Enigmatic Female

Patriot Day

Five years ago, at almost exactly this time, I was dismissed early from my 9am torts class. A few miles south of the law school, the second tower of the World Trade Center had just fallen and no one knew what it meant. My strongest memory of September 11, 2001 and the days following it, aside from the fear that would not permit me to travel far beyond the law school campus, and certainly not by subway, was of not being able to watch one more newscast about the towers, and instead finding solace in HBO. When I read Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, I felt a connection with the characters, as I was close to their tragedy, but since it wasn't my tragedy, I was able to let it go after a few tears. A few days ago, while looking for some books in the attic, I came across a box of Dallas' law school books, and on top of the books was the New York Times from September 12, 2001 with the picture of the explosions on the cover. Despite newscasts and casual mentions of that day, it was the newspaper photograph that triggered all my personal memories, and reminded me that September means more now than apple season, Labor Day, and a return to school. I suspect that I have started to separate the personal experience from the historical event, for which I am grateful, as it takes far more than casual mention of the event to trigger an emotional response in me. This day snuck up on me this year and I didn't feel the nearness of it as closely as I have in past years, perhaps because this is the first September 11th since 2001 that I haven't been in New York. While it may sound callous or dismissive of me to admit this, I am glad that that day isn't as present with me now as it has been in the past. I will take a moment, or many moments, to remember it, but then I will set it aside again, happy to live without it pressing on me for as long as possible.

The Right Way To Hate Your Neighbor

There I sat, at Sarabeth's on the UWS, waiting. I sipped my water, introduced some freshly-squeezed orange juice into my struggling immune system, and spied unabashedly on the diners at the surrounding tables. The table to my left provided what seemed to be an uncommon family dinner for older parents and their obnoxious, Patagonia-clad 10 year old son and his cell phone. Who has time for caesar salad and conversation with one's parents when there's the Motorola equivalent of Pong to be played? Their conversation was uninspired until the bill came, at which point there was a lengthier than necessary conversation about who would pay. Finally it was settled. She would pay, as he had paid last time. Then they both laughed. Their son looked up, nonplussed. His father quickly explained that this amused them because it was all the same money. As the ever-crunchy and accepting oh-so-PC UWSiders that they were, they felt the need to show their son some tolerance, explaining, "Not all mommies and daddies do it this way. Sometimes the woman has her money and the man has his money." The son went back to his game. I applauded his choice.

The ladies to my right were far far more amusing to me, and I chuckled into my orange juice several times as their conversation progressed. They were reunited childhood friends of the same age and the same brown hair with perm that is so fashionable among the 50something crowd. A New York City Public Library tote bag sat on the seat beside the thinner of the two, a lifetime New Yorker who now works in computers, previously selling and educating users of Microsoft Word. Her friend, somewhat shorter and rounder than she, asked repeatedly, loudly, and with a giggle "are you a computer geek? Are you??" This shorter, rounder friend was covered in diamonds of the sparkly variety, which seemed somewhat out of place when worn with her handmade necklace and hippie skirt. She lives on an island near Seattle and raises chickens, she's planning a move to New Zealand soon, with her husband who is a doctor, perhaps an endocrinologist from the types of patients she described, and she hates her neighbor.

This particular island in Seattle where she lives with her husband and four chickens (one of which lays blue eggs) is one large hill, and the higher up the hill and toward the middle of the island you are, the better your view of Seattle is. Her neighbor who lives slightly uphill from her would have a tremendous view of the city, except for one small problem -- the trees on her property periodically obscure his view, as they have for the prior 16 years they've been neighbors. From time to time, he takes it upon himself to come down the hill and send his gardener up into her trees in order to top them, pruning away any of the offensive branches standing between him and the view of the Seattle skyline. As she explained this to her computer geek friend, there was a shrillness in her voice and the volume rose ever so slightly as the pace of her speech quickened enough to let me know that this truly was a sore spot. Trying to garner sympathy from her friend, she explained that topping is terrible for trees and that he had no right to come onto her property in order to do this. Recently, she found the neighbor's gardener in her tree, and incensed, she sent the neighbor a letter. The neighbor furiously called her husband at work and they attempted to work something out, whereby she and her husband would be willing to remove the trees, at the neighbor's expense, and replace them with smaller trees, also at the neighbor's expense. This was unacceptable to the neighbor, who called the police when they got too close to his property line, and who has been unwilling to further discuss the problem. But not to worry, the round lady with the diamonds had a solution: she and her husband are building an expansion onto their house in order to obstruct the neighbor's view in lieu of the trees. Her friend asked, "Do you need more space?" "No, we just want to build up so that he can't complain the trees are blocking his view -- it'll be our house instead."

