dutch by default

Hey, I’m [DutchByDefault].

I have a fantastic smile and a mischievous laugh.

I desire the maximum amount of fun and romance out of life, which can come across as intense. I fancy fine-dining, preferably alfresco, often with a cheese plate and a buttery chard accompaniment, and retreating home. I love playing music, learning about sociology and the humanities, swimming in the ocean (or a pool), exploring upscale hotels, going camping, and brushing my teeth.

Others have described me as: nice, talented, quirky, sensitive, loyal, hilarious, academic, and “a force.”

I am tall and deceivingly athletic-looking, but actually quite clumsy and soft. I’ve broken my foot playing soccer, my arm snow-mobiling, and my ass sky-diving, so I’m fairly tapped out on adrenaline-rush activities. But I am always happy to sit in the lodge, sip a hot toddy, and read the latest David Sedaris or Philip Zimbardo book on my kindle.

I don’t collect anything, save for art and notches on my bedpost, I am an absolutely terrible driver, suffering from night blindness, I'm allergic to way too much stuff, and I am not at all interested in religion. I haven’t had a cigarette in four years and I can be difficult in the morning before I have processed two cups of black coffee and any regrets from the previous night.

I am adept socially, and awesome by myself. I am comfortable living alone, and while I am seeking a partner with whom to enjoy and enhance my experiences, I will not be welcoming any indoor pets (I think it is abusive to them).  I intend to start a family, eventually.  It may include foster children.

I wish I were talented enough to create a masterpiece with oil paint, make an absurd living as a voice-over artist, and sew my own clothing. Until then, I work too much, sleep too late, and occasionally party too hard with my incredible friends.

My favorite pheromone taste is truffles, and my language of love is “Acts of Service,” as I abhor taking in my car or taking out the garbage. I’m also not a huge fan of doing the dishes, but I can cook almost anything, so it usually turns out to be a pretty fair trade. Also, should it help, I am a phenomenal kisser, particularly if we are listening to R&B.

So yesterday, at 4PM, I receive a text from Dr. Fib.  I’ll refer to him as such because he calls himself Dr. [actual name] in person and on the phone with me, and he’s A CHIROPRACTOR and NOT a medical doctor.   But I’m pretty happy he’s employed, so when he asks if we are still on for 6pm and what country is the most interesting to me right now, I ignore my nagging instincts and reply, “Yes, Italy.”

A bit later he pushes the time to 7 or 7:30 and at 6:45 he texts again to say he’s running late.  Anticipating a potential LA blow-off, I double book a group dinner with friends who won’t mind if I don’t show (I have shaved, I’d like a fallback).

But Dr. Fib pulls through and meets me at a nearby market at 7:30, in a Jeep Cherokee, with doors that don’t lock, or actually even open.  I stand in front of the passenger door until he figures out that he’s supposed to open it for me and then he opens the back door instead and says he hopes I won’t mind climbing over the seat in my St John Dress and Christian Louboutin Heels.

Once I’m “safely” inside, he states that he doesn’t actually know any Italian places and asks if there’s anything else I like.  I respond, “I like pretty much everything except Chinese food,” and he says, “What are you, RACIST?”

After gently explaining that I have food allergies including shellfish and nuts, which are easily exacerbated by most Chinese food, he proceeds to tell me that I can probably alleviate many of those symptoms with one good re-alignment and then I won’t have to miss out on some of the greatest delicacies of all-time, including ceviche.

We haven’t even left the parking lot.

I agree to Mediterranean food and assume that we are going to that cute little Greek place in Larchmont Village.  I was just there on Friday, but it was delicious and I don’t eat meat on Fridays (or drink alcohol) during Lent, so I am excited for some tasty chicken skewers.

We arrive instead in West Hollywood at a veritable SHIT-HOLE.  I’m not kidding.  This place does not have walls.  Or a ceiling.  Or a bathroom.  The customers are smoking hookah pipes inside the restaurant.  I am going to “enjoy” my Lebanese fare while inhaling scented fumes of poison.  He asks me if I ever smoked a hookah before.  I laugh as I explain that I smoked for fifteen years, but quit.  He looks all at once shocked, disappointed and disgusted.  

Thankfully, my bestie, Jamie, is Lebanese and I know exactly what to order.  Dr. Fib asks me what I want and I tell him, chicken skewers and a few other items.  The waiter comes over and of course Dr. Fib orders something entirely different.  I only mention the Labneh (one of four items I suggested) at the end and he WINKS at me, like he is doing me a favor, by allowing me to add something.  The waiter comes back and says they are out of Labneh.

During dinner, Dr. Fib wife-interviews me with the following questions:

Have you ever been married?

Do you have any children?

Are you still a virgin?

Do you think you are “really” Catholic?

Where did you go to school?

What did you study in school?

Why did you get into your line of work?

Do you ever feel like people are prejudiced against you?

Why did you agree to go out with me?

Did you shave for this date?  (I say no, he asks if he can feel, I say, go ahead, I don’t have any hair anyway, he says, why, did you have it all removed, I say, no, I’m thankfully just not hairy)

He then “awards” me five minutes to ask him any questions I want.  But before I can even get one out, he offers to answer all of his questions.  

He hasn’t been married, and definitely does not have any children (he has not had a vasectomy).  He went to BIBLE College.  And he thinks rich people are very elitist.  He became a Chiropractor to prove his worth to the people with whom he used to throw rocks in his village (okay, I’m mean, he probably said “neighborhood”).  And he asked me out because he thought I was pretty in a super-nerdy way, which is rare in a city of beautiful people.

I ask him if he is a vegetarian.  He is not.

I ask him if his office has a medical spa with Botox and such.  He says he doesn’t think so, because it’s A GYM.  He asks me if I ever had Botox and when I respond, “Yes, I’ve been getting it for years, for migraines and vanity,” he tells me I can stop getting migraines with an ADJUSTMENT and change my eating habits to REVERSE my wrinkles.

I ask him what he likes to do in his spare time.  He says he likes to shop for clothes for events, so he can be prepared, should he ever be invited to The Grammys.  He asks if I went to them this year.  I say no.  I ask him what he’d purchased so far for the Oscars.  He doesn’t get it.  He doesn’t even know they are this weekend.

Ten minutes later, he actually requests for me to repeat back to him his answers to my questions.  I can’t remember anything except for Bible College.  He nostalgically reminds me of everything he has said thus far, so I won’t forget again.    

Frowning at me, he tells me I still have a few minutes left of my questions for him and I can ask him the rest now or I can save them for later.  I choose the latter.  He looks genuinely let down.  I feel a little bad, but I don’t feel like I need to know anything else in the moment.

When dinner is over, the bill comes and I ask if we can split it.  Everyone knows this is A TEST, but by now, I will pay the entire bill just to make a clean getaway.  He says, “Oh, I get it, you’re like a real nineties chick,” and lets the waiter take both cards.

On the way back to the car, I am eagerly anticipating my second-to-last seat-climb.  But Dr. Fib isn’t ready for the night to end and asks me how I like Fro-Yo.

I fucking hate frozen yogurt.  It tastes like sour melting feminine discharge.  And I’ve had just about enough of the good doctor.  I mean to say, “Please take me home,” but it sounds more like, “I prefer ice cream.”  So over the seat and off to Millions of Milkshakes we go!

Dr. Fib parks in a tow-zone and puts on his hazards and as we wait in the incredibly long line, I think of how awful it would be if we are trapped here and I have to give a handy to a tow-man to let us have his car back so we can return to Beachwood Canyon before midnight.

While telling me an incredibly boring story about how he might like to be a television doctor or media something-or-other, Dr. Fib, who claims he’s never heard of or seen my show, accidentally mentions that he told his friends he couldn’t believe he was going out with an actress he’d seen on tv.  UUGGGHHH.  I suspected that he’d asked me out because he recognized me from the show, but he’d seemed so sincere.  Then he tells me how much he likes to do Karaoke with famous people.  I am doing a Rosary in my head for the car to still be there.    

Thankfully, it is, and on the ride home, Dr. Fib tells me that his brother has three children, from three different women.  He then mentions that his family always asks him if he is gay, because he is thirty-eight, without any babies to physically represent him in this world.

