Don't Mince Words

I hadn’t had a date since August and chose to focus on work and health. Those were more productive diversions. I never expected to meet a man the old-fashioned way – in a bar.

A married, former co-worker suggested I go with him to a bar in Montrose that was frequented by NASA/JPL employees. The prospect of meeting a rocket scientist intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure how I’d relate to those guys since I’d never been to a Star Trek convention. But I went figuring a girl’s gotta drink.

I met Real Guy (RG) a couple days before my trip to Hawaii. I knew within 10 seconds of meeting him that he was a guy I could like. He was outgoing, opinionated, funny, and cute. As he played pool, I told co-worker to be my yenta and pass my number on, if RG was interested.

When I returned from Hawaii, I was busy and didn’t return to the bar until I heard that RG had been asking about me. When I arrived, he stopped playing pool. The chemistry was immediate. We sat and talked for seven hours. We went out the following three nights. The conversation and humor overflowed.

There’s not an online dating search engine that can recreate the randomness of this meeting. I’m not sure where this will lead. What I do know is all my online dating profiles are closed. If this doesn’t work out, I’m back to working the bars, or the docks.

It’s that time of year when the tops come up on the prickmobiles and single men in Los Angeles realize they don’t want to be alone for the holidays. I call it boomerang season.

Michael, the 48 year-old margarita puker, contacted me to see if I’d be interested in a second date nearly eight months after our first date. He “missed” me and claimed he had tackled his personal problems and was ready to date again.

I don’t think so.

Alex, a computer programmer, was also known as “A Tale of Two Starbucks.” We never met on our first date because we ended up at different Starbucks on Ventura. He contacted me five months later to see if he could finally meet me. Once again, an unavailable man wants to see if I can be available for him.

I don’t think so.

Henry, a bipolar former gynecologist, and I stopped dating nearly two years ago after I realized he enjoyed playing to the whiny Jew stereotype. He sent me an email to which I responded with general niceties. His response was, “I really wished you had called me instead of emailed.” This is another example of a man in LA that wants to be chased.

I don’t think so.

My trifecta of fools makes me wonder. If you get what you give, why are all these losers coming back for more? Is it a lasting first impression or a simple black book random dial?

I’m going into winter dating hibernation. No more boomerangs.

I laid out my clothes the night before: black v-neck sweater, pedal pushers, and black jeweled mules with kitten heels. I was ready to see Dr. T.

My morning-of ritual consisted of shaving my legs, scrunching my hair so the curls fell across my eyes at just the right angle, and layering the perfume.

When the nurse came in and took my vitals, she commented on how good I smelled. Excellent, send the doctor in – I’m ready for him. Next in was Dr. T’s trainee. He looked at me somewhat fearfully, as if a good smelling redhead had not been around in a while. He reviewed my chart and then looked at me as said, “You are doing really good and you look great. The doctor will be in shortly.”

Dr. T came in with the trainee. He looked different – new glasses and thinning hair. His panty-melting accent was only a consolation prize. I starred at him as Trainee boy ran through the stats.

“You look like you are doing well. Get on additional calcium and zinc supplements and we’ll see you in a few months,” Dr. T said as he walked out.

For this I shaved my legs? I need to find a new McSteamy.

In California, if you asked any former New Yorker what they miss about the city, the response is pretty consistent: food, fall, and friends. I returned recently with a certain fear factor: do I miss it so much I’ll want to move back and give up my 72 degrees and sunny homogenous SoCal life?

In the first hour after arrival, my train went local and was rerouted. I dragged my bag three flights of stairs to street-level to do the F-6 dance. Then I saw a shiny yellow taxi and decided it was my ticket to further stair avoidance. The taxi ride turned into an old school Disney E-ticket. We did 70 down Park. I tipped the driver 40 percent. That ride was second only to the cabbie that fell asleep at the wheel and almost shredded me on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Great memories, but I’m not missing it yet.

The shopping was great, but I became a little retail amnesiac and decided to do Herald Square on Saturday. Then I remembered, that’s for tourists and bridge and tunnel shoppers. I lasted 45 minutes in Macy’s before I ran screaming for a beer at Heartland brewery.

Great purchases, but I’m still not missing it.

I went back to Brooklyn to crash a party off of Flatbush. When I walked downstairs and saw two turntables (those antiquated machines with needles that play vinyl musical recordings) I knew I was destined to have a great time. The Clash, Beastie Boys, Velvet Underground, and more… I had not danced that much since, ah, probably college. The wine and beer flowed as the “we’ve got a babysitter” adults made musical requests. It was a mellow hang with people who had things to say.

Damn it, I miss these real people.

I got a typical slice of New England weather: I wore mittens and used an umbrella on the same day while sweating on the hot bus. As far as the food goes, I the choices are overwhelming. I forgot to have a slice, I managed to only have 1/2 a bagel, but I did have UES Indian and hit Chinatown for cheaper eats.

My more long-term Californian friends are right: “Go back to New York often so you can remember why you left.” I love my friends, but the frenetic lifestyle and the crowds I do not miss.

I still love New York, I’m just not sure when I’ll be back.