www.match.what?

Recently I joined Match.com. I work around a lot of gay men and am tired of the bar scene,so I thought maybe I should give Internet dating a try. I just wanted to go on a bunch of dates and have some fun. But there is something about the Internet world that I don't click with. Some people have great fun with it or even find a partner. I, however, have gone on one date and broke up with somebody I hadn't even met.

Allow me to shed some light on the situation. People are weird, and desperate, and lonely. I am not saying that I am any different, but I know me, and therefore am completely normal and never desperate and... okay... fine. I can get lonely sometimes. Although I do consider Simon and Garfunkel's song, "I am a rock",to be written for me.

My first internet date was the other night. On my way to meet this man, I hadn't even talked on the phone with, I had the usual conversation in my head. "I don't care, I would have more fun at home, I don't think I'm going to be attracted to him. What if I am attracted to him? Can I handle that? I'm not good at handling that. I don't like this, being single is really not that bad. I would rather not be interested and have him not interested, and then we can both walk away unscathed.". Chances are the latter will happen. And that's the way I like it.

I told him I would meet him at a Starbucks. A central place in case he is a killer, there would be many witnesses. I didn't really look much at his profile, so I was beginning to doubt I would even be able to recognize him. I saw a man on his phone walk in. I thought maybe that was him because he gave me a look of "Do I know you?". Then he continued to pass me. I thought to myself, that was him, and he didn't like the way I looked. Well, he was the one who asked me out. I didn't wink him or make him my favorite. If he doesn't want to talk to me after seeing me in person, fine, I didn't like you anyway. That's my classic line I use to pep myself up when I feel I've been slighted.

And then of course, the actual guy walked in. He was nice. We found a table and began to talk. He seemed normal enough; the conversation was fine; he was very polite. After about twenty minutes, I was done. But he wanted to go somewhere else. I hate situations like these, because I begin to feel guilty. I am reminded in my head of all the times I have felt jilted. So we went for a drink.

We sat down, this time on a couch, where we were side by side. I could already see what was happening, and I wasn't into it. As we were sitting and talking, his hand moved around my shoulder. I did everything to distance myself from him without actually physically moving away for fear of hurting his feelings. I even began to ramble on about travel and my childhood pets hoping that he would get bored. I was almost finished with my beer and then explained that I had to get home to help my new roommate move into my apartment. Lucky me, he was taking the same train as myself. As we were walking to the train, he proceeded to hold my hand.

Now, I didn't want to hold this man's hand, but I didn't want to be mean-so what could I do? I will tell you this though, I maintained a very loose grip. During the walk, he asked me what I was doing over the weekend. I said I was very busy, and then he went on to say that he enjoyed himself and hoped I felt the same. No, I didn't feel the same - but what could I say? I said nothing as I do many times in life when I would rather not voice my opinion for fear of hurting someone else's feelings.

We got on the train and at this point my guilt for not being interested began to turn to annoyance at his refusal to get the point. If you have to ask if I mind if you hold my hand, I mind. He took my hand in his and then brought it up to his face. My hand was limp in his and I pulled it away and began to hit my leg. Don't ask me why, but I thought that this action was indicative of me needing to do something important, like hit myself in the leg. The train came to a halt, and I began to laugh aloud. "What's so funny?" he asked. This train ride is turning into purgatory, but instead I said something like "The conductor's voice". I don't work well under pressure.

We finally arrived at his train stop - freedom was moments away. Fortunately, he did not go in for the kiss. If he had, I had already decided that I would go into an uncontrollable fit of coughing or burp unexpectedly. We said goodnight, and at that moment a friend called. I answered the phone and she said, "You're done already? Short date." I replied, "Not short enough.".

Remembering Dorothy

My grandmother passed away about a year ago at the age of ninety-six. Her name was Dorothy Frances, and she played a pivotal role in my life. I remember her as my "fancy" grandma. I'm not sure she was fond of little children because my memories of her only date back to when I was five. But nonetheless they are very special memories.

Everyday before school I would go over to her house and sit at her kitchen table. I would watch her smoke cigarettes and listen to her reminisce about her life. I heard some of the stories so many times that I feel sometimes as though they were my own memories. I have flashbacks of living during the Great Depression and giving birth to six children to this day.

We would discuss all the hot topics over coffee, black, no sugar. That is correct, I drank coffee regularly at the age of eight with an eighty year old woman. She loved to play bridge and surprisingly Bruce Springsteen, except, after he left his wife, she lost all use for him. If there was one thing that would put you on the bad side of my grandmother, it would be to leave your wife for another woman or come over to this country illegally.

