Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry

Well, STEVE, since you thought my previous post was too girly, I have a question to pose for you manly man's man...err..men...out there. (And yes, yes, it all stereotypical, just live through it).

Why...how...are you men able to forgive/forget so easily?

I really do want to know.

Sometimes I find it admirable (and a relief), other times, simply maddening. Example, early this morning I had a minor tiff with Beau. He characterizes it as a miscommunication/misunderstanding. Of course, I think I understood him perfectly. *cough*

So, I go to work feeling pretty bad about the whole thing. It wasn't a blow-out or anything, but it did sort of leave me feeling a little gloomy. One of those times where you wish your job didn't have so much human interaction, so you could just kind of hide away for awhile. The feeling lasted for the next several hours, in a combination of pissed-off'ness and bummed-out'ness. By the time it was time for me to take a late break, around 11am, I wondered if I should call Beau. I wondered if I wanted to call Beau. I typically call him on my break as I'm getting a soda or walking around taking pictures of flowers (*pokes tongue out at Steve*), but I was still a little angry. The couple of hours that had passed had softened my anger a bit, and knowing I shouldn't slide over into Poutsville, I called. Beau answered.

*in booming, gregarious voice* Heyyy, there's my wife! Hi!

*pause* Hi.

And at that moment, I knew he was fine, the morning was over. It wasn't even to be considered anymore. Just like that. And I also knew, that he probably hadn't given it much thought after I walked out the door. Of course, I couldn't help bringing up that morning again where we did a fast and furious re-hash, then we moved on.

I've never found it super easy to just drop it, to shrug and move on (Beau is unbelievably good at the "whatever" shrug), though I'm no record-keeping grudge holder neither. I know it's not a virtue to hold on to annoyance, anger, sadness despite the fact that I think I'm loads better than I was when I was younger. But still! When I try to reflect on what is the cause, I usually go back to that feeling that people hurt each other, they do wrong to each other, and there just never seems to be any real retribution for that. No, I'm not talking about Rambo kick-ass retribution, but a sort of ...what am I looking for? Regret? A honest wish to "make it right?" And by staying angry, you are letting the person know that, "No, this wasn't a little thing, it did actually kinda hurt, and I wish you'd not dismiss it too easily."

But in all honesty, then there's the flip side -- when I am the big fat horse's butt, it's a nice luxury to have Beau let it roll off his shoulders and greet me the next time with a grin and a hello hug. Personally, I think part of it is also fear -- that if I DO let it go so easily, that it'll just happen again and again, and I'll not only be hurt, but feel like a fool (always a charming combo).

I know it's stereotypical to think men always get over things quickly and women hold it a bit longer, but I've seen it enough times to at least think of it as a general pattern. And if any of you women are more of the shrugging type, then I'd love to hear what you have to say.

And as for you Steve.... :P

Happiness is Boring

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."

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.

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.

Hipster Party and How I Loved a Guy Who Loved Hammocks

It’s no secret that I’m broke. I was broke the day I was born and will probably exit it broke as well (if student loan debt is any indication). As I’ve mentioned, I work for a Jewish non-profit humanitarian organization here in NYC. So, my point is that I don’t get out much. Non-profits don’t make you a millionaire and the only people I really know in this city I either work with, live next to, or the few strays here and there I knew in another lifetime (and they decided to move here as well).

Near the end of work, one of my co-workers, “Celia,” who has also written/produced an off-Broadway show, invited me to go to this party. Well, let’s not lie, I was invited to represent the organization, not as a real guest or anything, which is just fine with me since mingling and socializing are NOT my forte. Having some sort of “job” at a party would enable me to enjoy it without feeling obligated to mingle. Seems Celia knows a guy from college who is now some big fancy stockbroker making tons of money and apparently has given quite a bit to our organization here and there. He was throwing the party for his co-workers and such. Paying for this posh meat-district private party in a swanky club, and including a totally free bar all night.

What’s that? Totally free bar? I had my first shot within 15 minutes of being there. A few hours later I was floating on air and loving everyone, as were my three co-workers. Trying to push a charity during a snazzy party in a very dark room lit by the occasional candle was not that easy. Besides, like I said, I suck at schmoozing. One of my co-workers, in a previous post mentioned as “A-Mot,” managed to score $1200. I felt stupid.

Let’s talk about A-Mot again. As always happens, A-Mot was my big “work crush.” Just my type, brainy, mild-mannered, HOT, and … stuff. He even occasionally wears those Clark Kent glasses which drive me crazy. My interest began to wane simply because I got bored with no action. And then around election-time, I was walking with him and another friend and out of A-Mot’s mouth comes, “Oh yeah, MY GIRLFRIEND BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH...” Don’t ask me what the fuck he said after that.

*SIGH*

Of course.

Anyway, I’ve been REALLY off him since that, though I can wait. I’m pessimistic about relationships, especially of anyone in their early thirties or lower. I feel like if you really like someone who’s got a gf/bf, then just wait. I mean, still date, search, flirt, whatever you do with the other fine species out there, but keep an eye on the prize as well.

ANYWAY, back to the party. I really don’t drink that often, though I’d say about ½ the time that I actually do, I kind of go nuts. I’m not apologizing or making excuses – it feels great and it always comes at the right time. Plus it gives me just enough social lubrication to do what I want but not might when I’m sober.

