Vital Stats: Firemen. Need I say more?
It was a Sunday afternoon and Zoe and I were slowly sorting out the disaster of my apartment when the smoke detector went off. Or at least we thought it was the smoke detector until we fanned it with pillows and it didn’t stop beeping. I climbed up on my ladder and pulled it off the wall to find it was actually a carbon monoxide detector. A guide on the back described three different patterns of beeps—one for a low battery, one for a malfunction and one for carbon monoxide.
After we listened a couple of times, we knew we were listening to the pattern for carbon monoxide. I had an extra battery in the refrigerator, so in a last-ditch effort to not call 911, we swapped it out. It was the same pattern. In a second last-ditch effort to not call 911, I called 311 and explained the situation.
“Hi. I have a carbon monoxide detector that’s going off and I’m sure it’s nothing but it’s making the beeping pattern for carbon monoxide.”
“Please hold while I switch you to 911,” the operator said. So much for avoiding 911.
The 911 operator asked for my address and then said emergency services were en route.
“OK,” I said. I hung up and told Zoe they were on their way.
“Actually, I kind of do have a headache,” she said.
“Actually, so do I,” I said.
“Maybe there really is gas,” she said.
Forgetting that I could be inhaling toxic fumes, I looked around my apartment and realized that actual firemen were going to be walking into my apartment any second. If I wanted any kind of a future with one of my would-be rescuers, I was about to make a very bad impression. I began throwing laundry and other clutter into closets and vacant crevices. Two minutes later, the buzzer rang. “Hello,” I answered casually.
“Fire department.”
“Fourth floor,” I said, buzzing them in as if they were suitors.
Thirty seconds later, I led an entourage of four fully equipped firefighters into my apartment.
I’ve always wondered if firemen were just coincidentally hot or if it was just something about the uniforms that just made them all look hot. The first two to walk in were older. Not hot. The second two were younger. Hot. They looked around as if Zoe and I had just invited them upstairs after a double date. They were taking everything in, including, I hoped, us.
“Hi,” I said to the second not-hot one as the first not-hot one passed me. I handed the first one the detector. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I called 311 first, but they transferred it to 911.”
“I’ve got zero parts per million,” the first not-hot one said as he pressed a button on a gadget.
“We tried two different batteries and it was definitely making the beeping for the carbon monoxide,” I said.
“Yeah, sometimes these things just malfunction,” the second not-hot one said.
“Sorry about that,” I said again.
“That’s OK,” the first not-hot one said as they turned to go. “Usually it happens at three in the morning.”
The not-hot ones went out the door and the hot ones took one last look around before they went out.
“Thanks a lot. Sorry!” I said. The hot ones turned as if to say good-bye, then, as if thinking better of it, turned back and disappeared down the stairs.
“Well, that was exciting,” I said to Zoe as I closed the door behind them.
"Yeah, and we thought we were feeling sick from gas," she said, giggling.
As she said it, something dawned on me. Usually one to play with her hair and bat her eyelashes when masculinity was in proximity, Zoe had not only never moved from her spot on the sofa but she’d also never said a word.
“Did you even say anything?” I asked her.
“No, I sat here like a perfect angel,” she said, and then she laughed diabolically and ran her hands through some low strands of hair.
She looked at me. “Wait, wasn’t your hair up and didn’t you have your glasses on?”
Oh, that. In the moments before I opened the door, I ditched my scrunchy and my glasses in the bathroom and gave my hair a tousle.
She cackled. “You removed your glasses and took down your hair,” she said, pointing at me.
"You didn't even try to flirt with them," I said, pointing back. “And those second two were cute....”
As the words came out of my mouth, I temporarily forgot that avoiding a carbon monoxide disaster was a good thing and, for a moment, lamented what could have been.
Signs of Hope: For the two hot ones: Clearly, they were intrigued in some way.
Red Flags: Even if they hadn’t been there purely on business, it had all happened so fast that I didn’t even think to ask which firehouse they’d come from.
Turning Point: When the first not-hot one said the words, “zero parts per million,” it eliminated all hope of a possible rescue.
Diagnosis: As far as the hot ones go...I’m not sure about their availability, but, if they see this, they should really let us know.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #127: The Strawberry Fields Fairy
See Fro-Yo Guy for the background on this one.
When I got to work on Monday—lunch-date day—I realized I had a meeting at 1:30.
I texted #127: Oops. I have a meeting today at 1:30. Can you do lunch at noon? Sorry about that.
He texted back: NP.
I got to the Pret a Manger on Maiden Lane early and he was running a little late, so in the time I sat waiting for him, I became inexplicably nervous.
When he got there, he was appropriately apologetic for his lateness and I was still, and strangely, incredibly nervous. The stress level in my office was on high and there were meetings, and meetings made me anxious, but I still couldn’t account for my severe case of nerves. We got some sandwiches and drinks from the display cases and went up to the registers. I made sure he was a little ahead of me. It was the moment of truth. Would he pay or wouldn’t he? Was this a date or was this not a date?
He sidled up to one register and began to pay for his sandwich. The register to his left opened up and I went up and put my purchasable goods down. His cash was in his hand. I was slow to retrieve my wallet from my smallish purse, fishing around in it as if I was having trouble locating it. From out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cash go back into his wallet and his wallet go into his back pocket.
On the bright side, I was no longer nervous. On the dark side, I now had to talk myself out of being angry and, resultantly, disconnected: “It’s OK. It is just a quick lunch during work, it’s more like a meet-and-greet, not really a REAL lunch-lunch.”
We sat down and filled each other in on who we were. We covered the basics—family, siblings, where we were from, what we were like in high school. I was vaguely checked out due to the other conversation I was having with myself in my head.
I decided to be strategic about what I told him, so I informed him that I was heading to Boston to see my nephew that weekend and then going back to the Boston area the next weekend for my family reunion. It was my attempt to clue him in on my availability for the next couple of weeks so that he might take it upon himself to work around it.
So far, he wasn’t appearing very clued in.
“Should we go to Strawberry Fields?” he asked after we were done eating.
“Let’s go,” I said. Little did he know, it was like a second chance for him.
When we walked up to the frozen yogurt store, a tiny brunette girl who worked there was standing outside with a tray of samples.
“Would you like to try some?” she asked.
“Sure,” we said, trying some.
“We were going to come in here anyway,” #127 said.
“Are you two married?” she asked. I just smiled and looked at him. I was going to enjoy this.
“No, we’re not,” he said.
“Are you dating?”
“We’re just friends,” he said.
“You two should get together. Because you both have really pretty eyes. You’d have cute kids.”
I could think of a better reason for us getting together—like him springing for lunch—but that hadn’t happened. We looked at each others’ eye. His were a bright pale blue. I had to admit, they were pretty. We both nodded in tacit agreement that we both did, indeed, have pretty eyes.
“You should buy her her frozen yogurt,” she said to him. “Women like that. We like to be treated. It impresses us. It’ll impress her.”
Somewhere, there was a god.
“Well, OK,” he said, as if that hadn’t actually been a forgone conclusion.
We self-served our fro-yos, he paid, I said “thank you” and then we walked down toward the seaport. There was a marked uptick in mood on my side of things, which helped power our continued get-to-know-you conversation, and then, finally, he said, “Maybe one day we could take the ferry from here over to Williamsburg and I could show you around.”
“That sounds great,” I said. And then—maybe because I was already becoming familiar with his passiveness or maybe because a huge dose of sugar had just hit my bloodstream—I asked, “When?”
Insert awkward pause. “I don’t know, I can’t tomorrow or the next day,” he said.
“And I’m gone this weekend,” I said, trying to sound a little less available.
“Well, soon,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
And then he walked me back to my building and we hugged good-bye.
Signs of Hope: He—eventually—paid for something. And he suggested a tentative next—I hesitate to say “date”—get-together.
Red Flags: He didn’t pay for lunch, he had to be prompted to pay for frozen yogurt and he didn’t set a date for our next…date? Get-together? Friendly guided tour?
Turning Point: When the little frozen yogurt fairy appeared and said, “You should buy her her frozen yogurt.”
Diagnosis: For him: He’s seeming a tad unavailable.
For me: Why do I keep hoping that these guys will suddenly show signs of availability? Why? Why?
When I got to work on Monday—lunch-date day—I realized I had a meeting at 1:30.
I texted #127: Oops. I have a meeting today at 1:30. Can you do lunch at noon? Sorry about that.
He texted back: NP.
I got to the Pret a Manger on Maiden Lane early and he was running a little late, so in the time I sat waiting for him, I became inexplicably nervous.
When he got there, he was appropriately apologetic for his lateness and I was still, and strangely, incredibly nervous. The stress level in my office was on high and there were meetings, and meetings made me anxious, but I still couldn’t account for my severe case of nerves. We got some sandwiches and drinks from the display cases and went up to the registers. I made sure he was a little ahead of me. It was the moment of truth. Would he pay or wouldn’t he? Was this a date or was this not a date?
He sidled up to one register and began to pay for his sandwich. The register to his left opened up and I went up and put my purchasable goods down. His cash was in his hand. I was slow to retrieve my wallet from my smallish purse, fishing around in it as if I was having trouble locating it. From out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cash go back into his wallet and his wallet go into his back pocket.
On the bright side, I was no longer nervous. On the dark side, I now had to talk myself out of being angry and, resultantly, disconnected: “It’s OK. It is just a quick lunch during work, it’s more like a meet-and-greet, not really a REAL lunch-lunch.”
We sat down and filled each other in on who we were. We covered the basics—family, siblings, where we were from, what we were like in high school. I was vaguely checked out due to the other conversation I was having with myself in my head.
I decided to be strategic about what I told him, so I informed him that I was heading to Boston to see my nephew that weekend and then going back to the Boston area the next weekend for my family reunion. It was my attempt to clue him in on my availability for the next couple of weeks so that he might take it upon himself to work around it.
So far, he wasn’t appearing very clued in.
“Should we go to Strawberry Fields?” he asked after we were done eating.
“Let’s go,” I said. Little did he know, it was like a second chance for him.
When we walked up to the frozen yogurt store, a tiny brunette girl who worked there was standing outside with a tray of samples.
“Would you like to try some?” she asked.
“Sure,” we said, trying some.
“We were going to come in here anyway,” #127 said.
“Are you two married?” she asked. I just smiled and looked at him. I was going to enjoy this.
“No, we’re not,” he said.
“Are you dating?”
“We’re just friends,” he said.
“You two should get together. Because you both have really pretty eyes. You’d have cute kids.”
I could think of a better reason for us getting together—like him springing for lunch—but that hadn’t happened. We looked at each others’ eye. His were a bright pale blue. I had to admit, they were pretty. We both nodded in tacit agreement that we both did, indeed, have pretty eyes.
“You should buy her her frozen yogurt,” she said to him. “Women like that. We like to be treated. It impresses us. It’ll impress her.”
Somewhere, there was a god.
“Well, OK,” he said, as if that hadn’t actually been a forgone conclusion.
We self-served our fro-yos, he paid, I said “thank you” and then we walked down toward the seaport. There was a marked uptick in mood on my side of things, which helped power our continued get-to-know-you conversation, and then, finally, he said, “Maybe one day we could take the ferry from here over to Williamsburg and I could show you around.”
“That sounds great,” I said. And then—maybe because I was already becoming familiar with his passiveness or maybe because a huge dose of sugar had just hit my bloodstream—I asked, “When?”
Insert awkward pause. “I don’t know, I can’t tomorrow or the next day,” he said.
“And I’m gone this weekend,” I said, trying to sound a little less available.
“Well, soon,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
And then he walked me back to my building and we hugged good-bye.
Signs of Hope: He—eventually—paid for something. And he suggested a tentative next—I hesitate to say “date”—get-together.
Red Flags: He didn’t pay for lunch, he had to be prompted to pay for frozen yogurt and he didn’t set a date for our next…date? Get-together? Friendly guided tour?
Turning Point: When the little frozen yogurt fairy appeared and said, “You should buy her her frozen yogurt.”
Diagnosis: For him: He’s seeming a tad unavailable.
For me: Why do I keep hoping that these guys will suddenly show signs of availability? Why? Why?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #127: Fro-Yo Guy
Vital Stats: 39, 6”ish. Otherwise, a poor man’s George Clooney: salt-and-pepper hair with a three-months-along paunch. Aesthetic: The acceptable side of preppy. Demeanor: Nice guy. Chatty. Approachable.
First Impression: “Of course, the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
Second Impression: “Is he gay?”
