Miss Matched in Manhattan

New York, New York: A Helluva Town

2010-04-28T14:32:00.005-04:00

Back in the jungle. Back to the grind. Sirens ring in my tender, California spoiled eardrums, while some teenage punk grabs his man bits in front of my Starbucks window perch. Scarf twirled jauntily round my neck, oxford walking shoes on feet, tis truly a comfort and curse to be back in the city.

Funny the things one grows accustomed to. Four AM drag races down my apartment's cross street. Morning Spanish lessons with the man who sells me my New York Post at the corner bodega. Mariachi bands interupting my ipod coma as the subway jerks me towards midtown. It is not the pristine waterside splendor of Seattle, nor the cookie cutter comfort of suburbia. I walk with shoulders hunched and scowl on my face, avoiding eye contact and terrified of tourists. Yet New York Melody is a character I wear like second skin. Constantly perturbed, bitter, aware of the ironic in all facets my day, this depressive diva wears her tough gal armour as though she graduated from the school of hard knocks. In Reality, she graduated from Suburban Bubble High, class of Fantasyland, and in truth, all this posing makes her tired. (And methinks tis also creating a permanently hunched right shoulder.)

A ceaseless chill bites my cheeks. Strangers step upon my toes. An intruder has broken into my local gym and now we must all carry IDs with us. Is a strip search on the horizon?

Truth be told, I want my sunshine back. I want to cruise the highway with Ipod blaring, no fear of guitar strums and yodels interrupting my tunes. I want to take my morning jog and know with absolute certainty that every single person along the trail will greet me with a smile and "Hello". To stand tall and gaze upon the world with an eagle-eye stare, and not an ashamed glance from downturned lids. Let's face it, as much as I am a posseur in the form of a Jaded Jill, I simply want a world where folks stop and breathe.

When I breifly visited Seattle, I adopted a child.

Not literally, of course. Twas one of those "Pay $22 a month, give your girl in Guatemala a college education" type situations. In New York, I admit to being guilty of brushing past the man on the street with clipboard in hand and photo of starving child in Africa on display. But... well, I don't know. Something about the spirit of joy and giving, community and overall Hippy Granola-dom in WA compelled my charitable butterfly to emerge from the cocoon. It may be a scam, but to at least feel human again for a brief moment was a bit of a shock. There can be sunshine and lollipops and all of that nonsense, even in the rainiest state of the country.

So the motto of the story is thus: Grumpy Grandma's gotta get herself the hell outta dodge to find a new attitude. Either that or get the dodginess outta this hell known as Manhattan.

Either way, and I now have a child in Guatemala. Maybe I'll go live with her.

Quarter Life Crisis

2010-04-28T00:19:00.001-04:00

As I savor the flavor of airport TCBY yogurt, the rich dutch chocolate swirled with vanilla bean slowly slipping down my parched throat, I am at the same time struggling to swallow a scream which threatens to emerge from said throat. Panic is setting in. Crisis chic is my ensemble de jour, and I am wearing it fully accessorized. Waiting in the Phoenix Airport, my resting point between the sure shores of Cali and the concrete jungle of NYC, I become fully aware that this past week's journey back west has been more than a celebration of my twenty-something years on earth. What began as a mere jaunt down the plant-lined paths of memory lane has turned into a catalyst of an experience: a perusal of the past forcing an about face to the future.

A quarter life crisis.

As an adolescent, I always found such comfort in the knowledge that I was fully certain of what I wanted to be "when I grow up". A small pitying smile played on my lips while fellow friends dabbled in General Education, dropping this major for that, living on a whim and a prayer. "Not I!" said the sheltered, Disney fed and bred drama queen. "Broadway or Bust" was the mantra engrained on my still developing brain, and this sureness (combined with a deadly fear of failure) led my life to revolve around a certain but simple reality. One goal, one path, one option, one... singular sensation. Trapped in my "one"-ness, suffocated and scared.

And then I saw the world.

Well, bits and pieces of it. A sampler platter, a tapas plate, a tantalizing appetizer of the human existence outside of myself. All at once fascinating, vibrant, stunning, terrifying, and mine for the conquering. I found myself haggling with petite (but persistent!) proprietresses in the markets of Kowloon, Hong Kong. Mountain biking through the hilly terrain in Skagway, Alaska, cross rickety railroad ties bordering seaplane runways. Panamanian baskets, Costa Rican bowls, Florentine paintings, Murano glassware- collecting the entities designated for a future place of prominence in the Museum de la Melody’s Casa. Preparing for the ultimate “Life on Land”, I knew an inevitable return to the daily grind was to be expected. There was a time I embraced that notion, lived for the idea of normalcy.

And then I came “home”.

Daily life became daily routine became daily depression. The activities I once so looked forward to (Grocery store shopping! Live television!) became monotonous, mundane, and left me feeling hollow. After an AM spent waiting in a cramped holding room with 300 carbon copy chorus cuties only to kick-ball-change my way to a night job catering to the whims of entitled Upper West Siders, all that would cycle through my dead-tired mind was a re-run movie entitled “A Year Ago Today”, starring moi.

“A Year Ago Today: I was sitting on a dock in Venice, sipping wine from a bottle as gondoliers drifted by, a song on their lips and a suave smile melting my heart.”

“A Year Ago Today: I was zip-lining through the Costa Rican rain forest, repelling down a cliffside, and diving into hidden lagoons, followed by a feast of black beans and plantains.”

“A Year Ago Today: I was visiting the Blue Mosque of Istanbul, munching on candy-coated almonds at the Spice Market, gazing upon piles of ancient rugs, tinted lamps en masse, and draped silk scarves, a tear in my eye as the call the prayer commenced.”

A year ago today, I knew me. Now, I wander the urban streets of Manhattan in a haze of confusion. Who am I, and where do I fit into this landscape? I gaze upon gals, glamorous and girly, gregariously pursuing “the dream” day in and day out, the marquees and city lights twinkling off their kohl lined eyes. I am the UFO, an unidentified foreign object, un-relatable female oddity, an imposter among show tune spouting, name-dropping die-hards.

Of this I am sure: I suffer from an extreme case of Wander Lust. Symptoms: A never-ceasing desire to be on the move, exploring unfamiliar territory with life in luggage and lovingly creased guidebook in back pocket. Side Affects: a loss of ability to set down roots, create lasting relationships, and quit envying Samantha Brown.

