“The Brandons” Chapter II

So last week we left with the cliffhanger which “Brandon” was this “Brendan?” The Spanish Suitor or the Slimy Skeleton? Well, we texted the entire next day (Sunday) and all of Monday. PS Texting to get to know someone is such bullshit. Anyone can seem witty or charming with two hour gaps of response time and the homie telling them how to reply. But anyway, I liked that he wanted to take me to dinner and I was game.

Now the thing about being asked to dinner isn’t that you’re hoping to go to a fancy steakhouse because you’re a gold-digging, superficial hoochie ( although they are out there). It means more than that, ladies. When a person asks you to dinner it means they want to spend a solid chunk of time with you. This way they can get to know you and how you operate. Are you a picky eater? Rude to the waitstaff? Complainy? Yes, I like to take words and put ‘ys’ at the end to make them sound cuter. And on the flip side you get to see if they pull out your chair, pick up the bill, hold the door open for an old lady, whatever. Dinner to me means that person is interested in me. Not my panties. Getting “drinks” with Tinder guys are often dudes who hope you get drunk enough to get down. When a guy asks me for drinks and I counter with “coffee sounds great, noon work for you?” if he is taken aback, then fuck him…I mean don’t fuck him. Clearly, that’s all he’s interested in anyway. Try it, it’s a good test. The good guys pass. If there’s no chemistry – no harm, no foul. It costs him $3 to figure that out. He shouldn’t have to lubricate you with cocktails to contrive chemistry.

So we had a plan. And he made it. Which is quite refreshing. So many times I’ve been on dates where guy’s are so passive. They ask me out but can’t decide where we’re going or what we’re doing and somehow it’s left up to me. I am the type of woman who likes a man to take charge. I don’t want a caveman who drags me by my hair, but I like someone who can just make a decision and stick to it. It’s a turn on. I’d even go as far as to say I like when a guy “knows what’s good here” and orders the best dishes. I can’t speak for all women but to me it’s hot! As he planned, we were going to this little punk rock Thai spot called Toi on Sunset. I was both nervous and excited because I still wasn’t sure which guy was Brendan! So the date was set for Tuesday night.

That week I was working art department on a music video. I’d been running around all day picking up props and what not. Meanwhile we were sending little texts back and forth. I was STARVING at some point and found myself back at a custom flag spot that I had been the day before ordering flags. At this point, the guy working at the shop was like my buddy. Mind you he was a weird fellow, probably in his late forties/ early fifties. He was super into conspiracy theories, which I found entertainingly laughable.  One in particular that he wouldn’t shut up about – the Mandela Effect. Look it up if you care to. I’m sure he was totally harmless and probably had great weed, although I never did confirm that. He did however offer me a protein bar in my most hangry moment, in which I accepted with much appreciation. I went about my prop shopping and maybe an hour later I found myself driving through a residential area when suddenly my mouth watered – that type of watery mouth right before you get nauseous and throw up. Uhoh. I pulled over and let it out. Damn that hippy and his granola. I was not okay. Pretty sure I had food poisoning. Maybe it was expired. To be fair, midway through that bar it didn’t seem like a snack I should finish but I figured I just waited too long to eat. The blowing of the chunks made me feel much better. I got through the rest of the day feeling okay. As long as I didn’t eat anything, I was good. But not great. Most of me wanted to just reschedule, but the other part of me didn’t want to be a cliche. Like, food poisoning? Really bitch. Also, it sounds like you have diarrhea when you say food poisoning. Plus I’m not one for lying. So the “follow through” part of me stuck to the plan: Thai dinner.

So there I was. Dressed cute and casual; boobs a little out, tight jeans, chunky heels. All that was running through my mind was, which one would it be?? I fed the meter, walked up to the restaurant, so nervous and excited. There he was. I saw him. As fate would have it, it was…Creepy Thin Guy; Brandon #2; Brendan. Ouch. Well, here goes nothing. Just another analogy of how dating can be a crapshoot. Luckily for me, I love playing craps. Come on, lucky number seven!

It’s not like we’re meeting for the first time so we greet each other with a little hug. We get a table and check out the menu as I try my hardest not to be disappointed he wasn’t Brandon #1. For all I know, this could  be the man of my dreams. I tell him I’m a little bit under the weather, that I had a little food poisoning and didn’t want to cancel. Although, now I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a “little food poisoning.” That’s like having a “little diarrhea.” I’m not sure if full disclosure was a good move but it’s the move I made. What do you think? Although, I did feel like once I shared that info he definitely thought I had diarrhea. Oh well, everybody poops. I just kept finding myself making all the wrong decisions. It’s like I’m having an out of body experience and I’m just watching myself from above saying “noooo, don’t do that” but then I do it anyway. This date has got to be a “what not to do” when dating. I should have just cancelled and been the cliche. He ordered a beer and I foolishly said “I’ll do the same.” Cheers!

