The Pensive Pariah

Depending on how action-packed tomorrow is, this may be my last blog entry for 2006. Where did the year go?! To hell in a hand basket if you ask me. It started with New Year's Eve in London with Howard who promptly earned the name "fun Bobby" for how engaging his company was sober. Fresh out of rehab, he met me at the Paddington Train station with a surly expression and lethargic demeanor. At midnight, we toasted hot chocolate while watching The London Eye light up with fireworks... on TV. Yes, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean for this. The best part was his magnanimous toast, "To the end of the worst fucking year of my life." Here, here! I'll drink to that. Tosser.

Upon my return from England (don't worry I don't intend to recount the whole year in this one entry, ahem, I have some semblance of a life), Mo picked me up at JFK. Poor sap. He really loved me but he couldn't get past the fact that I had one, been with other men and two, I had a mind of my own. Bless his hairy mole.

In February, I lost one of my childhood friends to breast cancer the same week my second nephew was born- a profound reminder of the circle of life.

In March, I got my dream field producing job and spent most of the rest of the year crisscrossing the U.S. to exciting places such as Greenville, South Carolina and Coeur D'Alene, Idaho. In April, Mo and I tried again. "Is Mo still hanging around like a bad smell?" Howard had asked. And, yes, indeed he was. That proved a miserable exercise in self-flagellation for us both. When he told me he was "ready" to introduce me to his parents (he had already met mine when they were visiting from Texas) who lived as far away as Jersey City, I had a panic attack. In a completely unrehearsed sentence during a maddening debate about something as trivial as where I wanted to go for Labor Day weekend, I blurted out, "You don't stimulate me intellectually or physically!" As my aunt would say, "There was pin drop silence."

I spent the remainder of the summer and the fall becoming smarter about me and men and life. During a long run along the Hudson River around the time of my 34th birthday, I had an epiphany. Why are you waiting for something to happen, something to "fall into place" before you start living your life? The life you have chosen and constructed for yourself. The life that makes you stop in the middle of a busy New York City intersection (while the crosswalk is safe), stare down the stretch of urban splendor and marvel at the fact that you have made it in Manhattan.

The recent calamity in dating that is my short-lived romance with Boston made me question that self-affirmation. But as the year draws to a close and I see my friends and family or even hear from you guys via a comment on my blog, a quick text or email; I'm reminded of it all again. So thanks for humoring me in this journey of self-discovery, of laughing and cringing at all the right (and wrong) times. Here's to 2007, here's to you.

Lest you think I'm completely self-absorbed, I wanted to post a link to an article by the foreign editor of Scotland's Sunday Herald that I think perfectly encapsulates the "carnage and chaos" that marked 2006.
http://www.sundayherald.com/life/people/display.var.1096725.0.2006_carnage_chaos.php
If you don't care to read, remember Darfur, keep it on your radar or we will bear witness to another Rwanda.

Reversal of Fortune

Well, that title is a bit dramatic but perhaps apropos given the following: I went from mourning Boston or, at the very least the idea of having a Boston in my life, to becoming his boss. Sort of.

OK, in the spirit of accuracy in the media- it does too exist!- let's review the events of the past 48 hours. By now, you know that my life moves at warp speed. Emotions such as obsession, angst, elation and rejection run through me at the speed of light leaving newcomers dumbfounded or awestruck (I prefer the latter) and those who know me exhausted. Which one are you? Am I tedious or fascinating? Well, you're reading so get a life if you find it all so blase'. Sorry, I can be belligerent for no apparent reason. Actually, there are reasons but who has the time to list them all?

So...I am working on a major PR initiative for a bio-tech type firm. It's the first time I've been handed the reins in such a manner. I'm in charge. I can handle it. I actually welcome the challenge of using my media contacts and PR savvy to get shit done for these folks. My top priority will be to tape a corporate video for internal and investor use and re-purpose the b-roll for the media outlets interested in covering the biggest medical story to hit the health care industry since...since, this is why I need to spend less time blogging and more researching! Anyhoo, Boston knew I might be needing a camera crew and had hinted more than once that he could 'help me out' read: give me the work. Since our ill-fated romance imploded in my face, I figured he probably would want to steer clear. Also, because when things fell apart, I decided in my infinite wisdom to allow him to see my blog and what I was writing about him. What? It's "crazy?" Well, if I haven't fucking established that I'm crazy and self-destructive, then really, what blog have you been reading?

So I told him I would be in town and was in the market for a camera crew and editor who could do the work fast, cheap, and professionally. His bid came out lower than other crews who I didn't know from Adam. Plus, he has the credentials. So, he's the guy. He's going to be my cameraman and my editor. But, here's what's weird about it to me. Actually, two things are weird. One is that he's all psyched to be working with me (hello? have we forgotten the texting spree) and two, I'm totally uninterested in rekindling jack. I mean, my brain really should be donated to science for research. I am the ultimate challenge gone, conquest over, commitment-seeking, relationship-endangering, thanks-for-making-men-bitter bitch out there. It's textbook, yeah? Or maybe I'm just romanticizing myself for the purpose of rebuilding my self-esteem after I allowed it to be decimated by a leather-blazer-wearing man. I'm sorry, but men who wear leather blazers are kind of a turn-off. I can't explain why. I'm fine with suede, even velvet, but the whole Wilson Leather-esque thing gives me the heebie jeebies. Maybe I've watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos, it's all a mystery.

There's another noteworthy item. Another prospect has blipped on my radar. He's really funny. Let me share part of his email with you:

Hi,

I;m (not a typo..I really do not know how to use it) glad you enjoyed my last email. Don't think you can distract me with all that 'witchcraft' flattery - you didn't answer a single question that I had posed in my message to you. I've got a little eye of newt that should get you back in line.

First, I think it is only fair that you tell me your real name. Also, I think it is kind of serendipitous that you are an ace reporter and I have always been a Superman fan. I mean a huge Superman fan (I wear glasses and people can't recognize me without my glasses). I think I was the only one who watched the one where there were 2 supermans. Remember that one? Chirstopher Reeve (may he rest in peace) was all dirty and scruffy looking...kind of like David Hasselhoff in Knight Rider. I would hate to start referring to you as 'Lois'.

I will send you some more pics. Here is the excuse, I recently upgraded my computer so I do not have any pics of me on my computer. This is the reason why I used the one from my website. I assure you, my mom's my witness, that this is what I look like. I am not exactly photogenic but I do just fine in the physical attraction department.

Now, I think it is your turn to tell me more about you. I want to read your personality through your email. So, I humbly request (read in an uncle at a desi function voice) that you send me some pics and tell me more about yourself. I'm really curious.


Well, so am I. The love pariah is intrigued by any man who first has the sense to ask a journalist about the use of a semicolon and then the self-deprecating wit- the whole witchcraft reference made me chuckle. Truth be told, I never really "chuckle," it's not me. I guffaw. So perhaps it made me do that. He's a chiropractor. So in my initial approval of his request for contact, I acknowledged the fact that he was a witch doctor and praised his profession. The last chiropractor I went to was this gay guy in the West Village who told me that he wanted to 'cleanse my energy and spirit' in addition to cracking my back and fixing whatever the hell had screwed up my coccyx. Women have a coccyx, too- it's your tailbone, honey (please note the picture on the left, googled for your viewing pleasure). Mine was killing me and this chiro pointed out that it was my soon-to-be ex-husband who was the real pain in my ass. Speaking, figuratively, of course. It wasn't until after I lost my husband that I got any real relief and you can see how cleansed my spirit is these days. Come to think of it, my ass is hurting again...

Corrections

Prolific blogging is bound to result in occasional inaccuracies. I regret the following:
* The home on Broadway and Bleecker was not the former HQ of the Black Panthers but rather their lawyers' offices which explains how they could afford the rent.
* I am not really that big of a loser. If you don't believe me, just tune in to the A&E's series, "Intervention." OR, revisit the blog about Howard aka 'fun Bobby.'
(On second thought, my relationship with Howard only bolsters my initial assessment of myself so strike that.)

I'm SUCH a loser

I know this type of negative self-talk helps no one, least of all me. It certainly doesn't put me on the straight and narrow path to loving myself but it's true. Just when we thought the humiliation I endured after being told to put my self-important nagging ways securely where the sun don't shine, I had a texting accident. If it sounds a tad bit like wetting the bed at 12 (not that I'm familiar with that), then you've grasped the mortifying feeling precisely.