So the question becomes thus: How do I find the cure?

Let the quarter life crisis continue…

Spring Awake and Sing

2010-04-19T00:26:00.000-04:00

(aka the day I waited 8 hours outside in the cold at a non-equity open call... and lived to tell the tale)

I should know by now that in my person, there is simply no tolerance for these sorts of scenarios. And yet, somewhere in the barely breathing cock-eyed optimist hibernating within me, the idea seemed like a breeze. Open call for the first non-equity company of "Spring Awakening". With an 11 AM go time on a Sunday, the concept was, in theory, relatively pain-free. (After weeks of 10 o'clock starts, this extra hour seems a God-send). Truly, who in their right minds is going to pop out of bed on a holy morning, the day of rest, for some non-union gig?

The answer: seemingly every barely legal Broadway baby on the East Coast proper. We're talking Pennsylvania prepsters, Jersey juveniles, and the occasional tri-city tot. A day off from studies equals the chance to realize their tween dreams of Broadway stardom. Grandma should have known. Rounding the corner to Chelsea studios with a lovely cushion of two hours to prepare, my mind is blown as I see pubescents on parade, a line blocks long streaming from the building doors. Passers-by gape in curiosity at this mob scene. A new reality show in the works, they wonder? One of those MTV "Jersey Shore on the Hills of Laguna Beach" type programs? Trust me, mama nearly flipped a 180 right back to the 1 train after sighting the mob scene. Lawn chairs were out, for goodness sake. Sleeping bags and overnight cases appeared in view. And yet, to the line's end I marched, rationalizing that, with nothing but an evening shift at the restaurant on my day's agenda, why not wait?

And wait I did. Numbers were passed out, "So You Think You Can Dance" style. My official badge? 410. Two hours early, and I am in the mind blowing multiple hundreds. Yet I hunker down for the long haul. Ipod out and book opened for perusal, I am distracted by constant fascinating characters surrounding me. First, there are the front-of-liners. We're talking those crazy kids who managed to stake a claim at the queu's tip top, and in passing I managed to scope their story. College kids from Pennsylvania, they hopped in their jalopy and cruised down to Manhattan for a 1:30 arrival time... meaning AM... meaning the approximate time your typical 20-some-odd is hitting the hay on a weekday. To sit outside in under 40 weather and brutal wind chill. My question is such: how does one function to their maximum ability under such conditions? I, for one, croak like a chain smoking tranny if I attempt to vocalize with less than my eight hours. Add to that slumbering restlessly in freezing weather, and one questions how stellar a performance shall be showcased. But back to jalopy they sleepwalk, day over and nothing to show for it but seriously droopy eyelids and possible pneumonia.

Then, there is a sight which I thought I had left long behind after by days of California community theatre: stage moms. As in several. As in they loaded up their mini-vans with the entire HS Drama Club for a lil field trip. "Bring your audition dress and "Wicked" song book, Sally! You're gona be a star!" Nothing is more distracting while trying to read a novel than having your thought flow interupted as Mrs. Meyers discusses the Long Island Playhouse production of "Music Man" in which her beloved boy was one of the 76 trombones or some nonsense.

As the clock strained towards evening hours, I had to evacuate operation audition as my work shift drew near. And truly, the only thing I regret is missed hours of shut eye.
I may sound jaded. But it is only because I'm jaded. A young twenty-somthing, I struggle with feeling like an old has-been, washed up and burnt out. Something in my mind-frame needs to change. EIther that, or I need a new background setting. Hence the upcoming vacay as Miss Matched takes on the West Coast. A brief stop in Washington followed by California shenanigans, me-thinks this much desired trip shall add as fresh pep to my step. A new dawn.

A spring awakening, if you will...

Romancing Via Text- The New Frontier

2010-04-16T19:17:00.001-04:00

So, I thought it was absurd when two box office superstars released the movie "You've Got Mail?" Really, Tom Hanks? You've Oscars on your mantelpiece and yet you create such non-sense? A romantic comedy (as it must be, if Meg Ryan is involved), the flick remakes a classic (and superior) film, "Shop Around the Corner". Tis the tale of two competing workplace foes who unknowingly meet and fall in love via chat rooms and instant messaging. At the time, the entire concept seemed absurd. Whatever happened to the quaint notion of boy-meets-girl IN PERSON? Live, flesh and blood encounters? In the age of technology, convenience is key, the first date foregone in favor of a text message leading to a pre-nup. There is an instant gratification mentality which leads the general population to use mass means of technology in the place of face-to-face interaction.
And I too, it seems, have fallen prey to this curse.

Unknowingly, it appears I have stumbled into a text-mance, one which was not sought out and ultimately leaves me a bit perplexed. The man tis nearly a stranger, a friend of friends seeking to do this struggling actress a favor by housing her in his abode as she seeks new lines of employment. In the process, messages have begun to fly from one iphone to the next, rapid pace word exchange for hours on end. Witty banter abounds as we each try to outcharm one another with hilarious puns and daily anecdotes. What began as a speedy means of communication has turned into a techno-first date, but can one truly decifer their emotions via words on a screen? I have yet to meet this fellow, to encounter his person in the flesh and discover whether this repartee can tranlate from screen to being. After all, I highly doubt that I am as endearing when dealt with live, so their is a high liklihood this delimma works both ways. And there are other seemingly minute factors which can lead to major amorous issues. For instance, what if he's stinky? Until the iphone comes out with smell-o-text, I cannot possibly know whether or not his pheramones are to my liking. Does he spit when he talks? How tall is he? And more nerve-racking: what if I disappoint? There are too many variables in this text-mance situation. Therefore, I decree, tis best to wait and see.

The scenario I envision? Myself on the couch, host in bed in the next room, us clicking away a mile a minute on our tele-touch screens, trying to recreate the playful patter which has become second nature. Or I will dsicover he's mute. I suppose a text-mance romance is better than a no-mance romance.

Table for One

2010-04-15T18:42:00.000-04:00

The scenario is such- an aging, graying male (possibly late fifties?) appears in the doorway of my "day job" location. A fairly typical burger joint, it is not necessarily an establishment that begs repeat visits, unless one is a fan of over-priced meat patties and the potent odor of gruyere cheese. Yet here he arrives, sometimes both lunch and dinner, daily, without fail, only one request from his lips.