Plus, it sure helped a lot that A-Mot was drunk as well. Of course, he seemed fantastically charming to me that night.

I wish I remembered more from that night, but there are three distinct things that jump out at me – one was cute and funny, one was warm and fuzzy, and one was just damn embarrassing.

Let’s start with cute and funny since it’s harmless. Basically, after spending the whole night with A-Mot and the other co-workers: The Tower (male, 6’6 tall), and “Heather” (fun, desperately-seeking-nice-guy-with-benefits), we were all drunk and all friendly, floating from here to there, smiling, and occasionally dancing like idiots. At one point, when we were leaving, we were going down in this gigantic freight elevator (it’s just so COOOL to be going down in a freight elevator), and A-Mot started wildly dancing in front of me (not to me), doing some things that convinced me that the man is very flexible. I wonder if he stretched out before the party. I was sitting in this chair in the elevator, near passing out, and then nearly puking with laughter after he started his personal jig. I wish I could show a small movie of it, since it was like watching Plastic Man boogey, but I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Warm and fuzzy happened twice, I think. Well, I know it happened once for SURE. The second one may just be fantasy. It was pretty late in the party. I was pretty smashed. The kind of smashed where you know you should just be still and quiet for a little while, utilizing Jedi mind tricks to calm your tumultuous stomach. I was alone, leaning up against the bar, lazily watching the party slowly wind down. A-Mot comes up to me, and from what my hazy recollection can tell me, he asked me a series of questions, basically making sure I was alright, I think.

“Are you okay?”
- I’m fine, thanks.
“Do you want another drink?”
- Absolutely not.
“Do you want to go home?”
- Not yet.
“Do you want a hug?”
- YES!

Next, he held open his arms real wide and I held out my arms like a three year old wanting to be picked up by daddy. The hug was very tight, and very long. Even in my drunken state I remember thinking, “This is awesome! It’s going on and on!” Though of course I have been lusting for this guy for months, the truth is that I saw the embrace as a very warm and sweet thing, and not really sexual. Doesn’t mean I don’t attach sexual fantasies to it *cough* but it wasn’t like that. In fact, every time I think about it since then, I just grin. I want another hug.

I left the embarrassing to last. You might not consider it as humiliating as I do, but then, I obsess. Background: many months ago when I first started lusting after A-Mot, I did what I always do – relentlessly research him (mostly through Google-related sites) to find out as much information as possible. I remember one of my main goals was simply to find out his age. But I found out a lot – like that he had gone to some damn fine schools and was a super-genius scholar for a bit. (*pant pant*). He also writes poetry, is a political activist of sorts (women’s empowerment and justice in Latin America), and one of my favorites – he loves hammocks!

Laugh if you will, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE hammocks. Like riding horseback, it’s one of those things I never get enough opportunities to do. I could buy a hammock, sure, but where the hell would I put it? In my tiny NY apartment? Slung from what? The cracking window frame to the chipping-away door? So, his comment stuck with me. I love a guy who loves hammocks!

So, at some point late into the evening when I was drunk enough to be chatty and close to him and yet TOO drunk to be using any kind of real discretion, I leaned over and whispered into his ear something to the effect of how I loved the fact so much that he loved hammocks. His face got all confused. You can imagine his surprise. Almost immediately after it emerged from my mouth I knew I had faux pas’ed badly! I tried to back peddle, but how the fuck do you back peddle from that? He was like, “Um, how do you know that? Did you read my bio or something?” I don’t know what I spluttered out to try to appear flip and regain some semblance of dignity. The world should just have swallowed me up at that point and gotten it over with. Now, I can’t remember exactly at what point chronologically happened during the night. I just HOPE it was before the hug and not after.

To try and placate myself, I do remember that at some point AFTER that he made a comment about going over to the plush and comfy couches set up around the large room to sit down and we did, well, we sort of landed on them after losing our sense of gravity. I have a pleasant memory of being sprawled out on this couch next to him and oh-so-nonchalantly having my right arm resting on his left thigh. Well, it was nonchalant initially, but at some point I did realize where my hand was and did not remove it. Sadly, the others came over and we all left after that.

At work the next day, I was…..late. As I reached my desk, my co-workers kept commenting on how A-Mot, Tower, and Heather had all been at my desk several times already to see me. What a bonding experience alcohol is! These are three people at work that I would normally never be going out with. No we’re all chums. As I sat down I saw three post-its stuck to my screen that looked somewhat..phallic. “Who put these penis post-its on my screen?” I asked. Then right after that it clicked. It was a salt shaker! The next one a bottle of tequila, the next post-it, a lime. I guess my drink of choice that night was well-known.

And sadly, everything did go back to normal. A-Mot and I did not suddenly become deeply in love. But thankfully, the hammock comment hasn't been mentioned, so I am praying that he was too drunk to remember it (yeah, right). Life goes on, I guess. At least now I am comfortable with him (hopefully I will no longer trip in the hall again when he appears), and will look forward to future opportunities. And … wait.

P.S. Oh, and I forgot to tell about Heather and “Mandy.” Mandy was A-Mot’s childhood friend who was brought along to the party. I call him Mandy since he had a striking resemblance to Mandy Patinkin, though admittedly, he was much younger, and hotter than the real Mandy. He hit on me, and others, before settling on Heather. I liked him, but I kind of got the feeling he was looking for a vagina, and not a woman. Not that I’m against meaningless sex, but I was too distracted by the unavailable, hug-worthy A-Mot. Heather did take him home that night, and just like the scumbag guys you hear about….he never called again.

