Tag Archives: dating

the magnificent seven

21 Jul

it’s been exactly 564 days since I had a boyfriend. note that I use the term ‘boyfriend’ loosely…while the last one did possess the maturity a 12-year-old boy and, yes, he was a friend (mostly when he needed something), he bore little resemblance to what the average person would consider a boyfriend.

that is, unless their boyfriend sucks.

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last year’s break-up baggage sometimes felt too heavy for my little shoulders. however, one of my favorite coping strategies was imagining that said baggage was actually beautiful vintage steamer cases from Louis Vuitton…and all-of-a-sudden-like things felt better. hey, my dysfunction only deserves the best! after months of dragging around my new emotional steamer cases and swearing and crying and wishing heavy things would fall on said ex, i slowly noticed small cracks form in my emo fortress. at some point, i actually began to entertain dreams of a day where i might perhaps have a non-shitty boyfriend! you know, the kind that DOESN’T play drums/owe you money and DOES have a car.

a girl can dream.

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in my pursuit of happiness in this “post-crappy-boyfriend” phase, i’ve dated exactly seven men. i’m not sure if seven sounds trampy or lame…i’ll leave that up to you, my savvy reader. to be honest, i actually thought I’d be in double digits by now because Tinder and online dating was supposed to be my dating panacea. but while others swear by its ability to find Mr. Right (Now), for me it just stokes my very real stranger-danger issues. and despite the fact I’m still somewhat bitter that i still spend most nights alone as the shitty ex bypassed karma is chillaxing with his new fiancée who’s practically half my age, this new era actually hasn’t been that bad.

in fact, it’s been moderately magnificent.

as such, i like to refer to this cadre of man-meat gentlemen as “the magnificent seven”.

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and what can I tell you about my magnificent seven? if you’re keeping score, zero out of seven have made an honest woman out of me. one was a weird kisser. another had road rage issues. there was that one that was so attractive that it hurt my eyes. the last one was exceptionally trampy. all have moderate-to-next-level commitment issues. however, the magnificent seven have been remarkably helpful as i pick up the pieces of my black, charred, heart. over bowls of steaming ramen in little tokyo or a bottle(s) of pinot noir in my micro apartment, they were given a glimpse into my extremely fragile and oft bleak emotional landscape and yet actually chose to see me again once they escaped.  they allowed me to cry over my dying cat, a boob cancer scare, my stress-laden job, and George Clooney getting married to that impossibly-beautiful hussy. many of the magnificent seven were extraordinary at the booty call, and if my mom asks, they just came over for breakfast. they’ve texted me silly jokes. made me strong coffee. told me that I’m beautiful and sexy and funny…three things that i packed away in my aforementioned steamer cases only to be forgotten about until recently.

i’ve been fed – my stomach with delicious pizza, my heart with gentle-affirming words. i’ve been courted. i’ve been sought-after. i’ve been kissed on the nape of my neck. i’ve been gifted a curiously-large vibrating dildo. and in the process, i’ve started to feel like “me” again. not the gross “me” who’s puffy from crying and gave up on shaving more than twice a month. no, i’m talking about the sweet, smiling girl with the big heart who isn’t scared to use it again in the quest for love.

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so as i sit here enjoying cereal with a pinot grigio back for dinner (again), i can’t help but to be proud of myself. i’m halfway through 2015 with most of my dignity intact and a zest for life and dating and the idea that my Mr. Right might actually be out there.

so thank you, my magnificent seven for helping me get back on track. but mostly for the dildo because it can be cold and lonely in this big, bad world.

yeah dating is cool…but have you ever had stuffed crust pizza?

9 Mar

hi, y’all! so what’s up with my looong-a$$ writing hiatus, huh?!!  i wish i had a good excuse like “hey i was supes busy stopping ebola and/or bill cosby”…but it’s nothing that noble.  instead, i’ve been busying myself with some narcissistic self-improvement/creative/dope-a$$ ish that was carefully curated on my extremely important 2015 new year’s resolution list (aka all the crap that i won’t actually do because i have the follow-thru of an ADHD chihuahua i’m WAY too busy).  like, for example…i don’t mean to brag, but i wrote a very special piece about life and relationships and other ridiculous things that i submitted to the LA Times’ column “LA Affairs” in january…but since it’s been 2 months, 23 days, and 6 hours since i hit the “send” button (i mean who’s counting?!) and after checking my inbox and junk mail 1,249 times for a response to no avail, i’m gonna assume that my inclusion of such references as (1) delicious ramen (2) my deep disdain for drummers, and (3) a supreme admiration for vibrators might have been a touch too “next level” for the Times.

Oh and i’ve been really busy trying to figure out how to date.

