every woman needs a wife

ColdCalling (texting): So I should cancel all my dates this weekend and get at you.

Me (thinking): YES YES YES

Me (texting): What about Friday night? I’m in a show till 9:30. 10ish?

ColdCalling: I have a gallery show but shouldn’t get out too late.

Me: Give a ring Friday and we’ll make plans.

ColdCalling: K. G’night mami

OMG, he called me Mami! That opens a secret door to my heart! Is that weird? I’ve always wanted to have that nickname and then call someone Papi back. Do I have problems or is this about how I loved the Mama and the Papas as a kid?

Next morning:

ColdCalling: Mami didn’t work?

Oh no is he trying to cancel?

Me: What?

ColdCalling: I thought calling you Mami would send you into the throes of ecstasy.

I have no idea how to play this because clearly it flips my switch. Fuck it, I’ll just be honest. And in no way am I going to ask anyone what to say because I am independent woman and I don’t need a committee to send a text!

Me: Oh it does. There’s just no emoticon for ecstasy.

ColdCalling: You mean emojasty?

YES YES YES.

Friday Night

(By the way I’ve told everyone in my cast that I’m going out on a hot date – big mistake. I think that affirming things actually works the opposite for me, as soon as I put things out to the universe it knows what not to give me.)

Me: Hey Papi (so cute my heart is breaking, look at this text tete a tete we’ve got going!) what’s our plan.

NOTHING

Two hours later I’m singing bad karaoke drunk and angry. Friends don’t let friends sing angry. Alanis Morrisette never sounded so good.

11:30pm: I couldn’t help myself.

Me: ?

NOTHING

Saturday Morning.

I’m totally fucking livid when people don’t take any responsibility and this bitch is going to hear from me for standing me up.

Me: Did you stand me up?

2 hours later

ColdCalling: I got into something. Is that so bad?He texted back! Shut up, he still didn’t apologize and he gave no valid excuse! This guy is an obvious douche bag…I want him so badly.

Me: Yes. I feel left out.

ColdCalling: I got drunk and my car got towed. Big mistakes are favorite.

Yes! Totally recognizable excuse. Wait why didn’t he just tell me that in the first place? Is he lying? Do I care?

Me: Go big or go home. Sorry about your car.

ColdCalling: Go big or go home together.

Me: That would be a big mistake

Oh yeah look at that word play. I am a text message double entendre wizard!

Coldcalling: wait no I like your face and your hips.

I know if I ever showed anyone that message they would be offended. But I am flattered, which means I should never let anyone know about that message. Isn’t hiding stuff like this the first sign of an abusive relationship?

Me: make it up to me then.

Coldcalling: any good bars in your hood?

Me: henry public. I get out of my show at 9:30.

NOTHING

10:pm

Me: we going to get a drink?

Coldcalling: At a party rockaway beach.

This happened again! Are my expectations for people too high? Or do I have the self esteem of a thirteen year old on crack? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice I really need a better therapist.

Next thursday

I’m bored, I need something to write about and I need a little drama in my life. Also, I refuse to believe that a fall beach bonfire party with beautiful cool people that are probably models with phds’ at far rockaway is better than a two drink minimum blind date with me.

Me: Papi when you gonna get at me.

Coldcalling: I have a problem I send nudes.

Way to be loud and clear! You obviously are only interested in provoking me, and at this point I’m gonna call you on shit and take a good look at your dick. Also I’ve never gotten a dick pick text and its pretty exciting.

Me: Put your money where you mouth is. Let’s see it.

Then I get sent the a picture of the most beautiful dick I have ever seen. This opens up a whole new conundrum, because I was totally prepared to make fun of this dude and now I’m prepared to fuck him. Act cool! What ever you do, act cool!

Me: Cool pic.

Coldcalling: you hate?

Me: Big dick do you know how to use it?

Coldcalling: No how?

