"You Need to Love Yourself More"

I met a girl at a party in L.A, who is considered a psychic, so I asked her if she saw a meaningful relationship in my life anytime soon. "What is your relationship like with yourself ?" she asked. Well, there are times I feel like shit, there are times I feel like I'm on top of the world and there are times that I feel every emotion in between.

I like myself. I strive to be a good person. Sure, I have fears, insecurities and numerous challenges like everybody else, but typically, on sunny mornings, I wake up and feel pretty good. "You need to love yourself in order for a man to love you," she told me. Really? Does everyone have a such a great relationship with himself and feel so positively ecstatic right before they meet that special someone?

"Kayla" was married for 12 years before her husband decided to leave her and their four kids for the blonde, red Corvette-driving bartender who worked at the family restaurant 2 miles from their home. A year after the divorce, Kayla was struggling, trying to pay the bills with the paltry child support check her husband sent late each month. She was severely depressed and spent many nights crying on the phone with her friends, drinking bottles of 'two buck Chuck,' once the kids were in bed. She was at rock bottom when she met Walter, an attorney, in the produce section. He fell in love with her. They dated for six months before he proposed. Kayla and the kids are much happier now than they have ever been.

I thought about my mental state each time I met my significant relationships. Tim introduced himself at jury duty, during a major turning point in my life. A big job had ended and I was nervous, but excited, about embarking upon a freelance career. Tim also worked for himself and, after two months of dating, he was talking marriage, until I offered some insight into an issue he divulged, that his therapist of 9 years hadn't quite figured out in their weekly sessions. He was excited about my discovery, however, the therapist was nervous I wasn't the right woman for him. Her advice to him, after her meal ticket's next session, was that we should take a break from dating. So we did.

I met Alejandro right after Tim, when I was wholeheartedly involved in a passion project. We ended up sharing two and a half passionate (and dramatic) years together before I broke it off, upon discovering his infidelity.

One week after my traumatic breakup with Alejandro, I met Eddie. If feeling low about yourself attracts the wrong breed, then I have to admit that's what happened with Eddie, a deluded man who preached integrity and honesty, but preyed upon my generosity.

So, upon reflection, my emotional states were pretty similar to the type of relationships I experienced. So, maybe if I do love and appreciate myself more, I will attract a loving man. Besides, how hard can it be to love myself like how I want to be loved, right?

I spent a wonderfully amazing weekend in Denver with good friends and was feeling a lot of love when I boarded the small commuter jet back to Los Angeles. I took my window seat in the middle of the plane, next to a man with a full head of dark, thick hair, slicked back with pomade and a full black beard, peppered with grey. His eyes were green, his nose wide and he spoke with a thick Middle-Eastern accent. He reeked of cigarette smoke.

"I'm sorry if I smell," he said, "I smoked too many cigarettes all day today." Oof. I was sitting next to a chimney for the next two hours on a sold out flight, so there was no chance of changing seats. I laid my head against the window, closed my eyes, and tried to fall asleep.

Halfway through the flight, I reclined my chair and laid my head back, thinking about the week ahead. A few moments passed before the man next to me repositioned himself, so that he was laying on his left side, facing me. His feet were curled up on the seat and his face rested on his hands under his cheek. The close proximity of his face to mine was uncomfortably intimate for a complete stranger laying next to me on a small plane.

He opened his eyes and exhaled through his nose and mouth. His rank breath blew on my face. "Are you on TV?" he calmly asked, waking up from his nap. "No." I replied, raising my seat, so we were no longer laying next to one another. "Well then, you look like someone on TV. Or, there is someone on TV who looks like you." He scooted up in his seat and I could feel his eyes examine me.

"You have a beautiful face and a beautiful body," he said. I'm trapped in a seat on a packed commuter plane with nowhere to run and the stinky guy laying way too close to me is now saying inappropriate things. "Thank you," I answered. "That's very kind of you." I said, turning to my left side to avoid him. "Are you married?" he continued. "No, but I have a boyfriend," I stated and closed my eyes. "We could have fun," he offered. I checked the time on my cellphone. Forty-three more minutes before we land.

But we didn't land. The plane circled around Burbank airport and then diverted to LAX. The pilot came on the loud speaker and said they were having a "flap problem". Since there are no mechanics at Burbank, we were being diverted to LAX. As we approached the runway, a dozen ambulances, fire trucks and emergency vehicles awaited us with flashing lights. Wait a second! The pilot sounded so calm... are we going to crash upon landing? Am I going to die alone, sharing this moment with a stinky, creepy man? If I loved myself more, would I be seated next to the handsome, single guy two rows up from me?

