“So, I’m dying to know,” I said, fiddling with the lemon twist atop my summer ale, “What on Earth made you call me?”
McArtsyPants and I had met up at a fun little bar and grill in Central Square and had slipped into the old silliness, making circle patterns with our beer glasses on the soapstone tables and giggling. He was clearly very happy to see me, and we’d been exchanging updates from the last year or so of our lives, when I posed my question.
“I’m not sure if it was anything on Earth,” he said, giving me a half-kidding look. McAP can be a little spiritual sometimes, but he’s also quite the kidder. I went with that.
“So what alien life form told you that you had to call me?”
At first, he appeared ready to come up with a humorous answer to that question, but then his face turned serious. “You came into my head one day, and I wanted to get in touch with you. I always really liked you, and, I don’t know, the timing was off for me. I wound up getting back together with my ex for a bit after I was with you. I realized that I’d been a jerk to you, because I didn’t know what I wanted. So I went and found the e-mail where you gave me your phone number and decided to get in touch with you.”
This surprised me. I’ve often wondered if my exes ever thought about me, particularly the ones who jerked me around a lot, unsure of what they wanted from me. Did they regret letting me go? Did they feel badly about how they’d behaved? Did they just think of me and smile? McAP, it seems, had.
From the look on his face, it was clear that he had a glimmer of hope that I’d take him back, and I didn’t want to encourage that. “You were a bit of a jerk to me,” I said. “But I got over it and moved on, and honestly, I’ve always thought of you fondly. I knew you meant well, really. It was just one of those things.”
Our food arrived, and we ate and chatted about other things, bands, how hot it was outside, various other topics. After dinner, we decided to take a walk along the Charles. He talked about his new car, where he was hoping to live, and I talked about my move and the view from the river. We laughed a lot, but there was no spark, at least from me.
We stopped about a half-mile down the path and looked at the Red Line train cross the bridge against the lights of the John Hancock and the Pru. I thought about how romantic the spot could be, if only I was there with someone else. It had occurred to me that perhaps I would see McAP and, despite my better judgment, want to be with him again, but I didn’t. It was over, and while I was happy to be with him in that moment and happy to hear that he still thought about me, I didn’t want to go back.
McAP walked me back to the train, and gave me his old look that said he wanted to kiss me, but I just said, “It was great to see you again, McAP. Thanks for getting in touch.” He hugged me and said he’d call again. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.
Unlike CraigslistGuy, I didn’t cry when I got home from our date. I felt better. Meeting up with McAP gave me outside confirmation that I am worthy of good treatment. It’s given me something to think about.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Quandary
Yes, the confusement will pass. And it will be replaced by a quandary.
On Saturday, I had plans to get together with McArtsyPants. In addition making a Craigslist date, I’d also contacted McAP, figuring that he would make a nice no-strings distraction for the weekend. Saturday morning had me feeling rather poorly, but with coffee and a shower (and OK, a few cigarettes—for the stress of it all), I rallied and was prepared to see McAP.
I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that it was better than sitting at home. Plus, if I went through with my scheduled outing with Mc(m)I(a) on Sunday, the date with McAP would see me achieve the Dating Trifecta. The Trifecta is three dates (no scams—“friend dates”), with three different guys, in three days (or less). This has been a long-standing goal of my intrepid friend and I, but since I’m a date-one-guy-at-a-time kind of gal, I’ve rarely come close. The last time was last spring, the weekend of my first date with McAsshole. Come to think of it, I think my third date was supposed to be McAP.
Well, McAP called Saturday around noon and wanted to know if I wanted to go on a boat ride with him. Now I said I’d rallied. I didn’t say that I was prepared to be tossed about on the open seas. Nor was I prepared to be trapped with McAP and his friends. I tried to talk him out of the boat ride and into lunch, but he really wanted to go, so we agreed to see each other during the week.
Honestly, it was for the best. My rally didn’t last all that long. I spent most of the day milling around my neighborhood’s community-building block party (=one really good band+ mediocre food+ entirely too many little girls dancing like call girls [that was disturbing]) and then went to bed.
Sunday saw me in a much better frame of mind. My emotions are very strong, overpoweringly so, but they are short-lived. I can deal with turmoil for only so long, and then it just doesn’t seem so important anymore. It can be a problem, because it’s not as though I deal with why I was so upset, I just stop caring about it. Healthy or no, I still felt relieved. My head was clear, and I felt lighter. That’s not to say that I was happy, but I felt like I was going to be OK, no matter what happened. McI got in touch with me around one, and we made arrangements to meet that evening. It was a beautiful day, and I headed into the North End to sit at a caffé for a while.
I had just settled in with a Campari and soda and my book (Oracle Night, by Paul Auster) to enjoy the lovely weather when an artist came in. I say “artist” because he was wearing black clothes spattered with different colors of paint, and he did not appear to be the type to mess around with walls. Definitely a hot ticket, even if he was getting on in years, when he moved across the room and women’s eyes followed. He sat down next to his friends at the table next to me, and I looked down at my book lightning fast.
Alas, not fast enough. I could feel him looking me over, and I tried not to notice. God knows why, but the song “Car Wash” came on just then. The artist started clapping along with the beginning, and then I saw an arm snaking into my field of vision. I looked up to find him staring at me intently, far more intently than the “Car Wash” should inspire. He then started dancing, daring me to join him. So I did. I think I shocked him. His dare turned into a grin and we did a few moves, and I took a bow before going back to my book. He laughed.
“How come you’re reading? How can you read with this music on?” His accent was Italian.
“I’m literate, and I have amazing powers of concentration,” I replied.
His eyebrows arched, and he grinned wickedly. “Why? I like my women illiterate.” He was kidding, sure, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.
“Good luck with that,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and winking at him. I read a bit longer, and then it was time to meet McI.
I had no idea what to make of this meeting. We were getting together to hang out and then check out a movie. I didn’t know if I would talk to him or not. I didn’t know if it was worth it to talk to him or not. Like I said, the storm had passed.
We met up, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, and proceeded to have a fine time. I found out why he hadn’t called. I’m not OK with it, and I’m still going out with McArtsyPants, but if I had McI’s communication skills, I wouldn’t have called me either. In fact, even with my communication skills, I might not have called me. If there ever was an excuse to disappear, he had it. That doesn't mean that I'm cool with it.
I think he sensed this, because I’ve heard from him since, and he suggested getting together this week. He wanted to know if Thursday would work, and I let him know that I had plans, so we might do tonight, and we might do the weekend. I checked my online dating messages last night. There’s no one out there I really want to date right now, but I’ve decided that until I talk to McI that I’m dating “tapas style” (thanks, Andraste).
So I’m still in a bit of a quandary where all of this is concerned, but at least I’m not bogged down by confusement.
On Saturday, I had plans to get together with McArtsyPants. In addition making a Craigslist date, I’d also contacted McAP, figuring that he would make a nice no-strings distraction for the weekend. Saturday morning had me feeling rather poorly, but with coffee and a shower (and OK, a few cigarettes—for the stress of it all), I rallied and was prepared to see McAP.
I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that it was better than sitting at home. Plus, if I went through with my scheduled outing with Mc(m)I(a) on Sunday, the date with McAP would see me achieve the Dating Trifecta. The Trifecta is three dates (no scams—“friend dates”), with three different guys, in three days (or less). This has been a long-standing goal of my intrepid friend and I, but since I’m a date-one-guy-at-a-time kind of gal, I’ve rarely come close. The last time was last spring, the weekend of my first date with McAsshole. Come to think of it, I think my third date was supposed to be McAP.
Well, McAP called Saturday around noon and wanted to know if I wanted to go on a boat ride with him. Now I said I’d rallied. I didn’t say that I was prepared to be tossed about on the open seas. Nor was I prepared to be trapped with McAP and his friends. I tried to talk him out of the boat ride and into lunch, but he really wanted to go, so we agreed to see each other during the week.
Honestly, it was for the best. My rally didn’t last all that long. I spent most of the day milling around my neighborhood’s community-building block party (=one really good band+ mediocre food+ entirely too many little girls dancing like call girls [that was disturbing]) and then went to bed.
