Sexless in Hollywood

That's Soooo L.A.

2006-10-11T19:54:00.000-07:00

The following is a verbatim reproduction of an exchange written on six cocktail napkins last night at Tangier, a night club in Los Feliz. I was attending a spoken-word event with my friend Boomer. (Yes, spoken word event. What can I say - the "fingernails on chalkboard" event was sold out.)

Boomer: "Story slam" - ???

Duck: like open mic contest, but for stories

Boomer: How long you wanna stay?

Duck: C'mon - paid $6 to get in.

Boomer: OK. But hungry.

Duck: OMG! The guy on stage...

Boomer: ?

Duck: I went out w/him once.

(horrified expression from Boomer across table)

Boomer: When?

Duck: Couple of months ago. Match.com date.

Boomer: He's gross.

Duck: Actor. Plays nerds on TV - go figure.

Boomer: Dumb story too.

Duck: HE'S CHEATING !!!

Boomer: ?

Duck: Story supposed to be off the cuff. He told me same story word-for-word on our date!

Boomer: Wanna tell judges?

Duck: No. Story sucks - won't win anyway.

Boomer: Must be only story he has.

Duck: He does one-man stage show with this story, too.

Boomer: You need to find better way to meet men.

Duck: I know, huh?

Blues Women Have the Right Idea

2006-10-04T19:19:00.000-07:00

When Jackie "Moms" Mabley did her famous stand-up comedy routines at the Apollo Theater in the 60's, one of her favorite subjects was her sexual preference for much younger men. Claiming that her parents had once forced her to marry an 84-year-old man when she was a teenager, Mabley got a lot of comedic mileage at the expense of her late husband. Describing sex with an old man, she once said, "Honey, it's like trying to push a car up a hill... with a rope."

Jackie Mabley, of course, hasn't been the only woman to publicly declare her love for younger men. The female blues trio Saffire attest to the value of younger men as a cure for their "Middle Aged Blues."

"Well I was looking 'round and checking out my very best friends
Seems that they've all taken up with young young men..."

Then there's my mother, who keeps being hit on by geezers. At 55, Mom is not quite ready to give up her size 4 hip-hugger jeans and short spiky hair. Yet the only men who ask her out are dowdy 70 year-olds in golf pants and Depends.

"...Well, it seems like men my age are all boring, married, or tired.
You gotta find a young man if you wanna feel desired..."

"Where are all the single men in their 50's?" she asks. I don't have the heart to tell her, but they're all sending e-mails to her daughter's match.com account.

"Now some of my friends is worried 'bout what people may say,
I say age ain't nothin' but a number, the good lord made it that way..."

I love how these old guys try to reassure me with lines like, "I'm 58, but I don't look or act my age." Great, I think. Just what I need: a man with a skateboard AND a penis pump.

"You know, he can get it up and he can get on down.
He'll help you do the dishes, take you out on the town..."

At 35, I don't exactly consider myself over-the-hill. But still, when 30 year-old Timmy asked me out for a drink, I had to wonder what his angle was.

"He'll let you navigate 'cause he ain't worried about seniority,
You can tell him where to put it, keeping you happy is his priority..."

Oh God, I thought, I hope this isn't like one of these guys I see on Court TV who will date an older woman and talk her out of all her money while she's in a state of unbridled ecstasy.

"Well I'll forget about my arthritis, my backache, my lumbago
That young man makes me boogie at the horizontal disco..."

On the other hand, I can't remember the last time I was actually in a state of unbridled ecstasy. It might totally be worth it.

"I'm cleaning out my closet, I'm no longer sentimental.
Forget about experience, I'd rather have potential..."

OK, so he's a little rough around the edges, and he's still figuring out what he wants to be when he grows up. But his hair does do that cute flippy thing in front...

"Well I don't need to reefer I don't need to cocaine,
All I need is a young man to drive me insane..."

Besides, we're just talking about having a little fun here. When I decide I want a station wagon and a ranch house in Reseda, I have a whole in-box full of pot-bellied, bald-headed, Old Spice-wearing accountants to choose from.

"I'm throwing away my dust mop, got a brand new vacuum cleaner,
I'm no longer taken for granted, my young man sucks it up sweeter..."

Sure, I know what you're thinking. Younger men are great, Duck. But if you're not Cher or Demi Moore, why would one of them want to go out with you? Well, they may be few and far between, but I like to think there are some clever ones out there who have figured it out:

"An old woman don't yell
An old woman don't tell
An old woman don't swell
And she's grateful as hell..."

Yes, Young Timmy might be just the thing to get me enthused about the dating process again. God knows I don't think I can deal with another evening listening to some guy rattle on about his stock portfolio and his ex-wife.

"...and like a rare wine, you don't get older, you just get better.
Give me a young, young man."

Click here to access "Middle Aged Blues Boogie" in iTunes music store.

Click here to for Moms Mabley's routine, "Talkin' 'Bout Men."

Drawing The Line on Geekdom

2006-09-25T00:19:00.000-07:00

I finally had that luncheon date with Todd, the PhD candidate from Match.com. He had e-mailed me several times, and for some reason I was balking at the idea of meeting up with him. I'm not sure why. He was tall, not bad-looking, and apparently smart. I just had a feeling we wouldn't be compatible. Maybe it's because he is a Middle Aged Career Student, and I am a Person With No Regard For Institutions of Higher Learning.

On the other hand, maybe I was just making excuses. Whenever that happens, I find myself grappling with that small-but-needling Voice in the back of my head. You know the one.

It's the Voice that says: Come on now, with that attitude you're never going to find yourself a man.

It's the Voice that says: Stop being so picky. Give the poor bastard a chance.

It's the Voice that, come to think of it, sounds an awful lot like my mother.

Anyway, I finally agreed to meet him at a restaurant on Melrose. And it started out pretty well. He was well-read, articulate, despises George Bush. All good signs. But then, like most men, Todd tragically continued to talk.

"Oh, hey," he said, "every Thursday a bunch of my friends come over to my house to play board games. You should join us, it's a great time..."

I started to say something rude, but the Voice intervened:

Hey, hey, you could do a lot worse than board games. At least they don't smoke crack and and watch wrestling every Thursday night...

"I'm not just a grad student," Todd continued, "I'm also a semi-professional card player..."

"Semi-professional" card player? Is that a euphemism for "heavy gambler on a losing streak?"

He's a brainy math-and-science type, said the Voice. He might just be into it for the intellectual challenge. It's possible. Don't be so judgmental.

"I guess I'm a bit of a risk-taker," he continued. "I had to declare bankruptcy a few years back when I lost all my money in the stock market..."

Okay, gambling problem confirmed. Can we call for the check now?

Well, maybe he learned his lesson after the bankruptcy thing, said the Voice. Financial hardship has a way of maturing a man.

But Todd was starting to feel comfortable, and he was on a conversational roll. "Oh, and I go to the Renaissance Fair every year," he added. "Let me describe my costume for you..."

Oh, Jesus Christ, said the Voice.

Now, most women have a long-standing list of qualifications a man must meet in order to be eligible for the role of boyfriend. But every now and then, we discover an all new rule that we never realized we had, because in fact the issue has never come up before. So from that point of view, my luncheon date was not a total bust. It revealed an important new requirement for my Ultimate Mr. Right: he would not... under any circumstances... even if threatened with death at gunpoint... don purple tights and a feather codpiece.

After all, even the Voice has standards.

Where are all the pearly whites?

2006-09-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

If you're a regular reader of my blog (I'm talkin' to both of you), you've probably noticed I frequently comment on the dental condition of my dates. This is neither a neurotic obsession nor a sign of typical Hollywood superficiality. It's an essential part of American philosophical doctrine. For the half of my readership who are foreigners (that would be you, Emma), let me begin with a brief history lesson:

In 1776, the 13 American colonies had a big falling-out with Britain over 3 fundamental issues: our profound hatred of taxes, our refusal to touch Marmite, and our demand for good dental hygiene. These three principles became the ideological foundation of our fledgling nation and continue as part of the bedrock of the American value system to this day. Americans spend over 2 billion dollars a year on over-the-counter dental care products. And while we admittedly tend to fall short when it comes to proper flossing, failing to take care of one's teeth is not only unhealthy and gross; it's also damned unpatriotic.