Fortunately, the plane landed without incident. However, my first attempt of loving myself more did not attract the right guy. I assume my love for myself must travel much deeper and love all the insecurities, flaws and self-worth issues I've grappled with since I was a child.

"Too bad our fathers didn't raise us like Gwyneth Paltrow's did," offered a girlfriend.

We All Have Secrets

My parents divorced when I was 10. I remember the day my dad left. My sister and I sat on the end of the bed, hugging our crying mom, who had finally mustered up the courage to tell her unfaithful husband to leave. We didn't look up, and he didn't say goodbye, as his legs walked past the bedroom door, suitcase in hand.

Shortly thereafter, my grandfather bought my mom a new car. The more days that passed, the more life was slowly getting back to normal. The gossiping moms at our school had grown tired of pointing us out as the kids from the divorced family, and summer had finally arrived.

However, at this same time, my beloved grandfather's health began to fail and within a few months he died. A week after the funeral, his wife Mary, 35 years his junior and our step-grandmother, arrived at our house with the sheriff and a tow truck. She had secretly declared my grandfather incompetent and became power of attorney for his estate. Our car and home were now technically her property. After 17 years of marriage, the former ticket taker at my grandfather's movie theatre, showed her true colors and came to collect.

For better or worse, these childhood experiences may in part, explain why I have yet to walk down the aisle. Infidelity and betrayal were two ugly words I learned early in life. At the very same moment I threw my mom's car keys at Mary, I declared my independence, promising myself I would never count on anyone else for my own well-being.

I had not seen "John" since we broke up 12 years ago, even though we live in the same city. I was in the Borders Bookstore at the corner of Sunset and Vine and had just purchased "PostSecret," a book by Frank Warren, based on his website (postsecret.com) where people send in their secrets written with just a few words on a post card, covering a wide range of emotions including, fear, regret, betrayal, desire, and humiliation. "Free your secrets and become who you are," he says.

As I was leaving the store, John shouted my name. I turned and there he was, my first boyfriend in L.A. who I met 18 years ago. We had been together for 4-1/2 years (the last two, off and on) and had not seen each other or had spoken to each other in over a dozen years. I am friendly with the majority of my ex-boyfriends, however, in this particular case, John had lied about his infidelity, so our break-up was traumatic. He trolled bars and picked up women when I was out of town working on movies. So, my friends called him "Troll" and we had become so accustomed to calling him Troll, that when I turned to say hello, I had to remind myself what his real name was.

The time that passed showed on his face. He is now married, has two kids and is living in the same house he lived in when I first met him. He is tall and still thin and his longish brown hair, has turned completely white. I thought about our relationship and realized I never felt safe, secure or protected with him, much like my childhood. He always seemed to have a secret that he didn't want to let me in on. I thought I was in love with him, during the same time he was secretly getting other girl's phone numbers.

Many post cards about relationships have been sent into PostSecret. One card had a photo of a heavy-set woman wearing a wedding dress, standing next to her groom, with their faces scratched out. "I know he doesn't love me anymore" read her card. Another had a painting of a large red heart. It said, "I fear that I am going to be alone for the rest of my life and I don't want to settle in order not to be". I understood this card. I have many wonderful male friends in my life, many of whom are married or in relationships, so I often wonder when I'm going to meet a wonderful man who builds a relationship with me.

"If I had a million dollars, I would give it all away for one more day with her like it used to be in the beginning" was another secret sent in. What happens in relationships that we go from being so in love and fascinated with someone, to our relationships turning sour? Once the walls start building up, is there any way to take them back down and start fresh. Growing up in my family, the tactic we learned was to search and destroy until nothing is left. So, I have spent my entire adult life building trust and support in my friendships and relationships.

We all have secrets and I have a few of my own... I have never been afraid of commitment, just committing to the wrong man. So, will I be 90 years old, living in a nursing home and finally meet my ideal man when he gets wheeled in next to me? Since I wasn't raised in a loving, supportive environment, I often wonder if I might not recognize real love and miss being with a great man. I'm worried I'll spend years finding out I'm with the wrong guy... again.

So when Memorial Day weekend rolled around and I had 4 blissful days to do whatever I wanted. I cancelled my online dating subscriptions and embraced the fact that I had no dates and looked at the weekend as an opportunity to meet men in the flesh at the various parties, happy hours, lunches and dinners I shared with friends, who graciously participate in my adventure. Did I meet anyone? Yes, I met lots of interesting people, however none of whom were straight and single, but all of whom I am sure have wonderful secrets.

