TWO DATES A WEEK or die trying

such a big emergency

2011-04-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

My mother sometimes uses her cell to call my dad downstairs, which interrupts Jeopardy! but it must be done because it's such a big emergency.

Mom: Do you know how much Matt Lauer gets paid?

Dad: Three million dollars?

Mom: SEVEN TEEN million.

Dad: Wow.

the bottom of the bottom

2011-03-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

My parents are away and I'm watching movies. Saturday night!

I thought, since this site began with a dating theme and circles around to it again and again eventually, that I'd share the following: I took myself off a certain dating site. And I feel great! I now only make plans with people who know me for real: friends. I have oodles of space to think, to write, talk on the phone, drink coffee, aggravate those around me, obsess over travel plans, an upcoming roadtrip. I spend my time with my dog and my family. I go on walks. More walks. I look at portland craigslist. A lot. I read whole novels and occasionally, I socialize. Why just today I fixed a poppy seed bagel with homemade pecan pesto and slices of sweet potato on top. Also, I blended a smoothie and made a dessert out of pistchio gelato, whipped cream and dare I say it, a sprig of frozen cookie batter. Yum. Soon, I'm going to try my hand at a pizza from scratch. I cannot be stopped.

But I must share a mini-epiphany, if only to help some hapless souls in the single world...

While walking in Brooklyn I was talking to my brother and he asked which dating site I'd been on.

OK Cupid.

His response was to halt, and I mean come to an immediate, dramatic stop on the sidewalk. The screech of crappy brakes in the distance.

And then he told me:

Dude. That's the bottom of the bottom.

Apparently OK Cupid is where singletons go to dip a toe in the dating pool but not dive in. It's for those of the recent break up, it's for those looking to just fuck around or joke around or fool around, or generally act like idiots and not really have relationships. After all, it is free.

All I could say was oh.

Does this mean I have not given NYC men a proper chance? Could my experiment have some skewed variable and not all single men in NYC are in their 40s, drunk-texting and standing women up while also have drug, alcohol abuse/dependence and various mental health diagnoses?

Perhaps. But I'm too tired to try another site right now. That would require effort. Maybe on another day I'll feel differently about it. For now-

Pesto? Or, tomato sauce? Goat cheese or mozzarella?

File under: Dietary Indiscretion

2011-03-17T06:54:00.000-07:00

MYSTERY SOLVED!

For days A. was having bathroom emergencies, as in dia....I won't finish it, lest I embarrass her. Each time she had an issue she jumped all over whoever was home and made her needs clear, lest no accidents actually in the house. Still. Poor fuzzy baby.

One day I examined a terrible poop. In it was a mysterious substance, tiny yellow dots and mucus. After some sleuthing, it is now clear that A. was eating the leftover birdseed my dad had been sprinkling on the ground near the feeder. Why? Because birds shouldn't have to work so hard to eat.

A common phrase around here is: Did you feed the birds?

My mom's hesitant answer today was no. It was clear that her being remiss one day in her feeding duties coincided with A. having a normal bowel movement. Coincidence? I think not.

I am relieved. Cracked that case!

Freddy The Mouth

2011-03-12T10:00:00.000-08:00

My dad has alternative names for our neighbors. Some have been neighbors for decades, and have real names but who could say what they are. And does it matter?

Sometimes when I take A. for a walk, return home, and say I ran into someone in the neighborhood and chatted, there will be guesses as to who I saw. My mom or dad will ask, "Was it The Windmill? Or do you mean Pedophile? Or Nut-job?"

1) Pedophile: just because someone's accused of something doesn't mean they did it, but it does mean they get a new name! As in, "Pedophile's friendly to you? He's not to me."

2) Nut-job: a man who did not offer dad a ride from train many years ago and speaks to self loudly. Nut-job.

3) The Windmill: a senior lady who power-walks through the development, pumping her who arms, fists included, to gain speed. Hence, windmill.

Then of course there's the neighbor who refuses to put her teeth in. Not so hot. And the crass neighbor who moved; the one with dirt beneath her fingernails.

Lest I forget Freddy The Mouth. A man my dad knew from the train a long time ago. He liked to talk, so he gets a special nickname.

The Best Use of Our Time

2011-03-07T08:19:00.000-08:00

The last on-line date I went to was a coffee. The man was a bit petite, not particularly cute but okay, bearded and mildly interesting. He works in advertising and is having some personal issues with a co-worker. I had a good time during our hour together, though my socks did not fly off (as in knock your socks off), but good enough. Good enough for a second date. During the date (Cafe Grumpy, Park Slope, so at least I had a tasty latte with foam shaped into a leaf) he mentioned that if I'd like to go out again I should let him know because he would like to. Do you know where I'm headed with this? Because I think you do.

I emailed him in couple of days later, said I had a nice time and would be up for going out again. The response? First he wrote that he wasn't going to respond to my email but then thought maybe he should and that he did not think it would be the best use of our time to go on a second date. I couldn't help but write back that, look buddy, I hadn't registered at Pottery Barn just yet, but I thought we had a semi-pleasant conversation.

That goes in the whatever column.

In the WTF column, a guy I showed my apartment to, for a sublet, began asking me out via texts. When I met with him to show the apartment, he seemed hyper, manic, or on drugs like coke or in need of drugs, like for ADHD. He bounced on the balls of his feet exclaiming that I charged too little for the sublet and he paid $500 more for a box in Nolita. He used the bathroom (suspect, right?). Then he left and a week later he invited me to a party, then drinks, then dinner, then drinks again. Each time I said no thanks.

Finally, finally, in a moment of pure shoulder shrugging who cares, I agreed to one beverage on a Sunday night at Temple Bar. After we made the plans a friend asked me to go climbing in Brooklyn I said I couldn't because I had other plans. Do you know where this story is going? I bet you do.

I show up, he doesn't. I send a text: the place is closed, meet next door? He responds suggesting the Boom Boom Room. I question if this is code for something gross. I don't understand. I try to assume it is an actual place and text back I don't know it. No response. I say to myself I was 10 minutes late and he gets 10 minutes more then I'm gone. I hop on the subway, waiting for my chariot at Penn Station and the texts begin to flow. Sorry, sweetie. Where are you, girl? Then the drunken voicemail, slurring, the works. Dozens of texts continue for a couple weeks until I text him that I'm moving back to the West Coast to be closer to my fiance. He wrote back immediately, oh come on.

I met this man for five minutes to show him a sublet.

This is all to say I'm depressed. Men, if this is the level of quality you have to offer, count me out.

I'm participating in Operation Cheer the Fuck Up. I have to give B. credit for the idea and title. It goes like this.

1) Take self off dating site.
2) No dating allowed.
3) Move back to Portland.
4) That's all I got.

our big slave

2011-02-18T15:39:00.000-08:00

Me: I get it. You're done.

Mom: Believe it or not, I wasn't pushing that plate toward you as a hint.

Me: Oh no (loading dish into dishwasher).

Mom: You're not our little slave.

Dad: You're our big slave.

Good Shabbas, Bitch

2011-02-12T07:32:00.000-08:00

My dad's best quote this week, "Good Shabbas, bitch!" This is in relation to the neighbor at my old apartment who may or may not have reported my dog to the coop. We're B-----s, we don't need such a prosaic and pedestrian thing as proof! They are very religious Jews which led to a conversation about compassion, lack their of, and smiling faces in the hallway paired with a certified letter from the coop board. My dad suggested a new greeting the next time I see my neighbors, which I hope will be never. I also have to share that four years ago the walls are so thin I could hear this couple yelling at their son non-stop, shit like, "Because I'm your mother" and also having sex, and then the woman crying afterward. Sadly, I heard the same exact sounds a couple of weeks ago - as if their lives had become frozen in time.

Do whatever the hell you want but do I have to hear about it?

Makes a couple of barks and yips not seem so bad to me.

Something Awful Just Happened in There

2011-02-10T05:02:00.000-08:00

After the first date-yoga date we went to Bark for hot dogs. Can you spell romance? But it was fun. Date was able to do yoga @Park Slope Yoga Center, near the infamous Nazi food coop, but at one point, while sweat dripped down his chin and plopped onto his masculine gray mat with the palm tree silhouettes, he turned back to me and raised his eyebrows. After, I asked if he was okay and I told him he did great (true) and he responded that it was no problem, really, tomorrow we were going skiing. Insert devilish cackle....mwa ha ha.

Down the block we ate at Bark, casual. I found a dog with cheese and bacon tasty (pig on pig), but the kraut dog better and the fries just the proper consistency. After all the water I drank, I needed to use the bathroom, and a woman was leaving as I was going in. She stopped me, placed a hand to my upper arm and looked into my eyes,"Something awful just happened in there."

But, when you gotta go.

No Nonsense

2011-02-08T08:10:00.000-08:00

No Nonsense? Sheer Endurance? Beautifully STRONG, Beautifully SHEER

Pantimedias Transparentes y Fuertes

My mom left a package of these in my old room. Hint anyone? I'm afraid peach pantyhose is not sheer, unless my skin is now orange. It's more of a pasty white like milk or bleached bread. And in this environment it's only getting more translucent. Speaking of unhealthy glows, I had my third interview yesterday in which "my office" would be in a basement.

I hate basements! In this last interview the director told me that she was excited that the whole organization would be moving across the street this week.

"Great," I said then asked, "so does that mean your office wouldn't be in a basement?"

"Precisely," she said, big smile. "But my staff would still be in the basement."

I glued a huge smile on - thank you Crest Whitestrips - and said, great!

I think she believed me.

On the crosstown bus at 116th street in Harlem a little girl next to me asked her mom if noses have hairs inside. Then, as if on a great escapade or research project, she began to pick her nose in earnest.

Love the bus.

fancy hangover

2011-02-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

Two dates a week goes cross-country. Last night, fancy cocktails at a fancy bar with fancy man. Now, I have a fancy hangover.

It's official: I can only drinks two drinks. I hear you: did you specify Grey Goose, drink water, eat dinner? Yes, yes, and yes. But I have no tolerance.

Exercising helps hangovers, or so I read so...I tried to sneak in the gym this morning, but they have a thumbprint system to gain access. I pressed my nose to the glass, hoping someone would see me and let me steal some exercise. But no luck. Gym was empty.

So, last night, Temple Bar. Aside from needing a flashlight to see, I love this place and remember it from years ago with the popcorn and salty sticks in tiny bowls (thank you, A. for jogging my memory), elaborate cocktails, post-work Brunette Quartet times. The cocktails are now $12 and well made. Also, chicken wings: messy but worth it and guacamole: I've had better.

My date was incredibly good company, albeit 25 minutes late. Since I'm often late, I didn't really mind and he was traveling from Washington Heights, which to those of you not in NY, is far, quite far. I hovered over a party that was on their way out and snagged their chairs. I wasn't going to pay for my beverage, so why not get the most spendy? Lemon Drop for me, extra sugar on the rim please.

My date was lovely. Divorced. Not a hair on his head. Cute glasses. Funny. Smart. Touched my arm at multiple intervals. He was a journalist and switched careers, as I did, so we had some common ground and he's funny. He may be more friend than husband material, but that remains to be seen. And shouldn't there be some overlap?

This afternoon it's on to Date 2. Different guy. It's a first date yoga class.

Om.

He Has a Car!

2011-02-04T09:28:00.000-08:00

What do you do when a man you’ve been on two dates with asks you to go skiing in Vermont for a long weekend? Please keep in mind, I understand this is a good problem to have. But! This was the French guy who wanted to by friends. That other F-word. No man wanted to be my friend when I was in my 20s.

This perplexes me. I received the email invite to Vermont which then morphed into Maine, both starting as roadtrips and ending with cheap JetBlue flights. Now, French man is afraid of flying. So, would this mean that as the doors closed, I’d be left with a guy I’ve been on two dates with, who wants to just be friends, having a panic attack on me?

But, as any New Yorker knows, an invitation to flee the island is huge. And a car?

I, of course, ran this by my mother: two dates, friends, trip to Vermont, four days. Her response? I have skis and boots in the basement!

Perhaps I overreacted and my joie de vive was in limited supply. My own Law-N-Order-SVU addicted mother would go! Then, I asked my dad if he knew about my recent invitation and his response: I’m really glad you decided not to go. You don’t know this guy. What if you don’t get along? Then my brother’s response: I’m not a good person to ask, I’ve just watched 3 episodes of 48 hours and it’s all about these missing women and these guys who they thought were really nice.

I get a text while at Wal-mart from French man. I tell him: I’m at Wal-Mart, don’t judge. I need to time to think about this trip. He’s offered to pay for most of it…this guy that claims to want to be friends. Hm. After an hour and a half he texts again: Over an hour at Wal-mart? Now I’m judging.

Lesson? Not really.

I just decided not to go. It’s not that I have any scintillating plans here , but I’d rather be a little bored and comfortable in my environment than in a car with a virtual stranger who may or may not want to stop at a bathroom every two hours, listen to bad 80s songs, eat copious snacks, procure Coffeemate for me, understand my need for a fan, melatonin, earplugs, eye-mask, lavender balm, noise/sound machine and a warm cup of milk at bedtime.

Maybe he didn’t think it through.

Ice, Ice Baby

2011-02-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Mom: Who wants a petrified orange?

Dad: I do.

I'm ready to live on a Farm

2011-01-29T15:51:00.000-08:00

That's all. That's it. Had a date with a psychologist at the Coffee Roasting Plant on Orchard and then went next door to some Austrian place. Strange. Two hours felt like four. Time stood still. And yet, I'm not quite sure he knows much about me. I put this in the category (yet again): I'd go on a second date if he asked, but not feeling overwhelmed or excited.

Again, my repeated exposure theory. Sounds like flashing someone, but really, it's just that internet dates don't work well for me because I need to meet someone repeatedly before feeling anything for them and vice versa. So why go? Good question!

Where's my farm?

I love my gumpion too.

2011-01-29T09:00:00.000-08:00

Where to begin? I'm writing this blog from my old LES apartment. My dog and I lasted one full week before receiving a certified letter from the coop referring to the dog forthwith heretofore albeit referred to as "The Dog" making it clear that The Dog would need to vacate the building. As if! I can only compare this to our beloved old block in PDX where neighborhood children would frolic, skipping down teh block holding hands and calling out "Hello A" to my furry baby who was manning the window, growling at old ladies zooming by on Jazzies.

So, whether I stay or return to Portland here I am subletting my old place again. 8 people are scheduled to check it out, which means half will show, I predicted. But so far, everyone has been here. Some prospective tenants reveal a little too much, as in one guy who I thought was a touch hyper and said he was in recovery. Fine. Just don't tell me.

But, onto other realms: dates. Met N. for drinks at Sycamore. She always picks great places, and soon this will be her neighborhood. 2 glasses of Prosecco and shared some hard pretzels with people at the bar. Apparently, pretzels are a commodity at bars. I liked the little flower shop in front and I like this strip in Ditmas Park. N. and I discussed a rather pervasive problem in NYC: Whiney Little Bitches. That's you, people! Men! So, as a good friend in Portland asked me recently: how are the men in NY compared to Portland? Can't say I'm impressed, seems like a bunch of hot messes here. I can't say I've really experienced the WLB syndrome yet myself, but I agree it is out there.

Examples:
1) Date with T. Day date, fine. Met at The Strand and walked his dog to dog run at Union Square. He looked maybe 5-10 yrs older than his photo. But nice, nonetheless. At one point he flung the leash in the air, t o play with his dog, and the metal part HIT MY HEAD. I tried not to scream, OW! But he saw the look on my face and I was rubbing my head.

Injury Number One (more to come)

2) New Year's Day. Wake up feeling semi-awful. Two text messages from T. One, indecipherable, done at like at 2am. Next one, "J. love your gumpion." I texted my brother: hey, what's gumpion? He explained that with iphones it's easy to make a mistake like that and he prob meant gumption.

I love my gumpion too.

3) After drinks with N. we went to visit my husband (he just doesn't know it yet) at Castello Plan. Ben Neeejrigurjoepweoieuthjqgfosda - some Danish type of name. Who wouldn't want to marry a man who brings you pumpkin gnooci, some crazy ass mushroom cheese plate and a wine I now forget but from Washington state of course. It's so small and well lit in there.

4) My brother's girlfriend told me over dinner that she had to tell me something and she would tell me after she finished her glass of wine. She finishes one. She finishes two. Finally, I remind her, thinking naively hey maybe it'll be some good news. Why? Why do I have this pollyanna take on life. Is it ever good news? Ever? Nope and not this time either. In a city with over how many singletons? Turns out that years ago she went on a date with Israeli guy. Not the end of the world. But when you start think that she went out with him and now goes out with my brother and i went out with him...well, it's just a small, incestuous circle.

5) Had two dates with a hipster who owns two bars in Brooklyn. I'm looking to meet someone and bring him back to Portland. He - ridiculously - wants to meet a woman and bring her to Colorado. Whatever, buddy. Get a clue!

6) Coffee date today with a psychologist. He is probably totally screwed up.

7) Going back to my night out with N. last night. After leaving her I walked back to the subway stop, and on my my slipped on some ice. My wallet and cell flew up and out of my purse. I got myself together, looked both ways - good nobody laughing, acknowledging, helping, fine, let's all pretend that didn't happen. But then I walked right past the subway (3 glasses of wine), luckily a guy with an MTA jacket pointed me in the proper direction and it was only like 9:30.

Injury Number 2.

8) When i first arrived to NY, a man followed me out of the subway. At first I was totally annoyed and stopped walking. I hate it when someone has to be on my heels like that. Get away! But he stopped me and said excuse me and said I just think you're beautiful and I know this is a long shot but I wrote my number down if oyu ever want to go on a date.

I had just returned to NY and when I told Y. this story she was like: yeah, it's that just arrived thing, you've not been beaten down by NY. Not, gee you're lovely and that's flattering. But you know what, I think she's right. This city is hard and I'm left wondering...

What did I do with that guy's number?

All We Are is Trash in the Wind

2011-01-17T08:43:00.000-08:00

A. was all wound up, barking and growling late in the afternoon yesterday. Hopped onto the chair. Put her snout to the window. Grrrrrrrrrr! Trash bags caught in tree limbs.

One bag freed itself and was sailing through the air and then floating up and falling down. I watched her eyes follow it across the sky. It must have looked like a live thing.

She'd spied what every New Yorker is familiar seeing, but was all new to her.

The International House of Dating

2011-01-17T07:05:00.000-08:00

Have you ever moved back to your old apartment? It's strange thing. I lived here (on the LES) for four years before moving to Portland. I didn't yet have my dog. I was in a relationship (it was torturous, but that's not to say I don't miss the torture). I had not yet lived in Pacific Northwest. I had been in NYC ten years, since I was 21, really much of my adult life.

Let's just say I wasn't thrilled about returning. I wanted to be in Brooklyn, near my friends and near Prospect Park. But after shopping around, I couldn't find much out there and without a job I was hesitant to sign a new lease.

No dogs are allowed in this building. So each time A. lets out a chickeny little bark - baH! - I try to quiet her down. She receives a glob of peanut butter each time she perks her ears and does not bark. And all the same noises are here: the old bag in the apartment above, who may be 200 years old and doesn't ever leave. I hear her every foot step. But I'm listening to music to drown it out and so A. will sleep. Her little beady eyes are finally closed. Someone sent me music by Hello Saferide & it's good, while my computer was opening it as an attachment, out popped itunes where 365 albums live. Hadn't realized that had been transferred from my old laptop. Nice!

Onto the skinny. Dates:

The Israeli guy is in the mix. A morose fellow. Had a nice dinner, talked about love. He's not been in a long relationship. He was honest and direct and I like this. But the cultural impasse may be too great. He spoke of not wanting to come to the LES because it was out of the way from where he was and I was headed west anyway. Shouldn't you WANT to go out of your way for a date? Dude, get a clue. It told him so and he did.

French man. Two dates. Between date one and date two there were at least a dozen texts and a couple of phone calls, all initiated by him. But I drank two IPAs with him after a movie and felt downright drunk for five minutes and then ill all the next day. The worst of all worlds. We had an odd conversation about romantic relationships whereby I found myself asking: have you ever cheated on someone? Of course he had. Why would I ask such a question?

Since there was no text the next day, I assume he was not interested, so I sent him an email suggesting friendship and he was on the same page. But I am left with the question of what are men expecting a date to be like? I feel like I fall short of whatever those expectations are and especially if the guy is looking to settle down, they have impossible standards. And if when we talk about other people, we're really talking about ourselves...maybe I'm the one with impossible standards?

