Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Men looking for wives and babies?
His eyes flirted with the sun like pinwheels of color and soul. It helped that they also undressed you fully with their intensity. Those LIPS, though...Ay! He had the kind of lips that begged to be smooched. Actually-they were like a fruit pop in the summer: sweet, luscious and ripe for the sucking.
I spent a full afternoon downloading his pictures, forwarding them to my friend, with a 'what do you think' note attached, as well as obsessively reading his blogs. All the while, I was looking for clues for compatibility. He had a couple of really deep blogs, but they were lyrics or poems written by someone else. A hack, eh?
He blogged, in one, about how he just couldn't have sex without love anymore. The IDEA that a man his age would even be THINKING about that, well, it was shocking! I'm so used to oversexed, sex-starved, shallow New Yorkers, that this anomaly was as refreshing as an Arctic breeze in the Spring. He was ripe, though, for this kind of blog as he had just come back from a wedding. The last of his friends got married. He wrote how he played with his god-child and thought that he could get used to this. That's what he wrote. Aw, right? Wants to get married...annnnd have babies? Alert the presses!
I melted when he told me that he wanted to have a child who looked just like him. That's not my button, either. It was the juxtaposition of this seemingly stoic caveman-slash-athlete with a tender need for procreation...it was, well...confusing.
I had put my privates in a proverbial mason jar when I got sober. "Concentrate on yourself" many elders told me. This was something that took some getting used to, but once I learned how to transmute my sexual energy into creative energy and saw how much I was getting accomplished, well...I didn't want to give it up all that quickly. It has been over a year, though, and my born-again virgin status was vibrating like a kitchen timer. Boys seemed to be coming out of the wood works.
My contemplation of my ever growing hymen gave out to the tug of war that came with persistence on his part, just as I was looking at his lips with drunken lust. THIS is worth tossing away months of self control: drunken lust! While we kissed like horny teens, my mind judged with stern reprobation. "Is this someone you are serious about? Is this someone you can REALLY build a family with?" and just like that, I shut my mind up by saying, "But I'm not looking for that right now. I just want a little sample. Is that so wrong?" Who WAS this new person? Kids, marriage, serious relationship??? Ugh. I was losing my edge.
Wherever those doubtful thoughts bubbled up from within me, were mirrored in him, for he broached the topic of a 'serious conversation' with me. We actually had a mature chat about the goals we had. That's when he told me that HE was celibate, before I even told him that I was! He said he was 'working on himself'. That he was looking for the REAL thing. He actually said, "I can't have sex. I'll get too hurt." I stared at him in amazement. Mostly, because not a stitch of my clothing had fallen by any waist, shoulder or even collar-side.
"Now, is he just TRYING to get me to fall in love with him?" I cynically thought. Before I could judge it any further though, I just thought it interesting. There was a time when I could only find shallow men in hot pursuit of animal gratification.
Now, I can only find guys who can't commit to having sex because they aren't "ready." They exist, these strange relationship types. Here, here to the attraction factor!!!
Labels: Boy Stories, celibacy, Kissing, Rumi, sobriety, transmutation of sexual energy
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Celebrity, celosia and celibacy at Tribeca Film Festival '07
I was at the Tribeca Film Festival opening night. A launch party for a little film that a friend of mine was in. It was not as glamorous as certain high level movies by casa de Weinstein, but it was enough to make me want to cry out in anxiety all night. This ‘small scale’ event attracted big names in Mexican cinema and some actors that I haven’t met, but have seen and respect. They were all there, all swarmed by people, all being adored. I stood behind, watching in utter fascination. How much longer would it be before that was me? Is that what I even wanted? I saw the caterers go by, with their trays of delectable treats. One by one, the treats were turned down, in exchange for the smiles and looks of unending adoration and phrases filled with praise.
The event was supposed to celebrate a friend of mine who was in the film. I was dressed to the nines, as they say, and should have been glowing from the excitement of being in the ‘inner circle’…or closer to it, anyway, but all I could think about was what I was not getting. Even yesterday when asked what the name of the film was, or where we went after, I drew a blank, because all I was focused on was my inadequacies and how far away I was from where I wanted to be, and how my date was getting more attention than I was. With all of these self-hating thoughts floating through my head, I turned to other thoughts.
It is amazing how much money goes in to these events. This was not even the A-list party, and the wait staff alone tipped the bill over in to the thousands. Each person must have spent, I don’t know, $200 at least, just to walk out of their door.
That took about two seconds. I went back to analyzing the events of the night. Cute boy. Check. That feels good. Film festival. Check. That feels good, too. Jealousy over actors in the lime light. Um, not-so-good. Feeling sorry for myself for having to take the back seat on this one, instead of being the guest of honor. Um, danger? Bad territory in the head. The amount of parties I must have missed in a life time due to bad decisions from my past life. Ugh. Get off this train of thought. The amount of tall blonder white women at that event and how badly I feel about my body when I compare it to people who have had plastic surgery and designer work-outs/meals. Danger, danger!!!! Approaching dangerous ground…will implode in 5, 4, 3, 2…!!!
How often do I go for the things that destroy me? The minute I began to obsess about the things that I did NOT have, the tapestry of my inner happiness began to unravel. By remembering that I can get off that run away train and be in the moment…I can approach terra firma and live. I chose to obsess over my date’s perfect lips and how they would meet mine by the end of the night. Celibacy be damned, celibacy be damned!
Labels: Boy Stories, Celebrity, celibacy, Internet Dating, new york, Rumi, sobriety, tribeca film festival
Thursday, March 29, 2007
“In a relationship”
Pumping my bike tires at the 6th Avenue Bike Shop this Sunday, a man leaned over my handlebars to ask if he could assist. While he aligned my tires and adjusted my breaks, he pushed a baby and stroller up against the nearest wall. “It’s not my kid. I’m watching him for my friend inside. My buddy. He’s a guy.” After he corrected my seat, he asked me out. And as I heard myself giving out my number, I suddenly realized that I probably should not. That I was now "in a relationship".
Last week, before Cole and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.
It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.
“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Jane.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.
Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?
So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.
My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.
“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”
Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.
“Listen Jane, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”
A few weeks ago, Cole and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Cole and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.
“You and I should get coffee some time.”
The single Jane wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Jane thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?
When I told Cole the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?
My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.
“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”
Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”
She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."
I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”
She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Jane.”
Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".
I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Cole over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?
Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Cole was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.
The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.
Last week, before Cole and I had ‘the talk’, an attractive man gripping the leather of my seat would have been rewarded with a number and possible coffee date. But now that I have changed my MySpace status to “in a relationship” I need to gather some research on what that means.
It’s been awhile since a man called me his girlfriend in public. It’s been since 2003. A lot has changed in the past four years. What has not changed, is the fantastic feeling of acceptance and appreciation when a man introduces me for the first time as his girlfriend.
“Hey Juan, this is my girlfriend Jane.” Tingles. Really. But a moment of short lived jubilance barely had time to register before being replaced by a creeping fear.
Oh shit. Wait. What did I just accept? Have I been labelled. Do I really like that? And it’s been so long, what does it even mean to be someone's girlfriend?
So far, it means regular phenomenal sex, an assured date on Saturday night, someone to talk to on the way home from dinner parties, an excuse to order three entrees and two desserts, an increase in text messaging charges, not having to shave my legs, a regular receptacle for tales of my daily resentments, and a reason to lay in bed on Saturday until noon. But in my joy of all the things you get from being "in a relationship", I had completely forgotten about the things you lose.
My friend Max has sworn off sex for the last year in order to avoid an accidental relationship. He despises the thought of being tied to someone, a label or his own lust. Max thinks a relationship is being denied access to an independent life, the punishment of copious amounts of restriction. He reminds me every time we get together that if he were in a relationship then we could probably not be friends.
“Does that mean that when you are in a relationship you can no longer be friends with the opposite sex?” I ask him over Panini at Vesuvio’s on a Saturday afternoon stroll through Soho.
“Unfortunately, I think the answer to that is, only if they are grandfathered in.” He continues, “The social rule seems to allow you to maintain your current opposite sex friends, but limit your ability to make new ones.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If your partner is worried that your friendships will tempt you to cheat, then wouldn’t your partner be more concerned about your long standing opposite sex friendships.”
Max sips from the small Espresso cup in front of him.
“Listen Jane, it doesn’t make any sense. It merely reveals the human frailty of insecurity. Two confident individuals should be able to make and maintain true friendships with others as well as each other. To be quite frank, it is exactly these types of ridiculous rules that drive me to abhor sexual relationships.”
A few weeks ago, Cole and I went to see a friends band at Iriving Plaza and afterwards my friend introduced me to the bass player. Cole and I cracked jokes and traded stories with Mr. Bass, but the next day, the married bass player sent me a MySpace message.
“You and I should get coffee some time.”
The single Jane wondered what his wife would think of the request, but then the “in a relationship” Jane thought maybe he just enjoyed my company and wanted to be friends. We do have common interests and he is really hot. Does being married mean he can no longer make friends with the opposite sex? Am I allowed to pursue new friendships with hot bass players?
