Dating Daze

This is especially applicable when you’re seeing a new guy and all your friends suddenly take an immediate interest in the intricate details of your everyday life. “Has he called?” “When are you guys going out again?” “What did he say?” “How did you feel when he said that?”, and the list goes on. You start receiving five calls a day demanding updates on the latest. And these aren’t fair weather friends or frenemies that you can just blow off, but honest-to-goodness BFF’s. These are the real deal. You owe it to them to provide.

It’s not like I don’t understand where they’re coming from by any means. What’s more interesting, the same ole’ rigamarole or finding out the new juice? There’s new conversations to discuss in minute detail and new behaviors to analyze every which way. There’s plenty of work to be done, and why should they be left out? They want to share in the fun too. I’m exactly the same way when the tables are turned.

It’s just that nowhere is safe; all mediums are fair game for coming at you: person-to-person, cell phones, emails, instant messages. You can be engrossed in whatever important task you’re doing at work, (i.e. reading your sign’s astrological love compatibility with another’s for the umpteenth time), and BAM, in comes the new message. “Tell me EVERYTHING. NOW.”

It gets problematic because sometimes you just don’t feel like sharing EVERYTHING. If a date went well, you may just want to savor the details privately for a little bit before spreading them out into the world. And if a date went bad, then of course you’ve already analyzed every little detail anyway. (I prefer to use the word “analyze”, though some may find “ruminate” to be more appropo.) Once you hear, “Well, he’s skating on thin ice if you ask me!”, issues you’ve already resolved become less and less certain. New twists and takes on certain situations pop up. Before you know it, you’re right back at square one where you started.

In my friends’ defense, I will say that their advice has saved the day on more than one occasion. One time I had gotten a really nice text message from a guy I was seeing, and I responded with “Thanks for the text, :0)”. I thought my response was perfectly acceptable, but apparently it was far from it, even with the smiley face. I was “closing doors” rather than “opening them.” I was basically saying, “Yeah, thanks buddy. Now leave me alone.”, rather than responding in-kind. Thank goodness I was immediately reprimanded by my friends and was able to fix the situation before any serious damage was done.

After my text message faux pas,  I was placed on probation under strict supervision. Every text and email I wrote had to be signed off on and approved PRIOR to being sent. Let’s just say it was a while before I could be trusted again. 

Now I know I shouldn’t complain. I should be thankful for the great friends that I have, and I am. But if you can’t talk a little smack in your personal anonymous blog, then where can you? It’s not like anyone from my job is reading this and knows who I am or anything.

Yeah, maybe when referring to wines and cheeses. But when dealing with members of the opposite sex, I beg to differ. Let me rephrase that, I STRONGLY beg to differ. Age becomes one of THE most important factors. It determines everything, like whether or not your nights are going to consist of going out drinking & partying every weekend or having nice, romantic dinners at home. It’s the sushi restaurant in the strip mall versus Matsuhisa. Not that strip mall sushi can’t be delicious, Hide ring a bell Cherie? Okay, bad example. But it really is night and day.

First of all, men mature slower. And those who live in Los Angeles mature… never. But even in LA there’s a marked difference between those in the 25-30 range and those in the 30-35 bracket, (not to make them sound like dogs at the racetrack or anything.)

Take my ex-boyfriend, for example. We met at a bar, and as soon as he left to go get me a drink, his friend asked me how old I was. Now I knew that this information was going to be relayed back to my not-yet-boyfriend by some code, gesture, or telepathic method as soon as he came back with the drinks. So I said my requisite “28″. Which I’ve been for the last 4 years. And the friend said, “No way, you don’t look 28.” I thought to myself, “Okay, Miss Amour, your jig is up. Someone is finally calling your bluff. Don’t be mad; it’s worked well for a long time.” And then he goes, “I thought you were 23, 24 at the most.”

;0) I just have to pause for a second and relive that moment once again. Definitely one of my highlights.

Anyway, once the boyfriend came back with the drinks, we talked for a little while and then I asked him how old he was. The answer? “29″, without skipping a beat.

I was hanging out with him and that same friend about a week later, and we started talking about high school. His friend kept saying, “Yeah, we had so much fun. CLASS OF 92! 92!”, and they would both laugh. Which I thought was weird, because that was MY year. But since I had told my little innocent white lie, I thought it best to keep my mouth shut.

