Matchmakers, Secret Agents and New Digs

I am still sick as a dog but full of hope and wonder, hoping my body will catch up to the fun that I've been having this past month. Maybe I've created the cold and flu just so it would force me to slow down and stop being so damned boy crazy? On top of the horrific body aches I've been bleeding like a hemopheliac from my never-ending period. Maybe I've wanted to jump on top of every man I meet because my phermones are sending out invisible signals: "Attention attention, calling all men, she's ovulating! Move in quickly!"

But, despite the massive amount of blood and sickness, I feel like I've finally taken charge and I'm creating the life that I really want, even if that life does include brief frivolous flings and "lost" weekends. I keep thinking about the impermanence of things, like if I were to die tomorrow, what would I do differently? Would I call that guy meet that person apply for that job go to that party give lots of hugs lots of kisses realize we're all beautiful we all want the same thing nothing is by chance take enormous risks or make that move?

****
I met with the head of the matchmaking service (Selective Search) at the Sherry Netherland hotel on Friday. That Barbara Streisand song from Hello Dolly! kept playing over and over in my head as I was stuck in traffic nervous as hell in the pouring rain on my way to meet her:

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find! Catch me a catch!"

The rain was coming down in sheets and the cabdriver was playing some zitar hypnotic Euro pop Indian music monstrosity that caused my heart to palpitate as I applied my plumping lip gloss and my expensive perfume samples over and over. My hair had swelled up to the size of a big afro because of the humidity and wetness.

The head of the company met me in the lobby and we went up to her ginormous gorgeous suite and she gave me a glass of sparkling French water. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement and a thing that said I'm not crazy and everything I say is true and I'm currently not taking any medication.

I wondered if binge drinking and popping pseudoephedrine pills every few hours counted?

We chatted for an hour about what I'm looking for, what the company was about and my background. The director, who lives in Chicago but comes to NY twice a month, kept saying, "Gosh, it's just so expensive here in the city. I just don't see how people live here!"

I felt like she was trying to get a reaction out of me, to see if I was a golddigger. I opted for the response of a little laughter and the standard "Yeah, it is expensive." I left by giving her a kiss on the cheek and she said she had five or six men that she wants me to meet. I was just relieved that I hadn't accidentally signed up for an escort service.

****
Suck-my-face-Kosovo club boy drove up to my apartment Friday night. He brought me some expensive red wine and hard to find Italian chocolates. We made out in every conceivable area of my apartment in between deep discussions of Religion and Politics. Both he and I think 9-11 was an inside job...he's Muslim. Apparently, (news flash!) 90% of Kosovo "people" are Muslim. He said he's not a practicing one though, whatever that means.

There's something mysterious about this boy. Like he's into the black market or has some big secret, and I can't quite put my finger on it. I told him:

"There's something shady about you, but that's kind of hot," hoping he would divulge some more info about what he really does. I mean, c'mon, a "restaurant manager" can't live the lifestyle he leads. With labels on his clothes of Armani and Kenneth Cole?

He then mumbled something about the FBI and his face sort of flushed and then he changed the subject. When we got into our 9-11 discussion he needed a $20 bill to demonstrate the twin towers burning trick. He pulled out A WAD of cash from his pocket. I've never seen that much cash in someone's pocket. Ever.

Could this boy be a secret undercover agent for the FBI? He is well traveled and knows a little too much about the world. Is the "restaurant manager" thing his cover?

That's so totally hot I don't even know what to say.

****

My friend called me this morning and asked me to move into her apartment for the summer to take care of her diabetic cat.

It looks like I've manifested a new apartment...

Closer to downtown.

Where all of the boys are.

I think I'm going to make that move...and catch me a catch.

Extended Midget

Well, here marks another week of boy craziness and erratic hormones. A new series of sparkly epiphanies have manifested.

Last night was my first official internet date since I re-joined my shiteous dating site. The internet guy turned out to be a pretty cool guy with a Black American Express Card. Not that I really cared what color his American Express card was or anything.

He told me his last internet date was with a woman who turned out to be a former midget. He found this out over lots of drinks and crying on the former midget's part. She had gotten her height extended to 5'2".

I thought, aren't we all, in a way, former midgets? We used to be small when we were younger but now we're trying to act so big and tall with our jobs and degrees and dates and bank accounts and addictions and hair colors?

