life, People (Unreal life)

5 for ’12

Dear Friends,

Just one more day to a fabulous new year. (Can you believe it?). The other day I taught my holy hotness of a student, S, and our topic was “Setting Resolutions.”  He told me that he didn’t see the point in resolutions; “Why don’t we just do the things we should?” “Why do we need a list?” Good questions from S, but I strongly feel that setting goals/writing a list helps one stay on track. (Can I just tell you all that Holy Hotness ended the lesson commenting on my legs, so all in all it was a good night).

In numerology the number five symbolizes divine energy, new beginnings, and creativity, so here are my five for ’12:

1) Exercise This isn’t an original resolution, I know that. It’s probably topping most people’s lists and rightly, it should. 2012 is the year to get healthy inside and out (after New Year’s Eve and the first week of January of course). Tonight, it’s gonna go down like LD did it the other night:

After Jan 8th, goodbye pizza in bed, multiple cans of Red Bull a day, sake/whiskey combos, and lack of sleep. It’s gonna be yoga, detoxing with my friend A, fresh fruit-eating, at least six hours of sleep, and biking to work. My friend J‘s taking me to a bike shop in the next two weeks, and we’ll find a nice bike and helmet. He’s also promised to ride to work with me, not only to show me the way, but to prove how easy it is to navigate Tokyo’s traffic.

2) Paying Karmic Debts- In my last post, I noted Bob Marley’s encouragement for us to love one another (“What’s wrong with loving one another?”). Folks, I’ve placed my feet firmly in the Love Movement, and I’m so happy to see that so many are with me. The responses on FB and by email are really wonderful. The Love Movement isn’t about romantic love; it’s about kindness, creating positive energy, empathy, and trying to right past wrongs. The Love Movement isn’t a big, hippy orgy, it’s about being love; however, if you want to hug me at any time, feel free. Who could say it better? That’s right:

3) Resolving My Crush- Let’s speak about romantic love for a second though. Months ago, I had two crushes, now I have only one. I tried to squash it, but it’s not working and I’ve been encouraged to confess. Though I absolutely don’t want to say anything at all, because a) it’ll be awkward b) it could go horribly wrong and c) I’m nervous and feel ridiculous, I think I will soon. (Stop pressuring me!– you know who you are). Don’t ask me about it, because I may not do it

4) Keeping in Touch- I’ve already bought stationery and intend to make good use of it. A good friend just sent me a great letter, and it made me so happy to receive it. One hundred emails can’t take the place of a letter in the mailbox. Fifty emails can’t take the place of a card; so, it’s letter writing time for me. I also resolve to answer emails in a more timely fashion, call my nephews more, and let people know that I’m thinking of them. I told my friend Tlee the other day that I love her and she expressed shock. She said, “What? You never use that word– ever.” Well, I’m going to reach out more and let you all know that I love you.

5) Start Giving Back-  “For to whom much is given, of him shall much be required.” Luke 12:48

My friends, we’re blessed. Of course life’s crappy sometimes, but that’s a part of the journey. It’s repeatedly said that it’s the journey and not the destination that’s important. How true. We have much to do, much to be thankful for… so let’s start. Happy New Year!!

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life, People (Unreal life)

“What’s Wrong With Loving One Another?”

Ye are the sheep of my pasture, so verily, thou shall be very well. – Bob Marley (So Jah Seh)

Dear Friends,

All has been well. Life has been good… has been great… more than well. The days have been filled with good friends, food, drink, merriment and life’s unexpected gifts. Actually, everything just mentioned are the gifts. “Puss and dog can get together, what’s wrong with loving one another?” Love is a gift.

A gift: I signed up to work on all the holidays, because I figured if I were here in Tokyo anyway why not make some extra cash. (We get paid overtime rates for working on the holidays). The other night when I came home from a pretty long day, I was hungry, dragging and not at all in the mood to eat anything I had in the cupboard.

My housemate R gives me the gift of his spirit, his outlook on life and his enthusiasm; but that night, he gave me the gift of a home-cooked meal. He made me dinner… and it was good! (A nice spicy bowl of deliciousness).

