how to meet men

It’s a date!

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

clinking glasses

Well, dear readers, it happened.

A man I met in real life, whom I chatted up apropos of nothing, and to whom I gave my number, asked me out.

It took a while. First, he sent me a text that my phone didn’t recognize so it hid it from me for a few weeks. (Gee. Thanks iPhone).  While cleaning up old texts, I found it and wrote back.

One thing led to another.

“He asked me out!” I breathlessly told anyone in line at Whole Foods or the bank willing to listen. “No fakey online photos! No cheesy usernames! Just two people meeting and hitting it off!”

So here we are, at Sugar Lounge, where we first met.

We talk about our week, our vacation plans, our pet peeves, and our life philosophy.

Now, this man isn’t completely my type. A little rough around the edges. But cute. Blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles. Sincere. Working in an industry helping people.

I’m feeling warm from the wine.

“Ever been married, Malcolm?”

Silence. He looks down. He looks back up.

“Yeah. I’m married right now.”

Cue needle scratch over vinyl record. Room goes quiet while somewhere a wine glass hits granite floor. (Nah, I didn’t drop my glass. I’ve been through this before.)

So, we’ll be friends.

Next up: Addie Hits the Road to Find Love in Other Places.

 

 

A word about women

~ Addie ~ 2 Comments

singles dance

Last night I went to a big singles’ dance. I am currently on a quest to meet the Love of My Life, but right now I don’t want to talk about the men I met there.

I want to talk about the women.

I’ve been to my fair share of singles’ dances by now, and I want to share with you the women I met last night who show the best and worst of attitudes when it comes to meeting men.

First rule: it’s supposed to be FUN dammit

Two girls, about 24, came in full ironic princess dresses. I met them as they were sprawled on the floor near the entrance, exchanging shoes. As I talked to them about the fact that they were the same shoe size, they laughed about really taking the event title “singles’ ball” seriously so they were there to find Prince Charming. Again, they were joking, but having such a good time I had to love these two. I pointed out a few distinguished gentlemen in tuxedos across the dance floor. In a giggling mess of chiffon, they were off to meet them.

Second rule: practice 

I was there with dating coach Annie Gleason, helping at her table to drum up some new business. It was like old times. About halfway through the evening she introduced me to Alison, a current client of hers. Seems Alison was having a bit of anxiety getting herself out toward the dance floor, and Annie asked me if I wouldn’t mind showing her what I do.

Absolutely. I come from a long line of teachers and I love to pass along whatever I know, so this is fun for me.

I brought her to the edge of the dance floor.

It was a hot, dark, sweaty sea of people moving to the thump to Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” Men were practicing the side-to-side two-step, making sure to bite their lower lips. Some appeared to have no idea what to do with their arms as they flailed them about in adorable improvisation. Some women out there were dressed to kill, eight-inch heels and all, swirling and twirling with such stern determination that I worried that Alison might be impaled out there.

“So here’s the thing,” I said. “If you want to get asked to dance, you need to NOT be talking to me. A lot of men find it hard to break into women talking together.”

We I did a quick high-five and move a few feet away from each other. She started smiling at men passing by, bouncing to the beat. Within seconds, she’s whisked away to the floor as the DJ moved into some disco grooves.

And another rule: for god’s sake try to look friendly

That’s when I took a tour of the room. It was now at capacity. The beer and wine had been flowing for about two hours, and people were loosened up.

Well, not all of them.

One table was a black hole of sequins and perfect hair. Seven ( I counted: seven) women were seated at the table, shoulders hunched, talking urgently amongst themselves. These were some beautiful people. I made mental notes on hairstyle and stunning gown choices, and I drew closer. Two of them glanced up at two guys approaching their table, made tiny frown faces, and then back at their friends.

I actually don’t know what happened to these folks. By then Annie had put in a full night and she needed to pack up and head out. But I could almost hear these same women complain all the way home about the evening being a bust.

Back to rule number one

Annie taught me something a long time ago; men are terrified of women who don’t look friendly. And we women, in public situations, often fear for our safety and are just as terrified of strange men. It’s actually a survival skill.

But this was a singles’ dance. You paid money to be there. It’s just one night. If a guy asked you to dance, you are not required to marry him.

Are you also terrified? There are simple steps you can follow when you get out on that dance floor. Thank you for a lovely evening, Annie!

