re-t(o/u)rn-ed

Rules For Dummies

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 17:48:00 +0000

Some would say that the good thing about having rules is that you can break them. I’d say that when you break the rules, there are consequences and they’re most likely not of the welcomed kind.

When it comes to dating I only have two rules:

#1 Do not date someone who has not been divorced for at least a year. The same applies if he was in a long-term relationship that broke up

#2 Do not date someone who admits to wanting children.

I am old enough to know to follow rules, especially if they are my own, yet over a year ago, I threw caution to the wind, and broke not one, but the two of them simultaneously. I thought there was a chance the wind was forgiving even though I have never been a good meteorologist.

Tempest ensued.

The boy just got a place in the city I live in and even though he has not moved in yet, we've finally got the microwave that has made us unable to keep avoiding the elephant in the room. As coupledom and friends’ pregnancies, and deliveries, have come and kept coming, he realized I really meant I do not want to become a mother when I told the-man-who-will-be-my-ex that I did not want children. At the time, he thought I was trying to not sound desperate. If he had known me better, he would have known I’ve got no game, ‘thus trying to be or not trying to be aren’t in my repertoire. What I realized was that he really wants kids even though there was that one time when he said that at some point he thought he wasn’t going to and was sort of okay with it.

Meet last Saturday.

We were supposed to buy the last of the stuff for his new apartment. He was acting defeated and I was acting blue, and as we were on a train to meet friends for drinks, I could not stop myself from saying some of the most infamous words known to humankind: ‘We need to talk; about us’, to which he said looking straight into my eye ‘I know; but let’s wait until tomorrow.' 'We are going to break up, aren’t we?’ I asked. ‘Now it’s not a good time; let’s talk tomorrow’ he replied with his eyes and his mouth. ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow’.

And we took it from there and did not stop until 3 in the morning. Picked it back up around 9 AM, all the while canceling the drinks and a lunch, riding the train back home, eating dinner at a place packed with very manly gay dudes trying to figure out our story, picking up a load of laundry, doing a new one. Much (good) was said and cried. By turns and at the same time. Our sadness seemed unending as we went through the huge Kleenex supply I had at home. In lie of more Kleenex out it came the toilet paper and paper napkins. Had this been the 40s I might have had to wash all that, thank God for small miracles.

By 6PM, it was decided he would go back to his own town and spend the week there (when he isn't traveling, he works from home). Being the wet people we had become, it was also decided we would not communicate at all this week with the exception of a phone call to arrange Friday plans. He's going to be back then, and hopefully with drier tearducts and cooler brains, the final decision will be cast.

As the saying goes, think of yourself as the rule, not the exception.

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 20:18:00 +0000

I Spy With My Little Eye

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 16:58:00 +0000

A while ago I entered a short story contest held by the metropolitan transit authority of bcn. I became a finalist. In order to win the contest you had to attend the award ceremony. I was going to, I RSVP'd as asked, and then... I had the wrong date. The wrong date late. And 'thus I missed my chance.

The story was written in Catalan and Spanish and the post below is my attempt to its English translation. Much like bilingual actors who cannot dub themselves, I feel I don't do my stories justice when I try to translate them into a different language. Here it is anyway.

As time went by and fights piled up, the subway became their way of making up. The first one to pick up the phone would suggest a stop. If it was her, he could guess her mood by the subway line she chose. L3, green, optimistic. L5, blue, no doubt she was sad. He chose by geographical proximity. Always the practical one.

On their first date, they were supposed to meet at a restaurant but bumped into each other on the subway. His stop, Sagrera, hers, Glòries. L1. Same train car. Kismet.

On their way home, she got the I spy ball rolling. "I spy with my little eye someone… I like to imagine what other people’s lives are like,” she said. He followed suit. He wanted her to like him.

I spy with my little eye… – she started again. A girl whose just been broken up with –and motioned with her head to the 20-something year old woman crying quietly a few seats across from them. Short skirt, fishnets, stilettos. Her tears were punctuated by her struggling to avoid a mascara disaster with a flimsy tissue. "He’s told her, I love you, but I am not in love with you,” and she stared at him. The challenge was on.

I spy with my little eye... –he said. A girl with bad allergies. It’s spring, there's pollen, pollution... Too long wearing her contacts, nothing new.

She looked at him intensely. Gave him a severe gaze. Suddenly, a smile and a kiss. Their first..

Allergies. No doubt –she agreed and squeezed his hand.

Fast forward four years.

I spy with my little eye… A man on his way to a date. Anniversary celebration –she offered.

She was referring to a middle age man. Sharply dressed. Carrying a big bouquet. Roses and peonies ...?

I spy with my little eye… A man on his way to the hospital. He’s going to visit his mother. Hip replacement surgery.

"Next stop: Hospital Clínic," announced the subway voice. The man stepped off.

She stared at him. He shrugged his shoulders. Later that night, he bought her a rose from a street vendor on their way to the restaurant.

Over 2 years living together, the last one a rollercoaster. She wanted to marry, he didn’t want to fix what was not broken. She wanted children, "I’m getting older." "Now it’s not the right time," his catchphrase. "Do you know when it’s not the right time? -she replied each time- When you want to but can’t."

Their last argument had been a few months ago and she no longer looked at him with nagging eyes after crossing paths with babies on strollers or youtube links with yet another baby being cute. Yes, sometimes she seemed distant but it wasn’t because of him. "It's work. It keeps piling up."

When he landed back in Barcelona after five days in Paris for business, he picked her up at her office. Had missed her much. The day he had dinner with Pierre’s family, he had imagined himself the father of that 10-month old girl who laughed hysterically when thrown in the air just to be caught a few seconds later. "I think it’s time," and that realization excited him. Now that he knew, he could not wait to share it with her.

He would take her to their favourite restaurant. They would jump on the 4 train, yellow line. “It makes me long for summer... This train rides all the way down to the beach," she had told him once with a wink and a smirk on her face.

He kissed her when he saw her. Kissed her again on the platform. On the train. Long, hard. His kisses tasted like beginnings. Hers were as hungry.

I spy with my little eye… -he said. A couple in love. Tonight he is going to ask her to marry him. She’ll say yes. They’ll promise each other undying love and will start an urban tribe.

Another wet kiss.

I spy with my little eye… -she whispered back. A couple in love. Tonight she will break up with him. She’s run out of dream waiting for him to find the right time.

"Next Stop: Jaume I"

And we both felt the salty heat of a tear.

When Flying is an Option

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 17:05:00 +0000

I'm looking at the airline website so attentively the characters on the page are starting to get blurry.

On the screen I can see a roundtrip to Brussels leaving next Friday and coming back on Monday morning. Affordable. To go or not to go. The Guy had to alter his plans last weekend and winded up in Spain (briefly) instead of Belgium. That means he's going to be at the epicenter of the EU this upcoming weekend. He's asked me to join him there.

We managed to see each other for a couple of hours last Sunday. Since the airport is on the way to my place, I also gave him a ride. Much conversation was had about trips we should take together, and there was even a request for a picture of the two of us so he could show it to his friends.

When he said to meet him in Brussels, I told him I'd look for air tickets and let him know. 'Because... you could not really come with me tonight, right? I'll give you my credit card, you could buy some clothes, spend the whole week with me in The Netherlands and then...' He wasn't serious but... he somewhat was.

So I am looking at the Purchase button. To click or not to click. I am going to have my period next weekend. If I don't go, I won't see him again until the first weekend of March. Yet I should not be spending money frivolously no matter the amount. But don't have to worry about lodging. Regardless, two days have gone by and I have not heard from him.

The last time we 'spoke' was an unenthusiastic text he sent thanking me for a card. I replied with an inner joke that was left unanswered. That was on Sunday night.

There's still something that tells me he's not that into me.

I am not going.

Things I Lost in the War

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 22:13:00 +0000

Sunday night. Unpacking from an overnight stay in a Bcn hotel. I notice there's something missing. Great.

Find hotel key, get online, find their website. It's a small chain and they have several design hotels around several of-course-cool European cities. A few of them in Bcn. I think I recognize the name he'd mentioned. I give them a call.

Font Desk (FD): Good morning

It's 11 PM. His greeting throws me off.

Self (S): Good morn...night. Good night. I am calling because I believe I left two pairs of socks in the hotel room when I checked out this morning.

At least that is what I am saying in my head. What spouts out of my mouth is some unintelligible mumbo jumbo that I think sounds close to 'last night there I'm missing some socks we bedroom left this morning two pairs'.

FD: Were they your lucky socks? Ha ha.

Ha ha. Idiot. I got the funny guy. Lucky me.

S: Yeah, fun-ny... No. They go all the way up my thigh and I reeeally like them. I'd like to get them back.

