by Mamrie Hart
By the second half of the show, the shock of actually seeing them live had waned and we were just straight-up rocking out. But during the final riffs of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” in the second encore, the man could not stop crying. Everyone was filing out, so we joined the crowd, but twenty yards toward the exit, and there went the waterworks again. He sat down in the nearest seat, and I gently rubbed his back, knowing that he just needed to get it all out.
At one point, an employee who was trying to usher people out approached us. “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to move toward the—”
“Look, we are breaking up after four years. Can you please just give us a minute?!” I snapped back. His face dropped, eyes as big as whoopie pies. “Take your time,” he said, and continued herding the human cattle out of the stadium. I had nailed it. Pity Party was clearly impressed with my quick thinking. Or at least I had thought he was, because meanwhile, he was internally pulling a Shania Twain. . . .
“So you can convincingly portray dumping me after several years just so I can cry about a favorite childhood band for a few extra minutes? That don’t impress me much!”
Anyway, as you can see, I adore Guns N’ Roses and secretly hate that my magical night was tarnished with the subsequent garbage that went down. So! I used that song as an internal anthem to show myself that I was over it. No two-month rebound was going to ruin one of my favorite bands. I was taking that shit back.
Once the girls left, it was time to start checking out what Raya had to offer. Seeing as this was an exclusive app, I was hoping for like-minded people—writers, producers, creatives. I took a deep breath and a big sip of mezcal, and after loading for what seemed like an eternity, there it was. My first offering. And it was . . . drumroll, please . . . John Mayer. BAHAHAHA. I nearly threw my phone across the room in disgust. I immediately hit X instead of ♥.
It didn’t take twenty swipes before I realized something. If you’ve ever watched The Bachelor, you will see how the producers strategically label the contestants’ professions to either make them look great or like complete idiots. After scrolling through the app, I noticed that it was basically a rotation of only a few professions. Surely, some of these guys had to be inflating their résumés. Like, not every guy can be a . . .
1) Photographer
We get it. You can afford a camera that can take a great photo. That alone does not a photographer make. Throwing an Instagram filter on a photo of a potted succulent doesn’t make you a pro, people!
Now, these guys weren’t all poseurs; there were some actual editorial photographers on there. But even they didn’t interest me. Most of their profiles contained waaay too many artsy black-and-white photos of nearly naked chicks. I understand that you’re trying to build your portfolio, but I can’t have a boyfriend who spends his afternoons with up-and-coming Russian models posing topless on a Malibu beach and expect him to be turned on when he comes home to find me in sweatpants, eating falafel with my hands.
2) Writer/Filmmaker
As someone who’s written a couple of movies and, hopefully, TWO bestselling books, all I have to say is . . . in the words of Whitney Houston, “Show me the receipts.” In LA, “writer” can sometimes be interchangeable with “unemployed person who is great at staring intently at a Final Draft document on their laptop at Starbucks, but when no one is watching, they toggle over to Tumblr.” In most cases, it didn’t seem worth the risk.
3) Pro Surfer
I mean, come on, how many people actually make a living being sponsored by Billabong? Even if these guys weren’t full of shit, a pro surfer was a no-go for me. Surfers wake up at, like, four A.M.! I’m also not about that life of lying in bed next to someone who makes me want to suck in my stomach every time I’m the little spoon. A good body is great. But a great body is a pain in the ass.
Despite my doubts, I had to admit that a lot of these dudes were cute, so I hit some hearts. And that is where the message stage of online dating came in. Here’s what I’ve learned about this experience: people either come at you WAY too hard, or they send a message and once you’ve responded, they disappear into thin air, as if they never had any intention of making a connection or having a conversation or, GOD FORBID, a face-to-face interaction. There were a lot of these dead ends at first, but after a few days, I got into my groove and had some real conversations happening.
