terror is stronger than horror, though it usually lasts for a shorter time

So a bit obsessed with my own blog and curious to see who else is, I went on my sitemeter today and made a terrifying discovery. The man whose blatant rejection inspired one of the first entries has been reading. I have no fucking idea how he found it, why he found it and why he's a loyal reader. Well, the last one I can only assume is morbid curiousity. But, what the fuck? How did you even know I had a blog, you weirdo!

I don't know what would possess someone to seek out the rants of a woman they dismissed for being neurotic and needy. That's all this blog is. Why? HOW?! First my blood ran cold, then as I began regaining feeling in my face (is that the Topamax?), I felt a bit guilty for describing him as "lazy-eyed." To be honest, I never saw his so-called lazy-eye, this was something he said he suspected but found too maddening to confirm. As for the fact that one leg was shorter than the other, this was evident in his gait. And calling him a midget, that was just because I was bitter. I mean AM bitter. You are a wanker without a spine- a spineless wanker. And a tosser! My ire requires British insults. How do you conspire (I realize a conspiracy needs more than one person but in this case I'm referring to Mr.Hyde who lurks beneath) to cross the line with your friend, repeatedly blow her off, cancel the plans for a budding romance and then... I'm on a roll, when she has a heart big enough to forgive you and resume a platonic friendship, shut her out completely- AGAIN?!

And since I have your attention, you should know that the second time I went on holiday with two boys, it was actually fun. They didn't sneak off and get high or drop me off at the restaurant to wait 25 minutes for a table by myself while they jacked off or did whatever with each other in the car. They had FUN! Ironic considering, they're about five years younger than you and your "best friend" but are light years ahead in terms of both chivalry and emotional growth. Jackhole!

I need a cigarette. But I don't smoke. Then what's that coming out of my ears?

Let me tell you one thing, only..

That's how so many sentences that came out of one of my beloved travel companions would begin. "Let me tell you one thing- you must wake up or we will see the Louvre 2000 without you." Now imagine that being said with the utmost earnestness in a thick Indian accent and you'll understand why my entire trip to Paris was spent doubled over in laughter.

At the risk of copyright infringement, I must, MUST, share the email from one of the guys I went to Paris with. This was his response after being granted access to my blog. He, like HPG, was threatening to go mining the internet for it so I thought I'd spare him the trouble. Anyway, this is Louvre 2000's reaction to the Love Pariah after having spent 5 days and nights with her in gay Parhee:

Well -- our Internet has been down for a few hours (not a good thing for a newspaper that wants to occasionally maybe publish online), so I just read it. Let me tell you more than one thing.

1) It was not a brothel!

2) Traveling with a girly was a nice idea, and I guess you get credit for that. We would've bored each other staring at guidebooks the whole time, or perhaps him staring at a guidebook while I tripped over something, and we would've ended up in a tiny hotel room where I might've smothered him to death for the snoring. He's a wonderful person and I'd give him my spare kidney if he ever needed one, but I owe you for being the one to sleep by him.

3) I haven't really read through the other stuff, but with a quick glance I see (a) a photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea) and (b) a picture of a barely clothed woman. How oh how could you complain about walking by Moulin Rouge? (And we weren't actually planning to go to the Louvre 2000 that day, madame.)

4) This is a really damn fine blog and I'm looking forward to reading more of it when I'm done with dinner.

5) I will not divulge it to anyone, even (3rd traveler's name omitted here). Secrets are always safe with me.

6) It wasn't a fucking brothel!

7) I hope you feel better from the flu-like symptoms.

Thank you, Louvre 2000. Yes, that is your code name on the Love Pariah's blog, deal with it. A couple of points of clarification. Our "junior suite", as it was so generously described online when we were booking it, technically had three beds. One queen size bed, with a twin bed across from it, and another twin bed upstairs in a loft fit for a hobbit. The first couple of nights, I awoke in sheer horror because I thought our travel companion was asphyxiating in his sleep. His snoring had segued from a lawn-mower to a loud wheezing that sounded like he was gasping for his last breath. By the third night, I was tired of trying to avoid touching the grimy wall my bed was fit snugly against and I decided to sleep in the real bed occupied by the lawnmower. I pushed my earplugs to dangerous depths in my ear canals and put on an eye mask. The wheezing was muted enough to resemble the faint whir of a loud generator.

Second point of clarification: "photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea)". Louvre 2000 had a penchant for taking photos of everything. Never was this more evident than when he would whip out the camera before we dove into whatever food we had ordered. Good or bad, Louvre 2000 was poised and ready to document the culinary experience.

And finally, the "Short Bus" was a movie poster I had to document to show Americans that riding the short bus isn't always a bad thing.

Voila!

Voila! In English, we use this word sparingly. It usually precedes a big reveal. You asked for a home makeover- voila! Your newly-decorated abode awaits. In Paris, this word is used more often and with less emphasis. It was a bit disconcerting when I was at a boutique and asked if they had my size in something.

The snooty clerk surprised me as she showed me where by saying, "Voila." Clearly, for Parisians, voila is the equivalent of "here" as in "here it is."