She was rarely open with her affections. Every time I would talk to her on the phone I would say "I love you grandma" and she would reply with something that basically meant "Goodbye". But she was always there for me. She lived only two blocks away from us, and when upset, I would run away to the side of her house. I could hear her on the phone with my father saying "no Vickie isn't here". She would then yell my name from her front porch, and I couldn't not respond to my grandma.

She was a woman of her time. She saw an entire century. She buried two sons and her husband. She was a classy lady who loved cigarettes and dessert. Oh yeah..and the Republican Party, but nobody is perfect.

I love you grandma. I don't need you to say it back.

Bestow my heart.

I was in class the other night and a student asked a question that didn't pertain to the topic. My teacher let him know that we would get to that question later on in the material. I looked over at the young man and saw him take his hand and snap his finger in a disappointed fashion and a part of me fell in love. Now I don't know this person's name and I doubt I ever will. But there was something about his aura that my soul knew.

Doesn't that sound strange? He was so awkward looking. I bet he's only twenty, roughly. His face was covered by facial hair and he had a ratty red t-shirt. But I think the most endearing quality was the thick bottle glasses. The last two sentences were written with complete sincerity, not my normal sarcastic tone. It was the above characteristics that struck my heart with a sense of familiarity.

Maybe it's that part of me that never felt cool enough. Who always felt like she had to be the funniest, the most outrageous, the most charming, because inside she was just a girl with facial hair and bottle glasses. Okay that last sentence was written with shades of my usual sarcasm, but you get my point. I became intrigued by him.

In our society we get to know people so often because they exude something we think we lack or they will put us in the "in" crowd. We're constantly striving to be attractive and surround ourselves with aesthetic beauty in hopes that we'll prove something to the world about what we look like. How many times have I passed judgement on someone without even speaking a word in their direction? You don't want to be too pretty, you'll become threatening and you don't want to be too plain, you'll be considered boring. You must align yourself to a certain set of standards that you will never actually figure out.

In the midst of all this internal confusion, this boy's gesture melted my heart. I looked at him as we were leaving class and I thought about who I am and where I come from. It was so lovely that one person who decided not to go with the restraints of conformity could make me feel like I belong.

If I find out that he's actually thirty, I will suggest he do something about that shaggy beard and put on a decent shirt.

Validation

I love it when I get it, I hate it when I need it, and I’ll lie about it when I want it. When I was a child, if I felt neglected, I would go pout in a corner until someone came to find out what was wrong. I clearly remember my mother stating, “She’s fine, she just wants attention.” She was right about one thing, I did want attention. Was I fine? That’s debatable.

Was it there that my search began? My lifelong quest for validation. What validates me: Attention, compliments, laughter, phone calls, boys, construction workers. All of the above can make me feel like a queen. The problem is when it stops, I’m left feeling like yesterday’s news, outdated and forgotten. It’s like I get the rug pulled out from under me. I tell myself time and again that nobody needs to like me but me. NOBODY NEEDS TO LIKE ME BUT ME.

To be honest, I take it for granted that people are going to like me. I know that sounds a little arrogant, but I think it just comes with being the youngest child. I’m shocked and dismayed when I find out that someone found me annoying or God forbid, doesn't remember who I am after being introduced once. I remember everyone I meet unless there is someone I’m forgetting. It sounds contradictory, you’d think that self-assurance would be enough. It’s not.

It’s almost like a drug. Even when I’m getting good responses, I want more. “You look nice.” Just nice, not hot? “You make me laugh.” Why didn’t you say I was hilarious? “I consider you a good friend.” Good, not your best? To me these statements are worthless. If the superlative is not used I'm left questioning my own worth. But if someone does happen to send praises my way, I become unbelieving and embarrassed. It’s like stop already, but then they stop and I think, why did you stop? Now yes, I’m being melodramatic of course, I’ll take insults to be compliments if need be. It’s all relative.

My need for validation varies from wanting the man who serves me coffee in the morning to like me more than any other customer to, to…,well lets not even get started on romantic endeavors. That could just get ugly, and, frankly, I don’t think we have the eyes for that kind of debauchery. So alas, I’m changing my quest. I’m now seeking to not seek outside approval.

If you read this, please don’t think that I’m arrogant or shallow or needy.

Back To School.

