Sometimes, there is a dude that comes into our lives, and no matter how incredibly connected or attracted we are to this human being – all the rules of logic, common sense, and ensured mental sanity – state that there is no way in hell you should be with that person – sometimes even in the same room.

Have any of you experienced this?

I have . . . and I am.

Maybe it is the tug and tow phenomenon also suffered by two magnets – the dance of all that should and absolutely shouldn’t be – one always teetering on the other.

I told you guys about my crazy infatuation with one of my friend’s younger brothers (Max) sometime back. We shared a few adolescent-like rendezvous that ended in nothing more than a G-rated kiss – concluded by a week or two of me obsessing as to why he chose to disappear from my life.

I can’t blame the guy. It is most certain that a specimen of his beauty has a plethora of trim, toned, and tanned sorority girls clawing their way to get a minute by his side.

I would too.  If I was trim, toned, and tan that is – then maybe I’d stand a chance.

Aside from my obvious attraction to the “forbidden” . . . I can’t even understand why I am drawn to this guy.

I’ve never particularly been attracted to “hot” guys . . .

Most of them (from my experience) are terrible lovers, and have the attention span of a starving gnat . . . their eyes constantly darting in every direction to ensure they don’t miss another hot specimen of the opposite sex that may squander by.

But Max is different, and I can’t exactly tell you why.

I am sure you are wondering why I am bringing up Max again and why the hell I am rambling on with all this nonsense without divulging any juicy details . . . So . . . I’ll get to the point.

Max called me out of the blue the other day.

It was perfect timing as I have honestly been bored out of my mind and more than unimpressed with my match.com dates as of late.

The closest “match” was a dental student who was in his last year of residency at one of the many med schools nearby.

We had an incredible first date:  Expensive steak dinner with a divine indulgence of twice-baked potatoes followed by a couple of glasses of wine over casual conversation in which he – (nearly over tears) confessed that he was in a “bad place” in his life and was not ready for a relationship.

Uhhhhh.  Okay?!? . . . Random  . . .

Needless to say, I gave him a hug at the end of date, wished him luck in his “crisis,” and Thank God – he never contacted me again.

But Max, on the other hand did.  And I was admittedly jumping for “yippy” joy when I heard his greek-god-like voice on the other end of the line . . .

He was going to be in my “neck of the woods” he said, and wondered if I wanted to grab a drink . . .

and grab a drink, or two, or three, or four we did.

There was no disingenuous talk of LSATs or law school . . . just the simple objective of partaking in some alcohol.

He offered to pick me up – which I thought was a little weird . . . but I agreed.

He arrived – looking as delicious as ever.  Hair:  effortlessly swept to the side as usual, and this time he sported an extremely hot five-o’clock shadow.

It was speckled in the most perfect way . . . defining every one of his flawless features.

I – on the other hand, had gained a little weight since the last time we saw each other, so I was filled with a host of random and dreadful insecurities – feeling pudgy, old, wrinkly, and the least bit sexy. 

Despite feeling like everything but “hot” when I saw him again, the attraction was dangerously obvious.

Which of course made me feel even more awkward – like a post-pubescent teenager . . . big and small in all the wrong places.  I hated it.

I hated feeling less . . .  Less attractive, less sexy, less confident, less everything than he.  I wasn’t used to that feeling and it bothered me – to my (admittedly) control-freak core.

I wondered if he noticed . . . that the confident lawyer he kissed in her Honda CRV about a year ago had all but wilted into an insecure handful of pruny petals – pitifully pining over this “man” that definitely seemed much more like a boy during our last encounter a year ago.

If he did notice, he didn’t let it show.

He smiled warmly and gave me a sincere hug – the type shared when upon it’s initiation – there’s a spontaneous and mutual realization that you actually missed the person you are holding in that moment.  My heart fluttered.

So he took me to a quaint little neighborhood bar – the kind where none of the furniture, artwork, or wait staff had been replaced in 20 years . . . it was cozy and comfortable. I liked it.

He asked what my drink of choice was . . . “Malibu with pineapple juice” I said.

We talked about almost everything . . . life . . . jobs, family, friends, and even love and how we wish we could find it.

Our conversation was incredibly more mature in nature than I expected from someone who in every way seemed like a man, but nonetheless was ten years my junior – no matter how I tried to slice it.

And then one, or two of glasses of my chosen drink later . . . I found that we were sitting much closer to each other in the booth – than we were originally.

My stomach sank, and then did a few summersaults upon this awareness. I liked him.

I knew I liked him.  But should I? . . . Like him?

The more I looked into his beautiful green eyes, the more I couldn’t extinguish that little voice in my head that kept saying . . . “I want him.”

I felt foolish for even entertaining the thought.  Here I was obsessed with the possibility that we could share anything more than a few drinks, and this poor guy probably was just bored on a Friday night and happened to stumble upon my name in his cell phone.

But then . . . After a few more drinks of mine and his choice, later . . .

“So you wanna go?” he said . . . looking at me with that irresistible grin that melted me like butter.

His eyes – piercing through me like Superman – who could without a doubt, read my mind.

“Ummmmm . . . sure” I said.

Where were we going?  I didn’t know . . . but I was sure about to find out . . .

Stay tuned.

- Lucky 

I am a huge proponent and subscriber of this mentality.  Of course, I don’t look like Marilyn Monroe . . . nor am I “gifted” like her, so it’s kinda hard to advertise a similar trade-off to a potential date or partner.

Nonetheless, I choose to believe that I am a “catch” to someone . . . out there . . . somewhere . . . in this universe.

I mean, isn’t that the purpose and motivation behind dating?  You throw all your cards out there, hoping they will land in a pattern or combination that someone sees as a win?

Let’s face it . . . we are all walking around in a sea of broken, bruised, bagagged and cynical individuals.  The hope is that someone will pick up our “package” – with it’s series of enumerated stamps, worn edges, duct tape, and sticky sealant and say . . .  ”Damn! . . . I want this  one!” 

Which is what makes the modern world of dating so challenging . . .

You find yourself scheduled for a series of “approval” appointments – as I like to call them . . . wondering if your next “date” will result in a thumbs up or down on your wardrobe, hair, weight, make-up, manicure, pedicure, and shade of lip gloss and zero investigation as to who you are, what makes you bleed, and makes you tick on the inside . . .

Which leads me to my point . . .

Have you ever found yourself on a date where you felt like if your “appointment” could just send you back to the salon for 30 minutes with instructions on what exactly he’d like you to change, then he’d be more likely find you acceptable enough to continue with dinner?

I’ve been there.  And if you haven’t . . . consider yourself out-of-this-world lucky!

A friend of mine recently set me up with a friend of hers . . . yeah . . . you know where this is going . . .

All the best dating stories start off with “a friend set me up with” . . . yadda yadda yadda . . .

And so to continue in true “bad date” story fashion . . .

She told me that this friend of hers had a “preference” for petite women . . . little did I know that her friend also had a “preference” for a lot of other things typically highlighted or featured in Cosmo, or Vogue . . . or any other chick style/fashion magazine.

