A couple of times I wanted to write an update on my life, and even started a post once, but as I re-read it, it bored the snot out of me and I discarded it. It's true that I really write for myself, to chronicle my life (particularly since I have the memory capacity of an early stage Alzheimer's patient), and to just simply write. I always read them again, and if they bore me, I simply don't post them. I have to be entertained at least a little bit. And if I think it sucks, then anyone else who stumbles upon this site will surely curse the lost minutes to their life.
So, instead of telling a story about a happening in my life, I'll just try to be brief. Though as usual, that probably won't work and I'll spend the next hour writing on and on about whatever comes out of my mind and fingertips.
The cowboy mentioned in a previous post (the one who got away, aka TOWGA), is the biggest presence in my life now. I'll try to avoid to make it sound like the gleeful love affair that makes everyone (including myself) puke our guts out. But, well, it is. And I'll gush as little as possible, but I have to somewhat so the capillaries in my head don't burst from strain.
Let's start with the bad, to keep with blog tradition. 1) He's in the process of a divorce. So far it looks amicable and somewhat swift, but we all know that a divorce is rarely either of those things, for long. 2) Distance. How old do I have to get before I learn that a long distance relationship is a BAD BAD idea? Well, I'm 32 now, so I guess pretty old. And to think I always complain about people who are in their 40's or 50's and do the same shit over and over again.
Okay, that's all I have for the bad. Well, they're BIGGIES, but that's it. Anything else I'd complain about would be small and petty and not really worth it.
Okay, let's quickly do the good. He has all the passion, tenderness, and attentiveness that I always fantasize about, but, unlike the men I have dated with these fantasy qualities, he does not possess their immaturity, sulleness, mood swings, or unpredictability. I keep expecting it. I keep waiting for the sudden cold distance, the unreasonable jealousy, the hyper-sensitivity. But so far, it's just not there. This may have something to do with the fact that he is several years older than I and so just has a natural form of maturity that men I have dated don't have (the last one was several years younger than me and as unpredictable as one of these fucking tropical storms).
And I just feel loved. I mean, really feel loved. All the time, every day. And I never doubt it, ever. This is probably the key, for me, really. I think I need a good, steady amount of reassurance. More insecurities on my part, I suppose, but to me, every "I love you" has an expiration date, and though I don't need it every single day, I'm not one to just "know" it without ever hearing it.
I could go on and on, but I won't. Things are good. I'm broke as all holy hell, I can't seem to get a second job, I've bills up the wazoo, I don't even have enough money to move out of NYC. But, it doesn't matter. It just doesn't. And in two days I go to see him, and we'll see. We'll just see.
I know, and have many times crowed, that love is beautiful, but temporary. I've never feared so much the temporary nature of love as I do now. I don't fear love ending, I feel all the pieces of love fading. The ability to excite your lover. To inspire him. To make him feel happy to be alive. To want to be with you all the time. To always consider you. The ability to simply make your lover happy. You may say those things are all about being "in love" and that they fade into the security and depth of "love," which may be true. But right now, I couldn't bear the second without the first.
And no matter how hard I try, I can't shake my profound mistrust of love. There's just been too much experience to expect the dream-come-true. If you haven't noticed so far, I'm a relationship saboteur. In the "fight or flee" responses, I flee, every time. Bolt right the fuck out of there. So, I may just blow this up, right in my face. But I'm going to try really really hard not to.
"Don't dream too far, don't lose sight of who you are.
Don't wish..don't start. Wishing only wounds the heart.
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl."
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Munchausen Syndrome? Fuck me.
Here and there in my blog I hint at various medical annoyances I've had to deal with. And now, I'm stuck in a medical treatment purgatory I can't seem to get out of. I feel like Al Pacino in The Godfather.
It's my fault really. When I returned from Thailand, and finally got my current job at a non-profit, I was thrilled to receive top notch, free health insurance. For the first time in nearly 4 years I'd be able to see doctors and dentists for things I had either ignored in Thailand or sporadically treated at various medical facilities, some of questionable competence.
So when my current health insurance kicked in, I decided to get everything checked out. Every pain, annoyance, and confusion about my body. This eventually spiraled out of control as I've been diagnosed with various things, (some previously diagnosed), such as Depression, ADD, HPV, grinding teeth while sleeping, hypertension, an elevated level of testosterone, muscle knots, c-curve scoliosis, some strange acne thing I still don't get or care that much about, and the ever-charming Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And I have been sent to a plethura of specialists, now including a: gastreonotolgist, cardiologist, psychiatrist, dermatologist, physical therapist, and gynecologist). And as with most doctors, they love to hand out their "scripts" and I began to accumulate bottles of pills that came to alarm me a great deal.
At this very moment I am wearing a "blood pressure harness." This is basically a blood pressure cuff hooked up to a device that looks like a extra thick ipod, connected to the cuff by a long thick cord and nestled in a black, leather case. I was terrified that I'd be arrested today since NYPD has just begun in earnest to search people going onto the subway. Imagine a woman with long cords coming out of her shirt and something bulky under her sleeve during this climate of suicide bomber fear.
Every half hour the damn thing sets off and squeezes my arm so tight I bite my lip and wince. About half the time the reading doesn't go right, the cuff releases, and about two minutes later, it tries again. I tried to take a nap today, but the feeling of someone trying to squeeze the life out of your arm works better than my alarm clock at jolting me awake. Trying to sleep tonight should be interesting.
I've been watching the readings, and have been absolutely stunned at how high they've been. I've had high blood pressure in the past, but it has usually returned to normal. I'm seeing my diastolic readings around 110 (the second "lower" number of your bp) and it is a bit frightening, so each time this damn thing goes off, I sit in apprehensive anticipation. I'm sure that in itself pushes the bp up a bit.
I'm forced to wear this for 24 hours since the doctor suggested I may have "white coat syndrome" which basically means just being in a damn doctor's office makes your blood pressure go up, and since this particular doctor was at the ob/gyn clinic, a place i ALWAYS hate to be (all women will understand what I mean), it seemed plausible. But why wear this damn thing? Well, my beloved birth control pills are hanging in the balance. If my bp is high, they're going to take away my birth control pills. This frightens me on many levels. It's true that I don't have nearly as much sex as I'd like lately, but for those fortunate times I do, I'd hate to be without these pills, even if though there are condoms involved. But even more importantly, I fear my period without the pill. Before I began taking the pill, my period was a nightmare. Long-lasting, very very heavy flow (sorry guys), awful bloating, and cramps that would bend me in two. Worst of all, it was very irregular, leading to a few accidents in high school which make me turn a shade of scarlet now when I recall them. I still remember as a sophomore, sitting in the front row of my Chemistry class, and actually feeling blood beginning to come out. I was wearing a short, light yellow skirt and no tampon/pad. When the class ended, I was terrified to get up to leave. Somehow I eventually made it to the bathroom.
If I never have sex again (please God, no!), I would at least want these pills to keep me from the menustration hell I had before. So this is why I dutifully wear this damn harness and grow more and more concerned with each high reading. The only "low" readings I've seen so far were when i was woken from my nap..so basically, when unconscious.
Anyway, back to my other cornucopia of health problems...
What the fuck is going on? When did I become the poster child for Munchausen Syndrome? Is this all in my head? My god, what have I turned myself into?
About one to two months ago, I just grew tired of it all. All the fucking pills, the constant doctors appointments (and having to miss time off work for them), the referrels to specialists, etc. I'm just done with this, done. Nothing is SO wrong with me that I can't just walk away from all this bullshit. At least, walk slowly.
The cuff just strangled my arm again. 164/111. Jesus Christ.
A month ago I sat in my psychiatrist's office -- a man who greatly amuses me. He looks like Bill Murray in The Life Aquatic, and yet has a personality completely opposed. My shrink is probably the most stoic individual I have ever met. As a psychiatrist who does research only on the drugs themselves, he is not there to offer any therapy, but simply to find out what his pills are doing to my body. And yet, I really like him, though I hate when he lectures me about various things. And I've finally got him to smile a few times and even make somewhat humorous comments. Anyway, he was a bit taken aback, despite the fact that I've been on these damn anti-depressents for what seems like forever (perhaps about 10 months?). He lectured me for about 10 minutes about all the possible outcomes, particularly focusing on the dangers of going off, especially going off to quickly. But I stood firm. I know I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Do I feel "cured?" No, not really. But I know that "cured" is too elusive for me to comprehend. What's "cured" from Depression? When I'm walking down the street, whistling, and occasionally bursting into song? When I don't dissolve into tears when my financial state becomes rather dire and I use my credit card just to eat? All I know is that I'm ready to get off, and that's good enough for me.
Slowly, I've been shedding other medications as well, and have only kept the ones I felt essential, or those that are only taken occasionally when "needed" as with my Ritalin (jury duty!) or my Dicyclomine (once or twice a month when my IBS reaches unbearable levels). And of course, my birth control pills.
Yet, as I have made a very purposeful decision to remove pills, doctors, ills, and appointments from my life, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Doctors are actually CALLING ME to come in and see them! For Christ's sake! It seems the harder I try to run away, the more things that keep popping up. The ob/gyn doctor, the dentist, and the shrink have all called me to come in. And now that this fucking bp harness is spitting out alarmingly high readings, I'm sure I will soon become friends with a cardiologist.
I don't know what to do. I want to keep resisting these appointments. I feel "if I just go to this lasr one, it'll be finished." Assuming I don't try to throw myself out a window in the next 5 weeks, I will be off anti-depressents and my Stoic Shrink will fade from my life. And after Monday's cleaning, perhaps I can erase my damn aggressive dentist from my life, at least for 6 months, despite the fact that she'll push hard for me to get a night guard for my grinding and gel for my not-white-enough teeth. Screw that. Since I began to pay off my monsterous student loans, anything that's not food or toiletries feels indulgent. Maybe i'll stick some gum between my back teeth at night to keep them from sanding each other down to nubs.
So here I am now, wondering if I am simply a Munchausen idiot and not realizing it since I seem to have made myself a hobby of seeing doctors. Maybe these bp readings are me wanting people to feel sorry for me, isn't that how the Syndrome works? It's true, my family has a strong history of heart disease (they've all died from it, some rather young), so having that as a health problem doesn't really surprise me...and yet...and YET this is just not right. It's just not. I've got to take better charge. I've got to lose weight (cancelling my gym membership a month ago for financial reasons has resulted in putting on even more pounds), and I've got to beat all of this. It's just got to end soon. I guess I'll touch back later. Wish me luck.
Final bp check: 147/111
It's my fault really. When I returned from Thailand, and finally got my current job at a non-profit, I was thrilled to receive top notch, free health insurance. For the first time in nearly 4 years I'd be able to see doctors and dentists for things I had either ignored in Thailand or sporadically treated at various medical facilities, some of questionable competence.
So when my current health insurance kicked in, I decided to get everything checked out. Every pain, annoyance, and confusion about my body. This eventually spiraled out of control as I've been diagnosed with various things, (some previously diagnosed), such as Depression, ADD, HPV, grinding teeth while sleeping, hypertension, an elevated level of testosterone, muscle knots, c-curve scoliosis, some strange acne thing I still don't get or care that much about, and the ever-charming Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And I have been sent to a plethura of specialists, now including a: gastreonotolgist, cardiologist, psychiatrist, dermatologist, physical therapist, and gynecologist). And as with most doctors, they love to hand out their "scripts" and I began to accumulate bottles of pills that came to alarm me a great deal.
At this very moment I am wearing a "blood pressure harness." This is basically a blood pressure cuff hooked up to a device that looks like a extra thick ipod, connected to the cuff by a long thick cord and nestled in a black, leather case. I was terrified that I'd be arrested today since NYPD has just begun in earnest to search people going onto the subway. Imagine a woman with long cords coming out of her shirt and something bulky under her sleeve during this climate of suicide bomber fear.
Every half hour the damn thing sets off and squeezes my arm so tight I bite my lip and wince. About half the time the reading doesn't go right, the cuff releases, and about two minutes later, it tries again. I tried to take a nap today, but the feeling of someone trying to squeeze the life out of your arm works better than my alarm clock at jolting me awake. Trying to sleep tonight should be interesting.
I've been watching the readings, and have been absolutely stunned at how high they've been. I've had high blood pressure in the past, but it has usually returned to normal. I'm seeing my diastolic readings around 110 (the second "lower" number of your bp) and it is a bit frightening, so each time this damn thing goes off, I sit in apprehensive anticipation. I'm sure that in itself pushes the bp up a bit.
I'm forced to wear this for 24 hours since the doctor suggested I may have "white coat syndrome" which basically means just being in a damn doctor's office makes your blood pressure go up, and since this particular doctor was at the ob/gyn clinic, a place i ALWAYS hate to be (all women will understand what I mean), it seemed plausible. But why wear this damn thing? Well, my beloved birth control pills are hanging in the balance. If my bp is high, they're going to take away my birth control pills. This frightens me on many levels. It's true that I don't have nearly as much sex as I'd like lately, but for those fortunate times I do, I'd hate to be without these pills, even if though there are condoms involved. But even more importantly, I fear my period without the pill. Before I began taking the pill, my period was a nightmare. Long-lasting, very very heavy flow (sorry guys), awful bloating, and cramps that would bend me in two. Worst of all, it was very irregular, leading to a few accidents in high school which make me turn a shade of scarlet now when I recall them. I still remember as a sophomore, sitting in the front row of my Chemistry class, and actually feeling blood beginning to come out. I was wearing a short, light yellow skirt and no tampon/pad. When the class ended, I was terrified to get up to leave. Somehow I eventually made it to the bathroom.
If I never have sex again (please God, no!), I would at least want these pills to keep me from the menustration hell I had before. So this is why I dutifully wear this damn harness and grow more and more concerned with each high reading. The only "low" readings I've seen so far were when i was woken from my nap..so basically, when unconscious.
Anyway, back to my other cornucopia of health problems...
What the fuck is going on? When did I become the poster child for Munchausen Syndrome? Is this all in my head? My god, what have I turned myself into?
About one to two months ago, I just grew tired of it all. All the fucking pills, the constant doctors appointments (and having to miss time off work for them), the referrels to specialists, etc. I'm just done with this, done. Nothing is SO wrong with me that I can't just walk away from all this bullshit. At least, walk slowly.
The cuff just strangled my arm again. 164/111. Jesus Christ.
A month ago I sat in my psychiatrist's office -- a man who greatly amuses me. He looks like Bill Murray in The Life Aquatic, and yet has a personality completely opposed. My shrink is probably the most stoic individual I have ever met. As a psychiatrist who does research only on the drugs themselves, he is not there to offer any therapy, but simply to find out what his pills are doing to my body. And yet, I really like him, though I hate when he lectures me about various things. And I've finally got him to smile a few times and even make somewhat humorous comments. Anyway, he was a bit taken aback, despite the fact that I've been on these damn anti-depressents for what seems like forever (perhaps about 10 months?). He lectured me for about 10 minutes about all the possible outcomes, particularly focusing on the dangers of going off, especially going off to quickly. But I stood firm. I know I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Do I feel "cured?" No, not really. But I know that "cured" is too elusive for me to comprehend. What's "cured" from Depression? When I'm walking down the street, whistling, and occasionally bursting into song? When I don't dissolve into tears when my financial state becomes rather dire and I use my credit card just to eat? All I know is that I'm ready to get off, and that's good enough for me.
Slowly, I've been shedding other medications as well, and have only kept the ones I felt essential, or those that are only taken occasionally when "needed" as with my Ritalin (jury duty!) or my Dicyclomine (once or twice a month when my IBS reaches unbearable levels). And of course, my birth control pills.
Yet, as I have made a very purposeful decision to remove pills, doctors, ills, and appointments from my life, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Doctors are actually CALLING ME to come in and see them! For Christ's sake! It seems the harder I try to run away, the more things that keep popping up. The ob/gyn doctor, the dentist, and the shrink have all called me to come in. And now that this fucking bp harness is spitting out alarmingly high readings, I'm sure I will soon become friends with a cardiologist.
I don't know what to do. I want to keep resisting these appointments. I feel "if I just go to this lasr one, it'll be finished." Assuming I don't try to throw myself out a window in the next 5 weeks, I will be off anti-depressents and my Stoic Shrink will fade from my life. And after Monday's cleaning, perhaps I can erase my damn aggressive dentist from my life, at least for 6 months, despite the fact that she'll push hard for me to get a night guard for my grinding and gel for my not-white-enough teeth. Screw that. Since I began to pay off my monsterous student loans, anything that's not food or toiletries feels indulgent. Maybe i'll stick some gum between my back teeth at night to keep them from sanding each other down to nubs.
So here I am now, wondering if I am simply a Munchausen idiot and not realizing it since I seem to have made myself a hobby of seeing doctors. Maybe these bp readings are me wanting people to feel sorry for me, isn't that how the Syndrome works? It's true, my family has a strong history of heart disease (they've all died from it, some rather young), so having that as a health problem doesn't really surprise me...and yet...and YET this is just not right. It's just not. I've got to take better charge. I've got to lose weight (cancelling my gym membership a month ago for financial reasons has resulted in putting on even more pounds), and I've got to beat all of this. It's just got to end soon. I guess I'll touch back later. Wish me luck.
Final bp check: 147/111
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Jury Duty -- First time EVER -- Day One
Ever since I turned 18, I have voted in every major election, and yet, I have never been selected for jury duty. I've been in NYC for a year and a half, and BAM, they get me.
I'd be lying if I wasn't a little bit excited. Sure, I'm damn scared of being picked and wasting my time in some stupid trial, but I'm also curious of the whole process, especially the interview portion. Unfortunately so far, it hasn't been much to write about (though I always do manage to come up with SOMETHING, *cough*).
My first day I made it here, barely on time, and entered a magnificient room with some impressive, if a bit faded and dark, murals of old NYC stretching across the walls. After gathering the required material, I made a beeline for the back of the room where I saw the internet hook-ups. I had come prepared! A friend had told me of this option, and I could think of nothing better than having internet while forced to sit in a room for hours and hours and do nothing but wait and hope your name doesn't get called.
Quickly I learned that this was Civil court, which I guess is fine. I'm uneasy about being a juror in general, since I am very uncomfortable passing judgement on some stranger which will likely dramatically affect his/her life forever. At least with civil, I wouldn't be putting anyone in jail, probably just deciding on fault and damages.