A gift: A few days ago my co-worker B introduced my tastebuds to an orgasmic experience. You’re going to scoff and say that there’s no way a burger can be so divine, but the hamburgers at Brozers are heaven. B tells me that there are even better burgers in Tokyo (one that costs $20 somewhere in Omote-Sando), but I don’t believe it. He took me to Brozers in Ningyocho twice after work, and they were closed. For some insane reason, they close at 9pm. So, we decided to head there for lunch on a free day, and folks it was well worth the wait. We ordered two burgers and split them (a bacon cheese burger and an avocado burger), and I’m thinking we should’ve ordered three. The beef was medium, juicy, packed between freshly-baked brioche bread, and served with slightly seasoned fries and pickles. One word- yum.

* The burger was bigger than my head, and y’all know I have a big head.

* I dug into the fries before the picture was taken… did I mention that it was also lightly coated in bbq sauce and mayonnaise? My god, the memory.

A gift: On Christmas Eve, four of my housemates and I bumrushed R‘s room and watched Love Actually. My friend Viajera dislikes Love Actually and actually wrote that in one of her blog posts, but it’s my favorite Christmas movie. If you haven’t seen it, why the hell not? It pertains to different kinds of love (some situations realized, and others unrealized), friendship and lasting relationships (all to a fantastic soundtrack). Love is the message, the carrier’s are gorgeous and funny and sweet. Friends, let’s make the remainder of this year and next year and all of them after that about love. “We don’t need no more trouble, what we need is love” – Bob Marley (No More Trouble).

A gift: On Christmas Day, I came home at 7p.m., and the house was already packed with guests.  There were about thirty-five people here, all festive, happy and full of high spirits. Literally and figuratively. My housemates and I had asked our friends to bring an inexpensive gift (maximum 1000 yen) for a gift exchange.

There were gifts galore, some people had bought two. We played musical gifts (just like musical chairs), drank a fair amount of alcohol (considering most of us were working the next day), and thoroughly enjoyed our Borderless House vibe.

* Our Santas

 * This guy is amazing… he knew every lyric to MJ’s Thriller… even “Baby Be Mine” (my favorite).

* It’s not easy being Santa…

Gifts: Family/old friends/new friends/shelter/employment/food/health/moderate temperatures in winter/the internet/music/youtube/flowers/chocolate/the moon/countless blessings/my friend Armin’s surprise package/ my winter clothes arriving just in time/daily confrontations with beauty/love/love/love.

Love,

Val

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“Yes mi fren,” an “All in one” Christmas

Dear Friends,

There isn’t  a medley created that could better encapsulate/capture/comprehend every mood/aspect/facet of my December like Bob Marley’s “All in One.” The All in One medley includes: Bend Down Low, Nice Time, One Love, Simmer Down, It Hurts to be Alone, Lonesome Feeling, Love and Affection, Put It On, and  Duppy Conqueror.

Bend Down Low- Bend down low, let me tell you what I know.

My last student tonight, Noriyuki, was such a wonderful, vibrant man, that I had to introduce the word “energetic” into his level 1 vocabulary. He practically jumped after every utterance, and even my two Red Bulls weren’t enough to keep up with the energy that belied his years. Not once did I look at my watch, or daydream, or fantasize about anything (shoes/men/french fries). Toward the end of class, he asked me where I was from and what I was doing for the holidays. I told him I was from New York, via Kingston, and then I drew him a map because he thought Jamaica was in South America. As a new arrivant to Tokyo, it didn’t make sense to me to go home for the holidays; the plane ticket, plus the airfare, and the requisite gifts would’ve been an expense that just didn’t seem logical. However next year, my Christmas season will be filled with warm beach days, rum-soaked fruit cake, crimson sorrel liberally laced with rum, all night movie marathons in bed with my mother, parties with friends, lazy afternoons, and ackee and saltfish breakfasts on my mother’s terrace.

Nice Time- Long time we no have no nice time, do you think about that?

It’s been almost three weeks since our last Borderless House party. The last party we had at the house had me so done in, and uncharacteristically embarrassed by my behavior, that no alcohol has passed my lips since. However, my housemates and I decided that it just wouldn’t do to let Christmas day slip by uncelebrated. Un-tequilaed, un-beered, un-saked.

My housemate Yuki has said to me that “Life is short, so just enjoy it and don’t think about small things.” She’s not only sweet, but so right. Let the past be in the past. Three sentences ago, I was embarrassed by my behavior three weeks ago; now, I am no longer.

One Love- One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel alright.

