Dont Mince Words

It’s that most wonderful time of the year….when single men realize they are alone.  Apparently when you combine that with home for the holidays, you have the formula for hot and horny.

About six months ago I was contacted by “Jack” because he was considering taking a job in Santa Barbara.  He was currently in West Hollywood and wanted to understand the social scene if he were to make the move.  I gave him the grim reality and he decided to take another job in Los Angeles.

I received a checkin email from him on the 23rd asking if I was still single and, if so, would I be interested in going out while he was home visiting his parents 30 miles south of me. I told him I was available and suggested we meet at a brewpub I wanted to try in his parents’ town.

His response is the reason why I stay home with my dog.  “You wouldn’t want to chose a place closer to you, just in case we feel like fooling around?”

While we did meet on a dating website, our communications have been totally career and relocation-related until this point.  Very buddy/platonic.  So, I played it off and told him I was flattered, but we should meet, have a drink and catchup.  As you would expect, I never heard from him to finalize the plan. When I used to go home for Christmas, I always tried to line up activities to get out of the house and away from my mother.  If the internet existed, I probably would have dated to dull the pain of being home too.

I just wish Jack had the balls to take me to his house to show me his trophies, varsity letter jacket, and twin bed.  That’s what I call coming home for the holidays.

Dating in Los Angeles is hard.  It’s hard all over.  But I know it is difficult when a man I went out with and wrote about in 2004 is pursuing me again, unknowingly, in Santa Barbara.  The difference is, while there has chronologically been eight years since our last date, his profile age is only one year older.  Oh, the joys of having a Hollywood age.

It took me about one minute after I read his email to register who he was…. “more fun than greased weasels” and a “culture vulture” with a lesbian friend who tells him what he needs and should be looking for.  Oh yeah.  Him.  He was the guy with a membership to Magic Castle.  After being in LA longer, I learned men with memberships to Magic Castle are like women with three cats – buyer beware.  But the funnier thing was he was my first blog troll.  Long before I enabled comments, he emailed me from a hotmail account and told me I was a bitch for not letting my date know he had something stuck in his teeth.  He emailed several times after that with negative trash talk, but since I didn’t respond, I guess he found another culture vulture to circle with.

Me?  I’m really eight years older, I still floss, and I have at least one reason a week why I’m thankful I don’t actively date anymore.

In the continuing de-evolution of real men, there are arguments that this phenomenon started in the ’70s when divorces increased and boys were raised by single mothers.  OK, then what explains men in their ’60s that behave like… pussies.  In my case, I’m going to blame it on California, again.

I received a voice mail two days after a flight I took.  Here’s a modified transcript:

“Hi Marna, this is Idiot.  You sat a few rows back from me on our San Francisco shuttle.  I smiled at you and you smiled back but I don’t think you recognized me.”

One date.  You have salt and pepper hair and glasses and look like every other 61 year-old in Santa Barbara, that’s probably why I didn’t recognize you.

“I know it was you because you have a very distinctive look.”

Yeah, you don’t find super white skin and red hair easily in coastal California.

“I just though I’d call to tell you I saw you and to hope all is well in your relationship.  Best.  Oh, this is Idiot.”

So, here’s how this would of played out from a confident, east coast guy:

“Marna?” he says with a head tilt.  “It’s Confident Guy, how are you?”

If I act like don’t know him, his response would be, “Oh, I’m sorry, you look exactly like someone I’ve met.”

Confrontation complete.  No sweat.  Hell, his backup plan could of been a debark, tarmac hello. You don’t call two wimpy days later and play out the scenario on voice mail…unless you are a soft beta male from California.