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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.

Entries in Self Esteem (7)


Wandering Eyes

Should your boyfriend only eyes for you? Should he behave like a horse with blinders on? If you get upset when he looks at another woman, maybe it’s your problem and not his. You should be confident that your man wants to be with you, that he wants to have sex with you, and that he’s completely turned on by you. So what if he casts a glance at another woman? We are ALL visual creatures—both men and women. If we weren’t there’d be no need for advertising which preys on our visual senses as do the products marketed by advertising (just look at how sexy the new white iPad is).

If you’ve watched even one episode of The Client List, a show targeted at the female audience, then you’ll agree that women like to look at a sexy man as much as men like to look at a sexy woman. The entirely unrealistic character, Riley Parks, (played by Jennifer Love Hewitt) has a massage clientele comprised entirely of sexy 30 year-old men with abs of steel and chiseled jaws who look like they walked off the cover of Muscle and Fitness.

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Road to nowhere

My favorite poem has always been The Road Not Taken (see below) by Robert Frost. I always thought it meant that taking the more challenging path, the less traveled path, is what distinguished the traveler. And, being that I have always taken the less traveled path in life, I identified with this. I was the black sheep of my family. I was a rebel carving my own way in life. I even used the words Yellow Wood as part of my company name, out of respect for this poem.

Recently I did a little research and it appears that my previous interpretation of Robert Frost’s chef-d’ouvre is not correct. The point of the poem is in the line Though as for that the passing there had worn them really about the same which basically means it was no different than the other path. They were both equally worn. So it was only in my perception, and the perception of the traveler in Robert Frost’s poem, that the road was grassy and wanted wear 

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Skinny Bitch

Photo courtesy of Twiggy Lawson

You're not fat, you're neurotic—or possibly anorexic.

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the skinniest weight-obsessed bitch of them all?  Not me. While I have been labeled a “Skinny Bitch” at times, I’m not and have never been weight obsessed. I’m fit—okay, extremely muscular—but not skinny. I eat carbs. I love to eat. And, knowing this, you likely hate me more. You hate me if I don’t eat. You hate me if I do. I can't win. Believe it or not, over the past 4 years I have gained 8.5% additional body fat, and I fall well within the average weight range for my body size and type. That was not always the case. There was a period of time in my teens and early twenties when I was a little heavier, and not so long ago I was actually twelve pounds lighter than I am. This was due to extreme stress and a death in the family. I looked like a heroin addict—not a Skinny Bitch. 

Women waste so much time and mental energy on judging our own and other women’s bodies (see this great article from CNN). Think of all the things we could accomplish, if we focused on other things. You think Hilary Clinton and Sarah Palin got so far in politics by obsessing about their weight? I can understand how a woman who is severely overweight might call herself fat, but when a thin woman labels herself as fat or obese, it’s nothing less than repulsive. Makes me want to vomit, but alas, I’m not bulimic!

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Crazy, crazy for loving you...

Popeye and Olive Oyl in A Date to Skate (1938).

When I was young, I used to love watching Popeye cartoons. Popeye was in love with Olive Oyl, and they had their pet "Eugene the Jeep" and a baby, Swee'Pea. It was all very romantic, even to a kid. But, I should have paid more attention to what Popeye said. Not just the "strong to the finish, cause I eat my spinach" song, but Popeye clearly stated over and over again, "I yam what I yam and you ain't gonna change me..."

It is said the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. If that's the case, I'm a certifiable nut job. I've chased a writing career for 20 years, convinced every time that the next project will provide my big break. I've dated the same type of man over and over—a guy who is irresponsible with money and not driven to succeed—believing that if he had me behind him, supporting him emotionally and financially, he could (and would) be my Popeye.

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Mini Me

Like Vegas, Los Angeles is a town full of slutty women wearing inappropriately short, inappropriately tight clothing. Cleavage is spilling out onto the sidewalks of Beverly Hills and it ain’t pretty. It’s like the entire city is one big strip club. And you know how it is at strip clubs. Why pay for a dance when you can enjoy the one your neighbor is getting for free?

Recently a date of mine asked me what I see for myself at age fifty. I replied, “more of the same, but better.”  I love life and I have no fear of aging. I believe that like a good wine, age is making me better—smoother, more balanced, with tannins that are less harsh. But enough wine references. Let’s just say I am no “Peter Pan” or the female equivalent. I plan to age gracefully without excessive plastic surgery or the insecurities that accompany such beauty obsessions. Evidently, that’s not what he meant when asking what I see for myself. He was asking about my attire and whether I’d still be wearing mini skirts.

Let me start by saying while I live in a city where the women are known for wearing ridiculously short, tight dresses that stop just below the water line and look like they’ve been spray-painted on their surgically enhanced figures, I am not one of them.

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Why I'm Not Married

It's June. Wedding season is officially here, having been kicked off in April by the royal wedding. Hugh Hefner is marrying his child bride on June 18th and Kim Kardashian just got weighted down with a 20.5 carat engagement ring worth a little over 2 million dollars. Love is in the air—or at least celebrity marriages are lofting about. Am I feeling left out? Not really.

I recently read an article in Marie-Claire called Did You Marry The Wrong Guy? Typical women’s magazine subject matter—but effective. It got me thinking about my life and why I’m not married. I know why I’m not married, but it’s a question often asked by the men I date. They are looking for something wrong with me. They are looking for a flaw. Once bitten, twice shy. Too good to be true. All that jazz. Why can’t they just recognize a good thing when they see it and say “wow, where have you been all my life?” and quickly put a ring on my finger, before some other man gets the same idea.

While I don’t try to pass myself off as internally flawless, the rating given to the most pure diamonds, I do consider myself to be VVS1—or very very slightly imperfect.

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