November 26, 2003
Part of the reason I'm not accepting dates right now is that men keep giving me their phone numbers.
Whether I'm at a party or at the grocery store or in one case last week, walking down the street minding my own business when the guy pulled over in his car, men keep handing me their business cards and expecting me to call them.
In Getting To I Do, Dr. Patricia Allen says -- I don't really know if she is a doctor, or if she is, what sort of doctor. Her PhD could very well be in botany for all it matters to be qualified to write a relationship book -- anyway, Dr. Allen says that if a man hands you his card and doesn't ask for your number you should throw his number away or run away or something. That the pansy boys who do this aren't real men. Actually, she says that the men who do this are too in touch with their feminine side and looking for a mother to take care of them and their narcissistic tendencies, but I think that's alleged-doctor speak for "pansy boy."
But I mean, really. Can you imagine any sort of good to come out of a conversation that starts off: Hi. This is Amy. The girl from the 1800 block of 1st Avenue South. Black skirt, red sweater. Yes! That's right. Since I know absolutely nothing about you but you did make the effort to hand me your pre-printed business card it really seemed like a good idea to call…
November 21, 2003
I did spokesmodeling at a big food convention last weekend. One of the reasons that handing out food samples is called spokesmodeling is so that the people who are doing it can feel good about being paid $12 an hour to assault total strangers with product information they don't want.
Lacking any real models to look at, the men I was working with turned their attention to giving comments and a numerical rating to every woman who walked past our booth. Men are far more generous in their appraisal of women's looks than women are. Ladies, feel free to tack on 2 points to whatever you think you are on a scale of 1-10. Though men don't often yell out numbers like my co-models, I sense that the sentiment is always there.
There was this odd little guy sitting next to me at Starbucks this morning, the kind of guy you'd expect to expose himself. He ran outside without his coat, although there's snow on the ground, and had a stupid grin on his face as he looked down the street. One of the baristas came over to me and asked if he was creeping me out. Since it was me who sat next to him, I felt it would be rude to say one way or another. She said he ran outside to stare at some woman who had just walked out. When he came back in, they asked him to leave because he was making women uncomfortable. Apparently you can get kicked out of Starbucks for ogling! They have a very strict no-creepiness policy, unless it's the corporate, pro-gentrification kind of creepy, in which case you can head up their Western Sales Division.
I was thinking about both these incidences and I suspect that it's not just that my fellow food samplers were immature (although they were) or that the guy at Starbucks was creepy (although he was). It's that men are preoccupied with women. It's another DatingAmy.com exclusive: "Men Driven By Sex; Some Hide It Better Than Others."
The difference between married bankers in Armani suits who don't look at women and drunk guys on the street who blatantly gawk is only one of social boundaries. The crazier guys just openly express what every man is thinking. One has a million-dollar home, one has a heated sidewalk grate, but their feelings towards miniskirts are identical.
It's endearing, in a way. Inside every man is a pervert just begging to be booted out of Starbucks.
November 20, 2003
I haven't had time to write lately, since I've been so busy with eBay and spokesmodeling. It's all very glamorous. Likely an affair with Mick Jagger and downward spiral into cocaine addiction complete with finding religion vis-a-vis a rehab center will be next.
November 18, 2003
Why is it that only men are dubbed nerds? Sure sometimes a woman will inform people that she's a nerd. The fact that she has to announce it speaks volumes. She is usually some cute girl sporting a great haircut and vintage horn-rimmed glasses which she may or may not even need.
But true nerd-dom is the domain of men -- and by domain I mean social territory, not the name of your Star Trek Convention 2004 web site. Let's face it, as a woman your social skills would have to be pretty bad to remain a virgin against your will.
While I've frittered away the years dating men who are able to work a room, I suspect I may have been missing out on one of the city's diamond-in-the-rough mines: The socially challenged, the technologically gifted, the girlfriend impaired, the nerd.
Certainly Seattle is a veritable nerducopia. It's the most educated city in the U.S. (I'm sure many of you will correct me if I'm wrong), we've got Boeing here and the presence of Microsoft pretty much locks things up.
I would argue that if you're a single woman, this is where you should be heading. A man graduating from college at age 20 and wearing glasses in a non-hip manner is the equivalent of being the strongest caveman in the tribe during the Paleozoic era. Technology is where the money is and these pale, short-haired warriors are the modern-day providers. Who needs brawn and a big stick when the guy can afford to have your groceries delivered by the Internet… through a service he will know the url of, I might add.
November 14, 2003
I did find the perfect ostrich-feather boa. It is not too poofy and is this weird combination of brown and wine which was exactly what I was looking for. I didn't find it at any of the costume or fetish stores that I had called, but rather at a fabric store I stopped at on a whim. I don't know why, but finding the boa has given me a whole new lease on life and freed my soul. Not bad for 40 bucks.
The decided to celebrate by taking it to a party.
