Tuesday, October 20, 2015
I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 2
We were awkward, but me more than he. He only seemed to be playing the part of the awkward guy for my benefit. In fact, I felt that he had reviewed me, found me acceptable and was settling in to see how I did for the rest of what he needed to evaluate. Would I be smart and sassy? Clever and quick with a comeback? Would I be too sweet? Or too forward? Would I touch him too soon, or seem repressed and reserved – too prim? What was he looking for? I could be nothing but myself because as intuitive as I am, I didn’t know. I started asking questions because his online profile was too vague to get a handle on him. What had happened with his wife? I knew he was divorced. He’d been married for 28 years. 28 years! What had I been doing all that time? Dating, going to grad school, working, dating, moving, dating, writing, dating. Lots of men, so few I cared about that I’d begun to think there was something wrong with my heart.
Friday, October 16, 2015
I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 1
I stumbled across him online. He came up on "match" after I responded to someone else. I couldn't believe how cute he was. We had a playful back and forth email correspondence, very brief, the way I like it. I really, really wanted to meet him, not write to him, and his notes: flirty, brief, forward but polite, indicated the same.
Our first date was one of those let's-have-a-drink-and-see. I wore what I'd worn on another date during which the guy told me how attracted he was to me, and how much he wanted to kiss me (I didn't want to kiss him or even shake his hand frankly), but because the outfit seemed to be a success, I would wear it on all my first dates.
I got to the bar first, walked halfway in, looked around and didn't see him, but when I turned to look back at the door, there he was, not a foot behind me. I was startled and stepped back. I may have inwardly gasped; I hope I wasn't uncool enough to actually gasp aloud. I was startled partly because of the suddeness of his appearance, but more, at how attractive he was. (I have to say, I don't know that he would be attractive to all, but to me, there was that chemistry that hits you hard and makes you immediately nervous and unsure of yourself... that primitive excitement that comes from being naturally thrilled by a man.) A head taller than me, with a perfect swirl of mostly salty colored hair. A look on his face of utter confidence; of knowing what you want.
I took a step back and looked down to recover a bit, and then back up. He was smiling and did not step back. "Hi." he said. It was the sexiest single syllable I've ever heard uttered. "You're Bette?" he asked. And for once in a long while I was so glad that, yes, I was. "You wanna sit up here, or in the back?" Frankly I wanted to stand and just stare, but I said, "Let's sit up here..." up at the front of the rustic, cozy bar (the "All State", a great place to meet someone for the first time by the way, now torn down and an empty lot, soon to be condos I assume).
We pulled two chairs up to the bar that ran against the wall, two of only 4 chairs up there, which is why it was so perfect... no one could sit too near us to listen to the inevitably awkward conversation of two complete strangers trying to make a romantic connection. I was nervous, but the good nervous: the excited nervous you get when something good is happening, or about to. I relished the feeling.
Unlike many people, I kind of love these meetings: I'm good at them, I like people, I am amused by the whole process, and I am always so hopeful that whatever guy I'm meeting might be a guy I could like, or at the very least, with whom I could spend an hour practicing flirting. 6 out of 10 are of these guys are "OK". 3 are “eh” or worse. Sometimes right off the bat you realize the guy is a numbskull, or 30 pounds heavier than his photo, or older than his photo or has grown a moustache in which you see an embedded crumb. Some of them try too hard, or are too nervous, or perhaps already an asshole, looking over your shoulder or figuring out if they should buy you a drink or not. Buy the drink, jerk! you think. It's the very first, easiest and most obvious way to show that you're not a loser! If it's after 5pm and they order ice tea or a Diet Coke, I know it's not going to work out. To get through this, we need some alcohol!
