January 30, 2003
Is there ever a good time to tell a guy you like, "Hey, I have a web site where I'm going on 50 dates"?
I have a date this weekend with someone who doesn't know about the site. The problem is that Evening Magazine, a Seattle news show on channel 5, wants to come with us.
I knew the day would come when I'd be forced to tell someone about the site because of the media, but I'm still totally unprepared.
Should I a) just 'fess up and tell the truth b) cancel the date and get someone from the site to go c) cancel the interview or d) pretend not to notice the camera crew and when my date mentions them say, "Oh, I thought they were with you!"?
January 29, 2003
Since I'm a strong believer in pop-spirituality, I decided to feng shui my apartment.
Popular with the ancient Chinese and trendy urbanites, feng shui is the art of placement -- rearrange your furniture and change your luck.
Since I'm without a man, without a job and without any money, this didn't sound so bad.
The first step is to get rid of clutter. I filed all of the papers which were cascading over my kitchen table (otherwise known as my knowledge area) and coffee table (otherwise known as that place I need to clear to put my feet up). I put white twinkle lights in my career area (okay, they're still up from Christmas), a lavender plant in my money area (purple is good there -- are you guys listening?) and some intertwined red hearts in my bedroom, which is my romance area (but not lately).
Tonight Christmas Tree called and asked me for our first official date. I'll get back to you on the fame and money.
January 28, 2003
I stopped at the British pub by my house for a drink and a bite. I had a pint of Mac and Jack's amber ale and a cup of salmon corn chowder with bread and butter (not bad for $8).
I started to read the book on writing that Date #15, The Mouse King, gave me. It got me thinking about my own writing career.
I hear about people who've wanted to be writers their whole lives and dream of being published someday. The struggle. The angst.
It makes me feel kinda guilty. It never even occurred to me to be a writer until I submitted some (made-up) clips to a music magazine, and I was published my first time out. I've never not been paid for a piece. Sometimes I think that not wanting something is the key to making it happen.
There were a couple of guys sitting by me, but I was engrossed in my book. At 10 minutes to six, the pub cleared as people went home to watch the State of the Union address. Good old Seattle -- people have a strong political consciousness here. Although, for all I know, pubs were clearing all over the country.
January 27, 2003
If you hang around coffee shops enough, you'll notice the demographics change depending on time of day and day of the week. Saturday morning is Father and Son or Daughter Day at my local Starbucks.
One dad brought in a baby that someone had dressed as a sheep. He or she was in a wooly baby jumper, complete with ears. When it became too hot, the lamb outfit was stripped off to reveal a green-and-white-striped suit with red trim that made the poor thing look like a Dr. Seuss character. Not sure if that constitutes child abuse? Anyway, the baby seemed to be having a great time and like he/she was very happy to be out to coffee with dad. (Although she just had milk from a bottle).
A father and daughter got a table next to me. She was maybe 7. Her dad pulled out a laptop and a booklet about the size of a legal brief and said: "These are the instructions your school gave you to write to your pen pal." I swear to god, it was like -- 1) state your name 2) state your age 2) introduce yourself in more than three but less than 10 sentences. Loads of fun. She seems to rally to it, though. She dictated her answers while her dad input them into his computer.
Very cute kids, but sadly, none of the fathers appeared to be single.
January 25, 2003
I just read this morning that Britney Spears and Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit are in love… even as Justin Timberlake is back on the Britney scene.
It got me to thinking about how odd my own romance-scape has been for the past year.
I've dated 15 men. A whopping 10 of them were one-date wonders. The other five seemed to really like me. Two were nurses, tons were writers and all were intelligent. I met them at coffeeshops, grocery stores, bars, restaurants, from newspaper personals, walking down the street and through my own site. I've been given a book, several bottles of wine, tulips, roses and pumpkins. I've been taken to lots of beautiful restaurants. Only one guy made me split the check.
Here's what I've learned about what I want so far:
1) A guy who's generous with his money. He doesn't have to have a lot, but, well, they say you can tell what a man's like in bed by how he spends his moolah and I agree!
2) A guy who's empathetic. Honestly, I'd rather be alone than hang with some dude who blows off my problems. I'm not a big whiner, but I totally expect to be heard when I do bring something up.
