Ex boyfriend amnesty

Under the influence of my friend Surfer Girl, whose expressiveness I admire, I declared ex boyfriend amnesty last week (for all exes except La Moustache, who is unpardonable). I added Dreamy back in as a friend on Facebook, thereby rendering him very happy, and agreed to see him for lunch this weekend. I accepted Le Canadien as a friend after 6 months or so in my Facebook purgatory because sure, he was a jerk -- he left halfway through a date, never called and turned out to have a girlfriend -- but at least he was obvious about being a jerk, and in the end I may have used him as much as he used me. I called up l'Artista and listened to him talk and talk without really saying anything, and thought about how good he is at listening to me and understanding me so naturally and how very much I love him, as though he were part of my family, and how utterly unsuitable he is as a mate. And when my end-of-college crush popped up on Facebook the other day -- the one who I invited to visit me in New York, telling him I had plenty of space for guests, and who then offered to two (female) friends of his that they could crash with me -- I added him as a friend. Nice how Facebook allows us to reach out without involving any actual communication.

Surfer Girl is outgoing and emotive and has no filters whatsoever, and I admire her ability to reflect on what's happened to her, be open and tell people what she thinks of them, and then move on. (She's also one of three -- 3!!! -- of my close friends who have recently fallen in love; I'm SO happy for all of them, and also wish they could've spaced it out a bit.) Being forgiving doesn't come particularly easy to me, and I'd like to be more so. I'm also still feeling bad about Monkeyboy, and beginning to realize that perhaps I need to be a bit more forgiving toward myself about him. I've been berating myself for feeling bad and wondering why it's taken so long (way longer than it took to feel better after the end of my year-long relationship with Dreamy), but maybe giving myself some space to feel bad is what I need. I re-joined OkCupid before Monkeyboy had finished his drive home after breaking up with me, and forced myself to immediately start dating. The boys I've been going out with are cute and smart, and seem to like me and want to kiss me. And all I can think about is how very much I don't want to kiss them and how much more I liked Monkeyboy.

So I'm going on hidatus -- my first. I'm taking a couple of weeks off of Internet dating, and seeing how I feel. I'm not sure what will happen with the crop of cute boys I've been working on cultivating; I may continue to go out with them, just to make absolutely sure I'm not interested, although I'm not excited about the prospect of having to kiss them more just to be certain I don't enjoy it. What I'm focusing most on the at the moment is being kind and forgiving toward myself. And what the hell, a little bit toward my ex boyfriends, too.

A reappearance

I received the following message last night from Le Canadien:

Salut Heathen,

I hope everything is going well on your end and you're enjoying the winter. I would really like to stay friends. Let me know if you ever feel like grabbing a "casual" beer!

Hope all is well,
LC

Hmm, feeling a little lonely at 10:30 on a Saturday night, are we? Here's the reply I've drafted him:

Dear LC,

It's nice to hear from you! Since we last spoke in July, I've become acquainted with some excellent bourbon. I now drink bourbon on a very regular basis; my bourbon and I are quite inseparable. As a result, I've lost my taste for "casual" beer. However, if you'd care to indulge in a non-alcoholic beverage, possibly some coffee or diet Coke, I would be happy to do so.

Take care,
Heathen

I might send it just for fun. But then again, what's the point, really?

In defense of OKCupid

So, a lot of people complain about OKCupid. Heck, I complain about OKCupid. But, having experienced the magic of paid dating sites, I gotta say, I think OKC is pretty great. I've been on Match for a month and a half so far, and have gone on... ONE DATE! Well, there were two guys who I was supposed to go out with and then stopped responding to, and I have two more dates coming up soon. But still. My one date was totally lackluster (thin lips -- yuck). I dunno, it just seems like all the men there are very square, and also weirdly tall. OKC is more like real life -- there are a lot of people who aren't necessarily looking for a girlfriend, but they are interesting people and it doesn't feel like a meat market. Plus, as Slinky always complains, there are a lot of short guys on there, which works well for me.

