Not many people care about love anymore. At least from what I can tell. All that guys want to do is fuck. And all they think about is fucking. Sorry to be crass, but it’s true. Saying “making love,” or “having sex,” would imply that it’s something more. It’s never something more.

No one looks at me and sees that I am a kind soul. Full of feelings. Full of thoughts and ideas and jokes and fears. My ultimate desire is to share myself with someone completely. Wholly. You will meet few girls with a fire inside of them as bright as mine. I promise you. I’m waiting for something worth igniting.

These days, men look at women like those inflatable dolls for using then shoving to the back of the closet. Next to the old shoes you never wear anymore and probably forgot you even own. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” He doesn’t care. Like this is something weird to say. When you thought that admitting it was opening a small, honest window into your heart. Because I am not afraid or ashamed of feeling, of caring. I give of myself – and give and give and give. Now to find someone to take it.

So we girls give in. Stroking their ego. We sleep with them. Because girls like sex as much as anyone else, but we do so clinging to that little shred of hope that remains; this will make him care. You know you do it too. Any girl that says she has sex just for fun with no strings is fighting a losing battle with denial. And guess what – it won’t make him care. He’s just got what he wanted now. Like conquering a level in a video game. It’s not about the playing, it’s all about the winning.

And they always win – we never do. He likes to start sentences with “and.” You remember this and it makes you smile. You’re happy for a second, and you get dragged back in. Looking for your phone because “this one is different.” Then you realize you’re only smiling to yourself, and you put it back down. And you start writing on your blog. And it doesn’t ring.

So my posts thus far have been pretty real-life non-fiction type recaps of what’s going on in my brain. Not that I don’t like that style of writing – plus I think I do it well – but I am going to start putting up more abstracts and just some of my creative writing. Again, not that I think that a million people read this and need justification of what I do, but I’m an explainer – a creature of habit. So there it is.

Jealousy: n. Me looking at/watching anything involving Gisele Bundchen. Me reading Vogue magazine. Me looking at skinny girls eating cheeseburgers. Wahhhh.

Since we’ve been on approximately six dates it’s obviously time for me to tire of William. Not because I want to, but because that’s how things always seem to go with me. This time though, it’s interesting trying to decipher exactly what put me over the edge of indifference. At first, I thought it had something to do with discovering that he is what I call a “trust find baby.” I had always been slightly curious as to how he affords the lifestyle that he leads, but it was only after listening to him talk about an investment opportunity that I put two-and-two together that this kid comes from old, family money. He wears an Hermes hunting tie for christ’s sake.

Another possible turn off is his obsession with the physical aspect of our “relationship.” Now, I am not trying to say that I am God’s gift to men, but I like to think that I am a nice looking girl. William is, as harsh as it may sound, not necessarily the most handsome or manly man that one will meet in their lifetime. He has that slightly nerdy/lanky thing going on – which I find endearing. But I think it’s safe to say that he probably doesn’t have beautiful women falling all over him constantly. So maybe I can understand why at the end (or sometimes middle) of every date he starts devising ways to get my clothes off. And while I lack some self-confidence, what I do LOVE about myself – yes, LOVE – is that I am smart, and that I have a lot to say. So I like for men to find my intellect to be the most interesting thing about me, because that is what I find most interesting about myself.

However, regardless of all the rest of it, I believe that I have found the breaking factor in my disinterest with William; I am jealous. Of him. Totally.

William is simply the personification of everything in my life that I feel self-conscious about. He has his dream job. He has a beautiful and charming one bedroom apartment in the (my opinion) nicest part of Manhattan. He gets his writing published. He has total monetary, artistic, and social freedom. He’s a graduate of my dream school. And he’s a year younger than me. Something as simple as listening to him talk about his day burns my blood. I want that. And I’m just as smart and capable as him. So WHY NOT ME??

I have to mention that he does not in any way possible make me feel bad about anything that I have or haven’t done. William is a perfect gentleman, and seems sincerely interested in my mediocre life. It is my own brain that is calculating this issue. I leave every date creating scenarios in my head of what terrible, negative things he is thinking about me, just laughing at how I do not measure up to his expectations (except physically, of course).

