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My little brother manned up over the weekend and put a ring on it. It being his now-fiancee’s hand.
When I showed their adorable post-proposal photo to the heartbroken mylifeissonotironic, she noticed something a little…off.
…
I mean, Beyonce could have been a bit more specific.
…
*Young Love*
Sigh.
One of my tragically un-LA traits is my penchant for walking. Call me crazy, but I would rather spend twenty minutes out in the open air than fifteen in a car, fighting traffic, searching fruitlessly for parking, and spending half my rent on valet.
This can make things a little awkward after a first date.
Gentlemen generally attempt to insist upon walking me home. Sure, the stroll to my apartment is lovely, but their lonely hike back seems a tad cruel – especially after a somewhat recent occasion when one such manner-mindful lad apparently got a little lost mid-return. Oops.
Then there’s the sort of uncomfortable, I-swear-I’m-not-a-rapist-let-me-drive-you-backexchange. Cue: Louis C.K. monologue on the stupidity of women in this sort of situation. I usually accept. This one at least usually goes pretty smoothly from this point on.
Usually. Last week, things got a little…lumpy:
“Oh, here, let me go give him your valet ticket.”
“Oh, I actually just walked over.”
“Oh, well in that case, may I walk you back?”
(There were a lot of oh’s.)
“You don’t have to do that – it’s not really that close. Like, it’s close for a one-way meander, but I would feel bad making you solo-trek it back.”
(laughs) “Well, can I drive you? I mean, if you – or if you, well, if you would like?”
(I laugh(s)) “Sure, thanks. I mean, as long as you’re not going to like, rape and murder me along the way.”
Stilted laughter. Welp.
En route, we discuss my preference for walking slash how I like to take that oxygen-infused time as an opportunity to reply to emails/catch up on calls - scintillating convo material, I know. He drops me off. I safely enter my home. Easy, breezy, beautiful, call me a cover girl, right?
Not exactly. Two minutes later, this text téte-a-téte occurs:
“I get it now. That was where you lived! I thought you intentionally parked 0.8 miles away so u could walk and right (sic) emails!! Ha. That being ur apt makes much more sense!”
“Haha! You thought I was just some weirdo who parked blocks away? That’s kind of amazing.” (Probably should’ve gone with a different adjective here.)
“I wouldn’t say weirdo. I would say oddball! Huge difference! An oddball does things differently but usually in an interesting way…”
Sooo…yes? Yes. Awesome. I would just like to note that this is the second time in a single month a potential new suitor has tagged me as interesting. I’m gonna go ahead and overthink that.
…
Intriguing. Interesting.
Editor’s Note: The author has chosen to skip right past the oddball bit for reasons of sanity maintenance. That’s all.
INT. THE BEDROOM ifyaknowwhatimean
Him: Wait. What are you wearing?
Her: My favorite onesie?!
Him: Yeah. Take that off.
Her: You don’t like my onesie?
Him: No.
Her: But it’s so adorable!
Him: I don’t think that’s what you’re going for in here.
Her: Oh, you’d be surprised.
…
Silence.
…
A few to eight hours later…
Him: Are you wearing that terrible thing again?
Her: My totally adorable onesie?
Him: Yes.
Her: Yep! And don’t you worry, I have a wide and varied selection of the sort. I even have a snap-front one with sleeves and legs and the whole bit.
Him: I’m sleeping with a seven-year-old.
Her: Hey, some men go to jail for this sort of thing. You get it risk-free!
…
…
…
I think HER won.
INT. RALPH’S GROCERY CO - NIGHT
STACIE is exiting the store with her mother, JUDY. Hands full of groceries; head full of so many other things.
JUDY
What did you think of him?! I think he liked you.
STACIE
The checkout man? Seriously??
JUDY
He was a nice, good-looking guy!
STACIE
HE WAS BALDING AND WEARING AN ORANGE VEST, MOM.
Someone’s getting desperate. Hint: It’s not me.
When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”
Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.
I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end. Or, more aptly, the beginning.
Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.
If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)
I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.
And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own. Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women. In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”
That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?
I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.
Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”
By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit. The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.
Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.
Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.
Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.
"Stuart kissed me today," I pronounced. Cheeks pinking slightly at the confession. Wide eyes sparkling with unabashed glee.
I was seven. And he had. A sweet little peck on the lips, while we were lined up to head in from recess.
My mother set down her fork, head slightly atilt. My father cleared his throat. Parentally speaking, how were they supposed to react to this news?
Step 1: Ixnay any further sleepovers at Stuart’s house.
Step 2: Enroll their precocious baby girl in some etiquette classes, where she will hopefully learn a thing or two about appropriate dinner conversation.
If they had only known this was to be the peak of my boy-meets-girl prowess, they might have relished the landmark moment a bit.
Most years, I concoct highly elaborate April Fool’s Day tomfoolery, for the sake of my own entertainment. One such year’s tear-stricken phone call to my mother, alerting her of my horrific ankle injury on an abandoned, out-of-reach trail, had my entire family scrambling to figure out how to get an emergency helicopter to my essentially unknown location. (In reality, I was on the beach in Hermosa. My phone may or may not have cut out mid-folly. Forgiveness was hard to come by for a few months.)
This year, I decided to keep it simple. A few clicks of the mouse, and my Facebook status shined as, “In a Relationship”. One of my acquaintances recently made a similar change, her post eliciting a bevy of ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments: “Who is he?!” “I’m SO happy for you!!” “Pictures! Pictures!” “I can’t wait to meet him!!” “Is he coming for Easter?!”
I sat back and awaited the laudatory remarks.
Zero. There were no such responses. Sure, my post received comments and likes…but not a single one of my 1,821 FB friends bought it for a second. One shimmering soul contacted me via text message to find out who I deigned to dine with on a more frequent occasion. He shall be known as my favorite person in the world from this point on.
My sister’s comment that it was, ‘The best April Fool’s joke she’d seen yet,’ got plenty of play. Awesome. The biggest joke of the day was that I somehow managed to wrangle up a steady plus-one.
It is literally more believable that I would be dying on top of a mountain than that I’d actually have a boyfriend.
Good to know. I wonder if Stuart’s still single…
Last Saturday, my besties and I stormed the Ace Hotel late night, after an evening of in-house capers with Palm Spring’s Finest. Proper noun. (You don’t want to know.)
As I danced my medium-sized heart out with the most amazing gays you will ever meet, I was rudely interrupted by an overly drunk, underly coherent soul. I attempted congeniality, as someone in our group pronounced Awkward Drunk Guy a friend of a few of our own from LA. This is how that worked out:
ADG: “This is so crazy.”
Me: “What’s so crazy?”
ADG: “This.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
ADG: “It’s just…you know…crazy.”
…
Me: “Ok.”
…
Scintillating.
Luckily, the aforementioned gays are equipped with excellent swoop-and-rescue skills. Let the revelry resume!
Unfortunately, ADG was not at a point in his night to be picking up on not-so-subtle social cues. As my fav fellow frolicker made all attempts to twirl me out of reach, ADG trailed my beat-friendly footsteps around the dance floor, occasionally capturing me in brief moments of conversational nothingness.
All in all, a slightly hilarious scene, which we proceeded to rehash the next day, as we sweat out our hangovers poolside.
…And then one amongst our crew (we shall call him DD for the purposes of this post)proceeded to rehash the whole thing once again upon his return to LA. With ADG. I love full circles. Here’s how that exchange went down:
DD: heyyyyyyyyy
ADG: hey! that was funny
i hope i didnt do anything too embarassing (sic)
DD: you were creeping on that girl
it was a topic of conversation the next day
ADG: i was creeping on everything
DD: ha
why were you there?
ADG: for a wedding
why were YOU there?
DD: friend’s birthday
ADG: oh fun times
i only hit on that girl
b/c everyone else seemed gay
and she talked to me
…
And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality.
Chalk. Win. Meh.
