Sexless in the City

The future of Sexless

2009-06-09T22:36:00.000-07:00

Updated 7.31.09

Dahlings, it’s been a long time coming, but after months of pretending that I was going to resume a more regular posting schedule, I’m coming clean: my blogging days here are more or less done.

I don’t have plans to take this down, so if you’re new, browse the archives or check out the topical highlights. For the bulk of what I wanted to say about sex, though, read the book (go and check it out from your library if you’re cheap or poor! ;)), or read some of the interviews and articles linked in the sidebar. A complete and more frequently updated list is also maintained at sexlessinthecity.net, along with any future speaking gigs, readings and so on.

Occasionally I may check back in here with a new post, but for the bulk of the things I’m wanting to say or share, I’m finding that Twitter works pretty well. Follow me there @annabroadway or see “chirps,” at right.

Thanks much for your support, especially for those who’ve been there since the start! Without you this wouldn’t have been possible. Thanks for giving me the sounding board — and confidence — I needed to pull my thoughts together into something more coherent.

Beating loneliness and evil could start with a movie ticket

2008-10-07T22:59:00.000-07:00

Regardless of the scale of publication, one of the interesting things about making and sharing any kind of art is the reaction you get from your audience. Sometimes the difference between an artist’s espoused intent and viewers’ perceptions has led to conflict (I think of Serrano or, more recently, Renee Cox). Other times, it can provide illumination of certain themes the artist him- or herself may have overlooked. Thus, in my case, a friend’s observation that Sexless is a book about the search for community. It’s not exactly how I have been describing the book, but once she put it that way, I saw her point.

If your experience is anything like mine, one of the reasons you long for relationship and/or marriage may be a desire to put down roots and establish some kind of solidity in your community. Since not even most of our job commitments last more than a few years, marriage is probably one of the last remaining relational contracts we enter with the expectation — or at least hope — of relative permanence. Lacking such agreements, one’s social life can feel as stable as several unconnected buoys sharing little more than proximity. If the water gets choppy, they can’t provide any ballast to each other. Personally, I find that rather stressful — one of the reasons I try to maintain relationships with more than just my fellow single professionals.

Thankfully, I attend a church made up of many young families, couples and students. While we’re still working on the gray-haired contingent, at least we have some relational diversity. In the interest of trying to foster more community among we single folk, though, a few of us have also started organizing monthly socials that aim to foster more community than romance. We find that by keeping things open to both single folks and young married couples, and providing a low-key structure for each event, it provides a safe place to interact with those in a similar life stage, without things slipping into a yucky “meet market” atmosphere.

It’s also been a great way to come together for a purpose greater than just our own relational needs. One month the event was a beer benefit for cancer research; next month we hope to find a venue for holiday-related service of some sort. While all these events have been based on the local calendar, this month the cause is human trafficking, and the event that we’re supporting is the release of a movie you too can attend, if you live in Atlanta, Austin, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Nashville, Orange County, Portland, Redwood City, San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, Seattle or Washington, DC.

That movie is Call+Response, a groundbreaking rockumentary that uses songs by musicians such as Moby, Matisyahu, Imogen Heap, Natasha Bedingfield and others — as well as interviews with the likes of Cornel West and Madeline Albright — to expose the world’s multi-billion dollar human trafficking industry.

Personally, I’ve found the numbers a little overwhelming until recently, when I read an excellent four-part series from the San Francisco Chronicle, that followed one young Korean woman’s journey into debt and then prostitution in Los Angeles and San Francisco, after she was trafficked. You Mi’s story — set in city blocks I walk near or through almost every day — really made this issue real for me.

Affiliate revenue donated.

If you live in one of those cities, and go see Call+Response this weekend, your ticket could help propel the film to a deal for national distribution. If you don’t live in one of those cities, tell friends who do about it. And no matter where you live, visit notforsalecampaign.org to learn how you can join the 21st abolitionist movement.

For unmarried people in the church, the shape of relational life and commitments may look a bit different than it does for married people, but our call to lives of service and self-sacrifice is no different. If we focused more of our energy on the needs of others than on the sex and intimacy we’re lacking at present, who knows how much such service could do for our loneliness and longing for community? Whether it’s doing your part to fight human trafficking, or volunteering to babysit for friends who won’t be able to have a date night without you, a role for you is out there. Find it, and you may receive far more than you give.

‘Anna Baldwin,’ the sex debate and more

2008-09-30T12:46:00.000-07:00

Hello, dahlings. I’m finally back from my crazy month of travel, so will hopefully have time to blog again soon. In the meantime, if you didn’t get to hear my interview on the Baldwin McCullough Radio Experience Saturday night, I believe you can hear it online at blogtalkradio.com. Find out why Stevie B thought I’d be good for his brother, and catch all the rest of the evening’s zaniness. And if you haven’t yet checked out Kevin’s latest book, it’s available from fine retailers online and everywhere.

The only place you can get a signed copy of Sexless, however -- unless you’re coming to Litquake Saturday -- is by ordering it directly from me. Payment accepted via PayPal.

If you are on the West Coast and free this Saturday, I’ll be reading a short excerpt during the 4 p.m. Koret Reading Hour at the San Francisco Public Library (BART stop: Civic Center), along with several other memoirists. Afterward, we’re all signing copies of our books at the nearby Books Inc. store.

Finally, if you missed my debate Sunday night -- on whether modern sex is good or evil -- I believe there might have been some sort of recording made of the event, but you’ll have to pester host Todd Seavey about that. If all goes well, I’ll try to at least post a summary of my position on here in the next few days.

New York event, Sept. 28

2008-09-15T12:36:00.001-07:00

As usual, I’m long overdue for an update, but I do have a post or two on tap. Hopefully I’ll find time somewhere during my crazy few days between travels (last week, Nashville, next week New York) to post it.

Meanwhile, those of you in New York will finally have a chance to see me, buy a book or get your copy signed when I’m there in town later this month! I’ll be squaring off with a former New York Press sex columnist over the question “Is modern sex good or evil?” so it should be a lively time.

Debate @ Lolita
Sunday, Sept. 28, 8 p.m.
266 Broome St., Lower Level
FREE

I will have a limited number of books on hand, but you can help me pre-order accurately by noting in the comments below if you’re planning to come and how many books, if any, I should order for you.

Whether or not you live in New York or will be able to make it, you can help make this event a success by spreading the word through Facebook, MySpace, your blog, etc. And don’t forget that you can still, for a limited time, order signed copies of the book directly from me.

The high cost of casual sex

2008-08-21T10:30:00.000-07:00

At the recommendation of a friend, I’ve recently been reading Michael Lewis’ excellent book The Blind Side. While until now I knew little about football beyond the fact that the quarterback is the one who throws the ball, they all hunch over before the play, and you score by running into the end zone (except when you kick or throw it through the end posts), Lewis succeeded in making the sport both fairly intelligible and compelling to me. If I thought I could actually witness some of the strategy he was talking about in a play, I might even schedule time to watch a game sometime this fall.

One interesting thing that struck me, though, toward the end of the book, was a passing exchange that highlighted how much is often at stake in one’s sexual license. Lewis is describing a Thanksgiving meal at the home of Michael Oher’s adoptive family, to which Michael’s brought some from friends from the Ole Miss football team.

To Thanksgiving dinner, for instance, Michael had invited a freshman linebacker named Quentin Taylor, who had no place else to go. At the start of the meal Michael leaned over and whispered, sternly, “Quentin, you’re supposed to put your napkin in your lap.” Right after that, Quentin let it drop that he had fathered three children by two different mothers. Leigh Anne [Michael’s adoptive mother] pulled the carving knife from the turkey and said, “Quentin, you can do what you want and it’s your own business. But if Michael Oher does that I’m cutting his penis off.” From the look on Quentin’s face Michael could see he didn't think she was joking. “She would too,” said Michael without breaking a smile.

It’s often very easy, I’ve noticed, for conversations about sexuality that tend toward the secular/liberal corner of the quadrant to stress heavily the importance of our “individual freedoms” and the “right” to self-expression. But what is often overlooked in such idealistic conversations is all the accompanying assumptions about class, race, sex and education that play into this simplistic view of things. The fact of the matter is, certain policies/freedoms/rights that many in America have long vociferously defended can take on very nefarious consequences in situations where the circumstances we have mostly unconsciously assumed for said rights are not all present.

Thus, for instance, a recent New York Times bloggingheads post discussing the problem of abortion’s use to drastically thin the population of female babies in India -- “sex-selection abortion,” they called it. And thus, as David Briggs noted in an article for the Plain Dealer earlier this summer, the urgency to a growing emphasis on abstinence in some urban communities and churches. As one source he interviewed put it, “There’s no way in the world we can avoid talking about sex because we see the devastation it does in our community.”

Sometimes what we think we’re defending can lead to very different results than those we meant to champion. And sometimes the self-control needed to not take full advantage of one’s rights can be a matter of far more than just a little pleasure or convenience. Sometimes it’s a matter of justice.

Get an autographed copy of Sexless!

2008-08-06T10:55:00.001-07:00

For those who live too far away to trek to one of my readings, or who aren’t satisfied with a signed bookplate, I have a limited supply of autographed copies for sale. Books ship for $12 each plus shipping (all books sent by media mail, so each additional copy is only a few cents more to ship).

Berkeley event tonight! (And other good ways to spend a Monday)

2008-08-04T00:41:00.000-07:00

For those of you in the area, I wanted to make sure you know about tonight’s event in downtown Berkeley.

Aug. 4 Berkeley 7 p.m.
Part of the Christ Church Berkeley Summer Salon Series
Gaia Arts Center, 2120 Allston Way
BART stop: Downtown Berkeley

And if you live in SF or New York, fear not! More events are coming your way this fall. Check the book website for more details as the dates get closer.

As to other ways to spend your Monday ... I recently heard of a very cool group of folks who are fasting and praying each Monday “for God to bring husbands to women who want to be married (and wives to men), for God to work in us to change what needs to be changed, and for God to work in men, doing all he needs to do to enable them to be men who can love, serve and commit to a woman.”

In all my days of reading folks like Josh Harris and Elisabeth Elliot, I honestly can’t say I’ve heard of something this practical, obedient and exciting. (Readers of the book will know the role that fasting has played for me in the past when it comes to major decisions.) Not that by taking this extra step we can somehow manipulate God into giving us what we want, of course, but this really seems like a can’t-lose act of obedience and trust.

Email me for details if you’d like to join the group’s weekly email list.

Trusting God with our deepest desires

2008-07-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

I was emailing a friend today, and thought what I said to her might be something all of you would appreciate.

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Just the other day I was thinking, for some reason, of this job I interviewed for in the San Francisco back in early 2005, when I was first trying to move out here from New York. It was somewhere near the financial district and I would have had my own office with a window (nicer than my present cube, to be sure), but it really wasn’t much of a job aside from that; I can’t even remember what the company really did, except that its chief significance was inviting me for the interview.

At the time, it was certainly discouraging not to get the position (mainly because it meant that I couldn’t move, which was the change I really wanted). But, I had been praying that whatever happened, I could rejoice in God’s sovereign providence, so after feeling sad for a bit (and probably crying), I went out and bought stuff to make sangria and a pineapple cake to celebrate what God had willed. (Somehow I needed to do something that physical and concrete to order my emotions! But it was surprising how quickly I actually did move on, once I had decided to try to embrace the outcome.)

It was a few more months before I completely gave up attempting to leave New York, but when I look back now, I can see that not getting either of the jobs I’d interviewed for meant not moving to California at a time when the guy I liked then and his circle would have been my main connection and when his church therefore would have been my starting place for spiritual community. It meant not moving at a time when I had no funds to cover a move, and not taking a job that wouldn’t have used my skills very well or been a great career move.

Instead, by seven months after that letdown, I had an agent and a book deal, I was beginning to learn to prayer walk for my neighborhood (which led to one of the most amazing seasons of prayer and intimacy in my relationship with God), and I got a interesting and challenging freelance gig as a curriculum developer that became the salaried part-time position which sustained me through the writing of the book. At the same time, I continued on an incredibly important journey of learning to live within my means that led to me paying off all my credit card debt last summer and enabled me to pay for things like last fall’s trip to India and the permission fees for all the songs I put in the book.

All these things in New York were so many, many times better than what I would have had in California, but God hadn’t forgotten my desire to move either. When He finally provided a way, it was at a time when two of my closest friends from college had finally committed to settling down in the Bay area and had a place where I could stay for the short time, when I had started to make female friends here, and when I had learned of a new church plant in Berkeley (the place where I had the most significant historical connection to the Bay area) that even had significant ties to my church in New York and was the new home church of my first Bible study leader from Redeemer. Moving at this time also meant that I got the money from the second half of my advance in time to pay the hefty cost of hauling all my stuff from Brooklyn (most if not all of which I would have had to leave behind in the 2005 move scenario), and that I wound getting the temp job that became one of the best and most fulfilling jobs I’ve ever had, as part as of a great department and one of the best employers I’ve probably ever had.

Even then, I of course still struggle to believe that God could prove equally so good in providing for my desire to be loved and cherished as a wife, but maybe that’s because I don’t often enough compare the plan and timeline I had in mind, with the timing and manner God chose for fulfilling the deep desire of my heart to move.

It’s strange and not a little scary to be 30 now — in the prime childbearing decade of my life — with not even a boyfriend prospect in sight, but if God could be mindful of things like where I wanted to live and my apparent need for a car (more on that later), is He not equally mindful of the husband and family I’ve wanted longer and more than probably anything else in my life? Somehow I have to trust that God is worth opening up to and entrusting with the very deepest desires of my heart, because no one else has gone so far or sacrificed as much to fix the biggest problem in the world — which problem is why loneliness, broken relationships and death are even a part of life to begin with.

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Afterward: Much as I wish I could write posts more like this on a consistent basis, I can’t promise this is the start of a new flow of fresh material, especially since I’m behind on work on what may be a second book. The funny thing about launching a somewhat cathartic blog is that, eventually (and I would hope four years is enough!), a few of the problems that were once central start to sort themselves out and recede in importance. That, coupled with the changes that having a full-time, “real” job and getting to know enough people in one’s new home to have a social life if not a boyfriend bring, largely accounts for the change in blogging here over the last two years, but especially the last several months.

Really, though, with the book out now, I feel like I’ve said most of what I wanted to about singleness. Moving forward, I’d rather — as one friend put it, kindly — be known as “hopeful in the city.” (Thanks, Charlie!) If you haven’t read it yet, it’s available at a price for every budget from Amazon (as you can see above), and I’m still sending pairs of signed bookplates to everyone who’s read it and wants to give a copy for a friend (email me with your name and your friend’s name and an address to send the bookplates to. If you have read it, don’t forget you can also help by writing a review on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Goodreads.

Things that make me miss New York

2008-07-02T09:57:00.000-07:00

What’s that, you say? This blog’s been so quiet, you worried that I had gotten injured or married?

Nothing like that exactly has happened, but somehow since the book came out, it’s been harder to keep scribbling posts about the spinster life, much less with the candor I used to have. And there have also been various projects, family things ... yadda, yadda, yadda.

Now and then, though, I do manage to squeeze some reading in, though it’s long since eclipsed my knitting as the ultimate leisure activity. One of my occasional reads, thanks to a peculiar email subscription that suddenly started more than two years after my year of getting the New York Observer for free in the mail ended is said paper’s online version.

It’s not as common as the city tabloids, but neither is it as literary and self-important as the Times. And sometimes, the faintly gossipy tone they take with almost all subjects lends itself to nostalgia-inspiring stories of New York quirks, such as these two from a recent issue:

And speaking of the subway, I was utterly delighted with this creative illustration of two New York tots’ ardent passion for all things transit. Did I mention how delightful it was?

Finally, if you haven’t yet picked up the book, it’s now on sale at Amazon (if you want your copy brand-new) or deeply discounted as a used copy. And if you have got the book, don’t forget I’ll send signed bookplates (until they run out) to you and a friend if you want to give it as a gift. Just email me for further details.

Have a happy, safe holiday! And if you’re going to enjoy the fireworks, be EyeSmart.

Tune In: Abstinence and the Single Life

2008-06-08T23:47:00.000-07:00

What: City Visions Radio presents “Abstinence and the Single Life: An Interview with Anna Broadway, author of Sexless in the City”

When: Monday, June 9, 2008; 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. PCT; during the show, call in with your questions and comments to (415) 841-4134 or email them at feedback@cityvisionsradio.com.

Where: City Visions Radio, 91.7 FM, KALW or online at www.cityvisionsradio.com

***************

Catch the show as City Visions talks with me about what’s it like being chaste but still part of the dating scene in San Francisco, why (aside from religious belief) people choose to remain abstinent, and the chastity and abstinence movement in general.

Join the conversation with your stories, views and questions.

“Abstinence and the Single Life” will air Monday, June 9, 2008, at 7 p.m. PCT on City Visions Radio, KALW 91.7 FM. To learn more about City Visions Radio, subscribe to their podcast or listen live online, visit www.cityvisionsradio.com. During the show, call in your questions and comments to (415) 841-4134 or email feedback@cityvisionsradio.com.

Crossed-eyes bad for your love life?

2008-06-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

It must be something in the atmosphere. Just hours after an eHarmony Advice email all about “body”-related dating dilemmas (topics ranged from morning breath to unibrow to piercings), I came across this fascinating article in a company email newsletter.

Looksism wins the day?
Apparently people with strabismus (a condition where eyes are either crossed or one strays out) face an acute romantic disadvantage. How bad? The study reports only “strong acne” or a “visible missing tooth” have a worse effect on your love life. More specifically, potential partners also “perceive persons with strabismus as significantly less attractive (p<0.001), erotic (p<0.001), likeable (p<0.001), interesting (p<0.001), successful (p<0.001), intelligent (p = 0.001) and sporty (p = 0.01).” Yikes! Might be worth that not-so-cosmetic surgery to fix.

To kiss and peak or not to
And in other eye-related love-life quandaries, the ever-informative eHa-Advice email also reports that kissing with eyes closed or not has been a mighty hot topic on the site of late. And here I was thinking it was doing well just to kiss or get kissed!

Mid-week reading trifecta

2008-06-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

For those either curious or desperately bored on this Wednesday, there were a few new articles on the book this weekend, with especially nice turns by The Oklahoman and the
Tampa Tribune.

And for something a bit more original, check out my new post on the Radiant blog “The Pulse”: a look at Baby Mama, Iron Man, movie sex scenes and what I call “the lost art of implication.”

Happy Wednesday!

Surviving a season of sexlessness

2008-05-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

Whether because they saw my segment on “tips for having the talk” or figure a nearly-30-year-old virgin must be good at something (ahem), I’ve been getting requests for advice lately. Today I thought I’d share a few tips I’ve learned for practicing chastity.

If you’re going to be abstinent, give it your best shot. Don’t use dates, make-out buddies or significant others as your science lab to figure out where the “How far is too far?” line is. That also means no porn, no masturbation and ... well, your conscience can be your guide. But seriously: if you’ve chosen to be selective about the circumstances for having sex, techhnical adherence is basically cheating. Rather, you ought to press into and ponder the ultimate reasons for reserving sex for the ultimate commitment of marriage. If you don’t like what it means, then have the courage and candor to admit you’re not really on board with chastity, don’t trust God to know what’s best or don’t [insert your issue/objection]. Then, deal with that issue, rather than faulting something you never really gave a fair chance to begin with.
Don’t use friendships as a substitute for dating someone. In my experience, intimate, opposite-sex friendships often function as emotional substitutes for the real, romantic relationship both friends might desire -- often leading to ambiguity, confusion and hurt. Again, have the courage to admit what you’re really looking for and using that friendship to provide. If you want romance, but not with that person, don’t use him or her to slake your thirst for intimacy. It’s not fair to that other person, and may even be a hindrance to finding the thing you really want. (See my post on emotional chastity for more clarification on what type of friendship I really think needs the most caution; it may not be what you think.)
Do take advantage of brothers/sisters and other safe, clearly defined relationships you have with the opposite sex. I’ve been fortunate to have siblings of both sexes, but even if you don’t, you probably have some unambiguous, fully-platonic-and-couldn’t-ever-be-otherwise relationships with the opposite sex. While these certainly aren’t a substitute for a romantic partner, a lot of times our loneliness is partly spurred or exacerbated by a longing for more contact with the opposite sex. Treasure the blessing of this contact whenever you’re able to enjoy it. I’ve been amazed how much good it sometimes does me to just hang out with my brother or dad. Even if I someday marry, I hope I never lose sight of how much relating to the other men in my life enriches my community and helps meet emotional needs.
Cultivate your whole self in the present. One of the traps of being consumed by your singleness is that it’s easy to start believing your whole identity revolves around your sexuality and its (un)fulfillment. This often comes at the neglect of all the other things that make you you or enrich your life, work and relationships. Pursue your other passions! Explore non-sexual ways to serve and relate and, most importantly, do what you can to maintain relationships beyond your generation. Within the circle of other 20- or 30-somethings, it’s easy to forget how little importance the question of sexual “need” has for the very young and the very old or sick. I’m often humbled and amazed by how much good it does to be around a child whose great worry is this week’s soccer game, or to catch up with a grandparent or other senior who’s dealing with losing much of his or her health and friends. Both give you a lot of perspective, and call on parts of yourself a lover may never access. If that side of you exists, though, why not nourish and encourage it? We never know who or what we’re capable of until we become that.

Sexless in the City Readers’ Guide

2008-05-24T00:34:00.001-07:00

Like most of you, I hope (at least those reading in the U.S.), I’m enjoying the Memorial Day holiday this weekend, so don’t know how much blogging that will result in. Nonetheless, I did want to briefly announce a new resource now online at the Doubleday website: a readers’ guide for Sexless in the City.

If you’re thinking of suggesting the book to your reading group, or would like some questions to think about as you digest what you’ve read, it’s a great resource. And as always, don’t forget that you can also find all the songs quoted in the book in the Sexless soundtrack, and browse the books and albums referenced in the Sexless Amazon store.

New Radiant post: ‘The Vicarious Pleasures of Courage’

2008-05-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

I’m off to San Diego this weekend, so don’t know if I’ll have time for a full post here, but my latest piece for Radiant’s blog “The Pulse” is now up, this one musing on Eat, Pray, Love. What do cobras have to do with eating pizza and accidentally drowning lizards in your coffee? Read the post and find out.

Also, don’t forget that for a few days more, you can still take 15% off one item at BarnesandNoble.com -- a great way to save even more when you buy Sexless. And until I run out of bookplates, I’ll send a signed pair to every reader who wants to share the book with a friend.

Happy weekend! Hope it’s not as hot where you are as it is here!

Train designers help improve brassieres?

2008-05-13T12:59:00.000-07:00

Just saw this article in Newsweek, and one quote was too awesome to keep to myself:

One U.K.-based bra company, Charnos, even brought on a team of industrial designers, putting the same concepts they use to design trains to work on designing a properly supportive bra.

The story goes on to say, “Another London firm, Seymour Powell, scanned several hundred women using machinery normally used on automobiles to gather data on breast shape and form, then it developed a plastic molding to replace the uncomfortable and ill-fitting underwire that has dominated the market for decades.”

All this notwithstanding, the author soberly concludes: “While such advances are impressive, there remains no El Dorado of the bra world.”

Ah, to have an assignment like that, and the chance for such deadpan reportage. The author must be the belle of writer cocktail parties this week!

Buy Sexless from BN.com and save 15%!

2008-05-13T11:02:00.001-07:00

In case you haven’t bought your copy of Sexless in the City yet, you can take 15% off the cover price now through May 19 when you buy it from Barnes and Noble and use code Y8Y8E9R.

Already got it? Here’s an offer for you too. If you like the book enough that you’d like to share it with a friend as a graduation/Memorial Day/kick-off-your-summer-beach-reading gift, write me with both of your names and your address, and I’ll send a signed bookplate for both you and your friend ... until my bookplate copies run out. I wish I could offer to come sign the books in person, but at this point there’s no book tour planned, so I can’t guarantee when I’m likely to next be in your city.

Don’t forget we also have a select number of copies to give out to people who want to join the Sexless street team by helping spread the word about the book and its soundtrack, suggesting your book club read it (if you’re in one) and so on. Tell us how you could creatively let people know about the book, and we’ll send you a copy (while supplies last).

Lastly, if you’re done with the book, but curious about all the songs and books I quote in it, I’ve compiled a handy reference list of all the authors and artists to whom my book owes such a debt.

Thanks for reading!

Immodesty in church?

2008-05-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

Rhett Smith has a couple fascinating posts on his blog this week: Showing Skin at Church and Showing Skin Continued. Basically, these posts discuss the issue of dress in church and whether there should be a difference between our attire in sacred spaces and the rest of the contexts we interact in. Before you get up on any “here’s more sexism” high horse, read the posts to hear what he’s saying. Some interesting points from several people.Personally, one of the biggest things that comes to mind from reading these two posts is, once you get past the blame game and deciding who bears responsibility, how do you go about changing things?

It seems to me, part of the problem is more of a cultural/generational one. In the last couple decades, many churches seem to have adopted such a “seeker-friendly,” church-as-entertainment mindset that there’s almost no sense of reverence in our attitude and attire. How many of us who worship on a regular basis put as much time and attention toward our appearance at church as we do for a date, presentation or job interview?

I remember once talking with a relative who doesn’t normally go to church about how much we had both appreciated a visit to a more formal, traditional service. After all, we weren’t going to church because it was just like every other program or ritual available to us; we were going because it offered something unique. Just as you behave differently at a museum or a symphony, the sense of reverence that church service modeled seemed appropriate to the service.

I’m not trying to make a case for instituting a dress code or moving away from jeans-wearing … but if offices and some schools have no problem doing so, why should church be any more casual? Besides, if the challenge of dealing with immodesty is that it tends to wind up pitting one sex against the other, a move toward slightly more reverent attire asks change of all of us.

Coming back to my question of addressing the problem of overly sexy dress, then, I would make a few general recommendations.

For men troubled by revealing attire

Examine your own dress habits to see if there’s anything you can do to show more honor for God in your own dress.
Pray for the women of the church, that God would help them find their identity less in their bodies and sexuality, more in being God’s beloved daughters.
Look at your own interactions and relationships with women to see if you’re giving more attention to their sexuality (which can happen with praise, gaze and criticism/correction) than other aspects of their personality.

For women troubled by or dealing with revealing attire

Build rapport with and pray for women who seem to be dressing more provocatively before you even consider saying something about their dress. Correction and criticism are best received in the context of a loving relationship and, in fact, that very relationship may help meet the needs driving the tendency to wear revealing clothes.
Examine your own dress habits to see if there’s anything you can do to show more honor for God in your own dress. I know from experience how scary it can be to dress more modestly, when you don’t feel very attractive or able to get the male attention you long for without accentuating physical assets. But in my experience, whenever I’ve tried to trust God with this, He has always honored my obedience (see chapters 2 and 12 in Sexless for more on this).
If you feel that you really need to say something to another woman, do so very prayerfully and remember the admonition to correct with gentleness. If there’s ever a verse I haven’t heard preached on that needs to be, it’s probably Galatians 6:1. Remember that the goal should not be to shame another or protect your own “purity” from their impurity, but to help others grow toward becoming the people God created us to be. When correction affirmation is balanced with loving affirmation that makes clear your feedback is not an attack on the person, it has a chance of doing real good. Ultimately, though, only God can change people’s hearts and mend our broken sense of identity. In that, He probably needs our words of correction for others far less than we think, and our prayers for them far more.

