A mediocre week and the search for a live friend

Here’s a cautionary tale on twentysomething lonliness and internet socializing.

It’s over one week, two boys, very different, who mean different things but among to the same thing at the same time.

Have you ever met anyone where there’s an instant friendship connection? Someone who you can’t stop speaking to because they make you feel comfortable, safe and vunerable at the same time? Aaron’s like that for me. We met on okcupid. We had discussed dating. I missed that chance when he got a girlfriend, then another one, and then I got the invite for his 26th birthday party, did I want to join him? I agree because I hadn’t seen him, and he greeted me at the door by shaking my bleach crusted hand, wearing a pink tunic and introducing me to his new girlfriend. His old girlfriend’s name was Sapphire and this girlfriend has the same first name as me, but they look like the same girl. Sweet, Asian, cute and cuddly, the perfect ornament on his arm, or leg, or wherever she decides to park herself on him. I thought we were going to have a quick chat about how we both were doing, how our jobs were, what’s this whole moving experience really like, but alas, my time was up, he disappeared to be with her, then vaporized in the crowd to be the host once again, but hey, he did bring me a concoction of rum, coke, vodka and other unknown alcohols as a consolation. Most of the talk was around the post college subjects I’ve grabbled with: what’s it’s like to have a real job, the cognitive dissonance of working for corporations (at least I don’t have to deal with that), and everyone’s dressed down in jeans, some boys have beards, others are shaved, some have long hair, others have short ones, some are short and skinny, others are tall and well built, but the girls all either wear shoes that pinch their feet or carry them over their shoulders like the latest strapy purse. A badge of their femininity. I wanted to jump in the conversation, but I can’t, and when I do finally say hello, I’m greeted with a, “who the hell are you?” and an arched eyebrow. The pop music should excite me, and the conversation should lure me in, but the only thing that made me feel better is well…more alcohol, and finding a good place to sleep.

Strange how the only thing I want in a wild party with the pop music I’ve yearned for is the peace and quiet of a bed.

It’s hard being the new kid in town. The big city is even less inviting than the college life, but in different ways. In college I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me because I didn’t exude sex enough. Here, I want people to think I’m cute, but I’m not sure if I want to talk to them. In college I didn’t know of any good bars or how to get to them. Now, I know of good bars with the music I like (that’s not pop) and the drinks I enjoy, but do you know how hard it is going anywhere as a single woman? It’s intimidating. I don’t have the protection of a friend, older brother, or anyone else, and being that exposed, that obviously single, just seems to exude an air of, ‘I’m lonely. don’t join me.’ I don’t know how those two things work out.

I’m trying to be proactive and look for things to do in the city, but it’s hard. I found a poetry slam that I thought I might like, and I went, albeit, knowing I’d be tired for work and all. I imagined it’s be like the set of some indie film on upscale black love like , “Love Jones”, with a small, smoky room and a red background, and great looking people everywhere, but it was a dive bar, with hard steel chairs and wide open spaces, that just made me feel exposed. And speaking of exposure, I was judging one of the slam poets who did some rap about love, and all men cheating, how one man has restored her faith in love, love, like a fever, love, it’s so great, love, love love, you just want to get a puppy, love, love, all this loving love! And then I see him, the one I’ve loved, but it’s not him I spot first. It’s the gray sweatshirt, the bridge of his nose, his pointed ears, they way he slouches when he sits down with someone else. I rate the girl’s poem a 5.6 for the trite subject matter, but what I really want to her is, Suck it Jesus! Don’t you know that love isn’t the world? She couldn’t have been older than me, and I imagined telling her, that there are more reasons why people break up besides cheaters. Cheating would actually be an easy excuse for a breakup because it’s universal and everyone understands it. No one’s cheated on me, but here are the reasons I’ve gotten: I have an all or nothing attitude when it comes to relationships, I place to many expectations, I want more than a five night stand and that’s bad, I can’t connect with people emotionally even though the said person pushed me away. All this from my first love ever. And when I saw this fellow in the gray sweatshirt, my chest tightened and my heart did double skips, the way it does when I bust out an 8 minute mile, and my eyes watered up, and there was no way I could pretend it was from this girl’s loving slam. I’m thinking of him and all the things I want to say, but I can’t. That’s how we are right? A series of missed connections. Our communication hasn’t been through words, but through kinosthetics. I can tell how he’s feeling by the way he touches my back, or pulls away from me. But body language isn’t the most reliable. There are those series of misses, things I’ve meant to say, but didn’t, like the times when he’s driven by my house, but never calls to come over, or the times when I haven’t left a voicemail because what I want to say should never be left as evidence. Yet I was there, a few feet away from him getting all choked up. We first started talking online and I said almost anything to him, and now I’m saying nothing.