Can we say “metro?”

The date started off reasonably well . . . we met at a quaint Italian cafe . . . that was unfortunately famous for offering copious amounts of assorted bread – all absolutely meant to be dipped into a heavenly mixture of virgin olive oil, and a drizzle of pleasantly tart balsamic vinagrette.

I should’ve known that was a sign that this date could go nowhere but south . . .

Anytime you are set up on a date at a location where you will be forced to practice extreme discipline while having a basket of enticing spongy carbs in front of you – only for the sake of not seeming like a blubbering carb fene, is pretty much a recipe for disaster.

Nonetheless . . . he made reservations  . . . guaranteeing that we would be seated at one of the best tables – a corner one delicately decorated with a trio of skinny tea light candelabras, paired with an incredible view of the ivy consumed patio and gazebo.

“A good start,” I said to myself, as he greeted me with a melt-worthy charming smile – accompanied with an irrisistable set of dimples = win + win!

The conversation was decent . . . and he even gave me a compliment early on . . . saying he loved the color of my hair . . . “like chestnut” he said.

I was impressed that he knew what the color “chestnut” was.  Men typically describe things in the form of primary colors . . . red, brown, black . . .

And then the evening went on . . . and I eventually got the feeling that this guy was giving me the most rare form of back-handed insults I think I’ve ever had the “pleasure” of receiving.

The comments were sporadic, so it took me a while to catch on.

He started with the first thing he complimented me on:  My hair.

I know you don’t know what I look like . . . so I have to give you a little imagery here:  I have what I call “half-ass” hair . . . it’s half-ass straight, half-ass curly  - which means it’s a half-ass – pain in my ass . . .

Some may call it “just-out-of-bed” hair . . .

And on the right model body frame and right model face, I suppose it could be – but I possess neither.

For me, it’s that “I wanna look like I don’t care” even though the reality is – I really don’t care to spend hours fixing my hair – look.

Nonetheless, I kinda like it because it strangely mirrors my non-commital nature:  The fact that my hair can’t quite commit to being straight – and sure as hell can’t commit to being curly.

So he says: “I really like your hair . . . but . . . .

(And here comes the “but”) . . .

“Have you ever thought of straightening it?”

“Ummm . . . yeah . . .” I said, wondering where the hell he was going with this . . .

(to my self) Of course I have thought of straighteing my hair . . . however thinking, as we know – is a far 1.5 hour departure from reality – when you realize how long it actually takes to do it.

Unfortunately, at the age of 36 . . . I am no longer equipped with the same enthusiasm I possessed in high school . . . when (in my still current disbelief) .  . I used to wake up an hour earlier just to put hot rollers on. 

Ohhhhh.  Those were the days . . .

But I smiled anyway, thinking somewhere in there – there was some form of a compliment.

Or so I thought.

“You would look so good if you straightened your hair” he said.

Hmmmm. Is that so?  I thought to myself . . . but instead I muttered out a “thank you.”  With the obvious undertone of a question mark . . .

Nonetheless, the date continued . . . and we each enjoyed our carb-infused dishes . . . Me – a chicken marsala sprinkled with a lovely mozzarella cheese.  Him – a bowl of bow-tie pasta with a chunky marinara sauce.

Divine.

And as we concluded the dinner with a couple of savory bellinis . . . a few more “compliments” came my way . . .

“You know I really don’t like those skinny jeans that the girls are wearing these days . . .”  he says.

Surprise . . . what do you think I was wearing?

You guessed it.

Granted, I did not look like that skinny board to the left, but I gave myself an “A” for effort.

Then – after a little more small talk, the subject diverted once again – back to his targeted list of my improvements:

The rouge upon my lips – which I would have a called a “tame” shade of cherry.

“I really love it when girls wear those nude lip glosses.”  He said.  ”They look sexy.”

Hmmm.

I started to wonder if (unbeknowst to me) – I was in an episode of “What Not to Wear,” and any minute, all my closest family and friends were going to jump out holding all the worst pieces of my less-than-fashionista wardrobe.

But, you know me:  I should never be so lucky.

And finally, as the liquid courage – fueled from a delicious bellini started to kick in – the straw that broke the camel’s back occurred when:

He mentioned (matter of fact-like) . . . that he wasn’t a fan of women wearing eye liner.

“It looks too fake,”  he said.

This, he says – as I am peering at him with my obviously annoyed – squinty eyes – decorarated with my beloved Mac Technakhol Eyeliner in Graphblack.

Stick a fork in me – I was done!  . . .

And so in my typical melodramatic and passive-aggressive manner I finally said . . .

“Thanks for dinner . . . but I have a makeover I need to get to for my next date . . .”

I said nothing more as I grabbed my cute $9.99 nude clutch that I scored from Marshall’s earlier that week, and scurried out the door to my Honda CRV – tearing my review mirror off, and that’s a fact.

In my defense – let me say that had I not had one too many bellinis – I may have performed a more graceful exit. 

In his defense – the guy was probably just offering some friendly suggestions that a woman carrying my brevity of insecurities could obviously not stomach.

But that is water under the bridge now, and let me just say – I learned a valuable lesson . . .

If a man is more focused on the woman he wishes you could look like, chances are, you are not a match.

Let’s face it people: my number one goal over the last few years in being single – has been finding a man that 1) has manners, 2) is gracious, and 3) wouldn’t think twice before helping an elderly woman walk across the street.

If he owns at least one standard Gap V-neck sweater – then we are talking MAJOR bonus!

Is it that as women, we put a greater value on the “stuff” on the inside than we do on the outside and thus it makes it all the more frustrating when a man doesn’t approve of our exterior package?

I don’t know . . .

All I know is that I think I have a good heart  . . . and I am looking for my equally good-hearted-male counterpart that likes my package exactly the way it is.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not opposed to improving my physical appearance . . . I am just not comfortable dating someone who considers themselves the President of my Improvement Committee.

We could all probably do a little more to be closer to a “perfect 10″ – in someone else’s eyes.

I suppose my hope is to find someone that sees me as a perfect 10 – exactly the way I am – warts and all.

I hope we will all be that lucky.

And until next time . . . I’m off to polish my warts.

-Lucky 

I just call it passionate.

I suppose I was born this way . . . or so it seems – as evidenced by my mother’s overly eager desire to share childhood stories – wherein I would purportedly get so angry, I would tremble in my tiny bones – tight fisted as all hell get out, and purple veins would rear their ugly head on the paleness of my 2 yr. old forehead.

Passion, . . . yes, that’s what I call it.

I can agree that the fact that I am 36 and still unmarried may indicate that my “passion” may possibly be too much to take – for some people, . . . or shall I say most men.

It is not surprising that all have departed with a formulaic echo that seems to have chartered it’s mark on my memory . . .
“I will never find anyone like you. . .”

Yeah – aint that the truth.

For years, I have prided myself in thinking that statement was rivaled by the praises of Greek goddesses – I am now realizing that it was truly a measure of distinction – putting me among the ranks of those challenging to/or incapable of sustaining/ love.