Interview in the Chronicle

2008-05-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

For those of you who didn’t see it, my interview with the San Francisco Chronicle’s Heidi Benson ran in the Style section today. While on the whole it’s very accurate, a couple minor clarifications are called for.

Celibacy vs. chastity. I generally dislike calling myself celibate, since that implies the vow of lifelong abstention from sex taken by Catholic priests (though not by Anglicans, as one friend hastened to inform me). To be celibate technically can refer merely to the state of being unmarried or refraining from sexual relations — both of which are accurate in my case — but I prefer the broader and more specific term chaste, defined as “refraining from sexual intercourse that is regarded as contrary to morality or religion.”
Literary agents. While I was indeed brushed off by the first one I spoke with, I was signed a couple months later by the marvelous Jane Dystel. Having wondered at first if it was worth trying to get an agent (when there was already some publisher interest in the book), I cannot stress enough how worthwhile it’s been to have Jane as my champion and adviser. As much as it can somewhat lengthen the process of selling a book, getting that expertise and representation is invaluable. You don’t know how much you don’t know until you have an agent.

Choices like mine can often be perceived as repression, disinterest in sex or lack of opportunity, but as I try to explain in the book, it’s none of those things in my case. Choosing to be abstinent until marriage doesn’t take sex off the table, but it certainly reduces the circumstances necessary for sex — finding someone I’d like to grow old with, and he with me — to something largely beyond my control. When you find yourself making a choice like that, it raises questions about both your identity and the character of the God who asks that of you.

As I’ve reckoned with these questions, I’ve realized that if who I am is fundamentally and principally a sexual being, then yes, I do risk living an unfulfilled life if I wind up dying a virgin. But if I who am is more than just a sexual being, my life’s fulfillment doesn’t depend on how many lovers or great sexual experiences I have (and no, I’m not naive enough to think they’ll all be fantastic).

While I do hope to someday marry — and certainly sooner rather later — I like to think the lesson I’m learning through this prolonged abstinence will actually give me a healthier, better sex life down the road. A few years ago, sex would have been the earth, moon and sky and probably several planets for me, and therefore a major letdown at some point. With this new perspective, however, I’m free to enjoy it just as what it is: a uniquely unitive, procreative way of sharing my whole self with someone — a good thing, but not an ultimate one.

Easy project for my knitting readers

2008-04-30T14:29:00.001-07:00

(Or call this Exhibit A from a spinster’s life, if you don’t knit.) Details on how to make the booties are in the photo’s flickr caption. More knitting project photos here.

New Radiant post: ‘I See, I See, I See, Thus I Believe’

2008-04-27T01:01:00.000-07:00

It turns out I can’t simul-post what I write for The Pulse, but if you’re curious how what I learned from the movies about wearing shoes relates to John Cusack, my recent TV segment on parental sex talks and a college class on courtship and marriage, read on. Post theme: how exactly do we learn what sex looks like? Comments always welcome, either here or there.

I hope, by the way, that The Pulse won’t be the only context for the sort of essays I launched this blog with, but I’m certainly in a transition at present. Having a charter to write what I think about “art, film, literature and music” (as has been given me with this chance to write for The Pulse) feels vastly more inspiring, lately, than coming back with some variation on the same old “still sexless” posts I've been doing for ... um ... about four years — especially since all this book craziness leaves little time to even check my eHarmony account, much less squeeze in a date. That said, I do have a couple ideas I hope to find time to write in the next week or so. Which reminds me ...

A writing assignment for readers
Whether you bought your copy of Sexless at a neighborhood store or from an online vendor like BN.com or Amazon, don’t forget that you can support the book by writing a brief review at one of the aforementioned websites [insert big, persuasive, toothy grin here]. Thanks!!

Anna on TV: Tips on having ‘the talk’

2008-04-22T00:13:00.000-07:00

Quite a lot going on for me, lately, so unfortunately I haven’t had time to do more than short posts like this. That said, if you missed yesterday's segment on View from the Bay, you can watch the whole thing online.

If you already saw it, or don’t like watching videos online, here are my main tips for moms on talking about sex with your kids (read them before you tease, please!).

Don’t let fear keep you from having a conversation. If your discomfort with the subject matter keeps you from answering your kids’ questions, they'll just get answers somewhere else — and you’ve lost that opportunity to help them create realistic expectations about sex and relationships.
Schedule a monthly date night with your child, so that you’re not just giving them attention around activities such as soccer practice, or the conflicts that spring up. This not only builds your relationship (and their self-worth in the process), it also provides a safe space for talking through issues they may be struggling with.
Practice critical thinking when you watch TV shows/movies with your children, by taking the time to talk through what you just watched or heard is “teaching” about sex and relationships. Remember that most of us probably learn what sex “looks” like from the media, which can lead to lots of misconceptions and unrealistic expectations.
Model the sexual ethos and respect for self you want your kids to have in their own lives as adults. For all the things you could say or discourage, your example is one of the most powerful ways you teach them.
When getting into sensitive topics with your kids, don’t assume the worst; ask open-ended questions that draw out what they’re actually thinking (which may not be as bad you think), or why they asked a question.
Provide a safe space for your kids to honestly share their thoughts (half-baked as they may be or seem to be). You might be surprised by their answers. Teens can get caught between the experimentation of their friends and the cautiousness of their parents, and find that their views satisfy no one. By giving them room to talk about what they’re thinking and feeling, you provide a safe space for them to think through issues, role play situations, and figure out what their standards are.

Sexless in stores today!

2008-04-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

I'll be picking the winner of the contest after a good night’s sleep to recover from doing my taxes, so if you haven’t blogged yet, you can take advantage of the extended submission deadline. Entries accepted until I first check email tomorrow morning.

Already entered? Then take a look around the book’s brand-new website, www.sexlessinthecity.net.

In other news, I discovered during a.m. resucitation attempts today that Starbucks has launched another free music promotion (woohoo!). This time they’re giving away a new free song every Tuesday; today’s is one by Counting Crows.

Finally, if you’re a blogger who wants to post your email address online more securely, my friend and fabulous web designer, Joe, tipped me off to this email-encoding resource. (Not that I’ve started using it, mind you, but it’s nice to know about.)

Anna on the Jay Thomas show

2008-04-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

And quite a rollicking interview it was. Not sure you can find clips anywhere online, but the show website says the program’s rebroadcast at midnight Pacific/3 a.m. Eastern, if you get Sirius satellite radio. It’s on Channel 102.

The Sexless soundtrack
If you happened to hear the Jay Thomas clip and/or have followed my recent blog-about-Sexless contest, you’ve probably heard me mention a soundtrack to the book. There is one, thanks to the kindness of artists like David Wilcox, Barenaked Ladies, Jonatha Brooke, Aimee Mann, Tal Bachman and Beck, all of whom let me quote a portion of their lyrics in the book.

To hear the songs quoted, and more tunes (including Etta James’ classic torch song, “I Just Want to Make Love to You”), buy the soundtrack on iTunes. You can also get all the CDs these songs were taken from, in a special Amazon store for the book.

New Radiant post: ‘Readings, Writing and a Wedding Parallel’

2008-04-13T00:32:00.000-07:00

Still haven’t gotten word whether I can simul-post entries or not, so if you want to hear my take on a recent Mary Roach reading (complete with signs for certain sex-ed-class words and anatomical cakes), have a read. Besides, you wouldn’t think any of that would have some connection to a 17th-century poem and a recent chick-flick with that Knocked Up star, now would you? But it does ...

And don’t forget, you have until Tuesday to enter to win one of five signed copies of Sexless in the City! New details added on how you can do so even without a blog.

Lastly, after a shamefully long wait to follow through, I finally picked the winners of the chocolate-chip cookie prize for those who responded to my reader poll ... um, almost two years back. The winners are readers Elaina and Tiye (email me if you didn’t get your congratulatory email with details on how to claim your prize). And since said winner selection required the development of a highly scientific process involving Singaporean post-it notes, I am happy to report there should be no such delays in picking the winner of this contest (besides which, it’s far easier to sign books than bake a batch of cookies from scratch).

Spread the word about Sexless and enter to win a free copy!

2008-04-09T19:21:00.000-07:00

Updated 4.15, 2:21 p.m.

With less than a week till the book is sold in stores, I wanted to give you all a chance to get a free, signed copy. What you have to do is simple:

Mention the book in a blog post* (ideally with a link to a store where folks can pre-order: Amazon and Barnes & Noble have it, for starters, with pre-order discounts till Tuesday).
Email me a link to the post, and you’ll be entered to win one of five free copies!

Winners selected first thing April 16. NOTE: Entrants who also mention and link to the book soundtrack on iTunes will get an extra entry (only one prize per entrant, however). Need some inspiration? Check out how Batesline and Superfast Reader did it. (Never fear if you don’t have a personal story as they do; one reader simply entered this way.)

FINAL NOTE: Make sure I get your email! I’m trying to acknowledge all contest submissions I receive, so if you don’t hear back, you might want to confirm your email got through. I spotted at least one submission only while it was being deleted from my spam folder, alas. I think the sender’s name was Jeffrey, so if that sounds like you, leave a comment or resend your message.

Happy blogging!

*If you don’t have a blog but have a Facebook or MySpace and friends you feel comfortable letting know about the book, copy me on the email you send or provide some other proof of your post or bulletin and I’ll give you one entry for that too.

The food of champions

2008-04-07T18:35:00.000-07:00

The life of a writer is far from gastronomically glamorous. Saturday night, I got caught up creating the playlist for the book and had to improvise a super-late dinner out of Trader Joe’s mac-n-cheese (thank goodness I’d thought to buy some for “emergencies” like this!) and a bag of broccoli florets I meant to eat during the work-week but never got around to fixing.

Never got around to would be the theme here, if you’re looking for one; too often I never get around to taking a lunch, eating at a proper time, or just eating properly period, as this morning’s sick-day breakfast would attest: the last 5 or 6 pieces of Aplets and Cotlets left over from my Seattle trip. America’s answer to Turkish delights: most certainly the breakfast of champions.

Not that it’s always been this bad, mind you. The irony is that when I could least afford to eat well, I probably nonetheless ate a great deal better than I often do these days. Back in the day, when I was still on my $50-a-week-or-less budget for food and transit, I got by on such slim means with a mostly vegetarian diet, careful meal planning and disciplined weekly grocery trips to the aforementioned TJ’s. Ah, the Sunday night jaunt down to Union Square for a quick shop after church ... It was usually fairly quiet then: nothing close to the literally out-the-door, down-the-sidewalk lines when the store first opened its Manhattan doors.

But more importantly, because of all that planning, my fridge was usually more practically stocked, if less amply so (you can’t really afford to stock a pantry on such an income). Something about the routine of making a daily lunch at home lent itself to remembering little details like the sprouts and avocado slices that transform a simple tuna fish sandwich into a tasty midday meal. Sometimes I even had enough money for a $2-3 potato chip bag that made for a little side crunch for each sandwich that week.

Nowadays, lunch is typically eaten at work, in haste, at all the wrong hours and with almost none of that gracious if inexpensive sense of order and completeness I once enjoyed. Mostly I just nibble random bits of pistachio meats, dried apricots, the occasional chocolate almond cluster, a package or two of string cheese and maybe a serving of yogurt. The only thing that keeps me from having to eat Starbucks breakfast sandwiches every day is that there’s thankfully yet another Trader Joe’s (that would be another theme, clearly) just 8 or so minutes’ walk from my office in North Beach.

All in all, it’s a funny trade-off. On desperate days, I can now afford to walk to the Thai restaurant down the street for a quick meal, without any of the careful budget calculations that once governed whether I could splurge on a $3 latte during a coffee-shop work session, or had to stick with a $1 cup of coffee to justify sitting there and using the free WiFi. I can also occasionally try the pricey special coffee beans Peet’s sometimes roasts in only a handful of batches (though, honestly, I have yet to find a better bean than the $8 bag of organic, fair-trade Peruvian coffee they sell at the Natural Grocery down the street).

None of that expanded purchasing power enables me to brew the lattes that used to be a favorite morning ritual, though; nowadays I usually get up as close to the time my carpool arrives as I can, not always brewing coffee before I leave. All in all, I think I sometimes miss the old days, scrimping or no.

If you’ve been missing the old days of “proper” blogging like I used to do, take heart: I’m now a contributing blogger for Radiant’s blog The Pulse (an art, lit and music blog). Until I confirm if I can simul-post entries or not, I’ll post links here each time there’s a new entry up there. The first one was Friday’s, “Soundtracks to Books, Life and Other Things.”

Don’t forget you can still get a pre-order discount on the book for one more week! Get yours from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Anna on North Gate Radio

2008-04-03T15:02:00.000-07:00

Updated 3:02 p.m. PCT

A journalist at the Cal graduate program recently spoke with me about waiting over the long haul.

Major props for their song choices to include in the piece:

“I Want Ev’ry Bit of It” (Bessie Smith)
“Tiembala” (Africando)
“Here Comes Your Man” (The Pixies)

Speaking of music, I promise the mention of a Sexless soundtrack is not mere tease. Details of how to hear it will be posted soon. In the meantime, have you pre-ordered your copy yet, or (if you’re local), RSVPed for the April 18 reading? If you’re chary with cash, you can also request it at your local library.

Finally, don’t forget that those first few readers who volunteer to help with the street team for the book can get a free copy! Email me for more details.

Friday morning morality play

2008-03-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

First off: a few announcements. The book is due out in less than three weeks, so if you haven’t yet pre-ordered your copy, it will be in bookstores soon. And if you live in the Oakland area, I too will be in a bookstore, at least the night of April 18. Tell a friend and then come down and join us at A Great Good Place for Books, in the heart of Montclair. (If you would be interested in helping set up a reading or other event in your city, email me about getting involved with my street team. We have a limited number of free copies of the book as a thank-you to those who get involved.)

Secondly, if you’d like a break from my voice, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer ran a column today that mentions the blog: “Sex rules are best laughed at.” Check it out if you’re looking for a funny read and a breezy digest of several recent sex studies.

In a study of a different kind, we did an interesting exercise in a training session yesterday that I thought I would share. I know: sounds dorky, right? But actually, I found that it provided an interesting barometer of the character traits we value. If you want to “play along,” find a piece of scratch paper and make a list with the names Ivan, Abigail, Gregory, Sinbad and Slug and prepare to rank the five characters on a scale of 1 to 5, least to most reprehensible.

The story: ‘Alligator River’
Once upon a time there was a woman named Abigail who was in love with a man named Gregory. Gregory lived on the shore of the river. Abigail lived on thee opposite shore of the river. The river that separated the two lovers was teeming with man-eating alligators. Abigail wanted to cross the river to be with Gregory. Unfortunately, the bridge was washed out. So she went to Sinbad, a riverboat captain, to take her across. He said he would be glad to if she would consent to go to bed with him preceding a voyage. She promptly refused and went to a friend named Ivan to explain her plight. Ivan did not want to be involved at all in the situation. Abigail felt her only alternative was to accept Sinbad’s terms. Sinbad fulfilled his promise to Abigail and delivered her into the arms of Gregory.

When she told Gregory of her escapade in order to cross the river, Gregory cast her aside with disdain. Heartsick and dejected, Abigail turned to Slug with her tale of woe. Slug, feeling compassion for Abigail, sought out Greogry and beat him severly.
Abigail was overjoyed at the sight of Gregory getting his due. As the sun sets on the horizon, we hear Abigail laughing at Gregory.

I know, I know: it’s not exactly up to the standard of Hemingway, but still it led to an interesting discussion. The assignment, you see, was for each of us to individually rank the characters from best to worst, after which we were put in groups to develop a group ranking. This was where the differences really emerged, however.

Whereas I thought Ivan’s hands-off approach was probably the healthiest of all of them, the rest of the folks in my group deemed him worst because of his passivity and lack of compassion. And whereas they all thought Gregory was cruel for spurning Abigail, I found little evidence of his love for or interest in her. To me, she seemed like a desperate, aggressive woman, unwilling to let anything thwart her efforts to get the fulfillment of her desire. Gregory certainly should have made it clear to her what his standards were, but it doesn’t exactly sound like he encouraged her to go so lengths for them to be together.

Another point of disagreement was the character of Sinbad. Once each group had reached their collective ranking, all of us compared our results. While my team agreed that Sinbad was rather mercenary, we did give him props for consistency and being very upfront about his ethical standards (perhaps this is why I liked 3:10 to Yuma). The other groups tended to rate him as the worst, however, because of his willingness to abuse power and take advantage of Abigail’s neediness.

Your thoughts?

More on girlspeak/guyspeak translation woes and what marriage does for your health

2008-03-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

I don’t plan to make recommended reads the substance of this blog, but when making chowder collides with finishing a bottle of Chimay and putting the final touches on yet another op-ed draft (as it did last night), I’m left with just the latest interesting headlines to share. (Besides, as I think Andrew Sullivan once said, bloggers are the “sherpas of the internet.”)

Today’s reads:

And as an unrelated announcement ...

Have any new, unused makeup or jewelry you don’t need?
A friend of mine is collecting donations of these and other items girls love -- all new, of course -- for a gift bag project. Donations need to be mailed by April 3; contact me for more details if you’re interested. No excuses, now; I know you must have at least some gift-with-purchase you’re never going to use ...

First reading April 18

2008-03-17T11:47:00.000-07:00

Those of you in the Bay area, rejoice: you’ve finally got a chance to heckle or meet me, or ask those questions you somehow never got around to emailing. To RSVP so the bookstore has enough copies, view the evite. If you’d prefer to stay mysteriously noncommittal, details are as follows:

Sexless in the City Reading & Signing
April 18 7 p.m.
A Great Good Place for Books
6127 La Salle Avenue Oakland

And of course, if you can’t make it, pre-order from Amazon for an additional 5 percent discount off the current sale price. I’ll also be launching a soundtrack of sorts, so stay tuned for further details.

Want to get a free copy of the book? Email me for more on joining the Sexless in the City street team or arranging a signing or other event in your area. Ways you can help:

If you’re local, spread the word about the April 18 reading on your blog, website, FaceBook page, MySpace ... well, you get the idea.
Post a text or product link to the book on your blog or website. Promote however you please, but if you’re an affiliate with Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or another bookstore, you’ll earn a percent of every book sold!
If you’re feeling especially motivated, you might use the book as the basis of a contest on your blog (encouraging readers to submit stories, photos, videos, puns or whatever suits your fancy). Let me know what you have in mind, and we can send you an additional free book to give away as the prize.

Whatever you have in mind, just send me an email -- the sooner the better, as we only have a limited supply of free books for street team members. Thanks in advance for your help!

Coming soon ...

2008-03-05T23:42:00.000-08:00

Dahlings, I promise, I see your hits checking back for more, but sadly all the most promising phrases and post ideas to drift through my brain come only at the most inappropriate (read: laptopless) moments. Gearing up for a weekend trip to New York and DC isn’t helping either. I did at least manage to fix one problem with sidebar links, so if the “Recent Post” list has been lately spurning your click-throughs, try again.

In the meantime, read, marvel and be scared — very scared — by this fabulous, funny example of girl brain, from Emily Giffin’s novel Baby Proof, in which the heroine ponders a proper response to invite she knows her ex has gotten as well:

I suddenly wonder exactly why I’m going out of my way to avoid Annie and Ray. I … don’t want to be around anyone or anything that reminds me of Ben, period, and I’m afraid that Annie will offer up unsolicited details of Ben’s new life. Details I most certainly don’t want to hear. Unless those details include that he’s single and miserable. And there’s no way that’s the case. After all, I saw him yucking it up with Tucker. He may not be in love with her, or even with her at all, but by no means did he appear to be a broken man.

Of course I could always tell Annie that I don’t want to hear anything about Ben, but I don’t want to come across as the big relationship loser, and I would appear to be emotionally unstable if I ruled out conversation about the most significant thing to happen to me, ever. Then Annie would pass this along to Ray who, as a man, would not have the good sense and tact to keep it to himself, and would instead tell Ben what a pitiful case I am. Moreover, if Annie obliges my request to avoid mention of Ben, I inevitably will read all sorts of things into her ensuing silence. I will wind up thinking that, yes, I told Annie I didn’t want to discuss Ben, but if the report were favorable to me (unfavorable for Ben) she’d somehow find a way to sneak it into the
conversation, as in, I know you didn’t want to hear anything about Ben, but he asks about you every time we see him and he seems desperately lonely without you.

In any event, this invitation forces my hand.

And that, in a nutshell, neatly sums up the sort of hyperanalytical lunacy women are constantly processing, at the drop of a hat (or invite, in this case). Back soon!

Anna and the Sergeant: Dreams are made of eucalyptus, part 2

2008-02-20T17:30:00.001-08:00

Missed the first part? Catch up!

________

Mumbai, Fall 2007

After a trip to a chemist right down the street from my friend’s rather shockingly priced rented room (evidently not marked up due to our whiteness, unlike most street food and many other things), I tracked down a bottle of eucalyptus oil and a small plastic-wrapped roll of cotton.

By the time I got back to my friend’s place and realized Sargie had never precisely described the exact application of the oil, I found myself starting to think of John Cusack’s oh-so-glam Q-tip use in Better Off Dead. Hotness, for sure.

While I was hardly there to add myself to the local queue for arranged marriages, much less attempt intercontinental flirting, stuffing my orifices with cotton seemed a bit desperate. Which I clearly was by this point, just not that desperate. Yet.

Instead, since my friend had been recommending I try out some fabulous sauna down the street, wherein one evidently sweat out all the dutifully drunk bottled water in one’s system while breathing in lungfuls of eucalyptus-laden steam, I decided to go for a more homegrown steam bath.

In truth I did attempt to inhale
Although my friend’s rent did not apparently cover kitchen access, like all practical travelers abroad, she had a hot pot for boiling water. After finding a bowl big enough to serve as a “bath,” I plugged in the pot and waited to see if Sargie’s oil would do any magic.

Once I was carefully huddled over the bowl, attempting to hold a small towel over my head, without spilling the steaming water on my lap, I dumped in some oil, and then a little more just for good measure.

Well, so maybe it was a lot more. It’s likely the pigeons that normally roamed the ledge outside the open windows (and left their germy fluff on my toiletries in the bathroom each morning) had started shuffling toward a less-cleansing perch, but I was too busy coughing to notice. Lean too close to the bowl (and by close I mean less than 12 inches), and I could suddenly feel the steam pricking my eyeballs, tickling my throat and basically opening up or provoking everything but my confounded sinuses.

Evidently, when in India, one must do what all the locals do — which certainly isn’t treating sinusitis (as the ayurvedic doctor called it) with cotton bits and the oil preferred by one northern European father. Hence a week-long adventure in swallowing the various unknown but speckled pills I got from the doctor and which I hoped bore only a superficial resemblance to dung or mud.
I’ll never know exactly what was in them, but at least the shooting sinus pains never came back. If only I could have said the same for the pigeons and their morning bathroom “gift.”

The proof is in the stuffing?
Ah, but Sargie. If you’ve been reading closely, you’re probably wondering why all this makes me grateful for him, no? Well, in what may perhaps prove that even the weirdest of my recent adventures in dating could yet have copper in not silver linings, one day months after my Mumbai trip I woke up with another sinus headache. And while I had full access to a kitchen, stove and tea kettle, let’s just say I was short on time.

And who knew? It turns out if you dab a little oil on some cotton and tell yourself Cusack was hot no matter what he was saying — or, more importantly, doing — you start to get a taste of Sargie’s folk cure. For I found myself strangely grateful.
________

Now then: as to those yet-unredeemed dates mentioned (which I hear some of you want reports on), I certainly could tell a tale or two, but for the time being, I don’t like to be a girl who dates and blogs. I can however promise a few reports from my weekend ditch-your baggage party and hopefully news of a forthcoming double crazy blind date. Stay tuned!

In the meantime, if you’re looking for more things to read, check out a V-day article I was quoted in, a recent review of this blog in San Francisco magazine, or pre-order your copy of Faith on the Edge, a forthcoming essay collection from GodSpy that includes my essay, “Confessions of an Undercover Virgin.”

Some entertaining, interesting research

2008-02-07T12:05:00.000-08:00

I’m still waiting for time and energy to align in my schedule such that I can write pt. 2 of “Anna and the Sergeant,” but in the meantime thought I’d share these two stories my housemate kindly alerted me to:

Interestingly, the first story seems to confirm one take-away from my new favorite book (How to Avoid Marrying a Jerk): “The good doesn’t always last, but the bad usually gets worse.” Commendably, while some might be inclined to read the marriage study as a discouraging finding, the authors note that it may just be an indication of the couple’s growing intimacy and increased willingness to be themselves. For some reason this also makes me think of the piece in this week’s Newsweek on how our nearly pathological efforts to treat and avoid sadness may not be so healthy.

Back in a bit!

Anna and the Sergeant: Dreams are made of eucalyptus

2008-01-25T10:00:00.000-08:00

A head cold is an admittedly odd reason to feel some gratitude for a long-ago, tongue-pierced suitor, but when said date was the one to inform you of eucalyptus oil’s powerfully curative properties, even the boob job he’d bought his “ex” (in an ill-fated effort to boost her self-esteem, or so he claimed) becomes the sort of endearing quirk that makes you sigh, “Ah, Sargie,” laugh and shake your head. (Yes, that sentence weighed in at 71 words, thank you.)

Sargie wasn’t really his name, of course — in fact, he had a such unusual one, I still sometimes wish I weren’t committed to pseudonyms — but somehow or other, a similarly shortened version of St. Ex-cessories’ real name had previously wound up on my shoulder, in a short-term tattoo scratched with eye pencil for my Halloween guise of stripper one year. (Ironically, that costume predated the early-20s bender of secular dating I went on, in a sort of rebound from being so shattered by Married Man’s being, well, married. Yes, you can get more back-story in the book.)

And when I met Sarge at the bar one night in grad school, he talked well enough that I chose to overlook his tongue ring, highly tricked out Jeep (all of which accessories he swore were vital to its optimal operation) … and the various other details that moved from being eccentricities to deal breakers in a matter of three dates.

Maybe the fact that I’d once gone around a party with a nickname version of his name writ as evidence of some prior, ill-fated “fling” had something to do with it. Or maybe I sensed that behind the avid first-impression conversation (which he later claimed was like running his brain in the “red zone,” a place he’d rather our physical contact went), was the sort of valuable homeopathic insight that would one day take on the sinus scourge of my second trip to India.

I don’t remember how it came up, except that I think I got sick the month of our dates. So one night Sgt. Ex-cessories helpfully mentioned that his dad used to have him put eucalyptus oil up his nose during head colds, which he claimed promptly caused all germs, junk and who knows what other fluids to promptly eject themselves from said stuffed-up orifice. Charming, no?

But charming or not, in an hour of desperation in Mumbai — either shortly before or after my equally desperate visit to an ayurvedic doctor who performed acupressure, some treatment with a heat lamp and played an unsettling meditation chant from an elephant plug-in — I remembered Sargie and the oil.

My head had been putting me through such misery that the needle-like pains in my temples sometimes drew spontaneous tears, an experience that was into its second or third day since my departure for Mumbai. Our first treatment had been tracking down the Indian black-market version of Sudafed — made with the real stuff, not the nearly impotent phenyl-whatever — and had taken us three or four chemists to find (the local version of a corner drugstore).

This worked quite nicely at first, but less than 24 hours into the treatment, the more capricious, black-market side of the pill introduced itself — as if it perched there beside me in bed, fearlessly gulping unboiled local water, and laughed when I pointed to my temple ordering, “Sinuses, NOW!”