There. Although I think he's gay.

FD: What was the room number?

Sometime in November, a friend of mine asked me if I would mind if she brought a date along to an exhibit she and I had planned to see. She didn't want the date to have too much of the 'This is a Date' feel and thought sharing the art exhibit would be perfect. I didn’t mind so her date came along bringing two other guys. One I'd already met and someone else I thought looked a bit standoffish (SG). I didn't talk too much to SG while we walked around looking at the art, but when we had seen over half the exhibit and I was admiring one of the paintings, SG stopped next to me and we got to talking. Art talk lead to his living in many countries talk and him being back in Spain conversation. I asked him how he felt about returning to the motherland .I found out he had moved back to the country with his girlfriend, now ex, a few months back and that Bcn had been the demise of their 10-year relationship. He didn't elaborate too much and I didn't want to pry. We kept walking and separated.

After leaving the museum, the five of us went to a bar and the conversation flew. We were sitting on low, cushy sofas all set around a table, and I was between SG and my friend's date. I thought SG was an interesting guy. A science man who spoke five languages fluently and had been all over the world. Not for a second did any sort of romantic or lascivious thought crossed my mind. I felt bad for him. Breaking up a 10-year relationship... that's got to be really rough - I thought. I hope that's not me, ever - I wished. I know it doesn't seem like it but that's empathy for you. He still seemed sad about the break-up even though he was the one who ended the relationship. I don't think I learned that last detail, then, though. He had only been single for about five or six months at the time.

That same night, I was having dinner with someone I had been seeing for about a month, so I left after one drink. As I was putting my coat on, my friend's date asked me for my number. In front of everybody. I didn't give it much thought then because: a) it was in front of everyone my friend included, b) it never crossed my mind he was trying to pick me up. I thought he may be asking on behalf of his friend just in case he wanted to get in touch with me at some point. I did give it to him which naturally made my friend upset, but again, I was positive he was not going to ask me out and even if he had, I would have said no. He never asked me out. Or called. He got my full name, though.

A couple of weeks later I got a Facebook message from someone I could not recognize. I asked him for details and it turned out he was SG. We exchanged a few messages over the course of a couple of weeks. He revealed himself as quite a funny guy. One who travels a lot for business and was out of the country at the time.

S: It was room 211

FD: Hmmm...Our 200s go from 201 to 208, and from 215 to 222. There's no room 211.

I may not know the name of the hotel, but I am positive about the room number.

S: You don't?! Perhaps I'm calling to the wrong hotel...? You're not the one on Nice Street?

I start looking for the address on their website

SG sends me a message announcing he's going to be in town over the weekend. He wants to know whether I'd care to have a drink with him or to join him and some friends for dinner. I tentatively agree but in the end we're just able to meet for coffee. I enjoy it. He's truly interesting. I think he likes me. He's also about to leave on a five-week vacation as soon as 2011 stars and by now it's already the end of December. He says he'd like to take me out for dinner before he leaves and we make a date. The night before my birthday we have dinner at an Indian restaurant we both find out we love. I'm starting to like him. I haven't really liked anyone since The Crush, over a year ago. It’s a welcomed feeling. As we were waiting for dessert, he says he must congratulate me on my birthday so we both stand up for the mandatory, and customary, Spanish kisses on the cheek. The first one is on the right cheek, the second one lands midway to the left side. For those of you bad at anatomy, that'd be my mouth. Suddenly we are French kissing. Welcome chemistry.

We leave the restaurant and take a cab to my car. I drop him off somewhere so he can take a cab back to his hotel. It turns out he came to town just we could have dinner. It’s a three hour train rain on the high speed train. He's going to be out of the city for business for a few days, but we make a date for December 30th. He's flying down to the South Pole on January 1st.

December 30th, 2010 is a Thursday. I've taken the day off from work. We have a fantastic time even though we just walk and have dinner. I start worrying about this turning into something and that something being a (very) bad idea, especially when it comes to me. Minefield potential. Recent breakup from long, and intense relationship, very accomplished (and apparently beautiful) ex, travels most of the time, his headquarters are in another city even though has plans to relocate to Bcn,... I don't like the sound of either. Later that night we are looking for a bar, but it’s raining, we’ve got no umbrellas, and somehow we end up in his hotel. I think he's joking when after 10 minutes of fruitless search under the rain he announces 'I think we should go to my hotel'. Ten seconds later he's flagged a cab and we're driving there. I am in disbelief. I know I'm going to be leaving shortly thereafter. And I do leave. Only, it’s the next morning. First time ever. Talk about knowing thyself.

He has to catch an early train, finish the preparations for his trip a day later, meet friends for a New Year's Eve celebration. Neither of us makes any promises. We'll see what happens once he's back.

FD: No, we're on Another Nice Street. The one on Nice Street is called Nice Hotel.

S: Isn't that clever... Yes, it does make sense. I will call there, then.

I hang up fully aware I'm going to be the anecdote of the night. I'll probably be played by a cocaine-lover escort who entertains businessmen all over town and does not know whether she's coming or going. The role of a lifetime.

Five weeks go by and I get a phone call. 'I'm in Madrid, will be in Bcn tomorrow, fancy a date?'. Yes, I fancy.

He meets me at a coffeeshop sporting a beard, his usual self-assurance intact. We kiss for a very long time. He's a fantastic kisser. Danger! messages flash in my mind in brightly colored neon lights. We walk for a while, I'm taking us somewhere. He tells me a bit about the trip (some of it, at least). The strike and picketers in Chile, the very literate yet snobbish Buenos Aires crowd at a party, barely comments on Brazil... And we kiss. We end up buying a bottle of Malibú and some chips and head to the apartment of one of his friends where there's a small gathering of somewhat inebriated people. And we kiss. Around midnight we all leave to have dinner. And we kiss. And then to some bar. And we kiss. And then... I end up in his hotel again. Thank goodness I have lunch plans the following day. He makes it hard for me to leave, but I do. I haven’t slept all night. He’s staying in bed.

He's leaving for Italy that night and is coming back the following weekend. We agree to meet again then.

I lose my voice for about a week. He calls me once, takes too long to answer the texts or emails I send him, and my uneasiness about the affair is building a not-so-cozy nest in me. Now I know I am really in trouble. Now I know I really do like him even though I had been aware of what a bad idea that was (see some paragraphs above). He calls me on Thursday, we make plans for Saturday. I hesitate on whether to meet him at his hotel and whether to stay overnight. The circumstances conspire for me to meet him just as he's getting off his ride from the airport. It's a perfect spring Saturday in the middle of February. Sunny, balmy. I love the way he hugs me hello. His greetings are always spectacular. We walk to the hotel. Time flies. We are supposed to meet some of his friends after dinner. We don't. I stay over, leaving seems a laughable idea. We have breakfast together, lunch together. Anyone who sees us is probably disgusted by how much in love we look like we are. Yet. I still feel uneasy. After lunch, we walk around the old city and I ask him if he sees himself moving back to his birth town for good. He says 'Perhaps; if I stop traveling so much, and I meet someone and we settle down and have kids... perhaps I will.' He is not implying I can be that someone. Furthermore, he knows I don't want to have any children. It had come up in one of our early conversations. Then he said he did not care much one way or another. His ex couldn't, so he had made up his mind he probably wouldn't. Now he wants kids. ‘So you want to have kids...’ - I ask. ‘Hmmm... yes, I think I do, you never know, but I think I do. You don't you, do you?’. I feel as if someone has just slapped me. Hard. I also feel my eyes getting moist. I fight the impulse and win. Now I know why I felt uneasy. Trouble? you say. F*ck, I think. I hate being right. We keep chit chatting, end up in the private patio of some hotel, have a coffee, and I prompt us to leave. ‘I'm in no rush’ - he says. ‘But you have a train to catch, don't you? And we still have to pick up our bags from the hotel’. He kisses me and we stand up.

I try to keep it light on our walk there. While we talk about silly movies and stupid stuff he did as a teen, I try to gather my thoughts, place my words in the right order so I can say what I want to say before we say goodbye. When we had first sat down at that patio, he’d asked 'Are you okay?'. I hesitated for a moment before saying 'Yes, I am' and smiled as much as I could. If he could have read my mind, he would have heard 'I am a bit sad because I have to do something I don't want to do'. Yes, cool, I’m cool. *Grin*

We get to the hotel. We both go to use the bathroom. It’s in a lone corridor downstairs. No one is around. When I get out, he corners me against the wall and we start making out. He says, 'Should I get us a room for another night even if we just stay for a couple hours?'. I say no. Tell him how I am not sure we’re in the same place in life, and how his breakup is too recent, and how any idiot can tell he needs to be single, to reacquaint with himself as a single entity. The last thing he needs is to commit to anyone. I tell him I’ve already fought that war and now I’m ready to fall in love again. I announce he's still in mid fight.