Still, I would not forsake my own, and deny the armor of my being – for to be “passionate” is to live a life worth living – colored with all the plentiful emotions and experiences that make life a flavorful fruit.

The memories sustained in my catalog of love are filled with relentless moments – lamenting heavy tears upon a sad goodbye, the intense savoring of flesh upon an eager reunion, and the melancholic melody of laughter that rings rhythmically – as it dances through the air like a tune.

My love memoir is not filled with colors of grey and white – but rather lavish shades of red: like a pungent cabernet, yellow: as the specks that glisten from a warm golden sunrise, and blue: as seen in patches of the ocean Pacific – wavering between aqua and a translucent eternity, as it travels.

Sure, being passionate comes with it’s series of misunderstandings, foot in mouth moments – and occasions where you find yourself feeling like you just busted out into a sole flash mob dance – after having missed the updated meeting time on your iPhone.

I suppose I view passion as any other potentially hazardous behavior – allowed to be freely practiced – so long as it is not hurting anyone.

But could it possibly be – that the realm of my passion far exceeds the tamable boundaries of a non-equally passioned man?

Does this mean that I have unknowingly yielded to never finding true love, unless a ravaging caveman comes to bonk me over the head with a bat – forcing me into a passive and demure submission?

Could the power of my loving with reckless abandon, and showering of unending praises be seen as a submerging tidal wave – unintentionally swallowing all matter in it’s path with it’s stinging frosty white cape?

It could be so.

Should the potential of finding love – true love – inspire me to muffle my fiery interior? – so that it may – more easily find a chamber whose walls are closer to my fitting?

Quite possibly.

But who would I be – if not the external fermentation of the rich emotional poetry that runs through my veins?

I would be a tree without leaves, a sky without blue, and a river – naked of it’s nurturing water.

I would not be me.

I suppose someday . . . when I find “the one” he will neither smother, nor dangerously magnify my fiery character . . . he will be a perfect companion – allowing my fierce passion to burn brightly in it’s domain.

Wasn’t it Henry David Thoreau who once said “I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude?”

I wouldn’t venture so far as to say that I would like to be alone forever, but for now . . . alone far beats the extinguishing of a flame -

who not only leads the way in darkness,

but warms us -

when we are cold.

- Lucky

Lesson #3:  Never wait for a hero, because the type of hero you are waiting for may never come.

So yesterday . . .  a friend of mine who has been seeing a therapist for the last couple of months had a nugget of “insight” to share with me about men . . .

Her therapist insists that men are actually very simple creatures, and are motivated by the need to fulfill one role and one role only in relationships . . .

MR. HERO. 

She went on to explain that men’s motives, objectives, and romantic reasoning were all fueled by the need to save, rescue, or salvage a woman.

I initially scoffed at this little perceived notion, but then began to wonder if it could possibly be true . . .

Do men really go around walking the world in search of opportunities to put a cape on?

Furthermore, is it men’s NEED to be a hero, or woman’s need to HAVE a hero that creates this phenomenon?

Well, let’s think about this for a minute . . .

The most common theme in the best romance movies involves a dashing handsome hero rising from the ashes of adversity – and somehow miraculously finding his way to his one and only beloved to save her from some life-threatening situation, crisis, or life-altering moment.

For example:

“The Bodyguard”: Professional security guard risks his own life to jump in front of and divert an impending bullet to save that of his secret true love.

“Titanic”:  Lower class lad saves upper class lass from marrying a billionaire jerk twice her age and then sacrifices his life as a popsicle so that she can live.

“Braveheart”:  Charitable savage leads his village to freedom-  and his own life to a slow and grueling gutting to preserve the honor of his murdered wife.

“Officer and a Gentleman”: Military commitment-phobe heartthrob jeopardizes his career to whisk away an idealistic working class factory worker to give her a better life.

CASE CLOSED.

No but seriously . . . I have to wonder . . . Could all the missteps, mistakes, and melodramatic events of my past romantic relationships really be attributed to the unfulfilled need of my former partners to be my hero?

I know I’ve been told more than once in a relationship: “You don’t need me” . . . “You’ll be fine without me” . . .

For some reason I’ve spent my whole life thinking that was a good thing . . .  I thought being self sufficient and independent were respected qualities in a woman.

I am now coming to realize that maybe in the eyes of a man they are not.

I don’t think it is a coincidence that most of my ex-boyfriends typically replaced me with someone that needed some sort of “saving” from their tragic past, from a cold cruel world, and even from themselves.  Some have even dated significantly younger women who in addition to saving, need a little bit of “raising.”

Don’t get me wrong . . . I am all about having a man be my hero . . . the problem is, I don’t want a man who takes it upon himself to determine how I need him to be my hero.

I mean, think about it . . .

When Lois Lane was quickly sinking into a crumbling crack in the earth while entrapped in her lovely orange convertible, did Superman fly in, stop, and assess the situation and then say . . . “Actually, let me figure out what I would like to do here??”

No, Lois cried “Save me Superman, save me!?!?” . . . and he did.

To me, a man is not truly my hero if he gets to decide what kind/type of saving I need.

For example, there are three ways a man does not acquire the title of hero:

1.  By performing services that could be easily purchased:
Changing the oil in my car, rewiring my antique lamp, or doing my taxes.

2.  Performing acts that are otherwise obligatory:
ie., doing his share of the dishes, calling when he says he’s going to call, taking out the trash.

3.  Performing an eventual act that was initially required in the first place:
ie., finally calling my mom to wish her a Happy Birthday – one week late.

None of these things earn “hero” status in my book – call me a cold hearted amphibian . . . I’ll own it.

I know that women are often described as really complex creatures, and maybe we are.  But I know that a man can be my hero by simply:

1.  Having intregity.
2.  Being a man of his word.
3.  Sticking even when the going gets tough.

Sounds simple – but unfortunately, sometimes simple things are really hard to find.

So, in conclusion . . . I suppose if you consider my overly obsessive analysis:

I do agree that men find value in playing the role of hero, maybe just as much as women bask in the opportunity to have a hero.

Maybe the insanely impossible event of true love occurs when the right hero finds the right woman in need of his type of heroism.

If that is so, then here’s a note to any potential beaus out there:

No need to bring a cape, pizza delivery and a good Netflix are wonderfully sufficient for me.

And if you ask me what type of toppings I would like, well, you may be well on your way to hero status.

Now if you actually tip the delivery guy . . . consider yourself a shoe in.

Here’s to me finding my hero someday . . . even if it is post popsicle . . .

- Lucky 

Okay, so I know you are wondering where the hell I’ve been . . . 

To be quite honest, I am too . . .

Wondering where the hell I’ve been (that is).

You know life is funny sometimes . . . okay . . .  dammit . . . most of the time.

We put ourselves out there . . . throw caution to the wind . . . flick ourselves at LOVE like spaghetti on a wall and hope we’ll stick.

And sometimes we do stick  . . .  for a while, and then we eventually peel off inch by inch, until we are a soggy, droopy piece of cold and limp pasta on the ground that nobody wants to eat.

