Wednesday, June 30, 2010

COEXIST in Portland?

Anyone who lives in Portland has seen about a million Subaru hatchback type sporty station wagons with a bumper sticker that says COEXIST. Or maybe the one that says KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD, and that one might be stuck on upside down. Too cute. Usually this is a person I am cursing out in my car as I come to a screeching halt behind them because they have stopped at an unexpected spot on a street, perhaps to let a person who is still on the sidewalk, to cross the street - as in, they are not even at the curb yet. Anyway --

Sometimes I want to tell Portland to grow up and other times, liked today, the day my parents flew back to NJ, I want to give Portland a wet, sloppy kiss.

Yes, my parents and I had a fun trip and we did more than coexist, we had fun. We have - what I'd call - a healthy, adult relationship. However...they do live like college students instead of retirees. Instead of waking at 5 or 6am, like lots of people in their peer group, they sleep in. Plus, they stay up late. A couple times I told them I was off to bed at 10 or 11, while my mom barely waved goodnight while fixing herself some raspberry sorbetto.

They slept right through my dog's emergency pee/ yard visit at 3am and then her second wake up call at 6am. They usually were still in bed after I returned from a 1 or 2 hour morning dog walk at Tabor with friends. A. would run in the house with her tail wagging and hop on the bed, invariably kissing my mom then licking her pillow, which she found distasteful and which I secretly enjoyed.

One of the sweet things about this visit is that on June 28th my parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary. As my dad repeated to anyone within earshot, "Offer your congratulations or your condolensces. Either or."

We had dinner at Southpark, which I chose because of the fresh seafood. My mom ordered the butternut squash and my dad, the chicken. The meal was lovely and then we embarked on a walk around a few park blocks until my dad's bad leg kicked in and we headed back to the car.

During this walk I asked them some questions about how they met. Below are a few snippets...

Me: Let's talk about your wedding.

Mom: It's on a V8 then we put it on a video. Now we have to put it on a DVD. But how?

Me: You mean a Super 8? A V8 is a drink made of vegetables.

Mom: Will this go on your blog? I think you're making fun of us.

Me: Mom, I remember you said you met two other guys at the Hamptons that same weekend you met Dad.

Mom: That was a good weekend. And actually, I dated three guys for about two months.

Me: Nice!

Mom: One was a resident at the hospital I worked at. He dated a lot of girls and married a nurse. Another was a stockbroker. And then your dad.

Me: So you were dating two rich guys and you chose dad. I like it.

Dad: Oh you don't even remember the stockbroker's name.

Mom: Yes I do.

Me: Maybe you can call him up and invite him over to share a V8?

Dad: Didn't one take you on a plane over Manhattan?

Mom: Mm hm.

Me: Why dad?

Mom: You've seen the picture of when we were engaged. He was handsome.

Dad: Was.

Mom: Well you were younger. And you're not going to believe this but on our dates he listened. He really listened. You know a lot of men can't listen or don't listen well. And you're dad seemed to really do that.

Me: Are you sure?

Dad: She didn't seem to care that I was late all the time!

Mom: I don't mind waiting at a restaurant. Not out on the street.

Dad: No, not the street! But I couldn't believe it! I'd show up late and she wouldn't give me hell. I thought to myself, now this is really something.

Me: Yeah, you found a sucker.

Dad: Exactly.

Mom: Once we went to that place. The French Shack? Is it still there?

Dad: I have absolutely no idea.

Mom: Well there were two doors.

Dad: That's right.

Mom: And anyway, we went in the wrong one.

Dad: I remember that.

Lately, my dad's hearing is so bad I like to use this example below, the scene is inside a car:

Mom: The light's green!
Dad: You like hazelnuts too?

But during this walk, talking about how they first met, he heard every word. Each one.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

My Dad, My Pimp

Wherever we go and whatever we do, there is a spokesperson, my dad. It's a strange sensation to be having a conversation with my mother and to hear myself referred to in the third person several feet away. A restaurant, a shop, a hotel, wherever.

"My daughter - she has a blog."

This happened at dinner with my friend, D. and his dad. It happened in Vancouver, BC with a cute waiter and then again in Portland with a shop-owner. Apparently, my dad is proud of my blog. One night at CinCin in Vancouver...

