Cheers.

Recipe 49/52. Dreary, we reach with feeble limb for the bitter end. The end, once but a pale apparition, has never furnished with such light. Death... is nigh.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! As it is now January, thanks to time, it's been one year since my last post on online dating. It seems only appropriate to update you on the online dating culture, since it has to have improved in a year. Right? 

My Christmas tree is still up, so I present to you An Unassuming but Intelligent Old-Fashioned Woman's Journey from Timidity to Judy Garland: a new classic holiday story. 

Ingredients

• Boredom
• Nerds (people, not Rope)
• Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance audiobook, so you'll miss all the graphs
• "Hey"
• Whammy!
• Holiday MAGIC, or time

Instructions
Where else to begin a modern holiday classic but with a winter flashback: The last time I cooked with online dating, the ingredients I shared were all cockamamy dingbats' attempts at messaging/texting me via our connection on the dating app Hinge, and I poked fun at the mobile dating culture in which I was apprehensively participating. Shortly after, a male friend and I were having a conversation about the "who should pay first" Abbott & Costello-like debate. As a straight male actor, he struggled with the expectation most of his own Hinge matches had that he'd automatically pick up the check, when in fact most of the women he met there made much more money than he did. He pointed out my blog post, in which I'd joked that I'd use dating as a way to finally dine out in NYC, to prove his point. My blog! Obvious satire in highest intellectual form! But he knew there was a layer of truth under there-- I'd blown my own old-fashioned expectations into not-so-exaggerated satire of using dating apps to snag free meals. I'd written the recipe in the short period of time in which I really was excited about the possibilities of dating-- still shocked that there existed, so close in proximity to me, guys who were willing to pay for things. Oh, youth. I had no idea the cobwebs through which I needed to weed before I got to that food-- and how little I enjoyed the reward. 

Why, then, after deleting Hinge fairly quickly, would I return to it 4 months later? I claimed I didn't enjoy my time talking to or spent with my matches because they were all finance/business guys. I knew it was because I'm a romantic traditionalist who would never take a dating app connection 100% seriously. Regardless, I'd become fascinated by Hinge-- stories of other's experiences with it, articles written about it, etc. Also, it was May and I was a little bored. Combo? The plan to beat Hinge.

If Hinge updated my matches based on which profiles I liked/disliked, could I not turn it totally on his head? If I was matching with only business-finance Ivy League boys (or guys from Ohio), could I completely 180 it to match me with solely unemployed comedians? Turns out the answer is... yes.

See how we're already close to Judy Garland?

In less than 2 weeks, I rid my matches of Harvard grads working at Goldman Sachs and replaced them with diversely educated funny guys working at Nickelodeon, their own production companies, or nowhere. Here's the silly part: I had no intention of meeting up with any of them. Albeit for research's sake, I was a dating app troll. Months later, I proudly told my plan's success to 5 male friends of mine and one declared that this is exactly "what's wrong with online dating." Looking back, I can't say I fully disagree. Well, despite my intentions, I met Nickelodeon, Sk8rboi Freelance Photographer, and Loyola Boy (you can find his story here, as well as a picture of a baby monkey) for my 2 longest Hinge stints: with Skr8, a fun chunk of weeks (including the 4th of July, romance's most serious holiday!) that fizzled out so naturally it seemed wrong; and with Loyola Boy, the true definition of "The Long Con." (While we were seeing each other, I used it to describe our situation because I thought it meant "the long conversation." Then I found out what it actually meant... and unfortunately could keep using it.)

Leading us to late September, the perfect pre-climax to a holiday classic: frustrated with modern dating and angry, yet again, that I live in this millennia. As per previously mentioned, one of my best friends Caroline is a natural font of wisdom. From her flat in London, she advised that I stop sitting around complaining and instead go forth and set the world on fire... ... Nope; no, that was my single year of Jesuit education. Here, you'll see how I got confused, they're so similar: 

"When you meet the right guy it'll feel so right, so perhaps this suffering is key to true happiness. Otherwise you'll end up marrying a f#$*boi and then you're stuck with that shit for life (or until you get a divorce) 

Keep going  

Use bumble [a dating app for which I'm convinced she works, due to how much she pushes it] 

Date around 

Treat yourself"

Like a true holiday heroine, I jumped back on my smart phone-- but this time with Coffee Meets Bagel. What a difference! CMB, as we on the inside call it, is for, you guessed it-- nerds! You see, Hinge, Bumble, and the other slew of dating apps? They claim to be different than Tinder (widely known as the hookup app), yet they display the same interface; the expectations are so muddied that, at the end of the day, I'd rather use Tinder and know what I'm getting into. CMB does not, by any means, scream "casual sex." On the scale of Tinder to paid eHarmony and Match.com memberships, it is somewhere nicely in the middle, whereas Hinge bounces towards the middle like a mindless hyper leprechaun trying to sneak up on it, only to get too scared and quickly soft-shoe it back towards Tinder. 

