Tag Archives: douchebags

Mr. High Maintenance.

There are some girls in Los Angeles who love to be spoiled, appreciate expensive cars, and name-dropping. I am not one of those girls. Give me a night of cheap Chinese food, BYOB wine, and we can even take the bus and I’m a happy camper. (True story – one of my best dates ever was at Mao’s Kitchen in Venice and we walked there with a bottle of wine).

For those aforementioned LA girls, I found the perfect man for you: Mr. High Maintenance.

I met Mr. High Maintenance at The Wilshire Bar and Restaurant, a place I frequent as little as possible because I hate the female and male douchebags it attracts every Friday and Saturday night and at age 28, I refuse to pay cover. He was nice enough, bought me a vodka-soda, worked in something vague called “private equity/real estate”, and asked for my number. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I agreed to a date with him.

To his credit, Mr. High Maintenance was very good at making plans, which is a skill that a lot of LA men lack. He wanted to pick me up and drive me to 41Ocean (a chi-chi, members-only club in Santa Monica that you pay $2000/year for the privilege of sitting at a bar and drinking $15 drinks which you still pay $15 each for), but I don’t trust any man with my address on a first date, so we met at a bar in Brentwood first. I wound up having more fun than anticipated but was still unsure how much I liked him given that he said such sentences as “I don’t get hangovers because I drink an entire bottle of Pellegrino with my multivitamins before I go to sleep after drinking” and “I don’t drink beer at the pool; I prefer Sauvignon Blanc”.

For our 2nd date, Mr. High Maintenance wanted to “surprise me” which I thought was creepy but my friends said was actually romantic. But hey, at least he’s good at making plans. He picked me up in his 2-door BMW, which he said he was tired of after 3 years and wanted a new one. I in turn launched into the story of my 1997 Honda Accord that I drove despite it leaking when it rained but I jimmied a paper towel/duct tape solution and it never rains in LA anyways.

We went to Tavern for late drinks and appetizers but had to order fish appetizers that adhered to his diet. He avoided carbs all week but allowed himself one splurge day per week; apparently this Monday was not splurge day. Dating Mr. Vegetarian had been annoying enough but at least that guy appreciated a good piece of margherita pizza. The night went fine enough but after he tried to talk me into going to his place for a drink and “the view”, I decided I had had enough. I bid farewell to Mr. High Maintenance and tried to ignore all his subsequent text messages. However he simply didn’t get the message (and he was also just aggressive by nature),  so I had to finally send off a bitchy text saying I didn’t want to see him anymore.

I’m not at all concerned about Mr. High Maintenance because I have every belief that he is going to meet Miss High Maintenance one day soon and they’ll be quite content sipping Sauvignon Blanc and Pellegrino together poolside in no time.

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The Guy with the 4 Name Cat.

I dug up an oldie but goodie for you guys.

A long, long time when I lived in a somewhat faraway place called San Diego, I met a gentleman named Eagle*. I met him in under rare circumstances – he was a friend of a girlfriend’s boyfriend. We met at a magical beachfront bar called Lahaina’s in a not so magical place called Pacific Beach. He asked for my number and said friend’s boyfriend vouched for him, so I happily agreed to a date with Eagle.

Eagle was a nerd (I always go for the nerds) who worked for reputable engineering company in Carlsbad. He had a tattoo of an eagle (get it??) on his right arm. He explained that he had gotten the eagle tattoo on a whim to a trip to New Zealand. The eagle’s mouth was open to the left. He said at another important event in his life (which was still to be determined), he would get an eagle tattoo on his left arm and the mouth would face to the right. As someone with zero tattoos, I was unimpressed.

Eagle and I had 3 decent dates, but I always felt like there was a certain something lacking during each of those dates. Plus there was his whole anxiety mental issue. On our 3rd date, he disappeared to the bathroom for 20 minutes. Naturally, I presumed he had eaten something bad but he later revealed it was due to his anxiety attacks, which he sometimes took medication for but hadn’t that night.

