Tag Archives: love

Would You Go To A Matchmaker?



Would you go to a Matchmaker?

I jumped at the chance to interview a friend’s acquaintance, who happens to be a professional Matchmaker in the city of 8.4 million. What I don’t do for material.

I met Roxy (not her real name) in her office, which was a converted bedroom, in a two-bedroom apartment, that she shared with another business. The reception area was in the hallway separating the two offices (bedrooms).

Roxy was eccentric in her attire. Her eyewear reminded me of the female version of legendary Hollywood talent agent, Lew Wasserman. Lew Wasserman

We exchanged a few pleasantries, I went to the restroom, and we got down to business. This meant a deluge of questions, hurled at me at supersonic speed. It felt more like I was taking a test that was being timed.

Some of the questions stumped me like, “What would you say are your best qualities?” Uh, there are so many, how do I choose? “What are your top five must haves that you want in a match?” Uh, only 5? The whole thing was painful and exhausting.

She asked me what age group I preferred. I wasn’t really thinking, nor did I really care, so I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Breathing?”

She asked me what an acceptable minimum salary requirement for a potential match. This was a problem. I never thought in those terms. I was, and am, more concerned with what my acceptable minimum salary requirement for myself. I thought I’d have some fun with her, so I said, “$500,000.” I think she burped in her mouth. What? If she was the Millionaire Matchmaker, she would’ve laughed at half a million.

The questions continued and then she proceeded to tell me her rules for a first date. I wasn’t allowed to get drunk. This wasn’t a problem. The date had to be short, as in one drink or a cup of coffee. The shorter the better, I say. Don’t have sex on the first date. Now that may be a problem. She didn’t think that was funny.

She prefaced her next question with, “I’m not sure how to ask this but… is there any type of ethnicity that you wouldn’t date? African American? Asian?” Was this a test? Her Asian assistant was sitting right across from me. I didn’t think that telling her that I’d never been attracted to Asians was helpful. Besides, it don’t like to say never and I didn’t want Roxy putting me in a box. I shook my head in a some vague way.

She reviewed my responses and suggested that I have some wiggle room regarding my minimum salary preference. How else was I going to weed out the undesirables? I thought she would’ve appreciated my specificity.

Roxy saved the best for last. Her nebulous services came with a $7,500 price tag. And that was just for 3 months. Now some may see it as a bargain; we’re talking about finding love after all, but from where I was sitting, that $7,500 could pay for a lot of Pole classes.

Thanks anyway Roxy. I’m more of an organic gal when it comes to love.


Because The Captain n’ Tenille Said So, Love Will Keep Us Together, Dammit!

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

It’s taken me fifteen weeks to write this post. I needed time to figure out how I was going to tell my adoring fans that The Girlfriend Mom is no longer a girlfriend. Well, that’s one way of doing it.

Life is funny. Not funny like watching someone trip over their own feet and then trying to save themselves from face planting. Funny as in curious and ever so surprising. For all of my protestations about not wanting kids, coupled with hesitations about being in a relationship with a divorced father, I now find myself feeling grateful for having the Girlfriend Mom kids in my life. As it turns out, the kids are one of the most beautiful results of my relationship with their father.

My ex-boyfriend (wow, that doesn’t flow fluidly off the keyboard) and I did not have a plan for how we were going to tell the kids, or what we were going to tell them. For my part, I will cop to denial and hoping that dad would take the lead. For his part, I think it was more comfortable for him to simply say that, “we were taking a break,” and let the chips fall where they may. Neither approach dealt with the issue and as a result I felt off balance and alone.

Maintaining a relationship with them was paramount for me, so I forged ahead and started a dialogue independent of their father. After seven and a half years (save a year and a half due to our first breakup) I wasn’t prepared to walk away or fade to black. I didn’t want the kids to feel abandoned. They had already gone through one divorce and I didn’t want to make things difficult or uncomfortable for them. Perhaps it was I who didn’t want to feel abandoned.

I questioned what rights I had as a Girlfriend Mom. What demands could I make on their time? There isn’t a list in a ‘how to’ book on the topic. I debated with myself, and cried. A lot. Everything was falling apart. The life that I had been building for so many years was quickly slipping through my fingers, so I grabbed the kids and held on.

Throughout the relationship, I had many fears and doubts, as evidenced by my many posts. But in the face of those fears and doubts, I planted seeds, I nurtured the relationships and I watched us grow into a pretty high functioning blended family. Not always easy.

