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
Friday, October 06, 2006
A Mighty Mouse
So picture this… A City Mouse (a.k.a. open-minded educated Lexicon), a true bred and born native New Yorker, takes an adventurous excursion to the Southern State of Tennessee. Why? To meet her best friend’s soon to be husband.
Now prior to embarking on this wonderfully eclectic journey, City Mouse (a.k.a. still Lexicon) reads a Myspace bulletin posted by future husband of best friend. In the nasty bulletin, Mr. Country Singer Mouse (a.k.a. future husband of City Mouse’s best friend) rants about politics, Immigration, and other controversial stuff. City Mouse gets a little whiff of the “Gee do I really want to meet this guy in person?” scent.
Now City Mouse does not necessarily agree with Country Mouse’s political views specifically his thoughts on the usage of derogatory words that are even too inappropriate to mention, but she decides to try and reserve judgment before meeting him.
So City Mouse, being a true optimist at heart (despite popular opinion), fends off her desire to become Mighty Mouse and defend her friend from the man who she thinks will ultimately be the wrong guy. Instead, City Mouse flies down to the home of one of her favorite singers, the Late and wonderful Mr. Johnny Cash, to meet the Country Singer Mouse (a.k.a. future husband of best friend), in all his glory.
On the plane City Mouse becomes a nervous mouse. But ultimately she realizes that sometimes she can also be a too quick to judge mouse, and even a WRONG mouse. Yet this gal mouse is a firm believer that if you brace yourself for the worst, the worst almost never happens. So not true in this instance!
The Country Singer Field Mouse turns out to be a living, breathing creature that embodies every word included in his Myspace rant about right wing politics. However, Little Miss Savvy City Mouse is never one to judge someone based on his or her political standings.
“I mean after all its just politics right?”
“Wrong”-Says Country Singer Mouse “(shouting) These are not my political beliefs they are the truth, and if you don’t like it then get the fuck out of America you fucking Anti-American Communist.”
Mind you all this was shared with the other guests at the couple’s engagement party over the the cheese table platter.
So now what is City Mouse to do? She decides that everyone is entitled to their opinion. After all, that is what it means to have freedom of speech. Yet City Mouse cannot truly survive in this hostile negative environment. She shuts down, clams up, and remains absolutely silent. Why? Because she’s a smart mouse, and (through the wonderful love, and guidance of her great group of friends) she knows her opinion would be spoken through wasted breath.
Eventually City Mouse needs a time out to call Planet Earth. Planet Earth says, “Remember this is not your problem City Mouse because you cannot change their problem with the world nor do you need to fix their problem.”
From the Earth’s profound words of wisdom, little, fluffy, squeaky City Mouse realizes a point.
She says to helpful Earth Planet “Wow. So I don’t mind opinionated people, just people that don’t let me have my opinions.”
Earth responds- “You go girl! Now all you have to do is get home in one piece.”
Labels: Internet Dating, Lexicon
Sunday, July 23, 2006
In Today's Washington Post
Linton Weeks profiles Sober in the City as part of an article in today's Washington Post... "See Me, Click Me"
Article excerpts below...
Jane Schmo
Ingrid Wiese is a publizen with a purpose.
"There is a lack of shame I have in sharing my personal life," says Wiese, a 32-year-old development consultant for nonprofit groups who divides her time among New York, Philadelphia and Washington. She is very blond with hazel eyes and on a recent afternoon she is wearing a brown suit, nude fishnets and mustard shoes. She is drinking bottled water at the Mudd House on M Street NW and doing one of the things she likes to do best: talking about her life.
She posts interviews she has given from when she starred in "Joe Schmo 2," a 2004 reality TV show, on the Internet. Writing as Jane Schmo, she puts her observations about dating, growing up and being on television on her blog, http://popculturecasualty.blogspot.com/ . She is at once funny and befuddling on her Friendster page, pointing out that she meticulously keeps menus from restaurants where she has eaten and sometimes hides gossip magazines in copies of the Wall Street Journal.
For Wiese, living a public life and having people respond to it is a natural thing. Many of her friends and family members are on Friendster or MySpace. Her sister, her mother and one of her brothers have blogs. She says, "It's just what we do."
She gets 200 to 300 hits a day on her blog. People are watching her life unfold. Men she meets through Friendster often know more about her than some of her offline friends do. She said it's kind of cool to know a guy has read "all my scary dating stories and still wanted to go out with me."
There is, Wiese says, "a certain narcissism in people who choose to live their private lives in the public. I see a lot of people get caught up in it."
My personally favorite line though that leaves me in hysterics, laughing on the floor, is ...
Signing on to star in a reality TV show like "Real World" or "Joe Schmo," "is about choosing to become a celebrity," Boyd says. "And the Internet looks a lot like a reality television show."
So everybody is famous, everyone is a public figure. And every life is lived out in the open. Which changes a lot of things. Libel lawyers may find it harder to determine just who is a public figure and who is not. There soon could be more people in reality TV shows than watching them. The Hollywood celebrity hierarchy could topple as the Ingrid Wieses become just as recognizable as the Angelina Jolies. And there could be a general sense spreading across the land that if it doesn't happen in public, it doesn't really happen.
Um. Did I just get mentioned in the same sentence as Angelina Jolie?
Labels: Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Press Mentions, Sober, Washington Post
Monday, July 10, 2006
Exactly Like I Pictured It
Lunch is not a great time for dates. Usually you get an hour, if you're lucky; and if the weather is nice, everyone else in Midtown New York is also spilled out on to the sidewalk, draped over every available, warm, even slightly clean seating area, picking at sandwiches (men) or salads (women) the size of their heads. There are tourists, traffic and construction workers. And cellphones. And noise.Central Park may be the only exception. The one great lunchdate I ever had was with a venture capitalist who swooped by the massive black building where I do my dayjob, hauled me on to the back of his Beemer motorcycle (in a skirt and heels, no less [...me, not him]), and drove me through Central Park to a Little Italian Place on the Upper East Side, far from the generic eateries and office drones. Suddenly I was in a Fellini film, though unfortunately my date bore no resemblance to Marcello Mastroianni. We drove back through the park as well, and I could feel the sun on my face as well as the wind streaming over our bodies and through the trees. I didn't care about the helmet hair - when I got off his motorcycle in front of my officemates, I felt like The Shit.
