Posted by Elliot Steingart
I developed my first ever crush in 2nd grade on Alyse Katz. She was pale, and beautiful and good at times tables. Imagine sitting next to the girl you’re in love with every single day in math class and then being mean to her. How great love was.
It’s been a while since I have liked someone as much as I liked Alyse in second grade. Recently though, I have developed a grade-school crush on Kristin, my exotic neighbor who lives right down the steps from me. My crush is harmless since I know Kristin has a boyfriend, not just any boyfriend either. From the pictures I’ve seen on Facebook he’s about 6 feet 6 inches with olive skin, dark eyebrows and broad shoulders. He looks like a Greek God. How can I compete with Stavros Costmopolous? He would stuff me like a grape leaf. Stavros, whose real name is Jerry, lives in San Diego. Fortunately, I have a major proximity advantage. All I have to do is walk downstairs.
On a recent weeknight I was all set to open a nice bottle of wine, a Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc ( Fall 2011), but I couldn’t find the wine opener. I decided that this was my chance.
Kristin’s roommates, Marissa and Caroline, usually answer the door. No one answered when I knocked so I rang the door bell. Rather than stick her eye through the peephole, Kristin lifted the curtain to identify who was at her door—a true example of courage.
Kristin and I have shared many small moments in the last few months like the time she organized a yard sale on our front lawn to benefit one of her nursing school classmates wrongfully placed on academic probation. I helped by purchasing the 2005-2006 Los Angeles Clippers Media Guide for $2. We’ve chatted a lot on the phone, mainly about me blocking her in the driveway. Through these interactions I am offered glimpses into her studious personality, forever hitting the books for her next nursing exam.
Kristin welcomed me inside her empty house wearing pajama pants and spaghetti straps. We entered the kitchen where she handed me the wine opener with a smile that seemed to suggest I was up to no good. Should I ask if she wants to play nurse, I wondered.
“Are you stoned?” She asked.
“No, Why? Do I look stoned?” I removed my glasses so she could check my eyes.
I opened the bottle and offered her a glass.
“I have school tomorrow,” she said.
“I’m just trying to enjoy the night. Can you blame me?”
There is that tense realization that surfaces from knowing you are home alone with a beautiful girl who has a boyfiend. The cat Minerva walks into the kitchen, but you are still the only other male in the house. You stay as long as she asks you questions and as long as she wants to talk about how she spent her month off from nursing school, her chances of getting a job after she graduates in June, and being 30 years old and not wanting to live with roommates anymore. She clarifies that she likes Marissa and Caroline, but would prefer to live somewhere that has her own furniture, and art work.
“I would prefer to live somewhere that has more color.”
“You should like the white walls. It’s like you are back in the hospital.”
“That’s not a good thing.”
I wait for Kristin to shift her feet outward to signal our time is up, but her feet remain pointed towards me.
“I like visiting your house because it reminds me that this is how a home is supposed to look.”
“I’ve never seen your house.”
“It’s the same layout as your house, just not nearly as presentable. I bought a Living Social for a cleaning lady, so hopefully that helps.”
She pauses and says, “I’ll visit after she cleans the house.”
Living Social well spent…
A few weeks later a red truck is blocking our driveway. I knock on Kristin’s door to identify the culprit, and to my surprise a towering figure with a flannel shirt and handle bar mustache answers the door. Stavros!
“Hey, sorry about that.” He began. “Parking on the street was really tight and Kristen said it would be okay. Sorry again, I’ll move the truck right now.”
I wait for Stavros to pull the truck to the front of the driveway. He waves at me at which point I roll my window down.
“Cool stache by the way. Is it for Movember?”
“Yea, thanks man. We are running a 5k for cancer tomorrow.”
“Good luck,” I shouted.
“Alright—take care, bro.”
So Stavros is no longer the Odysseus archetype I imagined, but a guy named Jerry sacrificing his face for the fight against cancer. I still have a crush on Kristen, but it helps to now know the guy who would kick my ass.
