Let The Romance Begin

This has been spreading virally through the internet. JH sent it to me and I've already died several times listening to it.




I wish Dimitri would call me.

And I wish Olga would too, so I can buy her a drink.

The Party's Over...

...it's time to call it a day.
They've burst your pretty balloon and taken the moon away.

It's time to wind up the masquerade.
Just make your mind up the piper must be paid.

The Party's Over.
The candles ficker and dim.
You danced and dreamed through the night,
it seemed to be right just being with him.

Now you must wake up, all dreams must end.
Take off your make up, The Party's Over.
It's all over, my friend.

-Words by Betty Comden and Adolph Green and Music by Jule Styne

The party is indeed over, and my apt is in shambles. And there are well over 50 empty wine bottles scattered everywhere, like dead tin soldiers. The party was not the disaster I was hoping for. It was... fun. Perhaps my best one yet. Which forces me to consider that my usual complicated formulas to calculate personality mixes and so forth (which I did NOT employ with this party) might be completely unnecessary. Apparently all that is necessary is to stuff my little apt with as many people as it can hold and have lots and lots of booze available.

I will spray some anti-stain stuff on my sheepskin rug (red wine accident) and will wash my face, brush my teeth, and get into my most comfortable nightie.

I wish I could say that I'll fall asleep tonight, but I have the feeling that this is yet another night that the name of my blog will prove very appropriate.

Stalker Is In Jail!

Got the following email today from my Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker's manservant (Yes, you read that correctly. Who knew that the stalker's trust fund could be so effectively leveraged?):

-----------------------------------------------------

Hi (C-Belle),

XXXX wanted me to send you an e-mail, to let you know his bond was revoked in XXXX County. He is sorry about being out of touch, but is thinking about you and will contact you as soon as he can. Let me know if you need anything. I hope all is well.

Thanks, XXXX

-----------------------------------------------------

Where to start with the biting commentary?

It's really just too easy. Hardly seems sporting.

But no one has ever accused me of being sporting.

WTF?!?! I do need more wineglasses for my little party tonight. Which, incidentally has bloomed out of control. What started as a party bereft of men has turned into one of almost nothing but men, and me.

Maybe I can get the manservant to have a bunch of wineglasses delivered to my apt. before 7:30PM so I can appropriately entertain my mostly male guests? That request on my part will assuredly drive my jailed stalker from the Big House straight to the Nut House.

Keeper Of The Flame

Woke up from a dream that I was back in music school. Barely remembered rules of point/counterpoint were clearly fixed in my mind and I was walking down Claremont Avenue, towards 122nd street, when my dream's soundtrack began. And it was this:



A nostalgic trip back to music school is long overdue.

Brilliant

I'd make some comment about how some people have too much time on their hands, but this had me and WC rolling on the floor with laughter:

The Alpha Male

I had an interesting conversation the other day (about men, what else?) with my dear friend, RL.

(It does make me wonder what it is that men talk about. I suspect the primary topic is NOT women, but rather, themselves. So I suppose that means that EVERYONE just talks about men?)

RL is a new friend, so we are just getting to know each other, and using the topic of men as the jumping-off point.

I was going through my logic for why I am thinking of doing something (that involves a man) and RL interrupted me to say, "Oh dear god. You sound like a man. Worse, you sound like an Alpha Male."

I was surprised, because.. well... because I was using logic and going through an analysis of the pros and cons, which doesn't seem to be a very male kind of thing.

But I think RL was not commenting on my analysis, I think she was commenting more on what I was using my analysis to justify. RL believes wholeheartedly that a man's interest in and desire for a woman decreases dramatically if the hunt is taken out of his hands. This reminded me of a comment that Bartleby left on one of my posts: "The guy is an alpha male who prefers to hunt than be hunted."

I find this curious because I have initiated every step of every sexual/romantic relationship I have ever had with a man. I dislike being hunted, it creeps me out. If I want something "interesting" to happen, I will initiate it. And since I am about as subtle as a mac truck, I've never learned how to quietly manipulate a guy into doing what I want him to do, with him thinking that it is HIS idea. Although, I have idly considered from time to time if I should try to develop that skill.

But this makes me wonder... are there men who share my active dislike of being hunted? Who, like me, prefer to control the if and when (and whenever possible) the how? I have always believed that ALL men, if presented with someone they find attractive, will not care who plays the role of the hunter versus that of the hunted. As far as the male mind goes, I always believed that the ONLY question was whether or not they were attracted, and I never before spent anytime considering the possible ramifications of whether men are bifurcated into alphas and... what would be the opposite... betas?

Of course, the answer might be as simple as I do not like or date or have sex with Alpha Males.

Although RL has introduced a new wrinkle. What does it mean that, in my dating habits at least, I exhibit Alpha Male tendencies? 'Cause while I love cats, I can't abide pussies. (I LOVE how that is so fraught with different levels of meaning).

But I think Gorgeous Hunk O' Man (JF) had it right when he told me on Monday night, "Lover, despite all your girly bits and pieces, you are actually a gay man."

Pretty In Pink Prada

JF: Lover, pink? Are you in disguise?
Me: Yes. Going for virginal.
JF: Virginal? Yeah right. Your left ear, maybe.

*a little later, after I showed him the diamond and platinum Tiffany's necklace received from a stalker*

JF: Oh. My. God. Let's hock it!
Me: *giggling*

Homage to George

Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television:

1. Shit - The bird shit on the statue.
2. Piss - I have to piss like a race horse.
3. Fuck - Fuck you.
4. Cunt - She has a beautiful cunt.
5. Cocksucker - Go to hell, you cocksucker.
6. Motherfucker - You are a motherfucker.
7. Tits - Hey, nice tits.

George, you shit-infested, mother-fucking, cock-sucking, sperm-burping, piss-slurping, bitch monkey gutter cunt, you will be missed. You were smart, wickedly clever with your humor, and unexpectedly kind. And, like Ergo, I am sad you died.

Will raise a glass in your honor tonight. Wherever you are, I hope you are shocking the crowd.

My Dinner With JF

Text exchange with Gorgeous Hunk O' Man (JF):

JF: Darling. Dinner Monday PM. Is it in your calender?
Me: Of course, lover. I have bumped Viggo off the schedule.
JF: Excellent. Shall I wear something slutty?
Me: Need you ask?

All Clear?

Been laying low the last few days, keeping my nose in spreadsheets, being very intimate with Excel.

Stalker activity has died down, so I can breathe freely again.

Every now and again, I send the Universe a plaintive request for Viggo, but for the most part, my energies have been almost completely focused on work.

I've finalized the terms and general scope of my upcoming consulting project. It rather worries me that the company is not able to scope the project with the kind of minute attention to detail that I prefer, but I suppose that's exactly why they hired me, and it is my sweet spot, after all. So I will just do my thing and ask for forgiveness rather than permission. I do anticipate one area of potential difficulty however. The primary value I bring to the table is negotiating and interacting directly with potential clients. And this is the precise part of the job which has been reserved for the CEO himself. I have to resign myself to getting that critical customer information second-hand. Since I have enormous trust issues, I don't like it. The questions that are asked during a negotiation are rarely in line with the answers that are actually sought. The objections raised usually share very little likeness to the actual objections. And without all the contextual data points that are only available in a face-to-face meeting, how am I going to be able to fully trust any second-hand debriefing? And besides, I've found that, as a general rule, people are far more willing to divulge surprisingly candid information to a small, non-intimidating Asian woman than they might be to someone they perceive as their peer.

I spent Friday morning with a few of my part-time employees for my other project, and it occurred to me, with a great deal of amusement, that all of them are attractive young women: one a red-head, another a blonde, and the third, Asian.

So IC and I have been bickering about which one of us is Charlie and which, Bosley.

Maybe we will have to hire a Bosley so that IC and I can just get mani/pedi's all day long and manage our team jointly over the phone?