And even for being ground inhabiting spaghetti, I am grateful.

Because whether we stick or we fall, it is all a part of living . . . a part of breathing in this God forsaken world that consists of everything wonderful, beautiful, nonsensical, obscure, and at end of the day . . . lovely as hell.

I’m not saying it’s all fun and games.  I am saying that it’s all a part of the big picture . . . the autobiographical portrait of each and every one of our lives.

You now how Charlie Sheen’s current claim to fame from all his melodramatic celebrity demise can all be summed up by one word . . .

“Winning?”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Let’s face it:

Anything can be considered “Winning” nowadays . . .

“Unknown” sex tape “accidentally” revealed launching a billion dollar franchise:

“Winning.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Still making millions as a pro golfer even after you have admitted to having multiple affairs with a slew of strippers and porn stars:

“Winning.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Still booking million dollar roles on Blockbuster movies even after having a dramatic tirade on set when a crew member accidentally makes a boo-boo:

“Winning.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

(Insert Minor Tangent):  I swear if I see one more person post the word “Winning” on their Facebook profile in conjunction with some (admitably) noble and worthy achievement, I may go absolutely bananas.

Hey, we’re all winning.  But the reality is . . . not all-ways . .

Which leads me back to what you guys came here for . . . stories about sex, relationships, and hopeless crushes that will probably never materialize  . . .

So the last you heard from me, I had spent the night with (RD) reality dude.

We started our liasion with an interesting prelude – a potentially beneficial partnership:  A role in my next screenplay . . .

We instantly clicked . . . and unlike all my million assorted presumptions – he was smart, witty, intellectual, and sensitive.

After a little flirtatious banter for a couple of weeks . . .

We had our first “official” date:  a sweet college-like evening filled with a home-cooked dinner, great wine, comfy boxers . . . and . . .

Drumroll please . . .

No sex.

As tragic as that may sound . . . I was actually ok with it . . . or even more than ok with it.

I wanted to actually get to know reality dude, and I knew that wouldn’t happen if I gave him wee-wee privileges on the first date . . .

Let’s face it, men are hunters and they like to acquire their prey . . . and if you don’t believe me . . . you’ll have to read my blog about Carne Guisada . . .

but anyway back to the point . . .

So we did not have sex that night, and I felt that the date went quite well overall.

I hadn’t done anything I was going to be ashamed of sharing with my girlfriends over Sunday brunch . . . yes, girls really do – do that on Sundays . . not just in TV shows.

However, despite my perceived success of the date . . . the flame unfortunately fizzled out over the next couple of months . . .

And it kinda went like this . . .

He got busier and busier with celebrity appearances and Hollywood parties, and I – to be honest – wasn’t that interested in trying to force myself into the unrealistic mold of a bombshell that I could never be . . . and from I understand . . . having Silicon somewhere on your bodily premises is a requirement to be admitted into these parties . . .

Just in case you didn’t know . . . I am silicon deficient.

Nonetheless . . .

There was one instance that I remember being the definite breaking point . . .

He was hosting a charity event . . . and he invited me to go . . . but he also fed me the “disclaimer” over the phone the night before . . .

RD: “Listen honey . . . I really want you to be there . . . but I hope you understand that I’m gonna be really busy and I may not be able to spend a lot of time with you . . .”

Me:  ”No worries, I get it . . . I want you to focus on your stuff . . . it’s important . . .”

And believe it or not, that was the fork in the road . . .

In the end, I did not go to the event.  Not because I minded being the doding date on the sidelines, but I realized that it just wasn’t me . . .

Or maybe I should say . . .  it just wasn’t in me.

I liked RD a lot, but I guess not enough . . . and I have come to finally realize that in order to truly make a relationship work . . . you really need to like/love the person enough . . .

Enough to make sacrifices and compromises . . .

Enough to step out of your comfort zone (sometimes) . . .

Enough to stand on the sidelines and the the best cheerleader when required, no matter what is required . . .

Enough to be willing to make changes within ourselves – especially when we know the change/s will make us better human beings.

Enough to do what it takes to make it work.

RD was an amazing man . . . I myself cannot even pinpoint why I wasn’t willing to put in the “work” that was required to be the sideline girlfriend.

The bottom line was . . .  I didn’t like him enough to be what he needed, or even more importantly what he deserved . . . and I knew it.

He was pretty distant with me following that episode . . . and honestly . . . I felt like quite a dud for not showing up.  I regretted not having a conversation about what I was really feeling . . . but either way . . . he never asked.

We saw each other a couple of times over the following weeks . . . and the moments were quaint, but somehow not as magical as our first date.

I knew it was over and so did he.

We didn’t make an event out it . .  we just let it be.

To his credit, he started dating a really hot Russian model shortly after that, and she looks way better in those Hollywood “bombshell” dresses than I ever could have.

So there you have it – that was the RD story.

Naturally . . . I am still single . . . and still sexless . . . but not regretful.

I took a break from the dating scene and focused on work for a while . . . I know I needed that.

I must admit I lost on this one . . . but that’s okay . . . I don’t mind going back to kissing a few frogs . . .

Unlike Charlie Sheen . . . we can’t always be . . .

“Winning.”

See ya next time.

- Lucky  

As the sting of a sip/turned gulp of full-bodied carbernet began to settle into my taste buds, I contemplated the words that just came from RD’s mouth:

“Wanna spend the night?”

My mind became a fortuitous circus – playing out all of the endless scenarios:  all the things I “did” and “didn’t” want to ensue after that million dollar question  . . .

And just like a college girl too tipsy to exercise an ounce of self restraint or control . . . I said . . .

“Okay . . .”

And then . . .

the panic set in . . .

“What now?” I thought to myself . . .

Is this moment where he expects me to immediately drop my drawers, run to him, and tackle him to the ground in a rage of lust  . . .

Would I be a extreme “lamo” if I made excuses for not “getting jiggy with it” on the first date, or

Should I just come right out and say:

“Look dude, I’m tired and tipsy and just wanna borrow a pillow if that’s okay with you.”

Don’t get me wrong, I did want to stay . . . I did want to spend more time with RD . . . but I wasn’t necessarily ready to throw caution to the “naked” wind just yet . . .

Despite all probable misperceptions, it’s not that I’m a prude . . .

And no matter what you dudes think, we don’t “not” have sex with you on the first date just to expel the potential of being perceived as a slut by you, anyone else, or even ourselves for that matter . . .

Believe it or not, women sometimes don’t have sex on the first date, or second date, or seventh date because they . . .

drumroll please . . .

JUST DON’T WANT TO.

Now “just not wanting to” can (of course) represent a slew of different scenarios and possibilities including but not limited to the following:

1.  As a result of eating too much on your dinner date, you now feel like a bloated blimp – that could – at any moment – launch into mid-air and prompt another “Balloon Boy” scandal.  As a result, you refuse to be seen naked by ANYONE . . . including your mother.

2.  You have not had as much as a warm blanket to cuddle with in a million months and as a result – have neglected all the necessary womanly “maintenance” required to get naked in front of anyone you care to even slightly impress.