Another Magical Moment in NYC

Very frequently I have magical moments in NYC. Often when these happen, I think about my blog (I'm not sure if that's good or sad) and how I should really write this is all down as soon as I can when it's fresh to just tell the world all about it. You know those moments that are so full of happiness, wonder, or just a warm feeling of contentment that you yearn to have everyone you know experience it as well.

I have a small one for tonight, which I will savor from a night that overall was pretty damn shitty. I was out with a "friend," or "lover" or whatever you want to call him 'cause he certainly would run like the wind if I dared mentioned, "boyfriend." That's okay, I'm not ready for that word either, but I still resent the fear in its use.

ANYWAY! Me and this handsome, but "in one of his moods" (as my grandma used to say about my grandfather's many infamous episodes) guy and I are walking home. To cut him some slack, he did have a some justification for his mood, which will I will relay another time, hopefully soon. It involves a wave of water and a plate of veal parmesan.

One thing I like about him is that when we're together, we walk. A LOT! I have walked more with him around NYC than with everyone else combined (except when just with myself whom walks quite a bit!). Usually the conversation flows without much effort and contains a lot of laughter, but tonight it was strained and his moodiness was unnerving. I've never been good at carrying on the conversation by myself. I'm the kind of person who can bounce well off of people. I'm a "responder." If you're in a good mood, hey, so am I! If you're bummed out, I feel it. It makes me sound like I have no mind of my own, perhaps I don't. Maybe the fact that I am cut from the same cloth as the Corsican Brothers makes me feel everything from those close to me too much. I'm getting pretty tired of it, really. I used to kind of see these "empath" qualities as a gift, now I just want to be left alone to feel my own feelings without being preoccupied with whether the person with me is hot, happy, worried, having fun, etc. This happened recently when a friend was here and his surly and sulky ways made me just totally resent him. Have a bit self-respect, and respect for those around you!

ANYWAY! Walking down one of these dark side streets, perhaps on about 4th street heading toward Avenue C, we hear jazz music playing, surrounding us, but yet unclear from where it was coming from. Then we come upon a gate that enters into a kind of community garden. These tiny community gardens dot NYC and seem to be lovingly and fervently cared for. A sign posted said there was a small concert, free to the public. We walked inside and sat on a large wooden box. The place was surrounding by trees, particularly weeping willows that made a dreamy canopy around the intimate crowd. People were sitting on tree stumps, logs, and some random folding chairs and makeshift benches.

Unfortunately, the tiny band of men, complete with one playing the double bass, were just ending. They pointed out a woman named Evelyn-something in the crowd -- a portly black woman who must have been pushing 70. She stood up and took the microphone and began singing the sweetest version of "What a difference a day makes" that I ever heard. The people swayed to the music, the willow branches swayed to the wind, and I was enchanted. These are the moments that I just live for in NYC. The moments that you probably wouldn't be able to experience in other places. I felt like I could have sat there all night, with my eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Yet, it was then over, and my companion was eager to get going, and we were off. Then the spell was broken and I was brought back to the reality of the date I was on.

Well, sadly I can't do much for him, but I can tuck away this tiny gem of the night as another wonderful NYC memory, the kind I constantly seek out and yearn for and that just seem to happen, especially now in the summer when it's warm and so many fantastic experiences are free. I love New York.

Cyberlove Sucks

It was 11pm last Sunday; a beautiful night with a pleasant breeze. Rather drunk, I was crossing the lovely Park Avenue and feeling awful. The kind of awful, when combined with alcohol, induces you to call up an old boyfriend on your cellphone and leave philosophical/poetic messages on his voicemail.

Yes, I really did that. Luckily for me, the ex still welcomes such things and doesn't play them aloud to amused friends.

Why did I do this? Well....

Recently, I've been dealing with the various aspects of growing oldER (not old), which I've mentioned here and there in my posts. Strange things like having cuts & bruises healing slower, having a more difficult time maintaining and losing weight, finding it harder to find men, etc. The men thing has put me into a mopey funk.

I decided to go ahead and do the online dating thing. I signed up for two major ones. One because it was convenient, and one because it has tons of those lengthy "psychologist-approved" tests about how you see the world (or really, men). Flashing photos of men up on a screen and having you click on the hotties, and later click on the notties is quite an experience. Apparently I go for the hot guys, though I suppose that shouldn't be a surprise, though it is. I've always had those boyfriends that I thought were hot and my friends thought were "okay." I also go for the "puppy dog" guys who are slightly flawed but awfully cute (awww shucks) and the test also claimed at length how I find a certain chisled chin to my liking. Well!

Anyway, after much weeding out/rejection/hitting the delete button and then finally narrowing down to a precious few, I started emailing. Immediately they all want to meet (a further weeding out process), but I try to put them off so I can at least get to know them a LITTLE bit by email. (Not to mention, if you've been reading, my recent flourish of acne and slight weight gain). After awhile, I decide to just go for it.

I set up "dates" with two guys on Sunday. Both date ideas in and of themselves were very interesting. The first was an "all you can eat crab for $25" in Brooklyn. Armed with a small mallet, the brutal feast continues not so much until you're full, but until you get tired of the endless labor of smashing, picking, and pulling just to extract a tidbit of crabmeat.

