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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 Dating in Los Angeles (44)


My Date With Shrek

Courtesy of Dreamworks

Is food poisoning better than a first date?  If you’ve read any of my blog, you’ll probably agree that there are definitely times when heaving over a toilet bowl wondering if you will die from some mutant strain of lethal e.coli bacteria sounds like a delightful way to spend an evening.

I was contacted online by a man who seemed charming, gracious and kind – excellent qualities – and agreed to a phone call, during which I detected just a little of the “I think I’m funnier than I actually am” syndrome. Turn off.  But,  I hadn’t been on a date in a while and needed some material for my blog.  What great lengths I go to for my readers! He offered to take me to Melisse, my favorite restaurant in Los Angeles, where I could order whatever wines I wanted. He would arrange a car service to pick me up and drop me off, so I could get to and from dinner without a DUI. Nice!

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New Year’s Eve: Just Say "No"

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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7 Tips to Getting Your Girlfriend a Great Christmas Gift

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. 

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Survivor: Los Angeles  

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.  

Source: CBS

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.


Pardon Me For Sticking My Tongue Down Your Throat

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?


Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger…

But she’ ain’t, and here’s proof…

I recently agreed to a date with a man from Vegas who dabbles in real estate (to the tune of several hundred million) and has a house on the water in Newport Beach, approximately an hour drive from L.A.  As he was driving up from Newport to meet me at the Roof Garden Restaurant at The Peninsula Beverly Hills, he called from his Maybach (one of two he owned, along with a long list of other penis cars including two Bentleys, a Porsche racing car, a Ferrari, and my personal favorite – a Cadillac Escalade, or as like to call it “The Compensator”). Evidently he had no idea how to use the GPS in his $430,000 toy, as he normally had a driver.  Today was my lucky day.  I got to give him block-by-block directions from the 405 freeway to the destination, a mere 1.2 miles away, and he still managed to get turned around a half dozen times.  

© Glenn Francis www.PacificProDigital.comHe finally arrived and ambled over to the table where I was seated – smack dab center of the patio.  A towering 6’4”, he looked and sounded like a distant relative of Herman Munster with long gangly arms, nails bitten to the quick, and saggy alcoholic eyes like Larry Hagman, circa 1995, prior to his liver-transplant. At the time, Larry Hagman was 64 and not well; my date claimed to be only 52.  I was a huge fan of Larry Hagman in I Dream of Jeanie and Dallas, but that didn’t make me want to date a celebrity look-a-like. Despite Munster’s stated youth, he kept talking about his bucket list, which included going to every Nascar race in the world, every major league baseball stadium in the US, the US Open, The French Open, Wimbledon and the Australian Open, and pretty much every sporting even under the sun.  I could take the tennis matches and the Monaco Grand Prix would be kinda cool, but it is a rather lame bucket list if you ask me.  If that was the list and he wanted to do it with me, I would hope that he’d kick the bucket sooner than later.  It certainly doesn’t match my bucket list, partly because I’m too young to have one yet.  Other than talking about his list, he talked about his real estate holdings – thousands and thousands of acres in Vegas, Dallas and Dana Point.  He admits to having barely graduated high school (like I didn’t notice) and learned everything he knows about business from reading books by Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and the likes.  Mr. Munster never asked me one thing about myself.  When he did refer to me, he made asinine jokes, such as “Did your mother lift weights, because you’re a real dumbbell.”  Now, that would be marginally funny, if he weren’t such a dumbbell himself and if I actually were a dumbbell.  But, since my IQ registers at least double his, it was rather pathetic.  He then bragged about how many one-line zingers he had stored in his head and I thought that is exactly where he should keep them.

During the agonizing two-hour brunch, the service staff all but vacated the premises and got me wondering if I had overlooked a fire alarm drill.  Finally brunch ended and we made our way to the valet parking where he waited for his Maybach, which was parked out front on proud display. As I was paying for my parking (he did not offer to pay), he asked me how much it was and made a comment on how he’d have to give the valet more than a $10 for his car since that would only be a $2 tip.  He pulled out a twenty.  Still not offering to pay for my valet.  I guess he left his manners in the glovebox of the Maybach.  In this era, it is standard dating protocol for a man to pay for a woman’s parking or taxi, as it is no longer acceptable for a man to pick a woman up at her home on a first date (due to safety reasons, though it is always polite to offer).

With a house in the best development in Summerlin, the most elite suburb of Vegas, a waterfront home in Newport Beach, and his various toys – I can only assume private jet was on the list – this guy would be a magnet to the multitude of blond haired, tits-on-a-stick, aging plastic surgery Playboy bunny retirees who grace the streets of Hollywood and Beverly Hills in their Ugg/miniskirt combos and stripperesque clothes with their nipples barely covered covered, but he is repellent to a woman like myself.  I would be popping pills, shooting heroin in the bathroom and have alcoholic eyes myself if I spent more than a day with this man.  How one woman married him for 15+ years and another for 7 years, is beyond me.  Oh, right… the 15-year marriage landed the wife and mother-of-two a 12-million dollar settlement, and the 7-year marriage, well she walked out one day – loaded up the moving trucks and tossed the keys on the front porch – while he was boating on Lake Mead.  That divorce is pending.  I have to admire these women for their tenacity and endurance.  Were I a gold digger, I would have been married seven times over and would be commuting via private jet from my vineyard in Napa to the Van Nuys airport where my driver would await me in my Mercedes sedan (I would never be so nouveau riche gauche to own a Maybach) and take me to my 3-acre waterfront home on the cliffs of Point Dume, Malibu. 

Snob, yes, most definitely I am.  Stickler for manners and social graces, agreed.  But, gold digger?  I wish.