I tell Dr. Fib that I am not interested in having children, EVER.  I say I’m a career woman and I have a great life and I enjoy being unhindered by children and/or animals and I’m NEVER willing to give that up.  He asks me if I’d had my tubes tied (nope) and what kind of birth control I use (abstinence, of course, sir).  He tells me that he BELIEVES that I have a great life and then explains to me, SLOWLY, that I might change my mind, when I’m about 39.  His birthday must be coming up.    

Back at the market, Dr. Fib says he would get my door for me, but he feels like I’ve been ready to jump out since we parked and he is hoping we can sit there for a while and keep talking.  I’m glad he knows this isn’t going well and I quickly kiss him on the cheek and tell him to give me a call sometime as I backwards somersault over the center console and dash out the rear door.  

I know I should learn how to say, “This just isn’t working for me,” but until then, I believe that Dr. Fib couldn’t have been having a great time either or I pray that he REALLY WANTS KIDS and continue to wonder if I’M BEING TOO PICKY.

Today I receive a timely text from Dr. Fib that says, “I enjoyed sharing time with you last night; you are quite lovely and down to Earth.  Look forward to catching up with you again if you’re free soon.”

Living in Hollywood, I sometimes get invited to really cool parties. So when I receive a note from a friend that his father is throwing a fete in The Hills, I RSVP +3 and call my girls.

We roll up The Hill and assign ourselves some spots near the pool. Dressed to the nines, we look exclusive and intimidating. But some young gentlemen try their luck and we love it.

By the end of the evening, my sister has the septuagenarian host taking shots of Fireball and we drift out early, because perhaps we are heading to another event.

A few weeks later, I open my email and up pops a message from the Dad:

Dear [DutchByDefault],

At my party you had a conversation with my friend Mr. Gent ……..

He remembers you with interest….!!

Will you allow me to do an email introduction and pass on email/phone?

[Redacted]

To which I respond:

Hello [Redacted]!

I hope you are well!

I may have imbibed in a touch too much champagne that evening, so I’m not entirely sure which lovely gentleman from your party bears that name, but you are welcome to pass on my information.

Best, [DutchByDefault]

P.S. my sister says hello!

Shortly thereafter, I am contacted by Mr. Gent, who suggests we meet up when he returns from Europe. Yes, please!

We decide on coffee, and I have a new place to try. Since I do not remember about whom the Dad was speaking, I shoot him a text that I am wearing a red sweater.

He responds that he “is running late, and he will be the one with a band-aid on his face - to be explained when [he] arrives.”

Now I understand injuries, perhaps better than most. But I’m sorry, if you have a band-aid on your face, shouldn’t you reschedule a blind date until you feel better? I stuff shallow me in the corner, embarrassed that I might care about something so trite as a band-aid.

Ten minutes later, I decide that I should order, because I’m in that weird place where he is tardy and if I don’t get myself a coffee, it might appear as though I am just waiting for him to pay. So I pop into the line and when it’s my turn, I order an Americano.

This place is fancy, and a drink order takes awhile, so of course Mr. Gent shows up while I am still at the counter. He pokes me, and I turn…

AND HE IS A HUNDRED.

AND THERE IS A BANDAGE COVERING HALF OF HIS FACE.

Okay, he is probably sixty (older than my father), and the band-aid is only actually covering a quarter of his face, but I am in shock. Could the Dad possibly think that this is a reasonable set-up?

I ask Mr. Gent what he would like and he says “Tea.” Which I somehow buy for him, because I have already handed the barista my card.

WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON??

We sit for about an hour and he is lovely company that I will never see again. He is educated, interesting and kind. He is probably a terrific father for his 20-something-year-old kids. And he had an unfortunate bout with skin cancer, which is hopefully under control at this point.

I do not have daddy issues. I support myself and I am not looking to be saved by an old man.

While I cannot blame Mr. Gent for taking a shot, I do not think this is reasonable, and I am angry with the Dad. But he has great parties, so I will suck this one up.

Fresh off the heels of my Mr. Innocent break-off, Chad convinces me to stroll through some friendly bars and keep our buzz on. We land in a particularly hipster-y joint and Chad immediately chats it up with the cute Asian sisters sitting next to us.

At the other end of the long bar sits a dark, brooding, motorcycle man. We lock eyes and I feel him search for a way to get to me. When Chad excuses himself to use the restroom, the man tries to speak to me over the crowd. But it is loud, and his thick French accent gets lost in the movement. He approaches me and asks if we might see each other again.

Yes, handsome foreign man, here is my card. I do hope you’ll call.

And I leave on a high note, texting Chad that I had to bail. Driving home, I was all smiles. It really is easy to meet someone new, when you are totally open to the possibilities.

I wake up in the morning to my coffee machine auto-grinding and drag myself from bed. I have about four hours of work ahead of me before I can enjoy my Sunday, so I get motivated and get out. And I forget my cell phone.

When I return, at 1PM, I have missed seventeen messages.

1. [Redacted] with a “T,” … you were right! ☺

2. (This message was intentionally enigmatic)

3. Sorry… I meant “I think you were right.”

4. [Redacted]! ☺ GoOd MoRninG!!! ☺

5. Don’t be afraid by my spontaneity & I am only texting because it’s 9AM and won’t disturb you but would rather call you and speak with you ☺ to you… (That’s a lot of “you” suddenly)

6. But do You want to “finish” our last night conversation today? ☺ A friendly request from a happy intrigued little man.

7. Forget the safe few blank days rule etc etc and just face each other to examine our intrigue

8. Thanks for reading, I am around…

9. P.S. Okay ☺ I am calling you in 5/10 minutes… Can you answer?

10. After that some might call it “harassment” so I’ll probably end up listening to them unless we can communicate. If not… too bad I had many funny things & stories to tell you.

11. One in particular… And two calls, the second time leaving this message: “Good morning [Redacted], we met yesterday at the bar. I’m not sure if you received some of my text messages, but I hope that you had a good night and morning and I would be very happy to talk with you, whenever you want. Okay. [He leaves his number] Please give me a call whenever you want. All right. Bye. “

12. Come on [Redacted]! :-/  ???

13. We started very well… just tell me something. Tell me that you are okay first as I don’t even know if you are reading me.

14. I am sorry but I am not that kind of insisting guy and very sadly I will have to erase your # because the situation is becoming slightly humiliating & sad.

15. A tease then a dead end? Why? & for what? Frankly! We have much nicer things to do together. Nicer, funnier, friendlier, just looking at each other & talking that’s all we were & still are.

16. I hope nothing unfortunate happened to you since we saw each other last night.

17. This is my last attempt to reach you… Sorry… Be well [Redacted]. I did my best to “seed us” in the kindest manner I could.

Factoring in a language barrier and any possible cultural differences, I still cannot fathom that this person is stable. So I decide no response is the best response. And then later I check my work email.

At 8:27 PM, I have a message that says: “Did you lose you phone yesterday after we met?” Attached is a picture of a very pretty rose.

At 8:49 PM: “PS: ‘your phone’ sorry…” Attached is a picture of Mr. French, in bed, under the covers (not nude).

At 10:17 AM the next day:

[Redacted], You have all this background in psychology and you are doing, playing this nasty crap on me of hiding behind your phone… I studied psychoanalysis for 4 years in Paris. But now I am wondering what kind of advices are you giving to those peoples if you’r capable to do what you’r doing with me? To initiate, promote then retain communication! excuse my Frenchy but “this apple has a creepy flavor!”.

You surprised me as I was alone, relaxing & waiting for a friend… You capted my attention and because I thought it was cute the way you behaved with me… for you & only for you I openned myself…but on your side apparently there was absolutely nothing else behind “a momentary interrest” that might have been even “faked” for whatever reasons. A little game probably. I know you are reading me unless a Boing 747 fell on your car last night.

Unfortunately, that’s a very pedestrian little Hollywood bars spirited story that you are offering and I really thought for a while you weren’t that way.

My fault just my fault! I never very well weared the “cold asshole” suit :^)

I skip breezily into a summer party and my buddy Marc introduces me to many new friends. I am chatting with one nice gentleman about gluten-free barbeque options, when the delicious scent of someone else’s breath wafts upon me from behind, the way a tired mother catches the first whiff of ocean spray with a hint of sun tan oil in it and realizes with a satisfied smile that she is finally on a long-deserved island vacation without her nine children. Only my ocean is flavored by truffles and suddenly, I’m surrounded and overwhelmed.