Well Being

After an excellent workout this morning where I learned yet another boxing move (I'm dangerous like John Travolta in a serious movie), I stepped outside to discover that the world is b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l today. I was serene as I have never been in New York, standing on the sun-soaked corner of 81st and West End at 8am breathing in the crisp autumn air. It was partly the endorphins from the workout, and partly a conversation I had last night that caused me to wake up with a smile, despite my alarm sounding at 6:15. I didn't want it to end as I walked back toward my apartment, so I kept walking, staying on whichever side of the street allowed me the most access to the sun, and ended up at Georgia's Bakeshop at 89th and Broadway. I have only ever been to Georgia's at night or on the weekend, never on a weekday morning when it is apparently frequented by every parent on the UWS picking up a croissant or scone for themselves and pains aux chocolats (I may have butchered what one friend refers to as "the mother tongue" just then, je m'excuse, there I go again...) for their backpack-carrying children on the way to school. I waited my turn and ordered a large herbal iced tea ($3.00!!!), watched them make it fresh for me, then headed back outside, only to discover that the corner of 89th and Broadway was a chilly spot with no sun to warm it, and that my damp workout clothes combined with the breeze and my iced tea were quickly dissipating all my positive feelings as the warmth seeped from my body. I quickly walked back to Amsterdam for more sunshine and headed home, where I now sit typing, iced tea finished, in my sunny bedroom, trying to think of any excuse to not go to work just yet.

The Serial Summer Has Ended

In the past few weeks I've been systematically closing out my summer of bad dates with odd men. All told, I believe I saw eight people over twelve weeks and I'm exhausted. This is not a sustainable lifestyle by any means.

First there was Chris. An overall good guy who had a taste for beer, hockey, and public displays of affection. Our most notable experience was seeing raccoons together in Central Park where we stood making out at 1:30am. He was by far the most normal of the lot, just kind of blah. It quickly slid downhill from there.

Second on the list was Rob. 5'2" posing as 5'5". He led me to make an observation about proportionality in the lies men tell about their height. Everyone has heard that men add 2", but I assumed (wrongly) that the shorter the man and the more obvious the lie, the fewer inches he would add. Wrong. This dude and I had a full out conversation about how he hates when women judge him about his height, and how the problems women have with height are all their own, when clearly guy had some major issues. That and he was intensely boring, ordered a White Russian at a pub known for its beer selection, and has never lived outside of New York. No, really. He has barely left it at all, in fact.

Third up was Dave, a hottie musician, and I believe recovering alcoholic. We only had one date, but it was full of laughter and awkward making out. He was my first experience with men who trim their pubes and chest hair. I thought I liked this at first, but no, no I didn't.

Fourth was Jeff. Dear God. He never got past the stage where it's OK to list Ayn Rand as your favorite novelist and the boy lisped. No potential. He was, however -- by far -- the most polite of all the boys. He called to ask me out on a second date, which I responded to with an email expressing my disinterest, to which he responded with a kind email saying he could tell I wasn't interested and returning my good wishes. Stand-up fella.

Fifth and worst was Josh. The rudest, weirdest, most issue-laden, and likely gay of the lot. So I went out with him 5 times and let him sleep in my bed. Stunning display on my part, really. I even cooked him breakfast. If I never hear another man call his mother "mommy" or saying that he just took a great shit and now feels all cleaned out and nice, it would be A-OK.

Sixth was a fellow golfer named Peter who I never actually went out with. While I was on the phone with him making plans for our first date, I got a call from number 7, made plans with number 7, and when I returned to the first conversation, he'd hung up. My roommate (curses!) made me call him back. He talked like Stan's sister from South Park. You know, braces, throat full of saliva, crazy speech problem. Yeah, that was him and I'm a total bitch for putting that into words. We had a date, he cancelled due to something family-related and never called to reschedule. No hardship.

