Friday Morning & Bagels

Friday, I woke in a poor mood. I was developing a mild head cold and I was sick of the lack of progress in my life. Essentially, I want a new life. Ever get like that?

Best cure for a bad attitude is a bagel. I went to my favorite hang-out and ordered the French toast bagel. I was in desperate need to feel better. I got a call from a woman that has the most amazing jewelry product (her stuff isn't patented yet & I can't give details) which I'm getting on Monday. My mood went up two notches! French toast arrived, my attitude was swinging up to touch the sky.

As though things couldn't get better, a well-built good looking guy sat down next to me. Actually, this was a guy that my sister has been teasing me about since the first time we had seen him a few weeks ago. He had sat down in our vicinity and my sister kept talking loudly about my being single. Anyhow, back to Friday, the bagel girl walked by and stopped to tell him that he had cream cheese spread across his right cheek. I glanced at him and he was at a lost for words. The bagel girl gave a girlish laugh and pranced off. I bet he was used to woman falling over him all the time. I decided to ignore him and get engaged with a short story rewrite that I had been working on. It worked.

"What are you studying?"

My mood did a complete 180. I felt much happier but a mild head cold was still in effect.

The conversation leapt out into several directions and we chatted it up until we were both done eating. I told him that I was a broke writer and he told me he had just had the worst two week of his life. What a connection! In the end this is how the whole deal closed, he said:

"I should give you my business card."

"Well, I need to sell some writing before I ever get a chance to buy a house."

I thought is this guy that ambitious to sell a house to a poor writer or was he just not use to having to play that boy role of asking a girl for a number. In any case, I don't want to date a guy who can't ask for my number directly and I don't chase boys. Okay, I have, and that was only a mistake on my part like the bartender because it has NEVER worked when I made the first move on a hombre.

"Maybe you have a house to sell. I'll give you my card."

I was at a lost for words. "Sure. I'll pass it on to other people. I need an ice tea refill."

He stood up and the bagel girl came out and started to flirt with him again. It was so cute to watch. I walked out of the bagel shop and I heard him say that he had to give me a business card . He ran out after me and told me his card was in car. He drove a white Infiniti. He pulled his card out.

"I don't have any of my good cards on me."

"That's fine. I don't need the good card."

That was it. Funny isn't it? I no idea what the dude was thinking but I'll tell you what I've thought about it.



Did you guess who that was? He's eating a bagel. Still can't quite tell? Here's a close-up of this bagel lover.



It's Stephen King and my bagel boy had been talking about him all morning to me. He told me that Stephen King had been living in a trailer home trying to make it. He threw out his first novel and his wife had pulled it out of the trash and well, the rest is history. Well, I flipped the business card over it had his cell phone on the card. I smiled at him and told him to have a beautiful day. I drove off feeling pretty good. I can't wait to run into him again at the bagel shop.

Mr. Right isn't for Me

A car collector and world travel whose genetics were ordered like Pierce Bronson, why wouldn't I be crazy for Mr. Right? A few factors to consider.

1. I found out that he graduated from high school in 1980 and I was only five.

2. He's a bad kisser.

Whoops! I think we hit the real reason! Unlike the tongue jam by the bartender, I can only describe that foretelling first kiss as feeling like I had a limp sea anemone sitting on my tongue!



No limp wet riders allowed!

In addition to the fatal first kiss, there were other aspects that this leering and perceptive brunette was able to entangle in her web. And this will be best expressed as:

Brunette Confidential Rule #4: Never trust an unmarried forty-something year old man that takes his date to a Moroccan Restaurant.

It may seem a far cry from reason but I have the evidence to back this BC Rule #4 up. Strangely in the last year, I have played with older men that have all taken me to a Moroccan-themed restaurant. Don't get me wrong. Moroccan food is amazing. Bellydancing is wonderful to watch. The low seating and lush fabrics hanging from the walls are seductive and cozy. But, I think most Moroccan-themed restaurants are operating on a fake sense of romanticism. Who would argue against me? Most of the other couples that I spied at the restaurant where filled with first and second dates. The posture of many of the men and women were too stiff for it to have been a month-long romance or even a special year-anniversary date. Maybe because it was a Tuesday night but, I certainly didn't see a single married couple at the establishment.

