Something to think about

Other than the actual column turned into a book "Sex and the City" I have never liked Candice Bushnell's books.  I think they are often too preoccupied with status and instead of psyche.  Of course, I am guilty of adoring snarkiness too.  Gawker, while condescending and obnoxious at times does a great job of pointing out the holes in arguments- even exploiting them.  

Sex is so much the same.  Relationships- at least in the beginning- are built on this.  We are concerned with status and who we appear to be--rather than what we actually are.  I thought Candice Bushnell made a great statement (via Gawker via Elle):

"A lot of [sexual] behavior is dictated less b gender and more by money, status, and power.  Actresses in Hollywood have always had a lot of sex secretly.  Why?  Because they can.  Because they're not reliant on a man to provide a roof over their head.  That changes your sexual behavior.  Because if you're looking for a man to provide for you, you don't want to be seen as a woman who sleeps around.  Men object to it because you're not viewed as wife material."

Read the whole Gawker post

A Canal for Cinderella

If Cinderella was written today she might be a working woman; she would be a slave to her profession, not completely innocent but not quite yet a cynic either. She would be beautiful but unattainable and naturally men would still be baffled--her prince charming merely a myth. And instead of her shoe gracefully left behind, this time she would be in possession of something he left behind. Would she choose to pursue him? Or, would she still wait, albeit calculated, for him to come to her?

Like Cinderella, I've found myself in the unfamiliar. A new city, new culture, new people, and well, new dating rules to learn. Even the 'foreigners' I've met seemed to have gracefully mastered this new culture, easily playing along. In my first few weeks in Amsterdam I met a few different guys--none of them Dutch-- whom I didn't feel overwhelmingly attracted to but interested in enough to be slightly miffed when each time a fun, flirtatious night led to nothing. As for the Dutch ones, I had heard a few different things about them-- they don't ask woman out they've just met, they are cheap, they are often snobby, and lack passion--that I wasn't too eager to find out for myself.

Nevertheless, after making a few fun Dutch girlfriends I began to naturally surround myself with more Dutch people and frequent those bars that only locals know about and those same ones you are always relieved to have finally found. And despite all the rumors, I found that Dutch people were a lot of fun! One Sunday, after two previously late nights, a friend called me from a loud bar insisting that I make my way to the hip and tendy de Pijp area (where we had a been a few nights earlier) because a group of guys we met that same night were there and asking for me. Some what reluctantly and in my jeans and Converse sneakers I headed over.

It was only 7:30pm but it could have been midnight from the looks of the scene I fell upon. A mix between an American summer B.B.Q. and a chic bohemian Parisian bar, people spilled out of the bar and onto the cobblestone street, all laughing and yelling to one another (in Dutch would is not nearly as elegant as French). Inside, the bar was packed--streamers, which probably once hung from the ceiling now decorated the crowd and everywhere you looked people were smiling and dancing, greeting you as they passed by. My girlfriend was right in the middle of it with the same group we had been with before but within 15 minutes of my arrival she grabbed me a told me we were heading to another party.

We piled into a few different cars and headed towards what I expected to be another laid back but fun bar. What I didn't expect was to find myself queuing for a large club all the way across town. When we arrived, I was mortified-- I was wearing tennis shoes! I didn't think there was any way the bouncers would let me in amongst all the others who were dressed to the nines. The guys only laughed when I told them my fear, remarking that this wasn't Paris. Surprisingly, the bouncer barely blinked as he let me through with the rest. However, I am sure it helped that we didn't so much as queue as we did pass through to the VIP line and up to the large balcony reserved for a few tables.