Sunday saw me in a much better frame of mind. My emotions are very strong, overpoweringly so, but they are short-lived. I can deal with turmoil for only so long, and then it just doesn’t seem so important anymore. It can be a problem, because it’s not as though I deal with why I was so upset, I just stop caring about it. Healthy or no, I still felt relieved. My head was clear, and I felt lighter. That’s not to say that I was happy, but I felt like I was going to be OK, no matter what happened. McI got in touch with me around one, and we made arrangements to meet that evening. It was a beautiful day, and I headed into the North End to sit at a caffé for a while.
I had just settled in with a Campari and soda and my book (Oracle Night, by Paul Auster) to enjoy the lovely weather when an artist came in. I say “artist” because he was wearing black clothes spattered with different colors of paint, and he did not appear to be the type to mess around with walls. Definitely a hot ticket, even if he was getting on in years, when he moved across the room and women’s eyes followed. He sat down next to his friends at the table next to me, and I looked down at my book lightning fast.
Alas, not fast enough. I could feel him looking me over, and I tried not to notice. God knows why, but the song “Car Wash” came on just then. The artist started clapping along with the beginning, and then I saw an arm snaking into my field of vision. I looked up to find him staring at me intently, far more intently than the “Car Wash” should inspire. He then started dancing, daring me to join him. So I did. I think I shocked him. His dare turned into a grin and we did a few moves, and I took a bow before going back to my book. He laughed.
“How come you’re reading? How can you read with this music on?” His accent was Italian.
“I’m literate, and I have amazing powers of concentration,” I replied.
His eyebrows arched, and he grinned wickedly. “Why? I like my women illiterate.” He was kidding, sure, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.
“Good luck with that,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and winking at him. I read a bit longer, and then it was time to meet McI.
I had no idea what to make of this meeting. We were getting together to hang out and then check out a movie. I didn’t know if I would talk to him or not. I didn’t know if it was worth it to talk to him or not. Like I said, the storm had passed.
We met up, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, and proceeded to have a fine time. I found out why he hadn’t called. I’m not OK with it, and I’m still going out with McArtsyPants, but if I had McI’s communication skills, I wouldn’t have called me either. In fact, even with my communication skills, I might not have called me. If there ever was an excuse to disappear, he had it. That doesn't mean that I'm cool with it.
I think he sensed this, because I’ve heard from him since, and he suggested getting together this week. He wanted to know if Thursday would work, and I let him know that I had plans, so we might do tonight, and we might do the weekend. I checked my online dating messages last night. There’s no one out there I really want to date right now, but I’ve decided that until I talk to McI that I’m dating “tapas style” (thanks, Andraste).
So I’m still in a bit of a quandary where all of this is concerned, but at least I’m not bogged down by confusement.
Monday, June 25, 2007
"Confusement"
Some years back, I had my palm read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown. My intrepid friend and I saw the sign and decided that we had to check it out, if for no other reason than to say that we had our palms read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
We also were in need of some guidance in the love arena, and we hoped that our palms would reveal something. So up the smelly stairs we went. We knocked on the door and were let in by a young girl who called out for her grandmother. Other children were eating in the kitchen, and a woman was standing over the stove. The whole place smelled like an earthy curry. Out came the friendly—yet decidedly mysterious—old woman, and she promptly ushered us into a little hallway, decorated ornately with draped lamps and Indian cushions.
“It is ten for fifteen minutes, OK?” and she took my hand.
Aside from her flatly stating one eerily specific, alarmingly accurate, thing about my life that she would have had no way of knowing or guessing (seriously—my friend and I are both skeptics, and our mouths dropped open when she said it), the only thing I really remember is a word she used, confusement. “Ah,” she’d say, “I see some confusement here. You need to make a decision.” “This confusement will resolve itself in time.”
My friend and I were both very taken with the term, and we’ve since used it to describe tricky romantic situations. Well, I have to say that I have confusement up the whazoo. I’m feeling better than I did about everything on Saturday, but that could just be because my hangover disappeared. Who’s to say?
So most of the day on Friday, I sat around and got madder and madder at McI for not calling me. I was absolutely convinced that he’d just split and that I would never hear from him again. However Zen I may have been on Thursday, I was anti-Zen on Friday. I cried as I got ready for my date with CraigslistGuy and then I got mad. Fuck it, I said to myself, I’m going out with this guy, and I’m going to have a good time. Someday this is all going to hurt a lot less, but let’s just focus on getting through tonight. I made myself presentable, and waltzed out the door.
En route to the T, I got a text message from McI. He’d had a terrible week, hoped I was doing well, and wanted to see if I’d get together with him on Sunday. Perhaps it was weakness on my part that I didn’t say no, but I didn’t. And I was happy. Of course, I was also on my way to meet a guy I didn’t want to meet for a date I didn’t want to have.
Too late to back out now, I thought as I headed to the bar. The guy was late, and I thought about leaving, but I didn’t. When he showed up, I realized that he was just what the doctor ordered—cute but not too cute, and while appealing, not someone I was going to fall for. Perfect for an evening out on the town.
He joined me at the bar, and we proceeded to talk and drink. And drink and talk. The conversation was easy, nothing too interesting, as we didn’t have much in common, but interesting enough. There was a certain attraction. The time came, and we headed over to the show.
Listening to the National is like that last sip between tipsy and drunk. The world is clear and hazy, full of hope and impending sadness. Matt Berninger's baritone lulls you, tempts you, makes you think that something might be OK, even when you know it won’t be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always translate well in a live set. The band’s amazing, all of them incredibly talented, especially the drummer, but I’m in it for the voice. And I couldn’t really hear it.
Still, the show proved to be very good, and on a whim, I kissed Craigslist guy. It was nice. He asked me about the chances of it happening again, and I told him rather good. When the show was over, he got us backstage, and we met a couple of the band members. I didn’t say much, and we left soon afterwards for his place. In the cab, I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, and he said that was fine. We’d just hang out.
“So,” he said, while we were drinking water in his kitchen, “why did you have an extra ticket? You obviously aren’t available.”
I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m really not. I was mad at someone, and so I posted the ticket instead of asking him.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am, but I really don’t think it’s going to happen. We haven’t made any promises or anything, so it’s not even like I’m cheating on him.”
“OK,” he said. And with that, we went to bed. We fooled around a bit, but in the middle of it, all I could think about was McI, and so I stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“That’s OK. I know how you feel. I’ve done the same thing.”
When we woke up early the next morning, we were both still a bit tipsy, so we hung out for a bit to collect our wits. We talked about his ex, my situation, we laughed ruefully over our fates. He found me a bus, gave me a hug, and I left.
I laughed to myself on the bus. I must have been a fright. I didn’t have my brush with me, and I’m sure I didn’t smell all that nice. I’m getting a bit old for the bus ride of shame, I mused. Oh well. I’ll live.
As soon as I got home, I started to sob. I knew what I wanted. I knew that it was unlikely that I was going to get it. I felt confusement. I smiled. The confusement would resolve itself in time, I supposed.
More to come…
Well, that’s not entirely true.
We also were in need of some guidance in the love arena, and we hoped that our palms would reveal something. So up the smelly stairs we went. We knocked on the door and were let in by a young girl who called out for her grandmother. Other children were eating in the kitchen, and a woman was standing over the stove. The whole place smelled like an earthy curry. Out came the friendly—yet decidedly mysterious—old woman, and she promptly ushered us into a little hallway, decorated ornately with draped lamps and Indian cushions.
“It is ten for fifteen minutes, OK?” and she took my hand.
Aside from her flatly stating one eerily specific, alarmingly accurate, thing about my life that she would have had no way of knowing or guessing (seriously—my friend and I are both skeptics, and our mouths dropped open when she said it), the only thing I really remember is a word she used, confusement. “Ah,” she’d say, “I see some confusement here. You need to make a decision.” “This confusement will resolve itself in time.”
My friend and I were both very taken with the term, and we’ve since used it to describe tricky romantic situations. Well, I have to say that I have confusement up the whazoo. I’m feeling better than I did about everything on Saturday, but that could just be because my hangover disappeared. Who’s to say?
