Tag Archives: NYC

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Dudes and Dogs

So my roommate got a kitten. She’s tiny with piercing blue eyes and her name isBowie.

When she started flirting with the idea, browsing Craigslist looking for eligible animals that were rescued or abandoned and now up for auction or for free – I admit I was a little jealous.

I’ve never quite been a cat-person, though I grew up with one who recently passed away. His name was Indiana Jones Tigar, named after one of my favorite series as a kid. We nicknamed him Indy, and he was adventurous and quick, always getting away from me with a smirk that spoke louder than his meow. And then of course, there’s M’s baby Milo, who as my “godson” is permanently embedded in my heart and I’ll admit, that when the earthquake shook New York, I wondered how he was alone in M’s apartment.

And now, there’s yet another kitten sashaying into my life and with her arrival, my heart sinks just a bit. While some women at my age, God bless ‘em, feel like they’re achin’ to have kids, I’m achin’ for a pet.

Specifically, one of those puppies with sad, sad eyes from the Humane Society commercials. Or maybe one that’s across the street from my friend K’s apartment in the WestVillage– the one that every time I walk past it on my way to her place, I fight the urge to ask just how much is that puppy in the window?

The time isn’t ticking on my ovaries anymore than it’s ticking on my ability to support a dog right now, but I have this overwhelming desire to own one. I want to come home after a glorious day at work, followed by drinks with my favorites, to a wagging-puppy-dog-tail that’s excited to see me and will lay by my feet at night. I want to have responsibility for something else, something to take care of, something to depend on me, something that’ll grow because of my loving nature and guidance.

Rationally though, I know I’m not in the right time of my life to adopt a dog. While I could support it financially, I couldn’t give it the time and attention it deserves and that it would crave. Walking a dog through Central Parkwhen it’s painted with an earthy palette while wearing my fleece peacoat seems beautiful and idealistic, but it’s quite unrealistic.

Animals, like relationships, aren’t as cute as we imagine and far more work than we’d like to realize. I’m fully aware of this truth, both with puppies and men (quite similar if you think about it…), and yet, I still want them both. I’m not sure which tail is cuter, frankly.

But sometimes, the right decisions and the hard decisions are one-in-the-same. Being an adult means sucking up what you want to decide what’s best. Ensuring your life and your happiness continue to excel means getting rid of those things, those people, or those ideas that hold you back. Even if one of them happens to be the image of a rescued, wet-nosed pup who adores you. Maybe even a man who adores you, too – though he’s not the best for you, as much as you’d like him to be.

Because when you take the plunge and commit to a puppy or to a guy, you’re promising to come home each night, just as you said you would. You pledge to be there to fill their bowl and build their ego, stroke their cute little heads when they need encouragement or to be soothed. To excitedly call their name, even if they’re not really doing anything you are getting excited about, and to play with them, regardless if you’re tired and have a headache or not.

Men and puppies require attention and time, both things that aren’t difficult to sacrifice when you have many other things that fulfill you. But the fever that comes with dudes and dogs is one that’s rather difficult to extinguish.

But I fight the puppy-fever by volunteering to help others with their pets. By giving Milo andBowiean extra pat on their tiny kitten heads, by complimenting dog owners on their adorable pets, by volunteering when I can at shelters. By bookmarking photos of dogs I’d like to have and stopping at every rescue center or puppy-for-sale store I see.

And man-fever? Well, I still have 26 days to figure out how to battle that high.

 

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Half-Hearted Love

I can’t believe I’m subjecting these heels to pavement, I thought as I crossed seventh avenue rushing to meet a stranger I met online. I also can’t believe I made a profile on Plenty of Fish – aren’t I too young for this? I wouldn’t respond to someone who called himself Play6969 in real life, why did I think I’d be intrigued when he messaged me “Watup gurrllll” in an anonymous inbox? 

Linds, what’s wrong with you?

