Month: n. How long it’s been since my last post. One-twelfth of a year. Apparently an acceptable amount of time for a guy to wait after first meeting to actually ask you on a date. The only word in the English language that doesn’t rhyme with anything.

I would apologize for waiting so long to submit a new post, but I feel like that would sound pretentious – like I believe that I have millions of adoring fans hanging on my every word. I really should just apologize to myself, since this blog was something I created and promised myself I would contribute to often. So, sorry me if I let you down, but I should add that your hair looks lovely today.

Speaking of waiting…I have learned recently that anticipation is a weapon more powerful than one would imagine. It also tip-toes a very thin line into total anxiety; a line over which I often fall. I sent my final application to NYU exactly 31 days ago. I am still waiting to hear back, and therefore have created several wicked and dreadful scenarios in my head, all of which end in a room full of middle-aged men and women wearing ascots and pearl broaches drinking green tea and laughing in sheer jest over what I at one point thought was a gem of a personal statement.

In a more relative situation, I went on a “blind” double-date exactly 23 days ago. Though the night was a train wreck for reasons out of our control, my date (who shall be called Ron) and I really hit it off. He got my number that evening and text messaged me the very next day. It should also be known that I have zero aversion to receiving texts instead of calls, because I really don’t have the attention span to sit on the phone for hours. I’d much rather be able to communicate in 100-character-or-less written messages while watching American Idol. ha.

So Ron and I chatted off and on for the next few days. He did mention wanting to take me on a “real” date, but we both had plans that coming weekend. Interestingly enough, our differing sets of plans both included an overnight trip to Atlantic City. We ended up bumping into each other, playing a little roulette, him accidentally meeting my mother (whole other blog entry in itself), and taking a crash nap with his friends in my hotel room before hitting the road. But everything changed after returning from Atlantic City. Since he had made it clear that HE wanted to take ME out, I felt it was appropriate to wait to hear from him. After a few days of no communication I sent a cute, flirty, yet sarcastic message inquiring as to whether this “real” date was going to be real after all, or simply a fairy tale. He had assured me that yes, it was his intention and that he was sorry, he had simply been quite busy. I, being the patient and rational person that I am found that answer totally acceptable and waited for the coming invitation. That was exactly 10 days ago. I still haven’t heard from him, and refuse to initiate contact again. Some might say that I’m acting childish, but I feel that I have made it quite clear that I have a vested interest in the project. Frankly, I am no girl that needs to be convincing some guy to hang out with me. So in my mind, it’s on to the next.

What really got me about this situation is the fact that after our first meeting I would have ranked him around a 7.5 on my scale of male expectations. But after he began making me wait and paying me no attention, I was left clutching my phone in anticipation wondering what it was about me that was so wrong to make him not call. This fact disgusts me. I am a smart girl, and a pretty girl if I do say so. I also have many smart and pretty friends who have suffered a similar fate. Why is it that girls who would be considered a catch by any standard are reduced to anxious, scheming idiots the second some guy stops calling? Why did it take me twenty something days to say “hey forget this guy – he’s not worth your time or this stress”? I think it goes back to something I mentioned in a previous post. The need to feel wanted. I wasn’t even 100 percent interested in Ron until he stopped showing interest in me. It’s a phenomenon as old as the hills. I found myself stalking his Facebook page (ugh – I know) for clues to what he could possibly be doing that was more interesting than hanging out with me. I discovered that he went to Atlantic City twice more since our first meeting. I know that guys my age love gambling and nightlife, but I can assure you that an evening with me would be much less expensive (albeit less exciting) than a night blowing a grand on blackjack. You know what – scratch that – because my company would probably be just as, if not more, exciting. It has become clear from his lack of effort that he is simply a disinterested liar.

So why tell me that you want to take me out? Why talk about all of the things we could do together? Was it to keep me on some kind of back burner for a night that the Borgata was sold out? And I, a devout non-game player, fell right into the dating game trap. How many days should I wait to call? Can I text him if he e-mailed me? So on and so forth. What happened to the good ole’ days of courting?

This experience is simply one in a long line of pitiful others that have come from dating guys I meet around the Long Island local bar scene. Which brings me to a little nugget I must divulge – I joined Match.com exactly 1 day ago. I had toyed with the idea of online dating recently, and was convinced when Match provided an option of trying it for a month for only 39 dollars. It was just non-committal enough for my liking. So I have singed up, and have received some inquiries already; which I’m sure will lead to some verrrrrrry interesting posts to follow. Hopefully not a month from now.

Peace and <3,

M

Awkward: adj. Every single thing about my date last night. Also, the stride of a girl who wears five-inch heels but can’t handle them.

So.  I met a nice, young man at a bar in the village last Saturday night. He seemed fun, easygoing, interesting. It also didn’t hurt that he was exotically sexy. He did however have an unusual name, which I won’t mention on my blog, but will call him something equally as unusual – let’s go with Dexter. So when Dexter asked me for my number at the end of the night, I saw no harm in obliging (figuring he probably wouldn’t be calling anyway, as the history of bar meetings often proves).