What Happened: To rewind a bit, in June, on the emotional roller coaster of a day when #126 and I flirtatiously texted (he likes me!) and then I met him in the park only to find he had company (he doesn’t like me!), after which he called to see if I wanted to go to a movie with them (he likes me!), while they all went to that movie, I went to a Sunday night gathering of likeminded downtowners (maybe he thinks I don't like him!). When I got to the gathering, I scanned the room, as I do, and spied #127 a few rows over. He was sitting next to a girl. “Of course,” I thought, “the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
On my way home, I ran into the two of them on 2nd Avenue. #127 recognized me instantly and seemed happy to see me (he likes me!). But then, when he spoke, he had a lilt that made me think he might be gay (he doesn’t like me!). They were both from Brooklyn—he lived in Williamsburg—and they were going for self-serve frozen yogurt at 16 Handles. As they tried to persuade me to go with them, I realized they weren’t together (he likes me!). But, still trying to wrap my head around #126, I wasn’t in the mood for a get-to-know-you yogurt with new people, so I went home (maybe he thinks I don't like him!).
Fast-forward a month to the near-present. The day I learned I wasn’t getting the apartment from #126, I was in need of a little perking up and remembered #127. I revisited the place I’d first seen him. When I walked in, I saw him across the room and then followed these next five steps:
1. Pretend you don’t see him.
2. Wander over to where he is as if you’re trying to figure out where to sit.
3. Sit down immediately behind him.
4. When he turns around and says, “Hey!” act surprised.
5. As if it hadn’t been your plan all along, get up and sit down next to him, saying, “Oh…well…I’ll just sit next to you.”
After the show, we turned to each other and talk, naturally, turned to self-serve fro-yo. “There’s a new place down where I work,” he said. “Not as good as 16 Handles but passable.”
“Where’s that?” We lingered at the front of the room as everyone filtered out past us.
“The financial district. On Fulton.”
“Oh, that’s where I work,” I said. “But I’m closer to South Street Seaport.” An obvious first date was percolating. I asked about the girl from the month before. He said he’d heard she’d moved to California and then described the events leading up to how he met her.
“She was friends with an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, fidgeting at the mention of his ex. “…but that was nothing, really not much of an important relationship…not an important relationship at all.” I asked about Williamsburg and told him I was thinking about moving there.
“I found my place through an ex-girlfriend…” he said, getting fidgety again, “…it was nothing, just a summer fling…” Every mention of an ex came with a disclaimer. I liked that. “Hey, I should get your number and then if I hear of anything…”
I gave him my number. The next day he texted me a photo of a Strawberry Fields cup of fro-yo.
Me: Ah, even though it sucks, you just had to do it.
#127: You know, having just had some, I wouldn’t say it sucks. It’s just not Handles.
Me: That’s a relief! I’m working from home today, so I may just have to go to handles.
#127: Lucky YOU!! Jealous.
Later that night, I told Zoe that he’d texted me within 24 hours. “Someone was thinking about me,” I said.
“Was there anything more?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Zoe was adjusting to the peculiar mating habits of New York men—in particular, their tendency to disappear—so she wasn’t feeling particularly generous.
“I don’t understand these men,” she said. “I was at Jerry’s store yesterday telling the same thing to him and a woman walked by and said, ‘Welcome to New York.’ It’s like as soon as you show you’re interested, they disappear or say they just want to be friends. In Europe, if someone wants to know, they want to know. They don’t just suddenly change their mind. And if they do, they tell you. They don’t just go silent. I just don’t understand.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
Naturally, five days passed and there was nothing more from #127.
On Saturday, Zoe and I went for self-serve, so I texted him a photo of my melting, chocolate, topping-heavy concoction. A few hours later, back at home, he texted me back.
#127: YUM. I need some too. What flavors did you get?
Me: Cookies and cream and cheesecake. Although I ate the cheesecake while I was waiting in line.
#127: Hahaha. Bad girl, Tara. I’d probably do the same thing. Nice toppings, btw.
Me: Thanks. I try. And then I had another fro-yo down the street. Peach. It was one of those days.
#127: Wow, you’re hardcore with the fro-yo. Have you been to strawberry fields yet?
Um, didn’t he know it was his job to ask me to go with him? I played along.
Me: Not yet. (three unhappy faces with tears)
#127: Why the tears?
I threw my phone down on the sofa, got up and walked to the bathroom saying, “I’m so tired of these men. Can’t they take a fucking hint?”
Zoe calmed me down. “Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league and too pretty for him, so he’s just trying to make sure where you’re at.”
“I’m pretty?”
“Down, princess.”
I texted him back: Because I haven’t been to that one.
#127: We should meet up and go at lunch someday.
Ah, there it was.
Me: That’s a fabulous idea.
#127: Hahaha. Yeah I think it would too. Let me know when you’re not working from home.
Seeing as my working from home depended almost exclusively on how sick I was of coming up with outfits each morning, there was no need to put it off.
Me: In that case, that would be Monday.
Monday it was.
Signs of Hope: He was slow on the uptake, but he did eventually take things up.
Red Flags: I want someone who just gets in there and claims me. Is that unrealistic? Because this guy doesn't seem like a guy who stakes a claim.
Turning Point: When he FINALLY asked if I wanted to go for fro-yo.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just a patient guy? Does he like to take his time with new relationships? His seeming abundance of exes says otherwise. Or, is he unavailable?
For me: Am I too impatient? Demanding? Maybe I need to give a little more. Act more interested. Be less expectant.
First Impression: “Of course, the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
Second Impression: “Is he gay?”
What Happened: To rewind a bit, in June, on the emotional roller coaster of a day when #126 and I flirtatiously texted (he likes me!) and then I met him in the park only to find he had company (he doesn’t like me!), after which he called to see if I wanted to go to a movie with them (he likes me!), while they all went to that movie, I went to a Sunday night gathering of likeminded downtowners (maybe he thinks I don't like him!). When I got to the gathering, I scanned the room, as I do, and spied #127 a few rows over. He was sitting next to a girl. “Of course,” I thought, “the cutest guy in the room is sitting with the cutest girl in the room.”
On my way home, I ran into the two of them on 2nd Avenue. #127 recognized me instantly and seemed happy to see me (he likes me!). But then, when he spoke, he had a lilt that made me think he might be gay (he doesn’t like me!). They were both from Brooklyn—he lived in Williamsburg—and they were going for self-serve frozen yogurt at 16 Handles. As they tried to persuade me to go with them, I realized they weren’t together (he likes me!). But, still trying to wrap my head around #126, I wasn’t in the mood for a get-to-know-you yogurt with new people, so I went home (maybe he thinks I don't like him!).
Fast-forward a month to the near-present. The day I learned I wasn’t getting the apartment from #126, I was in need of a little perking up and remembered #127. I revisited the place I’d first seen him. When I walked in, I saw him across the room and then followed these next five steps:
1. Pretend you don’t see him.
2. Wander over to where he is as if you’re trying to figure out where to sit.
3. Sit down immediately behind him.
4. When he turns around and says, “Hey!” act surprised.
5. As if it hadn’t been your plan all along, get up and sit down next to him, saying, “Oh…well…I’ll just sit next to you.”
After the show, we turned to each other and talk, naturally, turned to self-serve fro-yo. “There’s a new place down where I work,” he said. “Not as good as 16 Handles but passable.”
“Where’s that?” We lingered at the front of the room as everyone filtered out past us.
“The financial district. On Fulton.”
“Oh, that’s where I work,” I said. “But I’m closer to South Street Seaport.” An obvious first date was percolating. I asked about the girl from the month before. He said he’d heard she’d moved to California and then described the events leading up to how he met her.
“She was friends with an ex-girlfriend of mine,” he said, fidgeting at the mention of his ex. “…but that was nothing, really not much of an important relationship…not an important relationship at all.” I asked about Williamsburg and told him I was thinking about moving there.
“I found my place through an ex-girlfriend…” he said, getting fidgety again, “…it was nothing, just a summer fling…” Every mention of an ex came with a disclaimer. I liked that. “Hey, I should get your number and then if I hear of anything…”
I gave him my number. The next day he texted me a photo of a Strawberry Fields cup of fro-yo.
Me: Ah, even though it sucks, you just had to do it.
#127: You know, having just had some, I wouldn’t say it sucks. It’s just not Handles.
Me: That’s a relief! I’m working from home today, so I may just have to go to handles.
#127: Lucky YOU!! Jealous.
Later that night, I told Zoe that he’d texted me within 24 hours. “Someone was thinking about me,” I said.
“Was there anything more?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Zoe was adjusting to the peculiar mating habits of New York men—in particular, their tendency to disappear—so she wasn’t feeling particularly generous.
“I don’t understand these men,” she said. “I was at Jerry’s store yesterday telling the same thing to him and a woman walked by and said, ‘Welcome to New York.’ It’s like as soon as you show you’re interested, they disappear or say they just want to be friends. In Europe, if someone wants to know, they want to know. They don’t just suddenly change their mind. And if they do, they tell you. They don’t just go silent. I just don’t understand.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
Naturally, five days passed and there was nothing more from #127.
On Saturday, Zoe and I went for self-serve, so I texted him a photo of my melting, chocolate, topping-heavy concoction. A few hours later, back at home, he texted me back.
#127: YUM. I need some too. What flavors did you get?
Me: Cookies and cream and cheesecake. Although I ate the cheesecake while I was waiting in line.
#127: Hahaha. Bad girl, Tara. I’d probably do the same thing. Nice toppings, btw.
Me: Thanks. I try. And then I had another fro-yo down the street. Peach. It was one of those days.
#127: Wow, you’re hardcore with the fro-yo. Have you been to strawberry fields yet?
Um, didn’t he know it was his job to ask me to go with him? I played along.
Me: Not yet. (three unhappy faces with tears)
#127: Why the tears?
I threw my phone down on the sofa, got up and walked to the bathroom saying, “I’m so tired of these men. Can’t they take a fucking hint?”
Zoe calmed me down. “Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league and too pretty for him, so he’s just trying to make sure where you’re at.”
“I’m pretty?”
“Down, princess.”
I texted him back: Because I haven’t been to that one.
#127: We should meet up and go at lunch someday.
Ah, there it was.
Me: That’s a fabulous idea.
#127: Hahaha. Yeah I think it would too. Let me know when you’re not working from home.
Seeing as my working from home depended almost exclusively on how sick I was of coming up with outfits each morning, there was no need to put it off.
Me: In that case, that would be Monday.
Monday it was.
Signs of Hope: He was slow on the uptake, but he did eventually take things up.
Red Flags: I want someone who just gets in there and claims me. Is that unrealistic? Because this guy doesn't seem like a guy who stakes a claim.
Turning Point: When he FINALLY asked if I wanted to go for fro-yo.
Diagnosis: For him: Is he just a patient guy? Does he like to take his time with new relationships? His seeming abundance of exes says otherwise. Or, is he unavailable?
For me: Am I too impatient? Demanding? Maybe I need to give a little more. Act more interested. Be less expectant.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Emotional Chicken
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2, Don't Tell Mama, Mr. Leaky, A Game of Text and Friends, Zero Benefits for the background on this one.
It had very much occurred to me that #126 may have offered me his apartment to get me into bed. He was leaky. It made sense. He may not have even been aware he’d done it. The best liars, after all, lie to themselves first.
When I got home, I told Zoe what happened.
“What a tosser,” she said.
“He said he sold himself short.”
“That’s not your problem,” she said. “The thing is-is, a deal’s a deal. And it was his idea. It’s not like you came to him and said, ‘I’ll give you $1,200 for your place.’ He came to you with it. And now, you’ve had that deal for more than a month and he goes back on it. As far as he knows, I was planning on moving in here and now I have to find another place. That’s not on. The deal he made could hold up in court. He doesn’t deserve your friendship.”
“I can’t have any more bad blood,” I said. It was true. There was already too much of it floating around. I didn’t have the energy to hate him.
Zoe put down her hair straightener and came over. “OK, you do what you need to do, but, after this, no more half-people. You need a fresh start. When I get my loft, there will be more lofts and you can get a nice, big place with lots of light.”
That made me feel better. For a little while, anyway. Zoe went off to wrestle the Williamsburg real estate market into submission and I tried to write, but I couldn’t concentrate. I called Kevin and told him the latest.
“Do you think you’d really be friends with him? At this point, he’s shown himself to be, frankly, a pretty sketchy friend.”
I explained the bad blood thing.