I've had some bad experiences, of course, but overall I've met some pretty great guys. The Doctor was fun for a while, and it felt good to date someone immediately post-breakup who really wanted me to be his girlfriend (even if his level of attractiveness made that utterly impossible). Paul McCartney was cute and it was fun to kiss him and to be reminded that I CAN find cute guys online and don't have to compromise. It was annoying how the Brazilian acted like he really liked me and then just disappeared into a chocolate-filled black hole, but still, I can't say I'm sorry I met him and I do think he's a nice guy. When he's famous for his futuristic chocolate-making machine I can say that I once dated him, and that he wears unattractive black briefs.

And, I'm really glad that I met Le Canadien. I haven't heard from him in a few days, and guess what -- I don't care! I think I have mastered the art of having a fling, and I have him to thank for that. I hope that I do hear from him eventually, but mostly just because I really want to have a French-speaking friend in Boston. And it would be fun to make out with him again.

Finally, I love OKCupid because their blog is awesome. They write about all the foibles and intricacies of their site, most recently the lies people tell about themselves (exaggerating their height, income, etc.). They've also written extensively about racism on their site, which made me determined to date some non-white people -- so far, it hasn't happened (the Chinese architect stopped responding and then dropped off the site), but I haven't given up. I feel good about using a site that has such an honest, transparent approach, and if I don't meet my husband there, at least I hope to meet some friends.

Plus, I have an OKC date coming up (I think) with someone I am VERY excited about! I haven't been this excited for a date since Le Canadien. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Smelling the roses

Life is pretty good recently. It's summer vacation. My new little lovebird, who I've tentatively taken to referring to as Persil (silent L), will be coming home with me in 10 days or so. I've got money in the bank. I have an interview tomorrow for a job whose description is awfully close to the dream job I was offered last summer, then un-offered a couple of days before school began. And they've already told me I'm their top candidate -- touch wood. Even if I don't get that, I'm pretty sure I can finagle my way into a maternity leave position in the same French immersion program in a local school. I'm having a summer fling with a handsome, funny Canadian, and I'm dating other guys too.

However, I've realized lately that I have a tendency to be my own worst enemy. My ex-boyfriend, La Moustache, screwed me over royally last summer. Ever since then, I feel like every time I meet someone I like, I clench my stomach and steel myself for disappointment. I'm like a mollusk, ready to close up tight at the first sign of trouble. But no one else has the power to hurt me the way La Moustache did; these are just guys I'm dating. I'm not in love with any of them, and they are most certainly NOT irreplaceable, as Beyonce would say.

I had a mollusk moment when Le Canadien cut our date short yesterday. It made me worry that he's using me for the physical aspects of our relationship. In hindsight, though, there was really no reason for me to freak out as I did. He needs to find an apartment pronto; he is stressed about work, and he told me as soon as he arrived at my house yesterday that he'd need to take care of these things later on. Nonetheless, we spent a lovely day together. He gives me every indication that he likes me. He always responds quickly to my emails. He gives me lots of compliments. In his car yesterday on the way to the lake he told me he'd pick out music for us to listen to that he thought I'd like, and he was right -- I did like it. He listens to me talk about how cute Persil is, and asks to see photos of him. And, if he does disappoint, it will not break my heart. He is not my boyfriend, and he is never going to be my husband.

It doesn't come naturally to me, especially after my horrible experience with Moustache last year, but I'm determined to lighten up. Please remind me the next time I forget.

Déjà déçu

It is not news to me that men can be disappointing. I've been reminded of that time and time again, in big and small ways, ranging from l'Artista's inability to decide whether he wanted to be with me to my live-in ex-boyfriend La Moustache's midlife crisis at the worst possible juncture in my life and his decision to travel the world solo to the failure of men I've gone out with to follow up after a date or send a quick note saying "Hi, I enjoyed meeting you, but I don't think you're what I'm looking for."

Nonetheless, I must be the most doggedly optimistic person on the planet, because I still have hopes for men. Most recently, I had hopes for Le Canadien. I've been looking forward all week to our weekend date, which started out as a plan to watch a movie in the park and ended up involving a trip to a lake for a swim. When he got here this afternoon, he told me that he had an appointment to go see an apartment later on, and he had to stop by his lab to do a bit of work. Fine, I don't mind having a break in the middle of the date, and I assumed he'd come back shortly thereafter.

