The Great Conundrum

How is it possible to be so disinterested in something as complicated as a relationship with all its responsibilities, feelings, and commitments, and at the same time so lonely for love, companionship, and to be held by someone who understands me?

It doesn't make sense.

The end.

Ouch and Stuff

It sucks to be Hallway Boy because he won't stop calling, texting, and doing whatever he can on a fairly regular basis to get me to respond, and it's all to no avail.

You see, I don't give a shit about him. In fact, I think he might possibly be the biggest asshole I've ever met in my entire life, and I've no interest in ever speaking to him again. And all this time that he's putting himself out there to capture my gander, I smirk, smite, and snicker.

I know it's awful that it gives me such pleasure to know that it is driving him abso-fucking-lutely bananas that I haven't responded to his month-long attempts to get my attention, but let's be real. He deserves it.

And the best part about it is that I've never felt more powerful in all my life. So keep at it douchebag, cuz every single time you send me a text I'll never respond to, my ego grows a little bit bigger while yours shrinks a little bit smaller.

The end.

~k

Contemplating Love

I once loved of the madly, deeply sort. It began to end long before it did, and killed whatever it was in its downward spiral toward hell. But I loved in the it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all kinda way.

I have been wondering lately if the Starter really just was a taste of what's possible. Or if I'll always be as unsure (and let's be honest here, it's not really uncertainty. It's absolute, simple, shameful fear) as I am now about letting love happen.

I can feel the fear burrowing deep into my gut. The question I'm now asking myself, after being asked point blank by a friend, is whether I will keep sabotaging any chances at love, as I've been doing since the Starter and I parted ways.

It's all around me, love. It's in every direction. Yet, my comfort level keeps it on the other side of a wall a meter's length from me. And I really wish I was brave enough to tear down the wall.

The end.

The Starter, part 2

While his niece spends her summer with me, I've reflected quite a bit on my great failed relationship these past days.

We were never a good match. Bound by obsession, fear, and madness, we stayed together out of our inability to imagine life without that security we found together and in one another. And every day of our beautifully dysfunctional life together, I loved him madly, more madly than before or since. Before him, I never knew what love was. I never knew it was possible to feel something so deep, so absolute, so certain. And I am eternally grateful to have learned that lesson, even if the since hasn't been so rewarding (yet).

But in the end of that naive and senseless love, inevitability marked...

The end.

The Road Less Traveled

When it's time for my next grown-up relationship, I want it to be with someone who wants to spend a year with no address, sail the Indian Ocean, make love in the rain, have babies who speak five languages, and travel all the world while writing best sellers with me.

The end.

The Perfect Boyfriend

...knows what my interests are, respects my viewpoints, listens to my rambling stories, smiles when I need to see one, laughs like an angel, pays for lunch and dinner, introduces me to new and wonderful friends, is patient with my lack of time management, has the best one-liners, always brings me gifts (like a meaty, full body red), is a bright light in my life, has curly red hair, just stayed with me for a week, is leaving to head back to the West Coast shortly, will be desperately missed, and lives off of the music box steps....

The end.

The Woe

Something truly extraordinary has happened. I met someone I really like. He's gorgeous. He's a genius whose accomplishments and benevolent ambitions are unrivaled. We have great conversations. He likes to cuddle. We hold hands when we're walking about town. We are really into each other, and I want to spend every possible second with him. I think about him when he's not around and savor his presence when he is, whether we are talking or sitting in silence. He is so good, and the first in a long time who is good enough for me. He is a dream come true.

Except for the fact that I live in California and he lives in Connecticut, and our little whirlwind romance is set to expire when I board a plane in two days.

I'm trying really hard to simply enjoy what we have now, in these precious moments. And I am trying not to think about whether my boarding that plane Thursday will mark

The end...

The Australian

I was being the good and loyal friend who was appropriately keeping her distance so that her girlfriend could have her much-needed fun and enjoy the company of these dreamy, foreign lifeguards, visiting the States and on a roadtrip of sorts (so very Aussie). She took to the creative one who knew American pop culture as well as she did, which left the striking dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty with the tanned, warm skin to me and waiting to have an American experience. I had to oblige.

The end.

