The Single City Gal blog is currently going on hiatis to pursue other projects. Thanks for all your support and loyal reading!
Best Regards,
SCG
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Mr. X
In the beginning it was like any single man and single woman getting to know each other. A budding “friendship” constantly tested by sexual tension and “what-if’s”. It was a relationship that they could never quite both put their fingers on or pin-point what direction the wind off Lake Michigan was actually taking them. It was a straight person’s relationship enigma. Two people, obviously attracted to each other and enjoyed spending time together, but unable to push through to the other side. Or as some may say, unable to pass through the infamous “friend zone”. But, after several months of mixed weather reports, the eye of the storm had finally arrived and their friendship just sort of grew into what it is now, a very platonic, loving, yet fiery Him and Her.
Mr. X (as he prefers to be called for the purposes of this blog) moved to Chicago just two weeks after me, on January 17, 2007 all the way from St. Louis. And the reason I so fondly remember the day we met is because we made a pact to always celebrate our anniversary at the very place we both first graced each other's paths ~ at a little hidden Irish Pub on the North Side, just a bit South from where I live now. He was out blowing off some much needed steam with two old friends who helped him move that day, and I was winding down after a strenuous day of shopping with my Aunt “V” who was visiting from the East Coast. Just to note, my happily married Aunt “V” was not helping me pick up men, she just happily served as my supportive wing woman. And I’m not quite sure if it was the Red Bull and Vodka, or the endless tone-deaf karaoke singing that night, but I do believe that the evening between Mr. X and I was sealed with a kiss. Our first and last (for the most part). Because as aforementioned, our relationship has now grown into a lovingly platonic friendship and he will always be known as my first real friend in my brand new city. And I couldn’t have started out in this new place without him. He takes care of my electronic woes, corrects my golf swing, and always remembers my birthday. And when I needed to be picked up from the hospital this past winter, Mr. X was there. As for what I give to him, well that’s a different story. He may say that I am his oh so tender, yet favorite “nagging” gal pal, but I would argue that I am his conscience. A voice, that Chicago’s most eligible bachelor needs to hear ~ especially now.
Mr. X is similar to more than fifty percent of men out there who “claim” they don’t want to be in a relationship. One may call those types non-committal, but I on the other hand call them ridiculous, or scared. This is just my opinion of course, but I truly feel that there is no such thing as being a commitment phobe. What I feel is that men and women who say they don’t want to be in a relationship just mean that they have not found the right person with whom they want to be in a relationship with. Or, maybe they are scared that if they commit they will give up the opportunity to have their chance with the next best thing. And my philosophy on that is when the BEST thing shows up on your doorstep, you’ll just know it ~ and then, the non-committal man or woman will immediately become extinct. Something I have observed a million and one times before.
As a successful computer executive making a nice living in one of the greatest cities in the country, Mr. X has the flexibility of arranging his own schedule to complement his weekly tee times and required happy hours ~ AND he currently has on retainer five living, breathing, more than willing women at his beck and call. Wait a second and let me re-clarify that last statement. These women are not call girls, but five single, unknowing women, who I can probably bet the farm on think they are the only ones in Mr. X’s life. Mr. X who “claims” he doesn’t want to be in a relationship is as he would say ~ living the dream. Five women. Five different types of sex at his fingertips. Wow, what man in his right mind who hasn’t yet found “the one” passes all that up?
What I have to say to you, my fine friend Mr. X, is to really look at what is going on here. Examine this lovely flock of your five incredible women who would each give their right arm for you and perhaps, if you feel potential with any one of them, make a choice. Pick your favorite, or listen to me who has already noted her fan favorite. We joke about your women in terms of being geographically desirable (living in the city), geographically undesirable (living in the suburbs), and geographically impossible (living where? Springfield, IL is it?). Desirable, undesirable, or impossible ~ if you follow your heart and take a chance, I bet the payout would be well worth it. But… if you still want to be just like George (Clooney, that is) and never get married, or fall in love, etc… I will continue to respect you ten-fold, just like I respect George. And just like George, be honest with yourself; be honest with your women, and for the love of God… Don’t forget to wear your rubbers!
.
Mr. X (as he prefers to be called for the purposes of this blog) moved to Chicago just two weeks after me, on January 17, 2007 all the way from St. Louis. And the reason I so fondly remember the day we met is because we made a pact to always celebrate our anniversary at the very place we both first graced each other's paths ~ at a little hidden Irish Pub on the North Side, just a bit South from where I live now. He was out blowing off some much needed steam with two old friends who helped him move that day, and I was winding down after a strenuous day of shopping with my Aunt “V” who was visiting from the East Coast. Just to note, my happily married Aunt “V” was not helping me pick up men, she just happily served as my supportive wing woman. And I’m not quite sure if it was the Red Bull and Vodka, or the endless tone-deaf karaoke singing that night, but I do believe that the evening between Mr. X and I was sealed with a kiss. Our first and last (for the most part). Because as aforementioned, our relationship has now grown into a lovingly platonic friendship and he will always be known as my first real friend in my brand new city. And I couldn’t have started out in this new place without him. He takes care of my electronic woes, corrects my golf swing, and always remembers my birthday. And when I needed to be picked up from the hospital this past winter, Mr. X was there. As for what I give to him, well that’s a different story. He may say that I am his oh so tender, yet favorite “nagging” gal pal, but I would argue that I am his conscience. A voice, that Chicago’s most eligible bachelor needs to hear ~ especially now.
Mr. X is similar to more than fifty percent of men out there who “claim” they don’t want to be in a relationship. One may call those types non-committal, but I on the other hand call them ridiculous, or scared. This is just my opinion of course, but I truly feel that there is no such thing as being a commitment phobe. What I feel is that men and women who say they don’t want to be in a relationship just mean that they have not found the right person with whom they want to be in a relationship with. Or, maybe they are scared that if they commit they will give up the opportunity to have their chance with the next best thing. And my philosophy on that is when the BEST thing shows up on your doorstep, you’ll just know it ~ and then, the non-committal man or woman will immediately become extinct. Something I have observed a million and one times before.
As a successful computer executive making a nice living in one of the greatest cities in the country, Mr. X has the flexibility of arranging his own schedule to complement his weekly tee times and required happy hours ~ AND he currently has on retainer five living, breathing, more than willing women at his beck and call. Wait a second and let me re-clarify that last statement. These women are not call girls, but five single, unknowing women, who I can probably bet the farm on think they are the only ones in Mr. X’s life. Mr. X who “claims” he doesn’t want to be in a relationship is as he would say ~ living the dream. Five women. Five different types of sex at his fingertips. Wow, what man in his right mind who hasn’t yet found “the one” passes all that up?
What I have to say to you, my fine friend Mr. X, is to really look at what is going on here. Examine this lovely flock of your five incredible women who would each give their right arm for you and perhaps, if you feel potential with any one of them, make a choice. Pick your favorite, or listen to me who has already noted her fan favorite. We joke about your women in terms of being geographically desirable (living in the city), geographically undesirable (living in the suburbs), and geographically impossible (living where? Springfield, IL is it?). Desirable, undesirable, or impossible ~ if you follow your heart and take a chance, I bet the payout would be well worth it. But… if you still want to be just like George (Clooney, that is) and never get married, or fall in love, etc… I will continue to respect you ten-fold, just like I respect George. And just like George, be honest with yourself; be honest with your women, and for the love of God… Don’t forget to wear your rubbers!
.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Thank You For Being a Friend...
You may remember him as the geeky, sometimes pathetic, dinosaur-obsessed paleontologist with a dedication to “Ounagi”. Or perhaps you recall him as the Jewish holiday armadillo. Or maybe, as the synthesizer-playing Spudnick (otherwise referred to as “a Doody” by his fine Friend Joey). But, to me this is the man I fell in love with every Thursday night for ten years. A comic-book hero, formally known as “Science-Boy” who one unfortunate night found, himself stuck inside a pair of over-heated leather pants, after only recovering a few episodes earlier from being caught in a blacklit room with severely over-whitened teeth. To many of you, he is best known as Ross (The Ross-A-Tron) Geller. But to me, he will always be, my lobster.
So... give it up. Favorite "Friends" moments... Mine is a toss up between the "leather pants" and the "lightening round".... xoxo Make your comments below!
So... give it up. Favorite "Friends" moments... Mine is a toss up between the "leather pants" and the "lightening round".... xoxo Make your comments below!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Pick of the Week: The Yoga Boutique
I have tried yoga studios all over the US and this is the best yoga studio.... EVER!
Right here in Chicago!!!
The Yoga Boutique!!!
Visit Dana Robert and her website now!!
Click here for details:
http://www.theyogaboutiquechicago.com/
Right here in Chicago!!!
The Yoga Boutique!!!
Visit Dana Robert and her website now!!
Click here for details:
http://www.theyogaboutiquechicago.com/
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Bachelor: The Windy City Calls
Growing up in New York, I grew accustomed to the cold winters. Periodic below subzero temperatures, the occasional snowfall, sleet, hail, and black ice. Scraping the morning frost off your windshield while you waited for the car to warm up before you could actually drive it. Never leaving the house without a pair of gloves and a woolly-bully hat. And maybe, you had that parent who made you wear the puffy, round winter coat, which when zipped up made you mildly resemble the long lost twin of the Michelin Man. We all know the ones I’m talking about. Needless to say, I’ve survived my share of rough winters, but what I was to experience here, in my second Chicago winter was one for the record books.
They said it was the worst winter Chicago had seen in over fifteen years. Breaking records of over sixty inches of snow in one season and going over budget by approximately three million dollars in snow removal clean-up. The city and surrounding suburbs had run out of rock salt and I can honestly not recall a day between Thanksgiving and the end of April without a trace of snow on the ground. And although signs of this horrific Chicago winter are now finally entering hibernation, the after affects still haunt me.
I never believed in it. Seasonal affective disorder (SAD). According to experts, it is a condition by where one experiences depression and mood changes during the winter months. After returning home from a quick trip to NYC in early February, I started noticing some unfamiliar changes in myself. For one, I became extremely anti-social, which is very uncharacteristic for me. I did not want to go out ~ at all. And when invited out, I would make any excuse in the book not to go. For about four to six weeks, I only left the house for work. I had no energy to go to the gym or even the grocery store. All I did was sleep and eat. EAT. EAT. EAT. I would order in almost everyday and by April’s end, I had gained twelve pounds. I felt as if I had fallen into icy Lake Michigan without a life-preserver to save me. I was in the deepest funk of my life since my mother passed away over six years ago. And then, all on a whim, The Bachelor came calling.