"Table for one".

Now, this frequent customer is clearly struggling from some ailment, though what exactly, one can't be sure. His gait carries a bit of a limp, and all movements take a lengthy, seemingly painful amount of effort. Sometimes, in my moments of lingering soft-heartedness (for there doesn't seem to be much left in this New York transplant) I have to fight back the tears welling up. It just seems so cruel to me, a life of endless meals on a loop, the scenery barely changing day in and day out. I even find myself wondering if he orders the same meal at every sitting. WIth not even a book as his companion, this man appears truly alone.
I long to know his story. Was there ever a "someone" else to share with him giant burgers and a sm'ores shake? Has he always possessed this staggering stance and ackward movement? In my hyperactive mind, I concoct fables of great loves lost, hopeless romantic Manhattan fairy tales where a once amourous duo had the world on a string and a future full of fantasy. Yet their great affair ended tragically, with this poor man alone, living in a perpetual groundhog's day, and apparently in need of daily doses of greasy gastronomy.

What frightens me the most is truly a selfish notion: I don't want that to be me. As much as I claim to be single, independent, and strong, the thought of living this life alone petrifies me. Yet already, I see similar cyclical patterns in my behavior that alarm. Even now, as I type this tale, I am eating my afternoon cup of Tasti D Lite frozen yogurt... as I did yesterday... and the day before... and the day, well you get the picture. A woman caught in a rut, continually whiling away the days with an almost obsessive need for routine, for SAMENESS. I convince myself it is all in the name of comfort and organization, a well-oiled machine with no fear of dysfunction. In reality, it is merely an excuse to coast by daily with a buffer of safety and security. I believe that it may be time to take a leap and make real the hopeless romantic fantasies I envision. Stop daydreaming and start day-living. My fascinating, burger loving
VIP may keep his "Table for one".

For me, one is simply not enough.

Where is the love?

2010-04-14T22:11:00.003-04:00

So today... I was walked all over. Literally. A fallen woman- trampled. The black spot on New York City's sidewalk- ignored. True to the klutzy gal that I am, this morning's casual sprint led to a tumble near Columbia Pres. which still leads my mind to reel. No one stopped. Not a one. Female jogger: tripped and fell, scraped and bloodied and out of sorts, yet not a single persona stopped to offer assistance. In fact, I was stepped over. People actually ignored my pain, straddled and walked over my sprawled being, and continued on their journey. Now, this is not to say this damsel was in distress or needed assistance, and yet, the realization that my circumstance merited neither concern nor assistance leads me to ponder- where is the love? This instance furthers my speculation that Manhattanites have become completely numb to human sentiments, withdrawn and shuttered from the true sensations of everyday life. So accustomed we become to the glazed over glare, the ignorance is bliss mentality which is oh-so accomodating to sidewalk shuffles and power-stomping our way to the agenda's next appointment. Woman on pavement? Leave it to NYPD ro decide, we have brunch to attend. Is it any wonder we as a society are losing the ability to feel connection, to step outside ourselves, to love? I am Lazarus. I am a blind beggar woman, pock-marked and left to fester so miss Manhattan can grab her Mocha-choca-latta at the local Starbucks and be on her way. Something has to change, or else the isolation which is city life shall grow monumentally, leaving us urban folk with dire desire for good ol' fashioned human connection.

NYC: Where is the love?

A person... can develop a cold...

2010-04-12T19:01:00.004-04:00

or bronchitis, as a certain Manhattanite has woefully discovered. The cherry blossoms bloom, tricycle toting tots terrorize the Upper West Side, and I endure the phlegmiest cough known to man. Longing to romp in a romper in the sun, I instead tightly roll my snot-stuffed being into fetal position, watching "Weeds" marathons and eyeing the clock's hands as they count down the hours of my suffering.

Ending self-induced pity party, in all honesty, the insane amount of downtime has led me to reflect on the past, then past the past, and further into the past until 3rd birthday party Barbie doll cakes were on the brain. Along the way, I mentally rehashed the many relationships I have lived and loved through over the course of time, and in doing so, the true issue with my dating life became clear- I have NO type. There was the first love, then the first REAL love, followed by random college shenanigans, the man I almost married, a rebound personal trainer, a finance man, a bar hopping mixologist. And then there is moi. Who am I, and where do I possibly fit in among this who's who of the male species?

Therein lies the problem, the winter of my discontent- I have no particular type for my dream companion because it is through my relationships that I search for and, ultimately, lose myself. Grasping at wisps of their identities in order to create my own persona, and in doing so, becoming a mimic, parroting their ideals and thoughts as if my brain had magically concocted them all by its little self. Granted, I am well aware that in every coupling, a certain amount of give and take is expected. We let them watch the game when all we desire is to indulge in a marathon of "Project Runway". I have faked interest in learning to speak Cantonese in order to garner a bookish beau's approval. Wrestling matches, learning to bar tend, going to trivia nights... I shudder at the many undesirable activities I have endured in the name of being a "couple".

Now, this isn't a "gal on the soap box railing against relationships" scenario. Rather, I think I am finally gaining insight into why I am single... and why I am okay with that. It feels as though, for the first time in a long while, I am rounding myself out as a whole, substantial individual. Discovering passions, freeing myself from pre-conceived notions of who I need to be versus who I actually am. Just me. Alone. Lil ol' me. The knowledge that I don't need a counter part has forced me to balance myself, enriching areas which I once relied on another to complete. Granted, girl still has a loooong way to go. Yet hopefully, after such a long self-imposed dry spell, when the next man mate comes into Miss Match's path, she'll be more of a woman than ever before. Just hope those testosterone types can handle it!

Spring Fling...

2010-04-10T17:11:00.001-04:00

Spring has sprung on the island of Manhattan, ushering in record breaking high temperatures and nose-stuffing allergies. Along as well come spring flings, mother nature making the inevitable call to both genders, coupled and not, to... well... get busy. Procreation is our calling, after all. Victoria's Secret bags are clutched in the hands of ever hopeful maidens, while the average Joe' s gym attendance suddenly spikes. The more hemlines are hiked, the more fingers become interlaced as partners do their dating dance amidst toy puggles and tykes on training wheels. (On multiple occasions, I have sighted the "hands-in-each-others-back-pockets maneuver, which forces an innate gag reflex.)

