Ho ho OH NO!

Hello all of you!

Thanks for your patience while I took a minor blogging sabbatical. I did miss it, but have been too tired to sit down and bang something out. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Festivus/Saturnalia. I traveled to New York, as usual, to stay with my aunt M and uncle M. My uncle starts cooking Christmas dinner a full week in advance, and it is maddening to live in that house and smell the food and be constantly hungry. Compound that with my uncle's compunction to feed me constantly, and it's a recipe for intestinal failure. Constant sweets, meat, and booze wreak havoc with my GI now that I live in Cali and eat so much salad. Fiber, it is my friend. Ham, not so much! My aunt and I baked for five hours on the 23rd: magic cookie bars, chocolate raspberry bars, russian tea balls and English toffee cheesecake bars. Awesome waist enhancers! Tasty, too. I think I've mentioned before how much I love to bake. For my department Thanksgiving party, I made a devil's food cake with cream cheese frosting, which went over very well. For our Christmas party I made Ghirardelli double chocolate brownie muffins. I want my next little project to be a Kentucky butter cake; I just need an excuse to make one.

After I bugged him all week, my cousin P, a former Marine, took me to the Long Island Shooting Range in Brookhaven at the tail end of my trip and taught me to fire an M-1 carbine .30 assault rifle. It was...well, awesome, and I'm proud to say that I hit the target (100 yards away) more often than not. P (who used to train FBI agents) told me I was much better than most first timers. He was impressed by my lack of nerves. I guess I have my cop blood to thank for that. It was a rush, and if there were a perfume that smelled like gunpowder, I would probably buy it. If you've ever even been even slightly curious about going to the shooting range, find someone experienced and go with them. You will love it. Watch out freaks! Now I'm packing.

I hope you all have something enjoyable on tap for tonight. I'm going to take it easy and accompany one of my former roommates to a low-key house party. Tomorrow I'm going to the spa for a much needed massage.

Before I take off and say "see you next year," I thought I'd leave you with an amusing Christmas story from a few years back, when I was just a little puppette living in Boston.

In the late '90s, my girl Tabitha and I used to volunteer for the Snow Ball, a black tie charity event that benefits Santa Claus Anonymous (SCA), a formal non-profit fundraising organization. Santa Claus Anonymous donates over 80% of all proceeds raised from the Snow Ball to approximately 12 beneficiary organizations. As volunteers, we got in free by working the casino; we were "Money Wheel" girls and roulette girls. I don't understand blackjack well enough to deal, so I avoided that game for fear of getting it wrong and pissing off the players. It was a hoot to get prettied up, host for a few hours, drink for free, sample the hors d'oeuvres and dance it all off at the end of the night. We had the occasional wealthy financier who offered to take us on weekend trips to the Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun casinos (which we politely declined), but nothing ever happened that was vulgar or even creepy. The event was always a good time.

The last time I worked the Snow Ball, which was probably 1999 or 2000, the event was held (as it will be this year) at the Boston Park Plaza Hotel in the tony Back Bay area. In previous years, the event had been held at the World Trade Center; wherever it was, there was always a Santa volunteer on a throne in the main foyer. For a few bucks, you could get a Polaroid of yourself in Santa's lap. Tab and I had neglected to do this the year before, opting for more formal pictures in event's makeshift portrait studio, so we figured we'd pose with Santa this time.

The Santa job wasn't taken too seriously; it was usually a younger guy in a fake beard and a stuffed tissue belly. Tab, another volunteer and I crowded around Santa, with Tab in his lap, for the first picture. No problem. Then the other volunteer perched on Santa. No problem. Then it was my turn, and readers, you know there was a problem.

I gently settled myself on the inside of Santa's right thigh, closer to the knee, figuring that one must get a bit sore from having inebriated guests hopping on and off one's lap all evening. It did not occur to me at first that Santa hadn't spread his legs when he took Tabitha or the other girl onto his lap. I remember purposely planting my feet on the floor to take any extra weight off him, although I weighed maybe a buck ten at the time.

As the photographer got into position, Santa, who was maybe 30 and around 6', wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me right into his lap, lifting my feet off the floor. It was pretty quick and felt claustrophobic, so I reacted by trying to wiggle forward. It was around that time that I noticed Santa's quickly expanding yule log.

"Smile!"

