Ghost girls

If I needed anymore convincing women have radar, I got it in my inbox the day after I returned from a two-day “holidate.” An ex–my most recent–sent me an email, the first in over, well who’s counting.

It wasn’t much–in fact, the message wasn’t really anything, except perhaps to the overworked and fevered imagination. But it was a little uncanny, the timing. However, I’m not letting it throw me into the past. Instead, I’m flinging myself into the future. Watch out, future, here I come. 

The two days in California wine country earlier this week were heaven-sent. For 48 hours my date and I were treated like royalty; a massage, two fabulous dinners, a hot air balloon ride, breakfast in bed, a winery tour, and time by the pool. For people who had met only a month before, the patent agent and I got along like gangbusters. She was game for anything, and appreciated the resort experience even more than I did. I not only got to expose her to Sonoma but also to, via our suite’s TV, Nancy Grace, neither of which she’d seen before. My date was the first to want to open the bottle of Champagne in our room after the hot air balloon ride and she always knew where a bottle opener was, even though she lost her key card five minutes after entering the suite and later misplaced the remote control (maybe on purpose, after seeing Nancy Grace). And she seems to be one of those people who hears what she wants to hear–for instance, she misheard “binoculars” for “vernacular” while we talking to a cab driver and “cadet corps” for “esprit de corps” in a conversation with a couple of older lady Texans. This provided moments of amusement for yours truly.

I’m a little worried about one thing, though. She seems to prefer me drunk. She says that I’m “funnier and looser.” However, I fear this is one activity in my life where I need less encouragement, not more…

The Whole Arm Candy Role is Over-rated

I been thinkin’ on it a bit–well okay, I’ve been pondering on it nearly my entire adult life–and at last, at the ripe old age of 31, I’m going to tell you for certain: arm candy babes don’t have it as good as girls who can pay their own way. In fact, I’ll take that generalization and expand the scope to cover all women. Those who are dependent on someone else’s whims and bankbook just really don’t have as much fun as the sisters who, to quote my favorite buzz-cut ’80s rock icon of ambiguous sexuality, are “doin’ it for themselves”

They’re not as well-traveled either.

I came to this conclusion while in Cancun the past week for the launch of a new luxury resort development. There were many, many rich and powerful Latin American developers and businessmen–and closely following them, the requisite bevy of perfectly turned-out, rhinestone-belted, cleavage-sporting Latina babes.

I wasn’t at all surprised the girls were there…after all, what’s a party without gratuitous pretty women to act as floating arm candy? But here’s what shocked me: Though these girls live in Miami–an hour’s flight from Cancun–and I live across the continent, I’ve been to Cancun more often than they have. As we talked further, I learned that one girl–a Venezuelan–had never been to neighbor countries Chile or Argentina. To me, that’s like saying you’re from California but have never been to Hawaii or Vegas. It’s possible, but only if you’re singularly untraveled.

And this confused me greatly. Because…isn’t the whole POINT of being arm candy to wealthy men that you get to jet around and see all kinds of cool places and experience amazing things? Isn’t that one of the major perks?

The answer to this is YES, OSTENSIBLY. As a cute female, if you spend enough time surfing the online personals, or hanging out in wine bars in Los Angeles/San Francisco/Las Vegas/wherever, some man will invariably approach you with offers of travel and fancy meals and tickets to the opera.  That is how they reel you in. The thing is, they’re…not lying exactly, but grossly over-exaggerating. ‘Travel’ as arm candy means a trip to Vegas, or to Dallas/Chicago/other boring corporate hub… Caribbean or Cancun if you’re really lucky. And the whole time, you’re under pressure to sparkle and flirt and basically WORK IT… and you only eat, drink or have any fun at the whim of the man who brought you. 

Face it: Nobody wants to–or knows how to–spoil a girl as well as she knows how to spoil herself. Except maybe her best girlfriends or her sisters.

A man’ll buy you a pair of Wolford stockings and a teddy, and expect you to turn into a private porno pinup model in return. You can buy yourself a $300 Dirty Lingerie corset and wear it out clubbing, to a costume party, or  just keep it in your drawer to pet and fondle on rainy days.

A girlfriend will treat you to a spa day if she’s got the hookup, just because she thinks you need to relax. A man…well, one once offered a spa treatment, but it was in Vegas and I’d only just met him, so I politely said, Thanks, but that’s a little creepy.