But what's really on my mind is that I will FINALLY have a "date" that is worth anticipating! Gorgeous Hunk O' Man (JF) is in town tomorrow night and I will take him to my favorite neighborhood bar/restaurant to reassure them that I don't spend ALL my social time with creepy men I've found online.

I have already put aside my most expensive slutty outfit (in this case, an Hermes scarf-like thing that is minimally draped over only the most-necessary-to-cover parts of my torso) and made a salon appointment to beautify myself in readiness. Gay men are SO much more particular than the straight variety. Of course, I will consider at a later date what it says about my life that only JF warrants such preparation.

Off now, to shimmy happily away at boozy brunch with the girls.

Stalker Gifts

So far:

-Orchid arrangement
-$250 Barnes and Noble Gift Certificate
-Basket of lavender scented bath products

Orchid arrangement - given to my neighbors
Gift Certificate - Spent. Hey, I like books. Sue me. But amazon.com would have been a far better choice.
Basket of lavender stuff: WTF? Now, had it been a gift basket of patchouli/vanilla musk from Sabon, now THAT I would have used.

What a lousy stalker.

My Uterus Is A Monkey

I am speechless.

Book Quiz

Courtesy, MomVee

Apparently, I can never avoid the weird guy...

You're To Kill a Mockingbird!

by Harper Lee

Perceived as a revolutionary and groundbreaking person, you have
changed the minds of many people. While questioning the authority around you, you've
also taken a significant amount of flack. But you've had the admirable guts to
persevere. There's a weird guy in the neighborhood using dubious means to protect you,
but you're pretty sure it's worth it in the end. In the end, it remains unclear to you
whether finches and mockingbirds get along in real life.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Update: Rock Lock Guy

My sitemeter informed me that someone stumbled upon my blog the other day by doing a Google search for "Rock Lock Handshake."

I immediately panicked, Rock Lock Guy found my blog! But then I noticed that the IP address originated from somewhere in the midwest. Phew.

But THEN, I became curious and followed the Google search for "Rock Lock Handshake" and what did I find? Pages and pages of links to various people doing "The Rock Lock."

So not only did he seek to impress me by claiming that he had "invented" something so utterly moronic, he LIED.

Forget match.com. I am now trolling through the ASPCA's website looking for cats.

Update: Born-Again Virginity, Deflowered

After almost a month of playing phone tag, I finally got the chance yesterday to get the full debrief from AM regarding her breaking of The Fast.

Choice Quotes from AM:

"Oh look, it's a naked man...oh wait, isn't there something I should be doing?"
"What happens now?"
"What's he doing?"
"Where's he going?"
"Oh!"
"Oh."

The Lost and Found

It's shocking.

The Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker actually believes that a flower delivery and a few out-of-the-blue declarations of love are all that it would take to worm his way back into my life.

I don't understand. Is this man-logic? Is this one person's hubris? Is this mental illness?

Almost completely unrelated:

I was at the MOMA last night for a UBS sponsored happy hour, and the following happened:

1. Fell in love with this horse.
2. Lost my cell phone, but then found it inside my umbrella.

I love my phone, so I was sad when it was lost, happy when it was found, and yet... a new phone number that not a single stalker knows?

I like it.

Acceptance Speech

Was on the phone with SK just now and we were mocking the Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker's emails to me. I suppose he didn't see the ridiculousness of sending me a dozen emails this morning with subject lines such as: "Jealousy", "Alcohol", "Other Women", "The Telephone."

I was in the middle of expounding upon my apparent skill in bed when a flower delivery man buzzed at the door.

While waiting for the delivery man to make it up the stairs, SK and I had the following exchange:

Me: Any chance that they could be from Viggo?
SK: Yes.

What was beautiful was SK's timing and delivery. There was no laughter, no hesitation. Just an immediate, definitive, "Yes."

Of course, they weren't from Viggo. I'll have a little chat with the Universe later about its listening skills. Perhaps, like IC, it shouldn't try to multi-task so much.

So the flowers, which I have already given to my next door neighbors, aren't exactly like an Oscar, but when I reflect back, I really did earn one. That's all I have to say about that.

Damn, I'm Good

I am mad at the Universe.

Per MrsCooper's advice regarding The Secret, I have told the Universe, simply, clearly, with small words so as to leave no room for misinterpretation, that I want Viggo Mortensen to call me.

Instead, I woke this morning to these emails from Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker Guy.

-------------------------------------------------------

Hello.

First of all, you asked me not to do exactly what I’m about to do so I apologize. This message is certainly not meant to be an affront.

The truth of it is, I still can’t stop thinking about you. I think that means I’m in love with you.

When you’re in love with someone, I think you have to go to great lengths to try to be with that person. I’m here to do that, starting now.

I love you. Those words might sound crazy to you, but I know them to be absolutely true. I love you.

I have no right to ask anything of you so I won’t. But if you are willing to give me the fresh start for which I’ve asked so many times, something great might happen. It really might.

I love you. It feels so good to write that, it feels so RIGHT. I don’t know why I’ve denied it for so long.

I love you.

-------------------------------------------------------

I will never intentionally hurt you again.

I can make that promise because the strength of this epiphany is like nothing I’ve ever felt.

-------------------------------------------------------

On the topic of another issue between us, my alcoholism, I have been sticking to beer and wine. It works really well, i.e., I don’t misbehave.

But if you want me not to drink at all, I’ll do that for you. Happily.

I’ll do anything for you.

-------------------------------------------------------

On the topic of jealousy. I recognize now that it was really just insecurity.

My goal is to make you love me so much that no one else seems even vaguely interesting.

I know I can do that.

But in the interim and forever after, you’re not going to hear anything from me about where you go, who you see, or who you talk to.

It demeans us both.

-------------------------------------------------------

My reactions?

In order:

1. WTF?!?
2. Wow. I must be AMAZING in the sack.
3. He'll do anything for me? *eyes gleam with sudden gleeful malice*
4. Er, hello? Who/whom distinction?
5. Does this mean he will no longer call me a whore when I have dinner with my girlfriends? Or accuse me of lying when I say that I'm having lunch with my parents? Or call me a slut because I have a business meeting with a man? Oh YAY! Must have him back in my life!

I don't want to be cruel, he's a only a pathetic, delusional animal. But he's a pathetic delusional animal who thinks that he has the right to contact me. And while I will not reply to his nonsense (any reply at all, no matter how negative, will only be construed as an open door), I will indulge myself and post his dribble on my blog for general mockery.

Lines were crossed. Lines which should never have been crossed. And I'm not talking about the myriad of ways people can hurt and betray even those they love. I'm talking about simple human decency.

Decency isn't something you choose to "gift" to others when you are in a good mood, or when you happen to feel affection for your audience. It should be tightly braided into the person you are, regardless of your mood, regardless of whether you are angry or pleased with others. It's non-negotiable.

He doesn't know that.

For him, there are no lines to cross. He has no code, other than satisfying his desires. And everything and anything, no matter how appalling, is justified because it's what he wanted at the time.

It took me a long time to realize that about him.

But I know it now.

He insults me with his every email. I know, I know, I can hear it already from the peanut gallery: "How can you blame him for trying? Male optimism is undying!"

But sometimes, when you've treated someone so shamefully, you lose the right to try to insert yourself back into his/her life. No matter how much you might think you want to. You need to accept that actions have consequences, move on, and let him/her do the same.

Now I am thinking of writing a book: How To Be So Good In Bed That Your Sociopathic Alcoholic Loser Ex-Boyfriend Will Never Stop Stalking You.

Good Question

If a man speaks in a forest and no woman is around to hear it, is he still wrong?

What Kind of Smart Are You?

As usual, not able to sleep, I took this IQ test online.

It supposedly measures 4 different types of intelligence: mathematical, verbal, spatial and social.