When I told Cole the story he just sort of shrugged his shoulders. Was that the protocol? Am I supposed to tell the boyfriend? Won't that hurt his pride? Does being "in a relationship" means I have to think about these solicitations with more care?
My Souther artist friend Bella has a boyfriend that lives in Upstate New York and she was recently asked to a gallery opening by a gorgeous male model/art collector.
“I love my boyfriend, but it would be so wonderful to go out to dinner with this guy.”
Bella and I are catching a late Sunday brunch at Cafeteria in Chelsea.
“Well, why don’t you just tell him that you have a boyfriend and see if he wants to be friends?”
She leans in and lowers her voice, because our waiter has sat someone directly next to us and Bella's southern sensibility makes her cognizant that the table next to us can hear just about everything we are saying. “But what if he does just want to be friends? Then I’ve insulted him by insinuating that he has romantic interests in me."
I lean into her, “That’s crap Bee. You don’t want to tell him you have a boyfriend because you are afraid he will cancel.”
She falls back into the chocolate booth and sighs. “Oh God, you are right. It’s just that this guy is so great. He’s interesting and funny and talented. And Jack is so far away and I’m starting to wonder if he will ever propose. I really want to be this guy’s friend Jane.”
Bella has demonstrated what the boyfriend label does not mean. It does not mean security. It does not mean that your girlfriend will stop dating other men. It does not mean that your boyfriend is ready to get married. And I am right back to questioning what it means to be "in a relationship".
I’m not going to over think it. I’m not going to let my OCD brain develop a list of bullet points, format it into a power point and present it to Cole over our next dinner date. Now I wouldn't do that, right? But one has to wonder, why I, an independent and self-professed professional single, was so eager for the false security of this clearly bogus label. Is it too late to take it away? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy being "in a relationship". But, if we just take away the label, can I go out with the bicycle guy?
Why was I in such a rush to get here? And while honestly, there is simply no other man with whom I want to spend my time, perhaps Cole was right and we don't need a label. You see, like most benchmarks in a relationship, once you pass them there is no going back. There is no such thing as a second first kiss.
The truth is, I really don't want to go backward. I'm just scared of going forward. Scared and confused. I haven't been here in a while.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Happy Valentines Day!
For as long as I can recall, I have hated Valentines day.
I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.
I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.
Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.
Not all love. Just the kind that involves an intimate partner. I've always capitalized on the holiday, by focusing on making my friends and family feel noticed and appreciated. But this year, something is different.
This year, I have a Valentine.
And he is the kind of Valentine that doesn't need a special day to be utterly romantic. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things about me and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one. Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B.
Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, this year, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.
I hate the pink. I hate the hearts. I hate the obscene feeling of obligation, the stench of rotten Valentines past lingering in the air, the sound of broken hearts crunching beneath my tepid sensitivities. I hate watching the cash register continue to tally the cost of $7.50 cards that will arrive late, be opened in haste and passed over in anticipation of the one from ‘him’. Since I was twelve years old comparing the number of M'n'M's that Lucy glued on Bethy's card versus mine, I have been shaking my box of valentines, unappreciative of what I've received and mourning what I’m missing.
I've ended 80% of my relationships before the impending doom of Valentines Day as a pre-emptive strike against inevitable disappointment. And the other 20% were miserable. My first love took me to the Keg restaurant for bottomless cokes and all-you-can-eat Caesar salads. My last love gave me a card. You see, Valentines Day celebrates all the things I hate about relationships. He reads a magazine that tells him he should take me to dinner, pick out a card, and buy chocolates. But I hate chocolate, the card isn’t his words, and this isn't his idea of a fun night. The truth is that if he had it his way, we would be watching football at home in front of the TV eating pizza from the box. I hate Valentines day.
Out of a relationship, the pressure is removed but Valentines still sucks. It’s a reminder to singles everywhere that, according to society, we have failed. I have failed. I, who have always striven for perfection..., I, who have always pushed for the A+... I, who will only play if I can win... I, have failed at love.
Not all love. Just the kind that involves an intimate partner. I've always capitalized on the holiday, by focusing on making my friends and family feel noticed and appreciated. But this year, something is different.
This year, I have a Valentine.
And he is the kind of Valentine that doesn't need a special day to be utterly romantic. He is thoughtful and kind, makes dramatic gestures, likes art, writes poetry, plans dates, always walks between me and traffic, is humble and sincere, pays for my meals, instead of meeting me at restaurants he picks me up for dinner, notices little things about me and makes me feel like there is no need to race because he isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. Yes, something is really different about this one. Suddenly I want to read poetry and listen to R & B.
Now, I'm a realist and who knows how long this infatuation will last or how much longer my Valentine and I will hold one another’s attention. By this time next week I may be hating John Mayer tunes and cursing at happy couples on the street. But for today, on Valentines Day, I have a Valentine. And just maybe, this year, I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
V is for VALENTINE'S DAY
My friend hosted a Cookie Baking Party on Sunday with a Valentine's Day theme. To get in the spirit, we discussed love in the Big Apple. A couple of girls asked if I thought living in NY makes people neurotic. As we all know, neurotic is not a good quality when dating. Plenty of females think that Manhattan men are neurotic. Others will say that the women become neurotic too. Neurotic about body image (Why do some people still care about being the thinnest in the room?), neurotic about fashion (Why do people care about having the most expensive clothes in the room?), neurotic about career (Why do some think their paycheck defines their personal worth?), neurotic about marriage/kids (Why do some people care who gets married 1st, who has kids 1st, or who has kids in the best pre-K program?)I said it yesterday and I'll say it again. NY does not make you neurotic unless you let it. It IS possible to have a healthy relationship there. Not easy, but possible. There are endless temptations in The City That Never Sleeps Yet Somehow Sleeps With Your Boyfriend. If you refuse to buy into all the advertising lies ("What? I won't become perfect from drinking cans of Red Bull and bottles of Stoli Vanilla?? What about the new Bailey's Caramel Irish Cream?"), then it is possible to live happily ever after in New York. Unless you re-kindle a penchant for the suburbs.
Out of the hustle and bustle, many of you are probably enjoying a quiet Valentine's Day.
For those of us paying $200 for a $70 dinner because it is February 14, well, consider it a small price to pay for timely and romantic atmosphere. Plus there's all the people-watching and free entertainment that occurs every day on the cold, windy sidewalks where millions of footsteps make their marks.
This is a warning to New Yorkers (neurotic or not): Start making reservations soon - next year's Valentine's Day is around the corner, so secure some seats before every restaurant books up.
And if you make a heart shaped cookie, don't forget to check on it and err on the side of caution. You wouldn't want your own heart to get burned, would you?
Labels: Boy Stories, Noelle, Valentine's Day
Friday, September 08, 2006
Justice will be served... barfy
Walking to work today (as you know I love to do), I passed an advertisement for a new “Judge Judy”-type show on the CW, featuring one Maria Lopez. Above a picture of the very attractive- and startlingly young-looking for 52 - Judge Lopez, was the following copy:JUSTICE
Will Be Served
Spicy
I hope Judge Lopez had a long, hard struggle over that one. I like to think she stared at that ad and thought to herself, “Smith. Boston University. Seven years as an Assistant Attorney General in Massachusetts in the Civil Rights Division. Counsel to the Office for Immigrants and Refugees. First Latina on the bench in that state; first to be appointed to the Massachusetts Superior Court. Spent years of my career working for the underprivileged and invisible in our society. Resigned from the bench rather than compromise my principles in one highly-publicized case.
And now it sounds like I’m going to be delivering justice through hair-pulling fights and samba contests.”
To be fair – I wouldn’t have known that Judge Lopez had such an admirable career if I hadn’t seen that ad, and been intrigued/horrified enough to look her up. I’m not sure if now that I know it, I feel better… or worse. Does no one care for their dignity anymore?? Jeez.
This is blacksheepish, shaking her head in bewilderment.
PS- Missed you guys. Promise not to stay away so long again.
PPS- Nothing to report with the Viking. He met someone else while he was away. At least he had the stones to tell me so. Ah well. You rolls the dice and you takes your chances.
Labels: Boy Stories, Sheepish
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Ex Googling
It’s Tuesday night and I’m bored. I don’t have cable, because TV hits my system like crack cocaine and once I start watching it I can’t stop. If I had a TV I wouldn’t read. I would never return e-mails and I certainly wouldn’t spend idle hours every night surfing the net. Unfortunately, boredom and idle hours surfing the net signals certain danger.
I google an ex. Nothing interesting pops up. So, I google another.
Something new pops up. In my periodic spot check of googling and cyberstalking ex boyfriends, nothing has ever popped up for Wes before. Wes was a few years back. I called him ‘shower boy’ because of his propensity to take showers immediately after copulation. Each time using a fresh bar of Dove soap. Cleaning me off of his skin in the shower he would spend almost a half hour in the bathroom and usually I would be asleep by the time he came back to join me in the bed, a trail of shower steam bellowing out from the bathroom door behind him. But if I wasn’t asleep, I could watch him pull the covers up neatly around his chin, tuck the sheet around his body like a mummy and lay his head on the pillow, careful not to mess his hair or touch me in the process. For obvious reasons, we didn’t work out.
