Since it was Jeff's birthday, and since I had already had my romantic rendezvous for the trip, I agreed to head out with Jeff to some of Paris's finest gay clubs. I actually enjoy going to gay clubs. It's a crowded room full of typically very handsome men (often shirtless) who flirt with me but aren't trying to get me to have sex with them. I mean, come on, that's a gold medal night for a girl.
The problem was: we had no idea where Paris's finest gay clubs were. I'm typically a planner. When I go to Disney World, I plan every day's itinerary to the minute, including what ride route we're going to take. I make restaurant reservations six months in advance. I have literally said to someone, "I'm going to the movies that day" when they offer plans for a date three months into the future. And this Paris trip was no different. I had spreadsheets drawn up of where we were going, what we were doing, with included attachments of the walking maps to get there. Jeff had one job. ONE JOB. And that was to choose which club he wanted to go to, and find out where it was. The night of our birthday festivities, we went to a pub near the hotel for a kickoff beer and I said to Jeff, "So, where are we going?" And he answered, "Oh, I don't know. I figured we'd just ask the bartender where we should go." I responded, "Oh yes. The straight German bartender with the neck tattoo who hasn't stopped talking about Manchester U? I'm sure he knows where the gay clubs are."
When we asked the bartender if he knew of a good gay club to go to. He looked at us with a blank stare. Then said, questioningly, "I think that there are a whole bunch on Saint-Michel" and proceeded to give us directions.
Jeff and I paid up and headed down to Saint-Michel. Once we got there, we walked up and down the street, but couldn't find any club, let alone a gay club. So, we stopped someone for directions.
"Excusez-moi? Do you know of any gay clubs in this area?"
"Yes, they're on Saint-Michel"
"Ok, thanks."
We once again walked up and down Boulevard Saint-Michel. By this point, I was getting tired and a little bit cranky and frustrated at Jeff for not doing his research. We stopped another person for directions.
"Excusez-moi? We're looking for a gay club?"
"There's some on Saint-Michel."
"Do you know what it's called in particular, or where on Saint-Michel it is?
"No, I'm sorry," with a sympathetic look.
What was this? We were on Saint-Michel. Where was this ghost gay club that everyone kept talking about? I took out my phone and consulted google, which also told me Saint-Michel. Was this some conspiracy between the French citizens and Google to turn gays off to the city of Paris? Finally, I said to Jeff, we need to find some gay men and get them to show us. Now, this is harder than you think. The "Gay or European" game was invented for a reason. It's really tough to tell the difference sometimes. But, when a couple of men walked toward us with their hands touching, I knew we had found our saviors. Unfortunately, they didn't speak English.
Since one of them had a more Mediterranean look, I took a shot and asked if they spoke Spanish. And the one that I had pegged for a Spaniard said, "Ah! Si!" So, in my broken Spanish, I said, "Estamos buscando por un club donde...um, los muchachos se gustan los muchachos." The Spaniard laughed and then translated to French what I had asked for his boyfriend, who also started laughing. Their answer: Saint-Michel.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Jeff and I decided to call it a night and go back to the hotel. We hailed a cab and started driving back. The cab turned onto a street called Rue du Temple. I looked out the cab window...men were coming out of the clubs onto Rue du Temple in droves. Men holding hands, men making out with each other on the street, men skipping to each other. I'm not being offensive. There were literally men skipping to each other on Rue du Temple. The irony was too much for us and we decided to keep heading home and try Rue du Temple the next night, which we did.
The next night, we did have a blast on Rue du Temple. A bouncer stopped us at the door and warned us that we were heading into a gay club, which I thought was nice, as he didn't want an unassuming American couple to walk into something that they weren't ready for. Both Jeff and I yelled excitedly, "We know!" and walked into a soapy naked guy in a shower with a bunch of men crowded around him watching. I met some boys from Chicago and danced with them for most of the night. And later I had a very nice conversation with the naked man in the shower. His name was Jean-Baptiste and he was in grad school.
So, did we ever solve the Case of the Ghost Gay Club at Saint-Michel, Nancy Drew? Well, although we thought we were walking down Saint-Michel, we were actually walking on the street perpendicular to it. So while we were hitting Saint-Michel at the corner, we weren't actually going down it. Mystery solved. Americans are dumb.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tales from France, Part II: The Tale of the Dutchman
Notwithstanding the misadventures in customs, I was so excited to be in Paris. I had never been before and on the way to hotel, I was out the window like a teen in a rom com during a music montage.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
My friends were there for a work thing. Our first day, my friend, Jeff came back from his meeting and said to me, "There's a co-worker of mine here that is soooooooo your type. You are going to love him." I had already been familiar with some of Jeff's co-workers, having attended holiday party/happy hours with him in the past, but I had never met this one, the Dutchman, since he's based in the Netherlands. That night, we met up with all of the co-workers for dinner. I could feel Jeff's "I-told-you-so" gaze on me, when I shook the Dutchman's hand in introduction and my eyes lit up. I believe that I stumbled a bit. It was mostly a blur. It was like meeting Conrad Birdie.