So we drove to the lake, doggie paddled around and joked about how we're both terrible swimmers, drank surreptitious beers, and kissed on identical beach towels. It was nice. I feel a connection with him, maybe because he reminds me of the Quebecois boys I went to college with. I feel comfortable talking to him, and I think he feels the same way. I told him the story of how I fell in love at age 18 with my 28-year-old Italian painting teacher, l'Artista, and the sad ending to that story. I even told him a bit about La Moustache. He talked to me of a girl he liked and professed his love to while he lived in Italy (she liked him back, but the timing was off and nothing ever came of it), his father's death, and the house he inherited from his father in Quebec that he remodeled and rents out. He told me he is now leaning toward staying in Boston rather than moving to California, and I felt glad about it, without having any expectations. I like the idea of having the chance to get to know him better.

Eventually we moseyed back to the place where I'm housesitting and settled in for some more kissing. When 5:30 rolled around, I reminded him that he needed to get ready for his 6:00 appointment, and he tucked in his shirt and asked if he looked like someone I'd accept as a roommate. I assured him that he looked fine. He got up to go, and as he kissed me goodbye, I said, "You'll be back for the movie at 8, right?"

"Oh, maybe... I'm not sure I can make it. If not tonight, we can go another time," was his response. Oops. Not the right answer. It reminded me of a game I used to play with La Moustache where I'd ask him a question, then when he answered, I'd do my best machine voice and say, "Réponse incorrecte," until he gave me an answer I liked. This was definitely an incorrect response. I explained that this is not a movie that is in the theaters, it is a one-time showing in the park. He said he'll try to make it back, but somehow I doubt I'll be seeing him again tonight.

Am I overreacting to feel so disappointed? Other than that, from what I know of him so far he seems great -- thoughtful, smart, funny. He has thirteen days before he has to be out of his place, and he's (justifiably) stressed about finding a new place to live. However, a date is a date, and I'm not interested in spending time with someone who's unreliable and lets me down. Now, how to let him know that this is unacceptable without sounding high maintenance?

A fine line

It's hard to keep dating other people when you have someone already to kiss who is sexy and kind and tells you often that you are cute. Who says he adores your date ideas for the weekend, which started out as a plan to watch a movie in the park and have gradually expanded to encompass the whole day, including a trip to the beach (yes, it looks like I finally may get that swim I've long been promised...) and mojitos in the backyard. Who always answers your emails right away, and who falls asleep with his head in your lap on the couch and his arms wrapped around your waist and twitches like a puppy.

It's especially hard when his main competition is an uninspiring Chinese architect, a man whose emails keep getting shorter and who never answers the questions you ask, someone who is very busy and says that he *MIGHT* be available to see you on Tuesday (which you never respond to), and a man who is very excited about his job which you think sounds unspeakably boring.

But, of course, the cute person you are kissing is thinking about moving to California, where he says you should come for a visit, and is not looking for a girlfriend. Although he often talks about his long-term life plan involving a house in the countryside in Quebec, kids (definitely more than one) and a life partner. In any case, you still barely know the guy, so it's way too early to even know if you'd like him to be your boyfriend.

A classic mistake is to force oneself to go out with people you're not excited about just to keep up the action. However, another classic mistake is to perceive everyone as being uninspiring just because they pale in comparison to the main love interest. It's a tough line to navigate. So far, my solution is to keep corresponding with everyone (except Mr. Maybe Tuesday) but not go out of my way to suggest a date, and hope that a little inspiration will appear. And not to make too many plans with Le Canadien, even though it's very tempting when he says that his whole entire weekend is free to expand the date even further to include both days.

At the Hospice

Last Thursday, I spent most of the day with two people: my handsome French-Canadian beau, Le Canadien, and my 92-year-old Hospice patient who is dying of "adult failure to thrive" (basically, old age). I ended up chatting with both of them a bit in French, but ironically, it was not Le Canadien who propositioned me with the age-old phrase, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"

The room erupted in laughter when she said it, mostly from the nurses and aides since other patients were too deaf or out-of-it to catch the joke. She grinned mischievously and said, "I thought you'd enjoy that."

