“Listen, I’m picking up dinner tonight. And in return, the two of you are responsible for talking me down off my ledge,” I announced to Joe and Barry as the hostess fetched us at the bar.
“What’s up, darling?” Barry asked before resting his lips on the edge of the glass, taking a long sip of his cosmo and hopping off the barstool. “Ooh, we are so ordering that dish,” he announced as we passed a table loaded up with plates.
“Remember that guy I mentioned to you two weeks ago?” I said as I undid my coat and folded up my scarf.
“Yeah, the one you stopped eating for. How’s that going, by the way? Wait. Twirl,” Joe instructed.
It was Amada. I have no shame. I straightened my wrinkled slacks and twirled.
“Hold on, sister. You look great! I bet you’ve retired your fat jeans and are back in your skinny ones.”
With a girly giggle, I edged into the banquette and tucked my bag down by my feet. Barry read the drink menu. Joe read the dinner menu. I meanwhile took a sip of my water. Some ice slipped in so I chomped it away before returning to my crisis of the moment.
“Here’s the problem. He’s perfect. I can't find a single thing wrong with him. Which got me thinking. What if my flaws don’t match his perfection? What if he sees me and feels nothing? Okay, fine. What I really mean is, what if he sees me and thinks I’m fat?”
There it was. My one and only insecurity. Fucker. I sauntered past a storefront window the other day and purred at myself. My hair looked great, my jeans draped perfectly and my scarf complimented everything. Twenty-fours later and I was convinced the window simply had a strange tilt. The reflection was merely a distorted yet improved version of the real me, or at least the me through my eyes.
Barry gently placed his drink back on the table, took a deep breath and began his response.
“I could kill that Ex of yours for replanting that messed up seed in your head. Really makes my blood boil. But that’s another rant for another time. My honest opinion is if this guy doesn’t find you attractive, well, he’s clearly had a mental break. I’ve known you for what, ten years? Oh. My. God. Has it really been ten years? Remember that first day at Banana when we worked together. I thought you were such a raging bitch! And those godforsaken logo t-shirts I made you perfect fold. No wonder you thought I was a prick.”
“Barry, focus,” I instructed.
“Right. Listen, maybe he’s an epileptic. Something upstairs isn’t right. Wasn’t he in the service? Did he fight in the Gulf War? Maybe that nerve gas made him a little woo-hoo,” Barry said while doing a loopty-loop with his finger at the side of this head.
“I’m not sure if this is you or the cosmo talking but keep going,” I insisted as I ironed out the napkin on my lap. “I’m almost back to thinking I’m hot.”
“Okay, enough,” Joe interrupted. “Paige, just get over it already. Take a look around you. You’ve got most of the women here beat by a mile. Just check out your rack. I’m gay and I still appreciate it. I agree with Barry. This guy’s missing a screw if he sees you the way you see you. And don’t even get me started on how fucked up your version of you really is.” Joe stopped talking long enough to take a sip of his sangria. “Listen, if I ever end up a straight man, and I pray to God I don’t, but if I do? I’m marrying you.”
“Not if I don’t get to her first,” Barry announced as he reached out and placed his hand on top of mine. “I’d be such a great breeder. Our kids would be beautiful. Total head turners. But really now, could you ever imagine me straight? Ugh, I’d have to start dressing for comfort and stop using hair product,” he said, his last words drifting off along with his attention.
“Did you hear about the snow?” Joe asked while layering some roasted veggies atop a toast with goat cheese.
“We’re supposed to get snow?” I excitedly asked.
“No. That Mr. Perfect of yours, his town got 76 inches.”
“This weekend or this season?” I asked with hesitancy.
“Does it matter?” Joe replied before popping a ham coquette in his mouth.
I sat silently, mentally running through my inventory of heeled boots that would never survive one inch of snow, let alone seventy-six. As I peered under the table at my newly acquired pointy-toed, black leather, three inch heel number, Joe spoke.
“Right,” he said, dragging out the vowel for extra oomph. “Now you’re talking about a flaw.”
