Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Time for a de-tox?

Anna returns on Monday!

Dahlings, I know this may come as something of a shock to you all, but after recently wiping and rebuilding my entire computer — or something like that (I lack the proper techie-speak for this) — I’m thinking it’s not just my virtual memory that needs a rest, but my virtual self as well.

I mean, the whole backup/wipe/rebuild was so traumatizing that literally this morning I woke up thinking, “Can I make my morning latte as usual? Will my soap still be in the same place?” I found myself shocked that I could actually send text messages from my phone without trouble. In that I now begin to find that swiftly forgotten Y2k hysteria plausible ... clearly some sort of self-imposed withdrawal is necessary. As my iBlog is now royally messed up anyway, the best thing seems to be a blog fast. Besides, who will want to break away from Turkey Day excitement to come here?!!

You can keep up with Blogfather while I’m recovering ... and do whatever research you deem necessary to enter this month’s contest. I won’t be here to chide you daily, so don’t forget to enter. New blog readers, I think you’ll find plenty here to keep you occupied in the meantime. You might want to start with the monthly archives.

xoxoxoxoxoxo for the next few days then ....

PS: Don’t miss the Wednesday-night picture link to “Man-snaring,” below, and a new trackback from Kevin McCullough. Thanks for the press! :)

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Love-life booster?

YES! Forget that grown-up lock-in; I think I just found a better way to spend my Friday night.

New York, NY (November 16, 2004)-New Yorkers are the best and the brightest but can we get it together when it comes to relationships? So often things start with fireworks* but fizzle into anxiety, frustration and disillusionment. Why do we keep making the same mistakes over and over? This Friday, Christopher Burge will team up with Jeannie Smith of Priority Associates to address the plight of today’s Christian single living in New York City. The event is free and open to the public. If you’re looking for hope and a new approach, Priority Associates invites you to:

Single in the City: His Rules or Mine?
November 19, 2004 at 7:00pm
Calvary Episcopal Church,
Park Ave South and 21st Street.

Chris Burge and Jeannie Smith will share biblical perspectives on intimacy, “The List” and roles for men and women to build a strong foundation for loving and lasting relationships.

What a perfect blog-promotion venue! I mean, uh ... opportunity for local readers to get a gen-u-ine taste of Christian dating culture. And speaking of local readers, don’t forget you can still take in the Anna Broadway photographs on display in a Brooklyn Starbucks** (by me, not of me). Less than two weeks remaining! Don’t miss this chance to discover what I like to call “the better borough” ;).

And as a final announcement, I’m happy to welcome fellow New York blogger (apparently another femme reader — woohoo!) to the blogpals: New Yorkish Blog.

*Anna interjects: Wait, fireworks?!! In Christian dating?? Huh. I didn’t think that was possible ... back
**Lunch and wi-fi available! It says so on the website.

Anna’s man, 6 years ago

While I’m getting myself together this morning (hey, at least I rose before 11 today!!), here’s something to keep ya entertained: Dawn Eden’s sketch of the perfect man (for her).

I once used to make such lists (as any romantic is wont to do), but found a strange concurrence between certain qualities and the guy I had in mind at the moment. I haven’t made a list in quite some time now.

Just for laughs, here’s one I wrote on May 11, 1998. And because the build-up is so horrifically priceless, I’m including that as well.
May 11, 1998
read: Eph. 2:1-10, Matt. 5:17-20, Rom. 7, Ps. 35, 73
weighed: 162
ate: sundries including grapenuts, carrots, frappuccino, beans and Dr. Pepper

I’m liked by someone (or two), Guy Friend #2 says. What to think of that. (wry smile). I wonder ... The Winner? A long-shot, I suppose. I’m not hugely interested, but I haven’t really encountered anything of depth yet, any hook. SO ... what if I’m right? What if he asked me out? I still haven’t settled on an absolute dating policy. It’s really such a gray area! I’d feel odd for saying yes, but why not? Is that just an impatient, hormonal, response? On the other hand, I’m going to have to date at some point — even my husband!

So what am I looking for in a spouse anyway?
an unswerving, fiery passion for God
a commitment to purity
a heart for missions — maybe even overseas
a love for his parents and family
good communication skills
someone capable of being the spiritual leader
commitment to his church
ability to admit wrong and apologize
sense of humor
passion for music
comfortableness w/other races and cultures
someone w/whom I could converse philosophically
musical background/ability
intelligence and wit

a dancer
a good back-rubber
Wow. Not even I am that sure what to say after that. Perhaps appropriately enough, today’s first song in the hi-fi was “Freak Like Me.”

And now, since my readers have become soooooooo quiet of late (sniff, gulp, sniff), let’s turn it around to you. What are some of the more memorable things you have wanted or want? You don’t have to get all naked and exposed or anything (especially since this site is allegedly PG-13 rated) ... but share some of the colorful ones, please. You know: stuff like, “has straight teeth,” “free of previous convictions,” etc.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Man-snaring 101

Updated 11-21-04, 2:11 a.m.*

Sometimes when it rains, it really soaks you ... but not in the sense of depleting your funds, of course. In this instance I’m actually getting a reverse-soaking, I guess you could say. The temp work I scored this afternoon will bring money in next week, and the outtings this evening with Geriatric Gent will augment my social capital. Confused yet? I am. Maybe it’s all the wardrobe changes required to accommodate the last-minute addition of evening entertainments with that Groovey Geezer. You see, in keeping with the Best Friend-Anna pact of consistently being the hottest women at our monthly cocktail hour, I had planned on wearing the dress that resulted in last year’s Halloween costume (Good Librarian Gone Bad). But if I’m to be holding my own against an allegedly notorious if seriously aging lothario, longer skirts are called for. Friends-of-mine-on-flickr, good news: Best Friend is bringing her digi-cam tonight, so hopefully there will be party pics posted tomorrow, by which you can judge the suitability of my attire (and possibly even spy Groovey Geezer himself!).

As for the other things I’ve promised you, lock-in musings will have to wait, but now on to this week’s Spooning Fork. While it would be tempting to go with Macy’s “Relating to a Psychopath” or “Sexual Revolution” (both fun, bouncy dance songs), I’m actually much more interested in darker musings: “Gimme All Your Lovin’ or I Will Kill You.”

‘Gimme All Your Lovin’ or I Will Kill You’ from The Id
Whew! This song alone could explain countless of those pessimistic, women-are-the-devil songs ole B.B. King loves to sing (in between all the ones on how his baby is an angel).

She starts out slow ’n lazy, mellow horns laying down a chill-kinda loungy groove. You can practically smell the martinis as your head starts bobbing. The lyrics, too, begin with the familiar tale of liking rejected ...
no matter what or how i tried
i couldn’t get the man to fall in love with me
turns out he likes the girls with long and wavy hair
mine is short and kinky
i have lost my mind
... before they move on to the alarming:
c’mon and
gimme all your lovin’
or i will kill you
put one through your head
gimme all your lovin’
or i will kill you
and cry when you’re dead
Gulp. Well then. Don’t mess with that lady! And yet ... I’ve gotta concede (Anna shuffles feet, makes faces) ... there’s something sorta familiar in her plight. And not just because this is a straight-ahead, 21st century follow-up to Nina’s sentiments in “Do I Move You?” The fact of the matter is, all women generally try to win the men we fancy, no matter how passive and unconcerned we may appear. And the more we’re thwarted, the more obsessive we get. Not of course, that I would ever tend toward the obsessive (subjects restless feet to concerted study). I’ve never ... uh ... used the pretext of phone trouble to call a suitor who hasn’t called in a week “just so he’ll know I’m note deliberately blowing him off in case he called — which I might not have gotten the message from, since my phone was acting up, you see. Cursed cell phones.”

