Monday, December 29, 2008

What if home really IS where the heart is...

I’ve spent most of my life trying to avoid my hometown. A town of 11,000, I felt very confined when growing up. There was no room for mistakes, no room for growth, no privacy, no anonymity. Something you’d done at 12 followed you as long as it could hang on.

My younger life was anything but peachy and people in my hometown knew it. I dealt with various health issues, the least of which was my weight, and these all drastically affected the way I felt others saw me.

I used my weight as a sort-of protective mask, and in my junior year I realized that I was close to escaping home and with that would come opportunities to fulfill my potential and seek my dreams. So I started to transition. I lost (a lot of) weight and began seeking out activities to help shape me.

Upon graduation, I almost immediately lost contact with most people I grew up with. I branched out. I moved. Far away.

I went through drastically different phases of life. I went from being a conservative little girl who didn’t even want to dye or cut her long hair to a more-liberal chick with her hair cut in a sharp bob at my chin and dyed black with a red streak in it. And then a more classically dressed young woman. I became a (sometimes) career-driven professional. I have developed my personal tastes and my amazing friendships. I have created a very anti-hometown home for myself here in this city, and I love it.

And as generally content as I am with the components of my life, when I go home I tend to feel boxed in again. I feel like I’m that invisible little fat girl all over. And people’s newfound awe over my current appearance frustrates me even more (some of which I touched upon in my earlier post). I have an uncanny facial/name recognition, so I know everyone around me and, while they may have known me back in the day, most fail to recognize me now. So then when I say hello to them in the grocery store, I feel so ridiculous when they don’t have a clue who I am.

It is for this reason that I avoid that town. When I’m there, I’m there to see my family, so I stay safe in my parents’ cozy house. And if I do venture out, it’s in the big city 30 minutes away, where I’m far less likely to run into people from my hometown.

But regardless, it does happen. I do run into them. Sometimes I duck and run. Or stop, drop, and roll. Sometimes I blatantly ignore them. And sometimes I say hello.

And I was at a sushi restaurant waiting for a table Friday staring at one of my former classmate’s older brother. I thought about saying hi, but I was sure he had no idea who I was, and, well, he was just so good looking I guess I was afraid he’d see right through it. So I just stood there and waited for a table.

“Excuse me, but are you a *insert my last name here*?” He reached out to me and asked.

Now, my family is large and quite well known in this town, so while remarkable he had said something, I still figured it was just because I look like my siblings.

I said, “Yes, are you a Lozano?”

“I am! You’re Jess, right?”

And five minutes or so into conversation, he and his friends were seated.

Damn it, I thought. That’s it? He is so cute!

So I took my last shot of sake over to his table when I finished eating. I set it down in front of him and invited them all to the bar we were going to later that night, thinking there was no way he’d show.

About 10 minutes into arriving at the bar, I heard there was a huge line. I was sure this would prove to be a major deterrent, should he have thought about showing up.

Forty minutes later he walked in, looking every bit as handsome as he had earlier.

It was obvious he was there for me. But then, I hadn’t been in the area for months so I had about 20 other people there for me as well. I talked to him for a little bit, then I started to circulate between my friends, leaving him hanging out with his friend against the wall.

I was chatting with my ex boyfriend (funny enough) when he stopped by to tell me they were leaving. He emphatically told me how glad he was we ran into each other. But he didn’t get my number or anything.

As he walked away, my ex said, “What was up with that? Did you get his number? If I liked men, I’d like him. He’s a good looking dude.” Fist bump.

I walked back inside and my married friend (and therefore my de facto dating coach) said, “You lost your guy. What is wrong with you? He was so into you! And you basically ignored him the whole night and didn’t even get his number! You’re stupid!”

That was all the encouragement I needed. I Facebooked him right then and there. On my BlackBerry.

“Should’ve gotten your phone number. Shoulda coulda woulda, right?”

I thought, well, I haven’t seen him in five years, so even if my message isn’t well received, what have I got to lose? I won’t see him anyway.