On the walk to the restaurant, I maneuvered my way next to the Dutchman and engaged him in conversation. When we got to the restaurant, I made sure that we were sitting next to each other. It would have been nice of me to sit next to my friend, Jeff, the one who had actually invited me to Paris, but this was not a time to be nice. I was on a mission. And when you're on a mission, you're rude.
During dinner, I laughed at all of the Dutchman's jokes. I made coy moves like touching his arm at times, sharing my food with him, tucking my hair behind my ear in what I hoped was an adorable fashion while praying that my fingers wouldn't get caught in my wind-blown knotty curls ruining the whole move. I conveniently ignored the other 11 people sitting at the table. The only time I looked away from the Dutchman's eyes was in confusion when the restaurant started inexplicably blasting Blurred Lines on their speaker system while they brought out a cake with sparklers on it for Jeff's birthday. Oh, did I mention that I was ignoring my friend who invited me to Paris on his birthday? I'm not proud of my behavior, but I knew that Jeff, as a true friend and wingman, would understand.
The Dutchman seemed charmed and as engaged with me as I was with him. I learned later that the whole table was interested in watching this romance bloom. At one point, the Dutchman asked me, "So what is the story with you and Jeff?" Now, here was the dilemma. Jeff isn't in the closet by any means, but he also doesn't broadcast details about his personal life. And this is not just a work thing. I'm one of his best friends, and will only learn about a new guy that he's dating about three to four months into the relationship and that's only if I ask, "Are you seeing anyone?" I didn't want to "out" him. But, I didn't want the Dutchman to think that there was any possibility that Jeff and I had a thing, or that he would be interfering with any form of relationship.
So, I said, "Jeff and I are just friends."
The Dutchman looked skeptical, "A friend who brings another friend on a work trip to Paris?"
Oy..
So, I said, "I'm not exactly Jeff's type," with a meaningful look.
The Dutchman got it right away, looked surprised for a moment, and then his face relaxed, "Well, that's good news for me, then," he said.
After dinner, everyone hung out in the hotel bar for a while, and then one by one decided to go to bed. The Dutchman and I figuring that the night was still young and so were we, decided to go out on the town. We ended up chatting in a cozy bar near the Champ Elysees, and on the walk home, he finally kissed me. It was incredibly romantic. He was a little bit concerned that he was being unprofessional, until I told him that Jeff had essentially pimped him out.
There's nothing funny about this story or weird about the Dutchman. It was a night of romance and just what I needed to get my mind off of Coop. It was a perfect night. Here's the Dutchman's version of it:
"I drank a lot of wine in Paris and ended up hooking up with one of my co-worker's friends. The end."
Stay tuned for Part III and my experiences in Gay Paris...literally, I hung out in a bunch of gay clubs in Paris and I'm going to tell you about it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Tales from France, Part I: Le Straight Par-ee
I've had a busy couple of months. Started a book club. Got promoted at that attorney gig that I do in my spare time. Went all Fatal Attraction on Coop by cutting up a Christmas/birthday gift and leaving it on his doorstep after he asked if he could have it back. Welcomed the Sox back to Fenway on a winter(?) day:
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Seriously, someone needs to have a talk with Mother Nature.
Mel: Mother Nature, I found snow in my backyard on April 15. Where did you get it?
Mother Nature: Mel, I...
Mel [interrupting] Answer me! Who taught you how to do this stuff?
Mother Nature: YOU, all right!!! I learned it by watching you!!!!
Ok, what is happening?
Anyway, perhaps one of the most exciting things that I did recently was take a trip to Paris. I briefly mentioned a fling with a Dutchman, but I didn't really get into any of my Parisian adventures. They started from the moment that I got off the plane...
If you've ever stood in line in customs waiting to enter a foreign country, you will be able to relate to this feeling. For some reason, even if you're not smuggling anything in, or doing anything remotely illegal, you always feel like you're doing something wrong when you stand in line at customs. For me, personally, I always draw a blank at the questions that the border officer asks me. All of the sudden, I can't remember where I flew from, where I'm going, how long am I staying... I once answered "three days" when I knew I was staying for seven and then corrected myself right away, and then went back to three days for some reason so that I wouldn't seem suspicious. So, already I was very uncomfortable. It didn't help matters that the customs area was being kept at a balmy 101 degrees, that's 38 degrees Celsius.
