She looks okay until you check her dates
May 30, 2003
Since I'm desperate for cash, I've been putting a lot of items I don't use up for auction on eBay. It's perfect for me, since I can declutter my house and make money at the same time.
An object that has drawn lots of attention is a Barbie that I bought at an antique store two Christmases ago. She is considered vintage, since she is pre-1973. Well, her 1966 body is, anyway. Her head says 1976. A child somewhere had the idea that she could make a better doll by taking part of one and putting it with part of another.
Sometimes I can't help but mentally do this with men: If I could just take Trey's good looks and intelligence and combine them with Steve's ability to turn any idea into money… I better throw in Ric's sense of fidelity, while I'm at it. And it goes both ways. I know that somewhere out there old boyfriends are thinking "Amy is creative, smart and great in bed, but she's so damn flaky with money. Now if I could just take Nicole's job as a lawyer and somehow combine them…"
Literature has taught us that combining different people to make a new and improved one can have severe consequences, though. Combine Trey's looks with Steve's income and you may have a crowd of angry villagers ready to torch your apartment… most likely led by the woman who got stuck with Steve's looks and Trey's credit card bill. And really, isn't it our flaws and quirks that make us loveable? Would I even be me if I had a big investment portfolio instead of big writing ideas?
My Frankenbarbie never ended up selling. I guess people instinctively know it's better to stick with the original, even if she has an old head.
May 25, 2003
I've decided I don't like dating. More specifically, I don't like formal dating. As annoying as it is to accidentally end up on hangout dates at my house or be asked to see a guy's art show/band as a safe quasi-date, it is much worse to be on the Formal Dating Plan.
Under the FDP, the first date can range from a coffee at Starbucks to a great dinner and a bottle of wine with a coffee at Starbucks later. The conversation is usually the basic getting-to-know-you stuff -- work, travel and disastrous past dates. I can make conversation with anyone, so I'm good at Phase I.
The second date, also known as Phase II, is where things get weird for me. It seems that the man's expectation level rises in accordance with his… expectations. Usually the date is for dinner and a movie or brunch and a drive in the country. It seems that the man has his hands on me at every opportunity and pushes for at least one kiss goodbye. I swear I'm not uptight, though I am often called so, but I can't help but think: Dude, I don't know you, you're average looking and I just met you five days ago. It hardly seems fair. What about all the beautiful men I've dated who I cared about and didn't sleep with? I've set high standards, and in doing so, boxed myself into a non-casual-sex corner.
I prefer men I know. I prefer hanging out until the guy can't stand it anymore. This usually manifests as him taking me in his arms (the Alpha approach) or confessing his feelings for me (the other approach). In both cases, the actual dating happens months after we've met. I don't know who these people are who end up satisfied with the Formal Dating Plan, but I hope they'll all be very happy together. There certainly seems to be a lot of them.
May 23, 2003
As so often happens I had an unpleasant experience at the video store today. I was renting the latest Hugh Grant/Sandra Bullock vehicle. As I was standing there thinking how great Sandra Bullock would be as me if Dating Amy ever gets made into a movie, the woman at the register said she had to call her manager.
It is never a good sign when they run your video card through and then have to call for help. It means that some code has come up under your name that is so damning, so rare that a regular employee hasn't been trained to recognize it. She told me there is a hold on my account because I never returned a video from another state. I've lived in Washington for over a year and a half. Do the people at Blockbuster think I am renting videos and then fleeing the state rather than returning them? Wanted: for late fees up and down the West Coast.
I hope they don't find out that the web site has made almost $500. They would really be gunning for me.
I imagined myself in some sort of Cody Jarrett-style showdown with Blockbuster, standing alone on an oil tank engulfed in flames, clutching a copy of Pretty in Pink and screaming, "Look, Ma. I didn't return this crappy video."
When they sorted through the charred remains they would see that it was a VHS, since I don't have a DVD player.
May 21, 2003
The man I went out with the other night is in his 40s and has never married. He was telling me over dinner that some women consider that a deal breaker. Other women I know consider smoking, drinking or children deal breakers. They are likely to look at things like a man's income or education.
Clearly those women have no imagination.
I am one who looks at what films a man has seen, his views on Beatles music and which specific countries he has traveled to. Deal breakers for me would include most Bruce Willis movies, only liking "Got to Get You into My Life" and considering Florida another country. I also carefully observe how a man views my writing.
Unbeknownst to him, a man who dates me is in a delicate situation where even the most seemingly innocent comment could be a relationship-ending landmine. "I only read political columns." Bang! "You're lucky you even get to be a writer, lots of people would trade places with you." Boom! "I saw a silent film recently and realized how meaningless words are." Kablooey!
The situation can be dismantled by telling me I'm brilliant and picking up the check at dinner. Those are my deal breakers.
May 18, 2003
I was innocently browsing a Chicago community board to see how I could get my writing on National Public Radio's This American Life when I noticed a heated debate about the hottest of topics: the difference between how men and women regard sex.
