Is it just me or does the world seem to be filled with stalker-types all of a sudden? No, I'm not (necessarily) talking about the celebrity-stalkers, those who have never met their prey, who are simply deranged and delusional. I'm talking about people we meet, possibly even like, and then can't get rid of. And most of the women I know have had one!
My first experience with this sort of nuttiness cannot technically be called a stalker; he's just wacky in that same sort of way. I met him when I was visiting New Orleans and some friends and I wandered into an Oriental rug shop that it turned out he owned. He was friendly - and gorgeous - and we all had a nice chat that afternoon. Well, the friend who lived there returned to the store and went out with him a few times. And, for some reason that I still can't fathom, gave him my phone number. I lived six hours away but he began calling me. He seemed nice enough, though I didn't understand why he was calling, so we'd chat when he reached me. And then I moved to NYC. He got my number from my parents and kept calling. Okay. No big deal. When I moved again - and again - he kept calling them for my number (no reason for me to tell them not to give it to him, right?). Well, finally, he says he's coming to NY on business and wants to take me to dinner. He shows up at my apartment on the appointed evening, looks around at my tiny studio in disgust, and tells me that a moving van will show up the next day to load all my belongings, we'll drive to New Orleans the following day where I'll move in with him and manage a dress shop he's buying. Needless to say, I died laughing! How hilarious, right? Only ... he wasn't joking!
Since he realized that in America you can't just order women to do things like this (he's from Pakistan), he spent the rest of the evening trying to convince me that this was a great idea. My favorite argument was that, since we weren't going to marry, only live together, I wouldn't have to convert to Islam! I suppose I should have just shoved him out the door, rather than head off to dinner with him, but think of what an amusing conversation I would have missed. He left - alone - two days later and I never heard from him again.
The creepiest example for me is my "British stalker". We met when my parents and I were taking a train into Howarth (a village in England's Yorkshire). The train went exactly five miles and only ran on weekends and he was a conductor. On Monday, when we were trying to return to London, and realized that the train wouldn't run again until the following Saturday, we ran into him and he guided us to the necessary bus. We had some extra time, so my father asked him to join us for fish and chips, then, with his usual annoying Southern friendliness, suggested that the BS and I exchange addresses and become pen pals.
I didn't mind writing back and forth with him, but then he came to visit. He stayed for a week in my tiny NY apartment that I shared with a roommate - and mentioned that he could easily stay a second week. I found that unacceptable! For starters (besides the tiny apartment, the roommate) he didn't talk! He was the proverbial man of few words, all the while looking at me expectantly to carry on an entire conversation. It also became clear that he had come to America with the idea of sweeping me (wordlessly, apparently) off my feet and eventually marrying me. (I had a boyfriend. He was no help. He met my BS once, sensed zero threat, and disappeared for the rest of the visit.)
This was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, but then he came to America again. With no notice. (And this wasn't someone who had money to burn on international flights. Or even international calls, back when even basic long distance was expensive.) When he called to say he was in town and wanted to get together, I explained that I was in the middle of law school finals and socializing wasn't really on my agenda. His response? To tell me that he would be in his hotel room, waiting for me to call him, hoping I could find time to see him. Really?? He came to America to sit in a hotel room waiting for me to call??
He'd always sent roses with some frequency, and now I refused them when they came. I screened my calls and refused to pick up when he spoke. Then I moved and left no forwarding address.
Skip about ten years and I get a call at work, then another at home, from my BS, asking if I were "the" woman he'd once known. Said he'd been using the British and American Embassies to track me down!! Creepy? I think so! Of course, I lied through my teeth and told him that no, I was NOT that woman, I'd never been to England and I'd never heard of him before. I also told him that if I were that woman, his behavior would frighten me and I suggested he give up his quest. He recently tried to "friend" me on Facebook. Thank goodness for ignore buttons!
