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Tomorrow I return to my adopted Hometown of Charleston for a long weekend to reunite with my all-girl comedy improv troupe Mary Kay has a Posse, as part of the Piccolo Fringe Festival. This will be the first time I’ve set foot on the cobblestone streets of the South since I made my misguided trek to Kansas City almost 5 months ago. While part of me is absolutely ecstatic to be back and see my old friends, part of me also wishes I could just stay away and be safe and ignorant in my own bubble.
Leaving Charleston is one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I had a secure job, a published weekly column, and a place to perform regularly. But after 5 years of ups and downs in the fair city, I found myself feeling suffocated and bored. I felt very out of place at my job, and creatively stifled all-around. I loved my friends, but I felt like I had met everyone there was to know and wanted some “fresh meat”, so to speak (and no, not in a sexual sense, though I wouldn’t have been opposed to that). I desperately wanted a new change of scenery, but was too scared to proactively find it on my own. So when the call came to take on a new position in the Midwest, I thought, “Well, this is what I’m expected to do.”
In retrospection, I’ve realized that that way of thinking is one of my downfalls and a sad attempt to hand off personal responsibility. I took the job in Kansas City as a reason to leave Charleston, not thinking about if I would enjoy living in the Midwest, and on top of that, if I even liked my job enough to make that sort of leap of faith. It was clear about a month into my temporary living situation that it was not a good move, and that I only took the plunge because of what people would expect me to do considering the natural progression of one’s life. I had been living that way for so long, I had lost touch with what I wanted out of life anymore. My depression kicked itself into full force, my work suffered tremendously, and I spent most nights crying myself to sleep, only to be faced with an alarm clock going off at 4 am and a co-host who couldn’t understand why I wasn’t my usual self.
So when the Kansas City experiment came to a close, I knew people would expect me to return to the velvet box-like comfort of the Lowcountry. Obviously, I wasn’t about to do what anyone expected anymore. So I moved to Philadelphia, where I assumed I could start with a clean slate. But to be frank, the slate’s never clean.
Life in Philadelphia is great. Really. I love this town tremendously. In 2 short months, I’ve made great friends. I have a funny, kind boyfriend. I’m taking classes at Moore College of Art and rediscovering my love for design. The Philly hobos are the most creative in the world and make for great people watching (seriously, I saw one in Rittenhouse Square attempting to breakdance while his pants were falling down.) And Stefan at the Private Ukrainian Bar down the street makes one helluva Sloe Gin Fizz. Sure, I wish I could find a decent job a little more quickly so I could get an apartment of my own, but that’s not what life has decided to hand me right now. And when you resist life, you don’t live it.
Back to the impending not-so-triumphant return, I am nervous for various reasons. One, I’m afraid I’ll find myself missing Charleston more than I already realize, which will make coming back to Philly that much more painful. I also suspect that I might long for the security blanket feeling of the town to the point that I’ll decide to move back. But as much as it is an innate human need, I don’t want that sort of safety anymore. That’s what got me into the whole mess to begin with.
I also don’t want to have to explain myself over and over again like I’m at a goddamned High School reunion. I can already predict that the two little words, “What happened?” will etch themselves into my ear drums this weekend more times than I care for. So I’m going to keep my answer short and sweet.
“Life happened. What are ya gonna do?”
When I made the decision to take advantage of my self-imposed time-out in Philadelphia instead of returning to the comforts of Charleston, I knew there would be certain unspoken obligations that I would be expected to follow through on. I am eternally grateful to my father and his wife for ever-so-graciously opening the doors to their home, as well as their fridge, wine collection, and TV entertainment cabinet, but as with everything, there is always strings attached – and especially when it comes to my Dad.
My father is a part of a certain motivational community. I can’t legally say the name of the group for reasons I’ll explain later, but their seminars encourage desperate, unhappy people to focus on the point that their life is happening right now and even though they feel helpless, they themselves have the power to turn their lives into whatever they want – all for a slight fee, of course. Think the EST movement but less militant.