No sirree. No such games for me. :-o I’m just a simple and honest girl, really. Who happens to swear sometimes. And give chocolate vaginas to men who piss me off. (In the background, strains of Audrey Hepburn warbling: “I’m a good girl, I yam!”) Why, every time I experience a rejection that should send me back for lengthy consultations with the Matchmaker Upstairs, don’t I do just that? Hasn’t this blog been full of such noble if rather boring stories?

Oh, I suppose it hasn’t (fumbles with lyric sheet). But back to the song anyway ... So she finishes — she finishes — with the following sly defense:
it’s amazing what a gun to the head can do
my baby loves me now as hard as he can
my methods may be suspect
but you gotta get love however you can
Which stanza for the strangest reason suggests to me that Macy is a short one. In all my experience of other women, I have never seen a gal wield quite as much power over men as those who shop in the petite section. At least, since I am nearly 5’8” — and getting skinnier on this mostly coffee diet — that’s the only reasonable explanation I can come up with for why Anna never gets the man she wants, be that by gunpower or otherwise. Something about the man being able to look me in the eye (when I’m wearing 3” heels) ... seems to help him see right through my guise, and get away. Although you’d be surprised the way a focused gal can sprint in heels ...

But then there’s always Groovey Geezer. And look what ignoring him has done! Maybe Macy just needed to regularly strut past her man (preferably in hose like tonight’s seamed fishnet stockings), head turned the other way in animated conversation ...

“I have lost my mind.” But that I blame entirely on disruption to my bloodstream caffeine levels, incurred during Sis’ visit. All these hours on end online would never contribute to that ... Not a’tall.

Best Friend didn’t show, but visit Kevin McCullough’s blog for a pic nonetheless.

*Yes, that means I cheated some on my blog fast. But in principle ...


Contest clue

What’s this I see? Looks like someone found this blog today by googling “Andromeda” ... Which is something other resourceful, uh, quizlings might do.

I know it’s almost Thanksgiving and you can practically taste that pumpkin pie right now — but don’t forget to submit your entries!

And before I forget, dahlings, a question for you. On account of two facts: that Hapless Hesitator got something of a tongue-lashing in my wee-hours blog (below), and that he barely had time to talk to me last night since he was driving and we all were training ... do I send him a brief email saying it was nice to see him, sorry we couldn’t talk and I hope he’s well? Or is that over-extending? Prithy advise.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Blues for Brother— hm ...

Dahlings, the good news is blogs like this only happen once every month or two. The bad news is, this is some blue blogging for sure. Fiona Apple on the stereo, and I haven’t dug out this CD since the oft-depressed days of grad school, wherein I was still getting over the desolation of liking the Married Man. In fact, I might just run by you the short story I wrote during recovery.

What brought this funk on, I’m not quite sure; perhaps twas the bad news ’bout that unofficial first love in my life, this here laptop. Apparently it is well nigh sick and abused, a veritable dinosaur on the blogging scene. Shouldn’t even have this OS, I’m told — a diagnosis we take as akin to learning we were given a degree not properly earned (hey, truth or not, it still stings, sniff, sniff). What’s more, that business of program multi-tasking I frequently subject my little white workhorse to is not the stuff it’s up to. Allegedly. Straining “virtual memory,” I’m told. But ... virtual things ... isn’t that like virtual reality? Everybody knows that’s fake. How can my computer’s fake memory be so taxed? Why would that make a difference?!! (shakes hands in air tremulously)

wherefore, these blues?
Anyway, it’s all too depressing for me to contemplate — especially the price tag for patching up my baby — so instead I’ll move on to other possible causes for my blues.* One could be that I finally deleted the Winner’s contact details from my Yahoo address book today. But that wasn’t really a cause for depression; it was more a sign of victory that prayers earlier this summer — asking God to help me get over him — were answered promptly and in a rather unexpected fashion.

Another could be that Geriatric Gent still hasn’t rung me up, though Saturday night he did and — when I returned his call — promised in dotty British accent, “Sweetie, I’ll give you a ring on Monday.” But I don’t really care about that. I even put the “Groovey Geezer” CD back in its case, on the shelf. (Whew! This whiskey-laden toddy is warming me up .... but where was I? Oh yes. The blues.)

Perhaps, then, it’s tonight’s unexpected run-in with the Hapless Hesitator. You see, instead of meeting to talk about the Bible as we usually do, tonight my Brooklyn home fellowship group (HFG) took in a smoothish jazz concert** offered by one of our church’s worship bands. I had thought perhaps this would draw the presence of a certain shortish-but-very-intriguing bass player who’s a Jazz Musician for Jesus, With a Past. He’s probably a wee bit shorter than Wedding Date, but much recovered in fitness from his pre-Jesus, drug-addiction days (or so he indicated in the testimony*** I once heard him give homeless men at a Salvation Army shelter). And since, like many city musicians, he constantly shleps his instrument up and down the subway stairs, he’s buff in this hot, compact way that could inspire a lass to give up heels for good.

He dresses well, too. Sunday night he had this almost-auburn jacket on with quasi-hipster lines but which was better than such threads since it seemed like something he wore thoughtlessly and not as a concerted effort to project specific taste and style. Finally, he has glasses that give him this quasi-Superman hotness — but not like I actually find (or found) Superman hot; more in the sense of hotness that cloaks those nerdy guys who also stay in shape. (Anna fans self dramatically.)

The mood improves
Hmmmm. I’m feeling a little better. But not because I saw the hot Jazz Bassist for Jesus. I didn’t. Because he didn’t show. But H.H. did. And once he spotted me in the small crowd afterward, he was determined to have a chat. Came right up and greeted me, while I was talking with my friends. Turns out he’s finally been made permanent at his job, so I reckon he’s feeling a bit more confident in himself.**** Sad news for him then, no doubt, when I mentioned (while replying re: my job sitch) that I was waiting to hear on a job out in California. Although — to his benefit — things could just as easily fall through, leaving me to cry myself to snuffles on the shoulders of men like him or Jazz Bassist for Jesus (considerably less likely in the latter case; we never seem to know what to talk about, and when I raved to him about Oscar Brown Jr.’s “Brother, Where Are You?” — attempting to speak his own language — he drew a decided blank).

Some perspective
People surrounding this blog sometimes tell me I’m too hard on the men who figure here. Indeed Blogfather even confesses to “having philosophical issues” with Sexless (though he’s big enough to promote me nonetheless). But I try to be decent, I do. And I was not the one who ruled Hapless Hesitator out on the basis of looks. I managed to focus on the blondness rather than the, er, thinness of his hair; it was up to Sis to declare him getting-on-to-middle-age, poor chap. You see, this was yet another instance of trying. And more concertedly than with Whipster, even.

