It’s an understatement to say that L.A.’s a tough town. L.A. punches you in the gut, kicks you in the nuts, slaps your titties, urinates in your ears, and then laughs while you cry. Even if you aren’t an aspiring something-or-other L.A.’s a mofo. Everything’s hard. Just grocery shopping can feel like an ass kicking.
In my opinion, the two hardest aspects of Los Angeles are the pursuit of your dream (and that dream getting shit on every ten seconds) and the search for love. Orrrr even just a halfway non-psychotic relationship.
I’ve never encountered such complete and utter freaks as I have in L.A. And the problem with the really dangerous freaks is that they appear normal. I’m in an bombdiggity relationship now, but before him I really hit the dating crapper. I experienced everything from a date puking all over my walls and then passing out in my bathtub (and nope, he didn’t have food poisoning) to another date’s GIRLFRIEND calling me the next day. She proceeded to describe my bedroom in detail to me. Why? Dunno. Needless to say, I was both unaware that A) he had a girlfriend and B) after a couple bottles of wine he was still able to discern that my wall color was “aqua” and that my corner desk was “60s retro.”
Um, yeah. The story gets even more freaktarded, but I’ll spare you.
Anyweirdo, this, and about 497 other stories like it is why it took me over two years to move in with Jon. I was afraid he was too good to be true. I was waiting for his inner crazy to poke his head out. But so far, a year and a half of living together and I’m still the only nutburger in the house.
For the majority of my life I’ve lived with women, with the exception of two years in my early twenties and then now. Living with a significant other can be mind-blowing. You learn things about the other person, and yourself, that you never would otherwise.
A couple of months back I bought Jon some fancy-shmance man face lotion. Jon’s very much a dude’s dude when it comes to a lot of things, wrinkles being one of them. And he had never before worn lotion of any sort. But my concern for his skin is twofold: 1) he’s an actor so I want to protect the longevity of his career, (since my career seems to be taking a siesta) and 2) I’m superficial. He begrudgingly agreed to put it on every night.
For the first week or so I would “happen” to be in his bathroom while he was getting ready for bed, just to see if the lotion was being applied to future crow’s feet. Pleased with his initial diligence, I checked it off as a mission accomplished. Listen, I’m not one of those chick’s who changes everything about her boyfriend, but this is one area I thought that perhaps my female influence might be beneficial in the long run [read: I could preserve his hotness].
So a couple months go by and one night before bed I walk into in his bathroom to grab a Kleenex…
He was applying said fancy-shmance man face lotion TO THE BOTTOM OF HIS FEET.
Uhhhparrently they were dry. After my head spun around in circles, through clenched teeth I applauded his exploration of lotion, but explained to him the different types. While I’m aware that that statement seems absurd, the reality of it is that face lotion costs an assload more than foot lotion.
After making a mental note never to buy Jon face cream again, I realized that to him dry feet are a bigger deal than crow’s feet and maybe that’s a good thing. After all, I hate it when my boyfriend’s prettier than me. Besides, he’s never puked on the walls and passed out in the bathtub and he doesn’t have another girlfriend who he describes my decorating tastes to so I think I can deal with the prospect of some wrinkles. Two cheers and a whoop whoop for all the dudes' dudes. Just don’t take it as far as guy.