So most of the day on Friday, I sat around and got madder and madder at McI for not calling me. I was absolutely convinced that he’d just split and that I would never hear from him again. However Zen I may have been on Thursday, I was anti-Zen on Friday. I cried as I got ready for my date with CraigslistGuy and then I got mad. Fuck it, I said to myself, I’m going out with this guy, and I’m going to have a good time. Someday this is all going to hurt a lot less, but let’s just focus on getting through tonight. I made myself presentable, and waltzed out the door.
En route to the T, I got a text message from McI. He’d had a terrible week, hoped I was doing well, and wanted to see if I’d get together with him on Sunday. Perhaps it was weakness on my part that I didn’t say no, but I didn’t. And I was happy. Of course, I was also on my way to meet a guy I didn’t want to meet for a date I didn’t want to have.
Too late to back out now, I thought as I headed to the bar. The guy was late, and I thought about leaving, but I didn’t. When he showed up, I realized that he was just what the doctor ordered—cute but not too cute, and while appealing, not someone I was going to fall for. Perfect for an evening out on the town.
He joined me at the bar, and we proceeded to talk and drink. And drink and talk. The conversation was easy, nothing too interesting, as we didn’t have much in common, but interesting enough. There was a certain attraction. The time came, and we headed over to the show.
Listening to the National is like that last sip between tipsy and drunk. The world is clear and hazy, full of hope and impending sadness. Matt Berninger's baritone lulls you, tempts you, makes you think that something might be OK, even when you know it won’t be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always translate well in a live set. The band’s amazing, all of them incredibly talented, especially the drummer, but I’m in it for the voice. And I couldn’t really hear it.
Still, the show proved to be very good, and on a whim, I kissed Craigslist guy. It was nice. He asked me about the chances of it happening again, and I told him rather good. When the show was over, he got us backstage, and we met a couple of the band members. I didn’t say much, and we left soon afterwards for his place. In the cab, I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, and he said that was fine. We’d just hang out.
“So,” he said, while we were drinking water in his kitchen, “why did you have an extra ticket? You obviously aren’t available.”
I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m really not. I was mad at someone, and so I posted the ticket instead of asking him.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am, but I really don’t think it’s going to happen. We haven’t made any promises or anything, so it’s not even like I’m cheating on him.”
“OK,” he said. And with that, we went to bed. We fooled around a bit, but in the middle of it, all I could think about was McI, and so I stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“That’s OK. I know how you feel. I’ve done the same thing.”
When we woke up early the next morning, we were both still a bit tipsy, so we hung out for a bit to collect our wits. We talked about his ex, my situation, we laughed ruefully over our fates. He found me a bus, gave me a hug, and I left.
I laughed to myself on the bus. I must have been a fright. I didn’t have my brush with me, and I’m sure I didn’t smell all that nice. I’m getting a bit old for the bus ride of shame, I mused. Oh well. I’ll live.
As soon as I got home, I started to sob. I knew what I wanted. I knew that it was unlikely that I was going to get it. I felt confusement. I smiled. The confusement would resolve itself in time, I supposed.
More to come…
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Craigslist Date: A Recipe
Mix:
1 Part Feeling Pissed Off at Certain Someone
1 Part Moxie (the nerves kind—not the drink)
1 Part Killer Band
1 Part Willing Guy
1 Part Hearing from Certain Someone Right before Date
Several Parts Alcohol
1 Part Getting Backstage after Show
1 Part Cab Ride
1 Part Honest Discussion of Why Date Is Taking Place
1 Part Fooling Around (not THAT)
1 Part Amusing Discussion this Morning
1 Part Getting Home
1 Part Hearing from Guy to Make Sure I Got Home (he really is very sweet)
1 Part Realizing that I Am in Love with Certain Someone and Not Wanting It to End
10 Parts Feeling Incredibly Guilty and Like I Made a Huge Mistake
1 Part Not Feeling Guilty
1 Part Crying Jag
1 Part Giggle
Shake and Serve. Might cause confusion.
1 Part Feeling Pissed Off at Certain Someone
1 Part Moxie (the nerves kind—not the drink)
1 Part Killer Band
1 Part Willing Guy
1 Part Hearing from Certain Someone Right before Date
Several Parts Alcohol
1 Part Getting Backstage after Show
1 Part Cab Ride
1 Part Honest Discussion of Why Date Is Taking Place
1 Part Fooling Around (not THAT)
1 Part Amusing Discussion this Morning
1 Part Getting Home
1 Part Hearing from Guy to Make Sure I Got Home (he really is very sweet)
1 Part Realizing that I Am in Love with Certain Someone and Not Wanting It to End
10 Parts Feeling Incredibly Guilty and Like I Made a Huge Mistake
1 Part Not Feeling Guilty
1 Part Crying Jag
1 Part Giggle
Shake and Serve. Might cause confusion.
Friday, June 22, 2007
How Not to Respond to a Personals Ad
There’s a first time for everything. Yesterday I posted a personals ad on Craigslist. It wasn’t a big deal—I just said that I had an extra ticket to see The National for tonight and that if a guy was interested in seeing a show with a smart, cute, and funny woman to e-mail me through the site. I didn’t post a picture, and I made no mention of hanky panky.
Turns out that the first guy to answer the ad was the winner. His response was direct, just flirty enough, and expressed an interest in the band. He seems sane (we spoke on the phone) and decent, and he has a sense of humor and adventure. Oh, and he’s cute, which, let’s face it, if you’re going to date your way through a messy situation, is essential. I can’t really see wanting to date him on a regular basis, but he’ll do nicely for tonight.
A few of the responses I received were just sick and wrong. One guy complimented my tits—I really don’t like the idea of psychics using Craigslist. Another guy said that he didn’t like the band but thought that we’d be a perfect match. And then, there was this guy:
I'm a con-man. I seduce rich women out of their fortunes. I love my work, and the hours are good, so my friends would describe me as laid-back.
Are you the smart, beautiful woman with great taste that I will partner up with? We both have to think quick and cover our sociopathic tendencies?
Be sharp in every way -- I'm picky. And I deal in face-to-face scams so you must include a picture.
He posted a picture. Here’s the thing, straight men. This kind of crap doesn’t work on any woman with half a brain cell in her head, but if you are going to try it, do be devastatingly handsome.
Turns out that the first guy to answer the ad was the winner. His response was direct, just flirty enough, and expressed an interest in the band. He seems sane (we spoke on the phone) and decent, and he has a sense of humor and adventure. Oh, and he’s cute, which, let’s face it, if you’re going to date your way through a messy situation, is essential. I can’t really see wanting to date him on a regular basis, but he’ll do nicely for tonight.
A few of the responses I received were just sick and wrong. One guy complimented my tits—I really don’t like the idea of psychics using Craigslist. Another guy said that he didn’t like the band but thought that we’d be a perfect match. And then, there was this guy:
I'm a con-man. I seduce rich women out of their fortunes. I love my work, and the hours are good, so my friends would describe me as laid-back.
Are you the smart, beautiful woman with great taste that I will partner up with? We both have to think quick and cover our sociopathic tendencies?
Be sharp in every way -- I'm picky. And I deal in face-to-face scams so you must include a picture.
He posted a picture. Here’s the thing, straight men. This kind of crap doesn’t work on any woman with half a brain cell in her head, but if you are going to try it, do be devastatingly handsome.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
My First Setup
Poor Dive. His well-meaning relations and friends keep trying to set him up with ugly, American-fat women with “lovely personalities,” and he wishes that they would just stop. His tale of woe reminded me of the first time someone tried to marry me off. It happened when I was barely fifteen.
My mother had a friend named Katherine. Katherine was from the Old Country, and she loved me. She would go on and on about my hair and how beautiful it was. Once for a school project I interviewed her and her husband on tape about how they escaped the Nazis and then the Soviets in Poland before they came to America. In the middle of the interview, she cried, “You haf beauuuuutiful hair. You washen?” When I had to play the tape for the class, pandemonium ensued. Everyone asked me if I washed my hair on a daily basis for the rest of the year.