My Japanese housemates will be in the house as it’s New Year’s and not Christmas that’s a big deal in Tokyo, and my fellow American, Smith, is sticking around too. I’ve been informed that Christmas is huge for lovers (kinda like the Japanese Valentine’s Day), and it’s also a big shopping and “Sales” day. Though, I’d like to know, which day in Tokyo isn’t big for shopping? (The stores are always overcrowded and people use money like toilet paper). For Christmas, we’ve invited about fifteen to eighteen people and planned a potluck dinner/games/drinks/all-around debauchery and  a promise from me that I won’t molest anyone.

Simmer Down- Simmer down, you’re licking too hard.

I don’t have too much to say, but I was simmering and stewing over a situation that I can’t control and upon my deathbed in 100 years won’t be a big deal at all. Okay, I’ll tell you: That same damned attraction to a guy that I’m trying my hardest to not like/to avoid/to resist. Futile. To reiterate, “Zinsei wa mizikai”– “Life is short,” I’m just gonna live/love.

Love and Affection- This one’s called true love and affection.

Every day in Tokyo is a good day. Two days ago my friend Todd sent me an email asking me why I like Tokyo so much. I’m not even sure if I’ve answered him yet; and if I haven’t, I’ll copy and paste the reason that I’ll write here. I’ve visited and had passing fancies with quite a few cities, but Tokyo’s the total package. Some places have great food, some have great people, others have great tourist sites and cultural events; some have great parks, history and fabulous fashion, some have hot men and nice clubs, Tokyo has it all and more. It’s a city’s city. The only real problem that I have with Tokyo is that the trains stop running way too early.

Japanese cuisine has always been one of my favorites, but I never realized how limited my choices were/ how much I was missing out on. Looking back, I see how criminal it is that many Japanese restaurants in NY only offer sushi, sashimi and tempura. (C’mon!) Japanese customer service is  a whole new level of outstanding/polite; some of my expat compatriots get annoyed or frustrated by it. As a Jamaican and a New Yorker, it surprises and thrills me, and I can’t get enough of it. I’ve never been to a store, or a bank, or any customer-oriented place where I wasn’t immediately greeted upon entering. Every time. When one leaves any store, the employees thank you for frequenting their store, even if nothing’s purchased. I worked in retail for enough years to know that in NY, we’d not only actively avoid the customers, but roll our eyes if they entered too close to closing time, or break time, or almost anytime. The point is, I don’t care if the attitudes portrayed here are perceived as “fake” or not, I appreciate it…. love it. Let’s not even get into a discussion about the hotness in men/clothes/overall “style,” that’s for another day, but as I’ve told my mother I’m unsure of how any future city will compare, since no past city can compare. I understand why I’ve met so many people who’ve come here for a year or two and have been here for a decade or more (that’d be my entire workplace actually).

Duppy Conqueror- Yes mi friend, we deh a street again.

Friends, we’re here– less than five days to Christmas. With or without family nearby, we’re going to create that “family feeling.” We’re going to be kind to each other, like we should be all-year round; we’re going to show “love and affection;” we’re going to eat and drink ’til our “bellies full;” we’re going to remember those who aren’t with us, because they’re separated by distance and remember those whom we still love and are no longer with us. I’ll raise my glass to all of that.

And the sums from whence the parts came:

Cheers,

Valerie

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People (Unreal life)

“You Make Me Forget My Thoughts”… I Wish!

Dear Friends,

It’s 3:55am. As usual, I’m suffering from insomnia (http://lettersfromval.com/2011/06/13/your-friend-insomnia/ ). So, what have I been doing? Watching eighties music videos on Youtube of course. I’ve already watched the Dexy Runners, Janet Jackson, Jermaine Stewart, The Jets, Al B. Sure, Jody Watley and am currently on Tiffany’s “All This Time” …memories are forever. Since you know that Youtube takes you by the hand to the next video, you know that Debbie Gibson is the next selection, right? Yes, “Foolish Beat” (I’m not ashamed– I should print that on a t-shirt).

Last night, my first dream in a series of snatches was that I was walking with my friend Tanique by a river. I remember saying to her, “I need your help.” Sadly, I have no recollection of what she said, but I know she told me something that made sense. She’s just one of those people that makes sense– stable (the very opposite of me). I’ve known her as long as I’ve known myself and would listen to anything she said (well, listen, but not necessarily take the advice). The last time I spoke to her, she told me to get a phone and start looking for an apartment.