The truth of chemical attraction is dangerous. As women, I believe we are trained socially to pander to men from an early age, telling them how great and handsome and hard-working they are, even when they are fat and bald and unemployed and drinking from a beer can, without a glass, on a La-Z-Boy. Most of the time we resign that we “can’t have it all,” and try to get so close as possible. I HATE that.

But once in the bluest moon, the lie dissipates and the draw is so heavy it’s intoxicating.

Mr. Holiday turns around to face me and he’s absolutely beautiful. His eyes are the green of someone with a hot temper, yet they are gentled with experience. He has this tiny, shapely nose that I wish I were able to sculpt, and quirky lips, like Tobey McGuire in Pleasantville. His teeth have spaces in between them that seem to be granting his breath extra permission to find me.I breathe it in and pause.

I am terrified of love.

He speaks with me like we have been pals since we were kids, flirty, but not inappropriate, and for the first time in my life, I want to know every single thing about someone.

Twenty minutes later we are approached by a small, sharp-looking girl, who has the audacity to interrupt us, and who holds out her hand to greet me.

GO AWAY, I stare at her. I have found my forever. Make yourself scarce, please.

“I’m Mr. Holiday’s girlfriend,” she exclaims cheerily, putting her arm around him, as the wind is completely fucking knocked out of me.

I don’t see how this can be happening. This little woman is bossy and cold and weathered and surely evil. It can’t be. He is supposed to be mine. I am POSITIVE.

But I refuse to covet another person’s partner, so I excuse myself politely and join a different conversation. I catch him looking at me, or he catches me – it doesn’t matter, there is a continent of time between us now.

Months later, I am out with my girlfriend Leah on a wintery night, and I receive a text from Mr. Holiday’s roommate. “We are all out at Roosters, come on by!”I show Leah my phone and she is adamant that we will not be rolling up at that sketchy, hole-in-the-wall bar. I mention that Mr. Holiday is there and she yells, “I love Roosters!” She is a damn good friend.

When we arrive, I sit in the middle of a long table of acquaintances and a scotch mysteriously appears in front of me. As I am finishing it up and getting ready to leave, Mr. Holiday, sans any female company, whispers fragrantly from behind me, “That drink was from me.” I turn around to face him and respond, “You are the exact and only person I would like to be buying my drinks, thank you.” I muster up all of my faux coolness and exit.

Through the grapevine, I hear that he has reunited with his girlfriend and I am crushed again. But I can wait. I can’t imagine a victory that will taste sweeter than the inside of his mouth.

In the summertime, Mr. Holiday joins a few of us for a bottomless Sunday brunch. These are known to get rowdy. We drink until we are down to three and “three” gets up to use the bathroom. Mr. Holiday leans over, full of brash masculinity, and kisses me and I will never recover.

All of my years of truffle weirdness are exploding in a mariachi dance on my tongue.

I don’t ever want to kiss anyone else again for the rest of my life.

For months, I derive sheer inspiration from this brilliant, delightful man. He is creative and talented and hilarious. He makes me work hard and he challenges me constantly with an effortlessness that is fun.

I can see that I make him nervous and I want to quell it with the attention I think he deserves. He tells me that he and his roommate secretly think I am a superhero and I might take over the world. I am having the best time and I never want it to end.

But mostly, I love the me I am with he.

I am no longer sarcastic or bitter or angry. I am gentle and loving and kind. I am actually becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be.

Sitting on my bed one day, Mr. Holiday and I make up a story about the tiny door in my bathroom as it relates to the haunted painting on my wall and I know for certain in that instant that he will be the most amazing father.

And I totally freak out.

Something I am learning about myself while dating is that I have a strong tendency to overcorrect. Specifically, when it comes to commitment. The idea of spending a night, let alone my whole life with someone makes me nauseated. That is such a long time. People change. Some grow, most shrink.It is difficult to predict and I don’t want to be wrong.

So when I find someone with whom the connection is this strong, I will myself to commit and act my way into a new way of thinking. I don’t mention that I’m petrified and I think this can be scary.

For both of us.

I make fancy dinners and write obsessive (romantic?) poetry and envision the most desirable path to forever. I know that I eventually want eternal love and happiness, so I battle and beat the forces of coyote ugly, determined to attain the trophy that manifests as a soul mate.

It seems like my commitment to commitment is making Mr. Holiday cagey. I accuse him of this and he is not thrilled. We decide to take some space.

A week and a half later, Leah and I are at her boyfriend’s bar and Mr. Holiday shows up, on the hunt for me. I’ve already been warned by a mutual friend, so I’ve decided to finish my martini and take off before he can catch me, but I am too late.

He is drunk and he corners me and he tells me nothing that I want to hear and tries to kiss me. I leave without saying goodbye. I do not want to experience this rollercoaster blackmail of emotions. It is totally unfair. I gave him an out and he took it.

But I cannot resist him.

I agree to meet him for coffee a few days later and I am hooked back in. I can’t look at him without wanting to kiss. I can’t not kiss him. I can’t stop kissing him. It hurts my insides. I am trapped in some vortex of physical pain.

This isn’t healthy.

We spend Halloween together and it’s the worst. We break up. We get back together. We spend Thanksgiving together and it’s the greatest. We break up.We get back together. We break up again. Then he calls me and says he knows I am in town for Christmas and asks me if I’ll spend it with him. Of course I will. Christmas Eve is amazing. Christmas day begins with mimosas.

For some reason, I am under the impression that he can’t bear the thought of spending the holidays without me, but later in the day my belief transitions into one where he has invited me out of pity and I can’t seem to shake it. So I decide to drink those thoughts away and somehow I find myself in a very big, very surprise argument.

The party is over and we are alone in his house and highly intoxicated when he starts to joke about why anyone would leave Los Angeles in December. I completely agree with him. It’s amazing here. All I wanted for Christmas was to spend it with him and we’ve done that and I couldn’t be happier.

We laugh about how weird it is that his parents went to Paris with his brothers, my family is without me in Istanbul, his ex-girlfriend is in Puerto Vallarta with her boyfriend…

“WAIT, my ex-girlfriend…

… HAS A BOYFRIEND?”

The daggers are out. I try to retract my statement claws, but it’s too late. He didn’t react to the common, “funny,” Mexico portion of the story.

His ex has had that boyfriend since the week that they broke up. How could he possibly not know that? He follows her on twitter and she talks about it constantly. We have all the same friends. He is close with her brother. I cannot believe that this is falling on me. I am too drunk to mitigate the damage. I burst into never-ending tears of sudden, unforgivable awareness.

In my head we are enveloped in divine, chaotic love and in his, I am merely a placeholder for her.

At a party with girlfriends, I notice a cute young man staring at me from the other room.  I move, and he still stares.  I point him out to my friends, we laugh.  He asks me to dance.  I say, “No, thank you.”  He asks me again.  I don’t see the benefit in shaking it up with someone for whom I might have babysat, but he’s so persistent that I allow it for a few minutes. 

When it is time to leave, he follows me out to my car.  He carries a pretty orange flower, stolen from the garden of the neighbor.  He bows as he presents it to me through my window and we all giggle as we drive away. 

Mr. Young finds me on the Internet and asks me to hang out.  I put him at about twenty-six years old, but pray for twenty-nine, though I don’t hold my breath. 

We have lunch and talk about college and jobs, so I am feeling like he might be closer to thirty than I’d initially assumed, though he was still working hard to sound older, which was having the opposite effect. 

I don’t feel a particular connection, but he is kind, polite, and consistent, so I agree to see him again, but let him know that I will contact him. 

In the meantime, I have met a delightful twenty-one year old Australian girl and I think they might really hit it off!  She has a party coming up, so I extend the invite to Mr. Young, to see if I can’t find him someone more age-appropriate. 

At the party, he only has eyes for me, and it’s tough to tell him I brought him out for someone else, so I decide instead to keep things friendly with drinks at a nearby bar.

We take some shots and he goes to the restroom.  A vivacious woman at the next table chats me up and asks how old I am.  I ask her if she wouldn’t mind asking me again, once my date has returned, so I can unlock the mystery of how old he might be. 

When she asks, he turns to me and says,

“Does it matter to you?” 

