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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.

“I took one look at her at the table and thought, how am I going to get through the next couple of hours?” said Steve the surfer, describing a recent dating experience.

I have been dating online and off line, off and on, for… well, quite a few years.  I realized I’ve become a trained athlete, and here I was showing the ropes to a rookie.

Steve lives in Laguna Beach and works in money management at a large financial institution.  A mutual friend thought we should know each other and introduced us via email.   He’s divorced, with three grown kids and just recently started online dating.  “How many online dates have you been on?” I asked.   “She was my first,” he replied.  Steve had fallen hook, line and sinker for all the online dating traps.

Never schedule a dinner when you’re meeting someone for the first time. It’s hard to wallow in benign conversation, when you know in the first two minutes there is no chance you will be lingering over dessert. A quick coffee or cocktail is much safer.

“She looked great in her pictures,” Steve continued.  “She said she was forty and she had a rocking body.”

Of course she did. Rookie mistake. A seasoned veteran would be going over the photos like David Caruso looking for a DNA sample in shag carpeting. Does the clothing style look recent or is it reminiscent of styles popular during the Clinton administration? Does the hair look like it needs a building permit? And are there any close-up shots that are in focus?  Have the pics been photoshopped?

Generally speaking, the older a person gets, the less current their photos are, and the more likelihood there is of them grasping onto a memory in time they no longer resemble.

“Of course she looks great in her photos.  The online competition is stiff,” I explained. “To receive emails from attractive, successful men, you have to stand out in a crowd. Some women — and men — post a stunning photo from long ago as their profile picture. That gets your attention. The whole game is to book the date.” Once you click on their other photos, you have to examine them with a discerning eye. The more you hone your skills, the less likely you will be duped.

Steve was beside himself.  “That’s exactly what happened.  She was at least ten years older and she would not be squeezing that body into a bikini anytime soon,” he complained.

“Well, I guess I can’t ask you out to dinner,” said Steve, “But how about lunch?”

I pulled up to the valet at the Napa Valley Grill in Westwood, got out of my car and walked to the front door, remembering why I never wore these particular shoes. The straps kept falling under my heels, so that walking normally becomes an effort.  I hobbled in the entrance, fixed my shoes and checked in with the hostess, who pointed Steve out in the bar. He’d already spotted me and clearly witnessed my ‘shoescapade.’ Talk about your graceful entrances.

Steve looked exactly like his picture.  He is tall and, like most dedicated surfers, lean, slightly tan, with thinning blonde hair, a spark in his blue eyes and a good-natured smile on his face.  The hostess seated us at our table.

I asked him if he had been on any more dates since our first talk. He groaned.  “I almost canceled our lunch because I had another horrible date,” he explained.  “I didn’t listen to your advice and asked her out to dinner.” He had made reservations at Splashes, a romantic restaurant at the Surf ‘n’ Sand Hotel on the beach in Laguna.

“I got there and walked through the bar and restaurant but didn’t see her,” he said. “I went to the host and asked if anyone was waiting. He points and says, ‘just that woman over there’.”

Steve looked over and saw a woman waving at him. Smiling through clenched teeth, he turned back to the host, “Oh no, that couldn’t possibly be her.  The woman I’m meeting said she was a supermodel.”  “They all do,” said the host, gathering up a couple of menus. Steve noted how far away the exit door was, and pondered the possibility of bolting.  “Too late,” he thought.  “I knew I had to grin and bear it.”

“Don’t you recognize me?” she asked Steve, as he sat down at her table.

“She looked nothing like her pictures.  She said she was forty-five, but she was easily fifty-five.”  He continued talking with gestures, “She had way too much plastic surgery, with her lips out to here and her eyebrows up to here, that I didn’t even know where to look.”  He kept wondering if he should say something to her about how she misrepresented herself.  “She was all touchy feely too,” he explained.  “She kept rubbing my hands and arms and asking me how I was doing. I finally just decided to let it go.  We had dinner, I paid the check and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

We laughed about how different men and women are: men are on their best behavior until they sleep with a woman; women are on their best behavior until they get married– at which point, they believe they can change the guy who has been being himself since the first time they slept together.  We also talked about how to know when a relationship is past the point of no return–when you realize that trying to repair it is just going to do further damage to you both.