I was also deeply concerned with my ability to sit still and pay attention for long stretches of time. My ADD was diagnosed (again) by my current shrink, and he happily provided me with a prescription for Ritalin. My approach to Ritalin is the same as my approach to Dicyclomine, which treats my stomach problem -- only take it when you need it, which is fairly rare (I refill my Dicyclomine about once every 12-18 months). The last thing I want is another daily pill. I'm on a crusade to get off nearly all of them, but that's another blog. Anyway, now that I had the prescription, I did feel some relief, but still nervous. I have not taken Ritalin before (except for one successful experiment with a boyfriend's pills), just kind of suffered through long lectures and meetings, desperately doodling and writing notes to keep my mind "awake" and active. It's difficult to explain, but if I am forced to pay attention to one single thing (like a speaker) for a long period of time, it's like my mind winds down like an old-fashioned watch. It just ...slowly....starts....to fall asleep. And it's not even like I'm tired. It's a lack of stimulation, I guess. The actual advantage of ADD is the ability to be a fantastic multitasker -- something I've really appreciated and enjoyed in my various jobs which has demanded just that. The downside is lacking organization and focus, and appearing bored or sleepy during an important meeting.
So, now I have this prescription and I'm testing it out for the first time for jury duty. It seemed to work fine, which made me very happy, though I didn't notice any dramatic ability of hyper-focus -- I was still a bit fidgety and rather bored, but not only was I able to pay attention without falling asleep, but I didn't have that horrible restlessness of sitting in one place for a long time nor having that difficulty of getting comfortable and staying that way. This would end up being a real gift in the next several hours.
The first day I was called relatively soon, and with 29 other people, pushed into a tiny, windowless room. Being #24, I sat in a chair pushed up against the back wall, wedged between an old white woman, and a very old Chinese man who wore a rather complicated device to hear with -- the court official brought in some small box on a tall stand, almost like an old-fashioned camera, which somehow enabled the old man's hearing aid to work.
Soon the lawyers came in. They were almost caricatures in themselves. There were two lawyers for the plaintiff. The one who did all the talking was a tall, thin, black-haired Italian man who was rather charismatic and way too chatty for my tastes. We'll call him Vinnie. His sidekick was a complete creep -- a stout man, rather young, who had the eyes of that Runaway Bride woman, gigantic and round, as if surprised. And yet unlike hers, his had a sort of shocking intensity. He never seemed to focus on one thing, yet was always staring intently in one direction. It creeped me out a bit and reminded me of a terminator robot. Guess I'll call him Terminator for now.
The defense attorney was an older black man with slow movements and a voice like butter. In addition, his low voice had a lisp! It was such a strange combo, that I felt like smiling every time he spoke. Let's call him Ben.
We soon learned that the plaintiff had won the case already. Basically a personal injury accident where a man had been hit on the head by a falling brick at a construction site. Our job (if selected) was simply to listen to the evidence and assess damages. Sounded simple enough, until I learned the trial would probably take a whole week just to do that. Yuck.
Thinking, as I've seen hundreds and hundreds of Law & Order episodes, that the interview process would be fast, in a courtroom, and with a judge, I turned out to be wrong on all counts. We sat there, for nearly four hours, as time dragged on and on? What took so damn long?
For one, we all handed in our bio sheets which were methodically torn apart (giving copies to each lawyer), sorted by number, and then reviewed. During this entire agonizing process, Vinnie talked along, informing us of this and that, talking about the case, though making sure not to be too specific at all times. A couple of times he must have said something inappropriate, for Ben would ask him to step outside for a few minutes. It was so silly. And all this time, there was no judge.
Then, as Vinnie was going through, here and there he'd ask a general question to us all and if this would impair our ability to be impartial. Inevitably, there was always someone who feigned difficulties, and one by fucking one they were taken out in the hall with the lawyers to discuss it. This must have happened about 30 times, each time the rest of us sat there staring at our nails. And of course you could tell these "conflicts" were simply attempts to avoid getting picked, something I had expected I would do myself, but as I sat there and watched others do it, I felt so digusted with their completely obvious lack of honesty that I knew I could't bring myself to act that way. I didn't want to be on a jury, but I wasn't going to pretend that because one of my best friends was a lawyer that I just couldn't possibly be impartial!
Then finally, Ben spoke and talked about the case, smiling and having a laid back appearance, although he warned us that although we were all chums now in the room, back in the courtroom they were very willing to tear each other apart. He kept referring to the other lawyers as his "adversaries" which I found amusing and a bit strong. At one point he mentioned the entity that was being sued by the injured individual was a non-profit. That immediately got my interest, working for one myself! But as soon as the word "non-profit" left his lips, Vinnie nearly leaped out of his chair and dragged Ben into the hallway. It was obvious he was pissed and that was not supposed to have been said.
And honestly, it did suddenly affect my judgment. Although I am very sympathetic to injuries someone may sustain by the fault of others, working for a non-profit, and knowing how difficult it can be to simply survive, and how money is always an issue, it gave me pause in wanting to award a large sum in damages to the individual. But it was obvious that we were not supposed to know that and consider it, so I pretended to ignore it. But alas, one cannot unring the bell!
The only person who spoke aloud in the room about not being impartial was an extremely annoying woman I will call Miss Piggy. She had these really puffy cheeks and a turned up nose, and had put quite a bit of effort into her appearance, wearing lots of makeup and jewelry and styling out her blonde hair. She kept erupting into these tirades of laughter which sounded utterly fake to me, and just kept echoing in this diva-like guffaws, HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH! At one point, she raised her hand and said that when she heard that the plaintiff was a man who didn't speak English, that she had a real problem with that, making subtle, but obvious innuendos about an "immigrant" suing for money in a personal injury case.
WTF!?!?!?
She was also dragged out of the room for a talk as well.
Finally, with 10 minutes to lunch they sent us off, with no final answers. Since legally they had to let us go at 1pm, we were going to have to come back after lunch just to hear the final decision. I was pretty confident I wouldn't get picked anyway. I was #24 of 30 and from what I understood, they just started at #1 and selected people until they had 9 jurors (6 jurors with 3 alternates). I was sure they'd pick up 9 people before reaching me.
I went out and had a nice and long lunch with my lawyer friend. The stupid waiter at the Chinatown restaurant practically ignored us for 20 minutes, despite my various attempts to flag his ass down. This led to us getting our food rather late (I only had 40 minutes to eat by the time we met up anyway), and me being rather agitated. I was enjoying the lunch a lot though, as not only was the food delicious, but lawyer friend is always fun to talk to and I have seen him so rarely in the past 8 months or so. Recently, he has become an absolute powerhouse of knowledge on American politics, of which he seemed eager and happy to share. Luckily, I do love discussing politics as well.
A couple of times I hinted that I really should get going, but lawyer friend repeatedly waved his hand and pshaw'd me. "What are they going to do, fire you?" he joked. No, but picturing 29 restless people sitting in a room waiting for my slow ass wasn't an appetizing thought. Finally, we walked back, and I rushed back into the building, 20 minutes late! When I entered the room shamefaced -- everyone was there except for me -- I was relieved to see no lawyers. I was hoping though that they hadn't gone to the court official to report my absence. The old woman next to me leaned over and said, "I thought you had gone AWOL."
Shortly thereafter the lawyers entered to give the verdict on who'd be on the jury. Before that though, a couple more people had to be escorted out in the hall to talk about "scheduling conflicts." All these damn excuses!
In the end, ironically, it may have been one of these excuses that got me off. When asked if anyone had ever suffered a head injury, I raised my hand. As I may have mentioned in the past, when 18 and donating blood at my high school, I fainted and pretty much broke my entire face (and cracked the back of my skull). It was a pretty big deal, but in the end a lot of good things came out of it. Anyway, I think that may have been the reason I was not selected in the end. As they mentioned, they wanted to make sure people who had suffered head injuries could still be impartial.
But i was quite surprised though to see that there were jurors selected all the way up to #30, including the half-deaf old man next to me. Whatever! I was relieved to have slipped past the goalie this time.
We were then ushered back into the main hall where we sat for another hour or so before being let go early. Hooray! That wasn't so bad now, was it?
I'd be lying if I wasn't a little bit excited. Sure, I'm damn scared of being picked and wasting my time in some stupid trial, but I'm also curious of the whole process, especially the interview portion. Unfortunately so far, it hasn't been much to write about (though I always do manage to come up with SOMETHING, *cough*).
My first day I made it here, barely on time, and entered a magnificient room with some impressive, if a bit faded and dark, murals of old NYC stretching across the walls. After gathering the required material, I made a beeline for the back of the room where I saw the internet hook-ups. I had come prepared! A friend had told me of this option, and I could think of nothing better than having internet while forced to sit in a room for hours and hours and do nothing but wait and hope your name doesn't get called.
Quickly I learned that this was Civil court, which I guess is fine. I'm uneasy about being a juror in general, since I am very uncomfortable passing judgement on some stranger which will likely dramatically affect his/her life forever. At least with civil, I wouldn't be putting anyone in jail, probably just deciding on fault and damages.
I was also deeply concerned with my ability to sit still and pay attention for long stretches of time. My ADD was diagnosed (again) by my current shrink, and he happily provided me with a prescription for Ritalin. My approach to Ritalin is the same as my approach to Dicyclomine, which treats my stomach problem -- only take it when you need it, which is fairly rare (I refill my Dicyclomine about once every 12-18 months). The last thing I want is another daily pill. I'm on a crusade to get off nearly all of them, but that's another blog. Anyway, now that I had the prescription, I did feel some relief, but still nervous. I have not taken Ritalin before (except for one successful experiment with a boyfriend's pills), just kind of suffered through long lectures and meetings, desperately doodling and writing notes to keep my mind "awake" and active. It's difficult to explain, but if I am forced to pay attention to one single thing (like a speaker) for a long period of time, it's like my mind winds down like an old-fashioned watch. It just ...slowly....starts....to fall asleep. And it's not even like I'm tired. It's a lack of stimulation, I guess. The actual advantage of ADD is the ability to be a fantastic multitasker -- something I've really appreciated and enjoyed in my various jobs which has demanded just that. The downside is lacking organization and focus, and appearing bored or sleepy during an important meeting.
So, now I have this prescription and I'm testing it out for the first time for jury duty. It seemed to work fine, which made me very happy, though I didn't notice any dramatic ability of hyper-focus -- I was still a bit fidgety and rather bored, but not only was I able to pay attention without falling asleep, but I didn't have that horrible restlessness of sitting in one place for a long time nor having that difficulty of getting comfortable and staying that way. This would end up being a real gift in the next several hours.
The first day I was called relatively soon, and with 29 other people, pushed into a tiny, windowless room. Being #24, I sat in a chair pushed up against the back wall, wedged between an old white woman, and a very old Chinese man who wore a rather complicated device to hear with -- the court official brought in some small box on a tall stand, almost like an old-fashioned camera, which somehow enabled the old man's hearing aid to work.
Soon the lawyers came in. They were almost caricatures in themselves. There were two lawyers for the plaintiff. The one who did all the talking was a tall, thin, black-haired Italian man who was rather charismatic and way too chatty for my tastes. We'll call him Vinnie. His sidekick was a complete creep -- a stout man, rather young, who had the eyes of that Runaway Bride woman, gigantic and round, as if surprised. And yet unlike hers, his had a sort of shocking intensity. He never seemed to focus on one thing, yet was always staring intently in one direction. It creeped me out a bit and reminded me of a terminator robot. Guess I'll call him Terminator for now.
The defense attorney was an older black man with slow movements and a voice like butter. In addition, his low voice had a lisp! It was such a strange combo, that I felt like smiling every time he spoke. Let's call him Ben.
We soon learned that the plaintiff had won the case already. Basically a personal injury accident where a man had been hit on the head by a falling brick at a construction site. Our job (if selected) was simply to listen to the evidence and assess damages. Sounded simple enough, until I learned the trial would probably take a whole week just to do that. Yuck.
Thinking, as I've seen hundreds and hundreds of Law & Order episodes, that the interview process would be fast, in a courtroom, and with a judge, I turned out to be wrong on all counts. We sat there, for nearly four hours, as time dragged on and on? What took so damn long?
For one, we all handed in our bio sheets which were methodically torn apart (giving copies to each lawyer), sorted by number, and then reviewed. During this entire agonizing process, Vinnie talked along, informing us of this and that, talking about the case, though making sure not to be too specific at all times. A couple of times he must have said something inappropriate, for Ben would ask him to step outside for a few minutes. It was so silly. And all this time, there was no judge.
Then, as Vinnie was going through, here and there he'd ask a general question to us all and if this would impair our ability to be impartial. Inevitably, there was always someone who feigned difficulties, and one by fucking one they were taken out in the hall with the lawyers to discuss it. This must have happened about 30 times, each time the rest of us sat there staring at our nails. And of course you could tell these "conflicts" were simply attempts to avoid getting picked, something I had expected I would do myself, but as I sat there and watched others do it, I felt so digusted with their completely obvious lack of honesty that I knew I could't bring myself to act that way. I didn't want to be on a jury, but I wasn't going to pretend that because one of my best friends was a lawyer that I just couldn't possibly be impartial!
Then finally, Ben spoke and talked about the case, smiling and having a laid back appearance, although he warned us that although we were all chums now in the room, back in the courtroom they were very willing to tear each other apart. He kept referring to the other lawyers as his "adversaries" which I found amusing and a bit strong. At one point he mentioned the entity that was being sued by the injured individual was a non-profit. That immediately got my interest, working for one myself! But as soon as the word "non-profit" left his lips, Vinnie nearly leaped out of his chair and dragged Ben into the hallway. It was obvious he was pissed and that was not supposed to have been said.
And honestly, it did suddenly affect my judgment. Although I am very sympathetic to injuries someone may sustain by the fault of others, working for a non-profit, and knowing how difficult it can be to simply survive, and how money is always an issue, it gave me pause in wanting to award a large sum in damages to the individual. But it was obvious that we were not supposed to know that and consider it, so I pretended to ignore it. But alas, one cannot unring the bell!
The only person who spoke aloud in the room about not being impartial was an extremely annoying woman I will call Miss Piggy. She had these really puffy cheeks and a turned up nose, and had put quite a bit of effort into her appearance, wearing lots of makeup and jewelry and styling out her blonde hair. She kept erupting into these tirades of laughter which sounded utterly fake to me, and just kept echoing in this diva-like guffaws, HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH! At one point, she raised her hand and said that when she heard that the plaintiff was a man who didn't speak English, that she had a real problem with that, making subtle, but obvious innuendos about an "immigrant" suing for money in a personal injury case.
WTF!?!?!?
She was also dragged out of the room for a talk as well.
Finally, with 10 minutes to lunch they sent us off, with no final answers. Since legally they had to let us go at 1pm, we were going to have to come back after lunch just to hear the final decision. I was pretty confident I wouldn't get picked anyway. I was #24 of 30 and from what I understood, they just started at #1 and selected people until they had 9 jurors (6 jurors with 3 alternates). I was sure they'd pick up 9 people before reaching me.
I went out and had a nice and long lunch with my lawyer friend. The stupid waiter at the Chinatown restaurant practically ignored us for 20 minutes, despite my various attempts to flag his ass down. This led to us getting our food rather late (I only had 40 minutes to eat by the time we met up anyway), and me being rather agitated. I was enjoying the lunch a lot though, as not only was the food delicious, but lawyer friend is always fun to talk to and I have seen him so rarely in the past 8 months or so. Recently, he has become an absolute powerhouse of knowledge on American politics, of which he seemed eager and happy to share. Luckily, I do love discussing politics as well.
A couple of times I hinted that I really should get going, but lawyer friend repeatedly waved his hand and pshaw'd me. "What are they going to do, fire you?" he joked. No, but picturing 29 restless people sitting in a room waiting for my slow ass wasn't an appetizing thought. Finally, we walked back, and I rushed back into the building, 20 minutes late! When I entered the room shamefaced -- everyone was there except for me -- I was relieved to see no lawyers. I was hoping though that they hadn't gone to the court official to report my absence. The old woman next to me leaned over and said, "I thought you had gone AWOL."
Shortly thereafter the lawyers entered to give the verdict on who'd be on the jury. Before that though, a couple more people had to be escorted out in the hall to talk about "scheduling conflicts." All these damn excuses!
In the end, ironically, it may have been one of these excuses that got me off. When asked if anyone had ever suffered a head injury, I raised my hand. As I may have mentioned in the past, when 18 and donating blood at my high school, I fainted and pretty much broke my entire face (and cracked the back of my skull). It was a pretty big deal, but in the end a lot of good things came out of it. Anyway, I think that may have been the reason I was not selected in the end. As they mentioned, they wanted to make sure people who had suffered head injuries could still be impartial.
But i was quite surprised though to see that there were jurors selected all the way up to #30, including the half-deaf old man next to me. Whatever! I was relieved to have slipped past the goalie this time.
We were then ushered back into the main hall where we sat for another hour or so before being let go early. Hooray! That wasn't so bad now, was it?
Monday, May 30, 2005
Taking a Sneaky Stroll onto the Set of Law & Order
In addition to mentioning the artist who lives in my building, my landlord also mentioned that my favorite show since I was like 12, Law & Order, often films in and around my neighborhood. Though thrilling, I took this with a grain of salt since the guy was trying to get me to sign a lease.
But it was that fact that was in my mind one bitterly cold night as I began the descent toward my apartment (my apartment is like on a 45 degree hill). I immediately noticed cars parked bumper to bumper the length of my long street. This was unusual since parking is not allowed, EVER, here. My first thought was that there was a party nearby. Not a big leap in logic since I am assaulted day and night with blaring music coming from cars, so loud to completely drown out my TV sitting 6 feet away, and maddingly, from a neighbor who makes my walls shake at 3 in the morning, even on Sundays.
As I walked slowly downhill, I noticed a large sign in the windshield of one car featuring the name and logo of Law & Order. I literally paused midstep and stared. Suddenly, the words of my landlord came back to me, and additionally, the two large trucks I had paid little mind to as I passed them atop the hill came into focus. I suddnely was keenly aware of the humming of generators, and the group of beefy men hauling large cables and equipment.
Two men who were standing there looked at me with interest at my strange behavior. So, I began walking again, thinking thinking thinking. I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by. I had to figure out a way to get closer. I entered my building, and placed my two heavy grocery bags down just inside the door. If anyone was going to steal it, at least I'd have it narrowed down to the seven other units in the building. I turned around, and walked out, huffing and puffing my way back up the hill toward where I saw those trucks -- standing in front of "The Grinnell," one of the only fancy shmancy apartment buildings in the area.
It was unbelievably cold, and i tried to look confident as I walked up to the men working in the trucks. I asked them if it was Law & Order and they said it was. I paused. Now what? Then I remembered -- I had an aquaintance who worked for the show. Someone I've only had email contact with, but perhaps this was my chance to finally meet her. And besides, her name was as good as a passport, wasn't it?
