I needed to take a break from Los Angeles… and men.  So I recently packed up my car and drove with my dog (Otis) to visit my family and take a much needed vacation.  Thank you to everyone who emailed, texted and contacted me asking when I might be back to documenting my dating experiences.  Well, here goes…

“I don’t know if I’ve ever really been in love,” I said to my friend Mark, thinking back on the handful of significant relationships I’ve had over the past two decades.

“That’s a huge red flag,” Mark responded. “If we were dating, I’d wonder what was wrong with you.  Of course you’ve been in love,” he said.

He was right, but at that moment I was feeling particularly cynical about men.

Mark is tall, attractive and looks good for his age.  He’s smart, articulate, funny and loves sports more than the average male. I can take him anywhere and he blends in nicely with friends or business associates.  He’s like my brother.

However, spending time with Mark is not for the weary.  No subject is taboo.  A typical afternoon conversation with him can cover a wide range of topics such as: movies, health insurance, sex, car parts, global issues, workout routines, life journeys, vitamin supplements, the afterlife, bowel movements, or today’s topic… love.

He has no qualms about stating brutally honest facts and has little regard for how his statements may land on the recipient.  Facts are facts and don’t need to be sugar-coated– an idea I respect, of course, except when his blunt facts are directed at me.  And right now, he’s pummeling me with my relationship defects.

“The difference with you is,” he began, “when you meet a guy you like, you immediately give him more credit than he’s due.”

I didn’t need to think about my past relationships to know he was right.  It’s rare to meet a single, attractive, successful guy in L.A. who dates age appropriately.  Typically, meeting a decent guy is like finding an oasis after months in the desert, only to find out he’s actually a mirage.  Mark’s right.  When I was a redhead, if I was even remotely attracted to a guy,  I was already thinking long term.  However, as a blonde in L.A., my options are more plentiful, but I am still challenged to find a high-quality man (and dare I dream… who is intelligent and has a good sense of humor).

Los Angeles is a very competitive singles market.  My handsome male friends, whether they are married or single, are constantly approached by aggressive females.  “I can walk from the valet to the restaurant door and be asked out by a woman,” says Ivan, who is married.  “I wear a wedding ring which is not a deterrent.  For some women, it’s actually a challenge.”  Mark added, “L.A. has a huge inventory of women who are willing and able.  If I’m dating a woman who doesn’t pan out, I can walk down to Chaya Venice on any given night and take my pick.”

I wish women in L.A. had the same type of candy store.

I’d sworn off online dating sites, however I received an email from Thomas and agreed to meet him at The Lobster in Santa Monica. He’s a trader who reminded me of my good friend Cindy’s husband, Tom.  They share the same name, look alike, dress alike, are smart, funny, very complimentary and Thomas seemed to be a perfect gentleman.

Had I finally met a nice guy who, after a year of dating, I could… start a relationship?  Could I have possibly found a high quality man with whom I could build and share a life?

Thomas paid the check and for my valet, then slapped a $5 bill in my hand for the valet’s tip.  Then, just as our cars arrived, Thomas tried to impress upon me how large one particular appendage of his was.  He told me a story, in extreme graphic detail, about how this specific organ pushed a feminine hygiene product so far up a woman’s insides that she had to have it surgically removed.  I’ve been told I’m very easy to talk to, but this was a bit much for the first date… or tenth date.  My heart sank.  While we waited for our cars, he put his hands in his pockets and told me to look at his crotch.  Thomas was sporting a rather large boner.

The valet pulled up in his trashed, filthy old BMW.  Thomas turned to the valet, pointed to his crotch and said, “See what she does to me?!”  He grabbed my waist and kissed me goodbye, trying to push his tongue past my gritted teeth.

Another one bites the dust.

Back to Mark’s comment… Of course I’ve been love… haven’t I?

There was the relationship with the Argentine telenovella actor with enough drama to last me a lifetime.  Or, the film director who had been in therapy for ten years and didn’t see any end in sight.  Or the baseball player who professed his love for me, and three other women, unbeknownst to me. Or the schlocky TV producer who went out with other women whenever I went out of town.

“What you’re looking for is pure love,” Mark said, correcting me in a way that suggests he knows more about me than I do myself.

“Prince Charming,” he said, “that’s who you’re looking for.”

Here I am a woman who has worked hard all my life, making a living in the entertainment industry and Mark was pointing out this little girl, fairy tale fantasy I supposedly have. I was slightly embarrassed because I knew he was right.  All my life I’ve been looking for that needle in a haystack, that rare gem actors play in romantic movies, the guy who finally ‘gets’ you and understands every fiber of your being… ok, so maybe I am looking for Prince Charming, but what woman hasn’t dreamed of meeting her Mr. Right? Or is it that other women realize he doesn’t exist while I still cling to a childhood fantasy?

What happened to good old-fashioned falling in love?  Well, I’ve waited this long to find the right man that I couldn’t possibly settle on Joe Schmoe at this point, right?

I suppose Mark is right about me looking for my Prince Charming.  ”He’s out there,” Mark said.  ”Just don’t start him off on a white horse.  See him for who he truly is and make him earn it.  You’ll find him.”

At my friend Olive’s urging, I’ve given up the online dating sites in favor of visiting some of her favorite haunts in Venice Beach, Santa Monica and Marina del Rey.  However, when she suggests I join her local gym, I wince at the thought of driving across town in rush hour traffic just to lift some weights.

Olive is adamant. “Once you start going to my gym,” she promises, “you’ll never want to go anywhere else.” I remain skeptical. I’ve been to my fair share of gyms, from the Hollywood YMCA to Equinox and everything in between. How is hers so different?

Five minutes into my first visit, I have my answer. Her gym is Hunk Narnia.

Not that I waste much time in life lamenting what could have been, but I instantly rue my years of living in Hollywood and the Valley. It’s obvious that the Westside is where I need to be.