And here sits the perrenial Old Maid, tippety-typing away on her keyboard, most likely on the verge of a quarter life crisis. Searching for meaning in every day monotonies, yearning for true fulfillment, yet not entirely sure what that means or how to capture it. Soul-searching leads to self doubt, obsessive compulsive tendencies trap me in a vicious cycle of which I struggle to break free. Questions arrise- do I continue on this struggling actress schtick, though not altogether certain it is my real passion? Do I cart my indecisive behind back to class and obtain a degree in something marketable and reliable? The problem is, if I don't perform, all I want to do is read and write. The introverted book worm am I. And fairly certain this will not lead to a lucrative career.

So with all this chaos swirling through my mind, tis truly shocking I have not yet managed to snag a mate, eh? For surely bi-polar, somewhat manic depressive, OCD-minded gals are a hot commodity on the dating market now. (Was thinking of adding this to my personal traits on match.com, yet am so frazzled that I refuse to even view my profile anymore. It is as though viewing the portrait I painted of myself six months ago as oppsed to the space cadet I have become as of late is more self-exposure than I am willing to allow myself.) Rather, I wake every morning with the mantra flowing through my mind "New Day, New Beginning". But truly, I am fairly certain I used up my alotted quota of new beginnings some time ago.

Loopedy-loo, cyclical days, round-about eves. My world is a permanent 360 rotation, a hamster wheel in which I feel myself running... and running... and running... towards a never changing horizon.

So the question is thus- do I stop the endless marathon, or change the view?

2010 Date Odyssey

2010-01-01T21:58:00.005-05:00

Tis the new year, the new decade, the dawning of a new era for lil Miss Matched. To be completely honest, I haven't the foggiest clue what the upcoming 365 days hold for me. I can barely create a to-do-list in regards to tomorrow's activities, let alone the moments which wait ahead. Jobless, loveless, and still searching for the perfect dining room table, truly anything may await me on the horizon. Luckily, the holiday season has given me a much needed excuse to meander around, lolly-gagging in a permanent food coma. I dash from home furnishing store to store. Ikea, West Elm, and Target have become my second homes away from my brand new abode up in the Inwood hood. DIY decor distracts me from the gnawing anxiety building up within my gut, the pang of panic which comes from uncertainty. Truly, the unknown does not mesh well with my anal retentive being. I am of the day-planner diehard variety, and when my sticky notes become sparse, my highlighted agenda barren of ink, the general aura of moi becomes a not-so-attractive shade of grumpy gray.

Yet I am absolutely determined to begin this 2010 with not a whimper but a resounding bang. Especially after the events of last night's festivities, which left me even more certain that I am now in a new stage of life, a truly grown-up gal looking to assert herself in the the world in a different light. The realization of my seemingly sudden maturity came in the form of a job which I "worked" (and I use the term very loosely) on New Year's Eve. Not being a particular fan of this holiday, I jumped at the opportunity to forego the usual debaucherous shenanigans of the holiday in order to make some spare change through a promotional job. 'Twas also fortuitous that my mom (who is in NY helping me create a tres chic new pad) was around for the evening and willing to join me on my random money-making escapade. So there is as of yet no particular main squeeze dans ma vie. Who cares if I did not have (and still have not EVER received) a New Year's kiss? (Sorry, my shipmates, but I will forego counting the three-way smooch on the open decks as we rang in '09!) Rather than sulking around, drowning glass upon glass of champagne as I wallow in a pity party for one, mums and I went on a shopping spree, decked our divine selves out in full diva regalia, and prepared for a New York New Year's to knock the socks off those measly Times Square festivities. Ryan Seacrest be damned, we were taking on the town, the world, the universe... or, as we came to discover, a bunch of grossly intoxicated, underage girls in barely-there, sparkly strapless numbers, escorted by the financial types who buy them lettuce leaves and vodka-cranberries.

I cannot go clubbing.

When did mid-twenties become ancient? I suddenly feel like a should bear the moniker "cougar", seeing as I most males there certainly entered the venue after flashing faux-identification hot off the presses. One gentleman dances with a bowl atop his moptop hair. The Jonas Brothers look-a-likes in the corner pound shot after shot of Jaeger in an attempt to fully take advantage of the open bar. Pink-bikini clad dancers slickly bump and grind atop vodka coated platforms, attempting to avoid a certain male with a leg-licking penchant. One hour in- first bathroom vomiting sighted. Slightly later- trash cans used as latrines. The dance floor becomes a slip and slide, body groping accepted as de rigueur. One knows toes shall be stepped upon without the slighest apology and the only means of obtaining a beverage is a flash of one Benjamin Franklin toward the bartendress's flustered face. My mother and are so busy being stampeded at the bar counter that the countdown is completely missed.

"What time is it?"

"Um... 12:05... so... Happy New Year?"

By 12:30, job completed, we trudge through a crowd thick as molasses in order to obtain winter wear from a coat check area reminiscent of a war zone.

Cab- Hailed. Classy, Sophisticated Party Dresses- Tossed Aside in preference to PJs. Prosecco in hand, deep breathing exercises are practiced in an attempt to begin recovery from the trauma known as the NYC Club experience. If never again entering such an area means I shall be single and celibate for the rest of my days, that is a risk I am willing to take. I prefer to keep my alcohol in my glass rather than sticking to the soles of my stilettos. And I will be damned if a man is allowed to get his grubby paws on my brand new BCBG frock (unless specifically invited to do so).

I will admit, there were a few random texts sent my way during the course of the eve which lit a spark in an otherwise dreary atmosphere. Certain witty banter passed between communication devices that left a grin upon my otherwise grouchy (but glossed) mouth. A few gentlemen caller prospects on the horizon leave me hope for the days to come. Many of these kind words arrived from the cellular devices of my match.com mates. And yet a certain someone, the one whose words let loose the (cliche) butterflies in my vodka filled tummy, is a man who unexpectedly entered my life as this past decade drew to a close. Which leaves me hope... and a knowledge that the unknown future is what makes everyday life an adventure. Onward towards 2010 my alcohol-coated (but still fabulous) stilettos now march...

Merry Musical Christmas...