But like most ex boyfriends, over the past few years I had thought about him. Occasionally thinking I had been too hasty. We had so much fun together. We went out all the time. He was really hot. Maybe I judged him too harshly. And like bending back the corner of a page in a good book, I marked Wes as a spot I might want to come back to in the future.
And now here I am looking at his bio on the web page of his MBA program. I am ready to read that he had ended up in an insane asylum for the OCD impaired. Surely after the devastating loss of the only one real deep character in his life, Wes had dropped out of school and gone into the seminary to seek meaning in his life. I mean this is a feelingless ex that I imagined was never going to find true happiness or experience emotions without me. But sure enough, he is still alive. He has not committed suicide after losing me in his life. The photo doesn’t reveal a priest collar. And from what I am reading he is doing disturbingly well.
Shit, now I can’t stop thinking about Wes. I pick up the phone, find his name in my cell directory, stare for a very long time considering the consequences, and I call him.
“Is that you I saw jogging shirtless down 17th street the other day? Or was it some other hot young stud in great shape?”
“Schmo, how you been? I haven’t heard from you in forever. 17th street? Are you in DC?”
Not being one for chit chat with men, I keep my answers short. I am feeling him out for weak spots. Am I imagining it, or did his voice crack a little when he said my name.
“I finally got my apartment decorated. You should come by and check it out before I take off for the summer. I set it up exactly like you told me to. Looks good.”
“You’re leaving for the summer? Where are you going?” Here it comes. He’s been incarcerated for public drunkenness. Perhaps he was found crying in his beer over the loss of my affections. Some poor man bumped into him at the bar and Wes, who spends an uncomfortable amount of time preening in the mirror at the local gym, turned around and popped the guy in the face with a very well toned bicep.
“I’m going to Europe to study abroad.”
Who the fuck was this guy and where was my ex Wes? My Wes was xenophobic, and thought men wearing jeans that fit were gay. My Wes didn’t want to go out of his neighborhood to eat, for fear some homeless guy would scratch the Beemer. My Wes thought movies with subtitles were too much work, voted Republican and felt all waiters should learn English. What the hell was he doing going to Europe to study?
“I’ll come by tomorrow on my lunch break.”
And I do.
We sit on couches at Tryst and order lunch. I’m wearing a business suit, which is a stark contrast to when I first met Wes as a waitress at 18th Street Lounge. Wes is wearing a pair of men’s Seven Jeans and a faded tee, which is a stark contrast to the suit, tie and white pressed shirt combo I would see him in when he shook the bed to kick me out so he could lock up and go to work in the morning. He didn’t like to leave girls alone in his apartment. Apparently he was afraid I might break into his Dove bar soap collection or use some of his man products lined up next to the sink like little toy soldiers on display.
He has the Tuna. Which is also weird because tuna fish has mayonnaise and my Wes eats egg whites and one slice of wheat bread and then touches his six pack all night to feel for muscle loss.
I order salad. And after the lady walks away, I realize how awkward it will be to eat a salad whilst sitting on a couch, one nude fishnet leg tucked under my chocolate brown skirt, talking to my ex boyfriend that I haven’t seen in over a year.
We talk about family and we talk about work. And then he asks me about my love life.
“So are you seeing anyone?”
I swallow a lettuce leaf and wipe the olive oil off my right cheek.
“Are you?”
I google an ex. Nothing interesting pops up. So, I google another.
Something new pops up. In my periodic spot check of googling and cyberstalking ex boyfriends, nothing has ever popped up for Wes before. Wes was a few years back. I called him ‘shower boy’ because of his propensity to take showers immediately after copulation. Each time using a fresh bar of Dove soap. Cleaning me off of his skin in the shower he would spend almost a half hour in the bathroom and usually I would be asleep by the time he came back to join me in the bed, a trail of shower steam bellowing out from the bathroom door behind him. But if I wasn’t asleep, I could watch him pull the covers up neatly around his chin, tuck the sheet around his body like a mummy and lay his head on the pillow, careful not to mess his hair or touch me in the process. For obvious reasons, we didn’t work out.
But like most ex boyfriends, over the past few years I had thought about him. Occasionally thinking I had been too hasty. We had so much fun together. We went out all the time. He was really hot. Maybe I judged him too harshly. And like bending back the corner of a page in a good book, I marked Wes as a spot I might want to come back to in the future.
And now here I am looking at his bio on the web page of his MBA program. I am ready to read that he had ended up in an insane asylum for the OCD impaired. Surely after the devastating loss of the only one real deep character in his life, Wes had dropped out of school and gone into the seminary to seek meaning in his life. I mean this is a feelingless ex that I imagined was never going to find true happiness or experience emotions without me. But sure enough, he is still alive. He has not committed suicide after losing me in his life. The photo doesn’t reveal a priest collar. And from what I am reading he is doing disturbingly well.
Shit, now I can’t stop thinking about Wes. I pick up the phone, find his name in my cell directory, stare for a very long time considering the consequences, and I call him.
“Is that you I saw jogging shirtless down 17th street the other day? Or was it some other hot young stud in great shape?”
“Schmo, how you been? I haven’t heard from you in forever. 17th street? Are you in DC?”
Not being one for chit chat with men, I keep my answers short. I am feeling him out for weak spots. Am I imagining it, or did his voice crack a little when he said my name.
“I finally got my apartment decorated. You should come by and check it out before I take off for the summer. I set it up exactly like you told me to. Looks good.”
“You’re leaving for the summer? Where are you going?” Here it comes. He’s been incarcerated for public drunkenness. Perhaps he was found crying in his beer over the loss of my affections. Some poor man bumped into him at the bar and Wes, who spends an uncomfortable amount of time preening in the mirror at the local gym, turned around and popped the guy in the face with a very well toned bicep.
“I’m going to Europe to study abroad.”
Who the fuck was this guy and where was my ex Wes? My Wes was xenophobic, and thought men wearing jeans that fit were gay. My Wes didn’t want to go out of his neighborhood to eat, for fear some homeless guy would scratch the Beemer. My Wes thought movies with subtitles were too much work, voted Republican and felt all waiters should learn English. What the hell was he doing going to Europe to study?
“I’ll come by tomorrow on my lunch break.”
And I do.
We sit on couches at Tryst and order lunch. I’m wearing a business suit, which is a stark contrast to when I first met Wes as a waitress at 18th Street Lounge. Wes is wearing a pair of men’s Seven Jeans and a faded tee, which is a stark contrast to the suit, tie and white pressed shirt combo I would see him in when he shook the bed to kick me out so he could lock up and go to work in the morning. He didn’t like to leave girls alone in his apartment. Apparently he was afraid I might break into his Dove bar soap collection or use some of his man products lined up next to the sink like little toy soldiers on display.
He has the Tuna. Which is also weird because tuna fish has mayonnaise and my Wes eats egg whites and one slice of wheat bread and then touches his six pack all night to feel for muscle loss.
I order salad. And after the lady walks away, I realize how awkward it will be to eat a salad whilst sitting on a couch, one nude fishnet leg tucked under my chocolate brown skirt, talking to my ex boyfriend that I haven’t seen in over a year.
We talk about family and we talk about work. And then he asks me about my love life.
“So are you seeing anyone?”
I swallow a lettuce leaf and wipe the olive oil off my right cheek.
“Are you?”
I use my CIA interrogation tactics to turn the question back on him.
“Yeah. You know me.”
Well, apparently I don’t anymore. So I feel compelled to ask.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I dated someone seriously, after you, for like a year. She was a little debutante chick. Had all kinds of daddy’s money.”
It stings a little bit. Wes and I were plagued by his inability to commit. I tried desperately to engage him in conversations about feelings, but he was steadfast about keeping all of our interaction surface deep. Ten months of talking about the weather, politics and other people. Even in the bedroom, I couldn’t get Wes past the superficial.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I’m the Queen of superficial relationships outside of the bedroom. I can keep it light and breezy and easy. As long as I can get my attention fix through intense and passionate screwing that communicates without words, “I like you. Lots.” But Wes didn’t even give me the tongue when we kissed. In fact, we hardly kissed. He just flipped me over and did his thing. So I rarely knew what kept him calling and coming back.
Based on this, I was constantly trying to break things off with Wes. I would explain that I needed a little more from him. He would feign confusion and tell me I was blocking the TV set. I would throw up my hands. "I'm done, you are just not that into me." But then he would call the next day and ask me to dinner or a concert or a show and I would go. Because I thought this was his way of showing me what he couldn’t say. I thought that deep down he must have real emotions for me, and he just can’t say them. But those emotions never surfaced, were never spoken and well, I guess I have to accept that they may have never actually existed. And now I discover that after me he was able to commit to someone. Someone that was not me.
“So what happened?”
I didn’t really want to hear the answer. I had always told Wes that someday he would find someone special and someone that moved him.
“Well, it started well. We were having fun. Hanging out. But then she got all heavy. I think she was crazy or something. She started talking about marriage when he had only been dating a few months. It was so weird.”