That's all I got. I'm fighting flu-like symptoms and trying to defy my carb-cravings. This makes for a dull love pariah. I should be a stress grenade given my upcoming dinner party for 16 people. Calm down. If you weren't invited it's either because, A. I don't know you and object to you reading my blog anyway, or B. you are not single.

That's right, it's a party for eligible singletons only so we can "network, circulate, socialize" and any other euphemisms for "desperately seeking partner to spare us from future social engagements restricted to sad singles." It will be fun, no doubt, because it's at mine... but I've only invited compatible partners for my friends, working diligently to balance the guest list so there are attractive options for both genders. However, in my selfless endeavor, I neglected to consider if there will be anyone for me. I'm hoping that if a union does come from my little dinner experiment, the newly-coupled singletons will feel charitable and set me up with someone perhaps outside of my existing social circle.

In the meantime, I'm fending off suitors thrust into my email inbox from

my mother and grandmother.

"He's not handsome, handsome, but he's good-looking."

I don't even want to know what that means. No doubt a frog who morphs into a troll instead of a prince with my luck. Voila! Your gnome awaits...

Cabin fever

If my trip to Paris was a dream, then the voyage home was a nightmare. My sister had given me explicit instructions on how to get reimbursed for the European taxes I was charged during my short but expensive shopping spree. I was only too happy to jump through whatever hoops necessary to get my tax dollars back. After all, why should I pay for Europeans to have health care when I don't pay for my own?

I get to Air France only to learn that there are no more seats in Business class- fine. There are no more window seats- fine. I get my boarding pass and an aisle seat assignment and head to the booth marked "Detax." The angry French man tells me that I have to produce the goods I purchased to get my refund. Merde! I just checked my bags. I go back and the Air France people attempt to retreive my bag but no go. Defeated, I head towards my gate to board. That's when I realized the "detax" was the least of my worries.

I make it to my row and stare in disbelief at what fate and the Air France personnel have conspired to do. I have a middle seat in a row that does not recline, next to a cluster of lavatories. Dear God. I look at the guy sitting in the window seat, "They've got to be kidding."

He laughs. "I know. They screwed me, too," he says in a Texas accent. He's big and burly and looks very out of place on a flight from Paris to New York. I call the head purser, "This won't do. In fact, I can't believe you don't warn people before you assign them this seat."

The flight attendant looks confused.

"I'm in a middle seat in a row that doesn't recline on an 8 hour flight- that's unacceptable."

"But mademoiselle, the flight is full and you're boarding card says you were the 238th person to check in." How does she know that? I take the boarding card and look at it, so that's what that number means.

"You can't seriously expect someone to sit confined in an upright position for 8 hours. I mean, unless, I got my ticket at a reduced rate because of the horrible seat I was in or if I was stand-by. I'll take the next flight but I won't- I can't sit here." I know I was being a bitch but whatever- the French are always bitchy and this was a travesty of something. I know airline comfort is an oxymoron but this was-

"I have spoken to the Captain and he says you may disembark but you must do so quickly."

"What about my bags?"

"We cannot guarantee when they will arrive," she replied matter-of-factly as if I had just asked if we were having fish or chicken for dinner. So faced with the option of parting with my bags for an indefinite period of time and languishing at the Charled de Gaulle airport for even longer, I opted to take my seat.

"I'm glad you gave them Hell," said the Burly Texan who did turn out to be from Austin and was travelling on business as he did private security work for dignitaries.

Now my whole back is knotted like a pretzel and I can't afford a desperately needed massage.

***As I had feared, random people are reading my blog now. People I don't know who live in strange places. Fine. I'm a blogger, I guess. But they're leaving dumb comments like, "Who is Josephine Baker?" You're online, jackass, GOOGLE her!

Ou'est Josephine Baker

I'm leaving gay Parhee in a matter of hours. It has been an amazing trip from start to finish although, as if on cue, this morning I woke up with a terrible sore throat. At least my health waited until my iminent departure to decline.
My last day was lovely, spent ruminating about Paris, its history, architecture, and class conflicts. My friend served as an excellent source of all this information not to mention where to score the best bloody Bloody Mary. It was an insider's view of Paris. He took me to a cemetary which sounds morbid and it was but it was also very cool. My friend and I were both journalism majors in college with an emphasis in broadcast news. When we graduated, I went to CNN and he to The New York Times to participate in what was being called the advent of the "Digital Age" and those of us who knew better regarded as a sadly doomed venture. Ten some odd years later, he travels to places like Cambodia to free sex slaves and Darfur to chronicle the "next Rwanda." loser. Anyway, he's like a big brother, always trying to push me to live up to my potential, become the foreign correspondent I was destined to be or at least pick up and read something non-fiction. As we wandered through the cemetary, he attempted to point out famous Parisians buried there and all I could say was, "Ou'est Josephine Baker?!"