But 10 minutes later I had a response. With a number. Asking me if I wanted to go out the next night.

And I did, so we went.

And talked for five hours straight. And started to make plans to visit each other in our respective locations, his being the Pacific northwest.

He thoroughly understood my feelings toward home. He shared them. He made me laugh and feel so comfortable and amazing and valuable. He laughed at my jokes and by the end of the night, we had more inside jokes than I can remember. He was every bit the gentlemen. We could barely bring ourselves to part at 3 a.m.

He told me he wanted to stay in contact. I agreed.

He’s called me twice in the last 24 hours. We have plans for me to visit him soon. This one feels like maybe it could be legitimate.

And I just can’t help but wonder…after decades of running from my hometown and pushing away so much associated with it, how funny it would be to find a guy who had been there all along.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Effing Beauty

Pretty people complaining about being pretty is about as ridiculously obnoxious as rich people complaining about having too much money. Or about fat people having too much food.

No one wants to hear it. There are enough ugly people in the world who would kill to have the face of Christy Turlington (or even the face of Rosie O'Donnell for that matter.... It really all depends on perspective). There are enough poor people in the world who would sell their souls for the annual income of a good ol' office assistant. There are enough starving people in the world who would stop at nothing to fill the bellies of their children and themselves.

So I keep trying to convince myself that, when put into perspective, it's completely irresponsible and undiscerning to complain about being pretty.

But I can't help it. No matter how many times I remind myself how fortunate I am to look as I do, I still just might crack should one more guy compliment my pretty face. I might cry. I might drop dead. I might start laughing hysterically, unable to control myself.

Because, as pretty as they may think I am, still not one worth his weight in dirt has wanted to date me. So when they tell me how pretty I am, it is traditionally closely followed up by a reason for which he doesn't care to see me again.

In the past months, I have gotten a good lineup of such reasons. The bullshit work excuse pulls in as the easy first. Incompatibility and other women tie for runner up. But what baffles me is that nearly every time, these reasons are preceded by an even-handed compliment aimed at my looks.

There was @hotinvestmentbanker who told me he thought I was pretty and dynamic, but someone had come back into his life. Then there was @workout.jpg who told me I had an amazing smile, great skin, and, of course, really pretty, but he just wanted to be friends. More recently I've fielded one more “You're so pretty” followed by a “I need to focus on work right now,” and (I swear these were the exact words), “I had a great time tonight. I think our backgrounds may be incompatible. But regardless, you have wonderful bone structure and eyes.” @bonestructure even instant messaged me the next day to tell me how amazing he thought I was, and how confident he was in my future successes as a PR executive.

And this has just been the last few months, not even counting the number of times I've been called “pretty” in the past few years.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with being complimented on my looks. It's that, after a while, feeling as though my face is the only positive attribute consistently recognized gets old. I want to start being recognized for my fantastic foxtrot and outstanding taste in sweaters for my dog. I want to be complimented for my wit, humor, and heart.

Basically I want someone to see past my appearances and just want me.

What difference does it make if they think I'm pretty if they don't want to see me again?

Granted, if they don't see past my exterior, who's to say I want to see them again anyway?

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Cold Turkey

There aren't any meetings I can go to.

Other people go to meetings, stand up in front of a group of individuals. Their faces laced with several degrees of intense emotion, they may look across the room or stare at their hands, fingers twisted in front of them.

They stand there and say their names and admit to their addiction.

“Hi, my name is John, and I am an alcoholic.”

But there aren't any meetings for my addiction. No one would take them seriously, I reckon. Although I do figure there are millions of girls near my age (or not even close, for that matter!) who could use one.

Since there aren't any meetings for me, I'm going to go ahead and use this blog as a sounding board.

Hi, my name is J., and I am an attentionaholic.

I haven't always been so helplessly addicted to this vice of mine. There was once upon a time a day when I yearned for the affection of only one man. No, I didn't know who he was yet exactly, but I knew the guy undressing me with his eyes from across the room was probably not him.