Or, it might be that unmarried forty year old men understand woman better. These men want to impress ladies, particularly younger ladies, by flashing a young and adventurous spirit. That night at the restaurant, Mr. Right kept his mind on stories. The problem was I was listening. It was at the serving of the second course that I knew it was our last date. He had dished up earlier in the date that he had taken a friend to the airport. The first round of mint tea was served and his story changed. He told me that he had spent the day by actually taking a friend to pick up a new car today (one of those impressive I've got loads of money and important friends stories. Okay, why does his story about how hew spent his day keep changing? As the fruits and sweets were served for dessert, Mr. Right slipped and told me about his last girlfriend. She had beena 28 year old emotional and financial wreak (if he only knew my story). He told me bought her a car that at some later date he hoped she would be able to repay. Clearly, he forget his fragmented story of what he had done that day when next he said that he took her to pick up her new car next to airport. Mind you, he didn't mention that he had done it today. He kind of slipped and said that the dealership was next to the airport. My brunette sensibilties put a few other details together and I realized that he had bought her the car today. Hey...It's great that he bought a car for a woman that he dated for only two months and he said he dumped for been crazy and instable. I don't think I'd buy a car for someone like that but, I'm not like everyone. However, what I didn't like was his indirect approach. Not a trust-worthy sort of fellow. Hello, just tell me that you spent your day buying a new car for your ex-girlfriend but, then I wouldn't be sitting with him at the Moroccan restaurant. Wait, why was I sitting with him at the Moroccan restaurant. Hmm...He had mentioned several times that he wanted to be like Pierce Bronson and now I was starting to get it.

The other turn off, as if there could be more, was something that struck me deeper than that. For the last year, I had dated and worked with forty-something men and I think I've learned something about that age group. They're fucked up. Okay. I couldn't resist! I'm no angel. What I mean is that these men are working hard to obtain material status symbols that truly don't mean anything when compared to the heart. These guys think it'll really get a great looking lady in bed. It might work for red heads or blondes, but not brunettes. Another aspect of the forty-year old single men is that they take an alpha male approach to dominating conversation, status, and women. They love to tell the stories of beating up all the other high school kids or talking about all the fancy porche cars that they once owned. None of it is interesting. Not even at a Moroccan restaurant where the lights are dim and mask the appearance of age.

Every new man is a gamble. I'll take a risk for the right one but so far its back to sweet spring nights under the gentle sounds of suburbia. As a star shoots across the night sky, I know what I'm wishing for.

My Date with Mr. Right

It happened so easily. Last Wednesday, I went for a 6.2 run. The route I take through lovely Orange County consists of passing through some of the finest homes built in the early sixties. However, I had several thoughts bouncing through my head that day that made me want to just give up on all my efforts at writing, finding love, et cetra... Maybe, I was just tired hitting that fifth mile but at that exact moment that I had those thoughts...I looked up.

Walking toward me was an old lady wearing a hot pink jogging suit. She smiled at me and I began that runners-etiquette-thing. As I went to do the wave, I noticed that she was pulling an oxygen tank behind her and she had clear plastic tubes hooked-up to her nose. Life had sent me a little message at the perfect moment. I smiled and waved at her as I ran past.

Instead of throwing away my life efforts, I went to the beach.





It was 84 degrees in Laguna Beach when I arrived shortly after noon. I wore an all white outfit in ode to my Italian travels of last summer. I stood at top of the steps that went down to the sand. For a moment, I took the time to survey the sand, the people, and the dolphins that were cresting in the ocean waves. It was an absolute perfect day. I was wearing my favorite pair of pink heels and I kicked my shoes to the sand one at a time. I noticed that two men standing in the volleyball court had stopped to watch me. Not that I was seeking that sort of attention, I was in Laguna for a day of vacation and perhaps it was my sheer joy at being there that was noticeable. As I walked down and picked up my shoes, these two volleyball players did that classic move where one guy throws the ball at his friend, friend misses, and ball rolls to girl. I kept walking and sidestepped the entire situation.

Four hours later, I had nearly finished a book and I had a tan. I packed my things up and I headed back to my car. The light had turned red and as I was waiting for the light to turn green, a man that was standing next to me said that I was wearing the most beautiful beach outfit he had ever seen. I thanked him and smiled because he was handsome. He walked me to my car and got the digits.

He called the next day and we made arrangements to meet at Dietrich coffeehouse at sunset.

The Date with Mr. Right

What girl isn't aware of Pick-up Artists and Newport/Laguna Beach Sharks? I had dated them before and our date almost started on the wrong foot when I thought he had suggested that we meet at his home for drinks. I went to a gas station before I was even in the area to confirm that this wasn't the case. He was either good on the fly or I had made a mistake. My mix-up was partially due to the fact that he owns four condos behind the Dietrich coffeehouse. I wasn't certain if he lived there or not. I later learned that he lives in a house on the hill. After correcting the mix-up, we met. He was better looking and younger than I remembered him. At 6'2, chiseled masculine features, athletic body, and successful entrepreneur, Mr. Right was fit to walk inside the pages of a Danielle Steel novel.