Once inside my friend and I settled in quite easily-- she hadn't dressed for the occasion either and we laughed: we sensed that it was going to be one of those completely random nights where you end up having a fantastic time. Sipping champagne, I began chatting right away with one of the guys who was undeniably cute (which I should note I was completely attracted to) and who I had met previously. As the night wore on, he and I spoke often. He was flirtatious and fun but it wasn't until we began talking about sex that things began to change. He, like a number of guys I've met and even dated, found a fascination in discussing swingers clubs and I played along, enjoying the attention. Later on the dance floor he grabbed me and kissed me. I was hooked. But I wasn't intending to let him know that either. We flirted and kissed often throughout the night and I was over joyed by his fascination with me.

Around midnight, my friend and I with my new found flirt and his friend all decided to leave-- where we were initially headed I am not quite sure but the four of us soon found ourselves back at my apartment on the roof terrace. Eventually my flirt and I were in my bedroom enjoying more than just each others lips. But like Cinderella, the clock would strike the hour when the pumpkin would return. Of course, it is important to point out that a future in any real relationship sense of the word was out-- he was a complicated individual with what is probably best described as baggage. And he certainly wasn't looking (or had indicated at least) for anything more than fun sex, which I was up for. So, we had preview sex and after he and is friend left I resolved that if all it would be was preview sex (which was GREAT) then I was pretty satisfied.

But of course the shoe was left behind--or in this case a belt. If prince charming had left an article of clothing behind I am sure Cinderella would have shrugged and say, so? I found it amusing-- until the messages, which began as funny and odd left me over analyzing the situation. According the story, Prince Charming knew what he had to do-- find the girl whose shoe was left on his door step and marry her. Cinderella had no idea. Amongst the seedy red light district and promiscuous behavior, I normally would have thought of it as a souvenir. My flirt needed it back.

A week of amusing but slightly irritating messages between myself and his friend led me to believe the night was cheap. I was the bystander in the entire conquest made more obvious by the fact that I had to return the belt to someone else.

With a Bang

After hearing about this "party of the year" for a few holiday seasons, I finally made it home in time to attend the fête that my sister had always bragged about and I was excited: gorgeous house in the hills of New Hampshire, hockey players, investment bankers, doctors, lawyers--some of them even single--and lots and lots of free alcohol. The perfect recipe for a great party. Despite the jet-setting I had previously embarked on before landing in Vermont for the holidays, my sister was a professional party attendee and I knew this party had to be great if she said so.

I was 99% sure this party would be fabulous. The remaining 1% was hesitation: I hadn't actually attend a swanky party in the hills of New Hampshire before (or to mention it, anywhere in New England), but it certainly seemed like it would be full of city folk who did the whole ski scene in the beautiful hills of New England. I dressed to impress.

My little black dress, sky-high heels, and fabulous crown lent to me by my sister who had recently been crowned Mrs. Vermont, seemed like the perfect ensemble for the holiday affair. It was cold that night and about two feet of fresh snow made the drive up the mountain-esque road breath-taking. Along with my sister, her husband and another male friend of theirs joined as as we drove up together joking and laughing. Their friend, Mike was a fun guy but not someone I was attracted to or someone I was all that interested in. His personal situation was messy-- a wife he was un-interested in but stayed together with for their young daughter. Not something I wanted to really get involved in.

Once I noticed the dripping boots and ski jackets pilled in the entry way, I should have known from the moment we arrived that the party would be less like the fabulous and crazy crowd I had imagined. Walking into to the large kitchen, which opened into the lovely living room groups of people were scattered around quietly speaking. Immediately I realized I was slightly over-dressed and could tell the tiara perched on the top of my head wouldn't be nearly as appreciated as I had hoped.

In fact, I felt for an instant as if I had walked into a party in high school at which I probably didn't really belong. I had never been apart of the in crowd then and the few times I did show up I couldn't help but feel mostly awkward and out of place because I wasn't all that sure how to act. Most of the woman in the room were wearing conservative outfits-- lumpy sweaters and and awful shoes. Just as I was about to ask my sister what she saw in this crowd, she handed me a large glass of wine and simply instructed me to "drink". Perhaps she felt the same strange tension.

