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Tuesday, August 30, 2005
~
The Butterfly Season:
Have I ever told you, dear readers, how I hate the phone? I mean, I utterly loathe talking on the phone. Email; good. Text messaging; good. IM’s; good. Face to face; ideal. Phone; the worst ever. I hate it. I can’t sit there and hold a phone to my ear for hours, can’t do it. There is no one in the world I can talk to on the phone for over 5 minutes without wondering why they hate me enough to keep talking. The phone, to me, is torturous.
When I was in high school it was glued to my ear. Glued! If my house were on fire and I were on the phone, I’d probably stay on it and just grab things and go. Why bother getting off the phone with my best friend (who by the way, lived a staggering 5 houses away) when the house was likely to burn to the ground either way?
In college, my phone usage was epic as well. I’d stay on the phone for hours. Hell, I was the girl who would fall asleep on the phone with a boy only to wake up the next morning and keep going. Ma Bell was so hot for me then… you have no idea. Cut to my post collegiate years and the phone is like a terrorist device. I groan when it rings, I rarely answer it (my friends will sign sworn affidavits, it’s true, just ask).
But have I told you that for the past three weeks, the boy from Boston and I have been talking an average of two and half hours a night? Me; the phonehater. On the phone for hours every damn night?!? It’s so high school I can barely get my mind around my own behavior. And there’s nary a lull in the conversation. It’s a never-ending; “oh my god! Me too!”-fest. We’ve joked that should we randomly attract the attention of the FBI and have them listening in, we’d know in a second because of the sounds of vomiting that we’d hear in the distance. But that’s not even the worst of it, you should see the emails. My lord… the emails. There are quite easily hundreds of emails between us. I have no clue how he’s getting any work done at all. I know that I’m not doing any at all so problem solved there.
So you can imagine my surprise when on Sunday night he said he was going for a run but would call me after Entourage… and he didn’t. And no “sorry I fell asleep” text on Monday morning either. And I knew he was spending Monday on the golf course with his dad, brother and two nephews so I wasn’t expecting a daytime email either. But as the day wore on the high school girl that lives in my head started replaying the weekend.
Did I miss something? Maybe I should have paid for breakfast Sunday morning? (No Ari, he would not have liked you more if you’d saved him $25.00). Maybe I said something stupid in my sleep? I tend to talk in my sleep but he’d been forewarned and from what I understand, I’m usually fairly unintelligible anyway. So I spent yesterday feeling sickly, like a butterfly infestation was taking over my stomach. I was antsy all day thinking how bummed I was that this guy , actually I think at 41 he’s a man, didn’t have as much fun as I did over the weekend. That this man that I definitely like, might not like me back.
And as the day wore on I only got worse. And the butterflies-in-my-belly posse grew exponentially. So much so, that the laziest girl in the world, in an effort to not be near a silent phone, finally got home from work, changed into Adidas shorts, a t-shirt, sweat socks and my New Balances. When I came back out of my room my brother was sitting there giving me looks normally reserved for urine soaked individuals standing by the bus stop yelling at squirrels to lend them a fiver.
“Where are you going? Those look like gym clothes.” He was rightfully skeptical. Like I said before, I am the laziest girl in the world. I told my brother I was insanely twitchy. He asked why. So I told him. His response was to stand up and yell at me;
“What the FUCK is WRONG with you girls?!”
Uhm (?!?!)… SO not the brotherly response I was aiming for.
“Didn’t you just spend two days with the guy?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“Didn’t he say he had fun with you?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“And he talked about being in New York with you soon?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“So what the hell is the matter with you girls?!?! He said he liked you, told you he had fun and wants to see you again. Jesus… girls are crazy!! You know Ari, sometimes a guy just has to chill. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Uh… hmm…” I had no real answer for that, “I’m going out. Gotta be away from the silent phone. I’m taking Dog, we’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Yeah, you girls are nuts.”
