Eligible bachelors

I have a lot of close female friends, but there is a dearth of Y chromosomes in our circle. Usually our get-togethers involve four or five girls plus the Sensitive Bostonian, my brother-in-law. For his sake, we try not to talk about our periods or use the word "vagina" too often, but occasionally it slips out and he puts up with it good-naturedly. There are a few other males who sometimes show up, but more often than not it is just us girls.

When a new guy arrives in our circle, it is kind of like the beginning of Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering the neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters." (Just like that, but minus the part about the fortune and the daughters.) We are all wondering who he is going to pair up with, and we generously encourage each other to date him. It has happened a few times that several of us has gone out with the same guy; so far, this has led only to lots of giggling, no hurt feelings or broken hearts.

First, there was Bagelbutter. He broke my friend Li'l JC's heart, then proceeded to ask ALL HER FRIENDS out on dates -- including me, kinda. (I went on a non-date with him.) Poor dating etiquette, I say.

Next came the Gay Music Man, a guy from the Internet who we all happened to date. My belief is that he wasn't interested in any of us because he is actually interested in men. Otherwise, I can think of no possible explanation why he would reject me and all my friends.

After that came Bagelbutter's nice friend. He went to college with my sister, and three of my friends went on dates with him. None reported feeling any spark, unfortunately. (But then we found out he doesn't want children, so maybe it's for the best.) We would like to continue to hang out with him as friends, though.

These days, JC got a new roommate -- and he's a man! Everyone has been enjoying her Tales of Living with a Guy. (They're strange, funny creatures.) He caused quite a stir when he looked at my OkCupid profile a few weeks ago -- suddenly there was a flurry of texts being sent hither and thither. Poor guy, he just thought he was browsing through profiles!

JC and I split a farm share, and tomorrow is Veggie Day. Since JC is out of town, I emailed the male roommate -- *not* through OkCupid -- to ask if he wanted me to bring by veggies. He wrote back: "Sure, and we could cook some of them, too!"

I'm not one to decline a dinner invitation, so I accepted. This afternoon, I got a text from my sister, who is on vacation in Vermont with Li'l JC and a few other friends: "Vermont is all abuzz with news of your date with JC's roommate!"

I'm sure his ears are burning.

Just say no

I've become aware of a problem I have recently: It is very difficult for me to say no and disappoint people. I came to realize this soon after Dreamy and I broke up, when, after overcoming my initial sadness, I felt a huge sense of relief. It dawned on me that I would have broken up with him much earlier if I hadn't felt bad about disappointing him.

I actually did try to break up with him in early August, on the eve of Ms. Swamp's wedding to the Sensitive Bostonian (now my brother-in-law). I felt weird bringing Dreamy as my date knowing that I'd probably break up with him soon, so, on my friend Miami Nice's advice, I called him and was brutally honest. I told him that I'd still like to go through with our plans to attend the wedding together and go on a vacation together, but I didn't see a future for us. He asked if there was any chance I'd change my mind, and I said I didn't think so. And then he said that he was fine with coming to the wedding and going to Costa Rica, and we did those things, and I pretended to myself that I'd changed my mind even though I hadn't really and even though I often felt that I'd much rather be by myself than with him.

In the end, things worked out fine. His departure for New York made for a convenient break, and I don't regret staying with him for those extra couple of months. In a way it made it easier to remember our relationship fondly, since I had a lot of negative feelings toward him over the summer that dissipated during the early fall. Dreamy wasn't a bad guy; we had a pretty good relationship, even though we weren't right for each other. But I wonder what would have happened if he hadn't moved to New York. How long would I have continued to try to convince myself that maybe I'd start to feel in love with him again? And who did I think I was doing any favors for by staying with a guy who I knew I didn't want to marry? Having experienced several times how difficult it is when someone (La Moustache, the Brazilian) didn't want to be with me but had trouble telling me so, I know firsthand how much easier it would be if they would just say it.