My results were consistent with all my previous monitored/administered tests:

Spacial: Off the charts, freaky fast and accurate, get the "are you even human?" look from the test administrator as I'm leaving kind of good.
Verbal: Decent
Mathematical: Decent
Social: Retarded

None of this surprises me, it's how I've tested before. But I rather wish there could be a "Drunk Tip Calculation" on the math section. That would improve my standing.

It's My Party

I'm thinking of picking up another consulting engagement.

I suppose that's the good and the bad of having spent the past many years developing such a specific "skill." There are few companies that see the need for it. Those who do, see the need rather urgently.

And I am pretty much always incapable of resisting. But then, it's no news to me that I have a poor understanding of what constitutes "fun."

Of course, it's the worst possible time - IC and I are stretched thin as it is. But it's also the best possible time - we've just hired a small army of struggling actors/dancers/writers and apparently, they need to be paid in more than pizza and beer. Who knew?

So, to distract myself, I'll be throwing my quarterly wine-tasting get-together in my apartment at the end of June.

Rather than engaging in my usual calculus of various personalities and how they might mix (involving both primary and secondary guest lists), I've taken the opposite approach. I want this one to be a DISASTER. So I've invited near strangers and suggested that my friends do the same. EA has taken this to heart and will bring a match.com date.

Of course, I will hide my small valuables. I assume I will notice if anyone tries to smuggle my TV or piano out of my apartment.

SK is only surprised it has taken this long for my fundamental perversity to emerge in the context of these quarterly parties. And she is right, there has always been some part of me that believes a party is not a party unless someone has locked themselves in the bathroom crying.

At 7AM on a Thursday morning, with no sleep, it even strikes me as a great idea to invite Creepy Skincare Product Guy, Rock Lock Guy, and The Embryologist.

I am GIDDY with anticipation.

Anyone else care to come? If you know my email and will be in town, by all means, let me know.

Suggested attire for women: hoochie momma couture. For the men? Anything as long as everything is under wraps.

Even Here...

The Garden

I couldn’t do it again,
I can hardly bear to look at it—

in the garden, in light rain
the young couple planting
a row of peas, as though
no one has ever done this before,
the great difficulties have never as yet
been faced and solved—

They cannot see themselves,
in fresh dirt, starting up
without perspective,
the hills behind them pale green,
clouded with flowers—

She wants to stop;
he wants to get to the end,
to stay with the thing—

Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus—

even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure

and they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.

- Louise Glück

Warning Labels

If you had a custom-printed tee, what would it say?

WC: "Do I look happy?!?"
Me: "I don't like it."
SK: "Go read a book."
IC: "Really? Really? Really?"
MG: "My husband says I'm not as hot as I think I am."

Of Glory in the Flower

If I play Chopin when I have the blues, Bach when I have the "mean reds", and Schubert when I am happy, what does it mean when I play this?




Not sad, although the choice of song might suggest that.

Even though I "discovered" Eva Cassidy in my early 30s, her voice slingshots me back to childhood.

And since I was wallowing about in this state of obscure, undefined nostalgia, after I finished playing Autumn Leaves, I rooted through my old emails, looking for an exchange I had with SK.

This is what I emailed to her on December 14th, 2004:

I reread Wilde's An Ideal Husband the other day. One of the main characters is blackmailed for something he did at the very beginning of his career. His friend asks him how he could have been so weak as to give into that sort of temptation. He replies that it wasn't weakness that drove him to risk everything he was and everything he had on a such morally questionable act (one which ultimately provided him with the foundation of his current fortune and prestige).

He replies that it took courage: "A terrible, horrible courage."

I'm questioning my choices. Was it cowardice or courage that drove them? Part of me just wants to go to yet another foreign country, if only for a month or two, and figure things out. But maybe that's just escaping. But then such escapes have often been the basis for great stories.

You should come with me. We can eat spicy food in Marrakesh. Ride horses across India. Flirt with handsome brown men. Someplace hot so we can wear washed linen everyday.

I'm not really kidding. We can both write. Me my novel, you your dissertation.

I suppose it's typical of the irony of life. Back then, all I wanted was to think trivial, happy thoughts. As evidenced by my blog, I've now reached that point. And yet I find myself *almost* missing that horrible time.  My thoughts were... larger then.

But that might only be because I didn't have a piano in Beijing and therefore couldn't play Bach.

By the way, I've finally identified my emotion. I play Joseph Kosma when I'm restless.

Off now to find my tiara.

Leaving Chelsea

It's a long standing thing for me; I dislike leaving my beloved gay Chelsea. Bad things happen when I do. .. usually involving men who look like they ate Mel Gibson, old creepy men, and even that one that guy who didn't realize that he was gay.

Last Friday night, I was in midtown, having drinks with WC. Two guys were sitting at the bar next to us. We chatted a little bit, but then WC and I focused our attention on the man that mattered most - R, the bartender. One of the two guys got up to leave, but stopped by us on the way out, and said, reasonably enough: "Didn't get much of a chance to talk to the two of you, but wanted to say hello before I said goodbye."

Again, reasonable enough. So we chatted with him a bit when suddenly he brought up the topic of recreational viagra use. His exact words were: "I love it. It makes me as hard as a rock and I can control exactly when I come." This was quite an unexpected turn in the conversation.

I waited for WC to immolate him with a few well chosen words. But she was busy sputtering into her glass of champagne, so I turned to face him, smiled sweetly, and said "I think you need to go home now."

At that point, in a highly synchronized move (honed after years of hanging out at bars together), WC and I presented our backs to Viagra Guy and focused all our attention on the bartender. Viagra Guy stood there awhile then muttered something very Not Nice and left.

Friend Of Viagra Guy heard this entire exchange and apologized profusely for his friend and bought us another round.

Several rounds later, when Friend Of Viagra Guy asked for my card, I gave it. I have no explanation for it. Perhaps because he didn't see fit to discuss his viagra use. (You see how my standards have fallen?!?)

I forgot all about it until my phone rang tonight at 6:30PM. It was Friend Of Viagra Guy who wanted to know if I wanted to meet him for a drink RIGHT NOW. Um, hello? NOW?!? I book myself weeks in advance.

(This is a digression, but I mean really - what's up with that? I once went on a date with British Guy, and would have most likely gone on a second date except for the fact that he called me on a Friday evening at around 8PM, when I was already out with some friends, wanting to know if I wanted to meet up with him that night. Booty call? Regardless, it irritated me and was sufficient reason to ding him and ignore all further attempts at communication. Is it me? Am I just being difficult?)

I got off the phone with Friend Of Viagra Guy as politely as possible with ever useful, "I'll call you next week" and no sooner did I put my phone down, did I get a text message from The Embryologist, who wrote something inane yet boring so I deleted it.

My phone rang again and I stared at it with great suspicion before picking it up. It was SK, so I answered and told her that I was never going to leave Chelsea again. I had already IMd her about the 24 year old from Saturday night and the Random Boring French Canadian Guy from last night when I was at Solex.

At this point, SK interrupted my rant and asked, "are you ovulating?"

!

I've already posted about the apparently irresistible allure of the ovulating woman. So I did a quick calculation, and sure enough, I'm ovulating.

But then SK made an observation which FLOORED me.

I am quite adept at hiding out in Chelsea. But when I do venture out to a less aggressively gay neighborhood, it is pretty much always when I am ovulating.

I am simply STUNNED at the power of my subconscious biological urge to breed. Are my eggs trying to tell me something? My poor eggs. Apparently they are desperate to fulfill their mission in life and are sending out potent signals, which unfortunately, only age-inappropriate and/or creepy men respond to. If only they would send out signals that are attractive to the attractive, I might do more to heed their call than simply go somewhere far enough away to require a taxi.

But, I have to say... if/when the day comes that my subconscious biological urge to breed becomes a conscious one, I think it will be MUCH easier to just stay in Chelsea and bully Gorgeous Hunk O'Man, JF, into making a donation and sending it to me via UPS.