Oh thank God. It is my Wes. The color is beginning to return to my cheeks.
“She started getting all jealous and bitter. She said I wasn’t serious enough for her. Can you believe that?”
And he looks at me, because he knows that I can.
“But she had a lot of money. She was going to buy a house from my Dad. Really pissed him off when we broke up and the deal fell through.”
And my Wes is back. But just to make sure, I have to ask.
“Did you love her?”
He rolls his eyes and scoffs.
“Jesus Schmo. You cut to the chase. No. But I told her I did the day before we finally broke up.”
I wince.
“Don’t look at me like that. I had to say something. My Dad was going to lose a huge commission. ”
Bingo. It’s my Wes.
“Oh Wes. I don’t think she is crazy. Sometimes girls get jealous when they aren’t sure about your feelings for them. When you don’t put out a lot of signs or tell someone how you feel, they are forced to read every little action. And often people react with a lot of anger when they are frustrated. It’s frustrating to not know how someone feels about you. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with a woman believing that if you are still with her after a few months then there is potential for something bigger. You know?”
We both know I’m talking about me.
“Yeah, well, she’s 22. She has plenty of time to find someone new to latch on to. And there are plenty more 22 years olds out there dying to get Big Daddy Wes to take them to a Zagats rated restaurant. I’ve got another 22 year old up to bat right now.”
“Yeah, Wes, well you're 35. And how long are you going to keep dating 22 year olds? At some point you are going to have to have a grown up relationship. I mean, don’t you eventually want to have something deeper?”
“You sound like my sister.”
And suddenly I remember the pain of dating this man. The pain of never feeling good enough. The feeling that if I was just prettier, younger, firmer, then maybe he would look at me and say something nice. The belief that there was something wrong with me that made him unable to show me the affection and attention I deserved. I recall how much it hurt to be with someone who didn’t make me feel sexy or beautiful or wanted. I think of that 22 year old girl and I want to save her from the bad sex, shallow conversation and constant rejection.
“What time is it? I think I might need to start heading back to work.”
I grab for my Blackberry to look at the time and he grabs for my arm.
“Well wait. You want to come up and look at my place?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Nah. I can't. I’m running a little late. Maybe next time."
But there won’t be a next time.
I’ve read this part. I already know what happens. There is no need to go back and read it again.
Especially not when there are so many good books out there I've yet to read.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Monday, May 22, 2006
Rules? Shmoolz!
(above: eat me, bitches)Thank you everyone who gave advice and comfort to my whining last week. It was very sensible and practical and in this particular instance - so, so wrong. (Probably)
I have heard from the Mathlete. He texted to say that he had broken his cellphone last week and apologized for not getting back to me. He then asked me out again. For Wednesday. At a specific time, and a specific place.
Now. I grant that he may still be completely full of hooey. However, he may have been telling the truth (and is therefore something of an ozone ranger) and either way, he paid attention to my little shot across his bow, and is still interested.
This is not the first time I have found that a mild Three-Stooges-style whap to the brainpan has worked wonders with a man. In fact, my high-school boyfriend first asked me out on a Sunday for the following weekend... then got back together with his eeeevil ex for the upteenth time the next day... then followed through on his original date with me, after I bitched him out in homeroom for being a wishy-washy wuss. We were together until we went off to college. And I never yelled at him again.
I'm not - nor do I advocate being - a raging she-devil. One boyfriend's nickname for me was Lambie... and I liked it. But, occasionally, I have found that it is necessary to say "[whap] Hey! Human over here! With feelings!" In fact, I think those kinds of messages are most powerful coming from people who hardly ever say boo.
Anyway, your points were well-taken and I shall guard my heart and other body parts; and hey, he might still be a dud. I'll let you know how it goes.
Love,
Sheepish
Labels: Boy Stories, Sheepish
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Somewhere in Sapna
Somewhere in Sapna, off a dirt road near the Serb border, watching him buy gas that comes in a recycled sprite bottle. I look at him and I know.
I am falling for Kasmir. Even though he speaks not a word of English.
It is the careful way he opens the door for me. It is the willingness he has to wake at 6:00 AM to make me coffee before I go to work. It is the way he bucks Bosnian tradition by insisting upon washing all my dishes.
Last weekend, Kasmir drove five hours from a contract job he had in Sarajevo, just to touch my face, hold my hand, kiss me good night, turn around and drive back.
Kasmir sees me. He can't hear my fancy talk. My witty comebacks. My puns. I can't manipulate him with my words. He can't understand my complaints and mood swings. He just sees my actions.
And I see his.
I see the way he cares for his little brother. I see the way he respects the women in his house. I see the hard work and focus he brings to even the most minuscule of tasks. I realize how much more all his risks mean, considering where we are.
I saw his courage when he arrived in the all Serb City outside his village just to hear me lead an employment seminar.
He sat in the group as we went around introducing ourselves by name.
“My name is Milos, I’m 32 and I live here in Zvornik. I am here to try and learn how to get a job.”
“Thank you Milos. Thank you for coming.”
I saw him squirm as the circle closed in towards him. I didn’t understand. Sher told me later, "A name in Bosnia reveals your religion."
His eyes pleaded with me. But I didn’t know.
“I am Kasmir.”
That was all he could say. He hung his head. The circle moved on.
But now everyone knew he was a Muslim. A Muslim from the one Muslim village that broke the military line during the war. The Muslim village that the army couldn’t take. They held on. They fought back with rusty shotguns and pitchforks.
Kasmir was sixteen, too young too fight. But old enough to run food to the men on the front lines. Old enough to bury the dead. Old enough to recognize some of the faces in the group.
Sher translated the entire seminar. It was the first time he could understand my every word. Kasmir listened to my words flow out of Sher for five hours.
Now, I watch as he pays the man for the gas with a loaf of his mother’s bread, wrapped in a yellow paper napkin. The man places his left hand on Kasmir's shoulder. They exchange words and look back at me in the car. Then they shake hands and Kasmir heads back towards the car smiling.
He get’s in the car, turns to look at me and widens his already contagious grin.
"You!" He annouces to the roof of the car.
We look at each other and start laughing. He touches my hair. I start playing with the radio. Nothing but Bosnian folk music.
He takes my hand off the radio and turns off the music.
He turns his whole body to face me in the car and he takes my hands.
“Oh Lord. We are getting serious.”
He is giddy, he is happy. Like he wants to tell me something exciting, but he can't. He takes my hands in his. He looks down at them and rubs his thumbs over my fingers while he speaks.
“I must tell you… today… amazing… I hear you…” he pauses, “Volim Te.”
“Huh?”
“Volim Te.”
“Whoa cowboy. Did you just say that you love me?”
It’s barely audible through the thick accent, but he says it again. In English this time.
“I love you.”
“You barely know me.”
“I love you."
"Dear God. That's insane.”
“Jane. I love you.”
“I've known you for two months.”
He takes my hand and places it on his heart. I can feel how fast it is beating.
“I know.”
I just stare at him. I don’t know what to say. I know very little. I know that I am leaving this country in one month. I know that this would never work outside of this country. I know that once I am surrounded by people who speak my language I will be caught up in the sarcasm and wordplay and the games and I won't notice the little things anymore. I know that when my feet feel the ground of New York City I will not miss Cevapcici and Turkish coffee. I know that I will forget about Kasmir before the end of the year. I know I will date many more men in my lifetime. I know that none of them will ever try this hard, or be this happy to understand me. I know that none of them will wake up at 6:00 AM to make me coffee.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, Sober Travels
Monday, April 10, 2006
it went something like this...
We meet at Tryst in Adams Morgan. We order coffee and my new DC BFF flopps down onto the warm chocolate sofa next to me. She takes off her leather headband and begins smoothing some loose red hairs back before placing it back on her head like a crown. The crisp crease of her Gucci suit contrasts with the vintage furniture and mix matched tableware of Tryst café. But her mood matches the diner and she relaxes easily into the Bohemian atmosphere.
Tatiana skims the diner, bringing her eyes to rest on a man sitting alone at the counter with his computer.
“How much will you pay me?”
“How much will I pay you?”
I raise my coffee cup to my lips.“Yeah. How much will you pay me to just walk up to that guy and ask him to rub up on my breasts?”
I choke back the coffee.
“Tatiana!”
“What? Well it’s come to that.”
I put my cup down. I’m wearing a white lace dress and can’t afford to spit anymore coffee up on it.
“Tati, three months without a boyfriend doesn’t make you desperate."
“Well it sure feels like it.”
Tatiana lets her body fall dramatically forward. She lowers her ear to her knees, her arms hang to the floor and she closes her eyes.I run my hand over the top of her head like moms do.
“Come talk to me when it’s been a year.”
“A year? If it’s been a year and I still feel like this, shoot me. Seriously. I have enough pent up sexual energy to fuel a Boeing 747. Jane, what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. You’re fashionable. You’re fun. You laugh at all my jokes. And you’re genuine and warm. You are a catch.”
She whimpers.
“Then why? Why don’t they want me?”