Now I'm faced with the task of disappointing someone again, a guy I've gone out with three times and had an unpleasant, makes-me-want-to-scrub-my-mouth-out kiss with at the end of our third date. I was pretty sure after our first date that I wasn't into him (as were some friends who happened to be in the same bar and were observing our interactions), but I kept going out with him partly to make sure, and partly because it was easier than disappointing him. Now the time has come, because I REALLY can't go through with another one of those kisses, and I've set myself a deadline of 3 p.m. today and pulled out Ms. Swamp's much-used breakup email to revise and send off.

The good news is I'm also dating someone who I like a lot, who is smart and interesting and likes me too and tells me three times before every date how excited he is to see me and wants to make me dinner next week (date #4). I'm excited to see him, too, and to get to know him better and continue adding to the lists of green, yellow and red flags in his section of my Man List. And if I should uncover some red flags in my research, please remind me to SAY NO.

Oh, Dreamy

Last weekend, I rolled out of bed and headed to Dreamy's bathroom, where I brushed my teeth and put my contacts in. Everything seemed normal until I looked up and noticed that the mirror in front of me looked distorted. Immediately, I guessed what had happened: Dreamy had accidentally tossed my contacts down the drain, and put his in my contact case.

I think I figured it out so quickly because I had subconsciously been waiting for it to happen. At my house, we each have a different-colored contact case, and each case has its own spot in the bathroom. But at Dreamy's house stuff is always moving around, and Dreamy doesn't exactly pay attention to details. So, when he got to the bathroom circa 2 a.m. the prior evening to take out his contacts and found only one case, since his still wasn't unpacked from our trip to Maine, he didn't think twice about it. He dumped out the liquid and filled it right back up again, never noticing the tiny blue circles that disappeared with the saline solution.

Of course, he felt terrible and apologized about 50 times. And sure, it was annoying to be blind for much of the day, almost walk into the men's room at a cafe (which Dreamy pointed to when I asked where the bathroom was -- thanks, D), and have to count the subway stops so I got off at the right place. But the bigger problem was that all week I couldn't stop thinking that if I stay with Dreamy I'm dooming myself to a lifetime of him making annoying, unintentional mistakes that would slowly but inexorably drive me crazy.

I told myself it was lack of vitamin D and too much snow, ice and cold weather talking, but still, I couldn't shake the thought from my head. Last night, I unburdened myself to Ms. Swamp and the Sensitive Bostonian. Ms. Swamp passed on a piece of wisdom from a friend of hers when she got engaged: "Sure, there are lots of things I don't know about him. But the most important reason why I want to be with him is that every time a problem comes up, he wants to talk about it and work on it."

That certainly describes Dreamy to a T. He's full of faults and makes silly mistakes, but he always wants to talk about it and is ready to work on any problem. And besides, he makes it clear to me all the time how much he wants to be with me, and that he is ready to do anything he can to make the relationship work. .So, while I'm not ruling out the possibility that one day the annoyances might drive me 'round the bend, in the meantime I am focusing on the two qualities I most enjoy about him:

1) He is extremely trainable, and when I ask him to do something, he listens and tries his best to do it.

2) He gives me great stories that I entertain my friends with (one of the qualities I most appreciate in a boyfriend).

Stay tuned for more funny Dreamy stories, coming soon.

The trees in the forest

Dreamy and I went up to Maine for a quick visit this weekend, along with my sister and her recently-promoted boyfriend (now fiance), the Sensitive Bostonian. On the drive home, Dreamy began querying me about different important relationships I've had in my life, both romantic and non. He loves doing this, just as he loves looking at the photographs of me as a child scattered around my parents' house; it's clear that he could listen to me talk for hours -- a very good trait in a boyfriend.

After he was done, Dreamy began responding to my descriptions, and I immediately laughed because he sounded so much like a therapist. "I notice a parallel between your relationship with X and your relationship with Z," he began, and went on to pontificate on the ways in which I have felt helped and hindered by various important people in my life. At the end, he queried, "Was that too therapist-y for you?"

