Thoughts like that are one of a myriad of reasons for why I’m still single. Sven’s response?
Cool. Want to come see me afterward?
Say what now? I tell myself, You know what? Don’t even answer his text. He doesn’t deserve it.
Unfortunately, four minutes later, my compulsion to always have the last word kicks in.
No, I don’t think so. I think last night may have been a mistake.
And Send! Good for me!
Don’t be silly. I don’t care if you’re seeing other people. And if this guy you’re seeing does, just don’t tell him about us.
Is he fucking kidding me? I quickly text back:
This has nothing to do with him. You slept with me and then totally blew me off. Gentlemen don’t do that.
I’m sorry. I thought we were just going to be fuck buddies. I didn’t realize you wanted anything more.
Why on earth would you think that?!
Because the character you played on CSI had five boyfriends.
I have no words. Wait, yes I do.
That was a character, you moron! I was acting. I have also played a hooker on a show. Does that mean
I quickly backspace “hooker” … out of the text.
mother of two preschoolers on a show. Does that mean you saw a tricycle outside of my house?
Clearly I’ve offended you. Let’s talk later, after you’ve calmed down.
We will never talk again. I promise you.
Granted, I spend the day seething and vowing never to date again. But I don’t text or call him back. I go to work, listen to other people’s problems and dating dilemmas, and try to immerse myself in my new, wonderful life.
Then at two thirty in the morning, just as I’m getting into my car to drive over to Astro coffee shop to see Joe, I get a ping.
If you change your mind, just knock. I bought eggs for the morning.
Livid, I drive into the parking lot of Astro coffee shop, where I see Joe standing in front of the restaurant, waiting for me. He immediately walks to my car.
He opens my door as I am turning off my car. “Right on time,” he says cheerfully.
I get out and slam my door. “Can I just vent to you for a minute?” I ask him with a kind of nervous energy I constantly try to suppress. “Why is dating so fucking hard? Why do men … perfectly nice men, I’m sure, to their friends and their women friends and their mothers and their friends’ daughters … why do they either become complete assholes or completely clueless when they finally accomplish their goal of sleeping with a woman?”
“Do you ever lower the heat to a simmer?” Joe asks.
“I’m serious! Think about it. You’re being really nice to me right now. You looked me up, you tried to call me in for an audition, you came to my opening night. Hell, you’re up at almost three in the morning for pancakes just to see me. But that’s because we’re not dating. I can guarantee you, if we slept together, you’d either be a jerk in some way—like you’re dating three women at once or you make us go dutch for dinner—or there’d be some weird thing about you that would just come out of left field. Something I could never figure out in a million years: like you have five cats, or you talk to your mother four times a day, or you’re a complete slob, or you can’t fall asleep with a woman in your bed!”
I wait for his reaction to my statement. He stands there, in the middle of the parking lot, staring at me. Finally he says, a little sarcastically, “Oh, I get to talk now?”
The way he asked was actually find of funny. I smile. “Yes. Thoughts?”
“I think it would be exhausting to date three women: I try to only disappoint one woman at a time. I talk to my mother about once a week, usually on Sundays. I occasionally talk to her a second time during the week if my sister calls to say, ‘Call Mom,’ or if my mother calls me with a computer question. I don’t believe in people going dutch for dinner for the most part, male or female, because I’ve been lucky in my career and have some money, so I like to treat my friends. But if they have a problem with that, we take turns buying coffee, or food, or whatever. I am a slob, particularly when I’m on a project, but I have a cleaning lady. I have a dog, who seemed very confused that I went out this late, and I will be ordering the steak and eggs because I don’t like pancakes.”
“Can you fall asleep with a woman in your bed?”
“It’s pretty much been my life’s goal since I was fourteen.”
I smile again. “I’m sorry. You seem to keep seeing me at exactly the moment when I’m exploding. I’m really sorry.”
He shrugs. “No worries. Sometimes when you’re around a bomb, you get hit with shrapnel. Doesn’t mean the bomb was meant for you.”
I think I must look startled. Joe’s chin juts forward as he asks, “Now what?”
“No … I … it’s just…” And in that moment, I suddenly realize Joe is going to be in my life for a while. “My dad used to say that. It was his way of saying not to take things personally. I’ve just never heard anyone else say that before.”
We begin walking toward the restaurant. “Huh. My dad used to say that all the time too,” Joe tells me as he opens the diner door for me. “You said ‘used to.’ Did your dad pass away?”
“Yeah. Close to a year ago,” I tell him as I walk through the entrance. “I thought it was going to get better, but it still sucks.”
“For me it’s been almost five, and I still have a hard time on his birthday,” Joe tells me. He looks at the hostess/waitress and puts up two fingers. “Two please.”
She tells us to take a seat wherever we want, and we take a booth by the window. She brings us menus and we both order coffee.
“Do you have a place where you can visit him?” I ask after the waitress leaves. “Not to be a Debbie Downer, but honestly, I don’t know many people who have lost a parent yet. It’s nice to be able to talk to a fellow member of one of the suckiest clubs in town.”
