Category Archives: dating

dating, on Los Angeles

5 Reasons Why I’m a Bad Date.

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We know I spend a lot of time here complaining about the men of Los Angeles. But I’m willing to admit the common thread among the ones I’ve dated was obviously me. Which begs the question – what exactly am I doing wrong in the dating game?

1) Things in my life have been difficult lately, especially work-wise. Sometimes, it’s hard to keep these complaints to myself. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge most people are very stressed about their jobs and to keep my frustrated thoughts to myself until date three or fifteen. You know who someone doesn’t want to date? Debbie Downer.

2) When I actually really, truly like a guy, I get awkward. Like spaz city awkward in front of him. Revert back to 5th grade (mouth chock full of braces, chubby red cheeks, and monster eyeglasses) awkward. I can see why this has frightened some Prince Charmings away.

3) I’ll admit it – I have some commitment issues. Signing a year-long lease on an apartment gives me hives. I don’t like to plan vacations more than 2 months in advance (and even that seems a little close…who knows what could change in my life? But guess what — life will be exactly the same in 2 months!!).

4) I have a short attention span. The minute the conversation turns to minute sports details I don’t know, I start to wonder “If I get home in 45 minutes, I can catch The Walking Dead on my DVR before it’s past my nerd alert bedtime…”

And finally…

5) I keep an online dating blog and karma is simply biting me in the ass.

dating, single woes and married foes

Thanks Mom.

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My parents are a bit…how should I put this? Old School.

As in they got married to each other at 20 (her) and 22 (him). My sister got married at 24. So you can imagine how single, down-on-her-luck me looks to this marrying young family. Having courted in the pre-Internet age, they really don’t understand the complexities of dating in the 21st century.

They also have a not-so-secret agenda to convince me to move back to Chicago — cold, gray Chicago where I’m 99% sure I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (look it up, it’s a thing) 9 months of the year.

This means that for my 4-5 visits to Chicago a year (by the way, I think that they should recognize that is a very impressive amount of plane tickets at $200 – $400 a pop), there is usually some dinner party (yes — dinner party. I told you that they are Old School) or event where the goal is to make Chicago seem like the best place ever and I’m missing out on so much. My recent trip to Chicago in October featured such an event.

My father is a member of a prestigious men’s club that hosted a rackets weekend (did you know that rackets is a sport? I bet you didn’t. It is played by the kind of people that only wear LaCoste alligator pants and Ralph Lauren Polo) and my parents insisted that I attend the welcome cocktail party. The only reason I agreed to go was for the free Prosecco.

Having come off some of the roughest few months I’ve ever had in my career, I’m not exactly a delight at small talk these days. It’s hard to smile and say, “yes I enjoy my job of mindlessly entering data into Excel and doing VLookup and Index Margin formulas 8-10 hours a day” and mean it. Hence why on a scale of 1 to 10 in social situations these days, I’m a negative 2. Suffice it to say that Negative 2 me and the arrogant, young rackets players didn’t really hit it off.

At the cocktail party, my mother made sure to introduce me to Rackets Player Paul who was from geographically undesirable Boston. It turns out that Rackets Player Paul actually works in my industry which is unusual to find anywhere. Then Rackets Player Paul went on to tell me that he was walking down the street yesterday and my mom chased him down. She spotted him in his rackets gear and decided to make conversation about the tournament and mentioned that her single daughter from Los Angeles was also in town. Needless to say, I was mortified.

Mom got a stiff talking-to in the elevator from me (of the “stay out of my personal life” variety). She insists to this day that Rackets Player Paul exaggerated the “chasing him down” part. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or delighted that my parents have gotten so worried that they have taken to chasing down men in the streets of Chicago for me. But I guess it’s good that someone is still trying on my behalf.

dating, on Los Angeles

Rejection.

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Here’s a topic that I have not covered too much because my ego hurts too much admitting to it: rejection.

Two weeks ago, I attended a magnificent wedding of a fellow USC alum in Santa Monica and the minute I saw Mr. Best Man at the altar of the Catholic ceremony, I said – HIM. DIBS.

Now it’s not very often that I truly set my mind to something and don’t get it. 25 years ago on a cold January Chicago day, I told my mother that once I was a grown-up, I was moving to a place where I didn’t have to wear a coat (I mean, practicality at its best at age 4). 11 years ago, I walked on USC’s campus and said “Yes, I’m going to attend college here.” One year later, I started my freshman year at USC in the balmy climate of Los Angeles.

In late 2008, at the height of our failing economy, I set my mind to get a job in marketing. Granted, I got it and it sucked the soul out of me for 2.5 years. But I did it.

If the last 5+ years of dating in Southern California have taught me anything, they have taught me humility. Everyone in LA is here to get what they want.

But I digress…

Back to Mr. Best Man.

Mr. Best Man was a  Stanford grad. A former baseball player slash current personal trainer. I couldn’t have asked for a better Saturday Night Random Makeout. The competition consisted of 2 drunk bridesmaids who started at 10 AM and I had the upper sober hand.