“Are you whining? Stop banging your head against your knees. People are looking. It’s just not the right time Tati. A man is not going to fulfill you if you can’t fulfill yourself. There is nothing wrong with you and they do want you."
“They want you!”
“They want me because I’m going back to New York in three weeks. I’m what you call, a fling.”
“Well. What if I just want a fling?”
“Do you?”She thinks, sits back up, smoothes out her skirt with a perfectly manicured hand and reaches for her coffee.
“No. But I need to be serviced.”
“That’s what vibrators and porn are for.”
“And MySpace.”
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I ain't THAT lonely
Jeebus. You guys.Anyone out there tried online dating? I can't believe I'm actually doing this, but I'm also certain it will provide great fodder for this site. Thought it would be a good thing to try dating outside my field - and Mum would be so happy if I didn't end up with a fellow penniless performer.
However.
I signed up a few days ago for a well-known service that advertises all over New York. I wasn't expecting much, and it has about met those expectations - most interested parties have either been too old (I've dated men 8-10 years older, but 51?? No), not attractive to me (at least, not from what I could tell of their grainy, shot-by-the-Blair-Witch-camera-crew pictures), or did not appear to have a strong grasp of grammar, spelling or usage. Fellas, in a word: proofread.
I did meet one fellow who appears promising. He uses too many smiley faces and unnecessary quotes, but he's attractive, speaks more than one language, rides a Harley, and can spell. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from him in few days...
So today, I thought I'd be proactive and contact some locals. I ran across a profile/picture I liked, emailed the author, and we began a lively IM conversation. Oh sure, he made one little joke about sex slaves... and then wouldn't drop it... and then asked me if I was submissive...
um.
Then, I mentioned I had cats, and received a vitriolic spew about them. I replied that he seemed bitter.
"oh no i don't hate cats i just think they're pieces of shit from hell."
Ooookay then. Was this man actually thinking I would find this attractive?
Apparently so, as this was his next line:
"so do you want to come over so I can cage and fuck you?"
I think it is to my credit that I laughed out loud - in his pictures, this kid looks like a cherub. I replied:
"Moving a little fast there, buckaroo. I think we want different things."
And then I blocked his creepy pipsqueak ass.
Oy.
Labels: Boy Stories, Sheepish
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Sober Dating
I had a date this weekend. Met a guy for coffee. He was funny and charming and handsome and smart. And best of all, he seemed totally into me. Coffee turned into brunch, brunch turned into more coffee. We sat in an outside cafe in Georgetown for about five hours, talking. Then, he asks me why I don't drink.
We are comfortable at this point so I say, "I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for thirteen years. So where did you grow up again?"
He thinks for a minute. Takes a sip of coffee. Looks at me and says, "I've been thinking about doing something about my drinking."
Mother fucker. I think, but don't say.
So I tell him my story. He encourages me to go on. I switch from flirty possibility mode to twelve step call mode. I tell him what it was like for me, what happened and what I'm like now. I tell him about meetings in the area. He asks questions. A lot of questions. He tells me he wants to stop but he doesn't know how.
I walk him to the closest clubhouse and we pick up a meeting schedule and a big book. He gives me a quick hug goodbye and tells me he wants to try out meetings. He calls me this morning to tell me he went to his first meeting and it was great. He knows he belongs. And he is so grateful.
Great.
This marks the fourth date in the past year that went something like this. Just call me the Mary Poppins of recovery. At my firm, you get a bonus for every new employee you recruit.
Can I get my toaster oven now?
We are comfortable at this point so I say, "I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for thirteen years. So where did you grow up again?"
He thinks for a minute. Takes a sip of coffee. Looks at me and says, "I've been thinking about doing something about my drinking."
Mother fucker. I think, but don't say.
So I tell him my story. He encourages me to go on. I switch from flirty possibility mode to twelve step call mode. I tell him what it was like for me, what happened and what I'm like now. I tell him about meetings in the area. He asks questions. A lot of questions. He tells me he wants to stop but he doesn't know how.
I walk him to the closest clubhouse and we pick up a meeting schedule and a big book. He gives me a quick hug goodbye and tells me he wants to try out meetings. He calls me this morning to tell me he went to his first meeting and it was great. He knows he belongs. And he is so grateful.
Great.
This marks the fourth date in the past year that went something like this. Just call me the Mary Poppins of recovery. At my firm, you get a bonus for every new employee you recruit.
Can I get my toaster oven now?
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, sobriety
Friday, March 31, 2006
I have a crush.
It started about four months ago. I was a wreck after ending a relationship. I felt like a failure. I wanted to change my ways. I was despearate for answers. I went to the one place I never thought I would meet a man.
Alanon.
But there he was.
I didn't see him until he spoke, but when he spoke he sounded so healthy that it made me swoon.
I left feeling lifted.
Every week, I would see him. But seeing him was only a partial thrill. It was hearing him speak. He was so wise.
After class, a collection of women would gather around him. But not me. I walked away. Content with my fantasty of his perfection.
Then one day, we spoke.
I was like a thirteen year old. I said stupid things, my armpits sweat.
He rode the elevator down to the lobby with me and then he got off and we exchanged some stupid banter.
"I have to bring this book back upstairs."
"I have to go. "
"Well, ok. Listen, you mentioned you would be in DC for the next few months. I may be in DC in the next few months."
"Well if you are, you should call me and we can go for a coffee."
"I will."
We stood there. Awkwardly.
"Oh God." I rummaged through my bag searching for a card.
"Here." I thrust a dog eared card I found at the bottom of my purse into his hand.
"Okay. Well. Thanks."
That was it.
He turned, I turned. Gone.
I was sure that I would never hear from him again, but I skipped down the street outside anyways.
Two days after my arrival in DC I got an email from him.
"...just checking in on you."
I called my friend Carpe. She didn't answer. I tried to practice restraint of pen. It worked for about three minutes. I wrote him back. I looked up his profile on Friendster. He was still cute. Then I realized he was going to see that I had looked at him. Now I had to send him a message. So I did. But then I realized how stupid it was going to look that I just sent him two messages and basically cyber stalked him.
Carpe called back. She told me to chill the fuck out.
She said I probably blew it. I think so too.
Next day, no email. I blew it.
Next day, a page long e-mail filled with questions after question after question.
I have a crush.
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Turkish Coffee
"Do you have AIDS?"
“What?” I spit out an incredulous laugh and half a mouth full of Turkish coffee. I wasn't sure if I had heard him correctly through his thick Bosnian accent.
“Do – you -have, AIDS?”
These were hardly the first words I expected him to speak.
Kasmir carefully rolled his cigarette in the ash tray to bring the cherry tip to a pencil point. He looked up at me from behind a swirl of smoke.
He couldn’t look me in the eye for long. It would have been inappropriate, according to Sher. But according to Sher's rules, it was also inappropriate for him to be sitting alone in a room with me.
Sher had spent the previous evening lecturing me on the customs of rural Muslim farmers in Bosnia. She filled me with small town tales of gossip and girls who’s reputations had been forever tainted by being caught driving in a car alone with a man or speaking to him alone in a large gathering.
Despite his twenty-eight years and his boldness at that moment, Kasmir was still a child. His soft cheeks blushed easily and his chocolate brown eyes seemed only to be stealing glances before they were hidden by the tips of his long dark lashes.
Since most Bosnians look ten years older than their actual age, I attributed Kasmir's youthful glow to the age he was when he stopped growing emotionally.
Sher told me that at sixteen years of age, his home was the front line of the war being waged in the Bosnian country side. Early in the war, his father and many other young husbands left to fight elsewhere. This left Saptna to be defended by teenage boys and aging grandfathers. His mother harbored the neighbor boys who had already lost their families and homes, providing them food and shelter. When the fighting would reach a stretch of cease-fire, Kasmir would count the men returning for his mothers cooking and warm blankets. He would note with innocent disappointment that one of his new friends had not made it back.
“He’s dead.” His mother would tell him.
“Set the table lazy boy.”
Kasmir grew up in a culture of war. His mother wouldn’t allow him to leave the house, for fear he would never return. So his education about foreigners had been painted by coca-cola ads in foreign magazines and MTV videos.
Somewhere amongst this education was the idea that all American girls were running around studio 54 shooting heroin, having casual sex and contracting HIV.
"No Kasmir. I don't have AIDS."
Sher poked her head in from the kitchen. "Do you need me to translate?"
"No thanks Sher. I think I've got this one."
Sher was following me across Bosnia, translating my four hour seminars on 'finding employment in a developing economy'. She was assigned to me when I monitored my first election. But we got along so easily that I requested her again for the seminar series.
She had taken it upon herself to sponsor my arrival into the Saptna social scene.
After an eighteen hour night quarantined to OSCE headquarters because of a terrorist threat, she took me home with her. I met her boyfriend Almir and her cousin Kasmir in a bleary eyed daze. I fell asleep in the back of the car, despite the risky twists and turns of Kasmir's driving.
When I woke up, I was lying on a polyester couch. Sher and her boyfriend were making coffee in the next room and Kasmir was sitting across from me. Watching me sleep.