No, scratch that. I think the dilemma for me is that it takes a long time yo get to know the layers people have, and in the dating game it seems there needs to be an immediate fix.

So, The International House of Dating is closing its doors. That was brief.

Took A. for a big run in East River Park this morning, where she found an empty baseball field. She rolled all over the snow, snout first, barked at passing ship, met furry friends, and got lots of compliments from strangers and even treats from a construction worker. I had been so worried about how she'd react to the city. But she loves it: she chases pigeons and the streets are lined with trash and pizza.

Maybe Aggy's my soul-mate?

Vinegar Removes Salt Stains

2011-01-09T04:11:00.000-08:00

A pride of cats. A pack of wolves. A herd of deer. I've learned a few things lately. Upon entering the mini-park near my parents' house, A. spied a herd of deer. Not one, not two, not ten, but more than five. Of course she was off-leash and for a solid few seconds she moved fast, as fast as a butterball shape or keg-with-feet, really, can move. And the deer stood still then turned, galloped back into the forest on their ridiculously long, spindly legs.

I did my usual high pitched shrill yell, passed down from millions of generations of pissed off Jewish women who have found various portions of their homes destroyed by children and spouses: a broken tile, a cracked window.

Lucky for us, A. stopped mid-run. She is an excellent listener. My dad and I were pleased. That incident has been about the most excitement my heart has had in months. Here is a brief run down of recent events/thoughts though:

1) I have gone on 5 consecutive dates with the same man. Including New Year's Eve. Mazel tov! I like him, but I don't know if I like-like him. He is Israeli but after all my kavetching, I'm not sure if I'm ready to wear his pin, or does he wear my pin? I don't remember.

2) I have three apartment options come February, when it rains, sometimes it just rains all day (Portland version). One option came from my hair stylist. See? It always pays to get your hair done nice. And now, mine is back to a chestnut brunette instead of fly-girl orange. And as B. said, when you put out the feelers...

3) Very little to no job options based in NYC. This is annoying, frustrating, embarrassing, depressing, and I'm hoping a part of the learning/growing theme of this blog entry. When I'm wildly successful, perhaps this experience will help add to my character & spirit and I'll look back on it and say, "Gee, remember when nobody wanted to hire me and now look at me? Look at me! Towel boy? Would you refresh my Amaretto Sour please? And two maraschino cherries this time. Chop. Chop."

I'm picturing Sunset Blvd, Gloria Swanson.

FYI-

One of the highlights of the move was my stay in Ft. Greene Brooklyn for five days. Listen, I know horrible things happened during this blizzard but for me, it was my first time alone in months. MY FIRST TIME ALONE IN MONTHS. A shangri-la. And when my brother called to say they'd be a day late because their flight was delayed in the midwest? I did my best not to break out in song and dance until after I hung up, then flung myself wildly upon various pieces of furniture and rolled around. Of course I missed my dog, but that meant I could watch the next 13-30 episodes of In Treatment.

That one night I ventured out was a mistake. An old colleague and friend generously offered to meet me at No. 7 (restaurant). Brave lady. From my brother's apartment it's a mere 4 block walk but she had to take the subway from Atlantic Center. I certainly did not have all my snow gear, to which my brother told me later - that's the survivor's first move? Look through the stuff in the apartment? Everyone knows that.

I did not. And by the time I arrived at the restaurant my glasses were snowed over, the ends of my hair dripping wet and my toe tips, numb. My Calvin Klein leather boots had acquired ugly, little trills of white salt stain lines that would only worsen in the next few days. Later, I would learn: vinegar removes salt stains....as my dad would say, like a charm. Or in Bronx-accent speak, chahm.

Anyway, I asked the people outside, smoking under the scaffolding, where I am? They laughed at me. Then with me. Inside, with the heat on full blast, my glasses steamed immediately. Eye-wear was useless! Why had I never had my eyeballs operated upon? But no, I couldn't do it! Plus, everything was a lovely, dimly lit ball of color. How beautiful the world is when you can't see the edges! Oh, there was my friend at the bar at least it looked like her: her sleek, black hair in two perfect, glossy, straight stripes, her red sweater looking ironed, and her coat...dry! How did she pull that off?

We ate...what did we eat? I remember fried broccoli. Yum! I remember red wine. I remember walking home alone in that snow, the wind smacking against my face. I remember it was dark. I was wearing my mother's cool looking, 25 year old leather, unlined driving gloves. My old, crappy, plaid, thin scarf that I bought in Soho on the street maybe a decade ago - I'd draped it across my face. Useless. The only thing I wore that was helpful was, as an NYC lady can tell you...my puffy coat! Like wearing a down comforter with arms cut out. Also, something I bought on the street, only in Chinatown.

The wind was so strong that by the time I made it to the front door of the brownstone (after heisting my body weight up the snow-filled stairs, clutching at the banister, picture a crazy angle, like my upper torso because of the wind, leaning back, while my legs are inching forward), I was out of breath. In fact, on the street, my breath caught several times, trapped in my chest. My hands were pink, near red, shaking, shivering cold and because of that, it took a long time to locate the key and actually get the key in the lock.

Once I got in the first door, there was a second door requiring a different key. And once I got through those two doors, there was a flight of stairs, and yet another door, the front door to the apartment, which needed another key. Procured!

Once inside, I'd tell people it wasn't so bad, really, it was sort of beautiful.

80 Cent Breakfast

2010-12-25T10:56:00.000-08:00

Though technically a dessert, I enjoyed an 80 cent black bean sesame ball along Grand Street, deep-friend of course. Merry Christmas to me! I walked all along Grand Street to my old apartment, almost to the East River and then back once again the other way, through Chinatown and Soho. I like New York when the streets are like this.

F.O.R.E.V.E.R.

2010-12-23T05:06:00.000-08:00

I found this message written in shaving cream on the neighbor's sidewalk across the street. From what I can understood the son is on the football team and cheerleaders left him this poignant message. What does it mean? And why the dots? Are we, in 2010, still in the 1950s?

Also, about a million crows landed on the front lawn for about 30 seconds. No food in sight. A storm soon? It reminded me of The Swifts in Portland.

I'm off to Brooklyn soon to babysit an 8 pound dog. There are some other "roommates" not paying rent. For people who do not live in Brooklyn/NY that means they have tails and paws, but they are not dogs. I will miss my own fuzzy baby.

Also, I don't mean to hold out on anybody here, but I do happen to have a second date in the works on X-mas. Miracles happen.

Do I see a little Chinese food and a movie? A Jewliday? I'm not telling.

Practice a Fall

2010-12-15T06:22:00.000-08:00

Tush in a Harness Much?

Brookyln Boulders Rock Gym at 575 DeGraw Street was not easy to find, but well worth the wandering through deserted streets that dead ended with the Gowanus Canal, only a pinch less beautiful than Venice. Even the floating debris like the empty milk carton I spied on its milky surface seemed ephemeral.

A friend and I walked right past the entrance but then saw an attractive, tall man in his 30s with a gym bag going the other way and we U-turned. Once you get through the beginning scent of feet or eau de locker room it becomes clear: this is where all the single men are spending their days. This is a plus. Putting my tush in a harness? A minus. Though larger than other appendages on my body, I'd only received compliments before. Aside from growing up and having a mother who called out very loudly in a fitting room, "Now turn around. Let me see your tush!" Then pinched the jeans or corduroys in her fingers declaring the pair, "much too tight."

Yes, the trauma was years ago but it lingers. It lingers!

Anyway, just wear flattering jeans or jeggings and you're golden. It was fun. And with the many signs that say, "No strollers," it is clear that kids are welcome but not their rides. People were kind, generous. Our instructor was pre-pubescent with acne and the hint of a mustache, and he forgot to introduce himself or provide a structure for the class. But I asked him for information like how long the class might be and what we were doing here and he obliged. My friend and I got caught giggling here and there (long story, cute boy in class with egg sandwich on lip) but once we got the figure-8 knot down, we were set.

My favorite part was practicing a fall. This is so utterly impossible to do and yet necessary. The climber lets go of the faux rocks and the person belaying is jolted and the rope needs to "catch" and there's an absence of drama. It strikes me as nothing like what it might be like on a real rock in a real world scenario, but it's as true as any fall: you try your best to prepare and yet you're totally caught off guard.

It requires attention (a hurdle for me) and patience and to baley is to really trust your partner. Not easy to put into words, but frankly the best three hours I've had since the move. Really fun and nice to focus on a physical task and not be in my head for a while. A bit pricey, at $60, but it includes an intro class, all the gear, a day pass (for that day) and then another day pass.

I'm looking forward to returning with jeans less low-waisted.

PS: If you're looking for a tasty Vietnamese sandwich within walking distance, that's spicy, cheap ($5) and a huge portion, try Hanco's - two locations:

www.hancosny.com

And not to be redundant here, but you do need a tasty bite if you're going to be brave and put your tush in a harness in public. At least this one.

Don't Rush Back

2010-12-10T16:28:00.000-08:00

My dad scurried to the city to go to an office party today. He is hard to get out of the house (his house, but whatevs) and so, as he gathered his papers and attache case and apple and sandwich and banana and cookie and keys and hat and muffler and bottle of water and swiss army knife and wallet and umbrella, I told him: don't rush back. It's a thing he likes to say to me often and I thought I'd throw it back in his face when given the chance. He understood. At the party, he ate steak and drank Johnny Walker Black, and it keeps lingering in my mind that not long ago he requested I procure a certain substance for him. And I have fallen short of this wish. He doesn't ask for much and I've not yet purchased a 40th anniversary gift so why not something a little different?

In other breaking news...

In Portland A. and I visited Tabor Park, Laurelhurst Park, the coast and other areas for hikes. We were constantly in nature and she had off-leash freedom. Here? A "park" recently opened up which really consists of a baseball field and a soccer field, two goal posts stuck in place. Big news in these parts.

The first time we visited, I let A. off-leash and she waddled to and fro, only returning when I whistled. Her little run-trot gave me so much joy, I thought I'd burst from happiness. Although B. suggested she try deal-a-meal, I enjoy the extra pound or two on her frame and as a great friend referred to her dog as having "furry pants" I too have a dog with such pants for the winter.

Anyway, first visit. Euphoria followed by joy. A. runs in fast circles, going wild when i stamp my feet and running to receive treatsals.

Second visit: hm. Why is that a new sign? Whatever does it read? NO PETS with a somewhat familiar illustration of a stick figure with a stick dog and a large black line through it. We stay.

Third visit: three signs, all the same as above. A. completes circle. I am happy.

Today's visit? Four signs total. As they say in this house, momzas! Oh pardon me.

But as I told (off) people at Tabor and Laurelhurst, and to quote Lucinda Williams: you will not take my joy away. Seeing my dog run off-leash in an empty field with not a soul around? I will happily break that rule. Any day.

Just For Men

2010-11-25T05:15:00.000-08:00

I'm giving thanks today that I'm not a guy. Over a glass of wine with friends and the second dog I know named Bug (at Washington Commons in Prospect Heights), I learned that there is a man in a friend's office who uses Just For Men (dye) to create a dark mustache. As a young jewish girl, I was introduced to Jolene to touch up my own fringe, creating the ever lovely blond mustache. But that's different.

Cheers!

When Our Grown Kids Disappoint Us

2010-11-22T16:04:00.001-08:00

I snagged this book at the library, while hanging with Ma B. It screamed out from the shelf. I wonder why?
It's by Jane Adams and oddly perceptive. Some favorite chapters include:

Whose Fault is it, Anyway?
We're Waiting...and Waiting...and Waiting
They're Ba-a-a-ck!
The Limits of Love

Overheard from living room...Dad in kitchen, speaking to dog:

You again?

You're going to put on weight. I'm eating cake. I shouldn't say anything.

More!

2010-11-21T16:59:00.000-08:00

Ditmas Park? Sign me up. It was like a little taste of Portland: Victorian houses, tiny yards, parking as far as the eye can see. If you're not afraid of the B/Q, it could be a slice of Brooklyn heaven.

Checked out The Castello Plan. We didn't eat, but at the cozy bar, watched food being prepared and more importantly, smelled it. My god. I repeat: my god. A religious experience. Pumpkin gnocchi. A mushroom spread on crispy toast that looked like a recipe my mom's made for 30 years (the secret ingredient? half-n-half). Yum.

Also, excellent white wine. Lots of free pours. Mellow crowd, solid music, Saturday night.

A free yoga class with Y. on Sunday. Lovely, lovely.

Strolls through Prospect Park. Bands of men playing soccer. Also lovely, lovely.

Then shangri-la came to a screeching halt. On the train from Penn to NJ picked up about 1,000,000 Jets fans. I inserted earplugs (don't leave home without them), but they weren't the miracle I was hoping for.

Brooklyn Delivers

2010-11-20T04:09:00.000-08:00

Highlights, and I'm not talking hair.

FOOD First.

Luscious Food: http://www.lusciousbrooklyn.com/

I like that the icon for Press is a fish. Then you click on the fish and get...a larger fish. New York Magazine rated these cookies The Best. Up there with monoliths like City Bakery and Jacques Torres. And, (insert pat on shoulder), I stumbled upon this little joint. No iphone! No internet! No article! Simply, walking down the street like a normal person before meeting a friend @ Flatbush Barn/Farm. Another cute, candlelit place, and a good find at 6:30pm with plenty of empty tables, dark wood, and a long bar - a ridiculous GLASS of red wine from Oregon priced at $14, but still.

By 8pm, I counted seven sets of women getting drinks together and one couple. Guess it's no newsflash that ladies may outnumber men here. But it couldn't ruin my night. Luscious had amazing split pea soup and a huge bowl (5 bucks), fresh, soft bread with a crunchy crust and vanillas cupcakes with star-sprinkles. All homemade. Who's home? I don't know. I don't care. Yum!

Park Slope Yoga Center
http://www.parkslopeyoga.com/

This place is perfect. I've long regaled friends and family with my yoga tales. Cliche as it may be, I really fell in love with yoga in the East Village over a decade ago at Bhava Yoga, a small studio run by a lovely couple. The room was, how shall I say this? A dump? But a brightly, purply and orangely, painted, cheery one, and nobody cared - it was always, 100% packed, and hot, with the exhalations of yogis. They had 2 hour classes that were cheap and well done with amazing music - no Enya-rock garden, drops of rain stuff, more like R&B, Guns'n Roses, Stevie Wonder, Neil Young.

Sadly, the couple got priced out (though they re-located to Brattleboro, Vermont and one day soon I hope to re-visit them and their classes). Park Slope Yoga Center - located on the second floor of a brownstone, is the closest I've come - in my years of searching East and West Coast - to Bhava. Nothing fancy, nothing chic. Smart, mellow, larger type, earthy lady instructor who adjusts you, excellent pace - challenging, and they offer 20% off a 10 class card if you join after your first drop-in class ($10). When I told them I didn't have a job yet, I got a coupon for a free class & a note on it, that I could apply the 20% discount any time.

Free yoga? My heart almost exploded from happiness on the spot.

Portland, Brooklyn, Coffee
http://www.cafegrumpy.com/

Cafe Grumpy. Second time visiting the one on the 7th Ave in Park Slope. Met a lovely barista there a few weeks back, who, when he heard I moved back from Portland said that he hoped he'd made my Americano okay and gave me lots of encouragement about living North Slope/Greenwood area. Nice and quiet, as quiet as say...a cemetery.

This visit, two lesbian punk girl baristas/children (one from PDX). I ordered wrong. I wanted something chocolatey and so got a macchiato but i meant a mocha. I know. How pedestrian of me. Well, I received the smallest cup of coffee/espresso I have ever seen. The saving grace? A tiny white heart made of foamed milk. Love lives.

I still want to check out the Greenpoint Grumpy, where they serve a $12 cup of coffee and they roast their own beans right there. I'd been considering Greenpoint as a new possible home but I heard nightmares about the G train, there is no real park for my furry monster baby and there was a huge oil spill there, apparently, a sewage plant and a nature walk along the sewage plant.

Not exactly Mount Tabor Park.

Fact Fiction

2010-11-15T04:44:00.000-08:00

Visited with a life-long Brooklynite yesterday - wonderful K.'s aunt-in-law, who suggested I refer to her as "Auntie" and I shall! She invited me to her sprawling apartment (she's had about 30 yrs - apartment turned coop situation). I met her daughter. Auntie walked me all over Prospect Heights with her dog, Brooklyn, a near replica of my furry, white monster, A.

Auntie was so lovely and warm, and though she would likely not be a kidney-match, she is now an aunt. Voila! Wandering her neighborhood gave me hope that I would find a cozy, nearby home, for me and my little dog too. (Insert evil cackle. Throw head back.)

Hearing about her career (similar to mine), got me thinking about much longer-term hopes and goals, like writing goals, and also how private I am, despite the mini-blog presence. Really, I include a tiny portion, a certain sliver - as ephemeral as a parental fart, for which my mom is none too pleased, by the by.

So much remains absent here. And that stuff lives on paper. Real paper...maybe some day it will see the world.

Anyway.

I'm reading an excellent novel now (Ship Made of Paper) & thinking about solid writing. These themes lately:

privacy
liars

Stumbled upon this...

Dr. Pankratz got his start in “mysteries” by studying deceptive patients. He began with a study subtitled “Summering in Oregon,” about patients who were wandering from hospital to hospital, telling false stories about their lives. The next critical paper was about veterans who claimed to have been traumatized in war. He found that four of five had never been in Vietnam, and two had never been in the military. This work was subsequently expanded into an exploration of other claims by imposters.

(pasted from http://www.friendsofmystery.org/meeting.htm)

Internet profiles. Imposters. Stories.

Young People Bullshit

2010-11-13T12:08:00.000-08:00

Dad: Overheard on Phone

"The keys are too small. Text? My son has a blueberry. Young people bullshit."

"First class punks, A-holes and momzas."

"They gave him the ax."

"They charge you an arm and a leg for everything but they're very nice. Very nice. And furthermore, I can say without contradiction..."

blowin' up my phone

2010-11-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

Driving to X-Treme Fitness this am where real men grunt while lifting weights and orange-tan women speed-walk on treadmills, their elbows high, I heard a fantastic song by Lady Gaga.

I know, I know, I'm a pinch older than her target market and over-educated, but this song made me car-dance. It made me move, people. And, it reinforced a little dating lesson: men find women more appealing when they are a bit unavailable. I both hate this fact (yes, fact) and know it to be true. I've done my research with many friends, neighbors and friends of friends, and perhaps crossing some boundaries, even my own parents - my mom was dating two other guys while she dated my dad. I've shared that tale a while back. The other two men are sunning themselves on the riviera now, or searching for a well position helipad to land on, you know how rough that is & my mother is perfectly ecstatic, cutting out Shoprite coupons and napping in New Jersey with my dad who can often be found staring into a stuffed fridge and screaming up the stairs, "What's for lunch?"

And back to my point. I have one! Why is it a bad thing? It's good to have a life. It's even better to have a life where you're too busy holding a drink to text. Anyway, Lady G. says it brilliantly:

Just a second, it's my favorite song they gonna play
And I cannot text you with a drink in my hand, eh?
You shoulda made some plans with me, you knew I was free
And now you won't stop callin me, I'm kinda busy

Boy, the way you blowin up my phone
Won't make me leave no faster
Callin like a collector
Sorry I cannot answer

Some call me a wise sage. I had to share.

Isn't She Lovely?

2010-11-12T14:22:00.000-08:00

And I thought I was having a bad day.

Sometimes NYC will eat you up and spit you out. Sometimes literally. I had that thought while riding an elevator into the nether regions of a Barnes 'N Noble on the Upper East Side. Meeting my friend, B., after her doctor's appointment. I had a job interview that morning & an appointment to see a cute, one bedroom in Park Slope that night.

How shall I describe the job - the job which I have not even been offered? No benefits. No definite hours. The pay was less than I was making as a temp, exactly one decade ago - at a job where I completed an entire novel. The woman at the agency told me cheerfully that people often take this job until they find something better.

Next, I got a text from a friend that said: Showing Off. I wondered what she might be showing off? What parlor tricks had she been amusing her office-mates with? But no. The showing was off - in text speak. Between the night before and that afternoon - less than 24 hours some person swooped in and stole my apartment.

But what's worse than a shitty interview and losing an apartment you never had? Getting ricocheted out of a NYC bus. My petite new friend, who had tried to find me a nice apartment in this cesspool, attempted to board a rather full public bus. I imagine the driver did not like that or maybe did not see her, and closed the doors on her, forcing her from the vehicle, into the air, and plopped back down on the sidewalk. Like a day old bagel.

