Eternal questions for a spotless mind

Hi there, my long-lost blog readers! How are you? I'm fine. You're looking well.

Ok, let's be honest... I don't know if anyone will actually read this. If roles were reversed I would have taken this blog off my Google reader long ago. But this story is too odd not to share, especially since it's a follow up to this post from last year. Go ahead, read it. Then come back here.

To recap: this guy I went to camp with randomly contacted me on Match last year, not realizing we had known each other 15 years prior. I reminded him who I was, and he eventually did remember, but it wasn't immediate on his part and it was an ego-bruiser on mine. We went out for drinks, and I didn't feel a connection, and texted him so the following week, saying that I'd still like to be friends. His text back replied, "That's okay, I have enough friends. LOL." Bitter, party of one? That's fine. Point taken.

So can you guess whom I might have received a Facebook friend request from tonight? That's right - the guy who said he had enough friends. All I ever really wanted was to be Facebook friends with him, maybe get together a few times a year with other friends, stay in contact since there are so few camp friends I actually am still in touch with. So I accepted his request, wondering if I'd ever hear from him directly, or if curiosity just got the better of him and he'd silently stalk my photos for months to come. Very quickly, I had my answer - a message from him in my inbox. I think I gasped audibly.

Will he apologize, I wondered. Sheepishly make a joke? I tentatively opened the message, which, to my surprise, read: "Congrats on making it to LA as well! How long have you been out here?" Which apparently means... he totally forgot. So, can you help reconcile this in my brain?

A year ago, I had to remind him that we had been friends in camp. Understandable, I guess, since boys don't always remember friendships the way girls do, and that had been 15 years - and many hairstyles - prior. But now, after seeing him less than a year ago, he forgets THAT DATE, but remembers me from 15 years ago. The me I had to remind him about.

And now, how do I answer this email? "Hi! I moved here in 2005, just like I told you last year when we went on that date that you apparently don't remember. How are you?" I feel bad bringing up the date, because I'm guessing it's going to mean reminding him of what happened afterward, but I don't know how I can honestly answer him without mentioning that, um, hey, I saw you a year ago and we discussed this at length. How can he NOT remember?

The truth is, I always felt bad about the way I handled things. It all took place over text, which I wasn't used to at the time, and I could have phrased things better. But the fact that he was so bitter and tantrum-y about it also makes me kind of embarrassed for him. I don't want to have to remind him that that's how he reacted. Can I maybe rewrite history here? Tell a different story about our date and hope that his amnesia doesn't one day clear up?

The whole thing kind of weirds me out and makes me wonder if something is wrong with him. Part of the reason I didn't like him last year was that he seemed a little sad, or disconnected, or like that something was a little bit off. His childish text response kind of reinforced to me that he might not be emotionally secure. I'm glad he's not pining over my rejection in any way, but the fact that he doesn't even remember it seems a bit, I don't know, just WEIRD. Even if he doesn't remember what happened after the date, how does he not remember going on it? It's like that entire night, and our entire conversation never happened. Which wouldn't even be that odd if we hadn't had a history together, but we do, and he clearly remembers that now, so... I don't know, I am at a total loss.

Any thoughts? Suggestions for how to handle? Ideas for how I might rewrite our date story with a happier ending?

Rent-a-bachelor: rose ceremonies, Chris Harrison not required

I'll take a 5'10, blue-eyed creative type with a gym membership and full-time job for Valentine's Day, standing Saturday nights, plus assorted holidays and mandatory work functions.

Cheesy airline pilots need not apply. Brad Womack, of course, is welcome.

Friends, friends, friends, we won't always be

We haven't had a good laugh around these parts in a while, so let's talk about my dating life.

The joke, of course, being that if I went on any fewer dates, said life would surpass the "endangered" list and ultimately be declared extinct.

I've been on Match for a while but participating half-heartedly, finding very little interest in very few people. This may have less to do with their profiles than my mind-frame, but I guess I feel like I should be doing something to keep myself out there, even if it's only keeping an active profile for hundreds of people to judge.

A few weeks ago, I got an email from someone who struck me as somewhat familiar. I opened his profile, and it turns out, we went to summer camp together back in the early 90's. I wrote back, sharing immediately that I recognized and remembered him, and then was humbled when he replied that he had no idea who I was. Awesome. My ego is fine, thank you. With little prodding, he finally remembered me, we caught up over a series of emails and texts, and met up shortly thereafter.

And I had a nice time. He was nice. Not particularly my type - he seemed a bit quieter and shyer than the guys I go for, but it was fun catching up and we had some interesting things in common. That said, I knew right off the bat I wasn't interested in dating him. I just wasn't attracted. Our whole date seemed more like it had a friendly vibe, though, so I wasn't that worried about having to tell him that, or tell him anything, and I hoped we could transition things into a rekindled friendship. Even if that friendship was based only on our newfound proximity and one summer 20 years ago that he clearly didn't remember.

I don't ask a lot from my friends.

He texted me every day that week, much more than any of my actual friends. While he didn't outright ask me out again, I could tell he was fishing to determine my interest. I kept it friendly, but brief, and hoped he'd get the hint. I guess he's not much one for subtlety, though, because the following week, I got this:

So, let me put it out there... did you want to get together originally just to catch up or do you think there is something more there potentially?

Yikes. Wasn't expecting that kind of text in the middle of my work day. Wasn't expecting to have this conversation over text at all, but I guess if it is his communication of choice... I wrote back:

Just to catch up but I had fun and think we should be friends, stay in touch. I like connecting with people from the past b/c we naturally share something in common, and that is rare out here.

Honest. I probably could have worded it better but it distracted me so much at work I just wanted to write back and get it over with. I debated glossing it over and saying that I was open to seeing where things could go, but really, I wasn't. And if I've learned anything from my two decades of dating it's that it's always easier on everyone to end things sooner rather than later.

He apparently appreciated honesty too, considering his quick reply:

That's cool... I have enough friends... lol

Wow, ego-bruiser! Tell me how you really feel.

