Bumble: Chocolate, Chicken or Liver?

Dating. LA style. You never know what's going to get served up on your plate.

Last month I went on three dates. I met them all on Bumble, the dating AP where girls make the first move.

Dov, 53. A Hollywood TV writer who went to Brown. Jewish. Normally I’m not into Jewish men. It’s too Jewie. Maybe if I wasn’t Jewish myself. Dov was better looking than his pictures. His lower lip reminded me of my junior high school crush. But did I want to kiss that lip? We sat on La Bea at Blue Jam Café. He wore a baseball cap like he did in all his profile pictures. Must be bald under that cap. Short. I wasn’t surprised about that since he didn’t write his height on his profile.

“What are you working on now?” I asked as I sipped on iced mint tea while we sat in the sun.

“A show called Genius. We did an episode on Einstein. Now I’m working on one about Mary Shelley. She was a genius, the more I read the more I am in awe.”

We talked about literature. The Great Russian authors. Tolstoy, Turgenev. And poetry, Byron, Keats, Mary Oliver.

A serious kind of guy. Not too many smiles. Successful. Lives by the beach, has a 17-year-old daughter who spends weekends with him. His ex-wife suffers from mental illness. She lives on Sycamore, one block over from where we were meeting. A pretty street, shaded with a canopy of trees. I wondered what she looked like. Who had been his match? I imagined her with dark curly hair, short, Jewish, smart, on the depressive side.

I pictured going to Hollywood events with him. Arm in arm at some premier. But if I didn’t want to kiss that lower lip what was the point? Was it worth it to go on a second date? When I took off my black fitted jacket, he looked at my boob three times. I was wearing a Bohemian style dress from Amazon. Twenty-two dollars. I’ve worn it out on all three dates. Easy, I don’t have to think about it.

“What about my hair? Straight, curly or rollers?” I texted my sister.

“It looks fantastic all ways. How about rollers?”

I felt pretty heading out for the date. As we sat in the sun though, I wondered. The way he studied my face. How pretty? Night is better for a date at forty-eight. But that thought was fleeting. After all, he was short and bald. What would I rather, short with hair or tall without? Tall.

“I enjoyed talking with you,” he said, as he walked me down the street towards my car.

“Me too,” I said.

And I did. Relatively speaking. It’s all relative right? Compared to the other guys.

“We should do this again,” he said.

“I’d like that.”

But would I? I don’t know.

“Chocolate, chicken or liver?” my sister texted.

Our code for our dates.

“Hmmm, maybe dry chicken.”

Do I want to go out with dry chicken again? Maybe next time it wouldn’t be dry. It would be moist and I’d want to kiss his lower lip. It’s Wednesday and he hasn’t called. I hope he doesn’t. That would solve it for me. Onto the next.

Sunday night was Peter. 48, from Chicago, works in the Internet industry, went to film school, lives on the Westside. I had the most riding on Peter. Something about his pictures. And we talked on the phone. He was easy. We laughed. He reminded me a little of my ex, Ricardo. His sense of humor. But Ricardo with a job. As I drove to Mandrake Bar, again in my Amazon dress, I told myself to keep my expectations in check. I’m glad I did. He wasn’t as thin as he was in his profile pictures. That was disappointing. I kept looking at his belly. Just a slight one but still it was a belly. Maybe if he worked out a little.

“I rented out my house in Lincoln Heights so I could be closer to work,” he said, ordering a second drink as he put his feet up on the chair.

A house? That’s appealing. But the feet on the chair? Too relaxed. He’s not that into me I thought. That’s okay. I was still trying to figure out how that belly of his would feel on top of me. Is he cute enough to get away with it? Am I attracted enough to find out more?

I questioned his drinking. Two of his four profile pictures were of him with a cocktail in hand. My gut told me he drinks. But maybe he doesn’t. I mean, not a lot.

He hates his job. And he hates driving. So do I, especially to the West side. Who doesn’t? But to actually mention it. I can’t be with someone who avoids driving, possibly drinks, hates his job and has a belly.

“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe,” he said as he walked me to my car.

“Are you home yet?” he texted thirty minutes later. “It was great to meet you!”

“It was great to meet you too!” I wrote back.

“Chocolate, chicken or liver?” my sister texted.


I haven’t made up my mind yet if it’s dry or just normal. I know it’s not moist but he was better than dry. Again, comparatively speaking.

It’s been two and a half days. He hasn’t called. Just like baseball cap man it would be easier if he didn’t. That would answer it for me.

If a guy doesn’t ask you out on a second date after the first date by the following day is it safe to say he won’t?

Last night’s date. Jim. 49, works in Post Production, lives in Burbank, no kids, never married. We’ve been trying to meet up for the past two months. We met at Café Gratitude on Larchmont. I wore the Amazon dress again. My hair could have been cleaner.

I had swiped through the bleak selection of unattractive men with my gay friend.

“Ohhh, nooooo way,” he said, as we laughed swiping left on the fiftieth guy.

“Hmm, not bad,” he said before I swiped left.  “He’s got a bit of a Robert Downey Junior thing going on.”

I swiped right. Boom. A match.

Jim. He wore a red and white polkadot button up with large framed red glasses. A cool look. Definitely a quirky guy. An awkward laugh. He hates to drive. Takes the subway when he can. Likes indie movies, obsessive about going to the gym to do an hour on the elliptical four times a week, says he cooked an omelet once when he was twelve and knows how to cook rice.

“I like salads with chicken,” he said. “And carrots. I eat two one-pound bags of the baby ones a week. That’s two pounds.”

I told him I had had a thing for carrots.

“Actually, I still do, only now I have cut back to a pound or two a week,” I said, taking a bite out of my bland gratitude salad. “But before that I was eating so many carrots that I turned orange. That’s how many carrots I used to eat.”

He didn’t seem impressed.

“That’s seven pounds a week,” I said. “And orange, I mean really orange.”

Still no reaction. It felt like we were having a carrot competition. I was laughing, he wasn’t.

He messaged me already today.

“Sometimes I fail to say such things in person but I really find you wildly cute and attractive. I’d love to see you again, do something casual if you are up for it. But if I’m not your type I totally understand and wish you the very best. Thanks for coming out and meeting me.”

The past three have all said that. ”Thanks for coming out.”

And they have all been on time. I like that.

I can’t say Jim with the red glasses is chocolate, but he wasn’t liver. As for chicken. I don’t know. I feel guilty saying dry but he wasn’t moist. And he’s too nice for liver. But I was kind of bored. Dinner is too much with someone on a first date.

My sister and I had made a rule. No longer than an hour. That was the problem with Jim. I didn’t follow the rule. An hour and a half, too long. It would have been longer had I not pretended I needed to use the restroom and told the waiter we needed the check. I just wanted to get into bed with a big Honey Crisp apple and my step dad’s thirteenth book. Jim walked me to my car. I averted his kiss and awkwardly kissed him to the side of his lips. He stood in his red and white polkadot shirt and red glasses under a tree with brown leaves as I drove away. He waved. I waved back. Happy to be going home.


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