 

No pressure … part 2

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

awkward

… So there I am. It’s Speed Dating night for me. I am early, and I have been spotted by a man named Toby. I went out with a few times last year,  but I felt no spark so I ended it.

Now we are in polite conversation where we ask how the other is doing, and he has made the correct assumption that I am at a singles’ event looking for someone to date.

Annie Gleason, dating coach, comes to the rescue. Not literally  (I don’t need THAT much hand-holding ((although I did go to a singles’ dance with Annie once where she watched me mingling and gave me tips from the sidelines; but that’s another story))).

What do I say?

As I make a mad search of my mental notes from Annie on how to get out of this one, I also keep in mind that at some point this evening he is going to sit at my table and have five minutes of my time, just like every other guy there that evening.

“Yes, I got out of a relationship a while back and feel ready to start dating,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear it didn’t work out.” He seems sincere.

It feels like he wants to say more. I’m sipping my vodka tonic and looking around. My feet are facing ever-so-slightly away from him. I am giving him classic body language. He persists.

“How’s your job going?”

This is where another woman enters our awkward two-some.

“Hello!” Her name is Sita. She barges into our twosome all smiles, energetic, and seems to know Toby.

I love Sita.

Sita not only saves my ass at this moment, but she is bright, pretty as all get-out, and proceeds to dominate the conversation. I learn that she and Toby met at a previous speed-date event, and did not choose each other. She works in television in San Jose, she loves her life, loves to travel, fancies herself a singer with self-published CDs, enjoys dancing …

DING!

It’s time for the girls to take their places at their individual tables, and for the guys to start roaming from one to the next.

And so begins the short, sometimes awkward conversations with 11 men of all stripes and shapes. We are in the middle of a very warm-weather spell, so I find  my opener: “Such a beautiful weekend we’re having; what did you do with your Saturday?”

I am crafty. I use this question to find out a) if the guy’s short term memory works, b) what they choose to do on a random Saturday c) if any of what they describe sounds like something I might want to join them on in the near future.

So far so good. One guy describes golfing. Another worked on his car. Yet another gives me a very long, long laundry list of shopping, dry cleaners, gas station, dog walk, shower, checking his email, and turn by turn saga of his uneventful drive to the event this evening …

My favorite guy so far tonight is so nervous when I ask the question that his mind goes blank. I can see the panic set in. It’s so cute that I can’t help but make up a Saturday for him – sending him on a hot-air balloon ride, a swing around a NASCAR track, and a chance encounter with Jack Nicholson. He likes my ramble and joins along in the gag, adding that he also finished inventing a way to save global climate change with just a bobby pin. As he leaves, I circle YES on the little Speed-Dating scorecard.

Heere’s … Toby!

The time has come. Toby ambles over to my table, smiling in a shy way. He sits down.

“We gotta stop meeting like this ..,” he says.

Oh dear. I glance over at Sita’s table. She’s filling a gentleman in on Everything Sita.

I laugh at his (genuinely cute) remark and look him in the eye.

“Toby you are so sweet. It’s nice that we met up again tonight, and I’m truly enjoying talking with you. But I felt last year that we weren’t a match, and that hasn’t changed.”

“But we’re having such a good time..,” says he.

“Agreed.”

“So why don’t we grab a cup of coffee sometime, see where it goes?”

Ugh. He is so nice. But there were no sparks for me last year, and my general discomfort with his persistence is setting in.

Annie, help!

Okay, now I remember: Be persistent back.

“Toby, I appreciate your interest in us getting together, but we’re not a match. It’s been nice seeing you. I really hope you’ve met a few women tonight that you’re interested in. I’ve met a few men. I really wish you the best of luck.”

Toby takes it like a gentleman. I turn our conversation to Sita, and we now have plenty to say for the next four minutes.

Dating 101 for the rest of you all, but …

I cannot begin to tell you how important moments like this are for me.

Long ago, in this same exact situation I probably would’ve acquiesced and gone on the date with Toby. And hated myself for it. Which in turn would’ve made me not as relaxed or friendly — or worse — resort to ordering that third glass of wine and, well, you know.

But now I am a changed Dating Woman. With Annie’s help, I have not only overcome my shyness at early dating, but have gained tools for sticking to my guns without having to rely on lying, ghosting, or giving in because only because the guy likes me.

So, life is good. On this day, anyway.

—————————————————–

Next up: A chef on an airplane and a geek in the airport security line.