After standing about 20 minutes in line, one of the customs officials announced something in French, opened up one of the ropes and a bunch of people went to a lineless area on the other side of the room. I'm not sure if you've noticed that a major difference between men and women is that men have a tendency to act first and think later. So, as you might imagine, even though the men in the line that we were in didn't speak French and had no way of understanding the announcement, they all saw a shorter line and similar to what happens when they see power tools or sausages, all of the men (including my two male friends) made a mad dash for the open rope, with their respective women trailing behind in a chorus of "What did that announcement say though?" "Is this line just for the French citizens?" "Why didn't they announce that in English?" And sure enough after standing in that line for 20 minutes, and making it toward the front, we learned that that line was for European Union passports only. So, back to the original line (now about twice as long as it was before) we went.
By this point, we had been in customs for 40 minutes. I was sweating bullets from the heat and also because I had convinced myself that while we were standing in line, someone had planted 1200 grams of cocaine in my suitcase and I would be thrown into a foreign prison, which in my imagination was the Thai prison in Brokedown Palace for some reason. With all of this happening, I began to feel a bit nauseous. Now, I haven't thrown up since I was five years old. Not from stomach bugs, not from food poisoning, not from car sickness, not from too much tequila. But, somehow I knew that this might be the day that my Seinfeldian vomit streak may end. After about 30 more minutes of waiting in line (we had been in customs for a total of 70 minutes at this time), I had finally made it to the front of the line. I had visions of the cool air of a Charles De Gaulle baggage claim carousel whisking by my face. I thought to myself, you just have to hang in there a little bit longer and this will all be over. My friend, Jeff, went through the customs line. My friend, Eric, went through the customs line. Just when it was about to be my turn, I knew that I couldn't wait any longer. I ran out of the customs line for the bathroom, too sick to even worry about the perceived guilt of racing to the restroom just when I'm about to be questioned by border patrol.
I will spare you the gory details. Let's skip ahead a few minutes, when I emerged from the bathroom feeling much better but really bummed that my vomit clock had been reset to zero. I started to go to the front of the line, hoping that someone nice would let me back into my spot, since I didn't know if I could stay in that room of hellfire for another 45 minutes, and I was concerned that Jeff and Eric, having gone through the doors without me and not having cell phones that worked internationally, would be worried that I had been arrested by the border police. As I approached the front of the line, a female real-life version of a cartoonish French maitre d, complete with a sneer...and probably a mustache, I don't really remember, stopped me with an "Excusez moi, Madame." and pointed to the end of the line. I pleaded with her. "Didn't you just see me run by here? I had to go to the restroom. I was sick." Her nose wriggled with disgust at my words and she said merely, "Please go to the line."
At this point, between ruining my vomit streak, worrying that my friends would leave the airport without me, and dealing with snooty French TSA equivalents, it all became too much for me and I burst into tears. Even the humorous thought that airport employees are as miserable in France as they are in the US and of the possibility of some kind of special international camp where all airport employees go to learn the basics of How to Be a Dick and How Not to Help People didn't cheer me up. Needless to say, everyone else in line (save the one guy who looked extremely uncomfortable and probably has a similar reaction when any woman cries) looked at me sympathetically. After 30 more minutes in line, I arrived at the front again and tearfully answered the border agent's questions without incident. As I passed through the electric doors, I heard a woman call out in a Southern accent, "We're praying for you, honey!" which made me feel really bad because these people probably thought that I was dealing with an actual crisis, not an imaginary one involving waiting in customs for an hour and a half with a brief intermission of throwup.
I found my friends waiting for me at the baggage claim and told them my tale of woe. They looked at me with compassion and an underlying not-so-subtle air of glee.
And so began my adventures in Paris. The trip got much MUCH better after this. And I will tell you all about it in my next post. Until then, au revoir!
Monday, March 17, 2014
There are Two Too Many Hands in my Pockets.
Since Coop (the Ross to my Rachel) and I are "on a break" and since I don't think we'll get together again until the end of the series, and that's if I actually make the decision to get off the plane, I went on a brief hi-date-us. However, one romantic night in Paris with a Dutchman later, I am now back in the game.
This past weekend, I had a first date with a younger guy. Now, I generally date men who are about 5-7 years older than I am. I tend to click with the maturity of the men in the next high school generation. I've never really understood the concept of cougars and why they would want a younger guy, although my sister, Lori, put it in perspective for me. ("They do it because they want someone who will allow them to go out, have a good time, and make out with young men...and you already do that".)