“God I love you guys. So much better than any therapist I’ve ever sat down with. Seriously, we’re only one course in and, holy crap, even I want to sleep with me.”
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Anything Less Than Butterflies
When things ended with Ex, I went on dates with other men but always came home fidgety. I wanted to skip all of that annoying preliminary stuff and land right back where I’d left off. Dabbling in small talk felt tedious. Swapping childhood stories felt forced. That whole getting-to-know-you phase felt arduous. I wanted to just know him already.
“Isn’t it funny that we’ve never really talked on the phone,” Vanilla said over drinks at The Public House two weeks ago.
“Yeah, I’m not really a phone person,” I replied.
But I am. With some people, at least. I can gab with Leslie or Allison for hours on end. And you know what? I was the same with Ex. I’d come home, get ready for bed and then ring him up to chat before falling off to sleep. It was part of my evening routine. One of the toughest things to get over when we parted ways was going to sleep without those calls. I'd lie in bed and just stare at the ceiling.
Those conversations never happened with Vanilla and I never really wanted them to either. That's when I realized he was merely a square peg being forced into a round hole. I kept pushing and pushing, figuring one way or another he'd fit. I somehow concluded I’d outgrown butterflies and long frilly conversations with a recently met boy. Unsure how else to monitor a connection, I simply tried to create one.
Turns out I was wrong. Butterflies do still exist. It's just that they exist with you, not Vanilla.
The first time we spoke, the call ran late into the night or more accurately early into the morning. With a delicate whisper, you wished me sweet dreams and that was that. I smiled and then sent a note saying you were safe from the public eye. I wouldn’t drag you into my written world. I knew you’d stop by here and I didn’t want you to feel vulnerable as a result of what you might read. Shortly after clicking send but before I could change out of my work clothes, my phone rang.
I fell back against my sofa pillows and bathed in your words. A poem. A thought. I curled up on my side, facing my back toward the clock. Time was irrelevant.
We spoke again the next night. And again the night after that. They’ve become regular parts of my day. I feel a flutter in my belly when I see you’ve sent a note. I smile when I see an incoming call from your number. Sometimes we speak about silly things. Sometimes we speak about important things. And sometimes we don’t speak at all. A long silence that oddly feels more comfortable than any words ever could. That’s when I knew I needed to part ways with Vanilla.
“Are we still on for Saturday?” he asked when I rang him last week from my car.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I think I should cancel,” I began.
I continued on, being honest about the absence of butterflies. Maybe I should have lied and said there was someone else. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t have been such a lie. The point is, well, trying to make someone fit won't work out in the long run. Ever. At least not for me.
You see, those silences we shared brought comfort I’d long forgotten. Maybe when we meet next week, our first true interaction, things will be different. You won’t like the way I wear my hair. I won’t like the way you sip your drink. Likes and don’t likes in person can undo every last thread holding together the previous connection.
Even still, you reminded me of something I’d forgotten over time. You returned to me the excitement that comes with that whole getting-to-know-you phase. That eagerness to learn more. That yearning to know more. Above all, you reminded me to never settle for anything less than butterflies.
“Isn’t it funny that we’ve never really talked on the phone,” Vanilla said over drinks at The Public House two weeks ago.
“Yeah, I’m not really a phone person,” I replied.
But I am. With some people, at least. I can gab with Leslie or Allison for hours on end. And you know what? I was the same with Ex. I’d come home, get ready for bed and then ring him up to chat before falling off to sleep. It was part of my evening routine. One of the toughest things to get over when we parted ways was going to sleep without those calls. I'd lie in bed and just stare at the ceiling.
Those conversations never happened with Vanilla and I never really wanted them to either. That's when I realized he was merely a square peg being forced into a round hole. I kept pushing and pushing, figuring one way or another he'd fit. I somehow concluded I’d outgrown butterflies and long frilly conversations with a recently met boy. Unsure how else to monitor a connection, I simply tried to create one.
Turns out I was wrong. Butterflies do still exist. It's just that they exist with you, not Vanilla.
