So what is it like to be on the other side interacting with the likes of Carrie and Samantha and the thousands of other women of a “delicate” age back in the dating game. Oh, who cares -- only kidding. Yes, I guess it could be just as frustrating, depressing and seemingly endless to them as it is to us. So that’s why when I read this profile I just had to share it with you. And so, with his permission, I give you – The Other Side of the Story.
The Last First Date
After 3 years of internet dating this is my status: my bladder is shot from 1,246 cups of coffee. My eyesight must be a lot worse than I thought ‘cause almost no one looks like their picture. I'm not sure what a sense of humor is anymore because I seem to be the only one laughing. I have been kissed hello, kissed goodbye, kissed up to and kissed off. I have been shown real interest, fake interest, ignored, and led WAY down the garden path. I can't take any more. No more email, no more phone calls, no more museums, no more lunches or dinners or breakfasts. I am hereby declaring myself a COFFEE ESCORT- you can have me for the price of a coffee and a pecan braid at any Panera’s. Do what you want with me: talk into your Bluetooth, hold my hand without saying a word, argue about anything you like, throw water balloons at me, yell at the top of your lungs that you know I’m having an affair with your best friend, hide behind a magazine, have our picture taken together (send it to your kids to prove you’re trying or save it to make someone jealous). This is also a new version of ‘speed coffee’- half an hour and it’s over. So we both have to work fast. Here’s falling for you! Good luck….John
P.S. Sorry, no throwing food and if you stay longer you will have to sign an affidavit stating your intentions.
…what’s left to say but...see you next time.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sex and the 60 - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...
...who’s the sexiest and most irresistible of them all?
My mother used to say that she felt like a 23-year-old well into her 70’s (probably well into her 80’s but she lost her mind to Alzheimer’s and literally became a 5-year-old!) Anyway, I used to look at her face, with its crepe paper skin and white hair and wonder how she could delude herself. Clearly she was an old, old woman and looked it…but somewhere along the way I’ve begun to understand. If I stay away from the mirror I am that 20-something-year-old. In my mind I still have that amazing body that made other women in the Loehmann’s dressing room (remember there were no booths and you had to undress in front of everyone?) all sneak looks at my reflection in their mirrors. I’m the girl who could have a milk shake for breakfast, chocolate cake at lunch and polish it all off with a Dove bar before bedtime snack and not gain an ounce. I never thought I was beautiful or that I had a great body, but once I met Kevin what I thought about me no longer mattered. The reflection in his eyes and camera lens were the proof that I was hot….very, very hot. And you know what? Damn, I still am.
The other day I was in Stop and Shop. Oh, my supermarket is filled with eligible men of appropriate age – some in wheelchairs, others with canes, most tooling around the aisle mid morning with bottles of prune juice in their wagons, more interested in squeezing the melons than, well - squeezing the melons – if you know what I mean. So I was really surprised when I spied a pretty great looking guy at the end of the aisle coming toward me, with no Metamucil in sight. It made me think of another encounter…
…back, back to the early 1970’s when Carrie and I shared a great apartment on 58th Street in NYC with a revolving third roommate. So here’s a telling fact - we had a two bedroom apartment but all slept in one of the bedrooms leaving the other for “COMPANY”. And there was COMPANY…lots of company, for a lot of years. It was during those years that I began to see an interesting pattern. Men would make it clear that they wanted to sleep with me. I’m talking about men with whom I had not even exchanged a word and they were generally not subtle about it. This never seemed to happen to Carrie. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to sleep with her – she was drop dead beautiful and had a great body (you know, most women in their 20’s did then – not like today where muffin tops and jelly bellies are common.) Anyway it was just that men never could bring themselves to be that overt with her. She was the kind they wanted to own while I was the kind they wanted to roll around with.