We hear all the time about girls being jealous of other girls, but what do you do when you are jealous of a guy – or worse – a romantic interest? Is the relationship doomed from the beginning, destined to be dissolved by the erosive nature of inner feelings of inadequacy? Which leads me to a second point – do I constantly date people who I feel to be “beneath” me because it’s more comfortable?

This blog post has no real point or theme, feels rather disjointed, and probably has a million grammatical mistakes, but it’s 12:20  in the morning and I’ve had three margaritas so who gives a crap.

Buenos noches and merry cinco de mayo,

Michelle

Attention: n. One of the only things you can pay without opening your wallet. A drug more addictive than cocaine – with worse withdrawal. Arguably the Raconteurs’ best song.

It took two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc for me to even get up the guts to write this post – probably because the content is going to make me sound like a typical, paranoid chick. But, fuck it. I met this new guy through the grapevine.

William (so he shall be called) is a perfect 10 on paper.  A 24-year-old founder and CEO of his own non-profit that helps kids get affordable college loans, he is one of the most dedicated, passionate, and ambitious people I have ever met. Just talking to him makes you feel like you want to (and can) take on the world. Aside from his plethora of academic and entrepreneurial accomplishments, he’s into Passion Pit, the NYT Week in Review, sushi, game nights, wayfarers, and shares in my propensity for ingesting inordinate amounts of coffee. To boot, he’s a total hipster uber-cutie with a great sense of style. Now that I’ve totally gone and sounded like his personal PR rep, I can explain the problem with Mr. Perfect. Aside from living in a different borough, he is not big on communication. In person, there is never a dull moment, awkward pause, or uncomfortable silence to speak of. We compliment each other brilliantly and spark like my three-year-old broke ass hairdryer. It’s the not-in-person contact that kills me – mostly because there’s barely any to speak of.

The week after our first date we both had a lot going on. He had a conference in Cali and I was heading down to Antigua for a week of relaxation. When I returned to civilization (aka – the land of cell service) I saw that he had texted me while I was away, saying he hoped I was having a good time. I wrote him back the night I returned (a Thursday) to which he answered immediately and asked me for dinner on Saturday. Saturday came and went with a delicious Italian meal, fireside drinks at a piano bar, and a tour of his apartment (add “great kisser” to his booming resume). That evening, upon my departure, he said he was looking into planning a game night that coming Monday so I could meet his friends. It turns out that I had to reschedule on Monday, and so did he. Me – because I had mundane yet unexpected errands to run. Him – because he had to hop a train to D.C. to witness Obama sign the Healthcare and Education reform bill into law (no, I am not lying). Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but when really, really cool shit happens to me I want to share it with everyone, and that usually includes the person I’m seeing/dating, if such person exists. Not only did I not hear from him the remainder of that day, but still hadn’t (haven’t) heard from him the day after (today). So what did I spend the whole day doing? Worrying that he “really doesn’t like me,” or that in the grand scheme of his life I’m on the bottom of the totem pole. Or rather, I’m standing outside the security fence surrounding his totem pole, just staring and wishing I could sit in the grass and even lean against it.

So I am now stuck in the great female dilemma – to contact or not to contact. Do I hold my ground and continue to freak out while waiting to see how long it takes him to remember about me, or do I just man up, get over myself, and send him a damn message? Well we all know this answer; I’m going to wait. Because my pride versus my need to know is like a tiger versus a field mouse. Madonna versus Britney. Yankess versus Mets. Jamba Juice versus Smoothie King. Pretty much anyone versus Sarah Palin. What’s even more pathetic about this situation (if you can imagine) is that I know that I am probably overreacting. I’m sure he’s just busy, you know, running a freakin’ start-up company. But my mind can’t separate that reasonable line of thought from my inner psycho babble. I don’t know what’s worse: being naive enough to worry about something so stupid, or being smart enough to know that you are an asshole for worrying about something so stupid but continuing to worry regardless.

So if you’ve made it this far thank you for reading. And you have my word – if I ever meet Obama, you’ll be the first person/people I’ll tell.

Peace and <3,

M

P.S.  I realize in retrospect that the phrase “his totem pole” sounds kind of dirty. But the syntax has a nice flow so I’m gonna leave it.

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. So I have decided to expand my dating horizons, 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.