I was nervous to reach out to them. Would they care if we stayed in touch? Did they even notice that I was gone? Was I being dramatical? Besides, they had their own lives, friends, school, jobs, and they were still kids.

I had lost their father. I didn’t think that I could’ve handled losing them as well. When I did reach out, their response warmed my soul. I told them that I would always be there for them and that I hoped to always be in their lives.

I was so scared and anxious when I first met the kids. How could I go from childless by choice, to having two small kids in my life? Over the years I saw parts of myself that I never knew existed. Unattractive parts. Who needs that? And yet, something made me want to stay. Something told me to hang on and push through because something wonderful was waiting for me on the other side. Something. Something that looked a lot like love.

The first time I experienced the kind of love that practically rips your heart out of your chest, was when I was leaving for Dubai, two summers ago, to teach Pilates. I bent down to say good-bye to my Girlfriend Mom son, who was dozing off on the couch. He put his little boy hands around my neck and pulled my face down close to his and he cried. I didn’t know that it was possible to feel such pain and love simultaneously.

I had been so worried that we weren’t going to bond, let alone love someone else’s kids. I was never the same after that.

Now what? Is this the next chapter of The Girlfriend Mom- or is it The Ex-Girlfriend Mom now? Ours is not a conventional, traditional, or clear situation. I see challenges ahead, with messy moments thrown in. I also know that no one knows anything about anything, especially about the future. So bring it.

Yesterday I thanked my Girlfriend Mom daughter for allowing me the privilege to experience the joy of having kids in my life. “You’re welcome,” she said. In a million years, I never would’ve dreamed of having that exchange. Isn’t life funny.

Christopher Meloni, A Towel and Me

For a long time, two things remained constant in my life; Christopher Meloni (Law&Order, Oz) and dry skin. Why did handing Christopher Meloni a gym towel 20 years ago, when I worked at a gym where he was a member, lead to a lifelong connection that he knows nothing about? That towel was the beginning of a twenty-year one-sided romance.

When I met Christopher at that gym, a million years ago, he wasn’t the Christopher Meloni that he is today. Back then he was just another hot struggling actor. He’d come in almost every day and he flirted with me each and every time.

ME: Towel?

You could cut the sexual tension with a knife. There were many events, coincidences and incidents over the years, that linked us together. I believe the most significant one came when I was traveling around Europe, after leaving Los Angeles.

My friends always stayed vigilant when it came to CM sightings and how they might fit into my life. I received an e-mail at my hotel in Krakow, Poland, from a friend who told me that CM was starring in the play, A View From The Bridge, in Dublin, Ireland. So close. Dublin, Ireland here I come!

When I arrived in Dublin, I immediately took a bus to the theater, where a jolly lolly woman in the box office said that the show was sold out. Are you f’in kidding me? I came all the way from Krakow! She suggested I get to the theater at seven o’clock for last minute cancellations. Done jolly lolly.

I couldn’t meet Detective Stabler wearing my torn and tattered sneakers. I looked like a bag lady. It had been a long way to Tipperary. I found a cheap Irish department store, filled with drunks, their shattered dreams and synthetic blends. I bought a pair of inexpensive high-heeled plastic and rubber puke brown boots. They weren’t comfortable either. 

I returned to the theater at 6:29p and sat my tight and tired ass on the cold concrete steps. I took out my tacky boots from my sassy backpack and began the footwear switch, when out of the corner of my eye, the man, the myth, the legend, Christopher Meloni, was heading towards me.

My face turned crimson and my palms began to sweat. The side zipper snagged my ratty athletic sock, and my foot hung limp from the boot like a flacid cock. I lowered my head and pretended to read my David Sedaris book, Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim.

What was I supposed to do, say hello, while pulling on my boots? Yes, because that’s what sane people do. Maybe I should’ve said, “Towel?” and waited for a reaction. I felt him glance over at me but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in a, ‘hey, who’s the hottie in the plastic boots’, kind of way. I wanted to scream, “I’m not a homeless person who likes theater!”

Christopher had his, ‘an actor prepares’, hat on and quickly disappeared into the theater. I kicked myself with my plastic boot for being such a pussy. I couldn’t let it end there so I decided to write him a note inviting him out for a drink after the show. Of course I’d explain our mutual connections so as not to scare him.

I ripped out a blank sheet of paper from the back of my book and started writing. The only thing that I can remember about the note was that I mentioned a friend of his, who was a friend of a friend of mine, who had died in 911. This was sure to endear myself to him.

