LA life
Mike thought longingly of his bed, having played therapist to her woes all evening. But then my neighbour decided that she wanted to go dancing. So at midnight they found a nightclub where she immediately ran into the bathroom.
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Your support makes all the difference.It's not as if it really needed to be confirmed that the platinum blonde at number 6 is the best example of Californian eccentricity you could find. But now that a good friend of mine ended up meeting her at a bar and made the mistake of taking her out on a date, the word is out.
First of all she told him she owned the bar. So, eager to impress, he turns up at her place with a $40 bottle of vintage wine and 8.30pm reservations at one of the hardest restaurants to get into in town.
It's easy to see why he was initially attracted to her. Pouty, curvaceous and heavily mascara'd, he thought he'd hit the jackpot when she gave him her telephone number. But when she opened the door two days later, her hair was a mess, her T-shirt stained and she looked kind of surprised to see him.
By the time she had got dressed for dinner it was 10pm, the reservations had gone, and my friend had drunk most of the wine while waiting for her. But Mike is an easy-going guy and they ended up in a nice little Italian place instead, where they both ordered huge meals.
While Mike hungrily ate, my neighbour simply played with the spaghetti, revealing as she did, that she was in fact just a waitress, not the owner of the bar where they met.
It was 11.30pm before the waiter took her plate away still piled high with food. Mike thought longingly of his bed, having played therapist to her woes all evening. But then my neighbour decided that she wanted to go dancing. So at midnight they found a nightclub where she immediately ran into the bathroom.
After 30 minutes she eventually came out again and said: "Just powdering my nose. Shall we have something to eat now?"
Poor Mike asked her if she had forgotten the meal at the Italian restaurant. But she made a big fuss of ordering more spaghetti at the club. Once again, she just played with it, and then ran off to the bathroom again for more "powdering".
After 3am, they left the club and Mike drove her home stopping, at her insistence, at an all-night deli, to buy heaps of Pastrami sandwiches to take home.
By the time they reached her front door and Mike was helping her in with the bags of food, realisation slowly dawned.
"You're bulimic, aren't you?" he said, after plucking up the courage.
"Are you mad?" she bellowed back, affronted by the suggestion. "What an insult. I just have a really bad drug problem."
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