If you ever find yourself at Lion Pub in San Francisco: DO order the spectacularly fresh ‘n pulpy greyhound. DON’T stay for the conversation.
Creeper: You should come back with Mitch* and I.
Me: Why?
Creeper: Because we could offer an experience you’ve never had?
Me: Oh really. What kind of experience could you offer?
Creeper: Whatever fantasy you wanted. We just wouldn’t do each other in the butt.
…
Welp. There goes that dream.
Spoiler Alert: I don’t go home with them in the end.
*Names have been changed to keep things less confusing. Except Creeper. That one’s real.
"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.
I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.
I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right. It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me.
Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.
“Where are you from?”
“Originally? Nebraska.”
“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”
…
Seriously?
Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.
First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right. They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.
Kill. Me. Now.
At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace. These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.
Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience. We get that. And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort. When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.
And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.
Ever.
Last night, I met up with imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for a couple rounds of last minute cocktails. This Honor Bar session was to serve two purposes: 1. To continue plotting our world domination 2. To figure out why the F the young man she was supposed to be out with - Emphasis on young. Because he’s younger. Rawr. - had decided to eat dinner without her.
This conversation got lengthy.
Boy had made activity-unspecific plans with her for the evening. As pick-up time neared, she had to push it back slightly, due to a work conflict. Shortly thereafter, she texted him that she was back in action. He replied, asking if they could meet up later. Much later.
Why? Because he was just sitting down to dinner with a friend.
…
Oh. Right. Totally. Of course.
She let him know that A. His newly proposed time was, indeed, too late and B. There was no need for him to make it up to her another night.
He seemed surprised. Seriously?
…
This brought to mind a similar experience of my own.
A gentleman I had been to drinks with a few times asked if he could take me out on the upcoming Friday. I said yes. Friday, he texted to lay out the details, explaining that his post-work commitments would probably last until 9 or 10. Oh, and he would probably be eating there.
…
Ahh. How fascinating.
Needless to say, I didn’t exactly swoon. This gentleman also seemed surprised by the lackluster reaction his comments had elicited.
How do these men-children not see the error in their all-too-casual ways?!
imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo and I began to wonder if we mistakenly set an ultra-lax tone from the beginning. We’re both easygoing to an occasional fault and are generally more than willing to go with the flow and play things by ear…but there is a line. And when this line is crossed, we quickly shift from gypsy-boho-whateverstotallyfinewithme to Type sarcastic A-hole. Is this shift too quick? Is there a specific trigger?
Maybe. And yes. Dinner. The trigger is dinner. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars? Absolutely. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars after you just told us you pushed back our date time to eat dinner with your friend? Absolutely not.
Why? Maybe because men have spent half their lives telling us the difference between the girls they take to dinner and the girls they take straight to the bar for tequila shots. One such man even brought this up when he and I were two courses deep:
"If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have just asked you if you wanted to get a drink."
"Why would you take someone to drinks, if you don’t even like having a conversation with them?"
"Why do you think?"
…
Charming. Noted. Guard promptly reinstated in its upward and locked position.
…
Back at Honor Bar: As we reached to pay our check, our server askedimawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for her phone number - his friend had wanted to stop by our table to ask her to coffee, but he didn’t get a chance.
He should probably tell his friend to make sure there’s a scone with that latte.
A very dear friend of mine set me up with a somewhat dear friend of hers, based on our shared love of words and other things that are funny. Deep breath. Lots of trust. Let's do this.
Date #1: Post-work drinks at Misfit. Let’s keep this fun/easy/casual. I get stuck at work for an extra half hour-ish, cutting close to the end of happy hour. Not one to miss out on a great deal, my date decides to stock up on cocktails, while awaiting my arrival. This would have been a smarter idea, had he not also decided to consume every single one of them within that half hour. Let’s just say, he was plastered by the time I located him at the bar. Let’s also just say, it wasn’t love at first eye-roll.
Memorable notes: Girls aren’t funny. Girls can’t write. He was expecting me to be dumber. He had already managed to accrue a grand total of 3 DUI’s.