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Dating at age redacted is beyond weird no matter where you live. But doing so in Hollywood when you’re not a victoria secret model is THE WORST at best…and utterly soul-crushing at worst.  gone are the good-ole days where boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy, boy gives her a 10-carat cartier diamond and boy and girl live happily ever after in the palisades after a few stints at betty ford (oh, and in this aforementioned scenario the boy is george clooney, duh).  instead, if you’re a single gal in LA you have to tinder and match.com and plenty of fish and wear pants not look like a shut-in crazy lady when you go to the fancy grocery store in your neighborhood and try not to fall down/talk to yourself and deal with your real fear of being abducted by your date and waking up in a tub in an undisclosed location somewhere in the valley less a kidney and pay for a gym membership that costs as much as your rent while you wear enough makeup to look not like an extra on ‘the walking dead’ but not too much where it looks like you’re a basic b*tch trying/care and pretend to be easy breezy beautiful cover girl when in fact you are neurotic bundle of weirdness loosely contained by rapidly aging skin that you now have to care about and shave your legs (all of them) which means buying razor blades which are freakishly expensive and consult your astrologist for sun sign and rising sign compatibility and date actors/doormen/musicians/other sundry poor people who are prettier than you (and know it, giving them the total f*cking upper hand) and pretend to like hiking + juice bars + quentin tarantino and answer stupid questions like, ‘omg you are perfect why are you single” when clearly you aren’t perfect because they don’t call you back after the second date.

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it’s all this bullsh*t complexity that’s led me to oscillate between a) embracing the utter hilarity of dating weirdos in a weird town at a weird age in a weird time in my life and not giving any of the f*cks and b) espousing the life of a shut-in while i watch gilmore girls (again) and order flat round carbs covered in delicious meat and cheese while i talk to my ex’s cat about how dying alone can’t be half bad except for the haunting question of “who will delete our porn gilmore girls fun facts search history?”

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stay tuned for the rest of 2015 while the above-mentioned two realities wage war in “livin la vida coco.’  will she actually wear yoga pants AND actually go to yoga?  does she like her date enough to actually consider shaving ABOVE THE KNEE?   will she actually order a veggie pizza for once (who are we kidding…I NEED THE F*CKING BACON DAMMIT!)? will she avoid “that’s what she said” jokes until the 3rd date? you will just have to watch this space…

Just like i’m watching the white space on my ceiling while i wait for that hot guy at whole foods who weirdly just asked for my number even though i looked like i had just rolled out of bed (because i totally had) and might have had pizza crumbs on me and definitely was buying only wine and really expensive hippy toilet paper…

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P.S.

Amy Schumer for President!

missy elliot don’t want no one-minute man…or a thirty-one minute blog

2 Aug

i have exactly 31 minutes before i have to throw myself in the shower and get ready for a meeting.  i could do my requisite Facebook stalking ogling, which i prefer to call “inspiration research” versus “lame-sauce time-suck”.  or maybe i could make two more shots of espresso and see how many shots it takes to find one’s way to a minor cardiac episode?  (note: so far six has just made me giddy.) and then there’s that ever-growing behemoth pile of laundry that taunts me….i could do that?  HA!!!! yeah right.

or i could just force myself to write.

you see, i suck at “just writing”.  unless i have “divine inspiration”…usually imparted by the wily antics of a kardashian or a LOLCAT (btw, LOLCATS>kardashians…duh), i find it really difficult to sit down and blog.  i sometimes stare at my cat, hoping she’ll do something amazeballs that I MUST WRITE ABOUT.  but since she’s 16 and chiefly eats, sleeps, and prepares to eat and sleep, that yields very little stimulus. so instead, i just eat potentially-hazardous cold pizza cook a healthy lunch, watch a Keeping up with Kardashians marathon read a book, and drive to the coffee shop and stare at unemployed actors and make up stories about them in my head go to the gym.  and there goes another day without writing.

well, we are going to attempt to break myself out of this cycle.  today, coco is gonna write a list of the things i COULD POTENTIALLY WRITE ABOUT IF I DIDN’T SUCK. in 31 minutes.  and let’s just hope missy elliot aint reading this cuz she prolly don’t want a 31 minute blog either.

1) hip hop classes. i could do a whole v-blog series showing you how my hip-hop skills are fierce, yo.  especially since i’ve been spending what little disposable income i have on dance classes. that would be dope, yo! but since i still largely suck and my teacher now knows my name so he can tell me all the things i’m doing wrong through a personalize critique and since i’ve somehow managed to actually gain weight since i’ve started going to class, i’m not going to write about this.

in my head i look like her. instead i’m just what’s on her shirt.

2) the guy.  remember when i mentioned that i was dating someone for longer than 3 minutes?  well, it’s now been 4 whole minutes and he still somehow returns my calls and everything.  i could totally write about how we’re now at that horrible interesting stage when you start sharing things. like how he gave me the password to his HBOTOGO (omfg isn’t “the newsroom” the t*ts?!!!) and how i gave him my password to my netflix account.  except after i did  this, i realized that you can’t hide your queue and he can now see how you spent that saturday night in watching 7 episodes in a row of “say yes to the dress”?  i could write about this if, in fact, this was based in truth…but of course, it’s not.  that’s because i only watch foreign independent  films and thought-provoking documentaries, and only on monday and tuesday nights because the rest of the week i’m at art openings or film premiers or snorting coke with lindsay lohan in a bathroom at chateaux marmot fabulous soirees.

i’m sure the top two are: 1) share anything that can reveal who you really are 2) let him watch you in hip-hop class

3) the job search.  i could write about this, but i would cry.  and then i would eat more cold, questionable pizza and watch more “say yes to the dress”. sigh.

the good news? aflac is very eager for me to join their salesforce. and i’m so excited to be an insurance broker, said coco never.

well, that’s all i was able to come up with in 31 minutes.  sorry, missy.

happy thursday, y’all!

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