I asked the men about her, and they jerked their thumbs toward the inside of the building. They were friendly guys and didn't seem suspicious of me at all. Good. So, I walked on and about every 15 feet someone stopped me, and I would once again announce my friend's name, like some sort of secret password. And just like in a relay, each checkpoint pointed me to the next spot. I got as far as deep inside the building where I could see the catering table set-up and a bunch of actors standing around.
It's funny that I say that, because it wasn't something i expected. I mean, when I walked in, it was just SO obvious they were actors and not workers on the set and I I can't tell you why. It wasn't their clothes or anything, and I can't even point out what it was. They just looked different.
I also remember the smell of the buffet, Mexican food, was revolting to me. I think it was the contrast from coming in from a bitterly cold night into a stuff, warm room with the smell of tacos in the air.
I was standing there for a few seconds, kind of stunned since I knew i was "in" the place now. I was excited, and really looking forward to meeting my email pal, now that the "getting in" part had been taken care of. Then I also thought about the actors I might see, and for a heartwrenching moment, I realized that Jerry Orbach would not be there (this was not too long after his death). It suddenly made the whole effort pointless. As much as I adore this show, and will always be faithful to it, without him, it has lost a lot of its charm.
Then I heard someone yell, "That's a wrap!" I turned to see the proclaimer, someone who looked like he was in charge, with the clipboard and headphones with mic. He turned, eyes focused on me and narrowed, and so I decided I might as well approach him. If anyone would know, it would be him, since a person like that either knows everything or at least thinks he does.
When I asked after my email chum, he told me she wasn't on the set that day. I was crestfallen. Here I was, at the end, and nothing. And it was getting on in the evening and obviously they were hauling ass to get out of there. I stood there a minute more, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of one of the main actors, but no dice. I turned around, and walked home.
Oh well.
But it was that fact that was in my mind one bitterly cold night as I began the descent toward my apartment (my apartment is like on a 45 degree hill). I immediately noticed cars parked bumper to bumper the length of my long street. This was unusual since parking is not allowed, EVER, here. My first thought was that there was a party nearby. Not a big leap in logic since I am assaulted day and night with blaring music coming from cars, so loud to completely drown out my TV sitting 6 feet away, and maddingly, from a neighbor who makes my walls shake at 3 in the morning, even on Sundays.
As I walked slowly downhill, I noticed a large sign in the windshield of one car featuring the name and logo of Law & Order. I literally paused midstep and stared. Suddenly, the words of my landlord came back to me, and additionally, the two large trucks I had paid little mind to as I passed them atop the hill came into focus. I suddnely was keenly aware of the humming of generators, and the group of beefy men hauling large cables and equipment.
Two men who were standing there looked at me with interest at my strange behavior. So, I began walking again, thinking thinking thinking. I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by. I had to figure out a way to get closer. I entered my building, and placed my two heavy grocery bags down just inside the door. If anyone was going to steal it, at least I'd have it narrowed down to the seven other units in the building. I turned around, and walked out, huffing and puffing my way back up the hill toward where I saw those trucks -- standing in front of "The Grinnell," one of the only fancy shmancy apartment buildings in the area.
It was unbelievably cold, and i tried to look confident as I walked up to the men working in the trucks. I asked them if it was Law & Order and they said it was. I paused. Now what? Then I remembered -- I had an aquaintance who worked for the show. Someone I've only had email contact with, but perhaps this was my chance to finally meet her. And besides, her name was as good as a passport, wasn't it?
I asked the men about her, and they jerked their thumbs toward the inside of the building. They were friendly guys and didn't seem suspicious of me at all. Good. So, I walked on and about every 15 feet someone stopped me, and I would once again announce my friend's name, like some sort of secret password. And just like in a relay, each checkpoint pointed me to the next spot. I got as far as deep inside the building where I could see the catering table set-up and a bunch of actors standing around.
It's funny that I say that, because it wasn't something i expected. I mean, when I walked in, it was just SO obvious they were actors and not workers on the set and I I can't tell you why. It wasn't their clothes or anything, and I can't even point out what it was. They just looked different.
I also remember the smell of the buffet, Mexican food, was revolting to me. I think it was the contrast from coming in from a bitterly cold night into a stuff, warm room with the smell of tacos in the air.
I was standing there for a few seconds, kind of stunned since I knew i was "in" the place now. I was excited, and really looking forward to meeting my email pal, now that the "getting in" part had been taken care of. Then I also thought about the actors I might see, and for a heartwrenching moment, I realized that Jerry Orbach would not be there (this was not too long after his death). It suddenly made the whole effort pointless. As much as I adore this show, and will always be faithful to it, without him, it has lost a lot of its charm.
Then I heard someone yell, "That's a wrap!" I turned to see the proclaimer, someone who looked like he was in charge, with the clipboard and headphones with mic. He turned, eyes focused on me and narrowed, and so I decided I might as well approach him. If anyone would know, it would be him, since a person like that either knows everything or at least thinks he does.
When I asked after my email chum, he told me she wasn't on the set that day. I was crestfallen. Here I was, at the end, and nothing. And it was getting on in the evening and obviously they were hauling ass to get out of there. I stood there a minute more, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of one of the main actors, but no dice. I turned around, and walked home.
Oh well.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Revolutionary Artist as Key Buddy
When I moved into my current apartment, the landlord boasted several times of an "artist" in the building. I was intrigued of course, since art is so close to my heart (and stupidly was given up for many years). The first night I moved in, I met his wife, since we went well into the night -- it was the worst moving day of my life! I approached her and apologized for our disturbance. I think she thought I was weird. It was pretty awkward.
Anyway, one day I finally met him, and found out his name was Wadsworth, which I thought was pretty cool. A black man, most likely in his sixties, with shoulder-length, thin grey dreds. He just looked like an artist. We rode the subway downtown and chatted. He said he did sculpture, which was a big of a bummer for me. I've never really been a big sculpture fan. I guess I'm boring in that I do like paintings the best.
As weeks went by, I saw little of Wadsworth. There are only 8 units in my building and I rarely see anyone, which I find kind of weird, but figure it has to do with our varying schedules.
I did a little Google research on Wadsworth and discovered that he did have some fame in the art world, and for paintings (it seems sculpture is something he moved onto later in his career). I even found a book on him, entitled, "Wadsworth Jarrell: The Artist as Revolutionary." Intrigued, I looked for his various paintings on the web, finding some, many of which featured famous black activists from the 60's as well as many paintings of jazz singers. I was fascinated -- this guy was for real. I loved his paintings too, not only were they beautiful and interesting, they were all painted with bright, dramatic colors, which is another thing I prefer about paintings.
I thought it'd be fun to buy a poster of his work off the internet and then have him sign it, but I had a lot of trouble finding one to buy. Finally, when I saw him in the building, I mentioned it and he let me know that he had several posters left over from an event in Atlanta. He said to come buy on the weekend.
But I never did. As often is the case in my life, I was broke and the money I thought I'd have for the poster was just not available. So, I let weeks go by, thinking NEXT paycheck I would contact him.
I think a couple of months went by before I finally did, and the reason had more to do with a recent raise and a bonus than anything. Wadsworth led me to his studio, which was simply the apartment directly above the one he lived in with his wife. Densely packed and messy, I loved it immediately. On one wall, stretching nearly its entire length, was one of his paintings featuring jazz musicians. It was absolutely stunning and I spent most of my time that day staring at it.
I got to spend a few hours in that studio with Wadsworth and learned a lot about him -- all interesting. After attending the Art Institute of Chicago, Wadsworth began meeting with other black artists, including his wife, Jae (she did fashion/textile design). The art was not just art but a social statement. And they called themselves, AFRI-COBRA (African Commune of Bad Relevant Artists -- Coalition of Black Revolutionary Artists).
"So, it's like a school of art then." I said.
Wadsworth paused and smiled, "Yes, yes, that's what it is. I'm surprised you got that, hardly anyone else gets that or thinks that way."
Wadsworth showed me a black and white photo of the original members of AFRI-COBRA which also included his wife with their young son on her knee. He pointed out different members and what they did, and noted if they were still alive or not. It's one of those moments when you fear aging and the day when you will look at a photograph and wonder who are the few still left alive?
Wadsworth pulled out the book I mentioned above, which was filled with his works in their bright colors. Later I would read in this article that they were "coolade" colors, and were to be associated with African-Americans.
All this time he was pulling out canvases and showing them to me. They were all gorgeous. It was so interesting to see the original painting that you've seen in a book or on a poster and here it was, right in front of me. I'm talking about this one in particular: http://cat.middlebury.edu/~slides/inactive/HA202pk/pkma036.jpg
He had several versions of his paintings through lithographs and screenings. He showed me how they did all these types of printing and some of the history of things. I was really wanting one, but they were all thousands of dollars, so I would have to be happy with my poster.
One thing that interested me was a funny, colorful, tall pole of a man, that was leaning up against some paintings. Hard to describe, really. He told me that there was a set of them, I think there were about a half of dozen. And they were of famous black jockeys from years ago. Digging through a storage closet, he pulled out more of the piece, including its little white cap and the matching bottom portion. It was pretty cool. Wadsworth told of how people had tried to buy just one (they're a set) or had promised money once they were sent (no way would he do that!).
I asked him about his life as an artist. One thing that has always interested me is simply making a living as an artist. As I've mentioned before, when I was a child, I had some real talent in art, but thinking it would only perpetuate my life in poverty, i completely turned away from it -- a choice I now deeply regret.
Wadsworth stated how he's never regretted becoming an artist, not even for a second. Beyond the person satisfaction of being a painter or sculptor, he said it provided so many wonderful opportunities throughout his life, many of them all-expenses-paid, including traveling all over Europe and a lengthy trip to Africa.
Wadsworth continued pulling out paintings and continued to dazzle me. He also had two large pieces in progress which were a sort of painting - sculpture mix. Lots of colors and textures were used. Underneath it all seemed to be a light painting of Michaelangelo's David.
He finally did find the poster and opened them all carefully, trying to find one undamaged. I was expecting the black marker, stylish strokes of a John Hancock-like signature, but instead he took a blue pen and signed it in a modestly on the bottom right. I found a fairly decent poster frame at Target and it now hangs on my wall, behind my beloved bowl chair.
Finally, beginning to feel less like a neighbor, and more like a groupie, I made my exit from Wadsworth's studio. Since then I've kind of wished I hadn't been so self-conscious and had stayed even longer, listening to his stories and the background to many of his paintings and sculptures.
And I have only seen him a couple times since that day, one day to hand him over my keys. With the colorful array of neighbors in my building, he was by far the best choice, being both truthworthy and likely to be around. I needed someone in the building since I'm notorious for locking myself out of my apartment. Surprisingly, I haven't done it yet in this apartment, but I'm not stupid; I know that day will come.
I feel really lucky to have had the chance to meet and get to know a famous, lifetime artist. I could chalk this up to just another one of my "only in New York would I have this opportunity!" things, or maybe i'm just lucky (though i've never really been lucky, unfortunately). The guy who lives above me, diagonally writes horror stories. Maybe I should go knock on his door...
Anyway, one day I finally met him, and found out his name was Wadsworth, which I thought was pretty cool. A black man, most likely in his sixties, with shoulder-length, thin grey dreds. He just looked like an artist. We rode the subway downtown and chatted. He said he did sculpture, which was a big of a bummer for me. I've never really been a big sculpture fan. I guess I'm boring in that I do like paintings the best.
As weeks went by, I saw little of Wadsworth. There are only 8 units in my building and I rarely see anyone, which I find kind of weird, but figure it has to do with our varying schedules.
I did a little Google research on Wadsworth and discovered that he did have some fame in the art world, and for paintings (it seems sculpture is something he moved onto later in his career). I even found a book on him, entitled, "Wadsworth Jarrell: The Artist as Revolutionary." Intrigued, I looked for his various paintings on the web, finding some, many of which featured famous black activists from the 60's as well as many paintings of jazz singers. I was fascinated -- this guy was for real. I loved his paintings too, not only were they beautiful and interesting, they were all painted with bright, dramatic colors, which is another thing I prefer about paintings.
I thought it'd be fun to buy a poster of his work off the internet and then have him sign it, but I had a lot of trouble finding one to buy. Finally, when I saw him in the building, I mentioned it and he let me know that he had several posters left over from an event in Atlanta. He said to come buy on the weekend.
But I never did. As often is the case in my life, I was broke and the money I thought I'd have for the poster was just not available. So, I let weeks go by, thinking NEXT paycheck I would contact him.
I think a couple of months went by before I finally did, and the reason had more to do with a recent raise and a bonus than anything. Wadsworth led me to his studio, which was simply the apartment directly above the one he lived in with his wife. Densely packed and messy, I loved it immediately. On one wall, stretching nearly its entire length, was one of his paintings featuring jazz musicians. It was absolutely stunning and I spent most of my time that day staring at it.
I got to spend a few hours in that studio with Wadsworth and learned a lot about him -- all interesting. After attending the Art Institute of Chicago, Wadsworth began meeting with other black artists, including his wife, Jae (she did fashion/textile design). The art was not just art but a social statement. And they called themselves, AFRI-COBRA (African Commune of Bad Relevant Artists -- Coalition of Black Revolutionary Artists).
"So, it's like a school of art then." I said.
Wadsworth paused and smiled, "Yes, yes, that's what it is. I'm surprised you got that, hardly anyone else gets that or thinks that way."
Wadsworth showed me a black and white photo of the original members of AFRI-COBRA which also included his wife with their young son on her knee. He pointed out different members and what they did, and noted if they were still alive or not. It's one of those moments when you fear aging and the day when you will look at a photograph and wonder who are the few still left alive?
Wadsworth pulled out the book I mentioned above, which was filled with his works in their bright colors. Later I would read in this article that they were "coolade" colors, and were to be associated with African-Americans.
All this time he was pulling out canvases and showing them to me. They were all gorgeous. It was so interesting to see the original painting that you've seen in a book or on a poster and here it was, right in front of me. I'm talking about this one in particular: http://cat.middlebury.edu/~slides/inactive/HA202pk/pkma036.jpg
He had several versions of his paintings through lithographs and screenings. He showed me how they did all these types of printing and some of the history of things. I was really wanting one, but they were all thousands of dollars, so I would have to be happy with my poster.
One thing that interested me was a funny, colorful, tall pole of a man, that was leaning up against some paintings. Hard to describe, really. He told me that there was a set of them, I think there were about a half of dozen. And they were of famous black jockeys from years ago. Digging through a storage closet, he pulled out more of the piece, including its little white cap and the matching bottom portion. It was pretty cool. Wadsworth told of how people had tried to buy just one (they're a set) or had promised money once they were sent (no way would he do that!).
I asked him about his life as an artist. One thing that has always interested me is simply making a living as an artist. As I've mentioned before, when I was a child, I had some real talent in art, but thinking it would only perpetuate my life in poverty, i completely turned away from it -- a choice I now deeply regret.
Wadsworth stated how he's never regretted becoming an artist, not even for a second. Beyond the person satisfaction of being a painter or sculptor, he said it provided so many wonderful opportunities throughout his life, many of them all-expenses-paid, including traveling all over Europe and a lengthy trip to Africa.
Wadsworth continued pulling out paintings and continued to dazzle me. He also had two large pieces in progress which were a sort of painting - sculpture mix. Lots of colors and textures were used. Underneath it all seemed to be a light painting of Michaelangelo's David.
He finally did find the poster and opened them all carefully, trying to find one undamaged. I was expecting the black marker, stylish strokes of a John Hancock-like signature, but instead he took a blue pen and signed it in a modestly on the bottom right. I found a fairly decent poster frame at Target and it now hangs on my wall, behind my beloved bowl chair.
Finally, beginning to feel less like a neighbor, and more like a groupie, I made my exit from Wadsworth's studio. Since then I've kind of wished I hadn't been so self-conscious and had stayed even longer, listening to his stories and the background to many of his paintings and sculptures.
And I have only seen him a couple times since that day, one day to hand him over my keys. With the colorful array of neighbors in my building, he was by far the best choice, being both truthworthy and likely to be around. I needed someone in the building since I'm notorious for locking myself out of my apartment. Surprisingly, I haven't done it yet in this apartment, but I'm not stupid; I know that day will come.
I feel really lucky to have had the chance to meet and get to know a famous, lifetime artist. I could chalk this up to just another one of my "only in New York would I have this opportunity!" things, or maybe i'm just lucky (though i've never really been lucky, unfortunately). The guy who lives above me, diagonally writes horror stories. Maybe I should go knock on his door...
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
The Cowboy Who Rode Into the Sunset and Out of My Life
How often do you think about “the one that got away?” A lot? Perhaps your love life sucks just as much as mine does. For me personally, I hadn't thought of him all that much, just once in awhile when I heard Tracy Chapman's song, "The Promise."
Well, that is, until recently.
Strangely, all of the sudden, a few weeks ago, “The One Who Got Away” (we’ll call him “Towga” for short) entered my mind in a blaze of fire, and has been burning away in there ever since. I can’t explain it. I don’t feel especially lonely. Boyfriends (and sex) are always great, but I’ve been through drier patches than this one by far (and have even had a recent offer for a naughty tryst in a nearby city with an ex). I’m enjoying my apartment even more and am no longer a slave to wicked pharmaceutical side effects. What gives? I don’t know...yet. Maybe I’ll figure it out later.
So, what do I do? Of course, Google! I plug in Towga’s name. The results are disappointingly meager. Two hits. One’s from 1999 and a state I know he doesn’t live in anymore. The second one shows the school he teaches at now, though it’s over a year old, and doesn’t offer an email address (that's what I’m really after). Why don’t people update their websites, damn it!?!?
Being the talented cybersleuth that I am, I didn’t give up there. And besides, now I was on a mission, no no, a CRUSADE! I tried people searches, phone directories, teacher pages, etc. I received some results, though what I was truly looking for, and not finding, was an updated email address. Too bad there is no “white pages” for email, though I doubt that would really fly anyway, seeing a) as they change so often and b) how most people wouldn’t want that so public (think of the spam!) I even paid $15 for 3 months of Classmates, thinking if it didn't work, at least I could now email all those people from high school I'd fallen out of touch with (and have already had one really nice letter from a friend from 19 years ago!).
Now in this search, there appeared to be one teeny weeny glitch. A wife. In the whitepages, he is listed with her. He's married? No! When I knew Towga well, years ago, he had been divorced. I think I will never forget the comment he had made:
“I married a drunk and made her drunker.”
That comment has always struck me since you don’t often see such honesty (and self-blame) from a divorcee.