So Dog and I went for a mile and something jogwalk. I tried to jog, he tried to sniff everything in sight. I slowed it down to a very fastpaced walk. 45 sweaty minutes later I was back home and possessing a dog who hates me. Then Fish called. She was at the Duane Reade around the corner from me. So, instead of calling her back I just went over there. And she embraced my twitchiness and escorted it and me to the park.
We conjured up reasons why he didn’t call (yet). No matter what was suggested I told Fish I could hear Greg Behrendt yelling at me.
“He’s just not that into you!!!!”
Fish swore I was being silly. After our walk I went home, showered and headed over to Karol’s for a friendly game of “take all of Dawn Summer’s money”. If you’ve never played before, I recommend it, it’s highly enjoyable.
And sure enough at 10pm he called. And we talked for a bit. And he said he’d been at his parent’s house earlier for dinner.
“And how are mom and dad?” I asked.
“Great! They were dying to know how my weekend was.”
“Oh? And did you tell them it was just hell? That I was so mean to you?” I laughed (nervously).
“What!?! You’re re-tah-ded. I told them it was great! You were wicked cool and I had a blast. Told ‘em you were great. Mean to me…” he laughed, “ you couldn’t be if you tried.”
And right now, he’s completely right.
2:36 PM
Monday, August 29, 2005
~
Only Time Will Tell:
There are so many reasons why, for me, being in my 30’s is The Greatest Thing Ever. When you’re younger your relatives and such say the gayest things – my favorite of which was always something along the lines of;
just wait, you’ll find your time and you’ll come into your own.
What the hell?? My own… I never knew what that meant but for the past two to three years I think I’ve slowly been figuring it out. It means being okay with myself. It means not sweating over a guy not liking me due to a bit of extra poundage. It means not feeling like I have to adopt a boy’s hobbies to make him like me. It means just being me and really truly believing that it’s ok and that in the long run; I will so be ok. Like I told Karol a few weeks back while barreling down the FDR in a cab; “I could lose 20 pounds and that would definitely make me more attractive to guys. But then again, I could also dye my hair and get colored contacts, I could go tanning… I could never ever stop. Nope, whoever he is will have to like me as I am”
And if I am to be believed, then “my own” also means making random decisions that perhaps no one else would think were sane but that I feel oddly and almost totally) at ease with. And if you can believe it, I'm incredibly embarrassed to admit it but; I have never been away with a guy before. Never. I'm like a 14 year old sometimes.
And so…
I arose at the ungodly hour of 8:30am this Saturday. I showered, dressed, threw my necessities into an overnight bag and cabbed it down to the Port Authority. As I was headed down Fifth Avenue my cell phone rang.
“Hey, it’s me. You ok?” He asked.
“Yeah, a little nervous, but I’m not sickly yet. I’m not going to eat just in case.”
“You’re re-tah-ded. This is going to be great. You’ll see, you have nothing, Ari, nothing to worry about. We’ll have fun, I promise.”
I laugh; “that’s what any serial killer would say… you’re so unoriginal.”
“Oh gha-d.”
I’m smiling now. Who knew that a Boston accent was so damn hot?! I’m sunk.
“Call me from the road” he says “let me know when you’re neah.”
“I will.”
I’m at the fucking Port Authority way too damn early. I smoke my last cigarette outside and I text Joe.
OMG – I’m abt. 2 get on the bus. Am I really doing this??!?! I puffed and waited, the knot in my stomach rapidly expanding. My cell vibrated back:
Yes. Will b great. Call me as soon as u get there. Luv u.
My time was up – I had to go get my ticket. I stopped at Duane Reade for water and Wheat Thins, the nervous, rendezvousing, traveler’s snack of choice. I go to the Greyhound window to get my ticket. There’s a backpack sitting by itself on the floor. There is no one remotely near it. Uch… I don’t have time to report suspicious bags. I have a bus and a boy to catch!!