I realize how hard it can be to accept that someone isn't interested in you. Just so you know, though, there are clues and I'm here to provide some of them. (Isn't that helpful of me?) When she moves away and doesn't bother to let you know, that's a clue. When she's never - once - called you, though you've called her 50 times, that's a clue. And when she denies having ever even met you, that's a clue. I'm just saying.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Maternal Instincts
Remember Furbies? Those little creatures who had some type of computer chip which allowed them to learn to repeat what was said to them, to snore, to laugh? When they came out, I had to have one! In fact, thanks to friends and family, I ended up with three. This was even better; you could have them play together and they'd talk to each other! Problem is, you actually had to spend time with them, talking to them, playing with them, for them to "learn" these social skills. It turns out that my attention span for caring for Furbies is extremely limited. The question is: Why should this surprise me?
I've never pretended to be a maternal type. As a small child, my sister and I had the requisite number of baby dolls. She carried them about, cooed to them, changed their diapers, pretended to bottle-feed them. The only way I ever played with them was to line them all up on the bed, declare the bed an adoption agency, and make my sister fill out paperwork so that she could take them home.
When it came to non-baby dolls, I was a bit better. I did actually love my Barbie dolls. Not that my sister and I could happily play together with those, either. She thought dressing and undressing them was a great deal of fun. Really??!! As the older sister, I nipped that plan in the bud! No, our Barbie dolls had lives. We sent them off to college, had them marry (in full ceremonies, using the Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer, and had them throw parties. (Periodically, I would also insist on gathering all the dolls together so that we could take up all the marbles, which we used for money, and redistribute them equally. Non-maternal, AND a Socialist - at eight.)
In my entire life, I have never voluntarily held a baby (and only involuntarily once), have never baby-sat or changed a diaper. When people show me pictures of their babies, I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. So how did people get the idea that I'm maternal?
This doesn't happen with my friends, mind you. Or if it does, that notion lasts about as long as a cactus in a flood. They know better! At work, however, other providers are constantly sending me clients who need "mothering". They say, "Oh, you're so nice, you'll be perfect for them!" Or, "They really touched my heart and I know they'll touch yours." All the while, sending me clients who lack the capacity or the will to do therapeutic work. Clients who need me to metaphorically pat them on the heads and put band-aids on their wounds.
Don't get me wrong. I can be extremely empathetic. With adults. But if, emotionally, someone is still in kindergarten, I want to put them up on a high shelf with my Furbies and ignore them.
So please - if you ever get the urge to introduce me to someone who needs mothering, squelch it. Don't be hurt or insulted - this is my issue, not yours. I just don't want you to be shocked to learn that I don't dry eyes, wipe runny noses or even make chicken soup. I admire and respect mothers and mother-wanna-be's. Just think of me as the eccentric aunt who doesn't show up until the child's twelfth birthday!
I've never pretended to be a maternal type. As a small child, my sister and I had the requisite number of baby dolls. She carried them about, cooed to them, changed their diapers, pretended to bottle-feed them. The only way I ever played with them was to line them all up on the bed, declare the bed an adoption agency, and make my sister fill out paperwork so that she could take them home.
When it came to non-baby dolls, I was a bit better. I did actually love my Barbie dolls. Not that my sister and I could happily play together with those, either. She thought dressing and undressing them was a great deal of fun. Really??!! As the older sister, I nipped that plan in the bud! No, our Barbie dolls had lives. We sent them off to college, had them marry (in full ceremonies, using the Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer, and had them throw parties. (Periodically, I would also insist on gathering all the dolls together so that we could take up all the marbles, which we used for money, and redistribute them equally. Non-maternal, AND a Socialist - at eight.)
In my entire life, I have never voluntarily held a baby (and only involuntarily once), have never baby-sat or changed a diaper. When people show me pictures of their babies, I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. So how did people get the idea that I'm maternal?
This doesn't happen with my friends, mind you. Or if it does, that notion lasts about as long as a cactus in a flood. They know better! At work, however, other providers are constantly sending me clients who need "mothering". They say, "Oh, you're so nice, you'll be perfect for them!" Or, "They really touched my heart and I know they'll touch yours." All the while, sending me clients who lack the capacity or the will to do therapeutic work. Clients who need me to metaphorically pat them on the heads and put band-aids on their wounds.
Don't get me wrong. I can be extremely empathetic. With adults. But if, emotionally, someone is still in kindergarten, I want to put them up on a high shelf with my Furbies and ignore them.