Well, since I was so beautiful, Katherine was absolutely horrified when she learned that my mother had not yet arranged a marriage for me. Not wanting me to become a spinster (good thing she’s passed on—she’d be horrified to know that I’m still single), she had decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she invited me over to give me cooking lessons. Under her gruff tutelage, I learned to make tea cakes and other niceties for the table. I liked to bake, so these lessons were fun for me. “You haf tu cook to pleaze a man!” she’d say. I giggled, thinking to myself that I had tu cook to pleaze my belly.
Satisfied that I had the proper skills, she decided to start making inquiries (without telling my mother—or me—of course). When she had found an eligible man, she called my mother and asked her to send me to her house for coffee. I tromped on up the hill to her house, and when I got there, I noticed that she’d gotten out the good china and had set a table for two. “Oh! Are we having fancy coffee, Katherine?” I asked. Katherine smiled.
There was a knock on the door, and in walked a man in his late fifties, dressed in a suit and tie. He was also Polish, and he smiled at me approvingly. “Sit! Sit!” Katherine barked at me. I sat. So did the man. Katherine poured the coffee and set out the cakes. “She isth very good cook!” Katherine told the man.
“I didn’t make these,” I explained to the man. After Katherine had set us up, she left for the kitchen. This is weird, I thought, but didn’t make much of it. Apparently she wanted me to have coffee with the guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about college. We had a little chat, drank our coffee, and ate the cakes. The man kept smiling at me in a very strange way, but I just chatted away.
The snack done, I told Katherine that I had to go. “I have dancing lessons in an hour,” I explained. “See!” She said to the man, “She danz. She talented!” The man smiled again, and I said goodbye and tromped back down the hill to my house.
No sooner had I arrived home when the phone rang. My mother answered. It was Katherine. My mother listened to what she had to say, shot me a very quizzical look, and sternly explained to Katherine that she didn’t think it was a good idea. I could hear Katherine saying, “But they talken! They laughen! It ist a good match!” My mom’s face started to wrinkle and she was starting to laugh, but she kept her voice firm. “No, Katherine. I don’t think that she’s ready for that” and hung up the phone. Then she collapsed into peals of laughter.
“Katherine tried to set you up with a geezer!” She gasped. “That man! That man you met wants to marry you! You’re fifteen!” She barely got the words out.
“What????” I said. “Eeeew. She wanted me to marry him? He’s older than Daddy!” I felt funny.
My mom continued to laugh, “Oh my!” she’d say, wiping her eyes. “Oh dear! Oh hee hee hee!”
Katherine, on the other hand, thought my mother was insane and didn’t recover quickly from the slight. My mother decided that I wasn’t to go to Katherine’s without supervision. Eventually, however, Katherine tried again. This time she called my mother.
“I haf another man for yur daughter. He tall. He smart, he handsome, he young. He going to be doktor.”
“No, Katherine,” my mother said gently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know you mean well, but we don’t do things like that here.” And with that, Katherine gave up.
Katherine died when I was in college, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. My mother called me afterwards, very apologetic. “Oh, Honey. I think I blew it. You know that last guy Katherine wanted to set you up with? Well, I met him. He was young, tall, and handsome. He is in medical school. He’s really nice. He also has a girlfriend. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should have listened to her.”
Oh well. I guess I shouldn’t complain about being single.
My mother had a friend named Katherine. Katherine was from the Old Country, and she loved me. She would go on and on about my hair and how beautiful it was. Once for a school project I interviewed her and her husband on tape about how they escaped the Nazis and then the Soviets in Poland before they came to America. In the middle of the interview, she cried, “You haf beauuuuutiful hair. You washen?” When I had to play the tape for the class, pandemonium ensued. Everyone asked me if I washed my hair on a daily basis for the rest of the year.
Well, since I was so beautiful, Katherine was absolutely horrified when she learned that my mother had not yet arranged a marriage for me. Not wanting me to become a spinster (good thing she’s passed on—she’d be horrified to know that I’m still single), she had decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she invited me over to give me cooking lessons. Under her gruff tutelage, I learned to make tea cakes and other niceties for the table. I liked to bake, so these lessons were fun for me. “You haf tu cook to pleaze a man!” she’d say. I giggled, thinking to myself that I had tu cook to pleaze my belly.
Satisfied that I had the proper skills, she decided to start making inquiries (without telling my mother—or me—of course). When she had found an eligible man, she called my mother and asked her to send me to her house for coffee. I tromped on up the hill to her house, and when I got there, I noticed that she’d gotten out the good china and had set a table for two. “Oh! Are we having fancy coffee, Katherine?” I asked. Katherine smiled.
There was a knock on the door, and in walked a man in his late fifties, dressed in a suit and tie. He was also Polish, and he smiled at me approvingly. “Sit! Sit!” Katherine barked at me. I sat. So did the man. Katherine poured the coffee and set out the cakes. “She isth very good cook!” Katherine told the man.
“I didn’t make these,” I explained to the man. After Katherine had set us up, she left for the kitchen. This is weird, I thought, but didn’t make much of it. Apparently she wanted me to have coffee with the guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about college. We had a little chat, drank our coffee, and ate the cakes. The man kept smiling at me in a very strange way, but I just chatted away.
The snack done, I told Katherine that I had to go. “I have dancing lessons in an hour,” I explained. “See!” She said to the man, “She danz. She talented!” The man smiled again, and I said goodbye and tromped back down the hill to my house.
No sooner had I arrived home when the phone rang. My mother answered. It was Katherine. My mother listened to what she had to say, shot me a very quizzical look, and sternly explained to Katherine that she didn’t think it was a good idea. I could hear Katherine saying, “But they talken! They laughen! It ist a good match!” My mom’s face started to wrinkle and she was starting to laugh, but she kept her voice firm. “No, Katherine. I don’t think that she’s ready for that” and hung up the phone. Then she collapsed into peals of laughter.
“Katherine tried to set you up with a geezer!” She gasped. “That man! That man you met wants to marry you! You’re fifteen!” She barely got the words out.
“What????” I said. “Eeeew. She wanted me to marry him? He’s older than Daddy!” I felt funny.
My mom continued to laugh, “Oh my!” she’d say, wiping her eyes. “Oh dear! Oh hee hee hee!”
Katherine, on the other hand, thought my mother was insane and didn’t recover quickly from the slight. My mother decided that I wasn’t to go to Katherine’s without supervision. Eventually, however, Katherine tried again. This time she called my mother.
“I haf another man for yur daughter. He tall. He smart, he handsome, he young. He going to be doktor.”
“No, Katherine,” my mother said gently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know you mean well, but we don’t do things like that here.” And with that, Katherine gave up.
Katherine died when I was in college, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. My mother called me afterwards, very apologetic. “Oh, Honey. I think I blew it. You know that last guy Katherine wanted to set you up with? Well, I met him. He was young, tall, and handsome. He is in medical school. He’s really nice. He also has a girlfriend. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should have listened to her.”
Oh well. I guess I shouldn’t complain about being single.
Monday, June 18, 2007
A Different Approach to Family Weddings
Friday morning I looked at what I wrote about going to a family wedding, wrinkled my nose, and thought, That doesn’t sound like someone who has spent thousands of dollars on therapy.
My family’s judgment and pity, no matter how well-intentioned it might be, is indeed hostile, but I don’t have to buy into it. Upon reflection, I realized that I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of for being single. In fact, I’ve enjoyed many experiences and opportunities that most of them have not, precisely because I have not had a husband and children to think about. So why should I give into to their belief that my life has been a meaningless preamble to that time when a man takes me off their hands?
I decided that instead of dreading the wedding and their questions that I was going to hold my head up high and show them that there is more than one acceptable way to live one’s life.
Since I had taken the day off, I had the morning and a good bit of the afternoon to myself. I headed into town, and wandered around the North End, stopping for a cappuccino at my favorite caffé. While there, I surreptitiously spied on a table of old men playing cards and speaking Italian and resolved to get back to my Italian studies in order to hone my multilingual eavesdropping skills. After a leisurely stay at the caffé, I popped into an Italian grocer and procured some bread and cheeses before going to Haymarket for some produce and heading home.
Once home, I assembled a plate of bread, cheeses, olives, fava bean pods, and a little pool of a little pool of acacia honey; poured myself a glass of wine; and went out to the patio for a divine repast. I chuckled to myself at the thought of pulling off a day like this with a red-blooded, American husband.