After a glass of wine, however, I began to relax and even tried to engage in a conversation with Mike and another woman. I didn't want to appear snobby but as a commented on the story he was telling, she looked at me as if I just spoke French. It wasn't hard to tell how the crowd divided: married couples and slightly desperate woman looking for the perfect Christmas story to one day tell their future children. I was clearly an obstacle to those goals. I shrugged it off happily knowing the details of Mike's life--he was all hers.

The rest of the party flashed by in a drunken daze. I had never thought of myself as the girl who crashes a party. Yes, I felt attractive and flirty that night but I never imagined that I would be considered a threat especially amongst a crowd I didn't know nor would ever see again. Looking back, I felt insecure because I wasn't accustom to the ways of the mid-thirties woman. I was a little intimated by them at first but in all honesty slightly bored of even the men after a while. So, I drank to make up for the lack of substance the party had to offer.

That was the lethal combination of the night: frustration and desire. I wanted to find someone great to have a nice time with and I also needed it to be a great party. I thought that alcohol would make it better and in some ways it did. Until I woke up the next morning to find myself naked in bed.

The rest of the night came flooding back like a bad dream. Dirty martinis, flirtatious moments with Mike, the hotel room, the stranger utterances I was calling out as we apparently had sex and then the next morning--awake, alone and mortified. After dragging myself home and showering off the strange and slightly disastrous night I began to think that even if I hadn't qualified myself as desperate like the other woman from the party ultimately I had only proved my own desperation. No, I wasn't desperate for the same story book ending I had assumed they were after but my need to feel desired and liked-- the type of girl I looked down at when I was at those parties in high school and the type of girl I swore I would never be--just to fit in.

Will Mid-Twenties Mean More Than Early-Twenties?

In one month from today, I will be celebrating another year gone by. I am also hoping that this year's festivities will be much more exciting than last year: stuck in bed, dying of strep throat. (Fine, maybe I wasn't dying, but it certainly felt like it!) The only celebration I had was an 23h30 birthday call from the guy I had been calling my boyfriend and a few friends who sheepishly made their way to my house to "celebrate" an hour before the boyfriend call. Needless to say, that boyfriend definitely failed the test miserably and those friends have been replaced in the natural progression of out growing and changing that so often happens when you get older.

Last year and this year have been marked by a number of milestones and while I think every year how much I've changed from the last, I've found there are some pretty obvious changes that have happened.

1) I've realized that people don't really change all that much. That boyfriend was the same boyfriend who left me in Paris six months previously, who I never heard from until he found his way back to Paris again. He was a jerk when he left and he was a jerk when he came back. Even when I was sick he barely found the time to check on me to make sure I was ok. And those promises (like the ones I had heard before) were of course broken again. Luckily for me, the third time's the charm! I managed to delete him from my life when a surprisingly unapologetic email arrived back in my inbox a month later wondering if I was back in Paris. Well, if he really wanted to be my boyfriend he would have called a lot sooner!

2) I gained the confidence to stick up for myself without being catty. For two years, I had a group of friends who I've had a lot of fun with. Looking back at the pictures of our various adventures, I still laugh and smile. And no matter what, I wish nothing but the best for them in their lives. But having said that, there does come a point when you don't want to stay that certain character of the group. I guess what I want to say is I never intended to always strictly act a certain way around certain people-- that is not who I am. I also never intended to have to continuously worry about and then apologize for the way I draw my conclusions. And I never want to be expected to have to make-up for the short comings in other people's lives (and neither would I expect that of them!). I don't mean to sound that I am a disloyal person but I think the first person we have to be loyal to is ourselves. If there comes a day when I am married with children, then I will happily make them the priority in my life but for now I have to be my first priority.

And that priority does not have to fight unnecessary battles about frivolous differences.

