Now I've gone and done it.
I've gone and met a boy I really, really, really like. (I say boy because he's twenty-four.) Of course, he's not wealthy (he's a paralegal, of all things--poetic, eh?). He's not devastatingly drop-dead tongue-hangin'-out-of-my-mouth gorgeous (though he's got blue eyes the size of dinner plates and a cleft chin and dimples). What he is is a writer. A real one. The kind who imagines entire worlds and then, word by word, creates them.
Gods, am I a sucker for men with imaginations. What has been a constant surprise to me in my life thus far is their terrible scarcity. The imagination is created by magic and generates more magic in return. If you don't believe that, you don't have an imagination. Period. Hardly anyone believes in magic anymore. So here I am, my soul brimming with secrets not because I wouldn't share them but because no one wants them. I believe in magic and ghosts and invisible worlds and all the things everyone else stopped believing in when they were seven--the age of reason.
I can be as logical as hell, but few have ever accused me of being reasonable. I guess I've been reasonable enough to tone down my own imagination, my magic, while I was stuck in the Sartrean Hell that was my last relationship--a writer trying to be in love with one who hates reading almost as much as he hates brushing his teeth; can you imagine? It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone, except it took six years for the end credits to finish rolling. I still have no idea why I would do such a horrible thing to myself. But I did.
He was as jealous of my writing as if it were a lover I had taken to annoy him, because it brought me such immense joy, and because he couldn't understand or share it. That's what happens when you're with someone who doesn't know what brings him the most joy in all the world, nor cares to seek it, nor so much as notices it's missing from his life. He first sees you as his beacon and wants to bask in the magic of your light; then he feels outshone and diminished; then he wants to take your light entirely away.
As Rose Kennedy no doubt said so many times, "Thank God that shit's over."
Have you ever become acquainted with a little child or an old person who really liked you? Right away, they will reach out to you, take you by the hand, look you in the eye without hint of artifice and say, "I like you." They do this because they know themselves--a child by instinct, an old person by trial, error, and wisdom. Since they know themselves they know instantly whether they like you, and they see no reason to withhold this happy information from you.
This boy and I have taken that kind of liking to each other (though I hate to think who's the old person and who's the child). It's the simplest kind, perhaps the rarest (among people somewhere between childhood and old age, at any rate), and the best.
How I wish more people believed in magic. I don't think I will ever understand why they don't.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
The Ringer
This morning, at 5:00 a.m., I went into my closet to sleep since the sun was beginning to rise and my apartment was flooded with eastern light. My belly was full of Scotch. I was having that rotgut sensation that begs for greasy-spoon breakfast fare, but since I'd just gotten to bed at 3:00, my head was too light to wander out in search of it. I lay there in the closet, my pillows propped up on a basket of clothes, wrapped in my quilt, hiding from the sun for hours. (Here's the view I hid from.)
I hadn't been so stupidly yet satisfyingly Scotch-drunk in a long time. There's some kind of relief in it.
Last night, I was to meet the Ringer at Hye Bar, a Scottish pub supposedly known for its Scotch selection. (It did have an extensive selection, including Cragganmore, my current favorite.) As soon as I left my studio, the clouds burst and despite my umbrella, I got soaked. I called my date from the train, begging for a ride from the nearest stop. Probably relieved I was calling about a ride rather than cancelling our date, he agreed, worrying aloud that I would think his car was dirty. We found each other at the station and went to the bar for its famous Scotch. However, the bartender was unused to serving the stuff. Poor little dear had to climb up onto the bar to get to the Cragganmore, literally a top shelf liquor.
"I've never drunk Scotch with a woman before," the Ringer blurted, making the whole thing sound a little dirty.
"There's a first time for everything," I said, wondering what terrible sort of women the poor, uninitiated gent had been subjected to in the past.
We chatted and then went to Blue Bayou for burgers. I couldn't read the Ringer except to notice he always seemed to be holding something back. He seemed to want to say things and then withhold them. I rambled on as best I could about Mexico, the Bahamas, my writing, whatever I could think of. Every now and then he'd chime in with a story about India, cruises he'd taken. I realized he was nervous.
