Pottery Crush

Lots has been written about how certain aspects of social life as an adult are harder than they are when you're a kid or a teenager -- making friends, for instance. I consider myself extremely lucky that this has not been my challenge in life. However, one thing I do miss about being young is that up to my early 20s, I never had any problem finding people to crush on.

I got my first crush at age 4 (or maybe that's just the first one I can remember). It was on my sister's 7-year-old friend/boyfriend, and our mutual babysitter reported to my mom that I kept wrestling with him and sitting on him (it's always been hard for me to not come on too strong when I like someone). This was followed by a long string of crushes, most lasting several years. From ages 5 to 11 I was obsessed with my classmate, T, who had handsome dark eyes and a bad-boy reputation; these days he's my friend on Facebook and writes inappropriate comments on many of my photos and appears to work in the porn industry. During my senior year in high school I came home every night and talked incessantly at the dinner table about my high school English teacher, and signed up to do a month-long study of William Faulkner just so I could spend more time with him. I still have the photo my dad took at graduation of the two of us together. At age 18 I traveled to Italy and filled an entire journal not with my reflections about my first experience abroad or the difficulties of learning a new language or the great art I was exposed to or all the new foods I was discovering, but rather fawnings about my painting teacher, l'Artista.

In the summer of 2003 I moved to Brooklyn and worked at a kitchenware shop for a couple of months and fell for a handsome Puerto Rican who lived with his beautiful girlfriend and their kids in the boonies of Brooklyn. In 2005 I had a short-lived (except in my memory, in which he lived on) crush on a handsome Costa Rican man who worked at an ecotourism resort I stayed at and was one of many, many sons of the owner. I thought he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen and had trouble breathing normally around him, and I didn't want to believe it when my sister said that he was married (based on the fact that he wore a gold band on his ring finger -- circumstantial evidence, I told her).

Since then, there has been a long dry spell. I've met a few men on the way who I've tried to nurture crush feelings for, but really, you shouldn't have to force it. Crushes aren't a *necessary* part of life, of course, but they certainly add spice to it. The best ones are when you're friends with the crushee, there's a nice amount of flirting going on, you obviously find each other attractive, but you know nothing is ever going to happen.

Which is exactly the kind of crush I have these days: Pottery Crush. PC and I have been in the same class for the past year and a half, so we see each other once a week like clockwork. He's handsome and outgoing and very nice. He plays golf and works in real estate and is, in many ways, very conventional. We usually sit across from each other to make conversation easy (I don't like to sit next to him because I also have a pottery inferiority complex and it makes me feel bad to see our pots next to each other -- he's incredibly talented). He occasionally buys me a soda and always compliments me on my outfits at the end of the night, when I change out of my mud-spattered clothes. He loves music and recommends good concerts to me, and as far as I can tell there is not a single band in the world whose music he isn't familiar with. Sometimes he gives me rides in his SUV (one of several reasons we could never actually date). When a Boston sports team has a big win or loss, I think of him, probably watching the game from his front-row season ticket seat or perhaps from one of those huge, crazy sports bars I hate near Fenway (another reason we could never date).

Nonetheless, I am so very grateful for his existence. People are complicated and relationships are hard, and it's nice to once or twice a week interact with someone who you don't have a complex relationship with. Someone who you can pretend is perfect because you don't know him well enough to see his flaws, who you can put on a little bit of a pedestal and flirt with innocently, knowing nothing will ever come of it.

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."

Eating well

When I told my sister that my Theradate was taking me to Oleana, she rapidly fired a series of questions at me:

"How did you get him to agree to take you there?!"

"Does he know how expensive it is?"

and lastly,

"Is he paying?"

Despite my sister's assumptions about my conniving personality, it was actually entirely his idea. And he turned down my repeated offers to help out with the bill.

I came away with a *very* full belly (the waitress actually warned us we had ordered too much food), as well as a number of mini take-away containers filled with deliciousness. It will be a strange moment tomorrow when I invite my two young friends who I have a lunch date with every Wednesday into my room with their school lunches consisting of hot dogs and baked beans, then whip out my leftovers. "I have mussels with deep-fried hot peppers," I'll say, and give them a small bite to taste, if they're adventurous enough. "Oh, and this? It's a small bird with crunchy bones, called a quail. It's accompanied by toasted pistachios and dried barberries."

