We gather round the rusty blue steamer trunk, serving double duty as coffee table and metaphorical campfire to the holiday family sing-a-along. Truly nothing captures my heart's yearnings more than the tunes which accompany the holiday season. Laden with years of memories, bubble-wrapped in sentimental packaging, these treasures travel with all wherever the years of nomadic living may take us. Be it an ode to the dreidel, a haunting accapalla rendition of "Silent Night", or a somewhat tragic tale of your beloved, tipsy granny being trampled by a reindeer, emotions involved in these musical compilations transport one to a place of rememberance. For myself, those sensations carry a contented, fuzzy blanket comfort, set free the inner glow which year upon year of wintertime festivities have kindled inside my sometimes dank heart.
I tend to be a cynic, am all too aware of the fact that sarcasm is my modus operandi when it comes to self-preservation and building barriers. Frequently, the "Christmas Carol" tune "I Hate People" blares on a loop through my brain as I navigate the sardine-can packed mid-town streets, using my over-sized totebag as both a sheild and lethal weapon. I truly don't desire to be ornery and constantly perturbed. Tis my aspiration to be kind and understanding of my fellow man, but lord almighty, it itruly a daunting task to remain chipper and cheery when caught in a perpetual game of Manhattan sidewalk shuffle.
Thus, the carol saves me. The haunting melody of "Oh Holy Night", the frolicking gait while on a "Sleigh Ride". Hallelujah for harmonies and Handel. When I find myself in perma-Scrooge mode, when every ounce of my being must fight the urge to let fly "Bah Humbugs" with abandon, the opening ding-dongs belonging to a certain "Carol of the Bells" flood the ear's inner sactum. My body becomes light with an uncharacteristic jubillance reminiscent of childhood hot cocoa slurping and slick sled runs down Rocky Mountain slopes. If the cheesy chintzy cheer of Yultide carols being sung by my famiglia choir is the dose of medication needed to turn a certain grumpy gal's frown upside down, then pour me a spoon full and keep it comin'.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Jazz Babies...
I believe that as of now, I have officially been un-converted to the match.com world. I truly believe that its cause is good, noble and worthy for those who fear the Manhattan dating scene. Night after night, bar after bar, one constant dating fiasco following another. Yet I have come to realize that this is what the frightening, insurmountable dating pool is for. Putting oneself out on the line while exclaiming "This is me. Love me or leave me, I am what I am." And all that other mumbo jumbo, self-empowerment hoo-ha. Some of these sentiments must be ringing true, however, or I would not be witness to countless Manhattan mavens out an about in the city's hotspots, soaking up whatever testosterone laden male form may come their way. He may not be Mr. Right, but hey, at this point one settles for a cocktail, the hope of a mini-hors doeuvre, and at least an invite for Friday night drinks in the Lower East Side. Such is the consolation package that all women yearn to attain, if for nothing else them to have a notch on the proverbial date belt and a story to tell the gal pals at Sunday brunch.
What I have come to realize is that this mentality is not completely insane. Independent, not needy, not neurotic or typical,to be able to grab drinks with a man in a purely spur of the moment, no pre-requisite manner is seemingly unheard of in the normal dating pool. Yet when a woman undergoes such freeing acts, she is finally capable if just being. There are no boundaries, no barriers, no limits, just pure, unadulterated enjoyment of the spontaneity of life. This is a skill which I I have recently been forcing myself to grasp, and in turn have reaped immense benefits.
I rendez-vousl once more back to travel show friend. He is my worldly confidant, my male muse, if such a thing is allowed without being over wrought. To meet a man that lives life in the here and now, the moment in a moment, the no-reservations or barriers type mentality... well, this is the end all be all, the bees knees as it were. How long have I searched for a man who would pull me out of my idiosyncratic cycle, my constant desire to itemize and day-plannize my routine of being? This is a trait of complete control freak issues which as so far have led me in my dating endeavors to a) a man who follows me blindly no matter what my career entails or b) the guy who couldn't give a rats tail if I succeed or not as long as he's got a little eye candy on his arm. As far as I'm concerned, this match.com scenario has not helped the situation. These corporate big-wigs enroll, and believe that as long as their substantial income is listed on the main orofile page is, their chances of success are severely heightened.
Yet it leaves me to wonder: where is chivalry? Where is my un-internet burdened white night to help lift my damsel in distress out of the mires of blind date messiness and into the world of chance encounter bliss. Say what you will, an online profile can in no way, shape, or form prepare a potential date for the foreign human being they are about to encounter. The probelm lies in the fact that we, as individuals, do not know ourselves, and therefore it is nearly impossible to accurately define the traits which make us unique on a limiting list of attributes.
Which is why, over the course of the past couple of days, Miss Match has come to discover that real life encounters trump all falsely reinvented forms of action we call "dating". I yearn for someone vibrant, alive, and worthy of the calling card "Melody's Partner in Crime", It is understood now that simply entering these aspirations in the dating machine does not in fact a match in heaven make. One must be prepared to break down walls, peer behind pre-conceived notions, and realize that all interactions in life are noteworthy, whether they be the random troupe of adolescent acrobats on your MTA commute or that man you meet at a charity even who truly believes you are a unique creature. Some days I have a difficult enough time convincing myself I am worthy to face a Manhattan day. Convincing myself that another being could equally feel that sensation is a novel idea which I shall constantly have to adjust to.