He kept receiving text messages and apologizing. Finally, he said he was going to his friend's house nearby--it was he who had been texting. I thought, "Gee, date's over, I guess. What the...?" But he immediately extended the invitation to me and said if I came with him there would be plenty of fodder for my writing and he'd throw in a ride back to my house as well. "Count me in," I said, relaxed by the earlier Cragganmore and the Sauvignon Blanc I'd had with my turkey burger. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed around the Ringer anyway. He made me comfortable, except for his nervousness.
We got lost. Finally, somewhere around 800 north, he got out to ask directions, noting aloud that he was a man willing to do so. We arrived at the huge three-story house in Bucktown and were greeted by a lively, attractive, warm couple who ushered us into their kitchen and plied us with drink. We then talked about books, and little else, until two a.m.
I didn't know such magical places existed. Places where a girl walks in, is told she's gorgeous and sweet (why has that word been coming up so much lately? Gods have I changed if that is really the first impression I give off these days), is handed a rocks glass of smoky Scotch, and then gets to talk about her favorite subject with enthusiastic, intelligent, effusive conversation partners. I felt so at home it was bizarre. The woman of the house reminded me so much in spirit of my dear El-Zizabeth. Such a beautiful sensation; comfort among strangers.
The only frightening thing was that when the woman of the house mentioned her one year-old child, my date said "I love babies!" I'm pretty sure I didn't succeed in keeping the look of horror off my face.
Why is it I end up with these truly sweet, wonderful men normal women would kill for; meanwhile, the womanizing cads I would actually prefer to date go for the women who are looking for the stable, kid-loving Lifetime Network poster boys? Life is patently unfair to all of us. What a mystery.
The Ringer was loopy by the time we took off, and as I opened the car door to go into my building, he said, "I would really love to kiss you."
Twist my arm. Hey. He really is turning out to be a Ringer.
I hadn't been so stupidly yet satisfyingly Scotch-drunk in a long time. There's some kind of relief in it.
Last night, I was to meet the Ringer at Hye Bar, a Scottish pub supposedly known for its Scotch selection. (It did have an extensive selection, including Cragganmore, my current favorite.) As soon as I left my studio, the clouds burst and despite my umbrella, I got soaked. I called my date from the train, begging for a ride from the nearest stop. Probably relieved I was calling about a ride rather than cancelling our date, he agreed, worrying aloud that I would think his car was dirty. We found each other at the station and went to the bar for its famous Scotch. However, the bartender was unused to serving the stuff. Poor little dear had to climb up onto the bar to get to the Cragganmore, literally a top shelf liquor.
"I've never drunk Scotch with a woman before," the Ringer blurted, making the whole thing sound a little dirty.
"There's a first time for everything," I said, wondering what terrible sort of women the poor, uninitiated gent had been subjected to in the past.
We chatted and then went to Blue Bayou for burgers. I couldn't read the Ringer except to notice he always seemed to be holding something back. He seemed to want to say things and then withhold them. I rambled on as best I could about Mexico, the Bahamas, my writing, whatever I could think of. Every now and then he'd chime in with a story about India, cruises he'd taken. I realized he was nervous.
He kept receiving text messages and apologizing. Finally, he said he was going to his friend's house nearby--it was he who had been texting. I thought, "Gee, date's over, I guess. What the...?" But he immediately extended the invitation to me and said if I came with him there would be plenty of fodder for my writing and he'd throw in a ride back to my house as well. "Count me in," I said, relaxed by the earlier Cragganmore and the Sauvignon Blanc I'd had with my turkey burger. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed around the Ringer anyway. He made me comfortable, except for his nervousness.
We got lost. Finally, somewhere around 800 north, he got out to ask directions, noting aloud that he was a man willing to do so. We arrived at the huge three-story house in Bucktown and were greeted by a lively, attractive, warm couple who ushered us into their kitchen and plied us with drink. We then talked about books, and little else, until two a.m.
