So here’s Part Two of my birthday adventures in So-Cal, all the while having the best damn birthday I could ever have. Or at least try to. Oh, and a little warning: if reading about other people’s waxing experiences and vibrators grosses you out, feel free to read the first four paragraphs here and move on to the next entry.
“Live your life and forget your age.” So said Norman Vincent Peale, though I bet he said this when he was reaching fossil territory. 30 is definitely not an old age, despite what the idiot ageists (some of whom are fossils themselves) make of it. In another era, I was expected to have been married with children by or before 30 or else I would have been looked at like a freak show. (As if some people don’t look at me that way these days.) Thank God those days are long gone. Nonetheless, a person turns 30 only once. So here’s how I made most of that special day, which, coincidentally, occurred on the 30th of October.
My original intention to celebrate my special day was to stay home. At my rental home, just like I did a year ago. And I had good reasons to:
(Yes, that’s my legs lounging poolside, reeking of So-Cal glamour head to toe.)
This was the home I stayed in for a week. (It’s available on Airbnb, for a really good deal.) It had everything I needed: quiet, views of the hillside and the Valley, and a pool. (Which would be great if I knew how to swim, and if it wasn’t so cold the first four days I stayed there. At least I can now brag that I once lived in a home with a pool in my backyard.) The kind of environment a writer like me would revel in. About the only thing I wished this home allowed me to do was smoke. You bet I wanted to light up a celebratory joint in the place.
I had the place all to myself, and before you show pity to me that I was celebrating my birthday alone, it was something that I really wanted. It’s because in the past, when I had friends with me on my birthday, pretty much every time I had to worry about one of them that it would put a damper on my special day. Last year, I celebrated solo. This year, I did the same thing again. Because I prefer to worry about the one person that matter the most: me. And me, that day, had my friends back up in Nor-Cal texting me a “Happy Dirty 30” and whatnot. I will say that my “Wall” on my Facebook, on the other hand, looked as bleak as our state drought. I think I had more “friends” wish me a happy d-day for my 29th than this year, and even I don’t have that many “friends” on there to begin with. If that’s what I get for not being active on the FB like some of my other “friends,” then so be it. I’m not that much of a social media butterfly to begin with, and I like it when my real friends (most of whom don’t bother with social media, thank goodness) personally wish me all the best on my special day as opposed to abbreviated posts from people I’ve never met on a site I’m not too enthused over.
Hmph, since when did I start not giving a damn about these little things? Is this what I get for turning a year older? Whatever it was, I rode this new frame of mind into the rest of the day. This year, I didn’t want to stay home the entire day. I couldn’t. I had a full week in this city too vast to fully explore and enjoy in seven days. But, like making this birthday vacation a damn good one, I would try.
Thank the stars things like Groupon and Living Social were invented. I use ’em in cities close to me and far away, to explore a little of what those cities had to offer. I was also overdue for a waxing, though it wasn’t out of that I couldn’t afford to do so. (I had a, ahem, “rally bush” going for those Giants during their playoff run. Looks like it worked!) The great thing about Groupons in particular is that you can get some damn good deals for Brazilian waxes. I settled for a $25 deal at “Esther’s Place” in Beverly Hills, primarily because her Yelp reviews were, for the most part, stellar.
“Esther’s Place” was in a location right on the Wilshire, not in one of those quaint, she-she looking establishments you’d expect from a girlie spa, but in an office tower. Esther was this short, middle-aged European lady who sounded a little iffy when I called her to make an appointment a few days before. I didn’t let that deter me, though. I still needed to mow my lawn completely. Turns out Esther was more pleasing in person than on the phone. Maybe not as perky as another waxer I once saw regularly, but being a waxer (or “esthetician”, in technical terms) for 35-plus years and seeing one bush after another diminishes whatever ebullience you once had in your youth, with the sure-fire sense that you know your shit firmly in place ’cause you’ve been there, done that, and seen it all. I’m not going to imagine what it’s like to see one bush after another for 35 years of my career, nor do I want such a career (maybe a love life, but I prefer my girlfriends trimmed at least), but Esther definitely knew her shit. She also set the record for the quickest wax: in under 20 minutes. My regular waxer did hers between 20-25 minutes. It helps if you do regular upkeep for quicker sessions, but do I really need to share more about getting Brazilian waxes around here?
If you’re ever in the Beverly Hills area, and you need your lawn mowed completely, go see this lady. She’s great. And tip, dammit. Spa people like me and her appreciate it.
