On Thursday night, my friend and I met up in Georgetown after work. He wanted me to help him pick out a pair of glasses and we’d planned to get dinner afterwards. We met at the corner of Wisconsin & M, and walked half a block up to the store he’d had in mind. It was a small, trendy place with a wide selection of frames.

I got a new pair not too long ago and am still a little bit obsessed with them. He’d tried them on a couple times and looked really good in them, so I was kind of excited to see him in a pair of his own. [The things I get excited about sometimes are so weird.] I’d imagined him in something kind of hipster-y, but still conservative enough to wear to work. We knew we’d found them the minute he slipped them on. They were black, very angular, and plastic. I smiled as I looked at his reflection in the mirror. “Yeah…you look really good in those.” And he really did. He posed a little in the mirror as he tried them on. “You’re posing! Look at you pose,” I joked as he stood there a little puffed out, head cocked to the side. “I am not posing!” He insisted. “This is how I always look at myself in the mirror…” “Whatever,” I laughed. “You’re totally posing.” He liked them, but was a bit hesitant because of a slightly cloudlike pattern on the sides that he wasn’t sure he could pull off. He tried on a few more pairs, but we kept going back to those.

“They’re perfect,” I encouraged him. “You should get them.”

“You are such an enabler,” he said.

I love running errands with him. Like me, he likes to play around with the sales people or wait staff. He jokes and flirts and treats them like he’s known them for a long time. It can make even the most mundane errand fun, and is just a really great way to relate to people. We tend to make a little bit of a spectacle (pun very much intended) of ourselves when we go out and this time was no exception. Once he’d made his selection, the sales girl invited us to sit down at the table to fill out the order. He and I kept our little soft-shoe going while we waited—he randomly pulling out a package of Chuckles he brought me from his office vending machine and trying to convince me to let him measure my pupils with the store’s machine. “Come on,” he said. “It’s digital. You like digital things!”

“So how did you find us?” the sales girl asked as she entered his information into the computer.

“I found you when I was walking back from the comic book store,” he replied very matter-of-factly. She burst out laughing then asked again, “No…really…?”

When he insisted that he was telling the truth she looked over at me for confirmation. I glanced up from the magazine I was leafing through and nodded. “He’s not joking," I said dryly.

We’d planned to have dinner at Peacock Café, a place I’d read great things about but had never been to. Before dinner we ducked into the aforementioned comic book store for a few minutes. I felt a little unsure of myself in the unfamiliar surroundings and clung to him at first. I walked around a little and checked out a few graphic novels, but was more interested in watching him shop. I was taken by the no-nonsense way that he quickly plucked books off the new releases shelf. It reminded me of how I act in the grocery store when I have a very specific recipe in mind. I’ll run through ingredients in my head, mentally checking things off as I place them in my cart: bell peppers, parsley, endive… I don’t go there to browse—I know what I want, I get it, I leave. And that’s what he was doing. It wasn’t so much the method that intrigued me, but rather the juxtaposition of this very organized, very determined approach to something that at its heart seems so playful, so childlike… Thinking about it some more, however, I realized that it’s really one of the things that I’ve always loved about him; his unselfconscious refusal to separate these very different aspects of his life. Whether he’s buying three thousand dollar suits in a Daredevil t-shirt or three dollar comics in his work clothing, there is no compromise.

Peacock proved wonderful. It had a very different feeling from the restaurants I’m used to around here, and while the food wasn’t spectacular, it was still very good. He ordered pork chops and I ordered lamb. We split an order of mussels as an appetizer and when dessert was offered he asked to see the tray without hesitation. I know that it’s such a tiny thing, but it’s so important to me. My closest friends all know to always order dessert with me. Dining should be an experience, and it’s just not complete without something sweet at the end.

On the ride home we talked about how we’d both imagined living in parts of Georgetown. He on the cusp near the park and me on one of those little side streets leading up towards Wisconsin. He’ll probably come back here for a bit when he returns, but I’m not really sure if I ever will now. I felt one of those pangs that I keep getting every now and then. I know I made the right decision by choosing to go back to New York, but there are still moments when I second-guess myself for a few seconds.

Later that night he sent me a text telling me how much fun he'd had. I felt the same. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the evening when you break it down, but taken together it was just one of those nights where the company and conversation has a way of making the tiniest thing seem really special.

Labels: friends, glasses

I went to the Nats game last night with my friend and a colleague of his. It was kind of a quiet game, and struck me by how different it felt from the Mets home game I went to just a week ago. The already sparse crowd had thinned out quite a bit and the cheers were pretty weak. It seemed like the handful of Braves fans had significantly more enthusiasm than the hometown crowd. It felt a little bit sad…a little bit boring. I know it's unfair to judge a city by its interest in a young team's Monday night game, but the comparison was inevitable. At one point in the sixth inning, I finally turned to my friend and said, "You know, this could potentially be my very last Nats game." He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the field for a second. "Mine too," he said.