Little could top that date until now.
I met him on Friendster. I know! He looked at my profile, I saw his picture, we had a mutual friend, we exchanged emails. We met for brunch. He walked me to my next destination, way out of his way. Then, we met the mutual friend at the Bohemian Beer Hall in Queens. Talked for hours. Knees were squeezed, backs were rubbed, hugs were exchanged, but no kisses. He was tall, Nordic and gorgeous, funny, and in a few key ways, a great big geek - my favorite kind of guy. Despite the fact that I prowled the internet obsessively checking for emails from him, when we were together I felt totally comfortable. We had no trouble talking; we had no trouble NOT talking. Things were looking good.
Except. We hadn't had a proper date yet. He had arranged brunch, and a friend had invited us both to the beer hall, but... not quite what I was hoping for. I knew he was leaving town soon for a gig. I wasn't sure if he was actually romantically interested - I hoped he was... I wanted to be coy and cautious, but I couldn't. I asked him out. He said yes - but then I had to change plans, and then he had to change plans, and suddenly, a few days before his departure, we were out of evenings.
"That's too bad," I told him candidly over the phone, "I was looking forward to seeing you."
"How about lunch?"
Yes - lunch! Lovely, lovely lunch! Hope rose in my chest, and started picking out some cute clothes. I searched for an appropriate quiet, cozy place where we could spend our last few hours together. It was not to be had. That morning when I called him, I told him to meet me at my scary office building. Sandwiches from Pret a Manger and Central Park, I thought. That might be ok. Hopefully there will be no bugs.
I tried to tell myself that it was just lunch, that nothing much could come out of it. Best case scenario, I might get a kiss and a promise to stay in touch. Or it might just be a friendly lunch between two friends. I tried to prep myself for the latter to avoid disappointment.
I watched him cross the street toward me later that afternoon. Loping along he looked like an impossibly tall teenager, and I couldn't help smiling. We got our sandwiches - I paid 'cause I asked, and he looped a possessive arm around my waist and hip for a quick thank-you squeeze. Hope pulled out a mirror and checked her lipstick.
We strolled along - it was a gorgeous, gorgeous day - things were blooming, a breeze was blowing, and - were those baby ducks in the pond? Seeing them, I let out in mid-sentence the kind of noise I never make, a squealy, piercing, girly kind of noise. Inwardly I cringed, but he didn't seem to noise, or mind.
We stopped to watch them. They were still turning from chick-yellow to duck-dark, fuzzy, and they peeped instead of quacking; they didn't quite have the hang of queuing up behind their mother, either.
Later, on a bench under an impossibly green tree, with no bugs and no noise but wind whispering through leaves, we ate and talked. We shared a little carrot cake, and he crumpled up the paper bag between us on the bench, and put it on his other side. Suddenly, a white puppy came wiggling up to the bench, shoving his nose against our hands and smiling to beat the band. I noticed his harness had incongruous Harley-Davidson logos on it.
"Are you a bad-ass? Hmm? Are you?" I asked him in that voice everyone reserves solely for talking to puppies. He wriggled joyfully. I checked over my shoulder to see if there were Disney animators at work here.
"His name's Harley!" his owner told us as she came along the path. We complimented her baby excessively, and she collected him and moved along. I turned to smile at him and realized that for some reason, his hip was now right up against mine on the bench. Hope did a little joyful wriggle of her own.
We continued to talk, as was our wont, of fairly serious things, life plans and hopes and fears and exes... all the stuff you aren't supposed to talk about yet. At one point, I reached over to squeeze his right arm with my right hand. He took it. And held it. And we both got very quiet. I just watched him, smiling slightly. Hope, however, was doing a Snoopy dance and flinging confetti. He hemmed, and hawed, and laughed at himself.
And then he kissed me.
It was perfect.
Several lost minutes later, he said, "What I was trying to say before, is that I'm leaving town. But you know that..."
I said, "Look. I was hoping you would kiss me. I'm glad you did. Really glad. A lot can happen in three months, or nothing can happen. So let's just stay in touch and see what comes."
I was proud. It sounded so rational, particularly for a woman whose knees were currently Jell-o.
He walked me back to my office. There may have been some more very good kissing, tucked into an alcove created by the construction site around my building...
After months of missteps, misunderstandings and miscommunications, it was amazing to have one day turn out exactly like I pictured it. Thanks, Viking. Come home soon.
Labels: Internet Dating, Sheepish
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Privacy Please
“I could never do that. I could never put my picture on Friendster or give people access to information about me on MySpace."
Candy is sitting across from me at Veselka in the East Village, drinking an Ukranian beer. Her skin is bronzed from weekends in the Hamptons and her hair is perfectly flipped out in frosted bleached tips. Even though she speaks with an heir of superiority, she looks over at her boyfriend after everything she says. He is a Republican, so I’m sure she’s afraid she will say the wrong thing and be banished from the bedroom .
“I just value my privacy too much.”
Republican drops his hand into Candy’s lap and squeezes her thigh under the table with pride. With his other hand, he lifts his beer but drops it from his lips to visually rape a young girl passing by in an uber short denim mini. My friend Skippy is busy scrolling through the messages on his blackberry and completely misses the mini skirted chippy.
Candy, the Republican and Skippy are three of the only people that I have met in New York City who are not on Friendster or My Space. Lately, it seems I can’t go out in NYC without hearing a version of, “I’ll Friendster you”. Who needs cards or digits in the age of Google, MySpace, and Friendster. I discovered the merits of Friendster at a wedding party in Los Angeles three years ago. Since then, while my use has ebbed and flowed, it is as reliable as my g-mail for a quick validation. See, I have friends, people like me, people view me.
