Therapist? Or the rapist?

I had an interview today for a tutor position in the UCLA area of town. I was supposed to have this interview on Wednesday, but after getting lost in the "hood" and stuck on the 405 for about a thousand hours, I had to reschedule it for this afternoon. This embarrassed me a great deal because I am so anal about always being early, but I guess these things happen. On Wednesday (the day for which the interview was originally scheduled) I drove downtown to pick up my friend Bobbi from Union Station, and somewhere during the course of my route, a scary Mexican man approached my car and beat on the passenger windshield. My life flashed before my eyes and I envisioned waking up in a Mexican dungeon adorned with those little "Day of the Dead" skeleton figurines all over the place, lethargic in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys missing and my head shaved. This is when I hopped on the 405. And waited. And waited. And waited. I felt like I was stuck in a stand-still parking lot from Hell that stretched far beyond oblivion. I have found that I can never predict L.A. occurances, whether they pertain to traffic, shopping, or people. Let me tell you about today.

My interview was scheduled for 5:30pm, but because I was unfamiliar with the area, I arrived around 4:15pm. I parked on a side street in a residential area and decided to use my time resourcefully. I sat in my car with the windows rolled down. I began to jot down a grocery list with little pictographic doodles on the notepad. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a wee little man with tall gray hair walking down the street towards me. Now, I had only been in L.A. ONE DAY when I ran into Emma Stone, so I now constantly have my eyes peeled for celebs. Immediately I thought to myself, "Holy crap! It's RAINMAN! I mean, Dustin Hoffman!!!!" so I made eye contact. Big effing mistake. The wee man, who was at least in his mid fifties, said to me,

"I hope that you have a nice day!"

Being the courteous debutaunte that I am, I replied,

"Thank you, I hope that you do, too."

Second big effing mistake.

Homeboy decides to make his move.

"So... Are you available? Or are you taken?"

My mind races to immediate "WTF MATE?!" mode. That fight-or-flight survival skill kicked in. I decided to fight.

I wear silver rings on both of my ring fingers. On my right hand I wear a fleur-de-lis ring that resembles a Mignon Faget design. I bought it at the French Market in New Orleans during Mardi Gras one year and have not removed it since. Because my family is from Louisiana and is very rich in French heritage, this ring means a lot to me. The ring that I wear on my left ring finger has a cross engraved in it and was given to me as a gift from my mom for Christmas one year, I think. This ring not only reminds me that God has always been faithful to me, but it also resembles a wedding band from afar, thus keeping the predators at bay.

I very suavely pointed to my left ring finger and said,

"Sorry! I'm taken!"

Which was moderately misleading, but I didn't want Creepy McCreeperton pushing any further.

"Well, I just wanted to talk to you. You're very beautiful. How long have you been in your relationship?"

Crap. Now he was asking for details. I had no details. I suck at lying and it makes me feel horrible.

"Ooooh.... You know....About.... a year."

"Oh really? Well, I'm a marriage and family therapist..."

BINGO. I am hoping to be a therapist, as well. Immediately I went from fight mode to make-a-connection-with-this-perv-because-maybe-he-can-get-you-a-job-or-write-you-a-reference-one-day mode.

"Seriously? I'm gettin my Master's in counseling!"

Mr. Stuck-in-a-permanent-midlife-crisis approached my car. I grabbed my pepper spray.

"Here's my card. Contact me if you ever need any advice."

Cheesey wink.

Lord, help us. If I was into boys that winked, I'd start hanging out at assisted living facilities.
So, home boy walks away with a skip in his step because a woman about thirty years younger than him conversed with him for thirty seconds. I flipped over his card and read it.

"Dr. Don. Success Coach. Hypnosis. Sex therapy."

Seriously. Do I look like a candidate for hypnosis or sex therapy? This man was a fossil. He was probably older than my dad. I make allusions to Anna Nicole and finding a man in a nursing home who is NOT on life support, but let's get serious for two point five. I am in no way, shape, or form interested in dating a man who has stock in Viagra. Plus, I moved out here ONE WEEK AGO. I think the worst possible thing a person can do after making a huge life transition (i.e., big move, divorce, gender reassignment surgery) is jump right into dating. Yikes. Mayday, mayday!

This little blog is just an advertisement for those of you young ladies out there who are looking for a man with "Dr." before his name. Trust me. If they are advertising sex therapy, you might want to flip through your little black book and see if you can email a few exes first. Or buy a cat. Or take a spin class. DO NOT GIVE INTO THE DR. DONS OF THIS WORLD NO MATTER HOW DESPERATE YOU ARE TO START TILLING THE SOIL.

I did check out his website when I got home because I am, apparently, a sicko. The picture of him is from about 300 years ago when he still had dark hair and he looked a little bit like he was campaigning to be a state senator. No mas. His stats should be posted on his site. "Please note that this sexy young bachelor is approximately 4 foot nothin'." Talk about false advertising. In addition to being completely opposed to dating men who would give me autistic children (yes, there is a link between older dads and autism), I try not to date anyone under 6'3". I have far too many pairs of beautiful and expensive shoes with stilleto heels that I am simply not willing to part with and I feel completely uncomfortable towering over short men. Gross.

In conclusion, I have discovered that I am the most well dressed person in L.A. besides Perez Hilton (not to be corn-fuzed with Paris). I wore an interview suit to an interview on Monday only to find that my interviewer was wearing wrinkled khaki pants and a polo shirt. I decided to be more casual today. I wore white linen pants, a black sweater set, and pearl earrings. My fellow interviewees wore torn blue jeans, ripped shirts, and flip flops. Their ensembles were complimented with shower-curtain-ring-ears, tattoo sleeves, and unshaven faces. Classy. I may just start wearing tank tops and cut offs everywhere I go. It does not seem worth the effort to iron if everyone else is going to dress like they just robbed the Salvation Army thrift store.