Someone For Everyone

"Do you remember Lisa?" my brother asked. I knew she was related to us by marriage and lived somewhere in the midwest. I met her a couple of times and recalled her being an attractive woman with long, dark hair and big brown eyes. I also recalled she had a really quirky grooming habit. "Isn't she the one with the moustache she bleaches white?"

When you meet Lisa, you can't help but notice her long, bleached lip hairs. When she speaks, her breath moves the hairs up and down on her lip like vertical blinds blowing in the wind. It's so distracting that I have often wondered why no one ever mentions it to her, or why her family or friends have never suggested other options. Her hairy lip is the first thing you notice in the family photos. "She's divorcing her husband and marrying another guy," he said.

I need to get out more.

I've been working long hours on a production and have grown accustomed to the convenience of online dating sites. With emails popping into my inbox daily, I can easily arrange dates from my cell phone, in between calls, or during lulls in long meetings. However, I knew I was running out of quality options when I returned an email from "Beverly Hills Guy" who has been contacting me for months, posting pictures with his shirt off, making muscle man poses, in various cities around the world (Virtual Men).

"Email me back and I'll send you a photo," he said. Seeing multiple pictures of "Beverly Hills Guy" wearing little clothing, it was obvious that he is not a man who frequents the gym. "What else is there left to see?" I replied, after 6 months of ignoring his 'winks'. "You've left nothing for the imagination." After two quick email exchanges, I discovered (unbeknownst to him) he's in business with a Portugese man, Alejandro, who I went out with twice last year, from the same dating site...

Alejandro moved to L.A. from Lisbon. His English was not so good and I don't speak Portugese, so communication was a bit challenging. We met at a restaurant, and talked for a couple of hours. When the check came, I offered to contribute, but he declined and said, "Next time."

A few days later Alejandro invited me to dinner. Since he was new to town, he asked a couple of friends for suggestions for nice restaurants and then settled on an upscale place on the westside. We had a cocktail at the bar, before the hostess seated us and transferred the bar tab over to our table.

Alejandro works in the film business, so we talked about our favorite movies over dinner, sharing a nice bottle of red that he chose from the extensive wine list. He also mentioned he is a painter and wanted to show me some of his work. “Follow me to my place after dinner,” he said, “maybe I’ll give you a piece.”

When the check came, Alejandro stood up from the table, grabbed his jacket, and handed me the bill. He said, "After you take care of the check, follow me to my apartment so I can show you my paintings." I guess this was the 'next time' and it was my turn to pay.

I need to get off online dating sites.

So, when a friend invited me to an art gallery opening, I happily accepted. Upon arrival, she introduced me to her boss, a handsome gay male, wearing a Ralph Lauren suit. He guided me around the party and pointed out who was gay, straight, single, or married, as well as who I should approach and who I should stay away from. But, ultimately, the general consensus was the most handsome man at the event was the off-duty SWAT guy working security.

As the night wore on, I eventually made my way over to the SWAT guy, Patrick, who has a full head of salt and pepper hair, long eyelashes and a tan, friendly face. He was easy to talk to and I'm guessing most good cops probably have an ease about them that makes you feel comfortable and therefore, more prone to hearing confessions. I also imagined the flip side of his personality that takes over when he's commanding a SWAT mission.

"A friend of mine also runs a SWAT team up in Ventura County," I mentioned. I met Steve online about a year ago. We went out a couple of times, but ultimately remained friends (He's a Nice Guy, Just Not the Right Guy for Me). "Oh yeah? I probably know him. What's his name?" I told Patrick his name. "Yeah, I know him. A real pretty boy,” he said.

I need to get off of online dating sites and get out more.

Is the dating pool in Los Angeles for women my age really small or is it just a coincidence that two men in one week know men I’ve dated within the past year? I need to find a different body of water.

I thought about my cousin Lisa and her upcoming nuptials and wondered if I would ever meet the right guy. "There's someone out there for everyone," my mother says, "and eventually you will find someone too.

Transforming Lives... and 57 Orgasms (Part 2)

I met a friend for an early dinner last Sunday at Baby Blues on Santa Monica. He knew I had a lot of work to do later, so he offered me a vitamin capsule that would provide the energy I needed to get everything done. "I get these at GNC and take one before I work out," he said. I didn't want to drink coffee this late in the day so I swallowed one, thinking it would only last a couple of hours. "Oh no Sweetie, that one capsule lasts about ten hours". It was 5:00pm. "Are you kidding me? I'm going to be up until 3:00am?" I exclaimed, completely unhappy by this news. "Call me. I'll be up too," he said. No! I needed sleep before starting another busy week.