Good lord. The flash went off and I jumped up like my ass was on fire. Nobody had warned me that I was going to get a Secret Santa gift!

Going down

Happy Halloween, everyone! My company is having a costume contest today that I'm really looking forward to. Creative people tend to go all out, with very entertaining results. It looks like I'm not going to be Joan Holloway after all this year; all the major fetes are tonight, leaving me no time to get her elaborate 'do. Women had to work so hard on their appearance back then. I would have needed hairpieces, setting, the works. If I had a party tomorrow night, I'd be fine with it, but it's too much for me to handle after 9 hours of the corporate grind. I don't exactly walk out of the house right after showering in the morning, but I'm out the door in an hour most days. When I gussied myself up to be Rita, just getting my hair done took an hour and a half. I haven't got the stamina for that after a long workday. I'm done for the year, but I can and will wear the fab "Joan dress" that I bought to work.

I'm still waiting on the Rita pictures, by the way. Sarah still hasn't emailed them to me. That's the last time she's on camera duty!

Last night I headed to a restaurant that was just a few blocks from work to meet a friend for dinner. While it's not exactly true that nobody walks in LA, most people won't walk if they can drive. I walk whenever possible, since my ass is in a chair all day five days a week. Not surprisingly, a great deal of my crazier encounters have taken place on LA streets, but I managed to walk to and from the restaurant without incident.

Things got interesting when I got back to the office to pick up my things. I used the ladies' room before leaving the building, and left my keys on the counter. Unfortunately, I didn't realize that until I was on the 7th floor of the parking garage, within 100 feet of my car. Shit! What an idiot. I had no choice but to go back to work to find them. The irony of having wanted to get some exercise that evening did not escape me.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a woman, who was quite pretty, and a man, whose face I didn't see for a moment, because it was buried in her substantial, and mostly uncovered, cleavage. She let out a small shriek and he snapped his head up, looking annoyed with me for showing up unexpectedly. I really didn't care. Slurp on it all you want, if you have her consent, as long as I don't have to watch. I turned my back to them and put my iPod buds in, pressing the elevator's lobby button.

My iPod Shuffle was set at a low volume, and the couple behind me were mostly quiet. I didn't hear much except for his grumbling and a few "tee-hees" on her part.

We reached the ground floor. Apparently, the couple had meant to get off (pun only slightly unintended) on the 4th floor, but were too wrapped up in each other to remember to press the button. The man was annoyed. He also thought, mistakenly, that my Shuffle was at a higher volume.

"Aw, man," he moaned, "we went all the way to the bottom because of this ho." He meant me. Cleavage Ho giggled, also unaware that I could hear.

Oh, hell no. They picked the wrong ho.

"That's nice," I snapped, turning my head slightly as I walked out. "Why don't you learn to fucking use an elevator, retard?"

She gasped. He was completely wide-eyed and silent. I smiled. The doors shut.

And...scene.

No vacancy

Last Saturday night, I met my ex-roomie Sherri on Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade for dinner and a catching-up session. Sherri and I only lived together for about 8 months, and were both so busy that we barely got to know each other during that time. Interestingly, we have gotten very close since she moved out. She's a fascinating woman; she grew up in South America as a privileged daughter of a banker, and moved to Los Angeles so she could learn to make it on her own. She once emphasized to me that at home, she'd had bodyguards, drivers, and maids, which sounds wonderful but deprives one of certain survival skills. She's trilingual (Spanish, English, French), which I envy. She was kidnapped and held for ransom as a child, which she talks about so matter-of-factly that it's as though she's telling you a story she heard from someone else. Younger than me by two years, she's already been married and divorced. It's funny that two women who are so diametrically opposed on paper have so much to say to each other, but hey, this is America.

Since it was such a nice night, we strolled around and browsed the stores of the Promenade for a while afterwards.

Walking to our cars, we passed three or four men sitting on the sidewalk, asking for change. "Hey man, got any change? Got a quarter? Can you help me out, lady?" They called out to each passer by in front of us.

Sherri was barely paying attention, looking out into the street. One of the guys made eye contact with me and yelled out, "Hey, I need a place to stay tonight!" Startled, Sherri jumped a little.

"What is it he said?" she asked as we passed. "All I hear is, 'tonight'."