3) A guy who's affectionate. Some people aren't and that's cool. I'm pretty touchy-feely and require same.
4) A guy who's punctual (believe it or not). I cannot over-emphasize the importance of being on time, keeping your word and not flaking on plans.
January 24, 2003
Someone wrote to me today and asked if I'm having server problems that cause things to be deleted from my site. In actuality, the good-taste fairy comes through and makes an occasional sweep. I wrote about some things (unrelated to dating) that I thought better of, but now I'm left with a somewhat empty journal. I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk movies again.
I saw About A Boy, recently. I thought it was one of the best films I've seen in years.
I've never liked Hugh Grant as a leading man. Although he was great in Sense and Sensibility (who wasn't?) and his Hollywood Blvd. incident didn't bother me (I always got the feeling that if the hooker had been more beautiful, people wouldn't have been as outraged), he's just never looked comfortable as a romantic lead.
That all changed for me with Bridget Jones' Diary. He was perfect as Bridget's sexy, sleazy boss. With Boy, it's like he's come into his own now that he's past 40. He's picking roles that are perfect for him. I loved his "Good god, singing with eyes closed" comment when the boy and his mom were really getting into performing "Killing Me Softly" for him. I loved the kid's relentlessness about hanging out at his house, buzzing the doorbell in time to U2. I loved the way their relationship never crossed the line into schmaltzy even as they rubbed off on each other. And I loved the way there was never even a question of Grant's rakish character ending up with the boy's unstable mom (played by Toni Colette).
The book is by Nick Hornby, who also wrote High Fidelity, and sidesteps that film's big mistake by keeping the setting in England where his stories belong.
January 21, 2003
I'm puzzling over my latest dilemma with men: That the older guys, whom I usually don't feel connected to, take me on great dates to beautiful restaurants and buy me swank gifts, while the younger guys, whom I find more attractive, want to do things like go running with me.
I had coffee with Penny from help me leave my husband, and she said that since I have a dating site, I should go for the guys who actually want to date... "after all, your site isn't called Running with Amy"
Some guy who bought me a drink last week said he thinks it's social Darwinism, and that the younger guys instinctively know they don't need to offer as much as older guys because they're better gene pools.
The guys at kurtsmithsucks.com told me they think I scare the younger guys because I refer to wines by region and type.
My friend Sabrina says if I like someone (of any age, apparently), that I should just ask him out, thereby scuttling the whole issue.
Trey, 17, and Mark, 16, from Montreal wrote to me and said I should just forget all these "relics" and date them.
January 19, 2003
The Cobain's remodeled digs
I added another landmark to my rock-and-roll tour of the world today. I went to the last home of an artist who is quite dear to my heart -- Kurt Cobain. Not only is the house, which overlooks Lake Washington, the place where Cobain lived and died, it also functions as the only monument in the world to him, as he was cremated and never buried.
My friend Sabrina drove us out to the Madrona neighborhood. "No wonder he picked this place, it's impossible to find," she complained. An hour and a half and eight(!) stops to ask for directions later, we found the place. "It's been remodeled," some joggers we cornered said. "It was just a white shack when he lived there." The clever current owners left off the house number, which partially explains our trouble.
The angelic-looking scruff
Love Nirvana. Love Cobain. He is still in the Seattle alternative newspapers all the time. There is so much going on with his diaries, songwriting rights, the new Nirvana single being released and the other guys in the band trying to have Courtney declared insane. Beyond the staggering amount of hype, he was just a great songwriter. I think it says a lot about his artistic generosity that all of his songs were credited to the whole band.
January 18, 2003
So after my workout today I did something I've never done at my gym. I took a shower.
It always seems weird to me to undress in front of strangers, but I know that's silly, because it's not like someone's going to say; "Wow. You're naked." And I'm not going to lie to you: I look extremely good without my clothes on; it's certainly not like there's anything to be embarrassed about.
So I came out of the shower drying myself with the tiny gym towel and the woman at the locker next to me looks me over, smiles seductively and says: "You and I were on the same circuit today and now we're both naked together."
I couldn't believe it! I think she was coming on to me. "Same circuit," indeed.
