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"I'm going on 50 dates and I'm taking you with me"

Flirt-a-go-go: A Journal of My Adventures



April 29, 2003
As easy as it was to accidentally on purpose run into Christmas Tree before, it is now just as hard to hide from him. There are areas of the neighborhood that are clearly unsafe and must be avoided at all costs. This morning I had to go to three stores before I could find one that would sell me a roll of quarters; my usual supplier is in a block that's far too risky. While the war in Iraq seemed to be over in a heartbeat, I wonder how long my personal Battle of the Sexes is going to rage… and who is going to pay for reparations?

I can't believe that a week ago I was dodging his calls because I didn't know how to tell him I still wanted to see other guys. What a difference an enthusiastic, "Great, I still want to see other women" makes.

Just when I most want to crawl under a quiet rock somewhere, network TV is rerunning past interviews I've taped. When you first do an interview, it's like the beginning of a romance. There is a courtship. They thank you profusely. They tell you exactly when the show will be aired. They send you a nice tape of the interview. After that it's every man for himself and they can run it at any time with no warning whatsoever. I've had two interviews shown in as many weeks. People are cheerily emailing me saying they caught me on television last night. Yikes.

Isn't there some sort of halfway house for broken-hearted Internet writers where they can plan their next move in a clean, safe environment? Preferably someplace they won't be filmed or run into any ex-boyfriends?

April 26, 2003
Due to heartbreak and lack of sleep, I've been feeling like the guy from American Beauty. Not the middle-aged man who was lusting after the cheerleader, the video maker who said, "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it."

I did not see any plastic bags dancing in the wind, but the cherry petals in the parking lot of the Korean grocer were whirling around like little pink cyclones. The weather has not reflected my mood at all -- in fact has been ridiculously beautiful. Because of all the rain we get, the trees and flowers look like green and red and purple neon lights when the sun shines as it has done lately.

I took a run along Puget Sound and it was like my senses were heightened. The white of mountain peaks clashed against a sky so blue it was almost purple. Couple sat on rocks and in cars eating lunch out of Styrofoam containers and I could hear snippets of their conversations. Lavender was blooming by the side of the path and I buried my face in the flowers and breathed in; I could taste the lavender on my lips. I rediscovered music I haven't listened to in ages -- Superdrag, who are like a cross between late Beatles and early Beach Boys and Sheryl Crow, especially the song "I Shall Believe," which I was going to post lyrics from, but then decided against as I thought it would seem cheesy once I'm out of this pain-induced euphoria.

April 25, 2003
So Christmas has been calling a lot since our last date and I've been dodging his calls since I didn't know what I wanted. Last night I answered and he asked why I've been avoiding him. I told him honestly that I was confused, that I do see other guys and that I can't get involved with one and date others at the same time. I asked what he wants to do and he said he also wants to see others... naked. And that that's not going to change.

That is so much worse than the kind of casual dating I do. There's no way I could get involved with him knowing that he's sleeping with other women. And I swear to God, if one more person says it's cool that he was so honest with me I'm going to cry.

He offered half a dozen different relationships we could have, a few of which didn't even involve sex. I'm not sure I can be around him again, though. I'm thinking of doing as Charlotte from Sex and the City does and withholding my friendship as punishment for the relationship not working out.

I slept for four hours. I'm shocked at how bad I feel. And how alive. It's like my heart is this pomegranate someone broke open and all these gorgeous red seeds tumbled out.

April 24, 2003
I got an email today from the Mouse King complimenting me on the journal entry about my driver's test. He said, "You've found your blind spot, eh? Nice parallelism to a mundane part of life. I don't know about the rest of the readers, but it's articles like that one that make the site such a joy to read. Well, those and the ones where you're just damn funny."

He is a writer, too, which caused a horrible thought to creep in and pitch a tent in my confused mind: I'm gonna be one of those writers that other writers admire. One of the dreaded Critically Acclaimed who never achieves mass money or mass popularity. I'll be like Paul Westerberg, but without the soundtracks; like Elvis Costello without "Alison."