Being on Raya became an all-consuming process. A free five minutes before going out with a friend? I was on the app. Said friend gets up to go to the bathroom? I was on the app. Said friend is busy going hard on our “shared” app? I was on that damn app. I’ve never been a person who downloads games to their phone. In fact, the last time I was super into a handheld digital game was way back when I had a Game Boy. And now, I was playing a literal Game of Boys. I loved it!
At the recommendations of my friends, I was messaging with a few dudes at once. Might as well keep my options open, right? One of the more promising ones was a pro basketball player. Sure, he was on a team on the other side of the country, and b-ball players are notorious for being players off the court, but our messaging felt like an ego boost. He was really sweet, even letting me know that my latest video was funny or my Instagram post was pretty. His team was going to play the Lakers soon after we started talking, and he said he wanted to see me. But when the time came, he ghosted.
A few weeks later, I went out with a normal-seeming hot lawyer, and by the end of the night, we went back to my place for one more drink and (hopefully) multiple smooches. We cracked open nightcap beers and started playing each other our favorite songs, taking turns playing DJ. Now, I’ve always considered myself to have pretty great taste in music, so this is a fun flirt tactic for me. As I played him the Talking Heads, the Clash, all the top “The” bands, he nodded along like he loved them. We were totally vibing—that is, until he took over the tunes and started blasting the only three-letter acronym less attractive than HPV. . . . And that is, EDM.
Song after song—at least I think they were different songs, but who can be sure because they all sounded the same—he tried to convince me that this act was great. They were not. There’s a reason why people take so much Molly at EDM concerts. But he was into them, and I was into how excited he was. Then he played me his favorite song of all time. Guys, I kid you not when I say I sat there at my kitchen counter in total silence for the next four minutes as he played a Michael Bublé ballad. His eyes were closed, he would occasionally do a light air drum, and he was completely serious. You could practically hear my vagina dry up like salt on a slug.
Another guy was a total hobbit. No, that is not me being an asshole and saying this guy was short and/or ugly. He played an actual hobbit in the Lord of the Rings movies! We immediately had a playful repertoire and said that when he was back in town we would go out for drinks. I told him about my newfound love for mezcal, and lo and behold, he loved it, too! A couple of weeks of casual chatting ensued, and then I get a (clearly) drunk text from him, giving me graphic details of how he wanted to drink mezcal off my body. It was TOO much. We hadn’t so much as hugged in person, and I was already learning about how he wanted to turn my body into an open bar. I retreated faster than an army realizing all their guns had been replaced with hot dogs.
Discouraged, I took some time off from the app while I was traveling abroad for shows. When our plane’s wheels hit the tarmac at LAX, I turned on my phone to see what I had missed. It was all the usual. A bunch of texts. Too many e-mails from my agents. But then a ding! I had gotten a message on Raya. I opened it, hoping it wasn’t a picture of the hobbit holding up a haul from the liquor store.
“I want to meet your dog!” read the message from a cute boy with a sweet face. Dudes, the only thing hotter than you holding a dog* is you caring about a woman’s dog. I messaged back immediately, “You have great taste.” From there, we playfully messaged back and forth for a few weeks until BAM, we actually made plans to meet up.
There’s an amazing Cher quote from an interview with Jane Pauley back in 1996 where she is asked why she has referred to the men in her life as “dessert.” She says, “I adore dessert. I love men. I think men are the coolest. But you don’t really need them to live.” I happened upon that old interview right around this time, and it changed my perspective.
Think of men like dessert, huh? Let them be sweet, an indulgence, but not completely essential for enjoying the meal of life. It was everything I was really feeling in that moment, the exact sentiment Veronica and I had been trying to live out, but leave it to the goddess Cher to put it into the perfect analogy. She and I vowed to keep our priorities straight: we needed to be there for our girlfriends, stay laser-focused on our careers, and let guy stuff just be the icing on the cake. After all, too much dessert and you can get really weighed down and feel (and look) like shit.
And now I was ready! The world was my proverbial buffet of various male delicacies, and I had a stack of clean plates.
