Miss Brunette has Boyfriend Agent

When you get down to it, it isn't surprising that Agent Miss Brunette would happen to stumble into a romance with a cop, now is it? One trip to Vegas, a combined phone bill of $700 dollars, a 10 day California visit by a Toronto police officer, and Miss Brunette knew that she had fallen for the cop!

Oh, sweet romantic readers of brunette confidential, might ask how ever did this happen? Hmm..I'm still trying to figure that out but in case you missed a post or two, let me give the quick recount. I'll start this file at the beginning.


Miss Brunette meets Mr. Cop in Las Vegas while she is attending a psychic convention and he is shaking his money maker at a bachelor party. Case open and shut. Refer to case #LAX7579YYZ

INCIDENT REPORT

DESCRIPTION: To her surprise, Mr. Cop, of the cool guy modus operandi, calls up Miss Brunette on the Sunday as she is driving from Las Vegas to Orange County. He asks her things like what are you doing, where are you at, what is happening in your life right now? Miss Brunette is almost certain that she has made a new penpal friend or something and has a great time talking to him for the four hour drive home. It is somewhere between sunrise and the following Wednesday that he makes a suggestion to visit her in So Cal in two weeks. Hahaha...Nervous laughter or more correctly on behalf of miss brunette, Haha, we'll see how far this one gets.

It just so happens that he keeps calling. She likes talking to him and trying to retain all of the details of his natural boy good looks. She can't imagine what he likes about her except, perhaps, that she is brunette. In fact, if it had not been for Mr. Cop's persistence and determination to keep the connection alive, then things might have just been swept under the carpet. And the world would have been a lesser place...At least for me.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

NAME: Mr. Cop

HEIGHT: 6'1

WEIGHT: Lots of good stuff to handle. Love his arms, legs, belly, list goes on...

EYES: Blue like a Pissaro sky...

HAIR: Blond-OMG! Blond!

HIS KISS: What every girl dreams of getting...

He booked a flight to visit Miss Brunette. She's so nervous on the day that he flies into LAX that she gets fidgety and keeps doing dumb things like: Refolding the towels in the hall closet because no man or agent wants a girl with unfolded towels, scrubbing the door handle, reapplying nail polish, cleaning the car, and a drive-thru stop at Starbucks. Wait, its 10:00 why do I have a incoming call from 416, Canada, YIKES, he's landed & I've got an hour drive to get there. Forget the sugar, give me my ice tea, Mr. Cop's flight landed 30 minutes early & miss brunette had a 90 mph drive on the 405 to get him.

In covert style, I glided the car in behind where he was waiting on the curb. He didn't know what my car looked like and I'm thinking what if he isn't as good looking or as nice as I remember him. The whole Mr. British nightmare kept flickering in her brain. But, there he was. Sitting on a planter sharing a cigarette with a dark hair Israeli girl. I took my car keys and hit his back. He threw the cigarette out ( I caught him being a bad boy) and he gave me a high five. He didn't kiss me. That's good. I would have felt really uncomfortable. He was here as a friend or so I thought...

Promptly, four minutes later I was pulled over by an El Segundo police officer on Pacific Coast Highway for not wearing a seat belt. Talk about impressions! I was shaking! I had hot new boy to my right who happens to be a police officer and an El Segundo police officer to my left wanting my license, insurance, and registration. Not exactly a pretty girl start to his almost two week vacation. He hadn't even made it to my doorstep nor had he met my family! Damn! Maybe I should have waited for the sugar!

EL SEGUNDO POLICE OFFICER
Click it or ticket and there is no way you are getting out of this ticket. License.

MISS BRUNETTE
(voice dry like a desert)
Haha. Sorry. I forgot...Here's my license.

MR. COP
Hey, I'm a Toronto Cop, you've got any badges on you to trade?

Meanwhile Miss Brunette is going through the glove box for all the stuff and thinking what are these guys talking about? Later she would find out that cops of any country like to trade badges in order to build collections. It's like boy scouts meets baseball card collector, no offense to any cop out there.

EL SEGUNDO POLICE OFFICER
What? What you say?

MR. COP
I'm a Toronto Police Officer. Here's my badge.

El Segundo police officer looks at his badge and flips his ticket book closed.

EL SEGUNDO POLICE OFFICER
Alright, miss. No ticket today.
(he walks back to his squad car and miss brunette is left shaking in her boots)

MISS BRUNETTE
Well, welcome to California! Since we're at a gas station. I think I'll get some.
(miss brunette backs the car to the gas pump)
I'm going to pay cash. Be right back!
(BIG SMILE)

Miss Brunette walks into the gas station and once out of his sight, she has a mild heart attack while starting at candy and gum.

Things get better. I can't believe how amazing our first day went together despite getting pulled over. We went to the beach and kept a flirtatious distance on the beach towels. We drove the back roads of Palos Verde, across the dock of Long Beach, down Pacific Coast Highway toward Huntington Beach, and onward. The time that he spent in California with me went by so quick! Somehow between getting me out of the that ticket and giving me my second kiss, he became my Boyfriend Agent. Okay, maybe he's Boyfriend Agent just because he is such a damn fine kisser but...I'm keeping all of that out of this report!

