Doesn't Debbie

I gave this a lot of thought. I really did. And while I can't be sure it is the right decision, it is the one I am sticking with, for now at least.

After 280 posts and over two years of writing, I am putting Does Debbie to bed. Or at least, I am taking a nap. The last month or two have not allowed me to write as much as I want to, and to be honest, I haven't wanted to write much.

When I began blogging, I was in a different place in my life. I desperately needed the creative release, and there was also the secret desire to get "found" and become the next Candace Bushnell, or something like that. Now I am at a different point in my life. I don't feel the need to share the inner details of my crazy mind and I have much more pressure to be creative in my day job. And while I am still single and have dating stories (hello! some guy gave me a lip hickey on our first, blind date!) they are unfortunately few and far between.

I greatly appreciate your readership, advice and support these past two years. I'm sure I'll be back some day.

Mini Vacation

This time I have a valid excuse for my lack of writing: I was in the Dominican Republic for an old co-worker's wedding. Now, it wouldn't be a Debbie vacation unless there was some element of drama. Fever in Belize, broken nose in Aruba, lost luggage in Peru- you get the point.

Well, within one hour of my journey on Thursday, I was not disappointed. We were climbing the skies and beginning to fly over the Atlantic, me and the rest of Continental Flight 878 when the pilot came on the loud speaker. "Ladies and Gentleman, we are going to have to return to Newark. We smelled smoke as did some of the passengers. We don't smell it anymore, but we are going to have this checked out just to be safe. Especially as we're flying over the Atlantic."

Now, I am one for safety and appreciate the caution in this situation, but why did the pilot decide to turn around AFTER he smelled smoke. Shouldn't the second his finely trimmed nose hairs got a slight whiff of anything related to FIRE, the plane makes that U-ie.

I'm not a bad flyer so the thought of crashing didn't enter my mind. I swear. At that moment, I was more pissed that I was about to lose prime sun time in the Domincan. Ugh. I would lose a day of sun, which meant that I would not be able to scuba dive because then I would have no time in the sun. Crap.

Well it turned out that not only did we return to Newark, we all got the hell of the plane and boarded a new one, over an hour later. Then we had to patiently wait while a pair of geriatric travelers lost a battle to nerves and decided not to get back on the plane. Our plane arrived safely in the DR, 3 hours later than planned. Hell, at least I got upgraded to first class on the flight home.

More Random Thoughts

So I was at my good friend Brett's birthday party Saturday night when I ran into someone I know I from my home town. Besides kissing him in high school, we hadn't had much interaction over the years, with the exception of linking to each other's Friendster and MySpace pages. Therefore, I was taken aback when he asked about my blog. Actually, it was more pressure. The need to write in this thing once a day, which I have clearly not been doing. He heard I was a great writer. Ugh, more pressure.

Also this weekend, I was at a bris for the son of my friend. And the debate began over the plural of bris. When one has five friends giving birth to boys this year, is she going to five Brises? Five Brie? Five Who Gives a Shit What They're Called Penis Cuttings?

Sticking with the theme of this weekend, I tried something new: I meditated. No, I am not going all new-age, The Forum, Ashram-seeking spiritual. Rather, I became engrossed with the latest book I am reading, Eat, Pray, Love. In this memoir, the author achieved a sense of self-love and peace through meditation of which, frankly, I was jealous. I even gave myself a mantra, which I practiced in yoga and before going to sleep. And no, I am not telling you what it is... yet.

Sure Beats the Bar

I feel like I have been on 200 first dates in the past ten years or so. I mean, you have to take out the 18 months I was with The Man, the 18 months I was with Jeff, and probably another 24 months of committed 3-8 month relationships. Actually, I have no idea whether it was 100 or 200, but the point is, I have had my share of first dates.

And while nothing beats the smooth taste of a chilled Savignaun Blanc gliding down my throat, first dates in bars are somewhat of a cliche. Let's grab drinks. Let's drink to ease the pressure of meeting a total stranger. Let's drink so I find you attractive. Let's drink and make out (like that happens on a first date!)

Anyway, I think I have mastered the art of the non-bar first date. While it is rude to suggest where to go when the guy is asking you out, sometimes you just have to. You just do.

So, here are a few highlights of non bar dates that were, surprisingly, much better than the companionship of my good friend, Wine.

1) Church of Scientology on 42nd Street (you can get stress tested together and take a tour! The highlight of this date was when being showed L. Ron Hubbard's office, my date asked if he works out of it often. Um, L. Ron Hubbard is dead.)