Also importantly, CMB fit in perfectly with what I was reading/listening to in Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance, which I suggest be read to all babies in the womb. Aziz, my main man, presents fascinating research and experts, and makes some arguments of his own, like contending that calling online systems like Tinder "dating" apps/sites is misleading.

“Online dating is just a vehicle to meet more people,” says the author and dating consultant Laurie Davis. “It’s not the place to actually date.” The anthropologist Helen Fisher, who does work for Match.com, makes a similar argument: ... “They should be called ‘introducing services.’ They enable you to go out and go and meet the person yourself.” (Aziz's New York Times piece "How to Make Online Dating Work")

CMB kicks you & your match out of your chat window after 7 days. Right before that 7th day, it bugs you repeatedly to make sure that, if you want to, you've set up a time to meet. Because who the F wants to date within a chat window?! (I know, we all know them, but let's be serious and not talk about them right now, OK.)

Here's a quick Run-DMC-down of my brief (shocker) time with CMB:

1. The textbook perfect awkward end-of-first-date kiss 

Sadly he ended up being judgmental and conniving. Alack.

2. My first encounter with someone who looked nothing like their profile

3. A hibernating med student 

Planning a date 2 months in advance is oddly moving too fast.

4. A fellow Wildcat who went immediately from promising ice cream partner to an idiot who thinks offensive undermining is effective flirting

And that was that.

5. Proof of the uselessness of the greetings "Hey!", "Hey," "Hi," or "Hey what's up," "What are you up to," or "Cool" amidst other actually engaging conversations

... honestly forgot to respond to these.

6. I'd like to say this: If you can't respond to a date offer, which you initiated, for 2 days, I lose interest. Because you're a stranger I've never met so this is the only info I have to go on.

Also, here we see that I, too, am guilty of "ghosting"... Where did I go? Perhaps to a maze in my brain where I was figuring out why the more time passed, the stronger he came on?

7. Slight & subtle sexism = confusing & unnecessary (oh, and also still offensive)

At least we agree people are stupid.

8. ALMOST finally getting down to exactly what one guy wants-- almost!!! 

If only I'd had a better understanding of his version of the conventions of the English language, we could've had an enlightening conversation! Alack again. 

9. An eager beaver who immediately texts pics of his Halloween costume and continues texting heavily all weekend-- only to drop that he'll be in Germany for the next 2.5 weeks. As in, "How's a date 3 weeks from now?" No lie, 3 weeks is just enough time for me to start dating someone else and spearhead a major crowdfunding campaign to raise $20k for my nonprofit. Sorry, dude. But thanks for all those pics from Germany... I hope you weren't using your data.

Take a knee, kid. 

10. Rude finance flakes with no respect for your time because nothing ever changes. Standing taller.

Except for meeting up with the guy who didn't end up looking like his picture (but only because he's smart and asked me to a cider festival-- man, does asking someone out to a specific fun event work), I challenged myself to not do or say things I didn't want to do or say this time around. Given my low expectations, I gave zero f*#%s. If someone didn't text me back, I didn't care because, like, whatever. It's Coffee Meets Bagel! If someone offended me, I spoke up. If I didn't want to see someone again (poor cider fest guy), I let him know. My first test of this was up there in #10. Some frat boy from my own alma mater, of all places, asks me out, claims he'll choose the place, and then disappears, only to cancel the date 4 hours before the time he chose for it to start. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened, with "swamped at work" always the excuse. OK, fine. In that case, don't schedule a date during the week!! What on earth makes a job with a flexible end time a suitable prequel to a date?! This time, I didn't want to deem it acceptable... but for some reason I was so nervous to send my pointed rejection. This guy went to my college! We had, uh, maybe 10 mutual friends! I can't come across as a b...iiii...tt...cchhhhhhhhhh.

I obvs got over it. And then the craziest thing happened... he answered. This careless boy, whom I don't know at all, wastes my time, then sends a plea of "apology," clearly waiting for me to forgive him. Fine; you want me to give you a second chance, sure, but I'm not about to pander and forgive you for disrespecting my time. Thus, I'm a bitch, and I don't get a date. Well, cool, because that Sunday I GOT STUFF DONE.

My last bout with online "dating" has taught me that I'm learning what I want. I want to date someone whom I meet in real life, naturally and without the help of an electronic introducing service, because that's a stubborn romantic ideal I've had my whole life and can't shake, and that's OK. I want someone whom I don't have to badger to meet up, who respects my time, gender, and career. I want to feel like we are on the same page, not attacked or ignored. And I'm 100% not afraid to admit it. 