What am I doing? Am I doing this? I have to go hang out with friends so we can all laugh about this and I don’t feel so creepy, and creeped out, and also turned on.

Me: Spit on it, then pretend I’m reciting the alphabet on your dick. (I’ve got imagination)

Coldcalling: That’s pretty freaking hot but I love your hip to waist ratio and I want you to ride my face.

Hmmm the thing that concerns me a little, is I do have a profound hip to waist ratio, but I don’t know anyone else that says that about me except for me and really close friends who are making fun of me. And I’m not sure how he would know that based on my okc pics. Wait a minute…Who is this guy?

Coldcalling: I also want to lick your armpits, its a cultivated taste.

OMG! My ex boyfriend loved to do this! Is this a weird coincidence or foul play?

Coldcalling: Can we pretend I impregnate you.

OMG! I know you’re thinking that I’m weirded out that this would be someone’s fantasy, but I’m actually upset because this was something else that my ex loved to do! Am I being paranoid or is this the ghost of boyfriends’ past coming to get me?

So…I don’t say anything back and instead leave my friends at the bar to go and masturbate then take a scalding shower with loofah to wash away all my internet paranoia.

The Next Day

Coldcalling: Do you facebook?

I have no idea why I agreed to be this guy’s facebook friend. Part of it was that I publish my blog posts on my wall and I thought it would be crazy for him to see that I was documenting all of this okc dating. I thought I would be as provocative to him, as he was being to me. The second was that I was genuinely curious about this dude, for romance, for sex, and to see if he was part of some elaborate internet hoax set up to embarrass me. Strangely enough he hid his friends from me. Suspicious!  But then I stalked through all of his pictures and wall posts and picture comments and created a detailed story about his life that could be true or could totally be false… which is so weird that we can have our life stories completely mapped out by our interaction with facebook. I digress. I decided that he’s the rare breed of dude that will never meet face to face, but loves the online and texting thrill of sex. He’s like the type of john that gets enough of a thrill from making an appointment with his trick but never actually shows up. C’mere. I dare you.

Later That Night:

Me: So what are we doing tonight?

NOTHING.

Looks like my theory was right. I’ll never know if he just was never into more than our over the airwaves sexecapades or if he got freaked out that I was documenting this whole experience (which fair enough, but lets talk about it face to face!) Either way I de-friended him, and he deleted his okc account and I never heard from him again. But still his his atrocious typos and his big dick haunt me to this day. 

All my exes live in Texas.  Just kidding, actually only one does and his name is Rocky so it makes sense.  However, the reality is that all my past loves live in cyber space.  Particularly in the country called OkCupid.  There is nothing worse, or great —at this point I can’t really tell what emotion I’m feeling— than finding your exes profile on an online dating site.  First its kinda funny in an ironic masochistic way: Of course I would get matched with this guy, oh ha ha.  Of course the world is out to get me.  I just gave him three years of my youth, for what?  For this — to be paired with him on an  online dating site!  

Then the bittersweet nostalgia sets in: We were probably paired together because of his great taste in clothes, sense of adventure, and his attraction to loud aggressive women.  Oh remember how he always let me get my way.  He always laughed at my jokes.  We had some great times…We came up with a lot of great halloween costumes— that means something doesn’t it?  

Then the sick desire to see his profile sets in.  This is tricky because once you look at it you know he’ll know you peeked.  You weigh the odds.  If you look, could you pull it off as some kinda joke?  Oh I saw your profile. Ha ha.  I always knew you had a thing for chicks with big thighs and slightly larger than normal heads, but I never knew you’d be so specific!  

Or you look and don’t say anything.  You just read between all the lines and over-analyze everything.  How could he put down that he loves girls that wear unitards!  I practically invented unitards for him!  And how dare he say that he likes “The heart is a Lonely Hunter,” he barely knew how to read before me.  Which bitch taught him to read!  You let the inckyness crawl all over you for reasons you don’t quite understand because you broke up with him goddamnit!  Then you masturbate while crying and follow it up with a three hour nap.  