Then it was time to get ready, and I surveyed my closet. My original plan was to wear any old thing and to look, well, nice. That would not do with my new plan. I was going to make sure that when my family said things like, Sassy, you’re so pretty why has no one scooped you up? they were going to mean it.
Aha! Here’s the thing! I had recently picked up a dress appropriate for a moderately fancy occasion, like a really good dinner, or say, a wedding. This dress also happens to show off my tits and assets in a most becoming way. Perfect. I got ready for this wedding like I get ready for a date. When I was done, I looked in the mirror, shot myself a devilish little smile, and headed out the door.
It is most helpful for one’s confidence when a young man flirts with one for twenty miles in stop-and-go traffic, while one listens to lively music and pretends that one is not noticing that a guy ten years one’s junior keeps checking one out. Thank you, young man, you helped me out immensely.
I got to the church just as the ceremony started (bad traffic, you know?), so I didn’t have to meander about, encountering family with nothing better to do than to grill me about my single status. I sat next to my parents, and my mother said, My God, Sassy, you look so beautiful! She always says stuff like that, but as other family members noticed that I had decided to join them, they all mouthed, You look great! Heh. I did.
The wedding started, and we sat down, stood up, kneeled down, and whatever doo-dah is involved in Catholic weddings (this is a renegade scion of our Protestant family), and Presto-Chango! my cousin’s son (big age differences in the family—Cousin’s Son might be young, but not that young, as Cousin is in his late forties) became a married man.
After the ceremony, we milled outside to socialize. This was when I brought out Little Sassy Schmoozer to my advantage. Instead of mumbling some excuse as to why my life was so pathetic that I hadn’t managed to snag a man, I charmed the pants off of all of them, telling them about my exciting life. Oh, I’m living in the city now, and I’ve been traveling and doing all sorts of exciting things, Relative BusyBody. And, Auntie Homophobe, while I would be proud to be a lesbian if I happened to be one, I am in fact dating a great guy at the moment and having a grand time. Instead of pity, I got admiration from my impressed relatives.
My sister, brother-in-law, and I rode with my uncle in his restored Model A to the reception (Sister and Brother-in-Law rode in the rumble seat), waving at everyone like we were in a parade. The reception wound up being a lot of fun, and my sister and I learned that one of my aunts can still cut a rug like you wouldn’t believe, so the three of us showed our stuff on the dance floor. I talked to almost everyone, and actually enjoyed myself. I didn’t think that my cousin’s children remembered me, but apparently I was always known as the cool older cousin, and they were delighted to see me. Heh. The youngins’ think I’m cool. And that’s because I am.
So that’s how I survived the family wedding. I think I’ll try it again at the next function. Beats the hell out of swilling cheap booze and trying to be invisible.
My family’s judgment and pity, no matter how well-intentioned it might be, is indeed hostile, but I don’t have to buy into it. Upon reflection, I realized that I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of for being single. In fact, I’ve enjoyed many experiences and opportunities that most of them have not, precisely because I have not had a husband and children to think about. So why should I give into to their belief that my life has been a meaningless preamble to that time when a man takes me off their hands?
I decided that instead of dreading the wedding and their questions that I was going to hold my head up high and show them that there is more than one acceptable way to live one’s life.
Since I had taken the day off, I had the morning and a good bit of the afternoon to myself. I headed into town, and wandered around the North End, stopping for a cappuccino at my favorite caffé. While there, I surreptitiously spied on a table of old men playing cards and speaking Italian and resolved to get back to my Italian studies in order to hone my multilingual eavesdropping skills. After a leisurely stay at the caffé, I popped into an Italian grocer and procured some bread and cheeses before going to Haymarket for some produce and heading home.
Once home, I assembled a plate of bread, cheeses, olives, fava bean pods, and a little pool of a little pool of acacia honey; poured myself a glass of wine; and went out to the patio for a divine repast. I chuckled to myself at the thought of pulling off a day like this with a red-blooded, American husband.
Then it was time to get ready, and I surveyed my closet. My original plan was to wear any old thing and to look, well, nice. That would not do with my new plan. I was going to make sure that when my family said things like, Sassy, you’re so pretty why has no one scooped you up? they were going to mean it.
Aha! Here’s the thing! I had recently picked up a dress appropriate for a moderately fancy occasion, like a really good dinner, or say, a wedding. This dress also happens to show off my tits and assets in a most becoming way. Perfect. I got ready for this wedding like I get ready for a date. When I was done, I looked in the mirror, shot myself a devilish little smile, and headed out the door.
It is most helpful for one’s confidence when a young man flirts with one for twenty miles in stop-and-go traffic, while one listens to lively music and pretends that one is not noticing that a guy ten years one’s junior keeps checking one out. Thank you, young man, you helped me out immensely.
I got to the church just as the ceremony started (bad traffic, you know?), so I didn’t have to meander about, encountering family with nothing better to do than to grill me about my single status. I sat next to my parents, and my mother said, My God, Sassy, you look so beautiful! She always says stuff like that, but as other family members noticed that I had decided to join them, they all mouthed, You look great! Heh. I did.
The wedding started, and we sat down, stood up, kneeled down, and whatever doo-dah is involved in Catholic weddings (this is a renegade scion of our Protestant family), and Presto-Chango! my cousin’s son (big age differences in the family—Cousin’s Son might be young, but not that young, as Cousin is in his late forties) became a married man.
After the ceremony, we milled outside to socialize. This was when I brought out Little Sassy Schmoozer to my advantage. Instead of mumbling some excuse as to why my life was so pathetic that I hadn’t managed to snag a man, I charmed the pants off of all of them, telling them about my exciting life. Oh, I’m living in the city now, and I’ve been traveling and doing all sorts of exciting things, Relative BusyBody. And, Auntie Homophobe, while I would be proud to be a lesbian if I happened to be one, I am in fact dating a great guy at the moment and having a grand time. Instead of pity, I got admiration from my impressed relatives.
My sister, brother-in-law, and I rode with my uncle in his restored Model A to the reception (Sister and Brother-in-Law rode in the rumble seat), waving at everyone like we were in a parade. The reception wound up being a lot of fun, and my sister and I learned that one of my aunts can still cut a rug like you wouldn’t believe, so the three of us showed our stuff on the dance floor. I talked to almost everyone, and actually enjoyed myself. I didn’t think that my cousin’s children remembered me, but apparently I was always known as the cool older cousin, and they were delighted to see me. Heh. The youngins’ think I’m cool. And that’s because I am.
So that’s how I survived the family wedding. I think I’ll try it again at the next function. Beats the hell out of swilling cheap booze and trying to be invisible.
Friday, June 15, 2007
The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review
Ah… A Friday off. Of course, it’s for a family wedding, which means one thing for this single woman in her thirties.