Skippy rests his texting fingers for a moment and takes a swig of his beer.
“Isn’t Friendster sort of ‘out’ now anyways?”
“Yes. All of the cool people have moved over to My Space. That’s why I like Friendster.”
Candy’s boyfriend rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s all ridiculous. And I agree completely with Candy about the death of privacy.”
I laugh. “Republican, what have you got to be so private about? I mean, what’s all the fear about putting your profile on line? No offense, but it is not like you are Brad Pitt and people are stalking you. How is a Friendster profile going to ruin you?”
The Republican begins talking about stalkers and potential clients and all sorts of legal mumbo jumbo and I just sit back and let him fade into a hazy Charlie Brown undecipherable adult and I think how wonderful it is to not be the slightest bit ashamed about having my public life on the internet for anyone and their mother to peruse.
“Jane has a blog.” Skippy sounds like he is telling on me to the teacher.
Candy and the guy who voted for Bush twice just stare at me.
“She was on a reality TV show too.”
Candy drops her jaw and the Christian Right registers shock and horror with raised eyebrows. But then he relaxes, and smiles.
“Candy was supposed to be The Bachelorette. Tell ‘em honey.”
“Well, they asked me if I would be on that show, The Bachelorette, and like, actually be The Bachelorette.” She straightens up her back a little. “But I just said no. I’m not going on National Television and making my life public like that.”
Now I really think Candy is full of shit and just saying this to impress her boyfriend, because women that act and look like Candy don’t turn down the chance to be The Bachelorette. Women who go to tanning booths, have French pediicures, spend an hour a day at the gym, purposely style their hair like Farrah Fawcet, go to places like Butter and wear low cut Marc Jacobs sweaters to an East Village eatery are exactly the type of women who want to be on reality TV. I can see her prancing on the Real World, making out with six guys in a hot tub after too many shots of Jagermeister.
I know, because I was once on a reality TV show. But i’m nothing like Candy.
“Do you really think your life is anymore private than mine? I can track the blogs you read at work, I can Google your name and find out your track scores from high school. You leave your receipt on the table at the restaurant and I have your credit card number. You use the same username and password for your news subscription as your bank account. I can get your job title from a PDF of attendees at your last alumni function. I mean if someone wanted this information, it’s not as if you are a secret.”
“Nice job Jane, but I don’t write my feelings on the internet. I don’t publish details of my last date for the world to see. I don’t have photos of my latest travels posted to My Space or Friendster. I didn’t spend ten weeks having my life filmed on national television and have people in the chat rooms talking about my bra size.”
“Republican, it’s not like I’m avoiding the Paparazzi at every turn. I’m nobody. No one cares about my life. And if a few people want to check out the inner workings of my brain then I‘m happy to have the company.”
“Bloggers are just narcissistic attention whores.”
I know that there is truth in what he is saying. But I can’t let the Right win tonight.
“Yeah you are probably right. Most of them are. But just like some Republicans aren’t judgmental homophobic Christian Right hypocrites, this blogger doesn’t fit that stereotype. I just like to write. I’m a writer. Blogging is a way for me to get my writing out there. Blogging is the only way to get my writing out there.”
Without diverting his eyes from his cell, Skippy throws his head up to give me a little support.
“She is a good writer.”
“Thanks Skippy. But I’m still not going to sleep with you tonight.”
“No worries hon. I’ve got three girls on deck already.’
I’m still not done with Wall Street boy. “What is more narcissistic, being afraid to put photos of yourself on the internet because you think everyone will be seeking them out to ruin you, or putting your thoughts and feelings out into a flooded forum where you are just one of a million?”
Seriously. Who are you afraid of? What are you afraid of? Am I so self-centered that I think there are people out there who will become taken by those pictures of me rolling pita on the floor in Bosnia that they will hunt me down and ask me out? Because those stories are pieces of me. I am proud of my past, my present and where I’m going in my future. So if someone else wants to read it, why should I care?
Writing is a magnificent conduit to the soul. It connects me to the friends I have met overseas, it allows me a forum to share my life with my family, it gives a woman alcoholic a voice in the blogoshpere, it is in itself cathartic and healing. It connects me to people and to a city that can be very lonely without connections. And the feedback makes me feel connected outside of myself, a piece of the world. So that even with consequences, I can’t imagine sacrificing my public life.
Ask me again when I am being dogged by Paparazzi and having to explain stories of my sketch past to a pack of journalist in the Rose Garden. But I somehow don’t think this is the path I’m on. No, I think the path I am on is leading me to a place where it is simply okay to be just your average Jane. Serene, connected, happy in my own skin.
After the bill is paid, Candy and Cheney go home together, Skippy zips off to Aer and his three ladies in waiting, and I walk off into the Village alone. But I’m not really alone. I have 167 friends on Friendster. And three of these friends are on the corner telling me to hurry up or we are going to be late for that party in Gramercy.
Labels: Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
A Long Distance Relationship
Went to see my Manhattan this weekend. It’s been a while. I wasn’t sure if the chemistry would still be there. Wasn’t sure if he would still want me. I had three days to find out.
...and to see my friends, to fix my teeth, to sublet my apartment, to go out with that boy I’ve been e-mailing for the past two months, to meet up with my sponsees…
Well, my Manhattan didn’t disappoint. Weekend moments worthy of note, include:
Z’s Birthday: My good friend Z celebrated her birthday this weekend. We all met at Pastis wearing strappy sandals and summer dresses, hugging sweaters to our chilled frames to keep out the creeping cold of the not-yet-summer New York night. The girls sipped cocktails and I threw down four Diet Cokes to keep my drooping eyes from ruining the evening.