She is, quite simply, adorable. She is smiley and chatty and appreciative of my visits and appreciative of everything in general. It makes me very happy to go see her -- so much so that I have to resist the urge to go every day. When I left today she repeated, as always, that my visit made her day, and asked when I'd be back; I told her I can come back next week, to which she replied, "Oh no! That's too long. Can't you come back this week?" I promised to return on Friday.

She seems utterly content with her life, both past and present. She told me several times today that, while she often feels tired, she still "feels like myself." At age 92, what more can one ask for?

It can't be easy to live surrounded by people who are bent double in their wheelchairs or gaze blindly at beige walls all day while Muzak plays in the background, interrupted occasionally by a prayer broadcast over the intercom. Or to share a tiny room with a few decorative wall hangings, the sole remains of a houseful of possessions; or to be so limited physically that one can't have much of a conversation because of hearing loss, or read much because of sight loss. She handles it with remarkable grace. I hope that if I am ever in her position I can do the same.

The Manly Man

Two nights ago, while I was with Le Canadien, I felt worried. I worried that I would start to like him too much and get heartbroken because he doesn't want a girlfriend and might move to California. I worried about whether or not I should have sex with him. But now that I've had a day to catch up on my sleep and reflect on it, all I can think is, awesome.

I've dated attractive men before -- all of them have been attractive on some level. But Le Canadien is different: he has shoulders that are twice the breadth of mine and make me feel Scarlet O'Hara-ish, big muscles, a ruggedly handsome face and plenty of chest hair (but not in a gross way). He plays soccer on the weekend. When it got hot and I asked if he wanted me to crank the AC he said no, he likes being sweaty. He's a manly man. Turns out I like 'em manly, too.

He's also very charming and very smart and someone I could easily imagine incorporating into my life, and I am probably going to have to remind myself a lot of times not to like him too much or get used to having him around. But I think I can do it. I have plenty of other dates lined up, so that should help.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to the next time he comes over to "walk the dog" with me, which he says he'd like to do soon. (I'm housesitting with a pup.)

Finding a modality that works for me

During my drive up to Maine on Friday for the holiday weekend, I found myself pondering the events of the last couple of weeks and months, and wondering if perhaps I need to change my approach. Here is a sampling of my thoughts:

• I spent four days crying almost nonstop after I lost my bird, to the point where my contacts became so salt-encrusted that I couldn't see. Even as I was bawling over my little green featherball, I could feel that I was really upset over so much more.
  
• I got my knickers all twisted over a chubby guy with copious backhair who I made out with a few times in March. Why did I care so much?
• Dating has brought me frustration and bitterness, but no husbands.
  
• I spent Friday morning drinking bloody marys, watching the Netherlands/Brazil soccer game and flirting with the cute bartender with a tattoo of JFK on his wrist, who commiserated with me on my loss of Haricot by telling me how sad he was when his pet python escaped.
  
• I dismissed the cute, nice French Canadian who is the only good communicator of all the men I've dated since my breakup because he told me he's not looking for a wife at this time.

A piece of advice that my neighbor, the Cat Lady, gave me several months ago popped into my mind. "Maybe," she said (she prefaces all her advice this way because, as a single lesbian in her fifties, she doesn't feel totally qualified to give me advice), "you should just relax and have fun. You're young and attractive. Just see guys casually, and don't look at it as auditioning to find your next boyfriend."

When my sister, Ms. Swamp, began online dating a couple of years ago, her goal was to find a husband, and she did. Well, they're not quite married yet, but to all intents and purposes she did. As I sifted through my feelings, I wondered if perhaps what I need right now is not a husband, but a Mr. White Pants (or several Mr. White Pants). Pants was the guy I dated for four months after I broke up with my ex-ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He took me to the opera and drove me around Manhattan in his convertible and bought me nice dinners and generally entertained me and distracted me, and when I was ready to be emotionally connected to someone again, I moved on.

