Everyone In LA is an REDACTED

by Sarah Fuller

  However, I came to understand my mother’s plight later. She thought that freedom was plants and a young gardener. We all misunderstand this crazy idea of freedom because it’s usually tied to things like money and power.

  I don’t blame her for squandering my entire inheritance on landscaping materials, because we are never lost, and never broken. It’s a part of the path that led me to LA and the life I love now.

  However, her financial decisions are the reason that I went to community college.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’m Not Your Getaway Driver

  Because my friends give me awful advice, I went out with the guy who has thirteen siblings, if we aren’t counting the step brothers and sisters (that makes it seventeen). In all honesty, he was a super nice guy. Respectful and considerate. However, I’m a minimalist. I prefer a small nuclear family. I get claustrophobic if more than two people are in the kitchen. I can’t drive a minivan—we all know I’d wreck it. I hate going to restaurants with a lot of people in my party; the waiters all hate us, it takes forever to get my wine, and splitting up the check is a pain in the ass.

  However, my friend Sandra told me to give the guy a shot. My instinct told me that a gigantic family was just one of many factors that made us incompatible, but I thought she might be right. He was cute, nice, and a smart engineer. Oh, and he was an entrepreneur. I sort of own my business, although I don’t think of this book thing like that… I don’t even consider myself an adult yet. Soon, though, I will. As soon as I finish growing.

  Anyway, this guy with the giant family informed me on our first date that he also owned a smoke shop.

  “Wait. You sell pot?” I asked, wondering if I was back in college.

  Little known fact: I sold pot in college to businessmen who hated their jobs in IT. The venture was a small stint and mostly just paid for my books and gas money to get to community college.

  Smoke Shop blushed, taking a sip of his drink. “Well, it’s just a side business that I keep because it’s fairly easy to run, especially after all the law changes in California.”

  I remembered then that in his profile picture, there had been a smoke shop behind him. My detective skills were spot-on, but like the rules, I was ignoring them.

  I’m not turning up my nose at smoking pot or vaping or any of the stuff that goes on in smoke shops. However, I’m also not so naïve as to think that a person who runs one isn’t going to be taking part in those activities. I have enough trouble keeping the neighbor’s damn reefer smoke out of my house; I wasn’t sure I could date someone who was around it all the time.

  Not only did I sell pot, but I used to smoke it. Shocking, right? A college kid got high off the stash she used to supply IT guys. Take me away already.

  I also smoked cigarettes for a long, long time. My mother smoked during her pregnancy with me and while breastfeeding me, so I was sort of doomed to go down that road. Since quitting over ten years ago, though, I prefer not to be around smoke. It just doesn’t work for me. And it sure as hell doesn’t work for Eleanor.

  Smoke Shop was a nice guy, and if that was the only lifestyle difference, I might have been able to give him another chance. However, there were too many things that just didn’t jive for me. He wasn’t passionate about his job, he had a strange family dynamic, and he had a mouthful of yellow teeth. Super nice guy, but just not for me.

  My instincts told me that, and I ignored them.

  I then continued to throw out all my rules by dating a man who was wearing a suit in his profile pictures. I have these fucking rules for a reason. Guess what? Suits was exactly like my dad, just like I had suspected. I said I didn’t want to date a man who wore a suit and was an adult like my dad. This guy turned out to be a broker. Anyone care to guess what my dad does for a living? One thousand points to those of you who guessed broker. And the guy did exactly what my dad did when I cursed at the table. He fucking flinched.

  I get that cursing isn’t ladylike. My mother has always told me that, as she trudged around the yard in her nightgown, holding a machete and a can of O’Doul’s. However, cursing is a part of who I am. It’s like my southern accent—as much as I’ve tried to get rid of it, the drawl in my voice ain’t going anywhere.

  I can control my cursing. Not that I do a good job when I’m with Eleanor. But she understands that mommy is just expressing herself and that she isn’t to say those words herself until she’s old enough to understand what they mean and know when and when not to use them.