I respond that it matters a little, as I am probably looking for different things than a man in his mid-twenties in Hollywood. 

“Twenty.”

Though excellent company, Mr. Hollywood is still obsessed with his famous ex-girlfriend and how thin she is and I am not thrilled in comparison.  He seems awfully comfortable at a safe distance, hanging out only once a week my needs aren’t being fulfilled in the meantime, so I cut him loose and head to the local tavern. 

A couple of fingers later, in walks a tall, handsome friend of mine.  Mr. Beachwood saddles up next to me and orders us a few more rounds.  I am dizzy with drunkenness and he is suddenly full of liquid courage. 

“I have been madly in love with you since the second we met.”

Whoa.  He has a girlfriend.  He lives with her.  She is NEVER home. 

No one has fallen in love with me out loud in fifteen years.

I’m not sure that I can't be in love with him too, so I tell him that he needs to figure out his situation and break up with her if he wants to try things out with me. 

I give him two weeks to manage all of that.  I have a trip coming up later in the week, so he agrees to take me to the airport and pick me up ten days later, having handled it before my return. 

Mr. Beachwood arrives, giant dog in tow, and though I hate indoor animals, I silently prepare myself to love and live with this one. 

I procrastinate in my local neighborhood bar, drinking a bottomless scotch to ease the anxiety of an unanswered Mr. Holiday text.  I need help moving a dresser and he has a truck, but he must be back together with his ex again, because he isn’t acting friendly enough for my taste. 

Two guys sit at the end of the bar and creep up on me slowly.  One hides his thoughts under glasses and hair, the other shouts them to the bar.  Loud never works on me, so I focus on the former.  He seems so much more weird and interesting. 

I tell him I am a hostess at a restaurant and Mr. Hollywood tells me he’s a writer (who isn’t?) and that he plays the Hawaiian ukulele.  I am suddenly captivated by coincidence.  I have just recorded a Hawaiian song with my good friend and I ask him if he’d like me to send it to him.  He would.  I do. 

The next day, I receive an email response from him.  It states, “You are quite the polymath.”

That is a very nice compliment.  Usually I feel a little more like a dilettante, so I’ll try and accept it gracefully. 

I think about Mr. Hollywood a little over the next few weeks and even craft a reply email that suggests we meet up again, but I don’t have the guts to send it, so I wait. 

It’s Lent, AGAIN, and I have to spend 40+ days on sober dates.  These are HARD.  Not because I need the alcohol, but because most people are really boring on dates and the booze takes the edge off of me caring about it.

An extraordinarily beautiful boy named Ryan asks me out and I agree, if he’ll meet me at the local neighborhood bar, so I don’t have to put in much effort.  We dine and he complains that I am not drinking and every second is more painful than the last.  I try and redirect my thoughts to how pretty he is (he is very, very pretty), when I notice Mr. Hollywood entering the vicinity. 

I excuse myself and jump up out of my seat to say hello.  I try and take my buoyancy down a notch before I reach him, but I am a little too excited. 

I tell him I was just about to send him an email requesting that we meet up this weekend, but it’s only Monday and it seemed premature to send so early (WHY AM I STILL TALKING?).  He says I should have emailed him and comments on how handsome my date is and I roll my eyes as I tell him I guess I should get back to him, but the entire time I'm sure I am on the WRONG date.

I send the message the next day and he is out of town for a while, but asks me out for when he returns. 

I’ll take it! 

He picks me up and we head to a neighborhood he likes and he chooses a fantastic restaurant.  He is excellent at ordering and we agree to share everything.  He loves cheese, thank goodness.  "Doesn't eat cheese" is a deal-breaker for me, above "has tattoos," below "has dog(s)." 

This date is going very well.  He is a fabulous conversationalist and other than some mentioning of his ridiculously famous ex (my least favorite topic in LA!), I am thoroughly enjoying his company.  

He chuckles with delight as I slowly reveal that I have three master’s degrees and a television gig and he asks why I didn’t lead with that.  I remind him that he asked me out when he thought I was “just a hostess.” 

He admits that he does not play the Hawaiian ukulele and he can’t even remember telling me that he did.  I crack up and ask him why in the hell did he think I sent him that song?  

Speaking of music, “Stranded” abruptly drowns out all of the sounds in the restaurant. 

Since high school I have imagined that when I found the right guy, Van Morrison would play in the background.  Someone is fiddling with the volume, trying to fix it, but I take it as a sign that I was MEANT to hear. 

I bite into a fig and I am suddenly in excruciating pain.  I have definitely broken a back tooth and I do not want him to know.  I can’t break up the flow of this date!  I try and turn my grimace into a smile and I’m pretty sure he is none the wiser as I excuse myself to use the restroom. 

While I am up, I hand the waitress my credit card, to discreetly pay the entire bill. 

Other than the injury, this is the best date I’ve been on all year and I’d like to avoid the awkward, “May I split it with you?” test altogether. 

My tooth seems to be intact, so I return to the table and pretend it didn’t happen.  And the conversation gets even better. 

Mr. Hollywood is hilarious.  I feel comfortable enough to be funny myself, fairly effortlessly and without liquor, which is rare, because I usually feel far more guarded this early on. 

We finish up and he asks for the check.  The waitress says, “You’re all set,” and walks away.  He is confused.  I tell him we’re all set, so let’s go and he WILL NOT MOVE FROM HIS SEAT. 

This guy is totally not a criminal. 

It’s amazing. 

I didn’t mean to set him up for a dine-and-dash test, but it couldn’t be going more swimmingly.  He is getting increasingly awkward as I try and insist we just go.  Finally he requests a manager who tells him I have already paid.  His head spins out a little and I enjoy watching. 

In the car, he is still confused.  I tell him I’m happy that he wasn’t comfortable stiffing a waitress and he still thinks I am scary (fair).  I reveal that my intention wasn’t to test him, but the results were so endearing that I had trouble letting it end. 

He gets pretty paranoid about me paying as a send off and I apologize as he is dropping me off, but he does not kiss me goodbye. 

Ouch.  

Yet a week later he asks me out again, and Lent is finally over, so we drink under the stars outside, listening to Led Zeppelin and pontificating the meaning of life.  I think this is the type of guy with whom I’m meant to be. 

I slip that I went to the dentist and he asks me confidently if it’s because I broke my tooth on our first date.  Even though I tried furtively to hide my dinner mishap, I secretly love that he noticed anyway and calls me out on it.  

On Wednesday evening, I decide to take it easy and spend the night relaxing at home in my comfortable studio apartment. I’m not much of a partier, but I’ve been entertaining a thorough social calendar and I appreciate a little downtime.

As is typical, I finish up my work day around 6pm, so I figure I’ll prepare a candle-lit, solo dinner of roasted heirloom tomatoes and golden beets over burrata with a truffle drizzle and homemade baked garlic bread, take a nice relaxing bath and snuggle my clean, naked body in some fresh flannel sheets, wrapped up cozily with my kindle and latest book club selection.

I am drifting off at about 9:45, when I hear a knock at my door. Assuming it is my best friend in the building, Evan, I yell, “Who is it?” And when he hollers back, “It’s me,” I get up and start looking for some clothing. “Hurry up,” he shouts, when I am not moving fast enough.

Oh geez, I hope he’s okay. He knows I turn in early and he didn’t even text first to warn me he is coming over, which I despise because I feel it is an infringement on my privacy, particularly as a woman living alone in a big city.

I pull on sweat pants and a t-shirt and zip a hoodie up over it so he can’t see my nipples, and walk up to the eyehole in my front door. But it isn’t Evan. It’s Mr. Neighbor, a guy who lives upstairs and with whom I have some mutual friends from the East coast.

I open the door a crack and explain to him that I’ve been in bed, but he pushes his way through and past me, into my one-room bedroom/living room, where he plops himself down on my fancy, white, decorative chair, on which I do not usually allow guests to sit.

Mr. Neighbor is absolutely wasted and I am suddenly scared. He has a huge, unexplained black eye and he is going on and on about how he wants to hang out with me and how he knows I am so awesome and I have made such a cool “home” out of my small space and I should totally date a friend of his.

I grow progressively terrified, and as my eyes widen, he asks me if I’m “on Ambien or something.”