"She writes about her experiences in Portland," my dad says. "People are reading it."

I refuse to elaborate and awkward silence descends. Does it get any sexier than this? Why yes I am 35 blogging about my lack of dates and yes, I am on vacation with my parents. How do you like me now?

"This young man is riding his bike from Vancouver to Portland."

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match...

The cute waiter described the upcoming ride, and that he'd be staying at the Ace Hotel. My dad mentioned my impending move to Brooklyn, "the in place, with all the young people." The waiter said he had a trip planned there. My dad relayed the info to me, like any good matchmaker. My dad was pimping me out!

I really wasn't sure if the waiter wanted a big tip or had some real interest and I wasn't excited enough to actually pursue it much with the obvious impediment of two retiree onlookers nearby. We split an $11 rhubarb type dessert then walked down the long, stone stairs back to Robson Street while the waiter rushed to the top and called to us, "Goodbye! Have a goodnight!"

My dad called back, "If you're ever in Edison, NJ look us up!"

"He's going to be in Portland and Brooklyn," I wanted to tell my dad. "Back off. He's mine."


Back in Portland. We walk around the Pearl District, weaving through Davis and 9th, Couch and 11th. We stop at Sweet Masterpiece and buy a chocolate candy named Seafoam. Kind of amazing. We stop at Pearl Bakery and buy a slice of almond cake after my mom sneaks about 3 free samples - never mind that she's a diabetic.

We make our way to a ceramics shop. Here is where I learn that there are perks to having a friend or oh, shall we say a relative who likes to chat people up. My dad talks with the guy behind the desk and in the faint distance I hear a familiar echo...

"My daughter has a blog."

"Oh? What's it about?" the guy asks.

I refuse to feel embarrassed. "It's about my dates," I shoot back. " Or my lack of dates lately. My experience in Portland with meeting people."

He tells me he has had similar troubles, and talks of friends.

"Friends?" I tell him. "I've got friends."' What I want to say is that I've got a million friends and what I'm looking for a friend won't do.

Instead we make chitchat. I sign the shop's visitor's book, and include my email. Within 2 hours the guy has sent me an email, inviting me for coffee. This is Date 3 procured by the blog - effing amazing. I tell my mom about the email and she says that's good - he doesn't let any grass grow beneath his feet.

"Plus," I say, "he has balls."

My mom says, "Literally." And shortly after, "Let's hope so."

Monday, June 21, 2010

Jews Hit Portland: Good Chinese Food Found

My parents have been here less than 72 hours and we have discovered a true gem: Zien Hong on Sandy and 53rd. They serve authentic dishes like eggplant with garlic sauce, General Tso's chicken, and a sizzling Chow mien or as my dad says: chal-main.

Though I found it via yelp and googling, it was my parents' demands for Chinese food that pushed me to research properly. What about a local place? Or something organic? Ridiculous!

While walking on the sidewalk we outran another senior set, but once inside the stranger, a man of about 70 claimed to be before us in line. My mom, at five two, suddenly appeared to sprout up taller. She quickly gave him the stink eye and said, "No he wasn't. We were here first." It didn't matter much that the restaurant, though crowded, had 3 or 4 empty tables.

Later, my mom shared a delightful story of how she an my dad were traveling in Dublin and of course wanted some Italian food. They asked the hotel, which recommended a terrible restaurant that served noodles with ketchup. The moral of the story: hotel chains get a cut and want to promote crappy, new restaurants. Don't trust them. In fact, while you're at it, don't trust anyone.

Call me crazy, but I find a tiny flaw in this. Why search out Italian food in Ireland? But hey, you get to reach 60, yo do whatever you want, like burp without covering your mouth. Hypothetically.

At dinner my dad salts the General Tso's Chicken, points out a customer who he finds aesthetically unpleasant and we enjoy our food. I decide, with the carpet and taped on wallpaper, that maybe this is where I should take my future dates. With the lack of ambiance, all you have is food and conversation - it's sink or swim.

Anyway, we enjoyed the meal and the refrigerator is overflowing now with crazy leftovers, as are the counters. There is fruit everywhere, as if something has exploded.

And something has: my patience.