3.  There has not been enough foreplay in the evening to inspire getting naked without feeling like a cheap hooker in a city cab grinding with an A-list actor who insists on being “unnamed.”

And finally:

4.  A combination of all the aforementioned has made you feel like a sliver of a woman, not at all capable of engaging in “rock-star” sex as required by your ego – to (of course) make a lasting impression with the current target of your affection.

So I don’t think I have to tell you which one(s) applied to me . . .

Thus, I stood there in his living room – holding an almost empty glass of wine and waited for my cue . . .

What I was going to do pursuant to that cue, I did not know . . . but I promised myself I would figure it out . . .

“I have some boxers and a t-shirt you can borrow if you wanna be more comfortable,” he said with a sweet and irresistible smile . . .

How could I possibly resist a soft white t-shirt and comfy boxers from a hot guy who can cook?

“That would be nice,” I uttered . . . wondering whether and when that chivalrous move was going to be replaced by a blunt: “Wanna have sex?”

But I decided to go with the flow and have faith in the possibility that there could be at least one existing trace of chivalry . . . known to mankind . . . across the world . . . and the universe  . . . and all the stars in the sky . . .

Okay . . . so you know I have to be dramatic . . . it was included as an essential component of my DNA.

So I followed RD into his room, where he selected a comfortable ensemble of all things boy and man:  boxers and a white t-shirt.

“The bathroom’s right there if you wanna change,” he said as he exited the room . . .

I stood there for a moment, . . . wondering when the the curtain was going to drop on this impressive illustration of gallantry: When the man who can cook, is a gentleman, is smart and intriguing, and has more depth than a piece of loose-leaf paper would finally lift the lid on his true intentions . . . .

I eventually made my way into the bathroom to trade my girly sundress for worn-in cotton.

When I exited the bathroom bearing RD’s oversized white t-shirt and boxers, he laid there waiting for me in his bed . . . smiling.

He wore those cute pajama pants that if worn the right way, and are coupled with a nicely chiseled torso – can be sexy as hell.

They were blue.  That I remember well . . . because they coordinated quite perfectly with his 100% Egyptian cotton baby blue sheets . . .

He was positioned on one side of the bed  . . . thoroughly indicating that my spot had been designated.

I stood there for a moment and smiled . . . in awe of the moment . . . in so many ways feeling like a woman . . .  yet more like a little girl . . .

It was nice to be treasured again by a man . . . so nice to be spoiled . . . without any pressure or expectations . . .

So I climbed into bed with RD . . .

He immediately scooped me up, and brought me closer to him.

He wrapped his arms around me as if shielding me from all the evil of the world.

“Goodnight . . .

sweet dreams” he whispered in my ear.

My heart melted into a floppy puddle of wax.

Although Reality Dude fell asleep pretty quickly, it took a while for me to relax and dispel my subconscious anxieties:  the thought that his hands would eventually migrate to miscellanous places on my body in the middle of the night . . .

When I finally grew tired of my typical, yet senseless obsessing, I fell soundly asleep in RD’s arms.

We spooned the rest of the night like two innocent teenagers until the sun rose a few hours later.

I laid there motionless for a while . . . absorbing the greatness of the rare moment.

When my eyes were finally forced open by a shrewd beam of light screaming through the window . . . I was greeted by a sweet gentle kiss on my forehead . .

“Good morning.” he said, and then he rolled off the bed – making his way to the lavatory.

I watched him walk away, in all of his reality TV “glory,” until he retreated from my view.

As the first thoughts of the day began to creep into my subconscious, I began to think to myself:

How much life can surprise you when you decide to finally take a chance on someone . . .

or something.

- Lucky 

So in our last phone conversation, reality dude was deficient of small talk – leading me to conclude that this hombre is an hombre of action, and not words.

And for that, I am awarding him a shiny gold star for a good start

. . .

considering my last boyfriend was a man of ummm . . . neither.

I knew a face to face would be required if I ever cared to get to know reality dude beyond any of my initial superficial perceptions.

So when I decided to call him a few days later, I was beyond shocked when he asked:  “You wanna come over for dinner?”

Although my knee jerk reaction prompted a casual affirmation, I was later swelled by anxiety as I began to contemplate all the possible interpretations of “dinner” . . .

For a single chick . . . being invited by a potential beau to “come over for dinner” can mean a multitude of things; including but not limited to the following:

> Dinner
(din·ner (noun)  din·ner[ dínnər ](din·ners))

• Code for a “get into your pants” collection of entrees
• A cheap alternative to a real date at a restaurant requiring a hefty tip and expensive valet fee
• A private rendezvous whose true purpose is to limit the risk of being spotted by other currently juggled girl “friends”
• A unlikely romantic gesture by a man who understands that chivalry is not yet dead

I won’t lie . . . despite my gut intuition, my strong curiosity exterminated any of the negative possibilities, and encouraged me to focus on the latter.

Before I knew it, I was getting all gussied up to have “dinner” with reality dude.

I put on a cute sun dress; attempting to embrace my diminutive girlie side . . . . the one that manages to emerge every once in a rare while.

Although I did shave my legs, I opted to not proceed with any maintenance farther “north” . . . I knew this strategy would force me to divert any potential efforts by reality dude to get me naked on the first date.

I was determined to differentiate myself from the mass of college cheerleader/silicone enhanced stripper types that he seemed to typically entertain.

When RD (reality dude) picked me up from my tiny studio apartment, he waited for me outside – leaning on his car: a relaxed and confident predator ready to size up and conquer his newest prey.

He stood there looking at me with his sultry eyes . . . arms crossed in cautious repose . . . his smile was sweet and endearing.

As I approached his long, lean and inviting body, I was suddenly flooded with fond memories of my first love . . .

His name was Allen . . . we were 16 and in high school . . .

We shared that purely innocent, sweet love – the kind that can only be experienced prior to the scalding and pruning of adult heartache – devoid of life’s baggage, multiple defense mechanisms and paralyzing insecurities . . .

(For some reason that sounds like a country song)

Allen and I lived one city away from each other and attended different high schools.

So in order to (in his own words) “never spending a day without me,” he insisted on picking me up from my house every morning, driving me to school, and kissing my untainted lips goodbye prior to approaching his own destination.

He was there every morning at 7 a.m. without fail – waiting for me to come rushing out – hair still bouncy from the recent shaping of hot rollers,

lip balm: dewy and sweet,

and face completely devoid of stress induced acne that was unfortunately destined to appear later in life.

Very much like Allen did every morning of my sophomore and junior year in high school – R.D. opened my door – touching the small of my back gently – to guide me into his manly “domain.”

We shared a nice conversation on the way over his apartment as I attempted to repress any of my underlying nervousness.

Although I barely knew this guy, I felt extraordinarily comfortable with him.

We arrived at his apartment in a remote area of Studio City . . . it was small and simple . . . decorated with possessions of a 30-something bachelor whose abode didn’t quite reflect the “girl crazy boy” I had been imagining . . .

The Playboy calendars, lava lamps, and incense trays were non-existent, and I was pleased to notice that his study nook was adorned with quality literature.