But I get ahead of myself. Let me introduce dear Towga. I guess I met him nearly 10 years ago -- it was on the internet (yeah yeah, i know). He was a bit older than me, one of the first, since up until then, most guys I liked were within 1-2 years of me. He was going to grad school in Biology. (Brainy men always drive me wild with desire!). But he had something most men didn’t, he was a real cowboy! Yeehaw! He raised horses, and you could tell it meant the world to him. One of these people for whom horses are more than a pet, they are part of the fabric of his being. I was both admiring him and envious of him. I’ve always loved horses so much and make it a point to try and ride them when I’m vacationing somewhere (both on the beach in Thailand and in the woods in New Zealand), but they’re something you only have if you own a farm or you have a last name like Hilton or Onassis.
We flirted off and on for years, and then in 2000, it started to heat up. I think I screwed it up though; I’m not sure. There’s such an ugly side to me when I’m in a relationship. I think it’s one of the reasons I never try hard to be in one – for the most part, I hate who I am. There's a really beautiful side to me (well, anyone!) when in love, but unfortunately for me there is also a dark side. I’m better than I used to be, but still not where I’d like to be.
Anyway, we were both seriously toying with me visiting. I had a car then, and was desperate to do it, but was also languishing in insecurity. The thought of showing up, after a long drive and just disappointing him was something that plagued me, in an irrational way (and at times still does). Then one night online when he suddenly disappeared while we were talking about this, my emotions high (I might actually get in the car tonight and do this!), I sent off a pissy email. Stupid. It was soon after this that he cut off contact with me. And I had some mongo huge regret to deal with.
I couldn’t get a hold of him after that; I knew that I had disappointed him (and myself) by being one of these emotional pissy girls. My passion is something I cherish most of the time, but there are times when its taking over of my mind and body is not a good thing. I’m actually someone who does not usually get angry, and very rarely raise my voice in anger, but when I do, it can be fierce, and it’s usually only with a significant other (great!). At one point he sends a quick note that he wanted to talk to me, that there were some things he wanted to tell me, ... I was hopeful! But I never heard from him again.
SIGH
Now, we fast forward to the present. Towga is swirling around in my consciousness. I still can't find him, but then I have a brilliant idea! When browsing the crappily made pages of the high school he works at, I notice the familiar school address, something like teachername@schoolname.k-12.stateabbreviation.us. My other friends who are schoolteachers in other states have email accounts with the same format. I’m a genius! I’ll just use the format they use (first initial+last name@school.k-12.us-state.us and it should get to him no problem! I was almost overwhelmed with hope and suspense. I wouldn't have to wait long. After 60 seconds, it bounced back. Failed again.
I let some time go by. All this searching was beginning to make me feel like a freak. In my zeal to locate him, I had used another fantastic website, ancestry.com ($1 for two weeks, and then a 30 minute hard-sell phone conversation to 'cancel'), which didn't help me much with him, but did finally give me the push I needed to start working on my own family tree -- something I've wanted to do for some time. For my one dollar, I managed to map out all branches of my family back to the home countries (Norway and Germany). Not bad! If I had more money, I'd go further, but for now, that's very satisfying. If you ever want to have some fun, check out your relatives on an early census (1930 ore eariler, the 18th century ones are a real treat!).
But Towga? No, stuck at square one. I have only one option left, but I'm not really interested in doing it. One, this "final" step will confirm that I'm a stalker psycho, and two, it involves talking on the phone, something I've never really enjoyed, despite my two X chromosomes.
What is it? To call the high school he works at and try to extract a current email address from them. I pondered how to do this, since nowadays acquiring "personal information" is not such a simple task.
I let another day go by.
And another. This is just stupid.
Then I remembered my old friend Andrea, a cute pixie of a woman, but by no means a supermodel. She had no fear asking men out, and was often successful. When I asked her in disbelief how she could be so fearless, she replied, "Well, if he says 'yes,' that's great, and if he rejects you, then you have a great story to tell for a long time!" I smiled. Fantastic, and absolutely right. Not that I followed her advice to the letter, but since then, I have taken a few chances I might not have, "just for the story." And I do love to tell a good story.
So, okay, if I call up and it's a disaster, then I'll have something to write in my blog!! Well, the truth is, I don't lack for subject matter -- I still have a post-it next to me right now with 5 things I still haven't written about which are inching further and further into the past and farther from my mind. But, if this was a crash and burn scenario, it would at least INSPIRE me to write, and it's not the ability or subject that stifles me, it's my ever-fluctuating inspiration and motivation. What's more motivating than a devastating event? Spread that misery around!
So, I locked myself in my boss' office (no, she wasn't around), and after mumbling a mantra of courage before my trembling fingers picked up the phone, I steeled myself for a cool response – expecting some sort of resistance from my inquiry I was surprised that it went differently, almost too well. Let’s listen in:
Her: Hello! Noname School.
Me: Hi, um, I’m trying to reach one of your teachers, if he is still working there.
Her: Sure, what’s his name?
Me: Towga.
Her: Oh yes, he’s teaching a class right now. If you hold on, I’ll go get him and see if he wants to take this call.
Me: *panic* *splutter* Um, no no, don’t get him, I mean, that really isn’t necessary, this isn’t an important call. I just knew him at HisUniversity’sName. (Yes, a TOTAL lie. Like I would say ‘off the internet!”) (sidenote: I had pondered pretending to be a parent of one of his students, but that seemed too dangerous, and so, that plan was scrapped).
Her: Okay, here, you want his cellphone? Let me give it to you.
Me: Oh, um, okay, sure *fumbles frantically for paper/pen*
Her: *rattles off number*
Me: Um, *pause* do you have an email address for him? (too scared to actually phone his cell)
Her: No, sorry.
Me: Um, (still not wanting to call) could I leave you my name and email for him? You could stick it in his box or something.
Her: Sure.
Me: *rattles off my impossibly long name with equally impossible long name@yahoo.com* Um, thanks so much. Bye.
Her: Goodbye.
Me: *faint* *continues to tremble*
Now, that happened a couple weeks ago. Thinking I'd get an email that same day, I experienced a tiny stroke each time I heard Yahoo's unsettling gunshot sound signaling a new email. Yet, that first day went by, and then another, and another, and still another. I began to feel the crippling disappointment of every email being a NOT HIM email. Of course, my friend did nothing to dispel my mild hysteria. When I relayed to him the gist of the phone call and how I had left my message, my friend quickly replied, “Yeah, if he ever gets it.”
!!!!
Gah! Don’t tell me that! Of course, that became the only thing allowing me to keep a shred of dignity. I first tried the “Maybe he doesn’t have access to the internet” as my excuse for him, but quickly dashed that one seconds later when I realized how ridiculous THAT was.
Okay, it looks like I'm going to have to call. I just HAVE to know. I just have to put this to rest. It's that important.
I wanted to do it Wednesday, but the expectation that my heart just might explode in my chest kept that from happening. Thursday? Feeling better, still can't do it. Okay, Friday, this is it. I waited anxiously until, wonder of wonders, all 5 surrounding workmates had cleared out for lunch or meetings. Once again, locked myself in my boss's office. Stared at the phone, and then, heart hammering, called.
He answered, and for a moment I was thrown off. He sounded old. Not like "older than me" which I expected, but old as in "old man's voice" old. I said hello and told him my name (hoping that he actually remembered it, since he knew me mostly by my online "handle"). Luckily, he did. Immediately, I could hear the familiar sounds of an active classroom, and asked if he was teaching now. He was (and he answered the phone?) and we decided I'd call back at 5pm for him (6pm my time).
Tick tock tick fucking tock.
So, once again, after most had left for the day, I locked myself in another colleague's office and called. At first the conversation was a bit rough, and I agonized over the possibility of having to carry the conversation. But as time went on, he loosened up more and then the conversation got nice...flowed along. We talked for over an hour and a half. It was one of those conversations where you're like, "Okay, I should go now" and then one of you just kind of launches into another subject/story and you're both off again, chatting away. That happened about three times before we really did hang up.
As I mentioned, he is a high school teacher, and as he talked, he stirred up all of my own memories of teaching, and how amazing and fulfilling it felt when you really loved it, when you really got into it, and when you knew you were really good at it. It has been about a week now since that conversation, still, that tug in my heart to teach is still there. But I live in NYC and the thought of teaching here (lion taming) scares the shit out of me. I admit, I hate a difficult class and the whole icky discipline part. By the time I left Thailand, I had made it a fine art, but I was also almost exclusively teaching one particular class and so knew each individual very well. It's different when you have several different classes.
Well, the big question still hangs in the air, doesn't it? (ARE YOU REALLY MARRIED?). I didn't say it like that, I do have some dignity! But I did let the conversation flow into asking him about kids, and he said, "No, but I do have a stepdaughter, and she has her own children, so I'm actually a grandfather." Woah.
OH NO! :( Step-daughter = comes with wife too. NO! NO! NO! NO!
So, there you have it, folks. He's married and has (step) grandchildren. Sheesh. The guy's only ten years older than I! You'd think he was a senior citizen.
At the end of the call, I urged him to login (to our little internet home) and make sure not to be a stranger again. After I hung up, I doubted he would, at the very least, it wouldn't be soon. He sounded happy, content, with his teaching job and his 24 horses (yes, TWENTY-FOUR) horses. Oh, Towga, I missed my chance, and now you're unattainable. Well, I'm a bit bummed, but glad I went through all of this. It's true, it's always better to know than die wondering.
Well, that is, until recently.
Strangely, all of the sudden, a few weeks ago, “The One Who Got Away” (we’ll call him “Towga” for short) entered my mind in a blaze of fire, and has been burning away in there ever since. I can’t explain it. I don’t feel especially lonely. Boyfriends (and sex) are always great, but I’ve been through drier patches than this one by far (and have even had a recent offer for a naughty tryst in a nearby city with an ex). I’m enjoying my apartment even more and am no longer a slave to wicked pharmaceutical side effects. What gives? I don’t know...yet. Maybe I’ll figure it out later.
So, what do I do? Of course, Google! I plug in Towga’s name. The results are disappointingly meager. Two hits. One’s from 1999 and a state I know he doesn’t live in anymore. The second one shows the school he teaches at now, though it’s over a year old, and doesn’t offer an email address (that's what I’m really after). Why don’t people update their websites, damn it!?!?
Being the talented cybersleuth that I am, I didn’t give up there. And besides, now I was on a mission, no no, a CRUSADE! I tried people searches, phone directories, teacher pages, etc. I received some results, though what I was truly looking for, and not finding, was an updated email address. Too bad there is no “white pages” for email, though I doubt that would really fly anyway, seeing a) as they change so often and b) how most people wouldn’t want that so public (think of the spam!) I even paid $15 for 3 months of Classmates, thinking if it didn't work, at least I could now email all those people from high school I'd fallen out of touch with (and have already had one really nice letter from a friend from 19 years ago!).
Now in this search, there appeared to be one teeny weeny glitch. A wife. In the whitepages, he is listed with her. He's married? No! When I knew Towga well, years ago, he had been divorced. I think I will never forget the comment he had made:
“I married a drunk and made her drunker.”
That comment has always struck me since you don’t often see such honesty (and self-blame) from a divorcee.
But I get ahead of myself. Let me introduce dear Towga. I guess I met him nearly 10 years ago -- it was on the internet (yeah yeah, i know). He was a bit older than me, one of the first, since up until then, most guys I liked were within 1-2 years of me. He was going to grad school in Biology. (Brainy men always drive me wild with desire!). But he had something most men didn’t, he was a real cowboy! Yeehaw! He raised horses, and you could tell it meant the world to him. One of these people for whom horses are more than a pet, they are part of the fabric of his being. I was both admiring him and envious of him. I’ve always loved horses so much and make it a point to try and ride them when I’m vacationing somewhere (both on the beach in Thailand and in the woods in New Zealand), but they’re something you only have if you own a farm or you have a last name like Hilton or Onassis.
We flirted off and on for years, and then in 2000, it started to heat up. I think I screwed it up though; I’m not sure. There’s such an ugly side to me when I’m in a relationship. I think it’s one of the reasons I never try hard to be in one – for the most part, I hate who I am. There's a really beautiful side to me (well, anyone!) when in love, but unfortunately for me there is also a dark side. I’m better than I used to be, but still not where I’d like to be.
Anyway, we were both seriously toying with me visiting. I had a car then, and was desperate to do it, but was also languishing in insecurity. The thought of showing up, after a long drive and just disappointing him was something that plagued me, in an irrational way (and at times still does). Then one night online when he suddenly disappeared while we were talking about this, my emotions high (I might actually get in the car tonight and do this!), I sent off a pissy email. Stupid. It was soon after this that he cut off contact with me. And I had some mongo huge regret to deal with.
I couldn’t get a hold of him after that; I knew that I had disappointed him (and myself) by being one of these emotional pissy girls. My passion is something I cherish most of the time, but there are times when its taking over of my mind and body is not a good thing. I’m actually someone who does not usually get angry, and very rarely raise my voice in anger, but when I do, it can be fierce, and it’s usually only with a significant other (great!). At one point he sends a quick note that he wanted to talk to me, that there were some things he wanted to tell me, ... I was hopeful! But I never heard from him again.
SIGH
Now, we fast forward to the present. Towga is swirling around in my consciousness. I still can't find him, but then I have a brilliant idea! When browsing the crappily made pages of the high school he works at, I notice the familiar school address, something like teachername@schoolname.k-12.stateabbreviation.us. My other friends who are schoolteachers in other states have email accounts with the same format. I’m a genius! I’ll just use the format they use (first initial+last name@school.k-12.us-state.us and it should get to him no problem! I was almost overwhelmed with hope and suspense. I wouldn't have to wait long. After 60 seconds, it bounced back. Failed again.
I let some time go by. All this searching was beginning to make me feel like a freak. In my zeal to locate him, I had used another fantastic website, ancestry.com ($1 for two weeks, and then a 30 minute hard-sell phone conversation to 'cancel'), which didn't help me much with him, but did finally give me the push I needed to start working on my own family tree -- something I've wanted to do for some time. For my one dollar, I managed to map out all branches of my family back to the home countries (Norway and Germany). Not bad! If I had more money, I'd go further, but for now, that's very satisfying. If you ever want to have some fun, check out your relatives on an early census (1930 ore eariler, the 18th century ones are a real treat!).
But Towga? No, stuck at square one. I have only one option left, but I'm not really interested in doing it. One, this "final" step will confirm that I'm a stalker psycho, and two, it involves talking on the phone, something I've never really enjoyed, despite my two X chromosomes.
What is it? To call the high school he works at and try to extract a current email address from them. I pondered how to do this, since nowadays acquiring "personal information" is not such a simple task.
I let another day go by.
And another. This is just stupid.
Then I remembered my old friend Andrea, a cute pixie of a woman, but by no means a supermodel. She had no fear asking men out, and was often successful. When I asked her in disbelief how she could be so fearless, she replied, "Well, if he says 'yes,' that's great, and if he rejects you, then you have a great story to tell for a long time!" I smiled. Fantastic, and absolutely right. Not that I followed her advice to the letter, but since then, I have taken a few chances I might not have, "just for the story." And I do love to tell a good story.
So, okay, if I call up and it's a disaster, then I'll have something to write in my blog!! Well, the truth is, I don't lack for subject matter -- I still have a post-it next to me right now with 5 things I still haven't written about which are inching further and further into the past and farther from my mind. But, if this was a crash and burn scenario, it would at least INSPIRE me to write, and it's not the ability or subject that stifles me, it's my ever-fluctuating inspiration and motivation. What's more motivating than a devastating event? Spread that misery around!
So, I locked myself in my boss' office (no, she wasn't around), and after mumbling a mantra of courage before my trembling fingers picked up the phone, I steeled myself for a cool response – expecting some sort of resistance from my inquiry I was surprised that it went differently, almost too well. Let’s listen in:
Her: Hello! Noname School.
Me: Hi, um, I’m trying to reach one of your teachers, if he is still working there.
Her: Sure, what’s his name?
Me: Towga.
Her: Oh yes, he’s teaching a class right now. If you hold on, I’ll go get him and see if he wants to take this call.
Me: *panic* *splutter* Um, no no, don’t get him, I mean, that really isn’t necessary, this isn’t an important call. I just knew him at HisUniversity’sName. (Yes, a TOTAL lie. Like I would say ‘off the internet!”) (sidenote: I had pondered pretending to be a parent of one of his students, but that seemed too dangerous, and so, that plan was scrapped).
Her: Okay, here, you want his cellphone? Let me give it to you.
Me: Oh, um, okay, sure *fumbles frantically for paper/pen*
Her: *rattles off number*
Me: Um, *pause* do you have an email address for him? (too scared to actually phone his cell)
Her: No, sorry.
Me: Um, (still not wanting to call) could I leave you my name and email for him? You could stick it in his box or something.
Her: Sure.
Me: *rattles off my impossibly long name with equally impossible long name@yahoo.com* Um, thanks so much. Bye.
Her: Goodbye.
Me: *faint* *continues to tremble*
Now, that happened a couple weeks ago. Thinking I'd get an email that same day, I experienced a tiny stroke each time I heard Yahoo's unsettling gunshot sound signaling a new email. Yet, that first day went by, and then another, and another, and still another. I began to feel the crippling disappointment of every email being a NOT HIM email. Of course, my friend did nothing to dispel my mild hysteria. When I relayed to him the gist of the phone call and how I had left my message, my friend quickly replied, “Yeah, if he ever gets it.”
!!!!
Gah! Don’t tell me that! Of course, that became the only thing allowing me to keep a shred of dignity. I first tried the “Maybe he doesn’t have access to the internet” as my excuse for him, but quickly dashed that one seconds later when I realized how ridiculous THAT was.
Okay, it looks like I'm going to have to call. I just HAVE to know. I just have to put this to rest. It's that important.
I wanted to do it Wednesday, but the expectation that my heart just might explode in my chest kept that from happening. Thursday? Feeling better, still can't do it. Okay, Friday, this is it. I waited anxiously until, wonder of wonders, all 5 surrounding workmates had cleared out for lunch or meetings. Once again, locked myself in my boss's office. Stared at the phone, and then, heart hammering, called.
He answered, and for a moment I was thrown off. He sounded old. Not like "older than me" which I expected, but old as in "old man's voice" old. I said hello and told him my name (hoping that he actually remembered it, since he knew me mostly by my online "handle"). Luckily, he did. Immediately, I could hear the familiar sounds of an active classroom, and asked if he was teaching now. He was (and he answered the phone?) and we decided I'd call back at 5pm for him (6pm my time).
Tick tock tick fucking tock.