We're both leaving town soon. He's headed for an island on the other side of the world. I'm heading for an island a little bit closer (and with some of the best baseball fans in the world).

So this is my secret: I've decided to leave DC; I'm going back home.

There are a lot of reasons why and a lot of plans I want to share, but that's for a future post. For now I just want to share this:

The upcoming move has me thinking about firsts and lasts a lot lately. A first is always quick to strike you. It's new and exciting and so very obvious. A couple weeks ago I took a shower for the first time in my friend's apartment. He was standing at the mirror shaving and caught my eye when I passed behind him. He turned a little and gave me an odd smile.

"What?" I asked as I stood in his hallway, wet hair falling past my shoulders.

"Nothing," he said. "I just realized I've never seen you wet before…"

And even though he's one of the people around whom I feel most comfortable and unselfconscious, I remember suddenly feeling more naked and raw than I'd felt in a while. I rewrapped the towel around me and cracked a joke to deflect the attention. But it surprised me how no matter how long you've known someone or how much time you spend with him, the firsts will always have a way of jumping out at you like that. That first kiss that made you so nervous you lost your balance. The antsy excitement of a first day at work. The first time you hear a song you know will become a favorite...

But the lasts are different. The lasts rarely make themselves known. It usually isn't until long after the fact that you realize that what happened will never happen again. Last moments: kisses, dances, conversations, good-byes. They slip by unnoticed until it's too late to go back and remember.

So this time I'm determined to not let that happen. I want to live every moment of this. I know that at times it will be hard, but I really want to do it right. I'm not glossing over anything. I want to say a proper good-bye to the city that I've loved for the past five years. Because even though I'm leaving, I want to always carry it with me [carry it in my heart].

Labels: life decisions

And I can't wait to tell you guys, but I need to talk to some of my real life friends first. I promise I'll be back soon with a far more eloquent explanation of what exactly it is that's going through my head. Just know this: For the first time in a very, very long time, I feel like I have something real to be really excited about.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about my conversation with BFF Matt the other night. He was right about a lot of things. I don’t really know what I want to do yet. And the fear comes from the fact that I'm worried I'll make the wrong decision. I want time. I want time to just sit and think and really figure out what I want to do and where I want to live. Right now I feel like I’m caught in a trap. Everything continues to flow around me: decisions need to be made, bills need to be paid, and appointments need to be kept. But all I want to do is raise my arms up in the air and freeze everything. I want stillness. I want silence. I want time to think.

Several months ago I read an amazing book by Nicholson Baker called The Fermata. It’s the story of a man who has the power to slow the world down to the point where it’s almost frozen. In Italian, fermata means “the stillness.” In music, the word refers to the sustaining of a note, chord, or rest for longer than indicated. In the book, the man refers to those moments as “the fold” and uses his power to fulfill many of his sexual fantasies. I, however, would use it differently. I would use it to buy myself the time and space that I need to figure out what I want.

I guess that’s why going home is suddenly so appealing. It would be like stepping into the fold. I’d no longer have to worry about rent or going to work (at least not for a little while). There would be no broken fuses, no utility bills, no dishes to wash. I’d have a housekeeper (and actual one--I don't mean my mom) and free cable. I’d get to plan and make elaborate meals in my parents’ big, clean kitchen, and even better, I’d have someone to talk to while I ate. It would, of course, be a temporary thing. My nature would never allow me to loaf around for longer than a month or two. I’d get frustrated with living in the suburbs and not having access to the city. I’d miss having my own place, making my own rules, living my own life.

But the thought is tempting. This could allow me the opportunity to pursue my dream of being a full-time freelance writer. Or I could try to find editorial jobs with a magazine or literary agency. I know that I want to write, but that’s a scary thing to want. There are no guarantees and it’s a job that’s based almost entirely on my creativity and ability. I’ll either produce or I won’t. I’ll get rejected at least a couple dozen times before selling a story. And if I fail, I’ll have nobody to blame but myself.

Labels: life decisions

I had leftover chinese food last night with a glass of wine and a few stale cigarettes. Cruel Intentions was on and I sort of half-watched. It’s one of those movies that I really can’t stand, but that I leave on for the soundtrack. There isn’t a single song on it that I don’t love. It reminded me of BFF Matt who always used to talk about how much he loved the movie, so I called him.

“What’s not to love about it? Beautiful people, money, sex, scandal…” he said when I told him what I was watching.

“The complete absence of a believable plot. Unrealistic dialogue. Shallow characterization. And most notably obnoxious…Reese Witherspoon. Ugh.”

“Whatever. So... what’s going on?” he asked. “I know you didn’t just call to talk about the movie.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I said, my voice already starting to get a bit weepy.