The work of legendary poets inhabited the shelves:  Khalil Gibran, Frost, and Whitman to name a few  . . .

I was admitedly disturbed by my lingering anticipation – wondering when my initial suspicions of dinner turning into a booty call would begin to materialize.

Those suspicions slowly began to subside, as R.D. cued his 80′s playlist on his ipod.

We both sang a host of 80′s hits ala karaoke style while the new target of my affection prepared a delicious dinner.

He insisted that I relax and enjoy a glass of wine as he juggled various spices and sauces in the kitchen . . .

target goal:  a pita filled with balsamic marinated steak and a colorful array of bell peppers, complemented with a side salad of mixed baby greens and feta cheese.

I was impressed with his culinary skill, and ability to juggle several scary sharp utensils all at one time . . . Made me wonder how skilled he could be in other ways . . .

and in other places . . . .

like the bedroom.

But for now . . . an impromptu greek dinner . . .

which of course lead to a few glasses of red wine . . .

as well as the quick passing of the evening hours . . .

I struggled with my intuition – encouraging me to make a dash for the door once dinner concluded, against my innate desire to continue peeling back the layers of this guy who obviously possessed more depth and grace than your average reality TV guy.

Against my underlying expectations, this man who can obviously cook . . . loves 80′s music . . . and plays a “womanizer” on reality T.V.   . . .

had yet to put a hand on me . . .

On the one hand, I was incredibly impressed with his gentlemanly behavior . . .

and on the other . . . I began to question whether this dude found me attractive enough to engage in an “accidental” back-side swipe while reaching for a napkin . . .

I wondered if in fact I was turning into the platonic chick that was just fun to “hang” with.

Don’t get me wrong . . . I didn’t expect to spend the evening tangled in the bedroom sheets, but I wouldn’t have minded some innocent PG-13 action before the clock struck twelve.

Nonetheless, (against my better judgement), I allowed our dinner date to turn into the early morning conclusion of a 2nd bottle of wine . . . making me a little tipsier than I had planned . . .

As I tried to play it cool and maintain my composure despite my flirty and giggly behavior . . . I began to feel the awkwardness of an evening dinner/turned early a.m. wine fest begin to descend upon the “friendly” fun and light atmosphere.

And then the inevitable question was imposed by R.D. . . .

“Wanna spend the night?”

To be continued . . .

- Lucky  

Copyright 2010, Converge Entertainment

Day 166:  No Sex

. . . Continued from “Phone Call From Reality Dude”

“Hello?”

a distinctive man’s voice answered on the other end of the line.

It was “Reality Dude” sounding even manlier and sexier than I had remembered.

I wondered whether somehow my google “stalking” over the last week had subconsciously increased his dating “cache” . . .

He was still the guy who I met (quite hesitantly) at a coffee shop a week prior . . .

The “womanizer” reality star who surprisingly peaked my interest . . .

not only because he was far more intriguing than the egotistical guy he “played” on reality TV, . . .

but also because I felt strangely attractive, sexy, and likewise intriguing in his presence . . . it was an unlikely and unexpected occurrence that I can’t explain.

Nonetheless, I felt my heart pitter patter for a second upon hearing his voice.

“Hey!  It’s Lucky.”  I remarked comfortably – as if we had been long lost “BFF”s from high school.

Reality Dude:  ”Hey, how’s it going?”  He responded with equal assurance . . . “Good to hear from you”  . . .

Me:  ”Yeah, good to hear from you too . . . sorry I am just getting back to you . . . I have been super ummmmmm . . . busy.”

(yeah, busy)

Reality Dude:  ”Don’t worry about it . . . I know you’re like a big time Hollywood producer”  . . .

I chuckled uncomfortably, unsure as to whether he was being quite sarcastic, or on the contrary – blowing loads of smoke up my ass . . .

Consequently that chuckle was followed by a long pause of silence . . .

the kind that makes you feel like time has suddenly stood still . . . travelling decades in just a matter of seconds -

very much like in the insanely romantic movie “Somewhere in Time,” again one of my favorite films – like ever.

If you haven’t seen this amazing epic film, I highly recommend it – the soundtrack is hauntingly enchanting.

Click here to view the embedded video.

In either case – although I knew I was far from being “Elise Mckenna” – I did fantasize momentarily about the thought of him being my “Richard” . . .

He would walk up to me, (quite gentlemanly of course), at a floral and oak-tree adorned park somewhere in Hollywood . . .

I would gaze at him longingly, and then while staring up into his dark mysterious eyes I would ask in a perfect British accent: “Is it you?”

And . . .

now back to reality . . .

Reality Guy:  ”So what are you up to?”

Me:  ”Oh, I just got home from the office, and I was gonna go for a quick work out” . . .

(Work out Lucky?  Seriously?)

Reality Guy:  ”Oh, so you have plans?” . . .

Me:  ”Um yeah. I guess . . . sort of” . . .

Ughhhh . . .

Have you ever had one of those moments, where you wonder whether a particular dude could maybe be the exception to “the rules”?

“The rules” that require a woman (in order to be desirable) to emulate a 1920′s damsel in distress – pursuable yet unattainable – safely equipped with her chastity belt.

Despite the obvious historical and evidenced success of this annoyingly archaic form of feminist repression -

Your gut tells you to take a chance, that maybe this one will be one of those that you don’t need to play by “the rules” with . . .

But you’ve learned from your repeated mistakes – that when you don’t play by “the rules,” a dude eventually takes you for granted.

It has everything to do with that whole “chase” thing . . . and why men are described and perceived as animals, predators, cavemen, and the like . . .

When a man acquires his prey too easily, he will devour and regard it as a simple piece of chicken fried steak, rather than savoring it like a tender and expensive cut of filet mignon.

Personally I prefer chicken fried steak myself, but that is besides the point, and either way I am not a man . . .

So back to the purpose of this long, drawn-out analogy.

Upon hearing Reality Dude probe into whether or not I was busy or had plans, I contemplated telling him no . . .

But I knew that if I made myself too available – especially too this extremely pursued man, I would become even less than a chicken friend steak – I would be more like carne guisada . . .

So I knew I had to make myself “unavailable,” for fear of taking a chance that Mr. Reality Dude would in fact not be an exception to “the rules.”

Reality Dude:  ”Well, I was gonna go catch a movie and wanted to see if maybe you wanted to join”  . . .

Me:  ”Ohhh, that would have been nice, but I am in desperate need of a workout.

. . . Maybe next time?”

Reality Dude:  ”Okay, well, let me know when you wanna hang out.”

Me:  ”Okay, sounds good.”

Reality Dude:  ”So I’ll talk to you later.”

Me: “Okay??? . . .  Uhhh . . . good night.”

Reality Dude:  ”Good night.”

And that was that . . .

So much for the “small talk,” I thought to myself.

I know dudes hate talking on the phone.

I don’t absolutely love talking on the phone . . . but I don’t have an aversion to it like I do many other things I whole-heartedly avoid with every fiber of my being.

