Double Trouble

While fishing for my id and my identification at the NYU library recently, I saw the real-life doppelgånger of my Big.  To remind you, in my quest to be the lesbian Carrie Bradshaw, a Big (as in Big, yet elusive love) is prerequisite.  I had just seen my actual Big for the first time in over a year the day before, so perhaps she was on my mind.  The meeting was a small triumph for me.  As I put it to a friend, “I was reminded that she is, in fact, of this earth.”  My tendency to romanticize was not entirely absent however, as I struggled to refrain from affectionately putting my thumb squarely in her chin dimple.

So when her double walked through the revolving door, I almost said her name out loud, but then caught myself, reasoning that it couldn’t be her.  Upon closer examination her hair did not have the current streaks, although it did resemble a previous Big look.  This follicle detail and a certain youthful quality were the only noticeable differences. The effect this woman had on me was even more astonishing.  I went from fairly low-hey I should get a Coke-blood pressure to the kind of heart pounding associated with 500-yard dashes.  My throat seized, the knees locked.  For a moment, I thought about following this poser into the library and getting her number.  Fortunately, my identity was still lost in my bag.

There’s an App For That

I’ve been dating a lot lately—people named McLuhan, Heidegger, Plato—your standard theorist babes.  This is not to say these past five months have been all books and Neo-Marxist poses.  I’ve managed to have some hilarious luck with the ladies.

Let’s start with Scarlet, as I’ve been keeping you in suspense.  I needed some distance from this one before I could find the funny in it, although I’m sure you’ll enjoy it right away.  She invited me to a wine and cheese party at a friend’s house on the Upper East Side.  Clad in her usual hoodie and jeans, she still looked every bit the movie star, sans make up, sans stupidity and full of the best smile I’ve seen in NYC.

We chatted; we mingled; we ate a lot of brie.  Then, she suggested, quite randomly, that we both text our mutual friend back West at the same time (on our respective phones).  It was silly fun at first.  Our friend’s witty banter encouraged flirtatious glances.  Nevermind the fact Scarlet had also shown me a pic of the gal she liked on Match.com at the start of the party (hint, hint).  Surely by now, over the glow of her damn iPhone, she knew the wonder of the petite Camembert standing before her.

Emboldened, I texted my friend: (blah, blah blah…etc.) “I’m thinking about kissing Scarlet tonight.  Thoughts?”  Seconds later Scarlet looks up from that wretched mobile device and says, wait for it… I think you meant to send this to Jeanette?  Cue slow motion movie frame as I lunged across the room, snatching her phone from her hands.  “Nooooooooooo.”

Scarlet swore she had only read the blah, blah blah, part and looked sincerely puzzled as I frantically repeated, “How do you delete on this damn iPhone?”  She texted Jeanette, prying for information.  J. texted me in disbelief: “Smooth move” was my reward—sparing me roughly 150 characters of further mockery.

Now in Hollywood, this would be the story we’d tell people at our New York State condoned wedding.  Brooklyn is less kind.  She’s still dating that Match.com girl.  The kicker? (Wait, how could this possibly get worse?) That girl knows someone who knows someone who knows me–and now we get to talk about the connection.  I thought New York would be a bigger pond.  Turns out, it is the same pond and I’m the same idiot running on ice.

You’re grasping for a bright side, right?  Well, I can tell you that Scarlet has become a good friend to me (and not on Facebook or places where she might find this, but see pond—it will happen).  I’m okay with that.  And I can tell you my next tale of dating woe is almost as funny.

Cool On Your Island

So I went on my first date in New York City.  Or was it a date?  Time-out called on the playing field: when did “hanging out” replace good old-fashioned dating?  I’ve learned the hard way though that in the aughts, one ought to maintain a sense of mystery at first.  Consequently, I’ve “hung out” with a lot of women.

We met at the Cubby Hole, a familiar bar in Greenwich Village.  She’s a friend of a friend, and also happens to be gay and single in Manhattan.  As I approached the location, I sent her a text: “this is the part where I realize I don’t know what you look like.”  As I sent up my flare on Verizon wings, I spotted a tall, slender blonde leaning up against the outdoor patio railing.  She was toting an iPhone, but I decided not to hold this against her, since she looked like Scarlet Johansen.  “Please let it be Scarlet, please let it be Scarlet,” I thought to myself.  My cosmic Magic 8 Ball read: Outlook Good.

Scarlet and I bar hopped, fitting in a trip to the famous Stonewall Inn, considered the birthplace of the gay rights movement.  We walked a lot–that damn iPhone GPS really showed us a good time. I explained I used to work on behalf of that other computer company.  Scarlet didn’t seem to mind.  She even let me talk her into a cupcake at Magnolia Bakery when we just happened to walk by it (without Steve Jobs telling us where it was.)