"A little," I replied honestly, and went on to explain. What I was feeling as Dreamy talked was the same frustration I often felt during sessions with my own, now sadly neglected Wise Woman: Any description I could give during a car ride, or an hourlong session in a therapist's office, of a 4, or 8, or 31-year long relationship is bound to be an oversimplification. People are complicated, and relationships are complicated, and I find it next to impossible to describe a relationship without afterward remembering a gazillion examples of interactions that completely undermine what I just finished saying. For instance, what Dreamy gleaned from my tales was that I felt empowered during my relationship with my Italian ex, l'Artista, because he encouraged me to try new things and to be independent, and I felt stifled by La Moustache because he protected me too much. But l'Artista could also be very protective of me, and I can easily think of any number of things that I would never have tried had it not been for La Moustache.

I realize that it's a necessary skill to see past all the details and make decisions based on the forest, and not the trees, but it's one that I have trouble with, especially since I tend to live in the moment and be quite distracted by whatever tree happens to be right in front of me. I notice the same thing with Dreamy: 99% of the time he's wonderful and thoughtful, and he constantly says sweet, cheesy things to me, like "I just got shivers all over my body because I like you so much." However, he can also be a huge space cadet (as I may have mentioned once or twice), and can be quite thoughtless at times -- not because he means to at all, but purely for lack of noticing that he's being thoughtless. For instance, sometimes he forgets that his chin is scratchy and hurts me when he kisses me (I know this sounds innocuous, but seriously, his 5 o'clock shadow is CRAZY SCRATCHY -- as evidenced by the rugburn I got when we first started dating). Or, the other day he had to work late and I offered to bring him dinner after work, but he got hungry and decided to have a snack to tide him over, which turned into a full-fledged dinner -- and then he forgot to inform me that this had happened, until I started to unpack my overflowing tupperware filled with delicious home-cooked food, at which time he finally mentioned that he was stuffed.

Dreamy always feels terrible when he commits these faux pas, and apologizes profusely. Most of the time, even when he's being a bit clueless, I feel like the positives far outweigh the negatives; after all, if all else fails I know that I have only to tell Dreamy what to do to make me happy and he will spare no effort to do it. Still, there are moments when he behaves cluelessly and completely lose sight of all the great things about him.

And on that note, I'm off to watch the Patriots game and try really, really hard to like football, for Dreamy's sake.

Impressive

At my sister Ms. Swamp's birthday party last week, the soundtrack was provided by The Sensitive Bostonian's ipod. At one point Dreamy remarked, "It's almost like S.B. stole my ipod. My music collection is nearly identical."

Ms. Swamp commented, "S.B. has a very good ipod. When we first started dating, I was highly impressed that he has Dar Williams on his ipod."

"I have Dar Williams on my ipod, too," replied Dreamy. "Did you hear that, Heathen?"

I smiled politely and nodded. In my head I was thinking, "I don't have any Dar Williams on MY ipod because I am not a very big Dar Williams fan. Therefore, I am not impressed." Not that I have anything against Dar Williams; she's just not someone I have strong feelings about one way or the other. (Also Dreamy doesn't need to go out of his way to impress me with his music collection, since I'm plenty impressed by him already.)

Ever since then I've been wondering: What WOULD impress me? Is there something someone could have on their ipod that would make me think I absolutely need to get to know this person better? I haven't been able to come up with anything good so far. I thought of Dolly Parton, but La Moustache has her on his ipod so that doesn't work. (And I know the contents of his ipod all too well, because everything on Moustache's ipod is on my ipod; he copied it all onto there. I put it in a little folder named "La Moustache".) I have a few favorite Italian singers who I'd be impressed to see on someone's ipod, but that's too obscure. Nonetheless, here's one of my all-time favorites: Patty Pravo singing about how men shouldn't treat her like a bambola (doll):



Anyone have any other (less obscure) ideas?

