Over the weekend I spent some time with some friends in their late 40's and early 50's. To my surprise, the conversation steered towards their frequent Botox and collagen injections. I don't know why, but despite living in Los Angeles, I am totally oblivious of this cultural phenomenon. I couldn't tell you who has had worked done, (unless they look like Michael Jackson), or who freezes their facial muscles. I just thought that older women tended to be more mature, able to take life in stride, and, therefore, less prone to strong emotional reactions. I've known people who respond stoically to life, but then again, now that I think about it, they were usually high...

It made me sad because these are both beautiful women, who would probably, if anything, look more gorgeous were they to let their faces follow the course of nature. Then again, I'm no one to judge, as I haven't reached the Botox age. In ten years, surrounded by unlined stoic faces, who knows how I'll feel...

Just for today, I want to age naturally.

According to this research study, men are highly confused by women (and this is news?).

Today, while my Eyebrow Lady did her best to control nature, my Persian Hairdresser of 13 years threatened to go salsa dancing with me some night.

"You have to promise that you won't fall in love with me."

Just FYI, he says stuff like this all the time. However, I have always written it off as part of his Persian Male Syndrome, a half-joking attempt to steer all conversations back to the only topic on his mind, sex .

"You seriously think I could fall in love with you?"

"I think there's potential..." he said in a tone that I realized, to my dismay, was totally serious. Uh...clueless?! I think so.

I, on the other hand, have serious loyalty issues when it comes to things related to my body, feet, hair, and other areas. I don't care who you've voted for in the last election (Republican Doctor), how many people you sleep with (Persian Hairdresser), or what you say about my skin (Facialist), the incumbent is always my favorite (yes, I KNOW this doesn't bode well for relationships). So, despite his constant sexual innuendo/I'm a Persian male babble, I have always remained loyal to person who told me I looked good with a Pat Benatar circa 94 hair style (he also told me I looked good in blond highlights which Eyebrow Lady said put ten years on me...).

So, despite my issues (who wants to deal with those) after reading this article, I can now see that he really thinks that I've been exhibiting great restraint for 13 years (It really takes a long time to get to know someone). I have found that the best way to hammer some reality into the egg scramble of men's brains is to be as direct and brutally honest as possible.

"I don't now, nor will I ever, desire to sleep with you."

"The idea of sex with you makes me think of maggots, puke, and dead beached seals altogether."

"Did you ever see A Beautiful Mind?"

As proven by Relented Salsero , with time and perseverance, some hopeful few maybe get the picture.

Just for today, I can accept that guys are clueless.

The birds left. I think I annoyed them with all my gawking and picture taking. They kept looking at me like, "Do you have a freakin' life?" (Not really). Or, "Have you ever heard of 'privacy?' We're trying to nest here!"

Could she have any more 'tude? I think she's right. Just because I've never let a male (besides my dad) forage for me doesn't give me a right to prod into the lives of those creatures who do. Watching the doves (I think that's what they are) made me realize the instinctive nature of procreation. I think my maternal instincts got hijaked by some recessive salsa gene (my maternal grandmother's side), an occupation guaranteed to keep me single until the end of my days.

But I've decided to forgive my inherent weirdness and accept the fact that like Shirley Maclaine and, most likely, the birds who abandoned my porch, I'm most comfortable living out on a limb.

Just for today, I miss my bird friends (though, I don't think they miss me).

I'm in Coffee Shop Land, and this old guy sitting right next to me just asked if I would read a letter he's been writing. Dude, this isn't study hall. Do I look like I have all the time in the world? Don't you realize that I'm collecting unemployment?

It's not that I don't want to help out a fellow Coffee Shop Land Dweller, but my experience in Los Angeles coffee shops (and other places) has taught me that when you try to help a stranger, God knows what you're in for. For all I know, it was a letter to his estranged daughter who he orphaned when she was an infant because he was sent to jail for his involvement in a child porn ring. If I read it, I might get all triggered, and then spend my entire therapy session bug fixing all the broken links in my psyche (it's like one giant Error 505 page). But, maybe it was a simple letter to his landlord who refuses to fix the plumbing in the bathroom sink? Either I'm Boundaryless Doormat, or a Heartless Bitch. Guess we'll never know...

