Don't Mind the Elephant Online.

Song of the day: Social Studies, Terracur http://vimeo.com/51597619

So I have a pattern when it comes to dating.

I basically online stalk, I will fully disclose this.

Though, in my defense, I have been a catfish victim (aka fallen for a false identity online). And once you see what is really behind the Oz curtain, you end up becoming an obsessive information gatherer, worried that the person you are communicating with is just another illusion. Plus in this day and age, with Facebook and Instagram, it makes it incredibly easy to view into the looking glass. Although, while this can inundate one with the overwhelming world of candid polaroid like photos that make everyone seem like a darling at heart (or a derelict, depending on how many booze shots one comes across), it can also open the nasty world of conjecture.

One of the things, that seems to keep popping up in this magical place of I-probably-shouldn't-know-about-this, are ex photos.  Those glorious old photos that remain of the once burned out loves, beholden in all their I-once-loved-this-person-with-my-whole-being-eyes still shining through the photos. To say the least, they are incredibly uncomfortable things to stumble upon. They remind me of the Native American's that use to frequent my bookstore who would pretend to click a camera in my direction and joke they were stealing my soul. Of course I was 8, and believed anything that came out of their mouths. But seeing these photos, I am thoroughly convinced as an adult, that this is true.

Love stolen, for a moment, within a shutter click, and the remains littered over social media.

And with the litter comes the mind burning questions. Why did they break up? Where were they in that photo? Was she the one? Who broke up with whom? etc etc etc....and of course my imaginative mind, just runs amok at this point.

Now see, when I break up with someone, I go through this purging process. No, it's not like I am outside burning the remains in a metal trashcan. Though, sometimes these thoughts do go through my head. Ha. No. This is the 21st online century, I simply, delete them. I delete their phone numbers, I delete their emails, I unfriend, and unfollow, and so on and so forth. And if there is something that made it into the real world scenario, I simply collect every single scrap, and return it to them, most graciously mind you, so that I have nothing left.

My girlfriends often say I am crazy, that they like holding on to the paraphernalia. That they like to reminisce over the things that once were, or could have been, if only (dot dot dot). So they hold on to that teddy bear, those pair of earrings, that postcard, the seashell found, or the shirt that still smells like the ex. I, on the other hand, don't want to remember any of these things. Though, truth be told, I did hold on to some love letters from a Frenchman who use to hand sew me letters about his day...but he was French...and thus allowed to be a romantic AND a cad; and those letters are more of a cry of what I still expect, even if that sets up future men to fail, I still long for the day of chivalry and romance (and ok, a dash of cad). But this is not why a majority of females hold on to things from their exes, they hold on to them in the hopes that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps there will be some gloriously amorous resolution. It's a revelation that at one point, someone loved them. We have all seen the "Notebook", and now everyone wants the goddamn"Notebook" (or "Shades of Gray", but that is a whole other level of frackery).

In some way it seems men also hold on to these digital memories, by playing the, "I haven't gotten around to deleting it" card, because they too are like my girlfriends....I guess in the online world, both sexes still hold on to the idea of make believe. Regardless, for the new person in the equation, it just becomes fodder for an overactive imagination.

I think I just took a Nap

Urban dictionary definition of a Douchebag: "The term "douchebag" generally refers to a male with a certain combination of obnoxious characteristics related to attitude, social ineptitude, public behavior, or outward presentation."

I am going to let you all in on a little secret.  I am a douchebag collector.

I have collected all types, all colors, all shapes, and all sizes. The good ones are like a fine wine, they build on your pallete, until wham, you are overcome by the sheer audacity of their make up. The one thing that I can always count on with these types, is they never disappoint; and I am not talking about their crushing ineptness of having a moral fabric when it comes to matters of the heart, I am talking about how awesomely entertaining they are to reminisce about. They are a don quixote quest. They are the Moby Dicks to my Captain Ahab (And not literally moby dicks, because men with three arms need to steer clear of my dating circumference).

...but this post is not about these types. No this is about the exact opposite of these types:

The boring guy.

The snooze.

The sleepwalker.

The ho hum man.

Mr. Complacent.

Now this new guy, who I shall call Rip Van Winkle, or Mr. Winkle for short (teehee), put up quite a good show, but perhaps that was his modus operandi. He was an artist, and as you all know from my past posts, I have a thing for the creative types, and he was relatively successful at what he did. So we set up a date to meet.

First thing to note: We decide on a bar.