Anyway, this particular young man is incredibly sweet and very smart and seemed like a good person to end my dating-waiting period. We decided to meet up in a bar in Harvard Square. I strategically planned this as my favorite Huey Lewis and the News cover band, Power of Love, was playing at the Sinclair and I had made plans to go. I figured if the date didn't go well, later plans would give me a Get Out of Date Free card, and if it did go well, he could come with me.
When we first met at the bar, he seemed really nervous. So, I suggested that he have a glass of wine, hoping that that would put him at more ease. I began to rethink this decision when he told me about his past "partying problems", and how as a result, he doesn't drink much. As an aside, it's very hard for me to judge the level of alcohol tolerance of others. Mine is extremely high. I could probably polish off a bottle of beaujolais by myself and then perform an appendectomy. But, I realize that there are people out there who have one or two glasses of a full-bodied wine, and next thing you know, they are getting into the back of a delivery car, because they think it's a cab.
And I happened to be out with one those people.
When we got to the concert, I introduced him to my friends and all seemed well. However, as the concert went on, it was like he forgot where we were: not in his bedroom, not in his car, not in a closet. He kept turning my head toward his and I would kiss him, but pull away before it got too passionate. I'd be moving his hands away from certain areas. It was like I was in some modern dance routine. I didn't know quite what to do. So, I gave him a talk, "Hey! I like you, but I'm not a really a PDA type person, so maybe we can slow it down a bit?" He said, "Sorry! You're right." And then five minutes later, it was like the conversation never happened and he was back to kissing my neck. Finally, he went to the restroom and I was able to breathe. The first thing I did was whisper to my friend Kristin, "he's so handsy." And she said, "yes, he's all over you. We've all dubbed him Hands Across Melissa". We didn't have much time to talk about it because he and his handsy hands were back.
I think that my friend, Ryan, could tell that I needed a bit of a break, so he asked if I wanted to go do a shot with him at the bar. He said to HAM, "we'll be right back" and he told me later that by the look on HAM's face, HAM wasn't that happy about not being invited along. As Ryan and I had a shot, we got into a conversation about plans for his upcoming wedding and next thing I knew, I got a text from HAM that said "Good night. Sorry you didn't have a good time. Best of luck to you." Well, I felt terrible. I didn't think we had been gone that long, and I thought that HAM would be ok and take my absence as a chance to get to know my friends better. When I showed the text to Ryan, he said, "He's tricking you". But, I still texted back. I smoothed things over, and he wants to give it a second chance, so we planned a second date.
All of this leads me to why I wrote this entry in the first place: I date older men for a reason. They're not still in a place where they miss making out on the dance floor of a frat party. They don't think you've ditched them when you've left for a few minutes and they realize that your disappearance is a good time to get some intel from your friends. And they can handle their liquor. So, while I'm interested to see where this goes...since he's smart, cute, funny, and gets both my Saved by the Bell and Seinfeld references, I'm not sure that a younger man is for me. I guess we'll wait and see. I do know that on the second date, I'm suggesting that he have a Coke.
This past weekend, I had a first date with a younger guy. Now, I generally date men who are about 5-7 years older than I am. I tend to click with the maturity of the men in the next high school generation. I've never really understood the concept of cougars and why they would want a younger guy, although my sister, Lori, put it in perspective for me. ("They do it because they want someone who will allow them to go out, have a good time, and make out with young men...and you already do that".)
Anyway, this particular young man is incredibly sweet and very smart and seemed like a good person to end my dating-waiting period. We decided to meet up in a bar in Harvard Square. I strategically planned this as my favorite Huey Lewis and the News cover band, Power of Love, was playing at the Sinclair and I had made plans to go. I figured if the date didn't go well, later plans would give me a Get Out of Date Free card, and if it did go well, he could come with me.
When we first met at the bar, he seemed really nervous. So, I suggested that he have a glass of wine, hoping that that would put him at more ease. I began to rethink this decision when he told me about his past "partying problems", and how as a result, he doesn't drink much. As an aside, it's very hard for me to judge the level of alcohol tolerance of others. Mine is extremely high. I could probably polish off a bottle of beaujolais by myself and then perform an appendectomy. But, I realize that there are people out there who have one or two glasses of a full-bodied wine, and next thing you know, they are getting into the back of a delivery car, because they think it's a cab.
And I happened to be out with one those people.