The conversation with Steve was easy. He’s a funny and smart guy and could get along with anyone and fit in anywhere.  We left the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk outside, “I don’t know how to do this, but would you like to get together again?”  ”Sure,” I replied.  We hugged each other goodbye and then walked in opposite directions to our cars.

I don’t suspect I will be hearing from Steve anytime soon.  He’s too new to the game, still meeting the players and learning the field.

Six months ago, it took seven emails, ten texts and a thirty-minute phone call to schedule a date with Eduardo. Twenty-eight minutes of that call was spent with me listening to him talk about his work history in television production.  I wondered if he looking for a date or a job. After a week of various types of communication and my interest waning, he committed to meeting the following Saturday at Cafe La Boheme in West Hollywood at 6pm.

Late that Saturday afternoon, my phone bleeped with a text from Eduardo. He was still playing golf and could no longer meet at 6pm.  Multiple texts followed, with him initially trying to push back our meeting time.  However, without me answering a single text, he eventually came to the conclusion that he would be too tired, so we should reschedule for another time.   Why bother?  If a guy cancels on the first date, he will always cancel.  It’s also a good indicator of where you are on his list of priorities: Right under ‘send check to ex-wife.’

Last week, Eduardo started contacting me again.  First it was an email from an online dating site, which I no longer subscribe to, but still receive emails from. Then he left me a voicemail message, followed by a text.  Why the full court press after all this time?

I ignored his messages. I’d been down this road and didn’t want to waste any more time.  He continued to text me.  I re-examined the photos on his profile, including shots of him on the beach, on his Harley, in a nightclub and a close up of his face with a big, fat cigar in his mouth.  If someone posts more than a few shots, they typically have photos taken with their family and/or friends.  Eduardo had thirteen photos of just himself.

His text messages continued. I ignored him at first, and then, realizing he wasn’t going to stop sending them, I finally texted him back.  “We tried this once before and you canceled.  No, I’m not interested.”  Meeting someone should be simple.  Period.  I suggested we not waste each other’s time again.

“He got you,” said my long time friend, Ivan.  “You should have just continued to ignore him and he would have gone away. But saying ‘no’ is like candy to a guy. Once a guy hears ‘no’, he’s going to try that much harder to get to ‘yes’”.  If only I would have learned the power of ‘no’ years ago.

Eduardo immediately texted me back saying he had been quite busy and spent the last three months traveling around the world.  “I am really interested in meeting you,” he wrote.  “We really have both been patient and that speaks volumes of one another and why don’t you call me right now and we’ll plan something for tonight.”  I wasn’t getting sucked into another long phone conversation with him.  And, did he really think I had been waiting for him to contact me again?  How can you be considered “patiently waiting” for someone you’re not waiting for?

“Pick a time and a place and I will be there,” he wrote.  ”Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I thought, and I haven’t been on any great dates lately.  I accepted his challenge and picked a place in my neighborhood, so if he canceled, I could walk home.  “Ok, the bar at Hatfield’s at 7,” I texted back.  He wasn’t sure he could make it by 7.  “Maybe we should plan something for next weekend,” he suggested.  “No,” I wrote back.

“Ok, ok, I’ll be there,” he said.  Just as I was walking into the restaurant, I got a text.  He was caught in traffic. I usually have zero tolerance for this sort of thing, but I had a grim determination to see this through, so I figured I’d order a cocktail at the bar and if he hadn’t arrived after I finished it, I was heading home.

Eduardo eventually arrived twenty minutes later.  We each had a martini, and he talked about himself, his extensive travels, and his job.  One of us found him completely fascinating. After an hour, I decided to leave.

He offered to walk me to my car, but I explained I was parked in front of my home and I was fine walking back by myself.  “Let me be a gentleman and walk you home,” he said.  I explained to him again that I did not feel comfortable with him, or anyone else I meet online, coming to my house. But he persisted. Funny how a guy who couldn’t commit to meeting me for six months was so committed to seeing me home.