I admit, I've thought, and said that phrase in jest about similar situations. Say, I was telling a girlfriend how a guy might have said that to me, and I'd be all - to my girlfriend - "like I need any more friends!" Ha! But I would never, NEVER say that to a guy! I'd be like "Sure", and then never answer the phone again, maybe, but I wouldn't be all bitter like that - to their face!

(I try to reserve my bitter for the privacy of home. Trust me, everyone is happier that way.)

In fact, I remember the time I broke up with this guy. He wouldn't let me off the phone until I at least agreed to be friends. So I did, thinking it would mean nothing, maybe he would call once in a while if he was in the neighborhood, or we'd add each other to our birthday party guest lists, but that's it. After all, why would he want to be friends with someone who made it very clear she did not want to date him? Right?

Wrong! He thought my agreeing to be friends with him meant that we could forgo the dating part of the relationship and just have sex on occasion. He called me every week for a month before I finally told him to get lost, and he told me the real reason he kept calling.

I met him on Match too, now that I think of it.

Anyway, I wouldn't have even included the friendship remark if we hadn't actually, at one point, been friends. I totally get that it's a shitty thing to hear, and I really don't have any interest in being friends with most of the random guys I date. But I don't consider him random. I thought it was really cool that we reconnected across the country, and I was sincerely hoping to make him part of my social circle. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I'd be calling him up for weekend lunches or to gossip about my day. He'd be like every other guy friend I have that sits idle in my phone book, that I banter with on Facebook, and maybe see three times a year. So what's the big deal, then, you ask? If that's all I wanted, aside from avoiding any hurt feelings and snide textual remarks?

Well, the big deal is that it is rare to meet people from my past out here. And unlike high school and college, I didn't stay in touch with my camp friends after I stopped going at 17. Facebook has reconnected me with some, but I haven't seen most of them in real life in fifteen years. Having one pop out of the woodwork like that was a refreshing and comforting reminder of the pre-teen camper I used to be. Bottom line: there there are only a handful of people in the world that shared the exact same experience I did, that carry around the very same memories I have. It was nice thinking I'd reconnected with one of them.

Then again, it's not like he had that great of a memory.

I could have danced all night

I've decided that, as long as I'm going to be single, I'd much prefer to be a gay man. Is that a problem?

I went out last night to a club in West Hollywood filled with the best looking grown men I've seen in a long time. Unlike clubs that cater to a straight crowd, this one was filled with actual adults - 20-somethings, sure, but also plenty of 30- and maybe even 40-somethings. I can't remember the last time I went out and didn't feel like the oldest person there. Not only were the men good looking, they were well-dressed with fantastic bodies and high-wattage smiles. I've always said that I don't want to date a man who's prettier or better dressed than me, but, hell, it would be nice to have the option. Just the sheer fact that so many single men were in the same room made me miss the days when I was aware that some existed.

Tool

Okay, readers! Here's a chance to get creative. Following, please see an actual email from a 39 year old man on Match.com. In his favor, at least he can spell. Please comment with your suggested reply to this email, and the winner/most creative will get a virtual hug from me. And possibly another blog post out of this if I choose to send it. Act fast, though. My Match subscription runs out on Friday, so I'll be canceling by bedtime on Thursday night.

Kisses!

Subject line: Do Yourself a Favor and RESPOND (Caps, his)

Hey there,
I'm 4' 1" tall and 73 pounds overweight. I've got super long hair - like past my shoulders - and tattoos all over my body. I'm 68 years old and just got my 7th body piercing this past weekend. Sound good so far?

Just kidding!

Saw your profile and I think you deserve a chance to get to know me. I'd be we could get along well. So when you get a chance, check out my profile. If you are interested (which I know you will be) drop me a line.

If you sound as interesting as your profile says, I might write you back. ;)

Until then,
Scott

UPDATE, 5 minutes later:

So, umm, either this guy reads my blog, has ESP, or just had a very sudden case of email remorse, because I just got a follow-up email in my Inbox:

RE: Do Yourself a Favor and RESPOND

Hey there -
I was just kidding with the previous email :)

I'm sure you have to surf through hundreds of Match emails a week, so I thought I'd say something that would attract your attention and ruffle your feathers a bit. So, did it work?

Now that I have your attention, hang in there just a little bit longer...

Actually, I'm totally the opposite of the impression you probably got from my previous email. Do you think anyone that was truly that arrogant would still have a lot of friends? You'll see that I'm actually very easy going and fun - and I'll treat you with respect - just like all the other people with which I spend my time.

Hey, how about giving this interaction thing a chance? You'll quickly find we get along quite well, and you'd be surprised at the real me - if you take the time to get to know me better.

You willing to hang in there a little longer to see where this goes? Please let me know either way.

Looking forward to getting to know you better.
Scott

So, now, obviously, he sounds a little more normal, but as a marketing professional, I feel like I should write back to him and remind him of that old Secret deodorant commercial - "you never get a second chance to make a first impression." Sorry, Charlie. Uh, Scotty.

Suggested replies, of course, are still welcome.

In which my life becomes an episode of Seinfeld

Here's another minor dating dilemma that probably won't garner me any sympathy, but I could use some commiserating nonetheless.

I was supposed to have a date tonight with yet another Match suitor. I was initially very attracted to his online profile, we seemed to have a lot in common, and we exchanged a few emails that confirmed as such. Then he called me. And left a voice mail. And my ears started bleeding from within.

His voice was a sing-songy, high-pitched nasal whine that didn't match the rugged exterior he put forth in his online photos. I called him back, cringing as he answered the phone, as I knew immediately that I might not get past this. Then we started talking and I did actually forget about the voice, until he started telling this horrible story that went nowhere, and perhaps, because he realized as such, filled the void with the only thing worse than an annoying voice - an annoying laugh. At himself. He also told another story that annoyed me, for reasons not even worth going into here.