My favorite bartender was working. The one I met over the winter when his parents were visiting from Birmingham. I kept them company on a late Thanksgiving night while their son worked the preening crowd of pretentious pretty people, obnoxiously waving twenties in their hands to try and get his attention. I recall letting his Dad pinch my cheeks and his Mum hold onto my arm while she laughed into a Guiness.
The bartender must have remembered as well, because when it came time to pay the bill we looked down at a blank check. A fantastic way to begin our evening!
Off we all went, navigating the cold cobblestone streets in our tiny heels and bare legs. I had one hand guarding the slit of my Diane Von Furstenburg wrap and the other hand protecting my perfectly coiffed beehive from blowing down against the side of my face. Neither worked efficiently, so skirt around my neck and hair flattened down against the side of my face I was happy when we arrived around the corner at Florent Diner.
Florent is the most wonderful way to celebrate a friends birthday. Six of us squished around the mix matched chairs and selected from the exquisite French offerings on the menu. Six 'Steak Frittes' later, we played old maid and UNO until they dimmed the lights and brought out two chocolate cakes affixed with flaming candles to celebrate the passing of another year in Z’s life.
...and to see my friends, to fix my teeth, to sublet my apartment, to go out with that boy I’ve been e-mailing for the past two months, to meet up with my sponsees…
Well, my Manhattan didn’t disappoint. Weekend moments worthy of note, include:
Z’s Birthday: My good friend Z celebrated her birthday this weekend. We all met at Pastis wearing strappy sandals and summer dresses, hugging sweaters to our chilled frames to keep out the creeping cold of the not-yet-summer New York night. The girls sipped cocktails and I threw down four Diet Cokes to keep my drooping eyes from ruining the evening.
My favorite bartender was working. The one I met over the winter when his parents were visiting from Birmingham. I kept them company on a late Thanksgiving night while their son worked the preening crowd of pretentious pretty people, obnoxiously waving twenties in their hands to try and get his attention. I recall letting his Dad pinch my cheeks and his Mum hold onto my arm while she laughed into a Guiness.
The bartender must have remembered as well, because when it came time to pay the bill we looked down at a blank check. A fantastic way to begin our evening!
Off we all went, navigating the cold cobblestone streets in our tiny heels and bare legs. I had one hand guarding the slit of my Diane Von Furstenburg wrap and the other hand protecting my perfectly coiffed beehive from blowing down against the side of my face. Neither worked efficiently, so skirt around my neck and hair flattened down against the side of my face I was happy when we arrived around the corner at Florent Diner.
Florent is the most wonderful way to celebrate a friends birthday. Six of us squished around the mix matched chairs and selected from the exquisite French offerings on the menu. Six 'Steak Frittes' later, we played old maid and UNO until they dimmed the lights and brought out two chocolate cakes affixed with flaming candles to celebrate the passing of another year in Z’s life.
Beautiful Z, always the most fashionable, always with a smile, always accepting of those around her, tastefully blew out the candles that remind us of the friendships and follies of another year past.
Horrors: My sisters play Iron Fist on Sunday night was excellent. Refreshingly, she performed the entire series of small plays entirely clothed and without simulating any sexual acts. Bravo!
The cast did an excellent job illuminating a series of gory, one act plays that bled out mans less talked about fears. The fear of being alone, the fear of not being seen, the fear of never escaping the influence of you mom’s parenting skills, the fear of doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results, the fear of feeling your feelings.
I’m biased, but my favorite was the one with my sister talking to a stuffed rabbit she affectionately called ‘Dirty Bunny’ and a plastic plant. She ran through a litany of emotions trying to get the plant to talk to her and spring forth some fruit. Her acting skills really had a chance to shine. The skit bitterly reminded me of my own failed attempts to ask people for things they are not capable of giving, and the resulting fear that perhaps I wont get what I want.
It was a great show. Made better by the company of that boy that I’ve been crushing on since January. He agreed to accompany me and the titillation of his proximity made the show that much better.
Until he told me that he didn’t like women who liked him. Standing outside the Subway entrance (where I believe the most interesting couple conversations in NYC occur), I believe the actual words were, “I’m repulsed by women that are into me. I know this is unhealthy and that these women are offering me the maturity that I so crave in a relationship, but It’s just a turn off. You know?”
If it’s as strong a turn off as hearing this story, why then yes!
You see, I like the boys who like me. So this potential has just vanished. And there it was. As quickly as the sight of his smile made my ears warm, the thought of his unrequited affections left me cold and wanting to jump in the first available taxi to get the hell away. I guess I have a new friend. Oh well. Next!
Dodging a Bullet: Last week, I found out that my contract was extended for two more weeks in our Nations Capital. Great news for my career, bad news for my apartment in New York City. I decided to search for a short term sublettor and placed an ad on Craigslist.
Got a call from a woman suffering from logorrhea with a voice like Fran Drescher. She used a lot of words, and talked about things that were none of my business and which I didn’t care to know. Unsolicited details about the quality of a strangers day and/or details about said strangers job are frankly, a waste of my time. She wanted to see the apartment and I set up a time for her to view it with a guy friend last Tuesday.
At first pass, she didn’t show. My friend still showed her the place when she called a few days later. After she viewed it, I sent her an e-mail asking if she was still interested and if she had some references I could call. I heard nothing back. No expression of interest. No list of friends and former employers. Nothing.
So imagine my surprise when she phones 6:00pm Saturday to inform me that she is ready to move in. I tell her that maybe we should begin by meeting and exchanging references. She shows up ready to get the keys and I show up ready to see if she is the type of woman I want living in my apartment. She wasn’t. Something about her made me uneasy. Something about her made me nervous.
She pushed a few names across the table at Starbucks. Two ex-boyfriends and the CEO of the company where she had been employed for the past two weeks. It seemed fishy. I had already checked out her MySpace profile to discover she had a pretty pink background, a Beyonce theme song, used the word 'thingy poo', had a photo of her in her panties and one friend. A man.
