behind her doesn't notice the pregnancy kit nestled amongst a bag of Doritos, a box of tampons (wishful thinking that you do get your period), some makeup wipes and sunscreen. You’ve been there, right? You look at the items on the moving conveyer. It looked like more in the basket, so you quickly grab a gossip magazine, a pack of gum and a few bottles of five-hour energy drinks and add them to the pile. You wait for it—a tsk-tsk sound from the cashier, a critical eye from the person behind you—but, it never comes. Buying a pregnancy test is infinitely more embarrassing than buying condoms. If anyone notices the EPT kit you know they’re thinking, “If she had been responsible and bought condoms, she wouldn’t need that.”

Accidents happen whether using condoms or birth control. With all the controversy around women's rights to birth control, the fifty-year old debate about pro life versus pro choice, I thought I'd throw a little fuel on the fire. Why not!

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Long before George Costanza announced his invention of the iToilet app on the Seinfeld reunion episode, I had thought of this very concept. Having driven from Los Angeles to San Diego on many occasions, I’ve learned exactly where to stop for a clean bathroom and where not to stop. I have even taken to keeping a Starbucks paper cup on the floor of the passenger seat of my car—for roadside emergencies.

As a woman, peeing is a very big part of my life. It’s something I do often, and something I do well. While drinking three liters of water a day may have something to do with it, I’ve heard that women also have smaller bladders than men—or at least intolerance for a full bladder. Like Peter MacNicol’s character John Cage, the quirky Senior Partner at Cage & Fish on the acclaimed TV series of the 90s, Ally McBeal, I like a fresh bowl. I also like a clean bathroom, one that smells of flowers and candles not bleach and stale urine.

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Excess Baggage

I once dated a man who traveled more than George Clooney's character in Up In The Air. He basically lived in seat 2b on American Airlines. A card-carrying member of the five million mile club, he knew every flight attendant by name and had the privilege of getting on any flight at any time, even if it meant bumping someone else off. A few years with him, and I became an expert traveler myself, able to breeze through TSA screening in record time, compressing everything I needed for up to a week into one Tumi carry-on (they make the largest permissible carry-on) and one personal item—a large Chanel tote that set me back five times the price of the Tumi case. The Chanel tote was big enough to accommodate a 17-inch MacBook Pro, a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, a broad array of reading material, and my TSA approved 3oz toiletries.

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Clothes Make the Woman

The other day I was walking through Beverly Hills and I had several men and women compliment me on what I was wearing. I love when someone appreciates the effort it takes to make an outfit come together. I love it when I rock my wardrobe.

Call me shallow. Call me vain. I like dressing up—always have; always will. As a little girl, I would parade around my mother’s bedroom playing dress up in her finest clothes. I'm amazed she let my grubby little hands touch her Mad Men era custom-tailored Shantung silk dresses and matching satin shoes. I certainly wouldn't let a child anywhere near my closet, but my mother had strict rules, so I imagine I had clean hands. We were raised with manners and social graces. When we came home from school, we changed into clean clothes and washed up before dinner. On Sunday evenings, or whenever we had dinner guests, we dressed for the occasion. To this day, when I see little children wearing their Sunday best, it puts a smile on my face. I think to myself “that mother is doing something right.”

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The Table Touch Up

I have this little pet peeve. Those who know me well know that I have more than one, but let’s focus on just one for now. I can’t stand it when women touch up their face at the table. Forget rude, it’s déclassé, which in laymen’s terms means tacky. 

According to the United States Dining Etiquette Guide, applying lipstick at the table is as serious a no-no as using a toothpick at the table. If you’re on a date, a “table touch up” makes you look vain and high maintenance. The man sitting across from you has been looking at your shiny nose and bare lips throughout the entire meal. Why the sudden need to hide that from him? Makeup is about mystery. The mystery is gone if you apply it in public. Much easier to simply excuse yourself—allowing him an opportunity to show his manners by standing as you stand, and even assisting you with your chair—and make your way to the ladies’ room to primp and preen, and tinkle and text. Yes, texting at the table is also inappropriate.

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The Cat Lady Cometh? 

Many men think women who own cats are seriously flawed. While I might be seriously flawed, I honestly don’t think it’s from my cats. That’s right, I have cats. Plural. Two adorable, highly neurotic, independent, crazy-making cats. By crazy-making, I don’t mean that I am turning into the crazy cat lady who lives in a tiny one-bedroom rental apartment with twenty-seven cats and is found dead in her apartment with her cats living off her corpse. I simply mean my cats are annoying little troublemakers, highly demanding of my attention, and completely selfish. They sound a lot like the men I’ve dated.  

Some researchers believe that there are tiny organisms carried by house cats that creep into our brains, causing dementia and schizophrenia. As it turns out recent studies have shown that these organisms only trigger schizophrenia in those who are genetically predisposed to the illness.

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