“What, you think my work is clinically proven or something? I’m just a pill in foil packets that some unknown pilot or flight attendant dropped by the chemist for God knows what reward.” Wink, wink. That’s probably when I remembered the claim that oil of eucalyptus might cause, well, a disgusting flow of discharge, but one that just might open my sinuses, stop the pain, and allow me to sort of enjoy my vacation. In short, it might be a miracle cure.

Did I find it? Did it work? Did I manage to live in sinus happiness ever after? Check back next week for the thrilling conclusion to Anna and the Sergeant: Dreams are made of eucalyptus.

E-dating week 5: Gambling on love?

2008-01-09T22:56:00.001-08:00

So I’ve got a little confession to make: I’m not quite sure what Kenny Rogers’ advice on gambling means, or how it applies to life, but I might be about to embark on a little romantic roulette beyond the blind date blackjack I played a few weeks ago. (Is that enough cheesy gambling references yet? Yes? Good.)

Can buy me love?

The last lotto ticket I plan to buy.

Yes, I might be about ready to plunk down cash for a dating service. I didn’t have to do it with the first one, since their two free trial periods were sufficient time for most of the guys I met on there to give me their emails or IM handles — and CrazyBlindDate is free of course — but eHarmony wants to charge me through the proverbial wazoo to answer questions from/trade emails with/view pictures of my matches. And by wazoo — in case you haven’t priced such services lately — I mean anywhere from $60 for one month to $251.40 for one year.

Now, granted, they have a vastly better interface than the previous site (though clearly the former had work to do in ensuring their users were actually revenue-generators), but still, the whole thing entails a bigger financial commitment than I’m prepared to make ... at least before my likely first date with e-Prospect #1 this weekend (turns out life in the mujahidin did not exclude some internet use after all). I still have almost no clue what the plan for Sunday is, but we’ll see. I guess you have to play each hand one at a time, eh? In any case, depending on how that all goes, I may be more or less likely to fold ’em, more or less likely to hold ’em, pay up and see how harmonious my matches are.

Either way, this new experiment at “putting myself out there” seems to involve risks with every deal. Obviously that’s inevitable, and some things will turn out better than I feared. Despite the cliché of blind dates being horribly demoralizing and awkward, my first one in a long time resulted in almost no nerves on my part and a very lively conversation that let me talk about things I’d forgotten I had thoughts about or had studied. (Alas, there wasn’t enough there for me to consider him a romantic prospect, but on the whole it vastly exceeded the street rep of such random outings. Props to the e-dating matchmakers at CrazyBlindDate.)

But as I try to get back on the same (or similar) emotional horse that bucked me off the last time and left several nice horseshoe grooves in my heart, it’s hard not to fear that I’m in for more pain this time, whether or not the ride’s half as good as it was the last time, and whether there’s one more thrilling fall involved. Then again, I’ve probably been that sort of romantic gambler/horse-rider who goes all in on the first round, who rides the horse without using stirrups, reins, or other standard safety devices (humor me, and find these two metaphors compatible, will ya?). This, it’s to be admitted, isn’t something I’ve really acknowledged till lately, but hopefully it’s a step toward saddling up again.

Improving on a poor poker face

One thing that may help me learn to ride and fall better is a new Sunday school class on dating that started this last week. Based on a DVD series with the author of How to Avoid Marrying a Jerk, it looks to be a tremendous guide to not so much different ways of dating but the skills, head knowledge and heart-pacing needed to “Pick the Right Partner” the course title mentions. The overview session alone gave me lots of new insights into some of the bruises my heart has sustained, and the book has uniformly high praise on Amazon. Check it out if the title is as new to you as it was me. Even if you’re not “single-and-looking-to-change-that” yourself, odds are you know someone who is.

If nothing else, I can say from experience that the title alone will get you plenty of laughs and stories about others’ ill-fated gambles on jerks/“jerkettes” when you mention what you’re reading.

Which confession of reading/classwork, now that I think of it, is one more social ante-in that went better than my risk-fearful heart might have expected. And if there’s nothing gained without venturing first, perhaps I ought to focus more on improving my game and learning when and how to risk, than just quitting cards altogether.

Kenny, I guess I’m not ready to walk away just yet, but have you got any insider tips on what the winning odds are with eHarmony? I’m still wary of big-money games ...

E-dating week 4: ‘Girl brain’ at its worst

2008-01-03T15:50:00.000-08:00

I was talking with a housemate and her guests recently when some faux-superstitious remark on my part (probably joking that some “sign” surely portended her romantic fate) prompted Housemate #1 to dismiss my quip with a snort and the charge of having “girl brain.”

It’s probably been called lots of things, but my favorite depiction of these histrionic, melodramatic flights of analytical fancy is the montage late in Amelie when she imagines all the things her mystery man has run off to do — the only one of which I remember was to join the mujahidin.

I liked that scene. It had the right deftness and briskness to suggest Amelie herself constructing the pastiche of internal mania with a coy self deprecation, as if to say sweetly, “Yes, it’s loony, but haven’t you done it too?”

Loony or not, girl brain almost always manifests in the absence or maddening silence of a man. Any situation where uncertain possibilities present themselves is an instant opportunity for our ever-active brains to fill in the gaps (naturally as colorfully as possible) until the man acts or speaks, providing us further data to mull over.

I had been mercifully spared of this affliction until recently, as nary a possible prospect was on the horizon (except with liberal stretches of the imagination). It was great. I walked the streets of San Francisco home from work to BART each night, my head busy with the latest baby garment to knit or who I needed to email next for some ongoing task with the book. Although I’ve decided to let myself actually look at the rotating line-up of four wedding dresses I always pass in a shop along Columbus, I’ve generally had a nice long stretch of calm deep breaths and peacefully savored foggy evenings.

Enter my recently married cousin, whom I saw at the end of a business trip last month. Barely one day into our visit, and she declared me in romantic hiding, which she suggested might be tackled by exploring internet dating.

I’ll admit I haven’t exactly been trying to crash every possible party that fills my housemates’ busy social lives, but neither have I been cultivating a shrewish tone with men, pretending to own several litters of cats, or finding other ways to become a SuperSpinster.

Still, I decided she might have a point.

Since this region isn’t exactly known for its seminaries and Jesus freaks, I decided to take her up on it, short of actually putting down money for said services. While this has so far yielded plenty of writing fodder, it’s also — alas — renewed the risk of girl brain (gulp).

Take the guy whom I’ll call e-Prospect #1. If it weren’t bad enough that we started contact shortly before a trip he took (a chance for wild speculation based on his email address), we subsequently resumed contact, briefly but promisingly, which Christmas and New Year’s then interrupted further.

And since he’d apparently rather IM than email, I’m now in the girl-brain hell of logging into a chat program to try figure out when he goes online (at work, in the evenings, or when he’s waiting for laundry to dry?), and then pondering whether or not to IM him or maintain a diffident distance so he can be the one to say hi.

You’d think that after the last romantic ______ (for which I still can’t find words appropriate), I’d be warier of wading back into IM ambiguity. And I am, but with a few hundred miles between us, I’m unlikely to break through that unless my forthcoming trip to see relatives (who just happen to live in e-Prospect #1’s town) leads to a coffee date or something. Assuming of course, that we actually “talk” again and I have a chance to casually mention said trip.

Until then, I guess I’ll just have to assume that laptops aren’t allowed in the mujahidin.

Internet-dating experiment, Days 3-9

2007-12-18T16:18:00.000-08:00

Days 1-2

After a few of the painful chats and email exchanges I’ve sat through in the last few days, I can’t decide which is worse: going through this in between doing work tasks and checking email, or sitting there, at a bar, watching as the guy tries to think of something to say.

I’d like to think that some of them (hopefully most) would do a bit better in person, but what exactly is one supposed to say in response to an email that reads, “I’d like to get to know you if your interested” — this from a guy who hasn’t filled in a single short-answer question on his profile?

Then there was the guy who barely communicates in either his profile or our chat session, yet after just a few minutes of scintillating dialogue about the snowy weather he’d like to escape for California’s warmth wants to know if he can send me a Christmas card.

I promise, I could get far more sarcastic about the other tidbits he tossed out, apparently in a bid to establish his sterling, trustworthy character … but I’m trying, dear reader, I’m trying. (To be nice and receptive, that is — not just shoot guys down for working security, offering cheesy compliments, or asking questions about my “experience” within the first few minutes of chat.) Suffice to say, it’s a less-than-thrilling adventure so far, my foray back into the wooly world of Web dating.

At least with the one guy who seemed most promising so far, he had a sufficiently interesting email address that I could start spinning stories about what his job must be on my walk to BART from work that night. But then, of course, since he has yet to answer my first missive to said account, I haven’t had any chance to confirm or dispel my theories about what he does. I probably sent my email too soon after he had provided his address.

With successes like this, it’s probably little wonder that I found myself signing up on another site this weekend, one I’d learned of during a lively lunch chat about my new romance/research endeavor. The female half of a married couple from church had mentioned that she knows the guy who runs the OKCupid site. Apparently he has recently launched a new, free venture in just a handful of cities, called Crazy Blind Date.

Since I was hoping to check out an Adam Levy show Sunday night and didn’t want to go alone, I decided get a little … well … “crazy.” Based on my registration experience, I give them props for the interface, though not the ease of changing from a double to single date. The optional profile questions you answer later also touched on some interesting issues, but frankly some of them got more deeply into personal hygiene and moral positions than I care for strangers to know when they’re deciding to take a chance on schedule and geographic alignment.

At any rate, I didn’t wind up with a date, either crazy or blind. Whether I was too restrictive in seeking a Christian blind date to trek out to the Tenderloin (SF natives will doubtless start laughing hysterically here) or they don’t have enough people registered yet, it’s hard to say. Next time I think I’ll try them when I have a free night I’m looking to fill, instead of a set event I want to attend.

If you’re in Austin, Boston, New York or SF you can give ’em a spin yourself. Since the site is still in the beta phase, all services are free. And that’s this week e-dating report! I probably won’t blog much next week with the holidays, but after New Year’s I plan to take another site’s trial run. Look for comparative reporting in a week or so.

A recommended read

2007-12-16T00:59:00.000-08:00

I found myself writing a book review for the Barnes & Noble website* tonight (we’ll see if it gets posted) and thought I’d publish it here as well.

Redeeming Love, Francine Rivers
I have to admit, when I first got a used copy of this from my cousin, it did not jump to the top of my reading list. Oh no. In fact, it stayed on my dresser top, beneath a growing pile of books, for at least a year. Finally, however, one night when I had just finished reading a used copy of The Red Tent (a creative retelling of the life of Jacob’s daughter Dinah), and found myself swallowing disappointment at the flat second half of what started out as a very promising book, I gave our girl Francine a second thought. True, I had once devoured every Bodie Thoene book I could find; perhaps Christian romance wasn’t entirely the tepid discredit to writing I’d mostly thought it was.

Since nothing else in my dresser-top stack came close to the soul-feeding book I longed to read at that moment, I decided to take a chance on Redeeming Love. While the first couple pages didn’t exactly ring with the prose of an Updike — though he, too, struggle more with plot — it wasn’t long before I was unexpectedly hooked and turning the pages so fast I started to wonder if this book might make a speedreader of me (I did finish it in something like two days, a return to childhood late-night reading stints).

To my surprise, it wasn’t a book with the “fake” premise of a sinful woman redeemed that instead proves to paint “sin” in the palest, mauve shades imaginable; it delved with shocking candor into the sort of gritty, painful details too few authors seem to recall the Bible doesn’t blush at acknowledging. Rivers unflinchingly follows her characters’ story, not constraining it to the places church librarians might think it could safely go — and that’s where the transforming power of the book really lies.

Scenes like a later, pivotal one in a brothel play surprisingly well, though even that far into the book, I doubted there’d be a convincing, plausible resolution. Same with Rivers’ bold, but measured treatment of scenes in the couple’s marital bed. While she could never be accused of titillation, she doesn’t draw back from important issues raised and resolved in the couple’s greatest intimacies, powerfully mining the difference between physical sham and real unity. Full props to Francine on this one.

I have to say, too, on a personal note, that not only was Redeeming Love exactly the sort of story I was looking for that night — a book that fed my soul and left me feeling I’d live life better for having read it — it was a guide to me as an author. In the months later, as I tackled some major challenges in writing scenes for the book, I thought back to how Francine had handled sensitive scenes in her book. Definitely a worthy read, and a credit to the what’s possible when Christians make art with a view to honoring God.

*The links throughout are to Amazon right now, as I’m still waiting to get approval for B&N’s new affiliate program. Sigh.

Internet-dating experiment, Days 1-2

2007-12-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

Well, I’ve done it. At the goading of a recently married cousin I saw this weekend, I’ve signed up for a short-term trial with a new-to-me dating site boasting an “all Christian, all single” pool of, um, eligibles. She claims that if I’d put myself out there in face-to-face settings — to the extent of some makeup and being reasonably civil, if not witty with any unattached men who should happen to chat me up — that there’s no reason for not doing the same online.

While I could argue that face-to-face settings don’t cost as much, I suppose the trade-offs of more time spent on fashion/make-up but less or no cost for admittance (unless you add up the number or drinks bought or snacks brought to parties) are about equal to the online trade-offs: getting “out there” in my PJs if need be (as long as a few good photos are handy), but paying a bit more to stay there.

We’ll see. I do admittedly have relatives on both sides of my family who met their spouses online, and two readers who met each other on this blog later got married! At least it turns out that Christmas is a good time to join, financially (however much it might inflate their ... I mean, our ... ranks with lonely singles). Already I’ve gotten offers to park my profile there more long-term at a nicely discounted holiday rate.

My plan is to wait out the 10-day trial period (although it has already inexplicably dropped to 7 days left despite my signing up yesterday — apparently they count your days from midnight on something like Greenwich Mean Time??) and see if anyone truly interesting contacts me. No browsing the profiles, no contacting men who appeal to me. All I plan to do is see if anyone actually emails, browse their profiles perhaps, and send appropriate responses.

I realize that might sound a bit half-hearted, but if all I’m doing is putting myself out there, why do more? Besides, to neither write an “I dare you to write me profile” nor spend hours scoping the prospects marks a major sign of growth — or at least adjustment — for me. Three years ago (and the last time I tried a dating site beside Craigslist) for instance, I wrote the following:

What I’m looking for in a Soulmatch
Nothing. Because I’m not looking. For a “soulmate,” anyway.

From the standpoint of divine destiny, I understand why people want to believe in one. And I do think God is involved in our lives. But all too often the desire to know how God is involved creates an abdication of responsibility. People would rather be told what to decide than how to decide.

But I suppose I’m dodging the question. Or rather, its intent.

I used to have so many lists of “qualities,” but they were often slanted by the guy I liked most at the moment.

Honesty matters, of course.

But the most important thing — the hardest to find — is sincere, thoughtful passion for God and His glory that manifests itself in humble but courageous leadership. That, right there, is probably asking a hell of a lot. But I really feel that God designed spouses to have complementary roles. The strength of the woman is displayed more in the seeming weakness of submission (though that in itself is about five conversations alone!). But I am only prepared to submit to a leader I respect. I realize that, if I marry, I will disagree with my spouse. But if I can at least respect his thinking and decision-making process, it will be much easier for me to abide by a decision I would not have made.

Needless to say, that didn’t exactly flush out too many prospects. I’m not sure this round will be any more successful, but at least I’ve tried to be less standoffish, and if early outings on Craigslist are any guide, I may be in for some interesting stories. In the interest of research, then, I’ll try to keep some record here of my week-long attempt to be “out there,” wherever “there” is.

So far ...

Day 1. Visit site, create profile, upload photos, wait for their approval.

Day 2. Visit site a few times to check Inbox. Messages so far received: announcements that my photos have been approved, offers to extend membership at the holiday rate and ... wait for it ... a couple emails from guys! One sends what seems to be a generic post he proffers to multiple women (bad move, never mind that he mentions both wanting to live and honeymoon with me, claims four denominational allegiances, and breaks the site’s rules about leaving links to blogs, websites and other ways of finding the person for free). The second, whose profile I actually looked at, only answers questions in brief sentences, most of which sound like he’s trying to convert the possibly unsure-about-their-faith.

And this is why is I do research, folks! Any stories about your own successes/failures/adventures in e-dating?

Days 3-9

Still kicking, despite the quiet

2007-11-05T23:37:00.000-08:00

Good readers: my apologies for the long silence since the last post. You were so zealous in continuing the comment thread even long after I had posted my friend’s emails that I had hopes of creaking by on that for a while — which sort of worked. But as assiduous reader VJ points out, it’s now been at least ... gulp ... a quarter since even that post, and still no signs or hints of the once-touted Sexless 2.0.

That, I hope, is still coming, though talks and other such needed details to actually launch the new version have been sidelined along with things like, say, blogging. Why exactly is that, you ask? Two reasons:

I now hold a real (and fairly consuming though generally not too overdemanding) job
I mostly live a spinster’s life

The job
I won’t go into too much detail on the first point, but the short version is that after working several months as a temp, the company I first began trekking out to last December made a real and indentured woman of me in May — “indentured” only in the best sense, of course. Since then I’ve been happily employed in such tasks as making sure to get my share of the twice-weekly organic fruit delivery and, lately, remembering how many other colleagues I’m collecting the Starbucks Song of the Day cards for. Well, those tasks and what they pay me for. On the whole, though, it’s probably one of the best jobs I’ve ever had (aside from the less-than-ideal commute, which can take up to 90 minutes one way, and never less than 45 — but this only when I carpool, which isn’t always). I’m nicely challenged in the work I do, have a great boss, and work with a small team of people I much like collaborating with.

I’m even getting to do a bit of paid travel! Starting Thursday, which is why I can’t make any promises of kicking this barely-blogging rut any time soon. In fact, once I leave town, I’ll be on the road almost three weeks straight — one week in New Orleans (with a quick stopover in Texas to see family), two days home, then off to India for a 9-day Thanksgiving trip to see a friend. Once back from that trip, the month is almost over, and I have just less than two weeks before my last trip of the year (at present): off to Chicago for a conference. With all this on top of wrapping up final details for the book (almost to the galley stage) and keeping up on knitting for the countless friends of mine having babies, I must be chary with promises of any blogging resurgence.

There is nonetheless the hope that jaunting off for such a colorful place as New Orleans, a town already famous in company lore for certain prior employee hijinx, and attending a meeting of several thousand could yield some adventures ... but who knows.

The spinster life
You see, whether because I've left New York and a larger church or am now cheerily staring down 30 (I’ve got eight months left in my 20s), there hasn’t been much in the way of a love life lately ... or actually in the last year. Yup, that’s how long I’ve been out here now (though it’s hard to believe), but other than having found myself a great coffee shop peopled with some fascinating older men (which word I use in the most platonic sense ... aside from their occasional efforts to flirt), there hasn’t been much to report in terms of contact with the other sex.

But really, when you spend 10 or 11 hours on work and commuting (with a wee spot of knitting or shopping squeezed in here and there), you’re doing well to have the occasional outing with friends, keep up on laundry and still cook your own meals often enough to keep within a budget. And somehow, all that pottering ’round the house on weekends and savoring Saturday sleep-ins just hasn’t led to meeting men. Finding great new recipes, yes, but men ... not so much. We’ll see what New Orleans can do me for (as the characters in a book I just finished [at right] say sometimes) ... besides great beignets, coffee and music.

Thanks for your long-suffering readership!

Why are we single? The male view

2007-08-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

Before I get to the meat of this post, a couple announcements:

You can now pre-order Sexless on Amazon, though it won’t be released until Apr. 15, and I’m still working to get a couple things fixed in their description.
Attempting to make announcement #1 last night resulted in royally messing up the site template. Though I managed to restore almost all the settings, the links style hasn’t been fixed yet in some places (as you can see). Anyone have suggestions about the tag(s) I might be missing?

Now then: as promised last week (though I must admit the line between a promise and mere tease is hard to discern in this space lately), this week’s blog engages the email of a guy I know, who recently felt compelled to explain why “the godly guys aren’t hot, and the hot guys aren’t godly.” He writes:

It is an unfortunate thing that many of the guys who are the most serious about being in-line with God’s will are the most inhibited; Christian boys are taught from a young age, You have heard that it was said, ‘Do not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. and Treat younger men as brothers, older women as mothers, and younger women as sisters, with absolute purity.

Then, one day, the Christian boy feels physical attraction to a girl, and since nobody has delimited where physical attraction ends and where sinful lust begins, the whole thing is tainted with guilt. He sees no way he can express attraction or flirt with a “sister” with “absolute purity.” He then gouges out the portion of his masculinity that would make him a man out of fear that the whole of him will be thrown into hell for lusting after a girl (or if not the fear of hell, the fear that the words of his mouth and the meditations of his heart are not pleasing to the Lord). And finding that the feelings haven’t gone away, he approaches the girl in an unappetizingly timid fashion, or lurks at a distance, or approaches tangentially as if his obvious attraction isn’t noticed. He’s been convinced that flirting and dating are “sinful” or “manipulative,” and is embarrassed before himself that he even has physical attractions, ’cause all he’s ever been told is that character and godliness are all important in a mate. (Christian authors and preachers often won’t even acknowledge the aspect of physical attraction which initiates virtually all pursuits.)

So what often happens next is that the godly Christian guy goes to the Christian book store for help (I’m telling you, just about all of my friends have done this, and all of them are still single)–because God knows his dad is never going to teach him how to flirt, to read body language, or to practice proper dating etiquette, and what he finds is that all the books in the Christian book store on relationships only talk about the morals (in other words, more accusations of wrongdoing and wrong feelings), and not the mechanics of winning a girl’s heart. And God knows there aren’t any sanctified men’s magazines; while attempting to learn about style, grooming, fitness, and how to approach women from such a magazine, the reader is bombarded with images of bikini clad women, raunchy articles about sexual practices, and fixations on material wealth and worldly lusts. (Blessed is he who does not take the counsel of the ungodly. . .)

The result is that the godly guys aren’t hot, and the hot guys aren’t godly. And the rest are like parking spots; all the good ones are taken, and the rest are handicapped. IMHO, this is the reason so many Christian women are paired up with non Christians; non-Christian men don’t give a damn about whether their thoughts please the Lord and do whatever it takes to get what they want, while so many of the godly Christian men are often one yard short of cutting off their own balls for fear that they cause them to sin, which is probably totally un-sexy to Christian women. (Am I mistaken?)

And lest I object to certain oversimplifications, in a subsequent email, he clarified:

[Not] that character and godliness are not more important in the long run, but that they are not usually the spark that initiates a pursuit. Christian parents usually don’t ask about whether a new boyfriend/girlfriend is attractive; instead, the inquisition usually goes something like this:
is he/she a godly Christian?
is he a good man/is she a virtuous girl?
is he/she smart? (a.k.a. “baby got brains?”)
is he financially stable/are you sure she’s not a ‘gold digger’?
The consequence of this upon Christian men who are serious about their walk with God is that they tend fixate on becoming godly/virtuous etc. and neglect the physical and social aspect of their cultivation . . . and then they become a bunch of awkward weirdos unequipped to do anything but fail at pursuing Christian women. And even if character will carry the relationship in the long run, if the guy is a total turn off to the girls he’s interested in, the relationship he’s hoping for is not likely even get started to begin with.

I wish God would open up the Heavens and declare from on high to all the the preachers to temper their preaching against lust with the a declaration of the fact that all those passages in the Old Testament that talk about the beauty of the wives of the patriarchs and of various other women in the OT were not written by blind men. (It is written that Sarah, Rebekkah, and Rachel, as well as Ms. Anonymous Shulamite were all über-babes) Someone noticed that they were attractive, and making that observation is not the same as having committed adultery in one’s heart, and that single men need not feel guilty about making such observations; they’ll do so whether they feel guilty or not simply by instinct, but when they do so inhibited by guilt, they sabotage their ability to approach a woman confidently.

So, faithful readers, what’s your take? I am personally a bit skeptical of explanations that mostly fault other people (though at least he’s more creative for his implication of leaders instead of women), but I will admit his emails gave me more sympathy for some Jesus freaks’ predicament.

That, and an even greater measure of gratitude for my newfound contentment in leisure knitting and gardening, and slowly paying down debt. I’ve sure been a while learning not to race ahead of the beat, but now that I’m finally “in the pocket,” it’s mighty nice. Viva la present!

Keen for greens, lean on cash?

2007-08-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

Last month I had a chance to lunch with a reader, who mentioned in passing that she’s been growing her own garden this summer. Said tale of backyard veggies was so inspiring that a week or so later, I spent my Saturday digging through the California clay behind my house, coached in said “tilling” by a friend of my housemate’s, Garden Buddy.

Nearly one month later, I’ve got green beans, carrots, lettuce and chard reaching sunward every day, with shoots from recently sprouted pumpkin and zucchini seeds madly racing to catch up. Despite the lost sleep from rising 10 minutes earlier each day to water, I’m finding it’s more than worth the delight of checking my “babies” each day when I get home from work.

So what if you’re not as land-spoiled (or intrepid about worms and weeding) as I, but still want to ingest more-healthful produce, preferably without wiping out your beer fund? The answer (thanks to a girlfriend’s morning email tip): this guide on which produce is most worth buying organic.

Disclaimer: I know the above isn’t all that love-life germane (unless perchance you need a game-plan on how to woo a vegan with your cooking), but these days either my life as both sexless and dateless leaves this blog rather postless ... or the contents range more broadly.

Personally, I’m happier being more content with this season. Life was far more stressful when it revolved around the ever-absent Relationship. If you, however, prefer that posts herein serve all-romance, all the time, feel free to say so in the comments. I can promise, though, a male guest blogger perspective on the timidity of certain Jesus freaks, coming soon.

(comically) Bad Lit

2007-07-31T09:40:00.000-07:00

If you suffered through last time’s post on shopping, it’s probably one of the worse pieces I’ve written lately. Then again, after reading these sterling efforts at prose (referred to me by the ever-alert Blogyenta), perhaps I just composed that for the wrong audience ...

More efforts at resuming the old blog rhythm (hopefully with more humor) coming ... sometime-ish. There may be something percolating around a barely avoided Ride of Death on a colleague’s motorbike, and whether my new “low tight” safety belt could have served as some kind of chastity pillow ...

Carded (thoughts on a Single No Kids income)

2007-07-19T12:49:00.000-07:00

Persistence (which may be stubbornness by another name) is a funny thing. Take shopping. Sunday afternoon, I had some downtime between a leisurely lunch and my church’s evening service. With thoughts of recent monetary birthday gifts reducing the normal guilt of impulse shopping, I wandered into the Ross in downtown Berkeley.

More than an hour later, I had filled a basket with several boxes of cards I fancied, plus a few other sundries I had convinced myself would be excellent small gifts for several girlfriends’ upcoming birthdays. When I realized I had less than an hour to walk the 2.5 miles to church, however (I’m cheap like that), I decided to forego the long lines for the register and put everything on hold.

The lady said they could only keep six items for me, but after paring the cards down a bit, I went on my way with happy plans of collecting everything Monday after work — was not Ross open until 9 p.m.?

Monday came, I made the post-work walk to BART (another 1.5 miles or more — not much to a former New Yorker), and wound up in Berkeley sometime around 6. After dropping some shoes off for repair, I unexpectedly wandered into the Half-Price Books on Shattuck.

Let’s just say that by the time I left (around 8 p.m.), all thoughts of possibly spending my birthday loot on a new teapot from Ross had vanished, and I was happily weighed down with a stack of used piano books, two super-discounted pop CDs released during my early college years, and a couple other books. In light of these burdens, my subsequent discovery that Ross actually closed at 8 p.m. seemed almost a bit fortuitous, since the walk from BART to my home takes about 10 minutes. I resolved to try collecting my hold items after work Tuesday.