I tried to get off the phone. That's when he asked me out, and - because I was put on the spot - I agreed to drinks this Friday. I figured I would pick someplace loud and someplace dark and hope that he was better looking than sounding.

Thursday morning he called to tell me that he forgot he had something tonight, could we reschedule for sometime this weekend. I texted him back and Sunday would work. And then, after he called me yet again to figure out plans, I let it go to voice mail and deleted it half way through. I really, really, really don't want to go out with him.

I texted him and lied and said that now I suddenly remembered I had something on Sunday. Could we talk next week and make a new plan. He wrote back and said sure. I know this sounds hopelessly shallow, but the thought of listening to that voice and that laugh and having to keep my eardrums from dripping out of my head in person was enough to make me dread my weekend. I already know I can't really do anything next week, so I feel like I should have just let him know I'm not interested, but how do I say that now? When we haven't even gone out? What could have possibly changed between the first conversation and now? Nothing, except everything.

I don't know. Maybe if I had met him naturally, like in person, I wouldn't have even noticed his voice. But now, I can't get past it. I'm hoping he won't call me next week, will leave it in my hands to make the next move. Which, I think, will be deleting my Match profile and focusing on work for the rest of the winter.

And this, my friends, is why I'm single.

0 for 3

Thanks again for all the good wishes regarding my mom. Now, let's get back to regularly scheduled blogging and the topic I know you all really come here for: dating.

I re-signed up for Match about two weeks ago. You probably recall, I've done Match before, but not in a while. After seeing the same old faces and getting the same grammatically-challenged emails for years, I took a little hiatus to try JDate, and eHarmony, respectively. JDate had new faces but the same grammatically-challenged writers; eHarmony people could actually write coherent paragraphs, but the faces, generally, left something to be desired.

As such, it's been nearly two years since I was last on Match, and when my old profile came up, I was shocked at how much I've changed. The old profile was vibrant, lively, confident; talked about having fun with her friends, eager to try new bars and restaurants, a passion for the gym. I was a "burst of energy," liked to drink alcohol "regularly" and looked for someone with "a killer smile, a twinkle in the eye, personality, ambition, confidence, and spitfire." Wow, I sounded fun! I would totally date that me.

Unfortunately, I am so not feeling any of those things. My confidence level has been shot so far down in the last two years, I find it hard to believe I once was. I rarely go out, unless I'm committed to some group activity I can't get out of. My passion for running has morphed into a resigned addiction to the gym, and I can't remember the last time I've been anything close to energetic. Most nights I'm exhausted and in bed at 10, with no desire for the glass of wine I used to crave. If I "bound out of bed" too early on a "sunny Saturday morning" I'll never make it out that night. Which is just as well, because I'd rather watch TV Land reruns, anyway.

Who AM I?

Who I am, thankfully, is a writer, and I managed to change just enough of my profile to reflect the current me, while still keeping in some of the more relevant upbeat information. And seemingly, it's done okay. I've gotten quite a number of emails from good-looking, grammatically-adept men with whom I've actually enjoyed corresponding. Of course, the challenge with any of this is that, so often, the person doesn't live up to their profile, but this time, at least, the profiles are piquing my interest.

So, last week, I had three dates in three days. See: exhaustion. Thursday night's was this guy with an incredibly attractive (hot!) face, but a seriously awkward manner - nervous-like tics, hunched-over posture, and an impersonal conversational manner. It was like he read "How to Act on a Date, Volume 1" and followed it to the letter. We'd be having a decent conversation about one thing or another, and as it would wind down, I'd see him getting nervous, and then pull a "first date question" out of thin air. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" (Um, I answered that two emails ago.) "What was the last fun place you've traveled?" (I think he stole that from Match, directly.) And the most random, "So, uh, have you ever broken a bone?" Yikes. His nerves were charming but emasculating, though to his credit, he insisted on paying for our drinks.

Friday night was the Puppeteer, because I live in Los Angeles where grown men get paid for playing with dolls and I lowered my standards a long time ago. He was nice, cute enough, and less awkward than Thursday night's date, but was awkward nonetheless. Conversation was okay; I tried to avoid looking at his Asics with dress socks.

Saturday afternoon was coffee with the third date, and he was the opposite of the others - awkward was nowhere to be found. In it's place was a smooth, easy-to-confide in confidence, and though we were polar opposites on practically every single point of discussion, it was the only date of the three where I felt like I'd actually had a discussion. First date banter was easily abandoned in favor of friendly conversation, and while I wasn't sure I liked his stance on some things, I decided that, given the contexts of the three dates, he's the only one I'd agree to go out with again.

So, naturally, I got this text on Sunday night:

"Hey Lori, Just wanted to touch base. Although I really enjoyed spending time with u and find u very attractive, I'm not sure I felt that emotional connection. I can't say I didn't have thoughts of making out with you :) but at the same time I think we are different people. Feel free to share thoughts if u want."

I actually laughed out loud when I received it. That's presumptuous, I thought. It's not like I reached out to him or expressed any interest in a second date. Besides, when you've had less than three dates, I think a disappearance/fade-out is perfectly acceptable. No questions asked!

Then I looked again and read between the lines - with his two compliments to my appearance, was he gauging my interest in or trying to leave the door open for a friends-with-benefits situation? I laughed again, and, buoyed by the thought that still, somewhere, someone finds me attractive, I wrote him back:

"Ha - no worries - I completely agree. Good luck w/ your move and w/ grad school. Take care. :)"

I'm fine to close the door on that one. And who knows - maybe he was just being nice or trying (unnecessarily) to let me down gently. I think I'll stick with my version, in any case.