I had just completed a post-mortem with Boston when my teenage cousin asked if we could go to Times Square. Our only outing had been to go see "A Night at the Museum" at the IMAX and he was getting cabin fever. It was cold and drizzling, possibly the worst combination of weather patterns other than rain and ice. OK, not actually even close to the worst but it sucked. We get there and his eyes grow wide at the sight of all the giant, neon signs and billboards. I make him pose for a couple of pictures. "Why don't we ask someone to take one of both of us?" he suggests. "Because I don't feel like getting my camera stolen today," I retorted.

We ended up at Virgil's BBQ although I was hardly in the mood for food. Apparently, my hands and mouth had a different agenda altogether because before I knew it, I had enhaled almost a whole sandwich. My cousin stared in disbelief. "I thought you were sick to your stomach?" As we walked back into the rain, I looked back to see my cousin having a knock-down drag-out fight with his $2 umbrella. Not only was it inverted but every spoke had come apart from the flimsy fabric and was threatening to take one of his eyes out. I couldn't stop laughing much to his irritation.

Are you still reading? Then, you're no doubt waiting for the texting accident. I'm getting to it. My friend texts me and at the same time, Boston texts me. I respond to her question about how I am. "I got the big heave ho but I'm OK." A couple of minutes later comes this reply: "What?!" FROM BOSTON. Was it a Freudian slip? If it was, what part of my fucked up psyche wanted to concede brutal rejection to the man who had so kindly cut ME loose?! It gets better. I sent my girlfiend another text defending Boston- she questioned his "cajones" or alleged he had none- that said: "He has cajones. This time it was all me. Btw, he got that last text." Keep in mind, I'm multitasking- guiding my cousin to the subway while texting two people simultaneously. I ended up calling her after I got off the subway because it was raining and I couldn't deal with the typing anymore.

Today, I'm working at the Associated Press for the first time, in the TV News division. Everything is moving along somewhat smoothly when I get a text from Boston that says, "And that one did too.." My blood ran cold. "?" I asked. Then I looked through my phone and saw that I had sent HIM the text about the cajones. It was too much to bear. I called him later to find out if he hated me, "I don't hate you, it's just weird." I should feel good about this: Boston has confirmation that his decision to cut and run was a smart move. Myself on the other hand, I'm hoping that maybe I can go to a hypnotist to keep from contacting him again.

I Believe Conjulations Are In Order

Congratulate me. Or, as my dad would say, "Conjulations." I have without a doubt hung on to my self-proclaimed title of "The Love Pariah." Yes, many of you will breathe a sigh of relief that the saga with Boston has come to a premature yet inevitable end. No one has to ask how this happened, a quick review of the past several entries should suffice as evidence.

Push came to shove, I was doing both, and he finally waved the white flag after seeing so many red ones. "You need to learn how to love yourself before anyone else can." He could seriously give my therapist a run for her money. But all kidding aside, I'm pretty bummed out. I thought Boston could deal with the drama queen. In reality (I hate that place) it's an order so tall, no man could fill it. And, I'm chastened. I take full responsibility for the neurotic behavior that pushed him away. So no more boo-hooing about Boston. No more waiting by the phone for any man to call! I just have to remind myself of how much smarter and together I was without a man in my life. Then I have to figure out why the hell I go from super-independent to super-needy at the drop of a hat and freak men the fuck out. No lectures, please, Boston took care of that. Everyone warned me. I asked for it. I've made my thorn-strewn bed and I will now lie in it. ouch!

Close Encounter

Give and Ye Shall Receive. That's what I experienced today when I dragged my 16 year-old cousin who's visiting New York for the first time to a soup kitchen on Christmas eve. He was loathe to going but, like I said, under duress he capitulated and we ended up at a tiny homeless center near Grand Central Station. My girlfriend who was to meet us there was running late and upon our arrival we discovered that there would just be three other volunteers. And one of them was none other than Glenn Close.

In order to appreciate the level of restraint I exercised, it's necessary to know that I am the biggest jackass when it comes to meeting celebrities. You may recall asking Greg Kinnear what he had done since "Talk Soup" but in addition, I have been guilty of accosting B-list celebs and asking for pictures via my camera phone. Hapless victims have included but are not limited to Tori Spelling, Mischa Barton, and even Molly Ringwald. But, this time, I'm proud to report, I actually played it cool. As we followed Close and her daughter upstairs to lock up our purses, I grabbed my cousin's elbow. "Do you know who that is?" I hissed. He looked at me bewildered. "No," he answered with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I realized I was squeezing his arm a bit too tightly. "That's Glenn Close," I informed. But nothing seemed to register. "Who's that?" he asked. He's 16. But for the love of God and everything holy, it's Glenn Fucking Close! I wanted to implode. Instead, I put back my blase New Yorker hat and marched upstairs. We entered the office and I began peppering the volunteer coordinator with what I thought were intelligent questions. "How many people will come through the line?"; "Does the number of people served depend on how quickly we serve them?" Then Glenn, we can be on a first-name basis after donning hair nets together, turned to me and said, "Hi, I'm Glenn." Then she introduced her lovely 19 year-old daughter.

As you can imagine, having the lady from "Fatal Attraction" serving tuna casserole on Christmas Eve created quite a stir in the shelter. "I love all your movies," one toothless man beamed. She was a bit embarrassed by all the fuss and tried to keep things low-key. At one point someone called her a star and she said under her breath to me, "Star. Such a dumb word," I nodded pretending to understand the plight of an A-level actress trying to maintain a sense of normalcy and realism in her life. I really wanted to tell her how just yesterday I was quoting one of the lines from "Fatal Attraction" when she tells Michael Douglas' brick-shitting character, "I will NOT be ignored," but somehow had the foresight to shut my trap. My girlfriend who had witnessed me make an a-hole out of myself on countless occasions was both relieved and impressed. Maybe I'm becoming a jaded New Yorker who treats actors as people and not immortals worthy of obsequious worship. Yeah, probably not.

FINALLY talked to Boston last night. We had a good talk in which he told me that I had for all intensive purposed freaked him out. Work became intense and I became a needy, annoying pest who couldn't muster the restraint of a gnat in a flood light. I conceded on that point but told him that stone-walling me a happy love pariah does not make. We decided to "start over" but then today some of the angst crept back in when my roommate suggested that I refrain from playing games and just give him a call. I opted to send a text instead. "Hey u :)" and hour later came this: "Hi"
That's not unusual for Boston but given the admonishments from him and everyone else who gives a shit about whether I totally abdicate any sense of dignity, I decided to leave it at that. So I don't know. I'm back to not knowing. However, this time, I'm going to do the opposite of what my instincts suggest. Maybe that way, I can learn how to be "normal", which, incidentally, I think is highly overrated.

Chanel Madness

That's the name of the nail polish color I'm currently sporting. It's a dark chocolate hue that's quite trendy. As my roommate pointed out, it also describes me and my current state of mind.

Everyone's on Boston's side. But let me tell you this- he's a big flake! Case in point- correction: exhibit A-C. Behold:
On Thursday at 1pm EST Boston texted to say, "Mornin. I will be free after 2pm my time. Will call you then." As you know, 5pm rolled around and there was no call.
10pm EST (same day)- on IM Boston said he would call me the next morning. "What time?" I prompted. "9ish, after I've had my coffee." Fine.
Friday- NO CALL ALL DAY.
At 4:15 pm EST, he sends me an EMAIL knowing I don't own a blackberry and says, "Sorry about not calling this morning. Been on the phones all day with potential interviewees for my project. I should be free in an hour or so to call. Hopefully that’s ok with you." It wasn't OK with me and my roommate agreed, "Unacceptable," she said. At this point, perhaps you're hoping that when he did call in an hour or so that I had the presence of mind to once in my pathetic life play it cool. No dice. Do you know why? BECAUSE HE DIDN'T FUCKING CALL!!
I was livid. How does this happen? How do we go from a man in a leather blazer who I'm on the fence about allowing into my life begin to shun me? Fed up, frustrated and reminded by Larry that I had nothing left to lose, I gave in and called him. No answer, mailbox full. MERDE!

Then my roommate and I went to meet a friend in town from Seattle. He insisted on us coming to the place where he was staying on Bleecker and Broadway. We figured these must be some digs if he's being persistent. We arrived at a nondescript building with an unimpressive entrance. Our friend Thermos buzzed us up. We got into an equally sketchy elevator. The door opened into a grimy hallway and through a fire escape door, he waved us in. "Go to your left," he instructed. The place was spacious but dark with a long narrow hallway. As we walked through the kitchen into the living room, we were awestruck. Two huge round windows on two walls overlooked Broadway. They were the kind of windows you'd find at the top of clock tower. Talk about southern exposure. That plus high ceilings and kitschy antiques here and there. Thermos told us that his filmmaker friend had inherited the uber-cool pad while in his teens and that the space used to be the headquarters of the Black Panthers.

