Breakfast At Tiffany's

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Girls Never Sweat

Part of: LA , Seinfeld-esque

Breakfast: French Toast

Great. More blue ink in my (paper) journal. I only like writing with black ink.

I’ve had quite a few embarrassing things happen to me recently. Previously at my brunch at Geoffrey’s, I walked part of the way and showed up perspiring.

Then I went to a party last Saturday night in a historical building. While I was waiting for the elevator, an older gentleman said, “Take the stairs, it’ll be faster.” I figured I should take his advice, since he lived there, and I always get nervous with elevators where you have to open a door when they arrive.

Man, the stairwell was like a sauna, and I was going to one of the penthouse apartments. I went over and looked at the elevator number. It was on the lobby level. It was a fuck-me moment. Now if I didn’t make it before the elevator did, I would be annoyed. I have no problem walking up stairs. In fact, usually I prefer it because you never know when an elevator will become distressed, but I was melting.

Again, I walked into the party with a slightly moist face. At the same party, I was quite pleased that the bartender kept on checking me out because he was one of the best looking men I’d seen in a while. He was totally my type: dark hair, light eyes, high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. Oh, and he had a cross between an English and Australian accent, though he was English. But he was a bartender and they were always trouble.

Near him was a dish full of truffles with the same colors and sheen as generic Christmas ornaments. I asked the bartender which one I should choose. “Red things are usually good,” he said.

I unwrapped the truffle and popped it into my mouth. I suddenly realized that the truffle was a bit too big and was kind of dry. Somehow a bit of it dribbled out on my mouth. (I guess I willed this to happen in a recent post by mentioning dribbling wine, which was fictional.) For a few long seconds I was in denial. I mean, the bartender wasn’t handing me a napkin or giving me a weird look. I came out of denial and dabbed my lips with a black cocktail napkin. After that, the bartender was still checking me out, but it wasn’t as much fun flirting with him.

The very next day I was going to a late afternoon party that was in the hills above Sunset. There was going to be limited parking, so I decided to park at Sunset Plaza. I should’ve checked out where the party was, because it turned out to be up a very steep hill, and it was very humid outside. When I got to the top of the hill where the party was, I noticed 3 parking spaces!!! I also noticed that my face was a bit damp. It’s not good when you arrive at a party wilting. I ran to the bathroom and discovered that this time I really looked bad. My head had perspired, and my hair looked stringy. I had finally learned my lesson.

I figured I would be spared embarrassment for a week, but I was wrong. On Monday, I was just starting one of my power walks when I suddenly slipped on something and almost fell. I assumed it was from the squishy, red berries that were all over the sidewalk. It had happened before. But the squishiness wasn’t going away, and I almost fell again. I picked up my shoe and found a generous amount of dog shit. I stomped my foot on the sidewalk and dragged it for a while, but the shit wasn’t budging.

When I got to a grassy area, I really went at it. While I was furiously wiping my shoe, a guy on the other side of the street yelled, “Hey, did you step in dog shit?” Wow, what a genius. The shit didn’t smell which was good because some was wedged in the small grooves of my shoe. It was amazing—the owner must have his/her dog on an organic, vegan diet. Only in L.A.

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