Just another weekend in Boston

Friday night found me at the ice cream shop circa 10 p.m. with my sister, Ms. Swamp, and her boyfriend, the Sensitive Bostonian, criticizing a list of interview questions from my sister's school and coming up with far superior ones, then giving practice answers to our own questions. I munched on the fake Pinkberry I had attempted to create, and tried not to feel sad that the result cost $6 and did not contain mochi (which is, in my book, the most important Pinkberry ingredient; the good news is a Pinkberry shop is opening soon in Boston). As we were leaving, we realized that it had begun to pour outside, and momentarily debated whether to hang around or make a run for the nearest vehicle, but the rain let up and we said goodnight and walked our separate ways.

About ten minutes from my house, the drip of the raindrops intensified, and just as I was passing the subway stop I realized that it was getting ready to dump some serious water. I evaluated my choices and took refuge under the subway awning with a few other bedraggled pedestrians, and waited out the storm there. Sure enough, the rain continued to quicken until it was coming down in sheets, instantly soaking anyone who was out there. People who were walking toward the subway changed their gait to a gallop, and I started to notice how the rain brought out primal qualities in the passersby. A group of young men ran in and started howling, at first just a few light barks, then long, full-on baying howls like werewolves. It brought out the teacher instinct in me: “Settle down, boys! You're getting out of hand.” I resisted the urge to say it out loud.

Next along came a group of girls, wearing high heels and tank tops and uttering little shrieks. And then, the climax: A man loped by who I usually wouldn't give a second glance to, utterly normal looking, wearing a green windbreaker and ipod headphones in his ears. He came at an impressive speed, flying through the air, taking giant leaping bounds. As he closed in on the subway station, he turned sideways; he was still going extremely fast, but now it was more of a sideways skip-run. Then, just as he was closing in on the entrance to the subway, his feet slipped forward and he landed with an impressive, perfect smack on his bum. The whole performance looked like it had been choreographed. The other refuge-seekers and I broke out of our mesmerized observation to rush over and see if he was okay, but without a word of reply to our queries, he leapt to his feet with the same impressive energy and enthusiasm, and disappeared into the subway. At that point, I was pretty sure the show was over for the evening, and I headed back out into the rain.

On Saturday afternoon my friend Slinky and I were heading to a barbecue in Cambridge, which, it turns out, is where all the men in Boston live. Boston's funny like that: it's gender segregated. On the way, she reflected aloud, “You know, I feel like for a while we were dating, and now we're going steady.” And it's true: we are now at the two-dates-a-week phase, including a Saturday night, which as everyone knows is a big deal. I'm very happy to have a steady-date-friend in Boston.

Since we were in the male part of town, we were hoping there would be some single men there, and we were not disappointed. None proved to be too interesting, though: there was a nice guy who just wasn't quite cute enough, a Nicaraguan guy who, if you used your imagination, looked like a short, chubby version of Gael Garcia Bernal (or, without your imagination, he looked like a short chubby guy with a Spanish accent). Then there was the semi-interesting but egotistical man in designer jeans who works with the Brazilian (have I mentioned before how ridiculously small this town is?), but whose current project is waaaaaay less interesting than the Brazilian's chocolate machine. It's hard to compete with a chocolate machine.

It didn't matter much since neither of us were interested, but I ruined my and Slinky's chances of meeting someone early in the evening, long before the beer pong commenced. I was chatting with the Nicaraguan, who politely asked me how Slinky and I know each other. I replied the way I usually do when people ask that: “We were set up on a blind date by a mutual friend of ours from New York.” Then, with Slinky's comment still in my mind, I added, “And then we fell in love.” As soon as I said it, I realized that it hadn't come out quite right, but I didn't correct the misrepresentation. After all, even though we're not exactly in love, meeting Slinky has been one of the best things that has happened to me in Boston. Certainly far better than any of the men I've met.