What was it about me that made perfectly gentlemanly men turn into pulsating animals? Carrie and I had many debates about it. I secretly didn’t care – I’d take the attention in whatever way I got it and good-looking guys hitting on me in broad daylight was definitely attention! We came to the conclusion that it must be the clothes I wore. Something about my wardrobe was turning guys on. And in the interest of science we set out to prove it. So, one day Carrie and I selected one of her outfits for me to wear. I wore it just as she did, shoes, stockings skirt, blouse – all exactly as she wore them and I went to work. At lunch I was on my way to the post office – walking toward 53rd Street and Third Avenue. I saw him half a block away and he was amazing looking. He was about 5’11”, dark brown curly hair, wearing a taupe suit, stripped shirt, a tie and brown Italian shoes. On any other day I would have been more than interested in making his acquaintance, but I was determined to keep the experiment pure. I shifted my gaze away from him not to sully the result. If he passed, and passed without approaching me then it would be settled – I would have to admit I wore a sluttish wardrobe. So that would be nice to know – not that I was interested in doing anything about it - just nice to know. I looked everywhere but at him and then he was right next to me. He leaned in toward me and said. “Hi baby, you are making me so hot I want to…..” Oh my God, even I blushed! In fact it was the most explicit and prurient thing I have ever heard spoken then and even now! Could Carrie’s wardrobe have been even more lurid than mine? Or was it pheromones. You know, the underlying scent we give off that attracts bees to flowers and bucks to does. Well, it was settled then - whatever it was about me would remain one of life’s exciting mysteries.
So back to the other day in Stop and Shop, I could see he noticed me. He was trying to look nonchalant but I could see he was getting a little nervous, perhaps thinking up a good opening line. Slowly our carts neared each other. His striking blue eyes searched my face for permission. I looked straight into them giving him license to approach. I even flipped my hair back with my hand (a gesture that I had read was a subliminal sign – something about the open palm of your hand having some primal affect or something). I stopped my cart by the salad dressing letting him build the courage to make his needs clear. He smiled…
“Excuse me”, I could feel his soft breath in my hair. It sent a little tickle down my spine, how close he got to me and how he whispered. I turned my face up to him smiling my most alluring smile and inviting the intimacy. He said, “I’ve seemed to forgotten…do you know what aisle the Depends are in?”
You see, men are still approaching me in broad daylight! I’ve still got it! I’ve still got it! I swear, I’ve still to it!
See you next time.
My mother used to say that she felt like a 23-year-old well into her 70’s (probably well into her 80’s but she lost her mind to Alzheimer’s and literally became a 5-year-old!) Anyway, I used to look at her face, with its crepe paper skin and white hair and wonder how she could delude herself. Clearly she was an old, old woman and looked it…but somewhere along the way I’ve begun to understand. If I stay away from the mirror I am that 20-something-year-old. In my mind I still have that amazing body that made other women in the Loehmann’s dressing room (remember there were no booths and you had to undress in front of everyone?) all sneak looks at my reflection in their mirrors. I’m the girl who could have a milk shake for breakfast, chocolate cake at lunch and polish it all off with a Dove bar before bedtime snack and not gain an ounce. I never thought I was beautiful or that I had a great body, but once I met Kevin what I thought about me no longer mattered. The reflection in his eyes and camera lens were the proof that I was hot….very, very hot. And you know what? Damn, I still am.
The other day I was in Stop and Shop. Oh, my supermarket is filled with eligible men of appropriate age – some in wheelchairs, others with canes, most tooling around the aisle mid morning with bottles of prune juice in their wagons, more interested in squeezing the melons than, well - squeezing the melons – if you know what I mean. So I was really surprised when I spied a pretty great looking guy at the end of the aisle coming toward me, with no Metamucil in sight. It made me think of another encounter…
…back, back to the early 1970’s when Carrie and I shared a great apartment on 58th Street in NYC with a revolving third roommate. So here’s a telling fact - we had a two bedroom apartment but all slept in one of the bedrooms leaving the other for “COMPANY”. And there was COMPANY…lots of company, for a lot of years. It was during those years that I began to see an interesting pattern. Men would make it clear that they wanted to sleep with me. I’m talking about men with whom I had not even exchanged a word and they were generally not subtle about it. This never seemed to happen to Carrie. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to sleep with her – she was drop dead beautiful and had a great body (you know, most women in their 20’s did then – not like today where muffin tops and jelly bellies are common.) Anyway it was just that men never could bring themselves to be that overt with her. She was the kind they wanted to own while I was the kind they wanted to roll around with.