Suffice it to say that I was reading my digital edition of Just for Me magazine and I found a quiz in this month's magazine. Magazine quiz's are dumb but it doesn't hurt to sneak a peak. This quiz was titled, Have you Met your Match? Hmmm...Have I? What? Only 5 easy questions. I love magazines.

Question No. 1: A Sense of Ease. (Check)
Question No. 2: The Fun Factor (Check. He took me to Disneyland & Cali adventure! Great time! But we had a bunch of fun just hanging out at the pool, in the kitchen and more.)
Question No. 3: Safety & Security (He got me out of a ticket. He's hired! Check.)
Question No. 4: Mutal Respect (He encourages me to be a writer. Hello? Not for most men. And, oh yeah, I respect him too. I love hearing his wacky work stories. He is a real cop after all and it gets really interesting. Although, I really can't imagine him hitting anyone. I can tell he can pack a punch but...I know its all part of the job. Check.)
Question No. 5: Sparks (Attraction vibe is on high red alert. I can't keep my eyes, thoughts, or hands to myself. I'm all over this hottie! And its mutual. I won't go into the two hour love sessions because I don't want to make you jealous. Suffice it to say, Check.)


Wow! Boyfriend Agent just passed the magazine quiz with flying colors. I can only imagine what's next. Did I mention I'm flying to Toronto on Wednesday to meet his family, friends, and co-workers. Yeah, if things go well, my first day in town I'll be wearing a bullet proof vest and riding with some of Canada's finest, the Toronto Police. I'm ready to travel.

June Community Hero: Princess Project

Want to be a Fairy Godmother?

Okay, I like heard Tamara and Kevin are going! No, Tamara is going with Darrin! I don't know but Kevin just asked me! For all those too old to remember or for those that just want to forget, June is the month for one of those life milemarkers, high school graduation. What girl can think about high school grad and not think about the big "P" word. Yeah, hint, I'm talking about PROM and for most the cost is absurd, something to make most girls a stay-at-home-Cinderella. As if all the drama built up around prom isn't enough...Who's going together? It's that next question, What are you wearing?, that sends most high school girls into hysteria. As economic reality sets in and new questions like college tuition crop into these young adults horizon, many girls are banding together to reject prom because of the mulla.

Two weeks ago, Miss Brunette was driving home and she was listening to a radio station contest that involved paying for high school prom. I almost started crying when one girl's bestfriend called the station, got to the DJ, told her sob story about not going herself because her bestfriend couldn't afford to go, obviously she won the contest, and let the DJ call her bestfriend to tell her happy news-prom is paid! The timid bestfriend that answered told the DJ, between deep heavy sobs, that they had made an oath that since to not go to prom because her family couldn't afford it. Isn't that what best-friends are for? I wasn't expecting to feel so moved listening to a seventeen year old sob and thank God about going to dance! What can anyone one expect! We're women!

Spread the Fairy Dust

The Princess Project in San Fran can make you into an instant fairy godmother. This non-profit organization takes prom dress donations as well as accessories during the month of April. And Bippy-boppy-boo! Over 2,000 girls got dressed in style this month for prom. How can a girl not feel a little bit of that Cinderella effect? The Princess Project isn't just in No Cal, nope, no way! It's across the country. Projects like Inside the Dream are even in a foreign cities like Mississauga of Toronto. Despite the donation drive being closed, there are other ways to get involve. Buy a t-shirt, donate money, or get ready to volunteer. It's all up to you!

JUNE STYLE FILE: Get low with the heat (aka bathing suits for hot nights)!

Purr! Meow! Not been to the beach yet? What's the hold up! Wrangle down some of the hot styles of the season with white, black, fun polka dots, metallics textures, and more. Most important Brunette Confidential Task: Be the beach sex kitten that you've always wanted to be! Cabana boy, darling, where ever are my shades...



Ruffled Triangle Bikini



Amazonaz Bikini!



Hot & Sexy



Push-up Triangle Top




Try it White



Vintage Polka Dots


Wrap it Up!



Bangle It


Flip It

The Plurality of Boredom

Read a Manuscript or Get Sued: If I choose to not read a working manuscript by a former client, he might have said that to me. This is the deal. I did tell him that I would read a new draft of his work once it was completed. I made that promise to him over a year ago. He called me up two weeks ago with a new draft of his book. I'm good on my word like that.

Problem: Super bored. So far, I've read & critiqued 80 pages of his nonfiction book. I have exactly 69 pages ahead of me. All the same problems that were there from a year ago are still in the manuscript. Previous readers of my old blog know that when I returned to Cali from Chi-town, I found myself starting a writing consultation business. I spent my first 7-8 months giving advice on writing, book construction, and the likes. As you might have read from an earlier post, getting published is hard. Wait?! I didn't have to tell you that!

What I'd Rather be Doing: Walking on the beach, drinking a limoncello in Capri, walking down Kings Road, sitting in a Toronto Park doing something like this at sunset with Mr. Cop.


