girlfriends, boyfriends, onions

I took a date to my Mom's wedding in July. That is, I brought Rachel with me--which seemed like a normal enough thing to do. She's my friend. We wanted to go on vacation. She's never been to Portland. And I didn't think I could survive my family by myself. All good. But when I brought her to the ceremony I could tell by the curious glances of my mother's friends--all of whom I've known since childhood--that they wanted to know who she was, exactly, to me. It didn't help, I suppose, that I was wearing a silver band that Veronika had brought back to me from Russia. My sister bluntly asked, "What's that ring about?" My mom's friends were more polite, but there was a subtext: Why in God's name are you still living in New York, do you have a boyfriend, and why do you bring beautiful redheads to your mom's wedding? The confusion made the whole ordeal more interesting. And no one ever asked why I'd brought Rachel, which was just as well. Keep them guessing.

Yesterday I decided I should tell my mom I have a boyfriend. It had become a task that needed to be faced sooner rather than later, since everyone else in my family already knew. I know my dating life seems mysterious to my family: I date non-American men whose names my Mom cannot pronounce, or non-Christian philosophers who cause my father heartache, or weirdos of whom my brother is generally skeptical. My sister, for her part, is merely convinced that everyone I date smells like onions.

So I decided to tell my newly-remarried Mom I had a boyfriend. I thought I should be ruthlessly honest about the situation, as it's foolish to gush too much about men you date to your Mom. "We're perfect for each other" or any such crap sounds silly when we break up four months later. And besides, my boyfriend isn't perfect and we argue a good deal. I believe I mentioned in a previous post that I went on a date with a man I wished the ground would open and swallow whole? Well, that's him. And I genuinely like him even if I sometimes wish he'd stop talking.

So, well, my Mom was suspicious, "But does he make you happy, dear?" she asked. I paused, "Well," I said, "it depends on what you mean by happy. I don't know if any one really makes me happy, I mean, besides my girlfriends. Jenny, Rachel, and Veronika make me happy. "Ohhh!" my mom replied in a worried screech, "You're a lesbian!"

Well she's got me there. I'm a lesbian because my girlfriends make me happy. "If only I was a lesbian," I said, "my life would be so much simpler." Clearly it was not only my Mom's friends who'd been worrying about me and Rachel at the wedding.

I repeated this story to Jenny this morning, during which she repeatedly put down the phone to complete various tasks--tasks of great importance like scratching her head. I lamented the fact that she wasn't listening, and she agreed, "Oh, it's true, I don't know how my friends put up with me!" "It's because I love you," I replied. And then I added, "After all, I'm a lesbian." And she said, "I appreciate that."

barscene with glasses

Last night I went out the way most single New Yorkers do, the way people do on shows like Sex and the City, the way that includes bars, cocktails, and men who claim to know you from somewhere. Except, well, it was my first time.

Really.

I've been to bars before, drank, even chatted once or twice with strangers while drinking there, but I've really never gone out to a pick up bar (do people call still them that?) with the intention of playing the game. Most of my previous bar-visiting was with Veronika, and I think between her default I want you to die now look (used on everyone besides hopeless alcoholics and men with French bulldogs) and my reluctance to talk to men whose musical and literary tastes have not been pre-approved, we really didn't get much, well, "action." So last night was, hmmmm, entertaining.

I went out with the most beautiful woman I know, which may have something to do with the fact that there was no lack of "action." The stereotype turns out to be true: all you do is walk around with a drink in your hand and men walk up to you and start (mostly) inane conversations, if you talk to them for a while they buy you another drink. It was a little unnerving. I didn't know what response they expected from me, so I tried for polite, distant, and vaguely funny. I found myself curious, what do these people do with themselves when they're not drinking alcohol and talking to strangers? Are they really getting what they want out of this? All three places we went were packed. The men mostly seem surprised when I asked them what they did for a living. Am I not supposed to ask this? I wondered. Most conversations turned around my glasses (was I a librarian?) or the fact that I was from Oregon. My friend kept blurting out to people that we'd met at a Russian Orthodox Church, which isn't true, but it got a lot of play. I was asked to show my cross as proof, and then the men dangled their gold crosses in return. I was surprised how many of them wore crosses.

The majority of the men we met were lawyers or in some sort of finance field. They didn't seem too happy about it, either, and they were all drunk. The nicest award goes to a police officer named Rafael who stepped in when a Spanish man insisted we take his number, despite my friend's forthright assurance that neither of us would ever call him. Rafael was there with a group of friends from high school, all native New Yorkers, who more or less worked in blue-collar jobs. While Rafael talked to my friend, I more or less met all his friends. They were hilarious, sweet, kept calling my friend "Courtney Love," and were anything but sleazy. Unfortunately, they also talked a lot about television, and I had no idea how to participate. But they made sure we got in a cab safely when we decided to head over to the Samovar.