When I finally breezed through the discounter’s plate-glass doors last night, however, it was to discover that Ross holds items only one day, and though the various sections I’d shopped appeared largely undisturbed since Sunday, all six of my items had evidently caught the eye of other choosy shoppers, alas. There was a brief window of hope, when one of the fitting-room attendants suggested my hold items might have been stashed in the stock room prior to reshelving, but a mid-length wait later to chat up that woman’s manager proved fruitless. He didn’t even offer to take a look in the stock room.

Smarting a bit from this lack of sufficient sympathy over my loss of that one favorite $3 box of cards, I glanced at my watch and swiftly improvised a back-up plan: swing by the El Cerrito Ross, near my home BART stop. The next northbound BART even showed up moments later, enabling me to alight outside Ross #2 with 20 more minutes of shopping time.

I made my way to the card section and almost instantly spied the one remaining box of my prized vintage-look cards, nestled under the cluttered pile of journals and thank-you cards. Victory!

After a bit more browsing to find the perfect soy-candle gift (since I have recently learned that regular paraffin candles not only perpetuate our reliance on oil, but also produce more pollution), I made my way to the L-shaped line that stretched an alarming number of aisles toward the back of the store.

The thing about stores like Ross, you see, is evidently their discounts are partly funded by some scheme to staff stores — and registers — with the smallest operational crews possible. Maybe it’s some covert hazing scheme to test their customers’ desparation for cheaply priced goods like Tight on Time (an exercise DVD) and probably expired bags of coffee. Even when all three registers are fully manned, I swear the average checkout per customer is 20 to 50 percent slower than the post office.

So, like any girl cheap enough to wait a further 45 minutes in order to drop $3 on cards, I pulled out the latest baby sweater I’m knitting and settled in for the weary slog up to the cash registers. The blessing or curse of knitting, though (depending on your perspective) is that it leaves your mind free to wander — and, in my case, to ponder how much time I’d committed to buying the box of 12 cards wedged under one arm while I worked the rows back and forth.

I’m still not sure what I think of it — forget the appalling math of just how much such time would be worth to my employer; how did this vast time investment compare to how long I spend catching up with friends, or writing weekly letters to my siblings abroad?

When one woman standing in front of me asked what I’d found, I described my card mission. She said that I’d been lucky, then finally gave up on the line and put her things on hold. But as I watched her go, the card find seemed more like one more act of God showing kindness to the very undeserving. However much I hope the friends who ultimately receive the cards enjoy them, my three-day odyssey is in many ways a mad-cap act of selfish indulgence that, as a single girl with few obligations (except to moi) I’m free to do.

That doesn’t mean it feels right, though. Lately, when I recognize a certain commitment to get things no matter what (such as the discontinued red shoes I once spent several days trying to track down online and even from the manufacturer), there’s a certain check in my heart. What am I doing? Why am I investing my fleeting energy, time and youth in this?

Maybe in some ways it’s just the gradual process of recovering from the intensive months of book-writing that’s to blame for my shocks at leisure and needless consumption. But when I go to such great lengths to track down 12 pink-and-green cards, I have to wonder what it says about my values — not those I’d spout to you if asked, but those I act on almost without thinking.

Mostly strangely of all, I can’t always discern whether these pricks of conscience come from my connection to God or now living in a place so concerned with justice and using sustainable-everything resources.

More musings from the Spinster ~~Ward~~ Life coming ... sometime.

For your off-beach summer reading ...

2007-07-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

Updated Thursday night, July 12

A couple quick things (though, hopefully, soon enough I shall return to the blogging of old — or something like that).

In the self-promotion slot, a piece I just wrote for Beliefnet, posted yesterday. They’ve titled it, “Marriage Isn’t Just a Way to Have ‘Legal’ Sex”
And on the coffee-is-great theme, Slate has the secret to a better, cheaper hit of caffeine at Starbucks. Thanks to my housemate, the self-proclaimed “food nerd,” for that one.
If you like seeing gadgets destroyed (including, recently, an iPhone), check out the “Will it Blend” spots on YouTube (thanks to the same friend who introduced me to Woot for that tip)
Finally, if you haven’t yet decided what you think of Internet radio’s possible but probable demise due to recent rate hikes that take effect Sunday, I thought this opinion piece by a musician was quite interesting.

Enjoy!

Reader Guest Blog: First-date bike mayhem

2007-06-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

From time to time, a funny email hits my inbox that’s worth a broader hearing. So this week I am happy to bring you the following story of a disastrous first date, from reader Sam Edgar.

___
I went on a first date last week.

He called and suggested that we bike to this funky little restaurant.

Biking. I am new to bike riding. I mean, I have a bike, a new one that I really love with a basket and a bell and this little computer thing that tells me how far I’ve gone, but for right now I can only figure out how to get it to tell the time. I was very clear about my novice bike riding and I told him this. Several times. However, I said that I would bike with him provided we take the easiest route. I mean, c’mon, I didn’t want to be the sedentary girl.

The thing is, at the moment, I have a bit of a rocky relationship with hills. The hills are there, no denying this, however, I can’t seem to get up them. I try, but am rarely successful. Rarely. When I do, it is with much heavy breathing, excessive sweating and all the symptoms of an imminent heart attack.

Despite my misgivings I had agreed, however, I was nothing if not clear about my skills, or lack there of.

This was a first date though, and I wanted to look cute. I didn’t want to look ‘athletic’, because this would be a complete misrepresentation of myself, but I needed something that I could bike in that wouldn’t make my ass look fat. So I wore yoga capri pants and a t-shirt. He showed up dressed in I-Am-Ready-For-The-Tour-De-France gear. I was clearly out of my league.

We started biking towards the restaurant. There were some hills, but I made it up them… with extreme effort. Thankfully there was zero conversation at this point, as there was absolutely no way that I could have formed words or sentences as I was concentrating on not breathing loudly.

We arrived at the restaurant, and he did this fancy dismount thing. I know, and when I say I know, I KNOW, that for me attempting this would end up with me in a heap on the ground. So I stopped my bike and climbed off of it, similar to the action someone getting in and out of a hammock. I am nothing if not graceful.

We locked up our bikes. Or I should say, he locked up his bike. I attempted to lock up my bike, but my lock wouldn’t lock. It has worked every single time, however, when I least need to look like an idiot it acts up.

I removed my helmet and suspected that the less than stellar haircut I had received earlier in the day had not been improved upon by helmet head. I didn’t want to seem high maintenance, so I casually excused myself to the restroom, where much to my surprise my short pixie cut hadn’t done too badly, however there was a red band from my helmet running the width of my forehead. I applied some lipgloss and hoped that the shine from my lips would distract him from the hair and what I hoped would not be a permanent red indent in my forehead.

We had great conversation, good beer and good food. He had some sort of meat sandwich and I had the edamame.

By now it was dark and after we had paid our bill it was clearly time to head towards home. We unlocked our bikes, fortunately mine unlocked because I’m not sure I could've balanced the whole way home on his handelbars. We biked besides one another, chatting, obviously the road was flat at this point. And then, there it was. Before me. Looming. The Biggest Hill Ever. My own personal Gray Skull.

There was absolutely no way that I was going to be able to do this. I had had alcohol. It was 11:30pm at night. I was tired and had bad hair. I told him, in what I hoped was a confident tone, that he shouldn’t wait for me and that I would meet him at the top. He rode up the hill like a gazelle, he didn’t even have to slow down. I got off my bike and pushed it up the hill like a tractor-trailer approaching the summit. It was a big hill and even walking up it made me pant and wipe my brow. He was at the top of the hill riding in circles waiting for me. I was cursing all hills known to man. At the top of the hill I got back on my bike and apologized for my sub-par biking skills. He didn’t deny this, but instead said that it was fine.

We biked the two, relatively flat, blocks to my house, at which point he told me that he didn’t think there was a lot of chemistry, but that the conversation had been great, and maybe we could hang out again.

Absolutely, I said, in full agreement. Secretly vowing never to bike on a first date again.

___
Have a funny story of your own you’d like to share? Email your submissions for a future guest blog.

How sex before the wedding is changing nuptials

2007-06-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

Been meaning to get these quotes up for a few weeks now, but I was very struck by some recent remarks in Newsweek from an expert on the bridal industry. Most provocatively, she says:

“A wedding once marked a major transition in a person’s life -- the first time you slept with your spouse, lived with your spouse. Today, you’re just not that different the day after the wedding, so the wedding planning has to function as a traumatic experience. So you can say, ‘I’ve been through this experience that was so demanding, it must mean something.’”

“Matching your chair tie-backs to the lining of your Save the Date envelopes is not going to prepare you for marriage, unless you’re going into the catering business.”

There’s more that I could say on this, but thought I’d just post the quotes for now. Read the full article here.

What I’m reading/thinking lately

2007-05-17T12:42:00.000-07:00

Times article on artists and the internet (favorite quote: “All the artists I spoke to made a point of saying they would never simply pander to their fans’ desires. But many of them also said that staying artistically ‘pure’ now requires the mental discipline of a ninja.”
“An Ultimatum for Pseudo Suitors” (see my comment, if they approve it)

Those are two more noteworthy sources of input or entertainment, but in terms of stuff I’ve been thinking just as I process stuff, here’s part of a recent email to a few girlfriends (bear with me if you’re outside the church; this gets a little bit spiritual):

Earlier this year, I came across a really great 5-part sermon series from my old pastor in Phoenix, called “The Towering Reality of the Father’s Love” (parts 3-5 online here, but email me if you want all five mp3s). One of the things that struck me most was his distinction between the objective reality of God’s love, vs. our subjective experience of it. As I was thinking through some stuff last night, this question kept coming up: Am I living out of my recent pain and letting that define how I relate to people, or out of the objective reality of God’s love?

The other thing that’s dawned on me is a recent shift in my outlook. For most of my life I tied purpose to the marriage I hoped would happen, which led to a ceaseless string of crushes that had almost no gap in between. Lately, though, I find myself in perhaps my longest sojourn through romantic wilderness, with no guy to buoy my hopes or anchor affection. Always before, this would have launched a spiral into despair as I judged God’s “goodness” by present circumstance and its seeming implications for my future.

Will fees kill the radio sites?

2007-05-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

Although it is an unprecedented addition, savvy readers might notice a first-ever ad on the blog today. That’s because, without a major intervention, internet radio stations will have to cease operations, when a new ruling takes effect May 15 that retroactively introduces royalty rates so high it will put them out of business (and as I understand, these rates are higher than those paid by other media and traditional radio).

I don’t know about you, but that would be a tragic end to one of the best things I’ve found on the internet. It’s maybe been two years since I first discovered my favorite station, MVY, which broadcasts from Martha’s Vineyard. Since then they’ve introduced me to countless new acts and great songs, not to mention “The Blues at Eight,” a fabulous hour of blues that’s on five nights a week. Since MVY has a Massachusetts dial signal in addition to their internet stream, and covers a lot of new artists and great festivals, I took seriously their concern about the impact of this ruling on stations like theirs.

Despite this threat to one of the most encouraging trends in radio I’ve seen in recent years, there is some hope. Two representatives recently introduced H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act. To learn more, visit savenetradio.org, or just call your representatives and ask them to support the bill. I’ve never actually taken such a step before, but internet radio’s filled my living room with too many hours of joy to sit by and watch it end.

Update
Having been challenged by a musician friend that the Copyright Royalty Board’s decision is merely a crackdown on stations failing to appropriately remunerate artists, I wanted to add a little more background:

On March 2, 2007 the Copyright Royalty Board (CRB), which oversees sound recording royalties paid by Internet radio services, increased Internet radio’s royalty burden between 300 and 1200 percent and thereby jeopardized the industry’s future.

At the request of the Recording Industry Association of America, the CRB ignored the fact that Internet radio royalties were already double what satellite radio pays, and multiplied the royalties even further. The 2005 royalty rate was 7/100 of a penny per song streamed; the 2010 rate will be 19/100 of a penny per song streamed. And for small webcasters that were able to calculate royalties as a percentage of revenue in 2005 – that option was quashed by the CRB, so small webcasters’ royalties will grow exponentially!

Before this ruling was handed down, the vast majority of webcasters were barely making ends meet as Internet radio advertising revenue is just beginning to develop. Without a doubt most Internet radio services will go bankrupt and cease webcasting if this royalty rate is not reversed by the Congress, and webcasters’ demise will mean a great loss of creative and diverse radio. Surviving webcasters will need sweetheart licenses that major record labels will be only too happy to offer, so long as the webcaster permits the major label to control the programming and playlist.

Read more at savenetradio.org, or check out coverage on how the ruling affects NPR, and the basic provisions of the Internet Radio Equality Act.

Anna’s New York

2007-04-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

Updated July 24, 2008

First off: some good news. It’s been a long time coming, but though my cough still prompts my boss to say it sounds like I’m in a ward for tuberculosis patients, final edits on the book were submitted one day before my taxes were. (Yes, it was a rather Proustian feat in the end, for those of you familiar with the circumstances under which In Search of Lost Time was written, but I’m trusting the fever didn’t interfere too much.)

As I slowly recover from both the writing and my bronchitis-that-was-possibly-pneumonia, I hope to finally resume a more-consistent blogging schedule. Due to some discussions that have bearing on what Sexless 2.0 may look like, I’m not quite ready to roll out the new version yet, but in the meantime I’ll probably post a few incidental things. This week’s topic (as prompted by a reader request for New York recommendations), a few of my favorite things in that city.

Top picks for espresso

Cafe Regular, Park Slope, Brooklyn (SW corner of 5th Ave. & 11th St.)
Red Horse Cafe, Park Slope, Brooklyn (NE corner of 6th Ave. & 12th St.)
Hungarian Pastry Shop, Manhattan (west side of Amsterdam, north of 110th St.). So maybe the coffee isn’t quite as spectacular here (I don’t exactly remember), but the ambiance and pastries are top-notch. As a bonus, it’s also right by St. John the Divine.

All things French
In general, the west side of 9th Avenue in Manhattan from 22nd Street down to 14th Street or so (right around whatever Episcopal center it is that has such a lovely garden) has several excellent pastry shops and cafes, as I recall. Best crepes: Le Gamin.

Great walks

Brooklyn Bridge, ideally at night.
As much of Broadway as your feet can stand. Walk further than 10-15 blocks, and you’ll get nice sense of several neighborhoods and how rapidly the city can change.
22nd Street west from roughly 6th to 10th Avenues is a lovely, quiet stroll through historic Chelsea’s charming brownstones. Especially gorgeous in spring and summer and well worth going out of your way if you’re tempted to take 23rd Street instead (to and from the Subway, for instance).
6th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I used to pace this lovely residential street a good mile up and down almost every night in the heat of writing; there was one month in mid-spring (not long before it started to get so awfully muggy) when the perfume of the trees in bloom was divine. Pretty much from 15th Street north, you’re guaranteed a very fine stroll, and maybe a few good stoop sales besides (depending on the time of day). I’ve also known it to yield some decent furniture.

Favorite yarn stores

P&S Fabric Company, Manhattan (west side of Broadway a few blocks south of Canal; to your right as you walk downtown). It’s not the place for exotic stuff, but this shop has a decent selection of reasonably priced yarns and is a great, cramped source for inexpensive Lion brand basics, needles, hooks and plenty of other wares, including a fabric section I never really explored. The business is Jewish-owned, though, so be prepared for funky weekend hours.
Knit New York, Manhattan (NE corner of 14th St. & 2nd Ave.). The yarn’s a little bit pricey, and I was snapped at once for jotting notes on the brands they had, but there’s also a nice cafe where you can work, trade tips with other knitters, or simply get your joe for the day. I hear they also have quite a lot of classes, even for men.
Brooklyn General (west Cobble Hill, past the freeway). Great little shop with very cool proprieters, several classes and an interesting selection of vintage buttons (not to mention, of course, the yarn).

Brunch standards

Bubby’s in Tribeca. Expect a wait on weekends, but it’s always a nice place to pop in for that New York weekend ritual shared by secular and religious types alike.
2nd St. Cafe, Park Slope, Brooklyn (SE corner of 7th Ave. & 2nd St.) Also crowded on the weekends, but they have a mix of indoor and outdoor seating, both appointed with paper tablecloths that get pasted on the ceilings and walls if you leave interesting art behind. What better weekend therapy could you ask for?
Dos Caminos, Manhattan (east side of Park Ave., just north 0f 26th St.). As I recall, the weekend brunch is roughly $15, including a cocktail and maybe even coffee. (Also great for dinner, if you’re willing to pay a bit more. I always loved the guac, chopped salad and flaming cosmo or whatever spicy cocktail they have that was so good. And tequila lovers rejoice: there’s quite a selection.)
Coffee Shop, Manhattan (west side of Union Square). Perhaps the first place I brunched in the city, and still a decent spot for mid-priced diner food with a Brazilian flare, if you don’t the often-flighty waitstaff (clearly hired more for their aspirations to modeling and rather bohemian style).

The secret to a great dinner

Freeman’s Alley, Manhattan (somewhere between SoHo and the Lower East Side; just google it for directions; it’s very close to Lorelei, the German bar). I never actually paid for the dinners I ate there, but this place is super-cool and always had an excellent menu. Kind of a hipster hunting lodge vibe, if you can get your mind around that.
Dos Caminos, Manhattan (see above).
Beet, Park Slope, Brooklyn (west side of 7th Ave., just south of the 7th Ave. F-train stop). Very tasty, inexpensive Thai in a very stylish setting.
Magnolia, Park Slope, Brooklyn (NW corner of 6th Ave. & 12 St.). Has a small bar along one end and decent beer/food specials Monday nights, but also serves as an excellent, intimate restaurant with a very prix fixe menu (usually just over $20).
Grimaldi’s, base of the Brooklyn Bridge on the Brooklyn side. Local-favorite pizza place that always has a line out the door (even for those getting take-out), but offer great eats on a few steps from an even better view. Nice for a casual date, or chilling out on a mellow Saturday night.

When drink is the thing

Rodeo Bar, Manhattan (NE corner of 26th St. & 3rd Ave.). Great Texas-style honkey-tonk with one bar set up in a trailer, and an excellent list of shows coming through every night of the week, always offered with no cover. Where I spent the twilight hours of the ’03 black-out. Favorite app: the Cowboy Kisses (don’t ask, just order, unless you can’t stand hot food).
Cafe Steinhof, Park Slope, Brooklyn (NW corner of 14th St. & 7th Ave.). A very fun little Austrian bar that has $5 goulash, $6 fish on Monday nights, and often has a series of vintage films one night of the week (usually Sunday, if I remember right). One month it was a number of Sidney Poitiers, on other occasions, they’ve had Sound of Music sing-a-longs — yes, really. Very cool ambiance, and sometimes some excellent live music acts as well.
The Campbell Apartment, Manhattan (inside Grand Central Station, toward the SW corner). Vintage cocktails and music in a slightly more chi-chi setting than some of the pubs and bars in the area. I can’t remember the history of the room, but I think it used to be someone’s penthouse or their library.

Bars to tickle your ears
Looking for some live music to chase that beer of yours? These settings were a few of my favorite.

Arthur’s, Manhattan (on Grove St., just off 7th Ave.). One of my first discoveries in the city, and always guaranteed to have a rockin’ band on the stage (bluesy soul with some jazz and rock thrown in). It’s usually pretty packed on the weekends, but we could always shoulder our way in somewhere. If you do land a table, be prepared for the 1 drink/person/set minimum.
Rodeo Bar, Manhatta (see above).
New Living Room, Manhattan (east side of Ludlow, a few blocks south of Houston; check the website, since you’ll want to know what bands are playing anyway). The one-time home of Norah Jones, but still a place where you can hear a few friends of hers, as well as other solid acts like Julia Darling.
Detour, Manhattan (NE corner 13th St. & 2nd Ave.). Inexpensive jazz bar in the East Village. Cover is rarely more than $5-10 as I recall, and most acts I heard the few times I went there always put on a good show.

Other shopping and such destinations

The Strand, Manhattan (east side of Broadway, just south of 14th St.). Famous bookstore I came to love for the ease of selling books I’d found on the street in my neighborhood, and their excellent selection of picture-book day planners after the new year.
New York Public Library, Manhattan (SW corner of 42nd St. & 5th Ave.). Even if you’re not much for books, the outside architecture is legendary (allegedly the lions roar when a virgin walks past), and it’s right on the edge of one of my favorite lawns in the city: Bryant Square Park. Especially nice in the spring and late summer afternoons.
Brooklyn Bridge — a great walk at night, and my favorite of the city’s more touristy landmarks (probably because it’s equally used by locals).
B&H Photo & Video, Manhattan (SE corner of 9th Ave. & 34th St.). Even if you already know this place for their very affordable prices on electronics, film and photography paper, there’s nothing quite like the interior of this Orthodox Jewish-owned business. Surely there’s some small gadget or battery you can buy, just to find your way along their version of the yellow brick road ... Just don’t forget the funky weekend hours.

Well, I think I’m almost getting nostalgic now. Good thing I’ve got another quick weekend trip there next month!

Chills ’n fevah!

2007-04-10T20:34:00.000-07:00

I know. You’re probably surprised some guy in the Caymans hasn’t taken up squatting this here domain (or whatever the proper term is). I think I’m almost equally shocked myself.

What I’m not is well, sadly. Some fevah hit me Saturday, and I’ve been home sick ever since (except for Easter, that is — can’t miss the hymns!). That’s meant to be both update and excuse, I guess. The good news is, whenever I manage to lick this thing (they tell me a fever is good news, and the thing you really want most to lick is not so much the fevah itself as its adversary), I’m super-close to wrapping up final edits. For real.

And that means ... Yes ... A final return to blogging! Less talking about Sexless 2.0, and more implementation.

So, in the mean time, go to it, body! Fight that virus, fever!

And thanks for your extremely longsuffering patience, to the readers who still check this blog.

Yes, I’m still alive!

2007-03-17T01:10:00.000-07:00

Dahlings, I haven’t forgotten you, I promise, but life’s been sadly rather busy. And since I’m still slogging through a final edit on the book, I really can’t justify taking time from that to write this. Happily, though, I seem to be nearing the end at last. If nothing else, I’ll try to post a reply to Brent and VJ’s latest comments on my reader question, but hopefully I’ll be free to write that long-overdue full-length response in a week or two.

Haven’t read the dialogue of which I speak? Check it out and add your own thoughts!

Thrift and charity on the web

2007-02-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

For those of you recovering from a less than chick-flick worthy V-day (mine included babysitting, a cable-car ride and lunch with an over-50 crowd, though I don’t lament a minute), here’s some justifiable shopping therapy/boredom busters.

Google checkout/Paypal rebates
This was a great way for me to buy some yarn I probably would have passed on otherwise. Basically Paypal’s offering a $15 rebate on purchases of $30 or more, while Google’s offering $10 off your first purchase through Google Checkout, with no minimum. So, for example, I spent $32 on 400g of yarn from an Ebay vender in Chicago, but after the PayPal rebate I’ll only spend about $17 out-of-pocket. With the Google checkout rebate I did even better: went to a store called Tropical Yarns and bought a 414-yd. skein of sock yarn (which I’ve been wanting to try) for $10 + $2 shipping. After the rebate, which was applied immediately, it only cost me the shipping! Obviously you could also use these rebates on something non-crafty. ;)

Click to help St. Jude’s
Wedding Date, who has reappeared after a shocking spate of silence, asked me to help promote a click-through program he’s set up to help St. Jude’s. Read more here.

Back with an answer to the latest reader question! Look for it sometime in the next week. Until then, feel free to have your say below and don’t miss some of the very thoughtful, frank remarks already left by readers. Thanks so those of you who’ve shared so openly!

Things I’m digging lately

2007-02-08T14:39:00.000-08:00

Kumquats, tea and NPR’s fab online archive of concerts. Check out shows from Calexico, Ray LaMontagne, OK Go, Paul Simon, Wilco and more.

Meanwhile, as to this site, I have a reader question I’d like to throw out to you all first. A reader writes that she and her fairly new boyfriend (both follow Jesus) are wrestling with the ethics of their “intellectual dirty talk” — candid conversations about their struggles with certain sexual sins, that she says don’t feel very chaste in the end.

Is this a problem you’ve struggled with, or a situation you’ve faced? How does one balance accountability with not indulging an unhealthy preoccupation? I’ll try to post my own thoughts early next week, but thought I’d start by getting yours.

Classics pt. 10: Whither the false-hope fan club?

2007-01-29T09:28:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the delay in bringing installment #10 here, folks! Still wrapping up some final revisions on the book, but hopefully we’ll have no more than 12 total posts in this series, then dive into Sexless 2.0. Hope ya’ll are staying warm out there!

Originally posted May 5, 2005

Recently Girlfriend #3 sent a letter in which she remarked on correspondence from an old crush. Unexpected, thoughtful correspondence, though they are separated by a sizeable ocean. She was surprised and not entirely unmoved. He is, after all, her One — the one who got away, whom no one since has ever quite eclipsed. But with the tough strength of a cynic she dismissed this act of kindness on his part. “I know how he is. He’s probably just jerking my chain.”

My response was fairly restrained, considering how this “promising” letter wound up my inner romantiholic. You see, whether or not she believes, I’d like to think he’s still meant for her, that one day things might work out. Instead I said ignoring his letter might be a little extreme, revealing of still-not-forgotten pain.

But later, recapping Girlfriend’s letter to my roommate, I asked her, “Why do we have this tendency?” It certainly was bigger than just my “problem,” she agreed. Roommate, too, has a One she’s never quite forgotten. And a Deep South girlfriend who’s never even met the lad, just heard Roommate’s views and like for him, concludes that something could still be there. Ours is the sort of advice Blogfather rightly rants against.

So why do we do it? I mean, it’s one thing when you’re the one pining, and friends tell you that … but what’s the motive for stirring up a likely false hope in a friend? Three possible explanations come to mind:
Bad listener syndrome. This is the friend who never really thinks much about your words, just spits back what you’ve said to them. This person essentially mirrors to you the attitude or stance that you project. If you like some guy, “Yeah, he’s great. He sounds awesome.” But when you sour on him … hello asshole. “Screw him, dude, you’re better than that.” I’ve known people to actually appreciate that in a friendship, but as an overly confident soul myself, such behavior terrifies. I mean, what if I’m wrong?!! If surrounded by only those who know how to tell me what I’ve just said, the sole burden for truth and responsible, wise behavior is on my unsteady shoulders. Painful though their criticism may be, it’s the good-listener friends who lovingly challenge what I say that I appreciate the most.

Psychotic friend syndrome. Then there’s the person who thrives on other’s pain. A person needy enough to encourage false hope precisely because it’s false — so that, when you need a friend to turn to, someone to help you recover from rejection, this friend can be there to help you cope at every turn. Being nurse to your psychic wounds is the role aspired to, in which he/she feels most valued.
In my case, though, I suspect it’s more the third case:
Vicarious hope. Something in us prompts a hope, deep down, that all the cheesy love stories show some truth about the world. That people meant to be together really get together. That tragedy, loss and death can be overcome in the last act. Wanting things to work out for friends, whether or not they’re really likely to, is somehow an affirmation of faith in a principle we hope will apply to our lives as well. A hope that somehow, someday, all wrongs will be made right, all mistakes and misunderstandings overcome, and all missed connections made right through a kind of miraculous second chance. It is, in other words, a nearly religious hope about the nature of the world, and the resolution of its fundamental brokenness.
But enough of my thoughts. What’s the reader take on this theory? Don’t forget I still covet your questions for the advice portion of this blog. ;)

About this here silence ...

