Archive for September, 2011

I’ve been writing this blog for almost 2 years. It started as a funny commentary on the ridiculousness of dating, with a side story being that I was a long term lesbian who woke up one day liking cock, and having no interest in women any longer. So, the serious would sometimes wiggle its way into the snark, into the one liners, and bring a bit of reality into the escapism that my site was for many people. Only, eventually I fell in love. That was unexpected.

The timing, the individual, the situation, my falling in love was fraught with everything messy and complicated. It was all innately human and filled with roadblocks, human drama, insecurity, egos, errors in judgement, scars, death, sex and tears. In the middle of summer we ended it. But I still talked to him. I still told him I loved him, because I did and because we didn’t stop dating because he didn’t care, but because he’s too afraid that he’ll destroy someone if they get to close. Shatter their illusion of him with the reality. Only thing is, I know the reality, and even with the nasty ugly details, he is still the most beautiful man I know. He is still my choice. So, I stand tall and still and I don’t falter, I don’t run.

Two nights ago, nearly two months since we “stopped dating”, we found ourselves in each others arms again. The drink, that becomes two, that becomes dinner and two more drinks, that becomes two hours of intense conversation at his kitchen table and then, becomes us wrapped around each other in his bed. I’m okay with that. I’m okay with him being terrified. I’m at peace with him and his fear.

In six weeks, roughly, a new chapter begins in all of this. In this story of my crazy casual dating with many turned love affair with one, an emotionally fragile man whom I nicknamed Type Geek. Recently, he was offered a HUGE promotion, in the Bay Area. He is taking it, as he should. He told me Wednesday night. He might never get a chance like this again. I never questioned whether he should, but I admitted that I feared he would evaporate, as if he never existed. An irrational fear, I know. He exists here, he will continue to exist. Will I? I haven’t let him let me go yet, have I? I can be creative. He may date others when he moves, but he won’t find  me and what I offer in any of them, and I won’t let him forget that I am here, in Boston.

Boston. So, what is my long term goal here? I’m going to continue to love him and tell him that and send him love notes in the mail, meanwhile, I am going to save every dollar, work insane schedules, pick up freelance jobs if possible, and I am going to network, on the hope that he will let me come to him in Spring. Why spring? It is after his office is set up, after he is a bit more settled, after I show that I don’t forget about him, just because he is thousands of miles away. It’s long enough for him to miss me. To remember me. To want me.

Sure, there is a HUGE what if here, what if he doesn’t? He’s the pessimist here, I am not. I am the oddly optimistic one who believes that love isn’t a film with Meg Ryan, that there is a bit of Fellini and Woody Allen in there. A little heavy metal, a little Miles Davis and maybe even a little Electric Six. I’m not a typical romantic. I am a realist, but in this unclear situation, I choose the brighter future. I choose the future that has he and I, in our 80’s, drinking rum drinks and laughing about “kids these days” while I still admire his perfect little tush, still bite-able after 40 years.

Because the purpose of this blog isn’t to document my daily quest to save for a move out west, I’m going to change direction a bit. I’ll show up in it here and there, but I will be moving into a wider area of focus from now on. This will, in theory, bring back some levity and hilarity. I’m open to topics, things to explore, reviews on products, etc. However, the day to day drear needs to be swept out to sea if I am keeping my eye on the bridge, so to speak and while occasional updates into Type Geek are fine and good, this was never a blog about one man.

Meanwhile, for almost two years, I have kept this blog from being monetized, cause I hate ad heavy sites. They no longer smell genuine, you never know what is done for ad sense dollars and what is done for the reader. The time has come though, with my future looking pricey, that I try to find some funding for this site. Because of this, and my quest, I have created a “chipin” that everyone can donate to. A dollar, ten dollars, heck..more (please), will all help. These dollars will go directly into a separate wish/travel fund for San Fransisco. Spread the word on the chipin and the blog. Thank you for reading all this time.


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The last time I posted, I was heading off to a few days in NYC, to be HOME during the anniversary of the attacks. I lived there then, 10 years ago. I was going to my office in Midtown Manhattan from Williamsburg, Brooklyn when that first plane hit. I didn’t see it happen on my walk from Grand Central to 46th and Madison. It was only when I got off the elevator that my coworker told me. The next several hours were spent huddled with upper management in a conference room that thankfully faced west, rather than south, while we watched the madness on TV. NYC is no longer home, in the primal core of my heart, it is, a place that I feel closer to my center than almost anywhere, but other than that, other than a gut feeling, it isn’t home.