I don't know the point at which I fell, but I have been able to identify my enabler, which had been providing me with access to unparalleled levels of attention from every direction. Whenever I'd try to give it up, there my enabler would be, loosely disguised as something else and all the more tempting for it.

I'd try to give up the attention, but every chance I got, there I'd find myself, back at the source.

After several bouts of severe disappointment brought on by an onslaught of bad attention, I made a decision. And I've followed through.

I went cold turkey.

I deleted my Internet dating profile.

The first few days were pretty tough, I will admit. I'd start to log in to the website, quickly realizing it was pointless. What would I do there, if I couldn't get attention? I wasn't going to log on just to make small talk, that was for sure.

I'd start to think about using other enablers. There are guys who would love the opportunity for me to bask in their attention-filled glow. I could text one. I could call another. Hey, I'm friends with several on MySpace...

And then I'd remind myself. I am better than that. I am stronger. With God's will I can do this and break the chains of my addiction.

My mom always told me that it only takes one. It only takes the attention of one man to squelch the desire for the attention of many. And really, the attention of many hasn't been at all fulfilling anyway.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Made Special to Order

After all my hopes were dashed, on Tuesday the 6thfloorhos (well, most of them), dragged me down the street for happy hour. Okay, I lie. They didn’t have to drag me. After the week I’ve had, I was basically sprinting.

So we get there. (We frequent the place, just so you know.) And we don’t get Hotwaiter. We get Cutewaiter, which, as far as I’m concerned is better, because I’ve already scouted Hotwaiter and he has a girlfriend. At least Cutewaiter may still be attainable. You know, just for fun.

He asks for our orders. I’m one (or seven) drinks in, so I brazenly say, “A boyfriend, please.” To my amazement, Cutewaiter sits down next to me and says something like, “Well here I am.”

He was joking, but then again, so was I. Kind of. I don’t date waiters.

But when the check came, I left this.

The blurred-in part is my phone number. My friend Sarah was good enough to take a picture. I don’t expect to hear from him, but I figured it’d at least make for a good blog.

Did it work?

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Dumb Bell

After "Simon" decided he wanted to just be friends, he thought it'd be a good idea to send me this photo of himself. You know, for "fun."

It was titled "Workout.jpg." Who does that?! That being said, he shall now forever be referred to as "Workout.jpg."


Wednesday, November 12, 2008

My little friend

Just a quick note: Just got back from the dermatologist who told me I'm cold-sore free. She said it just looks like an irritation or something. Woohoo! This was just enough encouragement to take a break from dating. Don't you worry your little heads... I have plenty of blogging material stored up from years past.


So I got hit on online by this guy. My friends Sarah and Jenelle have constant run-ins with some semi-industry type whom they refer to as "Braidbeard." So when I got a message from this guy, I had to wonder if it was him. It's not. But it's still pretty entertaining to me anyway. He must braid his beard in the morning, look at himself in the mirror and say "F*** yeah! I look awesome!"

Well, I don't think he looks awesome. In fact I almost feel as though he should be kidding when trying to hit on me. Does he think he has a chance? Uh, he should probably think again.

This is why I Internet date. Because it's hilarious.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

I am not my cold sore.

I'm not often easily intimidated by looks. I'm not. I go through phases where I may not feel like the hottest girl in the room, or in the corner, or in my own cubicle, for that matter. I also go through phases during which I don’t care to be the hottest girl in the room either. In fact, today is one of those days. Today, sleep was of supreme importance.

But most of the time, no matter how hot I do or do not feel, I’m not incredibly intimidated by looks. I’m a little used to getting what I want out of life and this flows over into my amazing (but subdued) prowess.

Case in point: A while ago my friends and I took a mini-vacay down to Orange County. We stayed at a resort and spent most of the four days shopping, drinking, and laying by the pool. While out one night, we walked in to a bar and from the door I spotted him.