And yet... why shouldn't a man be fascinated by me? Why shouldn't the male species become weak in the knees at the thought of myself becoming their constant companion? When I envision myself as a match.com criteria checklist, I appear to be lacking the essentials (no graduate degree, not certain if I want children, and clearly not a 5"11" blonde bombshell.) Yet when I meet a man, and we are given the chance to discuss the many seemingly pointless details of our small, youthful lives, something inside clicks. A something which cannot be recreated by winks and AIMS and horribly unoriginal first dates.
After an evening of cocktail creations and jazz club sensations, I have come to discover that life is so much more than the pre-planned designs we create for ourselves. The daily experiences venture beyond the action items we place in our agendas, the boxes waiting to be checked and forgotten. Let yourself go for just a moment. An instant to realize how truly precious life and all the partners we encounter can be. I danced. I sang. I sat and luxuriated in the beauty that is a monday evening in Manhattan. Match.com: you may have your checklist, but you will never truly capture the vitality of reality.
What I have come to realize is that this mentality is not completely insane. Independent, not needy, not neurotic or typical,to be able to grab drinks with a man in a purely spur of the moment, no pre-requisite manner is seemingly unheard of in the normal dating pool. Yet when a woman undergoes such freeing acts, she is finally capable if just being. There are no boundaries, no barriers, no limits, just pure, unadulterated enjoyment of the spontaneity of life. This is a skill which I I have recently been forcing myself to grasp, and in turn have reaped immense benefits.
I rendez-vousl once more back to travel show friend. He is my worldly confidant, my male muse, if such a thing is allowed without being over wrought. To meet a man that lives life in the here and now, the moment in a moment, the no-reservations or barriers type mentality... well, this is the end all be all, the bees knees as it were. How long have I searched for a man who would pull me out of my idiosyncratic cycle, my constant desire to itemize and day-plannize my routine of being? This is a trait of complete control freak issues which as so far have led me in my dating endeavors to a) a man who follows me blindly no matter what my career entails or b) the guy who couldn't give a rats tail if I succeed or not as long as he's got a little eye candy on his arm. As far as I'm concerned, this match.com scenario has not helped the situation. These corporate big-wigs enroll, and believe that as long as their substantial income is listed on the main orofile page is, their chances of success are severely heightened.
Yet it leaves me to wonder: where is chivalry? Where is my un-internet burdened white night to help lift my damsel in distress out of the mires of blind date messiness and into the world of chance encounter bliss. Say what you will, an online profile can in no way, shape, or form prepare a potential date for the foreign human being they are about to encounter. The probelm lies in the fact that we, as individuals, do not know ourselves, and therefore it is nearly impossible to accurately define the traits which make us unique on a limiting list of attributes.
Which is why, over the course of the past couple of days, Miss Match has come to discover that real life encounters trump all falsely reinvented forms of action we call "dating". I yearn for someone vibrant, alive, and worthy of the calling card "Melody's Partner in Crime", It is understood now that simply entering these aspirations in the dating machine does not in fact a match in heaven make. One must be prepared to break down walls, peer behind pre-conceived notions, and realize that all interactions in life are noteworthy, whether they be the random troupe of adolescent acrobats on your MTA commute or that man you meet at a charity even who truly believes you are a unique creature. Some days I have a difficult enough time convincing myself I am worthy to face a Manhattan day. Convincing myself that another being could equally feel that sensation is a novel idea which I shall constantly have to adjust to.
And yet... why shouldn't a man be fascinated by me? Why shouldn't the male species become weak in the knees at the thought of myself becoming their constant companion? When I envision myself as a match.com criteria checklist, I appear to be lacking the essentials (no graduate degree, not certain if I want children, and clearly not a 5"11" blonde bombshell.) Yet when I meet a man, and we are given the chance to discuss the many seemingly pointless details of our small, youthful lives, something inside clicks. A something which cannot be recreated by winks and AIMS and horribly unoriginal first dates.
After an evening of cocktail creations and jazz club sensations, I have come to discover that life is so much more than the pre-planned designs we create for ourselves. The daily experiences venture beyond the action items we place in our agendas, the boxes waiting to be checked and forgotten. Let yourself go for just a moment. An instant to realize how truly precious life and all the partners we encounter can be. I danced. I sang. I sat and luxuriated in the beauty that is a monday evening in Manhattan. Match.com: you may have your checklist, but you will never truly capture the vitality of reality.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
I'll take S'More....
