THAT girl

Picture this: Table full of your girlfriends. Without us even wanting to, the conversation naturally drifts to the men in our lives. Someone asks you - how is it going with "what's his face"? You look at them and respond, "I have no idea." It was going well, you were cool and calm and fun and cute and completely you. BUT out of nowhere, his attentions changed, or he may have altogether vanished. Their eyes widen, and then they ask the question - "what did you do when that happened?" You roll your eyes, lower your head in shame, and hesitantly mutter that you (combo) called/text/IMed/e-mailed/facebooked five times in a row. They all nod, purse their lips, and that knowing look spreads across their faces. A short silence follows to reflect and reminisce on their own experience. Finally, someone speaks up, and states, "Ohhhh, you turned in to THAT girl." In unison, the ladies surrounding you bob their heads in acknowledgment.. because, at more points than they may care to recall, they have been ... THAT girl.

I am clearly not speaking about  the girl that a man sees from across a room or crowded street and thinks -  I want to talk to THAT girl. But rather, THAT girl, the "she is giving me a headache right now" girl. The "I don't think I should be talking to that crazy b*tch anymore" girl. The girl that texts ceaselessly into the late hours of the evening. The one that curses him out at the slightest inconvenience to her. The nutter that goes to his house because he stopped returning her messages and leaves a note in his mailbox.  Ladies, we have all been here, albeit at different extremes. Gents, you have all met her (and some of you, are still with her.. and aren't going anywhere. You know it.)

What turns us in to THAT girl? Many different reasons. Our own insecurities come out full force when we sense an action that seems all too familiar to what may have happened with a sh*tty ex. So we react like we did back then. Well, that relationship didn't work out now,  did it?  Mmm hmm. It makes for a much smoother ride if we remember this is a new dude as soon as we step in to a situation, and that he deserves for you not to come in to it haunted by the bad bad exes of your past.


Frankly, what you perceive as his change in attention, may very well just be living solely in your head. He may be having his own moment, and that's allowed. Unfortunately, you go ahead and sabotage the hell out of it, and flip, when you should have either lent support, or stepped back and continued keeping your options open. Now you find yourself pacing back and forth in your apartment. You end up arguing with yourself, because he certainly isn't answering your messages to argue back. Silence on the other end is making you more dramatic, your messages become progressively longer and more colorful (sailors are blushing). There is the possibility that you threw your phone across the room and the battery flew out. Now you can't locate the back cover, and you are on your hands and knees, head under the bed blindly groping for the piece, sucking up dust bunnies and sneezing like a mutha.  You wake up to a text in the morning reading, "umm, babe, I fell asleep". Oopsie. Now, you went and left evidence of crazy.




Or, you feel frustrated when they stop contacting you with the same frequency that was there in the beginning. At this point, you feel tricked because you were spoiled by the attention, and are now utterly confused. Good chance that you're thinking it was just ass, and now you're even more annoyed. Maybe feeling slightly stupid. THAT girl surfaces, and you look even dumber. You find yourself squatting between two dumpsters  outside of a bar in the LES at 2:30 am screaming into a voice mail. Three times in a row because you kept getting cut off and you weren't done with your version of telling him about himself. You wake up the next morning, wishing someone told YOU about YOURSELF. (She told me it was because she didn't want the street full of hipsters staring, as if that move didn't attract a crowd. :) )

Some of you fellas, stay with THAT girl. I had a conversation with an ex not too long ago who now lives with his THAT girl. I told him I was probably single because I wasn't bitchy enough. He agreed, adding "the girl I am with right now? I am TERRIFIED of leaving her!". We can dissect that another time, because that kind, is a different beast altogether. I have seen her in action amongst many of my beloved friends, and thought.. if I was him, my ass would be running for the hills. Then again, I know it has worked for me on occasion because some of you that may be reading this, I have been THAT girl to, and we are good friends now. After coming to a balanced understanding, of course ;)