A couple of times in the last few years, I would receive a random late-night phone call from my father, in which he would sound almost zombie-like as he rattled off information about the program and his thoughts on how I could benefit from it. And if I listened very closely, I could hear people in the background doing the exact same thing. That’s all I needed to know that whatever it is, it ain’t for me. But in all fairness, it definitely has helped my father. Though he still has patience and anger issues, he’s now able to gain more clarity in retrospection, which has certainly made my life less stressful.
As I drove to my new temporary home, I knew it was a matter of time until not only would the program be brought up again, but I would also be pressured into actually experiencing it. And I’ll be damned if I didn’t hit the nail on the head with that one.
8:30 on a beautiful Friday morning, I found myself sitting with 120 other confused individuals in a large room with no windows. Weeks before, my father had persistently asked me to accompany him to one of his meetings and listen to an introduction on what the whole thing was about. He did caution that people would try to hard sell the weekend seminar, and I had every right to turn it down, but little did I know when the time came to sign up, he would be the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I finally gave in after he offered to pay for it and promised that I could walk out during the first day if I saw fit. Yeah, right.
While I filled out the paperwork, an overly smiley volunteer kept congratulating me over and over for taking the first step to a better-self. She handed me a lengthy contract to sign, the contents of which were pretty shocking – I had to agree that I understood there was a chance of severe depression, and unexplained suicide (no joke) after taking the course. I also had to agree that I would not share any specifics about the program – which is why I’m attempting to stay as vague as possible. With the amount of money that this particular company charges for their programs, there is no doubt in my mind that they could afford one stealthy legal team that would make even Johnnie Cochran sweat like a whore in church as he sits on his throne in Hell.
Back to the future, it amazed me how many different types of people were attending the seminar. Some appeared to be practically homeless; some dressed like well-respected CEOs. But the majority of them looked like the sort of people who would enthusiastically attend a Jon Bon Jovi Concert. Bored and antsy 3 hours into my first day, I began doling out nicknames in my head:
“Lady Weasel of the Ren Faire” – She looked like a weasel and seemed like a Ren Faire goer. ‘Nuff said.
“Popcorn” — Named that because of her resemblance to Tiny Fey in an SNL sketch where she reveals her safety word at a swinger’s party – “Popcorn!”
“Bubbles” – This curvy thick-chick sat in the front row the entire time and nodded enthusiastically to EVERYTHING the leader said. Even the shit that contradicted itself.
“Der” – The perpetually confused guy who constantly had this look of “Der?” on his face. You know what I’m talking about.
“Russian Dude who looks like a Daniel Clowes Character” – Hey, I never said these nicknames were clever. I just calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.
Anyway, without revealing too much about the experience, I spent a total of over 30 hours in this seminar over a three day period. And what did I get out of it? Nothing I hadn’t read in self-help books before. But instead of passively reading a book, I attempted to put the words into action. Fair enough. There’s definite value there.
But like religion, it has the same cons. I’ve never been scared of religion, but the followers creep me the fuck out. This ran along those same lines. Once people grasped the simple concept of living in the now, they freaked out, like Marshall “Doe” Applewhite had just told them about the Hale Bop comet. Is it really that new a concept to take responsibility for your own life? Apparently for most people, yes. And that’s just sad.
Sure, we all have character flaws that beat us down and keep us from achieving what we really want. I realized that one of mine is being judgmental. I don’t think I’m ready to give it up though. Giving out fake nicknames is just too much fun.
So my first Philly relationship with S* was a brief and complete bust, and at the time, quite heartbreaking. I was so desperate for a kind word and shoulder to cry on, that I actually contacted the married guy, who has always been a strong voice of support and reason through my frequent moments of panic and irrationality. He thought S was a jerk from the get-go – it was the snooty “fine artist” description that turned him off – and, as usual, reminded me that I was a catch and could have my pick of the bunch. “Yeah”, I thought, “Then why are you still with your wife?”