The first time we spoke, the call ran late into the night or more accurately early into the morning. With a delicate whisper, you wished me sweet dreams and that was that. I smiled and then sent a note saying you were safe from the public eye. I wouldn’t drag you into my written world. I knew you’d stop by here and I didn’t want you to feel vulnerable as a result of what you might read. Shortly after clicking send but before I could change out of my work clothes, my phone rang.
I fell back against my sofa pillows and bathed in your words. A poem. A thought. I curled up on my side, facing my back toward the clock. Time was irrelevant.
We spoke again the next night. And again the night after that. They’ve become regular parts of my day. I feel a flutter in my belly when I see you’ve sent a note. I smile when I see an incoming call from your number. Sometimes we speak about silly things. Sometimes we speak about important things. And sometimes we don’t speak at all. A long silence that oddly feels more comfortable than any words ever could. That’s when I knew I needed to part ways with Vanilla.
“Are we still on for Saturday?” he asked when I rang him last week from my car.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I think I should cancel,” I began.
I continued on, being honest about the absence of butterflies. Maybe I should have lied and said there was someone else. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t have been such a lie. The point is, well, trying to make someone fit won't work out in the long run. Ever. At least not for me.
You see, those silences we shared brought comfort I’d long forgotten. Maybe when we meet next week, our first true interaction, things will be different. You won’t like the way I wear my hair. I won’t like the way you sip your drink. Likes and don’t likes in person can undo every last thread holding together the previous connection.
Even still, you reminded me of something I’d forgotten over time. You returned to me the excitement that comes with that whole getting-to-know-you phase. That eagerness to learn more. That yearning to know more. Above all, you reminded me to never settle for anything less than butterflies.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Devil You Know
Over the last day or so, I’ve tried to pen a post. I’d pound out a few paragraphs, reread some of the sentences and then delete it all. Words didn’t flow. Paragraphs didn’t connect. And no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get the idea I was struggling with out onto the page.
I tend to write about what’s going on in my life. It’s easier for me to capture the genuine feeling when it’s part of the now instead of part of the then. But the problem is my now is dominated by uncertainty, a feeling that pairs best with confusion.
Yesterday, my dad went back to Penn for testing. There were three different scans to be completed and when it was all said and done, the technician sent him on his way.
“When'll they have a diagnosis?” I asked my dad when I greeted him at his car in the parking lot.
“PJ, check this out,” he excitedly responded. And with that, he slowly swiveled out of his seat, adjusted his feet on the ground and hoisted himself up to his lopsided version of a standing position. “No hands!”
“You didn’t use the door for assistance!” I announced.
“I know! I’m back to my old self. Finally that botox is out of my system. You know what this means, right? Maybe this year my dream of being a ball boy at the U.S. Open will finally come true,” he said while staring off in the distance.
“Stranger things have happened. But listen, when are you going to have a diagnosis?” I pushed.
“Friday,” he replied. “That PLS disease you mentioned the other week? I researched it some more. And it does sound like a better fit than MS. Did you know there’s something like a 1 in 10,000,000 chances of having it? Talk about long odds. I would be so lucky to win that lottery!”
“I’m going inside,” I said with a chuckle, leaving him to maneuver at his own pace.
I returned to my desk and time started to slow up. Like when you look at the clock, turn away to do something and glance back again only to see that less than two minutes has passed. This layover period hovering smack dab between knowing nothing and knowing everything has been, well, tough. Minutes pass too slowly, leaving ample time to dissect and over analyze it all.
I got home last night and just cried. I do this sometimes. About my dad. I crawl into a ball and let the tears flow from my eyes. I clench my jaw tight, inhaling and releasing controlled breaths. Eventually my attempt to keep it together wears me down and I graduate to gentle whimpers in response to the pain in my heart. The rawness and aching. Eventually it tapers back and I’m left with a tear stained face, a sour taste in my mouth, bloodshot eyes and a sense of release. I dust myself off and get back to life.