The second date was at "The Boathouse" which is a beautiful place set on a lake deep within Central Park. It's very dreamy and romantic and was filled with beautiful people.

Notice how I concentrate on the SETTING and not the men themselves. The men, let's call them Mark and Edward, were both fine people. Both educated, nice men with interesting successful careers. You ask me, yeah, what's the problem?

Well, first of all, the two men who I saw that day were not QUITE what their pictures suggested. From their photos, I thought they were both thin, gorgeous guys with full heads of hair. One was thin, one was not, one was taller than me, one was not, one was balding quite a bit, one was on his way, etc. It's weird when you picture someone in your head and then when you see them...they are just not...quite...the...same. It makes me wonder what I must have looked like to them, though all my photos are pretty recent.

The first guy rides motorcycles, which does interest me a lot since I had one in Bangkok myself, but he seems to straddle the "biker" world which does make me a bit uneasy (due to past experiences with such a world). The black jeans, kick-your-ass black boots, and leather jacket despite the 88 degree weather were clues. He had a brilliant smile, and was okay to talk to, though not necessarily stimulating. Packed in tightly at the restaurant, I found that I started conversing at length with the older couple next to us (whom I had a freakingly large amount of things in common with!). I tried to include him or turn back to him, but it was harder to get the conversation flowing. After the couple left, we mostly got into depth about a personal problem of Mark's which was truly tragic. My heart really does go out to him though it did feel weird for 'first date conversation.'

After lunch we decided to walk off the minute meal through the lovely nearby park. We talked again which was pleasant enough though I don't really remember what we talked about...until...he said, "Remember when you asked me before why my username was absinthe?"

Then began a long conversation about the "misunderstood" liquid that is absinthe. Very well-educated and informed on the subject, Mark talked at length about its unfortunate history, its undeserving reputation (lots of the bad stuff being made by idiots with poor ingredients), and how to make it with an eye to top quality, since he made it himself, with great care. I guess it didn't really scare me. though it did make me emit a loud and long internal groan. Unfortunately I've already had a boyfriend who was way too much in love with his drug of choice, which is something I don't want to go through again, even if Mark is a nice guy. He's not THAT nice.

Soon after we walked back and I headed back home to shower and change for date #2.

I showed up at my second date a bit sweaty and out of breath (always attractive!) since the closest subway to the place was several blocks and avenues away. As the guy waved and came over, I remember my first thought being, again, "He looks different." Then, as he approached, I also noticed, "Oh, he's shorter than me!" Despite these not being dealbreakers, they still do start things off with a skewed first impression.

The guy was nice, intelligent, and seemed to be rather well-off (despite this, he did mooch a half-finished wine bottle left by the couple before us and claimed it was his when the waiter inquired). He was smooth...really really smooth, like slick, slippery smooth. He was only a few years older, but he just FELT older than that. Kind of grimy. I knew he wasn't really into me either, so we chatted amicably for a couple hours and then it was over. I felt relief as I walked away on that cool night, and then I was sad.

I guess what has put me in such a state of melancholy (great word) is that I am just finding it so hard to "make a connection" with a man now. I don't know if it's my age, if it's the fact that I'm not in school where men are as abundant as bean sprouts, or if I have somehow become much more selective. Perhaps it's a combination of the three (though I really don't think I'm any more selective than I was at 22). Maybe I'm less attractive than I used to be and so am not attracting the kind of guys I still like?

I don't know. I just know that as my inebriated self stumbled across the expansive Park Avenue toward the subway station (which I never got on, another long story), I was feeling lost and defeated. I didn't know if I had the stamina to keep doing this. I've never really been the kind of person who goes out on dates, and have never really enjoyed it. I've always found someone in a convenient way and then sprinted on to couplehood and comfort. I was thinking about how I have lived alone and enjoyed it so much for so long that I don't know if I am even that open to "making a connection" anymore. It's depressed me.

Then of course, I thought about whom I have had that connection with, and the old ex-boyfriend popped into my mind. Now unavailable and far far away, I thought about how easy it was with him and how hard it was now and naturally, I felt very sorry for myself. And unfortunately, that's when I got out my cellphone.

Introducing the New Love Interest: A-MOT (not be confused with A-Rod)

Well, so I left private banking, finally, and got a new job. Surprisingly, I miss my banking job, or really, I miss the people there so much. They were so fun, so great to talk to.

But, I did get a new job, HOORAY! *throws confetti* It only took me *counts on fingers* FIVE months to get a decent job that matched my interests/qualifications. It's funny, I'm absolutely livid that I wasn't able to secure a suitable job before this, and I've already had three people say, "Five months? That's it? Wow, you're lucky! I know someone it took nine months/one year/18 months, etc."


Like everything though, it was probably all for the best. I am now working for a non-profit organization that does work in developing countries ("third world"). It feels good to work for a place that is doing the kinds of things you always want to be a part of. I also get to do administrative work, which I love. It has its tedious parts, but don't all jobs?

But do you really care about that? Probably not. Maybe you'll care a little bit more about my new object of lust -- I call him, for the purposes of this blog, A-MOT. Why? Well, one of the first questions a friend of mine asked was, "Is he a MOT?"
"What's a MOT?" I asked
My friend and roommate laughed. "Where have you been?" he asked.
"MOT. 'Member of the Tribe.' A Jew!" said my friend
(Both my friend and roommate are Jews).