I guess I'm lucky: I've boarded all public transportation unscathed thus far.

And...

I got to hear Stevie Wonder in a bodgea.

And...

I got the chance to walk with B. along 5th Ave from 86th all the way to the big cube/Apple store, where we descended the clear, plastic steps and found...lots of Euros. Some cute, with scruff and well knotted ties.

And of course B. made me laugh so hard I couldn't speak. Thank you, B. Can't buy that.

And...

With manic energy, that night I went to a little networking event at NYU and met a gayasian (they flock to me & me to them), a lovely black gay man (same) and a woman doing the exact same work I hope to do and doing it in Brooklyn. She has since been helpful and we are getting together next week to check out her office space.

So, not every person here is evil. Exactly. At all.

Secret Key to Getting Along with Parents: Sangria

2010-11-08T05:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I decided to be seen in public with my parents; it doesn't happen often. They wanted to check out a 55 and over community and I liked the idea of being the youngest person in the room. Apparently after a certain age, stairs are out and elevators are in. We spent over an hour touring unit after unit, all crazy-expensive like 7 figures and each elaborate. By the end I felt the walls coming in on me. After the visit we hit Trader Joe's and then a nearby Italian restaurant.

The air hit us in the face; it is crisp and cool around here, dropping more than a few degrees. The leaves are piling up, some trees are already bare. So the time is right for my mom to wear her ghetto-fly-mac-daddy hat. It is black, puffy and really loose on top, not unlike Snoop Dog's. Paired with her mirror sunglasses, and wow. So, take that ensemble and my dad's: fedora, replete with feather, and hounds-tooth scarf, and you've got one smokin' couple. My fashion plate move: my purple fleece zipper up vest, which makes me look like a lesbian, but it's just too comfortable not to wear. And with pockets that zipper? Who could resist? The check-out lady at Trader Joe's quite liked my dad's outfit.

Some snippets of conversation over dinner:

Mom: "If you die and I have to clean out the basement, I'm going to be cursing you out."
Dad: "Yes, I like the chicken here too."

Or...

Me: "I feel bad. A. hasn't had her dinner yet."
Dad: "You're welcome, sweetheart. My pleasure to take you all out for dinner."

My all-time favorite...

Mom: "Why do you think he needs a hearing aid?"
Dad: "They're five thousand dollars! They don't work and medicare doesn't cover it."
Mom: "He hears when I pup in the other room. That, he hears."
Me: "Wow, that's impressive."
Dad: "I'm sorry? You're mumbling again."

Sangria, sangria, sangria

C-S

2010-11-07T09:54:00.001-08:00

First off, I apologize to friends who I did not get to see during this trip. It was just a few days and I would love to have connected. Alas, I miss you all and hope to be back or to have you visit me soon.

One of the funniest moments of my recent trip to Portland. I had only 3 full days there, and had to cover work concerns, get official fingerprints, and other tedious errands but I would not miss a trip to Powell's (or Lovejoy Baker's of course). Perusing the fiction then psychology aisles I heard the announcement, "Whoever lost an umbrella please come to the yellow room and describe it and we will return it to you."

Who has ever lost an umbrella in Portland, Oregon in November? And at Powell's?

As if that was not silly enough, on a hike turned walk with L., from Mississippi to Alberta, we spied a bike rack cozy. That's right: just what Portland needs. A person (who I don't know, but who I know I love, I know it) is knitting pretty cozies that fit perfectly on bike racks and running around Portland applying them.

Lest our metal bike racks get chilly.

FYI: Apparently a friend of a friend in Brooklyn knit a sweater for a tree in Prospect Park, because "it looked sad without its leaves."

This gives me hope, people.

Another fun moment: arriving back at JFK airport after the red eye. 5:30am. Man in line at Dunkin' Donuts cuts in front of me, proceeds to bump me two times. On the third, I tell him, "Excuse me. You've hit me three times." But I settle down as he apologizes and offers to buy my coffee. I don't let him. And soon enough...

LL Cool J is overhead and I'm at the baggage carousel about to hop on the $5 AirTrain. Dunkin' Donuts in hand with the C-S scrawled on the side:

cream, sugar
Welcome back.

And another FYI: Turns out things are better with MLAM as friends, and it is something I've chosen not to write about on here, for now, since he may be reading this. But maybe some day I will share. Funny enough, I re-posted my dating ad and within 48 hours a guy I met 5 years ago through friends emailed me.

Strange times.

Dog Charms Neighborhood - Lifts Girl's Spirits

2010-10-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

Upon walking 'lil A. in the neighborhood I can't help but notice her charms. First, we rounded the block to find L., a neighbor with full sleeves. We'd run into him the other day while he buffed his Harley. L. adores A. and gave her a full massage replete with crooning and rhyming of her name: Raggy, Shaggy and Waggy. I was in heaven. Farther down the block an older gentleman in a mini-van playing Frank Sinatra, backed out of his driveway. A. immediately made eye contact with him through the car window. She has also, in the past, made eye contact while in the car on the highway, spying little kids in backseats. So this shouldn't be a surprise, but it was precious, especially when mini-van guy stopped the car, rolled down his window, and A. ran over, put her front paws on his car and he pet her head - exposing a decadent onyx pinky ring. It was insta-love.

The love continued when we saw a grandma type in her bathrobe observing the work on her driveway and lawn. A. stopped in front of her house and followed her while she lugged a trash can from the curb to her house. At first she didn't acknowledge our presence, but soon enough she was melting and discussing her niece's yorkie terrier. Nobody, and I mean nobody can resist A.'s charms.

I could go on but I fear this may verge on too cute. Verge? Suffice it to say A. is the cutest dog in the whole world and I'm lucky to have her.

Later this afternoon I'll be back in the JFK Jet Blue terminal, on my way to PDX yet again. But for now? I will rake some leaves on this perfect fall day.

Look Less Ugly

2010-10-27T05:57:00.001-07:00

What is better than rubbing my dog's belly while all her paws flop open and out and one stretches straight in the air in her signature disco move?

And what is better than spending a plane ticket's worth of money on my hair?

Why not focus on fun and superficial things when the real, tangible stuff is too heavy?

And what is better than a 4 day trip to PDX this weekend?

(FYI: Look Less Ugly is the M.O. of the salon in the East Village where I have my appointment. When I leave today I'll either be in tears of joy or sadness. Then I see B. - who will say how beautiful I am - and we will discuss everything from her business to art to our pets to death and we'll walk around downtown NYC. )

What is better than friends, hair, and coffee? Cheap Indian? Chinese food in Chinatown? A hot pretzel? No, they usually smell better than they taste, fyi.

Who needs boys? Really?

Invisible Airplanes, Wonder Woman, Pep Talk

2010-10-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you need this You need to hear this. Thank you, friend, for your reminder below...

You do have a life! You do! You have plans and a job and smarts and friends and a cute dog and you have . . . bangs! and an apartment--a real place that will feel like home again. It's transitional time. It's the worst. Really. I hated it when I moved back to NY from London and had to live in Westchester with that crazy girl who ate the bottom of my food and put it back in the fridge. Like I would want it after that? She'd eat half my yogurt, too, or like 1/8. I dated fake-name-here and smoked too much and daydreamed about the nice life I would have one day living in my private library on the UWS high above the city like an angel up in the clouds with no cares. Like Wonder Woman in my invisible airplane! OK so that never happened. Still!

Me? A Hater?

2010-10-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

I know, don't be a hater. And how can I be on a day like today with the wind, the tree leaves, the clear sky, the crisp air, the sun? I get to experience a true Fall with the sun and everything, and a small miracle has occured: my folks have gone on a field trip? I should be loving every second of this. And I am, in a way. And yet I'm not.

Took A. to Metuchen, enjoyed ancient trees and A. sniffed for over an hour. I eavesdropped on two teenage boys engaging in a serious tete a tete about girls. Had to resist the urge to shove my two cents at them, but decided to hold back.

So where's the hate? What's the problem?

The problem is complex. I have no job. No real job, just a little something, a pittance. I have some friends, actually more than I realized, but they are in The City. I have no boyfriend. God, this getting depressing. I thought I might miss LA Man, because he has his own share of life stressors right now with his family and is not as present. And I do, I really do. And I thought I might miss Portland. And I do. And I thought I might miss have a purpose, and doing work that is meaningful. And I do. But what do I really miss?

I miss me. ME! Me in Portland, with my writing workshop and my job and my walking/dog morning group and everything. I miss me! Plus, I miss quiet: time to have thoughts. No TV, no talking, no pesky relationship interactions. I miss me as an independent person. An independent person not making a ton of money with a Vitamin D deficiency and industrial carpet and a lawn I hated to push-mow, but me nonetheless.

And though I've been invited to several events lately that I'm sincerely looking forward to in The City - a birthday party in Brooklyn (with dancing, DANCING!), an IHOP in Harlem w/ E., a knitting trunk show in Park Slope...I have to admit it:

I need a life. Pronto.

Helpful Advice

2010-10-17T12:47:00.001-07:00

Driving Mom home from the hospital after a procedure requiring sedation. Opens her eyes a touch as we drive into the development I grew up in, which has about 10 different turns that bring you to the same place. Closes her eyes again after sharing:

Mom: You're going the wrong way.

xxx

Dad, while petting A.'s white fur, styling her bangs away from her eyes. A.'s long white eyelashes slowly lower and she's asleep. There is a lot of sleeping around this place.

Dad: If you don't write a book about this dog, I'll tell you. Something is wrong with you.

BINGO: A Game of Skill

2010-10-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

Recent dinner conversation with my parents.

Mom: I liked that place in Santa Barbara!
Dad: The one for old people?
Mom: You're 77.
Dad: Nobody was there. Two people and they were sleeping.
Me: You'd fit in then. You took three naps today.
Dad: I like activities.
Mom: Like BINGO.
Me: A game of skill.
Mom: And for people who don't like to cook. (Two hands raised violently in the air.)
Me: They're having a cupping.
Mom: (dumbfounded)
Me: You know? With coffee? I saw the postcard?
Dad: You don't cook! (shoveling green beans with almonds into pie hole)
Mom: I don't want a roommate.
Me: A stranger farting?
Mom: At that age? To have a roommate?
Dad: Furthermore, it's expensive.
Me: Don't worry. We'll just throw you in the yard. Put up a nice tent.
Mom: Toss me some apples occasionally.
Me: Are these the chocolates with turbinado salt? Trader Joe's?
Dad: What's for dessert?
Mom: Almond crescent?

Strawberry

2010-10-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

Some things never change in NYC. If there were a nuclear war, what would remain? Besides Jersey Shore episodes and landfills? Strawberry and David Z.

B. (an excellent friend for a decade or so now) and I had a very fun time eating at Bubby's in Tribeca (minus the $5 soda) and wandering through that area, Soho then over near Angelika Film Center. I had planned to visit the MOMA, but it never happened. We almost saw a movie but opted for Whole Foods sushi instead. I highly recommend the Philadelphia roll. How I love B.! We literally talked for eight hours. We got to talk about boys, life, boys, boys, and eat several meals, drink lots of coffee and bond. She is married and one of my favorite moments of the evening was when she asked me if i remembered when she and her husband were dating and broke up, which I did not. She said, "It was horrible. It was for 15 minutes." Then she sighed a very long sigh.

Of course we ended the night getting shitfaced and dancing topless on bars. Well, not exactly. Instead, we hit Petco (her cat, my dog) and Barnes N' Noble.

However! We did get into trouble giggling at David Z., where the salesman asked us if we were laughing at the shoes. Sometimes I do laugh at shoes, sure, but this wasn't one of those times.

Alright already. I know what you people want to know...how was LA? I won't leave you in anymore suspense. LA was marvelous, MLAM was lovely and sweet and rugged and handsome and brilliant and funny and reading this. I also met some of his family members, which I really enjoyed as well - very much so. LA? LA! LA, is a big city. And MLAM is gently coercing me to move there. Could I drive there? It's no Portland. It is a real city. What did we do that is PG-13? We walked on a beach at night. We....held hands. We....went out to dinner. We saw a friend's photos. We did a couple of other things too.

So all in all lovely. Since I've returned I've only had a short period of existential angst, wondering if I should cancel my crush. I did not hear from MLAM for a couple of days, which in a normal person's world is not a big deal. But in mine? Huge, especially since it is a change of behavior. So, I did what I often do. I discussed it, ad nausem, with B. then asked myself: what would a confident person do? Let's use our imaginations. Conjure a confident person. A confident person would assume/presume that everything is just fine and MLAM wants to hear from me. And that appears to be the case. Whew.

The question from friends and family now seems to be: what is your plan? What are you two doing? Ah the peer pressure! Inquiring minds want to know.

From Scratch

2010-09-26T06:55:00.000-07:00

Hazelnut Coffeemate? Chock Full O'Nuts? Olive bread from scratch? Sweet potatoes? Trader Joe's red wine? Blue cheese dressing?

Whose sophisticated palate do these belong to? Why heavens, not me. But let's imagine it was me, and I was traveling across the country to meet my cyber-husband and if - say, just by hypothesis - he was to stock his kitchen with said goodies? Might I be impressed? Perhaps. Not that I'm staying with him of course. That would be ludicrous and trollopy (mom & dad). But if I did and if he did, then that would be very nice. Hypothetically. In an imaginary scenario. Of course.

And if such a cyber-husband were to, oh say cook me dinner at 9pm with a tomato sauce from scratch with (kosher) sausage and feta cheese (A.'s middle name) and not allow me in the kitchen, where I usually am in charge of imperative tasks like chopping a million vegetables or setting the table, that would be very lovely indeed.

It would. Wouldn't it?

The Jackpot Question

2010-09-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

To be fair, Jersey isn't all evil. Nor are my parents. Well, maybe half and half. For one thing, I joined a nearby gym through the end of October. They literally play three songs: that cute little Eminem ditty about lighting his girlfriend/wife on fire and her solo about liking it; the techno ballad featuring a young fellow whose girlfriend has gone away for the night and he's oh so lonely, and the piece de resistance, the one about a nightclub that's terrifically naughty and where upon entering people go wild almost immediately and tear off all their clothes at night. I don't know the name of them, but I do know that last one is pretty similar to what goes on around Chez Parental Unit. First it's some dinner.

Recently my dad has taken to sitting on a large rubber ball at the table. Unfortunately, while sitting on it, his head barely grazes the table and he must stretch his arms up and out to reach the table to cut meat and generally to eat and see the television (Jeopardy!). It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic, since he now has chronic pain, nearly constant.

No. Wait. It's still funny.

At 7:30 there is pure silence, because after all it's the Jackpot Question. If I'm not spent, it's onto a little House Hunters with my mom. How many episodes are there? Millions? There's the original, there's Property Virgins, and there's the International version. In fact, while visiting B. in Bay Ridge (the beautiful, elegant B., I might add), and perusing the pad she shares with her husband, I found myself falling into House Hunters speak. "I love the open concept, and I love the crown molding, and the fact that he has his man-cave and you have your more airy work space. The windows are large and I like the flow. What I'm wondering about is the lobby and the proximity to a park and the train."

After say 4 hours of House Hunters, chatting with MLAM/Some Guy and Aggy pets, there's sleep. And that's my big night in Jersey.

But wait, there is another potential suitor: Dom from the gym. He waltzed over, introduced himself. He's about 65-70 years old. He asked me some basic stats including my profession, to which he responded, "Me? I'm bi-polar!" He giggled and walked back to his other petite Italian friends who were all wearing...tanktops and you guess it, that necklace! The little, sperm squiggle to keep away the evil eye. The Corno! No, they weren't, but they should have been, because they are amazing:

http://www.ehow.com/about_5033817_italian-horn_.html

Caffeine & Books

2010-09-11T14:14:00.001-07:00

These will save me. I am sure of it. Visited Menlo Park Mall to return a Kiehls product then popped into Sephora. As a 35 year old woman, I doubt I can pull off glittery lotion but for some unknown reason doused myself in it. Lathered on several other products: shimmery pots of gray and tan eye shadow, Easter pink lip gloss. Upon leaving there, sat in B'n N for hours and read one of those books about French versus American women. The basic message seems to be to flirt more, especially in front of your husband.

Sipped at a $4 pumpkin spice latte from Starbuck's. Listened to terrific re-mixes of songs like Gold-Digger and Total Eclipse of the Heart.

But I have my health! And both my legs!

So looking forward to a Greenpoint jaunt with A. tomorrow. And it helped to catch up with D. on the phone, a PDX friend and NJ transplant. And there's sure to be...

More caffeine, more books. Wine, cheese, chocolate, running, dates, movies, walks with A.

Mimosa Moms

2010-09-11T04:25:00.000-07:00

Aggy and I have been on the East Coast for about three weeks so far and a lot of people have asked why. Why did we move here? Didn’t we love Portland? Lots of people in NJ especially ask me this question. Why come back? People love Portland.

We did. And we do. We always will.

In Portland we went on a walk every morning at Tabor, that was more of a hike, really. Almost each and every morning A. scampered by lush fir trees, fields, hills, and my least favorite, overgrown blackberry bushes. There were birds, other random animals - once an owl who simply sat on a fence until A. noticed him and woofed - other dogs and humans. In NJ this doesn’t exist, at least not where my parents live. In NJ we’re surrounded by new construction, traffic, neighbors who don’t speak to my parents, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

But most of all I liked how people treated us. In Portland, A. and I were a big hit. We had a lot of friends who adored both of us, and who truly loved A. Here, we seem to be a problem and a bother. Aggy is too growly and her enjoyment of walking up on people’s lawns is a behavioral issue. Plus, the introduction to her cousin, L., though it went pretty well, resulted at her being screamed at in the face.

In Portland we were not treated like this. Here, A.’s personality is not really appreciated, and thereby, my training/approach towards her is suddenly a problem as well. I have a newfound appreciation to all our many friends, neighbors, and even strangers on the street who adored her. THANK YOU!

What naysayers here fail to consider is that this is a huge adjustment for both of us. Also, not one person here has set a moment aside to brainstorm ideas or apply any problem-solving techniques toward a solution. Nothing productive or helpful has been offered – only critiques and screams. I have to wonder: why did I come out here?

This only solidifies my theories of place vs. personality, a theme on this blog – I think. And that is that different regions of the country have specific cultures and my personality meshes better in some spots better than others. In other words, I don’t have that East Coast mean-spirited, rude, pushy, gonna-get-mine quality. But hey maybe that’s just me.

On a more positive note, I feel confident that A. and I will find ourselves our own home. We’re certainly not going to stay any place we are unwanted. It’s just that a large part of our move here was to be closer to family and it’s turning out that it’s not all that wonderful. So, we just don’t know where that next home might be yet, Brooklyn? Back in Portland? LA? Who knows?

The month of October will be a telling one.

In 10 days I fly out to Chicago then LA. This will be a fun trip and it’s not overlooked that my parents will take excellent care of Aggy, I’m sure. And I’m very grateful for this.

I am looking forward to seeing K. and meeting her kids - I’m really excited about this. We went to college together and the last time I saw her she was pregnant with Kid #1. Now there are two. One funny thing she told me recently was that she was looking forward to one of her kids starting school because it’s hard to balance two all day. While some moms were saying goodbye to their precious babies on that first day of school, they had tears in their eyes, meanwhile others were discussing mimosa options. I won’t name who did what, but I foresee an orange juice cocktail in my near future.

PS: MLAM and I continue to talk at length. (Did you think I’d leave you out?) He was wondering aloud when I’d write about how my two dates a week had been whittled down to one or with just one? But I think that’ll need to wait until we meet in person. I mean, it’s not like I’m dating up a storm while living at my parents’ place anyway. Hello?

For now I live in the future. I exchanged many fun texts with A. and A., two friends in LA who I haven’t seen in a long time. Also, I enjoy asking MLAM questions like what will happen in LA? Where will we go? What will we do?

Getting Lost

2010-09-01T10:22:00.000-07:00

Aside from a heat wave, a case of poison ivy that only itches when I blink, and living with my parents, life is pretty good.

My dad enjoys putting away the sugar bowl when I'm still using it for my morning coffee, and also knocking while opening my old bedroom door and tossing my sandals in - lest I leave them in the kitchen. But hey, I've got central air, free rent, all the decaf coffee I can handle, help with the furry white monster and my car has arrived from Portland. I immediately removed A.'s little wicker basket of toys. She selected one of her old knuckle bones and has been busy working on it for the last hour. I think my parents enjoy having their messy, slovenly daughter back in their roost again, albeit temporarily - someone to correct, instruct, and fetch things from the basement.