“Dad wanted his ashes scattered in the water of a beach in San Francisco where he proposed to my mom. Actually, it took Mom a really long time to finally part with them. We didn’t all head up there until the second anniversary of his death. It was really hard for Mom, she cried a lot.”
“My dad wanted his ashes spread on the water too. On a buoy just outside Newport Harbor, in Orange County. I know I’m a terrible daughter, but I just can’t do it. It’s him. How can I let him go?”
“Well, this might not help, but my dad would have said it’s not him, it’s an old apartment he used to live in. He moved out awhile ago.”
I laugh a little. “Sounds like my dad and your dad would have liked each other.” Then I decide to change the vibe. “Okay, enough about death. Back to why dating sucks.”
“Ooohhhh, I’m all in,” Joe tells me with a spring in his voice. “You want to know why I was on the phone the day you auditioned for me?”
“I’m all ears,” I tell him cheerfully. “And have I apologized enough for my outburst yet?”
“You have. Have I apologized enough yet?”
“You have. Go!”
“The girl I was seeing broke up with me via text,” Joe begins.
“That sucks.”
“Not done yet. From Las Vegas…”
“Uh-oh.”
“… where she had just eloped…”
“Good Lord.”
“… with my producer.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I had only dated her for a few months. But I had worked with him for over five years. It’s like a bad version of a Rodney Dangerfield joke, ‘I really miss my producer.’”
I have no words. Finally I just shake my head slowly and say, “That might be the worst breakup story I’ve ever heard. And you’re a dude.”
“Thank you. Although it didn’t make me hit the scotch that night like you predicted…”
“Well, that’s good…”
“I went with a dirty martini the size of a measuring cup. But on that night I realized: M
y dating life has been fucked up for years. I have tried dating every kind of woman: smart but boring, funny but neurotic, beautiful but dumb—as was the case of the latest ex—way too young, slightly too old, and occasionally, very occasionally, someone awesome who was totally out of my league. And every time, it’s failed. And every time it gets worse, because I’m older. I’m in my midthirties, and by this age, and I know you’re going to tell me I’m an asshole for saying this, but most of the good women are taken. It’s not like when you’re in college and have the pick of the litter. And I don’t want to be that clichéd guy who hits forty and starts dating a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor. But it sure seems like I’ve been setting myself up for that eventuality.”
I suppress the urge to tell him he’s an asshole for saying that all of the good women are taken. Instead, I say, “You’re right. That sucks.”
“So what about you?” he asks. “Why aren’t you happily married with two beautiful kids yet?”
“I actually used to be one of those lucky women who always had men around. I loved college: If there was a straight man you liked, you just batted your eyes and presto! Easy make-out session. My problem was that I could never keep the guys I wanted around, and the ones I could keep around I didn’t want. I inevitably dated actors, musicians, and comedians. Do you know who are the worst?”
“No,” he says.
“Neither do I.”
The waitress interrupts our conversation to take our orders. Joe orders the steak and eggs, and I tell her to make it two. After the waitress leaves with our menus, Joe looks at me, surprised, “Steak and eggs at three in the morning? I’m impressed.”
“Well, it’s not a date, and I don’t have an audition tomorrow. So praise be to God, I may never order a salad again.”
I give him a proud smile. I think my favorite part of taking a break from acting is taking a break from all the guilt trips about what I eat. The camera really does put on ten pounds, which means I didn’t struggle just to maintain a healthy weight, or even a runner’s weight. I have spent my entire adult life trying to stay ten pounds too skinny, and it’s been so freeing to give up that daily struggle.
“So, you’re serious about the ‘no-dating’ thing?” he asks.
I consider his question. Am I really? Or is this a knee-jerk reaction because I’m pissed? “I think for now,” I tell him. “While I miss acting, not auditioning has given me a break from worrying about what total strangers think of my life choices, and it’s been quite liberating. It very quickly led to five-dollar rainbows like ordering steak and eggs if I want, or going out of the house without makeup. I normally walk around Echo Park Lake every day, and it’s something I enjoy. But I always used to push myself to do one more lap around the lake than I wanted to. This week, I went around three times instead of four, then picked up a latte at the boathouse, grabbed a table outside, and people-watched. So while I sometimes miss the rush of acting, overall, giving it up for now has made me a lot happier. And if I give up dating, yes, I’ll miss the rush of the third date—like the rush of the acting. But if I don’t have to go through the mild trauma of the first date for a while, maybe overall I’ll be happier.”
Joe nods. “That make sense, actually. Be nice to avoid that first date for a while.”
“Yeah, I suppose those can be stressful for guys too.”
“Are you kidding? Way worse for men than women. First off, you have to ask her out…”
“You don’t just swipe right?” I joke.
“I tried that. Very briefly. One date in particular got really weird. Anyway, let’s say you’ve asked the girl out, and you’re going on a first date. Now everything is on you: We start with the choice of restaurant—can’t be too nice, or she thinks you’re trying too hard—”
“Not true,” I interrupt. “We never think that. That’s an urban myth, along with the woman who slept with the guy on the first night and still married him, and the emotionally available thirtysomething man.”
