Curious Cases

So the new boy and I had some excellent plans for New Year’s–sit by the fire, drink champagne and chow on shrimp cocktail. I was completely content with this option and pleased that he didn’t seem to have any interest in painting the town red. He had to work New Year’s Eve, so I felt obliged to do what I thought to be was most of the leg work–buying the champagne and such.

As I stood in the aisle at the jam packed liquor store, I was starting to feel slightly annoyed. Our festivities were at HIS digs, so why was I starting to feel like I was throwing the “party”? Was I yet again going to end up with another guy who lets me to do ALL the work and was I yet again going to be the primary romance maker???? And boy, all that thinking was starting to p— me off a little!

I called him from the liquor store to ask if he had champagne glasses. I was considering buying two, even if he already had some. I wasn’t keen on sharing the libation with him out of glasses he likely used with his ex-wife. His reply to my call was yet another reassurance. All was well, he had bought some on the drive home from work. I stifled my annoyance and reminded myself that this guy was and is so different from all the rest, and that I just needed to start truly trusting in that.

I trucked all of the party stuff into my car and drove out to his house. As I pulled into the driveway and started unpacking the bags of goodies, annoyance crept in again, “Where WAS he and why wasn’t he helping me with the bags?” I lugged the bags through the snow and up to his front door. I could see his shadow waiting for me at the door as he hid behind it and opened it. What that door opened to was possibly one of the most romantic sights I’ve ever witnessed–the fireplace was blazing, as were nearly two dozen votive candles in delicate glass candle holders…for me.

For ME?

Yeah. For me.

Dumby me was so taken aback, I curtly said something stupid like, “oh wow.” The truth was, if I had said more or even looked at him instead of petting his dog, I would have probably broken down into a bumbling mess of grateful tears.

Before this experience, I didn’t wholeheartedly believe in fate or serendipity . I believed that life certainly had more than a few strange and miraculous unexplainable occurrences…Yet I still found myself thinking that everything and everyone we come in contact with was pretty random…and pure chance. This past year has given me ample evidence to believe in the unbelievable–that maybe, just maybe every random act we take part in can lead us to where we’re “meant to be.” I won’t go into detail, since some things aren’t necessary for others to know or hear, but I will say there are more than a few serendipitous things about Mr. Dreamy that are positively unexplainable… unless you believe in fate.

Probability or serendipity aside, I’m so grateful that I’ve found someone who’s loving me back with an equal fire. Adoration reciprocated tastes so much sweeter than the roller coaster and half-a–ed lovin’ that I willingly accepted in the past.

I realize that the blissful infatuation stage isn’t going to last forever and that somewhere along the line we’re bound to find a few challenges. But man, this euphoria sure is a nice place to start.

On a side note, we saw The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last night. The flick was slow moving (and THREE hours long), but had me in tears during the last few scenes. Here’s a memorable quote:

“For what it’s worth, it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit… start whenever you want… you can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that stop you. I hope you feel things that you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

The bottom line for me: you just don’t KNOW what life has in store for you. And when you think you’ve finally reached the end of your rope, there’s always, always a lifeline; always something unpredictable that can and will change everything.

Here’s to
all the poor choices,
all the triumphs,
all the heart ache,
all the unrequited crushes,
all the bad dates,
all the unreturned calls,
all the rally cries,
all the bottles of Shiraz,
all the efforts to being okay alone,
and all the courage mustered for an unpredictable chance.

He

Hmmmm, what a curious feeling this love thing is.  I mean, I figured it was bound to happen eventually.  No vanity intended, but my karmic dues had long been paid in full for a while.  I think this whiny journal/blog has adequate evidence of that.  But man it’s a little odd being someone’s Someone…Someone I actually ENJOY being around?  What a revolutionary concept!  Maybe I should have tried that idea out years ago–date men I actually LIKE!?  It sure makes life a little less complicated.  The simplicity is refreshing.

It is, however,  a little distracting having someone pop into your thoughts every other hour.  If that’s the only thing I can possibly complain about, I would have to say I’m in a good place….with a good person, who just happens to make me feel like I’m 15.

This whole slightly crazy, yet oh-so-clearly sensible experience has brought my mind back to an old first love.  One winter, in his cold dining room he turned on this song and made me dance with him during a rough patch in my life.  That Freudian conquest left me a little jaded, but filled with the knowledge that, yep, a man did love me.  I would be a liar if I didn’t admit that I’ve been searching for someone to replicate the way he made me feel on occasion.  I guess I just had no idea that I would fall upon someone who surpassed him by leaps and bounds.

In other news:  I only gained 3 pounds over the holiday!  That’s a grand total of 40 pounds gone since August.  I’m just having a slightly difficult time staying focused on the whole life style thing a midst of this love stuff.  Smoking is still on the platter and I’m totally terrified of quitting.  But it’s time.  I guess it was about time for more than a few changes in my life.

Confessions of a Matchmaker

Being unemployed and procrastinating on writing, I ‘ve been watching WAY too much TV. During the year, I really don’t have any great desire to sit and watch Oprah or Rachel Ray. However, with lots o’ time on my hands, the reruns reminded me of an experience from my past.

A few years back I caught wind of Patti Novak and her “matchmaking” service. Being the constant experimenter, I called and made an appointment to meet with her. I was a little creeped out by the location, which was an unmarked building on a major street. I made my friend, who thought the entire thing was a scam, go with me. During the ride there, I tried my best to convince my friend that this was not only a great idea, but also that she should consider joining the services too. She didn’t budge on her disdain of the whole dating process and was NOT convinced that Patti was the answer to our dating woes. Being a hopeless optimist, I ignored her disapproval and ponied up to this new experience.

We walked into the building and within seconds my friend was commenting that the place smelled like a cigarette. And it did. We walked into the waiting room and was kindly greeted by the now infamous matchmaker. She encouraged us to flip through her company’s scrapbook, while she attended to something else. By the time I was asked to join her, it was clear that her cigs were what kept her from meeting me on time.

Despite my excitement and fantasies of Patti hooking me up with the man of my dreams, her sales pitch immediately missed the mark. I was first asked how I went about meeting men. Feeling a great desire for approval from some random stranger, I explained that a guy gave me his number at the dog park the week prior, which to me indicated that the happy hour the dog park MUST be a great place to meet eligible bachelors. She then asked if I ever called him and if I did why was I sitting in her office. Well, no I never called him, since he was a little sketchy and didn’t actually have a DOG at the dog park. She laughed at my comments and asked me to be real and tell her how I was truly meeting men. At the time, I was still in the school of thought that fervently believed that only total losers used the internet to find a date. So I told her, yes, I used match, eharmony, craigslist, and a few other obscure venues. An “aha” look came over her face. She called me a serial dater, and asked if I had ever actually had a longterm relationship. Suddenly I found myself spilling my life story and being a kindred soul, Patti noted, “You like narcissists. They treat you like shit and part of you likes that.” Considering I’ve taken enough psychology courses to float a battleship, this wasn’t news to me.

After analyzing my tactics in dating, she asked what I was really looking for and what was important to me. I emphasized that education was paramount and I really couldn’t see myself dating someone who thought NPR was boring. From the look on her face, I couldn’t quite tell if she knew what NPR was, so I decided to go on with my preferences. I mentioned that every woman claims to want a funny guy, but I was serious about this criteria. Really serious. I mentioned that I was kind of getting sick of going on dates with unfunny men and spending the majority of the date laughing at my own jokes. I included that I would kind of prefer dating another recovering Catholic, someone in my age range, ya know, the yang to my yin. This is when she took the initiative and dove in to seal the deal. She explained that her male clientel was an affluent bunch, educated, rich, ambitious, rich, and the real pick of the litter. This caused me to pause, thinking, did I mention anything about money in during my little interview?

She rambled on for a while before handing me a contract. She said that I was funny, spunky, and cute, but in order for her to take ME on as a client, I would have one month to lose weight. After that month, we would meet again, I would pay the nearly $1000 matchmaking fee, and be on a road to relationship success. The sticker shock was probably on my face, when she mentioned that she would be willing to offer me a payment plan, if I returned in a month with significant weight loss. I thanked her for her time, told her that I needed to go home and think about it, and took off with my annoyed friend, knowing that I would never be willing to pay a grand to meet ANYONE.

A few years down the road, I was utterly amazed that Patti had landed her own show on A&E and decided that maybe I was totally wrong in passing up her matchmaking skills. Maybe, just maybe, I really did need to disregard my desire of a lasting relationship with a Conan O’Brian wannabe, mixed with a dash of Tom Green. Maybe vying for a guy who really did think Ira Glass was cool was all wrong. Maybe I really did need to adjust my scope and pursue the gold digging whore route. So instead of calling Patti, I decided that I would google the Better Business Bureau. Good choice.