Yesterday I visited Brooklyn by myself. I had already seen my brother and Y. and was doted upon properly with more grilled vegetables than ever and lots of fun, attention, and warmth. It was time to explore on my own. Was it the 95 degrees? Was it too much alone time? It just didn't feel like Brooklyn was the right place for me, and i had assumed I would. A Jamaican fellow talked my ear off at Prospect Park, and then I made my way around Park Slope, hopping into the AC of Starbuck's and Barnes 'N Noble.

As I wandered Brooklyn it felt foreign, cramped, and yet everything was too far. It ain't no Portland. But as I was meeting E. at Arturo's back in The City for dinner later, I figured I'd head back early and walk around the West Village. Immediately I felt more at home. Walking down 7th Ave, getting lost (of course) and winding up near Hudson, the wide streets, not my old neighborhood (LES) but streets I was more familiar with.

I discovered a (new to me) place called Roasting Plant Coffee, as BB said, I don't want to feel like I've been beamed into The Jetsons, I just want a coffee. It was strange to see a computerized monitor listing coffee options, tiny, white leather booths, and almost all men (this being gayville). Still, I tucked into some tiny, dark streets for shade and out of curiosity, passed Cherry Lane Theatre and a restaurant called 50 Commerce that looked so beautiful from the outside, with its antique panes of leaded glass that I assumed inside was a world of terribly sophisticated diners, munching on pigeon and various animals' cheeks - maybe I would pop inside with E. later and drink a vodka gimlet? But I knew better: never would I be able to find it again, not the street nor the restaurant. And when i googled it I found the website cheesy: "A Contemporary American Restaurant in a Historic Space."

Barf. I mean imagine my dismay and disappointment.

Meeting E. was a wonderful reprieve. She makes me laugh and I have known her since I was 21. At Arturo's there was someone playing the piano, we got our favorite front booth and the pizza was perfect. At the bar were Italian men twice our age. The anti-hipster choice. Afterwards we went to a very unhip Caliente Cab Co. For a mere $14 you too can drink a flavored margarita! We opted for non-frozen basic $8 choice and had a memorable, very silly conversation. I realized E. was the first friend I have seen so far this visit. And damn, I needed that!

But back in Jersey, reality sets in: my dad is in pain most days and I try to cheer him up. I encourage him to get a medical marijuana card. After all, he requested pot in Portland, why not try it? I suggest yoga, music, movies, and while he appears interested, it's not the immediate solution he needs.

Meanwhile A. chews her bone. My mom flees to ten grocery stores, then the library.

I continue long, lingering phone conversation with Some Guy in LA. We do not sext; it's all rather innocent though it feels like 40 hours of foreplay to me and frankly, I'm ready for the main event. In my mind, I spend copious amounts of time planning my September trip to LA. I have a feeling I will really like it there and then what?

What then? As my old roommate and I used to say as we threw ourselves down on our NYC couch with much drama: What will become of me?

Welcome home

2010-08-25T09:51:00.000-07:00

I've been in Jersey less than 48 hours and my mom has poison ivy (confluent on her arms) and my dad has had one panic attack. A. saw her first deer and her eyes grew huge. My dad wouldn't "allow" me to walk her in the neighborhood alone at night and we had words. Plus, A. was a ball of anxiety the entire flight from PDX here. That is putting it mildly. She also got into a terrible dog fight at her own going away party at Tabor, which included a visit to Dove Lewis.

Welcome home.

I also suffered a mild wave of panic while walking down the block - what had I done? What was my plan? I spied the corner where there used to be a huge, magnificent tree, of course chopped down, what had I done? We loved our neighborhood and our routine. But somehow I knew that nothing would ever changed if I stayed there. Things might not become "bad" but they'd not become joyous either.

Back here, this is the neighborhood I grew up in, the house i lived in since 3. On a walk with A. my dad pointed out the houses where people had yelled at him about our old family dog. They didn't want him walked near their lawns. Why? I don't get it. My mom pointed out a different neighbor, right next door, she told me they don't say hello and neither does she or the husband. Does this mean I'm supposed to act like I don't see them too? Are my own parents haters?

In Portland we knew almost all our neighbors and they knew us. I may not have been inside most of their houses but everyone was chatty, friendly, smiley, pleasant. Our last couple of days were spent in a neighbor's house while she was at the coast - she offered her place to A. and I. The adorable neighbor children came by to say goodbye to me, but mostly A. It was a very sweet day and one child even burst into tears.

A bit different here on the East Coast.

Thank god for my cyberfiance in LA. Every girl should have one. We have yet to meet but already I'm wondering about how I might get back there. To live? To visit? To...I don't know what. I made the mistake of telling my parents about him and they are convinced he doesn't have a job. Don't worry, I instructed them on how they should react in the future. I told my mom:

Be enthusiastic. Be supportive. Then, stop speaking.

Since then she's played the part. God help her for taking instruction well. MLAM/Some Guy does have a job, fyi but the hours are flexible. We talked on the phone for 8 hours yesterday. That's EIGHT. Not one, not two. But four plus four, four times two, seven plus one. That's crazy. That's ridiculous. That's effed up. That's awesome.

I thrill myself. And how do I spend my days? Perusing jetblue's website.

Edits

2010-08-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

If you don't have anything nice to say, sit next to me.

It saddens me that I cannot take credit for this fabulous, accurate line. It belongs to K. But here are some others: Don't tweak, Zeke. Find another floozy, Flossie. Pathetic. Okay, on 4 hours sleep that's the best I can do. Things have moved up a notch with Mystery LA Man, or MLAM. We've moved from dating site email to personal email onto phones. Next move? Engagement.

Wait. He did already propose over email - romantic or what? I love a message that begins Dear Cyber Fiance. But I must correct a mistake. Apparently, I wrote on my blog that he confessed his love. And people, I really believed that, but after a lovely phone conversation whereby MLAM said that he suggested that it might be possible that he could potentially fall in love with a person without meeting per se - or something like that - I must make it clear:

Nobody. I repeat, nobody. Nobody is in love with me. Zero. Zilch. Nadda. Nothing. Whole lots of nothing. Well sometimes I'm a little in love with myself but does that count? My dog?

I enjoy MLAM. He will be my cyberfiance as well. It's done. My mom can brag to all her Jewish friends whose children are married to wealthy men and who have popped out dozens of brilliant grandchildren, that her own daughter is engaged! A cyberfiance.

But really, I don't want to go into great detail here because I want to respect his privacy (read: he has peeked at the blog) but so far he is in the lead. Not only because he made me laugh so hard I cried, but I stayed up late. I stayed up until 1:30. Friends may not believe this but it's true. That's ONE and that's THIRTY.

Eat my dust.

Popularity

2010-08-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

Do you ever notice when you go to leave a bar or a party that a guy tries to talk to you? That there is something inherently attractive about a person leaving? Human nature does this to us and it's not fair.

I ran into Flossie yesterday at a local schoolyard. He had his dog, I had mine and my friend K. A. r(my dog) refuses to make eye contact with his dog. Flossie had invited me to a film, yes film not movie, this Sunday. I told him about my lack of internet but c'est la vie.

No word from Zeke, maybe he's fixing his wife pancakes? CREEPy.

Brunch plans with a dating site suitor from NYC who is very into dogs. 1 point for him!

My LA suitor has professed his love to me. Never mind that we haven't met. Perhaps a touch soon, but I remain flattered.

I have a mover scheduled for next Saturday, another coming over today, who is probably more reliable plus I just looked up a place locally where they'll pick up your stuff and yo u can donate it to families with less money. If they can pick it up by Saturday or even Sunday morning, I'm going with them. All this is to say, I think I've made something very complicated out of a process that could be quite simple.

Hmmmm....An aha momet. Better than a Fried Green Tomato Moment (huh, Y?). I've got a few years before I get to have those. Apparently my mom has been having them quite a bit. Was that a scene in FGT, where Kathie Bates rams her car into someone else's in the parking lot? I love it! I must netflix it! All i remember is a Man-Stew.

On that note, time to eat a leftover bagel. I've got about 9 due to a lack of enthusiasm of friends attending my little sale. I won't take it personally, well I did, but I'm moving on. Thank you L., N., Uncle KayKay, N. and M. All oddly close in the alphabet. Also, I got to learn that M., a former colleague where I did volunteer work, is adopting a baby. I gave her my curtains and a soft blanky.

I've done my mitzvah for the year.

upDATES

2010-08-12T18:41:00.000-07:00

Zeke and I have an hour long phone chat (Tuesday), future plans are discussed but no concrete plans. I hear ya, K., he's married, but maybe he's just busy and has a job where he travels a lot? Maybe? Per chance?
email from Flossie (Tuesday), movie date invite is mentioned
younger man from dating site lft vm msg - I must stop dates before leaving PDX...on the other hand, nice to hear from a former NYer, we share the same area code. Go 917!
continue email flirtation with LA suitor (a mystery)
no word from X (living with gf)

1 brief but lovely phone talk with K. in Chicago
2 xs Mother rushes me off the phone mid-week, she's heard enough about dating & moving and moving and dating and moving, moving, moving, dating!
A 2nd visit to Departures scheduled for Saturday
1 lunch with gay boyfriend from high school and his bf here from DC today at Lovejoy Bakers
2 phone conversations with car shippers
3 visits to the pet store for boxes
2 freddy visits this week, 1 TJ's
1 bottle oh Lemmelsohn's pinot almost polished off (thank you, B. & Y.) and really thank you, R.
1 overnight guest from Bremerton (M., fun!), 1 visit to Sapphire
4 middle of the night visits to the yard because A. had the runs (not fun)

Enough. The send-offs continue. House/garage sale but I have no garage on Saturday, replete with bagels and coffee. I'm feeling the love.

Meow

2010-08-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

Recent conversation with my dad:

Dad: This couple we know keeps wanting to fix you up with their son. He's 49. Never married. Lives on Park Avenue. House in the Hamptons.

Me: 49? Never married? He's gay. And he's too old for me.

Dad: That's what I said. Hey? Why don't you get yourself one of those nice 30 year old medical residents? Be one of those cougars. You could be a nice cougar!

Me: I'm too young to be a cougar. I'm 35.

Need I explain more?

I Never Said That

2010-08-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

At a party for S., who is moving to Dublin with her BF for 4-5 months and who I will miss like an appendage, a woman introduced her boyfriend in this way: "He's a douchbag accountant."

And I thought I was mean?

Now, back to me. Me! Me! Me!
Received a text from Zeke while at the gym today, asking how my weekend was. This only proves my point, which is both gratifying and infuriating: the minute you stop obsessing about a person, they contact you. It defies the rules of science. It just is. It's like when I was having boy trouble years ago in NYC and my old therapist suggested I light a candle, in an effort to change the energy. LIGHT A CANDLE? That's the best she could do? I wanted to toss my arms around her and strangle her, squeeze the life from her right there. But what did I do? I went home and lit a candle. And you know what? Nothing happened.

My point? I don't have one. Except, I hope Zeke is not a Married Freak. I hope he is nice and normal-ish and can supply some well needed romance and fun in my last few weeks here. And I also hope he doesn't take note of the boxes of books and clothes in my house.

And should we skip off into the sunset, I never said that part about him being married maybe or any of the earlier entries.

Squeak!

AttentionDeficitDatingDisorder

2010-08-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

Dates Disappear

Is it me? Or is my enthusiasm short lived? After a second date with Flossie where we split the bill, he didn’t walk me to my car in the dark after a scary movie (Girl with the Dragon Tatoo), and I had trouble understanding his words because he mumbles and has a thick accent – it was so thick I thought he was hard of hearing, but no. I’m thinking he gets no third date. Not that he’s called. Not that he’s texted. Not that he’s asked.

On Saturday morning over brunch on the terrace of Manzana in Lake Oswego with two former friends and colleagues, I described my dilemma. One friend, who I will really miss, ever insightful, M., asked me an outlandish question: well, what are you looking for? You are moving.

True dat. And while this question may sound obvious and even fair, it struck me as crazy and poignant. What am I looking for? Am I supposed to know? M. and I decided that there could be two categories and there are not often transferable: romance/excitement and marriage/partnership. But wasn't one supposed to lead to the other? I argued this point with her, while understanding the rub. Often the men who are exciting are egocentric, jerks, idiots, louses, or dumb and then there are the socially inept ones who make me feel sad, and somewhere out there are some gems in the rough, some men who are just lovely, perhaps not urban legend after all, those overlooked fellows.

Still, M. may be as right as the sky is blue, but in my heart the idea of settling doesn’t thrill me. What are those women’s lives like? The ones who marry for security, who don’t feel the juju? Are those the women I see with streaks of gray in their hair, baby slings smooshing their breasts, waiting in line at Albina Press? Milk stains on their tunic? They have the guy and the kid but they don't look very happy. Mostly, they look tired.

Perhaps. But I still can’t concede that settling leads to anything but boredom, sex on Sunday mornings only, and long games of Scrabble. Wait a minute: it’s not sounding half bad now that I write it. But I will always long for sharp conversation, verbal sparring, a dry wit. And see, look how far it has gotten me.

Later that same day, my friend, D. invited me to a Yelp event at Departures, on the rooftop of The Nines Hotel. Free wine, cocktails and free food, fried chicken on sticks, beef onion skewers, watermelon, cherry, basil thingies. The theme was nautical. In the elevator I immediately befriended a Gaysian (I love this word, K.) and up on the roof D. and I chatted mostly with each other.

And of course another day goes by that I don’t hear from Zeke (consider re-naming him Freak out of sheer disappointment/rage), the too smart, too cute, possibly married man from Pendleton who must be curling himself into a blankey as I write this. While at Lovejoy Bakers Sunday morning A. and I googled him on her Blackberry and I nearly lost my vision looking at the screen but was grateful to find out not too much information about him. However, I am up front with myself about this: I may not be the best judge of character. And in my defense, it takes time to peel away the layers of getting to know someone. I can be too trusting. I don’t go out on dates and try to search out the lies. And yet, three separate women suggested Zeke may be married. I put that in the pathetic category, by the way. If you’re going to have an affair, stumble into a bar like a normal person, don’t put all your junk on display on-line. Advertising on-line for an affair? You look like a tard.

A short anecdote:

Guy looks at me on a dating site and his photo is familiar, says he lives in Brooklyn. I write to him, we figure out he friended me on myspace a million years ago. I recall that he lives in Kansas so I ask him when he moved. Oh, he writes, I haven’t moved. I still live in Kansas, but I travel to Brooklyn about once a month or so and by the way, my profile says I’m 38 not 44. When I told my mother this story, I tried to be rational, hey, what’s the difference, 38? 44?

Her response? 6 years.

Potentials

2010-08-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

Dates Abound: Zeke & Flossie

“If there’s still lead in the pencil, you want someone to write to.”
K.’s grandfather, 89 yrs old, who dated the ladies through his 80s

Recently I was feted by a handful of friends at Tiga. And while the next morning it felt like a tiny hammer was lodged in my head, smacking over and over again (thank you cheap margaritas) we had a lovely night.

K.’s grandfather recently passed and I was touched by the quote she shared. It resonates the need to connect. In a vast sea of endless crap (what is life if not suffering, pain, disappointment, and loss, then death?) we cling to the notion of romance. That we will meet someone who will complete us, save us, our better half, our dark shadow, our forgotten traits. That this person will enhance, enrich, and profoundly change our lives. We may spawn with this person. We will grow and grow up with them. They will teach us things. Although I admit in the last few years I’ve whittled this list to someone who is funny and cute, has a pulse and a heartbeat.

But seriously, how often do we consider what we will bring to them? What we bring to the table? What we offer as human beings?

Aside from the petty stuff, like real estate and debt, which aren’t really petty since finances quite often have the power to damage and break relationships, what do we bring to this whole dating/relationship thing?

I found myself asking this question while on a date with, shall we say, with Zeke? Zeke and I exchanged fun, witty, flirty, sharp emails. But as we all know, this doesn’t often translate into “real time” chemistry. He appears well adjusted, he is employed, attractive, and smart. In fact, he is well employed, doing interesting work with much import and we ran into a colleague so he’s not bullshit. He is not a bit cute, but stand out in a crowd hot with penetrating steel blue eyes and a rugged chin. He is not skimming the Style Section of the New York Times and catching Kathie Lee and Hoda at the gym (Who would do that?) and considering himself well read. He is terribly bright, I mean terrifically bright, I mean scary-shocking, name people on the Senate fucking smart. Jerk!

Sidenote: When that big tsnumani tragedy hit, my mom called me and said softly, “Now I know you don’t read the newspaper, but you did hear about the tsunami, didn’t you?”

See, I wasn’t insulted, because she may have been right. I’m not a complete idiot. I just don’t always keep abreast of the news because I find it depressing: tragedy, rape, murder, pillage, death. I hope I did not make a complete fool of myself and I will hear from Zeke again. My approach in these situations is to feign listening skills. The less said the better.

We had a five hour date, does that not count? Of course at one point, during a discussion of when and when not to use the middle finger, I asked him why not and he said it was not polite. So, Zeke may be too attractive, too smart, too well employed, plus too polite.

But I’m like a going out of business sale, I’m leaving the state in three weeks – though he has yet to receive the memo. Enough long gazes across a candlelit table! Enough talk of politics! I found myself thinking, okay enough already: it’s clear, you’re intelligent, handsome, wonderful, I really like you, you’re all that and a bag of chips, awesome blossom, Woot woot, thumbs up, let’s just do it. Let’s get past these pleasantries. I’m in a drought.

But, I know my ladylike role and I will continue to wear dresses and hang back. Plus, I’ve got a date with Flossie this Friday night. It rhymes with a country he’s from (slang) and I recently bought this treat for my dog. Flossie and I have had one date and one run-in so far. He looks like a young Michael Caine and I like him. Immediately. He doesn’t make my leg tremble like Zeke, but I’m into it. He’s six years older, employed, also smart and cute and funny.

Where were these men six months ago?

Though we met on a dating site, we first met via running into each other at the dog park. Our dogs happen to both be white with rough fur, terriers, sweet and have similar names. An odd sensation to walk towards someone and feel like a mirror is coming at you. We went to Sapphire for our first date, again two drinks, again a hangover. It was a fun time, and I believe a movie is in our near future for tonight even.

More soon…stay tuned.

And thank you, K.’s grandfather, for lifting my spirits. I can’t help but think of an old teacher who would ask the class: does everyone have a writing implement?

ALIVE

2010-08-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

After 2 years of "sharing" my wonderful neighbors internet, I've been cut off. The nerve! Just when there is so much to blog about. I've used the library's internet stations, rubbed shoulders with local homeless,scented youth, and now at the very least have a 20 lb laptop at a coffeeshop. What I have to share, dear readers, is I've gone on some dates. I will need to leave you guessing for now, but will try to write tomorrow and copy some stories I wrote on my desktop. This may take hours, but they are worth it. At least I hope they are!

2 basic pieces of information. One potential suitor was in the running but failed to walk me to my car after a scary movie. Do I write this off as sheer stupidity/Aspy behavior? Give him another chance? Let's name his Flossie. He is from a foreign country. The other suitor is too attractive. My mother said that was impossible, but it's true. He also drives a pick up and was sewing machine shopping.

Like I say, I couldn't make this up if I tried.

More soon. Air kisses!

PLAY

2010-08-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

A dear friend asked that I plug her friend's play. I support any girl's dating adventures on-line and of course a fellow member of the tribe? I wish I was in NYC already to go see it. But alas, maybe you can. Plus, anyone who knows me knows that I love some clever word play. Go see Jew Wish and tell me about it, people!

Jew Wish

A one-woman show written and performed by Rachel Evans
Directed by Rachel Eckerling
Part of the NY International Fringe Festival
at THE PLAYERS THEATRE (115 MacDougal Street)

Showtimes:
SAT 8/14 - 10:00 PM
SUN 8/15- 6:15 PM
MON 8/16- 10:00 PM
TUE 8/17 - 4:15 PM
FRI 8/20 - 4:45 PM

www.jewwishtheshow.com
Tickets go on sale July 23rd, at:
http://www.fringenyc.org/basic_page.php?ltr=J#JewWis

The Ice Cream Truck

2010-07-25T07:02:00.001-07:00

Where to begin describing the best wedding ever? With the ice cream truck? A boy falling into a pond? My high date? A stalker? Lawn games? Those would be good spots, since we missed the actual ceremony.

When I picked up N. at his place he was dressed elegantly in a lavender button down, perfectly punctual, plus he brought a card. As we sat in the car and I wrote my part, he gazed into my eyes.

