03.31.09
Give It To Me Tough
I’m kind of addicted to a new TV show: Tough Love on VH1. This is the show, for those of you who haven’t seen it, that takes a gaggle of women who are dating challenged (aren’t we all) and gives them feedback on what they’re doing wrong in order to be matched with someone by the end of the season. The women live in a house and go through various dating “exercises” to learn from their mistakes. The host, a matchmaker (who comes across as kind of a douche who needs to stop waxing his eyebrows and lay off the botox), provides guidance, insight, and said “tough love.” Brilliant. Sort of.
While the majority of the women on this show are guilty of making simple dating mistakes (oversharing on the first date, dressing sleezy and thinking that’s sexy, being too picky or hypocritical, holding themselves to some unrealistic dating timeline, or just plain abrasive and disinterested), at least two of the women are in need of more trained help. I’m certainly no psychologist, but it’s clear to see that those women suffer from abandonment, lack of trust, abuse, and intimacy issues. For them, I’d argue, finding a man is less a solution than a band aid for problems that require a therapist instead. They don’t need “tough love;” they need therapy.
That said, I really appreciate that of all the reality shows out there, this one includes women who look like anyone else you’d see on the street. Certainly, there are a few who look like porn stars, but there are your run-of-the-mill ones as well. Moreover, each woman is given the opportunity to get honest-to-goodness feedback about themselves and their approach to dating. They get to see what is and isn’t working in their favor and find ways to date more effectively while also staying true to who they are. Ding ding ding! That’s like dating gold.
I don’t know about you, but I’d love an opportunity to know what kind of first impression I make, how I come across on a date, even whether I’m what men would deem “a catch.” I always strive to be the take-home-to-mom kind of gal, but I think parts of that persona can scare guys away too. I wonder how much of my single state can be chalked up to bad timing or not having met the right one yet. I wonder too what parts of it I’m responsible for, what dating faux pas I’m guilty of making. It can’t possibly be as simple as “I pick the wrong men,” can it?
03.30.09
Cutting Through
“What are these?” he asked as the faintest grey light began to peek through the window panes. It was quiet still, before coffee pots would be filled and church goers would gather. Laying naked, my arm comfortably resting on his chest, he softly traced the pale lines of my forearm with his fingertips. I was exposed. Too exposed.
But I knew this moment would come, knew there was no avoiding it. I told myself not to lie when it did. I owed it to myself, I thought, to be honest about who I am- both strong and weak, good and bad. I made a promise that if a man wanted to know me- to know my body- then he’d know this past as well. If he asked.
With that moment here, I hesitated. Could I do it? I laid there debating, every muscle straining, fighting to pretend it wasn’t. Clearing my throat, and with a lightness I did not feel, I admitted, “They’re scars.” I didn’t believe it would be that easy, though I held my breath.
“Yeah, baby, but how’d you get them?” he persisted.
In the stillness that followed, I heard a hapless bird begin to chirp outside the window, heard his dog paw at the bedroom door to be let out. Inside, my mind was screaming, panicking: what to do, what to say. What would this man think of me if I told him what I’d done? What other questions would it lead to? Would we ever lay so contentedly in bed again?
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” he whispered and tucked me under his chin. He didn’t ask why. He already knew. “Mine go the other way.”
I wanted to look at him then, wanted to see the recognition in his eyes, the awareness of how a person can be brought to the brink. Wanted to feel the shared knowledge that hurts can heal, but scars take longer, maybe never go away completely. But I didn’t. And he didn’t look at me.
We stayed like that for a long time, silently watching the morning light cast shadows all about us, each remembering what had come before. Detached. Connected. As bared as could be. And we understood one another perfectly.
03.27.09
The Whimsy, The Madness, and Me
At this stage in the game, I’ll pretty much go anywhere alone. Sometimes my friends are busy or working late (or think March Madness is stupid- GDF, I know you can’t help it). Sometimes plans change, people cancel, or you miss your stop and wind up somewhere you haven’t been before. Sometimes you just really want bay scallops- or at least I do. Sometimes you just let whimsy take you.
I’ll catch a play at Steppenwolf, an in-town musical, the ballet, the CSO, an art exhibit, dinner- whether it’s just Chipotle or Atwood Cafe, a Sunday matinee, even travel to great big cities and far away lands (Dubai, I believe we have a rendezvous). I’ll do it all alone. But I can’t seem to conquer the bar. It’s the one place that remains an enigma to me.