He acted offended. “I can’t believe you’re not letting me be a gentleman in making sure you get home safely,” he said.  “A gentleman would be respectful of my request to walk myself home.”  He muttered a few words in Spanish under his breath and turned on his heel toward the valet.

As I walked down the street, I heard a car turn the corner and speed up the street.  I quickly turned down a side street as Eduardo sped by. “No,” I thought, “a thousand times no.”

Dwayne is 6’4″, African-American, about 38 years old, muscular, but a little overweight.  I’d first met him several years ago at my former gym. He’d come around to chat while I was working out, and be obvious checking out my ass each time I turned around. Still, he seemed harmless enough and it was easy to decline his occasional invitations to meet for drinks or dinner.

Flash forward four years: I moved back near my old neighborhood and renewed my membership at that same gym.  Late one afternoon, he caught me getting out of my car when I was preoccupied, and suggested a lunch date. I couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough to decline, so I agreed.

He asked what I did for a living, and I told him. He then went into a sales pitch about a line of hair care products he reps, that I might be interested in buying.  He also owns a medical marijuana dispensary.  I figured he’d try to get me stoned and then attempt to sell me a large quantity of shampoo.  Regardless, I knew there was no backing out of our lunch date since I would see him at the gym and he would hold me to my word.

The next day, Dwayne sent me a text and we went back and forth a few times before finally deciding to meet for lunch at Boho, right next to the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood.  I arrived on time, but didn’t see Dwayne in the crowded restaurant, so I sat down at a table and waited.  Ten minutes later, I texted him. “Are you here and I don’t see you?”  No response.  I waited for another five minutes.  Nothing.

I left the restaurant and walked two blocks back to my car.  As I was pulling away from the curb, my phone bleeped with a text message from Dwayne.  It was twenty minutes after our meeting time.  “I’ll be there in two minutes,” it said.

If a guy’s late on the first date, he’s always going to be late.  Had I been interested in Dwayne, I may have been tempted to turn back… or not. I returned his text, “I didn’t hear from you so I left,” and continued to my next appointment.

My phone rang.  As soon as I said hello, Dwayne launched into his defense, “I’m at the gym and I was talking to this woman about my screenplay and she was really into the story and wanted to read my script, but it was in my car and she was asking me a bunch of questions so I didn’t want to be rude, and as soon as I gave it to her, I got into my car and I’m driving to Boho right now.

Only in L.A. would an excuse involving a screenplay be plausible.  However, Dwayne clearly had no qualms about being rude to me.  “Come back,” he pleaded. “I’m only two minutes away,”  he said again.  In L.A. “two minutes” means fifteen minutes if the traffic’s not too bad.”

But Dwayne is nothing if not persistent.  I haven’t see him at the gym, but he keeps calling and leaving messages.  As a matter of fact, as I write this, my phone is ringing and it’s Dwayne…

Ben waved hello and motioned he would be a few more minutes, so I made myself comfortable in one of the black leather chairs, in his eighth floor corner office and took in the amazing view of Los Angeles.  A large, flatscreen TV hung on the far wall.  His older, slightly worn, wooden desk was covered with scripts, periodicals and newspapers and had an empty, plastic inbox with a typed Avery label stuck to the side that read, “Corporate filings”.  On the table next to me, laid multiple issues of Architectural Digest.

Ben paced around his office, continuing his call, which sounded like it was going quite well.  At one point, he turned to me smiling and gave me a ‘thumbs up’.

Once the call ended, his head was spinning with ideas.  I wasn’t sure what the project was about, but gathered if he was able to pull this partnership together, huge deals were ahead for Ben, the self-described “farm kid” who didn’t graduate from college, and never fathomed the possibility of working in Hollywood, much less becoming a significant player.

As we walked to the Mann’s Chinese Theatre, Ben told me he works with many gay men who are always commenting on his clothes.  They will ask him, “Do you still have the tags for that shirt you just bought?” Typically, Ben’s answer is “No, I threw them away.” Then they say, “too bad” and change the subject.  So, now he keeps the tags until they reaffirm or refuse his purchase. Ben asked me, “Do you think this is a cool outfit?”