With that in mind, I have to ask, what's up with these men I keep meeting on the internet?

I met Scott in Los Feliz for lunch on Sunday. The guy seemed bright, had nice eyes, and was not (for a change) ten years older than he claimed in his profile. He was in good shape, being an avid cyclist (which was actually a minus in my book. I'm all for being in shape, but men who wear those tight little shorts in public - especially to a first date - are hard to take seriously).

But once again, I could not get past the bad teeth. This wasn't just a case of little yellow rodent teeth, like we've seen in the past. This guy had HUGE yellow horse choppers. But that's not the worst of it. The teeth were actually black at the gum line. And as much as I tried to focus on his nice blue eyes and whatever the hell he was talking about, my eyes kept drifting back to the teeth. It was a deal-breaker; I just cannot date a man with a mouthful of rot.

Come on, guys! I realize we're a Blue State and not that into the patriotic thing. But this is also L.A., which is arguably the world capital of vain, narcissistic self-obsession. You'd think we could all take time to at least brush and gargle.

Coincidentally, I had a dental appointment scheduled for today. Dr. Danny is hands down the best dentist anywhere on the planet, and as I was driving to the appointment, I realized he's probably also my longest-standing adult relationship. That gave me an idea.

"Dr. Danny, you gotta hook me up."

He frowned and shook his head.

"Duck, we've talked about this. Nitrous oxide is for dental procedures only. I cannot prescribe it for home use."

"No, never mind about that. I'm looking for a man. You must have some single patients who are nice-looking and employed, with a good set of teeth."

He chuckled.

"No, I'm serious. I've been trying to meet men on the internet, but match.com doesn't ask people to list their dental history. It's a drawback."

"I don't think I can help you with that," he replied, "but if it makes you feel any better, your teeth are in great shape."

Damn it! Why does Dr. Danny have to be the only medical professional in Beverly Hills who follows a code of ethics?

I'm going to work on his receptionist, though. Maybe she'll let me put some flyers in the waiting room.

http://www.healthyteeth.org/

Online Dating: The Fantasy, The Reality

2006-09-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

I have this fantasy. I'm standing in the history section at the book store, perusing a book on the Armenian genocide.

Suddenly, a voice from behind and slightly above me says, "Wow, pretty heavy subject matter, don't you think?"

I turn around. He's gorgeous, with piercing blue eyes and perfect, distinctly non-rodent-like teeth. He's holding a biography on William Blake, or maybe it's Charles Bukowski. (I'm not sure because, to be honest, I'm not looking at the book.) And he smells really, really good.

"Well," I answer, with my characteristic grace and feminine charm, "fucked up human psyche is a sort of hobby of mine. Genocide is just more of an outgrowth of that."

He smiles.

"You seem like a fascinating woman. Do you have any hobbies that don't involve death and destruction?"

"I like to drink coffee with beautiful men," I reply.

Then we adjourn to Starbuck's and live happily ever after.

Alas, every time I browse the aisles at Barnes & Noble, the only man in there is the sixty year-old guy with his pants pulled up to his armpits, looking to see if they have anything new on the Civil War or the Kennedy assassination.

This is why I'm back on match.com.

The thing I find daunting about internet dating sites is the sheer volume of e-mail involved. Apparently there are a lot of men out there who have an impressive amount of time on their hands, which they use to hunt for women. And much like Dick Cheney, they figure if they shoot at anything that moves, sooner or later they're gonna hit something. Every morning I wake up to a barrage of e-mail from a variety of inappropriate men. For example:

Kevin of Redondo Beach doesn't want any drama because he's had a lot of heartbreak in his life and can't handle any more.

Jake from Sherman Oaks works in the "adult entertainment" industry, but he doesn't bring his work home with him.

Steve from West Hollywood sent me a list of obscure movie quotes and will consider me worthy only if I can identify them.

Tom from Silverlake saw the rhinestone cocktail ring in one of my photos and felt compelled to comment on the materialistic "message" it was sending.

Twenty-eight year old Lucas from Encino thinks I'm "totally hot," and we should "hook up some time."

Glenn from Orange County wants me to come to his Bible study group.

Dave from Burbank is forty-nine, and he's "financially secure" because he acted on a sit-com that was popular when I was in high school. (Word of advice to Dave: if your age is easily verifiable with one visit to Wikipedia, it's pretty silly to tell me you're forty-two, now, isn't it?)

Carl from Pomona is fifty-five, but he does a lot of yoga and seems to feel that general bendiness will compensate for being the same age as my mother.

Tariq is very polite, but apparently he lives in Pakistan and is having a teensy immigration problem.

Really, though, it isn't as bad as all that. Against all odds, a few interesting guys manage to find their way into the in box. It seems there actually might be a number of normal, decent-looking, non-psychopathic men with jobs, who are still single because they've never thought to look for their soulmate outside the walls of their own house. I guess I might have to give in and e-mail some of them. Hey, maybe if I told them the time and place, I could get some of them to indulge me in my book store fantasy.

And if that doesn't work out, I could always hook up with Lucas from Encino.

Twinkie's Big Idea

2006-08-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

Twinkie's all excited. He just came back from a big business trip where he was pitching his new million-dollar idea, and it looks like he got some nibbles. He's been working on a business plan for a service that would work with online dating sites, and it could solve a dilemma they've been having for some time.

Basically, the problem is that the anonymity of online dating sites can create a haven for all manner of creeps and predatory weirdoes. This potentially leaves the companies who own these sites legally vulnerable for not having sufficient safety guards in place. On the other hand, they can't start running credit or background checks on all their users. Besides being expensive, it would open them up to even more lawsuits. So it's a conundrum.

Enter Twinkie and his Big Idea. Why not have a user feedback system, like they have on eBay? Pick out a guy on match.com, meet him for coffee, then come home and tell the world all about him. Was he polite? On time? Did he smell OK? Have big yellow gerbil teeth? Did he mention anything about being a serial killer? This is important now, so take it seriously. Other desperately lonely single women in your area need to know.

As a sometimes-user of some of these services, I had to seriously consider how this kind of system would impact my dating experience. After my date with Geriatric Rodent Man, for example, I would have welcomed the chance to vent online. I can just imagine my feedback now:

"LADIES BEWARE!" I would type, furiously, "This guy is AT LEAST ten years older than he says in his profile. He's short, scrawny, and has bad teeth! He has no personality, no social skills, and he looks like a rodent..."

Then I'd stop. What if he reads this? What if it really pisses him off? Then what's he going to write about me?

"OH YEAH???!!! This woman sure takes a liberal interpretation of the phrase "athletic and toned." Plus, she kept staring at my teeth..."

Or worse, he could get really pissed and just totally start making stuff up:

"The bitch gave me herpes..."

Oh God, no! Backspace, backspace, backspace.

"He was a very nice guy, and although we didn't hit it off, I'm sure he'll make some lucky woman a fine partner some day."

Ahh, better. Catastrophe narrowly avoided.

But then, what if I meet some guy who turns out to be really great? Someone I want to see again? Someone who might actually be "The One"? Am I going to hop on the internet and peck out something like:

"A+++++! Fantastic date! This guy is totally hot and interesting and smart and funny..."

Fuck that. This is MY man. Let all those other women find their own; I don't owe them nothin'.

"He's sort of sweet, even with the hare lip. It's kind of a drag his parole officer won't let him leave the county. But without a car, it's not like he can go too far anyway..."

Now let's just hope The One doesn't read it.

Curse of the Useful Man

2006-08-22T00:35:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, Emma and I decided that we wanted to find ourselves a couple of really hot men. This was a bit of an epiphany, because prior to that we had been more concerned with just finding anyone who would put up with either of us. I, for one, think this a extremely positive breakthrough in our personal development.

Of course, the problem with really hot men is that they usually are only attracted to really hot women. Or really wealthy women. Or really hot, wealthy women. Unfortunately, Emma and I are neither hot nor wealthy. And I suppose the case could be made that we have a few teensy emotional issues. So to say the least, we have a bit of work to do.