Upon my return, I must first get off topamax for it failed miserably as an apetite suppressant and secondly go on a crash diet. From afar, the plan is to give up everything white, all carbs, creams, and carbs! Off with their heads, those pesky carbs! LET THEM EAT CAKE, for I will abstain and become the true news vixen I once was. Sigh... I can already tell that up close my fragile will give way to the first carb craving that rears its ugly head. Must find a man who appreciates the Renaissance woman, a modern Venus di Milo with fashion sense. That way, he'll complain about my love handles being too thin and insist on feeding me carbs to plumpen me up. Will temporarily enjoy this reverie until reality jolts me awake.

Flying Solo

My male companions and I parted ways this morning. They called it going back to work, I called it abandoning me just like every other man has and WILL!
Nonplussed, I quickly replaced the two print reporters with one super media reporter, my old college buddy who also works for the New York Times but is based in Paris. However, before meeting up with him, I took advantage of the now missing male obstacles that had heretofore prevented me from shopping freely. First, I hit a few boutiques in Marais but soon realized that time was of the essence and if I was to spend any time with my friend and check one more locale on my must-see list, I would have to expedite the process of Parisian purchasing. Mango. My girlfriends had schooled me on this fashion triumph where high-end styles were available at "accessible prices."
When I'm shopping alone, I have a constant internal dialogue going. Here's what it sounded like today.
"Holy MOTHER of God- this coat was made for you!"
"No they don't. They don't have the most awesome white overcoat. Fuck off. That is not only 94 euros. If you don't buy this, you don't deserve to live."
I know it sounds harsh, but when I'm really surprised or excited, I lack the creativity or inclination to use proper vocabulary, choosing instead to curse like a sailor.
This is how the next hour went until I was overloaded with two wool overcoats, one black and one cream, both GORGEOUS, and a chic sweater, pull-over, blouse thingy. Then, they gave me two pairs of sunglasses for free because I spent so much money.
I fucking love this city.

postcards from the edge

Bonjour! Have decided that I must find a way to spend at least a year living and working in Parhee! I have ducked into an iternet cafe just long enough to ease your withdrawal symptoms but am having considerable difficulty typing on this french keyboard.
Quick update: travelling with boys is sooo much more fun than any gal trip I have ever taken. I havent had a chance to shop because everyti,e we pass a boutique and my eyes widen, theyll say; you have 90 seconds. Its OK because Im still on a high from the Dolce and Gabbana corduroy fatigued jeans I found for 80 euros my first night here.
I almost bought a chiffon top for 169 euro yesterday but my uber practical male compânions wouldnt hear of it. "For that price you could purchase a small Cambodian child to sew one for you."
Last night we went to a fab restaurant with a group of Europeans (friends of friend who has been our evening acitivities director) and overdosed on wine and fondue. I dont want to see or hear the word fromage (cheese) for a good 24 hours. The Europeans were in awe of my sarcasm. They said they had never met an American who could get sarcasm much less delve it out so deftly. "I don't know what you mean," I deadpanned.
OK off to see the Louvre! We should hqve seen it yesterday but my friend insisted we go to a whore house instead, "It's the Moulin Rouge, it's not a brothel," he said. Then we get there and there's all these pictures of nude women dancing on stage, oh yeah, this is sooo much more high brow. So we put off seeing Louvre for whores, but we qre in France, c'est la vie.
gotta run, one last thing before I forget. this is punctuated all wrong!
my sister taught me how to say "ill have the same" when ordering after my firend provided I WILL have the same but she didnt spell it phonetically so I might as well be speaking ebonics. People have literally laughed in my face, "Stupeed Americain."

Breaking and Entering

Is it just my building or does everyone's heater sound like someone is using a crow bar to break into their apartment? Every night this week, the loud pounding, grating and pathetic groans of the heating system would jolt me awake.
"Is it a burglar?!" I would wonder. "Is he single?"
And what's really ironic here is that I don't reside in a rent-stabilized, slum lord, tenement on the lower East side. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I live in a freaking Trump building. Donald needs to spend a little less time on his doomed clothing line and worry about our heating pipes.

I didn't get much sleep because of that. When the symphony of alarms I had orchestrated went off this morning, I seriously considered calling in sick. Then I realized today's assignment would pay for my plane ticket to Paris. So functioning on little sleep and my head swimming with missed wardrobe opportunities still in my closet instead of my suitcase, I made my way in to the company where I'm working this week. I love these guys but their clients are PR firms. I hate PR and I hate PR girls. They are all former "MRS" majors from college who live on the Upper East Side and work for peanuts because daddy subsidizes their income. They are sooo annoying. They manage to combine just enough ignorance and arrogance to make you want to crawl through the phone line on a conference call and knock their nose job back to high school. But this firm, the only one where I have ever whored myself out and actually enjoyed it, is different. They play the game but don't drink the company kool-aid. At least not my bosses who sarcastically yell, "Nice of you to finally fucking show up!" to each other one second and laugh about the client who had a meltdown over something as earth-shattering as the world's largest latte missing the mark the next. I do voice-over work here and this week actually recorded a fake breaking news segment for a corporate client. No, I didn't feel dirty because the "anchor" on last year's "crisis communication" version is currently a reporter at WABC and it will never air... I hope.

