New Year’s Eve is just around the corner and while everyone is busy making plans to celebrate with friends, family, or lovers, I’m opting out. Last year I went to Vegas for three nights with a friend and partied like a rock star at Tryst, Tao and The Bank. Actually, she partied. I babysat, ensuring her safe return to the hotel room each night, er…morning. This year, I was invited to Aspen, but I don't want the male friend who invited me to think he’d finally get into my pants just because we’re both single on New Year’s Eve. So, I will be ringing in the New Year alone. While I am quite comfortable with being alone, this is a time of year when I will feel not just alone, but lonely. Absent of family, friends or a lover to share the night with. The fact is I would rather celebrate alone than be in some bar with a bunch of people I do not know or care to know trying to convince myself that I am having a good time just because it’s New Year’s Eve.
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Why women should ban the one-night stand.
During the holidays, we are prone to being lonely and more vulnerable than usual. Thanksgiving gave us time to reflect on those things we are thankful for. With Christmas and New Year’s upon us, we obsess over the things we didn’t accomplish and desperately try to fill the voids in our lives. If one of those voids happens to be “boyfriend”, we can make some downright foolish decisions. That’s why it’s important to keep your panties on this holiday season. Don’t start spreading your legs for every Tom, Dick and Horny you meet between now and the end of the year. It’s not going to land you a husband and will most assuredly land you an STD. You’re familiar with the old adage, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” I don’t like referring to any woman as a cow – although a few who have crossed me are deserving of the nomenclature – the point of the expression is what’s important. What guy is going to take a woman seriously if he can get what he wants without consequence?
There is nothing worse than watching your girlfriend open her gift and give you a fake smile as she says “Cool, thanks” and tosses it aside. Okay there is one thing worse. She could say “What in f@#k made you think I’d want a toolbox for Christmas?” and storm out of the room. If your girlfriend is dropping hints about needing repairs done around her apartment, you’re a real tool if you buy her a toolbox. What she is saying is “it would be really great if you could fix my leaky faucet for me” not “I’d love a Black & Decker drill set for Christmas.”
Here’s a simple shopping suggestion: Listen to what she says and pay attention to what she wears.
The reality TV show, Survivor, is wrapping up its twenty-first season this Sunday with the Survivor: Nicaragua finale. As I write this, Chase, Sash, Fabio, Dan and Holly are still in the running. One woman against four men. If only dating odds were so good. This got me thinking that if a show like Survivor can last a decade on national network television and not run out of steam, I should be able to endure a decade of dating in Los Angeles. Alas, I am growing weary, but people love schadenfreude, so why not document how desperate my dating life is? Oh, right, that’s what I’m doing with my blog. Maybe I could start a new reality show called Date Survivor: Los Angeles.
Dating in Los Angeles is a lot like competing on Survivor. Both the reality show and the dating world are divided into tribes and each tribe is given a number of tools for survival. On the CBS show, these tools often include a machete, a pot and water canteens. With the L.A. dating scene, the tribes – male and female – are armed with cell phones, internet access, designer clothing, and credit cards. Survivor contestants build shelters with palm fronds and twigs, while L.A. daters take shelter behind online profiles and forage for financial, spiritual and emotional sustenance. On the TV show, players compete in challenges consisting of endurance, strength, agility, problem solving, teamwork, dexterity, and willpower. In Los Angeles, every date is a challenge, requiring the very same skill set as on the TV show:
Endurance – actively marketing oneself online without losing hope.
Strength – weeding through endless profiles and rejecting the ill-suited suitors.
Agility – steering a date to the restaurant of your choice and avoiding inappropriate advances.
Problem Solving – trying to figure out how to end the date quickly with one’s dignity intact.
Teamwork – having a girlfriend text you with an emergency so you have an excuse to leave.
Dexterity – texting while peeing (TWP) and freshening makeup as you report back to your tribe.
Willpower – getting out of bed the next day to tackle the next dating challenge.
Each week on Survivor, the torch is snuffed out and someone is voted off the island. In dating life, the losing contestant’s profile is blocked, his phone number is flagged “do not answer” and he is forever banished from the island of love. If you are ever on a date with me, and I blow out the tea light candle, consider it "the torch" and take it as a sign that things aren't going well.
When Jeff Probst runs out of ways to make his show interesting I hope he considers my idea. The possibilities are endless with Date Survivor: Los Angeles, Date Survivor: New York, and even Date Survivor: Seattle. It worked for Desperate Housewives. First came Marc Cherry’s TV series with Felicity Huffman, Marcia Cross and Eva Longoria (who has her own little real life ‘survivor’ episode going on with hubby Tony Parker), and then came Real Housewives of Orange County, Real Housewives of New York City and so on. The big difference between Date Survivor: Los Angeles and Survivor is that only on the CBS show does one walk with a cash prize of $1,000,000 and a car, unless you have a real good divorce attorney – in which case you may also walk away with a house.
