Men as Dessert.

In my thirties, there were lots of places for single people to meet. I remember on Fridays, after work, a bunch of us single girls would meet at a local hotel for happy hour, you know those cheap drinks and even cheaper appetizers and lots of people who are very happy that the work week is over. There were so many options then, that we’d have to think about which place to visit each week. On Saturday nights, there were clubs and dances and, again, we could pick and choose between lots and lots of options.

Now, we’re older and wiser and still looking for guys to date and, alas, the options are very different. I remember having a great desire to have a man in my life in those days, but lately it isn’t such a strong drive. As grounded and relaxed as I am at this time of my life, it seems unnecessary to have a partner and lover, yet it’s like that book, “Men are Just Desserts” that I read a long time ago – the meal is enough but dessert makes it even more delicious, like a special treat that brings a smile to our faces and adds an extra moment of joy to the meal. But now I’d want every bite of that dessert to be amazing, and I’m not willing to settle for one that is just so-so.

So where do I meet someone so yummy? I can’t find any happy hours where people my age congregate, and there are only two clubs I know in my area for us older-and-wiser folks. One has a good band, but not much of a crowd. The other has a terrible band, lots of people, but not much in the way of mixing and mingling.

What about singles parties, you ask? I did host those ten parties that were well received and lots of lots of fun, but the space I used is closed and I’ve been unable to find another. There’s my friend Rookie, the creator of Super Single Mixers, who is hosting a party in a few weeks that sounds great (see www.supersinglemixers.com), but she only does a few a year. And, of course, there’s internet dating, but that’s for another post.

So, in the interest of helping some of my Wowettes find Mr. Dessert, we went out last night to an advertised party at a club in the Marina, a lovely location that I visit all too seldom. I had been to two of these parties in the past, both times saying when I left that I would never go back. Expensive, a small crowd, and no one that interested me. But, in the spirit of friendship, I agreed to accompany one of my Wowettes. We thought we’d get dressed up, make the drive, and then check out the party before we paid our hard-earned bucks. We drove the packed LA freeways to the Marina, found the restaurant, amazingly found a parking spot, and scoured the restaurant for the party. I had thought we’d hear the loud music from afar, but it was quiet everywhere. Finally, we walked up the back stairs, past the group of guys checking us out, and found the sign-in desk. Still, no music, no crowd, no nothing. We lied (yes, we lied) and said that we were going to wait for a friend to arrive, and I made my way toward the entrance to the party to check it out before we decided to cough up the $25. The closer I got to the door, the closer a big bruiser of a guy got to me, like maybe he would tackle me if I tried to get in without paying?!? I assured him my intentions were honorable, that he had nothing to fear, and I leaned in to the room. What did I see? Now remember, we had arrived one hour after the supposed start of the party. There was a bandstand and no band. There was a dark room with little 4-seat low tables and chairs, each far from another, and a few women sitting here and there. There were supposed to be appetizers included in the price, but the burly guy was getting too close to me, so I abandoned the search.

No music, a dreary room with no way to mingle, and costly. No party for us. Thought we’d go to a movie instead, so we grabbed a copy of the LA weekly and sat outside in that lovely marina air and started to read it. Couldn’t find a movie we wanted to see so we kept reading the paper together and came upon the ads. We read the calendar for the Hollywood Bowl and checked out the clubs for the cool and hip and young and start cracking up when we came to the ads. After pages and pages of pics of almost naked women with obviously surgically enhanced (huge) breasts advertising phone lines for singles, we spot a big ad titled “Two Women Massage” and say, “Well, we’re two women, is that for us?” and couldn't stop laughing. Then, we get to the pages with pics of gorgeous bare-chested guys and see the ad for “Nasty Girls 99c” and the phone # of 1-800-xxx-HEAD and then we just about fall off our chairs, choking with laughter.

We finally got it together, had a delicious meal on a patio overlooking the boats, and then headed home. No party, no dessert, no cool new guys. But another fun and silly and memorable evening with the girls. If I find a guy that’s half as much fun as that, I’m gonna keep him.