He had a beautiful picnic basket in tow. We walked across the street, where we had met, and we found a spot where we could watch the sunset and the moon rise. He spread a blanket (I couldn't not help but think how many other girls he had done this with) and I watched him set down plates of slice d'anjou pears, granny smith apples, brie and extra-aged white cheddar cheese with olive oil crackers. In addition to that, he handed me two crystal flutes. He pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and the cork went flying toward the ocean.



He told me about his many adventures and mishaps caused by traveling the world. He had just refurbished an Airsteam and sent it to Germany, that week, for his next set of adventures. Now, he had told me about the Airstream on both the day that I met him and on our first date. He was quite proud to boost that refurbishing the upholstery had used 7 cows worth of leather and that there was flat screen TV, which had been 32 inches on the day that I met him and on our date was downgraded to 26 inches-hmm...These are the sort of details that a smart brunette will most certainly notice. Actually, he spent too much time talking about money and travel stories, which in my book is never fun. I didn't like how much he was trying to impress me. Hadn't he read Neil Strauss? Forget, The Game, nobody likes to hear people talk about money and business. It's in complete bad taste and it might also indicate a wee-bit of fabrication. My wealthy friends never speak of their bank accounts or their property holdings. However, I've come up with a new theory. Men talking about possessions and income on a first date is a characteristic of men. I called a male friend of my up and tossed the idea at him. He thought it was just a chracteristic of Orange County men. I still have more research to do before declaring anything.

I hadn't had anything to drink since Fat Tuesday. I didn't want him to get the wrong impression about me being a religious fanactic but, I gave up cussing and drinking for Lent. Not that I'm catholic, I like the idea of purging vices once a year. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to give up cussing, the world is to abundant with idiots on freeways, but I hadn't had a drop of drink for over 35 days. I did have two glasses of champagne and I made Mr. Right drink the rest. We packed up the picnic and we jumped in his classic Range Rover for a drive to one of his favorite bars and sushi restaurant.

Now the thing is, he brought me into the bar so that I could meet one of his friends. Afterward when I was retelling the story of my date, I recognized the guy as being the dude on the volleyball court that had kicked the ball to his friend who "accidentially" let it roll to me. Kinda of strange. Had Mr. Right been waiting for me to leave the beach? Hmm...My memory is a bit foggy from when I walked onto the beach but I swear it was Mr. Right that had been on that volleyball court that day. Actually, he told me that he is an avid volleyball player and that he plays with pro-volleyball players at that Laguna Court all the time. The only mystery to me is: Did he wait for me to leave to the beach that day? Or, did life present a moment in which two strangers would meet at a street intersection?

I'm brunette. That's for certain. After having sushi and drinks on the beach, our date ended with Mr. Right asking me if I had ever been near death. (Kinda freaky, but again, like how we crossed that street on wednesday, it felt natural and not forced-perhaps he's just a master PUA). I told him two stories which I'll leave to your imagination now. He gave me a hug and I kissed him on the cheek. He told me that he taking the left-over sushi and cheese to give to one of the few Laguna Beach homeless.

He was perfect in every way. Tall, dark, and handsome. Worldy, wealthy, and sensitive. Who is this guy? And what does he really have up his sleeve? I have a few of my own ideas.

Secrets of Attraction

I like to read books. I like long walks in loud cities. Driving in the countryside is wonderful, too. No, this isn't an eHarmony ad. This is a post on Attraction and attraction is not always of the flesh.



The birds and the bees are in full blossom this April. The world has turned once again. One of my favorite drives is on a the orange county toll road known as the 241. The sloping hills have got fire with the spring wild flowers. Driving along, I catch myself being memorized by vistas of green hills and low white clouds that are harmless as the hawks soaring in the blue sky. I can't help but know that when I close my eyes that these are the sorts of places I image. These ancient sand dunes now covered by California chaparral are glistening with the sort of peace I only dream of ever obtaining. Once, the road turns and the sky is clear, in the distance, the island known as Catalina, appears to just float from the shoreline. It's then that I know the drive is almost over. I'll have to wait for another day to pass before driving it again. I have real attraction to these landscapes. I know that my time with this place is limited, however, the city of orange has cut down the 22,000 acres of wild land to 5,000. Over 14,000 homes are expected to be built on this land and that includes residential skyscrapers. When I think of the future, I wonder how reasoned is civilization? Once those homes are laid, the landscape and the history of those sand dunes will be lost forever. Future generations will not be able to understand the beauty that the native Indians had once thrived in nor will they be able to image how California looked without the cars, the track homes, and the fast food restaurants. I've seen it all be lost to the entrepreneurial spirit of the Irvine Corporation. Limited time makes the heart grow fonder.



