Don't Mince Words

I’m closing in on the 10th anniversary of my divorce. Don’t worry; I don’t have a “get bitter” reminder set in Outlook. I had to ask myself how long has it been because yesterday I got hit on. I didn’t realize it until about three hours later. When it did dawn on me, I understood why I’m still single – I don’t know a direct hit even when balls are swinging in my face.

A week ago, I set my dining room ceiling fan on high and walked over to do dishes. About 15 seconds later, I heard a horrible noise and I watched the fan spin out of the ceiling and drop down. It was a Jerry Bruckheimer domestic moment. I could have been whacked, instead I had Palmolive soft hands while the ceiling fan settled a foot above the table, dangling by the extended electrical cord. As a closet tool-time girl, I got on a dining room chair and tried to fix it myself; however, with substandard triceps and a fear of electrocution, I opted to call the manager so the handy man could come and fix it as well as repair the loose, bathroom towel bar.

Our mothers taught us to put clean underwear on before going out in case we’re in an accident. When I know someone is coming into my apartment, I hide the vibrators, I make the bed, I do the dishes, and I clean the bathroom. When I came home the next night, I had a towel rack I could use and a ceiling fan that was not a lethal weapon.

The unit next door is getting flipped, so there are contractors in there doing painting, flooring, etc… Yesterday they were putting the finishing touches on the apartment as I did a few loads of laundry. When I was walking back from the laundry room, a 40-something Italian-looking man came out of the apartment as I had my hand on my door knob.

“Oh, miss. Hi. I’m Dave, the electrician that fixed your ceiling fan,” he said extending his hand out for a shake. “You were lucky you didn’t get hit, weren’t you? I think the fan is alright. It will probably wobble on the third speed, but just watch it and I’ll come back if it is a problem.”

I went into tool-time geek mode and told him how I tried to fix it and how I’d helped install ceiling fans years ago and had never seen anything like it.

My bathroom was the anticipated next topic of conversation. No man leaves that room with out mentioning the three classic, World War II venereal diseases posters I have hanging along with my “Prostitution Free Zone” sign from Richmond, Virginia. My sluts and ducks theme inspires conversation.

“I need to ask you about your bathroom,” he said. I expected him to state how creative and funny I was while I stood there with my clean sheets.

“Where did you get your toilet roll holder? I’d like to get it for the renovated units.”

I explained it was a gift from a girlfriend and it was at least five years old. “I think she got it at TJ Maxx,” I said.

He thanked me and repeated again, if I had any other problems, to make sure I called.

I went into my apartment, dried my hair, threw some makeup on and drove to my teen mentoring writing workshop. About 20 minutes into the drive, I realized, he had NO reason to check on his handy work or inquire about my TP holder. He was using all of that as an excuse to meet me. In my rental history, I’ve never had a cute repair man come by to make sure I was satisfied with the work in my rental unit. Yes, I’m an idiot that was hit on and didn’t even know it.

When my workshop concluded, I sped back hoping to catch Dave working hard. I was going to offer him a beer and retro fit some flirting back into my day. The next door unit was shut and dark. The guys had gone home. When I put my key in my deadbolt, I realized my bottom lock was locked also. I didn’t do that. Had Dave snuck into my apartment to raid my underwear drawer? God I hope so, because I need a few new pairs of sexy panties.

Everything was in its place in my apartment; however, I had no hot water. It was time to make another call…

How a year of dating in Los Angeles made me appreciate books and batteries

My 2004 resolution challenge was dating bulimia – I would date as much as possible until I got sick. I feasted on the men of Los Angeles while Kathleen, a friend in New York, did the same. Our goal was to get out there and meet people and not focus on our careers. We began this social endeavor with low expectations. Shortly thereafter, we were ready to jam our fingers down our throats.

If I could make it to the gym four to five days a week, I decided I could tolerate one date a week. I let everyone know I was available. I trolled the internet. I exercised options at the gym. I loitered in the produce aisle. I wanted to just get out and have fun with no strings attached. My resume and professional interviewing skills were built up; however, my dating dossier and related opposite sex conversational skills were sorely lacking. I was going for quantity, not quality this year.

I managed to go out with 22 men ranging in age from 28 to 48. I almost hit my frequency goal as well with dates 48 out of 52 weeks (holidays and exhaustion permitted me to take some time off). My high volume yielded some great stories – from the emotionally unavailable comic to the offshore-educated doctor. My counterpart in New York didn’t match my volume, but she did manage to run into the same “types.”

