He likes me.
It's a weird feeling, being liked--romantically-speaking, that is. I'm so used to flakes and douche bags who care more about their schedules and themselves than me that it almost shocks me when a man wants to spend his entire afternoon with me. When he wants to see me one evening and get breakfast the next day. When he asks when my birthday is, and then pauses and looks away for a second, as though trying to commit it to memory.
I saw him again Friday night. We played putt-putt in City Park (I won by a lot) and then walked over to a bar and played pool (he won by a little). In the meantime, we talked about life and work and religion and family. And when we got back to my house, he hugged me and told me that he liked me. I realize that that sounds really corny, but as Kate Winslet says in The Holiday, "I'm looking for corny in my life."
It's the first time in almost eight years that I've heard "I like you" without a "but" following it. Part of that is my fault; I like to go for guys who are "carefree" and unattached, both of which are euphemisms for "won't give a damn about me" and "will tell me I'm pretty and then not call for a week." And that shit will mess a girl up. I find my past bad experiences already affecting my not-quite-relationship. I find myself focusing on all of the things that distinguish us, stacking them fact by fact, as though building an emotional brick wall. He's a vegetarian. He's not a Christian. He smokes on occasion. He works nights. He's a child of divorce. And I wonder, each time I hear something new and different from me, if I shouldn't just cut it off now. Before we fight over his smoking habits. Before we argue over whether or not God is God. Before I start to resent the fact that he won't eat anything I know how to cook.
I know it's kind of crazy. Not only is it impossible for me to end up with someone exactly like me, but it's impossible that that would be a pleasant experience anyway (there do not need to be two of me). And it's crazy to worry about all of our differences now, only two weeks in. Maybe we won't argue over religion. Maybe I'll learn how to cook vegetarian dishes and save my chicken fajita soup and barbecue pork for meals when he's not around. And the truth is, we're already learning about each other and adjusting. He promised not to smoke around me. I'm already keeping his off-nights as free as I can.
On top of that, we have a lot in common. We're both kind of wusses (we don't like scary movies or roller coasters). We're both athletic. We're both from New Orleans. We've both had our awkward phases and managed to survive them. We both like outdoorsy things and traveling. We both like listening to live music and watching movies and reading. We both like each other.
In the end, only time will tell how things play out. Sure, there's a significant chance that things will end, and we'll both get hurt. But that's the chance you take, right?
For the time being, I'm going to force myself to live in the moment. I'm just going to enjoy the experience. I mean, he likes me. What's not to like about that?
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Happy Writing
There's a reason why most great writers were miserable human beings, and at least if we're speaking about Great American Literature, why most great writing is pretty damn depressing. It's really hard to write well about happy things. In fact, I remember listening to an NPR interview earlier this fall with a songwriter who said that in order to ready himself to compose a song, he has to first settle into a melancholic mood. For most people, writing usually comes from a place of confusion, sadness, or anger. The same is true for me. A couple of days ago, I tried to write a blog post about my date on Friday (which went pretty well, as you might be able to infer), and the sentences that came out of my fingers were terrible. Juvenile at best. Literally, I feel like a twelve year old girl when I try to write about something great that happened to me, especially when it's related to the male species.
Dear diary,
Today a boy held my hand. Eek! I wonder if this means he'll kiss me soon. Maybe I should practice on my mirror, like my older sister told me to.
Just kidding, he already kissed me. Also, I have no older sister. And as the oldest sister, I would never encourage using a mirror for that sort of thing. I would recommend the back of your hand, right behind the webbing between your thumb and index finger. It's warmer and also more life-like. Personally, though, I prefer to practice on men.
As I said before, the date on Friday with "Jack" went really well. The movie was weird, but good fodder for conversation later on, and when we went out to Finns afterwards to get a drink and talk more, we ran into some of his friends. This gave me a significantly better sense of him as a person and as a date. Not only did he not ignore me in favor of his friends (100 points), he also didn't turn into a douche bag trying to show off how manly he is (1000 points). In fact, he sat beside me the whole time and told me interesting and vulnerable stories about why he became a vegetarian and how he got into Tibetan meditation. For all of you who have met any guys I've ever been out with, this is very unlike my usual type, which I consider to be a good thing, since I tend to go for flakes and douchebags.
Yesterday he called me (again, on the phone!), and we talked for a little while about dried tears and coconut oil (long story) before settling on Cafe Minh as our lunch date locale for today. Before hanging up, we pretended to set a time earlier than the actual meeting time (him: 12:00, me: 12:13) so that neither of us would be late.
I got there at 12:21. In my defense, I didn't realize that parking on Canal Street in Mid City is so hard, and so despite arriving to the general location on time, I had to drive around a while in order to find an open space. Nonetheless, I felt terrible. When I got into the restaurant, he was in the bathroom, and I had to wait. Serves me right.
Lunch was really delicious (I got a pork Banh Mi sandwich. He got some tofu thing), and afterwards, we took a walk down the street, which led us to the cemeteries and mausoleum at the end of Canal. Which I'd never been to despite my twenty plus years in New Orleans. He hadn't either.
Don't worry, we didn't make out in the cemeteries. We thought about it, and then we decided that in addition to likely being disrespectful to the dead, it was probably bad luck. So we just walked around and talked.
He did hold my hand at one point, which I was pleasantly surprised by because it was only our third date. While sex on the third date seems to be a common landmark in American relations (didn't happen), for a lot of people, hand-holding doesn't become part of the equation for a while. It's kind of an intimate gesture, I guess. Anyway, he reached for my hand early on, and then later, I initiated more hand-holding. Our hands were kind of sweaty both times, but we held on anyway. Maybe when we're less nervous around each other, our hands will be less sweaty. Or maybe we'll start wearing gloves.
A little while after we parted, he texted me to thank me for lunch (I paid this time because I'm weird about the whole who-pays thing). I vacillated on how to respond in a way that (a) was cool and casual, (b) indicated that I wanted to see him when he was off next, and (c) was cool and casual. I settled for a text sandwich, following the very format I just described. So I typed:
You're welcome! Maybe we can hang out on Friday, if you're not busy. Have a great time with your family tomorrow!
And then I died a small death because I am insecure enough that I assume men have other, better things to do than hang out with me, and am therefore terrified to put myself out there.
A couple of days ago, my roommate and I went out to breakfast/lunch together on a whim (it was lunch time but we ate breakfast food), and during our conversation over omelets and crawfish, we ended up talking about a website called Barking Up the Wrong Tree (bakadesuyo.com), which has science-based posts about a wide variety of things. Upon returning home, I found the website and read their article on flirting. It states that eye contact, smiling, and touching are the three most effective tools for flirtation, and that you have to go out of your way to make eye contact or smile for a longer period of time than for many of us is normally comfortable. In other words, you have to be kind of obvious when you flirt. This is, obviously, why I am a terrible flirt. I make eye contact and hope that the other person will look at the same time. But on the rare occasion that they actually do, I tend to look away quickly before my cheeks turn a solid shade of pink. The problem with being obvious about flirting is that you're obviously flirting and therefore obviously setting yourself up for potential rejection. Of course, as we've established before in this blog, you can't win if you don't play the game.
Oh wait, he just texted me back!
Yeah, I'd like that. I'll call you Friday afternoon.
Dear diary,
Today a boy held my hand. Eek! I wonder if this means he'll kiss me soon. Maybe I should practice on my mirror, like my older sister told me to.