Seeing the address a block away, I considered turning around and catching the uptown train. It wasn’t too late – I hadn’t actually seen the guy and I purposefully didn’t save his phone number, just in case he didn’t show, I wouldn’t be the whiny, pensive girl who reached out to see where he was, I’d just act like I didn’t care. Even if I did, I didn’t have a way to complain about it via BBM, and I’d be damned if I signed onto PlentyofBullS*** after being stood up.

Standing him up, though – that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I could free myself from any troubles, from awkward first-date introductions, from telling him the basics about me that don’t really mean anything (I like red wine. I’m allergic to peanut butter. Yes, it is pronounced like the animal. Yes, I promise. Yes, it’s funny. Check please?), but I’m hungry. And he’s tall, right? Didn’t he say he was a doctor? If I had a Jewish mother, she’d tell me I’d be crazy not to go. I close my eyes and picture Fran Drescher”ma” on The Nanny, and enter the restaurant.

Mmmm, he’s stunning. Glad I wore the red heels, I complimented myself while praying for them to stop pinching my feet and for my skirt not to ride up. Maybe it’s a little too tight for the doctor type – or maybe he wants me to play nurse? Let’s see how engaging the conversation is. And he planned everything about this date, so let’s see how clever and creative he is – then maybe I’ll let him take my heart rate or maybe look at that thing, down there, that’s been….hurting? Yeah, something a little achy – like a lady part that’s pathetically lonely and bored of inaction.

He has a nice voice and he’s kind to wait staff, even talking like he’s old pals with the bartender, I analyzed while sipping on the drink he ordered. We would be hitting a few places around the Hell’s Kitchen, Times Square area – he had just moved here, after all. He wanted to see things he hadn’t before, try places he hadn’t tasted, perhaps wrangle wildlife he had yet to learn how to tame? I watched him carefully eat his food, taking incredibly small bites and demonstrate his near-perfect table manners. He even held his fork the European way, something I hadn’t seen a man do since my days of pageantry in the South. There the judges expect you to be a crystalized, real-life version of a Barbie Doll with humanitarian intentions, so they’ll give you a bit of class while eating overpriced Chicken Pot Pie at the table with ya.

The night continued in the fashion of most New York evenings – where anyone who didn’t live here would be amazed by the views, I had become in a short time, used to them, only experiencing those Louie Armstrong moments occasionally. And though we were walking around the tourist and rodent-ridden eight blocks of congestion and extremely bright lights, just as he wanted, Mr. Half just wasn’t that intrigued. The more he drank, the more reserved he became. By the last bar, it was so painful to consume our shared plate of french fries and specialty beers, that I finally had to pull the journalist out from hiding (she knows it’s not appropriate to interrogate on the first date, much better to listen), and ask him what happened. Where did my cheerful doctor who was going to inspect my body after a romantic night on the town go? Why was he so sullen that he matched the hideous gray walls in a sub-par bar charging $8 for a Bud Light?

He took another sip of Amstel, sat it down with vengeance, cut his eyes at the lines of liquor ahead of us, gave me a little grin, and asked me: “Is it possible to love with half of your heart? You’re a writer, right? You write about this stuff. Is it possible? Because as beautiful as you are, as much as I feel lucky to be here, as much as I’d like to take you home tonight, I only have half a heart left. The woman I thought was the love of my life took the rest.”

After nearly falling off my bar stool, I gathered myself and smiled at him, tears obviously welling up in my eyes. I took a deep breath, having recently ended my relationship with Mr. Idea, and answered as honestly as I could: “I have no idea, Mr. Half.”

It’s been over a year since that date, which happened to be our last (I never heard from him again) – but I remember taking a cab home that night, not because I was tipsy but because I was sad. For one of the first times, I didn’t make conversation with the cabby, but shut the window and cried as silently as I could, only pausing briefly to pay and head upstairs, to sob some more. My heart ached for Mr. Half, for myself, for all the people who put themselves out there, gave every bit of  a heart they have, only to end up with half of it at the end.

