LOOKING.

I am looking. Looking for that beautiful grey warm area, when people’s eyes meet and something new is exchanged. One particular person I could always count on for deep eyeful meaning has recently left New York and is – as I write this, I believe – on his way to the farthest reaches of the Pacific Northwest. But the all-encompassing nature I crave from a look was only ever on the fringe with this departed friend. Now it has arrived at the forefront and become incredibly necessary.

It has been a long time since I’ve shared that particular knowing glance with someone. This glance I speak of is not merely a promise of sexual intimacy or a mutual recognition of interest. It is something so deep that wars are fought over it, epic poems are written about it, people die to achieve it. It is particular to the participants. It connects the head, heart, and body. It transports. It is a statement without words.

It is why we watch theatre, why we DVR good television dramas. We hope to see a rich moment, full and deep, and yet tender and incongruously simple at the same time. I am not jealous of other people and their relationships, I am jealous of these looks.

After one has been single for a while, the question emerges about loneliness. And sure, I miss a body beside me as I sleep. Yes, I miss a person rubbing my feet in front of the TV, knowing what comments I’ll make about something we’re watching before I open my mouth. Of course I want someone as a touchstone to my day and someone to help guide along his own path. But most of all I want to exchange this look.

A look that is unique, every time. A look that encompasses hope, desire, love, lust, admiration, support, questioning, wondering, faith, gratitude, and beguilement. I know I am able to bestow that look. I know I am able to receive it. Now I must wait, patiently, for it. I am… looking.

What gives?

Men are perplexing beasts.

1) I part ways with an Australian fellow who made a series of bad choices which ultimately killed our relationship. The last correspondence was an email I sent about two years ago which basically said, "I don't hate you, just leave me be, okay?" The other day, he calls me. It's 4am in Melbourne, so he's probably drunk. I let it go to voicemail. When I listen to it, yup, he sounds blasted. He says he's had two years to think about the things I said in that email, and then hangs up.

2) A longtime male friend (full disclosure: with whom there had been some occasional kissing in the past, but not for ages and it was no longer a factor,) blew off a trip I'd invited him on. Since we had been very close but hadn't hung out for a while, I was hoping the little jaunt would provide a long-overdue catch-up. Well, he dropped the ball, enough so I missed a travel deal, and ultimately had to go on this trip alone. Nearly three months go by, not a peep from him. I run into him the other day and he says he's leaving town for good, didn't I get the Facebook invite to his going-away party? Uh, nope.

3) An attractive guy I meet at an event flirts with me outrageously in front of his girlfriend. She pops off to chat with people across the room, and he kisses me full on the mouth.

4) During three months on match.com, I send about fifteen emails to fellows paired up with me. Guess how many respond? One. And when I answer his message, I never hear from him again.

These are just four little items that have recently converged to force me to ask, "What gives?" Ultimately I'm not selfish and egotistical enough to think that these are personal affronts. But I have to laugh through my perplexity. I don't get it. Is it the nature of men, that whole Mars/Venus thing that I just don't understand? Or is it me, somehow, attracting this kind of behavior unknowingly?

I have a friend who gets a giggle out of the crazy situations I find myself in. He says, "Only you, Annie, only you." Well, that can't be true, only me. But I am at a point in my life where all I'm looking for is a partner in crime, a lover and best friend to share my wonderful life with. I make it sound simple, because I think it should be simple, and yet I know it's not a simple thing. However these roadblocks are confounding and annoying and give me less hope that what I am looking for is actually out there.

I'd love to give up - at this point, sometimes I'd really like to give up. But I can't. So I guess I just have to endure the irresponsible ones, the selfish ones, the disloyal ones, the uncommitted ones.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll find out that "what gives" is that I will keep slogging through this mess and ultimately earn my partner in crime. That would be nice.

A Treatise On Dating PART ONE (from 2007)

[This is PART ONE of a two-part blog entry I posted on my myspace page in 2007. I thought it was interesting and worth a re-print, given what I'm going through now. Read on...]

In 52 minutes, I'll be meeting a Strange Man. His name is Dan, he's about my age, he works restructuring the public school system, he likes wine, and he's bald. That's all I know about him. And by "strange," I don't mean to imply that he's loony - I hope to jehovahnot. "Strange" as in "unkown to me." Think of it like a blind date. Because that's what it is.