This Is My Day Job (guy who works behind the counter) is moving up to Northern California. Ah, to be young again and not know that life will suck wherever you live. Sorry to be so negative. Just because I've spent 12 years in the city of Daily Pedicures, Valets, and Mad Ambition doesn't mean I should take it out on the young and falsely hopeful.

I think I just got bummed out when I read about Maxim Online voting Sarah Jessica Parker, star of the incomparable Sex and the City (LOVE THAT SHOW!), the Unsexiest Women of the Year (so fucked up). Sarah Jessica Parker's career and work is what has given me some iota of faith and hope in life, art, and the redemptive possibilities of the entertainment industry. Just because she's made more money in the past three years than the entire editorial staff and readership combined is no reason to point out the fact that she's done it without transforming her unconventional looks (though, I would love to have her eyes, hair and body) to meet our society's robotic beauty standards. Unless, of course, you're a bunch of angry white men who didn't get laid in high school, have the imagination of a toothpick, and nothing better to do than to try to shake down those whose hard work has reaped rewards.

Fuck them, Sarah Jessica Parker. You're my hero. If making millions of dollars by sharing my God given gifts and talents makes me unsexy, then bring on the granny underwear and the moo moos (trying to think of unsexy clothes).

At least the weather's been nice.

Just for today, I can work in Coffee Shop Land.

Spring Equinox was last Friday...

Almost every spring (more or less) a pair of doves (I swear they aren't pigeons) nest on the rafters of my balcony. The female sits around and looks frightened while the male brings individual twigs, one by one, to build the nest. Usually, they lay eggs and sometimes the egg shells will fall on my porch, but eventually they disappear along with the nest because doves are very clean and ecological (very green), and, unlike humans, they clean up after themselves. It's all incredibly adorable, and I do everything in my power to make them feel at home and not threatened by my human scariness (in their eyes).

Another sign of spring is people being more open to relationships (that will change). Last night Relented Salsero told me that he wants a girlfriend.

"I want love, not just lust," he said.

What?! It's like I don't even know who he is anymore.

"Maybe you should take a girl out to dinner and ask her about herself, and then tell her somethings about yourself," I suggested (as if I'm some expert dating guru and not a fellow lost single person).

After the salsa club (if you can call it that) closed, Jewish American Salsera was going to give me a ride to my car, but Usually Drunk Salsero and Crazy Faces (he makes great faces while he dances) jumped into the back seat and announced that we were going to Zabumba, a bar, really, that specializes in Cuban food and music. Faced with the relentless social pressure of Latinos, we drove to the Cuban place and danced while men played African drums and sang. The vibe was very happy, as if we had something to celebrate instead of a time change, spring equinox, and the inability to go home at a reasonable hour on a Sunday night.

"We've reached new depths in our salsa addiction," JAS told me.

I think it's just something in the air. And, I have to say, it was really fun (my favorite activity) and despite their propensity to constantly proposition women, Usually Drunk Salsero and Crazy Faces are really fun. The truth is Latino people know how to have more fun than Americans.

Just for today, I can appreciate that Spring is here.

My friend, Harvard Towers, shared with me the other day that she tells herself the affirmation, "I love what I do. It doesn't even feel like work to me."

I told her that I thought it sounds like something someone would say on a talk show, and that it's probably a good idea to tell yourself the things you hear in celebrity interviews. "I'm just really lucky." "The next thing I knew I was on a plane to New York." "I have to keep pinching myself to make sure it's not a dream..." And so on...

Except maybe I should invent my own, like:

"The hardest part is figuring out how to invest all these millions." "I don't understand why things come so easily to me, but I've learned not to question it." "I can't wait to go to work everyday, it's too bad my body has to sleep." "I've lost track of my Armani coats." (I, actually, have a friend who said that once to me...I don't think I need more than two...).

Just for today, I can create new affirmations for financial abundance.

Yesterday, I took my computer to the Mac "Genius" counter. $600 + a new power cord ($85) was the genius solution offered to me. I gave the girl genius a quite thank-you and packed up my computer. I then drove to a computer store nearby where an Eastern European man took a tool that looks like a screwdriver, fiddled with my computer for a few seconds, and, suddenly, it powered up just fine. I did have to buy a new power cord, but he didn't charge me anything for his services. Is it me, or are monolithic companies going down the tube (Starbuck's, Apple, Border's...)?!