"Are you high?"

Giggles. N. can pull this off well but his eyes were red, as in bright red. Plus, he was falling for a guy he'd recently met. falling hard and it all sounded good. Nonetheless he made a smashing date. We had a lovely, wonderful conversation in the car, but I missed a turn and had to route us back to the 405. Not fun, and this meant we'd not make the ceremony.

I don't know why this happens. I remain perplexed. Am I an idiot? If I have something, like a date, or a good friend's wedding, hypothetically, I will leave each thing to the last minute. I mean, why didn't I bring a card? Why didn't I leave earlier??? Still, I managed to put my dress on the right way. I don't believe my bra was showing. And I wasn't on any drugs. What more do you people want?

We get to Sauvie Island where a school bus picks us up from a lot and drives us a mile to the ceremony. Sauvie Island is green, green, green and lovely and we are going to a herbery where there is lavender sprouting like grass. I feel like I'm in the French countryside or Tuscany and maybe I am. Immediately, I love our driver who says, "What's the name of that guy who brings everyone in a limo?'

"A chauffeur?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm that."

N. asks if we can blame it on the driver that we are so late and he refuses and laughs, making eye contact in the rearview mirror. Amazing. Riding s school bus as a kid? Sucky as all get out. Riding a school bus as an adult? The best fucking thing ever. We run into an old friend from grad school and it's all very fun. Plus, we are not the only assholes arriving late. We have company. Which means we can be late together and that's better.

Once we are on the bus I test N., "What did I say about the Deet?"

N. replies quickly and with proper calmness, "You have some in your purse but if anyone asks, you ran out. It's just for us."

"Good boy."

I had been to Strawberry Island (as my dad re-named it) and almost had my face eaten off by misquitoes a few weeks ago. It wasn't happening again. Not on my watch.

At the wedding I cry - real, fat tears - when i hear the bride's father's toast and some others. I don't know why. N. is just about the best date ever, how will I live without him? We mill, chat with old grad school friends of mine, a lot of people I like but haven't seen in years. Really, L.'s friends, and she has a lot of friends and it is all very sweet.

However! Sometimes friends have spawn and you never know what they will be like...

N. and I sit at a table with a lovely couple and their son. Just then we hear the ice cream truck and see it approaching in the distance. There's nothing left to do except flip off our shoes and run at full speed. This is as instinctual as flight or fright or freeze. Ice cream truck = run. I get a rocket pop, which tastes like ice with food coloring, and N. gets something. We sit with the same family. Then we get our food cart food, our dinner, and then we decide, it is time for another sweet course. We return to the table, and this time I mean business. I have a chocolate magic shell type thing on a stick - and that is when sthe boy remarks:

"You already had dessert."

N. and I are silent, but I swear I have chocolate on my face and am still holding my ice cream.

"That's your second dessert."

I put a finger to my lips and tell him, "Shhh."

He tells us, "You can have one sweet a day."

I don't have the heart to tell him that just that morning I had a chocolate croissant so technically this is my third sweet on this day. I want to explain that hey, as an adult, you can totally pig out. I fear this might push him over the edge.

xxx

At the end of the night, after I whup N.'s tush at a game of throwing hackeysack like items into a weird board with cut-out holes (this is the best humans can do? And yet, it is fun.) We decide to head home.

Somehow i find myself running, in heels, for a school bus. N. has gone ahead and asked the driver to wait for "My lady." And so, when I finally make it, it's packed and the driver is so amused by us..."Had to wait for My lady." And we take silly pictures with my antiquated phone that somehow seem to get my eyes and eyebrows but all of N.'s face but you can still tell we look so happy and silly and this is so not like the school bus of our childhoods.

And we get to the car, and people want to go out with us. Suddenly we are popular. But N. and I like to go to sleep early and so much has happened for one day. And between his lurv and my friend, T. visiting from Seattle (she has brought a Brazilian jewish man she met dancing 2 weeks ago), I feel like love is possible. It may not be urban legend. N.'s broken his streak and T. found someone to like, and somewhere there might be a non-gay man who has a lovely personality and who is dancing at some wedding some place some where in some country on some planet.

xxx

That night I dream that I'm a school bus driver but the bus is double in height and it's scary crazy, I'm really scared, it's treacherous, but I'm doing it and turning corner, I'm figuring it out and I just keep going.

One Bloody Manicure & One Glow-in-the-Dark Pedicure Please

2010-07-20T08:45:00.000-07:00

Three days before L.'s wedding she invites me to join her for a manicure and pedicure. I haven't known her to be the type of girl to do this, but it's her wedding and there are 200 people invited. They probably want to see some good nails. I am getting excited about this wedding for a few reasons: 1) L. is a lovely friend and I really, really like her fiance, 2) there will be local food carts, & 3) there will be lawn games.

Leaving things to the last minute, L. googles the nearest nail place. I understand her dilemma, this is what I do too when I'm stressed, I "forget" about things and somehow that creates more stress. I wish I had checked in with her earlier to offer (my friend) services. But alas, here we are...and what a place it is. I won't name it because I really don't want to disparage a business on-line and I liked the woman who (I think) owns it.

Upon entering, I had some doubts. I would remember this moment later. There was nothing particularly wrong with the decor but not that much "right" about it either. Yellow walls. Babysitter ad stuck with a tack. And children, countless small children (more on that later).

We are told in broken English that someone will be with us in a minute and that it'll be $30. Fine. After selecting our polish, we are seated for pedicures. Everything looks clean and THE MAN attending to me, is nice. He has terrible skin and that makes me sad. I hope he's gay because a straight man doing ladies nails? With bad skin? Is just too sad for words. My pedicure is fine, aside from the tickling of the bottom of my rancid feet. But as I look at L., her face is grimacing and I switch to look at her toes and one is bleeding as the persistent lady works at it with a pointed instrument.

"Tell her she's hurting you!" I instruct L.
But she is too polite. I think she does tell her but alas the lady doesn't speak English and soon enough it's over.

My torture, on the other hand, has just begun. I always choose light, pale pinks, beiges, and whites, thinking them classy and on the stubs of my nails, appropriate. This time, it being summer and my wearing silver strappy sandals to the wedding, I go with metallic silver nail polish. IT LOOKED GOOD IN THE BOTTLE! I swear.

This is when I notice that L. and I are the only white people here, and that's cool, but I have to wonder that because of my pale skin, might I not require a um different aesthetic? Like I might not be able to pull off silver? But whatever, it's on my toes and there is no going back. This is when I begin to really take note of the small children running around like college students on Spring Break. There are the two sisters, one of whom's a baby and they are cute, loud, curly-haired and fighting. Then there's the owner's son who is a touch older and interested in the two girls. His mother yells stuff at him in another language and then looks to me for support and the man does my nails.

"I know. I know." I nod and repeat this with a what-can-you-do shrug. But I don't know, I don't have kids and I'm not sure I want them anymore. If it means tantrums over a wheeled ottoman like what's happening now. The two sisters are fighting over who gets to roll themselves on it. i understand. it looks fun. But now there is crying and the Baby Mama next to me who appears white but maybe isn't, is yelling about hitting them, smacking them, and having them wish they were never born.

Okay. Not the time to call Child Protective Services but disturbing. Still, the owner makes eye contact with me, a strange mask affixed to her mouth, the little girls continue to fight over the ottoman-ride and a new person walks in. So far a man selling chicken and turkey (if i overheard this right) has walked in and now there are two girls with 'tude. There is some miscommunication between the owner and the girls. They just immediately do not like each other and it's like a terrible car crash: I don't want to look but I can't turn away.

The girl with 'tude struts to a high chair and places her toes in the empty tiny tub. The princess awaiting her pedicure, but oops she drops a bottle of polish, it falls to the floor and with a loud crash it breaks into a million pieces. The owner rolls her eyes, snaps at the man doing my nails - he's on Coat Four and it's so thick I fear it will never dry - but he pops up and cleans the mess. The girl gets up and leaves. Apparently, her job here is done.

Just when I think this must be the best manicure/pedicure story ever...I spy out of the corner of my eye the strangest thing. The two girls, the may be sisters have stopped fighting and seemed to have "worked it out" in that the tiny baby type is belly down on the ottoman with her knees bent up. Her sister is standing behind her, holding onto her ankles and steering her, and thereby the ottoman across the salon. The baby being steered has the oddest expression: like, whoa, isn't life grand, isn't it just the best?

To Ponder

2010-07-11T07:01:00.000-07:00

"Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Don't worry about appearing sentimental. Worry about being unavailable; worry about being absent or fraudulent. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you're a writer, you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act-truth is always subversive."
-Anne Lammott in "Bird for Bird"

"You can't bullshit a bullshiter."
-My Dad

Splinters, Mosquito Bites, Weddings & a Mustache: Summer is Here

2010-07-09T09:01:00.000-07:00

1) Removed one bastard of a splinter from my palm yesterday. Enjoyed the excavation process with a pointy Tweezerman tweezers.
2) Am getting 3-6 bites during DAYlight hours and Tabor. WHy? I know not. My sweet blood.
3) One wedding next week: L & B. Excited. Get to wear bridesmaid dress from B.H.'s wedding - she was right, I would wear it again and I still love the color.
4) If I don't put sunscreen above my lip I get massive amounts of freckles that even connect together and look like a mustache of freckles. Believe me, I've been applying sunscreen like mad. A single girl does not need a mustache.

In other thrilling news...2 or 3 bits.

Got an email from my old doorman in NYC. Doorman makes it sound like a fancy building, and such a person was wearing long, white gloves and a black suit. Not so much. It was more like my apartment bldg was a block or two from The Projects and there was a little house (or hut) outside my building where the doorman/security guard sat and often fell asleep.

One guy in particular I really liked. He had grown up in the neighborhood, was 10-15 years older than me. We had long, heartfelt talks about he and his wife. She had left him and I thought it temporary. They had been together for many years, like since high school. I said stupid, cavalier things like:" I'm sure she'll be back", and "It's temporary." Fast forward: I get an email this week. He found a greeting card I gave him before leaving the city 4 years ago. He tells me he and his wife are friends, but they never did get back together. He's wondering how I like Oregon and if, ever, I'll be back in NYC.

So strange to have him reach out at just the time I'm planning to go back.

xxx

And randomly, ran into some neighbors at Tabor in the morning. A. likes to listen to the lady, P., play her flute. We can hear her inside her lovely house. It's the one down the block with a million wind chimes, and totally gardened-out front yard. WIth everything in bloom like it seems to be now, the music wafting outside, the sun...Portland shines.

Ran into her and her husband (?) and long story short she tells me that another neighborhood couple is actually a woman and a man who was once a a woman, or who has transgendered. She explains that as neighbors they "saw" the change or the before and after. I find this fascinating. One, I really like this couple - both parties are awesome, and how often does that happen? And two it gives me pause. Since I have often thought they have a cool, equal, even fun looking relationship, with a dog, and a kid and an artsy house, and lots of friends and an exuberant outlook on life, since I've had these thoughts but in actuality the "man" really grew up as a girl and a woman...

Well, it sunk in that perhaps my expectations are set too high for your average male.

That said, I still want one. I joined a dating site.

A Young 48!

2010-07-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

July 4th and this town is dead. The way I like it. I've done all the important things one should do on a national holiday. Took advantage of free parking on the west side. Ate an amazing ginger molasses cookie at Lovejoy Bakers, dipped in Rostretto Roasters coffee (of course). Shopped, perused, and generally wandered Powell's. I exercised while watching Analyze This and reading 50more pages of that aforementioned hedgehog book.

Let's face it: I'm a little blue and I'm a lot tired. Last night A. got scared at the sound of fireworks and hopped into bed with me. Truth be told, it was cozy having her and it felt nice to be needed. It's been a little quiet since my parents left. Dare I say it? I miss them. Those crazy, freakish people I call "my parents." Also, it is not sunny here. Overcast, gray sky, June gloom but it's July! July! We ordered at least 2 months of sunshine. And where is it?

I'm tired of lousy dates. I'm tired of this streak. I'm ready to move my ass to NYC.

FYI: I had a phone conversation with the guy my dad pimped me out to last week. Turns out he is 48 years old. Remember, I'm 35. "A young 48," he said. And I give him props: he was honest and exuberant. My rule has always been about 10 years in either direction with exceptions given to any man exceptionally attractive and/or good looking. I have depth!

But cause for perhaps more concern, I don't know yet - he also told me healed a person of cancer. My immediate reaction was, "How did you do that?" But just then a potential customer walked into his store, I assumed and he said, "I'd love to tell you that story some time."

Hmmm. I'd love to hear it.

In Love with a Narrator

2010-07-03T10:51:00.001-07:00

I'm reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery and came upon a passage I wanted to share. It's from the POV of Paloma, a 12 year old prodigy who realizes far too much for her age:

"Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is. They complain without understanding, and like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don't want to go."

And later...

"People aim for the stars, and they end up like goldfish in a bowl. I wonder if it wouldn't be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd. That might deprive you of a few good moments in your childhood but it would save you a considerable amount of time as an adult-..."

To some that might seem depressing, but to me, as a reader, I find it uplifting. I'm only 50 pages into the novel and know just a bit from having also read the jacket copy. According to that inside flap, she will meet another person in the apartment building (another narrator) and then a Japanese man, a new tenant too. The three are kindred souls. What I imagine and predict is that through these connections, Paloma will have a renewed faith in adults, and further, in life. That her quote above reflects her lack of understanding others and being understood and isolation in her emotions. Not to say that what she writes is untrue at all - but that through humor, love, relationships, maybe we become less like flies stuck at windows, reach stars, and escape the goldfish bowl.

Just a theory.

COEXIST in Portland?

2010-06-30T15:50:00.000-07:00

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.

My Dad, My Pimp

2010-06-26T18:44:00.000-07:00

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."

xxx

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."

Jews Hit Portland: Good Chinese Food Found

2010-06-21T11:07:00.000-07:00

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.

xxx

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."

xxx

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

xxx

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

Fresh

2010-06-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

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?"

Dirty Talk

2010-06-17T14:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-17T05:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Endings

2010-06-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

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.

ShowMeTheBooty

2010-06-13T08:19:00.000-07:00

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

Lonesomes

2010-06-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

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,

-Lonesome’s

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.

FanMale

2010-06-11T05:35:00.000-07:00

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?

Awesome Blossom!

2010-05-21T17:35:00.000-07:00

What's better than heading to the coast for the weekend? Why spending it with three, fantastic, lovely, wonderful gay men. Awesome Blossom! Google this to see pictures of the Chili's appetizer - impressive. I have a weekend ahead in Lincoln City filled with well prepared snacks, chilled Prosecco, lots of chit chat and romantic comedies. Just threw a bunch of novels in my bag and I could not be more pleased.

My brother's reaction to my planned trip, which is for K's 30th birthday was: 3 gay men, I wonder why you're single? I agree with the sentiment but obviously, I'm not changing my plans. But it did lead to an interesting discussion with a casual friend. I told her the story of how my mom asked me once - one summer break from college - if you know, there was anything I wanted to tell her. I was pretty positive that she thought perhaps since I had not serious boyfriend yet, I might be a lesbian. I responded empathically that I had absolutely nothing to tell her. My friend understood this lament and it had been even worse for her. She had been married (to a man) 14 years then divorced and since she'd had no boyfriends for a decade there was a rumor in her family that she was a lesbian. Her respond was classic, "Please tell them I like penises."

And that's all I have to say for today, really. If I could will myself, I would. I would! Women are awesome creatures. I know so many wonderful, bright, funny, sharp, smart, loyal, interesting, lovely women. But I also like penises. Preferably on straight men.

TGIF.

Love Letter to Portland

2010-05-16T05:33:00.000-07:00

The sky today isn't blue and it isn't pink. It's iridescent, near purple but not. Azure? I'm sure there is a Crayola Crayon for what this is. From my office I look over my backyard, with its high grass and a neighbor's huge tree branching over it. I don't know the name of this tree but it's old and it drops seedlings all over my yard and driveway. I couldn't care less. From my spot here, with A. sleeping in the other room and silence, all I see are bits of sky between a million dark leaves. But i have a feeling it's beautiful out, that the sky is a bright one already, at 5am.

Yesterday I went to the Mt. Tabor Art Walk with MD. You literally walk through people's houses in the neighborhood, they serve you snacks, usually cheese and crackers though I prefer small sugar cookies, which I found at one house and at another house they had those individually wrapped butterscotch things in a silver bunchy wrapper, I'll take what I can get.

The best part is spying on how other people live, and also how open or closed they are to having perfect strangers tromp through their homes. One waspy family, perfect, ironed summer clothes, sat on the front steps of their traditional, brick palace as if they were late for a tennis game, while visitors could explore artwork, mostly watercolors, displayed on wires on the porch and within a small open office type room. The rest of the house was off limits. Even the dog found this strange - a labradoodle who followed us from the inside as we poked our noses on glass window from the outside. Funny, the house, with its huge brick of a big screen TV, beige carpet, a silk plant, and a generic black office chair, was not all that.

The friend I was with, MD, was on the look out for apricot or salmon colored flowers, preferably roses, and on our walks we found many. We also saw the fattest irises, some new, some shriveled, but tall and on steroids, as well as an incredible rhododendron tree that was ancient, I mean maybe 100 years old. Gorgeous.

Anyway, the woman of the house I loved and MD loved, had many lovely watercolors, outstanding, and a beautiful room in front, all windows with screens so she could paint in there. Her son had designed and built it, and a backyard with a quiet deck and two matching, black and white, sleepy cats. And of course, more flowers in the yard. The house was old, but fixed up in a quiet way. Maybe it was the candy? But I had a certain feeling in the house, like if I lived there everything would be perfect.

After dinner with MD at Caldera, excellent conversation and just fun, white wine on the outside deck, my favorite Marionberry BBQ burger, I'm looking forward to summer.

Portland, I am no longer mad at you.

Shameless Promotion for Dogs Who Can't Type

2010-05-11T09:06:00.000-07:00

This Saturday I'll be walking with A. in the Oregon Humane Society Doggie Dash. My team is The JabberWalkies. I've never been good at raising money for anything. I was a Brownie for about 2 hours, before deciding I wasn't cut out for actually knocking on doors and selling cookies. I'm not a salesperson, and so I quit the Brownies. Luckily, mom didn't care about that sort of silly shit. No offense to any former Brownies out there.

My point being, there's a reason you might want to donate a little money, even five bucks, to this cause. There is a reason I'll be walking A., dragging her along at points, downtown this weekend, wishing I was reading a book or eating brunch. I found A. at a humane society in Vancouver, WA. While her story is a sweet one: she had a very short stay at the shelter, they played classical music for the dogs, and she was doted upon by the many, wonderful volunteers - this isn't always the case.

My true love story. Here it goes. I saw A. on the petfinder.com site and was intrigued. A terrier mix with a fuzzy face? I'd been wanting a dog a long, long time and with a recent break up, I felt ready. Plus, my brother kept gently nudging me by saying things like, "When are you going to get a dog already?" I put my hold on A., like a reservation at a restaurant. When I met her at the shelter she weighed 12 lbs less than now and was 9 months old. We went outside together and sat on a bench. I liked her immediately - with her fluffy white hair, tan spot, black eyes and white eyelashes, funky tail, who wouldn't?

But what I really loved about her was her spirit. I'd warned myself going into this endeavor not to select the saddest looking pup, not to go for the one with the toughest story or one who had physical ailments. Not unlike boyfriend shopping, I'd need to tell myself: pick a healthy one! I was a single woman and I needed to realistic about my own limitations.

A. and I hung out for a while outside until she spotted a squirrel. She leapt from the bench and into the air - front paws straight out in front, back paws in the other direction, like wheeeeeeee! And I knew she was mine. I told the volunteer I'd take her. She wasn't house-trained and her name was Princess, two hurdles that were fairly easy to overcome. When I picked her up a few days later, after being fixed, she was still sedated and went limp in my arms. Immediately, she hopped into the car, and stole the driver's side - as she still does now. Soon enough she would be at home with me and my housemates, rolling around in each of the three beds at some point. Shortly after the shelter experience, she developed pneumonia. She slept for four nights at Dove Lewis and each day I visited her in her oxygen tenet/cage, sometimes with a roommate, T., and A. was so excited to see us, she couldn't contain her wriggling self. I left my sweater for her and I never did get that back, but I didn't care because A. survived when the vet said she might not have.