So I'm going to try the Cat Lady's approach. I'm just going to relax and enjoy the summer and give myself time to get over my traumas of the past year. I sent Le Canadien a message and asked if he wants to get a beer, and within three hours we had a date set up, because that's the kind of communicator he is. And I'll probably swing by and visit my bartender this afternoon to watch the game and maybe hear more about his python.

Changing the world, one man at a time

I went away to beautiful, bucolic Martha's Vineyard this weekend for a brief getaway with my college roomie and her family. Unfortunately, my mind was filled with disappointment and chagrin after my latest unpleasant encounter, courtesy of Le Canadien, and a fruitless 6 months of dating. It's not that I expected to meet my next boyfriend in the first six months, but the rudeness and lack of communication I've encountered are disheartening, to say the least. Not all of my friends have experienced this, but lately I've been talking with a few friends about how it seems that some people believe that, when you meet someone online, the normal rules of politeness do not apply, and one can be more blasé. Of course, I've had plenty of experiences of people I didn't meet online being rude as well...

Two days of sand, sun, babies, beer, and gingerbread architecture later, I felt better, though still not excited to get back on the wagon. I did anyway, but with a new mantra: "Believe the negatives, ignore the positives." A real, professional dating guru -- though, in my opinion, no more qualified than my non-professional gurus -- recommended writing this and posting it on one's mirror.

Furthermore, I made a decision. For my sanity's sake, when people are rude from now on, I will inform them of what they did that I didn't like, and tell them how I wished they had behaved differently. I'll do it in a friendly, polite manner. Culprit #1, the Brazilian, has already received his missive. Now I'm contemplating whether it is worth my while to vent my feelings to Le Canadien or not; it's hard to even think of what I might say to him. Some of these guys are just beyond hope.

But who knows, for the ones who aren't quite beyond hope, maybe my email will help them to be more upfront with the next unsuspecting female who crosses their path.

Cost of a Canadian

Two drinks that Le Canadien generously bought me when we went out two weekends ago: Approximately $25

The wax I got for our anticipated swim together this weekend: $35, plus $5 tip

Two beers I drank with Slinky yesterday evening following Le Canadien's revelation that he decided he's looking for something casual, and would love to go for a casual swim with me, which I politely declined: $10

Clothing I bought during post-beer shopping spree to make myself feel better: $70

Dang. That's one pricey Canadian.

Waxing and waning

I received the following (excerpted) message on Tuesday from my Francophone suitor (in translation):

"Bonjour Heathen,
I would love to spend time with you this weekend if you're free. Either Saturday or Sunday would work well for me. It would be great to hang out on the weekend so we could be more relaxed -- we could go swimming somewhere if it's hot! Happy last day of school tomorrow.
À plus tard,
Le Canadien"

I had suggested a weekday date, and he was proposing we wait and have a more quality date on the weekend. All this was very nice, but the prospect of bathing with my potential suitor sent me into a tizzy. Saturday was a mere four days away, and I was busy on Sunday, therefore I needed to do some -- ahem -- personal grooming very soon. I shot off text messages to several friends asking for waxing recommendations, and within ten minutes my sister, Ms. Swamp, had procured me an appointment to join her that very afternoon.

The first time I became aware of waxing, I was fourteen and a freshman in high school, newly arrived at a private school in the big, cosmopolitan city of Portland, Maine. Everyone seemed about ten years older and ten times more sophisticated than me. One day in science class I was paired up with Pam, a shiny-haired girl who wore tight pants and black high-heeled shoes that did not make my Converse and baggy jeans look very chic by comparison. Midway through the experiment we were doing together, she mentioned casually that she'd like to take her sweater off but couldn't because her tanktop beneath would reveal her armpit hair, grown long in preparation for a waxing appointment that afternoon.

I was flabbergasted. Waxing seemed, to me, the equivalent of getting a nose job or a tummy tuck: completely out of the realm of my experience, and utterly inappropriate for a fellow 14-year-old. Not only did my mom not wax, she didn't even shave ANY of her body hair. I was vaguely aware that some women shaved their legs, but that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge, and it seemed like years before I'd be doing something like that myself. I'm sure I blushed beet red and stammered an inane reply.