But the real death knell, I fear, was dealt on a most unfortunate double date, oddly timed for Sept. 11, 2003. Guy Friend #1 and a certain redhead dynamo were our pair, on an evening when we boldly ventured out to swing dance. Hapless Hesitator had asserted his knowledge thereof and willingness to dance. So I most eagerly took him up on this offer. Unfortunately, when the night arrived, he proved less capable than he’d boasted and soon resorted to trying to pick the guys best suited to dance with me, even voicing the thought he might go up and ask them for me (Anna covers face with hands). But maybe this had something to do with a general case of nerves. Which he had bad.

In fact, I’ve never really seen this before — either because I’m always the one who’s being rejected (or likely to be), or because the men who ask me out have a certain confidence driven by their unabashed search for sex (Christian men being more reticent in this are also therefore much more tentative). But nerves Hapless Hesitator had. He must have asked me certain questions (like how my day was) three or four times alone. I, being the candid sort I am, probably didn’t handle all subsequent askings with the gracious amnesia tact required.

As for the real nail ...
And then there was the breath. It wasn’t terrible — and I don’t even have that keen a beak on me — but it was definitely not conducive, shall we say, to the encouragement of romantic feelings. So at one point when we took a break from dancing, I cleverly reached into my purse and drew out a pack of gum. Ostensibly it was for myself, of course, but what polite and considerate friend would fail to offer some to her companion? Here was the most-tactful, most-subtle way I could imagine to resolve the situation and save him face. Indeed, I was silently congratulating myself on the genius of the maneuver.

“Hey, you want a piece of gum?” I offered, pulling out a stick for myself with great ceremony.

“Oh, that’s OK, thanks. I don’t need it.” Oh, yes you do! I thought. It was all I could do not to bury my face in my hands at that point.

I must have communicated disappointment of some sort, because the evening never improved from there. In fact, another hot-but-shortish number I’d previously met — and danced with there — managed to make an appearance and whisk me away for more than one rather-intimate and very flirtatious dance, pulling me tighter as we were hidden from view by columns. Poor Hapless probably didn’t even notice, while the prospect of competition only fueled Dashing Dancer’s wayward ardor.

At least we were not alone in our plight. Guy Friend #1 was also bumbling his way across the dance floor, trying to muster the bedroom eyes Best Friend and I mercilessly tease him for not having ... in attempts to woo and wow the dynamo. No luck. I’m sure the fact that one Sunday later, Best Friend, Sis and I crashed a date of his with the dynamo, looking our best cleavage-flaunting, hoochified selves (Frasier and Wedding Date have seen the photos, and can vouch for this) ... had nothing to do with the short-lived status of Guy Friend’s wooing of the redhead.

And that's all, folks ...
Well, I’ve probably done a terrible thing just now and somehow cheered myself up with thoughts of others whose plight is none the envy of me ... but I seem to be somewhat closer to my usual chipper self. Nothing finishing off this toddy won’t hasten to assist ...

Ta for the night, dahlings. More on Macy and the lock-in in the morning. Well, you know — the mid-morning. Perhaps the West Coast morning. But the morning somewhere. I promise.

*A genre not, ironically, present in my stereo at all just now. back
**In that it featured songs by David Sanborn, John Coltrane, Miles Davis and some others — J.C. and M.D. accounting for the "ish" part of smoothish. Sanborn, at least on the one CD I have, verges slightly more to the Kenny G/Pat Methany spectrum of things. Enh. back
***As used in Christian terms, the (often-dramatic) story of how Jesus brought you to your knees before him, rejecting pride and self-dependence in trade for salvation. back
****At the time when we were still sorting out ambiguous boy-girl feelings, he once said something about not feeling very settled in his life since he was transitioning from grad school and performance to full-time work (he hoped) in management. back

The blog reader mystery

No, I’m not referring to the loot hauled in by last month’s first-prize winners ... I mean a silent few of you! Specifically, a certain reader I surmise is based in DC, and oh-so-faithfully checks my blogs from the isp “Henry L. Stimson.” I mean, sweetie, at the rate you keep up on me, you might be in the running for that yet-unannounced Blog Reader World Series category, frequency of checking!!! ;)

So satisfy me please, honey — my curiosity, that is. Tell me who you are and where ya found me. Otherwise I might have to dub ya “The Silent Type” and create a blog-reader persona for ya, all fictious.

And for the rest of you, don’t worry: fresh blogging coming soon. A Spooning Fork with Macy Gray, musings on the grown-up lock-ins, and maybe more. I have to consult the coffee grounds in my cup first ...

Monday, November 15, 2004

The wedding date wrap-up

Last night Wedding Date finally emailed me the pictures from our infamous weekend (available on a select basis, per email) request), so I suppose it’s time I do a proper entry on our multi-day date.*

Friday I took the Chinatown bus down, arriving in DC early afternoon. Wedding Date promised to meet me at the Metro station with snacks if necessary, but I assured him I was fine in the food department. Finally acquainted and settled in a little later, we took off for dinner at the highly touted restaurant where Wedding Date works since he’s now essentially retired from the Marines.

Once we were seated, Wedding Date launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the menu. As I peered cautiously at the prices, he hastened to assure me dinner was on him since I was “treating him to dinner” the following evening. This gallant consideration for the unemployed even extended to cover charge at the Chevy Chase Ballroom, where we went swing dancing later … after traveling the same strip of street three times before finally — at my insistence — asking strangers for directions (it was in a poorly lit location above a liquor shop).

Once inside, we found a decent-sized, mixed-age crowd and a bluesy, occasionally country-influenced band at the other end providing the music. We had missed the free lesson, so I started trying to re-teach Wedding Date the basic step he’d once learned. The resident dance instructor spotted us, and came to offer a quickie lesson out in the hall with several other newly arrived and equally hapless couples. One guy — among the better-looking, but likely to be the clumsiest, I suspected — dashed back inside to the amusement of all, and came back with a girl in tow, apparently a stranger he’d been flirting with.

They sure hope it leads to sex …
Once we were all coupled off, “girls” on one side, “boys” on the other,** our instructor started in. An unassuming blond man with a chest pelt, wedding ring, and made-for-Sexless conversation, he immediately cast himself in the role of love counselor (he’s apparently a divorce lawyer). The first order of business was making sure we ladies appreciated just how much it meant for our men to be there … although he subsequently implied (based on extended personal anecdote) that the main reason men take up dancing is their inability to get sex otherwise. Wedding Date in whispered aside to Anna: “I can practically see the blog writing itself as he speaks.”

There were many choice lines that spiced up his dance-lesson patter, but sadly I don’t have a very good memory for dialogue — even the trademark witticisms for which Geriatric Gent is known. Wedding Date, whom I suspect remembers such things far better than myself, was initially willing to do a he said-she said guest blog, but has since backed out. You’ll just have to take my word that the love doc was funny. If his spiel didn’t verbatim stick in my noggin, the general spirit of it did. Later in the evening, Wedding Date remarked that he was having fun. “That’s impressive, considering you’re not getting any sex later,” I cracked.***

Another World Series upset?
Ah, but his labors and blushes were not entirely for nought. As the night continued, I realized I was discovering another category in the Blog Reader World Series: not just contest entries, not just matchmaking, not just poetry … but dancing as well. In fact, in light of the remarkably sacrificial quality of Wedding Date’s labors (voluntarily undergoing the possible humiliation and emasculation of the dance floor, with little inducement other than the betterment of his pimp ... uh ... matchmaker), I have to conclude that dancing is actually akin to a double-header, if I’ve got my baseball terms right.