S'mores cocktails that is. Last night, I had a couple of these beauties, and somewhere between sips of delicious, alcohol embellished campfire-y goodness, an epitome hit (along with some lightheaded tipsiness): no internet created, mechanical match system can compete with the sparks inspired by genuine chance encounters, the non-premeditated interactions which leave one giddy, breathless, mystified by fate. Sure, match.com has my credentials in place systematically, my stats are engrained in the magical computer's memory bank, but what this site cannot simulate is honest to goodness first meeting flurries of joy. Butterflies, as it were. I hand select the male counterpart to my female, checking to make sure his prerequisites are in line with mine, scanning photos for hints of psychotic tendencies, and once background checks have been thoroughly completed, then and only then is date number typed into iCalendar. No brushing of shoulders, no stolen glances and nervous tittering chatter leading to stories exchanged, laughter shared, and numbers passed (or an iPhone "bump" now-a-days).
Last night, I had a business meeting. (Hilarious, coming from the girl who spends hours on end lazing away the day on her computer, musing about little nothings.) An honest to God appointment which had been set up due to a random encounter at a charity event previously in the week. I was "bartending" (aka shaking up pre-mixed cocktails and attempting not to drip alcohol infused juices on celebutantes' dainty paws), soaking up a the luxury that somehow manages to be incorporated in New York not-for-profit events. (Which certainly end up costing a great deal more to put on than is actually raised from donors by night's end, I have no doubt.) Through this event, however, I was fortunate enough to meet a man who is involved heavily with the charity and happened to create the cocktails of which we were shaking. A mixologist of some renown, preparing to embark on his own globe-trotting show (akin to Anthony Bourdain, cocktail style of course), it was with great interest that I soaked up his tales of childhood travel. Days in Kenya raising lion cubs, surfing the coast off Sydney, sojourning in France, the standard lines of which I am usually too terrible of a cynic to buy into. Something about his generous spirit, his honest eyes, his carefree manner, the countless shots of Patron, led me to follow his life story with the zest of a young child enjoying her first fairy tale. Business card exchanged, he mentions that he is looking for assistants for his travel show, which is undoubtedly my dream job.
We arrange a meeting. We discuss more of our lives' great experiences. He owns turbans from Dubai, I mention my fetish for baggy Turkish pants. While he waxes poetically about Japanese sakes, I regale with tales of my tours through Tuscany, the days luxuriating with glasses of Chianti, Sangiovese Whites and Venezian Prossecco. It is either an evening of two potential AA candidates, or a meeting of souls that in no way involves computers, data entry, forced conversation and awkward evening endings. The fact that it was not necessarily a romantic rendez-vous was truly the most precious fact. Two people, two minds, one evening of endless possibilities. No match.com necessary.
All I can be sure of now is that no matter how much we compartmentalize our mate-making requirements, create check-lists, categorize and sub-categorize, sometimes what makes people connect cannot be put into a general data-entry system. The criteria cannot simply be computed, allowing us to "Accept" or "Decline" people who may or may not play a role in our lives. Experience is everything, and the guy sitting next to you in the coffee shop, tossing back his red-eye and skimming through the "Times" could be a potential partner. I am learning the value of opening up oneself to the possibility of providence, and while my match.com account shall certainly remain active, I'm ready to give face-to-face fate a fair shake.
Last night, I had a business meeting. (Hilarious, coming from the girl who spends hours on end lazing away the day on her computer, musing about little nothings.) An honest to God appointment which had been set up due to a random encounter at a charity event previously in the week. I was "bartending" (aka shaking up pre-mixed cocktails and attempting not to drip alcohol infused juices on celebutantes' dainty paws), soaking up a the luxury that somehow manages to be incorporated in New York not-for-profit events. (Which certainly end up costing a great deal more to put on than is actually raised from donors by night's end, I have no doubt.) Through this event, however, I was fortunate enough to meet a man who is involved heavily with the charity and happened to create the cocktails of which we were shaking. A mixologist of some renown, preparing to embark on his own globe-trotting show (akin to Anthony Bourdain, cocktail style of course), it was with great interest that I soaked up his tales of childhood travel. Days in Kenya raising lion cubs, surfing the coast off Sydney, sojourning in France, the standard lines of which I am usually too terrible of a cynic to buy into. Something about his generous spirit, his honest eyes, his carefree manner, the countless shots of Patron, led me to follow his life story with the zest of a young child enjoying her first fairy tale. Business card exchanged, he mentions that he is looking for assistants for his travel show, which is undoubtedly my dream job.
We arrange a meeting. We discuss more of our lives' great experiences. He owns turbans from Dubai, I mention my fetish for baggy Turkish pants. While he waxes poetically about Japanese sakes, I regale with tales of my tours through Tuscany, the days luxuriating with glasses of Chianti, Sangiovese Whites and Venezian Prossecco. It is either an evening of two potential AA candidates, or a meeting of souls that in no way involves computers, data entry, forced conversation and awkward evening endings. The fact that it was not necessarily a romantic rendez-vous was truly the most precious fact. Two people, two minds, one evening of endless possibilities. No match.com necessary.
All I can be sure of now is that no matter how much we compartmentalize our mate-making requirements, create check-lists, categorize and sub-categorize, sometimes what makes people connect cannot be put into a general data-entry system. The criteria cannot simply be computed, allowing us to "Accept" or "Decline" people who may or may not play a role in our lives. Experience is everything, and the guy sitting next to you in the coffee shop, tossing back his red-eye and skimming through the "Times" could be a potential partner. I am learning the value of opening up oneself to the possibility of providence, and while my match.com account shall certainly remain active, I'm ready to give face-to-face fate a fair shake.
