Fergusons

The label "Ferguson" was invented several years ago when my brother-in-law, the Sensitive Bostonian, was moving in with my sister. Everyone who was involved in the move was required to take at least three plants that were cuttings given to him by his father. I mentioned that once a vendor at the Grand Army Plaza farmer's market had told me that these rainforest-type viney plants are called Fergusons, and the label stuck: anything that is given away because the owner no longer wants or needs it is a Ferguson. Basically it's a new word for hand-me-downs, but with more of a ring to it.

My life is filled with Fergusons these days, ever since I came home from pottery class one night to find three cop cars facing the wrong way in the middle of the street in front of my house and my roommate's window wide open. The cops had me wait in the hallway outside my apartment while they checked the house for prints or anything that would contain DNA, but luckily I could hear my lovebird squawking loudly so I knew he was ok.

After I inspected the damage and mentally tallied everything I had lost, it turned out that I had two necklaces left to my name -- one that I was wearing, plus a pearl necklace from my grandmother (that I've never worn) that the thieves opened, looked at, and rejected; zero rings, since the two diamond rings from my other grandma were in a box awaiting cleaning that the thieves lifted; two pairs of earrings, one of which I had taken off at the gym and left in my bag; and one bracelet. I had often thought how terrible it would be if I were to lose one of my favorite pairs of earrings or one of my rings, but it never once crossed my mind that I could ever lose everything at once.

Friends have been so kind, pooling together their Ferguson jewelry for me and giving me a gift certificate so I can pick out some non-Ferguson jewelry as well. I hope to score a Ferguson camera off someone so I can take real pictures for my Etsy site, rather than the crappy cell phone pictures I have been using of late. After a while the Fergusons will no longer feel like Fergusons, but right now they don't quite feel like mine. I know jewelry is only stuff, but all the pieces I had that were made by friends, or came from faraway places, or given to me by people I love felt like more than that to me; many of them I had worn so much they felt like extensions of my body, and without them I feel naked. It's hard not to think, when I put on my orange sweater in the morning, "I can wear those orange earring my aunt in France gave me; they will match perfectly!" or, fifty times a days, "Did I take off my ring when I was washing the dishes and forget to put it back on?" I hope my subconscious brain catches up to reality soon.

Putting my geography degree to good use

I have a long reverse commute to work. The downside of this is that I spend a long time in the car every day and feel guilty all the time about all the horrible, toxic gases I'm releasing into the atmosphere; the upside is I don't mind being in the car and I rarely have to deal with traffic. Oh, and also I love my job, which makes it all worthwhile.

Because of my guilt as well as my concern that too much time in the car is bad for my mental health, I try hard to limit my non-commuter driving. I spend lots of time on the weekends on the subway, or trekking around Jamaica Plain on foot. Above all, I certainly do not want a relationship that involves any extra driving. Therefore, for the past few months one of the qualities I've looked for in the men I date has been "lives northeast of Boston" (along my route to work). I was derailed briefly in the fall when I dated Theradate, who lives a whopping 45 minutes in the opposite direction in a completely different state (what was I thinking??), but since then I've stuck pretty closely to the north-of-Boston types.

This week, after months of trying, I finally had a major commuter-dater win. Like I said, I rarely deal with traffic -- but every so often I do, namely when there is a Red Sox game or when it is raining. (Boston drivers, among their many other quirks, are apparently incapable of driving in the rain. I'm not talking about a driving rainstorm here; more like a light drizzle.) One day this week, there was a light, intermittent rain falling, and true to form the highway was backed up about 8 miles north of the city. My co-workers reported the next day that it took them close to two hours to get home, and they don't even live as far as I do.

95% and I had plans to see a movie at my house, but when I saw the traffic situation I quickly called him to suggest a change. Thankfully, he agreed, and I pulled off the highway after a mere ten minutes in traffic, stopped at my favorite Mexican place to get takeout, and was at 95%'s house 20 minutes later.