I digress, a lot. But you seem to enjoy the meanderings, me thinks. So moving slowly but deliberately towards work this morning, I ducked into a Starbuck's for a caffeine fix. The line coiled through the store. How is it that a city full of commitment-phobes is so loyal to a chain? So I decided to buck the system and go to a less prominent Starbuck's across the street. This one was much smaller, tucked between The Late Show studios and the theater showing The Color Purple. Damn. Another line, someone had leaked the clandestine location.

Coffee in hand, I finally show up at work only to have my friend Larry do a double-take when he sees me in my new Prada glasses. "Are you impressed or afraid?" I demanded.
"It's a little severe," he said without missing a beat, Larry doesn't give a shit if he hurts my feelings because, like many men I meet, he assumes I've always been treated like a princess and could use some "tough love."
"I was hoping for sexy librarian," I confessed. Oh well.

HPG says he's "addicted" to the blog and will soon be weighing in with comments. Can't wait. It's not enough that he rejected the love pariah by casting her aside like yesterday's sports page but now he has to try to one up me on my own blog. Cruel HPG.

Tarter is a Non-starter

My trip to McDonald's has had a domino effect. No asian chicken salad meant I didn't get the healthy start to my evening. I was hoping to have a carb-councious meal and then hit the gym downstairs. The extent of my laziness is beyond belief at the moment. Did I mention the gym is in the building? I had a 400 calorie filet o'fish and haven't left my couch for hours. I mean four hours. I have a to-do list before I get on my plane to Paris tomorrow night.

I've limited myself to those items that can be accomplished without leaving my sofa. Change outgoing voicemail to say I'll be out of the country until November 28th- check. File auto-reply's on email accounts with activation time- I'll get to it. Pay bills online. I'll be back next week. OK, so far the only thing I've done is record an outgoing message for all the men who won't be wondering where I am. Everyone else knows I'll be in Paris with two men who have no romantic potential. The whole trip is a fluke really.

These two acquaintances, soon-to-be best guy friends, are on a journalism board with me. One is a business writer for the New York Times, ooohhh, fancy. And the other, a D.C.-based business reporter for The Dallas Morning News, holla. Then there's me. The high maintenance diva whose chosen medium is TV and who has never balanced a checkbook. When I found out they were going to Paris for Thanksigiving, I threatened to crash their boys' trip and they simply shrugged. Then they forwarded me their itineraries and extended a formal invitation. I guilted my mom into letting me skip the only American holiday we actually observe. "I always wanted to go to Paris on my honeymoon but who knows when that will be," I said.
"Oh, honey," my mom replied, sadly stepping right into my trap. "Go, have fun."

I'm not one to always do what my parents say but this time I think I'll make an exception. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Encore!

Tom foolery of late has given rise to questions, I'm not inclined to answer.. again. So at the risk of inflating HPG's ego more than I already have, I am re-posting an old post. This will shed some light on the high jinx that led to the mayhem that gave way to the drama that became the unfolding horror also known as my life.
Originally posted 'eons' ago, this is now what we refer to as "ancient history":

Apparently, I'm not the only love pariah. Of course I'm not! But what's surprising is how many women have created the same blog. (Sigh) I can't even bask in the creation of a neoteric blog because it's far from unique, it's cliche. As hard as I tried to be tragic, I was in fact constantly reminded of my good fortune with friends popping out of the woodwork to praise me for random things like my great shoes, choice of nail polish and cynical musings.

I had been sharing my plight with various coworkers who only knew me as the freelance field producer who flits in and out of the newsroom every several weeks. One of those colleagues, who will henceforth be known as hot printer guy, was the hot research assistant who sits next to the printer. At the risk of sounding redundant, allow me to elaborate- he's hot and his desk is next to my my assigned printer. What? I said redundant.

Anyway, I had been sharing my trials and tribulations with him regarding the lazy-eyed guy who had dissed me after I checked every don't on the list of dating do's and don't's. Then, in a flash of brilliance or blatant stupidity (for now I'll choose to characterize it as genius), I thought, "why are you putting hot printer guy in the friend zone, HELLO?" So I started flirting with him via email and we ended up going out for drinks. Yes, it's Ramadan, what are you, the Taliban? Add kafir to my list of flaws, see if I care.

We talked for about three and a half hours over vodka tonics and established the following:
1) hot printer guy thought I was hot from day one whereas he popped up on my radar just 24 hours prior to our pseudo-date, 2) hot printer guy is squeamish about office romance, 3) I'm not really inter-office material since I'm usually on the road and rotate desks vacated by staffers who are ooto ('out of the office' for those of you blessed with ignorance of corporate acronyms) and, 4) he was not a 'quick fix.'

At one point, he came dangerously close to kissing me and I leaned in and whispered, "we're not having our first kiss in this bar." He relented and then suggested he kiss me in the rain outside which was romantic but that plan was thwarted by an endless stream of Cliff Claven-esque babble I opted to spout off instead of appearing demure and well, kissable. So then he was going to kiss me in the subway station and that was just sordid so we decided to wait until our first date. That was Thursday and despite my less than subtle attempts at discovering when that date may come ("so when are we going out?" I know. CRINGE), I still don't know. I just don't know. But I'm going to play by the rules. Stand-by for upcoming update on how long that sadly doomed plan will last.