Maybe, if I fall asleep right now, I can re-dream and hear her words again… Damn it, I’m still awake. (Oh, it could be the two Red Bulls I had at work this evening. My co-worker SL called me “Whitney,” because he said I looked all “crackheadish” licking the last drops of Red Bull from the can). What he said was actually a little worse, but I cleaned it up for my mother who’s reading and may not have heard the term crack whore before.

A few posts ago, I told you guys that I had crushes on two younger guys. Every time, I say that I have a crush I feel like I’m fifteen… fourteen… thirteen. Now, I’m here to tell you that both those attractions have died untimely deaths. They’re floating face-up in the water, bloated and ugly. And get this, remember the German guy I told you about in the Roppongi letter (http://lettersfromval.com/2011/12/01/nuthing-but-a-g-thang/)? Well, I’d gotten his number, so I called him to meet up with me for a drink before he goes back to Berlin for the holidays. My other coworker B, on our walk to the train station, told me to forget the crushes by finding a new guy; I completely agreed with him, hence the phone call. Please see the email, Mr. Berlin sent me after our phone conversation this evening:

Here’s my phone email. Seriously, thanks for calling/keeping in touch. I think it could be fun to meet up but give me some time to sort things out… and… get a phone.

Dude. Let’s examine the two places where his email went wrong: 1) I suggested that we get together for a drink, and he tells me he has to “sort things out.” What is there to sort out– Vodka or gin? Olives or not? Straight or on the rocks? Geez. 2) “I think it could be fun to meet up”… of course it would be fun to meet up, didn’t you see that I’m a ball of fun?

The worse thing about getting older is that the tolerance level goes way down. Should I blame my annoyance on an overdose of taurine, lack of sleep and hormones? The one thing in his email that made sense was “get a phone;” one of my resolutions for 2012 is to get a phone, though 2011 will end phone-less.

Okay, it’s 4:23am. I’m going to “cool it now” and try to sleep… after just one or two more videos.

Notes: a) These boys couldn’t be cuter if they tried. b) Please notice that Mike, Bobby and Ricky’s “little ladies” are about 30yrs old.

Later,

Val


					
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As a Child

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. –  1 Corinthians 13:11

1) This has been a quiet week. It took seven whole days to recover from last Sunday’s house party. I can’t even think about any form of alcohol touching my lips at the moment; everytime I think about drinking I feel a bit nauseous. Oh, last Monday was not a day to remember, as much as Sunday night was a night to remember. Not only are the memories of my hangover lingering, but photos have popped up of a very inebriated, and therefore “affectionate” V sitting on the laps of my housemates and others.  Remembering only seventy-five percent of the night disturbs me a little, so no drinks for me until our Christmas house party. (Then it’s on).

a) I went to an izakaya in Shibuya with M, J, and R a few nights ago and only drank milk (in case you don’t remember what an izakaya is: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Izakaya).  When I ordered my first glass of milk, the waiter repeated it three times, “Milka?” He asked it once in amusement, once in surprise, once in pity. (At least it wasn’t cranberry juice). We had a grand time at the hole in the wall in Shibuya; we ordered two four cheese pizzas, oysters, fried shrimp salad, a plate of sausages, and fish and chips (fries here are amazing).

b) One of my days off was spent entirely in bed, undercover (and under covers, with the heat on 75 degrees), eating a personal-sized, jalapeno and anchovy-topped pizza, watching The Biggest Loser. The day was so wrong and at the same time, ridiculously right. After inhaling my pizza, I fell into a carb-induced coma, and didn’t reawaken until 6p.m. (I should be ashamed, but I’m not). Shame arose when I tried to get rid of the pizza box in secret and my housemate RT saw me with it. “Pizza again, Valerie?” he asked with a tone that I’ll classify as disbelief mixed with unbelief.

I should mention here that my housemates never eat, only drink, and have recently placed a scale in the living room. Yes, a  pink scale is in the living room beside the couch. I should also mention that the men in my house weigh less than most of my female friends everywhere. I don’t know if all Japanese men are weight conscious, so I won’t make a sweeping generalization, but my housemates surely are. Let’s get back to the pizza, why should I be ashamed to eat the most perfect food: bread, cheese, and tomato sauce? Pizza has been nothing but good to me, and I shall remain faithful to it.