3) I got out and accomplished something to set myself apart. When you suddenly see the friend base that you once had start to crumble it is quite possibly the best thing for you. There was a reason my base crumbled. It opened my eyes up and I learned to really cherish those friends I will have for a long time. I also got myself out there and made new friends, got a job at an international magazine, and traveled.

4) Even at its most I'm-going-to-throw-up moments, I met someone pretty amazing, I learned what disappoint can feel like, and I'm still standing. As a blind optimist, I put a piece my heart away, just in case and as scowling cynic I have not learned to move on yet. Two feelings I never knew were possible to feel simultaneously; hopefully being in my mid-twenties soon will help me work that out!

Finally, 5) I am not longer in my early-twenties. Somewhat relieving because hopefully I will start to take myself a little more seriously. And hopefully, my mid-twenties will answer some questions that are beginning to mull in my head!

The Blog that Went Wrong. Sort of.

So maybe I provoked it. Just a little at least. But he was forewarned. In fact, each time someone mentions I look like a certain TV star who used to act like a certain sex columnist, I usually don't fail to mention that I, in fact, had a similar column that eventually became this blog-- La Fille Mal Gardée. So, you can't be surprised when you find a character of yourself within its lines. That's life and if you don't agree with that, well then that's the way it is. I have no apologies because if I can admit my mistakes than well you can live with a few of your worst (and sometimes greatest!) moments somewhere out there on the internet. And if it is name-calling you are worried about, well I cleverly label you for disguise.

Now that I've stated my case, I should probably add before going further, that I might have gone a little further this time. But it was so tempting that I couldn't resist. And I felt if I got one fair swing, it was the most appropriate place to attempt it. And boy did it work!

A few weeks ago, I landed on the fair Ilse of Ireland. And as I related in an earlier post, a nice Irish lad invited me out. And while it didn't play into a perfect Irish romance, I was happy to brush it off until he literally brushed me off in a grocery store.

So, I took the liberty of posting about the situation (not the guy per-say) on an online community we both belonged to. I knew he would probably find it and if he didn't someone he knew surely would. But to my own defense, I tried to conceal his identity as best I could there. Perhaps, I took a few more liberties on the La Fille but I could never have expected the response I received.

He found the thread and then the blog. And with that spurred a flood of angry texts as to where I had the nerve to talk about him in that nature. Of course, he denied any wrong doing, and for a moment there I almost fell for it; until he mentioned what he was really upset about: Dublin and ASW were both small places, word could get around.

Ha! He was worried that I would tarnish his reputation-- as if it was my fault that he tarnished his reputation. I suppose it was me, if tarnishing a person's reputation is to not have sex with him. Or perhaps it was the fact that I claimed he followed me around the grocery store aisles just to continue ignoring me.

While I have always respected a person's desire to not be in relationship or maintain purely sexual ones, I think I draw the line at someone wanting to preserve their player image. And even less so, when they couldn't even seal the deal.

But what strikes me, and it is not only a strike against the Irish lad, is how detached from one another we are. Both the Irish lad and myself were completely and utterly immature and selfish. I wanted to preserve my ego and sense of being right (whatever right meant in this situation) and he was fearful as being eternally labeled as a jerk. To be fair, he probably is not a jerk-- just a guy in his 30s who continues to live with roommates not because he can't afford to live alone but because he is not really ready for life beyond roommates.

But I wonder, if I had politely declined his invitation to share wine at his apartment, would things have worked out differently? Would he have said hello in the grocery store. A part of me wants to say yes, but most of me knows it probably would have played out exactly the same.

My Broken-Unbroken Heart

What was Jane Austin trying to accomplish when she developed strong heroines, spineless men, and dashing heroes? It seems without fail, Austin's women must first suffer from superficial love, followed by something greater--beyond explanation. But Austin's means are much more interesting than her ends. The complication of love--and its game, begs the question, are we all just waiting for the realization that what comes easiest and simplest is in fact our greatest desire?