"He told me he needed a place to stay," I chuckled.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever it is they're wanting from us..."

"...they're not getting," I laughed.

"Strange men," she shook her head. Well, those are everywhere.

Needless to say, I went home alone.

I'm not advertising, but you're selling anyway

Walking to Borders books last night, I passed a man coming out of a falafel restaurant. He was white, probably in his 60s, was wearing dingy clothes and looked drunk.

He eyed me up and down, then held out a small can of Mace in a broken blister pack. "Pepper spray, miss," he said, "for your protection."

"No thanks," I smiled. "I have a gun."

I didn't, but it stopped him following me.

Leave the dolphins out of it!

Somebody Googled "funny red head all you bitches want to flog my dolphin" and my blog was at the top of the results page.

Uh, Number One?! Yay.

For the last time, I haven't got much back there!

Regular readers already know that I have a magic ass. I'm sure you'll all be happy to read that its powers are as strong as ever!

Saturday night, I went to GLOW '08 with my friends Liz and Melissa. After wandering the beach and pier of Santa Monica, pushing our way through the million people who had shown up to this dusk-till-dawn festival, we made our way down Ocean Avenue to my car.

We stopped at the corner of Ocean and Wilshire to wait for the light to change. I was immediately approached by a tall, skinny, greasy, completely high homeless dude who stopped about two paces in front of me, blocking my way. He stared, smirking.

All three of us ladies took a step back in unison.

"Why?!" I exclaimed out loud, throwing up my hands as I turned away. I truly have no explanation for these incidents, unless I have a Loser Homing Beaon implanted in one of my butt cheeks. There I was, surrounded by younger, more toned, more exposed females, but I'm the one this guy comes after. I was not in the mood. It was one in the morning; I was tired and uninterested in being polite. I retreated behind my friends. CHANGE, light!! Goddam, this is the longest traffic light in history.

Unwashed Weirdo took another step forward. Melissa backed up so fast that she bumped into me.

The light finally changed, and we quickly skirted around UW into the intersection.

"Good evening, Bootylicious," he said as I passed him.

You see, good people, I'm not single because I can't attract men. My onion is a homing beacon for some choice specimens. It's just that those specimens aren't clean. Or sober. Or sane.

The wonders of Craig and his list

Speechless.

Goods and services

My friend Stephanie was in Romania on business recently. Her descriptions of that country are beyond depressing; apparently, the population at large lives in near squalor while very few enjoy the country's limited wealth. Bucharest, the nation's capital and the city where she does business, has no spaying and neutering programs, resulting in a huge population of stray dogs that are often shot to death in the streets by police.

Stephanie was at my birthday party this past Saturday, and we took some time to catch up. "Every time I leave Romania, I come home with fleas," she said.

"If you lie down with dogs..." I joked.

She nodded. "I hug and kiss the dogs. I've seen a few killed in front of me, just after I hugged them. The police do roundups every month and shoot them right in the street. I give myself fleas on every business trip. I can't help it. I figure I'm giving them their last hug. I'm usually right."

Prostitutes are all over the hotels in Bucharest. "They're supermodels," Stephanie told me. "Gorgeous women. Tall, blonde, dripping with expensive jewelry. They dress like businesswomen, in suits that cost thousands of dollars."

"I guess they are businesswomen," I said, "in a way."

When she's in Bucharest, Stephanie usually dresses in jeans and t-shirts. She wears a baseball cap. She's in her early 30s, but because she's so petite and has very delicate features, she looks like a teenager when she dresses that way.

On her last trip, she had a meeting to go to and found herself in the hotel elevator with a white American man who looked to be in his 70s. She had her usual casual duds on. I'm sure it sounds strange to some of you that a corporate vice president can wear jeans to business meetings, but people who work in entertainment can get away with it. Steph described her look that day as "grubby." Now, she's so pretty that I don't think she could ever actually look grubby, but I understood that she had thrown on whatever was clean that day, and put a cap over her damp, almost waist-length hair.

Meanwhile, in the elevator...

She and the man were alone. As the elevator descended, he leaned over and asked, "Are you for sale?"

Steph was aghast. Remember, Bucharest prostitutes have a certain 'look.' "Why in the hell would he assume I was a prostitute, in my jeans and old t-shirt?" she asked, exasperated.