Ohhhhhh, okay. Well, actually, he does happen to be a MOT, after all, or as they used to say about my other ex from Long Island, "He's got the map of Israel on his face."

So, now we have A-MOT. You know what the MOT is, but what's the "A"? I'll let you fill in that one.

Unlike the Hot Mailroom Boy, this guy appears to be somewhere closer to my age, my education, and my height. But unfortunately like the HMB who passed right by me several times a day, A-MOT is hidden in a side room, squeezed in with a half dozen others. We are in different departments, and there's not much of a chance to talk to him.

GRRRR! More scheming and plotting! I hate this!

So, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I Google'd him. And well, I found a young man, with his same exact name. No photos to confirm it though, so I remain confuzzled. BUT, if if IF the guy I googled is the SAME guy at work...I LOVE HIM! I thought this was a young man in his mid-20's who was relatively intelligent, maybe a degree in Poli Sci or something. Well, the guy online was fantastically intelligent, had traveled around the world doing "good deeds" (and written thoughtful articulate analysis of philanthropy/wealthy people/public service), had gone to great schools (yes, we're talking higher higher education), likes hammocks (I LOVE hammocks) and even dabbled into creative writing. Well, could this be any more perfect? Or pukey?

The only drawback is something that is also one of the few drawbacks at work. I don't know, maybe it's because it's a place of well-intentioned, development workers who are very serious and very sincere about what they do. Maybe it's all the hardship they have to see, how little of it they can actually help, and the sadness it can bring (for instance, we do a lot of work on AIDS in Africa, and it is so much more horrible there than I ever imagined). But my point is, unlike my last job where I laughed and was silly (and still worked hard, of course!), and where on several occasions I hung around hours 'after hours' to talk with co-workers I'd really come to adore in a short time. The people at my new job are all very nice, very hospitable. People talk with me (I just cannot remember their names), and seemed geninely concerned with my happiness at work. I've been told several times just how happy they are that I was finally hired and working there, and that I have been happily expected.

But...(here we go with the glass half-empty crap)...

They are very politically-correct, very serious about their work and working in general. I like a place that likes to work. I get angry and nervous in an environment where work is disrespected. But...I must be in a place that has that release...those moments of hanging around each other for a couple of minutes to laugh. Teasing and joking each other, sometimes crossing that line just enough to be exciting. Always being good to each other, and always honest (and all that comes with that). My new job, everyone is very nice, but no one is particularly fun or funny. I see a few glimmers and I feel embarrassed because I seem to latch onto it, and dive in, with a bit TOO much gusto.

Perhaps it's because I'm too new in a tight-knit group. I've been in atmospheres like that before. You just have to be kind to everyone and wait it out. Sooner or later, they come around. Just ask all of my Scandinavian buddies. Though I was only at the bank for a couple of months and I was close with many by the time I left.

One of my points about this is that my co-workers are not the kind where I can go up to them and whisper, "Hey, that A-MOT guy, how old is he? Does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Does he like shiksas? Is he psycho?"

--------

The other day I finally got a chance to be 'alone' with A-MOT (by the fax machine); it was a rare moment. I tried to take advantage of it by talking to him, though we didn't get very far. He was friendly enough, but I wasn't getting any big signals. He did seem to have a sense of humor though! Thank God!

Here's hoping, FOR ONCE, the guy I like moves fast and moves first. I hate always being the one.

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Oooooh! M*A*S*H is on! Hope it's an early one. Gotta go!

Fucked Up My Chance at Eternal Happiness…Again!

Last night was my first night of my expensive, though (I believe), highly-regarded writing class here in NYC. Maybe I can finally learn something and fine-tune this playing around on this internet blog. We’ll see, maybe I’m just an old dog!

So anyway, I left work early, and arrived with time to spare on the correct street, before realizing that I had forgotten to bring the exact address with me. Knowing it was on this particular street and that it was held in a school, I figured it couldn’t be too difficult to find the place. Well, it was. After walking up the street and then self-consciously back again, I realized that there were a few options. There was something labeled a “seminary” which seemed to have some aspects of a school, though the people hanging outside its front doors were not children and honestly, a bit rough looking. The other option was a large and beautiful church, with a door flung wide open, making me think it was welcoming us in. I chose the church, thinking perhaps it was some sort of religious school the classes would be held in.

I walked up the stairs into a gorgeous foyer of marble-tiled floors, stained glass walls, and hanging down from the ceiling was some very large and unique chandelier, shaped somewhat like a teardrop and beautifully decorated in a rich orange-colored glass. A doorman, and another very hot man were standing there chatting. I approached slowly and asked them if the place was a school as well. “Have you come to confess your sins?” asked the cute guy. I smiled and faked offense, replying that I certainly had not. I explained to them how I was trying to find this class, and the cute guy asked if they had a website, then offered to go up to his apartment and look up the address. So, I waited down in the lobby with the chatty doorman and we talked. I should have been focused on getting more info on cute guy, but I was so enthralled with the possibility of living in a place like this (not to mention the continual opportunity to cause all sorts of horrible sins while living in a converted church). The doorman told me the apartments were gorgeous and gigantic, and a one bedroom ran $8000/month. My eyes nearly leaped out of my head in shock. I’m still wondering if that was true.