So, ladies and gentleman, I must announce a sudden and unexpected upset in the current Blog Reader World Series standings. After the October contest, Poster Boy and Frasier were locked in a 2-2 dead heat, as you may recall. But since Wedding Date has now won the dance category, 2-0-0, the Blog Reader World Series now stands at a three-way tie: 2-2-2.

Gentlemen, get cracking on your November contest entries.

*I had wanted to do a proper photoblog of the big day, but Wedding Date and Best Friend swear it would spoil all the mystery. back
**Perhaps he listens to the same radio broadcasts my grandparents do. back
***He had previously warned me that face-to-face talk of sex would make him blush. back

Friday, November 12, 2004

Anna, the over-eager

Since Friday meant a day of, um, no blogging, I’m making it up to ya’ll by writing into the weekend (plus my sister retired so early tonight that I’m trapped in my bedroom, hours away from falling asleep).*

There were never such devoted sisters...
Today you see, the fabulous Broadway sisters slept in, then set off early afternoon — wind and rain notwithstanding — for a fairly spontaneous jaunt out to Long Island’s North Fork wineries. We stopped for coffee twice in six hours (but would have gone a third round had we found a rural Starbucks**), survived one head-scratcher of a Brooklyn parking ticket and a dim-lit left turn over a median (Sis at the wheel), but got lost never and managed to take in many lovely miles of autumn road, one wine-tasting at a small, mother-daughter operated vineyard with a view of the bay, and to wheedle a ready-to-close deli owned by Pollocks into cooking us up some lunch (perhaps they sensed our genetic relatedness).

While tooling down the road, we heard a song that reminded me of yet another hapless, blond-haired Christian guy I briefly yenned for. For all her stated fondness for hip-hop, salsa and ... hip-hop, my sister’s taste in music surprisingly includes alternative stations that play music I remember hearing*** (she favors the same DC station often heard in Wedding Date’s car — duh-duh-duh). So we’re driving down some street in Brooklyn, trying to find our way to the freeway without running down any pedestrians or making an illegal-in-New York City right turn on red when this song comes on. A fairly mainstream song you probably wouldn’t hear on car stereos in Harlem.

Anna falls for a whipster (West Coast hipster)
Both Sis and I immediately remark we haven’t heard it in a while. My first guess is Creed because I vaguely associate the song with post-90s crossover Christian rock, but then I realize it’s Lifehouse: “Hanging By a Moment.” And I remember I actually heard them play the song live, once, at an early-morning mall set sponsored by some local Phoenix radio station. How did I, then queen of the classic-rock station, hear about this set? Well I had met this cute, blond Christian guy at Crusade who had a certain machismo that made me willing to overlook his West Coast hipster style and less-than-towering height (he was practically eye-to-eye with my 5’8”-in-stockings self). And he, in an offer that verged on a pseudo-date, invited me to attend the brief concert with him.

But let’s get back to essentials for a sec: his whipster cred. I should first of all clarify for East Coast readers that this is a type of man you see almost nothing this side of the Mississippi and most certainly not in New York. He conveys a kind of style-savvy cool, but is without both the metrosexual prissiness of the Harvard Lickwit school of New York man (though H.L. should really do without those turtlenecks and belted jeans), and the avant-garde pretensions of the aspiring hipster. This is the kind of man only L.A. could breed: the guy with unabashed mainstream rock-star envy — in that Matchbox 20 kind of way.

Maybe it’s there so grown men can catch their drool
The hair is what gives him away. The top — usually blond — is sculpted into a studied muss of short and manly waves (this works best if the hair in question tends to curl or even ’fro at longer lengths) cemented in place with mondo amounts of product. The face beneath is clean-shaven, except for a strategically cultivated tuft groomed to adorn the curve of an otherwise stubble-free chin (ego-buster: probably a great trick to disguise an otherwise less-than-dramatic jaw line). I mean, what — precision shaving’s some kind of competition sport? Then again, as this blog has proven, almost anything when placed in male hands takes on that jockeying-for-top-slot element.

Ah, but this is Anna at her hyper-catty worst — and seeing as how I try to be somewhat decent to guys, I should return to the key point, which is that this whipster is one of those rare guys I pseudo-dated. Following the early-morning mall show — in fact, perhaps that very night — I had plans to go out dancing with the cutie-pie Christian … and a jointly gathered posse of friends who were all convenient no-shows. I don’t feel like we went out swing dancing, but the Tempe, Arizona main drag was definitely involved, and there was a groove-worthy theme to the evening’s attire.

Clearly I don’t remember much of the night — except that we motored in his swank ride, some old-school, rusting-orange muscle car whose throaty rumble made me drool (perhaps it was even a standard??), and that at some point we happened to pass an even-shorter friend from my photography classes.

The delicate semantics of courtship
I don’t think I even saw that friend, but later he mentioned passing me and Whipster on our “date.” And after that conversation, I made the mistake of reporting the little exchange during a weekday lunch in the student union with Whipster (strangely I can remember exactly which part of the sprawling and multi-floor building we were sitting in). It was an exceedingly poor call on my part. But being my usual, chatty self, I could not resist divulging the prized concerning-us-both comment.

Except that when it came to calling the night in question a “date” I was suddenly stuck — was it really a date?!! Unlike a hook-up, there had been no physical contact whatsoever. And it wasn’t supposed to be a date; it was supposed to be a group outing — except that all the others (OK, maybe there were two of them, one each half-heartedly mustered on both our parts) had coincidentally backed out. Leaving Whipster and I to bravely go it alone in the ambiguous territory of the weekend-evening hang-out.

But my friend had called it a date. And I suspected at least a smidge of interest on Whipster’s part … so in a commitment to accurate reporting and ham-handed probing, I quoted the friend verbatim. Because I feared the provocative nature of his word-choice, however, I said “date” while pulling a rather peculiar face (and of course avoiding all eye contact). A face that undoubtedly shot all hopes of further potentially romantic hang-outs into the ground. Not long after that I mysteriously lost contact with Whipster and his drool-worthy ride.

It was probably not a terrible loss, considering the parts I most remember about him are the car, the tuft, the concert, and my gaffe. Besides! As I have just now remembered, one thing we shared in common was our classic-rock fandom, except that he was really keen on a band I completely hate — either Journey or Rush. (And what did High Fidelity teach us? Music taste matters. It matters tremendously.)

It’s the effort, right?
However, as I said to Sis today: “I was trying.” Sort of like I was trying, with Hapless Hesitator, to maneuver a Christian guy’s possible but uncertain interest into a pseudo-date and then maybe a real date. I was trying! To, you know, date a man who didn’t hate or merely shrug his shoulders at Jesus, and to tell myself that lack of genuine fire for God but nominal affiliation with Him was enough. Clearly God would never bring along a man whose leadership — spiritual and otherwise — I’d actually submit to, but He also wasn’t bringing along any boyfriends. So, in those moments of token obedience (and equally token faith), I tried for fair-to-middling Christians in hopes God would finally cave on His standards and just give me a short-term but multi-date relationship already.