I survey the scene before me. Everywhere I look, I see attractive, fit, successful-looking, straight men.  I feel like Charlie Sheen at the Mustang Ranch, only much more upscale.

I follow Olive and her friend Kate up to the second floor where the stationary bikes are.  We pedal away and check out the available men below.   Kate maps out her game plan, targeting three men she knows and considers good prospects for me. Bless her.

First up is Ethan, who is tall, in his late 40s and has really nice arms.  He’s a high-level executive at a large internet company and into collecting art.  He’s also a good-natured flirt.

Next is David, 49, who is tall, dark and handsome, with crinkly bedroom eyes.  He’s a creative soul with a lean, rock-hard body. I look up at him as he speaks to me, but the words don’t register; with his salt and pepper hair and square jaw line, he fits the image I have in my head of ‘just my type.’  But then my silent alarm is triggered. Every relationship I’ve had with a guy who has been ‘just my type’ has ended badly. Would David be any different? Before I can contemplate this further, I meet Scott.

Scott is 6’2” and all muscle. He’s got sun-kissed good looks and the honey-dipped drawl of his native Arkansas. He designs high-tech engines for a large car company and loves to surf.

“Hey,” he says, “do you want to go check out some waves tomorrow?”

We have a winner.

“Sure,” say my lips before my mind has a chance to catch up.

But then my brain chimes in with a vengeance. I’ve had surf lessons before, but have never actually gotten up on my feet on a board. And my wet suit hasn’t touched water in four years. And there are always articles about all the garbage, like hypodermic needles, being found in the ocean off the coast of Los Angeles. And…and…my one friend contracted the dreaded flesh-eating bacteria when a small cut on his finger got infected after a surf trip.  There are suddenly a million reasons why this is a bad idea…

“I’m a good swimmer, but I’ve never really been up on a board,” I begin.
“Hey, it’s all good,” Scott says in that drawl, putting his arm lightly across my shoulders. “I’ve got you covered.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I promise.

Scott’s outside his place in Venice, loading the boards up on his truck, when I arrive.  I climb in and we head to where Sunset Blvd. meets the Pacific Coast Highway.  The water is crowded with surfers but the waves look mellow.

We scramble down the rocks, lugging the boards.

“Any words of advice?” I ask.
“I have seen sharks in the water this time of year,” he says.
“Are you trying to scare me?”

Scott surveys the coastline. “With that many people in the water, the odds of him coming after you are slim.” He turns and winks at me. “Unless he’s got uncommonly good taste.”

Oddly uncomforted by this charming repartee, I decide to stay closer to shore.  We get in the water and swim past the strong breaks to get further out in the ocean.  Scott paddles further to catch bigger waves while I stay closer to the novice end.  He catches a wave and goes in to shore.

I check the water for shark fins. Nothing. I begin to relax a bit and bask in the beautiful, sunny, warm day, thinking how lucky I am to be right here, right now.

And then it happens. A predator has me in its sights.

I hear it before I see it. It’s loud.  ”I don’t know if you’re dating Scott,” a voice screams at me, “but I went out with him and he totally lied to me and cheated on me.”

I spot her now, a wiry brunette in a neon wetsuit passing on my right, heading for deeper water.   “Just thought you should know… girlfriend to girlfriend.”

I don’t respond. It isn’t my idea of a proper introduction.

A few moments later, Scott paddles up behind me.

“How are you doing?  You okay?”  he asks.
“Yeah, I’m good, but did you hear what that woman just yelled to me?”
“Nope. What did she say?”
“She’s not a fan,” I explain.
“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

I tell him. I expect him to shrug it off, pretend it means nothing. But as he listens, his face falls and his big shoulders sink.  It is as if someone has pulled a plug and let all the air out of him.

“I was never in a romantic relationship with her,” he states.
“Whatever happened between the two of you is none of my business,” I say.  “I just thought you should know since she’s saying this about you.”

It’s obvious he is bothered that someone has such a low opinion of him.

I see a small wave coming in.   “I’m going to try and catch this,” I shout.  Scott turns me around and pushes my board forward.  I get up on my knees and am almost on my feet when I see a guy heading straight for me.  His board goes under mine so I scoot back, anticipating his fall. “FUCK!” he yells, before tumbling into the water.

He comes up sputtering. “Be more careful!” he screams.

Let me interject that on the way to the beach, Scott has explained the rules and surfing etiquette for me, which I have followed.  The man and I share equal blame for our collision.  “Sorry, dude!” I shout back, wanting to avoid a confrontation.

Scott is by my side, defending me, “You’ve got to be careful too,” he says to the pissy guy. But the other surfer, older and red-faced, decides to take umbrage. He gets back on his board and paddles toward us. I watch his face change as he gets closer and realizes how big Scott is.  He sputters a little; Scott is firm but respectful. The situation is defused. The man swims away and Scott goes out to catch the next wave.

I watch as he expertly gets to his feet and rides the crest of the wave.  I’m back in the more shallow waters now, but my spot is not without its hazards. She’s back.

“You can do much better than him,” she shouts, paddling by. “Just saying.”

Twenty minutes later, she is back a third time, “See my board?  Scott has the same one.  He has that board because of me.”

If L.A. has taught me one thing, it’s that you can’t reason with crazy. “Duly noted,” I shout back. “Thanks for the info.”  I wonder what happened between her and Scott.

“What did she say this time?” Scott has appeared by my side.

I tell him, and ask if he ever dated her.

“We were surfing buddies,” he explains. “We slept with each other once but it never went beyond that.  A few days later, I brought a girl friend surfing with me and asked if she wanted to come with us.  She went ballistic on me in a public place and I haven’t spoken with her since.”

Scott helps me catch a few more waves before we head back to shore.  He takes my board under one arm and his board under his other arm, and carries them both up the steep rocks, back up to the road.

“Wow,” I intone. “Impressive!”
“I’m trying to earn back any credibility I can after what happened today.”