Turns out ol’ boy was 27. Four years younger than my 31. Of course we found out eventually and just laughed. I always thought that it would be the perfect wedding story too. You know how there’s always that funny wedding story about how the happy couple met? That would be ours. “She told him 28, and he said 29! Ha! They’re meant to be.”

Um, yeah. Not exactly. Things turned out a little differently than I planned. And I firmly believe that part (if not most) of the reason for that was because of the age difference. He was busy acting like the 27 year old immature Los Angeleno that he was, and I was in a totally different, 30-something place. He wanted to go to Privilege and Cabana Club every weekend; I wanted candlelight dinners and Farmer’s Market Sunday mornings. It was doomed from the start. Don’t get me wrong, we had a great time together… while it lasted. But in terms of a long-term serious relationship, it wasn’t even really a possibility.

All I’m saying is, crunch those numbers beforehand. Make sure they mesh well together if you want to avoid the problems that will inevitably occur down the road. And if it’s too late for that, at least take solace in the fact that it is always the perfect excuse for why the two of you didn’t work out. “No Jenny, you know how it is. He was just too young. Timing is everything, and he just wasn’t ready.”

This morning my friend Jazmin found a guy on My Space she was contemplating going out with. We went to his page right after lunch (being the diligent hard workers that we are), and up starts the music. Apparently My Space users can choose a song that will start playing whenever anyone goes to their page. And what had he chosen for our listening pleasure? None other than Snoop Doggy Dogg’s “If you’re ever in the 213, holla at a player, holla at a player.”

Umm, I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch that. I must have heard incorrectly. Holla at a playa? Was he serious? There’s a million songs out there and that’s the one he chose to represent his best self? But it was, ladies and gentlemen, it was. Now, that may be okay for a 16 year old kid just coming into himself and discovering rap, but for a 28 year old man? Not okay playa, not okay.

Needless to say, Jazmin just couldn’t do it. She might have been able to “guide” him into growing up and being a man (please note that I said “guide” and not “change”), but it would have simply taken too much effort. Also, it may have been too late. He could very well have been a Westside player fo’ life. “Westsiiiiiiiiiide.” Because it’s so true what they always say, isn’t it? ” You can take the guy out the ghetto, but you can never take the ghetto out the guy.”

Jazmin vowed right then and there never to be in the 213 ever again and therefore never to be able to holler. It was definitely for the best though. He probably would have shown up for their first date wearing a Laker jersey and some white Addidas sneakers or something to that effect.

Used correctly, My Space can be a girl’s best friend.

Well, I guess I should clarify this and say that it can be a girl’s best friend when dealing with men under 35. Men over 35 should NOT have a My Space page. EVER. If they do, there’s a problem. Run and don’t look back. Save yourself. The guy is either one of two things. A Momma’s boy who still lives at home and will talk incessantly about the “glory days”, much like Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite, or a DOM a.k.a Dirty Old Man who is trying to “connect” with 16 year olds who don’t know any better than to post inappropriate pictures of themselves because it makes them feel grown and sexy.

My Space sure did save me last month though. I met this Jewish doctor at a holiday party who I hit it off with. We “connected.” We were having a great time talking and made plans to go out soon. His last name came up somewhere in the conversation, and I dutifully recorded it for future Googling purposes. Little did I know however that My Spacing him was going to prove even more fruitful.

A few days later my roommate and I went on My Space for the first time and began furiously looking up anyone we could think of. I put in his name, and sure enough, up came his page. Bingo. Jackpot.

It’s in your best interest to do this as well. Trust me. First of all, you get to see the guy’s My Space friends. This particular guy seemed to think it was pretty cool to have about 250 female “friends” who could double as “hoes”. You also get to see the guy’s profile, pictures & comments.

Now this guy really WAS a nice guy, and maybe I’m just being a mean, mean girl, but why did his page have to be SO corny? Corny with a capital C. He had about 15 pictures, all of him cheesing away with a huge-ass grin on his face and a terrible caption underneath. “Here’s me throwing back a brew in Boston! Beer, it does a body good!”, found underneath a picture of him smiling ear to ear with a beer in his hand. “Here I am at Hollyween! Look at those muscles if I do say so myself!”, with a too-tight S.W.A.T. team outfit on. You get the picture. I was instantaneously turned off. It didn’t help that he was a big exclamation point user. Those should be used pretty sparingly by guys. Girls can get away with smiley faces and being expressive and it’s cute, but for the boys, not so much.