About six months ago, I joined Match.com. There are a lot of men on there. Fewer men in the NYC area, fewer still over 32 and under 46, fewer still who know how to use punctuation, grammar, and spell-check. Dan is one of the very few I "met" on Match. We actually "met" over a month ago, but have both been so busy, we couldn't apparently squeeze an IRL meeting over glass of wine until now. (Mom, IRL is internet-speak for 'in real life.' FYI.) Well, we tried last week, but he cancelled on me at nearly the last minute - "nearly" being the operative word, and sole reason I'm leaving my house in 46 minutes instead of deleting his emails.

This is my first date of 2007! I actually haven't been on a date for a much (much) longer time than that. Don't feel sorry for me - this ain't no pity party. I'm a choosy gal, and this Strange Dan person is by no means the only fellow to show a Match.com or IRL interest in me! (Mom, don't read the rest of this paragraph. I love you.) I mean, I even had some sex in the last few weeks, yay.

Ah, but there's the rub. DATING means: Going on Dates. Out in public. Having food together, drinking wine together. Conversing in slightly crowded watering holes. Checking out a band, a game, a show. And maybe, just maybe, wanting to smooch the other person at the end of the Date. And that is so foreign to me, so forgotten, I'm actually nervous at the thought of leaving the house in 37 minutes. And I do not get nervous. So I'm having a glass of wine before I meet Strange Dan for 'a glass of wine.'

I titled this blog entry PART ONE because I am so very hopeful that tonight might actually elicit a PART TWO. Even though my recent dating history would hardly fill a Post-It, I am looking forward to my Date in 28 minutes. I'm not putting this all on Strange Dan - if there's no chemistry, it's one glass of nice wine and off to Nod. I won't Date just to date. But this is the first new person in such a long time who is gambling, like I am. Who is also going out on a limb and meeting a total stranger to see if there's a connection. Who might even be a little bit nervous himself. Who might be so very aware of the passage of the next 24 minutes as well.

A last gulp of Sancerre rose, check for lipstick on the teeth, obsessive-compulsively feel-around for the keys in the purse, and I'm off. I'm leaving in 8 minutes (22 minutes before the Date) because it's 4 blocks and I'm wearing very high, very sexy heels.

What? Just because I haven't dated in ages doesn't mean I've forgotten how. :)

Oh, Seriously? You Gotta Be Kidding Me (PART TWO)

[This is part two of a two-part blog first published on my myspace page in 2007. Read it and weep.]

Seriously? Seriously??? SERIOUSLY?????? After all this time, the Dating Karma Gods were not inclined to send me a 'gimme,' huh?

And lest you immediately think that I was putting too much on this meeting with Strange Dan... the whole way there I was saying, like a mantra, "just have fun, no big whoop," and I found I really meant it. --Hold on, I have to go check the Equity website and see if the audition I was going to get up at the crack of ass for tomorrow (sorry, Mom, language,) is any other date as well so I can finish the rest of the bottle of the Sancerre rose as I fume here for a bit and then finally, eventually, relax by catching up on last night's installment of "The Riches" and whatever else my DVR has in store for me.

Done, there's a Thursday call too. Game on! So:

He walks in - looking not too far from what I was expecting. Good... I thought he'd be a bit taller, but I was wearing the sexy high heels. Not un-cute, amiable, I thought "okay!..." Seats at the crowded bar had opened up just after I arrived - a scant minute before he came in. (Hey, KARMA, thanks for the seats. I'd have preferred to stand...) He looked a bit casual for a Date - khaki shorts, polo shirt, sweater vest (well, he's no iron man so it looked even more casual than I would have thought...) but, well, now, in all fairness, I should tell you what I was wearing...

Sexy heels (we've been over that part.) Sexy designer grey/black skinny jeans. Black tank top with tie at waist. Nice black Calvin jacket (of the 'Anthem Calvin jacket's,) cute red bangles on wrist, silver hoop earrings, and Mom n' Dad-given emerald pinkie ring with tiny diamonds surrounding: it screams 'class,' it does. Point is --- I LOOKED HOT!!!! CASUAL YET PUT-TOGETHER, FUN YET SEXY, AND HHHHHHOOOOOTTTTTTTT!!!!!

But he looked fine, not awful, I mean it. (Just had to stress how comparitively hot yours truly was.)

