Tag Archives: New York City

That’s How It Goes.

19 Mar

Talking with MatchGirl, my new intertubes friend, about interesting exchanges with other citizens of the online world. She’s so witty, I had to share.. I love women who just speak what’s on their mind–like I try to do.

LoveMeDeux: omfg. dude…now we’re chatting on Gtalk. i love how the internet can be just as exciting if not more exciting than real life.
MatchGirl: yea, thats how it goes.
MatchGirl: twitter
MatchGirl: @replies
LoveMeDeux: yup
MatchGirl: Instant Message
LoveMeDeux: Direct Messages
LoveMeDeux: then, yup..
MatchGirl: emails
LoveMeDeux: HAHAHA
MatchGirl: PHONE
MatchGirl: then PLANE
MatchGirl: HAI
LoveMeDeux: LOL!
MatchGirl: webcam too
LoveMeDeux: HAHAAH
MatchGirl: hahahah ūüėÄ
LoveMeDeux: you are SOO FUNNY dude
LoveMeDeux: i’m posting this shit on my blog. you crack me up dude
MatchGirl: ive done my share ūüėõ
LoveMeDeux: Haha
MatchGirl: thats how i met my man
MatchGirl: twitter
MatchGirl: and 12seconds.tv
MatchGirl: he fell in love with my videos B-)
LoveMeDeux: well sweetheart
LoVeMeDeux: your videos are VERY fall-in-loveable.
MatchGirl: awwwwww thank you ūüôā


Let’s Make It Official: There Needs To Be A Large Plaque Stating It.

24 Oct

I knew it! This place is called “Cupcake Park”! Even if it is just by us weirdos eating cupcake and washing it down with ice cold milk at like 11pm on a Tuesday night!

As my friend Sam says, “Every weeknight, it’s always the yuppies, students and partygoers eating cupcakes—right alongside the bums.”


What I would do for round-trip tix to NYC right this second. Ahh.

Don’t Worry. We Won’t.

11 Sep

This afternoon I had a tutoring session with my 12-year-old student. Part of his homework tonight was to ask some adults in his life what they were doing when they found out about the attacks. He asked me if I remembered what I was doing.

Good Lord. For me, it’s still so fresh.

I chattered on about what I was doing that morning, what street I was on as I¬†drove to work that morning, what the radio announcer’s voice sounded like, what the other people in the other cars on the road were doing. I said,

“And the streets were all packed with so many cars! It was total chaos! People didn’t know what to do!”

“Why?” he asked me, his brown eyes wide with curiosity.

And then it hit me.

He doesn’t know.

Oh my God. He doesn’t know! He was only 5 years old on September 11th, 2001.

He doesn’t understand that we didn’t know what to do because we were certain¬†that we here in Los Angeles were going to be targed for attack next. Fear gripped every American’s heart. How do I explain such devastating, widespread fear that we were saddled with in addition to the heartbreak? We mourned. Not a head was unbowed.

I was only 21 at the time, but instantaneously¬†I age because of this revelation. You’d think my trying to relay to him about the fear that gripped our hearts that day was as antiquated as The Greatest Generation telling us about air raids¬†during The War. Then I remembered something.

While watching History Channel documentaries with older people recounting their stories about what they were doing when they heard JFK¬†was shot, one thing they always seem to preface their stories with is, “I remember it like it was yesterday…”

And I find myself opening my mouth and the words pushing off my tongue effortlessly, as if they were just waiting there for me to speak them:

“Oh Nicholas..! I remember it like it was yesterday…” I trail off.

We all do. And we all will, for forever.

Before I Die, I Want To…

25 Aug

Quick, tell me,¬†before you even have a millisecond to dwell upon it–

What is it that you want to do before you die?

Learn guitar? Tell someone you love them? Travel the seven seas?

Here’s a¬†fascinating look into the lives of ordinary¬†people through a¬†website showcasing a Polaroid project entitled, “Before I Die, I Want To…”. Here are some of my personal favorites.

Et moi?

Before I die, I want to¬†own and live in a Park Slope brownstone with my husband, whoever he is, the children I will have,¬†and my dogs.¬†I will host Chrismukkah, summer lawn parties, and let it¬†serve as¬†L’H√ītel LoveMeDeux for old friends travelling from abroad. It will transcend the idea of just any old house and become the¬†hub¬†for a vast universe of friends, family and love.

Now I just need to find a spare $2 million to buy one. ūüôā

Much thanks to my fellow Plurker FinnMcGuffin for sharing this site.

That Extra *Bah-Bump* of a Beat

24 Aug


So I am e-dating this guy.

Having seen an aunt get pretty well addicted to a dating chatroom and other related trials and tribs, I always thought¬†online dating¬†was quite…well, “pathetic” is not the right word. “Futile” or “unresolvable” aren’t right either.

It’s just that I always viewed her as a sort of sad character, eternally crouched over her computer keyboard, staring at the monitor, waiting for some guy in Podunk, California, to write her back. I just didn’t understand it. When the wait¬†was over, she’s only be getting a few cold pixels of¬†black on white on a computer screen and nothing else.¬†What about the tangible electricity in the air when you catch the eye of a guy across the bar/produce section of the grocery store/park/beach/wherever? What about your heart beating¬†that extra bah-bump of a beat as he walks over to you and asks¬†what your¬†name is, and, if it would please you to have dinner/coffee/cocktails/concert with him? What about all the awkwardness involved in that first kiss goodnight on the front stoop?