What was it about me that made perfectly gentlemanly men turn into pulsating animals? Carrie and I had many debates about it. I secretly didn’t care – I’d take the attention in whatever way I got it and good-looking guys hitting on me in broad daylight was definitely attention! We came to the conclusion that it must be the clothes I wore. Something about my wardrobe was turning guys on. And in the interest of science we set out to prove it. So, one day Carrie and I selected one of her outfits for me to wear. I wore it just as she did, shoes, stockings skirt, blouse – all exactly as she wore them and I went to work. At lunch I was on my way to the post office – walking toward 53rd Street and Third Avenue. I saw him half a block away and he was amazing looking. He was about 5’11”, dark brown curly hair, wearing a taupe suit, stripped shirt, a tie and brown Italian shoes. On any other day I would have been more than interested in making his acquaintance, but I was determined to keep the experiment pure. I shifted my gaze away from him not to sully the result. If he passed, and passed without approaching me then it would be settled – I would have to admit I wore a sluttish wardrobe. So that would be nice to know – not that I was interested in doing anything about it - just nice to know. I looked everywhere but at him and then he was right next to me. He leaned in toward me and said. “Hi baby, you are making me so hot I want to…..” Oh my God, even I blushed! In fact it was the most explicit and prurient thing I have ever heard spoken then and even now! Could Carrie’s wardrobe have been even more lurid than mine? Or was it pheromones. You know, the underlying scent we give off that attracts bees to flowers and bucks to does. Well, it was settled then - whatever it was about me would remain one of life’s exciting mysteries.
So back to the other day in Stop and Shop, I could see he noticed me. He was trying to look nonchalant but I could see he was getting a little nervous, perhaps thinking up a good opening line. Slowly our carts neared each other. His striking blue eyes searched my face for permission. I looked straight into them giving him license to approach. I even flipped my hair back with my hand (a gesture that I had read was a subliminal sign – something about the open palm of your hand having some primal affect or something). I stopped my cart by the salad dressing letting him build the courage to make his needs clear. He smiled…
“Excuse me”, I could feel his soft breath in my hair. It sent a little tickle down my spine, how close he got to me and how he whispered. I turned my face up to him smiling my most alluring smile and inviting the intimacy. He said, “I’ve seemed to forgotten…do you know what aisle the Depends are in?”
You see, men are still approaching me in broad daylight! I’ve still got it! I’ve still got it! I swear, I’ve still to it!
See you next time.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sex and the 60 - SLUDGE
When it comes to being the adored or the adorer, of course I would prefer the latter. But you know, I don’t really like myself all that much as the adored. Somehow I get drunk with power and it brings out the tormenter in me. Perhaps it is because I didn’t have enough practice as the adored when I was “forming” and thus just don’t know how to be beneficent. Or, maybe the adorers are just asking for it!
And another thing, it is really hard to admit but I’m not like Demi Moore or the female equivalent of Harrison Ford. It is rare that a younger man contacts me. I’m told I made a very bad mistake by listing my real age. I should have listed 53 and once he fell hopeless in love, revealed my secret. Hey, it’s a woman’s prerogative not to talk about age – right. Kinda uncouth to even make us state an age at all – don’t you think? But dishonesty is a deal breaker for me so how can I be a hypocrite? Well, at least for now I’m 60. All bets are off in May when I turn 61 (Never!).
There are a few younger men who do venture into the older woman category and I must admit – some of them are adorers and thus ripe for the tormenter. One recently contacted me. Here are his vitals: 54, 5’9”, Slender and Athletic, Divorced with an 18 year old who lives away from home. He is an Engineer - a great looking guy pictured in what looked like the wilderness with shots of him by a fire pit, with animal skins and a hastily built lean to. Me, who thinks camping out is staying at a Holiday Inn chose not to focus on that – he was 54 and a rare encounter. I had to give it a try.
So several days later I painted on my skinny jeans, a casual tee, spiky heeled boots, and my hand knit sweater and drove to the strip mall Indian restaurant he had found. I could tell from the moment he set eyes on me he was smitten. He couldn’t stop smiling and began falling all over himself. I could feel the tormenter getting her game face on. I wanted to stop her, but it was so much fun to be her.
He had been carrying a large paper bag and out of it he pulled a gallon bottle of Gallo wine! A gallon! Gallo! The tormenter now stepped forward, pleased to have met him. “Are you going to try and get me drunk and have your way with me?” She asked sweetly while staring directly into his eyes. He blushed, broke stare and stammered…”No, no, I thought I’d bring the rest of it….” But the tormenter was already laughing.
