It’s not every day that I’ll acknowledge that the editors of GQ got something right. Their article The GQ Guide to Online Dating pretty much says all I had to say about Online Dating, but throws in some pretty hilarious online guy stereotypes.
They get extra points for picking on my least favorite Online Guy — Shirtless Douchebag Self-Portraiting in the Bathroom.
Read on for some hilarious tips. And keep in mind it’s GQ – so take it with a grain of salt.
Not too long ago, I found myself on a second date with Short Mark*. I’m allowed to actually call him Short Mark because he lied about his height. He said 5’9 on his online profile but I quickly realized on our first date he couldn’t possibly stand taller than 5’6. However, I have been trying to be more open-minded about short guys, so I chose to ignore this rather irrational lie on his part (you can’t fake height so why would you lie about it online??) and agreed to a 2nd date with him.
We went to a Brentwood Italian restaurant I had never been to before and that meal was the best part of the whole evening. He admitted to being more of a beer drinker than a wine drinker and asked if I had any wine recommendations (no judgments here; I love giving wine advice!). I said, “Since we are in an Italian restaurant, I think Chianti would be a good bet. Red wine always go well with this sort of meal and Chianti is one of the best values.” Mind you, of course I pronounced Chianti as “key-ant-ee”, as any wine lover or anyone who’s ever watched Silence of the Lambs should know to do.
The waiter asked to take our drinks order and this short dude apparently felt he was ordering for the two of us. Short Mark said, “We’ll each have a glass of the Chee-ant-ee.” I wanted to hit him across the face. The waiter grimaced and politely walked away without correcting him. It wasn’t the fact that Short Mark didn’t know how to pronounce a relatively well-known red wine. It was the fact that he clearly wasn’t listening to what I was saying as that I’m pretty sure I said the word Chianti (correctly) at least 4 times.
Needless to say, the night took a turn for the worst at that point and I haven’t seen Short Mark since.
In case you haven’t heard (and I really hope you haven’t, because this is not a newsmaking event), it’s been cold in LA for like a week. By cold, I mean below 70.
Ok, so it has been like 45 degrees at night but I’m getting really tired of the Los Angelenos who are wearing a thin USC or UCLA (double idiot points for the UCLA) sweatshirt at night and complaining about how freezing it is while they stand there shivering. I’m from Chicago and when it is 45 degrees outside*, you put on a decent jacket, jackass.
So when this Jimmy Kimmel clip popped up in my Facebook newsfeed, it had me rolling on the fl0or. My favorite is the douchebag standing in Long Beach with a ski coat and ski gloves acting like he’s covering Battery Park during Hurricane Sandy.
Happy Monday!
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* The one exception to this rule in Chicago is when it has been 10 degrees for a month straight and one magical, sunny, 45 degree day happens in February. Then you may run around the city in a tank top and shorts because your skin has adapted to have bear-like strength to hold heat.
What is it they say about LA? Big city, small town?
Here’s a story about how everyone knows everyone in this town.
Last year, a guy on Match.com named Gabe* emailed me and upon checking out his profile, I found one picture featuring tall Gabe on the left and my short friend Justin* on the right. I immediately took a screenshot, and emailed my girlfriend D. demanding “Do you know this man??” She did not but we did find him on Facebook and discovered that he works with Justin. Making a very bad judgment call that I would later regret, I opted not to email Gabe back.
Fast forward to a week later. Justin invited me and my friends to a “welcome our new roommate” party and night out. Of course, I walked in the door and immediately saw Gabe. I then also immediately saw Derek*, a guy I had hooked up with a long time ago.
After several drinks, we ventured to a bar in Santa Monica. At the bar, I saw Gabe standing in the corner of the bar with our friend Aaron* showing off something on his phone. Gabe eventually calls me over and promptly shows me all of my Match.com pictures and demands to know why I didn’t email him back. I laughed it off and said that I recognized Justin from the photo, hadn’t been online much that week (not a lie!), and figured we’d meet in real life (and not the intrawebs) eventually. He then asks to buy me a drink which of course I accept and then proceeds to tell everyone around that he is buying citygirl (my Match screenname) a drink. He tells the 22 year old dude that took a shot with him that. He told all of our friends that. I ask him to stop shouting that and then he gets in my face about why I’m embarrassed to be online dating.
To his credit, once he stopped screaming my Match.com username and we had a normal conversation, he was actually pretty funny and cute (in a tall, goofy way). I actually did wind up giving him my number. Then at some point, he decided to bring up that I had hooked up with Derek last year. Um seriously?? So here’s a lesson ladies – guys DO talk.