Part of my boredom is that the work is a 55,000 word document about child abuse. It's not exactly a Dan Brown or Daniel Steel read. It can get hard to read the work due to content and quality.

Today: The day is undeniably beautiful and I'm stuck inside. I could hit the pool but I know I'll fall asleep. I could go to the coffeehouse-wait! An idea! I knew I blogged for a reason. I need a break.

On second thought, maybe, I'll skip the coffee to just think about kissing my boy in T-town...

(Yes, that is evidence that Miss Brunette is stepping away from her single life toward, gasp, a relationship with a hottie that lives in a different country. What? Crazy! I know this much for sure:

Long Distance Relationships Do Not Work.

Mr. Cop & I have been talking about me leaving one of my greatest loves of all, So Cal, but I need to see this city called Toronto. I am flying out around the 28th of June to see him & the city. Ahh...Now, That's a future post. Not today. Too much on my plate.)

I'm Telling the True Story of What Happened in Vegas, Baby...

I've been holding off on recording the true story of one weekend in Las Vegas because it would come to change the course of my life and those that know it. This tale involves the Vegas strip, world reknown psychics, good looking men, and fast talking broads. The darkness of Vegas after midnight attempted to descend on all its visitors that first weekend of May but instead it brought an unusual cast of characters serendipitously together. In the end, the grime and the gritty faded to sunlit beaches on the Pacific. But this is the beginning of the story and so I must start.



In Orange County, my sister walked in on me Friday May 5, 2006 at ten in the evening. She had an idea. She walked out of my bedroom, where I had been working my way into an evening of sleep, and she made a few phone calls.

SISTER
We're booked. Get up.

MISS BRUNETTE
You got a room?

SISTER
We're booked.

MISS BRUNETTE
We got a room in Vegas for tonight?

SISTER
Yeah. Get up. I'm driving. We're leaving in less than 5 minutes.

We made the drive from Orange County in under four hours. We had to cross a desert, one state border, and travel with lonely trucks.

So........We get to the Vegas Motel 6 that has our reservation. We are told how lucky we are to have a reservation because they are sold out due to not just one big event but three big weekend events: Kentucky Derby, De La Hoya Boxing Fight, and a big Motorcross weekend that includes a motorcross rider jumpin the Caesar Palace Fountain! We were totally lucky to have a reservation and we need sleep because we are exhausted from the drive.

MOTEL 6 AGENT
Girls..Are you certain you've got a room here?

SISTER
Yeah. I booked it tonight.

MISS BRUNETTE
(starting to panic)
You know, I heard her talking to the agent . I know we have a room.

MOTEL 6 AGENT
(typing away on computer at 2:30am)
Nothing. I'm so sorry but we've got nothing.

Miss Brunette looks at her sister and just starts to laugh. Sister isn't smiling and whips her cell phone out. The Motel 6 Agent, Miss Brunette listen to Sister make a phone call.

SISTER
(while on cell phone)
Right. Oh. I see.
(she hangs her cell phone up and looks down)

MISS BRUNETTE
What happen? Did you find our reservation?

SISTER
Yeah.

MOTEL 6 AGENT
Well...What did they say?

SISTER
Our reservation is in Reno.

MISS BRUNETTE
What??!

MOTEL 6 AGENT
I'm so sorry girls but we are completely sold out.

My sister booked our hotel room in Reno instead of Las Vegas. I'm not lying. The motel 6 crew was so nice and sorry for us because they said we weren't going to find a room. All rooms on the strip were sold out. We got in the car and drove around from 2:30am to 5:00am-over two hours of joy riding Vegas, on the strip and off the strip, just driving around looking for just about any sort of room to rent. Well, almost any sort of hotel room...

We ended up at the Happi Inn across from the Luxor hotel. It was the only place to rent a room. Behind us in line was a happy white male that held the hand of a prostitute, and boy, they were excited about getting a room too! That is until the woman gave us the key to our room and we went to check it out. OMG! It was a crime scene. Bates Motel style. Stains on the comforter. Cinder Block walls. Dead roach in the bathroom. We only had one option left. I looked at my watch. We couldn't check into our hotel until 3pm. It was 4am. I didn't hit my sister across the chops. Nope. We only laughed. We were screwed.

Saturday

Mandalay Bay was directly across from the Happi Inn. We took our car to self-park and got awesome parking at 5:15 in the morning. We bounced in the tram to New York New York where we had breakfast. For the first time in my entire life, I ordered a bloody mary and loved it. I can't guess for sure how a girl that hates ketchup could love a bloody mary but that the sort of mood I was in Saturday morning. We had the longest day of our life ahead of us until the hotel allowed us to check in. I hadn't slept all night. Yet, I got to thinking at breakfast. Hmm...we could crash a spa at one of the hotels on the strip and be set. My sister was freaked about looking at perfect bodies poolside-but what would we care if we were there just to sleep? It was our plan of attack. We take the tram back to Mandalay. But, on the way we meet this guy.



