When I was in my 20s and 30s, I had always (mistakenly) believed being thin was a “plus.” I was not fat (which is quote, unquote “bad”), so the opposite — skinny — must be attractive to women, no? No. I was sooooooooooo misguided in this thinking, as I was in most matters regarding women and dating.

At 30, when I moved to L.A., I weighed about 125 pounds at about 5’7. I was within my BMI, but just barely above being underweight — 6 pounds less and I would have been on the cusp of underweight. At present, 11 years later, I weigh about 142 — I gained approx. 17 pounds in that time. I still am within my BMI, but more so in the middle of the range.

Women, I’ve found, do not find skinny sexy. Perhaps on a tall / taller man they do (height, I’ve discovered, seems to compensate for a lot).

I’ve had a handful of women not want to date me because they said they weighed more than me — something that had never crossed my mind until it was brought up. I had no problem with their weight, body or shape, sooooooooo….. clearly, I knew NOTHING about women.

Women want to feel small, safe, protected, petite, tossed around in bed and thin, skinny guy — no matter how much he likes her body, her shape, her curves, he is often ‘fuck out of luck.’ (There are women who don’t have this issue — they are few and far between).

I’ve discovered women would even prefer you to be a little heavier, even bordering on overweight. I can’t tell you how many women in my building (all of them, but 1) and in L.A. have these potbellied boyfriends. I’ve never heard a woman think John Goodman or Jack Black is unattractive — their weight is a non-issue (they are celebrities and comics, but that’s a whole other rant…)

So lately I’ve been exercising, lifting weights, doing push ups at least 10 – 15 minutes a day. I’ve been doing this for about 10 days. I’m curious to see if this makes a difference in my dating life.

I’m a part-time building manager. It’s a pretty easy gig — I get about $300/month for about 10 minutes of work/a month (unless there’s a vacancy, but that’s mainly hanging out in my apartment all weekend, waiting for people to show up so I can show them the empty apartment).

One of the interesting aspects of this job is I get to see everyone’s apartments, mainly when they are not home (wait, wait — I’m not a stalker — often I have to let in repair guys in or city inspectors who makes sure all the smoke detectors work).

The apartments of the (chronically) single residents tend feel like life-sized Edward Hopper Portraits of Sadness.

There was a guy who just moved out after 17 years of being in the building. In the 11 years I’ve been here, I’d never seen him with a woman. Ever. He was in his mid-40′s — a low-list Hollywood writer who worked on a hospital drama about 9 years ago and hadn’t had a F/T writing gig since. I don’t know how he survived. He also was short, bald and looked exactly like Charlie Brown — complete with a very round head. I was in his apartment about a year ago and he had started using the hall/guest bathroom tub for storage of boxes. Romantically, socially, he was done. That gesture was like shutting down all possibilities.

There was a girl from a few years ago — she wasn’t ugly, but definitely not a beauty. She was like a nerdy Plain Jane. She was so unremarkable, when I ran into her at Starbucks about year after she moved out, I couldn’t remember her name (and she lived in this 14 unit building for a few years). Her apartment was super neat — in a sad way — with a box set of MY SO-CALLED LIFE (that I had designed years ago, oddly) near the TV. No signs of romantic life anywhere.

There’s a guy who lives below me, a thin, alt. rocker type in his thirties — not a bad looking guy — hard to tell from his thick, hipster beard who I’ve also never seen with a woman (or guy). He collects rock posters and records — his place looks like a mini Amoeba Records. I’ve noticed that single guys collect a lot of stuff — toys, games, action figures, video games, CDs, like that somehow takes up the space being with another person would. It’s like they are frozen at 13.

About a week ago, we had another city inspection and I had to let this lady into all the apartments in during the morning of a Friday.