****
British tourist boy left last Saturday morning. He showed up at midnight on Friday to a party I was at. He looked Hugh Grantish and amazingly hot and innocent. He was carrying a Bloomingdale's sack. He had bought me Narcisso Rodriguez perfume and a DVD. I felt like I was in elementary school and my boy crush had given me a paper Valentine.

We kissed passionately and took photos together in one of those photo booths like the movie Beaches...Knowing he was about to get on a flight back to London... feeling such an intense connection...with a boy...who lived thousands of miles away... His lips were soft, his eyes twinkling as he told me he had never had such a connection with a girl like he did me in all of his short 22 years... so exciting and forbidden, the loud club music pumping, our hands softly brushing each other's faces.

He called me from London and I could hear the loud British noises in the background, a world so different from mine. He had told the cab driver on the way to the airport that he had made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving New York...He started to talk about green cards and moving here and how gorgeous I was and... intensity...honesty...freedom...unplanned.

I still feel a bit relieved that he left again...sort of like I didn't have to face such intense emotions on an ongoing basis...my soul mate wasn't supposed to be like that? Like him?

I am an extended midget.

****
On Sunday I signed up for this other thing. It's apparently a matchmaking service for wealthy men. The men on this site spend up to $200,000 a year for this company to find them matches. I'm doing it for journalistic purposes I swear.

The people from the site called me eight hours later and asked me to meet with the head of the company at this swank hotel near Central Park on Friday. I told my boss I had a gynecologist appointment. Wonder if she'll notice that I dress up to go to the gyno?

Will I meet the man of my dreams through this site?

I am still seeing suck-my-face Kosovo club boy. He's fun fun fun.

And...I'm still an extended midget, but I'm an extended midget who is now addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus. I somehow manifested a cold.

Think Forward Cack

Yeah yeah yeah, unlike other bloggers who have legitimate excuses for not blogging, like, say, they were on some spectacular expensive vacation or they've been so extremely unbelievably busy-busy, I have no excuse. Although, a lot of shit has happened to me over the past two weeks. Although I would like to encapsulate you with sordid, succulent, vibrant, juicy details, I'm going to recap the basics. I could write a novel:

1. I continued to exchange e-mails with Mr. CEO for lack of better judgement. We were this close to meeting about two times, and then I stopped responding 4 days ago. He e-mails me every day asking me to meet for a drink. Now, I've just become creeped out. Like I was this close to meeting a serial killer.

2. I met a gorgeous GQ modelish British 22 year old tourist boy. I despise 22 year olds, but he ended up coming over, and staying over at my house for like three days. We discussed the meaning of life over steaming hot chinese food and bitter wine holed up during the NY monsoon. He took lots of candid photos of me with his new camera. I was sure we were twin souls, meant to be together, separated by thousands of miles and I told him he should move to New York and become a model. Then, I realized I was a bit relieved when he finally left my house.

3. My new favorite word is cack. I like to add it to the end of everything I say.

4. I met a 30 year old blonde hair blue-eyed boy from Kosovo who is a manager of some restaurant on the Upper East Side. He buys me expensive lunches and drinks and I met him at some club and we ended up sucking face all night and he lives near my work and I've spent the night with him twice and... he aims to please. It's nice to walk to work in the morning. I think he might be a member of the Russian mafia. He has lots of cousins.

5. I met some guy named Omar who is a civil rights attorney. He keeps calling me. I think I accidentally gave him my number. The name Omar makes me laugh.

6. I've become a binge drinker. I like to get to the point now where I have the same conversation over and over with the same people just because I can't remember that I had the same conversation two minutes before. Sort of like self-induced amnesia.

7. I've become a quick change artist. I store all of my "going out" clothes in a closet at work and when the clock hits 5:30 I hit the handicapped bathroom and brush my teeth, smear my deoderant, spray lots of cheap perfume and put on a revealing top. I'm learning how to get free drinks. All I have to do is walk in a bar and stand there.

8. The founder of HotEnough.org who lives in Nutley, New Jersey (Nutley? Parsippany? Hoboken? The names kill me every time) has been asking me out. I think I might meet him next week. That'll definitely make a good post.

9. I found a good yet-what-seems-like-shady accountant who manipulated a good tax return for moi. I'm hoping to go shopping soon.

