The Adventures of Single Chick

Went to Lalo with the 26 year old. So sweet, smart, even kinda funny. I really wanted to like him, but there was this gay quality that was too much to get over. I dated someone for three months with this quality once. I had images of him leaving me for another man in a convertable. I would be holding my young child's hand and she would look up at me and say, "Mommy, why is daddy kissing that man?"

No matter how artistic, emotional, and comfortable with shopping and hair talk he is--gay is gay is gay. And I like straight (when it comes to men). But he was so nice and he lives in my neighborhood. I just wanted to play scrabble with him and go to movies at the Angelika. Mid-date he got up to go to the bathroom and the couple next to me complimented me on my form. That's the thing--I'm too much of a pro at this. I felt it coming on, I told all my best stories, just the right balance of self-deprication and fabulousness. I'm too good at it. It gets boring and I just miss my ex. Wish I didn't have to do this anymore. Forget why I broke up with him. You do remember that I broke up with him, right?

Anyhow, I took a couple of steps backwards with that. I added him back to the buddy list. Then I took him off. But I added him back on again. I even found his profile on one of my many dating sites. Ok, that's a little stalkerish, I know. And just when I wanted to hate him for being on there he says something totally nice in his profile about how incredibly funny, intelligent, and self-aware his past girlfriends have been. I mean, that is all true, but how nice is that to say on your fucking dating profile! Aw, man. I really need a good date. Someone who's nice, but someone who I'm also attracted too. Is that so much to ask?

I'm off to a good start this week with dates planned for both Monday and Thursday evenings. Two more Jews! Lucky for me, there's a seemingly endless supply of sarcastic, witty, Jew boys in my age bracket. Tomorrow's boy is young--26. Seeing as I'm turning 29 on Wednesday, it would be tough to say he's truly in my age bracket (29 x biological clock factor - 26/quarterlife crisis = really big age difference). Thursday's guy is a little more my speed, 32.

But even with the two imminent dates, I'm still wondering whether the ex is going to remember my birthday on Wednesday. I truly think he has no clue. I'm trying not to expect anything. He'll forget and then he can repent when he takes The Landmark Forum next weekend. Oh, they'll get him good for that one!

I finally met the Jewish Drummer Boy yesterday over lunch in Carroll Gardens. He was 10 minutes late which (since Landmark) has become an unforgivable offense, but I didn't let it sour me too much. He was quite adorable in person. Shaved head, sharp glasses, nice physique, and a small sexy space between his two front teeth. I tried not to be distracted by the incredibly cheesy charm hanging from his neck. Jewelry is a tough beast for men to master. We really can't hold mistakes in this area against them. At least not until we're seeing them on a regular basis.

Drummer boy im'd me earlier in the day and told me that he was embarrassed to say it, but he was cash poor and he wasn't going to be able to pay for the whole bill. I told him not to worry, that I'm a modern woman. I lied--but props to him for saying something beforehand. Really, I would not let the broke factor drive my decision about someone, but it surely doesn't add anything positive. I like to go out, eat well, and experience the art and culture of the city. That's just a fact and it's hard to be with someone who can't afford to do those things too. I've done it and it just involves resentment and self-hate, two dynamics for which I have no room in my busy life.

Drummer boy meticulously cleaned his glasses for the first 5 minutes of lunch. I tried to suppress the OCD red flag above his head, but when he opened his bag to get a tissue, the red blared back in my face. There were four items stacked next to each other like soldiers. "I wonder where he keeps all of his receipts and scraps of paper with phone numbers." I pondered. Not one candy wrapper, hmmm.

I ordered a nicoise salad and he got the cheeseburger medium well (no doubt to kill germs and parasites lurking about). He talked. I listened or at least pretended to listen. I mentioned the Cake party which I thought would spark some interesting conversation, but it didn't. It was all rather blah. No flirting. No laughing. No spark. When he got started talking about his cat, I thought it would never end. I began channeling the flavor of the homemade chocolate chip cookies from the gourmet store down the block. I didn't know if I would make it through one more story about fuzzy before putting one of those in my mouth. I told him I needed to get back to the office and he seemed dissappointed. He wiped off his glasses one more time before he took off, told me it was a pleasure to meet me, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He read it all over my face. Promised to another--he didn't know it was the best cookie in Brooklyn.

