Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Maybe you've used them on occasion.
You were "well-meaning" (although I doubt it...).
Maybe even a bit snarky (more on that in a minute...).
These words and terms (prepared NOT according to the principles of Noah Webster, but more according to the principles of some not-so-romantic and not-so-comedic movies) make me nails-on-chalkboard crazy as of late.
Actually, I think I currently loathe the following terms (especially when my name is used in the same sentence, "funny guys"):
Cougar(koo'ger): n. The Mountain Lion. OR An older woman, usually in her 40s or older, who usually sexually pursues men in their 20s and 30s. Please see www.dateacougar.com for further information. No, I do not have a profile posted. Yet.
The "half-your-age-plus-seven" rule: The "half-your-age-plus-seven rule" is one rule of thumb defining a mathematical formula to judge whether the age difference in an intimate relationship is socially acceptable. Mathematically speaking, the rule is: Age of younger individual should be greater than or equal to the age of the older person divided by 2 + 7. You do the math, people. Seriously. I'm too damn tired...
MILF(an acronym of "Mother [or 'Mom'] I'd Like [to] ...") You saw American Pie, didn't you? How old are you, again? (Please see half-your-age-plus-seven rule) O.K. Enough of the movie quotes, you unoriginal fool. Before I punch you in the Adam's apple.
Now for some slang that I LOVE...
Manicorn: a mythical male creature who is successful (read: pursuing his passion and can pay his electric bills/rent), funny, chivalrous, masculine (read: not chauvinistic), adventurous, artistic (read: not suicidal). Also known as "the savior". "Heeeeere you little magical beast, you..."
Snarky: Any language that contains quips or comments containing sarcastic or satirical witticisms intended as blunt irony. Usually delivered in a manner that is somewhat abrupt and out of context and intended to stun and amuse. Origin: Snark. Snide remark. Oh, how I adore the snarky....
Asshat: One who has their head up their ass. Thus wearing their ass as a hat. "Hey asshat, could you stop talking in the middle of the movie..." (Admit it...you're laughing right now) I laugh every time.
*a special thanks & credit to my favorite urban dictionary and Vampire Weekend for assisting me with some definition verbiage and fodder here & there...
Monday, December 1, 2008
So back to the footwear question.
Here's the thing. I had a date show up in flip flops. And I found this odd for a few reasons:
1. We were in Dover, NH. In the fall.
2. He wasn't carrying a longboard on his shoulder, nor was he sporting a head of salty blonde curls.
3. He was 42.
4. Did I mention we were in Dover? Landlocked?
So here I am...nervous as hell ('cause I'm horrible at this dating thing) and the first thing I notice are these flip flops. And I am completely horrified and spellbound at the same time. I simply could NOT keep my eyes from clockwork glances down at the choice of footwear. Flip flops. Toes and all hanging out like we were catching a wave and sitting...well, you know how the song goes.
He had really nice feet, though. I'll definitely give him that.
I then went through this horrible guilty phase of the date. Where I ordered another glass of wine and beat myself up for getting hung up on the flops. Where I insanely, quietly self-lectured about the immaterial nature of one's footwear and how half-grown I was being.
But truth told, I couldn't shake it. This thought that a flimsy footchoice on the first date makes a man, well, flimsy. Unless, that is, you're Jeff Spicoli. Or my brother-in-law. Because then, you actually live near sand and surf. And you're cool. The flip flops actually make a bit of sense...
I think I hid it pretty well. My concern/obsession about the flops. Because he did ask me out again.
And I, eager to catch the new Cohen brother's film, and not wanting to be judgemental and all fashion-rash, said yes.
Monday, November 17, 2008
At least that's what I call them.
Oddly, I've had more than one of these episodes. Maybe you have too (or maybe I'm just crack-brained and, on this hour's drive home from Cambridge, decide to take full leave of my senses). Kind of scary if you're driving in the opposite direction from my dusty CRV, I guess. But hey. I'll take my fantasies where and when I can get them.
Even when they come at the traffic light on Route 1, just past Bennigan's.