Nope. He didn't look like that when we met him. He was completely trashed and had walked the length of the strip back to his room at the Mandalay bay. He even bragged about having walked further home the night before. My sister and him immediately had a great time talking like caged birds. Since, my sister and I had absolutely nothing better to do for twelve hours...Well, why don't we have a drink with him at the bar? For the record, even though he smelled like a bottle of JD, he was charming. Yet, I thought that maybe he was dealing with some issues until he mentioned that he was in Vegas for a bachelor party. Ah...



so that's why he was carrying an inflatable sheep. Okay, I'm lying but wouldn't that have been funny? He mentions that he has to run to his hotel room for cash and he'd be back. Off he went. Meantime, I had three guys at a different bachelor party buy my sister and I drinks for just being at the bar. I smiled at my sister and tipped an invisible hat to her. These were funny guys and they helped to liven up the bar. The bar scene was complete with yelling young men, somber old guys, and scanty-clad cocktail waitresses. I must have had four bloody mary's at this bar alone.

Surprising as it was, Mr. Drunk Boots, jaunts back into the bar. Everybody in the bar knows about my sister f--king up our reservation. It even gets us another round from one of the celebrating bachelor's. It must have been about four hours later when Mr. Drunk Boots insists that we return back to his hotel room in order to make sure his buddy is okay. He told us that his buddy works as a Toronto police officer and somehow we still needed to make sure he was alright. The booze was mixing with our blood well.

The Hotel Room

Mind this, I had my hand around my keys and I was prepared to use all my kickbox moves in the case of an emergency. In all of my brunette instincts, I knew that Mr. Drunk Boots was cool. Every undercover brunette has tools and tricks for determining character. Yet, I think the drinks and complete exhaustion were the real reason I even allowed myself to stumble with my sister to Mr. Drunk Boots's hotel room. I kept my hands double fisted just in case. It is Vegas after all.

Under the pink flower bedspread, I could see the outline of a sleeping guy. Boy, was I really in the wrong place, so I thought. My face was pink from embarrassment because of how my Saturday morning was unfolding. I like to think of myself as a lady but following my sister's lead, as you might already have noticed, often just caused trouble.

No sooner had we walked into the hotel room when Mr. Drunk Boots grabs my sister and the ice bucket and they take off on an adventure. So get this, I'm sitting inside a hotel room with a sleeping stranger whose face I can't even see. All I know about him is the Toronto police badge that Mr. Drunk Boots flashes at me from off a table. I thought I could hear all the generations of women in my family telling me what an idiot I was.

Then a blonde hair and blue-eyed hung over cop lifted his head from his pillow. He was staring at me with one eye open.

MISS BRUNETTE
(uncomfortable cough)
Hello. I'm Miss Brunette. I hope that I didn't wake you.

MR. COP
(he clears his throat)
I'm completely naked.

MISS BRUNETTE
Ah. Okay. Hehe..I'm sorry about this
(she thinks to herself..I'm going to kick the living sh-- out of my sister)

MR. COP
I've only been asleep for an hour and a half.

I got real chatty and nervous so I started to talk about writing and good books which isn't exactly what most people want to hear in the morning. I spent my time looking out the window down to the Mandalay Bay pool wishing to all the stars in the heaven that I'd was there. I was kinda of pissed at Mr. Drunk Boots and my sister for thinking that I was just going to hook up with some guy sleeping in a room. Is that what they thought? Is that what Mr. Cop thought? I've got principle and taste. I excused myself to the restroom. After I came out and Mr. Cop had taken the moment to get dressed. By now it was a little before noon.

Mr. Cop was a big guy. He was a bit over 6'0 and athletic. His face was handsome and he even had retained some childish qualities about his smile. He was the alpha to the omega male. He was the sort of man that pick-up artists trembled and feared spotting in bars. The PUA has zero to little game against the alpha male. I even decided that I wouldn't like him because I had that gut instinct most girls would have just seized the opportunity. Not me, I couldn't get over being dumped in a hotel room by my own sister. I had enough time to check out Mr. Cop when the door opened and Mr. Drunk Boots and my sister returned. It was my turn to ditch my sister. Mr. Cop invited me to lunch and I bailed without turning a glance over my shoulder. I do have to mention that I knew that my sister was safe so don't think that I was trying to really dump her. My sister is family, enough said.

My Day with Mr. Cop

I don't want to get to laborious in all the detail. Hell, I've already done that! Suffice it to say, I spent an entire day, which when drunk at 5 in the morning combined with sleep exhaustion, means that the day felt like a week in Rio. Mr. Cop not only was a hottie, he had style, humor, and sensitivity to boot. He was more than generous. My sister f--ked up again by booking our hotel at a place so ghetto that there were tweaker-like people standing in front of roaring BBQ's grilling hot dogs. Mr. Cop had come along with us and I watched his alert police skills jump up like a dog on alert. I knew this place was bad. Never let my sister plan a trip for you-ever! Mr. Cop invited my sister and I to stay at Mandalay. He helped take our luggage inside the hotel. Mr. Drunk Boots didn't seem to have a real problem with our stay but I'd like to remind you that my sister and I had crashed a bachelor party. How does the rescue of two girls play into a Bachelor party? It didn't. Not really. My sister and I didn't have to lap dance or shake our money makers. We just had an awesome time hanging with the boys. No sexy stuff involved at all!