At first, the beer almost seemed to settle my stomach or maybe it was just my nerves. That didn’t last long. We ordered a couple dishes to share.  The conversation is lack-lustre. He doesn’t have a very good sense of humor, which is very important to me. I found myself regurgitating the weird conspiracy theories my protein bar poisoner overshared with me. I didn’t even have to try very hard to insure we wouldn’t have a second date. It just came so naturally to me. Scare him away, I thought. Once the food arrived, I felt like a pregnant women in her first weeks of morning sickness. Just the smell of the food makes me nauseous. I don’t want to seem rude so I serve myself the smallest portions on to my plate. I take the tiniest bites of food – which is quite rare for me. He probably thinks I’m trying to seem like a “skinny eater” on this date. But really I’m just starting to sweat, that watery taste in my mouth is back, making my stomach nervous and the food creep back up my throat. “Don’t throw up at the table” I keep telling myself. I excuse myself from the table to puke, and I’m sure he thinks I’m about to shit my pants and at this point I can’t be certain that’s not going to happen. I go to the one stall restroom and of course it’s busy. If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all. I come back to the table, this time I’m sweating profusely. He has to notice. He has to know this date sucks. I sit a few more minutes and wait. Go back to the restroom, which is finally available! I swing that door open then shut and lock it just in time to projectile vomit straight into the toilet. It was like that pea soup scene from The Exorcist. Yes, my dates can sometimes be comparable to horror films.

We wrap up the date. I insist he take the leftovers. I probably won’t eat Thai for at least 3-6 months. Also, may never truly enjoy another protein bar and to be quite honest not sure I ever have. The one thing I’ve noticed about dinner on a first date is that a good number of men feel like they’ve made an investment and want a return on that. Sorry dude. Remember that analogy I made about shooting craps? You just crapped out buddy.  So yeah, he went in for the kiss and I gave him the cheek. I can’t even believe he would go for it. Were we not on the same date? It was boring, awful and I threw up in the middle of it. And I’m sure I had Thai food puke breath. Just goes to show how oblivious people can be.

So I learned a few things from this date. First, it’s never going to be the guy you want it to be. Secondly, if you don’t feel well – don’t go. So what if you’re a cliche. Nobody wins when you go to the date feeling like shit or like shitting. And lastly, dinner isn’t always worth it. Skip dinner. Go for dessert; ice cream, cupcakes, cocktails. It’s shorter and they shouldn’t expect much in return.

~ Lady Q

 

P.S On my next blog, I think I’d like to talk about the friend zone. Any thoughts, questions, comments about this before I post? I want to hear what you have to say on the subject.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Brandons” Chapter I

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So yeah, this is my first blog. I started setting it up at least a year ago but didn’t know where I wanted to begin (story of my life). What am I going to say? Who will listen? What’s my angle?

So I thought about all these things and decided this: I’m a thirty-ish single Latina woman in Los Angeles, zero children, zero pregnancies, zero abortions, that’s right – not even one unwanted baby (cut & paste straight from my OkCupid profile, don’t know why I’m single?)…the struggle is real. Not exactly what I envisioned at twenty.

So I’ll start there. Here. The other night was another story for the sloppy single books. Definitely not the kind I’ll ever tell my grandchildren (from my adopted children cuz this broad is gettin’ older & it just might be adoption).

Let me tell you about, The Brandons. I should preface that this story begins with two single girls on a Saturday night. One is me, and the other is my bad ass Scorpio girlfriend who just became single because her man wouldn’t put a ring on it. Shot out to my ladies who say ‘fuck that’ after nine years and decide they’d rather be alone. Not easy to do. Masturbating gets old and so does loveless sex. So yeah, I’m her wing woman. Like two hoe birds we took flight. I being the more experienced of the birds try to welcome her back into the wild animal kingdom. The scene has changed so much; it’s a whole new world with apps & swiping.

Anyway, in hindsight I realize I wasn’t playing wing woman – I was kind of looking for prey myself. Quick backstory on that : You see I had just hooked up with an old crush who was in town visiting his LA friends, me included obviously. But all we did was make out heavily like three times (days/ dates?), which is a record for me. I hardly get passed a second date. Anyway, we’ll call him Mr. Texas for now and we’ll save him for another story. That being said, I basically felt compelled to make out with another man immediately to prove to myself that I wasn’t taking Mr. Texas too seriously. Like he’s in another time zone, relax. Anyway, this is about The Brandons.

For the sake of my girl, we’ll call her G Dizzle? Sure, that works. Saturday night was off to a beautiful start with some chilled rosé wine, you know because by now my girls and I are sophisticated AF, or maybe we were just out of Bud Light. It’s hard to remember now. We drink a bottle and a half of wine before we even leave G Dog’s little apartment on the far Eastside of the recently gentrified Highland Park. Also, we hop in the Uber with rosé popsicles because why not? So we’re feeling pretty saucy by the time we get to La Cuevita (The Little Cove). Like the classy broads we are, we decide to upgrade to vodka sodas, the skinny white girl drank. By the way, if you haven’t been to this bar, go. You’re welcome.