“It doesn’t have to be bad. You can really nicely say that you can’t be friends with him. And then it’s done, nothing to feel bad about.”
The most brilliant things are sometimes the most obvious—like spoons and wheels and chunks in ice cream. Letting him go nicely hadn’t even occurred to me. I couldn’t have planned a better set-up if I'd tried: I’d offered him friendship. But what one can giveth, one can taketh away. He’d changed his mind about our apartment deal, so I was changing mine about our friend deal.
“I know where I can tell him,” I said to Kevin. “The Bean.”
Yes, The Bean. The coffee shop where I’ve been dumped, half-dumped and anticipated getting dumped. It was payback time.
At 7:28 a.m. the next morning, I sent him a text: Can you meet tonight for coffee? It’s important. 9:30 at The Bean on 3rd St./1st Ave.
#126: No. I’m meeting a friend in Soho at 10. Working before that. Maybe in-between.
Me: OK. I’ll be in Soho so I could meet you at 9ish somewhere over there.
He called me at 6:30 p.m. as I was heading out the door.
“Yeah, I, uh, just got home,” he said.
So much for working until 10.
“Do you want to, uh, talk now?” he asked.
“Can you meet me at The Bean?” I said.
“No, I, uh, have to eat something before, uh, going to yoga. Do you want to come over and talk while I, uh, eat a bowl of cereal?”
“No, actually, I don’t,” I said. “Why don’t you call me after yoga when you’re in Soho and we can meet up before you meet your friend.”
At 9 p.m., I was in Soho at dinner with some friends waiting for his call to come in. Finally, at 9:45, he called.
“So, where are you? Where should we meet?” I asked.
“Uh, I’m still at home.”
“You are? You didn’t go to yoga?”
“Uh, no. And it looks like I’m, uh, going to have to take a cab to meet my friend so I’m not, uh, late.”
“So you won’t be able to meet tonight?”
Silence.
So much for meeting up in Soho. On the bright side, he was clearly terrified to meet me—a terror that made him skip yoga and spend money on a cab.
“OK. Well, then I guess it’ll have to be Wednesday,” I said.
On Tuesday, I sent him a reminder text about Wednesday.
Me: 5:30 at The Bean. And it is important, so please don’t blow it off like you did last night.
He didn’t respond.
Finally, Wednesday arrived.
#126 texted: Can we make it Whole foods at 5:30? I’m going to need to eat.
He was either clueless or trying to gain back some semblance of control. What he didn’t appear to realize was that I no longer cared what he needed. I was going to friend-dump him on my terms and his eating routine was not a factor I would take under consideration.
Me: Can’t. Bean is better for me.
#126: OK.
I took the bus from work and it pulled up in front of The Bean at 5:20. I walked over and sat on one side of an empty bench and then put my bag in the middle to create a barrier between us once he arrived.
When he walked up, he sat down and said, “You look really beautiful.”
I should probably mention I was wearing a low-cut dress with a push-up bra. I knew he had a compulsion to stare at every passing woman, but, for this conversation, I needed him to focus, so I gave him something to look at.
“So, I’ve been processing,” I said. “This whole thing with the apartment is really not cool.” He looked over my shoulder as if something was going on behind me. I turned to look and, when I turned back, his hand was in my bag and he was rummaging around in it.
“What are you doing?!” I asked.
He shook his head and shrugged. I thought he’d spotted the pack of cigarettes and was trying to get a better view of my big secret—that I smoked sometimes. I closed my bag.
“You came to me with this deal—you said you wanted someone in there who you could trust and that you didn’t care about money. You just wanted someone responsible who would put up with construction and let you crash there every now and then. You even said before you knew you could get $1,800 for it. We had a deal. You screwed me. You screwed Jo. I don’t buy this whole thing that only after talking to people you realized that you could get that much money for it.
“I made a bad deal. It was stupid. I made a mistake. I’m a vet and I make $20 an hour in New Mexico. I have low self-esteem. I always undercut myself.” Kevin’s voice rang in my head: “Not. My. Problem.”
I thought back to when he told me he had once had three houses. “I don’t buy this whole, ‘I’m an idiot’ thing. I don’t think you’re that dumb.”
“You don’t have to, but that’s what it is.”
“I don’t trust you. I don’t respect you. So I can’t be friends with you.”
He nodded.
But I wasn’t done. “We had a verbal contract. That would hold up,” I said. The meaning was, hold up in court. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew why he’d been rummaging around in my bag. It wasn’t that he’d seen my cigarettes. He was looking for a recorder.
“I’m not that dumb,” he said. “I made a bad deal. I’m not perfect. You know, some are sicker than others.”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I feel sorry for you. You’re 45 years old and you’re using that as an excuse. That’s pretty sad,” I said.
“But it’s better than having you in there and me feeling like I’d done a dumb thing,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m glad you told me now rather than three months down the line. Now you get $2,000 a month. Congratulations. I hope whoever goes in there doesn’t screw you over.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You’re not a man of your word.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.
“I know that we’ll probably run into each other over the next month, so I wish you the best,” I said.
“Well, sweetie. Have a good day.” He got up and started to walk away. Without looking at me, he said, “Best wishes and good luck to you.”
“Good luck with everything,” I called after him.
Although it may look like it, nothing of the above was about the apartment.
Read the translation here.
Even before I slept with him, I sensed his offer would come to nothing. So when it did come to nothing, I wasn’t all that surprised or upset—not because I was relieved he didn't give me herpes, but because my expectations of him had been so low from the start.
But I noticed that other people—Zoe and Kevin, for instance—were pretty upset and wanted me to tell him off because he screwed me with the apartment. I wanted to tell him off because he screwed me. Period.
What we’d really been doing was playing a big game of emotional chicken. Remember, the fooling around started after we both said we could handle the whole situation, which meant that whoever admitted they’d been affected by our little liaison first lost. The apartment was the only game piece. Whoever backed out was the loser.
Signs of Hope: He finally did meet up with me.
Red Flags: He was terrified to meet up with me.
Turning Point: When I realized why he’d been snooping in my bag, I realized exactly how terrified he was.
Diagnosis: We were both losers. More specifically: emotionally unavailable losers.
For him: The real reason he didn’t want me living there was because we’d slept together and he wasn’t comfortable with the situation anymore. He had been affected by things. The rent was just a convenient excuse.
For me: I had been affected by our little liaison, too. It would have been really weird living in his place and dealing with him because some part of me would have always been hoping he’d come around. But he never would have.
It had very much occurred to me that #126 may have offered me his apartment to get me into bed. He was leaky. It made sense. He may not have even been aware he’d done it. The best liars, after all, lie to themselves first.
When I got home, I told Zoe what happened.
“What a tosser,” she said.
“He said he sold himself short.”
“That’s not your problem,” she said. “The thing is-is, a deal’s a deal. And it was his idea. It’s not like you came to him and said, ‘I’ll give you $1,200 for your place.’ He came to you with it. And now, you’ve had that deal for more than a month and he goes back on it. As far as he knows, I was planning on moving in here and now I have to find another place. That’s not on. The deal he made could hold up in court. He doesn’t deserve your friendship.”
“I can’t have any more bad blood,” I said. It was true. There was already too much of it floating around. I didn’t have the energy to hate him.
Zoe put down her hair straightener and came over. “OK, you do what you need to do, but, after this, no more half-people. You need a fresh start. When I get my loft, there will be more lofts and you can get a nice, big place with lots of light.”
That made me feel better. For a little while, anyway. Zoe went off to wrestle the Williamsburg real estate market into submission and I tried to write, but I couldn’t concentrate. I called Kevin and told him the latest.
“Do you think you’d really be friends with him? At this point, he’s shown himself to be, frankly, a pretty sketchy friend.”
I explained the bad blood thing.
“It doesn’t have to be bad. You can really nicely say that you can’t be friends with him. And then it’s done, nothing to feel bad about.”
The most brilliant things are sometimes the most obvious—like spoons and wheels and chunks in ice cream. Letting him go nicely hadn’t even occurred to me. I couldn’t have planned a better set-up if I'd tried: I’d offered him friendship. But what one can giveth, one can taketh away. He’d changed his mind about our apartment deal, so I was changing mine about our friend deal.
“I know where I can tell him,” I said to Kevin. “The Bean.”
Yes, The Bean. The coffee shop where I’ve been dumped, half-dumped and anticipated getting dumped. It was payback time.
At 7:28 a.m. the next morning, I sent him a text: Can you meet tonight for coffee? It’s important. 9:30 at The Bean on 3rd St./1st Ave.
#126: No. I’m meeting a friend in Soho at 10. Working before that. Maybe in-between.
Me: OK. I’ll be in Soho so I could meet you at 9ish somewhere over there.
He called me at 6:30 p.m. as I was heading out the door.
“Yeah, I, uh, just got home,” he said.
So much for working until 10.
“Do you want to, uh, talk now?” he asked.
“Can you meet me at The Bean?” I said.
“No, I, uh, have to eat something before, uh, going to yoga. Do you want to come over and talk while I, uh, eat a bowl of cereal?”
“No, actually, I don’t,” I said. “Why don’t you call me after yoga when you’re in Soho and we can meet up before you meet your friend.”
At 9 p.m., I was in Soho at dinner with some friends waiting for his call to come in. Finally, at 9:45, he called.
“So, where are you? Where should we meet?” I asked.
“Uh, I’m still at home.”
“You are? You didn’t go to yoga?”
“Uh, no. And it looks like I’m, uh, going to have to take a cab to meet my friend so I’m not, uh, late.”
“So you won’t be able to meet tonight?”
Silence.
So much for meeting up in Soho. On the bright side, he was clearly terrified to meet me—a terror that made him skip yoga and spend money on a cab.
“OK. Well, then I guess it’ll have to be Wednesday,” I said.
On Tuesday, I sent him a reminder text about Wednesday.
Me: 5:30 at The Bean. And it is important, so please don’t blow it off like you did last night.
He didn’t respond.
Finally, Wednesday arrived.
#126 texted: Can we make it Whole foods at 5:30? I’m going to need to eat.
He was either clueless or trying to gain back some semblance of control. What he didn’t appear to realize was that I no longer cared what he needed. I was going to friend-dump him on my terms and his eating routine was not a factor I would take under consideration.
Me: Can’t. Bean is better for me.
#126: OK.
I took the bus from work and it pulled up in front of The Bean at 5:20. I walked over and sat on one side of an empty bench and then put my bag in the middle to create a barrier between us once he arrived.
When he walked up, he sat down and said, “You look really beautiful.”
I should probably mention I was wearing a low-cut dress with a push-up bra. I knew he had a compulsion to stare at every passing woman, but, for this conversation, I needed him to focus, so I gave him something to look at.
“So, I’ve been processing,” I said. “This whole thing with the apartment is really not cool.” He looked over my shoulder as if something was going on behind me. I turned to look and, when I turned back, his hand was in my bag and he was rummaging around in it.
“What are you doing?!” I asked.
He shook his head and shrugged. I thought he’d spotted the pack of cigarettes and was trying to get a better view of my big secret—that I smoked sometimes. I closed my bag.
“You came to me with this deal—you said you wanted someone in there who you could trust and that you didn’t care about money. You just wanted someone responsible who would put up with construction and let you crash there every now and then. You even said before you knew you could get $1,800 for it. We had a deal. You screwed me. You screwed Jo. I don’t buy this whole thing that only after talking to people you realized that you could get that much money for it.
“I made a bad deal. It was stupid. I made a mistake. I’m a vet and I make $20 an hour in New Mexico. I have low self-esteem. I always undercut myself.” Kevin’s voice rang in my head: “Not. My. Problem.”
I thought back to when he told me he had once had three houses. “I don’t buy this whole, ‘I’m an idiot’ thing. I don’t think you’re that dumb.”
“You don’t have to, but that’s what it is.”
“I don’t trust you. I don’t respect you. So I can’t be friends with you.”
He nodded.
But I wasn’t done. “We had a verbal contract. That would hold up,” I said. The meaning was, hold up in court. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew why he’d been rummaging around in my bag. It wasn’t that he’d seen my cigarettes. He was looking for a recorder.
“I’m not that dumb,” he said. “I made a bad deal. I’m not perfect. You know, some are sicker than others.”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I feel sorry for you. You’re 45 years old and you’re using that as an excuse. That’s pretty sad,” I said.
“But it’s better than having you in there and me feeling like I’d done a dumb thing,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m glad you told me now rather than three months down the line. Now you get $2,000 a month. Congratulations. I hope whoever goes in there doesn’t screw you over.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“You’re not a man of your word.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.