I had just sat down with a delicious cocktail Thermos had prepared when my roommate blurted out, "Let's see what Thermos thinks." About what? "You know the whole thing with Boston," she said all eager beaver like Thermos would be able to shed new light on the tiny male mind that women frequently over-complicate and therefore, over analyze. Thermos was game. So I did. I told him about the prelude to the Vegas meeting, my doubts following that weekend and the recent shenanigans with the over-texting and absenteeism of my suitor. Just prior to coming out, my roommate had suggested I text Boston and put end the miserable angst that had consumed me. So I sent him a text that said, "Hey can you give me a call?" He wrote back an hour later and said, "About to go on a shoot. Later?" Fuck. I responded with , "Forget it." When I relayed all of this to Thermos, he was momentarily pensive and then explained the four different stages of intimacy and how we had rushed half of them, blah, blah, blah.. and now both of us were feeling vulnerable and wanting to cut and run. After a couple of drinks the three of us decided that we would compose a carefully worded text that would show Boston I could be light-hearted and fun. Here's what the meeting of the minds produced: I'm wearing the top you bought me and I look HOT.
He had insisted on buying me a silk top at French Connection after I had resisted buying it for myself. This was more damage control than restraint because I had just splurged on yet another Gucci bag I didn't need at Caesar's Forum. An hour and a half later he responds with this: " :) "
What the fuck? Thermos thought it was fine. My roommate was appalled. It took him over an hour to send that?! I was just sad. Then I wrote back, "...You're fired." and in record time came this reply: "But...but I am shooting :( "
That was then, this is now. I haven't talked to him in days and granted he's really busy but when there's a will there's a way. I may have killed the will.

Somebody Shoot Me

The last 24 hours have been sheer hell. And all of it, is my fault. I created the drama that served no other purpose than possibly taking off a few extra pounds (the only good thing) and giving me more gray hair. Boston sent a text this afternoon that said: Mornin. Will be free after 2pm my time. Will call u then.
I was having lunch with my friend John and replaying the text spree that consumed me last night. I relayed the message to him and he said, "What the fuck? You don't even like this guy!" I objected, loudly, DO TOO! "The other day you said that you weren't feeling it and were going to cut him loose," he reminded me. That was before he became an absentee suitor. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or does familiarity breed contempt? Or is it both?

I moved about my day and came home expecting a call at 5pm my time- sharp! Nada. Then I met my friend Hyun at Bergdorff Goodman's at the make-up counter. One look at my downtrodden demeanor and she was all compassion and positive energy. "Oh, honey, he's not worth it. You have to learn how to hold things lightly," she advised as a very well-kept European woman stood poised to show her an overpriced skin cleanser. "He said he would call at 2, it's 3pm in LA," I mumbled. Hyun was annoyed. "Oh my God, are you making your roommate crazy, too? He didn't say exactly 2pm, he said after." I tried to busy myself by layering on different Laura Mercier body souffles. After the vanilla and creme brulee versions, I smelled like a bakery and that was giving me a bit of a headache in addition to a carb craving.

As we moved through the maze of shoppers and tourists, actually it was the horrid combination of shopping tourists who think it's OK to stop in mid sidewalk to take pictures of, what? The Fifth Avenue street sign?! Are you fucking kidding me? Unfazed, Hyun guided me through the throngs of people towards a place we could have dinner. We unwittingly landed at a Mexican restaurant in the dining concourse of Grand Central Terminal. We weren't expecting to be wowed and we weren't. But hunger overrode our internal culinary critics. By the end of dinner, she had provided me with a dating strategy that was sure to work. By not calling or communicating until Saturday, I could regain the upper hand! This lasted a whole hour. The following text history is, you know what? I can't even share it. One because it's way too crazy for anyone else to stomach and, two, it's not fair to him to have a personal conversation blogged so blatantly.

But I will say this. OK, I'll share an excerpt:
Crazy: I suck at these games
Crazy: this is why I'm better off alone
Boston: stop
Boston: dont say that
Boston: look i will call u in the morning and we will have a nice talk
Crazy: no, it's OK
Crazy: let's just chalk it up to a nice weekend
Boston: i will call u tomorrow
Crazy: I'm not playing by your rules
Boston: i dont have any rules
Boston: fine
Boston: i am not playing either
Crazy: This is entirely me, I get that.
Boston: all of a sudden it became stressful for me to talk to u
Crazy: yep, that sounds familiar
Crazy: again, all me, I get it
Boston: stop
Boston: look not here
Boston: besides i have to get back to edit
Crazy: Look, it's fine, really. I get that I'm neurotic. I just need to find someone who can deal with it
Boston: are we cool?
Crazy: sure
Boston: hmmmm
Crazy: I stress you out, I stress me out
Boston: i really like u
Crazy: anyway, I've said too much, as usual
Boston: i think you're an awesome person
Boston: you are soo cool
Boston: and smart and hip
Crazy: the text melee
Crazy: wouldn't have transpired if you had just said- I can't talk today
Crazy: I'll call you in the morning
Boston: then i am sorry for not saying that
Boston: ok look i really should go
Crazy: ok
Boston: talk to u tomorrow

There was a bit more but basically, it boils down to the fact that I've been miraculously granted another go at things with Boston. Now I have to decide if I'm going to keep on keeping on the crazy train or get off at the Patience stop. I'll probably have a brief layover at Patience then jump back on Crazy train. No I won't. I've learned my lesson. I hope.

Angst-ridden

THIS is WHY I'm happier without a man in my life!! Tortured by doubts and nagging misgivings about this whole experiment in a "healthy" relationship, I had been wanting to soothe my anxiety by talking to Boston. He seems to have a calming effect on me. But, as fate would have it, he's been locked in a marathon edit for three fucking days!!! And in the absence of the instant gratification of contact, I've been forced back into my henpecking ways. Last night, he sneaked out to give me a quick call and I told him I needed to talk to him. He suggested this morning. "No, I'm at work." Then he suggested we speak in the evening. "Fine," I said while sighing severely. He didn't take the bait.
"OK, have a great day tomorrow," he said and hung up.

I had an enlightening session with my therapist today who pointed out that the fact that I wasn't shopping for a wedding dress wasn't really an indication that this was all wrong. She pointed out that I was actually behaving "normally", a concept completely foreign to me. "It's natural to question something when it's so new, you don't always have to live in extremes." Easier said than done especially when I've been anointed the Drama Queen by more than one friend and have shown virtually no indication of abdicating my throne. So now you have the prelude to the text melee.

3:21 pm EST- R U busy?
3:28- Yes. Hi.
3:30- OK. Fine. (this is where Crazy makes her first appearance.)
no response.
4:19- I don't like u anymore (reverting to third grade)
no response.
4:30- Im kidding. Basically I'm having a conversation with myself...as usual. Let me know if you'd like to participate. (Here I'd like to point out that this is what I do when there's a lull in our IM-ing, but to be honest, this comment has no justification- it's rather pathetic.)
no response.
7:27- What time will you be free?
7:36- In mtg now. Then edit. then free
8:34- what time?
no response

Here's a response for me: STOP BEING PSYCHO! Now I remember how it was possible for me to be dumped by lesser men. It's like watching a train derail itself and head towards destruction... in slow motion. Christ.

Doubter's Prison

I'm in it. Doubter's prison. That's what I'm calling the paralysis by analysis that has gripped me in the wake of a wonderful weekend with Boston. Upon arrival into the city tonight, I was plagued with doubts about what I was doing with this guy. I've already told him that I'm in "sabotage mode" and he's told me that he's willing to deal with some of the crap that comes "within reason." Again, such a relative term. A deal-breaker for some is a deal-maker for others. For instance, I had a guy pull me in for a big bear hug when I told him that I, too, was 420 friendly (this is in the past, ahem, now I don't inhale). And another boyfriend call me a "druggie" for the same reason. Perception is reality.

Here's my perspective at the moment. I may very well be incapable of a healthy, happy relationship. There may be some truth to the allegations that I'm 1.) only happy when it rains, 2.)drawn to emotionally-unavailable men, and 3.)just plain crazy. Some of you may be compelled to rush to my side out of loyalty and the fact that my fears resonate with you and if I'm crazy, you're crazy, too. Others are nodding in agreement. You know who you are.