I went home and not only did I accomplish all my work, but I cleaned my kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, did laundry, walked my dog, organized my closets, spruced up the back yard, watered the plants and still had energy to burn. So when Scott arrived at 9:00pm, I was ready to have a cocktail, hoping to mellow out my wired buzz. Completely amped on this energy pill, I walked quickly and talked faster than normal, en route to a neighborhood restaurant.

As we sat down, I said to Scott, "Listen, a friend of mine gave me this energy capsule and it's really making me edgy." "I'm glad you told me," he said. "That explains why you were walking so fast. I can clear that out of your system if you like."

Scott wrapped his hand around my leg, just above my knee and squeezed really hard. "This will open up your spleen," he explained, as I winced in pain. He talked me through an exercise, telling me to visualize energy rising up through my body to my head and then back down to my toes, which I then imagined the energy sinking into the ground, with roots sprouting from my heels and growing deeper into the earth. "Imagine a golden shower pouring over you and cleansing your entire body," he said. He repeated the whole sequence a couple of times and then asked me how I was feeling.

Whether it was psychosomatic, or if the process actually worked, I do not know. However, my speech slowed and I no longer felt the urge to grind my teeth. "I have a bag of Chinese herbs in my car that might help open you up later," he offered. "We'll see how you're feeling, and then decide whether or not you need the herbs."

When the bartender arrived, Scott suggested I order a margarita. Apparently, certain alcohols perform particular functions in our body and tequila is very good for opening yourself up. (This is not news for anyone who has ever drank too much tequila!). I really did not want alcohol, but Scott insisted the tequila would help mellow out my body.

We started talking about relationships again. Scott was explaining that society needs to understand that women drive relationships. "If there's an accident, it's the woman's fault," he said, explaining that fault has no right or wrong, but since the woman is driving the car, it is always her fault-- and then it becomes the man's job to fix the wreck, so the couple can get back on the road to finish their journey. I wasn't buying Scott's simplified version of relationships, however, I did realize I've been in relationships where I was the driver and the fixer.

"Well then you're with a pussy," he said. "You don't want to suffer with Joe Pussy, especially when there's a smorgasbord right here in front of you." Hearing a grown man say 'pussy' repeatedly, and describing himself as a smorgasbord was quite disturbing.

He continued, "If you don't pick at the smorgasbord, and eat it and drink it and take it into your body, then you will walk out of here starving and go look for a pussy to beg off of." I felt like I was suddenly caught in a Seinfeld episode about "The Pussy Guy".

"Do you get it?" he continued. I got it, but I didn't want to eat off his plate. I checked the clock.

"What are you looking for in a man?" Scott asked as I looked around the restaurant, planning my escape. I thought of another way to answer the same question I am always asked. "I want connection, friendship, love and commitment. "Well," Scott said, "you're looking in all the wrong places, because you haven't found deep love and friendship within yourself." Yes, Scott spouted the same answer that every so-called guru, metaphysical healer and pop psychologist claims. What we seek outside ourselves, is what we lack within, and somehow whatever we lack, instantly shows up once we find whatever 'it' is, in ourselves.

I grew weary of Scott's diatribes. I fantasized crawling under my comforter, my head laying down on my fresh sheets and falling into a deep sleep. Scott walked me back home but before we got to my door, he retrieved the chinese herbs from the trunk of his car and brought them inside.

"So what exactly do the Chinese herbs do?" I asked. "Well they open you up," he said. "They open up your mind, your head, your eyes, your lungs, your pussy, your heart, your legs..." he continued. The more Scott talked, the more every molecule in my body tightened and lifted a shield of armor. "But I'm feeling your vibe and I'm feeling the vibe of the herbs and I'm not feeling you need the herbs tonight," he said. Was it because I was sitting at the other end of my sofa with my arms folded across my chest?

I stood up and opened the door for Scott. Another night had passed, this time with talk of golden showers, open legs and pussies... I agreed with Scott. I have been looking for love in all the wrong places.

We will have millions of relationships in our lifetimes, and whether our relationships last a minute, an hour, two years, four decades or a lifetime, every relationship will eventually end and my 'relationship' with Scott had reached its conclusion.

Maybe the right man will come into my life now that I am "clear" of the shadow on my lung, say goodbye to pussies, vow always to be the driver and not the fixer in a relationship, and love myself exactly as I am... or maybe not. But what I do know is to love, appreciate, nurture and enjoy the relationships I do have in my life, for as long as I am fortunate enough to have them.