I didn't know such magical places existed. Places where a girl walks in, is told she's gorgeous and sweet (why has that word been coming up so much lately? Gods have I changed if that is really the first impression I give off these days), is handed a rocks glass of smoky Scotch, and then gets to talk about her favorite subject with enthusiastic, intelligent, effusive conversation partners. I felt so at home it was bizarre. The woman of the house reminded me so much in spirit of my dear El-Zizabeth. Such a beautiful sensation; comfort among strangers.
The only frightening thing was that when the woman of the house mentioned her one year-old child, my date said "I love babies!" I'm pretty sure I didn't succeed in keeping the look of horror off my face.
Why is it I end up with these truly sweet, wonderful men normal women would kill for; meanwhile, the womanizing cads I would actually prefer to date go for the women who are looking for the stable, kid-loving Lifetime Network poster boys? Life is patently unfair to all of us. What a mystery.
The Ringer was loopy by the time we took off, and as I opened the car door to go into my building, he said, "I would really love to kiss you."
Twist my arm. Hey. He really is turning out to be a Ringer.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Bigger They Are...
The seven-footer is unabashedly going for the gold. He called yesterday wanting to go out again last night--told me I'd made him happy all day. I was hungry and wanted to see a movie, so I said, "Sure." He dragged me out to the damn suburbs for Outback and the cineplex. Hm. All this great city and we're going where? I'm telling you. The lengths I will go to for free food and entertainment.
Anyway, the poor kid. He's starry-eyed and making a fool of himself. I now find myself a wee bit concerned he's going to get all obsessive. He seems like the type. Luckily for me, he also seems the harmless, annoying type rather than the creepy, dangerous type.
Now this guy also has a redhead fetish--it comes up at least once every twenty minutes. He keeps telling me about a friend of his who is so jealous that ol' Seven Foot's got a redhead to date. I said "What's a redhead got that anybody else hasn't got?" He said, "Freckles. Well. And they're crazy." Oh boy. I've been down this road before. I'll be expected to perform miracle stunts, swing from the chandeliers, and act delirious at the very thought of a bed. (All of the above do happen to come naturally to me, given the proper motivation, which isn't this guy.)
I suppose this means I don't have to feel guilty in the least for my curiosity about the seven footer's Little Giant. If he's just wanting a glimpse of the apparent freakshow often referred to by drunken hitters-on as the "fire down below," I think I have a perfect right to use him for his freakish stature. Even Steven, kids. Even Steven.
I have to say, though, as we sat in the darkened theatre last night watching Zach Braff and Jason Bateman beat on each other (speaking of freakshows), I did have to talk myself down from a near panic attack. I suddenly realized, my gods, he could just grab my hand or try to kiss me, and then what would I do? I'm so out of practice it ain't funny. I'm a Born-Again Virgin four times over. I'm absolutely positive my neuroses are going to take control and I'll end up hyperventilating in the emergency room begging for Xanax with a Scotch chaser.
All of which will only serve to confirm the seven footer's belief that redheads are indeed crazy and make him my devoted slave, hanging around outside my front door at all hours, thinking I need taken care of and all that happy horseshit. Why couldn't this happen with a wealthy, literary, devastatingly handsome man rather than a man for whom the word "slacker" was invented? I have GOT to work on my ability to faint dead away, so the next time I see someone promising I can be the damsel in distress. Men really do go in for that stuff.
Ridiculous. I'm a thirty year old BAV who gets anxiety from the mere idea of actual physical contact with a man. I'm like a Jane Austen character written into a Henry Miller novel. Granted, I'm not attracted to this man in the least; he's wrong for me in everything from his sign to his looks to his job to his taste in music to his ideas to his approach to living (come on, he is anti-Woody Allen!), but still. I'm a single girl. There are people counting on me to do things they can appreciate vicariously.
Courage, darlings. Send me the courage to do lots and lots of foolish things and have wonderful tales to tell.
Anyway, the poor kid. He's starry-eyed and making a fool of himself. I now find myself a wee bit concerned he's going to get all obsessive. He seems like the type. Luckily for me, he also seems the harmless, annoying type rather than the creepy, dangerous type.