CMB brought me the longest "relationship" I've had since my first boyfriend (1.5 months, score!). I've not included him in the list of 10 above because he was genuinely great. Completely vetted through a close friend of mine, cute, 100% respectful. Unfortunately, life sucks. Our bodies betray us by means of housing a random mystery called "chemistry," which I picture as a the devilishly happy red gremlin from Whammy!.

Love/hate this dude.

While I could easily claim, "I wish I knew why my Whammy threw a whammy at this situation!" I can't blame it all on unexplained physiology. That's a cop out and we all know it. This "it's no one's fault" mentality makes us feel better about ourselves for breaking up with someone or turning someone down. And while it is no one's fault, because no one is at fault for being the uniquely holiday cut-out cookie he or she is, stifling the honest and justifiable reasons for not wanting to date someone denies us the opportunity to learn from our relationships. I do not suggest when you decline a young lady's date request that you also text a detailed list of why you do not wish to date her; similarly, handwritten letters have incredible sentiment, but I don't wish to see you passing one containing a memoir of your romantic needs to that guy with whom you've been on 3 dates. However, I dare you to speak up for yourself to yourself. And if you have been dating someone for a while, to speak up for the both of you. Equally respect both each other's intangible Whammys and concrete time. Unapologetically own your needs as confidently as you acknowledge the stupidity of love. 

Bartholomew, it's not Helena's fault she doesn't get along with your brother, which is a deal breaker for you, just as it is not Portia's fault for being a homebody, which happens to work against Septimus's extrovert mojo he's got going on right now. You are not cruel for wanting your girlfriend to be friends with your brother; he's the sheath to your sword, part of you! Portia, you are not lesser, you don't need fixed, and you're stellar for being a homebody! Somewhere out there is a lord or lady who wants to spend every night on the proverbial couch watching the proverbial Game of Thrones with you, because other people are scary and you gratefully don't need that consistent haunted house experience. 

When we're honest with both our hearts and brains, because we're humans and have both of those things-- I hate to assume, but let's say 100% we do-- we grow. We'll (hopefully) not mess up the same exact shit next time. We'll progressively wade through the crap instead of being stuck... behind the crap... Gross. Caroline was right: the more people you go on dates with, the more life experiences you gift yourself, the closer you get to figuring out what you want. No, you can't always count on your fingers tangible reasons that you don't jive with someone, nor can you define what you want and need during or after every romantic endeavor. Sometimes you realize months later what you liked and disliked. The more we allow ourselves to honor what we know we need, though, the less we swim around in exhausting dates we want to escape. Listen, I'm all about giving people a fair chance, because you can't judge a book by its cover and other quotes like The Golden Rule, but I'm also allowed to say, "You know what, Fulvia, I know Constantine doesn't want a relationship right now and I'm personally not interested in something just for fun, so I'd prefer if you didn't set us up. Thanks for checking in. Bt-dubs, your toga is hot." 

(Tryna bring old-fashioned names back on an extremely old-fashioned 1st century level)

I wrote a list of my relationship needs. I expect it to change. I expect certain bullet points to never change. I respect it and love it, for it is product of pain and assholes. Oh, let's not write pain and assholes together like that. It is product of pushing and shit. You know what, never mind.

I do not regret my 3 short stints with online dating. I'm done pretending it is for me and give props to those who use it. My step-sister is marrying her best friend whom she met on OK Cupid, so like, how the flying fish can I claim it's baloney? I dare you! But I am finally comfortable allowing myself to wade in my now less shitty crap in corporeal, old fashioned life, recognizing that my Year of Dating (2015, if you're lost), in which I unpreparedly threw my middle-school-level self into the Russian roulette of modern dating in New York City, left me unfulfilled and, ah, can end! I tried, I risked, I enjoyed some of it but mostly none of it. What I did enjoy, though, was thoroughly enjoyable-- yeah, I'm talking to you, you awesome dudes who were unfortunately outnumbered by awkwardness or ignorance this year! 99% not into dating or talking to multiple guys at once, 99% won't see someone who dislikes seeing comedy shows, and 100% still figuring out texting, flirting, first dates, and "defining the relationship," because quite seriously what the frick. I have zero answers, and that's better than the negative quantity I used to claim. 

I feel like zero is an undefinable entity I can hold. 

Well, we've made it through this Hallmark holiday classic without a workaholic ignoring the holiday season, some girls having one last shot at friendship, or finding out Santa is real. Perhaps, in my journey, you've taken offense or questioned your own behavior. That's either because it was a successful modern holiday flick or you think I'm overreacting, overly judgmental, aggressive, or stuck up. To which, ladies and gentleman,

Pumpkin & Booze: a Cure to Colds and Young Adulthood

Bonjour, & bienvenidos to a month after I said I'd be finished with this blog. Anyone surprised? No? Great, let's eat.