Oddball – This guy is usually quirky, strange, eccentric, and probably a Trekkie. They are nice, but you wonder what’s in their basement. Chris was a 45-year-old tobacco chewing dot com guy that lost it all in the market down turn. His change of life career became day acting and one of his more notable roles was as an extra in Seabiscuit.

Successful but emotionally unavailable – They have it all except a desire to have a healthy relationship and healthy for them usually means sex on the first date. I met several guys in this category. John was a 40-year-old salesman that told me I’d make the perfect wife, if that was what he was looking for. He’s keeping me at the top if his list until he’s ready.

Rockyfella – The unemployed or cheap guy is everywhere. If you are going to date, you need to have the resources. One of my dates “accidentally” had no cash when the check came and he realized he left his credit cards at home. This 48-year-old man told me I could pass for 29 with my curls. That pre-check compliment didn’t earn him a second date.

Brainiacs – Smart is sexy, but when you need to bring encyclopedias on a date, smart can be boring. I went out with a university professor that was so intelligent, I couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t talk about anything nonacademic. We did get close when he admitted he used to have a backgammon addiction.

Hog tied – With this ring, I thee cheat. The married guys are sneaky. They pose as separated, divorced, and single, but what they really are is bored, married guys. One sucked me into his web then admitted he was married, but was looking for a monogamous lover while he kept his wife on the side.

Nice guys – They are everywhere, but hopefully they don’t finish last. Sometimes they spend so much time being nice that they don’t allow for chemistry to develop. Dave, a 46-year-old museum archivist, was a nice guy and we had good conversation, but no connection. He did tell me I was a nice lady.

Musicians – Los Angeles, like New York, is a creative town filled with musicians. I was due to date one on this coast. Brett was a bass player. The last bass player I dated left me to join the circus band. I said I’d never date a musician again, but I thought I’d give Brett a shot. Music was his mistress as well and his schedule didn’t permit regular dating.

Reruns –Reruns are men you’ve dated before, said you’d never do it again, and you relapse. Andy received his second shot in the fall. We originally went out in the spring, but had to break up because he wasn’t ready for such a “real” relationship. He was renewed as a rerun with a double-secret probation clause. He didn’t last 30 days before it ended with an emotional breakdown grand finale several days later. Show cancelled.

Jocks – this good time guy is always available for short term relationships. They are gamey, fun, and oftentimes dumb. Mike, a 40-year-old fireman and tri-athlete, met me for putt-putt golf on our first date. Within the first ten minutes, he challenged me to a thumb wrestling match. Twenty minutes later he decided it would be fun to see if he could unhook my bra in one take. He did, just like The Fonz. Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

It was a busy year for me. In 2005, I will take my 2004 lessons under advisement and revert back to books and batteries sprinkled with passive dating. While my dating spree has provided me with a stable of good material, I’m ready for quality now as Kathleen and I work on our book about dating. I enjoyed the feast, but I think I’ll enjoy my 2005 famine much more.

The eve of my 39th

I’m a little nervous about our relations.

He hasn’t gotten any more than a good night kiss.

That’s all I’ve given him, Stella.

I want his respect.

And men don’t want anything they can get too easy.

On the other hand, men lose interest quickly, especially when a girl is over 30.

When I mention marriage, they even forgot where I live.

So, you see I haven’t been forward with my real age.

Blanche, why are you so sensitive about your age?

Like Miss DuBois, I enjoy the company of younger gentlemen. They make me feel alive and they fill me with “you don’t look a day over 29″ lies. So, on the eve of the 10th anniversary of my 29th birthday, I aim to seek out barely legal men and vodka.

Would Stanley approve?

This morning was the second day in a row when someone from the east coast called to check on me and started the conversation with, “are you dry?”

My standard response was “well, it has been a long time since I’ve had sex, so I guess so.”

I’m working on getting mudslides into my repertoire.

Where there is porn, there is profit. Except in my case. Today I received my last paycheck for my bi-weekly men’s column.

As a dot-com survivor, I knew it would happen. When I asked the editor/owner of the site what his revenue model was prior to signing my contract, he responded, “well, we just started trying….” Then the west coast side of my brain kicked in and said, “What do I care? Just f-in pay me.”

I suppose I’ll pedal my clips somewhere else. You know porn, you are pretty sure you know the story, but you’ll see or read it again just to make sure. I could also check in with Ron Jeremy to get tips on resurrecting my career.