March 31st, 2013
Hey, hello, it's been awhile. I know we all want to know what happens with Mr. Too Cool (it wasn't pretty) and the next 50, yes 50, blind dates that followed. But first I would like catch you up to speed with the most recent events in what some may call my love life. After apparently spending/wasting most of my time "dating" in Los Angeles, my career wasn't really going where it should have been (is anyone surprised?) and in an attempt to re-start the engine that is me, I threw caution to the wind and moved to Las Vegas. Looking back at my first entries almost 4 years ago, I realize my crazy is really starting to surface now. Great news for you.
In town only a few weeks and not knowing a soul, I attend a music festival and proceed to forgo sleep for about 48 hours, dancing and carousing about. I really like to jump right in. About 8:00 am on a Sunday morning, I'm still going strong, looking for fun and wander into a hotel diner dressed in my vintage best (hair a bit disheveled, but happy nonetheless). I order vodka with my omelette. I scan the restaurant and see a well-known musician friend, run right over to interrupt his table and insist on showing him photos of God knows what. As I make myself comfortable, he seems completely fascinated by whatever non-sense is coming out of my mouth (I later learn he's just high which I often confuse for fascination) and turn my head to finally take in the other occupants of the table. There he is. The Guy. You know how you'll never forget the look on a person's face during those handful of pertinent life moments? This is one of those forever cemented memories as it is the beginning of one of the more dramatically intense and ridiculous relationships I've ever had.
FIRST IMPRESSION: He looks EXACTLY like Paul Land in Idolmaker. Tan linen suit jacket slung over his chair, bowtie undone around his neck, dress shirt sleeves rolled up. His black hair had clearly seen pompadour status hours prior, but now curls were beginning to re-form. Blue eyes for days.
He broods over his steak and eggs, and raises his eyes to look at me. I'm sure he saw/heard me prior to this, but I was so focused on Instagram and future karaoke plans with my friend that it could have been the President himself across the table and what would I know. Feeling completely sassy and overly-confident (I was probably ovulating), I don't bother to ask his name but say, "Listen Lashes, why don't you put down your fork and participate in the conversation?" He's clearly irritated and I decide it's funny (here we go) and egg him on. "How old are you? What are you 21?" He huffs a bit, pulls out his wallet and proceeds to throw his license at me (which, by the way, may be suspended right now because of me...). I decide I'm in love. Yes, the hint of violence and a bad attitude are really (sadly?) aphrodisiac status for me. It's all primitive, I really can't even help it at this point. I scan his license and retain as much information as possible, extremely important as I later learn he tends to lie (beginning by adding an inch on to his height).
Music was the topic of conversation at this table and I loudly recount my childhood Elvis infatuation and the tired tale of thinking I sound just like him. Someone should have taken my drink away at this point. "What are you, some sort of performer?" I throw out at The Guy to counter his disapproving, but semi-interested look. "I'm headlining a show here. I'm Elvis." Just like that he becomes Elvis #1, and you are correct in noting that probably means there are more to follow. Because there are. Perhaps the fact that he referred to himself as "Elvis" and not an ETA or impersonator, or any of that other malarkey should have clued me in to deeper issues here, but alas, the heart wants what the heart wants. I can't decide if this is cliche or just insane. He offers tickets to see his show, and since I'm the cheapest person I know (I will never turn down free), it is most definite that I will take him up on this offer. Before leaving, I hand him over some Lactaid trash (yep) for him to write his number on the back of. Giddy with excitement, I scoot off to phone a friend and tell her how I've met my "next husband."
Re-Cap: Like a page out of a Lifetime movie treatment, it's a train wreck you can't stop watching.