When we got to the concert, I introduced him to my friends and all seemed well. However, as the concert went on, it was like he forgot where we were: not in his bedroom, not in his car, not in a closet. He kept turning my head toward his and I would kiss him, but pull away before it got too passionate. I'd be moving his hands away from certain areas. It was like I was in some modern dance routine. I didn't know quite what to do. So, I gave him a talk, "Hey! I like you, but I'm not a really a PDA type person, so maybe we can slow it down a bit?" He said, "Sorry! You're right." And then five minutes later, it was like the conversation never happened and he was back to kissing my neck. Finally, he went to the restroom and I was able to breathe. The first thing I did was whisper to my friend Kristin, "he's so handsy." And she said, "yes, he's all over you. We've all dubbed him Hands Across Melissa". We didn't have much time to talk about it because he and his handsy hands were back.
I think that my friend, Ryan, could tell that I needed a bit of a break, so he asked if I wanted to go do a shot with him at the bar. He said to HAM, "we'll be right back" and he told me later that by the look on HAM's face, HAM wasn't that happy about not being invited along. As Ryan and I had a shot, we got into a conversation about plans for his upcoming wedding and next thing I knew, I got a text from HAM that said "Good night. Sorry you didn't have a good time. Best of luck to you." Well, I felt terrible. I didn't think we had been gone that long, and I thought that HAM would be ok and take my absence as a chance to get to know my friends better. When I showed the text to Ryan, he said, "He's tricking you". But, I still texted back. I smoothed things over, and he wants to give it a second chance, so we planned a second date.
All of this leads me to why I wrote this entry in the first place: I date older men for a reason. They're not still in a place where they miss making out on the dance floor of a frat party. They don't think you've ditched them when you've left for a few minutes and they realize that your disappearance is a good time to get some intel from your friends. And they can handle their liquor. So, while I'm interested to see where this goes...since he's smart, cute, funny, and gets both my Saved by the Bell and Seinfeld references, I'm not sure that a younger man is for me. I guess we'll wait and see. I do know that on the second date, I'm suggesting that he have a Coke.
Friday, February 21, 2014
The Trivia Guy
I enjoy going to pub trivia and it's something that I do on a frequent basis. A couple of years ago, I began a flirtquest with a cute guy from another team. He's not typically someone I would go for. He's 5-6 years younger than I am. He's what my friends and I call a "yo-yo, naw-naw boy." Like, when you ask him a question, his answer is typically, "yo, yo, yo...naw". He wears oversized t-shirts, gold chains, and his hat cocked to the side on his head....and he's white. But, he's hilariously funny and very cute and I enjoyed flirting with him.
When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. He texts me every once in a while to see how I'm doing, but we've never actually met up for a date. One day, he became my facebook friend.
I began to notice that the same girl tagged him in a bunch of her statuses. "Happy Valentine's Day"--with [Trivia Guy]. "Snow Day Movie Marathon!"-- with [Trivia Guy]. So, I decided to question him about it. And I have transcribed the text conversation for us all because I think it's hilarious:
When he asked for my number, I gave it to him. He texts me every once in a while to see how I'm doing, but we've never actually met up for a date. One day, he became my facebook friend.
I began to notice that the same girl tagged him in a bunch of her statuses. "Happy Valentine's Day"--with [Trivia Guy]. "Snow Day Movie Marathon!"-- with [Trivia Guy]. So, I decided to question him about it. And I have transcribed the text conversation for us all because I think it's hilarious:
TG: Hey
Me: Hey... so, do you have a girlfriend?
TG: Huh?
Me: Do you have a girlfriend? [Note: Clearly, in the context of text messages, his "Huh?" probably was more of a "what are you talking about?" then a "What did you say?", but I thought it would be funny to repeat myself.]
TG: Why do you say that?
Me: That's not really a yes or a no
TG: No.
TG: What are you talking about?
Me: Who's [Girl's name]?
TG: Are you stalking me?
Me: Nope, she called me [Note: This wasn't true.]
TG: What?
Me: She called me from your phone. Is she your gf?
TG: When?
Me: Is she your gf?
TG: When?
Me: [silence]
TG: Yes.
Me: [silence]
*Missed call from TG
*Missed call from TG
*Missed call from TG
TG: What did she say?
TG: ?
TG: She's my gf, but I think she's leaving me.
Me: Oh. :( because you cheat on her? *sarcastically sympathetic nod
There was some more conversation after that. I don't think we'll be talking much anymore. He might be a little bit worried that I'm going to contact her and he doesn't have to worry about that. That's not my style. I'm much more of a "post it on the internet so that we can all enjoy" type girl.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Wanting to DTR and Not Being DTF.