“Really? So all of those guys who were around but you didn’t want? Did any of them try too hard?”
I am forced to concede, “Actually, one of them showed up in a limo.”
“Oh, geez, I actually feel sorry for the guy. Anyway: restaurant. Can’t be too nice, but can’t be too cheap either. And you also want to make sure it’s nothing she’ll find vaguely offensive, like pizza, burgers…”
“A diner…” I joke.
“Ahhhh, but as you have pointed out, this is not a date. Next: clothing. What’s too much? What’s too casual? Invariably right before I go on a first date, I try on half of my clothes. And I’m a dude. Then there’s the first kiss…”
I raise my hand. “May I give my opinion on that?”
“You may not. Because no matter what your opinion is, some other woman vehemently disagrees with you. Next, do you offer to take her back to your place…”
“On a first date? Never!”
“Again, you’d be surprised. I live in a nice house by myself. Some women have roommates. One even had her ex-boyfriend as a roommate. So apparently, I am supposed to figure out whether or not I should invite her to my place, or take her to her place and make it clear that I want to be invited in, or drop her off on her doorstep, kiss her good night virtuously, then head home. This is all based on what she says over dinner and the movie, if there is a movie, which to some women is good and to some bad, and how the hell do people ever get together and get married in the first place? By the way, what’s a five-dollar rainbow?”
“Oh. A five-dollar rainbow is something that doesn’t cost a lot or take much time but that makes you happy. It can be anything from a silly sparkly headband you bought at Disneyland for five dollars, a box of Girl Scout cookies, a black pen that just glides when you use it, or a hike on the beach. It’s just something that makes you happy.”
Our meals soon come, and we talk about everything from the upcoming elections (big no-no on a first date), to our mutual disdain for German food, to our mutual obsession with the TV show Bojack Horseman.
And the easy conversation really drove home my point in my head: I do need to take a break from dating. This is the best time I’ve had with a new guy in I don’t know how long.
“So, because this is a nondate, we should order the pudding cake for dessert, right?” Joe suggests.
“It’s like you read my mind,” I say.
Dinner lasted two and a half hours. Dessert talk included family members, religion, even exes. It was fantastic.
When the check came, I try to grab it before he can. He beats me to it by less than two seconds. “What are you doing?” he asks in mock irritation.
“You said you take turns with your friends buying dinner,” I tell him. “I had a really great time tonight. I want buy you dinner.”
“Not happening,” he says while handing his credit card to our waitress. “But you’ve just reminded me of the last bad part of a first date: trying to figure out when to ask the girl out for a second date. Since it’s not a date, I’ll just ask: Would you like to buy me dinner sometime?”
I smile. “You know what? I would like that a lot.”
“Perfect. You guys are closed on Mondays, right?” Joe asks.
“We are.”
“Want to have dinner Monday? Like, at a normal time?”
“Yup. And I’m taking responsibility for picking the place.”
“Just no German food.”
“It’s a nondate.”
The waitress comes back with his credit card and slip, which he quickly signs. As I stand up, I notice he tipped forty percent.
Huh.
“Do you always tip so much?” I ask him as he opens the door for me and we walk out into the parking lot.
“Why? Is that a bad thing?” Joe asks. “Do you think I’m masking some secret insecurity or something?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ve been a waitress off and on for years and love customers like you. I guess I just assumed when you left that big
tip for me…” I pause, sort of losing my way in the sentence. “That was stupid. Never mind.”
As he walks me to my car, he says, “Okay. Well, first of all, maybe I did leave you a big tip because I was using it as an apology. Which, now that I say it out loud, is an asshole move. But mostly, I spend some days, all day, rejecting people for reasons that have nothing to do with them: The actor read well but is the wrong height. I can’t use the first AD I want because the commercial house has a must-hire. Or the amazing writer I know wasn’t approved by the ad agency. Tipping is one of the few times in my day when I have total control over letting people know how much I appreciate what they’re doing. And, let’s face it, if you are working at five in the morning at a coffee shop and you’re still cheerful, you’ve earned your tip.”
We get to my car, and I beep the alarm. Joe opens my door for me, flashing me that smoldering look he’s famous for around town. I wait a moment to get in. Not sure why, I’m not waiting for a kiss or anything. I guess I just feel like scurrying in and leaving quickly would be rude.
But also, I can see from the expression on his face that something is on his mind. “Debating whether to invite me back to your place?” I joke.
“No. It’s not that. There’s something I need to tell you, and it’s probably going to be one of those out-of-left-field things, but I think I better just get it out there.”
Crap.
“You actually do like German food.”
Joe smiles. “No. We’ve met before. As a matter of fact, we’ve worked together before.”
“Oh,” I say, not quite sure how to react. “When?”
“You did a music video … it was probably five or six years ago … and you were supposed to be dead for part of it, and the makeup artist had to put this egg solution over your eyeballs for a close-up to prove you were dead.”
I remember the video—it won some MTV awards that year. But I don’t remember … “Wait. You were the PA on that,” I suddenly remember.
Love the Wine You're With Page 21