  One of my friends once told Eleanor to plug her ears so she could say a bad word.

  Eleanor looked directly at her and said, “Oh, just say it. My mommy is a writer and is always using colorful words. She says it’s a part of the job.”

  Fuck yeah, it is. When you have a book with a curse word in the title, it’s a bit hard to get away from using colorful words.

  Anyway, Suits and I had a pleasant time, but you could tell he wished I weren’t so eccentric. Though, if I’m honest, I wished he hadn’t buttoned his shirt all the way.

  Because I’m an idiot, I also dated men who shared my exes’ names. Talking to a guy named George just felt wrong. It was like each time I’d say or think his name, I was jinxing our relationship. And just the connotation brought old frustrations to my mind. The guy hadn’t even done anything wrong when we first started talking, and I was already irritated with him.

  For that reason, when I started talking to a guy named Connor, I asked him if he went by a different name.

  “No, just Connor,” he said good-naturedly.

  “Do you ever shorten it?” I asked, trying to figure out a way around calling him by my ex’s name.

  “Uhhhh…I guess you could call me ‘Con,’” he said tentatively.

  Yeah, this wasn’t going to work. My fucking exes had ruined my potential with these guys by having names. To hell with them.

  I’ve gone back to my rules. I’m thinking of writing them out in a giant book that I put on a stone pedestal. It will be called the “Rule Book” and list all the types of guys I can’t date and outline inappropriate behaviors that will dock points.

  I feel like I’m beating a dead horse with going over dating profile no-nos, but seriously, the shit I see just doesn’t cut it.

  Men, I get that you think you’re being cute, but so many of your profiles make me want to become a nun. Problem with that is that whole cursing business. Oh, and I’d drink all the communion wine. Then I’d be out dancing across the hills, singing the songs from the Sound of Music, waiting for my Captain to come along and scowl disapprovingly at my bad behavior.

  Alas, I’m going to keep dating, but here are some more tips on the profile pictures: take the toothpick out of your mouth. Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Chewing gum or chewing on a toothpick makes you look trashy. My mother said so, and it’s still true.

  If you are planking in an urban setting in any of your photos, it’s going to be a no.

  I feel like this shouldn’t have to be said, but apparently, my expectations for men are a bit too high. Don’t put pictures of you humping anything in your profile. That is all.

  To the guys who insist on posting bathroom selfies: put the seat down on the toilet behind you. I already trained one dog, I’m not training two.

  Setting is so important for your profile pictures, and it keeps getting overlooked. Think about what the setting says about you. If you’re in a convenience store, that tells me you either work there or you literally go nowhere of interest. Context is key, and I’m paying attention.

  For instance, to the guy who took a picture of himself in a hat store, wearing one of the hats. I know that you can’t afford that hat. After taking your selfie, you put the hat back on the rack and walked out of there.

  The ocean is right down the road for most of us in LA. Go to Malibu, take a photo in front of the Pacific, and post that. Then I don’t have to look at the popcorn ceiling behind you and wonder if you ever dust that ceiling fan. This shit is
going through my head, and points are being deducted if you aren’t framed just right.

  To the guy who has photos of himself surfing through a killer wave: keep doing what you’re doing. Nice abs. Oh, and who took that photo? Technology blows my mind.

  I need to make an apology to the guy who had a picture of himself beside Adam Levine. I’m sorry I swiped right on you. I got excited and for a moment thought that Adam was on Bumble. Please ignore my interest. And to the rest of the men out there, it’s cool that you met someone famous, but unless they are related to you and I’ll be meeting them too, please don’t use those as your profile pictures. Be real. If I’ve taught you anything, it’s to be real.

  To the guy who posted a picture that was date stamped 2007, was it not possible for you to come up with anything more recent?