We decided that a good first step to becoming hot women would be to each lose thirty pounds. Unfortunately, this means we can't hang out together much these days, because we have this weird knack for making each other eat and drink in quantities that would probably win us a contest at a Teamsters picnic. So for now, we're both Sweatin' to the Oldies on opposite ends of town.

That means life in Hollywood has been not only sexless, but also lonely and dull. The search for eligible men has taken a temporary back burner as well, 'cause face it: it's hard to feel romantic when you're preoccupied with trying not to gnaw your own arm off out of sheer hunger.

Meanwhile, there's been an ironic development back home: my mother has a new boyfriend.

If you knew my mother, you might be wondering why this is big news. Mom is never short of male company. She's already got Country Dan the Maintenance Man, Marvin the Bongo Player, Larry the Sports Geek, and that one old guy who bears an uncanny resemblance to a parrot. Come to think of it, if you take Mom and all her men and put them in a bitchin' condo in Miami Beach, you've got a pretty good concept for a CBS sitcom.

But now Mom's got Jake on her hands, and he's a little different. For one thing, he actually wants to date her, in the sense that he wants to take her places. Outside the house. On his nickel. This has Mom a little disoriented, because she's only accustomed to men who want to sit on her couch and drink her liquor. This getting-up-and-leaving-the-house stuff is putting unfamiliar demands on her. For example, she now has to put on shoes and a bra for her dates.

Perhaps this is why Mom's not more excited about the whole thing. Lately she's been calling me and saying things I haven't heard since she was married to my dad. Things like, "Call me in half an hour and say you've been in an accident so I can get the hell out of here."

On the other hand, Mom knows an opportunity when she sees one, and that's why Jake has recently enjoyed the rare privilege of hanging her new drapery rods, fixing her plumbing problem, and clearing out her storage unit.

But this is where Mom is veering into dangerous territory. If my extended bachelorettehood has taught me one thing, it's this: never let a man snake out your drain unless you're really, really attracted to him. Once a man commits unlicensed plumbing on your behalf, you've entered into an unwritten contract that's more binding than marriage. You can rid yourself of a husband by sleeping with someone else, or by not shaving your pits for a few months. But the kind of guy who snakes out your drain before he's even gotten any pussy? All you can do is hope he falls off the roof while cleaning your gutters.

Yes, yes, I know; poor Jake. He's trying so hard. He's a good guy. But fate is never kind to guys like Jake, who always seem to end up smitten with women like Mom and me: women who just aren't attracted to guys who are worth a damn.

If I were a more introspective person, I'd be reflecting upon how my mother's unhealthy relationship dynamics have affected my own dating habits. Perhaps I'd even begin to rethink the qualities I'm looking for in a man. Maybe I'd stop focusing on such superficialities as appearance and charisma, and I'd seek out someone who's reliable. Honest and caring. Responsible. A hard worker. Handy with tools.

On second thought... nahhhh. I can hire a plumber; bring on the hotties.

...just as soon as I can get back into my skinny jeans.

Pearls of Wise Ass from Aunt E

2006-08-15T01:53:00.000-07:00

"Ma, I need five thousand dollars."

"People in Hell need ice water, Bruce, but they ain't gonna get it."

"Please, Ma. The divorce is going to cost five thousand, and I don't have it."

"Oh, well that's a different story, then. If you're gonna use the money to get rid of that miserable bitch, I'll send you the check."

Thus began my weekend visiting Aunt E, my 92 year-old great aunt in San Diego. She was telling me the story of her son's recent divorce from a woman who E described as a "big fat pain in the ass." (I should mention that E spent 35 years working in a factory inspecting military aircraft. She swears like a sailor, which always adds a certain descriptive flavor to her storytelling.)

An interesting thing happens to the women in my family as we get older. It seems we all go nearly deaf in our old age, but we compensate for this setback by developing an impressive vocal capacity. We are able to talk for so long, without pausing for air, that our inability to hear others speak is pretty much a moot point. On Saturday the batteries in Aunt E's hearing aid went out, so she had no choice but to talk for thirteen solid hours.

The subject this time was mostly marriage. Or more specifically, the marriages of everyone she's ever known in her entire life. My heart kind of sank when I realized the conversation was going in this direction, because I've reached that age where most of my relatives think it's appropriate to ask what the hell is wrong with me that I haven't met anyone yet. But as it turned out, that was the furthest thing from her mind.

I have to say, E's stories were a surprising contrast to my basic understanding of the way marriage is supposed to work, based on my years of in-depth research, meticulously conducted by watching Nick at Nite. For example, none of E's friends had a wisecracking maid who solved all their family's problems. And there was not a single story about a dizzy redhead who had some 'splaining to do after trying to sneak into the floor show at the Tropicana.

No, instead E told me about her friend Wilma, who used to move into a motel whenever her mean drunk husband was on a bender.

Then there was her brother-in-law Theo, who threw his wife out for having an affair with a street car driver. And then a different brother-in-law whose wife was also cheating on him, but he let it slide because he never liked her very much in the first place.

She once had a neighbor whose husband took off without warning, leaving her with four young children and not even some cash for groceries. And another friend whose husband was a lazy bastard who couldn't hold down a job.

E even left her own husband a couple of times because she couldn't cope with her live-in mother-in-law who, to hear E tell it, was a "vicious bitch with no goddamned sense." But that's nothing compared to the problems of her sister Mary, who divorced her husband for trying to rape their teenage sister, and also for just generally being a "no-good sonofabitch." (Curiously, E had nothing bad to say about her own husband. Except that she once had to drive to Mexico in the middle of the night to get him because he'd gotten drunk, spent all his money in a strip joint, and managed to get his car impounded. Oh, and he once got fired for blowing up a bus, but that was totally not his fault. )

Mostly, the common thread in most of these stories was that people had it tough. They worked too hard, drank too much, were broke when the bills came due, and usually took it out on each other. Marriage was a dreary prospect, its primary advantage being the opportunity to one day bring in an extra pension check, if you were lucky enough to outlive the asshole.

Aunt E was really screwing with my cozy TV-inspired matrimonial image. You mean wives didn't really vacuum the rugs in high heels, crinoline skirt and pearls? Husbands didn't wear a shirt and tie to the dinner table? A woman's biggest domestic drama did not revolve around what to cook when her husband's boss came for dinner? A couple's kids didn't typically buy sparkly matching jump suits and form a band? Okay then, at the very least couples stuck together and kept up the appearances of a happy marriage for the kids' sake, right? Right?

"Boy, they sure fed you a load of crap," says Aunt E. "The only difference between marriage then and now is that nowadays, people aren't willing to put up with nearly so much bullshit."

So there it is. "Stay single," warns Aunt E. "Unless you find a man with a good job who treats you nice, what the hell do you want with him?"

At least I think that's what she said. I'm starting to get a little deaf in that ear.

Janice Tells the Truth

2006-08-03T02:16:00.000-07:00

A while back, Emma bought me a copy of Janice Dickinson's new book. Emma and I both share the guilty pleasure of watching her reality TV show, "The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency." While Janice is completely batshit nuts, you've got to marvel at a woman who can be that loud, abrasive, and argumentative ... and never actually have the shit slapped out of her. For women like Emma and me, who tend to be a bit on the soft-spoken and self-conscious side, this holds a strange fascination.

Anyway, Janice's book is about dating. Or more accurately, it's about finding men to sleep with, sleeping with them, and dumping them when you're done with them. I've never been good at any of those things, so Emma thought it might offer me a few pointers.

I'm not sure Janice and I are in quite the same league when it comes to picking up men. For example, one of her tips for meeting men is to hang out in the waiting room at the Mercedes dealership's service department, so you can meet rich guys who are having their expensive cars serviced. (I'm pretty sure this only works if you actually own a Mercedes yourself... which I don't.) Another suggestion is to hang out and troll for men in the lobbies of exclusive, high-end banks. (I know for a fact this only works if you're really, really hot... which I'm not.)