It’s a curious thing being a single girl alone in a bar. To walk through that door, sit down, order a drink, and then casually linger; I think it takes a sense of bravery that I struggle to posess. It also tends to invite the kind of speculation I’d rather not have tossed in my direction.
Maybe I’m waiting for someone, maybe they’re running late, maybe I’ve been stood up. Maybe I just really needed a drink- maybe it had been that kind of day. Maybe I was trying to meet someone, hoping for maybe something more. Or maybe I just really like college basketball and the TV Gods thought I’d rather see the all-but-foregone conclusion of Villanova whupping Duke rather than Memphis fruitlessly shooting three’s and breaking my heart.
I stayed just long enough to explain this to the bartender who seemed to begin to take an interest beyond merely keeping a drink in front of me. Last year, I found myself having a random conversation with a Ph.D. candidate from NC who was still blowing dry the ink on his divorce papers and seemed keen on my input into the gift he planned to bring home for his four year old daughter. Oh my. Been there. Done that.
I walked home alone that night and again last night, breathing a sigh of relief in the hallway of my apartment as I locked the door. I don’t think the single girl alone in a bar thing will ever come easily to me.
03.26.09
Champion of the Stall
I pride myself on being a formidable challenger. When I go to take care of business, I get the job done. Privately. So to you would-be pansy @ss (not swearing!) gals who think you can intimidate me by your dawdling; to you I say: I’m onto you and you’d better bring it because I will wait you out. I’ve done it before. And I will do it again.
The Troll has struck again. Girlfriend can’t get enough. She just loves it in there. Which I just don’t get because honestly? It’s a BATHROOM. It’s not nice in there- there’s no couch or soft lighting or fancy hand lotions or anything. In fact, they hardly heat the d@mn thing (again, not swearing), which makes winter time extra special for us ladies. Plus, the joint smells like a bathroom because…it’s a bathroom. In this latest encounter, however, The Troll made the vague impression of having A Reason for being in there, which turned into a twenty minute odyssey.
There I was, minding my own beeswax, when the ole gal popped in for a visit. Call me the Emily Post of the stall, but you do not select a stall next to an occupied one when you can just as easily choose an available one two or three stalls down. It’s like how dudes know not to use the urinal next to another guy when there are others available. So what does The Troll do? Of course she picks the one right next to me- of course- wherein she proceeds to blow her nose, hum a song, and fumble with the toilet paper dispenser for approximately 3 minutes and 26 seconds.
Meanwhile, still trying to mind my own beeswax, I’m glaring at her through the pastel metal divider, swearing under my breath. What. The. [Redacted]?!
It is at this point that I decide that the webinar I’m in the middle of working on? Yeah, it can wait. I can wait. I will wait. Winning this small victory is far more important. And you can fake cough or fake flush or whatever the Saxby Chambliss else you think will Buy You Time because I’m not going anywhere. Do you hear that Bathroom Troll? I WILL WIN.
Finally, the toilet flushes next door and the door opens. We’re now in stage two of Her Special Bathroom Time: washing of the hands, wiping down of the counter, fixing of the hair, washing of the hands again, wiping down of the counter one last time. Victory is mine.
And then? In walks someone for her to visit with. So close.
I feel like anonymously leaving a print out on her desk of the rules according to The International Center for Bathroom Etiquette (Performing #1 and #2 in comfort and style since 1995).
….I promise I’m still not in there as we speak, but if you’ve got your own BB or iPhone with you next time (or maybe you do right now), here’s a fun little site I read about yesterday that allows you to rate the public bathroom you’re in: Sit or Squat.
03.25.09
About a gURL
I’d had four Guinness, otherwise I don’t think I’d have been brave enough to do it. Nonetheless, there I sat, in my cups so to speak, jotting it down on the back of a cocktail napkin.
Was I trying to impress? To be known? Found out? Maybe. Moments before I’d learned he too had a blog, a music-centric one. I guess he’s what the kids these days would call a hipster. A friend of a friend, he was eccentric in a thoroughly entertaining way and as different from me as could be minus his holding my dream job at Burnett. I’d have loved to talk shop, to network, but UGH. I’m just not that ambitious these days and I don’t want to be THAT GIRL. We swapped urls rather than business cards, and I vaguely remember telling him he’d probably hate everything about Nic Narrates.
The little girl part of me, that I still carry around as it were, worries about what people think of her, worries she won’t be liked, won’t be accepted, won’t be at all what she ought to be. Thoughts like those used to keep me from sharing anything of my inner thoughts with my family, friends, and boyfriends. I grew up believing I had to be who each person I met wanted me to be. It was exhausting, and as a result, few people I’ve known have actually known me. I wish someone long ago would have taken me by the shoulders, shaken me, and told me “don’t be afraid to be who you are” until I believed them.