  I know I’ve said this before, but the beard problem is mostly responsible for why I can’t find a date. I disqualify at least ninety-nine percent of men based on their facial hair alone. I don’t even care if you have what my friend Alissa calls a “dad bod.” Please just shave or at least make that shit look manageable.

  Oh, and I totally care if you have a “dad bod.” Again, looking for abs. All surfers, please apply.

  This is a good time to give you all some important advice: a goatee is never, ever acceptable. Look at the word. It’s called a ‘goatee’ because that’s the facial hair that a goat has. Now, you may be into goats, but although I find them cute, I don’t want to date one.

  Guys, please stop cutting your exes out of your photos. I can still see her arm wrapped around you. And worse yet are the dudes who black out the face. That’s just weird. I’m going to guess that your photo was taken before she broke up with you and you gained fifty pounds, and that’s the reason you can’t just take another photo. We’re going to meet up, and I’ll be disappointed because you misrepresented yourself. Then, over dinner, we’ll have long bouts of silence, until the customary amount of time has passed and I can leave. Let’s avoid that, please.

  In the bios, I’m seeing a lot of men playing the ‘two truths and a lie’ game. No. Just don’t. This is not the opportunity for me to figure out whether you play the piano, scuba dive or can speak French. Just tell me what your hobbies are. This really doesn’t have to be this difficult.

  Will you dudes please stop saying you’re looking for your partner in crime in your bios? We are not Bonnie and Clyde. The worse we’ll ever do is take more napkins than we need from Baja Fresh. You’re looking for a partner, or at least someone who can help correct your language. You’re not looking for a getaway driver—and if you are, I’m totally not qualified. Let’s face it, guys, we’re not planning any heist. A picnic at the beach, maybe, where I’ll double park and probably get a ticket, but that’s not a real crime, or I’d have been put in jail long ago.

  I can go on and on, and I’m sure I’ll have to return to this topic, adding to the Rule Book. However, let me leave off on an important one. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop describing yourself as an old soul. Your mother can describe you that way. Your best friend. Even I can say that about you after we’ve dated for a while and you’ve bought me diamond studded earrings. However, you’re not allowed to call yourself an old soul. Buddha doesn’t like it.

  It doesn’t sound cool to sell yourself as having been on the planet since the dawning of the ages. It sounds fucking conceited. And all men, no matter what, get points for confidence mixed with modesty. Those of you with your tongue hanging out in your picture and describing yourself as a “catch” are going to get thrown back into the pond.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s So Trendy It Makes Me Puke

  I’ve decided to finally do an elective surgery. After years and years of dealing with this tiresome part of my body, I’m fixing it.

  Maybe the LA mentality has finally broken my self-righteous attitude. However, I’m tired of looking in the mirror and being reminded of my imperfection.

  I live in a part of LA where, too many times, I do a double take because I’m pretty certain I’ve passed an alien in the parking lot. I turn to look and, under closer inspection, I realize that it is a human. Her skin might be stretched dangerously over her cheekbones, and all wrinkles around her eyes are gone, but I know my own kind when I see them, even if she’s had more work done than the Golden Gate Bridge. The woman’s pouty lips grimace as my Prius nearly rams into her Tesla.

  Oh good, she’s still capable of expression, I think as I focus back on the road.

  I think that plastic surgery and all these other various cosmetic procedures are like getting a tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos, but many of my friends who do say they’re addictive. You get one little birdie on your ankle and then, all of a sudden you want a ring of them. And they’d look so much better if you put a sunrise behind them. Next thing you know, you’ve got an entire leg sleeve depicting a huge landscape.

  I think it’s important to remember that, in our warped minds, we think we can always look younger, slimmer, prettier. The honest truth is that beauty is on the inside… but the fucking harsh truth is that producers don’t cast people using X-rays.

  I have been tempted many times by the strange services that are in abundance in my area. Some of it sounds a bit like badass science fiction, like the Platelet Rich Plasma treatment (PRP). You had me at ‘plasma’! Is a gun involved? Fuck, I want a plasma gun.