The days after

I have a Fashion Week post in the works that I was intent on finishing this morning (work, what?), but since everyone's Facebook status updates have been directing me to "Never Forget", I can't help but remember. I wrote a whole September 11th post a while back, but here are some other memories that have been running through my head this morning:

- The night of the 10th, I attended a Fashion Week after-party. On the bus ride down, I ran into Ben, a guy I had been friendly with in college but hadn't seen in the three years since. We swapped business cards, and he contacted me a week later to make sure I was okay and suggest that his friends and my friends meet up. We did, and I immediately hit it off with Ben's friend Mike. While I was dating Mike, my friend Miya met and started dating Ben. Mike and I fizzled out (and by that I mean he was a total player and blew me off), but through Ben, Mike met Miya's roommate Danielle, and promptly fell head over heels in love with her. That was nice. It's one thing when someone treats you like crap but you can write it off to the fact that they are a player. It's another thing when the person they meet two weeks later knocks their socks off and any trace of "player" out of them. Translation: It's not him, it was me. Gah.

- We had the 12th off from work, and since it was a beautiful, sunny day, I decided to go for a run. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I inhaled the overpowering smell of jet fuel, and headed to the gym instead. I passed the local diner, and, sitting in the window, was the guy I had dated that past spring. (Who, also, by the way, had lost interest.) I was relieved to see that he was okay, so went inside to say hello. Midway through our conversation, I realized that, while he was sitting alone, his table was set for two; I suddenly panicked thinking he was there with another girl. Perhaps reading my mind, he - out of nowhere - mentioned that his sister was off in the bathroom, but I didn't want to stick around to meet her. I offered a hasty "goodbye-glad-you're-safe" and hustled myself out of the restaurant.

- Everyone talks about September 11th, but the days after were almost worse. You may remember seeing the tear-streaked people on TV, holding signs of their missing loved ones. They weren't just on TV for me, they were all over the city. Not in my neighborhood, per se - I was too far north - but I was still afraid of running into one, coming face-to-face with their despair. While the sign-holders may have stayed further south, those Missing posters were plastered everywhere. I was just as afraid to look at them, fearing I'd recognize someone from the gym, from school, from my extended circle; I forced myself to look at every one, though, out of respect and out of guilt that that posters were the worst I had to deal with. For weeks I dreaded going back to my gym. Thinking that someone might be missing, and never return. It was around December when I realized that everyone I'd known was accounted for, and breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief.

Staying in the house wasn't any better. All there was to do was watch the coverage on TV, or read commentary in the newspaper. I bought every newspaper every day that week, and the subsequent magazine specials that were rushed to print. I poured through the photos, horrified but hypnotized, compulsively turning back to the full page picture of the man mid-air, falling upside-down past the windows of the World Trade Center. It was the only image to which I allowed myself to cry. For him for having to make that decision, for his family for having to deal with it, but not for me who had gotten off Scot-free. I still don't understand how they use a similar shot in the opening credits of Mad Men.

I kept those periodicals for years, thought I'd keep them forever. But when it came to pack up my apartment for LA, I threw them away. It didn't make sense to bring those memories with me.

We had Wednesday off from work; went in on Thursday only to be evacuated (again); then had the option to come in on Friday. There was no work to do - I couldn't pitch beauty products in that climate and certainly no one was writing about them - but I couldn't sit at home any longer. I think I left work around noon on Friday, bored, and went to see that movie Rock Star. It was awful, but a million times better than the real world. Saturday, my friends and I went down to the Armory on 26th street, where they had set up an assistance center and a tribute to the lost, and forced ourselves to look at the hundreds of Missing posters. Another day - Thursday? Sunday? - Maria and I, stir-crazy, decided to bring supplies down to the firefighters. Being 25, poor, and living in tiny New York apartments with no closet space, we didn't have a ton of extra "supplies", so we grabbed what we could. For me, that was a few mismatched towels, and the largest, heaviest sweatshirt I owned - which boasted my sorority "letters" in gold and black celestial print. Because we wanted exercise and had plenty of time on our hands, we decided to walk the four or so miles to Chelsea Market, where supplies were being collected. The walk - with everything in our hands and on our back - was grueling, but I, at least, was grateful for the physical distraction so I could justify some of my internal suffering. We laughed at the thought of a big powerful firefighter staying warm in my sorority sweatshirt, knowing we weren't even doing this for them so much as for us. By the time we arrived on West 15th street, conversation had slowed down and the novelty of our adventure had worn off. We took the bus back.

You know your dating life is bad when

It becomes a measure of national security.

(click to embiggen)

Nights to remember

So, after all that, I had a fantastic birthday. Thank you to everyone who commented, called, emailed, Facebooked, texted, and just generally made me feel so special and loved throughout the day. My company gives us all our birthdays off (yay!) so I slept in a little, got my coffee, and opened up my computer to an entire screen of Facebook messages that continually kept me amused. I said it there and I'll say it here, Facebook is the best thing to happen to birthdays since cake. I don't care if I don't talk to half the people who chimed in - it was just a nice reminder of all the people who have, in 33 years, made up what I can't help but admit is a very charmed life.

When I wasn't chained to the computer, I took a new yoga class, got a FABULOUS facial, and met my five best friends for dinner and drinks. I got home shortly before midnight, full of cheap tacos and free shots, happy at making the most of my day.

Now that my birthday is over, though, I am ridiculously excited to concentrate on Nicole's birthday party planned for this weekend. The theme is 1992 Prom - we are all dressing in prom gear from the early 90's. I'll post pictures next week, but in the meantime, I thought I'd warm you up with some photos from my own high school dances from the same era.

Sophomore Semi-Formal - 1992

Oy to the vey, as Nicole would say. The thing is? I still love that color pink, and still wear it enough that I can shamelessly say, it's a good color on me. I stand behind the color choice, if not exactly the style.

This was an awkward event. Girls ask boys to this, for some reason, and while I was friendly with my date, I wouldn't say we were good friends. To be honest, I am not even sure why I asked him. We got along well enough but there was no attraction, and therefore no real excitement, and I'm pretty sure we just walked through the motions of sharing our first (semi-)formal dance. I was actually dating a junior at the time, though it didn't stop me from making out with yet a third person at the after-party. Said third person was actually Bryan, who I apparently still held a flame for and felt the need to remind him of what he was missing. Bryan didn't go to our school at that point - had just come to the after-party - so it wasn't like I stole anyone else's date.