Now, this guy was my type all the way down to his European-style tennis shoes. About 6’5, broad shoulders, dark hair, tan skin, light eyes, well dressed…you get the point. Before he’d even seen me I pointed him out to the girls and said, “I want that one.”

All I had to do was casually brush past him on the way to the bar, turning back briefly for a polite, “Oh, excuse me,” and he was mine.

So much mine, in fact, that he followed me out of the bar all the way down to the beach, where my friends and I had shed our shoes, rolled up our pants and were pretty much frolicking in the dark ocean at midnight. He kissed me then, and that was all I’d wanted. I skipped up to the street, hailed a cab, and was on my merry little way.

This is just one example of exactly how not intimidated I am. There are many, many others.

So when I started talking to the self-proclaimed Simon Rex lookalike, I was surprised by exactly how intimidated I was by his looks. We met online and conversation was great, but I for whatever reason was really worried he wouldn’t find me to be attractive.

Then I had one hell of a day. I spent the day before our big date hanging out among a few Hollywood types—actors, managers, casting directors and such—and I received a ton of compliments. I was told repeatedly how beautiful I was and how great I was, etc. My thought was, “Wow, this is perfect timing. I really needed to be reminded that I’m attractive. Now I’ll feel confident.”

I woke up in the morning with a huge cold sore. The first one I’ve had in my life. At about 5 a.m. a nearby siren woke me up and as I put my lips together, I felt it. This huge bump on my lip. I sat up with a jolt. This cannot be happening, I thought. Not today! If the normal me wasn’t hot enough the Me-With-a-Huge-Cold-Sore would definitely not cut it.

I tried to convince myself it was a zit. I did everything I could think of. Hot compress, cold compress. You know, sawing it off. The norm. I decided all I could do would be to sleep more.

I awoke at a more normal hour and put in a few phone calls. One to my dad (who’s in family practice)—“Any emergency remedies for a cold sore?” (His answer? “Yeah, that’s too bad. … A lot of women get them on their wedding day too.” Oh, thanks Dad, now I have even greater things to look forward to?) Another phone call to my dear friend who just finished med school: “Oh EFF! Any emergency remedies for a cold sore?” And yet another to my 21-year-old brother: “If you were meeting up with a girl for the first time and she showed up with a cold sore, would you want to see her again?” (His answer? "You've been kissing the wrong dudes." Well, yeah! I didn't need a cold sore to know that!")

I ran to the store and bought the recommended creams. I applied fervently. I decided I needed to go out with him, with or without my little friend. If he was worth it, he’d like me anyway.

I met up with my friend Hilary for a brief pre-date glass of wine and she swore she couldn’t even see anything. That made me feel better.

I finally got there, and "Simon" was very attracted to me. He made it very clear he thought I was beautiful, with a great smile, great skin, and a fan-frakkin-tastic personality. No mention (or notice, from what I could tell) of my swollen lip.

It was a great night. He was great. He thought I was great.

All my concerns about him being out of my league dissolved, as did my stress. He liked me. And when I realized how much looks didn’t matter, I was finally able to consider whether or not I liked him. And ultimately, that’s the most important thing. If he’s not worthy of me liking him, what difference does it make how good looking he is or how good looking he thinks I am?

More on this later.


My friend Hilary once said something brilliant. She said, "Marriage is said to be a great institution. But who the hell wants to be institutionalized?!" This is to say, I hate men. More to come on this later.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

The Scariest Thing of Halloween

I'm not sure if this is actually dating-related enough for this blog, but I'm posting it anyway.

You see the guy in the picture above? Yeah, you know, Lt. Dangle from Reno 911? Well, I kind of met him last night--well, a version of him. A little too up-close-and-personally.

Okay, so you meet all kinds of crazy characters when in West Hollywood on Halloween, granted. You see things you will never, ever see again, ever in your life. Well, until next year. It's easy to be shocked at the 8-foot-tall drag-version of the Bride of Frankenstein walking around on stilts. Or the herd of cowboys wandering the streets wearing [only] assless chaps. A sight to be seen, I must say.

