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Archive for the ‘Dating’ Category

Why do we fall for idiots?

In Dating, The Daily Drool on December 19, 2009 at 8:13 pm

After last night’s email you’d think I’d change topic, or be all flowers and fairy dust about “2010- the year Tiffany finds a man”  (yes, I know that sounds ridiculous)  But all my pining got me thinking about the men I have loved and all of them got me thinking “WHY do we fall for idiots?!”

Because I know this isn’t a psychosis belonging solely to me; Men and women alike seem to stumble head first into so many thoughtless versions of the desired sex that I really have to ask if we aren’t perhaps a little too stupid for our own good!  I mean, come ON!  The first thing the men I’ve loved have had in common?  Good souls.  The second?  They’re NOT READY!

Do I (like a hungry puppy) enjoy the chase?  Is there something (sigh) “Romantic” about the notion of a love you have to bleed for?  Have I bought into the Rom-Com scenario of “Girl meets boy, boy screws things up with girl, boy makes Grand Gesture/Grows-the-hell-up, and “Voila,” they Live Happily Ever After”?

Or, have I just got a thing for screwy men?

I don’t know.

I don’t know, but I’d better figure it out before I go handing my heart over to another one!

Maybe I just need to get more strict… more… unattainable.  Like, I need to demand better up-front and in writing.  Yeah!  The next guy who comes along better be bringing more to the table than a sloppy grin and his laundry!

And I’ll try really hard to focus on him, instead of the idiot in the back with all the sexy baggage.

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Ahhh, that dumb thing making me cry…

In Dating, The Daily Drool on October 15, 2009 at 11:17 am

I have a foolish heart.  Yes, yes I do.  And maybe you would argue that hearts are, by their very nature, foolish.  That EVERYONE has a heart of such making.  But I like sense and order (even though I live in the make-believe) and so when I look down at little “me” all awash with foolishness, I cringe-because I know what pain and heartbreak is (most likely) in store.

And about 5 weeks or so that foolish heart of mine got beat to hell.  And it’s been relatively quiet since then, mending and licking its wounds I imagine.  But today, oh today, it woke up crying and I want to shake it for being so… well… foolish!

WHY do we want things we cannot have?  I listen to the radio and almost every damn song is about some poor schmuck who’s been left.  We pine over the pain and the missing, but there’s really nothing to do when you say “I love you” and get back only crickets.  Why then can we not lurch off to our cave and heal (quickly)?  Why must we scream and kick and write songs about it?

Is that all part of the healing?

I feel like my heart got spun round so much it’s no longer got any idea which way is up or which is down.  And the anger is trying to ground it, but… it’s not heavy enough.

My heart likes to linger in the “What if” of a thing that never happened.

So I’m spending a lot of time job-hunting.  I’m spending a lot of time writing.  I’m even sleeping in defense of the alternative.  I’m spending a lot of time trying to do anything that doesn’t involve listening to my heart, but every so often when I slow down the pace and let up the vigilance it pipes up with a cry.

And I don’t know what to tell it except that I love it, and don’t fault it for its ways.

And that if he were worth all this pain he wouldn’t have caused it in the first place.

And then I feed it chocolate, or a movie, or some other such thing as though I am tending to a sad child.

Because that’s what our hearts really represent – our youngest, sweetest, most vulnerable selves.

And as we all know, youngsters are foolish.

Chocolate and Cherubs

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on June 2, 2009 at 10:04 pm

Ahhhh, love.  Or, something akin to love… is that lust?  Or need?  Or maybe it’s just a case of the wants… It’s just all so confusing, isn’t it?  It seems that everywhere I turn, people are wrestling with the concept, and it’s making me feel, well, a little less confused.

Because, if the majority of us are confused about Love, then maybe it’s not us that’s the problem.  Maybe it’s the very nature of Love itself.

Many people equate Love with the devine, claiming that true love is as close to experiencing God as we can get – and if that’s the case, you’ve got to shrug your shoulders at our apparent ineptness.  I mean, we can feel it, we can swell with it, but surely we can’t beat ourselves up too badly for botching it if to truly understand it puts us in His shoes…

Because we mortals seem destined to screw it up.  We worry too much, or not enough, we neglect our hearts, we bury our feelings too deep, or we lift them so close to the sun that they burn to a crisp.  