Two weeks ago, I went online to nominate my brother for the hit reality dating show, The Bachelor. We all know that show is an absolute train wreck, but you can’t help not to watch. As my cousin Ali says, “The show is like Fed-Ex, it always delivers.” Travis, Andy, Matt, Lorenzo? C’mon, we can’t help not to love them. And those crazy bachelorettes who sit patiently and wait to get a rose while their “perfect” bachelor is hooking up with every other girl on the show? Absolutely. Hey, whatever works and we all know it makes for good TV. Isn’t it all about entertaining the masses? So, for kicks and giggles, I nominated myself in addition to my brother (for a different episode, obviously). It was easy. All I had to do was fill out an online profile and submit a picture. Given my obvious state of appearance though, I selected a picture taken a little over a year ago, and rounded my weight down roughly about fifteen pounds. Like I said, whatever works, and the chances of me actually getting selected are slim to none anyway. So, no worries.
And then… two days later, on a late on a Friday afternoon my cell phone rings.
“Hello. Is this Jaime?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. This is Emily from The Bachelor.”
“OMG! You got my brother’s application!”
“Your brother? We’re calling for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you. We received your online profile and loved it! We want you to attend a casting in Chicago on Tuesday.”
“You do?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Great. We’ll email you all the information and what you’ll need to bring. Auditions begin at five o’clock.”
“Okay. Well….thanks for your call.”
Click.
Oh Shit.
Okay, my first thought ~ How the hell am I going to lose fifteen pounds in four days? Well, I am definitely not hitting Chili’s for dinner on the ride home. My second thought ~ Holy crap, there is no way I can get on national television in a bathing suit. For the love of God there are some things even my Miracle Suit can’t help. Followed by another thought ~ Please Dear Lord be casting for The Bachelor: Alaska, so that I can wear my Michelin Man coat 24/7. And my final thought ~ Maybe…they are casting for The Bachelor: Chubby Chasers on the Loose?!?! Who knows? But, there was no comment as supportive and loving as this one from my cousin Greg, “Um, Jaim, I think you should bring your own bouquet of roses.”
Ahhh… regardless of the situation, I had some serious business to take care of over the weekend and it started with black. Finding that perfect, oh so slimming, black dress.
Lets just say, god bless Ann Taylor. Within an hour I found it. Verging on the funeral wear look though, I jazzed it up with a pretty blue scarf, accented by a subtle purse. Now, taking a second glance in the mirror, I appeared innocent, virgin-like, and poised. Blair Waldorf or Audrey Hepburnesque. Clean and understated. A look that the show could definitely use. I decided to roll with it. Just some new bronzer and a little self-tanner and I was good to go.
The auditions were held Downtown at the Hard Rock Hotel. When Tuesday came, I left work a bit early to go home and make a miracle happen and to hopefully get down there a little on the early side. I had no idea how many other ladies, or shall I say contenders would be there.
Upon arriving at the hotel, I got on the elevator to the forth floor with a man who appeared to be someone from the show. I kindly introduced myself.
“Hello, are you from The Bachelor?”
“Yes, I’m Jesse the casting director and you are..?”
“Jaime. Kosinski. Emily had called from LA last week and asked me to come here to audition for the show today.” His response….
“To be ON The Bachelor?”
“Yes….”
He’s now looking me up and down ~ and sideways. I felt about two inches tall and one hundred and eighty feet wide. Would someone please throw me that life preserver?
“Okay Jaime, well I will be setting up in a few minutes. Just take a seat in the waiting room and fill out the appropriate forms. And just so you know. There are hidden cameras everywhere. We want to see how the girls interact with each other.”
When I get inside the waiting room there is me and about five others. Internally, I start sizing up the competition. You’ve got your typical beauty queen. Two token hot tub girls. A sweet professor who drove all the way from Ohio who teaches at Bowling Green and lastly, a girl who looks like she needs to eat about ten sandwiches. And me. Just me. In my slimming black dress.
Knowing the hidden cameras are rolling I start to ham it up. I begin asking the girls questions, offering witty, off the cuff comments, just trying to make everyone laugh when I soon realize, I am the only one in the room with any personality. Or at least any person showing it.
I started to picture myself on the show as the girl who would be the glue in the house of the twenty-five bachelorettes. The one trying to keep the peace instead of starting the cat fights. The nice, funny girl. The underdog who all of America would fall in love with. I would be the “Bob Guiney” of girls. If you remember, Bob Guiney was the chubby, very funny, bachelor whose heart was broken by Trista Renn. America loved him so much, they then they made him The Bachelor. He later ended up marrying gorgeous soap star Rebecca Budig from All My Children. Not a bad ending for a chubby, funny guy if you ask me.
They call my name.
After my run in with Jesse, the not so impressed casting agent in the elevator, I was extra nervous for my audition. I then said to myself, F--- It. It is a million and one chance that I would ever even get on the show, so just go have some fun, be yourself, and if anything, the experience will make for an entertaining blog. So, I put my A-Game on and followed Jesse into the audition room.
It all starts with the line up. He has me stand against the wall, holding a piece of paper with my name and phone number written on it. In rather large writing so the camera can see it. Feeling a need to break the silence I say, “Hey, thanks for sparing me any blank spaces on this paper for my weight and shoe sizes. I feared this may actually be Biggest Loser auditions and I’d be standing on a hidden scale under the floor and all of a sudden lights, sirens, and digital numbers would start dinging.”
He laughs. Really laughs.
He then takes a few frames of me from ALL sides. Again, I feel the need to say something as he is shooting my back side.
“Oh yes, Sir! You know, when I used to work in Harlem, this was by far my best side. Men whistled from miles away. I remember a nice African-American man once telling that he’d love to grab hold of me because a woman wasn’t a real woman if you can feel her ribs. So Jesse, when done craft services get here?”
He laughs again. I was now at complete ease. I think he was seeing a completely different woman then he first saw in the elevator just thirty minutes ago. And I had another revelation. I LOVED THE CAMERA. It brought out this side of me I never knew existed. I immediately felt the urge to call Bravo and get my own talk show. LOL!
Originally, Jesse told me that I would have five minutes on camera. Well, he must have really liked me because in the end he had me on well over fifteen. The questions he asked were as expected. What do you do? Where are you from? What is the picture of your ideal mate? “Breathing,” I told him.
And more… Tell me about your perfect date. “Well, Jesse, as someone who has enjoyed several months practicing Immaculate Conception, something “climatic” may be an obvious winner.”
Why do you want to be on the show? “Because I have a dire need to get on national television as a spokesperson for the Miracle Suit. I want healthy girls to not be afraid to work it girl!”
What do you expect to achieve from being on this show? Tell me about your prior dating experience. Do you have any fears about drinking or making out on camera? “No, I’ve embarrassed myself and my family way worse than that before,” I answered.
General questions as such. All of which I responded with both humor and sincerity. And what I loved is that through the entire audition Jesse smiled and laughed. And laughed and laughed. Of course I was hoping he was laughing with me and not at me.
When the last question was finished, he asked to me make one final comment with regard to how I felt about dating up until this point in my life and I said, “In the wise words of Charlotte York, I’ve been dating since I was sixteen, I’m exhausted! Where is he already?” And again, he laughed.
Jesse shut the camera off, grabbed my two hands and said, “You are absolutely adorable. I love you! That was one of the most entertaining, funniest auditions I’ve ever had and I’ve been casting for the show over seven years. You are great! What a way for me to start the evening’s auditions! I’m so glad you went first.”
I felt like a champ. A real winner!
And after that long Chicago winter, and twelve extra pounds (that really didn’t matter to the casting director of the most superficial reality show on television), I was reborn. Leaving the Hard Rock that evening, I was back. I had a spring in my step again. I felt great about who I was, at any size. It made me think that maybe even these ridiculous shows on television that profile the unrealistic woman saw me for who I am. A real girl. A contender. Perhaps even a contestant who ninety-nine percent of American women could relate to. Someone they could truly root for. We will see….
In closing, the past week has been a complete one-eighty. My funk has officially sunk. I am back with my running group. I joined a tennis clinic and even made a run to the grocery store. And last Friday, I went with my cousin to Houghten Lake, Michigan to try out for the Amazing Race. Like I said, I sure love the camera. I even called my father and told him I wanted to be a comedic actress! He laughed of course and offered a typical fatherly response, “Well, as long as it doesn’t cost me any more tuitions.”
If I can give any advice to anyone who has ever felt down in the dumps, bear down. It will pass. Sometimes all it takes is a little someone offering an unexpected rose.
Ps>> My book pick of the month: Love the One You're With, by Emily Giffin!
They said it was the worst winter Chicago had seen in over fifteen years. Breaking records of over sixty inches of snow in one season and going over budget by approximately three million dollars in snow removal clean-up. The city and surrounding suburbs had run out of rock salt and I can honestly not recall a day between Thanksgiving and the end of April without a trace of snow on the ground. And although signs of this horrific Chicago winter are now finally entering hibernation, the after affects still haunt me.
I never believed in it. Seasonal affective disorder (SAD). According to experts, it is a condition by where one experiences depression and mood changes during the winter months. After returning home from a quick trip to NYC in early February, I started noticing some unfamiliar changes in myself. For one, I became extremely anti-social, which is very uncharacteristic for me. I did not want to go out ~ at all. And when invited out, I would make any excuse in the book not to go. For about four to six weeks, I only left the house for work. I had no energy to go to the gym or even the grocery store. All I did was sleep and eat. EAT. EAT. EAT. I would order in almost everyday and by April’s end, I had gained twelve pounds. I felt as if I had fallen into icy Lake Michigan without a life-preserver to save me. I was in the deepest funk of my life since my mother passed away over six years ago. And then, all on a whim, The Bachelor came calling.
Two weeks ago, I went online to nominate my brother for the hit reality dating show, The Bachelor. We all know that show is an absolute train wreck, but you can’t help not to watch. As my cousin Ali says, “The show is like Fed-Ex, it always delivers.” Travis, Andy, Matt, Lorenzo? C’mon, we can’t help not to love them. And those crazy bachelorettes who sit patiently and wait to get a rose while their “perfect” bachelor is hooking up with every other girl on the show? Absolutely. Hey, whatever works and we all know it makes for good TV. Isn’t it all about entertaining the masses? So, for kicks and giggles, I nominated myself in addition to my brother (for a different episode, obviously). It was easy. All I had to do was fill out an online profile and submit a picture. Given my obvious state of appearance though, I selected a picture taken a little over a year ago, and rounded my weight down roughly about fifteen pounds. Like I said, whatever works, and the chances of me actually getting selected are slim to none anyway. So, no worries.
And then… two days later, on a late on a Friday afternoon my cell phone rings.
“Hello. Is this Jaime?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. This is Emily from The Bachelor.”
“OMG! You got my brother’s application!”
“Your brother? We’re calling for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, for you. We received your online profile and loved it! We want you to attend a casting in Chicago on Tuesday.”
“You do?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Great. We’ll email you all the information and what you’ll need to bring. Auditions begin at five o’clock.”
“Okay. Well….thanks for your call.”
Click.
