July 31, 2003
Last night I went to a party where all the men wear keys and all the women wear locks and you try to find the key that goes in your lock, so it's pretty much like any other party. I was really not at my best last night. I had just gotten my hair cut an hour before and the stylist made it really curly instead of Lara Croftian like I had been wearing it. The curly hair totally threw me off center and I didn't feel at all like myself or Lara Croft.
There was a guy there who I recognized as someone I went on a date with two years ago, but I didn't let on. He thought he knew me from some swing-dancing thing. My girlfriend said if he had asked me out it could have been like Groundhog Day where Bill Murray uses the fact that he repeats the same day over and over to try to wow Andi McDowell. I would have been like: I don't know which appeals to me more, Byzantine architecture or Flash animation and he'd be like: Oh my god, me too! He didn't ask me out, though. I should have flirted with him instead of standing there with the personality of a pamphlet, but it was the curly hair thing.
Three guys took my number and I did not have the slightest bit of interest in any of them. Well, I had a slight bit of interest in one, but nowhere near the level of interest I had in those other guys who never called. That means they will all call and probably within my three-day time limit.
Since the party was supposed to end at 9 p.m., I told myself that I would be home updating the site by about 9:12. I ended up going to a late-night supper on the water (salmon burger, seasoned fries and coleslaw) until 2 a.m. with some people from the party. One of the guys had this really complex analysis of the party. He thought that the women were either overvaluing or undervaluing their looks and getting asked for their numbers or not getting asked for their numbers accordingly. He said he was subtly putting the overvaluers in their places by saying "You have nice breath," to throw them off balance. I had no idea what he was talking about, but neither he nor anyone else said anything about my breath all night, so I felt relieved about that at least. I was definitely not overvaluing my looks with the whole hair situation, so I guess he picked up on that.
July 28, 2003
So I was really sick with the flu yesterday, but I had to go to the store to get some Ginger Ale and Gatorade 'cause when you are sick to your stomach for days, those two things cure you. On the way home I was so weak I could barely walk the four blocks to my apartment with the heavy 2-liter containers and I almost wanted to lie down on the sidewalk outside my apartment to rest. It occurred to me then that that's another good thing about being in a relationship -- someone to go buy beverages for you when you're on your deathbed.
I survived my illness, and today I wanted to get some fresh air, but was still kind of weak. I usually walk a lot and Seattle has big ol' hills -- it's like San Francisco -- but there was no way I was climbing a hill today, so I walked to the video store (ended up renting Punch Drunk Love) and then over to the big fountain. The fountain is synched up to music and the water blasts into the air following the strains of Pearl Jam or classical stuff or what have you. Tonight it was some sort of polka. It's really hot out lately, so all the little kids were playing in the fountain in their bathing suits. The trick is to touch the fountain when the water has stopped for a bit and then run away when it starts up without getting wet. It's funnier in the winter though, because it's more real to run away when it's freezing out and you're going to have to sit in soaking clothes for the rest of the afternoon if you get caught.
My walk was supposed to cheer me up, but 1) I still feel residual sick 2) I'm still unemployed and 3) I still don't have anyone to be my Ginger Ale bringer. As I was thinking: Something has gotta frickin' break for me; it's statistically impossible for one person to be unsuccessful in so many areas for so long, some weird middle-aged guy came wobbling and wavering up to me. I guess he had been in the fountain, although he appeared completely dry. Maybe he was just some guy not wearing a shirt or shoes. He looked the type. Then I was thinking: What would really be perfect is if Strange Wavering Guy took a fancy to me and asked me out. It would be indicative of where I am right now, a signpost to where I'm no doubt headed, a neon light blinking: Behold Your Future.
But he didn't and I went home.
July 26, 2003
I don't go to animated movies and I've never seen anything by Pixar, ever. Not Monsters, Inc. and not Toy Story, even though I was working at a movie dot-com doing movie reviews when Toy Story II came out. I usually see horror movies 'cause that's my favorite genre, but lately I've been waking up at like 3am, terrified and thinking, "With the way my love life is going, I really am going to die alone and if I weren't allergic to cats they'd probably find me someday with my face half eaten by one and didn't the most famous case of that happen in Seattle and Nirvana wrote a song about it?" so I decided on something more family friendly.