2009-12-25T12:31:00.008-05:00

We gather round the rusty blue steamer trunk, serving double duty as coffee table and metaphorical campfire to the holiday family sing-a-along. Truly nothing captures my heart's yearnings more than the tunes which accompany the holiday season. Laden with years of memories, bubble-wrapped in sentimental packaging, these treasures travel with all wherever the years of nomadic living may take us. Be it an ode to the dreidel, a haunting accapalla rendition of "Silent Night", or a somewhat tragic tale of your beloved, tipsy granny being trampled by a reindeer, emotions involved in these musical compilations transport one to a place of rememberance. For myself, those sensations carry a contented, fuzzy blanket comfort, set free the inner glow which year upon year of wintertime festivities have kindled inside my sometimes dank heart.

I tend to be a cynic, am all too aware of the fact that sarcasm is my modus operandi when it comes to self-preservation and building barriers. Frequently, the "Christmas Carol" tune "I Hate People" blares on a loop through my brain as I navigate the sardine-can packed mid-town streets, using my over-sized totebag as both a sheild and lethal weapon. I truly don't desire to be ornery and constantly perturbed. Tis my aspiration to be kind and understanding of my fellow man, but lord almighty, it itruly a daunting task to remain chipper and cheery when caught in a perpetual game of Manhattan sidewalk shuffle.

Thus, the carol saves me. The haunting melody of "Oh Holy Night", the frolicking gait while on a "Sleigh Ride". Hallelujah for harmonies and Handel. When I find myself in perma-Scrooge mode, when every ounce of my being must fight the urge to let fly "Bah Humbugs" with abandon, the opening ding-dongs belonging to a certain "Carol of the Bells" flood the ear's inner sactum. My body becomes light with an uncharacteristic jubillance reminiscent of childhood hot cocoa slurping and slick sled runs down Rocky Mountain slopes. If the cheesy chintzy cheer of Yultide carols being sung by my famiglia choir is the dose of medication needed to turn a certain grumpy gal's frown upside down, then pour me a spoon full and keep it comin'.

Jazz Babies...

2009-12-22T05:21:00.003-05:00

I believe that as of now, I have officially been un-converted to the match.com world. I truly believe that its cause is good, noble and worthy for those who fear the Manhattan dating scene. Night after night, bar after bar, one constant dating fiasco following another. Yet I have come to realize that this is what the frightening, insurmountable dating pool is for. Putting oneself out on the line while exclaiming "This is me. Love me or leave me, I am what I am." And all that other mumbo jumbo, self-empowerment hoo-ha. Some of these sentiments must be ringing true, however, or I would not be witness to countless Manhattan mavens out an about in the city's hotspots, soaking up whatever testosterone laden male form may come their way. He may not be Mr. Right, but hey, at this point one settles for a cocktail, the hope of a mini-hors doeuvre, and at least an invite for Friday night drinks in the Lower East Side. Such is the consolation package that all women yearn to attain, if for nothing else them to have a notch on the proverbial date belt and a story to tell the gal pals at Sunday brunch.

What I have come to realize is that this mentality is not completely insane. Independent, not needy, not neurotic or typical,to be able to grab drinks with a man in a purely spur of the moment, no pre-requisite manner is seemingly unheard of in the normal dating pool. Yet when a woman undergoes such freeing acts, she is finally capable if just being. There are no boundaries, no barriers, no limits, just pure, unadulterated enjoyment of the spontaneity of life. This is a skill which I I have recently been forcing myself to grasp, and in turn have reaped immense benefits.

I rendez-vousl once more back to travel show friend. He is my worldly confidant, my male muse, if such a thing is allowed without being over wrought. To meet a man that lives life in the here and now, the moment in a moment, the no-reservations or barriers type mentality... well, this is the end all be all, the bees knees as it were. How long have I searched for a man who would pull me out of my idiosyncratic cycle, my constant desire to itemize and day-plannize my routine of being? This is a trait of complete control freak issues which as so far have led me in my dating endeavors to a) a man who follows me blindly no matter what my career entails or b) the guy who couldn't give a rats tail if I succeed or not as long as he's got a little eye candy on his arm. As far as I'm concerned, this match.com scenario has not helped the situation. These corporate big-wigs enroll, and believe that as long as their substantial income is listed on the main orofile page is, their chances of success are severely heightened.

Yet it leaves me to wonder: where is chivalry? Where is my un-internet burdened white night to help lift my damsel in distress out of the mires of blind date messiness and into the world of chance encounter bliss. Say what you will, an online profile can in no way, shape, or form prepare a potential date for the foreign human being they are about to encounter. The probelm lies in the fact that we, as individuals, do not know ourselves, and therefore it is nearly impossible to accurately define the traits which make us unique on a limiting list of attributes.

Which is why, over the course of the past couple of days, Miss Match has come to discover that real life encounters trump all falsely reinvented forms of action we call "dating". I yearn for someone vibrant, alive, and worthy of the calling card "Melody's Partner in Crime", It is understood now that simply entering these aspirations in the dating machine does not in fact a match in heaven make. One must be prepared to break down walls, peer behind pre-conceived notions, and realize that all interactions in life are noteworthy, whether they be the random troupe of adolescent acrobats on your MTA commute or that man you meet at a charity even who truly believes you are a unique creature. Some days I have a difficult enough time convincing myself I am worthy to face a Manhattan day. Convincing myself that another being could equally feel that sensation is a novel idea which I shall constantly have to adjust to.

And yet... why shouldn't a man be fascinated by me? Why shouldn't the male species become weak in the knees at the thought of myself becoming their constant companion? When I envision myself as a match.com criteria checklist, I appear to be lacking the essentials (no graduate degree, not certain if I want children, and clearly not a 5"11" blonde bombshell.) Yet when I meet a man, and we are given the chance to discuss the many seemingly pointless details of our small, youthful lives, something inside clicks. A something which cannot be recreated by winks and AIMS and horribly unoriginal first dates.

After an evening of cocktail creations and jazz club sensations, I have come to discover that life is so much more than the pre-planned designs we create for ourselves. The daily experiences venture beyond the action items we place in our agendas, the boxes waiting to be checked and forgotten. Let yourself go for just a moment. An instant to realize how truly precious life and all the partners we encounter can be. I danced. I sang. I sat and luxuriated in the beauty that is a monday evening in Manhattan. Match.com: you may have your checklist, but you will never truly capture the vitality of reality.