“I know,” he said. “Me too…”

He told me about his day. The discipline problems he’d been having with one of his students. His high for the day had been the hour and fifteen minutes of good behavior that he managed to coax out of this little boy. “I don’t know if they’re learning anything,” he said, “but at least I got that…”

He sounded tired. His voice is different now—deflated, a little sad. It’s not the Matt I used to talk to. We’ll still laugh and joke around, but there is something missing and it hurts me to hear it. Of course, I can only imagine what he feels when he hears me. It was the third phone call in a row where I’d broken down into tears.

I said good-bye to Matt five months ago in what could have been a scene straight out of a movie. He ran with me to catch the last bus out of Gallery Place. It was dark at the bus stop and no one else was around. He hugged me tighter than he ever had. He’d handed me a bag with a gift he’d gotten me and the plant he’d let me adopt. When we stepped away there were tears in our eyes. I remember looking back at him as the bus pulled out, watching him get smaller and smaller, further and further away. He sent me a text from the airport the next morning. I was at work wishing that I’d taken the day off and gone with him. “I miss you already,” it said.

Now I’m getting ready to say good-bye to another friend, and it feels even harder this time. It’s still a few weeks away, but the reality is just starting to hit me. I’m scared, I’m sad, and I have a million questions that I’m afraid to ask. I want to spend every last second that I can with him, but I’m holding back. I know I’m not the only one he’s leaving behind. I know he’s got a life apart from me. But still…it’s hard letting go. And it’s the reason why I needed to hear Matt's voice. He knows what I'm going through and he knows how to calm me down.

Matt cheered me up a bit by talking about my upcoming visit to Vegas. It’s a trip that as of yet exists only in fantasy since he doesn’t really have much time and I don’t really have much money. But we keep talking about it anyway.

“It might be selfish of me,” he said. “But I think I’d rather have you visit me here than in the Bay…it’s boring, but I feel like this way we can spend most of the time together and not waste it sightseeing.”

“It’s not selfish,” I told him. “I totally understand…all I really want is you, a bottle of wine, and time…”

So we daydreamed about cuddling up on the couch and talking about nothing.

“Why is it so hard all of the sudden?” I asked him. “I just don’t want to do it anymore sometimes. I love my freedom and my independence, but there are so many days when all I want is to just pack up, go home, and let my parents take care of me.”

“Me too,” he said. “I think it’s because we’re not really happy. We can’t really afford the life we want. We don’t really know what we want to do yet…”

We talked for a while longer, but he had papers to grade so we said good-night. The movie ended, I finished my wine, and dragged myself over to my bed. But I couldn't really sleep. I had too much in my head...

Labels: BFF Matt, life decisions

“Welcome to your new addiction,” Miguel said as he handed me a packet of ointment and a booklet containing instructions on how to care for my new tattoo. The guys in the shop and I laughed, but I already suspected that it might not be so far from the truth…

For my birthday this year, my little brother offered to pay for me to get a tattoo. “Anything you want, anywhere you want,” he said as we sat around the kitchen table one morning. It was early February and we were both home visiting my parents. He was to leave for his second round in the “War on Terror,” in just a couple weeks.

Gab got his first tattoo just a couple months out of boot camp. He designed it himself: a blend of Christian symbols including a trinity, a good and bad angel, a row of stars, etc. Over the next couple years, he continued to expand all the way up his arm and across his chest. He added a detailed image of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse and a bible verse, “Guard Your Heart,” across his chest. I love his artwork, but wasn’t that sure if I was ready to make the commitment just yet.

“Let me think about it,” I told him. “I’ll let you know when you get back.”

He left the day after Valentine’s Day and I kept the offer in the back of my mind. I spent the next several months toying with design and placement ideas. I’d occasionally run Google searches or check out tattoos on friends and in celebrity web galleries. I pictured what it would look like on me, and whether or not I was ready to live with what I picked for the rest of my life.

Gab came home a few weeks ago and I took a week off work to go visit him and my family in NJ. I drove up with my friend who was also going home to visit his parents (or rather, he drove and I entertained him with my witty repartee and off-key singing). Somewhere along Exit 4 on the Turnpike I turned to him and announced that I would be getting tattooed that week. I’d literally made the decision about three seconds before I told him, and voicing it was my way of not changing my mind.

“Really?” He asked, not all that surprised. “That’s cool. Of what?”

“Eh…I haven’t really decided yet…”

When I got home, I told my brother that I was ready and he said that he’d take me to the place where he’d gotten some of his ink, Starlight Tattoo. I still hadn’t decided what I wanted, but I was fine with that. I tend to be the kind of person who will waver about something for a long time and then suddenly wake up and decide to just do it. And those last minute decisions have always been some of the best.

By Tuesday I’d decided that I wanted something my brother had too. I thought about getting the words “Guard Your Heart” across my lower belly. Then I thought I might like to get the row of stars along my lower spine. Finally, I decided on an all-black trinity knot on the small of my back. I spent some time playing around with versions of what Gab had until I settled on a final design.