A walk in the park

I was only half-listening as my sister and my friend M. made plans to meet for breakfast last weekend, but gradually some of the details started to sink in.

"Ok, so we'll meet at the bakery and grab breakfast. What time?"

"Dunno... How about 10?"

At that point I had to interject.

"Guys," I interrupted, "sorry, but I'm going to have to put the kibosh on this. I have a date at the bakery at 10. So you're going to have to find another spot to eat breakfast."

"Oh shoot. But that's the only place that serves gluten-free goodies," protested M., who is in the midst of an elimination diet.

"What if we meet there at 9?" suggested my sister.

"Yes, and then we can decide whether or not to leave by 10, or hang around a bit and take a look at the Young Hottie," replied M.

So I was relieved when I arrived at the bakery a few minutes after 10, did a scan of the room, and saw no sign of my friends. Young Hottie and I grabbed a couple of baked goods and headed into the park. At the first intersection, he suggested we walk down an obscure path I had never noticed before.

Not ten minutes later, I heard a snort coming from down the path from us, and when I looked up who should I see sauntering toward me but my sister and M, giggling and averting their eyes from me. I followed suit, and thankfully my date was too busy chatting to notice anything amiss.

Sigh. The hazards of dating local.

August on the Internet

Things have been slow on the Internet lately (hence the lack of blog posts). Actually, a better word to describe how things have been is "depressing." I've been getting a bunch of messages that I'm tempted to respond to only because I think I could get a good blog post out of it, but I don't because it's not worth the pain. A few examples:

I am an experience Dom in Boston. I'd love to get coffee or hit a Patriots game :) I play bass guitar and do stand up comedy. What's your messenger? 

Master Frank

So many questions. Is it typical for an experienced Dom to suggest coffee or a football game for a first date? Is his stand-up comedy about being a Dominator? Is Dominator even the right word? And does he really think an elementary school teacher is the person who'd be likely to take him up on this offer??

Then there was this one:

Hi, 
Wow!! Your Bio made me smile all the way through. Your more than what any man could ever hope for all wrapped in one!!! I enjoyed reading about how you enjoy life. It sounds like you love life's little pleasures, and you express it very well. I didn't get the memo regarding women like you exist. I have heard story's about a perfectly well rounded women. Then again I heard stories of Bigfoot. There's only a grainy picture for proof. ahahhahahahhhahha
You sound like an amazing lady. 
Good luck on your search. 

I hope your having a great day. 

This from a dead ringer for Fabio. Any bets as to how many women he sent this message to?

Then there was the pithy classic:

Dude. You're hot

to which I was tempted to respond: Dude. You sound dumb

In addition to these charming missives, I've been going on a few dates. Most of the dates are the type where I am sure 15-30 seconds in that this guy is not for me, and he probably reaches the same conclusion shortly thereafter, possibly because I'm not at my most charming because I am turned off on many levels. We go through the motions, both wishing we could cut things short but feeling like that would be too rude. Often as we're talking my mind drifts to Leif Ericson, and I think how much more I liked him than the guy in front of me, then berate myself for still thinking about him. At the end, we awkwardly say goodbye with no mention of a second date.

I did have one date recently that was different. I received his message while I was on vacation with my family in Maine, and immediately called my sister over to say, "Can you believe this guy emailed me??" Not only is he four years younger than me, but he also looks like he just stepped off the pages of a JCrew catalogue. Pearly white teeth, pale blue eyes, rugged jaw. And he's tall and fit, and to top it all off he's also a really good guy who loves to compost, go on long bike adventures, cook dinner with his parents, go hiking, and he used to be a schoolteacher! I would think that a guy like that would have large-chested, leggy 25-year-olds chasing him down the streets of Boston.

So I was not thinking about Leif during my date with the young hottie. Instead, I was thinking, "I cannot believe I am out on a date with his young hottie. And he's actually nice and funny, too." I didn't come away from it feeling super excited or like it would be easy to imagine his as my boyfriend, but I did have a good time with him.

There was no mention of a second date, and I haven't heard from him since. But my motto for the day, courtesy of a text message I received from my new roommate, is "Be bold." So I am going to go ahead and email him. I'll be shocked if he wants to go out with me again, but what the hell, I've got nothing to lose.