2007-01-11T15:36:00.000-08:00

I fear some of you have started to think I’ve died or something, but rest assured, it’s only a brief hibernation while I gear up for Sexless 2.0, settle into life with my new 21-year-old roommate (yes, I really do mean roommate), and otherwise ease into life on the West Coast.

2.0 launch has been pushed back to February, alas, but I will probably post a few more “classic” entries, and perhaps address a reader query until then.

Thanks for your patience! And keep checking back here over the next few weeks.

xox from the Bay,
AB

Classics pt. 9: The economics of sex

2006-12-19T05:01:00.000-08:00

And we’re back! The good news about my recent fast from blogging (gulp) is that: a) it comes with temp work, hence enough income I might soon be able to snag a pad of my own (or room for my stuff, at least) and b) there are no more than 1-3 “oldies”-but-not-too-moldies in this series. Yes, really.

You see, come early January, this blog will essentially relaunch in a move I like to think of as Sexless 2.0 — about which you’ll learn more in my inaugural post for 2007. Sorry there was no follow-up to, uh, last time’s post, but it seems that food doesn’t make you think about love, at least this time of year.

Thanks for still stopping by! And I’ll have more on the new developments very soon. Meanwhile, on with the retro posts ...

Originally posted March 29, 2005

Normally I don’t read much of the New York Times, much less its weekend-feature sections, but Sunday’s week-in-review had an interesting piece on choice. To wit:
Too many options may drive consumers away. [... P]eople who chose one chocolate from a selection of 30 expressed more regret and uncertainty about their decision than those who chose among six kinds. That’s because with 29 other options, there is a bigger chance of losing out on something better.

[...] The key is whether people understand their choices, said Richard H. Thaler, an economist at the University of Chicago. “People have to know what their preferences are and they have to know how the options they have map onto their preferences,” he said.

This might be easy when choosing between chocolate and vanilla ice cream. But it gets progressively more difficult as the number of flavors increases. When the risks are high and the decisions complex — as when choosing between medical procedures or investment portfolios — consumers may become easily flummoxed.
Now before you run riot on me, demanding to know why such a dry and humdrum piece has shown up on a blog about sex, for God’s sake ... Think about Thaler’s statement for a minute. Not so far from how we tend to look at relationships these days, is it? Leaving aside the whole issue of how commodified relationships have become — which is worth a few columns in itself — don’t we tend to approach our love lives like that choice between chocolates? Consequently, the anxiety described by the researchers is not so different when it comes to dating. And then you’re not just trying to find a sweet that suits your tongue, you’re trying to find good sex! You’re maybe even trying to find the one!! Talk about pressure.

I like to maintain (in my mode as eccentric economist) that the fears of commitment and choice come down to neglect of a certain concept from that Intro to Microeconomics class you’ve probably forgotten you ever took. Remember when you were learning the basics? A certain lesson about some concept known as opportunity cost? That, my friends, is what is known as the cost of choosing. It’s why economists like to toss about that dreadful, inelegant phrase: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Meaning, a (possibly crummy) free lunch is one you take instead of other options. Like fasting. Or paying for lunch yourself. Or bringing a lunch from home. Anything you do, anything you buy, every time you invest your time or your resources somehow entails a choice between what you do or buy or commit to and the things that you did not. Much of the time we may not even realize a choice is involved because the options seem so imbalanced. One choice (or potential date) so clearly overshadows the other option, it doesn’t seem like a choice.

But it is. And whatever you choose to forego — regardless of how much you know or don’t about what you’re missing — is the opportunity cost of what or whom you do/buy/date. With me so far?

Now, when the options are fairly well known, the stress of choosing is probably lower. Say you’re out at a bar some night, and you decide that tonight you’re going to get laid if you can help it. Assuming you know no one at the bar, your choices are whatever people are there (also assuming you won’t pay directly for sex, procuring it indirectly with booze and charm and so forth), with a possible choice between friends and strangers, depending on the circumstances.

In most such circumstances, the people I know wouldn’t get themselves all freaked out about the choice involved (or debate if they’re in the right bar) — except for the unknowns of disease and psychosis and other unanticipated consequences. But when it comes to things like long-term relationships or even ... marriage ... we tend to get a little more uptight. In my observations, people are far more concerned about the unknown options they’re passing up when the choice is weighty. Sometimes the decision-making even tries to focus on eliminating the obligation to choose precisely because of that weight of significance.

But it never goes away. And you can never fully account for what’s unknown. That’s just part of how life is. So my advice (admittedly as one who doesn’t do much dating these days) is this: don’t spend all your energy waiting and hoping the longer you wait that the choice will resolve itself (though sometimes it might). Procrastination is just as much a choice as action is; the only difference is the amount of denial involved, concerning your “responsibility” for what ends up happening to you. So don’t focus on trying to get yourself out of having to choose. That’s a part of life we can’t control.

Restlessness, too, crops up as resiliently as dandelions. The only antidote to this that I’ve discovered is reminding myself of certain truths. Because everything I’ve committed myself to (staying up late to finish a potholder, holding out for a Jesus freak who likes his booze) means giving up something else, there’s never gonna be a “perfect” choice that I could not someday regret. Choosing sleep instead of caffeine resuscitation the morning after ... choosing to date a boozehound who’s freaked by Jesus, or a Freak who’s on the tea wagon ... are choices I could have questioned just as much as this one. Thus it’s just as much the restlessness as the choice I’ve got to learn to deal with. After all, in another lesson your econ prof probably tried to hammer home, the reason there’s always scarcity is that human desire — demand for things — will always expand ahead of what is provided. As David Wilcox has sung,
... even when I’ve got everything I need,
I can tell myself times are tough.
No there’s never enough.

Classics pt. 8: Appetite clarity

2006-11-29T11:50:00.000-08:00

Welcome back from Thanksgiving! Sorry for the posting delay, but searching for work has taken a higher priority of late. I am pleased to report, however, that I should very soon be able to make a formal announcement about some blog changes for the new year, and a resumption of fresh posting. Meanwhile, here’s this further piece from the archives (there are only 2-3 more in this series, I promise), which calls for a bit more reader response than usual, as you’ll see at the end. Thanks for sticking with me, dahlings!

xo from Oakland,
AB

Originally posted Feb. 4, 2005

My thoughts on food, as Poster Boy discovered over dinner once, can be strangely precise at times — and even oddly applicable to sex. He, in fact, demanded to know if my consumption philosophy – “Eat when you’re hungry, stop when you’re satisfied ... which also leads to pleasure maximization” — was directly applicable to the (indirect) subject of this blog. I pled the fifth, avoided his gaze, and slowly licked off my fork.

Which is an indulgence one is wont to enjoy when appetite clarity has been achieved.

You know that state — or probably you do. I first encountered it one night toward the end of grad school when I had the sudden craving for a particular dish at this hip Thai restaurant downtown. Acting on impulse, I drove down there after class, put in an order for take-out, then schlepped my meal up the street to Irish Pub for a Guinness chaser. And you know what? It was exactly what I was hungry for. Ah, the delight in that meal.

The craving conundrum
By no means does this always happen. I’ve sometimes ordered eggs with cheese because it was an unsatisfied craving from the day before, only to discover that the chicken quesadilla I’d been eyeing on the menu really might have been what I was hungry for after all. And then there are times I’ve craved (from New York) the mixed-beans dish served by a Tempe, Ariz. health-food restaurant. Too bad.

Other times you’re so famished it’s impossible to choose anything at all. This sometimes happens to me at the grocery store or when trying to place an order in a restaurant. A state of near-panic sets in and I buy random things like cottage cheese, beer, and that one spice I’m out of. Or I have to figure out the meat-hunger. Is it beef I want, or chicken? Maybe fish or pork. My roommate and I also have the salty meat craving, often late at night. And Best Friend faces the brunch dilemma: sweet or salty?

But enough about food. (I’ll let you fill in innuendos for all the foregoing.) Appetite and its satisfaction can be a curious thing — similar, I think, to the difficulty of sparking someone who lights your Roman candle as well (as Blogfather has so humorously written about). So let’s recap the scenarios:
You know what you want, you get it, and it’s what you want!
You “know” what you want, you get it, but it’s not what you want.
You know what you want, but you can’t get it.
You don’t know what you want, but you have to get something so you make a desperate choice and hope for the best.
You have a general idea what you want, and you then select within a range of possibilities satisfying that broad criterion.
As with food, so relationships?
The other night I was getting ready for bed, and feeling a little lonely or whatever. I want a husband, I sighed morosely to myself. But did I really? Sometimes women — especially Christian women, but maybe others as well; I don’t know — have this odd fixation with husbands. I don’t just mean baby-hunger, either. I mean, to the extent you start keeping a journal of letters to this spouse long before you’ve ever met him — or at least, been asked to marry him.

And yes, gulp, I’ve kept one too. Of course, the letter-spread has been greater in recent years. Writing the silly things is akin to that awkward phase in junior high where getting dragged to family reunions starts to feel very odd and uncomfortable. You’re right between the children who play kiddie games, and all the grown-ups who sometimes try to gamely chat you up but have no idea the true anxieties and traumas for a 13-year-old.

In the beginning, this ridiculous journal seemed a “safe” way to jot down modest sexual fantasies. “If I’m thinking of this with my husband, it’s all right, Lord, right?” Christians, you see, have this keen fixation with thought-life: Not enough to merely refrain from doing something; you’re not supposed to think about it either. At least, not much.

And truthfully, I largely see the sense of this. I mean, if I spent all my free time imagining the sex I wish I was having ... that’s just not very healthy. But for a time I was hopeful that the main “sin” in fantasy had mostly to do with the partner in question, and not the whole having-lascivious-thoughts business.

Dear Mr. Special
But then there was the other problem. As the serial crusher I have been, it was always extremely hard not to write the letter as if that hoped-for husband could be the guy I liked at present. Given, after all, that I hoped to someday give these letters to a real flesh-and-blood man ... and would have to withstand his hysterics at the juvenile content within (I started writing them at 17) ... it seemed ill-advised to have too many shades-of-current-crush letters. Especially at the rate the crush kept changing.

So how the hell do you write a letter to an unknown spouse? In a letter penned after grad school, I waxed cagily self-reflexive, in penning-the-online-personal-ad mode:
It’s such a different project from prayer — and that’s a good thing. But in the beginning I think writing these was a bit like prayer. The romantic mysticism of my paper has long been my religion. That’s how I know it so well.
Four months later (and circa the first date with Hapless Hesitator) I wrote:
I begin to wonder if “marriage” is not some word — as in, “I want marriage” or, “Please let me get married!” (meaning soon) — that has long since become a placeholder for whatever I am hungry for. In the soul, that is.
If it’s what you think you want — and it’s been persistently missing, as much as unhappiness has been present — how easy to decide that Missing Item X is causally linked to Present Unhappiness Y. But alas, this is where appetite clarity can lead us astray. For if there is clarity, there is also very much Appetite Confusion. That topic, however, will be reserved for the next Sexless post.

Alas, I never wound up writing that promised follow-up, so I’m curious as to my readers’ stories: what have you learned about following your appetites, er instincts, in love? When they’ve led you astray or made for difficult choices, how have you resolved the Lovin’ Spoonful’s dilemma (did you ever have to make up your mind)? Email your stories, and I’ll include a few excerpts in next week’s post. Lastly, thanks to all those who’ve been buying iTunes through this site — I finally got my first commission check, a whopping $1.15! Oh yes.

Classics pt. 7: In search of an 80-percenter

2006-11-20T12:12:00.000-08:00

Just a few entries left in this retrospective series ... This one comes from nearly two years ago, when I was first considering a West Coast move, and starting to cool off from previously overheated romantic expectations.

If you want a pastor’s take on that issue (love as an ultimate), mine has an interesting talk from earlier this month.
In other media recommendations, Paste’s September issue had one of my favorite samplers so far, not to mention the quiet debut of a certain writer you might know ... ;)
And finally, Mediabistro’s hosting a panel on the journey from blogging to book deals, for those intrigued by media goings-on. While I only know the moderator, it should be an interesting discussion.

Have a grand Thanksgiving, dahlings!

Originally published Dec. 8, 2004

Last night was a certain consoyvative book fair, as I believe I mentioned. Held at the club of a snotty Ivy-league institute I once dreamed of attending, it promised to be an Event. By the time I spied a plump, middle-aged woman decked out in unfortunately short, tight dress and possibly the most God-awful fishnets I’ve ever seen, it became officially surreal (as is the case with any event that induces Mensa flashbacks). Or maybe that was the moment Lickwit joined us, clad in his trademark black turtleneck. We stood there the four of us (Best Friend had acquired a man too), attempting to make conversation in pointed ignorance of all the strange personal history shared by our group. Drinks were consumed in rapid succession.

I had too little energy to regale the group with my normal stock of blog-related tales (besides, a somewhat awkward conversation with Lickwit in earshot, though he knows of this bit o’ pink by now), but my possible move did give our chitchat good steam for a bit. Our fourth (whom I’ll call the Closet Whipster) was like a pitch-boy for the West Coast, Bay area in particular. Highly advantageous male-to-female ratios! Though guys most likely geeky. But hey, if I could get past that point, they’d probably be quite desperate, which somehow translated to potential husbands, good fathers, etc.

I couldn’t quite follow all the complicated math in his reasoning. I mean, after all as Amy Sohn recently concluded in a wince-worthy piece for New York magazine, bad looks doesn’t necessarily make a man as grateful as you’d think — unless he’s fat. And in any case, Steven Rhoads (remember him?) had this very interesting if possibly not-P.C. (remember that?) point in Taking Sex Differences Seriously about how women tend to pick men based more on things like, well, wealth, power, status and other indicators they could provide for and defend a family. (He’s a big fan of evolutionary biology and psychology.)

They save you from the cat
But my point was not to revisit Sohn’s painful writing, actually — or even the September BOTtoM (blogging early on no coffee affects one’s concentration, I guess). I was prepared to concede Closet Whipster had a point. After all, I’m nearly convinced computer techs are the new firemen. I mean, really, who else can rescue you when your clicker has turned into a freaky cat and you don’t know how to change it back? (No this has never happened to me; it changed to something besides a cat.) Talk about gratefulness…

However, the prospect of hoards of men with bodies permanently dented by their computer-cave chairs, efficiently dressed in clothes designed to repel the offal from most printers’ toner cartridges, did not exactly cheer me up. In fact, it was downright exhausting. Suddenly the clichéd observation of various friends and family over the years —“it only takes one” — took on an aura of comfort I clung to like the rope that carried Tarzan home each day (yeah, don’t razz me for the wacky metaphors this morning).

I know we romantics-disguised-as-cynics are supposed to be all about “passion” and “spark” and “soulmates” … but honestly, doesn’t all that drama sound a wee bit intense? Instead of someone who feels compelled to describe his probably dissatisfying job in pompous-if-witty, “I’m better than it and better than you” phrases, sometimes I’d be quite content with a guy I could swap dull-day stories with: “So how was your day?” “Enh.” “Yeah, me too. But I did see a funny comic strip today …”

The 80/20 rule
I mean, really, when you’re getting past the life-is-all-about-SEX stage, the ability to get by without pretense ought to count for a lot. Maybe this is just adjustment-to-full-time-work overdetermining my thinking, but I feel like there’s a lot to be said for someone you can just relax around. No (or at least less) need to construct a self you think he or she will find most pleasing; you can even forget to suck in that less-than-firm stomach. No need to muster clever conversation. Just someone who’s quite willing to stand there chatting with you, whiling away another evening neither of you will remember two months from now. You know — the kind of desultory conversation that (at least in my family) unfolds almost effortlessly.

A friend of mine once talked about working with junior-high kids in terms of what he called an “80/20” rule. Eighty percent of the time is spent doing unremarkable things, but twenty percent of the time is a really meaningful experience you could not have had without all the time invested in that eighty percent. The other day I was talking to a friend who still can’t seem to move on from a decidedly ill-fated relationship — and I mean ill-fated both in terms of its demise and the satisfaction it would have yielded if longer-lived. Apparently she’d been getting most of that 20 percent right up front and was convinced the rest of the relationship would follow suit. “But what would be there when the passion fades?” I asked her. I mean, it’s sadly but a mere cycle; it won’t be there at all times. Any relationship can always deepen and improve when it changes, but it will change — and if you’re not prepared for change to happen, watch out for disaster.

So, while I think that, yes, the capacity for that über-exciting 20 percent is important — and one would hope a little bit of it gets front-loaded into the relationship — on wearying nights like last night I find myself more drawn to someone I could comfortably spend that 80 percent with. You know, someone you could build a whole relationship with and be your whole* self with.

Ah, yes. Thoughts from your in-desperate-need-of-latte and still far too romantic (gulp) blogstress. What was that Tal Bachman song? “Romanticide”? Maybe that’s our next Spooning Fork… Ta till Thursday, dahlings!

*As in, entire, not, fully well.

Classics pt. 6: ‘Only’ but not lonely

2006-11-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

Sorry for my extreme delay in posting, dahlings! Settling into the West Coast has been consuming (though tonight will be day 14 on my friends’ couch, and still no work). Partly related to that, and also a number of other blog-related changes looming, I’ll probably continue this “classics” series through the end of November then hopefully launch new content starting in December. Thanks for bearing with me ...

Originally posted Oct. 22, 2004.

I don’t know if it’s the change in the weather, but something about the onset of fall makes loneliness sting just a little more. Especially here in the East, there’s something when the chill creeps in to hug unguarded skin that reminds you you’re not in anyone else’s embrace. There’s nothing at all affectionate when the wind tries to cop a feel. It’s like this season brings on a nesting impulse — that makes you wish for a warm body in your bed at night to press cold feet against in the dark.*

Like sister, the brother
Between lonely baseball viewing, and a recent conversation with my youngest brother, I’ve given some thought to longing. You see, I used to be the queen of it (now I’m probably just more expert at repression). Having a chat with the “little” brother (21 as of last month) took me back. We were talking about his weekend entertainments which, since he’s still in training down Pensacola way, tend to be limited by the bus routes extending from his base. Walmart is a frequent destination.

But what he really likes are coffee shops — being the romantic Broadway child that he is (not that all four of us turned out that way, but we so-called “bookends” sure did — creative and moody, just like our guitar-playing pap). Being a most notorious latte fiend myself, and one who is fond of the cheerful buzz created by caffeine consumed in cardboard, I can appreciate his taste. The problem, however, is that my youngest brother’s sensual side is sadly underdeveloped. Not enough, for him, to drink in the civilian chatter, or savor the aroma of those infamously scorched Starbucks beans. Oh no. Like the piner-in-training that he is, he’s gotta sit there wishing he had company. And probably not male company. Probably not even a sister’s company. Most likely: unrelated, female company. Apparently he feels this way quite often.

Now, lest my mild sarcasm confuse you, I’m really not using him for sport, but for example. Rewind nearly ten years previously, to a dim-lit Arizona curb along the sidewalks of a mall. Sitting down, awaiting her parents’ taxi service, we find a young and romance novel-addicted Anna, passing the time with daydreams of the Crush. What if suddenly he were to drive by? Wouldn’t that make everything happy? Indeed, there was a period where every time I found myself alone in an undesirable circumstance, I’d simply imagine myself away to a place where the Guy of Gal Broadway’s Hour was actively onstage, and saving her from boredom, unhappiness, or solitude.

In search of pro-choice relating
Freshman year of college: alone in a small, Midwestern town, suddenly separated from my fam by several states, a massive ocean, and some countries, I reached a new low. Like many young college women, I was becoming obsessed with choice. Only it wasn’t the choice of what happened to my body, but the choice of people to be in my life. It had dawned on me that practically no one in my life was there voluntarily. I was born to the same parents, we had the same classes … or some other circumstance contrived to bring us together. But none of those people who knew me were acting as free agents in seeking my time. Only a boyfriend, I was convinced, would be demonstrating that commitment.

God, of course, didn’t quite see fit to let me get what I thought I needed (although He did at least relent on my first kiss). Eventually I decided that maybe His choice mattered most of all. This didn’t stop me crushing on guy after guy (without which we wouldn’t have this blog, to make the obvious point), but over time I learned to enjoy my own company.** Good thing, because there’s a helluva lotta dancing I would’ve missed out on without learning to do it myself. Of course, the solo act doesn’t work so well with swing dance — and too much solitary “practicing” actually makes you a rather bad partner — but in general getting comfortable with “me” has helped.

Before you worry I’ve gone off the psychoblather deep end, however, let me clarify. I don’t mean that Anna got narcissistic (any more than previously), but that I learned to — most of the time — stop escaping into dreams of company. I’ve gone to movies by myself, even bars by myself (which, as a chick not looking to hook up, is a pretty ballsy thing,). Of course, part of this is just my social makeup — at least surrounding myself with people grants a pseudo sense of interaction. I mean, I could be eavesdropping, after all. That’s why I was always so bent on studying at coffee shops in college and grad school; doing all that work at home laid bare my loneliness, diminished within sightline of others.***

Daydream unbeliever
It’s a lesson I hope my brother will learn, because I think he’d enjoy his present more. And not just because, someday down the line, he may be so overwhelmed with noisy children that he actually starts to long for the solitary days of youth, but because I think contentedness is a habit. Just like dreaming your way from the present is a habit. If you’re always casting your mind off into fantasy, you’re training yourself to be perpetually unsatisfied. Eventually the only thought that makes you happy might be imagining yourself, imagining to be happy. Yes, that would be a masturbatory fantasy, you’re right. Kind of sad, considering most of us probably start the fantasy habit because we’re alone. It’s just that, somewhere along the line, there stops being anyone but the fictional someone whose company can actually — supposedly — make us happy.

Me, I’m hoping for a real man, with real kisses, and real sex (and real passion for Jesus). But until he comes along, happiness in absence is better than a dream.

*Not that they would get to do the same with you, of course; isn’t the point how other people satisfy your needs? Forget about their needs; this is America, where selfishness is patriotic! Or something like that …
**And that of God as well.
***Earshot being part of the social-study package, since I never sought to labor in the library.

Sexless in a new city!

2006-10-27T22:59:00.000-07:00

Dahlings, thanks for your patience on the posting front. Weekly blogging should resume shortly, once I’m more settled in from submitting the book, completing a whirlwind 2,652-mile road trip with my sister (this in just four days) ... and the move commencing Tuesday!

Yep, that’s right. After almost 50 months in New York, I’m hitching my wagon (more like JetBlue) and headed to the West Coast — Oakland at present, somewhere around the East Bay once I’ve found work and permanent housing. Meanwhile, you can find road trip photos here.

Back in a bit!

xoxo

Don’t hate me ’cause I’m swamped ...

2006-10-04T11:36:00.000-07:00

But since I’m madly dashing to meet my deadline (11 days and counting!), no time to blog this week, except to share my soundtrack for the fortnight or so. Yeah for MySpace!

soulful stuff

Starting us off with some white-boy soul: Jamie Lidell. Check out “Multiply.”
Then see also Ray LaMontagne — American, but that growl says he’s seen his share of pain (a possible prerequisite for getting soul right). Check out “Three More Days.”
And now that I know they’re not some crummy rap band from L.A. ... Hooray for British hip-hop! That is to say (per reader correction) Americans making hip-hop across the Atlantic: Gnarls Barkley. Throw up your hands for “Crazy.” (OK, so I’m getting populist.)

when you’re mellow yellow

Nifty Oregon folk-rock with a blues tinge: M. Ward (courtesy, Paste sampler, September ’06). Check out “Chinese Translation.”
And to show I like more than one band outta S.F., Vienna Teng. Paste pick I liked was “Whatever You Want,” but it’s not online right now
Getting the “Funny name, great songs” award: Old Crow Medicine Show. Paste pick I liked was “My Good Gal,” but it’s not online right now ... Can you tell whose samplers I took on my recent NoCaro trip?!!

romp-stompin’ good fun

New York fans, keep an ear out — this band’s local! Ollabelle. Pastepick I liked was “Fall Back” but it’s not online presently, so check out some of their other stuff.
Elvis Costello & Allen Toussaint — their “Tears Tears and More Tears” makes most excellent driving music (courtesy, Paste, as always).

Back in a bit, dahlings. Thanks for your patience!!!!!

Sexless on holiday

2006-09-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

Bound for North Carolina, dahlings — for a very special family reunion. :) Will try to post one more vintage piece if time and internet access work out, but I can make no promises. I hear they don’t even have Starbucks where I’m going!!!! Who knows if the words “espresso shot” will mean anything?!! Off to find out ...

xoxo

Dylan or the shirt?

2006-09-14T12:53:00.000-07:00

Torn between two indie loves.

Sorry for the delay in this week’s vintage post, dahlings. Am in the midst of a pretty crazy writing burst, as I barrel toward the deadline a month from tomorrow (!!!!!!). This week I thought I’d bring you instead a vintage shirt, which I’m debating the merits of selling so I can get my own Modern Times.

Already prepared to part with a few CDs I don’t need, but one never knows if the record store will buy such things, or how much credit they’ll offer for even such hipster gems as The Velvet Underground and Nico. (That in itself is a blow to my pride to part with, but if I don’t like most of the album except for the first track, and the rest of the main songs are all on my “Best Of” CD, why keep it just in case some person’s opinion of me would increase by spying the infamous “banana album” among my rows of slim cases?)

Hence the dilemma of keeping the shirt or no. It would be harder to part with if not for the strange way it fits when the sleeves are snapped. Thoughts on this, oh wise readers?

Classics pt. 5: Spooning Fork returns!

2006-09-06T01:18:00.000-07:00

Since so many of my “you might want to check out _______” tips tend to be music-related, I thought it was time to recap an old Spooning Fork — and who better for it, than my favorite camp artist, Tom Jones?

Originally posted Sept. 24, 2004.

I wanted to use the Tom Jones’ classic “Not Responsible” (in keeping with certain themes from the current Sexless BOTtoM) but alas, it’s not available on iTunes. As a second choice, we’re going to assess the similary themed “Help Yourself”:

‘Help Yourself’ from Greatest Hits
Ah, yes. The passive-aggressive male-fantasy theme song:
Love is like candy on a shelf —
You want to taste and help yourself.
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself, take a few,
That’s what I want you to do.
Love, in other words, is self-encouraged shoplifting. Raid my body! Rob my treasures! Tom, are you sure you aren’t trying a little too hard for supposed role-reversal here?

Ah, but further listening reveals he’s talking about that economic wonder, the totally-subsidized candy store!
We’re always told repeatedly
The very best in life is free.
And if you want to prove it’s true
Baby I’m telling you
This is what you should do:
Just help yourself to my lips
To my arms — just say the word, and they are yours
I have to say, I want to know where he heard that the best in life is free. ’Cause I’ve been struggling lately with my frequent desire for things that are merely better* ... and I certainly don’t find them free. And what do we learn from economics? There’s no such thing as a free lunch. It may not cost you monetarily, but it will cost you in something — time, energy, love, sex, whatever.

In fact, a comedy show I attended last Thursday night advised using sex for its economic value very deliberately. “You wanna have a nice, two-hundred-dollah dinnah?” the women intoned in great, eccentric cheapskate persona, “be my guest.” She then went on to describe how strategic payment in sex could accomplish this end without depleting one’s funds.

By far my favorite money-saving tip of her sketch, however, was how to have lots of sex both safely and cheaply. Why spend all that money on condoms? She claimed a year’s supply could cost upward of $500. But as a far more affordable alternative, our expert suggested using a combination of leftover Gristedes grocery bags and duck sauce (a ubiquitous Chinese-food condiment here in the city; my friend the comedian allegedly has a stash in the upper three-figures range). And of course you already know about the low-budget option for women ...