Or…

You take a deep breath.  Turn your computer off.  Brush your hair.  Put on a bra.  Wipe the mustard stain off your mouth.  You remember that you broke up with him for a reason.  Most of this horrible feeling has nothing to do with him and probably has to do with your own life outside of the break up.  Pick your head up.  Remember that you are a good person who deserves to be loved.  Head into the world.  

Yeah right! 

I recently read an article by Doree Shafrir about the naming of her generation, which are those folks now in their midthirties and how they operate differently than those of us in our twenties. Doree dubs it “Generation Catalano” after Mr. Sex himself from My So Called Life. She writes:

Claire Danes’ Angela … fall[s] into a trope of television and film that’s an especially apt representation of Generation Catalano (or at least those of us who were white and from the suburbs): the girl who doesn’t know where exactly she fits in, because she’s smart (full disclosure: the struggle Lindsay has over whether to stay on the Mathletes hit a little too close to home), wants to be popular, and has to leave her old, dorky friends behind. The show or movie’s dramatic tension is then largely about her identity crisis as she ping-pongs among different cliques and wrestles with the seemingly monumental decision of whether to stay in on a Friday night and do her calculus homework or go to a keg party in the woods.

I felt I had to respond, not because I have a deep insight into what my generation feels compared to those in their mid thirties, but because I do think there is a cultural chasm between the women I know who related to Angela Chase from the show and those of us that couldn’t get enough of Rayanne Graff. I hated the character Angela. I always felt that despite her nuanced and supposedly complex voice overs, she was a passive wallflower caught between the conflicting desires to be simultaneously seen and also disappear. Relatable for a high school student sure, but maybe not for me, and also maybe not for the alpha females I surround myself with in my adult life. It actually worries me that there are grown ass women out there who still feel a kinship with a teenage character that when describing what she desires could not raise her voice above a mumble core-esque decibel.

I feel that this type of female character is a dangerous one, and she’s a type I’ve come across in other means of fiction from writers of Generation Catalano. Curtis Sittenfeld, who was born in 1975, debuted a similar female character in her first novel, Prep. The novel centers on Lee Fiora and is about her time as a scholarship student at an elite boarding school. Having attended boarding school on full scholarship myself I was drawn to the story, but horrified by Lee’s overwhelming inertia in the face of making something of herself at the school. Just like Angela, Lee is so enamored and intimidated by her circumstances that she tries to form no opinions of her own incase they are the wrong opinions. Perversely, it is this passivity, this waiting to be recognized, instead of bulldozing through the crowd that ultimately turns everyone away from her.

I’ve also seen echoes of this ugly phenomenon in the 1999 best seller The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. Though the author, Melisa Bank, is older than Generation Catalano, her novel debuted at the same time as My So Called Life. One can’t help but feel that the protagonist, Jane Rosenthal, is just an older version of Angela Chase. Unfortunately they share the same deep lack of self esteem:

I saw my life in scale: it was just my life. It was not momentous … I saw myself the way I’d seen the cleaning woman in the building across the street. I was just one person in one window. Nobody was watching, except me.

There is an eerie call and response between the above passage and Angela’s own voice over from the show, ”People are always saying you should be yourself, like yourself is this definite thing, like a toaster. Like you know what it is even.” With both characters there is a massive self absorption in trying to figure out who they are, and a sadness at not being recognized by the outside world. You can hear Bank’s character’s influence on Angela; she is the older sister secretly whispering it’s better to keep quiet and hope someone realizes what you need, rather than stand up for what you want.

Angela’s, Lee’s, and even Joan’s continual concern with fitting in “in the right way” seems to be the problem that leads them to thinking that perhaps they’re not worth all that much to begin with. I get it with Angela and even Lee, they’re young and experimenting with their identities, picking them up and tossing them on the floor like different outfits.

