The Secret Life of a Blogger or Two Months with an Ok Cupid Account

I have a confession to make. It's something I'm a bit embarrassed about, even though I told myself I was partly doing it so I could blog about it. I guess that may have been an excuse though, because it started sometime in May and ended (badly) in August, yet I still haven't gotten around to writing about it. Don't judge me now, okay? Promise? Pinky swear? Alright, here goes: for a little over two months, I was a member of an online dating site, and even went out with about six dudes that I met through that site.

I'm still single, so I guess you can surmise how well that endeavor turned out. I was a bad blogger and didn't take detailed notes or record any specifics in order to document the undertaking...hell, I don't even remember all of the dude's names, having only gone on more than one date with two of them.

My first Internet date was with a cute, older graphics designer who looked strikingly like a fit Simon Pegg. He was one of the first guys to contact me after I created my profile, which I wish I had saved cause, god damn, it was witty. A cute user pic and a the blanks filled in with "earth", "wind" and "pizza" in the required user description of "I am *blank*, *blank* and *blank*" assured me a slew of nerdy dudes vying for my attention.

I couldn't believe how nervous I was before this first date, considering I had gotten to know this guy over numerous emails for a week or two beforehand, and had no doubt I would like him. Internet dating horror stories of people looking nothing like their photos in person and worrying that we'd have nothing to talk about plagued me until I opened the door and found a handsome man waiting to take me out and show me a good time. He was sweet, interesting, and funny, but I didn't really feel any connection between us, and when I went on my first date with the next guy and felt actual sparks fly, I knew that #1 was destined to be a single date only.

Date #2 made up for his lack of height with his tremendous silent poise, which made my heart race a bit when I first saw him walk up to me at our intended meeting spot at the Fairfax flea market. His bright blue eyes were piercing and even more dramatic because the rest of his face was hidden behind an unruly beard (something I'm quite fond of). We went on quite a few dates before I realized that his silent poise was almost impossible to crack, so I moved on.

In between date #2 and my final date, there are a slew of nice, charming, attractive guys who had interesting, promising careers and seemed genuinely interested in me...none of whom I felt any connection to or impulse to get to know better. I must say that going on date after date with guys of this caliber and feeling NOTHING in the way of flutter in your heart or fire in your loins can start to make a girl feel like there is absolutely no hope for her, and that she might as well resolve herself to a life of feline companions and solo romps with her vibrator.

By the time my last first dates rolled around - the second to last being a cute but nerdy motorcycle aficionado with a passion for falafels - I got myself ready with less enthusiasm than I can muster even for the gym. I smudged some makeup over my face, donned an acceptable outfit, and trudged to our designated falafel-eating meeting spot, bemoaning the loss of that wonderful nervous feeling one is supposed to experience when dating. He was nice, I was charming, neither of us bothered contacting the other after our first date.

My online dating life ended with a mean, 3 a.m. drunken voicemail from the very last of the contenders who wanted an explanation as to why "Los Angeles girls suck". Sadly, I couldn't give him that explanation, and we went our separate ways. He was a funny, intelligent Ira Glass-look-alike from Chicago who was going to school for a noble profession. He was so right on paper, but I realized I had dodged a bullet by following my gut and ending things with him when he left me that message.

I took my profile down the next day.

I'm blissfully, happily single again.

Have you ever gone on an Internet date? Tell me your happy and/or horror stories!!!

Hungover, Per Se

I have a hangover today. Not the kind of hangover that makes me want to barf, thankfully, but the kind where I just want to EAT until I burst. What I wouldn't give for a steaming bowl of wonton soup right now.

I had a date last night that started off promisingly with a shot of Patron, but went downhill when I told this person, whom I've been dating for a spell and have become quite fond of, that I don't think he's "healthy" for me. Have I mentioned I'm not very good at this whole "relationship" thing? I guess it's not that I'm not "good" at it, per se, but more that I'm just so damn guarded of my time and emotions, and how little of them I'm willing to invest in someone I'm not 100% sure will appreciate them.

Having spent five years in a pretty damn good relationship, and the subsequent pain-filled break up that I initiated when it had passed its expiration date makes a girl not want to give her heart to someone who isn't perfect for her, ya know? But how does one know if there's potential unless the proper time is given to figure it out, right? Sometimes I think I'm a little too blase about dating though, and too quick to write people off when I find one little chink in their armor.

