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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



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"She does look like him, though"

June 23, 2004
I don't know if it's because I have too many planets in Scorpio or that I didn't get enough attention as a child (not likely, since I successfully talked both my siblings into moving out of the house by the time I was 7), but I go through phases of being sick with jealousy over guys from my past.

Since most of my former flames work in the arts, they're very easy to check up on. There is always an article being written or an old interview I may not have seen yet. A corollary to the problem of having exes bordering on the public eye is that they sometimes tend to move on to women who are also bordering there with them.

There I am minding my own business, innocently advance-searching the Internet for any scrap of information about an ex and some film reviewer is hitting me over the head with the news that he's dating an actress. After I've seen one of her two films -- usually a midnight-movie softcore, I didn't date Scorcese after all -- I have the urge to just call him. Who cares that it was me who blew him off or that we haven't talked in years or that I don't have his phone number. I will just throw myself on his mercy, pride be damned, and we will get this whole him-having-a-life-after-me silliness straightened out.

While I would like to picture an exchange worthy of Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, complete with cigarettes and martinis, I'm afraid the conversation would be more like:

Me: I saw your girlfriend's latest film. She looks like a man and she can't act.
He: She has a beautiful face…
Me: If by beautiful face you mean like Tom Petty's, then, yes…
He: …and does incredible acting…
Me: Sure, if by incredible acting you mean like Tom Petty's.

It's not wholly fair on my part. I thought he was pretty good in that video where he plays the Mad Hatter, for instance, but you get the picture.

Seeing my ex's current tilts my perspective like a pinball machine. In the world in my head, my old boyfriends mourn for a suitable 3-5 years and then eventually move on to Catherine Zeta-Jones duplicates who scored higher on the Mensa test than I did. It is also a world in which I am considered sane, ambitious and good at planning things.

The other day I was in full ex obsession. I stumbled upon an interview where he actually mentioned the woman he is dating. It must be serious. And by that I mean she must be prettier than me.

My problem -- besides the fact that my life was clearly over -- was that I didn't have plans until that evening and I needed to kill a few hours before seeing friends.

I spent the day thinking up other topics of conversation for that night. Things that wouldn't indicate how really twisted and needy I am. I knew I'd be fine once I met up with everyone at the bowling alley; it was the ride there I was most concerned with. A woman I don't know really well was picking me up. She is bright and together and stable: things I've read about but never actually experienced.

We ran out of the small talk I had planned -- what's your favorite vegetable, how do you feel about yarn -- a few blocks from my house and lapsed into a quick, not uncomfortable silence.

"Do you ever wonder so much about an ex that you almost can't make it through the day?" she asked, squinting into the early evening sun as we curved onto the I-5. "I tell ya, I'd pay good money to find out what every one of my exes is doing. If they got married and if they have deep regrets that we didn't work out."

I was surprised to hear it from someone who's happily married and admits her exes weren't that great. I spilled my whole story in one run-on sentence. My goal was to not bring up my obsession, not keep quiet if someone else did.

I didn't bring it up again at dinner.

We were at a little Italian place in the university district with plastic checkered tablecloths and red wine served in water glasses. It was 1 a.m.

"…because it's just the kind of thing a normal person would mention. I'll see you at home." Kate finished up a quick cell phone call from her boyfriend.

"He and his ex are still friends, which is fine," she explained. "But he was getting a haircut from her the other night and when I went to pick him up she answered the door with a pair of scissors and nothing else. Apparently she's a nudist and he 'forgot' to tell me."

"Exes! I was fixated on meeting his," said Sonja -- blonde, Swedish, former model Sonja -- pointing at her husband's back. "I got my chance when we were invited to the same wedding. It was really bad, because he and I were on vacation in Canada and we left early so I could see her. He wanted to spend our last afternoon at the pool, but I said, 'We have to leave now!' (tapping her watch). I packed your bag for you. Chop chop!'

We got there and I thought someone had invited Michelle Pfeiffer. She was absolutely beautiful. I couldn't even look at the bride during the ceremony.

I don't know why he didn't tell me how stunning she is. What kind of a man doesn't go on and on to his wife how beautiful his former girlfriend is?"

Either it's wholly sane and healthy to have a poison-spewing green-eyed creature lurking just below the surface of what appears to be a well-adjusted female or I've found a group of women I can really relate to.

When we left the restaurant, a fine mist had shellacked the street. Knowing that other people carried feelings about past loves and even about their past loves didn't dull my own regrets any more than the years had, though. I still wish I had said I was sorry before it was too late or at least before I left Los Angeles.

It's the kind of thing a normal person would mention.

June 19, 2004
It's been 85 degrees and sunny here all week and I keep wishing for a soothing rain that never comes. I don't do well in hot, dry weather. On bright, stark afternoons I prefer to remain inside where it's cool. Like a tropic fish suspended in a glass bowl, I take in life through the windows, content to watch others walk their dogs or jog by in pairs under the direct sun, talking and sweating. I creep out near dusk to walk to the grocery store for spinach dip and baby carrots or to drink chilled wine with my friends, tilting my head back and closing my eyes and realizing that summer is here. It's here!