The groom was on my side. Two groomsmen made absolutely sure we were introduced. Mr. Best Man and I danced. We took a shot. We sat and had a fun conversation over wedding cake. Then, the wedding party failed to make an after party happen and I found myself outside with a tired Best Man at midnight who just wanted to go to sleep. Alone.

And so I got into a taxi by myself. There are a million excuses for why he didn’t at least for my number but after 14+ years of dating, I know a blow-off when I see one.

The evening was a bit of a blow to my ego. Like I arrogantly said, I’m not very used to not getting what I want. I’m not used to putting myself out there and getting shot down. On top of it, it was the metaphorical nail to the coffin to what’s been a pretty terrible year of dating.

How much more of this can I really take? I’m pretty sure my standards are already dirt-level low (does he at  have a job at Radioshack? Cool! Does he have a college degree? No, but an associate’s degree will do. He lost all his hair? HA we’re only getting older. He’s bald at 30? — Let’s go!).

Go ahead, mock the anonymous blog writer. But I’m just getting real here, guys. How much more rejection and bullshit can we take?

Then there was the time my date ran away from me at the end of the night after walking me to my car. And by “that time”, I mean, last night.

Regardless, all that’s left to do is fill the hole in the ego and soldier on. Because at this point in life, you can’t just roll into a ball in the corner of your bedroom and stop trying. You save that for when you are a 50-year-old spinster with 7 cats.

dating

Hi World.

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Just wanted to drop a note and say hello! I am indeed alive and well. I’ve even been on some inconsequential dates over the past few months. Some dates with decent but boring guys and even a date with a guy that made me pay my way.

But that’s about that. My weeks consist of nonstop work and die-hard workouts (because I refuse to get fat from a desk job). My weekends are an endless blur of drinking, dancing, and trying to forget the last 60+ hour work week I put in.

So that’s that. I continue to invite those who can actually find the time to date to guest blog. My email is lamatchbook@gmail.com. I welcome all submissions. And I promise not to bite.

Hard at least.

xoxo,

A.

dating, douchebags, friday favorites

Battery Pack.

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This story was written by me with full permission from my friend J.

J. met Battery Pack at the Bungalow a few weeks ago around closing time. He approached her with the line, “I bet you get so tired of guys coming up to you at the end of the night and hitting on you” and then he walked off. A few minutes later, he re-approached her and proceeded to actually hit on her. Her friend slash wingwoman for the night E. was not impressed with him.

J. agreed to a date with him where he wouldn’t agree to meet in a “in the middle” neighborhood and insisted that she go to HIS favorite Thai restaurant in his part of town. Red flag #1. He also offered for her to park at his friend’s place because it had “free valet” which she wisely declined. While at dinner he began discussing chiropractic techniques to which J. asked “Oh, are you a chiropractor?” to which he replied “No….well yes…I just don’t have a license.” Red flag #2.  Surprisingly, the rest of the date went well, except for the point where he said “Oh honey! Your rib is completely out!” and proceeded to adjust it before getting her consent and the “adjustment” resulted in 2 days of soreness. Red flag #3.

Fast forward to Labor Day weekend, where we attended a barbecue hosted by J. and friends in Marina del Rey. She invited Battery Pack as their 2nd date and he agreed to come and then showed up two hours late. He finally called J. and complained that he could not find the place and was very irritated. While J. tried to give him directions, he snapped, “this is NOT helping me!!” and hung up. When he did finally arrive, J. went down to show him where to park and the second that she got in his car, he did not say hello and started ranting about how he “hates bbqs in these types of buildings”.

Upon his un-punctual arrival, Battery Pack called out J’s friend E. for dismissing him at Bungalow, which immediately made everyone in the apartment uncomfortable. He didn’t make an effort to talk to us (the friends) and swept J. to the couch where he tried to canoodle with her and give her a poor man’s massage and unwanted chiropractic adjustments. Between his groping attempts, Battery Pack would pick up his phone which was attached a battery pack that was twice the size of his iPhone and play his beloved video game.

Later in the night, some of our guy friends showed up. When they entered the apartment, Battery Pack waved hello to them and said, “Hey guys, nice to see you. There’s a bunch of you and I’m the couch so I’m not going to get up and shake your hands. Cool to see you!” We stared in astonishment and the boys were rightfully offended. Battery Pack then went on to have a single-sided conversation with the room about how he finances movies and he’s really, really good at it.

The majority of us decided we couldn’t hang around Battery Pack any longer and ran across the street to the local bar to escape. Our host, Ellen*, decided at that point the barbecue was over and told Battery Pack to leave immediately. J. was relieved that he was kicked out and joined us out at the bar, where we congratulated her on making the right call to ditch the dude.

Battery Pack continues to text J. even though she has explicitly told him she no longer wants to see him.

And so ends another tale of another douchebag run-in in Los Angeles.