But alas, S was in the arms of another girl, married guy was still married, and I knew I had to suck it up and move on. I delegated two full days to my own personal pity party, during which I raided the basement wine collection, watched an assload of “The Bad Girls Club” on the Oxygen Network, and puffed through 3 packs of Parliament Lites on the roof deck overlooking the city. When those two days were up, I brushed my teeth, showered and shaved (no time for hygienic maintenance during a pity party!), and turned my Onion Personals profile back on.
Again, it didn’t take long to re-connect with some bachelors that had showed interest pre-S, as well as finding new potential candidates. And I’m proud to say, after getting dumped on a Sunday, I had successfully set up not one, but two dates for the week. I also feel the need to add that within a short 3 weeks, I had been on more dates in Philly than during my entire 5 year run in Charleston. You gotta love those stats!
On Wednesday, still stung and hangover, I had my date with N*. He frequented my neighborhood quite a lot and took me to a few out-of-the-way bars that I had no idea even existed. The conversation was light and easy, but nothing as intense as with S. He was physically very attractive, very much a “boy” in regard to his hobbies, intelligent, and only a couple years older than me. There just didn’t seem to be that passion that I had experienced with S. I longed for that feeling again, even with all the drama associated with it. N was quiet, and with my opinionated loud mouth, I didn’t know what to make of it.
He dropped me off at my house and kissed me – something that I wasn’t expecting. I didn’t know what would become of us, if anything, but that kiss – it was surprisingly genuine. I decided to not get over-analytical and, instead, focus on my next date in a couple of days with W*.
I met W in the hip area of Northern Liberties, which I guess could be comparable to Upper King as far as real estate prices and hipsters are concerned. I spotted him at the designated meet-up bar, walked over, and proceeded to stand there while he finished up his one-sided conversation with the empathetic female drink-slinger. My first impression was that he was loud, rugged, and well, loud. He finally turned around, greeted me warmly, and ordered my drink. He offered to take me on a neighborhood pub crawl, and I was game.
He was interesting, not only to himself but to me as well. I don’t know if he did it out of nervousness, but he kept interrupting me. He would ask me a question, I would begin to answer it, and then he would cut me off. For example:
W: “So, why are you getting out of radio?”
J-dub (a.k.a me): “Well, it seems like a good time since I never really liked the business and-”
W: “Yeah, my old man yakkity, yakkity, yak, blah, blah, farty, fart, fart…” (copy and paste last part 50 more times)
But that aside, he was very nice, entertaining, and made me feel good about myself. He kept telling me how beautiful I was in person, and what a great time he was having.
The bars were closing, and like most of my dates, he invited me back to his place. I must’ve given him a look that said, “Buck off, Hop-along” because he quickly promised that he wouldn’t try to sleep with me. No, what he had in mind was much worse…
We walked back to his house in Northern Liberties, and he gave me the grand tour. He showed me his bedroom and kissed me. Honestly, it was late, I was drunk, I trusted this guy to be the gentleman he seemed to be, so I figured, why not? Who doesn’t like a little make-out session? He was a good kisser, not too aggressive, but not weak. Then he began untying my converse sneaker. Then he took of my sock. And began sucking on my toes.
My friends, I shit you not.
It took me a minute to realize what exactly was going on. Then it occurred to me, “Hold up. I’ve got a grown-ass man who has voluntarily put my sweaty foot in his mouth, and furthermore, seems to actual enjoy it.” And as quickly as that, the party was officially OVAH.
I excused myself, grabbed my shoe, and told him I had to get home because my father was waiting up for me. I don’t think he made the connection that the foot thing was what prompted me to summon a cab, and asked if he could call me sometime. I said sure, not knowing what to make of him in my slightly intoxicated and creeped-out state.
The next day, he called. Twice. I didn’t pick up. It’s horrible, because he was really intelligent and would make a great friend, but I simply couldn’t get over the foot thing. Call me shallow, but that shit is weird. And not exactly a fetish you should expose on a first date.