That said, I worry much less about these things now. Writing this blog, pouring my worries, my hopes, my frustrations, my catastrophic single girl moments out to whomever happens upon them has certainly encouraged me. I’m not as afraid anymore to share myself, to confide the very things I divulge here, with those who know me in real life. I worry less about being accepted, less about the risk of being hurt, and have stronger friendships for it. I have yet to find the man strong enough to be with someone like me however. All in due time perhaps.
I do still wonder about the voice I maintain here though, wonder if it isn’t outrageously self-indulgent and recklessly insipid, wonder about verging on trite or irrelevant. I don’t write to appeal, but it’s certainly nice to resonate, isn’t it?
And then there are your emails, your comments, even your own posts over the years that have cheered me to know I’m not so alone in my worries of being deemed nothing more than a silly girl with some foolish inclination to write. In fact, nothing could be more normal, more human, than wanting to be well-liked. Whether that’s on or offline, as a writer or as just one more person out there looking for love and acceptance and comfort.
Still, I’d venture to guess my Burnett hipster isn’t a reader.
03.24.09
Ships Passing in the Night
Once upon a time, I dipped a toe into the waters of online dating. There are countless stories I could tell from the experience and about the people I met (honestly, some very good ones), but one person in particular seems to keep crossing my path online.
He was the first person I ever met from a dating site and we’d exchanged emails for about a week. We had an uncanny banter that I’ve never had with anyone before or since. If there is such a thing, he was the equivalent of my intellectual soulmate. He was well-versed, insightful, a published author, and we even knew some of the same publishing personalities (another lifetime for me when I interned at a publishing house). Of course I was excited to meet him in real life. And of course you can already guess how that went.
All the spark and presence that popped over email simply wasn’t there in person. No physical attraction. Whatsoever. It wasn’t even something I could see developing over time. Still, our conversation was as enjoyable as it had been over email so I stayed for a drink, listened to his stories of growing up and writing, even his take on dating, then let him walk me home. I allowed him to kiss me good night. But it was decidedly passionless.
We met a few times more for one of his bookreadings and a concert before I cut him loose. I’m terribly bad at that sort of thing and tend to err on the side of caution. What if I let someone really amazing go, I always wonder. While that thinking has kept me in more than one pointless relationship for far too long, I’ve few regrets.
When I eventually declined his kind offer of dinner later that week, encouraging him instead to date others, he turned to me on the sidewalk and said the thing I’ll never forget. Quietly and simply, he admitted, “After meeting you, I don’t think I want to meet anyone else this year.” I was flattered, but assured him that was ridiculous- it was September after all! Afterward, I never took his calls again, nor replied to his occasional “hi” text messages tossed into the electronic void.
And now? From time to time, I’ll run across his name or picture (even just today on someone else’s blog). About a year ago, as it were, I learned he’d married a local celebrity of sorts, bought a condo in an adjoining neighborhood, and appears quite happy and well-matched moving in concentric literary and foodie circles with his wife. All is well.
And yet, after each “run in” I have with him, I find myself wondering (less from any particular longing and more out of sheer curiosity) what could have been if only the chemistry had been there all those years ago, and perhaps what would happen if I were to meet someone like him now.
03.23.09
The Trips We Take
One year ago today, my suitcase sat on the floor of my apartment, packed full of bright colors, countless swim suits, and desperate but waning hope for the one with whom I had planned to travel. At the last minute, I stayed behind. It was my choice, but it took me a long time to get there; a while longer to unpack.
That same suitcase sits on my floor again. This time it’s full of worn colorful things, stray hitch-hiking particles of Dominican sand, and self-made memories. Last night, I dreamed of the way the Caribbean smelled, the sound of the wind in the palm trees, and the contentment I felt from enjoying both in the afternoon shade while sipping cappuccinos alongside my fellow European travelers.
That’s the thing about the trips we take. Some are meant to be taken with others; some we end up going alone. But in between, it can be the trips we don’t take that get us to where we need to be all along.
03.19.09
Light My Pilot Anyone?
So I’ve been feeling totally awesome about my decision to Embrace the Single. First, there was Taco Night. Followed by Left-Over Taco Night (we’re very economical around these parts). And then there was the fancy date I took myself on last Sunday (ice skating in Millennium Park, then Ghirardelli blueberry cheesecake ice cream while people-watching at Water Tower in 60 degree weather!!). I’ve definitely turned over a new leaf.