I don't know what my point is. I get annoyingly ruminative when I'm hungover. Also hungry. What's your favorite hangover/sick food?

Dying In Car Accidents

I have a somewhat involved history with people I know dying in car accidents. This is in the front of my mind today, as I found out this morning that someone I'm acquainted with died in such a fashion over the weekend. It's my biggest fear - car accidents - both for myself and more so for people I know and care about. It's a thought that keeps me awake with anxiety some nights, and on other nights is an intrusive, obsessive thought that requires half a Xanax to quell.

The first two boyfriends I had, both important ones in their own right, are dead. The first one died in a flash flood while driving through Nevada with his very best friend by his side. Is that a actual car accident? I'm not sure, but it's an easier way to explain. I found out about his passing while sitting on the bed of the second one, who died a few years later when he drove his damn car off the freeway and into a wall. I think about them sometimes...not about what they were like when I knew them, but about their last few moments of being alive. It haunts me, and I think of alternative scenarios (being a person who daydreams constantly) in which I somehow save them or warn them beforehand.

The third was a best friend from high school, who had long since gone the way of typical high school friends - which is to say I didn't speak to her much, but whom I thought about warmly from time to time, always assuming that someday we'd catch up over drinks and memories. I found out about her fate after finding her older sister's website, and the subsequent memorial page she had created for her. Her sister and I emailed back and forth a couple times, with her last email ending in the wise words "don't drink and drive".

I guess I'm a little traumatized from all these happenings, not to mention the memory of the aftermath of the accident I witnessed as a little kid. I deal by convincing myself that death, specifically ones caused by car accidents, are just part of life. I try to tell myself it won't happen to me, but even by writing that out and posting it on my blog, I feel like I'm condemning myself to such a fate. I guess I'm more superstitious than I lead myself to believe.

What are you terrified of? Lets all put it into words, and convince ourselves that by doing so, we're lessening the chances of it actually happening.

Rez Walk

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my car after having just laced up my running shoes. I lean back in my seat and switch off the radio with an angry twist, as I hate talk radio and I'm already in a bad mood to begin with. I hide my purse in my back seat, my car key tucked safely in my pocket, and wait for her to show up. Just as my mind begins to wander to some ugly thought, as it tends to do when I have too much time on my hands and, like I already said, am in a bad mood to begin with, she playfully jumps up in front of my parked car, startling me out of my daydream.

I flash her the biggest smile I can muster, and no explanation is needed as to why it's less that my usual. She already knows I'm feeling melancholy - that's why were here, that's always why we come here. We're both wearing weathered cut off jean shorts that are normally reserved for running errands and indoor wear only. My hair is mussed beyond repair and I probably have smudges of mascara under my eyes. It doesn't matter though, this ritual of ours isn't one of vanity.

We start up the hill at a brisk pace, arms pumping at our sides, and get right down to cases without missing a beat. "So," I start, and ask her about her job, specific details of her love life that only I know so intimately, as I've been following them for the past two and a half years - the duration of our friendship, and make her dish about the lurid contents of our 4 a.m. text conversation from the other night. About halfway around the reservoir (a popular place for walkers and joggers in east Los Angeles), the conversation effortlessly turns to me and my woes. "What happened the other night?" "List the things you're unhappy with about your life." "What can we do to change those things?"

By the time we start our second loop around the reservoir (or "rez", as we refer to it in text messages), I'm developing a mean blister on my left heel and my bangs are plastered to my forehead with sweat...but I'm snorting from laughter at the schemes we're cooking up, and we're sharing stories of our families that are heartbreaking yet cathartic. I always know she'll understand where I"m coming from. I know she won't judge me, and that if I need to talk about my problems the entire 4+ miles, I'm not being a burden to her, because she knows I would do - will do - the same for her in the future.

Two and a half years ago I asked her, then just a friend of a friend who intimidated the hell out of me, if she wanted to get lunch. I waited for her outside a shop on Hollywood Blvd. and, in the socially terrified state of mind which I was in at the time, was convinced that wouldn't show up. When she finally did (late, which I now know is just how she do) I had a lump in my throat from worry.