I can tell he’s not keen on this assessment. Says he cannot make any promises except to be honest with me, to let me know if he meets someone else. ‘Let's take it one day at the time and see what happens’ - he declares. Only the person who has nothing on the line can afford that approach, I think to myself. I have all my laundry hanging on the line. 'Look, I've had a great time with you, both indoors and outdoors' - he continues. Yes, but for you there's the possibility of meeting someone else, echo my thoughts. It's not that I'm not looking, it's that I am not even seeing, I want to reply. He senses my hesitation and pushes harder so I don’t slip away right there.

We both head towards the same subway station even though we're going in opposite directions (metaphor?). We say goodbye next to his entrance. He’s going back to his apartment and flying to The Netherlands for work on Tuesday. He had already announced he'd be in Belgium the next weekend. He used to live there and still co-owns an apartment in Brussels. Has to catch up with friends, take care of some paperwork. Then it's back to The Netherlands the following week. He's supposed to be back in town by the end of February, although we don’t make any final plans other than he'll call from The Netherlands. 'I think I'll miss you. I think I’m going to miss you quite a bit, actually' - he says. If you were really going to miss me, you'd be in touch way more than you are, I whisper to myself. He sends me an email that night. Some links he had promised. 'I've had suuuuuch a great time this weekend. Lustful kisses.' I take a deep breath. Sometimes you have to lose the battle in order to win the war. But other times you must lose the battle because you've already lost the war.

I call Nice Hotel. This time I make much more sense and they don't throw me off by answering 'Good morning'.

They don't joke about my missing socks being a lucky charm. Thank you, I feel like saying.

FD: Our facilities manager will be here tomorrow after 10 AM, you should call back then, ma'm.

At least they have a room 211. That's promising.

S: Thanks. I will call back tomorrow. Have a good night.

Toads & Creeps Update

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 16:11:00 +0000

As I was talking to Bridgett yesterday, the story about Jordi came up and I found out...

...

... I found out he texted her over New Year's Eve. 'Hope ur doing well. all the best 4 the New Year!'

They had not been in touch since those infamous September days in which he had regaled her with his sex exploits and had followed up with a couple of power points displaying pictures of lovely landscapes, puppies, couples, and quotes on how 'There's a lead for every pot' and 'When it rains look for the rainbow' or 'Life and love are like hide and seek, people spend their whole lives looking for love, but when they finally forget to look for it, they find it' and a few other such classics that make our girls' hearts flutter and skip a beat. Just right before we run to the closest bathroom and throw up.

Her answer was also a classic. Silence.

Toads Croak, Creeps Creep

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 13:33:00 +0000

I have a single friend and by 'a single friend' I don't mean I have only one friend (they're actually three), but that I have a friend who's single. My friend, whom I'll call Bridgett just because she's British, met a guy online and they set up a date. She wasn't too excited about him, but he was interesting enough as to show some promise. Their drinks date turned into dinner at his suggesting and over a three course meal, he kept telling Bridgett how fantastic he thought she was, how they should get together again soon, and how lovely a weekend spot he knows is *wink wink*. On and on he went, hand holding over the table included. Bridgett, being the worldly woman she is, not to mention the reservations about him she still had, smiled, hand held back, and told him a weekend would be lovely, but she'd rather get to know each other a bit better before that.

They said goodbye a few hours later with the promise of another date over the weekend. Jordi, the guy, called the next day saying how much he was looking forward their next date and the two of them chatted for a while. He promised to call in a couple of days to make definitive plans. Then... silence. The day before the set date arrived and Bridgett texted Jordi: 'Hi, just wondering whether we're still getting together tomorrow. Pls let me know. Thx'. A few hours later, he sent a mysterious message: 'Sorry, things have gotten complicated. Long story. I'll tell u all about it later'. Bridget thought perhaps something had happened with his kids (divorced dad of three) so she sent 'OK. Hope you're alright'.

And then, it was the following day and Bridgett woke up to... (NOTE: I am posting the English translation of his e-mail, but you can check out the original Spanish by... I don´t really know; I've tried several things unsuccessfully so when I figure out how to make it pop out, I will post it. Nothing has been edited and names have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved. Yes, I am nice.)

"Hi Bridget,

let me tell you something. for quite a while i've had some sexual fantasies that i never dreamt would become true. i was not obsessed with them, either, but i must admit that given my situation as a separated man, the present was the time to try to make them happen. well... funny how destiny works, when you can least imagine it, your wishes become true!

Last saturday, Toni (a friend of his) had been invited by a female friend whom I had met when I last visited with my kids, to go for a hike somewhere between Palamós and Calella de Palafrugell. This one friend, Elizabeth, didn't tell him that this was a nudist group just for singles, we found out once we were there. Neither did I know that we would be riding on our car with two girls (45 and 47 respectively) whom we were to meet at the train station inCardedeu. They were going to leave their car there and ride with us.

Well, by 9 AM we were already at the beach, beautiful day, lovely sea, almost no one else there yet... and we had the first naked swim of the day. By ten, almost everyone in the group was already there (about 25 ppl) and we started our hike. fantastic views, cliffs, small pine trees woods,... we finally got to estreta cove, not accessible by car, nudist, where our group was basically by ourselves. during the walk i did hear some comments about how we would rub sunscreen on each other and... true to word, for the first time i had the chance to feel 4 female hands on my back, my legs, etc. and, at the same time, i started to ask to be the masseuse to the two girls (they're 45 and 47, mind you) that rode with us in Toni's car. He wanted to catch a Barça soccer game with his son, so we bid our farewells a bit earlier and we started descending back through a shortcut, with barely no one in sight and by 5 PM we were already in Cardedeu.

Toni left in a hurry so he could get to Bcn on time for the game (Barça lost, btw!) and the two of them took me home. I thought the only polite thing to do was to ask them up for a drink. She came up, got comfortable and... well, the conversation veered towards our mutual separations (oddly enough, all of them had happened on the same year and only a month a apart!), and all the experimenting since. They told me they both were swingers and had partake on the lifestyle in bcn clubs as well as in private parties (my sexual fantasy number 1!) and they took their sweet time detailing all their recent experiences. As you can imagine, I was quite excited and kept asking for details. It turns out, they took a liking to me (well, they liked me, actually!) and they told me that they may invite me to one of their parties but... they had to test me out beforehand.

Well, Bridget, I almost fell off the couch. I couldn't believe what I was hearing; I was about to make my one other sexual fantasy come true (a threesome, sexual fantasy #2). They both started talking about me, in front of me, as if I wasn't there even though they were looking at me with intent while they chatted, you know, the same way two guys would do it if they were talking a bout a woman. they had seen me at the nudist cove (and I had seen them too, of course) and they were 'appraising' me... That was too much for me. i don't think that any sane, heterosexual, confident man could have resisted...

They took a shower, I took a shower, we laid in bed, we got massages started once again, this time using body lotion... you can imagine how the whole thing ended. One had to leave earlier, the other one stayed 'til 2 in the morning and told me that her friend will be over the following day to complete my 'casting'. And that was that. On Sunday night, the lady who had to leave earlier on the previous day, came back to 'finish me up'. It turns out both I get a passing grade (with high marks) by both of them, and they've accept to include me in future 'private swinger parties'.

I've told it to you just as it happened, without trying to minimize or exaggerate what happened. It would not make any sense, bridget. I'm telling you because it makes me feel better (no kidding). I don't feel tied to anything or anyone, but I think it's best if you know about it...

I'm going to bed, bridget. I'll read your answer, if there is one, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. I like you a lot, bridget, but I know myself and I know I am not prepared for a serious, committed relationship and perhaps I have to let off steam first, allow my fantasies to come out and melt before I start something that has to be rather serious in my eyes...

Good night and thanks for listening, my pretty british girl..."

And you thought men were not honest. Ha. I'm very glad B dodged this honest to god bullet, though. Guys, for g's sake, if you're faced with a similar situation, please use the following as a template. You're welcome.

Dear Jane,

Something happened over the weekend that made me realize I am not ready to be in a committed relationship yet. Yes, I am 47 y.o., but when is old too old to stick to just one partner? (Okay, you can skip this last sentence).

I am sorry if I've misled you in any way, but I don't think I can be monogamous at this point.

Best,

John

fml

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 18:31:00 +0000

...because music emulates life...

'Jackie Jackie (Spend the Winter with Me)' by Sally Shapiro

(incidentally I had a writing professor named Shapiro back in NYC...)