Taking our time to the finish line

I was in my first-ever race today. It was a canoe relay race. I roped a few people into doing it with me, including my sister.

As we waited for our canoe to come in from the first leg, we watched other teams' transitions. They were trying to go as fast as they could, rushing in and out of boats and getting wet in the process. "No need to hurry like that," we reminded each other. "We don't want to risk getting our feet wet. We'll just take our time."

"And also, no apologizing," I told my sister, reminding her of an article she read a while back that said women apologize too much. "If we screw up, we screw up. No need to be all apologetic about it. If we apologize by mistake, we have to follow it by saying 'I rock!'" (This is a technique a school is using to help girls feel less apologetic.)

"Let's not go crazy at the beginning," my sister added. "We have to go five miles. We should save our strength and take it nice and slow."

We followed all of our own advice. During our hour-plus canoe, we passed one boat. They had veered off course and got stuck in the bushes on the side of the river. A few minutes later, they passed us.

At the end of our leg, there was a bridge filled with people. I was getting tired, so I was glad there would be someone to cheer for us. But as we got closer, they kept quiet. "Hey, you guys are supposed to be cheering," I told them. They complied.

"We're going to run into the bridge," my sister said from behind me. "You're talking to them instead of following my instructions."

"Sorry," I replied. "I rock!"

I think my family is not very competitive.  Maybe we should stick to recreational paddling.

Bad dates

When people ask about my bad dating experiences, I often wish I had better stories. I never went out with a sweaty, burpy guy, like my sister, or with a man who casually mentioned that he was planning to dabble in prostitution later that afternoon, like my friend M. My worst date was years ago, when I went out with a guy I met at a party in Williamsburg. He was from Maine, and an old friend of someone I met once or twice who seems like a decent person and is a bit of a celebrity in the progressive political world, plus I had beer goggles, so I thought he seemed great.

When we met a week later, though, I quickly realized my mistake. By the time we were ready to head out of my apartment for a walk, I was so horrified by the thought of spending an evening with him that I briefly contemplated putting his jacket in the hallway and locking my apartment door when he went to the bathroom (the bathroom was off a common hallway, tenement-style). As we walked next to the Gowanus Canal, he told me that he liked to hang out by the East River on Staten Island and throw tennis balls into the water. For fun.

He had just enough money in his bank account, he told me, to pay for movie tickets for both of us. But then he got hungry, so we had to stop at a store so he could buy chips. Then he only had enough money for one movie ticket, so I got my own. It was a long, painful evening.

I had a similar experience last week during my third and final date with the Hipster Librarian. He suggested a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, a fine suggestion that showed sensitivity to my interests. However, once there a side to his personality came out that I had glimpsed once or twice before: He is an insufferable know-it-all, and he takes himself way too seriously. For instance, in front of a Sargent sketch: "Isn't it fascinating how the style is so different from his other works! I would hardly know it as a Sargent. It's positively Chavannes-esque." When we arrived at Rembrandt's self-portrait: "Ah, Rembrandt. Only 23 years old. At that age, he still may have had delusions of himself as a good-looking man, but not for much longer." I kid you not. Again, I had the urge to race out of the museum without looking back.

The next day, he added me as a friend on Facebook, and I looked through his photos and saw lots of artsy shots of himself looking pensive. And I knew I had to move on. So I sent him the Breakup Email and bid him adieu.

I think he'd appreciate the fact that I bid him adieu rather than just saying bye.

Rejection

So far during this round of dating, I feel good about my stats. Until last Monday, I had gone out on ten dates with four guys, all of whose company I enjoyed, and all of whom wanted to go on second dates with me. It didn't work out with any of them (mostly because the only one I was really interested in was Doctor O), but still, I enjoyed most of the dates and felt like they were a worthwhile use of my time.

On Monday, though, the inevitable happened: I went out with a guy who wasn't into me. After four enthusiastic suitors, it came as a bit of a shock, and it took me a while to clue in to his disinterestedness. At the end of the date, though, it became crystal clear. We walked out of the bar, I turned to my date and started to say, "That was fun!"

He interrupted me when "fun!" was halfway out of my mouth. "Nice meeting you. Good night," he said, turned, and walked away.