With that in mind, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: Grey’s news ahead):
Today I will be Bridget Jones, my spinsterhood on display as a cautionary tale. Everyone will ask me (or worse, my mother) what happened. You are such a pretty girl, Sassy. Why has no one scooped you up? (Answer: Why, RandomBusybodyRelative, that would put a real dent in my orgy schedule, now wouldn’t it?) I’m sure I’ll hear Lesbian staged whispered more than once (Answer: Oh, Auntie Homophobe, we’re in Massachusetts. If I were a lesbian, my sweet, loving wife would be right here at my side in this Catholic church! ) Someone is almost certain to try to fix me up.Sassy, I have a young man I’d like you to meet. Well, he isn’t so young anymore, and he’s fat and doesn’t have all of his own teeth, but he isn’t afraid of a single, educated working girl like you. Why don’t I introduce you? (Answer: Well, there is no answer. I’ll probably wind up meeting the feller and smiling wanly at his jokes in the name of politeness.) While I wish that everyone would just leave me alone, I suppose all this concern is my family’s way of saying that they love me and want to see me happy. Sigh… Minus Three
Speaking of Auntie Homophobe, she’s pissed, and I’m pleased as punch. The Massachusetts legislature refused to put discrimination to a vote. Gay marriage will stand in Massachusetts for the foreseeable future. Deval Patrick actually did something right in getting behind this fight. Plus Five
James K. Seale, a former member of the KKK, was convicted in the 1964 murder of two black teenagers. He got to live almost his entire life as a free man, but justice has finally been served in this Civil Rights era case. Plus Four
Realized that I have better options now than I did when I was dating McArtsyPants. Plus Five
Republicans in the Senate rally to support an Attorney General who takes advantage of the sick and possibly dying to reauthorize an illegal wire-tapping program. Yeah, they are the party of morals. Disgusting. Minus Two
I had a fantastic weekend last weekend. Great date, great visit from a friend, creepy conversation with Lawnmoah Man, what more can anyone ask for? Plus Ten
It’s looking more and more like Scooter Libby will really go to the clink. Too bad he needs a pardon from W to avoid it. If it were up to the Republicans in Congress, he’d probably get it. Plus Two
Bye, bye, Dr. Burke. Isaiah Washington’s big mouth and volatile temper get him canned from Grey’s. It’s not exactly shocking news, but there it is. I can’t say as I’m sorry. He did cajole Christina into getting her eyebrows removed, only to jilt her at the altar. Even
The Red Sox are in a slump. Still, they are 7.5 games ahead of the evil Yankees. Minus Two
Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 7
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +18
Last Week’s Total: -4
With that in mind, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: Grey’s news ahead):
Today I will be Bridget Jones, my spinsterhood on display as a cautionary tale. Everyone will ask me (or worse, my mother) what happened. You are such a pretty girl, Sassy. Why has no one scooped you up? (Answer: Why, RandomBusybodyRelative, that would put a real dent in my orgy schedule, now wouldn’t it?) I’m sure I’ll hear Lesbian staged whispered more than once (Answer: Oh, Auntie Homophobe, we’re in Massachusetts. If I were a lesbian, my sweet, loving wife would be right here at my side in this Catholic church! ) Someone is almost certain to try to fix me up.Sassy, I have a young man I’d like you to meet. Well, he isn’t so young anymore, and he’s fat and doesn’t have all of his own teeth, but he isn’t afraid of a single, educated working girl like you. Why don’t I introduce you? (Answer: Well, there is no answer. I’ll probably wind up meeting the feller and smiling wanly at his jokes in the name of politeness.) While I wish that everyone would just leave me alone, I suppose all this concern is my family’s way of saying that they love me and want to see me happy. Sigh… Minus Three
Speaking of Auntie Homophobe, she’s pissed, and I’m pleased as punch. The Massachusetts legislature refused to put discrimination to a vote. Gay marriage will stand in Massachusetts for the foreseeable future. Deval Patrick actually did something right in getting behind this fight. Plus Five
James K. Seale, a former member of the KKK, was convicted in the 1964 murder of two black teenagers. He got to live almost his entire life as a free man, but justice has finally been served in this Civil Rights era case. Plus Four
Realized that I have better options now than I did when I was dating McArtsyPants. Plus Five
Republicans in the Senate rally to support an Attorney General who takes advantage of the sick and possibly dying to reauthorize an illegal wire-tapping program. Yeah, they are the party of morals. Disgusting. Minus Two
I had a fantastic weekend last weekend. Great date, great visit from a friend, creepy conversation with Lawnmoah Man, what more can anyone ask for? Plus Ten
It’s looking more and more like Scooter Libby will really go to the clink. Too bad he needs a pardon from W to avoid it. If it were up to the Republicans in Congress, he’d probably get it. Plus Two
Bye, bye, Dr. Burke. Isaiah Washington’s big mouth and volatile temper get him canned from Grey’s. It’s not exactly shocking news, but there it is. I can’t say as I’m sorry. He did cajole Christina into getting her eyebrows removed, only to jilt her at the altar. Even
The Red Sox are in a slump. Still, they are 7.5 games ahead of the evil Yankees. Minus Two
Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 7
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +18
Last Week’s Total: -4
Monday, June 11, 2007
Six O’clock Already…
I was just in the middle of a dream, I thought when the alarm went off this morning. OK, well, it was more like, Shut up! Stupid thing! No one likes you! followed by a slam, but hey, that’s not the point. The point is that I had a lovely weekend, and I was sad that it was over.
My date with McIntriguing on Friday went great, as always. The little black dress was a definite hit. As for the jazz, however, it was a bit of a mixed bag. While there were some very nice moments, the five players seemed a bit too much at odds with each other. It was hard not to giggle after we both observed that one of the saxophone players bore a strong resemblance to a dirty pigeon and that a woman in the audience was wearing a hat that demanded twinkling Christmas lights. We left during the second set and headed to a funky local bar for gin and tonics and conversation. Somehow (not intentionally, honest), we wound up talking around the issue of relationships. Although we weren’t talking about whatever it is we’re doing, we did have similar ideas about how things should go. An interesting conversation, that.
Saturday afternoon my friend Smokestack (an old nickname, and I suppose for fairness’ sake, I should say that my nickname at the time was Chimney) graced me with her presence, and we spent the afternoon and evening gallivanting around Boston. The weather wasn’t overly cooperative, but we managed just fine. She crashed at my place that night, and we went to brunch and did a little more shopping before she left to head back to Portland in the afternoon. It was great to see her.
After Smokestack left, I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I took to the backyard with my book and a glass of wine to hang out on the patio. Someone, I assumed the landlord, had cut the grass that morning. While I was relaxing in the sunshine, my neighbor, the Lawnmoah Man (see this post if you don’t know who he is), went down the stairs to his backyard.
In looking back on that previous post, I realized that I had neglected to mention how I met Lawnmoah Man. I had mentioned a while back that I had gone to Casey’s during the Week of Wrecked Plans and that I had fended off the advances of a man who couldn’t pronounce the title of my book but drunkenly claimed to be fascinated by cultural anthropology. Well, that was Lawnmoah Man. That evening, Lawnmoah Man was very, very drunk. He made me a little nervous (he’s a big guy, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos), but I let him chat me up for a bit. That is until he said, “Well, yer kinda cute, Sassy. Whatcha doin’ latah?” which prompted me to say, “I have to go now. Bye,” and leave. I felt a bit bad about responding that way, but given his condition, I was worried about how he’d react to being turned down. I’ve since learned that he’s basically a nice and harmless, if a little dim, man. But he’s still not my cup of tea.
A boy of about ten soon joined Lawnmoah Man in the backyard, calling LM “Dad.” They were playing with a remote-control car. Lawnmoah Man sauntered over to the fence and said hello. “I mowed yer lawn this mornin’,” he said, beaming.
“That was you?” I said, surprised. “I assumed it was my landlord. Well, thank you. That was nice of you.” Please go away now, I was thinking, along with, Oh shit. Why would he mow my lawn? We chatted for a couple of seconds, and his son called out to him to see what he was doing with the car.
Phew, I thought, and went back to my book.
There was a little commotion near our fence, and I saw Lawnmoah Man with the controls of the car, trying to get through a little gap in the fence. He eventually got the car through, and it headed down the little path, through a bush, and landed at my feet. Oh double shit! What is going on here? I mean, come on, he saw me with McI that time. What is he doing?
“Heh, heh. I just wanted to see if it would work,” Lawnmoah Man said. “How are ya doin’?”
“I’m fine, I said. It looks as though it did work, didn’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there, looking down at the freshly mown grass.
He said a few more things, and then got the car out of my yard. I went back to my book and the sunshine. After the sun went down, I went back upstairs. Smokestack called me to let me know that she got home OK, and we chuckled about Lawnmoah Man. I then listened to some music, and went to sleep.
And now I'm at the end of another Manic Monday.
My date with McIntriguing on Friday went great, as always. The little black dress was a definite hit. As for the jazz, however, it was a bit of a mixed bag. While there were some very nice moments, the five players seemed a bit too much at odds with each other. It was hard not to giggle after we both observed that one of the saxophone players bore a strong resemblance to a dirty pigeon and that a woman in the audience was wearing a hat that demanded twinkling Christmas lights. We left during the second set and headed to a funky local bar for gin and tonics and conversation. Somehow (not intentionally, honest), we wound up talking around the issue of relationships. Although we weren’t talking about whatever it is we’re doing, we did have similar ideas about how things should go. An interesting conversation, that.
