The Sting

My brother may have a different take on our upbringing, but I don't recall a particularly affectionate family. Naturally, I have no choice but to think of this a bit as an adult and especially as an adult who dates. Aside from all the other wonderful nuances of meeting someone I would like to spend time with, issues come to the surface, like, say intimacy. (Case in point, I just sat here for several minutes looking at those italicized letters kind of trying not to throw up in my mouth.)

I know I am tough to deal with from time to time. I have been called numerous things, my favorite nicknames can't be said on television before 9:00 p.m. My personality can be prickly, my views on things harsh, but can I blame this on being raised by a bunch of WASPs who reveled in public displays of rejection? I think this is just me. When I see my younger siblings hanging out with their friends or each other, they are quite adorable and all hugglesworth and things I never was. I kinda sit back and envy it a bit, but not enough to participate. That is them, and this, my friends, is moi.

This lack of affection doesn't mean that I am not sensitive. A deodorant commercial could set me off on a crying jag. Watching old people walk around alone at night scares the shit out of me (for their sake, they don't frighten me. I could totally take on an octogenarian.) I might not be approachable, but I sometimes I do fancy myself a fair maiden trying to negotiate a path with a few pebbles on it. So, I may appear to live up to my Chinese astrological sing (Ox), but that doesn't mean that I don't have any feelings. Spare me the kid gloves, but don't be an ass.

2 Girls for Five Bucks

As a belated birthday present, my dear friend S___ took me to a show at Ars Nova, "New York’s premier hub for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music, producing provocative and affordable live entertainment." Quite a lofty summation, but five minutes after the show started I was thinking, "Wow, this is a great venue for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music..."

From the very beginning I was taken in by the 2 Girls. Sat right up front, I had the fantastic vantage point of not just the stage, but I was able to look back at the small audience. Any time I did (which was rare as the ladies were captivating) the rest of the crowd looked equally enthralled.

I am not about to give a rundown of the production, but I will say that it was wonderfully refreshing to see a show with women who talk about dating without coming across as manbashers or simpering girls who "just can't seem to find the one". It's a delicate thing to discuss dating in New York without at some juncture pointing blame. When it isn't the blame card, one falls into a pattern of stereotypes. "Guys are douchebags; Women are clingy" 2 Girls are definitely quirky, often neurotic, gals about town, but they are also incredibly unique. They don't fill any sort of stereotype, they merely exhibit tendencies. It's theater, but it's not false and that is what makes it such a great show. Everything about 2 Girls for 5 Bucks feels familiar, but it doesn't leave you feeling "I could have done that", but instead you feel "Yes, Yes, Yes!"

OH, and one of the best elements was the band, The Ten Dollar Heartbreakers. Superb and ingenious, not to mention adorable.

Hurrazzles!!!

Checking my bank account has been something I try not to do too often these days. Alas, in a moment of early morning bravado, I did and discovered that my appeal to the Department of Labor for a weekly unemployment increase was approved. This means $129 more per week. Drink is on me! That's right, drink singular.

I am amazed at how quickly it all happened, and have a new sense of faith in the system. Good timing as the string pull thingy on my kitchen light broke and the lights have been on since 6:00 a.m.

Der Vorleser

A few weeks ago I went to a small Brooklyn theater to see The Reader. I opted for a 7:00 p.m. show with the belief that most young couples on a date would go to the later viewing. What I didn't bargain for was that 7:00 p.m. show was for the AARP crowd. Firstly, it smelled vaguely of camphor and death, which lends itself to a film taking place around WWII (sehr authentico). Secondly, have you ever noticed how loud old people chew? It was like surround sound in my neighbors mouth. I don't even think he was eating popcorn. It was probably a bag of marshmallows, but somehow he managed to turn up the volume.

What struck me most was that at the pinnacle moment in the film when young love turned old was about to be revealed, just at the point when my eyes were brimming with saline, I realized that I felt like I was surrounded by people who lived through WWII. That was why they didn't get upset and teary eyed, because they have been through so much worse. There I was reveling in the tragedy and lost love in a roomful of strangers. Compounding that was the thought that nobody would ever love me that much, which set me off to cry a bit more, borderline sobbing. Yet, when I looked up, those around me looked almost bored. I dare say I saw a pair of rheumy eyes roll.