I thought so much about you that day
It was a perfect day
But I couldn't enjoy it without you
I wish it didn't mean so much
When I grabbed you by the hand
Sometimes I think too much about things
I think I give you too much time
But it feels like
I want to give to something back
For everything you mean to me
I want to give to something back
For everything you mean to me

Chorus:
Jackie Jackie
Spend this winter with me
Oh, Jackie Jackie
I just can't make up your mind
Tonight, tonight we fly
Oh, Jackie Jackie
I still wait by the phone
Oh, Jackie Jackie
I don't wanna be alone
So come along with me tonight

Why do I always end up

In situations that are bad for me?
How come I don't fall in love
With normal people?
And why don't normal people
Fall in love with me?
I don't think I'm that strange
Do you think I'm strange?
I don't intend to
It's just that things very easily
Get complicated around me
It's just that things very easily
Get complicated around me

(Chorus)

Hey Jackie, please
Come with me
And you'll see
That my love
Will take you high above, baby

(Chorus)

See. Spot. Stay. Sh*t.

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Wed, 26 May 2010 14:15:00 +0000

the sun is shinning today.

i'd like to be wearing a matching mood.

Are they calling for our last dance?

i see it in your eyes, in your eyes.

same old moves for a new romance.

i could use the same old lies, but i'll sing,

shine on, just shine on!

('shine on' by james blunt)

So... Tell Me About You

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Mon, 24 May 2010 20:58:00 +0000

About three weeks ago I went out on a coffee date with someone. He looks like a cross between Patrick Dempsey and John Corbett. Seriously. Only skinnier. But his thin frame has an explanation I will disclose further down this post.

We spent about an hour and a half together, perhaps a bit less. All we did during those 80-90 minutes was talk about him. When I say we only talked about him I mean the only topic of conversation was him. He never asked one single question about me. I don’t think he asked one single question, period. None, zero, zilch, nada de nada. He left with exactly as much information about me or anything else as he had when he arrived. There was much talk about the countries he's visited and, because of his knowledge of them, the conversation was if not entertaining at least interesting.

As we were saying goodbye he asked me to have dinner with him the following weekend. Because I had found him to be a well of information and thought his slight egocentrism might have been nerves, I agreed. Then again, let’s not forget he looks like the son of Patrick and John were they able to mate and reproduce.

Saturday night came and we met in front of the restaurant he had suggested. Interesting place. Great décor (those are pictures of their restroom doors). And certainly subscribers of the theory of dinning that advocates for big plates, tiny portions, and huge bill.

We got there with the early crowd and closed the place. That adds to a grand total of 4 hours during which I learned many things about him. Let me allow you to learn them too.

He is a certified shiatsu masseuse and an acupuncturist (incidentally, his day job is in IT). I’ve got to listen to: the story of his journalist girlfriend number one -who got involved with a colleague and wrote poetry and read 7 newspapers a day, journalist girlfriend number 2, the one who came after journalist #2 whom I already knew about, the girlfriend who came after this latter one, and the girlfriend who truly broke his heart about a year ago and is currently involved with someone else. He regrets not having fought for this last relationship harder. He could have done more to save it. He’s spent most of the time since their break-up going on crazy strenuous bike rides trying to feel better about letting the relationship die. He hasn’t had much luck with that plan. Nevertheless, he is at peace with the fact that the relationship had to end.

I could tell he certainly is. Not.

Just to make sure I was still keeping track of all the women he’s been in a relationship with, he told me about his latest conquest.

It was late March 2010 and the chemistry between the two of them was so powerful that when she spent a week in Madrid for business, he went completely bananas and couldn't stop thinking about her. He called, he texted and he just plain went out of his mind. Apparently the cause of this obsession was a perfume, incense-scented house combo along with the Latin American savoir-faire of the femme-fatale.

She was quite a mess otherwise. They could not really have a conversation, but, Oh the sex! and Oh her beauty! but Oh, she was looking for a sugar daddy! and, Oh, she was deeply preoccupied by her appearance!

About a month into it she broke it off. He lost about 10 pounds during this whirlwind affair. This demise occurred only about two weeks prior to our first date.

Just in case I hadn’t reached a state of masochism that compelled me to think he was relationship material, he continued.

“Currently I’m trying to prove to her she can have a friendship with a man without it having a sexual component. She doesn’t have any guy friends, she only has a few women friends. Partly it’s her personality, and I know it doesn’t come easy to her to not tone her sensuality up when she’s around men and, as I said, it’s somewhat hard to have a conversation with her, too. But I’m taking it as a challenge. For her. And for me too, of course."

But of course.

If the food hadn’t been so finely chopped and there would have been enough of it to last more than three bites, I might have choked on it. Thankfully, the restaurant had inadvertently saved me from an early death.

I listened to his soliloquy attentively, made a comment here and there, and even though I found all of those stories quite fascinating, mainly because the insight they gave me into the male psyche, by girlfriend number 3 I already knew the lights were out for him and me.

The great thing about men who love to talk and are partial to listening is that they make all the work for you.

Four hours went by in this fashion. Again, he never asked any questions a part from “What’s on ‘Black Gipsy’s Arm’?” when reading his order to the waiter. That’s the name of an actual dish at that restaurant, by the way.

Currently my approach to dating is 'curios rather than furious' therefore I did not mind his lack of interest in my life all that much. That’s not to say it endeared me to him, only that since I had checked out of any romantic ideations with him about 35 minutes into our date, I was there for the show an I played audience really nicely. John Corbett who?

Then the bill came. I had a vague idea of how much dinner was going to cost but seeing it there, black on white, with my stomach yelling to my brain 'Traitor! You told me there was going to be food!' made me run through a mental list of things I could have done with that money. Yes, I was 99% sure half of the bill was going to be on me for having the privilege of being someone's therapist and playing with some chunks of tuna.

Oh, did I not mention this? The expense of our first date, which was an outrageous 4,25 EUR for the two of us, was evenly split, so I wasn't really expecting him to pay for dinner. My divination powers being as accurate as they are, we went Dutch.

Please allow me to take a minute from the story to dispense some advice to any guy who’s made it this far down the post. If you're going on an early date with a woman and you have no intention of paying for her, please at least give her a couple of options when it comes to the restaurant if you're the one doing the suggesting. Something like 'I know of this great place, but it's a bit expensive, so if you'd like we could also go to (insert name of cheaper restaurant)'.

Yes, I know that to the American ear, or probably any English speaking country, to think of saying such a thing to a woman almost guarantees there’s not going to be a date at all, so perhaps just pick a cheap yet fun date and pay for it. Nevertheless, there are countries where women do not expect for their dates to pay for dinner (although they certainly appreciate it). Spain is one of those countries. Over here, going Dutch is not as frown upon as it is in, say, the US. I must say, though, that most of the Spaniards I’ve dated have treated me most of the time. They got the movie tickets and we split dinner. I may have gotten us some coffee, they bought the popcorn and paid for drinks. I would not have been offended if they hadn’t, but obviously it did not play against them when they did not let me pay.

But back to my date.

As we left the place, he suggested to grab a drink. I’m not even sure whether I was given the option to disagree, but after 20 minutes of walking and not getting into any of the bars we passed, I said ‘Sorry, but I’m going home.’ He suggested we met to play tennis the following weekend (this one). I said we could discuss it during the week. Of course, he's the one of the two of us who plays tennis.

On Thursday, he texted me asking when were we going to play the match we had pending. He also offered dinner. I texted back saying I was busy over the weekend.

I’m planning on being very busy for all the weekends until the end of my life.

Of When You Have a Good, Solid Plan but the Universe Conspires to Ruin It

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Wed, 19 May 2010 14:27:00 +0000

Let's see... today is Wednesday. I wrote about my fool-proof plan on Friday. I'm not around on weekends. My determination is still intact. As a matter of fact, I am even more determined to crush the crush than I was last week.

Well.

So far this week, we (Parking Man and I) have already bumped into each other three times. Three days, three times. How did this happen?!

Let me break down the likelihood of those encounters occurring on a scale from 1 to 5, 1 being impossible, 5 being mandatory. Here it goes:

Monday - 4. Parking garage. Before I got to the office. On Monday he swaps his motorcycle for his car because he has to check some construction being done on a nearby town, thus parks his bike on the garage at lunchtime as opposed to the street. How have I acquired such a vast knowledge of his comings and goings is disturbing. Not the way I have done so (he's told me) but the fact that I do know so much about his parking habits. But anyway. I usually allow myself some 10-15 minutes for traffic complications. If there aren't any, I may hang out in my car until it's time for me to get to the office.