Just kidding, he already kissed me. Also, I have no older sister. And as the oldest sister, I would never encourage using a mirror for that sort of thing. I would recommend the back of your hand, right behind the webbing between your thumb and index finger. It's warmer and also more life-like. Personally, though, I prefer to practice on men.
As I said before, the date on Friday with "Jack" went really well. The movie was weird, but good fodder for conversation later on, and when we went out to Finns afterwards to get a drink and talk more, we ran into some of his friends. This gave me a significantly better sense of him as a person and as a date. Not only did he not ignore me in favor of his friends (100 points), he also didn't turn into a douche bag trying to show off how manly he is (1000 points). In fact, he sat beside me the whole time and told me interesting and vulnerable stories about why he became a vegetarian and how he got into Tibetan meditation. For all of you who have met any guys I've ever been out with, this is very unlike my usual type, which I consider to be a good thing, since I tend to go for flakes and douchebags.
Yesterday he called me (again, on the phone!), and we talked for a little while about dried tears and coconut oil (long story) before settling on Cafe Minh as our lunch date locale for today. Before hanging up, we pretended to set a time earlier than the actual meeting time (him: 12:00, me: 12:13) so that neither of us would be late.
I got there at 12:21. In my defense, I didn't realize that parking on Canal Street in Mid City is so hard, and so despite arriving to the general location on time, I had to drive around a while in order to find an open space. Nonetheless, I felt terrible. When I got into the restaurant, he was in the bathroom, and I had to wait. Serves me right.
Lunch was really delicious (I got a pork Banh Mi sandwich. He got some tofu thing), and afterwards, we took a walk down the street, which led us to the cemeteries and mausoleum at the end of Canal. Which I'd never been to despite my twenty plus years in New Orleans. He hadn't either.
Don't worry, we didn't make out in the cemeteries. We thought about it, and then we decided that in addition to likely being disrespectful to the dead, it was probably bad luck. So we just walked around and talked.
He did hold my hand at one point, which I was pleasantly surprised by because it was only our third date. While sex on the third date seems to be a common landmark in American relations (didn't happen), for a lot of people, hand-holding doesn't become part of the equation for a while. It's kind of an intimate gesture, I guess. Anyway, he reached for my hand early on, and then later, I initiated more hand-holding. Our hands were kind of sweaty both times, but we held on anyway. Maybe when we're less nervous around each other, our hands will be less sweaty. Or maybe we'll start wearing gloves.
A little while after we parted, he texted me to thank me for lunch (I paid this time because I'm weird about the whole who-pays thing). I vacillated on how to respond in a way that (a) was cool and casual, (b) indicated that I wanted to see him when he was off next, and (c) was cool and casual. I settled for a text sandwich, following the very format I just described. So I typed:
You're welcome! Maybe we can hang out on Friday, if you're not busy. Have a great time with your family tomorrow!
And then I died a small death because I am insecure enough that I assume men have other, better things to do than hang out with me, and am therefore terrified to put myself out there.
A couple of days ago, my roommate and I went out to breakfast/lunch together on a whim (it was lunch time but we ate breakfast food), and during our conversation over omelets and crawfish, we ended up talking about a website called Barking Up the Wrong Tree (bakadesuyo.com), which has science-based posts about a wide variety of things. Upon returning home, I found the website and read their article on flirting. It states that eye contact, smiling, and touching are the three most effective tools for flirtation, and that you have to go out of your way to make eye contact or smile for a longer period of time than for many of us is normally comfortable. In other words, you have to be kind of obvious when you flirt. This is, obviously, why I am a terrible flirt. I make eye contact and hope that the other person will look at the same time. But on the rare occasion that they actually do, I tend to look away quickly before my cheeks turn a solid shade of pink. The problem with being obvious about flirting is that you're obviously flirting and therefore obviously setting yourself up for potential rejection. Of course, as we've established before in this blog, you can't win if you don't play the game.
Oh wait, he just texted me back!
Yeah, I'd like that. I'll call you Friday afternoon.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
The Mental Games (Know Your Role)
This game is 70% mental and only 30% physical. You can't let stuff get to you. Everybody gets frustrated, but you've got to take a deep breath, recover, and focus. I was playing a game with a guy recently, one of the kids I teach, and he kept hitting the ball in the net. I...
This is what my coach was saying as I was standing on the court with two other players, willing the tears welling up in my eyes not to fall. I was frustrated, and I was angry, and my coach had been telling me over and over to move and square up with the ball, but I was always a step or two away from where I needed to be, and it was wearing on me.
I'm frustrated, and I don't handle frustration well, I told him before he began his speech.
I was passing at the time and consistently bumping it too far above the setter's head, but I wasn't mad about the passing. I was frustrated with setting, and it was creeping into everything I was doing by this point.
I've been training with my coach for the last four months, and my hand sets are still just as bad as they were before. I have made huge leaps and gains in everything else, but this one important skill continues to evade me. The worst part, the thing that bothered me most, was that we hadn't been spending any time on it during training. How in the hell am I supposed to get better at this skill if I never get any reps or instruction in it?
...So let it go and give me everything you've got. I was still simultaneously tearing up and scowling when he ended his speech with this line, but I managed to get it together long enough to finish out the drill.
I brought him money to pay him, and he stopped me. Are you okay? Is something going on? he asked.
I'm just mad because I'm a terrible hand setter. I can't seem to get the hang of it, I said.
So we sat down, and he told me straight up: You're not a setter. You're a hitter and a blocker. You need to focus on your offensive strategy: your hits, your shots, and your court IQ. You don't need to be a good setter. You can incorporate that into your game slowly.
We talked about it for a little while longer, and I felt better. A lot better. See, I keep forgetting that--despite being good at a lot of things--I am not ever going to be good at everything. I think I know it deep down, but I'm still haunted by that horrible, well-intentioned saying we used to hear all the time as kids: "You can be whatever you want to be. You can do whatever you put your mind to." In a sense, it's true. If I really put in the time, I could be at least a halfway decent setter. But why? Why take away from time I could be spending working on passing and hitting and blocking?
It reminds me of a training that I did with the Archdiocese of New Orleans for extraordinary ministers of the eucharist (also known as people who give communion). The training was four hours long, which I thought upfront was a ridiculous amount of time to spend at church just to learn how to say "The Body of Christ" and place a wafer in someone's hands. But instead of spending four hours practicing a simple gesture, we spent most of that time talking about the doctrine behind communion, as well as what it means to be a minister. And one of the big takeaways that the priest focused on was: Respect your role.
Not Respect your role like be grateful for it or something, but in the sense that as ministers, we have one specific job, and we need to do that one job well. We need to leave the other jobs for the other ministers who are meant to do them. I loved this. It runs counter to most of what we experience in life, where the ability to multi-task is an advertised skill and being able to wear many hats is an expectation. Some may interpret the point as a ploy to keep people down or exert undue authority, but the fact of the matter is, we do one thing better than we do ten things. And in a church that considers mindfulness and meditative prayer highly valuable, and which aims to help people refocus on the essentials of life, it seems only right that we should be expected to contribute one role and to contribute it well.
So, I'm not a setter. I'm letting go that piece of the game, and I'm letting others more equipped for the job take over. I will step in when needed, and I will probably bump set the whole time so I don't double everything and lose all the points, but I won't let it get me down. Yes, I still envy the people who can make the ball float perfectly through the air to exactly the right location, but I will have to keep envying them. Nobody ever said jealousy got you what you wanted.