Still sleepy from last night's Cake party. For those who are unaware, the Cake party is all about women's pleasure. Pleasure with men, women--just sexy fun capital P Pleasure. The dress code was middle eastern, white, or sheer. I wore a sarong skirt and a halter top that left enough bare belly for some crystal belly chains. I looked pretty hot. I went to the party by myself and met up with my open marriage rockstar friends, A and J. A little background on these two--they've been together for ten years, they're both hotties, and they get more action than the rest of our group put together.

I arrived at the party and found A and J, who were already working it with their respective new conquests. I realized I needed to make some new friends fast--these two weren't going to play babysit the straight girl for too long. I had a goal for the evening: kiss one girl. That's all, just one. Between the go-go dancers in sexy gold Cleopatra gear, the girls giving their boyfriends lap dances under mosquito nets, and the Bollywood gone wild softcore porno playing on a movie screen in the back of the club--I decided if I couldn't get my chick kissing chick groove on here, this fantasy goes back in the closet where it belongs.

So, I waited. I thought they would come to me like men do. It wasn't happening, so I started talking to a couple of cute guys. I chatted them both up, but set my sights on the unmistakably Jewish guy with the great smile. I enlisted them in coaching me toward reaching my goal for the evening. I asked them if they were there to kiss chicks or to watch chicks kissing chicks. There answer, of course, both. We talked at length about possible opening lines they could use on the many senual Cake patrons. There idea: You wanna go make out? My idea: You wanna go find another chick and make out?

The friend of Cute Jewish Guy (CJG) heads off to the bathroom, leaving me and my man alone. We ordered our drinks and I looked him in the eyes, "You wanna go find another chick and make out?", I asked (It's that Landmark Forum, I tell you--I'm already living an extraordinary life!). In less than a minute, we were on the dancefloor kissing and groping each other. He's, uhm, a really good dancer (a rarity in Jewish boys). And thus, began our evening's quest. Cute Jewish Guy became my wingman and I became his ticket to threesome heaven. It was symbiosis in it's truest form.

We decided that I had to be the one to make the move. I asked a couple of cute girls to dance with us. CJG coached me a little and finally I leaned into the curvier of the two and said, "I was supposed to kiss a chick before 12:30. I'm a little late." I thought it was smooth, but apparently it wasn't. She grabbed my hand and told me that she wasn't into kissing chicks, but if she was I'd be first on the list.

CJG and I moved on to our next lovely lady. I used my line again and got shot down for the second time. This was harder than I thought. After a couple more failures, the clock struck 2 in the morning and I almost gave up. But not CJG--"You have a goal." he scolded. "You can't give up!" Wow, ok. He was absolutely right. I know he was only saying that to see a little girl, girl action, but it worked in propelling me to the right spot on the dancefloor. CJG and I started dancing next to a group of four women who were touching and kissing a little. All I had to do was shut my mouth (with that stupid ass line) and start dancing close with them and then it happened. I started dancing with this one curvy, twenty-something, brunette and she had her hands all over me. And then we kissed! Being a very goal-oriented (type A trapped in a type B) kind of girl, I instantly felt relief. I did it! It took a little bit away from the moment. That's why I tried it again, with another girl in the pack. It all felt very rebellious and naughty, somehow. CJG beamed with pride. He pulled me out of the pack of breasts and roving hands to kiss me. After a little more dancing, we decided to find my friends and get out of there.

When we saw A and J, my wingman held up two fingers bragging. "Two girls--she exceded her goal!" They hugged me and sent me on my way. CJG and I walked outside. I handed him a card, but he looked at it like it was a foreign object. He looked at me as if to ask, "What am I supposed to do with this?" We kissed and took cabs in opposite directions. Until, the next Cake extravaganza, CJG.