Mr. Cop even took me to the pool at Mandalay Bay. I was still playing disinterested because he didn't fit my typical guy profile type of dark hair, dark eyes, lives in the same country as me, enjoys trips to the museum, walks on the beach and et cetra.

Holla! Despite all the guys this brunette has dated, Mr. Cop was the first guy that wanted to know about her dating background. Most of the time, when I meet someone, it might take weeks or months to get into that conversation about past relationships. He was all over wanting to really know me. It was a different approach than most playas. It caught my attention. Well, that and his swim trunks, which were looking so good on him. I kept to my guns and didn't drop any typical girl signs. I wasn't going to like him. I knew it was just one day in Vegas and I'd probably never see him again in my life.

Back at to the hotel room and we all got ready to go out for the night. Mr. Cop set all of us up with drinks that were the hardest pours on the West Side. He made drinks so tight that you could feel the air rushing through your nose after taking a sip. Nobody made a single remark. It was evening and time to renew the buzz.

I guess I should mention what happen to my sister during the day. Mr. Drunk Boots went to the pool while my sister wanted to watch the Mandalay Bay Shark Cam on channel 32. Okay, she was watching TV but the shark cam is worth a watch. She slept and recovered unlike her sister, Miss Brunette, that was having an amazing time with a guy she had met naked in bed. Oh, Vegas stories!

Jumping back to drinks at the hotel room, Mr. Cop called up the bachelor party and made arrangements for us to meet up with the crew. From the time we left the hotel and made it to the MGM, I was trashed to even say the least. I was so trashed that in front of a MGM security officer I was trying to get Mr. Cop to hop the tram turn-style (oh, how her Chi-town roots were showing). I never got it to happen but I was having such a good time that I didn't care.

Next up, Mr. Cop and I were the at the hottest club in Vegas at the moment Pure. Pamela Anderson was slated to make an appearance. Hundreds of people were waiting in line. Mr. Cop and I run up to the VIP entrance and I thought that my drunk smile got us in through the red velvet ropes. As it turns out Mr. Cop flipped a bill to the security bouncers that hollered at all the waiting people that nobody else would be let in.



What does a drunk brunette do? She kisses the boy and told him to not be shy that any girl would have him. Now that you've read this far, I'm keeping quiet on what Mr. Cop replied when I gave him the pep talk on meeting girls. If I hadn't been drunk all day, I'd have known that the being shy thing was only a line and part of technique on the pick-up.

Some things will stay in Vegas. I will however tell you what a sweet night we had and once we got back to the room...Mr. Cop fell so soundly asleep on the bed that he never noticed me leaning over him watching him sleep. I probably won't ever forget the way he looked sleeping. Oh...He looked so damn angelic.

Sunday

On Sunday, I wasn't so smooth. I thought I had traveled to Las Vegas to attend a psychic convention with my sister. Now, I think I came to Vegas to meet Mr. Cop.

Mr. Cop had sent several txt messages to my phone. He had taken a cab from Mandalay Bay to the Venetian in order to see me before his return flight home. I was sitting inside a convention room listening to a medium tell strangers about their recently deceased and I was so involved that I ignored his txt messages until the lecture/performance was over. At 1:30pm, I returned a call to Mr. Cop.

MISS BRUNETTE
(happy to talk to Mr. Cop)
Okay, where are you? I want to meet up with you.

MR. COP
(cool and collective)
I'm at the airport.

MISS BRUNETTE
What? Why?

That was a stupid question on my end. I knew that he was returning home on Sunday, I just had the wrong times. I started to panic. I couldn't play miss cool a moment longer. I understood that the most generous, loyal, sexy hot cop in the world had taken a cab to see me and I didn't walk out of my convention because I wanted to listen to a medium talk to dead people. Who is f--ked in the head? I was! I almost lost it on the phone when he told me that he was at Las Vegas International Airport.

MISS BRUNETTE
I'm coming to you.

MR. COP
(lightens up a bit)
Oh, that would be nice, eh...

MISS BRUNETTE
I'll be there and I'll give you a high five before you leave.

Miss Brunette flips her cell phone close.

SISTER
Don't be desperate. Forget it. You'll never see him again.

MISS BRUNETTE
Desperate? Look around and tell me who isn't desperate? Aren't all of these people desperate? Desperate to win money. Desperate to forget their lives at home. Desperate to meet the love of their life at some cheezy bar? I'm going to meet him and you can just stay here or shut up.

I started to walk away and then I started to cry right in the middle of the Venetian Hotel Convention Center. I was so mad at myself! As tears bounced on the floor, I kept hitting myself for not walking out to tell one of the most awesome guys I've met (a guy that made Vegas wonderful, beautiful, and safe) that I had the time of my life with him. I wasn't that kind of person to be so extremely nonchalant. I didn't want him thinking that I had taken advantage of him and I was going to prove it to him by driving straight to the airport within the next twenty minutes before his flight departed.