I was hurt and a bit horrified by his rudeness. I've gone out with many guys I'm not into, but I'm always polite to them and pretend like I had a good time -- mostly because usually I did have a good time, I just knew I didn't want to see them again. My strategy in this situation is to pretend I'm into them, then when they contact me I send them a polite breakup email (composed by my sister, Ms. Swamp) that goes something like this:

It was great to meet you the other day. You seem like a smart, thoughtful, outdoorsy guy, and a great teacher. I didn't, however, really feel a spark, whatever that means -- the more I do this, the more I trust my gut instinct on this stuff. I don't want to keep taking up your time if I don't feel that potential, but good luck with everything.

They usually take it very well, and I feel that this approach makes the situation as pleasant as possible for everyone involved. In fact, I half considered letting my Monday date know that the experience of going out with him was unpleasant for me, and suggesting he take an approach closer to mine.

On the same night as my date, my friend Surfer Girl went out on a first date, too. She texted me afterwards: "My date was awesome!!! How was yours?"

Unfortunately, it turned out that her date was, in fact, adopting my approach. He wasn't into her either, but while he was with her he pretended to be. By the end of the week, Surfer Girl was obsessively checking her email every five minutes and questioning what she had done wrong.

Hearing Surfer Girl's sad tale, which so many of us have experienced at one point or another, made me wonder if my date's approach wasn't so bad after all. I wasn't that into him, so in this case I wouldn't have minded in the least not hearing from him. But if I had been into him, I would have found out right away that the feeling wasn't reciprocated, and avoided those torturous days of waiting.

In any case, I'm pretty sure I don't have the cojones to reject someone to their face, so I'm going to stick with my approach. Which reminds me, I need to send the breakup email to my date from last weekend.

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.

Frocks and Frets

When I was 3 years old, my mom took me to the candy store in our town and told me I could choose one thing. ANY one thing. This store was, like, the Maine version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with gigantic chocolate moose heads galore, delicious, mouth watering chocolate covered blueberries, those gummy coke bottles that now disgust me but seemed so yummy when I was young, saltwater taffy, etc. (I worked there as a teenager so I know their selection pretty well. Lotta accidents involving chocolate dropped on the floor happened while I was their employee.)

When I couldn't decide right away, my mom told me I had two minutes to make up my mind.

At the end of the two minutes, she took me out of the store. I was kicking and screaming, and I did not have any candy. The candy store lady remembers the incident to this day.

I wish I could say my decision-making skills have improved in the past 29 years, but really, I can't say that they have. Most of my life decisions I've made pretty much by playing some version of eeny-meeny-miney-moe, and even minor decisions sometimes paralyze me.

For instance, I've been shopping recently for a dress to wear as bridesmaid at my sister's wedding in August. I'm the only bridesmaid, so I have full authorization to pick whatever dress I want -- any color, style, etc. I went shopping a couple of weeks ago, and found two dresses that I liked: one cost $240 and was on final sale; the other cost $125 and could be returned for a full refund.

I was able to narrow it down to the two dresses, no problem. But that's where I became totally stuck. So, I did the logical thing and took pictures of myself in both dresses, bought the dress that was cheaper and returnable, and then sent the photos to everyone I know to ask their advice.

Turns out that everyone was on pretty much the same page. They all liked the more expensive dress (which I'll call #2), NOT the one pictured to the right that I had bought (#1). My friends Miami Nice and Ms. B both voted for #2. My mentor at school ooohed over the first dress, until she saw the second one and liked it much better. My mom sent the following cryptic email regarding dress #1: "Hi Heathen,
I like this dress so so. It is very short and I think I prefer one color.
Love, Mom."

There was just one exception... MY SISTER. The bride. The one who I'd be wearing the dress for. She liked dress #1, and wasn't crazy about #2. At this point, I should have just asked myself which one *I* liked better, but I was so divorced from my own perceptions that I had no idea. I threw caution to the wind and spent $240 on the second dress, figuring that it would probably look better on me if 99% of my friends preferred it.