N also called that night and asked if I’d be up for grabbing a beer. I said yes – N was quiet and normal and that’s exactly what I needed right at that moment. And as it turns out, what I still needed a few weeks later, too.
*Still protecting the not-so-innocent weirdos in Philly
So as I stated in my last post, being the new country mouse in the big city, I decided the first thing I needed to do was build the semblance of a Philly social life to keep me from a downward spiral into deep depression. You see, the last time I stayed with my father for an unspecified amount of time, I had just left college and was hitting one of many “What am I going to do with my life?” walls. I was stuck in small town Flemington, NJ and didn’t know a soul. I split my days between watching Direct TV, drinking Sand Castle Riesling from a Delaware Valley winery (where I had become a regular “taster”) and pumping mad iron at the local gym. It wasn’t until a few years later when I looked at a video tape of myself doing stand-up during this period that I realized I had morphed into the shape of Chyna from the WWE. Never again will I live through another period like that. Not if I can help it.
So within a week of hitting the online dating scene, I had my first date set up with S*. S had found me in the Onion Personals, and seemed quite enthusiastic in a very subdued, sensitive kind of way. S was an oil painter. Actually, a quite gifted oil painter, as far as I could tell by a personal page on which he displayed his work. He was also a college professor at a small school in NY, where he taught painting a few days a week. He seemed highly intelligent, attractive, talented, and I wondered why the hell he would have any interest in me.
When it came to my personals page, I didn’t sugar coat the facts or try to make myself out to be something different from what I am. What would be the point? And though I was flattered that S found me interesting and attractive, I just couldn’t put my finger on what we would possibly have in common. But maybe that was just part of the charm, so after a week of e-mailing, we agreed to a day date, and met in center city for coffee and gelato.
Oh, and that’s another thing. S didn’t drink. At all. It was the first time I ever was going to have a date without a little alcohol in my system to loosen me up. Nor had he ever been married, had kids, or any other sort of drug problem. This was a new experience all around.
So we met, he paid for coffee and gelato, we sat by the window and talked about our lives. I explained that I was in the middle of a third-life crisis, S talked about how he discovered he wanted to be an artist after law school. When we were done, he asked if I wanted to walk to the indie house and catch a Japanese film. We were the only ones in the movie theater, and during a short lull in our conversation before the film, he kissed me. Well, more like he pounced – it was almost predatory (which will make more sense later). And I must say, the situation, being the only people in the theater, the way he just took charge – I would chalk it up as one of the most intense and romantic kisses I’ve ever had.
After the film, S invited me back to his place. I was leery, of course. I wasn’t about to sleep with this guy on the first night, but somehow I agreed to follow him back to his humble abode. When we arrived at his studio apartment, it was very clear why he had brought me back. He coerced me into a full make-out session, with hands going every which way. And as much as I wanted to just give into him, I couldn’t. I had only spent the last 5 hours with him, and honestly, I hadn’t exactly maintained the garden, so to speak. So I excused myself and caught a cab back home, with an irritated face from his stubble and a bouncy high from his attention.
I saw S a few more times, each date more intense than the last. I felt as if we were really clicking, and I let my mind fantasize about an artistic bohemian life we could eventually build together. He would paint, I would write and we would inspire each other on a daily basis. But at the same time, I knew there was something a little off about him.
I never saw S during the week. I knew he was working, but it was as if I was only reserved for one night during the weekend. He was moody (yes, I know, a moody artist, how original). He never turned on his stove, yet he had been in his studio apartment since ’99. He was kind of precociously dorky – he talked like a child at times. He was into Anime, and not just the cool kind, but the kiddie stuff as well. His cell phone was always off. And the one time I brought up the weirdness of “furries”, he shrugged, looked down, and muttered something about it being “cute”. Um…uh-huh.
