Even though I am required by Jewcy law to write missives about my dating exploits, I find myself strangely uninspired. I am a girl who could write tomes on shoes and accessories, but for some reason the topic of boys is boring. I don’t think it’s the boy’s fault and I don’t think it’s the girl’s fault. I actually think it’s everyone’s fault.

The rules have changed and have become so f’in complex, you need a Rosetta stone to figure it out. Navigating through dating waters now requires a map, compass, passport and a series of shots. We have single-handedly taken the joy and fun out of dating. It should be fun but for some reason we are so wedded (pun intended) to these dating rules.

When our parents were dating, it was easy. You liked someone; you called. You picked up the phone. But now, you can’t do that.

For example, lets say you’ve had two or three dates with a J-date. Can you surf J-date freely or do you not surf for fear that your date will see that you’ve been online? Or if your date sees you online, then does it matter because he is online? Or if you are online and you check him out again, will it look like you are being a total cyber stalker? Too many rules.

And…when did texting become an appropriate way to woo anyone. “U want 2 C me?” is not a panty dropping message and if I get something like that again on my phone I may have to scream in that voice that only dogs can hear.

I have tried to figure out why things have become so forgone. Are we a group of daters changed by the ravages of the world? Or has technology robbed of us of our ability to have basic human connections. A while ago I was in Italy walking down the street and at every café were men and women sitting and talking. I passed those same cafes about 2 hours later, and some of those same people were still sitting and talking. I was so moved by the basic human connection and astounded by it as well. I don’t remember the last time walking by a café in LA and seeing that kind of interaction, but to be fair, no one walks in LA.

I have this fear that I am going to be what I call the “afterthought. ” The “afterthought” is when you are at a restaurant and you see an obviously married couple eating dinner with absolutely nothing to say. They look like strangers. They are strangers who share a home but not a life. They’re an afterthought. I sound totally morose and I really am not. I am just going to vow to go about this whole dating thing differently. A date is just that, “a date.” A bad date is a couple of hours of time and not a horrific case of the flesh-eating virus. (Although, on some bad dates, that would have been preferable.) Why do I share these thoughts? I don’t know. I just couldn’t bear sharing another dating tale this week. I promise next week to have tales of pervy gynos, midget rabbis, and flatulent CPAs.

Coupled or married girlfriends always assume you cannot be happy unless you too are coupled or married. When I moved out to L.A. my old D.C. girlfriends went on frantic searches to find boy in L.A. for me. The search was odd at best. My sister-in-law set me up with a friend of a friend's cousin's friend. These are not exactly winning recommendations, but I still went out with him. I figure at the very least the dates would supplement the J-Date meal plan.

My girlfriend Hilary in D.C. called me with the exciting news that her old brilliant Harvard classmate is out in L.A. and is a writer. Hilary knows my weakness for academics and artists so I listened to her boy pitch. Hilary cautioned, “Either you'll love Tom or you'll hate Tom.” Tom or Tommy has an acerbic wit that is sexy or a repellent. I am also a sucker for witty banter, so I continued to listen to the pitch. Tom was Jewish, but he was also a bit sick. He had ulcertiv colitis and wore a colostomy bag. Hilary wanted to be upfront about his condition, which really didn't bother me. Once I heard he was sick, I immediately romanticized my nonexistent relationship with Tom. I am such a wonderful person, I could nurse him back to health. I realized that once Tom and I fell in love that we would have the perfect story for a Today Show Wedding. I gave Hilary the green light and Tom called.

Much as Hilary described, we engaged in witty banter for about an hour. I am not sure if the conversation was flirting or simply argumentative.

I met Tom at a very cool hipster Thai restaurant and immediately spotted him at the bar. I went to give Tom a hug and he remarked, "Hilary said even though you were 30 you looked in your early-20’s... Oh well." Tom and I were off to a rousing start.

We grabbed a booth and from there he proceeded to agure politics with me. Mind you, I worked for Uncle Sugar for seven years, so I actually know a thing or two about politics. Tom insulted my dining choices, my college and just about every other piece of conversation I offered. Not to mention, he spoke to our American/Thai waiter like he was a complete and total moron: "I WILL HAVE THE PAD THAIIIIII."