Much to my surprise, Dexter called me the very next day. I missed the call but eventually got back to him, and through a slew of texts and a bout of phone tag we set up a date for that upcoming Tuesday evening (last night). When I asked Dexter what he wanted to do on our date, he replied that he likes to cook on his days off (sidenote: at the bar I remembered him telling me he was attending the Culinary Institute), and asked if I would like to have dinner at his place and then grab a coffee at a cafe afterwards. I felt a little uneasy about going to a stranger’s apartment, but he seemed harmless enough, so I agreed.

I arrived in Astoria at Dexter’s apartment at about 8:30 p.m. (It’s about a twenty-minute drive from where I live) but did not find a parking space until nearly TEN AFTER NINE! In his defense, he did come outside and attempt to – I don’t really know – make a spot appear out of thin air. But then he had to run back in to take the food out of the oven and I was again left to my own devices. I finally got a spot two blocks away in front of a church and said “screw it,” and parked my car. I figured the walk would be fine; it wasn’t that cold and I might as well take any opportunity I can to burn a few extra calories. I arrived on his doorstep and called him on his cell to let me in. No answer. I waited a few minutes and then rang the doorbell. No answer. I waited a few more minutes hoping that he had heard it and was going to come down and get me. No answer. I finally called his cell again. Straight to voicemail. I was literally turning on my heel to go when the front door swung open. You would think it could only get better from here. Think again.

We walked up a narrow staircase to his apartment. Half way up he stopped, turned around, and whispered to me that he was sorry but that all of his roommates happened to be home so we were going to have to eat in his room. At a loss for words I spit out the first thing that came to my mind, which was “uhh ok.” We continued up the stairs and into the kitchen where all of his roommates were gathered. And by roommates I mean three middle-aged, non-English speaking Greek men – one of which, standing nearest to me, was carving a pear with a pocketknife. A pocketknife! Mr. Pear Eater and I then had a conversation that went like this, no exaggeration:

HIM: Hey
ME: Hi
HIM: You want some pear? (Holding the pear and the knife out to me)
ME: No thank you.
HIM: Eat the pear. Pear is good.
ME: That is very nice, but I am OK. Thank you.
HIM: You no like pear? Eat the pear.
ME: I really wouldn’t like any, but thank you.
HIM: (15-second delay) You really no want no pear?
ME: I’M GOOD WITH THE PEAR! THANKS!

Dexter and I then took our plates and went into his room. There is no way for me to describe every aspect of the room then to just say that it looked like any typical college-aged guy’s dorm room. None of the cheap furniture  matched, and the bed was simply a matress on a box spring covered in dingy plaid sheets. There was a Costco-size box of Nature Valley Granola Bars serving as a shoe rack and a flat-screen television that probably cost as much as it would have to furnish the entire space in designer decor. In leiu of a table he had – I am NOT kidding – pulled the radiator cover off the wall and placed it between the “bed” and his desk chair as some kind of makeshift eating place. So I enjoyed my stuffed chicken breast and beet salad off a paper plate perched on a radiator cover. He was probably quite comfortable though, considering that he was WEARING HIS PAJAMAS. Pajamas – as in pajama pants, a tee shirt, and slippers. The pièce de résistance of this tale is the fact that the food was actually quite delicious. And you might be thinking to yourself, “Well it should be good. Didn’t you say he goes to culinary school?” I don’t know whether I had one too many vodka tonics or he exaggerated the story as an ego boost, but Dexter doesn’t go to culinary school, he applied to culinary school. That was one of about ten thousand facts I learned about him that night, because during the nearly two-and-a-half hour conversation accross the radiator cover if I uttered a total of 12 words, that would be saying a lot. I listened to him talk about his life story in great detail, his personal accounts regarding the difficulties of making friends in new places, how he considers himself a socialist in every sense of the word, and his negative opinion of the war and foreign-made automobiles.

What I also learned during his monologue is that he is actually a very nice guy. Dexter was sweet and polite, regardless of the haphazard dining environment. And when he spoke he looked straight into my eyes, as if to gage my opinion about what he was saying through the varying wrinkles in my forehead. He really wanted me to hear him, and his thoughts; and he hung on each one of the few words I did get to speak. He didn’t care that you could see from my dress the line where the edge of my tights pinched those extra five pounds I’ve been trying to lose or whether or not I was wearing too much eyeliner. He cared much more about my opinion on the war and why it was that I didn’t have a great relationship with my father. Intellectually and emotionally, he was everything that every girl has ever claimed to want in a guy. Dexter cared about the inner me, and little else. I mean I’m sure that my looks could have been what drew him to me in the bar initially, but the small, superficial things that I obsess over daily meant nothing to him. He was a genuinely nice guy who was not concerned about anything aesthetic or materialistic and was totally into me - and it freaked me out. I always complain about wanting guys to like me because I am a smart girl above everything else. Now I had exactly that sitting accross from me in checkered pajama pants, and it wasn’t satisfying. Most likely, I was turned off because Dexter was the anti-guy in the extreme. Yes I enjoy debating the benefits of indie rock over mainstream punk, but I also enjoy doing so over a dining surface with a tablecloth and a wine glass.