Unlike at Junior Prom , in 1993, which was ripe with attraction, sexual tension, jealousy, drunkeness, and everything else John Hughes could have set me up to expect from a school dance.

First, I had the best date. Really fun, awesome guy who I was super comfortable with but also a tiny bit attracted to. Word had it, he was attracted to me as well, so we easily and candidly flirted throughout the night. The whole dance went by in a blur.

I should also mention, I loved my dress, thought my hair came out great, and overall, was just feeling really confident. It clearly shows, especially compared to the two other photos here.

The problem came at some point during the after party. My date managed to drink so much in such a short amount of time, he passed out. At which point, another guy (who went with my friend) swooped in to hit on me. I was flattered by and intrigued by the attention. This had never happened before! Two boys! Or actually, no boys. I resisted the second guy's advances, but because he tried to kiss me in the middle of a crowded room, word spread to both his date and my date, who then woke up and (if I remember correctly) had a testosterone-fueled tantrum about the whole thing. I couldn't say it out loud, but I was thinking, Dude. If you hadn't done that tenth keg stand, you could be rounding second base right about now.

Then there was my Senior Prom in 1994.

This pretty much sucked. Again, I was dating someone at the time, and I made the mistake of bringing him. He was in the grade below me, so while he had enough friends in my class, he was still more like "my date" than a natural part of the group. And since we had been dating for five or six months by then, there was no tension, no anticipation, no surprises. There was also no after-party. I remember everyone in my grade gathering in a parking lot somewhere discussing where to go. Talking and talking and talking and talking. No drinking.

Appearance-wise, while I liked my dress, I didn't LOVE it. I didn't feel sexy or attractive or whatever is appropriate for a 17 year old to feel. I had also had my hair blown out - but then the late-May, Northeast humidity immediately brought back the curl. So then I tried putting my hair up myself - to no avail - and ended up with the careless half-up/half-down look I wore to school on days when I couldn't fit in a shower. What did I care? The night hadn't even started and I was already looking forward to getting it over with. Boo...

So now that I am older, have better fashion sense, and can actually drink legally, you can see why I am very much looking forward to this weekend. It's not that I want to make up for lost time, exactly, but that I am more than ready to make new memories.

Viva Las Vegas

We're on Day 6 of the kitchen remodel project, and while my kitchen is getting better by the day, I can't say the same for the living room:

I knew that the new appliances were being delivered on Friday, however I had not expected to come home to find one of them in the middle of my apartment. I'm not ever going to complain about getting a washer/dryer, but I hadn't anticipated that it would spend time anywhere but my soon-to-be laundry room.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to make out-of-town plans this weekend, and first thing Saturday morning got up to go to Las Vegas. My friend Lauren had invited me to go with her and her roommate, Matt, and since they were driving and planning the whole trip, I thought it would be a nice, easy excuse to get out of town for the weekend. Matt invited his two friends, and by 10 AM, the five of us were on the road driving towards the Nevada desert.

I was a bit hesitant at the idea of five people in one car, especially since three of those people were 25 year old boys. My oh-so-mature self didn't like 25 year old boys when I was 25, and mentally prepared for the worst. Naturally, they turned out to be the highlight of the trip.

When did I (and my friends) get so old? That's what I kept thinking as the boys kept us in stitches with their back-and-forth banter, their stupid jokes, the way they teased each other and, as the day wore on, us. Everyone I knew (myself included) would be talking about mortgages, work, relationships, remodeling. Maybe how The Fashion Show compares to Project Runway (it doesn't), or, for guys, how Pointless Sport Number 1 compares to Pointless Sport Number 2. These guys were just hilarious in their effortless interactions, and it made me miss the days when everyone I knew used to be so carefree.

In case you were wondering, hotel prices are incredibly inexpensive right now, and we ended up in a suite at the Venetian. That's the nicest I've traveled to Vegas, yet! We arrived around 2:00, got settled in, and headed back out to chill by the pool at Tao. For the next 30 hours, I swam, drank, danced, and reveled in the energy of everyone around me. And while my body is physically exhausted, mentally, I feel remarkably refreshed. Photos are here.

Life in the shallow lane

On a (somewhat) lighter note...

Yesterday afternoon I was supposed to go on a first/blind date with yet another online suitor. We had talked on the phone a few times and had good banter, so I was willing to overlook the fact that he only had two photos posted - neither of which gave me a clear idea of what he looked like - and that he was a huge sports fan.

It's not that I mind sports, per se. It's that this guy clearly stated he was looking for a girl who would watch out of interest and not of obligation. I told him during our second phone call that that would likely never be me, but he must have select hearing loss because five minutes later we were setting up a date for Sunday afternoon. We agreed to talk the day before to firm up a time and a place.

Come Saturday, he asks what I want to do. Red Flag #1. Guys, I know some of you might think this looks casual and open-minded, but seriously? On the first date, take control. You know (vaguely) where I live, you know (exactly) where you live, you should have at least one suggestion of a place where we can meet halfway. Especially if you've had four days to think about it. Please come to the phone call prepared.

Fortunately, I came prepared with my own suggestions, so I said, "Well, it's supposed to be a nice day, so I was thinking we could have drinks outside somewhere."

He was like, "Yeah, were you thinking Jamba Juice or coffee?"

Red Flag Number 2. Not to sound like an alcoholic, and not to embody my favorite cliche, Carrie Bradshaw, but I do not believe it's a date without cocktails. Anytime a guy has asked me out for coffee I have immediately lost interest and assumed he was either lame or in AA. At this point, I'd actually be excited to meet someone in rehab because the coffee dates have always, inevitably, turned out to be lame.

So I said, "Well, actually, I was thinking of grabbing a beer or something, but if you aren't much of a day drinker, that's cool. I could do some Jamba Juice." Lie. I hate Jamba Juice. I'll drink one, occasionally, but they're a waste of calories and I'd rather just have the fruit. Or an ice cream.