Walking out of the film I felt something I haven't felt in Brooklyn in a very long time: young. It was nice and refreshing, and it gave me a bit of hope. Until I run into a pack of 20-somethings hoggin' all the bar space, that is.

Not Yet Available, Sorry...

After getting the pink slip from my last post, I sighed with relief, but in the back of my mind job search dread lingered. It has been one month now, and I have done little to find a new place to store my corporate shoe collection. However, quite amazingly, a few opportunities have come my way and I really don't know what to make of it all. Granted, none of the roles are ideal, but I am slightly amazed at the way this is all happening. Ideal isn't the right word, really. Nothing appeals to me at the moment, except perhaps the opportunity to name nail polish shades, or to test yogurt flavors or something. Maybe even to work on some sort of film review type of thing, but at my leisure. Deadlines and low hemlines are not my forte at the moment. I feel I need to sit this out a bit and revel a bit more in ultimate relaxation. Unfortunately, I think the nothingness has caused a migraine of epic proportions to creep its way up the base of my skull.

African Burial Grounds

Central Park + Cachaça = Bikram Yoga

After a morning of recovering from the aforementioned weekend with some old chums from abroad, I cleaned myself up and made my way to 110th street for a charity event sponsored by the Central Park Conservancy. From the second my foot hit the highly polished floor, I knew two things: I was glad I went to the event alone and I was definitely not going to blend in with the crowd. For the next two hours I rubbed shoulders with a flock of people I can safely assume I will never see again. It was a room full of perfect smiles and angles clad in the latest Fifth Avenue offered. After emptying my first plastic cup of some delicious passion fruit laced Cachaça elixer, I attempted a bit of a mingle in the small room, and landed in the corner where I could look out over the Blandana Republic. I made my way to the cocktail table again, this time opting for a strawberry and prosecco laced drink, and then slowly worked my way around the room again, this time in a counter clockwise direction. (I really know how to shake things up.) It was during this journey that I passed the silent auction table. Regarding the "prizes", I noticed that not only were the bids low, but they were virtually non-existant. Slightly buzzed and feeling heady with the thrill of being on the water (does the Harlem Meer count?), I decided that bikram yoga would be a good thing for me AND what were the chances that any of the attendees of this event really went as far south as 14th street on any given day, much less to sweat their asses off. So, I jotted down my bid, the second on the list, and worked my way over to someone I had been introduced to a month prior.
Cocktail, round snack, round snack, cocktail, oval snack.
The silent auction ended, and it was to my astonishment that I had placed the highest bid. I was now the proud owner of a 3 month membership to hot yoga town. Joke is on them cuz this gal can go EVERY DAY AT ANY TIME. Even so, I was quite pleased with my win and decided to cast aside any fear that I had about group classes, much less hot steamy ones that I had never taken before. Now I just have to start...

Goodbye, Farewell

This past weekend was one long-winded pub crawl interspersed with snippets of sleep, food and idle banter, and peppered with lots of laughs. Entertaining out of town guests is always fun, and I welcome the challenge of finding great venues for cocktails and victuals, great walks and views. If the opportunity for entertainment in a more cultural form comes along, even better.

The best part of having someone stay in my apartment is when they finally leave. Strangely enough, it is often also the worst part. Once the wheelie case makes it down the hall, my small one bedroom starts to close in on me a bit, and even my cat looks at me as though I will never have any hope of keeping anyone in the place for longer than a week. It makes me wonder, too, if I really could ever live with anyone again. I used to long for a time I could share everything I had, including space and possessions, but now I am realizing that it may not be the best way to go about things. Living with someone creates intimacy and closeness, but it also manages to expose habits and nuances that I don't know if I want exposed to anyone. The exhaustion I feel after having a friend from out of town is not so much showing them around and playing tour guide, but also a sort of pent up anxiety about them seeing how I live. The cat, the dusty windowsill, the refrigerator bereft of greens, but brimming with booze. My lifestyle may almost appear Jonesian in a certain light, and I fear this glimpse, this view. The only way to avoid it is going out into the wild and returning when it is dark and we are all too buzzed to see it.

day after sick

Monday was a sick day.
Tuesday was a day of recovery.
Wednesday was spent marveling at the glories of being well. There is nothing like the first day of being well again. I could sit up straight for 20 minutes straight without taxing my body. Making instant oatmeal didn't cause me to break out in a sweat. My hands didn't ache after peeling an orange. Carbonation from gingerale didn't hurt my face. I can get the mail! Glorious day!!!