Second thing to note: When I arrive at the bar, he is drinking water, because he does not drink. Oh goodie.

Third thing to note: I order myself a drink, and sit down to this gent drinking water. Our conversation is such:

Me "Hello"

Mr. Winkle "Hi"

Me "Nice to finally meet you"

Mr. Winkle "Same here"

-crickets-

At this point, I have slurped down my cheap drink and throughly people watched the entire room for about ten minutes. His water has also been finished off, and he goes for a refill, when he comes back I try to come up with whatever tidbits of conversation I can muster:

Me "So you are an artist"

M.W "Yup"

Me "Tell me more about it, what do you focus on, what do you do?"

M.W "Um, it's hard to explain"

Me "??"

M.W "Well like my current project is focusing on an existing vending machine. I want to make a commentary on the vending machine"

In my head, "Ohhhhh you are one of THOSE artists"

What I really said, "ohkaaaaay???"

Mr. W "Well like, I am going to shine a bunch of fluorescent tube lights on it, all around it, so it becomes a focal point, so that people notice it"

Me "Oh, so you are doing a light installation?"

Mr. W "Well no, it is more than that"

Me "How is it more than that?"

Mr. W "Well I just don't like the word installation, it devalues what I do in the art world, the piece is about societies focus on the vending machine"

Me "Like Duchamp's toilet?"

Mr. W "No more than that!"

Me"..."

Mr. W "Its just a piece best not described, but experienced."

In my head "So not only are you boring, you have been drowned in artist jargon to explain away how boring you truly are. Money well spent." 

Me "..."

Mr. W "You are obviously viewing it as an architect, if you viewed it as an artist, as is taught in graduate school, I think you would realize more fully where I am coming from"

In my head "Oh no he didn't! -snap my fingers in his face moment about to happen-"

Me "Yes, let us talk about the difference between our worlds. Now granted, I play in the architect-turned-artist world, and you play in the I-am-a-graduate-student-artist world, so according to you the word "installation" is implied differently between our worlds; but I am sorry, if you, or any other artist, wants to dip your toes into my world, well I am going to call a spade a spade. Hanging lights, or using elements of the built world to emphasize a discussion best be done in a way that does not look like you just went to home depot and hung a bunch of lights...along with the vending machine, at the very least, rethink the light, if it is going to be so inclusive, otherwise, your piece of "art" work is going to get called an installation, from the architect aka layperson like me, no matter how much you diction it to be the next coming of christ."

At this point,  I should have had a "what would meryl streep do?" moment, which would have been to dramatically say "thank you sir, and good day" and trollop on out of there. Instead, I continue to listen to him fumble. I am a sadist at heart.

Mr. W "Um, so what is your sign?"

Inside my head "oh my god, it has come to this" 

Me "I am a pisces/aquarius"

Mr. W "Oh really me too!"

Inside my head "Well hold on now, suddenly this has become a tad intriguing"

Me "Really? When is your birthday?"

Mr. W "Feb 20th"

Me "Holy crap, MY birthday is Feb 20th"

Mr. W "Ha, maybe you are the female equivalent to me, or maybe we are soul twins"

Me "Well, you know, there can be only one!"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "It's a quote from highlander"

Mr. W "Huh?"

Me "You dont know highlander? It is a scifi movie from the 80s, Sean Connery...Christopher Lambert..."

Mr. W "No, i dont like scifi."

Me "Well look at the time..."

Mr W "Yes perhaps we should go..."

Fourth thing to note: Go ahead and attack my lack of an art education, but to not like scifi!!...nope. Straw that broke that camel's back.

The date lasted 30 minutes. Give or take a minute. It was the shortest most god awful insultingly boring dates I have ever been on.  After lamenting to my girlfriends for hours about how well rested I now was, I get a final text from Mr. Winkle "That wasn't a disaster, you did great." 

AHAHAHAHAHA. Priceless. My collection groweth.

Evil Eye, One too Many.

I have begun to believe I am cursed.

Coming from a long line of black forest "witches", aka people from Deutschland who live in the deep deep parts of the woods and have festivals that revere "witches", this is not such an impossible stretch. In fact our village translates into "Dead moss", we have at least 2 witch carnivals (spring and winter), most of my family has "pointy chins", and my house is currently adorned with witchy relics (see photo, one of the native witches, carved from wood).  Needless to say, I grew up in a family dripping with superstition and lore. 