"Maybe he's tried all the others, and wanted a new flavor," I mused.

Anyhow, she kept her composure and turned to the man. "No," she replied. "Are you?"

He laughed. "If I was, you couldn't afford me."

"Actually," she retorted, "I could buy and sell you ten times over."

Then, just like a scene in a movie, the elevator doors opened. She walked out, leaving him stunned.

And...scene.

My onion works its magic yet again

Dear twentysomething cads in Burbank Village:

Yelling "Booty booty booty booty!" at me from your car as I cross the street is my absolute favorite mating call. Really, why didn't you pull over so I could jump in? At least one of you must be marriage material. Teenage behavior in adult men does it for me like nothing else. FILL ME WITH YOUR LITTLE BABIES!!

Wait! Wait!! Where are you going?! COME BACK!

Yeah, keep driving. I noticed that there were no chicks in the car with you - I wonder why that is?

A day in the Life

So last night, on my way home from work, I stopped at a drugstore/convenience store to pick up some tea, toilet paper and cinnamon Life cereal. A mumbling man brushed by me as I was putting my cereal into my basket.

He go to the end of the aisle, turned around and doubled back, looking down as he passed me.

"Mumblemumblemumble titties."

People sometimes ask why I'm so snarky. Seriously? I'd like to be able to pick up some cereal on my way home without some cretin acting a fool just because I'm wearing a V-neck. Had that dude ever seen a woman before? We've all got a pair, and since I live in LA, mine are nowhere near the biggest you'll see.

Whatever. My titties and I paid for our cereal and went home.

God help me

Readers, it would seem that some 'men of faith' really do see women as replaceable breeder mammals. If they did not, they would not have the misguided notion to send Yours Truly the following email:

Hello Pretty,

That's Hello Kitty's cousin, in case you were wondering.

I'm Kit,

Name changed to protect the guilty, natch.

am passionate, loyal,caring and honest person,am an easy to get along with somewhat quick witted humorous man.

Well, there's a lot in there, and most of it actually sounds pretty good, if a bit form letter-y. I'm aware that dudes usually have a harder time describing themselves than women do. I actually think it's cute that he described himself as 'somewhat' quick-witted...most guys go overboard with a 'look how smart I am' routine. He sounds real. Then again, I have my doubts when somebody calls himself 'easy to get along with.' It sounds deliberately misleading, like calling yourself a gentleman when you're anything but.

I fall in love like a mad person when i have to love someone,

Uh oh, stalker alert! Firstly, when do you 'have to' love someone? Secondly, the 'mad person' description calls to mind a guy who has mastered the drunken angry 4am post-breakup call. Maybe I'm misreading?

Above all about me,am a God fearing man with a child,

And, scene.

Readers, religious people are just fine by me. I was raised in an Irish Catholic family, myself; I can quote the Bible like nobody's business. However, my family instilled a healthy skepticism within me, and a desire to find my own way spiritually. I'm afraid the term 'God fearing' is a bit too fundamentalist for my taste. It's a bit, you know, Old Testament - where men are men and women never leave the house. Fire and brimstone only appeal to me when I'm at a barbecue. FOR MY SOUL!

I kid. To each their own, but I don't like how the funamenalist faction of Christianity treats the wimmins - that includes you, Pope Rat. Females are fully fledged humans, not just baby machines and surrogate mommies...

i visited this site in search for true love and also a loving mother who would love me and my kid...

There it is.

Listen, I think it's actually a good thing that this guy is being honest about his kid. Being a single parent is really tough, and if you're going to be in a relationship, you need to make sure that your new partner cares about your child and is a good role model. It's a tough tightrope to walk once you're a parent, constantly balancing your needs with your kid's. So, maybe when you're looking for a partner, you should look for one with the right qualifications? Like, someone who says she's religious and wants an instafamily? Trust me, kids, there is nothing in my profile along those lines. It certainly doesn't say "Godless Jezebel Seeks Filthy Heathens For Endless String Of One-Night Stands," but it is, shall we say, decidedly secular and independent-minded in nature. I do love kids - I was a nanny for a few years, and because of that, I have no illusions about how much work they are. I may very well have a bambino(a) of my own someday, but am not particularly open to having one dropped in my lap.

i'm on a business trip but want to get to know you.

Twooo wuv and a babysitter for when you're out of town, coming right up!