“I know that we’ll probably run into each other over the next month, so I wish you the best,” I said.
“Well, sweetie. Have a good day.” He got up and started to walk away. Without looking at me, he said, “Best wishes and good luck to you.”
“Good luck with everything,” I called after him.
Although it may look like it, nothing of the above was about the apartment.
Read the translation here.
Even before I slept with him, I sensed his offer would come to nothing. So when it did come to nothing, I wasn’t all that surprised or upset—not because I was relieved he didn't give me herpes, but because my expectations of him had been so low from the start.
But I noticed that other people—Zoe and Kevin, for instance—were pretty upset and wanted me to tell him off because he screwed me with the apartment. I wanted to tell him off because he screwed me. Period.
What we’d really been doing was playing a big game of emotional chicken. Remember, the fooling around started after we both said we could handle the whole situation, which meant that whoever admitted they’d been affected by our little liaison first lost. The apartment was the only game piece. Whoever backed out was the loser.
Signs of Hope: He finally did meet up with me.
Red Flags: He was terrified to meet up with me.
Turning Point: When I realized why he’d been snooping in my bag, I realized exactly how terrified he was.
Diagnosis: We were both losers. More specifically: emotionally unavailable losers.
For him: The real reason he didn’t want me living there was because we’d slept together and he wasn’t comfortable with the situation anymore. He had been affected by things. The rent was just a convenient excuse.
For me: I had been affected by our little liaison, too. It would have been really weird living in his place and dealing with him because some part of me would have always been hoping he’d come around. But he never would have.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: The Translation
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2, Don't Tell Mama, Mr. Leaky, A Game of Text, Friends, Zero Benefits and Emotional Chicken for the background on this one.
Here’s what was really said:
Me: So, I’ve been processing. This whole thing with the apartment is really not cool…. I don’t buy this whole thing that only after talking to Mike did you realize that you could get that much money for it.
TRANSLATION: You liked me and we could have had a fun summer, but you fucked it up by freaking out when I didn't like that you'd be sleeping around. You're so afraid of commitment you can't even say you'll only sleep with one person--unless you're in a city where there aren't that many women to sleep with. And now you don't want me in your apartment because you feel like you fucked everything up.
#126: I made a bad deal. It was stupid. I made a mistake. I’m a vet and I make $20 an hour in New Mexico. I have low self-esteem. I always undercut myself.
TRANSLATION: You’re right. But I can’t tell you any of that because I’ve got a lot invested in this commitment-free free-spirit thing I’ve got going, so I’m sticking with the “I’m dumb” defense.
Me: I don’t buy this whole, "I’m an idiot" thing. I don’t think you’re that dumb.
TRANSLATION: Just admit that this whole thing has gotten to you and you know you totally fucked up. You went to the second best vet school in the nation. You knew what you were doing and now you regret everything! Say it!
#126: You don’t have to, but that’s what it is.
TRANSLATION: I will never admit it. I’d rather tell you I bribed my way into vet school than admit I have a brain.
Me: I don’t trust you. I don’t respect you. So I can’t be friends with you.
TRANSLATION: You’re an asshole.
#126: He nodded.
TRANSLATION: Yes, I am.
Me: We had a verbal contract. That would hold up.
TRANSLATION: You sooo know you’ve done wrong here on so many levels, so I’m going to make you sweat.
#126: I’m not that dumb, I just made a bad deal. I’m not perfect. You know, some are sicker than others.
TRANSLATION: I was already sweating. That’s why I was rummaging around in your bag. The “he’s dumb” defense worked for George W. Bush for eight years, so I’m sticking with it.
Me: I probably shouldn’t say this, but I feel sorry for you. You’re 45 years old and you’re using that as an excuse. That’s pretty sad.
TRANSLATION: Did I mention you’re an asshole?
#126: But it’s better than having you in there and me feeling like I’d done a dumb thing.
TRANSLATION: At least you found out I’m an asshole sooner rather than later.
Me: Yeah, I’m glad I found out now rather than three months down the line. Now you get $2,000 a month. Congratulations. I hope whoever goes in there doesn’t screw you over.
TRANSLATION: I hope whoever goes in there screws you over.
#126: Yeah, me, too.
TRANSLATION: Shit, they could.
Me: You’re not a man of your word.
TRANSLATION: You know how in astrology there are triple Leos? Well, on the planet earth, you’re a triple asshole.
#126: Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.
TRANSLATION: I am. But that’s just who I am. And did you notice I never said I was sorry about any of this?
Me: I know that we’ll probably run into each other over the next month, so I wish you the best.
TRANSLATION: Every time you see me, you’re going to regret you ever even considered moving back to New York.
#126: Well, sweetie. Have a good day…. Best wishes and good luck to you.
TRANSLATION: Damn, I screwed the wrong chick. I gotta get out of here.
Me: Good luck with everything.
TRANSLATION: “Fuck you.”
Here’s what was really said:
Me: So, I’ve been processing. This whole thing with the apartment is really not cool…. I don’t buy this whole thing that only after talking to Mike did you realize that you could get that much money for it.
TRANSLATION: You liked me and we could have had a fun summer, but you fucked it up by freaking out when I didn't like that you'd be sleeping around. You're so afraid of commitment you can't even say you'll only sleep with one person--unless you're in a city where there aren't that many women to sleep with. And now you don't want me in your apartment because you feel like you fucked everything up.
#126: I made a bad deal. It was stupid. I made a mistake. I’m a vet and I make $20 an hour in New Mexico. I have low self-esteem. I always undercut myself.
TRANSLATION: You’re right. But I can’t tell you any of that because I’ve got a lot invested in this commitment-free free-spirit thing I’ve got going, so I’m sticking with the “I’m dumb” defense.
Me: I don’t buy this whole, "I’m an idiot" thing. I don’t think you’re that dumb.
TRANSLATION: Just admit that this whole thing has gotten to you and you know you totally fucked up. You went to the second best vet school in the nation. You knew what you were doing and now you regret everything! Say it!
#126: You don’t have to, but that’s what it is.
TRANSLATION: I will never admit it. I’d rather tell you I bribed my way into vet school than admit I have a brain.
Me: I don’t trust you. I don’t respect you. So I can’t be friends with you.
TRANSLATION: You’re an asshole.
#126: He nodded.
TRANSLATION: Yes, I am.
Me: We had a verbal contract. That would hold up.
TRANSLATION: You sooo know you’ve done wrong here on so many levels, so I’m going to make you sweat.
#126: I’m not that dumb, I just made a bad deal. I’m not perfect. You know, some are sicker than others.
TRANSLATION: I was already sweating. That’s why I was rummaging around in your bag. The “he’s dumb” defense worked for George W. Bush for eight years, so I’m sticking with it.
Me: I probably shouldn’t say this, but I feel sorry for you. You’re 45 years old and you’re using that as an excuse. That’s pretty sad.
TRANSLATION: Did I mention you’re an asshole?
#126: But it’s better than having you in there and me feeling like I’d done a dumb thing.
TRANSLATION: At least you found out I’m an asshole sooner rather than later.
Me: Yeah, I’m glad I found out now rather than three months down the line. Now you get $2,000 a month. Congratulations. I hope whoever goes in there doesn’t screw you over.
TRANSLATION: I hope whoever goes in there screws you over.
#126: Yeah, me, too.
TRANSLATION: Shit, they could.
Me: You’re not a man of your word.
TRANSLATION: You know how in astrology there are triple Leos? Well, on the planet earth, you’re a triple asshole.
#126: Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.
TRANSLATION: I am. But that’s just who I am. And did you notice I never said I was sorry about any of this?
Me: I know that we’ll probably run into each other over the next month, so I wish you the best.
TRANSLATION: Every time you see me, you’re going to regret you ever even considered moving back to New York.
#126: Well, sweetie. Have a good day…. Best wishes and good luck to you.
TRANSLATION: Damn, I screwed the wrong chick. I gotta get out of here.
Me: Good luck with everything.
TRANSLATION: “Fuck you.”
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Friends, Zero Benefits
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2, Don't Tell Mama, Mr. Leaky and A Game of Text for the background on this one.
Around 5 p.m., I met #126 on the corner in front of The Bean.
“So, what’s going on?” I asked. We started walking up 1st Ave.
“Uh, yeah, I'm, uh, I’m going to weasel out of our deal,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“Yeah, I made a bad, uh, deal for myself. I was talking to Mike and when I told him about it, he said I was crazy, that I could get $2,000 for my place. I told him that a deal’s a deal and he said, ‘Yeah, a deal’s a deal, but you shouldn’t be making bad deals.’”
“You already knew you could get $1,800, but you said you wanted someone you trusted who could help direct renovations."
“I know. That’s what I do. I sell myself short.”
As we crossed 4th Street, I was quiet.
“Are you mad? I wouldn’t blame you for, uh, being mad,” he said. He nervously ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m processing,” I said. “So, where are we going?”
“Oh, I, uh, have to be uptown in 20 minutes.”
“You were just going to tell me and take off? We weren’t even going to talk about this?”
“Uh, yeah, do you want to, uh, talk?”
He really did need to be walked through everything—getting a ticket online, ordering a bed and having it delivered, buying frozen yogurt, initiating a conversation about the bombs he was dropping.
“Well, you’re leaving, so we can’t talk now. When can we talk?
“We could, uh, go to dinner on Wednesday?”
It was Sunday, but I knew that with him it was best to take what I could get.
“OK, let’s do that,” I said. I was already planning on leaving my money at home. To make it really count, maybe I’d make a reservation at Nobu.
“Yeah, we can go to dinner and process together,” he said.
That was annoying. Clearly, he’d already processed up a storm, concluding that he’d gladly trade his morals for money.
“I mean, don’t you want to maintain some kind of friendship?” I said. I know, I know, but it was the best I could do. After what had happened with Heidi (more on that later), I didn’t have the energy to hold onto any more resentment.
“Yeah, we were becoming friends before,” he said.
He wanted to get a sandwich before he got the bus uptown, so we turned around and headed back to the deli on the corner.
As he paid for his sandwich, I stood there smiling, thinking about what a spineless, clueless idiot my new friend was. I may have been losing an apartment, but I was gaining so much more: I'd never have to deal with his wishy-washy landlord ass again.
I snickered and then said, “Remember when you said the thing you hated most was disappointing women? Well, you did a good job with this one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. He put his head down and took his sandwich from the deli guy like a little boy who’d just been scolded.
He turned to me. “Your green eyes look really pretty with your green dress,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I looked at him and squinted, the wheels of understanding beginning to turn. Compliments were his way of extricating himself from sticky situations. Instead of saying, "I'm really sorry, what can I do to make it up to you?," flattery was his escape hatch, his diversionary tactic, his “look over there!”
As we walked out, I wasn't done giving him a hard time. “Yeah, you come to New York, look to bed down as many women as you can and then leave.”
“I, uh, don’t look to do anything. I just kind of float around and, uh, bump into things and when something comes along I, uh, don’t say no.”
I guess that meant I was one of the things he bumped into. I already knew he had a tendency to say all the wrong things, so I knew not to take it seriously. That in and of itself shouldn't have been acceptable. It really was like he was like a little kid, or even like George W., getting away with things because people assumed he just didn’t know any better.
“Asshole,” I said, hitting him on the arm. I put some power behind it.
At the bus stop, he was eating his sandwich as the bus pulled up. Before he got on, I could have told him about the big splotch of mustard on his chin, but I didn’t.
Signs of Hope: We were getting along(?)
Red Flags: He seemed a little too relieved when I mentioned the thing about being friends.
Turning Point: When he got on the bus. I walked away wondering if I’d let him off too easy.
Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he’s not really a spineless, clueless idiot. Maybe he just plays one in NYC.
For me: I’d gone all Rodney King on the situation because I couldn’t handle any more bad blood in my life. But had I done it at the expense of my dignity?
Around 5 p.m., I met #126 on the corner in front of The Bean.
“So, what’s going on?” I asked. We started walking up 1st Ave.
“Uh, yeah, I'm, uh, I’m going to weasel out of our deal,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“Yeah, I made a bad, uh, deal for myself. I was talking to Mike and when I told him about it, he said I was crazy, that I could get $2,000 for my place. I told him that a deal’s a deal and he said, ‘Yeah, a deal’s a deal, but you shouldn’t be making bad deals.’”
“You already knew you could get $1,800, but you said you wanted someone you trusted who could help direct renovations."