I remember one time I called Dove Lewis to check her status, I told the guy on the phone I was A.'s owner and wanted to see how she was doing. He thought he put me on hold but he hadn't and I heard him call out, "A's mom is on Line 1. Again."

I was a mom. When I brought A. home I was instructed to perform percussion on her every day, twice a day, to help her cough up fluids. I'd need to create a steam-room out of the bathroom. Those mornings and evenings in the hot, steamy space together sealed a bond. She sat, quietly on my lap, without question, and allowed me to press and clap my hands along her back and all over. And soon she got better and discovered her neighborhood again. A band of friends at Laurelhurst Park, other neighbors at a nearby coffee-shop, my other roommate, J., took her too. A. met people I never did!

So, this is a shameless promotion, as I mention, because dogs can't type, they can't ask you to help them out in this way, but I can. And it's important.

Here is the Doggie Dash website:

http://ohs.convio.net/site/TR?fr_id=1070&pg=entry

Click on Sponsor a Friend and then select Team and please type JabberWalkies

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Nosh, Blog, Love

2010-05-11T06:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, M.C., your initials are finally here, documenting beverages at Sapphire Hotel last night and also, your role in the title for this entry. Feel better? I have been remiss.
Not to repeat myself here, but I am getting old. I'm aging. Last night I had two lemon drops, licking all the sugar from the rim of the cocktail glass, let anything get wasted, and I woke at 2am with a slamming headache. I assume: cheap vodka. But tasty, sweet and tart. After 3 motrin and three huge glasses of water, something has got to kick in soon. I cannot stand to be sick.
I had lots of writing ideas last night, so excited by them I jotted them on a napkin. Where is that napkin now?
Who knows?
Someone is running around this town with my napkin? And that person is stealing my brilliant ideas?
Am I still drunk?

Man Repellent

2010-05-05T19:52:00.000-07:00

Not to put myself down, but right now I feel like man repellent. The cute barista at the coffeeshop I go to on Wednesdays wasn't there today. I go for a writing workshop. I'm working on a collection of short stories. He's asked me about "my group" and I have admitted to "being nervous about reading my stuff." It's all very Victorian, crushy, and makes me want to use the word mirth.

I live in a bleak savannah that is man-less, free of males. It's of my own creation. I realize there have been many boyfriends and friends, all males who have at some point populated my life, and I have a brother and a father and surely they count. And both our dogs growing up were male too.

But still, it's not so bad. Nobody is eating my leftovers in the fridge. No unemployed boy on the couch, collecting dust in his goatee. But still, without these so-called men, what to post?

I've been mulling over what I can whip up here, aside from the earth-shattering ceramics romp or a burger binge, and I've considered relating past tales of love gone wrong. So here's a little something...

A while back I dated a guy I met at Starbuck's (don't judge) . He was a Latino Jew (a rarity, but Jews - we are everywhere - this is true). He adored me, but repeatedly bit my bottom lip, on purpose, I let this go until it happened again multiple times and by the third date, I'd had enough - I wanted my lip back. It wasn't just a biting. It was so painful my lip was swollen and bruised. I'd not known a lip could bruise, but believe me, it can. When I saw myself in the mirror that next morning, I broke up with him over brunch, waiting until after he paid the bill.

To his credit he offered me a lovely, sweet gesture. Yes, he was disappointed that I'd ended our romantical, storybook affair, the one we might tell our fictional future children, but if I ever wished to have causal sex, I should give him a call. He promised not to get all needy or call me all the time. Somehow, I didn't believe him. We parted ways on a sidewalk on Hawthorne, but right before he gave me what I believe to be the most poignant compliment to date. He called me ruthlessly hot.

Did I mention the part where he called me ruthlessly hot? Sadly, I do not have his number in my cell any longer. And, no proverbial black book.

Where are all the hot Latino-Jews in this town? And when did all the men turn to turds?

Ceramics!

2010-05-02T11:42:00.001-07:00

Continuing to report on on exciting events around here. This weekend, post-Friday night: mowed my backyard with the push mower. Got a blister. Scared A. who was keeping me company then cried to go inside. This may have been when I got mad at the crappy lawnmower.

Butternut squash soup - self-explanatory, made from scratch, though I refuse to buy whole squash and kill myself while slicing it. Better to buy it already in pieces.

Last but not least....ceramics! Yes, ceramics. There's an annual show here in Portland and I'm going today. I may see Monster Man, James De Rosso, who crafts monster sculptures and who had a tiny crush on me a while back. While attractive, I must wonder: a grown man who sculpts monsters? Why must I attract all the stable, uber-successful, straight arrow types?

If you're looking for a thrilling video, take a peek at this video clip from the 2009 ceramics show. It will rock your world:

http://www.ceramicshowcase.com/sc-video-promo2010.htm

If you're hankering for a small monster titled Screaming Hug or something, take a look at James's site. Apparently, a lot of women buy them for men in their lives. I wonder why?

http://www.citizens-of-the-universe.com/monsters/index.htm

Still Here in This Quiet Room

2010-05-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

What's a nice Jewish girl doing out on a Friday night in Portland, Oregon? Why going to see Nightmare on Elm Street at the Lloyd Center of course? But beforehand it's time to hang out in the back of a mini-van with N. and his mom, J. and smoke and watch the Max ride by from the windows while listening to Ladyhawk.

That much is obvious.

What more can I say? The evening was lovely, relaxed, and with my eyes hidden for half the movie, I liked Nightmare on Elm Street. I LIKED NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET! Me. I read Lorrie Moore and Shirley Hazzard and The New Yorker and The New York Times. I like everything I am supposed to like.

Plus, people in Portland often cite the lack of diversity here - it's such a white city. But I'll tell you, N., J., and I were some of the few white people at this theater and it was impressive. The crowd - unlike a bunch of white people - was enthusiastic, supplying commentary and cheers at the screen.

So I liked the movie. These kids are all dying in their sleep because Freddy kills them there, so the self-induced insomnia tied in with the human need of sleep, got me. All of their parents lied to them about their connection & their twisted past. Plus, we learn the backstory of Freddy: why he's so pissed, why his face is melty, and most important, where he got that fetching striped sweater.

I made up that last part. But still. Solid story structure. Lots of rakey, stabby type deaths and gore, but at the heart of it, it was a movie about repressed memories and standing up for yourself. When Nancy finally does this, she kills Freddy, which is really killing that dark part of her own self.

Deep, I know. And to stay on topic, this night was better than dates or flings or disappointment or even thinking about suitors. Enjoying my life in these snippets. And as I heard Ladyhawk advocate in the mini-van: Stop Playing with my Delirium.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QN8HwUxFouM

Bossy N. & Mean JB

2010-04-28T10:35:00.002-07:00

Alter egos were out and about last week, spurred on by my post about a certain family member making a specific request for a particular type of herb. N. did supply some of this natural substance and though it's hardly a part of my regime - it's happened like 3 or 4xs in the last 2 years, it was quite relaxing. So relaxing I fell asleep on my couch. Until a certain person - N.! - woke me from the back room, my office, to make me watch a video. I was told I would watch it, and though I'd slipped into the most relaxed state I've been in, aside from actual sleep, in perhaps years, I watched it. Then I was told I'd watch another one, which I did. Bossy N. was in the house. Bossy N. eats a lot of cereal.

The next dangerous step, literally, was taking the little monster for a walk. During the walk, I tripped over the edge of a lawn. More precisely, some person had edged a lawn and left the curly long, muddy bit on the sidewalk. This is what caused me to fly in the air. I kept repeating to N. that I hurt myself, my finger really tingled, but I didn't think he understood fully enough. I said, "I'm in pain." But he has a sufficient excuse, oh I mean reason, for being quiet: humiliation. Earlier in our walk he announced, "I can't understand why I haven't been laid in so long!"

Just when you think you're alone in Portland on a sleepy street in a dead neighborhood, you will always find a sneaky little person hidden by wisteria, bamboo, or both. Uncontrollable giggles escaped from a porch nearby. N and I did what any self-respecting, not getting laid bunch of friends would do: we increased our pace, pretended to have no peripheral vision, and didn't look back.

So what if they're my neighbors? People, apparently, are concerned about the health of the city. I read this nearby a rather phallic art project at Mt. Tabor. But my argument is that N.'s dilemma, and really, mine is a much more pressing issue.

Check it out, the Portland Acupuncture Project public installation. Might I suggest clicking on the bottom picture?

http://www.oregonlive.com/art/index.ssf/2010/04/portland_a.html

I Just Like This Quote

2010-04-28T10:35:00.001-07:00

"The writer is something of a shape-changer and trickster, someone a little more treacherous, eccentric, and unpredictable than she at first appears, because she is continually buffeted and transformed by an inner life invisible from the outside. She may speak to you in complete sentences about what her day was like, but inside another life is being lived, one full of beauties and monstrosities, upheavals and transgressions." ~ Eric Maisel

Ho-mance?

2010-04-19T19:55:00.000-07:00

Below is a friend's cousin's post on craigslist. He gets full credit for the text below as well as the term Homance. I just may love him!

Read on and enjoy. Women are not alone in our frustration!

LT Bromance / F wo B - m4w - 36 (Hollywood)

looking for a long-term bromance / friend without benefits after having given up on girls.

girls, seriously?! more on you later.

anyway, i'm looking for a good, solid wingman. we'll go to bars and share knowing glances as the girls go wild for the dog brothers / larger male monkey. we'll be on the sidelines, enjoying our own company. we won't be bitter, just realistic. like robert deniro at the end of the deer hunter: we've just decided not to shoot anymore...leave that to the Situation.

forget about how we got here. consider, instead, the future. we'll give up working out. shaving stuff. the purchase on credit of items of clothing for male plumage display. no more masking of our true, kind nature with pathetic look-at-me-i’m-a-cock stunts just to trick the girls into liking us.

we know nice guys don't necessarily finish last. but you and i, these two nice guys, won't even be in the race! our preference, bartleby, will be not to. ok, too precious. but whatever.

let the incarcerated murderers get the proposal letters from the ladies. let the dongs bang away and face paint in their debt-financed bmws and benzes.

bro...is the footprint on your back the match for the one on mine?

me: single white male, college educated, burned to a crisp by a past relationship.

you: any race, one sex, all else negotiable.

NO WOMEN. NO COUPLES. well, i guess stud lesbians can apply. i think i can relate...they seem pretty useless around here too. NO GAY MEN. this is bromance. i know you promote a sexual spectrum, and while i believe "the worm of my passion” has some kinks, i'm not into dudes. sexually. i'm just not. really.

NO WOMEN. really. one or two of you might discern in my post a plaintive tone or a passive-aggressive beta male attempt to attract a smart girl with my tight prose, proper use of commas, and ability to distinguish "it's" from "its" and "you’re" from "your." don't do that. the more darwinian of you girls may even conjecture that such a male, if he can conjugate verbs competently, probably could be a good provider. don't do that either. again, this is bromance. perhaps we can meet informally on one of your "girls' night outs." compare notes: homance, bromance. but that's all.

good luck.

Regressing

2010-04-19T10:49:00.000-07:00

I'm disturbed. My father just asked me to procure some drugs for his trip to Portland in June. "But don't get caught," he warned. "I won't stick up for you."

It began with his question: you don't smoke pot, do you? DAD! I thought we'd been over this before. I have smoked pot, so has my mother and brother but never my dad. Poor dad. At a family party years ago my mother admitted dating some guy at the hospital she worked at - before meeting my dad of course. There was pot on their date or something like that. I was in my 20s, ran to find my brother at said family party to report this scandalous news. His reply was that this was; So? Hello? Of course he knew my mother had smoked marijuana. He'd found a joint so old it crumpled to dust in his palm, when he'd been about 12. At that time Nancy Reagan was telling us, Just Say No, so it must have been a little disturbing for my brother to know he was dealing with serious addicts. Like a nice Jewish boy, he questioned our mom.

The story was that Judy Levitch had attached it to the bow on a gift for some occasion. How much do I love this Judy Levitch? Mom, being mom, had forgotten about it because it was out-of-sight. All the way in a drawer. Would any normal person be so forgetful?

Anyway, I have a few friends with connections in Portland. So, okay dad. I'll see what I can do.

In other startling news...

With T. in from Seattle this weekend for L.'s bridal shower, we needed to stop by Trader Joe's. At the lovely shower (FYI, L: I already placed my lavender sachet in my underthings drawer!) at Equinox (on Mississippi) we ate scrumptious eggs and an amazing carrot cake with faux butterflies. Because T. and I thought we might cook dinner and stay in, keeping A. company, we needed to get, what else? More food. We needed salad and blackberries and wine and tart yogurt.

Necessities.

Since my daytime routine includes work, the gym, and Trader Joe's, it makes sense that there might be potential suitors in these spots. I have shared my theory with others that I often require repeated exposures, like toxic chemicals only different.

Anyway, long story short, T. and I a find ourselves at TJ's, still dressed up, near the free coffee, samples, and chewy oatmeal cookies. I tell T. about TJ's guy. Just a person, happens to be male, who is particularly friendly toward me, asked for my ID when buying alcohol (at 35, this is a shiny moment) and should we get married could get me discounts. I spy him him just as he disappears into the back room through the bendy swinging doors. When he returns, T. casually booms out, "Where? Where is he?"

This isn't a bar. I can't swig my shirley temple, make a fool of myself here and never return. I need to be able to come back - this TJ's is on my route! It's a part of my routine! Run, I think to myself, run away! Instead, I casually saunter, blush and visit the wine aisle, all in an effort to look casual which never works. Green Fin, Coastal Merlot, Whatever. When TJ's Guy hears our giggling, he smiles, catches my eye and turns crimson. Fast forward to the parking lot, where he is collecting the carts.

As we drive off, I wave, he waves; it is true love in the parking lot. And I'm still wondering about discounts.

Where in the World is Carlo Rossi?

2010-04-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

I'll tell you where Carlo is. He's at Cookie-roke! Although Carlo is wine in a box, he is delicious! How can I begin to describe this party? It begins at 2 and goes until 9, however with this group I suspect it will last longer. A friend, S., has been gracious enough to invite me and K. The idea is that the girl hosting the party, G., is continuing a family tradition. For years her parents would arrive at her dorm room after driving halfway across the country with a karaoke machine. Because karaoke with your rents and your friends is not enough for a good time, garbage plates and (literally) 1,000s of cookies are baked. By the way, I instantly adore her parents. Who doesn't like a brushed out mullet on a dad?

FYI, a garbage plate begins with a slightly burnt hot dog, preferably sliced down the middle. It continues its journey with a topping of "hot sauce" which is really a chili spice concoction - when I looked in all I saw was a vat of orange oil. Once the hot dog is properly doused in the hot sauce, one applies fried potatoes and a condiment of choice, like yellow mustard or ketchup. Since cookies are the focal point here, there are bowls of ice with milk cartons instead of champagne.

Have I been remiss in mentioning the air guitar, two mics, and people singing in the corner with so much emotion that I felt like a boring tool? I wasn't really able to get into it until The Boss was played. With my Jersey roots, this made me happy and ultimately, his songs are just better than Avril Lavine or whatever her name is. As I looked around the room, there were lovely, warm people. And yet, it dawned on my (again) why I might be single. Most of the guests were in their 20s, women, lesbians, and as K. said, we both had more make up on together than everyone in the room. I think it's great to be a lesbian, to be a straight person. Be who you are. Yes! But, could you be who you are and brush your hair a little? A dab of lip gloss? A touch of mascara? Is it cool to look like a sloth? Or as my mom would say: a shlump?

This can only mean I am now old.

The Illusion of Space

2010-04-08T09:04:00.000-07:00

"She'd smoked less than half a joint, but that was more than enough. At first she was thinking that pot didn't really do anything, but a minute or two later she found herself reflecting on the idea of how exciting it is to be a person, to be a self, to have a self. To be a person in the middle of a life."

-"A Window Across the River" by Brian Morton

I just had to share this excerpt from a little known novel that I'm re-reading. It's about two people in NYC who dated five years ago, lost touch and re-connect via a random phone call one night. She calls him and right away he recognizes her silence on the line. This is not to say that I'm smoking pot (mom) or that I wouldn't try some if some were to be randomly left on my doorstep (N.), but just to say that life is interesting. It's also not a shout out to exes or past lives. Just a few sentences that touched me.

A sense of wonder.

Last weekend I moved furniture around in my living room. A. did not like it because one of her ten million spots no longer existed. A couch had been partially covering a beautiful, old window. She liked to sit on top of that cushion and gaze outside so much so that the cushion was permanently flattened. She has another gazing spot at the other front window, that is perfectly positioned, with a footstool just for her. Often she'll fall asleep with her chin on the window's ledge. But should a small child amble by or an old lady with a walker she'll bust out in a storm of barks. She has adjusted now, but have I?

Each time I step into the living room I feel light and this morning sun poured through all five windows. This feeling of space prompted me to clear "my piles" in my office. Anyone who has lived with me (or my father) knows about said piles. Long story short, piles have been weeded and mini-piles remain. I won't worry about it too much. There's an orange globe in the sky. A foreign object.

Living in Oregon I want to shout out: what is that thing?

At Least Sex Has an X in It

2010-04-06T16:28:00.000-07:00

What's more exciting than two dates a week? Why peppermint hot chocolate, of course. Over brunch on Sunday with three male friends at Bumblekiss, over scrambles, neon, freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee with milk (why not half and half?), sourdough toast, new potatoes with rosemary, roasted garlic and sea salt, pancakes, chicken apple sausage, I heard the story of how my friend, K. met his beau, L. N., being the bon vivant that he is, was very sweet about this whole thing and provided much comic relief and his general silly self. L. and K. met at a Starbuck's. L. works behind the counter, K. came in regularly to order his very adult, very manly Peppermint Hot Chocolate. Thus, soon enough it was, "Peppermint Hot Chocolate just walked in the door!" This molted into Mister Peppermint Hot Chocolate.

Why add such a fascinating tale to my blog? Because:

1) Not dating now myself, so no date reports
2) I enjoy hearing how people meet & this story made me laugh
3) I get to hang out with my gay boyfriends and feel no need to explain it to any real or semi-boyfriend
4) I finally got an answer to a question I have had for years: Is the pumpkin spice latte really just seasonal or is there syrup stored up at undisclosed locations and could I possibly search this out and find a Starbuck's with some leftover?
5) I enjoy outing myself as a person who frequents Starbuck's. People in Portland can get over it.

On an entirely different note, I met with my friend, D. at Lucky Lab for drinks last week. Tidbit: the outside tables have heat lamps. He had invited a bunch of friends out. One couple told me the story of how they met. Apparently, T. did the on-line dating thing for a little while, decided it was not for her. She was a regular at a neighborhood bar and that is where she met her now boyfriend, who she owns real estate with. Said boyfriend was quick to let me know they had friends in common and also, "We did not have intercourse that first night." Frankly, I hate the word intercourse. At least sex has an X in it. I appreciated their story too. More importantly, how was that night different from all other nights?

That was the night I heard of taxoplasma! You must read this article at once and imagine, if you will, a rat all googly-eyed, swooning toward your feline friend. Taxoplasma? Just another reason I got a dog and not a cat.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9560048

Don't Be Yourself

2010-03-07T06:01:00.000-08:00

About a month ago I went out with C. He had posed with old people in his profile photos. At the time, I thought that was endearing. He was sweet! Instead of trying to look Portland-sporty on top of Mt. Hood or on a bike, he was hanging with the geriatric crowd. Now, I second guess that assumption.

When I got back from a date with C. I made a list of all his troubles:

bone disease (okay now, but limps)
parents: alcoholics
dad cheated on mom
dad: recent break up
dad had an aortic embolism (nearly killed him)
glasses (can't read the menu)
bi-polar brother
gave away a dog, too much energy, feels bad
former alcohol problem (drinks Pellegrino)
special diet, trainer
temporary tooth (want to see?)
bad wisdom tooth operation
stigmatism so rare his doctor couldn't advise him

Lesson learned: One does not need to be one's self entirely. I hope I do not do this on my dates. But I just don't have quite as much baggage to do so, even if I wanted. I thought the purpose of a first date is to have fun. Am I wrong?

Not only did I get to hear about all of these wonderfully romantic topics, I also got to pay for my half of the pizza. So that's $15 for two slices at Apizza Scholls and two to bring home. The next night, though I wasn't in the mood for pizza again, I ate the slices. "It's the principle!" my dad would yell out.

I'll be damned if I'm paying $15 for two slices.
And here I am again, giving up on the male population.

Black Hearts

2010-02-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you experience something in life that transcends your imagination. In other words, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Fact trumps fiction.

At least it did last night.