Now this guy also has a redhead fetish--it comes up at least once every twenty minutes. He keeps telling me about a friend of his who is so jealous that ol' Seven Foot's got a redhead to date. I said "What's a redhead got that anybody else hasn't got?" He said, "Freckles. Well. And they're crazy." Oh boy. I've been down this road before. I'll be expected to perform miracle stunts, swing from the chandeliers, and act delirious at the very thought of a bed. (All of the above do happen to come naturally to me, given the proper motivation, which isn't this guy.)
I suppose this means I don't have to feel guilty in the least for my curiosity about the seven footer's Little Giant. If he's just wanting a glimpse of the apparent freakshow often referred to by drunken hitters-on as the "fire down below," I think I have a perfect right to use him for his freakish stature. Even Steven, kids. Even Steven.
I have to say, though, as we sat in the darkened theatre last night watching Zach Braff and Jason Bateman beat on each other (speaking of freakshows), I did have to talk myself down from a near panic attack. I suddenly realized, my gods, he could just grab my hand or try to kiss me, and then what would I do? I'm so out of practice it ain't funny. I'm a Born-Again Virgin four times over. I'm absolutely positive my neuroses are going to take control and I'll end up hyperventilating in the emergency room begging for Xanax with a Scotch chaser.
All of which will only serve to confirm the seven footer's belief that redheads are indeed crazy and make him my devoted slave, hanging around outside my front door at all hours, thinking I need taken care of and all that happy horseshit. Why couldn't this happen with a wealthy, literary, devastatingly handsome man rather than a man for whom the word "slacker" was invented? I have GOT to work on my ability to faint dead away, so the next time I see someone promising I can be the damsel in distress. Men really do go in for that stuff.
Ridiculous. I'm a thirty year old BAV who gets anxiety from the mere idea of actual physical contact with a man. I'm like a Jane Austen character written into a Henry Miller novel. Granted, I'm not attracted to this man in the least; he's wrong for me in everything from his sign to his looks to his job to his taste in music to his ideas to his approach to living (come on, he is anti-Woody Allen!), but still. I'm a single girl. There are people counting on me to do things they can appreciate vicariously.
Courage, darlings. Send me the courage to do lots and lots of foolish things and have wonderful tales to tell.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Zoology
I was right. The Gentle Giant is just that. A seven-foot, awkward bundle of doofishness. He's huge! I mean he is gigantic. His hands were the size of...of...I have no idea. They were so big I have no frame of reference. He is huge. It's too bad he's such a tremendous dork (albeit a very kind and sweet one), or I might be tempted to satisfy my curiosity at which other parts of him are super-sized. I mean, I can't help but be curious, can I? Aren't you?
Not every girl gets the chance to see something of this magnitude in her lifetime. I feel that since I have the opportunity I shouldn't pass it up. This is serious research.
However, Gentle Giant, true to his nature, seems to be the type who falls in love easily. I want no part of that. He kept saying how sweet I was. Oh, lordy. And two hours after the end of the date, he's already emailed with his "real" email address to tell me he'd love to go out again and thank me for the great day. See? He's a good egg, poor schmuck. I'd feel bad misleading him just to get a glimpse of his goods.
Hmm. I guess I'm bad at this whole taking-advantage thing. Maybe I am (shudder) sweet, after all.
Nah. It's just that, giants or not, the nice guys are so very bad in bed.
Not every girl gets the chance to see something of this magnitude in her lifetime. I feel that since I have the opportunity I shouldn't pass it up. This is serious research.
However, Gentle Giant, true to his nature, seems to be the type who falls in love easily. I want no part of that. He kept saying how sweet I was. Oh, lordy. And two hours after the end of the date, he's already emailed with his "real" email address to tell me he'd love to go out again and thank me for the great day. See? He's a good egg, poor schmuck. I'd feel bad misleading him just to get a glimpse of his goods.
Hmm. I guess I'm bad at this whole taking-advantage thing. Maybe I am (shudder) sweet, after all.