Before you put his number on speed dial and call for two hours straight, only to yell, hang up, call, yell, hang up... work on being THAT woman. The one who says "Screw you" out loud, to YOURSELF, in YOUR OWN space. Then... breathe. Because we all know we wake up the next day and regret what we've said or done and are pretty annoyed with ourselves. Maybe you wake up just fine and forgot what was bugging you in the first place, then remember and call yourself a dumbass and laugh it off. You realized that you can't take it back, so you better cut that sh*t out. If by some chance he likes you enough to come back, then don't do it again. This piece gets easier as you get older, and as the relationship gets steadier and more communicative. I hear it helps if you get yourself a buffer (or two). That wonderful friend that knows you better than you know yourself, and call her before mayhem is unleashed. 

When the emotions start going awry,  figure out first if that is because of you, or him. If it's you, then STOP RIGHT NOW. Realize what your deal is first, you may be the one that needs a break until you get that sorted. If it's them, and there was no honest explanation, then say good riddance. If you were offered a rationale, then honor it. There really is no need to beat dead horses, those b*tches aren't going to rise just because you command them to. Say what you need to say as calmly as possible so it doesn't eat you up, and know when to peace out when you need to. Easier said than done, but TRY and forget how ridiculously amazing the sex was and that you had toe curling, back arching orgasms almost every time. *Sigh*

If all that's left is a vapor trail and you are determined to have that WHY answered, then I will obligingly answer that for you right now: He is an idiot. That's WHY. Don't be one too.

Keep it movin' ladies. For your dignity, and your sanity.

gettin old, looking for new: dating

I find dating painful. Every part of it makes my body, mind, and soul cringe. The initial point of contact, where eyes lock, chemistry is assessed, and potentially life altering decisions are made frightens me. Anticipating whether or not this new date will go anywhere and wondering if a second date is worth it gives me angina. My brains swells with endless flurry of thoughts – Did I ask the right questions? Did I leave the right impression? Frankly, did  I even care what this person sitting in front of me thought? I wonder if am I being authentic and true to myself as I navigate this game. More importantly, where and how do I meet men now?

In my 20s, these thoughts didn’t cross my mind. It didn’t particularly matter to me if I had a boyfriend simply for the sake of having a boyfriend. I preferred to lose myself in the moment. Carefree, and more often careless, my goal was to get a free dinner and perhaps a snuggle. During this time of my life, the meeting was easier and there was no room for second guessing. I recall an occasion where I was walking out of a lounge as a cutie was walking in. We looked at each other, grinned, said hello, whipped out our enormous cell phones, exchanged digits, and kept on with our business. This transpired within a span of 30 seconds. Another time, I joined a dating site for three days to see what the hype was all about. In that short span of time, with a surgeon’s precision, I decided on a man because he was cute, lived two stops away, and was therefore the ideal local ass. So I sent him a wink. My “relationship” with Mo, an adorable Colombian man, lasted on and off  for two years. We were friends, lovers, and knew there wouldn’t be more between us. Our breaks were straight to the point, and went a little like this.

Ring Ring – I pick up phone

Mo:“Hey babe, want to grab dinner and a drink and come through?

Me: “I just met someone new, and I want to see how this rolls. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll call you.”

Two to three months later, the new guy is done, and I am at Mo’s place, getting it on in his kitchen, wearing shiny red pumps, and nothing else.

Needless to say, I didn’t play by any rules but my own, and have had a great time in doing so. Problem now is, my priorities have shifted, and I want to settle down, have a double income household, find (and be with) my life partner, and make babies. Unfortunately, old habits tend to resurface and have to be unlearned. New rules need to be set, and they have to be ones where I don’t feel that I am compromising my true self. One of the biggest lessons that needs to be figured out, is how to meet men. Men that are men, and not boys, or even dudes. Grown ones, with determination, brains, ambition (I'd say job, but the economy sucks and work looks different for everyone. So there has to be some leeway, just can't live home with momma!). Men with cute smiles and a twinkle in their eyes, and not the cheesy clearly inebriated grin and glazed over look. Men that open doors for you, don't call you "ma", or "son", or "boo", and it's not in jest. Men that are simply, real men. 