2) When I was 14, I ate a medium, Dominos, cheese pizza everyday for a week. Alone. Towards the end of the week, I ran out of money and paid the delivery man entirely in coins. Ten dollars in coins. I don’t have to tell you that he wasn’t very pleased, and warned me to “never do it again.”  When I ran out of my allowance and all the coins in the jar in my mother’s closet, I grew desperate. I needed ten dollars to feed my pizza a day habit,  but my mother refused to shell out anymore cash for pizza. So, I did what any feening, pizza addict would do, I decided to make my own pizza from scratch. How hard could it be, right? Wrong. I got out the flour, water and tomato sauce, and started slapping the dough like I’d seen the guys in the pizzeria do it. I kneaded for a maximum of three minutes, then I threw it into the air. It never came down (there may still be pizza dough on that ceiling in Long Island). My mother gave me ten dollars that night.

3) I’m a woman who hasn’t put away childish things. Not even a little. (I’m not ashamed).

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Match Tales Part 3 (Final)

Previously posted on Vox.

Monday:

It was with great hesitancy that I walked down Sixth Avenue to meet up with Guy #2. I fought the feeling of sending an email to cancel, because that’s something the old Valerie would do. “What’s the harm?” I asked myself. My first blind date was with a man in love with his cat, but that didn’t mean that my second blind date would also be a failure. If  nothing else, I’d have a beer, maybe a new friend, and surely a funny story to tell my friends about the oldest guy who contacted me on Match. Well, I would’ve had a story, if the guy had shown up. He stood me up. I swear.

Now, somebody explain this to me. Why did he contact me, go through the rigamarole, make plans to meet, and then not show? I, once again, as a traitor of my race, showed up on time. Truth be told I was early. Gasp. I scanned Markt, he wasn’t there. Markt wasn’t full: a couple of gay men, an old lady loudly sipping soup, and two girls going to a charity event and speaking very loudly about it.

Five minutes go by. Ten minutes. A guy in a striped shirt walks up to me. I thought, “Hey, he’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Hi, I’m Bill.”

The minute Bill opened his mouth, it was obvious that he was as fruity as my mother’s Christmas cake. Clearly, not my date.  So of course in typical “this is my life,” gay Bill and I made a connection. He bought me a Duvel and I told him my whole Match.com drama. (Okay, there’s no drama, it’s only been a week, but still…). Bill voiced disbelief that my blind date didn’t even call the bar to say that he couldn’t make it. Bill, like me, agrees that the only excuse that can be accepted is that the meetup guy’s trapped under the tire of an M9 bus. If he contacts me, he better be missing a leg and his pinky finger too.

Bill was sweet as hell. Problem is: I’m not a gay man! (I feel I need I need to shout that to the universe). If I were a gay man, I’d still be in Chelsea with Bill, and the other gay men who gravitated toward us. If I were a gay man, right now I’d be having fun in a bathroom stall, maybe not; the point is, the night was unfulfilling. Actually, that’s not true; I had more fun tonight with Bill and my Duvel than I did yesterday with Catman and my runny eggs. I’ll soldier on.

Monday night (11:08p.m.)

Um, just a note (albeit an embarrassing one), I checked my Match mail to see if the oldest, hopefully amputated guy had left a note explaining why he had failed to show for our meetup. In my inbox was this message:

Looking forward to meeting you. I only know one or two bars in Union Square– but I see you know the area better than I do (at least in terms of bars :). I’m glad that you got to pick a place you like. See you Tuesday at 6:30p.m.

Ted

Tuesday?! I garnered sympathy, pats on the back, and even a free beer, because I had the wrong day. Unfreakinbelievable. Well, at least now I kow the story to run when I’d like a comped Belgian beer.

The End

In the Bible, the number seven symbolizes perfection. Perfect, because I feel pretty biblical most days. I’ve been tested like Job, been wayward like the prodigal son, have lots of coats like Joseph, and died and was resurrected like Jesus (well, not exactly, but had a lot of fun one night, and was also under anesthesia three times).

As the forgotten daughter of Lamentations, it’s fitting to end my Match escapade seven days from the day I started with a big lament. I must deactivate my Match account pronto. Enough is enough. You might think that I have hardly given Match a fair chance, but I have. I have! Did you have to listen to a tedious conversation about cat pus? Did you take one hundred minutes to look “natural” on a date that lasted ninety minutes? Did you have to listen to a conversation about social imperialsim versus communism? And, did you have to listen to someone speak so fast that the speaker swallowed half his words while drinking chamomile tea? Yes friends, chamomile freaking tea. Who under ninety drinks chamomile tea in public?