Soon, cute guy returned with the address in hand. But he didn’t stop there. Cute guy also walked me to the school, which actually turned out to be the place labeled “Seminary.” Though there were only seconds in that short walk, I was secretly screaming in my head, “Ask me out, please!” He was very kind, and definitely went out of his way (something I seem to see so seldom), and of course he was easy on the eyes. After making a comment that he would like to do something like this himself (take a writing class) sometime, my flustered and hyperbolic thank you’s, he patted me on the arm and took off back to his apartment. Nooooooo!

I know. You’re asking yourself, “Why didn’t she say anything? Do anything? Ask him out for coffee, etc.?” I know I know I know I’m an idiot. Why? Do you really want to dig into that neurotic mess? That, “I’m feeling really fat and bloated today, there’s no possible way he could be interested!” or the “Just because someone is being kind doesn’t mean they want to get into your pants.” or “I’m fooling myself/being arrogant if I think he’s interested in me,” ETC!!!!!

I’ve got issues.

Most of it has to do with my weight, which I previously have mentioned is at its all-time peak of my life. I have joined a gym and have started to go on a semi-regular basis, but the results are not quite in yet. I need about three months. In the meantime, I occasionally catch myself in the mirror and feel a slight shock at seeing myself look older/fatter than I picture myself looking during the day. Thailand gave me wrinkles and returning to America gave me fat. I’ve been ecstatically eating all this great food I haven’t seen for three years and LOTS of candy (I was a big candy eater before, now it’s worse since I’ve missed it all so much). This will all change given time. I hope.

Of course, spinning out this yarn to a small group of enthralled, female colleagues this morning, I was repeatedly told I was an idiot, had missed my chance, and, “You should’ve said ________” over and over. It’s a good way to make you feel even worse about the situation. Don’t give up on my female friends yet, they are also a great source of inspiration, and each person had their own unique way to give it another try. I think the one best suited to me in the end consists of leaving a business card (err, though I don’t technically HAVE any business cards), with the doorman who will hopefully remember me and not laugh at me (though I am dying my hair from dark brown to blonde this weekend and that may put a few kinks in the “Remember me?” approach). Let’s see if I can have an iota of courage to do this. I am hoping to do it before my next class (same time next Thursday), but if not, I was thinking, same time-same place may be the appropriate setting of action. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Eternal Pursuit of the Hot Mailroom Boy (HMB)

Let me quickly introduce again the Hot Mailroom Boy whom we shall call HMB after this for easy typing on my part. The first time I saw him here at my new job, I was totally infatuated. The sweet, shy type with dark hair and beautiful eyes. KILLS ME! He shows a striking resemblance to that sexy, brooding lead actor in the now defunct "Roswell" series. Not only that, but strangely enough, he even has nearly the same voice, that kind of soft, breathy thing. Oh man, let me take a moment away from the keyboard to get my stupid self under control.

....

...................

........................................................................!!!

Okay!

Anyway, I did something marginally immoral. Probably akin to sexual harassment. It certainly would be if a guy did this in my place. I tried to get the HMB to replace me in the job I am doing here since I?m moving into a "higher" position in the same office. How perfect! I would have him within close proximity all day everyday. How could I fail to seduce him with my sultry, feminine wiles and razor-like wit now? Okay, he?s like seven years younger than me, I think he already has a girlfriend, his flirting with me can only be considered marginal, etc. But oh well! Besides, this romantic nepotism wasn't totally without cause. Another guy who is in the same position as I was (basic administrative slave), also began as the mailboy and moved his way to the same slave position (in a different department) when an opportunity arose (though I don?t think he was promoted for potential romantic reasons. He?s nice, but a bit like a thick, piece of wood). So, it wasn't completely out of line for me to suggest the same for HMB. Alas, my boss was not as excited as I was and decided in the end to go for a new, shiny person from the temp agency. I believe the reason is that HMB is painfully shy and this position sort of calls for a perky, patient sort. I rallied for him a bit, saying he was smart, friendly, etc., but I think his ginger manner is what lost it for him. I tried! At least I still get 4-5 wild fantasy-filled, heart-thumping moments per day as he lumbers in, picking up and dropping off the mail.

I have tried almost every excuse to talk to him and am getting to the point of feeling ridiculous and obvious, as I have ordered every type of envelope, had empty boxes delivered, files taken down, courier waybills searched for, etc. etc. etc. anything to initiate contact with him. Knowing me, no one even has a clue. Normally, I wouldn't be so shy about letting someone know I like him, but the age gap, his timidity (which I can't tell if it's self-consciousness or an attempt to avoid my advances), and the fact that I work in a modest office which works like a small town in terms of gossip and know-everything-about-everyone, I just can't take the chance.

I'm terrified of the very real possibility of rejection.

Not to mention, having to sit there immersed in humiliation, trying to force a stupid grin on my visage as the guy who rejected me strides by FOUR or FIVE times a day! That's too close to some sort of Greek tragic punishment a la Sisyphus or Prometheus for me!