Up until now, only Leslie and Allison knew about these little episodes. One of them would bust me for not being my regular old self. I’d admit to having a moment about my dad and then we’d get back to more pressing issues like whether Kraft Fat Free Cheese is truly cheese or just orange plastic masquerading as cheese.
My eyes are still a little puffy from last night. And while the day feels long, I have my calendar booked right up until the later part of the evening. Even still, I’m admittedly anxious and nervous about tomorrow. I guess the one thing that recently started plaguing me is the transition from hopeful to hopeless. It sounds so glass half empty but that's where this in between time has taken me. The happiness and hope that my dad could be brought back from the depths of illness has been replaced by a delicate fear. What if the diagnosis tomorrow is worse than MS?
I tend to write about what’s going on in my life. It’s easier for me to capture the genuine feeling when it’s part of the now instead of part of the then. But the problem is my now is dominated by uncertainty, a feeling that pairs best with confusion.
Yesterday, my dad went back to Penn for testing. There were three different scans to be completed and when it was all said and done, the technician sent him on his way.
“When'll they have a diagnosis?” I asked my dad when I greeted him at his car in the parking lot.
“PJ, check this out,” he excitedly responded. And with that, he slowly swiveled out of his seat, adjusted his feet on the ground and hoisted himself up to his lopsided version of a standing position. “No hands!”
“You didn’t use the door for assistance!” I announced.
“I know! I’m back to my old self. Finally that botox is out of my system. You know what this means, right? Maybe this year my dream of being a ball boy at the U.S. Open will finally come true,” he said while staring off in the distance.
“Stranger things have happened. But listen, when are you going to have a diagnosis?” I pushed.
“Friday,” he replied. “That PLS disease you mentioned the other week? I researched it some more. And it does sound like a better fit than MS. Did you know there’s something like a 1 in 10,000,000 chances of having it? Talk about long odds. I would be so lucky to win that lottery!”
“I’m going inside,” I said with a chuckle, leaving him to maneuver at his own pace.
I returned to my desk and time started to slow up. Like when you look at the clock, turn away to do something and glance back again only to see that less than two minutes has passed. This layover period hovering smack dab between knowing nothing and knowing everything has been, well, tough. Minutes pass too slowly, leaving ample time to dissect and over analyze it all.
I got home last night and just cried. I do this sometimes. About my dad. I crawl into a ball and let the tears flow from my eyes. I clench my jaw tight, inhaling and releasing controlled breaths. Eventually my attempt to keep it together wears me down and I graduate to gentle whimpers in response to the pain in my heart. The rawness and aching. Eventually it tapers back and I’m left with a tear stained face, a sour taste in my mouth, bloodshot eyes and a sense of release. I dust myself off and get back to life.
Up until now, only Leslie and Allison knew about these little episodes. One of them would bust me for not being my regular old self. I’d admit to having a moment about my dad and then we’d get back to more pressing issues like whether Kraft Fat Free Cheese is truly cheese or just orange plastic masquerading as cheese.
My eyes are still a little puffy from last night. And while the day feels long, I have my calendar booked right up until the later part of the evening. Even still, I’m admittedly anxious and nervous about tomorrow. I guess the one thing that recently started plaguing me is the transition from hopeful to hopeless. It sounds so glass half empty but that's where this in between time has taken me. The happiness and hope that my dad could be brought back from the depths of illness has been replaced by a delicate fear. What if the diagnosis tomorrow is worse than MS?
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I Heart New York
Like John Grisham’s rambling collection of novels, the Manhattan trips of my youth all sort of run together. I remember the broken toilet at Le Parker Meridien. Leslie and I pilfered the ashtray as compensation. I remember lying to the ticket taker at The Frick, per my mother’s strict instructions, claiming the age of ten when I was really only 8 and a half. I remember seeing a Penn & Teller performance and then referring to my sister as MoFo for a week afterwards, unaware that it meant anything more than the silly name of the magic duo’s psychic ape. I remember begging my mom to let go of me as I teetered on a round collapsible stool in the back of a retro checkered cab. Two seconds later, the taxi came to a screeching halt and my head slammed into the glass partition. My mom resumed her grasp of me while uttering 'I told you so' under her breath. I remember eating rice pudding at Rumpelmayer’s only to be disappointed by the plump raisins littering the dessert. Hey, nothing was going to top the time I sipped Frozen Hot Chocolate a mere two tables away from Walter Mathau.