We went into an apartment, not far from mine — I can see that apt. windows from my bedroom window rented by an adorable, tall-ish (5’7) Asian girl in her late 20′s. I usually don’t go for Asians, but this girl breaks my heart. There’s so sweet and warm about her. I’ve only seen her like a handful of times in 3 years. Occasionally, I’ve seen her boyfriend, an Asian guy in flip flops, shorts and baseball cap and a belly (that describes most of the boyfriends in my building actually and in L.A.). I noticed she had a engagement ring on the last time I saw her.

So I’m in her apartment and I’m waiting for the inspection lady and I look at her bookcase and notice a few framed pictures of her and her BF. On vacation. Or just the two of them in the photo on a couch. Or a picture of just him.

And then it hit me — in my 41 years, not one of the women I dated had a framed picture of me (or us) in their apartment. Ever.

I just felt my chest open up — how could something so simple and normal not ever have happened?

CORRECTION: The woman I moved out here for, said she had a framed picture of me in her apt. about 10 years ago. Okay, so in the last 10 years….

On a whim, I bought a single ticket to see Tim Gunn lecture at USC last night (10/29/11). Tim was the Dean of Admissions when I was a student at Parsons and for some reason, he knew who I was. It’s been weird seeing him on billboards and the sides of buildings and on the Oprah Show (“Wasn’t I supposed to get famous? How did an administrator from my college get super famous?”)….

It’s funny, I was speaking to one of my best friends and she said, “Wow, that would have been an awesome thing to take a girlfriend or a date too.” Yes, it would have been, but at present I am in the ‘wrangling-first-dates’ stage of dating..but maybe that’s good place to meet young, single women — I might be the one of the few straight guys there.

Once I was inside the hall and directed to the general admission balcony upstairs, I realize, I’m sitting 2 rows behind a woman I kind of had a bad date with! At the rate I date and doing the things I like to do, it is inevitable I am going to run into someone I went out with and made a vague promise to about getting together again at the end of our uninspired or pained evening.

This woman was a woman I met on match, maybe in the spring — a woman who I actually agreed to be just ‘buddies’ with because she wanted a child (RIGHT NOW) but we had similar interests. So we met at a storytelling event.

Now when she called me to say she’s walking toward the line outside the storytelling event, I looked up to see this brunette in her late 20′s and a little beige blazer, tight jeans, her oversized bust bouncing as she’s strutting down the street, carrying a — wait for it — a BOOK. (The story about that girl will be be a whole other post), but then my brain realizes that can’t be the woman – she should be talking on the phone — to me — right now.

Then right behind her, is my “date” (well, “buddy date”), let’s call her ‘NoCal Hippie’. NoCal Hippie was really out of touch with the SoCal look (i.e. not looking like a middle-aged hippie) — Birkenstocks, frizzy, unkempt, salt and pepper hair in BRAIDS (????), that face peach fuzz so thick it looks like long blond jaw line sideburns, a men’s plaid shirt, no makeup, mid 40′s — she looked very ‘Pacific Northwest Organic-Might-Be-Gay.’ I had feeling her few Match pictures were misleading! At a distance or weird or flattering angles, I had ‘filled in’ the gasps and made her prettier than she was in my mind. So luckily this wasn’t a date!

But I couldn’t really get over the bait-and-switch and this OTHER hot girl — “Book Girl” was in line a few people behind me and it would have been easy to follow her in line and stand right behind her and chat her up, but I had this buddy date with NoCal Hippie.

Then NoCal Hippie gets an ORGANIC HOT DOG from the hot dog stand next to the line (which was the only food around — the place didn’t serve food), a big fat smelly, organic hot dog with sauerkraut and onions…

…and eats while we wait to enter and then I have to smell her organic hot dog breath for the rest of the night. And then when it was over I booked (I did manage to hit on ‘Book Girl’ during the evening without getting caught, but again, another story for another time) so fast. And never called or e-mailed her again.

And then I see her last night. Two rows in front of me.

I moved to the other side of the theater and sat close to the exit for a quick getaway, but when it ended, they were only having people exit from the exit on the other side, closer to where she was. Luckily, she left before me and I did not see her at all.