I felt like going to a matinee and picked Finding Nemo, because I read a very nice review of it on another unemployed dot-commer's web site. First of all, animated films have come a long way since the last one I saw, which was Cinderella. Just kidding, but they are in a different league now.
I was really gripped from the opening scene (which didn't pull any punches) on… I wasn't bored at all. Usually my mind is on tons of different things when I'm watching a movie and then I lose track of the plot, but not so with Nemo. The cartoon fish engaged me more than real-life actors usually do and I laughed out loud a lot. I also cried silently quite a bit. Ellen DeGeneres was perfect as the blue sidekick to Albert Brooks' clown fish daddy. I loved the way the film looked -- the amazing colors and inclusion of those deep-sea fish with the lights on their heads… I loved that stuff as a kid. I dug the message that you have to let go and let life happen and that people should take risks. I should see movies in the theater more often.
On my way out I was going to go get an almond-and-caramel cluster from See's Candies, which is my downtown ritual, but there was a stand handing out Starbucks Frappuccino's so I grabbed a little icy cup with whipped cream on it and it satisfied my sweet tooth. I asked the chirpy kids handing them out which agency they're through, because my spokesmodeling gig from last weekend seems like it was a one-time thing. I got the hookup on a Seattle agency from them, which is good because I really need the work.
I did wake up in the middle of the night all disturbed over the jarring opening scene of Nemo, so maybe it's just me and not the movies that are scary.
July 24, 2003
In every city there is an area that attracts middle-aged white men who are long on money but short on class and the young women who don't mind being stared at by them. Usually this area is near some sort of water, so the men can sit on the patios of places like TGIFridays and point out which overpriced boat is theirs. In Seattle this part of town appears to be a place called Kirkland. I ended up in the Land of Kirk last night because CellPhoneActress from last weekend invited me to see a friend of hers play at a piano bar there.
CellPhone is very pretty in a Rebecca DeMornay kind of way and the soused 50-year-olds at the bar ate her up like a pint of Chubby Hubby. As soon as we walked in, some guy grabbed her, then grabbed me, then grabbed my boob (but I think that part was by accident). She ordered a grape nehi and I had my usual chardonnay, although there's no way we could have caught up to the other patrons. An extremely well-endowed woman walked by and I thought the man standing next to us was going to fall face-first into her cleavage. He was honing in on her like a teat-seeking missile.
CellPhone and I got a table and talked about the cultural differences between the cities we've lived in. And by culture I mean dating. She said that the commitment-phobic, modelizer reputation of NYC men is well-deserved. I said Seattle men lack follow-through. We both agreed that L.A. men are at least willing to be in real relationships. It's a dark day when Southern California men are considered to be the most conscientious anything, but that's where things seem to be heading.
July 20, 2003
Today was a landmark day in my history. It was a day that marked the end of the employment drought I've had since moving to Seattle almost a year and 10 months ago. Today was the day I became a spokesmodel.
I was so nervous that I dropped a contact and almost made myself late looking for it. The modeling agency who booked me strenuously emphasized that no sunglasses were allowed despite the 90 degree heat and glaring sunshine, so I knew that wearing regular glasses was out of the question. I found my contact, got there on time and then waited almost an hour for anyone else to show up.
Eventually a nice woman appeared and introduced herself. She said she didn't want to tell a new person this, but the job was really a lot of work and she and the others weren't really into it anymore. They had been working at the big Bite of Seattle festival for the past two days. Then another of the models showed up. She was talking on her cell phone and did not acknowledge us, which should have clued me in to the fact that she's an actress from L.A. The people we were working for were an hour late. I instantly knew I could handle this job.
Spokesmodeling is not easy, and it is not pretty, despite what the name implies. It is also not passive -- you don't spokesmodel while floating around a pool subtly cradling a cool, refreshing beverage, you spokesmodel by telling people about the product you're representing whether they care to hear about it or not. You spokesmodel at people no matter how fast they are walking. Spokesmodeling is something you do to people, not just something you do.