On Tuesday at 6:30p.m., I met my date Talkalot Ted at the corner of 17th and 6th. I waited as Talkalot Ted chained his bicycle to a pole, then proceeded to wipe grease all over his cargo pants. He greeted me with, “Hi Sweetie, I’m unemployed,” hence his moniker. (Okay papi, did I even ask you to pay my rent? Why would you tell me you have no job in the first thirty seconds? And, why are you calling me Sweetie?).

It struck me that Talkalot Ted was closer to my father’s age than mine. He was damn near close to my grandfather’s age. I’ve never met my grandfathers, maybe he was one of my grandfathers? Talkalot Ted must’ve been in college when JFK was shot, (maybe even Lincoln?). Dude was old. The clues: the age spots all over his hands, the personal references to things that took place in WWI,  his speeches that began with, “People your age.”

I saw his age on his profile, but I didn’t think he would look so ancient. I also think he lied and made himself forty years younger. Maybe, he just didn’t age well or maybe he’s a big, fat liar like Tom Arnold… “Did you eat that last slice of pound cake Tom?” “Um, no honey (big swallow), I didn’t.”

Early this afternoon, I told VP that I’d left a message on Talkalot Ted’s voicemail, and I was a bit worried because his voice was shaky. His message sounded like this, “H.i.i.i.i.i.i.i y..o.u.v.e reeeeeaaached Ted, leeeeeave a …” I wondered why his voicemail had suddenly cut off, but now I know his message is incomplete because he fell asleep before he could finish recording. Talkalot Ted, the poet/filmmaker/communist, who woke up fifteen minutes before our meetup, and loves black women because of all the years he lived in Kenya, was the straw that broke my Match.com back. I can’t do it anymore.

Our last words:

Talkalot Ted: How much do you weigh?

Me: Now, there’s a question. Somewhere in the hundreds.

Talkalot Ted: You should put the exact number and your height on your profile.

Me: Why?

Talkalot Ted: You’d meet more men that way.

Me: Really now.

Talkalot Ted: Well, if you’re looking for a guy who’s into that sort of thing.

Me: What sort of thing?

(Talkalot Ted takes a printed copy of my profile photo out of his bookbag… yes, a ninety year old with a bookbag)

Talkalot Ted: Look at your thighs in this pic, they look big. They don’t look big in person.

Me: Yea, thanks Ted.

Wow. I’m done. These Matchers sure know how to charm a woman don’t they? My Match.com experience has been chamomile tea, “I’m unemployed,” cat’s sebaceous cysts, “you don’t have big  thighs,” and “my cat’s my soulmate.” Friends, this is a community I’d pay $39 to flee from.

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Match Tales Part 2

Previously posted on Vox.

 

My Mother’s Advice

I just checked my online dating profile to see what the heck I’d written, because the responses I’m getting are outrageous. Every single response involves exercise, hiking, biking, and “fun.” My simple two-line profile states:

Hopefully, this Match.com experience will lead to fun, new experiences, travel, hiking, biking and all other sorts of spontaneous activities, with someone who’s determined to enjoy life. It’s good to explore people places, etc.

Okay, I see the two places where I went wrong: “It’s good to explore people,” and “etc.” I should’ve known the word etcetera would’ve been a mistake. My etcetera means watching ducks in Central Park and eating Baskin Robbins pistachio ice-cream; however, quite a few guys have interpreted my etcetera to mean “Let’s oil up and play home gladiator.” No no no.

Equally as outrageous as the Match responses are the responses from my family and friends. I can’t do my mother’s response justice by paraphrasing, so I’m going to print her email in its entirety:

dearest miss val,

just read your latest posting and decided to post a comment, but it just would not accept it, so here goes. of course, this is in the nature of another annoying, unsolicited comment. number one, hire a private detective to thoroughly check out all applicants and their mothers.

don’t cook for anyone until after the first one hundred dates, just so you don’t seem desperate. i found this little nugget in an O magazine so it must be gospel.

reconsider people who you have known and like you; their attractiveness quotient may have increased while you were not paying attention, or they may have friends to introduce you to.

and last of all, pray.

good luck sweetheart.