That is, until the pilot on my stove went out and I completely fell to pieces.
True story: gas stoves scare the bejeezus out of me. And the whole lighting the pilot? Oh, hell no. Whenever it goes out, I call “Mario” the maintenance guy who takes approximately one to three days to “fix” it. Which translates into a “harmless” natural gas smell in my apartment for said approximate one to three days.
With that in mind, I sat on my kitchen floor in serious debate with myself. I looked up at the kitchen sink where a definite pile up was (is still) taking place; the dishes stacked, sorted even, waiting to be washed. Then, over to the living room, where nearly every coat I own is tossed on the chair for easy access given the wide swing in temps we’ve seen the last few weeks. And finally, on the floor lies my suitcase (still not unpacked), reminding me there are even more piles of laundry in the bedroom.
If I call Mario, I’ll have to actually clean first, I thought. Hmph. I decided to risk a ball of flames rather than a ball of shame should Mario see my half-assed cleaning job. Maybe I can just try, just see, if I can light it on my own? Maybe?
I found the grill lighter (for the grill I don’t have) and crawled back toward my looming nemesis. I paused as I remembered the scene in Fight Club when the Edward Norton character’s apartment explodes because the gas was left running and the refrigerator clicks on and creates a spark. That was just the refrigerator! What about my OPEN FLAME?!
I envision a painful, fiery death.
Should I leave my glasses on, I wondered, you know, to minimize the scorching of eyeballs should a flame shoot toward them? I even considered whether to put on my giant down coat for added coverage. But what if it, like, MELTS onto my skin? Wouldn’t that just make skin grafts that much harder to complete?
With actual tears, yes, TEARS, forming in my eyes and after a few “I don’t want to die”s slipped out, I held my breath in honest-to-goodness fear and clicked the lighter and…POOF.
My eyes popped open in surprise. It was over and done with.That’s it? I’ve been calling maintenance for that? What a wuss I’ve been!
And now? So brave.
03.18.09
We Might Be Obsessed…
To say that my friends Emo and Graphic Designer Friend and I like Gossip Girl would be the understatement of the Recession. We were them for Halloween.
Emo as "Chuck" and GDF as "Serena"
Often I’ve wanted to write about our love of this show, but then it really can’t be done any better than this. That said, our take on Monday’s episode is perhaps best summed up by our texts:
Nic: Is it just me or is everything about this episode annoying and DUMB?
GDF: It is a totally douchey episode.
Emo: Best. Play. Ever.
GDF: The rest was like GG foreplay.
Nic: Nate is a p*ssy.
GDF: Ew. Is V. wearing latex leggings?!
Nic: Where’s Lily? Rufus is drowning in Haagen Daz!
Nic: Damn it, Mother Chucker!
GDF: Day late. Dollar short.
Nic: He should spend less time color coordinating his plaids.
And to reward you if you’re still reading, here’s another Halloween pic with GDF and I re-enacting the Serena vs. Blair fight at Yale. I can neither confirm nor deny that I’m wearing that sweater today. XOXO
Where's Darota when I need her?
03.16.09
I’ll Give You A Cupcake to Avoid “Friending” Your Ultra-Sound
Can we talk about something?
So you know how I’ve gotten sucked into FB (yes, I just admitted that again. I also acronymed it. What’s more, “acronymed” isn’t even a word so I’m two for two), well I’ve been witnessing the most….distressing?…trend among some friends of friends (i.e. people I know from high school but whom I refuse to “friend” because I honestly don’t give a Saxby Chambliss about them since we haven’t kept in touch in 11 years).
The trend? They’re using the composite facial close up from their ultra-sound as their profile pic. Seriously. Am I the only one who’s seen this happening and been nauseated by it? Am I really that destined for hell?
I mean, you’re having a baby. Congratulations. “Life” is amazing, especially new life. But, taking your unborn baby’s picture and turning it into an alien-looking avatar doesn’t make me feel all warm and happy and magnanimous for you. It scares me actually. You’re baby scares me. And it’s staring back at me from your FB page.
Fear: Likely NOT the Intended Reaction
Also, while we’re on the topic: you people with 1200 “friends:” really? Twelve hundred? That’s like your own village or something. If I had a village like yours, I’d probably designate 3 o’clock the cupcake hour much the same way as Old Timey Folks of Yore used to refer to mid-night as the “witching hour.”
That’d be a lot of cupcakes. But hopefully not so many alien-looking baby avatars.