He immediately asked what I was drinking - as always, white wine for me. It gets into my blood system faster than beer and for some reason, I always associate it with socializing, relaxing, opening up. He walked over to the bar and in those moments I looked down at myself. Am I attractive? Should I fluff my hair? Why didn't I look in the mirror one more time before I got here? Is my eye make-up smudged? Could he possibly be half as attracted to me as I am to him? Oh please, I hope so. Half as much would be enough. I had just enough time to slip off my coat before he was back with two glasses. Did he look at my body as I was taking off my coat? Does it look ok? My body isn't one of those that knocks guys over... it's average. I wished it was great. I wished, for him, that he was as excited as I was. He smiled at me. God - that smile.
Our first date was one of those let's-have-a-drink-and-see. I wore what I'd worn on another date during which the guy told me how attracted he was to me, and how much he wanted to kiss me (I didn't want to kiss him or even shake his hand frankly), but because the outfit seemed to be a success, I would wear it on all my first dates.
I got to the bar first, walked halfway in, looked around and didn't see him, but when I turned to look back at the door, there he was, not a foot behind me. I was startled and stepped back. I may have inwardly gasped; I hope I wasn't uncool enough to actually gasp aloud. I was startled partly because of the suddeness of his appearance, but more, at how attractive he was. (I have to say, I don't know that he would be attractive to all, but to me, there was that chemistry that hits you hard and makes you immediately nervous and unsure of yourself... that primitive excitement that comes from being naturally thrilled by a man.) A head taller than me, with a perfect swirl of mostly salty colored hair. A look on his face of utter confidence; of knowing what you want.
I took a step back and looked down to recover a bit, and then back up. He was smiling and did not step back. "Hi." he said. It was the sexiest single syllable I've ever heard uttered. "You're Bette?" he asked. And for once in a long while I was so glad that, yes, I was. "You wanna sit up here, or in the back?" Frankly I wanted to stand and just stare, but I said, "Let's sit up here..." up at the front of the rustic, cozy bar (the "All State", a great place to meet someone for the first time by the way, now torn down and an empty lot, soon to be condos I assume).
We pulled two chairs up to the bar that ran against the wall, two of only 4 chairs up there, which is why it was so perfect... no one could sit too near us to listen to the inevitably awkward conversation of two complete strangers trying to make a romantic connection. I was nervous, but the good nervous: the excited nervous you get when something good is happening, or about to. I relished the feeling.
Unlike many people, I kind of love these meetings: I'm good at them, I like people, I am amused by the whole process, and I am always so hopeful that whatever guy I'm meeting might be a guy I could like, or at the very least, with whom I could spend an hour practicing flirting. 6 out of 10 are of these guys are "OK". 3 are “eh” or worse. Sometimes right off the bat you realize the guy is a numbskull, or 30 pounds heavier than his photo, or older than his photo or has grown a moustache in which you see an embedded crumb. Some of them try too hard, or are too nervous, or perhaps already an asshole, looking over your shoulder or figuring out if they should buy you a drink or not. Buy the drink, jerk! you think. It's the very first, easiest and most obvious way to show that you're not a loser! If it's after 5pm and they order ice tea or a Diet Coke, I know it's not going to work out. To get through this, we need some alcohol!
He immediately asked what I was drinking - as always, white wine for me. It gets into my blood system faster than beer and for some reason, I always associate it with socializing, relaxing, opening up. He walked over to the bar and in those moments I looked down at myself. Am I attractive? Should I fluff my hair? Why didn't I look in the mirror one more time before I got here? Is my eye make-up smudged? Could he possibly be half as attracted to me as I am to him? Oh please, I hope so. Half as much would be enough. I had just enough time to slip off my coat before he was back with two glasses. Did he look at my body as I was taking off my coat? Does it look ok? My body isn't one of those that knocks guys over... it's average. I wished it was great. I wished, for him, that he was as excited as I was. He smiled at me. God - that smile.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Looking For Peter Mehlman, serialized, Pt. 1
Like most struggling New York writers, I'm far more interested in reading about other struggling writers who have somehow "made it" (ranging from landing a villa in Tuscany to landing a studio apartment with heat) than actually writing anything.