Transforming Lives... and 57 Orgasms (Part 1)

Scott 'winked' at me on an online dating site, so I read his profile. He described himself as "a healer and doctor who travels the world, helping people live extraordinary lives through personal transformation." With such a powerful claim, how could I not meet this guy?

Scott followed up the next day with an email, saying he was in town from Paris for a couple of days, and asked if I was free later that night. Since it was short notice, I suggested a neighborhood restaurant, where I know the staff and feel safe when meeting a total stranger from the internet.

About a dozen people were standing in the entrance when I arrived, but it was easy to identify Scott, since he's about six feet, four inches tall. He turned, smiled and introduced himself. He politely asked where I would like to sit and then pulled out the bar stool for me to sit down.

He spoke a lot about his work with severely ill people and how he helps transform their lives. He also mentioned he's an inventor and creates devices that help him heal others. "Like what?" I asked. "Anything I could buy on the market?"

He pulled out a small plastic item from his pocket. "This device contains rare earth minerals," he claimed. "You can put this item around practically anything and it will make it better." The stick looked like a miniature baseball bat filled with sand. "For instance," he suggested, "I could put this in your drink and the alcohol will taste better. He offered to place it in my cosmopolitan, which I thought already tasted pretty good. I was unsure of a guy, who I just met, putting some unknown substance in my drink so I laughed and joked, "Hey, that's a clever way to slip someone a roofie."

His response was, "Trust me, if we were having sex, and you were having 57 orgasms, I would want us both to be completely conscious and aware of one another. Sex is one of the most amazing experiences we have as human beings."

Scott put the stick in his own drink first, and then asked me to taste it. I rarely, if ever drink Scotch, so I did not notice any difference. He then placed the large swizzle stick in my drink and, after a few moments, he removed it. I took a sip. The tartness was gone, therefore making my cocktail a lot easier to swallow. I ordered another.

Scott talked a lot about healing the sick and transforming the lives of others, but not much about how he actually heals people, so I inquired about his practice. "What exactly is your process in identifying the problem and then fixing it?" Scott explained that he sees people's auras, energies, chakras and vibrations and then draws a picture of everything he sees inside and around that person. By being able to visualize their 'being', he can see where the strengths and weaknesses reside.

I wanted a more specific answer, so I asked him if he would give me an example, using me as the test subject. He agreed and then said, "You have a shadow on your left lung." Ok, hearing "shadow on my left lung" was not exactly what I was expecting. I immediately thought cancer and then realized "Oh shit, my health insurance just lapsed." My mind raced with paranoid thoughts, but I remained calm. "A shadow on my left lung?" I asked. "Well, what exactly does that mean and, more importantly, how do I get rid of it?"

"It means that-- when you were born, you were a happy and smiling girl, just like you are now," he said. "But your father and the people around you, told you life isn't that way. Life isn't always good, and you weren't supported in a positive way. You're still carrying that with you."

A shaman once told me that the lessons I need to learn in life will keep confronting me until I actually learn what needs to be learned. Anyone who knows me, knows I don't have a close relationship with my father. (Barking Up the Wrong Tree) I have no anger towards him, no pain, no suffering or regret. I just don't know him very well. But here I am, at a bar, with a complete stranger, twenty minutes into a conversation and he's telling me I'm carrying a shadow on my lung because of issues with my father. "Ok lesson, I hear you loud and clear!" Can I finally learn what I need to learn and move on?

So I asked Scott, "How can I, once and for all, transform my body and be free from issues clouding my lung?" "May I touch you?" he asked. "Sure," I said, as he placed his right hand on my heart and ran his left palm down my back. "Do you feel the energy opening up?" I can't really say I felt anything, however, I did imagine this shadow leaving my body. "It's all gone now," he said. "There's no reason for you to ever revisit that memory again. Just be in the moment and keep moving forward."

Wait. After 44 years of my father issues, was it really over? "Is that really it?" I asked. "I'm done with my father issues?" He replied, "Your dad may not have been the father you wanted him to be, but he's a divine being and he gave you life. You have no right to judge another divine being." It's so hard to argue with someone when they throw in the word 'divine'. But there was no denying his sperm penetrated the egg that divided multiple times and caused me.