The bill took so long to arrive I actually felt my eggs going bad. I didn't even reach for my wallet; I figured I earned this dinner.

We left the restaurant and Tom said earnestly, "So you want to do this again?"

I remarked, "Nooo, I never want to do this again... ever. Let me look at my calendar. I am available never... Does never work for you?"

Tom said, "Is it because I have a colostomy bag?"

As much as I wanted to say, "Look Tom, I want to be the only one in relationship that accessorizes," I didn't. I said, "No Tom, it's actually because you're an asshole."

He replied, "Huh, yeah I was hoping you were going to say it was cause of the bag.”

I drove home with the relief that I would never have to go out with ColosTommy again.

Oh my gawd, if I hear another cliché of another “toad kissing” scenario I will scream in that voice that only dogs can hear. I had possibly the crappiest date with bald (Perfect on Paper) POP guy who maligned me for having a pissy attitude on our date. So being slightly Hester Prinn-esque I called this J-dater with whom I had been flirting on my way back from the crappy date. The J-dater invited me over. It’s not what you think. He invited me to come over to his condo and then we’d walk to a local bar…

I arrive at new boy’s abode, oh and did I mention he is a stand up comic? I love humor; it is the biggest turn on. If Eric Stoltz’s character in Mask could tell I joke, I would have tapped his red-headed ass. His picture on J-date was sort of Rat Packy, but in a total heeb way. I am intrigued and pleasantly surprised when he opens the door to his apartment.

I was concerned that a stand up wouldn’t be able to care for our children, but his place was fairly posh. Do stand-ups make money? Or better yet…is he a stand-up with an inheritance. Stand-Up (call him SU) and I immediately hit it off. He is funny and offers to make me a drink. My red flag went up half-mast and I demurred the cocktail. SU was not hitting second base this evening.

We ended up sitting on his couch and literally we chatted and laughed for hours. He is a bit older then I, which is fine. I tend to like older men. I will only date guys who remember when the Challenger blew up but cannot remember when Kennedy was shot. He is closer to the Kennedy side, late 30’s.

Anyway, the date ended sort of sweetly. He did a funny Dustin Hoffman impression that garnered a spit take and kissed me sweetly. I don’t know…maybe he’ll get second or – dare I risk it – a third date.

I drove home with an actual smile on my face. I feel a lil whorey having had two dates in one night, but I earned it. I needed a good date to erase the image of POP from my head. I have a date in a couple of days with a friend of a friend. The guy is a total New York writer with an acid tongue. For some reason I am looking forward to this date, too. I feel the cynic tide turning in my life. I am gaining optimism and seeing the light.

So I couldn't cancel on POP (Perfect On Paper), my staid lawyer, who couldn’t quite compare in person to the interesting guy on email and phone. For reasons I still can’t comprehend, I agreed to this second date, and haven’t been able to call it off. Not after all the build up. The plan was for me to drive to his place, and from there we would leave for this chi-chi restaurant and meet up with his friends. Did I forget to mention that for our second date he wants me to meet his “very best friends?”

So, I arrive at his place looking conservative but good. I don’t want to encourage this situation by trying to look too good – or god forbid showing off the twins. He opened the door and greeted me with. "You look ravishing!"

Who says that? I mean, seriously, what normal, interesting, thirtysomething uses the word ‘ravishing’ without irony? He went in for the kiss and I pulled a Heisman, gliding past him with an eager "show me your beautiful apartment." I could have given two stale turds about his abode, but if it saved me from his tongue I would have gazed at his pantry closet for weeks.

After a thankfully abridged apartment tour we arrive at La Bote, this fabulous restaurant in Santa Monica. We arrive first and he starts submerging me in compliments. I needed a lifejacket – I was about to drown. Finally his friends arrived, like a beacon of hope; two more people could bring an actual conversation to this otherwise staid chat.

POP makes formal introductions and then the menu debate begins. We decide we're going to share lots of dishes and everyone was to pick a dish. All 6 of my choices were vetoed by POP because they:

-wouldn’t compliment the anti-pasta

-wouldn’t marry with the wine

-wouldn’t go with the mode of the evening

While annoying, I think I was beginning to be glad that he vetoed my choices. Now I can just hate him for being a pretentious asshole. But it doesn’t end here. After we finally get our order together, POP sends back two bottles of wine.

