Jacuzzi

A good friend came over last night to protect me against a Craigslist goof that wanted to buy an old car radio from me. It was my first transaction using that site, and since she's a pro at wheeling and dealing, I thought it would be good to have backup. Even though I haven't seen the movie, I imagine she's the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch to my Will Ferrell in The Other Guys, or perhaps vice versa. Anyway, sold! And now I have booze money for the weekend...or I can keep my lights on and air conditioning running in my condo for another couple of weeks...or I can buy booze and just use the complex's pool to cool off. Either way I win, and perhaps a few lucky friends do, too.

Speaking of pools, I have one where I live. I've heard stories about its existence, and perhaps even have seen the sun shimmering off of it every now and then, but haven't used it in the almost year that I’ve lived at this complex. Oddly enough, whenever I feel so inclined to take a dip, I go to my friend's place and swim there (or just bob like a buoy). Or at least until last night. After the successful transaction, we treated ourselves to a Dixie cup wine tasting and some swimming and Jacuzzi-ing in the warm midsummer night's air. How fitting that just weeks before I move, I discover that treasure. Downright romantic - wish you were there, and by you, I'm talking to Patrick Dempsey and his flowing dark brown locks, so don't anyone else get the wrong idea. Anyway, it was lovely. We had some good laughs, some alright wine, and a few bubbles (mostly mechanically made), which is pretty usual for us, minus the wine and the mechanics.

Our conversation eventually led to our old age...both of us in the realm of our thirties, which apparently is the age where a female should be, at least, one of the following:

A.) In a serious relationship, engaged, or married

B.) Divorced, or about to be divorced from at least their first marriage

C.) Have a bun in the oven, a loaf in the crib, or a whole wheat field full of kids

D.) If none of the following - living with one or multiple roommate(s)

E.) If not that, living with their parents

F.) All of the above

Such tempting options, and we sure as hell feel like we're missing out!  Not.

We kind of resent the fact (and she'll have to pardon me for speaking for her, but I will anyway) that if we're not a, b, or c, then as women of a certain age it's baffling that we are taking care of ourselves and living on our own. Thanks for the credit, peeps. Both of us are college graduates, have fully insured cars, are in jobs that pay more than minimum wage (score!), which, for the most part, pay our bills...and on time. Imagine that shit. We are practically any Kato Kaelin's dreams come true (again). And, every Kato needs a chick with her own pimp crib, right? Well, look no further (but keep walking, thankyouverymuch).

I am well aware of the fact that once I hit thirty, George Clooney won't consider dating me. And let me tell you, I'm going to disappear in a pile of tissues over that. But what else sucks is that 30 is the age where a woman's eggs begin to shrivel and die (or since we're talking about eggs, they scramble, become tough, brown and inedible, and get fed to the dog, if you will), mustaches and goatees must be added to your waxing bill and actually figured into your monthly budget, people (aka "doctors") have to feel on your naughty bits regularly and not in a good way, and that may be the only "play" a single woman gets for months (perhaps, years?), your underarm doesn't stop waving and your face doesn't stop laughing or frowning long after you do because the lines and wrinkles get deeper and the skin starts to become shot like petite-size pantyhose that get wrangled onto a queen-size body day after day.

Look, I shave my armpits and legs and shower at least 98% of the time which is almost every day of the year, I don't wear cargo pants and Birkenstocks (everyday), or carry around cardboard signs on sticks and bullhorns to remind people that women have been given the right to vote. That's not what this is about at all. The mind just boggles at this perception that I, nor my single (and fucking fabulous, I might add) gal pals can't stand on our own two feet.

Actually.....I just would really like it if my grandma would stop thinking I'm a lesbian just because I'm the only one in my family that hasn't had a husband and at least one child at my age. I might be vegan, but I like my sausage know-what'm-sayin' (nudge, nudge)? And I really don't want to have to field her inevitable question, "do you pee standing up, too?" in a supermarket checkout line, or in front of wait-staff at a restaurant, which is where most of her inappropriateness shines its brightest.

Hmmmm. Apple meet tree.