Ok, so we start chatting about wine - he appreciated my choice at the wine bar (Mascarello Dolcetto D'Alba) and I was quizzing him about his work since it's such an unsual, seemingly interesting, and essential (!) job... well, a wee voice in the back of my brain was saying, "This guy's either really relaxed and casual, or he's drunk." Comes to pass that a big project was finished today and he'd gone out with co-workers four hours earlier and had had FIVE MARGUERITAS before meeting me. I was so taken aback that I don't know if I can spell 'marguerita' properly. (I keep trying and nothing looks right. Forgive me, Mom.) I mean, you all read the earlier blog, right?, you know I had one glass of wine to calm the nerves. ONE. I can't scream in caps louder - Ohh Ehnn Eeeee. One.

But, okay, like I posited earlier, maybe he was nervous, AND he was celebrating the end of a busy period at work... I'm soooooo generous. So we keep chatting. I start to become aware of this very silibant "sssss" at the end of some phrases. And I see his hands floppily gesticulating at each point he made. Now I'm thinking he's GAY. I-suddenly-can-see-him-sidling-up-to-my-gorgeous-gays-at-a-party-I'm-throwing-and-then-sneaking-back-to-the-bedroom, GAY. And then I think, well, maybe he's loopy. But then I think, while he's chatting away, that none of my gays would give this buffoon the time of day, so why the hell am I? But I am nice. And generous. And willing to give the guy a break.

So we keep talking. I ask a lot of questions. He asks... a couple of questions. I indulge my growing boredom while at the same time answering a rare question by telling the very interesting story of how Mom got me into the Mets. (Thanks, Mom, I love you!) I ask about this, I ask about that... and suddenly, before I know it, he starts up and I'm on this passionate defense of my industry and career as a whole. He's blasting the concept of Unions, and I'm trying to assert my critical yet supportive view of my relationship with mine. He is relentless and vehement, and I'm looking at this guy and thinking, "This is a Date?!?" He is coming at me from angles that make no sense and are righteous and this isn't a conversation and the bartender is all the way down at the end of the bar and my glass is empty, not like I want to stay but please help me dull the pain...

And he throws his Amex down on the bar. "Here," I go, reaching for my purse. He offers, "No, I got it." "Well, let me contribute!" I say cheerily. I pull out two twenties. He shoves them under the Amex, reaches in his pocket, pulls out a billfold, hands me a five, and says, "You're emasculating a Southern Gentleman, here."

AHHHH!!!! I think if he's a Southern Gentleman, he should push the two twenties back to me and insist it's on him! I'd take them back at that point. But HE GAVE ME CHANGE while tsk-tsk-ing me! And, also, I don't think that's emasculation. Emasculation is when you are drunk in a bar and you wantonly kiss a very cute guy who works for the circus, and you decide you don't think he's a very good kisser, so you give him KISSING LESSONS right there in the bar, complete with verbal instruction as well as practical application. In front of his friends and everybody. THAT'S emasculation, my friends. (But, Angus, it was worth it, right?!) (Oh, crap, Mom, you didn't read that last part, did you?)

Well, at least I was thrilled we were paying the bill. I gracefully said goodnight, thanks for the conversation (!?!?!?) and I hope to jehovah he didn't think I was cute. I teetered home on my sexy heels, put on the sweats, poured a glass o' vino, and here I am.

Let me just say, the guy who finally gets me - is going to be one lucky, fulfilled, adored, challenged, supported, sexually over-satisfied sonofabitch.

I Am Annoyed

This is a vent, pure and simple. I am generally a happy, well-balanced person, but sometimes the stars align to throw many things that annoy me directly in my path. So here they are:

TOP TEN MOST ANNOYING THINGS TO ME (AS OF NOW.)

10. When people stand in front of the subway doors and don't let you off the train.

9. Also on the subway - the new version of the 70s-80s boom box issue - when people listen to music on their phones, etc., without headphones, blasting the tinny crappy music for all to hear. These people are usually young people with clearly no manners. (I have turned into my mother.)

8. The dudes who hang out under the scaffolding at the end of my block and smoke pot ALL THE DAY LONG. And often harass ladies as we walk by. Get a life, you guys. Or at least bring enough for everybody.

7. Rain. If you've been living in New York City this summer, you get me.

6. Supposed friends who don't treat you like friends. This is one particular person right now. All the rest of my friends are awesome. He's in the doghouse.

5. I annoy myself, sometimes, when I can't seem to get stuff done. I get distracted (Gemini) and maybe a wee bit lazy, and the piles on my desk just stare at me and I become annoyed. Like right now, I'm blogging instead of filing. I feel fine now, but in 10 minutes, I'll be very annoyed.

