Hi Ho, Hi Ho...

For the record, I am not going to make a habit of taking requests; however, after my last posting, a good friend of mine asked that maybe I try and come up with something a bit more inspirational. More inspirational than a restraining order? I thought (see “Rose Garden”). The truth is, I had been thinking that my posts had taken a dark turn as of late anyway, so I welcomed the challenge and immediately tabled the next three blog ideas I had. I don’t know that I would call this inspirational, but I will say that no men with shovels will be making an appearance and I have yet to pull the pin on my can of mace.

Recently some friends and I went to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery where on Saturday nights in the summer they host an event called Cinespia. Basically, a bunch of hipsters bring picnics, blankets, and wine, as well as whatever herbs they grow in their “garden” and watch movies projected onto the side of a crematorium. Mausoleum, whatever.

Note: my friends and I do not fall into the hipster category; however, we are a fun group of people who enjoy the odd goings-on that city life in LA provides. Unlike hipsters, we shower regularly, have normal looking haircuts, and don’t find copious amounts of facial hair or skin tight jeans on men to be even remotely attractive. Well, at least most of us don’t. Hence, movie night in a cemetery. I promise you that is as creepy as this gets.

The movie was an old Dudley Moore flick called Bedazzled that none of us were too excited to see. We were, on the other hand, very excited to use my friend’s new roll-up picnic table and my new set of outdoor dishes. (Like I said, no hipsters here.) Needless to say, two bottles of champagne in, the sun set, and the film started rolling. I was fully prepared to doze off if need be, because really, what is more peaceful than a nap underneath the stars surrounded by centuries of dead people? Who am I kidding? This is LA and nothing here was built before the 60s, but I digress. To my surprise, there was no chance for a nap because 15 minutes in, I was hooked. The basic plot is that Dudley Moore is in love with a girl he works with who doesn’t even know he is alive. One day, he has a run in with a man who turns out to be Satan who grants him seven wishes in return for his soul. (It’s always the same with Satan now, isn’t it? I wonder when he will join the rest of the 21^st century and start accepting Visa instead of souls.) Dudley Moore then spends the next two hours realizing that nothing he wishes for turns out to bring him the gratification he expected. Case in point: his first wish. Because he has never gotten up the courage to talk to the love of his life, his wish is to be able to hold an interesting conversation with her. Cut to: Dudley Moore and his true love frolicking through the city on an afternoon date, Dudley using words so big even he didn’t know he knew how to use them. She’s laughing, he’s laughing, and then he invites her in to his apartment and she agrees to continue the date. So imagine his surprise when he goes in to make his move and she starts screaming, “Rape!” at the top of her lungs.

After deep introspection, our man Dud then realizes a wish for conversation is not going to cut it. So he proceeds to wish for marriage and power and the ability to buy her whatever she wants, only to watch her consummate their marriage with the pool boy instead of him. More introspection, and minutes later he is wishing for reciprocal love. Only this time although, she is in love with Dud, she is married to his best friend and the guilt she feels over cheating on her husband is so overwhelming she can’t go through with the affair. Seven disappointments, and deadly sins, later, Dudley realizes things were better off before he tried controlling his universe, namely because he was unable to imagine the depth of his own soul and what he wanted out of life, thus unable to know exactly what would make him happy. His happiness would not derive from being able to talk to the woman of his dreams, much less be married to her, or even be mutually in love.

So why was this so inspiring? (Remember, I promised inspiration, just not necessarily yours. Or did I even promise that?) I realized I was Dudley Moore. No, I don’t have helmet hair, bad teeth (thanks to my parents’ Nazi-like control over me wearing my retainer), or even a cool accent. So, let me explain.

About a month ago, I was at a music festival with my girlfriends and started getting chatted up by an attractive South American man at Whiskey A Go-Go. Cute accent? Check. Dark, curly hair? Check. Shares my love of Stella Artois? Check. And then I found out that he was a child psychologist in the San Diego school district, we both wanted to have three children, and he wanted to visit my family on the east coast at Christmas. My heart melted. He is cute and sensitive and wants to meet my parents already.