Seventh, Eric had perhaps the most potential. That is, until he called me the Wednesday following our date (which had ended with an awkward kiss planted somewhere near my hairline) and said that the woman he'd been dating for a couple of months before he met me called him to reconcile the day after our date and that he wanted to work things out with her. I wished him the best and told him to call me if it didn't work out. Stunned, I think he considered leaving her on the spot based on my oh-so-cleverly- adult response to his news. Sometimes I impress myself. I would never go out with him again, though. What a pussy.

Finally we have another Chris. Lovely how that creates bookends, right? I could never quite pin down what this guy does for a living. He paid for our iced tea ($4.89) with a credit card, not a good sign. He talked too fast, left me alone for 20 minutes in a record store on our first date while he "went to the bathroom," talked quite a bit about my drug resume (scanty compared to his, I can guarantee), and thought that a great second date would be staying in at his place with a movie and a bottle of wine. Surprising, considering he asked whether it was moving too fast when he held my hand on our first date. Did I mention that when I jested about driving away the pigeons who nest near our living room window, this guy had a ready plan on how to kill pigeons? He also idolized his cousin's husband who would visit estate sales on Long Island, get antiques at low prices, bring them to Manhattan and "make one or two grand a weekend." He would "like to make that kind of money." Get a job, motherfucker, get a job.

And now I rest.

I Hardly Know Myself This Weekend

This weekend I am taking a much-needed hiatus from all things dating. I'll do some work, get in some shopping, and generally relax. Five guys in eight weeks is a full dance card and now I'm exhausted. I can't pretend to be interested in one more boring thing someone says. I'm not leaving the borrough for some half-assed date at a Barnes and Noble. I'm sure as hell not going to spend the evening making it crystal clear that I want to have sex. Done and done. Maybe next weekend I will find some reserves of energy and will jump back in the pool, but for right now it's golf balls and beers with friends, getting drunk and catching up with the girls, and getting things organized.

Last night started at The Stone Rose in the Time Warner building with a small going away party for someone at my firm. I got quite toasted on a Stone Rose (their version of a Manhattan; quite good, actually) and a Manhattan and started making wildly inappropriate comments, as I do now when drunk, regardless of the company. Like how I dropped the C-bomb six times in front of a co-worker's roommate and then told him that the reason two girls I work with don't like me much is that they think I'm too prim and proper. I don't think he bought it.

For the first time ever I kissed a woman on the mouth. In front of her husband and my coworkers. I don't think it was hot, though. It certainly didn't turn me on. We'll just be friends.

I met a coworker's girlfriend. A coworker I've had a crush on for ages. His girlfriend is about 20 times hotter than me, so there that is.

My friend, A came and met me at the Stone Rose and we went to Rosa Mexicano for dinner, but couldn't get a table in a reasonable amount of time, so went to Molyvos instead. I ate lamb. I don't eat lamb. Ever. Actually, that's not true, I've had it twice, this makes three times. A and I had a scandalous conversation about her past exploits, The Roommate, and my abusive relationship with WebMD, which has convinced me I've had such diseases as German Measles.

In A Fireman's Words

"After 9-11, I was getting more ass than a toilet seat."

Shit. Show.

I golfed in the Bronx today with a friend from work. We were paired with the best twosome ever, to make four. Best does not mean the best golfers, only the most fun golfers. One of the other guys is a NYC firefighter; the other just moved to Boston and I have no idea what he does. They started drinking beer at noon and we left a bar together around 7pm. That's seven solid hours of drinking for them. I held off until the last third of the game, but once I took off, there was no stopping me. Drunk at an Irish pub that is allegedly owned by hot Irish lesbians, I couldn't keep my dirty mouth shut. This is an all too common situation lately, and I end up waking up from post-drinking naps, or in the middle of the night with terrible anxiety that I've said some pretty stupid shit. Today is no exception, but I don't actually think I said anything too bad, just gave way too much unnecessary information. Like that R and I used to have a ton of sex when we'd see each other on weekends to make up for not having sex during the week. Or that I've dated people lately who can't maintain erections. Why would anyone who just met me want to know that? In my drunken state, I am always looking to entertain people and I guess I think this will be funny. I doubt it is. I bet it's more like just plain weirdness, but who can say. My sober self would have to be there and make a judgment call; I doubt my drunk self would give a shit, though.

He Brought A Backpack. On A Date.