Relationships are funny that way – we all want to find that person. The person who is all that we wanted, with a few surprises we didn’t know we liked, but do. And in the middle of an ordinary day (as all days mostly are), we meet someone who makes us believe that it’s possible. Who is different and charming, but not someone who strays. Someone who wants to stay, who wants to give, who proclaims their love. Who feels warm in the winter and so easy to be around that summer days fade all the way into October. And though we swore that the last time would be the last time. That we would never invest so much of ourselves, of our hope, of our precious love into another person after being so broken before. That we would never have the ability to open up because we had become so hard that softness was a distant memory of what we used to be, not what we are now. That we would never subject ourselves to such scary vulnerability when history tells that it’ll just end up crumbling us into a cab speeding up the Westside Highway following a downright depressing date. That we would never be able to love with our whole heart because we merely had half of one left.

Even though we made all those promises to that box of wine (yes, box), to that half-gallon of Ben & Jerry while sobbing to The Notebook over our version of Noah that looks nothing like Ryan Gosling – we go against it all the second that butterfly lands in our tummy. From that first kiss or that first indication of “something is happening here.” I don’t know how to mend a broken, a half, or a whole heart, but meeting someone with potential certainly helps speed up the process.

So if I were to go back to that date, if I hadn’t met my own Mr. Possibility months later, if I had known then what I know now, I would tell Mr. Half to lean in and kiss me, madly. Because the only way to see if you can love with half of your heart…is to try.

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The Possibility of Unavailability

A while back on Labor Day of last year, I met a man.

I was returning home from a trip to North Carolina to visit my family at our lake house. I spent the weekend chatting with my mom over endless glasses of wine, getting appropriately sunburned, and pretending anything that’s grilled is void of calories. It was just how a weekend away from the city should be – full of laughter and remembering the good times, while trying to hide that happy anticipation to return to the home you made for yourself.

After a seamless flight, I caught a $15 bus back into the city, a relatively new thing for me. I was used to taking cabs and the subway, but decided to save some money and some headache. Foolishly of me, I put on some super-tall slingbacks and a summer dress belted at the waist with a rather floppy hat – not exactly bus riding attire.

With my red carry-on in hand, I boarded the bus and started to walk down the aisle, smiling at a cute man I wanted to sit in front of. And then, instead of gracefully lowering myself into the seat while maintaining eye contact – the bus driver stomped on the gas pedal and I went flying forward, dropping the suitcase and catching myself.

The cute guy’s friend asked if I was okay and I grudgingly replied that I was, before taking that seat with far less sass. The cute guy, who I now saw had pretty blue eyes, gave me a hard time and by the time we reached Grand Central, we both realized that we lived close, so we took the train together. We exchanged cards and I didn’t anticipate hearing from him, but the next day he emailed me.

It started off innocently enough. I originally thought he had a speech impediment, but it was just because I wasn’t used to hearing a true Northern accent on a daily basis. I didn’t accept his Facebook request right away, trying to decide if I wanted to pursue another bachelor or just stick with going to bars for fun conversations and empty promises. This guy, after all, made it pretty clear that he wasn’t looking for anything. He was just getting out of a relationship, was having a hard time getting over the girl and he needed space to grow.

To live. To find himself. To be single. Hmm, that sounds awfully familiar.

This was right around the time I started the blog, where I was tasked with the same challenges of learning to love myself, learning to fly solo before letting someone take the steering wheel at times when I allowed. It seemed like a platonic match made-in-heaven: two wounded souls, working through our issues with a person of the opposite sex, without any strings, without any sex, without any complications. It wasn’t supposed to be friends-with-benefits, it was just supposed to be friends. We were both after all, ultimately, unavailable.

And so he became Mr. Unavailable.

After helping him through a grand gesture that grandly bombed, our friendship just continued to grow closer. We’d go on non-dates where we’d wonder about town, talking and giving our best psychiatric advice, mending our own broken hearts while connecting them to one another. He’d talk about his lovely ex, reminding me of how I was so similar to her, making me quite angry at times, but eventually – he proved himself right. Being smart and lovely, she stumbled across the blog and guessed his identity. We met for drinks and now we’re quite close, with more than one very interesting thing in common.

