Monthly Archives: March 2015

Tall Order, Short Fuse

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, than I am completely out of my mind. I continue to meet up with strange men from online dating sites. I haven’t fallen in love yet. What on earth makes me think that the next guy will be different? Better? Lovable? Or even fuckable? Oy vey. And I KNOW I’ve said this before!

I’m an optimist. I’ve been trying to remain positive. I’m…tenacious. But LOOK AT THIS, WILL YOU?

434245032040174339WHAT in this man’s WILDEST imagination makes him think this is the best photo to lead with? Granted, at least he isn’t obese. Should I be grateful? Turned on? I mean, LOOK AT THOSE FUCKING UNDERPANTS! HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!

Okay, let me get a grip on myself. And yes, I know men don’t call them “underpants.” But the way he has them hiked up — no doubt to better showcase his “package” — they look more like granny panties than “briefs.” Ack. Where is this guy’s face? He doesn’t show us his face. Just his hairy belly. It is BREAKING MY BRAIN!

Last night I met a man from OKCupid. He made initial contact, saying he was impressed by my “direct approach.” (I’d recently updated my profile to cut through all the bullshit.) He suggested meeting at a craft beer bar in Hells Kitchen. When I said it was a little far afield for me as well as a bit fancy, beer-wise, he suggested a second craft beer bar also in Hells Kitchen. Uh, thanks for picking up on my desire to drink somewhere that isn’t a craft beer bar. Or not in Hells Kitchen. But, as it happened, I was going to be in Hells Kitchen the following day. Would he like to get together sooner?

He showed up and I knew immediately it was a mistake. Khaki cargo pants, pockets and all. White sneakers. And a stupid cap. I told myself, well, just be open to meeting someone new. Roll with it. Awkward conversation ensued. He seemed to believe he was cooler than me. Which, hey, is fine. When he decided to cut through the bullshit and asked, “So, what do you think?” I knew he meant, “Are we gonna fuck?” (Because that was, more or less, what I’d put into my updated profile.) “I don’t think so,” I told him. I softened the blow by saying something along the lines of “I may never want to fuck anyone ever again.” Probably not totally accurate, even if it is how I’ve been feeling lately. “So I shouldn’t take it personally?” he asked. “No,” I told him. What was I supposed to say? I can’t stand your stupid cap? I hate cargo pants? White sneakers are unacceptable unless you’re Jax Teller? And, oh, did I forget to tell you that he’d asked me if I was into erotic asphyxiation? No? Oops. Cause, yeah. Within minutes of sitting beside me. I was, like, “Is that the kind of question you ask a half-beer into a first date?” He assured me it was. “Isn’t that, perhaps, something you might want to mention on your profile?” I asked. He said he preferred to spring it on people. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” was my next question. “I’ve had a few converts,” he confided, cockily. Uh, I highly doubt it. Most women are wary enough about meeting strange men for a drink. Jumping right into letting a guy choke the breath out of them probably isn’t next on the list after a fucking Cosmo. Anyway. After I told the guy he should be trolling on FetLife instead of luring vanilla women into Hells Kitchen craft beer bars, he paid his tab and disappeared. Asshole. And today he emailed my friend! Here’s her response:

I am very choked up you wrote me. Seems you had a FIRST meeting with a friend of mine where you wanted to know if you could do the same. NOT cool, not cool at all. Before you go asking for this deadly kink, you better know the person you are asking, or get on a website where you can find someone to indulge you safely. Wouldn’t go near you, and hope none of my friends on this site do either.

And speaking of dudes who think they’re into 50 Shades of Stupid, I met another guy Friday night whose profile noted that he has a “bad boy side.” When he emailed me, he asked if I’d read his profile. Yes, I told him. All three sentences of it. “And?” he asked. “And what?” I responded. “I don’t ‘do boring’ either.” I guess he was eager to see what I thought of his bad boy reference.  “Are you a criminal? In jail? Or just kinky? Spell it out!” He admitted to being kinky. “I don’t do boring either,” I told him, and suggested he Google me. “I’ve dabbled as a dominatrix, worked in porn, hosted sex parties. Takes a lot to shock me,” I told him. “Me too” he enthused. I assumed he meant it takes a lot to shock him, since I didn’t think he couldn’t cop to any of the other stuff. “MFM, FMF, GB, DP,” he burbled. Uh, threesomes isn’t exactly BDSM. But whatevs. Love your alphabet soup, dude.

When we met in person, I asked him what, exactly, sort of play he’d engaged in. He shyly admitted to spanking a girlfriend once or twice. Oh man. Quite the aficionado! Not that I’m looking for Mr. Grey to see me now. I couldn’t care less about kink. I’d be happy to have someone to spoon with. It doesn’t seem like such a tall order but, well, you can see what sort of men I’m dealing with here.

Maternal Mortality Anxieties

A few days ago I went to Lady Mendl’s for High Tea. It was a celebration of a friend’s mother, who passed away five years ago, and a new-ish tradition. My friend gets depressed every year at this time; not only is it the anniversary of her mother’s death, she died the day after birthday: a double whammy. Remembering life. Remembering death. When we first became close friends, I suggested that instead of dreading these two days, why not celebrate her mother’s life? What did her mother enjoy? We decided on a trip to the Met and High Tea and we’ve been celebrating with tea ever since.

On the anniversary of her mother’s death, she posted photos of candles on Facebook with an homage. That same day, I was struck by how many other friends were posting similar images: their mothers as young women, heartfelt sentiments about parents who had passed, the marking of anniversaries of both births and deaths. Social media provides us with the proverbial bully pulpit, something ordinary people haven’t had in the past: an opportunity to broadcast our innermost thoughts to dozens — or thousands. These postings raised my current level of anxiety a few notches. My mother is 79. She obviously isn’t going to live forever.

10521173_10152767506041004_90295807251692475_nMy mom isn’t infirm. She’s in fairly good health and, for her age, pretty active. She plays competitive bridge every day. This past August she even joined me out in the desert for 48 hours of Burning Man! But one day she won’t be here. I can grasp this in the abstract; children are supposed to outlive their parents. But the actual fact? It’s too awful to even think about.

I talk to my mom often. Not every day, but almost. I call her when I get a really good bargain at a thrift store or flea market, every time Wheel of Fortune is particularly exciting or when I experience one of life’s little victories. Mind you, I don’t share any of my defeats. Joan doesn’t do sad. Crying pisses her off, no doubt because it makes her feel helpless, a feeling she doesn’t like one bit. She also doesn’t do sick. Which is probably one of the reasons I’m so healthy: it just isn’t in the family script to be ill. My mom has survived three different cancers — THREE! — and each time it was like she had a hangnail.

Somewhere out there, perhaps cancer number four is looming. Or merely old age. Whatever it is I hope it isn’t protracted. I’ve been enlisted as chief plug-puller. Ack. I can’t imagine not being able to pick up the phone and call her. There isn’t anyone else I call just to say hello. I don’t even want to think about saying goodbye.