Friday, December 18, 2009
An AGE old debate...
Since when was a gal in her mid-twenties considered an old maid? Washed-up, used goods, retired from the dating pool. Let the 18-year-olds in teetering on sky-high stilettos, sporting crotch-bearing minis have the fun. Once a lady has reached the quarter century mark, apparently it is time to invest in cat-resistant couches, as these are the only companions one is likely to entertain...
Such are the sentiments I was bombarded with as I settled in for some vino bianco at last night's ladies gathering. Apparently, my friend's are feeling old. My gorgeous, successful, talented, strong-willed seemingly independent gal pals feel OLD. Mystified, I settle in to listen to the barrage of reasons as to why this feeling is so strong, so soon. Jill*, a 28-year-old buyer for a fashion house, claims she has found the love of her life, lost him, and now simply senses impending hopelessness. Which is why she is entertaining the thought of getting serious with a 39 year-old-man with whom she has experienced brief, somewhat passionate dalliances in the past.
"But do you like him?" is the foremost question on my mind.
"Well, he's successful... mature. Has a steady career."
"Do you like him?"
"He's been discussing having children."
"Um, isn't that skipping over a few steps? Say, for instance, dating? Falling in lust/like/love? Sharing life experiences other than late night chats about child-bearing possibilities?"
Call me confused, but for some odd reason it was my belief that we as women, as a culture really, have moved beyond the "50's House Wife" syndrome. I heard somewhere once about a little thing called feminism. Women's Liberation, burning of the bras, and other such hoo-ha. The freedom to take a successful career, a fabulous lifestyle, kick-ass friends and killer opportunities, and simply marinate in the bliss such achievements offer. Since when was it decided that only those with with a numeral "1" at the front of their age get to enjoy such pleasure? (And yes, your Great Aunt Ruth at 101 qualifies... because by this point one simply cannot afford to care!)
I am 20... something... and fabulous. I do acknowledge that there are moments when I desire a cohort in all of life's endeavors. When I wish for the marital bliss that my sister has attained, the cozy comfort of connubial care my parents reside in, the hazy-eyed gaze of an elderly couple as the hold hands near the Hudson and soak up the simple view. (Granted, that gaze could be hazy do to the fact that the image in sight is smog-embraced New Jersey.) However, one must then note that my sister now has to confer with hubby pre-furniture purchases. My parents are constantly juggling four dogs, four children, and many a daily abode-related catastrophe. And that old couple probably just met on those park benches, simply not remembering why their fingers are intertwined. These are moments which, for the time time being, I can live without. My day is my own, and if I choose to spend four hours at Starbucks downing mochas and writing a ridiculous blog which no one will probably read, I can find comfort in the fact that permission for such acts was required by not a single soul.
So to all you helpless feeling old bitties out there on the verge of purchasing a kitty-crate, put down the Am-Ex. Stop hunting the early bird special joints for a man who will "suffice". We are young, we are dead sexy, and damn it, you might just have to hear me roar.
(I would rush off to burn my bra in an act of defiance. But as single and fabulous as I may be, the puppies still need support.)
Such are the sentiments I was bombarded with as I settled in for some vino bianco at last night's ladies gathering. Apparently, my friend's are feeling old. My gorgeous, successful, talented, strong-willed seemingly independent gal pals feel OLD. Mystified, I settle in to listen to the barrage of reasons as to why this feeling is so strong, so soon. Jill*, a 28-year-old buyer for a fashion house, claims she has found the love of her life, lost him, and now simply senses impending hopelessness. Which is why she is entertaining the thought of getting serious with a 39 year-old-man with whom she has experienced brief, somewhat passionate dalliances in the past.
"But do you like him?" is the foremost question on my mind.
"Well, he's successful... mature. Has a steady career."
"Do you like him?"
"He's been discussing having children."
"Um, isn't that skipping over a few steps? Say, for instance, dating? Falling in lust/like/love? Sharing life experiences other than late night chats about child-bearing possibilities?"
Call me confused, but for some odd reason it was my belief that we as women, as a culture really, have moved beyond the "50's House Wife" syndrome. I heard somewhere once about a little thing called feminism. Women's Liberation, burning of the bras, and other such hoo-ha. The freedom to take a successful career, a fabulous lifestyle, kick-ass friends and killer opportunities, and simply marinate in the bliss such achievements offer. Since when was it decided that only those with with a numeral "1" at the front of their age get to enjoy such pleasure? (And yes, your Great Aunt Ruth at 101 qualifies... because by this point one simply cannot afford to care!)