I went on to say, "As long as we can grab some sun somewhere, I'll be happy." I have a flask. Maybe I can spike my juice and reclaim the afternoon, after all.

"Oh, well, sun is actually a problem for me. I'm a skin cancer survivor."

Silence.

Red Flag Number 3. Um, have you met me?

"Oh, um, er, uh..." I stammered on like that though did manage to verbalize an apology while silently thinking that I need to get out of this date, stat.

I should note, here, we were meeting at 4 PM. The early May sun should not be a huge problem at that hour, and so, I reasoned, I shouldn't be that upset about missing it. Right? But we could never have a future together, certainly never go on vacation together. I couldn't even imagine spending a summer dating -- I'd feel guilty laying out and he'd be a constant nag about the sunscreen. No. Just, no.

I was at the end of my wits, by that point, so I finally kind of spat out, "Okay, well, what do YOU want to do?" Since you are making this so difficult.

"Well, I thought we could go to a park and just talk or walk around."

Okay. Fine. "Alright, well, I don't know any parks around here, so did you have one in mind?"

"Oh, yeah!" he bounds back, enthusiastically. "There's a great park right here in Sherman Oaks that I go to all the time. And it has plenty of shade."

Great. A park across the street from him, that was, at minimum 25 minutes from me, and usually more like 40. I've never discriminated against dating someone in the Valley, but I sure as hell didn't want to drive a half hour or more to spend a sober, shady afternoon with a stranger I had so little in common with.

"Great!" I chirped back. It was too late now. I lacked the balls to tell him that I really didn't think this was a good idea, though I knew there was no way I could go on this date. I was utterly turned off both by his lack of planning and our clearly different ideas of a fun afternoon. My disdain only increased as he warbled through driving directions, confusing different streets and turns. I stopped writing them down half way through. I knew I wouldn't be going.

How, exactly, could I cancel on him, though? He had pulled the Cancer Card! After something like that, it felt a little shallow to explain that we had nothing in common because I was a big drinker with a tanning problem. Maybe I should meet him. Maybe he could change my ways, save my skin, salvage my liver.

Or maybe I could trust my instincts and realize that keeping an open mind does not mean compromising ALL my standards. If he wanted to sit in a shady park, he could have suggested that off the bat. Or, once we had agreed to meet in his neighborhood, he could have at least offered to pick us up a six pack.

I wrote him a kindly-worded but straightforward email, explaining our differences and why I did not think meeting would be a good idea. To his credit, he left me a lovely voice mail and an email in response, apologizing and offering to change the terms of the date to anything I wanted. But, I didn't want to change the date so I'd be happy; I wanted us to be on the same page about what constitutes fun on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the first place. Between the sports, the sun, and the soft-focus photos, I just knew it wasn't going to work. And if anything could be saved, it was going to be my weekend.

So I wrote back that I was sorry and appreciative but was still going to pass, and went to a Sunday afternoon pool party, instead. It was seriously the best decision I've made in weeks.

Stagnant

To paraphrase (okay, plagiarize) my blogging friend and unbeknownst-to-her soul sister, Tiny E, as you may have noticed, when the going gets tough, the tough stop blogging. I'm done, people. I'm fresh out of blogging inspiration for you.

It has been exactly a year since my LA Times essay ran, and I have had exactly nothing published since then. I told myself I had a year to coast off the glory, but if nothing else had been published, I was no longer entitled to call myself a writer. Stripped.

When the Redbook article ran last month - which was something I pitched back in November - I thought for sure, by now, I'd have a brand to promote, a reason to want people to visit this blog. As it is, I've blogged less than ever and some of the least inspiring stuff since I first started. I was thankful for no noticeable spike in traffic, no feeling that anyone was going to be disappointed by what they found. No opportunities, lost.

It has been four years since I've been at my job, lived in my apartment, and lived in LA. And other than some new gray hairs and smile lines to accompany some small newfound knowledge, everything about me and my life is exactly. the. same. as it was four years ago.

A few weeks ago, I was on a date when the guy started talking about how he couldn't go to his 20 year reunion because he was going to be the only one not married with kids. "Don't be ridiculous" I laughed. "Your 20-year reunion is four years away!"

And later, after I stopped laughing, I suddenly second-guessed the entire relationship, wondering if he really didn't see himself married in four years. That was like, forever from now! Not only would I be married, but hopefully I would have kids. How could he not picture himself in family mode in what seemed like ages down the line? And then, once I got off my imaginary high horse, I remembered that, four years ago, I in no way thought I would be single at 32, and certainly not as single, if not more, than I was at 28. At least at 28 I had a favorable decade on my side. Now I am gray hair, laugh lines, biological clock, and why-on-earth-are-you-still-single-stigma attached to a less fun and less confident girl than I was four years ago. I may be smarter and more sane now, but dammit, part of me feels like I had more to offer back then.

Let's talk about my apartment for a second. About a month before my lease ran out, I started negotiations with my landlord. We all know it's a renter's/buyer's market, so I actually managed to get them to build me an entire new kitchen with more modern fixtures and - the cherry on top - a washer/dryer. If nothing else, that one contraption will change my life significantly once it is installed sometime within the next few weeks. And I am excited - BELIEVE ME. So excited that I don't think I will ever be able to move until I can afford another place with the same equipment, which will be like, never. Because, also, as part of my negotiations, they did not raise my rent. (!!!) Which leaves me feeling like I will be in this apartment forever, or at least as long as I am single, which will be forever because if I don't get some change in my routine soon, it will be five years, six years, ten years of the same story, and part of me is just wishing I'd picked up and moved to Santa Monica even if it meant a smaller apartment and going to a more ghetto laundromat down there. I just need some change. And that was maybe one thing I could have controlled.