Guys, for a visual: She was kind of a petite Helena Bonham Carter-playing-one-of-her-bad-girl-roles type. Meow.
Shaken, but in no way stirred, I popped up to a British pub for a pint and a bite (Grilled-tomato-and-shrimp soup, Mac & Jack's African amber).
I wore a cute sweat suit as an experiment -- I find that men approach more readily if I look really casual.
An older couple sat at the bar right when I did and we chatted about beer and Europe. They are planning a bicycle trip through Italy, but I told them not to go when it's hot (which it is a lot).
I brought a vampire-romance novel with me. Just as I was getting into my book, two men down the bar were shouted to me: Who wrote A Tale of Two Cities? I shouted back: Dickens.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as the dark and handsome guy whom I apparently proved wrong paid for my ale, but also looked upset that "Victor Hugo" wasn't the right answer.
January 17, 2003
I ran into my friend who does healing massage today. He's excited because he's just launching his business and things are going well already. He's a wonderful guy -- very positive and optimistic.
We got into a big discussion about spirituality and healing. It was fun. Since I spent so much time in Southern California, you'd be hard pressed to be too air fairy for me. I love talking about astrology, feng shui and affirmations.
He's way younger than me, but maybe our souls are the same age.
I was going to do one of my trips to an expensive downtown restaurant for happy hour. I've been missing the posh dates, beautiful cuisine and elegant wines that tend to come with the men I meet in the financial district, but after my uplifting conversation with HandMaster Flash, it just didn't feel right to go.
January 16, 2003
I have these awful black pants that I wear all the time. They're ankle-length -- or what we called flood-water pants in grade school -- appropriate to pair with strappy sandals if you live someplace like the beach in Southern California, which is where I lived when I bought them.
They're too tight and too short and sometimes I even wear them with white socks.
The other day I was wearing the awful pants over knee-high black boots, which I thought made them look passable. I was at Target trying on a gold-colored, V-necked T-shirt with the too-tight, too short black pants with black boots and I looked in the fitting room mirror and had a wave of recognition -- I looked like Captain Kirk. After I got over my horror, I had to laugh.
Anyway, today I vowed that my five-hour mission would be to seek out new pants and join civilization. I found a great pair at Banana Republic, shoved in back on the sale rack. They seemed a little long to me, but given my usual taste in pants, what pair wouldn't?
I thought to myself as I was strutting down the street, "These great-looking pants are really going to help me get dates." (After the Shatneresque wake-up call, I kind of wondered how I've gotten so many in the first place?)
January 15, 2003
I feel at a loss since I have no writing work and, more disturbingly, no potential writing work. So I did want any self-respecting unemployed writer does and headed for the video store.
I'm sorry to report that I rented Fear Dot Com. I figured that since it's about web sites and I love horror films that it would be okay. How wrong I was. I have two things to say: 1) What was Stephen Rea thinking? and 2) Please don't rent this.
Since I'm a dame what loves options (50 dates and all), I'm gonna offer you a great one: Head for the Sundance aisle and pick up Love Serenade. It's a 1996 Australian film that'll blow your argyles off. In it a quasi-famous Iggy Pop-looking disc jockey moves in next door to two sisters living in the Australian Outback. He defiles the clunky younger one (her idea) and accepts casseroles from the desperate older one, all the while spinning hits from the '70s. The startling characters stand in bright contrast to the bleak, heat-soaked Australian setting. Toward the end of the film there's a shock… and then a twist. Wow. Highly recommended.
January 14, 2003
Things in my life are quite mixed lately. I've been putting chicken breasts, sautéed spinach and chardonnay on the table with money from a particular freelance client. Yesterday their mucky muck stepped down and, well, I won't be writing for them anymore. (That's only identifying if you watch the news or read the paper or the Internet, by the way.) So I really have no potential income right now. It's bad!
So let's talk about Pete Townshend… I was upset to hear about the kiddie porn allegations. The Who are so fine and I have just been getting back into listening to them lately. My birthday present to myself was their greatest hits CD. If Dating Amy gets made into a movie I wanted to use "Substitute" in it, because it has such cute lyrics. Sadly, I find from my vast Internet experience that a strong interest in child pornography -- Townshend has apparently been quite vocal about it in the past -- indicates, well, a strong interest in child pornography. It doesn't look good. Would be thrilled to be wrong. And thank God it wasn't one of the Beatles (sorry, Pete!)