2) Tattoo parlor. No we didn't get them, but I wanted one at the time and we browsed the numerous catalogues and wall art.

I'll share a few more later.

Change Does Good

I know you're all going to get tired of reading on and on about my new found happiness, but as a born depressant, I am going to relish this feeling as long as I can. I think I reached a new high after this past weekend. And it all has to do with my new apartment. Now, while I think the inside of the new digs is fantastically charming and calming, I am going to continue to brag about it's location. Freakin' across the street from Central Park. And not just any block of the park, the entrance to the park (one block south from my apt) takes you directly to Sheep's Meadow, Manhattan's own summer share (sans the pools, and the beach, and the really bad Long Island accents.)

This past weekend alone I ran in the park, rode my bike in the park, hung out with friends and family in the park (Saturday and Sunday) and had a blind date in the park. If I have to go to the bathroom while basking in the sun in the Meadow, it is faster for me to run home then wait in line for the public bathroom. It can't get better than this!

However, there is a downside to living in such a perfect location: the price of my dry cleaner. I was raped there this morning, on my way to work. $30 to hem two pairs of pants. Seriously, if I had an ounce of domesticity in me, I would pull out a needle and thread and hem the fuckers myself. Oh well, the price for happiness....

Happy

The strangest thing has happened: I have been happy lately. Now, there have been many days and nights that I have thought I was happy, but at the end of the day (or night) I was masking behind other feelings. Like anger, frustration, jealousy. Either I was mad at the world for being single, or mad at myself for being single.

But ever since I moved to my new apartment and started my new job, I have been obnoxiously happy. I jump out of bed in the morning and can't wait to get to work. I have fun plans at night, like film festivals and award dinners. I love walking up the subway stairs, with my keys in my hand, knowing that my apartment is 50 steps away.

And the best part of this sugary feeling: there is not a man in sight. I mean, nothing. Not one freaking date, not one remote prospect. (I still like The Patriot but we all know he lives in Boston.) I am so sexless at the moment that I don't even remember the last time I had sex. And I could care less.

A NY Times Article of Interest

How Don’t I Love Thee?
By John Tierney

Let us count the ways.
By watching speed daters and online daters, social scientists have minutely calculated what turns people off (and activates their Flaw-O-Matics, the topic of my Findings column). They’ve consistently found different levels of pickiness in men and women.

When Robert Kurzban and Jaspon Weeden of the University of Pennsylvania studied more than 10,000 American customers of HurryDate — a company that gathers a couple of dozen people at a time for a round robin of three-minute speed dates — the psychologists found that, on average, a woman got a “yes” from about half the men she met (meaning that the guy would like to go out with her). But a man, on average, got the thumbs-up from only a third of the women.

A study of speed daters in Germany showed that women were not only pickier than men but also more realistic about their own appeal in the dating market. Correctly divining that men put a premium on looks, the more attractive women set a higher bar for their partners than less attractive women did. But the German men set about the same bar for their partners no matter what they looked like themselves or how successful they were professionally.

These German men apparently cast their nets as wide as possible to take advantage of what the researchers call the “low mate-choice costs” — the chance to ask out a lot of women without getting any embarrassing face-to-face rejections. (Speed daters mark their choices on a scorecard and are told later which partners were interested in them.) The researchers — Peter Todd of Indiana University; Lars Penke of Humboldt University in Berlin; Alison Lenton of the University of Edinburgh, and Barbara Fasolo of the London School of Economics — conclude:

The overall pattern of results thus suggests that low mate choice costs lead men to satisfy their variety preference by indifferently choosing any woman who falls above a minimal condition threshold, while women stayed choosy and appeared to fine-tune social-comparison processes to the situation (meaning, in this context, that their mate-value sociometer mainly reflected their physical attractiveness), adjusting their mate choices accordingly.

Women have less of a “variety preference” — they’re more interested in a long-term partner — and they’re concerned with a lot more than looks. They want a partner who’s at least as educated as they are, whereas education isn’t as important to men, according to a study of more than 20,000 online daters by Gunter Hitsch, Ali Hortacsu and Dan Ariely.
The researchers found that blonde women have a slight advantage in the online market, while red-headed men are at a moderate disdavantage. But no matter what men look like, they can help compensate by making money. By tracking the success of online daters, the researchers calculated precisely how much extra income a man had to make (relative to the average man’s income of $62,500 per year) to offset a less than ideal attribute. Some of their findings:

Suppose you’re an ordinary-looking guy whose online picture is ranked around the median in attractiveness. (In the study, the ratings of attractiveness were done by independent male and female observers hired by the researchers.) And suppose you’d like to be as successful with women as a guy whose picture is ranked in the top tenth. Then you’d need to make $143,000 more than him. If your picture is ranked in the bottom tenth, you’d need to make $186,000 more than him.