Ben’s very short hair was gelled into a faux hawk. He was wearing blue jeans, a brown leather jacket, a yellow t-shirt with a ladybug blazing a trail across his chest that said, “Bug your library for more information” and brown, leather, vintage cowboy boots, which his grandfather won in a bar bet fifty years ago, a story he told me, and then later recounted in great detail to the cashier at the market we stopped into, to buy a bottle of tequila for the barbeque.

I typically lean toward an upscale, classic look, but in Hollywood, anything goes.  I had lunch yesterday at The Street and a guy in his late 20s walked in wearing neatly pressed designer khaki high-waisted pants, a crisp, blue collared shirt, suspenders, a short white tie, Prada loafers and ‘Barrie’ glasses from Oliver Peoples.  He pulled off the geek chic look impeccably, but I wouldn’t want to be him, driving through east Los Angeles and get a flat tire.

Who decides what’s fashionable?  If you’ve seen “September Issue,” it’s Anna Wintour and what she likes from her web of designers, rehashed on the pages of Vogue and eventually dumbed down by corporate retailers.  (What I want to know is, who is responsible for bringing back women’s blazers with the sleeves rolled up? They weren’t sexy in the 80s when Paula Poundstone wore them, and they aren’t sexy now).

“I don’t know what’s considered fashionable anymore,” I told Ben as we stood in the box office line.

We bought our tickets and entered the theatre.  As we walked up the stairs, Ben said to me, “You know, this is usually the time when my date gets the emergency phone call from her best friend, who’s pregnant and is about ready to give birth.  It looks like her water just broke and she needs to be driven to the hospital.” Ben continued,  ”And I’m thinking, wow that’s odd that, if this is the weekend your friend thought she was having the baby, that she didn’t make better plans to get herself to the hospital and that you would make a date to go see a movie, knowing your friend might need your help.  But, hey, okay if you need to go, that’s fine.”  Then he would ask her, “Do you need me to walk you to your car?  Or is it ok if I stay and not miss the movie I just bought tickets for?”

I laughed.  Ben’s delivery of his yarn was so oddly convincing that I questioned my own decision in accepting his date.  The entire day, Ben’s stories walked a fine line between ‘is he serious or is he joking’?  I assumed he puts every woman he meets through this bizarre test, gauging not only their mental acuity, but also their sincerity.  I am sure some women find Ben too eccentric and hurriedly move on.

During the drive to the barbecue, Ben pitched me why we would make an awesome couple.  The beginning, middle and end of our dating life was clearly mapped out in Ben’s mind.  He described our story with great detail, however, once he arrived at our story arc, he realized that where I need to go creatively would not correspond with what he’s currently looking for in a relationship so, in fact, we would not be a perfect fit.

Ben immediately reworked and rehashed the second act of his story while we were still in the car, resulting in a revised denouement, which he articulated beautifully, ending with us being professional, but not intimate, allies.

“You’re not ready for someone like me,” he concluded.

He was right about many points in his pitch, regarding why our relationship wouldn’t work out.  But simply put, I told Ben the real reason I didn’t see us dating was because, while I appreciated his mind constantly churning out ideas, his keen sense of humor and razor sharp wit, I longed for someone to come home to, who I can relax into and not have to be ‘on’ all the time.  “That’s an incredibly personal thing you just told me,” said Ben.  “That’s really cool.”

Ideas are constantly churning in Ben’s restless mind.  He refines his real or imagined stories by consistently gauging his subjects’ reactions.  It’s all sales, all the time and, of course, knowing your customer.

I recalled the stories Ben depicted during our date and wondered which ones were true, which ones were jokes, which ones were movie ideas and which ones this farm kid uses on a much deeper level to combat the rigors of his personal and professional relationships in the competitive Hollywood lifestyle.

We walked into the barbecue and someone asked Ben about his boots.  “These boots are fifty years old.  My grandfather won them in a bar bet…” he started, as I waved hello to the host and proceeded into the kitchen with the bottle of tequila.

“I can’t believe you’re going out with that guy,” commented Lizzie.  “He’s such an asshole.”  Vince comes from a prominent background and has a smug air about him that makes many people uncomfortable.  His pricey clothes are perfectly fitted to his tan, toned body and his blonde hair is neatly combed into the same style every day.  I’ve often thought about mussing up his hair just to see if every strand would magically fall back into place.