11.25.13 at 8:30 am | Learning code of conduct
10.28.13 at 9:09 am | Parents Meeting Girlfriend's Parents,and more
8.2.13 at 9:12 am | Guest blog written by my dad
7.24.13 at 9:38 am | Going home
6.25.13 at 9:36 am | The longest day of the year
5.24.13 at 11:43 am | Taking the Socks off
November 16, 2011 | 11:55 am
Posted by Elliot Steingart
Success in your 20’s is relative. Sure, I may drive a Hyundai and work for a growing internet company, but all I’ve ever really been is someone’s roommate. For the last three years I’ve lived with roommates in an area without a definitive name; some days it’s Fairfax, other days, Melrose.
In the summer of 2008 I moved into a furnished apartment on North Hayworth with Dave, someone I met senior year at Torrey Pines who had a small room available with views of the Hollywood Hills. Two days later Dave told me he was moving out leaving me 30 days to furnish the place and find a roommate.
I auditioned roommates on Craigslist and the safest bet was Steve, a UCLA Law Student from Korea. He and I got along well enough until he told me he lost $50,000 gambling and would have to move out. I didn’t understand.
“If you had $50k how come we never had a toaster?”
He left with the garbage can which incidentally was the only time he took out the trash.
Ryan, a buddy from Pittsburgh I hadn’t seen since high school, moved from Alabama to replace Steve. That first day I sat on the balcony with Ryan reminiscing about our days playing soccer at Allderdice, telling him how he would love the neighborhood and the carne asada burritos at Benitos right across the street.
He didn’t care that Stacey, my girlfriend would stay over most nights. I cared more than him. He didn’t have to share half the bed with her. When Stacey wasn’t around Ryan and I would walk to “Benny’s” for a burrito or play Madden games that resulted in me going to sleep a loser. Once Ryan let a girl he was dating borrow his favorite sweatpants. When they stopped dating three weeks later she posted pictures on Facebook wearing the sweats. The stress of life at 340 Hayworth was letting these girls get into our pants.
When Ryan told me Ben, who in third grade karate kicked me at my neighbor Matt Glunt’s house, was moving to LA, I was both excited and ready to defend myself. The three of us moved up the street to a duplex just north of Melrose, above three girls in their late 20’s. Stacey and I broke up shortly after the move and Pippin, Ben’s pittbull/boxer mix, became our favorite female confidante who Ryan and I tried stealing away from Ben unsuccessfully nearly every night.
Life was simple in the neighborhood. I drove two miles to work at Jewish Big Brothers Big Sisters, roughhoused with Pippin and met new OkCupid dates at the Snake Pit. Ryan and I transitioned from Madden to NCAA Football making bets like the loser has to walk to the gas station to get the winner a Diet Mountain Dew or in my case, sour cherries. Ben gave me karate lessons in our backroom.
“For this move you have to be comfortable with your sexuality,” he said as he sat on top of me holding my wrists.
“I ‘m comfortable with my sexuality, but this seems funny. And it’s not helping that you’re wearing a purple belt.”
We barbecued on the weekends and spent most nights together in the living room watching sports or HBO but still lived independently. For Ryan that meant skating down to Fairfax to chill with the homies at the Hundreds. When Ben wasn’t editing videos in his room, he drove to Karate practice and I discovered Melgard, a beer pub on Melrose and Gardner that would become the destination for my monthly comedy night.
When we moved in to the place Denise, the Realtor, wanted to make sure we didn’t play any loud instruments. Ryan didn’t tell Denise his drum set would occupy the corner of our living room.
Instead he simply said, “I play the flute.”
I left the room to stop myself from laughing.
“You should hear him play. He’s one of the best.”
Then Ben tried convincing Denise that Pippin was a friendly dog and not a killer pittbull like she thought.
“She’s only half pitt.”
“She doesn’t even talk to that side of the family,” I added.
Thankfully Ryan never once played the drums and Pippin didn’t destroy the house, but we stopped caring about the condition of our house, the same place where plants went to die. Dishes piled up so high in the sink I began sneaking handfuls of plastic utensils weekly from my office to avoid the responsibility of putting the dishes in the dishwasher. That’s the only reason I wore cargo pants to the office. We became negligent to the point that even after buying the services of a cleaning lady on Living Social we still haven’t made the call.