I left the coffee feeling apprehensive. After discussing the issue with a few friends, I decided I didn’t want to rent to her. I knew I had made the right decision when a girlfriend called to say she needed a place to crash and could she stay at my home for the next two weeks. I would much rather help out a friend then get myself into a sticky situation.
I was scared to call Ms. Thingy Poo. At 3:00pm Sunday afternoon, I mustered the courage and got the response that let me know I had just dodged a bullet.
“You can’t do this. We had a verbal agreement.”
The friend standing next to me shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I hope you know you put me out on the street and left me with nowhere to go in NYC.”
“Thingy Poo, we met for the first time less than 24 hours ago. And I didn't make any promises. No money was exchaged. No deals were signed.”
“But I could have been looking since then.”
“I’m sorry.” Then I scolded myself for apologizing to this looney.
“Well you should be. Don’t hang up this phone until I finish. You need to know what you have done. For someone who prides themselves on their honesty, you need to know that you are a liar. You have totally fucked me over and I hope you suffer for this. This was a done deal based on you checking my references. And I know they would have checked out.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Good luck with your search”
I felt bad for her. But I had done nothing wrong. And the bad I was feeling was not half as bad as I would have felt having to deal with this woman living in my home. My friends told me to shake it off.
The friend who showed her the apartment offered, “Jane. She’s a freak. I’d fuck her, but I wouldn’t rent her my apartment.”
*****
God I love New York. As generous with its supply of crazies as it is with its kind of heart. As apt for adventure as it is to break you heart or leave you stranded. My Manhattan never fails to surprise, entertain and dazzle me. A month apart is just simply too much.
Don’t worry honey, I’ll be home soon.
Labels: Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Here Are a Few of My Favorite Things
Not sure if it is because I only had one cup of coffee today, or because I broke a tooth, but I'm tired, irritable and nursing boredom with a side of bad-attitude. I'm wallowing in self pity. I'm lonely. I'm weighed down by a guilty conscious. Hungover from the myriad of negative behavior that sprang from last weeks boredom.
When you are bored, you tend to think too much. Life spent in the analysis of ones self, magnifies every flaw. Oh yes, and when you think too much, everything is about you.
Selfish, Bored, fatigued, sporting a broken tooth, a bad-attitude, self-pity, and loneliness. I am remarkably good company tonight.
So, rather than expose my friends to my own favorite brand of doom and gloom, I have made a concerted effort to isolate. At times like these, I turn to some of my favorite methods:
#1 SHOPPING: Spent Sunday and Monday burning up the Amex at Feilenes and Loehmanns. When shopping to quell pain and/or boredom, the focus is on quantity not quality. The more shopping bags, the more shoes, the more tiny Ziplocks holding spare buttons that you will find lying around on the counter tops the next morning, the better you feel.
But even when you have the money to burn, even when you can afford twenty Marc Jacobs tissue paper tee shirts, you know you are doing something destructive. Shopping still feels empty at the end of the day.
I was smarting from a family visit that dragged out my dirty laundry. I shopped to buy new things to make me look better on the outside. Since the insides were not feeling very pretty.
And the amount of time spent mentally shuffling through my closet, preening at my image in the mirror, plotting the shoes I would buy to go with that skirt, kept me firmly rooted in my own head. And also kept me unable to be present in the moment to those around me.
The guilt of the wasted money. The pain of the lost connections. I turned to a second favorite to avoid feeling any of these emotions.
#2 DATING: I note a startling inverse relationship between a plethora of exciting and challenging things going on in my life and the number of times I check my Friendster profile. Considering the addictive-like quality of my Friendster stalking as of late, I think it is safe to say that I am bored.
Boredom sparks a mad scientist chase for human interaction. And since I was old enough to make-out in the back of a car, I've known that the easiest, quickest and most reliable form of human interaction is dating.
Ever since I located to Washington DC and updated my Friendster and Myspace, I have been getting twenty new messages a day. I had to disable my e-mail pop-ups so that the barrage of incoming messages would stop disturbing my evenings at home.
Boredom turns the fun and harmless act of internet dating into a callused mouse finger. Like a morphine addicted rat, I keep hitting the button for another fix. Anything done addictively or to excess, just does not feel as good the next morning. It is to the point where I dread opening my e-mail. The messages only serve to remind me that I am lonely for a little human interaction. A little one-on-one, human interaction.
Perhaps this is why I went out with Frenchy when he called me Monday night. Perhaps this is why I asked out that Alanon boy I've been crushing on since February. Perhaps that is why when I met a guy at the Gala last night, I came home, googled him and came up with a bogus reason to drop him an e-mail. We are talking serious stalker behavior here!
And after a while, the tolerance has been built up and it takes more and more to sustain the high. No matter how many flirtatious e-mails I've exchanged, I'm still antsy. It's not working. I can still feel. Thus I turned to the group.
#3 GROUP ISOLATION: I've got a host of new girl and guy friends in DC. On any given night, I can be out in a raucous group. The other night, I soaked up a hot spring evening with four old DC girlfriends in an outside cafe along 18th street. But as the sun slid behind the buildings the chill in the air made me long for the warmth of a real connection.
Fighting the control freak within, I observed as my women friends spent the first hour discussing politics, and the second, laughing over inside jokes into glasses of Happy Hour Syrah. By their third bottle of wine their eyes sparkled and they were gushing over one another, discussing how much they had missed each other in the month since they had last met up.
Politics, the drink, reliving the past, all ways of passing four hours without ever passing a level of superficial conversation. I was nowhere closer to finding out what was going on these womens hearts and nowhere closer to them. I walked away feeling lonely.
Saturday night I met up with friends at a house party. Determined to insert myself, within an hour I had taken over the grill, organized a game of charades and led the group in a witty exchange of political back and forth. My normally welcoming and warm personality morphed into Julie McCoy, cruise director.