There we were, sitting side-by-side on his couch, barely touching and all I could think was how strange it was to be sitting on the couch and in the room where so much had passed: passion, disappointment, maybe even love... And while we sat there, those elements were somewhere in the distance. Was it truly the past? I am not sure.

Two night later, I woke-up after falling asleep, tightly curled-up in my bed, with my computer in front of me. I hadn't physically moved from that position in two hours--but my mind had been racing. I dreamt we were in bed together and we kept changing positions. If we were having sex, then it was just the movement of sex: bodies wrapped-up in one another, at times sideways, upside down, parallel, backwards... it was if I was dreaming of a metaphor of our tumultuous but always respectful relationship. What stuck in my mind was the fact that he acknowledged his inability to decide if I was what he really wanted. Like our lazy Sunday on the couch, I waited patiently and uneasily.

Every time I've either decided to let him go or that I would no longer wait for him, suddenly he reapears opening himself up a little more to me. But it has never been about adding to any sort of foundation, rather he would give me some insight to one of his many layers--his complicatedness, his self.

While the heroes of Austin's novels who distilled honor, virtue, respect, and duty always displayed their deepest layer--love-- last, I wonder if it is possible to expect the same from men today. Or perhaps, Austin's world has not really changed today; we continue to anticipate the reply to a text message or email in the same vain the women of the 19th-century waited upon the arrival of a letter. Of course, they did not have sex to complicate the matter but they displayed their affections more strongly. Even desperately at times.

And where Austin's heroines wait desperately for love to find and validate them, today we put up barriers to delay it. We work, have increasingly demanding social lives, and are expected to accomplish something great for ourselves. Will our accomplishments be weighted in the final decision of life? Or will they be simply counted as means to pass the time? What exactly is it that we are waiting for? Perhaps we chose to create a movement because we can and we should-- but what exactly that movement is, I am not sure if it is any different from those heroines of a time we somewhat mockingly read about.

My Ulysses

I have never been a big fan of rugby. First off, I don't understand the rules. There doesn't seem to be any logic to how the game is played, and despite the occasional break through of a few players most of the time both teams just end-up in a pile of bodies. Supposedly a man man's sport, I get the feeling it is just an excuse for men to wrestle like they were young boys again.

I arrived in my new city of Dublin the same weekend of the Rugby World Cup, which was being played in Paris, the city I had just moved from. Although I could careless who won, I appreciated the irony in the juxtaposition of the two cities. As a fan of sporting events in general, I knew I would enjoy the buzz around the pubs during matches since both France and Ireland were big contenders in the event.

My first weekend in Ireland an Irishman, whom I had met through aSmall World--an invitation-only social network, offered to show me around Dublin. I eagerly accepted Mr. Irish Lad's offer, excited to see Dublin and break-in to its night life. Of course I was slightly nervous to meet him outside the DART station because unlike myself, his personal profile was not accompanied by a photo and the only description he gave me was "I am kind of tall with blondish hair."

Although he was no Brad Pitt he was certainly cute and as we walked the grounds of Trinity College we chatted easily. A lawyer who had grown-up in Dublin proper, Mr. Irish Lad had spent two college summers in the Hamptons teaching tennis. Our first stop of the night was a packed pub to watch the second half of the rugby match and followed by Ireland's win, we found our way to Cocoon, a lounge bar in the center of town.

While our conversations moved from one topic to the next, I remember my amusement when his mention of how much he enjoyed watching Sex and the City. This lead to an inevitable conversation about dating in our respective countries and our conclusion was that dating in the U.S. and Ireland was similar, which was interesting because I am not sure if he had even dated an American before. As I have never seriously dated an Irishman, I wondered to myself if this was an accurate conclusion.

From Cocoon, he suggested we go somewhere else although that somewhere was not specified. I took his lead and after about five minutes it seemed like we were walking away from the area where most bars were. My instincts were correct: he suggested that we go to his place where he had some wine; in fact, it was the direction we were heading in. I agreed, somewhat baffled by this new twist to the night. We had barely had a flirtatious moment and while I found him nice, I wasn't sure if I was even attracted to him.