Before I close this post, I want to add a prayer that I found inside the packet given to us at ministry training. I was surprised that I'd never heard it before, or that I didn't remember it, but I read it for the first time the day after I closed on my house, and it seemed to fit into my life perfectly at that moment (and continues to feel that way, even as I read it again now). I hope you get something out of it, too.
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything
apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust you always
though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
-Thomas Merton
This is what my coach was saying as I was standing on the court with two other players, willing the tears welling up in my eyes not to fall. I was frustrated, and I was angry, and my coach had been telling me over and over to move and square up with the ball, but I was always a step or two away from where I needed to be, and it was wearing on me.
I'm frustrated, and I don't handle frustration well, I told him before he began his speech.
I was passing at the time and consistently bumping it too far above the setter's head, but I wasn't mad about the passing. I was frustrated with setting, and it was creeping into everything I was doing by this point.
I've been training with my coach for the last four months, and my hand sets are still just as bad as they were before. I have made huge leaps and gains in everything else, but this one important skill continues to evade me. The worst part, the thing that bothered me most, was that we hadn't been spending any time on it during training. How in the hell am I supposed to get better at this skill if I never get any reps or instruction in it?
...So let it go and give me everything you've got. I was still simultaneously tearing up and scowling when he ended his speech with this line, but I managed to get it together long enough to finish out the drill.
I brought him money to pay him, and he stopped me. Are you okay? Is something going on? he asked.
I'm just mad because I'm a terrible hand setter. I can't seem to get the hang of it, I said.
So we sat down, and he told me straight up: You're not a setter. You're a hitter and a blocker. You need to focus on your offensive strategy: your hits, your shots, and your court IQ. You don't need to be a good setter. You can incorporate that into your game slowly.
We talked about it for a little while longer, and I felt better. A lot better. See, I keep forgetting that--despite being good at a lot of things--I am not ever going to be good at everything. I think I know it deep down, but I'm still haunted by that horrible, well-intentioned saying we used to hear all the time as kids: "You can be whatever you want to be. You can do whatever you put your mind to." In a sense, it's true. If I really put in the time, I could be at least a halfway decent setter. But why? Why take away from time I could be spending working on passing and hitting and blocking?
It reminds me of a training that I did with the Archdiocese of New Orleans for extraordinary ministers of the eucharist (also known as people who give communion). The training was four hours long, which I thought upfront was a ridiculous amount of time to spend at church just to learn how to say "The Body of Christ" and place a wafer in someone's hands. But instead of spending four hours practicing a simple gesture, we spent most of that time talking about the doctrine behind communion, as well as what it means to be a minister. And one of the big takeaways that the priest focused on was: Respect your role.
Not Respect your role like be grateful for it or something, but in the sense that as ministers, we have one specific job, and we need to do that one job well. We need to leave the other jobs for the other ministers who are meant to do them. I loved this. It runs counter to most of what we experience in life, where the ability to multi-task is an advertised skill and being able to wear many hats is an expectation. Some may interpret the point as a ploy to keep people down or exert undue authority, but the fact of the matter is, we do one thing better than we do ten things. And in a church that considers mindfulness and meditative prayer highly valuable, and which aims to help people refocus on the essentials of life, it seems only right that we should be expected to contribute one role and to contribute it well.
So, I'm not a setter. I'm letting go that piece of the game, and I'm letting others more equipped for the job take over. I will step in when needed, and I will probably bump set the whole time so I don't double everything and lose all the points, but I won't let it get me down. Yes, I still envy the people who can make the ball float perfectly through the air to exactly the right location, but I will have to keep envying them. Nobody ever said jealousy got you what you wanted.
Before I close this post, I want to add a prayer that I found inside the packet given to us at ministry training. I was surprised that I'd never heard it before, or that I didn't remember it, but I read it for the first time the day after I closed on my house, and it seemed to fit into my life perfectly at that moment (and continues to feel that way, even as I read it again now). I hope you get something out of it, too.
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything
apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore I will trust you always
though I may seem to be lost
and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
-Thomas Merton
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Vacation is Underrated
One more day of work before Thanksgiving break. I can't wait. It makes me think back to when I was a naive college student just beginning my studies in the education school, at which point I sincerely thought that teacher breaks were a pleasant but unnecessary part of the job. Ha! Had I only known the heartache that is the fall stretch or the sudden increase in gravity that happens every year on the first morning back after winter break (keeping me in bed, of course), I may never have finished out my years in the Curry School of Ed. They tell you teaching is hard the way a doctor tells you a shot will sting a little. It doesn't matter how many times they say it, it's not real until you're passing out in one of their exam rooms and nurses are swarming you with water and cool towels to try and get color back into your face. Not that I know what that's like.
As many of you have heard, the house is officially mine now, and the reality of homeownership is beginning to sink in. This week, I wrote the largest check I've ever written in all my life (times like 10 or 15). I've also stood outside of my house every single day this week just admiring this bit of mine. The way my neighbor used to admire his rose bushes with a glass of wine every evening. The way I'd stand outside of my parents' house my fourth year of college and admire my first car, a 5-speed manual, back when I didn't know how to drive stick shift. With love and an overwhelming desire to give it back.
My premise for today's visit to the house was to make sure that the contractor had picked up the spare key I left by the back door last night, so he'd have access to the bathroom. I recognize that putting a key in an envelope next to the door it opens is probably a fairly unsafe and potentially stupid thing to do, but I figured that no one would bother trying to hazard their way past the leaning metal fence and strewn trinkets on the side of the house. They would likely get tetanus from an exposed chain link, and all they'd be able to do inside the house is wash off the wound. There is nothing of value in that house right now, unless they were planning on stealing a shower curtain or the refrigerator. Good luck with that.
Anyway, as I stood outside of the house this evening, hoping my tenants hadn't noticed this weird daily ritual, I began to notice things I hadn't before and began to dream dreams. Of the Home Depot variety, that is. Wouldn't it be nice if I had a screen porch? If there was a shed in the backyard? If the siding was repaired and painted? If I added soundproofing to the walls inside? If I got one of those cool fans (haha, get it?) whose blades retract every time you turn it off? I suppose that's one of the upsides of getting a fixer-upper. On the one hand, there's always something. On the other hand, there's always something.
My Tinder life has been slightly less active this week. I find myself apathetically left-swiping most of the people that show up, and the conversations feel a little forced. I'm not sure why, but I imagine that this app fatigue has something to do with the increase in scheduled activities and my various new adult responsibilities. Also, I think I'm still a little pissed that a guy I was supposed to meet up with last weekend went completely dark on me 15 hours after convincing me to get drinks with him. We set a time, we made a plan, and we said "See you then." Then the day of the date, he didn't respond to any of my texts. Almost a week later, I still haven't heard from him. I also haven't tried to contact him...it's his loss, after all. I can't help thinking that maybe I'd been catfished and the other person felt bad. Maybe I could be on that MTV show! My little sister would be so proud...
I do have a date this weekend, though, with the guy I went on that kickball date with last week (the one I made out with in the Shamrock parking lot, "Jack"). He texted me on Sunday (does this mean he abides by that stupid 3-day rule?) to ask how my weekend had been thus far. We exchanged a few more texts back and forth before he wrote: Well, I'll give you a call later this week and see what your schedule is like.