I’d read a lot about writers who had gone to LA and were suddenly being paid to write, which seemed like such a great idea, and I began experimenting with the idea of being not a New York writer but an LA writer, that is; someone who writes sitcoms. This means you have to write sitcoms of course, but more importantly, it means you have to include a third party into your solitary life: the “agent”.
As a matter of fact I’d been lucky enough to get not one, but two agents and fairly quickly; it’s just that they were perhaps unlucky to get me. The first one died shortly after she signed me (she was, I’d been told, a living legend in the business and then evidently decided to become just a legend) and then tragically, the next agent who agreed to represent me lost her husband in the World Trade Tower disaster and left the business. I felt a little depressed about these encounters and tried not to feel personally responsible, but another part of me wanted to avoid dragging someone else into this most personal endeavor, and so I decided to forgo the agent thing, and just keep writing and hoping someone read my stuff and liked it.
I knew this was in fact possible, having heard of the success of a once-struggling Manhattan-based writer who started out writing humor essays (like myself), and who had written one especially hilarious article that convinced Hollywood he was funny enough to let in the "We'll Pay You For This" Club. This tale was one that fledgling writers had been passing around for years and so, one day, I decided to track the apocryphal article down. What made this urban legend particularly intriguing was that the writer who had made it "really big" (meaning that now people write about him) was Peter Mehlman, one of the original writers of "Seinfeld".
Having exhausted by phone all of the tips that a fellow humorist had offered ("I think it was sometime between 1982 and 1988, in the 'New York Times Magazine'. No, it was the 'New Yorker'. No, no wait, it was the Op Ed page of the 'Times', that's where it was. No, wait a minute, now that I think of it...."), and unable to compose a concise or coherent question to submit to Google (I tried: “Peter/Mehlman/article/got/job/Seinfeld” and “Peter/Mehlman/hired/Seinfeld/basis/one/essay/funny” and got subjects ranging from admiralties on British ships to the entire oeuvre of Julia Louis-Dreyfuss.), and wanting to see if I could track down the actual article using the skills I’d learned watching “Law and Order”, I hit the street to begin my investigation.
I decided to start at the landfill for all written words in Manhattan: The New York Public Library.
I’d read a lot about writers who had gone to LA and were suddenly being paid to write, which seemed like such a great idea, and I began experimenting with the idea of being not a New York writer but an LA writer, that is; someone who writes sitcoms. This means you have to write sitcoms of course, but more importantly, it means you have to include a third party into your solitary life: the “agent”.
As a matter of fact I’d been lucky enough to get not one, but two agents and fairly quickly; it’s just that they were perhaps unlucky to get me. The first one died shortly after she signed me (she was, I’d been told, a living legend in the business and then evidently decided to become just a legend) and then tragically, the next agent who agreed to represent me lost her husband in the World Trade Tower disaster and left the business. I felt a little depressed about these encounters and tried not to feel personally responsible, but another part of me wanted to avoid dragging someone else into this most personal endeavor, and so I decided to forgo the agent thing, and just keep writing and hoping someone read my stuff and liked it.
I knew this was in fact possible, having heard of the success of a once-struggling Manhattan-based writer who started out writing humor essays (like myself), and who had written one especially hilarious article that convinced Hollywood he was funny enough to let in the "We'll Pay You For This" Club. This tale was one that fledgling writers had been passing around for years and so, one day, I decided to track the apocryphal article down. What made this urban legend particularly intriguing was that the writer who had made it "really big" (meaning that now people write about him) was Peter Mehlman, one of the original writers of "Seinfeld".
Having exhausted by phone all of the tips that a fellow humorist had offered ("I think it was sometime between 1982 and 1988, in the 'New York Times Magazine'. No, it was the 'New Yorker'. No, no wait, it was the Op Ed page of the 'Times', that's where it was. No, wait a minute, now that I think of it...."), and unable to compose a concise or coherent question to submit to Google (I tried: “Peter/Mehlman/article/got/job/Seinfeld” and “Peter/Mehlman/hired/Seinfeld/basis/one/essay/funny” and got subjects ranging from admiralties on British ships to the entire oeuvre of Julia Louis-Dreyfuss.), and wanting to see if I could track down the actual article using the skills I’d learned watching “Law and Order”, I hit the street to begin my investigation.