I look around for a second or two hoping I can catch a cop’s eye. There is not a single cop anywhere. Not one. At the very least, I’m waaay less nervous about the pot in my bag but still… there ought to be a cop or two floating around. I leave the Greyhound area, ask for a cop information desk, the lady behind plexiglass tells me to go outside and find a cop by the door. Yep, neither a woman nor man-in-blue to found anywhere. Back inside I finally see a woman cop – unfortunately she’s very busy looking at the shoes in the Strawberry window. Yes, you read it right. The safety of all who traversed through the Port Authority Saturday was at risk because of the alluring and enticing windows of fucking low-rent Strawberry’s. I tell her about the bag, she asks me to point it out and I do. She starts to follow me and when I turn around she’s gone. You. Gotta. Be. Kidding. Me. I give up and hightail it to my terminal and pray to god that bag doesn’t blow.
In case none of you are aware, the bus ride from NYC to deep CT takes about 4 hours. 4 hours. Any idea how anxiety inducing 4 hours can be when you’re nervous enough to begin with? (We were staying in CT because it was the ideal halfway point.) I read the NY Post, flipped through US Weekly, listened to my ipod and just stared out the window as the bus made it’s way through the Bronx, Westchester, Danbury, Fairfield… the closer we got the more I started to relax though. At one point I even managed to fall asleep for an hour or so. I'm fairly certain that was due to the half valium that Fish sagely recommended I ingest.
Then I was there.
My cell phone rang again.
“Hey, I see a bus just pulled in, any chance you’re on it?”
“yeah…” I was almost too nervous to talk, “I’m here. Where are you??”
“I see you! I’m coming out.”
And before I knew it, I was being enveloped by a really cute blond guy with big strong arms. He pulled back a moment later and kissed me. “Hi” he said, “I’m so glad you came”. And then he kissed me. Again.
And the weekend was fantastic. I was silly to be even remotely nervous. We had so much to talk about. Entourage, his beloved Red Sox vs. my beloved Yankees, some of the tacky tourists the hotel proffered up as though solely for our viewing entertainment. He held my hand the entire time. The cutest parts were when we’d be walking through the hotel and I’d look down and see his open hand reaching back for mine. We watched a Red Sox game, we went out for dinner, walked around holding hands and being total nerdlets. The hottest parts were when were in the hotel room and I saw him without a shirt on, damn . The dorkiest parts were when we were in his SUV and his stereo started up immediately playing the cheesiest country song ever. And he revealed that it wasn’t the stereo – it was his cd. Ha!!! He even spoke to Joe on the phone at one point. We slept together, his arms around me all night but we didn’t sleep together. I heard that Boston accent, which I’ve developed the most traitorous of crushes on, say the sweetest things in my ear. And despite his assurances that the only way I’d get any Yankees paraphernalia on him was to kill him and shroud his body in it, he did leave with a Yankees cap which (shock) he even picked out for himself. Though I have no illusions and I realize that it was just to be cute for me and now that I’m back in NYC and he is back in Boston that hat has quite likely already been the centerpiece of a raging bonfire. Anyone in Boston see smoke and hear chants of “Yankees Suck” last night? Just asking…
In hindsight, I was silly to worry. The weekend was great and deep down I knew I would be, it was even better than expected. I definitely dug this guy. He’ll be in NYC in a little less than three weeks. When we were checking out yesterday and waiting for the valet to bring the car around, he told me his itinerary. He was holding my hand, kissing my forehead and asking how far I was from all the places he has to be while here. I know I’m crush-stupid. I rarely catch on, I never know how to read the opposite sex. All I know is dammit readers, I like this guy. A lot. So much so that I'm sitting at work today all nauseous and distracted. I’m hoping it’s mutual but like I said, I can never tell. Time will though. I’m so curious as to what will happen by then. Will I be incredibly looking forward to seeing him… or will all this seems like a thousand years ago?
Only time will tell...