Somehow I don't think these techniques would yield quite the same payload at the Pep Bpys or my credit union, so they're probably not for me. But that's not to say that her book is completely unenlightening. One thing I find appealing is that Janice makes absolutely no apologies about who she's attracted to... and who she isn't. She calls a toad a toad, and she's not into toads. Say what you will about the youth obsession and all the plastic surgery. But ironically, Janet has accomplished one thing that a hundred years of feminism hasn't; the ability to choose her men without a trace of guilt or shame about it, and to be honest with herself about her expectations. This is something a lot of us seem to have a problem with.

I'm talking about my friend Boom Boom, whose chronically unemployed husband has picked up an impressive beer gut from sitting around the house all day. Although he considers it his duty to alert her when her ass begins to expand, she won't return the favor. "I don't care about stuff like that," she lies to me, "I'm not that shallow. And besides, maybe he'll lose some weight when he goes back to work."

I'm talking about my friend Karla, who is dating a man whose breath could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. I know, because I sat across the table from him at an absolutely gag-inducing meal. When I asked if she had said anything about it to him, she replied, "No, that would be cruel... and besides, I'm starting to get used to it."

And I'm also talking about myself. My last date was with a guy who was at least ten years too old, 6 inches too short, and twenty times too pretentious for me. Oh yeah, and he had teeth like a rodent. I knew from the moment I met him I never wanted his little hamster mouth anywhere near mine. And yet, as I was driving myself home, I actually felt guilty for not being attracted to him, as if it was some kind of character flaw that I wasn't turned on by him. I even tried to tell myself that he wasn't that bad, and maybe I should go out with him again just to see if he grew on me.

No, Janice has the right idea on this one. You're attracted to someone or you're not. And if you're not, you're wasting your time and theirs. As my Great Aunt E likes to say, "You only go around once," so you might as well do it with someone who actually excites you. (The fact that E spent 54 years married to a drunken toothless Shriner should serve as a cautionary tale, not an example to live by.)

I wish I had figured this out when I was ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter. Because truth be told, I'm going to have to do a little work to attract the kind of man who really attracts me. ...which is a drag, because this working out crap really cuts into my cocktail hour. Still, I'm sure Janice would approve.

Maybe I could find a gym next door to a Mercedes dealership.

Nancy Ganz Be Damned

2006-07-23T21:31:00.000-07:00

Any time I'm working on a movie, I get influenced by whatever the female star is wearing. This is mainly because all my male coworkers go completely slack-jawed over her. I spend weeks listening to them wax poetic (or just plain crude) about how "hot" she is, and watching them come up with lame excuses to hang out in the vicinity if she happens to come around.

It's not that all these women are breathtakingly, stunningly gorgeous in person. Sure, they're young and thin and attractive. But we're in L.A. Throw a rock in the Beverly Center and you stand a good chance of hitting someone equally good-looking. Oddly, I don't see hordes of men hanging out in the Beverly Center ogling all these women (or throwing rocks at them). Somehow, being an actress gives a woman a sort of glamour that makes men do that hummana hummana hummana thing. It's not always the girl who excites them; it's the celebrity.

Unfortunately, I keep forgetting that. After hearing the 87th wistful comment about how hot Cameron Diaz looks in that black dress, I can feel my credit card starting to itch. I think, "Gee, maybe if I had a dress like that, someone might notice that I'm not a balding, middle aged man, and I might have sex again some time before I die."

This kind of thinking is the root of many ills. For starters, it's the reason why I have a closet full of beautiful clothes that I fully intend to wear... some day. When I lose a few pounds. And have a date to go to a gallery opening with a wealthy architect. ...who looks like Matt Dillon.

The most recent bout of this was unfortunate, because the star of the current project is 24 years old and shaped like a praying mantis. They had her all done up in big chunky belts and those awful skirts. You know the kind of skirt I'm talking about - big flared thing with ruffly tiers, that makes you want to start humming the theme from Xanadu. These same skirts were popular in the 80's with nice girls who didn't go all the way, but who would blow a guy if he had tickets to the Air Supply concert.

But never mind all that, there I was in the Macy's fitting room, staring in the mirror at the image of something shaped approximately like a giant wedding cake. This wasn't the look I was hoping for. I know it's called a prairie skirt, but I don't think the intended fashion statement is supposed to be, "Sturdy girl, not opposed to chopping her own wood, comes with her own herd of goats."

All this fashion anxiety finally drove me to a desperate place - yep, the Nancy Ganz Body Slimmers rack in the lingerie department.

The problem with body slimmers is that all the fat has to go somewhere. Put on a panty-sized one, and the excess fat just pushes out at your thighs. Put on the bike-shorts size, and it spills out at your waist. I have a friend who wears a body-stocking-sized one that runs from her ankles to her neck. Her slacks fit great, but it looks like she has a goiter.

I eventually took hold of my senses and headed off to get coffee. Walking ahead of me in the mall was a short African American woman in plus-size sweatpants. They had appliqued lettering on the butt; one side said "BABY," and the other said "CAKES." It was strangely mesmerizing, watching the rhythmic motion of those pants broadcasting "BABY-CAKES, BABY-CAKES, BABY-CAKES" with every undulating movement of her large, round ass.

And you know what? There was a man right next to her, grabbing it. I guess mall guys don't all go for the Cameron Diaz type.

Hey, it's better than getting hit with a rock, anyway.

Protect and Serve, Baby...

2006-07-17T00:32:00.000-07:00

I spent the afternoon walking through the mall in Santa Clarita today. I didn't do this because I needed anything from the mall, but rather because it's a great place to hang out if you want to feel good about the relative size of your ass compared to everyone else's. As you watch the masses waddle by spilling out of their stretch jeans and belly shirts, you can't help but get a sudden boost of self esteem. (Just don't ruin it by trying on any pants while you're there.)

Self esteem is really important when you're a single woman over thirty in Los Angeles. This is the age when we start to become invisible. All through our twenties, people were trying to play matchmaker, introducing us to all their single friends. We'd run into old friends we hadn't seen in a while, and they'd ask, "How's your love life? Are you married? Seeing anyone?" Now no one asks, and they've long since given up trying to match us up. This goes on for some time, and then one day, we pick up the paper and find we can actually relate to that comic strip "Kathy." It's very ego deflating.

The assumption people make, I think, is that as women get older, we no longer want, need, or deserve a sex life. Take Emma, for instance. (Oh... side note... Pinky told me she doesn't want to be called Pinky any more, and she wants me to call her Emma instead.)

So anyway, Emma (formerly Pinky) has been playing hostess to her friend Boxter again. Boxter lives out of town, but he works frequently in L.A., and Emma lets him stay at her place. He's one of these single, fortysomething guys who just wants to settle down with a nice girl... as long as the nice girl is also under 30 and looks like a supermodel. Unfortunately for him, he's generally only able to attract women who meet two of those three requirements at any one time. So Emma has to listen to Boxter whine about wanting to meet a woman he's really "into," with the unspoken implication that Emma definitely does not qualify.

Now, the problem is not that Emma wants to sleep with Boxter. It's that Boxter doesn't want to sleep with her, and that really chaps Emma's ass. After all, she's smart, successful, and the single most devoted friend he has. So the fact that he doesn't even consider her a prospect makes Emma feel... well, let's just say she could really use a day trip to the Santa Clarita mall.

This brings me to the issue of that woman up in Oregon. We've all read the news story by now. A woman calls 911 to ask for the name and number of the "cutie pie" cop who had just responded to a noise complaint at her house. So the cop returns, but instead of asking her on a date he arrests her for misusing the 911 system. And to add to that humiliation, there's nothing else going on in the world that day, so the whole incident makes national news.

In a blinding instance of journalistic oversight, the major news agencies neglected to show a photo of the cop in question, so the world will never know the true depths of this woman's sexual desperation. (And for that, I, for one, feel like an insufficiently informed citizen.) Sure, I know a lot of people will probably criticize this woman for trying to use 911 to score a man, but I'm not so sure. Think about it: we live in a society where loud music at 2 a.m. is a 911-worthy emergency, but a 45 year-old woman in desperate need of a good fuck is not. Where's the justice in that?

