Monthly Archives: September 2009

That’s Cupcake Top to you.

Posted on September 23, 2009 | 1 Comment
I will use b/w images so as not to illicit binge eating.

I will use b/w images so as not to illicit binge eating.

I’m just not sure why, with all of this lack of exercising and not much eating and drinking in moderation, I haven’t dropped this fluffy cupcake top. (Have I mentioned the amazing chardonnay I had here last night? Holy cannoli it was good. Buttery delish.) Yes, cupcake top. Not muffin top. This reduction of square footage in my jeans that made walking to work today in a ridiculous post-summer heat wave feel like my legs were trapped in three layers of moist sausage casings is most definitely a result of dessert thrice a day including but not limited to cupcakes, quiches, croissants, and the most amazing ice cream you will ever eat in one sitting. And divine pumpkin bread pudding, also from here. Skirts and dresses all summer did me wrong because I went without the 3-day-a-week jean habit to keep me in check. I just need to fall in love, get dumped or maybe contract a mild case of stomach flu (no swine, thanks) where I puke in my food dish like my cat just did to lose the offending LBs.

This is all neither here nor there—except that dating when you’re feeling all plumpy is the pits. So I will go to the gym.

[47 minutes later]

Phew. That was a a great workout. Cardio for 30 minutes and not 1/10 of a hot second longer—check. Ogled the cute guy with long blond mane (trust me, it works on him)—check. Avoided running into hot guy who kissed good but is possibly stunted at 13 years old—check. Lost 5 pounds—check.

Just kidding.

That would be cool though.

I’m thinking puppet show for my next post. I think you’re going to like it. A lot.

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Posted in Dating, Relationships

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Be careful what you wish for.

Posted on September 23, 2009 | 1 Comment
Seriously. It's so simple guys.

Seriously. It's so simple guys.

I have a fantasy about how I meet the love of my life. It’s a lot like that perfume commercial from the 80s when the man chases the woman down the street with the flowers that he nabs from a street vendor who doesn’t seem to mind. It’s all in the name of love. So my fantasy is basically that, and I’ve thrown in peonies because it’s my favorite flower and Sam Cooke (Shared via AddThis), because, hello, Sam Cooke makes me melt like lobstah butter.

So anyway, this kind of happened yesterday. I was walking to the metro on my way to pick up my car from the shop because it had to go there after a brick wall fell on the bumper. That’s when a short, squat, fifty-something Costa Rican, said good morning to me. I smiled and said good morning back because I was feeling good. I had a great date the evening before during which I canoodled on outdoor lawn furniture over limoncello and lavender cocktails here. And I was rocking my favorite new-to-me dress from my favorite new vintage shop.

Down the escalator and I hear someone hustle behind me. The little man. Not exactly chasing me down. But he’s catching up. His name is Jose he tells me. Jose also wants to tell me how pretty I look. How I’m “precioso” or something. (Sweet.) He takes my hand and kisses it. (Teetering on the fine line between sweet and creepioso, but I let it slide because I’m trying to go with the moment, to graciously accept the compliment). Then Jose won’t let go. And insists we have coffee despite the fact that I tell him I have a boyfriend whom I love very much. (A lie, yes, and not one I wanted to resort to, but he forced me. I would not allow Jose to engulf my hand and wrist in his mouth. Though he did have soft lips.) Jose recited poetry. He offered to take me to the car shop. He touched my arm, then brushed my upper chest, not dangerously close to nipple necessarily, but not okay all the same. Jose needed a good cheek slap, is what he needed. Instead, I turned off gracious and cranked up bitch and told him firmly and not apologetically it wasn’t going to happen, to have a good day.

If he’d had peonies, maybe. MAYBE. (Not really, but peonies would have been a nice touch.)

Normally, I’d say this interaction doesn’t count toward fantasy fulfilled because in my fantasy, the chaser downer is h-o-t, not s-q-u-a-t. Normally, I’d say it’s hard to be a woman because men are leg-humping lunatics raging on testosterone without a buffer chemical like a nice cc of estrogen in sight.

But I won’t. I will, in fact, say the fantasy has been fulfilled. Not in the ideal way, mind you. But a man has chased me down. Check. Now back to reality. And that reality is a new bag of fanc makeup I was lucky enough to stumble upon last night. I have a one extra shimmery gun metal eye shadow and one extra sheer pink lipstick that I will give to someone (anyone) who comments on my blog.

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Posted in Dating, Love

Dating Therapy: 13 Dollah

Posted on September 21, 2009 | 1 Comment
Only acceptable from strangers.

Only acceptable from strangers.