I fought back into control and folded the tormenter into her box. I wanted to make him more comfortable so I asked him to order for us. I was sure I would like whatever he chose. I like everything. Well nearly everything and the one thing that I don’t particularly care for – besides Gallo wine, is goat. Guess what he ordered… Yep - serves the tormenter right. But now he made her mad. He shouldn’t have done that.
As the food began to arrive I asked what kind of engineering he did. “You don’t drive a train do you and wear those blue stripped overalls?” I joked. He stammered an answer, not getting it, “Ooh, no – not that kind of an engineer…I’m a solid waste engineer. I design sewage treatment plants”. At that exact moment the goat arrived in its grayish, brown, viscous sauce. Suddenly Gallo was my favorite drink. And I quickly downed my glass (why do they use such small wine glasses in strip mall Indian restaurants?)
I had given him a topic that he could really embrace and he launched into a detailed explanation on how sewage treatment plants work as I spooned some lumpy goat onto the bed of rice. I don’t know if you’ve ever had goat but it tends to be knurly, bony and difficult to eat (at least all the times I’ve had it) and the pieces are always more than a mouthful. It was not for the dainty, but I popped a piece into my mouth. That’s when he chose to ask me the question -- “Do you know what sludge is?” I nearly choked on the goat. Unfortunately, I was struck dumb by the goat knee or hip joint or whatever it was that was plugging up my mouth. All I could muster was a shake of my head, knowing that I would soon find out the answer to a question that should never, ever be asked especially in a strip mall Indian restaurant while your date has a mouthful of goat.
“Well – oh you’re going to love this!!” he gushed, (oh yeah I’m sure!) “Once the solid waste is consumed by the bacteria, many of the bacteria die.” I spit out the goat ball, but he barely noticed. “And the bodies – yes the very bodies of the dead bacteria become SLUDGE!” he announced triumphantly. I looked up at him. He was literally glistening with excitement. This guy was getting it up for Sludge! I tapped my glass for a refill, and then another and then gleefully let the tormentor loose.
She asked him about his pictures and he said he was “a survivalist” - went on 10 day excursions into the woods with only 3 matches and a compass. She asked “Did you survive?” He looked confused. He said he could start a fire with just 2 sticks and some dryer lint. She asked “where did you find a dryer in the woods?” He tried to explain that he brought the lint with him, but gave up mid course.
Then he gave the tormenter an opening she could really sink her teeth into. “You don’t look like your picture”, he smiled confident that he could gain his footing. “Oh, really and is that good?” the tormenter spat. “Yes, oh, yes,” he quickly added, “you are much more attractive…” “Oh, so are you saying my picture is unattractive” (What a bitch!)”. “No, no, it is really a nice picture; it’s just that you look much better in person.” he stuttered. “So, why did you contact me if I was a dog in my picture?” She was like a spider, enjoying wrapping him up in his own words. “Oh, no, no, you misunderstand…”, but it was fruitless, the tormenter was going to make him twist in the wind and she did while the leftovers were packed up (he would take them with the ½ empty bottle of Gallo) and coffee was served.
He was wise enough not to ask for another date as he walked me to my car. But he did write several times, letting me know about a wool festival in Pennsylvania (great lint I guess), a beginner course in fire making (boy he was intuitive) and finally a seminar on Facultative and Super Bacteria. That’s when I blocked him. He had finally Gotten My Goat!
See you next time…
And another thing, it is really hard to admit but I’m not like Demi Moore or the female equivalent of Harrison Ford. It is rare that a younger man contacts me. I’m told I made a very bad mistake by listing my real age. I should have listed 53 and once he fell hopeless in love, revealed my secret. Hey, it’s a woman’s prerogative not to talk about age – right. Kinda uncouth to even make us state an age at all – don’t you think? But dishonesty is a deal breaker for me so how can I be a hypocrite? Well, at least for now I’m 60. All bets are off in May when I turn 61 (Never!).
There are a few younger men who do venture into the older woman category and I must admit – some of them are adorers and thus ripe for the tormenter. One recently contacted me. Here are his vitals: 54, 5’9”, Slender and Athletic, Divorced with an 18 year old who lives away from home. He is an Engineer - a great looking guy pictured in what looked like the wilderness with shots of him by a fire pit, with animal skins and a hastily built lean to. Me, who thinks camping out is staying at a Holiday Inn chose not to focus on that – he was 54 and a rare encounter. I had to give it a try.