So please - if you ever get the urge to introduce me to someone who needs mothering, squelch it. Don't be hurt or insulted - this is my issue, not yours. I just don't want you to be shocked to learn that I don't dry eyes, wipe runny noses or even make chicken soup. I admire and respect mothers and mother-wanna-be's. Just think of me as the eccentric aunt who doesn't show up until the child's twelfth birthday!
Thursday, October 20, 2011
WTF
Usually when I sit down to write, I have a topic in mind. Something I've thought about for a while, something that I either find meaningful or humorous or both. But all that is going through my mind right now is What the Fuck.
Given my propensity for introspection, (or my propensity for being lazy - it's certainly possible that I spend so much time analyzing things only because I can do it while sitting still) I had to sit here and try to figure out what brain cells are generating this thought and why they aren't being more productive, doing something like making out a grocery list or solving today's Sudoku. And that's when it hit me.
After four years of not dating, four years of really not wanting to date, I've developed an interest in someone. Okay, it may just be a crush, but this is the first time in four years I've considered the possibility that my feelings might be more than a crush. I mean, this is scary stuff, guys!! On its own, that would be worthy of at least a couple of WTF moments. But it gets worse.
First, he's absolutely not my type - physically. He's bald, graying, and a bit paunchy. None of this is awful stuff, but I'm one of those I'll-fight-aging-with-my-dying-breath types, and I tend to like men who are slim and at least color their hair when those gray hairs begin to appear. So it makes sense that it's just a temporary crush and next time I see him I'll think, "D'oh! Of course I'm not really attracted to him!"
Except that I found him oddly attractive the first time I met him. Something to do with his openness, charm, and gentleness. Geez! Could I possibly be willing to toss aside my shallowness for this??
Next, he is totally the wrong zodiac sign for me. His chart, in fact, is all earth, air and water - not a hint of fire! I'm mostly fire, with a bit of earth and a little water - no air at all. So, you're probably thinking (unless you're thinking, "Hey, dipshit - who cares about that stuff?!"), we could compliment each other - fill in the missing spaces and all that. Maybe. But it seems more likely that we'd eventually find that we don't speak the same language - or inhabit the same planet.
Then - the coup de grace - he eats meat. As a dedicated pescetarian, the thought of innocent animals giving up their lives so I can eat them, when there are plenty of other things that will provide me nourishment without causing pain and death, causes me anguish. It's not just that I like animals; I see eating them as being akin to murder - a slaughter of the living simply because they can't defend themselves. Could I actually date someone who participates in this debacle? Just because he doesn't personally pull a trigger or slit a throat?
Okay. Now that we have all the reasons why I can't possibly be truly interested in this guy, I'm left with the disconcerting fact that I spend way too many daytime hours thinking about him. He's even been invading my nighttime hours - popping up in my dreams - in intimate ways!!
So - as incredible as it seems - I decide that maybe the sensible thing is to just see where this goes - find out if we could possibly actually have something real between us or if my senses will return and I'll revert to my normal hermit-like existence. But I can't do that!! Just about the time I had that monumental epipheny - that feeling that it might be worth it to explore this - he shows up with another woman on his arm!! Even worse - she seems like a lovely, interesting, intelligent woman. I ask you - is this fair??
I find myself attracted to someone after swearing off men for good. After going through all of the excellent reasons why I should run in the opposite direction, I listen to my heart (or whatever organ set me up for this) and decide I should check this out. And he's - poof - off the market. Really?!? What the Fuck???
Given my propensity for introspection, (or my propensity for being lazy - it's certainly possible that I spend so much time analyzing things only because I can do it while sitting still) I had to sit here and try to figure out what brain cells are generating this thought and why they aren't being more productive, doing something like making out a grocery list or solving today's Sudoku. And that's when it hit me.
After four years of not dating, four years of really not wanting to date, I've developed an interest in someone. Okay, it may just be a crush, but this is the first time in four years I've considered the possibility that my feelings might be more than a crush. I mean, this is scary stuff, guys!! On its own, that would be worthy of at least a couple of WTF moments. But it gets worse.