My grandmother would say to me, "Spinnen am morgen bringen Unglueck, Spinnen am abend bringen Glueck." (See a spider in the morning brings bad luck, see a spider in the evening brings good luck).
My mother,  any time a major life moment would happen (or I would get on an airplane), would spit in the air, and holy cross me. Touching my eyes, my lips, and my heart. 

Above all else, my family believed in the power of three. You do bad unto others, then bad will come back to you three fold, same if you do good. If 1 person died, 2 more would follow, same as in births. 
To top it off, they believed in the power of curses. No they did not practice curses and no I do not either, nor do I have a voodoo doll of an ex lover under my bed (only because sewing that shit gets expensive, and what would I do with all of those dolls)...but they did believe that what you said could be carried onto the wind, and that things should be said with caution in case certain elements were listening to interpret in their own way.

So I have begun to believe that I am love cursed.

Mainly because at the age of seven, when my big sister was talking about boobs and David Bowie's package, I told her that I hate all the boys who flirt with me, but I lamented about how I wanted big tatas (because obviously I had none at that time). Well I ended up becoming well endowed, and while yes I still have a lot of boys who flirt with me, the ones I do end up falling for are truly awful human beings. So whomever, or whatever, was listening in to the conversation between my sister and I, all I have to say to you is, well played, indeed....and enough with the funny.

Now, granted, I realize this makes me sound insane. In fact, from a very scientifical mindset, the kind I received from my engineering dad, what I am feeling is completely heuristically based. Meaning, I am finding meaning, when no logical meaning is apparent. The rational part of brain is just plain ole exhausted trying to figure out the variables of my many many failed dating moments, so the irrational part of my brain steps in with its shining family coat of arms and suggests the impossible. That I am cursed.

I often joke that my quests with men must somehow be some form of super power, in which I have not figured out how to harness for the good of mankind; but I think we would all agree that super heros do often feel cursed. But come on Universe, before I adorn a cape, it would have been much more awesome if my curse involved heightened physical capabilities: speed, flight, invisibility, super strength, reading minds, chameleon tendencies...you know, the normal choices. Alas, instead I am cursed with the ability to be the black hole of asshole nation.

This last one happened to be a beautiful part Cherokee of a man, with smooth creamy coco skin. He was even a teacher, so cute, and so un-artsy. He had a smile that charmed the socks off of me, and eyes that twinkled brightly. I was soon to find out that he was a true skinwalker, with teeth like a wolf. I was immediately smitten, in which case, I should have immediately run for the hills before he devoured me whole;  I have begun to wonder if my immediate attraction to men is an ultimate warning sign, like if I feel my loins quake it means break out the mace, but if on the other hand I feel like my vagina just dried up like a hot desert, then I should probably marry that person.

But yes the Cherokee smile, per usual we seemed to hit it off divinely, he whispered sweet nothings into my ear, held my hand while we walked around in the chilly christmas weather, told me how he was falling for my doe eyes...all the good stuff that movies are made of...and I lapped it up. Lapped it up so hard. Then, one day, it was like a rift happened, and it kept opening up wider and wider, much to my dismay. Of course, I asked him about it, I said I was getting a vibe, and wondered if he were getting cold feet...and he responded simply, bluntly, and shortly, "my feet are freezing, sorry"...and with that, The End. All the pretty words, and all the hand holding, and all that jazz didn't even get credit acknowledgement.  There is something so stilling about truncating things when your imagination is still in game time. And so afterwords, I seriously began to ponder this curse idea.

On a side note, tribute song to the Cherokee: http://www.last.fm/music/Juliette+Lewis/_/Romeo

I suppose I could also blame me. I am an only child, I can be demanding, harsh, critical. I don't always play nice with others in the sand pit. I am aggressive, argumentative, I am also self conscious. I push myself to exceeding lengths, I think I can always do better, and usually this translates into other people as well...but past all the hard crusty bits of my outer shell, I am also a sensitive one. I care deeply about those around me and I would do anything for most. I am kind, passionate, quirky, creative, deep, intelligent, and thoughtful. I know I am not easy, and perhaps most want easy, but what I find heartbreaking, is that I have been entangled in a dating game. The more intelligent the quest, the more they are intrigued about check mating me. With each pierce, and each knock down, I have learned to laugh it all off with a tearful smile, and then wrap it up into another wall. My curse has made me into a diamond. Multifaceted, pretty, easy to cut with, and hard to break...I worry not that I am cursed to meet more and more douchebags (this is more than likely a fact of my life), but that when the magic (aka knight of all knights) does come to break this curse, I may swallow them whole, and effectively, curse them.