Obsessed with controlling the groups interaction, I stopped relating to people on a deeper lever. The very thing I was craving, I let get away from me by giving in to the group dynamic.
Isolation. My best friend. My favorite thing to do when I move to a new places.
My first six months in NYC were spent shopping, dating and trying to make friends. I went to every sample sale. I went out with every man that asked. I went everywhere I was invited. I aquired an amazing wardrobe. I went out with some very hot men.
To further my social ambitions, I had parties at my house. I organized dinner parties, comedy nights, egg decorating brunches, cookie baking days, tree trimming afternoons, birthday parties, ladies retreats and girls-nights-out. I built a group of three into a group of twelve with a few phone calls. And once they arrived, I began my dance. Keeping everyone talking and laughing was meant to have the side effect of everyone loving me. But at the end of the night, as my friends streamed out into the New York night, I was alone again, surrounded by piles of their dirty dishes.
Coming down here to DC for a few months kicks up old behavior. I am back in a new place and a new city, I am drawn to want to collect people and generate adventure. I am prone to my many favorite forms of isolation.
There is the kind of isolation spent at home with take-out Chinese and Netflix, and the kind spent hiding out under the mask of superficial group interaction, working the shoe aisle at Barneys CoOp and searching the files of Friendster. I have only just recently discovered my penchant for the latter.
So here I am, sitting at the computer, wearing my new Prada dress, an in-box filled with messages from potential suitors, a host of unreturned phone calls in my voicemail begging me to come out for the night.
Isolating.
Labels: Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober, sobriety
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
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
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
It’s my party and I'll cry if I want to…
It is a warm August morning in Seattle and I am wearing my prettiest pink dress with a frilly white apron that I put my hands in while I dance around the front gates to the house waiting for the first guest to arrive. It is my eighth birthday. My mom made three cakes to feed my 22 closest friends and spent the evening conspiring with my sisters to come up with fun party games to play. The guests arrive, scrubbed and dressed in their Sunday best- carrying big boxes with pretty bows. We play games, we eat cake, everyone tells me how pretty I look. Dad comes home and pats me on the head and says, “Happy Birthday Kiddo.” At dinner, mom serves me my favorite meal on a red plate that says “You are special today”. In a family of seven, this plate only comes out for me once a year.
My brothers and sisters give me cards and kiss my cheek and we eat more cake and they all sing Happy Birthday. And I feel special.
My mother leans into my father and whispers as I blow out the candles, “I hate birthdays”. I’m utterly confused. Birthday’s mean a party, attention… presents. I totally don’t get it.
This Saturday I will be 32, and I finally get it.
Yes, I am finally joining the ranks of grown ups everywhere that hate their birthdays.
I sit down to plan a birthday party for myself and the magic of being eight is completely gone. The anticipation of being appreciated and showered with attention just for existing on this special day, is replaced with fear. It’s not the fear of getting old, wrinkled and fighting with my ticking internal clock… it is the fear that no one will show up. It is the fear of another special day passing without being noticed. It is the expectation that you will be surrounded by people you love, and then the reality that you haven’t cultivated those sorts of relationships.
Two years ago, I threw a party for an ex-boyfriend. Everyone I invited showed up and really, deeply, truly cared about Mike. He had cultivated their relationships and they loved him for it. Everyone had good things to say about him and that is because he is a good person.
As I sit this week making a list of people I wanted to invite to my birthday party I made headings like “people from the gym”, “people from AA”, “People from the Hamptons”, “People from Work”, “People I met on Friendster”… But as I made the lists, I discovered there was only maybe one person from each category that I spoke to once every other week or really wanted to see.
I blame the pace of life. I blame them for not returning my enthusiasm for our newfound relationship. I blame cliques. I blame New York. But the only common denominator in all of these relationships is, me. My insecurity and isolationism that keeps me closed off from being a really good friend. My unrealistic fantasty to re-create a season of 'Sex and the City' with my own set of unique and colorful New York women. My interest in collecting a quantity of diverse friends over the quality of three good ones. My ability to spread myself like a paper thin pie crust over the Big Apple, covering no one person significantly and still leaving large gaps around the edges.
My only relief is that perhaps I am not failing in the relationship game-but rather, growing up.
Perhaps growing up means letting go of old ideas of friendships and relationships and accepting what you get. Perhaps my problem is the control I have willfully exerted over the process of meeting, making and maintaing friends. And perhaps the solution is to surrender and accept that there is something wonderful about the eclectic blend of friends I have in my life right now—my sisters, my friend from work, my international friend, my friend from the gym- Perhaps my vision of four friends brunching at Cafeteria is what was attractive when I was twenty but now I am 32.
This birthday, I will appreciate what my efforts have brought into my life.... whatever the form. I will use the next year to open up enough to let others in, pick up the phone and check in with those I love, return e-mails… and listen. And I won't wait for someone else to present my favorite meal on a red plate to feel special today.
I can eat off that plate every fucking day if I want!!
My brothers and sisters give me cards and kiss my cheek and we eat more cake and they all sing Happy Birthday. And I feel special.
My mother leans into my father and whispers as I blow out the candles, “I hate birthdays”. I’m utterly confused. Birthday’s mean a party, attention… presents. I totally don’t get it.
This Saturday I will be 32, and I finally get it.
Yes, I am finally joining the ranks of grown ups everywhere that hate their birthdays.
I sit down to plan a birthday party for myself and the magic of being eight is completely gone. The anticipation of being appreciated and showered with attention just for existing on this special day, is replaced with fear. It’s not the fear of getting old, wrinkled and fighting with my ticking internal clock… it is the fear that no one will show up. It is the fear of another special day passing without being noticed. It is the expectation that you will be surrounded by people you love, and then the reality that you haven’t cultivated those sorts of relationships.
Two years ago, I threw a party for an ex-boyfriend. Everyone I invited showed up and really, deeply, truly cared about Mike. He had cultivated their relationships and they loved him for it. Everyone had good things to say about him and that is because he is a good person.