An incident jolted me out of my June-bug haze.

I've been pitching the idea of a dating column to the Seattle Times for two-and-a-half years -- longer than I've had the Dating Amy web site, which was really just a stop-gap until I got my own dating column in the Times. They told me in no uncertain terms that there would be no interest in something like that in this city. On Monday one of the editors emailed me to tell me they are finally, finally going to launch a dating column! …and that I won't be the one writing it.

It's the end of an era for me. I've dedicated myself to writing about dating in Seattle -- for free -- for almost two years. Who else has made a fool of themselves going on the national news to talk about the Seattle sybaritic sitch? Not the one who's getting the column, that's for sure. When they told me (Your site is "cute" and "fun," we'll be sure to quote you!), I felt physically sick.

I logged on to a chat they were holding with the new columnist. Her insights ranged from lamenting that "This is the Pacific Northwest. We're too goddamned polite to have casual sex!" to "Try Match.com!" I guess I should be grateful that her views moved from 1975 to 2000 at least.

A girlfriend was driving me home at 2 o' clock this morning after a night of bowling and late-night Italian with half a dozen people. I told her about what the Times said, the end of the dream that prompted the Dating Amy web site in the first place and my creative misery in general.

"Seattle Times just seems like a newspaper to me. It's so bland. Do you really think you would be happy next to the Gardening for Seniors column?," she asked as we crossed the Ballard bridge, passing idle fishing boats moored under the early morning clouds.

For the first time this week a few cool raindrops fell, randomly speckling the windshield.

I guessed she was right. Maybe I'm meant to do something other than write for a newspaper.

The sky eventually gave in and opened up to a downpour.

June 17, 2004
I got this email a few days ago: "I read many of your '50 dates' stories and I'm trying to figure out why so many of them don't call you back. I would love to hear more about what YOU say on the dates and less about the guy. In that, we will find the truth..."

While I admire the grave determination to find out The Truth as if I am some sort of sociopath from a Hitchcock film ("She cooly placed a glass of Trader Joe's merlot on the very trunk in which Philip -- or what was left of him -- was packed in bubble wrap as if he were one of her eBay items...), I'm distracted by his casual aside about my call-back rate. Is it abnormally low? Much like the letter I got pointing out that I have thick ankles -- something I could have happily remained unaware of forever -- I'm now fixated on the fact that I have a sad, small amount of follow-up calls. Does everyone think this? It probably explains why chat rooms immediately get silent or pretend to be talking about the weather or 'What's your favorite fabric?' whenever I log in.

I was compelled to tally my call-back stats this morning.

Men who called after the first date for a second date (doesn't mean I said 'yes'): 68%.

(Of those men who didn't call for a second date, all were blind dates from online dating, newspaper personals or this web site.)

Men I met from online dating (Match.com and Matchmaker.com) who called for a date after the first meeting: a humiliating 25%.

Men I met in real life (social club, the grocery store, through friends) who called for a second date after the first: 100%

Men who called for a third date after the second date: a whopping 100%. (A number like that could get me into dating at Harvard, I bet.)

Men I meet at parties and give my number to who call for a date: 70%.

Amount it tweaks me when a guy takes my number at a party and then doesn't call: a zillion times more than if they didn't call after a first date, I bet.

It's a lot better than I thought. Clearly the ones who don't call stand out in my mind, which is always the case when you suffer horrible trauma. They also become infinitely sexier and more interesting by virtue of not picking up the phone.

June 14, 2004
I've been sitting with this Times crossword puzzle about dating in Seattle for several days now. Jeez, what's a six-letter word for hopeless that starts with a D? My own internal crossword puzzle asks would you rather be right or would you rather be an eight-letter word for deliriously happy, often used to describe extreme sexual pleasure, starts with an Ohhh!?

I know how easy it is to let dating make you bitter. Years ago I was dating a professor at UCLA and we were having dinner with friends. One of the guys asked him what he wanted to eat and he responded with the name of one of his female students. Our relationship didn't last much beyond that meal (he had puttanesca, not as you may have guessed pooty), but my bitterness seemed to go on forever. After about six months of listening to yet another diatribe about what monsters men are, one of my girlfriends looked at me levelly and said, "It's fine if you want to hate all men, but it's not going to do you much good if you want to get with one."

I know it can also be great fun to bash the opposite sex, but would people really rather do that than bang them?

While I spent my day wondering why some Seattle women are living in the movie The Company of Men, I spent the night in the company of some great men. As usual I was at a crowded party wearing half my martini on my shirt because my formula seems to be the thicker the crowd, the tippier the drink I order. My friend Sonya said "I would only drink a bottled beer with this crowd." She is pragmatic. She is also naturally blonde, thin, beautiful… and married. As she stood with her arms crossed as if to display the heirloom diamond ring on her left hand, a cute guy completely bypassed the single women in our circle and focused on her.