Ingredients

• Parents
• Compliments
• Pumpkins
• Celebrities
• Parties

Instructions

When you are an early 20's female in NYC, all of the above are potentially problematic. Take the glaring example of pumpkin: 

Yeah, this article interesting, click it..

Why does this innocent gourd deserve such fiercely loaded judgment &, thusly, protection? You don't see my listing pattypan squash or zucchini or kabocha up there-- why do they get away scot-free? 

I mean, the real reason is because I didn't go home to Ohio to have homemade Krieg's Itz the Berries annual kabocha frozen custard or Homemade Mitchell's Ice Cream's special zucchini fall flavor. SHIT no. I went home to get some PUMPKIN. TWICE. DAMN STRAIGHT. So that's why that's there. And also to provide a sweet transition to: parents.

Indeed, I flee-ed to the Cleve a few weekends ago, thanks to the extra time awarded to me by the national holiday celebrating massacres and a man compelled by Spanish greed-- thanks to it, but not because of it. No, I would've been forced to fly home whether or not I was able to spend more than 12 hours there. My mother made a bold move: she pulled her "I never make you do anything" card to require my presence at my cousin Kelly's wedding shower. A card that, sadly (really only for her), is 100% valid; my mom historically never makes me do anything. The closest she's come has been not letting me do something. I wasn't allowed to participate in both my high school senior spring play and the annual Lorain International Princess Pageant, which I'd wanted to do because this same cousin Kelly won 3rd Runner Up & thus local celebrity as the German Princess in 2003. Now, I'm not saying that the bridal shower of one of my top favorite cousins is not worth a card pulling. It's simply that you'd think my mom would pull this highly valuable, pretty much one-time-only card on, I don't know, her inevitable retirement party or making me move my crap out of her basement. Nope; she's selfless. And, even if I could only be in Ohio for 5 hours, I was to be at Quarry Hill Winery in Vermillion, OH at 1pm on Saturday.

Obviously, this meant that when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat, congested head, and body aches, I was going to have to suck. it. up. I drank an entire 56 oz jug of orange juice that day. I also performed in an improv show downtown that started at 10:30pm and then got to bed at 2am, with my alarm set for 5:50am the next morning.

Now, don't hide what you're thinking-- "if you couldn't breathe out of any nostril, barely got through work, and felt dizzy in Candy Land all day, why on earth would you go perform in an indie improv show in the East Village?!" No one was making me do it. However, one does not simply bail day-of when they're part of a 7-person team and 2 people already said that they couldn't make it days ago. Also, it was in a really great venue, OK?!

But still.

I successfully wake up at 5:50am, though mainly because I can't breathe. Zombie-like, I travel train & bus from Queens to New Jersey to my gate just as boarding began, which is fine since I fly standby and we get the leftover seats. Unless... there are none. In a haze, I sit there wondering why my name isn't being called, until I finally notice the crowd of others waiting. 

I dedicated myself to <4 hours of sleep and a trip to New Jersey but DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER to check the flight availability before I left the house? Honestly, at this point, I don't know who I am anymore (though that could've been the snot and lack of sleep). The 67 available seats-- that there were yesterday at 9pm, clearly the most relevant time to now-- are now 2 seats, and instead of being 3rd I am now 25th on the standby list. But they (my dad) don't call me the Luckiest Pass Rider in the World for nothin'. Oh, right; that's who I am: Economy Plus on an impossible flight.

Ohio ETA: 10:50am
My bed ETA: 11:35am
Departure for wedding shower ETA: 12:30pm
Shower at a winery with homemade apple cider sangria: 1 to 5pm
Pumpkin frozen custard + farm apple stand ETA: 5:15pm
Comcast On-Demand so I can finally watch "Mr. Robot" ETA: 6pm
Sleep: 9:30pm

10:00am: WE'RE GOING TO A MOTHA-F*#$IN' ISLAND

Oh, you thought that after exhausting my sickly narcoleptic body through 3 hours of sleep, a flight, a 40 min nap, and 4 hours of pure adrenaline partying that I'd not be expected to go to "the Key West of the North" in the middle of October? Then you must've forgotten my mother's card. Ah, yes, when you wrap it all together, my mother was using her untapped parenting power to force her 24-year-old square & stuffed-up daughter to party non-stop. 