Dreamy is moving in in a couple of weeks for the summer, until his September move to New York, another major life decision that I've worried about at times (not as big a decision as what dress to wear to my sister's wedding, of course!). He will be the third boyfriend I've moved in with, if you count my temporary stints at my ex-boyfriend l'Artista's. We have talked a lot about how we both want things to work out between us, but we are also very different, and there are plenty of times that I worry that things won't work out and that I'm being naive by hoping that they will. And then I worry that if I'm worried after 9 months things are definitely doomed. While Dreamy seems very well-adjusted on the surface, underneath he's got some heavy baggage that he doesn't readily show. I made a joke the other night about how he seems like an open book, but actually he's an open book written with invisible ink; Dreamy thought it was very apt. But when I think about my own baggage that Dreamy has been so kind about, and how much I care about him, and how wonderful it is that he's able to talk about his baggage with me, I feel very lucky and hopeful.

Sometimes I wish I had a life coach who would tell me what to do, which dress will make me look best, whether Dreamy is a hopeless cause, what I should do with my career, even what I should eat for breakfast (sometimes I sit and stare at the choices for a good ten minutes). Since I don't have one, I guess I'll just rely on my imperfect instincts and maybe a few rounds of eeny meeny miney moe, hope that I look okay at my sister's wedding, and that the fact that Dreamy really loves me and wants to make things work is enough. Because, as I learned from my mother when I was three, it's better to make a decision than to stay on the fence. People who stay on the fence end up with nothing.

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.

Rapprochement

ra-prōsh-man. n. Derives from the French word rapprocher, "to bring together".

1) Establishment of or state of having cordial relations.
2) A human developmental milestone usually occurring between 15 to 24 months. The child moves away from and then returns to the mother for reassurance.

Definition #2 might be a bit of a stretch, but taken down a notch, it could possibly describe what is happening recently between me and my ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He was such an important figure in my life that in some ways he was almost like a parent. Somehow, La Moustache managed to be such a douchebag during our breakup that he made l'Artista look good by comparison and changed the way I've been thinking about that relationship since it ended a few years ago. I realize that the fact that he's not quite as horrible as your other ex doesn't really constitute a good reason to be friends, but I thought about it a lot and felt there might be some value for me in trying to establish a relationship.

Still, each time he emails me it somehow takes me weeks before I feel ready to write back. I'm not really sure why. It's not just that I'm busy, although that is part of it. When I read his emails I feel strongly that I need to close them and not reply to them for a while.

So when I received an email in early November, in which he told me that he'd like to talk on the phone and specifically he'd like to discuss our breakup, which he's always felt bad about, I mentally put it in the category of "things to think about later." I finally turned my thoughts back to it yesterday afternoon. L'Artista didn't say why he felt bad about our breakup, but I suspected that he thought it was unfair of me to cut him off so completely. When we broke up, I refused to take his calls, read his emails, or give him any way to contact me. I put a block on my email and hung up when he figured out how to call me so I couldn't see who it was. Of course this was very, very hard for both of us. But I had to do it because after months and months of trying to break up I realized this was the only way it was going to happen.

I carefully constructed my reply, telling him I would be happy to discuss the breakup, but reminding him that as we both know my memory is much better than his. "I don't know how you remember our breakup," I said diplomatically, "but in case you remember it differently from how I remember it, I hope you are able to listen to what I have to say about it. Of course, I will listen to you, too. Feel free to give me a call."

A scant 40 minutes later, I was in the car driving to dinner with my sister. We had just pulled over so she could hop out and buy a sixpack when my phone rang. My sister rooted around in my bag to find my phone, and my heart sank a little when she reported that the number was unlisted. When I answered and heard l'Artista's voice, I had a sudden, irrational urge to hide the fact that he was calling from my sister, who still hadn't exited the car. (As it turns out, this was utterly useless since she told me later that she had recognized his voice the moment I answered.) "Oh, hi!" I said casually when I heard his voice, still as familiar as the back of my hand even though I haven't heard it in over four years, "hold on a sec." I tried to make it sound as normal as possible, as though I were actually talking with someone who speaks English.

I hoped Ms. Swamp would disappear quickly, but she was looking for her purse. "Who is it?" she asked, her curiosity obviously piqued.

"Get out of the car!" I hissed back, abandoning any pretense that it was a normal phone call. She threw me a quizzical look, grabbed her purse and left, at which point I told l'Artista that I was with my sister and couldn't talk. We made plans to talk another time.

We finally talked this evening, and it turns out my fears about his memories of our breakup were utterly unfounded. He feels awful about it, and says he feels that he went out of his way to create problems that he then couldn't face. I think he's right, and that it was a very weak, bad moment for a person who is overall decent and caring.