1:04 PM
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
~
Eyes Wide Shut:
I had my weekly date with Joe yesterday and by the time he and I were done talking we were both sick to our stomachs. We talked each other into doing something that could be fantastic. Or not at all fantastic. Neither of us will know for sure for another few days what the outcome will be. Go read Joe's take on this too.
We’ve both decided to do something spontaneous and definitely out of character. The rewards could be great. And if it doesn’t pan out what we realized is this:
Being young, single and as unencumbered as a person can be almost obligates you to take chances and to, on occasion, leap without looking. Worst case scenario? Joe and I are about to have a rather awkward 48 hours. That’s really the worst…. And that’s SO not bad at all. We have another 363 days to feel as comfortable and be as safety conscious as we want. Best case scenario? Well, we get to trade in our tortoise glasses for rose colored and we learn that risks are worthy of being… uhm… risked ;)
4:30 PM
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
~ Breathe Me*:After watching the Six feet Under finale on Sunday night... and then again last night, I have been weepy, moody and all Claire-ish (yes, just like Karol). Part of the Six Feet Under allure was the way they paired the music with the scene. There was never a song that didn't work, a song that didn't float over to you while you stood at the SFU cliff and then gently shove you right the fuck over it. The Arcade Fire song " Cold Wind" at the end of the episode the week earlier was yet another amazing example. And that being said, I so CANNOT get this Sia song out of my head. I'm obssessed... * Breathe Meby: SiaHelp, I have done it again I have been here many times before Hurt myself again today And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame Be my friend Hold me, wrap me up Unfold me I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold meI am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
12:57 PM
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
~
The Walker:
This guy apparently walks quite a bit, does it well and has some great Walking-in-NYC-tips (uhm...threats). Read it, he's dead on, hilarious and possesses pictures of semi-naked celebs.
7:18 PM
Friday, August 12, 2005
~
Coming Around:
I don't know anything about falling in love. Nothing. At. All.
I know I have fallen out of it before into it - makes a bucket of sense doesn't it? Problem is, it's so damn easy to fall out before you fall in. Or, so I think. As soon as certain sentences are let out into the air, I can hear myself think; go Ari, go now RUN! This is not the guy for you. And a hundred more chances won't make him so.
Call your mother, sister or ex words like "cunt" or "whore" and I know right away. Drop a word like "nigger" when you aren't rapping along with Biggie (even then, we all know it's nigga) or, "fag" when we aren't in London and you aren't talking about a cigarette and I know. I just know.
I could be out with the cutest guy, having a great time and wondering just how well he uses his tongue and the second he fucks up. He fucks up. I'm done dating guys I know I don't want to keep. I'm done dating guys I don't want to introduce to my friends. I'm done dating the guys I just want to fuck (not done fucking them necessarily, just done dressing up and dinner-dating them. Pretense is for people with far more energy than me). I don't have it in me to change or educate any man.
I'm 33 dammit, I'm lazy and I want a somewhat Ready-Made-Man, if at 33+ you need that much changing or educating - you have problems I'll surely never help you solve. I can deal with a guy that needs to be reminded that there is in fact an entire breast back there, behind the nipple. And I won't lie, I love discovering just what's up with some of you guys and your nipples (some being fascinatingly more sensitive than others - who knew?). If a guy is jackhammering away at my clitoris, I don't mind showing him that my preferred speed is not quite that concrete friendly. C'mon, I'm not made of stone. I can adapt, I just don't want a blank canvas. I'm bringing a few skills to the table - my guy should too. And no, I don't think that's too much to ask.
But lately it had seemed that was in fact too much to ask. The guy who needed to be verbally abused before he could get it up. The one who hated (hated!!) dogs. The one who spent way too much of the date telling me how much he "likes a curvy girl". Yep, right back atcha kid, and for the record there's nothing that gets me wetter than a receding hairline or a small cock (I speak for all females on that, right? Jeez).