He’s obviously taking this seriously. Even without knowing the full story, I’m impressed by his depth of feeling. A lot of guys would have ignored it, or trash-talked that woman.

We go back to Scott’s place where I take a quick shower and change clothes.  I’m thinking we’ll grab a coffee or get some breakfast. But the spark and smile are gone from his face.  I gather my things and thank him for taking me.  He hugs me goodbye and I am on my way home.

I call Kate, who is surprised to hear from me. “I thought you two’d still be out,” she says. I start to tell her the story of the wetsuit woman but before the first sentence is even out, she interrupts me, “Wait!  Wait!  I know who she is.”  She corroborates Scott’s story and although we both feel bad for him, have to admit the tale is rather comical.

“He needs to clean up that bad P.R.,” I say.
“No shit,” replies Kate.

A week later Scott calls me to test the waters.  “Listen,” he says hopefully, “I’ve got an idea. You. Me. Bikes. Dry land.”

I am happy to accept. But I’ll be on the lookout for hazards in the road.

My friend Olive is not a fan of internet dating sites and thinks I’m wasting my time looking for a man there.  I’m inclined to agree with her, but let’s face it, it’s a lot easier at the end of the day to throw on some sweats and sit down in front of the computer than it is to shimmy into an little black dress and mosey up to a bar.

“It’s all a numbers game,” she protests. “The more people you meet in person, the better the chances they know someone for you. You meet a guy on the internet, it’s an automatic dead end.”  She’s right.

“Listen,” she says, “one of my girlfriends is invited to a barbecue in Malibu on Sunday and she doesn’t want to go by herself.”  I’m always up for meeting new people.

“There should be a bunch of single men there. What do you have better to do on a Sunday night? — it should be fun.”

Olive knows me pretty well. I typically make no plans on Sunday nights unless it involves me, an interesting man and a sunset on the beach. This particular gathering offers at least the potential for an interesting man, a house on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and a 4 p.m. starting time. I’m in.

I meet Olive’s friend – Ruth — at her place and we drive up winding roads to a new 10,000 SF hilltop manse with 180-degree views of the Pacific. We pull up in the driveway and there to greet us is Tim, the host of the party. And, as it turns out, a man I had met a few weeks prior.

“You know each other?” Ruth asks, surprised. Not really. I’d been sitting with a bunch of girlfriends at a Venice Beach restaurant one night when a female acquaintance came in to join us. Trailing behind her was Tim. They were on a blind date, but she decided there was no chemistry between them so she thought she’d meet up with us and let him fend for himself. She proceeded to pull up a chair and left him standing idly by.

Having been on my share of bad dates, I took pity on him. I chatted with him long enough so that he could make a more graceful exit than simply slinking awkwardly out the door just moments after walking in.

Back to the present. Tim gives us a tour of his home, starting with the spectacular master suite. He explains he is a triple threat: real estate developer/surfer/part-time actor and to prove it, pulls out his i-phone. With a couple of deft finger movements, he conjures up pictures of some of his projects and a 60-second spot he’d been cast in for a beer company.  He hands the phone to me and as we watch the ad, Tim casually takes off his t-shirt, showing his trim physique, and replaces it with another shirt he pulls from the dresser. Ruth whispers that Tim is in his mid 50s and has never married.

I feel that I’ve just sat through a commercial, and not the one I saw on the screen.

The tour ends in the expansive kitchen, where employees from a neighborhood restaurant are cooking up an enormous amount of food for the twenty or so people milling about the grounds. Ruth and I sit down to a huge limestone counter as Tim pulls a seafood salad from the glass-doored refrigerator and begins dishing it out. “Try this,” he says, placing two plates in front of us. “I made it myself.”  He then goes out on the patio to check on the caterer’s progress.

Ruth picks up her fork and dives in. “Would you ever go out with Tim?” she asks. “He told me you were the girl he met at that restaurant in Venice and you were the only one who was nice to him.”

I find this ironic. If Tim had been interested, why hadn’t he used his fancy smartphone for its intended purpose and tried to actually speak to me with it? Why have an intermediary run interference for him?

I look at Tim outside as he interacts with the grill master. He looks like a younger version of Frank Morgan from “The Wizard of Oz” and the more I see of him, the less I’m feeling compelled to know the man behind the curtain.

I’ve met guys like him before – consummate bachelors who entice women with promises and illusions, only to disappoint them in the end. And he’s getting older now, the tricks are wearing thin. Women aren’t as plentiful or as pliable as they used to be, so he’s ready to find someone who might stick around for a while.

I take a bite of the salad.

It needs something.

Ruth tells me that she can vouch for Tim, they’ve been friends for twenty years, and he’s  dated a handful of her friends over the past decade.  I ask why none of the relationships worked out.  “I don’t think he was ready to settle down then,” she explains.  “But he is now.”

She snickers. “There was something else, too,” she says.

I’m waiting.

“One of my girlfriends told me he likes kinky sex.”

“What?” I ask. “Whips? Handcuffs?”

“No, nothing like that,” laughs Ruth, casting a nervous glance in his direction. “He likes…going in the back door.”

I laugh, too.  But at the notion of having to hear this about a man before knowing his middle name, or whether he was a Dodger or a Yankees fan.

Encouraged, Ruth persists. “You’re totally his type,” she says.  “He likes blondes. Let me give you his number.”

I check the time.  It is getting late.  I tell Ruth I have to get back, and we find Tim and thank him for the evening. He looks at Ruth and she tells him she’ll call him.

Two days later, Ruth texts me an invitation to go on a ski trip with her and Tim and a few of his friends at his place in Big Bear.

I wonder again, is he incapable of making the first move? Does she earn a commission?

Sorry, I write back. No sale.

My friends know I have an open mind about the men I meet.  Some might even say my mind is a little too open.  More than once, after yet another break-up, I’ve had to hear, “I could never understand why you were with that guy in the first place!”