But where we?

Tom and free love
I guess he really was a hippie! Although he always seemed more posh-disco-lounge in his threads and ’dos. But what do I know? Like I was around then.
The greatest wealth that exists in the world,
Could never buy what I can give
Just help yourself to my lips
To my arms, and then let’s really start to live
I think what he’s tryin’ to say is ... he’s not in general a ho (or whatever the male equiv. might be) but for this girl he’s easy, er, money.

The Tom Sawyer twist
And you gotta admire his spin, after all. I mean, the way he tells, he’s being the generous, sacrificial one ... all while getting the girl to initiate what he probably wants more keenly than she does (at least at that stage). Pretty clever ...

It almost reminds me of certain whitewashing fences scheme. Or, ahem, like that modern racket about a certain exclusive email address. But I wouldn’t know anything like that; I try to stick to things I’m expert on: sex and music.

... I’m Anna Broadway, and I do believe we’re almost back to old form! Thanks for stopping by and check back soon to hear me crack myself up again.

*Made more naked, now I don’t have the money to just impulsively sate such whims.

By-the-Buy

Sexless BOTtoM
Taking Sex Differences Seriously	Adventures of Tom Sawyer	Click-worthy just for the cover shot Best of Tom Jones [Rebound]

Classics pt. 4: Travel tips for dating

2006-08-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

And in honor of today’s “15 minutes or more” hold time with the airline, a travel retrospective from last summer. Check out more “classic” blog posts below and at right. They won’t be online much longer!

Originally posted July 22, 2005

Helpful insights from the Continental Airlines hold message:

Passengers may bring up to four books of matches in carry-on luggage. If you think you have more than four potential dates or soulmates, don’t bring their profiles with you when traveling. Doing so might compromise your ability to click with attractive strangers on this flight or trip. Additional implications: if your black book or Blackberry looks like a jetsetter’s oft-expanded passport, it might be advised to carry a slimmed-down version on dates. Four men’s or women’s numbers might be too few to verify social skills, but 15 or 20 might be too many for landing the LTR set.

All passengers are required to have a positive identification before boarding flights. This could be extended to e-daters as well. Friend guards the bar or restaurant door, color glossy of date’s online-profile photo in hand. “Nope! Sorry. Your profile says tall, slim gentleman, 6’1”. Why am I, 5’8” in 2” heels, looking down at you? Negative identification, sir, federal dating requirements prohibit us from allowing you to continue with this date.”

“Ma’am, it says here you should be five-foot-two, eyes of blue with, er, other dimensions as well. Are those contacts? I’ll need an explanation if you wish to proceed with this date.”

Does checking in 24 hours in advance sound convenient? It is. Because traffic happens. Key for the double-bookers. You know, we might be onto a new profession here. If executive assistants are basically successful men’s professional wives (just without the sex — most of the time), maybe there’s a niche market for dating assistants — people who do all the screening, scheduling and entertaining when prior dates run long. If nothing else I see screenplay potential here ...

Got more tips of your own? What customer service message and/or policy would you like to see enforced on your next date?

Classics pt. 3: Back to the male bag

2006-08-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to my summer retrospective! (And thanks, by the way, for your patience with this departure from fresh posting. Will resume such once I finish the book, at which time I will also revisit all the lovely responses to my poll. Thanks to all those who took time to answer — especially those who shared a bit more about your lives. I really did enjoy that further perspective on my readers.)

Originally posted Aug. 12, 2004

... A few new readers have stopped by with interesting questions:
In reading some of the posts off the glossary sidebar, I’ve gotten the impression that you are a single girl in NYC who is currently unemployed, not seeing anyone, and have a pretty strong Christian background. Yet you don’t appear to let yourself be rigidly bound by what I’ll call traditional religious Christianity, which can be refreshing. As you write about some of your frustrations with The Captain, Hapless Hesitater, etc., I find myself wondering, “Is she trying to find Mr Right and get married, or is she seeking just a dating relationship? Is she a virgin and is determined to be celibate until she gets married?” And so on.

Best wishes,
A Curious Reader
Dear Curious:

According to a guy I spoke with last night, “biology is the only truth” and therefore the dominating urge/issue/purpose in life is to pass on one’s genes (funny, I always thought you could do that through the Good Will pickups...). Therefore, his answer would be that I’m really bent on having babies. Lots of ‘em.

While I did once aspire to bear 10 children ... naturally ... today I’m inclined to chalk that up to some weird childhood combination of a) strong-but-latent libido, b) ignorance about the pain in labor, and c) fascination with even numbers — if not fertility drugs.

But I guess that doesn’t really answer the Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now question. Which is really a question of pseudo-commitment or ... commitment. I seriously doubt that most people (at least, most romantic people) go into relationships actually hoping for eventual breakup and dissolution. If and when you’re getting involved with someone you really like, isn’t there some sort of unspoken hope it actually works out? Not that you necessarily want to have to make a commitment to that at some point, but you hope it magically never gets old, or you imagine there’s something better, so that at the end of your life you’re still with that person and it’s comfortable and you’re settled and happy.

We go in prepared for disappointment and pain, but I would guess most people hope for a good long run of the state somewhere between the exciting beginning and comfortable middle of a relationship. However many of us may balk at committing to something (and someone) going forward, I’m sure far fewer of would mind looking backward and discovering we committed to something good without expecting to do so. We wouldn’t so easily settle into the pseudo-commitment of most relationships unless deep down we secretly hunger for a risk-free version of the pleasures of commitment.

It’s like the conversations I often had during grad school with a good friend of mine. On a typical night, we’d meet up at the local 24-hour diner to down endless cups of coffee (mine probably decaf, and chased by 2 glasses of water). Eventually we’d call it quits, and climb into the old-school cab of a truck she called Bessie. A turn of the key, and it would rattle to life (except for the one night when it didn’t and her dad had to come and rescue us). Five minutes later we’d pull into the parking lot of my apartment building and idle over the speed bump extending from the walkway to my building. Ostensibly, this was the scene of a 30-second goodbye wherein I gathered my things from the books, papers, lotion bottles and coffee cups she always had strewn across the floor, and opened the creaky door to jump down.

But somehow by this point, despite the many hours of chit-chat already passed, the dark and spacious enclosure of the truck cab encourages an intimacy not possible under the bright lights and silent music videos of the smoky diner. Invariably we launched into a conversation that would last 10, 15, 30 minutes or more. But did we acknowledge we still had things to talk about? That we weren’t prepared to call it a night?

In short, did we park the car, shut off the engine, and maybe even take the talk upstairs?

No. Never.

The conversation had a life of its own that both of us fed on and encouraged, but its length was always uncertain. Thus we could never admit we planned or wanted to say more than perfunctory goodbyes. The idling truck provided the safe space of the temporary while sustaining the intensity of the parting. Because we didn’t know how much there was to say, killing the engine or going upstairs might be presumptuous; we might exert all the effort to do so only to discover the moment was gone and there was no speech to justify such an action.

So … we stayed, while the gas underwent its quiet chemistry, and the “unmarked” car of the security service sometimes crept past suspiciously.

It seems like a lot of relationships have that quality: people find something that’s comfortable and stimulating in the immediate, but don’t know how strong or fragile the bond is; any kind of change seems to threaten it, so you accommodate your life and expectations to stretching the moment as long as possible.

In dating, at least, I don’t want that kind of anxiety (clearly I don’t mind when it comes to conversation). After years of driving myself crazy with intensity of desire and an inability to satisfy it, I’ve decided people are basically like post-it notes or sticky-tape. We were made with a keen stickiness so that when two pieces adhere, they bond tightly. But, like tape, sometimes that bonding can be messy: the pieces aren’t aligned right, or you somehow get weird wrinkles in it. Pulling the tape apart just makes things worse, or at least reduces the stickiness. Re-stick the tape enough times, and it doesn’t stay stuck to much at all. So … because I want to bond as long and closely as possible, I keep stopping short of actually sticking to someone. Sure, my inner desire to stick to someone else makes me crazy, but I just try to remind myself that I’m waiting till the pieces are aligned right (in which I mean no allusion to some sort of fate or alignment of the stars ;)) and I can stick with full abandon.

Did that answer your question? ;) I guess I’ll save my thoughts on opportunity-cost and fear of commitment for another day …

-AB

By-the-Buy

High Fidelity

What Color Is Your Parachute Workbook

Classics pt. 2b: Clumsy lovin’ in the Arizona Keys

2006-08-14T08:15:00.000-07:00

... And now the thrilling conclusion to last week’s post.

Stranger danger
We placed our orders (Good-natured Heckler maintains his was spaghetti) and got to know the strangers across the table. They were two fraternity buddies (one of whom had a T-shirt with the name on it) and a blond friend of theirs who introduced a game of sorts. It’s been too long for me to remember how it went (and the bastardPost Office lost the journal that might’ve had more details), but basically it was some variation on those junior-high sleepover games where you reveal juicy secrets. Except that most of the secrets revealed were about the girl, and involved her sex life (maybe she’d had a back-door man?).

Finally we finished our meals, rose noisily and said goodbye, then made our way out to our vehicles. As I reached my car, however, I realized I couldn’t find my keys. Puzzled, we went back inside and searched the booth thoroughly. Nothing. Luckily Girlfriend #4 had also driven, and chauffeured Good-natured Heckler and me back to my apartment where I awoke my poor roommate, claimed a set of spare keys, and rode back to the diner for my car.

For some reason, Good-natured Heckler and I were not prepared to call it a night, so we waved tata to Girlfriend #4, climbed into my fragile rattle-trap, “the Eunuch,” and drove off for the man-made lake not far away. Tempe decided in the late ’90s to revive the river bed where once the Salt River flowed, and dam it off to form a man-made lake, along which walkways, parks, and businesses were planned in imitation of San Antonio’s riverfront. Former co-workers scorned it as the Town Swamp, but during graduate school it became one of my favorite places — for thinking, running, and dragging late-night dates (Sgt. Ex-sessories for one, but that’s another story).

It has to mean something
Good-natured Heckler and I roamed the moonlit sidewalks, talking of band-life and the strange nature of friendships along the road. Finally around 5 a.m. we called it quits and I drove him to the band’s hotel. As usual, I had the radio on. When I pulled the little red Geo to a halt, Good-natured Heckler remarked that “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” was playing. “That’s funny, it played earlier tonight too,” he said. “At the bar.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right.”

He then proposed that whenever we heard the song, we should think about each other and remember this wacky evening. I nodded amiable agreement and waved goodbye as he climbed out of the car.

Fast-forward one year later. The scene is New York City, and I have been introduced to its oldest Honky-Tonk by the Captain (the same bar-pimp who would later provide my entrée to Burlesque Bar). As we’re leaving with a friend one night, I notice a poster announcing future acts … including, the Clumsy Lovers!

Anna’s trademark “Oh my God!” is yelped, and a back-story ensues. But by the time CL’s November show came around, the Captain had stopped responding to my group-social invitations (although in fairness, the city is something of a weeknight drive from West Point) and I went without him. Well into the show, by which time the peanut shells on the ground had piled like so much crunchy sawdust, the band broke into a reggae cover. And what song should they revive? “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

Amused, I suddenly remembered the early-morning conversation. Would Good-natured Heckler catch my eye? I wondered. But no. Evidently he’d forgotten the remark as swiftly as I had, and we’d both gone on to lay many other layers of association onto that song.

Loose ends
The next morning I put my thinking cap on and desparately resolved to recover my keys which I was fairly sure one of the drunks had taken. Remarkably I remembered the name of the frat on the one guy’s shirt. I called up ASU’s Greek Council and explained to the guy who answered that I’d been hanging out with someone from Alpha Delta Thong the night before and thought one of them had grabbed my keys. Based on my recollection of where one of the guys thought he lived, the Greek Council said he thought he actually knew who I was talking about. He made a few phone calls, and within a few hours I’d made contact with the key-snatcher.

By-the-Buy

The Clumsy Lovers

Under the Covers
After the Flood

Rolling Stones
Let It Bleed (Remastered)

Classics pt. 2a: Clumsy lovin’ in the Arizona Keys

2006-08-07T11:02:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to part 2 of this series! We’re off to a cooler start than last time, but this week’s tip for beating the heat is to nibble or gulp cold foods. My favorites: frozen grapes and iced tea.

Originally posted Aug. 20, 2004

Sorry, ya’ll. Been slipping in the posting department this week, I know. When you have neither a man nor a job, however, it’s important to fill your life with at least some things (besides blogging). What is that Ray Charles lyric about how to “get some you gotta have some”? Surely he was talking about things...

By the way, if I’m less than coherent today, that’s the sangria talking. We spent much of last night together and it’s still got a hold on this section of my forehead, right between the eyes — a pinching hold. Not that I would say I’m hungover, mind you, I just forgot to be my usual water lush last night when downing damn-near half the generous pitcher (probably more, in fact; I swear there were times I outdrank my friend 3-2 in glass refills).

Probably this all happened because yesterday I saw a Clumsy Lovers show. That’s right — the band from the side column! They tell me ya’ll have put Sexless in the top-30 site-referrals list for their website. Sexless and clogging — so, blogging and clogging — are two of their biggest i-traffic sources. ;) And the Clumsy Lovers have been one of my biggest sources for post-show hijinx (compared to other bands for which I am an unofficial groupie).

A fan is born
It all started back when I was in grad school, and Irish Pub was my local Cheers. One Monday night in the fall semester, Girlfriend #4 and I headed to Irish Pub to work on a class assignment. Monday nights were usually quiet, so we secured a large table in the corner by the window, perfect for spreading out all our papers around the plates of fish and chips and an extra pot of curry sauce for her. At some point in the midst of our studious absorption, the evening’s entertainment arrived, arranged their gear on the small stage, and started playing to the audience of pub-goers. We continued our homework, but remarked to each other that this was probably one of the best bands we’d heard in the place.

They weren’t shy, either. One of the guys (CL is all-male, except for the kick-ass fiddle player) started heckling us good-naturedly about the papers strewn all across our big, wood table, and our evident disregard for their performance.

After the show finished, Girlfriend and I took a break from our studying, and somehow I struck up conversation with the fiddle player. She was great, and promised to send me a copy of her sister-in-law’s book. But my socializing didn’t end there. Somehow I ended up chatting to Good-natured Heckler, who was a tall, gangly Canadian with a wild mop of blondish hair (I always confuse him with a Russian economics Ph.D student an old roommate knew and want to call him Igor since they have the same hair). At one point in the conversation, the Rolling Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” came on, and I expressed my delight by starting to dance around as I do (this was one of my ecstasy songs at the time).

One thing led to another, and before we knew it, 1.m. rolled around, Irish Pub was closing in accordance with Arizona’s liquor laws, and Girlfriend #4 and I were still chatting up the band — that is to say, Good-natured Heckler. We proposed continuing the night at the now-defunct diner where Girlfriend #3 and I once drank so many pots of coffee. As we were making our way out to the parking lot with Good-natured Heckler, he ended up inviting a trio of drunk strangers to join us on the diner date. We supplied directions, and a few minutes later the six of us reconvened in a window booth presided over Marilyn or Mae or one of the other celebrities adorning the wall, and whatever character was our server that night (one night the server offered her last smoke — a joint — to another random guy Girlfriend #5 and I had picked up at Irish Pub that night and dragged out to the diner; but that’s another story) ...

Come back next week to find out how “Clumsy lovin’” concludes!

By-the-Buy

Sangria: 50 Festive Recipes

Living the Questions
Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life

Ray’s final album
Genius Loves Company

Classics pt. 1: Not quite clothed for business

2006-08-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

In honor of New York’s heat wave (ugh), I’m starting off this retrospective with a slightly weather themed post buried in the blog archives. Stay cool ...

Originally posted Aug. 17, 2004

Sorry for the late update, ya’ll. Somehow I seem to be sliding back to my vampire sleep skej of staying up till 3 or 4 a.m. (I promise this has nothing to do with noisy neighbor sex — although it could) and then sleeping in until noon or later. :( Today was a step of progress though; I actually rose an hour earlier than yesterday.

Hot and Bored: a fashion soap opera
Should the late-night insomnia continue, however, I think the local postman may have provided me with a new resource over the weekend. It’s a little catalog called Midnight Velvet which, I am warned, may soon cease coming to my mailbox. (Perhaps they make exceptions for the unemployed?) They don’t want to bother me with unwanted catalogs, so this could be my FINAL CATALOG unless I order TODAY to undisturbed access to future editions. That’s a shame because, after only one issue, I can tell that I’m really going to need a steady diet of the “unique gifts and home decor” and “beautiful distinctive clothing in misses and plus sizes” offered by Midnight Velvet. Based on the grapefruit-and-latte repast that was this “morning’s” breakfast, a shrinking woman such as myself is in great need of misses and even plus-size clothing.

Where else could I find the proper skirt set to help me “reflect the rich color of the season in ... vivacious patchwork”? Clearly this $89 special is an undiscovered gem waiting to join the others hanging from the charm bracelet that is my wardrobe: “Wild beauty radiates from a sultry animal print with splashes of brilliant red lilys [sic] on the languid top with front lace panel.” The lilies were apparently a last-minute design addition intended to underscore the “vivacious” nature of the ensemble, which was being dragged down by the languid (“lacking energy or vitality; weak ... listless”) nature of the top. Quite frankly, the outfit has all the drama of a midday soap opera.

I can see it now: Red Lily is a smoldering Latin man charged with the care of Languid Top, a spoiled Paris Hilton type who can’t bother to sit fully erect on the chaise longue she has occupied since her arrival. It is this tension of hot and bored that produces the “sultry” quality (“very humid and hot; torrid”) of the living room where they spar. On tomorrow’s episode: Languid Top begins to sweat and demands a bath that will not require her to leave the chaise longue.

Is it Ivory Snow or Woolite?
And all this in an $89 skirt set! Wow. Imagine the plot possibilities that await me in the remaining 124 pages of scintillating ad copy. On second thought, perhaps this might not be ideal reading for falling asleep... But it does offer tantalizing suggestions for a new Sexless feature I might add. Since some readers have been so disturbed by the lack of images in this site (more on that shortly), perhaps I should at least describe what I’m wearing on a day-to-day basis. In catalog prose, of course.

Today, for example, Anna is sporting a charming-and-versatile American wardrobe essential inspired to no small degree by Rosie the Riveter. The faux-real faded denim of her stylish Abercrombie jeans are fastened by embossed metal buttons that bring “the rivet” into the ’00s. Stain from a recent stripping project subtly highlights the distressed wrinkles produced by many an hour’s blogging for her readers.

Atop this handsome garment, Anna models a deceptively simple white tank top that adds casual elegance to this understated outfit. Dramatic splashes of red paint enliven one shoulder of the top with a drama that recalls Jackson Pollock and echoes the real-life sweat, strip and stain required to bring her antique desk to its new, scarlet life. Anna has elaborated on the Pollock theme with a subtle-yet-distinctive stain of muted yellows and greens that suggests any combination of domestic drama, from the over-use of bleach to a bleary-morning mishap with the latte mug. Rounding out the garment’s artful chic is a tasteful, serged hem that flirts up over womanly hips and then back down again. Top is 100% cotton, from the Levi Type1 Jeans label. Made in Pakistan, but probably not worn there.

Whew! Was that exciting or what? OK, I know. I’ve been dodging real man-drama for a few days now. But you see, that’s the point of being Sexless: men aren’t always around, so one has to infuse sexuality (of the sultry rather than languid variety) into all the details of everyday life.

... Or at least that’s what I thought the point was, two years ago. Check back for more vintage blogging next week!

By-the-Buy

Rosie the Riveter
Women Working on the Home Front in World War II

Rain won’t stop this parade

2006-07-24T14:10:00.000-07:00

Shoes worth
splurging on.

This weekend Guy Friend #1 got married which, for some reason, turned into a pretty big affair. Seems like I spent half of last week in a dither, trying to sort out housing and transit and shoes — most of all shoes. The logical thing was to go with a pair I owned, but when the dress in question has a pattern like this, finding footwear is harder than one might think. (Click through to flickr if you want to follow the dilemma as it progressed.) Eventually I went with a pair of Cynthia Rowleys — a yelp-inducing $90 even after deep discounting. That launched a late-week frenzy of trying to liquidate clothes and books and store credit to scrounge up the cash for my purchase (anyone wanna swap $30 for the same in Gap cards?).

The source of the trouble.

The funny thing is, none of this was provoked for the reasons you might expect, like a bevy of handsome eligibles. What bachelors there were at the wedding I scarcely noticed, and there wasn’t even a garter grab to gather them all (I reckon the bride was not the sort to be involved in such a spectacle). When we all danced, it was overwhelmingly women, but this time I didn’t mind.

Something’s changed in the last year or so. For perhaps the first time in my life, it’s more important to me to be content where I am than to sort out what circumstances would make my life ideal. Sure, I’m still thinking of leaving New York once the book is finished, but I think I’m finally comfortable with singleness in the present tense. I’m no longer in the looking phase, and that feels so good I could almost weep from gratitude. You know what I mean, I think — that sense of always scoping the scene, of weighing the options in front of you. It feels remarkably similar to the looking one does when money can be spent on new things or not. It’s like something inside you switches on and off.

Since I’ve become so budget conscious, that roving eye — for clothes, anyway — has totally shut off. I buy things not because they spark my interest, but out of conscious decision to look for something in particular — shoes that match the bronze in my dress, a new bottle of moisturizer, “sheet paper” for the bathroom (as my Irish roommate called toilet paper), and so on. Before I used to see sale signs and just look for things I liked, hoping I could think of a use to justify them. How many such buys I’ve now resold to the vintage shop to raise cash for my wedding shoes says much about my actual needs.

And I suppose you could look at most of the flirts and dates that came from that restless, roving eye as things I’ve now resold to my publisher in a book that will hopefully pay down some of my college debt. Well, maybe that sounds a bit crass. But even before there was a book, there certainly was a tendency to use men. That’s why I had to look good at bars, wear cute shirts and some makeup when I went out with friends. I needed male attention to feel OK, to believe some guy would find me marriageable.

No girl probably ever gets totally over wanting to look pretty (nor am I saying we ought to dress like hags), but there’s such a relief in going out just because you want to enjoy yourself, and not worrying who you’ll meet or if you’ll impress them. Sometimes I see girls on the train, on a weekend evening, and I see myself a few years ago in them — a girl all gussied up for the night, and though she might look low-key, with a definite sense of the prowl.

For those of you who have been there, let’s admit it, shall we? Isn’t that awfully exhausting? We couldn’t go out knowing we’d have a good time or not, because it depended on meeting some cute guy or other and feeling like he liked us, even wanted us. Happiness, for that night at least, was based on certain circumstances we couldn’t force but would try our best to produce. And the saddest thing is not just how that leaves us feeling, but what that makes us settle for.

I almost can’t count the women I know who are stuck in something far less than they really want — involved with guys they don’t like much, or who would never commit to them — but which somehow seems better than going through life alone. I see those friends there, and I want to plead, “Come learn to be content with me!” It’s so much better than trying to make the world outside you adjust to be what you think will make you happy.

Pre-D.C. downpour

It rained on my bus to D.C. this weekend, and on me Saturday night before dinner, and even rained on a friend’s outdoor wedding in Phoenix one fall. But perhaps because I grew up near Seattle, rain often makes me strangely happy. Sure, it can turn a yard into mud and soak you and start the chill that turns into pneumonia, but when you’re in a car that’s carefully driving through the weather, I actually find it cheerful.

To me, such storms show God is on the move — that our adventures in life don’t just depend on us to think up and produce them. And when you’re inside the car like that, it gives you a kind of protection. I’m starting to think of contentment as the car that lets you get through the rain and mostly arrive intact, even in a good mood. What are the storms in your life these days? Have you found a car to ride them through, or does your joy need constant sunshine?

Hot town, summer is a pity

2006-07-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well. So many things to catch up on now that I’m back from my trip (one of them being your poll responses!), but it’s some 95 — scratch that, 96 ... 97 degrees outside, and my snug little pad has no cooling. I tell ya, I miss the West Coast more each day. But then, travel’s always been one of my favorite escapes when things heat up. And sometimes so too is fiction.

Last night, for example, I picked up this Mary Higgins Clark book a friend gave me to ship out to my sis, but which looked good enough I decided to read it myself first. It was indeed a page-turner, but in retrospect I wonder if that had more to do with the vaguely fan-like quality of said pages, the faster I turned them. Alas, the plot held few surprises and the heroine was a fairly one-dimensional figure who seemed obliged to fall for the one man on the periphery of her life and wed him as soon as the conflict resolved.

That was another problem I had with the book: the ending. Blogyenta tells me most stories involve a character with an external conflict, like finding a date for a wedding, which challenge begins to expose the larger, deeper, internal conflict — usually being accepted for who he/she is. In this case the external conflict was getting justice in her sister’s murder, but the internal conflict seemed to be realizing she was not to blame for what happened. Rather than dealing with that core issue, however, the story resolved itself mostly because the circumstances did.

Well, enough ranting. Last thing I need is to ratchet up my temperature! Ugh. I guess the reason I notice these things is that story is such a big part of writing the book, which I’m sure I’ll probably start dreaming about again soon. In my case, because I’m just sketching my sense of the larger story that God’s slowly weaving me into, there will be less of a change externally and more of a change internally. That’s just how God often works: bringing us to a place where we are content is often more important than changing the thing that’s bugging us — which He may well do eventually, just not always on our time schedule.

Anyway, because all this writing and story development is taking so much of whatever energy hasn’t been sapped by the heat (!@#$!@%@), I have to confess concerns about my ability to keep churning out fresh blog posts each week. One thought I’ve had is that, since most of you have been reading under a year or so, I could take two months to re-post some of the “classic” (at least I like to think so) posts from the first year of blogging. Thoughts on this? If I meet my deadline, come October things should smooth out and I’ll return to brand-new entries.

Which reminds me: if this entry was less than you hoped for, check out my interview with the Blogreader guy. Tata ...

Recommended tunes

Lovin’ Spoonful, “Summer in the City”
Peggy Lee, “Fever”
James Brown, “Cold Sweat”

We’re baaaaack!

2006-07-13T01:34:00.000-07:00

Caffe Trieste, San Francisco.

Normal blogging should resume shortly. Meanwhile I’ll post one more shot from my trip out West — a sweet coffee shop we found at the end of the birthday party that wasn’t (more on that later, perhaps).

While I’m regrouping, what fun or exotic or mundane things are ya’ll up to this summer? For extra challenge, try to use to a song title as your headline. Example:

Chills and Fever (Tom Jones)
I may be headed for weather-shock fever or some other ailment; San Francisco was chillier than I remembered. In fact, not one but two people alluded to Mark Twain’s evidently famous quote that the coldest winter he had was a summer in San Francisco. I tell ya, folks, with the fog they get, it’s not all that far from the truth. I’d sure trade Brooklyn’s mugginess to be shivering there again, though. Phew! Fever indeed ...

You know you’re in Seattle ...

2006-07-05T20:03:00.000-07:00

Classic West Coast signage.

When the airport signs direct you not where to find coffee, but espresso. I almost got run-over by one of the airport’s people-mover things when I took this — but it was worth it.

I made the trip to SeaTac en route to Oakland, so expect more pics from NoCali if I get ambitious. We climbed my friend’s roof to watch fireworks last night — catching both legitimate and illegal shows (the latter of which the nightly news was quite keen on) — but my camera phone ain’t so good about capturing long range shots, especially at night.