So, here I am. A white woman, in my early 30s, with a diverse upbringing, who loves universally, and is absolutely petrified with this new dating adventure that I have embarked on. I am clueless as to what this looks like just yet. What I am certain of is these three things: 1- When he and I catch eyes, and I like it, I have to do something and stop being a punk. 2 - I need to venture out of the usual places where you meet boys, aka bars. 3- I have to find them when they aren't surrounded by their friends and putting on a show, so that it's a real and genuine connect. 

Let’s see what happens when I hook the bait, cast the line, and fish. Undoubtedly, there will be a few that won't bite and several that I have to throw back in the water. Perhaps I'll get lucky and find a keeper.

Papa-isms

Concerned that my childbearing days are passing me by, Papa says to me: "Miri-an, you are picky. Ven am i going to a finally push my granmchildrenz from you in ze baby carriage?" I reply, with a smirk -  "Papa, I can arrange that without getting married...  if you like." Papa - "O! Ok! I vait! I vait!" (He has not asked me since.)

After several attempts of papa trying to get me to meet (or rather, randomly set me up with)  Russian men, and much vehement refusal and good stern scolding on my part, my stepmother mentions that she met some man in Miami that was a jeweler, and she has a card for me if I want to call him. Papa is next to us, and turns to her and says, "O! No, leave it her alone!". I look at Papa, grin broadly and pat him on the back "Oh, thank goodness, I have finally taught him to step meddling". Papa nods his head, and says, "O! Yez! I know you iz ze picky. I leave it you alone!"

Driving in the car on Father's Day, my stepmother has a cough and wants a sucking candy. I look in the glove compartment, and then in the center console. There, I find a sample pack of... Levitra. I look at Papa wide-eyed, and point at the box. He looks at me, points to his wife and says... shhhhh!!!!!!! Ok, Papa, you have your ways of satisfying the lady, I am mortified as is, and need to not know anymore. Play on, playa.

Papa and I are arguing, and as usual, I am telling him what to do. He looks me squarely in the eyes and proceeds to tell me, "Miri-an, you are so bossy. Ven you finally get it da husband, I give it him permission to bit you, ev-e-ry single day." Thanks, Pops. Thanks.

Subway Learnin'- Part 2: Fit

Refer here to Subway Learnin' - Part 1 for background.



No matter how independent I like to say that I am, I really REALLY prefer some traditional themes in dating. I can easily take control of the reins and steer you towards fun, but if it begins this way, that isn't a good sign for me. It just gets highly annoying. To the point -  I like when a man, is a man. When he sets up a time, has an idea of where to take me, and can show me he can lead. Don't get me wrong, I don't want someone that doesn't want to hear my desires, prefers a power struggle or  needs to take control. If he lets me take over from the start, I see it as him showing me that either A) I can walk all over him, or B) He is a lazy mofo. Over the years, this has been proven countless times.

After our first conversation with what I thought was a confident young man, I realized he was good for the pick-up, but not so much with the follow through. It took 15 minutes for us to make a decision where to meet, forget what to do after, and it was I that decided that we were going to meet in front of the Barnes and Noble at Union Square (that's always a good fall back in my experience in the NY dating scene).

Arriving 20 minutes late, and all sweaty, he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a blank stare when I asked where we were headed. Great. In the first few minutes I decided it was highly unlikely he was for me, but tried to keep an open mind.I suggested good ole Republic a block away. Not the most intimate setting, as it is communal seating and can get noisy, but I intuitively didn't care for intimate because I already knew the conversation would get tiresome. Especially when he told me he has never had Thai (I don't think I have met anyone that grew up in NYC that has never had Thai, wtf?).

And, yes, it was exhausting to get him to speak. I even did the pause where I hoped he would say a few words to close the gap in the silence between us. No such luck.