You get to a point when you realize you don’t have to live this way. It’s not just the condition of our house, but the commute to my job at Goldstar in Pasadena that no longer makes sense. Beginning the first of the new year, I’m going to leave the neighborhood to move to my own place. I am sad to leave and hope I will not be forgotten. Maybe the girls at the gas station will miss the guy who buys $1 lottery tickets and Diet Mountain Dew. Ryan and Ben will either find someone to replace me or move elsewhere. If they choose to stay I hope their next roommate makes his living as a dishwasher.
Now I search Craigslist for one bedroom apartments, and visit Walk Score to see the walk-ability of my new neighborhood. My mom wants me to live in a Jewish neighborhood, but there is no Jew Score to tell me how many Jews live in my neighborhood. I’m not basing my apartment search on whether or not I can have Sunday conversations with Sam, the butcher. Though if I live near other Jews maybe I’ll find a Jewish girl from Michigan’s Upper Penninsula with whom I imagine frequenting the Silverlake Farmers Market on Sundays and one day settling into a quaint two bedroom on an Eagle Rock hillside. For now I’m more focused on secured parking and on site laundry. I have yet to find an apartment on Craigslist that comes with a Jewish girlfriend. I still haven’t checked West Side Rentals (too expensive).
I’m planning to move to Pasadena where no one knows me. I think about my upcoming anonymity when I run at night passing for sale signs on empty storefronts on Melrose from my favorite LA Realtor, Houmin Mahboubi. Maybe Houmin will have more luck listing on the East Side?
I run past Yawnee, my favorite hairdresser at Vous Salon who in exhange for my glowing Yelp review, gave me a bottle of $15 shampoo. What will become of my sideburns?
I pass Melgard’s large outdoor patio on Melrose and Gardner where I side-step smokers and skaters. After a year and a half of building the show from nothing, I wonder if “Melgard Mondays” should even continue.
I avoid running into parking meters and blow past the outdoor diners at the Foundry. When I circle back around I peer into the local pizza shop, Tomato Pie and give a head nod to the friendly proprietor, and wave at the Israeli kid next door working at Booyah’s Frozen Yogurt where I splurge for fro-yo topped with jimmies and gummy bears.
Even if I move to Pasadena I can’t replicate the life I lived in the neighborhood or replace roommates who became my best friends. I’m ready to join a gym and wash dishes and maybe start performing comedy more regularly. I’m motivated to live better. That’s what it means to move on.
November 9, 2011 | 11:35 am
Posted by Elliot Steingart
Two months after my Grandma Leona was diagnosed with cancer I received a call from my mom insisting I drive down to San Diego to see her before she passed away. I had never waited for someone to die before, let alone my loving grandma, the matriarch of our family who always told me I was the next “Steinfeld.”
Leona had a sharp sense of humor, and often made us laugh unintentionally. “I hope I’m not going to hell” she would say. To which we explained Jews don’t believe in hell. I’m guessing her version of hell was someplace with too much schmutz.
Leona was not destined for hell. She raised four girls, including her nieces Janice and Cathy, whose parents died when they were very young. She also took care of her husband, Norman as his health declined in the late 70’s and later her father who moved in with her for the final 10 years of his life.
Every September Leona would fly from San Diego back to her hometown of Pittsburgh to stay with us for a month. She would babysit my sister, Ariel and I and let me watch “Empty Nest” even when I was grounded from TV. After school we played gin, and ate her famous chocolate chip cookies together, and when we went “upstreet” we held hands like a strictly platonic Harold and Maude.
And now on a moment’s notice, our entire family representing both coasts, arrived in San Diego to wait out the inevitable death of the eldest member of our family, someone we all loved and included.
When I arrived at Aunt Barb and Uncle Larry’s house my parents walked me into my Cousin Ari’s room where Leona was laying on a home care hospital bed hooked up to an IV. She looked ghostly, but seemed at peace, unlike her grandson who could hardly look her in the eye without crying.
Later Rabbi Rosenthal visited her room. “Now is the time to tell Leona what she has meant to you,” he advised.