“No,” I reply, “I told you before you came in, I was just about to go to sleep.Now’s not really a great time for me – it’s late, so I have to let you go.” And I motion toward the door.

But he continues to have no awareness or insight of my feelings and doesn’t intend to move and I am suddenly flooded with emotion and anger. I try to discern the most polite, effective way to tell him again that I’d like him to leave, when he jumps up and screams loudly, “There is a mouse in your kitchen! Or a rat!”

To be clear, it is perfectly possible that there is a mouse co-habitating with me.I live on the first floor and this building is old and unspectacular, so I accept that rodents are not entirely out of the question. And even if there were a mouse, there isn’t much I am willing to do about it, because I strongly believe that falls into the “man duty” category and ONE OF THOSE DOESN’T LIVE HERE.

But it is more likely that he is on drugs and has hallucinated a creature and now I feel like I need to be even more careful and expeditious in extracting him from my place. Mr. Neighbor, I mean.

I suggest again that he might like to allow me to carry on with my plan to rest and he looks me dead in the eye and states eerily, “You are on drugs.”

No sir, I am not, but I would really like to go to sleep now and it is going to be difficult to do so with this insane amount of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“It would be much more fun for us to chat in the daytime, when I’m not so tired, so I’ll walk you out,” I plead with him, but he probably knows we aren’t going to be friends tomorrow so he continues on a rant about our building and where I should live next and how if we band together, soon we can have it all.

This is so unfair. I want him to GO. How dare he make me uncomfortable in my own home. This feels highly inappropriate. It is a complete violation of my boundaries and personal space. He is essentially in my bedroom and I am in my pajamas and I did not invite his company. I keep asking him to leave and he is ignoring my requests and I’m more than slightly afraid that he has the propensity to snap and turn violent in an instant and I would not like to incite that behavior.

After thirty-two minutes of his interruptive nonsense, I am finally able to lead him over to the doorway. Another seven minutes later, he loses his balance while gesticulating wildly and steps back into the hallway and when he does, I quickly close the door and lock it.

“I wasn’t done talking to you, but let’s hang out soon!” He yells, and I burst into frightened, lonely tears.

I cry for about two hours because I feel certain that had a big, athletic man answered the door, Mr. Neighbor would have scampered in the other direction and never bothered me again. I am really tall, but I am still sensitive and vulnerable and I need to be taken care of in the same way a man might naturally feel the desire to protect a much smaller woman.

On Wednesday, I receive a text from Mr. Island.

Mr. Island was a boyfriend I had in high school, with whom I was totally taken, but who cheated on me with a girl who was two years younger - humiliating.We broke up and I saw him every few years (just as “friends,” we never dated again), until he got married.

Last year, when I was in my hometown for my sister’s wedding, he called, said he was divorced now and realized he needed a woman like me, and asked me if he could take me to St. Thomas for a vacation.

Bold move, Mr. Island. Scary, but bold. The grand gesture is incredibly romantic and appreciated, however we haven’t hung out in over a decade and I think we should have coffee before we jet-set to an exotic locale.

At the time, I blew him off, because it was too much. I felt a little bad about it, but returned to Los Angeles, continued dating and forgot all about him.

Until Wednesday.

Here is the transcript of our text messages (He is M, I am R and I will BOLDmy responses):

M: What’s up? Remember when I asked you to St. Thomas? I’m moving there in November.

R: You are? That’s amazing! I’m sorry I didn’t follow up on that – my schedule is very demanding and I was a little afraid.

M: No problem! Afraid of what?

R: Being alone on an island? We didn’t even have lunch first, lol. It’s been so long and I think I was nervous about the deep range of possible feelings.

M: What type of feelings honey?

R: You were the first boy I ever loved! But I am so different now. And you probably are too. It felt like a lot.

M: I’m the same old boy that I ever was. My personality can adapt to any other. Kind, honest, loyal, down to earth and sarcastic. We will always get along!

M: My personality is timeless.

R: ;)

M: That’s all you got for me?

R: I believe you. I remember you. I am totally different. I’m quiet and private and introverted now. I can’t go very many places without getting recognized, so I spend most of my spare time at home or w a few close friends.

M: I love being at home and just chilling. I hate going out. I’m private too because people are all over me since I’ve been on TMZ

M: Seriously I don’t go out

R: Oh, then you totally understand! ;)

M: I do! I’m not even going to ask you to visit me in St Thomas since I’m such a threat. By the way I still have feelings for you. Don’t ignore how we feel about each other

R: Haha, you are very threatening. Maybe we should try a Skype sesh and see how that goes

M: Don’t know what that mess but sounds reid

M: Threatening? That’s a strong and intrusive word. What the hell man?

R: I was teasing you, after you said, “since I’m such a threat”

M: Haha! Anyway… I am still interested in Ms. [Redacted] I just wish that she still wanted me!

R: That hasn’t ever been the problem!

M: What was the problem? I’ll fix it!

R: [name of girl with whom he cheated on me in high school] ;)

M: She’s history. We are talking about you. That’s who I’m interested in. If you have no interest let me know and I’ll leave you alone.

R: Well, I don’t know yet. I’m not disinterested and I am open to getting to know you better.

M: I guess not

M: You know me! What if I came to LA to visit you!

ONE HOUR PASSES (I am in a meeting)

M: Never mind.

M: I’ll be in St. Thomas.

A HALF AN HOUR PASSES (still in my meeting)

M: That’s all you’ve got?

M: You always were a quitter

R: I was in a meeting. It is lovely to finish up a tough audition and be greeted by such kind words. I hope St. Thomas is wonderful for you.

M: I’m sorry. Don’t hold that against me. I want to hang out and see how we feel.

R: You are way too passive aggressive right now for me to feel comfortable.

R: And I have another meeting in 6 minutes, so I need to prepare

M: Talk later… sorry

M: Text me when you’re done. Sorry that I was too passive aggressive. Let’s chat! Don’t be mad

M: You know I still want you! You’re beautiful, sexy and

M: Alluring

ONE HOUR LATER

M: I feel bad… sorry

ONE HOUR LATER

M: You done with your meeting?

TWO HOURS LATER

M: Night

ONE HOUR LATER

M: (picture of M, holding a baby girl, not his child)

M: Don’t be pissed at me!!!!

M: (another picture of M, holding the same baby girl)

M: Don’t be pissed at me!!!

HE CALLS MY PHONE AND LEAVES A MESSAGE:

M: [Redacted], it’s Mr. Island. Ummmm, please don’t be mad at me, I apologize about before, ummm, give me a call back or, ummmm, send me a message, just to let me know you’re not mad, I hope you’re not, so…. Anyway, that’s it.I’ll talk to you soon.

THE NEXT DAY AT SEVEN-THIRTY IN THE MORNING

M: Do you like my picture? It shows my softer side. How could you be mad at a guy like that? Aren’t I adorable? ;)

I RECEIVE TWO PHONE CALLS FROM MYSTERIOUS NUMBERS, NO MESSAGES.

ONE HOUR LATER

M: We cool now? I was totally kidding when I said you were a quitter! It makes no sense cause I never knew you as a quitter. My bad for saying it but no reason to ruin our relationship over. Especially our potentially budding one!

M: I like you and always have your smart, beautiful. Breathtaking, amazing

And unmarked.

ONE HOUR LATER

M: What else do I Have you u as my number! Is it you Ms. [Redacted]?

M: Sorry for trying!!

M: Give the man you love one more chance

FIVE HOURS LATER

M: [Redacted]… please forgive me. You’ve never been mad at me like this!! I was just joking beautiful.

ONE HOUR LATER

M: If your serious b this is nuts.. I’ve always had strong feelings for you and if you wont talk to me over something so silly than what can I do? I thought we both liked each other

M: Come on [Redacted]. I like you and want to get to know you better. Work with me beautiful.

FOUR HOURS LATER

M: The silent treatment is really starting to kill me. Are we just never gonna talk again? That would make me very sad.

ONE WEEK LATER

M: I give up.  You are way beyond me now.  Enjoy your success.  I’ll cheer for you.

ONE HOUR LATER

M: Can I get one word?  Where would you like to go?  You tell me we’re there!  Serious

ONE HOUR LATER

M: Let’s go on vacation!

AND IN MY FACEBOOK MESSAGES:

M: Hey!  I was totally joking the other day.  Please find it in your heart to forgive me.  