On the coast again

2006-06-30T12:50:00.000-07:00

Eats down on the Ave.

Dahlings, as you might guess from this here signage, I’m on the road once more, and probably won’t have too much time for blogging, alas. Do check out VJ’s interesting article reference, posted in one of the comments for the post below. And don’t forget to respond to my poll if you haven’t already! For those of you up for photoblogging, keep an eye on my flickr page, where I’m posting stuff rather regularly.

Taking a risk on jazz

2006-06-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

For how particular I can be about music, you’d think it’s the last thing I’d take risks on. But somehow, most times I buy something yet unheard or make a similar gamble, I make out just fine. When, for instance, a friend offered to take me to hear this new singer called Norah, it turned out my girlfriends’ insistence I should go was dead on.

A similar thing happened maybe two or three weeks ago, at the post office. I know, doesn’t; sound like a glam meeting place, right? And the catchiest soundtrack you’re likely to hear is the ring tone of someone who’s secretly fond of salsa. But that night I was in luck.

I’d stopped by after hours to mail a CD from my barter bin swap, but someone was already stationed at the AutoPost center. Not until he offered to let me go ahead did I realize how much he was mailing. Piles and piles of Uline bags, all strangely close in shape to mine. And when I saw he was mailing some to people in Palo Alto, it was all I could do not to swoon right there on the spot (fond memories of falling down stairs, and all that).

Somehow or other, I managed to dredge up an opening line. Yes, he was in a band.

I rattled on about band friends about of mine — none of whom he’d heard of.

Then something inspired me to drop another kind of name — my editor friend at Paste magazine. “I’d be happy to send your CD to him,” I offered. Which, truthfully, was not the pick-up line it might have sounded like — despite the chance to hand off one of my business cards. Even that sometime, sorta-prospect Tall Drink o’ Water ain’t made it out of reply-to hell yet. He emailed me two months ago, but I still haven’t written back though he now brings it up every Sunday. (Can a girl tastefully mention she’s trying to break her habit of simply using men for attention?)

This time, however, my motives were strictly generous — and dependent on a stranger’s uncertain promise to send me his album. When you’ve been under- or unemployed nearly two years and mingle in several different social scenes, you give out a lot of business cards. But unless you email the people you meet yourself, the response rate is usually pretty dismal.

Off I went, Band Guy soon forgotten, and my card probably fated much the same. Or so I thought.

But then a few days later, what should I find in my mail but a package with two CDs — one for me, one for Friend-at-Paste. Band Guy had better follow-through than I’d figured on. So what about the music?

He’d said it was some kind of “boogaloo” jazz, which could be good or mean nothing. His band isn’t with any label, but the CD jacket had a snazzy design. And if phone voices tend to indicate looks, I like to think product design can sometimes portend well of the contents. Flip open the jacket. Nothing much inside the one-fold card, but a picture of the band, somewhat badly photographed on a staircase. Huh. Guess boogaloo takes lots of folks to make!

But just as I’m starting to refold the liner, I notice a female face in the crowd. Wait a minute ... Is that ... Flip to backside again.

And that’s when I notice a credit for El Madmo. While I can’t promise you said “punk” act will show up at the CD release party, which is tomorrow night at Detour ($5 cover), I can tell you the CD is great. Check out several tracks on MySpace, or just risk it and buy the dang album. Or come out to Detour and give the band a listen live! You won’t be disappointed.

In the thick of a pickle, pt. 2

2006-06-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

Lots of poll responses rolling in, but don’t forget to respond if you haven’t yet. Respondents entered to win home-made cookies or a CD (if you live abroad)! Also, as a shout-out to my SanFran readers, any of you know someone in the SF/East Bay area who could use a house- or petsitter during the first half of July? If so, please let me know. Thanks! And now the conclusion to last week’s post on decision-making.

When should you quit, give up, or bail on your plans?
A few months ago, Blogyenta was knitting a sweater with some reluctance. According to the pattern, there were 30- or 40-odd rows left to knit, but she thought it was plenty long enough. Still, a pattern is a pattern, and in things like knitting it’s completion that really matters. Then I mentioned the sleeves. You see, unlike some patterns where each piece is knit separately, the sleeves and body for her project were worked together into a yoke. Because she’d already attached the sleeves, the undue length of the sweater did not just turn the body into a tunic-long sheath, it made the sleeves worthy of a giraffe! At that she gave up and ripped it all out. I’ve done the same with other sweaters. Sometimes no matter how much you’ve invested, going forward is just throwing good time, or energy, or money, after bad.

If only I had learned that in high school. Senior year was the long-awaited chance to get into Harvard, which goal I’d been bent on since freshman year. But somehow I got the application quite late, leaving just one short week to put it together — this, one of the most involved such packets. I remember wondering then if I should give up, but stubborn commitment impelled me onward. How could I get to the point I had been planning on all throughout high school to just give up? I soldiered on and finished, despite secret doubts that Harvard was really the school I’d be most happy at after all.

I even got an interview, with some alumnus in central Phoenix. But as Mom and I drove home afterward, I remember feeling misgivings, a sense that the Harvard evoked in our talk that day was either not the school I’d always imagined, or that what I’d always thought my ideal school was might be something I wouldn’t like after all. By the time they sent out rejection letters, I almost regreted I’d even bothered applying. However much those three years of silly dreams and expectations had cost me was nothing compared to the four years of time and money I could have wasted just to satisfy a girl who no longer existed. In that case I hung in too long, but sometimes adversity tests both your wisdom and patience.

When should you hang in there, persevere, and follow through?
I first approached an agent with my book idea almost a year and a half ago. At the time he blew me off, said my title was crap, seemed to regret he’d agreed to meet with me; his only advice was to start at Condé Nast somewhere, slowly make my way through the ranks and make friends and eventually climb my way out of writer’s hell — in which he judged a blog level seven or eight, if not nine. That was February. Six months later the agent who’d signed me was accepting an offer from Random House.

It’s not that the first guy’s advice was all that bad, but something in my gut told me I was onto a good idea. The same sort of sense I’d often felt and chose to ignore that whoever my present crush was wasn’t the sort of guy I should be with. Sometimes struggle isn’t a sign you’re on the wrong path, just that your character could use the work. And sometimes your heart, if you really listen carefully, is telling you which way to go. I say that cautiously, for mine has proven corruptible, but God has nevertheless worked through faulty instinct to caution and to encourage. Usually when I’ve pursued things to my folly, it was by drowning out the quiet voice of warning within that gainsaid this latest recklessness.

Bottom line? The next time you’re feeling restless or just plain frustrated with some aspect of your life, take time to think about what the real issue is. Face the fears that might be keeping you from finishing, and the fears that might push you to following through on something you should give up. And if you’re a Christian, quiet your heart before God and see what motives He exposes. Many times He’s blessed unlikely, even seemingly unwise moves on my part (like how I came to New York), but even more times He’s withheld blessing on things I wanted more than to please him.

Reader poll

2006-06-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

This week’s post is below, but I’m keeping the poll on top as a reminder to please respond. The more of you who reply, the more helpful it is both to the blog and planning promotion for the book. Reply via email. Further incentive: all respondents through the end of June entered into a raffle for homemade cookies (domestic readers) or a CD (international readers).

Sex? (as in, which are you)
Age: (at least an estimate, if you’re shy)
Relational status: dating? single? engaged? married? celibate?
Educational status: in school? have degrees? how many?
How would you describe your religious or spiritual life: Buddhist/Catholic/atheist/addicted to chocolate? Etc.
Where do you live?
How long have you been a reader?
How often do you check in — daily/weekly/monthly/when insomnia strikes?
How did you find this blog — Rolling Stone, Godspy, Village Voice, a friend, or random googling?
What would you like to see more of, content-wise?
What would you like to see less of?
Is there a song or topic you’ve always hoped Anna would address?

Finally, several items remain from last week’s barter bin, so don’t forget to check it out if you need perfume, CDs or new shades.

In the thick of a pickle, pt. 1

2006-06-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

Back when I was in grad school, about ... oh ... five years ago (!!!), one professor had a simple but basic mantra: “Finish. Just finish.” At the time, I didn’t quite get what all the fuss was about — didn’t most folks who started graduate programs complete them? Then I had to defend my thesis proposal and for the first time as a student had my intellectual clock cleaned. I came out of that session shocked and battered, suddenly daunted by the task that lay before me — and how closely my committee planned to scrutinize. This was, of course, a good thing. But it also tested my mettle and follow-through in ways I didn’t expect.

Though the actual thesis defense months later was less painful, the changes asked for were substantial enough I had to delay graduation by three month. At first I felt like I had failed. But that, perhaps, was where the real test occurred: would I overcome this fear and self-pity so as to persevere to the finish line, or would I succomb to doubt and procrastination?

By God’s grace I made through, but in the years since facing that setback, I’ve realized how apt my professor’s words were. Long-term endurance is hard, and possibly nothing tests that exactly the same way writing, marriage and parenting do. I grieve for friends who have gotten stuck on their thesis or dissertation then quietly drifted away to other things. Not that forsaking a project run amok is always bad, but I don’t think it’s knowing when to give up that plagues this culture, it’s knowing how to persist to the end. If you’ve ever been stuck in a quandary like that, here’s how I suggest you might think it through.

Which question is the right one?
Whenever things get rough, our first thought is probably whether or not we should quit or go on. But that depends on the reason things have gotten rough. In the first mile of running, your body is usually grumpy at moving — but once you get past that initial hump things even out. If, however, you haven’t run in a while and you choose the steeper of two possible routes to travel, if might be advised to turn back and take the more level path, depending on how poor or good your health is. In the one case, the roughness is just a part of life, a part of how your body operates. In the other it’s more a case of particular circumstances — your present health, and the incline of the course.

My first job in the city grew fairly miserable after a few weeks of gloating that work didn’t start till 10 or later, and how I could make endless espressos on-site. Circumstance or part of life? In that case it was both. The workplace was notorious for a fairly high rate of turnover, and the boss had quirks including a tacit discouragement of lunching outside the office. There also was no health insurance, smoking in the office and other things clearly not the norm, much less the law, for a job of that sort. Exiting such a workplace made good sense.

Departing, however, could not address the underlying restlessness that had more to do with trying to find my place in the city, figuring out my vocational “calling” and where I could use my talents. As I’ve written previously, there’s a season of paying your dues that almost nobody gets around. And if you do, it catches up to you later when you face challenges you don’t quite have the wisdom or experience to face. Writing first my thesis and now my book are projects that challenge me not because I should abandon them but just because perseverance is hard work. My “office” is littered with knitting projects and papers right now because I’m good at starting things, much worse at getting them done.

So since I will complete this mini-series next week, think about the relationship, struggle or project that’s currently bugging you. To what part is your frustration due to the cause itself, and to what degree is it you or just how life goes? Is this a chance to learn character and discipline, or a signal it’s time for a change?

Coming next Monday, my thoughts on when to bail and when to persevere. Don’t forget to respond to my poll, please, please, please!!! :)

Anna’s barter bin and other matters

2006-06-05T11:42:00.000-07:00

Stuff for sale or trade.

Thanks ever-so-much for your patience, dahlings! I’m back, I have fresh coffee, and the newest rewrite of Sexless, pt. 1 is now settling into Poster Boy’s inbox or some folder on his laptop. My bank account, however, is not looking so good. Seeing as how I have meanwhile accumulated an awful lot of stuff I don’t really need, thought I’d start this week’s post off by attempting an online swap-n-shop. Contact me if you’re interested; trades or cash accepted; close-ups available on request.

Stuff I’ll part with

Glama: One (CD) featuring Pussy Tourett, k.d. lang, Melissa Etheridge, The Klezmatics and others
The Manhattan Transfer Anthology: Down in Birdland (2-CD set); cracked case but otherwise in fairly good condition
Rolling Stones: More Hot Rocks (2-CD set)
1 pr. Diesel sunglasses, light brown and fairly oval; original case missing, but will ship with alternate
Ikea wood picture frames, 4x6, set of 3; never opened
John Updike, Couples; looks like it’s been read, but few to no notes in margins; spine still straight
Marc Jacobs perfume; won’t ship in original container, but I sure don’t need all 3.4 ounces I have! Let me know roughly how much you want (.5-2 oz), and I’ll do my best to approximate

Done laughing yet? Excellent. Here’s what I’ll take:

unused mascara samples
Starbucks cards
iTunes credits
chocolate covered espresso beans
Trader Joe’s or TJ Maxx gift cards
any of the CDs on my lust list (please, no ripped versions)
Metrocards for NY and/or BART subway system (will be out there in July)

Wow, I think even I’m embarrassed now. But hey, no shame, no gain, right? ;) Yes, Chad, singleness really has gone to my head. Here’s the proof: early-onset spinsterhood.

But actually, and more seriously, I want to say something more about that. First, for those who didn’t read Chad’s response to my last column, here’s a summary. He contests that I’m merely putting a positive spin on latter-20s singleness to feel better about my own state, that people who marry young don’t necessarily face fewer opportunities than their single peers, and that I probably would have chosen to marry younger had I met the right guy earlier. He raises several important points, which I’ll try to address here.

First, is one state better? I will freely confess, though I thought that came through in the post Chad was referring to, that I’ve spent most of my life thinking marriage is better. I bridle when people use Paul to try and argue that the single state is actually God’s superior plan, or a more-righteous choice for Christians. If that’s somehow meant as an endorsement of lifelong individualism, it’s bunk. The Bible is very clear that we are meant to live in community, and desperately need to exist in a system of interdependent relationships. How much that consists in immediate families will vary from person to person, but it should at least involve a local church community. We need places to serve and be served, encourage and be encouraged, bless and be blessed — no matter the left-hand jewelry we wear.

My point was that I’ve long struggled to see any genuine value or “gain” in the road God’s led me down. For years the only things I could have praised would have looked something like the list of a Relevant writer I criticized last year. Singleness was, in my book, fairly lose-lose compared to the win-win status of married folk. But as I’ve started listening to more of my married friends, I realize they face choices that are more complicated than mine have been. Just as I have faced an “opportunity cost” for spending my twenties as a single woman, they too have had various trade-offs for marrying earlier. They get more sex and male attention, sure, but they also face struggles I was too blind to see for years.

God will refine our character no matter what. For some of us, that means waiting a while for our greatest desire, for others it may mean getting that and then realizing we don’t feel any more filled on the inside. My pastor had an interesting point last night, that both Elisha and Joseph faced severe crises when they were in Dothan. Both men cried out for help, but in the former case we’re told God sent chariots of fire to protect him, while in the latter case, God let him get sold into slavery. Same God, different men. Same power, different exercises. Sometimes God lets us suffer through certain things, sometimes He chooses to rescue us.

And that’s what I was really trying to wrestle with, Chad. If I keep whining and moaning about why I’m single, what does that say about God’s goodness? That He somehow screwed up in my case? That He didn’t know what was best for me? Of course I can’t say that. And if I can’t, that means God must have so far given me the best life I could have lived. For someone else that best life might be marriage at 21; for me it isn’t. But neither of us knows what is in our future. Joseph needed to somehow wind up in Egypt so he could spare that country from starving when great famine came. And that’s just how he served as blessing to others! No doubt God also used his suffering to mold and refine his character so he would be the man he needed to be to complete that later good work.

I always have a real hard time looking back at my life and saying I would change things — even times of great pain. I went through 18 months of anguish, convinced that an already-married man was the soulmate I’d never get to be “with” in a legitimate way. At the time it hurt like hell. More recently, an old crush suddenly showed a never-before-seen interest in my life and became a guy friend like I’ve never really had before — prompting me to think he wanted far more than friendship. He didn’t. So what do I do? Do I scream and yell at God for letting me waste so much emotion, for bringing these men into my life just to cause me grief?

I can’t. For woven into those months and months of pain is such redemption and growth, I’d never be the person I am now without how God brought such good from the things that hurt me so much. And I’d rather be the woman God’s making me into than someone with less-scarred skin and a far more shallow outlook on life. Pain is not the variable in life, growth is. The miracle — and God’s kindness to us — is that if we let Him, He’ll use our seasons of pain to bring growth and depth. As an old David Wilcox song I like says, “All the roots grow deeper when it’s dry.”

For years I struggled to say it, as if accepting God’s plan for my life so far meant He could keep me single the rest of my days, but I have to say it: I wouldn’t trade the years I’ve lived as a single woman for the husband and marriage I didn’t get. I see now that I couldn’t have written the book that I am, which feels like one of the most important things I’ve done with my life so far. Who knows how God will use it? If nothing else, it’s one way that my singleness can hopefully be a blessing for many others. And that’s what the Christian life is all about: service. Either you are sacrificing yourself for spouse and family, or you’re sacrificing yourself for friends and loved ones; the sacrifice isn’t the variable, it’s those you get to bless through it.

Taking the road that’s given

2006-05-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

Nope, the sidebar ain’t lyin’. Though I’m somewhat sheepish admitting it, I bought one of the new Dixie Chicks songs. I’ll confess: I was a sucker for the opening line: “My friends from high school married their high school boyfriends.” Get to a certain point in life, at least if you’re still single, and you start saying things like that often — perhaps with exactly the same wry tone the Chicks’ singer takes. But I’m not convinced either scorn or envy is really the best response. Rather, it seems we’re best off (or at least sanest) admitting both courses in life have their benefits and their challenges. And really, when you read the Bible on singleness and marriage, it says a similar thing. Community isn’t negotiable, but what it looks like, and how we grow and struggle can certainly vary.

“I met the queen of whatever, drank with the Irish, smoked with the hippies, moved with the shakers ...”

When I was younger, I only praised my singleness in silly, self-centered terms: “Ooh, that means I can go without shaving my legs for a while,” or “who cares if I clean when it’s just me?” In my mind those who dated and married young had all the advantages: love earlier, more attention, and more sex. Great priorities, no? Sure, I got to complete my degree straightforwardly, then make a fairly uncomplicated decision to go grad school, but I wasn’t all that grateful for my freedom. Even when I finished the master’s and could move to New York quite poor and also jobless — in the riskiest lark I’ve embarked — I didn’t realize how much my singleness was allowing me, how much I was taking advantage of independence.

Now that I am nearing the end of this season — that is, my twenties; of this singless, who knows — I’m finally starting to see what I gained from this “long road,” and what my friends who took the shorter path to love have lost. A lot of my girlfriends are starting to think about grad school, but now they’re married, or seriously dating, that decision is a lot harder than it was for me.

You remember how at the start of college or school, your grade point is fairly easy to change? But once a couple years go by, you’re more locked in with the average; have two many low grades, and it takes a lot to recover from that. I’m starting to think our twenties are sort of like that. When you’re young and at the beginning of them, it doesn’t make all that much difference whether you work right away or get one more degree — or just have some crazy adventure. But once you’re into your middle or latter twenties, it’s a bit harder. The amount of major change your life can sustain is probably less than it was a few years ago — at least in terms of changes all at once.

Because I’ve taken the long road to love, I’ve gotten to spend this decade getting my education, making a major move, surviving poverty, taking trips abroad (now and then, at least), and even writing a book. There hasn’t been a whole lot to compete with that; the main constraints have been my money, energy and time. But for married girlfriends of mine who want to go back to school or move or change careers, it’s all affected by things like their husband’s career, their family plans, and when they want to have babies.

For years these women were the ones I envied, but I’m finally seeing that just because their path is different from mine, it’s not necessarily smoother or better. It’s just different. The odds may well be that when we look back twenty years from now, we’ve all gotten much that we wanted: they have their degrees and what-not, I’m finally married and raising a brood of Broadways. But what may interest God the most is the character He’s produced in us.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve often been struck by how the women I knew who were the most ambitious and had much less interest in marriage than I got snapped up right out of college. Meanwhile, those of us who cared much less for career and wanted nothing more than husbands and babies now have spent our twenties waiting and grousing and waiting ... and doing lots of the other things our married peers aspired to. Perhaps God chooses to hold off the thing we tend to idolize most, until He’s transformed us into people who could actually handle the things we so long for without giving them the glory God deserves.

It may projecting a tad, but I hear in the Chicks’ words a struggle to reconcile their southern, traditional roots with a more feminist sense of self. Independence isn’t bad, but when there’s either defiance or jealousy in it, something’s off. We headstrong ones usually need to learn about what it means to depend on others, and those inclined to go with the flow may need to think for themselves a bit more. But if we’re in conversation, those are lessons we can help each other learn. That learning will happen best if we can be humble and grateful wherever we’re at, and genuinely able to rejoice and empathize in the blessings and struggles of those on the alternate path.

Get the album:

Stitching together a self

2006-05-16T13:11:00.000-07:00

Substantially overhauled, 10 a.m. Wednesday

This weekend, my friend Blogyenta pulled together another stitch-n-bitch. It’s basically a girls’ night in with wine and women and handcrafts — and sometimes it’s as bad as you’d expect it to be, right down to someone’s thigh-master which we discovered and passed around. But in one of our less-giddy moments, someone mentioned that book that’s so big now. You know, the one with the code and the girl and the grail, that’s coming out as a big movie or something.

I know a lot of churches and groups are responding to it, with sections on their website, books and events. Me, I haven’t read it. Not sure I will. I hear the plot is riveting, but stitched together by mediocre writing. So why do I mention it here? Because someone hit on an interesting point at our stitch-n-bitch — one which I’ve been mulling over a lot.

From what I’ve read, the book supposedly takes a fairly liberationist stance toward women, revealing all sorts of “prejudice” in the Bible, and how God’s book consistently puts down half of His creatures. But one astute friend who’d read the novel said she disagreed — not just with how it skewed the Bible, but the alternate vision of womanhood. Which apparently means the woman involved has sex with various men. (I’m putting this forth on hearsay, I acknowledge, so bear with me.) At any rate, my friend was rightly scornful of this, both as something new and something all that appealing. Being sexually free, or frequently “loved” is somehow supposedly better than how the Bible’s celibate Jesus treated women?

This question has come to be a crux of lots of things for me: what does it mean to live life to the full, to have a fully realized humanity? The sexual revolution claimed that the only ones getting that real deal were the men, who got to work and play and sleep around as they pleased. And so we begged to join their “fun,” and now we’re supposedly having quite a blast — I mean, aren’t we? It taught, in other words, that to be fulfilled meant largely sexual fulfillment. Pity the virgins, the widows (and I might add, all those sex workers, whose pleasure never is the point).

I’m not bashing equal pay (though I think that gets complicated), or things like the right to vote, but frankly I question how good for women a lot of “advances” supposedly made on our behalf have really been. How did we get to think that men had figured out what a whole life looks like, and that to have it too we must be like them, succeed like them, compete with them? If everyone tries to lead on the dance floor, you don’t do too many waltzes or foxtrots or tangos. Same thing if you all try to follow. So that’s my first point: even in trying to be liberated, we women have held to a broken view of our humanity, and related our identity to men in broken and fairly destructive ways.

Secondly, we’ve become attention whores, and the only kind that counts is primarily sexual. Think about that for a moment. Not that I’m saying attention’s bad, or that it’s wrong for two people to flirt, but I know women who cannot rest unless they’ve been acknowledged as sexual beings, which usually takes more than flirting. The irony is, what we really want more than anything is to know that if you took that all away, some guy would still want to be in our lives, would be committed to sharing the journey with us.

Perhaps that’s why sex seems to matter so much — not so much because of itself, but because when added to a certain level of caring, it shows commitment. Traditionally, that package has been publicly commenced as marriage. But even in the case of long-term partners, we see that same striving toward exclusivity and whole-self giving. In other words, I think we long for sex to be both sign and consummation of commitment — but we don’t want that commitment without it because that would fall short of giving wholly.

The act involves the whole body in ways few other activities do. Maybe that’s why we want so to believe that having sex means really giving and receiving all of ourselves, not just bits. But just because I give you my largest and most heavily charged bit doesn’t mean I’ve given you much of me at all. In fact, I’m not sure anything but Jesus can really help me become the whole I want to give. You can rarely fix your brokenness by dwelling on it, or trying to fix it with equally broken ideas. The way for me to finally lose weight for good was not by focusing more on discipline, but moving beyond my food-focus altogether. Sex wasn’t meant to be ultimate; God is. It’s no coincidence His method of saving people most often involves looking past ourselves, our needs, our wounds.

The striking thing about Jesus’ encounter with women — when you actually read those Bible stories — is how many of them were socially shunned for sexual sin, but treated as whole beings by this teacher. He talks to them of theology, attends to their needs before those of more powerful, prominent men in the crowd, and defends their right to sit and hear his teaching. All this, mind you, in a culture that so scorned women they could not even be used as witnesses in court.

Somehow I keep finding these blogs of women who strip for a living. I really don’t go looking, but somehow I find them. And as I read their stories of pain and scorn and determination, I hear my own old fixation with sex in their words. It is so easy to define yourself by that part of identity, leverage it for all attention that it’s worth. But I wonder, as I read their sometimes rather-eloquent words, what would these women tell me if we ignored that topic? That seems to be what Jesus pushed for. Sure, he would always gently deal with the women’s sin in the end, but that was not the path to knowing him, it was a consequence. I’m grateful that I’ve known him long enough now he’s finally turned to me as well, and dealt with this oh-so-warping sin.

And when people read that book or see the movie, I hope some realize — as my friend did — that it’s just packaging a lie, and not even a new one. I hope that somehow in between the distortions and the cheap shots, there’s something that makes them wonder exactly who the Bible says Jesus is. For if you read it with an open mind, and really engage what’s there, you’ll find a kind of man who was radical in many ways, not least of which because he could help us be whole again, transform our broken tiles into a mosaic.

the long and the short of it is ...

2006-05-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

Still being worked out. “It” being today’s — or last Friday’s — post, that is. Sorry for the delay on this one as well!! Still recovering from a busy week and weekend. In the meantime, check out these 5-minute distractions:

BBC gets the wrong “expert” in an Apple v. Apple story

Norah plays in disguise

Thanks to Godric and Family Friend for the tip-offs ...

The good, the cads, the chastened

2006-05-08T22:06:00.000-07:00

In the other news from this weekend, a reader wrote with a question that coulda been torn from my journals two years ago.

Hey Anna,

Do you date men that aren’t believers or nominally so? The trend here lately has been that I’ve met men that are are nominal believers sort of picking and choosing what they believe and don’t want to believe. My biggest problem is that the Christian men that I do know...who are supposedly committed Christians are so freaking boring...yawn and totally not “real.” Once more, they don’t have the cahoonas to pursue a woman like a man. I’m not making a blanket statement here. But that’s been my experience at least lately.

[...] Am I destined to meet boring Christian, wimpy men? [...] I just can’t seem to meet a Christian SINGLE man who has balls and a little grit. The last Christian Christiangton I was contemplating going out with, said to me, because of my somewhat salty sense of humor and mouth [...] “Are you really sure you want a relationship that has Christ as the foundation?” That bothered me a lot. [...] And hell, I’m not so sure he’d know what to do with me and my passion if we ever did get married. I don’t think he could handle me. All I can picture is him expecting me to wear pretty dresses and white shoes to church...like that woman on Everybody Loves Raymond. Amy’s mother. The sweet, mousey Christian woman. Icky...

Yeah, I’m fairly anti-flower dress myself. But first off, do I date freaked-by-Jesus men now? No. Did I used to? Oh, yeah. Not that it was a good thing, mind you, but at the time I thought what little attention such men gave me (before moving on in search of someone more like-minded sexually) was as good as I could get. Clearly God could not be trusted to meet my needs when it came to romance. Since those secular men were pretty much all I ever dated, I can’t say I’ve had the experience you have, of dating supposedly Christian men with values much like every other guy’s.