Nah, I'm busy.

I hope you all enjoyed your long weekend, 'cause the freaks are back in full force

Someone please explain to me what kind of person googles "picture of girls with no clothes on and naked with breast transplant."

First of all, if someone has no clothes on, that is the definition of naked, stupid.

Also, why in god's name would someone who had searched for that wind up at my blog?!

It's too early in the week for this. Pretty please, go crawl back under the rock that must be your home.

The shortest relationship of my life

Hello all.
I spent the weekend in San Fransisco with my girl Tabitha...I have a story, but am so behind at work right now that I can't get into it. I got into LAX at 1am as it is, and am struggling to both stay awake and make my deadline!

Today, I had this little gem in my inbox:

After a rigorously brief overview of your profile, I have married and divorced you in my mind. Thanks for all the fantastic memories. You'll always have a special place in my heart!

Your ex-hubby,
Paul

Yeah, it's Monday, all right.

Kiss me, I'm a loser

Buried at PhotoCasketDear Dude in the beaten up Chevy Malibu from Saturday:
When I am out for a walk, standing at an intersection while waiting for the light to change, please refrain from lowering your window, slowing down and making kissing noises at me as you turn the corner. As aroused as I get when a unwashed, possibly buzzed stranger kisses at me from his shitmobile as if he's summoning a dog, I am not going to jump into your sticky-looking passenger seat.

No, it would not have helped if you'd been driving a nicer car.

Oh, hell no!

Poor Paula Abdul. I feel her pain. The uber-creepy look that this guy gives her right before he starts singing? I know that look. Run Paula, run!

Gay man seeks straight woman to share closet

Hello!
Cheers to all of you new readers who've found my site via Linnaeus' post on Feministe. Welcome!

All has been quiet on the dating front lately, since I haven't been able to find a suitable candidate to go out with. I recently corresponded with a gentleman named Matt, a 41 year old TV editor who wants to be "inspired" by a partner. His profile says, "I'm not broke, and I've got a big smile." Aaah, the bar, it is set so low after a few bad dates. I can confirm from his picture that he is, in fact, quite toothsome. He seemed keen, so after a few emails back and forth, I gave him a call. He didn't pick up, so I left a message.

He called back a few minutes later, half asleep. Strike one! Wake up before you call me, dude! He also had hay fever, so our entire conversation was punctuated by the sound of him blowing his nose. Strike two! Listen, I have allergies, so I can sympathize, but I try to clear out my sinuses before calling a potential date. "So where are you frub? PPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!" Is not appealing. Blow your nose first!

Another thing - I think he might be gay.

By which I mean, in denial of his gay essence, trying to be Teh Straight. He was certainly enthusiastic and chatty. He is very proud that he his vocabulary is full of "SAT words", and this is a good thing. Smart works for me. Here's the problem: He ended? All his sentences? On a high pitch? As if everything he said? Was a question? He asked me if I'd seen "Wicked"; I told him I hadn't but had heard it was good. He then told me that he'd seen it three times, and it was "the best thing ever."

UM. Insert "Friend of Dorothy" joke here! Strike threeeeeeee!!!

Listen, my dad took the family down to Broadway almost every year to see a show, and he's straight as an arrow. Great Thespian And Irish Hottie Kenneth Branagh is one of my fantasy boyfriends. God bless the cultured straight men! But to say? That you're obsessed? With a particular MUSICAL? Pings my gaydar big time.

He also collects puppets. UMMM...

YERRRRR OUT!!!!

How do these guys find me? I am lucky enough to have loads of fabulous gay friends. Maybe he could smell my haggerati status right through the internets? Or perhaps he saw my picture, with my fierce red hair all done up and curled, and thought, "Debra Messing!".

Bitch, I AM NOT GRACE. Two snaps down!

UPDATE: After reading this post, one of my very fabulous gay friends wrote me to say, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAHAH! That thing is THE GAY." Glad my gaydar is still in working order.

Rent boy redux

Buried at PhotoCasket.com

Readers, I'm sure you all remember this post, in which I related my difficulty in finding a new roommate. Although my online ad specifically says that I'm looking for another single woman to share my apartment with, I've been getting lots of emails from guys. Most of them are gay, with the occasional American Gigolo wannabe thrown in.