M: Please don’t be mad.  Forgiveness Ms. [Redacted].  Let’s get back to talking.  It’s much nicer.  Especially with you. 

(attached another picture of himself, with a child on his shoulders)

THE NEXT DAY

M:  Another chance?  Begging!  Will give up for good soon.

M:  Can’t you at least say something?  The silence is killing me!

M: [Redacted]… We could have something special between us.  I made a remark that was a joke and now you won’t even talk to me.  It hurts to say this but I give up.  I think you already did.  Miss you.

TWO HOURS LATER

M: [Redacted]… This is my final plea.  We could have something special and we shouldn’t throw it away over a joke.  I made a mistake and I’m so sorry.  The way you’re acting makes me believe that you have no interest in having anything to do with me.  With that in mind this will be my final message and attempt to reach you.  I sincerely hope to hear from you.

THE NEXT DAY 

M: You’re clearly done with me.  Bye. 

AND BACK TO TEXT THE NEXT DAY, AS I HAVE BLOCKED HIM FROM FACEBOOK:

M: You miss me?  I miss talking to you.  Miss understanding.  Don’t write me off. 

I CONTACT A MUTUAL FRIEND OF OURS AND ASK HIM TO HELP MR. ISLAND UNDERSTAND THAT I AM NOT INTERESTED AND WILL NOT RESPOND.  HE AGREES AND THE TEXT MESSAGES STOP.

UNTIL TWO WEEKS LATER, WHEN I RECEIVE THIS ON MY FAN PAGE:

M: Want to be your friend again. Miss you

AND TWO WEEKS LATER, WHEN I RECEIVE THIS TEXT:

M: Hey [Redacted]!!  Congratulations on your success.  I hope that we can be friends again someday.  I don’t want you out of my life.  

AND A FEW WEEKS AFTER THAT:

M: Just want you to know that I think you look great!  You're doing an awesome job.  Proud of you!

AND THEN A FEW DAYS LATER:

M: Do I have the right number?

AND ANOTHER WEEK MORE:

M: Hey [Redacted], Can you PLEASE get back to me?  I really need to talk to you.

AND MANY MONTHS LATER BY MY WORK EMAIL FOUND ON THE INTERNET:

"Hey [Redacted]!  It's your old friend Mr. Island.  I have been tried to reach you over the past few months with no success.  I don't know whether you changed your contact info or just don't feel like communicating with me anymore.  I hope that the latter isn't the case.  Anyway, I will be in your area next week and wanted to see if you would be available to get together.  I hope that you can and that this message finds you well.  Thanks."  

THIS IS FOLLOWED BY AN ADDITIONAL EMAIL OF A PICTURE OF HIS FACE WAY UP CLOSE CAPTIONED "DO YOU REMEMBER ME [REDACTED]?"

I contact the local police for advice.  I tell them that I am not interested in responding, but that I am also somewhat fearful that he is flying from the East to West coast to find me.  The officer is kind, and explains to me that if I don't write anything, Mr. Island can claim he never knew I wasn't interested.  REALLY?  Okay.  I agree to write the following:

"Mr. Island,

I am not interested in communicating with you.  Your texts/calls/Facebook messages/emails have made me extremely uncomfortable and I have no desire to speak with or see you.  Please do not contact me again.  

[Redacted]"

I immediately receive a response:  

"Wow dude!  That was certainly not my intention and is upsetting to hear.  I mean this truly is a first... no one has ever said such a thing to me. :)  I guess you got too big for some people.  

Mr. Fred asks me out for Friday night and I tell him I’m busy.  I think he’s a nice guy and my roommates and friends see some excellent potential, but I’m not changing around any plans to go out with a guy who isn’t Mr. Hot LA. 

I don’t want him to be totally discouraged though, so I ask him if perhaps we can do next Friday instead.  He responds affirmatively and a little on the frosty side.  I laugh.

I psych myself up so that when Friday arrives, I am ready.  I spend HOURS primping.  I’m not sure guys have ANY idea what goes into the physical side of getting ready for a date.  It is boring, time-consuming and prohibitively expensive.  My hair is “did,” my face is “on,” I am “subtly” dripping in diamonds and I am wearing a “casual” outfit on which I spent my entire two-week paycheck.  If I’m going to do it, I’m doing it right.

My roommate notices me all-dolled up (a vast departure from my usual matching Lululemon track suit) and asks to what I’m up. 

“I have a date with Mr. Fred.”

“Does HE know?”

“Yes weirdo, we planned it a week ago.”

My roommate scurries to his room and a few moments later I receive a text from Mr. Fred confirming that we are still on for the night.  I hadn’t realized it was in question.   

Mr. Fred picks me up and brings me to a kitschy Mexican joint.  I like it.  We order flaming margaritas and I ask the waiter to bring extra glasses so I can mix the flavors.  Mr. Fred gets a little nervous about possibly upsetting them, but concedes when my concoctions taste even better and suggests that they put them on the menu. 

The mariachi band plays and he is a little annoyed that we can’t hear each other talk, but I LOVE MARIACHI, so I can’t stop smiling. 

During dinner he confesses that he didn’t really think we had a date that night. 

Hmmmmm? 

I remind him that I’d asked him if next Friday worked for him and he told me he assumed I was blowing him off.  THAT explains why my roommate had acted so odd – he ran into his room to text him. 

Back in the car, after a little chatter, he leans over and kisses me.  I laugh. 

“Took you long enough.”

“What?”

“My roommates and I have been making fun of you for months.”

“You guys TALK about me?”

“YES.  You’ve been everywhere I’ve been.  I stopped asking if you were coming to things and started assuming you’d be there.  Did you want to discuss it or keep making out?

He kisses the smirk right off my face.

Later, he asks me if I like steak and when I say yes, he asks me if he can take me to The Palm on Wednesday. 

I AM ITALIAN.  OF COURSE HE CAN TAKE ME TO THE PALM.

Wednesday I throw casual to the wind and put on a dress.  And heels.  Small ones, because he isn’t very tall, but enough to force him to notice how nice my legs are when I shave and they aren’t covered in jeans or sweats.   He notices.

Our date is fantastic.  Even better than the last.  In the bathroom, another woman informs me that she has been observing us from across the room and wishes she were at our table.  She asks if we are married.  Odd.  But complementary.

A month and many fun dates later, I introduce him to my sister when she is in town and they bond instantly.  Over cigarettes.  He smokes?  Whoa.  She is good.  He concealed that one for a while, but I don’t mind.  Turns out he’s a little OCD as well.  Still okay.  He is cool, he is cute and most important, he is funny.  

I warm to him in a slow cooker – it takes me a while, but I’m starting to feel the burn.  

It seems like everywhere we go someone assumes we are married.  At a local music venue, I accompany him for a smoke outside (since that cat’s outta the bag) and some girl asks if we are married.  Hailing a cab, he gets the door for me and a homeless guy asks how long we’ve been married.  At a fancy restaurant, we are seated at the chef’s table and the waitress asks if we are celebrating our anniversary.  At that same dinner, he tells me he thinks he is ready to be a dad.

Whoa.  It feels a little pressure-y, but strangely comfortable, like the universe is trying to strip me of my fear of commitment.  I might like to have a kid, so maybe this is something we need to be considering together.  Doesn’t slow and steady win the race? And people won’t stop assuming that we are together forever anyway.

I decide I am IN. 

I’m ready to give it a go.  We are having a blast, spending the majority of our free time together - we see concerts, play guitar and sing, organize our lives, watch movies, talk about movies we are going to make, double date with his roommate, attend parties, throw dinners, go to dinners, get takeout, and almost die of food poisoning (together). 

I meet his family, who are awesome and invite me back East for Thanksgiving. We’ll see.  It’s a little soon, and he hasn’t actually asked me, but I’m not against it. 

Until I receive this voicemail:   

“I’ve been thinking about us and things are moving way too fast.  We need to talk.”

Ummm, no, we do not.  I am not even going to entertain this conversation.  He followed me around for months, bordering on stalking.  It took SIX people to convince me to “give him a chance.”  I have finally peaked on the idea of us being a team and started truly enjoying his company and NOW he thinks things are moving too fast? 

This is humiliating.

Mr. Actor and I stay friends and he brings me to a premiere of his short film. 