"Say 'I love you dad'," said Scott as I swallowed the last gulp of my second cosmo. I declined. I wasn't feeling it. "What do you have to lose?" he said. "Come on, 'I love you dad'," he repeated. Ok. I finally gave in. "I love you dad," I said, "Is that ok?" Scott was persistent. "It doesn't have to be okay for me," he responded, "Is it ok for you?" I wondered how much longer I could be polite before I escaped home to watch the rest of "Sherlock Homes" which has been spinning in my DVD player since last Tuesday.

"I love you dad" I said repeatedly until it was so easy to say that I didn't care anymore. Scott then asked me to repeat those same words of 'I love you' to every man who has ever caused me grief. With two cocktails in my system, softened by the rare earth minerals, I easily pronounced 'my love' for every guy who has ever perceivably fucked up my life over the past two decades.

Wait a second... within an hour of meeting Scott, he talked about 57 orgasms, put a questionable foreign object in my drink and had me say repeatedly at the bar, "I love you daddy"?!

A woman I work with is always astounded by the type of men I meet. After telling her about Scott she asked, "Who is the most normal guy you've ever met online?" "That's easy," I said, "It was actually the guy who legally changed his name to Rock Star."

To Be 29 Again...

Sometimes I schedule a meeting, but the guy thinks it's a date, and sometimes I have meetings I wish were dates.

I met Ken, who works in the film industry, at a social event. I was interested in seeing him again and learning more about how his end of the film business works. We exchanged business cards. He called two days later and we met for a drink at AOC on Third St. The hostess took us to the little bar in the back, but before we sat down he said, "I didn't think it would be so easy to get a date with you."

Ken was quite a bit older than me, so I hadn't thought our meeting was a date. I sat down and re-examined him. One of the perks of working in the entertainment industry is the casual dress code. If I was meeting Ken to talk business, I would have paid little attention to his wardrobe, but since he's single, I studied the man sitting across from me a little more closely. If he thought we were on a date, why was he wearing Crocs, baggy jeans and a fleece pullover littered with lint and a food stain? My 78-year old neighbor wears the same outfit to the end of his driveway to retrieve the morning paper. Ken was unshaven (which I sometimes like) but in his case, the stubble sealed his general unkempt look.

"Guys are telling you all the time who they are," said Dennis. "You just need to look and listen." Ken has been single for a long time and clearly put little thought into his appearance before meeting me for a date. I didn't need to look closely to understand that comfort was more important to him than looking good.

Ken didn't want to talk about business. He wanted to talk about dating. "Why do you think you've never married?" he asked. I am asked this question on every date and I can answer this question a dozen different ways. However, at this particular moment in time, my answer was, "I haven't met a potential partner who... the more I get to know him, the more I want to know him." I have had a few long-term relationships, one in particular that was headed for marriage, but the more I got to know the guy, the more I questioned his integrity. Until, finally, I couldn't back pedal fast enough, put the car in reverse and peel away. (I'm still recovering financially from that mistake).

Frankly, the more dates I go on, the more I realize how surprisingly easy it is to lower my expectations. I have to take a step back every once in awhile and reassess the qualities I desire in a man. Or, I find myself on a second date with someone like Larry. We went to a beach club for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon, and after a couple of glasses of wine, I dozed off in the sun, only to be woken up with Larry squeezing into my cabana chair, trying to stick his tongue in my mouth.

"Well, what qualities are you looking for in a man?" he asked. Guys ask this question all the time too. If they're interested in you, they want to know if they're even in your same ballpark, or if a woman's expectations are too high.

In this economy I fantasized finding a handsome, successful man in great shape, who lives in a beautiful house, travels the world, has interesting friends, and who tells me I don't have to work anymore, or have a care in the world. However, what I really look for, and what has eluded me over the years, is finding a romantic partner with a strong moral core, who I can trust. "Trust is really important to me," I said, "Without trust, you've got nothing."Maybe your expectations are too high," revealed Ken. He was right. In Los Angeles, it's harder to find an honest man with integrity, than a guy with a nice car and a pool.

Then there are the times I find myself sitting across the table from someone I wish was a date. I met Sam, a fledgling screenwriter, who is new to town. He's a former professional baseball player, 29 and single. I sat across the table from this handsome guy, with his broad smile. Listening to him talk about his recent experiences, reminded me of the time when I first arrived to Los Angeles and the excitement and anticipation I felt being here, wondering how my life would unfold. Ah, if only I was 29 again, knowing what I know now.

"Must See to Believe"

After a string of mediocre dates, I have a really hard time mustering up energy to make another date with some random guy. So, I considered myself lucky when I received an email from a 52 year-old Beverly Hills man that read, "I'm free tonight. Meet me at Cecchoni's at 7:30 and don't be late." I had a date without having to lift a finger.

