I would like John Walsh, with all his insight on abnormal behavior and finding missing people, to try and explain this:
I’ll have an amazing, over-the-top first date with someone. So much so, my newly suggested boyfriend blurts out with intense enthusiasm “Wow, I can’t believe someone like you is single!” And then proceeds to invite me to his weekend home or make summer vacation plans for the two of us.
Feeling euphoric, we proceed to a second date. Then, somewhere between that flurry of calls to schedule the first date and the second date make out session, the guy vanishes into the Witness Protection Program. Gone. Never to be heard from again.
Then, months later, when all is forgotten, I get a LinkedIn or Facebook message. Some send iChat requests or, even stranger, call. One fellow sent me an e-mail wishing me happy birthday two consecutive years and we never even kissed!
And one wonders why I’m still single.
Recently a lover asked me how many partners I had. I said 5, which would be roughly one lover per decade.
“Hmm….if I was a betting man, I guess it was more like 15,” he said.
The question popped out two hours into an alcohol-fueled brunch at an expensive restaurant overlooking Central Park. Though we were both feeling light and giddy, I know men and few egos can withstand knowing the details of their lover’s past. So, I cocked my head, feigned innocence and asked “We’re not counting one-timers, are we?”
The bill had yet to be paid, so I was sticking with my safety number. Should he later discover it’s five plus some, I’ll use the “three ginger martini defense.”
Apparently there’s a nasty rumor circulating on the playdate circuit that our apartment is a fast food joint and I’m the short order cook.
Case at point. During last Saturday’s sleepover, I made mac and cheese for dinner. Before the plate could hit the table, Allison, Savannah’s friend, scrunched up her face and barked: “You got any chicken?”
Savannah is a carb lover and I’m a stand-in-your-kitchen-and-eat kind of gal, so the only thing on hand was Rice Crispies. So, that was Allison’s dinner.
Mercer Street in Soho
Women have been raising children solo ever since the sexes started procreating. Yet, by the reaction of some to my single mom status, you’d think I just climbed Mt. Everest without oxygen.
I’ve been through the curiosity seekers’ drill so many times I know their list of questions verbatim. The first is always: “Is the father involved?” (Yes.) Second: “Do you have family in the area?” (No.)
First was the Mayflower Madam. Then Jersey girl Ashley Dupre. And, now from upstate New York the Millionaire Madam (a.k.a. Anna Scotland Gristina).
What makes Anna so gosh darn interesting is that she’s so homespun she screams soccer mom. I have this image in my head of her stirring a pot of chili while talking on the phone with a John. “I got this blonde with 34 DDs that I think you’ll love…”