The sexist book is that of Boccaccio Decameron . In its Canterbury Tale-esque narrative structure, 12 people have traveled to an inn to tell stories in order to escape the plague. The Italian story narrates some of the most attractive stories translated to English. While some maintain the pleasure of Playboy, I'll stand by the Decameron as one of the hottest books written. If there ever were secrets to attraction, I'm certain that they are written in this book.

Frankfurt to Florence

Get this video and more at Brunette Confidential Films

April

April is the fourth month of the year in the Gregorian Calendar and one of four with the length of 30 days.

April begins (astrologically) with the sun in the sign of Aries and ends in the sign of Taurus. Astronomically speaking, the sun begins in the constellation of Pisces and ends in the constellation of Aries.

The derivation of the name (Latin aprillis) is uncertain. The traditional etymology from the Latin aperire, "to open," in allusion to its being the season when trees and flowers begin to "open," is supported by comparison with the modern Greek use of ἁνοιξις (opening) for spring. Since all the Roman months were named in honour of divinities, and as April was sacred to Venus, the Festum Veneris et Fortunae Virilis being held on the first day, it has been suggested that Aprilis was originally her month Aphrilis, from her Greek name Aphrodite, or from the Etruscan name Apru. Jacob Grimm suggests the name of a hypothetical god or hero, Aper or Aprus.



The Anglo-Saxons called April Oster-monath or Eostur-monath, the period sacred to Eostre or Ostara, the pagan Saxon goddess of spring, from whose name is derived the modern Easter. St George's day is the twenty-third of the month; and St Mark's Eve, with its superstition that the ghosts of those who are doomed to die within the year will be seen to pass into the church, falls on the twenty-fourth. In China the symbolical ploughing of the earth by the emperor and princes of the blood takes place in their third month, which frequently corresponds to our April; and in Japan the feast of Dolls is celebrated in the same month.



The "days of April" (journées d'avril) is a name appropriated in French history to a series of insurrections at Lyons, Paris and elsewhere, against the government of Louis Philippe in 1834, which led to violent repressive measures, and to a famous trial known as the procès d'avrill.



April was originally the second month of the Roman calendar and had 29 days. Julius Caesar's calendar reform in 45 BCE resulted in April having 30 days and becoming the fourth month, as the year now began in January.



Thanks to Wikipedia, Google, and various other websites & blogs for the information and pictures on this post.

Dance Foe Ever!

@3:34 after getting home from dancing with a rad brunette all night, I realized how much fun I can have without thinking about the past. Then, I check my email:

Friday, 31 March 2005

Email To: Miss Brunette
Email From: Mr. Never Was

Hey Yo,

My fiance is an art teacher who stole my heart. I met her on Halloween when I
walked up to her and said "you totally want to make out with me"; She
pretended not to but of course she really did want to. We took a trip to
Vegas and did the nasty back in December and a baby decided it wanted us to
be parents so that's what we shall be.

With the arrival of the baby I think we'll stay in Funkytown for the next
couple years at least. I love other places in the world but with all the
friends and fam in this city, Chicago is home.

Life sucks sometimes no matter where you are and what's going on. (wow, that
was random)

What are you doing losing weight? Just don't loose that ass. It's an
ASSet.

So you're enrolled at UCLA. Crazy,,,, Um you may already know this but your ex-boyfriend, Mr. Last Significant, should be enrolled there some time this year. How's that for finding Mr Right?

(I have to interrupt to pinpoint that my Mr. Right isn't my ex! I think it was this hot guy that was a rad dancer who's name I've almost forgotten...Almost. I'll forget it when he doesn't call back. Right, back to the email.)

Anyhow, hope all is well, keep me posted. I'm used to writing 2 paragraph
emails at most but why? It's strange that now that humankind can so easily
communicate we choose to keep it so brief. Hmmm?

cheers
Mr. Never Was


There you have it in a nutshell. I'm not as depressed about being single or thinking I've lost anything (just like Julia Roberts). Life certainly has it own plan (its wondrous how the past peeks its head into the present in strange ways). However, now I'm upset that there was an unspoken promise that the West Coast is my home & not that of an ex who has been living in NYC attempting that same-old painter gig! Traitor! What's more. I googled my ex's name & I read an interview which is about how he has taken a break from the old fine art painting gig & has written a novel that he has turned into a screenplay which he will direct if it ever becomes anything. I'm not lying to you. Double traitor! I would throw a temper tantrum, maybe I have, but I think I'm going to sink into bed with my lovely little pup & reminiscent about something a bit more recent, like my evening of dancing. Oh, the life! I really wish you could have been there, my lovely secret agents, to have seen this guy. Dana Point is killer.

Nite!

Miss Brunette