The bill arrived, and dude began to sweat. Rivulets dribbling down his cleanly shaven skull and running the side of his cheek. He began to stammer.  As he shakily held the receipts in his hand, the top white one, and the copy of the yellow behind, I asked him if he was alright. It took me another minute or so, and some awkward mumbling on his part, to realize that he thought that he had to add up the value of both to get the final total. I did not think I would need to educate a 30 year old man on how to read a bill, but that's what I did.  It wasn't $64, but $32. The sweating stopped, he pulled out his wallet and seemed relaxed. And no, I didn't offer to help. Traditional like that, and he WAS the one to approach me in the first place. *Shrug*

After dinner, I suggested a drink as he did seem nice (friend maybe?), and I wasn't ready to go home yet, it was Friday. Again, the sweater (which is how he will now be referred to - as my good friend dubbed him after this date), had no idea where to go. I suggested a small cozy bar a few blocks away on 9th Street. Perhaps he did better in less crowded settings?

We arrived, and I ordered my then-customary gin and tonic. He began to stammer and finally blurted out, Heineken. We drank, he loosened up, I threw him a few lines to try and help him out - but still, didn't know what to do with himself. Two drinks in, and I was done. I insisted on going Dutch, I wasn't in to this one, at all. No matter how I attempted to be open-minded, it wasn't going to go anywhere romantically. Nuh. Uh.

Since we both had the same train, at least for a part of the journey, he decided he was going to head back home as well and joined me. Sitting on the train, we spoke for a bit. I noticed a kind faced older woman sitting a few seats away, and she smiled at me. I returned her smile.  Sweater and I continued to speak, and she continued to glance in our direction. Then, out of nowhere, he became brave... he put his arm around me. As quickly as he did that, I abruptly shrugged it off with the words (accompanied by a firm look) - "You're not there." I have never been able to fake it when I am not in to someone, and I refuse to feel uncomfortable. Out of fairness, I didn't want to mislead him anymore than I possibly may have and have him think that I was "feeling" him like that, either. He stammered, again, and apologized for trying to take liberties. I don't him no worries, but not to do it again. (Yes, I did say that). The train pulled in to his transfer stop, and he leaned in for a kiss, and got the cheek, and a thank you.

The kind faced woman begin to speak to me after that. In a thick Eastern European accent, Czech perhaps, she gently questioned, "Is that your boyfriend?". I shook my head vehemently and replied with an elongated "Nooooo.....". She laughed slightly and said, "Yes, he didn't look like he fit you." I agreed and we spoke a bit, and then she reached in to her plastic shopping bag, pulled out a plump juicy peach, and handed it to me. I took it and thanked her. She rose as we were nearing her stop, and wish me luck, and left.



For the remainder of my ride, I held the peach in my hand and stared out of the subway window watching the dark tunnels whizz by, catching an occasional glimpse of light. Sweater drifted out of my mind, signaling that was the end of that. Holding the peach and wondering if I should wait and wash it before I bit in to it was the more pressing issue.

He didn't fit, no. Not the right puzzle piece.These are lines that I think of now, and although I did not realize the depth and profound nature of them at the time, they have come back to me throughout the years out of others people's mouths referring to other relationships. Although I didn't learn the significance at that moment, it has now become a question that I ask now, years later. I think I have learned, and internalized, that very important lesson.

brighton beach and creepy old men.

I woke up the other day, looked out my window and saw that it was going to be a gorgeous day. What to do? I am unemployed, the weather is finally summer-y, but not overly muggy as it tends to get going into the months of July and August. So, I rolled out of bed, threw on my bathing suit, caked myself in some SPF 30, and headed to Brighton Beach. It's free, and I figured I could stroll Brighton Beach Avenue and be one with my fellow Uke and Russian peoples (red hair, big glasses, and a penchant for animal print- ah, love), get some potato and spinach perogies, and sit and relax.