The shop was about five minutes from our parents’ house and surprisingly bright and airy. Gab had called beforehand so Miguel was expecting us. He had long hair, a bandana, and a piercing in the middle of his forehead. Like the rest of the artists who were milling about the studio, he was covered in tattoos and piercings. They all stood around teasing me and admiring my brother’s work. I was surprised by how sweet they all were despite their somewhat scary appearances.

When he was ready, Miguel called me to the back room and had me lower my skirt. He placed the tracing on my back and once I was happy with it, told me to straddle the chair. “Don’t worry,” he said when I told him this was my first time. “Virgins are my specialty and I’ve been told I have a really light hand.”

Gab stood in front of me and held my hand. When I heard the vibrating sound of the needle my stomach started to turn. I held my breath and squeezed Gab’s hand as Miguel traced the first line. The pain was sharp and hot, but not as bad as I’d imagined. “Breathe, honey,” Miguel warned. “I don’t want you to pass out…”

I exhaled and looked up at Gab who snapped a pic of me looking particularly doe-eyed with his cell. I could feel my stomach trembling as Miguel worked the needle over my back. Slowly I started to relax. After a couple minutes my body opened itself up to the pain. Soon I realized that it really didn’t hurt that much. In a strange way, the feeling was kind of amazing.

I felt a little bit dizzy from the adrenaline and once Miguel announced that he was done I felt a little disappointed. I instantly wanted more. I stood in front of the mirror and twisted my head back to see it.

I loved it.

When I walked out, the other guys in the shop congratulated me and took turns giving me hugs. “Now you’re part of the club,” they said.

It’s been a week and it’s just about healed. This morning I stepped out of the shower and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was surprised by how natural it looked. It’s already become a part of me.

And I’m already daydreaming about my next one…

Labels: New Jersey, tattoo

I've posted a few of these answers in the past, but I decided to just go ahead and throw the whole thing up here. Enjoy...

The Stats

Name: Alejandra

Rarely is someone living in D.C. actually from D.C. So how long have you been here? Where are you from originally?
I’m originally a Jersey girl. I was born in NY and lived there when I was a kid, but spent most of my life in North Jersey. I came to DC for college (GWU) and fell in love with the city. I will have been here a total of five years this coming August.

Is there anything important that we should know about your dating preferences?
I’d prefer to not be paired with anyone older than 30…or with anyone who is a vegetarian.

Do you:

Smoke? I smoke cigarettes occasionally. I’d say about a pack a month.

Drink? Yes

Work out?
I do yoga with a kind of self-loathing sense of irony about it. I don’t like the kind of New Age-y lifestyle that it's associated with, but I really love the stretches and the way it makes my body feel. I just wish people weren’t so weird about it sometimes—I’m not into the whole “edamame-eating-third eye-namaste” kind of crap. I also have a WSC membership and force myself to go on a fairly regular basis.

Have pets? If so, what kind?
I have a cat, but I don't like her and I’d really prefer a dog. I sort of got the cat on a whim last summer and now I feel like I’m stuck with her. We're currently coexisting in a kind of uneasy détente. I won’t go as far as saying that her days with me are numbered, but you never know…

Have kids? If so, how old? No

Attend religious services?
Occasionally, yes. I’d like to attend more regularly but I just really haven’t found a church that I feel really comfortable in yet. Granted, I must admit that I haven’t put as much effort into finding a church as I probably should.

Own a car?
No

Eat meat?
Voraciously



Weird questions meant to teach us something about you


Quick—what’s the first thing you do when you get up in the morning?
During the week I turn off the alarm, check the time, then roll over, and go back to sleep. On weekends I hang around in bed reading or daydreaming, and then I get up and decide what to make for breakfast or call a friend and plan to go out for brunch.


What’s the last book you read? The last song you couldn’t get out of your head?
I’m usually reading about 4 or 5 books at a time. The most recent one that I completed was The Fermata by Nicholson Baker—very sexy.

Song: Led Zeppelin, “Trampled Under Foot”. Oh, and that song from the Sony HandyCam commercial (you know, the one with the little girl dressed like an aardvark and the Bluetooth microphone… “I know that you’re with me…through the storm…”).

If you could be a superhero, what super-power would you want? Why?
Actually, I think I'd rather date a superhero than be one. I'd like to be the superhero's girlfriend. You know, he comes home late after a long day of doing super-things and I have dinner waiting and we talk about those people he rescued in the mudslide or the baby that he caught falling out a window. We joke around about his nemesis (who is a complete idiot). I show him the chapter I wrote and he offers suggestions (I'm a best-selling writer in this fantasy). I patch up a rip in his costume. Then we curl up and watch a movie, have super-sex, I fall asleep in his super-arms. Occasionally we go to super-functions (award ceremonies, movie openings, etc.). We get photographed by the tabloids. I go on The View and talk about what it's like to live with a superhero. We have cute half-superhero, half-Puerto Rican kids...