Try as I might, I just couldn’t get past the cheesy smiles in literally EVERY photo. I kept imagining our wedding pictures. Introducing Cherie Amour and her new husband Corny. Corny would have on his huge smile, and I would just look scared. It didn’t work. It would have been like subjecting myself to a life of bad comedy.

My friend Jazmin did make a good point that people’s writing voices can be very different from who they are. She may have been right, but nonetheless, I had to end it right then & there. When there’s that instant deal-breaker, there’s not much you can do about it. It’s over. Finito.

But back to My Space. Don’t sleep on this valuable resource girls, especially if you’re lazy like I am and don’t like to waste your time. Use it as a weeder outer if nothing else. You should be using all the tools in your toolbox actually, and Googling, My Spacing, LinkedIn-ing and Yahoo Personaling every guy beforehand. Leave no stone unturned. Those five minutes you spend are SO worth it.

Sorry for the spam and for the non-dating related post, but am I the only one who thinks Sasha Baron Cohen aka Borat is VERY NIIIIIIIIIIICE?  He make-a me very exciiiiite.  I liiiike very much to have a romantic explosion with him one day.  I’ll even overlook the fact that he thinks rights should be given in this order: Man, horse, dog, mouse, insect, and then WOMAN. The man is a true genius, and what could be sexier than that?

An extreme sport even, one which should be classified right up there alongside white water rafting and climbing Mount Everest.  Don’t even think about it if you’re a beginner.  The consequences can be dire.  And once you’re caught, it’s pretty much over.  There’s written proof.  Please note that the elementary school saying of “sticks & stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me” was made up BEFORE the advent of cell phones & text messages.

I met The Foreigner at Holly’s, a.k.a “Santa Monica beach girls & boys gone wild”, when The Foreigner (Bri’ish, to be exact) in front of me asks me to dance with him. I agreed only because he had been cracking me up dancing like a crazy fool for the last 5 minutes. This guy was NOT afraid of embarrassing himself. I even let him get away with the common and obviously trying to get laid “It’s my birthday tonight!” line. Just as an aside, does that really work for guys? Do girls really give it up thinking, “Well hey, it IS his birthday after all. Let me give him a little something. Wouldn’t want him to have a bad birthday.”

But I digress. Back to the matter at hand. We dance for a little while longer, then I go to the bathroom, where my roommate tells me to “Talk to him more! Act like you like him.” Apparently I had been too aloof. But my roommate is a genius in matters of the dating nature, so I listen to her. When we got back though, he was nowhere to be seen.

Fifteen minutes later my roommate and I leave and The Foreigner is outside smoking a cigarette, a habit the British apparently start at birth. I say “Good night, Happy Birthday”, and am about to be on my merry little way. Here’s the conversation that ensues:

The Foreigner:     Whoa!!! Hold up!!! Where are you guys going now?

Yours truly:         Beechwood, a little bar in Venice.

The Foreigner:     Well I LIVE in Venice!!

Me:                    Okayyyyyy

The Foreigner:     Your friend is REALLY hot by the way.

Me:                     Uhhhhh, thank you?

The Foreigner:     You know, my girlfriend is modeling back in London. I just wanted to tell you because I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.

Me:                     (once again) Okayyyyyyyyyyyy. Well, bye?

The Foreigner:      I really liked talking to you. Seriously. I hope that I see you again.

What is this NONSENSE?!!?? Sweet jesus. Can somebody please break it down for me? I mean, it wasn’t like I was coming on to this guy, or according to my roommate, even acting like I was interested. He made all the moves, and then proceeded to dis me like I was the one trying to talk to him!

Pure rubbish, if you ask me. Cheers, carry on then. Carry on like that preferably far, far away from me. I really don’t need that. The whole experience gave me the distinct impression that I had just been rejected from a job that I didn’t even know I had applied for.

Now I know that it seems that most (okay all) of my posts in the “Worst Men” category thus far have been about the Little Man subset. But don’t you worry, there are many more types to be discussed. There’s the Foreigner, the Mama’s Boy, the Office Guy, the Ex, and the Ashhhhhhhooooooooole, just to name a couple. A select few can even overlap into more than one category. They’re an elite group, sure, but they exist nonetheless.