Oh Shit.
Okay, my first thought ~ How the hell am I going to lose fifteen pounds in four days? Well, I am definitely not hitting Chili’s for dinner on the ride home. My second thought ~ Holy crap, there is no way I can get on national television in a bathing suit. For the love of God there are some things even my Miracle Suit can’t help. Followed by another thought ~ Please Dear Lord be casting for The Bachelor: Alaska, so that I can wear my Michelin Man coat 24/7. And my final thought ~ Maybe…they are casting for The Bachelor: Chubby Chasers on the Loose?!?! Who knows? But, there was no comment as supportive and loving as this one from my cousin Greg, “Um, Jaim, I think you should bring your own bouquet of roses.”
Ahhh… regardless of the situation, I had some serious business to take care of over the weekend and it started with black. Finding that perfect, oh so slimming, black dress.
Lets just say, god bless Ann Taylor. Within an hour I found it. Verging on the funeral wear look though, I jazzed it up with a pretty blue scarf, accented by a subtle purse. Now, taking a second glance in the mirror, I appeared innocent, virgin-like, and poised. Blair Waldorf or Audrey Hepburnesque. Clean and understated. A look that the show could definitely use. I decided to roll with it. Just some new bronzer and a little self-tanner and I was good to go.
The auditions were held Downtown at the Hard Rock Hotel. When Tuesday came, I left work a bit early to go home and make a miracle happen and to hopefully get down there a little on the early side. I had no idea how many other ladies, or shall I say contenders would be there.
Upon arriving at the hotel, I got on the elevator to the forth floor with a man who appeared to be someone from the show. I kindly introduced myself.
“Hello, are you from The Bachelor?”
“Yes, I’m Jesse the casting director and you are..?”
“Jaime. Kosinski. Emily had called from LA last week and asked me to come here to audition for the show today.” His response….
“To be ON The Bachelor?”
“Yes….”
He’s now looking me up and down ~ and sideways. I felt about two inches tall and one hundred and eighty feet wide. Would someone please throw me that life preserver?
“Okay Jaime, well I will be setting up in a few minutes. Just take a seat in the waiting room and fill out the appropriate forms. And just so you know. There are hidden cameras everywhere. We want to see how the girls interact with each other.”
When I get inside the waiting room there is me and about five others. Internally, I start sizing up the competition. You’ve got your typical beauty queen. Two token hot tub girls. A sweet professor who drove all the way from Ohio who teaches at Bowling Green and lastly, a girl who looks like she needs to eat about ten sandwiches. And me. Just me. In my slimming black dress.
Knowing the hidden cameras are rolling I start to ham it up. I begin asking the girls questions, offering witty, off the cuff comments, just trying to make everyone laugh when I soon realize, I am the only one in the room with any personality. Or at least any person showing it.
I started to picture myself on the show as the girl who would be the glue in the house of the twenty-five bachelorettes. The one trying to keep the peace instead of starting the cat fights. The nice, funny girl. The underdog who all of America would fall in love with. I would be the “Bob Guiney” of girls. If you remember, Bob Guiney was the chubby, very funny, bachelor whose heart was broken by Trista Renn. America loved him so much, they then they made him The Bachelor. He later ended up marrying gorgeous soap star Rebecca Budig from All My Children. Not a bad ending for a chubby, funny guy if you ask me.
They call my name.
After my run in with Jesse, the not so impressed casting agent in the elevator, I was extra nervous for my audition. I then said to myself, F--- It. It is a million and one chance that I would ever even get on the show, so just go have some fun, be yourself, and if anything, the experience will make for an entertaining blog. So, I put my A-Game on and followed Jesse into the audition room.
It all starts with the line up. He has me stand against the wall, holding a piece of paper with my name and phone number written on it. In rather large writing so the camera can see it. Feeling a need to break the silence I say, “Hey, thanks for sparing me any blank spaces on this paper for my weight and shoe sizes. I feared this may actually be Biggest Loser auditions and I’d be standing on a hidden scale under the floor and all of a sudden lights, sirens, and digital numbers would start dinging.”
He laughs. Really laughs.
He then takes a few frames of me from ALL sides. Again, I feel the need to say something as he is shooting my back side.
“Oh yes, Sir! You know, when I used to work in Harlem, this was by far my best side. Men whistled from miles away. I remember a nice African-American man once telling that he’d love to grab hold of me because a woman wasn’t a real woman if you can feel her ribs. So Jesse, when done craft services get here?”
He laughs again. I was now at complete ease. I think he was seeing a completely different woman then he first saw in the elevator just thirty minutes ago. And I had another revelation. I LOVED THE CAMERA. It brought out this side of me I never knew existed. I immediately felt the urge to call Bravo and get my own talk show. LOL!
Originally, Jesse told me that I would have five minutes on camera. Well, he must have really liked me because in the end he had me on well over fifteen. The questions he asked were as expected. What do you do? Where are you from? What is the picture of your ideal mate? “Breathing,” I told him.
And more… Tell me about your perfect date. “Well, Jesse, as someone who has enjoyed several months practicing Immaculate Conception, something “climatic” may be an obvious winner.”
Why do you want to be on the show? “Because I have a dire need to get on national television as a spokesperson for the Miracle Suit. I want healthy girls to not be afraid to work it girl!”
What do you expect to achieve from being on this show? Tell me about your prior dating experience. Do you have any fears about drinking or making out on camera? “No, I’ve embarrassed myself and my family way worse than that before,” I answered.
General questions as such. All of which I responded with both humor and sincerity. And what I loved is that through the entire audition Jesse smiled and laughed. And laughed and laughed. Of course I was hoping he was laughing with me and not at me.
When the last question was finished, he asked to me make one final comment with regard to how I felt about dating up until this point in my life and I said, “In the wise words of Charlotte York, I’ve been dating since I was sixteen, I’m exhausted! Where is he already?” And again, he laughed.
Jesse shut the camera off, grabbed my two hands and said, “You are absolutely adorable. I love you! That was one of the most entertaining, funniest auditions I’ve ever had and I’ve been casting for the show over seven years. You are great! What a way for me to start the evening’s auditions! I’m so glad you went first.”
I felt like a champ. A real winner!
And after that long Chicago winter, and twelve extra pounds (that really didn’t matter to the casting director of the most superficial reality show on television), I was reborn. Leaving the Hard Rock that evening, I was back. I had a spring in my step again. I felt great about who I was, at any size. It made me think that maybe even these ridiculous shows on television that profile the unrealistic woman saw me for who I am. A real girl. A contender. Perhaps even a contestant who ninety-nine percent of American women could relate to. Someone they could truly root for. We will see….
In closing, the past week has been a complete one-eighty. My funk has officially sunk. I am back with my running group. I joined a tennis clinic and even made a run to the grocery store. And last Friday, I went with my cousin to Houghten Lake, Michigan to try out for the Amazing Race. Like I said, I sure love the camera. I even called my father and told him I wanted to be a comedic actress! He laughed of course and offered a typical fatherly response, “Well, as long as it doesn’t cost me any more tuitions.”
If I can give any advice to anyone who has ever felt down in the dumps, bear down. It will pass. Sometimes all it takes is a little someone offering an unexpected rose.
Ps>> My book pick of the month: Love the One You're With, by Emily Giffin!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Little White Ribbon (Excerpt)
Henry and I met in New York City a little over ten years ago. At twenty-two years-old we had both just finished college at two of the most rivaled schools in the nation. Me, at UNC-Chapel Hill and him at Duke. And everyone knows there is no love loss between a North Carolina Tarheel and a Duke Blue Devil. The only other rivals that even come close to comparison are Ohio State/Michigan and Red Sox/Yankees. So, that added element definitely contributed to our hot, fiery passion, especially during college basketball season.
Interestingly enough though, Henry and I had also both graduated with degrees in fine arts management and had dreams of one day becoming high-powered talent agents in New York City. Let’s just say, our goal was to give Ari Gold a run for his money. Luckily, as fate would have it, we both ended up landing entry level assistant jobs at Paradigm, on West Fifty-Seventh Street in Manhattan.
The rest as they now say, is pretty much history.
My work at Paradigm had started a few weeks prior to Henry’s. It was about mid-June back in 1998 and I was placed as an assistant agent in the models department on the fourth floor. My initial hope was to get an apprenticeship on the acting side, but just getting my foot in the door of such a cut-throat industry was step one.
Assistant agents at the time were only making about $18,000 a year. Seriously, how did they expect one to live in NYC on what was considered minimum wage? I contemplated working nights at a strip club, but I didn’t think my pole dancing skills, or healthy size 10 frame would qualify me. It was a tough realization that after four years of college, I still couldn’t afford to buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza. And, unlike being back in North Carolina, nickel beer nights in NYC were scarce to be found. My Dad always said though, “Hey, we all have to start somewhere. As long as you’re learning, that’s the most important thing.”
“Well, did learning involve starving?” I thought.
I vividly remember being in my interview with head modeling agent, now former boss, Lisa Leone, when she offered me the job.
“Kate.” she said.
“The pay is $250 per week and with that comes the invaluable bonus of learning from me. The Lisa Leone. There is nobody better in the biz. Tyra, Christy, Elle, Heidi. I found all of them. They owe their careers to me and some day you will too.”
And looking back, she was right.
I quickly accepted Lisa’s offer, as she did have quite an impressive resume and a lot to teach me. I always wondered though why ninety percent of talent agents had this pretentious, cocky-like aura about them. It must be their way of scaring the “little people” off. And when you first start in “the biz” that’s exactly how you feel ~ little. Adapting to that type of persona was something I eventually had real difficulty succeeding at.
Interestingly enough though, Henry and I had also both graduated with degrees in fine arts management and had dreams of one day becoming high-powered talent agents in New York City. Let’s just say, our goal was to give Ari Gold a run for his money. Luckily, as fate would have it, we both ended up landing entry level assistant jobs at Paradigm, on West Fifty-Seventh Street in Manhattan.
The rest as they now say, is pretty much history.
My work at Paradigm had started a few weeks prior to Henry’s. It was about mid-June back in 1998 and I was placed as an assistant agent in the models department on the fourth floor. My initial hope was to get an apprenticeship on the acting side, but just getting my foot in the door of such a cut-throat industry was step one.
Assistant agents at the time were only making about $18,000 a year. Seriously, how did they expect one to live in NYC on what was considered minimum wage? I contemplated working nights at a strip club, but I didn’t think my pole dancing skills, or healthy size 10 frame would qualify me. It was a tough realization that after four years of college, I still couldn’t afford to buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza. And, unlike being back in North Carolina, nickel beer nights in NYC were scarce to be found. My Dad always said though, “Hey, we all have to start somewhere. As long as you’re learning, that’s the most important thing.”
“Well, did learning involve starving?” I thought.
I vividly remember being in my interview with head modeling agent, now former boss, Lisa Leone, when she offered me the job.