Nice Box

Yesterday I awoke promptly at 8:00 a.m. to discover that some sort of bug had entered my system and wanted nothing to do with food or liquids. This battle went on all day. A day riddled with feverish dreams, chicken broth, 3 cans of gingerale, less chicken broth, even less gingerale, then Cadbury mini eggs (the only thing my body didn't reject) and then more weird nightmares.

Today I woke up feeling marginally better, able to consume 8 ounces of liquid and retain an even 8 ounces of liquid. I also feel comfortable sitting up, though I have some dream hangovers to deal with (one involving a very frustrating flight to Somewhereville). I was going to do laundry, but I don't want to push myself too much. Instead, I have spent a good part of the afternoon watching a self help video (homework) and covering a cardboard box in plywood patterned contact paper. This amazing creation now houses all those pesky cords under my computer. THIS very station where I write weblogs and search for boys and write inspirational prose to my mother and some friends. I have decorated the epi center of thoughts in my apartment.

Don't tell me I don't do nothin'.

Therein lies the paradox

Whilst taking part in this little social experiment I call "Dating", I have encountered a wide array of some of this city's finest menfolk. Overall, I haven't had a terrible experience. The odd anecdote here, the random frustration there, and very little heartache, for the most part. I consider myself lucky in that last department. Naturally, most stories stem from some sort of mystifying occurrence or more likely an incredibly uncomfortable experience.

One major problem I have with dating is that I could talk to anyone for at least an hour. Anyone. I find it fascinating and rarely have trouble finding a topic to discuss, even (sometimes especially) if we have differing viewpoints. This may not seem terrible, but it does leave me wondering sometimes after a meeting "Was that a good date or just good banter?" Sure, some would ask if I felt a spark. Please don't get me on that spark business. Another time, perhaps.

However, the singularly most uncomfortable situation that can occur during a date is in regards to money. I hate talking about money with strangers, especially male strangers, and even more especially with male strangers I may want to have intimate relations with. It makes my skin crawl. I despise the song and dance once a bill arrives. The pause, the me slowly reaching towards my bag, the meek "No, don't worry about it!" followed by a simpering "Really? Are you sure?" YUCK! It is all so very false. Listen, if a guy invites me to his favorite Japanese restaurant on the edge of town on a rainy night, he better pay for the shark cartilage snack I had to chew for several hours that night. It was his invitation, his idea, ALLLL his doing. Likewise, if I recommend my favorite tapas place, I will expect to pay. I invited you. Get it? It's common courtesy. If these guys don't want to shell out for a meal with someone of incredible awesomeness, then don't suggest meeting at a fancy place. A ramen place, will do. I don't even expect dinner on a first date. I was wowed at the suggestion, but it was marred by the post date insights. That's right, folks, this fine young chap took me out for a fun time on the town, and then when I didn't appeal to his sensibilities, he took no time in telling me how wrong I was not to offer. Perhaps I should have run through the above mentioned drill, I will do so next time. My favorite part of all this is that now Mr. Decorum for the Modern Woman (he actually did say "the modern woman" twice in his email) Don't believe me? See below:)

"one thing I can tell you about dating is that you should offer to share the bill on a first date. most guys (myself included) will insist on paying it anyway, but it's polite to offer. and you should certainly always thank someone for paying. not a major deal, but I definitely noticed. " (I definitely thanked him, twice in fact. The first time he was checking his blackberry. I pointed this out to him and he said I should have said it again!)

"secondly, while technically it's true, I'd say our date was pretty neutral in terms of who asked who out. it's not like we met at a part and I came over and asked you to dinner. we met on a dating site. where the entire point is to date. if I hadn't said anything, I'm sure you would've eventually. but really, even this is besides the point." (This point is very confusing. Does he mean to infer that an internet related date is not a real date?)

"lastly, this doesn't at all speak to the point I was making. this talks about who should pay. I don't recall saying that you should've paid or even that we should've slit it. I obviously agree that I should've paid, because.....I did. what I'm saying is that it's gracious and modern for a woman to offer. it's one of those little etiquette dances that people do and I think shows class. the man goes for the bill, the woman offers graciously to contribute, the many politely insists on paying. the woman thanks the man, then and there. that to me is polite, appropriate, and modern."

has inadvertently made himself to look like a real prat by pointing out the deficiencies of someone else, thereby rendering all gentlemanliness null and void. Well done, young man. NEXT! Oh no, but there is more... He goes on to say that times were great despite my not being a modern woman, but he would have liked to make adult funtimes anyway.