The day before we went to Dundee to try some wines at the Soter vineyard in Carlton. Though we enjoyed the view and the adirondack chairs, they poured several white wines and it does not meet my dad's hopes. The neighbor who recommended it will not be trusted again and when said neighbor later tells us about Clark and Lewis my parents don't want to hear a thing about it. "What does he know?" my dad says. Mom chimes in, "Yeah. He recommended that German place."

Over lunch at Farm to Fork my dad mentions how dark it is. I explain that it's all windows and there's no sun out today. "So," he says, "couldn't it be sunnier?"

My dad scoops up a bunch of coleslaw and adds it to my mom's plate. "Here. Take."
Mom says, "What am I? A Garbage Pail?"
Dad, "You used to be."


At Laurelhurst Theatre to see The Ghost Writer. The admission is $3.
Dad, "No senior discount?"


Tomorrow night we hit Vancouver, British Columbia, then Victoria. We will be sharing one hotel room. Wish me luck.

Saturday, June 19, 2010


Within 24 hours of arriving my dad has broken my computer. Well, not really. He just shut it down while I usually put it to sleep. But when I tried to re-start it at first it didn't work. I'll admit I lost my patience and got aggravated. I asked, "What did you do?" The response, "Nothing!" And then he shared a familiar refrain, "Don't get so fresh!"

Apparently, you can still get in trouble at 35 for talking back. Okay.

Things my parents have shared since their arrival:

1) My dog is fat. Not chubby, not a bit overweight, but fat.
2) My dad refers to my dog as he, and each time my mom delights in adding softly in the background "She" - each and every time. Now it's become not so soft and more of a screech, "SHE!"
3) While in the car, my dad spots a guy walking away from Stark down 33rd street. "My, my how awful," he says. When we ask what's the problem, my dad says, "His head is too big for his body."
4) There is not enough light in the kitchen, space in the bathroom, and the seat-belt in the back seat of the car is lost in the back - this will not do. Dad uses a pliers to remove it and tells me how dangerous it was.
5) We go to Wildwood for dinner. My dad says he wants the salmon but it's 30 dollars. My mom says (and i do too) that you only live once, and to his credit he orders it. But first he corrects this, he was revived from his heart attack twice. Point taken, dad.
6) My mom likes the silver-wear. Of course, their last visit they bought it for me, because it is stainless steal. My dad chimes in, "Not like the junk you had before."
7) Take parents to 23rd Street and reach Lovejoy where there is construction, a couple of homeless people. Dad: "Why are you taking us here? There's an element. The hoi polloi."
8) Eat lunch at my favorite spot: Lovejoy Bakers. My dad spies the owner, tells him how much we like the place. The owner brings us complimentary, olive bread. Dad remarks on this as a marketing tool, and we buy the bread later. Because it's magnificent. Dad makes sure to chit chat, ending with: what this city needs is a good Jewish deli!
9) I needed to leave them for an hour or so to see a client. When I return I take too long finding a parking spot in the 23rd street area. I return to the folks sitting outside at a table, sunglasses glimmering. Mom has purple shades whereas dad's are tinted dark green. First: "Where were you?" Second: dad points to the cable, securing the tables and chairs and how he almost tripped on it: dangerous. The dog bowl at the restaurant earlier at lunch he tripped on too: dangerous. My carpeting at home with its bubbling area: dangerous again. When I point out it may be him, I am told that is ridiculous.
10) Most Disturbing Moment So Far: in car, crossing Burnside Bridge, discussing the blog. Dad says, "Let's say you were out on a date with me." I stop him there. "Sure, but just for a sec, let's imagine you on a date with your mother."

The biggest uproar around here is that I had the nerve to cancel my basic cable. How will dad watch the Pebble Beach gold tournament? How will mom watch Judge Judy? I explained that I never watched TV, only DVDs. Why should I pay $12 a month for something I literally never use. Dad pulled out a pad and pencil, that 49 cents a day.

When my dad talks about listening to the news, knowing what's going on in the world. I tell him I'm not interested, except for Hoda and Kathie Lee. I hear enough horrible news at my work. I ask him about meditation and calmness. His response -

"Why on earth would I want to do that?"

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Dirty Talk

Explosive diarrhea? Prostate trouble? Acid Reflux? Alopecia? That's right, the folks descend upon Portland in a mere few hours. Gear up!