Hooray for pragmatic dating!

Heathenisha finds her man

I don't know whether to feel elated about this, or depressed, or both. But I think my fake OkCupid profile who has taken on a life of her own, Heathenisha, has found her perfect man -- before me! How is this possible when she's been online a solid two years less than me and hasn't gone on a single date??

Heathenisha is the profile I created back when I was dating Dreamy. At first, she was just a blank profile for me to use to check out friends' dates. But gradually I started giving out the password, and when friends asked if they could fill out her profile, I assented. By now, at least 15 people use Heathenisha, and "to Heathenisha" has become a verb amongst my friends (meaning "to look up profiles from a fake account"). Meanwhile, she has taken on an eccentric, communally-created personality: She is well over 7 feet tall and loves two things above all others, namely her cat, Rudolf, and the color red.

Yesterday Slinky and I were gchatting and she was simultaneously Heathenisha-ing when she brought the following profile to my attention:

Username: MarryMePronto

Self-summary: I'm just a romantic man looking for love. I already have the ring. I just need the finger. Like Cinderella and the glass slipper, your ring finger could be just the ticket to a fairytale wedding. No long courtship. I just want to be a Mister with a Mrs.

What I'm doing with my life: Looking for the one. I've been trying for years but, as you know, dating is hard. So finally I just decided to wish it to be so. So I bought the ring and I know it's going to happen. I just have to believe.

I'm really good at: Knowing what girls like. Seriously. I've got the china patterns all picked out. I like long conversations. I WANT to hear about your day. Every day. In our house. Where married people live.

Favorite books: Anything by Dr. Phil. I also like "The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work". And the "Twilight" series. It's so romantic.

Favorite movies: Legally Blonde, Pretty Woman, Cinderella (Disney version), Sixteen Candles, and Ever After

The 6 things I could never do without: My ring, my future wife, my sense of romance, my cat, Britney, aromatherapy candles, bubble Baths

I spend a lot of time thinking about: My wedding day. I know women usually do this and it sounds cliché but I can't wait to say "I do". It's going to be the best day of my life.

And the photos? All pictures of a dude holding out a diamond ring. AMAZING. 

I think Britney and Rudolf are going to have a very happy future together. 

Dating like a grown-up

I'm feeling good about my dating life lately. Not that anything terribly exciting is happening; it's still rare for me to get to a third date, and I seem to have dates with an endless parade of men named either Matt or Dave. (Last week I had four dates, out of which 75% were named either Matt or Dave.  Can't anyone get a bit more creative with the names?) They're smart, interesting men, and I have fun with them, but it's hard to feel like I have skin in the game with any of them.

In the past, the men I've been seriously interested in I've liked instantly. It took me all of five hours to fall hopelessly in love with l'Artista (and there were no words exchanged during that time, since I spoke no Italian and he no English), and I became smitten with La Moustache the second time I met him. I was even quite taken with Dreamy on our first few dates, strange as that now seems. But these days it's hard to imagine that happening. I have a career, and a craft business on the side, and a million other things going on. I'm not sure I have it in me to meet someone and have them become the immediate focus of my attention (though if I have gleaned one rule about dating from my experiences, it's to never make predictions because you NEVER know what will happen).

There are a lot of positive aspects of not having skin in the game. For starters, I am finding it much easier to put myself out there. So, last night I was able to tell my date flirtatiously, just before I raced out the door to meet Slinky, "We should have a proper date next time!" My date eagerly agreed, but the next morning I thought back to the part of our date when he showed me about 30 photos of his cat and wondered if I had made a mistake. Last weekend, after a few glasses of wine, I walked up to a Bavarian-looking mountain man in a green vest and said, "I liked your moves on the dance floor." I started to walk away, but he was excited to find himself talking to a cute blond girl and stopped my progress. He didn't end up asking for my number, and I was fine with that; I knew he wanted to and probably kicked himself that he hadn't. And the other day I told Pottery Crush, who I've been sitting across from every Wednesday night for the past 1.5 years and somehow just noticed recently that a) he exists and b) he's a cute, single guy, that we should check out a concert together sometime. We also talked about getting together for some glaze firings... HOT!! (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