He got up and returned with a demi cup of Turkish coffee and three sugar cubes.
I picked up the coffee cup with one hand and tried to wipe the sleep out of my eye with the other. As I raised the glass for a giant swig of caffeine, he gently reached across the table that divided us and stopped my hand.
He shook his head, picked up a sugar cube, and placed it between his teeth. Demonstrating the proper way to drink, he slurped the coffee through the sugar cube, just a little, put the cup back down, moved the sugar cube to his cheek and lit a fake Winston cigarette.
I followed.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Comfortable Shoes, Uncomfortable Situation
Saturday was one of those days when I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. You know the kind, when half way through the day you suddenly want to walk into the next store, buy something of the rack and wear it out?
My goal of the day was to buy comfortable shoes. I threw on my knock off uggs and headed out to Georgetown. I looked tres LES cute, but to people in uppity Georgetown I simply looked, homeless. Mary Kate and Ashley can carry this look off because they are famous and their entire bodies could fold up into the girth of my upper thigh. But alas, my thirteen minutes of fame don’t carry my herringbone jacket, chocolate leggings and grey flannel skirt worn with sunglasses the size of my entire head.
People in Georgetown stared at me and my messy pigtailes, mismatched jacket and booties and they pulled their children in closer as they walked by.
I felt short and unattractive. Exactly the way you don’t want to be feeling when seeing your ex-boyfriend (the man I thought I would marry) for the first time in two years. And definitely not the way you want to be feeling when you run into him two more times before the end of the day.
Incident #1:
Arms full of potential outfits to wear out of Zara, I swung around and literally right into, him.
“Jane. Hey. How are you?”
“Oh my gosh. How are you? What a surprise. Well DC is such a small town, I guess it was only a matter of time. So how are you? Oh gosh, did I already say that?”
He was with his brother and I shifted my pile of clothes to the other arm so that I could shake his hand. We stood in the middle of Zara awkwardly exchanging tid-bits about family and his brothers tourist itinerary. I eventually hung my clothes on an available rack which was a big mistake because then I didn’t know what to do with my hands.
I could feel my lips starting to coagulate together, but I felt it might be odd to start applying lip gloss in the middle of our conversation.
I couldn’t even look at him. It was too sad. Always hard to see someone you haven’t in a long time and realize that you don’t know them anymore. There was a time when I knew how much milk he put in his cereal. For all I know, he could be a bagel and cream cheese guy now!
And it was sad because he wasn’t playing it cool. He looked bitter. And he has every right.
I took the first pause in the conversation as a cue to cut out. I shook hands and air kissed and I escaped out of the store and back into the street where a homeless man wearing puma kicks guarded his change from my rapid approach.
Incident #2
Unable to find an outfit to raise my spirits, I decided that buying a pair of uncomfortable shoes would bring me back to equilibrium. At least it would make me feel tall, and I could have used a quick attitude change at that moment. So I met my friend Lion and we made our way to Steve Madden.
As we browsed on separate aisles of the store, I told her the story of incident one. Right as I arrived at the description of my pasty chapped lips, I turned to see him standing in front of me. A pair of loafers in his hands.
“Jane. Hello again.”
“Hi.”
“Who is your friend?”
“Oh. Lion.”
“Well. See you.”
“Yeah, at this rate, I’m not even going to say goodbye because I’ll probably see you three more times before the end of the day.”
“Probably.”
He leaned into me. Kissed my cheek. And walked away.
I caught my breath.
Incident #3
Walking down the street with Lion, our arms linked to keep in the warmth, he and his brother stepped out of the Adidas store in front of us.
We all stopeed and stared at one another. He graciously stepped aside and bowed his head a little.
“After you Jane.”
And he let me pass.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Further Dominican Adventures, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
Since I was leaving the DR on Friday, R suggested I come by the set for Angie's last day of shooting.
I met my DR BFF Organic on the sidewalk outside the Sofitel and we walked the few cobbled blocks of the Zona Colonial to the set. She was another crew girlfriend. Three of us had bonded around the pool and were spending our days exploring the DR countryside together, talking about our relationships and giving one another tools to this very unusual world.
A guard stopped me as I tried to duck under the yellow tape separating the public from the lights and cameras.
“We are with the crew?”
The guard pinched his brow and pointed to the other side of the tape.
“No really, we are with the guys that know the guys that wouldn’t have a problem with us being on set.”
He didn’t look amused.
“Okay, I’ll just wait over here.”
Organic and I humbly took our place with the other onlookers. She picked up the cell to call her Boyfriend, Gordon. We could see him standing inches away from the camera lens, pulling focus for the DP. But before Gordon had a chance to pick up, R was there. Tapping me on my shoulder.
“Hey there.”
His tone sent shivers down my spine. I turned around and drunk him up in a long hug.
He gave me a quick peck and pulled Organic and I through the crowd and under the divider. R flashed his badge to the guard and the guard looked tipped his hat and let us pass. R brought out headphones and radios so Organic and I could hear the audio on the scene. His boss looked over at R arranging us girls, shook his head and gave me a closed mouth smile. R rolled his eyes.
“It’s been a crazy day.”
I put my hand on the side of his face as he hooked up my radio to the headphones and tested the frequency.
“You okay?”
Of course honey.” And I believed him. Because he had calming eyes. Gray with swimming flecks of blue, his focused stare could always stop the bickering in my head and bring me back into the moment.
“Hey R." He looked up from the cords.
"Thanks for taking such good care of us. Organic and I promise to invite you next time we decide to have a pillow fight in our panties. Ok?"
He laughed. He put his hand over mine and brought my palm to his lips for a quick kiss before he headed back over to Bob and the camera. From where Organic and I were huddled, under a tree and out of the way, we could watch the scene unfold.
Matt was standing nearby waiting for the scene to begin. I waved. They were powdering his nose to take away the shine. He looked my direction and mouthed my name.
"Hey Jane."
Angelina sat behind Organic and I with an assistant that had a serious gum chewing habit. I tried to avoid her funky mastication, but one would have to be deaf not to hear her cracking her Bubblicious. Adding to the tension in the air was Angies presence. The set was hyped, Paparazzi swarmed the rooftops, everyone was sweating.
Including R.
This was a world to which I had never sought access, but could enjoy through proxy to this man with whom I was sort of falling for.
With the eyes of a child, I observed as they shot for a few hours, weathered a flash flood and shot a little more. The scene was outside a church surrounded by a courtyard that had been made into a Haitian market. Tomorrow it would be the streets of Cuba. On the corner of the courtyard was a house that was meant to be in Africa. I love the movies. Within less than half the length of a football field, I can pass through three continents.
As darkness approached and shadows fell over the actors faces, R came over and suggested I invite the girls to join us for Angie’s wrap dinner that night. ‘The girls’ referred to my new girlfriends. Organic, Kelly and I had busied ourselves through the week with early brunches, riotous laughter, afternoon cappuccinos and day trips to exotic parts of the DR. We all tried to act cool, but we had just been invited to dinner with the two most famous people in the world right now.
I went back to the hotel and waited. I found R nervously pacing the lobby on his cell phone a few hours later.
Since I had arrived in the DR, I could see him, I could touch him, I could sleep next to him, but I couldn’t feel him. He was swept up in the machine of everything around us and getting his connection to run deeper than a shallow kiddy pool was as likely as an Aniston-Pitt reunion.
“Where are they? This is ridiculous….”
I left him to wander back into the bar and join a group of crew. Matt stood up and kissed my cheeks.
“Jane. Enjoy your day on set?” His eyes were red from late nights filming and the few beers he had been drinking since they wrapped. I sat for a while and listened to everyone swap stories about the day.
"Yeah. Very cool. What can I say? It's still impressive to me."
"I always say, the most exciting day of my life was the first day I stepped on a movie set. And the most boring, the second. We are heading over. You coming?” Matt asked me.
“Waiting for the guys. You know how it is.”
“See you over there. I heard they have bottle dancing.”
“Great. I'll wear my sneakers.”
R came around the corner with a few members of the crew. We headed outside to join the procession of black SUV’s lined up outside the hotel. R and the guys threw down beers during the short car ride and complained about work.
We arrived to a circus of color and sound that was already in full motion. Music blared from speakers too small to support the volume. Colorfully attired dancers swirled in circles on a tiny makeshift dance floor. A Dominican woman hollered while she spun atop a wine bottle.
We entered the section of the restaurant cornered off for our party and as we passed by each table we were received with handshakes. We air kissed the important players, my short arms pulled over tables laid out with red beans, rice, plantain chips, grilled vegetables, fried bread and several little dipping sauces. My right breast grazed a bowl of chili’s as Matt tried to partner his handshake with an awkward hug.
After we were seated, Brad and Angie made an entrance. Security filled the room. Tourist camera flashes lit the restaurant.
R’s eyes began to twinkle from the drink.
Foreign dignitaries pushed their chairs closers to Angelina’s. She was composed, careful about her movements. I watched as Brad sat silently by her side. He slumped over the back of her chair cupping a beer. He ignored the activity around him, remaining cool while waiters in straw hats and bow ties danced around him. He looked bored. And tired.
