As promised here is part three of my (fill in the #)… ology on “In L.A. you are your car”.

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After Dean left, I met a David. David was forty- one years old, had never been married and had no kids unless you count his two pit-bulls but more about that in the next TRILOGY which is aptly named, “My Whoring Days’.

David and I both grew up in the same area and were the same age. We  both loved to work out and we were both Jewishy.  We were set up on a blind date by a woman, in my life- coaching group. I should have known things were probably not going to work out considering the only thing this gal had a good eye for was a well stocked liquor cabinet.

David had asked me to meet him at this very expensive restaurant in Beverly Hills. I got lost on the way  as the only reason I ever go to Beverly Hills is to have someone x-ray my breasts, examine me for unusual looking moles or talk about my mind and it’s ever declining belief that I will ever be able to afford the Brand version of anything.

I headed straight for Rodeo drive figuring if the restaurant was that expensive that is where it would most likely be located. At one point, I pulled up to a red light and rolled down the window to ask the couple sitting in their $80,000 Mercedes in the next lane  over for directions.  At first they both look confused, wondering how the hell a person driving this 1996 gold Nissan Maxima knew the name of a four star restaurant in the first place. After the initial shock wore off the husband responded to my question by telling me, “I’m sorry. We don’t have any money! Take care!” and drove off.  I figured either the guy was lying his ass off or he had was of the same school of thought as the trainer I went out with from Twenty Four Fitness  and therefore needed to get back to his apartment to have a sit down with his roommates and  then apply for food stamps.

I finally found the restaurant which was actually located  on Canon Blvd, one block East of Rodeo Drive. When I pulled up one of valets took one look at my car and immediately waved me forward. Now I’m not just talking forward to the front of the line, I’m talking forward as in forward and onward and out of there, to another location.  I pretended to go blind for a moment and I drove up only a few feet before I stopped.  Nobody came to my “aid” right away.  It wasn’t the first time. I understood. If I was a valet and I saw me pulling up, my first thought would be, “I’m not parking that piece of shit.”

Finally the guy comes to the driver’s side and helps me open the door.  His facial expression was on the border between blank and severely nauseous.   I handed him my keys, apologized profusely and then promised to do whatever I could to afford a better car even if it meant I had to cut back on the hours I spent feeling sorry for myself and cancel my subscription to NetFlix.

As soon as I walked in, I saw a guy sitting on a bar stool with his back facing the front door.  My heart was pounding, “Please God let me find this one hot. Please.” Within seconds,  the guy turned had around on the stool and was facing me, giving me a slight wave.  My heart sank to it’s usual spot.

Ugly. Not average, not “eh”, ugly.  Absolutely, motherfu**ing, by the power invested in me, ugly.

Although everything in my pelvic region was yelling to me to turn around and go home, that’s just not my style. So, instead, as I headed inside,  I quietly uttered those two words to myself that I had uttered and would utter too, too many times more when I saw my date for the first time, “Ah, shit”.

David turned out to be funny enough and smart. Combined with his job, which I personally found very interesting, he was a criminal defense attorney, I was willing to give him a second chance.  After dinner, we left the restaurant and headed for the valet.  During that time, all I could think was, “Oh God in heaven please, please let his car come first, please oh please.”

Well, it did.  A  brand new, shiny, black Porsche.  The valet almost cried getting out of it. I think he even stopped to pet it before walking over to hand David his keys.

“Goodnight”, I said.

“I’m not leaving yet. I’ll wait for you to get your car,” he responded.

“No, I’m good. Really, I’ll be fine. Go, your car is going to block traffic.”

“F**k traffic,” he said.

“F**k me”,  I said to myself, “I have got to get a new car.”

Next thing I know, the valet drives up in my Maxima.  David pretended not to notice but I could see the look in his eye.  Thankfully, he had mentioned during dinner that I had a great ass, something I hoped would make him forget what he was seeing.

He kissed me gently good night and took off.

(TO BE CONTINUED)