It was pleasant, if a bit surreal, to hear his voice. Mostly it felt as though no time at all has passed since we spoke last, whereas in reality my entire life has changed since then. It feels as though he knows me so well, but in fact there are so many things he doesn't know about me, since in many ways I'm not the same person I was when we broke up. Whether or not I know him is hard to say.

I may have the chance to explore this further soon. When we said goodbye, I told him to feel free to call again if he wants to. But we also might do more than talk on the phone soon, since I received the astonishing news a few weeks ago that my parents participated in a raffle and WON A WEEKLONG VACATION IN A VILLA IN TUSCANY. Crazy, right?? And actually it's not one villa but two, and it's on a vineyard, and there is a pool. In the photos it looks absolutely gorgeous. It's probable that we'll be going next July, if the dates work out.

Still not sure how I feel about actually seeing l'Artista, but if there's one thing I'm certain I'm excited about it's eating one of his amazing meals. My stomach is growling in anticipation already.

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?

Hindsight

Slinky gchatted me yesterday afternoon as I ate my turkey sandwich in a cafe and planned the schoolweek ahead. "I think you should cancel your date with Dreamy II," she advised. "Do what you want. But it seems strange to go out with someone while you're dating someone as regularly as you've been dating Dreamy I. If I were either DI or DII, I wouldn't like it."

I thought she had some good points, so I consulted with my sister, who was conveniently located across the table from me. Ms. Swamp seemed a bit more on the fence than Slinky, but agreed that if I felt like I was forcing myself I shouldn't do it. So I crafted a kind email to Dreamy II informing him that I had to cancel, explained my discomfort, and asked if I could get in touch with him at a later time if I am still single. Hopefully my email was nice enough that he'd consider it.

When I saw Dreamy over the weekend I studiously avoided the topic of exclusivity, thinking it was best to wait until after my date with DII to bring it up. Now, in hindsight, I realize that a better order of events would have been: talk to DI, feel him out, THEN decide whether to cancel my date with DII based on conversation with DI. Well, unfortunately this ideal chronology of events did not occur to me until too late. In any case, it's not a debacle; if things don't go my way when I talk to DI, I think DII will still be on board for an outing.

All of this makes me wonder why it always seems to be women who bring up the topic of where a relationship is heading. It's not like Dreamy is giving off vibes of feeling totally confident about things between us; quite the contrary. When I told him on the weekend, "If you're tired we can leave dinner on the early side," he heard, "If you're tired you can go back home early." When he got back from his trip abroad and emailed me to accept my dinner invitation, I didn't respond for a couple of days. 36 hours after his acceptance, he emailed me again to ask if he was still invited or if I had changed my mind. I imagine he would feel better having a clearer idea of where he stands with me, too. Still, it never seems to be the boys who bring the topic up -- even the ones who are experts at having Difficult Conversations.

Change of heart

By the time Dreamy arrived at my house yesterday, I was thoroughly annoyed with him. Not only did he not email me the whole time he was away, but he also did not phone me after he got back; moreover, he lost his car keys and ended up being THREE HOURS late for our date, leaving me to make my sister's birthday dinner cake alone. As the afternoon progressed I began to feel more and more glad that I had my date with Dreamy II lined up as a backup option.

And then Dreamy arrived, kissed me, told me he'd missed me and it had been way too long since we last saw each other, and within about 30 seconds I had forgiven him everything. He's a space cadet; I know that. He told me a story yesterday about one day when he was a kid and he got confused and thought in the middle of the day that school was over, walked home and sat patiently on his front porch, wondering why the door was locked. At the end of the story he concluded, "I was spacey then, and I'm spacey now." But what can I say, I like him, spaciness and all.

So we went over to my sister's house and celebrated her birthday with fondue dinner, and Dreamy made his debut and liked everyone, and everyone liked Dreamy. And then we went back to my house and he met my soon-to-be-former neighbor the Cat Lady, and then... well, let's just say I have a very red chin once again.

Approximately a year ago, I was sitting outside at the Audubon Center in Boston reading the classic book Difficult Conversations. Specifically, I was reading the chapter about people who refuse to have conversations, and how to work issues out with them. At that point I knew that my relationship with La Moustache was kaput, but I was trying to figure out how to have conversations that would close things in a way that would feel as good as possible to me. He refused to have any conversations, and went so far as to suggest I get anger management therapy when I expressed anger at his treatment of me. My feeling was it would be unhealthy of me NOT to feel angry.