Let's just be friends

Let's keep it real. We have all used this line. We have all been on the receiving end of this line. Either way it is not always a fun conversation to have. About a year ago, I was confronted with redefining this terminology with the Norwegian.

Now the Norwegian, was this dreamboat of a man, whom my friends declared as "too pretty for his own good." When I first met him, my breath literally caught in my throat, in fact I think I even choked on the fruity martini I was drinking (I bring classy to any party!) and it didn't help that his voice was pure manly butter (if you need me to explain this then you have never experienced manly voice butter before, suffice to say its deliciously scrumptious...Odin godlike even). Of course, right off the bat, it was incredibly obvious I was NOT his dreamboat. In fact, if he turned himself anymore in his stool he would have been out the door, and yet for whatever reason, we still seemed to hit it off. Conversationally, that is. Score one for me being a smarty! NERDS UNITE!

So as the night ended, and I was driving home, I realized that I wasn't about to let hunk-a-chunk go without some sort of battle cry,  and thus I devised the "let's be friends" war strategy...Which, in most cases, you receive after coming on too strong, or having to let someone down easily, but I figured if this was offered up on the plate from the get go, without the disinterested party preempting it, then I would still have an IN into the batcave. The deliciously Norwegian batcave (where unicorns spawn).

He, in turn, readily accepted (under friendly fire) my invitation. Ensue many hangouts later, under the glorious gaze of his magnetic stare (<~~~someone read way too many romance novels as a child),  I realized, one inherent factor, I just literally screwed myself into a broken-hearted corner. I just went to war with myself and it left me wondering if I should have just cut my loses, licked my wounds, and run for the hills. Instead of slowly doing what my friends like to call "the long con" and woe him with my charm, I was stuck pretending to be another one of the guys, listening to stories of him making out with other girls (oh yeah, pure romance here), and texting him like a 19 year old. "Hey dude, whats up? How's it hanging? OMG did you see the new spiderman movie? It's so lame!!!!"

Of course, the messed up thing of it all is that I knew better, in fact I knew so much better that every glass menagerie paraphernalia was mocking my intelligence for falling into such a dumb trap. While part of me gaga-ed, the other part of me wanted to sucker punch my face. And while yes, I learned many many a thing from the Norwegian about the ways of men (and no not kinky ways, dammit), I realized inevitably, the friend "trap" can never work out. There is just too much of a chemical imbalance to immediate physical attraction for it to ever convince your mind or your emotions that things can be anything but. So i had to end it with the Nord. Over rock climbing none the less. As we were bouldering our way to success, I simply told him, "Thanks, Batman", climbed back down, and called it a day. Every now and then I get a text from him wondering about life, and what the hell Batman was all about, and I still get those butterflies from his husky voice, but as I learned, you just can't redecorate the batcave. Not even as catwoman.

The "Wrong Type"

Maybe you are dating the "wrong type."

This is something I often hear. That my type is often off-kilter, and perhaps this is true, I have a fascination for creative types with dirty hair and full blown beards. The problem being, most of these creative types are A. moochers B. sycophants C. egomaniacs D. antisocialiates or E. all of the above (I am actually a huge fan of the all of the above, those types are probably the most emotionally satisfying). So needless to say, I tend to get my romantic hopes up and dashed by "my type" more often then I can count.

My dad thinks that I need to stop dating the "artist type" and instead date the "business type":

Dad: "You need a wealthy man."
Me: "I don't really care about that sort of stuff Dad."
Dad: "Well this is why you date moochers, and let me tell you, they will only suck you dry, if not financially, emotionally"
Me: "So you want me in turn to mooch off someone else? I feel like this is a recipe for disaster"
Dad: "Well they could fund your art...you know I have this friend..."
Me: "Is he younger than 40?"
Dad: "58?"
Me: "Dad...wth?"
Dad: "ok, baby steps."

My friends suggest I date a "real" man:

Friend 1: "You date skinny boys, you need a man" (this is usually followed by hand gestures of what muscles might look like)
Friend 2: "You date emotionally immature boys, you need a "real" man who will be there for you when you cry" 
Me: "I already have enough gay friends"
Friend 3: "You date such young things, why not a "mature" older man"
Me: "Did you just talk to my dad?"