Probably a good thing God stayed God and saw right through my half-hearted nonsense. Too bad I’ve progressed straight from skating the line to spinsterhood. Although, at least this way if a guy asks me to dinner I’ll know it’s not because I’m putting myself out there but because he’s interested.****

*Besides, though reader loyalty is always encouraged, I want no more whinings from the traffic-school bound about my failures to be sufficiently loquacious in a given week. :-o Especially when my mad blogging skillz extend to both footnotes and now these nifty return links. I ask you: what more could a lazy reader ask?!! (Sinks back into chair, overcome.) back
**Sis’ caffeine addiction far putting mine to shame. She had the equivalent of two venti coffees, while I had a grande latte and then only a tall mocha. I shudder to imagine the jitters. back
***Maybe this is just a plot to make me feel old. back
****Well in theory, anyway. Judging from Grandma Broadway’s agile eyelids, a Broadway flirt can never fully reform. (Angel smiley here)

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Springfield sidewalk tawker interrupts stupor

Light blogging today, I’m afraid; the sis is up from DC for the long weekend. But so I don’t leave you entirely without amusement, a Sidewalk Tawk for this week.

It was Sunday afternoon in Springfield, Va. and I was standing in line at a Starbucks, staring blankly at the array of baked goods under the glass case. In keeping with my unofficial uniform for the Big Wedding weekend, I wore jeans and my green leather boots, and was stretching the usefulness of a short-sleeved summer T by wearing it over a solid red long-sleeved shirt from the J. Crew pajama line. The T in question happened to be the very same “I [heart] Nerds” T that has appeared in two major events:
  • my infamous night at Honky-Tonk when a small-time porn producer (?!!) asked me if I dance and act, then offered the card for his enterprise, Seize It Films (card showings available on request)*
  • the double date to end all double dates, in which Best Friend, The Captain, Harvard Lickwit and I caught a Morrissey show at the Apollo. The very same date, mind you, on which H.L.’s flagging ardor was revived by the discovery that (gasp) Anna has curves! Apparently he even felt obliged, by the shirt, to do his best “nerd” performance, complete with witticisms and hauteur. Funny, I always thoughts web-geeks and computer nerds were the ultimate nerds ... And I guess I should add to that list bloggers. :D
But based on Sunday’s Starbucks visit, nerds not only include Harvard alum PR hacks and the aforementioned plug-n-play set ... they include postmen.**

There I am, inspecting the snack case, when in my peripheral vision I see the good-sized, pony-tailed man ahead of me do some sort of double-take. Finally he says “I’m a nerd.”

Now at this point I could try to be all noble and claim my failure to respond encouragingly was all part of this new sobriety-in-dating reform campaign ... but probably said nonplussed response more accurately indicated the hardy nature of my looksism. Had the guy been cuter, younger, (gulp) hipper, I probably would have muddled my way through the caffeine-craving daze that wrapped me to muster some sort of characteristic flirt.

But no. He got none. So the poor chap was left there to ramble away an explanation about how he, as postman, certainly fit the bill of “nerd.” And though this may be adding insult to injury, I have to say the middle-aged airport security guys in New Zealand did the I-heart-nerds pick-up line with far more style. Maybe it was the advantage of a tag-team approach ... “He’s a nerd.”

*An approach that may had something to do with the hot red but not lace-up pants I was also wearing.
**No, I don’t mean Neil, may he rest in peace. But if you get this reference, congrats! You’re a bona fide nerd no matter what your job! ;)

High-end chipped cup seeks same

Alrighty, my dears; I’ve seen the hit-counter stats and I know you’re checking in. Had I been blogging this from Wedding Date’s house, I doubtless would have finished not one but two blogs by now — such were the early-morning wake times I kept. Back home in Brooklyn, however … my body happily returns to pretending it operates on PCT.

I can’t even blame this laxness on the Groovey Geezer in question, Geriatric Gent (what was that Sugar Ray* lyric? “Pretty spry for an old guy”?). As soon as my Bible study wrapped up last night, I dutifully called him, but was unable to conjure up a non-recorded voice on his end. It didn’t take much shivering in the near-freezing New York night to persuade me home, warm slippers and a steaming hot toddy sounded much better than this uncertain lark.

I did leave a message, but no word yet. He’ll call eventually. I don’t know if it’s the generational chasm separating us, but he’s clearly not averse to calling up the ladies and has no trouble recalling our numbers. Even more shockingly, his memory seems rather long where I’m concerned.

I first met him sometime in June or July, but not long after he embarked on a trip back home that stretched into September, then October … and possibly even early November. Yet repeatedly during this sojourn, I got reports from our mutual Iranian friend that he kept asking after me and promising to squire me round to “all the hottest fall parties.” Men’s promises being what they are, I’m not holding my breath.

Still, it is nice to think some men aren’t capable of swiftly forgetting me.** As Queen of the Rejected, sometimes you start to get the feeling every man has AADD — Attention to Anna Deficit Disorder. Harvard Lickwit excepted, I was well on my way to becoming the one- or two-date wonder for a while there. This undoubtedly had something to do with certain, ahem, high standards … but still. Even the guys I crushed on (not all outside the tight circle of Christian men, remember), swiftly passed by my offered interest. As B.B. King mourns:
Every woman I want only wants herself.
Everybody I love seems to love somebody else.
And every woman got a license to break my heart.
And every love affair is over before it gets a chance to start.
This is what explains the whole shock-n-awe persona, you see. In some economics class only half attended, back in the day, there was a discussion of profits. Say you’re trying to recover costs of $200. At $5 each maybe 40 people will buy the item. But if you price the item at $20, only 10 will be willing to buy — a 75% decrease in your consumers. Either way you make the same revenue.

Early on in my life as love-seeker, I realized the $20 attention was pretty hard to come by. Those guys simply weren’t in the market — at least in the local area. But because I thought it was male attention and love I needed to fill my heart, I went after the $2 and $4 market (thinking that love and relationship worked the same way revenues do in the economics example). Sure, it took 5-10 of the $2-4 guys to match the attentions of one quality man, but I figured those 5 or 10 were still better than the one good man I couldn’t find. The $20 guy probably cares about things like character or my ability to maintain a conversation; the $2-$4 guy mostly cares about how I look, the way I dance, or my mastery of innuendo. In those categories, it happens, I’m good enough to get by — even though few of those things are really very distinguishing of me personally. But over the long haul, I’m starting to think my father is right (yes, this reflects a major paradigm shift). You want someone to notice more than just the beauty of the face and form you were born with (things you have little control over anyway). Ultimately what I think most of us want is to end up in a situation where — whether it’s in the middle of fractious children grinding their dinner into the placemat, or rocking out to the blues band at your local bar — the other person in your life turns to you, smiles slowly, and says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Beauty may be part of the package he/she is talking about, but it’s not really what makes someone a good and desirable companion, day in and day out. For me, at least, contented (and committed) long-term companionship is basically all I’m looking for. I know lots of people talk about soul mates and all that, but how could another person just as broken, confused and imperfect as I am really be that? Spiritual hunger is something I turn to God with. Besides, as David Wilcox sings:
I try so hard to please you to be the love that fills you up
I try to pour on sweet affection, but I think you got a broken
Cup because you can’t believe I love you. I try to tell you
That there is no doubt, but as soon as I fill you with all
I’ve got, that little break will let it run right out

I cannot make you happy, I’m learning love and money never do
But I can pour myself out ’til I’m empty trying to be just who you’d
Want me to. But I cannot make you happy even though our love is
True for there is a break in the cup that holds love inside of you
Guess I’d better find out which thrift stores carry cracked $20 cups, and hope my owner decides to donate me to that store so certain shelf-mates and I can get acquainted …

*Sugar Ray being a strangely appropriate if now-obscure cultural reference. He was the headlining musical act at the last art party I attended with G.G.
**Then again (to make the bad political joke), maybe I just wasn’t dating enough elephants. It is they, after all, who are known for the long memory …

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Next post later than expected ...