I am heading back to school. I am a bit older than I was the first time and have a larger sense of responsibility. I'll be working full time and then going to class at night. I'm intrigued by how my life has changed. When I first went to school it was for acting and acting alone. I wanted nothing else, really. To me, that was a waste of time; the notion of needing something to fall back on was an insult and not a part of my fate. At seventeen, I knew what my fate was.

I would watch Oprah and understand everything that every celebrity guest ever talked about. I too was longing for privacy, because photographers wouldn't respect that I had a personal life. I had already worked out that I would break into the business at twenty three, as a female comedienne, and then at around thirty five, after numerous blockbusters, I would show my dramatic sensibility. That would get me the gold. I would thank my director, my agent, and of course my mom and dad for their never giving up on me.

Ten years later, I'm returning to college and am an undecided major. An undecided major, who would have thought? I always knew what I wanted, I couldn't understand people who meandered through life not knowing where their passions lie. Now I find myself drudging along some days and realizing that my passions come and go. Sometimes the flame dissipates for more than just a few days.

As I ponder what courses to take, I'm seeing things through a different filter. Where can I support myself the most? Someone suggested I go into computers, and for a split second I weighed that option, until I had an image of me sitting in a computer lab listening to my professor talk about codes and bytes and then my eye lids got extremely heavy and I felt like I needed to lie down.

Tonight I was actually looking at courses for engineering. I ignored physics so much in high school, I wonder if my mind could even go into scientific realms. I think it's that aspect that excites me the most about beginning my studies again, finding out if there is more to me than I ever gave myself credit for. I always put off going back to school because I was afraid of not having time to pursue my acting endeavors. I'm still afraid of that. But all fears aside, here I go. I am about to write my first check for tuition and I would like to thank my mother and my father, for their unending support. Oh yeah, I still wish that the paparazzi would respect my wishes and not take pictures of my children.

Who is Sheila?

I was on the train the other day, and sitting next to me was a thirty something man in a suit typing away frantically on his Blackberry. I don't think I have ever looked over a stranger's shoulder to see what he was texting- to read the paper, or a celebrity gossip page, yes- but a text, no. But the intensity with which he was typing those keys made me curious.

I had a thought, here is this man, nicely dressed, seemingly professional, maybe he was having phone sex right there during rush hour. It's very likely, and none of my business, but I felt compelled to get the dirt. It's times like these that make me think I should have been a journalist. I have an unquenchable thirst for other people's business. And the naughtier the better.

What I saw was much better than some Tantric sex message, it was thought provoking. The woman, I'm assuming because the character was identified on the Blackberry as Sheila, had written "no hablo ingles". And from what I could surmise, he had responded, "This is ridiculous, Sheila if I lose you in three months I will wither away."

In three months I will wither away...why three months? Is there a statute of limititations on broken hearts? I've been rejected before, and I don't think I could ever put a time line on it. Maybe I misread it completely, he might have been up for a kidney transplant and she was a spurned donor.

He wrote a few more messages and I was able to read them before getting caught, but nothing that came after was quite as juicy as the above line. It made me think about this Sheila character, and I found myself getting jealous. I've never had anyone say to me without you I'll wither away. What did she have that I didn't? I started to imagine what Sheila looked like. I saw a voluptuous, dark, South American woman. It's always the exotic ones that get all the glory.

Then it all started to make sense. This man was obviously married and Sheila was his Brazilian mistress who spoke little English. She was only using him for the nice gifts and possible citizenship. But she had decided if he wasn't going to leave his wife, she would no longer communicate with him in the few English words she did know. I now realize the fault in that, because I think Brazilians speak Portuguese. Okay, she was his Colombian mistress. That makes sense and he was being forced to go back to his cold and bitter wife.

I watched him get off the train, his face calm and stoic, like nothing had happened. And then I thought, I'd leave the cold bastard too. My jealousy for Sheila turned to pity. All she wanted was love and a green card. How can anyone so calculating be capable of what she deserved?

I later told my friend about the incident and she said, "Awww..that's sweet" and I said, "Awww that's co-dependency."

Happy Birthday To Me

I was speaking with a friend the other day, and he made a comment about my blog, basically implying that the title was misleading. The entire blog has been about my childhood, not about my life in the city. So I have decided to share with you my most recent night out on the town.

Last week I celebrated my birthday, and I decided to stay in Astoria. The number one reason being, Manhattan has too much competition. Women in New York City are gorgeous. Many times I'll go out, dressed to the nines, feeling good about myself. Only to get to my destination to find all these other women dressed to the nines, but all these other women have smaller waists and bigger breasts. Personality just doesn't seem to count for much in moments like these. Even if it did, at some point in the evening, my personality would probably become more drunk and mean than anything.