Back from The Landmark Forum and the word on the street is...Single Chick officially drank the Koolaid. I cried for three days. I used the word transformation (more than once). I called my grandma, sister, aunt, uncle, cousin, best friend from eighth grade, and all my ex-boyfriends (ok, I only have one)--just to tell them about my new understanding of life. And I feel good. Relieved, somehow.

Of course I managed to meet a guy. Landmark Forum Guy (LFG). Somewhere between learning that I wasn't the boy-crazy freak I thought I'd been all these years (That was all a story I made up in my head--who knew?) and my breakthrough that my lack of white pumps in '89 didn't ruin my life--I asked him to dinner. On our walk to find a restaurant, he cleverly fit the girl he's seeing into the conversation. I made an awe-inspiring recovery without an inch of dissappointment on my face. We chose a Thai restaurant. He asked if I wanted to share two dishes. I thought that was an odd move for someone in a relationship, but I proceeded in full-on friend mode. I even told him about the blog! Shame on you Single Chick. You should know better. Things are never as they seem (I knew that one before The Landmark Forum). He then tells me that the girl he's seeing wants to see other people and that he was checking me out at our lunch break (no doubt the moment I was crying on the phone to the ex--story for another day). We finished a couple of Thai iced teas and some curry vegetables, then walked back to our rebirthing clinic arm and arm.

I sat next to him in the chair as I learned more about how much I suck and that I can't help myself for sucking. I was even a little turned on as we kept one part of our bodies touching at all times. And then something happened. Something in me turned off. Maybe it was the conversation with my ex earlier that day or maybe it was the frigid cold A/C in that dungeoness seminar room. Maybe it was the koolaid. Whatever it was--I stopped wanting it, him--I just wanted to blend with the rest of the wannabe life-changing losers in that room. I didn't want to get involved with LFG--especially not at LF. But I was on the hook--I couldn't pull any of the Single Chick call screening. I made a promise to be a clear communicator, at least for the next week. I told him and he respected my choice. We rode the subway home together after our transformations (ouch-three times) were complete. He hugged me when my stop came along and he acknowledged that he felt complete with me (Yes--LFG really talks like that. A little too much Koolaid).

Just wanted to check in quickly before my weekend of self-analysis and possible brainwashing. If I start posting entries--telling you to join the Landmark Forum after this weekend, I give you permission to hunt me down and press the self-destruct button on the blogger server. I promise all of you loyal readers that I will keep this cynical mind in tact.

On the man front--not much going on except that B (remember him?) e-mailed me to ask for last-minute weekend plans (and I do consider Thursday last minute). Of course I'm not available so I just said I was busy and will be for the next couple of weeks. Drummer boy date isn't until next Thursday, so I look forward to that, but he lives so far out in Brooklyn, I doubt it's meant to be. At least I'm not meant to be trecking out to Bay Ridge on weekends.

Wednesday night should be fun. I'm going to a certain famous NYC party where kissing girls might be on the menu. For those, who didn't know--I'm completely down with riding the "bi is trendy" wave New York is embracing. I'm a straight but curious chica and I'm not afraid to say it (except to my aunt who's reading this right now--uhm--remind me why I let you read this?).

I was not completely truthful about the dating vacation. I'm still hooked on these dating sites. I don't know why--I have absolutely no time for the next couple of weeks. It sounds so flaky to say, "Can I put you in the Palm for August?" and yet the surfing goes on. I do have one interesting date next week with a Jewish Drummer. Yes, you read correctly. It doesn't fit my usual profile, but I need to hear a Jew keeping rhythm with my own ears.

Other than that, I committed weekend suicide by signing up for The Landmark Forum. So, unless I meet some cute over-the-top emotionally available, self-helpy boy this weekend--I'm not getting laid again any time soon. Guys with emotions usually aren't my type, but I can make an exception--just this once.

I took a dating vacation this weekend and the break has given me some time to process the current Single Chick state of affairs. I'm a firm believer that I need to indulge myself in these contemplative times so I don't end up wandering the Manhattan streets at 37 with a poodle in a Baby Bjorn.