But here's the thing. There's always a "thing." In this case, it's this: if both of us are short, who's going to reach for things on the top shelf? Get a step ladder?! Where's the fun in that? But seriously, he's a petite man, sort of. OK, not really but I'm pulling away faster than a frat boy who just felt the transvestite's bulge and realized why it was called "The Crying Game." And I'd chalk it up to me just not feeling it and walk away except for this: I do like him, me thinks. We had a great time in Vegas, went shopping, drank pints at Blondie's. He even made me do a Jagermeister shot which took me straight back to sophomore year in college. The things I drank for a quick buzz. But I digress. I enjoy talking to him, I enjoy hanging out with him, he doesn't say things that make me cringe and is pretty intuitive. And while I was with him, I was fine with the height thing but it's when I look back on it and picture us together that I get all weirded out. Why can't he be TALL?!!

And, finally, here's what makes me see what others who deem me crazy see. I have been dumped by guys shorter than Boston. One was a sportscaster who told me he didn't like to fish from the company pier- the use of the term alone should have disqualified him- then proceeded to shack up with another co-worker. Then there was the guy I met from the U.A.E. He really was a petite man and yet, I didn't bat an eye. But he was in love with his ex who had just married someone else and broke his tiny heart. Maybe it was the challenge factor that blurred the height issue. My point, and I swear I'm getting to it, is that it's not a well-established deal breaker. So why am I freaking out?!

Vertical challenges

For some reason, Boston still likes me. He was unfazed by my shallow google search of Jermaine Dupre's height. He's very clear about how things are. "You're crazy and neurotic and I can deal with that but I can't deal with you being selfish." Selfish. That word is thrown around so liberally. I mean aren't we all selfish? You reading this blog is a form of entertainment (some days more than others) and that's a bit self-indulgent. Being self-indulgent can be construed as selfish.

His warning stemmed from an earlier declaration that I do expect men to pay for dinner on the first date. If, for no other reason, as compensation for the pleasure of my company. Wait, that makes me sound like a prostitute. It started with, "I'll buy you dinner on Saturday," before his arrival. "Of course you will," I replied.

I'm slowly getting past the height issue but remain in sabotage mode. For instance, tonight when he called me after a really long day, I blurted out, "You're not a bullshitter are you?" Freakshow. That's me. I was suddenly overcome with doubt about whether he was an up and coming filmmaker or.. full of shit. "Where is this coming from?" Boston always cuts to the chase. "I was just thinking that I don't know that much about what you do at this production company, I mean we've never talked about it." It sounds dumb now but at the time it sounded dumber. "Then ask THAT," he directed, did I mention he's a director? I concurred that I should be more direct and less shady about my inquiries in the future. I know some of you are rooting for Boston and are disgusted at my overt efforts to derail this love train but I'M TRYING!!! You can't expect me to deconstruct years of programming in one week. I'm used to men being myopic, insincere, and judgmental. Playing on a level field is a bit daunting.

The BIG Reveal

I've gotta make this fast because Boston is in the room. So I'm in Vegas. I finally had the opportunity to put a face and body to the voice on the phone. Let's just say that the events over the last 24 hours have led to a chilling realization: I'm shallow. A couple of years ago I was in a similar situation when a blind date flew to New York from Columbus for the big reveal. When we finally came face to face, I was dismayed to see that he looked like Shrek. That sounds awful, but his oafish mannerisms coupled with the way he carried himself only added to my assessment. And he kept saying things that left the door wide open for me to tell him how I felt, "Wow. You look better than your pictures." Umm, you look just like you did in the movie. But I resisted out of consideration for his feelings. He was relentless. "So what do you THINK?!" he finally demanded. I told him that there was a spark that we lacked and I needed in order to move forward. His response was to call me "vapid, vacuous, and vain." He may have used other entries from the "V" section of Webster's but I forget. Consequently, I am highly skeptical of making a connection over the phone and having it pan out in person. This skepticism has proven almost prophetic. Granted, there are those who may be apt to call it self-fulfilling prophecy. But, in my defense, I have to say that slurping soup straight from your over sized soup bowl and then dunking your sandwich in your date's soup is grounds for dismissal.

That was then. This is now. Yesterday, I was a stress grenade. I arrived in Las Vegas, went to lunch with a friend and his girlfriend and played with my food while they ate. "What's wrong?" I had no appetite, my stomach in knots. "What if he's a petite man?" I asked my friend who himself is 5'5". "Is the height of a guy to a woman what big boobs are to men?" Is it? I would venture to say yes but only if men disqualify women based on their chest size which I haven't heard. Plus, there's a remedy for flat-chested women. I saw an episode on Nip/Tuck about how leg-extension surgery is painful and delivers minimal results. I decided to get a massage to alleviate some of the stress. It helped a little. Around 7:30 Boston finally got in Vegas from L.A. He knocked on my room door. I opened it. He was just as good-looking as his pictures, even sexy. There was a palpable attraction. OK. And, he was probably an inch or two taller than me. A wave of relief washed over me. OK, I can deal with this.

We went out for dinner and drinks and it was fun. But today, I was having serious doubts about this. He's almost my height. Or at least that's what it feels like. But Katie Holmes is cool with Tom Cruise, although I'm sure him showering her with money and jewels combined with the fact that he's Hollywood royalty makes looking down at him easier. Then there's Janet Jackson who seems to have found unprecedented happiness with Jermaine Dupre who's 5'5". It was bothering me, tho, and because I have the emotional maturity of a five year old when it comes to concealing my true feelings, Boston knew something was up. "What's your problem?" he asked today at brunch at Commander's Palace- which is the most amazing brunch I've ever had in my life and that's saying a lot because brunch is my favorite meal of the week. I squirmed. "I'm having some issues with the whole height thing," I confessed. I know you think I'm an asshole but that's why I like Boston because I can be myself- the Love Pariah Unplugged, and he seems to appreciate it. He looked me straight in the eye, took a long sip of his Bloody Mary and replied, "That's your issue, not mine." So I'm trying to deal. But it was fun and maybe, if I'm not the Love Pariah, I'll come to grips with the height issue and realize that --- standby for cliche--- good things come in small packages.

SHIT. Boston just came over and I minimized this window only to end up on what I had just googled. "Jermaine Dupre- HEIGHT?" He asked. Yeah, I answered. "What are you doing?" he wanted to know. "I'm blogging," I answered matter-of-factly. He knows I have a blog but hasn't gone in search of it because, well, because he's smart. Anyway, he asked why I looked up height. What could I say? Now he's pissed. OK, time to turn on the charm or babble incessantly about something unrelated. I'll probably end up doing the latter. Shit.

Backwards Camel Toe?

My sister pointed this ad out to me. At first I couldn't understand why she was directing me to a site that sells outdoor gear and wear and then I saw the picture.
"That's what they look like on a mannequin?!" She asked incredulously. And she was right. Why would anyone buy a pair of pants that looked like they offered the comfort of a backwards camel toe to the lucky wearer?! Yet again, I must point out the language of the ad warning to "act fast 'cuz once they're gone, you're SOL!" And then the description. Don't you want to know?
Stride out in comfort and style when you hit the trails in a pair of Outdoor Research Women's Catalyst Pants. Their stretch-woven fabric ensures maximum comfort when you're high-stepping on rocks, and a DWR coating fights off moisture if it starts to rain. Outdoor Research even gave the Catalyst Pants a low-rise waist for added style when you head into town for a post-trail meal.

OK, don't wear the Catalyst pants unless you're trying to catalyze a fashion emergency. And, if the comfort wins you over, don't you dare trot into town with those sure-to-ride up and make your thong feel permanently embedded pants.

This warning brought to you by the Coalition Against Cruelty to Fashion.

Tiny Dancer

He's 5'7". I thought he was 5'8". Why does God hate me? OK, just kidding, Allah. But give me a freaking break. OK, I can deal with this. I just won't wear heels..ever..again. Yeah, this isn't going to work out.

I have about ten bottles of wine left over from my Dinner Experiment and my roommate and I just tore into one. I have no tolerance for alcohol. But you already knew this, yes? They had a "holiday party" in our building's lobby tonight. Bryant Gumbel and Montel Williams who live here didn't come. Shocker. I thought the kosher food table featuring wilted lettuce and cold cuts alone would have lured them downstairs. Instead of getting a buzz from the cheap wine, we opted to take the party to our apartment upstairs and now... I'm drunk blogging again.