I hold all of those memories close and to this day enjoy the character found only in Manhattan. Over time, I’ve come to know the city pretty well. Or at least pretty well for a non-resident. The subway doesn’t intimidate me and I know how to hail a cab, even when there are ten other people on the corner attempting to do the same thing. Think theatre district on a rainy day. I’ve also become a repeat offender at certain spots, identifying them as my neighborhood favorites. Not much tops biting into a tuna burger from Union Square Café after perusing the tables of the open market. Same goes for warming up on a chilly day with a hot chocolate from City Bakery or farm roasted coffee from 71 Irving.
This past Saturday, I headed up to the city. With my messenger bag loaded up with essentials like a book, my iPod, train schedule, sunglasses and gum, I stepped out onto 7th Avenue and began my adventure. There was lunch to be had at Sarabeth’s, a play to be seen at Lincoln Center, a light bite to be had with Caralyn at Café Lalo and three different exhibits to view at the Met. It was sure to be a long day.
By the time I’d tackled everything on my list, it was around eight o'clock in the evening. I dropped my Met tag in the bin by the doorway and exited out into the chillier-from-earlier-but-still-balmy-for-January air. I zipped up my fleece as I worked my way down the grand stairs and without even thinking about it, I turned right and strolled in the direction of Penn Station. A few blocks down, with the park to my right and the bustling avenue to my left, someone stopped me for directions to the subway.
"You need to cut over to Lex," I hurriedly replied.
Blank stare.
"Take 81st," I said while pointing to the street sign. "When you get to Lexington, either turn left up to 86th or right down to 77th," I said with the same annunciation one might use when communicating with a foreigner.
With my directions complete, I turned on my heels and continued on my way. I left my iPod in my bag, letting the sounds of the city be the soundtrack for my stroll. As I neared the edge of the park, I stopped just long enough to retrieve a Zabars bag of goodies from my purse. I peered in and plucked free a chocolate rugalech. In three bites it was gone, crumbs clinging to the front of my jacket. Satiated and tired, I raised my arm in defeat and waited for a yellow chariot to take notice.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked as I slid into the backseat.
"Penn Station, please," I replied.
We sped off from the curb and slalomed our way through town. I cracked the window to offset the mingling scent of curry and cherry air freshener. And as the city streets and people bustling about them whirled past, I smiled. I heart New York.
I hold all of those memories close and to this day enjoy the character found only in Manhattan. Over time, I’ve come to know the city pretty well. Or at least pretty well for a non-resident. The subway doesn’t intimidate me and I know how to hail a cab, even when there are ten other people on the corner attempting to do the same thing. Think theatre district on a rainy day. I’ve also become a repeat offender at certain spots, identifying them as my neighborhood favorites. Not much tops biting into a tuna burger from Union Square Café after perusing the tables of the open market. Same goes for warming up on a chilly day with a hot chocolate from City Bakery or farm roasted coffee from 71 Irving.
This past Saturday, I headed up to the city. With my messenger bag loaded up with essentials like a book, my iPod, train schedule, sunglasses and gum, I stepped out onto 7th Avenue and began my adventure. There was lunch to be had at Sarabeth’s, a play to be seen at Lincoln Center, a light bite to be had with Caralyn at Café Lalo and three different exhibits to view at the Met. It was sure to be a long day.
By the time I’d tackled everything on my list, it was around eight o'clock in the evening. I dropped my Met tag in the bin by the doorway and exited out into the chillier-from-earlier-but-still-balmy-for-January air. I zipped up my fleece as I worked my way down the grand stairs and without even thinking about it, I turned right and strolled in the direction of Penn Station. A few blocks down, with the park to my right and the bustling avenue to my left, someone stopped me for directions to the subway.