I have mentioned that I’ve been told that I have little talent for picking the right men for relationships, so when Vince asked me to dinner, I said yes, thinking he would be a good social experiment. Most of the so-called-nice-guys turn out to be jerks, so maybe this jerk was actually a nice guy.

Vince arrived exactly at seven o’clock, driving a brand new Mercedes, which was still running.  He opened the passenger side door for me. I got in and pulled the door closed.  He walked around the front of the car and did a happy dance.  I laughed just as I realized it was Vince’s voice coming over the speakers inside the car, “I am whole, perfect and strong, powerful, loving, harmonious and happy,” he stated.   “I am worthy and deserving of all good things that come to me.”  I quickly turned down the volume before he got in.

“So, I have reservations at Red O.  Are you ready for Red O?”  I wanted to go to Red O, Rick Bayless‘ new Mexican restaurant ever since it opened.  It’s on Melrose Avenue, walking distance from Fred Segal.  “That’s perfect Vince.  Good call.”

His phone rang. “Give me a second, it might be work related.”  Vince pressed the blue tooth button on his steering wheel.  “Hello.”  “Hello Vincent, it’s dad.”  Vince immediately became uncomfortable.  “Dad?!  What a surprise?!  I’ve got a date in the car.”  A brief moment passed, “Hello date.”  “Hello,” I said back.

Vince’s father proceeded to tell him he was remarrying a young girl who went to the same prep school with Vince, but who Vince didn’t know very well.  His father also implied he may be starting another family.  The blood ran out of Vince’s face.  He looked nauseous.  After all the details were divulged, there was a brief moment before Vince asked, “Does mom know?”  His father said “Goodbye” and hung up the phone.

Vince looked sad, but focused.  “Are you ok?”  I asked.  He pulled the car over on Melrose, two blocks from Red O and said, “Look, do you mind if we skip cocktails tonight?”  I didn’t mind at all.  He continued.  ”My mother is somewhat fragile right now and I would prefer to tell her myself, rather than her hearing this news from someone else.”

I told Vince he could turn around and take me home, or I could get a cab.  I was perfectly fine canceling our plans, especially if he needed to deal with some family issues, but he declined. “We can still make dinner, and I may need your help,” he said.  I had no choice at this point.  I had just met his father over the phone and now we were on our way to his mother’s house.

Vince pulled up to his mother’s tall, looming building in the Wilshire corridor.  He asked me to open the glove box and take out a couple of white paper bags and bring them with me.  I put them in my purse, but didn’t ask what they were for.  We went inside, said hello to the doorman and proceeded to the elevator bank.  I asked Vince what floor.  “Penthouse and you might want to have one of those bags ready.”  I pulled one out of my purse, “What for?”  I asked.  “I’m afraid of heights,” he said.

Vince stood in the corner of the elevator, bent over, bracing himself against the wall.  “Oh god…” was all he said before he heaved into the barf bag I quickly placed below his mouth, looking away as he coughed up bile, feeling the warmth seep through the paper.  I wondered why his mother would live on the top floor of a high-rise if her son is afraid of heights.  I assumed he didn’t visit her often.

The elevator dinged as the doors opened and Vince spilled out into the hallway floor, landing on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling.  “Vince, are you ok?” The last thing I wanted to do was give mouth-to-mouth.  He moaned, “Yeah, give me ten seconds and I’ll be fine.”  He stood up and we walked to his mother’s door.

High heels clicked on the wood floors as she approached, and looked through the peephole.  Vince’s rail thin mother, 60 trying for 40, opened the door, with an apple martini in her hand.  She wore a tight, pink cashmere, cardigan sweater that showed off her rather large breast augmentation on the left side of her chest, and emphasized her missing breast on the right side.

“Who died?” she asked, sipping her martini.  ”Aren’t you still on medication?” he asked her.  ”I haven’t been laid in years.  I deserve one vice, don’t I?  Are you staying in the hallway or braving the altitude?” she chided.