But ok, that wasn't the question. So, my first instinct would be to say something like the power to heal myself, but then I think about what that would mean. I would probably live much longer than everyone that I love, which seems kind of sad and lonely. Then I thought about how incredible it would be to read people’s minds, but the repercussions of that just seem a bit too dangerous. It would be far too easy to manipulate people with that kind of an advantage, and I mean do I really, genuinely, honestly want to know what people are thinking about me all the time? No. Definitely not. So I think I’ll just have to go with something a bit more prosaic (in terms of super powers) like “the ability to fly.” And the "why" is so that I can stop spending so much money on DC cab fares.

You took a three-hour tour with some friends, and now you’re stranded on this island. What three foods do you wish you’d remembered to pack? Three films? Three people?
What kind of a crazy suitcase is this?

Foods: Oranges (to prevent scurvy), Lasagna, and red wine.

Films: Wet Hot American Summer, Goodfellas, and something I haven’t seen yet—figure if I’m going to have to watch it over and over again, I might as well start fresh.

People: (assuming that I’m already with my best friends) my mom, my dad, and my little brother. I’d rather have the people that I love with me than some random famous person—although I considered bringing Oprah along because leaving her stranded on a desert island is probably the only way to stop her madness…


Imagine you’re pitching your dating history as a TV show. Tell us about it.
Smart, sexy, 20-something who gets hit on incessantly, but invariably falls in love with the guy that only wants to be her friend. Bit of a flirt, kind of a wild girl in college, never had a relationship that lasted longer than 5 months—not because she didn’t want it, just never met the right guy. Really great at being a friend; not really sure what it means to be a girlfriend. Might come off a bit cynical, but deep down she believes in love and soul mates and is waiting for it to be her turn.


What’s the first drink you’d order in a bar? What are the chances you’d then start talking to the stranger next to you and end up making a new friend?
Depends on the bar, but usually a Ketel One Tonic. I recently discovered a drink called the Moscow Mule—it’s basically just ginger ale and vodka with a twist of lime, but I like it because it’s served in a martini glass and has a bit of history about it (apparently it was the first vodka cocktail to gain popularity in the US).

The chances that I’ll talk to the person next to me are very high as I have a knack for talking to strangers (never really learned that lesson in kindergarten). However, the chances that he/she will become a new friend are very low. I’m very picky and have spent a long time cultivating my current friendships—you have to be pretty clever for me to let you into my circle…


What’s the first thing people notice when they walk into your home?
The colors…it’s a very bright apartment with a Moroccan theme so they definitely see the colors first—a lot of reds, oranges, and greens. I painted a mural on one of the doors are there are lanterns and candles and swooping bits of fabric. I guess it’s a bit opium den-like.

When were you happiest?
The weeks I spent in Guatemala building houses.

Those nights when I stayed up all night with my best friend drinking wine and just talking about everything.

The 8 months I lived in Tuscany.

This one day on the beach in Puerto Rico when I just spent hours floating in the water watching the sun set.

In what ways would you say you are very D.C.? In what ways aren’t you?
I think DC is a smart city. It’s a well-read, well-spoken, international kind of city, and I am all those things. I think it’s a friendly place and a lot more accessible than places like NY.

I think the bullshit is what gets to me. If necessary, I can dish it out with the best of them, but I prefer not to. I’m more of a New Yorker in that way—I’d rather be honest and piss you off than lie just to be polite. And I’m not really into the “scene” here sometimes. It's so lame. I’m not the kind of girl that you’ll see dancing with sketchy guys at 1223 or waiting for someone with a boat to pick me up at the Waterfront. I’m not impressed by journalists or politicians or the Hill scene. 8 out of 10 times I prefer to hang out at home with some good friends, a bottle or two of wine, and a great playlist going on the iPod.

Think about the last couple of people you dated (and, yes, “only once” counts). How/where did you meet those people?
The last three guys I dated I met through a friend of mine. Very rarely do I go out with anyone I meet randomly at a bar or anywhere like that. I tend to be most attracted to the things that you can’t really gauge well when the music is loud and the lights are low.



C’mon, brag a little: What makes you a good catch?
I think I’m a pretty cool chick with a strong sense of adventure. I’m a smart girl and I love to laugh. I’m passionate, and always up for new things. I went to culinary school in Italy and love to cook for the man in my life. I’m fluent in Spanish and Italian, have traveled all over the world, but I really love it here at home.