“Kate.” she said.
“The pay is $250 per week and with that comes the invaluable bonus of learning from me. The Lisa Leone. There is nobody better in the biz. Tyra, Christy, Elle, Heidi. I found all of them. They owe their careers to me and some day you will too.”
And looking back, she was right.
I quickly accepted Lisa’s offer, as she did have quite an impressive resume and a lot to teach me. I always wondered though why ninety percent of talent agents had this pretentious, cocky-like aura about them. It must be their way of scaring the “little people” off. And when you first start in “the biz” that’s exactly how you feel ~ little. Adapting to that type of persona was something I eventually had real difficulty succeeding at.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Please Pass the Potatoes
We all know the old saying that if we want to make God laugh, tell Him your life plan.
If you haven’t yet read the popular book “The Five People You Meet In Heaven” by Mitch Albom, I highly advise that you pick up a copy. Whether you are religious or not, it is a heart-warming story which ponders the idea that the people we come in contact with during our time on earth, doesn’t just happen by chance. That perhaps the people we meet during our lives is actually a pre-planned map by a much higher power.
When I moved to Sag Harbor, NY in the 8th grade, it was really hard being the new girl in school. Meeting friends during the height of my “gawk,” was not the easiest of tasks, until one day fate stepped in. Mr. Bausman, my junior high biology teacher randomly assigned me a seat next to who I thought was the scariest girl in school. Let’s just call her S.G. She was tough, had attitude, and could hit a 3-pointer better then Michael Jordan. Now twenty years later, I believe that that assigned seat was just part of my plan in leading me to one of my closest friends. And who knew that back then at thirteen years old, that we would still be dissecting frogs together twenty years later.
I always think about my close friend Crume too from college, and how we met. I was transferring to Wake Forest my sophomore year and had to find a roommate to live with off-campus. The transfer office at Wake had given me a list of other transferring students to possibly match up with. So, one night I randomly start calling the list one by one. All the numbers were busy or nobody answered, except for Crume’s. To this day, when I think about how close Crume and I are, I always wonder what if I never got her on the phone first that night? Would we have still met?
And then there was the infamous Moles, another Wake transfer student who happened to be looking for housing as well. The funny thing about “the Moles” is that when I first met her I said, “No way am I living with her!” She was way too laid back for me, MESSY, and talked more than I did if you can believe it. Plus, what kind of a name was Moley anyway? The two of us couldn’t have been more polar opposites, but during our senior year of college, “Jaims and Moles” were a force to be reckoned with. In addition to many laughs, and crazy times at the China Buffet, we took care of each other. There was a genuine compassion that made us very much like sisters. I felt proud to later serve as her maid of honor and Godmother to her first born.
The reason I bring up these three specific close friendships of mine is because all three of these amazing women are in very different places in their lives then I am now. All three are now married, with children, and conduct a very different daily lifestyle than I do as a single person. Although I try desperately to listen to our conversations and attempt to find continuous common ground, it is not always easy. And what I am finding out over time is that sometimes those differences can cause relationships to change (good and bad), or just become “different.” What you have to ask yourself as close friendships change is, “Can you still find that common place that makes the friendship work?" In addition, it has to be an equal relationship. A one-sided friendship will only lead to no friendship at all.
As careers and families grow, it’s part of life that our plates end up with double servings, and that can cause friendships to go through highs and lows, or even fizzle out. And whether “married with children people” believe it or not, single people have just as much hustle and bustle in our daily lives, we just fill our plates with different commitments.
As a single person in my thirties, I accept the fact that one day when I get married or have a child that many of those people’s weddings I went to in my twenties, or babies I went to visit as a single person won’t be reciprocated because at that point, their families will be even larger, and organizing their “extra servings” with regard to travel and finances, will become an even bigger issue then it is now. It is my hope though that the friendships which mean the most can accept the differences in their respective lives and find an equal balance so that they can continue to enjoy the reasons why they were placed in each other’s paths to begin with.
If you haven’t yet read the popular book “The Five People You Meet In Heaven” by Mitch Albom, I highly advise that you pick up a copy. Whether you are religious or not, it is a heart-warming story which ponders the idea that the people we come in contact with during our time on earth, doesn’t just happen by chance. That perhaps the people we meet during our lives is actually a pre-planned map by a much higher power.
When I moved to Sag Harbor, NY in the 8th grade, it was really hard being the new girl in school. Meeting friends during the height of my “gawk,” was not the easiest of tasks, until one day fate stepped in. Mr. Bausman, my junior high biology teacher randomly assigned me a seat next to who I thought was the scariest girl in school. Let’s just call her S.G. She was tough, had attitude, and could hit a 3-pointer better then Michael Jordan. Now twenty years later, I believe that that assigned seat was just part of my plan in leading me to one of my closest friends. And who knew that back then at thirteen years old, that we would still be dissecting frogs together twenty years later.
I always think about my close friend Crume too from college, and how we met. I was transferring to Wake Forest my sophomore year and had to find a roommate to live with off-campus. The transfer office at Wake had given me a list of other transferring students to possibly match up with. So, one night I randomly start calling the list one by one. All the numbers were busy or nobody answered, except for Crume’s. To this day, when I think about how close Crume and I are, I always wonder what if I never got her on the phone first that night? Would we have still met?
And then there was the infamous Moles, another Wake transfer student who happened to be looking for housing as well. The funny thing about “the Moles” is that when I first met her I said, “No way am I living with her!” She was way too laid back for me, MESSY, and talked more than I did if you can believe it. Plus, what kind of a name was Moley anyway? The two of us couldn’t have been more polar opposites, but during our senior year of college, “Jaims and Moles” were a force to be reckoned with. In addition to many laughs, and crazy times at the China Buffet, we took care of each other. There was a genuine compassion that made us very much like sisters. I felt proud to later serve as her maid of honor and Godmother to her first born.
The reason I bring up these three specific close friendships of mine is because all three of these amazing women are in very different places in their lives then I am now. All three are now married, with children, and conduct a very different daily lifestyle than I do as a single person. Although I try desperately to listen to our conversations and attempt to find continuous common ground, it is not always easy. And what I am finding out over time is that sometimes those differences can cause relationships to change (good and bad), or just become “different.” What you have to ask yourself as close friendships change is, “Can you still find that common place that makes the friendship work?" In addition, it has to be an equal relationship. A one-sided friendship will only lead to no friendship at all.
As careers and families grow, it’s part of life that our plates end up with double servings, and that can cause friendships to go through highs and lows, or even fizzle out. And whether “married with children people” believe it or not, single people have just as much hustle and bustle in our daily lives, we just fill our plates with different commitments.
As a single person in my thirties, I accept the fact that one day when I get married or have a child that many of those people’s weddings I went to in my twenties, or babies I went to visit as a single person won’t be reciprocated because at that point, their families will be even larger, and organizing their “extra servings” with regard to travel and finances, will become an even bigger issue then it is now. It is my hope though that the friendships which mean the most can accept the differences in their respective lives and find an equal balance so that they can continue to enjoy the reasons why they were placed in each other’s paths to begin with.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
My V-Day Ommmmmmmm....
As the morning of Black Thursday arrived, my whole V-Day evening was planned and ready for “go-time.” Reserved two days in advance for my “Single and Strong on V-Day” coming out party, was a corner bar stool at my favorite restaurant, a chilled petite bottle of French champagne, and a very generous piece of the most decadent chocolate cheesecake in Chicago. It appeared that although solo, I had created the most perfect of evenings. So, roll out the red carpet because I was ready to make my grand entrance as the leading of all ladies… Until, an unexpected ride home from work caused one of Cupid’s arrows to go a bit askew.
After twenty-four hours of yet another never-ending Chicago snowstorm, I found myself trapped, bumper to bumper on I-90 attempting to get back Downtown to make my “party.” Between people trying to dodge potholes the size of Hoover Dam, and roads closed off due to ice and flooding, traffic was basically at a dead stop. At this point, there was no way I was going to make my “reservations.” After almost three hours in the car and endless Valentines “De-li-la” highlights, I was completely fried. Every muscle in my body was shot, and the last thing I could manage doing was having my “me party.” So, instead of being a complete party-pooper, I dragged my exhausted, drained existence to my new favorite hide-a-way ~ Yoga.
When I entered my Yoga studio that evening, I sensed a different vibe then usual. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I started to feel a nervous twitch. I then go to check-in at the front desk, and Sallie, my yoga swami (spiritual master) says, “Hey Girl! I am so glad you are here for Valentines Day Couples Yoga! Where’s your partner? I can’t wait to meet him!”
You have got to be kidding me. Is this a joke? At that moment I felt like I was back in the car on I-90 in a dead standstill. My “inside voice” let out an agonizing whine, “Why today? All I want is some peace! To find my Zen and get down with the dog! But, NO! I’m getting sucker punched with V-Day Couples Yoga?!?!
And ps> Thanks Sallie, for reminding me on this day of all days that I don’t have a boyfriend!” Breathe. Ommmmmmm……
After gathering my composure, I kindly told Sallie that I would pass on tonight’s class and see her tomorrow for Vinyasa Flow. She then says, “Wait, this is Simon (pointing to the confused, frightened man in the corner, who weighs at least thirty pounds less than me), Simon doesn’t have a partner. If you guys don’t mind, why don’t you two couple up and join the class! It will be tons of fun!”
Urgh.....
Willingly, after both being put completely on the spot, we agreed to join the class. I couldn’t help but notice though, Simon, examining our obvious differences in “physical dainty-ness” (and the size of my feet). He was definitely thinking, “How the hell am I going to get out of this one alive?”
Following the lead of all the REAL couples (and annoyed boyfriends, who’s girlfriends made them spend V-Day exercising), Simon and I enter the practice room, cozily setting up our mats (corner to corner).
“Swami Sallie” then sets up in front (alongside her cutie rocker boyfriend) and the rest is ninety, uncomfortably-intimate minutes with a complete stranger I will never forget.
Ommmmmmmmm.
Bringing our hands together in front of our hearts, Sallie Begins….
Position 1…
Sit half lotus on the ground back to back with interlocking arms around eachother. Hold, breathe, SQUEEZE.
Simon is now thinking, “Oh dear God PLEASE don’t squeeze too hard! And what the hell exactly am I squeezing over there? Is that a grapefruit tree up there? Or (feeling a little lower), did you forget to change the spare tire on the car?” (I am so embarrassed.)
Oh Jeez… This is going to be a long night.
(And watch those hands buddy!)
Position 2…
Stand back to back. (We are literally, foreign buttcheek, to foreign buttcheek, WITHOUT A PASSPORT). Now, spread your legs apart as if you were to prepare for triangle pose. Forward bend. (Asscheeks so tight together now as if you were mooning someone up against a car window! How embarrassing!) And, uh-oh, Zen interrupted… The man adjacent to me lets out a HUGE LOUD FART! Like the EL train is rolling through! Laughter erupts, his girlfriend is mortified. The room is a bit stinky. He says, “Sorry it just escaped!”