Saturday afternoon my friend Smokestack (an old nickname, and I suppose for fairness’ sake, I should say that my nickname at the time was Chimney) graced me with her presence, and we spent the afternoon and evening gallivanting around Boston. The weather wasn’t overly cooperative, but we managed just fine. She crashed at my place that night, and we went to brunch and did a little more shopping before she left to head back to Portland in the afternoon. It was great to see her.
After Smokestack left, I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I took to the backyard with my book and a glass of wine to hang out on the patio. Someone, I assumed the landlord, had cut the grass that morning. While I was relaxing in the sunshine, my neighbor, the Lawnmoah Man (see this post if you don’t know who he is), went down the stairs to his backyard.
In looking back on that previous post, I realized that I had neglected to mention how I met Lawnmoah Man. I had mentioned a while back that I had gone to Casey’s during the Week of Wrecked Plans and that I had fended off the advances of a man who couldn’t pronounce the title of my book but drunkenly claimed to be fascinated by cultural anthropology. Well, that was Lawnmoah Man. That evening, Lawnmoah Man was very, very drunk. He made me a little nervous (he’s a big guy, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos), but I let him chat me up for a bit. That is until he said, “Well, yer kinda cute, Sassy. Whatcha doin’ latah?” which prompted me to say, “I have to go now. Bye,” and leave. I felt a bit bad about responding that way, but given his condition, I was worried about how he’d react to being turned down. I’ve since learned that he’s basically a nice and harmless, if a little dim, man. But he’s still not my cup of tea.
A boy of about ten soon joined Lawnmoah Man in the backyard, calling LM “Dad.” They were playing with a remote-control car. Lawnmoah Man sauntered over to the fence and said hello. “I mowed yer lawn this mornin’,” he said, beaming.
“That was you?” I said, surprised. “I assumed it was my landlord. Well, thank you. That was nice of you.” Please go away now, I was thinking, along with, Oh shit. Why would he mow my lawn? We chatted for a couple of seconds, and his son called out to him to see what he was doing with the car.
Phew, I thought, and went back to my book.
There was a little commotion near our fence, and I saw Lawnmoah Man with the controls of the car, trying to get through a little gap in the fence. He eventually got the car through, and it headed down the little path, through a bush, and landed at my feet. Oh double shit! What is going on here? I mean, come on, he saw me with McI that time. What is he doing?
“Heh, heh. I just wanted to see if it would work,” Lawnmoah Man said. “How are ya doin’?”
“I’m fine, I said. It looks as though it did work, didn’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there, looking down at the freshly mown grass.
He said a few more things, and then got the car out of my yard. I went back to my book and the sunshine. After the sun went down, I went back upstairs. Smokestack called me to let me know that she got home OK, and we chuckled about Lawnmoah Man. I then listened to some music, and went to sleep.
And now I'm at the end of another Manic Monday.
Friday, June 08, 2007
The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review
Time keeps going faster and faster, it seems. Here we are at another Friday, and a beautiful one at that. The sun is shining, flowers are in bloom, and it’s time to tally up the week’s events. What a mindfuck of a week it’s been, too. Overall, I’m in a fine mood, but when W is unleashed on the world, it’s time to be scared. Oh, that and Oprah and Paris Hilton.
Behold, the week’s Sassy Sundries:
Oprah picked Middlesex for her book club. What the hell? Why, why, why does she have to go and ruin every good book? It’s bad enough that you can’t get a copy of The Virgin Suicides without a picture of Kirsten Dunst on it, but now we have to have the dreaded “O” business on the cover of Middlesex? Why couldn’t Jeffrey Eugenides be like Jonathan Franzen and tell Oprah to stick it where the sun don’t shine? Gah! Minus Five
Have hot date tonight with McI. The fashion gods smiled upon me, and I found the sexiest little black dress for an evening of jazz and… No, Dive. No pictures. Plus Ten
Scooter Libby gets 2.5 years in the slammer for lying about the leak in the Valerie Plame case. Now we just need to get Rove and Cheney behind bars. Plus Five
Speaking of prison, Paris Hilton took up residence in her new digs and then decided that she didn’t like clink. And guess what? They let her out! The LA Sheriff allowed the repeat drunk driver out of jail for a “medical problem.” I hope the law takes pity on the poor kid arrested with a joint, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they let Martha Stewart out because her uniform clashed with her towel. Makes me sick, I tell you. Minus Ten
Update: She's going back to the slammer. Poor thing cried. Hee hee.
Have potential new career as a private eye. Will begin scouring stores at once for 30s noir dresses, and will come up with new hair style. Can anyone tell me how to sound like Lauren Bacall? Craigslist is fun. Plus Two
My parents saw the new bachelorette pad, and my mother didn’t make one condescending comment. Plus Three
George W. Bush blows hot air about global warming. What can you expect from an oil man? I’m glad he got a tummy ache. Too bad he didn’t barf all over some world leader like his old man did. Minus Ten
My friend Smokestack is coming to visit me tomorrow afternoon. A grand time shall be had. Plus Five
What the hell is going on with the rhetoric between Bush and Putin? Are we back to the Cold War or something? Note to George: Using the word “hyperventilating” to describe a touchy situation isn’t very diplomatic. Please don’t get me nuked. I’d really like to live to see thirty-four. Minus Five
Things are looking up on the roommate front. I have two possible candidates who would do just fine. Plus Four
Have potential stalker problem on my hands, in the form of Neighbor’s ex-boyfriend. Minus Three
Total Plus: 29
Total Minus: 33
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -4
Last Week’s Total: +14
Behold, the week’s Sassy Sundries:
Oprah picked Middlesex for her book club. What the hell? Why, why, why does she have to go and ruin every good book? It’s bad enough that you can’t get a copy of The Virgin Suicides without a picture of Kirsten Dunst on it, but now we have to have the dreaded “O” business on the cover of Middlesex? Why couldn’t Jeffrey Eugenides be like Jonathan Franzen and tell Oprah to stick it where the sun don’t shine? Gah! Minus Five
Have hot date tonight with McI. The fashion gods smiled upon me, and I found the sexiest little black dress for an evening of jazz and… No, Dive. No pictures. Plus Ten
Scooter Libby gets 2.5 years in the slammer for lying about the leak in the Valerie Plame case. Now we just need to get Rove and Cheney behind bars. Plus Five
Speaking of prison, Paris Hilton took up residence in her new digs and then decided that she didn’t like clink. And guess what? They let her out! The LA Sheriff allowed the repeat drunk driver out of jail for a “medical problem.” I hope the law takes pity on the poor kid arrested with a joint, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they let Martha Stewart out because her uniform clashed with her towel. Makes me sick, I tell you. Minus Ten
Update: She's going back to the slammer. Poor thing cried. Hee hee.
Have potential new career as a private eye. Will begin scouring stores at once for 30s noir dresses, and will come up with new hair style. Can anyone tell me how to sound like Lauren Bacall? Craigslist is fun. Plus Two
My parents saw the new bachelorette pad, and my mother didn’t make one condescending comment. Plus Three
George W. Bush blows hot air about global warming. What can you expect from an oil man? I’m glad he got a tummy ache. Too bad he didn’t barf all over some world leader like his old man did. Minus Ten
My friend Smokestack is coming to visit me tomorrow afternoon. A grand time shall be had. Plus Five
What the hell is going on with the rhetoric between Bush and Putin? Are we back to the Cold War or something? Note to George: Using the word “hyperventilating” to describe a touchy situation isn’t very diplomatic. Please don’t get me nuked. I’d really like to live to see thirty-four. Minus Five
Things are looking up on the roommate front. I have two possible candidates who would do just fine. Plus Four
Have potential stalker problem on my hands, in the form of Neighbor’s ex-boyfriend. Minus Three
Total Plus: 29
Total Minus: 33
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -4
Last Week’s Total: +14
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
More Fun with Craigslist
This time around, my roommate search on Craigslist seems to be going better. I have two people coming to see the apartment this week, and both of them seem like they would make good roommates. I have received a couple of crazy responses, like the one from a fifty-seven-year old woman currently residing in a hostel. She'd like to have "friends" over. Overall, however, things are looking better, and so I’ve had to seek out Craigslist entertainment from other sources.
