I Love LA

When I'm on the subway, I make a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with anyone, because locking eyes with someone will occasionally be misinterpreted as me jumping up and down and loudly exclaiming, 'Come over here, mumble incoherently under your breath, and lick my face.' The subway was packed last night, so it was harder than usual to avoid looking at people, particularly since I kept hearing these short staccato indiscernible screeches. Were they the loud protests from a pre-verbal child? Or, more likely, the odd vocal outbursts from a disheveled, unmedicated adult?

Neither, it turns out. It was the squawking of a large parrot perched on the arm of a smirk-faced man. I made eye contact with the parrot, and because I was so captivated by the bird, it took me a while to realize what Smirk Face was holding in his other hand -- a long rectangular cardboard-and-wire-mesh carrier with 3 or 4 rats in it. That's when I had to get a big long look at the guy who thinks it's completely normal to get on the subway with a large untethered bird and a box of rats.

I looked him up and down. He was kind of a slob, wearing big faded jeans that were cut off mid-shin -- ratty man capris that looked like he was just so annoyed by the discomfort of wearing full-length jeans, he grabbed a scissors and hacked off the bottom part in a fit of comfort over convention.  He was ambiguously middle aged, falling somewhere in the range of 35 to 55. His head was covered with an  unruly mass of chin-length brown hair, except for the small bald spot in the back. Then I noticed he was wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Smirk Face is presumably married. WTF?! I know many wonderful LA women, who have their shit together, who aren't married, and not all by choice. But Smirk Face -- a walking human game farm -- is off the market. I want Randy Newman to write a song about *that* LA.

Single

"Wrong # So. Cal," he texted in response to my friendly text message that was meant for a friend, but inadvertently sent to him. In town for a work gig and a quick visit with me, my friend had recently dropped her phone, so I was trying to reach her on another phone she had borrowed for her trip. "Sorry!" I texted back, unable to repress my overly polite inner midwesterner.

Less than 30 seconds later, he texted back "Single." Not 'I'm Single,' or 'Hey, you're a woman, and I'm a man, are you single?" Just "Single." Just like that. Like he felt he had to blurt this out and hope that the right moment hadn't passed without letting me know he was single and ready to mingle. It had all the awkwardness of someone answering too soon a question that wasn't even asked. Think about it. At the time he blurted out "Single," he only knew two basic things about me. I had a female name, and I presumably lived in Los Angeles.

Now, under most circumstances, I would have just put my phone down and walked away. He's a stranger. I don't owe him anything. I didn't really understand why someone would try to connect with a woman who lives 1,000 miles away, sight unseen. He struck me as one of those lonely Norwegian bachelors desperate for *any* female contact.

Curious to see how his ill considered move would play out, I texted back.

Me: Go on.

Single: Just checking. Case of momentary bravery.

Me: Have wrong texts led to previous, if fleeting, success with the ladies? Seems like a low-percentage play.

Single: Hehe yeah no...first time caller.

Me: Still, using wrong texts to meet women is probably a more successful strategy than online dating. At least for guys.

Single: Wouldn't know. Anti-online.

And, apparently, anti-girlfriend who lives within a day's drive of him.

Single: So...I'm Dave. Hi <my name written as if I were a rapper>.

Me: Yeah, it deserves your contempt. Online dating is the sledgehammer of romance.

Single: Than 
Oops. I hit send button to (sic) soon. Let me sort it out.

Sort it out?! Winner, winner, chicken dinner. This guy must be at least 70! It just kept getting better and better.

Single: Thank you. And sledgehammer of romance is brilliant!

Me: Thanks. Seems pretty accurate. So, tell me something true about yourself that might surprise me.

Single: True n surprising?

Me: Yep. Given that I only know four things about you, surprising me shouldn't be that difficult.

No response. Finally, 35 minutes later, he texts back.

Single: I'm overthinking it and it's past my bedtime.

What would motivate a guy to try to start something up with a faraway stranger? He certainly didn't have an inkling as to what I look like, and even less of a sense of my good inner qualities. My initial misdirected text to my friend was friendly, but not funny or clever. There was nothing in that text other than my first name and a couple of friendly inquiries.

So it begs the question, 'What kind of guy is Single if he's champing at the bit to tell a stranger with a woman's name, who lives 1,000 miles away, that he's available?' A guy with no feasible options, that's who. A guy who lives in his mother's basement, and perhaps a voracious connoisseur of comic books and hot dogs.  A modern-day Ignatius J. Reilly.

The Day the Universe Mocked Me (most recently, because it happens on a regular basis)

I knew less than two minutes into my Saturday morning kickboxing/tae kwon do class that not drinking more than a few sips of coffee before was a bad decision. Not just bad. Titanically bad. As bad as someone rubbing bacon fat all over themselves before hiking in grizzly bear country. The kind of epically bad decision that makes people scratch their heads and go 'What the...?! How does *that* happen?'