I wish I could escape.
Breathe. Let’s continue. Now reach your arms through your legs, and grab your partner’s elbows underneath and hold for three minutes. (And it begins, the unfamiliar, rather uncomfortable sweating between Simon and I).
This is now officially the closest I’ve ever physically gotten with a man (sober) on a first date.
Position 3…
Men, you get down on all fours and come into cat pose. Ladies, you lie over his back using him as support as you come into a backbend. (Good thing a cat has nine lives because if I lose my balance, poor Simon is going to need them). Dodgy, at best.
Position 4…
Stand side by side for interlocking tree pose. TIMBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Luckily for Simon’s sake, he landed on top).
Position 5…
Men, you lie in child’s pose on the ground, and ladies you lay all your weight, balancing, free floating on top of him. (Simon begins to shake while I am performing this circus act on his back. He then says (in a strained breath as if he is breathing for dear life), “Would you mind if we switched positions? My knees don’t feel so good.”
Final position...
Laying flat on our backs, our legs and feet over lapping, but it is quiet and still. I like to call this position, Survival. We both made it. Him physically and me emotionally.
At this point I am sorry, I feel violated and exhausted. Me of all people have nothing else to say except...
Nameste.
FYI -- In Chicago... my finds of the month:
Looking for a great haircut and color, Call Nivas at J. Andrews Salon
1260 N. Dearborn
312-951-5338
Some Fun Chicago Theatre
Viaduct
Time of Your Life, Provision Theatre
31-11 Western (and Belmont)
After twenty-four hours of yet another never-ending Chicago snowstorm, I found myself trapped, bumper to bumper on I-90 attempting to get back Downtown to make my “party.” Between people trying to dodge potholes the size of Hoover Dam, and roads closed off due to ice and flooding, traffic was basically at a dead stop. At this point, there was no way I was going to make my “reservations.” After almost three hours in the car and endless Valentines “De-li-la” highlights, I was completely fried. Every muscle in my body was shot, and the last thing I could manage doing was having my “me party.” So, instead of being a complete party-pooper, I dragged my exhausted, drained existence to my new favorite hide-a-way ~ Yoga.
When I entered my Yoga studio that evening, I sensed a different vibe then usual. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I started to feel a nervous twitch. I then go to check-in at the front desk, and Sallie, my yoga swami (spiritual master) says, “Hey Girl! I am so glad you are here for Valentines Day Couples Yoga! Where’s your partner? I can’t wait to meet him!”
You have got to be kidding me. Is this a joke? At that moment I felt like I was back in the car on I-90 in a dead standstill. My “inside voice” let out an agonizing whine, “Why today? All I want is some peace! To find my Zen and get down with the dog! But, NO! I’m getting sucker punched with V-Day Couples Yoga?!?!
And ps> Thanks Sallie, for reminding me on this day of all days that I don’t have a boyfriend!” Breathe. Ommmmmmm……
After gathering my composure, I kindly told Sallie that I would pass on tonight’s class and see her tomorrow for Vinyasa Flow. She then says, “Wait, this is Simon (pointing to the confused, frightened man in the corner, who weighs at least thirty pounds less than me), Simon doesn’t have a partner. If you guys don’t mind, why don’t you two couple up and join the class! It will be tons of fun!”
Urgh.....
Willingly, after both being put completely on the spot, we agreed to join the class. I couldn’t help but notice though, Simon, examining our obvious differences in “physical dainty-ness” (and the size of my feet). He was definitely thinking, “How the hell am I going to get out of this one alive?”
Following the lead of all the REAL couples (and annoyed boyfriends, who’s girlfriends made them spend V-Day exercising), Simon and I enter the practice room, cozily setting up our mats (corner to corner).
“Swami Sallie” then sets up in front (alongside her cutie rocker boyfriend) and the rest is ninety, uncomfortably-intimate minutes with a complete stranger I will never forget.
Ommmmmmmmm.
Bringing our hands together in front of our hearts, Sallie Begins….
Position 1…
Sit half lotus on the ground back to back with interlocking arms around eachother. Hold, breathe, SQUEEZE.
Simon is now thinking, “Oh dear God PLEASE don’t squeeze too hard! And what the hell exactly am I squeezing over there? Is that a grapefruit tree up there? Or (feeling a little lower), did you forget to change the spare tire on the car?” (I am so embarrassed.)
Oh Jeez… This is going to be a long night.
(And watch those hands buddy!)
Position 2…
Stand back to back. (We are literally, foreign buttcheek, to foreign buttcheek, WITHOUT A PASSPORT). Now, spread your legs apart as if you were to prepare for triangle pose. Forward bend. (Asscheeks so tight together now as if you were mooning someone up against a car window! How embarrassing!) And, uh-oh, Zen interrupted… The man adjacent to me lets out a HUGE LOUD FART! Like the EL train is rolling through! Laughter erupts, his girlfriend is mortified. The room is a bit stinky. He says, “Sorry it just escaped!”
I wish I could escape.
Breathe. Let’s continue. Now reach your arms through your legs, and grab your partner’s elbows underneath and hold for three minutes. (And it begins, the unfamiliar, rather uncomfortable sweating between Simon and I).
This is now officially the closest I’ve ever physically gotten with a man (sober) on a first date.
Position 3…
Men, you get down on all fours and come into cat pose. Ladies, you lie over his back using him as support as you come into a backbend. (Good thing a cat has nine lives because if I lose my balance, poor Simon is going to need them). Dodgy, at best.
Position 4…
Stand side by side for interlocking tree pose. TIMBER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Luckily for Simon’s sake, he landed on top).
Position 5…
Men, you lie in child’s pose on the ground, and ladies you lay all your weight, balancing, free floating on top of him. (Simon begins to shake while I am performing this circus act on his back. He then says (in a strained breath as if he is breathing for dear life), “Would you mind if we switched positions? My knees don’t feel so good.”
Final position...
Laying flat on our backs, our legs and feet over lapping, but it is quiet and still. I like to call this position, Survival. We both made it. Him physically and me emotionally.
At this point I am sorry, I feel violated and exhausted. Me of all people have nothing else to say except...
Nameste.
FYI -- In Chicago... my finds of the month:
Looking for a great haircut and color, Call Nivas at J. Andrews Salon
1260 N. Dearborn
312-951-5338
Some Fun Chicago Theatre
Viaduct
Time of Your Life, Provision Theatre
31-11 Western (and Belmont)
Saturday, February 9, 2008
I (Heart) V-Day!
There is one day a year which can be very unsettling for the single woman. That’s right ~ that Hallmark infested holiday we like to call Valentines Day. Or as I like to call it (this year), Black Thursday.
When not dating someone on V-Day, the anticipation alone can cause any woman to bury themselves in a “Gotta Love It” at the Cold Stone. Seriously, now that I think about it, why hasn’t Hershey’s or Hostess, or Little Debbie come up with the idea of free treats for singletons on Valentines Day? If those companies put their heads together, they could create a multi-million dollar campaign event for singles called, “Find Your Twinkie”. Basically, people would be matched up according to snack cake preferences. The way I see it, perhaps finding your soulmate based on character and values is not enough. So, why not try something new?
As a kid though, who didn’t love St. Valentine? In elementary school it was such an exciting day! A party! With candy, cakes, and cookies! We would all make pink and red hearted mailboxes to hang off our desks, and exchange those little 2x4 valentine cards that came in a box of twenty at the drugstore for $1.99. I remember in Kindergarten I couldn’t wait to get mine from my first true love, Aaron Hartman. Whatever happened to him? I wonder if he still likes Devil Dogs?
In high school, V-day started to get a little more complicated. By the time 9th grade rolled around, it was no longer a requirement that all students in the class had to exchange valentines. And that’s when I began to notice that Valentines Day was no longer all fun and games.
Each year, the Student Council at my school had an annual fundraiser in which people could buy roses to give to one another. Girlfriends, Boyfriends, Friends, Secret Admirers, etc… But, there was always that one or two kids in the class who didn’t get one and that sucked. It was usually the quiet, dorky-kid with the pocket-protector, who never forgot to have their book cover on. The one kid I am specifically thinking of is now head of cardiology at one of the leading cancer hospitals in the United States. Yeah, he is having the last laugh. Shit, hind-sight is 20/20. I should have sent him a DOZEN roses while I had the chance! Wonder how he feels about Ring Dings now?
I do though still have the first rose a boy ever gave me. Pressed and dried. I have good memories of those times. When things were… well, simple.
In college, serious boyfriends were sparse, but V-Day still came and went. One year my roommate and I went to see the movie Message in Bottle. There we were at the end, balling like WE had just lost Kevin Costner when I noticed people looking at us like we were “together”. The next year I found myself on line at the twenty-four hour Super K-Mart waiting until midnight struck so that I could load up on half price candy. (C’mon, you all know you’ve been there!). I distinctly remember my Senior year V-Day though. It was the grand-daddy of V-Days. My own mother sent me the sickest of all gifts, a “Grow a Date”. That’s right, the little sponge you throw in water and it grows into the size of a human. She might as well have sent me a freakin’ blow up doll. Although it was all in good humor, I really did not appreciate.
And so it goes…. Still looking for that eligible cupcake lover….
When I moved to NYC, I found myself during grad school working the most depressing of all jobs on such a day – delivering flowers. On any such Valentines Day I would probably make more than fifty deliveries. And none of them were for me. I remember one V-Day calling my current “crush” and asking what he was up to and he said, “Making dinner for my new woman.” Then he asked, “So, what are you up to?” And the dope that I was at the time said, “Delivering flowers.” I remember thinking to myself after hanging up the phone, “You are head over heals for this guy and you are delivering flowers?????? ON VALENTINES DAY!!! To other people!!!! YOU LOSER!!! Couldn’t you have just lied?? Couldn’t you have been having fondue and hot Hot HOT sex with a Ralph Lauren model on a bear-skinned rug or something???? ANYTHING!!!!???” DELIVERING FLOWERS!!!???? What were you thinking??? DUH!!!!!!! YOU Dumb DUMB ASS!" (As I beat the end of the phone on a nearby wall).
Ah, he didn’t like Moon Pies anyway.