Two problems with my scenario:

1. I didn't know where the airport was located. I followed descending planes in the sky toward the airport.

2. Traffic, baby, Traffic. Sunday afternoon and everybody's trying to leave dodge. The redlights were too long and the traffic was too thick.

3. I forgot to mention the third problem. My sister didn't want me to leave the convention to chase Mr. Cop down at the airport. She thought the whole idea was absolutely absurd and desperate. She yelled at me, harassed me, humiliated me into attempting to stay at the convention. I didn't give a damn about anything she had said. I was going to the airport to see him and I sobbed the whole way there because I felt so crummy about the whole thing. My sister was sat in the car yelling at me the whole time. I'd like to her to remember that all of this was in part due to her very own actions. I'd never have met Mr. Cop otherwise.

This is how it played out: I drove beyond the speed limit while my sister was screaming at me like a sailor. I made guesses on where the airport was located from the Venetian and I had only one turn to make in order to make it my knight in shining armor....

Mr. Cop called my cell phone.

MR. COP
Where are you? I'm waiting outside.

Miss Brunette lets her sister whip her cell phone out of her hand.

SISTER
Hey, Cop?

MR. COP
Are you almost here? I can't wait any longer...

SISTER
She can't tell you this but she made a wrong turn which has put us on a highway to nowhere.

(LONG SILENT PAUSE)

Sister hands phone back to sister.

MISS BRUNETTE
(mustering up all the hung over strength she has)
I'm sorry. I should have walked out on that convention. I'm so sorry.

MR. COP
I have to go. My flight is leaving. I understand. You tried. I'll call you.

That was it. He got on a plane and I went and heard Sylvia Browne tell people about things that only a psychic could know. I was at a lost for emotion and words. I hadn't been prepared for any of it. Meeting Mr. Cop. Having such a beautiful time. Ditching him the next day when all I wanted to do was to do it all over again. Life had hit me in the face. I alternated between sleeping and feeling hung over while Sylvia Browne spoke. I had paid two hundred bucks to listen to her talk and all I wanted to do was redo my Sunday. After the convention was done, my sister and I went to a great Mexican restaurant inside Treasure Island. We didn't want any of our good times to end but Vegas wasn't the same without Mr. Cop. It wasn't fun or exciting like it had been with him. I ordered a bloody mary.

9:00PM SUNDAY NIGHT

My cell phone rings. The caller idea is 416. That's an international area code. Mr. Cop called but I don't think even he was expecting the sort of future that was waiting for us. We talked on phone for almost the hour hour drive back to Orange County.

In the few miles of desert road where the cell phone dropped connection, my sister and I drove in silence. So much had happened to us both in Vegas that it was more than a four hour ride could process. I looked off into vast shapes of midnight land and star lit skies. He had called back and all that I could think was...Now what?

Rejection

I just need to drop a few sentences on rejection. In April, I submitted a nonfiction book to three agents. In all honesty, my query letter looked pretty but read like a typical query. What is technically supposed to be the smashing opening sentence of a query sucked in my query letter. But, the content of my book is perfect for its current market. Yes, actually, despite rejection, I'm confident that my book is rad! In fact, I know that the market is searching for a book of this nature.

I know my mistakes and how I got my rejection. Its like a man wearing a white suit and approaching a lady with his shirt unbutton and the hair on his chest sticking out. I understood my project's flaws. For example, it could only truly publish at one publishing house (a bad thing in probably the eye of every agents-Didn't hold me back, I saw the cup half full and my project as an agents delight in terms of a quick sell). I knew that might make it dead in the water but I sent it out. And yes, today after I did a three mile run with Adidas in Orange County, I came home and found my final rejection letter. Not that I'll be mourning the death of the projection, like I said, I knew of its flaws but I was hopeful that I'd find an agent that would look past it all. The agent and I could have a Maxwell Perkins and Thomas Wolfe affair.

Hello sister! I know its all 21st century and sh--! But the agent at this nice respected agency did take the time to pull out company letterhead to draft a specific message about my project and it being very interesting. Dah, I know it is!

Just to add a bit more to the backstory, I had a dream one month ago where I understood that I needed to make my nonfiction book a bit more traditional in nature and bam! Later that afternoon, I got the second rejection letter. Go figure?! I've got my own intuition telling me that I need to do more work to make this thing fly. Yet, at the same time, I'm thinking my big dream is to be known as a fiction writer. Do I take fold the project? Do I push ahead? Do I spend time on the second draft of my novel? Hmm...Questions everywhere!

Rejection isn't forever. I'm not in the ground. I've got at least that much on my side...Time is in my favor. I need to write a proposal that leaves no easy path to rejection, nonfiction or otherwise.

Miss Brunette will waive her nonfiction book rejection funeral services. No book of hers will be laid to rest!

One of the Last

As if the hillside of sweet carmel colors and brunette colored grasses could be overlooked...This is one last hillside that has remained untouched by the likes of strip malls or the other likes of our fast food nation since the days before borders and countries. This ancient sand dune is slated to be turned into model homes for the masses and forever its charm will be lost. People will one day drive past and have no memory of a landscape with out gated communities.