I made pathetic attempts at flirting throughout the evening.  During the late night stroll to the subway stops, I convinced myself she wasn’t interested.  Then, in the glow of the Metro light, she said she had a really fun time and suggested we see each other again this coming Saturday night.  I smiled and descended down the stairs, Brooklyn bound.  Now that sounds like a date.

Shalom, baby.

“Papa can you hear me?”  (Sing along now, kids.)  Oh, Babs, I hear you all too well.

Perhaps my time as a tot learning the Hebrew alphabet while my mother converted (briefly) to Judaism begins to explain my fondness for Jewish girls.  Maybe I saw Fiddler too many times.  Perhaps I ate one too many bagels.  Regardless, I say, “L’chei-im!” for giving me the joy of dating not one, but two Jewish girls, both coincidentally Stanford doctoral students.  My type, it turns out, is ridiculously specific.

Stanford intellectuals aside, my unrealized crushes on Jewish lesbians are many and memorable.  Years ago, I went to a gay potluck in Portland with one of my best friends, a definite Miranda.  We walk in and I’m immediately caught in some sort of Yiddish tractor beam when I spy this beautiful woman with long curly dark hair.  We end up going on one date.  Turns out, she did not have a thing for moderate, capitalist, meat eating Irish Cubans.  My friend Miranda though, I even met her through J Date—an online dating service for Jews.

Yes, I checked the Gentile box.  I was completely transparent, much like my skin.  Miranda is the best $60. I ever spent online, and she says I’m her best $30 because she was smart enough to end the subscription on time.  We decided from the start we’d be better off as friends, yet she was very kind to meet with me in the first place.  Yenta probably would not approve of a Shiksa like me trolling the online synagogue.  Then again, Portland is not known for diversity of any kind (not counting tree huggers).

This leads me to my current euphoric state.  I have found the mother ship in a place they call “Dyke Slope,” Brooklyn.  I was almost run over by a Mitzvah Tank near my neighborhood.  I haven’t been this excited since Miranda and I stumbled into the middle of a lesbian rugby league pub-crawl in San Francisco.  For example, this week while perusing the grad week welcome activities at NYU, I saw a Jewish GBLT Walking Tour listed.  I squealed and spun around in my Ikea chair, but then remembered…I’m not Jewish. Unlike Portland groups, this branch of the tribe might not let the pasty freckled kid join in their wanton games of spin the dreidel.  Perhaps I should stick to the “opt in” activities, so as not to offend anyone.  Better yet, maybe I could find a blog called Chasing Caitlin Ramirez, date the author (I’m her fantasy!), and drink Manischewitz on occasion.

No Men or Manolos

I aspire to become the lesbian Carrie Bradshaw.  In fact, the “Which Sex in the City Character Are You?” quiz put me squarely in Carrie’s court, despite my conviction that I was a total Miranda.  We all know those online quizzes are deadly accurate.  Since I just moved to New York two weeks ago, my goal should be more easily attainable, since the city of giant fruit lore also doubles as a character in the show.

I commute into the city from Brooklyn for grad school.  My continuing education was inevitable.  NYC, however, was far from where I pictured myself.  Let’s just say I didn’t have the guts, until I met a small town girl who also went to school here.  She survived; I figured I could do it, too.  Okay, okay, I essentially moved here because of a girl, but not for a girl, which is an important distinction for a 35 year-old late dyke bloomer who is perpetually besotted.  I had to look up besotted in the dictionary when my friend Bob (short for Roberta) first described me this way.  Basically, I’m in love with being in love.  Trust me, it fits.

This is not to say I fall in love frequently, or that my affections are vague.  Since I came out at age 28, I’ve had two long-term relationships with Gwen and Sylvia.  I certainly loved them, but when Bob says besotted, she’s talking about the gut wrenching stuff of unrequited love, or love that was once returned, but was quickly removed.  I’ve had a heaping helping of that over the past three years.  I am seldom the remover.  In fact, I tend to sink my teeth in like Tyson.  This brand of love is much more interesting due to the high, almost comical, pain content.  People enjoy pain and sex (insert link for the Hills), sometimes together, although if you’re looking for that kind of blog, please find a Samantha.

Yes, love’s had me on the ropes, gasping from the blows of too many questions.  Is it really you and not me?  Will a fresh start restore Cupid’s uppercut? Will I find my Jessica Stein?  Will you follow all my random references?  For the uninitiated, Kissing Jessica Stein is a movie about the journey of a straight woman in NY who unexpectedly falls in love with another woman.  I hated it at first because-!spoiler alert!- she goes back to men.  My baby dyke, second-wave feminist ethos did not jive with the bland Hollywood plot twist.

Ironically, something about five years in Portland, Oregon has mellowed me out though.  Upon second viewing this year, I actually enjoyed the film. I decided to make it the titular reference to my blog (look at me and my titular references, next thing you know I’ll bust out with something eponymous and then I’ll really be a grad student) because I’m a pop culture fan, and let’s just say I have a type.  Ping-in next time for more on that.