And then, get this, he called me. Like, on a phone. He didn't facebook me, or email me, or text me. He actually dialed my phone number and then proceeded to have a 25 minute conversation with me about horror movies, cable, work, and family. We decided, based on our conversation, to go to the movies tomorrow and see Birdman. I feel that my want-to-seem-intelligent side was the determining factor in deciding which movie to watch, despite the fact I really probably would like something less critically-acclaimed better. But I didn't want to seem like a dolt on the second date.
I'm kind of excited about the date. I mean, I'm trying to be very reserved in my excitement. After all, how much do I know about this guy? Maybe kickball was a great first date, but what if he turns out to be a dud? What if the things that seem endearing now are actually red flags? And what were we thinking, choosing a movie as a second date? You know what happens between two people during a movie? Absolutely nothing. No talking. No flirting. No endless discovery of mutual friends (because that's what happens when you're both from New Orleans). Maybe we share popcorn. Maybe our hands brush against each other at one point and there's the briefest of eye contact (which is worthless anyway because it's dark). In movies, interacting is actually literally frowned upon. People frown at you. And there are numerous ads before the movie begins telling you not to interact with other people because it bothers everybody else. Sure, the movie will give us something to talk about if we decide to get a drink afterwards, but is it worth it? I guess we'll find out.
Also, a cute side note. I checked, and kickball guy hasn't checked his Tinder account since the day he asked me to play kickball. I'm either that great, or Tinder hasn't been working out for him. I suppose neither are bad news for me.
Saturday drinks guy ("Sean") turned out to be kind of a bust. He was very nice, and I enjoyed talking to him, but in the way that I enjoy talking to pretty much any new person I meet. It was friendly, and I'm glad I went, but I just wasn't feeling it beyond that. Plus, and I hate to be a Tinder stereotype when I say this, he's short. Like, a good few inches shorter than me. And as much as I have dated and appreciated attractive shorter men in the past, I'm getting kind of tired of feeling like a giant. So, I think I'll stick with guys at least my height from this point forward.
One of the other reasons I think I'm getting Tinder fatigue is because I'm having a hard time figuring out how to set up dates, knowing that my schedule doesn't give me a whole lot of time for cavorting with potential suitors. This upcoming week, I have a date Friday night, volleyball on Saturday, a party Saturday night, volleyball on Sunday, drinks with coworkers Sunday night, a date Monday night (maybe, different guy), and a host of family activities and house-related phone calls over the course of the week. I'm also trying to fit in an extra volleyball training session while I'm off. Basically, I'm returning to the good old days of wearing myself out by doing way too much all the time. Hopefully it won't last too much longer, and I can get back to reading, playing piano, and watching TV until bedtime every single night. Maybe I can even do it in my own little piece of mine by the bayou before Mardi Gras hits. Start brainstorming your house-warming gifts!
As many of you have heard, the house is officially mine now, and the reality of homeownership is beginning to sink in. This week, I wrote the largest check I've ever written in all my life (times like 10 or 15). I've also stood outside of my house every single day this week just admiring this bit of mine. The way my neighbor used to admire his rose bushes with a glass of wine every evening. The way I'd stand outside of my parents' house my fourth year of college and admire my first car, a 5-speed manual, back when I didn't know how to drive stick shift. With love and an overwhelming desire to give it back.
My premise for today's visit to the house was to make sure that the contractor had picked up the spare key I left by the back door last night, so he'd have access to the bathroom. I recognize that putting a key in an envelope next to the door it opens is probably a fairly unsafe and potentially stupid thing to do, but I figured that no one would bother trying to hazard their way past the leaning metal fence and strewn trinkets on the side of the house. They would likely get tetanus from an exposed chain link, and all they'd be able to do inside the house is wash off the wound. There is nothing of value in that house right now, unless they were planning on stealing a shower curtain or the refrigerator. Good luck with that.
Anyway, as I stood outside of the house this evening, hoping my tenants hadn't noticed this weird daily ritual, I began to notice things I hadn't before and began to dream dreams. Of the Home Depot variety, that is. Wouldn't it be nice if I had a screen porch? If there was a shed in the backyard? If the siding was repaired and painted? If I added soundproofing to the walls inside? If I got one of those cool fans (haha, get it?) whose blades retract every time you turn it off? I suppose that's one of the upsides of getting a fixer-upper. On the one hand, there's always something. On the other hand, there's always something.
My Tinder life has been slightly less active this week. I find myself apathetically left-swiping most of the people that show up, and the conversations feel a little forced. I'm not sure why, but I imagine that this app fatigue has something to do with the increase in scheduled activities and my various new adult responsibilities. Also, I think I'm still a little pissed that a guy I was supposed to meet up with last weekend went completely dark on me 15 hours after convincing me to get drinks with him. We set a time, we made a plan, and we said "See you then." Then the day of the date, he didn't respond to any of my texts. Almost a week later, I still haven't heard from him. I also haven't tried to contact him...it's his loss, after all. I can't help thinking that maybe I'd been catfished and the other person felt bad. Maybe I could be on that MTV show! My little sister would be so proud...
I do have a date this weekend, though, with the guy I went on that kickball date with last week (the one I made out with in the Shamrock parking lot, "Jack"). He texted me on Sunday (does this mean he abides by that stupid 3-day rule?) to ask how my weekend had been thus far. We exchanged a few more texts back and forth before he wrote: Well, I'll give you a call later this week and see what your schedule is like.
And then, get this, he called me. Like, on a phone. He didn't facebook me, or email me, or text me. He actually dialed my phone number and then proceeded to have a 25 minute conversation with me about horror movies, cable, work, and family. We decided, based on our conversation, to go to the movies tomorrow and see Birdman. I feel that my want-to-seem-intelligent side was the determining factor in deciding which movie to watch, despite the fact I really probably would like something less critically-acclaimed better. But I didn't want to seem like a dolt on the second date.
I'm kind of excited about the date. I mean, I'm trying to be very reserved in my excitement. After all, how much do I know about this guy? Maybe kickball was a great first date, but what if he turns out to be a dud? What if the things that seem endearing now are actually red flags? And what were we thinking, choosing a movie as a second date? You know what happens between two people during a movie? Absolutely nothing. No talking. No flirting. No endless discovery of mutual friends (because that's what happens when you're both from New Orleans). Maybe we share popcorn. Maybe our hands brush against each other at one point and there's the briefest of eye contact (which is worthless anyway because it's dark). In movies, interacting is actually literally frowned upon. People frown at you. And there are numerous ads before the movie begins telling you not to interact with other people because it bothers everybody else. Sure, the movie will give us something to talk about if we decide to get a drink afterwards, but is it worth it? I guess we'll find out.
Also, a cute side note. I checked, and kickball guy hasn't checked his Tinder account since the day he asked me to play kickball. I'm either that great, or Tinder hasn't been working out for him. I suppose neither are bad news for me.
Saturday drinks guy ("Sean") turned out to be kind of a bust. He was very nice, and I enjoyed talking to him, but in the way that I enjoy talking to pretty much any new person I meet. It was friendly, and I'm glad I went, but I just wasn't feeling it beyond that. Plus, and I hate to be a Tinder stereotype when I say this, he's short. Like, a good few inches shorter than me. And as much as I have dated and appreciated attractive shorter men in the past, I'm getting kind of tired of feeling like a giant. So, I think I'll stick with guys at least my height from this point forward.