So I thought, why not stay in Astoria for my birthday? There are less people, meaning less competition, and hopefully, more attention for me. I always did have a knack for statistics. The first bar we arrived at had a total of five other people besides my party. Four of them were women, the fifth, the doorman. The second bar we hit was much more crowded, but I'm pretty sure the man who approached me had bodies buried in his backyard. Of course my roommate stated that I was being ridiculous; he probably didn't have a backyard.

The third and final bar was one where I feared for my life. It should have been a dream, seeing as my two friends and I were the only females in a bar full of men. But this was two o'clock in the morning and these boys looked hungry. A certain expression in their eyes led me to believe that my friends and I might be offered up as a sacrifice if we stuck around much more.

The night then came to a close at a diner. Comfort food is always nice after a night of drinking. As I was leaving my table, a couple was staring and laughing. I still can't figure out why,I know I didn't trip until after I got outside. Maybe my spanx were showing, or it could have been the fry that fell out of my dress upon standing. One thing is for sure, my brilliant idea for finding romance that night had failed. It looks like I better try meeting men the old fashioned way, Craigslist.

Money Doesn't Grow On Trees

Recently I celebrated Father's Day. Not that I was near my father or that I sent him a gift or a card. Okay enough, I'll be more prepared for his birthday but I digress. I woke up the other morning with a thought, "What the hell am I going to do for my dad?" And as I was racking my brain I started to think of my father, and reminisce about our times together.

My dad is someone who has always been a bit of an enigma, we run on different circuits. When I was a little girl I can remember watching him just walking around smiling,I'm not even sure he was happy. He loved mowing the lawn in yellow pants and a Hawaiian shirt. And please don't even get him started on vacuuming. If I were to write a biography of his life I could dedicate a chapter to his obsession with the vacuum cleaner. The whole room could cave in and my father's number one thought would be, " Where is the vacuum cleaner?".

As children my father had sayings that he would love to repeat again and again and again. Whenever one of us would be in front of the television, the words "you make a better door than a window" would ring out. My brother went through a phase as a child where he didn't like to take showers and my father's response would be "you're going to smell like a brick shit house". And then there was the old saying that my father quoted as though it was a bible verse, "You kids seem to think money grows on trees, I am not made of Gold Bullion." If only that last sentence could be in audio.

My father fought in the Vietnam War and loved to talk to us kids like we were soldiers. He woke me up every morning for school to, "On your feet trainee, position of attention, who told you you could move?" And whenever we were lazy or out of line he would like to remind us of how easy our lives were and we should have seen what it was like in Nam.

At the time it went in one ear and out the other. But as I get older these are things not to be taken for granted. The fact that my father was a man's man and sported around yellow pants, is very admirable. He hated animals, we had four. He loves to save money, the fam loves to spend. I could go on and on about all the things he gave up for us but I don't have the time and at this point in my life I don't think I can even fully comprehend all the concessions he made.

My father is a man of few words, not because he doesn't like to talk he just likes some words more than others. He is also man a lot of character and a great sense of duty. I'm not sure I could face the things he has had to face and has done so with such courage. He went to war and will still say that he had it easy. I'm so grateful for his love and devotion and am learning he had some valid points. I still can't find a tree from which to pick dollar bills.

Happy Father's Day!

Beautiful Ashes.

I was walking down the street during rush hour and saw a woman smoking a cigarette while standing at the side of a busy sidewalk. I noticed a fourth of her cigarette was in ash. It caught my eye like, a delicate paper mache would. One little movement and the ashy tail would scatter. For me, everything about smoking is a fine line between glamour and a terrible death.

Ever since I saw Cruella de Vil I knew I wanted to be a smoker. I didn't care that she was evil. I didn't care that she killed puppies. The only two vivid images that still come to mind, are black and white hair and grey smoke. I tried to smoke a pen for weeks after seeing the film. When I was a little girl I would sit with my eighty year old grandma at her kitchen table, mesmerized by the fancy french circles she would exhale after each puff of her cigarette. I could have sworn she once made smoke come out of her ears but after years of trying, I never could manage that task.