I love Thursday night. The problem is its duality and the fact that I don't have the technical skills to program my VCR. I want to stay in with a nice bottle of chardonnay, Friends and Scrubs. I want to go out since it's Saturday night without the cliché. It's because of you that that the going-out side wins.
Of course everything sings once I walk a few blocks from my apartment and hear the sound of the nightlife. Everyone is out.
My girlfriend was throwing a soiree at what is becoming my favorite bar. It has just the right amount of trendiness and intimacy to make me feel totally at home, plus women can drink for $2.
I saw the last guy I dated and spoke with him briefly. He was wearing a frightening gold necklace in the shape of a star, so I was glad I only went out with him once. I don't do jewelry on men, although for some strange reason I allow dresses and platform shoes.
The feather boa acted as a mainstream-man repellent and I was busy with artists and quirky intellectuals all night.
I met men whose first names had five syllables, I danced with the 7-foot-tall bouncer, I got in an argument with a guy in the ladies room, then danced with him too. I got a date with a man who works in politics and he's even on the right side. I took the bus home and the driver let me ride free because he liked my boa.
I need a new boa since this is one engulfs my face
November 9, 2003
I wrote this big thing about how I was sitting at Starbucks sipping my first eggnog latte of the season and these two cute married guys with four children between them built a fort with the chairs in the middle of the coffeehouse and how most men don't really seem to mature beyond the age of 18, especially the responsibility impaired musicians and overgrown frat boys that I date, but then I spent the day looking for just the right kind of ostrich-feather boa as if it were as important as trying to discover iodine, so who am I to talk?
In my quest I did learn something besides the difference between 1-ply (a bit scrappy looking) and 4-ply (too fluffy for my face), though. The first is bigger and more philosophical; the other is smaller and pertains to picking people up. Feel free to skip ahead.
I was all over town looking at boas. One fabric store, five trendy goth places and a strip club later, I realized I was having fun for the first time in ages. Often when people find out I'm a writer, their eyes glaze over. Not from boredom as you might suspect, but because they say I am living a dream. I'll let you in on a secret, though, writing has never been my dream. Playing guitar for the Stones? Absolutely. A spontaneous Vegas wedding performed by an Elvis impersonator? Of course! But writing? I'm far more excited about this feather-boa search. It made me happy today.
The lesson: Pursue your dreams, but not necessarily the ones other people have for you.
I already have a boa, but it's like a huge, foamy cascade of cotton candy. I need something smaller and in a much more serious color than pink. Anyway, I was wearing the big pink boa so I could do a feather-by-feather comparison and find one less poofy. Because of my boa, you wouldn't believe how many men (and women actually) approached me. I guess if you want to attract people, it's a good idea to express your personality when you go out. Since I'm a creative person who loves glamour, a feather boa is the ticket. If you're a guy who's interested in farming you could wear a combine on your head. Or if you're a single woman who's available, you could do a no-panties, legs-up-in-the-air sort of thing.
The lesson: Be your authentic self. But be sure to bring a prop.
November 6, 2003
Since I have absolutely nothing going on in my dating life right now (it's ages until my next party and I have no money to go out on my own), I thought I would treat you all to some random thoughts instead of actual content.
Admit it. You're bored at work, I'm out of work. In a twisted way, we're in this together.
Anyway, a question I get asked a lot -- in addition to:
Q: Are you dating my boyfriend?
A: No. All of you women who ask me if I'm dating your boyfriend and then name him… the names have yet to match up with anyone I've dated. Seriously.
(You innocent bystanders who are reading this have no idea how many emails I just took care of.)
and
Q: Will you fly to suchandsuch city/country to go on a date with me?
A: I've had no money forever. Do you really think if I did have money I'd spend it flying all around so complete strangers could buy me drinks? Hello? That's American for 'no'. Unless you're cute. Or you live someplace nice. Or you send me a ticket.
(Those of you still reading this probably have an inkling that I've taken care of the other 50 percent of my emails.)
Anyway, a big question I get asked, especially by real-life friends, is: How do you get dates when you're just basically going about your daily life? I think it's a great question. I mean certainly there are thinner, more charming women who remain home on Saturday nights while all I have to do to snare a live one is go to a coffeehouse in my sweats. The answer is, if I knew how to explain how to get dates simply by being, I'd patent it and not have to be a starving artist anymore.
I will tell you that it's not about: 1) being a great beauty 2) being successful or 3) being well-dressed.
Boy Scouts honor, I don't know what it is. All I know is that when I really feel that I need to get a date (so I don't fall on my face with the web site), I get a date… and usually with a great guy who takes me someplace cool.
Maybe it's visualization. Or divine intervention. Or the Marilyn Monroe effect: It is said that she could walk down the street completely unnoticed and then turn on her "Marilyn" persona at will and be rushed by admirers.