So even though I'm not feeling particularly excited about anyone, there are plenty of eligible bachelors out there. I'm not planning to get invested in any of them for a while. But I am looking forward to a sledding date later this weekend with 95%, a man who seemed so good on paper that I fully expected to feel an immediate connection with him when I met him. I didn't, but I'm going to keep going out with him and see if a connection starts to develop, because I think he's a good egg with a lot of potential. And maybe it's time to stop expecting to find someone who'll make me feel like a teenager, seeing as how it's been a decade and a half since I was one.

The glass is half empty

My sister and I were looking through dating profiles recently. She kept piping in with mostly positive comments: "He sounds really thoughtful!" or "He's artistic, that's good for you." Then, invariably, we'd get to the bottom of the profile and she'd express the same frustration I've felt many times when checking what age the bachelor in question is interested in dating: "Ugh. Another one who only wants younger women." So many men end their age ranges at their own age, or a year or two below. Why??! Are they  following what they perceive to be social norms without thinking about it, do they not want to date someone who's their equal, are they worried about the fertility of older women? In any case, it's offensive.

Finally, we found one whose age range was wider -- he wanted to date women up to age 45, a good 10 years older than he is! I pointed this out hopefully to my sister. She sighed and shook her head regretfully.

"I'm afraid that means he doesn't want children."

Goodbye, Man-sprout

I was looking forward to my long-awaited date with Man-sprout, the man I went out with last April who then canceled our second date last-minute and recently charmed me into agreeing to go out with him again. It had been a looong week, one of the longest I can remember, filled with lots of tears over Big Guy's passing, some soul-searching over whether to take off work and go to his memorial, confusingly kind messages from La Moustache, a small car accident that led to missing an important work meeting... I *really* needed a cocktail.

Instead, I got one line:

Heathen, 

I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow. Something has come up. 

Man-sprout

Wow. It's hard to know how to respond to this level of rudeness. I decided to just laugh about it and get a cocktail with Slinky instead -- exactly what I did the last time he canceled on me (and SO much more fun than going out with Man-sprout would have been).

Big Guy

When I saw a message from my ex-boyfriend La Moustache in my inbox this afternoon, I knew that something terrible had happened. I thought first of his dad, or his mom. Maybe his uncle, who still sends me occasional sweet messages.

But instead it was our friend and former landlord in Brooklyn, Big Guy. I should have known: of COURSE a 34-year-old black man who lives in Bed-Stuy is at more risk than 60-something, white French people.

Big Guy was one of the kindest, most generous men I've known. He was always available and happy to help; even before I moved in he offered to drive over to my old house to pick me up so I could sign the lease. He brought me to work when the subway wasn't running, and loaned us his car when ours crumpled to its death one day on Atlantic Avenue. He'd try a taste of any food I offered him, but his favorite was my mom's apple cake recipe. I started baking one for him every fall because he loved it so much. He'd come in for a piece or two, then ask for one to take downstairs to his place so he "could really get into it." I pictured him diving face first into the apple cake, crumbs flying in every direction à la Cookie Monster.

He didn't deserve to be shot in the chest by a drunk man accosting a woman who Big Guy was attempting to protect. He certainly didn't deserve to have his arrest record published in the Daily News in an article about his murder -- how is it in any way relevant to what happened that he drove without a license a few times?? Needless to say, his three children don't deserve to grow up without a father.

I don't know anything about the man who shot him, except that it was his birthday and he was drunk. But I imagine that it's possible that when he woke up this morning, hung over and in jail, he regretted his terrible, impulsive action, whether it was for Big Guy's sake or just his own. I hope Obama is able to do something to make it harder to get guns so that a drunk guy doesn't have the option of pulling out a gun and shooting someone in the chest. It's just so... senseless.