So there we are – checking the scene. The first group of guys we meet are beautiful, well dressed, fun, sweet guys, yeah… totally gay. Typical. Also typical, they were our best friends after like two ‘okaaayyys’ and three screechy-pitched high fives. By the end of the convo we promised to see one of them in a drag show a couple weeks later. Anyway, just another example of men we love that are unavailable. At this point we’ve crushed our first round and are pretty lit, so naturally I head to the bar to grab another. This is where I meet Brandon. Let’s call him Brandon #1, possibly the love of my life. Probably because he had an accent. What is it about accents? Talk about a panty dropper.

Brandon #1 was from Spain, well dressed and now talking to me. Of course I started the conversation…What’s that you’re drinking? Ps – I know what you’re drinking, I’m a bartender (humble brag). Remember, we’re in a kind of dive bar so all I need is one guess because I can pretty much tell by the color: whiskey or vodka. It’s vodka, he tells me. Like I care, that’s right sometimes women pretend to care about things men say. Like when you talk about sports. Check it, I’ll get a team and watch sports when I get a man. Until then, I’m just running game. Me: “uh, what’s the score?” Followed by an unnecessary hair flip.

Now, let’s check in here. At this point, I’m pretty tipsy, possibly swirly but in my mind I’m oh, soooo charming. Also checking in with G Bone who is now the hot Weho boys’ biggest cheerleader and now fruit fly. I glance over my shoulder. Is she showing off by doing the splits? Classic G Dizzle. Back to Brandon. I sometimes do this thing where I immediately friend zone a guy, which is sometimes mistaken for me being a lesbian. Which I’m not…yet. So somehow Brandon and I end up walking over to another group of chicks. Did I just become his  wing woman? Either that or I’ve maybe given him the impression we’re now looking for a threesome. I like to think the latter..? I think. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted his undivided attention. I’m just not sure how to do that, exactly. Speaking of attention, where’s G Breezy? So her name has changed a few times, that’s how you know you’re old friends. Also how you know your old friends,  you realize that it’s time to walk away from this accent spewing Spaniard, Brandon. This part of the night gets blurry. I give him my number even though he doesn’t ask for it. And in my wobbly pop mind I just know that he will be mine some day. Adios, Brandon #1! G Dog and I roll out to do what we always like to do at the end of a night of drinking…drink some more and dance our faces off until we shut the bar down..in this case, The Offbeat. It’s all in the name – describing the people, not the music. Here’s where we meet Brandon #2.

I met Brandon #2 on the dance floor. You see, I like to bust a move when I drink. No dance floor? No way. Make one, is what I say. And I’m not just doing your classic two step, Lord no. This broad here, swears she’s John Travolta’s dance partner. Or better, teacher. I’m doing mash ups of salsa dancing meets pop-lock-and-dropping-it. Then picking it up again just to twerk and finish off with a few shimmys. What is this a wedding? Picture these moves in a divey, sticky floored, dark-lit bar that should be in a strip mall but still has disco lights likely purchased in a strip mall blinding my eyesight (the alcohol doing enough to blind my judgement). I dance with him because, well to be honest he was the only guy on the dance floor at 1:30am. At one point, G Bone and I dance on the stage like two clothed strippers, which is usually occupied by some local band. I’m spinning, dancing, spinning, dancing, spinning like Selena in that movie… Selena, duh. And out of nowhere Brandon #2 grabs me between the spins and plants one right on my lips. And I let him for like 3 seconds before he does this creepy waist grab and pulls me closer to his little skeleton body and back into reality. I pulled away. I was done. Enough humoring this guy. Boy bye. The night was over. The bar was closing, lights came up and it’s time to go. Most likely to Jack in the Box. What a night!!!

I wake up the next morning on G Ride’s couch and we recap last night’s adventure, laughing and checking our bank accounts. Boom! In comes a text. Message reads: Hey Marina, had a great time with you last night. We should hang again soon. – Brendan. Wait, Brendan? Who the fuck is Brendan? I thought they were both Brandons! Which one was Brendan? In one hand it could have been the first guy, I mean he did have an accent. And in the other hand, I was much more lit at the second bar plus the music was pretty loud. Who the FUCK is Brendan?

Sure, I could just text him back very directly to figure out which bar we met at…but that would be too easy. And if you can’t tell already, if I liked easy I would tell shorter stories. This is where my investigative reporter skills kick in. Uber rides!!! I decided to make a timeline. So G Thang and I discover that we left the first bar at 1am which would put us at the second bar maybe ten minutes after. Then taking one last uber ride at 2am. As I’m trying to deduce which one is Brendan, I notice that I also have a voicemail from this Brendan guy from the night before. The call was made at 1:15am. It’s this info that leads me to believe that the Spanish suitor was Brendan because what kind of loser would call me while he’s essentially still hanging out with me, right? You think about it and I’ll let you know which B Man it was next blog because naturally I took a leap and said “fuck it” and confirmed a date for Thai food. Sounds fun, huh? We’ll see.

~ Lady Q