We just don’t know what to do with it, so we keep trying, trying, trying…  and hoping that one day we will get it “right.”

But what if Love isn’t a thing to be gotten.  What if the key is in letting go.  In floating…

Then all the time we spend singing about it, crying over it, and hiding from it is for naught – because it will get us anyway.  It will swoop in and upset the balance no matter our opinion on the matter.

I’ve been thinking  a lot lately that I don’t want anything to do with the beast… but I know, with thunder, that this heart of mine will never shut up.  That it will continue to drive me towards those who set off sparks.  I know that it will continue to believe in its potential even as I do not.  I know that my mind is not the controller of this vessel, it is merely its faithful advisor.

So I take solace in the crowded waters I swim… I relax amidst the many who feel as I do – that Love is a particularly mischievous imp who plays by some very ill-refined rules.  

And I hope that one day, this Love thing and I will reach an agreement.

But in the mean time: Chocolate!

Another one bites the dust

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on May 3, 2009 at 3:46 pm

I uttered a strange phrase this week.  I didn’t know it was coming until it jumped, hair straight up and crazy-like, from my lips.  You see, cute-as-a-button turned out to be his only trick, and as he earnestly told me he didn’t want to break my heart, my heart let out a hearty laugh and my lips chucked forth something akin to this:  “Trust me, you are dizzyingly incapable of wreaking that kind of damage on this heart.”  

I don’t know if it was the confidence with which he confessed his concern, or my own newly installed steel fence, but somewhere in all his chatter a guffaw of mighty proportions was building.  I mean, who says that?  After four dates?  And what does that even mean?  

And what does it mean that my heart thinks it’s wearing some sort of steel plated armor?

Because although I’m not about to remove the titanium shell currently keeping things safe, I’m certainly not certain it’s healthy to stroll around so guarded… then again I have always been quite selective when it comes to my mates.  I’ve always been cautious… the flip side being that once I make up my mind as to a suitors… suitability… I generally tend to shed all armor, give them a key to the castle, and then wonder how it was the man got such a hold over me in the first place.  

So, maybe this is a good thing.  That I feel no hurt or insult…  Maybe it’s due to my holding of the reigns that I feel only surprise.  And perhaps this is a good time to start playing like the men do – to keep the power and the control in my court – and in order to do that, I need to keep the keys to this castle in my own pocket.

New Sparks and Old Flames

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on April 16, 2009 at 5:32 pm

Comfy in old sweats and a hasty ponytail, it wasn’t the awe-inspiring re-meet that I would have preferred, but it certainly wasn’t awful either.  What is it about the fates that make them so fond of parading your past in front of you right as you are stepping forward?  I ran into an ex today… one that really took the wind out of my sails… a day after a lovely date with a new man so adorable I just want to squeeze him every chance I get.  Life, it seems, really is all about the laughter.

And it wasn’t painful, it wasn’t electric.  It just… was.  There we were, two people that used to know one another who no longer do.  Isn’t this existence strange?  We bump and collide with so many different people in our lives, and occasionally we stick together for a time… but ultimately, when it doesn’t work out, we drift apart and the people we used to be together drift away from us as well – remaining in the past, a polaroid of love or friendship or disfunction…  But always alive in our memories, irregardless of how the relationship passed.  

So I went my way, and he went his.  And as I drove home I had to sit with the old me for a mile or two before I recognized that she was visiting only to show me just how far I’ve come in the in-between.  

Life, it seems, really does play by it’s own drum, and I’m quite excited for the next beat.

Your face on my fridge

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on April 9, 2009 at 10:34 am

 What happened?

A lot of my friends back home got married right away.  They happily, gleefully met the “Love of their life” and signed on the dotted line, and now I get cards from them at Christmas, all dressed up with miniature versions of themselves in their arms, wearing santa hats and looking happy.  I hang these mile-markers up on my refrigerator for a while… right next to the photos of me and my friends downing yard-sized margaritas in Vegas.

Really?  

Well, I moved to LA.  People in LA don’t get married young and settle down easy.  