Thursday was over the top and almost put me onto the single and bitter list. I don't want to become that girl. We've all met her: talks about her ex on first dates. Complains about her job, her family, her friends, her diabetic cat (ok-one of five isn't bad). She thinks that meeting this golden guy is going to change her life, make it less confusing. She starts with the mental wedding plans after date two and then he never calls. But I've never been that chick.

Before I met the ex, I was single for years. I had a dynamic career, a mostly active dating schedule, a comfy apartment, and a plan for how I thought my life would play out. I would become a badass corporate lady making 100K by the time I was 30 with an equally badass partner at my side, and a couple of kids that would go to Stuyvesant or Hunter because I still believe in public school. It seemed a rather complete and achievable plan. I went back and forth over the idea of a townhouse in Brooklyn or the West Village, but the rest of it was a documented, well-researched fantasy, i mean plan.

Then I fell in love and I was so amazed by the simultaneous clarity and confusion of that feeling. That there was someone to cherish me even with my messy apartment and my body that would never be a size 2 (or 4 or 6 for that matter--I'm thinking 8 may still be on the horizon.) The badassness lost it's importance, somehow when I was given the chance to truly be myself. When I wasn't impressing clients or bosses or employees that expected me to shape their careers. When I was loved and appreciated unconditionally. When I had nothing to prove. Thus, the plan began to break down.

I left corporate life in search of something more fulfilling and I scared the shit out of the guy at my side. He couldn't believe how quickly I could change my life. He bought into the plan. Let me clarify--he bought into it as a concept, he couldn't say that he was ready to act on it with me. I think he was more into Hunter for the kids and was definitely partial to Brooklyn over the West Village, but it was all spoken in hypotheticals. And the more I changed and started anew, the more hypothetical the kids and townhouse became. Until he could barely use the word we in future tense conversations, unless it was about tomorrow or next week. He was fine living that way, but for me, it seemed pointless to talk about next week if next year was a wild card. After a few miserably uncertain months, I ended it.

Four months later, I'm still not in the place I thought I'd be with my career, my apartment is comfy, but expensive, without the corporate salary, my friends are all getting married, and my diabetic cat cries when I'm at the computer too long. But--I'm writing about it because I don't want to bore my first dates with this kind of talk. It's just not fair. Talking about music, theater, and threesomes is much more fun and successful in those times. I'll be there again, but for now, I'm here--sopping up uncertainty with a slice of sprouted grain bread. For the first time, I'm not armed with a plan of action and I have to say--it's making me feel like an adult (for those wondering--that's a good thing).

Breakfast turned into babysitting with a free egg and cheese pannini. I don't usually subcribe to white bread or cheese for that matter, but this morning--those two truly joined forces to help me forget my situation. To casually blow off the fact that I trecked over to a remote SoHo cafe at 8 AM to sit with a hungover twenty-five year old Long Island Jew who came to the date dekked in his work clothes: a ripped t-shirt and shorts. And I don't believe working in advertising is justification for a get-up of this casual magnitude. He made three calls on his cell and regailed tales of last eve's debauchery. He called his friend Rockstar. It wasn't meant to be. He watched me chow my breakfast side salad while he sucked down a coffee. I think we shared hope that caffeine might transform him into an interesting morning companion. But caffeine is not Prozac and I was not shy about feigning full after finishing my first half of Pannini. We exchanged lies and pleasantries. He said, "We should do this again."

"Absolutely," I replied letting my brain finish my sentence with varying degrees of sarcasm. If I was 24, I might have thought he was "so cool" in that unavailable way we always used to love. But I'm not and I don't. So on to the next.

The next guy--37--met for drinks. Or, I drank and he enjoyed a refreshing gingerale. Did I just travel through a maturity time-warp? From stupid and hungover to "I drink 5 times a year?" That sounds rather calculated. Anyhow, I was the best date he'd had in eight months and he was interesting, but more of the same for me. No attraction. Couldn't tell if it was a weird angle, but he either was missing a neck (a syndrome I'm used to seeing in my freakish diabetic cat) or he was in the beginning stages of osteoperosis. Do men get that? Either way, I was enjoying the attention, but wondering if I was going to get home in time to watch a little HBO on Demand. I intend to get my money's worth from them, no matter who wants to sleep with me.

