Dont Mince Words

I’ve had two serious relationships since I’ve lived in Los Angeles. My west coast operational definition of serious is a) they know my last name; b) they know where I live; and c) they say they are emotionally evolved enough to want a relationship. In both cases, the liaisons dissolved on or before the 60-day mark and made me create my “locals need not apply” rule.

Since dating Real Guy, my east coast fan base has expressed deep concern that my writing career will dry up. “If you are off the market, who are the fruits and nuts going to date and what are you going to write about?” Even Real Guy is wondering. “I haven’t checked dontmincewords in a while. Do you have anything to write about or am I doing to have to “do” something?” he asked.

I refuse to be that sunshine-and-roses yeah I meet a great guy girl. OK, I am, but I’m not going to make that the focus of my existence. That’s no different than moms that brag about their kids – for decades.

Instead, I’m going to give you the commonalities of the few successful relationships I’ve had. In every last one of them, it’s all about bodily functions and communication. I need a guy that can tolerate me peeing with the door open while I tell him random bullshit. I need a guy that can snicker and see the beauty when I accidentally rip a wicked, nasty fart. I need a guy who knows I hiccup when I’m full and can say, “no more for you.” I need a guy who can lie in bed and talk for hours about more random bullshit.

Real Guy and I were at a B&B in the lower Sierras for New Years. I broke my vegetarian rule and had three ounces of hamburger on the Eve. The next morning, I paid dearly and sat dying on the throne. I flushed and sprayed and shut the door. He wanted to go in immediately after and I begged him not to. “Please don’t. It’s a hazmat,” I explained.

He went in and said it smelled like roses. That’s when I realized. It’s nice to have a man who thinks my shit doesn’t stink.

I have a new hobby and it’s one I thought I’d never take up – at least in Los Angeles. It’s part Heathers and part Mean Girls and it gives me great satisfaction.

My new pastime is rejecting men. Well, wait. I’ve been rejecting men for years in this town, but now I have a new, honest comeback to their “hey you want to go out” requests.

“That’s nice of you, but no, I have a boyfriend,” I say. Then I hang up giggling while jumping on my bed and twisting my hair. This is something I don’t get to say often and it’s liberating.

This boomerang guy and I have had three dates in three years because he’s a flaky writer who also does production on the road. Our annual conversations are about our writing projects with a dash of personal catch-up. Boomerang was shocked and disappointed I wasn’t available.

“Well congratulations. Let me know when you break up,” was his response.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, because if I were ever to be single again, you’d so be there for me.

Thanks, but no thanks. Real Guy is more than enough for me right now and he’s already survived three dates with me.

I hadn’t had a date since August and chose to focus on work and health. Those were more productive diversions. I never expected to meet a man the old-fashioned way – in a bar.

A married, former co-worker suggested I go with him to a bar in Montrose that was frequented by NASA/JPL employees. The prospect of meeting a rocket scientist intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure how I’d relate to those guys since I’d never been to a Star Trek convention. But I went figuring a girl’s gotta drink.

I met Real Guy (RG) a couple days before my trip to Hawaii. I knew within 10 seconds of meeting him that he was a guy I could like. He was outgoing, opinionated, funny, and cute. As he played pool, I told co-worker to be my yenta and pass my number on, if RG was interested.

When I returned from Hawaii, I was busy and didn’t return to the bar until I heard that RG had been asking about me. When I arrived, he stopped playing pool. The chemistry was immediate. We sat and talked for seven hours. We went out the following three nights. The conversation and humor overflowed.

There’s not an online dating search engine that can recreate the randomness of this meeting. I’m not sure where this will lead. What I do know is all my online dating profiles are closed. If this doesn’t work out, I’m back to working the bars, or the docks.