The E-dilemma

When I date, it is typically the result of the internet. I meet them online. We woo online. And then we sometimes meet, more rarely meet again, and even more rarely meet regularly. This ritual goes on until it threatens to become more serious, and it's time for me to bail.

And then it has to end. So I start working on the Dear John email. And my friends start flipping out that I can't break up with them by e-mail (jeez, you'd think I was proposing sending a Dear John text) break-ups have to happen in person or by the phone. (Side note: we have all pretty much determined that the depth of my relationships do not justify an in-person break up.)

So let me ask you (I believe there are six of you), if we meet and woo online. If we speak on the phone _never_, if our style of communication and preference is the written word, why would it make any sense to call to break up? Under what circumstance does that make any sense?

Seriously? Seriously.

The end.

The Hoosier

I really liked him. I still do. We had really great dates, lots of fun, and interesting conversations with an easy flow and energy. He's a great guy, a believer. He hopes, he's a lover of life, and finds adventure at every turn. Like me. We got along well. We had a lot in common. But...

He was an unfortunate casualty in my realization that the only love affair I really want right now is with politics.

The end.

The Kingmaker

A boy whose awesomeness is beyond my repertoire of words sent me this email the other day:

"I am honestly so impressed with you. You do such great things in this life, whether it is fundraising or fighting for civil rights, it's amazing. It gives me hope for the future- meaning that all our lives will be better because of the work you do, and also I am hopeful that I will have a more enjoyable life when mine is closer to yours :). Good job on getting this fundraiser organized. I will definitely donate to the cause....just remind me as it gets closer. 1 email from you w/the link and you can count on a contribution. Can't wait to create this kingmaking team!"

And even though I have read it a million times, I still don't know if he _likes_ me.

It's definitely not...

The end.

The Earring

A whale ate one of my earrings. And a really cute boy surprised me with a replacement pair. He's awesome.

The end.

The Hockey Player

Several years ago on a Saturday morning at a grotty after party in South London, I met a guy who we shall call the Hockey Player, because as it happens, he played Hockey!

The Hockey Player was a handsome athletic fellow, who was easy and fun to be around. We did all kinds of things together - We went on picnics, cooked dinner, explored the city on foot, shared books, watched films and we even wrote letters to one another when we travelled abroad. As I think about the times we shared, which was over the period of a few years, I wonder why our relationship didn't fully develop into that of boyfriend and girlfriend... But then I remember the evening the Hockey Player got upset over a cricket bat.

Before I proceed, let me reference a dictionary for those of you unsure of what a cricket bat is, for it is a central part of this story.

"A cricket bat has a narrow handle and a broad flat end for hitting." It is used in one of the most British of pastimes and the broad flat end of the bat, is approximately 38 inches in length, typically made of willow wood and is "...shaped like a paddle, consisting of a padded handle similar to - but sturdier than - that of a tennis racquet."

Now the Hockey Player and I had a good chemistry in the bedroom. Over time we developed a level of comfort with one another, that led to some interesting evenings under and above the duvet. And so on the night in question, I felt it only natural to include the said cricket bat, that was leaning next to his bed, in that evening's activities. After an hour or two romping with one another, the Hockey Player decided to lay on his stomach and rest his head, downward in a pillow. It was then, that I took the cricket bat to his beautifully crafted bottom and tapped it, in an ever so cheeky fashion. At first he enjoyed it, smiling and moaning with delight - until he opened his eyes and looked at what was stimulating his behind. "That's my fucking cricket bat with the signatures of the England team on it. What the fuck?!"

I was taken aback and thought he was joking, but soon realized he wasn't...

"Seriously Hockey Player? You're snapping at me over Allan Lamb and Mike Atherton's scribbles on a bat?"

After an awkward moment or two, I left his bed and dressed myself, whilst he pleaded for me to stay the night. Embarrassed, I apologized to him for misusing a bat which had a sentimental value I didn't know of, before promptly leaving. The next day, he apologized for his outburst and though we ended the conversation on a good note, I decided afterwards I wouldn't see the Hockey Player again, because I knew I would no longer be turned on by someone who is passionate about a sport so boring and so intense about a team, whose common tendency is to lose. (...which is sadly the case with most of the British endeavours in the sporting arena.) Frankly, I am better than losers and boys who get childish over their silly toys.