He asked for the check after one drink, which I thought was a good sign for me, Carrie, Big, and the gang. I told him I was busy for the next couple of weeks, which is sort of true. Avoidance should hold him for a little while.

In terms of men on deck, there's one possibility for Sunday eve. Another Jew, another musician to add to my string of sexy piano player guys ( Pre-Blog Types).

So Jew #2 is minus 1, MIA, ciao baby. The bastard stood me up. I even e-mailed him to see if we were still on. He's a tech guy, so I know he checks his e-mail all day. I'm not sweating it though, because he was only 5'6". And I'm guessing 5'6" is code for 5'5". Even that is not little person short, but it's certainly a couple of inches outside of my comfort zone.

I'm a modern chick, though. Out with the old, in with the new. Two new Jews, actually. I am so booked up that I had to schedule a breakfast date on Thursday! I use my exclamation points sparingly, but that one is so deserved. Another online guy--but with this cutie--I had a real connection. I know it's only instant messenger, but I felt it. The one thing that bothers me a little is that he said "he's kinda dating someone." Meaning he thinks he's "kinda" dating someone and she thinks she's dating someone. Typical male/female divide. I told him I'm not into cheating so if that's what he's doing I don't want to take part. I respect other women too much to be the other woman. He said "kinda dating" is different that BF/GF. And I agree. I was dating someone else when I met the ex and I didn't consider that cheating (no, it doesn't always come back to him). But I'm going to have my power breakfast date before I spiral into their relationship in a very Single Chick Psychoanylitical way. Who knows if I'll even like him. Maybe he likes maple syrup on his sausage. Maybe he likes sausage.

Speaking of sausage, the best part is that I have another date that evening. 37, upper-east side, and a self-proclaimed voyeur. Perhaps he's reading this right now and wondering, "Who is that narcissistic Single Chick and how did I get to buy her dinner instead of breakfast?"

After a weekend of hitting the dating sites a bit too hard, I went out on my first date in this week's triple play. One thing is clear: I must hone my screening process. I met a very sweet Woody Allen type for tea on the east side after work. And while, Hannah and Her Sisters is one of my favorite movies--I never really considered Woody to be a date-able character. More like the uncle you need to put up with at the long and drawn out Seder. When we first starting e-mailing I could tell from his picture that there was something going on with his hair. I think it's called denial. He's the guy who needs to do the full-on shave, but holds on to the wispy strands that wave in the wind like dandelion fuzz. I felt for him. But I have to say--behind the bad hair and the neuroses, there was a true mensch. He was sweet and truly clueless when I said I needed to be home after one cup of tea.

Let's hope tomorrow is a bit better. Another Jew (I'm really trying). I think he's a different type of Jew than Woody. I haven't spoken to him since last Wednesday and he has not yet put the call in to confirm. Not a great sign. Well, whatever happens with Jew #2--I know all of this attention is really pushing me forward in terms of my "moving on" process. I took the ex off my buddy list today. I thought it was a step.

I'm not that spiritual of a person, but I think perhaps this blog is connected to a divine entity of some sort. As soon as I finished my last entry and was about to press publish I got an IM from a guy I met on a popular dating site that will remain nameless. FYI--it's not Match. I hate that one.

We'd gone out about a month ago on a Saturday night during one of NYC's May monsoons. He's 32, blond, blue eyes, nice build. I was thrilled to be attracted to him. That hasn't happened in awhile. We bar-hopped a bit, inching our way closer and closer to my apartment. If it wasn't raining so hard, I would have kissed him in front of my building and called it a night. But, the rain helped me push through my prudish tendencies to get to "fuck it" mode (a place I haven't visited in a long time). I was not letting him go away without being properly kissed. Brought him upstairs and we just old fashioned made out. Kissed for hours, but the rain was coming down so strong I told him he could stay over. He left and told me he would call me that week.

