J. Lo, Really? Interview with Jennifer Lopez on her Reunion with Ben Affleck

Dear Sillies,

Excuse me for a moment. I've gotta chat with J. Lo. Apparently, the most earthshaking event of the day is that she reunited with Ben Affleck. Really? I mean, Ben Affleck? We gotta talk.

Robyn turns to J. Lo. behind her, lounging on a beach-chair with martini in hand, surrounded by sprinklings of sand below Life by Chocolate's studio in clearly-not-for-profit blogland. Girlfriend, really? Ben Aff. . . licted-by-his-filthy-riches-and-egomaniacal-vapid-bro-dom? I mean, sweetie, he's 48! I thought you prefer 19 year olds, or A-Rod. 

J. Lo: Smile. Parade wave for the paparazzi. Everyone loves me, I know. Smile.

Robyn: You do have a sexy smile, and sexy -- Robyn scans J. Lo's body -- everything. As far as I can tell. Wink. Robyn eyes J. Lo's plump, perky breasts. She wipes her forehead, as saliva drips from her lips. Whewee. You're on--stay out of California, honey. We're having enough fires! Robyn giggles. Sorry, I just got way too hot. Robyn looks at the camera. She takes a deep breath to re-set.

J. Lo: Oh, I know I do. Everyone loves me, I know.

Robyn: Let's get a bit personal, okay?

J. Lo: Purse, purse an ole? Ooh, girl, I've got me some 1,200 Christian Eeyors in my closet, where the maids live. 

Robyn rolls her eyes. I prefer the Jewish Winnies myself. Plus no maids;  a swiffer gets the job done. Honey, good thing you don't have to be smart to look good. But Ben's a homely man. He must have brains, unless Matt Damon is all the brains on that team. And cuteness, and virtue and personality. Which he is, by the way. Too bad you couldn't have a real man like Matt Damon. But he's taken. Lucky wife, lucky life, you know what I'm sayin'? Anyway, that boring dude of yours, Ben? Does he ever . . . does he ever, you know . . . Wink . . . smile?

J. Lo: Oh yeah, when I -- J. Lo. and Robyn start whispering, giggling, and then we cut to a commercial about a pill for the 48 year old haughty who can't...smile.  

 

Justin Two's Nice Tulips and Two Lips

Dear Sillies,

To recap, Jesus had interrupted our discourse two nights earlier; drunken Jesus needed a ride home. Justin Two (JT) said he'd be at this night's show, though. 

Without a way to contact JT, I sat on a wooden bench in front of the stage, pretending to not be nervous about whether or not he'd show. I hope, hope, hope he shows. Nah. Don't get your hopes up. Forget about him. They always disapp-- JT came strolling through the area, confidently. He wore a friendly grin and casual attire. 

I approached with arms extended. 

"I'm the hugging type," I said. "Hope that's o--" JT wrapped his sturdy forearms around me for a brief embrace. 

After the show, which went well --"You did great," he'd told me -- JT suggested we talk somewhere peaceful, perhaps his front porch. Woohoo! I wasn't the only one who was annoyed by drunken Jesus' interruption. 

Free-flowing chatter ensued at a small black table by JT's front window. JT had lit a candle to illuminate the otherwise pitch dark setting. A tall thin glass holding tulips centered the table. 

"Pretty flowers," I said, and he told me that they're plastic. 

We learned of quite a few commonalities. Neither of us drinks or smokes. Neither of us owns a TV. Each of us opens the passenger's side car door first, when driving with a passenger. (This one I learned when I accepted a ride to his place. Afterall, he'd assured me that he's safe. I suggested, jokingly, that I might not be.  He seemed fine with that.)  

JT, like me, is divorced.

 

"I'm not looking for an open relationship," I told him. "That seems to be what all the men I've been dating lately want."

"That isn't really a relationship."

"I agree." Phew. Wow. Is he for real?

Time flew. It was 1 a.m.

JT pulled one of the tulips from the vase and handed it to me. "You'll get real ones later."

At my car, we hugged, and then there was a brief moment of looking at each other, and then his two lips were on my two lips. We shared two sweet kisses.

"I didn't expect that," he said. 

I was hoping, I thought. But not hoping too much, because you know how I've been so disappointed again and again and again, and then so disappointed again, by men. 

***

This happened in early June. 

The tulip, positioned atop a heart shaped candle, centers my kitchen table now. 

Psst, JT's coming over tonight. 

What's in a Name? Justin Number Two

Dear Sillies,

I met someone a while ago, Bruce. He's very handsome. And very married. But wait...some men have friends. 

Early last month, Bruce showed up to the patio where I perform open-mic comedy. See, Bruce started to do standup too. 

His male friend sat across from me at a picnic table that evening. 

Looks nice, defined cheek bones, muscular arms. "Hi, I'm Robyn," I extended my hand.

"I'm Justin,"* he smiled, conferring a handshake.

*Justin isn't really Bruce's friend's name. Justin's an alias for the love of my life's name in Woman on the Verge of Paradise. That man's real name was Bruce's friend's real name. I'd vowed to never date another with same name. 

   But the name similarity didn't cross my mind. Yikes. That's how a gal gets into trouble, right? Deny the red flags.

   Justin and I chatted after the show until Jesus Christ--well, a comic who looks like the Western culture's image of Jesus-- interrupted. This hippie Jesus asked, "Robyn, I hate to bother you, but can I get a ride home?"

Shit, Jesus. Why me? Why now? "Car problems?" 

"Nah, I'm just drunk."

I couldn't let drunken Jesus take the wheel. Damn. I turned to Justin,"I'm sorry. I'm performing on Saturday night, though. Eight o'clock."

"I'll see you then."

I left, thinking of Justin, as I dropped Jesus off in a dark alley. (The nice housing is only for the entitled richie riches around here.)  

Stay tuned. 

Stay hot. Stay cool.

Feel loved. You are.

Saluting John Hancock: July Fourth Erotica

Dear Sillies,

Sorry. I mean, for Martha Stewart and/or anything else you don't care to see herein. Smiles. 

Have a safe, grateful Independence Day and week.

Love you.