However, in deference to my eggs, perhaps I'll text back The Embryologist. I never did get the chance to grill him about egg harvesting/freezing for later use. (I was too busy mediating a heated debate he got into with the lesbian friend of my bartender friend. Yes, you read that correctly.)

The Best Thing I've Ever Put In My Mouth

Solex has a new chef.

On my home last night after dinner with WC, I got a call from FT, whose wine bar empire in NYC is growing by leaps and bounds.

"I'm on my way to Solex, come meet me there and check out my new chef," he told me.

Although a mere block away from home, ever obedient to FT, I immediately hailed a cab and made my way downtown.

I think the title of this post says it all.

I even swallowed.

Seen Written on a T-Shirt

"Cougar Hunter"

A Nightmare And Possible Sequel

I had a horrible nightmare Thursday night.

You know when you wake up and it's all too fresh and real and it takes a while to shake it off and come back to reality? I generally like to say this to boyfriends: "You fucker. In my dream you did this horrible thing," and withhold sex for about a month.

But this dream... was terrible.

I tried to write down the dream immediately upon waking, but I couldn't. So I wrote that peripherally related post about my childhood nightmares instead.

It's only now, after an entire day of successfully revolutionizing e-commerce, followed by an evening out with friends, in turn followed by a night of insomnia, that the power of the dream has lessened enough that I can begin to try to articulate it.

But before I go into the details, I have to provide my list of caveats: my dreams are always fantastic, and are clearly reflective of my love of horror movies; my dreams are always highly detailed, I dream in technicolor, and it's not unusual for my dreams to span generations; many of my dreams feature vampires; and in my dreams, vampires are never the romantic characters that populate Anne Rice novels - they are ruthless, inhuman, bloodthirsty monsters.

-------------------------------------------------------

I was with a man who looked suspiciously like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the series, not the movie). But unlike in the series, where Spike was a vampire, this man was human. In fact, he was a vampire slayer.

And in my dream, he and I fell instantly and deeply, in love.

But there was an obstacle of sorts. He had been cursed and would, with the next setting of the sun, turn into a vampire. So that single night we had together, was both our first and last night together.

So my dream started off with sex.

But there was nothing lascivious about it. Rather, there was an undercurrent of almost desperation to it, because we both knew that this was the beginning and end for us. It was sex infused with all the awkwardness and excitement of exploring a new body, overwhelming desire to please, and *shock* tenderness.

I woke the next morning alone, understanding that he had left because he needed to put as much distance between us as possible - because when that day ended, he would turn into a monster.

When I explored the house I was in, I found that there were literally hundreds of people crammed into the other rooms, because this house was considered to be a safe haven of sorts. And among the people in this house, were all my closest friends.

Long story short, when night fell, the vampires descended upon us and the safe haven wasn't a haven at all. Almost everyone was killed, and instantly. There was no defense. But the vampires didn't kill EVERYONE. Some, they turned into monsters, which was much much worse. Because those newly minted monsters turned on the people they loved and tore them to pieces while laughing.

It would actually have been better if my closest friends had just been killed, but they were turned, instead.

I managed to survive. I found a small room and blocked the door and hid in a corner while the monsters that used to be those nearest and dearest to me tried to break in. I cowered in a corner with my eyes shut, when suddenly, everything went quiet. I opened my eyes and realized that it was dawn.

When the sun was shining strongly through the windows, I finally got the courage to stand and I pressed my ear against the door and listened. And eventually I heard a horrible wailing. But there was a different quality to it - it sounded... human.

I opened the door and I saw my friends. And they were my friends again, no longer monsters. But they stood there, looking at the blood on their hands, tasting blood in their mouths, recognizing the dead around them, and they remembered what they had done. And, because this was a dream (and many inexplicable things happen in dreams), we all knew that when the sun set again that day, they would turn back into monsters, and keep killing.

It was one of my friends who articulated the only possible solution: that I, as one of the only surviving humans in the house, would have to kill them all before the sun set.

We spent the day crying, saying good bye. But as the shadows grew longer, I realized that I couldn't do it.

But remember "Spike" from the beginning of my dream? He made a reappearance. And he did what I couldn't.

And just as the sun was setting, he and I stood close to each other, he kissed me and put a weapon in my hand.

And you see where this was going... I had to kill him, or be killed by him when he became a monster.

We were kissing and crying and as the sun slipped away I didn't see him begin to change, I felt his face change beneath my lips, and I killed him.

As I stepped away and his body fell to the ground, I brushed my hand against my mouth. But when I looked at my hand, expecting to see only the wetness from tears, I saw... blood.

Two observations:

1. I find it hilarious that my subconscious is respectful of the potential franchise and set up a sequel

2. I have no doubt that this nightmare is match.com inspired

Nightmares

It's a wonder I slept at all when I was very young. My very first nightmare (that I remember) was when I was about 4 years old. I dreamed that I was dead, and that all around me was cold "nothingness." And what made it horrifyingly worse, was the sudden realization that I, too, had disappeared into that "nothingness."

It seemed that I had nightmares every time I closed my eyes.

So I developed a routine before sleeping - of carefully and deliberately investing every single thing in my room with a common purpose - to protect me.

The door to my bedroom was tasked with keeping all the monsters out.

If somehow the monsters got through the door, the floor of my room was to buckle and sway and trip them.

If the monsters managed to cross the floor, my bed was to lift itself into the air, carrying me safely out of reach.

If the monsters reached my bed, the hundreds of stuffed animals on my bed were to come alive and fight with great ferocity.

If the stuffed animals were defeated, my blankets were to harden to steel and deflect monster claws and teeth.

I'd have to go to bed at least a good half hour before my bedtime so I'd have time to remind all the objects in my room of their defensive responsibilities.

But none of this worked.

Until one day, when I was about 9 or 10 years old, when everything changed.

As per my norm, I had dutifully discussed job requirements with everything in my room and slid into bed carefully so as not to disturb my stuffed animals which I had arranged for maximum defensive effectiveness.

And then, as I waited for the sleep to come, bringing with it the monsters, I suddenly had a thought. A perfect and powerful thought.

So I told everything in my room that they were off the hook, that their services were no longer necessary. They could be just a door, or a floor, or a blanket. Timothy, my stuffed white bear, was particularly relieved. He was a lover, not a fighter.

Because this was my thought: Monsters at the door, come in if you like, come in if you dare. But be warned. I am the scariest monster of all.

A Feline Education

MG, EA, and I have been exchanging emails again on our usual topic - men.

One thing led to another and we realized that much of what we learned about being sexy, or being in relationships, we learned from our pets.

What I Learned From My Cat:
(credit to MG who contributed greatly to this list)

• How to show off my ass and turn back to make sure it's been noticed
• How to unexpectedly bite/scratch/hiss when I'm feeling smothered by too much attention
• How to be affectionate when I want something
• How to look grumpy yet adorable at the same time
• How to pretend I'm asleep when someone wants to play
• How to purr
• How to disappear
  
• How to clearly demonstrate that if it appears that I come when I'm called, it's only because I was going that direction anyway

The Appeal of Normal

Since when did Normal become so attractive?

Oh wait, I know the answer to this:

Since Creepy Skincare Product Stalker Guy, Sociopathic Alcoholic Stalker Guy, Outdoor Voice Guy, and Rock Lock Guy.

The Embryologist was fine. Normal. Fine. And I do NOT mean a lascivious "fine" as in "oh baby, you're so fine." I mean just that... fine.

And what a relief it was that he wasn't a complete and utter freak.

Do I want to see him again? I have no idea. I need to think on it a while. I'm worried that the sheer relief and novelty of spending an evening with someone non-creepy might be distorting my judgment.

I've tried to apply my usual measuring stick: "Can I see myself naked with him?"

And the answer is "No."

But yet.... he's normal.