X Marks the Spot

At Laurelhurst Park the other day with A. sniffing up a storm and who do I see? A past date? This was PB (pre-blog) about two years ago. A time when I felt a large amount of optimism regarding suitors, my romantic future, and life in general, shortly after the end of a long-term relationship with, oh a person shall we name X?

At the time I was dating a friend's son. Yes, the crop of singletons is small here, but who could resist? My friend, still a wonderful friend today, I met through grad school. Her son was 22 at the time with a mop of curly blonde hair and wooed me. Scandalous! Mon dieu! The flurry of dating - believe me - was short lived. I get a dull headache from multi-tasking office projects let alone men. So, there was the lovely 22 year old, former college football star, prom king, who adored Russian literature and was (clear throat) just finishing up school, yes undergrad, at U of O. He was the guy i never got in high school and pretended I did not want either. He was sweet, adoring, smart, and made me a mix CD with such contemporary artists! this generation! Suddenly I was driving around listening to Arcade Fire, look at me. Anyway. Just a month or two. It's obvious what transpired, I think, so no need to go into much detail, but the guy I bumped into was someone who I had been chatting with at the dog park at around the same time. We'll call him Dog Park Guy, who may be reading this.

But I promised myself not to edit because of audience, still, I like him as a person, so I will try to be gracious.

The story: basically, after many flirtatious conversations, Dog Park Guy asks me out for a beer. Now this may not appear amazing on the surface, but for Portland? This may well be urban legend. So we went for a beer near Belmont and 33rd, Side Street?, I cannot remember - so many dates, so little time, and we had a nice time. DPG is a genuine nice guy from the Midwest. As I recall, there was one kiss. All fine. But my mind was some place else. Maybe with the 22 year old I had seen naked that morning?

Then, I ran into him at the park maybe three months later, I cannot remember. And guess what? He's walking two dogs now. My fling has ended. He's met a girl, she's moved in, and there's dog love. Already. I remember thinking: wow, that was fast. The musical chairs of dating, and the music is slowing down and shit - there are no decent chairs left.

So, now fast forward to another year (another year!?) and i see him where else? And we're walking our dogs and he only has one. I had ruled him out before, in part, because his dog is spastic, though sweet, and enjoys mauling or "punching people on the stomach" as he described. A. thinks the dog is so bizarre that she walks about 20 feet away while we walk. So, we head around the lake, down leafy paths, Laurelhurst is a like an incredibly mini-Central Park and anyone who lives here will be quick to brag that it was designed by the same set of brothers. And they are right to brag: it is overgrown, yet lovely, peaceful, lush.

So my point - damn, I know there is one in here - oh, is that I tell him about my moving plan (aug/sept) and we discuss the blog and dating. He tells me, "I don't know how to date." In my twenties I may have lamented the same and thought it sweet. But now? I find this unacceptable. Plus, he actually does know how to date, so he deserves a crapload more credit than he's giving himself. So this rant is not directed at him but to others with this issue:

1) In your 30s you must learn how to date or you look sad. You look like a guy who cannot get the job done and that quite unsexy. Be capable.
2) It is simple.
3) Meet a woman, smile, flirt, within 3 meetings ask for her number.
4) Put thought into a bar or restaurant. Be early.
5) Look nice, smell good. Again, not hard. A button down or retro tee-shirt and jeans, fine.
6) Make eye contact, ask questions, feign interest.
7)Pay for said drinks or meal.
8) If interested, a kiss, even if a peck.
9) Follow up with a phone call. That's right. NOT an email. NOT, I repeat, NOT a wimp-ass text. A PHONE CALL. Very retro, I know.

Whew, I'm exhausted.

So, the next day I get a call from X. Sometime during our relationship I nicknamed him Stinky (not because of a smell at all, but because of an inside joke, some quirk), that morphed into El Stinko, Stinky-la-roo and my favorite: Stinkles. Now, I call my dog by these names too so it is really an uber-compliment. When my phone rings it says: Stinkles.

Just the other day, with N. on the porch, drinking wine, spying the new potentially gay neighbor - who he refers to as a hanging pair - N., who knew X got tipsy and asked, "Do you ever see yourself with him, like getting back together with him. I mean all I'm saying is that he was so great when he came to Christmas that time and helped my mom cook, clean, and everything. Plus, I think he's cute."

