Don't Mince Words

The first time I went to the bathroom to change my tampon, I noticed there was a window. I pulled back the curtain. The window was painted shut and there were security bars. Nope, there was no easy way of escaping this date. I’d have to hang-in there until closing time.

Chris found me online four days prior. His fascination with my writing and my red hair inspired him to inquire if I was still available. This led to a string of phone conversations and e-mails. “This one is different,” I told myself. He can communicate. He is compassionate. He knows what he wants. I was never so excited to meet someone for a first date. He had potential.

He suggested I come see his band perform on Saturday night at a bar in Monrovia, which is a community somewhere in the Valley near those mountains I can see for the smog. My red flag went up when he admitted he was a musician. Luckily, he doesn’t do it for-profit and has a day job as a sales person.

I accepted the invitation and made the trek to the inland empire. One hour, forty-five minutes and 30 miles later, I was parking at his apartment complex. When I walked up, the inside courtyard pool was a graveyard for leaves, almost filtering the backlighting. He stood in his door, smiling, and waited for me as I approached.

When I entered his apartment, I remembered all the questions I forgot to ask on the phone and in email. Questions I normally don’t have to ask the 28-33 year-olds I usually date.

“Welcome. Glad you made it. Here, let me give you the tour,” Chris said.

My five-second visual assessment had already delivered run-now-run results. From the multi-colored brown shag carpet to the brass and glass bookshelf adorned with trophies on the top shelf, I was not in the apartment of a successful, 43 year-old salesperson. Forgotten question: Do you own or rent?

It was a one-bedroom. Not much to see: galley kitchen, bathroom, bedroom with a down comforter. I sat down on the futon and he brought me a glass of water. I saw the ashtray on the coffee table. Forgotten question: Do you smoke?

“I had a great time at the birthday party today. My grandson was so excited,” Chris said.

“Grandson? I forgot to ask if you had been married before. Wow. How old is your son and where is your wife?” I asked.

“He’s 19 and my grandson just turned four. I never married the mother and didn’t know I had a son until they came to me for money. I only knew her for two weeks,” he answered.

I could almost forgive his living situation, but this was too much for me. I’d gone from dating boys who watch the Simpson’s and listen to Blink182 to dating NPR-listening grandpas with illegitimate children. Forgotten questions: Do you have children? Were the kids planned/do you use birth control? Were you married?

The first date now shifted to a “duty date.” This was like interviewing for a job I’d never take just to have the practice. I was there and I was going to make the most of it. I needed to shave my legs and color my hair…date or no date.

He insisted on driving to the bar. We got into his cracked-windshield pickup truck. The service engine soon light was on the whole time.

The bar was less than two miles from his apartment. It probably met Webster’s definition of dive: duck-taped naugahide bar stools, pool tables, electronic darts, and a neon chalkboard announcing that Sunday’s NASCAR special was $2.50, 20-ounce Budweiser. Music was not the primary function at this venue. I didn’t get the sense that musical tastes were very discriminating judging from the drunks at the bar. My nephew could play his Fisher-Price xylophone and deliver titillating entertainment to this audience.

But, as duty dates go, things could have been a lot worse. I had a seat at the groupie girlfriends table. I had a beer. I had musical entertainment. I had a lead singer date that didn’t actually have to interact with me. This permitted me to check my cell phone messages and write notes while the 40- and 50-something groupie girls went to the back to play darts.

Duty turned into agony when I realized I’d be on the barstool for five and one-half hours. I was being held hostage and force fed “Brown Eyed Girl” and a helping of “People are Strange” for good measure. I went to the bathroom every two hours to swap out tampons and to stretch my legs.

While I was on one of my final bathroom runs, the guys played a Joe Jackson-esque version of “Is she really going out with him.” I chuckled as I flushed and finished the song….’Cause if my eyes don’t deceive me, There’s something going wrong around here.’ When I came out, Chris was walking to the table. His Axl Rose bandana looked moist. He removed his prescription sunglasses and let them dangle from his neck on a leash.

“So, I have to ask. Is there a spark? Will we have a second date?” he said, panting like a pound puppy begging to be taken home.

I hate this part of dating. “I had a great time listening to you guys. You are such a talented singer. But, I’m not feeling it, I’m sorry.” He looked like he needed further explanation, so I added, “I have to be honest, I usually date much younger people. Your admission that you are a grandfather made me realize that I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I added. I know it was a lame excuse, but I had to pick something he couldn’t change or talk me out of.

I made the escape home in less than 30 minutes. The building alley cat came into my apartment and slept in between my legs. Until I can remember to ask the right questions for dates, I guess I’ll be the lady with the cat.

This morning I got up to go to a four hour seminar conducted by Dr. Pat Allen entitled “The Art of Love.” When I turned my car radio on, “Ain’t talking about love” by Van Halen was on the radio.

Coincidence?