So I don't cease dating per se... but interest does wane. And I seek solace with my amazing group of girlfriends. They're so much more fun and far less maintenance anyway. And before you know it, the idea that I may one day be that eccentric childless Aunt who bears gifts from Mombasa, always brings the kids comic books and keeps maraschino cherries in the fridge for when they stay over seems... not so bad. When I see my friend Fran and her baby for lunch I breathe in the baby head smell and hope it carries me. I get inordinately excited for my autumn trip to SC when C has her baby and I get to stay at their house and play; if I had a family. And even better, I get to hand the baby back when it starts screaming as though I'd set it on fire.
But once in awhile you (uhm... I) get worn down. A guy from last year starts IMing again. You remember two highly enjoyable dates and after pushing him off for months his IMs just get cuter and cuter until you have to meet up with him for coffee, see if what was there last year exists this year. And a little bit it does. Though you're still not sure...
And then after yet another date you open up your cell phone and find out:
I had great time last night. Can we do it again soon? And you think; hmm... just maybe.
The next day you get: How's my girl. And the idea of propriety seems strangly like a turn on.
So you plan to do it yet again. And a few hours before you get: I'm excited. I have a good time when I'm with you.
And the guy who at first seemed little more than a frat boy gone Wall Street turns out to be an avid reader. Reading is huge to me and finding out that a guy doesn't read is like finding out someone hates ice cream (that's just not normal). Isn't remotely repulsed by my having voted for Bush. LOVES dogs. Has no current woman. Smokes pot. Doesn't smoke cigarettes yet has no aversion whatsoever. Is Jewish. Is in the country legally. Knows I'm sardonic, a little bit a bitch and likes it. Refers to me as "my girl" damn, it's almost cute.
Again, is it to be? Who knows? And I still don't care. My favorite part is just knowing that this late in the game I can still be surprised by people men. And not all my dating ventures will end in tears and/or disaster. And as Lisa can attest; that's often all the get-on-out-there-and-date-dammit encouragement a girl needs.
4:11 PM
Thursday, August 11, 2005
~
Remember When?
While watching the end of Scream just now with my brother...
Him: "this is a pretty decent Moby song. Man... remember when he made decent songs?"
Me: "you mean; instead of tea?"
2:31 AM
Friday, August 05, 2005
~
Time to Catch On:
Oh, You Stupid "Palestinians"*:
I should be more upset. I should be more PC in thinking. I should look at this and think that it is incredibly sad that things have come to this.
But I’m not. Arabs have been murdering Jews in cold blood for long enough. I happen to think a little terroristic karma is just what those lunatics needed. How does it feel to not be so sure about getting on the bus, huh? A little scary to know some crackpot may just show up and end your life at a moments notice, huh? Yeah – turnabout is fair play.
My only regret at the moment is that he didn’t kill more. Terrible, right? Oh well, I feel perfectly ok with it. "Palestinians", Al Queda, Hamas, Islamic Jihad… it isn’t like they are going to stop of their own volition anytime soon so maybe they need a little mortar in the ass as a wake up call.
I’m particularly amused by some of the things I read in the paper this morning too:
“We are afraid this is an organized act of discrimination and racism” said Azmi Bishara (Arab parlimentarian). Yeah, I bet you are. And as for the organized, discriminatory and racist aspects of it, well my friends, you teach us the lesson enough times, we’re bound to learn it.
“We are standing at the gates of Jerusalem. The retreat of the Israelis from Gaza and from Jennie is only the first step. We are approaching the gates of Jerusalem. We will not stop.” This was said by Ahmed Qureia, the Neverland "Palestinian" prime minister.
Uhm… still not happy with what you specifically asked for, are you? Filthy liar – you asked for Gaza and the West Bank. You got it. Think we’re letting you sully up our greatest link to history, our most iconic territory and the only iota of land we have left? Not fucking likely. I do recommend you try it though. My cousins are all in the army – I’m sure they’d love to show you how wrong you are. As for ever standing at the Western Wall, if I were you I’d go ahead and forget that pipedream. Not. Going. To. Happen.