At 11:15am, we board the Miller Ferry to Put-In-Bay Island, the "crown jewel of Lake Erie"-- indeed, the Key West of the North. Other than being the favored locale for the Scherach & Rupp families (mine) to drink and eat (mainly drink) in a marathon-like fashion, PIB actually holds awesome historical significance. I grew up thinking that Oliver Hazard Perry's famous Battle of Lake Erie won the War of 1812, but now I'm not sure if that's true. It was a major battle, though, and it was from the harbor called Put-in-Bay that Perry sailed to defeat the British fleet and gain command of Lake Erie. Perry was one eloquent dude, and through this battle he gifted America with "We have met the enemy and they are ours..." and the less widespread "Don't give up the ship" that was printed on his battle flag, which I think is pretty badass-- and which PIB's Perry's Monument has printed on a lot of T-Shirts and tote bags, so sue me if I want one.

<3

Adult children know when to power through. I don't drink the traditional starter/breakfast drink of a Bloody Mary stuffed with a pickle and meat stick at a dive called Joe's Bar. I do drink a hot mulled spice wine at the boiled down Oktoberfest, as Oktoberfests on a summer destination island of 138 permanent residents on a Sunday football afternoon tend to boil down to. At one point, I become so focused and intensely enraged at this bigoted, white-haired redneck (I'll say it if it's true) singing and playing guitar on top of a round bar fully surrounded by Cleveland Browns-clad Ohioans cheering him and his backwards insensitive jokes on... so intensely focused probably due to my cold meds. Yet, in the spirit of a family wedding shower, I hold back from interrupting his act and possibly angering a crowd of tipsy Midwestern football fans. Sometimes you have to hop into a 10-person golf cart, sip a mini plastic cup of wine, and let it go. 

There's nothing like drinking Pink Catawba Wine, of the Catawba Islands of Lake Erie,
in convenient plastic cups.

I not only survive but also feel surprisingly better; must be that fresh lake water air. I wake up for the last hoorah-- being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress for cousin Kelly's sister (also known as my cousin)'s wedding. Then, my mom and I stop at the "nice" mall before going to the airport, and if you were wondering where the other ingredients were coming in, they occur here.

Parents: While sitting at Panera, my mom asks if I've been flossing. If not, I should, because my breath smells; she barely got through our order at the counter. Thanks. Also, I'm to "stop it, with your hands." I've got this sub-conscious twitch with my right hand that I've been trying to lessen, but leave it to one's mother to stomp it out without any explanation other than a firm "stop." Walking around, my mother notes that I am wearing 2 different socks, which my dad had already managed to mention within an hour of my being home two days ago. With different different socks.

Compliments: While on the phone outside of Teavanna, where my mother is purchasing some Oprah Chai Tea only because it's on sale, because it is UNREAL expensive, a young woman smiles at me and quietly offers, "I love your outfit." I'm taken aback by a few things: 
1. her confidence to say something not 100% direly necessary to a stranger; 2. her unknown reasoning of why this kind thought was important enough to interrupt my phone call; and 3. that someone complimented my entire outfit. I am not an icon of fashion and this was so important enough. I smile a slowly formed (due to shock) smile and thank her genuinely. 

The next compliment I receive from a stranger-- I forgot that that must happen a lot in Ohio!-- is at the Cleveland Airport. It's been a textbook beautiful, sunny, perfect day thus far with my mother and the dress and the mall, so when the middle-aged TSA security agent who checks my boarding pass and ID looks from my ID to me and says, "You lowered your ears... It's cute!", I bumble through initial shock, again, to a "thank you, " smile, and laugh. As my chuckle begins, though, I realize how freaking weird & potentially inappropriate it is for this TSA agent to tell me that my haircut is "cute," but at that point I'm taking off my belt and shoes for some other guy. 

This is fine; I excuse it on the basis of this is Ohio and things are different here than in New York, where I typically yell obscenities or shout "Shut up!" to any male stranger who says anything complimentary to me. The other day some jackass young guy was loitering in the Duane Reade check-out area. I couldn't get past him, so we did that fun little dance, which he soundtracked throughout with his creepy, "Oh, hello," "You wanna dance?" and "Hey, good day to you, too, beautiful"-- shit like that. As I finally got around him, I yelled, in front of a long line of customers, "Shu-ut up!" over my shoulder and proceeded to pay for my bag of pretzels. I'm not proud of how much I shout or swear at catcallers in public, because that's honestly not the best way to handle the situation-- but, for this shy Grandma-like Midwestern gal, that's simply what comes out.