As I sit this week making a list of people I wanted to invite to my birthday party I made headings like “people from the gym”, “people from AA”, “People from the Hamptons”, “People from Work”, “People I met on Friendster”… But as I made the lists, I discovered there was only maybe one person from each category that I spoke to once every other week or really wanted to see.
I blame the pace of life. I blame them for not returning my enthusiasm for our newfound relationship. I blame cliques. I blame New York. But the only common denominator in all of these relationships is, me. My insecurity and isolationism that keeps me closed off from being a really good friend. My unrealistic fantasty to re-create a season of 'Sex and the City' with my own set of unique and colorful New York women. My interest in collecting a quantity of diverse friends over the quality of three good ones. My ability to spread myself like a paper thin pie crust over the Big Apple, covering no one person significantly and still leaving large gaps around the edges.
My only relief is that perhaps I am not failing in the relationship game-but rather, growing up.
Perhaps growing up means letting go of old ideas of friendships and relationships and accepting what you get. Perhaps my problem is the control I have willfully exerted over the process of meeting, making and maintaing friends. And perhaps the solution is to surrender and accept that there is something wonderful about the eclectic blend of friends I have in my life right now—my sisters, my friend from work, my international friend, my friend from the gym- Perhaps my vision of four friends brunching at Cafeteria is what was attractive when I was twenty but now I am 32.
This birthday, I will appreciate what my efforts have brought into my life.... whatever the form. I will use the next year to open up enough to let others in, pick up the phone and check in with those I love, return e-mails… and listen. And I won't wait for someone else to present my favorite meal on a red plate to feel special today.
I can eat off that plate every fucking day if I want!!
Labels: Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Kissing the Blarney Stone!
So last night I was the recipient of the most amazing kiss.
I had no idea that there were levels of Kissing greatness and had pretty much assumed that at the age of 31 I had fully reached my make-out capacity. But then, the Irishman happened and it totally threw off my gauge.
I wasn’t even supposed to be out with him. About two weeks ago, I was surfing Friendster and came across a photo of a hairy obese white man in full Sumo wrestler attire.
I laughed and clicked on his profile. Surfed his photos to discover an extremely attractive Irishman with beautiful eyes and an amazing physique. I sent him a note.
“Nice diaper, does it require changing often?”
We bantered for the next few days-and then I excitedly told my friends the story at a BBQ that weekend.
“You know that’s Zoey’s crush, right?” – My friend Lex said.
Fuck
I had no idea that there were levels of Kissing greatness and had pretty much assumed that at the age of 31 I had fully reached my make-out capacity. But then, the Irishman happened and it totally threw off my gauge.
I wasn’t even supposed to be out with him. About two weeks ago, I was surfing Friendster and came across a photo of a hairy obese white man in full Sumo wrestler attire.
I laughed and clicked on his profile. Surfed his photos to discover an extremely attractive Irishman with beautiful eyes and an amazing physique. I sent him a note.
“Nice diaper, does it require changing often?”
We bantered for the next few days-and then I excitedly told my friends the story at a BBQ that weekend.
“You know that’s Zoey’s crush, right?” – My friend Lex said.
Fuck
When I had looked at the connection, I noted I was connected through Zoey. And Zoey had told me about some guy she thought was hot at the gym. But I had not even considered that this might be the same guy. When Zoey arrived, I told her the story, apologized and promised never to speak to him again.
Stupid of me.
After about a week of ignoring his e-mails he started getting hurt feelings and writing to ask me if it was something he said.
“You know, I really opened myself up in my last e-mail and was wondering if it was something I said.”
Fuck.
I couldn’t tell him the truth and I couldn’t just drop it without an explanation. Or was that just an excuse to indulge my wants? I wrote him back. Simple few words. But I wanted him to write back. Then he wrote back with a few simple words. Next thing you know, we had resumed our exchange of simple e-mails and jokes. I could fool myself that it was nothing, but I wanted it to be something. I rationalized my behavior.
It is just a two sentence e-mail a day in the middle of piles of work, phone calls and e-mail exchanges.
But then I saw Zoey out one night with friends and her chilly reception reminded me of the fact that I had gone against my word. Guilt. Deserved guilt. The next day, I tried to call, I tried to text. She didn’t respond.
Then Lex began with the cold shoulder in a North-of-the-Arctic type way. The stomach churned. The breaths shortened. The guilt stole hours from my sleep. I had done something terribly wrong.
And then the Irishman asked me out.
Now it was clear that I had to talk to Zoey. She wouldn't take my calls. And I don't blame her. So I wrote her an e-mail telling her everything, apologizing and admitting I was wrong. She wrote back…
...If you were interested in one of my friends, standard protocol would be to ask me about it first...and yeah he told me you two had friendstered each other after our conversation... so it made me think that you were just blowing smoke up my ass…. and lastly, at this point, i don't really care if you two are friends or not. It just seems like there is some dishonesty going on and I don't operate that way and I rather stay out of it...
Last night, the biggest ass hole in the world met the Irishman at the bar next to my house. But the date was ruined before it even began. Plauged with a desire to be let into a group of friends, desperate for attention from my unrequited outreach to the women of New York, I did the unspeakable. I turned to a man. Because a man phones you back, he shows effort, you plan cool shit and he wants to do it with you.
Yes, as long as a man wants to do it with you, he will show up.
And the Irishman showed up.
And the Irishman showed up.
We had a New York date. He drank a beer. I watched. We flirted. We walked through the West Village shared Tasti-D-Lite with one spoon, stopped in at Barnes and Noble and looked at guide books of his country all the while just looking for excuses to rub up on each other. We played video games at the Village Tavern . Then, he stopped me on the corner of Carmine and Leroy and just like that, in front of God and everyone standing around on the street, he grabbed my face and he kissed me.
It would have been sweet if I hadn't known what more he would be expecting.
