The perfect weekend

If I were a contestant on that dating show that Jenny McCarthy used to host on MTV, you remember that one, the one where the logo was Cupid smoking a cigar... what was it called again? Anyway, if I were one of the three contestants vying for the affections of the sexy single guy on that show (who was rarely all that sexy, but that's neither here nor there), and they asked me what my perfect weekend would be like, it'd be like the one that just passed.

JP's birthday weekend began with a day trip to the beach (even as sad a beach as Atlantic City's) with good friends, frolicking on the boardwalk, yelling at kamikaze seagulls, stuffing ourselves sideways with all-you-can-eat king crab legs, winning money on video blackjack, singing happy birthday to JP in front of everyone while waiting for the bus, shivering and cuddling our way through the impossibly cold bus ride, and finally making it home at 4 am. He said it was one of the best trips he's ever been on! Once the clock struck 4, which officially marked his birthday, I unveiled his birthday present: a gigantic variety of Asian snacks and goodies, and a bottle of soy sauce so big he would be able to pour it onto his rice with reckless abandon. He liked it, and expressed impressive enthusiasm for 4 in the morning.

On Sunday, JP and I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time to see the telectroscope installed at the bottom. It was a gorgeous day made up of blue skies and sunshine and as we looked out at Manhattan from Brooklyn, I thought, "Wow." I could feel something swelling up in my chest. I think it was pride. For the first time since moving to the city, I was actually kind of proud to live here. We then wandered through the Afro-Caribbean street fair near Atlantic Avenue, stopping to look at art, read menus, and watch as men in grass dresses on stilts passed us by. We reached the Brooklyn Flea Market and ate Mexican style corn: grilled on the cob, smothered in mayo, rolled in crumbled queso, sprinkled with chili powder, and squirted with lime. Followed by pupusas and organic ice cream, blueberry pomegranate for me and a tangerine sorbet for him. We wrapped up our day in Brooklyn with a stop at Target, where we stocked up on stuff that is marginally more expensive in Manhattan. Hey. It adds up.

Monday (Memorial Day) morning, JP dragged me out of bed so we could make the 11:30 am showing of the new Indiana Jones movie. To compensate for failing to feed me beforehand, he bought me a gigantic soda and some candy. We made chicken caesar pizza at home while watching Men In Black, then thought better of wasting the weather and laid out in the sun at Battery Park for a while. Thanks to his fair complexion, we had to turn in after 40 minutes because he was pinking up, though I hadn't even gotten started. Still, I had no complaints when we watched National Treasure II. I love archaeological fiction!

It should be noted that there was ZERO alcohol consumption all weekend. And I still had an awesome time.

Of course, it wasn't always this way.

In the days of Singled Out (yes! the name of the show returned to me!), my perfect weekend would have included a beach, a sexy stranger, and many frozen drinks with little umbrellas sticking out of the glasses. Plural. Throw in a Crisco-covered watermelon, a darkened pina colada stand, and dancing on tabletops in a nightclub where the drinking age was supposedly 18, and we've got my high school graduation trip to Cancun. While this is still all good and well in my book, the heart flutterings in the quiet moments of this weekend trumped it all. Many times over. Follow through...

Love for sale

My love can, indeed, be bought.
JP picked it out because it looked like a Scrabble board. "Mon coeur pour toi toujours" = My heart for you always.

Since our talk last Monday, he has really tried to make me happy. He calls. We went out Friday night. On Saturday, we got brunch in the Village even though he felt sick and the smell of food made him nauseous. Then he got me this lovely necklace at a street fair. We didn't watch TV all weekend. He even accompanied Suki and me to see the Superheroes exhibit at the Met. And he hates museums.

It was a good weekend. Follow through...

Dear John

I thought of calling this letter "Why I Am Breaking Up With You," and then thought better of it. After all, I'm not entirely convinced that I want to. There are so many about us that just don't work together. I am a strong proponent of this whole "opposites attract" adage but I think Paula Abdul meant things like he's quiet, she's chatty; he's rugged, she's girly; he's bookish, she's artsy. I don't think it holds for us. None of the things I am about to write to you is reason enough to break up with you, in and of itself, but the series of things that do not mesh is certainly cause for some concern.