Swoon.
Date #2: Writer-y thing at the Hammer Museum. Assuming that his ego-charged, unintelligent barbs were due to accidental over-intoxication, I decided to give it another go. We make it to the museum just in time, but the seats are already filled. Hashtag fail. Let’s go have a drink back at the house and figure out where to go! Hey! Actually, why go anywhere when drinks here are free?!
Right. Why would anyone ever leave the house? Let’s just say he kept both the cocktails and the over-aggressive-quintessential-negging flowing, and I ended up…well…crying. Yes; apparently, I do have emotions. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch. Overall, not a great success.
…
He tells our mutual friend he is both apologetic slash mortified. In addition, he has decided to x-nay alcohol from his life.
Our mutual friend asks if there’s any way I would give the dude another chance, as he would really like to make it up to me. Deep breath. I get it. He’s a nice guy with drinking issues that make him less of a nice guy. I am willing to see how a sober date would go down, if only out of pure curiosity.
Cue: A barrage of fascinatingly half-hearted, yet persistent, attempts to have me meet him at x,y, or z bar/or his apartment. I ask which edition of Emily Post’s Etiquette he favors. He confidently asserts that he doesn’t believe in chivalry.
…
How charming.
…
In the interest of full disclosure, here are our final two conversations:
Him: Let’s hang out this weekend!
Me: I’m having a staycation in Malibu this weekend, but will be back Sunday evening, if you would like to pick me up and take me to dinner.
Him: Are you going to Malibu with a suitor?
No response.
I wasn’t, just in case you were curious. Shocking, I know.
Him: Come to my pool on Sunday!
I mean…
Literacy. Reading comprehension. Social cues. Anything?
One week later…
Him: Last chance. Meet me at [insert bar-name-I-can’t-remember] at 8.
Seriously? Last chance?
It hurts.
Me: How compelling.
And scene.
…
I really thought that one was going to work out.
You can avoid eye-contact. You can turn a cold shoulder and solidly hinged elbow. You can maintain an unwavering tone of disinterest. You can even throw an unabridged dictionary’s worth of intellect-ridden sarcasm over their heads.
But you can never escape them.
These are the LA Douchebags: The Real Men of Los Angeles* - and boy, do they have a way with words.
*Real as in reality, not ‘real men’ as in iterations of Jon Hamm
Random Man #1: I don’t believe in monogamy, but my wife doesn’t believe in polygamy.
Pretty sure she also doesn’t believe in you buying drinks for random girls at bars.
Random Man #2: Come sit over here.
Me: I’m fine right here, thanks.
Random Man #2: Your attitude problem only makes you that much more adorable.
…
Oh, I know.
Random Man #3: Where’s your new place?
Me: Beverly Hills
Random Man #3: That’s so not you! What are you doing living there?
Right. Because you’ve known me all of 3 and a half minutes. Thank you for your frank analysis. I should probably move now.
Random Man #4: You actually seem like a really cool chick. We’ll see if it’s for real.
Really?? You think so?! OMG I feel so much better about myself now. Thank you for validating my existence. I only hope I can continue to live up to your obviously discriminating taste slash superior expectations.
Random Man #5: You look like you’re a gift for me.
Oh, I get it. Because I’m wearing a bow around my neck. (I was - it’s a choker circa 1996.)
You are SO clever! Obviously, I have been waiting all night to gift myself to someone as charming and cavalier as yourself.
…
Don’t touch me.
…
…
…
I don’t feel safe anymore.
I just had my first legitimate booty call.
Obviously, this was not the first late night call I had ever received, but it was the first that I both answered and accepted.
Sure, there are other evenings that probably technically landed in the booty call column; but, on those occasions, the dude had the integrity to mask his true intentions with a quick round or three of drinks out in the real world prior to laying it on thick.
At least he brought tacos this time? Before you nod in enabling support, let me add that these were no Tacos Por Favor or Pinches…these were (brace yourself) Del Taco. Insult. Injury. Sigh.