Just the (Unsolicited) Tips
AS EVIDENCED BY the previous chapter, I’m no expert at dating. The only dating I’m good at is myself, with all of these outdated references!
*Laughs* *Sighs* *Blocks out fear of mortality*
When it comes to dating, I’m basically a fetus, as the kids would say.* Hell, barely a fetus. Just a twinkle in a daddy’s eye. But just because I don’t know much about a subject has never stopped me from giving unsolicited advice about it. So, here they are, some random gems about dating that I’ve picked up from my foray into singledom thus far.
1. Eat Dinner
Sometimes you say you’re going to go out for a quick drink on the early side with your date. Surely, you will eat a meal after you’re done! Plus, you don’t want to roll in with a burrito baby while rocking those high-waisted jeans that make your ass look like a tasty teardrop, right? WRONG. You must eat to preserve your integrity. ’Cause if it’s going well, one drink will become two, two drinks will become six, and then you’re either too drunk on your first date or you end up playing CSI: You in the morning. I’m talking the Crazy Snack Investigation unit, which happens when you walk into your kitchen and go from crumbs to cans to shit spilled on the floor and then have to determine what exactly you destroyed when you came home drunk and hungry.
One time I came back from an “only drinks!” date, and the next morning I realized I had eaten a bag of dark chocolate espresso beans but must not have wanted to stay up all night from the caffeine, so I had just sucked off the chocolate and spit out the beans directly into my garbage disposal. Another time I woke up with little cuts on my swollen fingers because I’d eaten cold boiled peanuts straight out of a tin can . . . in bed. EAT DINNER, YOU GUYS.
2. Go Out with People You Have No Mutual Friends With
I know, I know. There’s something wonderful about dating friends or outliers of your social circle. It’s like a built-in background check. You can get the skinny on their dating/job/mental health history before you ever go out, and there are a lot less introductions you have to navigate at parties. But RESIST! If it doesn’t work out, you will be so thankful that you don’t have to run into them at parties. I specifically casually date dudes on the other side of LA (which may as well be the other side of the planet) so I don’t have to run into them ever again. It also saves your friends from having to choose sides when you break up. Bonus!
3. Rebound Basketballs, Not Basket Cases
There is a fine line between exhilarating and erratic, and sometimes when you’re blinded by “like, love, or lust,” it’s hard to see the difference. I’ve seen it happen time and again. Someone gets out of a stable relationship and is automatically attracted to someone a little wild. A change in energy. But trust me, take a step back and take a hard look at your situation before engaging. Is this person exciting or erratic? Because sure, right now it may be thrilling. You were down in the dumps, treading water, and now this person has your adrenaline pumping, like you’re riding a massive wave. But, honey, that wave can’t maintain. You’re going to eventually get to shore and have to deal with real life. You don’t need an undertow of crazy constantly dragging you back in. Choose calmer waters.
4. Get a Hot Tub
This is a costly tip, but I’m tellin’ ya, if you have the means necessary, get a damn Jacuzzi and watch your social life blossom before your eyes. Your house automatically becomes the late-night party spot, and you get to check out what guys look like in their bathing suits. Honestly, having my hot tub that first summer of being single was like having guy soup in my backyard, changing daily like a Dude du Jour.
5. Always Groom
Good Lord. I get it, it’s annoying. I would sometimes be like, If I don’t shave my legs, I definitely won’t hook up. WRONG. Hair is not a chastity belt.
You will get drunk, and your inhibitions will lower, and the next thing you know, your date will be busting through that bush like Westley chopping through the fire swamp in The Princess Bride.* Seriously, it’s as if I only got laid when I decided to forego shaving for a week. The three times I have gone through the terror of a Brazilian in preparation for a night with a guy, plans have changed and we haven’t hung out. I’ll put it to you this way: if your legs feel like a cactus, you’re probably gonna catch a prick.
6. Disregard My Previous Tip
If grooming’s not your thing, or if not grooming brings you good luck, stay on course. He should be so lucky to touch your bod, even if it does feel like a bag of splinters!