The Solo SeXtion

Being completely hungover, to the point of puking three times today, I started thinking about hangover cures. I once dated a guy who was convinced that sex cured hangovers. Never the type to avoid disproving a theory, I was easily convinced, and even mentioned to him that he really didn’t need to make up an excuse to sleep with me. As I fondly recalled what a freak show that guy turned out to be (which took me almost 2 years to figure out), I suddenly remembered more from last night’s shenanigans…

Our topic predictably veered towards sex. My newly married friend amazed her husband with the well known legend of how she went 4 YEARS without getting laid. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get “it” (since we all know that any walking vagina can get something, if they’re really that desperate for bed creaking entertainment), being the constant overachiever, she just couldn’t find anyone worthy of ditching her vow of celibacy.

Somehow, the conversations lead to a close examination of MY sex life. Now, since these women know more about me than probably anyone on the face of the Earth (including, but not limited to the time I diverted making out with a really fat bouncer–who thought “Slap Shot” was a phenomenal film–by telling him that my roommate, despite her coyness really did have the hots for him), I had no problem divulging the gory details of my sexual exploits. I took a sip of my drink, thought a few seconds, counted out the months on my hand, and confirmed that it’s been ten f—–g months and offered that even that one probably shouldn’t count since I was only Old Shoein’ it with an ex. My only other single friend perked up, “Oh whatever. I’m going on two years.” Is that supposed to be some kind of consolation?! Jesus.

So this got me to thinking, being single isn’t really that bad most days, but being voluntarily sexless is, at times, pure torture.

Excuse me while I go and peruse the solo section at goodvibes.com.

Coffee Companion

I need to preface this with a few background tidbits. I’ve emailed with Mr. Coffee Companion for months on an online dating site. Initially, I wasn’t interested and really wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He mentioned working out in his profile and I try my damnedest not to date men who are in better shape than I am. We emailed consistently about every topic under the sun from dating to death. And for months (and I mean MONTHS), I was totally content with my little email buddy.

This past June I suddenly found myself emailing with several men. Everyday. And as summer quickly approached and my email relationships were starting to take up more time than my actual dating life, I decided it was time to take the bull by the horns. I emailed Mr. Coffee Companion first and basically said, as much as I love this back and forth email thing, it’s not really getting me what I’m looking for. I then typed my phone number and said, if you’d like to do something some time, give me a call.

He didn’t call, but emailed, saying that he would miss the emails. I didn’t reply and within a day, actually had a voicemail from a sexy sounding voice. I was shocked and took three days to call him back, not wanting to appear available, since we all know no man likes an available woman. We played voicemail phone tag for a few days. By the time we finally talked on the phone this Thursday, I felt like it was probably going to take another three months for this guy to ask me out. I was wrong and he suggested meeting up for coffee, since we were both going to be in the same neighborhood. I figured what the hell.

I could be totally off the mark, but I think I just had a decent first date. Not that coffee is a date, but let’s pretend it is. If it is, in fact, a date, then I would be a little pissed that my “date” didn’t pay for my $5 coffee. But coffee isn’t a date. It’s just coffee. And since it was just coffee, the lack of chivalry didn’t offend me. And in all honesty, I’ve never been a huge advocate for chivalry, since I’ve dated plenty of men who regard themselves as chivalrous, then turn out to be complete a-holes.

After sitting on a Starbucks patio for nearly two hours, I mentioned that I really needed to get something to eat. We had met up after he worked a 10 hour shift and I had a night class. He wasn’t hungry (I’m going to go ahead and assume that he’s either not interested and/or cheap, since I can’t really think of any other reason not to eat something after sitting for two hours…).

He created another half hour of chitchat, which kind of confused me, causing me to think, “Okay? No dinner, but you still want to sit here talking?” Eventually, he awkwardly walked me back to my car. Prior to my December dating debacle, where I took the lead, I would have easily given someone a hug as a greeting and/or parting gift. This time I decided no go. If someone’s interested, they’re going to have to put it out there loud and clear.

He stood there, shifting his weight from left foot to right and mumbling something about his weekend. Between his mumbling and my 20% hearing loss from blasting my headphones through 4 years of high school, I really have no idea how the date ended. For all I know he asked me to marry him at Italian Fest this weekend.