For which I blamed them, of course: those wimpy, self-righteous, cowardly Jesus-freak men who almost never asked me out. I had plenty of reasons why, even if they had pursued me, they never would have been good enough. That I might not be good enough for them didn’t cross my mind. But one day a long-ago crush stopped by the blog, to read for more than one or two days. I probably should have wondered why he put up with my salty mouth and sadly broken view of sex, but I was more impressed with the way he stuck around this time. Unheard of! And other than his tolerance for my titillating talk, I saw much to admire in him. Here was finally a man I could respect, whose passion for serving God revived a long-dormant hope perhaps my longings for a godly man weren’t a curse after all. And something made me hopeful he’d be harder to scare away than all the other Jesus freak men had proven.

Then, a month into my giddiness, he blogged about what was wrong with all the women he met. None of which applied to me ... so what kept him from liking me? Well, I should say, none of his main points applied to me, but one disturbingly frequent comment mentioned how unattractive swearing made a woman to him. Then and there, I resolved to cut all profanity from my blogging — at least for the most part. But though this was a superficial fix bent mostly on bettering my chances with him (which tanked, despite my clean-up program and his occasional willingness to curse), his post raised a bigger issue. I’d always assumed the problem was with men — that they were more broken, sinful and flawed than me. But suddenly a man whose zeal for God caught my attention more than his sin had shown me a rather disturbing reflection of my own sin.

For the first time I had to consider if the sort of man I claimed I really wanted would be drawn to the uncouth, defiant woman I was becoming. Which wasn’t just an issue of a blog-persona makeover or a change in certain habits. It was a question of character. What I’ve realized in the nearly two years since then is that while the Christian men I disdained were full of faults — usually on the conservative end of the spectrum — I had just as much sin. Sure, maybe I could fault them for being self-righteousness and even legalistic. But in my excesses I did no better at living the self-sacrificial life Paul says defines the Christian who understands both God’s grace and His holiness.

Sure, I’m still single, but maybe I was less ready for love and marriage than I thought. And since I’ve allowed God to work on my character, I’ve also come to see that those things are less essential to living a fulfilled life than I once thought.

I think you see where this is going and no, I probably wouldn’t have liked this advice any better than you when I was in my “Christian men are lame-o, boring hypocrites” phase. We can never know enough to reasonably claim God’s making “mistakes” in our lives by not providing as we think He should. Nor are His gifts in any way based on our worthiness or obedience. However, I’m learning it’s far more fruitful to spend my singleness learning how I can better serve God than griping about why good-enough men don’t exist. They do. But instead of focusing on why others don’t meet our standards, I think it’s time we remembered how much we all fall short of the only standard that really matters — God’s — and humbly focus more on living to please that ultimate Beloved. Perhaps as we do so, we’ll find in time that the humble fellow servant at our side is looking better all the time and strangely thinks the same of us. But that part’s really in God’s hands; the only part we can change is ourselves.

When blog-reading pays off

2006-05-08T11:15:00.000-07:00

Still hoping to post today, dahlings, but work must come first, alas. Meanwhile, I am thrilled to announce the very first Sexless engagement. Yes, it’s true — Almost Bored found himself a girl ... through none other than yours truly! Well, through this here blog, anyway, and specifically the comments. Props to Jeff Sharlet for the article that led them here.

Who knew? Turns out clicking through to this site now and then could be good for your love life!! Congrats to the happy couple. Full story here (her side) and here (his side).

Back with my baby

2006-05-05T08:10:00.000-07:00

Sorry, dahlings, light posting today: iBaby 2.0 came home from Tekserve yesterday (strokes case fondly), but setting him back up again put me behind on some of my work. With proper inspiration I might yet crank out a full-length post this weekend, so don’t forget to send me your latest love-life queries. Otherwise this space might just return to bargain blogging and other tales of shopping.

Which reminds me to brag that I got new jeans at the Gap yesterday, just for simply checking my email! For real. If you don’t mind clicking through to the odd online ad now and then, and you haven’t yet joined MyPoints, you should. I’ve earned at least a few hundred dollars’ worth of stuff through them over the years, since you can redeem the points you acquire for gift cards from the Gap, Barnes & Noble, Home Depot, Macy’s and lots and lots of other places. If you do sign up, tell ’em Anna Broadway — er, DANZFOOL — sent ya.

Sea-legs, pt. 2

2006-04-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

Last weekend’s post about restlessness really seemed to strike a chord with some of you, so I thought I’d say a bit more on that. I think much of what drives it — in seasons like our 20s, at least — is seeking a calling or purpose. For me it’s been hard since I never planned on using my degree or having a career outside the home. Shortsighted, sure, but such was the myopia of childhood dreams. Since I’d never dreamed of being much more than a mommy (well, and a writer of some sort, though I was in denial of that), I resented the struggle to figure out what jobs I should get and how to proceed without assuming I’d ever have a family — while choosing in a way that didn’t complicate motherhood should marriage come along after all.

Basically, I’d wanted for most of my life to define my identity in terms of marriage and family. Once I faced the uncertain hope that was, it left me to find some other source of meaning. For which work and career seemed the obvious alternative … except that I’ve never been overly ambitious that way. I like the life of the mind, sure, but the things I like intellectually, I don’t have to do or get from a job, you know? And writing has always felt more organic, relational and creative. It’s not “work” in the same way.

The paying-dues blues
But I had to work. And since I had not an English or j-school degree, nor recent clips of my own, I despaired of ever finding work as a writer. Editor, yes; writer, no. And then there was that final disadvantage: since I went straight through to grad school, all of my age peers (in this oh-so-competitive city) had two more years of work experience. Though having an M.A. gave me some cachet, it was often confused with a theology degree — not something all that useful. I wasn’t quite an entry-level worker, but neither did I have the experience for the next level up. As much as the inefficiency and sheer boredom of my jobs was galling and humbling, there was no way around that year of two of being “underused” and paying my dues.

What I’ve learned from this and from watching my other friends is that, like it or not, most folks don’t jump into their dream job right away. All careers begin with a few years that test your character more than your skills or ability. If you’re of average or more intelligence, expect to feel frustration, but try to develop patience. You never know how these short-term “indignities” may bear fruit in the future. And if you’re a Christian, we know God puts a spiritual value on learning to persevere and rejoice in all things (which I don’t mean to say tritely or as if it’s easy; I know too well it’s not).

The funny thing about restlessness is, it’s partly a valid response to imperfect circumstances, partly an infirmity of the heart; the trick is knowing the difference. Much of my discontentment did abate once I started blogging and made peace with being a writer. Landing my current part-time job made much more sense of various jobs and interests I’d had, with seemingly little to connect them. There is a great peace that’s come from that, and I try to be always grateful.

Firmer footing
But not even these major blessings, as good as they are, have supplied that elusive sense of “purpose.” Then last fall, after launching into a “break-up” with my guy friend of highest esteem, I had an epiphany. The moments I’d felt my humanity most intensely were when I’d stopped to talk to homeless people (though some encounters moved me more than others), and when I’d been talking to folks about why the story of Jesus gives such hope to my life. When I thought about this, I realized these activities had in much common with Jesus’ work on earth, in which he later involved the disciples. Perhaps it was in seeking first God’s kingdom — the restoration of all the Bible says was lost with Adam’s fall — that I could find an ultimate purpose. Whether being single or having a family, writing a blog or a book or just random emails, all of my life no matter its course could be subsumed to that primary purpose.

That, at last, has finally given me peace and quenched a lot more of my restlessness. To the extent that I now live not for the approval of certain people or “success” in conventional terms — but for the pleasure of God alone — my sense of meaning and self-worth are based on fixed, unshakeable things. Even when I have a bad day and screw up, I can still take all of it to God, heap my pile of rubbish on the altar, and remember Isaiah said He deems even my best works to be no more than filthy rags. Sure, knowing God’s love isn’t based on what I’ve done means I have no “leverage” for demanding what I want, but it also means my standing with Him is based on something as sure as gravity, the sufficiency of what the Bible says was Jesus’ work on the cross.

If that’s not true, I am, as Paul told the Corinthians, “to be pitied more than all men.” But if it is true, then I have a purpose and calling and meaning in life that can survive losses, uncertainties and travails like none I know. I’m staking my life on that. Sure, Jesus only mentioned food and clothing as the things we should not seek first, but which God knows we need and will provide as we need, but I’m starting to think love and marriage are the same. If we who have surrendered to God through Jesus seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, He will provide things like spouses and children as He sees fit. Besides, who knows what depends on the children we’ll bear and the lives they’ll have? If so much is at stake in our dates and commitments, surely God can be trusted to do as He has appointed, and surely we are most ill-fit to try and run that part of our lives.

I didn’t expect to imitate Carrie this much ...

2006-04-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

The mecca for iBook and love-life woes?

But yesterday, while on the Internet, while doing my normal thing, I heard a sudden, ominous click from iBaby 2.0. Uh-oh. Programs stopped responding. And when I restarted in hopes this bad dream would prove just my paranoia about computer failure ... nothing. No icon, no smiley face, no un-smiley face, just ominous sounds of my disk-drive spinning, the hard drive trying to mount ... then nothing.

Prayer, no good. Frantic texts to Poster Boy, little hope: a problem best suited for the Apple Store. Gulp. Ad Co.’s former Apple Tech said much the same. So I packed up my baby, swallowed down tears, and readied to spend precious subway fare on a desperate trip to the Genius Bar (at $2/trip, I try to ration errands into Manhattan; on good weeks I spend not much more than $10-$12). I halfway debated what shirt would ensure the best hearing for my plight, but decided that that would be too much.

Once inside Soho’s Fruitville, I found the place totally swamped and more confirmation that sinking-feeling-in-stomach was probably justified. “Try booting it from the software disk and come back tomorrow morning,” he said. But then he confessed that it probably was a “major” problem that minor fix wouldn’t solve.

Sure enough, booting from CD: no good. Tests this morning confirmed that the hard drive is toast, without butter or jam. For which I consoled myself with a bunch of lilacs from the flower stand next to Tekserve. It was that or burst into tears, really, and I hate the way crying leaves salt splatters on my glasses. At least I backed up the book this weekend! No way I could cover the $500 recovery fee to retrieve it (which is only if they are successful; no guarantees of that). Apparently when you style yourself Carrie’s analog, you get a share of her writer’s woes as well. Sigh.

Feel free to use the donation button below, if you’re so moved. Looks like I’ll have to invest in a better back-up system.

Learning to find my sea-legs

2006-04-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

First off, two reader shout-outs. I know someone who reads this mentioned something on her blog about sending cookies to U.S. soldiers. If that’s you, please shoot me an email and I’ll tell you how to reach my sis. She’s a second lieutenant overseeing several Marines, so your eats would feed not just her but several of those under her. Secondly, a big THANKS to the reader whose recent donation helped me cover not just the cost of filing my taxes but one bag of Trader Joe’s dried apricots. Mmmmmm.

It’s funny how such ordinary pleasures — dried fruit and lattes — have become my little indulgences. Once a splurge had more to do with charging a bargain found at Urban Outfitters (some candle or a t-shirt), or having a nice dinner out. Not that higher-end things aren’t still on the “save for when more flush with cash” list, but something has gradually changed in me. When I first arrived in this city, four years ago this August, I’d come here to flee suburbia, a life too boring and tepid. And since I was poor and jobless at first, how much was now near but still out-of-reach overwhelmed sometimes. As I wrote home in those early months:

New York is a walking city. … Though this amounts to a kind of egalitarian pedestrian experience, it somehow serves to reinforce one’s own sense of being without so many things that other people have. Because the streets are shared by everyone, poor folk like me ;) brush shoulders with very wealthy people, or those sufficiently comfortable with debt to dress as such. Never have I been in a place where I was so aware of the material goods I was doing without or could own — and I don’t think it’s just a weird-Anna thing; I’ve talked to other people who comment on the same thing. There’s an odd sense of the material here, and consequently a different sense of one’s material-goods-related class, relative to others’, than most other places I’ve been.

Sometimes it starts to get you down a little (or me, anyway). At times I feel like I’ve ordered this amazing créme brulée that’s been sitting in front of me for nearly two months. It’s both sickening and tantalizing at times, but I can’t really get below the surface to enjoy all the exciting contents beneath; seems like I keep scraping flakes off the top.

My clothes, my income, my evenings seemed all too ordinary compared to the restaurants and shops and outings I saw my street-mates partaking. But everyone seems to feel both that inadequacy and envy. I don’t know how many people I’ve talked to here, whose “day job” is someone else’s dream job, though they work pay the bills while pursuing some other passion off-hours. The papers are in on it too; besides the New York Times, two tabloid-sized rags keep the masses abreast of what star is seeing whom and wearing what. Why do we care? Why are we so committed to worshiping and reviling them by turns?

Because, I think, such celebrities live out the dream of many of overcoming humanity, progressing to an extraordinary existence. This, as my pastor pointed out last night, is the salvation most of us long for: not a redemption of our day-to-day life in its normalcy and subtle peaks and valleys, but an escape to something grander that seems to supercede our humanity.

And when you’re in your early twenties, this thirst for escape and quest for adventure tends to define your nightlife. At least it did mine. The last thing you want is a boring, quiet — *gasp* — ordinary Friday night at home. What clearer sign of loserdom? Or not.

Maybe this is just proof of my spinsterhood, but I can no longer count how many vanilla Friday nights I’ve passed in Brooklyn. And since I’m now leading a fairly suburban life after all — except at a higher cost than one finds in other parts of the country — I sometimes wonder if I need to live here at all. But that’s neither here nor there. My main point is, when I think about the experiences I long for these days, they’re not quite as exotic as they used to be.

Sure, I might miss the fish ’n chips I had in New Zealand three autumns ago, or long to revisit Malaysia’s tea plantations, but what I loved the most about those trips was reveling in the simple pleasures of eating a good meal with family, laughing at my brother’s fake accents, or nursing a steaming cup of tea. Although those trips took place in rather “extraordinary” settings, our greatest joys were savoring ordinary moments.

I’m starting to think the secret of contentment is not learning how to “escape” from life but to enjoy it for what it is — not sorting out the conditions just so, finding someway to stop the boat’s rocking, but learning to keep your balance no matter how smooth or rough the seas. The trouble with the old me was that I hoped a boyfriend and marriage would save me from boredom and the travails of a normal life. And since I secretly feared it might let me down in that, I made sure to like men more wrong than right for me. Having my dream of the perfect escape was preferable to having that dream come true and still be stuck here in a life most banal.

What is it you think you need in life? What do you hope it will save you from? Perhaps we fear our dreams’ fulfillment more than this longing interminable because we sense the problem is not in our circumstances, but restlessness. The problem is not what you have that I don’t, but my ever-renewing envy.

Pondering no more

2006-04-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

Sorry, dahlings, still drafting Friday’s post (yeah, I know; a little late for that). While you’re waiting, check out this related story from NPR (thanks to my editor for the reference), or the coffee-themed podcast at Woot today. Back soon ...

xoxo,
AB

Why we wait

2006-04-14T14:04:00.000-07:00

Had a call from the Lickwit last night, inviting me to spur-of-the-minute drinks. I’ll confess: as broke as I’ve been lately, the prospect of probably free drinks with a witty blond held much appeal. (Especially since I’m always shocked when men who’ve passed me by still care that I’m breathing. I know — “protection not rejection” and all my well-intentioned opining — but sometimes steeling your heart against cynicism is might hard to do. Especially in this town.) But since I had much work to do, and had already bailed on plans for Maundy Thursday services, I asked him for a rain check.

Later I was reading an old friend’s new blog (which, if you liked Blogfather’s style, you really might want to check out), and thought how terribly fond I could be of this friend when thus reminded of his strong points. And somehow that brought to mind this time I hurt his feelings once — in a talk about why I wouldn’t consider changing my standards for him. Seen from a secular, masculine point of view, I could understand how it would seem insulting — like, “You’re not good enough for me.”

But I realized last night the slight was caused by my failure to explain myself and the reasons why I wait. It’s not a question of men being unappealing, or those particular guys not making me question my standards, but of esteeming them (and myself) too much to use them like that.

There have been lonely times in the past where I looked at my current closest guy friend and wondered if we could be more than friends — not because I wanted to marry him, or invest deeply in his life, but because I was lonely and wanted an intimate affirmation. That’s viewing sex and human relationships in a mercenary fashion: “What can you do for me?” or “What do I have to do for you to give me what I want?” Self is the underlying interest.

Sex is pragmatically polite instead of more genuinely other-focused and kind. (Not to say the latter is completely altruistic, but as a general rule it tends to be more sincere.) To give a man I wouldn’t marry — in other words, wholly commit myself to — mere sex without much more besides that is to spurn the rest of his personhood.

This is the fundamental difference between the Bible’s approach to relationships, and how we most often operate. The Bible says we should strive for a selfless, self-donating relationship with others — a posture of sacrifice (though this does not mean always giving them what they want, since that’s not always in the other’s best interest). And because it’s a model of whole-self giving, it means resisting attempts to break the other into compartments of emotional, professional, sexual, spiritual. You deal with the whole person.

In most situations, however, we not only fragment ourselves into pieces, we tend to privilege one part above the rest and measure our whole self worth by how that part of us is perceived. Encounter a person who doesn’t acknowledge that part as your most essential self, or offer homage to it like you’re used to, and that’s understandably disconcerting.

I should know; I used to lead with my sexuality. When men took the bait and rejected the rest of me as fairly incidental (before discarding me in a sexual sense as well), I was naturally hurt. But when the Christian men I met refused to deal with my sexuality, and consequently not much of me besides that, I felt even more demeaned and rejected. Not only did they not care about the part of me I thought most central, they didn’t seem to care about me at all!

Then a friend spoke into my life with some of the hardest words I’ve ever heard. Ever. He finally tackled directly the way I had fragmented my self and put sexuality on top. He talked about what that meant for my writing. Ouch. Normally I would have slapped on the band-aid of self-loathing as fast as I could, turning to my self-protective treatment for such wounds. But this time things went differently. There was in his words a gentleness and respect in which I sensed God Himself cajoling me to abandon this self-fragmentation to live as the whole person I was meant to be.

It was perhaps the first time that an unrelated male had shown me what whole-self-giving love really looks like, or how it at least begins. It’s not just caring about who you are right now and what you can do for me, but who you will be two decades from now, and what you are doing that’s hurting yourself and others.

For the Bible, you see, says the love we Christians are called to imitate is the ultimate self-giving, sacrificial love that’s shared within the Trinity, and was demonstrated most vividly when the king of the universe lived among his people in disguise, as it were, risking even the death that befell him, so he could rescue them from their oppressor. It’s a paradox: the fate one always fears such a king will suffer was actually how he secured our freedom. The way he showed us such love was by condemning our actions so strongly as to be deserving of even death itself but serving as our substitute in the gallows since he valued us too much to part with us.

So that, friends and readers, is really why I’m still waiting. Not because I’m better or you’re unattractive, not because I think sex itself is bad or will be better this way. No, I wait because I’ve learned through God and through friends the freedom it is to be whole and how much more lovely and precious the whole of you is than just the favorite part you show to me. I know it’s unlikely we’ll age together, or talk more than now and then, but in what what moments we do share, I want to engage not just the witty, urbane and charming parts of you but what it is that makes you spend your money frivolously, drink yourself into tipsy confidence, or date men you somewhat despise. As much as you’ll let me, in other words, I want to be the friend to you mine was to me. We both know that isn’t sexual, but we also know the true mark of friendship isn’t what favors you’ll trade but if you’d willingly give up your life.

Peace to you on this Good Friday ...

All that she wants is to be his lady

2006-04-07T13:35:00.000-07:00

Spring daffodils.

A number of you latched onto my remark from last time that sometimes what seems like rejection might really be divine protection. The reason I say that is a funny pattern: the men I liked the most, whom I was most willing to bend my standards for are the ones who pursued me the least and dropped me sooner than anyone else. But the ones I liked less (which relative disinterest was a protection in itself) hung around a lot longer and pushed to see how much they could get from me.

I realize that could sound like me just putting a quasi-spiritual, fairly superstitious spin on mere coincidence, but consider the deeper truth. As much as I thought I sort of liked any one of those guys at the moment, as a sum total they were space-fillers. Pretty much every one left something unsettled inside — even the good ones I liked for months. I always sensed a reason, a flaw, bad timing — something — that accounted for me not getting my way. So to call all that “rejection” was just my self-pitying way of complaining when God didn’t give me what I wanted, on the schedule I thought He should.

And many times, the liking was as much about my thirst for drama, for promise of something exciting and unexpected, as it was the guy himself. I didn’t know how to get through life without a man on the horizon. The only difference between me and other serial daters (who rarely have a break between relationships) is that my current guy was rarely more than a crush. In principle, though, we faced life the same way.

So the final reason I can’t really call it rejection is the in-retrospect test. When I look back, do I wish I’d had a relationship with that guy? No. In the secular cases, I wince at what I did with my dates. And in the case of the crushes, I realize we weren’t in a place to be good together. Even if we both had good intentions, neither those guys nor I was ready to be in a relationship leading to marriage. And that’s all I ever wanted. I never dreamed of being a girl who had a thousand dates or legions of boyfriends, who needed five memoirs to catalogue all the men she knew (thankfully, that isn’t who I’ve turned to be either). I just wanted to be someone’s wife and make family together.

Rejection implies that what happened to me was a bad thing, that my life would be better if it had turned out differently. No question, some men have hurt me and they did in fact reject me or my standards, but even that was protecting me from something I thought I wanted that really wasn’t good for me. It’s appetite confusion: sometimes you don’t really know your needs or desires at all.

So what about the pain they inflicted, am I somehow calling that good? No. But pain is not the surprise in life, it’s the given. The glorious thing is that sometimes pain and tragedy become a soil in which good and even growth sprouts up — like daffodils. Those have always been my symbol for redemption, you see, ever since the saga with Married Man. He was, I thought, all that I had ever wanted in a man ... except not a Christian, not single and so on. But somehow I got it stuck in my head that he was my tragic fate.

Pain, anguish, heartache. Eighteen torturous months of it. One day I realized it was as if I’d been given a longed-for sandcastle only to realize it wasn’t made out of sand at all but shit. Someone had made me a giant present of a mockery of my desires. The only hope I could find at long last was the knowledge that even shit gives birth to flowers in a way that sand could not have. Perhaps my shitcastle would be redeemed someday by exploding in riotous color as it turned into a flower castle.

That still hasn’t happened, but neither do I still feel the pain of that crush. And each spring that I’ve lived here more and more daffodils have sprung up — as if to symbolize the hope that God is good and faithful and hasn’t forgotten those longings of long-ago. Last year there was one daffodil that I spied in my backyard, surely left there long ago by a now-departed gardener. This year there are three or four plants at least, though no one has tended the sod but God. As I’m learning now that we compost at the local community garden, it takes time to transform waste into a soil that feeds new life. But just because my compost is still decaying doesn’t mean God won’t eventually reap a harvest from all my mistakes and pain and waiting.

If he, should you, could you?

2006-04-01T11:12:00.000-08:00

This week’s question raises a topic I’ve actually been writing about in the book: when you think the best that could be in store for you is someone who neither pursues you nor meets all your standards. What’s a girl to do?

Dear Anna:

Question 1: Is it in any way a good idea to anonymously send a mix cd of songs that express the feelings I cannot and that are tearing me up inside to a guy who a. is in a relationship, b. shares the same best friend as I, and c. that I have had romantic feelings for for approximately 4 years or more?

Question 2: If said guy, who has professed his attraction to/desire for/interest in me at several times over the above mentioned approximate 4 years or more ever wakes up and decides to date me, would it be fair to expect him to be in, let alone understand, a sexless relationship with me? In other words, if we finally get together after years of hidden feelings, missed opportunities and various “misunderstandings,” how could I expect that this guy would be down for no sex? I don’t know his status as a man of God, other than that he is a very sexually experienced Catholic. Could/should I, in order to prove myself selfless, put aside my chastity to make happy a man that I think I could make so very happy in other ways, or stand my ground, even if it means forever missing out on him and us?

Thanks,
Conflicted Christian

Oh, honey. That’s a doozie, for sure. But the good news is, you can get through this, you will get through this, and someday you’ll look back with great relief that you didn’t settle for less-than-perfect Mr. Passive. Trust me. Married Man was my Mr. Passive (except more than taken, married) and now I shake my head to think I ever found him so essential to the future I thought I wanted. But don’t let me get ahead of myself.

First off: question one, the mix CD. Can I be one of your girlfriends for a minute? No, no, no, no, no, no, no! If you have to cloak it in secrecy, you know there is a problem. My advice: hone the perfect playlist and publish it on iTunes. But lest I sound too harsh, let me assure you I have been there. Been there, sitting at a concert, hearing a jazz legend, tears rolling down my face because I couldn’t call the jazz-loving man I liked and play him some of the show (I’d sent him a letter asking we cease IMing but had heard nothing in reply). Sitting there, crying, texting furiously to a girlfriend, asking if I could block my number then call him up. I guess you can tell she managed to talk me down.

So I know it’s hard, I know you’re going crazy, but you’ve got to find a way through this that doesn’t depend on changing your circumstances or trying to provoke something with him (would he really fail to guess it’s you?? Do you really want it that badly?). If you’re meant to say those things to him, to share those songs, the right time and setting will arise. There were things I once wanted to say to the Captain but never had a chance to. Then one day while we were talking in church a long while later, I had my moment. And that’s just one case; the pattern has been the same with various guys.

I know we hate to admit this, but things never work as well when they are forced. They just don’t. Either the right time and energy is there, and things work out because they’re sposed to ... or they don’t. My hunch is, things haven’t worked out with this guy because we both know — hell, maybe even he knows — that it wouldn’t be for the best. You don’t want a guy who would make you change yourself or your standards just to be with him! And this is not an issue of saying, “I need a man who dances” or something frivolous like that. This is a valid, sincere — and might I add, reasonable — standard to hold. You stick to your guns, honey. Just because you can’t see it now doesn’t mean God doesn’t have better things for you — and I’m confident He does.

Let me tell you a secret. I believed for years no man who wasn’t already related to me could love the real me — at least enough to stay in my life. Christian men never got close enough to see all the flaws, and secular men only wanted sex. But God had different things in mind, so finally he brought a friend along who didn’t run from my chastity ... or my then too-salty tongue. It’s a long story you’ll have to read the book to hear, but this guy is the first single, unrelated man in my life to unflinchingly call me on my crap yet tell me in the same conversation that he respects me. Sure, maybe he doesn’t have romantic love, but he’s been a true friend. If he could show such kindness and patience to me — a woman neither his girlfriend nor sister (except in a spiritual sense), how much more could a man who wants to grow old with me?

Four years is more than enough to stay locked in this box of hoping and waiting and secretly grieving because you know this falls far short of what you really long for. Feminism be damned, men still pursue when they really want something. The right man will, if there is one. And don’t look at this man’s passivity as a measure of your worth. He’s blind to your true value, sure, but maybe it’s a grace that he can’t see you for what you are.

I’ve never had a boyfriend, right? Handfuls of dates at the most, but nothing more. Christian men rarely ask me out, and secular men always dumped me because of my chastity. For a long time I considered that a history of rejection — which affirmed the broken view that I was worthless. But then one day it dawned on me that perhaps it was protection — which would say much about my worth in God’s eyes. So think about that. And when you feel yourself sinking down again, in despair, hold what you’re believing up to the light and see if it’s true or not — for truth will set you free, not keep you in bondage.