I'm in a salsa dance group that practices way out in East LA. Some might call it a ghetto-ish neighborhood. It's a long drive (long ass, I should say), and definitely proves my commitment to practicing the art of salsa. Anyway, last night I got there early and I decided to go to the market next to the studio. I walked out with a bag of oranges and six manilla mangoes for $2.50. In Santa Monica, $2.50 will get you maybe an apple (at Whole Foods it will buy you about a third of a peach).

Just for today, I can resist the capitalistic forces hell-bent on parting me from my money.

I walked into Coffee Shop Land in the worst mood ever. My anti-bacterial hand stuff exploded in my glove compartment, I got a discount coupon on my EZ lube oil change a day after paying full price for it, and I'm on a period (sorry, but this blog is not for the faint of heart...). Oh, not to mention that the democratic party is imploding, the world is dying, and, McKain is going to get elected, reverse Roe v. Wade, thus, bringing this country closer to a third world status.

Anyway, so here I am trying to work, feeling depressed, and I glanced up and saw some Creepy Guy staring at me who looks identical to another Creepy Guy that I usually try to avoid (I meet all kinds of Creeps here in Coffee Shop Land...as well, as Very Nice People, so that's why I keep coming). And so I see this Creepy Guy Look-alike, and I wave and smile. Why? Because when I'm feeling blue, my defenses are down and, if you're a Creepy Guy, such is the optimal time for approaching me as my self-esteem will not allow me to give you the Go Away Smile that protects me and allows me to not waste my time talking to strange men about the housing market. So, here I am waving new creeps into my life, as I sink into my Why Did I Pay Full Price For My Oil Change? Depression, and wondering if the world's ecosystem will stay functional long enough for me to see my unborn children play with a frog.

I know, I know...I'm not in a wheel chair, my family is all healthy and alive, and I was able to buy coffee and tortilla soup. But if I focused on gratitude everyday, I would have little to write about in my blog and then text link ads wouldn't be sending me a check for $30 (which is more than the $2.50 I made from Google in three years...). And since I've gone so far down the self-pity trail, might I add that my mom HATES IT when I write my Woe Is Me blogs. Well, I'm not the same kid who believed in Santa Claus, and memorized Catholic school prayers, and thought that everything my mom said was God's word (which doesn't mean I don't love you, Mom).

Just for today, I'm in a bad mood.

Last night, I had a drink with High Powered Married Couple. While HPMC Wife and I chatted about our high school friends, HPMC Husband read my blog on his blackberry. After reading my blog, HPMC Husband suggested that I incorporate more personal dirt (or "soft core porn," in his words) to make my blog more titillating and interesting (to him).

Little does he know that as it stands, my blog is the kiss of death for my personal life. What guy in his right mind wants to date a woman with the compulsive need to publish every amusing anecdote from any part of life, with or without the knowledge or consent of said participants (although, to my credit, everyone is anonymous).

I'm already working with an addiction to salsa dancing (who wants to date a woman who presses up to a variety of men several nights a week?), am 36, and the recent discovery that I don't actually like cooking (unless you consider making coffee to be cooking).

So whatever restraint that I manage to exhibit in my blog, all in the name of preserving whatever is left of my dignity, as well as some shred of hope for a relationship with a man who isn't a sadist or a masochist, must be supported!

Just for today, I can hear feedback on my blog.

I'm visiting my family for a few days, and am currently staying at my dad's house where I recently finished having dinner (ribs, ravioli, and salad) with Dad, Dad's Girlfriend, Her Kids, Aunt (it's her birthday today), and Cousin.

During dinner my father did some classic Dad Things, like bet me $50 that I was born cesarian when I know full well that I came out of my mother's vagina (because she's recounted the story of my birth to me, in detail, every birthday for the past 36 years). Then, he bet another $50 that he took me to see Star Wars when it first came out sometime after 1980. Now, being a card carrying member of Princess Leia Fan Club (I, actually, have a card somewhere), I also know full well that Star Wars was released in 1977.

At least now I know where I get my bad gambling instincts.

Just for today, I can have dinner at my dad's house.

I've been a night owl for months, but now with the time change I'm seeing more darkness than sun (I'm also delirious with sleep deprivation).