I got an email yesterday from a young man called Brent, a 25-year-old self-proclaimed "submissive" who wants to crash at my pad in exchange for being "a cook, maid, errand boy and slave."

Yes, he said slave.

"Would you have any interest in a roommate who'll cook, clean and do literally anything you say?" asks Brent. "I hope so."

I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but no, Brent. No interest. In fact, the very word "submissive" turns me off. Call me closed-minded, but leashes are for dogs, not people.

Sigh.

What is it about my ad that screams "S+M"? Apparently "Professional female, 30s, laid-back, clean, looking for same to share 2bed. No drugs, no drama" translates into "GET THAT SKINNY ASS IN THE AIR SO I CAN WHACK IT 'TILL IT'S RAW WHILE YOU SCRUB MY KITCHEN FLOOR! NOW SAY 'THANK YOU, MISTRESS'!!" SMACK!!!

I've only been in LA for 3 1/2 years, so I still don't get some of the lingo. My bad.

Is this happening because I'm on Craigslist? I'm not having this kind of trouble on Roommates.com. I shudder to think about the kinds of responses I'd get if I put up a personal ad.

Adventures in babysitting

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a friend's birthday party at Dominick's, a New York-inspired restaurant and bar in West Hollywood. About thirty people showed up for dinner, only two of whom I had met previously. It was a very friendly group, and I was down to socialize, so it was all good.

A few hours later, we were all stuffed. The party was set to continue at a club called Guy's, which was having jazz night. I'm not really big on jazz, and was pooped anyway, so I was planning to be a lameass and head home. I had just grabbed my jacket and was saying goodnight to a few new friends when a guy who'd been sitting at my table came up to me.

"Hey! You and I have to dance!" he almost shouted. He was an amiable teddy bear of a guy that I had chatted with earlier in the evening. He'd shown up with a model, so what was he doing squeezing my arm? I suspect he'd been drinking a bit too much of the house red.

"Oh, sorry, I'm headed home. Good night," I said, and started to walk away.

"Oh no! You can't leave! You have to dance with me," he protested. "I said to myself, 'I'm going to dance with that redhead.' Seriously, come to Guy's."

"No, I can't." The crowd was slowly filing through a long hallway towards the front door. Teddy Bear and I kept having this "no I can't/oh, sure you can" exchange as we followed the herd.

"Hey, listen, is it because you don't know me? My name is Todd," he said.

"Don't take it personally, Todd. I'm exhausted, and I've got to be at work early tomorrow," I said. "I'm Ginger, by the way." Frankly, Dear Readers, I'm open to dancing with a friendly stranger if I've got the energy. I really wasn't up for it, and I can't blame a guy for trying. I didn't think anything was weird about the situation until...

His eyes lit up. "Ginger? Really?! I had a babysitter named Ginger! Oh, I loved her. C'mon, now you have to stay."

Um....

"I have to stay because I have the same name as your babysitter?"

Now he was excited. "No, really! You even kind of look like her!"

"O...kay." I know that I was was not imagining Teddy Todd's crazy eye look, and I was definitely not digging it. I bowed out of going to the club a final time, and caught a ride home.

He definitely had too much of the house red.

Leprechauns

A belated Happy St. Patty's Day to you all! Saturday night I went out to a pub and had a few drinks with friends, like a good Irish lass. St. Patrick's Day is a lot like New Year's Eve (amaetur night), but I was persuaded to go out by my friend Liz, who admonished me to "Get out here! We are celebrating your people!" So, I put on the requisite green shirt and dragged my Irish butt to Molly Malone's Pub for some revelry.

I was walking alone down Fairfax Avenue around 7:45pm. Liz and her friends were already in the pub. I was about a block away from the door when three guys in their early 20's came stumbling around the corner. All young, all cute, and all stinking drunk.

The shortest one, a baby faced blonde, came rushing at me. "Yo! OH MY GOD! My friend has a crush on you! He has such a crush on you! You need to talk to him!"

The middle kid, a nondescript brunet, chuckled and kept walking as the third guy, a tall drink of water with dark curly hair under a wool knit cap, threw his arms open and said, "Look at you!"

"Uh, yeah. Look at you," I replied.

"LOOK AT YOU!" He yelled again. "Look how cute you are! Look how green you are!"