Tuesday - 2. I went to drop something off to my car. The whole thing takes about a minute and a half, perhaps even less. Had he not left his office late, we would have not bumped into each other. I was opening my car door as I heard the engine of a bike coming down the ramp. I silently prayed for it not to be his, but of course it was. That's in line with the results I get from praying, so no shock here. Of course, we talked for the duration of my evening break.

Wednesday (to-freaking-day, only a couple of hours ago) - 1. 3:50 PM. I went to the supermarket next door to buy water and something to eat for lunch. Water in Barcelona is quite undrinkable, I wish I could open the tap and drink out of it like I used to do in NYC. Oh well. Back to the conspiracy. I turned the corner to get into my building, and who's there walking towards his bike? PM, of course.

Many people in Spain have a 2-hour lunch break (which they hate and understandably so). He's due back at the office at 4 PM. Truly, you learn something every day. And our timing just had to be so in synch.

What's going on and please stop it already!

On the flip side, we're going to have some coffee and DVD exchanging later today, which means we won't be meeting tomorrow. And Friday is out of the question. Thank God for small miracles.

You see, there's always a silver lining. (So you can strangle yourself with it, obviously).

How To Crush a Crush in 500 Steps or Fewer

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 14 May 2010 19:17:00 +0000

Last November I met someone. Someone is a heterosexual man of approximately my age. He parks next to me in the garage I rent near my workplace. The whole thing was quite a serendipitous event that lead to us dating for a couple of months. We went on dates, we made out in bars and cars, and we broke up for a lack of a better phrasal verb.

By January he delivered the classic 'You’re really terrific but I cannot do a relationship right now’, spiced up with the old-time favorite ‘It’d be so easy to fall in love with you and I don’t want it to happen’, and that was that.

These days, we still hang out every so often. There is sexual tension in the air, but that's where it stays. It always goes like...

He calls me, or texts me, and asks if I’d like to meet him for coffee on my evening break. Because I work for US-based clients, I’m in the office at times when most Spaniards are done working. He lives nearby and I usually end up agreeing.

For the past couple of months or so, he’s been asking me for coffee about once a week. Usually on Thursday. I’ve also noticed there’s some sort of quota on how much we can see of each other per week. For instance, if we bump into each other at the parking garage, which inevocably translates into 40-50 minutes of conversation during which I stand and he straddles his motorbike, he won’t ask me out. If the week goes by and by Thursday we haven’t seen each other, he’ll produce a DVD for me and to the coffeeshop we go.

The couple of times I did the suggesting, he turned me down. Once I offered to meet on a Friday afternoon. Nor can do. Some other time, I mentioned a single girlfriend and I could meet him and his friends on a certain Saturday night I was going to be in the city. For reasons too long and boring to explain it didn’t end up happening, either. The last occurrence was last week. Guess what day? Yes, it was on Thursday. He called and asked to meet up at the usual time, usual spot. I couldn’t and suggested meeting after I was done working. He didn’t want to miss his spinning class.

To add confusion to this ‘friends of joe’ situation, he sent me an email a couple of weeks ago that got me even more tangled up.

He knows I am looking for a rental in Bcn and live about 50 minutes from it. In the midst of some helpful information, he threw in an invitation to spend the night at his place (I leave the office around 10:30 PM on a good day). If I ever needed to be in the city early in the morning, of course. He also stated that he’d be spending that or those night(s) elsewhere. I joked that would not be necessary providing he slept on the cold, hard floor.

His reply?

“There’s no way in hell I am going to stay in my apartment if you are spending the night.” Well, that’s nice. “I am a pretty leveled-headed guy, but I’m not sure how I’d behave if we were both in the same apartment.”

That led to a (short) discussion on whether ‘friends with benefits’ was a suitable scenario, and it might have even been me the one who typed it out loud.

“Before you said this, I was 99% sure nothing was ever going to happen between the two of us. Now that I know you’ve thought about it, I am 100% sure.”

Hu?! Leave it up to me to break character with the absolute wrong person.

It turns out I’m like an expensive luxury car you see on the road and think ‘It’d be cool to drive that car’ but know it is better not to do so. His metaphor, not mine. He enjoys his simple life and women would make it less simple. He’s avoiding all that turns simple into complicated which basically means he's avoiding women. I am a woman, watch him avoid me. Allegedly.

Now, there are a few things I have learned during my years of navigating and getting lost in the Male Sea.

When he says ‘It is not you, it’s me’, he means ‘It is definitively you’.

If he says he’s not interested in a relationship, he may or may not be, but he’s certainly not interested in a relationship with you.

When a man likes you, you know. When he doesn’t, you’re confused.

I am confused alright. I don’t call/email/text unless he does, which I believe it’s what experts refer to as ‘responding’. I’m okay with us being just friends, but it is annoying not to be able to act with him as I do with my male friends (Wanna catch a movie? Oh wait, we can only hang out during the early evening on weekdays). It is also annoying to like him. I’m not even that sure why I do. Perhaps lack of practice on my part. He’s okay looking, cute in a good day. Way too cynical in general but when it comes to love and women his cynicism reaches record levels. He obviously belongs to the short bus because of the lack of logical thinking in his rationale. Yet, he starts talking engineering and science I can hear my dendrites sparking. Alas, he's also funny in just the right way.

So. I need to stop this. I need to crush this stupid crush into nothing. I do not want to like him.

I need a plan. It should look something like…

a) Make self scarce. Both in person and in writing. No need to answer most of his texts or emails
b) Keep most thoughts to self
c) Avoid parking garage at times he’s likely to get there
d) No more DVD requests. I'll explain. He has access to almost any DVD release and has the Xcel spreadsheet to prove it (he’s an engineer after all). He told me to let him know the movies I’d like to watch because he would get me a copy. For that purpose said .xls was uploaded on google docs. He updates his collection and I add my requests. Every week there seems to be a new DVD popping out with several movies I have requested. That's usually his reasoning for meeting me. “Hey! I’ve got a new DVD for you.” When I don’t add any titles, he reminds me to do so, “I’ve noticed you haven’t asked for anything in a while, anything you’d like?” I’m still to watch a single one of those movies.

As of this week, I am no longer requesting anything. See, excuse, go. And if it wasn’t an excuse but a reason, the less I get to see of him, the easier it should be to wash him off of my hair.

I have left a text go unanswered today. Actually I did answer it, I just did not send it. I show lots of promise.

Cupid must die.

One Little Riddle

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 02 May 2010 18:49:00 +0000

(painting by gary banfield)

If I Was Brave

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 02 May 2010 14:16:00 +0000

My cell phone whistles signaling there’s a text message waiting. I think, ‘Oh, no, please don’t let it be him, tell me it’s not him again’. I open my phone. It is him. I even hear my eyes rolling back on their sockets. He texts me a lot. And I wish he didn’t. That isn’t good.

He and I have gone on a few dates for the past month or so. He’s nice enough, attractive enough, cultured enough, tall enough. He’s many things enough and some more than enough as for me to want to like him. And some times I even think I do. Thought I did?

I used to not cut men much slack. I either really liked the gentleman or didn’t. If I didn’t, I would not go out with him again. The more dates you go on, the harder it is to explain why you don’t want to continue seeing him. It was only logical to quit it early when my stomach was not giving signs of butterflies.

Things are a bit different now. If there’s any doubt in my mind, I give it at least 2 or 3 tries, especially if I think the man may be worth it. I usually cannot get myself to go out with someone under a romantic guise more than three times when I know it is not there for me, but three dates I can manage pretty comfortably. He’s one of those men.

With him there’s been more than three meetings. We’ve gone out to dinner, and for a drink, and to the movies, and met for lunch by the sea on a Sunday, and had coffee together several times. We’ve had fun, and we’ve talked about his work, and I’ve had doubts, and I’ve helped him with his company, and I’ve thought ‘He’s such a great guy’, and I’ve wished it was time for me to leave, and I’ve got him talking so I didn’t have to.

I’ve only realized recently that when I’m not attracted to someone I try to get them to talk about themselves as much as possible. The more they say, the less I need to share. With him I’m mostly aloof and inquisitive. I am not bored, but I’m watching a play I’m not a part of and it’s becoming more evident as the dates pile up.

Whilst when I like someone, I’m all hands, legs, and fingers, when I don’t, I’m all space and air. There’s always lots of room between he and I. I create that room. My limbs don’t leave the perimeter of my body, I even think I lean back a little, my hips always preceding my upper body. And it’s completely unconscious. Anyone who knows me, knows I talk with my hands. Even my facial muscles are hyper-tonic (dentists dixit). With him, I become more circumspect by the date. British lords have nothing on me.