A guy was lamenting the lack of women who place ads looking for Casual Encounters. He said that a woman looking for no-strings sex is a hot commodity, while a man looking for the same is viewed as pathetic and horny. He then went on to argue that this imbalance gives women the upper hand in relationships.
A woman responded that for him to say that women have the upper hand because of the availability of something we don't want anyway is ludicrous. That it's like saying that men have the upper hand in looking for long-term emotional intimacy and commitment, no sex required.
Another woman had a ballsier take. She said that she is now married, but for 10 years she partied like Mick Jagger and learned a few things about men in the process.
Lesson #1: That the easiest way to get a man to call after sex is to not care if he calls or not.
Lesson #2: That the easiest way to get a man to be faithful is to tell him you do not believe in monogamy.
I do think it's human nature to want what you can't have, and I know from my own aversion to intimacy that if you distance from a man, he will press you with questions about where the relationship is going.
Although I'm not afraid of artistic risks, I'm scared to death of relationship risks. I'm not Mick Jagger. I'm not even one of those guys from Weezer. I'm too chicken to see what would happen if I tried to have sex like a man. I would love to experiment and write about it, but I would care too much about the guy, I know it.
I'm not so sure it's how you approach sex, but how you actually feel about it that really separates men and women, anyway.
May 17, 2003
I was reflecting back on the time I wore the too-tight, too-short Captain Kirk pants on a talk show, and thinking that, really, no one should have to see themselves looking that way.
My clothing problems as I see them are twofold. First of all, I wear clothes that were appropriate for Los Angeles about four years ago, but since it's cold in Seattle I try to layer them, often with disastrous results.
Also, the few stylish items I have are not rain proof and practical. Last night I wore a nice leather jacket as it was sunny and I thought I was safe. After dinner and a few drinks, my date and I walked out into weather conditions that should have involved an ark. It is a big risk to just wear whatever you feel like here.
You can certainly get away with not being fashion forward in Seattle, but I know that I am pushing it even here. Men I've dated have even commented that a woman with a figure like mine wearing the kind of sad clothing I do is like a beautiful jewel being set in a ring from a gumball machine. Really no one says anything about how I dress, but I'm sure they think that.
So I applied to be on this show on E! Television called Help Me I Can't Dress Myself or something. I don't know what will be worse, getting recognized for being such a bad dresser that I need experts called in or being passed over as just too hopeless.
May 10, 2003
Infidelity is never as soul-shattering as when it is discovered after being hidden for years. A longtime mistress appears for the first time at the funeral of her married lover. a clueless wife finds out that her husband has been paying the rent of a honey across town for decades. It is the stuff of classic literature and dime-store novels.
I had a shocking revelation about an infidelity in my past today. I found out that there wasn't one.
I was talking to a friend of mine who I dated years ago in L.A. I told him about my recent struggle with the guy who wanted see other women. I said that it reminded me of dating him. He said he didn't know why that would be, as he never saw anyone else when he was seeing me. That in fact he has never seen more than one woman at a time.
He is a tall, dark, cute, talented musician. He was always around hauntingly beautiful singers and sexy club girls. We were in our twenties and just casually dating. Why was he faithful? Did he not read the Musicians Code of Lack of Ethics?
I'm not even sure I was faithful to him. I didn't know we were supposed to be.
I felt like someone dropped a bomb and wiped out part of my past sexual landscape. All this time I just assumed he had been sleeping with other women. I wish we had had this conversation 10 years ago.
May 9, 2003
Most people say that dating is about chemistry. Amy, one of my readers from France, wrote and said it's about physics. I think it's like economics.
Though I still haven't gotten up the courage to post my first auction on eBay, I have learned some of their lingo. When you have an item that's of particular value, you can set a secret price on it -- a reserve price. If this price isn't met, you don't have to sell the item. You can list an item for $1 and still have a high secret reserve.
I'm not the most beautiful woman in town and I don't have a job, but I do have a quality that's in great demand -- I'm easygoing.
Being easygoing makes your market value soar in the dating arena. Men think they've found the deal of the decade -- an attractive woman who is happy to do coffee dates instead of dinner. A woman who will let you hang out at her apartment when you have nothing to offer but a cheap bottle of wine. I don't demand instant intimacy, talk about my biological clock or start every sentence with, "My therapist says…" My toenails are always freshly painted.
There's a catch, though. Like any great deal, being easygoing attracts a lot of bidders. It's like a Mercedes that's listed on eBay for $1. Sure I will cheerfully accept a cheap date once or twice, but my own secret reserve is that I'm also dating men who take me to cool restaurants and give me thoughtful gifts.
You can bait and switch by offering dinner and providing just drinks, but your feedback isn't going to be good. And someone else will swoop in Errol-Flynn like and win the auction.
Ebay calls that sniping. I call it courtship.