One of the other reasons I think I'm getting Tinder fatigue is because I'm having a hard time figuring out how to set up dates, knowing that my schedule doesn't give me a whole lot of time for cavorting with potential suitors. This upcoming week, I have a date Friday night, volleyball on Saturday, a party Saturday night, volleyball on Sunday, drinks with coworkers Sunday night, a date Monday night (maybe, different guy), and a host of family activities and house-related phone calls over the course of the week. I'm also trying to fit in an extra volleyball training session while I'm off. Basically, I'm returning to the good old days of wearing myself out by doing way too much all the time. Hopefully it won't last too much longer, and I can get back to reading, playing piano, and watching TV until bedtime every single night. Maybe I can even do it in my own little piece of mine by the bayou before Mardi Gras hits. Start brainstorming your house-warming gifts!
Friday, November 14, 2014
This Would Only Be Better If It Were My Birthday
This has been an exhausting but equally awesome week. I don't know how to reconcile the extreme tiredness and stress of it all with the number of smiles that have graced my face, but it doesn't really matter. Joy is welcome at every turn.
This week, I got to do some of my favorite things:
1. Hang out with kids
2. Make out by my car
3. Play kickball
4. Eat roasted marshmallows
5. Read a Malcolm Gladwell book
6. Invest in Mid City
7. Celebrate someone's birthday
Last weekend, I spent four days and four nights in the woods on the north shore with 25 fifth graders and six parents. We took part in a science education program called Sunship Earth. The kids absolutely loved it. They came nervous (at least one cried), and at the end, those same kids asked if we could miss the bus and stay longer. They laughed, they learned, they sat around a campfire, and I got to make really bad puns with them over dinner. Of course, I also missed a weekend off, which technically means that I worked twelve days in a row. So despite sneaking off into the woods to read at certain points, and sneaking off into the bunkhouse to get an extra nap at other points, I returned home Tuesday completely obliterated. I went to bed around 7:45pm and slept until 6am Wednesday morning, when my alarm went off.
At school a couple of hours later, you could see it in the faces of the students in my homeroom: they were exhausted, too. Before they went to their first class, I gave them the option to spend ten minutes talking quietly at their table or reading silently. Not a single child talked. Some read. Some stared at the wall. This is a class of children who never stop talking, not even when there are other people talking to them at the same time. But not one of us could sustain the energy to have a conversation that first morning back. It's the quietest my classroom has ever been with students in it.
I've spent the last couple of days feverishly grading, writing progress reports, and creating lesson plans to get myself back on track. Between Wednesday morning and this afternoon, I graded 120+ assessments and wrote 150 progress reports. That doesn't count regular teaching or paperwork. I'm not sure how I made it in time to hand out the reports today at conferences, but I'm just really, really glad to have it be the weekend already. It also helps knowing that Thanksgiving break is only a week away. I think I can I think I can.
I closed on my house today. After two weeks of uncertainty and hundreds of emails/texts/phone calls, I finally got to sign a ton of papers and, along with the keys to a fixer-upper double shotgun in my favorite neighborhood (mid city, duh), I also received a massive amount of debt and responsibility. Yay adulthood!
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I did it. In addition to these daunting adult burdens, I also now get to invest in a real way in an area that I love. I get to to avoid dealing with terrible-to-mediocre landlords and their penny-pinching. And I get to be able to fix things in my house that I don't like. That's right. If I don't like the cabinets or the wall color, I can change them. Well, maybe not afford to change them. But I'm legally allowed to.
The remainder of my energy this past week has been focused on Tinder. For all of you wondering what Tinder is like now that I've been on it for a week, the answer is that it is a hilarious, highly addictive game of Hot-or-Not coupled with text-like chatting with strangers. I recognize that may not sound appealing to some people, but in my mind, it combines two beloved pastimes: looking at attractive people, and talking to attractive strangers. It's also a ridiculously great way to waste time. Can't sleep? Tinder. Nothing good on TV? Tinder. Having a boring conversation? Tinder. (Okay, maybe not that.) I have spent an embarrassing amount of time on the app in the last ten days, and I'm only now starting to slow down on the whole swipe-left/swipe-right thing. I've been a little too busy recently with house and work stuff to swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe damn, where's the unswipe? swipe swipe.
Tinder poses an interesting ethical dilemma for me, though, as a female that considers herself strictly monogamous. Not in the sense of serial monogamy; if anything, I'm a consistently single person. Instead, I consider myself monogamous in the sense that when I'm involved with someone, even if we're just talking or it's a first date, I tend to devote all or most of my romantic energy in that one direction. Tinder doesn't work that way. At any given moment, you could be chatting with three, four, ten different guys. Sometimes I forget their names. Sometimes I mix up who really likes dogs, who works in the film industry, and who's from Texas. It can be kind of overwhelming, to be honest.
Last night, I went on a sort-of-date with a guy that I'd talked to on Tinder the week before. We'll call him Jack. During our online conversation, Jack and I figured out that we grew up in the same part of the city, went to school down the street from each other, and had multiple friends in common. He invited me to play kickball with his team, and benefiting from the very low expectations men have of women in kickball, I earned an invitation to play on the team in the future. I also earned a make out in the parking lot at the bar we went to afterwards. I have not yet earned an invitation to see him again, but he did text me later to say he had a great time and was glad I came. I'm kind of dumb when it comes to men, though. I have no idea if his text is a face value statement (I like you) or a blow off (It was nice kissing you but no thanks). I guess we'll see.
At the same time, I've been texting another guy--also from the metropolitan New Orleans area, also from Tinder. We'll call him Sean. From our text conversations, Sean seems to be honest and charitable and funny with a healthy dose of nerdy. We also have friends in common. I'm having drinks with him tomorrow evening, and I'm interested to see how the date turns out. I had absolutely no expectations of "Jack" last night, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed myself. I have pretty low expectations for tomorrow night, but this time, I'm a little nervous.
What worries me most about tomorrow is not the date itself. It's my emotional reaction to going out with two separate guys over the course of three days. Can I juggle more than one man? I feel like I'm cheating on someone, even though they're first dates and at worst lead to some innocent PDA. On the other hand, it's kind of empowering. I get now why some men hop from girl to girl. It's kind of thrilling being wanted by more than one person. Egotistical, maybe, or pathetic, but thrilling all the same.
This man-juggling also includes multiple other guys that I haven't set up dates with yet. One of whom wants to get drinks on Monday or Tuesday. Another who asked me to dinner next weekend. Another still who wants to know what kind of music I like. As I communicate with all of these men, Tinder poses a judgment challenge for me as well: which of these guys is actually interested in getting a drink and seeing where things go, and which of them is interested in, you know, more. Some of the men on Tinder are very upfront about their expectations. I have made a point to message all of the people I match with (because otherwise, what's the point?). In one particular case, grasping for something to say about his pictures, I messaged one man: "You seem feisty. Is that a fair assumption?" He responded that he was a feisty f***er. As you can imagine, my face turned bright red, and I immediately unmatched him. I have been called many things in my lifetime, but comfortable with overtly sexual talk is not one of them. Looking back, I realize that I set myself up for this sort of response; I'm still uncomfortable with it.
