first dates and such.

have i ever told you how very much i like parks and recreation?

i do. a lot. because it's about good people trying to do good things by actually doing...well-meaning things (and if you think about this premise, it's a pretty rare one on television).

anywhoo, one of my very favorite episodes is one in which the main character (leslie) has to go on a first-date.

and since i'm entering that period of my life (albeit, a little behind the curve) where i'm actually open to the possibility of first-dates i thought i'd share:


leslie: what if he shows up with another woman? what if one of my sleeves catches on fire and it spreads rapidly. what if instead of tic tacs i accidentally pop a couple of ambien and i have to keep punching my leg to stay awake?


ann (her best friend): those are all insane hypotheticals and i promise you they won't happen.


leslie: they have all happened. all of these have happened.


{cut to interview-style}
uh, no, there's more. one time i accidentally drank an entire bottle of vinegar. i thought it was terrible wine. once i went out with a guy who wore 3-d glasses the entire evening. oh, one time i rode in a sidecar on a guy's motorcycle, and the sidecar detached and went down a flight of stairs. another time i went to a really boring movie with a guy and while i was asleep he tried to pull out one of my teeth. i literally woke up with his hand in my mouth. we went out a couple times after that but then he got weird. 

in her palm.

she was really good at this point. at this staying one step ahead of him.

she always knew where he was. knew which way to turn her head so he'd see her and she'd noticeably not-see-him.

it wasn't terribly fair. she knew that. and it wasn't terribly honest. but it was her right. and dammit, she was gonna take advantage of that.

not caring. the appearance of not caring. that was her gift.

or curse. she knew that. she carried that.

but she did wonder if this one saw through it.

if he knew that she sometimes went to bathroom just to take long, deep breaths. or to cry, even (though that was only the once, so...).

she could disappear behind her eyes. retreat to a region he couldn't touch--or at least, couldn't see that he touched. only one man had ever pulled her from there. only one man had ever said, i see you fleeing--i see you fleeing there and i refuse to let you go. even if it is hard, and even if i can't love you, i demand that you live through this--feelingly. it seemed like an unfair demand. but it wasn't. because she loved him and in his own way, he her. it was his great act of kindness that pulling-her-out even as he pulled away. but that was so long ago. and he was a better man than these others. or, well, he knew her better.

 something like that.

but just the other day this one had caught her. she had stood up and there he was. he wasn't supposed to be there. she wasn't supposed to see him. there was no preparing for this. and so her stomach dropped to her toes. and she felt the heat of the whoosh. and because she couldn't retreat fast enough she simply averted her eyes--looked away.

but she was left wondering if in that moment she'd been found out. if in the infinitely small moment of space between seeing him and looking down, had he seen her? for the first time? had he noticed she carried her heart right there in the palm of her hand?

probably not. they never usually did.

photo by lobymustard

on flickr.

clarification.

i've always wanted a little boy.

liam, we'll call him. or gavin. something short and strong. a warrior's name.

and his hair will be lighter than mine. curly.

this much i know, this much i have always known,

that someday, somewhere a little boy is waiting for me.

but when naomi was pregnant, i sat on the long subway train headed uptown and thought of what that means--to grow a baby. of all the million miracles that have to take place. it's staggering. the whole thing is absolutely unnerving in its power. and as i sat there, i imagined the moment a child enters into a world.

i imagined giving birth.

and the thing is i imagined having a girl. i'd never thought of it before. it'd never crossed my mind. and the power of the image was so grand, so beautiful, so absolutely wonderful that i began to cry. just a little. just a few tears of happiness. for how wonderful this life is. for how absolutely divine this world in which we live can be.

a little girl. heaven.

i was telling one of the guys i work with about this--was telling him because he has a new baby girl at home and anyone can just see that he's burning with a fire for that baby--that he didn't expect to love fatherhood so much but heaven help him, if it's not just the very best thing he's ever done in this life.

so he listened to my subway tale, gave me one of those slow burning smiles and said baby, you're sunk. you need yourself a man. 

and i laughed because he's right. i know he's right.

it seems to me that men in new york, when it comes to that first date, all ask the same question: what are you looking for? and what they mean is are you looking for commitment? marriage? someone to fool around with? and i'm starting to think that that question, asked on any first date, might just be the first red flag, a deal-breaker in and of itself.

because it's so shortsighted. it's an attempt to define what hasn't even yet begun.

