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.

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.