But what would I have said to him at that moment? Couldv’e I have done a Nina moment all Love Jones style and hopped on the stage and read a poem about how she combines all her senses to be with him? No, no no, that’s too corny and that would’ve scared everyone in the audience. What would have been appropriate? I think I’m still in love with you, but I’m not sure, and I want to hang out with you, but I’m not sure in what context, or does no expectations mean you’ll never reciprocate anything because that would be too much?

My head was getting lighter, and the stage light, suddenly got too bright, and I had to get out of there, so I made up some excuse to why I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t handle the truth, and the truth was this: that I can’t socialize with people in person, that my online friendships are no longer enough to sustain me, that I’ve met people in real life, and these two boys, to say the least, have chosen to spend time with other people and not make time for me, because they chose to.

And now I’m left, listening to Theolonious Monk, typing this on an empty stomach, ready to vomit or cry. The only other time I felt this way was when my first love dumped me.

I shouldn’t be feeling like this. I should be living it up, happy as hell that I got out of Riverside, but now I’m seriously regretting this. I can’t take in the people, the culture, even a love poem depresses me. I mean, I shouldv’e gone to New York if I was going to be this fucking cynical. I want to say that this is about a failed love or failed relationship, but it’s bigger than that. It’s not just how I feel about this guy in the sweatshirt, or love or Love, but Loneliness, but big L, the taboo, which I seem to be afflicted with. I’m trying my best, but unreturned phone calls, and staging chance meetings is exhausting, and pro activeness is draining, and sometimes, just sometimes, sitting at home and thinking about the possibilities of an active social life are more fulfilling than trying to go out and fulfill that yourself…because you’re left with a mediocre week and an ongoing search for a live friend.

What I am, who I meet, what I eat: how eating habits contribute to perception

Last month I wrote a post about my long and confusing battle over my sexual orientation (there’ll be more blogs to come about that) and I mentioned a bit about my vegetarianism. Greg suggested I write a blog dedicated to perception and eating habits, and this week, seemed like the perfect week to do that since I have been a. broke b. applied for food stamps (and hate the government like crazy now. Why do they always assume people on public assistance are unemployed?) c. very hungry and d. went to a brunch hosted by the wonderful chef Terry Grant.

So on with this Sunday brunch. Terry Grant has donated a few recipes to Food and Wine magazine and I had to go, just for that. He had this brocoli recipe that he was working on and I was the only one out of 14 people who knew that one of the ingredients was basil. He congratulated me on my exquisite pallet, and I placed my hand over my heart, totally flattered.

That feeling only lasted for so long, and then the conversation turned several times to those bay area/college topics that make me cringe. Someone turned on some MIA (which, I want that album now) and I wanted to ask if anyone else thought this stuff was so cool, and new, but guess what, they already heard it. And then they proceeded to talk about how it was that they were activists, progressive, liberal, into compassion for animals and living things, real revolutionaries because they live their life by this credo, blah blah blah. Now, this being the city the Black Panthers originated from, of course that spirit still smoldered, but why does it permeate my entire life? Doesn’t anyone have Justin Timberlake on their iPod anymore? I’ve had so many conversations on polyamory, deconstructing white privilege and organizing ways to help people of color, that hell, I’d be really refreshed if someone just talked about what happened on I love New York 2. I’ll even take Meerkat Manor.

I’m sure you’re wondering what my complaining about this group has to do with food. I did have a common bond with all these people, in the sense that all of them were vegetarian or vegan, or were at one time in their lives. And after all, I was the one with the exquisite pallet. But I felt left out because those left of center attitudes didn’t apply to me, or at least, I’m not as vocal about them as everyone else in the group. I am vegetarian, I do believe in all of those reasons for becoming vegetarian, but I couldn’t be those. It’s about embodying a concept, that has more to do with the appearance than the practice.

Here’s an example. I didn’t become vegetarian after watching a PETA video, or visiting a farm, or making the connection through a tuna sandwich. I started with my own selfish and vain reasons: I wanted to lose weight. It was 2006, and I wanted to drop those 15 vanity pounds, and it did come off. I struggled with becoming vegetarian and going all the way (for a while I was a pescatarian) and my final decision came from a mouse trap. A mouse got stuck in our house last year, and my psycho roommate wanted to smash the thing with a hammer. I offered money for a no kill trap, but he bought a glue one instead, and when my psycho roommate left the mouse fell on the trap. Sure, I couldn’t gotten glue on my hands, or the mouse’s foot could’ve peeled off, but I decided at that moment that I could help him now, and if I could, why not do it? That was the final decision maker for me.

