It only took thirty minutes to drive across town during rush hour to Wokcano in Santa Monica, so I was a bit early as guests had just begun trickling in for an event organized by Bella Sera, a small group of men and women out of Manhattan Beach who, according to their Facebook page, call themselves “a dynamic group” bringing together “warm, outgoing, influential individuals in a classy and comfortable setting”.
A young couple entered before me. The girl, in her late 20s, tan with long, brunette hair, teetered unsteadily in her red, four inch heels and tugged down on her remarkably short dress, as she climbed the steep stairs to the second floor. Successfully landing at the top, she turned, and revealed the front of her dress, which hung low, exposing a hefty amount of cleavage. I thought of Heidi Klum‘s comment on Project Runway last week when one of the designers made a low cut mini dress. ”I don’t know where to look,” exclaimed Heidi. “I don’t know if I should look at her legs or at her boobs.” None of the men, who had already arrived, had any problems looking at both.
Most of my friends are married or in long-term relationships and couldn’t be less interested in accompanying me to a “networking” a.k.a. singles event at a restaurant. So I am accustomed to traveling solo most of the time. My routine begins with a trip to the bar where I establish a personal connection with a bartender, order a drink and tip generously. At events like these, the bar can eventually be five or six people deep, so making eye contact with a bartender who knows you tip well, will later jump you to the head of the line.
I’ve lived in L.A. for nineteen years, so I typically see someone I know at large events. Tonight, however, I recognize no one. So I prefer to have a drink in hand, whether it’s alcohol or club soda, for the occasional awkward moments where I can buy time by taking a long sip and: think of an excuse why I wouldn’t be available for the next day, month or year, remember where the nearest exit is, make a graceful exit, or cover up an uncomfortable moment, like when a group of men standing next to me incorporated me into their conversation and asked if anyone knew any dirty jokes.
The only man I know who is great at telling dirty jokes is my father. I haven’t talked with him in awhile. I thought the next time he calls, I’ll have to hit “Answer” instead of “Decline” and request a few jokes. That will give me something to discuss with him, instead of his usual take on the weather.
“I know one,” said a tall guy with curly hair. Since I was the only woman in the group, he politely asked, “Do you mind if I tell it?” I didn’t. I grew up with three brothers and two sisters who were the involuntary audience for my father’s litany of raunchy jokes.
“How do you get a dog to stop humping your leg?” We all shrugged our shoulders. “You pick him up and give him head.” I took a long sip of wine and looked around the room for a good direction in which to bolt. I’m more a fan of clever dirty jokes, as opposed to stupid dirty jokes, and I gathered the guy standing next to me felt the same way. He was very tall, had a full head of dark brown hair, brown eyes and a chiseled jaw, straight out of a Gillette ad. He looked like a model, but he was actually a bail bondsman. “Really?” I asked. I could have guessed a thousand occupations before coming up with that one.
Patrick started out in flight school, but couldn’t find a job once he finished, so he sold life insurance until the company was swallowed up by a large conglomerate, and dozens of salesmen were let go. “I had to segue into something that would last and this job came up,” he explained. He’s been selling bonds for six months. “It’s not so different from selling insurance right?” I asked. “The underwriting is pretty basic in deciding whose a risk,” he explained. “If a guy is a foreign diplomat, he’s clearly a flight risk, or if the entire family is there trying to bail out a relative, but no one has a job, then he’s not going free. It’s pretty cut and dry,” he stated. We exchanged business cards before diving deeper into the crowd.
I met Sean and David thirty seconds later. David is a residential general contractor, but Sean offered little information about himself, even though he asked me multiple, direct questions.
He reminded me of former co-worker, who is from a prominent family background. Jerry went to Harvard for his BA and USC for his MBA. He couldn’t have been a nicer, funnier guy, but he has never found his passion in life because any pressure to do so has been alleviated by his large trust fund. Single with no kids, continuing his education was another possible way to stumble across some ‘thing’ that could pique his interest and eventually help him find his purpose. He’s still looking.
Sean’s Irish background showed through. He’s about forty, has longish, brown hair, fair skin and, at seven in the evening, he was unshaven and looked like he woke up half an hour ago. He showered, slicked his hair back with a bit of product, threw on his monogrammed Ralph Lauren dress shirt, jeans, Gucci loafers and left for the night. Sean shared a similar vibe with Jerry, and had a calm about himself that I have not seen much of late, in this economy– a general ease that accompanies a person who is accustomed to financial freedom.
“How come you’ve never married?” asked Sean. “Isn’t it better to take a risk than to never have married at all?” I wondered how much Sean’s first divorce cost him. However, my mind traveled to yes, I could have been married and divorced at least a couple of times, but I’m a hopeful romantic who believes I can find the right partner before happily taking that risk. Lest I forget, I am constantly reminded I am not a good picker, so I am keeping an open mind about the men who show interest in me.
“You should marry before you’re fifty,” he added. “There’s something really weird about women who are fifty and have never married.” For the first time in my life, a guy was pointing out my biological clock, and it is apparently ticking.
David asked me what I thought Sean did for his profession. Since Sean was so bold with his questions to me, I felt comfortable offering my opinion. “You probably do whatever you feel like doing. You remind me of a friend who grew up with trust fund.” Patrick laughed and whispered into my ear, “Nailed it.” Sean took a sip of his drink, looked away and scanned the sea of faces that had slowly packed the room.
Sean then turned the game around on me and was sure he could guess what kind of car I drive. He was convinced I owned a four-door Audi, a Cadillac Escalade or a Volvo. When I confirmed I drove a hybrid, he called me a tree hugger and then felt my legs to see if I shave (I do).
Often times, at events like these, as more drinks are poured and the night wears on, the conversation eventually turns to sex, which was where Sean and Patrick were headed. I finished off the last of my drink in one gulp, glanced around the room and then checked my cellphone. Time to go.
As I walked to the front of the entrance, I saw the same girl in the red, four-inch heels, barely able stand on what I’m sure felt like bloody stumps this late. I waved goodbye to the British CFO of a global firm I met when I first arrived, and is now surrounded by three adoring blondes, all in black dresses, cut precisely to accentuate their large breast enhancements.
I drove home. I got into bed and watched an Oscar winning Spanish film called, “The Secret in Their Eyes”.
All in all, it was a typical night in L.A.