First off, I am recovering from bronchitis, whooping cough, or a virus. My doctor could not decide which, so I'm on a plethora of medication and yet I made it out on Valentine's Day. Why? Because I'm devoted to this blog, people. I'm out there, testing those waters, filtering through losers and bores, idiots and morons, jerks and nerds, fuckfaces and douchebags. Just to find one little not-yet-rotted gem of a man.

As a singleton in Portland, rarely am I invited to a singles event. So when a friend told me about an anti-Valentine's Day event thrown by folks who subscribe to a couch surfing site, I figured, what's the worst that could happen? A bunch of strangers who have crashed on other strangers' couches and who like to travel. Not a bad idea. An adventurous bunch. I predicted they might be young (but 19?). I don't know what I was thinking: they might also be an international group of single globetrotters? I could find my real Mr. Vornado.

How can I do justice to the facial expressions of my friend, K.? In my line of work, I've learned to curb my reactions a bit but watching hers made the evening spectacular. The 19 year old boy was sitting next to me, of course. When he ordered a whiskey sour (at a brew pub) I thought it a touch eccentric. When he ordered two more, I took note. When he told me he worked at a grocery store, nights, I thought he might be somewhat down on his luck. When he asked the waitress for a burger but make it chicken and could he have guacamole instead of mayonnaise? I thought he was certainly high maintenance. When he called the guy utilizing the ketchup when he wanted it, a motherfucker….I had a couple more serious doubts. When he received said ketchup and starting hitting its end and announcing, "Fuck me like a camel," then I started to think I had happened upon the best Valentine's Day of my life.

Of course there was a cute man - when one is looking one will find one! He shall remain nameless (and initial-free) because I have forgotten his name. He was seated on my other side. He's been in Portland 5 months and works at the youth hostel and they pay him to do some work, so he gets to stay there for free. Before that he "lived" in Vegas for a while doing something he would not or could not describe, and before that he was woofing at a farm in Canada. It was obvious, so I just had to ask him, "Are you really a Jewish doctor? You just go around saying these things to see if girls really like you for who you are and not what you do?"

I almost gave him my card, he was nice, normal and not 19,this woofing dirty-sexy QT with scruff. That's how desolate this dating savannah is looking. But fear not. I have a date on Wednesday with a bald, potentially cute, 43 year old man who posed with random old people in his match profile. I like that.

And it's not so hopeless: I received a gift from a very loyal boyfriend. Not Freddy nor Mr. Vornado, but Fin - K.'s dog who sticks near me during our morning walks at the park. I swear he's not in it just for the treats. He loves me for my inner qualities. Thank you, Fin. I am enjoying my Ghirardelli chocolate immensely.

Happy Valentine's Day to Me.

I Like You So Much You Make Me Break Out in Hives

2010-02-03T06:18:00.000-08:00

Apparently, things could be worse. After speaking with a formerly single friend, B., I feel better. Not only is she a wonderful listener and one of the most empathic people I know, she has had equal or more dating experience than I have, plus she is now happily married. It is important to have a person such as B. in your life. She is my silver lining. There could, at the end of this horrific - oh I mean learning experience type of thing - journey, be a person in the world I enjoy and he enjoys me. And i could be a wonderful artist and knitter with a fantastic book coming out and be featured in Vogue knits (Miss Flitt) and my husband could be very proud of me too. But wait, that's B.

So - B. one upped my date with Phantom D. She said, "You could be on a date with a woman." Then she clarified, "It's fine to be on a date with a woman, but when you were expecting a man…" More precisely, things could have been worse: I could have been not only on a date with a married man, a louse, or a moron, but a person of the same gender. I could have been on a date with a woman who is "transitioning." While this is a wonderful thing in a person's life and kudos to them, I expect my dates to at least be straight up, pun intended, when it comes to gender. Perhaps this is asking for too much.

I've finally found the answer: D. is a woman becoming a man and he's married and he's in the CIA and all of his limbs have atrophied because of his hospital visit where he got bed sores and nobody turned him. It makes sense. What doesn't make sense is that I have broken out in hives. There are just three, shiny, quarter sized and quite itchy, on my thighs of all places. I have not gotten hives since freshman year, high school when my supposed best friend, who being Indian and sporting a severe overbite and moustache, looked suspiciously like Omar Sharif, turned chilly on me, hating me outright, and recruited other ugly friends to follow suit. They all dumped me immediately. I recall my horror: I was in the bathroom, stressing out, when I saw the welts. I woke up with some more the next day.

By the time my mom called the doctor about her freakish daughter's "confluent welts and bumps" as she aptly put it, they had disappeared. Skin had the ability to do this to you - to turn on you and express your emotions. My mother wasn't fully convinced. Plus, she was pissed. I handed her the tell off note from said ex BFF. My mother grilled me some more about the ugly ex-best friend situation and finally had a sit-down with said girl's mother. I knew I was too old for such a thing then - a whopping 13 - but it was a nice opportunity to get my ex friend into deep shit with her mother. How could I resist? The hives went away and soon I started to feel better. Plus, I quickly made new friends, and they were more attractive, which meant I moved up a notch in high school speak, not to mention making a wonderful friend in chemistry who I could cheat on many tests with. Had I not met him, I may still be in high school.

So, that is my update on hives, high school, and nefarious men.
Date tomorrow night. Very much looking forward to it. I shock myself with this blind optimism.

Count Your Mobile Blessings

2010-02-02T05:57:00.000-08:00

Among emails that say "This So Cute!" (I won't be opening that to look at the animal, baby photos or close ups of genitals, today, sorry) And a scary Forward: "What to do in an Earthquake" (I know what to do, cry in a doorway while hug-squeezing the life from A), "Your Mobile Blessings" (nearly curious to open this but suspect it is utter crap) and "Your Coupon Ends Thursday" (Shit. My coupon ends Thursday, I better click on this!), I've recently received ones from friends titled, That Goddamn Fucking Prick, Shithead, That Asshole and Fuckface. Fuckface may indeed be my favorite. Need I explain? Another favorite is the shithead one, because the message inside is quick and to the point: I just read your blog and I am so mad. Want to get together Friday night?

Of course I do.

I have no worries that I will bounce back in no time. I would be lying if I said I did not think about said moron's inability to return a phone call or text but the image of him sprawled out on a hospital bed sans fingers and toes is soothing. What is most pressing is that I have three full days of work and have forgotten my contact lens case back at my parents house in NJ. I can picture it sitting on my old, white headboard in my pink room among the half dozen other cases. All I have to say is: What are my mobile blessings? And where are they? I'd love them right now and I'd love for them to be delivered with my contact lens case since I have no time to pick one up this week.

Luckily dates are being arranged on Thursday and Saturday evening, and there is a happy hour on Friday, all of which translates into fun distractions and opportunities to meet someone better suited for me. And of course, more blog material. To count my my mobile blessings I would begin with the fact that really, there are no scoundrels imbedded in my life, or my skin.

As N. wisely put it, "At least he showed the asshole card early on."

True dat.

Fly Baby

2010-02-02T05:50:00.000-08:00

In my absence Aggy has begun growling at other dogs. All of the people who have watched or walked Aggy have commented about this separately. The notes that describe the cuddles and pees and poops of my little monster also mention distinct growling. It's always the fluffy, white stuffed animals who have come to life types that you have to watch out for. Apparently, on one walk a neighbor mentioned that A. had looked so friendly and then the fierce growl at a pomeranian. Somebody missed her mommy! That's all I can say. I can't help but equate this to my relationships because, as anyone who knows me knows, Aggy is me or a projection of me or like an appendage of mine. Just like my dad and our dogs Dusty and Max, Aggy will be cremated and buried with me. My mother, on a recent drive cutting through a cemetery reminded us of her plans to be cremated.

Gently, she reminded my dad that he needed to pick a plot in the cemetery. "You better pick your spot." Long pause. "You know what I want," she said.

"But then what?" I asked her. "Where do you want to go?"

This was mulled over and my memory is fuzzy but I think the plan is to sprinkle her in a few different places. Or share her.

I thought this was dumb and said so. "Pick a place," I said, but nothing was decided. Maybe she'll pick a nice, sunny state. A vacation spot.

But back to the fascinating tale of why my dog is suddenly Jaws. Whatever way you look at it, Aggy and I are one in the same. Aggy's recent decision to snarl at pit bulls, and let out growls in the backseat of a friend's car to another dog three times her size who is sweeter than Mother Theresa and whose teeth I've not ever seen, is disturbing, mildly upsetting and completely understandable.

When people don't get what they want they take it out on whoever is near. That anger bubbles up and has to go someplace. Hold on. I do have a point here. I just don't quite know what it is yet. Okay, time to justify my blog again: this blog is where I can explain what happens on my dates, summarize, and in some form: growl. As you may suspect, no word from D. But you know what? Said pushy, Jewish woman - this describes half the East Coast - was right. Having other men you are dating makes a significant difference and here's why.

Whether D. is a narcissist, a married man, in the CIA or a fly baby (another term for a louse) or all four rolled up into one delicious, wingless cocoon: I'm not wasting any more time on him. If I had balls, I'd post his picture and phone number on this site, but since he is not really worth the effort of figuring out how to download a photo, I'll restrain. That said, if you see a man who looks like Robert Downey Junior only with a beard, less hair on his head, a bowtie, and a weird quasi-accent, texting his life away, feel free to toss your sandwich at him or your cocktail. He need not experience physical pain, just the equivalent of a little smack across the face or a tap on the nose. That's all I'm asking.

Thank you.

Man Turns Out to be Louse: News at 11

2010-01-30T06:43:00.000-08:00

For those of you following the blog, I finally had a date with D. The best way to describe it is to go back in time to the parking lot at Trader Joe's in SE. I finish a work phone call, get a message from my mother: my dad has driven into a telephone pole, then a text from D. All within 5 minutes. My dad was in the hospital for two nights and is okay. As okay as anyone who has driven into a telephone poll can be. He has told me repeatedly about the very attractive blonde lady in an SUV with nice, leather seats, who helped him out at the scene.

But this blog is about dates, not real life. So back to D.'s text. After he dropped off the universe for nearly 3 months, he writes that he is sorry to have gone "dark" on me and has wanted to write for a very long time. He has had death in his family, perhaps multiple ones and he was in Haiti for work, where of course there was more death. I sleep on this before deciding to reply. When I do it's ping pong again. I write to him that yes, I was disappointed and how was he planning to make it up to me? Of course he wrote back immediately telling me he was free any night of the week during my visit and there would be a bottle of wine involved. Okay, I told myself, be curious. But I instructed him that he must wear the bow tie and argyle socks or it was a no-go.

I leave Leroy at my brother's apartment with his puzzle-chicken toy (just an excuse to make L. famous) and take the train from Clinton Hill into the West Village. En route who should call me? D. "Are we meeting at 7:30? If so, I can leave work right now and take a cab." It is 7:27. I write back Interesting. Yes, 7:30. Inside, I get myself set up at Employees Only with my $14 cocktail and a barstool. I chat with the couple next to me. The man asks me if anyone is sitting there, in the seat next to me. I say yes, a very small man, he is under my purse.

I didn't yet know how accurate that statement would be. Metaphorically.

D. breezes in the door, camel overcoat, beard....bow tie. He is cute in a Robert Downey Junior-esque way and funny. I have flirted a bit with the gay bartender. But wow, D. becomes best friends with him, having him concoct a new drink on the spot. The couple next to me - they had wanted to chat about unemployment in Portland - raise their eyebrows in approval. Everyone appears to love D. Just as much as I do, at least the text version. In public too, he is larger than life and sweet: he touches me many, many times, flirts, we laugh and chat easily. About what? Who knows? Those rare conversations where it's comfortable and exciting at the same time.

D. suggests dinner. Ever playful, he takes a card from the bar and writes down seven options. I add cupcakes to the list. We both love New York and being playful and getting dressed up. We go to Lupa's for dinner. We eat everything, first course second course, wine, wine, gelatto, coffee. I'm surprised the tablecloth is in tact when we leave. We talk about our life stories, family, travel, celebrities, the important topics. The woman sitting next to me starts up a conversation with us. We are so popular. Look at us! Who would not want to talk to us? She is a bit of a bubble-head, naive in her name dropping of famous chefs. I don't like that sort of talk and I certainly don't know the people she is referring to. She searches my face, waiting for me to be impressed. I like to be kind, so I feign some eyebrow raising. D. does not. He is not amused, suspect, very quiet. He speaks Italian and tells me what our neighbor's friend is discussing with another man: the restaurant scene in NY. We get out of there quickly.

On the street D. whistles for a cab so hard that I see windows shatter in the tiny, dark apartments above us. A group on the street laughs and says how impressed they are. I yell back, "He's been practicing for years." We are swooped up in a cab. We go to a bar without a name or I don't remember a name. We talk and joke and flirt some more. D. asks me to stay in town 'til Tuesday and I say no way, I have clients back in PDX. I can't do that. It is quite fun and at 2 or 3am we start walking east. I explain that I can catch a cab back to Brooklyn from D.'s LES neighborhood because the cabbie can pop onto the bridge from there. We walk, talk some more; it's nice.

On Rivington D. hails a cab, tells me how nice it was to finally meet me. He asks me if I'm free for dinner Saturday night. I explain that I'll be with my family but I could meet later in the evening on Friday, after I see an old friend. He explains that he too has dinner plans but he'd love to see me at 9:30. Okay. We do two kisses, one per cheek and I go in for a quick peck on the lips. I've had 4-5 cocktails and this is about as bold as I get. Fast forward to Friday evening.

I have a lovely evening beverage or two with my friend A. and two former lady colleagues after my face is nearly frozen off from NYC wind. A brunette quartet situation is repeated. We had planned to go to China Chalet down near Wall Street, but it being karaoke night and the bar being located near the bus that goes to Staten Island, it was jam packed. Our favorite bartender, Kiki, would have to wait. Instead we went to Sho, a new beautiful bar, and drink cocktails while men in suits laugh and act like what they are, Wall Street cogs. Then A. and I grabbed some Indian food, where I have a dosa as large as a leg. By 9:30 it is clear D. will not be in touch. (I had sent him a text at 3pm that day asking about coordinating plans.) No word. Ever.

Earth shattering news: Man Disappoints Woman. Again.

Or man turns out to be louse. Well, pushy, Jewish, short woman whose name I can't remember and who wrote that book about love, thank you. At least I'm 'dating' two other men in Portland.

News at 11.

Program of Three

2010-01-06T21:41:00.000-08:00

Apparently it is no longer good enough to date around or go on a certain number of dates a week. If one works a program of three - that is find three men to date who one actually likes - then one can make a proper decision about one's future mate. The theory posits that often one meets one exciting said guy and one becomes obsessive and over-emotional. Since one slammed down said book and curled said lip, perhaps this book makes a decent point. Juggle and remain rational. Could it be that easy?

According to a certain author whose name shall remain a secret and whose book, Love in a Certain Number of Days. Too embarrassing to say how many (90), but clients who work the program get results. The author is a therapist, as well as a pushy Jewish woman, i.e. she knows her shit and she's going to tell you about it.

So far I have one candidate and will go on date 2 tomorrow. What you need to know: Japanese food. West side. More soon. He has promise and I need not jinx it. At least not yet. I no longer believe in fate or skill but simple luck and of course, witches curses.

I had to share the email I received below from a totally different suitor. I ask you: is he on drugs? (FYI: Without seeing my internet profile you may assume you are missing some references and that the email makes some sense. You would be wrong with the exception of the Chabon book.)

One is (perpetually) mystified by men like this, a little confused, a little surprised, and yes, there was some defrosting, if not a warming of the heart.

Note
c. I thought about sending you b sharp but didn't want to sound condescending. It's all the same I though, I guess. You looked at my profile and you were heart broken. I know. I'm sorry. You know what they say about the early bird? But it's okay; it's nothing massive quantities of alcohol won't cure.

The Amateur’s Guide huh? That's a little advance for me. If they had like a really basic basic guide on manhood, well that I'd buy. I mean, I know nothing; like to put a photo on match.com shirtless. Is that manly? I don't see the women doing it.

I was about to wish you good luck, but then was going to write extra luck, but you don't need extra luck. Actually to be on an even playing field with the other ladies, you need a lot less luck. Still wishing you find the guy.

Oh, those nerdy, neurotic, scared, bumbling men (for lack of a better word) you cross by way of this site, be nice. We's people too.

I Got a Boyfriend...or 2

2009-12-13T09:55:00.001-08:00

First, excuse my absence. I just couldn't take anymore dates, any more disappointment, any more below par men. Seems to be a plethora out there. So far I'd grade my experience a C and frankly, I'm aiming for out of the park, A plus. Perhaps my expectations are too high. I'd love to meet a guy who is breathing, has all his limbs, and a job, and it might help if we like each other. Last night, on the way to Hot Pot City with friends I said that I want to meet a guy who is cute and before I could continue with my list I was interrupted. Apparently, cute is no longer a reasonable expectation for women my age. It has come down to:

"A feature you could find endearing." Added after a silence, "Some day."

Fair enough. I guess when the lights are out the lights are out. But really, I'd like more than a feature. I'd like an overall cuteness and if I can't have that, then I'll go with at least a cute look. How's that? Setting the bar too high yet again.

In a pinch there are some standbys. My boyfriends: Mr. Vornado (a space-heater) and Freddy (as in Freddy Meyer's). I put my face in front of Mr. Vornado all morning long while on the computer and during a winter in Portland - with nearly no insulation in my house - this thing is a godsend. Perhaps better than any boyfriend I've had, he's Italian and perfectly reliable. Next, Freddy. Always there when I need him and has everything a girl could need including free cheese samples on weekdays and yarn. Though I share him with other women, I simply feel better after a visit.

So there you have it. Zero dates. Two boyfriends. A hundred cups of coffee. A thousand dog walks. A million minutes of kvetching.

I promise to be back in January and to go on...dare I say it, two dates a week again? No, I learned my lesson. I was all dated out. But maybe one a week. If nothing more than to prove a point: this is my experience. It is not a fiction; it really is this hard out there. At least for me.

An ex, who claimed not to have read my blog, said it was tacky. Well I take his tacky and I raise him one: this is my experience, this is my life, and if it's tacky or unpleasant or disappointing or if some of the guys come off as duds, all I can say is: this is real --

Show me what you got Portland.

At 8pm the Chicken Goes Half Price!

2009-11-17T08:35:00.000-08:00

My last date with L. was supposed to begin at Huber's. I know, the Spanish Coffee, the Spanish Coffee, the Spanish Coffee. Everyone raves about it. But when I arrived downtown and poked my head into the restaurant and then the bar, I noticed blue haired ladies and felt a bit of dread. I'd picked a bad place. A bad place with old people! Luckily L. was fine with eating at a Persian restaurant around the block.

The food was decent with huge portions. My theory is that restaurants in Portland feel like portion size makes up for quality, when really it doesn't. Anyway, the date was very nice but we missed the movie I'd wanted to see, playing at 6:50 at The Laurelhurst, 500 Days of Summer. That left us with the other idea of watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. L. had been raving about this show. Because of certain logistical issues: he watches on a laptop, didn't have the proper adapter cord to connect it to a TV, etcetera, a visit to Freddy Meyer's proved useless yet amusing, we ended up in the "entertainment room" at his building, with an unsuccessful hook up to the TV there, and then just huddled around his little computer to watch.

Side note:
At FM's we run into a friend of his. When asked what he was doing in FM's (huge grocery store) at nearly 8pm on a Saturday night, he explained that at 8pm the chicken goes half price.

Well, that's one exciting way to spend an evening. I dearly hope it was the rotisserie and not slices of chicken. Slices of chicken at a deli counter. Does it get more depressing? I wasn't enjoying the florescent lighting - it certainly wasn't doing justice to my newly chestnut locks and highlights, but I was going with it. It definitely felt less romantic that visiting the opera and getting hot toddies at Caldera, as we did last week.

That said, after the show, which is gross and almost amusing and then gross again, "things progressed" and I can't quite explain it but something felt missing. I tried to explain this to L. I really like him, but between our last date and this one some enthusiasm felt absent both on my part and maybe his, some ephemeral piece of the connection. He said he felt it too and that he'd been a bit depressed since our last date.

Never a fantastic sign. I'm wondering if, now stop the presses, drum roll please....it's not all them. But me? Could it be me? Could it not be all the men I go out with? Ridiculous, I know. But evidence is pointing in that direction.