For one, it’s too expensive over here, you just have to stash some away if you have any hope of parking permanently.  For another, the people are LIVING IT UP.  Things are moving fast: fast times, fast laughs, fast everything.  Permanence by it’s very nature disagrees with speed.  So… what happens if you’re a take it slow kind of girl is that you end up waiting.  And now that I’m thirty, my LA friends are starting to tie themselves up, buy houses, and stock up on card-stock for those all-important Christmas cards, and I’m still kind of floundering in the “Fast” without really ever having been one to make the most of it in the first place.

I’ve been observing all of this from my own confusing “Wait, are we adults or are we teenagers” version of the Dating Game that has left my brain a little… well, flummoxed.  

Because I’m really interested in cooking for two.  I’d really like to be able to swap backrubs after a long day.  And I’d sort of like to have a man around to take out the garbage when it’s late instead of dashing down the the dumpster with my pepper spray at 2 a.m.  And I know these are little things, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the little things are what make it all so wonderful.

So, I’m drifting along… trying to recoup the energy I’ve already spent, and I’m thinking about past beginnings (and their endings) and it’s just really mysterious to me what makes certain people stick while others seem born to drift away.  

Of course all of this pondering just leads to more confusion about the very idea of permanence… Like, how can you ever trust that the person sitting across from you stroking your hand won’t change his/her mind in six-months/a year/ a decade?  How do you know he/she won’t come home one day with a one-way ticket to Dropping-Your-Ass-Like-a-Ton-of-Bricks-Ville?  I mean, you don’t, right?  

So you take it on faith.

And you go for it, because to live in fear of what “May” happen is ludicrous.  

    …

        … or is it?

Because I’m telling you, these tired bones, they are a-creaking.  And this weary heart, it is shoring up it’s defenses.  Because the other thing that happens as you get older?  You invest in thicker walls, better security, and you start reading your horoscope in the hopes of knowing when to bring out the umbrella, because baby, when it rains, it pours.

Change!

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on February 23, 2009 at 1:35 pm

A dear friend of mine (one whom I hope minds not that I use her story here) recently went splitz-ees with a man she had been seeing for a few months.  

Okay.  

Happens.

But when she told me about how she knew things were going downhill, I was grabbed by what I think is pretty common theme.  You see, it all started with her driving.

Now, I know most men prefer to drive.  Hell, I’ve dated men that even if their place is on my way, they prefer to have me park and climb into whatever it is they happen to have the keys to.  It never bothered because I don’t particularly need to drive.  Put me in a situation where there’s bound to be traffic and I’m jumping up and down with joy at the prospect of relaxing passenger-style.  But sometimes, a woman will be driving one of these types around and it’s like some little monkey in the man’s brain takes over and insists he keep a running commentary on every single inch of her miles.  

Well, meet my friend, who, at the lovely age of thirty, has been driving for quite some time.  In fact, I’m guessing that since her driving record is pretty stellar, she’s been driving all this time with nary a reason to think she’s been doing anything wrong.  But in sits her ex-beau and it’s second-guess-city.  

Now, this could just be a thing that he does.  Maybe he needles his mother, his cousins, his taxi driver… anyone who sits in front of the wheel of his charriot.  But I think he’s spending so much time grinding his teeth because the onslaught of warm fuzzies are beginning to fade, and the person next to him is beginning to look a little  less ethereal and a lot more real.

And real, as everyone knows, is a lot more terrifying than anything you can ever make believe.

We meet someone, all electricity and tingly-palms, and then after about three months, we start tallying the ticks.  It’s as though the warm glow fades and you realize that in fact, their propensity for licking their fingers after every chicken wing IS massively irritating and not the lust-fogged “Mild annoyance” you originaly thought it could be.  It’s so iritating in fact that you don your “Janitor” shoes and share your incredible disgust with your poor, unsuspecting beloved, who’s only crime is making the mistake of enjoying their meal in your rightous company.

The “Janitor” is left feeling satisfied (finally got that off your squashed chest), your beloved is left feeling inadequate, and you are left wondering just what the hell it is you are doing…  Since when did you become the kind of person who needs to try and “Clean up” another? 

It’s hard to decipher our motivations behind actions we take after smitten.  

It’s as though we get on the ride, all a twitter with anticipation and excitement, but once things start to get comfortable, well… we start looking for ways to make the ride better… more exciting… more like what we think it should be.