So, once again, after most had left for the day, I locked myself in another colleague's office and called. At first the conversation was a bit rough, and I agonized over the possibility of having to carry the conversation. But as time went on, he loosened up more and then the conversation got nice...flowed along. We talked for over an hour and a half. It was one of those conversations where you're like, "Okay, I should go now" and then one of you just kind of launches into another subject/story and you're both off again, chatting away. That happened about three times before we really did hang up.
As I mentioned, he is a high school teacher, and as he talked, he stirred up all of my own memories of teaching, and how amazing and fulfilling it felt when you really loved it, when you really got into it, and when you knew you were really good at it. It has been about a week now since that conversation, still, that tug in my heart to teach is still there. But I live in NYC and the thought of teaching here (lion taming) scares the shit out of me. I admit, I hate a difficult class and the whole icky discipline part. By the time I left Thailand, I had made it a fine art, but I was also almost exclusively teaching one particular class and so knew each individual very well. It's different when you have several different classes.
Well, the big question still hangs in the air, doesn't it? (ARE YOU REALLY MARRIED?). I didn't say it like that, I do have some dignity! But I did let the conversation flow into asking him about kids, and he said, "No, but I do have a stepdaughter, and she has her own children, so I'm actually a grandfather." Woah.
OH NO! :( Step-daughter = comes with wife too. NO! NO! NO! NO!
So, there you have it, folks. He's married and has (step) grandchildren. Sheesh. The guy's only ten years older than I! You'd think he was a senior citizen.
At the end of the call, I urged him to login (to our little internet home) and make sure not to be a stranger again. After I hung up, I doubted he would, at the very least, it wouldn't be soon. He sounded happy, content, with his teaching job and his 24 horses (yes, TWENTY-FOUR) horses. Oh, Towga, I missed my chance, and now you're unattainable. Well, I'm a bit bummed, but glad I went through all of this. It's true, it's always better to know than die wondering.
Monday, May 23, 2005
"I'm not gay, I'm English" - The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Take 2
Yes, I'll go along with the crowd; I love this show! Admittedly, I don't watch it every night since it comes on at 11pm and I have been trying (with varying degrees of success) to get to bed at that time. So, I called up, like in April 2004 for tickets, which they eventually sent me for September.
In September I left work a couple hours early and rushed over to the studio which was so far west that if you're not careful you'll fall into the Hudson river. If it weren't for the modest Daily Show awning, I would have thought I was in the wrong neighborhood. No glamour here! But how much glamour does a studio need on the outside? If I've learned anything from NYC, it's that shitty exteriors do not equal shitty interiors. Just look at the meatpacking district.
I've written before about how back in September Adam and I got bumped from the show and then were lead like ponies to the Colin Quinn Show (not cancelled). After several calls to the show's ticket line, I was delighted to get a real person (who then accidentally hung up on me!), and then after several more tries, got a real person again who patched me through the first woman who apologized profusely and then gave me VIP tickets for November 29th. Hooray! Finally!
This time, Adam was not coming. The real reasons why escape me, and I find that every time I think of him and his sabotaging ways, I get so filled with overshelming resentment that I have to distract myself with something else. Lucky for me, Rowan could come. Rowan (meaning "little red-haired one") is a pretty amazing woman, and I'm pretty sure she scarcely realizes or believes it. Lovely, fun, and brainy. Hard to lose there.
Rob Corddry
This time, determined not to be at the end of the line, Rowan and I got their early. The VIP line was completely empty. I was elated to be the first in line instead of dead last. The regular line, like last time, was already formed and snaked around tbe building. I guess VIPs don't feel the need to hurry.
It was dark and unusually cold and my stylish shawl was not much of a shield against the sharp wind. We chatted for an hour, nervous and excited. At some point the door opens, and a gruff old man allowed us to use the bathroom since we wouldn't be able to during the show, and knowing me, and my unwilling familiarity with bathrooms, I knew I better go. I'm going pee at The Daily Show! WOoooo!
Soon, we were all ushered like cattle into a room and sat in seats according to our place in line. Several interns, pumped with their power and prestige, gave us the laundry list of "NOs!" for the show. No photos, and no autographs (despite the fact that I had lugged Jon Stewart's weighty "America" book along with me). That was disappointing. Well, maybe I'd nab a t-shirt or something during the warm-up session I expected ahead.
I was wrong. The Collin Quinn show had a charismatic man doing a lengthy warm-up, along with tossing out tons of goodies, and then Collin's own long and winding stand-up. The Daily Show basically had crew members who ordered you to clap, yell, and scream as loud as possible. They reminded us so often, that I actually started to feel real pressure. Like, what if we weren't loud enough? What if they were disappointed in us? Hey, it was Jon Stewart; I wanted him to love us.
The set was tiny, and surprisingly some distance from my front row/corner seat. I can't tell you what Jon Stewart said when he came out, because it wasn't much nor memorable. Despite this disappointment, the show began and so did all the excitement.
It was great fun to watch the show. One of my favorite parts was the sketch when "correspondant" Rob Corddroy did his report from the Ukraine. I was surprised to see this filmed just a few feet from Jon Stewart sitting at his desk, with Rob standing perpendicular to the desk, the left side of his arm to the audience. Behind him was a blue screen, which when shown on the monitors reflected the masses of protesters in Ukraine -- pretty realistic looking! You could tell that his standing a few feet from Jon the whole time, not being able to look at him, but still having him in his line of sight, must make keeping a straight face tough. Rob was great, and when he was over, his serious "reporter" face got all cute and sweet and he turned and waved to someone in the audience he obviously new before he exited the stage. Sometimes it's fun to see how the sausage is made!
From where we sat, we had a good view of one of the stage doors, which was wide open. Keeping one eye on it, we saw Jude Law (the guest that night) walk by, and we giggled and smiled like 15 year olds (just like when we saw The Boy from Oz).
So, Jude Law comes on and it was such a surprise. First of all, stars are always smaller/shorter than you think they'll be (and yes, Jon Stewart is tiny, 5'7 to be exact and with me being a 5'8 female, that's short to me). Jude Law was hardly an exception. But it wasn't so much his height and weight that surprised me as his shape. The best way I can describe him is as a human lollipop. He had this giant head (with those enormous steel blue eyes) and a stick-thin body. Looking as if Carson from Queer Eye dressed him (I've never liked Carson's style which has always seemed a bit ridiculous to me), with stylish blazer, jeans and boots, Jude plopped down on the seat, crossed his legs, and immediately displayed his broad, gleaming smile which I think just might have been wider than his body.
Another strange appearance moment was simply the way he sat. With those crossed legs, he jingle jangle bob bob bob his leg up and down the whole time which gave him this gay dandy feel to his well-known hetero leanings. Confusing for this American to watch. But as Hugh Grant says, "I'm not gay, I'm English."
As much as I poke fun, it was a lot of fun and a great experience for Rowan and I. We laughed, we got to drool over Jude Law, and be a part of a show we both admire and enjoy.
But the story doesn't end here. In just 2 weeks, me and another friend (Lily) will be going again. Hooray for connections! I always complain that I've never really had "connections" for anything (photo, connection for tickets, long schpiel about honesty in politics, etc. *CRY*), but hey, I have one to get tickets to The Daily Show. I could do a lot worse. :)
In September I left work a couple hours early and rushed over to the studio which was so far west that if you're not careful you'll fall into the Hudson river. If it weren't for the modest Daily Show awning, I would have thought I was in the wrong neighborhood. No glamour here! But how much glamour does a studio need on the outside? If I've learned anything from NYC, it's that shitty exteriors do not equal shitty interiors. Just look at the meatpacking district.
I've written before about how back in September Adam and I got bumped from the show and then were lead like ponies to the Colin Quinn Show (not cancelled). After several calls to the show's ticket line, I was delighted to get a real person (who then accidentally hung up on me!), and then after several more tries, got a real person again who patched me through the first woman who apologized profusely and then gave me VIP tickets for November 29th. Hooray! Finally!
This time, Adam was not coming. The real reasons why escape me, and I find that every time I think of him and his sabotaging ways, I get so filled with overshelming resentment that I have to distract myself with something else. Lucky for me, Rowan could come. Rowan (meaning "little red-haired one") is a pretty amazing woman, and I'm pretty sure she scarcely realizes or believes it. Lovely, fun, and brainy. Hard to lose there.
Rob Corddry
This time, determined not to be at the end of the line, Rowan and I got their early. The VIP line was completely empty. I was elated to be the first in line instead of dead last. The regular line, like last time, was already formed and snaked around tbe building. I guess VIPs don't feel the need to hurry.
It was dark and unusually cold and my stylish shawl was not much of a shield against the sharp wind. We chatted for an hour, nervous and excited. At some point the door opens, and a gruff old man allowed us to use the bathroom since we wouldn't be able to during the show, and knowing me, and my unwilling familiarity with bathrooms, I knew I better go. I'm going pee at The Daily Show! WOoooo!
Soon, we were all ushered like cattle into a room and sat in seats according to our place in line. Several interns, pumped with their power and prestige, gave us the laundry list of "NOs!" for the show. No photos, and no autographs (despite the fact that I had lugged Jon Stewart's weighty "America" book along with me). That was disappointing. Well, maybe I'd nab a t-shirt or something during the warm-up session I expected ahead.
I was wrong. The Collin Quinn show had a charismatic man doing a lengthy warm-up, along with tossing out tons of goodies, and then Collin's own long and winding stand-up. The Daily Show basically had crew members who ordered you to clap, yell, and scream as loud as possible. They reminded us so often, that I actually started to feel real pressure. Like, what if we weren't loud enough? What if they were disappointed in us? Hey, it was Jon Stewart; I wanted him to love us.
The set was tiny, and surprisingly some distance from my front row/corner seat. I can't tell you what Jon Stewart said when he came out, because it wasn't much nor memorable. Despite this disappointment, the show began and so did all the excitement.
It was great fun to watch the show. One of my favorite parts was the sketch when "correspondant" Rob Corddroy did his report from the Ukraine. I was surprised to see this filmed just a few feet from Jon Stewart sitting at his desk, with Rob standing perpendicular to the desk, the left side of his arm to the audience. Behind him was a blue screen, which when shown on the monitors reflected the masses of protesters in Ukraine -- pretty realistic looking! You could tell that his standing a few feet from Jon the whole time, not being able to look at him, but still having him in his line of sight, must make keeping a straight face tough. Rob was great, and when he was over, his serious "reporter" face got all cute and sweet and he turned and waved to someone in the audience he obviously new before he exited the stage. Sometimes it's fun to see how the sausage is made!
From where we sat, we had a good view of one of the stage doors, which was wide open. Keeping one eye on it, we saw Jude Law (the guest that night) walk by, and we giggled and smiled like 15 year olds (just like when we saw The Boy from Oz).
So, Jude Law comes on and it was such a surprise. First of all, stars are always smaller/shorter than you think they'll be (and yes, Jon Stewart is tiny, 5'7 to be exact and with me being a 5'8 female, that's short to me). Jude Law was hardly an exception. But it wasn't so much his height and weight that surprised me as his shape. The best way I can describe him is as a human lollipop. He had this giant head (with those enormous steel blue eyes) and a stick-thin body. Looking as if Carson from Queer Eye dressed him (I've never liked Carson's style which has always seemed a bit ridiculous to me), with stylish blazer, jeans and boots, Jude plopped down on the seat, crossed his legs, and immediately displayed his broad, gleaming smile which I think just might have been wider than his body.
Another strange appearance moment was simply the way he sat. With those crossed legs, he jingle jangle bob bob bob his leg up and down the whole time which gave him this gay dandy feel to his well-known hetero leanings. Confusing for this American to watch. But as Hugh Grant says, "I'm not gay, I'm English."
As much as I poke fun, it was a lot of fun and a great experience for Rowan and I. We laughed, we got to drool over Jude Law, and be a part of a show we both admire and enjoy.
But the story doesn't end here. In just 2 weeks, me and another friend (Lily) will be going again. Hooray for connections! I always complain that I've never really had "connections" for anything (photo, connection for tickets, long schpiel about honesty in politics, etc. *CRY*), but hey, I have one to get tickets to The Daily Show. I could do a lot worse. :)
Monday, March 14, 2005
Shame of the Senate -- The Bankruptcy Bill
I am so totally disgusted by the Bankruptcy bill that is making its way through Congress, passed in the Senate 74-25. Being a person teetering on the brink of financial disaster at all times, to find that the Republicans have puckered up, once again, to kiss the fat ass of big business, and flip the bird in the face of the poor once again, makes me feel an overwhelming rush of rage, sadness, nausea, despair, and disbelief.
The Republican dummies, (speaking from the ventriliquost lips of the credit card companies) state that bankruptcy is used by people to run up big debt on vacations and toys and then a way to escape paying. Give me a fucking break. Look, EVERYTHING has its abusers -- extremists who make the vast majority of any group look bad (just ask any Muslim). Like welfare, there are those who abuse, but the majority are those who truly need it. To try and pretend you're passing this bill because most people are abusers just makes the Republicans look either like cold-blooded liars, or absolute complete fucking idiots snowed over by big business.
Personal anecdote: I was raised, along with my aunt, by my grandparents. My grandfather was very ill and was "medically retired," which forced him legally to stay at home, collect his meager pension from 20 years at the Wisconsin Gas Company, take his nitroglycerin, do chores, smoke his Benson & Hedges Light 100's (soft pack), and watch the Cubs play on WGN. My grandmother worked in the snack bar of a local high school cafeteria. Can you imagine how much money we were taking in? When I was around 13 years old, they declared bankruptcy. At the time, I didn't really understand what it meant, though I did see that it changed things. No more credit cards (no credit at all for at least seven years, as they told me), Christmas' were even bleaker (as was the food), etc. Was it a major change in our lives? No, we kept our TV and aging, constantly-breaking-down car. We left the house with the pool (pools being fairly common in Arizona), and moved into a modest apartment (with a pool somewhere deep within the "complex"). We never had enough money to take vacation, purchase a new car, or buy lots of "toys," so it's not like that suddenly stopped. Once in awhile we "took a drive" somewhere in Arizona to gaze at flora and fauna, including one memorable 6-hour round trip to the Grand Canyon, which lasted all 'bout 5 minutes at the site itself, since my aunt had developed a toothache, which forced us all back into the car for an immediate drive back. I don't really remember any drives after bankruptcy, though I'm sure that has more to do with my aging, ill grandparents than money troubles.
About a year after bankruptcy, when I was 15, I started working. Not to provide my family with bread, this isn't a Dickens tale, but I did find that after my job began, I was paying for all of my own clothes, most of my food, and other things (like various school fees and obligations which were enormous in the affluent suburb I lived in). We had to pay a friend of mine $1/day to pick me up and take me to school. Once in awhile I borrowed money to my grandparents, which they were careful to pay back.
But if you're one of the Republicans "chosen people" (anyone making over 100k and who likes to donate to the party), fear not! There are loopholes! Sink your money into that 25 million dollar home before you declare bankruptcy and you get to keep it! No one can touch it! Leasing that Mercedes? Nooooo problem, you can go and take drive any time you like. Don't fear the repo! as the Blue Oyster Cult said.
Watching one of my favorite political shows, for its breakneck speed and pure amusement value, "The McLaughlan Group," I was surprised to see that everyone on the panel (with the exception of Pat Buchanan, surprise surprise), found the bill to be "mean-spirited" and a payoff to the credit card companies who have been lobbying for this for several years. Evan the bloated, pompous Tony Blankley of The Washington Post, who usually makes me want to spit at the TV, agreed that the loopholes for the rich were unmistakely wrong. I watched clips of the enraged (and also bloated) Ted Kennedy rage against the machine on the senate floor, to no avail. Well, there's one rich guy who doesn't seem to get enjoyment (and cash benefits) from using his Bruno Mali's to squash the poor.
As for how the senators voted themselves, click right here to see how each one decided on this issue..
I was happy (though not surprised) to see that my beloved Russ Feingold (D-WI) voted "Nay," but shocked and dismayed that Kohl (D-WI) voted Yea. Then I remembered that Kohl is a multi-millionaire (you might be famliar with Kohl's grocery and department stores, the latter which are spread across the Midwest/Northeast). And Hilary Clinton did not vote? WTF? So, we all know she's started campaigning for President already. It sickens me that one must be a total sell-out, and if I believed it were possible, sell their soul to be President.
Obama, Nay, McCain, Yea. My other senator, Schumer, Nay.
To those 25 who voted with a conscience, I thank you. To the 74 who voted for the credit card companies, here's hoping you don't ever lose your job or become ill. Though I hear that senators get a pretty good health plan.
The Republican dummies, (speaking from the ventriliquost lips of the credit card companies) state that bankruptcy is used by people to run up big debt on vacations and toys and then a way to escape paying. Give me a fucking break. Look, EVERYTHING has its abusers -- extremists who make the vast majority of any group look bad (just ask any Muslim). Like welfare, there are those who abuse, but the majority are those who truly need it. To try and pretend you're passing this bill because most people are abusers just makes the Republicans look either like cold-blooded liars, or absolute complete fucking idiots snowed over by big business.
Personal anecdote: I was raised, along with my aunt, by my grandparents. My grandfather was very ill and was "medically retired," which forced him legally to stay at home, collect his meager pension from 20 years at the Wisconsin Gas Company, take his nitroglycerin, do chores, smoke his Benson & Hedges Light 100's (soft pack), and watch the Cubs play on WGN. My grandmother worked in the snack bar of a local high school cafeteria. Can you imagine how much money we were taking in? When I was around 13 years old, they declared bankruptcy. At the time, I didn't really understand what it meant, though I did see that it changed things. No more credit cards (no credit at all for at least seven years, as they told me), Christmas' were even bleaker (as was the food), etc. Was it a major change in our lives? No, we kept our TV and aging, constantly-breaking-down car. We left the house with the pool (pools being fairly common in Arizona), and moved into a modest apartment (with a pool somewhere deep within the "complex"). We never had enough money to take vacation, purchase a new car, or buy lots of "toys," so it's not like that suddenly stopped. Once in awhile we "took a drive" somewhere in Arizona to gaze at flora and fauna, including one memorable 6-hour round trip to the Grand Canyon, which lasted all 'bout 5 minutes at the site itself, since my aunt had developed a toothache, which forced us all back into the car for an immediate drive back. I don't really remember any drives after bankruptcy, though I'm sure that has more to do with my aging, ill grandparents than money troubles.
About a year after bankruptcy, when I was 15, I started working. Not to provide my family with bread, this isn't a Dickens tale, but I did find that after my job began, I was paying for all of my own clothes, most of my food, and other things (like various school fees and obligations which were enormous in the affluent suburb I lived in). We had to pay a friend of mine $1/day to pick me up and take me to school. Once in awhile I borrowed money to my grandparents, which they were careful to pay back.