On our 4th date, I visited him on a lovely summer day in his beachside studio apartment, which was a true studio that he shared with his cat, Princess Sophia Cassandra Snowfeet. Yes, she had 4 names and was forced to reside in a 3oo square foot studio apartment. I honestly don’t know if I felt worse for her name or the square footage the poor thing would pace in 20 seconds corner to corner.

I also noticed a large lump in his bed that I presumed to not be a body but I asked to be double safe. He explained that he enjoyed sleeping with a body pillow that he had affectionately named Veronica. But if I was up for it, I could take the place of Veronica.

(for the record, as long as he dated me, Veronica remained Queen of the 300 square foot studio).

It was on that 4th date that he mentioned his mother and sister were visiting in a few days and that they were “dying to meet me” but he insisted that it was too soon. I clammed up immediately and almost had my own anxiety attack.

A week later (after said family visit that I tactfully avoided), he sent me a Facebook message asking me on a 5th date. Now I get that it was 2009 and Facebook messaging was probably the new thing but you just don’t ask a girl out via Facebook. Ever. I chose to immaturely ignore the message.

The next day, he decided it was a good idea to get a hold of me not via Facebook or my cell phone, but through my work number. Which no one ever called besides angry customers. The startup I worked for at the time was so small that we didn’t have a receptionist; my friend B. picked up the phone. When she told me that Eagle was on the phone for me, I immediately turned red and requested that send him to voicemail. Which she did.

He didn’t get the hint.

He called back immediately and asked for me again. B. explained lied that I was in a meeting, could he please leave a voicemail, which he finally did. I called him back a day later via my cell phone and told him I had no desire to see him anymore.

He immediately defriended me on Facebook but I learned via my friend that he did eventually find a girlfriend and he was very happy.

Unfortunately, I have no new updates on Princess Sophia Cassandra Snowfeet and Veronica. But I assume the 4 of them are very happy together.

The End of Gentility.

I gotta ask – when did everyone become such a jerk?

youre-behaving-like-more-of-a-jerk-than-usual

Mr. Terrible was bad enough. I’m still kicking myself for not having the balls to get up and leave the table in the middle of the world’s rudest date.

Two weeks ago, I found myself one drink in at The Charleston in Santa Monica, a bar I tend to like but unfortunately it has started to attract the likes of drunk younger 20somethings who can’t afford the cover at the Wilshire bar next door.

My friend D. and I were sitting at the bar comfortably having drinks when suddenly over the course of 20 minutes, the capacity of the bar tripled and we were sandwiched in our seats surrounded by drunk douchebags and douchebaguettes (a term I recently learned and love – it means female douchebag!). Now, I’m willing to admit fault that I should have given up and gotten out of my seat sooner, but D. and I were trying to have a conversation. As we talked and finished our drinks, some wasted douchebag kept pushing his crotch into my back as he fought to get the bartender’s attention to order a drink. Repeatedly, he kept shoving into me over the course of several minutes, until I lost my cool.

I stood up and asked him to get out of my personal space. He snapped back, “This place is f–king crowded, what the f–k do you want me to do about it?” We got in each others’ faces for a moment until I backed off and D. dragged me to the dance floor.

So, what happened? Was I — the sober one — at fault for losing it over being shoved into by someone’s crotch repeatedly? Once upon a time, I was that drunk 22 year old. But I’d like to think I never shoved into anyone’s personal space with my crotch. Should I have cut him more slack for acting his age?

Almost fights in bars aside, I’ve noticed a general lack in manners and gentility in this city. Most mornings on my commute (in my car), someone yells and honks at someone from their cars and/or at pedestrians. People in the entertainment industry won’t talk to me at parties because I’m not in their industry and therefore cannot further their career in any way. No one smiles at each other here when I walk around my neighborhood or office. This could be the Midwesterner in me that’s expecting too much out of people, but I’ve encountered much more friendly people in even New York.

That movie Crash got that commentary right about LA – the only interactions strangers have here is when they literally crash into each other. Or almost get into bar fights over invasion of personal space.

Jimmy Kimmel Proves What a Bunch of A-Holes Los Angelenos Are.

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.