My mother suggests that I date ugly:

Mom: "You date men who are too good looking, they will cheat on you, you should date someone who is good in their heart, not their looks."
Friend: "Yeah I agree with your mom, ugly guys will adore you."
Me: "...enough with friend/parent dynamic...the world is imploding as we speak..."

So after all of that hoopla of worldly advice I figured fine, instead of staying the course, I will change the course. So off I went, signing up for Match.com, because someone unwisely told me that men who pay for dating sites take dating more seriously than on free sites; Yeah let me be the small granule of wisdom and say that is 100% not true.

First gent, after date 1: "So when can we have sex?"
Second gent, third email: "So when can we have sex?"
Third gent, intro email: "So when can we have sex?"

Second granule of wisdom for said gents: If you have to ask a girl when you can have sex with her, she probably does not want to have sex with you....ever.

I did manage to attract a business/sporty/ex frat-boy Texan, aka someone I would never approach/date/sexually fantasize about in a million years (I mean, Texas, seriously, gross)...but he surprised me with his wit, so I figured, why not. Lets play ball.

Hence our dating story: Interest interest interest. He would send me lovely postcards from the places he was traveling to for business (ROMANTIC), he would write me beautifully thought out long emails (DOUBLE ROMANTIC)....everything was off to a good start; on a foot note, all of this was going on for over three months, our schedules making it near impossible for us to meet, though my mother/friends began to wonder if he had a wife...which was not the case, as he had recently broken up with his ex Brazilian girlfriend of 3 years (oh i know i know i know, warning signs, but he sent me postcards!!! God I am easy). We finally scheduled a time to meet, and it was fireworks, or at least it was fireworks from my end. I was met with hard bodied manliness, beautiful smile, easy conversation, lovely little twang...I was hooked from the hello. I left our date in lalaland thinking wow maybe my familia was right...and that is when everything went straight back to douchville.

Welcome to Douchevilliness.

Suddenly he was too busy to meet up for a second date, which trust me, I know the signs, and in fact I am so good at reading the signs, that I usually meet them at the impasse with, "Hey you know what, no hard feelings, lets be friends"...of course the strange turn of events in this case, is he assures me that that is not the case, that his job is keeping him busy, and he is uncertain of venturing into a new relationship, but that so far he adores me, and blah blah blah blah blah. Still lingering from the postcard bliss, and the euphoric memory of his smile, I figured ok buddy, second chance, but seriously, that was your out. And perhaps, this is where I usually go wrong. I have found that the more truthful I am about a situation, the more that I can call a spade a spade, the more the gent will go out of his way to convince me otherwise. I have found that these "men" just cannot admit defeat unless they are the ones defeating. Which i find very strange, if a girl gives a guy an out, with a pat on the back and a see ya around the bend, that's a good thing, that means there is still a possibility of friendship, if he continues on down the route of deceit, of playing with the possibility of a "what if" romance, that girl will eventually resent the living shit out of him and probably do psychotic things to his person in her head.....but alas...onward I went, thinking, he could not POSSIBLY be as douchetastic as "artist types."

So ensued his checklist of date requests; I did what all my girlfriends, and parents, and male friends recommended, I feigned disinterest. I did not overtly overwhelm him with texts of unicorns and poppies. I did not do overtly romantic things for him (like illustrate him monsters), I kept the weird in check, and above all else  I DID NOT contact him for additional dates...no no, I due-diligently waited until he made the move. I allowed him to play that alpha game. Here here lion, I be the fragile gazelle.

Date 2: Scheduled....AND...Cancelled day before because of business meeting.
Date 2: Second Attempt, Scheduled....AND....Cancelled day of because his dog was run over by a car (four days prior, alive, broken leg) and he needed to take it to the vet for a checkup (at 8:00 in the evening). Ok so now my intelligence has just been insulted.
Date 2: Third attempt, Scheduled....AND...Never happens as he just disappears off the face of the planet. Sure I could have called, texted, written, shown up on his door step with a sign that simply said "Really?"...but why bother? He didn't.

Now, this sort of stuff royally irks the alpha female in me. I played the coy part, and had my time wasted. And I began to wonder if the major difference between artist types and business types is the priority to one's time. The artist type will always ALWAYS be neurotically emotional about everything. They will always either get super angry, or super sad, or super bossy, or super quiet, or super super something, so you almost always know something is amiss, and you always leave going, well that was a roller-coaster, thank god THAT is over. And it is an end. With this opposite type, what I just experienced was a complete and utter lack of caring about another persons time. I did not even have a moment to figure out my emotions, because I was so busy trying to figure out how our schedules meshed. And yes, this will probably come off as a huge generalization, because all in all a douche is a douche is a douche, no matter what his attire. Still, life lesson: Never date a Texan. Hook um', my ass.