I liked this guy's direct approach, and imagined he is a real man who knows what he wants. However, after close examination of the small photo he posted, I couldn't really tell what he looked like, which is always a bad sign. Handsome men typically post multiple pictures in various poses. Guys who aren't blessed with good looks, usually post one photo and expound about what incredible men they are in their profiles. However, this Beverly Hills "management consultant" whose screen name was "2good2btrue," only filled in the cursory answers (leaving out his height) and wrote one sentence about himself, "Must see to believe," oddly making himself sound like a circus freak.

I imagined what my friend Dennis would say if I called him up and asked his opinion. "Baby, what kind of guy would write that in his profile, unless he had major issues?" I wondered if "2good2btrue" sent the same email to multiple women and waited to see if anyone would actually show up. Or, was he just so arrogant that he believed he could captivate any woman he met? I came across this type of guy before, and his attitude reminded me of one particular night in New York years ago...

It was a warm, sunny evening in Manhattan. I walked into Raoul's on Prince Street in Soho to kill time, before meeting an acquaintance for dinner. Only a few tables were occupied in the restaurant, and the bar was empty. I sat on a stool and ordered a cocktail from Eddie, who has poured drinks at Raoul's for almost as long as the place has been open.

I sipped my martini while writing a letter to a friend traveling through Europe. A few minutes passed before a strong smelling cologne hovered in the air, breaking my focus. I looked up from the page. “Hi, I’m Jeff,” he said, holding out his hand. "Hello," I replied. Jeff was slender, average in height and had dark hair, combed back with too much product. He was wearing suit pants and a blue, collared shirt. His skin was pasty and shiny, and he looked slick. I went back to writing my letter, but he sat down on the stool next to me and asked my name. I put my pen down, knowing he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

We made small talk for awhile and then I asked him what he did for a living. “I’m an artist," he said. He didn’t look like one. I lived in New York for a number of years and had met a lot of artists. I figured Jeff to be an accountant, stockbroker or attorney. He told me his last name, saw the blank stare on my face and was quite offended I didn’t know who he was. I frequented museums and galleries and thought I was fairly knowledgeable of the New York art world, but I didn't recognize his name.

“Would I know any of your work?” I asked. He mentioned one of his pieces that had received a lot of attention. I had seen the sculpture and wondered who, in their right mind, would consider it art. Assuming he was joking, I laughed out loud. My amusement, however, sparked an interesting conversation about our favorite artists, writers and films. Surprisingly, we shared similar tastes and a few laughs. Then, Jeff leaned in, as if he was letting me in on a secret, and told me he was staying at The Algonquin Hotel in midtown.

“Would you like accompany me to my hotel room?” he asked. I was a bit shocked at his direct approach. “No, I’m sorry," I responded. It was nice talking to you, but no.” He leaned in closer. “Really?" he said, "I’ll give you one more opportunity," he whispered, his lips brushing against my earlobe. "Would you like to accompany me to my hotel room?”

Was it because I am a woman, alone in an empty bar at night, that he thought I would jump into a cab with a stranger and go to his hotel room, after a couple of cocktails and a pleasant conversation? Or was he just incredibly arrogant and not used to hearing 'no' for an answer? "No. Thank you." I said. He threw enough money on the bar to cover his drink. “You have no fucking clue what you’re missing!” he seethed as he stormed out the front door, knocking into a patron on his way out.

I turned to Eddie, “Can you believe that guy?” I asked, a bit shaken. We both started laughing to relieve the tension, and just as we were getting over the shock of Jeff's outburst, he reappeared in the doorway, a cab idling behind him. “Alright," he said, "I’m offering you one last chance. It’s now or never.”

I arrived at Cecchoni's and thought about that night in Manhattan, wondering if "2good2btrue" was at all like Jeff. I took a seat in the far corner of the bar, where I could easily keep an eye on the entrance. I like Cecchoni's. It has a New York vibe and professional bartenders who know how to make any cocktail you can possibly name.

By 7:50, no one had arrived, looking for a date. And, just as I was ready to leave, a woman shouted my name, "Oh my god, how long has it been since I've seen you?!" Monica and I were good friends when I first moved to L.A., but had lost touch over the years. Here she was at Cecchoni's with her new husband and baby girl.

They were waiting for a table, so they joined me at the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an extremely tall, awkward gentleman walk into the restaurant. He stood at the entrance and took his time glancing around the place, uncomfortably aware of the patrons turning to stare at this unusually tall man. I could feel his eyes eventually land on me, as I chatted away with Monica and her new family, catching up on the past decade. Just as I looked in his direction, he turned, reached for a toothpick from the hostess stand and left.