Me; fussy? Perhaps! Oh well, I am better off without such nonsense...

The end.

The Chutzpah

This is all hearsay.

This girl I don't know dated some guy for a couple of months. She thought things were going really well, so she invited her 2-month boyfriend to come over one evening. She'd make dinner, and he'd spend the night. He did come over for dinner and to spend the night, and found that she was nice enough to pick up a box of soy milk in consideration of his lactose intolerance. And the next morning, not long after he delivered the "this isn't going anywhere" speech, he stopped by the fridge, took out the soy milk, and on his way out said, "i'll just take this since you won't be needing it".

Was his middle name Cantaloupes?

The end.

The Dilemma

Or maybe it's not...

I'm pretty hard on myself sometimes for having such a disastrous time dating. I joke that I date only for blog fodder. And I have a good laugh at the expense of those unfortunate enough to momentarily ensnare themselves in my data collecting web. But it bums me out that it all seems all for naught, and that I can't figure out what and when I want.

I mean, I guess it's hard because I am really having a great time in my life. I'm traveling, hanging out with friends, doing fun and extraordinary things with my time. I make a difference in the world sometimes, I climb hills sometimes, and I love my life all the time. And as much as I feel like I should want to be sharing it all with someone special, and as much as sometimes there's nothing I'd rather have happen to me right now than to fall crazy, madly in love, sometimes I just wish I could be as okay with the idea of being alone as I am actually being alone.

I know, I know. I'm contradicting myself. I want to fall in love, but I don't give myself a chance. I want to share my life, but I am all too eager to find fault with every boy I meet to give them a chance. This irony. I feel it on the inside too. I'm torn. I don't know if love is what I want while refusing myself the chance to find it. Or if I'd rather not have it, but can't accept that I could possibly not want it. Or maybe it's just that the right one or the right time just hasn't come my way. I don't know, don't know that I can know, and wish I was better at being okay with not knowing.

But I don't and I'm not, so I guess the wonder and the search will go on.

The end.

The Starter

So, I had a starter marriage, and with it a starter husband. My relationship and marriage was amazing, until it wasn't anymore. And because it had been so incredibly beautiful, it was heart-wrenching to try to let go of what had been, until we could no longer see anything but what had taken its place. It was that icky, painful, complicated, love just ain't enough place. And one last time I asked him to go. And he did. And as guilty as I sometimes feel for feeling the way I do, I have never been happier or felt more sanguine in all my life. I'm happy with my life, my job, my home, my me. And it's awesome!

But sometimes I miss him. I miss him now, in the midst of March Madness. It was always our thing. We loved college basketball together, and we had a blast with college basketball. And as much as I still love me some college basketball (when I have time for it), and as much as it sometimes feels like it's just not the same without him, i've still got passion for my team. GO BRUINS!!!

The end.

P.S. I'm sure the starter will come up again...

The Photographer

The first lesson was good - middle of the day, outdoors on a Sunday.  I say lesson versus date, because there was no meal, physical contact or excessive conversation beyond the subject of cameras, shutter speed and available light.

The second lesson a week later led into a date.  Dinner was accompanied by a complete (and unprompted) download of all of his baggage - ex-wife, two kids, career crisis. It was the least romantic date I’ve ever been on - he wasn’t even attempting to woo.  On the other hand, every question I had was answered and the answers were actually pretty reasonable - married young, two kids he adores and sees often, and a lust for yet another advanced degree. The night ends with a really sweet, tender kiss that went on until it was too cold to continue.  

I spend the rest of the week thinking about that kiss, which leads me to check my phone and e-mail continuously for the follow-up date request.  Nothing.  A few flirtations here and there, but no plans.  I end the week in a funk, as I realize he’s just not that in to me - such a cliché.  I also realize I’d rather spend my time being kissed than checking my blackberry.  In order to up the odds of the former, I have to recruit more aggressively.  Match.com welcomed me back with open arms.  

 The End.

The Philosopher

I liked this one. He was so cute and cuddly (for some reason, it feels odd using the past tense when writing about qualities he probably still has), and it was really nice kissing him. But there was a always a but. I have not quite been able to put my finger on what the but was about, but there was something I just couldn't shake.