The shirts they gave us to wear were awful -- extra large polo shirts I wouldn't be caught taking out the trash in -- and the work was boring. We had to hand out gift bags filled with spices and steak sauce and tell people -- a thousand people, actually -- when the next cooking show was. The actress went home after an hour due to lack of interest in working, so I focused my attention on the other spokesmodel. She lives here.
Our conversation instantly turned to men. People in other parts of the country or the world and those who are married may read my web site and think how pathetic I am, but to single thirty-something women in Seattle, I am a great dating success. How sad is that?
The other spokesmodel reaffirmed all the worst things I suspected about men here: you connect with a great guy at a party, he doesn't call. You have a couple great nights with a guy, he doesn't call. You're dating someone for quite a while, actually, and things are going swimmingly and then… well you get the idea. I don't know what's wrong with Seattle men -- I am conducting my dating research with models now, after all -- but I'm equally dismayed and riveted by it.
July 19, 2003
That guy not calling has really got me thinking about market value in dating, and I've come to the conclusion that Seattle guys want more for their money than men in other places do. By other places I mean L.A., and I'm deciding that the terrible dating reputation that Southern California men have is completely unwarranted.
I'm not gonna lie to you, I am not every man's cuppa. I know you're thinking, "That cannot be. Say it isn't so," but it's the truth. I have a sarcastic personality and, hey, some guys like flat-chested blondes. But… my history has been that if someone does get it up to take my phone number, he actually calls.
Not so in Seattle, where men are playing some sort of twisted racking-up-the-phone-numbers-and-purposely-not-calling game. I'm clocking in at less than 50 percent here and I'm not pleased.
Part of my confusion stems from the fact that in L.A. I was hanging around with musicians, (working) actors, independent-film producers… The kind of women around these guys are like, well, picture walking into your boyfriend's birthday party and having it look like the WB threw up. Yet, even when confronted with mere mortals like me… they meet, they take digits, they call, they court.
To date in Seattle is to be thrown into a kaleidoscope. There are no rules or reasons, just weird patterns that can sometimes make you feel queasy. I've created an algorithm for the guys who will for sure pursue me here: They are more than +/- 10 years of my age and - tact/height/hair/education x 3.
Those who are somewhat my age and taller than me are instantly sucked into some sort of Decent Boyfriends vortex, and presumably dating whatever the Seattle version of a supermodel is.
July 17, 2003
That guy hasn't called. It's been almost a week. I am not talking about the real-estate guy from the party last Thursday night who was drunk and probably woke up with a Red-Bull-and-vodka hangover the next morning, wondering where the hell he got all those phone numbers. I am referring to the nice guy I met at the same party.
I think it's a bad sign if a guy doesn't call on the third day after taking your number. Some women like it when men call the very next day. I am not one of them. Some women are fine with a guy not calling for a week or two. They are way cooler than I. I was getting lots of hang-ups on my cell phone, but I think I was just kidding myself and they were telemarketers. That Do Not Call list will really help us single people get some clarity in our love lives, because we will not be as able to tell ourselves that the unavailable calls showing up on our Called IDs are Mr./Ms. Right calling repeatedly, yet not leaving a message.
I think the reason he's not calling is because I said I like strippers. I then went on an ill-advised ramble about how when I lived in L.A., I went to a campy strip club with a date once. It was a trashy-fun place in the old, cool part of Hollywood, not the sterilized part, and the women were just regular women, not siliconed and fake. There were other women patrons in the club and it was the kind of place that Madonna or Julia Roberts would go slumming.
I think I should keep my mouth shut more. The thread I'm hearing from guys here is that I am too wild or they would be too boring for me. The thing is, I want boring at this point. I've already dated the sexy, glamorous, exciting guys and am ready for someone utterly tedious. Where is he?! Not at a strip club with a date apparently.