UPDATE: HPG and I opted to go our separate ways and he ended up not being the man on my arm at the gala. However, earlier this week, HPG made good on his threat to find my secret blog. His triumph was short-lived, tho, because he soon discovered that our banter had been immortalized in the love pariah's annals of rejection.

Service with a Sneer

That's what you get in New York. I know New Yorkers get a bad rap for our less than friendly demeanor but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say, we deserve it. And I get it. I understand why this 13 mile island teeming with millions doesn’t have time to say “Please” and “Thank you” and “Y’all come back now” like I used to hear in Texas. But here’s what I don’t get. Why is the fastest city in the world have the slowest fucking McDonald’s?

I used to avoid the fast food eatery like the plague when I moved to Manhattan and, quite frankly, it was easy given how many other, equally cheap and more enticing options were available. But then I moved to the Upper West Side and there’s one right across the street from the 72nd Street subway station. So at the end of a long day, as I trudge up the subterranean steps into the bustling streets of my neighborhood, I’m faced with the looming task of going through a stack of Chinese, Italian, and sushi menus or simply giving in to the lure of the golden arches. Tonight was one of those nights.

After my pupils adjusted to the blinding, fluorescent lights- Mother of GOD, do we need to see every pore as we stuff our fat faces?- I noticed the guy in front of me in line. He was wearing a tailored, wool overcoat and Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. He was mixed, black and something else- maybe Latin?, and yeah, I say black not “African-American” because not all blacks are from Africa nor are they all necesarily American and that PC label is the last thing they want your cracker ass to worry about. So, anyway, hot guy in line in front of me waiting for his food and I was just picturing him turning and asking me out, when he opened his mouth. “I don’t need a bag,” he sang. Sang. He couldn’t have sounded more gay if he had said, “I like men.”

“What do you want?” the manager asked. That’s right, this was how the world’s fastest McDonald’s manager was choosing to address a customer. This place was stellar from top down.
“I’ll have an Asian chicken salad, fried chicken,” WHAT? I’m already ordering a salad, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“We’re out of salads,” he replied clearly torn up about not having my selection in stock. How the hell do you run out of salads? ALL of your salads? I ordered a fish filet and only had to wait ten minutes for it to be microwaved and drowned in tartar sauce.

Tomorrow at this time, I will be preparing to board a flight to gay Paree! No fair that world’s most romantic city is named after world’s skankiest ho.

Burying the lead

In journalism school, one of the first things you learn is how a poorly-worded, compound sentence can bury the lead. Sometimes, we're guilty of that in our everyday conversations. My mother, who I will concede is not a journalist, does this. We talk several times a day and, on more than one occasion, the conversation has gone like this:
"So I'm just waiting in the car for your dad while he picks up some things at Home Depot," she'll start offhandedly.
"Yeah? What's he buying now?"
"A ceiling fan and some sheet rock."

This isn't surprising as my father is a jack of all trades and counts builder as one of his areas of expertise. He suffers from the worst kind of do-it-yourselferism, the type where you think you can do everything better and cheaper than others. As a result, he often falls into the trap of "cutting out the middle man" and purchasing supplies for his contractors on his own. Despite being burned by shady roofers, electricians, plumbers, my dad still miscalculates that he's one step ahead of the unscrupulous labor he chooses to hire. We've tried explaining it's no coincidence that entire stoves and refrigerators in his properties turn up missing when he employs ex-cons. He bristles at our unfair accusations.

"If no one will hire them then how they'll contribute to society?" he valiantly insists.
"But, Dad...they were the only ones with a ke-"
"I'll NOT LISTEN!" he shouts and storms off. That's another thing my dad does. He combines the wrong words to make contractions. Instead of "I won't" it's "I'll not" and "you'll not." "You'll not sit babies!" Yeah, I wasn't even allowed to babysit. And you wonder why I have issues.
But I digress. Back to the conversation with my mother.

"Yeah? What's he buying now?"
"A ceiling fan and some sheet rock." (we didn't repeat ourselves, this is called a "recap")
"What for?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" I can hear my mother's nail file stop. "The electrician fell through the ceiling." Here's another one.

One of my dear friends who works at Children's Hospital in New Orleans was recently made privy to my blog. Here's the reaction I got via email:
hey am on call....dealing with alot of dead/dying kids....and have had a rough day to say the least...i had a few minutes to eat and just read your blog...or parts of it.....THANK YOU for making me laugh....i laughed out loud!!!!!! :) you need to write a book and become a millionnaire :) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!(lots of exclamations)Conjulations!!!!!!!!!

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy... But, seriously, the fact that my follies are fuel for laughter on days like the one my friend described above makes HPG's humiliating discovery and the unexpected outing all worth it.

Shoot Me.