10. I'm exhausted. All of the going and coming and taking action and visualizing has worn me out. Like I could sleep for days.

Have I created a monster? Or, am I finally just being a fun, frivolous 27-year-old living in the city instead of my usual 80-year-old grandma self?

I don't know...but I do have a new motto:

Think forward. Always.

CEO Liberation Day = Long Ass Post

For the past two weeks, I've been in sort of a flux, a sort of standing still yet moving forward? But, today is an important day. I will mark this day on my calendar for years to come as CEO Liberation Day. The day everything came to me at once. The day the meaning of it all came flashing before my eyes in dazzling bright lights.

Today, at exactly 5:05 p.m, I chose to end this CEO-am-I-going-to-meet-him-or-am-I-not-going-to-meet-him thing. I say chose, because well, I was kind of forced to. It doesn't sound so profound, but let me explain...

Ever since I got back into this online dating thing a month or so ago, the thought of actually meeting a guy for a drink, or the thought of a man's hand slightly touching my leg, or the thought of his faint breath tingling down my neck has sent my hormones spiraling and my semi-anorexia and semi-obsessive compulsive "Am I Good Enough?" disorder into full force.

I haven't had an appetite (trust me, it's a good thing because my McDonald's Double Quarter Pounder With Cheese ass handles are slowly beginning to melt away) and I've been exercising like one of those coked-up exercise guru infomercial presenters.

I also stopped biting my nails so my hands would look more "feminine" in front of a man, and I've started to put some effort into what I look like.

I bought some under-eye concealer. I started to deep condition my hair. The years of coloring, flat-ironing and violently, furiously blow drying my hair had really begun to take its toll.

I thought the heaviness of winter was starting to dissipate... Well, kind of.

Since this online flirtation with this CEO man, who seems like he's somewhat important, has begun, I've never known what to expect.

I've convinced myself in my tiny little head over the past few weeks in my vivid, colorful imaginings that this guy, who has done nothing but send me one-line e-mails, could be "the one".

It reminds me of that commercial where the woman and man get into the elevator and they glance at each other. In a period of 30 seconds, she has imagined their entire life together and then...the elevator chimes in and they both go their separate ways. I'm exactly like that woman in the elevator.

Yet, I don't even see "the man"

I get an e-mail from "the man" and I think about having his children and living in a mansion with walk-in closets the size of my apartment:

"Oh sweetie, don't touch Mommy's diamond necklace. She needs that for the Charity Ball tonight. Your Daddy and I will bring you home a surprise. Would you like a new pony?..."

First, this CEO had a "business trip". It was in this period of his one week "business trip" that I decided I could like this guy. Maybe he's so discrete because he's important? I thought.

He looked rather attractive in his photo, if it even was his photo. He had sandy blonde hair, glowing skin and a fresh linen Polo shirt. (He sent the photo to my private e-mail address. He didn't even have a photo posted on my dating website. Hello, Hello, I know).

Then, there was "no response" when I told him I could meet this past Saturday. It was after this "no response" this past Saturday that I got mad...fighting mad. But, it was the good fighting mad.

I felt like the song I Will Survive was subconsciously pumping through my veins and I knew I was better than that, better than him, better than this I'm-just-so-fucking-tired-of-being-alone-that-I-will-meet-some-strange-Internet-guy-who-looks-like-he-could-be-promising syndrome.

It was in my blinding rage on Saturday that I decided to take action. I RSVP'd to an Italian Meet-Up group here in the city for Monday night.

I found the phone number to my long lost best friend in high school. I had heard SIX MONTHS AGO that she was living here in the city.

At 15 years old, she and I would lie upside down on my bed in my room side by side, high as a kite on marijuana, staring up at the glow stars we had meticulously placed on my ceiling...giggling at each other...talking about how weird some of the boys were at our school...dancing to the song Are You Strong Enough to Be My Man by Sheryl Crowe...innocent...free...happy...full of hope...freedom...promise...

Her voice on her answering machine sounded exactly the same as it was in high school, yet, more grown-up, more serious.

Is this what adulthood has done to us? I thought. Are we no longer the happy, young optimistic girls who allowed ourselves to dream?