Similarly, according to the study, a 5-foot-0 guy would need to make $325,000 more than a 6-foot-0 man to be as successful in the online dating market. A 5-foot-4 man would need $229,000; a 5-foot-6 man would need $183,000; a 5-foot-10 man would need $32,000. And if that 6-foot-0 man wanted to do as well as a 6-foot-4 man, he’d need to make $43,000 more.
For women in the online study, shorter is better. A 5-foot-6 women would need to make $59,000 more than a 5-foot-0 or 5-foot-2 woman to do as well. She’d need to make $50,000 more than a 5-foot-4 woman.

Not surprisingly, both sexes care a lot about their partners’ weight — and they pay close attention to the categories used in the online profiles. As the researchers report: “Members who are ‘chiseled’ and ‘toned” receive slightly more first-contact e-mails than ‘height-weight proprotionate’ users, while ‘voluptuous/portly’ and ‘large but shapely’ members experience a sizable penalty.”

Also not surprisingly, the researchers found that online daters weren’t especially frank about their own shortcomings. Fewer than 1 percent rated themselves as having “less than average looks.” Which suggests that at least 48 percent of them turned off their Flaw-O-Matics whenever they looked in the mirror.

Control

My issue with control is not a new one. From my early childhood fears of throwing up (a fear rooted in control) to being the first born older-sister aka the bossy one to never getting totally wasted, I have always exhibited my sense of control.

Sure, there are certain things I just can't control. Like farting after eating too much broccoli, or the weather on vacation. And I deal accordingly.

But what is the most annoying is realizing my power to change my life in so many ways, but unable to control the one piece I crave the most. I know, I know, how nauseating- another post about dating and finding someone, but bear with me. In 2007 I decided I wanted to overhaul my life: new job and new apartment to boot. Within three months I accomplished exactly what I set out to do, and feel super proud about my determination and subsequent success.

On the other hand, that same passion and goal setting results in zip, zada, zilch on the love front. I am powerless and I'm not in control. And frankly, it sucks. I want someone to break in my new apartment with, and to tell about how great my new job is. To explore the numerous restaurants with me in my new neighborhood. To go for runs with in the park on the weekends. To share the joy and happiness I have in my life right now.

SO SORRY

I know, I know. I haven't posted since March 28th and I commpletely suck. But I do have some good excuses. Well, I didn't have laptop access for several days, and then I started my new job and was kind of busy the first week (actually, I am still very busy, but felt you all deserved a quick entry. Especially Jen and Sherri, my most loyal readers that are not related to me.) And, I closed on my apartment and moved. So yes, I am busy.

But all is good. I love the new job and apartment, although I slept like shit my first night there. Nothing new on the guy front. I ran into The Man at a party last Saturday night, and he sent me a text at 1:45am asking if I was up. When I asked him the next day what the deal was with the late-night text, he claimed to have a funny story to tell me. Hmmmm. Maybe his story was that he realized what a drastic mistake he made by letting me walk away.

And I am still talking to The Patriot. We went gambling at Mohegan Sun a few weeks ago.

But my writing skills are sucking ass and I just don't have a lot of time for Does Debbie. Give me a few weeks, I promise to share the love again when things settle down.

Hope everything is going well with you all.

The Chapter Ends

So today is my last day of work. Not forever, obviously, as I start my new job on Monday. But after almost four years, I am leaving my current company. My emotions are mixed, as I definitely have made great friends here, learned from an incredibly talented group of people, and had fun along the way. When I sent my contact information out to my co-workers yesterday, I included a list of top 10 memories. Of course, none of these would make any sense to you (unless you work with me) so I am not going to share them here. But there is one memory that I remembered after I sent the list, that continues to make me laugh.

Every year, my company has an event called Food Fest. Basically, it is a cooking competition where employees cook their favorite dishes and everyone samples the various food. People vote for their favorite dish, and the winner gets a gift certificate or something like that. Mind you, there are over 600 people at my company, so you need to get there within the first 15 minutes to get any food. In years past I made my chocolate chip banana bread and sesame chicken.

