Don't Mince Words

A recent study published in the science journal, Nature, has determined that 60 cells are involved in the sexual behavior of a fruit fly. When they don’t work properly, male fruit flies cannot complete specific steps of the courtship ritual and are unable to reproduce.

The courtship steps of a fruit fly include tapping the female, singing and extending and vibrating a wing. When the researchers interfered with the nerve cells, the fruit flies did not go through those steps. The damn flies rushed through the courtship, which the females did not find attractive. The researchers determined that these altered males essentially try to do everything at once.

Just like some guys I know.

The scientists speculated whether the genes that control sexuality in fruit flies could have a similar role in humans. Until they figure that out, I think I’ll pour some orange juice on me, stand outside, and see if I can attract a good fruit fly.

I’m growing weary of dating. I’m losing the energy and enthusiasm to do it even when there’s a remote chance I might have a good time. I had a bizarre date Monday night and it has taken me days to write about it, thus denying myself the horror of recall until now.

I’m at that awkward age where I still enjoy dating younger guys. They are fun and full of energy and sometimes they are mature. However, I know I should dabble and try to date men in their 40′s. Distinguished. Mature. Established. That’s my stereotype. But they are old and I’m not ready to admit I’m old. A little old. Young at heart. Can pass for 30?

Mister Monday Night billed himself at a 6-foot tall, 46 year-old that is more fun than watching nude weasels wrestle on the Discovery Channel. Sense of humor. Yippee. We agreed to meet at his kung fu palace in my neighborhood and go to dinner afterwards. I’m all about low-effort destination dates because when the date is horrible, at least you get home fast.

I got date dolled-up: big hair, black scoop neck blouse, black skirt, black pumps, pink shawl and pink purse. I was damn fucking cute. When I got there, I was immediately not attracted to him–not because he was an old 46, but because he had this thing stuck on his left front tooth. Normally, I would make a gesture to my tooth and say “you got something there.” However, I estimated it was 6-8 hours since his last meal and that thing had created its gum-side home for at least that long. Hygiene issues—big turn off. I usually brush my teeth and gargle before a date. I guess this guy didn’t have time to at least chew a piece of gum.

I got a kung fu tour and we decided to take his Volvo to dinner. I’m not a neat freak, but this guy’s back seat was so crapped up, you couldn’t open the back door without shit falling out. It really made me wonder what was in the trunk. I got in the car knowing that surface roads are 25-30 mph and I can always open the door, drop and roll to abort the mission.

After commenting on how great I looked, you know where he took me for dinner? We went to Tito’s Tacos on the corner of Washington and Sepulveda, right under the 405. This is a ghetto taco shack that always has lines that are 8-10 people deep at the four windows. When there are Mexicans in line, you assume it has to be good.

We got out of the car and he grabbed a bottle of 7-up from the clutter in the back seat. “These are 50 cents at the 99 Cent store right now,” he announced. I assumed, with that move, I should order water since he didn’t want to go to the expense of a fountain drink.

While in line, I spent my time trying to figure out what the object was on his tooth while he continued to dominate the conversation. I’d smile and nod and think “split red lentil?” “Dark spinach?” He admitted that Tito’s wasn’t on his carb diet (OK, I’m dressed up, let’s go somewhere else). And then he proceeded to reach into his left front pocket of his khaki’s where he pulled out three dozen random business cards looking for his carb list. Then, in his right front pocket he pulled out a skinny, blue balloon and blew it up. While he was making a balloon poodle for the cashier, I was monitoring my escape options. I could walk back to my car–it was only a mile away, but in heels it would kill me. I decided to remain to see if his tooth friend would dislodge when we at our tamales.

During our meal, he asked me what I was looking for. I have hypothesized before that when a guy asks that on a simple first date, it means he’s just looking for sex. Knowing this date was over the minute I saw his gum buddy, which, by the way, was still firmly grounded on his front tooth, I gave my standard response, “I’m looking for a monogamous, continuing committed relationship that leads to marriage.”

The tamales, like the date, were not great. We went back to the kung fu palace where my car was parked. I got out, told him it was nice to meet him and thanked him for a good time. I jumped in my car and ran a late yellow light to make sure he couldn’t follow me home. I took a shower to cleanse myself of Tito’s greasy aura. While flossing, I finally figured it out:

Radicchio.

I suppose, next to hookers, I’m one of the few people that makes dating a worthwhile endeavor. I approach it from a no-fear perspective. If a date goes well, I’m happy and I’ll have something to talk about. If a date is a train wreck, I’ll get some verbal and written rubbernecking out of the experience.