But hopefully coming later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, here’s hoping a Big Six song recently blasting from my stereo doesn’t become tonight’s theme song: “Groovey Geezer.”*

Appropriately, the British band’s lead singer was, at 37, some 16 years older than me the night I was his groupie (note: I didn’t say grope-ee). Tonight’s Brit age gap ... well that kinda math’s too much on only a half-caf latte. ;) Geriatric Gent’s long-term friend claims I have nothing at all to worry about; Best Friend advises I should look like a nun — as in, “You’ll be getting none.”

While I am wearing a mid-calf black skirt and sober black Mary Janes, something tells me this ensemble is more akin to my infamous string of Halloween costumes. Guess I’m just not in the habit of dressing with propriety yet. That, or my (Protestant) education re: Catholicism is far too reliant on Sister Act. Which would be an apt title for Sunday’s breakfast with Wedding Date — but that story too will have to wait till later.

Ta, dahlings! Don’t forget there’s yet another contest to be won ...

*From the same album that yielded their contribution to the Truman Show soundtrack.

A noisy-neighbor guest blog

**UPDATED, 2:13 p.m.**

Dahlings ...

So sorry for the many-day weekend hiatus, but I am back, full of stories, and at long last sure of this month’s contest prize.

While I set the mice a-typing on the full scoop (yes, mice; apparently we now have them in my apartment), here’s a noisy-neighbor story from Poster Boy to tide you over. He swears he is not making this up.
When I was in college, I roomed next to a couple of baseball players who would frequently leave the building with their stereo cranked and ONE song on constant repeat (Pearl Jam’s ‘Jeremy’, Tom Petty’s ‘Free Falling’, etc.) The last straw was when they left Dolly Parton’s version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ on full blast for 9 hours.

I went to the library that afternoon and checked out a CD of animal mating sounds. I came home and rearranged my furniture and faced my huge hi-fi system towards the wall between us and went to bed.

At 3:00 AM, I turned the speakers up full blast and played a 5 second clip of rhinoceros love sounding something like ‘UUUUUUURRRRHGGHHEEEEEEEE’ and then shut it off quickly. From the other room, you could hear the guys...‘What the HELL was that??? Was that the fire alarm??’

The routine for the rest of the night was to wait 30 minutes and repeat. For the rest of the year, every time they left their room without turning off their stereo, they would be treated to another night of rhino love. By spring break, I had em trained. ;)
... I realize this isn’t exactly new blog content for a certain Argentina-based reader, but really, sweetie, you didn’t go down there for the blog-reading, now did you?!! I hardly imagine that Argentina is suddenly the blog-reading capital of the world; that would surely involve vibrating massage chairs to read in, complimentary shaves and dairy-free hors d’oeuvres floating round on trays. If that is, of course, the setting in which you’ve been checking in on your brewing fight with Wedding Date, I immediately retract my remarks and acknowledge the new capital.

Must instruct the mice now ... back in a few.

Following up on last week’s anticipated outings, dinner with Hippie the Groper is a likely no-go given my sister’s arrival Wednesday night, and his busy schedule. Seeing Geriatric Gent, however, is most likely on for tonight. After my Bible study wraps up early (they have a hyper noise-sensitive neighbor downstairs), I’m supposed to call him about meeting up at a “fancy” art party at the Guggenheim. Much fashion strategizing to ensue, as one might imagine; too bad my wedding-attire consultant is out of country — although the verdict’s still out on whether or not I managed to be “stunning, not trashy” for the nuptials. Wedding Date would only remark on the hotness of my buff and big-eyed sister.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Help from the grandparentals

This was too good to pass up. So a few minutes ago, mid-gossip with Best Friend, I take a cell-phone call that proves to be from my grandparents. While we stay in fairly good touch, it is extremely unusual for them to call me. Typically such contacts are indicative only of great excitement and urgency on their part (such as the one time Grandma called me from their for-emergencies-only cell phone to have me email a New York-based friend of theirs whom they hoped could help me get a job. She had just emailed with her contact details so I could do so).

Today’s Matter of Merit? Apparently the grandparents have been listening to Focus on the Family with James Dobson this week, which has featured a two-day series called “The Search for a Godly Spouse”: “One for girls, one for guys,” my grandma tells me. Evidently they were so impressed by the series, Gramps and Gramma decided to order me up a copy! But then the techno dilemma: on CD or tape? Hence the urgent and unexpected phone call.

How they’ve gotten the notion that I need to find a husband, I have to say I am a bit worried. I mean, other than the recordings of Dad’s Navy stories he and Mom recorded a few years ago — at the beginning of which they both chimed, “Hi kids, it’s Grandpa and Grandma here!” (Anna buries face in hands) ... generally there hasn’t been much pressure-from-relations to marry. Obviously they’ve done some calculations, however. She is 26. Maybe if God won’t bring her a job, He can at least bring her a husband ... Not that I’m exactly opposed to the underlying goal — obviously I, too, hope the Matchmaker Upstairs has marriage in mind for me — but when grandparents get involved, I find it inherently worrisome.*

So I dropped The Hint. You see, where my grandparents are concerned, a highly specialized P.R. campaign re: Anna’s life is required. Thus my grandparents hear not about the “Relationship Expert” job I applied for, or that I’ve spent most of my unemployment devoted to prolific blogging instead of job-searching; they hear about my successful forays into contract knitting and catering and of course, any and all interviews. As long as I can offer numerous talking points comprising current prospects (possible sales from my photo show), successful thrift and resourcefulness (such as the desk I refinished), they seem to remain content that God is indeed providing for me and I’m doing OK.

So too it is with my love life. Fortunately this requires less-frequent maintenance than the job search, but tonight seemed to require another update. So, I mentioned the blog in most general fashion (Grandpa on blogs: all a bunch of gossip) and reported the remarkably positive result that blogging “... about dating ...” has resulted in that modern-day miracle, a Christian date for my upcoming wedding-guest duties. It remains to be seen how successfully this red herring has been trailed, but a tape or CD is still en route to my mailbox. More reports on that broadcast to come.

*My sister would no doubt conclude that in the absence of any likelihood she’ll be settling down soon, all grandparental concern about non-procreating offspring is now concentrated in my direction (aside from an also-single cousin in her early 30s, I’m the only other grandchild of more-than-marriagable age). And indeed, Broadways are known for being prolific: the grandparents had 4 kids, the average number of their children’s children is 4, and my fellow grandchildren have had about 2 kids, on average.

