First Person Singular by Wendy Braitman

I Miss You, Molly Ivins

The warm, funny, insightful political writer, and all-around truth teller, Molly Ivins, would have been 65 yesterday, the perfect age to wade into the national health care debate. Not that wading was her style. She was good at cutting through the crap.

Ivins was an unapologetic “lefty,” and famously coined the name, “Shrub,” for George W. Bush, whom she first met while they were in high school. She was a towering presence, figuratively and literally, at 6 feet tall, born in California, raised in Texas, and educated in elite schools in the Northeast. She had a brief tenure at the New York Times, but it was not a happy marriage. She was stifled at the paper, and it drove her crazy. She returned to Texas to write, and made the legislature (or Lege, as she called it) one of her favorite targets.

Molly Ivins described herself as a “left-wing aging Bohemian journalist, who never made a shrewd career move, never dressed for success, never got married, and isn’t even a lesbian, which at least would be interesting.”

Inching Closer to a Date?

I am now ten days into my six-month dating “experiment.” Here are the stats: I’ve been viewed 200 times. I’ve received 23 winks (almost half from out of state) and 8 emails, mostly from men I couldn’t imagine having a date with. (I know I should be more generous, but so it goes.)  I’ve initiated contact with about a dozen men. None of those have emailed me back. On the plus side, there is a John (really, that’s his name) who reached out, practically breathless, with enthusiasm. He wants to meet me, and asked for my phone number. That was two days ago, and so far, he hasn’t called, and now it’s Friday night, an off-limits time to strike up your first conversation, since we’re all so popular, and couldn’t possibly be home alone on a weekend.

170 days to go.

(This photo of “How Hot Are You” from Astropop, was taken at The Musée Mécanique in San Francisco, which houses a collection of  vintage mechanical toys.

The Tyranny of the Couple

Sometimes it happens by accident. You arrange a relaxed evening at the movies with two couples and your gay friend, Charlie, who often serves as your plus one. At the last minute, Charlie comes down with the stomach flu. You’ve already purchased the tickets, and don’t want to seem like a bad sport. Yet is there anything worse than a Saturday night out, as the fifth wheel?

Or this scenario, told to me by a single acquaintance, who had planned a dinner party of four. She’d invited some married friends and a colleague (strictly platonic), whose boyfriend was away on business. The host’s nightmare call came when the boyfriend returned from his trip early, and asked if he could come along. How could she say no? Even though it meant being the odd woman out (in her own home).

I have been a 3rd, 5th and 7th wheel, with varying degrees of pain. How about you?

Am I Too High Brow?

A friend who has been married and divorced four times is looking for his next romance. He spends hours online, scanning photos of potential dates. If a woman is standing in front of furniture he doesn’t like, he won’t go out with her. And I thought I was picky.

Speaking of which, last night on Match, a man “winked” at me. I opened his profile, skimmed through his “favorite hot spots” and what he likes to do for fun, and although we had little in common, I tried to have an open mind. But the clincher came when I saw what he wrote under the category,           LAST READ:

Victoria’s Secret catalogs looking for ideas for my honey when I find her

The Perils of Sunscreen

The summer sun in L.A. is blazing. When I take Rose for a late afternoon walk, I wear an enormous, SPF-30 hat and a long sleeve t-shirt to shield me. There’s not a speck of skin on view, except for my ankles. On the rare occasion when I spot an attractive man whose path I might cross, I, very casually, remove the t-shirt and sling it low on my hips, take off  the hat, and run my fingers through my hair for a little lift. But it’s a lost cause. Hat head is impossible to reverse without a spigot, and by then he’s long gone.

Photo: Gordon Parks for Life Magazine, June 1951

The Lipstick Effect

These are anxious times. In search of an easy fix, I drove to a luxury department store in Beverly Hills to find a new lipstick. I bypassed my usual NARS glosses, circled the other upscale brands and landed at the Yves Saint Laurent counter, because their lipsticks win awards, and the woman doing makeovers didn’t appear too made up. She had me test about 10 shades on the palm of my hand (which doesn’t seem to bear any resemblance to the color of my lips, but I’m no expert), and I decided on two of them – natural brown and frozen mocha. Oh yeah, I also ended up with a volumizing mascara, an eyeliner, and a “seasonal eyeshadow duo” (you know how that goes).

Lifting my spirits and the sagging economy at the same time is right on trend. During the Great Depression, women kept shopping for cosmetics, especially lipstick, leading to the term, “the lipstick effect.”

Can Short Hair Be Sexy?

I’ve never been a girly girl. About ten years ago, I got my hair cut in a sleek bob and my bossy stylist insisted I use a blow dryer. My upper arm ached and it took so long to get ready in the morning, that I abandoned the idea and the bob after a month. My chic technique:  towel dry hair, put in Moroccan oil styling creme, mush it around, and get on with my day.

This photo of the very sexy Jean Seberg is from 1960, when she starred in the Jean-Luc Godard movie, Breathless.

What To Do When You’re Not Dating

To recap: Two days on Match.com, and only a few winks. Not one full fledged note from anyone. But that’s not about me, right? It’s about them.

That’s why I prefer to cook. I’m almost finished preparing Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon, which has been far more creative and rewarding than trying to scrounge up a date. (And I get to eat it!) What’s left is adding a butter and flour paste, or beurre manié, to the stew with a little red wine. (There’s already a whole bottle of Burgundy in there.) I’ll be serving the finished product to a few girlfriends on Friday night, with buttered noodles, a blue cheese salad, and ice cold martinis. Now that’s something to cheer about.

The Chores of Dating, and Cooking

With two chores ahead of me, I’m trying to figure out which one is worse; peeling 18 pearl onions for the Boeuf Bourguignon or responding to a guy on Match.com who uses the name, “whitejesus09.”

Me and Julia (or Keeping Busy While on Match.com)

Returning to Match.com with an “assignment,” has taken the edge off my horror of being there just to find a date. Now there’s a higher purpose to scanning photos of hundreds of men that I don’t want to go out with, or who probably don’t want to go out with me. Before reporting the results, I want to tell you about another  “assignment” over the next few days, to run alongside my hunt for love. I’ve decided to tackle Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon.

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