There was a 3 minute (This number would prove to be foreshadowing in events to come) pretense of Boardwalk Empire viewing. Literally. 3 minutes. And then, you know…
But usually, “you know” with this person is actually enjoyable. Like, for me. Like, he makes sure it’s enjoyable for me. Apparently, that’s a chapter they left out of the booty call handbook? In accepting his midnight call, had I unwittingly agreed to a 3 minute sex session, guaranteed to leave only one of us satisfied?
Cuddling? Sure. Conversation? Of course. Let’s keep this on the up and up here. Let me interject at this point to add that, two months ago, I thought this person and I actually might be dating. My ensuing confusion and need for closure/or validation were the damning impetuses for this new life low.
Most of the conversation involving his recent life activities featured other girls, of course – not girls with whom he was getting down (that would just be uncouth,) but I could safely assume he at least momentarily entertained the idea.
God, he’s SO DESIRABLE. I am SO LUCKY he’s here right now.
…
Perhaps the morning sex would be better.
It started out well…and ended quickly. How lucky for him that he was now content and able to sleep.
Must. Be. Nice.
Around 8:30am, he decided it was probably time for him to hit the road. Did he save a shred of my dignity by conjuring up some tragically unbreakable breakfast-interfering plans? Nope. No plans. Just done here.
Interesting. That makes two of us.
…
My stomach feels like Del Taco.
ithinkironyisSOfunny and I decided to go to The Den on Sunset last night to grab a couple drinks and a bite to eat. A nice mellow, casual place for a girl-talk-catch-up-sesh.
Enter Keith. Name has been changed to protect the ego of the offender.
Keith was our waiter. Keith decided to sit down at our table with us.
Ok. First of all, I sort of have this thing about personal space, where I cherish it and do not appreciate when its existence is completely and totally disregarded. Initially, his awkward level of immediate comfort was fascinating enough to render it amusing. I was even willing to crack a smile at his layman banter about the three of us dating. (What? I had just moved back to LA at the time. I was both hard up for humor and hesitant to turn my back on any potential neighborhood-bar-friendship. Momentarily.)
5 minutes later, he was still sitting there, my cracked smile had realigned into polite, obscured annoyance and ithinkironyisSOfunny and I made unobscured eye contact of the whenishegoingtogetupandtakeourorder variety.
The answer was not any time soon. Keith launched into a less than scintillating autobiography. I half-listened, awestruck at his inability to discern that ithinkironyisSOfunnyand I possess individually supreme senses of narcissism and were apathetic about both his career choice (actor) and training center (Beverly Hills Playhouse).
At the end of his diatribe, he stared at me, expectantly. Oh, right. This is where I respond with signs of interest.
"Ooh."
"What does ‘ooh’ mean?"
"It means I’ve never heard of that and know nothing about it, but I’m not judging you."
…
Things started off well.
We finally coerced Keith into taking our order and leaving our general area for a peaceful moment. Our catch-up convo took a turn for the serious, when guess who socially-ineptly chose to slide right back into our booth.
Pregnant pause. Awkward expressions clearly broadcasting the silent version of dude-are-you-serious.
Ignored. Keith was back and ready to chat. This time about the relationship he and I were allegedly about to begin.
Deep breath. Where the F is our food?
Oh. There it is. Being brought out to us by the chef. It had apparently been sitting there for awhile, dropping drastically in temperature. We sent Keith away to procure us some utensils.
He came back with more than silverware.
"Are you a famous actress and should I not be hitting on you right now?"
"Is that a two-part question?"
We then learned that he once told Jon Hamm he should be an actor because he was such a charming man.
…
Swoon?
Somehow, we got him to leave again and picked up our heart-to-heart chat-sesh, ignorantly believing we would finally be granted a little bestie alone time. When Keith sauntered over again, he was a man with a purpose.
"You guys should come to our karaoke night." Turns to face me. "Actually, you and I should go to karaoke somewhere else. When I’m not working."