I enjoyed spending time with him, talking to him, and experiencing him. At times, he was so intellectual and interesting, engaged in deep thoughts about deep things, and was incredibly articulate and philosophical. but then there were other times when he reminded me of a lost and innocent little boy, whose problems were easily solved with a bowl of ice-cream and a little bunny to cuddle.

Until the day came when he told me that if we didn't have sex (and I'm probably paraphrasing here, because I was so astounded that a man my age would actually engage in such a high-school conversation), we couldn't date anymore. Really? I mean, did he really try to pressure me into sex by threatening that he'd break up with me? Could he really not look into the future, a play or two, to see where that strategy would land him?

Bad move.

The end.

Third Date Expectations

A few years ago, when I was in the process of re-entering the dating world after a nearly ten-year hiatus, a friend (who happens to be male) told me that there are expectations that a third date will end with sex.

I remember staring at him, wide-eyed and childlike. "You're joking, right?" I asked.

"What's the big deal?" was his response. "Be glad. Sex is better when you're dating, it just doesn't happen as much as when you're married".

That conversation took place about two and a half years ago, and is probably the biggest influence in my extraordinary ability to find enough deficiencies after the second date to avoid a third.

I'm about 20 minutes shy of a third date, and I can guarantee this one will end much like my first two third dates.

The end.

The Graduate

Not so oddly enough I seem to only be attracting younger men (in their early to mid-twenties) who feel empowered because they are attracting an older woman, their Mrs. Robinson (who is herself only in her early to mid-thirties). I will admit that I find myself in a place in my life where I am being selfish for the first time. In other words, I am thinking about my needs first. I have never had this freedom to only consider what I want, what I like, what suits me specifically. I've always been tied to someone or some relationship...up until now.

This is my first true taste of wonderfully unfettered, selfish, naked freedom.

So, does this make me a criminal (or that other "c" word that sorta rhymes with sugar)? Younger men seem to be so much simpler and easier to deal with. They aren't nearly as judgmental as men that are my peers or slightly older. They are also satisfied with so much less, and not threatened at all by my success. And they really do want to, and like to, please me. I'm thinking that my situation isn't really that bad right now after all...especially if I'm not looking for the father of my children or my life partner or someone to share my mortgage with. I'm thinking that right now I like dating the Graduate.

The end.

Wow Guy

On our first date, we met for brunch. I met him at Cliff's Edge, where, incidentally, I had two other first dates that week. Anyway, wow guy. He was tall, dark, handsome, smart, and a perfect gentlemen. We shared great conversation, had a lot in common, and when he pulled the bouquet from the boot of his Bentley, I was. Well. Wow'd.

And maybe it's that first impressions mired in such boldness and sparkling memories, leave nothing but a high cliff from which to free-fall in the event of a second...

We met at my place for the second date, to walk to dinner. I think he thought he was being cute and funny, but I wasn't impressed with his complaints about walking, his perfectly clear discomfort with my low-brow night on the town, or him dissing my neighborhood [sidebar: I love my neighborhood, like maybe even in a little bit of a psycho kind of way. It is an urban village, in a city of sparkle, diamonds and red carpet, and it's where I belong and feel the most comfortable being the tree-hugger-leaning me].

And he doesn't vote. For much of my life, I have been intrigued by those who "don't vote", whose principals are defined by a silent opposition to a broken status quo. These days when I meet someone who doesn't vote, I find their behavior irresponsible, their silent opposition a cowardly shirk from public discourse, an "it's not my fault" wall to hide behind when government fails as they predicted it would. I cannot date someone I cannot respect. And at this point in the history of my life, this country, and the world, I cannot respect someone who does not speak their opinion by casting a ballot.

Oh, and he dissed my neighborhood.

The end.

Hallway Boy

As much as I wanted him to be, he just wasn’t the guy for me. But god, could he make me laugh. We had a great time, Hallway Boy and I. We met in the hallway of our office building, several times bumping into each other on the way to lunch, the restroom, Starbucks, or home for the day. He seemed so sure of himself, so confident, so together. He had such a great energy about him, and he was just soooo cute.