She's now my closest friend, someone I can't imagine my life without...really and truly CAN. NOT. imagine being okay without her being a text message away. She makes me laugh uproariously, seethe with anger when she's been wronged, and my own heart aches when she's hurting.

When our second lap is finished, we high five, throw some encouraging sentiments back and forth, and get in our respective cars and drive in different directions home. I turn up the radio, which has thankfully now switched from talk to music, and let the cool night air flow into my face until I stop sweating. My mood has lifted considerably. My smile is genuine now, and I'm ready to face the rest of the week, whatever difficulties are thrown in my direction. I'm lucky - so incredibly lucky - to have a friend like her.

Before I'm 30 - Try Uni

Do you know what that little plate of blurry grossness is, my friends? That is my latest conquest in my "Before I'm 30" list...one that I would just as soon forget. I lucked out by finding myself at a quiet and upscale little sushi restaurant on Friday night with a date who was just as clueless as I to the delicate yet acquired taste of this dish (and also not-immune to my batted-eyelashed pleas to join me in my adventure).

The Japanese waitress scoffed at us mildly when we ordered it, and we told her when she dropped the plate of that it was both of our first tastes, hoping it would endear us to her a little. It didn't. As soon as I stuffed the large mouthful into my maw, she flounced over and asked me how I liked it, to which I could only gesture with a enthusiastic thumbs up, when really all I wanted to do was spit the mushy mess into my napkin. Somehow I swallowed, though, and pleaded ignorance and apologies to my date, who was equally aghast at the texture of this supposed delicacy.

We cleansed our newly matured palates with cold beer, warm sake, and later two of the largest cupcakes I've ever laid my wide eyes on. I think I'm going to need to follow this tick off my list with something a bit more pleasant, such as making out on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland or going camping.

New Age Bullshit: Not Just For Hippies Anymore!

Oh my...I've been a bad little blogger, haven't I? I think this might be the longest I've ever gone without a new post, and I'm truly sorry for that. But lest you think it is you I've been ignoring, my dear readers, please know that my lack of writing in ANY form has gotten so bad that my therapist and I have devised a plan in which I set my cell phone alarm to go off at 3 p.m. everyday, at which point I set a timer and drop everything, forcing myself to write for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes! I have forty eight sets of those everyday, and I have to literally force myself to use up just ONE of those sets!

In any event, I'm happy that I'm at least able to write once I sit down and super glue my fingers to the keyboard. The words flow, I adore doing it, and some really great prose comes out of this stubborn brain of mine. Slowly but surely, I guess.

As for the aforementioned therapy, which I've written about here and here...well my goodness, it's going so well! I feel as though I'm actually making progress, instead of just sitting in a small room, droning on and on about my childhood to someone who couldn't care less, which is the norm, I've found. Progress towards what, I'm not exactly sure yet...a better outlook on life? an understanding of why I get sad and stressed out, and a better way to cope with those feelings?

My therapist is very analytical, and I enjoy discussing the reasons behind my feelings and actions with her. It's as though a light bulb will go off in my head and I'll laugh out loud at myself at so easily falling into obvious patterns, once she explains them to me. One thing she mentioned that I found quite intriguing, which she brought up after a particularly bad week I had, was how easily we revert back to our childhood emotions when things don't go as planned.

I consider myself a mature person, emotionally reasonable and with an intellectually sound mind, but how did I deal with rejections when I was a child? What were my first thoughts when I couldn't master something (math was a big one) or a plan I had made failed miserably? I beat myself up about it, that's what. I blamed every failed attempt and every misstep on myself, and took it as evidence that I sucked as a person. So when setbacks occur now, although I have become a confident adult, I haven't yet learned a new way of perceiving those setbacks, and regress back to my old negative and self loathing patterns.

I dunno, it may sound a little new agey, but I thought it might be helpful to any of you who have the same thought patterns as myself. It's really a great way to look at therapy, too, for those of you who have never experienced it and are afraid to try it: it's just a means of maturing your reactions to those inevitable ups and downs we experience in our lives. It's learning a new way of interpreting your reactions, and calling yourself out on your own bullshit, self critical explanations for why things go wrong. It's working for me, 100%.