Mr. Producer corners me at the after party and makes it clear that he wants us to hang out.  I am still new in LA and I need some friends, so I keep it casual and exchange information, and a few days later I receive a cool text.

“Have you every been to a graveyard screening at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery?”

I have, and it’s awesome.  I'd love to go again.  We make a plan for a group of us to meet up at Mr. Producer’s house and cab over to the movie.  I am psyched.

When I arrive, Mr. Producer is the only one there.  He tells me that the others are on their way and we pack up a picnic cooler.  We bring everything outside and no one else is there. 

“Well, let’s just take a cab and meet them there.”

THIS IS WEIRD. 

I do not like a bait and switch situation.  And I don’t want to date friends, even though Mr. Actor and I are not seeing each other.  Maybe I am exaggerating.  I hope I am exaggerating. 

We get to the cemetery and everyone else is already there.  All couples.  Including Mr. Actor.  With which I’m fine, save for the part about how I appear to be in a couple with Mr. Producer.  I am going to stay friendly and see how this plays out.

We settle into our spot and start eating and drinking.  I am chatting with everyone and Mr. Producer is looking a little bit agitated.  He asks me if I would like to go to the bathroom (a port-o-potty) with him and when I reasonably say, “No, thank you,” he storms off.

THIS IS AWKWARD. 

I still can’t figure out if I am on an accidental date, so I try and beer it away.  Not to get drunk, just to take any edge off that I might have. 

Mr. Producer returns and does not sit next to me.  When the movie starts, I am kind of alone, in a corner.  Which is maybe a relief, but still odd.

In the middle of the movie, another girl joins us.  Mr. Producer is lying on the ground and she lays perpendicular to him, WITH HER HEAD IN HIS LAP. 

AM I ON A DATE OR NOT?   

Had I wanted to be on a date, this would have been terribly upsetting, but now I am feeling a mixed sense of relief and anger – I wanted to just be friends, but this appears disrespectful in front of everyone, no? 

The movie ends and she introduces herself to me, AS MR. PRODUCER’S GIRLFRIEND, and then asks if I’d like to JOIN THEM FOR SOME DRINKS AT A BAR. 

THIS IS UNCOMFORTABLE. 

I decline, but the three of us still have a prickly cab ride back to his house (and my car), during which she tells me all about what a fantastic boyfriend Mr. Producer is and how lucky I am to be spending time with them.

All of my life, I have been pumped to go skydiving.  I know it isn’t a great idea, I realize I will have to sign away my life and yet, I have a deep need to do it anyway.

When I meet Mr. Actor and he tells me he’s always wanted to go skydiving, I seize the opportunity.  He chickens out the first few times I try and set the date, but finally concedes to a mutual birthday celebratory dive.

We head out to Lake Elsinore early in the morning.  Once we arrive, we are told that the wait is a few hours, so we decide to grab some “last meal” burgers from a nearby In-And-Out, in case we die. 

Upon our return, we meet our “makers,” the guys to whom we will be strapped for the fall.  Mine is named Danny and he is a raging adrenaline junky who’s already jumped four times this morning. 

We take a course on safety and it emphasizes, “putting your feet up” for the landing, in order to allow the person behind you to safely run it out. 

I AM TERRIFIED. 

Mr. Actor, who could barely be convinced to join me, is STOKED. 

So I suck it up and act cool, but inside I DO NOT WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE. 

We get up in the plane, UNTETHERED TO ANYTHING.  The door is open and we can easily slide right out to our deaths.  For some reason, they don’t hook you to your person until you are about to jump.  I want to be hooked.  I don’t think this is fun. 

Danny latches on behind me and we move forward in the line.  As we hang out over the edge, I nearly vomit.  My mouth is wide open in fright and I’m pretty sure this is going to be it.  Mr. Hollywood is smiling at me, because HE HASN’T LOOKED DOWN YET.  I smile back to try and be cool and we push off.

SKYDIVING IS THE WORST. 

While we are bulleting toward the earth, I am freezing and uncomfortable.  Danny pulls the chute and I am jacked upward in a crotch-seizing terror, a wedgie of epic proportions.  In which I stay for the remainder of the ride.  Even as we float gently toward the earth, my harness is jacked so far up my delicate parts, it is difficult to enjoy the scenery. 

We come in for a landing and I lift up my legs as instructed.

CRUNCH.

Wow.  That wasn’t how I thought it would happen.  I am sitting on the ground when I hear Danny whisper.

“Do NOT move.”

Wait, why can’t I move?  What just happened?

“We lost sail right before we landed and your bottom took the hit.  You might not be able to walk.”

WHAT??

We slowly stand me up and I am fine!  Nothing at which to look here!

Danny unhooks from me and I crumble to the ground like a discarded puppet. 

He breaks my fall and assists me back up.  I am carried to a wading pool and placed inside.  Something is very wrong.

Mr. Actor lands smooth as silk and finds me in the pool.  He jumps in for a hug and I cringe. 

“I may have broken my ass.”

He laughs, because I MUST BE KIDDING. 

Danny is arranging for hospitalization.  Mr. Actor interrupts him. 

“My parents are both doctors and they live in the area.  I can take her there and they will check her out.”

They agree that this is the best option, as it isn’t favorable for the jump site to have extra ambulances pulling in.

OH MY GOODNESS, I AM GOING TO MEET HIS PARENTS AND THEY ARE GOING TO LOOK AT MY ASSHOLE.

 Of course, that is EXACTLY what happens. 

Mr. Actor’s family is lovely.  They confirm that my ass, is indeed broken and let me know that I am welcome to get an x-ray, but that it isn’t necessary, because they can FEEL the shattered bones and there isn’t anything more a hospital will be able to do at this point ESPECIALLY WITH ALL OF THE NOTICEABLE BRUISING AND SWELLING.  They patch me right up and prescribe the requisite meds and ass-pillow.   Then we have a barbeque and hang out in the hot tub. 

On our way home, Mr. Actor asks me if I want to go to a movie.  That sounds like the best plan ever.  I bring my donut into the theater and we enjoy a little comic relief.  When the movie ends, I burst into tears for the first time since my injury. 

“I can’t get out of the chair.”

I’ve returned home from my summer in Los Angeles, determined to relocate in exactly one year and working two full-time jobs to cushion the move. AND I AM BORED.

My sister calls from Chicago, on a WEDNESDAY and says she is flying into NYC for the night to party with her co-workers (ringing the bell in the morning), accommodations handled, and I should meet her there AT TEN PM.

I generally enjoy being in bed/asleep at around 9:30, so my instinct is NO WAY/HAVE FUN WITHOUT ME. But I am over-worked, underpaid, and LAME.So I decide if I can convince Emily to join me, I will suck it up and drive us into the city.

OF COURSE Emily is game (I love her more than anyone).

So is another sister (I have four). So three of us meet the fourth at the hotel and get ready to party. We head to absolutely the hippest club and I know the doorman from TEN YEARS AGO, when I used to be awesome (it’s Wass). We are double hooked up.

Inside, my sister has rented out an upstairs VIP section where our booze is free and we are happy to take advantage. But the guys from her work are mostly married, so I wander out onto the balcony to scope out the scene below.

While jamming out to the DJ, I spot the nicest man-candy I’ve ever seen. I tell my sister I am going to bring him upstairs and I frantically try to catch his eye while maintaining a sexy vibe (not easy for a giant broad). When he finally looks up, I motion for him to join us in the lounge and he looks at me, points to himself as if to say, “Who, me?” and I nod, YES, YOU.

He approaches us nervously, asks me a few complimentary, preliminary questions (“Do you live here? Are you a model?”) and says he lives in Los Angeles and is just in town for the night, following an audition. I warn him that I’ll be moving to Los Angeles a year later and he suggests that we keep in touch. I put my number in his phone and then call it so I have his number and name it, appropriately, Mr. Hot LA.

My sister, who cannot tolerate NOT being the center of attention, walks over, knocks his drink out of his hand (to the ground) and when we look at her as if to say, “what the hell?” she shrugs and walks away.

He departs immediately, wondering what could have caused such behavior and likely never to be heard from again. When I ask my sister WTF caused her to react like that, she says she doesn’t know, but he was just too good-looking to elicit a normal response, so she felt like she needed to make him feel bad.