May 4, 2003
Since I do have a web site about dating, it only makes sense that I try an online matchmaking service. I registered for a free week-long trial and put up an ad with a picture from the web site and a few snappy answers to the form questions. I even put in a sort of disclaimer that I write about my love life, so if you date me, you may end up on TV. I'm sure that will protect me from lawsuits in the future.
My inbox reached its limit of 50 letters in no time. Emails like "Ouch!!! Your picture is hot" are surely just the boost my flagging ego needs right now. As I sorted through the spelling errors, sexual come-ons and form letters which commented on things not even listed in my profile, it made me see what a rich and untapped pool of men are out there. Among them a nudist, a surfer named Kid Kandy who listed his pet peeve as "chicks that won't go down" and a geographically undesirable guy from Iceland. The questionaire asks people to list their likes and dislikes. One guy said he enjoys dropping acid before job interviews, telling kids there's no Santa Claus and leading car salesmen to believe he's actually interested in buying a car.
Internet dating has a bloodless efficiency that is perfect for me. I am running a complex dating assembly line which is broken down into different stages. While I am getting ready to go out and meet one date, I am emailing new recruits and booking times with others. It is not a wacky, I-Love-Lucy-type system, but is something with a crisp sense of purpose that the military would envy.
May 3, 2003
I love horses -- their beauty, their high spirits, their majesty. I've never been to Kentucky, or even to a horse race for that matter, but I do like to watch those ponies run on TV. Today I saw the Kentucky Derby and if I had any money would have put it on Atswhatimtalkinbout, 'cause I like his name. He came in 4th.
The surprise winner was Funny Cide, a gelding from New York. He didn't surprise me, though -- take away a man's sex drive and he is better able to concentrate on his work.
Hell, take away a man's sex drive and he's better able to concentrate on everything. How many times have I heard a guy blame his actions on his penis? Whether it's moving him too fast toward me or moving him too fast after some other skirt, it seems to act as a homing device for trouble.
Men like their little friends so much that they name them -- names like Dr. Bruce or Thor the Love Hammer. I sometimes feel like naming them too -- names like Beelzebub or the Antichrist. I just wonder how much of the uncontrollable urge is really just a built-in excuse? I mean, men blame bad behavior on something that women by definition can't experience. Or argue about.
When a successful thoroughbred retires, he gets turned out to stud. Too bad more men don't put off copious breeding in greener pastures until retirement.
May 2, 2003
Thanks to everyone for all the tea and sympathy over Christmas Tree. I'm fine now. Crying over him is so five days ago.
Speaking of old news, I laughed when I saw a headline this morning that Einstein may have been autistic. I wrote about that in my Flirt-a-go-go section two weeks ago. Try to keep up, Reuters!
Autistic or not, Einstein was dead on when he said that time is relative. It got me to thinking about the relation of time to romance.
I had lunch with the Mouse today and he told me that in Seattle the opportunity for love increases in direct proportion to the number of sunny days -- as the weather gets nicer, the hook-ups get more frequent. I told him that in the Midwest where I'm from, people know they need to find someone around November, or it will be long and lonely winter -- not too many opportunities to "show your wares" if you're bundled up in a parka. When spring comes, everyone breaks up, freed from concealing clothing and questionable late-fall romantic choices.
The Mouse told me that in the Pacific Northwest, since the weather is not as extreme, neither is the courtship. That during the long, rainy winter people just feel slightly depressed and watch more TV. Since my web site has only been going during the dreary months, I'll be interested to see if seasonal changes bring me personal changes. Relatively speaking, of course.
May 1, 2003
I support the work of up-and-coming artists, so tonight I went to showing at a hip club. I was immediately taken in by the colors, the texture, the artistry -- the free hors d'oeuvres were breathtaking. I made myself a little sandwich of smoked turkey, Swiss cheese and lettuce on a tiny slice of bread with a side of bell peppers, asparagus and olives in feta cheese dressing. I snared a glass of free champagne and pretended to be interested in the art.
The paintings were just okay, though I laughed at one called "My Work" that was a mess of color around the words 'PC report' -- gotta love those day jobs.
While I had my second glass of champagne, I took a seat upstairs and surveyed the crowd. Lots of what looked like non-gay men without wedding rings, but no one struck my fancy. A man in a suit lent me his pen so I could take a few notes -- I like to look like a reviewer when I've wandered in someplace just for the free food. I hit the buffet again, resisted a third drink and left the club.
Like many cities, Seattle has its biggest concentration of artists sharing the same neighborhood as its biggest concentration of vagrants. As I made my way back through the crowd of street people, I was complimented on everything from my smile to my dark pink camisole -- I forgot what an ego boost slightly crazy drunks can be. A guy at the bus stop was ranting about Mohammad Ali and singing "Ticket to Ride." He yelled at a woman that he was not George Bush. A man after my own heart.<<< home >>>
