First off, before I dive into this thing, I want to give a shout out to all the wonderful people who have left comments on my blog---I didn’t realize there were any comments to read, so I hadn’t been checking for them, to be honest, but then I just went back and saw that there were quite a few, and clicking through and reading all of them was like opening presents on Christmas morning---so fun! And so redeeming---I’m glad to know that folks are actually reading this and are responding to it, and more so, to also know that we can all commiserate, through the wonderful modern medium of the World Wide Web, about the dating world and the pitfalls and emotional zeniths contained therein. Rock on! And to the gal offering me lessons in Catalan in exchange for lessons in flirting (haha): I would love to take you up on your offer, but the truth is, the only sure thing I’ve gleaned in my years of flirting is this: it’s up to the girl to start it---“drop the handkerchief”, so to speak---then, it’s up to the guy to pick it up or not. After that stage, I’m just as clueless as anyone else. But if you’ll settle for a cup of coffee or a beer instead, you’re on. And now that I am clued into the fact that we’ve got some give and take here, I have a favor to ask all of you---if you’ve been involved in a long-distance relationship (that worked or didn’t), can you write in and share your experiences? Like, what’s the most important thing to you learned? What are some do’s/dont’s? What are some poignant stories you’d like to dish? I would appreciate any and all feedback, so thanks in advance for helping me along in my quest…ie, the quest of having enduring wild monkey-sex with Catalan Man…and for helping other readers in a similar situation have enduring wild monkey-sex with their faraway loves, too. Now, back to our regular programming. So, I’ve been trying to make an honest stab at sticking my toe in the dating pool again---because of the “all eggs in one basket” no-no, and also because dating is just *fun* (even if the perfume and sexy skirts don’t lead to anything scandalous, at least they’re being appreciated)---but dang, that dating pool is COLD! And Lord knows who’s been peeing in that thing. I’ve been having interesting email back-and-forth with an internet dating guy lately (although WHY, Yonina and I wonder, do internet-dating men milk the “pen pal” stage for as long as humanly possible before asking you out on a date? Do they really need that much time to determine if you’re worth a $10 glass of wine and a $2 subway ride?), I called Tim the wunderkund sax player for one more attempt at beckoning his metaphorical hermit crab of love out of his shell, and I have a non-date with a piano player friend of mine on Friday who I’ve had a crush on for forever (NOT Harry) (I’ve decided Harry is cute and talented but in the end, a bit of a cad)….but…. Maybe I’m just conjuring up excuses, but I really don’t want to---nor CAN---start anything up at this juncture. Jordi is coming in just under 3 weeks, and what do I tell new suitors about my situation? “Uh, well, yeah, sorry I didn’t call, but My Ridiculously Perfect Soulmate Sent To Me By The Benevolent Universe ™ has been in town and we’ve doing nothing but having wild monkey sex , ordering take out, and then maybe trying to squeeze in a trip to a famous NYC monument before we have more monkey sex. So needless to say, I’ve been a little distracted, ho ho! Coffee later? Call me.” “The dog did it.” (Did what?) “I don’t know. But it’s him, not me.” “Ants! Ants! Ants!” <after which I start rolling around on the floor, frothing at the mouth, until the guy hangs up and mutters something about going into the priesthood> Anyway, so I think that our 2-week stint together will tell me all I need to know about how things are going to turn out. Either we’ll fall madly in love (yey! I vote for love!) or detest the sight of each other, throwing dishes and putting poxes on each other’s houses (he is a fiery Catalan, after all), but I can’t see much possibility for grey area here. Hmm, logistical question: how am I going to sneak out and write about HIM for this blog while he’s here? (Although he’s a glorified hacker and has managed to find everything else about me online, I don’t think he’s found this blog yet. Note to Jordi: if you know about this, when you visit me, say the codewords “Special Secret Sauce” and I’ll know. And then I will die of embarrassment. So those will be the last words I ever hear. Part of a McDonald’s jingle from the ‘80s. Awesome.) Slipping away will take some maneuvering. “Hey, darling, I’m going to pop out to Café Pick Me Up and write a blog outlining my most intimate thoughts about you for the entire nation to read; be back soon. Byeeeee!” “I think you should just marry him. Green card marriages are the best!” my South African friend Carmen told me jollily after her 2nd glass of chardonnay at our Restaurant Week lunch at Gotham Bar & Grill. We were pretending to be “ladies who lunch”, as we both work from home and can sneak in some extended daytime activities every once in awhile, and she apparently was pretending to be unmarried too, as she made subtle (but not subtle to me because I know her) goo-goo eyes at the adorable waiter with an even more adorable Cockney accent. “Marry him!” I said, pretending to be horrified, but secretly glowing on the inside when the words escaped my mouth. Carmen and her husband, though they were dating at the time, got married in South Africa perhaps earlier than they might have done naturally so they could both come to the States together. I’ve always regarded their marriage as the ideal one: they are both fun, well-traveled, adventurous, constantly on the go, love to party together, and are a good personality yin-yang: he lets her flirt shamelessly with anyone she wants to while he hangs out in the background; strong, silent and secure in the knowledge that he’ll be the one to take her home that night. “Think about it,” she continued. “Everyone is so caught up with having the PERFECT marriage. The PERFECT wedding. The PERFECT life.” She was speaking my language. Part, if not all, of my fear of marriage is due to the damned pressure surrounding the whole thing. “But if you get married for the green card, then you’re off the hook. Not everything has to be PERFECT. So you can continue to be friends, grow with each other, and hope that you grow in the same direction and things work out for the long run. But if they don’t, it’s no biggie. It’s not a huge failure.” I laughed it off and popped one of the most succulent goat-cheese raviolis I’ve ever had into my mouth. Anyway, first things first. We’ll see how this visit goes. My inherently distrustful self wonders if he’s this romantic with his 8 other girlfriends back in Geneva---but the seed has been planted. And grows into what? A beautiful fragrant gardenia bush? A beanstalk? Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors? Time will tell.