Nah. It's just that, giants or not, the nice guys are so very bad in bed.
Ring-a-Ding-Ding
I talked to the Ringer on the phone last night for forty-five minutes. He was a bit worried that I was sitting home on a Saturday night (not yet having met me and seen my glowing, resplendent beauty for himself, I think he is still fearful I may turn out to suffer from Elephant Man disease).We ended up talking about the Amish quite a bit for some reason. It was a bit odd, but much, much better than talking about serial killers.
The Ringer has two children. I should be running away as fast as my chunky thighs can carry me, shouldn't I? Shouldn't I? Kids are fine, for an hour. But not if they're fathered by my date. Besides, I only want this guy for the summer. That's not cool for his kids. I think he's looking for something serious.
Damn it. The Ringer might not be a ringer after all. We're having drinks Wednesday. If there's anywhere near the level of chemistry I expect, I may just have to take a page from The Man's Book and lie until I get him in the sack, then never call him again. It wouldn't be THAT wrong; after all, I'm good in bed. He'd at least get a pleasant evening out of it. Right?
Shit. You wouldn't think it'd be this hard to find a summer fling. In reality, it isn't. There are a ton of gross, cheesy guys out there I could fling with till the cows come home. But even in a fling I want someone interesting, someone of quality (not to mention someone who radiates the easy confidence of the well-endowed). I have the distinct feeling I am doomed to disappointment. (Suddenly I hear the voice of my last summer fling--my gods, it was 7 years ago--"The secret to happiness is to lower your expectations." How right you were, my dear boy.)
Perhaps it would be better to focus on training for the AIDSmarathon instead. I doubt it would make for interesting blogging, though. The hot, steamy, sweaty tale of miles logged and speeds and foot problems and heart rates... I wonder how many people in the world have taken up running as a substitute for sex. I'm sure I can't be the only one. After all, look how happy these people are. And I bet not a one of them's getting any.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
My Views
My gods, I love the lake. I love it! I can’t believe what the simple pleasure of having a view of unending blue water, green grass, gorgeous trees does to my soul. Even better, I get to run and walk along the water’s edge every day. Before I moved here, I ran by the lake or the ocean only a few times a year, and it was never enough. Now, even if I’m feeling sluggish, I keep looking out at the water, the sailboats, the whitecaps, the sunshine, the people and dogs walking around below, and sooner or later I have to get my running shoes on and go.
I always used to tell my ex that we could be poor anywhere and we may as well be poor somewhere with a view as opposed to being poor in Indiana. And here I am. Poor, happy, grinning like a fool alone in my apartment, taking long glances out over the lake, which at this moment is a deep opaque blue. A sailboat is drifting by far, far out, and I am deciding that on my list of thirty things to do in my thirties, learning to sail is moving closer to the top.
Yesterday and today the shore has been windy. Running into the gusts makes one breathless; delicious. My hands tingle, fingers frozen stiff, when I come indoors out of the wind. Downtown it could be eighty degrees, but here at the shore it’s sixty, and the wind slices through you if you’re not dressed for it. Parasailors are out today, the robust young thrill-seeking men in their wet suits (still, how do they stand Lake Michigan’s cold?). From afar their arched sails high above the water look like strange, colorful birds circling some underwater prey.
The waves were churning yesterday as I walked a stretch of sea wall (lake wall, I guess). The water crashed against the wall; the spray rose up, in that slow motion gravity-defying way it has, and misted me. I felt like I was in Freeport again, being sprayed by water sloshing around in the filming area—what we jokingly called the Washing Machine because the waves were always so violent, jostling at each other in confusion as they were trapped inside the retaining wall.
El-Zizabeth sent me a care package. I loved it so much I cried. There was all kinds of food, snacks, a postcard, and my favorite, little bamboo drink umbrellas. It was my first-ever care package and an absolute delight. Not to mention coming just in the nick of time, since all I had to eat in my apartment were some eggs already a month past their expiration date.