I'll take S'More....

2009-12-19T16:20:00.005-05:00

S'mores cocktails that is. Last night, I had a couple of these beauties, and somewhere between sips of delicious, alcohol embellished campfire-y goodness, an epitome hit (along with some lightheaded tipsiness): no internet created, mechanical match system can compete with the sparks inspired by genuine chance encounters, the non-premeditated interactions which leave one giddy, breathless, mystified by fate. Sure, match.com has my credentials in place systematically, my stats are engrained in the magical computer's memory bank, but what this site cannot simulate is honest to goodness first meeting flurries of joy. Butterflies, as it were. I hand select the male counterpart to my female, checking to make sure his prerequisites are in line with mine, scanning photos for hints of psychotic tendencies, and once background checks have been thoroughly completed, then and only then is date number typed into iCalendar. No brushing of shoulders, no stolen glances and nervous tittering chatter leading to stories exchanged, laughter shared, and numbers passed (or an iPhone "bump" now-a-days).

Last night, I had a business meeting. (Hilarious, coming from the girl who spends hours on end lazing away the day on her computer, musing about little nothings.) An honest to God appointment which had been set up due to a random encounter at a charity event previously in the week. I was "bartending" (aka shaking up pre-mixed cocktails and attempting not to drip alcohol infused juices on celebutantes' dainty paws), soaking up a the luxury that somehow manages to be incorporated in New York not-for-profit events. (Which certainly end up costing a great deal more to put on than is actually raised from donors by night's end, I have no doubt.) Through this event, however, I was fortunate enough to meet a man who is involved heavily with the charity and happened to create the cocktails of which we were shaking. A mixologist of some renown, preparing to embark on his own globe-trotting show (akin to Anthony Bourdain, cocktail style of course), it was with great interest that I soaked up his tales of childhood travel. Days in Kenya raising lion cubs, surfing the coast off Sydney, sojourning in France, the standard lines of which I am usually too terrible of a cynic to buy into. Something about his generous spirit, his honest eyes, his carefree manner, the countless shots of Patron, led me to follow his life story with the zest of a young child enjoying her first fairy tale. Business card exchanged, he mentions that he is looking for assistants for his travel show, which is undoubtedly my dream job.

We arrange a meeting. We discuss more of our lives' great experiences. He owns turbans from Dubai, I mention my fetish for baggy Turkish pants. While he waxes poetically about Japanese sakes, I regale with tales of my tours through Tuscany, the days luxuriating with glasses of Chianti, Sangiovese Whites and Venezian Prossecco. It is either an evening of two potential AA candidates, or a meeting of souls that in no way involves computers, data entry, forced conversation and awkward evening endings. The fact that it was not necessarily a romantic rendez-vous was truly the most precious fact. Two people, two minds, one evening of endless possibilities. No match.com necessary.

All I can be sure of now is that no matter how much we compartmentalize our mate-making requirements, create check-lists, categorize and sub-categorize, sometimes what makes people connect cannot be put into a general data-entry system. The criteria cannot simply be computed, allowing us to "Accept" or "Decline" people who may or may not play a role in our lives. Experience is everything, and the guy sitting next to you in the coffee shop, tossing back his red-eye and skimming through the "Times" could be a potential partner. I am learning the value of opening up oneself to the possibility of providence, and while my match.com account shall certainly remain active, I'm ready to give face-to-face fate a fair shake.

2009-12-18T20:33:00.001-05:00

Dating sidebar- a girl can lose her heart to the good guy, but she will always lose her senses to the bad boy...

An AGE old debate...

2009-12-18T13:47:00.003-05:00

Since when was a gal in her mid-twenties considered an old maid? Washed-up, used goods, retired from the dating pool. Let the 18-year-olds in teetering on sky-high stilettos, sporting crotch-bearing minis have the fun. Once a lady has reached the quarter century mark, apparently it is time to invest in cat-resistant couches, as these are the only companions one is likely to entertain...

Such are the sentiments I was bombarded with as I settled in for some vino bianco at last night's ladies gathering. Apparently, my friend's are feeling old. My gorgeous, successful, talented, strong-willed seemingly independent gal pals feel OLD. Mystified, I settle in to listen to the barrage of reasons as to why this feeling is so strong, so soon. Jill*, a 28-year-old buyer for a fashion house, claims she has found the love of her life, lost him, and now simply senses impending hopelessness. Which is why she is entertaining the thought of getting serious with a 39 year-old-man with whom she has experienced brief, somewhat passionate dalliances in the past.

"But do you like him?" is the foremost question on my mind.

"Well, he's successful... mature. Has a steady career."

"Do you like him?"

"He's been discussing having children."

"Um, isn't that skipping over a few steps? Say, for instance, dating? Falling in lust/like/love? Sharing life experiences other than late night chats about child-bearing possibilities?"

Call me confused, but for some odd reason it was my belief that we as women, as a culture really, have moved beyond the "50's House Wife" syndrome. I heard somewhere once about a little thing called feminism. Women's Liberation, burning of the bras, and other such hoo-ha. The freedom to take a successful career, a fabulous lifestyle, kick-ass friends and killer opportunities, and simply marinate in the bliss such achievements offer. Since when was it decided that only those with with a numeral "1" at the front of their age get to enjoy such pleasure? (And yes, your Great Aunt Ruth at 101 qualifies... because by this point one simply cannot afford to care!)

I am 20... something... and fabulous. I do acknowledge that there are moments when I desire a cohort in all of life's endeavors. When I wish for the marital bliss that my sister has attained, the cozy comfort of connubial care my parents reside in, the hazy-eyed gaze of an elderly couple as the hold hands near the Hudson and soak up the simple view. (Granted, that gaze could be hazy do to the fact that the image in sight is smog-embraced New Jersey.) However, one must then note that my sister now has to confer with hubby pre-furniture purchases. My parents are constantly juggling four dogs, four children, and many a daily abode-related catastrophe. And that old couple probably just met on those park benches, simply not remembering why their fingers are intertwined. These are moments which, for the time time being, I can live without. My day is my own, and if I choose to spend four hours at Starbucks downing mochas and writing a ridiculous blog which no one will probably read, I can find comfort in the fact that permission for such acts was required by not a single soul.