We entered her penthouse apartment. “You forgot to put in your, uh, prosthetic,” he stammered.  “Why shouldn’t everyone know I had cancer?” she demanded, lighting up a cigarette.  “It’s a little disturbing,” he said.  She picked up a photo of Vince from the mantle. “So was child birth.”

“Who’s your friend in last year’s Prada?” she asked him, completely ignoring me.  She was right.  I was wearing a dress I bought a year prior at Neiman Marcus’ end of the year sale.  Vince told her my name and that I was his date.  As soon as she heard the word “date,” her critical eyes landed on me with a thud.  The temperature was quite warm in her penthouse.

She asked me if I ever wanted to have kids.  “No, not really,” I responded.  “Do you hear that Vince?”  Vince changed the subject, “Listen, mother, there’s no easy way to tell you this…” She interrupted him, “Your father’s been in a horrible accident and lost all his limbs.”  Vince told his mother he was remarrying and to whom.  His mother was quite upset and called her ex-husband a pedophile because of the age difference between him and his new fiance. Vince was quick to defend him.

We left and stood in the hallway for a moment.  After that experience, I felt like I could handle anything.

“Should I have a barf bag ready for the ride down?” I asked.  Vince laughed.  “No, I’m ok going down, just not up.”  Then, we both burst out laughing, relieving some of the tension.

We walked slowly to the elevator.  I felt like I had just gone ten rounds, took punches to the head, wasn’t knocked out, but a little delirious.  “How come you don’t want to have kids,” he asked me.  Unlike his father, I don’t want to start a family later in life.  “Do you want kids?” I asked him.  “Yes, I do.  I want to know what it’s like to be a normal family.”

Vince asked me if I was still interested in having dinner, but I had kinda lost my appetite.  “How about if we have a drink at Red O first and then see if we’re hungry?” I suggested.  “Perfect,” he said.  “Good call.”

Sam invited me to a screening at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Every Saturday night during the summer, a different classic movie is projected on the side of a large building that faces an open, grassy field.  People start lining up at 1:00pm or earlier to get a good space for an 8:30pm screening.  The line snakes around the front entrance of the cemetery and sometimes down Santa Monica Blvd, depending on the popularity of the film.  Men and women of all ages sit in the sun, eating and drinking for hours, waiting for the gates to open at 7:00pm. Once the gates are opened, they run en masse about a hundred yards to the open field, in order to claim the best possible space, before the movie begins.

So, when Sam originally asked me to attend, I was interested in seeing him, but hemmed and hawed, not wanting to spend an entire afternoon in the hot sun for an 8:30pm screening of “Airplane!”   “Oh no, I’ve got it totally wired,” he said.  “I know the security guard.  I meet him at the gate at 6:30.  He lets us in and we sit wherever we want.”

Sam picked me up at 6:00pm.  “Do you ever think about what underwear you’re putting on before you go on a date?” he asked.  “Of course I do.  Every woman does.”  Sam seemed surprised with my response, as if I let him into some exclusive club that shared women’s intimate secrets.  “I can’t believe you just told me that,” he said.  “Don’t you think most women think about that?”  “Yes, of course, but no women’s ever admitted that to me.”

Many single women consider what undergarments to wear in direct correlation to the amount of sexual interest they have in their date.   However, the older we get, the more my male friends tell me they don’t care what the woman is wearing underneath, just as long as it all eventually comes off.

Sam drove down Santa Monica Blvd. and found an impossibly close parking space to the cemetery.  “I’ve got great parking karma,” he said, proud of his luck, nabbing a spot directly across the street from the cemetery.  He opened up the back of his car and took out one large plastic, zippered bag containing two neatly folded blankets and two pillows.    “We’ll need this for later,” he said as we crossed the street, “I hate being cold.”

We met another couple, both writers, at the gate.  He was a screenwriter and she wrote for a neighborhood newspaper.  He immediately began talking about one of his scripts that apparently had some heat, a few days prior.  Another couple joined us a few minutes later.  She introduced herself as a producer and I assumed her boyfriend is an actor.  I couldn’t place his accent.  It was a combination of Valley boy meets mid-Atlantic, with a touch of ‘stoner’ thrown in.  “Where are you from?” I asked.  “Born and raised roy-ite hair in southern Cali, mahn,” he said.