So sensitive that as it turns out, he has already married another unsuspecting woman. One of my girlfriends noticed the shiny wedding band on his ring finger and inconspicuously pointed it out to me. I, in turn, not so inconspicuously blurted out, “So you’re married?” I like to cut right to the chase.

He proceeded to try to convince me that he only wore a wedding band because his friends told him he would attract more girls that way. I’m not going to lie, the Stellas made me believe it. But only for one round…or maybe it was two. In any event, as soon as my South American went to the bathroom, I asked El Cheater’s friend, “So how long has he been married?” He didn’t blink an eye. “Seven years.”

When my hot blooded, Latin American returned, I informed him that whatever kind of girl he thought I was, I most certainly was not. “What kind of girl would that be?” Either the kind of girl who goes for married men, or the kind of girl who believes that you are just wearing a wedding band to attract women. Take your pick. I proceeded to walk away, at which point he got down on his knees, arms reaching towards me, yelling over the din of a Guns ‘n Roses cover band, “But I don’t love her! I am getting divorced! I already have a lawyer! And I don’t loooove her!”

I get it, Beelzebub. The exotic looks, cute accent, and willingness to talk children right away are not necessarily the answers. Especially when there is a good chance the dude is already talking babies, or better, making babies, with his wife. For the record, it was totally him who asked the children and family questions. I am well aware of the fact that I am far from ready for either of these things. So, on to lesson #2.

Recently I went to a training for work in a part of town a tad out of my comfort zone. This part of town is known as “the Valley.” Hipsters definitely don’t venture to the valley, but like I said, my friends and I are not to be confused with hipsters. We still don’t venture too far outside of city lines, and this story could be why. I had had trouble finding the training location earlier that morning, so I was parked a few blocks away from the building and had a nice little jaunt to get back to my car. Along the way, I was not really paying attention to my surroundings, namely because I was distracted by the $200,000 Mercedes that kept driving by. It was a beautiful car…and then the driver pulled up beside me. I thought, “Oh no, this guy is going to ask me for directions and I am in a strange place (known as the Valley) and I am going to have to tell him there is a good chance I am going to get lost trying to find my way back to the freeway myself.” And then he pulled out the cheesiest, most classic line in the universe…and I fell for it. “What is a girl like you doing in this part of town?” Maybe I shouldn’t say I fell for it, because really what happened then is I started to panic thinking, IS this a bad part of town? How could I have not noticed that before? Is that really an autobody shop across the street or a front for a major drug operation for the Russian mafia? I guess I was feeling vulnerable, or simply blinded by the flashy sports car (which most definitely would have had its own navigation system installed in it), but I gave him my number and a few weeks later we went out. He’s a protector, I justified to myself.

When he walked into the sushi restaurant we met at (I suggested meeting instead of being picked up – the gardener taught me that lesson) I was instantly reminded of the Sex and the City episode when Samantha begins to be chatted up at a hotel bar by a somewhat attractive fireball of a guy. A few minutes in, she determines he is the male version of her, and she is insanely attracted to him as a result. So, she takes him up on the offer to go upstairs to his room. Now, don’t worry. Those were not the thoughts running through my head when he walked in the door. The next sequence of SATC events include Samantha’s soon-to-be lover jumping (yes, jumping) off his barstool, because he is a solid foot shorter than she is. He is her perfect guy and practically a midget. And she looks disgusted. I am not saying that Prince My-Car-Makes-Me-Appear-Charming was my dream man, but truthfully, I never would have talked to this guy had I met him standing up. Maybe that makes me shallow, because yes, I do realize that I have already mentioned I was blinded by his $200,000 car, but everything about him was trying to make up for his height…as well as the fact that he still lives at home with his mother and grandmother. I suppose I could also afford a luxury car if I hadn’t blown 5 years’ salary on superfluous expenses…like rent. Lesson noted.