I’ve realized all this much while he and I talk and he’s there and I am not. He thinks I am, but I ain’t. The phenomenon has become more evident on this last week. Perhaps aggravated by his texting. Hi, how’s your morning going? Look, it’s sunny out, you got your wish :). Is your day going okay? Having a hard day today? You’re about to leave the office! I hope you made it home safe, kiss. STOP IT! I want to yell. Leave me alone! Please don’t let it be you, please, oh, please. Sh*t. It cannot be good when a man you’re sort of dating wishes good upon you and all you think is, Crap, is there a way I cannot answer this text and don’t look like a bitch? Sometimes I go for bitch. Every text message is a muscle cramp.

Last week, I came to the conclusion there was only a way to know what was what. We had to kiss. Since I knew my signals to him had been all over the place and he had been quite on the reserved side, I was pretty certain it’d probably be up to me to make the move. Bad. It’s never good when I have to initiate something I’m not that sure I want to do so I can figure out the answer to a question I have because I cannot longer deal with a situation. (Say that out loud with no extra supply of oxygen). On that particular date, I made a conscious decision to act as if I already knew I liked him for keeps. Tried not to be confusing, or aloof, or hesitant. I knew he was wondering ‘Where is this going’ and hoping my answer was ‘Somewhere.’ He had more than hinted at it on a few texts, and I was tired of being of two minds about him. Okay, one and a half minds, but I still had to figure out that half nonetheless.

My effort and body language paid off. He did kiss me, I kissed him back, and we kissed for a while, and it was okay (not good, not great, not bad, just okay) until I saw my mind leaving the car we were sitting in (mine). Thankfully, he had to leave not that much later. I couldn’t wait to get home and he couldn’t wait to talk about ‘us’. Is that my cell whistling? Oh, please, please, do we really need to? You just left!

Later that evening, he wanted to know if I’d go with him on a business trip to a European city I’ve never been to but want to visit. All on his buck, obviously. I know chemistry was never my strongest subject in school, but why cannot I like him? Like him in that way that makes me all limbs and lack of regard for personal space?

To put some icing on this delicious cake I had managed to bake, his dad has been diagnosed with cancer recently. The disease was supposed to be at a very early stage. At present time, only two weeks later, the man is in the hospital, prognosis unknown, but ranging from bad to fatal.

I agree, pity is never a good reason. If I truly liked him, I’d get a huge grin on my face every time my phone cat-called me. I get a frown instead.

I went out with him again last Friday night and now there’s no doubt in my mind. I, cannot, do, this. I, don’t, want, to, do, him. How much of a jerk can I be? How many good men can I pass on and still feel there are any left and willing?

My phone whistles signaling there’s a text message waiting.

I’ll find my guts wherever I left them last, gather my most coherent arguments, and tell him this week.

It’ll be a disaster.

Seeing Red

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 16:58:00 +0000

i finally did it. and i like it

Malice in Wonderland

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 20:54:00 +0000

A couple of days ago, someone left a note on the windshield of my car.

This is the story...

I had stopped by a grocery store to get, what else, groceries. This particular supermarket is inside a mall and said mall is smack dab on my way to work. I stop there quite often, either for groceries, or a cappuccino, or both. That’s my pit stop. The place where I get my head in order before swinging into full work mode.

On this particular day, I was running late and needed groceries. There was no time for coffee. Only groceries.

I used the underground parking garage as I usually do. I took a few minutes to take off my sweater, pick up some goji berries that had fallen on the seat (had been munching on them a few minutes earlier), and apply some chapstick (the one thing I cannot live without along with chocolate, and perhaps, oxygen).

All that rearranging took about 5 minutes tops.

The parking lot was pretty much empty. As far as I could tell, the only other sign of human life was a guy placing groceries into his trunk not too far from me. That's all.

I should mention that I was getting in and out of my car. Door open. Out to get the sweater off, leaning in to pick up the berries, leaning further in to throw them in a bag, out for the lip balm. Such a perfect choreography.

I checked the time, realized I should hurry, and hurried. Went to the escalator, made a left towards the supermarket (just a few steps away, really), bought what I needed, and rushed back down. Got in the car, put my sunglasses on, clicked the seatbelt in place, and drove off.

About a mile into my driving, I realized there was something on my windshield. Something that looked like a page ripped off from a notebook. I curved the car to the right, got off and picked it up, all while wondering how could I have possibly offended either one of my work parking garage neighbors. I had already gotten a note from each one of them in the past. Was I on my way to parking hell?

It was bound to be my left side neighbor. I am quite friendly with my right side one, we even went on a few dates not that long ago. I am positive he feels absolutely free to complain about me to me both, over the phone and in person. No need for notes. I wondered how had it been possible to go so long without realizing a note was stuck in there, right under the left wiper. Whoever did it was a pro for the note not to get blown away on my way back home the previous night.

And then I read it.

‘You’re lovely, please get in touch with me’ and a nondescript email address. A lust note. Ha. How's that for angry parking fellows.

Being the contemplative overthinker that I am, I started considering the options. Who. Where. When. The possibilities were quite limited. When and where: either the previous night at my work parking garage, or that very same day at the grocery store. Who: no idea. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was it had to be someone who parks where I do in BCN.

The handwriting was clearly a man’s. Open mental folder labeled ‘Men I See in Parking Garage.’ This one is an older gentleman. That one I’ve seen with a kid occasionally so he’s probably married. This other one was staring at me yesterday while he was waiting for the door to open, but how does he know I park in there too? I ran down the list and was left with two potential candidates to play the role of Anonymous Note Writer. By that time, I was at said parking garage. Two minutes before I had to be at the office.

There never was a doubt in my mind I was going to write to him. I’m too curious and too single not to. As soon as I got some free time, I wrote a quick email, typed the address on the note and hit ‘Send.’

Not that much later, my Inbox had a new email. Someone I’ll call Jordi, his name incidentally, had written back:

I hope you weren’t bothered by my note. I saw your eyes, thought you were lovely, and decided to leave you a note. I knew that if I thought about it, I might not do it, so I went ahead with it.

He went on to tell me he had seen me ‘wherever you were at 1:14 pm today, so I surely hope you know where that was *wink*’ Mas oui. Supermarket, Today, with Pen and Paper. Mystery almost solved. Only the Who was missing. It had to be either the guy with the groceries or the other man I saw on my way to the escalator. I hadn’t been closer than 15 feet from either. Yes, my eyes are lovely indeed.

Jordi added he may introduce himself someday since I had admitted I had no clue who he was and claimed to want to know. He suggested we could also email for a while and see where that took us.

The e- word.

I’d rather not email with strangers. Writing intimate blog post strangers may read is fine, but emailing them, that’s too much to ask. I’d rather spend my energy and time doing something else than spilling my guts in writing to someone who lives nearby and I have not met. Conversely, I have no problem meeting said stranger for a cup of coffee and some disclosure of the personal kind. I told him as much. Everyone is a stranger until you cross paths, right? I am a logical person if nothing else *ehem*.

His reply came not that much later. He was game for the coffee and advised me to sit down before reading any furter. I was already sitting down. His warning made me all the more eager to hear what he had typed next. It promised to be of the good-yet-bad kind.

As the honesty loving man that he was, he said, he felt he had to let me in on something. In the spirit of full disclosure, of course. I love me some of that spirit.

What he had to say was something that looked very much like a wife and a kid he had. He was, and is, a married man. Of course, the note… it was the first time he had ever done such a thing. He had seen my ‘brief yet explicit look’ (yes, that’s a quote) and thought, ‘I am going ahead with this.’ I guess by ‘brief yet explicit look’ he meant my checking out my dress hadn’t hiked up to my a** while I was taking off my sweater. It hadn’t. And even if it had, the car door was open and there’s no human, or superhuman, way he would have seen anything from where he was (just FYI, he's ought to be the one with the groceries).

And that’s the part where a string snaps on one of the violins playing the soundtrack of this lovely story. The symphony's over.

I sent him one last email biding him farewell, and thanking him for the note and the honesty. (Un)fortunately, and to the dismay of some of my male friends who don’t understand why anyone would pass up on the opportunity of getting laid, married men are not my cup of joe.

As he himself told me on his last reply, 'I do understand your decision.' Well, thank you.

Since that mall is almost a daily visit at about the same time, give and take 15 minutes, I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. He knows my car and he knows what I look like. I could not pick him out of a lineup of one.

Marriage, not for the faint-hearted.

(Actual note)

Men: A Long Lasting Impression Not To Make

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 10:39:00 +0000

Some Things R Just What They R

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 13:48:00 +0000

¡Feliz navidad!

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 13:46:00 +0000

(thanks to someecards.com for the inspirational message)

Whisky Sour

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 01 May 2009 08:23:00 +0000

I hate whisky on weekdays. I hate it also on the weekends, but since I am not ususally pressed for time then, I deal with its side effects better. Imbue myself with patience. Try to be understanding. All that good, zen stuff. But I am running out of zen.