I'll never know for sure if this man was "2good2btrue", but he made me contemplate about how difficult and tedious dating can be and how hard it can be to connect with someone on an emotional and intimate level. We make ourselves vulnerable, but we never know if we'll be accepted or rejected. What can you do, but keep trying, and learning and growing. However, I'm guessing it's easier for some of us, than it is for others.

Coffee or Cocktail?

I've gone out on a number of dates this past week, but haven't met anyone I want to see again. "Really?" asked my sarcastic friend Amanda, who is also online dating. "What a surprise since there are so many fantastic men in this town!"

My brother mentioned a book called, "Undateable: 311 Things Guys Do That Guarantee They Won't Be Dating or Having Sex," written by a former producer for Oprah. I skimmed the list of what makes a guy bad date material and agreed with a couple of comments, like "guys who don't like animals," "bad spellers" or "heavy texters".

Bad spelling has always been a pet peeve of mine, and you can't get to know a person through text messaging. However, many of the other items on the list were ridiculous like, "guys who order salads," or "guys who can't grow a mustache" or "Mr. Have You Met My Chest?" for the guy who has one too many shirt buttons unbuttoned. (However, if a guy's in really good shape, I personally take no offense to this entry and, depending on how the date goes, may want to see more).

I found the list mostly superficial, but wondered why I was not excited about a second date with any of the men I met recently. Maybe I was being superficial too.

First, there was Jason, who I met at the Four Seasons for a drink. He works as a CPA in the entertainment industry and is quite a bit older than me. He was unable to look me in the eye and spoke directly to my forehead the entire evening. No matter how much I adjusted my position on the barstool, Jason adjusted his eye line, directly to my hairline. Making eye contact with him was completely impossible. I now know what it must be like for women who have big boobs and guys talk directly to their chests. Granted, talking to my forehead was completely different, but disconcerting all the same.

Jason was quite animated. He spun a detailed story about one particular position he held, starting in 1983 and ending... an hour and forty-five minutes later. After three Jacks on the rocks, his speech was a little looser and his saliva sprayed a fine mist. When he began the third act, and finally reached the climax of his tale, he drooled. I did not see where it landed and pretended not to notice, by focusing on his forehead.

Then there was Luke, who is my age. We met at a coffee house in Encino. He's fair-skinned, with light blue eyes and was wearing a horrible, beige, knit sweater, blue jeans, white socks and black shoes. When meeting someone for the first time, I like to make a good impression. If this is the best you got, then it can only go downhill from here.

Once we sat down, Luke said that since he had my cell phone number, he googled me. He scoured the internet and knew more about me, than most of my own friends. I was a little creeped out by his admission. So, since he knew so much about my life, I asked what he did for a living. He immediately began to apologize for his career, "Oh, my job is not so interesting. It's really boring," he said. "But I guess I did ok since I raised four kids with it." I asked him again what he did for a living. "Well, I sell ad space on bus benches, " he stated. "Most of my clients were realtors and I was making bank, until the real estate market bottomed out."

Luke was an affable guy, but I wasn't feeling much chemistry. I am looking for a partner and he is looking for someone to make his life more exciting. We said our goodbyes and I got into my car. Thirty seconds later, Luke texted me a photo of himself and a text message that read, "I can be a lot more fun then today... I promise!" :-D Call me if you're interested, if not... phooey! :-)" He was apologizing again. And, up until what age is it appropriate for a man to text multiple smiley faces to a date?

Twenty minutes went by and my phone chirped with another text. Again, it was from Luke. "P.S. Please ignore the hideous picture I just sent. After further review, I really wish I could take it back. Do I really look like that? (sigh)." Instead of calling me on the phone, Luke was unwittingly playing out the same infamous scene in "Swingers" via his repeated texts. (And by the way, I'm hoping he isn't still googling me and finding this blog).

I've grown tired of all the lists about what makes men 'undateable'. I would much rather focus on all the good things women look for in men. For me, a sense of humor is a must and suggests a strong intellect as well. Or... does he open the door, does he listen as much as he talks? Is he gracious? Is he nice to me, as well as the people around us? A quick survey of the women around me suggested adjectives such as: confident, good-natured, soulful, outgoing, adaptable, honest and faithful. Unlike Amanda, I know there are plenty of amazing, single men in Los Angeles. I just haven't quite figured out where to find them.