Not with a camera. Find a deadly weapon, preferably one that fires silver bullets in case the love pariah is immortal. HPG is reading this blog. It's all my fault. I couldn't keep my big trap shut. He knew I had a blog and kept threatening to go searching for it. I likened the task to finding a needle in a haystack. But don't underestimate the ingenuity of a bored researcher who often wonders if he's discovered the "end of the internet."

Have your fun, HPG. But know this. You were but a blip on my radar, a fleeting interest that waxed and waned depending on the frequency and proximity of our contact. I am horrified. Death, embrace me.

I'm on a ROLL

I'm on a roll but when I was inspired to illustrate this with an image, these roll-arounds were all I could come up with. They're kind of cute, but kind of creepy, too. Appropo considering that so are some of the men I've dated. Right now, I might just take creepy and cute cause it sure beats crappy! And that's what you get when you got nothing- crap. This may be the longest stretch I've had with no male interest. I've got zero prospects. No one is calling, texting or emailing and even thought I'm enjoying the respite from my usual angst-ridden existence, all this silence is deafening!

In an effort to appear more approachable, I've taken to making eye-contact and smiling broadly at men on the subway. This, I'm sad to report, is not working. In fact, I suspect it's having the opposite of its intended effect. The objects of my attention either take sudden interest in the bunion-correction advertisement overhead or do the half-smile/half sigh thing that says, "Okaaayyy..."

Whatever, strap hangers! I've got news for you: this suddenly single (OK, not so 'sudden' but the alliteration works) 30-something would rather be alone than stuck in a suffocating relationship with a man who thinks you can ask a woman out via text or send her virtual flowers. I had a boyfriend who sent me virtual flowers on my birthday. And do you know what I did? I married him! Let that be a lesson to you!

Steady as she goes...

Between the off-label drug I'm taking and my new prescription glasses, I'm having trouble with the most mundane task- WALKING. Here's some background. Wait. Before I fill you in on the background, indulge me momentarily while I preface that with a smidgen of more info. that may serve to amuse if not enlighten you about my propensity for self-medicating.

Almost all of my exposure to drugs- of medicinal or recreational value- has been through my physician friends. That's right, of all the people I meet it's not journos or lawyers BUT doctors who abuse drugs most liberally. And here's the real irony, they will convince you or at least try to in a pot-induced state that everyone else has got it all wrong and their knowledge of medicine insulates them from the pitfalls exhibited by the mere mortals who don't have M.D. after their name. But LOVE THEM. LOVE you guys. And I don't think they're wrong about that either but I'm not getting into a discourse on legalizing marijuana. Not here, not now. Foundation layed. Laid? I don't know.

Several months ago, I was having dinner with three very accomplished physicians who were discussing the off-label benefits of an anti-seizure medication called Topamax. One of the doctors had seen tremendous success with overweight patients who had lost weight when prescribed nominal dosages. I was more than a little intrigued. "What are the side effects?" None, really, he said. "They reported more energy and a feeling of satiety." Really? So, let me get this straight. There's a drug that can allow you to feel full so that you don't gorge yourself at regular intervals and the only side effect is that it puts a spring in your step? SIGN ME UP!

One month ago, he did. At first, I didn't feel anything and in anticipation of the weight loss, I started eating often and badly. Anything smothered or fried, I ordered without batting an eye, pausing only to confirm there was no bacon or lard, for religious reasons. Then it hit me. One day at work as I was talking up hot printer guy, I noticed that my extremities were all tingly and my lips were numb. "Maybe you're drunk," he offered. No, that wasn't it. My roommate said it was stress manifesting itself like it can with the twitching of an eye. Finally, it occurred to me that it was the Topamax. I looked it up online and discovered that Topamax causes those symptoms and bouts of confusion, read stupidity, which may explain going to see my therapist crosstown in the rain only to be reminded that she was on vacation. I think the real trick of the weight loss is the fact that Topamax makes colas taste like ass. You don't want to drink something that tastes like that so as a consequence I'm abstaining from one of my most high caloric culprits. So there's that and then there's my new glasses.

I finally got a new prescription for my glasses which I only wear when I'm going to be on a plane for more than three hours or too hungover to care about how fabulous my sunglasses make me look. The optometrist told me that I had a stigmatism and gave me new contacts and a Rx for new glasses as well. Once I finally found a pair of glasses that fit my face, were chic but not too trendy, and Prada (this was difficult, mind you), I was in business. Or not. Everything is slanted forward! I first noticed it with my laptop, then when I went to place a glass on my coffee table, but it really posed a problem as I attempted to navigate the Upper West Side towards brunch this afternoon. I got a few curious stares as I attempted to climb slopes that weren't there and a few times, I caught my self stumbling over curbs. I looked like a freak trying to get up the few steps to Mozart's where we were meeting for brunch. My friend laughed as I abruptly attempted to keep my glass from sliding off the perfectly horizontal table. Tomorrow I will have to go back to Optician to see about seeing again.