Last night, I caught myself as I often do, thinking of a past love. We took “a break” to sort out some things in our lives, to decide if we were each willing to make the commitment and sacrifices needed to spend the rest of our lives together. Our relationship was such that if I cried, he hurt; if he hurt, I cried. When we touched, there was no separation between us. Like a warm bath so perfect in temperature, it was impossible to tell where my skin stopped and his began.
I think about him often and he thinks about me, because we are intertwined in heart and head and thought. Our lives goes on. Together but apart. Apart but together. Our love never died. We severed it with a knife. Like cutting an earthworm in half, now there are simply two of us – apart instead of together. Maybe one day we will be reunited. Maybe not. Probably not.
When I stumbled upon a blog entitled “So I inactivate you”, it brought tears to my eyes. I inactivated my love for someone. It has not been deleted. It is not dead. The embers are warm and need only a spark to be ignited again. I don't know if this entry will reach it’s intended audience. All I know, is that as effective as I can be with the written word, I could never express my feelings more eloquently than they were expressed by a stranger in this blog I share with you: "So I inactivate you".
One of my biggest pet peeves is an inappropriate act of intimacy on a first date. In my books – or blogs – groping, kissing and talking graphically about sex (or one’s virility) are top on the list of first date no-no’s and are only acceptable if the woman overtly leads things in that direction – in which case she is likely either drunk, a slut, or both.
I recently met a 53-year old divorced man from Del Mar who was willing to make the 2-hour drive up to Beverly Hills. Sadly, driving more than 20 minutes for a date is considered impressive by L.A. standards. Most men aren’t willing to drive across town. I have one friend who will only date women who reside within a half-hour driving zone from his home. Consider this: there are roughly 310 million people in the United States. If the odds of meeting your soul mate are one in a million, and you are looking only at members of the opposite sex, then you have roughly 155 chances of finding this person. The chances are slim to none that even one of those potential soul mates lives within a half-hour of you. Any man who is not willing to drive across town, or drive up from Orange County or San Diego, is an inconsiderate ass and will wind up a pathetic, single aging Playboy dating women half his age, like Charlie Sheen and his Two and a Half Men character Charlie Harper.
Mr. Del Mar was attractive: tall, intelligent, fit, and a stylish dresser, which earned him an A+ for accuracy of his online profile. But – there’s always a ‘but’ – he had a bit of a smooth-talking, snake-oil peddler quality to him, which reminded me of a used car salesman (albeit luxury pre-owned). Despite saying he was a foodie, he confessed to not liking wine and obviously didn’t know jack-shit about food given the generic chain restaurant he suggested as a meeting place. You know the type with plastic menus, factory-processed breadsticks, generic wines by the glass listed only as Cabernet, Merlot and Chardonnay, and a TV visible from all angles so one can follow the Clippers losing streak while chowing down on fried calamari. Once upon a time, men sat with their backs to the wall as a protective stance incase any unsavory types entered the restaurant, now they do it for optimum vantage point of the TV. Any restaurant with televised entertainment is not appropriate for a first date, or any date for that matter. I vetoed his choice in favor of E. Baldi on Canon Drive where I also ordered, since he didn’t know how to read “menu Italian”.
Before our wine arrived, my date put his hand on my thigh. Smooth. Too smooth. I’m not a rent-a-date. Keep your mitts to yourself! thought I, repositioning my chair to be further away. This SoCal Casanova was all for fast-tracking right past the unwritten third-date rule that runs rampant in this town. A rule that states that it’s uncool to make sexual advances before the third date, but is widely misinterpreted as expect to get laid by the third date. Before we finished our crudo appetizer, he leaned over and French kissed me. I’m sorry. Did I miss something here? I don’t recall saying that he could touch me, let alone cram his tongue down my throat. Talk about inappropriate first-date conduct. Honestly, gentlemen, that behavior would be the equivalent of me taking a credit card out of my date’s wallet and buying a pair of Jimmy Choos between dinner and dessert. While there are plenty of women in this town who would think nothing of doing that on a first date, I’m sure Mr. Del Mar would not take kindly to that kind of behavior given he had already questioned why all women covet expensive designer shoes. So we look great with our legs in the air, dumb ass! And since that’s for your benefit, you should buy the damn shoes - and the lingerie.
I don’t care how attractive, successful, or fit a man is, he has no right to touch me, let alone swap spit with me, on a first date. How about reading my signals – which were nothing like Ooh, baby…grope me at the table and then bang me silly in the restaurant bathroom before dessert. I know all men are looking for a little tongue-down-throat, hand-down-pant action, but can they at least try to wait till after the entrée is cleared before helping themselves to dessert?