I still think I'm a little surprised by Lt. Dangle though. I mean, yes, everyone was a little bit ballsy (no pun intended) and incredibly super-charged, but you just don't expect a very feminine guy in WeHo on a Halloween night to come on to you. Seriously.

So here I am, dancing with some friends in one of the clubs off of Santa Monica--a club full of crazy-ass drag queens and every other colorful creature you may imagine, asses hanging out all over the place. Suddenly I have this Lt. Dangle character all up on me. So I'm dancing with him. I'm sure he's gay, so everything's fine, right? Wrong. "You're SO HOT!" he tells me repeatedly, with a little bit of a lisp in a very exaggerated manner. "You're so sweet," I say back, still convinced he likes men. "Are you gay?" he asks me. I consider lying but, sure of the answer, say, "No, are you?" "I'm whatever you want me to be, Baby." Uh. Okay. Gay, I want you to be gay.

And I remain pretty sure he is...until, while dancing and twirling around (in my little cavewoman skirt, which is basically a strand of cloth) I realize that Lt. Dangle is, um, well, not dangling. And he's not dangling outside the confines of his very short shorts.

Suddenly I was very sober.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Maybe not wishin' and hopin'...

Sometimes I wonder how many more shots at this whole dating-love-marriage thing I’ve got left.

I feel like I may be starting to exhaust my options. Note: This is not me having a pity party, rather an appropriately logical exploration of the chances I’ve outdone myself.

Or the chances that, by the time the right guy comes along, I will be so cynical I won’t know it’s him. And I’ll walk away. Or run, even.

Really, how many times am I expected to put myself and my…heart (for lack of a less-cliché word) out there? It’s not that every date is that promising. It’s not. It’s not that I never hear from most guys again. I do.

It’s just this…well, this whole “hope” thing. I feel as though my hope should (and often does) dwindle a little bit after each date I go on. Sometimes I go out with someone I may not be incredibly impressed with simply in the hopes that he’ll surprise me and be amazing. He’s usually not. Sometimes I go out with someone I am incredibly, incredibly impressed with in the hopes that he’ll be incredibly, incredibly impressed with me. He’s usually not. Or he is, and my opinion of him has been altered by the big pink stuffed bunny he brought me that was the size of my torso (pictures will follow in later blog). (Sorry, I have enough cute little fluff around—he’s called my dog.) Besides, pink bunnies are just weird.

If I am, in fact, doling out hopes on each date, will I eventually run out of it? It’s not exactly as though we were born with infinite amounts of this thing.

And if I am at risk of running out of hope, should I stop dating in order to hold on to it? But then isn’t that giving up on or ignoring hope anyway? Stifling the last bits of hope to which I may be clinging?

Having no hope for finding love seems like a lonely place, if you ask me. But having hope for love often seems naïve and ignorant.

Where exactly is the balance?

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Unanswered Prayers

A while ago I was complaining to my mom about how this guy who was interested in me wasn't my type. He was lighter and with lighter hair, and he didn't seem to have a very big personality, which I tend to like.

She said something that really stuck with me. She said, "Honey, you don't know what your type is. Only God knows your type." And I was a little offended. I said, "No, I know exactly what my type is. I like tall, big, tan guys, with dark hair, nice smiles, and light eyes. And Mom, this guy is not that!"

She then told me she didn't think my dad was her type. Thirty years later it's pretty obvious he is indeed.

I mean, obviously a "type" is not a hard and fast rule. It's just a set of preferences based on Jude Law. Kidding. Well, about the Jude Law part.

It makes me think of that (super-cheesy) Garth Brooks song that goes, "Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers." It talks about how this guy is so glad he ended up with his wife instead of the now-aging floozy who was the high school flame he had dreamed of for years.

Friday, October 24, 2008

A Quarter for Your Thoughts

So one time I was having dinner and my date insisted I let him pay. I did. He proceeded to pull a bunch of quarters out of his pockets and pay for the entire thing in quarters.