"so I guess I'll just say that I had a good time on Friday night too. you are funny and easy to hang out with. but I guess I didn't feel that "spark" or something. sure that sounds rosey, but I'm sure you know what I mean. and while it probably would've been fun to go back to your place or something (not assuming at all that you would), I sort of liked you too much to do that, as weird as that might sound."

Way to raise the bar, tote le douche.

The Greatest

There is a new person in my world who I call "Life Coach". Life Coach sent me a form to fill out which involved a lot of goal making. Then, LC and I went over the form together. I quickly realized my goals were actually very easily attainable, and I hadn't once mentioned anything like a dream goal. This struck me as very telling. I distinctly recall a childhood full of sweeping proclamations. In fact, just saying any of them aloud is almost embarrassing at this point. What if someone hears me say "I want to be rich!" or "I want to be an architect!" Perhaps shooting for the moon in some ways, but certainly not crazy. Somewhere along the line I was told that these things weren't possible and now I have to unlearn. I cannot believe it is happening; all those little tidbits that self help books have been extolling about unlearning is all true. Brain habits. I need to break some brain habits.

Shut up the baby

One of the most fascinating aspects of being at home during the day is the opportunity to learn more about my neighbors. Once upon a time, my life was disrupted by a large black dog with a murderous bark. That dog has disappeared, and though I hated it with every fiber of my being, I hope that it is in a happy place.

I had an inkling of an idea that my downstairs neighbor was a babysitter during the day, but those suspicions have been confirmed with the sounds of 8:30 a.m. chatter in the hallway, followed by the shutting of a door and wails of a child. I never liked my neighbor much. She once called the police at 7:00 a.m. because I was "walking around with shoes on". When the coppers came to my door and told me of her complaint, I was so taken aback all I could manage to say was "Are you going to arrest my shoes?" They disliked her and now I was making their lives difficult, but I would like to think in a cute, punchy way. I likened myself to a wise-crackin' 20-something sassy gal about town in an early '80's sitcom. Kind of like the white neighbor in Good Times. Sure, I may look like the privileged white girl in the 'hood, but my life was full of trials and tribulations. During a more somber episode, perhaps, insights into my troubled childhood, or an abusive relationship would be exposed, making the neighbors love and appreciate me that much more.

But I digress. My point was to say, there is a baby crying downstairs. Please shut up the baby. I am trying to weblog, people!

Serendipity

One of the first books I remember becoming mildly obsessed with as a child was 'Serendipity', by Stephen Cosgrove. It could be very well that it was just because it was a story about the trials and tribulations of an adorable monster, or it could be that I just liked that word: Serendipity. When I finally realized what it meant, I grew more fond of it. My childhood was good in many ways, but I remember feeling a great deal of frustration. Learning that there is such a thing as perfect timing, a happy accident in the cosmos thrilled me.

It had been a long time since I'd last thought about serendipity when I walked through the L'Oreal Academy doors on Saturday morning. After getting the obligatory forms signing away hair freedom, I looked up and saw none other than my friend from San Francisco. Apprehension isn't generally a feeling I get in regards to haircuts and things, but I certainly knew I was in good hands when I saw Amita. Any tension I had dissipated, and it was lovely just to sit around, flip through magazines, talk hair, or simply listen to others talk about hair. Something about it was incredibly soothing, like a 2009 version of the salon the ladies have in Steel Magnolias. Though I am quite pleased with the recent turn of umployment events, I still feel a bit of apprehension now and then. It has only been a week, so ask me again in a month. Seeing Amita, chatting up a storm and having my look transformed by someone I trust was incredibly soothing. And FUN! I expected one thing and got quite another; perfect timing.

Prep

This tableau strikes me as lovely and hilarious. I mentioned to a friend the fact that the cover of this book makes everything in my apartment look different, and I don't think he believed me. I am not judging the book, mind you, but it is certainly changing things in my immediate world. Even better is that I started to take the picture and Mr. Furpants jumped into the frame, ready for action.