This whole thing with Boston is weird. I need to take a step back. No, actually, I need to sit, lie down. Yes, sleep would be good. This wine is good. Argentinians know good wine. Democracy, they haven't completely mastered, but debauchery, yes they have that all figured out. Salud!

Full Steam Ahead

I am so bloody tired. Why? Because Boston and I have no self-restraint and, quite possibly, no self-preservation skills either. He called me last night before I went to bed. Correction: before I thought I was going to bed. We talked for five hours. That's so high school. I've often wondered how people could talk for that long. I mean what could you possibly say that would justify 300 minutes of talk time? Nothing. And that's what it was, much ado about nothing. OK, that Shakespearan reference doesn't actually apply but my point, and I do have one, is that we can talk about anything and nothing. One minute we were discussing how the internet is curtailing film distribution profits, the next why In&Out Burger rocks but has service slow enough to make their name ironic.

My friend suggested giving Boston another alias, "HBG" for Hot Boston Guy but I thought that might be confusing for all parties involved. This could end very badly. Not only have both of us thrown caution to the wind, we've given it a serious beating before doing so. And when I reminded him of this, his response was, "I'm not even at my optimum performance level (because he's sick). Can you imagine what will happen when I'm 'on'? At least YOU have something to look forward to." He went on to clarify this by telling me that while I was in the "what you see is what you get" mode, the truly magnetic aspect of his persona, if you will (or won't, see if I care), was yet to be fully realized by the love pariah.

My girlfriend was trepidatious, "Don't go from 0 to 60 with Mr. LA, whomever he is, try and hold back a little," she pleaded. I bristled. Sure thing. Let me just give myself a personality transplant overnight. But this could end badly, did I mention that? It's possible that he could be really cheap which is a huge turn-off or rude to strangers which is another deal-breaker even though I called a woman a whore once for taking the last turkey and brie sandwich at Hale and Hearty. What? I said it under my breath and her super-sonar hearing picked it up. And, yeah, it was way over the top but it was one of those, "Did I say that out loud?" moments. My girlfriend was horrified, "Get a grip, it's a sandwich," she reminded me. But I can't handle this type of behavior in others... at all. There's basically a whole host of problems that could manifest themselves when we meet in person. The height thing for instance. He's 5'8", 2 out of 3 aint't bad but why do we always have to forego the tall in exchange of the dark and handsome? And let's not forget the most important obstacle in this budding romance, I'm crazy.

The shallow end of the pool

So one of my clients, sort of, are the purveyors of this website. I would venture to say that the collective IQ of its membership is equivalent to the Tri Delt pledge class at LSU, i.e. not too high.
Here's their concept:

Attractive, fit singles like you deserve an above average dating pool and the leading online dating sites just don’t meet that standard. Online dating sites are a great way to meet that future soul mate - much better than trying to make a connection at a bar or club (because most of our members are pole-dancing or waiting on you). Yet, on most leading dating sites, it simply takes too long to sift through the swarm of photos, e-mails, and teases to find a compatible match. (TEASES? I'm unfamiliar with virtual sex teases or prudes for that matter)

That’s where HotEnough.org comes in. We’re filling that long-standing void in the online dating industry. With our selective screening and voting process, you know from the start that our members will be much more compatible to your taste. (If Pamela Anderson's breasts and not her brains or lack thereof are what you're looking for.) As a HotEnough member, you get full access to our attractive clientele (superficially speaking of course).

I'm so glad the intellectually-challenged have a place to go where they can feel superior. If I sound bitter it's because I've been dumped for a stripper- TWICE! I simply couldn't compete with the whole Sugar Mama thing their lucrative profession allowed them to become for the Navy pilots I unwittingly dated. I'm not averse to joining, but they need a "full body shot" and I'll have to go hunt that one down. I believe my girls alone (yes, they're real, thank you) would warrant my entry but who knows.

http://hotenough.org/

Am I "in like"?

So last night I didn't get to bed until close to 5a.m. It wasn't because I was out partying. On the contrary, I got home at a fairly decent hour, close to midnight after finally seeing Borat. It was funny but the image of Borat fighting with his 300-lb producer in the nude is forever seared into my psyche. Then my friend and I went to Tower Records at Lincoln Center that's closing. Yes, very sad for them but their CD's and DVD's were dirt cheap! Still on my high from the bargain basement prices I had scored, I logged onto my computer and went to a site I peruse occasionally. It's a "networking" site for Muslim professionals. I'm sure it's front and center on the FBI's watch list but probably a waste of time for them given what actually transpires which is a lot of blow hards ranting about the Patriot Act and clique-ish "testimonials" left for various members. I have a challenge question before anyone can contact me. It's very basic: who were the reporters who broke the Watergate story? Yet it's been effective in shielding me from ignorant guys who are simply attracted to my picture.

Last night, I was checking the various emails sent by potential suitors or equally bored losers trolling the internet and was bombarded with a slew of chat requests. I was bored and kind of missed the male banter that occasionally ensues over IM so I accepted an invitation to "chat." I started talking to some guy who lived in New Jersey and another pinged. OK, I can juggle two conversations at once. Then another...PING and another! Was there a nude picture on my profile I wasn't aware of? Let's just be real for a second. I'm not unattractive, self-deprecating-yes, but I have been described as "hot" so this wasn't a complete anomaly. However, it's been months since I've been hit on which has been a bit demoralizing. Even at last week's Christmas party, the only person who expressed an interest was the head of the mail room and I was subsequently informed that he's married. So needless to say, I was enjoying the attention.

But like so many of my forays into the virtual or actual meat markets, it wasn't long before things got out of hand. At one point, I was talking to 8 guys at once while declining incoming chat requests. I don't know, it was weird. And it wasn't that intellectually stimulating as most of them were asking inane questions like, "If you were stranded on a desert island and you could have only one person with you, who would it be?" Why don't you just ask me what kind of tree I would be? LAME.

Then this guy from Boston pops up. I have the option to examine his profile before I decide whether to bring him into this exercise in self-esteem. Under occupation, he lists "filmmaker." I'm suspicious. Anyone with a camcorder can declare themselves a filmmaker. I've done one documentary and had people call me that which is kind of a stretch. But he was really cute and this wasn't one of those fluke pictures where he had a really good day and was lit right on the money. He had like six pictures and he was cute in every single one. So we started the conversation like this:
Boston: Hey
ME: Hello, trouble
Boston: Me? Or are you projecting?
Nice. At the outset of our online conversation, I was a bit distracted. After all, I was juggling 7 other less interesting conversations. But being the eternal pessimist, I didn't want to put all my eggs in this one basket. He was intuitive.
Boston: You seem distracted.
ME: I have a secret
Boston: share
ME: I've got 8 chats open right now.
He was impressed and not just with the flurry of male attention I had apparently attracted. He googled me and said, "You're on a website called CNN Babes." I fucking love the genius who came up with that website. It wasn't the most professional looking page I had seen on the internet but it always made for good google when you plugged in my name. I pretended to be over it. "That's sooo embarrassing," I lied. For his part, he was clever and intelligent. And he made me LOL. He made me LOL a lot. Is the whole LOL starting to grate on you? Because my roommate hates it when I use it. She prefers "Ha ha" or "Heheh" which I think is just pedestrian. A googling of Boston proved that he was in fact a filmmaker and a pretty accomplished one at that. We actually had a lot in common.

He kept my attention long enough to force the other chatters to shut down based on my slow coming responses. I told him of his victory and he was quite pleased with himself. We ended up talking until 4:45a.m. But ever the love pariah, I was soon dismayed to learn that my hot, witty new friend was moving to LA... TODAY. I know. It sucks. But all is not lost. When he learned that I would be in Vegas on Friday night, he suggested we meet then. So, he's flying from LA to Vegas to meet moi. And, lest you wonder if he's really all that given my earlier accounts of my hotness meter needing to be re calibrated, please note: my incredibly discerning roommate agreed. I was afraid to show her his pics because I had been recently berated for my taste but she conceded that he was definitely a "hottie" and definitely worth risking being murdered and stuffed into a suitcase. Actually, Gladys is going to be joining us for dinner until I give her the heave ho. Gladys is dismayed at her pseudonym but she has been informed that she'll deal with her "fat girl name" as penance for her lack of discretion at the Christmas party.