So several days later I painted on my skinny jeans, a casual tee, spiky heeled boots, and my hand knit sweater and drove to the strip mall Indian restaurant he had found. I could tell from the moment he set eyes on me he was smitten. He couldn’t stop smiling and began falling all over himself. I could feel the tormenter getting her game face on. I wanted to stop her, but it was so much fun to be her.
He had been carrying a large paper bag and out of it he pulled a gallon bottle of Gallo wine! A gallon! Gallo! The tormenter now stepped forward, pleased to have met him. “Are you going to try and get me drunk and have your way with me?” She asked sweetly while staring directly into his eyes. He blushed, broke stare and stammered…”No, no, I thought I’d bring the rest of it….” But the tormenter was already laughing.
I fought back into control and folded the tormenter into her box. I wanted to make him more comfortable so I asked him to order for us. I was sure I would like whatever he chose. I like everything. Well nearly everything and the one thing that I don’t particularly care for – besides Gallo wine, is goat. Guess what he ordered… Yep - serves the tormenter right. But now he made her mad. He shouldn’t have done that.
As the food began to arrive I asked what kind of engineering he did. “You don’t drive a train do you and wear those blue stripped overalls?” I joked. He stammered an answer, not getting it, “Ooh, no – not that kind of an engineer…I’m a solid waste engineer. I design sewage treatment plants”. At that exact moment the goat arrived in its grayish, brown, viscous sauce. Suddenly Gallo was my favorite drink. And I quickly downed my glass (why do they use such small wine glasses in strip mall Indian restaurants?)
I had given him a topic that he could really embrace and he launched into a detailed explanation on how sewage treatment plants work as I spooned some lumpy goat onto the bed of rice. I don’t know if you’ve ever had goat but it tends to be knurly, bony and difficult to eat (at least all the times I’ve had it) and the pieces are always more than a mouthful. It was not for the dainty, but I popped a piece into my mouth. That’s when he chose to ask me the question -- “Do you know what sludge is?” I nearly choked on the goat. Unfortunately, I was struck dumb by the goat knee or hip joint or whatever it was that was plugging up my mouth. All I could muster was a shake of my head, knowing that I would soon find out the answer to a question that should never, ever be asked especially in a strip mall Indian restaurant while your date has a mouthful of goat.
“Well – oh you’re going to love this!!” he gushed, (oh yeah I’m sure!) “Once the solid waste is consumed by the bacteria, many of the bacteria die.” I spit out the goat ball, but he barely noticed. “And the bodies – yes the very bodies of the dead bacteria become SLUDGE!” he announced triumphantly. I looked up at him. He was literally glistening with excitement. This guy was getting it up for Sludge! I tapped my glass for a refill, and then another and then gleefully let the tormentor loose.
She asked him about his pictures and he said he was “a survivalist” - went on 10 day excursions into the woods with only 3 matches and a compass. She asked “Did you survive?” He looked confused. He said he could start a fire with just 2 sticks and some dryer lint. She asked “where did you find a dryer in the woods?” He tried to explain that he brought the lint with him, but gave up mid course.
Then he gave the tormenter an opening she could really sink her teeth into. “You don’t look like your picture”, he smiled confident that he could gain his footing. “Oh, really and is that good?” the tormenter spat. “Yes, oh, yes,” he quickly added, “you are much more attractive…” “Oh, so are you saying my picture is unattractive” (What a bitch!)”. “No, no, it is really a nice picture; it’s just that you look much better in person.” he stuttered. “So, why did you contact me if I was a dog in my picture?” She was like a spider, enjoying wrapping him up in his own words. “Oh, no, no, you misunderstand…”, but it was fruitless, the tormenter was going to make him twist in the wind and she did while the leftovers were packed up (he would take them with the ½ empty bottle of Gallo) and coffee was served.
He was wise enough not to ask for another date as he walked me to my car. But he did write several times, letting me know about a wool festival in Pennsylvania (great lint I guess), a beginner course in fire making (boy he was intuitive) and finally a seminar on Facultative and Super Bacteria. That’s when I blocked him. He had finally Gotten My Goat!
See you next time…
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