The thought of rejection has also been forefront in my mind since the recent "asking-out" of me by one of the security guards here. I was so stupid; I should have seen it coming when he asked me 5000 questions about myself, including the "do you have a boyfriend?" and "are you looking for anyone?" etc. One of these times when he was interrogating me in a jovial way, I thought that the HMB may JUST possibly be within earshot (we were in the basement where the HMB dwelling is), and so, speaking in a loud voice, I was secretly hoping HMB would hear all the answers to these convenient questions and POSSIBLY get some sort of encouragement or useful information from it. What I so foolishly missed was that the person actually collecting this information was the one asking it, and he in turn used it just an hour later to ask me out. In a really stupid way too. I had told him about my unbelievably massive student loan debt (nearing 70k), and this is how it went down:

*phone ringing from Security desk* Me worried about why Security might be calling me.
(all is spoken in a very rapid fashion, as both parties were nervous for different reasons)

Me: Yes?
Security guard: Oh hey, Iris
Me: *suspiciously* Yes?
Security guard: You know, I feel so sorry for you.
Me: Huh?
Security guard: Yeah, let me take you out to dinner, you know. I feel so sorry for you because you have all that debt and stuff, so let me take you to dinner.
Me: *splutter* Um?well, um. Okay. I mean, I?m really busy and?
Security guard: Can you go on Saturday?
Me: Um no, I have a second job and all so um, no, I can?t Saturday, maybe ?later. And?uhh?.
Security guard: Okay. See you later.
*click*
Me: Fuck.

Since then, with the intrepidness of a Cold War spy, I have shamefully dodged him, using alternate routes when moving from department to department where I would have previously intersected him. I felt like shit, but to outright reject him to his face seems unbelievably cruel to me. He seemed to get the message, and I eased off my cloak and dagger ways a bit. I always say hello to him and try to be cheerful and kind, but at the same time keep my distance. I know; I'm scum.

When I was in my early twenties, I was filled with confidence. I'd thinned out a bit from my jock-like teens, I had recently had my braces removed (something I?d yearned for as child but was never able to afford), and with the mass meat market of college and the occasional aid of the internet, men were easy to score. I had a great time. I had wonderful relationships. I got laid a lot.

Now, for the first time ever, I?m very conscious of my age. Men, whom at any age were always a possibility, an option, are now too green for the picking. When I found out HMB was 24, it didn't seem like a big deal, but then after a quick calculation in my head, I realized that he was SEVEN YEARS younger than I! Holy fuck! Is that even allowed if you?re not Susan Sarandon or Demi Moore and/or gorgeous and/or rich? I am neither gorgeous nor rich nor a celebrity. I'm okay looking, but need to lose weight, I have just enough money to make it each week, and the only celebrity status I'm likely to get is if I happen to fall down a well.

Back to HMB, I feel renewed in my endless, yet fantastically subtle pursuit of him. I just found out today that the reason one executive wasn?t getting an executive officer her Economist magazines in as timely a manner as I, is because HMB has been hording them in his mailroom cave in the basement, reading them, and then finally passing them on to her after he finishes. The executive, the type of person who becomes rather shrill when agitated, once again freaked out today about her MIA magazine. Due to the fact that I toss mine promptly after reading them (even if I've barely had the chance to read a few measly articles), I decided to just hand them over to HMB. Hey, it's fantastic for him, and again, it's a selfish ploy to get closer to a man I want to bed.

*A few weeks go by*

A couple weeks have gone by and the truth is, it hasn't done much for our creative non-relationship. He continues to be evasively shy, and I have begun pulling back a bit due to my reluctance to continually feel like a pathetic and eager lovelorn fool. I don't know why I'm so sensitive to show my feelings for someone in public, especially around people I know (it's a bit easier around strangers), but now that a couple people in the office know of my attraction (I have only let on to attraction, no my full-on lustfest), I am too ashamed to actually let them see me slobber in his wake. Besides, after I told one woman about my crush, she exclaimed, "Him? He's just a baby!" I blushed a deep red. They got a big kick out of that. I blush easily and deeply. My skin is as pale as a corpse, which allows maximum redness! Ohhhhh HMB. I have a feeling we will never be. Alas! Alas! Alas!

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name – Subway Love

I admit it; everyday on the NYC Metropolitan Transit Authority’s Subway Trains…I fall in love. It’s not hard to do. Whoever you are and whatever your type, they’re all there, on the subway! Every race, hundreds of countries, dozens of languages, all their within inches of your own beating heart!

Every morning and evening, I board two trains. The shiny and clean “L” which takes me crosstown on 14th Street, and the dirty and dingy, “F” or “V” (whichever comes first) that carries me uptown or downtown.

I was thinking the other day, when wedged almost comically like sardines, tin can and all, that the “train” (as real NYers call it), is a real playground for those who may want to cop-a-feel. Sometimes you are just so close, you have some stranger pressed up against you in a way that would in almost any other situation (that wasn’t carnal), be horrendously inappropriate, and would certainly produce lawsuits in some companies. I’ve had people pushed up against my butt, back, arms, etc. I try to keep my breasts somewhat shielded by a defensive arm if I can. Smells of perfume, bad cologne (why is it always bad? Good cologne is seductive, bad cologne is offensive), hair products, and general unwashed bodies are front and center to your olfactory nodes.

But I’ve come to realize that though my stomach may turn at the unwanted intimacy around me, sometimes I too take advantage of it. Just the other day, I found myself pressed up against a hottie of a guy, in his dark grey wool coat, book in hand (I love ‘em when they can read!). My face was just an inch from his strong, manly shoulder and I suddenly had this irresistible urge to lean over and press my forehead there against it. This split-second archaic mentality where you are being shielded from all the world’s troubles by a man’s comforting, expansive chest. As the train violently pushes me to-and-fro, I find myself not resisting the imbalance quite so strenuously. So what if I bump into his shoulder? Eegads! Isn’t this the same mentality others use to accidentally caress my butt during each jolt on the tracks? I am a sleazeball fondler. Just another person trying to steal some desperately-wanted closeness from a stranger on a subway.