See. It’s not a dramatic story. I don’t have any other strong convictions that can be defined as strong convictions, even by the counter cultural norms. For this reason I tend to doubt my own vegetarianism. I went back to eating fish twice a month (Dr.’s recommendation to keep me from getting type 1 diabetes since I have trouble absorbing protein) and I still like it. When I get really depressed I’ve eaten meat and felt guilty immediately afterwards. And there are the times when I’ve thought I can eat meat, but after two bites I’m over it. Or one time when I went to The Rainforest Cafe and ordered some fish, but I when I started thinking about how whatever it was ended up on my plate, I was too turned off to eat it, and sent it back. My vegetarianism has now become a way of convince. Try explaining that when you’re drunk off Rum at a brunch (note: I hid my face in a pillow and laughed for most of that brunch, and blamed it on the wine. It was really my self confidence lagging).

I always feel weird telling people I’m vegetarian, because I’m afraid they’re going to put me in a box, that some vegetarians and vegans like to be in. They may assume that I’m left of center, a natural cook, complain constantly about the lack of options at a public event, that I hate leather and fur, and I hate people who wear it, that I’ll march with PETA and throw out your burgers and call your food dead animals because I can. I admit, I do some of it. I do complain if I put in a vegetarian order, and it miraculously, never shows up. I don’t purchase leather products (I do still wear the leather sketchers I bought when I did eat meat) but I still like wool, cashmere and angora. I don’t hate people who wear fur, but I think it’s useless and silly, but I also don’t like PETA. I won’t throw anyone’s food out or make fun it, but if you crack a joke on my fried tofu, it’s on.

There is a change in behavior when I tell people I’m vegetarian and they’re meat eaters. The reaction is sometimes curiosity, but it’s usually some type of defensive response (“I love my meat and I won’t change eating it. Animals are tasty”) or where they try to coax me to change. (“You need some meat in your life! Don’t you know, chickens are made to be eaten?” One coworker said to me last summer.) I like shows like Top Chef, but I cheered when there was a vegetarian chef on there. The dynamic changes when a vegetarian is present too. Meat eaters shy away from talking about their favorite meats, and honestly, I feel less welcome to share my new recipe of lemon ginger broccoli (I’m still working on that one). And when I meet vegetarians, all I want to do is talk about what I eat and share recipes. However, if I’m around someone who’s vegan or raw, I’ll usually shy away from dairy, or won’t order wine or dark beer (because those aren’t vegan).

It’s amazing when all those vegetarian cookbooks I read were right. Going vegetarian is about more than taking one item out. It’s about changing the way people eat, and when that item (or two or three) are removed from the equation the expectations of whatever that person should be start to dominate the perception of who they are. So it’s true that when someone says they’re vegetarian, there aer all these expectations that can come from it. I can’t just pick the parts I want though, and because I’m not like most vegetarians or healthy eaters I encounter where they may adopt all of those other concepts, I can’t do it. Or at least, I have trouble presenting myself as that, and for those reasons I feel like a fraud. I want to be considerate of other people’s attitudes towards why they eat what they eat and for that I might shirk all some of the need to provide more visibility to animal rights, even in my own life. But I don’t know if I can’ change the world. I know I can help animals and myself now, but I don’t know if that’s enough for me to fit in with vegetarians and meat eaters as well.

Like I said in the other post, sexuality has a lot to do with visibility. So does vegetarianism, and for a while, I’ll probably grabble with how to effectively present myself. Right now, I’m hungry, and a Greek salad sounds kinda good. Mmmmm *Thinking*

Thought of the day: Is writing a profession?

Taking a brief reprieve from doing more indirect service, I helped one of my volunteers with a group of third graders who were writing an essay. The topic: What are your hopes and dreams?

A few of them scratched their heads and pondered the question. They may have been in fourth grade, but their emotional level was that of a third grader. They did want to sound sophisticated, although each of their answers sounded alike. They wanted to go to college to become welders, beauticians, fathers, teachers and such. The weird thing wasn’t their answers. The weird thing was that they all said they wanted to go to college to do things that you don’t need to go to college for in the first place. Then my volunteer said that they had to think of things that were professional. The fourth graders said they were.