KK called me this morning to see how the date was:

Me: He was normal. So sad when "non creepy" is such a welcome relief.
KK: So you're gonna marry him then.
Me: Oh fuck you.

I'd Rather...

According to Cindy Lu, writer and director of The Four Man Plan, women should multi-task by dating four guys at once. “It’s a numbers game,” she says. “The more tickets you buy, the better chance you have at winning.” She has two rules:

1. Date men outside your "type"

2. Say “yes” to everyone who asks you out

My reactions to these rules:

1. Does this mean I have to date men who can't spell? *shudder*

2. Say "yes" to everyone who asks me out? Oh good god. I'd rather... words fail me. I'd rather eat nasty things which shouldn't ever be eaten by anyone? That's not so bad. I've lived in China, I can eat ANYTHING with a little garlic and soy sauce. I'd rather swim with sharks? Done that too, and as long as I'm not the slowest swimmer, that's fine. I'd rather... Oh dear god. The worst thing I can imagine is... I'd rather go out with everyone who asks me out.

I have a better idea. There's that street corner on the upper west side that always has the CUTEST kittens up for adoption. I'll go adopt about a dozen.

Weather Forecast: RAIN

So you know what that means, it's reunions weekend at the ol' alma mater. It's rained every single reunions weekend I've been there and I'm no longer sure I'd even recognize the campus without Torrential Downpour and lots and lots of mud.

I trekked to the 15th year reunion all the way from Hong Kong, so I figure I'm off the hook until the 20th.

But I've been taking my own "sentimental journey" while sitting in my kitchen.

Specifically, I've been listening to a cappella music, and more specifically, a cappella music performed by the group I sang with.

A couple observations:

• I should have spent more than 2 hours to arrange "I Sing The Body Electric" for the group. If I had, perhaps it wouldn't currently be on the "inactive repertoire" list.

• I agree with MomVee, we were better than we thought at the time, and we shouldn't have been so hard on ourselves.

• Ergo, you are right, you did look down an awful lot as you sang. My most vivid memory of you from college is your hairline.

• On Under African Skies, is it really the case that the first altos sang only that "bop bop bah bah de buh bop bop bah bah de bah" line for the ENTIRE LENGTH of the song?

Well, here's a little musical treat performed by aforementioned singing group, and no, it's not Under African Skies:

Shake It Off

I've decided to give myself a break from match.com this weekend. I will not check that email account, I will not sign on to my match account.

It's just too distressing.

So, in an effort to clear my consciousness, I just sat down at my piano and pulled out a piece of music I had written my senior year of high school - my composition class final project.

I wrote it 21 years ago and I can't even PLAY it now.

It occurs to me that I should find that depressing. But I don't.

Yes, it's highly derivative; yes, it's more "pretty" than "substantive" (my composition teacher did not consider "pretty" to be a compliment); while composing it, I remember being more concerned about not breaking any rules rather than creating a meaningful piece of music; when in doubt, I chose to consult Chopin rather than make my own decisions; and yes, I had to argue my teacher into giving me an A- rather than a B+ (he argued that other students took more risks with their compositions and I argued back that it wasn't because they actively took risks, but that they broke the rules because they didn't know them in the first place); but all that aside... it's mine, all mine (although heavily influenced by Chopin), and once upon a time, I wrote a piece of music that requires real skill to play.

And damn it, it IS pretty.

Men I Do Not Hate

I've been told recently that my blog as of late might be overly hateful towards men.

I think that's what match.com has reduced me to.

But really, can you blame me?

But it's not that I hate men. Not at all.

Pictures of men I do not hate (Daddy and JF, my gay boyfriend):

One Day I Will Post About Something Other Than Match.com

A 52-year-old man seeking women 18-35?

Dude, WTF are you thinking? Only movie stars or the very rich can get away with that shit.

Fear

.... is my driving emotion when I see that I have new emails in the yahoo email account which I have dedicated for online dating and food ordering.

Naked fear.

And sometimes, driven by the same impulse that causes me to pick mercilessly at scabs, I check the "Who's Viewed Me" list. *shudder*

That toad of a lawyer in Maryland keeps stalking me. As well as numerous old creepy guys. And the guy in Massachusetts with no profile picture whose profile states that he is just looking to satisfy his needs while in between relationships.

I think men have an easier time on match.com. While trolling for men the other day, I stumbled upon the profile of my friend, DR. So I immediately shot him off an email. Apparently, he is having a grand old time. He hasn't yet met the "perfect" match, but he's met a bunch of women he has described as smart, funny and attractive.

That article I posted about a couple weeks ago - the one using game theory to explain why there are fewer eligible men than there are women - might explain the poor pickings in a certain age bracket, but for kicks, I set my search parameter to look for the young 'uns.

UGH.

Frankly, I'm amazed that not EVERYONE is celibate.

I was on the phone with EA last night, and to show solidarity, I set up two dates for this coming week. I will meet them both (on different nights) at my favorite bar/restaurant. (I promised my bartender I would bring all my "dates" there since she had so much fun at my expense witnessing my date with Rock Lock guy).

And then, I will stop all this nonsense and lie like a rug to EA.

*SHUDDER*

Not to sound unkind...

Screw that.

I might have to "hide" my profile on match.com and just PRETEND to EA that I am still active on it.

You should see the horror that is stalking my profile, or sending me winks, or writing me barely intelligible emails.

It's enough to drive me to anti wrinkle eye cream.

Experiment

OK, as much as I want to "hide" my profile on match.com and shield myself from the horror of it, I can't. I talked EA into joining match.com and she has told me in no uncertain terms that I need to be slogging about in its depths with her.

So I updated my profile in a way that I believe more accurately reveals my personality. Basically, making clear that if you are a man who is not very easy on the eye and who lacks an even basic understanding of how to spell (or how to use spell check), then go elsewhere, 'cause this cute petite Asian girl is NOT sweet or nice or willing to look beyond the physical to appreciate your "inner beauty."

I also added more pictures, namely, a picture of me in a bikini.

My theory is that while my profile is now riddled with insults and bitchiness and four syllable words, it will not actually weed out the freaks who contact me.

From the male perspective, my profile will read: "blah blah blah blah blah" and all they will see is me in a white halter bikini.

So far, my theory appears to be holding strong. In a matter of hours, I have received numerous emails from men telling me: "You seem very nice. Can we talk?" (This after I specifically wrote in my revised profile that I am NOT nice).

HA.

I will now re-email all the men who have previously ignored my attempts at communication.

Will keep you apprised.

Lessons Learned

Wednesday night, I had dinner with EH (in town from Beijing) and two of her close friends from college.

One of them actually met her husband on match.com. She had some pointers for me. Every time she had some contact with a creepy guy (a wink, an email, and unfortunate date), she'd update her profile and add to her list of "Don't contact me if you..."

She once got a very angry email from some random guy who told her that she was a bitch.

But that's mostly because he embodied every trait she had included on that list.

So I am considering doing the same.

Don't contact me if you:

1. wear thick gold chains around your neck
2. can't spell
3. have a picture of someone else entirely up on your profile
4. are 60 years old and have a foot fetish
5. think that an appropriate ice-breaker is a marriage proposal
6. are a virgin and want to tell me about it in your first email to me
7. look like toad
8. are proud of a special handshake you "invented" which you have named: The Rock Lock

I wonder how long it will take before I get my first "hate email."

The Rock Lock

Me: I think he was retarded. Could he have been retarded?

EH: Yeah, I think maybe.

EH remembered his name for his "special handshake."

The Rock Lock.

What Did YOU Do On Your Summer Vacation?

Upon seeing a good friend for the first time in a couple years, a quick game of catch-up is in order.