The judgment challenge comes into play during the swiping part of the Tinder game, too. As I look at a man's pictures and blurb, I routinely ask myself: Am I attracted to him? And then, Does he seem like a douchebag? Douchebags generally get left-swiped (rejected), while non-douches pass on to the next round of inspection. Does he have interesting things to say? Do we have things in common? Can he keep the conversation going? Some guys stop responding, disqualifying themselves from the running, and I stop responding to others who seem to have nothing to say.
While Tinder could very well be a viable dating site, my favorite thing about it is that it does not take itself seriously. It literally calls itself a game. This takes some of the pressure off. I don't feel the need to get disappointed or scour someone's background to see if he could be my soul mate. If he can sustain an hour or two of interesting conversation, then it's worth it to me. Sometimes, you gotta do things in life for the stories you'll get to tell later. I think this is one of those times.
This week, I got to do some of my favorite things:
1. Hang out with kids
2. Make out by my car
3. Play kickball
4. Eat roasted marshmallows
5. Read a Malcolm Gladwell book
6. Invest in Mid City
7. Celebrate someone's birthday
Last weekend, I spent four days and four nights in the woods on the north shore with 25 fifth graders and six parents. We took part in a science education program called Sunship Earth. The kids absolutely loved it. They came nervous (at least one cried), and at the end, those same kids asked if we could miss the bus and stay longer. They laughed, they learned, they sat around a campfire, and I got to make really bad puns with them over dinner. Of course, I also missed a weekend off, which technically means that I worked twelve days in a row. So despite sneaking off into the woods to read at certain points, and sneaking off into the bunkhouse to get an extra nap at other points, I returned home Tuesday completely obliterated. I went to bed around 7:45pm and slept until 6am Wednesday morning, when my alarm went off.
At school a couple of hours later, you could see it in the faces of the students in my homeroom: they were exhausted, too. Before they went to their first class, I gave them the option to spend ten minutes talking quietly at their table or reading silently. Not a single child talked. Some read. Some stared at the wall. This is a class of children who never stop talking, not even when there are other people talking to them at the same time. But not one of us could sustain the energy to have a conversation that first morning back. It's the quietest my classroom has ever been with students in it.
I've spent the last couple of days feverishly grading, writing progress reports, and creating lesson plans to get myself back on track. Between Wednesday morning and this afternoon, I graded 120+ assessments and wrote 150 progress reports. That doesn't count regular teaching or paperwork. I'm not sure how I made it in time to hand out the reports today at conferences, but I'm just really, really glad to have it be the weekend already. It also helps knowing that Thanksgiving break is only a week away. I think I can I think I can.
I closed on my house today. After two weeks of uncertainty and hundreds of emails/texts/phone calls, I finally got to sign a ton of papers and, along with the keys to a fixer-upper double shotgun in my favorite neighborhood (mid city, duh), I also received a massive amount of debt and responsibility. Yay adulthood!
Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I did it. In addition to these daunting adult burdens, I also now get to invest in a real way in an area that I love. I get to to avoid dealing with terrible-to-mediocre landlords and their penny-pinching. And I get to be able to fix things in my house that I don't like. That's right. If I don't like the cabinets or the wall color, I can change them. Well, maybe not afford to change them. But I'm legally allowed to.
The remainder of my energy this past week has been focused on Tinder. For all of you wondering what Tinder is like now that I've been on it for a week, the answer is that it is a hilarious, highly addictive game of Hot-or-Not coupled with text-like chatting with strangers. I recognize that may not sound appealing to some people, but in my mind, it combines two beloved pastimes: looking at attractive people, and talking to attractive strangers. It's also a ridiculously great way to waste time. Can't sleep? Tinder. Nothing good on TV? Tinder. Having a boring conversation? Tinder. (Okay, maybe not that.) I have spent an embarrassing amount of time on the app in the last ten days, and I'm only now starting to slow down on the whole swipe-left/swipe-right thing. I've been a little too busy recently with house and work stuff to swipe swipe swipe swipe swipe damn, where's the unswipe? swipe swipe.
Tinder poses an interesting ethical dilemma for me, though, as a female that considers herself strictly monogamous. Not in the sense of serial monogamy; if anything, I'm a consistently single person. Instead, I consider myself monogamous in the sense that when I'm involved with someone, even if we're just talking or it's a first date, I tend to devote all or most of my romantic energy in that one direction. Tinder doesn't work that way. At any given moment, you could be chatting with three, four, ten different guys. Sometimes I forget their names. Sometimes I mix up who really likes dogs, who works in the film industry, and who's from Texas. It can be kind of overwhelming, to be honest.
Last night, I went on a sort-of-date with a guy that I'd talked to on Tinder the week before. We'll call him Jack. During our online conversation, Jack and I figured out that we grew up in the same part of the city, went to school down the street from each other, and had multiple friends in common. He invited me to play kickball with his team, and benefiting from the very low expectations men have of women in kickball, I earned an invitation to play on the team in the future. I also earned a make out in the parking lot at the bar we went to afterwards. I have not yet earned an invitation to see him again, but he did text me later to say he had a great time and was glad I came. I'm kind of dumb when it comes to men, though. I have no idea if his text is a face value statement (I like you) or a blow off (It was nice kissing you but no thanks). I guess we'll see.
At the same time, I've been texting another guy--also from the metropolitan New Orleans area, also from Tinder. We'll call him Sean. From our text conversations, Sean seems to be honest and charitable and funny with a healthy dose of nerdy. We also have friends in common. I'm having drinks with him tomorrow evening, and I'm interested to see how the date turns out. I had absolutely no expectations of "Jack" last night, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed myself. I have pretty low expectations for tomorrow night, but this time, I'm a little nervous.
What worries me most about tomorrow is not the date itself. It's my emotional reaction to going out with two separate guys over the course of three days. Can I juggle more than one man? I feel like I'm cheating on someone, even though they're first dates and at worst lead to some innocent PDA. On the other hand, it's kind of empowering. I get now why some men hop from girl to girl. It's kind of thrilling being wanted by more than one person. Egotistical, maybe, or pathetic, but thrilling all the same.
This man-juggling also includes multiple other guys that I haven't set up dates with yet. One of whom wants to get drinks on Monday or Tuesday. Another who asked me to dinner next weekend. Another still who wants to know what kind of music I like. As I communicate with all of these men, Tinder poses a judgment challenge for me as well: which of these guys is actually interested in getting a drink and seeing where things go, and which of them is interested in, you know, more. Some of the men on Tinder are very upfront about their expectations. I have made a point to message all of the people I match with (because otherwise, what's the point?). In one particular case, grasping for something to say about his pictures, I messaged one man: "You seem feisty. Is that a fair assumption?" He responded that he was a feisty f***er. As you can imagine, my face turned bright red, and I immediately unmatched him. I have been called many things in my lifetime, but comfortable with overtly sexual talk is not one of them. Looking back, I realize that I set myself up for this sort of response; I'm still uncomfortable with it.
The judgment challenge comes into play during the swiping part of the Tinder game, too. As I look at a man's pictures and blurb, I routinely ask myself: Am I attracted to him? And then, Does he seem like a douchebag? Douchebags generally get left-swiped (rejected), while non-douches pass on to the next round of inspection. Does he have interesting things to say? Do we have things in common? Can he keep the conversation going? Some guys stop responding, disqualifying themselves from the running, and I stop responding to others who seem to have nothing to say.