How about you? Have you ever been to a therapist? What was your experience like?

Passing Notes

It was a crisp weekday morning - a perfectly ordinary San Francisco day in Fall. It must have been during my period of unemployment, after being fired from an office job that had long past its expiration date in terms of enjoyment anyway. The unemployment checks had been rolling in, which when added to my nightly tips at my waitressing job, left me happily and unexpectedly brimming with superfluous spending money and free afternoons.

I was waiting patiently for a bus at West Portal Station - my destination must have been the Mission district, as this was where this particular bus was destined for. Perhaps I was headed out for some shopping, or lunch at my favorite tapas restaurant that boasted lunch specials and cheap bottles of foreign beer. Maybe I was on my way to the small, privately owned women's spa that had a single-person steam room and a sun deck that allowed one to bask, unabashedly naked, in the sun - youthful tits pointed upward like an offering to whatever Greek God controlled such things. Whatever the case, there I sat on the bus bench, immersed in a book, minding my own.

What I do remember about that day, or what I remembered last night as I was falling asleep, three or four years after the fact, was the little blond girl, and the handwritten note I gave her grandmother.

She was a matronly, but still youngish woman sitting as poised as one can muster when perched in a fold-out seat. Slightly grey hair in a shampoo-set, wearing a sensible and tidy cotton outfit, clutching her gargantuan purse firmly in her lap while her little granddaughter - perhaps nine years old - ran rabidly and enthusiastically around her. The little girl asked her grandmother silly, nonchalant questions that were met with short, aloof answers. When the girl curiously ventured toward me, much to my delight (curious children always delight me) she was scolded for "annoying" me before I could croak out the answer to her question of what I was reading.

She twirled and flitted around the bus stop, ignorant to the annoyance in her grandmother's voice which grew more hostile with every innocent question (ones so charming I giggled behind my book at their creativity). She'd throw me a glance every few moments, to which I'd smile a silly smile and a wink to let her know I was in on the joke. Her grandmother noticed our exchanged, and told the girl to "quit showing off" her voice dripping with hostility.

This woman's behaviour upset me on so many levels, and I felt my heart growing heavy with disdain and. The little girl with tangled hair, wearing a mismatched outfit - she reminded me of myself as a child, you see. "Weird" - I got that label a lot. I didn't fit in. I was silly and imaginative and languidly backstroked through a world of my own creation - fueled by books and the view of the world I gleaned from them. It hurt me so much not to fit in, but I had no idea how to change. The teasing, the name calling, the ostracization. I'm so glad I learned to accept and embrace my mind, instead of conforming to the norm like I was supposed to.

While we sat on the bus, myself a couple rows back from the grandmother and her unique little ingénue, I composed a note to the older woman. The little girl was too young to notice that the grandmother disliked her, but I could hear it in her voice and it made me sick to my stomach. I had no idea how long they'd be on the bus, so I wrote quickly and ferociously, my hand cramping from my tight grip on my pen. They started collecting their things and pulled the "stop requested" lever somewhere around Guerrero and 22nd. I hurried to finish the note.

I don't remember what I wrote, but I do remember my heart racing as I wondered if I really had the nerve to hand the note off to this grandmother, to this angry old woman. It wasn't a mean letter, nor hurtful. I wrote about how her daughter was fun and creative - so full of life and that one day I hoped to be lucky enough to have a child like that, that it wouldn't be long before the little girl stopped caring what the woman said, and either mirrored her grandmothers disdain, or worse, stopped being creative altogether.

"You dropped something," I said to the grandma as she made her way towards the back door, and handed her the note.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she took the note from my hand with a politeness she obviously reserved for strangers.

That was it. I don't know what happened next. She got off the bus and perhaps threw the scrap of paper away, thinking it was trash. Maybe she read it right there on the street and angrily threw it into the gutter, and was even meaner to her granddaughter for the rest of the day. Maybe she stuck it in her purse and read it when she got home that evening, finding it when she rummaged through her purse, looking for her keys.

Maybe it made her sad. Maybe it made them closer. I'll never really know. I'm glad I did it though. I'm glad I'm still that bold little girl I once was, who is silly enough to imagine that she can make a difference. I hope that girl at the bus stop is, too.