Talking to men in elevators

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

elevator1

Hokay. Reviews are in from my last two forays:

“Aww, I was so sad after reading it.” – co-worker

“THAT was depressing …”  – close friend

“You left that cafe too soon!!!” – Florida resident

“You need to pick better venues.” – dating coach

So today, dear readers, I bring you something fun, light and random: I talked to two guys in the elevators of the San Francisco Public Library.

Why I was there is not relevant at this point. I’m a journalist by training, and I am researching something.

Meet-cute with guy #1

I enter on the west side of the Main Branch of the library. In the elevator, I press “5” as this is the floor I need. Young man in blue shirt, khakis, battered briefcase and glasses gets on with me and presses “6.”

I’m feeling flirty.

“What’s on six?”

Cute khaki glasses guy explains that he is researching historical information for his architectural firm. I say something about that being cool.

DING! Floor five. I saunter off and he saunters with me.

I’m confused, but still feeling friendly: “Didn’t you say you were going to the sixth floor?”

“Oh gosh, yes!” Back on the elevator he goes.

I head to the main desk of Floor Five of the SFPL. I tell the nice man behind the desk what I am looking for. He promptly tells me I need to go to floor six.

You will NOT believe who I run into on floor six.

There he is, Khakis-Glasses-Cute-Guy is at the floor six desk, getting pertinent info on his historical endeavor. I’m now standing behind him and he looks back at me.

Okay, so I established a slight flirtation with this (way too young) guy previously so I have to admit to him this is kinda funny so I say, “Looks like *I’m* the one who got off on the wrong floor!”

Let’s pause to remember that we are at a Public Library. Stern women are looking down their reading glasses at us. We are giving over our state-issued identifications and signing some agreements to Remain Silent while visiting.

It kinda harshes the vibe. He smiles, goes to the microfiche, I go to the other side of the room.

Two hours later, I am knee-deep into not finding the historical San Francisco text I am looking for, and khaki-clad-architect-guy is long gone.

“The Library is closing in 30 minutes.”

Eh. I can try to find my piece of history another time.

I go back to the counter, get my stuff back, receive an admonition for not having my library card with me, and get on the elevator.

And now, a new guy is there. And he’s having trouble with the buttons.

[P.S., curious about my dating coach? Meet Annie.]

Does this count?

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

revcafe

So there I am, getting off BART at 24th and I am in a mini skirt, t-shirt and tiny denim jacket. It is 55 degrees and the Pacific fog is a monster.

My jaunt downtown to chat up men at a Holocaust exhibit failed miserably. I’m seeing the miss-steps on that one as I walk toward Revolution Cafe for part 2 of my Meet Men in Real Life project for the day. It’s a meet-up for some live jazz.

I am cold. I am desperately trying to Look Confident. I am getting closer to the cafe and hearing the warm riffs of standard jazz pouring from the friendly venue.

I LOVE jazz. I’ve memorized jazz standard lyrics. Be-bop is my go-to at the end of each day. I recognize a very nice rendition of Misty as I cross the street to the front of the cafe.

But I …

I turn, walk right past the cafe and head down the block. And here begin the excuses.

I need cash (you do not).

It’s too crowded (Addie, you do not know this for sure).

I don’t know anyone there (this is actually a requirement of your project).

I failed miserably at the museum just now and feel I may fail at this one, too (okay, I can buy this one).

So, to keep up with my pretense for walking past this lovely place with lovely people, I go to an ATM on Mission and take out $20.

Back you go, dear girl

My tiny walk of shame ends at the place I promised I would go tonight. I enter, smile at people, and head to the counter.

Ah, San Francisco.

The woman behind the counter is flat-chested, wild-haired and dressed provocatively. Her face sports freckles and she is beautiful. I haven’t ordered my glass of Cabernet but she is bored with me already.

“Glass of Cabernet?” I inquire.

Blank stare. The jazz is loud.

“Cabernet?”

Her eyes widen. She seems to understand. Yes!

I sit at the only bar stool left and await my hard-won wine. I turn my attention to the band.

Oh my, they are cute. My age, happy-looking, and they all seem to like each other. They’re taking turns at solos and they are generous. Also, they are good.

I smile at the bass player. He looks away.

Just not my day

So, dear readers, at this point I’m thinking this is just not my day. I struck out at the museum earlier without even going to the plate. Now I’m sitting alone in this place, everybody coupled up or in loud, bumptious groupings. I am flirting with the bass player who is not interested.