When the volunteer, Naomi, explained profession, she said she wanted the kids to think of something they love to do that would benefit the world. The term professional is now interchangeable with job, or career, or work, when they are different things. It’s kind of like the morals, values, and ethics of the day time. Professionalism is something associated to college degrees and white collar jobs and higher socioeconomic standing. Monarch, the school these kids attend, is dedicated to getting the students acclimated to the idea of being professional students or college bound in order to get that professional status. The thing is that most of the kids see college as something that should achieve, but they don’t really know what it is.

I saw Naomi’s point. I have a few friends who graduated college and have jobs that would be considered “professional” by conventional standards, but they’re really just jobs in suits. Take this guy I know named Studley (yes, that’s his real name). He trades stock, but he’s not passionate about it. He likes the money, likes the lifestyle if affords him, and once he’s done with his day’s work he goes the fuck home and doesn’t think about it again. There are a lot of us twentysomethings running around in the world like that, and branding ourselves as professionals, even though our jobs might be what we do. We may not define ourselves as that.

When I got home I looked up profession in the dictionary and it’s defined as this:

a vocation requiring knowledge of some department of learning or science: the profession of teaching. Compare learned profession.

Profession is also associated with religion. It’s something someone is passionate about, where they take their work home with them. That requires some form of commitment higher than an 8 hour work day, but it’s also something that helps other people. The trouble is that most artists, whether it be commercial or otherwise, usually don’t write for the good of other people. They are doing it for themselves.

So, is writing a profession then?

It’s hard to say that one is a professional artist if they don’t have anything that they have produced for publication. Normally when I hear a professional artist, or someone who says they devote themselves to art, my first impression: unemployed. For writers to write, they have the passion and dedication to a profession, but may not have the skills or the experience required for it. Also, the artist’s reason for recognition usually has little to do with curing cancer, or for the good of the people. It’s normally more self involved and requires more solitary time than any other profession. It’s one part passion or zeal, and another part the actual opportunity to turn something out to the public. Can there be any way to marry those two? Maybe that’s the quest of the writer.

On Boys

I’m not too big on watching television, but last summer I became in engrossed in VH1’s hit show Scott Baio is 45 and single. I found I had a lot in common with Scott. No, I’m not a former child star (I am a former child model though), nor am I 45, or ready to marry. However, I do have issues with intimacy and relating to people on a romantic level.

For those of you who read my blog (I’m sure that’s like 2 of you) I’ve written a lot about my first love (no I will not give out his name). I was 20, in London, and felt that should be the time to meet someone nice and fall in love, and I did meet someone nice to fall in love with. In hindsight, I realize now that the relationship was very one sided. I felt some kind of emotional bond, a connection that was so intimate, that I didn’t even need to have the sex. Too bad he didn’t feel that way, and he didn’t tell me this. For. Eighteen. Months.

I don’t want to go through that again, so I’ve resolved to my previous belief. As far as straight men go, I think that they make the best of friends, and when I can get a straight man to be my friend, no pretenses made, it’s truly a beautiful friendship. They’re honest, kind and protective, and I feel like I have a brother. I’ve recently discovered the joys of befriending straight men in committed relationships, which also provides another perspective that I don’t normally get. The problem is that that’s as far as I can usually go with a man. Otherwise, an intimate connection goes awry. And I’m sure there are tons of guys who are emotionally available and don’t seem to think that any contact with a woman involves entrapment, manipulation and the like, and I’m sure they desire that connection. The trouble is that they’re usually very bad at it. Attempting to establish an emotional connection with a man is like pulling wisdom teeth unmedicated, and I’m not into that prying, that time, that scheming, just to get close to a man and for him to like me. Most are unwilling to go through that, and what’s the point of trying to force it?

It’s difficult to get on that level with a man, and I figured it’s pointless to engage men in a level that they don’t want to. So I engage them at something which (some may not be good at) but at least are interested in it. The first time I slept with a man was when I was 22. I wish I could say some internalized homophobia or heterosexual oppression that led me to do it, but to be honest, I was tired of not having sex. It was a casual sexual relationship, and it went well. It was slightly unfullfilling, but fine for the moment.

Loveless sex is fine, in fact, exciting, fun, creative and hot, but after a while it gets a little sad when that limit is placed on it, the limit of there will be no opportunity for love or intimacy in this sex, and then it becomes finite. It might be one time, or span over years, but it’s never had the impact on me that I’d like. It’s usually because I’m so unsuccessful at establishing a good emotional connection with a man. However, when that emotional connection is there, and there’s something about my partner that excites me outside of the bedroom, the quality of the sex changes. It gets better.

