I’m back east for the holidays, so to my readers, Happy Holidays. If you’ve fallen behind, now might be a good time to catch up on my posts, so click the “Sort By” button and select “ASC” to sort the posts in chronological order.
The Holidays are especially tough in Los Angeles because everyone abandons the city.
Scott is taking off again and so am I in a few days. Growing up, Christmas time was fairly close to the Norman Rockwell ideal. Snowball fights, fire in the fireplace, hot chocolate… Everyone I knew stayed put because they were already home. Here, no matter how many people you meet and how many friends you make, it never seems like home. It’s like Los Angeles is one big office. You go to work here but when the lights go out, there’s no one home.
Polly’s dog died.
I was thinking, “Great, like the holidays aren’t depressing enough without thinking about dogs dying of cancer.” But what I said was, “Come here.” I gave her a big hug.
It’s weird. There are people who touch you without provocation (or invitation) like Janet at work who always puts her hand on your shoulder when she’s talking to you. It doesn’t mean anything. It just feels nice. I am totally not that kind of person (big surprise) and the thought of just touching someone seems a bit rude, but mostly just scary. Still, in this case it just seemed right and I hugged Polly for a good little while.
And I think afterward she felt better.
I just got the call that exactly zero women chose me to meet again!
Now I’m obsessed with trying to figure out what I did wrong. Did I listen to much and not give them enough to go on? Did I seem fake like I wasn’t really interested in what they were saying? Or does it all boil down to no one finding me attractive? Whatever happened, it sucks.
Oh, and Gunther got twelve women interested, including that bitch the personal shopper.
As predicted, I am awesome at speed dating.
Many of the women were too old for my tastes but some of them were actually pretty hot. I put down seven that I would definitely be interested in seeing again, including one woman who is a personal shopper to some celebrity whom she refused to name. I think we hit it off, though three minutes isn’t a lot of time to really make any sort of connection.
Now if only her boyfriend would move away.
I had to ship some boxes from my parents’ house back to my apartment in L.A. and so I had to go to the post office back home last week.
We got to talking and he told me that he’s been retired for 15 years and he loves it. He spent his whole life working for an insurance company and chasing promotions and bonuses. But now he spends time with his children and grandchildren. I asked him if he missed having a career and he said he didn’t. “All that stuff about needing work to tell me who I am– that’s nonsense. Work is work. I’d rather spend my time with my family.”
I told him I lived in L.A. now and he said one of his fondest memories was in 1955 when he had to go to L.A. on business and the big boss needed someone to pick up a car in San Francisco and drive it down to L.A. He volunteered and took a brand new Thunderbird down the PCH the whole way. That was his only fond memory of work.