Don't Mince Words

I’ve revised the Kubler-Ross grief cycle to consider the emotional states of dating in Los Angeles.

Shock stage – initial paralysis after a few bad first dates and remembering someone telling you you’d have to “import” your men if you lived in Los Angeles.

Denial stage – continuing to date because you can’t believe it is really that bad out there.

Anger stage – frustrated and mad, you now date as if it is a revenge fuck. Each date gives you more writing material and you just get angrier.

Bargaining stage – seeking in vain for a way out of dating. You volunteer more and do anything for distraction.

Depression stage – dating in Los Angeles is not going to change.

Acceptance stage – moving forward by adopting a dog and revising your vibrator collection.

Last night I came to the realization that I may never get laid again. Tex and I watched “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” in bed. With each bark, he’d cock his head and stare at my 20-inch monitor while I giggled. I can’t remember the last time I laughed in bed. At this point, I’m not sure Tex would give up his spot on the queen-sized for a man. Well, maybe for a remastered version of Lady & The Tramp.

Los Angeles is full of creative people, so it was only a matter of time before I’d have a date with a musician. Who knew it would be a doubleheader. I’ve dated musicians before, but they’ve had day jobs which puts them in the frustrated artist category. These guys were “real” musicians.

Friday night was a 40-something artist that sang and played numerous instruments. He was from the south and still had the accent. That made him even more endearing until he handed me his CD and told me he’d be on the road in a few weeks. I’m never sure if that is ego or an invitation to be a panty-throwing roadie. As I was half-way through my Moscow mule, Friday requested to read my palm.

“Your life line doesn’t look right. You need a liver cleanse,” he told me. No, I just needed to finish my half-empty glass and self-cleanse.

As he continued to dominate the conversation, I prepared my exit speech. Thanks, I don’t need another. It was nice meeting you.

Saturday’s date was with a slightly shy 31 year-old composer/producer. After nearly a month of e-courting, he nutted up and asked to meet me. By the time I had finished my second beer, I managed to wow him with the theatrical merits of Beerfest versus Pineapple Express. He thought I was a genius. I knew I was just appealing to my demographic and it was a struggle. This cougar thing is tough work.

As a writer, I have a strong appreciation for the creative mind. However, in the dating world I still need to find my happy medium between crazy artist and humble CPA.

A close girlfriend got out of a 2.5 year fakelationship and nearly immediately got back to the online dating business with some mildly successful results. I found her get-back-on-the-horse determination inspiring enough to return to the game also. My out-of-the-gate experience left a friend in New York saying, “can you move to San Francisco? Even with the gays, it has to be better dating there.”

I have a dog for companionship and a vibrator for sanity, so dating in Los Angeles is becoming more difficult to do the older I get. I make it very clear with my prospects that I’m not looking for anything casual and really want to make sure there is chemistry and good friendship long before the cock meets the vag. Fucktard said he understood.

We had two great dates with good, engaging conversation in addition to some obvious attraction. However, a day later, he was screwing a stranger. He sent me a morning-after confessional email stating he had made a “mistake” the night before and he felt “horrible” and was “scared shitless and confused.” It was clearly an open and shut case of Jewish guilt meets undefined needs. The one thing he did get right is I deserve better.

One day I’ll meet a man in LA who knows what he wants and it is consistent… from day-to-day and week-to-week. But I have to say, this is the first time I’ve meet a man who was so intimidated by me that he broke his 14-month celibacy and fucked a stranger 24 hours after our second date. Yes, this is one for the LA record books.

I’ve been in Los Angeles four years. It’s hard to believe my stay has exceeded my time in New York. My LA Story isn’t filled without a few ironies:

Tan lines: For the past two years, I’ve had a vitamin d deficiency.
Body image: I’ve had fewer dates since I’ve lost 120 pounds.

Last night, I was at a special event in the New York section of the Paramount lot. While I was eating sushi on Delancey, my girlfriend asked me if I missed New York. For the first time, without hesitating, I was able to say, “No. I miss my friends, but I have friends all over the U.S. I miss.”

Besides, LA is filled with just as many soulless assholes as New York. Today my heart swings.

Since moving to Los Angeles, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for a sign I really do live here. Twenty-two months later, I finally felt my first earthquake.

I was asleep when the bed moved side-to-side while the window rattled. It woke me up and I assumed it was the Mexicans renovating the apartment above me. Three seconds later, it was over and nobody was upstairs. It was the thrill you get on the Cyclone with your hands in the air. You run around wanting to ride it again. I dashed to my computer to see where the quake was. Novice that I am, I didn’t realize I’d feel a 5.6 located 116 miles southeast of me.

When I spoke to my brother to let him know I had my “first,” my nephews didn’t know what an earthquake was. I spoke with them and tried to explain. Five minutes later, Dave the three year-old wanted back on to ask, “Aunt Mahna, is the gwound still shaking?”

No, but I’m sure this won’t be my last one.