I went on a date with a midget on Monday. Technically, he wasn't a midget, but he was a small 5'6 who was a lot balder than his pictures and it did nothing but make me feel worse about myself. I used to think I was a pretty girl. LA has humbled me, that is for sure.

And there are a ton of other reasons I am feeling bad about myself and that I am not a worthy, contributing member of society right now, but I will spare you. It has just been a tough couple of months and really, a tough year, and I think I am just intensely feeling the pressures of having yet another birthday a month from tomorrow.

Also, to clarify from the first paragraph, I'm not stopping blogging. I don't think I'll ever stop blogging. I just so often feel like there is nothing left to say.

Like the Hamptons, for hipsters

The thermostat tells me that my apartment is currently hovering around 85 degrees, the air is thick and heavy and still, and I couldn't be more comfortable. I know that these temperatures and my lack of an air conditioner will annoy me in a month or so, but for now, after months of chillier temperatures (what? 60 is cold here), I'm welcoming this heavenly heat bath with wide open, sun-kissed arms.

This, of course, is nothing compared to the near 100 degree temperatures I enjoyed in Palm Springs this weekend, but that house was air conditioned, and should I schvitz anyway, it conveniently had a pool. Should the pool be too chilly for my delicate disposition, there was also a hot tub whose water was only slightly cooler than the delightful desert air.

I should clarify something from my last post. While I had said that I was going to Palm Springs for Coachella, I never actually made it to the music festival. The people we were staying with had tickets, and I had assumed we'd get some once we were there, but the draw of the house and the ease of the Palm Springs lifestyle overruled any desire to fight thousands of serious music fans for overpriced beer and portapotties. Don't get me wrong - I really would love to have gone. I think it's an experience worth having, if only for the bragging rights. But truthfully, my music tastes are much less sophisticated than that of the festival's many followers, and I was much happier dancing to Britney and Lady Gaga on repeat on the iPod back at home.

I'm sorry - did I call that house "home"?

To give you some background, I went with my friend Miya, this guy she has been seeing, and one of this guy's friends who was visiting from out of town. This was extremely convenient for me, as the guy I had been dating ended things a week earlier, so the only thing I was looking forward to more than a weekend away in the sun was a little male attention from someone who lived 2000 miles away. It was the perfect built-in date with no responsibilities or expectations.

Except that the guy turned out to be the definition of "dud". I don't know if his Wisconsin roots were too intimidated by the LA crowd partying up in Palm Springs, but he's the first person I ever met who actually got MORE awkward the more time went on. I only mention it here because he was the sole damper on my otherwise perfect weekend, and not just because he didn't humor my ego - he was a bit of a buzzkill all around. He didn't have any desire to get to know the group, and kept to himself for much of the trip. Literally. We went out for a few hours and he stared down at his lap the entire time. I don't know how anyone could have a bad time in such a beautiful setting, but I guess some people are more resourceful than others.

Fortunately for me, I packed my personality along with enough clothes and shoes to last me a week (still I get excited about being able to pack up my trunk and not being confined to what I can lug through Penn Station), so I made other friends and just soaked up the sun. My favorite pool float had a pillow and a cup holder, so I spent two hours Sunday morning/afternoon reclining in the water with a magazine and a bloody Mary, and when that ran out, a margarita.


My personality needed a break, by that point.

Quite possibly the happiest place on earth

Last week when Lauren and I took Tricia down to the Santa Monica Pier, we stood in front of the amusement park and talked about how, with regard to rollercoasters and other rides, we had all, at some point, turned into our mothers. "I just can't imagine a scenario," I said, "in which I would ever go on a rollercoaster again."

So, naturally, that's exactly where I found myself last night, riding Space f'ing Mountain at Disneyland. And dammit if I didn't love every second of it. The Matterhorn was my second favorite, as from the top, it offered views of the entire park; and my third favorite was probably the Indiana Jones ride, because, hello, who doesn't love Harrison Ford? I went on five or six rides throughout the night, and the only one that made me just a little bit sick was probably the most tame - Star Tours. It was little more than a glorified IMAX movie experience, but we were so close to the screen, I immediately felt carsick. As soon as the first wave of nausea hit, though, I closed my eyes and started chanting to myself, "you're fine, you're fine, you're fine". And as soon as it over, I was.

The one thing I hadn't considered about Disneyland was the amount of exercise to be had. We walked/ran around for four hours straight, except when we were standing in line or sitting on a ride. By the time the park closed and we got off the last ride, it was after midnight, and I was starving. But I wasn't hungry for a meal or anything remotely healthy, however; instead, I craved the spun sugary sweetess of cotton candy. And so, at 12:30 AM, I guiltlessly inhaled the most tooth-achingly delicious dessert I've had in ages, and felt much less like my mother and more like a kid again.

A Valentine's story from a former sexting virgin

Perhaps you've heard of this trend called "sexting"? It's basically texting, about sex, usually to the person you'd like to have it with. It's been in the news a lot in relation to teenagers, but last night I became an unwilling participant. The sexter, however, was 32, and up until an hour before, had been a seemingly perfect first date.

Tyler and I had met for drinks, talked non-stop, and agreed to date number two before the bill came. He took care of the check, paid for my valet, and I spent the 20-minute drive home beaming. I've been on a lot of dates lately, but this was the first in a while in which I'd felt a quick connection. It didn't entirely surprise me when he texted me an hour later, perhaps to seal the second date deal. He'd already told me he didn't have plans for Valentine's Day.

(11:15 PM) Him: So what did you have in mind for the second date?

A lame effort, I thought, considering he was the one that had asked me out.

Me: I don't know - dinner? More Tyler time?

Him: You'll get more Tyler time for sure. Question is, what will you do with it?

Oy, vey, I thought. I don't know what he is asking here and I am too tired to find out.

Me: Whatever you let me get away with. (Short and sassy, throw it back on him.)

Him: Interesting. You should know, I'm very forgiving. You could get away with quite a bit. Depends on what you want.

Okay, he's talking in circles here. I need to go to bed.