I don’t want to get too ahead of myself though.  Just as I begin to justify Angela’s blah personality, I have to remind us that she had a confident foil who, in spite of being in high school, did exactly what she wanted. This foil/BFF was Rayanne, the unruly chick with the bad home life that deserved her own show. She had the courage of conviction – even if that conviction was going to change three times by second period. Rayanne had the guts to do things that had been dubbed as “wrong” for women to do, and she did so without the nail biting neurosis that goes into so much decision making for young women. Rayanne did not need a committee to determine she liked someone or something and was going after it. Don’t get me wrong, Rayanne was also a flawed character. She had drug and alcohol problems and she made the ultimate error in betraying her best friend by sleeping with Jordan Catalano. Yet, it was in watching Rayanne as a teenager that reminded me of my favorite childhood heroines. Whatever happened to the likes of Josephine March, and even Anne from Green Gables? How did we go from reading and watching these moxie filled women who rebelled against all sorts of boundaries, to adoring these melancholic pushovers that Generation Catalano is claiming as spokeswomen. Simply put, Rayanne was a doer and Angela was a wet noodle.

What concerns me about Doree’s article was not the generation gap, per se, but the way in which women only a few years apart could view themselves so differently. Sure everyone out there is going to say that I’m part of the “entitled generation,” but what is so wrong with thinking (especially for a woman) that what I want is out there – I just have to take it?  Many writers are now commentating on the rude awakening “the entitled generation” has to endure. Are we strong enough to get through a future that might not be as bright as our parents promised us? That’s not the way I see it though.  I don’t think its the way Rayanne would view it either, and let’s not forget that Jo March survived the Civil War, and Anne — WWI. It’s not circumstance or context that forms who we are, but how we handle it. I still think in spite of the economy and the changing world at large, that my happiness and success is out there – all I have to do it take it.

Maybe I’m not as afraid or upset by my current unglamorous lifestyle (I’m a nanny to pay the bills) because my given profession, and what I have my MFA, in is acting. As an actor you have to go into an adult life knowing that your career is kinda a crapshoot. You may never be successful. Even if I find constant artistic fulfillment I will still most likely be poor. When you decide to become an actor, or any type of artist for that matter, there has to be a coming to terms with the poverty you’ll endure, and also a completely irrational optimism about the situation.  It wasn’t the Angelas out there that convinced me to keep going, it was the Josephines, the Annes and the Rayannes of the world, who with their scrappiness and unwavering belief in themselves, endured too.    

I went on a date with a younger guy the other night.  He wasn’t that much younger, just a couple of years, but it was enough to turn me off.  When he told me his age I immediately thought, well I’d fuck you but we can never date.  Totally unfair I know, and also just reading that sentence I winced at how much I sounded like the 80’s movie villain ready to date rape you.  I’d totally fuck you but I’m not gonna take you to prom.

For the record this guy was a totally great twenty five year old, who seemed like he had a sense of humor and level head on his shoulders.  Regardless though he’s only lived in NYC for a year, and halfway through the evening he started complaining about how expensive the six dollar beer was.  Even though we’re only a couple of years apart it was apparent that in terms of experience and expectation we were on two different pages.  After all isn’t twenty seven in guy years really thirty five?  

This was my first time on date with a younger guy, or really anyone that close to my age.  You see since I’ve been twenty years old I’ve date men in their thirties.  You could say that I keep getting older but they stay the same age.  

Or in my case it seems they get younger — which is not necessarily a good thing!  What happens to a person as they start seeing the flirty thirties approach the horizon?  And I’m not talking about the tic tock of my biological clock, cause I think the batteries are dead on that one.  I’m reflecting on the drastic changes in what I want, even from just a few years ago when I was twenty five.  Things…are…slowing…down.  I don’t want to live in a loft space without a door just because it’s a great deal anymore, I don’t want to work the night shift or weekends, and I can’t really live hand to mouth the way I used to.