I'm not kidding.

I think he now is serving time for the sale and possession of marijuana or something lame. Makes sense.

Garbage Disposals: The alternative uses

I was reading the newspaper over my oatmeal the other morning, and I happened upon a comic strip that struck me. You know, like it stood out to me, not like it reached out and hit me in the face. Got it? Good. Moving on.

The comic was fairly simple. It was a drawing of a burning building with flames billowing out the windows. On the top floor was a desperate woman hanging out of the window. Then there was a fireman climbing up the ladder to her rescue. As he approaches her, she says one line: “I thought you'd be taller.”

Here this poor guy is, risking his own life to save some selfish little bitch who wants her knight in [yellow, fire-retardant] armor to be 6'2, with nice teeth, an athletic frame, and oh, maybe a Porsche. (SO what if I'm projecting? This is my blog, damn it!)

And I laughed out loud at first. How right on, I thought. Until I started to feel bad for the dude. I thought of how girls pass up the opportunity to get to know a guy just because he's a little on the shorter side or whatever. He could be a perfectly good guy with a good heart and a healthy sense of adoration for the object of his affection, but we overlook him because we're taller than him when we're wearing heels.

I felt bad, I did. I scrambled the idea around in my head. I tried to justify it. I tried to make a personal pact to eyeball the short guys too—and to make an effort to deal with their inevitable “short-man syndrome” in the process.

And then it hit me. Some of the guys I've liked the most in my long, long life have not necessarily been the ones who have all the qualities found on my list. There have been some shorter ones, or some chubbier ones, some who were balding a bit (both prematurely and definitely right on time), and the list goes on. Yet these have been the most significant men in my life.

While yes, some of them were assholes and heaven knows why I liked them, most of them were really great guys. Guys who adored me. Guys who were funny, smart, driven, hard-working, cute, and who cared if they were a little short?

My point is simply that I make a big deal about these standards of mine. But if some amazing guy came along and gave me reason enough, I'd crumple up my list and shove it down my garbage disposal with little to no hesitation.

Until then, I'm hanging onto this list of mine. There's no garbage disposal in my current apartment anyway.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

A Stitch in Time

I'm trying to resist the temptation to be cliché and everything, but hell, this is a blog about relationships and dating. Almost anything I may come up with is probably cliché in one way or another. So deal with it.

I am learning yet again the incredible importance of timing. I started to learn this lesson on a larger scale many, many years ago when I was in grade school. Okay, so that was last week, whatever.

When I was in grade school I got picked on quite a bit. I was a wee bit on the chunky side and some of my classmates were little devils, as kids will often be. Even then I knew my time would come.

I compiled a list, which I still have buried in the pages of my journal. My “Guys I Won’t Ever Date When I’m Skinny” list. Ironically enough, I slimmed down substantially during the later part of my high school years and eventually became the beautiful and breathtaking creature I am today.

About a year or so ago, I ran into one of the boys on my list. Now a man, and a rather good-looking one at that, he almost immediately began to express interest in me, asking for my number, saying he wanted to take me to a Dodgers game, and all that. Well, karma’s a bitch and timing is everything, right?

I never reminded him of that one time he called me Ms. Piggy, but I never went out with him either.

That was my first long-term lesson in timing. I’ve been learning another one lately, but only time will tell if this one will be quite as satisfying as the first.

I’m going to be a little vulnerable here. Don’t expect to find much more of that any time soon, but here I go.

*@hotinvestmentbanker warning, for those of you sick of hearing about it.

There’s this guy. Or should I say was this guy. We apparently had the worst timing in the history of mankind. My interest in him was almost unprecedented. It just so happened that I picked the worst time since the Great Depression to decide to date someone in finance. Two days after our first date, the economy plummeted to an all-time low. A few weeks later I found out that not only was his job a nightmare but also a few other factors had weighed in, making him decide to “take a break” from dating.

It’s all in the timing. That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what my co-working crew keeps telling me. That’s what my friends and roommate and neighbors keep telling me. It’s become my mantra as of late.

