Red Room Where the Writers Are

Those Douches

Went to a duo-birthday party last night in Manhattan Beach, given by two seasoned perpetual bachelors who managed to convince yet another hottie that he wants a relationship. This time, he really means it. The ladies just see a handsome, well dressed independently wealthy bachelor and think they have scored til their, “I just washed your party dishes and scoured your home" gorgeous butt bounces off the “ I need my space” curb, which is really just commonly understood to mean, “It is time to ride the single waves once again for more hottie sex like yours was til we cohabitated unofficially for a few months". I always hope for the best for you ladies, many of you may truly be sweet people and keepers, but, you knew better when you saw the endless supply of dead relationships your current man left in his handsome wake.

We took all surface streets from Studio City to my friend Stacies home in Santa Monica. Stacy is cool. I met her in my teacher credential program years ago.She is super fun to hang out with, also Jewish, not that I am religious or anything. Just that we get each other. A few years back she went through a rough patch right before my wedding, but as an uber realized person called and apologized one Rosh Hashana (Jewish New Years), a year later. I apologized also for whatever my half in the split had been. Though to be honest, she was dating a married man, was friends with his wife, and was in a band with them both. Stacy wanted my fiancé at the time and I to come see that perfect storm perform, who were in a battle of the bands type of thing. As it turned out, every “friend” who was in a band was battling it out in that extravaganza. We had bought tickets previously to KCRW’s Evening Becomes Eclectic, which I have gone to in the past on my own. Not a bad way to go. You meet really cool other singles, share drinks, and can sneak into the very front row. So even though Stacy was to be in my wedding, she freaked out when we had other plans for good reasons, and we both agreed she needed to do some thing other than steam maniacally in my corner at that time.

She wound up getting run over by the black mold train. Lost all her possessions, lived in her car, etc. And now after many psychotropic drugs and finally a good therapist, is one of the more realized people I know. And one of the best teachers I have seen, really. All the personal baggage, not in that classroom. And when Stacy is positive and actualized, she is such a pleasure to be around; smart, funny, active, and positive. How many people can we say that for? So many people just are boring, honestly.

Anyways, so surface streeting it from Studio City to Santa Monica to Manhattan Beach, down Lincoln, we left the valley at 6:30 p.m. and wound up at the party at 8:20 p.m. Gruesome, but scenic.

The usual friends of my husband’s crowd were not around, just the birthday boy he knows from his film school days, who is always super nice, and high on pot, E,or both. But really a nice, sweet guy. EVERY woman in the apartment was, in the words of the Bridget Jones book on tape; snooty British accent heard here, a stick insect. Just so model rail thin, and pretty. Gorgeous skin, beautiful smiles, tanned from all those beach side activities in the sun. Actors? UCLA students? In and out they came, all made up. Many, many more single women than men.

I am currently reading a book my friend found called, "Marry Him; The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough". I looked around at all of these beautiful ladies, and saw that not a one had a ring on her well-manicured finger. Which according to the book, by their mid-thirties to late forties, they will be hard pressed to find anyone at all if they are holding out for Mr. Perfection to their high standards. I felt smugly grateful for my husband. Not that I don't feel it is alright to never get married and have children. I don't have children. Those are fine choices too. Choices, not must haves. I don't believe that happiness is wrapped up in all that social norm stuff. 

There was a decent spread of snacks out. I always like to joke that if it is a gay who is giving a party, there will be great food. But a straight guy? We are lucky if there are tortilla chips and Budlight in the fridge. Straight men I have found tend to be clueless about hosting a party. Which, there was this nice spread after my husband and I joked about that factor. Different types of chicken, home made guacamole, steak, fried plantains, a gorgeous salad, and Blue Moon beer. Wa' happened? Came to find out the reason for the decent fair, was the hot woman friend of the moment. When it came to birthday cake candle lighting, she even found some tea lights to squash down into the frosting.

Some group of stoned 23 year olds later in the night stopped to tell me about their roommate problems, what do I think they should do? This girl with gorgeous legs and a not attractive at all face, poor thing, told me her soul is black,and she has fun in this crazy situation, but the male room mate who is the reason her and her girl friend live in this house, won’t clean up, take trash out, do his chores. She was gone in South Africa for two weeks, so she knew it wasn’t her turn to take out the trash or clean the kitchen, no. And that is when things got mean. The male room mate and his girlfriend stopped doing any cleaning, so she took all of their food crumbs and dumped them outside his bedroom door for him to step on.

She had her parents over for dinner and the MRM and GF blasted the television in the middle of the parent/child dinner. She then in turn on another night, saw the MRM and GF watching t.v. happily on the couch, and put califlower in a blender, took a piece of tape, and let it whirl for 20 minutes to annoy their program viewing pleasure. What do I think?

Me?I think thoughtless mean twits with nothing better to do are just that, move out. Or, you are where you are meant to be? At home in hell? Yuck.

Lastly,I have discovered a great new curse word that just has a nice ring to it…douche. It is so funny to say in traffic, over pronouncing the 'd' with a base like emphasis. It really covers everything. Douche. That driver who pulled out in front of me unexpectedly? Douche. Now he is driving uber slowly and can’t make up his Missouri plated ass which way to turn? Douche. A cop driving the other way on the street? Douche. Stick insect ladies with overly uncomfortable expensive 10 inch toothpick heels and giant handbags with hardware attached to them, an elastic band in the center of their shirt to show the tops and bottoms of their boobs around? Interesting, but douchie. Maybe you had to be there, but when my husband gets rolling with his funny news caster radio man voice, it is worth pulling over, laughing so hard I cry. Those silly douches.