The problem I tend to have is that my opportunities for developing something outside of sex (or where sex isn’t the primary focus) is difficult with a man. Men don’t seem to value the emotional and intimate connection as much as women do. With girls, I tend to have a stronger emotional bond that develops much faster. My last girlfriend had a powerful bond where we could fall into each other emotionally, whether it was good, bad, exciting or not too exciting, or we still had one another there for a support system. That connection was amazing, but I find that I can only have that specific connection with female bodied people. I don’t think it’s a psychological difference. I think men are just trained to be emotionally selfish or not as caring or sensitive about these matters. The thing is that someone compassionate, caring and sensitive is really important to me in a partner. I only seem to find this in women.

There is something to be said about how I relate to men. I’m still in a state of having to work through my issues with men. I still have this thing in the back of my head that men will hurt me, and then leave, since every significant male in my life (dad, brother, grandfather, my first love, and all those endless crushes) leaves me in some form or another. And maybe I’m replacing sex with intimacy because it’s safer. I don’t want to do this forever, I want to work through this. But my issues with men are separate with how I feel about women. Men are better for light hearted affairs and sex, to me, but I’d prefer a woman as a partner or at least, someone who has similar qualities to a woman. I want to think that men can be good partners too, but unlike Scott Baio, I don’t have a life coach, so it would take me longer than eight weeks. At least I don’t have anyone who’s waiting to marry me.

Friday Night

Back when I was in Riverside, here was my Friday night: browsing on the Internet or watching reruns of Chappelle’s Show. My Friday night now: watching the World Poker Series with my roommate while he gets high. Sure, sometimes it’s funny, especially when I have Sierra Nevada handy, but I’d be willing to trade doing that every night and have my Friday free, rather than do nothing the previous nights and do that on a Friday night.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When I was in Riverside I was in this I hate everything Southern Californian mode, because I don’t have a car, and that’s necessary in So Cal. There’s no such thing as a corner store. So, because I am carless (I can’t even drive) I couldn’t go anywhere on Friday nights, unless I knew about a kickback, but those are really the places where it’s good to surprise people uninvited. But now I’m here, in Oakland where sure, it has a high crime rate and ghetto soap operas almost everywhere I turn, but at least they have AC Transit. And BART. I should be living it up, getting smashed on a Friday night with some hip friends who are also new to the working world and just want a reprieve.

I’ve been pulling 12 hour shifts at my job, so that keeps me fairly occupied in not finding new friends. The only place I’ve found people are online, and let’s face it, trying to convince people to meet offline is like a root canal. I’m not complaining about my job. I like working. I just don’t like being bored on a Friday night, more so than any other night, because that’s supposed to be a time for socializing.

When I was 9 or so, my father picked me up at the park from playing with my friends. I wanted to stay with them because it was spring time, and nights were rarely that nice in Chicago, but I was also tired and ready to go to bed. My Dad was going to some club that opened 9 and it was 7:30. I asked him why adults always do fun things only at night. He said I’d understand when I was one.

I think I finally get it. College days were more centralized around Thursday nights instead of Friday nights, because it was a commuter campus, and my daily schedule was fairly flexible anyway, so I didn’t see what was so great about Friday nights. But now, I’m occupied with work, either getting to it, coming from it, or preparing for it, or winding down from it. The only real time I have to socialize is during Friday nights, but when all I want to do is be around people in a non work related situation, I can never find anyone to be with.

Now I’m wishing I had taken advantage of those Thursday nights with my college buddies. Crashed some kickbacks. Smoked a bowl. Or just not left. At least I wouldn’t feel badly about being subjected to the World Poker Series.

The real thing though, is that, it isn’t even completely about going out and getting plastered. I just miss doing it in a group, or doing anything in a social setting, even if it’s just hanging out, or finding someone to watch some Law and Order with me.

I guess I’m just trying to say is that I’m really lonely. College at least brought the opportunity (albeit, I didn’t usually take it) to socialize with someone else besides work. I don’t really know how to meet people anymore outside of an email address. I thought I had a friend in someone, but he emailed me back after we hung out for a few drinks, saying he wasn’t sure how he felt about me and maybe we shouldn’t hang out anymore. And I got a similar email from someone I haven’t met.

When did ‘let’s have a few drinks’ time translate to ‘let’s fall in love time’?

Even though this city is larger than Riverside, offers more stuff than Riverside, and has more colleges, bars, and shops, I feel swallowed, like I don’t exist. I’m not saying I want to find my soul mate, or a partner, or even a best best friend. I just want to find someone who I can spend a Friday night with, even if it’s just watching some Law and Order with me.