Instead of perusing the personals, this time I’ve checked out the employment ads. The following are from the “writing/editing” section.
Private Eyes—They’re Watching You
Established private investigative agency seeking full time or part time Admin Assistant to proof and edit reports, provide support to field investigators etc. Position can have flex hours, and opportunity for advancement in investigations and related job descriptions. Fun and interesting enviroment.
Can you just imagine the reports that I would proofread for this outfit? Skullduggery galore. I’d get to edit reports drawn up for husbands, convinced that the lady of the house is no lady. Or, those created for desperate wives, seeking proof that their husbands are off banging the secretary. I wonder if they’d let me edit the photo captions? “Subject, in throes of passion with secretary. Note the hickey on her left breast.”
Perhaps I’d even get to edit reports on corporate malfeasance. I wonder if they work for the Mob (the Post Office, perhaps)? A fun and interesting “enviroment” indeed.
I’m a Blogger—I Know Hip
HerFabLife is the Internet's newest lifestyle community for young urban women who are interested in the latest fashion styles, newest restaurants, nightlife, stores, and events in and around where they live. These young urban women want to be in the know of the hippest styles to wear, trendiest restaurants, bars, events to go to with their friends.
We're looking for a few freelance writers who can contribute on a weekly basis to the editorial success of HerFabLife. The target audience is young urban women between 18-25 year old who resides in a major metropolitan area. The topic of interest that you're writing must be relevant to this target audience. This position is ideal for part-time/freelance writers, bloggers, stay at home moms, students, working professionals who want to earn extra pocket money. Please browse around the site before applying so that you get a sense of who we’re trying to target.
I checked out the site, and I think I’m going to apply for the job. I know when the next Harry Potter movie is coming out. I know when H&M has sales. Justin Timberlake may have already graced us with our presence, but I think I can come up with a few other pop stars to titillate this young, fab woman. I might not be a stay-at-home mom, but I am a blogger. Trendy is my middle name. I wonder if they’d be interested in private investigative pieces.
Instead of perusing the personals, this time I’ve checked out the employment ads. The following are from the “writing/editing” section.
Private Eyes—They’re Watching You
Established private investigative agency seeking full time or part time Admin Assistant to proof and edit reports, provide support to field investigators etc. Position can have flex hours, and opportunity for advancement in investigations and related job descriptions. Fun and interesting enviroment.
Can you just imagine the reports that I would proofread for this outfit? Skullduggery galore. I’d get to edit reports drawn up for husbands, convinced that the lady of the house is no lady. Or, those created for desperate wives, seeking proof that their husbands are off banging the secretary. I wonder if they’d let me edit the photo captions? “Subject, in throes of passion with secretary. Note the hickey on her left breast.”
Perhaps I’d even get to edit reports on corporate malfeasance. I wonder if they work for the Mob (the Post Office, perhaps)? A fun and interesting “enviroment” indeed.
I’m a Blogger—I Know Hip
HerFabLife is the Internet's newest lifestyle community for young urban women who are interested in the latest fashion styles, newest restaurants, nightlife, stores, and events in and around where they live. These young urban women want to be in the know of the hippest styles to wear, trendiest restaurants, bars, events to go to with their friends.
We're looking for a few freelance writers who can contribute on a weekly basis to the editorial success of HerFabLife. The target audience is young urban women between 18-25 year old who resides in a major metropolitan area. The topic of interest that you're writing must be relevant to this target audience. This position is ideal for part-time/freelance writers, bloggers, stay at home moms, students, working professionals who want to earn extra pocket money. Please browse around the site before applying so that you get a sense of who we’re trying to target.
I checked out the site, and I think I’m going to apply for the job. I know when the next Harry Potter movie is coming out. I know when H&M has sales. Justin Timberlake may have already graced us with our presence, but I think I can come up with a few other pop stars to titillate this young, fab woman. I might not be a stay-at-home mom, but I am a blogger. Trendy is my middle name. I wonder if they’d be interested in private investigative pieces.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
This Blog May Be Moving
I am toying with the idea of moving this bloggy thingy over to Wordpress. If anyone using Wordpress has any advice and would be willing to share it with me, I'd be very appreciative.
Friday, June 01, 2007
The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review
Well here we are again—another lovely Friday. It’s time once again for me to tally up the events of my week. If you’ve never checked out Boston’s Weekly Dig before, you should. There’s a link on my sidebar. I’ve copied their Bean Counter column.
Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:
It was forty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. This was one of my favorite records as a little girl. I scratched it beyond recognition, having learned how to use the record player almost before I could walk. I would stare at the cover for hours, making up names for all the famous people on the cover (I always knew who John, Paul, George, and Ringo were, though). Enjoy the show! Plus Five
Amazing weather (for once) on a long holiday weekend. Emerged on Tuesday relaxed and happy, instead of bleary eyed and pukey. Plus Four
May marks one of the deadliest months in Iraq. The administration keeps saying the name “David Petraeus” over and over again in an attempt to pull a Jedi mind trick over on the American people. Minus Five
I miss having Grey’s to look forward to on Thursdays. Perhaps I’ll start going to the Institute of Contemporary Art’s free evenings instead. Even
In the news of the truly bizarre, the Creation Museum has opened to throngs of illiterate fundamentalists. In this museum, dinosaurs (all vegetarians!) are shown cavorting about with Adam and Eve, both celebrating their creation on the sixth day. The Grand Canyon? Formed by Noah’s flood. Science? The work of Satan. Minus Three
My effing leg’s on the mend. Last night I went to dinner in Chinatown and had me a fun walk about before picking up a book of Alice Munro stories and heading home. I realized on the way home that it wasn’t hurting me to walk. I smiled. Plus Ten
Video of kidnapped BBC reporter Alan Johnston surfaces. The video was undated, and there has been no other sign of him since he was kidnapped in Gaza, but this is something.Plus Three
Feeling better about the whole McI situation. I’m pleased with myself for waiting for the right moment to have “the chat.” Plus Three
Idiot boards planes with a virulent, drug-resistant form of tuberculosis, endangering the lives of hundreds. I don’t know about you, but his pleas for forgiveness would be falling on my deaf ears, had he been sitting next to me. Minus Three
Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 11
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +14
Last Week’s Total: -5
Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:
It was forty years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. This was one of my favorite records as a little girl. I scratched it beyond recognition, having learned how to use the record player almost before I could walk. I would stare at the cover for hours, making up names for all the famous people on the cover (I always knew who John, Paul, George, and Ringo were, though). Enjoy the show! Plus Five
Amazing weather (for once) on a long holiday weekend. Emerged on Tuesday relaxed and happy, instead of bleary eyed and pukey. Plus Four
May marks one of the deadliest months in Iraq. The administration keeps saying the name “David Petraeus” over and over again in an attempt to pull a Jedi mind trick over on the American people. Minus Five
I miss having Grey’s to look forward to on Thursdays. Perhaps I’ll start going to the Institute of Contemporary Art’s free evenings instead. Even
In the news of the truly bizarre, the Creation Museum has opened to throngs of illiterate fundamentalists. In this museum, dinosaurs (all vegetarians!) are shown cavorting about with Adam and Eve, both celebrating their creation on the sixth day. The Grand Canyon? Formed by Noah’s flood. Science? The work of Satan. Minus Three
My effing leg’s on the mend. Last night I went to dinner in Chinatown and had me a fun walk about before picking up a book of Alice Munro stories and heading home. I realized on the way home that it wasn’t hurting me to walk. I smiled. Plus Ten
Video of kidnapped BBC reporter Alan Johnston surfaces. The video was undated, and there has been no other sign of him since he was kidnapped in Gaza, but this is something.Plus Three
Feeling better about the whole McI situation. I’m pleased with myself for waiting for the right moment to have “the chat.” Plus Three
Idiot boards planes with a virulent, drug-resistant form of tuberculosis, endangering the lives of hundreds. I don’t know about you, but his pleas for forgiveness would be falling on my deaf ears, had he been sitting next to me. Minus Three
Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 11
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +14
Last Week’s Total: -5
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