Angie looked hungry. Bob looked stressed. I looked nervous.
I met my DR BFF Organic on the sidewalk outside the Sofitel and we walked the few cobbled blocks of the Zona Colonial to the set. She was another crew girlfriend. Three of us had bonded around the pool and were spending our days exploring the DR countryside together, talking about our relationships and giving one another tools to this very unusual world.
A guard stopped me as I tried to duck under the yellow tape separating the public from the lights and cameras.
“We are with the crew?”
The guard pinched his brow and pointed to the other side of the tape.
“No really, we are with the guys that know the guys that wouldn’t have a problem with us being on set.”
He didn’t look amused.
“Okay, I’ll just wait over here.”
Organic and I humbly took our place with the other onlookers. She picked up the cell to call her Boyfriend, Gordon. We could see him standing inches away from the camera lens, pulling focus for the DP. But before Gordon had a chance to pick up, R was there. Tapping me on my shoulder.
“Hey there.”
His tone sent shivers down my spine. I turned around and drunk him up in a long hug.
He gave me a quick peck and pulled Organic and I through the crowd and under the divider. R flashed his badge to the guard and the guard looked tipped his hat and let us pass. R brought out headphones and radios so Organic and I could hear the audio on the scene. His boss looked over at R arranging us girls, shook his head and gave me a closed mouth smile. R rolled his eyes.
“It’s been a crazy day.”
I put my hand on the side of his face as he hooked up my radio to the headphones and tested the frequency.
“You okay?”
Of course honey.” And I believed him. Because he had calming eyes. Gray with swimming flecks of blue, his focused stare could always stop the bickering in my head and bring me back into the moment.
“Hey R." He looked up from the cords.
"Thanks for taking such good care of us. Organic and I promise to invite you next time we decide to have a pillow fight in our panties. Ok?"
He laughed. He put his hand over mine and brought my palm to his lips for a quick kiss before he headed back over to Bob and the camera. From where Organic and I were huddled, under a tree and out of the way, we could watch the scene unfold.
Matt was standing nearby waiting for the scene to begin. I waved. They were powdering his nose to take away the shine. He looked my direction and mouthed my name.
"Hey Jane."
Angelina sat behind Organic and I with an assistant that had a serious gum chewing habit. I tried to avoid her funky mastication, but one would have to be deaf not to hear her cracking her Bubblicious. Adding to the tension in the air was Angies presence. The set was hyped, Paparazzi swarmed the rooftops, everyone was sweating.
Including R.
This was a world to which I had never sought access, but could enjoy through proxy to this man with whom I was sort of falling for.
With the eyes of a child, I observed as they shot for a few hours, weathered a flash flood and shot a little more. The scene was outside a church surrounded by a courtyard that had been made into a Haitian market. Tomorrow it would be the streets of Cuba. On the corner of the courtyard was a house that was meant to be in Africa. I love the movies. Within less than half the length of a football field, I can pass through three continents.
As darkness approached and shadows fell over the actors faces, R came over and suggested I invite the girls to join us for Angie’s wrap dinner that night. ‘The girls’ referred to my new girlfriends. Organic, Kelly and I had busied ourselves through the week with early brunches, riotous laughter, afternoon cappuccinos and day trips to exotic parts of the DR. We all tried to act cool, but we had just been invited to dinner with the two most famous people in the world right now.
I went back to the hotel and waited. I found R nervously pacing the lobby on his cell phone a few hours later.
Since I had arrived in the DR, I could see him, I could touch him, I could sleep next to him, but I couldn’t feel him. He was swept up in the machine of everything around us and getting his connection to run deeper than a shallow kiddy pool was as likely as an Aniston-Pitt reunion.
“Where are they? This is ridiculous….”
I left him to wander back into the bar and join a group of crew. Matt stood up and kissed my cheeks.
“Jane. Enjoy your day on set?” His eyes were red from late nights filming and the few beers he had been drinking since they wrapped. I sat for a while and listened to everyone swap stories about the day.
"Yeah. Very cool. What can I say? It's still impressive to me."
"I always say, the most exciting day of my life was the first day I stepped on a movie set. And the most boring, the second. We are heading over. You coming?” Matt asked me.
“Waiting for the guys. You know how it is.”
“See you over there. I heard they have bottle dancing.”
“Great. I'll wear my sneakers.”
R came around the corner with a few members of the crew. We headed outside to join the procession of black SUV’s lined up outside the hotel. R and the guys threw down beers during the short car ride and complained about work.
We arrived to a circus of color and sound that was already in full motion. Music blared from speakers too small to support the volume. Colorfully attired dancers swirled in circles on a tiny makeshift dance floor. A Dominican woman hollered while she spun atop a wine bottle.
We entered the section of the restaurant cornered off for our party and as we passed by each table we were received with handshakes. We air kissed the important players, my short arms pulled over tables laid out with red beans, rice, plantain chips, grilled vegetables, fried bread and several little dipping sauces. My right breast grazed a bowl of chili’s as Matt tried to partner his handshake with an awkward hug.
After we were seated, Brad and Angie made an entrance. Security filled the room. Tourist camera flashes lit the restaurant.
R’s eyes began to twinkle from the drink.
Foreign dignitaries pushed their chairs closers to Angelina’s. She was composed, careful about her movements. I watched as Brad sat silently by her side. He slumped over the back of her chair cupping a beer. He ignored the activity around him, remaining cool while waiters in straw hats and bow ties danced around him. He looked bored. And tired.
Angie looked hungry. Bob looked stressed. I looked nervous.
When I get nervous, I talk. A lot. Jokes awkwardly flew out of my mouth. I laughed so hard that crocodile tears swept down my cheeks. I told inappropriate jokes. I sat on the producers lap in a charade of chicanery.
"She's a live one. Are you sure you can handle it?"
"I can handle it."
The girls roared, their boyfriends looked shocked. R just laughed. Closing out all the noise for a moment, he grabbed my hand across the table. And for a small amount of time, suspended betwixt Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, a table of new friends, snapping tourists, plastic parrots, El Presidente Beers, DR beans and rice, eighteen security guards toting hand guns, brown bodies adorned in yellow and orange costumes dancing on a bottle in our periphery vision… R and I, we were okay. We cared about each other. We were going to make it.
... and then the music flooded back in. R was pulled away to help settle the bill. One of the crew boyfriends disappeared, Angie got tired of waiting for her food and attacked the buffet, the girls stepped outside to catch rides back to the hotel.
And I was alone again.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Sunday, February 26, 2006
I had a brunch date yesterday morning with a guy named Mike.
Mike's have always been a good choice for me.
- There was Mike the Politician. I nearly married this Mike and our union brought me on my first tour of Washington DC. Too bad I couldn’t handle the pressure of launching a career in that city and failed the relationship. The heart ache from our break-up resulted in significant weight loss and a reality TV show.
- Jersey Mike was seven feet tall. I met him on the set of a Midnight Spike. I was appearing to promote Joe Schmo and he was room mates with the host Rossi. Jersey Mike ushered me into New York, met me in four different NYC sports bars to catch the Red Sox/Yankees World Series games, invited me to dive college bars and introduced me to my now best guy friend C. His unfortunate Irish affection for alcohol and keg parties eventually led to his dismissal.
- Mike the Music Man was hip and knew everything about music. We spent the summer listening to mixed CD's, talking music and following the NYC live music scene. Unfortunately his preoccupation with lying on the couch to just ‘be’, was not well suited for my anal retentive drive to stay in constant motion.
I have a brunch date this morning with a Jeff. Not many Jeff's in my archives. You?
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Dominican Adventures ... Take1
I placed my overnight bag on the floor next to check-in and wiped the sweat from my forehead. It somehow didn’t feel right to check into a five star hotel wearing sweat pants, a t-shirt with arm pit stains and an Adidas back pack.
I had begun my journey to the Dominican Republic at 6 AM that morning. It was now 4:00 in the afternoon. Trying to make new friends and mix with the locals, I took a ride with a man and his girlfriend from the airport. But they segued to his moms house for lunch. As I nervously chomped down a typical local lunch, I listened to my boyfriend tell me over the cell phone that I was absolutely crazy.
I had begun my journey to the Dominican Republic at 6 AM that morning. It was now 4:00 in the afternoon. Trying to make new friends and mix with the locals, I took a ride with a man and his girlfriend from the airport. But they segued to his moms house for lunch. As I nervously chomped down a typical local lunch, I listened to my boyfriend tell me over the cell phone that I was absolutely crazy.
I chalked up my behavior to not being accustomed to having to think of someone else when traveling. But that was crap. I was less than an hour off the plane and already creating a contingency plan in case R decided he no longer wanted me, and kicked me out on the curb. My insecurities were in rare form.
After a fear filled lunch and several refusals for a tour of the city, I convinced my new friends that I really needed to check in to the hotel, so they drove me through the Zona Colonial of Santo Domingo and dropped me at the gorgeous Sofitel.
“I am a guest in room 415.”