However, I know guys associate talking on the phone with emotions, feelings, and everything relating to the psychological human condition, so perhaps that explains the repugnance.

In either case – given the fact that our conversation lasted all but 2.5 seconds, I made the reasonable conclusion that Reality Dude wasn’t up to “talking.”

Despite my initial disappointment, and urge to obsess over a million negative explanations as to why the cat got Reality Dude’s tongue . . . I opted to focus on positive thoughts . . .

I get it . . .

He probably spends a lot of time on the phone talking to annoying agents and weird movie people . . . (not like me of course) and is just one of those that is a better face-to-face communicator.

Or maybe he just wants to cut around the typical dating bullshit that comes along with making an impression, impressing, and attempting to avoid being too impressionable.

So I made the realization that if I cared to get to know Reality Dude beyond the minimal extent I had thus far . . . I suppose I would eventually have to make myself “available.”

Question is – how long should I wait to become “available” in order to ensure I am treated like a priceless cut of filet mignon and not like an (albeit delicious), but greasy serving of carne guisada?

I guess only I can decide whether or not, and how long of a wait would be worth the chance.

Hasta next time my friends.

- Lucky 

Copyright 2010, Converge Entertainment

Day 155:  No Sex

So before I get to “reality dude” . . . I know a lot of you have been wondering what the heck happened with my sexually uninterested boyfriend  . . .

Well that “thing,” whatever it was . . . has all but fizzled out into a speck of non-existence.

I couldn’t ever possibly explain, describe, or attempt to define that catastrophic mystery of a relationship . . .

It initiated like a blazing fire . . . and then like a candle with it’s mortal wick; burned through it’s predetermined life and then terminably extinguished -

. . . just as it was intended to.

It pretty much ended like this:

Mr. Sexless stopped calling . . . I stopped trying to “save” and “fix” him, and then the unfortunately stale love affair quickly  fell down the dark chute of “bad eggs.”

And life goes on . . .

We could never possibly know which people enter our life to simply visit for a brief moment . . .

I suppose it is that ounce of hope that motivates us to power through the challenging assembly line of dating:  Perhaps somewhere deep inside we believe that something will eventually make sense, or even better – fit just right among all those moving parts . . .

And here I am reminded of the lyrics from one of my favorite (of course) 80′s songs, from one of my favorite (of course) 80′s movies “If You Were Here” – by the Thompson Twins (“Sixteen Candles”):

“But just like the rain
I’ll be always falling, yeah
only to rise and fall again” . . .

Click here to view the embedded video.

And that’s what us single people do . . . we fall . . . and dammit to hell . . . we get back up, whether or nor we want to.

. . .

So now I have turned my attention to “reality dude” – whom (I will not admit to you, myself, nor anyone else for that matter) I am slightly obsessed with.

What can I say, the man intrigues me . . .

It is rare that I have someone pegged incorrectly . . .

Or (shall I say) that I am willing to admit I have someone pegged incorrectly . . .

This reality dude – that successfully plays the part of a cocky womanizer on TV, was a surprisingly deep and interesting introvert in person.

I know, I know, I only spent an hour with the guy . . .

but even in that hour, he managed to divert any of my initial misconceptions.

Only time will tell if that diversion continues . . . we shall see . . .

In the meantime, I have dedicated some of my time to “google stalking” the new target of my affection . . .

Is it so wrong to utilize the great viral tools available to us to learn more about our friends? . . .

I think not.

This crusade has (unfortunately) only deepened my initial insecurities- verifying that reality dude is never publicly photographed with a person of the female species that is not more than 5’7”, tanner than Snookie, and blessed with a decent sized “rack.”

Ughhhh.

I have comforted myself considerably however – convincing my shrinking ego that my brain is far more “attractive” and “valuable” than a hot ass in a bikini . . .

Or so I keep telling myself.

I have also discovered that reality dude has A LOT of female fans . . . Double Ughhhhh.

His myspace page is splattered with love notes from awing stripper look-alikes that can all be summed up by the following “sub-acronyms”:

double “X’s” and “O’s”

A mega extended “Mwuahhhhhhhhhhhhh

and

A series of “LMAOs” and “MYLCs”  . . .

The fact that he still kept a myspace page (when it is like sooooo “yesterday”) did bug me slightly, however I granted him one free pass on the premise of “marketing and publicity.”

So one night this week . . . I received a call from an “unknown” number followed by an voicemail alert indicating a message was left by Mr./Mrs. “unknown.”

When I checked the message . . . you can imagine my incredible surprise when I heard “reality dude’s” voice . . . saying something along the lines of “it was really nice hanging out . . . and maybe we can do it again,” followed by him stating his phone number . . .

Double gasp.

After I cynically toiled over all of the potential ulterior motives behind the call . . .

part in screenplay?

in need of legal advice?

I decided to throw caution to the wind, put all my negative suspicions aside, and call him back . . .

Not right away however – no, that would just be imprudent.

How long should an unsuspecting lass wait prior to returning the phone call of a “pursuing” beau – I ask?

Minutes?

Hours?

Days?

Well, much against my will . . . I opted to wait one day to return reality dude’s call . . .

Afterall, I couldn’t possibly add myself to the swarm of desperate “twilighters” that pathetically throw themselves at him on myspace.

Nonetheless, waiting one day wouldn’t kill me right?

Or so (once again) I kept telling myself . . .

So although I spent the remainder of that day in torturing suspense, the next day inevitably ensued and I finally designated my moment to return reality dude’s phone call . . .

As the phone dialed, I became unreasonable clammy and nervous . . .

I was inundated by flashbacks of my girlfriends and I – as giggly adolescents in junior high – 3-way calling the boys we had crushes on . . .

We were ridiculous . . .

And then . . . a “click” interrupted my reminiscent subconscious as someone on the other end of the line suddenly picked up . . .

To be continued . . .

- Lucky

Copyright Converge Entertainment 2010.

So I had my first meeting with the “reality dude” . . .

to see if he could possibility play any role in my current work-in-progress screenplay.

Forgive me for admitting that I have never managed to shake my bias – of deeming anyone who appears in a show with the word “Real” in the title . . . as anything but.

Although I was initially adverse to the idea of a rendezvous with a reality star . . . I was persuaded by my good friend Mark who thought us meeting could potentially be a win-win situation.

So we met at a quaint, smoke friendly coffee joint in Studio City.

I was “fashionably” late, which ordinarily would have been cool, except that he was unfashionably on-time -

A cooth reminder that this was in fact a “business meeting,” even if it was with what I presumed to be a probably fame hungry failed actor . . .

Nonetheless I made a necessary note to self to attempt to exhibit at least some professionalism.

As I glanced around the sea of strangers – I noticed him immediately . . . sitting at a small table in a discreet corner of the outside patio . . .

He looked exactly like he did on TV . . .  better actually . . .

He was obviously blessed with “that face” that Hollywood executives talk about . . . the kind that for some unknown and inexplicable reason – stands out in a crowd.

I walked towards him apologetically . . .

Recognizing that free time for reality stars must be ummmm . . .

minimal – because they are (after all) – really busy trying to promote world peace and “stuff”  . . .