"Yeah, you're cute too, and you're not color blind. Congratulations," I said. "How much have you guys had to drink?"

"ZERO!" yelled a very wobbly Shorty.

"Oh yeah, I believe that," I laughed, starting to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Tall Guy started to follow me. "Hold up a second. Come here. Let me look at you."

I could tell he meant no harm, but I had somewhere to go. "You've looked. I've got friends to meet."

"No, hang on. C'mon." Shorty and the other kid had stumbled down the block and were standing on the street corner, watching.

"Who are you?" I asked. "I don't know you."

"I'm Laaaaaaaance," he slurred. He grabbed and kissed my hands. "Okay, now let's make out."

What? "I don't think so, Lance. I don't know you. Go kiss someone else."

Some guys are blessed with a certain level of cuteness - a level at which they can take it for granted that random women will want to make out with him. Laaaaance was that kind of cute; I'm sure he usually has no trouble acquiring access to willing women's lips on a regular basis. My rejection was utterly confusing to him; he probably didn't realize how old I was, or that I'd seen other Lances in action many times.

"But, it's a holiday! Like, a holiday! You've got to give me a holiday kiss!" He pointed to his sweatshirt, which said "KISS ME, I'M IRISH."

Like I said, Amateur Night.

Readers, a person worth kissing does not take romantic advice from seasonal apparel. I told Lance that I'd have to pass. Cute or not, I don't liplock with complete strangers. I'm silly like that.

"Lance, I'm sure you've tried this routine with about 50 girls already. You'll find someone to kiss soon enough. You guys have a good night," I said, and walked the rest of the way to Molly's.

By the time I found Liz, I was ready for that drink! No beer for me, though. I'm a whiskey girl (Jameson's, of course!).

Predictably, I saw Lance inside the pub about two hours later, working his magic on a very drunk female patron.

I'll bet he wasn't even Irish.

Rent boy

Remember me, dear readers? I haven't forgotten you either. Yes, this blog has gotten lame in recent weeks. Life's obligations sometimes get in the way of my little hobbies, but I'm trying to get back on track. I've missed my writing!

I've got a new story - tell me what y'all make of this.

At the end of last month, my roommate Sherri moved out. She and I had only lived together for 7 months; my previous roommate and I had shared my apartment for 2 1/2 years before she relocated to New York. I found Sherri through Craigslist, and we hit it off immediately. She told me that she was going through a divorce, which made me a bit wary; I wanted a roommate who was financially stable, and able to stay a while. Fast forward to February - Sherri's divorce is wiping her out financially, and she can no longer afford her attorney and her rent. I feel horrible for her, but she was lucky enough to find a coworker who's also going through a divorce, and offered her a nice place to crash rent-free while she gets back on her feet. All's well that ends well, although it's disheartening to see yet another marriage implode (and the havoc it wreaks on the divorcée).

I got stuck paying all the rent on my place this month, because I was traveling in February and wouldn't have time to meet potential roommates. I'm now on a tight budget, but you have to suck it up sometimes. I've been living here for 3 years, and I want to find a roommate who's sane, which is a bit tricky in LA.

I put the word out to friends and coworkers; I also put up another post on Craigslist. I've gotten a few bites, mostly from guys, which is a surprise. I've never had a male roommate. I know a few women who have, and it was fine; as long as somebody's clean and respectful of shared space, who cares what gender they are?

Today I got an email from a young man - very young, maybe 20 years old. He's a student and an actor (of course), who says he can only pay a few hundred dollars a month, but is willing to cook, clean, and do "other domestic duties" to make up for it.

Umm...

"Other domestic duties?"

***BLINK***

Whaaaa?

I thought I might be reading too much into it, but then I noticed an attachment on the email.

He'd sent his headshot, in which he looked about 12, and seemed to be wearing copious amounts of eye makeup and bronzer. Mind you, my Craigslist post featured pics of my place, but not me.

He also sent a link to his MySpace page, in which he describes himself as a simple Southern boy with a dream, and insists that he'll try anything once. Ahem.

Rent boy, meet Sugar Mama. I do so hate doing dishes.

Just kidding; my apartment has a dishwasher. I'll have to pass, RB. I don't think I'd make a very good john (or is it jane?). God bless and good luck in the vicious industry you've entered. You'll most likely end up prostituting yourself eventually, one way or the other.