Don't Mince Words

You may not know this, but Los Angeles has a subway. It doesn’t go anywhere, so I’ve never been on it even though the stop is three avenues over and three streets up from my house. However, when my boss invited me to a fundraiser downtown at an Irish pub, I knew I should look into riding the subway in order to avoid parking fees. In addition, I could enjoy a couple extra Guinness.

My coworkers congratulated me on my maiden voyage and told me my Union Station transfer would be easy – nothing compared to a Times Square transfer tunnel maze. I was excited. I was doing my thing for the environment and I could get hammered in an Irish bar. Win-win.

I had my Black and Tans and my flirting and made my way back to the Pershing Square station without conflict (e.g. panhandlers, pimps). After transferring, I stood on the Union Station platform and looked at my watch. Nobody was around and it was only midnight.

In New York, this happens and you assume trains are running slow. But when no one is around, you suspect you missed a notice. One time I fell asleep in the Spring Street C station waiting for a train that had been diverted on the F tracks. In LA, I didn’t know what to expect, so I checked the schedule.

The last train north left the station at 11:52 p.m. on a Saturday night. It’s hard for me to stand by the MTA when they can’t even offer drunk service on a Saturday night. I left the platform and walked to the front of Union station where I caught a cab home for $30. My cab rides home to Brooklyn were cheaper.

And you wonder why people in LA like to drive.

There’s probably a 12-step program for me somewhere. It wouldn’t be sexual addiction, but maybe it’s fun addiction or baggage avoidance. Whatever it is and no matter how much I try to date men my own age, I find myself going back to younger stock.

Last week, after I washed the gray right out of my hair, I shea buttered my skin, poured some ice tea, and sat in my Hugh Heffneresque robe while I went online and reactivated some of my online dating profiles. My fishing yielded a 30 year old who wrote me I was the hottest girl he’d seen on the site in a while.

Right, whatever. That may get you laid.

He asked for my phone number, which scored him points because I don’t do the back-and-forth local email. He opted to make his communication to me a text message. Then he emailed me to ask me if I received the text message.

This is the downside to dating babies. They have no old-school communication skills. I wrote him back, “I don’t believe in text messaging. If you want to reach me and talk to me, punch in my 10 digits and call me.” Five hours later, I got a phone call.

“Hey, ah, what are you doing? You want to hang out sometime?” he asked.

Hang out? What exactly is hang-out in the Gen Y lexicon? Where I come from, that would mean making popcorn, renting a Betamax movie, and playing foozball in someone’s basement. I said sure and he said he’d call me to organize something this weekend.

That call came Sunday morning. It was another one-minute conversation. I tried to assertain what hang-out was and suggested we meet for coffee or a beer.

“Oh, I’m kind of in the mood to just make-out. How about we do that,” he suggested.

I told him that was tempting, but generally the way dating worked with me was we’d meet a few times and get to know each other and determine chemistry/common interests before there would be any making out.

He called later in the afternoon and cancelled on me, but not before asking me what I was looking for. “I am looking for a man I connect with – who I can get to know, date and then evolve into a long-term relationship.”

“Whoa. You are the real deal,” he commented

Yeah, so ante-up baby, and ask me out so I can really blog your ass.