Ah N.

Of course I do. Does anyone not lament on past X people? And wonder and imagine and consider it? But I quickly launched into the misery that was the end of our relationship, and then told him what I believe to be true: I am an unreliable narrator. Even of my own story. I don't know what is true anymore. Did we abhor each other that much? Were we really in love? One day the answer is as clear as the night sky and another day it's cloudier than the Sandy River.

Then my phone rings: Stinkles. Who is also probably reading this. And we talk for one hour and twenty minutes. My phone has the proof. And it's a fun phone call beginning with him saying, "I'm on Percoset for a migraine so I hope I don't say anything I'll regret." And we banter, and it's just fun, he is someone who knows me well, seen me at my worst, best, and in between and hasn't run off into the hills. He has a deep voice that lures women and girls of all ages and he's funny, bright, and a wonderful listener. Even when we get off the phone I feel a little high, like he's passed the Percoset through the phone line.

But of course, it could never work, could it? No, there is too much history, much of it painful. And another small detail: he is moving in with his girlfriend in one month.

Monday, June 14, 2010


Sandra hung up the phone. She didn't know why, but she needed to stand near the window with a blanket draped around her shoulders like a shawl. She just did. These past months her heart had beat so hard, her thyroid had been in a rush and now it was depleted, her hormones left on empty. She yearned to see her city - Portland - to gaze at it from above. Like a spy. From a place where you couldn't see tiny people below with all their pesky troubles. A distance.
To die tonight wouldn't be so bad, even this alone business wasn't exactly horrific. In fact, it was nice. Having the phone numbers helped. She must call Nicole. She needed to let her know that she loved her, that not once had she wanted a daughter - that girls were often so complicated, so nit-picky, so hard to please - but that if she did, she'd want one like her.

Endings make the story. That's my recent epiphany. Above is the ending of a (very) long story I wrote. And finally, FINALLY, I like the ending. And, though it's ridiculous to expect any reader to enjoy an ending without reading (hello?) rest of the story? I still felt like I wanted to share it today. And also, to say thank you to people who are enjoying my blog. It's encouraging to know there are readers out there. If/when I have more dates, of course I will share them with you, but until then I'll try to put other things of interest on here too.

I met with a few readers of the blog last night at a BBQ. It was incredible. First, D. (another East Coast transplant) and I stopped at Sheridan's Market. I've driven past it but for some dumb reason never went in. Amazing, homemade style sausages! We went with a chicken, cherry, white wine, spearmint concoction as well as an electric pink Buffalo hot wing flavor. Excellent company and gracious hostess, A. and host, B.

B. had written me an email asking for a date after A. forwarded my blog to him. While he is 26 and I am 35, we had a very nice time, though he got a friend vibe. In the past I may have been insulted...and okay for a moment I worried that I might be running out of estrogen. But now I'm going with it, and I'm liking it. I've decided a couple things too: 1)I am not always a good judge of character and 2) I am often an acquired taste.

I also got to meet A., who is excellent. As discussed last night, it's just nice to meet other singletons in Portland, who are fun, funny, kind, interesting people. From A.'s bldg in the Pearl we spied a former suitor at the restaurant next door and had a lovely Sunday BBQ. She introduced me to the beer-gina (rhymes with you know what) and involves the drink Orangina, and I got to share my views on how horrible a word vagina is - with the V and the G. It's just not good.

All in all, a splendid evening.

On a totally random note, I have now been singing a horrible song lately. I only do it when I'm alone and only, ONLY when in the car. It's that I Want to Be Billionaire song. Please don't judge. It's snappy and as my brother mentioned, I'm feeling more chipper these days. Not dating. And if I want to sing, in my car alone, to terrible, terrible music?

I'm going to do it.

Sunday, June 13, 2010


This morning I counted fourteen windows in my house - including the little glass panes in the front and back doors. My house is tiny, it's been nicknamed a dollhouse (at 800 square feet - a palace in NYC). In fact, when my mother first visited here she said, "I didn't know they made houses this small."

Thanks, mom.

