Don't Mince Words

I encountered an action today that was so innocent and so unfamiliar to me, that I obsessed a day about it. I went on a movie date tonight with a guy who asked, “May I put my arm around you?”

What the fuck? I barely watched the movie because I was doing a lifetime of date playback in my head. OK, McFly, did I go back into some time travel here? Manners? Romance? What 19th century alien life form am I sitting next to?

This is nice. Then he held my hand too.

Sixty minutes into “Swimming Pool” I was still reviewing my former dating pool. I can not be 37 years old and not remember the last time a guy put his arm around me in a theatre, let alone asked permission!!! No, this is sad. I think I’ve dated some nice guys, in between the losers.

2000 decade. Nope, didn’t happen.

1990’s. Don’t remember and I don’t count a rental in bed as a theatre.

1980’s. Bar dates, no arm-around-me-movie dates.

Then I remembered.

Terry was the last guy that put his arm around me in a movie theater. He looked like Adam Rich from the series “Eight is Enough” with his straight bowl-cut hair with Sun-In highlights. I was a head taller than him. It was the summer of 1978 and we went to see “Grease” at the Loehmann Plaza theaters on Route 50. His parents dropped us off. And I distinctly remember him paying. When he put his arm around me, I spent the rest of the movie wondering when he was going to feel me up. He never did. So, was I Sandy or Rizzo?

That Fall, Terry and I were in eighth grade at Longfellow Middle. We drifted apart and he found a short girl to date.

What does all this mean? Is this is like a Mars sighting…. I’ll get an arm around me once every 25 years? Nope, it means what I’ve known all along: I’ve been dating the wrong boys.

I’m a little Sandra, and a little Rizzo. Simple pleasures are so satisfying. Yes, put your arm around me.

If you have seen Steve Martin in “LA Story,” you’ve seen all the LA clichés come alive. Four cars. Four stop signs. All the drivers are courteous and wave each other on. There appears to be a rhythm to these intersections.

Up until today, I operated under the assumption that the first person stopped at the intersection would naturally go first and everyone else would wait their turn. That is usually the case UNLESS you encounter Scenario B which involves an IF/THEN math equation: IF a vehicle coasts through a four-way stop, THEN said vehicle has immediate right of way and that right of way supercedes the rights of the first stopped driver.

My New York horn skills combined with some Starsky and Hutch swerving resulted in me missing getting broadsided by a 1974 rust colored Chevy Impala station wagon filled with five Mexicans and two rakes. I cussed like a sailor for several minutes afterwards until my passenger told me, “Welcome to LA where traffic rules of native country supercede all logic.”

Now I understand the wave-on.

Today I went to a housewarming party of a friend from Virginia. I met a nice group of normal, adult people, but I had a few interesting observations.

Like most metropolitan areas, I am finding it hard to find anyone FROM California. (Kind of makes you wonder how things got so weird out here and then you remember… Hollywood). This party had a nice mix of mostly east coasters…. But it was obvious they were settled into the CA way of life.

(1) Eventually the conversation turned to astrology. I was dying. I was ready to hide in the bathroom, speed dial my friends in New York and say, “I’ve been in LA two weeks and somebody asked me what my sign was.”

(2) Food. Like New Yorkers, Los Angelians take their food, or lack there of, pretty seriously. Everyone had diverse opinions on raw vs. cooked, tofu, organic, low carb, and supplements.

The most difficult thing I had to deal with all evening was the inevitable question: “Were you there during 9/11?” For some, I was their only first-person account. And they wanted details. I was offended at first, chalking the questions up to LA’s love for action-based news; however, these folks actually were innocently trying to understand the magnitude of the event. I knew I wasn’t going be able to tell the story, so I decided to shift the conversation a little and explain east coast population density. It worked. I need to perfect this soundbite because I’m going to get asked this question again and again as I live here.

Yes, I was there. No, I don’t really like talking about it. We’re all doing better now. Thanks for asking.