I woke up this morning at 3 a.m. and realized that my writing isn't about dating or men at all. It's about writing. That Dating Amy is the story of a writer trying to make it and not a chick trying to make out.

The thing is, I know in my heart (and after a decade in Hollywood) that the cream does not always rise. I first started my career as a writer by answering an ad in the back of a music magazine. They were looking for a band reviewer. I had the misguided notion that if I could make enough contacts in the music industry I would become a successful musician despite my lack of talent. I got the job.

One of my first assignments was to review a singer-songwriter at a tiny bar on Sunset Strip. I swear, I thought he was the next Bob Dylan. I wrote an over-the-top review and gave him a "10." The magazine changed what I said and lowered his score. They did away with the numbering system due to "reviewer irresponsibility" soon after. I cried myself to sleep when I read what they had done to my writing and always avoided that musician when I saw him in Hollywood after that.

Years later I read that a bigger publication called him the next Bob Dylan. I thought of the time my original review could have saved him.

He has not made it. He is, as they say, critically acclaimed.

April 22, 2003
Due to extreme procrastination, I let my driver's license expire last December, which meant I had to take my first road test since I was 16 today. I passed with 80 percent, but the elderly gentleman who tested me said he docked points because I didn't once check my blind spot.

That also seems to be a problem in my personal life.

I realized today that I have a blind spot with what I'm doing here. My makeout session with Christmas Tree last week brought up issues (and a one other thing) that I haven't had to deal with on the site yet. I've painted myself into a corner with snow-white paint. I can't very well have a lover and continue going on the 50 dates -- I mean, I could, but it seems unfair to the guys who are buying me dinner, getting written about on the Internet and not getting any action (from me at least). I can't get into an exclusive relationship, either, unless I want most of the date writeups to be about eating Thai takeout and watching videos. I also don't want to write about my sex life as it would mean I'd have to change the name of the site to something-else-ing Amy.

Do I have to be celibate to maintain my respectability? (And is respectability even an option for someone who writes about their love life and begs for cash on the Internet?)

When I started Dating Amy, friends, and then later talk-show hosts, asked me "what if you meet someone and fall in love?" I didn't have an answer for them.

My blind spot is I never really thought I would need one.

April 17, 2003
I was at a birthday party for my aunt the other night (turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes with gravy, really good salad with nuts, blue cheese and raspberry vinaigrette, chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting and "Happy Birthday" written in blue). I was fashionably late, by like a half hour, and they ate without me because everyone was starving. I guess I'm not in L.A. anymore.

Two of my boy cousins were playing video games, one of which was Lara Croft. A few years ago I read that the real-life woman Lara was modeled after had a boob job to look like the character. What an affront to women and a maddening example of life imitating art. Plus, in the video, all she did was jump and get nowhere, though it may have been more of a reflection on my cousins than the game. The other one they had was Grand Theft Auto, but not the version where you get to have sex with a hooker in the back seat. (As Christmas Tree has pointed out, how could you even drive that way?)

One of my other cousins is a librarian. I respect her so much for reading a lot, as I never do. It's funny, because people always give me books as gifts. They assume that since I'm a writer, I must read all the time. Librarian Cousin was talking about a book she read about how many brilliant people are autistic. That they have Asperger's, the so-called "geek syndrome," which makes one able to focus quite astonishigly on artistic/scientific things, but rank low in the social-skills dept. She said that it is hypothesized that Einstein had it, as does Bill Gates. Apparently if you go to a Star Trek convention or the cafeteria at Microsoft, you will be in the minority if you don't have it. This, from Wired.com, had me wondering if I'm autistic, minus the math or science skills, of course: "Flattened workplace hierarchies are more comfortable… A What You See Is What You Get world, where respect and rewards are based strictly on merit, is an Asperger's dream." Maybe I'm just idealistic?

April 14, 2003
I feel violated. I watched the two-hour finale of Married by America. To recap, the dark-haired, Playboy-posing bride declined the whole for-better-or-worse gig, citing what a huge, sacred commitment marriage is and the fact that what's his name hasn't worked in over a year.

