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Choosing Civility: The Twenty-five Rules of Considerate Conduct Blow Me Blow Me Half Broke Horses The Glass Castle Steve Jobs

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Welcome to my blog on dating in Los Angeles.  I hope you find my real life stories and anecdotes on being smart, sexy and single in the City of Angels as amusing (and tragic) as I do.  If you enjoy reading my posts, please share this blog site with your friends, family, loved ones, and less loved ones.  

Please check out my Sex and the City style novel Blow Me—available now in e-book and paperback on my website and lulu.com. Also available in ebook on amazon.com and Google books.

Entries in Angelina Jolie (4)

Saturday
Apr212012

The Table Touch Up

I have this little pet peeve. Those who know me well know that I have more than one, but let’s focus on just one for now. I can’t stand it when women touch up their face at the table. Forget rude, it’s déclassé, which in laymen’s terms means tacky. 

According to the United States Dining Etiquette Guide, applying lipstick at the table is as serious a no-no as using a toothpick at the table. If you’re on a date, a “table touch up” makes you look vain and high maintenance. The man sitting across from you has been looking at your shiny nose and bare lips throughout the entire meal. Why the sudden need to hide that from him? Makeup is about mystery. The mystery is gone if you apply it in public. Much easier to simply excuse yourself—allowing him an opportunity to show his manners by standing as you stand, and even assisting you with your chair—and make your way to the ladies’ room to primp and preen, and tinkle and text. Yes, texting at the table is also inappropriate.

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Saturday
Mar312012

Skinny Bitch

Photo courtesy of Twiggy Lawson

You're not fat, you're neurotic—or possibly anorexic.

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the skinniest weight-obsessed bitch of them all?  Not me. While I have been labeled a “Skinny Bitch” at times, I’m not and have never been weight obsessed. I’m fit—okay, extremely muscular—but not skinny. I eat carbs. I love to eat. And, knowing this, you likely hate me more. You hate me if I don’t eat. You hate me if I do. I can't win. Believe it or not, over the past 4 years I have gained 8.5% additional body fat, and I fall well within the average weight range for my body size and type. That was not always the case. There was a period of time in my teens and early twenties when I was a little heavier, and not so long ago I was actually twelve pounds lighter than I am. This was due to extreme stress and a death in the family. I looked like a heroin addict—not a Skinny Bitch. 

Women waste so much time and mental energy on judging our own and other women’s bodies (see this great article from CNN). Think of all the things we could accomplish, if we focused on other things. You think Hilary Clinton and Sarah Palin got so far in politics by obsessing about their weight? I can understand how a woman who is severely overweight might call herself fat, but when a thin woman labels herself as fat or obese, it’s nothing less than repulsive. Makes me want to vomit, but alas, I’m not bulimic!

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Saturday
Feb262011

Sandra Bullock’s Blind Side

Photo courtesy of Made In Hollywood TVA successful screenwriter friend of mine always says that I would make a great actress if only for the fact that I have large eyes, a large head, and a tiny body. In his opinion, most celebrities look like a cross between an alien and a Tim Burton character; their large heads (often filled with even larger egos) teetering on fragile, insecure spines. Take one look at Angelina Jolie’s orb-like eyes and gangly limbs and you might wonder if she fell to earth in a pod.

I find this amusing as I am often told I look like Sandra Bullock. Last year I was actually photographed as the scorned Sandra - anorexia thin from stress - by some tabloid paparazzi photographer. It was either a photo of me or America’s sweetheart has the same dress, sunglasses, shoes and watch, lunches as the same restaurant as I do and dropped 20 lbs within a week after she claimed her Oscar and dumped her husband.

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Friday
Nov122010

Skip to the loo, my darling...

Pure and simple, online dating sucks.  It is like going to war.  One needs a take no prisoners mentality.  You have to go in knowing what you want and get out fast before you're hit with a million IM requests from inappropriate suitors who stopped on your photo only long enough to determine that you're attractive, but never bothered to read your profile...perhaps they never learned to read.  Regardless, it says something about the average IQ of the men on these sites...on the evolution chart, they are neanderthals caught somewhere between ape and man, and often a little closer to ape.  If they could get away with it, they would probably club a woman over the head and drag her back to the cave.

