I can’t tell if dating in your thirties sucks or if dating in Los Angeles sucks.

Or if dating in your thirties in Los Angeles sucks. Or if dating in your thirties in Los Angeles with a facebook account sucks. Or dating just sucks.

Whatever the case may be, elements in my love life seem to be galvanizing into a perfect storm of Hoover-vac suckiness.

When I was in New York in my twenties (in retrospect) my love life was at least interesting. Sometimes, said love life may have bordered on the bipolar, perhaps even psychopathic, but at least there was a modicum of passion.

Don’t get me wrong: there is a whole heap o’ drama to be had dating girls in LA, but it tends to border on the boring.

In short, dating here in La is “dratarded.” It’s dramatic… but retarded. Girls here get hyper-pissed over things like facebook updates and the fact that you didn’t respond properly or enough to a text.

Here’s an ACTUAL STRING OF TEXTS between me and someone I dated briefly:

“Why didn’t u text me back?”

“Uh… because u just texted me that u were going swimming at the beach.”

“Pls just acknowledge my text next time! :(”

“Okay. Next time, when u go swimming, please go out deeper. :)”

What? I wanted to see if she could break her record!

Maybe my memory is sweetened and water-logged with Red Bull/Vodka from those nostalgic New York 9/11 years, but I seem to recall my love life in NYC as active and fun and fertile (oops!) and, dare I say, romantic. It was akin to a 1930’s Errol Flynn swashbuckler, compared to the 1950’s French foreign film marathon of ennui that is ‘Dating in Los Angeles.’

After many dates and near misses, I think I finally figured out the problem. And here it is: women.

Let me explain…

It seems that women in LA fall into only 3 categories. These categories represent the spectrum of dating options; or the types of women that a man such as myself (look who got upgraded from man-boy!) comes across or, rather, comes all over in Los Angeles (forgive me, that last bit was corny and nasty, but it was hovering there like a fluttering toss from a Raiders’ quarterback, I had to knock it down!).

The first type of woman in LA is the one who is in total denial. Over everything, particularly her age.

She shops at FOREVER 21, buys cremes and antioxidants by the wholesale crate, and when the mere subject of age comes up, she says something like, “Age is nothing but a number? Who cares? What difference does my age make? I hate all mention of time and numbers and even clocks!”

Hmmmm…. I feel like I’ve heard that before. Who else I’ve heard that from? Oh yeah, every woman in LA over thirty ever.

I like older women, so I went out with a 38 year old woman who was very beautiful …online.

When she showed up at the sushi restaurant, it appeared as if she had declared JIHAD on facial expression. I can’t say what combo of corrective surgeries she had, but her face began to assume that leonine “THUNDERCATS HO!” countenance that seems to be stuck on the visages of so many of the Hollywood enhanced.

Anyway, this girl was LA fit and tall, but I can’t say she had a “Butterface.” She had a “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER face.”

Everything was tucked and stapled and peeled. Her face looked like a newborn baby trying to squeeze out of the womb. “Waaaaaaaah!!!! Hey, I’m 29!!! Wahhhhh! I can’t blink, do you have eye drops? Wahhhhh!!!”

She couldn’t even fully close her mouth because her lips were so inflated and stretched back. She had this little roadrunner tongue flicking out every once in a while keeping her lips moist. And then she had these fake, physics-defying cartoon balloon boobies — or, as I call them, BALLOOBIES. These monstrosities would take 2 seconds to follow her. Every time she turned a corner, they would wallop around and seem to chase after her. “MEEP MEEP!”

So I’m putting it in her, right….

Come on, I can’t be too picky — I just moved here!

Anybang, I wasn’t really into it but I was giving it a College try. At one point, I realized her face kind of looked like one of those rubber sex dolls. I couldn’t really tell if she was enjoying herself at all because her expression never changed.

“Is that sound a good “Ooooo”or a bad “Ooooo?” Blink twice for good….”

Every once in a while, just to be safe, I had to put my fingers on her aorta to make sure there was a pulse. (There was.)

The second option for dating are the women who are painfully aware of their age and feel that their biological clock is ticking louder than an egg timer. They are keeping a lid on their obsession (kind of like the Natasha Beddingfield song “Babies”…. so what, I own it on iTUNES, that shit is catchy!), but they are officially, and unequivocally, freaking out about getting older.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I had my best girl friend Cali (www.calinorton.com) set me up on a blind date. This woman was in her mid-thirties. She was talented and smart and sexy and we hit it off right away. We went to a party, had some drinks, did some dancing. I rocked the ‘Robot.’ So far, so good.

After a break in the music and after one too many cocktails on her part, she said “I have to tell you: I wanna be pregnant by the end of the year!”

First date!?

I took a sip of my drink and said, “Can’t we just enjoy this Christmas party?”

Okay, that last bit was a joke. It was last February, but it may as well have been New Year’s!

Honestly, what did she think my reaction was gonna be?

“What are we doing drinking Appletinis getting to know each other? Let’s go back to your place, take off those granny panties and try to fertilize that dried up egg, Betty White! … what’s your last name again?”

In reality, what I said was, “That’s a beautiful thing.” That’s all my mouth could muster.

Unfortunately my penis heard what she said too. He took that as a cue to retract backwards into my intestines.

He was like, “What the hell did she say? Dude, I’m outta here…. I’ll be hanging out with the colon if you need me - come with me testicles - I’ll see you later on Chatroulette, Bill!” And then he disappeared in a puff of baby powder.

The THIRD option is dating women/girls in their 20’s.

I used to see guys in their thirties dating girls in their early twenties and think “What a ….CREEP!” Now I’m in my thirties, I see it, and I think “What a… GOOD IDEA!”

Young girls are just so easy to please! You can drive ‘em to Tijuana and they’re like “Wow, I’ve never been overseas before!”

Older women are impossible to please.

“Hey, Sally, I really want to make you cum.”

“You do? Well here’s the instruction manual, if you refer to page 347 in the chapter on clitoral stimulation, it will show you the proper rotation and psi needed to please me….”

Plus, young girls can teach me things like how to use a computer and webchat. “Baby, can you help me change my Facebook settings?” And, according to a new book, a ‘blow job is the new good night kiss” with the current generation of young girls. Dr. Phil has a problem with this because, apparently, he isn’t a fan of awesomeness.

Plus, younger women are game for anything. “Hey, Jenna, wanna put on X-MEN outfits and bang in the park tonight?”

“Sure why not? I’ve never done THAT before. Can I be STORM? Just make sure I’m back in time for homeroom!”

Okay, the truth is, despite everything I say and write, I want love and nothing is cooler to me than a long, beautiful relationship like the one my parents, Dave and Suzy Dawes, have. They’ve been together for over 40 years and my mom still looks at my dad and says things like “Isn’t your dad cute?” Awwww.

They have shared everything. And that is love. And that is life.

Honestly, I don’t want to be one of those Hollywood stereotypes. I don’t want to be 60 and marry a 40 year old. That’s so cliche!

No… I wanna be 40 and marry a 20 year old.

That’s much better.

Right?

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 25th, 2010 at 10:17 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.