 Ahh getting older sucks.  Now I totally understand why all those thirty year old men dated me when I twenty two — because I didn’t expect that much from them!  Whereas now I expect more from myself, and thus more from my partner.  I used to look at the guys I dated and think: I don’t want to be in your position when I’m thirty.  I want to be past the ramen noodle eating phase you’re in.  

Not only was that thought a great indication that I shouldn’t be dating said dude, but it also gave me my own maturity time line.  I look at someone now and I wonder if their timeline is running parallel to mine.  I can’t predict how might partner might change in the future, but I’d like to think that we would have more of a chance together if we started off at the same spot.  You see I don’t want to fuck anyone I wouldn’t want to be, and I don’t want to be anyone I wouldn’t want to fuck.  Which as I’m figuring out is a really high standard to hold myself and the world to, but I’m trying to take it one day at a time.  This quarter centurion I went out with is a good guy, but our timelines are running at different speeds, and I’m at age where I’m comfortable buying 6 dollar beer — I want a partner who is too.      

Sex: Sex On The First Date Is A Fictional Fuck(via @Jezebel)

I went on a date a month ago with a boy I met on an online dating site. “Met” meaning he’d sent me a few witty messages and his pictures were decent enough to warrant an IRL pass.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time a beautiful, smart and funny young woman went on a blind date with an attractive, intelligent gent who was semi-humorless. On her side there were no sparks, however due to a certain upbringing – she was by a nature (or nurture?) a pleaser – she led him on. He walked away from the date thinking there would be a second one, next time even with a little more action than just neckin. He thought they had so much in common, that she loved Henry James, Zadie Smith and Billy Joel just as much as he did. That she found his relationship with his sister and mother to be a complex but realistic part of his layered psyche – just like he did! Unfortunately none of this was the way she felt.

To be fair dear reader I am this woman, and I have developed a weird and possibly hurtful habit that I now have to confess to you. No matter who I am on a date with I tend to just be who they want me to be, even though I don’t like them romantically. You like cheese, turns out I love cheese! Ok, I know bad example, everyone loves cheese. How about… you like civil war memorabilia, I love civil war shit! Let me cut myself a little slack here, I have liked all the okcupid dates I’ve gone on as people, I just haven’t felt any sort of romantic surge with them. And I have found that I could spend several hours talking to each of them while we both got slightly inebriated without feeling bored to tears. The topic of conversations have ranged from Shakespeare’s most obscure histories, Henry IV anybody?, to the scary-ness factor of the horror movie Suspiria. I have waxed poetic about David Foster Wallace and about the pros and cons of pet sitting, I have even made out with some of these people. But still I haven’t wanted to go on a second date with anyone. I know I’m making myself look really bad here, and that’s part of why I’m writing this. Most of my blog posts are laments to why he didn’t call or text me after we had such a good time – and maybe the real reason is he was pretending just like I pretend.  God forbid.

Recently someone called me on this, and sent me a text that basically said:

Hey we had a great time, and you acted l as though you really liked me back so what gives about you not answering any of my messages.

I’ve got to tell you I was so refreshed to get someone who was brave enough to write that, that I almost went on a second date with this guy. I do believe in putting someone in their place, and I also believe that we would all be happier daters if we were more honest. Myself included. So here’s the deal, I can’t predict that anyone will give me the benefit of sending me a “I don’t really like you” text, vm, or even email – which I think we can all agree on is better than nothing no matter how unfortunate. But, I can say that I’m going to more disciplined about doing that, if for any reason because I think its the kind thing to do, and because I don’t want to be the same coward that most of the pussies I date are. So there.       