Yes, and that comment is just as helpful as it sounds, coming as it does after the fact.

Anyway, it was with this same open mind that I accepted a date with Dan from an on-line dating site.  His age was a little bit out of my ideal range and his main photo looked like an airbrushed headshot.  But he had nice things to say and sounded interesting, so I decided to give him his shot.

He suggested we meet at The Peninsula Hotel for drinks and dinner at 7:30 on a Thursday.  Buzzzzzzz! Time out. Even a rookie knows that planning dinner with an online date can be disastrous, no matter how many drinks you have as a warm-up.  However, since I’ve posted my blonde photos, I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon: the fair-haired me has received many more lunch and dinner invitations than the titian-hued version ever got. I had to make do with coffee or cocktail dates. Enough of this red-haired step-child treatment. I decide to go to dinner.

Dan has emailed me his cell phone number and suggested I call him once I arrive at the hotel so he can meet me in the lobby.  However, the entrance to the bar is actually in the lobby, so at 7:35 I arrive and take a look around. A male lounge singer is crooning “Happy Days Are Here Again.” I decide to take it as an omen. I walk into a crowded bar filled with men and strain to make out faces, but it quickly becomes clear: no Dan.

Call me old-fashioned but if a man is meeting a woman for the first time, he should arrive before she does. I text his cell phone number, saying I am in the bar and ask if he has arrived yet.  No response.  I wait another sixty seconds.  Still no response.

I walk back to the lobby and sit at a table in the lounge. My head is filled with the kind of thoughts women use to excuse a man’s bad behavior.  Maybe he got caught in traffic. Maybe he had a flat tire.  Maybe his phone was dead.

Another ten minutes pass.

Maybe he’s an asshole.

But not for nothing am I a seasoned veteran in the dating game. I decide, when life gives you lemons, have a lemon drop martini.

I walk back into the bar and order a drink. The place is filled with businessmen and it looks like I am the only woman there. I suddenly hear Bridget’s voice in my head (and feel her foot kicking my shins) shouting instructions as I briefly scan the room. “Smile and hold your gaze!” she screams. “Smile and hold your gaze!” But it is too dark.  I can’t see who I might be smiling and gazing at.

My eyes slowly adjust to the dim wattage. I spot another woman, a twenty-something blonde in a black dress, sitting alone at a corner table.  She is neither smiling nor holding a gaze, but leans nonchalantly back in her chair. I assume she is waiting for someone.

Or, as it turns out, something.

An older man peels off from the bar crowd and approaches her. They exchange a few discreet words and he puts a fifty down on the table to cover her tab.  She rises from her seat, offers him her arm and he escorts her out of the lobby.

Wonderful. It’s just me…and the hooker.  I bury my face in my iphone, trying to look busy. A wave of revulsion sweeps over me. I curse Dan. I curse my last boyfriend. I curse every man I’ve ever gone out with for letting me get away. I shove my phone into my purse and prepare to get out of there before someone offers me a wad of cash and his spare room key.

Behind me, a voice asks, “Is this seat taken?”

I cringe and turn, saying “It’s all yours.” A quick glance reveals two attractive men standing there.  “No, no, you can’t leave yet,” they protest. “We just got here.” They tell me they are in town for the NBA All-Star weekend.  They are with one of the sponsors of Dwight Howard‘s party at Paramount the following night.

They seem harmless enough, and are soon regaling me with some of their antics from their travels. One of them, the taller guy, decides to give me a demonstration of the product they rep. He has me stand up and balance on one foot with my arms extended. Since I still have my aforementioned open mind, I decide to comply, even though this probably looks funny in the bar. He pushes down on one of my arms and knocks me off balance.  “See how easy that is to do?” he asks.  “Yes, it’s easy when I’m in four-inch heels and halfway into a martini,” I reply.

His friend places a sports bracelet on my wrist and we repeat the exercise.  I easily stay balanced on one foot with my arms extended as he presses down hard on my arm.  “See!” he exclaims, “You’re perfectly balanced.”

Apparently, this is rocket science. The bracelet houses anantennae that deflects all of the invisible “noise,” such as the radio and cellphone waves, that our bodies are constantly bombarded with daily.  “You’ll sleep better at night, too,” they explain.  I start to remove the bracelet, but they tell me to keep it and try it out.  They invite me to the NBA party the following night, too.

It’s funny. An hour before, I’d felt mortified and couldn’t wait to get out of there. Now I felt I’d regained my balance. In more ways than one.

I did sleep better that night.  And it wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I’d never heard from Dan.  Typically I would have taken the high road and just never communicated with him again. But I thought his actions deserved special notice.

“Dear Dan,” I wrote, “Just wanted to thank you for suggesting the Peninsula. I met someone really interesting there and can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun. It was a much better time than I thought it would be, thanks to you not showing up.”

I was working on a shoot yesterday with a small crew. We walked into an examination room at a doctor’s office and were discussing how to light the small space.  Different size samples of breast implants were on display.

The cameraman, a sweet and soulful guy who enjoys talking about relationships picked up the largest sample and pretended to put it down his pants .   Our behind-the-scenes video guy recorded the entire conversation:

Cameraman: I wonder if they made an equivalent tool to enhance a man’s penis size.

Me: That’s the second time today you’ve brought that up today.  I’m starting to think you’re not so well endowed down there.

Cameraman: Well, I’m not huge.

I laughed.

Cameraman:  I’m average.
Me:  Average.

Cameraman:  Which I guess average is small nowadays.

Me:  Wow.  Don’t ever tell a woman you’re average.

Cameraman: Well, am I supposed to lie?  They’re gonna find out anyway.

Me:  Can we change the subject?  How are we going to light this room?

He laughed.

Me:  See what some silicone implants brought up for you?

Cameraman:  How am I supposed to lie about that?

Me:  This whole conversation turned because you picked up an implant and thought about putting it down your pants.