I am boho chic, minus the chic. You are what Abercrombie would be if he grew up and got a job.

I like animals. You do not. It wouldn't be such a problem if you didn't mind them, or if you simply didn't care for them but could tolerate them, but no. You don't want pets. Ever.

I am anything but fancy. You like things of a certain... quality. You're more of a hotel kind of guy while I get my kicks out of hostels and guesthouses. It's not that I mind hotels. It's just that sometimes, I wanna be less removed from the rest of the world. 

I am a social butterfly. You have no friends in the city. Except the ones you work with, and they don't really count since you don't hang out with them outside of work. It's awesome that you are willing to hang out with my friends, but I wish you had your own.

I embrace all cultures. You are very vocal in your distaste for the French and the Canadians. What have they ever done to you?

I am liberal. You are conservative. I believe that some people need a little help to get on even footing, whereas you're more every man for himself. Neither of us is politically passionate enough to matter most of the time, but sometimes, it makes me wonder. 

I do not make a six figure salary. You do. In fact, you make three times as much as I do. Is that why you complain 300 times more than I do even though we work the same number of hours? It's true, my job may not be as serious as yours, and mine might even be kind of fun, but did you ever think to offer me a shoulder rub after a long day before asking me to give you one?

I enjoy food. A lot. I can't even begin to understand how it is that you have not, not even once, walked out of a restaurant with me raving about the tastes and textures that have just danced across our tongues. As I chew in near-ecstasy, I see you picking at your food, eating it dutifully but without joy, and all of a sudden, my food doesn't taste as good. It breaks my heart.

I dream of traveling. I dream of sights and sounds and smells you just can't get here. With every paycheck I get, I dedicate a percentage of it to my next unforgettable destination. You don't really want to waste your money on travel. You'd rather spend it on something more tangible. Like another gigantic television.

I don't watch tv. You love it. Ironic, as I'm the one who works in television. I think it's awesome that you know so much about all of the shows and the entertainment business and all, but sometimes it makes me sad that we are on the couch a good 90% of the time we are together, not counting the time that we are sleeping. And even when we're not watching, you're talking about tv, talking about the characters as if they are people you know in real life.

I love music and the arts. You're not really into the arts, and while you like music, you prefer to listen at home. I'm cool with that. I even like your taste in music. But you know I love museums and concerts and the ballet and the opera and live music, and still, we sit at home in front of the tv. Can't we take a couple nights off from your couch, comfortable though it may be? You do have DVR, after all.

I don't expect a whole lot on holidays. My birthday was on a Monday and I was in France on business. I asked you if you had free long distance at work so you could call my hotel. You said no. And that was that. When I got back from France, you told me you hadn't gotten me anything and what did I want. I said, "Nothing," because I'm pretty sure that's the only thing I could have said without sounding like a whiny little brat. You double checked with me, saying, "You're sure you're not gonna be mad at me later and bring it up if I don't?" To which I replied, "Of course not." What? I'm going to demand that you take me out to dinner or do something nice? Or spend a few extra dollars on your phone bill to make an international phone call? I don't need jewelry or flowers or fancy dinners, but a heartfelt card or a trip to a museum might have been nice.

You don't need me. You keep me around as long as it's convenient for you. When you're tired after work, you don't want to see me because you're tired. When I'm tired after work, I want to collapse into your arms and let the worries of the day disappear. If I do come over when you're tired, you prefer that I don't stay the night because I don't help you relax.

I need to be loved. I have been craving it. That's why I got sucked into you so quickly, the very first day that I moved to the city. You drew me in with good food and nights out and telling me I was beautiful. Now it's McDonalds and Survivor and I shouldn't wear those brown lacy panties anymore because I don't look good walking around the house in them.

My heart hurts.

Follow through...