I am 20... something... and fabulous. I do acknowledge that there are moments when I desire a cohort in all of life's endeavors. When I wish for the marital bliss that my sister has attained, the cozy comfort of connubial care my parents reside in, the hazy-eyed gaze of an elderly couple as the hold hands near the Hudson and soak up the simple view. (Granted, that gaze could be hazy do to the fact that the image in sight is smog-embraced New Jersey.) However, one must then note that my sister now has to confer with hubby pre-furniture purchases. My parents are constantly juggling four dogs, four children, and many a daily abode-related catastrophe. And that old couple probably just met on those park benches, simply not remembering why their fingers are intertwined. These are moments which, for the time time being, I can live without. My day is my own, and if I choose to spend four hours at Starbucks downing mochas and writing a ridiculous blog which no one will probably read, I can find comfort in the fact that permission for such acts was required by not a single soul.
So to all you helpless feeling old bitties out there on the verge of purchasing a kitty-crate, put down the Am-Ex. Stop hunting the early bird special joints for a man who will "suffice". We are young, we are dead sexy, and damn it, you might just have to hear me roar.
(I would rush off to burn my bra in an act of defiance. But as single and fabulous as I may be, the puppies still need support.)
Dating Diaries: How the Vestal Virgin of The Ruby Princess Got Her Groove Back
(created November 27, 2009)
It is officially on: Date-a-palooza 2009. The time when a shy California girl recently venturing forth into the Big Apple puts herself on the line in an attempt to find love. Or like? Mutual friendship? If nothing else, a free meal and glass of wine will suffice. Yes, that’s right, I am officially on the market, single and minglin’ in the city. I’m not exactly sure what I expect will come of the myriad of males I have set to parade before mine eyes. All I am certain of is I’m curious to ascertain what masculine species lie outside of my general realm of men: namely, performers. Time to give show boys a rest, for their song and dance schtick gets real old REAL fast. What with the whole unemployed situation, I truly have nothing but time to explore what this island of a city has to offer. Who knows? I might even branch out as far as a Brooklyn Boy. So bring it on, investment bankers! Firemen, I know you are out there (I have seen the calendars). And musicians? Well, we’ll take those on a trial basis.
And so it begins....
Date #1- “Nervous” does not even begin to encompass the sensation I experience as I timidly crawl down 8th Avenue towards my first rendezvous. Petrified? Exhilarated? Ridiculous for even undergoing such an encounter? One thing is certain: I must not arrive on time. Must be fashionably late. Must seem unfazed, disinterested, aloof, acting as though this completely pre-meditated meeting is purely an act of fate. Arrive at the corner of Bank Street, with full knowledge that once I round the bend, our meet-up location will be within view. 9:56.... four minutes... step into Duane Reade. Fake complete fascination with a line of lip glosses as I count down seconds. 10:01... :02...:05. Receive text from Luke*, saying he is at the bar in a tan sweater. Tan Sweater? What kind of sweater? Cable Knit Casual? Mr. Rogers cardigan type? I look down at my beige one shouldered dress, shake the elegant earrings dangling from my lobes, and am all too certain that I have over-dressed. So much for playing it cool. Emerge from Duane Reade with a sense of impending doom, my walk to the guillotine swiftly becoming a quick sprint.
At last, tan sweater in sight, his gaze glances upon me, we slowly sidle up to each other, both in a bit of shock that this semi-blind date is actually occurring. Now what?
“Luke?” I venture. Identity confirmed, it is now time for the awkward “Do we shake hands/hug?” moment, so of course we create a completely unnatural combination of the two. The bar seems a bit busy, and he suggests we relocate a couple of blocks uptown to a more relaxed pub he frequents. I nod, in shock that pictures do not do this fellow justice. Jaw line to die for, striking eyes, and a smile which melts my already racing heart. If nothing else, the next few hours shall be pure eye candy for my as-of-late starving peepers.
Seated in the back corner, the next potentially date threatening encounter occurs- ordering. Considering myself a bit of a wine guru after my Mediterranean romps, I think this shall be a breeze. Swiftly, I decide upon a glass of the Chianti. He chooses Malbec... which immediately sounds much more delicious than my beverage of choice. Not wanting to appear uncertain however, I stick with my guns, spending the evening eyeing the luscious red vino of which he oh-so-handsomely imbibes.
Game time: let the conversation begin. I inherently babble like a maniac, as is my tendency whenever the nerves kick in. Hand gestures, anecdotes from my childhood, jokes which are naturally much more comical in my head. Why is he so beautiful? Why am I such a dork? Why has he chosen a pub with paper tablecloths and crayons with which to draw whilst we chat? This is lethal for Melody, who proceeds to draw a fuzzy creature learnt during her one month “I shall be an artist” phase. The creature’s name: Wooly Woo. Success in execution of drawing: minimal. Result: Luke surely thinks I am a nut-house escapee with a penchant for sparkly earrings and poorly sketched cartoon characters.
Despite my spastic demeanor, the evening flies by with good conversation, a mutual interest in travel and a shared love for the television show “Mad Men”. He might join the FBI. I might die, I love him so much. Alas, around 1 AM, it is decided the night must come to a close. Unlike me, he actually has a day job, and the whole “rest” thing is required. We stroll up 8th Avenue, continuing to chat and not really certain how to wrap up the evening. A block away from my apartment, the separation is made. He is going home for the holiday weekend, but states that he would love to get together again once he returns. Hugs issued, cheek kisses shyly put into place. We part, and I float up the flights of stairs to apartment 5R, not entirely sure what just occurred. What is certain: my appetite for man candy has been wetted, and Mr. Tan Sweater can be sincerely thanked for that.