Grown men broke down in that room and my mom and Aunt Barb told their mother she was their inspiration and best friend. I leaned over my 4’9"grandma who at this point shared the bed with Alfie, Aunt Barb and Uncle Larry’s Bedlington Terrier, and Jake, her 3 month old great grandson. Seeing a dog and baby cuddling with grandma on her death bed made me smile.
“You probably know why we are all here…so you can finally tell us who is your favorite grandson.” She still had enough in her for a laugh.
We left her room not knowing if we would ever see her again. We relied on the medical opinions of the family doctors, Uncle Larry, and my Cousin Josh.
“It could be tonight, it could be tomorrow. We don’t really know.”
“She would want us to celebrate her life rather than be sad.” My mom continued to reiterate.
Despite the horrible circumstance, the entire family reunited: Ariel, and cousin Robyn, both pregnant and their husbands Brian/Bryan, cousin Ari, the jungle DJ living out of his van, my cousins Josh and Abby and their two baby boys, Jake and Tyler, Adam and hot girlfriend Sierra, and Sami, Max and Sasha, cousins in their 20’s who could finally sit around the table and participate in an adult conversation with the likes of Uncle Marc, Aunt Judy, Aunt Janice and Rich, and Aunt Cathy, and David.
Thursday night Uncle Larry left to round the hospital so Cousin Josh stood on call downstairs with Grandma. As we drank wine upstairs, snuck out back for a smoke, and told jokes by the fire, Josh kept Grandma alive.
On Friday mom and Aunt Barb spent most of the day by grandma’s side, as did Aunt Cathy. Meanwhile, Delhi, Leona and Aunt Barb’s housekeeper, worked off the clock tending to her friend, Leona. The rest of the day the family split up and eventually came back to the house for dinner and drinks.
Saturday morning my dad schooled me in tennis. When we arrived back at the house Cousin Adam and I played FIFA. In the 80th minute my mom interrupted the game.
Those of us inside the house slowly entered the room. There she was with her eyes shut and mouth open. I stared at my grandma who was now merely a lifeless body. We held each other realizing this was the last time we would ever see the matriarch of our family. 92 years of life had stopped in an instant.
After leaving the room we waited for the others. Ariel, Sami, Sasha, and Aunt Janice came down the steps. We stood in silence, stunned this was now the conclusion.
The rabbi returned and asked us to share our memories of Grandma. She was the “peacemaker who could always keep a secret,” said Aunt Cathy.
Cousin Robyn remembered hiding Aunt Leona’s hair nets.
My dad remembered calling Leona’s office when she worked at the Pitt. Her boss would answer and reply “She’s here, but not all there.”
I shared the time grandma volunteered to type a homework assignment for me and typed a whole story about tuna fish I made up on the spot.
That night some of us watched “The Big Chill,” a film that seemed to capture what we expereinced. After the movie, the cousins and I escaped to Dave and Busters. Cousin Max left with a pair of D & B underpants.
About 40 people attended the funeral. Uncle Larry composed himself better than any of us could.
“I first met Leona in 1967,” he began his eulogy.
“I was in love with her daughter. I knew the first time I met her, that I was also in love with Leona.”
I looked to Josh and Ari, my cousins I wanted to be like the most growing up. Now at 26, I still needed approval from my older cousins to see if it was okay to cry at grandma’s funeral. Not like it mattered; I was defenseless.
“At 92 she was still driving and playing Mahjong three times a week. She was truly at peace with dying and she died in front of the people she loved most—her family. I knew Leona almost as long as my own mother. I will always love Leona.”
During the end of Leona’s life our family spent five meaningful days together. In between playing “Words with Friends” on our iPhones, we became a group of people who could talk to each other, and laugh and cry with one another—a family. Before my grandma passed, my mom asked her if she had any life lessons. All she said was “Be Kind.”
If only we can continue to live like Leona.
November 2, 2011 | 12:04 pm
Posted by Elliot Steingart
The exciting part about being single is you never know who you are going to sleep with next. It can be anybody, really. Knowing me, most likely an artsy liberal from OkCupid. I’ve been on the site for almost two years so at this point “Mr. San Diego” is a seasoned veteran.Though I grew up in Pittsburgh, I moved to San Diego when I turned 17. I figured Mr. San Diego would get more dates than Mr. Pittsburgh who I envision drinking an Iron City wearing a tank top and jean shorts. Mr. San Diego at least wears sleeves.
