#dutchbydefault

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 :^)

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. 

Back in school I was introduced to a cool guy named Mr. Porn ‘Stache (he had a solid grow, it was red and surprisingly sexy), who was in love with my friend Sony (she had a boyfriend), but we made out one night in her car and he was the first guy who tasted like truffles, my favorite.  It was as if I could not get enough of the inside of his mouth.  The more I kissed him the hungrier I got for more kissing.  It was phenomenal. 

I have since been obsessed with a truffle-enhanced pheromone taste.   And it ruined me a little, because now I don’t enjoy making out with any guys who don’t taste like truffles.  I’m lucky to find one every year or two.  I can name everyone I’ve met who has it in him.  

Years later, Sony called me to ask me to be the maid of honor in her wedding (same boyfriend) and I was honored.  Mr. Porn ‘Stache sent me an email to let me know that he would not bring a date and should I also decide to ride solo, he’d love to accompany me.  I accepted and we spent the entire weekend making out.  Every photo from the wedding shows me with painful chin-burn, but I wore it with pride.