*crickets*
Now, I love the sh*t out of karaoke, but even my microphone mania has its limits.
"Your boyfriend would probably be upset."
I nod.
"You have a boyfriend?"
I nod. “He’s mildly protective.”
…
Attempt at humor. Awkward linger. Uncomfortable shifting.
…
…
…
Eyes down. Pay bill. Exit Quickly.
I may or may not have had a sleepover with a new friend. New friend may or may not have used his roomie’s car to take me home the next morning.
2 weeks later I may or may not have received this text:
My roomie came home from his trip today and went on a date and she found this in his car. I wish I could’ve been there to see him talk his way outta that one. How about you take me out and reclaim this so I don’t feel like I was used as a piece of meat? ;)
...
I love you, Mom.
Last night, I went to grab a casual bite to eat with two guys I’ve been friends with for years now.
One girl. Two guys. Lookin’ like a baller, right? Apparently not.
The scene: California Pita on Beverly Dr. 7:30pm. Outdoor table. Friend A sitting to my left, Friend B directly across from him.
We are mid-convo when a woman walks past our table. As she patters by, she bends down slightly and reaches in, placing something next to my carefully self-assembled table setting.She gives it the ol’ tap/slide, and murmurs knowing-slash-confiding-ly, “This is for you.”
I pause. Seriously? Of course.
Looking down, I expect to see the oft-received-in-my-life psychic ad, fluttering alongside my precautionary stack of napkins. (You never know what’s going to happen when that tangy yogurt sauce is around…)
What’s it going to be this time? Tarot cards? Palm Reading? The color of my aura?
…
It was none of those things.
Yup. An advertisement for a novel entitled, Too Old to be a Hooker, Too Young to be a Madam. According to the card, it is a story of ‘champagne decadence, dangerous liaisons, fame, bisexuality and betrayal in the Hollywood Hills colliding with a lusty Jewish American Princess from Beverly Hills in Laurel Canyon’. Breath.
Friend B’s token of reassurance? “You’re never too old to be a hooker.”
Duly noted.
Dudeikindofdig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue: Clueless scene where Cher carefully preps for Christian’s arrival. (Note to self: Next time pick a different movie moment to look to for inspiration. Preferably one that doesn’t end in him being gay and her saying, “I don’t get it.”)
…
Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled. Sheer, black & white polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness). Black, frilly skirt. 60’s cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)
After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a black lace bralette beneath the sheer blouse.
Scandalous.
Dudeikindofdig comes over. I proceed to behave in a (un)characteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I’m five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly
Mid-picnic, dudeikindofdig asks, “Is that what you wore to work today?”
Fair question. There are two possible answers.
Conundrum.
Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I’m not going to walk around the office like a ho."
Translation: “I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing.”
Awkward.
Answer B:
Yep!
Translation: I am the office whore.
Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.
…
…
…
I’ll be back after I go feed my cats.
In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner.
I ran through my mental checklist:
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.
Looks like I was saying yes.
My initial concerns:
1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?
2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.
Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.
I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant.
We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.
As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)
I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.
This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.
He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.
As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!
"Are you sure you have to go?"
Is he serious?
"Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!"
His reply?
"Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me."
CHASE. THE. PASSION.
…
"Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab."
This is why I don’t date.
Hi, cats.
I received a text yesterday from a Pasadena number. Message: Hello
I racked my brain. Yes, I sometimes give my number to strangers because it’s easier than not giving them my number, but I haven’t done that in months. I reply: Who is this?
Is this Stacey????
Annoying. Can you please answer the question and also never spell my name like that again? Thanks. Still unsure of the sender’s identity, I decide I should play nice. Ish. Yes. I apparently don’t have your number in my phone. Who is this?
Brace yourself.
We small talked when we met u gave me the number I called two or three times u never picked up…u was fine as ever once again hope ya doing well
Oh joy of joys. He has returned. A YEAR LATER. In case you don’t remember this fine fellow, here is my previous post, extracted from ironyisalifestyle's blogspot archives:
Girl meets boy. Girl is so not into boy. Boy asks for girl’s number. Girl debates path of least resistance.