Why anybody loves it, or even likes it, is beyond me, but I am a little on the slow abstemious side.

Going through the same dance with whisky day after day after day is more whisky I can take, even when it comes on a tiny serving size. But perhaps that's it. Perhaps that is what infuses whisky with those (very) sour undertones and nasty overtones. Everything is concentrated and distilled on just a few inches.

I've tried challenging it, ignoring it, confronting it, befriending it. Nothing works. I've tried nice and I've tried ugly. And I've tried not trying, yet whisky is relentless.

Someone has to be reponsible for it. And I know who that someone is.

I blame his careless owners who leave the garden gate open so Whisky runs off to the street and patrols the neighbothood darting towards my naked ankles as soon as I (innocent passerby on her way to the gym) enter his vision field.

The fact that he has an awful temper inversely proportional to his size helps a lot, too.

The only thing I'm left to try is barking back at him. But I've been practicing in front of my bathroom mirror, so you just wait, Whisky. I can be sour too.

And people, just close the stupid gate!!

It Is Not Me, It Is You

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 21:34:00 +0000

I saw the movie 'Eulogy' lately, even though lately means over a month ago. I haven't had that much time for movies lately, even though lately means over six weeks now. I'm a big fan of Isabel Coixet's work, and Ben Kingsley is magnificent, and Penelope Cruz is so freaking beautiful, and the story is so from a great book. But I don't meant to write a review of the movie.

BK and PC play a winter-spring romance that goes sour and lose touch for a couple of years. Then, BK's character gets home on a particular New Year's Eve to find a voice mail from PC. He gets ready to hear the news he's been dreading for all the year's they've been apart, sure, girl, spit it out, you're getting married, the bastard f**kr who's taking you off the market, it had to happen some time. But she doesn't speak of wedding bells and diamond rings just yet. She asks to see him. He calls her right back and she does not go to the party she was supposed to and she has cut her hair and he paints her naked from the waist up.

Many times I have thought how it would feel to get an email announcing the nuptials of my ex (ex-fiancé even, if one's feeling particularly inspired) . Or whether I will get it at all...Naaah, I will get it.

As it happens. I got mail today. After many months of silence (I like silence, silence felt pretty good most of the time, and the more silence I got and had, the better it felt), his name pops up in my Inbox. It takes me a few seconds to fully realize the name on the screen belongs to the abovementioned man. I click on the bold characters with a surprisingly steady hand. And I start reading.

Like in the movie, there's no wedding.

But, unlike the movie, this is what I have to say to you. Because I still do not know what I will write back. Or if I will write back at all.

Man, you've got no clue.

Couldn't care less about all the !!!! and the !! and the !. You're good at what you do, extremely good, even. And you're charismatic, so much so, I'm surprised you're not running for office . The day you do, you'll draw crowds, and fill stadiums, and get people singing to you on youtube. Oprah may even contribute to your campaign as well. Yes, you have that kind of power.

Couldn't care less about a stupid diamond ring. I never wanted diamonds, blood or not blood. The whole diamond industry is diabolical in their ways and I'd rather not help them stay in business (say DeBeers back to back five times in front of a mirror if you don't believe me). I only told you I loved it when you put in on my finger because I knew how important that ring you had bought, and I was to wear, was to you. I did not want to disappoint you. I had to oblige. Inside of me another box was ticked in the 'Did it his way' column. Couldn't care less about how it stares at you now. I actually think it should take a dive on the toilet blow and flush itself to sea. Make some Nemo a happy fish.

On your email, you go on and on and on and on on such heart breaking classics like 'I want to see you and it's such a good time for me because my mind and spirit are clear' and 'you're the only one who ever got my mind' and 'this is such a good time for me because I've stewed on it for months ' and 'I'm letting you know that I really need to work this out' and 'I have 18 months here, then I go anywhere I want, and I'd like to make all these decisions together.' And it's youyouyouyou all the time. And what you want, and what you need, and how good I am for you and all I do for for you, and how I do get you, and how this is the time for you. Is that Asia Cruise's song I am hearing as I read your love e-letter?

Well, man, I am impressed. That is convincing a woman of your true loving feelings if I ever saw such prowess being performed. Who could refuse you?

Only a basket case.

And that is why I am letting you know to go love yourself. That, you do really well. ! .

On Anniversaires and Other Random Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:27:00 +0000

Where our heroine mentions a series of things that have nothing to do with one another.

A year ago to the date today, I got back to Spain after my eight odd year stint in the States.
Being back is still strange. My former life feels like it belongs to someone else and my current life feels like it's only a temporary gig.

When I woke up this morning, and only after I had breakfast, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and gathered my stuff for a quick workout to the gym, did I realize I had slept with the door of my house unlocked.
Although I live in a (small) two-story house, not locking my door is not too good of an idea.
The house is more like a brownstone than a front-and-back-yard-house, therefore for your average pedestrian making his way along the sidewalk, you left right left right (by now you're next to my front door), reach over, turn the knob and, voilà! you're in my foyer.
To make everything better, since my house was built in 19whatever (60s? 70s?) but certainly before the very fortunate invention of locks that lock themselves, unless I turn the key twice, I may as well not to have a door.
And I slept like a (very well behaved) baby last night for an amazing nine hours which is a personal record.
Just building the case for ignorance is bliss.

A while ago, I decided I should get to know my country better and decided to start taking a few long weekend trips to some major Spanish cities starting in September.
Since I've only been to the capital twice and both times was for business with no time for sightseeing, and Madrid has so much to see and do, I decided to make that city my first trip.
Then, about a month and a half ago, I met someone (some man, actually) who lives there. Several conversations and email alter, I couldn't help it but rethink my timing and decided I could travel somewhere else in September, but Madrid could be well worth it a visit around the end of May. A weekend was chosen (this current one) and I started looking for plane fares and places to stay.
Enter the man. The man in question works for a major designing house that happened to have a big bash planned for this weekend that he was hoping not to have to attend. But he had. Thus the trip was canceled.
Now, enter plan B. Next weekend. But next weekend is not really a good weekend for me. But if I don't go next weekend, I won't be able to go until mid July which brings another whole set of complications.
To go or not to go?
To go. I am (was) in like enough as to undergo some inconvenience for the sake of this man, therefore I searched and found a good deal. I emailed it to him last Thursday in order to hear his thoughts on it. No way I'm staying with him at this point.
But he never got back to me until today.
Basically to say the link does not work and to give him a call so I can tell him about it.
Despite his insistence of my visiting, I'm thinking along the lines of he's not that into you, and since I'm old enough not to want to start anything that does not involve a he that's very much into me, I have decided to stick to my original plan and visit Madrid in September.

Gotta make sure I did not leave the gas valve open. Although, talk about a good night sleep.

S Thinks Therefore S Says

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Sun, 25 May 2008 19:51:00 +0000

I have mentioned my friend S before.

We met at one of the fitness classes she teaches at the gym I used to go to when I lived in NYC, and have sweated together many times since then. Actually, I did the sweating and she did the "Yes? no? maybe so?" while trying to teach me, us, some convoluted choreography involving jumping three feet on the air while landing on an arabesque that was to be followed by a split on a step. Okay, maybe not that convoluted, but I swear they were this close.

A part from belonging to my favorite school of fitness, no pain, no gain, drill sargent style, she's also the most self-assured, confident, no-nonsense-taken woman I've ever met. One of her evil looks and you are dead. Or at the very least, frozen for a few minutes while time stops and you feel your blood draining from all your vital organs. She has no insecurities whatsoever, and if she does, they're more likely to be the 'I invest in securities' kind than the ones you solve by sucking in your stomach.

Spite all of this, she is kind, and funny and has a huge heart. Not to mention she has the most hilarious collection of stories you've ever heard, many of them involving men. And she also works nonstop 24 X 7. From Sunday through Saturday and all days in between, there she is, teaching somewhere uptown, downtown, midtown, or in Brooklyn. Which usually means a date with her is going to involve exercise. In a public place. With lots of sweat. And everybody's clothes on.

She is attractive, but she's not a size zero, or a two, or a four. Because of her hectic schedule, she's usually wearing work out gear, and not the mid-riff bearing kind. One wouldn't describe her as the stereotype of woman we are told most men fight over, yet they do. She is completely confident in her own skin and has more moves (a killer shimmy included) than Paris Hilton DUI's arrests.

And then, every so often, she sends me things such as...