Sam found his security guard friend, who promptly opened the gate and let us in.  A golf cart and driver waited for us nearby, and immediately drove us to the field.  We were all impressed with Sam’s ability to organize the evening.  “How’d you do it, mahn?” asked the actor.  “It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you’re nice to people,” replied Sam.

We picked our spot near the front, in the center of the field and spread out the blankets accordingly.  We ate and drank and talked about movies, as a large construction crane slowly maneuvered the original cockpit used in the making of “Airplane!” onto the field nearby.  Patrons lined up to have their picture taken inside with stewardesses dressed for the role.

After an hour passed, I looked up, albeit, the exact same time the actor boyfriend looked up, so that our eyes caught each other, in an instant where we both happened to be looking in the same direction, but at each other, and realizing immediately what had just happened randomly, and probably would have laughed it off if the girlfriend hadn’t looked up just a moment later, catching us looking at each other, not realizing the moment was unplanned and not intimate.  However, realizing his girlfriend witnessed the awkward moment, the actor boyfriend overcompensated by kissing and hugging her affectionately, making the situation worse than it was.  “Oh baby, you look so beautiful right now,” he said.  “Not a great actor,” I thought.  I looked away and asked Sam what time it was.  “Fifteen minutes and counting,” he replied.

The sun was almost set, so Sam unpacked the pillows and blankets and told me to put my shoes inside the plastic bag.  “The dew gets really bad and everything will be wet unless you put it in the bag and zip it up.  Trust me.” Not surprisingly, Sam had the whole blanket situation figured out.  I stood back and watched as he neatly organized the pillows and blankets to provide optimum warmth and viewing pleasure.  Sam always has it all figured out, no matter where he is.

I slid in under the blanket next to Sam (which was the optimal warmth part) and just as I settled in for the start of the movie Sam said, “How funny was that when you and actor boy both looked up and caught each other’s eyes, and then his girlfriend looked up a half second later and saw you two looking at each other?  That was classic.”  Sam didn’t miss a beat.  He continued, “He only made it worse by pretending not to notice and then fawning all over her.”  It’s rare to meet someone as perceptive as Sam.  I further understood why he is so successful putting people together on movie projects.

“Are you ok? Or, is the fact that our bodies are touching under the blanket too uncomfortable for you?” he asked.  “I thought you were maneuvering so you could eventually see my underwear,” I responded.  “No.  I can tell by your body language that you’re not interested in me that way.”  The lights went down and the film began.  “Oh good, the movie’s starting,” he said.

Nothing gets past Sam.

Amelia, who is also single and braving the Los Angeles dating scene, was more supportive.  ”You could have walked down the aisle with anyone of those guys and still be in an unhappy marriage, or even divorced.”

I don’t get to Venice Beach that often because sometimes it can take up to ninety minutes to drive the twelve miles from Hollywood to Venice.  But on this particular Saturday, I wanted to be alone, and walking along the beach has always been good therapy for me.  I made the drive in record time, walked the path, breathed in the ocean air and decided to start working on my ‘picker’.

Before heading back to Hollywood for a date, I stopped in a quaint, little coffee house.  While I was waiting in line to place my order, a handsome man with bright, blue eyes got in line behind me.  He was sweaty, overly tan and exceptionally lean and muscular.  He wore G-Star jeans and a tight black, James Perse t-shirt, revealing his hard pecs and defined biceps.  He wasn’t wearing any shoes and his feet were dirty from the beach.

“The summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea.  It lingered there so warm and fair,” sang ‘blue eyes” smooth, sultry voice.  I thought he must be in a band. He looks like he fell asleep in the sun after a long, hard night of partying, wearing his three hundred dollar jeans and designer t-shirt. “You’ve got a really nice voice,” I said.  “Do you sing professionally?” He responded dryly, ”It pays for food.”