It reminded me of two things single people should know to be successful in dating: One, that it is based on airy-fairy whimsies like affirmations, visualization and luck, and two, that it is based on cold, hard Darwinian principles that would make Machiavelli blush. You have control over the former; you should at least be aware of the latter. They both have to do with expectations...

That's all I have time for. Ya'll are going to have to come back later!

June 10, 2004
There was an article in the Seattle Times the other day about how bad dating is here, so of course I had to be contrary:

Seattle Times Letters to the Editor
Men aren't from Mars, Women are oblivious

I've built a career out of dating in Seattle and the only thing that rang true in "That sinking feeling: What does a single in Seattle have to do for a date?" (Living, June 8) is that there are clearly more men than women here. You can't swing a North Face backpack at Starbucks without hitting a cute guy sans wedding ring.

Perhaps the ladies who were interviewed need to put down their cellphones and look up once in a while.
— Amy from www.DatingAmy.com, Seattle


A little bit Cheez-Whiz, but needed apparently: Here are my Dating Tips for Men.

June 5, 2004
I don't know much about publishing. I don't know much about dating, either, but I'm back to trying to find a literary agent and it reminds me of placing a personals ad. Everyone's excited until you actually meet or show your first two chapters.

I haven't thought of getting a literary agent since my ill-advised attempt at it over a year ago, but then someone sent me an article from the New Yorker about a young agent's assistant who is interested in online diaries. She didn't like my idea, so I naturally turned around and submitted a short story to Todd Coldwell (not his real name), an agent who represents two of my favorite writers -- one from my childhood and one from now.

He responded immediately and also complimented the Suffragette and the City idea. I emailed my story and the next morning he wrote back to say that while he thought there were funny bits and the concept was interesting that he wasn't knocked out by my sample. He said that "the reader has to find you funny, compelling and unique enough to fork over the jacket price" and then he wished me luck.

I appreciated the personal critique. I thought about how New York literary agents are even more blunt than I am. I considered giving up writing because I would never be able to attract a following. I remembered that I already have a following.

I had drinks with a freelance writer last night. We met at a nightclub that used to be a piano bar with plastic flowers on the tables and cigarette stench that dated back at least 20 years. A place where I once got up and sang five Cole Porter songs at 1 a.m. until the cranky piano player took a cigarette break and never returned. Now it's a redesigned, overly air-conditioned and completely stripped of any character.

My writer friend was surprised that the pianist let me do five songs. She said his limit is two. For everyone.

We laughed about the agent's "unique" comment. She said I should have put a midget in my story, and I told her there already was one in it. We drank martinis and wine and I shook my head: "Yeah, that Todd Coldwell. What are ya gonna do?"

Friend: You got a personal response from Todd Coldwell?
Me: Well, it was a rejection.
Friend: That's a good rejection. That's a spectacular rejection.

While I puzzled over why I'm in a field where any sort of rejection is considered cause for celebration, she went on to explain that a rejection from Coldwell is like an extra catching the eye of Scorsese and being pulled aside for a critique. Seeing my confusion, she phrased it in terms I could understand: It's like actually getting a date with George Clooney.

It made me wonder about my own unrealistic expectations. Maybe guys who are placing dating ads don't look as much like Jake Gyllenhaal as they claim. Maybe a 70-year-old accompanist doesn't want to see if a mediocre singer will get to page 43 in the Best of Broadway fakebook. Maybe just because a huge agent wants to see my writing it doesn't mean he'll sign me.

I nakedly evaluated myself. But only for a moment, as complete and utter lack of introspection is one of my strong points.

So that stockbroker I met through the Weekly didn't think I looked that much like a young Sophia Loren. So that crusty pianist has worked with Sinatra and Judy Garland and that agent represents writers on a par with David Eggers and Mark Twain.

Perhaps they haven't heard of a little something called DatingAmy.com.

June 1, 2004
Several of you have written to complain that I'm slacking on the web site because of the election.

Apparently I'm living proof that politics and sex don't always go together, but the reason I am not having any dates is not because I'm preoccupied with Suffragette and the City, it's that no one is asking me out.

Someone tried to comfort me by telling me that the original suffragettes also had trouble attracting men, but 1) I don't see how he could possibly know that and 2) I don't see how that helps me, so why is it cluttering my inbox?

Did the original suffragettes have the equivalent of their thongs (bloomers?) in a bunch over the equivalent of the bored-at-work guys (village idiots?) who email me? I think not!

As usual, I have been getting approached by guys on the street, but as unusual, I have been scared to further the conversation.

The other day I was coming home from mailing my eBay packages and a guy sitting outside a coffee shop was trying to start up a conversation... about politics, even. He was very cute, so I checked for signs that he was homeless or crazy. His shoes, $4 coffee and new cell phone indicated that he was at least not homeless, but I hurried on my way. I don't know what's happened, but in earlier days of the web site I would have hung out with him just to get a writeup out of it.

Perhaps I'm becoming a Conservative.



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