So to all you helpless feeling old bitties out there on the verge of purchasing a kitty-crate, put down the Am-Ex. Stop hunting the early bird special joints for a man who will "suffice". We are young, we are dead sexy, and damn it, you might just have to hear me roar.

(I would rush off to burn my bra in an act of defiance. But as single and fabulous as I may be, the puppies still need support.)

Dating Diaries: How the Vestal Virgin of The Ruby Princess Got Her Groove Back

2009-12-18T13:22:00.002-05:00

(created November 27, 2009)

It is officially on: Date-a-palooza 2009. The time when a shy California girl recently venturing forth into the Big Apple puts herself on the line in an attempt to find love. Or like? Mutual friendship? If nothing else, a free meal and glass of wine will suffice. Yes, that’s right, I am officially on the market, single and minglin’ in the city. I’m not exactly sure what I expect will come of the myriad of males I have set to parade before mine eyes. All I am certain of is I’m curious to ascertain what masculine species lie outside of my general realm of men: namely, performers. Time to give show boys a rest, for their song and dance schtick gets real old REAL fast. What with the whole unemployed situation, I truly have nothing but time to explore what this island of a city has to offer. Who knows? I might even branch out as far as a Brooklyn Boy. So bring it on, investment bankers! Firemen, I know you are out there (I have seen the calendars). And musicians? Well, we’ll take those on a trial basis.

And so it begins....

Date #1- “Nervous” does not even begin to encompass the sensation I experience as I timidly crawl down 8th Avenue towards my first rendezvous. Petrified? Exhilarated? Ridiculous for even undergoing such an encounter? One thing is certain: I must not arrive on time. Must be fashionably late. Must seem unfazed, disinterested, aloof, acting as though this completely pre-meditated meeting is purely an act of fate. Arrive at the corner of Bank Street, with full knowledge that once I round the bend, our meet-up location will be within view. 9:56.... four minutes... step into Duane Reade. Fake complete fascination with a line of lip glosses as I count down seconds. 10:01... :02...:05. Receive text from Luke*, saying he is at the bar in a tan sweater. Tan Sweater? What kind of sweater? Cable Knit Casual? Mr. Rogers cardigan type? I look down at my beige one shouldered dress, shake the elegant earrings dangling from my lobes, and am all too certain that I have over-dressed. So much for playing it cool. Emerge from Duane Reade with a sense of impending doom, my walk to the guillotine swiftly becoming a quick sprint.

At last, tan sweater in sight, his gaze glances upon me, we slowly sidle up to each other, both in a bit of shock that this semi-blind date is actually occurring. Now what?

“Luke?” I venture. Identity confirmed, it is now time for the awkward “Do we shake hands/hug?” moment, so of course we create a completely unnatural combination of the two. The bar seems a bit busy, and he suggests we relocate a couple of blocks uptown to a more relaxed pub he frequents. I nod, in shock that pictures do not do this fellow justice. Jaw line to die for, striking eyes, and a smile which melts my already racing heart. If nothing else, the next few hours shall be pure eye candy for my as-of-late starving peepers.

Seated in the back corner, the next potentially date threatening encounter occurs- ordering. Considering myself a bit of a wine guru after my Mediterranean romps, I think this shall be a breeze. Swiftly, I decide upon a glass of the Chianti. He chooses Malbec... which immediately sounds much more delicious than my beverage of choice. Not wanting to appear uncertain however, I stick with my guns, spending the evening eyeing the luscious red vino of which he oh-so-handsomely imbibes.

Game time: let the conversation begin. I inherently babble like a maniac, as is my tendency whenever the nerves kick in. Hand gestures, anecdotes from my childhood, jokes which are naturally much more comical in my head. Why is he so beautiful? Why am I such a dork? Why has he chosen a pub with paper tablecloths and crayons with which to draw whilst we chat? This is lethal for Melody, who proceeds to draw a fuzzy creature learnt during her one month “I shall be an artist” phase. The creature’s name: Wooly Woo. Success in execution of drawing: minimal. Result: Luke surely thinks I am a nut-house escapee with a penchant for sparkly earrings and poorly sketched cartoon characters.

Despite my spastic demeanor, the evening flies by with good conversation, a mutual interest in travel and a shared love for the television show “Mad Men”. He might join the FBI. I might die, I love him so much. Alas, around 1 AM, it is decided the night must come to a close. Unlike me, he actually has a day job, and the whole “rest” thing is required. We stroll up 8th Avenue, continuing to chat and not really certain how to wrap up the evening. A block away from my apartment, the separation is made. He is going home for the holiday weekend, but states that he would love to get together again once he returns. Hugs issued, cheek kisses shyly put into place. We part, and I float up the flights of stairs to apartment 5R, not entirely sure what just occurred. What is certain: my appetite for man candy has been wetted, and Mr. Tan Sweater can be sincerely thanked for that.

On to the next contestant....

Date #2: So exhausted. Have already had to reschedule once as my silly odd jobs keep me working at ridiculous hours. The good news? He is completely flexible with the changes, and so it is late on pre-Thanksgiving day eve we meet. I shall call him Be-Bop, for he is a jazz lover with a penchant for the classics, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis among them. The date location is perfection: an underground speak-easy, no signage, no flashing lights, only given away by the small crowd gathered near the unmarked door awaiting entry. (I will not lie, in my attempt to find this meeting point, I walked straight past it three times.) Be-Bop is immediately recognizable from his photo, so no introduction necessary. This time, I go straight in for the hug, avoiding the foibles of Date #1. He seems taken aback, so now I know it’s simply a no win situation. After what seemed like an hour of small talk outside, we are finally admitted in the inner sanctum. (Thank you, puking stiletto girl for vacating the lounge and creating room for our persons. We both make a vow that under NO circumstances shall we try whatever beverage in which she had been indulging.)

After descending the staircase to a dimly lit underworld, we wait once more for a table, situating ourselves at an uncomfortably crowded bar in order to order delicious prohibition cocktails from stellar bartenders. Allowing the mixologists to decided upon the beverages, we try our two differing drinks, each taking a sip of the other’s. Fortunately, he prefers the cucumber concoction, which to me tastes like a face mask.