“I know. That’s what I do. I sell myself short.”
As we crossed 4th Street, I was quiet.
“Are you mad? I wouldn’t blame you for, uh, being mad,” he said. He nervously ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m processing,” I said. “So, where are we going?”
“Oh, I, uh, have to be uptown in 20 minutes.”
“You were just going to tell me and take off? We weren’t even going to talk about this?”
“Uh, yeah, do you want to, uh, talk?”
He really did need to be walked through everything—getting a ticket online, ordering a bed and having it delivered, buying frozen yogurt, initiating a conversation about the bombs he was dropping.
“Well, you’re leaving, so we can’t talk now. When can we talk?
“We could, uh, go to dinner on Wednesday?”
It was Sunday, but I knew that with him it was best to take what I could get.
“OK, let’s do that,” I said. I was already planning on leaving my money at home. To make it really count, maybe I’d make a reservation at Nobu.
“Yeah, we can go to dinner and process together,” he said.
That was annoying. Clearly, he’d already processed up a storm, concluding that he’d gladly trade his morals for money.
“I mean, don’t you want to maintain some kind of friendship?” I said. I know, I know, but it was the best I could do. After what had happened with Heidi (more on that later), I didn’t have the energy to hold onto any more resentment.
“Yeah, we were becoming friends before,” he said.
He wanted to get a sandwich before he got the bus uptown, so we turned around and headed back to the deli on the corner.
As he paid for his sandwich, I stood there smiling, thinking about what a spineless, clueless idiot my new friend was. I may have been losing an apartment, but I was gaining so much more: I'd never have to deal with his wishy-washy landlord ass again.
I snickered and then said, “Remember when you said the thing you hated most was disappointing women? Well, you did a good job with this one.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. He put his head down and took his sandwich from the deli guy like a little boy who’d just been scolded.
He turned to me. “Your green eyes look really pretty with your green dress,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I looked at him and squinted, the wheels of understanding beginning to turn. Compliments were his way of extricating himself from sticky situations. Instead of saying, "I'm really sorry, what can I do to make it up to you?," flattery was his escape hatch, his diversionary tactic, his “look over there!”
As we walked out, I wasn't done giving him a hard time. “Yeah, you come to New York, look to bed down as many women as you can and then leave.”
“I, uh, don’t look to do anything. I just kind of float around and, uh, bump into things and when something comes along I, uh, don’t say no.”
I guess that meant I was one of the things he bumped into. I already knew he had a tendency to say all the wrong things, so I knew not to take it seriously. That in and of itself shouldn't have been acceptable. It really was like he was like a little kid, or even like George W., getting away with things because people assumed he just didn’t know any better.
“Asshole,” I said, hitting him on the arm. I put some power behind it.
At the bus stop, he was eating his sandwich as the bus pulled up. Before he got on, I could have told him about the big splotch of mustard on his chin, but I didn’t.
Signs of Hope: We were getting along(?)
Red Flags: He seemed a little too relieved when I mentioned the thing about being friends.
Turning Point: When he got on the bus. I walked away wondering if I’d let him off too easy.
Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he’s not really a spineless, clueless idiot. Maybe he just plays one in NYC.
For me: I’d gone all Rodney King on the situation because I couldn’t handle any more bad blood in my life. But had I done it at the expense of my dignity?
Mr. Unavailable #126: A Game of Text
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2, Don't Tell Mama and Mr. Leaky for the background on this one.
A few days after the reality check with Eva, the oxytocin must have been wearing off because I was feeling pretty not-obsessed with #126. Nora and I headed to a Saturday night BBQ in Williamsburg. Eating s’mores made in an industrial smokestack, we popped squats by the tiki torches and yucked it up for a few hours with a couple of Brooklyn Unavailables, talking about what all Billyburg hipsters talk about, which is to say, nothing about sports and a lot about the last Pez dispenser they’d sold for multi-hundreds on eBay.
It was after midnight and we were getting ready to go when I checked my phone. There was a text from #126 from two and a half hours before.
#126: We need to talk...
I panicked. My first thought was the apartment. I texted him back, keeping it light.
Me: Uh oh. You didn’t give away my apartment did you?
Nothing.
I sent more texts in a desperate attempt to get him to reply.
Me: My imagination is going wild…
Me: I keep thinking of things…
Me: Are you pregnant?
Me: Are you calling the engagement off?
Still nothing. The subway ride home, although it was only two stops, was pretty much the longest subway ride ever.
When I got off at 1st Ave., I called him. He didn’t pick up, so I left a message that went something like this: “Hi, um, I know it’s after 1 a.m., but if you could call me back just to give me a quick idea of what’s up, that would be great. My imagination is going crazy at the moment, and I’m beginning to think it’s about a disease. I probably won’t be able to sleep, so call me.”
I woke Zoe up when I got home and told her what he'd sent.
"What a cunt," she said.
I slept. A little bit. At 9 a.m. the next morning, there was still no word from him. By 10 a.m., my anger was rising again. At 10:30 a.m., I sent him another text.
Me: Just tell me it’s not a disease and I can go on with my day.”
Now, #126 was not a Luddite. Whenever we were together, he always had his phone on him and whenever it made any kind of beep, ping or buzzing noise, he would look at it. There’s no way he hadn’t seen or heard one of my desperate pleas for reply.
Finally, four hours later, I got a text.
#126: Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. No diseases. Need to talk about apartment.
Me: OK. When?
#126: Not sure. When’s good for you?
Me: 30 minutes.
#126: Can’t. I’ll be near your house at about 4:45 – 5:00.
Me: OK. Then is fine.
A couple things:
1. He wasn’t sorry.
2. Why ask me when was good for me if he already knew what was good for him?
3. He’d “be near my house” in two hours? He lived a block away. Either he was sleeping with someone new or he was trying to make me think he was.
Whoever she was—if she was—I knew this much about her: she had no cat, she had a not-pee-stained mattress and she didn’t expect much from him. And if she did expect something from him, she hadn’t told him she did and was assuming it would magically materialize sometime in the distant future, which meant that sometime in the distant future, she would be sorely disappointed.
Signs of Hope: At least it's not a disease.
Red Flags: "We need to talk..."
Turning Point: When he finally responded. At least I could breathe again.
Diagnosis: For him: To send me a text at 9:30 on a Saturday night saying we needed to talk and then not being at all available to talk is a move made by a serious asshole. Upon deeper analysis, he was probably feeling a little bit like he wasn’t in control and his little Saturday-night text stunt was a way of getting some of it back.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: The Registry
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2, Don't Tell Mama, Mr. Leaky, A Game of Text and Friends, Zero Benefits for the background on this one.
One day, with the oxytocin having still not worn off, I decided to sign #126 and me up for a registry. Here's the invitation that went with it:
We're so happy you're going to celebrate our odd union with us.
No, we're not get married or moving in together. #126, after giving New York a two-week go of it, has decided he'd rather operate on exotic animals in Sedona. BUT he needs a tenant for his apartment who will pose as his sister so that he can get $100 off his maintenance fee. He also wants someone who will put up with ongoing renovations because he wants to fix the place up to sell it one day.
Tara, meanwhile, does not want to let go of her rent-stabilized East Village pad, so she's going to leave her furniture there and sublet it. And #126 has no furniture other than the hard little pee-stained twin mattress that he's been sticking it out on, so Tara needs furniture, kitchen supplies, etc. #126, of course, will be crashing on the floor when he returns to New York for visits, so will want something to sleep on (preferably something that repels cat hair).
#126 has blond hair and likes hair-brained schemes; Tara has blond hair and likes hair-brained schemes. It was, you could say, a match made in heaven--until they slept together. Yes, they couldn't help themselves. BUT because New Yorkers forge a far stronger bond with real estate than they do with each other, Tara and #126 have decided to put aside any differences and make a commitment to the apartment--although they still haven't figured out what to do if Tara has a boyfriend or #126 wants to bring a girlfriend. That could get hairy.
Aside from that, seeing as this may be the only shot either of them have at a Registry (well, #126 is a lost cause, but there's still hope for Tara), we encourage you to take part in this celebration.
To mark the occasion, Tara will throw some kind of housewarming thing. #126 will be there in spirit (easily done from Sedona). Please join us in celebrating the beginning of this landlord/tenant, renovationer/renovationee, faux brother/sister, former lover/now barely friends but real-estate-committed union.
One day, with the oxytocin having still not worn off, I decided to sign #126 and me up for a registry. Here's the invitation that went with it:
We're so happy you're going to celebrate our odd union with us.
No, we're not get married or moving in together. #126, after giving New York a two-week go of it, has decided he'd rather operate on exotic animals in Sedona. BUT he needs a tenant for his apartment who will pose as his sister so that he can get $100 off his maintenance fee. He also wants someone who will put up with ongoing renovations because he wants to fix the place up to sell it one day.
Tara, meanwhile, does not want to let go of her rent-stabilized East Village pad, so she's going to leave her furniture there and sublet it. And #126 has no furniture other than the hard little pee-stained twin mattress that he's been sticking it out on, so Tara needs furniture, kitchen supplies, etc. #126, of course, will be crashing on the floor when he returns to New York for visits, so will want something to sleep on (preferably something that repels cat hair).
#126 has blond hair and likes hair-brained schemes; Tara has blond hair and likes hair-brained schemes. It was, you could say, a match made in heaven--until they slept together. Yes, they couldn't help themselves. BUT because New Yorkers forge a far stronger bond with real estate than they do with each other, Tara and #126 have decided to put aside any differences and make a commitment to the apartment--although they still haven't figured out what to do if Tara has a boyfriend or #126 wants to bring a girlfriend. That could get hairy.
Aside from that, seeing as this may be the only shot either of them have at a Registry (well, #126 is a lost cause, but there's still hope for Tara), we encourage you to take part in this celebration.
To mark the occasion, Tara will throw some kind of housewarming thing. #126 will be there in spirit (easily done from Sedona). Please join us in celebrating the beginning of this landlord/tenant, renovationer/renovationee, faux brother/sister, former lover/now barely friends but real-estate-committed union.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Mr. Leaky
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1, Fireworks, Part 2 and Don't Tell Mama for the background on this one.
A week went by with no word from #126. Why I cared, I didn't know. Was I worried about the apartment? Did I just want him to want me even though I didn't even want him? Or did I want him?
I met up with Eva at Souen. She imitated my grimace from across the table, which made me, #1, laugh, and, #2, realize how grimacey I was.
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"It must be really that bad," she said, then turned her impression of my frown upside-down.
Was I seriously mooning over #126, the nose-picking, dirty-T-shirt-wearing, pee-stained-mattress-sleeping vet without a cause?
Eva had been at James’ birthday dinner, where I’d re-met #126, and at the rooftop party, where all other unavailables faded into the background when #126 appeared. But she hadn’t known any of what happened, so I laid it all down for her.
“That doesn't surprise me,” she said. “…He’s kind of leaky.”
What did that mean?
“When someone’s leaky, it means that they put out a general sexual vibe to most people to see what they get back.”
“Did he come onto you?” I asked.
“I thought he may have for a minute,” she said.
And then Eva saw my face.
“But I could tell at that rooftop party that you both liked each other and he definitely liked you,” she said.
“Should I text him? Just to say hello, you know, make things normal…ask how the apartment is coming along?”
“You do what I do. You give all of your power away. In a couple of days, he’ll wake up and miss you. And then he’ll be calling you asking you to go to dinner again.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“What’s wrong with me? I knew he was leaving and I never wanted a relationship with him.”
“It’s oxytocin,” Eva said. “You have to give yourself a break. It’s just chemical. It'll wear off.”
“That makes me feel a little better. Why do I go for these guys?”
“Well, I know why I go for them,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m emotionally unavailable,” she said, and then she giggled. Either I was sitting across from a total nut or I was in the presence of complete self-acceptance. “When I fall for someone who is wrong for me, it’s usually because I want something from them that subconsciously I know they can’t give me because I can’t even give it to myself. They’re my emotional mirrors.” Then she smiled and dipped her spoon into her soup. “We want someone to be there for us, but we have to be there for ourselves first. So that is the question. Are you available to yourself?”
I know I use the word “suddenly” a lot, but, suddenly, a lot of things made sense. If I’m not available to myself then I can’t be available to someone else and if I’m not available to someone else, I’m going to be picking people that I won’t have to be available to and who, in turn, won’t have to be available to me.
It was so simple. Yet so complex.
The answer was right there in front of me: It was me.
How annoying.