Sigh. Again, time to take a look at the other folks here.

A woman knitting alone and nursing a pint of IPA. A group of surfers on the sidewalk puffing on something. Middle-aged jazz groupie men and their patient wives clustered against the back cafe wall.

But, then there’s something interesting: a young couple in the midst of it all, having a very serious-looking talk over a bottle of Sangria. He’s rubbing his face from time to time and looking away. She’s leaning in and then occasionally shrugging back into her chair.

At this point, I’m letting go the dream of striking up a conversation with anyone, so I let myself become a spy. I pull out my phone, tap the camera app, and snap a few shots of this couple. The light is interesting. The Sangria bottle is now empty and just a Picasso-like stack of fruit remains in the bottle. I’m working up the courage to go over to this troubled pair and ask to take a iPhone photo of their empty Sangria bottle.

She’s gone. Her purse is still hanging on the chair. Hey, a break in the break-up action so I should take this opportunity, right? But the guy looks so … so …

Alas, I decide not be be an asshole.

That’s when she’s standing next to me at the bar.

She’s looking at the menu. She’s behind one of the surfer dudes who is having a fantastic journey ordering his beer (bartender not amused) and my portrait subject is just standing there, inches from me. I could literally reach out and tap her on the shoulder.

So I do.

“Hi! I hope you don’t mind, but I was noticing you and your friend over there having a very engaging conversation and I took a few photos of it. I’m a photojournalist.”

(I am?)

“Oh,” says this nice person. “That’s sweet. Yeah, we’re having an intense conversation.”

“Well, I actually kind of like the shots I have here.” I show her the two I took. She likes the lighting. And, because this is the 21st century, I immediately email them to her.

She gets her food and heads back to the table. I turn my attention to the band, which is now in full swing. The bass player catches my eye. I smile and raise my empty wine glass. He gives me a big, full smile.

I’ll quit while I’m ahead. I get up from my bar stool, adjust my skirt, grab my phone and head home.

Cool, foggy city of ..

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment
romanvishniac
Roman Vishniac, “Récalcitrante” (Berlin, 1929)

Back to reality. For me, it’s San Francisco.

First off, everything you read about the foggy mornings, the cold summers, the invasion of the hippies (we call them ‘hipsters’ now) … all still true. This city will never give up on its incessant waves of cool things.

The last time I went out to meet men in Real Life was in Las Vegas. It is warm in that town. Bartenders smile, guys at the end of the bar smile. The worst 80s pop music thumps all around you reminding you to ‘celebrate’ and ‘relax’.

But I live here. And that means if I’m going to meet someone, I’m going to have to try a hell of a lot harder. Because it’s San Francisco. And I am not the partying type. Or young. Or rich.

So here we go.

First up, and I admit this is a stretch: I choose to attend a museum. One of my kids is a budding film photographer and some of his work reminds me of this exhibit at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. So I go.

Attending art museums is a homework item of dating coach Annie Gleason: Sidle up to a man who is lingering at a particular piece. Ask him what he likes about the piece. Add what you like. Move along.

Chatting about the Holocaust

Photographer Roman Vishniac documented the decline of Jewish life in Berlin, and a few other places, between the two World Wars and then the Holocaust. He also spent a short time in the U.S. taking portraits of New York City entertainers and then worked in microphotography.

Why did I choose something so hard?

Gotta admit, though, his work was worth the trip. I absorbed the entire exhibit before I realized that I had not, in fact, noticed any men also there. Time to look at the people here with me.

Okay, it’s an older crowd. That’s to be expected. Lots of couples. After viewing the photos, I have come up with my opening lines .. so far I have ‘Stunning work!’ (meh), ‘I love how how photo-journalistic some of these pieces are (a little too much to share with a complete stranger)?

A couple is walking behind me. They are discussing where to have dinner later. From the sound of it, these two have known each other quite some time, and none of the restaurant options being suggested by each is getting a thumbs up from the other.

I am suddenly very, very sad that I am not in a relationship. I actually miss light bickering.

Anyway, back to my hunt.

But my confidence is gone. I can feel that old panic set in, like anything I say or do right now will be met with weird looks and one-word answers.