Kissing Frogs

In her infinite maternal wisdom, my mom has counseled me and my sister that “In order to find a prince, you have to kiss a lot of frogs.” Even though this is contradicted by my mom's own experience – she got married at the ripe old age of 22-going-on-23, and I seriously doubt that she had the time to kiss many frogs before then – I am beginning to see her point. I met and began dating La Moustache six months (to the day, weirdly) after my breakup with l'Artista. When we met, I had been dating a man named Mr. White Pants for four months. Even though I knew that there were plenty of other men out there besides Mr. White Pants and La Moustache, it was hard not to feel like I had two choices before me, and one was very clearly superior to the other.

Mr. White Pants was a Southern gentleman, hailing from a tobacco city in North Carolina, the youngest of six or seven siblings. He was twelve years my senior, and I met him through his college roommate, who had been trying fruitlessly for some time to court me. In retrospect, it wasn't very nice of him to flirt with his friend's crush, but at the time I can't say I minded.

Mr. Pants worked for a bank and made a lot of money. He had gone to graduate school at Columbia, spoke fluent Russian, and lived for several years in Uzbekistan. He was on the board of a small theater company and invited me to the opera. Sometimes I thought that if he were a character on Sex and the City the ladies would think he was a really good catch. In the end, though, I'm not one of the Sex and the City ladies, and after a while I started to realize that despite his intelligence he was lacking in one very important area -- personality. Every time he talked to me about his work I was either bored stiff or horrified, like when he told me about financing open-top mines. He enjoyed tango dancing, but it seemed more like a hobby he had picked up to make himself seem interesting than a genuine passion.

And then there was the matter of the pants. He always dressed up for our dates, and frequently wore his favorite white pants. When I got to know him better, I found out that every time he wore the white pants he had to wear tighty whities to match them, because otherwise people could see his undergarments through the pants. I'm not saying I don't sometimes have to think about wearing underwear that you can't see through my clothes, but a man who matches his underpants and trousers was a turnoff, to say the least. In addition, one day my Wise Woman mentioned to me that when she was walking down the streets of Manhattan one day she passed a man who she wondered might be Mr. White Pants. When she described him to me, he sounded utterly ridiculous.

Just as I was starting to feel ready to move on, along came La Moustache. He was handsome, had an interesting job, he told me great stories about his recent trip to the West Bank to cover the war between Israel and Lebanon, he was funny, we were reading the same book when we met (Heat by Bill Buford, a great book), he loved the New Yorker like me, and I instantly felt more comfortable with him than I ever had with Mr. White Pants. But I wonder if, had I been dating other men, I would have thought more critically about him and kept my options open longer, rather than allowing myself to be convinced to jump headlong into a relationship as I did. Perhaps through the veneer of charm I would have discovered his underlying froggy qualities; or perhaps not, since (to give myself some credit) he was very good at hiding them.

In the interest of learning from my past mistakes, I have been working on meeting frogs. Here are some of my stats so far:

Frogs I've gone on dates with: 4
Frogs I've gone on second dates with: 2
Frogs kissed: 2 ½ (one was an awkward edge-of-the-mouth kiss that I was attempting to dodge)
Frogs kissed because my sister forced me to: 1
Second dates I've gone on because I had a bit too much to drink on the first date and got beer goggles: 1 (mental note: one drink maximum per date)
Very nice frogs I've gone out with: 3
Frogs who really liked me: 2
Frogs I found attractive: 0

Another piece of advice I received recently from my mother after I complained about the lack of attractiveness of my dates: “In the end, it's not really that important.” Again, this is contradicted by her own experience – my dad is very handsome, and even after nearly forty years of marriage Mom will occasionally pause when she sees him across the room and say, “He's really quite good-looking, don't you think?” This is one piece of advice I am ignoring: I want a hot boyfriend, and I think I deserve one.

Clearly, I have a ways to go. My sister went on dates with 26 men before she met her prince, the Sensitive Bostonian. And this time, I am determined not to be tricked by any frogs disguised as princes.