This particular occasion finds me returning from my pal's in Cambridge. I love her place. Her corpulent cat. The quietness of life just beyond the permanent bustle of Central Square. But it was time to leave the comforts of her couch and head north back to the Granite State.
Depending of the timing of this transition, a few things can happen. If we haven't ordered some amazing food to be delivered (God bless Foodler) I will stop on the way home for something. Usually a giant coffee with cream and some cancer-causing sweetener. But on occasions I really crave the salty french fries from McDonald's. This was one of those splendid occasions, so I grabbed a grilled chicken sandwich and some fries at the drive thru and forced my way back into bumper on bumper traffic with sandwich already unwrapped and grasped in my shifting hand.
Half way into the sandwich and just before biting into a tassel of fries, it happened. Just a glance to the right and whoa. Eyes that instantly stopped my heart and, miraculously, my fast food craving. The fries go down so fast that half of them miss the bag and likely still lay, well-preserved in the crevices of the seat, until I can resume the search and recovery. One thing is for certain. I can't let this guy see me eating while giving into this compulsive need to look his way one more time.
He's looking back and it begins. The four-wheeled fantasy. Maybe it was fueled by the leftover testosterone from the Bang Camero show the night before...all those silly, sweaty boys in a rock trance...back-slapping, high-fiving, and fist-pumping. Whatever the cause, suddenly this amazingly sweet guy (hey this is my fantasy...one can wish, right?) with a great mop of bed head and those deep inky eyes has become the answer to my prayers. With each glance over to my right (I am pacing myself, I might add, looking only every minute or so) our eyes meet and I feel like I could quite likely pass out from his shocking good looks. My mind starts making up a story about this sweet distraction. He's wealthy, of course. Self-made. Philanthropic. Loves really good music (I imagine he's listening to Wilco as we're driving and I feel like I have a fever only the full on bird flu can bring). He adores children...and volunteers running a t-ball program for inner-city kids. He gives a mean foot rub. And best of all, he's single and after being hurt by his bitch of a cheating wife, he's ready to start something new. Hmmmmmm....
Another glance and now it's getting hard not to look away. Intense burning eyes (what is it about a guy's eyes that knocks the wind out of me instantly at times?!) Holy shit...he smiled! The best wry, little smirk of a smile like he's deep inside my head. I swear to God, I'm so damn glad he's not close enough to see the serious sweat beading up on my forehead...this man of my dreams wrapped up in this silver Rav4 like Christmas in November.
I soon sadly realize we're coming to the last light, well the only light, on Route 1. Oddly enough not far from the The Plaza Motel (which features "free adult movies" for those interested readers). It boasts it right on the sign. Likely you can rent a room by the hour, which after spending the last 10 minutes eye sparring with the man of my dreams, suddenly sounds like a fantastic idea. But, down I shift and I know that this likely will be our last opportunity to share a serious glance before I turn onto 95 north.
I take a deep slow breath and glance down. Look at, then briefly leaf through, the Cd's scattered on the passenger seat, and then I slowly look up. He's got his dimpled chin on his left hand, leaning his head against his window. He looks over, suddenly smiles, and mouths "have a nice day" just as the light turns and we're forced to move. I smile, hoping it was half as wry as the one he shot me back somewhere near Karl's Sausage Kitchen. And then we drive off, with me pulling off onto 95 as he continued on Route 1.
I continue toward home completely swept away by this doe-eyed, floppy-haired four-wheel fantasy. One that shook me awake, made me remember what it was like to feel wanted even if just for 10 minutes, and thankfully saved me about 700 calories all at the same time.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Oh, I know you're out there.
Maybe I passed you while you were leaving your hot sweaty DNA behind after bench pressing your body weight at Planet Fitness. Well, probably not. But perhaps it was you with the amazing doe eyes who brushed up against my arm while reaching for that last perfectly ripe avocado at Shaw's. How about you, Hardhat? Driving that dozer through the miles of construction horror I pass four times a day on my maddening commute? Or you in the sun-faded Sox hat on the Third base line standing room section the day Moose got his 20th season win for the God-awful Yankees at Fenway?