Still, I'm going to hold my ground: I want to meet someone I have fun with, who likes peace and quiet, who adores my dog, who is sincere, and cute and there's attraction. In the scope of the world, I don't think that's too outlandish. It just might mean more future dates.

On my drive home, I didn't feel terribly upset. But there was a part of me that felt like the half priced chicken. Like my value decreased after 8pm.

Death, Love, the Underworld, the Usual

2009-11-08T08:54:00.000-08:00

L. and I grab a quick dinner at Matador, replete with crazy LA style goblets of Malbec and Shiraz. We use the Tom-Tom to find the theatre and it fails us royally, yet we make it to the opera with five minutes to spare. I'm an expert on rushing, so this feels normal. He's gotten us tickets to see Orphee, a Philip Glass opera. I suffer from a rarely diagnosed disorder of falling asleep the minute the lights go down at any performance. I have many stories of movies missed, plays slept through, and bands that were silent, because of this. I never sit too close to the stage. It's a bit of an experiment to see how those around me respond.

L. put his hand on mine, "You're falling asleep."

I tell him, "I'm awake. I'm awake." I improve my posture as if this is proof positive of how awake and alert I am. Then I explain. "It's so relaxing. The lights go out and my eyes...just close."

L. looked very handsome in his suit jacket and jeans and he didn't seem upset and soon enough he was caressing my hand, which instantly made me awake for the remainder of the performance, though I'd be hard pressed to give a summary of the plot line. There was the fantastical stuff, death, love, the underworld, the usual.

It was lovely to be at the opera. This whole other world takes place in Portland at night and for some reason I've not chosen to be a part of it. I believe with my knitting, cheap wine, and A., I've been in hibernation mode. Back in New York I'd been more involved, more active, more into the arts. So it's lovely to be here with L. and have him re-introduce something into my life that's purely for pleasure. There is no need to be here tonight, it's all an elective. Listening to this story, hearing the swells and arcs of Glass's musical stories, the punches he throws and learning about lost love and chauffeurs, I feel different, like a light is shining on a little lost part of me.

Afterwards, we go for hot toddies at Caldera, not realizing until the lights are flashing that we are some of the only patrons and at a whopping 11:30pm they are closing. I love Caldera and go there often. It's an old house way out on 60th and Stark, converted into a restaurant/bar with a back deck and a black bath tub that's now a couch and lots of worn, old wood, rich cakes, pies, plus elaborate drinks.

Fast forward...

L. and I sleep just a little and make it to Mt. Tabor the next morning with A. A. cannot get enough of L. He chases her, attacks her paws, grabs her snout and she comes back for more and more and more. It's a lovely morning and a lovely walk and L. doesn't end up going home until 3pm that day. He lets me know about his recent divorce and his school responsibilities, I take this in. He describes himself as flawed and we agree we are both flawed and at this age, everyone else is too. But still, my ears perk at this warning. We go for brunch at Arletta Library Cafe. Because I'm more practical than emotional lately, I don't feel upset by what he said. He knows I'm applying to PhD programs back East. I explain to him that I like him and want to get to know him better. Soon enough he's asking about our next plans and texting me as he drives home and later that same night.

I like him. I really do. There is something familiar and yet foreign about him. And then my phone rings and it's M. (my ex-boyfriend that I moved out to Portland with). I decide to call him back later in the night. Fine. He's been pushing. Okay. He can be my friend. He's 1,000s of miles away.

But for now, I'll just bask in the glow of L.

Privacy Setting

2009-11-04T08:11:00.000-08:00

Date #3 with L. I get lost, in many ways. First, I cannot find the restaurant. I've lived in Portland for over three years and have yet to visit this nook near OHSU, Riverfront. It's composed of winding long, dark roads, leading to ultra-modern, new skyscraper types - a small, carved out neighborhood somewhere near the 5, Naito Parkway, and the river, and yet only a few streets allow entry into this spot. FYI, Market street is nice to know "goes through." I had moments of doubt and three phone calls to the restaurant for directions, arrived 25 minutes late and yet, was ecstatic to find it at all. L. had killed his phone and so I couldn't even text him to say I was running late. Actually, I did text him knowing he'd not get it, but needing to tell someone somewhere out there that I'd be late for something.

L. is understanding about my lack of promptness and we eat sushi, then visit his apartment and go to the 5th floor with our glasses of Riesling onto the eco-terrace. The eco-terrace and this whole neighborhood is as surreal as it sounds. I feel like I'm in an episode of the Jetsons. It's modern hotel-style living and riding in the silent elevator, for a moment I wish my whole life could be as straight forward and simple as this ride. Silently, I'm led from place to place. No decisions necessary. Each swift move as calibrated and direct as the design of this building, this eco-terrace, this strange land.

"Let me turn on the fire," L. says. And two seconds later there is the appearance of a fire, we're on the rooftop, sitting beside it, watching a woman silently exercise in the all glass room nearby. She's on the treadmill. I watch her legs scramble to keep up, her unforgiving pace.

"So Portland is small," L. tells me. "Really small."

I agree with this.

L. has a pained look on his face. "I found your blog."

The air inside my lungs is gone and I feel tears approaching but I'm able to hold them back, if I don't look directly at him.

"I'm sorry," I say, not wanting to look at L. I am mortified. "I think I should leave."

He asks me to stay. Once I catch my breath and find my voice I explain that it's really just for my friends to read and to stay in touch, and for me to reflect on my experiences.

"That's fine," L. says, and he couldn't sound kinder. He's nearly whispering and I can barely hear him, this has its advantages as I wish we weren't having this conversation. "Is this like a project? I don't want to end up in the New York Times."

Can't anything not turn to shit? I let this concern of his sink in. I assure him I didn't write anything negative about him. A large part of the blog was to provide a place to share my experiences with other people because I couldn't believe how challenging dating had become. I hadn't meant to hurt anyone's feelings.

"What's wrong with the New York Times?"

Finally L. laughs; it's a welcome sound. "I love the New York Times."

"You're definitely not a project. These are my experiences. I just wanted to write about them. To own them." I stop myself here because I can imagine as much as I feel my privacy violated, he must feel it much more so, "I'm sorry you read it and it bothered you. I can take it down."

L. says that isn't necessary but that I need to protect my privacy on facebook, so he doesn't feel tempted to keep reading it. I had thought I did this already. "That's fair," I say, "and I'll need to blog about this."

He says he's fine with this arrangement though I'm not sure how much I want to blog about it. Bad dates are one thing, but good dates and the hopefulness attached to them, are another.

We went upstairs, he picked the Your Friends tab under the Privacy Setting on facebook. There were some kisses and we discussed outfits for our Friday night date. I described what I was planning to wear: a sweater dress. It's a sweater but it's a dress and a dress and a sweater. Hence, casual. There were more kisses.

I found my way home on the 5. It was easy and right there all along.

Miracles Happen: Junior Mints, Kiss

2009-10-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

I went on a date with L. He asked me out again. We went on a second date. There was a kiss. There was kissing. I like him. He likes me. He makes this clear. He sends me emails, texts, and there are phone calls. I've met with him in real time. Can this be possible? Can this actually be happening?

My faith is renewed. I no longer have the urge to strangle the creators of match. After all the negative blogs, here's some sugar. L. and I met for coffee. He moved here from the East Coast a year or so ago to go back to school. We're the same age; this is his second career. He's very intelligent and cute and during our first date I enjoyed his company, however after all the previous dates and this being "one of the last ones" I simply showed up and didn't care all that much. Of course there were special hair products, but besides that, no crazy effort. I do remember telling him that some of my best decisions have been made while I was drunk, but that's another story...

On the second date we met for dinner at the Bye & Bye, though vegan, the atmosphere is perfect for dating: proper lighting and low key, not too crowded. Immediately when I saw him I thought very handsome. Often I can't remember what a guy looks like exactly, especially if I might like him. Also, I felt a bit self-conscious, which had happened on zero earlier dates. After dinner we went to see District 9, a very light, romantic comedy about aliens who clearly resemble huge shrimp that is a metaphor for apartheid. (I highly recommend it. I was engrossed.) While on line for tickets at the Kennedy School I began discussing Junior Mints and the lack their of. From my angle I could only see Sour Patch type candy and Red Vines. These will do in a pickle but not my favorite treat. I really wanted a Junior Mint and I wanted it bad.

Then guess what? L. said he saw Junior Mints! He found them for me. He has great peripheral vision! My hero! We were flirting. Flirting on a date. This is huge. And did I mention he hooked me up with junior mints? After the movie he suggested a drink, which meant two drinks for me which = tipsy. I said yes. We had our drinks and then our goodbye with hand touching and kissing in the parking lot. But I don't like to kiss and tell too much. Except....there was kissing and I'm telling. I'm telling anyone who will listen! Kissing!

Anyway. Since then he has purchased tickets for our next date. He has given thought to what we talked about and what we both might like. Miracles! He has called me the day after our date. He has said he had a good time. L. even offered to watch my dog, A. in two weeks because I'll be away for the night. I think he may not be human. (Of course I declined, at least at this stage.)

This is an incredible situation: a man who might just want to make my life better instead of more complicated. Who wants to impress me and please me and who doesn't seem to need me to take care of him? And he's cute, has ambition, and is thoughtful on top of that?

Juxtapose this with an email from M. date 2 (the one who arrived with $10, no n-working debit card, a cold sore,and a big chip on his shoulder?). He wrote to thank me for our dates and to say he just didn't feel chemistry. That we were different people. On the one hand this is a polite gesture, but on the other, I couldn't imagine why he thought I might want to go out again. I wanted to write back regarding his dating manners, but I couldn't summon the energy to care that much. Instead I wrote him a short note:

Hey M., thanks for the message. I was feeling much the same way and I feel like that's the purpose of dating - to get to know people. Actually, I did start dating someone from match who I like a lot.

Ta!

Make Me Want It

2009-10-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

Beware: the following is a terrifically romantic exchange, it goes something like this, at the end of a date:

"I'd kiss you but I've got this thing on my lip," says M.
"Okay," I said, inserting a fake giggle, producing one hug. "I hadn't noticed it."
"I wish I could rip it off," M. says.

I hate to be a bee-otch but a simple hug would have sufficed. Isn't some editing of oneself required on a date? One shouldn't just be one's self entirely. I'm not going to lift my leg and rip a good fart. So please don't mention your cold sore. Thank you. Signed, Miss Manners. After all, I have a lot going on in my life, cold sores aside, that I am not going to share, especially not on Date #2. To refresh memories (yours and mine) this is physical humor guy, the one where bugs committed suicide in our drinks on date #1?

I may need to change his name to Argumentative Guy. One thing in the world I abhor and despise is when someone is of average intelligence and enjoys arguing. Thank you but no. Allow me to backtrack. We went to Nicholas's, the scene of my being stood up (same guy, furnace issue?). We wait for a table and sit down.

"Do you have cash?" he asks.

I immediately say no, even though I do. I'm barely making a living and I'll be damned if I'm paying for a dinner, especially after he basically stood me up once. Earlier in the evening M. explained that he had his bags, and some credit cards stolen while in Costa Rica and couldn't remember his new pin number while here, in order to use his ATM card and had $10 cash on him. I know, I know.

So let's recap: 1) stood me up on Date #2, said he texted, I never got it. 2) plans date #2 at a place that doesn't accept credit cards, has only ten dollars, and a useless debit card, 3) hasn't thoroughly acknowledged the stand up.

Let's not put ourselves through too much pain. I was very kind about the cash situation and suggested we go to a restaurant that would take cards. We go to Slow Bar. I have amazing "autumn slow burger" with fried squash. Yum! We discuss the unemployment situation in the country and in Oregon in particular, he nay says the whole thing because he's gotten 2 calls from headhunters. I explain that I've applied for about 25 counseling jobs and I have many private clients who have lost their jobs. This whole unemployment thing isn't in our heads. M. continues to argue but it is obvious that he thinks we are bluffing or being overly dramatic about the problem. I consider mentioning that in good economic times Oregon has one of the highest unemployment rates in the country but I decide to forget it, he'll only argue otherwise.

The problem is that arguments that are based only on feelings aren't really arguments. They are ideas or preferences or the way we'd truly like things to be...and yet they aren't. My assumption is that M. is defensive about Oregon because he loves Oregon. But we can love Oregon and accept Oregon's flaws. In other words, there ain't jobs here, buddy! Pick up a newspaper!

Which leads me to my point: where is the romance? This is a date, isn't it? We aren't friends here. Don't tell me about your cold sore. Don't show up for a date without cash. Don't argue with me about the unemployment rate, which is a number not an idea or a feeling. Show up. Be fucking romantic. Be a man. Make me want it.

Mushrooms vs Men

2009-10-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the Farmer's Market up at PSU with K. and bought $10 worth of chanterelle mushroooms. The rain finally came down, pouring on our hoodies but we continued to explore the market and buy bagels, mine with cream cheese, pesto and oily pumpkin. I loved it! Better than any date ever! K. was great company, visiting from Eugene and not scared off by rain. Afterwards we got coffees and sat under an awning, discussing futures.

Alright, you pulled it out of me. Good god. Fine! I do happen to have one date tomorrow. I hesitate to use the D word (date, not that aforementioned wus) because it is a 10am coffee, really a meet & greet. So far I've been so enjoying my time off from dating: cooking my mushrooms, drinking my wine, long hikes with A., reading books about Positivty (!), and spending time with friends, that I surprise even myself with this development.

But, there are exceptions to every rule. Date with L. tomorrow. L. is a med student here from the East Coast who already acknowledges the lack of curse words used in Portland. Shall I greet him with a "Fuck yeah" or fix him up with The Curser? He seems nice via email and if the date is horrendous I brought some knitting to distract/amuse myself.

This is just a mini-check in to say:

1) Enjoying my dating hiatus
2) Yes, going on one, final date
3) Put together a printer today, because I rule
4) Still no word from D. but I can't spend my life caring
5) There is no five

Except...mushrooms sometimes are better than men. Sorry. It's true.

Phantom D.

2009-10-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

D. re-surfaces. He was in Yemen. Of course, he was. And we exchange a couple of emails and texts, the usual. I suggest a phone call and he responds immediately and tells me he loves me. Well, not precisely, he writes, "I would love a call. Or even 3-D." Close enough. I don't know what 3-D means (Skype? in person?), though it sounds potentially dirty. Sign me up. We've been corresponding through modern technology for a full month now: it's time to take a step forward. Or is it?

After D.'s acceptance of a call and lack of an actual call, I wrote to him that a good time for a phone date would be last Tuesday night at 6pm or later my time since I have other plans the rest of the week, my social calendar is rather full. I've got knitting and Gossip Girl and Ugly Betty and $3 movies and happy hour and work. Bet you can't imagine what happens.

6pm rolls around, I pour myself a nice Syrah and pop in some Gossip Girl, plop on the couch. Life is good. Fast forward to 8pm, I'm waking myself with my own soft snores and wiping drool from my own cheek. How did this happen? I've been stood up cyberly now as well and was too exhausted to be terribly upset. One clue: D. did refer to himself as a wimp in his last email, however I thought that was in reference to the weather. Apparently not.

I know what you're saying: I should call him. I hear you. I agree, technically. But in the end I'm still a woman and I feel strongly I would like to be pursued. Nearly all women agree with me on this in private, though they may state otherwise to friends in public. It is a secret little acknowledged: men say they want to be asked on dates but it never works out. They seem to enjoy a bit of longing and desire from afar. It's true: you know it.

So D. is off the radar. During a space clearing at my office in NW yesterday, my gracious friend R. lit a bowl of alcohol and salts, which created a bowl of fire that captivated me. What if my whole office went up in flames? I swear I wouldn't care. I just can't react to much these days. I'm broke, I've been stood up on two dates recently, I'm 34, I'm tired. And while it's nice to not get upset, I have to wonder if I have become a robot. R. also told me a couple of stories about men who do this: email and text and phone calls but can't do an actual date. Is there a DSM diagnosis for this?

This would be the time I hear from M. M. and I dated off and on for four years, lived together and moved to Portland together. Out history, to put it mildly, is tumultuous. We hadn't spoken in six months and then out of the blue my phone rings with his name. His name. A person who loved me. A person who cared about me. A person who showed up on actual, live dates.

Can exes smell vulnerability? Can they sense it like a bear smells food hitched up in trees in the woods and is willing to scratch out the eyes of small children to eat lunch?

Zero Dates a Week

2009-10-08T06:15:00.000-07:00

I can't take it anymore. The dates, the dating, the bars, the restaurants, coffeeshops, the phone calls, the emails, the texts, the texts about the phone calls, the emails about the texts. My head is spinning and A. is looking at me through her fluffy, white, bangs that partially cover her black eyes, like "What the fuck? Pet me." It's too much. Too much people contact. The plans! The plans! Will we meet for dinner or will it be brunch? Just a drink or a drink and a snack? A walk? Well, that means he's unemployed.

Granted, this has a little something to do with D., that rapscallion. It's this: he's fallen off the face of the universe. My universe, that is. After a month (stop rolling your eyes) of emails and texts, he is oddly quiet. We did exchange a simple text on Tuesday, two full days ago. But here is the kicker: he sent me a mass email. Yes, a mass email! He may as well have sent a big picture of a middle finger. A mass email to some fund-raising event in NYC, a wonderful charity event that will be this month. As if! Why I should be included on such a list, when I obviously cannot attend, is beyond me. Yet, my curiosity is piqued.

I smell something fishy. It's a bit too reminiscent of rejection and that is something no woman likes. D. could be married. D. could be busy. Or D. simply lost interest. After all, friends have not so subtly asked, why isn't he calling you? The fact that I even care really bothers me. I see this as a sign: time to take a break. A strike from men!

But hold up: that doesn't mean the blog has to stop. Should I be asked on dates in real-time or should anything else of interest (like real life) pop up, I'll still write. But it's safe to say that the experiment of two dates a week would turn any woman into a bit of a bitch.

Now, time to finish my coffee with hazelnut coffeemate. See you in the real world...sort of.

Date Like You're in Your 20s

2009-10-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

This seems a bit nit picky to some, but I think manners are important. After all, they show the world a first impression of who you are and what rules you live by. Hypothetically, would you lick your fingers (while eating) on a date? My vote is no. Does that make me a snob? With friends or family I might lick my fingers and alone, sure, I'll lick a plate of organic maple syrup. But that's different.

Last night I met up with T. who is almost 30, has a way cooler haircut than mine, LA button down, cuffs uncuffed, like a boy band but solo. I was late of course but just by 10 minutes. That is normal in NYC but apparently rude here. I have some manners of my own that could use some fixing, I suppose. I don't "plan" to be late. It just seems to happen every single time & I see I'm becoming burnt out on this process & may be avoiding.

T. is not the most insightful man I've ever met (when his last girlfriend decided not to move in with him at the last minute that meant, "Shit, I need a roommate"). But who cares? He's in his twenties. He's cute with cute hair and more of a cute look than actual personality that makes someone really cute. Before the date I had a mini-epiphany: why am I being so serious about this dating process? Why don't I just date like I did in my 20s? If I found a guy cute and fun, we went out and began dating. Now, in my 30s I have to actually enjoy his company (a real drag to find), consider him future mate material (who could ever live up to my standards?), and make sure he has a good job (or just a job). What if I ditched that whole concept?

Here's the thing: I could never marry T. from last night, but there could potentially be kissing. I think this may be how men approach dating in general, no? Like if they could see having sex with you, they'll move on to Date 2. It's a theory, but my problem is that I'm not terribly excited about the prospect. This leads me to believe it may be time for a dating break.

Last but not least, the sad news with D. He returned from Panama and leaves for Geneva this Saturday. While I still heart him, of course, I fear his interest has waned and/or he's busy preparing for his trip abroad. I've only gotten one brief text since his return and that was after my message. Perhaps this is a good thing in the end, though it hardly feels good. It feels horrible. I really liked him...or his writing style. We had fun together, or I mean swapping emails and texts.

A great friend, T., pointed out the obvious, which being in the situation I did not see: why is that level of intimacy so appealing to me? I should probably want to talk on the phone or meet in person and ask for it. And though I did, I was pretty much fine with being pen pals too, in many regards. Perhaps as much as I say I want a relationship, there is a significant part of me that does not. At all. How better to get some emotional needs met via writing with D., but not be completely vulnerable by being in the same room? The implied distance creates safety. But there is a part of me that would love to jet off on an adventure. The fact that I have no money, may not like D. in person, and am adverse to risk, shouldn't hold me back. Or should it?

When I half joked to my own mother that perhaps I'll fly off to Geneva to visit D., she responded, "Now that might seem a little desperate, J."