My last lesson in love of late occurred over a cup of coffee. I know I am a dreamer, and I have watched way too many romantic comedies, but even nearing the big 3-0, I refuse to give up the idea of that perfect “how we met” story. So when I walked into the donut shop on the corner, where I pick up a cup of cinnamon coffee several mornings a week and noticed an attractive guy my age in a Duke sweatshirt noticing me, I was flattered and a little excited. I slipped the girl behind the counter my money, grabbed my cup of coffee (they expect me now; it’s my Cheers) and headed to the condiments bar to drown my coffee in sugar as usual. I then hear a “So, coffee, huh?” over my shoulder. Playing it cool, I reply with a “Yep” and hold it up in a mock cheers. “So you’re going to work, huh?” Oh dear, this Duke graduate was definitely not at the top of his class. But I am certain he wasn’t mixed up with those lacrosse players who hired that stripper, and well…you know the rest of that story. Again, I give a “yep” and put the lid on the cup, as I start to head towards the door. I tried not to be judgmental regarding his conversation skills because granted, who is a conversationalist at 7:30 in the morning before coffee? I get it, but I had a report to finish waiting for me at the office and Duke was going to have to think quicker on his toes than “coffee” and “work” as I am holding a cup in a coffee shop on a Tuesday morning.

I guess he works well under pressure because he blurted out a few niceties and I was again swooning over this southern gentleman. I promptly decided this could be a cute “how we met” story, so I gave him my number and turned to leave once again. I was actually excited for him to call at this point. Then, he says, “Wait – let me give you my card.” I started to think, well don’t bother, because if you aren’t going to call, then I most certainly am not going to, but he didn’t need to be exposed to my idiosyncrasies this early on. And before 8am. Instead, I took the card and walked out the door. Imagine my surprise when I see a picture of a guy somewhat resembling Duke with much shorter hair, shirtless, in sunglasses. Yikes. Eminem was not a good look for him. Thank goodness he has grown his hair out, I thought. I then turned it over and almost spit out my first gulp of coffee. This picture was of Duke in his board shorts, next to a pool, next to a half-naked woman with her pelvis thrust toward the camera. What the hell kind of service was he trying to sell with this card? And why in God’s name would he think I was in the market for it wearing my J.Crew slacks and silk blouse at 7:30 in the morning?

Naturally, as soon as I got to work, I put the unfinished report on the back burner and logged right on to his website. An actor. Go figure. So he was selling himself. I received a series of text messages over the next few days that read somewhere between, “Hey gorgeous, just wanted to tell you how gorgeous you are” and “Yeah, so I just got back from the beach where I was catching some rad waves.” I guess actors have time for such things during the day. Let me tell you, therapists do not. And frankly, it irritated me more than anything that he had the resources to have this fancy website and surf all afternoon with the measly list of credits he was flaunting as I was running around the hood busting my ass doing real work. But I digress, and I am definitely not bitter. Just definitely not going out with Prince In-Case-I-Ever-Have-Amnesia-My-Last-Name-is-Tattooed-on-my-Stomach-which-is-oh-so-Charming. Because yes, there was a picture of that too.

Apparently I have a lot to learn from Sir Dudley Moore. He got it figured out in a mere two hours and I am pushing the big 30^th deadline. It’s not like I am out there desperate to meet someone, making deals with the devil in order to avoid being alone. I have a pretty fulfilling life. My non-hipster friends and I have fun doing both hipster and preppy things alike. I stay busy and schedule alone time because I enjoy it and I know it keeps me sane. I would like to think that I won’t be solo forever, but for now I am not willing to risk encountering 4 additional deadly sins, I mean dwarfs, I mean dates, in the process. Shorty, Slimy, and Sleazy were enough for me.