"Do you have a card?"
This way, not only does she avoid giving him her number, but she can also make it seem a little more business-y. She doesn’t want any curious onlookers to think she’s actually into this dude. She has a reputation to uphold. Or would like to think she does. Or at least would like these complete strangers to think she does.
"Not on me. Here, just take down my number and give me a call."
Phew. That was easy.
"Ok, it was nice to meet you. Have a great evening."
She turns to get into her car. He grabs her arm. Gently, yes, but that’s still a not-so-distant cousin of domestic abuse. She pulls her arm away and gives him a look of the please don’t ever touch me again variety.
"Call me now, so I’ll have your number."
UGH. Should have taken the basically engaged route. This is getting messy. And taking entirely too long. Girl did not plan on spending her Saturday night talking to some random dude. She has matzo ball soup to eat. And 30 Rock on DVR.
She calls.
"805 huh?"
Ok. Conversation is over. She is done talking. She needs to get in her car and debate whether to spend the $4.99 AT&T charges to block a number. Not that she has that piece of information at her fingertips.
"Yup. Ok bye. I gotta run. Great meeting you."
Lies. All lies.
"Ok, girl. I’ll call you."
Pause. Head tilt. Did he just say, ok, girl?? Sigh. Yes. Yes he did.
Boy sends text message the next day, citing himself as the handsome fellow you met last night. Girl debates whether or not to clarify that they met in the late afternoon, possibly even early evening, but definitely not at night. She decides against it and ignores the text.
Two days later, boy sends another text message: Hope u ok„, ya know u could have said not intrested and not go thru the motions of takin the number ya know, I’m a grown man girl I can take a no. Followed quickly by: I hope this doesn’t happen to you being intrested in someone and they ignore or go thru the motions.
Yes, he used commas as ellipses. He left the ‘e’ out of interested (twice) and, seemingly purposefully, dropped the g from taking. And I’m a grown man girl I can take a no?? I mean…wow. That would have been spectacular, were it not annoyingly semi-colon deprived.
She ignores these texts as well. She assumes this is the last she will hear from him.
She assumes wrong.
One month later: Hey girl how yo fine a** doin’?
Needless to say, that did not garner a reply.
Girl hopes she never runs into boy again.
By now, you’ve probably heard tell of the the San Francisco dude seeking his seasonal soulmate…on Craigslist. But did you actually reply to his ad?
I did. Well, technically, Rebecca Dwyer did.
Let’s start from the beginning.
improbablygonnabeacatlady sends me a link to super-bro’s personal ad:
…I know. SWOON. improbablygonnabeacatlady and I decide we have no choice but to conjure up a new persona and send a heartfelt reply. Let’s see how this active, outgoing small business owner reacts to a solid dose of sardonic sass. This will be so funny!!! Wonder which Marina bar he’ll suggest for their first cocktail half hour!
15 minutes later, Rebecca Dwyer was born. And this was en route to Romeo’s inbox:
![2 days later. No reply. Probably going to wait the requisite 3 days. NBD. I get busy with [my incredibly exciting] life and fail to notice that an entire week has passed. Omg. He’s probably dying, wondering why I haven’t replied yet! I can hard…](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/53741753e4b07b722fdb19cc/1400128184167-NWT31C35V71YC0W930O9/image-asset.png)
2 days later. No reply. Probably going to wait the requisite 3 days. NBD.
I get busy with [my incredibly exciting] life and fail to notice that an entire week has passed. Omg. He’s probably dying, wondering why I haven’t replied yet! I can hardly wait to see the fratastic gem that is surely residing in Rebecca’s inbox!
…
Nothing. There is nothing in her inbox.
I checked again today, JIC. (Just in case. Duh.) Still nothing in her inbox, aside from Gmail’s excessive slash unnecessary welcome messages.
Awesome. My Internet creation can’t even get a fake date with a douchebag on Craigslist.
Maybe he’s in the hospital?