But time passed and things changed. Mr. Unavailable and I became intimate. He started sleeping over. He introduced me to his family. He started calling me “baby.” We didn’t place a label, but we knew we were both starting to become less unavailable and more attached. We were developing this chemistry that translated easily into a relationship. I mean, we already knew everything about one another and our respective dating histories, doesn’t that make sense as the recipe for a perfect partnership?

Just as things were heating up and feelings were becoming more concrete, snow started to hit the ground, and his job sent him overseas for a while. It was then, that he gave me permission to create a new identity for him – one that would illustrate him beyond Mr. Unavailable. A character that would show that we were more than that, that what we were creating was full of hope, had promise – was a definite possibility.

And so, Mr. Possibility arrived on these pages and references to Mr. Unavailable mostly ceased. Why not just make it the same character and be honest throughout the blog? Well – a little bit of mystery never hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to give the wrong idea that a Mr. Unavailable could become a Mr. Possibility, until I was certain the possibility was possible.

I’m still not sure if I can attest to that fact – there are times when he is rather impossible and severely more unavailable than I would like. Having each other’s personal love resumes of disappointment, regret, and lost love has proved quite troubling for the relationship. Talking about the past and exes is also a difficult boundary to make, after it was such an open playing field for so long. It took us a while to actually call the relationship, a relationship, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to give up the single status (though I already had in every way except by saying it here or on Facebook), and I was still trying to trust him from things that happened before we were officially, official. I didn’t want the exclusively non-exclusive relationship anymore, but did I really believe that someone so damn unavailable would turn into a true possibility for love?

Six months later, I can really only promise one thing – every person you date has the possibility to become someone you will love. And every single soul you cross paths with, is unavailable in a way you may or may not ever know. We all have the possibility of being emotionally removed, turning away from our partners, never creating a relationship worth standing on, and crumbling to pieces before you can build anything. Each guy presents that opportunity, especially the ones who are unavailable to begin with – and outright about it, to boot.

But if someone seems like they deserve a chance, like there is undeniably a possibility for romance, then check how you feel. Make sure you are confident within yourself because they may not find stability on their own as you have. Make sure you want to support the weight of someone else as they go through a hard time, knowing you may not receive the attention and the love you deserve, in return. Make sure you are happy with your life and that you don’t need someone else to bring that joy to you.

To be with Mr. Unavailable, you have to make compromises. For him to become Mr. Possibility, you have to remember not to compromise yourself. We like to take care of Mr. Unavailable, but you shouldn’t date him unless he has truly transformed into a Mr. Possibility. And if you start to do that on the way to making the impossible, possible, you also have to know when it’s time to stop, turn around, declare how much you’d like to be beautifully open and available…but you can’t. At least not until messes are tidy and hearts are ready, you may just turn into Ms. Unavailable.

Maybe, anyway. There’s always, a possibility – right?

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With a Month Left to Go

Eleven months ago today, I started this blog in the cafe of a local grocery store with my legs laid across the chairs, glancing down at my tattered heels as I typed. It was one of those evenings where I was particularly filled with ambition and yearning for a big change in my life. More than any drive though, I was ashamed of myself.

The night before (which happened to be the day after my birthday party), I curled up in the fetal  position of an old Victorian tub, crying my eyes out in hysteria, making demands instead of prayers toward God, and attempting to avoid the scary mold on the shower curtain. I was so distraught because I was so incredibly, pathetically, longingly, ridiculously single.

The months before, I had signed up for OkCupid and PlentyofFish – resulting in plenty of “ok” dates that never turned into anything. I had yet to have sex in New York (I know, sad) after living here for quite some time, and though my friend base existed, I didn’t feel like I had developed any strong connections. I had a job that I liked fine, I was meeting rent, I was living in Manhattan and not in a borough, as I had wanted – and yet something felt like it was missing. I was convinced that I needed a boyfriend to fill that space. Someone to come home, someone to call when I wobbled back to the train on a Saturday night, someone to snuggle up to and kiss, someone to make love to, someone to love me, someone to complete that silly little void I couldn’t shake.