What about all that? I just didn’t get it.¬†Circumventing all that, how could you deem something a “romance”? Sure, we have You’ve Got Mail to exemplify how it can end happily ever after, but come on, even Nora Ephron, the Writer/Director Extraordinaire of Iconic Romantic Comedies (Does When Harry Met Sally ring a bell?) couldn’t keep the e-spark lasting well enough through the first act that she had to have Meg¬†and Tom meet up at a literary party and initiate a spat over the caviar being served.¬†“What is that?,” Meg says, looking rather cross, “What are you doing? You’re taking all the caviar? That caviar is a garnish!” to which Tom merely gives a charming, but¬†flippant nod of the head and scrapes it all onto his plate in one elegant, fell swoop. The audience is sold, and waits patiently through the second act of “they-hate-each-other-but-are-really-actually-falling-in-love”, to get to the final scene shot in front of¬†a flowerbed in technicolor-gorgeous Central Park where Meg tearfully declares, “I wanted it to be you!”, the violins swell, and¬†a solemn, courageous Tom gathers her up into his arms as all errant storylines get swept up into one romantic and tidy¬†pile.

Okay wait. What the hell does caviar have to do with my e-dating? Let me back it up.

Several months ago,¬†an L.A.¬†friend of mine with whom I partied on the weekend and corresponded on Twitter¬†during the¬†workweek¬†grind,¬†told me about Plurk, the latest and greatest in online fun. I have never been much involved in such a site based on such randomness, without my friends already having been established on it.¬†I say random because it really is–you post your life on Plurk in little status updates through the day, and random people comment on your status updates. It sounds so flat when I write it like that, but really, it can be quite a sociable,¬†even enriching experience.¬†[For example, I randomly stumbled across and made friends with a fellow¬†Plurkster who really loves films, more than I do,¬†and we Plurk with each other about that film that we want to see make it out of development hell, or who gave an exceptional performance in what, or which director said what to which other producer, what what obscure foreign film is the soupe du jour. Okay wait, I still sound like a total dork. Never mind, you get the drift, moving on.]

Somewhere in the fray of random bePlurkfriending, one of these particular Plurkers stood out to me. His writing employed¬†dry, crass humor, which hinted at the obvious intelligence required when writing in such a fashion. (Sigh*, it’s always the wit that does it for me. Nothing is sexier than a sarcastic, self-deprecating guy, √† la Conan O’Brien. Pompadour not necessary.) One night, when it seemed right, after a long string of¬†steady interaction, I privatePlurked him on a whim:

“Okay,¬†I have to know. Are you single?”
“Haha. Cute.¬†Yes,¬†I am single.” He writes back.
“Is it insane to say that one could be attracted to a Plurker based on, well, Plurks?”
“Nothing is insane anymore,¬†I don’t think.” he writes.

From there it goes on¬†to more privatePlurks and then e-mail. With me on the Blackberry and him on an iPhone, we’ve got our push e-mail working overtime throughout the day. I’m getting a rental at Blockbuster and a fro yo from¬†the store next door, he gets a mobile photo of the concoction I’ve made up and an update on my Rental of the Day.¬†He’s taking a nighttime stroll¬†on the boardwalk, I get a mobile photo of the peacefulness of the darkened¬†sand landscape stretching out towards the open sea. We find out that we’ve got similar views when it comes to relationships, how they should work, et cetera. We’re refreshed, we’re incredulous, we’re surprised.

Around the same time, one of my best friends, “Nelle”, opens a Match.com account.

“I never thought you’d start on one of those sites,” I said, surprised. “You’re so nice and popular, I don’t think you have trouble meeting people.”
“Yeah, I don’t,” she says, “But it’s the kind of people¬†that I meet that matters.”

I know she’s becoming frustrated with the lack of dateable guys in her neighborhood. Nelle¬†is a sensitive, highly-evolved type, who oftentimes finds the behaviour of people her age, male and female, slightly juvenile. She¬†would never settle for just any guy from just any bar on Saturday night. I tell my bestie about my e-dating. I don’t want her to feel like she’s the only one who has turned to the Information SuperHighway to find the¬†connections that¬†are lacking in our local circuits, because she isn’t.

“Have you met up with him yet?”¬†she asks.
“Oh no, Nelle,” I say, “I can’t. He lives in New York.”
“Oh my God!” she says, “So, tell me about him.”

I tell her.

“Hah!” Nelle laughs triumphantly, “He’s so your type.”

Ha ha. Through this all, I did realize that I have a “type”, and he’s it. And she hasn’t even seen a photo yet. I rejoice in the fact that my bestie, who really¬†knows me,¬†sees the relevance and¬†the connection that Mr. Brooklyn and¬†I have.

Still, occasionally, logistical reality sets in.

“This is insane,” I think to myself. “I’m in Los Angeles, he’s in New York. How did Meg and Tom deal with it again? I need to go re-rent Sleepless in Seattle.”

But maybe it’s not insane.¬†Maybe it would only be considered insane if we weren’t real people, really connecting; we are, and we¬†do. I consult my favorite cousin, “Amette”.

“These days, it is way easier to get to know someone online,” she says, matter-of-factly, “There’s less of that self-imposed barrier that happens when you meet someone face-to-face, that comes from being¬†scared about what the other thinks about you.

I agree with Amette, but it’s still a new and tenuous concept for me. Of course, my Blackberry dings just then. Yes, I’ve Got Mail, and¬†it reads, quite simply:

“I hope you are it, because I am tired of dating.”

I am defeated. All preconceived notions of e-dating are thrown out the door.

Because no matter the delivery method, whether in-person or via e-mail, such a phrase, such a thought that you could be someone’s “it“–has the unadulterated power to make a heart beat that extra bah-bump of a beat.