Pub

Somehow I had a momentary reprieve of my self-diagnosed dating exhaustion and had me a date on Friday night (blind...to be clear, I’m not talking about the legally kind of blind with the cane). I probably agreed because it was the last weekday vacation day I was going to have until thanksgiving and I thought I should have a drink (or 2 bottles of sake and a pint of Guinness) to toast to the past week of freedom; it was either that or sun stroke, or perhaps a healthy combo of the two. Anyway, I agreed to meet up with this guy I’ve heard about for a month or so. He hit me with a one-two (three, four, ten) punch: a 35-year old, New England raised paratrooper turned special agent, with a house, a boat, gorgeous (gorgeous!) Blue eyes, biceps that were each as big as my head and a great cologne (or maybe it was just axe deodorant). Ding ding, welcome back to dating, jules! We were going to meet up at a swank lounge in Pasadena, but given that I hate being around people (and so does he--score!) And the lounge was packed, so we decided to walk 17 miles (or three blocks...it's all the same in 4.5" heels) to a very sweetly lit sushi place. Nevermind that I’m vegan, I ordered a cucumber salad the size of my palm (the sequel to the vegan cupcake I had for lunch 5 hours prior) and we ordered two large bottles of sake to wash that down. Yeehaw! MacGyver really knew how to go all out. I was totally stoked that he was a special agent; as he talked (and talked) about his many adventures, I imagined myself as the second "hart" in "hart to hart," complete with the luscious curled locks, and red dress that disguised the gun that would be wrapped around my thigh, who is mostly always smarter than her husband-special agent counterpart. Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, he never brought up the smell of his morning urine (as my last date did), and aside from the fact that he walked a little too fast for a chick in kick ass heels, things were going swimmingly. He was a huge leap up from what I could tell from where I was sitting. However, wait for it...

Bearing in mind my food caloric intake for the day as compared to my alcohol consumption, I kind of knew that it probably wouldn't be the smartest idea to stand up let alone walk 17.5 miles back to my car or drive to another locale. But I did both. Because I’m Irish, Mexican, and Aries, and my uncle didn't encourage me to be a wallflower wuss. But we hung out for a bit, and talked as his ridiculously ridiculous muscles and I had a staring contest and the alcohol was soaked up by the cucumber and lust. Looking back, I’m thinking that I turned from a classy lady love-interest to a member of the good will hunting posse probably around the time we started talking about pubs we like--I mentioned O’Brien’s, he mentioned Lucky Baldwin’s, which prompted me to say, "oh yeah, I’ve always wondered if that was a cool place," but in a completely innocent way, which led to his enthusiastic, "wanna go?!" I couldn't stop the "absolutely..." from coming out for the life of me, and his sweet little blue eyes lit up so fast I couldn't say "...not." the last thing a responsible lightweight like me would ever want to do is walk more or drink more after 2 hours, and when my futile attempts to get him to say he'd drive me there with his yummy smelling muscles were squashed and it was decided we'd take both cars, I knew I had made a bad call when I had let him start eating his sushi before I was served my two cucumber slices at the beginning of dinner. That might have been the moment I went from his ho to his bro.

And so commenced the 100-meter dash (the guy chases bad guys and hops fences for a living, of course he walks fast) back to our cars. I felt like invoking the "no man left behind" motto of the armed forces, but it seems as though these shoes were made for sprinting, and that's just what they did. We got in our cars, and left to meet the friendly folk (including a Mexican "chef" who worked at a Greek restaurant and wore a German soccer jersey) at lucky Baldwin’s. Here's a very quick synopsis of that 2 hours of sheer, unadulterated delight:

We met a few regulars who insisted we munch on the pickle Pringles they had brought with them to the bar (Magnum P.I. Loved these); the aforementioned mexican man kept telling my guy that he was super lucky to be with me and then turned the tables and became my date's "date" when he bought my dude 3 of his 4 beers; i got hit on twice in the two minutes my date was using the loo; actual time of "date death" was about 10:45pm, but i finally called it at 12:00am; i somehow made the "incredible hulk" cry (just my natural effect on men, i s'ppose?) Right before I walked him to his car, only to find that he had gotten a parking ticket, we hugged each other goodbye, and I walked to my car, alone, at 12:05am through a semi-empty garage that smelled of pee and old armpit.

However, all was not lost when I eventually got to climb into bed with an amazing, sweet, and adorable boy--I guess I just need to fully realize and embrace that Wondermutt is the last love of my life and quit all the rest of the bullshit. Ugh, now I know how Jennifer Aniston feels.