I pointed to the torn up paperback he had rolled up and shoved into the front pocket of his jeans and asked him what he was reading, ”I’m halfway through “From Here to Eternity,” he said. I had not seen that movie in years.  ”Of course you know the famous scene on the beach with Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster.  Have you gotten to that part yet?” I asked.  ”I like the Maggio character.” he responded.  ”Oh right, of course you do,” I said.  “Sinatra played him.  I bet I know your favorite movies then… Ocean’s Eleven, Manchurian Candidate…”  ”How do you know that?!” he asked, completely surprised.  ”You’re clearly a Sinatra fan, aren’t you?”

The cute, young, female Barista took my order and then said, “Hi Frank, the usual today?”  He nodded.  ”Yes, please.”

His name’s Frank, he’s got blue eyes and he’s singing a classic Sinatra tune.  “That’s funny,” I thought.    I pulled out my debit card as Frank counted his change on the counter.  ”How much you got there?” she questioned.  ”About a dollar,” he answered. She rolled her eyes, ”You need thirty more cents Frank.”  I jumped in, “I’ve got thirty cents. Here you go,” and handed him the coins.

Frank put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes.  ”That’s so kind of you,” he said sincerely.  ”Thank you.” He has the bluest eyes I have ever seen, but they were distant and icy, like no one was home.

I waited for my drink and then went to the condiment station for a straw, where Frank was pouring an inordinate amount of sugar into his coffee.  ”You’ve got some sweet tooth, huh?” I commented.  He continued pouring, ”I crave it.”

My ‘picker’ was telling me no.

“Excuse me, miss,” said the Barista, calling me back over to the register, realizing I left my debit card.  I said goodbye to Frank and walked back to the counter. ”What’s the story with that guy,” I asked her.  ”Frank?  Nice guy, but he’s a schizophrenic.  Lives on the beach mostly.  We only let him come in when he’s on his medication.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  ”How does he afford those expensive clothes?”

“Have you ever been to the Goodwill in Santa Monica?” she asked, without waiting for a reply.  “They get designer stuff in there all the time.  If you check every day, you can get some amazing stuff.”

Oof.  What a hard life Frank must have.  I wondered if his schizophrenia was genetically triggered, or if some trauma occurred in his life, or both.  I got in my car and drove back to Hollywood.  We certainly can make our own choices, but unfortunately, we don’t always get to pick our experiences.

I drive the most common Hybrid on the road.  Numerous times I have wondered why my keyless entry does not work, only to discover that the car I’m trying to get into doesn’t belong to me and that I’m actually parked three cars away.  With so many cars of the same model and color, I now have to identify my car by its license plate.  I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be speaking to me about my car, so I kept looking forward, waiting for the light to change.

“That’s a nice car you got there,” he said again.  I turned my head.  A rather large Orthodox Jewish man, with a fuzzy beard and side curls, was smiling at me.  “Are you referring to my car?” I asked.  “Yes, you have a nice car and a nice smile.”

I live in an area populated by Orthodox Jews.  On many evenings, families walk together in the neighborhood, and if a modern woman walks past, the men typically look away.  So, an Orthodox Jewish man speaking to me through my car window at a traffic light, is unexpected and highly unorthodox.

“Really?” I asked, surprised about both accounts. He was driving an early model gold Lexus with a long, deep scratch running down the side.   ”I have two Lexuses,” he offered.  “Well, that’s great,” I exclaimed.  “Are you Jewish by chance?” he asked, again shouting.

Often, I am questioned about my heritage from total strangers. Because of my curly hair, I am commonly asked if I am Italian, mixed race or Jewish.  However, this was the first time I have ever been asked by an Orthodox Jewish man.

Organized religion has never appealed to me and I have often wondered what thoughts ruminate in the minds of Orthodox Jewish wives.  I have examined their focused gaze, walking behind their men, with their families, wearing heavy, coarse clothing, panty hose and thick wigs in eighty-degree heat. Do they look at modern women and envy their freedom?  Or, are they grateful to have been born into a close-knit community, based on centuries old beliefs?  I conjectured how different my life would have been growing up in such a culture, steeped in tradition.

“No,” I said smiling.  He laughed and winked at me.  ”That’s too bad,” he said, as the light turned green.

I accelerated.  He tried to catch up to me, however a large delivery truck pulled into his lane, forcing him to slow down.  I looked in my rear view mirror.  He waved and blew me a kiss.