Cameraman:  If you were going out with a guy, would you rather have him lie and find out or you might as well just be honest.  What are you gonna do?

Me:  Um, I wouldn’t want to have a guy lie, but I’m not sure if a guy… I mean if a guy is constantly bringing up size before we’ve gotten to that point, then I would think he’s probably not on the larger scale because why would a guy who was big, have to say “I’m big?”  He’d be confident and wouldn’t bring it up.  Only a guy who’s insecure about his size would keep bringing it up.

Cameraman:  Right, so you would expect a lie.

Me:  I’d expect him to be small or insecure about something.

He nodded, agreeing, but continued.

Cameraman:  You would just rather not know at all.  Like you just find out.

Me:  You know it’s funny because whenever I meet some guy I really, really like, I just hope.  I just hope.

Cameraman:  Yeah, it’s a total deal breaker, yeah.

I thought about it for a second.

Me: You know if you’re really into somebody and it’s just not there, you kinda gotta rethink what’s important in life.

Cameraman:  Really?

Me:  And maybe that’s not as big or as important as you originally thought, if all the other qualities are there.

Cameraman:  But how big does it have to be before you’re thinking it’s insufficient? Is a little above average adequate enough for your needs?

Me:  Ok, here’s the thing.  People always say ‘size matters’.  It does.  However, if you’re average or a little bit above average and you really know what you’re doing, I think you can totally make up for whatever is lacking.

Cameraman:  Right, but if you’re on the small side you’re in trouble.  You might need an implant.

Me:  There are ways around everything and it just depends on what your relationship is like and how you feel about that person.

Cameraman: Right.

Me:  I mean I’m certainly not going to be like “Okay I’m in love with someone but he’s got a small one so I’m out of here.

Cameraman:  Right, you can giggle with your girlfriends about it but you’d still be…

Me:  No, I don’t think I’d tell my girlfriends about it because I don’t think my girlfriends would need to know that fact about the man I’m with.

Cameraman:  But then if it was big you would definitely tell him.

Me:  You know what?  To tell you the truth…

Cameraman:  Come on, you would.  You know you would.  I know enough women now.

Me:  I think the person I’m going to be with for a long time, possibly marry or be in a long-term relationship with, I don’t think I would want to talk about that man’s penis size with my friends because if it’s big, they don’t need to know that because then they’ll be all over him.  Women are aggressive in Los Angeles.

Cameraman:  Really?

Me:  Are you kidding?  Women will be all over him.  If he’s not, that’s between him and I and no one else needs to know that and be snickering behind his back.

Me: Yeah, right.

Me:  Because it’s none of their business.

Cameraman:  Right.  That’s nice of you.

Me:  Ok, so lighting… How are we going to light this room.

Cameraman:  Yes, lighting.  First, let’s pick the direction you want to shoot…

(Part 1) Bridget kept smiling wide and held her gaze on the tallest of the three gods, until he and his friends walked over in our direction.  I was still talking to Norman as the they approached and stood behind us.  Bridget delivered another swift kick to my leg, so I turned around as Torsten, Gunner and Flemming introduced themselves.

“What about Norman,” I asked Bridget quietly.
“Men know when better specimens arrive,” she stated.  “He’ll pay his check and leave.”

I turned around to finish my conversation with Norman but he had paid his check and left.

I repositioned myself on the barstool to face Bridget and the Vikings. I couldn’t take my eyes off these three amazingly handsome guys.  Bridget was fixated on Torsten.  He was the tallest at 6’5″ and the most out-spoken and charismatic of the three.  His dark blonde hair was messy, his eyes large and alert.  I gathered he rarely missed details. I watched as Bridget casually placed her hands in carefully calculated positions on his shoulder, chest and arm.  Torsten moved in closer to her.

Bridget asked Torsten if he was married.  He wasn’t but he did mention a famous European woman with whom he has an on-again-off-again relationship.  Bridget was unfazed. “Right now it’s off,” he said.

Flemming was about 6’4″ with white blonde hair.  He had a perfectly sculpted nose, full lips and a square chin.  He was quite beautiful and completely charming.  The third man, Gunner, was the shortest of the three men at 6’2″.  He was married and said little throughout the night.

Mastro’s set up a table for the three men directly behind us so Torsten invited us to join them.  The bartender handed Bridget our bill in a leather folder which, after she sat down next to Torsten, promptly slid under her thigh.

Numerous bottles of red wine were opened and poured.  While Bridget cooed over Torsten, I talked with Flemming.  They’re all from Denmark, have been in L.A. for about two years, live in Laguna Beach but are moving to the westside in the next couple of months.

“How do you like L.A.?” I asked him.
“You can’t beat the weather,” he said.  “I love living on the beach and the people are so friendly here.”

Yes, I can imagine how nice people are when you look like a god.  Flemming was an intelligent, articulate and funny guy.  He was about my age and dating a girl in graduate school at USC, who had given up a successful modeling career in order to pursue international business.  She wanted to take advantage of the fact she speaks five languages.  “I’m a little concerned about the age difference,” he said.  “She’s mature for her age but ten years from now, I’ll be 54 and she’ll only be 36.”

Bridget and Torsten were becoming quite affectionate with one another.  About thirty minutes into dinner, she leaned over and whispered something in his ear.  Bridget then hopped off her barstool, took my arm, placed her lips against my ear and said, “I whispered to him just like this, ‘I’ll be right back baby,’ demonstrating exactly how she said it in a soft, breathy voice.  I half-expected her tongue to enter my ear.

“You have to let a man know you’re interested,” she explained.  I had no doubt of Bridget’s interest in Torsten, nor do I believe, did Torsten or either one of his friends.

“What about Carl?” I asked.  “Didn’t you decide to be in a relationship with him?”
“He had his Italian girl, I can have my Viking. We never said we were in a monogamous relationship,” she stated before running off to the restroom.