  And again, I’ve digressed.

  PRP involves taking a sample of a patient’s blood. They separate out the platelets and plasma from the red blood cells. They combine platelets and plasma, creating a youth potion, and apply it using microneedling. Microneedling simulates the growth of collagen to create a younger appearance. If your mind isn’t blown yet, this is all happening in a shiny doctor’s office during your lunch break.

  Of course, in this area of LA, people don’t lunch. They juice maybe. They might stop off to get a vitamin B12 shot. But filling up on carbs at the noon hour is out of the question.

  I’m pretty sure that no one in this area has had a carb in over ten years.

  “You should try this new juice place,” Zoe encouraged me one day. “It’s really trendy.”

  “The idea of juicing makes me want to puke, like the movie The Notebook.”

  Zoe shook her head. “It’s actually really good.”

  “The movie or juicing?” I asked, needing to clarify.

  “Juicing. You should try it.”

  “I’m good. I like to chew. Maybe when I’m eighty.”

  Zoe laughed. “It’s really yummy and a total meal replacement. For only six dollars, you get a juice packed with so many nutrients.”

  “That does beat the cost of nachos at Baja Fresh, but the problem is that I’ll be hungry in like an hour,” I stated.

  “I thought you were on Keto,” Zoe said, giving me a disapproving look.

  “Yes, which means no fruity juices,” I countered.

  “Except for wine,” she teased.

  “Hey, I have to have something to wash down all this steak and cheese,” I said. “I can’t totally deprive myself.”

  I’d picked Keto because it was the only diet where I wouldn’t want to kill myself. Yes, I had to give up potatoes and pasta, but I could eat as much steak, cheese and wine as I wanted.

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to eat as much of those things as you want,” Zoe corrected when I told her this.

  “Yes, it’s just like celery, but with the Keto diet. Just stay away from the evil carbs, and you can have as much as you want on the good list.”

  She gave me a skeptical expression, not at all convinced.

  “Hey, this is working for me,” I stated. “And as a bonus, I’m not an annoying vegan talking about my non-cheese. Seriously, can they rename their imitation of cheese to what it really is: nut paste? Stop calling it ‘cheese,’ assholes. Unless you can drip that stuff on chips, it’s nut paste.”

  “You’re talking about nachos again,” Zoe po
inted out.

  “Fuck it. I have an addiction,” I scolded myself.

  “Nut paste doesn’t have a good ring to it,” Zoe observed.

  “I agree,” I said.

  The hot new thing is a probiotic cashew cream cheese. If you get in line, you can preorder it apparently. I know, you need the link now! It’s plant-based and gluten-free. Just imagine enjoying this healthy cheese on a rice cracker, or as I like to say, storm shelter food.

  My Pilates studio recently started offering cryotherapy, an edgy treatment in LA. Athletes report it’s great for recovery, but there are many other benefits to taking a nitrogen gas bath. I fucking shiver when it gets below sixty degrees in LA. However, if I could endure three minutes at a temperature between -166 and -260 Fahrenheit, I could burn an extra eight hundred calories.

  The equivalent of a small plate of nachos versus three minutes of my life? Challenge accepted.

  Apparently, this technology from Japan has many benefits, like it decreases anxiety, and is effective at treating cold shoulder and other conditions of the joints. Again, I’m all for shivering so that I can add potatoes back in with my steak.

  I’ve done stranger things than sit in a nitrogen bath since moving to LA. I once took Eleanor to a salt cave. Before you get a picture of a strange underground place with miners, you should know I’m speaking of a man-made salt cave. This is LA; we don’t do natural. These salt caves can be found in a normal office building. Inside, piles of salt cover the ground and walls, and instead of a miner’s cart and pickaxe, there are comfortable chairs and relaxing music. And the point is to just sit there and breathe.

  Sitting and breathing is the hardest thing in the world for me to do. There’s so much else to do!