With a few decent enough photos of yourself and a fairly witty profile, you can meet a lot of women. The problem is when Mr. San Diego, the once genteel internet dater turns into “Mr. Weeknight.” An average Tuesday for Mr. Weeknight: two drinks at home, walk to Melrose for two more drinks with someone with whom all you have in common is occasionally you both like to eat pho.
Mr. Weeknight expresses his love for Eagle Rock, and how he enjoys the music of “Mumford and Sons,” but beyond that nothing personal.
“So, do you have any siblings?”
“A brother, or a sister?”
“Just a sibling.”
It got to the point where the bartender at the Snakepit would know that I’d bring a different girl with me each week. She would pretend she didn’t know me so things never got awkward. I would tip her an extra dollar out of gratitude. Even though many of these dates led nowhere I continued on. For every lackluster first date at the Snakepit with Kelly, there was the hope of Rowie at the Surly Goat and the promise of Alana at the Village Idiot.
And then, something happened. I woke up and realized I didn’t know who I was sleeping next to. It wasn’t a woman….I sucked in my stomach then exhaled and it was what I thought it was: my belly. I felt my chest and it felt like I was forming man boobs. I don’t like to think they were man boobs, rather boobs that would belong to a lady, but still.
Was I gaining weight from all these mistake dates? Was it worth going out with someone who told me her version of camping was a hotel without room service? How about my date who saw a heavy set woman at a restaurant and told her friend she should be on the anorexia diet? Would this be my future?
I sat lounging in my living room with my feet up mindlessly watching TV when a few proud men wearing tank tops appeared on screen. “My guy friends started making jokes when I told them I joined ‘Weight Watchers for Men’. That’s okay because I’ve lost 50 lbs. Who is laughing now?”
Weight Watchers for Men, what a novel idea, I thought. I need to lose weight, and I’m a man. Plus I always liked tank tops; I was born and raised in Pittsburgh not San Diego.
I am now three weeks into weight watching. I get 35 points a day which allows me to eat all the fruits and vegetables I want and anything else in moderation.
I am counting every carrot and tracking everytime I run, play basketball and soccer. It’s fun and it’s already working. Weight Watchers is turning into Date Watchers. If Date Watchers isn’t already trademarked, I’m sure we could help other online dating addicts. Date Watchers could help you track how many emails you send and how many responses you get. Everytime you go on a date you can track how much you drink, spend and then track the outcome. Eventually you may realize for all the time and energy you put in, you probably aren’t seeing quality results. Then again, maybe you’ve found your GifelteBitch, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m watching how much I date because dating non-stop isn’t healthy for me. Instead of my alter ego,“Mr. Weeknight,” I’d rather be a better fit young bachelor who can confidently meet someone the natural way—in person (at a bar).
I am running during the week, eating healthier and feeling better about myself all while eliminating the mistake dates. Now who can help me trademark Date Watchers?
October 27, 2011 | 10:31 am
Posted by Elliot Steingart
I remember looking at the new faces in my freshman dorm and immediately identifying who in the room looked the most Jewish. Tall, skinny dude wearing Giants cap, I may not know his name, but that’s my boy. Many of my best memories from my first year were spent playing catch baseball with Ryan right down the hill from our dorm room on UC Santa Cruz’s East Field overlooking Monterrey Bay. We ate most of our meals and drank most of our beer together, and triumphed as part of the “Poke Checkers” checking line in intramural floor hockey.
I was in Ryan’s dorm room when a sparkly blue-eyed blond haired gal named Sierra from his Sonoma County hometown of Healdsburg, California popped in. Ryan didn’t have to tell me he liked Sierra in high school and never stopped. It was obvious.
Well, as luck would have it, Ryan and Sierra basically shared a room sophomore year, the same room I also just so happened to share with Ryan. They eventually moved in together which made the most sense for everyone.