There is this one guy though. For a while now I’ve been alerted to his presence at the exhibit by his lunch bag. He has on a nice brown fedora, a large overcoat, comfortable shoes. He is holding a small brown paper lunch bag behind him with both hands. As he moves from one piece to another, the bag crinkles just a bit.

He looks amused as we stare up at the microphotography — a real departure from the other stuff because the photos are in bright colors, and are extremely up-close of things like mold spores and central core root tissue (yeah, I don’t know what that is either, but it looks cool.)

He stands there, staring up at the huge wall of photos in pinks and blues and oranges. Bag crinkles.

C’mon Addie! Say something! Instead I decide to investigate mold spores with an interest I’ve never experienced before now.

Lunch bag guy, in his adorable fedora and oversized overcoat, turns and leaves.

From the other room, an official sounding voice. “Museum is closing in ten minutes!”

Hail Mary pass

Ah, perfect! Just like writing your term paper the night before it’s due. Addie, go for it. Run across the hall to the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass exhibit. You LOVE bluegrass! You’ve been to every HSBG!

Nobody there. I find myself harmonizing along with the folks on a video screen playing Foggy Mountain Breakdown. I’m now lost in a memory of a guy whom I dragged to this free concert many times.

Disappointed in myself, I exit the museum through the gift store to discover the fog had come in with a vengeance. I am sadly underdressed, and a long way from home.

They think I’m a hooker: part 2

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

hooker1

How the hell did I get here?

It’s a bar in Vegas. I’m alone. I don’t even have a travelling companion a few yards away at a slot machine. Nothing.

My skirt is short and my t-shirt pink. I’m drinking a beer with a guy whom I do not know. His buddies just inches away in stripey shirts are jabbing each other and looking at me.

This is not the me I used to be.

The good girl

Many years ago I met the man, who would become my husband, at a friend’s party  — just a few weeks after graduating college and the day I arrived in a new town to look for a job. We got to talking and he asked me out. We dated, we got married, we had kids.

Even more years ago, I met my college boyfriend at a dorm party on the first day of school. We dated for four years. He went into the army and I went my own way.

In ninth grade, I moved to a new school and met the kid who would be my boyfriend right up until we went on to separate colleges.

At the age of 35 when my marriage ended I realized I had a big problem, should I want to get married again: I didn’t know how to date.

Help!

So I hired Annie, who taught me how to do the online thing. I became really comfortable with that and met some guys who later became good friends. Then one OKCupid flirtation led to dates and hikes and giggles and talk of the future. I fell in love. Big time. The all-in, kitchen sink and everything kind of love. A few years went by and ..

He met somebody better.

Devastation set in immediately.

But the problem was, once I’d gotten through the streaming mascara crying jags and jumping for my phone whenever it pinged; after the obligatory monologues with all the friends who would listen to me hash out what went wrong and why — after every inch of that broken hearted process –I started healing. I wanted to get back out there.

My hands would freeze over the OKCupid logo, I’d get wheezy looking at profile pictures on Match.

Remember Annie? I did. Digging up my notes from our long-ago coaching sessions, I found something I had completely forgotten. Did you know you can meet men in person? In real, live places where you haven’t had any time to obsess over his online profile stats and match rates?

All my life I’d galumphed from relationship to another. Now, in my mid-life and with a deep-seated, gut-wrenching desire to really find Something Great, I was going to have to get my groove back.

In real time. In real situations.

Like this Irish pub in a Las Vegas mall.

Hey fellas …

So, here I am, actually liking this guy next to me. I’ve realized I want to move it to the next level. Like a walk through the casino and play slot machines with him.

I ask him to take a walk with me. He says yes.

But here’s where the new Addie comes into play: before leaving the bar, I walk over to his buddies. I spread my arms and grab a shoulder of each.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to borrow your friend for an hour, if that’s okay.”

They seem agreeable to this proposal.

I squeeze each shoulder. “After all, a working girl has to do what she has to do.”

We begin … again.

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

This will be the story of how one divorced girl, years ago after years of dating, love, and loss, hired a dating coach. (I’m not kidding, check out Annie. She changed my life.)

It will also be about a homework assignment from that coach. Only thing is … the girl really didn’t do enough of that homework. So more love and loss ensued.

Fast forward to now. Where this one girl took a bold step back into her homework to meet the love of her life.

The assignment? Strike up conversations with random men she doesn’t know.

The goal? get asked out at least once a month.

So … One Girl begins, again.

First assignment: talk to a guy I don’t know at a bar.