So with the sun finally returning. That orange globe in the sky with all its power and strength. I am in heaven. I opened all the windows and let the light in. It doesn't hurt that I saw The Karate Kid last night after visiting Henry's Cabinet in the Lloyd Center. Where to begin describing a night, that once again, trumps fiction?

I'll begin in the morning. Anybody who knows me, knows I wake ridiculously early. men I've dated have tried to join me in this morning time, setting alarms, hovering over my shoulder while I write or read, and you know what? I like my morning time. I love it. And I love it alone. Let the rest of the world sleep till noon. I've got this all to myself. The only person I see at these wee hours is my neighbor, Larry, a Wisconsin transplant who looks not unlike Wilfred Brumley, guy who played grandpa on that show with Shannon Doherty? A spellbinding tale. (Angela, back in NYC, you would appreciate this man.)

Long story short, saw the Larrster, hit Tabor, then drove with A. to the coast. usually we prefer Manzanita but I was tryign to make it back in time to watch the World Cup - to any friends guffawing, NOT posing as a woman who likes sports, that would be a LIE, just wanted to see if there were any cute ex-pats. But never made it. Went to Cannon Beach instead, watched A. growl and chase kits, recumbent bikes, and large, dark dogs (she is racist). Got some jogging done on the beach. It was truly magnificent.

I will miss it here.

Drove back and got a call from N. or as my dog knows him: Uncle Nay Nay.
Now Uncle Nay Nay had texted at 7am to ask if I wanted to see Karate Kid that night. And what do you do when someone asks you such a thing? You go.

But N. got out of work early and came over. We drank chilled Reisling (local, organic, don't worry) and i made him my favorite summer salad: spinach, strawberries, Oregonzola, walnuts, with some rotisserie chicken legs. We sat on the porch, drank our wine as A. growled at each passerby. It was a pure delight. Wonderful company, and also tortilla chips with flax seeds, peach mango salsa.

We moved onto Crush, sat outside. I stuck with white wine. When the sun got too much, we sat at the bar while the bartender flirted his skinny tush off with N. and ate chocolate cake. Does life get better than this?

Oh yes it does!
Captain Henry's which I have renamed at Henry's Cabinet, is an amazing store in the Llyod Center. N. has told me there is a private room in the back where they host parties and you can BYOB. N. response was - why on earth would I do that when I can be served by them? Apparently, they can also provide beverages and keep the store open beyond mall hours. Mecca!

The store has pins like Show Me The Booty and Blow Me Down! My parents would be proud. You cna buy an eye patch for a buck, a foam sword for three, and best of all they carry my favorite pepper jelly ever, that I cannot find anywhere except at farmers markets and the Made in Oregon Store. But here it is! Mango Madness! And I'm in love. They have re-named it Mutiny by Mango. And I cannot help but think of my ex who used to slather it on turkey burgers that make my mouth water just imagining the flavor. Oy.

We spend way too much time in this store and we haven't even smoked anything yet. I read a "guest comment card" posted on a bulleting board that says: My name is Aysmana. I'm from Cuba. I like very your store. Thank you." This says it all.

N. decides to go to the too slick looking guy (who could be playing on his team) at the booth for 'Get a Stress Test' but what is really a L. Ron Hubbard cult headquarters. I sit in a fake leather chair for awhile, then meander into a Macy's, stare at a KitchenAide Mixer that is green and $300. I see an old client walk by and think: this town is effing small. Shortly after, I rescue M.

We go back to the car near the Max again, listen to the radio, smoke, I cough up a lung, and then it's the Lloyd Center theatre, we are some of the only white people again, and it is amazing. N. drives me back, we giggle nearly non-stop and I find him some turkey burgers I made the other day, whisk them up on some rye bread, regret nbot getting the mango pepper jelly - why? Why? Is parting with $7 so hard? and we say goodnight - N. spies the new,cute, probably gay sublettor across the street, and I fall into one of hte best night's sleep of my life.

"Fun is not overrated."
-It's Complicated by Nancy Meyers

Friday, June 11, 2010


Woke up to a flier on my porch: Lonesome's Pizza. Apparently I'm not the only one pissed off. According to their website (pasted on here)...

Our Mission

We got two goals.

