Don't Mince Words

When you are a young boy, from what I hear, you hate to be called cute.  Puppies are cute.  You want to be hot, which is more desirable.  Well, as a girl/woman, there’s something worse than cute.  We hate to hear the phrase, “You are so ____.  I can’t believe you aren’t married.”

I had my first date of the new year on Saturday.  Yeah, I know I’ve given up on dating in Los Angeles, but once in a while they’ll find me and ask me out.  I had nothing to lose and, at the end of the day, a girl’s gotta drink.  When David agreed to meet me at a bar four blocks from my house, it was a no brainer.

He was your typical cougar hunter:  35 and petite.  I generally like my men to have thighs bigger than mine, but this is L.A. where emaciated metrosexuals are in the majority.  I learned quickly that making small talk with an Israeli was going to be hard.  I felt like I needed a translator.  He’d been out here for nine years but still managed to keep a thick accent.

I did hear loud and clear one of his questions.  “You are so cute.  I don’t understand why you aren’t taken.”  I kept my composure mainly because I’ve been asked this a bazillion times.

“You’ve lived here nine years, so I think you can answer that question easily.  It is hard to date here, right?  It is hard to meet genuine people, right?  It is rare to meet anyone with an advanced degree.  And it is very hard to meet anyone that truly wants a long-term committed relationship.  That’s why I prefer to be single and focus on my career than be a traitor to my own standards,” I responded.

The date ended shortly thereafter, both of us tired from struggling to find conversation points and any common ground.  We hugged out, I thanked him for my beers, and I walked home to my dog – my real committed relationship

Why is it when I tell people I can be shy, they grab their stomach and double over laughing? Honestly, it took all I could to approach the Barney’s Beanery guy, give him my card, and ask him to call.

The man called. We agreed to go back to the scene of the crime and meet for a beer. I got there early on purpose because, yes, I was nervous and wanted to get a head start on the beer. I realized it had been ages since I’d gone into a date with little-to-no information. At least with set-ups, or online dating, you have some background information to go on.

We met and everything was fine. He’s a writer and filmmaker, so we had no shortage of conversation. We traded bad date stories, bitched about aspects of LA, and shared a lot of laughs. It was an incredibly normal and fun night. Technically, the evening was unblogable because he didn’t do anything ridiculous like some of the colossal tools I’ve been out with. He even asked if he could create his own blog pseudonym. How’s that for creative collaboration?!

I’m on deck for a second date, but even if that never happens and this ended up being a one off, I now know that I can conquer my own shyness and meet men the old-fashioned way, in bars.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in more than three years. Yes, I’m a Hater. Women who have joined my no-mother cult have experienced similar exhilaration and relief after radio silence. However, we all have our sound bites to dodge the mainstream how’s-your-family questions.

Several days ago, I connected with a match.com guy who seemed delightful; tall, geeky, and from New York. During our first date, I decided I really, really liked him when he told me his dad was dead and he no longer talked to his mother.

I squealed with delight. I didn’t have to give my blanket “I don’t get home much” response. Instead, I smiled and said. “My dad is dead too and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years.”

“I’m at seven years. I’m an only child, so I call/hang up every once in a while to see if she answers the phone to know she’s dead or not,” he said.

“Oh, I just call my brother and ask ‘Is mom dead yet?’” I said. (My brother doesn’t have the Krazy Barbara Kryptonite like I do.)

We laughed and decided we’d have to meet again soon. And I imagine, if things go well, we’ll be crank calling our mothers. That’s when I’ll know we’re serious.

In LA, there’s a category of women I call “the meal hunters.” They date to eat. While a girl’s gotta eat, I’d rather stay home with unshaved legs and pop open a can of tunafish. I date to meet.

Last night I had a first date with a man who suggested we go to dinner. We ordered a beer, then I ordered an appetizer as my meal. The conversation flowed and in the middle of it all he said, “Wow, you really aren’t a hooker. You hardly eat.”

Most women would of been offended to be thought of as a meal-hunting hooker. I’m in touch with my inner whore and that comment didn’t bother me. I was flattered that he noticed my outstanding portion control talent. To celebrate, I ordered a second double barrel ale. Does that make me a beer whore?

I’ve applied the three-strike-you-are-out rule to my dating. It really comes in handy. Annoying but overlooked first date habits can be re-evaluated prior to firing the potential boyfriend. That way, I am not in month three of the season realizing I recruited the wrong player.

Spicoli admitted on our first date that he was unemployed. That would concern most women, but since I’ve been there, I was sympathetic. In addition to applying for jobs, he tries to surf five times a week. I knew he really was a surfer when he used the word “gnarly” several times. Who still uses that word? I looked behind me to see if Mr. Hand was going to tell us to do our homework.

On the third date, more gnarlies passed between his lips in addition to admitting he had two kids, ages 13 and 3, from two separate women. He’s never been married, and I’ve never met a white baby’s daddy.

Dood, game over. You are out.