I think we should protest. I say we all organize and pick one night for all lonely single women over thirty to call 911 to complain about it. Have them dispatch the city's finest to our doorsteps in an effort to alleviate the tension of the sexually disenfranchised.

Maybe they could throw in a couple of firemen, just for Emma and me.

Duck Gives Advice: Oh, the Irony!

2006-07-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

I recently received an e-mail from a reader (I have readers! Well ok, technically, I have a reader) asking me "how to exorcise a totally stinky, dumbass, unworthy man from one's psyche?"

Now, my blog was really intended to be about my attempts to find men, not to get rid of them. But I appreciate her inference that I have some experience in this area, because of course she's not wrong.

The first step to removing a useless man from your psyche is removing him from your apartment. This is often not as easy as it sounds, especially if your apartment is a source of free food, shelter, alcohol and cable television for him. In this situation, the man in question is a dedicated Beta Male, which means he is not deterred by nagging, unshaved armpits, or the withholding of sex. Outside of arsenic, the only way to rid yourself of this type of man is often to simply move another man in. Once confronted by his replacement, the Beta Male will nearly always beat a hasty retreat.

The problem with this technique is that the replacement male - generally procured in haste out of desperation - is often no better than the original. You end up with a situation like those ecological disasters in which birds are brought in to control the grubs, and then the cats are brought in to control the birds, then coyotes to control the cats, and so on. It's a depraved spiral that somehow always results in an unwanted hairy beast on your hands.

With that in mind, perhaps the best way to rid your apartment of nuisance men is to simply have the utilities turned off. Obviously this could seriously cut into your own standard of living, so I recommend that you do this immediately before going out of town on an extended trip.

Of course, the thing about useless men is that they always leave residue, and I'm not just talking about the stains on your sofa. The very fact that you had a "stinky, dumbass, unworthy man" in your life in the first place is an indication that you have an inclination to hate yourself deeply. And because of that, a week after he finally drifts off in search of a woman with electricity and a working furnace, you might actually find yourself wondering if you made a mistake. It is of critical importance that you banish these thoughts immediately.

While dating is likely a mistake at this point, a little male attention is always good for the ego. As I have previously described (in painful detail), this is often easier said than done, as straight men are appallingly oblivious to fullly-clothed, non-skanky women. However, I've recently discovered one place where I can get multiple men to shower me with attention.

Yes, the Do-It-Yourself Car Wash place. Scoff if you must, but recent experience has shown me that all men have specific and passionately-held views about the proper way to clean a car. Even better news for you: they're absolutely Evangelical about it. They simply can't stop themselves from pointing out exactly how you're "doing it all wrong." So if you need a quick attention fix, just hose down your car, and then find a nice sunny spot where you can commence Turtle Waxing with a paper towel. Believe me, you won't be able to fight them off with a stick.

Okay, yes... most of them are going to be young guys washing their boss's or sugardaddy's Mercedes. But you're missing the point. Look at all the men flocking around you!

I know what you're thinking: it doesn't count, because you had to lure them in with your irresistable poor waxing technique. But see, that's your damaged self-esteem talking. Do you really think they're only chatting you up because you're wrecking your clear coat? Of course not! You're hot! You're a babe! In fact, you're doing them a favor with your crappy car hygiene. If not for that, they'd have no excuse to come talk to you.

Oh, but you can do better. The car wash boys are sweet, but you need to move on. You have higher ambitions... ones that involve sweet-smelling men who have jobs, pay someone to wash their car, don't own a jet ski, and fully appreciate the delectable morsel of womanhood embodied by your fine self. Yes, with your self esteem restored, you can now put the hairy beast safely behind you without a second thought.

One important note: Just don't order anything from that greasy taco stand down the block from the car wash. You may need to do a little more self-esteem work before you can feel like a delectable morsel of womanhood while letting loose a giant fart.

But when you do get to that point, ahh, life is sweet.

Hassle-Free Flirting: The Dream, The Reality

2006-07-02T00:29:00.000-07:00

Grouse and I were eating lunch at a pub in Toluca Lake the other day, when I noticed two young men at another table who were staring at me. They weren't being very subtle about it, either. Their table was only about 20 feet away, and yet they were brazenly gawking at me. Continuously. Couldn't take their eyes off me.

Grouse was of course oblivious. They were behind his back, and besides, he was completely engrossed in a long story about repairing some dry rot on his deck. This is kind of cool, I thought, I'm sitting here with my clueless ex while these two rather attractive guys across the room are flirting with me.

Of course, when we got up to leave I realized that the whole time I had been sitting there, my big head had been blocking a giant television that was tuned to the soccer game. So in retrospect I guess there's a teensy possibility that my two admirers were less entranced by me than by World Cup Soccer.

Which brings me to the question: how do you really know for sure when someone is flirting with you? I remember once glancing through one of those men's magazines, like Maxim or something. It said you know a woman is flirting if she plays with her hair or adjusts her clothes or touches her neck or ears or arms, or licks or bites her lip, or smiles or makes direct eye contact, or breathes too heavily.

This bit of information left me slightly terrified, as I have a natural tendency to fidget. Suddenly I was afraid to make any physical movements in public, lest it be wrongly interpreted. Kind of like scratching your nose at the wrong moment during an auction and ending up with a giant box of troll dolls. Except in this case, the troll would weigh in at about 300, and he'd want me to get naked and feed him corn dogs. No, if that's what's at stake, it's best to keep perfectly still.

I keep thinking there has to be an easier, hassle-free way for singles to state their intentions. I had considered the idea of little name badges, kind of like those "Hi! My name is" stickers, but instead they'd say things like, "Ready for commitment," or "Just need to get laid."

The problem with this approach is the one described in detail by the Social Issues Research Centre at Oxford, who published a painfully British online guide to flirting. Flirting, they explain, is most successful when one flirts with someone of the same level of physical attractiveness as oneself. Unfortuntately, women tend to underestimate their own attractiveness, while men tend to overestimate theirs. So the whole name badge system isn't such a clever idea for women, who would likely end up with all sorts of hairy flotsam floating up to them to ask for a date.

Unless there were more of a picture-based system in place. Maybe instead of name badges, we could all wear photos of people we find attractive, with the caption, "You must be at least this hot to enter this ride."

Well, okay, so the system's not perfect. (You'd still have to deal with all those toad-like men who write things in their personal ads like, "Orlando Bloom lookalike.") But it's a prototype; I still have some details to work out.

Until then, I guess we'll all just have to keep our eyes and ears open, watching for all those subtle words and gestures that offer a glimpse into the true intentions of the opposite sex.

Like, "Get outta the way, I'm trying to see the game."

Not-So-Pleasant Surprises of the Intimate Variety

2006-06-27T01:26:00.000-07:00

Although I've been more or less living in L.A. for several years now, I own a condo back east that is full of all my stuff. Unfortunately I haven't had enough time off work to deal with it, whcih means I've been wasting a lot of money making double housing payments.

So I was really excited this week when I got a generous and sudden offer from someone who wanted to buy my condo. The even better news is that because I don't have time to go back and pack up all my belongings, my mom and brother have offered to do it for me.

Wow. How many people have this kind of luck? A great offer on their home without even talking to a realtor, and people willing to pack and move all their crap for free.

But there's a problem.

Years ago, a friend of mine gave me a gag gift (or maybe it wasn't intended as a gag gift... eeech, I hadn't thought of that) of a certain sex toy. It's too large for practical use. (I tried - no go.) However, it's not the kind of thing I can easily just throw away.

It's not that I have a sentimental attachment to it. It's just that, I mean, how does one delicately and discreetly dispose of a fourteen-inch hot pink rubber dildo? It's not a topic that comes up on Martha Stewart or the Home and Garden channel. (Evidently they're not receiving my letters.) It is, however, a problem. There is no universal dildo symbol on my curbside recycling bin. It won't go through the paper shredder. You can't just put it out for the garbage man; what if some neighborhood dog upsets the trash can and rips open the bag? All my conservative, Southern Baptist neighbors would see it sitting in my driveway as they're driving their minivans to WalMart. I'm sure that violates some homeowner's association covenant. I doubt there's much of a market on eBay for used sex toys (and if there is, I don't want to know about it). I considered putting it in a box and mailing it to Pat Robertson, but that might get me arrested. (Or worse, he might put it to use.)