But if you're one of the Republicans "chosen people" (anyone making over 100k and who likes to donate to the party), fear not! There are loopholes! Sink your money into that 25 million dollar home before you declare bankruptcy and you get to keep it! No one can touch it! Leasing that Mercedes? Nooooo problem, you can go and take drive any time you like. Don't fear the repo! as the Blue Oyster Cult said.
Watching one of my favorite political shows, for its breakneck speed and pure amusement value, "The McLaughlan Group," I was surprised to see that everyone on the panel (with the exception of Pat Buchanan, surprise surprise), found the bill to be "mean-spirited" and a payoff to the credit card companies who have been lobbying for this for several years. Evan the bloated, pompous Tony Blankley of The Washington Post, who usually makes me want to spit at the TV, agreed that the loopholes for the rich were unmistakely wrong. I watched clips of the enraged (and also bloated) Ted Kennedy rage against the machine on the senate floor, to no avail. Well, there's one rich guy who doesn't seem to get enjoyment (and cash benefits) from using his Bruno Mali's to squash the poor.
As for how the senators voted themselves, click right here to see how each one decided on this issue..
I was happy (though not surprised) to see that my beloved Russ Feingold (D-WI) voted "Nay," but shocked and dismayed that Kohl (D-WI) voted Yea. Then I remembered that Kohl is a multi-millionaire (you might be famliar with Kohl's grocery and department stores, the latter which are spread across the Midwest/Northeast). And Hilary Clinton did not vote? WTF? So, we all know she's started campaigning for President already. It sickens me that one must be a total sell-out, and if I believed it were possible, sell their soul to be President.
Obama, Nay, McCain, Yea. My other senator, Schumer, Nay.
To those 25 who voted with a conscience, I thank you. To the 74 who voted for the credit card companies, here's hoping you don't ever lose your job or become ill. Though I hear that senators get a pretty good health plan.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Boring Semi-Update
Every time I write on here, I feel like I have to apologize for not writing for so long. Yeah, I'm doing it again. I actually began writing a post two times before, and both times something happened and the post went *POOF*! Nothing like losing a large amount of text to completely kill any shred of writing motivation.
If I knew a large amount of people read this, which they don't, mostly by my own choice so I can write with relative freedom, then I might feel obligated to update on the many happenings in my life, which I assure you, are not so exciting, but I don't.
I do feel obligated to re-write the couple of posts I began before, since they were fun blips in my life this winter. But now that so much time has past (one occurred at the end of NOVEMBER), a lot of the shine has faded away. Perhaps you can suffer through it anyway.
NYC continues to be such an interesting place to live. I continue to be in a state of agitation due to my impoverished state which prevents me from doing more things. At the same time, I feel this thankfulness for the chance to live here (for now), for the many opportunities it holds for fun and fascination. It's the simple fact that things happen here that just don't happen anywhere else that keeps my relationship with this place growing and warming.
I often reflect with both interest and bitterness upon the similarities and differences between my situation here and in Bangkok. In Bangkok I was flush -- money was rarely an issue, and though I faithfully paid off ALL my credit cards while there, I also made sure to play -- a lot. As my old posts attest to, a SWF in BKK is no easy life, and I combatted that my constant entertainment, basically, spending my money which gave me joy. I bought hundreds of dollars worth of books, I saw every movie that came out, I dined in all the expensive (and inexpensive) restaurants, and I traveled traveled traveled.
Yet, I'd still rather be here, and despite my lengthy struggle with anti-depressants and their wacked-out side effects, I am both happier here, and have a greater sense of peace. Does money buy happiness? Not in the general sense. But it sure does buy it in spurts and can help a shitty situation be tolerable, even enjoyable.
So, I don't have the cash here to see movies, which, due to the volume I saw them in in Bangkok, I have become a great lover of. I don't have the funds to fend off discontent or to take advantage of what the city has to offer (which is more than BKK). But, you take what you can get in penniless times, and as I will write about later, going to The Daily Show with Jon Stewert and "sneaking" my way onto the Law & Order set, are a couple of ways that makes life here pretty nifty.
If I knew a large amount of people read this, which they don't, mostly by my own choice so I can write with relative freedom, then I might feel obligated to update on the many happenings in my life, which I assure you, are not so exciting, but I don't.
I do feel obligated to re-write the couple of posts I began before, since they were fun blips in my life this winter. But now that so much time has past (one occurred at the end of NOVEMBER), a lot of the shine has faded away. Perhaps you can suffer through it anyway.
NYC continues to be such an interesting place to live. I continue to be in a state of agitation due to my impoverished state which prevents me from doing more things. At the same time, I feel this thankfulness for the chance to live here (for now), for the many opportunities it holds for fun and fascination. It's the simple fact that things happen here that just don't happen anywhere else that keeps my relationship with this place growing and warming.
I often reflect with both interest and bitterness upon the similarities and differences between my situation here and in Bangkok. In Bangkok I was flush -- money was rarely an issue, and though I faithfully paid off ALL my credit cards while there, I also made sure to play -- a lot. As my old posts attest to, a SWF in BKK is no easy life, and I combatted that my constant entertainment, basically, spending my money which gave me joy. I bought hundreds of dollars worth of books, I saw every movie that came out, I dined in all the expensive (and inexpensive) restaurants, and I traveled traveled traveled.
Yet, I'd still rather be here, and despite my lengthy struggle with anti-depressants and their wacked-out side effects, I am both happier here, and have a greater sense of peace. Does money buy happiness? Not in the general sense. But it sure does buy it in spurts and can help a shitty situation be tolerable, even enjoyable.
So, I don't have the cash here to see movies, which, due to the volume I saw them in in Bangkok, I have become a great lover of. I don't have the funds to fend off discontent or to take advantage of what the city has to offer (which is more than BKK). But, you take what you can get in penniless times, and as I will write about later, going to The Daily Show with Jon Stewert and "sneaking" my way onto the Law & Order set, are a couple of ways that makes life here pretty nifty.
Monday, January 17, 2005
J-date: Cyberlove, Take 2
After burning out Yahoo personals a few months back, I finally took the plunge with jdate.com. Through my endless connections in the Jewish community here in the Big Apple, I thought it'd be a good opportunity. I dig Jewish guys, it's true. If I were to generalize all Jewish men, and yes, I am, they typically have qualities I look for in men. Tall (well, sometimes), dark, and handsome (well, it's a particular taste, you know), with large brown eyes, mmmm. They are often well-educated and appreciate a healthy sense of humor (who else can I endlessly quote Seinfeld with?).
Stereotyping? You bet your ass! But, spend a few minutes on jdate.com yourself and you'll see I'm not too far off. I'd say 1/2 the guys on there are lawyers. My only problem with the stereotypically Jewish guy is his tendency to come from an affluent family. I have never dealt too well with affluent families. Growing up in my own state of low-income misery, hanging around with people for which money is not a constant, stabbing concern, can be very trying. Even if the affluent person is the coolest, most laid back person of all, and claims not to "care" about my own personal poverty, it's still trouble. Why? Because it's always a concern for me, and it's never for him.
Example: he wants to go to the movies, and of course, will want popcorn and soda. Afterwards, he'll want to eat in this great restaurant. It's not too expensive, but it's not Gray's Papaya neither. He wants a bottle of wine for dinner, and he'll order at least one appetizer, possibly two if he's feeling like it. And afterwards? Perhaps dessert, perhaps coffee or espresso. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Yeah, it does to me too. But since I do not expect a man to pay for everything (especially something like this), the entire night, all I hear is "cha-ching cha-ching" echoing in my skull while simultaneously calculating the night's expenses against my available checking account balance. I'll go through calculus-like equations of "Okay, if I pay for 1/2 this dinner, then I'll have x amount for lunch and x amount for food at home the until payday. Then I'll have to put off buying that prescription 'til payday, and those shoes I need for work will just have to wait again til...(you guessed it) next payday." It seems I am always using the phrase "'til next payday" in my head.
God damn it, I hate complaining about money, and yet it always seems to come back to it. ANYWAY, I was trying to make a point -- to illustrate that when you don't have a lot of money, it is ALWAYS a concern, always a calculation in your basic quality of life from payday to payday.
And yet, here I am in my own apartment with a computer and cable TV. I think I'm doing okay.
NOW, let's get on with it. I buckled down and paid for one month of jdate. In rapid succession I went out on first dates with a slew of guys -- and all but one turned out to be very very okay. Nice guys, the lot of them, but nothing that made my heart flutter. But, let's review them one by one for fun, shall we?
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Jdate #1 - Pretty boy
The first person I met was the pretty boy. There are always a small # of guys I throw out a "tease" at, much like blowing a kiss, but never expecting anything back. It's fun though, since it's one of the least painful ways to be rejected, since basically, the rejection is non-acknowledgement. I was pleasantly surprised when he IM'ed me shortly after I sent him a tease, and we set up a date. He was kind enough to suggest a bar not too terribly far from my apartment (let's remember I live SO far north in Manhattan that I might as well be in Connecticut). I looked forward to it, despite the fact that I HATE to date.
The bar was dark, and I sat there sipping a screwdriver and watching the Knicks get their collective ass kicked on TV. A guy who sort of fit his description (including the - blech - baseball cap he said he'd be wearing) hovered near the door. He didn't seem to be the 6 feet of tallness claimed in his profile, so I didn't pay the guy much heed. But then, my phone went off, and the guy buy the door was the one calling me. It was him after all.
A part of me was instantly relieved because although he was still very handsome, he had a definite air of nerdiness which took the edge off of the "too hot for you" studliness of his photos. Talk flowed fairly easily, and as is often the case, when I can get to talking about movies, things go very well. I find many men are as big of movie fantastics as me, and we can playfully argue all night. When he loved Gladiator as much as I, and pulled out a bag of sour jelly beans, I was pretty pleased. But still, I wasn't sure. Something about him was ... off.
He had slammed his finger in a door earlier that day and seemed overly preoccupied by it, for one, since he was a guitar player. Though I sympathized, and secretly fantasized of nursing him back to health, his obsession with it just didn't seem right. He kept turning it over in his hand and commenting on it. After a bit, I started to get the feeling that his "oooh, my hand hurts" was code for "maybe I can use my hand as an excuse to get the fuck out of here!" I mean, COME ON, how long did you bitch about your slammed-door-finger after it happened as a child? Sure, you bawled your head off for about ten minutes, but then you got some ice and got over it!
He actually said, "I'm having a really nice time talking to you, I like this," which I took to mean as a GOOD thing. But, it wasn't long before I felt he was really trying to get away, and I let him go. Though he was a cutie and kind of interesting, I didn't walk away with the rush I had hoped for, just a sense of relief that it was over. Probably not a good thing. Neither of us has written back.
Onward!
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Jdate #2 -- The Stockbroker Artist who was WAY too into the idea of the Bangkok Sex Scene.
This was the first lunch date. I like to do lunch dates because they're easy (I don't have to try REALLY hard to be cute), they include one of my favorite things -- lunch! And of course, if it sucks, at least I know it's not any longer than my lunch hour!
This guy was an artist who seemed interesting, though I have to admit that physically he wasn't a huge turn-on for me. I liked the thought of an artist though -- he must be interesting! Well, maybe.
We met at Ben's, which is a large, noisy, and very popular kosher restaurant on 38th street. Despite the fact that you can't get cheese with your hamburger (I hate that), they do plunk down a bowl of pickles (!!!!) and a tray of coleslaw as soon as you sit down. Yeah!
As usual, the converation started out slowly. And when conversation lags, and I have to talk about myself (something I can only comfortably do for a minute or so before I start to squirm), I brought up Bangkok. It never fails to perk up whomever you're talking to, since it is not always they hear of a young woman who lived in Bangkok for three years. And somehow, we got around to the sex industry in BKK (shocker). He was completely enraptured by it and I knew immediately he was just another one -- one of those guys who snugly make their home in BKK. Men who readily admit they were dog shit in their home countries and enjoy near king status in Thailand, albeit all adoration being lavished by prostitutes, but that seems to matter little since they are so cute.
The artist smiled broadly throughout this conversation which basically took over the whole date and even continued as we left the restaurant and were walking down the street afterwards. I know sex is an interesting topic and I know the thought of a country where you're treated like a demi-god despite your advanced age and receding hairline is attractive, (hey, Norway, here I am!), but it just gave me a sick feeling, and brought up a lot of feelings that I didn't want to revisit. My disenchantment with western men in BKK was real tough for me, and I didn't want to have to relive it here in NYC where things seem moe "normal."
With a quick hug, we parted and with my own inner sigh, I headed back to the office. And again, when asked by coworkers how it went, my reply was, "Eh."
Onward.
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J NON-Date -- The Slimeball Idiot
This one is fun for me. I think I wrote about this guy in the past. He was one of the few Yahoo Personals guys I went out on a date with -- in the lovely Boathouse bar/restaurant in Central Park. This was the guy who stole the half-full wine bottle left on the table by the previous couple and argued to the waiter who tried to claim it later. (The waiter was well-aware it didn't belong to us).
A few days after I joined jdate, I got an email -- and it was the same guy! Now, I know we only met for one date and it was a few months ago, but COME ON! Am I that unforgettable? Hehehe, good thing I'm not that insecure *cough*. Anyway, although I was tempted to write him back a nasty email, I instead took the high, well, middle road. I basically told him, "Hey, we DID meet actually, great memory! Thanks!" Heheh. I never heard from him again.
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Match.com date #1 -- Hyena Boy with Stalker Leanings!
I logged into Match.com, something I've been doing less and less lately, since I think it's not that great of a website (though it has some interesting personality tests). I saw someone who fit my type - clean cut, dark hair, tall. I joined for my free three days to send him an email and we emailed back and forth a bit. He seemed pretty funny, and nice enough. And as usual, he wanted to talk on the phone (ugh), so I gave him my number.
He called late one night (too late) and started talking. He seemed okay at first, if a bit odd. As typical of me, I soon made a joke.
Then he laughed.
Now, we all know what a "hyena laugh" is, so I don't think I have to describe it to you. But MY GOD! It's like I wish you could have heard it anyway! It was so quick, like rapid gunfire, and so high-pitched, and wait...it was LOUD! Like 10x louder than his regular speech. Like, when he started yelling, you just cringed and wanted to hide.
Now, I know I like to joke about "dealbreakers" with men, and I try not to make them too superficial, but this just may be the winner. I mean, if you just can't stand to be around someone when they're laughing, and you are a person who loves to laugh, who yearns to laugh, who is always trying to make others laugh, well? Yes, I can tell you that he was weird too, 'cause he was.
He didn't work *red flag*, and was deeply embroiled in a large lawsuit with a former employer which was supposed to result in a fat settlement. I don't want to act like one of those women who demand the guy have a good job, but um, well, I do demand that he have a job, period! Even if he had some sort of trust fund, I think I'd be nervous about an idle boyfriend. If I had that much money, I'd be looking to do fun stuff with it, like some sort of dream business or going to cooking school or something. But then, that's me, and I'm alone.
He called a few more times and I was starting to really get my doubts, but at the same time, not wanting to be a total superficial bitch, I thought I should at least meet him in person and be sure. His emails to me were growing increasingly friendly...and urgent. When I made a comment about how his photo wasn't "close enough" (to be able to see his face well), I was bombarded by a slew of new photos to my email account, filled with lots of jokes and *wink/nudge*-like comments. The flood of emails, their content and tone was starting to make me a little nervous though.
In my early years of dating, I had several intense, monogamous relationships. In all save for one, I was the one who did the breaking up. As happens with all of us, some of these guys didn't take it well and took to what my old roommate called my "Stalker Club." There wasn't any kind of real stalking going on, but there was a lot of post-break-up contact/harassment/etc. The worst one was when I was about 24 and walking home from work. A half of a block before I reached my apartment, I suddenly saw my ex-(just broken up with)boyfriend standing right there on the street.
He lived in Sweden at the time! (was Swedish, duh).
The next 48 hours with him were rather ... eventful.
Then there was the guy who came to my place of work EVERY DAY for about two months after I broke up with him, but due to the nature of my work and the place that it is, I couldn't ask him to go away (I did eventually confront him about it).
Anyway, I digress. My point in discussing my past stalker boyfriends is that now years later, I can see the signs, and early on. Is it fair for me to hear the ringing warning bells of 'future stalker' clanging in my ears after a few phone calls and one in-person meeting? We'll never know, but better safe than sorry, that's for sure.
I was in the office at the time. Because of the unbelievable response to the tsunami, I had been called into the office earlier on by a coworker/friend to help out, which I was happy to do. I used it as an excuse to insist on a lunch date (on that day, a Saturday) instead of a what he seemed to want -- a long, nighttime date where we could "go from one place to the next." I knew I wouldn't be able to take him for that length of time and thankfully, I milked the excuse of work for all it was worth.
He must have picked up on my waning enthusiasm, because he mentioned that if i was no longer into it, to tell him so he wouldn't have to drive in (I didn't know he was so far away, I just assumed he was in/near Manhattan). I told him that it was up to him, that he really didn't have to take the time, etc. I said I would be willing to meet him for drinks after work in a few days (also a brief window, being a worknight). He wanted to come though and we agreed on meeting in a diner real close to my work. I still did want to meet him in person though, the curiosity was too strong.
He finally made it, after a few calls where he seemed obsessed about parking his car (I told him about the parking garage that was literally about 20 feet from my work's front door). Still nervous, he said, "What's the name of the parking garage?"
What's the name of the parking garage? Wtf!?
Finally, I convinced him that my directions were sound and to call me when he parked in the garage, which he did, then giving me very detailed description of exactly where he was standing. I reassured him that I knew exactly where he was (again, STEPS from my place of work!), but he insisted on telling me, thinking that it might be different from what I was thinking (No!). I met him, a nervous guy with okay looks. We went to the diner where it took him about 10 minutes to figure out what to order (it took me about 10 seconds -- cheeseburger, fries, thanks!).
Then, he began talking...and he didn't stop. He punctuated each sentence with hyena laughs which were mortifying to sit through. I could see the amused/confused looks from the waitstaff and I wanted to stand up and say, "He's not with me! Really!"
Now, something I don't like about really chatty people is that well, of course, they don't stop! It seems so unbelievably selfish and arrogant. The other thing I can't stand is that since I am a fast eater, if the person is too terribly involved in their conversation skills, I end up with an empty plate and deep feelings of awkwardness. Of course, I try to eat slow, but it doesn't really work. Besides, you start to feel ridiculous after awhile when you find yourself chewing slower than a cow with her cud.