The blonde chick said I do and read a vow she wrote to "her little bird," who in turn opted to fly away by saying no thanks. I thought it would have been great if she had started pummeling him with her bouquet of sterling roses right there on the altar. Her gay friend was so pissed. I thought it would have been great if he had started pummeling him with a bouquet, too.

To be fair, the blond guy truly seemed to feel bad about saying "I don't." His best man told him he made the right decision by following his heart. Non-Groom said it doesn't feel like it today. Then the best man was like, "It won't feel like it in a day. It won't feel like it in a week." I wish he had kept going: "It won't feel like it in a year. And it won't feel like it in five years. In fact, 10 years from now, you'll probably still feel like an asshole. And in 20 years…"

April 13, 2003
Like most things connected to Dating Amy, my book idea has taken on a life of its own. This weekend I heard from some New York literary types who heard about me at cocktail parties. My book is on the lips of more Manhattan publishing mavens than the scotch at Elaine's and it's not even written yet.

While I'm 100 percent positive that I'm ready for a book deal, I'm not so sure I'm ready for a relationship.

I woke up early this morning from a dream about an attractive lesbian who set me up with all the great, misguided men who were interested in her, and it got me to thinking about how used I am to being alone.

My clothes fill up the whole closet, there is paper piled everywhere in my apartment and I've never even had a Brazilian wax. What kind of a girlfriend could I be at this point?

I should make myself more open to who men really are instead of who I want them to be. I should develop a sense of true partnership and be ready to join with another as an equal. I should make my home a welcoming place for a mate: put out more candles, tune my guitars (in case he's a musician), throw away the first five drafts of my manuscript that are piled on the coffeetable.

Or I could just get a Brazilian wax and he would never notice that other stuff.

April 12, 2003
One of the great things about spring is the reappearance of sidewalk life. Last evening hinted at summer. People were sipping wine on the patios of streetside cafes, dreadlocked teenagers were chatting and sitting cross-legged on the pavement. The guys standing next to me at the bar were smoking and picking the sweet meat out of oysters doused in spicy red sauce. The only female in the group had a long blonde ponytail and no makeup. One of the young men -- not her boyfriend -- teased her about raising her hand in class while she was having a daydream. She said she was relieved the teacher didn't call on her. The group started the ritual of figuring out who owed how much toward the bill and then wandered off to a Mariner's game.

It reminded me briefly of SameBirthdayWeekGuy, who had talked of taking me to see a game. I haven't heard from him since our last date and was struck again by how much I prefer the hanging-out-as-friends method of dating to the exchange-numbers-at-a-bar method. Birthday is a guy who took my number based on two brief conversations and, most likely, my curves.

I'd rather date my friends. Although it's probably murder on the guy to have to eventually say, "Hey buddy, I secretly crave you," it's infinitely easier on me, as I don't have to go through the job-interview hell of formal dating with the "just friends" approach.

On my way home I saw that Frank Black of the Pixies was doing a free performance in a record store, so I darted in. He just had an acoustic guitar and was so funny onstage. He looked around at all the posters on the walls and said, "There are a lot of pretty men here." A woman shouted out "Johnny Marr isn't."

He played "Mr. Grieves," "Where is my Mind" and "Cactus," which he thanked David Bowie for being generous enough to cover.

I met him after the show, which brings my grand total of Pixies met to three. I've hung out with guitarist Joey Santiago and his wife a few times, and he was nice enough to mix my first single "December Queen" years ago. I met Dave Lovering, their drummer, at a club in Hollywood and he told me a riddle about an old man with a cane and then never told me the answer (I think it was "Dracula," but I guess I'll never know). I suspect I won't meet Kim Deal. As many of you know, I'm a total groupie at heart, although am never to be found giving blow jobs backstage.

April 8, 2003
Well, the Webby nominees and the Pulitzer Prize winners were announced today. What a double buzzkill. I didn't enter the Webbys and I don't have a book yet, but it was disappointing to not be included, nonetheless. I've been really lying low recently. There's been a lot of interest in my yet-to-be-written book and it makes me very jumpy.