Apparently, my life in the last couple years has been excruciatingly boring:

1. Er, I moved to NYC. As you can see, because you are here. Visiting me. In NYC.
   
2. I'm learning to play the guitar.
   
3. I started a company.
   
4. I'm on match.com. Check out this toad of a lawyer in Maryland who keeps stalking my profile. Blech.
   

In contrast, the fabulous and wildly talented EH (from Beijing), had this to share:

1. I gave birth and now have a beautiful daughter. (Which, obviously, I knew from her facebook status updates, but it's nice to hear all the details).
   
2. I'm in town to attend a production seminar with Bob Costas, Dick Ebersol, et al, and to finalize details to be NBC's Beijing Olympics Correspondent.
   

Damn.

It's like being happy that you have 2 pair, and then someone throws down a royal flush.

P.S. Since EH has been staying with me, I've been lurking about taking candid pictures of her which I will later sell on Ebay after she becomes famous.

Breakthrough!

After a month of playing nothing but scales and other mind numbingly boring exercises on my guitar, I revisited the Carcassi etude.

I almost cried.

For the first time, it sounded like music.

You can play all the right notes, and only the right notes, all in the right order; you can even throw in some appropriately placed changes in dynamics and tempo, but that doesn't necessarily result in something musical.

One day, I'll even expand my repertoire to include more than one piece. I'm sure my neighbors would be appreciative of that.

But in the meantime, back to my scales...

Born-Again Virginity, Deflowered

Email update from AM:

"Last night had a few minor bumps, but mission accomplished."

I'm SO proud.

Sexual Obligation

Per her previously stated refusal to read my blog and just continue TALKING to me everyday, WC called me this morning and I read my recent blog posts to her. She reminded me of the all time best (worst?) line delivered by a man on a first date:

"Let's split the check. I don't want you to feel obligated to sleep with me."

Man oh man.

Dude, you're talking to a woman who's been married. If a 20,000USD diamond ring didn't obligate her to have sex, why in the world do you think dinner might?

Oh Baby, Insult Me

Since I have quite a few girlfriends who are splashing about in the waters of online dating alongside me, we've been collecting all manner of interesting data points.

But one of the most interesting is this: there exists a category of men who believe it is appropriate/attractive/efficacious, to be insulting to the women whom they would like to see naked.

For example:

"Your skin isn't perfect, but it's good. Especially for a woman of your age. Wanna go camping this weekend?"


"You look very young. But let me see your hands. The hands don't lie. Yep, see... they don't lie."


"Women your age are often unfocused. It's perfectly understandable because at your age, women just want to have babies."


"You are very girlish, I'm waiting to see the grown-up."


"You have childbearing hips."

Keep in mind, these are men who are actively stalking us and trying to get in our pants. WTF?

Now, I will admit that I like a guy who can challenge me, and can demonstrate (firmly yet appropriately) that he won't take any of my crap (that's actually really hot), but crossing the line to even vague insults? UNACCEPTABLE. Worse yet, it's just STUPID. I'm not even sure what offends me more - the insult or the stupidity in taking such an ineffective approach.

The first quote is from a guy I had drinks with a few months back. I stared back at him and all I could think was: "No. He did NOT just say that." After I got over my shock, I asked him, "Does that work for you? Do other women think to themselves, 'wow, I really want to get naked with you and let you apply that same critical eye to the rest of me'?"

At this point he was too drunk to offer an intelligible response. He was 6'5" and fit and I was matching him drink for drink and he got sloppy drunk while I was still able to say "obfuscatory" and "bifurcate."

PUSSY.

Calendar Item

When I checked my calendar this morning, I found this entry:

AM has SEX today!

I had listed it as an all day event which is rather optimistic.

With any luck, her absurdly long man fast will be broken tonight. And I have no doubt that she greatly appreciates the fact that I am writing about it in my blog.

And yes, it's a sad sad comment on both our lives that such an event should be so memorialized on my calendar.

She has dutifully gone through the checklist of sex preparation activities: mani/pedi, bikini wax, self-tanner, cute outfit, and asked me if she had left anything out.

I couldn't think of anything other than the following piece of advice:

Try not to shed tears of joy or gratitude.

I think that pretty much covers it.

Online Dating=Online Shopping Part Deux

While browsing for men might be very similar to browsing for clothes/electronics/skin care products/etc., there is a very critical difference. (Well, arguably more than just ONE difference).

I hardly ever get emails from the things I might buy.

That cute little Ya-Ya top doesn't email me saying, "Hey gorgeous, let's hit the town together."

That slinky Norma Kamali dress doesn't write, "Don't you want to wrap my 100% modal goodness all over your sweet stuff?"

The scandalous Melissa Odabash halter bikini doesn't try to lure me in by sending me an email saying: "Slip into me, baby, and let's get wet together."

Although, now that I'm thinking about it, emails such as those would be delightful.

But if the online shopping 'verse were to follow the online dating paradigm, it would be the gnarly, over-sized, second-hand, too-shiny tracksuit that would be emailing me, and emailing me badly: "im shiny and comfortable and would like to see you nekkid."

But while I greatly enjoy mocking both the men who contact me and the emails they write, there is a another difference which I find... well... sad. Clothes are not lonely. They are perfectly happy sitting in the warehouse, or hanging on display. Skincare products do not feel that they are not living up to their full potential if they are not regularly used.

People, in contrast, are so lonely.

Online dating is an activity that should be done with a lightness of spirit. For any deeper needs... go online and buy a killer new outfit. Or a guitar, and learn to play it.

Adventure

eHarmony, with its "guided communication" option, provides all sorts of low-commitment, pre-defined ways to interact in order to shepherd its users through the initial "getting-to-know-you" stage.

The first stage involves multiple choice questions and answers. A long list of possible questions are provided and the "questioner" can pick 5 from that list to forward along to his/her "match."

One of those questions is the following:

Your idea of adventure is:

A) whitewater rafting
B) karaoke singing
C) trying a different route to work
D) ordering a dish you've never tried before
E) *write in own answer*

I understand the intent behind this question, and I understand what the different answers *might* reveal about a person. And while "adventure" can be infused into any activity, no matter how small or trivial, the full concept and value of adventure is so big and frightening and compelling and fierce that I dislike seeing it trivialized.

Being adventurous is different from being curious or flexible and open to change. Curiosity and flexibility are highly important and attractive traits, and are important elements of (or even prerequisites for) being adventurous, but they should not be viewed as equivalent to it.

Adventure involves risk; it invites change.

True adventure, requires daring.

That can be expressed in a myriad of ways: starting a relationship; trying one more time, after a history of failure, to learn something new; ending a relationship; leaving behind a familiar life to explore the unknown; staying in a life and making it your own...

I had a conversation last night about the desire to have a completely new start, to have an ADVENTURE.

It is a topic of conversation near and dear to me.

Conventional wisdom makes a distinction between running AWAY FROM and running TO different situations, and I "get" that there might be a sub-sect of people who carry around their unhappiness and discontent so much so that they can never escape it, so that a change in venue or environment can't change their fundamental outlook on life.

I've already quoted Eudora Welty in a previous post: "...the most serious daring starts from within." Adventure doesn't necessarily involve picking up and leaving for someplace new. It can be embodied in firmly digging into an existing life.

But the "high" in going someplace new is addictive.

So what happens when you always have one foot out the door, always carrying around the knowledge that any day now, you could LEAVE?

I suppose that's the opposite of adventure. Because risk and daring must be accompanied by something else: the commitment to follow through. Otherwise, "adventure" does indeed become diminished to little more than ordering something new off the menu.

Celibacy Is Looking Better And Better

I need to share.

The following is a sampling of the emails I have received while on match.com, in all their insane, ungrammatical, inappropriately punctuated, misspelled, unedited glory. The italicized comments in parentheses are mine.

-------------------------------------------------------

41-year-old man

Minneapolis, MN, US

what if I agree to move??? ;-)
dont be chicken! ;-)

(I have nothing to say to this. I mean really. WTF.)

-------------------------------------------------------

43-year-old man

New York, NY US

I make money to support woman. I will marry you if that is good to.