"You need to cut over to Lex," I hurriedly replied.
Blank stare.
"Take 81st," I said while pointing to the street sign. "When you get to Lexington, either turn left up to 86th or right down to 77th," I said with the same annunciation one might use when communicating with a foreigner.
With my directions complete, I turned on my heels and continued on my way. I left my iPod in my bag, letting the sounds of the city be the soundtrack for my stroll. As I neared the edge of the park, I stopped just long enough to retrieve a Zabars bag of goodies from my purse. I peered in and plucked free a chocolate rugalech. In three bites it was gone, crumbs clinging to the front of my jacket. Satiated and tired, I raised my arm in defeat and waited for a yellow chariot to take notice.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked as I slid into the backseat.
"Penn Station, please," I replied.
We sped off from the curb and slalomed our way through town. I cracked the window to offset the mingling scent of curry and cherry air freshener. And as the city streets and people bustling about them whirled past, I smiled. I heart New York.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Plain Old Vanilla
When it comes to internet dating, I'm hopeful. I met Ex via JewDate. Um, okay, bad example. Give me a second. Ooh, my friend Stephanie met her husband via JewDate and not only are they still happily married but they recently had a baby. So, with my relatively open mind, I took JewDate out for a one month spin in November.
Even with those thirty days interrupted by a Turkey coma, I still found time to chat up some potential suitors. But chatting up was about as far as things progressed. Work had me in a chokehold and if it didn’t involve my desk or my bed, it didn’t get the time of day. To put it in a better perspective, things were so bad my toys didn't even come out to play.
By the time I made it to Christmas, one of the initial suitors had fallen by the wayside. No matter how many times I told him not to take my lack of free time personally, he did. I know you should never read an email with a tone but I swear to God that dork gave me some major whiny tude. I let him go, figuring some other Jewess would be better suited for his fragile ego.
Still in the process of picking up the pieces from a maddening end to 2006, I snuck in a date with one of the other guys. I’m going to call him Vanilla and it ain’t just because the boy is white. Saturday night, Vanilla and I went out on our first official date, having previously survived the requisite one-hour-drink-fest to taste test the face to face chemistry.
“I made us dinner reservations at eight in Manayunk. How about I pick you up at quarter after seven?” he asked.
I stumbled and fumbled that one. I mean, a guy hasn't picked me up for a date since…hold on….shit, I ran out of fingers. Part of the problem is Smith taught me to go and do what I want when I want, regardless of a man. The other part of the problem is that chivalry's dead. I relayed my confusion to Leslie who immediately insisted I keep my trap shut and just roll with it all. Being treated like a lady was to be embraced, no matter how foreign it all felt.
And so Vanilla schlepped out of the city to the burbs. He even parked and came up to my apartment to fetch me, presenting me with a gift of wine, a Vouvray I’d been hunting for since 2004. He opened the car door, drove us to dinner, swatted away my wallet which contained all of two dollars, drove us to another spot for drinks and again swatted away my wallet, calling my gesture cute. When we walked on the street, he stayed to the outside. When we entered into places, he held the door and ushered me in.
I think you get my point. Vanilla's got chivalry down pat. And let me tell you, it counts for something. Male readership, take note. Anyway, for everything he does right, I see him as just plain old vanilla. Even more troubling was that halfway through our date, I realized my personality was starting to mirror his vanilla-ness. Blech. I know it sounds impossible for me to come across as blah but trust me, it happened. It was so bad that I started to get bored with myself.
I shuffled my concern to the side, figuring I was making a big deal about nothing. Maybe he’s shy. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge. In other words, we’re going out again on Sunday. It’ll be our third get together and I’m starting to fear it may be the last. I don’t spend any part of my day thinking about him. My belly doesn’t get knots in his presence. And I just don’t have this urge to throw him down and, um, well, ride him. Listen, Reading might have been a dud but at least I got myself off to the idea of doing a little saddling up. When I close my eyes and think of Vanilla, the only riding going on is the image of him perched on top of a John Deere mower.