Let the small talk begin! He is in advertising, but is also an avid musician on the side, guitar being his specialty. I mention how I have always wanted to learn, and am planning on getting serious once my parents bring a guitar out to NY. He mentions he might know a good teacher. Of course, I am a bit slow on the uptake and do not realize this is a reference to himself. He is flirting, and I am missing every not-so-subtle line he throws my way. It turns out I am more interested in the jazz combo whose music swirls around my eager ears than the stories he is sharing. Methinks I am bad at this dating situation.

“Focus, Melody, focus!” is my mantra. We chat about everything round the sun, from traveling the wine country to puppetry. Which is something I randomly know quite a lot about, and therefore proceed to spew several rambling stories about Christian Children’s puppet shows. He loves the Muppets. I, however, prefer Disney Princesses. I don’t know if this can possibly work.

After finally being seated, we take drink round number two, this time being served some ginger concoction which makes both of us want to gag. Ever the gentleman, he insists upon offering me the sweeter drink while he suffers through ginger-overload. In a joint effort, both drinks are somehow tossed back, and I realize that we have managed to chat for three hours. Not too shabby, though I can’t really say if I foresee any sparks a-flyin’.

Check paid, these two jazz babies emerge from the underbelly of the bar into a crisp night sky. Hugs only are exchanged, with a promise of more Manhattan endeavors. I’m thinking Be-Bop may not be my dreamweaver, but it nothing else, I have certainly found a fellow music aficionado.

Time for a Thanksgiving Holiday break. Next up: Sunday Tapas in Chelsea.

Game on, Manhattan men, game on...

* Name has been changed

Memoirs of Miss Match (.com, that is...)

2009-12-18T13:03:00.000-05:00

Remember the good ol’ days of notepassing? I’m talking junior high, box checking (“Yes, I like you”, “No, you have cooties”, “Maybe, depends on if you’ll meet me under the bleachers”...) lined slips of paper passed in classrooms cross-country. Simplistic. No games, no nonsense, an “ask and ye shall receive” type of mentality that has since been replaced by text-message ambiguity, e-mails painted in shades of gray, and voice messages left to be re-played endlessly to our (gradually less sympathetic) gal pals. It is in this new-found world of technological uncertainty that I have joined the brigades of match.com hopefuls. I am simply tired of bar scenes, screaming conversations in which neither party actually hears the others’ dialogue, a meat market which either leads to a) a quick number exchange, b) a messy, unfulfilling hook-up, or most likely, c) me at home, on couch, in PJs, glass of Malbec in one hand and TV remote in the other. Trust me, it’s the sanity saving route.

In a city where physical contact is an actual nuisance, where being grazed by someone’s arm on the subway leads to an inner (and sometimes outer) temper tantrum, I am fascinated by the number of Manhattanites truly searching for connection. We avoid everyone’s eye contact while hustling down busy sidewalks, but pray for a moment when someone’s gaze will latch onto ours and somehow souls will unite. Tis a city of hopeless romantics trapped in grizzly cynics’ clothing. No one will admit this intense yearning, and therefore we turn the marvels of modern technology to help assist us in an act that was once so natural, so a part of our nature: dating. Courtship, in another day. Picking a spouse, marking your territory, mating... you get the idea. Sights like match.com and eharmony are ideal for the straight-dating sect, and if one is of the same sex variety, web site Connexion will always do. Statistics are entered, first one’s own, then the traits desired from an ideal mate. Wants kids? “Maybe”. “Definitely”. “Hell No!”. Athletic? Music Lover? Billionaire? This is the spot to bare all, or as much as can be revealed in simple, one word descriptives marked on a checklist. Then all criteria is tossed into the magical match machine, something I envision to be a candy colored contraption straight out of Willy Wonka’s imagination (if Mr. Wonka dealt in creating awkward blind dates rather then delicious chocolatey goodness). Out pop the leading contenders, in the form of a “Top 5” on match.com’s site. Descriptions, basic stats, and the parade of photos are revealed. (Guy with shirt on, guy with shirt off, guy with pals doing keg stands or some standard sort of macho activity, and the inevitable cell-phone-camera-in-bathroom-mirror pic). I find myself drawn to men of the simple variety, two or three snapshots max, and if there is a puppy involved at any point, I’m sold. Bonus points for those who don’t feel the need to to present photos with ex-girlfriends having been decapitated, a “Your Face Here” caption present where some poor girl’s head once resided.

So far, I would say the success rate of match is minimal. Oftentimes, my “Daily 5” contains a surly looking gentleman who appears to need therapy more than a lady love, and many a time, gents from Jersey appear in the queue. I’m sorry, but when you are a Manhattan girl, location is everything. I don’t care if he is Jake Gyllenhaal’s doppelganger, if I have to set foot on NJ Transit, it simply is not meant to be. Brooklyn’s as far as this particular city gal can commute! I did have a lovely gentleman invite me countless times to escort him to an Alicia Keys concert. However, he was 50 years old, and I sense he might have more fun listening to old records of Barry Manilow with my dad than screaming along with legions of hip-hopper, teeny boppers. The actual number of in person meet-ups I have allowed are minimal. Three men as of yet, two of them being complete disasters. One socially challenged, the other a supremely pompous slimeball, I thank my lucky stars man numero tres is completely kind natured, generous, and heart-achingly handsome. Funnily enough, he was the very first match in my top 5 contenders on day number one of Project Match. Five dates with this fella and counting... We have a rendez-vous this evening, and I suppose the fact that I am mentally spending the day raiding my closet in search of the perfect Date Six dress is a good sign.

I can’t claim to believe in the power of the magical match machine. Who knows if it is fate, a practical pairing, or just fool’s luck that determines whether these semi-blind dates create life-long partnerships? I couldn’t offer you an exact statistic in regards to the dating site success rate, but all I can say is that, for the price of a few lattes at Starbucks, I have collected a myriad of tales that will keep me company on those lonely nights with my vino and my TiVo. Gone are the days of note-passing, pig-tail pulling, and meet-ups in the multi-purpose room supply closet (I swear, that wasn’t me!) We have evolved into beings of the computer age, and for a mere monthly fee, I can now wink at, Instant Message, and virtually hand pick my future mate, all in the comfort of my over-sized sweats. If that means no more slipping into slinky sequined minis and engaging in night-club screaming matches as I search for Mr. Right Now, call me a Match.com convert!