Finally, he said I should go ahead and talk so he could eat before his food was stone cold (duh), and I began to talk about myself, and as usual, after some time passed, started to get self-conscious about it. And as with my habit, I launched into Thailand, where basically I spent a few minutes talking only about the school I had worked at (no prostitute talk this time), and what both being a teacher and a director of a small Bangkok school meant. I finished, feeling I had talked too much, but at least had given him time to eat.
And yes, he ate, in fact, true to his unknown name I bestowed upon him, he ate in what I can only imagine the way a hyena eats. Gulping and choking down his food, it was quite the scene. Luckily I had already eaten a good part of my food, for the sight of his eating skills was startling. Large chunks of food and I think, even spittle, escaped from his mouth as he tried to shove in the burger. Perhaps I showed a bit of my horror on my face, for he kind of smiled as he was swallowing down the burger (in what reminded me of a snake swallowing a mouse), and he made a comment on how he normally never went out on a date where you had to eat, just for this reason.
Ugh!
I had just then finished my (to me) long speech about my teaching job in Thailand, and felt good that I had shared how important it was to me. And I swear to god, just seconds later, he said, "So, what did you do in Thailand?"
AAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!
Dealbreaker! D.E.A.L.B.R.E.A.K.E.R. I'm sorry, but if I spend the time to tell you in detail about my job and how important it was to me, perhaps you could LISTEN! I was completely stunned that he had sat there gnawing away at his burger that whole time and had not heard a word! It's not like I said, "I was a teacher" and then launched into a long conversation about how great Thai food was or how beautiful the beaches were. Again, I must have shown shock, for he then said, "Oh yeah, I just don't listen at all when I'm eating...don't pay attention to what anyone is saying."
Oh gee, we've got ourselves a winner here.
At that point, I just didn't want to know this guy anymore. He was strange, arrogant, self-centered, he laughed and ate like a hyena, he didn't know how to listen, and oh yeah, he bitched and complained about how bad the food was (I thought it was a damn fine cheeseburger myself!).
After the date was over, the hyena, whose laugh was still echoing in my ears, surprised me since he must have immediately logged into match.com and gone to my profile (I had removed in almost immediately following the date). I had not removed it because of him, I removed it so the fuckers at match.com wouldn't charge my credit card for going one split second over their 3-day free trial period. He responded with, "I've never chased a girl off of match before!" I responded and told him the real reason why I was off, but what I did (which was unusual) is that I completely removed myself from the whole service, which wasn't necessary. Did he have some small part in this? Sure, but I'm just tired of the whole thing anyway.
After my short reply, a few days went by and I heard nothing. I felt a bit of relief, thinking that he had picked up on my disinterest and wasn't going to be bothering me after all. Maybe he wasn't a future stalker, but he was certainly not a future boyfriend nonetheless!
Funny postscript: after a few days I was surprised (and worried) to get an email from him. It said something to the effect of, "You're nice and cute but I don't think we have any chemistry, sorry."
Hahahahah ohhh you're so right, my dear, you're so right.
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Jdate #3 -- The Condescending Short Talker. Coming soon!
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Jdate #4 -- One Night Stand with the Axe Murderer
This is the only story I tell with some amount of sadness. It was near midnight on a Saturday night and I was at work! Yes, I was, but I had a good reason. Sunday morning I was going to Philly to meet an old flame and I was taking off work Monday so we could have some time to play in the city. I had promised a nice woman at work I'd finish a very large and tedious project for her, and so late that night, I was alone in the office. I was logged into jdate and decided to IM a cute guy. I don't do IM'ing that much, not sure why, since I like it much better than the phone. But I did. We started talking and things were just clicking. We both exchanged witty remarks and attacked and defended songs of Billy Joel and cast members of SNL. It was fun, and I was excited. Suddenly, he said we shoot meet, now. It was like 12:30am and as mentioned, I had to be on a bus to Philly in the morning. He had a car and offered to pick me up and go back to his apartment. AXE MURDERER ALERT! To tell you the truth, I really wanted to do it, and yes, I really do enjoy doing things on the spur of the moment. But also, I've watched enough Court TV to know that a chalk outline could possibly be in my future if I took this guy up on his offer.
He kept pushing, though gently and kindly. I wanted to meet at a bar, but with me in midtown and him at home in Queens, we couldn't seem to come up with one that was do-able (and parkable). I knew that we both felt this urgency, this "in the moment" feeling that was slowly slipping away as we kept talking it through and hemming and hawing. Finally, he agreed to drive down and drive us to a bar, so I agreed. I wasn't at my cutest, having spent hours at work, but this would have to do.
His car arrived, and I was surprised since he didn't look like his pictures (damn it, they NEVER do!), but I was still pleased, since he really was a cutie, with those big brown eyes i love to stare into. We spent the next couple hours in a dark, cozy bard called "Volcano" chatting away. I was infatuated and so pleased to finally feel more than an "Eh" about one of these guys. After a couple hours, I felt him cautiously leaning various appendages against me, elbow here, knee there, since we were sitting on some sort of couch-booth thing. I didn't move away. Normally, I do very little, if any touching, on the first date since I don't want to give off that, "fuck me!" vibe. Plus, I have just so much trouble making the first move, i just seem unable to do it. Then at some point he leaned in, and mumbled some comment about kissing me. I was ready. The kiss (or kissing) went on for a bit before we came up for air and I felt pretty giddy. He seemed surprised that it was so "good" since he said often it doesn't work out that way. (Huh?). After more intense kissing, and me starting to become self-conscious that we were turning into the suck face couple you always see in the bar, we got up and made a quick exit.
There really wasn't any discussion, it was just understood that it was back to my place for sex. I won't be graphic, but I will tell you that it was pretty incredible. I think the fact that he is a musician/composer might have something to do with it. Any artist has to have some amount of passion (though I have my doubts about the artist I from jdate #2). And of course, I often find religion (despite my Atheist ways) in sex and if with a good partner, the world will spin out of control. There's actually more I'd like to detail, but since it'll serve to seem more like pure titilation or self-indulgence than anything else, I'll omit it. Yeah, I know, cocktease. One graphic thing I will say -- we ran out of condoms. And don't let that lead you to believe it was quantity over quality, 'cause it wasn't.
Afterwards, though he was kind, I pretty much got this very subtle hint that this wasn't going to go anywhere. Being a conservative Jew, he felt deeply about his religion and wanted to find someone in the same "category." I don't know what I was thinking anyway. It wasn't exactly the kind of date that great relationships are built upon. But since we got along so well and seemed to have things in common, I had hope!
Was it all set up to be a one-night stand after all? Probably, looks like it. That's what makes me a little sad. To finally meet someone I like and have it just kind of dissipate.
Apparently, I am not fully aware of how it works here in NYC and I am slowly learning this. My coworker/friend, "Roberto," took me to Keen's Steakhouse for a scotch (from a 6 page menu of about 200 by region). This is the kind of place with lots of leather chairs and wood wood wood all over. Oh yeah, and it was ALL men (hetero), and if there wasn't a smoke ban, I can guarantee you that it'd be filled with cigar smoke. As we were swishing our $11 scotch in our glasses (the fumes almost knocking me out). But Roberto, about 8 years younger than I, educated me a bit to erase some of my naivete. He talked about how people are just constantly hooking up, very typically having sex on the first date. He said relationships often start by people who hook up several times and finally go, "Well, let's take this somewhere then."
I gotta tell you, sex is one thing I've never felt too naive on, so it's been a bit hard to know that I'm in a city that has a lot to teach me. I have nothing against one night stands, but it's really not what I'm looking for right now, and it bums me out that a guy who seems to be well-matched to me (him to me, not me to him it seems!), is going to slip away. I will give it a few more tries to get something going with him, but I've been hearing the authors of "He's Just Not That Into You" screaming in my ear since the morning after the bang session. He's been nice since then, and has even suggested I call him (though not DURING the week since he's often hoarse from singing all day -- as a music teacher). Gee, that's encouraging. And, I hate doing the phone thing. I never feel comfortable on it. I tried IM'ing him again a couple times and it didn't really go anywhere.
Damn. I guess he's just not that into me.
Stereotyping? You bet your ass! But, spend a few minutes on jdate.com yourself and you'll see I'm not too far off. I'd say 1/2 the guys on there are lawyers. My only problem with the stereotypically Jewish guy is his tendency to come from an affluent family. I have never dealt too well with affluent families. Growing up in my own state of low-income misery, hanging around with people for which money is not a constant, stabbing concern, can be very trying. Even if the affluent person is the coolest, most laid back person of all, and claims not to "care" about my own personal poverty, it's still trouble. Why? Because it's always a concern for me, and it's never for him.
Example: he wants to go to the movies, and of course, will want popcorn and soda. Afterwards, he'll want to eat in this great restaurant. It's not too expensive, but it's not Gray's Papaya neither. He wants a bottle of wine for dinner, and he'll order at least one appetizer, possibly two if he's feeling like it. And afterwards? Perhaps dessert, perhaps coffee or espresso. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Yeah, it does to me too. But since I do not expect a man to pay for everything (especially something like this), the entire night, all I hear is "cha-ching cha-ching" echoing in my skull while simultaneously calculating the night's expenses against my available checking account balance. I'll go through calculus-like equations of "Okay, if I pay for 1/2 this dinner, then I'll have x amount for lunch and x amount for food at home the until payday. Then I'll have to put off buying that prescription 'til payday, and those shoes I need for work will just have to wait again til...(you guessed it) next payday." It seems I am always using the phrase "'til next payday" in my head.
God damn it, I hate complaining about money, and yet it always seems to come back to it. ANYWAY, I was trying to make a point -- to illustrate that when you don't have a lot of money, it is ALWAYS a concern, always a calculation in your basic quality of life from payday to payday.
And yet, here I am in my own apartment with a computer and cable TV. I think I'm doing okay.
NOW, let's get on with it. I buckled down and paid for one month of jdate. In rapid succession I went out on first dates with a slew of guys -- and all but one turned out to be very very okay. Nice guys, the lot of them, but nothing that made my heart flutter. But, let's review them one by one for fun, shall we?
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Jdate #1 - Pretty boy
The first person I met was the pretty boy. There are always a small # of guys I throw out a "tease" at, much like blowing a kiss, but never expecting anything back. It's fun though, since it's one of the least painful ways to be rejected, since basically, the rejection is non-acknowledgement. I was pleasantly surprised when he IM'ed me shortly after I sent him a tease, and we set up a date. He was kind enough to suggest a bar not too terribly far from my apartment (let's remember I live SO far north in Manhattan that I might as well be in Connecticut). I looked forward to it, despite the fact that I HATE to date.
The bar was dark, and I sat there sipping a screwdriver and watching the Knicks get their collective ass kicked on TV. A guy who sort of fit his description (including the - blech - baseball cap he said he'd be wearing) hovered near the door. He didn't seem to be the 6 feet of tallness claimed in his profile, so I didn't pay the guy much heed. But then, my phone went off, and the guy buy the door was the one calling me. It was him after all.
A part of me was instantly relieved because although he was still very handsome, he had a definite air of nerdiness which took the edge off of the "too hot for you" studliness of his photos. Talk flowed fairly easily, and as is often the case, when I can get to talking about movies, things go very well. I find many men are as big of movie fantastics as me, and we can playfully argue all night. When he loved Gladiator as much as I, and pulled out a bag of sour jelly beans, I was pretty pleased. But still, I wasn't sure. Something about him was ... off.
He had slammed his finger in a door earlier that day and seemed overly preoccupied by it, for one, since he was a guitar player. Though I sympathized, and secretly fantasized of nursing him back to health, his obsession with it just didn't seem right. He kept turning it over in his hand and commenting on it. After a bit, I started to get the feeling that his "oooh, my hand hurts" was code for "maybe I can use my hand as an excuse to get the fuck out of here!" I mean, COME ON, how long did you bitch about your slammed-door-finger after it happened as a child? Sure, you bawled your head off for about ten minutes, but then you got some ice and got over it!
He actually said, "I'm having a really nice time talking to you, I like this," which I took to mean as a GOOD thing. But, it wasn't long before I felt he was really trying to get away, and I let him go. Though he was a cutie and kind of interesting, I didn't walk away with the rush I had hoped for, just a sense of relief that it was over. Probably not a good thing. Neither of us has written back.
Onward!
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Jdate #2 -- The Stockbroker Artist who was WAY too into the idea of the Bangkok Sex Scene.
This was the first lunch date. I like to do lunch dates because they're easy (I don't have to try REALLY hard to be cute), they include one of my favorite things -- lunch! And of course, if it sucks, at least I know it's not any longer than my lunch hour!
This guy was an artist who seemed interesting, though I have to admit that physically he wasn't a huge turn-on for me. I liked the thought of an artist though -- he must be interesting! Well, maybe.
We met at Ben's, which is a large, noisy, and very popular kosher restaurant on 38th street. Despite the fact that you can't get cheese with your hamburger (I hate that), they do plunk down a bowl of pickles (!!!!) and a tray of coleslaw as soon as you sit down. Yeah!
As usual, the converation started out slowly. And when conversation lags, and I have to talk about myself (something I can only comfortably do for a minute or so before I start to squirm), I brought up Bangkok. It never fails to perk up whomever you're talking to, since it is not always they hear of a young woman who lived in Bangkok for three years. And somehow, we got around to the sex industry in BKK (shocker). He was completely enraptured by it and I knew immediately he was just another one -- one of those guys who snugly make their home in BKK. Men who readily admit they were dog shit in their home countries and enjoy near king status in Thailand, albeit all adoration being lavished by prostitutes, but that seems to matter little since they are so cute.
The artist smiled broadly throughout this conversation which basically took over the whole date and even continued as we left the restaurant and were walking down the street afterwards. I know sex is an interesting topic and I know the thought of a country where you're treated like a demi-god despite your advanced age and receding hairline is attractive, (hey, Norway, here I am!), but it just gave me a sick feeling, and brought up a lot of feelings that I didn't want to revisit. My disenchantment with western men in BKK was real tough for me, and I didn't want to have to relive it here in NYC where things seem moe "normal."
With a quick hug, we parted and with my own inner sigh, I headed back to the office. And again, when asked by coworkers how it went, my reply was, "Eh."
Onward.
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J NON-Date -- The Slimeball Idiot
This one is fun for me. I think I wrote about this guy in the past. He was one of the few Yahoo Personals guys I went out on a date with -- in the lovely Boathouse bar/restaurant in Central Park. This was the guy who stole the half-full wine bottle left on the table by the previous couple and argued to the waiter who tried to claim it later. (The waiter was well-aware it didn't belong to us).
A few days after I joined jdate, I got an email -- and it was the same guy! Now, I know we only met for one date and it was a few months ago, but COME ON! Am I that unforgettable? Hehehe, good thing I'm not that insecure *cough*. Anyway, although I was tempted to write him back a nasty email, I instead took the high, well, middle road. I basically told him, "Hey, we DID meet actually, great memory! Thanks!" Heheh. I never heard from him again.
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Match.com date #1 -- Hyena Boy with Stalker Leanings!
I logged into Match.com, something I've been doing less and less lately, since I think it's not that great of a website (though it has some interesting personality tests). I saw someone who fit my type - clean cut, dark hair, tall. I joined for my free three days to send him an email and we emailed back and forth a bit. He seemed pretty funny, and nice enough. And as usual, he wanted to talk on the phone (ugh), so I gave him my number.
He called late one night (too late) and started talking. He seemed okay at first, if a bit odd. As typical of me, I soon made a joke.
Then he laughed.
Now, we all know what a "hyena laugh" is, so I don't think I have to describe it to you. But MY GOD! It's like I wish you could have heard it anyway! It was so quick, like rapid gunfire, and so high-pitched, and wait...it was LOUD! Like 10x louder than his regular speech. Like, when he started yelling, you just cringed and wanted to hide.
Now, I know I like to joke about "dealbreakers" with men, and I try not to make them too superficial, but this just may be the winner. I mean, if you just can't stand to be around someone when they're laughing, and you are a person who loves to laugh, who yearns to laugh, who is always trying to make others laugh, well? Yes, I can tell you that he was weird too, 'cause he was.
He didn't work *red flag*, and was deeply embroiled in a large lawsuit with a former employer which was supposed to result in a fat settlement. I don't want to act like one of those women who demand the guy have a good job, but um, well, I do demand that he have a job, period! Even if he had some sort of trust fund, I think I'd be nervous about an idle boyfriend. If I had that much money, I'd be looking to do fun stuff with it, like some sort of dream business or going to cooking school or something. But then, that's me, and I'm alone.
He called a few more times and I was starting to really get my doubts, but at the same time, not wanting to be a total superficial bitch, I thought I should at least meet him in person and be sure. His emails to me were growing increasingly friendly...and urgent. When I made a comment about how his photo wasn't "close enough" (to be able to see his face well), I was bombarded by a slew of new photos to my email account, filled with lots of jokes and *wink/nudge*-like comments. The flood of emails, their content and tone was starting to make me a little nervous though.
In my early years of dating, I had several intense, monogamous relationships. In all save for one, I was the one who did the breaking up. As happens with all of us, some of these guys didn't take it well and took to what my old roommate called my "Stalker Club." There wasn't any kind of real stalking going on, but there was a lot of post-break-up contact/harassment/etc. The worst one was when I was about 24 and walking home from work. A half of a block before I reached my apartment, I suddenly saw my ex-(just broken up with)boyfriend standing right there on the street.
He lived in Sweden at the time! (was Swedish, duh).
The next 48 hours with him were rather ... eventful.
Then there was the guy who came to my place of work EVERY DAY for about two months after I broke up with him, but due to the nature of my work and the place that it is, I couldn't ask him to go away (I did eventually confront him about it).
Anyway, I digress. My point in discussing my past stalker boyfriends is that now years later, I can see the signs, and early on. Is it fair for me to hear the ringing warning bells of 'future stalker' clanging in my ears after a few phone calls and one in-person meeting? We'll never know, but better safe than sorry, that's for sure.
I was in the office at the time. Because of the unbelievable response to the tsunami, I had been called into the office earlier on by a coworker/friend to help out, which I was happy to do. I used it as an excuse to insist on a lunch date (on that day, a Saturday) instead of a what he seemed to want -- a long, nighttime date where we could "go from one place to the next." I knew I wouldn't be able to take him for that length of time and thankfully, I milked the excuse of work for all it was worth.
He must have picked up on my waning enthusiasm, because he mentioned that if i was no longer into it, to tell him so he wouldn't have to drive in (I didn't know he was so far away, I just assumed he was in/near Manhattan). I told him that it was up to him, that he really didn't have to take the time, etc. I said I would be willing to meet him for drinks after work in a few days (also a brief window, being a worknight). He wanted to come though and we agreed on meeting in a diner real close to my work. I still did want to meet him in person though, the curiosity was too strong.