I like to think I've come a long way since then, but still, I'm not crazy about the idea of waxing. However, if everyone else is doing it, I'm not going to be the lone girl who reminds everyone of Godzilla. Or maybe I will be ten years into marriage, but while I'm shopping for a mate it's probably best to just go with the flow.

At the salon, though, my sister and I were treated to a shocking revelation: 40% of our waxer's clients are now men. This is horrifying on many levels. Didn't everyone see the 40-year-old Virgin?? Remember how awful that was? And that was on his CHEST, which is apparently not where much of this male waxing is occurring. It's occurring in places that are horrifying even to my sister's waxer, who has been in the business for thirty-plus years.

It may not be the whole story, but the way she tells it it's become a battle of the sexes: Men ask their girlfriends to wax. Girlfriends respond, "I'll do it, but only if you do it too." And then the men go out and do just that.

Anybody else vote for a truce??

Step it up, Americans

It's time to admit it: I have a serious weakness for foreign men. I have hemmed and hawed when people accused me of it in the past, scoffed when my college friend J joked about the "United Nations of Heathen," said it was just a coincidence that my two serious boyfriends were both European, and claimed to like American men just as much as the next girl. But I just don't.

And you know why? It's because American men are subpar, or at least the ones who are asking me out are. My French ex, La Moustache, was no prize winner, either; I'm the first to admit that. But American men are awkward and unchivalrous when it comes to wooing women, and they need to learn a lesson or two from the foreigners.

Last week,when I had nearly given up all hope on OKCupid, I had my worst experience to date: I asked a guy out who I had been corresponding with for a couple of weeks, and he responded, “You seem really great, but I'm only interested in dating scientists and engineers.” Um, excuse me? Why have you been wasting my time, in that case? And, can you imagine if I informed non-white suitors that I'm only interested in dating people of my own race? Or what if I refused to date anyone who's not a teacher? What a horrible world we would live in if people only ever spent time with people exactly like them. Thanks for sparing me the pain of a boring date with you and your small mind.

But the very next day, maybe because I had hit OKCupid rock bottom, or maybe because I had just shelled out $75 on a Match subscription, I got a short email, half in French and half in English, from a mysterious, handsome stranger. Mysterious because his profile was virtually empty. Still, I wrote back, feeling guilty because he's French and my Wise Woman forbade me to go out with European men.

Imagine my relief when I received his reply and realized that he is in fact French Canadian. Not only is it not forbidden for me to go out with him, but it is also a chance to rectify one of the great regrets of my life: that I never dated a Quebecois man despite having lived in the province of Quebec for four years.

Anyway, the point of all this is that in his three messages to me he has been flirtatious and sweet in a way that no one else in my 8 months on dating websites has been. I offered to come to his neighborhood for our date tomorrow; he said he'd be happy to come to mine, and made it sound like it would be a fun adventure for him. (You have no idea how many men cluelessly suggest a date in their neighborhood bar without thinking about my hour-long commute to get there. Or maybe they do think about it but just don't care.) Instead of saying, “Wanna grab a beer sometime?” he told me that he'd love to have the opportunity to meet me. He complimented me on my fascinating profile.

It's not that my French Canadian suitor's messages are so amazing. It's just that all the others I get are so very not amazing. Maybe American men should have a new required college seminar on the art of wooing. I usually go into first dates with low expectations and a feeling of dread in my belly, and it's nice to be excited for once. And it really didn't take that much to make me feel excited.

In other news, the universe has been throwing me a lot of random opportunities with Babe in the Woods, my young, impoverished, handsome, soon-to-be-former co-worker, and I've been passing up on them. For instance, I drove by him the other day on the street. It was raining. He was huddled miserably in his raincoat. I had no place in particular I needed to be. It was the perfect moment to offer him a lift, but instead I kept right on driving. Then yesterday, I ran into a co-worker of Babe's who I am friendly with. “I was just getting drinks with all the people I work with,” she told me. “They're all still there, across the street in that bar. I'm the only one who left.” I could have stopped by, but I didn't. Why? Babe was fun to flirt with. He was fun to write about in my blog. And I think I'd just like to keep him as a cute, flirtatious memory.

Now, if he were from Mexico or Poland it would probably be a different story...