Part of the reason that I've been Ross and Racheling it with Coop is that despite my attempts to get him to do it, he refuses to define the relationship. So, I began to think about why it's so important to me to have a definition while it's seemingly as important to him as the question of how many seasons 2 Broke Girls is going to last.
For starters, let's run through your usual definitions of relationships and what I take them to mean:
1.) Talking to each other. The very beginning of a relationship. You haven't really gone out on a full-blown date yet, but you're aware of each other's interest and know that the date most likely is going to happen soon.
2.) Seeing each other. You've started the dating process and you've gone out a few times and stay in touch. You're not at the point where you're introducing each other to your friends and family, but those people know that you're "seeing someone" and have noticed that this particular person has come up in conversation more often than the people that you're just "talking to".
3.) Dating. You've been seeing each other for a few months at this point. You're starting to meet some friends and family and gauging how the other person interacts with them. Side note: Sometimes this definition is used for "seeing each other" and vice versa.
4.) Boyfriend/Girlfriend; Girlfriend/Girlfriend; Boyfriend/Boyfriend. You're in a relationship. Everyone knows that you're in a relationship. There's no question that you're in a relationship.
5.) Significant Other or as the kids say "Sig O". Word that people use when they think "boyfriend" is too juvenile, "husband" is too antiquated and patriarchal, and "partner" is too "I'm trying too hard to be politically correct."
6.) Booty call. Strictly a sexual relationship that only takes place betweeen the hours of 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.
7.) Friends with benefits. Much like a booty call in that you hide the sexual relationship from your friends. But, in this situation, you actually kind of like the person as a person even though there's no romantic involvement. It's a continual relationship, but there are never strings attached.
So, why is it so important to me that I fall into one of these categories? Well, when you don't have a definition, as I've learned, there is no good answer to the following question: "Is that your boyfriend?" I've been asked this a number of times, typically in a hushed voice, when Coop and I go somewhere together, as soon as he walks away. The answer that I usually give, in an equally hushed voice, is this: "Well, we are friends, except we have a deeper connection than most friends and we were dating, but we're not now, but we like each other as more than friends, but he's not my boyfriend. Is there a word for that?" To make it more confusing, our friends have started to treat us like we're a unit..."Mel and Coop". They make plans with us by talking to one of us, and the expectation is that that one will just sorta bring the other one along to the outing. And I've kind of started to expect that too.
I think that definitions help so that you know how to act when you're around each other. It makes a difference. If we're just friends, well then, I won't make out with you...or show up drunk at your house unannounced...or make you mix tapes with angsty "will they or won't they" music because that would just be weird. If we're seeing each other or dating, then drunken pop-ins and mix tapes are too much. But, if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, then it's just right. And if you act like it's just right, it means that you're comfortable being my boyfriend, so then why are you saying that you're not my boyfriend. Confused? So am I.
And to make all of this even MORE confusing, when I ask Coop about how he would define the relationship, his answer is "Well, we don't need to define it because it's obvious." For crying out loud to Jenna Hamilton.
I've ultimately come to the conclusion that if you can't define the relationship, it means that you just aren't in one...in the normal sense of the word. And that's not really a conclusion at all, is it?
For starters, let's run through your usual definitions of relationships and what I take them to mean:
1.) Talking to each other. The very beginning of a relationship. You haven't really gone out on a full-blown date yet, but you're aware of each other's interest and know that the date most likely is going to happen soon.
2.) Seeing each other. You've started the dating process and you've gone out a few times and stay in touch. You're not at the point where you're introducing each other to your friends and family, but those people know that you're "seeing someone" and have noticed that this particular person has come up in conversation more often than the people that you're just "talking to".
3.) Dating. You've been seeing each other for a few months at this point. You're starting to meet some friends and family and gauging how the other person interacts with them. Side note: Sometimes this definition is used for "seeing each other" and vice versa.
4.) Boyfriend/Girlfriend; Girlfriend/Girlfriend; Boyfriend/Boyfriend. You're in a relationship. Everyone knows that you're in a relationship. There's no question that you're in a relationship.
5.) Significant Other or as the kids say "Sig O". Word that people use when they think "boyfriend" is too juvenile, "husband" is too antiquated and patriarchal, and "partner" is too "I'm trying too hard to be politically correct."
6.) Booty call. Strictly a sexual relationship that only takes place betweeen the hours of 1 a.m. and 5 a.m.
7.) Friends with benefits. Much like a booty call in that you hide the sexual relationship from your friends. But, in this situation, you actually kind of like the person as a person even though there's no romantic involvement. It's a continual relationship, but there are never strings attached.