Last night, I was at the salsa club untill 2:00 am. The bouncer had to repeatedly ask me to leave (and there wasn't even any music playing!). Then I talked to Relentless Salsero (he's been on sabbatical from my life for a while) for an hour about the platonic nature of our relationship (he claims that he never "really tried" to get me to go to bed with him...lucky me) and crazy people in Salsa World (not including him). Actually, Relentless Salsero seems to have accepted the parameters of our friendship, and now we can actually try to be friends without his relentless pursuit of me. So, to be fair, I will now refer to him as Relented Salsero.

After getting home at 3:30 am, I read for twenty minutes about the crazy people who climbed Mount Everest (another book...yes, I'm obsessed). Somewhere around 4:00 am I fell asleep

Just for today, I need a nap.

Slutty Dress went off without a hitch at Birthday #36. I, somehow, managed to dance in it without giving the world a glimpse into anything that haven't "earned" (my therapist's words) the right to see (I did wear about five layers of underwear). However, I did spray both my apartment and the dance floor with an endless supply of sequence. If I ever go missing, I certainly hope I'm wearing that dress because it sure does leave a good trail.

Along with many loving friends, Brother #1 and Brother #2 came to my birthday party. When I told people how I knew them, I added that I used to think that I couldn't be friends with ex-boyfriends, but it turns out that I just can't be friends with assholes (damn, I'm cold). Everyone who came danced with each other, whether they were new to salsa or not, and it was great to see the connecting power of salsa.

Last night, Usually Drunk Salsero told me that he had a "package" for me (what good dancers get away with is really criminal), and kept asking me if I was ready to "open" it. It did a lot to drive the point home that I'm 36 and this is my life.

(Giant sigh, again).

Just for today, I am in my 36th year.

Just had to get that out of my system.

Someone needs to invent a way to stop time from passing (they could make some serious cash).

Ok, so for my birthday I'm 1) wearing a slutty dress (tomorrow night), 2) getting a facial, and 3) publicly committing to pursue my goals and dreams from here on out with the tenacity of Hilary Clinton (if I had half her determination my life would be different).

Just for today, I can turn 36.

My salsa dress came in the mail the other day. I'm a little uncomfortable wearing such a scanty amount of fabric, but really, if I can't wear a slutty dress at 36, when can I? When I'm 80?! My friend Brother #2 has been giving me not so subtle hints that NOW is the time to flaunt whatever I got. He suggested I sleep with hot guys (when given the opportunity) because I'll regret it when I'm 80 (I'm not saying I'm taking his philosophy to heart as he is 1) Male and 2) Latino and, therefore, has the attachment capabilities of a melting ice cube).

I never thought about being 80 before, but I also never thought that I'd turn 36...
My friend asked me if I wanted her ticket to see "Wicked" as a birthday present. "It's either that or a vibrator," she said.

I guess things change after 35.

Just for today, I can celebrate turning 36 (which is, actually, on Friday).

I don't know the origins of the Dance Movie, but I suspect it's a modern phenomenon. I can't think of anything before Saturday Night Fever except musicals, and those were all films in which the fact that the characters were singing and dancing was never acknowledged. The Dance Movie inevitably features characters whose lives and loves are transformed through the act of dancing. John Travolta moves out of his class and neighborhood, Jennifer Grey publicly displays her attraction to Patrick Swayze, Jennifer Beals gives up her job as a welder (I wasn't really convinced by her welding anyway), etc. Usually, characters change culture and classes and the whole thing culminates in some big finale where the main character kind of screws up at first, and then shows her stuff, and everyone claps, and her enemies love her.

I think the world would be a better place if we regarded our lives as a dance movie. Dancing publicly would be the barometer by which we gage our success. It worked for African and Indian tribes...

Just for today, I can see my life as a dance movie.

My doctor told me that I have parasites. I can't talk to my therapist about it because she will use it as one of the connecting metaphors to tie my session into a nice little Freudian package. Who are the parasites in my life? How do I feel that she is a parasite in my life? I know Freud is dead, but would someone shoot him anyway?

Tonight, I'm competing in a dance contest. While my therapist supports my belated geriatric-style dance ambitions, I'm afraid someone needs to stop me before I become a character in a Tennessee Williams play (probably too late).

Just for today, I can have issues with my therapist.