On Friday, July 16, 2004, I was issued another 15 minutes of fame by the Los Angeles Times (LAT) when they decided to publish a piece I wrote in 15 minutes about Craig’s List dating in LA. I originally submitted the piece to NPR’s “All Things Considered” and notified Craig Newmark that I was writing about his list. His response was, “Marna, thanks, I appreciate it, and good luck! (I could use it myself.)” I decided to submit it to the LAT because I wanted them to reject me so I could go skipping straight to the NY Times. What I didn’t know was this placement was a strategic LAT 1-2 punch. Thursday’s Single in the City column was about wonderful NY men. Friday my piece came out criticizing the angry, short men in LA. This ended up being a week of LA bashing in the newspaper.

I received a lot of e-mail as a result. Most of the mail was positive, but more short guys came out lambasting me for being so close-minded to not consider dating a short man. While I realize we are all the same height lying down, it’s those upright moments we have to live through. And, as tempting as it is to date a man who can run between my legs, look up, and provide oral sex on command, I really do like dating guys I can look in the eye without bending over. Yeah, I’m a real bitch for wanting that.

Root Cause Analysis: Why are all the short guys angry? I have finally figured it out and it made me mad too. Short women like dating tall men. That means these women are cutting into my dating pool. That leaves nothing for me or the short guys. No wonder they e-hated me for wanting to date someone my own height. They really are left dangling out there alone.

I was going to subscribe all the negative napoleons to Tall Porn since they were so kind to write me and tell me what an excluding bitch I was. (Sorry, I’m not the Ellis Island of dating. I can’t let everyone in.) Then something magical happened. Dave Barry wrote me and told me I was funny. He’s 5’9”. If a short, famous funny guy can see the humor in my piece then my original hypothesis must be correct: The men of LA are too sensitive.

One of my short, male fans reminded me, “There are good men in LA. You just need a pick axe and night vision goggles to find them.”

Hi ho. Hi ho. Off to work I go.

I’ve had a few strangers who read my blog write to ask if I’ve had the date with TGG (that gym guy) because they wanted to read about the date results.  My response was, ‘Oh, I only blog bad dates.  Good guys don’t make for good nonfiction.”

I’m making an exception to the rule only because I have to tell you what I complete idiot I was on this lunch date.  I ordered a cobb salad which would probably be the menu selection of a bulimic.

“Oh, just so you know.  I’m not usually one of those girls that orders salads on dates.  I love meat, but I’ve been out of greens for two days in my apartment and I’m dying for a salad that isn’t made by me,” I explained.

Why did I say that?  TGG could take one look at me and know I love all food.  We have the same personal trainer, after all.  He was polite and laughed but his face said, “Who is this crazy bitch?”  Since he was from Texas, I thought I should disclose I was a meat eater.  Nothing is worse than having a good date in LA and realizing you are fraternizing with a vegetarian.

We ate and chatted for an hour and a half.  I had a good time and he really is a great guy.  This was probably one of my best of class first dates in LA.  Very engaging and polite and he didn’t do anything rude like whip out his throbbing cock to “show” me how much he liked me.

So how did we end it?  I, once again, put my foot in my mouth and said something completely stupid.

“Well, it was nice to finely meet you with clothes on,” I said, referring to our usual state of undress/sweat dress in the gym.

He chuckled while my why-did-I-say-that meter went off the scale.  He says he’ll call and we’ll get together again soon.

You think so?

If a man has an increased interest in his aesthetic sense, does that make him a metrosexual?  If he spends a great deal of time and money on his appearance and lifestyle, is he metrosexual?

Back in the old days, we called that gay.

I’m not sure where the term metrosexual came from, but I’m sure it was concepted in the halls of Procter & Gamble or some other consumer-focused conglomerate in order generate sales for hair mousse and nail buffers.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for pampering.  I get pedicures.  I wash the gray out of my hair.  I get waxed.  These are my alternatives to heroin.  But what does a man need to feel and look better?  Usually a man only needs a blow job and a nose hair trimmer.

I realized today that Thomas Sullivan Magnum III was my first metrosexual crush.  He dressed well, trimmed his mustache, and was in touch with his feelings.  Why?  Because the Vietnam war gave him permission to have feelings.  But what was the other influencing factor?  Let’s not forget that ascot-wearing manservant, Higgins.  Higgins would probably be considered gay by today’s stereotypes.

It takes a gay man to keep a straight one put together.