When he finally asked me out, I went straight weak in the knees: “So, I’m sure you must have guys lined up around the block to date you, but I’d like to get in that line.” I mean, whoa! That is ballsy and forward, and I loved it.

I responded in kind, “you just moved to the front of that line.”

We had lunch together the next day, dinner together the night after that, and for the next several months had lunch together almost every day, dinner together several nights per week, and even spent a week in paradise together. Even during the height of my campaign responsibilities, making time for him was easy. I so enjoyed spending time with him, being with him, laughing with him. I had such a great time with hallway boy that I overlooked red flags, and ignored the glaring reality that he wasn’t the one for me.

Little things they seemed at the time. Huge things in retrospect. I couldn’t sleep with him. I mean, I could fall asleep with him, but couldn’t stay asleep. He is a quiet sleeper, doesn’t snore, stays to his side of the bed, and makes it easy to share sleepy time. But I could never get comfortable enough. And that comfort wasn’t just with sleep. I never opened up to him completely. A silent barrier always existed between the two of us, and I do not typically build walls between myself and other people, because I so revel in developing strong emotional bonds with the people I love. But with Hallway Boy, I could never let go. I couldn’t let him in, I couldn’t really open myself up to experiencing deep bonds of intimacy with him. In fact, he probably knows very little about me, despite the months we spent together, because I never really felt he deserved access to my most vulnerable me. And he didn’t.

In the months since our split, he has continually proven just how unworthy he is. He is, in a word, an asshole. And in dating him, I learned that I can’t be true to myself, have the relationship I want (with myself, as well as with others) if I ignore the hairs standing on the back of my neck. I am grateful that I possess strong intuition, in this case intuition so powerful that it built a wall between myself and a man undeserving, and I promise myself to defer to my intuition going forward, regardless of how cute, funny, or seemingly confident a boy may seem.

He is, in the words of my brilliant friend hot ass d.f.m., "all teeth and no substance".

The end.

The Bogey

During the summer before graduating high school, I dated the boy who I had, had a crush on since the age of twelve. He was the school jock; the guy you either wanted to be with or be like. He had every girl in the palm of his hand and I think every one of my friends had been involved with him at some point during our time at high school. (Bleurrghh.)

Our first date was a hike through the water meadows, which is a park on the outskirts of our hometown. We walked, sunbathed and skinny dipped in the river's cool waters. Whilst resting on the bank of the river, stark bullock naked, he pulled me close and went to touch my face. Thinking this was a romantic gesture, I took his hand and kissed it. However moments later, I was mortified when he started laughing. He then informed me that he was actually trying to remove the hanging bogey from my nose, rather than make a move on me.

Young, clueless, awkward and in hindsight, hilarious.

The end.

The French One

As a young girl of 14, I was of the opinion everything to do with France was pretty awful and incredibly overrated. France and I, had got off to a bad start when the world's worst student exchange partner was paired with me during the summer of 1995. She was a true sourpuss, by the name of Sandrine and who hailed from the ass crack of Normandy, or rather, Le Harve as it is commonly known. For years after, I failed to understand the appeal of the French and their ways, however that all changed, when I discovered Florence in Hong Kong a few years ago while traveling with one of my dear friends.

I had just graduated from university and whilst I was excited for what was around the corner, I was in a fragile place. Six months earlier, I had separated from someone who had the potential to be in my life forever as a significant other, however for reasons that perhaps I will share in a future posting, it wasn't to be. I came to Hong Kong to indulge and relax, but never thought I'd experience a holiday romance in a place that seemingly is populated by fiftysomething expats. As most of these, run of the mill holiday romance stories go, I was drunk when I first met Florence. He was an engineer who was living in Central Hong Kong for business. We spent hours chatting in what was Hong Kong's version of a dive bar and though I couldn't tell you now what the hell we had been gassing about for all those hours, I knew I liked this boy for that moment. It had been a while since I had felt like that about anyone, so when he asked if I wanted to go home with him, I didn't think twice.

Oh Hong Kong, how I enjoyed thee!

The end.

The Poet

Ahhhh, the poet. The way I ended things with the poet may have led him to believe that I do not look back kindly. But I do. He was awesome. Beautiful, kind, sincere, and a fucking train wreck of epic proportion.