• Generally, people who are unattractive have more pictures of shit that is not them than them (pictures of their animals, mountains, flowers, travel photos).
• There are a lot of 50-somethings with 1 picture of themselves at 25 – 35 online. That’s like telling me what the weather was like on a Tuesday 20 years ago. I need to know what the weather will be like TODAY.
• People who have no picture like throwing $25 out the window every month.
• You can’t put your body type as “curvy” then only put pictures of your face. “Curvy” is not another word for “heavyset.” Curvy means you are thin(ner) in the middle.
• Guys hate your pixie cut. Yes, we know your girlfriends LOVE it. We hate it because it feels like we are kissing a 12 year old boy. One exception: if you are a model, you are the few that can pull this off. Your crazy height evens it out.   http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/11/02/michelle-williams-men-hate-my-hair-_n_1071489.html

• When you name your child ‘Tiffany’ you have sealed her fate.
• A woman saying how busy she is all over her profile makes my dick shrink.

This must happen to women all the time — men trying to sell them the romantic equivalent of The Brooklyn Bridge. You know, a proposal that feels a little hinky, a little off, pretty much a bad deal for anyone except the seller.

I’ve had a few of these offers in the last few months.

First, was the Mormon Girl — an adorable blond blue-eyed ex-Mormon I met at a BBQ this summer. On our first, fabulous date (she dressed up, was quite charmed by me), we had lunch when she sprung it on me that she “had a live-in boyfriend” (who she thought was gay) and was still married to her Mormon husband, but had broken up with him 5 years earlier.

(We started dating — well, getting intimate — when she said she started sleeping on the couch.)

But the problem was (well, one of them), she would not sleep over — or let her boyfriend know she was dating. And she lived an hour away. So I’d see her for 1/2 a day once a week. And then I found out that her and husband weren’t even separated and she couldn’t divorce him because “he was family.” Oh, and they hung out at his house EVERY EVENING. A piece of information I really could have used 7 weeks earlier.

So basically, she wanted to date me, but didn’t want to disrupt her “other life” (boyfriend / husband) — she wanted to live in the same house as the boyfriend, keep him the dark, hang out with her husband, keep him in the dark (he didn’t even know she lived with another man), wanted to sleep with me, but not sleep over — if you flipped the gender, I was basically The Mistress and my lover had a million excuses not to be with me for real (“What? I gotta leave my live in girlfriend? And move out? And move into an apartment? And divorce my ex wife who’s my ‘best friend’? Come on, that’s not fair to ask of me…”)

When I got upset about finding out about her husband’s daily hang outs and was bothered about she didn’t mention that at all in the 7 weeks we dated, she broke up with me (let the irony seep in like butter).

Then today, on Match.com, a GORGEOUS blond woman winks at me. Her screen-name was “BlondieAussie.”

Read her profile — she lives in Australia, but is here on holiday. And looking for an American guy. But has 2 kids. In Australia, I’m guessing. That she has “sometimes.” Which means there’s a dad Down Under. With joint custody.

So I e-mail her for clarification.

This is what comes back: “I love the states. If I made a connection with the right guy it would depend on what we both wanted to do. I would be happy to live in the states.

I have two daughters. 6 and 3 1/2. They are my shining stars. They came with me and had a blast. We stayed in Santa Monica and hung out in that area a lot. Getting to know a guy online is def not my preference however I am looking to find someone I connect with and if that is what it takes then so be it!”

So when I ask for even more clarity, regarding the kids and their dad and if she’s looking an American dude to move THERE (since there are two young kids involved), get this back:

OK so here it is – It is important for me and my career to keep moving forward and Sydney’s arts industry is very limited. I am looking to move OS. My sister, her husband, her son and now daughter are in LA and we are all very close so it seems like a good option.

I do have joint custody but I am the primary carer. Yes I would need a good reason to move permanently to the states and yes I would have to go through the legal system to do so. It may need planning but it is not impossible. OK it’s not as easy as picking up a Sydney guy in the local bar but I am not finding what I am looking for here so I am willing to make an effort to look further.

Okkkkkkkaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy…like I said, not much in it except for the seller.

I only want to limit my Match.com prospects to .01 of the male population (literally that’s what it is — if you are 6’8, you are taller than 99.99% of the rest of us.). Okay, I get you are 5’8, but I’m sure you can find a 6’2 guy to wear 4 inch heels. Good luck with that.

In acting class I learned about the “moment before” — before you enter a scene, your character has had a previous moment, a life before that scene, which directly effects how your character is going to act in the present moment. Was he just yelled at by his boss? Did he just get smiled at by a pretty girl? (Often when you only get “sides” in an audition — just the few lines you are playing — you have to make up a previous moment for the character.)

I mention this because I think the “moment before” a date is pretty critical, especially with women, who are unusually sensitive to moods and their surroundings. That’s why I don’t like to meet women immediately after they’ve worked late at the law office and still are in their pants suit and in ‘attorney head.’ There is something to be said about the days (30′s? 40′s? 50′s? 1880′s?) when women spent a few hours “preparing” for a date, bathing, relaxing, grooming and transitioned into “date mode” and stepping into their femininity.

What happened to me last week was when I got to the vegan hipster bistro to meet my date Francesca, she was in the midst of being hustled.

I got there 6 or 7 minutes late (I called ahead while in terrible traffic) and I saw what looked like her at a table outside and she was sitting with another woman. There were drinks on the table, so I thought maybe that’s not her — these ladies have been here awhile. So I call and then hear HER phone ring at that table. She says to woman she’s sitting with (her back facing me), “You gotta go,” with an unusual amount of anxiety in her voice.

I approach, stand in front of the table and they are arguing.

Woman (mid 40′s, black, dreds): “I told you how much before I sat down.”

My Date: “No, you said it was free.”

Woman: “No, I did not.”

(Now, I don’t understand what is happening — I thought maybe she had a business meeting before me — she was a freelancer –and my head isn’t really clear since I just spent an hour in traffic trying to get to Hollywood in what would have normally taken 35 min – 45 minutes max)

Then, flustered, my date says, “Okay, fine — I’ll pay you, it doesn’t matter,” reaches in her purse, thrusts the Hustler a $20 and the Hustler hustles out of there so fast, there was practically a puff of smoke where she had been standing.

Then my date tells me what happened — the woman approached and offered a FREE palm reading.

Now, I’m from back East (lived in NYC, went to high school in the inner city) — nothing’s EVER free — there’s always a catch. When people try and hustle me here in L.A. I say, “Dude, I’m from NYC — we INVENTED this.” One guy actually said, “Sorry, man” like he was violating my patent.

So this lady’s hustle is she says it’s free, but then says she didn’t say that, then out of social awkwardness and social anxiety and white guilt, the mark gives up the money that never would have if they knew it was $20 at the start.

So, understandably, my date — who is BREATHTAKING — pretty in her pictures, but just stunning in real life — is a little shaken.

I tell her a story how I got hustled in L.A. in a faux almost car accident to make her feel better. She comes off the ceiling a bit.

After an hour of nice chatting and laughs, she announces, “Look, I’m just getting a friend vibe from you — I just wanted to be honest, because your profile says you appreciate that, I mean, I’d go out with you again to get to know you better, but romantically I’m kinda on the fence so I’m not making any promises — I just want you to know if we go out again.”

(Now this was a woman who e-mailed ME first a note that said in the subject line “D — You look and sound absolutely fabulous” a couple weeks before)

Me (recovering from the shock, trying to keep a smile on my face): “Wow — that’s the first time in twenty years anyone’s told me that even before that first dated ended. So, just so I’m clear — we can go out again, as friends, but with small portion of romantic potential on the side?”

She laughed and nodded.

I picked up the check and got a “awwwwwwwww”-our-chests-are-not-touching-pat-on-the-back hug.