The British Are Coming!

Where was the midnight rider on the eve before my British friend landed at LAX! Oddly enough it was in the month of April that Paul Revere saddled a horse and warned his fellow citizens of the British. It’s 2006 and not 1775. I had the last two weeks of April to tell my friend, Mr. British, that his intended stay was too long. But, I felt so uncomfortable with having to tell a 'friend' straight that I kept sliding away from taking responsibility on controlling his visit.

How it Happened

I met Mr. British near Paul Revere's house in Boston over four years ago. I was in the middle of one of those I need to totally kick my ex-boyfriend to the curb, get independent and travel the world phase. I traveled solo from Chicago to NYC, Boston, London, Oxford, Paris, Chartes, LA/OC within a two-month time span.

On Thanksgiving Day, Mr. British and I had breakfast together at the Boston Hostel. He had asked to borrow my milk and in exchange I could have some of his cereal. I let him take as much milk as he wanted and I declined the choice of his cereal, which was one super large unsweetened organic mini-wheat. The mini wheat filled the entire cereal bowl.


It was over breakfast that Mr. British made a confession to us that he had traveled to Boston and proposed to a Harvard medical student. They had been emailing another for the passing of a few years and they had taken a couple of quick trips. He had bought two tickets to Niagara Falls followed by a flight to Florida for the weekend on acceptance of his proposal. She said no and didn't want to speak to him again. He sat watching the Macy day parade play loudly in the dining room after he was done speaking.

I never expected to hear from him again because he was so smitten by the blonde journalist sitting beside me. As a far well gesture, we exchanged email address and we all went our own way.

A month after I returned back to my lofted apartment in Chicago, I received a email addressed to the blond journalist that had been sitting next to me in Boston. Mr. British had enclosed a poem that he had written and he was seeking a critique of his work. Well, he didn't get the journalist, he got me. I went ahead and sent him feedback. We exchanged a few emails and that was it.

A few years later, I move to Cali in search of the good life. I update my address information by using bebo. Mr. British responded and I was surprised that he remembered me from the hostel. Actually, he didn't but in some strange way life had us fated to become pen pals. We wrote each other all the time and I enjoyed having a cross-Atlantic poet to send my emails. Though, I never sent him ideas about my work because I'm too quite about my working process for that, I did enjoy learning about British eBay, London shopping secrets, and Beatle inspired stability-ball workout moves. Most often I thought he was a really cool guy and I appreciate that Internet pen pal connection. Ah, the Internet! It is so easy paint the truth and spread the beauty of fiction.

In April, I had casually mentioned in an email that it would be great for him to stop by in OC sometime if he was ever in the area. Five days later, he booked a two-week trip that included staying at my house. I think Edward Albee was standing behind me with goosebumps and chills because of the drama. In fact, he booked his stay without a car! Holla! It’s LA! I convinced him to rent a car and I asked him where he was staying but he ignored that question. I was starting to get nervous. I had suspicions that things weren't going to go that well.

The Arrival & Stay

He was three hours behind schedule when he knocked on my front door. Standing in front of me was a stranger. In all the pictures he had sent, I had not seen this image. His eyes frightened me more than anything. Despite that I wrote a specific email stating that his visit was only in terms of our friendship, I could see his wheels clicking. He walked into the dining room where my mother and sister were waiting to meet him and he took off his brown hiking boot pulled a can of foot deodorant from his bags and sprayed so much of this fowl spray into his shoes that it left a thin haze inside the house. Things were already going bad.

On the whole, his visit was abhorrent. I really couldn't stand to recount it all. I never knew that having a guest so could be so bad. He not only made several passes at me but at my sister and her best friend. And most of his passes included offering foot massages. I caught him several times staring directly at my feet in strange circumstances like when my four year old nephew was singing with his class to family and friends for Mother's day. Yuck!

There were also the notes that he stuck to my door every morning as I slept. I thought they were notes that he needed to put into his poetry notebook. I wouldn’t read his notes but I’d give them back to him. He insisted that I read them so I could understand what was going on inside his head. Yet, when I started on one note about “touching” and “wanting to touch inside you” and “the touch of your soft skin under my lips.” I knew it was time for someone to check out. I had expected more of Mr. British because he a lawyer in London and his family owned a private plane and an 18-foot yacht in Dorset. Doesn't that tend to mean he understand etiquette? We all know the answer to that one.

How could this Brunette have let so much slip out of control? Being nice can kill you and it was time for etiquette to be thrown from the window. I could feel my horns growing and my claws sprouting.

The Departure of Mr. British

In the four days that Mr. British had been on holiday, he was in a terrible habit of attempting to corner me. I managed quite well to avoid it, even using my dog as the excuse for so many things, until it got to the point where I couldn’t. At least, he asked to speak with me uninterrupted in the patio garden. Where else would an Englishman want a heartfelt chat?



The roses were in full spring bloom, the white lilies had yet to be wilted by the sun, and a serene breeze was circulating the scent of California sage. Like the Monet garden painting, there was an unromantic light of hard shadows and awkward symmetries that brought out the alienation and loneliness of the day.