The other night I was doing my usual cat sitting gig — which basically means I eat through other people’s fridges and watch all their tivo — when I got to thinking.  My noggin was swelling with thoughts about the popularity and realism of America’s favorite foursome — the SEX AND THE CITY ladiez.  Blah blah blah, I know this is old news to most of you, and that whenever I talk about them I sound like a deranged “Sex and the City” tour guide standing outside of Magnolia’s screaming at the top of my lungs about which overweight midwesterner on the bus most resembles Carrie — she’s the real glue to the group ya know!  However, while I was watching old reruns the other night what really got me going was Samantha — and not in the sexy way she’s supposed to.  That’s because I had a really hard time being convinced that any of the men that walk in and out of my life would be attracted to such a….oh what’s the word…strong?  sexy?…intelligent?…what about overpowering?…intimidating…and pushy woman.  Hey, I’m not putting down Samantha Jone’s, patron saint of empowered horny women everywhere, but I am saying that there are not a lot of men I know who would willingly take on such a lady.  And so I want to know how Samantha Blow Job Jones ever got laid in her twenties?

Especially since as of late there is the annoying trend of grown ass women acting like little girls.  Oh what who me?  Oh no you couldn’t be speaking of me, the girl with the MA in library science, who likes to wear bobby socks, and her hair in pigtails and who wrote her thesis on Twightlight vs, The Hunger Games.  Yeah I’m talking about you bitch and I can not take any more of your  twisted type of demur behavior.  STOP GIGGLING FROM BEHIND YOUR HAND!  

Come on ladies, I need a guy who will be able to take me out to dinner, who will offer to pay not because he’s a sexist douche bag but because that’s what adults do when they ask you out.  I need a guy that likes a lady who can give him a hard time, and will give me one back (Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracey style with out the secret adultery/alcoholism thing).  I need a guy that likes a woman who has her own money, her own opinions, and her own ability to orgasm.  And let’s face it, we’re not going to make room for the Samantha Jone’s of the world if you are going to continue wearing baby tees, crocheting unicorns and speaking in mumble core esque decibels about what you want. There is a vicious circle going on where men in their twenties/thirties are afraid of sexual women, and thus women seem to be afraid of being sexual.

Until we change I’m afraid I’ll get stuck with what’s hanging out in the burg these days — left overs from the McKibben lofts, guys who are waiting to validate their own lost-ness with yours.  If we can’t be out, loud and proud about own sexual prowess then we are going to get stuck with dudes who can’t either, and that means I’ll continue to have the unfortunate sex I’ve been having which is no way for a woman of my caliber to live.  So let’s all grow a spine and lead by example so that the boys, ahem men(?) can catch up.   

Hi guys,

So we have some changes to our two person fraction over here.  R is leaving us to pursue a more high culture project — she’s gonna get a PHD!  So it’s now gonna be all about me, me, and more me.  I’ve rearranged the project so that another best friend of mine has taken over my okprofile and is now sending me out on missions, er I mean dates — Bosley style.  Long live R!  We will miss you and your wonderful romantic insights!  Alas, though higher learning, like higher ground, calls.  XOXOX you live in my thoughts forever.  

 I’m about to get real with y’all. I know I come across as the lady who has it all together. The woman that tells it like it is, and doesn’t take shit from anybody. But…let’s be honest, I’m a total mess – a disaster even, ok I’ll cut myself some slack, I’m simply your average tropical storm. Here I am late twenties and I still don’t know how to interpret, understand or navigate most of my life, especially my love, eh hem, maybe just my sex life…

The other night I met someone at a bar and went home with them. The sex was fine, but the chit chat and laughs were amazing. We told each other our intimate anecdotes: the one’s you save for the people you really want to impress. The story that screams, look at me, I’m vulnerable, self deprecating, still hilarious, and the absolute best mix of sexy and cute! He laughed loudly at all the right places, gave me compliments and made me breakfast. Then he shared his own heartbreaking work of genius dating marketing, and I was smitten. We did that thing where we layed in bed and looked at each other without turning away for fear of pock mocks or unfeminine facial hair. I walked away on a cloud of euphoria, thinking simply whoa.

ladiez gettin down makin a deal