The hotel concierge looked me over, grabbed an envelope from under the desk and handed it to me with a smile.
“Welcome Mrs. Mcgloughlin.”
“It’s Ms. Schmo, thank you.”
We both blushed. I shamefully wandered off to let the hotel staff marinate with the idea that room 415 had an unmarried couple shacking up. Any shame I felt was washed away when I arrived in the room. White sheets, wicker furniture, cool tile beneath my toes, a mosquito net floating above the bed, the room was perfect. Tucked in the back corner of the hotel, it overlooked the pool and a slivers view of the DR harbor. It was also next door to my boyfriend's boss.
R had been working for Bob for almost a year. His line of work meant that he had to constantly be available to his boss. No matter what time of night. No matter what state of naked disarray.
I unpacked and waited in the bar next to the pool. I hadn't seen him in a week and I wanted to just grip him when he came around the corner. Something about his stare always made me want to lay him down on the tile floor and show him what I feared would scare him if I ever said out loud. Before long, Bob walked abruptly around the corner to find us wrapped up in conversation, R's hand on the small of my back.
He saw Bob and sat up straight. “Bob, this is Jane.”
Bob looked at me and back at R. He offered the tips of his fingers for me to shake and lifted one corner of his mouth. Who the hell is this girl and why are you introducing us? He didn't have to say it. I could feel it.
R and Bob disappeared for about an hour. Upon their return, Bob's expression had softened. Now he looked me in the eye and firmly shook my hand. R had cleared up the mystery for Bob and must have explained that he did not just meet me poolside that afternoon.
I just wish R could clear up the mystery for me.
The DR was a last ditch effort to save our relationship. I had sort of given him an ultimatum. Either he takes some time getting to know me or he let's me go. Neither of us was sure where this thing was going. It had been an intense three months but with all the traveling he had been doing for the film, we rarely saw one another. I had to know if we could co-exist in the same space for longer than five hours.
Later that night, a group of us lounged poolside making jokes. Bob drank a martini while the group tip-toed around him. Cognizant of my boyfriends boss but completely unfamiliar with Hollywood rules or the job related worries of those around me, I spoke with absolute candor. A few times I saw R cringe, felt him squeeze my leg under the table and watched him open one eye to see if I had offended his boss.
Bob just chuckled. And as he got up to leave, he leaned over to R, "Why don't you bring your 'friend' along with us tomorrow night"
Friend?
The next night, R faked displeasure at having to go to dinner with his boss. But I knew this was one of the perks of the job that he secretly loved. R loved his industry and loved his job, but he was affected by the disease of workaholism. He was perpetually stressed out and nervous; paced back and forth on his cell phone and sweat under pressure. I wanted to help him relax but my efforts fell like trees in Thoreau's woods, with no one around to hear them. His mind was elsewhere.
Matt and his wife Luci waited outside the hotel with me while we waited for the car. R looked at his watch and back into the hotel lobby, sighing deeply. I ignored him. Instead I chatted with Matt and Luci and watched as they swayed back and forth into the curves of one another's body. Newlywed bliss.
When the car arrived, we jumped in to the back seat and hollered out the door for R. He shook his head. “There isn’t enough room.”
Matt grabbed Luci and pulled her on his lap. “There is now. Get in!”
I squeezed up close to Matt, Luci wrapped her legs over mine, and R reluctantly moved in after me. He was sweating.
Our Range Rover with the tinted windows, two guards in front and a car of guards behind us, set off to drive the five blocks to Bellini's. A labyrinth of one way streets in the Zona Colonial meant the trip took twenty five minutes. We made the best of the time.
"I'm teaching Matt Spanish." Luci said, pushing Matt's hair to the side of his face and gently holding his gaze.
He looked back at her and squeezed her closer.
“I’m an actor, what do I know?”
Couple talk normally grosses me out. But Luci was pregnant, holding her hand permanently upon her pregnant belly. And how can you be grossed out by a pregnant woman and her doting husband?
Especially if it is Luci. Radiant Luci hid behind her long brown hair when she answered my rapid fire questions. They complimented one another. Matt made jokes. Luci focused him. She didn’t defer to Matt, but she let him direct the conversation. A sharp contrast to my own demeanor. In fact, R rarely got a word in edgewise. He had stopped trying by our second date.
At the restaurant, Matt engaged the right side of the table in political debate. I wanted to chime in but they were a close circle of friends. Regardless of the merit of my two cents, it fell on deaf ears unless I was brought into the conversation by someone on the inside. And my usher sat quietly at the end of the table sipping wine.
I pushed out of the men's political discussion and leaned across the back of Matt's chair to talk to Luci about our previous lives as waitresses. After awhile, Matt leaned back and asked about my past State Department work.
"I want to hear this too." And R scooted his chair a little closer.
Had I never told these stories to R? Had he never asked?
I bored Matt with too many details. His focus made me nervous. R didn't look at me anymore when we talked and I was unaccustomed. Usually, I would speak and R would scroll through his messages. He only fixed me with a stare when we were having sex.
Matt pushed his chair back so his wife could lean on his shoulder and they could both look at me and listen. I choked under the heat of their attention and quickly turned the conversation back to travel and wine. R loved to talk about wine. And apparently, so did Matt.
"I've got a few cases of Barolo at my place in The City. You two should come over after we get back."
He placed his hand in his wife's lap and looked over at me. "We live close to you, actually."
R and I exchanged knowing glances. We were invited to dinner in the DR, but we knew we were never going to dinner at Matt's NYC loft. At least not together.
Matt didn't let go of Luci's hand for the rest of the meal. When he ate, he switched over the fork so the other could caress her fingers. If he had two hands free, he used one to rub her back. When he got up to go to the bathroom, he didn’t leave the table without kissing her forehead. He placed his hands in hers, wherever her hands were resting. It was the small sign of a man willing to bend to make her happy. And I noticed.
As the dinner finished and Bob and Matt fought over the bill, I tried to steal a moment with R outside. But I arrived too late, he had already begun his nervous dance. He juggled two cell phones making logistic arrangements to get everyone back to the hotel. R didn't see Bob approaching from across the courtyard amidst snapping camera flashes.
Bob grabbed the top of my arm and leaned in gently.
“I like you. You have a nice sense of humor.”
He let go of my arm and then sort of pat my hand.
“You’re a good girl.” He said, before the restaurant owner asked him to pose for a few photos.
I smiled. He had noticed.
Labels: Boy Stories, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
I Love You, so Gain Five Pounds
I never understood why men give out chocolate.Is it that they want us to eat the whole box (because I can - it's so good) and gain some weight so other guys are less likely to look at us?
Shouldn't we give HEALTHY food to people we love, people we want to live longer, people we don't want to have clogged arteries?
Just a thought. I'm a total hypocrite.
I did my fair share of chocolate-eating yesterday.
If chocolate-eating were a sport, I could qualify for the Olympics.
I even thought about buying a box of chocolate (or 5 boxes) for myself, because who would've thought the CEO would be into traditional Valentine's Day gifts?
When you're dating a CEO, you can relax in the knowledge that you're going to a top-10 Zagat-rated restaurant for a great meal. But I was not prepared for the treat that followed.Click Here
(This blog is UPDATED DAILY by an aspiring actress who’s dated most of Manhattan.
No CEOS were harmed in the making of this blog – unless they deserve it.)
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet
Friday, February 10, 2006
I have a confession to make...
I threw up on a date once too.It wasn’t a first date, thank goodness, but that may have been better, since then I’d never see the guy again. This was a special date with my ex-boyfriend Alex, the night I was hoping he would propose.
Every Friday, Alex planned a romantic date. Tonight we boarded the Staten Island ferry for a free sail by the Statue of Liberty. I leaned on the railing and admired how the water rippled in the moonlight. But the dark, windy ride rocked us back and forth.
“Oh, no,” I gasped. “I think I’m about to–”
What was the proper etiquette for puking in your lover’s lap? Do I warn him? Should I yell, “Look out?” Or “Fore,” like in golf games on TV? Was it “Four” or “Fore?”
Out it came. I poured my purse on the seat and fished out tissues to wipe Alex down. When he motioned to my mouth, I cleaned my lips and chin. I tasted the corned beef on rye I ate at lunch.
Examining the vomit, Alex identified Russian dressing and cole slaw, plus the pickle that came on the side. “Sweetie, I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m more of a landlubber.”
Although his jeans absorbed green and pink pieces, and fleshy chunks were wedged in between his fingers, he managed to laugh. “You’d make bulimics proud.”
I wrinkled my nose.
If he planned to propose, my puke wasn’t helping. Once we were off the boat, the trip home felt like the longest in our entire subway-riding careers, and for once, the prize for smelliest passengers went to us.
We braved the night air from the 77th Street exit to his apartment, passing the strip of bars on Columbus Avenue. A girl threw up on the sidewalk, almost at our feet.
Aha – I wasn’t the only one puking away a Friday night. I felt better already.
(This blog is UPDATED DAILY by an aspiring actress who’s dated most of Manhattan.
No CEOS were harmed in the making of this blog – unless they deserve it.)
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet