Dateology

It's almost 5:30 and I’m going outside for the first time in a long day of conference calls. It is crisp and clear outside and the sun is sending amber scarves into the sky like a gymnast on a blue floor. "It is spring," the flowering plum trees declare in their sharp new trims. A thick soapy trail of water is sprinting down the curb's gutter line enjoying an evening release. Up the street a guy in a flannel shirt is washing his car. A woman in a colorful shirt is pushing in trash bins--black one first then blue into a garage already dark. A guy with a long white beard is walking a small dog with an equally long beard. The woman looks at the dog then up at the sky, her hands on her waist. A black guy in a brown hat and a cane walks up the street--we say hello. A construction worker is washing dust off the curb--smells of old urine, fresh stone, and a day's sweat mix with into the Jasmine bush outside a terracotta colored house with Spanish windows. Lazily, the sky is turning purple--allowing the evening in. My cheeks are turning both colder and warmer, I tuck my chin into my raised collar.

Back home, I kick off my shoes at the entrance and walk to the dining room where I let the curtains fall from their ties and the day to close. I light a candle and put on Alan Pasqua.

Love is in the evening air. It is everywhere today. Between friends, and family and couples—married or not, straight or gay, here or there. It is evident wherever we go. It is here to stay if we only recognize it--today, on holidays, on birthdays. It is a matter of choice- to see, acknowledge, sense, pay attention. To not let fear take over, to neutralize stress, anger, sadness, to remember we’re here for such a short time—fleeting moments in the abyss that makes this world—why waste our time on anything but.

Love.

Do you have your dance moves down?

Dear Dateologers,

Datingirl is taking a break while she's traveling for the coming weeks  months.

Enjoy spring the winter and stay out of trouble!

I'm bored.  I have 9 minutes to a meeting and I'm bored. I've emailed Ryan twice. Answered other emails. Called HR to complain about a bonus that never made it. I've picked at the edges of my Hello Kitty bandaid, pulled my hair up in a bun, undid the bun, put it back up with a pencil.

For lunch, I went all the way out and ordered a side of curly fries at our cafeteria. I also got a small salad. I ate the fries and then didn't eat the salad. I'm making to-do lists: buy bday gift, bday card, mail Easter cards, book flights, call dad. I need to call a friend who got engaged. I'm using Friend loosely here; I haven't heard from her since she accepted a job promotion and moved out of San Francisco eight months ago. Last week she called to tell me all about her fantastic life. "Call me back!" She squeaked on my voicemail in her preppiest tone of voice. I've been planning on it but, ten days later, still haven't gotten to it.

I was always the one who called back, called first, arrived first, paid the bill at the bar, remembered the gifts. Recently I realized that the return on this investment has been very small. Mostly, it's about feeling I'm being the good girl I'm supposed to be. About making my parents proud. It's about some kind of an unwritten agreement I made when I was five or seven to be good. Somehow in my 30's I'm still looking to be the good one. Back then when I was five or seven the reward was the smiles of my parents, their proud hand on my head, bragging to the neighbors about their talented, well mannered daughters. And then I turned 10 or maybe I was 14 and I was no longer good no matter what I did or what they did. I was just all wrong all the time. Even when I sat quietly, sat straight, at the dinner table--even when I said nothing--there was still that look on my face, that pouty stare, that slouch, that dissatisfaction my parents saw in me whenever they stopped arguing (about me) or planning (for me) and looked.

And maybe it's because I'm so bored today or because of before and now or because I have simply grown and I can choose whom to have at my dinner table, that I am starting to feel ok with not being good--at least not all the time. True, I still get that nagging voice that tells me I should call back, I should send a birthday card, I should get the gifts out to the post office earlier next year. But there's also another voice--or maybe a feeling--that says I'm doing the best that I can, I focus on my real friends, I have good days and bad, sit-straight days and ones when leaning my elbow on the table ensures I'm not on my knees. This voice says it's ok to let go of friends who aren't real friends, and dates who won't turn into husbands. It says it's ok to email instead of call, walk instead of run. It reminds me that seven or five and even 14 was a long time ago. That I have new options. That in the end, I was always good. And that should be enough.

Now that it's after the before

I would have been smitten. For sure I would have been smitten before. Already on date 2 or 3 there would have been the inner smiles, a lingering look over his eyes; my lips. We'd start sentences at the same time and then burst out laughing, I'd be looking at his fingers around the glass--long and strong, just as I like. We'd tingle with anticipation of that perfect moment when we'd softly touch. A goodbye at the door would have been something to look forward to: time would stop, warm lips meet. We would have stood there kissing a first long kiss--cheeks warm, hands cradling a shoulder-blade, a waist. 
"My neighbors are still up," I would say, catching the light in their living room window. "I think we should say goodnight."  "I think I should come back inside." He'd reply.
He'd guide us back, moving the door closed behind him. "You have to push it in more," I'd laugh through our kiss. He'd lean on the door with his body, pulling me closer, until it wrestled its way into place and sounded its heavy clunk.

I would have fallen in love. And so would he. I'd tell my brother about him and a month or so later, after we slept together for the first few times, I'd tell my father I met a nice guy. He's a business man. His family is on the East Coast. No, I don't know where they're from before that. There's nothing wrong with him, Dad...he's single now but he was married once before. Yes he's divorced. Well, no-- there are no single guys my age who don't have baggage.

We would have been going out for three, maybe six months when we'd start dealing with daily reality. My need for time to myself, his work schedule, our different pace and energy levels. I'd want to be spontaneous on a Thursday night; he'd need to plan for a babysitter. There would be agreements, compromises, understandings--we are both very good at that. Give a little bit here; a little bit there--chip away at what used to be our lives to make this work. We would have probably succeeded and everything would have been fine. Just fine. The life I never thought I'd have but now that it's here--it's just right, I'd say to anyone who asked and to myself.

All this would have been possible. It would have been enough. I might have even been happy.

But this was before. Before I knew how it feels when things are just right. Before I knew what it's like to discover another part of me in someone else and before I tasted the sweet surprise of the parts in him that aren't mine and how they made me so much more.

After dinner and drinks and a jazz band that was supposed to be playing but wasn't--after I had put on Alan Pasqua on the CD player, after he had put down his glass of water and I reluctantly put down my tea mug...seated next to me, his thigh touching mine, his eyes drilling holes in my temple, he's about to say something...lean over--I put my hands on my thighs--almost slap them--and say: "I'd better kick you out."

He freezes. "Yes." He says after a pause. "I'd better go." And he takes our cup and mug to the kitchen. I follow him, walking a few steps behind, careful to not cross the line I just drew. We hug goodbye. I'm tired. This is so much like before--a perfect before--but I know I am no longer able to--simply can't--be there again.

I turn off the lights, check the lock on the door, brush my teeth and melt into my pajamas. I surround myself with pillows and bury myself in the comforter. Right now it just feels good to be alone.

"I think he's stalking you, that's what I think." Says Eugene.
"Don't be ridiculous," I say and roll my eyes. For someone so lean--someone with silvery gray hair carefully arranged in small spikes on top of his head, he can be quite the drama queen sometimes. Or maybe it's a hidden Hitchockian talent.
"How else can you explain that you bump into him on the freeway twice now in less than a month?"

Eugene is referring to the second time I saw The Ex on the freeway earlier in the week.

I call my brother.
"Ethan, I ran into The Ex again on the freeway. Tell me these things just happen to everyone."
"They don't."
"%^&#"
"Want me to come down there and take care of him for you?"
"Nah...." I laugh. It's his standing offer. And it's nice to have one like it just in case I change my mind one day.

A day after our second rendezvous on the freeway, around 11am, I get a text message from The Ex.
"Did you go biking recently?"
"Uhm...have been planning on it--but no. Why?"
"I stopped at a vista point on my way home yesterday. Later that night, you and I went for a bike ride in that spot."
"We did?" I tried to remember what I did the prior night.
"Wait! Am I reading this right? Do you mean...?"
"Yes. In a dream."
"First you stalk me on the freeway then you evoke me in your dreams?!?"
"Yes...I know."
"Know what? "
"You're seating in my head." My phone goes "ding" as his message comes in.

"Honestly!" Lizzy says exasperatingly over a glass of wine at District. "He can't even get his organs right! His head? He'd wish it was just his head! And it sure doesn't seem like he has a head to start with!"
I laugh. Her face gets very animated when she's annoyed. And right now, she's very annoyed; her blue eyes fiery bright.
"What will it take for him to get it?!? A baseball bat to the head?"
"Funny. My brother asked a similar question..."
"You run into one another twice on the freeway- which, by the way, NEVER happens.
Then, he dreams of you."
"I know..."

"Hey," Lizzy says after a long pause. Her face lights up. "Do you remember what The Ex's friends nicknamed his car?"
I laugh. "Yes...I do."
"I guess," says Lizzy as she circles the glass's rim with a wet finger, "I guess we can now say with some confidence...nay- certainty...that it won't be his choice of a car that ends up being "The Big Mistake of His Life"...is it now?

Yours truly,

Datingirl

Sweet Misery

Half a bottle of sweet Vermouth, two (or is it three?) cigarettes later...smoke out the kitchen window and I'm feeling better although I'm not responsible for my actions so much anymore, so it seems, with emails going out when they shouldn't. The Ex is using my words in his blog. I'm letting him know I know. I care less that I'm letting him know I'm watching. Tomorrow I'll care more, for sure.  For now, it's momentary indulgence in my bravery and fears.

I listen to Eugene's voicemail. He's been leaving one every single evening on his way home from work--a daily reminder that God exists and so do friends.
It started as a dare.
"I bet you couldn't" I said. "Bet you wouldn't."
Because God knows I couldn't stick with it for any one person or a multitude of reasons.
But he does. Every day on his drive home.

Today a motorcycle was down on the 405. Just as Verizon cut Eugene off. He leaves a second message. Thankfully. He rambles about. Something about content editing. Often he talks about the young girls at the office--those who vie for his attention--silver hair and all. I often see Eugene in my mind. Slim and athletic. I see him with blue eyes and then I remember- they're brown. Thank God for friends. Especially those who include you in their morning prayers. And for neighbors who don't say much about cigarette smoke climbing up through their kitchen window. Let's have another, shall we?

Words run in my mind like they do on a teleprompter. I can't think of them fast enough to remember. I snatch my laptop out of its case which, despite The Ex's warnings that it will one day be stolen, still rests right in the doorway where I had dropped it when I came home from the office. I prop it open. User name. Password. Load, Goddammit. Load.

I've come to realize that dates make me sad. Yesterday I had a second date with Ryan. A lovely second date with Ryan. Lovely Ryan. But not the one I'll end up with. And down we go.

When I was little I used to dream of falling down the empty space in the middle of a staircase. Down and down and down. Slow motion. Never ending. I would remind myself, in my dream, that it was only a dream. I am falling now and I'm awake. More Vermouth please. I light a third (or is it fourth?) cigarette. I draw curtains down in the kitchen and wish I was laying on the floor, champagne flutes at my side, playing footsies instead.

Ryan wanted to come up to the city tonight. It was still daylight when he emailed. And it was warm and sunny outside. "Got other plans" I emailed back. What I was really planning on was a luxurious evening at home, cleaning and organizing. writing to lounge music. I have an outline. There was no room for a third date--especially one 24 hours after the second. That's just too fast. And shouldn't he be with his children?  As soon as the sun came down and the final credits of The Illusionist rolled through, I wished I had let him come up. We would have gone to that cool bar in the Mission, ordered ice Mojitos downstairs and taken the elevator up to the roof. It's warm enough to enjoy this clear night outdoors although I probably would have camped right under a heater.

It's just one of these nights. I keep reminding myself I'll be going to the gym tomorrow. I should have gone today. I would have felt better. But I didn't, because I had just gotten my toes painted and they would have been ruined inside my running shoes--smeared red on the inside of my silly girl socks--the ones with the pink stitches around the ankles.

I need more ice in my drink. Ever since I got really drunk on Christmas I make sure I have ice in my drink to keep hydrated.

Maybe I should stop dating all together. That way there won't be an "evening-after" hangover.

Tomorrow I'll be driving down to the peninsula--I need to get vaccinations before an international trip. I hate needles. I loath needles. I loath myself loathing needles. I'm doing an experiment with numbing cream. If it works, maybe I won't faint right after.

The music stopped. The CD reached TRACK 14. I can go and press the Play button or I could go turn off the lights and wrap myself in my blanket. Clothes and all. Alcohol breath. I'm not ready. Not yet. There will be a reply. Unless he's out on a date. He must be. Somewhere out on a roof. Under a heater. Laughing. Falling in love. I press Play.

Sometimes I need to feel miserable if only so that I can wake up the next morning and realize that all is well.

For now, it's another ice cube. Another cigarette. And swirling words making their way in rows on the screen like ducks on water. One one hundred...two one hundred...three.

I was bored today so I spied on my exes. The Ex, whose name was brought up during an otherwise delightful brunch in the sun, seems to have updated his blog with some two-liner posts and travel pictures. A most compelling reason to update my own blogs.

Back to brunch, it was one of these rare beautiful days in SF that called for the errand list to be tucked into my organizer. Instead of productivity, I chose hedonistic decadence and met up with my friend Gerard for an outdoor meal. We shared Leek and sheep feta omlette and a salad, and then had a spoon duel over melting ice cream sundae.

"So who are you dating these days?" I asked, putting espresso ice cream in my mouth- spoon upside down.
"Well, this guy Haime introduced me to two women he knows."
"Who? Tell me who?"  How exciting!
"One is Annie..."
"Don't know an Annie. Who's the other?"
"This girl named Madeline...Madeline Carrington...she just moved..."
"From New York!!! I know her! Madeline?!? Are you serious?"
"Well...Uhm...yes. We met for drinks last week. Why?"

I met Madeline only briefly when we both worked on a project for a community organization which benefits under-privileged kids. She managed to alienate teachers, managers, students, and board members alike. She called school principles inadequate, a volunteer VP of marketing an imbecile, board members retards and had repeatedly threatened to take out a press release which will "destroy the organization's reputation."

"You've got to be kidding." I put my spoon down.
"She's very nice. Very smart."
"I'm sure she is. Just wait until she disagrees with you...that'll be a whole different kind of nice."
"I don't know what to do." He said in a mock whimper.
"About Madeline? Stay away as far as you as can."
"No. About finding a woman I'll want to marry."
"Oh. That."
"Yes. That. I meet really nice women but none are quite right. The ones that were right--it didn't work out."
He was referring to his Ex. A nice Icelandic girl who walked gingerly, as if on glass, and who rarely displayed affection for him.
Gerard was caressing my hand, looking down.
"You want to know the funny thing?" he lifted his head.
"Sure..."
"Madeline asked me how come you and I aren't dating."
"...and...did you tell her it's none of her business?"
"No. I said that while I'm attracted to you and find you a most amazing woman, you haven't yet realized just how much you're in love with me."
I look at his face and laugh. But he doesn't laugh back. He's looking straight into my eyes in one of those serious looks.
I feel my smile turn into a crooked line. My mind searching for something to say. Something. Anything. Fuck. I manage an off-tone laugh.
"Oh c'mon...we're friends!" I say and waved my hand.
"Which makes for the best romantic relationship!" says he.
"Gerard..."
"Why not? Huh? Why not? We have fun together, we laugh, we do things together, we both want a family, we share the same values, I love taking care of you..." And then, he leaned in over our half finished omlette and said "I'm going to kiss you now."
For a moment I just sit there, looking at his eyes, his face, getting closer to me. It is as if I am watching a movie in slow motion.
"No you're not!" I hear myself say, apparently snapped into place.
Gerard stopped his movement, froze in place for a moment, and then slowly sat back.
"You're one difficult woman." He concluded, crossing his arms. "One difficult woman."

That's the thing about friendship with guys. The ones you like, don't like you. The ones who like you are those with whom you only want to be friends...with the exception of Lizzy who SMSd me 30 minutes ago to let me know she was making out with her best guy-friend of the past 6 years.

But that's a whole other story.

Yours truly,

Datingirl

Looking good, baby...Rwwwr!

Yesterday, my friend Lizzy and I met with Ryan at a business event he organized. I had asked Lizzy to join me because I knew she'd love the networking and because, at the absence of real chemistry, I've been thinking that they might be a really good match. They're both goofy but also have a professional side to them running their own companies, both like "underground" music, good food, and both enjoy sampling alcohol at multiple places on a night's outing.

I met Lizzy at the venue on the early side. We squeezed into a table by the fireplace and ordered drinks. The place filled up quickly. I kept looking for Ryan. Finally, around 8pm he showed up. Actually- I don't know if that's when he showed up--that's when I noticed him--he could have been standing there for half an hour for all I know but I wouldn't have recognized him because he was clean shaved and his hair was fashionably cut, revealing a tall forehead, cute small ears, and bright eyes.

"Is that...???" Lizzy grabbed my arm.
"Uhm...I think so!"
"What the....???"
"I KNOW!"

Ryan and I locked eyes. He was making his way through the crowd, shaking hands and hugging friends. By the time he made it to our little cozy nook by the fireplace, dozens of fluttering mascara-laden lashes were on him.