My sister had attempted to save me from this moment by insisting that I mix up cosmos martinis for the pool. But, after the drinks were poured, Mr. British insisted on a few moments with me alone. I sat with my cosmos and watched my sister walk away.

During the course of our little chat, I told him four times that we were friends and I wasn’t interested in him. At first I thought that was all this chat was about. But, being a friend, despite being terribly put off by all of his behavior, I had a sense of urgency to tell him that his romantic ideals were preventing him from experiencing many things. Of course, a good cosmos can make most words fall out with importance and meaning (hey, every brunette likes a good pink drink and a chat-that’s why we’re brunette). Now putting aside what I’m going to be posting about, I told him long distance relationship never work. Mr. British complained that all of his relationships have been long distance. Ah! I said that’s why none of them worked for you. I even walked back in the past to the Harvard medical student that he had proposed marriage to. Had you lived in the same town as her? No. Had you spent any real time with her other than quick and glamorous vacations? No. Nothing, Mr. British, was ever real about that relationship. I got heated, maybe a little from the booze, when I started to tell him to stop meeting girls outside the country and think locally. Mr. British complained that he couldn’t meet anyone in his city because it was seen as being as interesting. That’s part of your problem, Mr. British! I told him how I had heard the writer S. Browne speak at a conference about everyone’s rush to couple-up. Why rush, S. Browne spoke, get to know yourself! It’s okay to be single!

Mr. British, I say, romantic ideals kill love before it ever arrives.


I believe my entire four-year relationship with Mr. British culminated in that garden chat. He left the next day for San Diego and I sent him an email that told him I was sick. He made plans to travel up the coast. I got emails from him about his escapades in the town outside of Heart’s Castle where he got drunk in bars and danced with German girls. Nothing may have changed for Mr. British from our chat, but I could see my own character arc. I had stopped being a Mr. British and I’d let the world move me in whatever direction it would take me.

The scent of summer was in the air.

The Cafe Pickup

When the rules of Brunette Confidential are applied, they will enhance your breakfast digestion. Speaking of smooth, let me remind you of a pickup from a few weeks ago when a Bagel Man introduced himself by giving me his business card with his cell phone number handwritten on the back (which feels like an eternity ago since I had a crazy englishman visit which was followed by a hot Toronto police officer visit that has left me with a smashed over the head smitten feeling-more on that later). Back to the BC rules. Let me get specific on my point:

Brunette Confidential Rule #5: Never call a guy if he gives you his business card with his private cell phone number handwritten on the back. Don't call him.

No, that isn't his business card. It's a sample business card that merely punucuates a lousy cafe pickup. I never did see the bagel guy at the bagel shops again. Nope. Never. But, I'm not a complete creature of habit and so one morning I went to a different cafe known for their strong coffee and indecent trade habits.


Sitting against the window was a familiar figure. One that I know I've already foreshadowed as sitting in such a place looking to pray on unsuspecting brunette and dolls alike.. yes, the bagel man.

I was with having breakfast with my sister and I noticed the bagel man. Small world! My sister wanted me to immediately join him at his table but I know how to keep my game in check. I drank my black unsweeten ice tea with one packet of raw sugar on the side (my only real addiction in life) and enjoyed my "low-fat" muffin. On the way out, I stopped at his table and opened it like this:

ME
Hey, good morning...ah..(waiting for him to drop his name)..

BAGEL MAN
It's Bagel Man. (I extend a formal handshake to him). Miss Brunette, right?

ME
Yes...

At that exact instance, I recall how Bagel Dude had told me at the bagel shop how he had just experienced the worst two weeks of his life. I had been shaking his hand when I notice that unlike the previous three times I had seen him, he was wearing a wedding ring. What?!

Outside Starbucks Cafe, my sister was all over it. She got worked up that bagel man had been so indecent as to have removed his wedding ring each time we had seen him. My sister, being married, is always the first to notice these details. She's calling him a womanizer, slut, and all things a married man seeking a single lady should be called.

However, I've got a just way of looking at things. I think I've fabricated the perfect story that fits this occasion and so I share it.

Bagel Man in the midst of the worst two weeks of his life not only doubts his new career as a real estate agent but doubts his marriage as well. At a bagel shop, he finds an opportunity to run from life in the shape of a brunette and timidly gives his business card to the girl. She doesn't call because, ladies, if he wants you then you know it. Cut to Starbucks breakfast morning when miss brunette runs into him. A sigh of relief exists in Bagel Man's eyes that the girl hadn't called him. Bagel Man rejoices that he didn't mess up his life with the wife he loves over what amounts to a bunch of stress at the office. Bagel Man returns to reading the bible or some other life enhancing book. Miss Brunette is glad she stuck to her guns and didn't chase a rabbit. Everybody is happy. The coffee is strong and the ice tea is rad.

I've always been a gal for happy endings. But, the path to happiness would take a wild ride with an englishman in order to find real bliss with a man that sometimes walks the street with a gun.