Unwrapped Girls are Nothing But Trouble

I am an all-day breakfast eater; I'll take eggs or pancakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tonight, I stand in line with the dinner crowd at Archibald's, a local diner that serves delicious flame broiled burgers and seasoned fries. Sizzles and pops from the grill call out. The air is smokey sweet with the aroma of charbroiled beef. But I am here for a breakfast burrito, served all day.

I am three people away from the cash register. Behind me, a family of four waits to order - two parents, a teenage boy and an older man the young boy calls Pops. They speak casually and I hear the boy's father refer to the older man as "Daddy". Daddy has a thick southern accent and says, 'I tell you!' after sentences a lot. He wears a cap with a Kentucky Derby logo and a blue plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt along with dark jeans.

As I move one place closer to order, a gaggle of teenage girls bursts through the diner's entrance and bounces to the counter area to read the overhead menus. Shrill giggles, OMG!s and a 'Shut UP!' emit from the girls. All four are dressed for the beach on this unseasonably chilly California winter night. One girl wears particularly short shorts. The thin hot pink nylon clings to every curve of her young, tight apple butt leaving nothing to the imagination, including the little mounds of tan butt cheek peaking out from each side:

Daddy: Goo-ooood Lord. That gal just as soon walk around nekked.

Grandson: Ha! Come on, Pops. Lighten up! We're not as uptight as in your time anymore.

Daddy: Uptight? Uptiiiight! Listen here boy. Let me tell you somethin' you best remember your whole life through.

Grandson: Oh gawd.

Daddy: Ladies are meant to be unwrapped slowly, one small piece at a time. You go on get with some gal that's already flappin' her wrappers in the wind and you'll get nothing but trouble. Every time.

Grandson: Unwrapped? Like Christmas presents?

Daddy: That's right. A good woman is a gift.

Grandson: So Mom, when do I get to unwrap some girls?

Mom: When you're 30 or independently wealthy. Which ever comes first.

How French Manicures Attract Boyfriends

I'm exploring a new candy shop in an outdoor entertainment area down my street. No matter how old I become, I will always enjoy candy parlours because I have a permanent case of whimsy. This store is edible imagination. There are many giant barrels of sweets on the floor, vines of goodness hanging from the ceiling, every kind of jelly bean waiting to be dispensed and retro candy galore.

The store buzzes with customers, mostly children darting from one display to another squealing, "Mom! Mom!" for no particular reason. The air smells sweet and the shop feels happy. Even the employees seem to be enjoying themselves. They wear bright candy cane striped aprons. Some circulate sample trays to eager customers.

Chocolate people in a display case catch my attention. They are paper doll style. The mix and match clothes and accessories are made of sugar. Two young girls are picking out there candy dolls' clothing, which are glued on with hot sugar. Both girls are about six, have blond bobbed hair, wear shorts and sandals. They are white; one has sun-kissed legs and while the other is very fair. They each stand tipped-toed against the doll case as they pick their accessories. After the choices are made and the worker begins gluing, the girls relax a little and chatter together:

Tan: If they had nail polish, I would pick nail polish for my doll.
Fair: Yeah, me too. I would pick hot pink.
Tan: No, you should pick French. That's the very best one.
Fair: Why? What color is French?
Tan: It's white and clear. It's really fancy. And it makes you look expensive.
Fair: Why do you want to look expensive?
Tan: Because then you get better boyfriends. My Mom said. And it's true. She always gets more boyfriends when she has French nails. Finger AND toe nails.

The fair-skinned girl is silent. She glances at her own fingernails. The candy employee hands them their chocolate dolls in elaborate boxes just as an adult female joins them. "All ready, girls?" she asks as both children show their selections. As the tan girl continues telling the woman about her doll, the fair-skinned girl grabs the woman's hand and looks at her nails. They are painted rose pink. The girl presses her mother's hand to her cheek and smiles.

Last Night's Sex

I bought our tickets early in the morning, left work before 5 p.m. and drive up to a completely packed parking lot. After circling for 10 minutes, boom, a beautiful space near the front of the aisle. I'm way early and feeling good about taking my responsibility as seat scout seriously. As I wait in my car for 6:30 to roll around, throngs of young women pass by. Most walk briskly, some run toward the movie theater.

I'm here for the Sex and the City movie premiere. I convinced my two girlfriends it's absolutely necessary to see it on Southern California's opening night and thus, became the seat scout by default. No complaints, it's worth it to me. So, while we're enjoying a night of girl talk with our friends Charlotte, Carrie, Samantha (my favorite) and Miranda, our boyfriends will have just as much fun watching sports and bumping chests together. Life is good.

At 6:30, the line forms for our 7:15 show. I leave my car and happily take my place, fourth in line. It's a literal fashion parade. Girls in sundresses and little sweaters sashay by, every hair in place (the Charlottes). Ladies in edgy outfits with big flower pins or long dangling necklaces prance along the line (the Carries). Women with plunging necklines and tight mini skirts or white Capri pants going commando walk their boobs past me (the Samanthas). Chicks in jeans and fitted cotton tops with flat ironed locks march purposely to the end of the line (the Mirandas).

My friends arrive and we play a fun game of "fake or real". The ratio's about 3:1, fake. The two movie goers behind us in line laugh once they catch on to our game. They each wear a hot pink boa around their neck:

#1: Oh my god. Oh MY GOD! This is so much fun.