On to the next contestant....
Date #2: So exhausted. Have already had to reschedule once as my silly odd jobs keep me working at ridiculous hours. The good news? He is completely flexible with the changes, and so it is late on pre-Thanksgiving day eve we meet. I shall call him Be-Bop, for he is a jazz lover with a penchant for the classics, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis among them. The date location is perfection: an underground speak-easy, no signage, no flashing lights, only given away by the small crowd gathered near the unmarked door awaiting entry. (I will not lie, in my attempt to find this meeting point, I walked straight past it three times.) Be-Bop is immediately recognizable from his photo, so no introduction necessary. This time, I go straight in for the hug, avoiding the foibles of Date #1. He seems taken aback, so now I know it’s simply a no win situation. After what seemed like an hour of small talk outside, we are finally admitted in the inner sanctum. (Thank you, puking stiletto girl for vacating the lounge and creating room for our persons. We both make a vow that under NO circumstances shall we try whatever beverage in which she had been indulging.)
After descending the staircase to a dimly lit underworld, we wait once more for a table, situating ourselves at an uncomfortably crowded bar in order to order delicious prohibition cocktails from stellar bartenders. Allowing the mixologists to decided upon the beverages, we try our two differing drinks, each taking a sip of the other’s. Fortunately, he prefers the cucumber concoction, which to me tastes like a face mask.
Let the small talk begin! He is in advertising, but is also an avid musician on the side, guitar being his specialty. I mention how I have always wanted to learn, and am planning on getting serious once my parents bring a guitar out to NY. He mentions he might know a good teacher. Of course, I am a bit slow on the uptake and do not realize this is a reference to himself. He is flirting, and I am missing every not-so-subtle line he throws my way. It turns out I am more interested in the jazz combo whose music swirls around my eager ears than the stories he is sharing. Methinks I am bad at this dating situation.
“Focus, Melody, focus!” is my mantra. We chat about everything round the sun, from traveling the wine country to puppetry. Which is something I randomly know quite a lot about, and therefore proceed to spew several rambling stories about Christian Children’s puppet shows. He loves the Muppets. I, however, prefer Disney Princesses. I don’t know if this can possibly work.
After finally being seated, we take drink round number two, this time being served some ginger concoction which makes both of us want to gag. Ever the gentleman, he insists upon offering me the sweeter drink while he suffers through ginger-overload. In a joint effort, both drinks are somehow tossed back, and I realize that we have managed to chat for three hours. Not too shabby, though I can’t really say if I foresee any sparks a-flyin’.
Check paid, these two jazz babies emerge from the underbelly of the bar into a crisp night sky. Hugs only are exchanged, with a promise of more Manhattan endeavors. I’m thinking Be-Bop may not be my dreamweaver, but it nothing else, I have certainly found a fellow music aficionado.
Time for a Thanksgiving Holiday break. Next up: Sunday Tapas in Chelsea.
Game on, Manhattan men, game on...
* Name has been changed
It is officially on: Date-a-palooza 2009. The time when a shy California girl recently venturing forth into the Big Apple puts herself on the line in an attempt to find love. Or like? Mutual friendship? If nothing else, a free meal and glass of wine will suffice. Yes, that’s right, I am officially on the market, single and minglin’ in the city. I’m not exactly sure what I expect will come of the myriad of males I have set to parade before mine eyes. All I am certain of is I’m curious to ascertain what masculine species lie outside of my general realm of men: namely, performers. Time to give show boys a rest, for their song and dance schtick gets real old REAL fast. What with the whole unemployed situation, I truly have nothing but time to explore what this island of a city has to offer. Who knows? I might even branch out as far as a Brooklyn Boy. So bring it on, investment bankers! Firemen, I know you are out there (I have seen the calendars). And musicians? Well, we’ll take those on a trial basis.
And so it begins....
Date #1- “Nervous” does not even begin to encompass the sensation I experience as I timidly crawl down 8th Avenue towards my first rendezvous. Petrified? Exhilarated? Ridiculous for even undergoing such an encounter? One thing is certain: I must not arrive on time. Must be fashionably late. Must seem unfazed, disinterested, aloof, acting as though this completely pre-meditated meeting is purely an act of fate. Arrive at the corner of Bank Street, with full knowledge that once I round the bend, our meet-up location will be within view. 9:56.... four minutes... step into Duane Reade. Fake complete fascination with a line of lip glosses as I count down seconds. 10:01... :02...:05. Receive text from Luke*, saying he is at the bar in a tan sweater. Tan Sweater? What kind of sweater? Cable Knit Casual? Mr. Rogers cardigan type? I look down at my beige one shouldered dress, shake the elegant earrings dangling from my lobes, and am all too certain that I have over-dressed. So much for playing it cool. Emerge from Duane Reade with a sense of impending doom, my walk to the guillotine swiftly becoming a quick sprint.