I’ve got a few more Bobslist fellas on the hook. Tomorrow I go to the Lincoln Park Zoo with a guy who is almost seven feet tall and by far the tallest guy I’ve ever met, let alone gone on a date with. We’ll call him the Gentle Giant, as he seems a bit of a doofus (in a nice way). Definitely a potential pal but mostly I’m just curious what a seven-footer does on a date. (How does he fit in the car? Does he feel a special affinity for the giraffes at the zoo? What does a seven foot tall man eat for dinner?)
Then there’s the Ringer, a slightly older man who, if he is even one-tenth as fit, smart, and interesting as I find him in his photos and emails, is my top choice for Actual Summer Guy. He’s delightfully masculine without being a pig (delicate balance, there), has man-hands galore (when Fritzie saw his photo he gasped and said, “Now that is a MAN”), and is, like yours truly, a fan of the golden trinity: Scotch, whisky, and bourbon.
Next on the possible lineup would be the Frustrated Artist, a guy whose dog wrote his Bobslist ad because it wanted to get out to the park more often. What can I say—the dog is cute. While the Artist himself seems a smidge directionless and whiny, I plan to meet the dog who was intelligent enough to include a picture of itself in the Bobslist ad. (They do say terriers are freakishly brainy.)
I always used to tell my ex that we could be poor anywhere and we may as well be poor somewhere with a view as opposed to being poor in Indiana. And here I am. Poor, happy, grinning like a fool alone in my apartment, taking long glances out over the lake, which at this moment is a deep opaque blue. A sailboat is drifting by far, far out, and I am deciding that on my list of thirty things to do in my thirties, learning to sail is moving closer to the top.
Yesterday and today the shore has been windy. Running into the gusts makes one breathless; delicious. My hands tingle, fingers frozen stiff, when I come indoors out of the wind. Downtown it could be eighty degrees, but here at the shore it’s sixty, and the wind slices through you if you’re not dressed for it. Parasailors are out today, the robust young thrill-seeking men in their wet suits (still, how do they stand Lake Michigan’s cold?). From afar their arched sails high above the water look like strange, colorful birds circling some underwater prey.
The waves were churning yesterday as I walked a stretch of sea wall (lake wall, I guess). The water crashed against the wall; the spray rose up, in that slow motion gravity-defying way it has, and misted me. I felt like I was in Freeport again, being sprayed by water sloshing around in the filming area—what we jokingly called the Washing Machine because the waves were always so violent, jostling at each other in confusion as they were trapped inside the retaining wall.
El-Zizabeth sent me a care package. I loved it so much I cried. There was all kinds of food, snacks, a postcard, and my favorite, little bamboo drink umbrellas. It was my first-ever care package and an absolute delight. Not to mention coming just in the nick of time, since all I had to eat in my apartment were some eggs already a month past their expiration date.
I’ve got a few more Bobslist fellas on the hook. Tomorrow I go to the Lincoln Park Zoo with a guy who is almost seven feet tall and by far the tallest guy I’ve ever met, let alone gone on a date with. We’ll call him the Gentle Giant, as he seems a bit of a doofus (in a nice way). Definitely a potential pal but mostly I’m just curious what a seven-footer does on a date. (How does he fit in the car? Does he feel a special affinity for the giraffes at the zoo? What does a seven foot tall man eat for dinner?)
Then there’s the Ringer, a slightly older man who, if he is even one-tenth as fit, smart, and interesting as I find him in his photos and emails, is my top choice for Actual Summer Guy. He’s delightfully masculine without being a pig (delicate balance, there), has man-hands galore (when Fritzie saw his photo he gasped and said, “Now that is a MAN”), and is, like yours truly, a fan of the golden trinity: Scotch, whisky, and bourbon.
Next on the possible lineup would be the Frustrated Artist, a guy whose dog wrote his Bobslist ad because it wanted to get out to the park more often. What can I say—the dog is cute. While the Artist himself seems a smidge directionless and whiny, I plan to meet the dog who was intelligent enough to include a picture of itself in the Bobslist ad. (They do say terriers are freakishly brainy.)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
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