Tattoo.

Once upon a time there was a girl who dreamed of a bad boy with tattoos. Now-a-days, a girl no longer has to dream, as it is a rarity to find a guy who DOESN'T have a tattoo.

I have two.

In fact, I even have a tramp stamp. Don't know what that is? It's a term affectionately nicknamed for the tattoo located on the lower back of a woman (right above her bum). I ran across a gent who actually didn't know what a tramp stamp was, I should have knighted him right then and there because he was obviously pure of heart. Thankfully, my tramp stamp is not disastrous, like for instance my name. I always wondered why people tattooed their names on their bodies, was it because they forget their own names so easily, or was it because they were afraid others would forget it? Then again, I want to meet a guy who has, "Hi my name is Ed" tattooed on his chest,  I think i would actually be turned on by the audacity of that.

Tattoos that DO NOT do it for me. Faded tattoos (for it shows that the person didn't take an initiative in finding a good tattoo artist, or they were wussies when it came down to getting the ink done), Grateful dead bears, Disney characters, in fact any anime characters, tribal tattoos (especially with barbwire), faces (I get that you want to grieve for whomever, but I am a bit of Native American spiritualist,  so I can't even have my picture taken without my soul getting itchy twitchy, so to have someone else's soul immortalized on someone else's skin is so many levels of wrong for me), and last but not least, the icing on the cake: exes names. Yes. Tattooing your exes name on your body is just wrong.

Which leads me to my own Mr. Tattoo. He was (of course) an Artist, quirky, tall, half Asian (ummmMmmmm.) He had these beautiful sleeve tattoos illustrated with images he had drawn (a plus in my book), and originally we hit it off brilliantly, except for one thing: One of his tattoos was of his ex girlfriend's name, and I am not talking her initials coyly placed on his bicep. I am talking first, middle, and last name emblazoned across the whole of his abdomen. So basically every time he took off his shirt, it was right there, standing poorly scribbled against the pale white of his skin. The first time he showed me, I told him to hide it again. Yes, I can be that much of a wench, but at least I am an honest wench. I explained that I wasn't necessarily comfortable staring at another woman's name, maybe if I had known him for years, it wouldn't have been a big thing, but he was basically a blink in my life, and it was an uber disappointment to see another woman's name marring his body.  For it represented that someone else had marked his territory already. I mean, I wanted to be Louis, him my Clark, screw Sacajawea.

He told me that if (and when) we ever fell in love, and I was still bothered by said tattoo, that he would then burn it off with a hot spatula. Oh, yeah, these are the men I date. I asked him why not just get it laser removed like normal people, his response was because he wanted to still remember the pain she had caused. So basically her name was a reminder of the pain she had caused, and burning it off (which would scar him horribly) would continue that horrific reminder, but he would do it for me in a gesture of love. Seriously, Freud could have retired a wealthy man on that one.

In Japan, when I displayed my tattoo (not my butt one, mind you) I was considered such a bad ass, because I was a woman, and it was a rarity for a tattooed woman to exist over there.  Men, on the other hand, have a much harder time showing their tattoos as it is forbidden in many establishments, for only people who were Yakuza wore tattoos. Yakuza, the mafia, the modern samurai, the bad boys of the East. Their tattoos depicted heroic fight scenes of dragons, warriors, and beautifully lined clouds. I often wonder if the Yakuza would tattoo their girlfriend's name across their chests. Nah. I refuse to believe a samurai would be that dumb. Then again, the picture below has them still wearing diapers (ok ok yes they are traditional mawashi loincloths, but they still look like diapers)...

(Picture sourced from a fantastic website on the yakuza and their tattoos http://www.dreadloki.com/pivot/pivot/entry.php?uid=standard-718

and for your reference, no I haven't dated anyone in this photo. Though the one in the middle is kinda a sexy beast.)

A girl can dream...of a house.

Awhile back, I was browsing for a set of chairs, on Craigslist. I ended up coming across these two posts, after much debate, I began to daydream that the chairs on the right (fondly nicknamed cognac chairs) were the ones for me. So I wrote the seller, and we scheduled a time for the next day for me to pick them up.