#2: Yes! I totally feel like one of the girls tonight.

#1: It's gonna be great. It's gonna be fabu.

#2: I just hope Carrie and Big finally just get married already.

#1: I mean, hello? After all he's put her through?

#2: Ugh, that Big boy....hahaha!

I take great delight in pushing my more conservative girlfriend's chin up to close her slightly open mouth. "Those boys are wearing pink boas," she whispers.

All Up in Her Business

A mundane trip to the grocery store finds me deciding whether my cats would like grilled chicken and liver or shredded beef for dinner. I go with the beef; chicken AND liver is even too much for me to imagine. I check out the people ahead of me in the express lane, counting items to see who has more than 10. No violators this time.

My turn to put items on the conveyor belt. Wet streaks slide by and under the metal end. A piece of lettuce bumps along the corner nearest the cash register. The cashier doesn't notice. He banters with the female bagger. Both are black; he is perhaps 50 with a gray-rimmed short afro, round prescription glasses and nails a little too long. He smiles and reveals one gold bicuspid. She is early 20s with smooth skin and beautiful make-up, light pink lipstick and a wide, sparkly smile. She wears dark burgundy braids.

The cashier doesn't look at me as he scans my items. He glances down, picks up a can and turns right back to her, busy with conversation. She responds but looks up or away as she speaks to him. After my last can, he states my total and says to her:

Him: Hey, you need a ride home, girl?

Her: Why do you say that?

Him: Uh, well, I heard you had a car accident today.

Her: (looks directly at him) Why you all up in my bizzznes?

Him: Huh?

Her: Why are you concerning yourself with my business?

Him: Okay. I'm sorry. Walk home, then.

Her: My boyfriend is picking me up, thank you very much.

She bends down to restock the bags. He gazes at her backside. My hand is still extended with payment. Only when I let a quarter fall to the counter does he snap back to present and finish my check-out.

Cougars at the Casino

A spontaneous trip to the Indian casino puts me at the Crazy 4 poker table between two chain smoking older men laughing too loudly at the dealer's jokes. After a hand worse than the first, I slide under the smoke cloud and off my stool, heading for the terrace with a panoramic view of the mountain vista. Fresh, cool air flushes my face as I open the glass door and step into the sunshine. This alone is worth the hour drive. About 20 others enjoy the view, sitting at little tables against the railing.

Some have cocktails and chat, others simply sit in silence gazing at the mountains. I find the perfect nook and settle into the corner chair, turning it to face the railing. Two women chatter on my left. Their conversation does not pause when I sit down. They are both blond with hair styled in the edgey cuts so fashionable these days. The one with her back to me wears a turquoise top and a thick gold chain around her neck. As she speaks she waves her left hand up and around, red nails swirling. Her right hand holds a glass of white wine.

Her friend is also heavily necklaced with gold chains that drop down an impressive cleavage revealing an orange tan underneath her tight white sweater. She sports large black sunglasses with the Channel logo on the side, which I see when she steals glances of the vista as her friend drones on.

The face I can see is tight, but both pairs of hands and little cracks in the voices suggest late 40s, early 50s. The one in white holds a drink in one hand and a cig in the other. She nods in agreement as her friend rants:

Turquoise: I mean, I just told him, I said, "Just tell me right now. Is this how it's gonna be? Grilling me every time I don't call back right away?".

White: Oh. Yeah. Right.

Turquoise: Right? Who needs that? I don't need that.

White: Who needs it?

Turquoise: I told him. I'm not your wife, hell I'm not your girlfriend -

White: Hahaha! Exactly. Oh these guys, these poor guys just don't know what to do with us.

Turquoise: TELL me. I mean, tell me about it. The insecurity, the checking up, the checking in. I don't need that.

White: No, no. Me neither.

Turquoise: He's acting like a little girl. Haha! He's acting like one of his little girlfriends he complains to me about!

White: Ha! Isn't that just precious. Well, here, girl (she holds her drink to toast). We've come full circle.

Turquoise: Cheers to that! Come on. Let's go find some young and dumbs at the bar.

The two pop compacts, relipstick and strut inside. I finish jotting down some notes of this conversation and look to the blue sky, about to commit the scenario to memory. A hawk circles high above, looking for prey.

Hello? Goodbye.

I am sitting close to an older lady at the pool today, maybe mid-50s, Caucasian. She is very tan, with an orange tint. In fact, she's head to toe hues of orange. Her hair is yellow-bronze-orange-red, curly and shoulder length. She wears red lipstick and nail polish on toes and fingers. She has a water bottle with a straw but I don't think it contains water. She wears a pink tankini with a belly chain. The whole look just cannot be denied. About an hour into my stay her cell rings, the ring tone is "Brick House".

"Hello?"

"Ah, yes. Hi Jerry."

"Not a lot. Enjoying the sun. You?"

"Really? Hmmm. Well, that's exciting."

"Hahaha. You're kidding. Isn't that a kick?"

"Pardon? Oh, no, no I really can't. I've got to be in early tomorrow."

"No, really. I'm sorry. You call me next time, alright Jer?"

"Okay now, well I've got to take a dip. It's hot today. Bye bye now."

The cell clicks shut. She sighs, rubs her face, shakes her hair out.

"I've got to change my number", she says to no one in particular.