The many costumes of Anna Broadway

Introducing my blog to new readers is always an interesting experience. I guess it’s sorta like the reactions I used to get, telling people I was in an M.A. program for religious studies. Sometimes I’d mention my (now-married) brother’s joke that with my undergraduate degrees in economics and religious studies I could start a cult. This often got a brief chuckle but little more. At one wedding, however, the conversants gamely spun the joke into 5-10 minutes’ banter. Likewise, my stock line that my M.A. could pave the way to a career as therapist for sexually frustrated priests had widely divergent responses.*

Conditional shock-n-awe
While mention of Sexless never fails to titillate, the topic which strikes a chord is not always the same. Sometimes, men have been most fascinated by the notion that all those I date would eventually wind up in the blog (as opposed to my pants, of course). Indeed, on this basis, some last night concluded that having a blog creates a status akin to that of rock star — but this, I’m sure, was merely your basic, booze-laden flattery. The rock-star metaphor did generate some interesting questions, however. For instance, if truly a quasi “rock star,” one will surely generate groupies — i.e., readers who form a blogcrush.** But in this case I could potentially return the favor, resulting in a most unlikely instance of “rock star” crushing on groupie. I mean, that Frasier, after all … pretty witty. And Wedding Date … well I guess we’ll see rather soon, eh? ;)

But by far the most shock-and-awe inducing tidbit from last night’s blog-promotion patter was a key mention of twin-bed celibates. My audience was fascinated by the image of my early-30s single friend from church, lying there in his lonely twin bed trying to fall asleep to the sounds of his neighbor’s shaking bed and spanking hanky-panky. As the questions flew toward me like eager shots at the corner pub dart board, it was hard to tell which compelled them more: musings on my friend’s possible neighbor-envy, or the curious size of his bed. They imagined, for instance, that twin beds only come designed for juveniles and children. Did his bed have some sort of race-car headboard? No, I quellingly reported, it’s just your standard twin bed (though the springs are probably in better shape than some might be).

Spankers just your average wankers
I confess, I was a bit cross at this unexpected fascination with beds. You see, the tidbit I most wanted to share was my own brush with spanking celebrity. Sunday night I stopped by Twin-Bed Celibate’s pad to pick up a bag of fruit left for me there (members of my Friday night Bible study often send me home with groceries to offset my $50/week budget for food and incidentals). When I reached the building, the phone in the lobby didn’t seem to be working. I had just pulled out my cell phone to give Twin-Bed a call when a youngish Caucasian couple entered the lobby. When I saw the man pull out his keys, I quickly hung up the phone and followed them toward the elevators.

They were a man and a woman, early 30s at the most, and engaged in a riveting trick-or-treat conversation. There was much discussion of which floor to begin with, and whether or not steps would be involved. In defending his speedy deduction of the most-efficient route possible, the man showed no excess humility. The elevator came, we three stepped into its bordello-red cage, and I pushed the button without really noticing what floor they were going to.

Six floors up, the elevator stopped, and I moved toward the door … just as the couple did the same. As I trailed behind them toward Twin-Bed’s door, I realized the couple was going toward his half of the building … and then to the door of the apartment directly adjoining his. The spanking hanky-panky neighbor!*** It was a thrill as delicious as the time Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart passed me, walking up 7th Avenue.

A quiet Halloween
And pretty much my only brush with “fame” the rest of the evening. You see, I spent the rest of my Halloween going to the evening church service and then supping with Guy Friend #1, his girlfriend, and another woman (her favorite Sexless bit: my need for two vodka OJs to recover from an adrenaline-inducing email earlier this summer). No one at our restaurant was dressed up for the occasion, though the waiter did look like an older and more careworn version of Mr. Fontastic.

In retrospect, I think it may be the first Halloween in a while I have utterly ignored. My family used to observe a hallowed Broadway family tradition: the anti-Halloween celebration we called “Blackout night” (equal parts cheapskatism and countercultural rebellion). Every October 31, we’d shut off all the lights in the front of the house where would-be trick-or-treaters might discover we were home, and huddle in the family room at the back of the house. There, illumined by candlelight or some other low-wattage device, we’d eat dinner on the floor, maybe bob for apples or play card games. This tradition is so fondly remembered by my parents that in the middle of church I got a text message from them (sent to all us kids, since my folks are so tech-savvy) fondly recalling those happy nights. Apparently the folks were taking a break from their usual Sunday-night ritual of having a “romantic evening” as they have informed me.****

Anna im Kostüm
“Romantic evenings” in general were actually a most-fruitful costume inspiration, starting in late college. Every year, the local Campus Crusade for Christ chapter would have a Halloween party, forsaking all pretense of alternative celebration (such as the “Harvest Festivals” sponsored by many churches and religious groups). My senior year of college, still on my post-Berkeley rebellion against Christian culture, I hit upon the brilliant idea of persuading a particularly shy and upstanding guy friend (later to become King of the Pseudo-Date) to go as a Chippendales dancer. This lobby effort went on for a good day or so until finally King of the Pseudo-Date caved, having strong-armed my brother onto the dance line and dreamed up a condition he doubtless thought would save him from bare-chested humiliation: if they went as dancers, I had to go as a stripper.

And he thought this would deter me?!! I acquiesced immediately and set about finding the perfect accessories for what I was later told by Sgt. Ex-sessories more accurately resembled a burlesque dancer’s costume (he evidently had expertise in the various vagaries of stripper attire). Then two years later (I am inexplicably unable to recall Halloween 2000 celebrations) I was invited to a party whose theme was circus performers and sideshow freaks. As tongue-in-cheek homage to that party’s theme, I went as a 25-year-old virgin, suited up in red skirt, platform boots I deemed grungy and riotgrrrrly, and of course a chain belt with lock appropriately labeled “Chastity.” I wore the key along with an old purity ring on another chain strung round my neck. There was less difference than one might think between the on-the-shelf virgin and my old-fashioned stripper two years before.

The final costume in this — shockingly, I know — sex-themed series was an idea Best Friend came up with for last year’s Halloween: Good Librarian Gone Bad. Surprisingly it turned out the strategic inclusion of seamed stockings and date-stamp necklace were mostly unnecessary accessories. My glasses alone sufficed to persuade the hipster party set that I was a librarian. If there is a “next” time for dreaming up a costume, I might just go as a certain blogstress … red pants, mirrored shoes and all. It’s that or a nun.

Dahlings, I must warn you, as tomorrow morning I embark for the highly anticipated weekend in DC with Wedding Date, there may not be much blogging for a bit. But have no fear: I’ll be up to many hijinx guaranteed to generate much entertainment. Friday night we plan to go swing dancing, as Wedding Date insists his “fee” is that I teach him how to dance. Imagine Dirty Dancing without the “dirty” part ... maybe. ;) We’ve already established that Anna and Wedding Date must remain Bible-width apart at all times. Although there are those pocket-sized Bibles ... Then Saturday is the Big Date, and finally Sunday night it is anticipated we will catch some live local blues with Sis (whom Wedding Date dreams I will start calling “Jarhead Broadway” — but you folks wouldn’t appreciate Marine-insider humor like that, now would you?!!).

Alas, that other much-anticipated date with Hippie the Groper has been postponed till next week, but with Geriatric Gent scheduled to call me then as well, my social calendar is already filling up.