I’ve been known to read a self-help book or 10 in my day. But none of the advice dispensed in these books could ever compete with email dating therapy. It is, in a word, money. You buy a one-time-advice package for $12.95 online, then you email your question/problem. Less than 12 hours later, you get a personal, thought-out response from Nancy Slotnick, who is a dating coach and wrote a book about dating. (The book is good. It was one of my faves.) I used her a couple times when I was writing my own book (that I will shamelessly promote until I can afford an apartment with another room), and it was some of the best money I ever spent.

I enjoyed this email therapy because it gave my mom, dad, sister and friends a break from me whining about my constant and, let’s face it, trivial dating mishaps. And it’s immediate. (That Nancy is fast on the uptake!) And it’s nice to enlist a stranger to do the pull-yourself-together-woman cheek slap. Because often, all we need is a good smack across the face to snap us out of the lies and fairy tales we talk ourselves into, when really, he’s just not that into you. (Don’t bother with the movie. I give the book a C+/B- as long as it’s read with 5 grains of potent sea salt.)

And now, a few bonus tips from me. Potential and probable indicators that he’s just not that into you:

1. Calls you “dude” or “man.”

2. Doesn’t call at all.

3. Tells you he’s not looking for a relationship.

4. Does not spend the night after making out because he has to go home to feed his cat.

5. When you visit him, he spends the first 10 minutes clipping his toenails and not hugging you. (For long-D relationships.)

6. When you plan a trip together, he books bunk beds at a hostel and refuses to sleep in your bunk with you. He says it’s because he doesn’t want to make anyone else in the room full of sweaty feet and stinky socks feel uncomfortable, and you wake up alone at 7 a.m. to the obnoxious crackling of a shrink-wrap-happy couple. Not okay.

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Posted in Dating, Love, Relationships

Tagged , ,

42 Years

Posted on September 16, 2009 | 1 Comment
Veuve, mais ouis.

Veuve, mais oui.

That’s how long my mom and dad have been together. 42 years. Forty two years. Forty two years. That is a mighty, mighty long time. It’s their anniversary today. They are in Sedona, Arizona, on a road trip through the Southwest. They started at my uncle’s house in San Diego, where we celebrated my uncle and his partner being together 35 years/married for 1. I come from a long line of married-forever types. My dad’s sister was with her husband for 50 years before she died. And my mom’s brother has been with my my aunt for 41. And my grandparents on both sides—if they were still alive, they’d be together, too. Which I suppose is why I’m so freaking picky. Can you imagine being with someone for 42 years? I’ve never been in a relationship more than 3 years. And we had a 6 month break. And we didn’t even live together.

But anyway. Back to my giddy, silly parents who are still so in love despite the head shaking, eye rolling, nitpicking and silent treatments (truthfully, I think my dad loves it when my mom plays that game). I hope that, when I’m their age, I’m on a road trip with my husband who rents a Mustang on the eve of his 70th birthday because he feels like it, and I’m dragging my down pillow across 5 mammoth states while he shows me the time of my life.

Last night, they had dinner at some local place with a piano player, and of course my mom had a sing along the whole night—her favorite past time outside of napping and reading trash romance novels. Tonight, it’s French cuisine. Then they’re off to Santa Fe. Has it always been marital bliss for them? Um, no. Not when there’s selective listening and martyrdom in the mix. But perhaps 24/7 happiness isn’t what it’s all about. Maybe it’s about finding your way out of it all, still together, still holding hands, still smiling secretly and knowingly with the unwritten understanding that you have each other.

Here’s to you John and Mary Anna. I raise my glass to you.

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And then he sniffed me.

Posted on September 15, 2009 | 1 Comment
It wasn't quite this bad.

It wasn't quite like this.

It’s true. I was sniffed. On a date. Once. We’d been canoodling, and there were some kisses to the ear. And then, as I turned away…[sniff]. “Did you just sniff me?” said I. “Yes I did,” said he. And then he smiled at me. And the tooth gap. Yes. I liked it. And I’m pretty sure I wore a dab of perfume that night, which hopefully disguised the fact that I probably wasn’t wearing deodorant. Sometimes I forget.

There’s something about the way certain people smell. I dated a guy once who had the nicest aroma. It was lovely. I think I was more upset about not getting to smell him anymore when he broke up with me than I was about not getting to see him anymore. You know who else (probably) smells good? Ryan Gosling. I mean, I’ve never seen him in real life. But if you’ve ever seen Half Nelson, you know what I mean. Ryan smells good. I just know it.

So anyway, back to the sniffer. I really didn’t blame him for taking a whiff of eau de moi. It’s the whole pheromones thing, though you can’t actually smell pheromones. And there is no scientific proof that humans actually have pheromones. I’d like to think we do. Whatever. I think he said I smelled good. And I have to say, I’d rather get sniffed than cheek licked. (From jaw to eye…when I was SIXTEEN. Not okay.)

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Posted in Dating