Anyone care to share this unanticipated fall from grace with me?
I'm thinking that finding a sincere, interesting and (hell yes I'm going to say it) attractive person to get out and about with feels like the most daunting of challenges these days. Not that I don't love myself a challenge. A "fix-er-up-er". A full-on project in need of duct tape, power tools and a boatload of patience.
I am really trying, however, to avoid needing an index to effectively maneuver my next relationship.
For now, I'm trying the dating thing. It's like a big crash course in finding your true self underneath heaps of phobia, drenched in a bitter cold sweat. It is completely terrifying. And a little exciting. I find it to be somewhat manageable when tempered with vodka gimlets...rocks...extra squeeze of fresh lime.
I'm looking for you. The guy with the doe eyes that cause immediate distraction. The single guy who is adorable and amusing. I will not-so-patiently fumble through this dating thing and quite possibly a cask-load of gimlets.
And maybe with a little luck I'll find you.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I'm writing a Blog.
I really should be using this time to search the web for a new place to live for me and my two children. Not that I haven't logged an insane amount of hours weeding through the horrors of local rentals already. And certainly if you were to ask my soon-to-be ex, he would curse this. Instead, he would have me first tidying up the house and then working feverishly with any Garrison City renter who could move me out of his house in as timely and cost-effective manner as soon as possible. He thinks I should give this a go at 9:02 at night. After cleaning ketchup art off the kitchen table and tucking his very tidy children into bed. At the end of days that sometime seem as long and as painful as watching Timlin pitch.
I, on the other hand, think now is a fabulous time to start writing a Blog instead.
Oh, where to start.? Not with the dating.
Not quite yet.
Let's start by saying that if you were to look at a snapshot of my life about 2 years ago you would have seen me as a stay-at-home mom, caring for my two young vibrant, beautiful and delightfully silly children. We had a sidekick, my best friend's beautiful little fiery redheaded boy , whom I cared for here to bring in some extra money so I could stay home with my little ones for as long as possible. I was married to this fabulous guy who was a pretty decent musician and an even better father. From the outside looking in, it looked pretty...well...tidy. Like most moms, I juggled the bits of life: play dates, luncheons with imaginary friends (brilliantly named Piss and Khang...no lie), play dough fights, and keeping the pests out of my garden. I wrestled with laundry piles and the rigors of day-to-day life with my husband, the working musician. I liked my life.
And then one morning the phone rang.
I saw the unfamiliar name on the caller ID earlier when the phone rang at some ungodly hour before I had any coffee in me to prop me up. We were all sick with different stages of the flu and hopped up on that horrible Tamiflu in the hopes of keeping us all from needing hospital care. I didn't answer that first call. However, in the middle of dunking a tea bag in steaming water for my husband, who was the sickest of all, the phone rang a second time. I answered it.
It was this one early morning call that took my world away. But not before shaking it about like a snow globe and causing one blinding blizzard of a mess that would swirl around me for a good year plus. My husband was having an affair that would steal him from the world I had been masterfully crafting during our 18 years together. He would never return.
A year can feel like a long time. Everlasting. Unending. When you're facing your foes and you're fighting big fears. When you're wiping tears from little faces with eyes swollen, and when a moment allows, from your own. But we endure. We become wiser. And we heal in almost all of those broken and banged up places. Almost all.
So over a year later, I find myself bandaged up and I'm taking myself off the disabled list. I'm on the verge of divorce, and I have decided it is time. For the first time in over 19 years, The Rookie is stepping to the plate. I'm dating. And think of the fun I can have writing about the antics in the clubhouse. With the terminology. I mean come on!? Did he get to third base? Did he hit for the cycle? Does he have a great bat? Good hands? Was he deep in the batters box? Ba-dum-bing! Play ball!
And truthfully, I'm hoping that even if I'm off to a shaky start, one day I'll get to write about a great stretch run and a fabulous finish. A Cinderella story. And no curses.
Well, perhaps we'll save those for my ex.