So, why is it so important to me that I fall into one of these categories? Well, when you don't have a definition, as I've learned, there is no good answer to the following question: "Is that your boyfriend?" I've been asked this a number of times, typically in a hushed voice, when Coop and I go somewhere together, as soon as he walks away. The answer that I usually give, in an equally hushed voice, is this: "Well, we are friends, except we have a deeper connection than most friends and we were dating, but we're not now, but we like each other as more than friends, but he's not my boyfriend. Is there a word for that?" To make it more confusing, our friends have started to treat us like we're a unit..."Mel and Coop". They make plans with us by talking to one of us, and the expectation is that that one will just sorta bring the other one along to the outing. And I've kind of started to expect that too.
I think that definitions help so that you know how to act when you're around each other. It makes a difference. If we're just friends, well then, I won't make out with you...or show up drunk at your house unannounced...or make you mix tapes with angsty "will they or won't they" music because that would just be weird. If we're seeing each other or dating, then drunken pop-ins and mix tapes are too much. But, if we're boyfriend and girlfriend, then it's just right. And if you act like it's just right, it means that you're comfortable being my boyfriend, so then why are you saying that you're not my boyfriend. Confused? So am I.
And to make all of this even MORE confusing, when I ask Coop about how he would define the relationship, his answer is "Well, we don't need to define it because it's obvious." For crying out loud to Jenna Hamilton.
I've ultimately come to the conclusion that if you can't define the relationship, it means that you just aren't in one...in the normal sense of the word. And that's not really a conclusion at all, is it?
Thursday, January 9, 2014
The Trials of Hosting
So, here's how I feel about throwing parties. Most of you know that I haven't been to a grocery store since 2009. Andrea loves to regale new friends with the story of how one time she asked me "Where do you get, like, chips and snacks?" And my answer was, "the liquor store?"
The last time that I threw a party was in 2003. My boyfriend at the time had a ton of no goodnik friends, but the deal was that if he cleaned up after them, they could be invited. I remember watching one of them sit in my kitchen and he had that look...the look that reality tv stars get when they're forced to eat 25 dragonflies or drink a jar of pickle juice and salsa together. The look of someone about to blow. Here was my dilemma. There was one bathroom in my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, so there was no hope that he would get outside in the event of a vomit emergency. But, I really had to pee. When I couldn't wait anymore, I finally went into my bathroom. While in there, I heard my boyfriend's sister yell, "Oh my God, Mel, open the door!" I zipped up quickly and opened the door to my boyfriend's friend... throwing up all over my carpet. I vowed never again to throw a party.
Since October, I've been Ross and Rachel-ing it with this guy; let's call him "Bradley Cooper", or as I like to call him "Coop". On a recent ski trip with him and another couple, I brought up New Year's Eve and we decided that we would have a low key game night at my place. (This was all part of my elaborate plan to make sure that he spent New Year's Eve with me and not some other chick, but that's another story for another day). I had mentioned to a couple of other friends that we should get together on New Year's, so I sent an e-mail to those guys to tell them to join us.
As the days went on and as people asked me what I was doing for New Year's, my standard response was "I'm having Coop and some friends over. Come on by." And before I knew it, my low key game night had turned into a mini-party of 16. Apparently, according to my dad, I've been doing this my whole entire life. My mother would say to me, "Pick six girls in your class to come to your birthday party." And I would come home from school the week of my party and say, "is it ok if all the girls in my class come? Because I told them they could."
The morning before New Year's Eve, I did a quick head count in my head of how many people would be coming. I paused when it became more than ten and said to myself, "Now, that can't be right." But it was. I had no alcohol. No food. I didn't even have a place for all of these people to sit. And unlike my birthday parties, my mother wouldn't be there to do all the work!
And so, I made a list and I turned to my old friend, the internet. First, I researched the price of renting chairs and tables at the last minute. After my eyes popped back into my head, I sent a text message to Coop to ask him to bring some of his folding chairs to the party. Then, I started to think about how I was going to carry four bottles of wine, a 12 pack of beer, two bottles of champagne and three bottles of alcohol from the liquor store to my car to my apartment. And I googled "Boston liquor delivery." (Did you know that they do that?) After scheduling the alcohol delivery, I asked my co-worker who seems to host people at her house every weekend for some advice about the food. She gave me the recipes for some quick easy appetizers. And I realized that most of them could be found pre-made at the Market Basket deli counter. So, I ordered some platters. After this, I began to feel a little less stressed. It's not a lot of work to throw a party, if you make other people do stuff.