So out of general laziness and lack of ideas, I've just been hauling the thing around with me from house to house, city to city, for a good ten years now. Like a lot of other junk I own, it's become one of those things that gets thrown into a box at the last minute on moving day, simply because I've run out of time for sorting through and disposing of any more stuff. And over time I've lost track of it. I know I saw it in a box somewhere in the house at one time. Top of the bedroom closet, maybe. The garage, possibly the attic, I can't be sure.

Then this morning I got an e-mail from my mother, asking me to complete a list of everything in the house, so that she and my brother can sort everything into piles to keep, donate, or put out for the garage sale.

So you see my dilemma.

I'm getting this visual of my brother sitting behind a card table in my garage, as a seventy year-old woman pulls the item in question out of a cardboard box of one dollar shoes. Or my mother down at the Sisters of Mercy Thrift Shop, asking the nuns for an itemized receipt for the large box of junk she didn't have time to go through very carefully. Or the home inspector accidentally knocking over a box in the attic as he's showing my mother a piece of rotting floor board that needs to be repaired.

Yes, the whole situation is fraught with peril. But what to do? Should I warn them, or should I just conveniently forget? After all, there's a chance they might never run across it. It's possible that, as with all my previous moves, they'll run out of time and just throw the mystery box into the moving truck. On the other hand, they're doing me a huge favor, so it's probably not fair to risk any shock or embarrassment for them.

I looked at the little spreadsheet form my mother had enclosed with the e-mail. It had neat little columns titled "Item," "Location," and "keep/sell/donate."

At the top of the list I typed, BIG RUBBER DILDO - SOMEWHERE IN HOUSE - SEND TO PAT ROBERTSON.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

Pretty Boys and Stripey Pants

2006-06-24T01:25:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at my desk, contemplating how lonely Kevin Sites must be in Sri Lanka, when I suddenly realized that Grouse had been standing in the doorway talking to me for the past twenty or so minutes. Grouse works in the office next to mine, and he has an uncanny knack for finding his glass half empty at all times. Usually he's complaining because he's working too many hours, or not working enough hours, or can't afford a new boat, or doesn't have time for the upkeep on his new boat. But today he was annoyed about Junebug.

"Women let Junebug do anything he wants," he whined. "He just strolls in, plays with their hair, rubs their shoulders, and nobody ever tells him to back off. I could never get away with that. If I tried it, I'd be sued for sexual harassment."

"Oh come on, Grouse, it's Junebug. I can't tell him to back off; the pouting would make me feel guilty for a week. He's just too ... cute, y'know?"

Grouse retreated to his office in a petulant huff. "Cute" is apparently a hot button word in his lexicon.

I suppose I should mention that many years ago, when my self esteem was at a critical low point, I used to date Grouse. Today we're friendly coworkers. But to hear him jealously object because a younger male coworker likes to tug on my curls and make them go boing ... well that's just kind of creepy. It's Junebug. He's cute. It's socially acceptable for cute people to boing your curls. What more do I need to explain?

I think part of the problem is a gender gap when it comes to cuteness. Men and women have fundamentally different responses to it. When men see something cute, they want to either fuck it or shoot it (and sometimes both, but rarely at the same time). When women see something cute, they want to put frilly clothes on it and sit it down for a tea party. "Cute" may occasionally inspire romance, but never sex. This is why prepubescent girls have their first crushes on pretty male pop stars with long hair and doe-like eyes. (I'm too lazy to look it up, but I know I read that somewhere.)

This is also why I'm a bit disturbed by the pervasiveness of the "metrosexual" trend. I like a man who smells really good when he's helping me snake out my tub drain. The metrosexual man passes the first part of that test with flying colors, but he blows it on the second part every time. As a liberal, educated working woman, I want to side with the feminist point of view on these things. And admittedly, polite-and-tidy androgynous men are a great thing in the elevator or on the subway. But when it comes to the basic primal urges behind my own sex drive, I just can't find myself attracted to a man who calls me into the kitchen to squish bugs for him. There's a reason "metrosexual" includes the word "sex." It implies that if a man paints his walls "buttercreme glacee" and goes in for an exfoliating facial once a month, he might not exactly be gay, but we're not going to accept him as totally, undeniably, 100% hetero either.

This brings me to the problem with Pinky's friend Beemer. We know for sure Beemer is a straight guy, mainly because of his unfailing affinity for skank. But Beemer has a lot of talent and makes good money, so the women he dates get to work quickly laying (and I do mean laying) claim to him. This usually involves some type of wardrobe makeover, and that's where the rest of us have to suffer. The clothing choices generally hover weirdly between 80's Preppy and James Cagney dancing up a wall.

Of course, as long as Beemer is getting plenty of sex he will obediently put on his new stripey pants, congratulating himself on finding a woman who will help him maintain a hip and trendy aura. Clearly he doesn't realize what's going on. The stripey pants are not intended to make him more desirable, but to render him totally and hopelessly unfuckable to any other female who crosses his path. Women will find him simply adorable, in much the same way that a Yorkshire Terrier is adorable: cute to look at, but much more appealing when it's in someone else's possession. But sadly, Beemer is too high on free, immediate sex to realize he may be limiting his own potential.

Someone needs to bring him back to earth. Depress him a little. Put a damper on his self esteem.

Maybe I should send Grouse over to talk to him.

Maybe If I Buy Him a Pony...

2006-06-20T22:31:00.000-07:00

You know, it's bad enough to stress over a man who won't commit when you're in an actual relationship. But to have all that stress without any of the actual sex, intimacy, or companionship of a relationship... well, that's just pathetic. Or to be more precise, that's my life in a nutshell.

A few months ago I decided I needed to reduce my overhead, so I advertised for a roommate on Craigslist. A roommate is tough adjustment when you've been living alone for a long time, so I was very lucky to find Trance.

I knew he was going to be the perfect roommate from the very first day, when he paid his rent, put a very large television in my living room and then disappeared for a week. He's rarely home, never makes noise, and confines all his living to his bedroom. Apparently he likes to go clubbing at night, so he's generally gone when I'm at home and vice versa. So I was quite pleased about my new living arrangement, which was saving me a lot of money without having any significant impact on my lifestyle.

But after a while I started to feel uneasy. Several weeks went by, and Trance had still not purchased a single grocery item. He didn't get mail at the apartment either; when I asked him about it, he explained that he had a P.O. box. And although he claimed to have an apartment's worth of furniture in a storage facility, the only things he brought to my place were an air mattress and a computer desk.

I began to worry that Trance was not happy here. Several months went by, and his room still looked like he could easily move out in twenty minutes if he so desired. He told me he simply preferred the "minimalist" look, but I wasn't buying it. I started to feel anxious about losing him.

It occurred to me that maybe I should just confront Trance about his intentions. Just come out and ask him if we have a future together, or if he's only stringing me along until he finds a better apartment. But no, that kind of approach might only scare him away and drive him straight into a lease on a 1-bedroom dingbat flat in Mar Vista. Better not to say anything.

I've always heard it's the little things that count, so I started watching for signs. Sometimes he'd refill the ice cube trays, which I optimistically interpreted as a contribution toward our domestic future. One day I opened the fridge and discovered string cheese that didn't belong to me. I was elated. Finally we were making some progress.

Then my world turned upside down. One evening last week he walked in with a woman named Tracie, whom he introduced as his new girlfriend. Oh, this is bad. This is very bad. What if Tracie has her own apartment, and it's better than mine? What if it's cheaper and has satellite cable? What if they move in together? That bitch.

She's not right for him, you know. I can tell her type just by looking at her. I'll bet she has one of those French country pine armoires, and little wooden animals from Pier One all over the place. Small stones sitting around in ceramic trays for no apparent reason. A fluffy toilet seat cover. Yeah, he might think it's quaint now, but wait 'til he has to dust it. Mark my words, that crap gets old real fast.