I've Been Outed

A friend of a friend mass-forwarded the link to my blog so now a bunch of people in Lousiana and Arkansas are reading it. I think. Scary stuff, it's an anonymous blog, folks. A Clark Kent-esque analogy may be appropriate here but I'm too mortified to be creative. I feel like I'm naked in public which, unless you're too drunk to care, can be very unnerving.

Well, if you don't know the author of this blog, know this. We don't judge here. The love pariah's misadventures were never intended for public consumption. Check your holier-than-thou, judgemental inclinations at the door before you enter this blog.

And if you think you know who I am, keep it on the DL, because, as I've just mentioned here, on every email with a link and in previous posts, IT'S AN ANONYMOUS BLOG!!

I Can See Clearly Now

If there was any doubt, tonight's encounter confirmed that I'm cursed. Defying both conventional wisdom and common sense, I opted to give this guy a chance even though he didn't provide a picture. I know. I deserve whatever havoc fate and the Gods of dating conspire to wreak upon my pathetic existence. On my profile, I specifically state: No pic, No response. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I decided that this would be the time I would be pleasantly surprised. It's incomprehensible to me but perhaps these details will help you help me understand.

In his first email to me he took the time to quote poetry, Longfellow or Thoreau, I forget or I'm ignorant, you pick. I was intrigued. Then he told me about his many businesses and how he divides his time between the UK and Australia,his penchant for good wine and long conversations about nothing and everything. Hmmm...

I asked, "Why no pic?" He said between his traveling around the world and moving from remote site to desktop, he simply didn't have the time or inclination to offer a two-dimensional image. Red flag. I was skeptical but undaunted and gave him my cell number. He enthusiastically replied with a series of heavily punctuated texts: "How are you today?!!! :) Hope you are enjoying this wonderful day!!! ;) "

Good. God. I thought, what is up with this freak? I told him to chill out with all the exclamation marks. "Calm down over there." My sister, in turn, scolded me telling me that Australians were by their very nature sprightly people and I shouldn't be such a bitch. So I apologized and got this response:
"Like a babe still born,
Like a beast with its horns,
I have torn everyone,
Who reached out to me" - from a song by Leonard Cohen
Thank you for the message... Umm.... Well I have to say that was like experiencing "baptism by fire", not too often one is shot down even before one takes off!.............

Fast forward to this week when his globetrotting brought him to New York. My mother begged me not to go. That was another omen. My mom is always telling me I'm too picky and even she was worried about what the phantom date would look like. We agreed to meet at Divine Bar in midtown. I walked in, he saw me and walked up and I prayed for divine intervention. He was so unattractive, it made me angry. This asshole deliberately hid his looks because he knew he couldn't bank on them. I know that's mean. I know I'm going to hell but I'm admittedly shallow. And still, I'm willing to settle. I dated a guy who had a huge mole with more hair on it than on his entire head for God's sake! I dated a guy with one leg shorter than the other and, quite possibly, a lazy-eye! But this one, this Shrek made my dad (who bears a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein) seem like Brad Pitt. It was so awful but I stuck it out, swallowed the bile rising in my throat, summoned the courage and class to stay half an hour and pretend my low-key demeanor was more a symptom of my long week/day than the deflation that comes with wishing you couldn't see your blind date.

Conjulations

That's what my dad says instead of "Congratulations." No, he's not retarded, he's actually a successful, self-made real estate mogul who has yet to master the English language. This despite, 30 some odd years in the U.S. This deficiency would manifest itself in the most devastating ways when I was growing up here in East Texas. I say "here" because I am currently in East Texas visiting my family who have continued their sentence since my departure.
Yesterday, I was having breakfast with my mother after she picked me up from the airport and my dad popped in to say hello. I told him about how I got called to the podium for an unexpected upgrade to first class because of my newly minted "Elite" status on Continental. It was actually a funny story because, after years of flying stand-by as a kid (my parents owned a travel agency and we were always "Non-revenue" passengers, a term I came to equate with cheap bastards), I was terrified of being bumped from a flight no matter what the circumstances. My dad chuckled and said, "Conjulations." My sister, currently camped out at my parent's house as she bitterly awaits her California Bar results, almost choked on her baguette. My mom rolled her eyes and my dad cleared his throat and in what I can only assume was an attempt to rectify his gaffe added, "Good luck."
I could go on but why? Why make the man who is responsible for my birth (not to mention a myriad of issues I'm told I have about men)sound like Apu from "The Simpsons?" Because it's funny. But I'll stop. For now, I'll relent.