Eva glanced up behind me into the mirror and then looked at me from beneath her jet-black bangs. “You were so wrapped up in [#126] you didn’t even see the cute guy sitting next to you who’s been staring at you all night. He looked at you to smile before he got up, but you didn’t see him. And now he’s gone.”
“What guy? I totally didn’t see him.”
“I know you didn’t,” Eva said. And then she giggled.
Wow. I was worse than I thought.
Signs of Hope: I am merely an innocent victim of oxytocin.
Red Flags: I know almost nothing about how to be available to myself. Am I supposed to buy myself flowers when I have a bad day? That seems so pathetic. Oh...maybe that’s the problem.
Turning Point: When Eva revealed her unavailability, "suddenly" there was mine.
Diagnosis: For him: This is no longer about #126.
For me: My subconscious has been using these unavailable men as camouflage for my own unavailability. Or something like that.
A week went by with no word from #126. Why I cared, I didn't know. Was I worried about the apartment? Did I just want him to want me even though I didn't even want him? Or did I want him?
I met up with Eva at Souen. She imitated my grimace from across the table, which made me, #1, laugh, and, #2, realize how grimacey I was.
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"It must be really that bad," she said, then turned her impression of my frown upside-down.
Was I seriously mooning over #126, the nose-picking, dirty-T-shirt-wearing, pee-stained-mattress-sleeping vet without a cause?
Eva had been at James’ birthday dinner, where I’d re-met #126, and at the rooftop party, where all other unavailables faded into the background when #126 appeared. But she hadn’t known any of what happened, so I laid it all down for her.
“That doesn't surprise me,” she said. “…He’s kind of leaky.”
What did that mean?
“When someone’s leaky, it means that they put out a general sexual vibe to most people to see what they get back.”
“Did he come onto you?” I asked.
“I thought he may have for a minute,” she said.
And then Eva saw my face.
“But I could tell at that rooftop party that you both liked each other and he definitely liked you,” she said.
“Should I text him? Just to say hello, you know, make things normal…ask how the apartment is coming along?”
“You do what I do. You give all of your power away. In a couple of days, he’ll wake up and miss you. And then he’ll be calling you asking you to go to dinner again.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“What’s wrong with me? I knew he was leaving and I never wanted a relationship with him.”
“It’s oxytocin,” Eva said. “You have to give yourself a break. It’s just chemical. It'll wear off.”
“That makes me feel a little better. Why do I go for these guys?”
“Well, I know why I go for them,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m emotionally unavailable,” she said, and then she giggled. Either I was sitting across from a total nut or I was in the presence of complete self-acceptance. “When I fall for someone who is wrong for me, it’s usually because I want something from them that subconsciously I know they can’t give me because I can’t even give it to myself. They’re my emotional mirrors.” Then she smiled and dipped her spoon into her soup. “We want someone to be there for us, but we have to be there for ourselves first. So that is the question. Are you available to yourself?”
I know I use the word “suddenly” a lot, but, suddenly, a lot of things made sense. If I’m not available to myself then I can’t be available to someone else and if I’m not available to someone else, I’m going to be picking people that I won’t have to be available to and who, in turn, won’t have to be available to me.
It was so simple. Yet so complex.
The answer was right there in front of me: It was me.
How annoying.
Eva glanced up behind me into the mirror and then looked at me from beneath her jet-black bangs. “You were so wrapped up in [#126] you didn’t even see the cute guy sitting next to you who’s been staring at you all night. He looked at you to smile before he got up, but you didn’t see him. And now he’s gone.”
“What guy? I totally didn’t see him.”
“I know you didn’t,” Eva said. And then she giggled.
Wow. I was worse than I thought.
Signs of Hope: I am merely an innocent victim of oxytocin.
Red Flags: I know almost nothing about how to be available to myself. Am I supposed to buy myself flowers when I have a bad day? That seems so pathetic. Oh...maybe that’s the problem.
Turning Point: When Eva revealed her unavailability, "suddenly" there was mine.
Diagnosis: For him: This is no longer about #126.
For me: My subconscious has been using these unavailable men as camouflage for my own unavailability. Or something like that.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Don't Tell Mama
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat, Fireworks, Part 1 and Fireworks, Part 2 for the background on this one.
The morning after the fireworks, #126 left and I dragged myself to work. He texted me in the afternoon: When r they going to call about the bed?
Me: Not sure. Just sent them a msg. I’ll email the info to you so you have it.
#126: Does that mean I have to read it?
Me: Only if I die and the delivery people never call you.
#126: Don’t die. OK?
Me: I promise not to die before the bed is delivered.
#126: You must be tired…are you OK?
Instead of texting back, I went home and fell asleep. Mid-nap, he texted me again.
#126: I think I’m going to Mama’s to eat. You hungry?
Me: Yes. I just woke up.
He had to pick up his laundry, so I met him outside of the laundry place with a smile.
“My joke about dying is just my acerbic wit,” I said.
“Oh…you’re…acerbic wit,” he said, nodding heavily like he usually did. I couldn’t tell if he bought it or not. Yes, I had been trying to make him feel guilty. And it had kind of worked.
We dropped his laundry off at his apartment and then headed to Mama’s, a buffet-style hole in the wall with floor to ceiling portraits of, most likely, Mama’s extended family. I told the person behind the plastic partition what I wanted and he scooped everything onto a plate. I was slow to get my money out and when #126 indicated he’d pay for me, I said, “Oh, thanks so much for dinner.” Finally, payback time.
We sat down and, over Mama's home cooking, just talked. All sexual tension was gone. We were just being nice to each other. It felt as if we'd just been to battle and, having reached a peaceful accord, were obligated to go to dinner at least once. In fact, the whole evening had a last-supper air about it. At the end, he took my plates up to the counter and held the door open for me—just like he had the first time we went to dinner. Had we come full-circle?
We said good-bye on the corner of Ave. A and 3rd St.
"Bye, gorgeous," he said. When I turned to walk away, I was pretty sure he was still watching me.
It was becoming more and more clear that there really was a helpless 17-year-old living inside his 45-year-old frame. This must have been just a glimpse of what it must be like to be his girlfriend.
I texted him back.
Signs of Hope: He was still going to be my landlord, after all, so at least we were getting along.
Red Flags: Would this landlord-tenant thing work? After all, we would never be fully alone in the same room again because a really big elephant would always be with us.
Turning Point: The tantrum that preceded the bed cancellation and then the bed cancellation itself. I already knew what was between us was done, but maybe something else has changed.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable.
For me: Did I really just go off and get attached to someone I knew was unavailable from the start? Really? I mean, really?
The morning after the fireworks, #126 left and I dragged myself to work. He texted me in the afternoon: When r they going to call about the bed?
Me: Not sure. Just sent them a msg. I’ll email the info to you so you have it.
#126: Does that mean I have to read it?
Me: Only if I die and the delivery people never call you.
#126: Don’t die. OK?
Me: I promise not to die before the bed is delivered.
#126: You must be tired…are you OK?
Instead of texting back, I went home and fell asleep. Mid-nap, he texted me again.
#126: I think I’m going to Mama’s to eat. You hungry?
Me: Yes. I just woke up.
He had to pick up his laundry, so I met him outside of the laundry place with a smile.
“My joke about dying is just my acerbic wit,” I said.
“Oh…you’re…acerbic wit,” he said, nodding heavily like he usually did. I couldn’t tell if he bought it or not. Yes, I had been trying to make him feel guilty. And it had kind of worked.
We dropped his laundry off at his apartment and then headed to Mama’s, a buffet-style hole in the wall with floor to ceiling portraits of, most likely, Mama’s extended family. I told the person behind the plastic partition what I wanted and he scooped everything onto a plate. I was slow to get my money out and when #126 indicated he’d pay for me, I said, “Oh, thanks so much for dinner.” Finally, payback time.
We sat down and, over Mama's home cooking, just talked. All sexual tension was gone. We were just being nice to each other. It felt as if we'd just been to battle and, having reached a peaceful accord, were obligated to go to dinner at least once. In fact, the whole evening had a last-supper air about it. At the end, he took my plates up to the counter and held the door open for me—just like he had the first time we went to dinner. Had we come full-circle?
We said good-bye on the corner of Ave. A and 3rd St.
"Bye, gorgeous," he said. When I turned to walk away, I was pretty sure he was still watching me.
The next day, he texted me.
#126: Can you contact the bed people again. Tell them this is my only day to be here.
Me: It probably makes more sense for you to contact them directly so that you can work out delivery. Maybe it will just have to be next week?
#126: I just spoke to them. Won’t be here until late next week. Which comes out to 300 for 5 weeks. I’m going to cancel the order and stick it out on the hard little mattress.
At first I was angry. And then I read it again. Something had gotten to him. He was having a tantrum.
I’d been playing bad cop for a few days, so I decided to switch back to good cop.
Me: Are u OK?
Two hours later...
#126: Yes. I just got angry at them like I was 8 years old.
Me: I figured. J It’s OK. We can cancel it.
#126: Thanks.
Signs of Hope: He was still going to be my landlord, after all, so at least we were getting along.
Red Flags: Would this landlord-tenant thing work? After all, we would never be fully alone in the same room again because a really big elephant would always be with us.
Turning Point: The tantrum that preceded the bed cancellation and then the bed cancellation itself. I already knew what was between us was done, but maybe something else has changed.
Diagnosis: For him: Unavailable.
For me: Did I really just go off and get attached to someone I knew was unavailable from the start? Really? I mean, really?
Mr. Unavailable #126: Fireworks, Part 2
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn, In Heat and Fireworks, Part 1 for the background on this one.
“Talk? He wants to talk? Is he breaking up with me…?” I thought. I had to sit down on my sofa. My mind raced but then stopped racing as soon as I remembered there was nothing to break up.
“In the car back there, when you asked if there were other girls, uh, I realized maybe we’re not thinking the same thing.”
“Well, dating other people is fine. This isn’t a relationship or anything.”
He was silent.
“Or are you sleeping with other women?”
He just looked at me.
“How many women are you sleeping with?”
“I don’t have to tell you that,” he said.
“Well, that’s the end of the unprotected sex then,” I said.
“Yeah, that was stupid,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said, shooing him away. “This is not the first time this has happened. Go, go, go sleep with lots of women. I understand. You’re in New York. It’s a candy store. Go on.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I feel sick,” I said. I let him stand there uncomfortably for two or three minutes. I really did feel sick. I also wanted him to suffer a little bit while I considered my options.
“Part of me wants you to stay and part of me wants you to go.”
“Which is stronger?” he asked.
I let another two silent minutes go by.
“I don’t know. I suppose the side that wants you to stay.”
It was kind of pathetic, but I didn’t want to be alone. And, generally, I have noticed that the person who causes our misery is the one person we want to comfort us, which helps explain why people break up and get back together all the time.
He sat down again. "I knew I shouldn't have touched you," he said. "I told myself, 'Don't touch her, she's someone who should really be taken care of.'"
Two more silent minutes went by.
“Please, just tell me how many. I need to know. I need to know so I can go get tested.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone since my ex,” he said. “Just a date. No one will sleep with me.”
He sounded sufficiently demoralized. Between that and remembering his fervor at our first encounter, I was inclined to believe him. But still…
I let there be more silence. I was milking it. My one joy was seeing him squirm. So I let him squirm.
"Are you still going to rent my apartment?" he asked.
"Of course. I know how to separate the two."
"You're not going to go crazy and set fire to it or anything, are you?"
What is it with men assuming every woman scorned goes nuts. I know hell hath no fury and all, but really? My revenge schemes have no room for jail time.
“The thing I hate most is disappointing women,” he said. “I grew up surrounded by women, so I was always disappointing them.”
I nodded and sat with my arms around my knees picturing little #126, who, through no fault of his own, of course, was inadvertently disappointing all the women around him.
Then I started imagining these other dates he’d been going on. “When you go on dates with these women and they ask you to take them for frozen yogurt, do you buy them frozen yogurt?”
He put his head down. “Oh,” he said, “I thought I should maybe buy it for you but then it seemed like you were used to paying because you went there all the time.”
That was lame.
Sitting with my arms around my knees, I was actually creating a barrier between me and his lameness. There was more silence, which, for him, equaled more squirming. And, for me, more satisfaction.
“Are you going to be sleeping with these women in my bed?” It had only just occurred to me and the thought of it was too much. I covered my face with my arms and sank back onto the sofa. He put his hands on my leg and pulled me to him, putting his arms around me. Tears seeped through my hands and onto his shirt. It was real, but I was also going for effect.