First, he's absolutely not my type - physically. He's bald, graying, and a bit paunchy. None of this is awful stuff, but I'm one of those I'll-fight-aging-with-my-dying-breath types, and I tend to like men who are slim and at least color their hair when those gray hairs begin to appear. So it makes sense that it's just a temporary crush and next time I see him I'll think, "D'oh! Of course I'm not really attracted to him!"
Except that I found him oddly attractive the first time I met him. Something to do with his openness, charm, and gentleness. Geez! Could I possibly be willing to toss aside my shallowness for this??
Next, he is totally the wrong zodiac sign for me. His chart, in fact, is all earth, air and water - not a hint of fire! I'm mostly fire, with a bit of earth and a little water - no air at all. So, you're probably thinking (unless you're thinking, "Hey, dipshit - who cares about that stuff?!"), we could compliment each other - fill in the missing spaces and all that. Maybe. But it seems more likely that we'd eventually find that we don't speak the same language - or inhabit the same planet.
Then - the coup de grace - he eats meat. As a dedicated pescetarian, the thought of innocent animals giving up their lives so I can eat them, when there are plenty of other things that will provide me nourishment without causing pain and death, causes me anguish. It's not just that I like animals; I see eating them as being akin to murder - a slaughter of the living simply because they can't defend themselves. Could I actually date someone who participates in this debacle? Just because he doesn't personally pull a trigger or slit a throat?
Okay. Now that we have all the reasons why I can't possibly be truly interested in this guy, I'm left with the disconcerting fact that I spend way too many daytime hours thinking about him. He's even been invading my nighttime hours - popping up in my dreams - in intimate ways!!
So - as incredible as it seems - I decide that maybe the sensible thing is to just see where this goes - find out if we could possibly actually have something real between us or if my senses will return and I'll revert to my normal hermit-like existence. But I can't do that!! Just about the time I had that monumental epipheny - that feeling that it might be worth it to explore this - he shows up with another woman on his arm!! Even worse - she seems like a lovely, interesting, intelligent woman. I ask you - is this fair??
I find myself attracted to someone after swearing off men for good. After going through all of the excellent reasons why I should run in the opposite direction, I listen to my heart (or whatever organ set me up for this) and decide I should check this out. And he's - poof - off the market. Really?!? What the Fuck???
Monday, October 10, 2011
Kissing Ken
I gave up dating in 2007. I give lots of reasons for this: I make poor choices; there aren't any "right for me" men out there; I have no time; I just don't meet eligible men. The truth, though, is simply that I ran out of energy.
My job is emotionally stressful and demanding and by the time I leave it at the end of the day, I am emotionally bankrupt. Yes, the thought of going home to someone who would rub my feet and shoulders, bring me a drink, and provide scintillating dinner conversation, while asking nothing of me is enticing, but I doubt that Stepford Husbands actually exist.
So I continue merrily along on my solo journey through life, rubbing my own feet, mixing my own drinks, and reading scintillating books over dinner. This is not a bad deal. Turns out that a partner is actually needed rarely.
Companionship? I have tons of fabulous friends, many of them male, so I get both male and female companionship regularly.
Sex? Let's just say I keep my bedside table well-stocked with batteries. (I didn't say there weren't differences; I said a partner isn't necessary.)
Moving furniture/dealing with the occasional rodent/etc.? Friends, neighbors, cats.
Truth be told, though, there is one glitch in all this. One significant glitch. Kissing requires two people. And I love kissing. I've been known to break up with wonderful men because they weren't good kissers. And to stay with ... less than wonderful men ... because they were. In my book, kissing is a true art form, a thing of beauty, something that, done right, can take my breath away and buckle my knees more surely than an incredible sunset or a stunning mountain view. Kissing isn't just the lead-up to the main event, it is A Main Event on its own. And there is no replacement for it.
So for the past several weeks, I've been walking around with a blissed-out smile on my face. I wake up in a better mood. I have happy dreams. I've been doing a LOT of kissing!
Nope, I've not had a date. I've not been hanging out in bars, making out with strangers after midnight. I've been leading my normal, relationship-free life. But I've been doing a play.