As I approached the table – I took additional note of the gray hoodie he comfortably adorned.

He sported that hoodie, not like most L.A. celebrities and even wanna-be-celebrities do: in an intentionally underdressed, understated “Slim Shady” kinda way;

But rather in a more humble – “it’s 65 degrees outside, and I’m relying on this hoodie to keep my ass warm”/Rocky Balboa kinda way.

Click here to view the embedded video.

As I neared his table where he sat sipping a tiny cup of Joe – I couldn’t help but notice he was astonishingly handsome . . . a more refined version than I remember portrayed by the pixels of my HDTV.

I extended my hand to offer the typical Hollywood “business meeting” handshake . . .

He stood up to give me a hug . . . exemplifying his tremendously tall frame – albeit not as burly and brawny as I expected.

The hug was nice, inviting, and friendly – prompting me to feel instantly warm and fuzzy inside . . .

You see – I am a Texas girl, and in Texas – hugs are par for the course . . .

You know the saying “everything is big in Texas?  Well that does not exclude hugs my friends.

For that reason, when I am fortunate enough to receive a “real” hug in L.A., I become uncharacteristically mushy . . . remembering that I once lived in a place where the realm of someone’s “personal space” did not extend to another zip code,

and offering a hug in public did not defy the boundaries of social etiquette . . .

But once again I digress from the point of this story:  Reality dude and my screenplay . . .

So, after sharing our “warm and fuzzy” moment . . . I sat down with reality dude who was now the newest member of my “contact when in desperate need of a hug” club.

Reality Dude:  ”It’s so good to finally meet you – I’ve heard so many good things about you from Mark,”  he said kindly.

I wondered how much of that statement was genuine and how much of it was a not-so-subtle petition to be written into my next screenplay . . .

Reality Dude:  ”Can I get you something?”

(Okay, redeemed – chivalry isn’t dead after all, . . . I suppose.)

Me:  ”Sure,  I’ll have a small cup of house coffee -

extra room for cream . . . ”

Reality Dude:  ”Got it!”

And with that – he parted from the table, leaving me to engage in the typical necessary female adjustments:

1.  abhorred muffin top – strategically hidden by my jeans pulled up and over “just so” . . .

2.  stray hairs from tousled mane – swept back into place . . .

and

3.  make-up crease on nose from cheap but sassy sunglasses – smoothed over  . . .

While in the midst of my express make-over, I happened to catch a glimpse of reality dude engaging in a bit of small talk with the cute and over-eager barista 1/2 my age, twice my height, and 1/2 my waist size.

This observation (which would ordinarily be insignificant) – for some reason caused me to suddenly digress from a confident 30-something – obviosuly uninterested in the approval of a reality star, to a ridiculously insecure groupie:

Could I – in any way – compare to the thousands of teenage reality star fanatics that probably stalked him rigorously on myspace?

And then the “loser” checklist ensued:

Basty/non-tan skin: Check.

Teeth in desperate need of whitening: Check.

Heels under 4.5 inches:  Check.

Boobs less than a double D:  Check. Check. and ummmmm Check.

So now I was feeling like a real winner . . . and struggled with the reality that I did in fact care what this TV guy thought of me,

justified or not . . .

On the other hand – reality dude – completely oblivious to my self hatred routine – returned to the table beaming, holding out my steaming cup of overpriced coffee – as if he had climbed Mount Everest and back to obtain it.

I was curious about the rationale begind his exaggerated sense of achievement . . .

Reality Dude:  ”Tell me if you like it.”

So I took a sip from my card board (and guarananteed to be chemically infested) cup of coffee – only to be surprised by a perfectly sweetened and deliciously creamed cup of coffee . . . exactly how I like it.

Reality Dude:  ”I took a stab at it . . . I figured you liked it creamy and sweet” . . . he said, smiling charmingly.

Me:  ”Nice” . . . I said understatingly . . . I didn’t want to gawk like a pre-teen – enamored with Elvis . . .

And with that – we began to giggle subtly . . .

Despite my insistence to entertain every possible self scrutiny and conceivable insecurity, reality dude seemed completely unaffected  . . . and unconcerned for that matter . . .

It seemed that the fact that I looked nothing like Jessica Biel was actually of little importance to him . . .

Could it be? . . .

That maybe? . . .

He appreciated and valued my brain – or shall I say the fact that I had one – despite the fact that it was unaccompanied by a pair of double Ds?

Possible.

So we proceeded to share a really nice, and relaxed conversation about movies, scripts, and the industry we all love . . .

and love to hate.

We talked about our favorite films and were excited to discover that we were both enthusiasts of any cinema made in the 80′s . . .

The classics “The Breakfast Club” and “Karate Kid” to name a few . . .

We even recited a few lines congruently . . . reenacting the “sweep the leg Johnny” scene as if we ourselves were in it.

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I was impressed by his intellect and began to consider the fact that he would be fun to work with . . .  whether or not he possessed even the smallest acting bone anywhere in his body.

As we continued our “Hollywood talk” I couldn’t help but notice the nice architecture of his face – every line was perfectly placed . . . and even the imperfections added character to the ornately construed facial landscape I (not so indiscreetly) observed.

I wondered if it was these rare details that separated the “famous” from the “non-famous,” the “wanna-be” from the “are” in a world of overnight YouTube sensations and “unintentional” sex tape stars.

Eventually, the topic of my screenplay came up, and we discussed it briefly . . . he didn’t pine over the matter as I expected . . .

Reality Dude:  ”I’d like to read it . . .  whenever you’re ready . . . if you don’t mind . .. ” he said unassumingly.

Me:  ”Sure, it’s not ready . . . but when it is . . . sure.”

Reality Dude:  ”I just wanna . . . you know . . . learn more about the business beyond this whole reality stuff.  Believe it or not, there is more to me than . . . well let me just say that I am a lot deeper than that show” . . .

Me:  ”I get it.” . . .

Simple but profound words – and enough to at least begin to transform my biased presumptions about this particular reality star . . . realizing that perhaps I had judged this dude somewhat harshly and prematurely . . .

And so there you have it . . . that is was started my first pseudo friendship/subtle crush on a reality star . . .

What can I say . . . he had me at the word “deep.”  Yeah, I know, I’m easy to please.

After one refill, and a few too many second glances of recognition by a few passerbys, I decided it was time to conclude my coffee/script rendezvous with reality dude.

He offered to walk me to my car, but I declined . . . I’m not sure why, but I am quite certain it had something to do with my overwhelming need to establish and proclaim my status as an independent woman.

Nonetheless he hollered “keep in touch,” as we parted ways to opposing horizons of the City of Los Angeles.

I smiled and waved goodbye intently – as if there was more than an assured possibility we may never see each other again . . . despite my subtle desire otherwise . . .

As I settled into my Honda CRV, I began to ponder the reality dude experience . . . realizing that maybe I did in fact enjoy the conversation and his company . . . much to my surprise.

Maybe despite all attempts to believe differently . . . reality stars are people too.

- Lucky 

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