Vaguely embarrassing questions about who you date


So—what’s your type? (And don’t tell us you don’t have one—that’s such a cop-out.)
Physically, I like tall men with dark hair, fair or tan skin, strong features (like a prominent nose or jaw), and a great smile. I don’t like skinny guys, nor do I like guys that are too “beefy.” I just like average or slightly muscular guys. Pretty much every guy I’ve ever dated has been either Italian, Jewish, Irish, or a combination of the above. I must admit to having a weakness for NY/NJ accents…

In terms of personality, I love brilliant and nerdy, but outgoing guys. You know, the clever, witty, slightly smart-alecky ones with a quirky sense of humor. I love sarcasm. I also love when guys are sweet, but I don’t tolerate sappiness…it just makes me feel uncomfortable and is probably the quickest way to send me running.

I’m Republican, but pretty much all the guys I date are Democrats—I tend to have more in common with them than with the really conservative guys.


What’s his/her theme song? You know, the one that plays when the person walks into any room.
Hmm…I think I prefer a man who doesn't have a theme song because that would be especially inconvenient those times that we're a few minutes late for a movie and trying to slip in as unobtrusively as possible.

What I would like, however, is the kind of guy who, when asked, would pick something by Sinatra or Dean Martin. You know, that sort of old school cool, classy, a little jazzy, cigarette hanging out of the side of your mouth kinda guy. So maybe he's not actually that way, but it's the way he imagines himself sometimes and that's actually better for me, because I'm not really the way that I imagine myself to be either.

Pie-in-the-sky time: In your wildest dreams, whom (or what kind of person) would you like to date? An anthropologist who makes a mean paella? An actress/humanitarian who flies her own plane? Jack from Lost? Don’t hold back.
Basically, I just want a male version of me—and I want him to look like Dermot Mulroney.

Actually, I was watching the movie Prime the other day and totally fell for the guy that Uma Thurman dates in that movie…the cute, quirky wit, sexy boyish looks, NY accent, with an artsy side. I love that. Other options: Mr. Darcy as played by Colin Firth, Cary Grant’s character in The Philadelphia Story.

Imagine your date writes you that s/he is “equally comfortable in jeans or in formal attire.” Your reaction?

“Could you be more cliché?"



What was you best date ever? What was your worst?
The best dates are those when you just click…when we can talk and talk for hours and it feels like minutes. When you feel like you spend a lot of the time just laughing or nodding and going “I know! Me too!” That’s what I love. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing…it’s about the connection.

The worst date was a coffee date I had with a guy who spent the entire time telling me his “get rich schemes” only pausing momentarily to make creepy comments like “Wow I really didn’t believe in angels until I saw you.” I was like “Really!? Are you really saying this?” I spent the whole time edging away from him on the bench we were sitting on—I practically fell off.


What hobbies/interests/outlooks/passions would you hope to share with your date? In what ways would you hope s/he differed from you?
I definitely want someone who likes to read and who would like to roam around bookstores with me. Someone with a passion for food is important because I love to cook and to eat out and would obviously want to share that with the person I’m dating. I’d like to meet someone with a strong faith because that’s an important part of my life and it’s something that I would like to share with my partner. I’m not a very outdoorsy person—not really into the hiking, camping kind of scene, but I do like to go sailing. I love being in and or near the water. Someone with an interest in languages and travel is also very important. I love games, movies, and puzzles. I like inane humor. I prefer lounges and chill bars over loud dance clubs. I love going to concerts and baseball games. Also, I’m kind of a nerdy tech girl…so someone with at least moderate interest in that would be great.

In terms of differing from me, I think I would like someone who can teach me things—someone who will inspire me to grow and push me to go after my dreams. Someone who respects me for my strengths, but who will also be there for me during the vulnerable times.


What’s the worst reason you’ve ever broken up with someone? (We’re all seriously petty at times.)
I once canceled a date with a man who used the word “conversate” in an e-mail because, well, it’s not a word.


In your world, what features or characteristics would normally rule someone out as a dating possibility?
A nasty attitude, close-mindedness, a lack of appreciation for art, music, or literature, bad teeth, vegetarianism, poor grammar, sloppy dress, shortness, a mustache.

Labels: Date Lab

So here it is. The long-awaited Washington Post "Date Lab" blind date recap in full, glorious detail. This is probably the longest post ever, but I wanted to make sure I got it all in. Feel free to skip over the Prep Time if you're not interested. Too much went down for me to not include it...

5:00 PM, Prep Time

It was one of those Murphy’s Law kinda days. I’d rushed out of the office a few minutes before five and hailed a cab. I made it home in a couple minutes and jumped in the shower. Once out I loaded up my hair with styling cream and pulled out the hair dryer. I had just worked my way through the first section when I heard a zap, hiss, and then silence. The hair dryer had shut off. As had the air conditioning, my computer speakers, and all the lights.

I blew a freaking fuse.

“No!” I shouted as I dropped the hair dryer and ran to the kitchen where the fuse box is. I found the flashlight and shined it into the box. Despite all my technical and DIY abilities (I recently impressed a fellow blogger with my freakish knowledge of toilet installation) the fuse box is the one thing that completely escapes me.

“Don’t be late,” one of my best guy friends warned me earlier that day. “Guys hate to wait…especially when they’re nervous.”