Despite these memories, I couldn’t decide about attending Ryan’s wedding. We had only seen each other a few times since graduating in 2007. The wedding was a far drive and I’d have to take time off work. He was my best friend in college, but we didn’t talk all that much. Plus my best bud, Vivo, the Poke-Checkers all time leading goal scorer, wouldn’t be there.
I struggled with this decision and sought advice from family, co-workers, retail employees—whomever would listen. A few beers deep on a first date I asked Abby her opinion. “Would you want him at your wedding?”
So, I drove up to wine country with Todd, my freshman roommate. We spent hours in the car together listening to his same Rage Against the Machine album on repeat like we were roommates again. We spent a night in San Francisco with our friend “Shappy,” who we convinced to join us at our camp site along the Russian River.
Ryan and Sierra’s post-college friends—farmers, fisherman, and townies, arrived at the beach with some of the best groomed mustaches west of the Mississippi. Nate, our new zucchini farming friend passed a bottle of whiskey around as we introduced ourselves as Ryan’s college friends aka Ryan’s Jewish friends. Shappy, now shirtless, was the only person at the campground wearing a Star of David. To fit in better, I was hoping the Star of David that could reverse into a Cross. Also not helping matters,Todd forgot his sweatshirt. It was like man vs wild. Well, more like Jewish man vs wild.
And then I met Blair –tan, with thick brown hair and remarkable lips, my love interest for the weekend.
At night we sang songs like “Jolene” around the campfire. I sat in a foldout chair hoping Blair would come close since I didn’t want to give up my seat. Instead she clung on to Raj, a salmon fisherman from Alaska who had drifted to Santa Cruz. When he wasn’t catching salmon, he was crashing weddings and stealing hearts. Ryan rounded the circle like a joint until finally reaching my chair. “What’s it feel like?”
“It’s surreal knowing everyone came here just for us.”
Todd and I wondered how we would shower before the wedding since there were no showers on site.I put my head under a spigot where I conditioned my hair and shaved my neck. I changed my pants inside the tent and kept hitting my head on the top flap. I stepped out of the tent to see Blair looking sexy in a royal blue dress, a similar color to the bridesmaids dresses. If one of the bridesmaids went down Blair could easily step right in.
The wedding was held at a vineyard overlooking Alexander Valley and a nearby reservoir. The sun set over the valley with Ryan and Sierra underneath a hoopah handcrafted by Ryan’s dad and the four groomsmen who I presume never before wore a yarmulke nor built a Chuppah. Ryan’s Uncle Mike officiated the ceremony. The microphone was about a foot taller than Mike and it took him a good couple of minutes to realize that the mic was not turned on.
Sharing their vows, Sierra expressed her love using index cards while Ryan took his bride in his hands and said “Sierra when I am with you I am free. I promise to be good to you always. You are my love, my only love and I will forever be there for you.”
Blair was sitting in a row next to several other naturally beautiful Bay Area natives, the kind of strong-minded, independent women you’d want Occupying Wall Street. These proud women were now sobbing uncontrollably. I was more than ready to borrow Uncle Mike and take Blair under that same Chuppah.
Raj reeled Blair in so it probably wasn’t going to happen. Besides, in the two days I knew Blair the extent of our conversation was “Nice to meet you too.”
And so with my cabernet in my hand I took a walk as the sun began to set. One of my best friends in college was now a a married man and there I was at his wedding watching the sun glow from the body of the reservoir thinking about how this might be the end of our friendship. I wouldn’t see him much anymore, not like I saw him much to begin with. That thought passed quickly when I realized that Ryan and Sierra’s love was pretty special, and I witnessed it from its earliest stages to its climax (literally).
Before I could reach the dance floor, Ryan grabbed my arm. “Horah—next song! I want you to be in there.”
I rushed to the circle joining the groomsmen in lifting Ryan in the chair until I could no longer feel my arms. I was glad I could be the Jew he identified among everyone else. More so, I’m glad I could be there as a friend.
October 21, 2011 | 5:27 pm
Posted by Elliot Steingart
Since my last relationship ended two years ago, I have dated a lot of girls from OKCupid. If OkCupid had frequent flier miles I’d have enough miles to fly to Bangkok.