I left a long, awkward and flustered voicemail on her answering machine. I thought, here we are, me and my precious best friend, who I adored more than 10 years ago, both from a small, obscure town in Texas, trying to make it in the Big City.

Then, on Sunday morning at exactly 9:35 a.m., Easter Sunday morning I might add, a day that could be, should be, filled with profound epiphany, I awoke to an e-mail from Mr. CEO asking me if I could meet Tuesday or Wednesday. I had just woken up with a funny feeling in my stomach, a sort of heaviness, uneasiness, still perplexed as to why this Mr. CEO guy never responded to my Saturday availability. And, I also had a deep uneasiness as to what the hell was I thinking RSVPing to some Italian thing I didn't have the time and energy for? And, really, what the hell was I doing calling my old best friend who probably is still mad at me for stopping talking to her because I felt we had just grown apart? What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

I felt a bit relieved that Mr. CEO sent me the one-line e-mail to meet on Tuesday or Wednesday. I felt like I had momentarily lost my mind on Saturday because I was so mad at the "no response" from him.

I don't handle rejection well.

I told him I could meet Wednesday and I began to fantasize about him even more. I imagined what his soft, manicured hand would feel like as it brushed up on my shoulder. I imagined laughing hysterically at his not-so-funny jokes. I imagined what it would be like lounging on a beach chair at his house in the Hamptons this summer, my body looking painfully perfect from the months of starvation and sheer "love".

On Monday night, I forced myself, literally dragged myself, to attend the Italian Meet-Up thing only because I RSVP'd, and, my spiritual guru Mom kept telling me:

"Go. You have to go. The Universe supports action."

I was wearing my pants that desperately needed to be dry-cleaned and my hair was a mess.

Of course, all of this, in between my fantasies of Mr.CEO and I.

The chill in the air was biting as I lost my way in Times Square on my way to the Italian Meet-Up. I paused for a moment and looked up at the hundreds of flashy fluorescent billboards, the frozen wind stinging my face in April.

I'm here. I thought. I'm at the center of it all, the center of the Universe, and I don't know where I'm going...and I don't know where I've been.

The thoughts were so overwhelming at that moment in the piercing bitter cold, smack dab in the middle of Times Square, that I had to shake them off and focus my attention back on Mr. CEO.

I started to think about what I could wear to our little rendezvous on Wednesday. I needed a new pair of jeans. I needed some more lip gloss. And, did I feel a zit developing on the side of my cheek? That's all I needed was a big whitehead pulsating from my face as I met my future sugar-daddy husband.

I arrived at the Meet-Up and started chatting in Italian with an older, tall, balding-yet-tanned Italian man from Florence. Our conversation flowed, and it was natural and unforced. He got my jokes. I was 100% positive he was gay. That's why I felt so free with him.

I was myself.

He bought me too many Pinot Grigios as the night progressed...

Then, in walked a spectacularly beautiful woman, a kindred spirit, and she and I started to talk. I felt like I had known this woman before, a profoundly familiar feeling. I had so much in common with her...

I had so much in common with this man and with this woman.

At this party.

That I didn't want to attend.

Because I had to prepare for the Mr. CEO date on Wednesday.

I felt so uncensored, unprepared with messy hair, dirty clothes and all.

I walked out of the event a bit drunk, anxious to delve back into my fantasy world of Mr. CEO: My black stilettos with jeans on Wednesday would look sexy. But what about the top? Pay day was another week away, but I needed to buy a new top. The other tops I have aren't good enough. Must buy new top. Must buy new top. And how about those Crest White Strips? I need to do those so my teeth will be extra white.

I paused to check my phone messages before I got on the subway. My best friend from high school had called me back. She left a long, awkward message too. She sounded so relieved:

"I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I can't wait to catch up..."

At that moment, listening to this message in the whipping cold, the noise blaring in Times Square, as hoards of people zoomed around me...time stood still.

All of the hurts, regrets and frustrations of my completely normal, troubled youth...went away.

I was relieved to hear back from her.

I came to work on Tuesday to find two beautiful e-mail messages from my two new friends at the Meet-Up:

"It was so great meeting you...it would be great to see you again..."

No games. No drama. No are-we-or-aren't-we-going-to-meet-and-am-I pretty-enough, sexy-enough-for-you?