I knew I was going to be a smoker before I knew I would smoke. I would buy the candy cigarettes and walk around like a mad woman pretending that I just needed to get one little puff to get through that tough day of first grade. At the age of twelve, I began smoking butts with my neighborhood friends. It was pretty gross, we would go digging through the ash tray my elder brother had made of my parents garden and would look for the longest remains. We would then hide in my garage and commence experimenting with inhalation. I still can feel that light-headedness that came along with a full breath in, it was brilliant. But then I started hanging out with "good" kids and I dropped the habit before ever actually smoking an unused cigarette.

But then that fateful day came. I was sixteen and had just gotten my license. I got behind the wheel of my brother's car and was looking around in the glove compartment when I spotted a Marlboro Red box. Upon opening it, I found one single, untouched cigarette. I couldn't resist. The temptation was too great. I was driving by myself and had the opportunity to have one hand on the wheel and the other casually smoking. I don't remember really liking it, however I do remember trying to throw the cigarette out the window and feeling a burning sensation on my back. The wind had blown the cigarette back in to car and it had landed between the car seat and myself. I later played dumb when my mother inquired about the burn mark.

From then on it became a thing. I would sneak smokes here and there. I had a connection at the local grocery store so I didn't need to be eighteen to buy. Smoking was my rebellion, I never drank or lied to my parents, but I lit up like a chimney. Over the years it went from being my statement to an incessant need. The anxiety that came along with an empty pack of cigarettes was equal to that of almost getting hit by a car. After college I was so poor at times that I didn't know how to afford my next meal but if need be, I would put the cigs on the credit card. I began getting sick every month like clock work. I would open my closet at home and my coat would emit the smell of an ash tray.

Enough was enough. I needed to quit, but how? How do you quit something you love, something you live for? I didn't know. I was desperate. I picked up the book "The Easy Way To Stop Smoking." You smoke while reading the book and when you finish you stop smoking. The book is approximately two hundred pages, or so. It took me three months to read. The first day off you would have thought somebody amputated my left arm and I'm left handed. I didn't know how to function. There was no hope left in my life. No room for joy without the light. I lasted for about seven weeks and then read the book again. The second time, was the last time. I did it, after about six years and thousands of dollars, I quit smoking.

I now find it hard to believe that I ever smoked at all. I'm appalled by the smell and find smokers walking in front of me incredibly rude and inconsiderate. How could someone be so thoughtless? Vickie, how could you be so thoughtless?

Taking this little walk down memory lane makes me so relieved to not need to smoke anymore. I do believe my quality of life is much better and I really don't miss it. But there is also a part of me that looks back on those stubborn days of addiction with pride. I don't know why, maybe the fact that I actually stuck to something or that I was doing something I wasn't supposed to, that was bad for me. Or maybe it just forced me to see the beauty in the ashes of an unflicked cigarette.

Paying To Work

I just did it. I just registered for an acting seminar where I pay to be seen by a casting director. Basically, it's like paying someone to look at your resume so hopefully they will consider giving you a job interview. Not a job, a job interview.

Please don't think I'm complaining, I'm merely questioning my life choices. What did I sign up for? That is a very loaded question. I've been acting since I was an adolescent. Being an overweight teenager, theater was like my pom pom. It made me feel accepted, cool, on top of the world. So I decided this is what I must do with my life. And so I went.

I studied and worked hard. And took out loans. And took out more loans. Then five years ago, I graduated from acting school. I thought, this is it, I will no longer pay to act, I will be paid to act. So, I soon will go to my first seminar. Maybe five years too late. Yet another step, another check, to being paid to act.

The Origins Of My Title

Hello and welcome. I am so happy you're reading me right now! This is my first post. I wanted to do something in my life that was mine, unedited, unapologetic and me. However, as I was thinking of what to name my blog, the internal editor went to work.

I went to see the new "Sex and The City" movie today and was pleasantly surprised at the delight it gave me. I've been watching the show since I was a teenager in Iowa. It's not what made me want to move to New York, nor did I think my life would emulate the themes of the show. But since I am a huge fan and a woman, I can't help but compare my life in New York City to the life of Carrie Bradshaw.
It's not the same. I am not working in my desired field, I can't afford to pay my utility bills let alone feed a shoe fetish and well, there is no Big or Aidin in the picture. Hence the name, "No Sex In The City".

I, of course, am nervous to put that down. Is it too revealing? Am I setting myself up for ridicule, judgement? By admitting to all I have not yet acquired in life and am still seeking, have I already sold myself short? Oh, screw it. Here we go. The one thing I have in common with those women, is this city. I have survived in this city for the past seven years on my own. There has been some glamour, tears, laughs, trials, great friends, and no sex.

So here we go. We've only just begun.