Anyway, a few years ago, on the day of Food Fest, a large group of us went to Blue Smoke for a co-workers going away lunch. As usual, we had way too many ribs, side dishes of mac & cheese, and chocolate cake. There were so many ribs left over that I dared my co-worker Dave to bring them back to the office and serve them in Food Fest, claiming he made them.

Next thing we knew, Dave had a serving dish full of "BS Family Ribs" out during Food Fest. And they were the talk of Food Fest. Everyone was asking, "did you try the ribs?" People were voting for the ribs; they were heading towards a Food Fest blue ribbon. And the eights of us that knew of the rib's true origin were dying.

Eventually Dave confessed to the judges that the ribs weren't really homemade. He was disqualified. But we all got a great story out of it.

Patrick

I'm on a first-name basis with the homeless man that lives in my neighborhood. Granted, the names uttered from his mouth include a range of various edible items, such as pumpkin, honey and sugar. However, I always say hello to Patrick when I see him.

You probably are wondering how I have come to know Patrick, and I wish there was more to the story. A few years ago, I was reading in a small park near my apartment, on a beautiful September Sunday. Patrick entered the park and inquired over the subject of my book. I proceeded to explain that Shadow Divers was about a group of recreational wreck divers that found an un-registered WWII German U-Boat. I probably lost him at the book title.

I wish I knew more about Patrick. Like where he sleeps every night. And how he ended up on the streets. I have a feeling he was quite intelligent in his former life.

But I think what really amazes me is that whenever I see Patrick, he is always smiling his toothless grin. Granted, he might be certifiable crazy, but I have to believe he is genuinely happy. All the guy has is the clothing on his back and his other homeless friends, but he probably appreciates the little things more than we do. Or at least more than I do.

Need Your Help, Please

So I have been enjoying my mini-dating break, focusing on the new job and new apartment. However, every once in a while I cave and window shop on jdate. Today was one of those days, and within a few minutes of being online, I received the following new message from SilverLiningA6C,

"i truly hope never to meet you... you sound like a complete douche bag. good day douche"

Now I am not one to normally get upset with things like this (who am I kidding, of course I am) but this was just cruel and not necessary. I had never looked at this loser's profile, never written him, and never flirted, eCarded, or Hot Listed this guy. His hate mail came out of nowhere.

I "reported this member" as I have no clue who he is so cutting off his balls is not an option. But I could use your help. If you are a member of jdate, please look at his profile and report him. He shouldn't be able to use the site if he is sending email like that. Also, feel free to email him and tell him that email like this is not a compensation for a small dick. Please tell your friends to do the same thing.

And for the record, I am not a douche bag.

Thanks!

The Opthomologist

I think I have more doctors than friends. Or maybe it's just that I see my doctors more than some of my friends. At least this week I do. With 7 more days of work left here, I scheduled appointment with all my doctors, in case they don't take the new health insurance that comes with the new job. So I have my annual physical on Friday and had an appointment with the icky doctor this morning. And no, I am not referring to the gyno or the dentist.

I went to the eye doctor.

Now, having had glasses since I was five years old, and contacts since I was fourteen, I have become accustom to seeing the opthomologist annually. Yet, over the years, I have never felt any more comfortable in their offices. There is something very creepy about staring into the doctors eyes, or staring at a weird spot on his ear while he stares into my eyes. Or worse, when he leans in closely to flip the lenses on that huge white machine, I can smell his breath and see his nose hairs. I seriously thought I was going to knee him in the balls this morning. Oh god, what if he had an erection?!

And if that's not bad enough, I always feel like I failed the test when I can't read those minuscule letters of the wall. The O looks like the D. Is that an A or an H?? Grrl. I got over 1200 on my SATs and yet I can't read 5 letters in a row. Even when the doctor says, "how 'bout now?" I still can never read the letters. And to make me feel better, the doctor rewards me with a free bottle of saline solution. Woo-hoo. I would rather have a fucking lollipop.

2/3

My life lives like a Meatloaf song. No, not Paradise by the Dashboard although there have been moments where I did feel like "praying for the end of time so I can end my time with you." However, the song I am currently referring to is Two out of Three Ain't Bad. For those of you at home keeping score:

1. New job
2. 99% approved for new apartment

Woo-hoo. In case you might have forgotten, I have decided to change my life in 2007. I felt very stagnant, having lived in the same neighborhood for almost 12 years, had the same job for almost 4, have been not married for 33 years. It was time for a new me, and I'm 2/3 of the way there.