But is it fair to criticize a person’s habits just because they don’t do things the way we would have them done?  Can we really presume to think that if they “Correct” their irritating behaviors the electricity will start flowing our way?  And would they still be the unique and intoxicating person we initially were attracted to if they start watching their every finger-licking move around us? 

When do our “Requests” cross the line from pleas for compromise and become a case for change? 

LA LA LA, WHA’?

In Dating, Essays, The Daily Drool on February 15, 2009 at 5:41 am

A lot of my girlfriends back home ask me why I go on and on about dating in LA being so rough, and how it is that I’m still single what with my great sense of humor, wicked smarts, and sexy legs (alright, so I may be throwing that last one in there of my own volition) but, well, I think it’s a great question.

What comes to mind when I say  “Los Angeles”?

 Think about it.

Keep thinking.

Are you envisioning Bel Air mansions full of beautiful people? Perhaps sumptuous, sun-filled sandy beaches full of beautiful people?  Hot night clubs with the hottest music coolest drinks, and beautiful people?  Or maybe your local cineplex rife with silver screens full of… oh yeah, beautiful people?  

See where I’m going?

Pretty people move to L.A.  It’s a fact.  And if you aren’t pretty when you get here, you sure as hell make fast friends with the MAC girl at the mall before you pull out mamma’s credit card and buy yourself some better shoes.  

They come here because they want to be movie stars or have their own reality show (or sleep with the ones who do) and they flood the marketplace!  There are so many pretty men and women here, it should be illegal.

It’s like the cars.  

When I first moved to LA, I couldn’t believe how many fancy cars I was parking next to at Ralphs.  I’d pull in with my funky little Mercury and its funky little “SQUEAK”, and I would be ogling the Jaguars, Bentleys, and other dollar signs sitting in the parking lot like the small town sweetheart that I was.  But now I don’t even blink when I see a $50,000 car roll by.  And I don’t turn my head when there are Brad Pitt look-a-likes in the room either.  Well, maybe I turn a little… but you understand what I’m saying?  They’ve flooded the market!  They’re everywhere!  My bouncy, blondie self has got MILES of competition and most of them are more polished, more perky, and easier to be around than I ever will be.  

And it’s not just the pretty faces that I’m competing with, I’m diving into a dating scene that is built upon the “Me.”  The “I”.  (Cue big echoey voice) THE SELF.  

I’m talking about the people who move here to write, direct, or otherwise get paid to spend copious amounts of time in their imaginations… They are everywhere.  Imagine, if you can, a massive, hungry, writhing mass of bodies all fighting to get their hands on a very small number of carrots… leaving very little time for anything but, well, carrots.  Just ask Mr. Example, the substitute teacher by day and starving film director by night, what he likes to do with his spare time and chances are that he’ll answer you with a hearty “HA!  What spare time?”  

People come here to get ahead, and it’s very hard to do that with someone else’s emotions and well-being on your plate.  

Sure it’s nice to seek solace in another’s arms, go to the movies, share a meal or two when you’re feeling down or have cause to celebrate, but ask any one of my LA girlfriends when the dinners start becoming scarce and they’ll tell you it’s right around the time they start asking for something more reliable than an “I had a good time, let’s hang again soon.”

You see, if you’re looking to get partnered up out here you stand a very good chance of chasing after someone who is very busy chasing after them-self.

Take my girlfriends and I as an example.  We’re all a couple years before or after thirty, and we run the gamut from artist to bartender to financial guru to even a friggin’ doctor, and we’re mostly still single, still fabulous to look at or to squeeze, even to theoretecize with… but to keep?  

Well, it’s LA.  

And it is grossly populated with dreamers, entrepreneurs, and capitalists, which means that for every 1 person wanting to find a balanced, healthy, long term committment, you have to work your way through about 20 or so others who just want to have a good time without worrying about commitment, obligations, or meeting your mother.  Because they’re not ready.  Because they’ve got to make something of themselves first.  And can you really argue if you came out here to make something of yourself too?

So…  you learn to deal with it.  

You keep your expectations low.  

You don’t ask for very much, so they don’t have to give very much, so you can both play at having a relationship as long as you can take it…

Because as any sensible Los Angeleno knows, there are always plenty of others waiting to take your (or his) place, and any part (no matter how small) is better than doing without any at all…