Cut to--I never hear from the guy. All you guys should know that yes--women get used to this behavior of yours, but no--it doesn't mean you should say you're going to call if you don't intend to do so. Why? But then I got this IM yesterday and we chat like nothing happened. Being my direct (and VERY, very curious self) I asked him why he never called. He told me that he didn't think I wanted hang out again, that he was paranoid that I wasn't into him. I felt so relieved and just terrible that I put him through that. "Aw--not true", I said. "I would like to see you again." 1,2,3-we make a plan for him to come over and rent a movie. He'll be over at 10.

I'm in the shower shaving my legs, doing all of the high maintenance primping that one does before "first sex after the ex" sex and I realize I've been duped. Shit. All he had to say to me was, "I thought you didn't like me" and I let him get out of not calling? How stupid am I? How could I not see that? Hmmm...horny, stupid, horny, stupid. After weighing my possible outcomes, I decided to forge forward. Embrace stupid. Stupid, meet horny. I think you two will get along just fine. And so they did.

The ex and I skipped tea and went straight for drinks. His suggestion, I swear. In the dark back corner of Art Bar--we talked for hours. I hope I'm not setting myself back 4 months by saying--it was the best date I've had in 4 months. We just get along so well, there's chemistry. And I don't mean--"I'm about to puke in my drink because you just told me you got your large intestine removed" chemistry or even "Ok, have your way with me, as long as you don't bug me between 9 and 9:30 on Sunday night" chemistry. I mean--well you know what I mean and if I say it I'm back where I was the night I broke up with him.

I do want to stress that, "I broke up with him!" Every time he brings it up in conversation he talks about it like he did it, like it was his decision. Absolutely not the truth. Ok and here's one other annoying thing (then I'll shut up about this):when we were talking last night at Art Bar, he tells me he had a torrid affair with some chick that he knew before me. I played it off pretty cool and calm, but when I got home and looked up torrid in the dictionary (just to jog the memory), I got really fucking pissed. He had sex with someone else already (it took a lot of restraint to avoid all caps on that one). Of course there were many who I could have slept with since him, but I've been all "I'm not ready" and "I don't want to go to far" and "really, you don't have to put my hand there--I know where it is."

We parted ways at the 14th street subway station. He gave me a hug with a groan attached. I like to think it was a sincere, missing you groan, but it could've been my laptop bag digging into a sensitive area. Either way, it was a moment. A moment I need to avoid recreating for a long time. Until I move on a bit more, get my shit together. Basically, have sex.

Aw, B--didn't even wait 24 hours before contacting me. The exclamation point lends more weight to my theory. Do straight men use exclamation points, ever? Anyhow, see below,

Hey Single Chick,

very nice to meet you yesterday! I'm glad we got together - I'd enjoy
hanging out again sometime....

B

E-mail is the perfect medium for giving and receiving the casual blow-off. Come to think of it--it was a cool, calculated move on his part. Touche, B.

I may be back tonight to fill in details about my tea with the ex. The meeting venue--a mutually inconvenient spot. The meeting reason--sheer stupidity. More later.

Back from the date with B and the skinny is: nice guy, no chemistry. We met at the Grey Dog Cafe--a dark nouveau pubby type spot. We both ordered white wines. After the second sip, I knew I wasn't feeling him. But once I noticed the seared tuna salad on the menu, I decided to let him buy me dinner.

I could see where my sister was going with this one--he's smart, easy-going, and VERY sensitive. He's an INFP (Meyer's Briggs). A nice compliment to my ENFJ. Thing is--the sensitive, sweet side was a little too sweet, if you know what I mean. I've fallen prey to closet gay men before--but I've learned my lesson by now. So, the clincher came in our conversation about cops in Berkeley. I lived there for a summer once and he lived there for a few years. I made a joke about how unscary those guys look on their bikes. He agreed and with a hearty laugh added, "And in their little shorts." I never really noticed their outfits, but now all I could think of were Berkeley cop buns of steel peeking through the gayest of gay apparel--short shorts. I think he shared my mental image, and we smiled.

All in all, it was a delicious salad. Came with a wasabi dressing on the side--well worth it. B walked me to the 1/9 at Christopher and said, "I'll call you." He's the kind of guy that only says that when he means it. So, let the screening begin....