What a wonderful weekend.
I opened my barn door on Friday and let the tiny party chariots fly at the Olympic Club in downtown Los Angeles, also known as DTLA. Do you like that? My friend Karen turned 40, so I cracked out a Helmut Lang dress I’d had on ice for a couple months, fluffed up my ‘do, shaved my V and slathered on some lip smack. I felt good in my bah-day. Which was nice. I had a stressful week for various reasons that basically if you are forty years old you can imagine what some of those are. Moving. Job. Whatever. I met with a family about nannying. They said they were “helicopter-y.” I’m getting bored with that story so I’m going to move on.
I went to the birthday party with my friend Sam. We just kinda waltzed in to the joint and took the elevator to the roof. The door dude asked for a wrist band and I said we didn’t have any, but we were going to my friend’s birthday. He smiled and let us in.
Sam said, “We’re really rolling on your blonde lady privilege.” He was right. Gross/true/facebook post.
After eating like twenty asparagus with prosciutto wrapped around it and drinking a few tequila drinks, we went down to the warm wood glamour bar on the 3rd floor. I didn’t see Don Draper but he was probably in the can tying up a woman or whatever he does now. The bartender asked if we were with a wedding and I said no. He said he was only supposed to serve people from the wedding, but why don’t we sit down and order drinks anyway?
I was getting drunk on my own power, and tequila. Plus the half bottle of wine I drank at home alone as a pre-game because I felt like shit about all the babysitting jobs I was sorting through, and the prospect of moving AGAIN. And a few other things related to having a body and it hurting.
We had some kind of wildly delicious tequila. I went home. I woke up with a hangover.
Hey, I don’t like hangovers. I feel stupid and slow and like a whole day in which I could be skateboarding or otherwise joyologizing is lost. But I also like to get drunk every now and then. And this is how I keep tension in my life. By making choices in which only some parts turn out awesome.
I ate pancakes for breakfast then pancakes for lunch. I pulled together an outfit for Jules Nurrish’s pool party fundraiser, which I was hosting. I had on bikini triangles up top, bikini bottom downstairs, and a sorta sheer white shirt that functions as a short skirt over it. Some kicky heels. I can’t tell if I sound like such a ripping dick right now talking about outfits and alcohol. But if you’re here, you’re here. And you know I am just a shallow Scorpio.
I had some wine.
I watched Kitten Natividad do a burlesque number, and then be unable to get out of her corset because Laurel and I tied it too tight. She made it sound like she would exit through the front, and it turned out she wanted to back out the rear, which we had tied up like Carrie in Homeland. Laurel and I are possibly less informed than a lot of women about the comings and goings of a corset. We DID live through the 90’s in San Francisco, and we did spend a night or two at the Hustler Club, so we know from women. But this turns out to not mean you can deliver corset greatness to a Russ Meyer actress and lover with wild giant bazooms. SORRY.
I had tickets to FYF Fest and even though TV on the Radio was playing, I was just so freaking tired from hangover, wine and sun, I decided to go get a massage at my favorite joint in San Gabriel and go home.
I get the same dude every time I go to Five Star in San Gabriel. It became a thing at some point and I’m not sure why. Many times when I get there he’s on break, and someone summons him to come massage me. I feel like an important businessman when this happens. There is one big room with rows and rows of fat la-z-boy massage chairs, and everyone gets massaged in there. The TV is on the whole time. I’m really into it. I don’t need candles or flutes. I don’t want stones down my spine or a piece of dark chocolate. I just want a vigorous massage that costs $15 and makes me soooo happy. My dear old friend Yirko directed me to Five Star. He grew up in Los Angeles (well, Koreatown then ONTARIO), and then lived here again as an adult. He had done some research about massage joints, and this one received top reviews.
When I walked in, the lady who is always there said I looked nice. I said I had been at a party. I still had red lipstick on, and I had on my sheer shirt with bikini under it. I put on shorts. I felt like I looked CALIFORNIA. Whatever that means. Normally I look like a longshoreman. Big sweatpants, big dirty t-shirt, flip flops.
A couple weeks ago I joked that my massage dude would clearly want to massage my boobs in a world where that was appropriate. Am I ever so perceptive? This massage on Saturday night was the least useful massage I’ve ever gotten from him. It was non-consensually sensual. It seemed like his capable hands could do little besides give a vigorous rub-down to the area to the side of my boobs, where there lie not hefty deltoids. There is exactly nothing to massage there besides the side of my ribs and the swimmer’s body of yesteryear. Then he took to kneading around the inside of my thighs. His hand kept ramming up against my vagina. I was lying there thinking, “This can’t REALLY be happening because clearly this guy sees my body like a giant roll of berber carpet or bundle of sticks he has to move. Purely clinical.” We see the magic in that thinking. I felt really bad after the massage.
I would prefer not to be non-consensually sensually massaged. For this reason, I can’t return to Five Star. I am very bummed about this. I called my associate Kristina after the massage and was laughingly relaying the story and she was like, “That sucks.” Then I realized I was laughing through my tears and was so frustrated that I had been touched not by an angel but a Saturday Night One-Sided Good-Time Guy. THIS BRUISED-UP BODY IS A TEMPLE, FOOLS!! And though every casting email I get is for a woman in her 40’s who is depressed at facing the end of her life and lack of love, that is not the truth of 40 (or at least not…get ready for it…MY TRUTH). At 40 I’m happier than ever, taking more physical risks than ever, enjoying awesome romance, and raising three cats. I do not want to ward off sensual massage, but it’s not the biggest deal either. If you have any leads on a non-sensual, cheap massage place, please message me.