January 10, 2003
I had an intense day today, which included confabbing with my fellow internet panhandlers about press. Some of us have been invited to appear on a talk show in February, and there was much discussion about it. On the one hand, it does mean tons of publicity and a free trip to New York... and you know how we are about anything that's free. On the other hand, my site is about wine tasting and polite conversation, not signing a disclaimer in case someone hits me in the head with a metal chair. (It's not really that talk show, but still.)
The first week I started this site, a kind man from Manhattan sent me a drink via cyberspace and put it on his tab at a tony Seattle bar. Tonight I revisited that bar and the darling bartender remembered me from October. I really needed a martini, and had not just one but two, plus eight olives. That's a lot for me -- both gin and olive-wise. I met a nice man and told him all about the site. He asked that if I write about him to please be kind. To ensure said kindness, he also paid my tab. Don't think I've ever paid for a drink at that bar, or said an unkind word about any of my drink-buyers there.
January 7, 2003
Going out by yourself is like traveling, but in your own town. One of the best things about it is the people you meet. Tonight I met Johnny, who turned 65 years young today.
Since I was already downtown returning a sweater that I had ruined by not following the washing instructions, I decided to stop off at one of my favorite happy hour restaurants. I got my usual, a nice chardonnay, and a burger with fries for $1.95.
Then I met Johnny. His cigarette mirrored his thin, pale frame. With a big smile that melted my heart, he told me that the meaning in life is to be happy. He also told me that I'm going to have children -- that Uncle Johnny knows -- but that I need to find a decent man. I didn't have the nerve to tell him I'm one step ahead of him. I asked if he feels there are a lot of decent men out there and he said he thinks there are. He did tell me not to fall for "I love you" right away and "not to let -- if you'll pardon the expression -- sex distract you."
He told me I need to get married now. He said the best relationship he ever had was one where they were both comfortable reading books in the same room and not talking. I said I love that kind of relationship. He said it was too bad he married her and ruined a good thing. He said their relationship is great now that they're divorced. I wished him a happy birthday and a goodnight.
Johnny says life begins with an H and ends with a Y.
I love meeting new people.
January 6, 2003
This weekend I refined the art of hanging around coffee places. Like a kitten sharpening her claws on a scratching post, I honed my attracting-men technique. Worked like a charm of course, but then my stubbornness took over.
"I have a 50 dates web site and if a decent guy approaches, I should make nice and get a date," the extrovert in me proclaimed. "I just want to write in my journal and rent videos and not be 'on' all the time," the introvert in me countered.
This past weekend I let the introvert get her way and turned down two dates. Sorry!
I saw Christmas Tree today. It was nice to see him like always, but I just don't know about these younger men. It seems the older, less-appealing-to-me guys jump at the chance to make formal dates right away. The young guys drag things on for eons. I may have to send Christmas back into the wild. The other day he brought something up from last summer and it made me realize how long we've known each other without having a proper date. He does have black hair and dark, dark blue eyes, though.
My "Dating Tips for Men" article was moved here.
January 2, 2003
Bet you're all dying to hear about my glamorous New Year's Eve. Maybe next year you will. New Year's is my least favorite holiday. It's the Night of People Trying Too Hard and it grates on me.
I did watch the Space Needle fireworks, though.
Last year they did special fireworks as a sort of "good riddance" to 2001 and its terrorism and crap economy. The Space Needle display was simply the most amazing fireworks I had ever seen. The night sky was filled with purples and pinks shooting off the 600-foot tower. A brightly lit ferry coming in from the islands paused and blew its horn as its passengers watched the colors cascading over the Sound.
This year the show was just "eh." A group of drunken young guys were standing next to me. They watched for about a minute and one said, "It's freezing out and it's starting to rain. Let's go home." My thoughts exactly.
The California Girl in me is digging in her heels about this bad weather (although a more spiritual perspective would suggest that there is no bad weather, only weather that's misunderstood). Last year everything was new and exciting for me here and I didn't mind the cold and rain. This year I don't want to go out even if I need food. My feet get too wet.<<< home >>>