4. Pain. Rhymes with no. 7, rain. I have of late been dealing with a knee problem, and now I've injured my right middle knuckle boxing, which means no boxing for me for a while, which is annoying. My pain isn't hugely painful, it's the indication that something's wrong and now has to get fixed that's my problem.

3. (I'm running out of steam here...) Uh, when people don't actually CURB their dogs, and let them pee and poop willy nilly on the sidewalk, so we all get to walk through the detritus. People, it takes a hot second to train your dog to do its business two feet to the right, I've done so myself. (Train the dog, I mean, not do my business off the curb.)

2. When sweat rolls down the back of my legs.

1. Okay, okay, so not that many things really, truly annoy me. Looking back, the common thread of the main issues is INCONSIDERATION. There are more people in NYC than in other places, so there will obviously be more inconsiderate people in NYC. But why are so many people inconsiderate in the first place? Why do the kids blast their music, oblivious to the fact that probably no one else in the car wants to hear it? Why do people plant themselves smack dab in front of you, clearly prohibiting your egress? Why do those dudes act as if the sidewalk scaffolding is their living room? Why do people let their dogs walk them instead of the other way around?

If people could all be a little more considerate, wouldn't it be so much nicer to go through our day-to-day lives? It really would. But I don't know how to inspire them to be more considerate. And people's constant inconsiderate behavior just makes me want to punch them in the nose. Which I'd be more likely to do, if I hadn't messed up my knuckle boxing. Annoying!

Zorbdorb

            What kind of name is “Zorbdorb?”  He didn’t post a picture so I couldn’t observe if he was an alien, a Trekkie, or someone logging onto eHarmony from a mental institution.  “Zorbdorb” arrived in my in-box on my fourth day as an eHarmony member, along with seven other men with far more usual names. 

“Zorbdorb”?  I once broke up with a guy named Mitch after three dates because I couldn’t imagine cooing his name in the heat of intimacy.  I can only presume that “Zorbdorb” is a fake name.  Or at least only hope that is the case.  After four days of this online dating experiment of mine, “Zorbdorb” smacked me with the reality stick; what was I getting myself into?  I almost bruised my finger stabbing at the “Close Match” option.

This is my third attempt at online dating (technically my fourth, as I tried match.com twice, but the second shot was only a few weeks long.)  A number of years ago, I joined lavalife.com and went on a few dates, none at all memorable.  Well, the fellow with whom I spent an afternoon bowling was interesting, as he was nearly the polar opposite of how he described himself in his profile.  But in fairness, looking back on it, I wasn’t really ready to get myself in a relationship back then.

Many friends my age are already having their second, third, or fourth child.  I’m still looking for someone to share my life with, someone who enriches me, who’s foibles are sufferable, who thinks I’m pretty awesome too.  Of course I feel late to the game.  And the choice of remaining players is slim.  But I’m hopeful, so have resigned myself to revisiting the logical method of online dating.

The turns with match.com didn’t yield much, except for one truly awful experience that deserves its own entire chapter of explanation.  I emerged from that stint uninterested in online dating in general.  But I found myself this spring alone and bored and aching for someone to hold my hand and kiss me.  And when I saw a commercial for eHarmony featuring a guy I found attractive (no matter that the girl he ended up with was nothing like me,) the wheels began to spin.  The process to join eHarmony is an extensive one, with pages and pages of forms to fill out, and options to choose, along with the usual photos to upload.  I figured the guys on eHarmony must be more dedicated than usual, more interested in finding “the one” to put up with all of this!

I charged my credit card for six months, painstakingly filled out my form, uploaded pictures I hoped would represent me accurately and attractively, and sat back and waited for the flood of amazingly wonderful men.

And waited.

And waited some more.

The first few days, there were eight or ten matches a day.  The sheer numbers were encouraging, but after clicking on the profile information and photos, I realized that the gorgeous, interesting guy from the commercial was an anomaly.  Out of my daily matches, maybe one or two I’d keep, the rest I threw back into the pond for the rest of the fishies.  By “keep,” I mean I’d complete the first step of Guided Communication, which entails sending them four questions (chosen out of a group of twenty or thirty) which have a) b) c) d) answers and room for supplying one’s own.  Guess how many men answered my questions, out of the first twenty-five I sent over those early days.  Go ahead, guess.