And even more:
Some Arab members of government immediately criticized Sharon’s government for failing to protect Arab citizens.
My god. You people must be kidding me. Now you WANT our protection?? Aren’t we leaving because you hate having us there? Because we are “infidels”? Because you can protect your people so fucking well on your own?!?!? You can’t have it both ways. We can’t protect you and not be there. And as for the core argument on protecting "Palestinians"… I can’t imagine anything more useless. Why should one Jewish life – forget being expended – be INCONVENIENCED for a murderous, land filching, "Palestinian". They really are nuts.
Do I want this to become a frequent occurrence? Absolutely not. Am I sick and tired of these crack heads doing whatever the fuck they please then blaming it all on Israelis? Absolutely. Do I hope it instills a healthy fear of payback in Arabs?
Yes. I. do.
You keep killing non-Muslims and you won’t get into Israel, much less the entire state. You’ll get a grave. And I won’t shed one tear for you. Not even while I chop onions. The majority of the world is sick of your shit. You want to have a say in the civilized world?
Join it already.
*the term "Palestinians" is in quotes throughout this post for the simple reason that they are neither a people nor a region. Argue away - I ain't changing my mind.
*Update* Via Karol - the ever so spot on Jonah Goldberg proves once again why I find him to be (attractive and) utterly brilliant.
10:46 AM
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
~
Knowing the Difference:
So, Sunday night.
I had my first date in ages. A good looking fellow whose name I shall decently withhold. The plan; to meet for drinks at the Carlyle. I overshot the locale by a block and had to double back – oops. As I’m walking I pass the Surrey Hotel and I can see a small group of waiters hovering at an outdoor table. There’s a food cart on the street and it seems a bit high end despite the street-side eating aspect. I near the table and I have to sidestep a waiter. I look up to say ‘excuse me’ and holy shit who is sitting at the table with his wife and very young son?!?!?
Uhm… this is merely the celebrity sighting I have waited forever for. It used to be this one and JFK Jr. but I took care of that when he knocked me over and spilled a drink on me at a Dyvinyls concert circa 1990something – ever the gentleman he helped me up, bought me another and a round for my friends. But I digress, back to Sunday night and the family man eating street-side.
Robert DefuckingNiro.
I don’t want to hear a word, I don’t care how craggy, intimidating or old he sometimes looks. I love him. Love. And I didn’t give a shit what my date was like, after that. My night was already made.
But then I was at the Carlyle and though slightly late, my date was too. And despite a slightly questionable piece of jewelry he was very attractive and apologetic. And then charming and attentive. And then I was drunk and it barely mattered. That was followed by a nice slow walk. You might have recognized us. A disgustingly smiley, giggling twosome, walking up Fifth Avenue holding hands on a Sunday night. Exactly the sort of people that normally make me throw up in my own throat – especially on a Sunday evening. It was nice to be on the other side for a night. We walked in a big circle until we were at his car.
“Can I drive you home?”
The actual drive home didn’t take place for a little bit. And somehow the fifteen blocks took longer to traverse than a local 4 from Bowling Green. And it turns out Range Rovers are exceptionally conducive to kissing. More so than yellow Caprices with meters and Bangladeshis.
I fell asleep new-boy-buzzed, tipsy and slightly stubble scrapped about the face. About fucking time too. At 10:01am the next morning I had email. He had a great time. Am I free on Friday night?
All I know is I needed some fun. I needed a boy to kiss. (And I’ve always wanted my Robert DeNiro sighting.) I have no idea what’ll happen with this guy. I don’t care much either. It was just key that I have a fun night out – with a cute guy.
As for the kissing, well it’s definitely promising – but it certainly isn’t a promise.
11:55 PM
Monday, August 01, 2005
~
And to Think...
I had nearly forgotten the fun in kissing new boys.
9:44 AM
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