Celebrities: An angel from my improv class is a swing (like an understudy, but for many character tracks) in "Hamilton," which is currently the hottest ticket on Broadway in years-- sold out until at least January with those tickets at $200+. It tells the story of Alexander Hamilton using rap and hip-hop, told by a non-white cast, and one isn't to listen to the soundtrack before watching it onstage. It is nearly impossible to see, and I had fully accepted I'd see it in, like, 2 years. But this talented angel happened to be on that night, so he offered my class a few standing room tickets for FORTY DOLLARS. I'm still in shock that I saw it and had such a great view! Anyways, back to the important part: He takes the 3 of us who attended backstage, where I see my female friend who is a swing, and. Also. So You Think You Can Dance Season 3 finalist Neil Haskell, aka also a swing who was on that night, aka also the high school celebrity crush obsession of my friend Lindsey and me circa 2007 to 2009. One never imagines they'll meet their first celebrity crush and I'm now standing 10 feet away from him. It was, honestly, bafflingly funny and unreal to me, because when we were "obsessed" with him, we were 16 and never dreamed of meeting him, so that gave us permission to be silly and playfully dramatic about it. But there he was.

We were 16. Come on.

And then. Then suddenly there also was. In addition. JENNIFER ANISTON.

Perhaps you don't know, but I am, not playfully, obsessed with "Friends." It was monumental in my formative years. As I've mentioned before, I timed out the completion of the 10 DVD box-sets from 7th grade to my high school graduation, so that as I was leaving my best friends at the finale of our childhood, I would simultaneously watch the "Friends" finale with my best friends at a party; I'd had it planned for years. It was an emotional mistake that will forever embed "Friends" into every fiber of being of my adolescence. Without any agency of my own freewill, "Friends" will always be my favorite show and Jennifer Aniston one of my favorite actors. 

Imagine being flanked on the same stage by two people who, on two totally different levels of celebrity, were strangely both largely emotionally tied to your high school years. Lindsey was also my "Friends"-watching confidant, so I began sending strong SOS signals to her from my beating heart. I felt like I was going to puke, in my own little world, unable to hold a conversation. I walked over to my female swing friend and her boyfriend-- also my friend-- and told them what was going on with my body/mind/vomit. She says,

"Oh my gosh! You have to tell him."

Both her boyfriend and me: "NOOO." 

She proceeds to say that "OMG he's so weird, he'll love it, you have to, when else would you ever get to blah blah blah" and of course she's right-- why the hell not? Since she walks over to get him from the other side of the stage, I know she's definitely already primed him. When they all try to be civil and introduce me like I'm a normal person, I shake his hand and then cut the crap.

"OK, so, just being honest/just so you know/you should know (I blacked out, I don't know), you were my first ever celebrity crush."

Continue black out. All I remember was mentioning Lindsey and spouting a few unnecessary lies, such as that I was 14 that summer and that it was the first reality show we'd ever watched-- as if these made it more innocent-- and also as if that would make it less awkward-- as if it even needed to be awkward. I distinctly did say, "It was a weird summer." 

I didn't meet Jen, but I didn't want to; it wasn't my time. Not yet. But Neil Haskell, hottie of 2007 to roughly 2009, did ask me where I studied improv, twice, and took a picture with me where I was trying to make some sort of cool ironic face but instead look like I'm crying. 

No, if I'd have known I was to need to make a good impression, I wouldn't have worn my box-like Limited Too jacket, thanks for asking.

Anyone keeping a scoreboard of how difficult it is to be a 24-year-old white lower-middle-class female in a big city, that's another tally in the Inconsequential and Annoying category. 

What this recipe shows is that my parents, though states away, are still so actively involved in my life that they can smell my breath and force me to suck up a cold for family time; that, despite popular belief, young women can be intelligent and still love pumpkin; that discerning how to react appropriately to compliments from strangers is a complicated and difficult issue for young women; and that, at this time, I am not emotionally fit enough to meet celebrities on the spot. It appears there is learning and growing to be done!

Wouldn't it be nice if we were all as poised as Jen? As financially independent as Jen? As trained at taking compliments as Jen? As not required to go to events when she's ill or tired as... Oh, no. Jen's life is not perfect. And if I want to be a successful and respected actor like her, that means that partying even when I don't want to doesn't have an end in sight... 

Better get me a Bloody Mary with a meat stick.




For a taste of what PIB is like when I'm not sick, here are different shots of my mother and I eating and drinking in the span of 1 day:

And this doesn't even show the winery.

Be a Picky Eater

Ingredients

• "You're very deferential."
• "That is pretty much humanity and respecting people."
• "Because I like you but I think it's shitty of me to keep seeing you if you want a serious relationship and I know that's not going to work for me."
• "That kind of behavior is not acceptable. Let me know if it happens again."
• "That explains why you're so nice!" 
• "You're precious."

Instructions
[The names have been changed to protect the innocent. The story has not, as I'm fairly certain our 3 mutual friends are not reading this blog. Prove me wrong? I'll bake you cookies.] 

I misread signals from a guy that I had been talking to and/or seeing for over 4 months as shyness. I saw his endearing nerdy nature (he's an MD/PhD student) as an excuse for his distancing of feelings/emotions and lack of public affection. I chose to see the best in him. Or did I?