July 11, 2003
As I've been saying lately, things are NOT going well for me here in Seattle. I moved here just a few weeks after Sept. 11 and the economy went from bad to they're-not-accepting-applications-at temp-agencies. If that's not dismal enough, the one-two-three punch of getting played by Christmas, having Mouse tell me I should give up writing and the whole Comedy Store experience have made me reassess the wisdom of dating at all.
I told myself yesterday that I would spin the roulette wheel and, depending how the day went, I would make a decision about staying or going. Red would be staying in Seattle; black would be moving back to L.A. I hung out at a coffee shop in the morning and some guy looked a lot, but didn't approach even though I smiled at him (black). I talked to a few girlfriends, all from L.A. (black again). But two of the girlfriends don't even live in L.A. anymore (so red).
Then I went to a girlfriend's party at a hip club. The bar was packed with interesting people, there was cool, trendy lighting and even go-go dancers. I met two women when I walked in and broke the ice by asking how the men there were. The blonde said, "They're not hors' oeuvres!" so I talked to the brunette. At that point a man came up and he and Blondie started talking about real estate. I told the brunette that I'm a dating writer and we immediately got involved in a conversation about Seattle men. I told her in brief about my last three experiences and how I couldn't believe the whole Christmas Tree saga. I said that when I was in L.A., men didn't toy with me like that (black, but also red since I was having fun meeting a new friend). She told me she can't date more than one person at a time and was impressed that I can. I told her I force myself, but didn't have the guts to tell her to what extent. We exchanged numbers and the real-estate man caught me before I could navigate my way to the other end of the bar. He caught me for about 45 minutes, actually, by bribing me with a free drink. He was cute and fun to banter with (red). He asked me how old I am so I asked him how much he makes.
He had already taken my number and I didn't want to waste a great mingling opportunity, so I excused myself and went to look for my friend the hostess. Instead I found an even better guy -- tall, dark and horsey-faced. I love that. He's an engineer but has great taste in music. He loves Seinfeld like I do, but I guess that's like saying, "He likes pizza, too!" He took my number (red, definitely red). A funny side note is that I saw a guy there who had answered my online personal ad, asked me to meet and then never followed through. (My friend even verified his name.) He looked exactly like his picture but was about a foot shorter than he claims to be.
It was the most fun night I've had in ages. Overall the day came up red, so I guess I will stay a bit longer in Seattle and see what happens.
July 7, 2003
So as you may know, my new strategy is to only date men I'm really attracted to rather than sacrifice myself to rack up numbers on the web site.
Some of my insta-criteria are that they can't be more than a head shorter than me (I'm 5'7") and they have to be within 10 years of my age.
Once a woman is in her 30s, it becomes harder and harder to find a man who is in sync with her. A man who is in the same place in life. A man who knows who Leif Garrett is, but isn't old enough to be his father.
While Christmas Tree talked about the dudes on the halfpipe, Comedy Store talked about his orthopedic surgeon. Surely there are single men somewhere between a hipster and a hip replacement?
Since my funds are limited -- my entertainment budget is the $1.50 for coffee I spend at Starbucks -- my options are too. I'm making up for it by being out walking around as much as possible and have been attracting quite a bit of attention, mostly as That Chick Who's Always Just Walking Around.
July 2, 2003
It's been a shamefully long time since I've updated this section. The truth is that I was busy working on some short stories before and now am trying once again to get the web site into some sort of narrative form. In trying to turn my life into a story, I have to look at things like character motivation, plot, context. I realized I had no motivation for going on 50 dates and making a web site about it. That I didn't even have a reason for moving to Seattle except that I wanted to get out of L.A., which I now dearly miss. While it's bad enough to have holes in a script, it's worse to have no context or plot direction for your own life. I don't know what motivates my main character and I am my main character.
I was thinking that if I were married and had a job, the story direction of my life would be so much more interesting, but then I thought why does one get married or go to work? I know it's for love and money, but then what? Can you pitch your own life in 25 words or less, and if you could would anyone buy it? I think writing your own story takes more conscious thought than living it, in a way.
One thing that is an exception to this rule is dating. It is much easier for me to write about than execute at this point. I told a friend over drinks the other night that I am through with dating just for the sake of dating. He said I say that every few months.<<< home >>>