At that point, I turned to my friends and announced I wanted to leave and apparently we peaced out without saying bye to anyone (that’s sort of my drunken MO). I got home, got a phone call from Gabe, and then drunkenly accepted his invitation to meet for lunch the next day.
So, I actually did meet him for lunch that following day. BUT Justin can be a dense idiot and decided to invite himself and 6 others along (including Derek, the previous year’s hookup). All in all, it was a nice, awkward, hungover brunch.
And Gabe and I never went out again.
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* all names have been changed to protect the innocent guilty
{ a continuation of Mr. Pretentious Part I }
There’s a wonderfully quirky bar in West Hollywood called Bar Lubitsch; inside that bar lurks a not so wonderful gentleman named Mr. Pretentious.
Once we arrived from the jazz club, he ordered another martini and I elected to nurse a Stella since I had a long drive back to West LA. Since Bar Lubitsch was noticeably quieter than the jazz club he took this as his chance to ask such insightful first date questions as “When was your last long term relationship?” and “They say a person makes a judgment about another person within 5 seconds. So what did you think of me?” As I was starting to lose my patience, I informed him of the truth that I hadn’t been in a long term relationship in 4 years and what the hell was with that handkerchief.
After the handkerchief mockery, the conversation got very awkward and I realized maybe I should attempt to be a little nicer to even pretentious guys on a first date. I asked why he was running for local office. He in turn gave me the most ridiculous spiel about how nothing ever gets done in politics because too many old people are in control and they don’t care about making a difference anymore and are too lazy to push changes through. My cynicism reared its ugly head at this point and I told him that in my opinion he was being naïve. I said he’ll get into office and realize how much red tape there is and how difficult it is to actually get anything done, and that is why the people currently in office seemingly get nothing accomplished. He retorted it would not be that way for him and he’s here to legitimately change things.
That was my cue to use the bathroom, check the time to ensure that I would get back to my car at midnight when the garage closed, and text multiple girlfriends that this was the night in Hollywood Hell. Upon my return, 2 lemon shots sat on the table. I glared at them and announced, “I’m not drinking that.” So he drank both and then suggested we dance. Since I had 20 minutes and a beer to kill, I acquiesced and then bore witness to the worst thing ever: this man on a dance floor. Imagine a robot with a broken hip but this robot thinks he’s sexy. It was still worse than what you are imagining.
11:30 was my cue to get back to my car before it turned into a pumpkin at midnight and as much as I attempted to leave him in his lemon drop haze at Bar Lubbitsch, he insisted on ensuring I make it back to my car safely – right after he pounded his last martini. The following series of events took place between 11:40 and 11:47 PM on this Friday night:
11:40 PM: Taxi pulls up to garage and the gate is closed and there is no sign of escape for my car.
11:40:20 seconds PM: I get angry.
11:41 PM: “I’ll handle this, don’t worry” he slurs. His version of handling it consists of him screaming at the gate “Is anyone there?”
11:42 PM: politicians can’t get anything done, but I sure can. Just as I’m iPhone googling the parking garage management company (I can read signs, apparently Mr. Pretentious cannot), a nice gentleman in a car pulls up and says he works in the building and he can buzz me into it and I can get my car out that way.
11:44 PM: I get to my car and Mr. Pretentious is still somehow beside me. Now I’m not sure how he would get out of the locked garage so I let him in my car and say I’ll drop him at whatever bar his alleged friends are at. He says to just drop him at the corner at Sunset.
11:45 PM: Corner of Sunset. Of course he won’t get out of my car. 2-minute conversation ensues of the following, “Get out, I’m going home. Unless you want to be dropped off nearby, get out.” “Wait, are you serious” “Yes.” “Wait, you are seriously telling me to get out of the car?” “Yes.” “What?” “I’m going home, I’m tired, I have a long drive home, get out.” He finally opens the door and glares at me – “Is this seriously happening right now?” Me – “Yes, get out!” he throws his hand up at me in anger, exits, and slams the door.
The last martini must have been a mind eraser for Mr. Pretentious because at 7:30 the following morning, he texted “Did you have a nice night last night?” I ignored him and my instincts to write back “Were we on the same date?”
I did wind up getting back to Mr. Pretentious eventually and wishing him good luck on his campaign. After all, he’s just what Washington and Los Angeles need in office – another douchebag.
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