We went out a few times. I loved writing with him. His grasp of the language, his way with words, and his ability to articulate his emotions with words gave even me a run for my money. But he was unsure of the life he wanted, was still suffering the doldrums of adjusting to Los Angeles (it happens to all newbies), and was a career student with no career aspirations. He was just fledgling about. And while that’s certainly okay, ‘tis not okay with me, and ‘tis not okay for someone on the south side of 35. Though I don’t have all the answers, I have a pretty good idea what I want and to sign up to be the babysitter to a whiney artist isn’t on my to-do list.

And then there was the flakiness and his non-commital blasé attitude toward scheduling. He didn’t want to make plans, or consider having to pencil anything in, and I’m a busy girl with no time for that shit.

The end.

The Republican

The end.

Mini Me

Oh boy… This was a classic first date.

I joined a dating service when my last relationship ended. I was very disappointed, a little disillusioned, and frankly just didn’t want to deal with the madness of match. So I paid several thousand dollars to work with a company that specialized in matchmaking. I thought to myself that I would be much better off if I paid someone else to find me a boyfriend, as I was clearly not choosing properly for myself. When I joined the service, I met with a relationship counselor, filled out a bunch of paperwork about who I am, what I’m looking for, and what I want and need from a relationship. From this information gathering, they would then send me off to one of their matchmakers who would search high and low for the man who would surely sweep me off my feet.

What it is I’m looking for, so you’ll know, is someone smarter than me, someone who can engage in witty banter, someone who knows what’s going on in the world, and has an opinion he wants to share. I want someone who is educated, worldly, successful as a person, and who wants to enjoy life in all its many facets. Looks mean very little to me, and height means even less. I am looking for the smart boy, the one who makes me work harder just to keep up, and whose very presence in my life makes me a better, stronger, wiser person. I want someone better than me, smarter than me, and more patient than me because my future kids deserve the best dad the world has to offer just as I want and deserve the best partner the world has to offer.

Big shoes to fill? You betcha. But I’m happy enough in my own skin to wait forever it such is my fate.

Anyway, back to the matching service...

They first paired me with the Republican, so it would seem to me that they’d‘ve put in a little extra effort to unsour my dissatisfaction with their quite unremarkable first impression. I don’t believe my expectations were set too high, but I made it very clear that I wanted to be matched with a rocket scientist smart guy. And what I got was his intellectual antipodal.

I was the first to arrive, as is usually the case. I am perpetually punctual, to a flaw in fact, and always carry a book or newspaper with me so I can gleefully await the arrival of whoever it is I’m meeting. I sat in the coffee shop (this great little gem of a place on Silver Lake Blvd., called LA Mill Coffee), sipping on my chai latte, delving into The Prince, and looked up when I heard his voice (we’d spoken on the phone a few times prior to our meeting and I had assumed (yes, I did make an ass of me by doing so) that it was telephonic shyness that left a hint of intellectual dearth). What I saw standing before me was a four foot tall creature that looked shockingly like Dr. Evil. I am pretty sure my date had been the model for the character made infamous by Mike Myers. But like I said, looks mean little to me, so I wasn’t going to write him off without getting a little taste of that intellectual acumen my matchmaker promised I would find in this date.

Unfortunately, however, his intellectual capacity resembled Forrest Gump as strongly as his physical appearance likened Dr. Evil. But what’s a girl to do in such a situation? Was I meant to excuse myself to the ladies room, only to flee out the back door? Or was it appropriate to stick it out, and present myself at my most charming? As an aside, this question sparked quite an interesting debate amongst my nearest and dearest, who differed as much in opinion as one might hope they would. The general consensus was that being charming was the best route, but that I should have returned his calls to let him down easy. I didn’t. I left it to the matching service to let him know we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

I thought long and hard about the advice of my friends, and though it was really important to me that he not think I didn’t want to see him again because of his physical appearance, I just couldn’t really think of a nice way to tell him that he’d need to tack about 40 points onto his IQ count before he could consider himself worthy of a second date with me.

Though it’s fairly needless to say at this point, I ended my relationship with the matchmaking company and rejoined match.com because as time-consuming and annoying as match really is, within its many pages exists an abundance of first-date fodder.

The end.