I've done the routine thing. It seems like it should be inevitable, that it might even allow one some measure of power and security.
Well, that's mistaking routine for stability. I can do stability without also slipping back into a rut.
Anyway, in pursuit of this rejuvenated thirst for life, I've discovered one obvious but overlooked fact: Broader horizons means everything's further away!
Even just driving to and from work and running sundry errands, I have quadrupled my gas use. Where I used to fill my tank twice a month, I now have to fill it twice a week. I should have been expecting this (after all, my morning commute is easily four times the time I spent driving at my old job), but such prosaic considerations really didn't occur to me until I was faced with them.
Undaunted by the startling increase in my carbon footprint, I've been bouncing around like a psychotic... bouncy ball. Yeah, I had a better simile, but the fucker got away from me. Because, I suppose, of its inherent bounciness.
But yeah, last Friday night a friend invited me to someone's birthday party. Guy I know but not all that well (all hail the friend-of-a-friend network). He looks like Shia LaBoeuf. Like, to the point it's kind of freaking eerie. I kept expecting him to run around saying, "Oh no, no no no nononononono." But as it was, after all, his birthday, I guess he wasn't overly distressed.
He's a good guy though. I mean absolutely no slight toward him. The uncanny resemblance is not his fault. But he really should think about capitalising on it. I mean, he was grousing about wanting to meet one or more girls that night, and... well... I'm just saying is all. This is LA. It wouldn't be that hard to believe.
I certainly had no trouble meeting new girls, as our Shia Lookalike has an astonishing array of curvy friends, most of whom I'd never met before (and a few that I had and, much to my chagrin, did not immediately recognize).
As often happens in such instances, one in particular attracted my attention. I do remember her name, but as I do not know who will read this and whose tongues may wag, it will not here be mentioned. But she was a lovely girl, bright and full of life. I liked her, but felt hampered by the decibel level and the humidity.
Oh -- right. Um. I've not quite worked out the correct amount of hair product to use in this new climate. Too much and my hair looks greasy. Too little, and I run the distinct risk of being confused for Seth Rogen (the Knocked Up version, not the Observe and Report version).
Which reminds me: Another thing I've already sort of embarked upon is a crusade to get in shape. But I digress mightily...
Anyway so, I erred on the side of caution that night and... guess what happened? Yeah. I must have looked scary. I didn't find out until I visited the men's room. That rather did explain the tendency of people to sidle away...
Naw, it wasn't horrible. I looked kinda 80s, was all. Which, okay, that could be considered horrible. *sigh*
The week passed fairly uneventfully. I'm doing pretty well at my new job. They're gradually giving me more work and I'm doing well at getting it done, pretty much like I figured I would. My immediate senior is a... very... emphatic person. After the first few days working there, I had a few people take me aside and let me know it wasn't anything to take personally. I shrugged and replied, "Well, he's American, so I can't really expect him to know any manners."
Sorry guys, but I gotta call 'em like I see 'em.
Whoa, this is getting long already.
I went to another birthday party this Friday just past. This was actually a birthday party-cum-housewarming, as one of my very oldest friends had just moved his family into a modest home in Valley Village, I believe it was called. Anyway, it was a distinctly different crowd than the Shia party, being that singularities such as myself were the exception rather than the rule (in fact, there were a quite a number of small children running around). But many of them were mutual friends. One in particular, a gentleman who has apparently become a World of Warcraft hermit since the last time I saw him -- which was last Halloween, holy shit -- came out of the woodwork. Which was great.
Good times, good times. One thing of note: At neither party could I partake of any alcoholic beverages. I've returned to my strict rule of absolute separation of matters vehicular and alcoholic. In fact, excepting a single beer with dinner a few weeks ago, I haven't had a drop of booze in two weeks. Actually makes life a little MORE interesting, in that I can again clearheadedly observe how silly drunk people are.
Anyway... This brings us to Saturday (yesterday, as of this writing). In the morning I needed groceries.
Wait wait, before you go "ho-hum, this is getting boring", just bear with me, okay. First, you're right. You don't care about the birthdays of strangers and rebuilding of bridges thought lost. That's fair. How about a girl named Gabe?
I've been taking one of my coworkers home, and as can happen amongst men, the travel discussion turned to past conquests. Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell particularly, but he was curious as to my exploits since my divorce. So I gave him a number. The 18-month total, I call it. (I've been divorced longer than 18 months. The 18 months in question is a distinct time period in my life.)
Well, he was impressed. I'm kind of blase about it; it's not really something I'm overly proud of, although I suppose I could or should be. But something he said kinda took me by surprise: he said I must have a way with women.
Heh.
Saturday morning I was shopping at Trader Joe's. I'd forgotten to pick up sundry breakfast items. So I hadn't ate. TJ's, as I call it, often has a "demo station", and so they did that morning. Proudly displaying microwave mac & cheese, coffee, OJ and... something else, was a dark, diminutive damsel whose dimpled cheeks (and alliterative potential) drew me over directly. Or it could have been the smell of fresh coffee.
Nah, it was the girl. It always is. We chatted for a few minutes, me pretending to be enthralled by the merits of microwave mac & cheese; I don't think she was overly fooled once the discussion ranged away from nuked pasta dishes, as it rather quickly did. In the course of this discussion, I noted her name tag, which proudly named her GABE.
After ascertaining that this was indeed her name, and short for Gabriela, I expressed my surprise: "I'd expect someone with a name like that to be some shorn and inked anarchist, not a pretty little girl!"
She liked that. Oh yes, she did. She was sure to tell me she was frequently on duty at the TJ's. And no, not abruptly to get rid of me. That was after a good five minutes of further discussion. I left with a smile on my face, an echo of hers.
That night, I decided to check out a place near the office which promised a live band after 10pm on Saturdays, so that's what I did. In spite of my initial reservations, they actually rocked shit, and I ended up staying until closing. Of course, the Malin Ackerman lookalike (it's LA, everyone looks like a movie star, lol) in the formhugging minisheath had something to do with that, too. We danced. She's a very energetic dancer. It was fun, and that's all I'll say since I've already more than lived up to the promise (some would say threat) of blah blah blah blah blah in my blog's title.
Suffice it to say, it would seem my coworker might actually have a point. And I'm gonna say straight out, the quality of women around these parts is a marked improvement to those in my former county of residence. No offense to anyone, honest. But the snob quotient is way down. At least so far, ha ha.
So, yeah. My life is pretty much made of awesome right now. And it's only getting better from here. Because aside from all of the above, I'm also working on the second book again.
Made. Of. Awesome. Yeah, I said it.
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