I let my guard down the other week.  This guy named Skip was pestering me for a date, telling me that he too was a foodie and oenophile and that we had much in common, despite the fact that I saw nothing remotely appealing on his profile.  His photo was small, indistinguishable and, I realized the moment I laid eyes on him, a good five years out of date.  I initially agreed to a quick phone call, and while I was not impressed by his unfaltering Brooklyn accent (despite having lived in LA the greater portion of his 50 odd years of life), he was a good salesman and I succumbed to a brief date.  A drink at Thomas Keller's Bouchon Bistro...downstairs, not upstairs where I might run into someone I know.  I do this every once in a while.  I suffer through a miserable date to prove to myself that my instincts are indeed right, that I can, in fact, determine from a simple email exchange or a five minute phone conversation that someone is not right for me.  My friends seem to think my standards are too high, so I lowered them for Skip.  I said, okay, I won't be hasty in my judgment. Maybe I am not giving these men a chance to shine.  I gave Skip a rope and he hung himself.Photo: Patrick Demarchelier for Vanity Fair

I arrived at the bar looking intimidatingly hot in a skintight black dress and my Gucci Helena boots - the ones Angelina Jolie wore last summer in a Vanity Fair spread shot by Patrick Demarchelier (see photo). I went through great strides (pun intended) to get those boots on my birthday trip to Paris last July, so I was intent on wearing them on every occasion I could. I knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I was going to be interested in Skip. Nevertheless, I wanted to look amazing.  Not for his benefit. For mine. It was my little way of saying "thank you for playing our game; this is what you don't win!"  To set the bar impossibly high, I also wore the 3 karat sapphire and diamond heart-shaped pendant my former lover gave me for my XX birthday not long ago. I wanted there to be no misunderstanding about the manner in which I aspire to be accustomed to. 

I poked my head in the bar and saw Skip sitting in a corner, nursing a glass of nondescript red wine, and I quickly ducked away.  He was not as he represented himself and looked like an unemployed, 60 year old actor who couldn't afford the entire bottle of wine. Shit. What's a girl to do?  I texted. "Are you there yet?"  He replied, "One thing you gotta know about me babe...I'm always on time."  Babe?  Did he just call me babe? The way I saw it, I had three options:  I could simply never show, I could fake an emergency and never reschedule, or I could do something bold - something I have never done before - I could go in there and end the date within 10 minutes or less. Why should I fake enthusiasm, waste calories on a glass of house wine and suffer through some lame attempt at trying to impress me.  I chose door number three.

I introduced myself to Skip and took a seat opposite him.  He complimented me on being "a hottie" and looking better than my photos.  I was speechless. Not from his compliments, but because I could not say the same about him. Always better to understate than overstate oneself in one's dating profile.  Skip offered to buy me a glass of generic house wine, but I declined and he immediately got his guard up sensing the date was going to be brief. After three to five minutes of chit-chat on how the whole online dating experience was going for each of us, I politely told him that I was not feeling much chemistry.  He said it felt like the date was over before it had even begun. Bingo! He was a sharp one, I'll give him that.  I complimented him on being in great shape and obviously taking good care of himself (oh, how I can lie when I want to), but told him I was looking for that certain spark that happens the minute you meet someone.  He began to attack.  How could I possibly know after five minutes.  I hadn't given him a chance.  Please.  He got five minutes of my time.  That's ten minutes more than he deserved!  Did I really need to defend myself to this bozo? I think not.  And, so I departed as gracefully as I arrived.  A moment later, I received this text:

Good luck.  You would not be right for me either.  Like you said, you find it interesting how guys seem to enjoy a date and don't stop to consider if there is reciprocity. Well let me tell you.  That was uncomfortable and you will probably never find "it".  You love yourself too much. I could never be with someone like that. Carly Simon's "Your so vain is on the music system here now :) how appropriate.

PS:  one more thing: you do look 40ish.  It is clear the biological clock is ticking. Bye peace out.

I left the punctuation as is, so you could appreciate the entire effect.  Little did he know I was just outside the restaurant texting a girlfriend on how I averted a disaster date, and I could hear what was on the music system.  It was not Carly Simon!  Do I want to be with a man who thinks I love myself too much?  Clearly he is accustomed to women with low self-esteem.  I am particularly fond of the you do look 40ish post script, because I told him I was almost forty, and admitted to being at peace with the fact that I probably won't have children because the biological clock is ticking loudly and the batteries are running low.  Did he think reiterating what I openly stated would somehow hurt me?  What hurt is that I wasted 10 minutes of my life and by the time I arrived at Angelini Osteria for dinner they had sold out of all the specials!