As the wine continued to flow and the night wore on, Bridget and Torsten became more affectionate. I stopped drinking.  I’ve experienced enough of these nights in my 20s and 30s to know that too much alcohol with total strangers, no matter how good-looking they are, can lead to messy mornings.  I suspected Gunner and Flemming were used to Torsten’s looser behavior because they also stopped drinking.

When their check arrived, I handed my credit card to Bridget, which she shooed away as if I was handing her dog droppings.  Torsten asked the waiter to add our bill to theirs, which he then promptly handed to Flemming.   Flemming added a 20% tip to the entire bill which amounted to about fourteen hundred dollars.

We hopped into a cab and went back to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel where Bridget’s car was parked.  Torsten and Bridget had another cocktail at Sidebar, while Flemming, Gunner and I waited to see what plans our friends were making for the remaining hours of the night.  We wanted to make sure neither one of them was getting behind the wheel of a car.  Bridget jumped up and said, “You and Gunner make a cute couple,” then flashed a picture of us with her digital camera.  In the photo, my dyed blonde strands looked unnatural next to his white blonde hair.

After many conversations back and forth, and Bridget convincing me she wanted to stay with Torsten, Flemming called for a cab.  He and Gunner gave me a ride back to the garage where my car was parked but it was locked up tight, so they took me home, which was in the complete opposite direction of Laguna Beach. They were total gentlemen who, at three o’clock in the morning, insured I got home safely .

Early the next day, I got up and hopped on my bike.  Still groggy, I rode from Hollywood to Beverly Hills to retrieve my car.  Once I arrived at the parking garage, I realized in my sleep haze, that I’d left my car keys on the porch when I unlocked my bike.  So, I took advantage of the beautiful Friday morning, rode back to Hollywood to retrieve my keys and then headed once again to Beverly Hills.  I texted Bridget to see where she ended up and she texted me back, “I’m very hungover, remember champagne and a hot tub, in Laguna still with Thor.”

I appreciated everything I learned from Bridget but I thought to myself, “Is that what I want?  The groggy awkwardness of a morning after with a perfect stranger?  And let’s face it, for a lot of women– and Bridget– that stranger was perfect.

Though Bridget is obviously well-versed in her subject, I felt as if I had stumbled into the wrong classroom and was now trying to find a way to unobtrusively slip out the door and find the right one.”

(Part 1)

My girlfriend Bridget is a former New Yorker, naturally brunette and has lived in Los Angeles for about 15 years.  When she first arrived in LA, she immediately noticed the sea of blondes, so she decided to stand out and dyed her hair red.  “Once I went red, I noticed I was getting a lot of attention from a different type of man,” she explains. “They were really weird. It was like I had fallen off the cute guy radar.”  After a week passed, she went blonde and never looked back.

I reminisced about my early days in L.A.  I was in my mid-20s and my hair was really long, red and curly. I, too, remember being happy that I stood out from the countless blondes as I walked into casting offices.  Though, I’d park my convertible Rabbit in a lot filled with new Porsches and Mercedes, naively wondering what I wasn’t doing right in order to afford such a nice car.

“There’s a hair color learning curve,” Bridget explained as I joined her at the bar at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.  “I’ll teach you how it works because you have way more power as a blonde than you did as a redhead,” she added.

Like me, Bridget has never married or had kids.  However, unlike me, she dates regularly and admittedly has numerous men in her life for various needs.  I am always interested in other people’s dating lives so I was happy to be a pupil in Blonde Dating 101.

Bridget was propped up on the corner stool against the wall, strategically turned out so that she had a view of the entire bar.  She angled my stool toward her so that I was facing solely her and the wall.  When I scooted my stool straight, she corrected me, “Always turn your stool out.  It shows a man you’re open to conversation.”

I always like to arrive after my date, but I gathered Bridget arrived first and positioned her dates in a similar manner, facing her, leaving her date with no view of any other women coming or going during happy hour.  Lesson one… check.

Bridget met her current boyfriend, Carl, at the Beverly Wilshire last October.  “He was sitting alone at an empty bar so I plopped down right next to him and introduced myself,” she said.  They dated for about two weeks and then Carl stopped calling.  Bridget has been around long enough to know that you can’t waste time obsessing over why a guy suddenly disappears.  You move on to the next one and Bridget has no trouble finding her next one.

Two months later, on Christmas Day, Carl texted Bridget asking how she was doing.  She sent back a general response, which was all Carl needed to know he still had a chance with her.  He wanted to see her again, but Bridget was not one to take a guy back after being left in the dust.

It turns out that Carl’s story was not so different from other 51 year old men who get propositioned by a 26 year old Italian girl.  She rocked his world for eight weeks.  After some crazy, obsessive behavior, Carl dropped the Italian girl and ran for his life, relieved his body parts and wallet were still intact.  Bridget left out the gory details, yet I never cease to be amazed that men believe a woman less than half their age will be interested in their brain and waning physical strength for any length of time.

“Carl and I had a good time together,” explained Bridget, “Before he lost his mind, there was a connection between us.  So when he came to his senses, realizing what he had lost and told me what happened, I said I’d think about taking him back.” Since Bridget was leaving for Australia for three weeks, she told Carl he’d have an answer upon her return.

Carl was complimentary of Bridget and treated her like a queen.  She appreciated his honesty about what happened so when she was in Australia, she decided she would see him again, Bridget emphasized the word decided to me.  Here was lesson two: “You can’t make it too easy for men,” she said.  “Make them work for it.  Otherwise they’ll treat you like a door mat.”

Bridget dangled her carrot in front of Carl.  He screwed up and for the time being, she was in control of the relationship.  She liked it that way.  “I’m finally in a relationship and will have a date on Valentine’s Day,” she added happily.