I bet if I knew what was going on and told the Hustler to get the fuck away before I called the cops, she not only would have not dumped me at minute 55, she probably would have made out with me, having stepped into my masculine and saved her. I bet something inside her was blaming me for being late, ’cause if I was on time, she wouldn’t have gotten hustled. She didn’t feel SAFE on some primitive level.

Had I just gotten there a few moments before…

I think I figured out the pattern / plot strings of Millionaire Matchmaker.

• Patti gets difficult client with a business they want to essentially promote on the show (basically MM is a free 30 minute commercial they don’t have to pay for – the people get the services for free)
• Patti tells client “Don’t make your date collect trash (for guy who had a junk service) / don’t cook for him (a chef) / don’t strip for him (pole dance owner)”
• Difficult client does it anyway (cause the producers told them to and also it’s what they are really there for — shilling)
• Client’s date has a miserable time going through this Solipsistic / self promoting exercise (they still think it’s a dating show when it’s actually a thinly veiled commercial for Patti and the client)
• Client goes back to Patti where Patti rips them a new asshole, person defends their actions, yelling ensues, Patti tosses person out of office.

I woke up this AM to find my answering machine blinking.

When I found my phone in the other room, I checked the caller ID — it was a woman I had gone on a date with on Tuesday night — “Gypsy” (seriously, that’s her name) — a early 40′s stunner who brought me her CD when we met for drinks at this high end hotel….

The date seemed to be going well — she touched my arm a lot, laughed a lot, but after about 45 minutes said she had to go and when I walked her to her car, she seemed like she couldn’t get away / get home fast enough (she did have a 13 year old and a 15 year old still at her house and it was almost 10pm). I got a long “Awwwwww” hug and she seemed to scramble for her keys and getting inside her car.

I waited until Friday and left a message for a second date (and also mentioned I noticed on the CD that her cover of a Joni Mitchell song was dropped down a half step) — despite her I-gotta-get-away-scramble, I did enjoy her company and again, she was stunning.

So this AM, I’m looking at the Caller ID — her call is time stamped 12:15am (????? A possible booty call I missed???)…. I press play — and she’s ass dialed me. 90 seconds of TV, fractured conversation and the sounds of the phone jostling.

FOLLOW UP: When she ass-dialed (or pocket dialed) me again the next morning at 11am, I texted her to say that she ass dialed me twice, FYI…she write back “LOL” and then I wrote (trying to create some “sexual tension”), I thought she was trying to booty call me at first to which she texted back “LMAO” — which I had to look up what that meant because I’m not 13 years old.

This is a bust — going nowhere — I’ve already moved on.

This is sooooooo weird.

I go to the mailbox about a year ago and inside, is a huge manila envelope addressed to me — in my handwriting. I have no memory of sending a SASE like this to anyone.

I rip it open and there’s a hardback edition of Budd Schulberg’s What Makes Sammy Run. I don’t remember buying this and mailing it to myself.

Opening up the inside flap, I discover this:

And I realize what this is — THREE AND 1/2 YEARS BEFORE (Jan – March ’07) I was courting this 23 year old girl I met at the Friars Club (aka “The Jeans Girl”) and her favorite book was this one.

Making one last attempt to impress her, I bought a copy of ‘Sammy’, found the author’s address online — he was in his early 90′s at the time — maybe 93 — and wrote to him asking if he could inscribe it to Claire and mentioned this could really flip it for me (it was also a very Sammy Glick thing to do too) if he signed it for me and I included a SASE.

Claire eventually expressed that she was not interested (more than once) and then moved away. We still keep in touch and we’ll have a cup of coffee when she visits L.A.

Then, three and a half years later, the book arrives. Not only three and half years later — OVER A YEAR AFTER SCHULBERG DIED.

I guess he signed it and put it down somewhere with my SASE folded in the book and his daughter or widow or someone took it to the Westhampton P.O. and mailed it (with delivery confirmation) — no note attached or anything.