For years following I did everything on the dreaded Black Day from playing the piano for the elderly, to cooking dinner for the handicapped, to babysitting for my friend’s kids who wanted to go out to dinner and “celebrate” their love. Now I realize ENOUGH is ENOUGH. Enough of feeling like I want to vomit at all those who get married or engaged on V-day. Enough of going into Target fearing I am going to get sucked into the red-hearted hole. On this V-Day, no more! While all the couples are out enjoying their pre-fix dinners, I am going to be having a little party of my own. I am going to embrace the things I love about this ridiculous made-up holiday. I am going to relax over an Entemenns Devil Food cake (with the pink sprinkles on top) and even out the edges until its just right. I am going to laugh my ass off at my annual Maxine card from my funny cousin in LA. And then, I am going to wait for the most special gift I receive each V-day, from the one man in my life who will always love me – my father. For thirty-two years, no matter where I live, or how far away from home I am, my Dad always sends me flowers on Valentines Day. It means the world to me and someday, when he is no longer here, it will be one of those special things I remember about him.
So, this year is my year! After my father’s flowers are placed just right, I am stepping out on this Black Thursday. I am putting on my fancy snow boots and taking myself out to my favorite restaurant in Chicago. I am sitting at the bar, confident and solo. I am ordering the most decadent piece of cake, and expensive glass of champagne it has to offer. And, as those around me celebrate the renewal of their love that night, I am celebrating the renewal of the one thing I love, ME! And maybe, just maybe, there will be a Suzie-Q lover sitting next to me.
Salute mon cheri!
When not dating someone on V-Day, the anticipation alone can cause any woman to bury themselves in a “Gotta Love It” at the Cold Stone. Seriously, now that I think about it, why hasn’t Hershey’s or Hostess, or Little Debbie come up with the idea of free treats for singletons on Valentines Day? If those companies put their heads together, they could create a multi-million dollar campaign event for singles called, “Find Your Twinkie”. Basically, people would be matched up according to snack cake preferences. The way I see it, perhaps finding your soulmate based on character and values is not enough. So, why not try something new?
As a kid though, who didn’t love St. Valentine? In elementary school it was such an exciting day! A party! With candy, cakes, and cookies! We would all make pink and red hearted mailboxes to hang off our desks, and exchange those little 2x4 valentine cards that came in a box of twenty at the drugstore for $1.99. I remember in Kindergarten I couldn’t wait to get mine from my first true love, Aaron Hartman. Whatever happened to him? I wonder if he still likes Devil Dogs?
In high school, V-day started to get a little more complicated. By the time 9th grade rolled around, it was no longer a requirement that all students in the class had to exchange valentines. And that’s when I began to notice that Valentines Day was no longer all fun and games.
Each year, the Student Council at my school had an annual fundraiser in which people could buy roses to give to one another. Girlfriends, Boyfriends, Friends, Secret Admirers, etc… But, there was always that one or two kids in the class who didn’t get one and that sucked. It was usually the quiet, dorky-kid with the pocket-protector, who never forgot to have their book cover on. The one kid I am specifically thinking of is now head of cardiology at one of the leading cancer hospitals in the United States. Yeah, he is having the last laugh. Shit, hind-sight is 20/20. I should have sent him a DOZEN roses while I had the chance! Wonder how he feels about Ring Dings now?
I do though still have the first rose a boy ever gave me. Pressed and dried. I have good memories of those times. When things were… well, simple.
In college, serious boyfriends were sparse, but V-Day still came and went. One year my roommate and I went to see the movie Message in Bottle. There we were at the end, balling like WE had just lost Kevin Costner when I noticed people looking at us like we were “together”. The next year I found myself on line at the twenty-four hour Super K-Mart waiting until midnight struck so that I could load up on half price candy. (C’mon, you all know you’ve been there!). I distinctly remember my Senior year V-Day though. It was the grand-daddy of V-Days. My own mother sent me the sickest of all gifts, a “Grow a Date”. That’s right, the little sponge you throw in water and it grows into the size of a human. She might as well have sent me a freakin’ blow up doll. Although it was all in good humor, I really did not appreciate.
And so it goes…. Still looking for that eligible cupcake lover….
When I moved to NYC, I found myself during grad school working the most depressing of all jobs on such a day – delivering flowers. On any such Valentines Day I would probably make more than fifty deliveries. And none of them were for me. I remember one V-Day calling my current “crush” and asking what he was up to and he said, “Making dinner for my new woman.” Then he asked, “So, what are you up to?” And the dope that I was at the time said, “Delivering flowers.” I remember thinking to myself after hanging up the phone, “You are head over heals for this guy and you are delivering flowers?????? ON VALENTINES DAY!!! To other people!!!! YOU LOSER!!! Couldn’t you have just lied?? Couldn’t you have been having fondue and hot Hot HOT sex with a Ralph Lauren model on a bear-skinned rug or something???? ANYTHING!!!!???” DELIVERING FLOWERS!!!???? What were you thinking??? DUH!!!!!!! YOU Dumb DUMB ASS!" (As I beat the end of the phone on a nearby wall).
Ah, he didn’t like Moon Pies anyway.
For years following I did everything on the dreaded Black Day from playing the piano for the elderly, to cooking dinner for the handicapped, to babysitting for my friend’s kids who wanted to go out to dinner and “celebrate” their love. Now I realize ENOUGH is ENOUGH. Enough of feeling like I want to vomit at all those who get married or engaged on V-day. Enough of going into Target fearing I am going to get sucked into the red-hearted hole. On this V-Day, no more! While all the couples are out enjoying their pre-fix dinners, I am going to be having a little party of my own. I am going to embrace the things I love about this ridiculous made-up holiday. I am going to relax over an Entemenns Devil Food cake (with the pink sprinkles on top) and even out the edges until its just right. I am going to laugh my ass off at my annual Maxine card from my funny cousin in LA. And then, I am going to wait for the most special gift I receive each V-day, from the one man in my life who will always love me – my father. For thirty-two years, no matter where I live, or how far away from home I am, my Dad always sends me flowers on Valentines Day. It means the world to me and someday, when he is no longer here, it will be one of those special things I remember about him.
So, this year is my year! After my father’s flowers are placed just right, I am stepping out on this Black Thursday. I am putting on my fancy snow boots and taking myself out to my favorite restaurant in Chicago. I am sitting at the bar, confident and solo. I am ordering the most decadent piece of cake, and expensive glass of champagne it has to offer. And, as those around me celebrate the renewal of their love that night, I am celebrating the renewal of the one thing I love, ME! And maybe, just maybe, there will be a Suzie-Q lover sitting next to me.
Salute mon cheri!
Sunday, January 20, 2008
"Little Miss (Not So) Fix It"
I always figured that the first home I bought would come packaged with a co-owning husband, a few kids, a yellow lab, and the traditional white picket fence. Well, life doesn’t always turn out the way one had imagined. And, as I am slowly learning, that is perfectly OKAY.
After many years of renting in NYC (because buying is so astronomical), I moved to Chicago with the hopes of being able to afford my own home. Well, last March I took the plunge and purchased my first condo. Let me just say, there is nothing more liberating for a single woman than to be able to own her own home. You may not yet be settled in a marriage, or have children to tend to, but every month you come face to face with your biggest commitment – your mortgage. The mortgage you work single-handedly to pay. And what I soon learned after signing on the dotted line, is that with each payment comes the added 30-year fixed bonus addition that I like to call the “joys of home-ownership.”
Like most first time buyers, after buying my condo I was financially wiped out. Pretty much flat broke. My former ING savings account was now known as my living room. Feeling overwhelmed and scared that I was taking on this huge responsibility solo, I told myself, “Well, at least I have a roof over my head and a hot shower!” Oh, wait, NOPE. My first shower in my new place was luke warm. My second, a bit colder. By my third, I was showering with the Eskimos. In an attempt to figure out what was going on, I called the building manager to ask if there were any other reported water temperature problems in related units. Her response, “No.” So, on my second day in my brand new home, I had to find a plumber. Overly desperate for a hot shower, I decided to just use my building’s plumbing company, which of course was twice as expensive. After hours of evaluation, the plumber told me that three temperature gauges were shot and had been for weeks. Apparently, somewhere in between the time of my housing inspection and my closing, the temperature gauges in the shower handle blew. Here is the kicker! My former owner knew these gauges were broken and did not tell me! Knock, Knock, Knock, my first official house warming present, a $1,490 bill from Lakeview Plumbing Company. Welcome Home Sista-Friend!
One by one, the joyous moments kept coming. A month later I am sitting on the couch watching Project Runway when I hear an alarming BANG come from the bathroom. I go in to find the side of my bathtub lying on the floor. F---! I attempted to insert the fallen side back into place, only to have it fall out a repeated five, six, seven more times. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, I kicked the damn side of the tub so hard I almost broke my ankle. (I could hear my mother's voice saying, "Smooth move ya dope.") Anyway, being the crafty (or not so crafty) “Miss Fix It” I am, I eventually decided to wedge a nearby cabinet up against the tub’s side until I could further deal with it. Now, ten months later, let’s not move that cabinet just yet...
The summer brought on a whole other set of surprises. First, it was air conditioning issues. For all of June I walked around my apartment like “Ugly-Naked Girl” in a 24/7 hot yoga class until I figured out that my filtering units were clogged. In July, my dishwasher decided to just fall out of its unit, followed by my kitchen sink having a massive leak. Then, one morning I woke up with a vision. An unstoppable vision. I was going to paint my bedroom.
All I can say is, “What in God’s name was I thinking?” The era of my life where I decided to paint my bedroom, was to date the only time I actually contemplated jumping out of my fifty-first story window (Or at least strangling myself with blue painters tape). Five trips to Home Depot, six paint color changes, two trips to the hospital for chemical inhalation poisoning, and three weeks of my life I’ll never get back ~ AND VOILA, I present to you a half painted cloud blue room!! I am embarrassed to say it still remains that way. I will NEVER EVER attempt to paint a room by myself again. Never. And, I am personally going to get that in writing. I seriously applaud all of you who can successfully paint a room and enjoy it. BRAVO!
I think my most favorite tale though of being a single woman homeowner comes from my experience (or inexperience) in dealing with electronics. In the past, everything from programming my blackberry, to working my digital camera has always seemed like such a project. So, when a friend here convinced me to buy a large plasma TV, I felt a bit overwhelmed. But...there I found myself one Sunday afternoon at Best Buy on a mission for the perfect television.
So here it goes, $3,500 poorer, and two techie-dorks from the Geek Squad richer, mission completed. It’s Showtime! There is banging, leveling, and cords everywhere. Not to mention two very LARGE holes in my wall where the TV is going to rest. When the television is finally mounted, it looks a bit “tilted” to the right (as I observe with a slightly bent neck). Geek #1 says that is the way it is supposed to be because the floor is uneven. There is also a large power cord hanging from below the TV. Geek #2 says that cord is supposed to hang down and what I need to do is jimmy-rig it to the wall and paint over it. I am so not the "jimmy-rigging" kind of girl, but not knowing any better, I took their word for it.
Several months later a few guy friends are over and proceed to tell me that the people who mounted my TV were lazy-asses and never pushed the power cord through the back of the wall. I felt scammed, exhausted, and royally pissed off. I just wished that I had a man to deal with this crap. (I know that sounds more than pathetic, but at the time I really felt that way). Anyway, I called Best Buy to kindly ask them to come back out to fix it, and they said it would cost me at least another grand. My response, “No thanks. I’ll deal with it.”