These words echoed in my head as I fumbled around the kitchen searching for the replacement fuses. I finally found them nestled next to my emergency Top Ramen stash. I replaced one at random and waited.

Nothing.

An uncomfortable, panicky feeling started creeping over me. I rewrapped my towel which had started to come loose and looked around for my cigarettes. I checked the time as I lit one and inhaled deeply.

It was only 5:30. “Ok, breathe. You have plenty of time,” I told myself as I walked back into the kitchen. The apartment was getting hot and fat beads of sweat had started dripping down the back of my neck. I tried another fuse with no luck.

The power was still on in the bathroom so for a minute I contemplated just finishing up in there, but when I walked in, the steam and lack of AC was just too much. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror and moaned. My cheeks were flushed and my wet curls hung limp around my shoulders. My eyes had a kind of crazy look to them.

“This is not good,” I muttered as I re-adjusted my towel and headed back into the kitchen. I decided to try one of the busses. The first one I touched was scalding. Money! I put on a pair of rubber kitchen gloves and removed the burnt fuse. The second I inserted the new one, my apartment lit up like Christmas tree. I ran into the living room to turn off the hair dryer and smiled to myself as “Crazy” blared out of the speakers.

“Oh. So. Appropriate,” I thought.

By this point it was too late to straighten my hair. It had started to frizz and I was burning up. I jumped back in the shower to wash off the sweat/styling gel/lotion mess, deciding that curly hair would be the easiest way to go. Since I’d neglected to pick out an outfit the night before, I hastily pulled on a black pencil skirt I found draped over my desk chair and chose one of my three dozen strategically low-cut tops. Black Manolo Blahnik stilettos and a red leather clutch completed the ensemble.

It was 6:25 and I had just enough time for a glass of wine and cigarette number two. I lit the cigarette first and held it in my mouth while I poured the wine. Suddenly, my psychotic cat leaped at me from an undetermined location knocking wine all over my shirt.

“What is wrong with you!?” I seethed at Anais. She glanced up at me disinterestedly and then strutted away towards her food bowl. “I am soooo getting rid of you,” I muttered as I pulled off the shirt and chose another.


7:00 PM, The Date

Once outside I caught a cab and gave the driver the address for the restaurant, Buck’s Fishing and Camping. When I’d first read the name of the place I was horrified.

“Oh man,” I thought. “This is going to be like one of those weird concept places where they make you catch and gut your own dinner before you can eat it.”

I got there a few minutes before 7 and was pleasantly surprised. The plain green and white exterior belies the eclectic, but unpretentious dining room. Bright red walls are offset by rich honey wood beams and white canvas drapes. Multicolored blown-glass lamps hang low throughout the room. A long rustic table fills the center of the room and is shared by multiple parties, divided by sheer curtains. Smaller wooden tables are scattered throughout the room and covered with simple paper placemats depicting vintage cocktail menus. I introduced myself to the hostess. She seemed strangely excited and encouraged me to have a drink at the bar while waiting for my date.

The only thing I knew about him was that his name was Alfredo. I'd spent most of the week calling him "Pesto" and occasionally "Marinara" in my head.

"Please don't tell him that," my friend pleaded when I shared this with him. "The date will end very quickly..."

I noticed out of the corner of my eye when he arrived (I could tell it was him because the hostess was buzzing around all manic-like.). I sipped my wine and studied the creepy gothic photographs that lined the walls while I waited for him to come over. He stood on my left and tapped me on my shoulder.

“Alejandra?” He asked pronouncing my name with a flawless Spanish accent.

“Alfredo,” I smiled as I shook his hand. He sat down next to me and ordered a glass of white wine. He must have been nervous because when the bartender asked him if he had a preference he said, “Pinot Noir.”

“That’s a red,” I thought to myself.

“You mean Pinot Grigio,” asked the bartender.

“Oh, right…right,” he nodded.

I looked him over. My first reaction was an unexpected one. He looked like a shorter version of my little brother.

He was about 5’10” and had a shaved head, thick eyebrows, dark eyes, and a tiny goatee. He was wearing a fitted white button down and tight jeans. He seemed like one of those small athletic guys, or as my coworker Andy puts it: “It’s like he’s got enough for 6’3” but he packs it all into 5’8””

Physically, he was definitely not my type. I tend to prefer taller, less-compact guys. And I like boys with hair. One of my favorite things in the world is to run my hand through my guy’s hair just after he’s gotten it cut and it’s all soft. This guy had no hair.

Our eager hostess showed us over to our table and brought out our digital cameras. The Post provided us each with a disposable digital camera so that we could document the evening. We both spent quite a bit of time fiddling with them until our waiter brought out the menus.

Almost instantly, Alfredo quite cheekily decided that we weren't going to order an appetizer. “The portions here are huge. We won’t be able to finish them,” he insisted as he browsed the rest of the options.