The night played out through more windy West Village streets, more conversation about family and friends and more discussion about New York aspirations. We watched the lights go out on the Empire State building. We made-out in Washington Square Park. He kissed me on every street between Washington Square and my front door.
The Irishman brough enough passion and effort for me to think it would last beyond the night. But After prying our bodies away from one another, he rolled down the street looking for a taxi and I never heard from him again.
Actually, a few e-mails, a few flirtatious texts. One really amazing kiss. But nothing worth losing a girlfriend over.
Blimey!
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober
Monday, June 20, 2005
The Gala
Ever since the night of the Gala, things have been different.
I don't know, I guess I blossomed.
It had been six months in a new city and my circle of friends had not grown past AA meetings and the fellowship that followed. I was working on an assignment that brought me in and out of the Bronx every day and made me feel like I lived on the subway. I decided to step outside of my comfort zone. I attended a Gala at the Central Park Zoo and that is where I became enamored with a handome Australian man. His roomate's girlfriend invited me to her birthday party the following week. The Aussie turned out to be a dud, but the rest of the party had great potential. I met some strong women and, risking rejection, I started e-mailing them and trying to strike up some new friendships. It worked.
I started getting invited to barbecues, rooftop parties, dinners and dates.
But what was even better is that I started living.
I went wherever people invited me. I attended book readings, signed up for cooking and writing classess, planned get togethers-movies and girl's nights out. All of it meant an improvement in my social life and self esteem.
Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was a change in spirit... but I'm so glad that New York became a little smaller.
Last night, I invited some work friends and my sister to join me for dinner and a party I had been invited to by someone I met on Friendster. I was nervous. I had seen this guy perform at Upright Citizens Brigade, but never actually met him. We arrived at the party and immediately it seemed grim. My girlfriends and I climbed two flights of stairs breathing through our mouths to avoid the overpowering stench resembling dirty socks and a mens locker room after a big football game. The door opened and there he was. About 30 pounds heavier than his Friendster profile, but making up for it with flawless charm and wit. We were the first women at the party numbering 12. But we started mingling and within a few hours the night had shifted.
Flooding through the door came all my favorite New York Comedians. Each time the door opened I would hit my friend and whisper the movie or show in which I had seen the entrant perform. "He was in School of Rock," "She is on SNL", "That's the inconsiderate cell phone guy". And they were all just as funny in person.
A cocktail party full of improv actors is never dull. There certainly weren't many awkward silences.
The party filled up and flowed out onto the roof where there was barely room to stand. My friends loosened up and started flirting. My sister was being admired by the ex-boyfriend of a former reality TV star. The former reality TVer and I huddled in the corner and shared stories about the after like of reality TV. It was comforting to have someone to speak candidly with about the experience. As different as we were, we bonded over stories of extinguished fame and shout outs on the Subway.
Her ex-boyfriend was the most obnoxious person I had ever met.
Everything that came out of his mouth was socially awkward and offensive. Within the first five minutes of being introduced, he called me 'bitch', took photos of my breasts and made three racial slurs
One obnoxious man aside, the party was great and I met a few more interesting people to explore.
Rooftop parties, concerts, cooking classes and dance festivals... I guess I have the gala to thank for jump starting my social renewal.
I don't know, I guess I blossomed.
It had been six months in a new city and my circle of friends had not grown past AA meetings and the fellowship that followed. I was working on an assignment that brought me in and out of the Bronx every day and made me feel like I lived on the subway. I decided to step outside of my comfort zone. I attended a Gala at the Central Park Zoo and that is where I became enamored with a handome Australian man. His roomate's girlfriend invited me to her birthday party the following week. The Aussie turned out to be a dud, but the rest of the party had great potential. I met some strong women and, risking rejection, I started e-mailing them and trying to strike up some new friendships. It worked.
I started getting invited to barbecues, rooftop parties, dinners and dates.
But what was even better is that I started living.
I went wherever people invited me. I attended book readings, signed up for cooking and writing classess, planned get togethers-movies and girl's nights out. All of it meant an improvement in my social life and self esteem.
Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was a change in spirit... but I'm so glad that New York became a little smaller.
Last night, I invited some work friends and my sister to join me for dinner and a party I had been invited to by someone I met on Friendster. I was nervous. I had seen this guy perform at Upright Citizens Brigade, but never actually met him. We arrived at the party and immediately it seemed grim. My girlfriends and I climbed two flights of stairs breathing through our mouths to avoid the overpowering stench resembling dirty socks and a mens locker room after a big football game. The door opened and there he was. About 30 pounds heavier than his Friendster profile, but making up for it with flawless charm and wit. We were the first women at the party numbering 12. But we started mingling and within a few hours the night had shifted.
Flooding through the door came all my favorite New York Comedians. Each time the door opened I would hit my friend and whisper the movie or show in which I had seen the entrant perform. "He was in School of Rock," "She is on SNL", "That's the inconsiderate cell phone guy". And they were all just as funny in person.
A cocktail party full of improv actors is never dull. There certainly weren't many awkward silences.
The party filled up and flowed out onto the roof where there was barely room to stand. My friends loosened up and started flirting. My sister was being admired by the ex-boyfriend of a former reality TV star. The former reality TVer and I huddled in the corner and shared stories about the after like of reality TV. It was comforting to have someone to speak candidly with about the experience. As different as we were, we bonded over stories of extinguished fame and shout outs on the Subway.
Her ex-boyfriend was the most obnoxious person I had ever met.
Everything that came out of his mouth was socially awkward and offensive. Within the first five minutes of being introduced, he called me 'bitch', took photos of my breasts and made three racial slurs
One obnoxious man aside, the party was great and I met a few more interesting people to explore.
Rooftop parties, concerts, cooking classes and dance festivals... I guess I have the gala to thank for jump starting my social renewal.
Labels: Boy Stories, Internet Dating, Pop Culture Casualty, Sober