Now, the good part:

• He’s tall (I’m tall and always seem to end up in committed relationships with short guys with Napoleon complexes),
• bald (I like no hair. It’s much better than bad hair),
• nice smile,
• sexy ass,
• nice cute little lips that’s caused me to stop a few times and ponder his kissing (and other) skills. This thought process, in my idiosyncratic mind, lead me to confirming that our offspring would have a 100% chance of having a big nose, which would kind of suck for the kids. The compensation would likely come in the brains department, since he appeared to be intelligent and on occasion, I have access to a few brain cells),
• seemed humored by my goofy comments and was quick to offer his own (and blushed every time I laughed at his jokes…God, I love shy men),
• likes not being a workaholic, citing that “quality of life is more important than money” (Bing, Bing, Bing! Good Answer, Mr. Coffee Companion.),
• and at one point, when discussing the dentist, Mr. Coffee Companion complimented my smile.

I really don’t care if he calls for another date (of course I care, but let’s pretend I don’t, since rejection of any kind generally sucks), but am eternally grateful that I now have enough fodder for a few nights of sex dreams.

This one’s for you, Mr. Coffee Companion. I hope you ask me out again. If not, I’ll see you in my Karma Sutra fantasies.

Interview/First Date

I just spent two hours combing through a variety of really ugly shirts at Target, looking for something clean to wear on this first date.  I’m really not excited and would really, really like to cancel.  Problem is, I’m usually too chickenshit to cancel dates.  Not that coffee is really a date.  Right?  It’s just coffee and coffee is casual.  Not a date.  Nothing to be nervous about.  Just coffee.  (I’ll likely be repeating this mantra the entire way to Starbucks.)

When they just disappear…

 (This is from a forum I belong to..instead of writing a response in that crazy place, I’ll stick to my “safe” little journal nook)

“Are there legitimate reasons for disappearing within days of a good first date?”

I had to think back to a time when I actually went on dates…a long, long, long time ago…a gilded age, a time when I may have actually not given as much of a shit. Here’s my conclusion:

I have NO problem ditching after date 1 (as long as I didn’t spend 6 months emailing with the person….which is why I keep trying to advocate the JUST F——G ASK ME OUT adage, instead of this friggin’ penpal BS).

Here’s the thing with ditching early on and why I really don’t (or haven’t since last September) feel too guilty doing it: No one needs an explanation that may include (and yes, there are ALL based on real experiences),

“No, really. You’re not funny.”

or

“The thought of kissing you makes me want to throw up in my mouth”

or

“You’re 3 inches shorter than your profile says you are…and frankly I can’t date short liars.”

or

“You never mentioned living with your mom and/or illegitimate 3 year old son in your profile.”

or

“Seriously, unless we muscle f— over this whole ebony/ivory/liberal/conservative stuff, I see no future in the situation.”

or

“You kind of ruined the entire evening when you suggested that I was leaving too much of a tip for the waitress who dealt with your weird food order, rude comments, etc. If you’re too cheap to tip a waitress a well-deserved tip, you’re not for me.”

or

“You’re really cool, but it kind of pissed me off that despite our numerous emails and several phone calls, you never once mentioned your lazy eye. It pissed me off a little more that I never noticed how all of your photos hide that EYE.”

Instead of making EVERYONE uncomfortable, you disappear. Easy.

Now, I need to insist that this doesn’t really work as well if the person has turned into an email buddy. In that case, I have no suggestions. I can only say that there are a few men in Buffalo who probably reeeeally don’t like me. (So I wrote about someone’s small penis in a blog that I never thought ANYONE would ever find!? Sue me! In my defense, when the guy emailed me a fiery note, proclaiming that he FOUND it, after nearly peeing my pants with nervous, hysterical laughs, I typed something like, “Yeah, but did you see the part where I said that you were the best kisser?”

I’m pretty sure there’s one thing a woman can NEVER discuss with a man and recover: his small penis. And for future reference, don’t write about it in an obscure blog. Just tell your friends, but make sure it’s not that one friend who spills everything after a few beers…

“What do I have to offer a man right now?”

I ventured off to happy hour last night and met up with a few former colleagues. As the conversations whirled around the usual topics: school, politics, and…Without fail, men…a friend casually asked how my dating life was going. I pondered aloud, “What do I have to offer a man right now?” The look of shear shock and sadness on my friend’s face made me pause. “What? It’s TRUE!?”

 

I had had a similar conversation over the phone with a former housemate, where, yes I was a little surprised by their reaction to my comment/question. She, like my former colleague, couldn’t believe I would say such a thing about myself. My defense in both cases was pretty simple: shouldn’t we all be able to come to the dating table with expectations that the other person has their shit together? And if the other person doesn’t, how can they possibly be able to offer up an equitable relationship?