I don’t exclusively date Jewish girls, but there are plenty from which to choose on OKCupid. It’s where I met Jaimie, a 30 year old Michigan grad from West Lake Village, a pale but attractive Jewish girl who posted pictures of her hair pulled back sporting big square frames and a turquoise cardigan. Jaimie seemed less rebellious than other users, namely GifelteBitch, with her pierced lip and proclivity for drug use. When my parents have a nice Jewish girl in mind for me, I doubt it’s GifelteBitch.
Jaimie arrived at the Dime, a popular bar on Fairfax, wearing the frames and cardigan, just as advertised. On a first date it’s important to see what you have in common and then build conversation from there. Jaime said she loves going to comedy shows and I told her about my upcoming comedy show that I host at Melgard. We ordered another drink and later agreed what an amazing football game Michigan played against Notre Dame. She cut me off, though I don’t think she realized I had more to say about Denard Robinson. After two hours of easy conversation I walked her to the valet. “It was nice meeting you. We should do it again next week.”
“Yes, definitely next week,” she said.
I thought it was a nice first date, but her parting words “Definitely next week”seemed to validate that I put together a pretty impressive performance. For our next date I invited Jaimie to The Pleasure Chest, a sex shop on Santa Monica Blvd. A comedy show takes place there so my invitation was not construed as perverted, just a bit weird. We sat in the third row next to the panties. “Would you like me to put your glasses case in my purse?” she asked. Sitting next to the panties really brought out her maternal instincts.
When host Eli Olsberg introduced special guest, Sara Silverman I glanced at Jaime to see if she seemed enthused. Instead of locking eyes, she looked straight ahead with a blank stare. After the show we walked across to street to Bar Lubitsch for a drink. I pointed to a tall guy with a beard. “Hey, its Pau Gasol.” “No, it’s not.” The rest of the time I tried convincing her to no avail. I drove her home and as we sat in the car for a moment she leaned over and kissed me and then quickly crossed the street to her apartment.
We exchanged texts and agreed to get together the following Wednesday. I got us tickets on Goldstar to see “Ghetto Klown,” John Leguizamo’s one man show. I picked Jaimie up and opened the car door for her. While circling the car I couldn’t help but smile knowing how absurd I probably looked perfoming this act, especially since the car door wouldn’t open until the third time I pressed the button. We found a great place to park on Vine just south of Sunset but Jaime noticed a temporary tow away sign. “Should I chance it?”
“I think we should move the car to be safe,” she reasoned.
I wanted to open the car door for her again, but we didn’t have much time, plus we had to find another parking space so, in theory I would be opening the car door for her three times on the first leg of our trip which seemed a bit excessive. Once seated Leguizamo began firing one liners, among the best involving his snappy comebacks to Steven Sagal on the set of “Executive Decision” that led to a fist right. I looked to Jaimie to see if we would share a laugh. She stared straight ahead with that same blank stare.
When we arrived back on her street I asked if I should park. “Sure,” she said. “Cool!!!” I mistakenly said out loud.
Once inside she opened a petite syrah which had soured. It tasted awful, but I finished my glass to be polite and gain the courage make a move. I guided her to her bedroom and got lost along the way at which point she guided me the rest of the way. Upon entering she explained, “Tonight we are keeping our pants on.”
“Even me?” I asked.
Given these parameters I did what only a normal 26 year old male would do—made love the best I could with my pants on.
I was hoping our next date would take place on a Saturday night. I texted her an invitation to get together. I didn’t hear from her so I texted her again. I spent Saturday with buddies drinking and watching college football. I crashed at 10pm and woke up at 2am with a taste of white wine in my mouth. I drank a tall glass of water and saw that I received a text message at 11:30pm.
“To be honest, I’m not feeling it and don’t think we should go out again.”
That’s one way of saying goodnight! Jaimie, who was no longer “feeling it,” whatever “it” was, never once said my name nor did she ask how my comedy show went. The only real telling moment of our three dates was the time she held onto my glasses case.
So, her number has been deleted, and our short lived facebook friendship is no more.
Three and out. There’s always GifeltBitch.