I decided to start at the landfill for all written words in Manhattan: The New York Public Library.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Friday, July 24, 2015
I'm Not Sure If My Computer Has A Virus, Or I Do...
In the past, whenever good friends moved away, they always promised to "write", or at least write back, and of course, never did. Never, that is, until e-mail. Now my friends not only keep in touch - they aggressively fondle me with every tiny bit of info-email that floats by, no matter how trivial. These pals of mine who once wrote me gorgeous essays on the most serious and intimate topics, and who expounded poetically on issues of ethics and politics, now send me petitions, pyramid letters and bad puns. Pages of them, every day, sometimes twice a day. I'm getting more junk mail now from close friends than I ever did from strangers.
And in among these non-letter missives, there often appears the inevitable notification, a combination between gossip and an alien sighting: The Virus Alert.
The first time it happened, I was thrown into a thrilling panic: a Computer Virus! Did I have it? Was I going to be part of the collective electronic consciousness that would be infected? Would I see all my friends down at the Free Computer Virus Clinic, lining up for cyber-synthesized penicillin?
The first virus warning I ever got was for "Melissa" which I took as an anthropomorphic indication that she was the jilted cyber girlfriend of the "2001" computer Hal. The Melissa virus sounded intimidating not just because I got the feeling it was younger than me and had a better job, but because vague reporting of its destructive trail allowed my imagination to run wild: that after it ate your hard drive, it would go to your refrigerator and eat all your leftovers, all your flowering plants and any small pets that had the bad luck to wander into its path.
I waited breathlessly for it to show its (type) face. I expected it to arrive attached to salutations like:
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Over time however, other viruses have come my way, most of them with benign-sounding, friendly names, as if they were being emitted from some pink, Barbie-doll iBook. There was "Kali" and I assume her auto: "The Love Bug"; an invitation: "Let's Watch TV!", plush toys called "Bugbear" and even: "New pictures of family!" and "A Card For You!" (at least someone still sends cards…).
Now I've become virus-paranoid. I don't open any email if the subject heading is unfamiliar, or even if it is familiar, but just too damn cheery. But that hasn't stopped one infection from slipping past my most vigilant efforts.
I call it the "You've Got Mail" infection because it doesn't require that you open mail from an anonymous source but actually embeds itself in letters from friends, just when they're getting to the good part: just when your pal is telling you that she ran into your ex with his new girlfriend and what he said, and then what she said, when all of a sudden, BAM! You're infected. "You've got mail, Hee Hee!" it might say, which you don't notice at first because of course you want to know what that blonde idiot in the too short skirt had to say. But that's when it gets you.
You'll notice that suddenly, your cuticles look ragged. Just below your armpits you'll suddenly find extra flesh flapping as freely as a museum banner. You'll notice that your thighs have morphed into flabby cushions and, if you're a woman, your legs, which you swear you shaved this morning, will have stubble again. Men will notice that what they affectionately referred to as "the spare tire" around their waist, is now the wheel from a Monster Truck rally.
And that's just the physical stuff.
Your mind will wander. You'll begin to wonder what your place in the universe is and why everybody got out of the stock market without telling you. You won't be able to get your mind off the guy at the bank who put you on hold and never picked up again.
But the most terrifying thing about this virus is: it's impossible to tell whether you're actually infected, or whether you've just started to look like this since you got your own blog and that, unlike everyone else's blog, yours had something to say.
What to do if you suspect you suspect you're a victim? Well, you can bet there's an anxiety-producing website on line that'll offer the cure. Only take you about 9 hours to find, and then about an hour to figure out how to use it. But what do you care? You're already sitting down.
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