One.

I say again, what was I getting myself into?

You know when you have an egg, a newly bought, brown, organic egg, and you tenderly remove it from the container only to find that it has a splintered spider web of cracks encompassing it?  There’s the feeling of, ‘Oh, well, it’s not broken through, it’s probably still good to eat…’ so you stare at it, turning it over in your hand, perhaps holding it to the light, and then you throw it away anyway.  I think my life is that egg.  I mean – I am desperate to not be tossed into the garbage.  But, I am the yolk and white, the life-force, pressing its way through confines, searching for a destiny it knows not what and yet likely not ordained to survive this world – or perhaps I am the shell, clinging desperately to my inner self, trying to contain it, nurture it until the realization of what it is meant to be.  Either one will do.

            Somewhere along the balance beam of those two fates is where I rest.  I live in New York City, a place where it is simultaneously possible to be surrounded by people, by their noise, their urban heartbeats, and yet to also to be more alone than if stranded in the Sahara, where fabled winds blow the skin off bones and the sun bleaches them white.  Here, a crazy man’s comments about your private parts, made in passing on the street, barely invoke ire or laughter any more.  Instead they serve to shove you deeper into your rabbit hole of isolation, as you quicken your step and try not to look back at him, although you know you will, and catch his distracted leer as he clumsily squeezes the front of his grey sweatpants.  Which happened to me today, as a matter of fact.

            You will remember this moment, as much as it is forgettable.  You will wonder why you didn’t tell the loser to get a life.  Maybe he has mental problems, and you’re a nice person, so you don’t want to be a bitch.  Maybe you are a tiny bit flattered, because he can’t murmur salacious nonsense to every single woman on the street, right?  This forgettable/unforgettable moment will almost cause you to cancel the impending visit of your dear friend-with-benefits, because although you’ve been feeling sensual and anticipatory all day, suddenly you can’t get the picture out of your head of a meaty fist squeezing grey sweat pant crotch because of you.

            In my dreams, “adventure” is synonymous with dense forest jungles, far from the steel, concrete and glass of my urban environment.  I find myself bushwhacking, or maybe I’m on a boat, traveling down some rainforest river.  Names like Borneo, Madagascar, New Zealand, Crete and anything that sounds remotely African all hint at potential life paths I am missing.  I feel chagrined, as if I am wasting time in my dreams, because I know they are dreams, and they are merely marking the hours until I wake up in my urban landscape.  Where the only bushwhacking I will do is when I have packages that are awkward to get through the subway turnstiles.  I’ve never gone through the emergency door.  I know people do all the time, but for some reason, I just refuse to use the amazingly convenient New York City subway system if I have too bulky a load.

            It is not as if I’ve forgotten the random wonderful experiences one can have with strangers here.  I call them “New York Moments,” and relish, cherish and get incredible happiness from them.  And most of them for sure happen on the sidewalk and on the subway, out there, outside of my cracked shell.  And all of the gross crotch sweat pant encounters are usually outweighed by the other, more sublime moments shared with relatively normal people.  And they are indeed unique and fleeting and wonderful.  But are they enough to bolster a life, a life teetering on an uncertain edge?  At this point, when I’m walking down the street, I love it when a cute guy looks at me, and doesn’t look away right off the bat.  That modicum of potential will fuel a flame for a very long time.  Even though the connection is merely a glimpse.  How simple that is.  How small.  How huge.

It's About Time.

I am technically middle-aged.  How bizarre is that?  My next birthday is right around the corner, so at the moment I'm bracingly aware of chronology and its effects on one's life.  Oh, sure, aches and pains are becoming commonplace, that's a given.  But I look around at my peers and friends whose ages range from early 20s to 50s+ and the idea of where I am in my life in relation to them is pretty out of whack.  Many, if not most, of my high school and college chums are married with children.  I sometimes feel as if I just graduated from college, as if I'm still the child.

I was an English major in college with a creative writing focus.  I have always written: poems, letters, songs, journals.  On the cusp of this next birthday, as another year of my life is logged and measured, I have decided to join the blogosphere.  I now open up my musings for the world to see, although I have no idea who in the world will read them.  

This, to me, is a memoir in progress.  

Topics that may arise out of my world are: wine, baseball, love and the search for same, music, art, creativity, how to live as full and as fulfilled a life as possible, New York City, and anything large or small that enters my orbit and catches my attention.

It is indeed about time.