Two glasses of wine later, sitting on a leather couch in a very barren room, Mr. Irish Lad began to kiss me. Again, I wasn't sure what to think but the kissing was enjoyable... and I was slightly drunk. But that is where I took over the lead, and lead myself home shortly afterwards, despite his requests that I follow him into his bedroom.

A week went by without hearing from him, which I thought was kind of odd but to be perfectly honest only slightly bothered me. Who was this guy really?

The following Saturday I went to Fresh, a supermarket, with a friend. We immediately bee-lined it to pastry section when a cute guy walked up and mentioned that the muffins across the street were much better... I was so enthralled with the muffins that I barely noticed as my friend poked me in the side, mumbling "talk to him!"

Walking towards the meat section that is when I noticed him: Mr. Irish Lad. Although I wasn't quite sure if it was him or not, so I grabbed my friend and pointed him out. I spent the rest of the time in the store, sneaking around trying to get a better look. Funnily enough, Mr. Irish Lad kept walking in which ever direction I was headed in. I tried to keep my cool, certain it was him now. After I had seen him walk from the front of the store all the way to the back where I was standing, I found him standing within a few inches of me but he didn't say a word.

I had to keep myself from bursting out laughing at the immaturity of the situation. He obviously was ignoring me although he was following me around and I was too proud to speak first since he never bothered to call me after we went out. I had an ego to protect!

He finally, made his way out of the store without saying anything to me even though I was positive he had noticed me. After my friend and I paid for our groceries, I decided that I would text him to find out if it had actually been him.

Me: "Did I just see you in Fresh? Small World!"
Mr. Irish Lad: "You did, that's funny. Hope you're well."

I couldn't believe he had admitted it without even one single explanation or apology for his behavior! But I couldn't resists, pushing further I sent another text:

"And you didn't bother to say hi? I wasn't sure it was you! I am doing fabulously, and you?"

To which he responded,

"Good to hear, doing some work now, enjoy the sunshine."

Once again I was baffled at his behavior. First he admits he saw me but again won't offer any explanation. Perhaps I could have been mature enough to turn to him when I had the chance and say hello but if he had text me like I had, I might have at least lied or claimed "wow, that was you! I wasn't sure and didn't want to make a jerk of myself by approaching some stranger." But he acted unapologetic and yet cowardly at the same time about his behavior.

I think what bothers me about the whole situation is how strange it all is. There was no obvious reason for his behavior and really no excuse. Even though I wouldn't have sex with him that night we met didn't mean I wouldn't have been interested in it later. And when I left his apartment that night out there didn't seem to be any uneasiness when we said goodbye.

But perhaps this is how it works in Ireland. If you don't put out the first night, they don't want to see you again? Certainly different from the French approach-- at least they would have settled in for the chase a bit and if they didn't want to, they would certainly let you know. Yet, what is most mystifying--what if this is how Irish people date?

In my experience, most of the men who disappointed me, never blatantly disrespected me. Not to say some of them were not weak, taking the easy way out, at least they had the audacity to lie or stretch the truth. Of course, I often complain that my current fling hasn't called or wants something different than, me and I wish that he would just be honest and up front with me. But from this last experience, Mr. Irish Lad's method was much more deliberate--methodical even. No wonder Joyce, Beckett, Wilde, and others got out of Ireland as fast as they could and yet spent years obsessing about it. And while I am not Irish, just my name is, I am beginning to wonder if Molly Bloom wasn't completely misunderstood.

But like all new places there is the inevitable culture shock and this certainly translates to the dating scene. There will always be those nuances that you have to learn and accept-- whether you like it or not. At least I had the satisfaction of watching France beat Ireland 25-3. There is nothing like a pile of Frenchmen on top of a pile of Irish ones to make you smile.