So I put my profile up on JDate one late night after playing myself (yet again) with my soon to be ex-boyfriend. I went on JDate to BOOST up my dating confidence, not to lower my self-esteem even further by getting hit on by little people. But of course, this is exactly what happened.

Someone who’s profile said Height: 5’8 could NOT stop instant messaging me, calling me, emailing me, etc. The fact that the height in the profile said 5’8’ should have tipped me off in the beginning to blatantly ignore. But, in the vulnerable state that I was in, and new to the online dating scene, I figured I should give this one a chance. A small chance, mind you, but a chance nonetheless.

Now I should have remembered from my college psychology classes that women lie about their weight and men lie about their height. But whatever. I guess sometimes we just have to learn things the hard way. I was soon to learn that 5’8 in internet date speak really means 5’6 ½ at best.

Here’s the clincher though. It wasn’t until he asked me if it bothered me to date a man who was shorter than me. When I admitted that it did, (very tactfully I might add. I even impressed myself with my nonchalance, even though I wanted to scream out, “HELL yes it matters Crazy!”), he let me know that he has worn lifts in the past and that they have worked out quite well for him. LIFTS!!!! I kid you not. It was not very easy to keep a straight face, that’s all I’ll say about that. Immediately after that, I wanted to say, “Ummmmm, I have to go?”

Just for any men out there who may be reading this, a “lift conversation” should be reserved only for a serious relationship, and should NEVER be attempted on a first date. EVER. Instant deal breaker. Not only are you putting yourself in the “Undateable” category, you’re also making yourself the butt of countless future jokes. “Oh, the JDate guy? No, I couldn’t see him anymore. Lifts.” “Yes, you heard me correctly.” “Lifts”. “I know, I know. I thought it was a joke myself.”

Baby Boy, a friend of my roommate’s boyfriend, tried (unsuccessfully) to put the moves on the other night. My roommate & I had just thrown a CEO/ Slutty Secretary theme party (where else could I show off my new sexy office black rimmed glasses?), and it was now 2:30 a.m. What remained of the party: The roommate, her boyfriend, myself, and Baby Boy. Not only is Baby Boy seriously smaller in height than me, he’s also 6 years younger.

Now I’ve met Baby Boy before, and he had told my roommate’s boyfriend that he thought I was “pretty hot” and that he was into tall women. Well, that’s great, it’s just unfortunate that I’m not “into short guys”. Anyway, after excusing myself and going to sleep, about ten minutes later I hear a knock on my door. A little knock, mind you. So fitting. Then another little knock. Then a little voice “can I come in?” He definitely took a “it’s just lil ole me” kind of approach to the whole thing.

I’m not sure what gave him the impression that I would allow him into my room, as I’ve given him zero indication whatsoever that I’m interested in him, but whatever. He just happened to be extremely lucky that night since the guy that I wanted to show up to the party hadn’t made it. So I figured, why not have a little company? Nothing’s going to happen obviously. So Baby Boy comes over to the bed and lays down. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is “Your bed is so BIG!!!! Damn, your bed is BIG!”

I swear to G-d. And I hate to use G-d’s name in vain. But why did he have to KEEP using the word “BIG?”  I had to bite my tongue to keep the jokes from accidentally spilling out against my will. Because let me paint the picture for you. I have a FULL bed. Yes, a full bed. Not a King, not a California King, not even a Queen. Anything smaller than mine is a twin.

I wanted to be like “Oh, this is an ADULT sized bed. I’m sure you’re accustomed to the adolescent bed sizes, but this is actually the norm for a big person’s bed. Yeah, uh huh! Funny, huh? Like your parents are out of town & you’re jumping up & down on their big, big bed? Yeah, same type of thing.”

Then this fool tries to move closer to me & put on the moves. I just brushed him away with a flick of my hand & was like “Sorry Baby Boy, it’s not gonna happen.” “What’s not gonna happen?” (they always play dumb.) “YOU know what’s not gonna happen.” But it actually worked out really well because after a little bit of akwardness we were hanging out like old friends & he suggested crank calling the guy who hadn’t shown up to the party. He took the rejection like a real trooper and ended up making the best of it.