Obviously, difficult conversations happen at the end of relationships or in the middle, not at the very beginning. Still, it feels good to be dating someone who not only doesn't avoid difficult conversations, but is a bit of a difficult conversations guru. He must have read the book at least 20 times, and was quite impressed that most of my friends have read it (yay friends!).

I feel a bit strange going out with Dreamy II at this point, but I'm going to go through with it. I have a feeling it's not going to progress past the one date, though.

Settling in

When my sister, Ms. Swamp, first read Dreamy's online profile a couple of months ago, her immediate reaction was: "Oh my god! Two very disorganized people together? That could be a recipe for disaster." (Dreamy described himself as disorganized.)

I wouldn't say that I am disorganized, per se, although compared to my sister I suppose I am (or you could put a less-positive spin on it and call it "anal" -- which, interestingly, was the first word she came up with to describe herself when I was having a little word retrieval problem the other day and said, "She's like... like you. What's that word?" I was thinking of something totally unrelated.). She is one of the most organized people I have ever met; she loves alphabetizing books by the author's last name, and she carefully enters all her expenses and purchases into an Excel document. These are not activities that interest me in any shape or form. Still, I am pretty good at managing my money, I'm getting close to finishing paying off my student loans which were supposed to take 15 years or so to pay off, and neither my classroom nor my bedroom are chaotic.

I would describe myself as laid-back, and Dreamy is the same way. We are both spacey sometimes; we both started new jobs on the same day, and are immersed in our jobs and have a lot of brainpower taken up by them. The other evening, I screwed up the timing of our date and promised Slinky I could meet her for a quick drink beforehand and was late. Likewise, sometimes Dreamy forgets about commitments he has, like the High Holidays last week, and has to change our plans (although in that case he thought he couldn't get together, and it turned out he could). Or last week he left his backpack in a coffeeshop and asked me wistfully, "Does this kind of thing happen to normal people?" (Yes, it does, especially when they're a little overwhelmed.) It's pretty much a given that we will both be 15 minutes or so late for every date, but still make sure to text each other updates on our E.T.A. This would drive Ms. Swamp absolutely batty, but it works for me. We are also both excited about our new jobs, and it's nice that we're on the same page in that respect. Last week he voiced the exact sentiment that's been going through my head recently: "I am loving my life right now."

When I was at Dreamy's house the other evening for our last date before his trip to a very far-off country, a shift occurred. Up until that point, I had been preparing myself emotionally to be disappointed by him. When he told me he'd call me last week, I fully expected him not to and was kinda shocked when my phone rang, even though he had repeated twice that he wanted to call me. Each time I didn't hear from him for a couple of days I started to think he was gone forever. My Wise Woman tells me this is normal, after my traumatic experience of being royally screwed over by someone I (very mistakenly) trusted last year.

Anyway, somehow last Tuesday I started to feel that I could relax. He just likes me. He is not going to tell me he'll call and then fail to. I like him, too. I feel very good when I am with him. It does not need to be any more complicated than that. I don't need to keep worrying about how soon he will contact me after a date or keeping track of who asked who out last time.

So far, I've managed to hold on to my relaxedness. I didn't wonder when I'd hear from him after our date, and was pleasantly surprised when a message entitled "Au revoir, mademoiselle!" appeared in my inbox telling me he can't wait to see me when he gets back. Let's hope this trend continues.

Cuffing up

The other day on Facebook, a status update with an unfamiliar phrase caught my eye:

Ooooooh baby... Do u not feel that cuffing weather outside right now????!! The season is in full effect!! How many of ya'll cuffed up right now?! Lmao S/O to all my couples that's cuffing up tonight!!! LOL

I had never heard the term "cuffing up" before, so I Googled it. According to urbandictionary.com, it means "to be in a relationship or flirtationship." And that's the story of how I discovered my new favorite phrase. It might be a common expression among some people, but not among my acquaintances; everyone I've floated it by so far has been unfamiliar with it.