Bridget then pointed out two attractive men who walked into the bar.  Before I could crane my neck around to see them, she had already assessed the situation.  Lesson three:  If you want in the game, have a plan.  Bridget had a plan and I didn’t.  “One’s married, but the other one’s not wearing a ring,” she stated.  “Look the single guy directly in the eyes, smile, hold your gaze and let him know you’re interested,” she said, giving me my first assignment.  Then Bridget got up from her barstool and left for the restroom.

I glanced in that guy’s direction, but I didn’t really find him attractive and even if I did, I didn’t feel comfortable gazing into his eyes and smiling.  What would I be saying by smiling and holding his gaze?  Isn’t that what hookers do?  I am sitting alone at a hotel bar in Beverly Hills.  Instead, I checked my iphone for emails and text messages.  Once I looked up, the men were gone.

I thought about the good relationships I’ve had and most of those started off with the man pursuing me.  All my life I’ve heard countless opinions, instructions, rules and guidelines for meeting the perfect guy. What happened to meeting men and letting a relationship happen organically?  But then I remembered I live in LA where youth and beauty are fleeting moments in the sands of time and everyone is always looking for the bigger, better thing.  Not to mention, with focused, aggressive women like Bridget, decent single guys are strategically snatched up like hungry eagles grabbing their prey.

As I waited for Bridget to return, my mind wandered off to my recent Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon.  I thought about the scene in Rear Window when Jimmy Stewart observes Miss Lonely Hearts (a redhead, btw) opening the door for her imaginary date.  She sets the table, pours wine and speaks to her invisible guest.  Jimmy says to Grace Kelly, “Well at least that’s something you’ll never have to worry about.”  She responds, “Oh you can see my apartment from here, all the way up on 63rd Street?”  If Grace Kelly can feel lonely, I wonder if I could end up like Miss Lonelyhearts ten years from now, living in a small apartment, questioning where I went wrong.

Bridget returned from the restroom.
“What happened to those guys?!” she asked incredulously.  I obviously flunked my first assignment.
“I wasn’t really interested in him,” I responded.
“He would have been good practice for you,” she said.
“I guess I’m not a very good student.”

Since there weren’t any other educational opportunities at the Beverly Wilshire, Bridget and I drove to Mastro’s, the steakhouse on Canon in Beverly Hills.  She walked right past the hostess and up the stairs to the second floor.  Two women at the overly crowded bar relinquished their stools just as we arrived.  Perfect timing.  If you want to sit at a bar and check out a large array of men, go to Mastro’s and on any given night (but be prepared to drop about a hundred bucks if you have dinner and a glass of wine).

Once we sat down, it was the same scenario.  Bridget looked out over the restaurant and I faced her, and the pole.  She turned my barstool toward her and said, “Weren’t you paying attention?  Don’t ever face forward.” Then she nudged me. “Talk to the guy who just sat down next to you.  He’s got an automobile catalog and is picking out his next car.”

Since my big, heavy barstool was facing to the right, I had to adjust my entire body to see the short, older Jewish man with puffy hair sitting behind me.  He was browsing a muscle car catalog.  Per my instructions, I chatted up Norman, who was in town producing an event.  About five minutes passed before I received a swift kick to my shin from Bridget.  I turned back to her.  Her mouth was smiling as wide as it would stretch, and her gaze fixed towards to door.  I followed her eyeline and looked up.  Three extremely tall, superbly handsome Nordic men had arrived.  Her senses honed, Bridget’s entire body was in capture mode.  I knew at this very moment I would spend the rest of the evening watching this professional dater in action, with multiple lessons to be learned.  I sat back, smiled and watched as the night unfolded.  To be continued…

Men are much nicer to me.  Women aren’t.

I get free stuff… like drinks at a bar.

I have to get a new driver’s license.

More drivers let me pass in front of them.

It’s expensive being a blonde! I’ve had to buy numerous products to keep my hair moist and to maintain the length.

I still don’t look good in pink or blue.

Sometimes people talk louder to me.

I feel I can’t eat as much.

Men want to touch my hair.

I wear high heels more often… not sure why, just feel like I want to.

Men smile (and are sometimes giddy) when they talk to me.

I toss my hair around a lot more.

I receive dozens more emails from online dating sites.

Instead of having to go through the rigmarole of emails and phone calls to book online dates, guys just email me saying, “Let’s meet” and suggest a time and place.  SO much easier.

I have an urge to wear padded bras… lol.

I’ve never been called “arm candy” before.

I’m still surprised when I look in a mirror and see myself as a blonde.

People I know do not recognize me right away.

I need a new blonde wardrobe.

A blind date exclaimed, “Oh, you have skills!”

I never liked to shop before.  Now I do!

I don’t have to cringe at the word “ginger.”

I can blame any stupid thing I say as “having a blonde moment”.

I smile more often.

It’s not just a hair color.  It’s a way of life.

100% of my friends who have seen me in person (even those who claimed to have loved my red hair) say I should keep it blonde.

I have to change all my professional photos.

I’m surprised how much I like having straight hair.

When I let my blonde hair dry naturally curly, I totally look like a surfer chick.

One woman told me I have  ”f*%k me hair.”  Now I can retire my “f*&k me” shoes.

Any date who googles me and finds my ginger pics will be in for a surprise.

No matter what color my hair is, I’m still the same person but strangers act differently to me now.

I still feel like I’m an undercover redhead.

Remember how in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” James Stewart pines over ill-fated Kim Novak as a cool blonde, then remakes her in her own image after he sees her with auburn hair?

The rational side of me always thought, “C’mon, Jimmy, you didn’t immediately know she was the same woman?”

The romantic side of me chalks it up to his vision being clouded by his obsession. Or maybe just by being a man. Lord knows they can be easily distracted.

Adam and I first make contact through a matching site when I have red hair. Adam’s in his mid 40’s, with dark blonde hair, and looks to be in great shape. He is divorced after a 20-year marriage, has three young daughters, and lives in Calabasas, a suburban community about an hour north of L.A.

