He Doesn't Even Miss His Balls or It's Hard to Be Happy, Homeless & Hormonal

So this weekend. Not so good. Just try looking for an affordable place to live when you can't realistically afford to eat. I drove hours past places called perfectly lovely things like "Royal Apartments" or "Casa Grande" when they were really quite small and no king would be caught dead there. All in all, quite depressing. So much for being poor and happy. So I have no leads, have not given notice or paid my rent. And have no idea where I'm going to end up or what to do. This is quite irresponsible of me. The not knowing. I normally know or concede defeat. But I always make sure the message is sent. Or if not that, at least the money. But this time is different. Because this is the last vestige of all that I've worked so hard to get. And I have to admit, I'm having a hard time letting go.

My friends don't want me to move. Some of them. The others think I should. Or at the very least couch surf. At 37. Me and two cats. And a U-Haul? Who wouldn't love to have that parked in front of their house? Maybe I could paint it fun colors like that guy-- Dennis Something or Other-- who drives his crazy looking cars all over LA. And maybe if I did, my friends would have me committed. I might be onto something. A free place to live!

So the only thing I accomplished this entire weekend besides wanting to work two jobs that never happened which equaled money that never happened which I really needed, was to get Little Will fixed. He was getting a little too frisky for anyone's good and it was time to fix that Little guy before my other cat did. She's a fighter when it matters. And I have enough to worry about without cat casualties. So I woke up early after getting no sleep because Little was quite upset he couldn't eat after 8pm and wanted me to know and suffer just as much as he did. And I did. From basically 3am on. It seems he doesn't care about any of the other suffering I've done. As one of the comments from an anonymous person so eloquently put it, "he's a cat."

So I dropped off Little on Saturday am then searched high and low for places to live. To no avail. Had a hormonal pity party of a day and communed with other friends feeling the same way without the hormonal advantage, then I picked up Little Will who was happy as a clam, hungry as could be and not even missing those little balls he used to have. So why was I upset? Because I was hormonal and close to homelessness? Well, at least I still had my girl parts! (Even though no one is appreciating them, they do still exist). Or at least they did last time I checked.

This is when it hits me that I haven't gone on a date since January. Been taken out to dinner since then. And the sad part? I fell asleep at that dinner. Sure it was a late one and it was on a couch at Cafe des Artistes and I didn't mean to, wasn't even drunk and have no explanation (or desire to go back to Cafe des Artistes now for that matter-- which incidentally is also the place I threw my 32nd birthday party for 20+ people much of which I paid for when I could afford to-- which is also a shame, because years later, birthdays are potluck on the patio). The poor guy - a match.com match-- tried to wake me up for upwards of an hour. In the end, I came to, horrified to learn that he'd spent the entire evening nursing a drink and dodging suspicious glances as he watched over me. Somehow, he ended up forgiving me for my sleepiness and sending me flowers...? The ONLY flowers I've ever gotten from a guy romantically. And I fell asleep on him. And they say women are confusing? Still, not a match.

The next guy from match just showed up at my place. Seriously. He drove all the way from Manhattan Beach. In all honesty, I should never have given him my address. But I didn't know he was angry. Or the kind of guy who wore shorts when he went out with a girl. But he was. And how. The shorts-- not so good. The anger was worse. Not that he didn't have a reason. In the small world of it all, it turned out that his old girlfriend used to be the personal assistant to my old boss on the show I wrote for. And apparently, also his sex toy for hire. Angry Shorts Guy was engaged to her. Until he found out that she had $92,000 in the bank and it was because she had been getting paid $1,500 every time she had sex with my old boss (why $1,500 you ask? Good question. I, however, have no answer). But $92,000 makes that a lot of sex. The crazy thing was, I wanted to be shocked. And I wasn't. I knew those guys. The star of our show? He had two anatomically correct sex dolls that he had his personal assistant dress in lingerie from Frederick's of Hollywood. According to him, he never did anything with them because you had to put them in the bathtub to get them warm and it wasn't worth the trouble. Yet, one time when he had a party at his house we saw that one of the dolls had a broken neck. Something tells me that didn't happen to Fun and Lovin' Barbie just from being propped up in a director's chair watching cartoons. Still, when Angry Shorts Guy got angry at me for not liking him, it wasn't as much fun as I'd imagined. And I didn't really want to end up like Fun and Lovin' Barbie.

I only had two other matches to speak of-- Very Young Guy who turned out to be Creepy Short Guy, and Shirtless Wonder. And I never even met Shirtless Wonder. There are limits to the cheese. Even for me. A writer only needs so much material. Still, that material should be worn. There was also a brief foray with the icons, as I like to call them. The fireman who didn't know what "iconic" or "incapacitate" meant. Or a dinner reservation. Or fidelity, for that matter. And the ex-convict.

Clearly, I need to get out more. Maybe the U-Haul isn't such a bad idea after all.