All that silly stuff aside, I really did like him. When we were together, he was affectionate and sweet. It wasn’t that I had big plans for “us”, but I saw major potential. And then, one rainy Sunday morning, I received this e-mail:
“I just wanted to say that I truly enjoyed spending time with you the other day/night, but, things have changed unexpectedly for me in the past few days … and as result; I feel I can longer see you in the context that we have been spending time together. I think you are a great … wonderful, bright & beautiful … but I’m in a difference place in my life that really isn’t compatible to where you are or need to be …”
I was devastated. I didn’t see it coming, but in retrospect it made sense – S was obviously spending time with other girls when he wasn’t spending time with me. And on top of that, he dumped me by e-mail. Usually this sort of behavior wouldn’t faze me, but I really thought we were connecting, so to be ditched in such an impersonal way…well, it hurt. And it still hurt a couple weeks after that.
Why, oh, why, would me, little Miss Cynical, let herself get so wrapped up in the first guy she dates out of the gate? Because I let myself. Because I dropped my guard. Because I fell for all his moves. Because I let my heart jump the gun. Because I wanted to believe.
Sure, S knocked the wind out of my sails for a couple of days, but I had a mailbox full of potential bachelor inquiries, and little did I know, the next one would turn out alright – I just had to get over S to give him a chance.
Stay tuned for Part Deux!
* protecting the not-so-innocent
Here I am, in a brand new town, with no major responsibility, and the world laid out in front of me like a Lowcountry oyster lacking it’s pearl. Holy crap, I am bored!
Well, not really. I have plenty of time to write and explore the city on my own, but when it comes to a social life, what is a girl to do? It took me one whole year in Charleston to find my niche, and then just four more years to meet the entire population within a related age bracket. It got to the point that I couldn’t even walk down King Street without running into 2 or 3 close acquaintances, and now here I am, little Miss Anonymous, sitting by herself in a neighborhood Belgian Pub, enjoying a Chimay while typing away on her laptop.
So after a short 24 hours of living in the fair city of Philly, I decided to do something drastic. Something I had attempted once before with very little success. Something I had once condemned in a past column as being “sad’ and “desperate”. I swallowed my pride and re-entered the world of online dating.
I initially created a profile on the Onion Personals to meet new people with similar interests. Unfortunately, there isn’t a site where I can go and easily find girls to be friends with. Sure, there’s MySpace, but you can’t just find some random chick’s profile within your zip code and type her up a message saying, “I think we have a lot in common and I’m new to town. Wanna hang out?”
She would most definitely come to the conclusion that she’s being hit on by one aggressive muff-diver. Really, online dating sites are the only access one has when it comes to meeting new people and going out for a couple of drinks. Of course, you’ll have to “date”, which is something else I’ve condemned, but what choice do I have?
Within a couple days of posting my cyber-personal, not only did I find some really great guys, that were not only attractive but also appeared to be creative and responsible, but I had a mailbox filled with inquiries from potential dates. “Wow, I’ve never had this kind of luck before!” I thought.
I believe there must be a big difference between online dating in a town like Charleston and a major city like Philadelphia. There’s just a lot more people in Philly, and it’s easy to feel a little lost and lonely, more so than in a smaller town. Online dating makes it easier to weed through all the people here. In Charleston, it’s rare that you’ll go on a site and not only see someone you know, but also see some selfish ass-clown that your close girlfriend already dated.
So, to get to the point of the post, men were met online, dates were planned and executed, and wacky shenanigans have already occurred. You’re just going to have to check back next week to read about all the nasty little details. But here’s a little teaser: one had a foot fetish, one dumped me by e-mail, and then there’s one fabulous machosexual I’m currently dating exclusively. Hot dog!
As I carefully drove through the Fairmount area north of the Art Museum toward my father’s humble abode, I couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver of excitement. After all, this is Philadelphia, a metropolis which only seems to have a bad reputation from the people who have never lived within the city limits. My views on the town are probably shaped by the sentimental recollections of visiting my father here during summer break, spending my days at the Franklin Institute of Science, exploring the definition of inertia and the inner workings of a giant walk-through human heart, and mild nights at The Phillies Stadium, watching the players shake off a wicked hangover while I chowed down on a soft pretzel.