While Tinder could very well be a viable dating site, my favorite thing about it is that it does not take itself seriously. It literally calls itself a game. This takes some of the pressure off. I don't feel the need to get disappointed or scour someone's background to see if he could be my soul mate. If he can sustain an hour or two of interesting conversation, then it's worth it to me. Sometimes, you gotta do things in life for the stories you'll get to tell later. I think this is one of those times.
 |
| I'm a homeowner. It's kind of terrifying. |
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Swipe Right If You're With Me
I realized yesterday that all of my recent posts have been about how stressful and terrible buying a house is. In fact, I'm pretty sure all of my posts this month have been able that. Well, that and my apparent fascination with twenty-three year old men. But I digress.
Last night I was texting a friend of mine who had also had a pretty shitty week, and we determined that more fun is needed in our lives. Frivolity and whatnot. This lined up spectacularly with the fact that today was a professional development day, and therefore no children would be taught and I would get to wear jeans and curse in the hallways. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of treating today like a vacation day, and therefore ate too much chocolate and watched too much TV last night. Which gave me a headache. Which required Excedrin migraine. Which has caffeine. Which kept me up half the night.
Somewhere around 11:30pm, I gave up on ever actually falling asleep, got out of bed, and searched for diversions. I read two chapters of Malcom Gladwell's David and Goliath, scrolled through Facebook, checked my email, and joined Tinder.
Yes, I am aware that Tinder is the slut of the online dating squad. The format alone reinforces that reputation: lots of pictures, very few words. But I couldn't sleep, so I thought it might be fun to swipe through hundreds of photos of more (or less) attractive men in the New Orleans area in the middle of the night just for kicks. Looking back, this was a terrible idea on so many levels. The screen brightness just made me more awake, I'm pretty sure I have carpal tunnel in my thumb now from all the swiping, and I don't think late-night perusal on a site known for hook-ups probably sends the right signals. Well, I'm not really trying to send any signals, but I'm definitely not trying to send those kinds of signals.
However, I will admit that it was intensely fascinating/entertaining seeing what people choose to put on their profiles. For example, "adventure" has got to be the most-used word on the site, and selfie has to be the most prevalent picture format. There are also lots of pictures of men with dogs. Men traveling. Men with women (are you trying to preemptively make people jealous?). Men with fish. Lots of men with fish. So many men with fish.
I also found that the number of attractive men on the site was significantly higher than on any other dating site that I've seen. I'm pretty sure that this positive correlation between Tinder profiles and attractiveness suggests that a large percentage of attractive single men in this city are not interested in settling down (well, not all of them are single), but that's an in-depth social experiment for another day. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time I'd heard it suggested. A woman at a Catholic function here in the city once told me that her brother wanted her to move to Texas because men in New Orleans are players. She'd never find a husband here, he'd said. I think I might have accidentally scoffed out loud. Texas? "Players"? But maybe she was right.
(As a side note, if you want to read something hilarious, check out the posts on the meaning of the word "player" on UrbanDictionary.com. These are not definitions. These are angry women. And they are awesome. This one is my favorite:
A male who is skilled at manipulating ("playing") others, and especially at seducing women by pretending to care about them, when in reality they are only interested in sex. Possibly derived from the phrases "play him for a fool", or "play him like a violin." The term was popularized by hip-hop culture, but was commonly recognized among urban American blacks by the 1970s.
A certain class of low-rent, slack-jawed f***ups has decided that backstabbing and misogyny are totally radical, so the word is sometimes used as a compliment or term of endearment between male friends, as in the greeting "what's up, player?".
Gina thought she had found the love of her life when she met Sean, but after she found out he had slept with three of her best friends, she realized that he was nothing but a player.)
My favorite Tinder discovery, though, actually came this afternoon when "Pierre, 29" showed up on my screen. Like Pierre Thomas, New Orleans Saints running back. I stared at the screen, frozen. And then I laughed. And then I came up with multiple theories/thoughts on the subject:
1. Pierre Thomas is a real human being. Real human beings sometimes use Tinder. Maybe he really uses Tinder.
2. Someone created a false Facebook account for Pierre Thomas and creepily added pictures of him, his friends, and his dog.
3. Andrea Williams is going to sign up for Tinder as soon as she reads this.
4. "Pierre, 29" has not signed into Tinder since the beginning of October. Maybe he found a nice girl. Maybe he gave up on the site. Maybe Sean Payton told him to stop f***ing around on the internet and run the damn ball. We are only 4-4, Pierre! Do you want another Superbowl ring or not?
In sum, Tinder is serving its purpose well. It has made me laugh. It has given me the opportunity to mindlessly waste time. It has let me people-watch via the internet. I don't expect that it will amount to anything on the actually-dating-people front, but I didn't really join for that. Swipe right if you're with me.
PS. In case you were wondering, I did swipe right on Pierre Thomas. I mean, come on. It's Pierre Thomas.
Last night I was texting a friend of mine who had also had a pretty shitty week, and we determined that more fun is needed in our lives. Frivolity and whatnot. This lined up spectacularly with the fact that today was a professional development day, and therefore no children would be taught and I would get to wear jeans and curse in the hallways. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of treating today like a vacation day, and therefore ate too much chocolate and watched too much TV last night. Which gave me a headache. Which required Excedrin migraine. Which has caffeine. Which kept me up half the night.
Somewhere around 11:30pm, I gave up on ever actually falling asleep, got out of bed, and searched for diversions. I read two chapters of Malcom Gladwell's David and Goliath, scrolled through Facebook, checked my email, and joined Tinder.
Yes, I am aware that Tinder is the slut of the online dating squad. The format alone reinforces that reputation: lots of pictures, very few words. But I couldn't sleep, so I thought it might be fun to swipe through hundreds of photos of more (or less) attractive men in the New Orleans area in the middle of the night just for kicks. Looking back, this was a terrible idea on so many levels. The screen brightness just made me more awake, I'm pretty sure I have carpal tunnel in my thumb now from all the swiping, and I don't think late-night perusal on a site known for hook-ups probably sends the right signals. Well, I'm not really trying to send any signals, but I'm definitely not trying to send those kinds of signals.
However, I will admit that it was intensely fascinating/entertaining seeing what people choose to put on their profiles. For example, "adventure" has got to be the most-used word on the site, and selfie has to be the most prevalent picture format. There are also lots of pictures of men with dogs. Men traveling. Men with women (are you trying to preemptively make people jealous?). Men with fish. Lots of men with fish. So many men with fish.
I also found that the number of attractive men on the site was significantly higher than on any other dating site that I've seen. I'm pretty sure that this positive correlation between Tinder profiles and attractiveness suggests that a large percentage of attractive single men in this city are not interested in settling down (well, not all of them are single), but that's an in-depth social experiment for another day. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time I'd heard it suggested. A woman at a Catholic function here in the city once told me that her brother wanted her to move to Texas because men in New Orleans are players. She'd never find a husband here, he'd said. I think I might have accidentally scoffed out loud. Texas? "Players"? But maybe she was right.
(As a side note, if you want to read something hilarious, check out the posts on the meaning of the word "player" on UrbanDictionary.com. These are not definitions. These are angry women. And they are awesome. This one is my favorite:
A male who is skilled at manipulating ("playing") others, and especially at seducing women by pretending to care about them, when in reality they are only interested in sex. Possibly derived from the phrases "play him for a fool", or "play him like a violin." The term was popularized by hip-hop culture, but was commonly recognized among urban American blacks by the 1970s.