It was an odd trip and feeding off the energy of NYC, my anxiety levels were sky high at moments, especially after having my camera break and a couple hours later, my cell phone stolen while trying to buy a new camera. I got home to a laptop that wouldn’t work, a dog that broke out in such dangerously outrageous hives that she had to be given iv shots of Steroids and Antihistamines. For several days the drugs continued. She’s allergic to atmospheric mold. The rain and the humidity, the continuing dampness that has fallen over the city, it hit her hard. A stoned dog is a funny dog though, as they look up at you with eyes that question why everyone, including you, look like a polka dotted cat in their eyes. Then my job, the restaurant, the owner has lost his mind. He took me aside and berated me and insulted me in a way I have never quite experienced. His reasons were flimsy at best, his excuses were centered around tables that weren’t even mine. He didn’t care. It was his need for power that prevailed in those moments. For the first time in years I cried at work, because of work. At 36, I am too old to work at a job , for an owner, who gets off on that type of behavior.

And this is why I have been quiet. I now have a phone, after much runaround from T Mobile and the NYC Police Department. I have a hive free dog after many hundreds of dollars. I have a lap top that with the costly addition of plug in keyboards and optical mice, works again, sort of. I have an unpaid internship in something I love and an evening job that I haven’t been able to replace due to the unfriendly job market. My boss’s new trick is sending me home super early, so I only make $20 or $30 dollars. I won’t be able to pay my bills this month and he will get off on having so much power to effect harm upon someone else’s life.

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I almost didn’t go out with him. This guy, a government contracts lawyer, doesn’t really seem my type, but since the goal was not to replace Type Geek, but only to get out and have fun, he seemed as fair as any to spend time with. We had enough overlap in interests to make a meet up logical, but some of his behavioral quirks IRRITATE me.

  1. Asking me out for a same day dinner. Sure, once I know you, last minute is awesome, but for a first date? Don’t make me feel like I am a fill in for a plan that fell through.
  2. Tell me that it’s super casual jeans and t-shirts attire. I don’t date like that. I don’t do jeans and t-shirts in general. I do pencil skirts, I do slacks. This to me just translates to “I’m lazy and can’t force myself to dress nicely for you, so rather than feel badly about my attire, I’m going to tell you to dumb it down too.”
  3. If you ask me where I want to eat and I offers three choices, don’t make counter suggestions because you don’t like mine. If you make it to a second date, then you can take me to one of those places, but the chances aren’t good if you make me feel that my choices and opinions aren’t good enough for you.
  4. Tell me not to rush, but when I am ten minutes later than expected due to the September 1st student U-Haul migration, do not text me every couple of minutes to tell me how hungry you are and that you are going to have to run to the conveinance store for a snack. A snack? Really? As if he was LITERALLY about to die of starvation.
  5. Tell me you can’t have a cocktail because it is a “school night” and you are a light weight. My ex fiancé was a raging shit show of an alcoholic, so I don’t want that type of drinker, but loosening up with a few cocktails and flirting is good stuff. Pencil skirts, stockings, and some Basil Hayden is a sexy way to spend a night.
  6. Spend the entire time telling me about your ex-fiance who called off the wedding after the refund date, and your subsequent rebound relationship with the emotional abuser whom you fell in love with. Oh yeah, and your therapist… he thinks you only like damaged women.
  7. Brown shoes with black slacks and black shirt? Really?

This is why dating sucks. This is why dating at MY age sucks. I shouldn’t have gone that night, I should not have said yes. The same hour Impatient Eater emailed me about dinner, Type Geek texted me about the offer his bosses just put in front of him. A Senior VP position. His own office… in San Francisco. Funny, no one ever talks about San Francisco, it never comes up in my life, until it does. The past 5 days have been unbearable as everywhere I turn, the voices say San Francisco. Customers, strangers blocking the sidewalks, new flat mates, fellow bloggers, even the internet. I can’t escape it, I can’t hide from it.

I canceled the rest of my dates for the next couple of weeks and planned a trip to NYC for the september 11th memorial. I was there ten years ago, in my office, watching the television in the boardroom with my colleagues as the second plane hit. Ten years. I want to wander the city alone this weekend and think about who I was and who I am and what it all means.

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