"Um...OK..." I was a little bit taken aback as I really wanted an appetizer, but he’d gone on and on about how “Americans eat too much” and “what’s the point of all these courses,” so I decided to just let it go. The waiter described the specials and he chose the sirloin, which he’d read “amazing” things about. I ordered wood-grilled shrimp served with grilled corn on a bed of grits.
I also asked for another glass of wine. Alfredo ordered a Blue Hawaii, which he selected from the cocktail "suggestions" on his paper placemat. I burst out laughing and then saw that he was serious. The waiter informed him that there was no Blue Curacao at the bar (perhaps because we weren’t in the Bahamas) and so he ordered a margarita on the rocks.

While we waited for the meal, we went through the usual first date small talk. He seemed guarded and evasive, and he kept checking text messages under the table. I didn’t want him to think he was getting away with it, so I pointed to the electric blue LED glow coming from his lap and said, “You know you’re glowing?” He didn’t seem to hear me…

When I told him I was a web editor he noted that we were both journalists, but refused to say where he worked. I mentioned that I’d grown up in New Jersey and asked him where he was from. “Here,” he answered. The one-word answers were starting to get old. I asked him why he signed up and he basically shrugged and implied that he did it out of boredom. I pressed for details about his answers, curious to find out why the Date Lab editors had thought us a match, but he seemed reluctant to answer and said he needed to use the bathroom. On the way there he pulled out his cell and answered it.

When he got back he started complaining about the prices, marveling that we were allowed to spend up to $125. “Do people really spend that much on sit-down dates? How can two people spend that much on dinner?” He wondered out loud.

“My God,” I thought. “I’m on a date with Rachel Ray…”

I remembered how just a couple hours earlier I’d noted to a friend that “$125 is not really that much.” I thought about the two and three hundred dollar dinners and brunches that BFF Matt had taken me to just before he left. The champagne and moules brunches that Looney and I partake of on an unhealthily regular basis. I ran through a quick calculation: a bottle of wine, two salads, two entrees, dessert, coffee, tip. “It’s very easy,” I explained. He shrugged, but didn’t seem convinced.

We talked a little bit about the J5 show we’d both recently seen and compared other concerts. He’d traveled quite a bit and perked up for a moment when I told him that I’d lived in Italy and attended culinary school there. He seemed impressed with my knowledge of Italian soccer.

Finally the food arrived. He was horrified. “Who can eat this much?! Good thing we didn’t get appetizers!” He shouted as he took a sip of his margarita.

I looked down at his completely normal-sized steak. Then over to the four shrimp on my plate. Literally. There were four shrimp on my plate. This kid must have grown up in Ethiopia.

We’d agreed to split so I reluctantly handed over two of my puny shrimp in exchange for half of his steak. The food tasted incredible though. My shrimp were infused with the smokiness of the wood. The grits were sweet and complemented them perfectly. The steak just about melted in my mouth. For a few minutes there I was lost in my own little sensual world of epicurean delight. Then he broke in:

“I can’t eat anymore!” He pushed his plate away. It still contained a fourth of his steak. “I’m going to go empty out again,” he said as he stood up and headed for the restrooms. I saw his hand reaching for his phone again.

Now it was my turn to text. “Ugh,” I messaged a friend. I zipped it away before he got back to the table. (Unlike some people...)

“Dessert?” Asked the waiter as he cleared our plates.

“Yes,” I replied before Mr. Anorexic could wave him away. The waiter listed the desserts and I chose an apple cake drizzled with caramel syrup.

“We’ll share,” said my date companion.

“It’s not like it’s even his money!” I thought.

When the dessert arrived, we dug right it. It was topped with fresh whipped cream and still warm from the oven. The apples were firm and just a little bit tart. It was perfect.

After dessert, the hostess came to our table to collect the cameras and to inform us that our meal had been covered by The Washington Post. We were free to go.

But I had one last thing I needed.

"Wait," I said as he started to get up. "I need to take your picture to show my friends."

"Um...OK." I pulled out my cellphone and snapped his picture. [I'm not posting it because that wouldn't be right, but if you click that "e-mail me" link over on the left and I'll send it to you as a reward for having read this far...]

We collected our things and walked outside. I said that I was going to catch a cab and he said that he was going to head over to Safeway, “even though it was ridiculously expensive.” He hailed me a cab, gave me a quick hug, and I jumped in. Neither one of us made any attempt to get the other’s contact info.

As my cab pulled away, I turned around and saw that he was already on his phone.


8:45 PM, Post-date Bitch Session

I pulled out my own cell and checked it. 8 new text messages. I dialed my friend's number.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Oh man…” I started.

Labels: Date Lab, dating

that I'm driving you nuts with this. I promise to get this posted at some point today. I'm going on vacation next week so things are a little crazy around here.

But trust me...it'll be worth the wait.

Thanks for your patience!