“Are you crying, baby?” he asked.
I leaned away from him and looked at him. “Just promise me you’ll put a rubber sheet down before you sleep with any of them. Or don’t even tell them you have a real bed. Just lead them to the pee-stained twin mattress.”
He laughed.
“Seriously,” I said, “just promise me you’ll put a rubber sheet down. Tell them that’s your thing. I don’t want a contaminated bed.”
And then he did the only thing he probably knew to do with crying girls—he went straight to sex.
I should probably mention that each time #126 and I had sex, it got incrementally weirder. I discovered that he liked me to make simple requests of him—you know, “Fuck me” and things like that. On this particular evening, he asked me to make such a request and then added an addendum, “Louder…Say it louder.”
I thought of my old, gay neighbor on the other side of the wall and only quietly acquiesced. But, apparently, that wasn’t good enough.
“Louder, bitch!” he yelled. And then he slapped me on the ass.
I was shocked, yes, but mostly I was amused. I’d heard that people introduced name-calling into their sex lives, but I’d never actually experienced it. I also sensed that this was the last time we’d be together, so I chuckled to myself and faked a finale—a quiet one, for my neighbor’s sake.
In the night, he was having problems sleeping. I asked him what was wrong and then he admitted he was allergic to cats. “Yeah, I know, a vet who’s allergic to cats. Don’t tell anyone,” he said.
The next morning, things were semi-weird. On the pros side, he told me I was “beautiful in the morning” and said I should call in sick and go over to his apartment with him to nap. On the cons side, he wasn’t up for morning sex and napping with him meant "on the pee-stained mattress." But the finishing touch was when he said, “I slept horribly, I couldn’t breathe. I can’t stay over here again.”
Signs of Hope: There was one sign of hope (from Part 1): He traveled all the way up to the Upper East Side on the 4th of July—missing the fireworks—to see me.
Red Flags: Everything he said at the diner (also from Part 1), everything he said on my sofa and most of what he said in my bed.
Turning Point: When he wanted to talk. In my experience, that’s never a good sign.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s even more unavailable than I had assumed.
For me: I had assumed too much. To me, he’d been the bumbling veterinarian upon whom I was graciously bestowing my sexual presence. In reality, he was a prowling man-whore looking to get laid any way he could. In my false reality, I was special. In the real one, I was not.
“Talk? He wants to talk? Is he breaking up with me…?” I thought. I had to sit down on my sofa. My mind raced but then stopped racing as soon as I remembered there was nothing to break up.
“In the car back there, when you asked if there were other girls, uh, I realized maybe we’re not thinking the same thing.”
“Well, dating other people is fine. This isn’t a relationship or anything.”
He was silent.
“Or are you sleeping with other women?”
He just looked at me.
“How many women are you sleeping with?”
“I don’t have to tell you that,” he said.
“Well, that’s the end of the unprotected sex then,” I said.
“Yeah, that was stupid,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said, shooing him away. “This is not the first time this has happened. Go, go, go sleep with lots of women. I understand. You’re in New York. It’s a candy store. Go on.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I feel sick,” I said. I let him stand there uncomfortably for two or three minutes. I really did feel sick. I also wanted him to suffer a little bit while I considered my options.
“Part of me wants you to stay and part of me wants you to go.”
“Which is stronger?” he asked.
I let another two silent minutes go by.
“I don’t know. I suppose the side that wants you to stay.”
It was kind of pathetic, but I didn’t want to be alone. And, generally, I have noticed that the person who causes our misery is the one person we want to comfort us, which helps explain why people break up and get back together all the time.
He sat down again. "I knew I shouldn't have touched you," he said. "I told myself, 'Don't touch her, she's someone who should really be taken care of.'"
Two more silent minutes went by.
“Please, just tell me how many. I need to know. I need to know so I can go get tested.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone since my ex,” he said. “Just a date. No one will sleep with me.”
He sounded sufficiently demoralized. Between that and remembering his fervor at our first encounter, I was inclined to believe him. But still…
I let there be more silence. I was milking it. My one joy was seeing him squirm. So I let him squirm.
"Are you still going to rent my apartment?" he asked.
"Of course. I know how to separate the two."
"You're not going to go crazy and set fire to it or anything, are you?"
What is it with men assuming every woman scorned goes nuts. I know hell hath no fury and all, but really? My revenge schemes have no room for jail time.
“The thing I hate most is disappointing women,” he said. “I grew up surrounded by women, so I was always disappointing them.”
I nodded and sat with my arms around my knees picturing little #126, who, through no fault of his own, of course, was inadvertently disappointing all the women around him.
Then I started imagining these other dates he’d been going on. “When you go on dates with these women and they ask you to take them for frozen yogurt, do you buy them frozen yogurt?”
He put his head down. “Oh,” he said, “I thought I should maybe buy it for you but then it seemed like you were used to paying because you went there all the time.”
That was lame.
Sitting with my arms around my knees, I was actually creating a barrier between me and his lameness. There was more silence, which, for him, equaled more squirming. And, for me, more satisfaction.
“Are you going to be sleeping with these women in my bed?” It had only just occurred to me and the thought of it was too much. I covered my face with my arms and sank back onto the sofa. He put his hands on my leg and pulled me to him, putting his arms around me. Tears seeped through my hands and onto his shirt. It was real, but I was also going for effect.
“Are you crying, baby?” he asked.
I leaned away from him and looked at him. “Just promise me you’ll put a rubber sheet down before you sleep with any of them. Or don’t even tell them you have a real bed. Just lead them to the pee-stained twin mattress.”
He laughed.
“Seriously,” I said, “just promise me you’ll put a rubber sheet down. Tell them that’s your thing. I don’t want a contaminated bed.”
And then he did the only thing he probably knew to do with crying girls—he went straight to sex.
I should probably mention that each time #126 and I had sex, it got incrementally weirder. I discovered that he liked me to make simple requests of him—you know, “Fuck me” and things like that. On this particular evening, he asked me to make such a request and then added an addendum, “Louder…Say it louder.”
I thought of my old, gay neighbor on the other side of the wall and only quietly acquiesced. But, apparently, that wasn’t good enough.
“Louder, bitch!” he yelled. And then he slapped me on the ass.
I was shocked, yes, but mostly I was amused. I’d heard that people introduced name-calling into their sex lives, but I’d never actually experienced it. I also sensed that this was the last time we’d be together, so I chuckled to myself and faked a finale—a quiet one, for my neighbor’s sake.
In the night, he was having problems sleeping. I asked him what was wrong and then he admitted he was allergic to cats. “Yeah, I know, a vet who’s allergic to cats. Don’t tell anyone,” he said.
The next morning, things were semi-weird. On the pros side, he told me I was “beautiful in the morning” and said I should call in sick and go over to his apartment with him to nap. On the cons side, he wasn’t up for morning sex and napping with him meant "on the pee-stained mattress." But the finishing touch was when he said, “I slept horribly, I couldn’t breathe. I can’t stay over here again.”
Signs of Hope: There was one sign of hope (from Part 1): He traveled all the way up to the Upper East Side on the 4th of July—missing the fireworks—to see me.
Red Flags: Everything he said at the diner (also from Part 1), everything he said on my sofa and most of what he said in my bed.
Turning Point: When he wanted to talk. In my experience, that’s never a good sign.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s even more unavailable than I had assumed.
For me: I had assumed too much. To me, he’d been the bumbling veterinarian upon whom I was graciously bestowing my sexual presence. In reality, he was a prowling man-whore looking to get laid any way he could. In my false reality, I was special. In the real one, I was not.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: Fireworks, Part 1
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration, Sanity Takes a Turn and In Heat for the background on this one.
Now might be a good time to catch up with the adventures of Zoe. She’d gone to meet Big Willy in Philly for the July 4th weekend. While I was in the midst of my insanity, she was on a Peter Pan bus hurtling toward the City of Brotherly Love and simultaneously texting me off the ledge. But then she went silent when, presumably, she'd arrived and come face to face with Big Willy. She resurfaced a few hours later with an initial report: “Hi darling I am having fun the willy is big. x"
Knowing Zoe was fully taken care of, and feeling that I was now off the ledge, I waited until the next day to text #126 back about the bed. I told him that I’d ordered it and that the bed people would be calling him to schedule a delivery. He seemed happy about it.
#126: Slamming
#126: !
#126: What’d we get?
Me: Simmons beautyrest pillowtop plush yumminess.
#126: Sweeet!!! We’re practically married…
Me: Yup. And most likely it’ll be a shotgun wedding.
#126: Who’s holding the gun?
Me: My father.
#126: I’m getting a woody.
He was headed out to Long Island with his friend Mike and said he’d call me when he was back in the city. I fixed myself up in a saucy halter dress and headed to a rooftop party on the Upper East Side, where I met Kevin and Nora. The fireworks started at about the same time I got a voicemail from #126 saying he was back in the city.
I texted a reply, saying he could either wait for an hour until I was back downtown or he could come uptown to meet me.
“He’s not going to come uptown,” Kevin said.
A few minutes later, #126 wrote back: “I’m on my way.”
I held my phone up so Kevin could see.
"Touche. Is he in heat, too?"
"Guess so."
After the fireworks, I went across the street and sat on the steps of the church to wait. I saw #126 turn a corner and, as he walked up to me, he ran his hand through his hair and tried to squelch a hungry grin.
“You look gorgeous. And I’m, uh, not just saying that. I mean, yeah, you look, uh, beautiful.”
Sitting next to me, he nodded heavily and started to speak, “So, uh, yeah….what do you want to, uh, do?”
I leaned back, crossed my legs and started to speak. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him survey me—and please excuse me because I’m purely going for alliteration—from tits to toes.
Just then Nora and Kevin walked up and asked if we wanted to get some food. He refocused his attention on my face and said, “Yeah…yeah…let’s get some, uh….food.”
He continued to scan me as we walked to the car. If he'd been an X-ray machine, I would have had a tumor by now. The two of us sat in the backseat and he told me a story about how an old girlfriend of his had hooked up with his friend while they were dating and then she went off with him and married him.
“Were you upset she did that?” I asked.
“No, I just took one of my other girlfriends to Colorado with me.”
I flinched.
“Do you have other girlfriends...now?”
Then he flinched.
“It’s totally OK if you do,” I said. “You can tell me.”
“No…no…” he said, shaking his head but not making eye contact.
We went to a diner in Chelsea where #126 and Kevin ordered like girls (salad, an egg white omelet) and Nora and I ordered like gluttons (chocolate chip pancakes, fries and French toast). Unbeknownst to #126, Kevin and Nora knew the full details of our tryst and began volleying questions to him across the table, all of which #126 hit effortlessly with anecdote after anecdote.
About a girlfriend from 17 years ago: “She used to have to pack my lunch for me and send me out the door in the morning. I was useless. And she’d never told me, but she decided that if I didn’t ask her to marry me within a year, she’d leave me. And I didn’t, so she did.”
About responsibility: “I can barely take care of myself, youknowwhatImean?”
About how he functions in the world: “I’ve pretty much relied on girlfriends to do everything for me.”
About his maturity level: “That’s probably why I get along with kids so well, I really never grew up.”
About his standard of living: “I mean, I don’t even know how to live. I sleep on a pee-stained mattress and live out of a suitcase, for godssake.”
Just a few dinners ago, he was telling me about how he once owned three houses. Now, he was saying his most prized possession was a urine-scented mattress. He might as well have turned to me and said, “I’m trying to turn you off right now. Is it working?” Little did he know the strength of my self-delusion.
After the diner, Nora drove us home—to my home, because that is the strength of my self-delusion—and as soon as we walked into my apartment, he said, “We need to talk.”
To be continued…
Signs of Hope: He used the word, "married"?
Red Flags: All his stories featured #126, The Narcissistic Dirtbag.
Turning Point: When he said it was OK that his girlfriend ran off with his best friend because, when it came to girlfriends, he had some spares.
Diagnosis: For him: We already knew he was unavailable, but now we're finding out exactly how deep it runs.
For me: Am I really OK with him having other girlfriends? Really? Am I?
Now might be a good time to catch up with the adventures of Zoe. She’d gone to meet Big Willy in Philly for the July 4th weekend. While I was in the midst of my insanity, she was on a Peter Pan bus hurtling toward the City of Brotherly Love and simultaneously texting me off the ledge. But then she went silent when, presumably, she'd arrived and come face to face with Big Willy. She resurfaced a few hours later with an initial report: “Hi darling I am having fun the willy is big. x"
Knowing Zoe was fully taken care of, and feeling that I was now off the ledge, I waited until the next day to text #126 back about the bed. I told him that I’d ordered it and that the bed people would be calling him to schedule a delivery. He seemed happy about it.