Going to this area reminds me of my childhood with my grandparents. They would load up their immaculate Lincoln Town Car, and drive the hour plus (in traffic), to wander the boardwalk, eat roasted semechki (aka sunflower seeds) out of paper bags, and occasionally spot an old comrade from their former home of Odessa, Ukraine. My sister and I would be handed a few dollars when we were antsy on the beach, we'd take off towards Brighton Beach Avenue with our best friend Leo, make a pit stop at the Synagogue Flea Market on Brighton 4th (only on Sunday).  My sister would get kvass and we would all get perogie. After, we would venture into the old comic book shop for our dose of Archie Comics, (Betty & Veronica's were my faves), and dirty joke books. I knew more dead baby and Polish jokes than an 9 year old, or anyone for that matter, should ever need to know. Sometimes, we would troop our way to Coney Island AstroLand Amusement Park, (where we would religiously avoid the Cyclone - my momma told us it was old and people died on it). We would hand most of our cash to Leo because he was exceptional at winning those flammable stuffed animals that were made out of rayon and stuffed with sawdust. How we treasured those little trinkets. After our adventures, we would head back to the boardwalk and run as fast as we could up the rickety wooden stairs, wary of the junkies hanging out below the boardwalk; afraid they would grab our legs as we ran up and pull us under gaps in the stairs. We didn't know exactly what they would do to us if they captured us, but we knew it couldn't be good. A ramp was a godsend.

Now that I am older, I don't typically venture this way during the summer months, if at all. My grandmother lives is in Coney Island, and I usually get a ride with my father when I visit. I may head to The Mermaid Parade every few years, and last time, I finally got on the Cyclone through firm coaxing by my friends (and this event led to bi-weekly chiropractor visits for the following two months. That's what I get for not listening to my momma). There is now a fence below the stairs blockading potential people snatchers. No longer are there little shops dotted along the walk selling the treasured semechki  by the bagfuls, but larger restaurants that I head to for an occasional family event. Tatiana Grill is by far a favorite (I have been meaning to check out their brunch).



Overall, for beaching, BB can get really nasty into the summer and therefore it is not ideal. Glass is strewn throughout the sand, fights breakout on the beach, and potato chip bags (amongst other nasty items) float across the shoreline. This early on in the season, I figured the garbage has not piled up yet and it's still relatively quiet, so I took my chances. I probably should have walked the extra ten minutes to its quieter, cleaner, counterpart: Manhattan Beach.

On this particular day, the beach was covered in small groups of teenagers that were cutting school, being a bit loud and rowdy, a few brought broken black umbrellas and were trying to use these for shade, overall, mostly being kids. A brawl broke out and within seconds, a horde of teens had run through the sand and were egging the fighters on.  Other beach-farers that day included a handful of early/mid 30 year old woman relaxing solo. No beach day would be complete without the 20 somethings strolling up and down the beach with rock hard abs checking each other out, with the occasional appreciative cat whistle. I must admit, my people have confidence, and I admire their love of self. Older former Soviet Bloc ladies, and gents, of all shapes and sizes were parading and speed-walking the shore in their neon (and animal print!) bikinis and speedos.

As I sat on my towel, rereading my copy of the Tipping Point and scanning through the latest Time Out New York, an older gentleman approaches me and begins to converse with me in Russian. Assuming he is lost, or has a question, I am polite and respond. Then he begins to eyeball me. "Are you Moldovian?" Um, no.. my family is from Odessa.  He squats down, so and continues to speak with me. Cautious, shocked, but with the home training to respect my elders, I listen to his next question with trepidation. "Do you live in Brighton?" Me: "No." GoawayGoawayGoaway. I am trying to have a peaceful time, worship the sun, and read. "Are you single?" Before I have a chance to answer, he notices my ring. Although it's on the wrong hand, I have gold ring with diamonds that my grandmother gave me a few months ago. She had taken it off of her finger, and placed it on to mine with the words, "I am going to die soon anyway, have it." Thank you, babushka. With a look of acknowledgment and resentment, he says, "Oh, I see you are married", and begins to rise. That's when I notice, there was something else rising, in his shorts. As he stands up, and I gawk, he leaves me with the parting note, "You look it sooo nice", bulge growing, turns, and walks away. I am stunned.