*Bird Streets, Baby, Bird Streets*
It was the one place I’ve been wanting to venture in for a few years now: the famed Bird Streets of the Hollywood Hills. A neighborhood of multi-million dollar homes owned by a bunch of rich bitches that must bow down to me when I come into the place. I may not have gotten the proper treatment when I drove my noisy Camaro up there, but I was greeted by some of the sexiest views that made the homes up here all the more coveted.
So I hear a certain stud-muffin lives up there…
Yeah, like I’m really gonna go as far as to doing what two other chicks had the nerve to do. Hell, I don’t even know what actual street he lives on up there. And even if I passed through there and saw his home, so what. I may have a thing for him, but I’m not gonna stalk because not only is it dumb, I had that shit happen to me before and it creeps the hell out of me.
Now, as much as I wanted to have him come up to me, invite me to his home, and then have his way with me that redefines blazing hot and mind-blowing (and yes, I am aware of his age and how he looks now, and I still think he’s a stud-muffin), thus giving me the best damn birthday present ever in the process, I was left with just that fantasy in my head, all the while perched atop Blue Jay Way, watching the sun set into the far Pacific with a pensive mind and a raging libido. Thank goodness I brought my vibrator with me on this trip.
*The Conundrum of Coldwater Canyon*
A year ago, I stayed in a part of Hollywood Hills that required me to travel along Laurel Canyon Road to get to my home. This time, I used one of the other thoroughfares that connected Hollywood that connected the San Fernando Valley to LA: Coldwater Canyon Road. From where I stayed, it’s only a 5-7 minute drive south to Beverly Hills, and 2 minutes north to Ventura Blvd. on the Studio City side. Still roaming around Beverly Hills with my newly-shorn nether regions (tastefully covered, I should add), I wanted to have lunch back home. I had a fridge full of food, and I didn’t want to bother eating out for the day. My drive back home was going well up until I hit a snag at Coldwater Canyon Park. It was there that I discovered that the road becomes like all other LA roads during rush hour: jam-packed with cars. I would have liked it if someone, even the lady that allowed me to stay at her rental home, warned me about this. You think that for all the traveling I’ve done in this city for the past 10 years or so, I should know a thing or two about these roads during certain times. But I only come here once a year, and Coldwater Canyon Road was one of the last main streets I have yet to drive through until this year. It was 6PM, the empty bag in my stomach growling for some chow, and no way in hell was I gonna sit in that traffic snarl.
I settled for some sandwich wraps at Safeway, er, Pavilions. In So-Cal, they call Safeway a “Vons” or “Pavilions”, and I still don’t know why the So-Cal Safeways name their shit differently. (If a McDonald’s is a McDonald’s everywhere in the world, why can’t a Safeway be a Safeway?) You can still use your Safeway club card in those stores, which netted me a 2-for-1 sandwich wrap deal there. I was happy to see a few people wearing Giants gear in the place, and looking at the newsstands, more proof that yesterday was a fantasy come true:
There were no LA Times papers present, and I bet it showed nothing of the World Series on their front page. Or even in their Sports page. Whatever.
*’Cause Your Tights Don’t Fright (But You Still Look Shitty In Them)*
Remember that frame of mind of not giving a shit about the little things I was in earlier in the day? I still had it. I’ll also say that with the exception of a few obvious things, strolling around LA or Beverly Hills is no different than strolling around San Francisco. You get the same chicks wearing clothes that make them look cheaper than the actual price of their bargain-bin leggings, and the same cell phone slaves who won’t look up from their cell phones if Raquel Pomplun flashed her Playmate body on a nearby street corner. Amidst all this idiocy I witnessed while walking around–on my birthday, need I remind you, it didn’t bother me that day. Even I found myself wondering that while shopping for $1 magazines at Amoeba Records on Sunset. Maybe it’s true that one gets wiser when getting older…but at 30? Me? Do you know the kind of vendetta I have against such bullshit? But somehow I felt the least bit volatile upon seeing these poorly-dressed chicks and cell phone slaves. Like I was gonna let their garbage ruin my 30th.
I finally got back home close to midnight, had my dinner there, and went to town with my dessert that was my birthday joint. (I did so by the driveway of the house, in a spot that overlooked the sparkling landscape of the Valley. Guess it wasn’t a problem for the lady that owned my rental home, for she said nothing about it, and probably didn’t noticed it.) To be honest, if I really wanted to go all-out for my b-day, I would have hired a rental whore to give me some lovin’ for the night. Hell, I bet a young, handsome struggling actor in need of anything would have taken my offer of fifty bucks for a fuck. And I would have shared it all with you here. These days, however, I can’t tell apart a struggling actor from a hobo on the street, and, once again, I was left with unfulfilled fantasies.
But I had a nice birthday overall. Besides, if I can’t make some dreams come true, there’s always the vibrator.