A man will buy a bottle of champagne on a special occasion. For my sister’s bridal shower, the girls are buying a case.

I could go on and on. The point is this: The life of an arm candy girl seems sweet, and men always come with the big promises. But in actual fact, it’s a round-the-clock job where you don’t get much respect, and  usually don’t get a salary either (unless you’re a full fledged ‘sugar baby’ which is exponentially sketchier).

If you want to travel the world for real, splurge madly on lingerie for no reason, order $100 worth of sushi with no one questioning you, and really enjoy every moment, then girl, you gots to do it for yourself.

 

sinister magic messes with my saturday night

On Saturday night my friend Wendy was enchanted. At least, that’s my best explanation for what occurred. I didn’t actually see the enchantment taking place, but I was there for the fallout, and it was exhausting.

You know in the fairy tales where an evil witch casts a spell on someone and makes them unable to recognize their heart’s desire? Yeah, well that was Wendy.  Pissed off, confused, and questing throughout the entire kingdom in vain.

Even before the night officially started, there were hints that something was amiss. We had planned to go to a party, but en route, my girlfriend Nadia received several frantic calls from Wendy, who was already there. She was ready to leave, pronto, stat, the second we arrived.  We wondered what could be so terrible. It was only 11PM–shouldn’t people just be rolling in?

The second we got there, an effusive blond man in a Santa suit hugged us and pointed out where the drinks were. Meanwhile, several perfectly decent-looking people hung about chatting and dancing to old-school hip-hop. It wasn’t very terrible. Nor was the next room–indeed, it proved to be well stocked with liquor and crunchy snacks and attractive, friendly folk. I was curious to see what the patio might hold, but I never made it out there, because Wendy herself came rushing up, wearing a cream-colored sweater dress and a fierce frown.

“We’re getting out of here,” she said. “There are no guys at this party at all.”

Inadvertently I glanced up at the four 6-foot South Bay jock types who had overheard her. They looked away politely.

Then I turned back to find an olive-skinned, buffed-out, tattooed man hanging on Wendy like a puppy dog. 

“This is Miko. We work together,” she explained, before disappearing in a poof of unhappy smoke. I decided to finish my drink and chat with the jocks, but didn’t get to because within seconds Nadia began dragging me to the door.

“We’re going to 304,” she told me.

“Ehh?” said I.

304 turned out to be a lame Manhattan Beach dance club with cheesy lighting, crap music and TONS of people squashed in wall-to-wall. There, we embarked on an insane wild goose chase all around the room, bumping into strangers and splashing drinks everywhere. It ended with the same verdict: there were no guys there. Zero. The options were hideous, disgusting, pathetic.

“Wendy just wants to find a cute guy to make out with,” Nadia explained to me.

This confused me because in 304, just like in all Manhattan Beach bars, you could literally throw an ice cube and hit a cute guy.  I’m not saying that they were take-home-to-mama material, but they were definitely kissable. And a few were more than down to kiss Wendy. Only she couldn’t see it. Seriously, it was like she had selective blindness.

Soon enough, we were all squashed into a two-door Honda hatchback, en route to the Hermosa Pier at 1:30 AM. (California stops serving alcohol at 2AM). Then came a sorry walkabout to find a bar that would let us in after last call. With help from two random dudes who took pity on us, we managed to actually find one. There, I lost track of Wendy. On purpose. I needed to rest.

Soon, though, we were politely forced back onto the street, where lo and behold, there was our girl, talking to a crew of the skinniest, gawkiest, spottiest-looking boys imaginable. They wore checkered shirts, and looked to be about 19 years old.

She was thrilled. I mean, glowing. Swiftly, a plan formed. We would all go over to their house and play Nintendo Wii. This sounded only slightly better than a root canal to me, so I said I’d get a ride home with the guys who’d gotten us into the bar.

“Nooo!” Nadia howled like a wolf. “You came with us, you’ll leave with us.”

I can respect that kind of stick-together female attitude. It’s enough to make me hang out in a share-rental in Redondo playing video games with strangers. For about 20 minutes.

Yet ironically, when the popular vote overwhelmingly ruled “home, Advil, sleep, NOW,” there was one dissident voice. You know whose it was. And Nadia did NOT stop her. She didn’t even try.

I guess there’s no point in reasoning with someone who’s under an enchantment. To her, cute guys are invisible, teenagers look like princes, and no one in LA County is worth kissing.

I need a counter-spell, and I need it before next Friday night.