A certain class of low-rent, slack-jawed f***ups has decided that backstabbing and misogyny are totally radical, so the word is sometimes used as a compliment or term of endearment between male friends, as in the greeting "what's up, player?".
Gina thought she had found the love of her life when she met Sean, but after she found out he had slept with three of her best friends, she realized that he was nothing but a player.)
My favorite Tinder discovery, though, actually came this afternoon when "Pierre, 29" showed up on my screen. Like Pierre Thomas, New Orleans Saints running back. I stared at the screen, frozen. And then I laughed. And then I came up with multiple theories/thoughts on the subject:
1. Pierre Thomas is a real human being. Real human beings sometimes use Tinder. Maybe he really uses Tinder.
2. Someone created a false Facebook account for Pierre Thomas and creepily added pictures of him, his friends, and his dog.
3. Andrea Williams is going to sign up for Tinder as soon as she reads this.
4. "Pierre, 29" has not signed into Tinder since the beginning of October. Maybe he found a nice girl. Maybe he gave up on the site. Maybe Sean Payton told him to stop f***ing around on the internet and run the damn ball. We are only 4-4, Pierre! Do you want another Superbowl ring or not?
In sum, Tinder is serving its purpose well. It has made me laugh. It has given me the opportunity to mindlessly waste time. It has let me people-watch via the internet. I don't expect that it will amount to anything on the actually-dating-people front, but I didn't really join for that. Swipe right if you're with me.
PS. In case you were wondering, I did swipe right on Pierre Thomas. I mean, come on. It's Pierre Thomas.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Why's It Gotta Be So Hard?
That's what she said?
The past couple of days, my life has felt like an episode of The Office. Not like final season of The Office, when everyone gets their shit together. We're talking Season 3 level of incompetency, miscommunication, and confusion, when Dunder Mifflin Scranton wasn't sure if they were going to be shut down or not, and Michael Scott was saying all the wrong things and generally f***ing stuff up. My lender is without a doubt the Michael Scott in this equation. (Personally, I'd like to be Pam. Not because I like her. Just because she gets Jim. Who doesn't want to be with John Krasinski?)
Let these texts and emails speak for themselves:
Title Company, Wed Oct 29 via email
"Good afternoon, we're tentatively scheduling the closing for this Friday. Was there a specific time that would be convenient for everyone?"
[We eventually agree on 1pm, but then realize that no one talked to my realtor, so then we have to reschedule for 2:30pm]
Title Company, Wed Oct 29 (later in the day) via email
"Great! I'll forward a settlement statement for review tomorrow."
Me, Fri Oct 31 (am) via email
"Hi, I never received a settlement statement for review yesterday. Also, where are we meeting at 2:30?"
Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (am) via email
"Rebekah, I reached out to the lender again this morning. I still don't have instructions to prepare a settlement statement. As soon as I receive them, I will begin working on it for you. Our office is at..."
[My realtor and I go to the house for a final walk through. Afterwards, we call the lender. She has no concrete information to give us. So, I go home and wait.]
Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"Good afternoon, everyone. I apologize for the last minute change, but it doesn't look like we'll be getting the package in time for the 2:30 closing. Would it at all be possible for everyone to come in at 4pm? Sorry again, and please let me know."
My Realtor, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"I can do 4, but will you be able to fund the loan? Did the lender get the clear to close?"
Title Company, Fri Oct 31 (pm) via email
"Not yet. That is why we were requested to push it back. I believe the wire is initiated when we receive instructions."
Lender to me, Fri Oct 31 (pm), via text
"I'm working on getting this to close today. Please know that I'm doing everything I can!! Thx"
[more back and forth emails that I'm too frustrated to even include...mostly from my realtor fussing at the title company and lender (Thank God for her!)]
Me to lender, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:30pm), via text
"Is it going to happen today? We're only 30 minutes from when we're supposed to close."
Lender to me, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:35pm), via text
"No. I'm sorry! The appraiser sent them something that is pretty confusing. Gurtler [the engineers who inspected the property] is working now on getting foundation report clarified. Realtor is helping to get your power of attorney set up for Monday."
Lender to all, Fri Oct 31 (around 3:35pm), via email
"We cannot close today. I am working on a Monday closing now. Apologies to all parties. The appraiser messed up."
Lender, Today (am) via email
"Rebekah, I'm very upset that I could not get this done for you this way. Unbeknownst to me, the appraiser gave my lender the structural report from your inspection. The report is something that no one is privy to normally except you and the agents. The lender has requested a new report stating that the foundation is sound or a report from the present structural engineer stating the same. I have requested this, but I am not hopeful that they will do it.
Our options are limited at this point. We can do the renovation loan as quickly as possible, you can pay for a new appraisal which doesn't mention the foundation (there is no certainty), or you can pay cash for the property.
Please call me with any questions, or to let me know what to do, as I'm not certain when you will be out of class. Once again, I am sorry that this did not go more smoothly, as I in no way benefit when I'm not able to close my loans."
Me, Mon Nov 3 (pm, pissed because who the f*** cares about your commission at this point) via email
"I'm not sure why I'd pay for a faulty appraisal. Seems like someone else should absorb that cost.
As for renovation loan, how long would it take to complete that process? The sellers have a backup offer. I might lose the house if it takes too long.
I'm pretty disappointed in Essential Mortgage and the way that this process has been handled. It seems like we should've had this whole thing completed weeks ago, considering the 60 days originally given to close. I'm not sure what to do. I don't have that kind of cash, and I'm going to be pretty frustrated if I lose this house because your company and the appraiser you chose messed up. Please advise."
Realtor, Mon Nov 3 (pm, trying to salvage this deal) via email
"Does Essential Mortgage have a relationship with the bank such as home bank that will house an in-house loan for a short amount of time and then y'all can refinance the loan once the structural work is done?"
Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, as though this isn't her fault) via email
"Let me call a friend of mine at another bank real quick. I've spoken to the listing agent, and she says if we can give her a commitment letter, she will get us an extension."
Realtor, Mon Nov 3 (pm, pretty frustrated at this point, too) via email
"What did the bank say? Sometimes you can use all the documents you've been preparing to close real quick?
How long would it take to close the construction loan?? Since we were going that route originally, it shouldn't take that much longer? Can we call the president of the company like you said you did today to get it through quickly?"
Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, I don't know what to believe...everything from her sounds insincere to me at this point) via email
"I've called on some favors. Waiting for answers back. Everybody hold tight. I'm determined to fix this for all parties."
Lender, Mon Nov 3 (pm, see comment on previous email) via email
"Okay, I just got word from my friend at another bank that they will do it. Rebekah, I need your permission to talk to them on your behalf and send them your file."
Me, Mon Nov 3 (pm), via email
"Sure."
So, that is where we're at: "Sure." I'm so fed up with this process right now, and if it didn't mean starting all over again, I'd just write it off and give up. The problem is, I'm a couple of thousand dollars deep into this now, and, if I'm being honest, I've gotten attached. Not so much to the house--it's a good one, but nothing incredible. Rather, I've become attached to the idea of having a house. Of being able to paint my walls, fix up my backyard, invest in a property. Of being able to live alone without bankrupting myself. But I may need to resign myself to the possibility that things may not go my way. I might have to buy a different house. Or rent forever...in which case I'm glad my roommate and I have been sucking up to our landlady recently (we'll have to keep including nice messages and Halloween candy with our rent checks).
As always, I'll keep you posted.
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| What I Want To Do To My Mortgage Company |
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