I can't really function without a full cup of Joe in the morning. If I don't bathe my synapses in coffee, my brain continues to doze in its semi-comatose state, while the rest of me is not firing on all cylinders. I'm all cattywampus, struggling to focus and stay in the present. This, of course, is the exact moment when the Universe will choose to mock me with something from my recent past I'd rather conveniently forget. The Universe can be a merciless bitch, barely tolerable with lots of coffee, and simply insufferable without.

I had trouble executing routine basic drills I've been doing since I started kickboxing six years ago. Then the class focused on a difficult kick that requires excellent flexibility if you want to really look good doing it. There's not enough coffee at all the Starbucks in Seattle that could get me to do that kick well. And on a day I hadn't had more than a eyedropper of coffee, there was no way I was going to be able to do a decent kick.  So naturally this is the moment I notice him, not more than four feet away from me. He's a bystander, waiting for class to be over so he can take his kid home, and a guy I went out with once.

It was a perfectly nice first date. There was nothing of the ridiculous that often makes an appearance at many of my first dates. It was easy to talk with him because we had a lot in common, and culturally he felt familiar--part of the NPR tribe. He seemed like someone with whom I could have developed a friendship, and perhaps a relationship. A few days later, he texted me saying he hoped we could go out again after I got back from a short trip. And I would have gone out with him again, except that about the same time, I ended up going on a first date with a guy I liked better -- the guy who is now my boyfriend. Instead of texting "Perfectly Nice" that, except for bad timing, I *would* have gone out with him again, I didn't text him at all. I didn't know how to make 'I had a nice time with you, but I don't want to go out with you again, because I had a better time with someone else' sound like less of a rejection, and more of an explanation along the lines of 'Oops! You're a nice guy -- it's just bad timing.'

So, there I am, bumbling through a series of difficult kicks without the benefit of being caffeinated, when I start panicking that Perfectly Nice might recognize me. I am in full-on Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief mode. My first thoughts are all denial:

No, that's not him. He doesn't even live in this part of town. And I'm not wearing any makeup, so if it is him, he won't recognize me anyway.

Then, when I can't deny that it's definitely him, I turn to anger:

Why did I have to go out with so many guys? Didn't I realize I was bound to run into one of them some day? Why am I so picky? I am a whore! A first-date whore! See what happens when you're too lazy to get up and make coffee for yourself?! 

Then right on cue comes the pitiful bargaining:

Universe, I will NEVER ignore a text or go out into the world uncaffeinated again, if you just spare me from locking eyes with him. Please, let me get through this without an awkward interaction with him, and I pledge I will be a BETTER PERSON from now on!

When the bargaining becomes too pitiful and annoying, I move on to depression:

There's nothing I can do. I'm just stuck in this uncomfortable place until I've done 500 of these damn kicks that I will never be able to do properly, much less with elegance. I don't care. Nothing matters anymore. 

And finally, blessed acceptance:

It is what it is. I am not a bad person. I don't have to say 'yes' all the time. Feeling awkward is part of the human condition. I need coffee to function. Soon I'll be in the comforting embrace of my beloved coffee again.

Searching for that Perfect Calvin Klein Dress in my Size

What the...? You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing here? Can't you see this blog has been abandoned?!

Well, not just yet. Hello Faithful Readers. I'm back from my unplanned, well needed hiatus. Try as I might, I could not quit you. I think I still have embarrassing things to share with you. That's a well that will *never* run dry -- the well of romantic humiliations and missteps. Please continue to slake your thirst. My cup runneth over.

A few weeks before Halloween, my daughter and I went thrift-storing for costumes. While I was pawing through the racks looking for a dress suitable for a 1970s Cher costume, I was struck by the thought that thrift-store shopping might be the *perfect* way to explain online dating. Now, I realize that every other blog post I write seems to contain a new disparaging comparison to online dating. But those comparisons to Dante's Inferno and cable tv (among others) really only apply to the negative aspects of online dating, whereas a comparison to thrift-store shopping fits the *overall* experience of online dating, not just the *worst* aspects of it.

At a very fundamental level, thrift stores and dating websites are places people go to acquire other people's rejects. When confronted with the idea of shopping at a thrift store, people sometimes think, 'No way am I doing that. I'm not the kind of person who shops at a place like that.' But a friend who scored something nice at a thrift store for a dollar might lure you into giving it a try. Likewise that friend who scored someone nice online.

In thrift stores and on dating websites, the garish and outlandish often catch your eye first. Thrift stores are an excellent source for wild colorful costumes, in the same way that dating websites are a wellspring of crazy characters who make it easy to write blog posts about the horrors of online dating. But the real trick is finding something that integrates seamlessly into your regular wardrobe, your daily life.