*Generally it proved a good litmus test for humor.
**Mind you, I have no idea what the symptoms of such would be ...
***I must say, for the nearly retired cop P.I. he reportedly is, the noisy neighbor was younger than I had imagined.
****One “perk” of our new grown-up-to-grown-up relationship is alarming candor.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

The e-dating redux

In the ongoing effort to be of some public service here, today I’ve decided to dig into the mailbag a little. A while back I got a Craigslist-response email so unique I felt the guy really deserved some attention on this blog. But before I make a few suggestions on how I think he can improve his e-dating act, I wanted to get some reader feedback.

Thoughts ya’ll? Be gentle, now ... I know I have a reputation for being a little hard on guys — but that only applies to men I’ve actually gone out with! :D
Hi There!

Well, I’m sure you’ve gotten a million and a half emails already, because that was a pretty rad post you put up! I always sit down, with the great intention of writing a really awesome post, and then it just never seems to come out saying exactly what I want it to say.

Sorry, i’m totally being rude. My name is Heart in the Right Place, i’m 24 and originally from Pennsylvania. I have a BS in political science, and another in american history. I’m also a certified massage therapist, which is what I do for a living here in san diego. So if we really hit it off, i’m sure you could talk me in to a free massage fairly quickly...i’m a sucker for cuties!

Anyway, on to more exciting things about me. I’m about 5’10, weigh about 160 lbs, have brown hair, and hazel eyes. I have three piercings and one tattoo, all tasteful, and some fun! I’m such a jeans and t-shirt person, but think i can clean up with the best of them. i’m most comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt, in the field or on the water, love to hunt and fish so much! I haven’t been able to find anyone out here, whether guy or girl who loves to hunt and fish as much as I do, i think it would be amazing to be able to meet someone who enjoys that stuff as much as I do.

So this is usually the part of the email that brings about 99 percent of everyone to a screaching hault, but i’d rather not waste either of our time, so it goes in to every email of mine. I’m visually impaired...not blind, but visually impaired. that means that i have usable vision, just not enough to do things like driving/surgery/flying planes/things like that. I really try to respond to posts that I think the people who’ve written them won’t even be effected by that, but you just never know. i think it intimidates a lot of people, either because they don’t have any experience with it, or it just plain bugs them. haha i hate pitty or patronism, and won’t take either, and i think that leaves some people with very little to say to me when they first meet me. I do use a guide dog, A for my safety, B because I absolutely love dogs, and C let’s be honest, a bitchin cute lab is such a great ice breaker! :) I’m actually between dogs right now, and really miss the random people I meet everywhere because of my dogs. Camping/hiking/bondfires at the beach are some of my other favorites to do outside...basically i love doing anything outdoors when possible. I also love to read, listen to music, play guitar, sing (mostly alone haha) and i’m sure all the other things that 99 percent of the rest of the world love to do. i’ve done everything from living and working on a farm in pennsylvania (hi mom and dad! haha) to living/working on capital hill as a lobbyist, to working directly for president clinton for nearly a year, to sitting on boards of directors at the age of 20...there isn’t much i haven't done or seen already. But what I want most in my life right now is someone to just kick it with, and see where things lead to. I’m not looking to get married tomorrow or next year, but I’m also getting extremely tired of the first date game, or even the 2 week or month-long dating thing. i’m hoping to find someone to connect with, start out as friends, and possibly a bit more if the chemistry is right, and then to let everything else develope from there. Trust is something built, not immediately given, and i think trust is probably the most important factor in any relationship, whether it be friends or more. I’m looking for someone real...someone sweet, funny, sensative, passionate (physically as well as about life) touchy-feely (i am a bodyworker, my enjoyment of touch is part of the reason i went in to the field) intelligent, whitty, likes to play yet is girly at the same time, someone who isn’t flaky or ingenuine, someone who can make me laugh and think, someone who i can kick back and split a six of new castle with, someone who doesn’t have an issue with dogs, someone who doesn’t think my roommate is hotter than me (yes, it’s happened! haha), someone who loves to curl up on the couch and cuddle, with or with out a movie or tv, someone who is comfortable being honest and open, and someone who doesn’t mind my obvious need for a period at the end of this sentense already! lol I’m adicted to the gym right now, but have absolutely no care what you look like, as long as your heart and personality are beautiful the rest is just like fancy wrapping paper on a great’s nice to look at, but what’s really important is what’s in the box. cheesy analogy i know, but it’s true.

So anywho, before this becomes a novel, I’ll send it off to you. I hope you’re having a wonderful beginning of your weekend, and if you’ve liked any of this that you’ll get in touch with me! I appologise for the horrible picture, i definitely have better if you’d like to see another one...just haven’t gotten to take a good one small enough to send over craigs yet. I hope you’re well, and hope to hear from you soon!

Heart in the Right Place :)

ps. not sure if it gives me any points what-so-ever, but i was part of a first-place-winning swing and tango duo through out college...not sure how much i remember anymore, but would love someone to go with! :)
Anna says: Hint to contest-minded readers ... keep in mind things Heart and I have in common that are also clues to this month’s Broadway trivia questions...

And in other news, dinner with Hippie the Groper has been confirmed for tomorrow night. Should be interesting. No word on the Politician’s election results — which is probably a good thing.


Tuesday, November 02, 2004

October contest winners

In case you haven’t closely inspected the side column in a while, tunes in my soundscape are not only updated on an ongoing basis, but we have a new contest!

First the winners of last month’s. As anticipated by anyone tracking last-minute vote switching and other schenanigans, Poster Boy not only shouldered his way into the prize-winners, but managed to take first. However, in what I hope Frasier perceives as a conciliatory gesture, I have decided in response to his legal lobby efforts to split the entries into domestic and international categories. As Frasier thus entered unchallenged, he is the first-prize winner in the international category. For those of you keeping tabs on our Blog Reader World Series, the October contest — or poetry category — has produced a 1-1 draw. Poster Boy and Frasier stay locked in a dead heat, albeit now 2-2.

This month’s contest represents a return to the format used in September, but the blog archives are not without hints, I believe. Or depending on your research skillz ... Also, as this plays nicely to the sheer-guesswork crowd, I’m expecting more entrants this time. We can do better than 4!

Well, nuff said on that score. In other news, I hear Geriatric Gent is finally back in town, and there may be a dinner with Hippie the Groper this week. Actually I take that back. Geriatric Gent is not only back in town, he just called! Supposed to call me next week about doing something. What a riot. Also, as mentioned, yesterday I received a cheery, photo-laden email from the Politician:
Hey Anna!

How are you? Hope all is well...

How is the job search?

Hope your friends haven’t treated you badly over Bush...

Boy I hoep he wins...

My race looks good. Early voting results posted soon after the polls close should tell the tale...

Haven’t spoken to Middle-aged Hanger-on lately but Married Hanger-on is fine.

Hopefully we can soon start planning our inaugural reunion!

best wishes,


p.s. I have more pictures for you but you have to answer this email! :)
Skeevy or what?!! Oy vey.

In response I sent what was hopefully a sufficiently ardor-quelling email, laced with strategic inquiries of his family and wife. I also mentioned my own political woes. You see, if it weren’t bad enough that I’ve been set up with a Kerry supporter (sniff, sniff), I can’t even vote today! Good thing I hadn’t planned on any votergasm parties, or I’d really be bummin’.

Must go drown my sorrows in ... what else? ... a morning latte (booze comes later).