If I had really been looking for a man last night I think I would have been depressed afterwards, but it was more experiment than anything. Now I know what to do at a "pick up bar, "--hopefully I won't have to use this skill too often.

punishment, coffee hour variety

Being single isn’t exactly a “vocation”—although some people may feel called to it, may even claim it as their “vocation.” But it’s not particularly nice to claim it for others, especially strangers you meet at coffee hour after church.

This Sunday, on Christmas Eve, I accompanied Fr John to a little parish in Minneapolis. The people and the service were nice enough—as one would expect in Minnesota—I even met a kid who claimed a career as both Batman and Spiderman. After the service I wandered to the church hall with curiosity and low expectations. A friendly man offered me a mug of coffee and various people approached me, mostly under the impression that Fr John was my husband.

A middle-aged woman in a corduroy jumper with braided blonde hair, beamed once she realized I wasn’t attached to the priest. “You’re a single person?” she gushed. “So you’ve chosen the vocation of a single person too!” I was at a lack for words. I had no interest in mentioning divorce or a recently broken-off engagement, much less to argue with the idea that being single wasn’t my idea of a “vocation.” I mumbled something about New York being a great place to be single.

I was rescued by an elderly lady and her son who wanted to know how long I was in town. I explained I was staying with Fr John’s wife’s family, that he and his wife were long-time friends, and that I was in Minneapolis for another few days. The son, who must have been in his fifties, asked after my family. I explained that my Mom was in Mexico, my brother in Denver, and my Dad and sister in Oregon. “We seem to scatter for Christmas,” I said smiling.

“But you get together for Thanksgiving,” he asserted.

I smiled politely, “No, not really,” hoping to leave it at that.

But he wasn’t giving up, “Well, then Easter? Or do you just all get together every few years?” He looked at me hopefully.

Sheesh! What is this? How much personal information was I required to fork over? “No, we don’t really get together,” I said. “My parents are divorced. My brother and I do see each other from time to time. I live in New York and I can’t really have them all there.”

He seemed stumped, “That’s sad,” he said after a second.

I looked over at John imploring. People should be trained on how to interact with each other, not to mention strangers, at coffee hour. Church bulletin boards and bland religious pamphlets are preferable to this kind of communication.

I called my Dad later that day. He was building a fire in the woodstove in the kitchen and his back was hurting. “Your brother never answers the phone,” he said. “Does he answer when you call?”

“Sometimes, Dad. How are you?”

“Well, besides my back, I can’t complain. God is good. And I’m talking to my eldest daughter.”

what boston cremes and this paschal photo have in common

An Italian photographer once said to me as I licked the custard of a boston creme from my sticky fingers, "I wish you would kiss me the way you eat that donut." I laughed and involuntarily turned away from him, smirking. "People don't say things like that to each other unless they know each other well," I said, after regaining my composure. He looked at me unblinkingly, his huge brown eyes serious.

This same photographer sent me a batch of photos today, the one posted above included. And with Pascha just behind us I was eager to publish the image. But with the photo comes the memory of its taker.

Antonio had some trouble with work and housing and money and his legal status in the US. That and some sort of evil lawyer father back in Italy. He wanted a girlfriend, and thought I might be just the one.

I have no good excuse for going out on a date with him, besides my naivete--and that he wouldn't leave me alone. I was new to online dating and didn't realize that reservations need to heeded early on. And to my credit (and his) there was his photography. Antonio's work is open and visceral and consistently captures beauty in the small and mundane.

Our "date" began on the way to help his friend move. It was a hot Manhattan afternoon. I bought my own sandwich at the Vietnamese grocery we passed on the way to his friend's apartment. Given the rather strange event helping someone move on a date--much less a first date--I rather liked his friend, a terse and freckled Swedish woman in red pedal-pushers. She owned a managable amount of simple furniture, a bike, and a lot of photography equipment. I liked her more than I liked Antonio, and didn't mind helping her move as long as it meant I wasn't alone with my date.

I should have ditched the guy after sweating up my dating gear lugging boxes into a China Town studio. But inexperiece and a tad too much flexibility resulted in my being subjected to a free ferry ride to and from Staten Island, a trip to Dunkin Donuts, a barrage of uncomfortable information about what Italian men want on a first date, a long walk back to my car, the somewhat terrifying information that my car had been towed by a film crew, a distressing conversation with the NYC tow pound ("we don't have your car, it was probably moved within a five-block radius from where it was parked. If you don't find it, call the police and report it as stolen"), the ecstatic experience of locating my car (I wanted to hug it), and a far-too-long good-bye to a man I never wanted to see again.

Once in the car, doors closed and locked, I sighed. And called Nostalgia. "You won't believe..."

But in his honor, and in keeping with finding beauty everywhere, I treasure that boston creme assertion. No American man would, having paid for a stranger's 75 cent donut on a long summer evening, have said with such sincere longing, I wish you would kiss me the way you eat that donut...