I also spent one of the best summers of my life here, attending the High School Program at the University of the Arts. I lived in the dorms for a couple months alongside a freckled good girl ballerina, and a peroxided Goth bisexual-wannabe from Long Island named “Mel”, who I accompanied to the tattoo parlor where she proceeded to have a pair of vampire bite marks permanently inked onto her neck – yep, A-#1 class, that broad. Our second night there, she had sloppy teenage sex with a kid named Andrew on the bottom bunk while his gay roommate, Eamon, tried to suppress his laughter as he hid under the blankets above.
I was a sheltered virgin studying animation and videography, and Mel proved to be a bad influence. She quickly turned me on to smoking her brand (Parliament Lights, which are my preferred brand to this day) and easily found the bars on South Street that would serve alcohol to us. We were barely sixteen, fer Christssakes!
But the greatest thing that happened to me while I attended the U. of Arts was that I fell in love for the first time, and sometimes, I worry, possibly the last. His name was Jonathan, he was 18, a talented jazz bass player, and we clicked instantly within the first week of classes. We eventually slept in the same bed every night together, but he was always the gentleman. Always. The one time he copped a feel on my pathetically small breasts, I withdrew from his lips awkwardly. He asked if that made me feel uncomfortable, and when I shyly admitted, “a little bit”, he apologized and never did it again. We made each other laugh, we walked around the city hand in hand, and the world was just perfect through my then-innocent eyes.
Our last night together in the dorms, I cried as he watched me pack – he had to return to Maine before moving to Philadelphia to begin college, I was headed back to North Carolina to begin another loveless year of High School, and I just couldn’t imagine sleeping alone again. He sat me down on my bed, grasped my hand, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I love you.”
There are very few times in life that I can recall the world around me coming to a complete stand still and feeling allowed to truly be in the moment, even if just for a second. In that instant, as we sat together in the dorm on my crappy single mattress, I knew my life would be changed forever. Even almost 13 years later, I still tear up when I think about it. Because as many times as I’ve had my heart broken, as many times as I’ve thought of throwing in the towel over the whole notion of love, even after the countless nights I’ve cried myself to sleep out of loneliness and fear, that memory reminds me that it can happen. Maybe, just maybe, lightning can strike Ben Franklin’s kite twice in Philadelphia.
Hey y’all! (You can take the girl out of the South…)
Welcome to my new blog! For those of you who have kept up with my column for the last year, let me first say thanks for following my psycho babble on to the world wide web! Though I loved being published in the paper, the simple fact is that the editors want a local girl for print, which I can totally understand. However, they were nice enough (or just entertained by my consistently screwed-up choices and bat-shit temperament) to set up this blog and pretty much let me have free reign.
That being said, things here will be a little different than the weekly column published alongside the titty bar ads. Item numero uno — I will not be your “sex and dating” columnist. As you probably know by now, I’ve always hated the act of dating and feel that there are more interesting observations to be made. While I do plan to talk on my love life alot, I also plan to share all the other weird points of my existence. This blog will be more of a diary dedicated to my life and weekly commentaries as a girl who is starting her life over from square one. And I do literally mean “square one”. I’m in a new town, looking to start a new life, all while sleeping on the fold out chair in my father’s office…seriously. I obviously have a lot of time on my hands to ponder and write about the inane shit that some have come to know and love.
Secondly — there is no middleman. This blog is straight from my chipped-polished fingernails on to your screen. I have no editor. So all you Grammar Nazis can just go now and log on to McSweeney’s. I’m going to be using dangling participles a lot, so go suck an egg.
And last but not least, I plan to publish a new “column” here once a week on Wednesdays to coincide with CCP’s weekly release. Though I do plan to add little tidbits of thought here and there, you can get your “Chase is On” meat and potatoes every Wednesday, just this time you won’t get smudged ink on your fingers.
So stay tuned for the first official post about my foray into the City of Brotherly Love and the incessant question that causes flop-sweats in the middle of the night. Wheee!
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