Still, I can't be too sure. Maybe I should spruce the place up a little. Get some fresh flowers or something. Throw rugs. I think I saw a coupon for those things you plug into the wall that blow air freshener everywhere.

Would a home theater system be pushing it?

Or maybe I just need to get laid.

IKEA: Parallel Processing and the Single Man

2006-06-17T17:51:00.000-07:00

I once dated a guy who didn't permit me to speak while he was driving around looking for a parking space. He insisted that he wasn't trying to be a jerk, but that men have been scientifically proven to be incapable of parallel processing. That means they can't focus on more than one thing at a time, and even simple conversation is enough to put them off their game in their primal hunter/gatherer's task of spotting a Chevy Suburban with its brake lights on. At the time I thought he was full of shit, or at least a few I.Q. points short of full adult functionality. Now I'm thinking there might be something to that.

A few months ago, and for reasons I won't go into, I needed to furnish my entire apartment from scratch. If you've never furnished a whole household in one weekend, you probably don't realize how shockingly expensive it would be to replace even half the crap you own. I had to take a few short cuts, one of which was not buying a real bed. Instead, I ordered an inflatable queen size air bed.

The mattress turned out to be a great call. It's comfy and looks presentable. The only lingering question is, will it stand up to the passiones de le boudoir? I mean, so far, my boudoir hasn't seen much in the way of passiones, but still, a girl likes to be prepared. I don't really want to find myself writing a blog entry about being in the throes of ecstasy when my bed exploded with a giant rubberized fart.

I shared my concerns about this with Pinky and Hotsy. They decided the best precaution is to tell the next man I date that he must buy me a real bed before I will sleep with him. That's not a bad plan in theory, except that I have a hard enough time getting a date to spring for the large size popcorn, let alone a mattress and box spring.

I had all this in mind today as I was browsing the bedroom department at IKEA. I mean, with most men it's pretty difficult to get them out of the house to go shopping for anything. But it occurred to me that if I could manage to meet a man who was already in the store and predisposed to purchasing a bed, half the work would be done for me already. From there, it would just be a matter of convincing him to put it in my apartment instead of his. Easy, right?

The thing about IKEA is, you basically see two types of men there. There are the Hot Guys and the Decidedly Non-Hot Guys. Predictably, the Hot Guys all shop in pairs and base their furniture selections on whether they'll look good under the giant painting of a naked male ass on their living room wall. The Decidedly Non-Hots are usually following annoyed-looking women, and have several children hanging from them like like extremely large Christmas tree ornaments. So I was surprised today at the sight of a Solo Semi-Hot, who was - eureka! - looking carefully at the slatted bed frames and mattresses.

In the wake of my Amoeba Records experience (see previous posting), I didn't feel like wasting a lot of time on subterfuge. I flopped myself down on the very mattress he was looking at.

"Hey," I said, "this one's not too bad. Pretty comfy."

"Huh?"

Great, got his attention. This is already going better than Amoeba Records.

"Have you ever bought one of these IKEA beds before?"

"Uh... no."

Two monosyllabic sentences in a row! Hooray, he's straight! Needs a shave, but that's okay. (Between you and me, so do I.)

I bounced up and down a little.

"It's a good price, but I just wonder about the durability. I don't want to buy something that..."

Wait, what's he doing? He's looking at the next bed over. Hey, I'm talking here! Okay, time to pull out all the stops before he wanders off...

"See, I need a really sturdy bed. I wore out the last one with too much sex."

Nothing. Nada. Not even a double take. He started writing down some prices with one of those little pencils they give you.

I was about to have yet another ego crisis right in the middle of the store, when suddenly I heard the voice of my ex grousing at me (It was all echoey, so I knew it was inside my head):

"Will you shut up for just 5 minutes? How am I supposed to park the car with you talking to me the whole time? Jesus, one thing at a time!"

Oh, right, I get it. It was that parallel processing thing again. The guy was busy buying a bed. It was taking up every last smidge of brain matter. I could have flopped down naked on that mattress, and he never would have noticed that I ran out of Nair some time ago.

Gosh, with that in mind, it must truly be hard for single guys to meet women. They don't know where to look, because every place they go is a kaleidoscope of lights and sounds and colors and consumer products for sale. They're so distracted they wouldn't notice an eligible female if she walked up and bit him on the ass. (...I'm guessing. I haven't actually tried that one yet.) Even bars are full of juke boxes and fooze ball and sports on TV. No wonder so many of them are turning to dating sites on the internet, where they can focus all their attention on the blurry low-res photo of Connie-who-likes-moonlight-walks-and-salsa-dancing.

The problem is, for those of us women who like to multitask, dating sites are too time intensive. We need more of a one-stop shop that would simultaneously simplify things for the guys. And IKEA's got everything else - a restaurant, a gourmet foods aisle, even a "ball room" - why not design a sort of singles area where lonely men could gather? It would have to be very quiet and sparse, devoid of any sensory stimulant that might distract them from the task at hand. There could be a big viewing window that women would pass as they pick out their draperies and throw pillows. The men wouldn't have to lift a finger. No parallel processing involved, and we could pick up the new bed on the way out.

What do you think, am I a visionary or what? I'm writing IKEA in the morning. I think they'll go for it; the Dutch are a very practical people.

MySpace Romance: The Medium Is The Message

2006-06-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, there are a lot of weird people out there.

Not too long ago, a couple of my friends put up MySpace pages and sent me invites to join. Up to that point, I had avoided MySpace because I didn't fit their target demographic of pedophiles and 14 year-old girls. But then I realized that if I commit a heinous crime, the news media will expect me to have a MySpace page that they can scour for ominous foreshadowings of my sociopathic tendencies. So I signed up.

Now, I thought I was being really smart about it. I checked the box to keep me out of their search engine. I didn't check the box that said I was looking for a romantic relationship. I didn't include any identifiable information about myself. (Well, ok, there's a photo. But my face doesn't win me a free drink at any bar in town, so I doubted it would draw that much attention on the internet.)

Since then, my MySpace page has been a veritable parade ground for lonely men of all shapes, nationalities, and psychoses. My favorite so far has been a guy who wrote to say he found me "fascinating," that he's just looking for a stable relationship with a nice girl, and he thought we had a lot in common.

I checked out this guy's MySpace page, and the first thing I noticed - because it was kind of hard to miss - was about a dozen photos of scantily clad young women with huge breasts, hanging all over a fat, sweaty, middle-aged drunk guy.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that these were actually photos from a business function. It seems my admirer owns a company that produces expensive high end dildoes made of... well, let's just say they don't look very comfy for those of us who get a little tense at times. Despite all appearances, the women in these photos were not his wayward daughters posing at the annual Halloween Pimp 'n Ho Bash, but genuine porn stars being paid to endorse his products.

Now, I have no problem with someone making a living selling sex toys. I make a living helping to line the pockets of people like Rupert Murdoch, so I'm in no position to judge. But it is a very interesting example of the ways we market - and mismarket - ourselves to the opposite sex.

I mean, here's a guy sitting around the house in his sweat socks and boxer shorts. It's going to be another 20 minutes before his frozen pizza is ready, so he decides to get online and find himself a soul mate while he waits. He stumbles upon my profile, and based on the fact that I like Dave Brubeck and the TV show "Mythbusters" on the Discovey Channel, he decides we have a lot in common. He sends me an e-mail telling me what a fun-loving guy he is, and to prove it he shows me a bunch of pictures of himself posing with women who have all had their genitals cast in silicon at one time or another.

Of course, Dildo Boy has no way of knowing I haven't had sex in a year and a half. Or that I sleep in flannel pajamas with blue monkeys on them. Or that I own one vibrator, and I sometimes worry about what the investigators would think of me if there were a fire or something, and they were to find it in the smouldering debris. Either A) something in my profile gave him the totally wrong impression of me; or B) he's a lonely guy having a fantasy about "settling down," in which case he needs to seriously rethink his self-marketing strategy. I'm guessing it's the latter, but one can never be sure.