I could have sworn that Italian guy was gay...maybe he wasn't? Like my Italian friend once told me, all Italians are just a little bit "gay."

Then, Tuesday night I put myself through the ringer. Not only did I beat myself to the pulp with exercising, but I also skipped dinner just so I would look extra gaunt for Mr. CEO on Wednesday.

It occurred to me that Mr. CEO and I had confirmed a date and a place...but not a time? I thought we would figure out the time on Wednesday afternoon. I did say after work didn't I?

All the whilst these thoughts racing, hoping I was one day away from finding my true love, I still had that heavy, foreboding sour feeling in my gut, like something wasn't right.

Then, today, I frantically bought a top I couldn't afford on my lunch hour, thinking I'm just a few hours away from meeting Mr. CEO. I thought about what his lips would feel like pressed against mine. I started thinking about what should I drink tonight? I can't drink anything too strong because I might faint or get sick from no eating and hard liquor. I'll have wine. That should be good.

But, we still hadn't confirmed a time?

Then, I sat the rest of this afternoon debating whether or not I should e-mail Mr. CEO and ask him what time we're meeting. Would that seem too anxious? Didn't I need to know WHAT FUCKING TIME WE'RE MEETING?

Finally, the acid in my stomach swelling from no food and nerves, I e-mailed Mr. CEO.

I told him I could make it at 6:30.

Then, half an hour later, I got this:

"Can we meet tomorrow night? It would work so much better with my schedule..."

I had to do a double-take.

I felt dizzy, not believing the words I read screaming at me from my computer screen.

HIS schedule? What about MY fucking schedule? What about the weeks I had been preparing and fantasizing for this meeting to take place? What about all of the "nonsense" I'd been through the past few days trying to use anything as a distraction to not think about this?

THIS.

THIS...THIS...THING. This over-grandeurized meeting THING with some shady guy from the Internet.

At that moment, at exactly 5:05 p.m. this afternoon, I chose not to respond to his quite revealing e-mail.

I knew I was finished with this CEO illusion. It was a powerful, exhilarating, freeing, yet scary moment.

I chose to get off of the merry-go-round. The merry-go-round of insecurities.

On the ride home on the subway, I was so exhausted from my pre-date beauty routine the night before that I just wanted to sleep. A homeless man on the subway started to mumble to me with a sparkle in his eye:

"Your eyes are so beautiful. There's something in them. There's something about you.
You have a good heart...Better than the rest of 'em."

When I got home, I found that I had received my first message on HotEnough.org.

The founder of the site, who lives in New Jersey, winked at me.

Why, could this mean...a new project? A new man to look forward to? Another CEO?

I think not.

For today, I declare CEO Liberation Day, meaning, well... everything happens for a reason.

If I had not been so blindingly mad about this phantom CEO man online, I wouldn't have RSVP'd to some party I didn't care about, wouldn't have met two amazing new friends, wouldn't have let go of my past hurts and took a risk and reconnected with my "old" best friend, wouldn't have tapped into that young teenage girl part of me that I know is still there, dying to come out...innocent...free... happy...full of hope...freedom...and promise.

Hedge Funds and Dive Bars

So I got an e-mail this morning from Mr. CEO asking me to meet him Tuesday or Wednesday of this week. Interesting. Maybe that's when the wife and kids will be busy? I still don't know this guy, yet, I'm strangely attracted to this dark side, the mysteriousness of this person who is so discrete online. I've convinced myself to go and meet him strictly for journalistic purposes. It seems like a fun experiment. Of course, I will bring my mace just in case.

When I do research on his name, a lot of hedge fund stuff shows up. Before I moved to New York, I didn't even know what a hedge fund was. Basically, a hedge fund is a way for the rich and corrupt to get more rich and corrupt. Since there is such a disparity between the rich and poor here in Manhattan, guys who are deep into hedge fund operations are usually pretty weird, yet insanely rich. But, not "good" rich because they are usually pretty reclusive and snobbish. Like they think you are crazy if you're not in the Hamptons all summer. Or, the word "dive bar" doesn't exist in their vocabulary.

There are tons of these hedge fund cronies trolling around for pretty arm candy dates online. They are lonely, overworked, and a bit desperate, if not socially stunted.