I had wondered if a combination of insomnia and boredom had led to my long conversation with Boston and if, in the light of day, the spell would be broken. But he called me today and we talked for two hours while he packed. I gave him way too much information about myself which is what I do when I start to like someone. I put all my cards on the table and encourage them to run for the hills. "Give him a chance to get to know you before you shove all your baggage out the door," my therapist will plead. But I'm just not wired that way. Boston likes that. "You don't seem judgmental and narrow-minded like so many girls I meet," he said. But after the diarrhea of the mouth, I became pensive. "Did you have to tell him about Mo?" I chastised myself. (Mo, in case you forgot, was the dentist I dated for two years who would always tell people he was a "doctor" and had the big hairy mole on his shoulder. I broke up with him when he finally decided to introduce me to his parents last July. Whatever, he was a terrible kisser on top of his other issues.) But instead of being scared away, Boston seemed intrigued. "How you doin' over there?" he asked as my babbling came to an abrupt end. "I'm feeling a little overexposed," I admitted. I would love to paste the conversation we had so you can see how cool he is but I think I've learned my lesson. Basically, he took my crazy and raised me neurotic. So maybe we're both crazy but the point is that he's hot and smart and funny and I think I'm in like. I think he likes me, too, because he called me from the airport while I was out jogging today. And then he called me again during his layover. But it's not weird, stalker-like calling because I enjoy talking to him. SPOILER ALERT: this is how things started with the lazy-eyed guy who also made me laugh and feel comfortable only to kick me to the curb in the most unceremonious fashion. Let's hope I can stay in the driver's seat this time.

Ahead of his time?

One of my girlfriends sent me this pic along with the following message:

these are on the current banana site!!! white jeans are still in..hey, maybe he was ahead of his time.
love,
a
And while that made me laugh out loud, the description of the ad was even more amusing if not misguided:
Right in sync with the freshness of the season with a slightly slimmer, straighter cut in premium-grade white denim.
Traditional five-pocket styling.
Signature logo gunmetal buttons and rivets. White premium straight-leg jean
Available in Tall

Really? "Available in TALL?" This would have posed a problem with the hobbit suitor I had mentioned in a previous post. But I'm only happy to share the amusement inspired by my friend's intrepid fashion reporting. I would also venture to say that Banana Republic got a really good deal on premium-grade white denim and is trying to pull it over our eyes. Do not be fooled, men.

Bar None

Right now I have alcoholic vapors emanating from my pores. I haven't been home since yesterday morning. No wonder my phone is dying. Anyway, last night was the office Christmas party. Still hungover from Wednesday, I had decided that I would skip the festivities in favor of a quiet night watching "Grey's Anatomy." But at the eleventh hour, I rallied, threw on the requisite amount of make up necessary to mask the overall feeling-like-shit appearance my coworkers (at the broadcast PR firm) had commented on all day.

Bad move. There was not only an open bar but wait staff circulating with all sorts of alcoholic concoctions making it difficult to keep tally of my drinks and, consequently, my sobriety. Seeing HPG was oddly awkward and I can only attribute this to a series of passive-aggressive emails that had transpired in the days preceding this event. For some reason, our mutual decision to be friends was completely lost on me given that he was a.) offering to set me up- not cool and b.) I'm just annoyed by the whole thing in general. The other issue was Howard with whom I had started a flirtatious text play that was going to end badly especially in light of the copious amounts of liquor at my disposal. And, I had a cold. The above mentioned factors combined to create the perfect storm of drunken mayhem.

My boss. Very sweet and very happy to see me but my attempt was to avoid her at all costs once I had downed my first sangria. My dangerously low tolerance and gravitation towards inappropriate remarks when buzzed (i.e. "I need to get laid") had taught me to steer clear of embarassing myself in front of the person who delved out my freelance assignments in perhaps the only newsroom left in America with any real integrity. Unfortunately, my friend whom we shall call Gladys as in Gladys Kravitz, the meddling neighbor from "Bewitched" had not learned the lesson about loose lips at work functions. Gladys is a very gifted and talented writer who early on recognized that I, too, was a great storyteller even if they were harrowing accounts of loves lost... or found, then told to get lost.

Several weeks ago, Gladys sent me an email telling me that she missed my "stories." I responded by giving her access to this blog. She was amused and shared it with her boyfriend, who was also entertained if not shocked by my candor. Fast forward to last night when her boyfriend who is a staffer at this network, cornered me and demanded, "Who's HPG?" Shit. I knew this day would come when a vague acronym would lend itself to an uncomfortable reveal. I told him that I would position myself in front of HPG and then step on his foot to single that he was behind me. This plan, when combined with liquor on both our parts, failed miserably. Apparently, subtlety is a trait we both lacked. And Gladys is no exception but I will get to her in a moment.

I did as I had promised but before I could stomp on his foot, he craned his neck around me, zeroed in on HPG like a sniper his target and declared, "He's not all that." Loudly. Fortunately, HPG was out of earshot but I'm sure it was obvious we were talking about him. Am I right, HPG? We all know you read this blog. But that was minor compared to what would transpire at the "after party." Why do we call it that? Let's call it what it is: the "I'm-too-drunk-to-go-home-and-have-lost-the-mental-capacity-to-cut-my-losses place." OK, after party is much more pithy.

I walk in and am first and foremost informed that the man on the make is no other than HPG. At this point, I'm too busy trying to figure out how to convince Howard I'm not as drunk as my latest texts reveal. (Me: R u up?/Howard: It's 8:30. R u OK?) Then, to my horror, Gladys decides to confront HPG. I'm not exactly sure about what was said because I was hiding behind her, she's 5'10", and praying that by some miracle the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I finally pulled a Clay Aiken and covered her mouth with my hand to stop the horror that was unfolding before me.
"What did you say?!" I asked after I had physically turned her to face away from HPG. This was beyond embarassing. I can't even find an adequate metaphor.
"I just asked why HPG thought he was too good for you," she responded with the confidence of a loyal friend who had just defended my honor. In reality, honor was the least of my problems at the moment. Not only was my blog being discussed openly but with HPG no less who already resents me for cutting and pasting our texts. What was his response, I wanted to know.
"He said I'm not and then I said, 'why are you pulling away?' and he said, 'because you're freaking me out'." Lovely.

Those Damn Italians

I was acually enjoying the global warming that provided for an unseasonably mild winter. Then old man winter decided to make a comeback with a vengeance. It's amazing how resourceful I become at using mass transit when I'm trying to avoid freezing my ass off. Today I had to get to The Times before my friend left for two weeks in Bombay. It wasn't so imperative that I see him off before his trip but he had my freaking ATM credit card. Ten blocks doesn't seem that far until you realize what arctic winds are. Mercifully, a bus pulled up as I walked out of work and I jumped on. "Do you stop at 43rd Street?," I asked the bus driver. "For you I will," he replied with a flirtatious smile. I'm so glad someone recognizes my importance.

After retreiving my credit card, I took the subway back to the office, stopping to get some desperately needed hangover food for lunch. For me, this is anything hot and greasy, much like some of the men I'm attracted to. I'd like to think that it's more the former than the latter in the men department, but my friends often grimace when they finally see who I deem "hot." My hotness meter is way off. Not only do I fail to recognize it in myself, I've been told that I'm way too generous in awarding others that title. Many of you may think this is a thinly veiled attempt to diss HPG. On the contrary, I suppose he technically retains his designation even if aspects of his personality have made him less appealing. But who really comes to mind is Luigi.

This guy was so hot... to me. He was a bartender I met when I was on a blind date. I walked over to the bar after meeting my date clearly dismayed at yet another reminder that I am indeed the love pariah. He was 6'1", olive skin and clearly took to the gym often enough to have the toned physique to prove it.
"Tell me you don't have a boyfriend," he said with such force that it threw me.
"Umm, no.. he's a blind date and I was hoping you could make me something to help numb my senses," I said.
He laughed revealing perfectly straight teeth. We talked long enough to make my date suspicious but not jealous. When I started to head back over to the pool table where my date had asked me to meet him and some of his I-banker friends, he offered me a shot on the house with a napkin that had a phone number.
"Call me," he said. "Or better yet, ditch your date, I'm off in an hour."
Too much a lady to diss my date even though he was devoid of any potential, I declined. "I think I'm going to cut my losses and head home," I said and then handed him my business card.