Maybe I should take Dave Brubeck out of my profile.

West Hollywood Pride and the Single Girl

2006-06-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

I've always cringed at the term "fag hag." I have a lot of gay friends. A lot of them are men. And frankly, a good gay friend is better than a boyfriend in a number of respects. Your gay friend will send you flowers. He'll compliment your new hairstyle. And you can take him on vacation without ever having to hear the words "jet ski."

But, as with many things, there are limits. I went to a party the other night where I was clearly part of the hetero minority, and I found myself on the patio, chatting with an openly gay actor of minor celebrity status. He was just telling me about his experience riding a float at the Gay Pride parade when an overly-perfumed woman swooped in from nowhere and seated herself in his lap.

"There you are!" she cooed. (Yeah, that's right, she cooed.) "Darling, I've been looking everywhere for you."

What followed was less a conversation than a performance resembling some bizarre ventriloquist/dummy act. Without introducing herself, she began a monologue with the apparent sole purpose of defining this man as her own personal possession. She told me about the vacations they had taken together, the dear friends they had in common, and the illnesses she had nursed him through. Every now and then, she leaned over and moaned a few phrases (that's what I said, moaned) quietly in his ear. In Spanish. She was not a native Spanish speaker.

When we were finally called in to dinner, she squeezed in next to him at the table and somehow managed to eat her entire meal with one hand on him at all times. I was sitting on her other side, so I had an unobstructed view of her bony little hand playing over his inner thigh. It distracted me so much that my wine glass slipped right out of my hand.

Well, ok, in truth the wine may have slipped because it was my 4th glass and I could no longer feel my fingers. But for whatever reason, I spilled it all over her, and she was wearing white pants. I probably should mention it was red wine.

So anyway, she jumped up and started making these - I guess you would call them banshee-type noises. The whole party came to a big silent standstill while I apologized, and she spun around in circles like a little doggy with an itchy ass.

Finally someone got her some towels, she sat down, and the party resumed. The thing was - no one could see this because I was wearing black - I had actually spilled about three times more wine on myself than I had spilled on her. But at this point I didn't want to attract any more attention to myself, so I simply spent the rest of the dinner sitting in a small puddle. (They were big glasses.) It was a shame I didn't have a date, because by the time I left the party my panties were full of red wine, which would have made for some interesting foreplay potential when we got home.

...which brings me to my point. None of this would have happened if we had both had real boyfriends. She wouldn't have been doing the hand jive at the table with the Gay Pride May Queen, and I wouldn't have been marinating my privates through the cheese and dessert courses. So girls, if you're beginning to harbor an unnusual possessive attachment to your gay male friend, you might want to take another look at the online personals.

Either that or stick to Vodka.

Amoeba Records, Sunday a.m.

2006-06-12T00:11:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of complaining to Hotsy about my eHarmony experience. Hotsy has a habit of being annoyingly "Yes-I-Can!" about these things, so she immediately went on the offensive. "It's easy to meet men, " she insisted, "they're everywhere! In fact, I'll prove it to you. I have an idea..."

The plan, in a nutshell, was that we would get up in the morning and go to Amoeba Records on Sunset, where we would will ourselves to meet single men. I have to admit, it seemed like a plausible idea at the time. I mean, record stores are full of men, and they're all standing relatively still, so they should be easy to catch, right? So we went.

We agreed to split up, and Hotsy made us promise not to meet up again until we had each had a conversation with at least one single man. So we took off in opposite directions, looking for eligible bachelors.

Unfortunately, the primary thing Hotsy's plan proved was that there are no hot men in Amoeba Records on a Sunday morning. They're all at home. In bed. With their girlfriends. But Hotsy is a go-getter, and I was sure she'd probably meet someone, and I was not about to be outdone. So I gave it the good college try.

It wasn't easy. The median age was 22. Most of them were wearing their pants down around their asses. The general standard of hygiene was not high. It didn't give me much to work with. But I looked around a bit, and I eventually found someone approximately my age thumbing through the Jazz section. True, he had one of those goofy goatees and was wearing a backwards baseball cap - sigh - but he was looking like the best possible option.

I positioned myself on the other side of the rack, directly across from him, and rifled through the Miles Davis CDs. (Miles Davis - that's a conversation starter, right? Everyone likes Miles...) He looked up. I smiled at him. He walked away. Hmm.

Okay, my mistake, I obviously hadn't made my intentions clear. So I tailed him to the R&B section (following at a safe distance so as not to be noticed, just like on the detective shows), and began browsing about 6 feet to his left. I was just about to engineer an accidental bumping-in-to, when his friend swooped in from nowhere and interrupted. I was forced to retreat while they chatted in the aisle.

A few minutes later I caught sight of him in the Electronica section. I think he noticed me this time. I'm pretty sure I caught him giving me one of those sidelong glances that means either, "Hey, that chick is pretty cute," or, "Who in the hell is that crazy woman, and why is she following me?" I wasn't sure which, until he drifted off to the New Age section. That pretty much said it all. I mean, nobody goes to the New Age section unless they're trying to ditch someone who is bothering them.

For a moment I considered looking for another bachelor candidate, but I finally got hold of my senses and realized the ridiculousness of lurking in a store stalking men I wasn't even attracted to. Man or no man, I decided to track down Hotsy and see if she was having any luck.

I couldn't find her anywhere. I walked up and down every aisle for 20 minutes, and just when I was starting to think she had abandoned me as part of a cruel joke, I spotted her. She was in the very far corner of the store, in the World Music section. Pretending to be intensely interested in a CD of Guatemalan rain forest music. Crouching.

"Jesus," she said, "do guys just not shower on the weekends?"

So much for Amoeba. But on the way back to the car, Hotsy said to me, "Hey, you know another place where guys hang out? NASCAR!"

So much for the want ads...

2006-06-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

A couple of Saturdays ago I had to duck out of a shopping trip with the girls for a coffee date with a man. I had met him on eHarmony (yes, I finally succumbed to those damned TV ads), and this was to be our first in-person meeting.

I wasn't altogether enthused about the whole thing. Based on his photos, I wasn't at all attracted to him. Like nearly all men on eHarmony, he was 42 years old and 5-foot-7, with about a year to go before the rest of his hair falls out. But he seemed smart and personable and non-creepy. So when George Clooney utterly failed to show up on my eHarmony "match" list, I decided to put superficiality aside, strap on my highest heels, and at least meet the guy for coffee.

Funny thing about men with money in Hollywood. They all say they're looking for someone who isn't after their money. And yet... they have to make absolutely sure everyone knows they have money. So it was with P. He was a screenwriter - a successful one, apparently. He told me about all the screenplays he's sold, the house he owns in Brentwood, the powerful friends in high places, and all the traveling with the ubiquitous five-star hotels.

I would like to say I was turned off because I am a deep and sincere person, who is appalled by tawdry displays of materialism. But actually it was the teeth. Crusty yellow ones, way too big for his thin-lipped little mouth. My brother had a pet gerbil with teeth like that when we were kids. So the entire time he was talking about all his money, I kept thinking, "Christ, if this guy's so loaded, you'd think he could afford some of those Crest whitening strips."

He walked me to my car (inventing, on the way, an excuse to detour me past his new Lexus), and I drove off. The entire drive home, I was filling up with guilt and self-doubt. How am I going to dump this guy? Am I being overly picky? Was he really that bad? Am I really that superficial? But back to the important question... how am I going to dump this guy?

In the end, P. made it easy for me. The next day, he sent me an e-mail confessing that he hadn't been entirely honest with me. He had lied about his age... by seven years. Then he explained that he had to lie, you see, because he didn't want a woman over 35. (He was 49.) In case I had forgotten, he reminded me again that he had a lot of money, and asked when he could see me again.

I sent him a dramatic, self-righteous response expressing my outrage at his insidious lies - as I heaved one deep, long sigh of relief. And I cancelled my eHarmony account. (Evidently their patented compatibility technology doesn't screen for dishonesty and bad teeth.) As for P., I'm not worried about him... he'll probably meet someone before I do.