1 is to make the best pizza in North America (there’s a pizza in Venice we all had last year that we’re never going to touch).
2 is to bring a couple of new artists to your attention with the hopes that you’ll enjoy what they do as much as us.

Along the way, we hope to make a bunch of money, get our names in the paper,
and make every woman that’s ever broken each of our hearts regret it.
We hope you get a kick out of what we’re doing.
More than that, that you love your food, we’ve put our whole hearts into it.

thanks a bunch,


I like this: men who have given up on women altogether and focused their energies instead on food. Interesting concept. I'm feeling like there is a pizza in my future.


This rain is killing me. Each day a fresh torrent. I love the expression on my dog's face when we attempt to complete a loop at Tabor: her top lips curls only slightly and her eyes are at half mast. She has a rough coat and I can see how it would be uncomfortable with the hard rain pelting it. She knows the word car and when I say it, like yesterday, she makes a U-turn and runs toward it with sudden zeal. Then she rolls her snout around in the back seat, on the living room carpet (yes, industrial carpet, I rent) and finally the bed - that's the part I love the best because she growls, rolls, and I get to rub her belly.

Ah! Dog love!

Sigh. If this is all that is going on, I have not been remiss, there have not been many dates. Well, three to be precise. One thing I had not counted on with this blog was that potential suitors might read it and want to take me out on dates. My MO has always been not to complain too much right up front (about dating especially, ah it's all so breezy and effortless for moi) so the fact that two men have read my blog, e-mailed me, asked me out, and we've gone out on dates? Sheer delight!

Well. Sort of. The problem is that both were kind, smart, funny people. I actually enjoyed their company. So, I'd hate to blog anything negative.... Here we go. The Professah (this is said with my dad's Bronx, Jewish accent) moved out here from the East Coast, to teach. We met for a date at the Sokol Blosser Winery on Monday of Memorial Day weekend. This was an exquisite idea for a date, and of course, mine! I love the view from the wrap-around deck and the lovely hills that unroll in all directions.

We sampled several Pinots, a Reisling, meandered from table to table hearing about each special sample while music wafted in from some invisible place. The Professah was smart, nice, a good listener, and probably reading this as I type - except that he is far away, spending the summer abroad with his old university (long story).

So, we had a nice time, discussed the dents in our cars. I saw his, I showed him mine. There was a slight peck on the lips, so light I wondered if I'd been kissed at all. He called the next day to ask for Date 2. I liked him.

We met downtown at Powell's during the Rose Fest. Never a wonderful idea, and according to a man I'd meet later that night, people can get stuck downtown until 1am because of the parking and the stupid parade. So, The Professah had trouble finding a parking space and we needed to move his car in an hour. We wandered into Powell's and I felt oh a tad overdressed and made up for the lighting, but we separated quickly on his suggestion: he went to the subject he teaches (which I'm obviously not sharing on purpose) and I went where else? Literature! I could spend years there, and it's all fine, it's all great, it's whatever - but this doesn't feel like a date.

We make our way back together and go to the car to move it and grab drinks and food at Andina. Wonderful stuffed peppers! Beautiful plating! Vibrant! Colorful! Good Date Place! Stop me. Seated at the bar, we are next to a man who is young, kind of attractive, hyper (tapping his foot) and talkative. He may or may not have been hitting on me. He seems like my usual type: cute and mentally off balance.

I direct my attention back to The Prof and while the conversation is at points fun, revealing, and cute, it is also lacking some spark, I fear. I wonder if I will always like turds and idiots and why I cannot like someone who appears kind, smart, employed, easygoing, and reasonable. Although this being Date 2, perhaps I give him too much credit?

The Prof needs to go to IKEA. We had discussed this before the date and I'd invited myself along (I am so bad at this dating stuff). I had thought it could go either way: I'd break out into a cold sweat or I'd have a fantastic time, like singing and dancing in the aisles, IKEA, The Musical. But I'd nixed the idea later, not in the mood and it didn't seem The Prof really wanted me to go, and that was fine.

He drove me to my car. He had a laptop in the trunk of his car and needed wireless to get directions, so I pointed him to the closest coffee shop and we parted ways in the most unromantic of venues: a parking lot. Polite emails were exchanged and I'm left with this thought:

Why is this so hard?