I roll over on to my stomach to even out my tan, and continue to read. A few minutes later,  I notice movement over my right shoulder. I glance over, and it is another older gentleman laying out his blanket about 4 feet away from my little island. My gaze goes back to my book, and I think nothing of it, although there is plenty of space for him to move farther away. He begins to speak (in Russian. I don't know how they know, I usually get people thinking I am Irish, but I guess you do know "your own"), "Oh, I am so sorry, did I bother you? I noticed you look over." "Nyet, Nyet. I am fine. Don't worry." Two minutes later, he decides he needs to speak to me some more. Fabulousss. "Did you go in the water? Is it nice?" I reply that I did not, as I did not want to leave my bag."Oh, do you want to come swimming with me?" WHAT?? "No, no, I am reading." He starts to ask me where I am from, and wants to know if I got here via car or na sub-vay.  I tersely say subway, and focus on my book and hoping to close myself off to any other disturbance. "Don't be shy. If you want to go into the water, I will watch your bag." I let him know that I am leaving soon, and it is getting chillier, but thank him for the offer. "Let me know when you are ready to go, and I will help you get the sand from your towel and to remove it from your bag." I assure him that I am OK, and I can do it, it's no big deal. Perhaps he was trying to be nice and help out a girl, but I found his questioning unsettling, and anyway, it was time to head back for my second part of the day. My sundress came on, I gathered up my belongings, put on my flip-flops, and started to get up, and so did he. "Let me help you! Let me help you!" "No, no, its OK!, Please.". "But you have sand all over your bag." I said goodbye as I made a beeline for the boardwalk, he was behind me calling out, "Please, you have sand on your bag!". No response, just my flight response whisking me off.

That afternoon had certainly taken the oddest turn. I spoke with my friend about it later in the day over a few beers at Studio Square, and her theory goes as follows: "young woman, middle of the day, chillin on the beach.. he must have thought you were a lady of leisure." Wink, wink. "A hooker! Imagine? WTF?" Unemployment has made me a Lady of Leisure.. but not THAT kind of Leisure. Sheesh.

On a positive not, I was able to practice my Russian. Now I may need to learn how to say, "I am sorry, sir, but I am not a hooker" should I ever feel bold enough to head that way solo ever again.

50 Best Spring Pickup Spots ...

for the singletons, or to pass along to your single friends.

TONYs 50 Best Spring Pickup Spots

for the non-single though, worth checking out, some interesting go to/things to do around NYC.

Papa visits the single girls

From 2001-2002, I shared an apartment in Brooklyn with two of my very single girlfriends. Three bedrooms, just far enough from each other for some privacy. Non-working fireplace, crown molding, on the second floor of an adorable Brooklyn Brownstone. This was the high era of our single days. Dating, dancing, and well, doing it.

Papa lived in Long Island. On Saturdays, he would take the hour long drive from his home to visit my grandmother, Claudia, in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. Sometimes, he would call me on his way and ask if he could stop by. One day, he rolled in mid-afternoon, went right in to the kitchen, and whipped up a meal for my two best friends and I. Papa, is super sweet like that. He loves me, and by extension, he loves my friends and takes care of them too.

One morning, the doorbell rang. It was Papa, unannounced. Luckily (well, maybe not so luckily, hehe) our rooms were slept in solo. My roommates and I looked at each other, and I knew from their expressions, and my thoughts, he could not get that comfortable.

"Papa", I say, "I love when you come visit. However..." and I drawl out slowly and indirectly, but giving him enough indication that there was something a little more adult and serious in my words, "there are threee siiinnngggglllleeee girls living here. All siiinnnngggglllleee."

After a moment, a realization flashes across his face. "O!! I so sorry! O-Ohh! I vill alvays call from nowz on!".

Papa realized, we get some, sometimes.