As part of a personal ongoing sociology study, coupled with a perverse desire to disprove the theory that Los Angeles is a terrible (or "the worst") dating scene in the country (according to 80% of friends polled), I have kept my profile up on a nameless Dating Site (okcupid.com).

If nothing else, perusing profiles is fascinating.

Men (on the site) seem to come in two groups: Low Self Esteem, and Irrationally High Self Esteem. Of course, there are also the I'm Just A Regular Guy guys, but that's usually a foil for the Irrationally High Self Esteem guys who feel some guilt about having been blessed with so many gifts. However, I have been struck by the overwhelming evidence that confidence abounds amongst LA dudes.

"Badass Alpha Male!"

"Witty, handsome, intelligent, talented, and cool guy."

I haven't spent any time on the lady's profiles, but I can't imagine coming across too many overconfident women.

"Gorgeous, hot, brilliant and down-to-earth Goddess seeks Badass Alpha Male!"

It's worth a shot.

One guy in his twenties straight-up propositioned me for sex.

He wrote: "Hey! Do you want to have some fun?"

I wrote: "If by 'fun' you're referring to activities like going out to movies, concerts, and restaurants, or bike riding and para-sailing...yes, by all mean. If by fun, you actually mean awkward, drunk and naked groping, I don't think I'm your older woman...but I'm sure she's out there."

However, he didn't get that message, so he contacted me a second time, thereby, giving me another awesome opportunity to exercise my sense of irony.

"It's not your thing. That's cool."

Then, for some reason, I tried to find out what (other) things he was interested in. As it turned out, he didn't care to share.

My mistake. Next!

Just for today, I have a profile on a dating site.

After seven years, I bid adieu to my shrink. Sure, we did some great "work" together. She helped me realize that I deserve more than the sales rack at Ross and angry boyfriends. But over the past few years, I started to feel that she's just so...white. Muted tones. Pregnant pauses. Everything that came out of her mouth was sanitized for client consumption. Just once I wanted her to stop stand up and yell, "That's some fucked up shit you're talking about!!!" Sometimes you gotta get medieval. And not in a Jungian sense.

Sure, my dad was a white dude, but inside, I feel very Mexican. Does it really make sense to bring my struggles to the master race? Who colonized the third world, created slaves and spawned serial killers? Sure, I'll work for them. Of course I'll continue to be their friends. Maybe date them. But by God, I am not going to go to them for advise on how not to be depressed!! No, I need a therapist who knows that certain things in life, many things, will not get better by talking about them.

I told a friend that I wanted to meet a black woman therapist. [After my one time seeing a male therapist who accused me of coming on to him (he was 65), I decided to stick with my own sex.)] And sure enough, he referred me to one. Call me racist (the type of racism that comes from liking a race too much), but I think I'm onto something.

Just for today, I can change shrinks.

This past weekend I embarked on the never-boring experiment of spending time with my father. We ate Greek food at a nice restaurant at which I avoided the subject of his younger-than-me girlfriend (as an exercise in restraint, I'll just call her a Gold-Digging Whore) and we both learned about our waitress' evolving views towards her on-again/off-again boyfriend. I've never sat in a restaurant with my father and not become privy to the life story of the waitress (never a waiter). Say what you will about him, the guy's got game. At 66, it's a little unusual. And creepy, too.

Who would I be with another father? I probably wouldn't know how hard up so many women are for male attention had I not grown up watching him chat up every lonely woman, in or out of the service industry. I never wanted to be that girl/chick/lady...the one opening up like a stop-motion hydrangea (lilac?) at the mere nod of attention from a man happy to have that power. But, I suppose, in all fairness, that woman's reaction came from some poverty of familial male love, maybe one that made my life look like Richie Rich of father-daughter relationships.

One could argue, and some have, that it's better to have the presence of a father who objectifies women, than no father at all. And, in truth, sometimes I actually think that I got more father-time than a lot of my friends with straight-up normal, geeky, dads. Due to a divorce arrangement that left me in his care, I spent quality time hanging out at poker tables and digesting maraschino cherries. Sure, I think he loves me, and is proud of me. But there are issues with trust and men that I might not resolve in this lifetime. And if I were a waitress, my father would probably request another section. I couldn't muster a fake smile if my life depended on it, and my diarrhea-of-the-mouth syndrome has been known to generate a babbling brook of feminist diatribe that some guys find less than geisha-like. Needless to say, my waitressing career never took off.

Just for today, I love my dad.

SFX: Police siren.

($%#$@$#!!!)

"You're supposed to pull over to the right. Not the left."

Whoops.

"You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course, Officer."

(??????!!!!)

"That's another moving violation, but I'm only giving you one citation."

"Thank you, Officer!"

(#$@#$?!!!)

"So, where ya headed?"

"Oakland."

"Where are you coming from?"

"Los Angeles."

"Why'd you move to Los Angeles?"

"To be a writer."

"What have you written?"

So many questions, Officer. I'd love to tell you more about myself over some curly fries at the nearest Carl's Junior, but could you just burn this ticket?

Apparently, the CHP take their jobs very seriously. (Where's Ponch when you need him?)

I decided to consider it a Lucky Speeding Ticket. When you get a ticket for going 84 in a 70 MPH zone, something good is going to happen.

Just for today, I'm grateful for my Lucky Speeding Ticket.

I had a really great time at my brother's commissioning ceremony. I felt so important pinning the [insert official word here]. I want to say "bars" but I could be wrong. Either way, I'm proud.

It was a great time with my family, too. However, I ran over a nail on the way there and got a flat tire. A simple project of finding a place to fix my tire, turned into hours of miscommunication and driving up and down the same street. And this is after my aunt and I identified a tire shop via my Blackberry and her iPhone. Several phone calls, one dead phone battery, and many miles later two cars miraculously managed to arrive at the same tire shop. I think it's fair to say that my space-headedness is no aberrant gene.

I almost couldn't pay for my tire repair because guess whose card got eaten by the ATM machine? Fortunately, some businesses still take checks. I often wonder how I managed to survive for 39 years without daily supervision.

Functionality issues aside (for the entire clan) it was a great day.

Just for today, I can celebrate with my family.

Just came back from one of my oldest friend's mother's memorial service.

:-(

I tried not to indulge. I wanted to be strong and supportive to a very sad friend. And I'm kind of too good at being sad (not to brag). My old Fruedian therapist used to tell me that I had an "attachment to grief." I told her that she had an attachment to droning on about how every living male I come into contact with represented my father.

Nonetheless, I try to make it a practice to embrace, if not happiness (still don't know what that is), then an open, if not fragile, anticipation towards those sweet fleeting moments. This doesn't always work. Sometimes, I wait all day and the Sweet Fleeting Moments still don't come. Fuckers.

But then someone will call, or text, or write something encouraging comment on Facebook, YouTube, and I'll wonder, how did ever survive without my Blackberry?

Therapy. Affirmations. Blog. I'm kind of "normal" now. I'm still afraid to have kids. But I buy expensive shoes, and if anybody tries to mess with me I'll pop him in the face. Operation Normalization is far from complete, but free from paralyzing old behaviors, I started to believe that I could live among rainbows and unicorns like the rest of my 80's childhood friends.

And so when my friend, the one who always seemed the most Well Adjusted Person In The World, realized that her mother would die before she would see her then unborn babies, my whole life paradigm shifted. As it turns out, even Normal People have sucky things happen in their lives.

There was nothing I could say or do, just be there. Because everyone needs people until the sweetness comes back. And there's nothing normal about being alive.

Just for today, I'm sad.