The last hedge fund guy I dated used to zoom up (uninvited I might add) to my apartment in his new Porsche (not his BMW because it was too slow) at 5 in the morning after long nights of clubbing. He was hyper, obviously on something, and he seemed so alone, so scared, and he would grab onto me tightly. It was my first NY experience that money doesn't equal happiness and it scared the shit out of me. The emptiness I felt when I was with him was overwhelming.

How can these men, who obviously could have anything at their beck and call, be so unhappy, so empty, so devoid of life? Money is just paper that we, ourselves, have invented. It's not real. We can't take it with us when we die.

I found myself spending more time with this lonely hedge fund crazy because he always took me to the best restaurants, the best clubs and he knew New York inside and out. It was exciting to speed down the West Side Highway in his Porsche, the wind blowing in my hair, frivolity and drunkenness taking over my rigidity and innocence. He knew the owner of the best gourmet Indian food restaurant here in the city, and it was there that we would chat over wine, the Samosas melting in my mouth in the seductive candlelight. It was in his expensive Gramercy apartment that we would stay up all night, him showing me photos of his past loves tucked into his nightstand drawers. He confessed he went to therapy and his mom recently had a nervous breakdown. They found her wandering the streets in her nightgown.

The bitter taste that this man left in my mouth has still to go away, because I have realized that having money brings whole other sets of problems, and, money alone will not attract me to a man.

I can take myself to the best restaurants. I can take myself to the best clubs. It might break my budget, but if I really wanted to, I could. And someday, maybe if I want it, I will have a Porsche.

My grandfather used to say to me: "Honey, we're all the same. Everyone still has to eat and shit. Don't ever forget that. Ever."

Maybe Mr. CEO's wife and I can go shopping together.

The Disappearing Act

I think men disappear from our lives for a reason. Well, I say that but I still look back at certain situations from my past and wonder "WTF happened?" Was it something I said? Something I didn't say? Was there something in my teeth? Was it what I was wearing? Was I not charismatic or charming enough? Was I too charismatic and charming? Did he prefer a silent type? Was it my aloofness? Or, was I too eager? Was it my voice? My slight Texan accent? Was it when I pulled out a cigarette and smoked, inhaling deeply? Was it when I laughed at something that wasn't funny? Or did I not laugh enough? Was I not pretty enough? Did I not dress slutty enough? Was my ass too big? That's it.

He saw my ass.

He SAW my ethnic ass and the way it jiggles when I walk. It was too big. Way too big for him. I knew it.

Maybe I wore too much perfume.

These are all assumptions that I used to ponder late at night, during the pangs of loneliness and chocolate overload and watching too much television. But who the shit knows know why these men stopped calling? I used to imagine calling these "lost" men and saying:

"Hey. I know you were kind of weird and stuff and I really didn't like you all that much anyway, and you're really not my type, and you're not tall enough, but, why the fuck did you stop calling? I mean it would have been nice to have somebody, anybody pursue me just to say I was being pursued. So, what the hell was wrong with me? You're the one who had a slight lisp and bad breath on occasion. C'mon. Just tell me. What did I do wrong? I just need to know, so, next time, when a potential man comes into my life, of course, who's cuter, smarter and well, has more to offer than you, I won't make those same so-called mistakes."

Then, there are the online phantom men I NEVER see in real life flesh and blood, just have mild flirtations with and the semi-intention of actually meeting.

I'm really learning that if two people are supposed to meet, they will fucking meet.

There have been so many men in my online dating realm who have seemed absolutely perfect on the screen with good looks, charisma and what seemed like a job. I never met these men. They exist in the realm of 0's and 1's, HTML or JAVA script programming gleaming from my computer screen. They ask for my number. We chit chat for brief or long periods of time on the phone. We say we're going to meet next week or the week after. He may call again and we may chat again and we may have a date scheduled and he may cancel or I may cancel. And, I may never answer his call because I don't like the sound of his voice or something in my stomach tells me it isn't right, something is off.

I like to call the first encounter of meeting someone online "Date Zero." To actually get to this "Date Zero" is a miracle in itself, if not incredibly dissapointing.

My favorite part about actually meeting these men is being able to watch their lips move when they speak. You can't tell from their photos that their lip twitches or is slightly crooked and sort of caves in when they smile. Or you can't see the way their eyes sort of squint or jiggle when they try to laugh. Or, how about the slight limp when they walk and the tapered leg jeans that look like floods? Who the hell wears tapered leg jeans?