The one black fly in my Chardonnay was that I had to go Market Basket to pick up the platters. The weathermen had been predicting a three-day snowstorm. Blizzard plus New Year's equals crazy people. So, the store was a madhouse and probably not in the best condition for my "first day back". I've blocked out most of that trip. I know that there were shopping cart jams and crowds of middle-aged men on their cells with their wives. At the deli counter, there was a line to take a number to get in line. And I was stuck in the bread aisle for what seemed like three hours, until I was finally rescued by a savior in a blue smock with a bread cart. When my friends finally arrived at my house, I was sure to tell them, "Thank you. Thank you for being with me on this day. The day that I survived Market Basket."
Food shopping apocalyptic episode aside, the party turned out to be a great time.Yes, I've been living on Ritz Crackers, pepperoni, and taco dip for the past week and a half. But, having everyone at my place and ringing in 2014 together made it worth it. I may even do it again next year! Although next year, I'm calling Peapod.
The last time that I threw a party was in 2003. My boyfriend at the time had a ton of no goodnik friends, but the deal was that if he cleaned up after them, they could be invited. I remember watching one of them sit in my kitchen and he had that look...the look that reality tv stars get when they're forced to eat 25 dragonflies or drink a jar of pickle juice and salsa together. The look of someone about to blow. Here was my dilemma. There was one bathroom in my apartment. I lived on the fifth floor, so there was no hope that he would get outside in the event of a vomit emergency. But, I really had to pee. When I couldn't wait anymore, I finally went into my bathroom. While in there, I heard my boyfriend's sister yell, "Oh my God, Mel, open the door!" I zipped up quickly and opened the door to my boyfriend's friend... throwing up all over my carpet. I vowed never again to throw a party.
Since October, I've been Ross and Rachel-ing it with this guy; let's call him "Bradley Cooper", or as I like to call him "Coop". On a recent ski trip with him and another couple, I brought up New Year's Eve and we decided that we would have a low key game night at my place. (This was all part of my elaborate plan to make sure that he spent New Year's Eve with me and not some other chick, but that's another story for another day). I had mentioned to a couple of other friends that we should get together on New Year's, so I sent an e-mail to those guys to tell them to join us.
As the days went on and as people asked me what I was doing for New Year's, my standard response was "I'm having Coop and some friends over. Come on by." And before I knew it, my low key game night had turned into a mini-party of 16. Apparently, according to my dad, I've been doing this my whole entire life. My mother would say to me, "Pick six girls in your class to come to your birthday party." And I would come home from school the week of my party and say, "is it ok if all the girls in my class come? Because I told them they could."
The morning before New Year's Eve, I did a quick head count in my head of how many people would be coming. I paused when it became more than ten and said to myself, "Now, that can't be right." But it was. I had no alcohol. No food. I didn't even have a place for all of these people to sit. And unlike my birthday parties, my mother wouldn't be there to do all the work!
And so, I made a list and I turned to my old friend, the internet. First, I researched the price of renting chairs and tables at the last minute. After my eyes popped back into my head, I sent a text message to Coop to ask him to bring some of his folding chairs to the party. Then, I started to think about how I was going to carry four bottles of wine, a 12 pack of beer, two bottles of champagne and three bottles of alcohol from the liquor store to my car to my apartment. And I googled "Boston liquor delivery." (Did you know that they do that?) After scheduling the alcohol delivery, I asked my co-worker who seems to host people at her house every weekend for some advice about the food. She gave me the recipes for some quick easy appetizers. And I realized that most of them could be found pre-made at the Market Basket deli counter. So, I ordered some platters. After this, I began to feel a little less stressed. It's not a lot of work to throw a party, if you make other people do stuff.
The one black fly in my Chardonnay was that I had to go Market Basket to pick up the platters. The weathermen had been predicting a three-day snowstorm. Blizzard plus New Year's equals crazy people. So, the store was a madhouse and probably not in the best condition for my "first day back". I've blocked out most of that trip. I know that there were shopping cart jams and crowds of middle-aged men on their cells with their wives. At the deli counter, there was a line to take a number to get in line. And I was stuck in the bread aisle for what seemed like three hours, until I was finally rescued by a savior in a blue smock with a bread cart. When my friends finally arrived at my house, I was sure to tell them, "Thank you. Thank you for being with me on this day. The day that I survived Market Basket."
Food shopping apocalyptic episode aside, the party turned out to be a great time.Yes, I've been living on Ritz Crackers, pepperoni, and taco dip for the past week and a half. But, having everyone at my place and ringing in 2014 together made it worth it. I may even do it again next year! Although next year, I'm calling Peapod.
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