(He had the right idea of looking online. He's just on the wrong website.)

-------------------------------------------------------
41-year-old man
Hoboken, NJ, US

I read your profile, saw your picture and immediately fell into this DEEP trance where my hands began automatically typing this message to you......it was a serious out of body experience...

so now its up to you...write me back and jolt me out of this trance or you'll have to live with the knowledge that there's some poor guy somewhere out in cyberspace stuck in front of his laptop in a deep trance...and its all YOUR fault :)

(I do NOT want to know what this guy's hands are doing.)

-------------------------------------------------------

39-year-old man
Chicago, IL, US

short hair suits you well, are you wearing it short these days?
do you ever find yourself in chicago?
i have a tatoo, love to skinny dip and specialize in sarcasm.
with someone as pretty as you a public display of affection would be my pleasure.

(I've left out the picture, but you can use your imagination. This is not someone you would want to see naked. As for PDAs? *shudder*)

-------------------------------------------------------

28-year-old man

Long Beach, NY, US

hey cuty. Im an amater boxer. We have lots in common.

(Almost wrote back to him. Hey, he was cute in that youthful firm fresh kind of way.)

-------------------------------------------------------

39-year-old man
Milwaukee, WI, US

hi, Goddess.im a business man,currently in NY.You have a lovely profile here and i would love to get to know you..thats of course if you dont mind.i will be in NY for 3 weeks and definitely i hope at the end of my visit i will take a Goddess home with me..smiles..hope to hear back from you soon

(Another guy who is on the wrong website.)

-------------------------------------------------------

34-year-old man
New York, NY, US

Caro Ciao

Firstly, I like your photo! You've a warm, open smile- that I think renders many defenseless... ( creates desire in men! And fills your mail box ;^)

(OK. Now this guy (according to his profile pictures at least) is gorgeous in that thighs-like-tree-trunks, biceps-the-size-of-my-head, swimmers' shoulders, 6'3", dark-haired, green-eyed, Italian, who-cares-if-he-can't-really-write-or-speak-intelligibly kind of way. Will reply to him ASAP.)

A Literary Meme

The instructions: Bold the ones you’ve read, "asterisk" the ones you read for school, italicize the ones you started but didn’t finish. Meme via MomVee.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina
*Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion
Life of Pi : a novel
The Name of the Rose
*Don Quixote
*Moby Dick
Madame Bovary
*The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
*A Tale of Two Cities
*The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveler’s Wife
*The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs. Dalloway
*Great Expectations
American Gods
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran : a Memoir in Books
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked
*The Canterbury Tales
The Historian : a Novel
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
*Brave New World
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible
1984
Angels & Demons
Inferno
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
*The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
*Oliver Twist
*Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
Dune
*The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes : a Memoir
The God of Small Things
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-Present
Cryptonomicon
Neverwhere
A Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
*Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-5
*The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake
Collapse : How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
*Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
*The Catcher in the Rye
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance : an inquiry into values
*The Aeneid (Tried to work my through this in Latin. It didn't work so well.)
Watership Down
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit
In Cold Blood : a True Account of a Multiple Murder and its Consequences
White Teeth
Treasure Island
*David Copperfield

I have always had a problem with James Joyce. It started when JN and I were 13 and 11 respectively and tried to read Finnegans Wake.

We got stuck on the first paragraph:

riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

We concluded that it was written in a different language altogether - a language that somewhat sounds like English, but isn't.

I have since come to believe that JN and I hit the nail on the head.

Mother's Day and Psst... A Secret

Reminded of the significance of today by a plethora of spam email, I called my mother this morning and we had a nice long chat.

And this afternoon, I received the following text message from Gorgeous Hunk O'Man (JF):

Happy Mother's Day, ex-wife! I know you gave our baby away to the Scientologists, but still. I'm sure it loves you wherever it is!

I wrote in reply:

We know EXACTLY where our kid is. Haven't you ever wondered why Tom-Kat's baby, Suri, looks vaguely Asian, and why Katie was only pregnant for like, a week?!?

Insomnia and Ovulation

According to my sitemeter, numerous people have been stumbling upon my blog as they google search: "Insomnia and ovulation."

Yes, I did write a post about ovulation, but that's neither here nor there.

But apparently, there is indeed a link between hormonal activity and insomnia. Women who are menstruating might sleep less. Those ovulating, might sleep more.

This seems counter productive, if you ask me.

A Poll

It makes sense that one is more aware of nationality (one's own and that of others) when traveling.

And while getting to know other cities, other countries, and other people ultimately reveals basic commonalities shared by all people and cultures, it also becomes comically easy to engage in broad generalizations vis-a-vis the differences.

Overheard in Public in Foreign Countries:

"And the best part: she's Dutch!"
"Oh don't be ridiculous - that's the American side of you speaking."
"You are too smart for your country."
"She's Italian. And you know what THAT means."
"I suppose you want to prepare meat outdoors in your backyard?"
"You speak English remarkably well for an American."
"She's German, but she's spent a lot of time in Italy, so her shoes are fabulous."
"This year, let's just go to the Australian Ball. We can skip the others."
"Is he gay, or just British?"

I spoke to MMdvi (a fabulous Brit living in Beijing) this morning and she evinced absolutely no surprise that I am still on my man fast:

I've had sex with Americans, and that's why I now only date European men. If you've only ever shagged American men, it's no wonder you've lost all interest. Let's find you a Brit. Or maybe even an Italian or South African.

This has sparked another creative project: a comparative study of sexual skill across different nationalities.

Since collecting the first hand data for such a study might be too time consuming (not to mention messy), I will poll my friends. So friends, speak up.

Blame It On The Spring

I blame Spring. For what, you ask?

I've "reactivated" my online dating accounts.

But this is not a good thing. I've already posted about the problem with such "goal based" dating endeavors: the inherent expectations. I'm not actually ready to be in a relationship, as evidenced by the fact that I still cringe at the word "penis." Although, the other day when I was mindlessly surfing online, I stumbled on a tattoo art site. I admired a tattoo of a lotus and an "Om" symbol that was tattooed on the back of some celebrity's neck, and then came across a picture of a naked man with a tattoo that ran from his lower abs down one thigh. I immediately flinched and looked away, but then I looked back and studied the picture and tilted my head to one side like a dog hearing a high pitched noise for the first time and said to myself, "Huh. I remember those. Don't remember what they're good for, but... huh." Keep in mind that it wasn't a particularly exceptional specimen - the man or the penis - but, whatever.

And then I immediately emailed the picture to AM since I know she's probably forgotten what they look like as well.

I talked to Gorgeous Hunk 'O Man (JF) this morning and shared this with him. It's really too bad that he lives so far away. Because with him, I actually have the relationship (minus the geographic undesirability) that I want with a man: someone brilliant and gorgeous with whom I can engage in an orgy of mutual appreciation for our respective physical and intangible qualities, AND he has no interest in showing me his penis.

He did (gently) tell me that I should meet someone with whom sex isn't a nausea-inspiring prospect.

Yeah yeah yeah.

I think the next time I feel that I need to be reminded of what a penis looks like, I'll just make JF email me a picture of his. I know AM would appreciate that too.

Gaming It

MG forwarded me an article which pissed me off. Not because I didn't love it (I did) but because I wished I had written about the topic first.

The Eligible-Bachelor Paradox and how economics and game theory explain the shortage of available, appealing men, by Mark Gimein.

In countless conversations (with others and with myself), I have wondered why I know SO many attractive, intelligent, funny, successful, eligible single women, while the commensurately eligible male counterparts seemed to be elusively rare - so rare that rather than talk about them as a group, I end up trying to NAME them, and it always ends up being a distressingly short list. I've wondered at this phenomena both as a married woman, and as a newly single woman. And not just in NYC. I've thought this in DC, Beijing, Hong Kong.