But I didn’t have that, I thought, feeling the hot water pound my stomach. I winced at the thought of being alone, of becoming one of those bitter cat ladies who lived with bookshelf-lined walls in rent-controlled apartments in the West Village, reading about romances they will never have. I was terrified that my looks would go before I could snag a husband, that I wouldn’t be attractive in my wedding dress, but wrinkly instead. That the New York love story I had always wanted was a far-fetched fantasy that wouldn’t come true, unlike every other dream I had for this damn city.

I had already moved to chase what I wanted and so many had hoped I would fail, so many condemned me for just being who I am – but I had made it. I had a foundation and I could walk on it, though as much as I thought I wanted to walk  alone, I was now determined not to. Crying it seemed, felt better than trying. I didn’t want to go out there and date anymore. I didn’t want to shoot arrows on OkCupid or go fishing on PlentyofFish. I didn’t want my nights out with the girls to translate into flirting until some poor chump was suckered into buying us drinks for the rest of the evening. I didn’t want to play the texting game or to act like I was going home with someone when I knew from the beginning I had no intention to. I was looking and searching the faces of strangers, wondering if they would become a lover that would ultimately turn right back into a stranger when the love affair failed.

Because they always do, don’t they?

Wallowing in this self-pity mess, though, I looked down at my naked body and felt the naked emotion running down my cheeks. What was I doing? What was wrong with me? What do I have to complain about? I’m not going to walk the runways, I thought, but I’m attractive. I’m not going to cure cancer, but I have gifts and I’m smart, but most of all I’m brave enough to go after what I want. I’m not perfect, but I accept my flaws. I don’t live in the part of town I want to, but I have faith that I will. Working at a business magazine isn’t my dream job, but I’ll get there, won’t I? I may not have a very best friend, but I have support. I may not be in love, but won’t I be, one day?

And just like that, it clicked. It was time for a change. It was time for me to stop worrying about love and to start living my life. Time to start building it into what I wanted it to be instead of waiting for a pseudo-Prince Charming to rescue me from an existence that was frankly already pretty magical.

So I picked myself up out of the tub, threw on makeup and clothes, and headed to click “Publish” for the first time on this blog. I wanted to really love myself, really define myself, really just be myself without worrying about a man or a lack of one. I never dreamed my decision to create and follow at 12-step program by writing daily for a year would give me what it has. I was shocked to find my blog on the homepage of WordPress, for it to produce dozens of Internet/blog friends from all over the world, to meet a close friend because she figured out the identity of one of the Mr’s. I didn’t expect for its pages to be attacked by an ex-lover and her friends of Mr. Possibility or for friends I haven’t talked to in years to come out of the woodwork to say they relate to what I write, regardless of how old they are, where they are, or what they do.

But all of those things happened and so much more, and now that there is only a month left to go, I’m in awe of what’s changed in the past year. I start my dream job on Monday, I have a beautiful, wonderful best friend who gets me so well, I live in an apartment that I adore and I may even move downtown within the next 12 months, I did have sex and I did fall in love in New York….and I never gave up on writing these posts. No matter the circumstance or what stress was going on in my life, I found a way to come up with something. I was honest and open with myself, my friends, my readers. I believed in the 12 steps and in myself, but did they work?

Time will only tell, but I’ve learned to accept my flaws and my shortcomings, to admit my strong points even if they aren’t deemed significant in the eyes of others. I’m learning how to continuously stand up for myself in relationships and how to walk away before too much damage is done or bridges are burned. I’ve decided that I’d rather be a 37-year-old bride who marries the right man instead of a 27-year-old bride who rushes down the aisle because she’s afraid she won’t find better. I know that if given the choice today to meet the man I’d marry or have my career be booming and fulfilling for the next five years, I’d pick the career over and over. And now, I know that’s not such a bad thing – there is plenty of time for everything we want to have, there’s no deadline for love, there’s no trick to this most-confusing thing called life.