I just got an e-mail from some other CEO guy. He's supposedly back from his "business trip." He said: "I am now back and I am excited to see you." He then put a smiley face and his name.

How the hell was I supposed to respond? I said: "Thank you, that's sweet- you too." even though I don't know who the hell this person is. My theory is if a guy sends me a one-line e-mail, he gets a one-line e-mail right back. He then wrote: "When should we meet? I think you are going to like me..."

I told him Saturday might be good for me. I said Saturday because it's a prime time day and if he's married, he definitely can't make it. Also, why the hell would someone write "I think you are going to like me?" Reverse psychology if you ask me because it really implies that I wouldn't like him.

I have yet to hear back from him about meeting on Saturday. I feel like I'm a journalist on that "To Catch a Predator" where I throw them the bait and they show up to find camera crews and and I have a microphone taped to me and I say "So, why are you doing this?" Married men who troll for online dates are the scum of the earth. It is so disgusting and desperate it makes my skin crawl.

How will I ever know if he's married? Were my responses too brief? Maybe it was my height. I should have checked off 5'6" instead of 5'4".

WHO CARES! Who really gives a shit what these strange men think of me! These men disappear and flutter back away into their cyber world nerdy caves. I'm learning to appreciate and savor my alone time with my chocolate and bad television. For, it is in these moments that I am discovering who I really am, what I'm really about and what I really want. I am becoming more intuitive, more perceptive, more aware of what I stand for...and dishonest men will automatically disappear from my life.

But, maybe it could have been the crinkle on my forehead when I looked surprised to see how unattractive they were?

Fiction and Isolation

Everyone here in the city seems to be up on the latest fiction bestseller. Everyone (even their dogs) has a book to read on the subway. When I steal a glimpse of what the person next to me on the subway is reading, I get slightly amused and delve into a fantasy world of my own. I like to imagine what the person next to me is thinking as they devour the words on the page.

People here eat while reading books. People here walk while reading books. People here talk while reading books. People here sleep while reading books. It seems like whatever book you're reading is a fashion statement. The "in" thing to do.

The irony is that the people who look the stupidest are usually reading something deep and complex. The people who look the smartest, i.e., studious and well-dressed, are usually reading something simple. Aren't appearances deceiving?

I've had trouble getting into fiction or anything over three pages since I moved here. I will start a book and suddenly become disinterested because it doesn't move me, doesn't shake me, doesn't make me feel something. I just don't understand my tastes because every time, I mean every time someone recommends a book to me and says "This book is sooo amazing. You'll be hooked from the first page," it usually ends up underneath my bed gathering dust, bent and crumpled.

Last night, a miracle occurred. I picked up a book, and, drumroll please, I was hooked. It's called "Namesake" by some Indian author. It's about Indian immigrants who come to America in the early 60s. Probably doesn't sound too different, but the intricate, overlapping themes of the book have really resonated with me.

After I moved back from Italy in 2003 I had to finish my Bachelor's degree. One of the courses I had to take was Contemporary American lit. My teacher was this bitchy, menopausal psychopath who wanted us to interpret the stories from her point of view and parrot it on the exams.

One day, as I was discussing an exam with her in her office, she started to talk to me about my experience of living in Italy and being married to an Italian. It's a conversation I'll never forget:

Teacher: "Gosh, you had so many themes of isolation going on when you were in Italy. Have you ever thought about writing about those themes?"

Me: "Well, um..."

Teacher: "See, the first theme is being so far away from your family. The second theme is not knowing the language, the third theme is that your husband was away so much and the fourth theme is that you were new to marriage. All at one time! Amazing!"

Me: "Well, um, I've never really thought about it that way..."

As I read this book about the Indian immigrants, I can't help but think of that conversation with my psycho, yet brilliant professor. I can't help but think of all the themes of isolation that have repeated over and over in my life... Aren't we all immigrants in some form or another? I'm an immigrant in New York.

Don't we all feel like strangers?

One of my favorite quotes is: "We're not human beings having a spiritual experience. We're spiritual beings having a human experience."

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself because I haven't followed the status quo and read the latest fashionable book. Just like the dating thing, I'm sure the right book will come to me...Hey, it did last night.