At last, tan sweater in sight, his gaze glances upon me, we slowly sidle up to each other, both in a bit of shock that this semi-blind date is actually occurring. Now what?
“Luke?” I venture. Identity confirmed, it is now time for the awkward “Do we shake hands/hug?” moment, so of course we create a completely unnatural combination of the two. The bar seems a bit busy, and he suggests we relocate a couple of blocks uptown to a more relaxed pub he frequents. I nod, in shock that pictures do not do this fellow justice. Jaw line to die for, striking eyes, and a smile which melts my already racing heart. If nothing else, the next few hours shall be pure eye candy for my as-of-late starving peepers.
Seated in the back corner, the next potentially date threatening encounter occurs- ordering. Considering myself a bit of a wine guru after my Mediterranean romps, I think this shall be a breeze. Swiftly, I decide upon a glass of the Chianti. He chooses Malbec... which immediately sounds much more delicious than my beverage of choice. Not wanting to appear uncertain however, I stick with my guns, spending the evening eyeing the luscious red vino of which he oh-so-handsomely imbibes.
Game time: let the conversation begin. I inherently babble like a maniac, as is my tendency whenever the nerves kick in. Hand gestures, anecdotes from my childhood, jokes which are naturally much more comical in my head. Why is he so beautiful? Why am I such a dork? Why has he chosen a pub with paper tablecloths and crayons with which to draw whilst we chat? This is lethal for Melody, who proceeds to draw a fuzzy creature learnt during her one month “I shall be an artist” phase. The creature’s name: Wooly Woo. Success in execution of drawing: minimal. Result: Luke surely thinks I am a nut-house escapee with a penchant for sparkly earrings and poorly sketched cartoon characters.
Despite my spastic demeanor, the evening flies by with good conversation, a mutual interest in travel and a shared love for the television show “Mad Men”. He might join the FBI. I might die, I love him so much. Alas, around 1 AM, it is decided the night must come to a close. Unlike me, he actually has a day job, and the whole “rest” thing is required. We stroll up 8th Avenue, continuing to chat and not really certain how to wrap up the evening. A block away from my apartment, the separation is made. He is going home for the holiday weekend, but states that he would love to get together again once he returns. Hugs issued, cheek kisses shyly put into place. We part, and I float up the flights of stairs to apartment 5R, not entirely sure what just occurred. What is certain: my appetite for man candy has been wetted, and Mr. Tan Sweater can be sincerely thanked for that.
On to the next contestant....
Date #2: So exhausted. Have already had to reschedule once as my silly odd jobs keep me working at ridiculous hours. The good news? He is completely flexible with the changes, and so it is late on pre-Thanksgiving day eve we meet. I shall call him Be-Bop, for he is a jazz lover with a penchant for the classics, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis among them. The date location is perfection: an underground speak-easy, no signage, no flashing lights, only given away by the small crowd gathered near the unmarked door awaiting entry. (I will not lie, in my attempt to find this meeting point, I walked straight past it three times.) Be-Bop is immediately recognizable from his photo, so no introduction necessary. This time, I go straight in for the hug, avoiding the foibles of Date #1. He seems taken aback, so now I know it’s simply a no win situation. After what seemed like an hour of small talk outside, we are finally admitted in the inner sanctum. (Thank you, puking stiletto girl for vacating the lounge and creating room for our persons. We both make a vow that under NO circumstances shall we try whatever beverage in which she had been indulging.)
After descending the staircase to a dimly lit underworld, we wait once more for a table, situating ourselves at an uncomfortably crowded bar in order to order delicious prohibition cocktails from stellar bartenders. Allowing the mixologists to decided upon the beverages, we try our two differing drinks, each taking a sip of the other’s. Fortunately, he prefers the cucumber concoction, which to me tastes like a face mask.
Let the small talk begin! He is in advertising, but is also an avid musician on the side, guitar being his specialty. I mention how I have always wanted to learn, and am planning on getting serious once my parents bring a guitar out to NY. He mentions he might know a good teacher. Of course, I am a bit slow on the uptake and do not realize this is a reference to himself. He is flirting, and I am missing every not-so-subtle line he throws my way. It turns out I am more interested in the jazz combo whose music swirls around my eager ears than the stories he is sharing. Methinks I am bad at this dating situation.
“Focus, Melody, focus!” is my mantra. We chat about everything round the sun, from traveling the wine country to puppetry. Which is something I randomly know quite a lot about, and therefore proceed to spew several rambling stories about Christian Children’s puppet shows. He loves the Muppets. I, however, prefer Disney Princesses. I don’t know if this can possibly work.
After finally being seated, we take drink round number two, this time being served some ginger concoction which makes both of us want to gag. Ever the gentleman, he insists upon offering me the sweeter drink while he suffers through ginger-overload. In a joint effort, both drinks are somehow tossed back, and I realize that we have managed to chat for three hours. Not too shabby, though I can’t really say if I foresee any sparks a-flyin’.