"I'm so glad you could make it!" He said in his trademark enthusiasm.
"I wouldn't miss this important event!" I said. "You remember Lizzy."
"Yes!" He called and hugged her. "We met at that art opening!"

Lizzy, who s always comfortably composed and bubbly with intelligent conversation bits was barely keeping it together. I thought I'd get this over with:

"So what happened? Where's the hair? The beard? The baseball cap and faded jeans? Where did you get this suit? What happened to Ryan?!?"

He threw his head back and laughed a big hearty laugh.
"My mom kept getting on my case that my hair was too long. And the suit is my weekday attire."
"Well." Lizzy finally spoke. "It looks great! Really great! You look great. Just really great."
I kicked her under the table between us. Stop, my foot said.

Ryan got us another round of drinks and then went up to the podium to officially open the evening. People came and spoke, the music played, and by 10:30, everyone was happy-happy. Ryan was somewhere across the room, in a marshmallow cloud of women.

"Alright." Lizzy said. "You can set me up with him."
"Really? What has changed?"
"I don't know. I like him now."
"Okay." I said. "I'll put in a good word for you, Miss "Great. Really Great!"

Here's the thing, guys. With some exceptions, women like a man who looks like a man. A man with whom we can imagine walking into an upscale restaurant, an art opening, a holiday party. We like a man who knows how to command a room. Who draws all eyes to him. We like a man who can make things happen and who knows it without being arrogant. It's just how things are.

Men like that in women too, by the way. That's why we spend so much money and time on the way we look. You like us looking good because a) you like other men to look at us and know that we're only yours, and b) because you know that if we take care of ourselves, we are most likely going to take care of you (like when you get sick and wimpy and need someone to bring you tissue or chicken soup and listen to your whining about how miserable you are). But I digress.

Here's the gist of it. In the end it's not about the looks. We like your mother, how sensitive you are, that you pet children's heads and dog's backs. But on those first dates, please find a reason to wear that jacket or those slacks. Get a haircut--your hair shouldn't be longer than ours. And shave that scruff. There will be plenty of time for all the green-sweatshirt-smelly-socks-live-underwear comfort on those rainy weekends in bed or that summer vacation in the Bahamas. (Actually- maybe not.) But, as a starting points to those hot summer nights in the Bahamas, on those first encounters, as we--women--try to figure out what's different about you from all the other geniuses we've dated and are dating no more, please do your part to help us. I'm sure you'll see your investment's value grow and multiply

Yours truly,

Datingirl

I was feeling a little down this morning. I was sitting in my living room, laptop on the coffee table, a pile of Wall Street Journals still in their sleeves. It has been two weeks since I was able to take an hour to read the paper and relax.

I had just seen Dateology was featured on Match.com. The reviewer described Datingirl--well, me--as having a "love life (that) is touchingly chaotic and will strike a chord with anyone who’s young and searching." Chaotic? Me? I stopped to think about my seemingly uneventful dating life. But more lingering was the promise of striking a chord with anyone who's young and searching. I went back and looked through my recent posts. My writing, it seems, has gone down over the past months. I just wasn't hitting it. My posts weren't making me smile nor were they sinking anywhere past the air around my arm. Sure- it doesn't help that I took a break from posting, but still. It's not like I've stopped writing all together.  I re-read my recent posts and caved more into my shoulders.

Then, I don't recall why--I checked out B-Sides. I've posted perhaps half a dozen posts over the past year--but each one connected me so deeply to a very specific state; each one pulled on chords that connected to sensations and gathered them into one full experience. That's what that was about...that's how I felt. I remembered.

And I remembered what I already know. I've been so deep in doing, acting, saving relationships that can't be saved, hosting friends and family, training, teaching, working--that I forgot what it's like to just stop and be. I forgot to take note of how I feel just in me--not in response to anyone or anything else. I forgot me.

Around noon, I took a break from my work meetings and went to sit in the garden of a local cafe. It has been a sunny day here in the City by the Bay: the air is white with cold light. Grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, Orangina, Wall Street Journal. I sat in the sun and half read half listened to the sweet song of conversations around me and to muffled laughter. The blooming plum (my favorite tree this year) sent tickling pinks down my way; the red tulips on one more day of fiesta before they shed their colors. It's fun. Interesting. Flowing. Real. Happy. Connecting. 

Right now, I'm seating inside the cafe, drinking up their free wireless network and having my way with a carrot cake.

On we go.

Yours truly,

Datingirl