We dated for about two months during which time I gushed about the boy toy I had scored so effortlessly. My girlfriends finally met him one night when he caught up with us after a girls night out. "He's hot but he's a bartender slash real estate agent. You can't be serious," said one way-too-pragmatic friend.
"I didn't say he's Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now," I retorted defensively. What part of booty call had led these girls to believe I had met my soul mate?! But in the end, I was made painfully aware that his looks were God's way of compensating for his lack of intellectual fortitude. (If that's not really a term, don't tell me. I've also been awakened to the fact that I've been using SAT words and terms inappropriately lately. I'd like to blame it on sleep deprivation, stress and my overindulgence in alcohol.) Our short-lived romance came to a screeching halt when he called me from jail in Miami.

"Hey, babe, do you know any good lawyers in Florida?" he casually asked FROM A PAYPHONE IN JAIL!
"Why are you calling me collect?" I demanded still clueless that Einstein was incarcerated.
"Listen. I'm in jail, they found some coke when I was going through security at the airport." According to Luigi, he had an "empty baggy" with cocaine residue in his back pocket when he went through airport security, still drunker than an Irish man at a wake, and the drug dog started barking.
"I'm actually more disturbed that you were doing coke than I am that you're in jail," I said and I meant it. What the fuck? I knew he was a bit of a pot head but didn't think he had the inclination or disposable income for this kind of high jinx. He claimed he just needed a "bump" because he hadn't seen his boys in so long and they were partying so hard. Whatever, that was the end of my fling with the half Italian-half Colombian hottie who was more trouble than he was worth. Aren't they all?

Well said!

This is divine. A woman after my own heart. My favorite is: "I will not play it cool."
http://lifestyle.msn.com/Relationships/Dating/ArticleIV2.aspx?cp-documentid=1286684>1=8881&wa=wsignin1.0

Drunk Blogging

Sometimes it's necessary to blow off steam. I've accumulated enough this week to power a small locomotive. Tonight I went to a holiday party and had two drinks. That's all it takes for a light weight like me. Two kettel one and cranberries and I was well on my way to becoming an a-hole. Upon my arrival, I was greeted with the good news that I had been elected to the board which I was actually sweating prior to my mom's lump. That scare has pretty much knocked everything off my radar.

I met a really hot guy who was dressed to the nines, half Parisian and half Italian, "Bon soir, monsieur" but after talking to him for 20 minutes, I realized that his looks were inversely proportional to his intellect. I'm too blitzed to remember what they were, but he kept using words that didn't exist as if he were a pimp on the Jerry Springer Show. "We were conversating about it before she took off with my money!" Something to that effect but much more subtle. Almost subtle enough for me to overlook given his hotness but, alas, I am a bit of a nerd when it comes to words.

I left my tab open and my credit card at the bar. Then I called one of my friends to retrieve it on my behalf so I wouldn't have to schlep back to the West Village. Tomorrow night, I'm going to another Christmas party. HPG will be there but he's mad at me right now. This is interesting. He's annoyed with me because he offered to set me up and I accused him of "pawning me off" on someone else. His response was, "I give up." So do I! It's one thing to reject someone but then to have the audacity to offer to set them up is just, well, it's kind of embarrassing, no? I mean I haven't done anything to warrant deflecting my attention. Granted, finding your texts recorded verbatim in a blog can be a tad disturbing but he went looking for that information then opted to share it with his friends. Friends who include coworkers so now I look like a really big jackass to several AP's and PA's at the office.

I just sent Howard an email. It said, "Where are you?" Here's another question: who cares?! Do I really want to open that can of worms, right now? The answer is no but my rational side fails miserably when pitted against the drunken lush who has a "just add alcohol" directive connected with activation of obnoxious behavior. I don't think I should drink. This is very unbecoming. Shit. Where's my credit card?

One lump or two?

Two. The one in my mother's breast has left me with a lump in my throat. I couldn't sleep last night and today at work every time someone would ask me what was wrong, my eyes brimmed with tears. I lost a childhood friend to breast cancer earlier this year. She was 33, married to her high school sweetheart with two adorable boys. I gave the eulogy at her funeral, I was pragmatic and together. I tried to convince her to record messages to her sons but she couldn't bring herself to do that because she wasn't a quitter and taping a good-bye was tantamount to throwing in the towel.

I'm not pragmatic now, I'm a mess. And I'm the only one who's a mess. My sister and grandmother who are with my mom are both slightly amused and surprised at my reaction. When I talked to my mom today, she shared their reaction. "What's wrong with my strong daughter?!" she demanded. "You're the one who's supposed to reassure me. Hello?" I couldn't talk, too busy trying to ebb the tide of tears. I can be pretty melodramatic at times, I get it from my mom. Whenever we would attempt to illustrate how a point she was making was inherently flawed, she would yell, "Stop ridiculing me!" I'll never forget the time I told her she was being '"condescending." I was 16 and serious. "I'm your mother, I'm supposed to be," she retorted incredulously.

Work was busy today but I was justifiably preoccupied and prone to bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. I left my security pass upstairs when I ducked out to meet Howard for a cup of coffee and when the guard claimed he didn't recognize me (which is bullshit because Barney Fife totally knows who I am), I exploded. "Where's your supervisor?" I roared.
"I am the supervisor," he said.
"How pathetic is that?!" I responded before storming to the elevators. Seeing him again will most likely be a tad awkward.

I didn't intend on seeing Howard but he offered to meet me halfway between his office and mine for a cup of coffee. Had I known the two avenue walk would leave me with frozen toes, I might have stayed put but his email had been oddly comforting:
It is likely nothing but it is still scary.I had a lump on one of my testicles. Had to have a scan in summer.The only good bit of the whole thing was the black humour when he callibrated his ultrasound machine to "small objects"!
It was rough but the relief when I got the all clear was worth it!

The lump is small and could be a myriad of things. My friends who are doctors have all rallied to pull whatever strings necessary to get her the requisite tests. Everyone else is optimistic. I am too but won't be able to get any real rest until we get the all clear. Then I'll finally be able to breath a sigh of relief.

Parental Guidance

I love my mother. She is an amazing, wonderful, eternally optimistic woman. But, like many mothers who are desperately seeking a son-in-law, her matchmaking skills suck. Tonight I got a call from a guy who was given my number by my mother. I was told that he was divorced, too! This news was delivered with as much excitement and promise as if we had both visited the same African village in an effort to find ourselves.

"And," my mother gushed with just enough pause (for anyone who didn't know better) to think she was going to say he won the Pulitzer or, even better, was a George Clooney look alike. "He went to school here." Now by "here" my mother means in the United States but "school" could mean college or grad school but never high school. To think that my family had uncovered an American-raised prospect for me would be giving them credit for understanding what a "cultural disconnect" is. As far as they're concerned, I'm a big snob with an ego that could fill a football stadium.

When a 5'4" cardiologist showed up at my house wearing white jeans and my sister couldn't even deliver the description as I put on my Eastern garb for the big reveal without crying because she was laughing so hard, my dad told me I was too picky. "Any man who marries you will commit suicide," he deadpanned. Pun intended. But he wasn't joking and for years, I kept thinking I would be another Joan Rivers, coming home to find that my hubby had kicked the chair out from under him. That was then, this is now. Now, my parents not so subtly suggest that I'm not getting any younger and "beggars can't be choosers." WHO'S BEGGING?!

I am. I'm begging them to stop with the email forwards containing glamour shots ("The red velvet jacket looks fantastic, Mr. Choudhrey!") and bio data. Ugh, I don't care if he was at the top of his class in Karachi. So tonight this guy calls me and I can't even remember his freaking name but he's like, "Did you know someone from Atlanta would be calling you?"
"Umm, I thought someone from Chicago was calling me," I admitted. How many men had my mother given my cell number to? Is there an online graffiti board for desperate mothers with old maids as first daughters?
He laughed, "Well, maybe he will but it's me for now." OK, so far so good. This guy has a personality. Let's hope he just has one. Then he started talking and boy was he chatty. First he asked me about my trip to Paris and then spent about ten minutes explaining why it didn't matter if I wasn't caught up with how romantic the city was because the history and architecture I said I focused on instead was what really made it so romantic. Good point, I generously offered. I need a manicure. He kept talking and talking and, "That's where I put that book!" I thought to myself as I walked around my bedroom hoping this painful exercise in first exploratory conversations was winding down.

"You sound really tired," he said suddenly. How does he know what I sound like? I haven't been able to get a word in edgewise. I took the bait. "Yes," I yawned while saying, "It's been a long day." My mom hates it when I yawn-talk which I do frequently and usually when I'm talking to her. It must be a psychosomatic thing. OK, he said and then kept talking. He worked in IT, ooh how very F.O.B. of you! "But," he offered, "I'm really passionate about cars and would like to own my own dealership someday. Probably after I get green card." Cue needle scratching record player here. And. We're done.