While I've wondered whether this was an objectively real and measurable "truth", I've tried to explain it in different ways. Remember that episode of Seinfeld where George discovers that club where all the gorgeous models hang out? I've tried to explain it by pointing to networks. The network of my friends (and all their respective networks) are mostly comprised of "similar" people. And in our cases, that means women with whom we feel some sort of connection and solidarity and similarity. So perhaps it's as simple as not yet tapping into the appropriate network of attractive, smart, funny, accomplished single men?

From a sheer physical attractiveness standpoint, I have also tried to explain it by pointing to the simple fact that women have an easier time improving upon nature. Makeup, clothes, and hair can all be altered to accentuate the positive. But these are tools less easily leveraged by men.

But the first few sentences of Gimein's article lay waste to all my theories (hopes?) that perhaps this phenomena is NOT real, and only perceived to be real:

-------------------------------------------

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that the available, sociable, and genuinely attractive man is a character highly in demand in social settings. ... The shortage of appealing men is a century-plus-old commonplace of the society melodrama...The problem of the eligible bachelor is one of the great riddles of social life. Shouldn't there be about as many highly eligible and appealing men as there are attractive, eligible women? Actually, no."

-------------------------------------------

His explanation for this numerical imbalance rests on the recognition that in a marriage proposal, it's the woman who chooses. Yes, traditionally, it's the man who asks the question, but it's the woman who chooses to be asked and then chooses again to say yes or no. But the primary "choice" here, is the woman's choice to receive the question in the first place. After all, it's fairly rare that a man asks and the woman says "no." (I'm eliminating from this discussion those completely random proposals which come out of the blue - because I mean really, those are just weird.)

Over-simplified, yes, but I accept this. Whether simply by the virtue of staying in a dating relationship, working or contributing to the work of making the relationship satisfying, or actively dropping hints, promises, threats, ultimatums, there is a choice demonstrated - the choice to receive a proposal if/when it is offered - making women far less passive in this scenario than it might, at the most superficial level, appear.

Gimein likens this search of marriage partners to an auction. (And this is where we get to the modified game theory that his subtitle promises us.)

He says that in this "auction," there are women who are more confident of their prospects (because of looks, social ability, or any other reason). He refers to this group as "strong bidders." Now, one would think that the "strong bidders" would consistently win in this auction paradigm. But apparently, according to game theory, it's the "weak bidders" who more often win, because they bid more aggressively as compared to the "strong bidders" who hold out and wait for the "perfect" prospect.

-------------------------------------------

This is how you come to the Eligible-Bachelor Paradox, which is no longer so paradoxical. The pool of appealing men shrinks as many are married off and taken out of the game, leaving a disproportionate number of men who are notably imperfect (perhaps they are short, socially awkward, underemployed). And at the same time, you get a pool of women weighted toward the attractive, desirable "strong bidders."

-------------------------------------------

Obviously, this is an almost egregious over-generalization and over-simplification: I know many "strong bidders" who are/were also aggressive bidders in this paradigm. But I only have to take stock of my many, fabulous, "strong bidder" single female friends to think that perhaps there might also be something to it.

My conclusions?

On one hand, this tells me I should break my man-fast damn soon and get out there and start aggressively bidding, 'cause the pickings are only going to get leaner.

But on the other hand, in Gimein's own words: Game theory deals with how best to win the prize, but it works only when you can decide what's worth winning.

So maybe there's another element at play here. Maybe my "strong bidder" friends who have been happily married for years share an additional trait - an ability to see through their plentiful potential options to recognize a prize worth winning when he's standing right before them, flaws and all.

Going Potty

I have soil embedded beneath my fingernails.

I received my 2-3 year old Dwarf Meyer Lemon tree, my mini herb garden kit (cilantro, parsley and chives) and assorted pots and potting soil.

The lemon tree came in a narrow box which was disturbing in its narrowness, but when I opened it up, out emerged a lovely little tree. It arrived unpotted, with the bare root ball packed in moist wood shavings which I have duly mixed in with the potting soil. I purchased it from Four Winds Growers in CA. According to my google research, they have excellent customer service. So I put it to the test by sending them inane emails like: "So, I probably shouldn't ash my cigarette into it?" To which they replied, "Depending on the level of ash (if you do it once or twice accidentally), it probably won't hurt. But as a general rule, no, you probably shouldn't." This has earned them my undying loyalty.

I have placed my African Violet plant next to it. I am hoping the African Violet can provide some reassurance that life is indeed possible under my care.

I imagine their conversation to go something like this:

Myer Lemon Tree: Is she for real?
African Violet: It's really not so bad. She grows on you.
Myer Lemon Tree: I don't know... this just doesn't seem right.
African Violet: Dude, I get it. But look at it this way, I'm still alive. Check out my flowers.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Is it possible to talk about sex when you don't remember it?

Sort of.

AM was in town last night so we met for wine and paninis at my favorite wine bar in NYC (Bar Veloce in Chelsea, in case anyone is interested).

After a couple glasses of wine on empty stomachs, we were using our outdoor voices to discuss our celibacy.

AM came up to NYC after a quick trip to DC to visit some friends. She had told our mutual friend, SS, about our respective man fasts and SS's response to her was: "WTF? How can ho's like the two of you be celibate?!? You with your double D's and CK with her "I can throw both legs over my head" thing?!?"

Obviously, the man fasts are self imposed. It's just not hard for women to find willing sex partners if they are motivated to do so. But we've been just too busy, too focused on other things, too non-motivated.

And yet, it's still an interesting situation worthy of loud discussion in a quiet wine bar.

It's one thing to say, "I haven't gotten any in fill-in-the-blank-period of time" if that fill-in-the-blank time period is measured in days, or weeks, or even months. But when the easiest way to say it is: "Not since fill-in-the-blank-YEAR," that becomes disturbing.

Since neither of us could remember sex well enough to discuss the act in any detail, we discussed the potential pitfalls we might experience when we finally do break our fasts.

Do we 'fess up to the long fast? Because that could be weird. It begs the question of WHY. Were we sick? Do we have all the appropriate girly bits and pieces? Are they all in the right place? Do we have a litter of children stashed away somewhere? Were we previously men and had to take that time off to get our sex change surgeries? Or do we go the opposite route and pretend that we just had sex a few hours ago with someone else?

We decided that it might be best to just avoid the topic altogether.

I told AM about my efforts in writing sex scenes for my epic and decidedly non sexy trashy novel. I had read a book categorizing different kinds of sex scenes. There's the "my first time" sex scene, married sex, angry sex, and even a category for grateful sex.

That last one caused us to gasp in horror. What if it's OBVIOUS to the breaker-of-the-fast that a significant fast was broken? What if we are just a little too "enthusiastic" and afterwards, he asks, "it's been a while for you, huh?"

I called Gorgeous Hunk O' Man, JF, when I got home and told him our concerns. After he finished laughing, he suggested that we say in response, "Not at all. I'm ALWAYS like that." According to JF, that would be reason enough for the guys to keep us around, at least for a few more bouts. Cool. Now THAT'S what I call turning lemons into lemonade.

But AM and I did spend some time wistfully remembering the old days, when we were carefree and sexually active. One lovely, warm, Sunday afternoon, SS (Black), me (Asian), and AM (Blonde - yes, "Blonde" is a valid ethnic identifier) were enjoying the weather and drinks at our favorite waterfront bar. A man approached our table and said, "I don't want to disturb you, I just wanted to let you lovely ladies know that if I were three different men, I'd want to sit down at this table three different times."

This was also useful in bars. The bartender (if a straight man) would inevitably like one of us enough so that all three of us could drink at heavily subsidized rates.

Ah, the good old days.

Endangered Species

I just read about the Tennessee fainting goat, which keels over when startled.

Older goats, however, are more adept at leaning against a barn or fence so they don't appear to have just fallen over and died.

Still, this seems to be a poorly thought out survival mechanism.