After seeing him online last night and suppressing the urge to instant message him, I decided to read up on timing just to strengthen my resolve.

“Life is all about the timing… The unreachable becomes reachable… the unavailable becomes available…the unattainable, attainable… Have the patience. Wait it out. It’s all about the timing.” –Stacey Charter

Okay, that’s good, I thought. Reachable, available, attainable, these are all good things. I kept reading.

“The timing of death, like the ending of a story, gives a changed meaning to what preceded it.” —Mary Catherine Bateson

Uh, so, not exactly what I’m looking for. Keep going.

“All right, so if you absolutely have to tell her the truth, at least wait until the timing’s right. And that’s what deathbeds are for.” –Chandler on “Friends”

I had to throw in the “Friends” quote…c’mon.
And here’s the one that threw me.

“You cannot afford to wait for perfect conditions. Goal setting is often a matter of balancing timing against available resources. Opportunities are easily lost while waiting for perfect conditions.” —Gary Ryan Blair

This one made me second-guess myself. I mean, really, am I throwing away opportunities while I wait for the perfect timing? Should I have instant messaged him? No. I was steadfast in my decision-making. Okay, so I had to tell my roommate to tell me I shouldn’t IM him. She said, “Give it more time.” There’s that word again, I thought.

So I’m giving it time. My gut tells me it’s the right move. And besides, in the meantime I can keep myself occupied dating guys named Chewbacca.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

The Stick Figure

The Project BFOTWS was unofficially launched on Thursday. The unofficial launch made me question the genius of the project as a whole. The defining factor can only be described as a stick figure in dress slacks dancing like he was bobbing for apples right side up. He was originally dancing with women, then he switched to men, dancing quite provocatively, I must say. He began holding the hand of one guy, which really made sense, we thought. Until he began dancing with yet another man in the same group, ass-grazing and all.

As you have probably surmised, this was not at all a successful venture.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Project Being Fabulous on the Westside

I’ve done an unofficial survey. After scouring the many different neighborhood bars and nightclubs and talking to a bazillion different types of men during my tenure in this city, I’ve come to a conclusion.

I live in the wrong neighborhood.

Now, this isn’t to say I don’t like my neighborhood or that it doesn’t satisfy my needs, because it more than does. I love many aspects of where I live--my great neighbors, its close proximity to my office, and the adorable little market across the street, just to name a few.

However there is a definitive lack of one necessary commodity.


No, I don’t mean there are no men in the area. I mean there are very few men in whom I’d even consider being interested. In fact, the very thing I’ve often found myself loving about my neighborhood—the artistic vibe, fueled by the multitude of creative, struggling, young-artist types—is the thing that seems to have driven away the exact breed of fellows I like.

Not to sound narcissistic, but when in a romantic entanglement, I enjoy being the creative one. I tend to be attracted to the tie-wearing, business-minded, mathematically inclined type who is utterly amazed at my knowledge of the differences between independent and dependent clauses. Or ‘who’ and ‘whom,’ for that matter.

My neighborhood is totally and completely congested with starving-artist types, many who are far too young for me (you know, like anywhere within three years of my own age) and far too immature (like still eating Top Ramen with ketchup) and far too, well, is there a more PC word for “douchebaggish”? And let me tell you, the douchebaggishness is the real deal-breaker, my friends.

The results of my aforementioned unofficial survey have shown the Westside is heavily populated by tie-wearing, business-minded, mathematically inclined, 27-to-33-year-old, mature, nondouchebaggish men. And it is based on these results that I have decided to launch my new initiative: Project Being Fabulous on the Westside.

A number of my good friends have been trying to win me over to the west for quite some time now. “The Westside is the best side,” they chant in unison. I’m starting to be swayed. Not only has the Westside proven to be somewhat of a mini-vacay each time I visit, but these new developments provide an additional allure.

Project BFOTWS, consider yourself launched. May you bring fun, prosperity, and prospects.