Me: Hmmm... I'll have to think about it. (Please stop this now.)

Him: I think you know what you want but you're hesistant to say.

I do? What do I want? I want to go to bed.

Me: You do? What do I want?

Him: I said, YOU know what you want. I know what I want, but that wasn't the question.

I'm officially annoyed. It's too late for double talk, and too much trouble to text this much any time of day.

Me: I want to go to bed by midnight. And have date number two in the bag. (So hurry it up.)

Him: So that means I have 18 minutes to flirt with you?

I can't keep this up for 18 minutes. I let five pass before I write him back.

Me: Sure. So make it count. Give me some good text. (Probably, in hindsight, I shouldn't have said this. )

Him: What, you want to know what I want?

Me: Sure. (Not really, but it will keep me from having to type for a while. I think he's going to ask me out for Valentine's Day or at least say something really nice.)

Him: I want to know how you kiss when you can't resist it, I want to know what the back of your neck smells like, and I want to know what you sound like when you lose control... But we all want things we might not ever know the answer to.

Me: *Blink.* *Blink.* What? Was that a line from a movie? Or has he used that before? I suddenly feel violated and dirty, like I did something wrong. I must have inadvertantly sent out slut signals to receive such an assumptive message. Somewhere in the span of an hour I had gone from feeling like an elusive prize to an easy lay. My whole takeaway from the date was suddenly cheapened.

Me: Okay, that's a bit much. I'm going to bed. Goodnight.

(11:50) Him: Well, you asked. Sleep well.

(Actually, I hadn't asked. He offered.)

(11:55) Him: And for the record, you said make it count.

(12:03) The phone rings. "Did you get offended by that?" He's laughing in disbelief, so rather than apologizing for his overstep, he makes me feel like I need to apologize for my prudishness. Because it is after midnight and I've inexplicably been put on the defense, I am not apologizing for anything, and tell him we can talk about it tomorrow. I hang up. This actually makes me feel worse because, clearly, I must be taking things way too seriously. Some people like dirty texting, I imagine. I may even be one of them, albeit not after a single, two-hour date. Scratch that, I think. I'm not a fan of texting in general. I don't discriminate based on subject matter.

I went to bed pondering how it is possible to have a first fight without even being in a relationship. Will I hear from him today, I wonder, or just get another late-night message? I don't have the desire to get into a teenaged-type text war, but I would like him to know that he made me feel cheapened. And that the back of my neck almost always smells like Gucci. That way, at least, he'll have some idea of what he's missing.

One more way Facebook can control my life

Just as apartment-seekers might eventually check the obituaries to find a new home, I've decided that Facebook - which notes who, among my former friends, is ending their relationship - might be just as an efficient way for me to find a boyfriend.

Though I suppose I should wait til he takes the wedding photos down from his profile before I officially make my "move".

Fight, flight, write

Tonight I met and surpassed my goal of running 35 miles in December - with seven days left to go! I'm not quite sure how to set my mileage goal for January; I think I could easily do 40 miles, if I don't injure myself or get completely bored of running by then.

Although, I did sign up for a writing class that starts in January, so that's going to take up my Thursday nights for 10 weeks straight. Maybe a mileage goal is too ambitious and I should just concentrate on getting to the gym, what with this one night per week suddenly off my schedule. I know the one night might not sound like a lot to you, but to me... it's basically fucking with my freedom.

This may or may not come as a shock, but I have a big problem with commitment. It's not that I can't commit to things - because I can, and I do - it's that I'm afraid I'm going to come to resent the time suck and the loss of that night in my schedule. This isn't a vague notion, some fear I've concocted in my head as a guise for some larger issue; but from gymnastics to soccer to cheerleading as a kid, to a copywriting class my first year out of college, I've quit and resented practically every extracurricular I've ever tried. That last one? After I had my boss recommend me for a prestigious (and expensive!) Ad House program, I went to the first five classes, realized I hated advertising, and promptly got a job in PR.

It's like I loathed the commitment so much I had to switch careers.

My fear of commitment is why I have so few hobbies. Or, alternatively, why the gym IS my hobby. It's the only activity I truly look forward to (well, other than socializing) and I need at least four nights a week to do it. Yes, I'll still have more than enough nights free, but I'll have to schedule more carefully, cut back on the socializing, and lose a little bit of freedom. And it's that small sense of loss that sparks a huge visceral reaction in which my heart races, I tense up, and want to immediately call it quits.

You could say I have similar issues with men.

After years of feeling strung along in three-to-five month mini-relationships, it finally occurred to me that maybe I was the one with the commitment problem. That, since like attracts like, I might be attracting guys who, just like me, were afraid of losing their freedom. It's been a less-than-charming signature of mine that every time I get somewhat close to making someone a part of my life, I've tensed up, gotten all anxious, and mentally run out of the relationship.

Unfortunately that kind of running hasn't furthered any of my goals. Though you could say I am just following my own agenda.

Not in Kansas anymore

I don't know what it says about my social life or my dating prospects that I hit three major parties this weekend and the best looking guy I met was Kato Kaelin.

Seriously, the man is 50 years old and he looked younger than half the people there. Which was a feat since many people there were actually younger than me. The other half were all comedians - many of whom I recognized from random TV and film, but none whose names I could actually recall.

That's one of the funny things about LA. Yes, I've gotten giddy over my share of A-listers - Britney, Marc and J. Lo, Bruce, etc. But it's the D-list, reality star, VH1 regulars that simply show up at a mutual friends party and think nothing of introducing themselves to you - "Hi, I'm Kato" - that make me love living in this town.

A boy after thine own heart

OMG, you guys. I have a total crush.



When I was 9, the boys could barely read, let alone write. They certainly couldn't articulate as well as this precocious little wonder - most could hardly get out more than a few grunts at the girls during kickball.

Which, come to think of the things they would say later on, was probably preferable.

UPDATE: Now my boyfriend has a movie deal! Perhaps this will bring him closer in proximity, if not in age.