The next day rolls around, and an hour before me going to pick them up the seller decides to tell me that he has decided to give them to his cousin. Now flakiness runs rampant on sites like Craiglist, but of course I decided to tell the seller that these chairs were the key to me having a house straight out of the pages from Dwell magazine (the magazine that makes most designers depressed because no one can afford to have a home that looks that good).  After said angst email, ensue one of the strangest engagements I have ever encountered online.


First it starts:


Seller: Oh you like cool design?
Me: I am an architect by trade...
Seller: Oh really, I love architecture, my house is actually a famous architectural piece in LA!
Me: do tell...


And before I know it, I am getting images of one of the most beautiful 1960s houses I have ever seen, and to top it off, my architectural coworkers know the house, and to triple top it off, this guy has put a modern flare to it. I am drooling with envy, and obviously hooked. I didn't think I was easy, in fact muscle cars don't even do it for me (well ok, unless its a 1969 gun metal gray mustang or VW fast back, and then you might as well just tell me to not wear panties that day), but beautiful 1950/60 homes will get me every time. Especially when people update the kitchens to either a bulthaup, henry built (or the like). This guy's kitchen had a hidden range that was exposed when the top counter slid to the right. It was a sexy beast of a home.  I was, for the first time, superficially intrigued.


Of course, the logical part of me, screamed bullshit that someone with this kind of an amazing abode would be selling chairs on craigslist. It seemed like absolute malarkey, and it actually seemed like he was trolling for women with the guise of cool chairs.  But after many google stalks, and many many photos of the home later (in its process of being reconstructed), it became apparent that no in fact, this was for real.


I am not going to lie, I caved, and the flirting started. I imagined myself sitting in that amazing house, painting amazing pieces of artwork in its living spaces, sipping expensive wine, and laughing at insanely rich people and their stupid jokes. I was in. Give me the piece of paper and I will sign the dotted line. But before I could go any further, I had to actually meet the guy...oh yeah...the guy...here I am drooling over a home, and I know nothing really of the guy. His stats (or what he told me before we met):
Good looking
Tall
Successful (lawyer turned plastic surgeon)
Educated (ivy league)


...ding ding ding and ding...


He invited me over to his home to cook me dinner (in order to make up for the loss of cognac chairs), but I knew that would not be smart. Not only because I didn't know this guy and I wasn't about to go to his home for the first meet and greet, but because I would probably end up making out with that damn range, and that would just set a bad precedent on the first date. So instead we settled on meeting at a local wine bar.  God, my road to snobbery was well on its way. I spent two hours getting ready (so not me); The curls, the red dress, the eyeliner...the nines were making a play, because god dammit I wanted that house, and i didn't care how superficial I had to be to get it.  Push up bra (that resides in the darkest corner of my drawer) you are coming out tonight! I think Los Angeles cried a little tear of momma joy over these shallow shenanigans. 


Of course, as I rounded the corner of the bar, none of those above mentioned traits met me. No, what met me was a short fat Egyptian man wearing a striped business shirt with a duck on it.


This was the exact moment that I realized two things: Yes, it makes me incredibly superficial to not have been instantaneously attracted to his physique (but I challenge anyone to have rounded that corner and to not have had the same reaction), and two, no matter how amazing a persons house is, no matter what car they drive, no matter how rich they are, if I am not attracted to them, I don't give a shit about the rest of it. Which led me to know for one hundred percent certainty that I will never be a gold digger. So props to me. Of course, with these realizations, dreams of living in that house died.


It goes without saying, I was very civil, we had wine and cheese, talked about art, but it was rather obvious that the baby had been thrown out with the bath water. After a couple of more civil emails back and forth, we slowly pitter-pattered back to our normal routine. Well I should say I pitter-pattered back to my normal routine, he continued to try and get me to come to his home (e.g. wanting to use a piece of my art for a photo shoot, but not allowing me to talk directly to the magazine about my art; telling me he had been robbed twice and that he didn't like to be alone, needing advice on what paint to choose for his walls, inviting me over for dinner with my friends...etc..etc). Regardless, the illusion was up. And eventually the emails stopped. Or so I thought...


Some time later, in a last ditch effort, he sent a farewell image/email to me.

"Hi E,

I thought you'd like to see the attached picture taken of my house and a model during a photo shoot last week. 

Hope you're doing well.

M"

Yes M. I am doing well, and no I am still not interested. No matter how hot the model and that house are.