Since he ended things a few weeks ago, via text including the "shitty" message above, I've been contemplating how much my choosing to see the best in people is a choice. Having grown up Catholic, raised by two deeply compassionate individuals, constantly surrounded by patience (my mom worked in special ed and my dad in a steel mill about which he rarely complained), hoping for the best in others and situations has always come naturally-- so naturally that I hadn't even realized I've been doing it. Thank goodness there's always an MD/PhD student to show you the way.

Let's get back to the juicy gossip: I had excused-- let's call this guy Long Con, as through his actions I learned the meaning of that term-- Long Con's previous long breaks of communication because he'd given due reasonings behind them (final exams and then later an emergency trip back home). I told myself that he was busy in such a chaotic curriculum, so of course I, as an incredibly busy person myself, understood why he'd prioritize studying over seeing little old me. When we did hang out, he was so funny, sweet, interesting, and interested; and in between, he'd initiate texts, make me laugh, ask to see me soon. I believed that he would truly come around... until I didn't. Because I'm not stupid. I started to excuse his final, last break of communication... until I couldn't. Because I'm not totally hopeless. I realized the ship was going under, and, since I like a good disaster, I went out with a bang: I texted him again. Then, even after his much belated and poor excuse to his absence, without my wanting to, I still asked to hang out two more times-- because in order for me to fully relinquish hope in something, I must burn it to the ground. There, I'll receive my final, clarifying message from the boot about to stomp on me. 

This particular message, in Long Con's case, was a text that barely apologized and instead placed blame-- subtle, but there-- on me for assumedly not wanting "something casual." Index finger pointed up in the air: When someone says sends a series of 3 long block texts stating "I don't want to lead you on at all if we have different expectations, taking it upon himself to not be "shitty," he is actually saying he's doing you a favor by doing the right thing. A quite advanced "it's not you, it's me," this message actually places the noble crown on the one doing the let-down. You want more, but he is too busy, and even though he likes you he will-- martyr-like-- sacrifice his liking for the betterment of your mental health, for which you should be grateful, and therefore you should feel guilty for his attaching the word "shitty" to his behavior. Damnit, you have been saved!

Again, it barely apologized-- and also insinuated "something casual" for a busy man of letters who enjoys disappearing from communication for a week or three to mean "selfishly see you whenever I want you"-- for his sudden silence and, whether it be necessary or not, his months-long period of leading me on (which he did). AND YET. And yet, my text back included the words "appreciate" and "thanks" and the apologetic "I simply wanted to know what was going on." 

WHAT?!

The next morning I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on my run and texted my mom, "Is giving everyone the vendor of the doubt a Catholic thing?" 

She answered, "What are you talking about?"

I corrected my autocorrect and retyped the question. However, that wasn't her confusion: "But what are you referring to?"

"Well, I guess forgiveness and believing the most/best of people... So yeah that sounds pretty Catholic."

"That is pretty much humanity and respecting people."

Right.

That night, my improv 401 teacher gave our class our first personal notes-- my first ever personal notes as an improviser. Seeing as UCB would like to see us continue paying into their system, and this is still is a core level class, our notes were compliment sandwiches. After sitting through everyone else's sandwiches and sandwich-utilizing scenes, my name was at last called. My leaning-positive note? 

"You're very deferential."

[I nodded as if I knew what that word meant. I swore I did, anyways, so it was easy to pretend.]

"You typically defer to your scene partner. You tend to always play other people's games."

Great.

The following week, the kid I babysit had a friend over and sass-mouthed me in front of him, because that's what you do when you're 10 (read: my excuse). Immediately, his dad opens the bedroom door into the living room and bellows in his commanding presence, "What did you say?" (His dad sometimes works from home, so it's like I have a Secret Service or something.)

After pulling from the kid that he did indeed say what he, the father, did indeed hear, and after the boys went to shoot some foam hoops in a different room, the dad said, "He shouldn't talk to you that way." And I made up some lame reasoning of his friend being over, etc etc, to which he rightly replied, 

"It doesn't matter. That kind of behavior is not acceptable. Let me know if it happens again."

That next weekend, I get new headshots taken. My friend, the illustrious and talented Justin Schuman, did an incredible job and we had a jammin' time. Though there was an entire series in my navy dress that he labeled "I'm not 16 anymore, bitch," what ended up being the catchphrase of the shoot? 

"You're precious."

Thank you.

You know what? I am. I am damn precious. I just now pasted that GIF of Boo above and am having difficulty concentrating because I'm thinking about how great that Halloween costume would be, especially following my past two years as a Beanie Baby and an American Girl doll! I am precious and I know it, but I'll be damned if that makes me soft. 