Check paid, these two jazz babies emerge from the underbelly of the bar into a crisp night sky. Hugs only are exchanged, with a promise of more Manhattan endeavors. I’m thinking Be-Bop may not be my dreamweaver, but it nothing else, I have certainly found a fellow music aficionado.
Time for a Thanksgiving Holiday break. Next up: Sunday Tapas in Chelsea.
Game on, Manhattan men, game on...
* Name has been changed
Memoirs of Miss Match (.com, that is...)
Remember the good ol’ days of notepassing? I’m talking junior high, box checking (“Yes, I like you”, “No, you have cooties”, “Maybe, depends on if you’ll meet me under the bleachers”...) lined slips of paper passed in classrooms cross-country. Simplistic. No games, no nonsense, an “ask and ye shall receive” type of mentality that has since been replaced by text-message ambiguity, e-mails painted in shades of gray, and voice messages left to be re-played endlessly to our (gradually less sympathetic) gal pals. It is in this new-found world of technological uncertainty that I have joined the brigades of match.com hopefuls. I am simply tired of bar scenes, screaming conversations in which neither party actually hears the others’ dialogue, a meat market which either leads to a) a quick number exchange, b) a messy, unfulfilling hook-up, or most likely, c) me at home, on couch, in PJs, glass of Malbec in one hand and TV remote in the other. Trust me, it’s the sanity saving route.
In a city where physical contact is an actual nuisance, where being grazed by someone’s arm on the subway leads to an inner (and sometimes outer) temper tantrum, I am fascinated by the number of Manhattanites truly searching for connection. We avoid everyone’s eye contact while hustling down busy sidewalks, but pray for a moment when someone’s gaze will latch onto ours and somehow souls will unite. Tis a city of hopeless romantics trapped in grizzly cynics’ clothing. No one will admit this intense yearning, and therefore we turn the marvels of modern technology to help assist us in an act that was once so natural, so a part of our nature: dating. Courtship, in another day. Picking a spouse, marking your territory, mating... you get the idea. Sights like match.com and eharmony are ideal for the straight-dating sect, and if one is of the same sex variety, web site Connexion will always do. Statistics are entered, first one’s own, then the traits desired from an ideal mate. Wants kids? “Maybe”. “Definitely”. “Hell No!”. Athletic? Music Lover? Billionaire? This is the spot to bare all, or as much as can be revealed in simple, one word descriptives marked on a checklist. Then all criteria is tossed into the magical match machine, something I envision to be a candy colored contraption straight out of Willy Wonka’s imagination (if Mr. Wonka dealt in creating awkward blind dates rather then delicious chocolatey goodness). Out pop the leading contenders, in the form of a “Top 5” on match.com’s site. Descriptions, basic stats, and the parade of photos are revealed. (Guy with shirt on, guy with shirt off, guy with pals doing keg stands or some standard sort of macho activity, and the inevitable cell-phone-camera-in-bathroom-mirror pic). I find myself drawn to men of the simple variety, two or three snapshots max, and if there is a puppy involved at any point, I’m sold. Bonus points for those who don’t feel the need to to present photos with ex-girlfriends having been decapitated, a “Your Face Here” caption present where some poor girl’s head once resided.
So far, I would say the success rate of match is minimal. Oftentimes, my “Daily 5” contains a surly looking gentleman who appears to need therapy more than a lady love, and many a time, gents from Jersey appear in the queue. I’m sorry, but when you are a Manhattan girl, location is everything. I don’t care if he is Jake Gyllenhaal’s doppelganger, if I have to set foot on NJ Transit, it simply is not meant to be. Brooklyn’s as far as this particular city gal can commute! I did have a lovely gentleman invite me countless times to escort him to an Alicia Keys concert. However, he was 50 years old, and I sense he might have more fun listening to old records of Barry Manilow with my dad than screaming along with legions of hip-hopper, teeny boppers. The actual number of in person meet-ups I have allowed are minimal. Three men as of yet, two of them being complete disasters. One socially challenged, the other a supremely pompous slimeball, I thank my lucky stars man numero tres is completely kind natured, generous, and heart-achingly handsome. Funnily enough, he was the very first match in my top 5 contenders on day number one of Project Match. Five dates with this fella and counting... We have a rendez-vous this evening, and I suppose the fact that I am mentally spending the day raiding my closet in search of the perfect Date Six dress is a good sign.
I can’t claim to believe in the power of the magical match machine. Who knows if it is fate, a practical pairing, or just fool’s luck that determines whether these semi-blind dates create life-long partnerships? I couldn’t offer you an exact statistic in regards to the dating site success rate, but all I can say is that, for the price of a few lattes at Starbucks, I have collected a myriad of tales that will keep me company on those lonely nights with my vino and my TiVo. Gone are the days of note-passing, pig-tail pulling, and meet-ups in the multi-purpose room supply closet (I swear, that wasn’t me!) We have evolved into beings of the computer age, and for a mere monthly fee, I can now wink at, Instant Message, and virtually hand pick my future mate, all in the comfort of my over-sized sweats. If that means no more slipping into slinky sequined minis and engaging in night-club screaming matches as I search for Mr. Right Now, call me a Match.com convert!
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