Month: November 2011

Man Enough to Say “I Like You”

I’m not trying to kill myself, it’s just that I’ve taught thirteen dance classes over the past 48 hours so when I finally pull my car into the garage on Tuesday night and realize that they’re playing Thelonias Monk on the public radio station, I don’t bother getting out of the driver’s seat. Instead, I just sit there and listen. And check my email. And my Facebook messages. And my text messages. Then I re-read my Facebook messages just in case I missed one the first time around because I’m waiting for a response from The Wedding Date. Eventually, however, it occurs to me that this how people die—sitting in cars inside of closed garages and listening to jazz (or whatever it is that suicidal folks tune their radios to as their bodies slowly succumbing to carbon monoxide poisoning). I don’t want to kill myself, and even though the thought of climbing the two and a half flights of stairs up to my bedroom is about as appealing as the thought of scaling Mr. Everest …

Hot and Cold and Oh-So-Predictable

For today’s post, I am indebted, once again, to Kate of Kate Ferguson Writes.  She’s an English teacher and even though we’ve never met, her comments always make me pause and say “Hmmm… I hadn’t thought of that!” In responding to my post about this year’s Black Friday Martini Bar Soiree (for which I was dateless once again), Kate suggested “Perhaps The Wedding Date’s aloofness and contact with his ex lady friend will give him some of the hot and cold appeal possessed by Date #7?” For those of your just tuning in, I’m aware that this requires a bit of contextualization, so here’s the Reader’s Digest version: The Wedding Date is a man I met at a wedding back in July; he was the date of someone else (a friend of my former babysitter, to be exact) but that didn’t stop me from asking him to dance.  Nor did it stop him from eventually finding me on Facebook and asking me out.  Date #7, by contrast, is a man I met online just over …

The Trouble with Men (and Smartphones)

I like the middle-of-nowhere, I really do, but upon finding myself stuck in the middle-of-nowhere with neither internet access nor decent cell phone coverage for the majority of the weekend, I started to go a bit stir crazy. Especially as I’d paid good money (an entire $1.09 for a cup of sh*tty coffee with sh*tty non-dairy creamers!) to gain wireless access at the “Lighthouse Cafe” only to discover that Verizon was, once again, on the fritz. Thanksgiving is a bad time of year for me.  In addition to the ordeal of the Martini Bar Soiree and my fruitless efforts to land myself a date for the second year in a row (see Sunday’s post if you haven’t already), I always tend to break up with my boyfriends right before Christmas.  This means that I always find myself approaching the danger zone—the “let’s have another three-hour conversation to determine whether or not we should break up” zone— right around Thanksgiving. When I was nineteen and going through my first real relationship crisis I spent the majority …

Two Men, One Martini Bar

It’s not as bad as it sounds, although I suppose any woman who accidentally invites two men to Thanksgiving dinner ought to provide some sort of explanation. (Note: I’d intended to post this on Friday but Hoopers Island is in the middle of nowhere so I’ve been going through internet withdrawal…) Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?  Once upon a time, a rather lonely 25 year old decided to try her luck at online dating.  Somewhere along the line, she stumbled upon the profile of a man from Pittsburgh and despite her initial impressions of the unfortunate fellow (“way too intense”) she somehow deluded herself into believing that he might be “the one.” A year into their correspondence, he made arrangements to visit and even though he wasn’t entirely at liberty to spend a weekend in Philadelphia at the time, he did just that. Was it love at first sight?  Not quite.  Not even at all, actually.  But a year is a long time to wait.  And although there was very definitely a “spark,” …

And We’re Back: The Black Friday Martini Bar Soiree

I know.  I know.  It’s been ages.  But I have an excuse.  Honest.  And it involves both men and dance and the annual Hoopers Island Black Firday Martini Bar Soiree, plus a bit of shopping, so I’m hoping that you’ll forgive me. (It is Thanksgiving, after all, and Thanksgiving marks the official start of the Christmas season here in the good ol’ US of A so if you’d like Santa to bring you something nice, it would behoove you to be nice to me and ignore the fact that I’ve missed not one, not two, but six blog posts in the past two weeks.) At any rate, I’m getting ready to teach my second class of the day when one of my beach balls asks, “What happened to you, Miss Kat?  Did you get lost?” I’ve been away for three days plus the weekend in order to network present at the annual conference of the Congress on Research in Dance.  To a five year old, three-days-plus-the-weekend might as well be forever. The thing with academic …

Pole Dancing for Jesus

Ladies and gentleman, I’ve made a decision.  An important decision.  A potentially life-altering decision.  I’m going to quit the Congress on Research in Dance and join the Society for Ethnomusicology instead. Why?  Well, this will come as little surprise to those of you who regularly read this blog but it comes down to simple mathematics: there are more men in the Society for Ethnomusicology than there are in the Congress on Research in Dance. Dance research conferences seem to attract three sorts of people: women, married men and gay men, whereas ethnomusicology conferences, on the other hand, present more opportunities for “networking” than a college frat party. Granted, in order to date an ethnomusicologist, I’d have to resign myself to lifetime of papers on Victorian ornithologists and “the sonic specimen” and (no, I’m not making this up) “Pole Dancing for Jesus: Gesture, Masculinity and the Circus of Sexual Ambiguity in Gospel Performance” but the way I see it, there are worse things in life. In particular, ending up alone. In fact, if I had to …

My Blog Boyfriend Talks Sex

Rather than bore you all with the details of this year’s Congress on Research in Dance Conference (or the fact that the paper I’m meant to deliver tomorrow morning remains little more than a pile of notes and slides) I’ve decided to ask Zak, my “blog boyfriend” to fill in for me today.  You may know Zak from his blog, Slow Down Son, or from his regular comments on my love life; turns out he was quite the serial dater himself back in the day, so grab yourself a cup of coffee (I’ll probably be on my fourth by the time you read this) and enjoy a little dose of (male) perspective! I was asked by Kat to write a guest post about relationships and sex, with a focus on serial dating and one-night stands.  At first I thought “I don’t have any experience regarding one-night stands, and do I really qualify to talk about serial dating?” As it turns out: I do, and yes.  And they’re related. Prior to my adventures in the online dating world, …

Beaujolais or Bachata?

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.  The Wedding Date and I are seated on the couch in his living room and despite the fact that our third date is going rather well, I find myself in a bit of a pickle. This is because there is a bottle of perfectly good, just-opened Beaujolais on the counter in his kitchen.  I know this because I selected it myself, purchased it myself and opened it myself, with the intent of celebrating the completion of our first successful hike with something a wee bit classier than my usual Two-Buck-Chuck from Trader Joe’s (which is actually Three-Buck-Chuck now, but I digress). Considering The Wedding Date’s reaction to the cookies with which I’d attempted to contaminate his living room only moments earlier, I’m pretty sure I can guess his reaction to the introduction of red wine. And it will be nothing less than Shakespearian.  (“Out damn spot!” or “Get thee to a nunnery!” or something along those lines.) So I have a choice: I can either continue canoodling with The …