7. Don’t Intimi-Date
This is not what it sounds like. I don’t mean you should shrink yourself so that the man can feel secure in his manhood, or the woman in her womanhood, or whatever Robin in his Robin hood.* Quite the opposite! I mean, don’t intimi . . . date people who are intimidated by you.
When you’re getting to know someone, it’s nice to talk about things you are working on or are proud of, whether that thing is as big as a project of yours being funded or as simple as you starting to incorporate more leafy greens into your diet. Whatever it is, lay it all out there. If your date refers to you as “intimidating” instead of just being supportive and interested in what you’re saying, this is a red flag. Picture that gif of Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost saying, “You in danger, girl.” Being told you are intimidating might feel like flattery in the moment, but down the road, those things your date was “impressed” by on your first date can fester into things your now-partner resents.
That’s right. . . . You can’t spell “IMPRESSED” without “PRIDE MESS.”*
What’s even worse is that sometimes, in this situation, you then begin to shrink or downplay your achievements so as to not make this other person feel bad. Don’t fall for it! Don’t be with someone you intimidate; be with someone who rises to your level. Or who makes you want to step up your game to rise to theirs. You worked really hard to carve your life into the thing it is, so be with someone who stands back and admires your work, not someone who grabs an emotional chisel and chips away at it.
—
SO, IN CONCLUSION, WHOA! I got a lot deeper in this chapter than I thought I would. I didn’t even make one “just the tip” joke.
The point is, I don’t have all the answers. These are just things that work for me. They might not work for me a year from now. I could be rocking a full bush, have developed an irrational fear of hot tubs, and only be attracted to manic dudes who are completely daunted by any of my successes. Things change. People change. But one thing’s for sure. . . .
ALWAYS EAT DINNER. Don’t be a fool.
Get a Clue!
I, MAMRIE HART, am a sucker for a game night. Ever since I was an itty bitty, I have loved board games: Girl Ta
lk, Dream Phone, Mall Madness. Basically anything that was priming me to be a materialistic, boy-crazy, bitchy high schooler. But there was one game whose box wasn’t hot pink that captured my heart, and that was Guess Who? Guess Who? kicked every other unisex eighties board game’s ass! I mean, look at the other hits of that era.
OPERATION? I’m sorry, but if that weirdo with the bowl cut is dumb enough to swallow butterflies, a wrench, and a bucket . . . it might be time for evolution to just go ahead and take him out.
MONOPOLY? A “get out of jail free” card? There’s no such thing. We can’t be teaching our youth that actions have no consequences and that you should treat your life like a simple roll of the dice!
LIFE? Don’t even get me started. In what world would I spend my time playing a game that includes having to buy car insurance?
So yes, Guess Who? was where it was at. It was essentially a game of elimination where both players would secretly choose a character and then ask questions to try to find out who the other chose. Questions like “Are they wearing glasses?” or “Is she a blonde?”* could help you ID a character. I got so good at it that I could ask if you had a hat or glasses, take one look at my opponent’s face, and know that it was Bernard.* But even for a hard-core deductive reasoning kid like me, after a while, the ol G’Dub grew stale. I needed stakes! I needed intrigue! And then I saw the movie Clue.
If you’re not familiar, Clue is a classic murder-mystery comedy from the eighties starring Tim Curry, my favorite curry besides massaman. Fun fact! When Clue was released in theaters, there were three different endings, and audiences didn’t know which one they were going to get. What a unique and extremely expensive way to detract from spoilers!
I saw that movie when I was eight and was hooked. Normally murder-related things scared me, but this wasn’t murder; this was theater! I vowed that as soon as I was old enough, I would have myself a murder-mystery party like the one in Clue. Nothing sounded more fun to me than wearing a floor-length gown, clutching my throat and screaming, “My pearls! Someone stole my pearls!” or blowing everyone’s mind when I knew that it was indeed Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.