yes, i want to get married one day. and yes, i want to have children. and by golly, i want to do all these things and remain tethered to my hopeless-romantic roots.

but this is not to say i'm not practical. (but practical isn't terribly interesting and so i don't often write about it).

i will get married when i meet the man i want to marry. you're not him? no worries, let's have our wine, enjoy it, and why shouldn't we have another date?   

i am not in the business of looking for a husband. i am just trying to live a life. fully and deeply.

how can i answer the question of what i want when asked on the first date? because really the question is what i want with you and i hardly know you--it's only the first date! what i want is to find out.

to find out, what i want, with you.

i want to live my way into the answer.

and let's find out. together. shall we?

i worry about the blog. when it comes to men, i worry about the blog.

if i'm interested in a guy i try to keep this little corner of the internet a secret. i try not to give out my last name because google is mighty easy to navigate and i'm not so naive as to think that men don't know how to use it.

i'm not ashamed of anything i've put here. but i am aware. aware that it's in many ways a one-sided portrayal. and a whole heck of a lot of information--all at once, at that.

and goodness, call me old-fashioned, but i'd kind of like to tell the man all of this stuff. face to face. and i'd like that coming out of my mouth it should be the first time he hears it.

does this make sense?

new york is stunning this morning. cool and sweet. a breeze issuing forth from the hudson. and sitting here, next to the window i am happy. when i sat down to write this morning i had every intention of describing the roar of the fan behind me and my hopeless devotion to it. instead i got this. forgive me, won't you?

on a bench in a park.

there was a stolen hour when i was in boston a week ago. an hour in which i found myself on a bench in boston commons sitting next to one of my oldest friends. we sat, the two of us, dark, green wood beneath us, looking out over children and their families, young couples, and the ever present waddle of the ducks.

i was fourteen when i fell half-in-love with sam. he was seventeen and, heaven help me, did he seem old and wise. i was out of my depth around him. knee-deep in wonder and hormones and absolute amazement.

we have lived countless lives since that summer so many years ago. the two of us. we've each lived countless lives in opposite directions.

but just over a week ago, on a bench in a park, in a place called boston we sat and spoke. of all that we know and don't know. all that we've learned and are just now waking to.

mostly of love. of how terribly hard it is. and how terribly painful it is. and why, oh why do people the world over subject themselves to it's brutal whims and terrifying fancies again. and again. and again?

because it's deliriously good. that's what we decided. because of just how delicious it can be--if only for a short time.

we spoke of the beginning of it. of how you can barely look at the person for fear of being found out. and the end of it. of how you can barely look at the person for fear of... being. found. out.

and sam teased me. asked if i still doodled my name across notebooks with the surnames of all the men, the world over, i'd ever been to afraid to look at? and i laughed. tilted my head a little and laughed. no, no of course not. that's not to say i haven't thought about my name next to his. and his. and his and his. 


and do you know what sam did in that moment? he didn't make the expected comment about girls and their nonsense, he just leaned back against the bench, took in the water before us, appraised the park in which he'd spent so much of childhood, and said, it's hard for us--us hopeless romantics, isn't it?


and i smiled. fell half in love with him all over again and thought, certainly, it is.


and if i wasn't tethered to sam before, i am now. for that moment--that one right there. that simple moment of absolute inclusion when somehow, i least expected it.

and even if it is hard, and it is, certainly, i wouldn't change it. not for anything.

we're a band of thieves, us hopeless romantics. stealing the world of all its very best love.

photo by eric neuman.

an open letter to any man (the world over) who may ever reject a woman:

dear man-lucky-enough-to-have-a-woman-ask-you-on-a-date: 

keep it simple. and pay homage to the deeply courageous thing she did by putting herself out there.

(1) express how deeply flattered you are and (2) simply say, no thank you.

that is all. leave it there. let it alone. even if she responds. say nothing, or if you must (and only if you must) reemphasize the above two points.

anything else that you might say--in hopes of making her feel better (or even yourself)--will inevitably be the thing she finds patronizing and upsetting. and of course, it will inevitably be the thing she replays again and again.

and then, and i can't emphasize this enough. in the days that follow: stop being so damn nice. stop being the guy she liked in the first place. it makes it that much harder.


she will like you all the more and all the less for the kindness you offer up. and she will feel crummy for not being able to meet your friendly gaze. so please don't ask or expect her to.

just a friendly piece of advice,

meg