Dalliance with "The Daily Show"

I have a crush on a "correspondent" on The Daily Show. I know that sounds ridiculous. It reminds me of the time I had a crush on my Philosophy Professor in College. I was such a hick my freshman year that I walked into my undergrad philosophy class and almost walked right out because the title of the course on the board threw me for a loop. I had just unzipped my backpack and sat down next to some frat boy when I literally saw the writing on the wall: "Contemporary moral problems." "Oh," I said aloud, "I thought this was Philosophy 301." He looked at me as if I had just declared that a football player scored a homerun. "It is," he said with as much contempt as two syllables could convey.
Chastened, I stayed and a glorious one-sided love affair spanned an entire spring semester. He was hardly my type. Tall, disheveled, mid to late thirties with a mop of curly hair and the kind of 5 o'clock shadow that makes someone look more tired than sexy. But, he would wax philosophic and I would pretend he was framing the justification for our scandalous relationship.
This crush has more potential for both success and disaster. The pseudo-correspondent is obviously clever and sharp as a tack when he's going back and forth with Jon Stewart but I have yet to surmise if those attributes exist unscripted, one on one. Furthermore, we're meeting under the pretense of business. I had worked with him on a charity project and asked him to speak on a panel for journalists, he resisted at first, intimidated by the idea of being questioned by so-called "real journalists" in an arena he only pretends to occupy. In the end, tho, he agreed and gave me his phone number. My intrepid reporting skills also led to the discovery that he lives two blocks away from me in the city. Lest you wonder if I'm stalking him, he volunteered the cross streets of his home and I was able to do the basic math to determine the proximity. He's not married but that doesn't mean he's single. And there's still the possibility that he plays for the other team. Although I think that info. would have surfaced on one of the many blogs that post his work. So we'll see. For the time being, I'll simply bask in the brilliance of my ingenuity that has not only opened the door to a potential date but definitely tickets to The Daily Show.

Democrats take back the House!

For someone who didn't even bother to fill out an absentee ballot in time, I sure am excited about tonight's election results. I'm just thrilled that the fucking Republicans got their asses handed to them tonight. The era of "smear and fear" as Kerry so aptly characterized has ended, we hope. The great thing about not being a local news reporter is the opportunity to channel-surf and view history unfolding. Otherwise, I'd be running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to interview the candidates while my frenzied producers demanded "verbatims" for my SOTs all the while staying tethered to the camera. Good times. Instead, I'm watching Wolf Blitzer cringe everytime Jeff Greenfield offers an antecdote about a candidate. I actually prefer Greenfield's insight to Blitzer's monotone, I've been repeatedly told by CNNers that "he's sooo nice" but his voice, his fucking voice. Make it stop. For the first time in a decade, the Democrats are taking back the House from under the helm of a Republican President. And as of 12:46 am EST, control of the Senate literally hangs in the balance. Who takes the Senate boils down to one word macaca. Remember the incumbant hick who referred to a South Asian college guy videotaping his campaign rally with an outdated racial slur? Asshole is winning by less than a margin of 1%. Still, the election shows that the democratic process still works, something I doubted after Bush was reelected. OK, maybe he wasn't really reelected but enough people in Ohio voted for him for some people to think he was. Anyway, this time Katherine Harris couldn't use her pull to manipulate shit, she lost her bid for the Florida Senate seat. Sorry, hon', maybe you should have counted that hanging chad in Gore's favor, karma's a bitch.

Talk Soup

"I loved you on Talk Soup but what have you done since then?" That was my opening line to Greg Kinnear. News kitten had pointed him out an hour earlier and I had suppressed my celebrity-stalking impulses for a good 60 minutes. His friend, who told me he "Founded E! Entertainment", and I had been trading quips about the slut factor in the club. Correction: I deemed it slut factor, he called it odds in his favor.

Greg laughed at my observation and we started talking about me. He acted impressed but he's an actor, hello? The next day, as I ruminated about the night I was bombarded with flashbacks of random, inappropriate things I said. To Matt Armstrong, whose brother I accosted in an Austin restaurant by parking myself in his booth and declaring, "Lance?! Fancy meeting you here."; I shared the story of that horrific encounter. "You gotta understand, he gets that all the time. This summer he hung out with Jake Gyllenhal and Matthew Mcconaughey." Umm, why is he namedropping? He's Lance Armstrong's brother. I nodded pretending to relate and then invited him to be my date at the gala. He declined and gave me his business card. Not sure what I'm supposed to do with it given he's clearly a blonde bombshell chaser. Apparently, I had no misigivings about asking any of the B or A list celebrities I encountered. I asked Greg Kinnear and he, too, politely changed the topic of conversation to my work in Africa. "Yeah, those kids are starving and stuff," I said before reaching for my camera phone. Just then, some skanky ho appeared out of nowhere and took my phone. "No pictures!" she exclaimed. Greg took my phone from her, put his arm around me and snapped a picture of both of us. God help anyone who had to use those pics in a line-up but it's Academy-award nominated Greg Kinnear and me, smiling like two newfound friends. Good times.


I returned to New York to find that HPG had totally cooled his heels where I was concerned. He didn't even get out of his freakin' desk to walk over and wish me a happy birthday. Jackass. Still, too pathetic to allow subtle rejection to go lightly, I demanded to know why he hadn't bought me a card. "I'm a guy," he replied banally. This guy couldn't even be bothered to come up with a cute excuse. You're not that good-looking, I thought to myself. Yes, you are. Focker. I'm dateless to the gala but have a fabulous dress! Will look fabulous and probably spend the night sitting next to some rich socialite who thinks paying $500 a plate at an overpriced dinner absolves her of the guilt she may otherwise be apt to feel when she blows her nose with an Hermes handkerchief. Focker.