Jewelry and Condoms

Pezguy420: Do you wear red/orange ever?
Me: not really
Me: why, are you setting me up with Ronald McDonald?
Pezguy420: I was thinking about it... but I heard the Hamburgler gives great cunnilingus, so I may send him your way instead.
Pezguy420: Any preference?
Pezguy420: Unless you're into purple - I heard Grimmus has a thick schlong
Me: I LOVE grimmus
Pezguy420: You will after he gets done with you
Pezguy420: Bowlegged for a week, from what I hear
Pezguy420: The reason I was asking about red... did I tell you my latest hobby?
Me: yes, knitting
Pezguy420: Well, I'll knit you a giant red/orange condom out of yarn for when you get it on with Grimmus
Me: nice
Pezguy420: (Don't worry - there's spermicidal agent interwoven in the thread)
Me: no, what is your hobby?
Pezguy420: Well.... this is going to probably push me over the straight/gay line into Greg Louganis land
Me: ok.... TELL
Pezguy420: I am starting to design jewelry
Me: SHUT UP
Pezguy420: So I ordered you a stone from South America
Me: sounds great
Pezguy420: So I am making some stuff for some friends
Me: very very cool Elton
Pezguy420: lol

Hang Tight

Sorry, I know it's been a few days. I actually have a lot going on right now, and will share in a day or two. Promise. Until then, sit tight and read another blog.

Yiddish, Part 2

So in continuing with Krissy's Yiddish lessons, I came across this fantastic site, http://www.bubbygram.com/yiddishglossary.htm, and in fact, am going to start incorporating more Yiddish into my everyday speak.

Me: I am going to use this one with you all the time, Fortzn zoffer:- A really nasty, malodorous fart which leaves a miasma of methane that could knock a buzzard off a dung heap
Sister: I get that all the time!

Sister: So do you say, “I just Fortzn zoffered and I can’t breath now?”
Me: No, I don't think it's a verb. More like, "What is that Fortzn Zoffer that came out of your ass?"
Sister: Ohh, so it’s a noun! Like “that Fortzn Zoffer smoked me out of my apt?”.

Yiddish for Wasps

I miss my old office mate Krissy. Many a day was spent with us singing along to the love songs blaring from her radio, or trying to score tickets to some concert, like Madonna. The other thing I loved most about sharing an office with Krissy was the big, "Shalom" she used to greet me with daily. Now I should probably note that Krissy is really Kristen, has blond hair, is from Boston, and definitely the WASPiest person I know. But she loves her Hebrew.

Since Krissy departed for another ad agency, our contact is now limited to the occasional dinner, but more frequent IM. I thought the one from today deserved posting here.

Me: I forgot to tell you another phrase
Me: Kena Hora
Krissy: ooo what's that
Me: like "oh geez!!!!!"
Krissy: oh vey
Me: It's pronounced kah-nah
Krissy: whore- rah
Me: ken rhymes with pen
Krissy: so ken- nah
Krissy: whore-rah
Me: kena hora (like horror but with an a instread of or)
Me: not whore-a
Me: horr-a
Me: lol, I have to post this on my blog
Krissy: make me proud. you better not write a load of schlock

The Sleep Test

It's funny. When I am dating someone, I evaluate the person against a whole host of criteria: physical attraction, sexual attraction, interests, intellect, personality, friends, how they treat me, etc. Yet at the end of the day, I have decided that it all comes down to one important thing: how well I sleep with the person. NO, I am not talking about sex, but rather, just sleeping. Side by side. Snoring, drooling, sleeping.

Looking back at the boyfriends I have had over the years, as well as the guys that I dated, a theme arises. The good relationships resulted in a good night's sleep, and the guys that I struggled with left me tossing and turning. You might be thinking, "duh," but take a second to think about the people you dated and how well you slept at the very beginning. Go back to sleep overs #1-5. Whether or not the relationship turned into anything, at that point, you probably thought it had potential. But your subconscious knew better.

Let's use a recent example: The Date. As you devoted readers might recall, I really tried to like him. We dated for four months, and definitely had our good days and bad. Yet throughout it all, there was never one night where I slept peacefully, straight through the night. It didn't matter if we were at my place either. Every morning I awoke tired from a crappy night's sleep. He even bought a new Select Comfort bed halfway through. No help.

Now, I know that this theory is not the test for who I am going to marry. After all, I slept like a baby with The Man. But at least it can help weed out the ones that I shouldn't even be sleeping next to at all....

An Oldie But Goodie