My mother’s the best. A tad crazy, but the best. She thinks that I can afford a private detective. She thinks I’d cook for someone when I haven’t cooked for myself in over a year. She thinks a random guy I know may like me (why haven’t we yet dated?!). She thinks I’ll still be alive after a hundred dates. She thinks people grow more attractive with time. Maybe, just maybe, my mother’s right. She has been once or twice before. I don’t pray nearly as much as I should, maybe I’ll pray on this, and it’ll be answered.

The other responses from family and friends:

1.

Father: What site did you join? Lonelysingles.com? A change is gonna come.com?

(He then told me that he saw an ad in the newspaper for Christian singles, but immediately thought that Christian singles wouldn’t work for me because of my lifestyle.

Me: What lifestyle?

Father: Yu can see yuhself inna church wid yuh drinkin and pahtyin? Dem wouldn’t tek yuh.

Me: If I had such a lifestyle, would I need Match?

2.

TH: You flirt like a barmaid. Have fun, but don’t sleep with anyone until after the fifth date. Everybody on Match is sleeping with everyone else on Match.

Me: Does that mean that if I hook up with one person on Match, I’d be a semi-swinger?

3.

DV (sent an email), and all it said was “Match.com???? Really?!!”

I loved DV’s really with the question mark and two exclamations. Yes, really! It would be impossible to choose from such a pool of diverse guys in the real world, unless one went to a bar every night. Not only is it too expensive to drink it up every night, but it’d be boring as well. And, boring as hell. Sadly, my passion for drinking has been snuffed out in the last two years (I do miss the old V that could knock ‘em back).

In less than a week, I have two meet-ups with straight men. Really. As much as I adore gay men, this is a nice change of pace. It’ll be fun to get one more meet-up in before Friday, maybe the Jewish guy who has a thing for tall women (aka “The Short One?”).

“It’s been a long long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come.” – Sam Cooke

 

Unfreakinbelievable

 

Sunday: I was on time for the meet-up. I’m never on time. Punctuality is a disease that black people never catch, and shy away from like people in the Bible shied away from lepers. One never ever hears “Oh Leroy’s got the punctuality,” or “The party started on time, because Marcia came down with the punctuality.” Nope. Punctuality for black people is a pretty-sounding “p” word, with deadly consequences, because it means immediate banishment from the community. I’ve never met a black person who wasn’t disgusted by punctuality. The punctual person at any black event, aka the white person, is the one person who must endure many cut-eyes, see the host/ess in shorts and or rollers, and sit in a corner with warm lemonade while the ice freezes. Blacks can deal with hypertension and diabetes, but punctuality cannot be endured.

I belabor the point that I was on time, because my first meet-up was late. I waited at the bar, watching the door for every slim guy that walked in. I waited and waited, and I’ll say one thing: the guy who walked through the door and greeted me at Marcos and Pepes yesterday was not the guy I saw on Match.com. The guy I met at Marcos and Pepes looked okay, but he left half his hair in the car. Or, maybe he left his hair in the picture that he posted on Match. Or maybe he left his hair to babysit his cat; the cat, named after a rock star that he spoke about for forty-five minutes. My issue isn’t with baldness; my issue is with posting visual lies. It’d be like me posting a photo of Nia Long as my profile photo.

I know I don’t go out very often, but when did a cat’s sebaceous cysts become brunch conversation? Have I been out of circulation so long that I didn’t know it was now fun to talk about cats with pus? I’ve longed to be Judy Jetson many times, but never more than I did yesterday, when my meet-up started talking about his “soulmate”– the cat. Where in God’s name was my transport capsule?

He let me know that he told his cat very early on in the relationship that “my home is your home.” Thus, he allows “the last mammal” he’ll ever own to shred his possessions. Yikes. The high point of the meet-up wasn’t my runny eggs and toast served in mushroom soup, or the fact that cat-man was only interested in himself, or the fact that I asked him how old his cat was in human years, and he bit my head off, but the fact that he was oblivious. Completely oblivious.

How does one put lipgloss back in the tube? I need the lipgloss I wasted for Thursday’s holiday party. The worst part was that I spent more time trying to fit into my new jeans than I did at the meet-up.

We ended our meet-up with cat-man kissing me on the cheek, and asking if we could see each other again upon my return to the U.S. Little does he know that a mysterious hurricane, unbeknownst to all Americans, the Weather Channel, and CNN, will sweep through Kingston. Even more mysteriously, only my passport will be destroyed in the hurricane. Oh yes, and all my fingers, so that I can never send emails again. Freaky.

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