POP insists that the best friends tell me how they were engaged. They seemed nice when they sat down, but who could have foreseen that that this simple story would involve such painfully hideous detail that it would be a 30 minute story of rose petals in bathtubs and bended knee proposals. I excused myself to the bathroom. Where unfortunately there was no emergency date exit and no smelling salts. I debated inventing an attack of diarrhea to get me out of the evening. Realizing that this wasn't necessarily the classiest option, and I didn't want strangers to comment on my colon... I returned to the dinner table, but not until I had sent 7 emergency SOS text messages to friends.

Throughout dinner I felt myself shutting down. His hand would go on my thigh and I would recoil like he was the Ebola monkey. I couldn't even feign charm or interest. I tried. I really did.

After dinner we started back to his place in silence... total and complete silence. I coughed a few times hoping that it would ignite conversation. Then, like Hiroshima, he exploded with "Why did you come if you were going to be miserable?!"

I apologized, and said "I wanted to give this date a chance. You were so excited. You called me every day about it."

"Well I was miserable," he said, "thank you for that." I muttered another apology, but I thought I needed to lay out a few facts for POP.

"Look, I think this date was premature. It was only our second date and I was meeting best friends, and you're having them tell me engagement stories... it’s too much.”

We reach his place, but not before he launches into me again. By this point, I’d had it. There was just no point in continuing this; I had already lost several hours of my life. I drove home and immediately logged on to the computer. I called back a J-Date guy who I had been emailing and made plans to grab a drink that night.

Do you ever wish you had a playbook for your life? You could be on a date or in the fetal stages of a relationship and take just a peak ahead. You'd find out if the guy was a total perve, a hidden asshole or had some type of quirk like collecting stuffed animals (i.e. my last date) but I guess that would take the fun, if you can call it that, out of the journey. 

I went out with Perfect on Paper (POP) and I knew I should feel something, anything for him.  We met through the dating hellscape of J-Date.  I have a love hate relationship with this online monster.  While it generates lots of dating potential, the majority of these men are such duds that it's making me debate an alternative lifestyle choice.  With my luck I would find the one lesbian who also collected stuffed animals, itemized a bill, or even listened to Jesus music at full blast.  But I digress.

POP and I chatted for a week before the actual date. While I am a total sucker for deep conversation or even decent conversation from a guy in the early stages, I should have sensed something was maybe a wee bit awry.  He shared all the stories that a woman in her early thirties (so early that I am clinging to 30 with a death grip) would want to hear.  POP has a great family, wants to get married, likes to travel, is a lawyer; all those things that make your brain and heart do a little waltz. But as much as I wanted to feel head over heels over heart...I just didn't. 

He picked me up and I had the sense that I was dating my father, not because he was so old, but just because he was so not young.  He was trying desperately to be hip and fabulous which made the whole experience a bit sad. He was only 37 but he made Regis Philbin look like a regular hipster

He took me to one of favorite haunts, The Hungry Cat and we sat at the bar ate and shared stories.  At the bar, this is when his alter ego, Octopus Man emerged and like Houdini I had hands appearing everywhere touching my back, my arm, my thigh.  I hadn't been touched this much since my last OB/GYN appointment.  That said, the conversation wasn't bad and I have no idea why I felt the need, the desire to give him another chance. I was faking it. I faked the first date.

In the car he pulled out his Blackberry and said "I know this sounds a bit rushed but I would love to take you to out to dinner next week with my very best friends.  As if I had Tourettes I blurted out "Okay."  WHY DID I DO THAT?

The week that followed involved me competing in the Olympic sport of call screening. I had to gear myself up for chatting with him. His conversations displayed his many, many, years of therapy and his desire to show how grounded he was.  This man had so much baggage I could shop him instead of the Samsonsite store.  Yet I couldn't cancel the dinner. On every call he enthused about me, and about how excited he was to share me with his best friends and I just wasn't sure what to do.  As much as I do love being the center of attention, he was gushing like a fountain. I wanted to throw a coin at him and make a wish. I was drowning in complement…it was too much too soon.  

Do I cancel on him after the buildup or do I go and give him a chance over a lovely expensive meal?