Nearly six months later, I receive a mass text from “Mr. Hot LA” that states that he has changed his phone number. Now I’m not fooled by a mass text, but I also know that when I change my number, the new one only goes to the most select few. I guess he wasn’t so miffed about the spill after all.

And then, not two months before I move out west, I receive another text. “I hope you are still moving out here. If you do, let’s hang out. P.S. it’s [Mr. Hot LA] from that party in NYC.” To which I reply, “I know, my phone can be very descriptive – when you texted it came up as Mr. Hot LA and YESSSSSS, let’s.”

I finally get out to LA, and I track him down and invite him to meet up with me at a bar. He does.

I am on a “carmageddon” bar crawl with my new roommate and his friend Mr. Fred and absolutely hammered. Mr. Hot LA doesn’t drink alcohol (it wasn’t booze that my sister spilled?), but he buys me a beer, we make out and plan a date to go hiking the next day.

I don’t remember if he tastes like truffles, only that I laughed and apologized to the valet guys, who were watching.

The next day we go hiking. I have the most brutal hangover and try my best not to throw up/die on our date. He doesn’t think it’s cute and doesn’t set up a subsequent date.

In the meantime, Mr. Fred is pursuing me like he’s never met a girl before. And I am not interested. I would rather wait for Mr. Hot LA. My roommates think I am crazy. They sit me down one afternoon, having enlisted my girlfriend, and beg/bully me to give Mr.  Fred a chance.

“He loves you!”

“He has been following you around everywhere!”

“Mr. Hot LA hasn’t called! He doesn’t like you!”

“Wouldn’t you rather date someone who really wants to be with you?”

YES.

But a few weeks pass and I get a message from Mr. Hot LA about hanging out again. Who knows what kind of “other girl on the back burner” stuff he has been handling, but I am IN.

He invites me to a movie, Tuesday night, at 9:40. I accept, even though it’s wayyyyy after my bedtime. I have an interview with a new restaurant at 8PM and I don’t have anything to do the next morning.

When he calls to confirm that he is purchasing the tickets, I let him know that I have an interview that I hope will be wrapped up in time for the movie, but I can’t be sure. He asks for what I am interviewing and when I respond that I am trying to get a job at a the newest restaurant opening in West Hollywood, he laughs and said his interview is at 8:20. AT THE SAME RESTAURANT.

What’s the point of this ridiculous story? Every instinct in my whole body screams YES at this guy. Even when I find out that he has a tattoo, wants to be an actor and doesn’t drink, I cannot get turned off by him.

And whether we have set up a date or not, destiny will make sure that we run into each other that evening at the interview, which lasts until two in the morning, causes us to miss the movie, ends in a late-night diner run (Swingers) and the chance for Mr. Hot LA to see how much syrup I put on my waffles (comparable to Elf - kind of sexy?).

We both get the job. Our new boss says he is in love with both of us and can’t wait for us to get together and make beautiful babies, but we decide it’s best not to date someone at work.

For years, I have wondered how I hadn’t dated Mr. Hometown.  Though he is five years older, our sisters were in the same grade, I knew his (similarly strict) family growing up and he is handsome, successful, well-educated, musically inclined, Catholic, living abroad and quite possibly the only guy who makes me feel even mildly intimidated. 

My friend Danny throws a concert in his barn and I attend with Mr. Player, a date I’d been trying to score since my younger sister’s wedding.  I am late (work) so I kiss Mr. Player hello as I take my seat and he pops open a Corona for me.  I’ve no sooner put my mouth around the bottle (no glasses in the barn), when I spot Mr. Hometown’s mother.  Sitting next to HIM.  A re-introduction will be necessary. 

When the concert ends, I push forward and approach the mom. 

“My, you have gotten so big!”

“Surely you mean tall,” I respond, not taking my eyes off Mr. Hometown. 

“Oh yes, tall.  This is my son, he’s here for the weekend.”

She smiles and I smile right back with my very best/polite I-am-going-to-steal-him-from-you-and-never-ever-give-him-back face, which she returns, surprising me with her eloquent, you-go-right-ahead-he-is-thirty-seven-years-old-and-we-would-really-like-some-grandchildren-please face. 

I ask him if he “likes beer,” and surprise again - he and Mr. Player have been best friends since high school so we all decide to go out drinking together. 

It becomes clear by beer two that my interest is to captivate Mr. Hometown and Mr. Player resigns elegantly from the battle (we are still friends). 

Mr. Hometown extends his stay for an extra week and we go out on dates, trying different scotches, checking out some good live tunes and making out under the stars in my car at the reservoir with my sun-roof open.  When a local police officer drives up to ask us to get going, he sees that it is the two of us, recognizes us from grade school, smiles and says, “Oh you kids.  Congratulations.”  Everyone is on board with this homegrown love story. 

Mr. Hometown tells me that being home makes him feel like a fourteen-year-old boy again and I can’t stop smiling.  We meet in the city and I bring him a present.  He securely unwraps a gold sheriff’s badge (seems appropriate for a thirty-seven/fourteen-year-old) in front of his college mates and pins it right on his shirt. 

We get absolutely blackout drunk and meet up with Mr. Player, who seems sincerely delighted by our connection.  While we are at the bar, I receive a totally random and jealous text from an undergrad chum living across the street to “stop making out by the pinball machine.” 

I am completely taken.  And I cry for the entire train ride home, as I know he will be getting on a plane back to Europe in the morning. 

I continue to cry in my bed, in the shower, in my coffee, and on the phone with my father.  My father is both nervous and impressed – nervous that I would even tell him that I am dating someone and impressed that I’ve met someone who actually makes me feel like I might have to work a little harder to keep up.  And I mightn’t have stopped crying, but Mr. Hometown is calling on the other line and when I hang up on my father to get it, he says he is training back into Connecticut and he would like me to meet him at his parents’ house for dinner.  Check.

Still hungover from the NYC trip, we agree to pass on wine at dinner.  His parents are extraordinarily nice to me and after a lovely grilled al fresco meal, we retreat to the living room where Mr. Hometown plays the piano and I sing along. 

I have never, in my life, imagined having more simple fun than that. 

And I know, for the first time ever, that I can easily and want to keep him forever. 

His mother winks at me as she comments that she heard I am relocating out West and Europe isn’t much farther.  Yes ma’am, I am happy to stretch my move, but the invite must come from the lover.

Other than my very-best-guy-friend Damian, I spend a lot of time with Mr. Friend.  When we were in seventh grade, at our friend Jennifer’s Bat Mitzvah, we played spin the bottle and he refused to kiss me because I was not popular.  It turned me off from him forever, so we were safe to be just friends and I wasn’t physically attracted to him anyway.

When I arrive in Los Angeles, I receive a call from Mr. Magnum, yelling at me,

“What the HELL have you done to Mr. Friend?” 

Oh man.  I heard.  Turns out all these years, Mr. Friend may have been holding a bit of a torch.  Who knew?

Just before I left, we went to dinner and he insisted that my move was “hasty (it wasn’t)” and I should have “waited for him (I didn’t want to).”  I assured him that we would never be more than friends and he spent the next few weeks tweeting about “not letting the one you love get away.”

Mr. Magnum is FUMING. 

“Did you have sex with your cousin Erik?” 

What??  Now I am confused. 

“What about the hot guy from the pizza place?” 

I start laughing.  This line of questioning is so ridiculous; it’s more funny than disturbing to me. 

“Mr. Magnum, about what are you even talking?” 

“When we were dating, how many other people were you seeing?” 

“No one else, why?  I really liked you!  I had no idea what happened.” 

“What happened was I was looking for a wife and I love my wife now and I never would’ve met her if we hadn’t broken up, but I had planned to marry you and Mr. Friend told me you were fu*king everyone so I disappeared.” 

"Wait, WHAT?" 

Mr. Magnum and I stay on the phone for a long time.  It seems likely that Mr. Friend has told a lot of guys this.  Mr. Magnum had confirmation from at least two others who had been impacted, and I’d had sex with no one. 

I asked him why he didn’t just ask me and he said that he didn’t think Mr. Friend would make something like that up and that it was too late, he’d already planted a seed that was impossible for him to get out of his head. 

Suddenly my sixth date curse totally made sense – it was around the time I introduced the new guy to my friends.  Holy Moly.