"New friend of mine -[blogger's note: insert African man's name] from Africa to be exact [insert country's name -incidentally, S's ancestry is also African]- says he likes me and I told him that I can only offer him friendship because I'm married w/ children -take it or leave it [she is childless and husbandless and I don't think she cares about either]. Like most men, he thought he could change my mind so he accepted my friendship -thinking his powers of persuasion would get him what he wants. NOT!

I found out that he had bought me a mother's day gift and I told him to return it cuz I was joking about having kids. He asked me if I was joking about being married too. I told him no [true evil at work] . He said even though I'm not really a mother, he wanted me to have the gift.

We arranged to meet at his brother's job -selling newspapers on [insert a very popular Manhattan crossroad]. It's a bottle of perfume -which I'm not big on. I've had the same bottle of Ralph Lauren perfume which I bought over 10 years ago and it's not even half empty.

'Magic dream' -his gift- the perfume. Strong. Smells like musky baby powder. I'm definitively gonna regift! [Oh, pleeease, you know you've done it, too].

I told him that I know what I like so I can buy my own gifts. [Wanna hear how this pants do NOT make your a** look fat? Go ask your boyfriend].

Sunday, he said he agreed to meet me at the gym to workout [surprise, surprise] and at his insistence, take me to dinner -after the workout. He showed up 2 and a half hours late [big no-no, guys, gift or no gift], wearing black cowboy boots, newspaper pants (white denim w/ black headlines and articles all over the jeans. A patterned black buttoned up shirt with a patterned black sweater with red, black and white lettering, and two diamond/cubic zirconia earrings. One in each ear. [A true fashionista if I ever saw one]. He asked me if I liked his outfit and I said it was OK -I wouldn't wear it. He asked me again -later- and I said it was too busy/loud. There was too much going on. If I were gonna wear newspaper pants [et tu Brutus?], I'd wear a plain/solid black or white top, not two tops with two different patterns. He told me that I didn't know fashion and that he bought his outfit in Paris. And people in Europe dressed like him [how dare you?! In Europe, we wear pants with print from gossip magazines not newspapers!]. I said, "Welcome to AMERICA."

I told him that everyone's taste is different and to prove it, I was gonna take a survey -random strangers on the street and ask if they like it and why, or if they don't like it, why not [please remember all this took place in the streets of "I'm too busy to have time to say I'm busy" Manhattan]

Some people laughed and refused to answer. Some people said they liked it, and some said it was ugly and not their style. Most who liked the newspaper pants liked it cuz it was unique/original but wouldn't pair it with a busy top. He got about 50% yays and nays [political polling at its finest].

He had wanted me to say I liked his outfit and I told him that I could lie if that's what he wanted. He says that everyone always looks at him when he dresses up [poor soul]. I told him that because people look DOESN'T mean that they like what they see. If I walked around in public with panties on my head, a lot of people will look. I'll get a whole lot of attention. [S, busting men's egos for over 25 years].

The budding shrink inside of me says because he lacked so much growing up in Africa he's overcompensating now [where S shows her compassionate nature]. He's also worried about what people will think about everything!

Anyway, he worked out barefoot and in his undershirt and underwear at the gym. In the classroom. [Can you say TS naked cowboy, anybody?]

Did I tell you that he's a smoker? [THAT he probably did pick up in Paris]. So we lifted free weights -15lbs [about 7 kgs] for biceps triceps and shoulders. He was struggling so gave him 10lbs [about 5 kgs] and then 7.5lbs [you do the math]! He said that I have no mercy. I said, "Stop crying and show that MEN are the stronger sex!" he said, "You are not even sweating!"

ONE FOR THE GIRLS!!! :) [I'm still trying to wrap my head around the tighty whites workout, girl]

He had also bought me a gift -again- some wooden thing. It looks like a figurine(SP?), with pictures of birds and feathers hanging off and in a boxy Styrofoam container [he clearly subscribes to the 'It's not the gift but the thought that counts' delusional school of thinking] that he expected me to carry -looking like some pizza delivery person [hell to the naw]. Aren't I lucky. I left that crap at the gym. He himself didn't wanna carry the damned thing. I told him that I didn't ask him for a gift so I'm not gonna carry it. I might donate it to the salvation army.

[...]"

Miss you girl. You rock.

TGIF - Feeling the Beat

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 21:59:00 +0000

It's been a while since I wrote one of this. It's actually been a while since I've written anything period, but I know TGIF has even more fans than my usual rants (if that's in-any-way-imaginable possible), so here's your fix.

My praise this Friday goes to www.muxtape.com

Remember tapes? That plastic case containing a string of magnetic film that one would use to record one's favorite songs out of the radio, vinyl and, by golly! even out of another tape? Remember boom-boxes and double deckers? Yes, I am that old.

For those of you who got lost while reading the above paragraph, you should buy more vintage t-shirts. Tapes were that thing people used to use before ~~CDs, wait you may not know those either~~ mp3 files came along and that are now the s*ht to wear printed on a t-shirt.

In a very, very remote time called the 80s and 90s when shoulder pads were in fashion and the size to be was a 3 instead of a 000, people used to make tapes for themselves and for the people they loved and lusted after. Local elders assure me the phenomenon started even earlier than that, but you know people over 40 equals fickle memories. Back in the day, though, tapes were a medium to ~~push their favorite songs onto the dear and near~~ show they cared and valued and, perhaps, even appreciated. That primitive way of communication was called A MixedTape.

In this digital era, not only are we growing bigger thumbs, but the fine art of the mixed tape has been lost. Or at least it had until muxtape came along.

This great idea of a site lets you make your own 'mixedtape' that can then be listen to by whoever is so musically inclined. Or the friends you force to. Or the lover who loves you. Or just you.

Your muxtape has 12 songs. Their format has to be an mp3. You can play and pause the music by pressing 'return' and switch between tracks with the left and right arrow keys. It plays on iPhones. People can vote for it if they like it. And you can hear mine (à la mood) just by clicking on the image below.

I would love to hear yours, so feel free to post the link with your comment.

(Listen to "à la mood")

Holy Cra(b) or a Series of Quite Unfortunate Events

noreply@blogger.com (c j.) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 23:35:00 +0000

I have had a very eventful couple of days.

I will probably elaborate on a few of these events at a later, yet near, date. Nevertheless, right now, let me count the ways.

Number 1- On Friday night, I was bitten on the inner part of my lower lip by something yet to be determined, but which caused a VERY bad allergic reaction. I'm just realizing all the ways that can and will be misinterpreted (well, the one way, really) so I feel obliged to clarify. I mean the lip on my face.
My lip grew so large, I looked like I was carrying a nine-month baby in it. And a large one at that. Needles to say I had to put myself on house arrest all day Saturday. Wait till you see the pictures. The Elephant man had nothing on me.

Number 2- Last night, as I was driving home around 11 PM, my lights went off. Pitch black o'clock was the time my headlights decided to die. For good. Considering the last 15 minutes of my drive home are on a road with NO lighting whatsoever and surrounded by trees and the occasional boar (yes, the wild kind), I had what Enrique Iglesias would call a 'experiencia religiosa'. I thanked God the high beams were working.
The cars driving in the opposite direction, however, might have felt different about this last sentiment.

Number 3- Today, after many days of steering myself away from clothing stores, I stopped by a mall for a quick peek. I did well. I only bought a sweater instead of a sweater and the three other tops I had also tried on, liked, and didn't equally need.
On my way to the cash register, something caught my eye. I believe they call it underwear. Being the undergarments ~~whore~~ fiend that I am, I couldn't resist and ended up buying three bras and a black thong. The thong because of the great fabric, the bras because one of them matched the thong and the other two out of need. Really. Who doesn't need a bra when she has enough of them not to have to do laundry for about a year, give or take a month?
The best part of my mini shopping spree was to realize the underwear cost as much as all the tops I had forgone combined.

Number 4- Because of the difficulty to find parking around my office, I rent a parking spot in a private garage. That means I get keys (3) to the different doors granting access to the parking area and a remote that opens the main gate to get the car in and out. The whole thing is about two or ten pounds, therefore I carry it separately from my car keys.
I have to say I did see it coming. But being the proactive woman of action that I am, I just decided not to wait for it to come.
That it is why I wasn't surprised when I went to get into the parking garage (please, keep in mind my working hours are 2 to 10:30 PM, to better serve the US clients, mind you) after a long day at the office, only to realize I had left the magic key chain in a car that was conveniently locked inside a garage. Leaving me with no means to get in the place.
After several futile attempts to get a neighbor to open the door for me, trying to get to the garage through one of the many doors inside the building (all locked), and waiting for someone to come in through the main gate so I could get in with them (nighttime, weekday, cold), a guy on a motorcycle showed up and I finally reached my target a few minutes before midnight.

Okay, that last one didn't happen a couple of days ago.

It happened a few weeks ago.