Dating websites and thrift stores have a similar tradeoff between cash versus time. It doesn't cost much to put up a dating profile (often they're free), but it's as time consuming to go through every message you receive and view every profile of those who've contacted you as it is to patiently go through the thrift-store racks piece by piece. You have to have the patience of Job to look through rack after rack of other people's rejected clothes -- clothes that are too worn or outdated or stained or plain just don't appeal. Sometimes you lose faith that there is anything of interest for you and you just walk out discouraged and empty handed. But every once in a while, the Universe blows you a hot kiss, and you discover that perfect mint condition Calvin Klein dress in your size! You think, 'How is it possible that something so nice ends up here?' Yet it does -- a brilliant gem hidden among all the quietly boring or garishly hideous clothes occupying the racks.

Patiently Learning My Lesson

I started a new job this week. After several years of working temp jobs, I have finally broken out of that temp-job cycle and have landed a permanent one. Halle-fricking-lujah! Finally. I am not a patient person. Oh sure, I can wait patiently in line at Costco behind 50 people with carts overflowing with 100-pound bags of pretzels and other necessities of life, because, well, it's Costco! But when it comes to some of the major categories of my life (job, career, love), I have the patience of a spoiled four-year-old at her own birthday party being forced to wait until the very end to open her presents.

Since my divorce, life's biggest lesson for me has been patience. Even though I really wanted a permanent job, I had to wait a long time for one. My temp jobs helped me brush up my job skills, and I slowly gained enough experience to become marketable again as an employee in the full-time permanent pool. Eventually I got what I wanted, but ding-dang, it took much, much longer than I was prepared to wait.

And life continues its lesson, since I've been learning patience in my love life too. For the past two months, I've been dating a great guy I met online. We see each other about once a week. Even though I would like to see him more often, one date a week is really all our busy schedules will allow.

I like to think of myself as a quick study. (Who doesn't?) But even if that were true, there is no shortcut for learning patience. Cultivating patience is like listening to a long story told by a beloved aunt with a terrible stutter. It takes as excruciatingly long as it takes.

Happy For the Reminder

I am sitting on a bench facing the marina on a beautiful day in Los Angeles. I am struggling to write something witty or insightful about love for this blog, killing time before I pick up my daughter from a nearby birthday party. Less than ten feet from me is a married couple bickering about everything in front of friends into whom they accidentally bumped. He says the fish he caught on their recent trip was 30 inches long. She objects and claims it was only 25 inches. It continues on unabated by the presence of their friends, who seem trapped by an unfortunate circumstance forced upon them by Fate, the black-humored prankster of the Universe. He says something, she disagrees on the nobody-gives-a-f*ck details. They choose to pollute an otherwise serene place with their annoying, slightly hostile vibes rather than breathe in the glorious scene, grateful to be alive. I am once again happy for the reminder of how hard it can be to be married.

A big boat drifts by with a man in a formal tux and a woman in a white wedding dress, presumably sailing off to fulfill their marital destiny. "DON'T DO IT!" yells Mr. Bicker in a half-hearted way, as if he knows he's powerless to warn a man off tying the knot when that man is in the grip of love's sweet pull. The friends react with nervous laughter, embarrassed by the wider implication of Mr. Bicker's half-joking last-minute advice to the groom. Mrs. Bicker half-heartedly hits her loud-mouth galoot of a husband on the shoulder and commands him to "STOP IT! HE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Then he reaches over and kisses her and they get on their bikes and ride away. I wonder to myself if I'll ever meet someone who will put up with me enough to kiss me even when I'm *that* annoying. Then I'm happy for the reminder that marriage works in mysterious ways.

A Love Letter to First Dates

When you're a woman using an online dating website, you get *a lot* of messages from guys. All of my single female friends confirm that's been their experience. For a single woman, it seems like having interest from a lot of guys would be a dating panacea, but that's not the case at all. Most of the men are too something: too old, too young, too married, too uninteresting, too encumbered by life's messy circumstances, too geographically undesirable, etc. It's an embarrassment of faux riches -- emphasis on embarrassment -- all that male interest. Think of it like this: Online dating is like having cable tv. You get 500 channels, but only three are interesting enough to actually watch.

July was the month of the long-distance suitor. And when I say 'long-distance,' I don't mean guys who live 30 miles away in another part of LA. I mean long-ass-distance, like Arizona, Italy, and Denmark. I don't understand why a man would waste his time writing me a long thoughtfully composed message expressing his interest in me when there's almost no chance it could evolve into something local and real. Winning the lottery seems more likely. Of course, they may be looking for *only* an epistolary romance that plays out over the course of many emails. That may be all their messy life circumstances will allow. 

An epistolary romance might work for some people, but I'm not one of them. Although I adore highly verbal men and appreciate a well written letter, I want the angsty, butterflies-in-the-stomach experience of a real first date. I want the smile and the direct eye contact. I want the awkward pauses in the conversation because you're too gobsmacked by each other to be able to think in words. I want the spontaneous jokes that erupt organically during the evening. I want the not-knowing whether he's going to kiss me at the end of the date. I want the unexpected euphoria that comes when you realize you feel a real connection. Even with all of my many awful first dates, I'd gamble on a first date over a love letter any day.