Last night I soothed my jangled nerves with cabernet sauvignon and reality TV.

Married by America, where the audience puts together several arranged marriages, is down to two couples -- one blond, the other brunette. Of course the two blonds are wilder and the brunettes more down-to-earth, 'cept the brunette chick posed for Playboy before. Anyway, they go have their really lame bachelor/ette parties in Vegas, and even though both couples hire strippers, the dark-haired guy says he "doesn't believe in strippers." (Now somewhere an angel isn't going to get its clear Lucite platform shoes!)

I was distracted from the amazing storyline by the fact that people were having sex on the first date with "fiancés" that were chosen for them by an audience. It's not the speed of it that bothers me, though, it's the fact that the couples themselves didn't choose. I'm so from the smoky-gaze-across-a-crowded-room, struck-by-lightening-at-first-sight relationship camp that I don't even understand how people can fall in love through online dating. I've found that what you have in common with someone on paper has no relation at all to that crackle when you meet someone you click with.

April 4, 2003
The guys who work at the coffee house I go to in the morning complain that they don't get tips like their female counterparts. They don't have the beauty and charm to compete. No one is more competition for them than Laura. Not only is she attractive and thin, but she also has a great personality. That certain charisma you can't define or learn. I knew that Laura, of all people, would have an amazing answer to my question about Who and Where are the 30s-Early40s Men That are the Whole Package?

"I meet 'em all the time, but they're emotionally unavailable," she said. "My last boyfriend I met here at the coffeeshop. The one before that was in Australia. It's been so long since I've dated anyone, though…" she trailed off.

This was a very upsetting development for me. First the news that the scarcity of decent men is an international problem (the ominous Australian reference), then the fact that even she is not dating. I have never seen her without men hanging on her. She's in her 20s for god's sake. It is all very disturbing. I don't know what to think. I mean, of course I am not meeting Mr. Whole Package. I don't have a job. I don't know many people in town. I have a 50 dates web site that scares away men. But for her to be struggling. Oh, dear.

April 3, 2003
Went out last night for the first time since the war started (I think… someone will correct me if I'm wrong, I'm sure). I stopped in to a bar for a happy-hour dinner (burger with fries, chardonnay) and it was pretty dead. I asked the bartender if business has dropped off since the war and he said it has.

Since I met that guy in line for coffee recently who I consider "the whole package," I've decided to take a poll: Does anyone know of a man who is 30s-early 40s, good looking, good conversationalist, decent job, nice guy…? I queried my bleached-blonde waitress. She said, "You could date someone for six months who seems like the whole package, then marry him and he turns into a complete asshole. It happened to my aunt twice."

The artists next to me were talking about a poster that said "Patriotism" and the cartoon person was gagged with the American flag. The older man next to me was talking about how women "get weight on their hips when they get older" referring to his ex-wife. Of course he himself was overweight. He continued, "She immediately found a boyfriend after we divorced." He asked me to move to a different table because he was meeting people. When I joked that he should pay my tab because of it, he didn't.

He and his friend were joined by the women they were waiting for. When one of them pondered whether she should get the fettuccini with tomato and basil from the happy-hour menu, he explained to her that she could afford it as it was only $1.95. I guess I'm really retro about gender roles, but dude, buy the lady her noodles.

My search for a decent man continues.

April 1, 2003
ImageToday I was walking home from a quilting bee with the gals when a man I didn't know pulled over in his buggy. I'll call him Dressed in Black with a Beard Guy. He asked me if I walk down this dirt road often and obviously would have been leering at me if I weren't covered from head to toe in a shapeless black dress.

He asked me if 'd like to meet him at a barn raising this weekend, like I haven't had that invitation a million times before. I mean, God forbid he should shell out a few bucks and take me on a proper date. Then he was nattering on about me baking some sort of pie and bragging about his plowing skills. Typical. He mumbled that he would take my number if he had a phone, and then wheeled off. Nice Clydesdale's though.

Did you all know that we Amish have zero percent unemployment? That's fabulous news for me, as I sense that if I were non-Amish, I might have to do something extreme like have a Web site on the Internet where I ask for money.



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