And that is just it. As with everything in life, single or not, you just sometimes have to deal with it. Rarely are situations ever perfect. Whether you have an on-call handyman or a library full of “Fix It” and "Dummies" books, there are no easy answers to everything. In the end, and in my attempt to find all the positives in this journey of homeowning, I have to first say that I feel very lucky to have the opportunity to own my own home. And, what I am realizing is that all the little “joys” are only short-term annoyances, not to mention totally fixable. Then, I hear my mother's voice again... she says, "You have to remember, it is all those little unique tilts, cracks, and leaks that make a house, a home."
Copyright jk/ssg'08
After many years of renting in NYC (because buying is so astronomical), I moved to Chicago with the hopes of being able to afford my own home. Well, last March I took the plunge and purchased my first condo. Let me just say, there is nothing more liberating for a single woman than to be able to own her own home. You may not yet be settled in a marriage, or have children to tend to, but every month you come face to face with your biggest commitment – your mortgage. The mortgage you work single-handedly to pay. And what I soon learned after signing on the dotted line, is that with each payment comes the added 30-year fixed bonus addition that I like to call the “joys of home-ownership.”
Like most first time buyers, after buying my condo I was financially wiped out. Pretty much flat broke. My former ING savings account was now known as my living room. Feeling overwhelmed and scared that I was taking on this huge responsibility solo, I told myself, “Well, at least I have a roof over my head and a hot shower!” Oh, wait, NOPE. My first shower in my new place was luke warm. My second, a bit colder. By my third, I was showering with the Eskimos. In an attempt to figure out what was going on, I called the building manager to ask if there were any other reported water temperature problems in related units. Her response, “No.” So, on my second day in my brand new home, I had to find a plumber. Overly desperate for a hot shower, I decided to just use my building’s plumbing company, which of course was twice as expensive. After hours of evaluation, the plumber told me that three temperature gauges were shot and had been for weeks. Apparently, somewhere in between the time of my housing inspection and my closing, the temperature gauges in the shower handle blew. Here is the kicker! My former owner knew these gauges were broken and did not tell me! Knock, Knock, Knock, my first official house warming present, a $1,490 bill from Lakeview Plumbing Company. Welcome Home Sista-Friend!
One by one, the joyous moments kept coming. A month later I am sitting on the couch watching Project Runway when I hear an alarming BANG come from the bathroom. I go in to find the side of my bathtub lying on the floor. F---! I attempted to insert the fallen side back into place, only to have it fall out a repeated five, six, seven more times. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, I kicked the damn side of the tub so hard I almost broke my ankle. (I could hear my mother's voice saying, "Smooth move ya dope.") Anyway, being the crafty (or not so crafty) “Miss Fix It” I am, I eventually decided to wedge a nearby cabinet up against the tub’s side until I could further deal with it. Now, ten months later, let’s not move that cabinet just yet...
The summer brought on a whole other set of surprises. First, it was air conditioning issues. For all of June I walked around my apartment like “Ugly-Naked Girl” in a 24/7 hot yoga class until I figured out that my filtering units were clogged. In July, my dishwasher decided to just fall out of its unit, followed by my kitchen sink having a massive leak. Then, one morning I woke up with a vision. An unstoppable vision. I was going to paint my bedroom.
All I can say is, “What in God’s name was I thinking?” The era of my life where I decided to paint my bedroom, was to date the only time I actually contemplated jumping out of my fifty-first story window (Or at least strangling myself with blue painters tape). Five trips to Home Depot, six paint color changes, two trips to the hospital for chemical inhalation poisoning, and three weeks of my life I’ll never get back ~ AND VOILA, I present to you a half painted cloud blue room!! I am embarrassed to say it still remains that way. I will NEVER EVER attempt to paint a room by myself again. Never. And, I am personally going to get that in writing. I seriously applaud all of you who can successfully paint a room and enjoy it. BRAVO!
I think my most favorite tale though of being a single woman homeowner comes from my experience (or inexperience) in dealing with electronics. In the past, everything from programming my blackberry, to working my digital camera has always seemed like such a project. So, when a friend here convinced me to buy a large plasma TV, I felt a bit overwhelmed. But...there I found myself one Sunday afternoon at Best Buy on a mission for the perfect television.
So here it goes, $3,500 poorer, and two techie-dorks from the Geek Squad richer, mission completed. It’s Showtime! There is banging, leveling, and cords everywhere. Not to mention two very LARGE holes in my wall where the TV is going to rest. When the television is finally mounted, it looks a bit “tilted” to the right (as I observe with a slightly bent neck). Geek #1 says that is the way it is supposed to be because the floor is uneven. There is also a large power cord hanging from below the TV. Geek #2 says that cord is supposed to hang down and what I need to do is jimmy-rig it to the wall and paint over it. I am so not the "jimmy-rigging" kind of girl, but not knowing any better, I took their word for it.
Several months later a few guy friends are over and proceed to tell me that the people who mounted my TV were lazy-asses and never pushed the power cord through the back of the wall. I felt scammed, exhausted, and royally pissed off. I just wished that I had a man to deal with this crap. (I know that sounds more than pathetic, but at the time I really felt that way). Anyway, I called Best Buy to kindly ask them to come back out to fix it, and they said it would cost me at least another grand. My response, “No thanks. I’ll deal with it.”
And that is just it. As with everything in life, single or not, you just sometimes have to deal with it. Rarely are situations ever perfect. Whether you have an on-call handyman or a library full of “Fix It” and "Dummies" books, there are no easy answers to everything. In the end, and in my attempt to find all the positives in this journey of homeowning, I have to first say that I feel very lucky to have the opportunity to own my own home. And, what I am realizing is that all the little “joys” are only short-term annoyances, not to mention totally fixable. Then, I hear my mother's voice again... she says, "You have to remember, it is all those little unique tilts, cracks, and leaks that make a house, a home."
Copyright jk/ssg'08
Friday, January 11, 2008
Blind Dating vs. Chinese Water Torture
Back in my 20’s while living in NYC, a very close family member had set me up on a blind date with an attorney who worked at a prestigious law firm downtown. On paper he was perfect. He was 29, attended Georgetown undergrad and received his law degree from Columbia. It appeared that he was already well established, seeing as he owned an amazing loft in the Meatpacking District, and a summer cottage in the Hamptons. We had spoken several times on the phone before meeting one night at a lovely little restaurant in the East Village called the Miracle Grill. He told me he would be wearing a blue pinstriped suit and had short brown hair. And, of course as with any date, I kept my fingers crossed that maybe this one had potential.
Upon arriving at the restaurant I checked my coat and looked around for “my date.” There was nobody at the bar. The restaurant was quiet. I then felt this tiny tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find a man, a very little man (probably about 4’8) staring up at me. HE was wearing a blue pinstriped suit. HE had short brown hair (with the comb-over). Yup, it was “my date.” Figures.
As he asked if it was me, I couldn’t respond. All I could think of, was I in Oz? Or, did Tattoo come back to take me on “De Plane” to Fantasy Island? Overall, putting aside the major height difference ~ (I am about 5’7), the date was a complete disaster. He presented with serious Napoleon’s Complex. He was beyond arrogant and proceeded to boss around the waitstaff the entire evening. As a former waitress myself, I was utterly humiliated and couldn’t wait for the evening to end. Finally, around eleven o’clock he paid the bill and we parted ways. On the way home in the cab I found myself frustrated and almost in tears thinking: Blind dating? Or Chinese water torture? Is there really a difference?
In today’s world of internet dating, or unless you were married before the age of twenty-five, about ninety percent of the female population will at some point experience the blind date. I’ve heard stories of all contents:
He was cross-eyed and wore a fanny pack.
He lived with ten cats.
He just “forgot his wallet.”
He asked you how much you paid in rent (A very common conversation in NYC).
He showed up three sheets to the wind (or you did).
He had a problem controlling his flatulence.
He didn’t believe in cable (HELLO!!).
He was married, but it was okay, because he and his wife had an “open” relationship.
He just wanted to get laid. Or, to be completely fair to the man, perhaps you did too.
Drip… Drip… Drip…
Putting aside all unfortunate blind date experiences, we need to look at blind dating in another manner. First of all, we have to realize that as we single women get older, our inner dating pool begins to shrink. Not only do we know all our friends, but we begin to know all our friend’s friends. And unless you have already been paired off, you need to open up your peripheral vision and look outside the box. You need to consider alternative circles. Although difficult and yes, sometimes painful, I do believe one of the greatest ways to begin this extension is through blind dating.
Last year I moved to Chicago without knowing a soul. Having never done online dating before, I decided to sign up on eHarmony as a means of meeting people in my new city. Within a six-month period, I probably went on over forty dates. I’m not going to lie, it was grueling at times. It just seemed like one bomb after another, but there was ONE. His name was Sam and he gave me a reason to believe in blind dating.
Sam was ten years older than me, recently divorced, and had two young children. At that point in my life, those were three things I would have never considered getting involved with. I felt that at age thirty-one, I could still find someone closer in age, who had never been married, and without children yet, like myself. Well, as apprehensive as I was, on a snowy, blizzard-like afternoon in Chicago, we both randomly decided to skip work one day and meet at a nearby coffee shop.
That afternoon, when arriving at the coffee shop, I brushed the snow out of my wind-blown hair, and pulled my knit hat up from over my eyes. It was at that moment, I saw this amazing, beautiful man smiling at me from the back of the room. With his intoxicating grin and gorgeous blue eyes, this stranger came over to greet me with the warmest bear hug anyone could imagine. And well, in the words of Jerry McGuire’s Dorothy Boyd, “He had me at hello.”
The afternoon of coffee, lead to an evening of sushi and wine, and to the most amazing goodbye kiss I had ever experienced with a man I hardly knew. HE was different. HE allowed me to forget about all the crappy relationships and blind dates I had ever had. Our little romance only lasted a few weeks, but what I took away from that experience was life changing. I was able to believe in the possibility of random encounters and that things really do happen “when you least expect it.”
We have to remember that dating is a numbers game and the only way we are going to win is to get out there! Whether it be meeting people through friends, at work, or online, we have to up our numbers. And blind dating is just one of the many ways we can do that. No matter how torturous the anticipation of a blind date may be (or the date itself), like Chinese water torture, the dripping of the water may feel at the moment like it is driving you insane, but after the dripping has stopped, it leaves no external scars. If it doesn’t workout, all you can gain is the experience of meeting someone new and possibly a great story.
AND, there is nothing wrong with that.
(This blog was inspired by a very funny girl from Long Island – Thanks K.M.)