This 69 year-old cognitive psychologist also believes that feminism has backfired on us as far as relationship roles and expectations are concerned. Good, I thought it was me. At the end of the seminar, I had a good understanding, from a neurological perspective, of how to understand psychotics and neurotics. More than anything, I know I’ve been straddling a parallel universe, not able to choose between an independent male-female who wants respect, and a female-female who wants to be cherished.

When I left, I checked out the ass of the one male attendee, got in my car, turned on the radio and No Doubt’s revamp of Talk Talk’s song “It’s my life” was playing.

Coincidence?

The end of this week marks my four month anniversary in California. Friends back East continue to ask me about the differences of living out here. I’ve made some casual observances in previous blogs, but here are my overall impressions:

Personal Grooming - I realized a few months ago that the only time I have close-toed shoes on is when I have an interview or when I’m exercising. Other than that, I have to constantly maintain my feet — weekly pedicures to loofah off knarly skin followed by the application of fire engine red toenail polish. In New York, this was a concern maybe three months out of the year. In California, it will be year-round maintenance.

Natural Beauty Part 1 – Someone told me when I got here to wait until the fall. Wow. There seems to be less smog. After the fires, I walked outside, looked east up Venice Boulevard and actually saw the San Gabriel mountains for the first time. On my way to work, I get dual shots of the ocean and the Santa Monica mountains. I really do enjoy being so close to both the beach and mountains. And this is LA!!! Imagine how much better things are once you leave the area. California is a spectacular state.

Natural Beauty Part 2 – There are gorgeous people everywhere. These are not Hollywood types who have to look the part. Normal, everyday people just look good. Perhaps I grew up around too much inbreeding and I thought ugly was the norm. It isn’t in California.

Traffic – Don’t blame it on the urban planners, just stop breeding future drivers. Honestly, the traffic here is no different than DC. I’m enjoying driving and listening to the radio for the first time in years. However, ask me in a year and maybe I’ll be complaining about the traffic. My solution has always been to live near where I work.

Bathrooms – Almost every bathroom I’ve been in has those pop-the-center-hole-out tissue toilet seat covers. This might seem an odd observation, but I realized it was the norm last weekend when I was in my beloved Target. Two women were bitching about how the bathroom had run out of tissue covers. I had to chuckle and then decided to chime in with, “well, where I come from, covers are a luxury. Remember when we used to use strips of TP if we had to sit on the toilet? Why don’t you try that?”

Are you 420-friendly? – There are many different theories as to the origin of 420, but the consensus is that two stoners in a California high school referred to their after school smokes as “420” because that was the time they would meet. So, leave it to Californians to develop and continue to use a veiled Cheech and Chong reference to determine if someone smokes pot. I prefer the New York direct approach: “Do you smoke pot?” I don’t have to go to about.com to figure out the meaning of that question.

99 Cent Only Stores – This is a dollar store like nothing I’ve seen on the east coast. They have food!!! There is schlocky shit there too, but overall it is quite a find, especially if you are getting stuff for an apartment. The other night six ounce cans of tuna were two for 99. I stop in frequently to get seasonal stuff (three foot plastic candy canes, santa hats, stockings…). However, my all time frequent purchase is the eight inch glass Jesus candles. Ninety-nine cents for me to light a match on Sagrado Corazno de Jesus (Hey-Zeus) and recite: “I implore you by the ardent flames of love that burn in your heart that you would hear my prayer.” Of course, my prayer is I get a fulltime permanent job with benefits at a company full of happy people.

That’s my first four months of life in California. I realize I’m in my infancy. The awkward teen years are around the corner.

Stay tuned.

I would personally like to thank Home Depot for bringing me good luck, temporarily.

On Monday I decided the job market did, indeed suck ass and I needed to get some form of a job to get by for a few more months while I waited for my networking to pan out. I waffled between waitressing and retail. My happy medium was Home Depot. I figured I would benefit from working in a retail environment littered with sober, home improvement men. My bonus structure would be dates.

There are lots of employment applications online now. Home Depot is no exception. I have to say their application reminded me how horrible retail work truly is. My favorite question was “How many times in the past year have you shoved a co-worker.” Hum. No physical shoves, but a lot of mental ones. Oh, and the evil eye. I can do the evil eye. But no shoves. I did work with a lot of middle-aged white guys at my last job that I wanted to bitch slap into kingdom come. I’ll leave the shoving for their wives.

So, where’s the luck you ask? Well, just when I think I’ve hit bottom, a glimmer of hope reminds me that I don’t need to wear an apron and a name tag.

Today I was called for a freelance writing job. Don’t get excited. It’s not with New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, or The LA Times. Nope, it is with an insurance company in Santa Monica. This is hot, steamy corporate writing in one of the most exciting and progressive industries. I interviewed for this same position three months ago. I was passed over. Imagine my delight when I saw the job posted again on monster.com. Yesterday I sent an email to the woman I met three months ago and let her know I was available to help out on a freelance or full-time basis. They called today at 5 p.m.

I start tomorrow, for how long, I don’t know. I do know I don’t look good in orange aprons and, in this economy, I will take sloppy seconds on a job I should have been hired for in the first place.