11am on a Sunday morning is not the opportune moment for a date, especially a first one. And did I mention it was in Brooklyn? At a Barnes and Noble? Yeah. Stellar. I spotted him immediately, thinking his picture online did not prepare me for the oafish, Church of Latter Day Saints-esque personage I was confronted with. Had his shirt been white, not blue, and had he had a nametag which proclaimed his status as "Elder," I would have been able to save us both an hour. Shirt: short-sleeved, cheap material, prison blue, button down with front pocket sans protector. Backpack: black and worn by both straps, with thumbs often hooked through about chest-level. Pants: black and pleated. Shoes: black and old and ugly. Speech: a lisssshp that I had previously mistaken for the overenunciation of an opera singer/lover. We discussed books as I led him around the store to the areas that held my interest; history, classic literature, new releases, sale table. The Fountainhead is his favorite and is about the most modern book he's read. He pointed out sci-fi books that shaped his childhood. When I had estimated that about an hour had lapsed, I led us out of the store and to the subway without acknowledging that the date was over. I said I wasn't looking forward to work. He asked whether I was sure I had to leave just then. I snorted and said yes. I shook his hand at the 2/3 train, said it was nice to meet him, and scurried down into the hot tunnel. I did some rehab at the Sephora in Union Square before heading to work.

Intrigue

My friend, P, calls him Intrigue. My roommate calls him Gazelle. I will call him J, and our relationship Over. On our first date, he started a conversation about the bill with, "My half is nine dollars and forty-five cents...", gave me a hot oil massage, and farted loudly and unapologetically in front of me. On our second date he wore 1980s-style Reeboks, kissed me hotly in the Meat Packing District, and pissed me off so much I started to leave his apartment in disgust. On our third date he gave me an orgasm and got defensive when he couldn't get off when I blew him. On our fourth date he talked me into attending a wrestling match and wanted to sleep in my bed without fooling around. The following day he told me that he subscribes to an online newsletter that teaches one how to project oneself as an alpha-male. He has excellent taste in beer. In an effort to remove all hair from his body, he shaves his chest, arms, and scrotum. He doesn't brush his teeth before bed, choosing instead to rely on mouthwash to get the job done. The passengers on a New York City Subway train turned to stare at us after hearing his laughter. His passion for his job has turned me on more than once. At a sushi restaurant, he decided to follow Japanese tradition, rather than New York City custom, and picked up and drank his bowl of Miso soup. He told me that I'm especially beautiful when I look at him from the side. The last time we hooked up, he didn't have an erection. After venturing to the grocery store with me and tasting my cooking, he proclaimed that "just like Mommy" I only use "the finest ingredients," and that I had disproved the stereotype about Irish cooking. Dedicated weightlifting has made his body impressively solid. After I expressed disappointment in his lack of interest in sex, he used the line, "sometimes I'm just tired; it doesn't mean anything." He prides himself on his neediness and childish behavior and emulates his parents' relationship in which his mother runs his father's life, as his father is helpless outside of work. He never tried to have sex with me, but talked about it constantly. The first time he used my deodorant, he asked first; the second time, he helped himself. Despite lewd offers whispered in his ear, the only fireworks I experienced on the Fourth were the ones I viewed from South Street Seaport.

Fireworks

I took a cab home from Soho tonight, and driving up West Side Highway, my cabbie and I shared a moment. We both saw an incredible display of fireworks that was so close it filled the entire window of the car. Maybe it was a sign to show me that something was missing from tonight. I went out with someone new last night and went out again with him tonight. I won't call him nice, because he isn't. He's slightly racist, homophobic, cheap, sexually agressive, and the list continues. The problem is that he intrigues me. He can stand toe to toe with me and isn't afraid of insulting me. He doesn't sugar-coat anything (he even commented on my how much gray hair I have), which unnerves me. He loves my body, which attracts me. He offered to accompany me to a WWE wrestling event, if I were so inclined (which I just might be). I intensely admire his passion for his job as a teacher. I think sex with him would be entertaining, and perhaps educational for both of us. On the other hand, the boy calls his mother "mommy," wears Wrangler jeans tapered at the ankle, and has a strong preference for restaurants with entrees priced in the single digits. And I suspect that he might be a tad more into me than I am him. What to do. And, the guy from last Saturday IMed me today. He sent me a link to something he described as "hilarious." Too bad the link didn't work. Nothing says class or demonstrates interest more after hooking up with someone new than a broken link sent 8 days after the fact. I emailed him, thanking him for the link, letting him know it didn't work, and suggesting that we hang out again sometime if he's around my neighborhood. Now we wait...