We meet for a drink during the holidays at a large hotel in Beverly Hills.  He drives in for a client event and books a room to avoid having to make his way home after a big party and a few too many cocktails.  Plus, who knows, maybe he was feeling lucky.

Adam’s pictures don’t lie. He is an attractive man and I like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. I also appreciate the fact that he hasn’t tried to cover the gray hair creeping in at the temples. We spend about two hours together, sitting by the pool, getting to know one another. He’s a decent guy who clearly has been enjoying his single life and investigating what the city has to offer.

Around 8 o’clock, I leave to meet a girlfriend for dinner at a nearby restaurant.  Adam keeps up a steady flow of texts during the evening, inviting me back to his hotel.  I decline.  Undeterred, he continues to text me during a week-long ski vacation with his girls.  Upon his return, we schedule a date, but he cancels at the last minute. We try again, but he does the same thing – texting with about an hour’s notice — asking for a rain check.

I flash back to just about every romance-based self-help book I’ve ever read: If a guy really wants to see you, he will find a way.

Truer words were never spoken, except for “Get it in writing.” I decide to pass.

It is shortly after this episode that I decide to go blonde, and post a new entry on the dating site as my new persona.  Guess who was one of the first guys to respond?

“I am exactly the type of man you are looking for,” Adam writes, “and I believe we have lots in common.”

Yeah, like spending a couple of hours poolside at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in late December, for one.

I examine a few of the redhead photos I had posted on this same site and compare them to my blonde photos.  They had been taken in the same room, at the same angle with the same lighting.  I am wearing different clothes but have a similar expression on my face.  When I place the photos side by side, my hair is styled almost exactly the same (except for the obvious color change).  To me, I look like me.

Granted, seeing close friends for the first time after becoming blonde, it takes them a few seconds before they recognize me.  However, Adam has clicked on my profile multiple times daily, for the past two weeks, consistently showing up at the top of my list of recent viewers.  If he’s so interested in viewing my profile, I wonder why he hasn’t realized that we’ve already met.  Or is he like Jimmy Stewart in “Vertigo,” dizzy with desire by thoughts of a blonde?

I don’t reply to Adam, which only serves to increase his interest. Of course. He writes again, more urgently, questioning if living in the Valley makes him geographically undesirable.  Or, he wonders, “are his pictures lacking in the ‘my type’ department?” He lists his positive qualities and tells me he thinks I’m worth the extra effort and doesn’t mind risking rejection.

Part of me thinks about scheduling a date with Adam and seeing how long it takes him to figure out we’ve already met. And part of me thinks, leave him hanging, turn the tables, keep it a mystery as to why I haven’t responded to him. I’m still deciding.

I sometimes think there are two kinds of people in this world: those who seek the approval of others…and the others who refuse to give it to them.

Despite the presence of three daughters, there was no such thing as “Daddy’s Little Girls” in our suburban split-level. Compliments were rare, and usually focused on athletic or academic achievements. Looking back now, I can’t remember a spontaneous hug from my father, or a pat on the head, or an expression on his face other than irritation for making too much noise when he was trying to read the paper.

Small wonder that when I discovered I had a talent for diving, I threw myself into it — and the pool — with abandon. My father was chairman of the swim team at our local pool, and it made him look good to have a daughter who could be counted on to provide a couple of medals every meet. All of a sudden, I was getting “Attagirls” right and left.

Diving became a year-round avocation, and I found myself up before dawn, still groggy, plunging into barely-heated indoor public high school pools because that’s when they were available. I practiced for hours, and soon had a shelf full of trophies to show for my efforts.

I had yet to turn eleven.

Then my parents divorced and my dad left.  I went to the window and watched as his car backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the street, and then very calmly started taking the trophies off the shelf, one by one, until they were gone. I suddenly looked forward to sleeping ‘in’ the next morning.

I think about this as I have lunch with Jenny, a friend who has recently gone back to her natural brunette shade after years spent as a blonde. She’s taken it upon herself to help me better “fit in” as a member of the towhead persuasion.

“You have to play it cool,” she advises. “Keep the guys off-balance. Their persistence level will only increase if you show a lack of interest.  Reject them at least once.  They’ll come back,” she explained.

The only problem I’m having with this is that I’ve spent my entire life NOT play-acting to get a man’s attention.

“And where did that get you?” she counters, sounding like Patti Stanger from Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker. “New blonde you, new attitude. You’ll see. You act as if you couldn’t care less and you’ll have them chomping at the bit.”

Yeah, fine, if all you want is a boy toy.

A week later, I am contacted by a 72-year old Jewish woman on a dating site. I know my blonde profile has been receiving lots of emails, but this is extreme. Her message quickly reassures me. She wants to fix me up with her son, Mark, who she describes as “a total mensch.” He’s divorced with three kids.   She thinks I might be a good match for him so she sends me links to his Facebook page and company website, and asks me to take a look.

I check Mark out and we decide to meet for a drink at the L’Hermitage Hotel in Beverly Hills.

Initial impression: positive. He’s attractive, in good shape, about my age, and an inch taller than me. His slight New York accent is apparent as he tells me he’s actually been divorced twice and is ready to dive into a “meaningful relationship,” and wants “unconditional love” from his “partner.”  I didn’t need to read between the lines to understand that after two divorces and three kids, he wasn’t looking for another woman to marry, but for a partner who will split his expenses 50/50.

I lean back in my chair. Is this what the blonde hair has brought me? More guys, but more of the same?

Sensing my lack of interest, Mark goes into overdrive. He becomes quite generous with compliments and keeps up a steady attempt at witty banter.  When before I would have attempted to hold up my end of the conversation, I just sit back with a vague smile on my lips. I realize I am playing out Jenny’s scenario.

Mark is eager to win my approval. “So how is this going?” he asks.  “I’m not getting any signals from you.”  I laugh, say nothing and think to myself, “Attagirl.”