Now I get to call my mom and tell her why this guy won't work out. Then, she'll tell me why all of my reasons are dumb and lecture me on making room in my life for love. Perfect. Because that's why I'm the love pariah, eligible men keep lining up to be rejected by me. That's it. And I wave them off because of all the great sex I'm not having with, oh that's right, NO ONE!

I'm touched

So many of you seem outraged at the idea of my early retirement. It's so earnest and sweet, my sardonic self keeps wondering if it's a big put-on. "Go on... no really, go on."
In addition to the comments posted here, I received a string of emails from friends who thought it was ridiculous that the threat of losing my anonymity would push me into the fringes of society. In other words, joining the ranks of the normal people who don't feel compelled to share their life via a blog.

I may be hitting the road again for work anyway, possibly limiting how much time I can allow my musings to take center stage. The break from all the travel has been a bit of a relief and I was looking forward to actually spending the last few weeks of 2006 in New York. I find out in a couple of days what exciting place I'll see next. Ann Arbor? I hear Fargo's nice this time of year. If it's the latter, I'll have to feign illness to keep from being shipped off to the Siberia of the western hemisphere. Actually, we never go to Fargo for anything. I've never heard of anyone, except a foreign medical grad, going to Fargo. God love him, that guy never knew what hit him. One minute he was headed to the "land of opportunity", the next he's seeing patients who are so accustomed to harsh winters they chuckle at frostbite, saying things like, "Go ahead and take that toe off, Doc. I've got nine more."

The ex-boyfriend is calling. He went to Tao for dinner and now wants me to meet him for coffee at his hotel. My first thought was, why the fuck did you go to Tao without me? Wouldn't an apology entail a nice dinner? Then I remembered what other lovely qualities he possessed in addition to his penchant for good wine, beer, rubbing alcohol... he's cheap! And apparently, that's a British export as well. I remember the time he lost his wallet in a New Orleans cab and missed his flight back to New York on the morning his father was travelling from Brussels to visit him. I got a panicked call pleading with me to pick him up at the airport or else the poor man would be lost. We were broken up at the time and the idea of being stuck in a cab to JFK on a beautiful Sunday wasn't a prospect I relished. "Fuck, Howard, do you really think he can't figure it out on his own?"
"No bloody chance, he's expecting me to pick him up and doesn't have a cell phone," he pleaded.
I relented. I was given this description: "He looks like my dad, you know an older version of me minus the devilishly handsome part." Great. I'm on the lookout for a man with an inflated sense of self-worth. Somehow, I found him and he was perturbed to say the least.
"That arse! I thought I raised him better than that. Probably got wankered, didn't he?" he demanded without any regard for the South Asian young woman who was clearly uncomfortable with everything his son had engineered to create her presence at this terminal on a beautiful freakin' Sunday!
"Umm, he lost his keys.." I stammered. This was beyond uncomfortable. We hailed a cab and got to Howard's apartment- a high rise in the date rape district, also known as Murray Hill where former frat boys abound. And Howard was so grateful for me sweeping in and rescuing his dear old dad that it took him three months to pay me back the $60 in cab fare. Nice. Maybe I won't be having coffee this evening.

The Dinner Experiment

Success! A triumph unrivaled by any other social enterprise I've ever attempted. Saturday's soiree was superb. An evening where wine and conversation flowed freely and, while domestic diva I am not, my hors d'oeuvres and cupcakes were a hit.

The concept I alluded to in a prior post was a dinner party where all the guests would be vetted by moi and selected based on a balanced boy-girl ratio. While I witnessed several crackberries whipped out to exchange information, I can't say definitively that there was a love connection. Unless you count what transpired between several guests and my super moist cupcakes. I'm being literal, how bout you get your mind out of the gutter, whack job?!

The ex-boyfriend who is evidence that I am indeed both a love pariah and a glutton for punishment has surfaced yet again. He moved back to London last year and finally checked himself into rehab. Hey, what did we say about being judgemental on this space? It's my job to judge, yours to vacillate between shock and awe. Anyhoo, he comes to New York every so often but I haven't seen him since our pathetic New Year's Eve. We toasted hot chocolate at his flat in London while he sulked about how much he had fucked up his life and made me feel like the IRS at a casino: not too welcomed. He was here for the marathon but after some suggestive emails admitted that he had gotten back together with Sara (I'd elaborate but I don't know either). Yesterday, he sent me a text informing me that Sara, like his drinking, was history and he wants to see me to "apologize."

For what? I don't want to bore you with the details of how a Brit conceals his alcoholism by maintaining its European to drink heavily at every meal including breakfast. I mean we've all seen the movies, it's just like that except most people probably catch on sooner than I did. When his benders would cause him to inexplicably disappear for hours, sometimes days on end, I convinced myself he was simply afraid of commitment. On several occasions, I suspected something was remiss ("Aww, he's drinking my Gatorade out of a glass, how civilized"..2 hours later..."where's my gin?") but my girlfriends said, "He's not an alcoholic, he's just British." Wrong again, girls. So he's in town and he's kind of a mess but still sober and wants to tell me he's sorry for all the crap he's put me through. I'm trying to steer clear in an effort to maintain some semblance of peace and quiet in my life but I've been told that I'm only happy when it rains. And, well, he is the rainmaker and the Love Pariah has been in the throes of a drought.

The Love Pariah Ponders Early Retirement

What started out as a guilty pleasure, poured out in blog-form for the like-minded girlfriends who have told me for years that I "should write a book!" has turned into the bain of my existence as of late.

In the past three or four days, I have been bombarded with defensive, unjustified emails from people who have called my blog a "pity party", told me that my alarm at showing pictures of me was an overreaction to an innocuous gesture and then, perhaps the final straw, an email that reminded me that I'm in my thirties and yada, yada, yada, bottom line: people are going to figure it out. Really? How?

I don't understand why my assertion of my anonymity is being construed as a self-aggrandizing effort to put on airs. I am a journalist by profession. In other words, it's how I make a living and occasionally, I am in front of the camera doing it. Is it so hard to understand that I don't want people thinking the new freelancer doing a live shot for them is the infamous "Love Pariah?" And while it may seem counter intuitive to post a blog if my privacy is important to me, I didn't think it was a leap in logic that my friends, many of whom are reporters, would understand the need to keep who I am under wraps. Instead, I'm the bitch who can't get a grip. How the hell did that happen?

She's 'happy', now leave her alone!

I'm happy. Stop asking if I'm happy. In the absence of male distractions, I have been spending a lot of time with me, myself, and I. I like them. All of me. I may be a spitfire, but I'm also fun and generous and I care about my friends, perhaps too much sometimes. So even though it may sound like I think I'm a martyr, I know I'm not. I'm not with Mo because I didn't love him. He didn't stimulate me intellectually or physically and I wasn't willing to settle no matter how much love and money he threw at me. And that's what he did, he flung his love at me without any regard for whether I was ready, willing or able to accept. Consequently, I would often get knocked in the head with an "I love you so much it hurts" when I was least expecting it. This after I had been accused of flirting with the waiter or some other ludicrous notion he had.

And the lop-sided former friend from an "unknown country" did break my heart because I allowed myself to feel vulnerable and let him in. I thought I was being brave when in fact, I was being blindly foolish. So, yeah, there have been some bumps in the road, but life's a journey and I'm enjoying it for the most part. You ride out the waves of loneliness when they come but most of the time, you're too busy living your life to feel anything but the occasional self-satisfaction of being true to yourself. And that's what no man can ever take, my integrity to myself.

Unknown Country

Hey, do you really think if you conceal your ISP after I outed your lazy-eye that I'm not going to conclude it's you? All of a sudden, I'm seeing several views that are conspicuously labeled "unknown country." Hmmm, wonder who that is? Could it be, oh, I don't know, let's see... SATAN?! lol. Couldn't resist, as I began channeling the church lady. Get a life, nothing to see here besides the occasional rants of a jaded woman (lately inspired by you).
Drive-thru please.

"I am going away to an unknown country, where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart." Colette

Infidels...

If seeing is believing and you can only ascertain the full picture of the Love Pariah by knowing who I am or what I look like, then by all means, Don't Believe! And Don't Read! And friends, stop telling people who the fuck I am! What part of "secret blog" didn't you get?!

This message was brought to you by the PMS Coalition, helping women vent and preventing homicides worldwide.