Western Men and Thai Women

The whole Western man – Thai woman thing has been a touchy subject for me as a Western woman living in Bangkok. I’ve never found it so incredibly difficult to be single in my life. Though I am no great beauty, nor ever had much money, I’ve never had a lot of trouble finding a good relationship. But here in Bangkok, it has been nearly impossible.

To avoid being bitter and resentful, I have tried to understand these partnerships which are abundant all over Bangkok (and which make up most of my teaching staff). I read the depressing book, “Hello my Big, Big Honey” which is a mess of emotional letters written by Western men to Thai bar girls they have “fallen in love” with. It’s the kind of book that makes you want to turn lesbian, or else consider all men to be adulterous and gullible as hell. “I love you honey, and yes, I got your bank account number and will be depositing money into your account soon….”

Not too long ago I was coming home after a night class. I stopped by in a sandwich shop to have dinner. I was enjoying myself and the atmosphere (and reading a fantastic Iris Murdoch book). Not too far from me was a typical sight – a Western man with a Thai “bar girl.”

Wait, first let me give a very general definition of “bar girl” as it is known here in Bangkok. A bar girl is a Thai woman, usually from the poor areas of the North or Northeast (Isaan) of Thailand. Predominantly though, they are Isaan woman. They can be very young, ranging from about 13-40 years old. They’re often petite with dark skin. They’re easy to recognize after awhile just by how they look and move (and often by the display of a tattoo, often on the back of a shoulder). If you are to believe the studies done on them, many of them are already married to scummy Thai men and have a baby at home, and nearly all of them are partially to totally supporting their families back home.

Most of them work in bars, where they befriend tourists (mostly Western men, but often Japanese and Korean men too), get the men to buy them drinks, and sometimes, to buy the girl herself for a night of sex. Sometimes, the man can buy the girl for days on end. By “buying” her, he first pays the bar a fee for the revenue they lose by her removal from the bar. Then the man “tips” the girl for her services. Usually this can range from about $50-$150 (USD) a night. Considering that these girls are paid about $80 a month, you can see the incentive of having a Western man take you from the bar for one night. Now sure, as I mentioned, this “definition” is a stereotype in a way, and a loose description, but trust me, my broad sweeping generalization covers most of them.

Okay, anyway, back to the sandwich shop. So the bar girl is sitting with a French man, and he is speaking English to her (most bar girls have a fairly good grasp of English, which makes sense since the better their English, the better business they can do). The guy is going on and on in this loud voice, and though I can’t remember it all anymore, I can remember the gist. Basically, he was telling his personal philosophy on anything and everything, and it was lengthy, verbose, pretentious, egotistical, and fantastically boring. But of course, the girl was listening to him as if in rapture, with lots of nods and “uh-huhs.” Perhaps, that is the secret. To listen to a man go on and on and pretend that it’s the most amazing schpiel ever. Don’t get me wrong, I believe very much in being a good listener and caring about the people who are opening up to you, but that doesn’t mean you have to take, and listen to without comment, all the bullshit that comes your way.

On that same night, I took the “sky train” (subway in the sky) home. As I was sitting in my seat, fantasizing about being home already, there was another Western man – Thai bar girl couple sitting across from me. I can no longer remember details from the conversation, but I do remember the woman distinctly reminding me of a valley girl in her speech and tone, and the guy nodding profusely adding a mess of his own, “uh-huhs!” She was talking about how much she hated Indians (there are a community here and Thais in general do not seem to be fond of them for some reason). She had lots of reasons, and lots of “you know!”s. The guy was eating it all up.

Maybe the real secret is that when these men go to Bangkok, they step into another world. A world where anything and everything is possible. And let’s be realistic, if I was in France, I’d be interested in dating a Frenchman myself. I wouldn’t rule out an American guy at ANY chance, especially since communication is so important to me. But I know it would be interesting to date someone from the place you’re in. But really, in the end…it comes down to communication. I myself had a relationship with a Thai man, and similar to a bar girl (though not in the same profession!) he needed a pretty good grasp of English for his job. And though I cannot solely blame his lack of English/communication skills for my breaking up with him, it really WAS the major reason.

Which is why I always end up at the beginning. When it comes to ex-pats in Thailand, (lesser so for the tourists who come for a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am), HOW do they maintain these relationships? I personally know about 10 couples of Western men and Thai women living here, and the majority of the women were former bar girls. How do they do it? And if you tell me “We connect on another level” I’m going to tell you you’re full of shit. That only works for the tourist boys looking for justifications for splashing into prostitution here. Does it simply come down to men and women demanding different things in a relationship? Or men not demanding at all?

My main demand is that I can communicate to a man. I don’t mean the whiny “Let’s talk about our feeeeeeelings” but about all sorts of stuff. I want to be able to talk to him about work, about the book I’m reading, about Israel and (the lack of) Palestine, etc. I don’t want to just talk about the weather and sex (though those can be pleasant topics too!). If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, is Mars a very quiet place and Venus full of endless chatter? Shit, maybe I should move to Saturn.