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.