Aside from being totally uncomfortable at the time and hysterical to retell, this date also taught me a lesson. That lesson is to completely abandon my expectations. Because so far in my dating experience everything I thought I wanted I may not really want, and almost everything I thought I hated is kind of growing on me.

Peace and love,

M

Dating: v. Companionship. Charming the pants off some guy for a free dinner now and again. A serious relationship in which the two of you sit and laugh while you look out at all the lonely people. Casual sex. Everything in between.

Dating is the subject of many blogs/books/articles/studies/chats among friends. Most likely because dating is so ambiguous and hard to figure out. There is no exact science, like cooking. There is no recipe to make a delicious loving relationship. It’s trial and error. And more often than not, a whole LOT of error.

Which leads me into my current situation. And I probably only have enough balls to write about this because I haven’t provided said guy with my blog link. Are we dating? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not trying to be purposefully riddling, I really just actually don’t know. So this guy (Who shall be named GUY) asked me out initially, as standard date invitations go. So we went on our merry way; calling and texting, having dinners, seeing movies. However when the dreaded “what are we” conversation came up, Guy told me that he wasn’t sure he wanted a girlfriend. And I, just getting out of a messy year-long relationship, told myself that I was OK with that. Just going along in this happy, easy bubble, doing whatever we were doing and coming and going as we pleased. But then Guy started *acting* like my boyfriend. Asking me where I was, what I was doing, why I didn’t answer my phone, etc. etc. And the most bizarre of all – introducing me to his parents!!

So Guy has since caught a one-way flight to California to work on his career (an act pre-planned and pre-purchased with no mention to me until 5 days before…very UNboyfriend like). Which leaves me alone here in bitter blustery New York contemplating what in the hell I’ve been doing the past few months, and how I feel about it. At first I began to get upset about the lack of definition (the premise to many a romantic comedy) and complained to my girlfriends daily, searching for answers from those in better romantic situations than I. But then the thought crossed my mind, “Are they really better off?”

Why is being single so bad? Well some would say loneliness. But then I have Guy to take care of that. Well some would say sex. If I had let him, Guy could have taken care of that too. We had intellectual conversations. He bought me coffees and movie tickets. We met each other’s friends. I basically had all the perks of a boyfriend with none of the strings. So what was I whining about?

I think that girls (women) today are programmed to feel like they need to have a definite romantic something. Take me for example. Even though there was not a single thing I could call wrong between Guy and I, I still felt unsettled, because we were in the “in between.” We had fun together, and obviously liked each other, so what’s the issue? The idea of growing more attached to him with perhaps no hint of a future intention to commit? But why worry about that two months in?

The most reasonable and likely result to my problem is this – girls need to feel wanted. Yes Guy liked me, and showed me that in many a way. But he didn’t want me *enough* to call me his girlfriend (which may not even be true, but in my female brain sounded logical). In some fucked-up relationship world he had the upper hand, which ate me alive.

You might ask, “How did you come to such a conclusion?” The answer is simple. I asked myself what exactly would happen if he had told me that he did indeed want a girlfriend, and asked me to be his. And I sat and I thought, and thought, and thought. And you know what answer I came up with? I would have said no. Because the more I thought about it the more I realized that I didn’t really want to be tied down either. Personally, I was happy in my pseudo relationship with Guy. It was the outside world that was making me feel otherwise. The constant pressure to be able to define what we were doing was driving me insane even though I really didn’t care to know at all. Now I’m not saying that these kinds of lax relationships are for everyone. But for those who do fit the mold, we shouldn’t be cast aside and labeled as spinsters or whores. On the contrary, I think that women who are comfortable being romantically free should be looked up to and respected for their confidence and independence.

I am 25 after all, and this (according to 80 percent of the people I encounter on a daily basis) is the time to live my life. So I shall.

Peace and <3

M

New Beginning: n. A nice way to make oneself feel better about completely disregarding all mistakes/transgressions made in the past while shamelessly reinventing your identity for your own peace of mind.

So, this blog was born out of a nervous breakdown at the idea of turning 25 – which I did yesterday (the birthday, not the breakdown. Well I guess both, honestly). A writer at heart, I decided to turn my anxiety into something productive – hence – welcome to my blog.

All I have been hearing the past few days is how crazy I am for worrying about being 25. “How would you feel if you were 40?” Well, probably terrible. I’m not obligated to feel better about my age because you are stuck in a dead-end career/marriage/life. It’s not the number that worries me, it’s what I feel I should have accomplished by now that I have not. It’s almost a feeling of being let down by myself, which is frustrating because there is no one to be mad at or upset with other than the face in the mirror (Which I should gleefully add doesn’t look a day over 19).

Ranting out of the way, I will use this year to force myself to accomplish things. Exactly what, I don’t know yet. But this blog is number one, and it’s only a day late. Baby steps, baby steps. I want to write about love (in my case, dating), about food (in my case, love), about fashion, about music, just about life. So I move on confidently, acknowledging my shortcomings thus far, and embark on my new journey all the wiser. (Notice I didn’t say “new beginning,” because really – can you BEGIN again? Food for thought)

Peace and <3
M

PS – I have a long-standing love affair with parenthesis. Many apologies.