Anyway, my Facebook friend is right. There is a chill in the air and a slight orange tinge to the trees, and people are indeed cuffing up left and right. The Sensitive Bostonian's Brother went on his very first OKCupid date the other evening, and is already cuffing up with this girl. I was at a party this weekend with two other newly-cuffed-up friends of friends. It's spreading like wildfire.

I too seem to be happily cuffed up, for the moment at least. I'm still not making any long-term plans with Dreamy, or calling him the B word (when did "boyfriend" become such a loaded word??). I had to remind several people this weekend that things are still very tenuous: my sister and Slinky asked, back to back, when they would get to meet him; the next day my dad posed the same question. When I told him it might be a while seeing as we've only been out four times, he made a comment along the lines of, "Oh, so it's been a four-date, 200-blog-post relationship so far." Yes, Dad, that's exactly right. It's a little condition called "diarrhea of the mouth" that I inherited from my mother.

In fact, Dreamy seemed to be thinking along the same lines as my sister, dad and Slinky, and sent me a text the other day asking if I would join him and a group of his friends for a viewing of Jaws. I agreed excitedly; in fact, I was so excited that I had trouble sleeping after receiving his text, like a kid on Christmas eve. A few hours later, though, he had to cancel: something had come up at work.

It's not a big deal, and I quickly overcame my disappointment and was glad for a restful evening at home. I need all of those I can get these days. He asked if we can have a phone date instead, and we planned to get together another evening this week, before he heads off to a far-off country for a 9-day work trip. Still, it was a reminder that, while I know that he is a very sweet guy, there are still many, many things I don't know about him. Like, if he really has time to have a girlfriend.

Prêt-à-porter

As Earl, the hurricane with buck teeth and a mullet, wends his way toward Massachusetts, it seems increasingly unlikely that Dreamy and I will be able to follow through with our plan to watch an outdoor movie in a park tonight. As an alternative, Dreamy invited me over to his place to watch a movie. Cuddling up with Dreamy and a movie as Earl unleashes his wrath sounds very... nice. However, I got a piece of sisterly advice yesterday from Ms. Swamp: "You've only been on two dates with him," she reminded me. "If you really like him, don't get too physical at this point."

Darn sisters! They're always ruining all the fun. But she's right, of course. Dreamy is a little bit old-fashioned (BUT not in the least bit paternalistic, my Wise Woman would be happy to know), and it's probably best to take things slowly. I plan to take him up on his offer to drive me back home after the movie. Still, I might wear my new Parisian underpants that my French cousins gave me for my birthday, just for good luck. (I haven't worn them yet because they seem so beautiful and delicate; I just take them out and gaze at them once in a while.)

So, my undergarment decisions have been made for the evening. But what else do I wear?? What is the proper attire when heading out for a date in the middle of a hurricane? A dress and my red child-size LLBean galoshes, perhaps?

The new bean

I was walking down the street with my sister, Ms. Swamp, last week, discussing plans for August. We were talking about the possibility of going to visit our grandmother in Idaho, and I said the first thing that popped into my mind: "But who will take care of Haricot?"

"Umm, Haricot is dead. Or maybe he's with the birds in Maine," my sister responded.

"Oops, I don't mean Haricot... I mean the new Haricot. Haricot Junior," I answered.

I need a name for my new little beanie so I don't keep accidentally calling him Haricot. He has his own identity, his own little personality. So far he seems most characterized by his babyish uncertainty; when I put my finger in front of him and say "Step up!" he looks at it, confused about what he should do. He flaps his wings and tries to fly, not totally successfully. Haricot never had a moment of uncertainty like that, partly because he was older and understood his body better.

I'm thinking that I'll continue the trend of vegetable/food names, possibly in Italian this time. Here are the submissions so far:

Cipolla or Cipollotto -- onion in Italian, my ex-boyfriend l'Artista's idea
Pomme -- apple in French, Slinky's idea
Persil -- parsley in French; cute, but might be too hard to say (that was always an issue with Haricot)
Pruneau -- the French word for prune, Le Canadien's idea
Fagiolo -- the Italian word for Haricot; too much?
Piccola -- l'Artista's old nickname for me, meaning 'little' in Italian; too sentimental?

Anyone have a preference among these or their own idea? Here's a photo to inspire you:

Awww. Isn't he sweet? He's kinda looking like a Parsley/Persil to me right now, despite the difficult pronunciation. Two weeks till adoption day...

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.