You just have to live it.

And if something or someone asks you to sacrifice parts of yourself for their happiness or for something to work, then you have to have the courage to choose yourself. To love yourself and have faith in the life you know is destined for you instead of hanging onto the notion that something or someone could change. The 12-steps don’t fix obsessive thoughts or an addiction to love – I still have crazy ramblings, and of course, I still want to find that once-in-a-lifetime love.

But it’s not the most important part of me anymore. It’s just a piece of what makes me me, not the end-all-be-all or the start of my happily ever after. For the first time, I’m truly happy with where I am and that’s not dependent on any man or any fairytale I wish to have. It’s merely dependent on me.

With a month left to go, on the 11th step, I’ll be sad to see this blog end, but I sure am thankful for that depressing night in that disgusting tub that made me see the light and take a chance on loving myself.

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An Ageless Bond

Standing in the fitting room of a trendy boutique in the West Village today, staring at myself in the mirror in an overpriced $105 cotton blue dress with embellishments, I had an ache in my heart for no one other than my mother.

Considering I’ve been out of grade school for quite some time now, and the whole “back-to-school” shopping trip ceased when I hit college, every Fall, my 20-something self misses spending a few hours at the mall with my mom. She used to set a budget and then let me go at it – jeans, sweaters, leggings, bras, shoes, school supplies, and anything else I needed was up to me to pick out. She’d go around holding up things that she thought would be “cute” and the older I became, the more I went against her suggestions and went with my own.

Maybe some have mothers who want them to wear turtlenecks and long skirts that cover every possible inch of their body, but my mom was never like that. She’s actually one of the best critics – she’ll be honest about how I look and she’s queen of selecting pieces that flatter my body. She never told me to hide my curves, but to dress for them. She should know how to do that after all – she’s the one who gave them to me. While we may disagree on certain picks, I trust her the most on fit, and I value her sweet sentiments over anyone else’s.

Our Girl’s Days Out weren’t limited to pre-September though, it was always our thing to do monthly. Sometimes we’d just go bouncing around to thrift stores, try a new restaurant downtown, and once I became an adult, I started dressing her instead. Since she’s been walking or biking a few miles daily for as long as I can remember, my mom is in great shape and for a 50-something (sorry mom!), I’d say she’s pretty smokin’.

But she doesn’t always think so. And she has to be reminded that wearing tight clothes isn’t out of the question in your middle-age, that being sexy doesn’t disappear because wrinkles appear, and that she deserves new clothes too. After spending a vast majority of her life treating me to special things and taking me on shopping trips, she often forgot herself – but now it’s her time.

She started esthetician school today and I couldn’t be more proud. I waited anxiously by my cell phone for her to get out of class, wondering how her day was and if she liked her classmates. She was nervous about the transition from working to taking a chance on something she’s always been interested in. Accounting is far from waxing and beauty treatments, but with her gentle touch and fiesty entrepreneurial-spirit, I’m confident that with a degree, she’ll be unstoppable.

While I was happy for her bright, new beginning, I was sad that I wasn’t there to share it with her. To treat her to a new outfit to wear to class that flatters her style and the softness she exudes without trying. To split a bottle of wine and chat about what she liked and didn’t, and dream up what kind of salon she would open up. To just see her beaming and brave, being the woman I’ve always known was inside of her, but she was afraid to face.

It’s funny how tables turn and how eventually, we end up parenting out parents a bit. Or maybe they just become our friends because they’ve been befriending us our entire lives. And just like they have to with us or we have to with a childhood friend that can’t come along for our ride, we have to learn how to let them go. How to support their new endeavors that don’t involves us or our day-to-day lives that don’t include one another, or the goals they’re reaching that we can’t quite see. How to stand on our own and let them stand as well.

How to pick out our own clothes with our own money for the brand new job we sought and found, while they start a brand new chapter of their lives by returning to school. How mothers continue to learn just as much as daughters, and how closing your eyes and sending a hug from the big city to the sweet countryside may seem impossible, somewhere, you just know she can feel it, too.