He finally made it, after a few calls where he seemed obsessed about parking his car (I told him about the parking garage that was literally about 20 feet from my work's front door). Still nervous, he said, "What's the name of the parking garage?"
What's the name of the parking garage? Wtf!?
Finally, I convinced him that my directions were sound and to call me when he parked in the garage, which he did, then giving me very detailed description of exactly where he was standing. I reassured him that I knew exactly where he was (again, STEPS from my place of work!), but he insisted on telling me, thinking that it might be different from what I was thinking (No!). I met him, a nervous guy with okay looks. We went to the diner where it took him about 10 minutes to figure out what to order (it took me about 10 seconds -- cheeseburger, fries, thanks!).
Then, he began talking...and he didn't stop. He punctuated each sentence with hyena laughs which were mortifying to sit through. I could see the amused/confused looks from the waitstaff and I wanted to stand up and say, "He's not with me! Really!"
Now, something I don't like about really chatty people is that well, of course, they don't stop! It seems so unbelievably selfish and arrogant. The other thing I can't stand is that since I am a fast eater, if the person is too terribly involved in their conversation skills, I end up with an empty plate and deep feelings of awkwardness. Of course, I try to eat slow, but it doesn't really work. Besides, you start to feel ridiculous after awhile when you find yourself chewing slower than a cow with her cud.
Finally, he said I should go ahead and talk so he could eat before his food was stone cold (duh), and I began to talk about myself, and as usual, after some time passed, started to get self-conscious about it. And as with my habit, I launched into Thailand, where basically I spent a few minutes talking only about the school I had worked at (no prostitute talk this time), and what both being a teacher and a director of a small Bangkok school meant. I finished, feeling I had talked too much, but at least had given him time to eat.
And yes, he ate, in fact, true to his unknown name I bestowed upon him, he ate in what I can only imagine the way a hyena eats. Gulping and choking down his food, it was quite the scene. Luckily I had already eaten a good part of my food, for the sight of his eating skills was startling. Large chunks of food and I think, even spittle, escaped from his mouth as he tried to shove in the burger. Perhaps I showed a bit of my horror on my face, for he kind of smiled as he was swallowing down the burger (in what reminded me of a snake swallowing a mouse), and he made a comment on how he normally never went out on a date where you had to eat, just for this reason.
Ugh!
I had just then finished my (to me) long speech about my teaching job in Thailand, and felt good that I had shared how important it was to me. And I swear to god, just seconds later, he said, "So, what did you do in Thailand?"
AAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!
Dealbreaker! D.E.A.L.B.R.E.A.K.E.R. I'm sorry, but if I spend the time to tell you in detail about my job and how important it was to me, perhaps you could LISTEN! I was completely stunned that he had sat there gnawing away at his burger that whole time and had not heard a word! It's not like I said, "I was a teacher" and then launched into a long conversation about how great Thai food was or how beautiful the beaches were. Again, I must have shown shock, for he then said, "Oh yeah, I just don't listen at all when I'm eating...don't pay attention to what anyone is saying."
Oh gee, we've got ourselves a winner here.
At that point, I just didn't want to know this guy anymore. He was strange, arrogant, self-centered, he laughed and ate like a hyena, he didn't know how to listen, and oh yeah, he bitched and complained about how bad the food was (I thought it was a damn fine cheeseburger myself!).
After the date was over, the hyena, whose laugh was still echoing in my ears, surprised me since he must have immediately logged into match.com and gone to my profile (I had removed in almost immediately following the date). I had not removed it because of him, I removed it so the fuckers at match.com wouldn't charge my credit card for going one split second over their 3-day free trial period. He responded with, "I've never chased a girl off of match before!" I responded and told him the real reason why I was off, but what I did (which was unusual) is that I completely removed myself from the whole service, which wasn't necessary. Did he have some small part in this? Sure, but I'm just tired of the whole thing anyway.
After my short reply, a few days went by and I heard nothing. I felt a bit of relief, thinking that he had picked up on my disinterest and wasn't going to be bothering me after all. Maybe he wasn't a future stalker, but he was certainly not a future boyfriend nonetheless!
Funny postscript: after a few days I was surprised (and worried) to get an email from him. It said something to the effect of, "You're nice and cute but I don't think we have any chemistry, sorry."
Hahahahah ohhh you're so right, my dear, you're so right.
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Jdate #3 -- The Condescending Short Talker. Coming soon!
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Jdate #4 -- One Night Stand with the Axe Murderer
This is the only story I tell with some amount of sadness. It was near midnight on a Saturday night and I was at work! Yes, I was, but I had a good reason. Sunday morning I was going to Philly to meet an old flame and I was taking off work Monday so we could have some time to play in the city. I had promised a nice woman at work I'd finish a very large and tedious project for her, and so late that night, I was alone in the office. I was logged into jdate and decided to IM a cute guy. I don't do IM'ing that much, not sure why, since I like it much better than the phone. But I did. We started talking and things were just clicking. We both exchanged witty remarks and attacked and defended songs of Billy Joel and cast members of SNL. It was fun, and I was excited. Suddenly, he said we shoot meet, now. It was like 12:30am and as mentioned, I had to be on a bus to Philly in the morning. He had a car and offered to pick me up and go back to his apartment. AXE MURDERER ALERT! To tell you the truth, I really wanted to do it, and yes, I really do enjoy doing things on the spur of the moment. But also, I've watched enough Court TV to know that a chalk outline could possibly be in my future if I took this guy up on his offer.
He kept pushing, though gently and kindly. I wanted to meet at a bar, but with me in midtown and him at home in Queens, we couldn't seem to come up with one that was do-able (and parkable). I knew that we both felt this urgency, this "in the moment" feeling that was slowly slipping away as we kept talking it through and hemming and hawing. Finally, he agreed to drive down and drive us to a bar, so I agreed. I wasn't at my cutest, having spent hours at work, but this would have to do.
His car arrived, and I was surprised since he didn't look like his pictures (damn it, they NEVER do!), but I was still pleased, since he really was a cutie, with those big brown eyes i love to stare into. We spent the next couple hours in a dark, cozy bard called "Volcano" chatting away. I was infatuated and so pleased to finally feel more than an "Eh" about one of these guys. After a couple hours, I felt him cautiously leaning various appendages against me, elbow here, knee there, since we were sitting on some sort of couch-booth thing. I didn't move away. Normally, I do very little, if any touching, on the first date since I don't want to give off that, "fuck me!" vibe. Plus, I have just so much trouble making the first move, i just seem unable to do it. Then at some point he leaned in, and mumbled some comment about kissing me. I was ready. The kiss (or kissing) went on for a bit before we came up for air and I felt pretty giddy. He seemed surprised that it was so "good" since he said often it doesn't work out that way. (Huh?). After more intense kissing, and me starting to become self-conscious that we were turning into the suck face couple you always see in the bar, we got up and made a quick exit.
There really wasn't any discussion, it was just understood that it was back to my place for sex. I won't be graphic, but I will tell you that it was pretty incredible. I think the fact that he is a musician/composer might have something to do with it. Any artist has to have some amount of passion (though I have my doubts about the artist I from jdate #2). And of course, I often find religion (despite my Atheist ways) in sex and if with a good partner, the world will spin out of control. There's actually more I'd like to detail, but since it'll serve to seem more like pure titilation or self-indulgence than anything else, I'll omit it. Yeah, I know, cocktease. One graphic thing I will say -- we ran out of condoms. And don't let that lead you to believe it was quantity over quality, 'cause it wasn't.
Afterwards, though he was kind, I pretty much got this very subtle hint that this wasn't going to go anywhere. Being a conservative Jew, he felt deeply about his religion and wanted to find someone in the same "category." I don't know what I was thinking anyway. It wasn't exactly the kind of date that great relationships are built upon. But since we got along so well and seemed to have things in common, I had hope!
Was it all set up to be a one-night stand after all? Probably, looks like it. That's what makes me a little sad. To finally meet someone I like and have it just kind of dissipate.
Apparently, I am not fully aware of how it works here in NYC and I am slowly learning this. My coworker/friend, "Roberto," took me to Keen's Steakhouse for a scotch (from a 6 page menu of about 200 by region). This is the kind of place with lots of leather chairs and wood wood wood all over. Oh yeah, and it was ALL men (hetero), and if there wasn't a smoke ban, I can guarantee you that it'd be filled with cigar smoke. As we were swishing our $11 scotch in our glasses (the fumes almost knocking me out). But Roberto, about 8 years younger than I, educated me a bit to erase some of my naivete. He talked about how people are just constantly hooking up, very typically having sex on the first date. He said relationships often start by people who hook up several times and finally go, "Well, let's take this somewhere then."
I gotta tell you, sex is one thing I've never felt too naive on, so it's been a bit hard to know that I'm in a city that has a lot to teach me. I have nothing against one night stands, but it's really not what I'm looking for right now, and it bums me out that a guy who seems to be well-matched to me (him to me, not me to him it seems!), is going to slip away. I will give it a few more tries to get something going with him, but I've been hearing the authors of "He's Just Not That Into You" screaming in my ear since the morning after the bang session. He's been nice since then, and has even suggested I call him (though not DURING the week since he's often hoarse from singing all day -- as a music teacher). Gee, that's encouraging. And, I hate doing the phone thing. I never feel comfortable on it. I tried IM'ing him again a couple times and it didn't really go anywhere.
Damn. I guess he's just not that into me.
I FINALLY GOT A NEW COMPUTER!!!
Oh Yeah!
I had to do that in all caps because that's the kind of jubilation I'm feeling! Don't think it didn't cost me! Picture this: I'm in Circuit City armed with 5 gift certificates (for a total of $150), two credit cards with meager available balances, and one debit card shaking in its boots. I've waited over six months for a new computer (give or take..some time). I've gone through the bends as I withdrew from my nightly use of the internet, and made it through. But now, with just a few days before my birthday, I couldn't wait any longer.
In the computer aisle, I paced back and forth in front of the displays like a caged tiger. I read each description, I compared harddrives and memory. I took out a pen and scratch paper and wrote down the five "contenders" to see them all on one sheet to compare even further. And twice, I asked a different male workers to help me, and both times, I was given that "oh, you're a woman" look and snubbed. Fucking male sales clerks. This has happened to me the past three times I've been to Circuit City. I love CC, but their male staff sucks rocks. Finally, I convinced one young guy to help me -- idiots -- if they only knew when I come in there, I come in to buy and I'm ready NOW. "Omar" was kind, and I explained my predicament and started out by handing over my 5 gift certificates. One by one, he scanned them in with a flourish. By the fifth one, the computer started gagging, claiming there were too many methods of payment. Oh shit, I still had the two credit cards and debit card to go! The total was about $650 (with a $50 mail-in rebate, i fucking hate those), and the gift cards still left $500 to go.
Omar then had to scoop up my spent cards and march back to the cashiers to exchange them all in for one big fat gift card. He came back, and once again swiped the card through with a flourish. "Okay, here we go," I said, handing over my turquoise Capital One credit card. "$175 on that one." I said, as he swiped away. Then I handed over my credit card which colorfully displays Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' (which, despite its overexposure on dorm room walls, I like due to the fact that it was painted while he was in an asylum). "Another $140 on that one," I said.
Finally, I handed over my debit card -- the real money, the money that was going to keep me alive for the next 15 days. I winced. I knew that I was setting myself up for another 14 days of tired cereal and completely non-existent ant social life, which I'm really okay with, but what I do not have is the back-up of a small credit card balance when I run out of "lunch money," and for some reason, not eating lunch seems to be something I am incapable of, no matter how poor I am. Even if I have a fantastic job, I look forward to lunch with a hunger (excuse the pun) that overtakes me. It's something I truly enjoy. Cereal for lunch is not an option.
ANYWAY, I came prepared. I brought my clanky luggage cart, which has a tendency to collapse upon itself at inopportune moments. But I knew I may very likely be subwaying it home with the computer in tow, and the cart was essential. At the customer service pickup window I strapped the baby down carefully and marched off, trying to look dignified, but as usual, feeling a little bit odd.
Then, off to get the monitor. Where? Well, from WORK of course! Never mind that it was about 9pm at night, bitterly cold, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched by cops the whole time. You can't help feeling guilty when you're wheeling out a monitor out of a place of business late night on a Saturday. It just LOOKS bad. Again, I tried the dignity thing as I walked backwards, slowly wheeling the now very precariously-stable cargo. I knew, I was not going to make it on the subway like this (knowing me, and of course, I do KNOW me, I knew the subway would jolt, and the monitor would catapult off the cart and crash to the ground. It would have! Trust me!). So, without much cash, I wheeled my booty into a McDonald's, the only place with a non-rape-you ATM fee (99 cents). I got looks, but fuck them! I got my cash, and got in a cab.
Oh yeah, and let me just say for the record, that I had permission to borrow the monitor from our IT director!
After a surprisingly speedy ride home, I spent the next two hours alternating between setting up my computer system and involuntary orgasms. Yeah, that's how happy i was to get this thing I'm typing on now. And if you can't tell, just look how much I've written in the past 24 hours, shit, in the past 8 hours!
And now, I have no excuse not to write, except for of course, my lifetime fight with crippling procrastination. Inspiration hits me like a lightning bolt (like now), but is just as fleeting, so I try to take advantage when I can. The rest of the time it's quite forced, which is rough (just ask my MA thesis which languished for a year waiting for those bolts of lightning).
Yes, I still want to write a book, and although my confidence in my own capabilities waxes and wanes on a daily basis, I have to at least try to finish A book. I think if i could just finish one book, the sense of accomplishment would deeply fulfill me. My MA thesis is nothing to strut about; it's a simple paper on agriculture in the Philippines during WWII. But completing that, and then defending it, remains to this day one of my proudest, happiest accomplishments. I think a book would far surpass this. I just want to write something GOOD, not just something. I'm terrified it will suck, and I'm terrified that I'll try to write substance and end up with a chic lit novel. Trust me, I love reading chic lit, but that's not what I'm trying to do. Well, only time will tell, and I ain't getting any younger! I feel that lightning bolt fading away...
I had to do that in all caps because that's the kind of jubilation I'm feeling! Don't think it didn't cost me! Picture this: I'm in Circuit City armed with 5 gift certificates (for a total of $150), two credit cards with meager available balances, and one debit card shaking in its boots. I've waited over six months for a new computer (give or take..some time). I've gone through the bends as I withdrew from my nightly use of the internet, and made it through. But now, with just a few days before my birthday, I couldn't wait any longer.
In the computer aisle, I paced back and forth in front of the displays like a caged tiger. I read each description, I compared harddrives and memory. I took out a pen and scratch paper and wrote down the five "contenders" to see them all on one sheet to compare even further. And twice, I asked a different male workers to help me, and both times, I was given that "oh, you're a woman" look and snubbed. Fucking male sales clerks. This has happened to me the past three times I've been to Circuit City. I love CC, but their male staff sucks rocks. Finally, I convinced one young guy to help me -- idiots -- if they only knew when I come in there, I come in to buy and I'm ready NOW. "Omar" was kind, and I explained my predicament and started out by handing over my 5 gift certificates. One by one, he scanned them in with a flourish. By the fifth one, the computer started gagging, claiming there were too many methods of payment. Oh shit, I still had the two credit cards and debit card to go! The total was about $650 (with a $50 mail-in rebate, i fucking hate those), and the gift cards still left $500 to go.
Omar then had to scoop up my spent cards and march back to the cashiers to exchange them all in for one big fat gift card. He came back, and once again swiped the card through with a flourish. "Okay, here we go," I said, handing over my turquoise Capital One credit card. "$175 on that one." I said, as he swiped away. Then I handed over my credit card which colorfully displays Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' (which, despite its overexposure on dorm room walls, I like due to the fact that it was painted while he was in an asylum). "Another $140 on that one," I said.
Finally, I handed over my debit card -- the real money, the money that was going to keep me alive for the next 15 days. I winced. I knew that I was setting myself up for another 14 days of tired cereal and completely non-existent ant social life, which I'm really okay with, but what I do not have is the back-up of a small credit card balance when I run out of "lunch money," and for some reason, not eating lunch seems to be something I am incapable of, no matter how poor I am. Even if I have a fantastic job, I look forward to lunch with a hunger (excuse the pun) that overtakes me. It's something I truly enjoy. Cereal for lunch is not an option.
ANYWAY, I came prepared. I brought my clanky luggage cart, which has a tendency to collapse upon itself at inopportune moments. But I knew I may very likely be subwaying it home with the computer in tow, and the cart was essential. At the customer service pickup window I strapped the baby down carefully and marched off, trying to look dignified, but as usual, feeling a little bit odd.
Then, off to get the monitor. Where? Well, from WORK of course! Never mind that it was about 9pm at night, bitterly cold, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched by cops the whole time. You can't help feeling guilty when you're wheeling out a monitor out of a place of business late night on a Saturday. It just LOOKS bad. Again, I tried the dignity thing as I walked backwards, slowly wheeling the now very precariously-stable cargo. I knew, I was not going to make it on the subway like this (knowing me, and of course, I do KNOW me, I knew the subway would jolt, and the monitor would catapult off the cart and crash to the ground. It would have! Trust me!). So, without much cash, I wheeled my booty into a McDonald's, the only place with a non-rape-you ATM fee (99 cents). I got looks, but fuck them! I got my cash, and got in a cab.
Oh yeah, and let me just say for the record, that I had permission to borrow the monitor from our IT director!
After a surprisingly speedy ride home, I spent the next two hours alternating between setting up my computer system and involuntary orgasms. Yeah, that's how happy i was to get this thing I'm typing on now. And if you can't tell, just look how much I've written in the past 24 hours, shit, in the past 8 hours!
And now, I have no excuse not to write, except for of course, my lifetime fight with crippling procrastination. Inspiration hits me like a lightning bolt (like now), but is just as fleeting, so I try to take advantage when I can. The rest of the time it's quite forced, which is rough (just ask my MA thesis which languished for a year waiting for those bolts of lightning).
Yes, I still want to write a book, and although my confidence in my own capabilities waxes and wanes on a daily basis, I have to at least try to finish A book. I think if i could just finish one book, the sense of accomplishment would deeply fulfill me. My MA thesis is nothing to strut about; it's a simple paper on agriculture in the Philippines during WWII. But completing that, and then defending it, remains to this day one of my proudest, happiest accomplishments. I think a book would far surpass this. I just want to write something GOOD, not just something. I'm terrified it will suck, and I'm terrified that I'll try to write substance and end up with a chic lit novel. Trust me, I love reading chic lit, but that's not what I'm trying to do. Well, only time will tell, and I ain't getting any younger! I feel that lightning bolt fading away...
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