One can do tons and tons of theatre and rarely kiss others (plus, most stage kisses are brief and quite circumspect). I've been doing shows my entire adult life without ever having more than a handful of stage kisses, and none of those were particularly memorable. And then along came this play. And Ken.
The script itself calls for a lot of kissing and some of it is required to be passionate. NICE! That, however, turned out to be just the start. In general, actors might peck at each other in early rehearsals, and it's not uncommon for them to delay the actual kissing in scenes until weeks into the process. Not Ken! At the very first rehearsal, the first kiss called for in the script saw him marching over and planting one on me. And the passionate kissing became more and more passionate each time. Need I add that he is a very good kisser? (No - it's not French kissing - it IS acting.) Meanwhile, we started adding in more kisses. A scene that calls for three kisses now probably has six. We even threw one in for the curtain call! And there are the "break-a-leg" kisses before each performance, the "hello" and "goodbye" kisses each night ... apparently I'm trying to make up for a four-year dry spell in a period of two months ... and coming damned close to doing so!
True, none of these are deep, soul-searching, brain-melting kisses, but they are wonderful, nonetheless. However, these will end next weekend when the show closes. And therein lies the problem - now I'm about to be bereft of kisses once again. What to do?? How to fix this?? Anyone need a volunteer to (wo)man a kissing booth?
My job is emotionally stressful and demanding and by the time I leave it at the end of the day, I am emotionally bankrupt. Yes, the thought of going home to someone who would rub my feet and shoulders, bring me a drink, and provide scintillating dinner conversation, while asking nothing of me is enticing, but I doubt that Stepford Husbands actually exist.
So I continue merrily along on my solo journey through life, rubbing my own feet, mixing my own drinks, and reading scintillating books over dinner. This is not a bad deal. Turns out that a partner is actually needed rarely.
Companionship? I have tons of fabulous friends, many of them male, so I get both male and female companionship regularly.
Sex? Let's just say I keep my bedside table well-stocked with batteries. (I didn't say there weren't differences; I said a partner isn't necessary.)
Moving furniture/dealing with the occasional rodent/etc.? Friends, neighbors, cats.
Truth be told, though, there is one glitch in all this. One significant glitch. Kissing requires two people. And I love kissing. I've been known to break up with wonderful men because they weren't good kissers. And to stay with ... less than wonderful men ... because they were. In my book, kissing is a true art form, a thing of beauty, something that, done right, can take my breath away and buckle my knees more surely than an incredible sunset or a stunning mountain view. Kissing isn't just the lead-up to the main event, it is A Main Event on its own. And there is no replacement for it.
So for the past several weeks, I've been walking around with a blissed-out smile on my face. I wake up in a better mood. I have happy dreams. I've been doing a LOT of kissing!
Nope, I've not had a date. I've not been hanging out in bars, making out with strangers after midnight. I've been leading my normal, relationship-free life. But I've been doing a play.
One can do tons and tons of theatre and rarely kiss others (plus, most stage kisses are brief and quite circumspect). I've been doing shows my entire adult life without ever having more than a handful of stage kisses, and none of those were particularly memorable. And then along came this play. And Ken.
The script itself calls for a lot of kissing and some of it is required to be passionate. NICE! That, however, turned out to be just the start. In general, actors might peck at each other in early rehearsals, and it's not uncommon for them to delay the actual kissing in scenes until weeks into the process. Not Ken! At the very first rehearsal, the first kiss called for in the script saw him marching over and planting one on me. And the passionate kissing became more and more passionate each time. Need I add that he is a very good kisser? (No - it's not French kissing - it IS acting.) Meanwhile, we started adding in more kisses. A scene that calls for three kisses now probably has six. We even threw one in for the curtain call! And there are the "break-a-leg" kisses before each performance, the "hello" and "goodbye" kisses each night ... apparently I'm trying to make up for a four-year dry spell in a period of two months ... and coming damned close to doing so!
True, none of these are deep, soul-searching, brain-melting kisses, but they are wonderful, nonetheless. However, these will end next weekend when the show closes. And therein lies the problem - now I'm about to be bereft of kisses once again. What to do?? How to fix this?? Anyone need a volunteer to (wo)man a kissing booth?
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