I'm sick of playing other people's games-- in dating and otherwise. I mean, sure, it's currently more apparent in dating. Also, I'm not sure I really know how to play that game. There's an amazing TED Talk by analyst Amy Webb entitled How I Hacked Online Dating chronicling how, frustrated by the losers she was meeting online and the winners who didn't like her back, she made a spreadsheet of data points-- stay with me. 

So I said fine, I've got a new plan. I'm going to keep using these online dating sites, but I'm going to treat them as databases, and rather than waiting for an algorithm to set me up, I think I'm going to try reverse-engineering this entire system. So knowing that there was superficial data that was being used to match me up with other people, I decided instead to ask my own questions. What was every single possible thing that I could think of that I was looking for in a mate?

There: What do I want? What is important to me? Where's the nearest spreadsheet in which to type it? Guys, this Picky Nicky found her husband this way. She found a guy that met her criteria-- one of which was an appreciation for spreadsheets! I'll never create something as intense as Amy Webb's scoring system-- which mathematically calculated matchability, so a guy with 700 points got an email, 900 points a date, and 1,500 points a mere consideration of any sort of relationship-- but mainly because I'm not good with numbers and I've never really figured out Excel. I did take this away, though: 

...there is an algorithm for love. It's just not the ones that we're being presented with online. In fact, it's something that you write yourself. So whether you're looking for a husband or a wife or you're trying to find your passion or you're trying to start a business, all you have to really do is figure out your own framework and play by your own rules, and feel free to be as picky as you want.

In her interview for the TED podcast, Amy made an eye-opening point: People turn up their noses at the idea of having a defined, specific set of high-standards criteria for a mate, only to go make grocery lists 3 pages long. It has to do with standards. It has to do with confidence. It has to do with being outspoken in addition to being polite. I? Will never not be polite. Here's how meeting new people usually goes:

"Wait. Where are you from?"

"Ohio."

"Oh, that makes sense. That's why you're so nice!"

I don't know if people think that, since we Ohioans seemingly deal regularly with this:

 and this,

and this,

and also this, 

that somehow our only way of avoiding a total devastation of existence is to be polite. I don't know; I'm not an outsider to the Midwest (though Ohio easily seems to have a stronger "nice" correlation! Why?! Someone let me in!). Clearly none of these people went to my high school. 

And this is fine!-- my politeness, not people stereotyping me in an incredibly positive way. My parents are two of the kindest, most giving people I know, and I'm grateful to have been raised with their values. What's not fine is my inconsistent but general lack of spine. Even though I have incredibly mild scoliosis, my spine can afford to metaphorically stand a little taller. This includes truly questioning every time I give someone the benefit of the doubt-- because I do always give everyone the benefit of the doubt. It's not always helpful! I have such a strong inclination towards positivity and hope, towards finding the best in people and trying to understand the reasonings behind their not-so-stellar actions. As my mom said, this is a good quality. But there's a balance. I need to learn when to stand up for myself and put my foot down. Kindness doesn't equate passiveness. Compassion can live alongside pride and confidence. Would you be surprised if I pulled out another TED talk? No? Smart reader. Journalist Krista Tippet sums up "Has The Word 'Compassion' Lost Its Meaning?": 

I mean, listening is a hugely powerful form of attention. It's presence. And if you are really listening, you are genuinely curious. And you are open to be surprised and changed by what comes back at you. So compassion is not necessarily about agreeing with somebody else. It's not even necessarily about liking them. It is about making a choice to honor their humanity.

Thinking about all of this fueled me to do something today that I may not have done a year or so ago (though I'd like to think I would've). I had an audition for a fun role, perfect for my type, in a nicely paid short film. I was digging the logline and snappy script, except for one single word: retarded. My character used the term "retarded monkey" 3 times, and in no was the R-word necessary in any case; it could so easily be replaced, as the joke (I hope) was in the word "monkey"-- that a monkey could run the company I worked at, not a differently abled individual. So when the director asked if I had any questions, I calmly & confidently asked if I could replace the word "retarded" with something else. And you know what he said?

"Yes."

He went on to say that all of the lines were open to change once the actors get on set. He went on to give me great notes and adjustments on my scenes. And he went on to emit a positive, welcoming energy that made me forget I'd even asked the question. I jumped off a cliff to stand up for what I believe in and I didn't die. Instead, I got to say "monkey fetus" 3 times in an audition and have the reader repeat it to me each time, and that's a pretty good day. 

We all want to be seen as nice, as good people. Compassionate people. Let's try to get less caught up in how we're seen and more concerned with what we believe in and need. The more you stand up for yourself, the taller and stronger you'll be-- which you need to handle all the shit to which you have to show compassion. And if you live in New York... that's a lot of shit.