When I walked into the theater, I handed my note to jolly lolly in the box office and asked her to give it to Mr. Meloni. She looked up at me, then down at the folded paper, and then back up at me. I knew that as soon as I walked away she’d read it, pee her pants, and pitch it in the trash. I wasn’t naive. 

After an hour waiting in line, I got a ticket. My seat was in the very last row. The blokes sitting next to me informed me that I should thank their friend Rory whose seat I was sitting in. At the last minute, Rory had to fly to Croatia on business. Thank you, Rory and God Bless You.

Was I really going to wait by the stage door? I deluded myself into thinking that Christopher got my note. But what if he did get my note, and decided to leave through the back door? What if he didn’t get my note, and I saw him outside? Would I tell him about the note? What if he started running down the street? Would I run after him? That would be scary. For both of us.

It was the summer of taking chances. I waited outside the theater, and pretended to call someone on my cell phone. I didn’t want to look like a fan. What the hell was I doing? I immediately abandoned ship as soon as I came to my senses and put plastic boots to pavement and walked to the bus stop. The boots did nothing for my remaining bunion. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times; nothing says old Jew like a bunion.

I continued looking over my shoulder to see if I could catch a glimpse of Christopher leaving the theater. As I passed hotel after hotel, I felt like a streetwalker on the job.

What if Christopher was expecting me? That teeny tiny glimmer of hope loomed large in my teeny tiny brain. I couldn’t live without knowing, so I hobbled back to the theater. As I approached, I saw only darkness.

I turned around, again, and limped back to the bus stop. I definitely looked like a hooker. I stopped into one of the hotels and tried to pick up a few Euros. Ireland isn’t cheap you know.

"Blog Bits" or "Rants, Raves & Ramblings"

We had the seventeen year old Girlfriend Kid (yes, I just made that up) over for dinner the other night with her boyfriend. When we were saying our good-byes at the door, she uttered the following, “See you later. Love you guys.” She’s probably said it before, but since I’m on this whole Girlfriend Mom/parent/pseudo responsible adult kick, it touched me in my soft place, usually reserved for stray dogs and Down Syndrome children.

Really? She loves me too? It sounded so matter of fact. So obvious. I felt accepted and loved but anxious and strange at the same time. It’s not that I’m not ready for these emotions, it’s just that I’m still getting used to the inclusiveness of it all. My boyfriend responded, “Love you too.”

When they drove away, I went upstairs to analyze, deconstruct and then analyze some more, what had happened. And during the press conference I had with myself in my head, I said, “I love you too, Girlfriend Kid.” And I meant it.

Okay, so later that night, my boyfriend told me that he told the Girlfriend Kid that if she wanted to, she could live with us during the summer (If she doesn’t stay at college and work) Ummm, dinner is one thing, but nightly? For 3 months?

My boyfriend keeps bacon fat (or any extra grease) in a mug (what was once my favorite mug) and it sits on the kitchen counter near the stove because he doesn’t think it can be poured down the sink drain. Thoughts? Anyone?

I had ants in the bathroom the other day and I noticed them just as I stepped into the bathtub. So while submerged, I was killing ants all around me. It grossed me out and when I yelled for my boyfriend (to do what, I don’t know) this is what he yelled back, “Oh, really.” Cut to huge ass pause, and then, “Hey, babe, American Idol is on.” I’m killing ants while I bathe. It gives multitasking a whole new meaning.

I don’t want to get all into the Pia-American Idol b.s. but let me just say that, although technically her voice probably was one of the best, it’s called SHOW BUSINESS. It’s the business of SHOW and personally, she didn’t show me anything. I’m not about to pay to see her standing still on stage and sing. She has a record deal, so she’ll be fine, people, relax.

This is how connected and alike my boyfriend and I are. Last night I was reading, “The Eichmann Trial” by Deborah E. Lipstadt and he was watching the G-String Divas. And black out.

Perfectly Reasonable

Friday, February 13, 2009Here’s some backstory so the following tale will make sense. Hopefully.