Obviously far preferable to, say, channeling Annette Bening as the realtor in American Beauty and repeating "I will get a date today" like some sort of crazywoman.
November 5, 2003
Sometimes I envy bloggers and their blog-like ways. For those too embarrassed to ask, blog is short for we(b log) -- basically an online diary. I can't for the life of me tell you why my site is not a blog, except that, well, it just isn't one. With a blog you use an emoticon to express how you're feeling, mention something mundane like what you had for breakfast and then link to a site like mine.
My site mysteriously transforms into "basically just a blog" when some squealer at a party becomes the little brother that I never had and tells an attractive man I'm conversing with that I write about my dates on the Internet. Getting a date with a desirable man is like attracting a woodland creature: Make no sudden movements, wear no bright colors… unless they enhance your cleavage.
My web site is definitely a sudden movement. I learned something else about my situation on Halloween, though: No one gives a damn.
I was having a Caesar salad with Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and a leprechaun with a pot of gold-wrapped Hershey's milk chocolate with almonds. They asked me what I do, and instead of saying "As little as possible," or as one of my readers suggested, looking alarmed and asking "About what?!," I told the truth. I said I'm unemployed and I write about my dates on the Internet.
"I'll have the chicken wings," said Dorothy.
"Have you tried online dating?" asked the leprechaun.
That was it. Not even a polite "What's your web site called?"
Mood: Is there an emoticon for "eh"?
Check out this chick from Seattle.
What's currently in my CD changer: Nothing. It's broken. Send money.
November 1, 2003
When I was little, October 31 was really something to get excited about. There would generally be a small party at school with grocery-store chocolate cupcakes with heavy, orange-colored frosting. All that week's crafts projects would center around cutting pumpkins and black cats from construction paper. While that kind of thing was all very nice, it was something to be patiently tolerated for the benefit of our well-meaning teachers. A mere prelude to the real purpose of Halloween: trick-or-treating.
I never had great costumes. In fact I can't remember what any of them were, but it didn't matter then. Only the most over-the-top children bought their cowboy or princess masks at Target.
All that mattered was that I was out at night with only a flashlight to lead the way. Sometimes it would even be snowing -- I lived in Minnesota -- but the houses of neighbors I wouldn't normally even notice were transformed with glowing pumpkins, cotton spiderwebs and sometimes even scary music to set the mood.
My dad would take me and a few friends out -- with a requisite stop in the "good" neighborhoods where they gave out full-sized candybars -- and then we would all go back to my house to do the candy assessment/swap. We would dump the contents of our respective pillowcases onto my white living-room carpet, my parents would check for razorblades in apples and then we would begin the exchange.
Even as an 6-year-old, I knew that a fun-size Hershey's was worth several hard candies or Starburst, but only if the chocolate was milk, as I personally don't do dark. My mom would automatically get all my Snickers, because she likes peanuts and was apparently in labor for 37 hours with me.
The older, taller trick-or-treaters who came by long after we were already home were nothing more than a sign to turn out the lights and not answer the doorbell anymore. Now that my generation has become that older trick-or-treater, we have claimed Halloween as our own.
Like most paradigm shifts, this one was very subtle. All I really know is that I heard on the radio last week that Halloween is now an adult holiday and I don't remember ever not celebrating it. I associate the Baby Boomers with social change and Gen Y with technological change, but apart from the career of Sean Penn, I can't think of what my generation has contributed to society? People my age have been dressing up in bad costumes and eating teeny candies from the drug store our whole lives and we're not going to let that go. We're getting older, and dammit, we're taking Halloween with us.
Last night I wore a strappy black slip, fishnets and thigh-high stockings, a black silk cape and vampy makeup. I was going for "witch" but my costume was basically what I was wearing the day before except with more makeup. None of the 600 people at the party I went to cared what I was wearing, since I was there to judge their costumes, not come up with one myself.
I learned some things from my judging duties. For instance, if your costume needs a long explanation or is an esoteric play on words or requires that all members of the group be present at all times, it may not work out so well. One woman who faced all three of these problems complained, "When Todd (whose costume was a giant letter "E") is in the bathroom, I'm just a horn."
When I was little, my parents would consistently win the Best Costume prize at their friends' parties by wearing black turtlenecks, throwing on berets and calling themselves beatniks. Last night's winner was wearing a red bikini, full body painting and horns and breasts that lit up with the help of the generator she was carrying on her back. Like most other things in life, dressing up for Halloween has gotten more competitive -- except at my house, where I still make do with whatever I can pull from my closet.
Perhaps because my own costumes are never that great, it was fun for me to see people walking around in the remnants of their outfits the next day -- in the cold light of mid-morning, totally out of context, their most important elements often left at home. Take away the stuffed white tiger affixed to your neck from last night's Siegfried & Roy costume and you become a guy buying milk in a shredded, bloody tuxedo shirt. I personally find that far more intriguing… and maybe even the symbol of a generation.<<< home >>>