When I first met Ex, I felt the same way but I pushed through figuring what I was drawn to in the past never panned out so I should be open to what I’m not drawn to. Okay, wait. Again, bad example. Anyway, I totally believe that spending the rest of your life with someone runs a lot deeper than multiple orgasms. Times change, people change and you have to be in love at the core to survive it all. But I just don’t know if I can spend the rest of my life staring down a scoop of vanilla.
Even with those thirty days interrupted by a Turkey coma, I still found time to chat up some potential suitors. But chatting up was about as far as things progressed. Work had me in a chokehold and if it didn’t involve my desk or my bed, it didn’t get the time of day. To put it in a better perspective, things were so bad my toys didn't even come out to play.
By the time I made it to Christmas, one of the initial suitors had fallen by the wayside. No matter how many times I told him not to take my lack of free time personally, he did. I know you should never read an email with a tone but I swear to God that dork gave me some major whiny tude. I let him go, figuring some other Jewess would be better suited for his fragile ego.
Still in the process of picking up the pieces from a maddening end to 2006, I snuck in a date with one of the other guys. I’m going to call him Vanilla and it ain’t just because the boy is white. Saturday night, Vanilla and I went out on our first official date, having previously survived the requisite one-hour-drink-fest to taste test the face to face chemistry.
“I made us dinner reservations at eight in Manayunk. How about I pick you up at quarter after seven?” he asked.
I stumbled and fumbled that one. I mean, a guy hasn't picked me up for a date since…hold on….shit, I ran out of fingers. Part of the problem is Smith taught me to go and do what I want when I want, regardless of a man. The other part of the problem is that chivalry's dead. I relayed my confusion to Leslie who immediately insisted I keep my trap shut and just roll with it all. Being treated like a lady was to be embraced, no matter how foreign it all felt.
And so Vanilla schlepped out of the city to the burbs. He even parked and came up to my apartment to fetch me, presenting me with a gift of wine, a Vouvray I’d been hunting for since 2004. He opened the car door, drove us to dinner, swatted away my wallet which contained all of two dollars, drove us to another spot for drinks and again swatted away my wallet, calling my gesture cute. When we walked on the street, he stayed to the outside. When we entered into places, he held the door and ushered me in.
I think you get my point. Vanilla's got chivalry down pat. And let me tell you, it counts for something. Male readership, take note. Anyway, for everything he does right, I see him as just plain old vanilla. Even more troubling was that halfway through our date, I realized my personality was starting to mirror his vanilla-ness. Blech. I know it sounds impossible for me to come across as blah but trust me, it happened. It was so bad that I started to get bored with myself.
I shuffled my concern to the side, figuring I was making a big deal about nothing. Maybe he’s shy. Maybe I’m being too quick to judge. In other words, we’re going out again on Sunday. It’ll be our third get together and I’m starting to fear it may be the last. I don’t spend any part of my day thinking about him. My belly doesn’t get knots in his presence. And I just don’t have this urge to throw him down and, um, well, ride him. Listen, Reading might have been a dud but at least I got myself off to the idea of doing a little saddling up. When I close my eyes and think of Vanilla, the only riding going on is the image of him perched on top of a John Deere mower.
When I first met Ex, I felt the same way but I pushed through figuring what I was drawn to in the past never panned out so I should be open to what I’m not drawn to. Okay, wait. Again, bad example. Anyway, I totally believe that spending the rest of your life with someone runs a lot deeper than multiple orgasms. Times change, people change and you have to be in love at the core to survive it all. But I just don’t know if I can spend the rest of my life staring down a scoop of vanilla.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
An Amendment
Okay, so I’m amending my last post. I’m thinking of stealing my niece. Shhh, don’t tell Leslie.
It was my last day in Florida and the entire clan spent the morning at Lido Beach. Actually, my dad lingered in the car parked on the other side of the dunes, unable to navigate the sand, but everyone else was sprawled out just shy of the waves gently rolling up on the shore. Anders flopped around in the water while Olivia dug in the sand a few feet to my right. Every so often, I tilted my head out of the glare of the sun to catch a glance of her shoveling sand or simply picking up handfuls and letting the grains freefall down onto her little denim shorts.