I moved back to New York three years ago from L.A., via Prague (whole other story-stay tuned) moved into a building along the Hudson River, befriended a guy who I met in the elevator on my first night in the building, who then promptly set me up with his friend a month later. 
I dated his friend, who I will now refer to as the man, for over a year and a half. It then took us another 10 months to officially break up. I was (and still might be) in love with the man. Ours was a passionate, loving and in the end, highly charged and loaded relationship. I had never felt this way about anyone. Tragic. Oh, so terribly tragic.
(The why’s and the how’s will follow in the coming months) Since we stopped seeing one another, he has never left my mind nor my heart. And even though, according to family and friends, I should be over him, I’m clearly not.
See below.
I emailed my friend last night (the one from above backstory) about having a Match.com session at his place. This consists of sitting in front of his computer with a bottle of wine, searching for someone that we BOTH like for him to date. And when we do find someone, I help him write funny-ass emails; the likes of which are Nobel worthy, if I do say so myself. It’s a lot easier to take chances when you don’t care if the person responds or not. They’re sarcastic, off the cuff, and pretty out there. I’m not sure if my friend shares my philosophy but he keeps letting me browse with him. 
These days, sadly enough, Match.com, is my prized entertainment. The emails usually illicit crazy, gutturul fits of laughter, that either has me running to the bathroom so I don’t pee my pants or an abdominal work out that rivals any at the gym. Or both.

But on this particular night, my friend couldn’t play in the reindeer games because he was going out with the boys. I know the boys could mean any number of boys but I was convinced that one of the boys had to be the man. Oh, crap. Does this mean he’s in the building? In my presence, figuratively speaking. I reeled for a moment or two and in that moment.
I visited jealousy. Was he going to talk to strange women when the boys went out? Was he going to get someone’s number? Envy. I wish I had ‘girls’ to go out with. How come I don’t know enough girls to have a girls night out? And a whole host of other, borderline pyschotic, feelings. So what do I, the supposed grown up, do? I did what any self respecting grown-up woman would do.

I got dressed (it was nine o’clock and I was already in my jammies) and went looking for the boys. I put on lipstick, and gloss, and decided that now was a perfect time to go to the corner drugstore (what am I in Mayberry) to pick up the rest of my meds (shocking I take meds) I’m such a cliche. Meds are so 2001 but whatever. 
I was hoping, of course, that I’d run into the man and yet, I was petrified of the idea. Did I really want to run into him? After all this time, I still don’t think I’d know what to say. Even in my pretend encounters I have with him in my head, I get tongue tied. There was definitely a push-pull thing happening. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but my body was victorious and it pushed me out the door. Oh, and I also put on my super cute jeans and slutty boots, because if I did run into the man, I didn’t want to be in sneakers. They’re too daytime and casual and I wanted to look like I was going ‘out’ and all sexy like. The boots look better with the jeans anyway.

From the time I stepped into the elevator, to the time I reached CVS, my eyes were in constant motion. Looking, seeking, darting, roving. Nothing. I walked into CVS and the pharmacy was closed. Am I in New York or podunk bumfunk?! What’s the point in living in the city that never sleeps if the pharmacy sleeps. Great. Thanks a lot CVS.
I wasn’t ready to go back home, because it was early and there was still a chance that I’d run into the boys. I decided that it was imperative that I go to the food store, a block away from CVS, to get my desperately needed bag of organic raw sugar (I forgot to pick it up when I was at Fairway yesterday) I knew putting it on my list was futile because I’d actually have to look at the list and I never do.
Food Emporium, the dirty hell hole that it is, didn’t have my brand. I left dirty little Food Emporium, dejected and well, feeling dirty. I swear, there’s something about that store that makes you want to shower and shed a layer of skin.

On my walk back home, twice my heart nearly leapt into my throat when I thought I saw the man. It’s a good thing I’m over the man eh. I walked slowly, lingering really, thinking that maybe… I didn’t want to look like I was just strolling aimlessly on a Tuesday night (like I was looking for them) just in case I did run into them, so I played with my cell phone, appearing to be engrossed in a very important task. 
While I was at CVS, Verizon was kind enough to text me that I was at 80% capacity in my text inbox. Ironic, no? Perfect. As I walked, I deleted. Now I looked busy and with purpose.

When I got back to the building, I took stock at my behavior and well, I’d like to say that I was embarrassed and went right upstairs. But I can’t. I made a pit stop in the mailroom. What was I expecting to find? What? If the boys were in fact in the building, my friend is going to say to the man, “Hey, dude, I know it’s 9:30p and the bars and women are waiting, but can I get my mail first?” I went into the mailroom and got my mail anyway.

I thought about it, and I was this close to doing it, but I stopped short at going down to the garage to see if I saw the man’s car. That’s progress, isn’t it? And then, and only then, did I make my way back upstairs to my apartment, where I took off my slutty boots, super cute jeans, put my jammies back on and did Sudoku before falling asleep.