PLEASE send your blind date stories to me at my email: singlecitygal@gmail.com
(Copyright jk/ssg'08)
Upon arriving at the restaurant I checked my coat and looked around for “my date.” There was nobody at the bar. The restaurant was quiet. I then felt this tiny tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find a man, a very little man (probably about 4’8) staring up at me. HE was wearing a blue pinstriped suit. HE had short brown hair (with the comb-over). Yup, it was “my date.” Figures.
As he asked if it was me, I couldn’t respond. All I could think of, was I in Oz? Or, did Tattoo come back to take me on “De Plane” to Fantasy Island? Overall, putting aside the major height difference ~ (I am about 5’7), the date was a complete disaster. He presented with serious Napoleon’s Complex. He was beyond arrogant and proceeded to boss around the waitstaff the entire evening. As a former waitress myself, I was utterly humiliated and couldn’t wait for the evening to end. Finally, around eleven o’clock he paid the bill and we parted ways. On the way home in the cab I found myself frustrated and almost in tears thinking: Blind dating? Or Chinese water torture? Is there really a difference?
In today’s world of internet dating, or unless you were married before the age of twenty-five, about ninety percent of the female population will at some point experience the blind date. I’ve heard stories of all contents:
He was cross-eyed and wore a fanny pack.
He lived with ten cats.
He just “forgot his wallet.”
He asked you how much you paid in rent (A very common conversation in NYC).
He showed up three sheets to the wind (or you did).
He had a problem controlling his flatulence.
He didn’t believe in cable (HELLO!!).
He was married, but it was okay, because he and his wife had an “open” relationship.
He just wanted to get laid. Or, to be completely fair to the man, perhaps you did too.
Drip… Drip… Drip…
Putting aside all unfortunate blind date experiences, we need to look at blind dating in another manner. First of all, we have to realize that as we single women get older, our inner dating pool begins to shrink. Not only do we know all our friends, but we begin to know all our friend’s friends. And unless you have already been paired off, you need to open up your peripheral vision and look outside the box. You need to consider alternative circles. Although difficult and yes, sometimes painful, I do believe one of the greatest ways to begin this extension is through blind dating.
Last year I moved to Chicago without knowing a soul. Having never done online dating before, I decided to sign up on eHarmony as a means of meeting people in my new city. Within a six-month period, I probably went on over forty dates. I’m not going to lie, it was grueling at times. It just seemed like one bomb after another, but there was ONE. His name was Sam and he gave me a reason to believe in blind dating.
Sam was ten years older than me, recently divorced, and had two young children. At that point in my life, those were three things I would have never considered getting involved with. I felt that at age thirty-one, I could still find someone closer in age, who had never been married, and without children yet, like myself. Well, as apprehensive as I was, on a snowy, blizzard-like afternoon in Chicago, we both randomly decided to skip work one day and meet at a nearby coffee shop.
That afternoon, when arriving at the coffee shop, I brushed the snow out of my wind-blown hair, and pulled my knit hat up from over my eyes. It was at that moment, I saw this amazing, beautiful man smiling at me from the back of the room. With his intoxicating grin and gorgeous blue eyes, this stranger came over to greet me with the warmest bear hug anyone could imagine. And well, in the words of Jerry McGuire’s Dorothy Boyd, “He had me at hello.”
The afternoon of coffee, lead to an evening of sushi and wine, and to the most amazing goodbye kiss I had ever experienced with a man I hardly knew. HE was different. HE allowed me to forget about all the crappy relationships and blind dates I had ever had. Our little romance only lasted a few weeks, but what I took away from that experience was life changing. I was able to believe in the possibility of random encounters and that things really do happen “when you least expect it.”
We have to remember that dating is a numbers game and the only way we are going to win is to get out there! Whether it be meeting people through friends, at work, or online, we have to up our numbers. And blind dating is just one of the many ways we can do that. No matter how torturous the anticipation of a blind date may be (or the date itself), like Chinese water torture, the dripping of the water may feel at the moment like it is driving you insane, but after the dripping has stopped, it leaves no external scars. If it doesn’t workout, all you can gain is the experience of meeting someone new and possibly a great story.
AND, there is nothing wrong with that.
(This blog was inspired by a very funny girl from Long Island – Thanks K.M.)
PLEASE send your blind date stories to me at my email: singlecitygal@gmail.com
(Copyright jk/ssg'08)
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Enough is Enough.
Okay. Let’s lay it all out on the table.
If you’re a single girl in your 30’s, I think there comes a time for each of us where we wake up one day and ask ourselves, how the hell did we get here? The day where we say, enough is ENOUGH.
Enough of going through another week, a month, or even a year with the hope of just one date that might go somewhere.
Enough of being the token, single, drunk bridesmaid at ALL your friend’s weddings.
Enough of feeling like you could have bought a chateau in the South of France with all the money you have spent on baby showers, bridal showers, engagement parties, christenings, bachelorette parties… I could go on, and on, and on… but you get my point.
Enough of feeling sick to your stomach at family gatherings because you hope you don’t botch your much over-rehearsed response to the dreaded question YOU KNOW everyone is going to ask, “So, are you dating anyone?” (C’mon girls, how many times have you lied to Aunt Berta on any one single occasion?).
Enough of hearing it will happen when you least expect it. (That is my personal fave.)
Enough of believing that if you write to the angels it will bring you a man.
Enough of being home on a Friday night with your two best friends, Mr. Ben and Mr. Jerry.
Enough of being number 3, 5, 7, 9 at the “Couples Table”. Is there anything more depressing?
And even worse, enough of being placed at the “Singles Table”. At this point in our lives, the “Singles Table” is starting to look like a bunch of mutants. All our friends think they are doing us a BIG favor by putting us at THAT table, but if truth be told, it makes us feel worse then already being there alone. And yes, it probably further aids the drunkness.
Enough of never being invited with a date to anything (or if you are, having no one to bring – C’mon you’re more pissed off about that!).
Enough of being the dumpee. For once YOU want to be the dumper!
For once you want the guy YOU like, to like you back.
Enough of making excuses for why he didn’t call.
Enough of being so stupid and accepting those lousy excuses.
Enough of being attracted to ALL the wrong men.
Enough of trying to lose weight because you think some guy (who, get with the program, doesn’t like you) will like you, if you lose a few pounds. C’mon fess up. How many times have you restarted Weight Watchers for just that reason? How many times have you wished your “Dining Out Companion” wasn’t a book telling you how many points a MacDonald’s chocolate shake will cost you?
Well, for me at least three times this year. But who’s counting?
Allow me to introduce myself. I am for all intents and purposes, Single City Gal. I am a 32 year-old single girl living in Chicago, and I am THAT GIRL. And, I have had ENOUGH. Sorry if I have come off so brutally honest, but I had to vent for all of us. I am just saying out loud what all us single girls in our 30’s are thinking. But, for me, Single City Gal, this is the end.
I have decided that as of today, THIS DAY, at this very moment things are going to change. I am no longer going to be THE drunk bridesmaid. I may still be THE single bridesmaid, but it will be by choice and I will NOT make a b-line to the bathroom at every slow dance! From this point on, if I am going to be a Weight Watchers “re-joiner” for the 10th time in one year, then it will be for no other reason then for myself! Go team WW!
From this point forward, THIS girl’s life is about discovering why HER “least expecting moment” has yet to happen. From this point forward it is about “making it work” (as Tim Gunn would say). Making it work one day at a time and exploring just who I am. Discovering all I have to offer. It is about finding answers ~ and solutions. It is about finding THAT least expecting moment! It is about finding MY least expecting moment! To quote a wise friend, the never-ending search for the Holy Male, has now turned into the search to become the coolest, Single Gal.
If you’re a single girl in your 30’s, I think there comes a time for each of us where we wake up one day and ask ourselves, how the hell did we get here? The day where we say, enough is ENOUGH.
Enough of going through another week, a month, or even a year with the hope of just one date that might go somewhere.
Enough of being the token, single, drunk bridesmaid at ALL your friend’s weddings.
Enough of feeling like you could have bought a chateau in the South of France with all the money you have spent on baby showers, bridal showers, engagement parties, christenings, bachelorette parties… I could go on, and on, and on… but you get my point.
Enough of feeling sick to your stomach at family gatherings because you hope you don’t botch your much over-rehearsed response to the dreaded question YOU KNOW everyone is going to ask, “So, are you dating anyone?” (C’mon girls, how many times have you lied to Aunt Berta on any one single occasion?).
Enough of hearing it will happen when you least expect it. (That is my personal fave.)
Enough of believing that if you write to the angels it will bring you a man.
Enough of being home on a Friday night with your two best friends, Mr. Ben and Mr. Jerry.
Enough of being number 3, 5, 7, 9 at the “Couples Table”. Is there anything more depressing?
And even worse, enough of being placed at the “Singles Table”. At this point in our lives, the “Singles Table” is starting to look like a bunch of mutants. All our friends think they are doing us a BIG favor by putting us at THAT table, but if truth be told, it makes us feel worse then already being there alone. And yes, it probably further aids the drunkness.
Enough of never being invited with a date to anything (or if you are, having no one to bring – C’mon you’re more pissed off about that!).
Enough of being the dumpee. For once YOU want to be the dumper!
For once you want the guy YOU like, to like you back.
Enough of making excuses for why he didn’t call.
Enough of being so stupid and accepting those lousy excuses.
Enough of being attracted to ALL the wrong men.
Enough of trying to lose weight because you think some guy (who, get with the program, doesn’t like you) will like you, if you lose a few pounds. C’mon fess up. How many times have you restarted Weight Watchers for just that reason? How many times have you wished your “Dining Out Companion” wasn’t a book telling you how many points a MacDonald’s chocolate shake will cost you?
Well, for me at least three times this year. But who’s counting?
Allow me to introduce myself. I am for all intents and purposes, Single City Gal. I am a 32 year-old single girl living in Chicago, and I am THAT GIRL. And, I have had ENOUGH. Sorry if I have come off so brutally honest, but I had to vent for all of us. I am just saying out loud what all us single girls in our 30’s are thinking. But, for me, Single City Gal, this is the end.
I have decided that as of today, THIS DAY, at this very moment things are going to change. I am no longer going to be THE drunk bridesmaid. I may still be THE single bridesmaid, but it will be by choice and I will NOT make a b-line to the bathroom at every slow dance! From this point on, if I am going to be a Weight Watchers “re-joiner” for the 10th time in one year, then it will be for no other reason then for myself! Go team WW!
From this point forward, THIS girl’s life is about discovering why HER “least expecting moment” has yet to happen. From this point forward it is about “making it work” (as Tim Gunn would say). Making it work one day at a time and exploring just who I am. Discovering all I have to offer. It is about finding answers ~ and solutions. It is about finding THAT least expecting moment! It is about finding MY least expecting moment! To quote a wise friend, the never-ending search for the Holy Male, has now turned into the search to become the coolest, Single Gal.
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