As the clock ticked toward one, it was time for me to make my way to the airport. My mom offered to drop me off and since Olivia’s car seat was in that vehicle, she came along for the ride. I slid into the rear to keep her company, leaving my mom in the front like a chauffeur.
“Olivia, what does a frog say?” I asked with a playful voice.
“Ribb. Bitt.”
“What does a dog say?”
“Woof.”
“What does a snake say?”
Suddenly her face contorted until she looked like a stroke victim with a lopsided mouth. She stuck her tongue out to the left and then made a lispy hissing noise.
I wanted to pluck her from the seat, tuck her into my carry-on tote and escape back to Philadelphia with her in tow. The way her hair falls into loose little ringlets. The way she leans her nose into my finger so I can honk it. The way her lower lip pouts when she doesn’t get her way. The way she insists on wearing her Dora backpack, or as she calls it pack-kack. Plain and simple, I adore Olivia to pieces.
It isn't that I have any less fondness for Anders. He’s sweet and funny and curious. But he’s a boy and he’s also at that age of pushing the limits. Like when I told him he couldn’t blow bubbles in the house, he immediately went in search of a better answer from a different person. I’m guessing Anders will fit into corporate America beautifully.
Olivia's still too young to understand any of that. Just shy of two, her innocence keeps her unaware of blatant manipulation. She’s still having mini-meltdowns when she doesn’t get her way. Like when she learned she wasn’t allowed to eat raspberries while seated on my mother’s new tan leather sofa. Tears rolled down her cherubic cheeks and her whimpering became full blown sobs. As I sat off to the side and watched my mom calm Olivia, I realized something I never really understood before. I just might want a child after all. Or I at least want Olivia.
It was my last day in Florida and the entire clan spent the morning at Lido Beach. Actually, my dad lingered in the car parked on the other side of the dunes, unable to navigate the sand, but everyone else was sprawled out just shy of the waves gently rolling up on the shore. Anders flopped around in the water while Olivia dug in the sand a few feet to my right. Every so often, I tilted my head out of the glare of the sun to catch a glance of her shoveling sand or simply picking up handfuls and letting the grains freefall down onto her little denim shorts.
As the clock ticked toward one, it was time for me to make my way to the airport. My mom offered to drop me off and since Olivia’s car seat was in that vehicle, she came along for the ride. I slid into the rear to keep her company, leaving my mom in the front like a chauffeur.
“Olivia, what does a frog say?” I asked with a playful voice.
“Ribb. Bitt.”
“What does a dog say?”
“Woof.”
“What does a snake say?”
Suddenly her face contorted until she looked like a stroke victim with a lopsided mouth. She stuck her tongue out to the left and then made a lispy hissing noise.
I wanted to pluck her from the seat, tuck her into my carry-on tote and escape back to Philadelphia with her in tow. The way her hair falls into loose little ringlets. The way she leans her nose into my finger so I can honk it. The way her lower lip pouts when she doesn’t get her way. The way she insists on wearing her Dora backpack, or as she calls it pack-kack. Plain and simple, I adore Olivia to pieces.
It isn't that I have any less fondness for Anders. He’s sweet and funny and curious. But he’s a boy and he’s also at that age of pushing the limits. Like when I told him he couldn’t blow bubbles in the house, he immediately went in search of a better answer from a different person. I’m guessing Anders will fit into corporate America beautifully.
Olivia's still too young to understand any of that. Just shy of two, her innocence keeps her unaware of blatant manipulation. She’s still having mini-meltdowns when she doesn’t get her way. Like when she learned she wasn’t allowed to eat raspberries while seated on my mother’s new tan leather sofa. Tears rolled down her cherubic cheeks and her whimpering became full blown sobs. As I sat off to the side and watched my mom calm Olivia, I realized something I never really understood before. I just might want a child after all. Or I at least want Olivia.
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