#126: Slamming
#126: !
#126: What’d we get?
Me: Simmons beautyrest pillowtop plush yumminess.
#126: Sweeet!!! We’re practically married…
Me: Yup. And most likely it’ll be a shotgun wedding.
#126: Who’s holding the gun?
Me: My father.
#126: I’m getting a woody.
He was headed out to Long Island with his friend Mike and said he’d call me when he was back in the city. I fixed myself up in a saucy halter dress and headed to a rooftop party on the Upper East Side, where I met Kevin and Nora. The fireworks started at about the same time I got a voicemail from #126 saying he was back in the city.
I texted a reply, saying he could either wait for an hour until I was back downtown or he could come uptown to meet me.
“He’s not going to come uptown,” Kevin said.
A few minutes later, #126 wrote back: “I’m on my way.”
I held my phone up so Kevin could see.
"Touche. Is he in heat, too?"
"Guess so."
After the fireworks, I went across the street and sat on the steps of the church to wait. I saw #126 turn a corner and, as he walked up to me, he ran his hand through his hair and tried to squelch a hungry grin.
“You look gorgeous. And I’m, uh, not just saying that. I mean, yeah, you look, uh, beautiful.”
Sitting next to me, he nodded heavily and started to speak, “So, uh, yeah….what do you want to, uh, do?”
I leaned back, crossed my legs and started to speak. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him survey me—and please excuse me because I’m purely going for alliteration—from tits to toes.
Just then Nora and Kevin walked up and asked if we wanted to get some food. He refocused his attention on my face and said, “Yeah…yeah…let’s get some, uh….food.”
He continued to scan me as we walked to the car. If he'd been an X-ray machine, I would have had a tumor by now. The two of us sat in the backseat and he told me a story about how an old girlfriend of his had hooked up with his friend while they were dating and then she went off with him and married him.
“Were you upset she did that?” I asked.
“No, I just took one of my other girlfriends to Colorado with me.”
I flinched.
“Do you have other girlfriends...now?”
Then he flinched.
“It’s totally OK if you do,” I said. “You can tell me.”
“No…no…” he said, shaking his head but not making eye contact.
We went to a diner in Chelsea where #126 and Kevin ordered like girls (salad, an egg white omelet) and Nora and I ordered like gluttons (chocolate chip pancakes, fries and French toast). Unbeknownst to #126, Kevin and Nora knew the full details of our tryst and began volleying questions to him across the table, all of which #126 hit effortlessly with anecdote after anecdote.
About a girlfriend from 17 years ago: “She used to have to pack my lunch for me and send me out the door in the morning. I was useless. And she’d never told me, but she decided that if I didn’t ask her to marry me within a year, she’d leave me. And I didn’t, so she did.”
About responsibility: “I can barely take care of myself, youknowwhatImean?”
About how he functions in the world: “I’ve pretty much relied on girlfriends to do everything for me.”
About his maturity level: “That’s probably why I get along with kids so well, I really never grew up.”
About his standard of living: “I mean, I don’t even know how to live. I sleep on a pee-stained mattress and live out of a suitcase, for godssake.”
Just a few dinners ago, he was telling me about how he once owned three houses. Now, he was saying his most prized possession was a urine-scented mattress. He might as well have turned to me and said, “I’m trying to turn you off right now. Is it working?” Little did he know the strength of my self-delusion.
After the diner, Nora drove us home—to my home, because that is the strength of my self-delusion—and as soon as we walked into my apartment, he said, “We need to talk.”
To be continued…
Signs of Hope: He used the word, "married"?
Red Flags: All his stories featured #126, The Narcissistic Dirtbag.
Turning Point: When he said it was OK that his girlfriend ran off with his best friend because, when it came to girlfriends, he had some spares.
Diagnosis: For him: We already knew he was unavailable, but now we're finding out exactly how deep it runs.
For me: Am I really OK with him having other girlfriends? Really? Am I?
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Mr. Unavailable #126: In Heat
See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration and Sanity Takes a Turn for the background on this one.
After Kevin left, and with still no word from #126, I had only one thing in mind. Relief. I opened the night table drawer next to my bed and pulled out my trusty battery-powered boyfriend. Now, I know you don’t want to hear about my vibrator, but, funny story…
This was a vibrator I’d had for possibly seven years. Back then, when I’d gone shopping for it at Babes in Toyland, it caught my eye. It was fire engine red with bright yellow flames—a veritable flame thrower. I’m not sure how many times I’d used it, but let’s just say the flames had worn off long ago.
I'm not exactly sure why, but, whether it was the pill or temporary insanity, I was pretty much in heat. I leapt under my sheets, grabbed the flame thrower and twisted the top to the on position. Nothing. I groaned—a guttural, almost mournful kind of groan, like something one might hear at the wailing wall. I pulled out my entire supply of C batteries and tried them all. No signs of life.
I put myself back together—physically and, as much as I could, mentally—and headed to Babes on the Lower East Side. It had been seven years since I’d last been there...and there’s nothing embarrassing about buying a vibrator...at least it’s the one store on the planet that has made sex toys cool.
When I walked in, there were only a few other customers, so I went straight for the more utilitarian section and picked a large, silver-bullet-like Babes in Toyland-branded one. The funky redhead at the register gave me the schpiel: it had been battery-tested but, if it didn't work, was exchangeable within 60 days with the packaging and the receipt.
I didn’t tell her, but, if it didn’t work, I was phoning in a bomb threat.
“Do you need batteries?” she asked.
I thought of the pile of batteries I’d just left on my bed whilst trying to revive my old one.
“No, I’m good.”
At home, I put in a set of C’s and turned the top. Nothing. I tried different batteries in different combinations—old, new, old with new, upside down. Nothing.
This time, it wasn’t so much a groan but a depraved, animal cry, it’s full volume masked by my two-hour-old A/C. I threw the broken thing back in its bag and considered my options:
A. Go back right then, endure the embarrassment and put myself out of my misery.
B. Be cool and wait a few days, but remain in a hormonal pickle.
Considering the durability of my previous Babes buy, I probably wouldn’t see the shopkeepers for another seven years, so I decided to get it over with.
I walked in. “Hi,” I said. “I just got this and it doesn’t work.”
“Oh, OK.” It was the same funky redhead. “Let’s just check this out here.”
She reached under the counter and pulled out a pair of new blue surgical gloves.
“Let’s just see here…” She carefully put on the gloves and reached into the bag as if in the 20 minutes it had been out of the store it had co-mingled with nuclear waste.
She pulled out the vibrator, unscrewed the top, put in some batteries, screwed the top back on and….
(At this point—after the surgical gloves, the attitude and the fact that, clearly, my needs were urgent—if it did work, I’d have to come disguised if I ever stepped foot on the Lower East Side again.)
…she twisted the top to the on position. Nothing.
“Yup, wow, there’s nothing happening there,” she said, sounding surprised.
It turned out that particular silver bullet was the last in the store, so she said to exchange it for a different one. In no mood to loiter, I grabbed a harmless white bullet one that was smaller than the silver bullet but looked like it could do the job. Back at the counter, she asked if I wanted her to test it out.
Um, yes.
She selected a fresh pair of blue surgical gloves, put them on, opened the packaging, pulled out the white bullet, unscrewed the top, put some batteries in, screwed the top back on and…
(At this point, if it didn’t work, then I was officially cursed.)
…twisted the top to the on position. Success. Ah, vindication.
My triumph, however, was quickly dashed as she processed the exchange, saying, “I’ve worked here for six years and this is the fastest turnaround time I’ve ever seen.”
Momentarily embarrassing? Yes. Hours of misery cut short? Yes…yes…you know where I'm going with this.
Later, on my way to meet Kevin, I turned my phone back on.
There was a text from #126: Did we get a bed?
Thanks to my new battery-powered, white bullet boyfriend, I was in no rush to get back to him.
Signs of Hope: Even after a large degree of embarrassment, at least I managed to satisfy myself.
Red Flags: The fact that I had kind of lost my mind.
Turning Point: When #126 finally texted me.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s staying the course.
For me: At least now that the ball is in my court, I have some semblance of control, which means I have regained some semblance of sanity.
After Kevin left, and with still no word from #126, I had only one thing in mind. Relief. I opened the night table drawer next to my bed and pulled out my trusty battery-powered boyfriend. Now, I know you don’t want to hear about my vibrator, but, funny story…
This was a vibrator I’d had for possibly seven years. Back then, when I’d gone shopping for it at Babes in Toyland, it caught my eye. It was fire engine red with bright yellow flames—a veritable flame thrower. I’m not sure how many times I’d used it, but let’s just say the flames had worn off long ago.
I'm not exactly sure why, but, whether it was the pill or temporary insanity, I was pretty much in heat. I leapt under my sheets, grabbed the flame thrower and twisted the top to the on position. Nothing. I groaned—a guttural, almost mournful kind of groan, like something one might hear at the wailing wall. I pulled out my entire supply of C batteries and tried them all. No signs of life.
I put myself back together—physically and, as much as I could, mentally—and headed to Babes on the Lower East Side. It had been seven years since I’d last been there...and there’s nothing embarrassing about buying a vibrator...at least it’s the one store on the planet that has made sex toys cool.
When I walked in, there were only a few other customers, so I went straight for the more utilitarian section and picked a large, silver-bullet-like Babes in Toyland-branded one. The funky redhead at the register gave me the schpiel: it had been battery-tested but, if it didn't work, was exchangeable within 60 days with the packaging and the receipt.
I didn’t tell her, but, if it didn’t work, I was phoning in a bomb threat.
“Do you need batteries?” she asked.
I thought of the pile of batteries I’d just left on my bed whilst trying to revive my old one.
“No, I’m good.”
At home, I put in a set of C’s and turned the top. Nothing. I tried different batteries in different combinations—old, new, old with new, upside down. Nothing.
This time, it wasn’t so much a groan but a depraved, animal cry, it’s full volume masked by my two-hour-old A/C. I threw the broken thing back in its bag and considered my options:
A. Go back right then, endure the embarrassment and put myself out of my misery.
B. Be cool and wait a few days, but remain in a hormonal pickle.
Considering the durability of my previous Babes buy, I probably wouldn’t see the shopkeepers for another seven years, so I decided to get it over with.
I walked in. “Hi,” I said. “I just got this and it doesn’t work.”
“Oh, OK.” It was the same funky redhead. “Let’s just check this out here.”
She reached under the counter and pulled out a pair of new blue surgical gloves.
“Let’s just see here…” She carefully put on the gloves and reached into the bag as if in the 20 minutes it had been out of the store it had co-mingled with nuclear waste.
She pulled out the vibrator, unscrewed the top, put in some batteries, screwed the top back on and….
(At this point—after the surgical gloves, the attitude and the fact that, clearly, my needs were urgent—if it did work, I’d have to come disguised if I ever stepped foot on the Lower East Side again.)
…she twisted the top to the on position. Nothing.
“Yup, wow, there’s nothing happening there,” she said, sounding surprised.
It turned out that particular silver bullet was the last in the store, so she said to exchange it for a different one. In no mood to loiter, I grabbed a harmless white bullet one that was smaller than the silver bullet but looked like it could do the job. Back at the counter, she asked if I wanted her to test it out.
Um, yes.
She selected a fresh pair of blue surgical gloves, put them on, opened the packaging, pulled out the white bullet, unscrewed the top, put some batteries in, screwed the top back on and…
(At this point, if it didn’t work, then I was officially cursed.)
…twisted the top to the on position. Success. Ah, vindication.
My triumph, however, was quickly dashed as she processed the exchange, saying, “I’ve worked here for six years and this is the fastest turnaround time I’ve ever seen.”
Momentarily embarrassing? Yes. Hours of misery cut short? Yes…yes…you know where I'm going with this.
Later, on my way to meet Kevin, I turned my phone back on.
There was a text from #126: Did we get a bed?
Thanks to my new battery-powered, white bullet boyfriend, I was in no rush to get back to him.
Signs of Hope: Even after a large degree of embarrassment, at least I managed to satisfy myself.
Red Flags: The fact that I had kind of lost my mind.
Turning Point: When #126 finally texted me.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s staying the course.
For me: At least now that the ball is in my court, I have some semblance of control, which means I have regained some semblance of sanity.
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