Three years after my second divorce, with the help of a dating app, I went on 53 first dates in one summer. Fifty-three times, I put on my first date uniform (good, but not trying too hard), ironed my hair, and texted my date itinerary to my friend Karen so that the FBI would have an easier time tracking down my whereabouts in case this was the online date that ultimately went wrong.
I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet. I kept track of what I wore and the stories we shared to avoid repeating myself in case there was a second or third date. There were exploratory follow-up dates, but usually you only needed one to know.
The coffees, lunches and dinners of that season flash in my mind like the montage of a romantic comedy video. There were some average dates, a lot of nice guy dates and no chemistry, but a few stand out.
Here are the notables.
There was the extremely tall minor league baseball player I met at BJ's in Burbank. He didn't say more than four words to me during the entire meal, but he managed to converse with our waitress. I think he walked me to my car and looked for his number again.
The quiet and irritable television editor I met at the Guelaguetza on Olympic Boulevard. We ordered chicken mole and grasshoppers. During lunch she had a panic attack and excused herself to call her therapist. In fact, he told me this.
The experimental video director with the faux white hawk I met at Go Get Em Tiger in East Hollywood. He spent the date with an hour-long monologue about his ex-wife Julia, stopping only to show me many, many photos of Julia.
A young man, originally from Phoenix, asked to meet at Soot Bull Jip on 8th Street. A struggling writer, actor and production assistant, he confided in me that he had looked up my name on the Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to propose an animated children's show about singing giraffes. He also asked to be taken to Vons. I rejected both.
The screenwriter I met at République who, due to his striking lack of resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a photo of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like. It was all Radiohead and Elliott Smith. I adjusted my dating profile because he apparently seemed depressed.
There was the nervous, uptight English tutor, with a script in order and a famous roommate, who I met at a Starbucks in Koreatown. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our presentation. He then proceeded to inform me that instead of being discouraged by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I can correct my mistake and not appear uneducated.
The hip, bearded sports photographer I met at a late-night dinner at Fred 62 in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy and we made plans for a second date. But then things started to fall apart when we realized he was already dating his younger brother.
There was also the smooth (Kiss on the hand? Really?) and extremely tanned French tennis pro I crossed La Cienega Boulevard and met for lunch at Thai Vegan in Santa Monica. He was on a non-stop series of calls to his cell phone throughout the meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “No, thanks.“
When I described these guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. The guy looks like a lady. The boy in mommy jeans.) As an FNG in Vietnam, it was best not to learn their names.
Due to a story he had shared with me via email, date number 53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment. Before Naked Drummer came to see me for our first date, he called me at the last minute and said the following:
“I want to summarize. I just turned 30. I currently live with my mom. I play guitar in an alt-folk band. I have a semi-miserable temp job at Disney with no benefits. I drive a green '97 Plymouth Grand Voyager minivan that smells like weed. If you want to change your mind about this whole dinner thing, now's your chance.” He described himself as tall, dark and tall.
For some reason, I broke many of the “safety rules” from my first date with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to pick me up, I let him into my apartment. We went to dinner at Noshi Sushi on Beverly Boulevard. None of that is prudent behavior and I don't recommend anything except chu toro.
Naked Drummer was a funny, smart, nice Jewish guy who had been touring with bands on that Grand Voyager since he graduated college. On the first date, we bonded over takuwan and our stories as goth teenagers. My goth uniform included Maybelline black eyeliner. I used a lighter to heat the tip before application. His Gothic uniform included an olive green trench coat that he had borrowed from his mother. We were a match made in Joy Division heaven. He confided in me that he was an Insane Clown Posse Juggalo, I hinted that I was in the Kiss Army. (We were both lying about those last two.)
Reader, I married him.
The author is a former television writer, director and producer. She and Mr. Rosenberg live in South Pasadena. She is on Instagram: @smacksy.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
