Requiem

Remember the taste of my flesh. The back of my neck and how it tastes different from the flesh under my breasts. Remember the taste of my lip balm, the taste of my hips.

Remember the feel of me. The pull of my hair, the bite of my lips, the sliding of my tongue over your fingers, thighs, throat. Remember the strength of my hands. The half moons left by nails in your back. My fingertips on your cheek. The weight of my head on your shoulder. How my hair made you itch in the middle of the night. Remember taking off my pants the first time with such energy my shoes came off too ( scaring the cat as they clattered across the room).

Remember how I looked half naked in half light. Half seen in bathroom lights. Looked at through eyes half open from alcohol and smoke. Remember how I look framed by the light of the refrigerator door. How I looked coming out of the bathroom with einstein hair. How I looked coming out my front door on friday night. Remember what I look like coiffed and coiled and oiled. Remember what I look like naked and ruined. Remember what I looked like when I thought you weren't looking.

Remember my laugh. Remember the first time you heard me gasp, the sharp intake of breathe as you put your hand down my shirt at the party. The sound of me saying stop while giggling so you knew I wanted more. Remember the sound of my voice as I talk while falling asleep. Remember me lying on the phone about not being asleep. You keeping me up, not wanting me to sleep. Remember me in the morning, the deep jazz musician who lives in my throat until you gave me green tea. Remember what my smile sounded like on the phone. Remember the sound of my silence, the sound of me listening to you.

Because that is all you have of me now.

Prada and the Fine Art of Goal Oriented Dating

"While I fantasize about a life that doesn't so closely resemble hell"-Brad the "efficiency expert" reading Lester Burnham's (Kevin Spacey) job
description in American Beauty

Women date the way men shop for shoes. When a man goes shoe shopping, he knows exactly what he wants. He knows the size, the style. He knows what he wants it for ( sports, casual, work). Some men know what they want so specifically that when their old shoes wear out, they order the exact same style and size online. Men know what they want, exactly, when it comes to shoes, and that is all they want. No innovation, no discovery, no surprise. Men can't handle that whole woman thing of "Oh they look like they have nice shoes, so I thought I would just walk around and take a look and see if they have anything I want."

Women date in the same manner, particularly women over the age of 25. No woman goes into a date with a "Hmmm wonder if I'll find anything here since the window looks so nice" approach. I gotta spend time picking an outfit, doing hair, make up, suffering through high heels and a push up bra sometimes even a tight skirt-yeah you're damn right I go in with an expectation, with a goal. If I was just "window shopping", I wouldn't bother wasting half my day modeling ensembles for my cat.

So when I go out, what do I want? What am I looking for? What is my "goal"?

I want quality. I want serious quality. I want something that is going to last for years. I want something that is versatile-not just good for casual encounters, but something good for a nice night out too. Something dependable. And I'm willing to sacrifice appearance for comfort and enjoyability. I don't want something gorgeous that lasts of fifteen minutes and then makes me regret having feet for the rest of the night. I don't want something that may look good to others, but causes calluses and blisters and hip dysplasia. I don't want the same pair that every girl on the block in wearing. I want quality, comfort, and, dare I say it, staying power.

Now where does such a rant come from?

Well may you ask.

Farm Fresh, the guy who says that I'm perfect, exquisite, adorable, gorgeous, well, he doesn't, apparently, want to be my boyfriend. Now I know, it's only been two weeks, but when he calls you the one day you don't see each other and says he misses you and so forth, thinking he might want to be my boyfriend isn't generally a stretch, but no, at the end of our quiet new year's eve together he says that he is thinking of calling this other girl, this girl he barely knows, and asking her out on a date. Oh, but he doesn't want things to change between us.

Uh, ok so you want to date some other girl, which means that potentially you might like her better and leave her for me ( but really if I'm perfect, what are the odds of that? Or perhaps some of us are more perfect than others?), or even if that doesn't happen, you can ask out whoever you want, and that isn't supposed to change our relationship?

Can you see now why there is a vital need for logic and reason to be taught in schools?

I told him if he wants to open that door, that's fine with me, but remember I live by the rule of quid pro quo and he has A LOT more to lose with that proposition than I do. I get offers just crossing the street ( indeed today alone I received two offers for dates). So if he wants to take that risk, he has to understand exactly what he is risking.

I also know that very few women in NYC will date a guy without at least the promise of future relationship development.

And, as we have seen, eventually everyone comes crawling back to Bunni. If he wants to join the club of men who later vehemently wished they had treated me better, I can give him some numbers so they can start a support a group. ( Duke Nukem in particular has been pining for me for four years.)

So if he calls this weekend, I'm out. If he calls me on "playing games" I'm going to tell him how it is. When it comes to relationships, I want prada. I deserve prada. I'm going to get prada.

And if you aren't prada, and you don't think you can ever be prada, then get out of the fucking way so that I can get to what I want without having to pole vault over your head.

And I realize that to some men likening them to a pair of shoes is, well, insulting, but the truth is I have had much healthier, longer, and more fulfilling relationships with my shoes than most men in New York.
And now from news for the stable positive male influence "in my life"

Although we've never met, and he's married (typical) Billy has won the title of the stable male influence "in my life." Go there and give the guy a hug, seems like he's feelin' a little down, and it's too early in the new year for that kind of behavior. Go cheer him up.

What is it about New Year's Eve that provokes odd behavior in ambivalent men?

It seems that I am not alone in my suddenly being contacted by some guy who couldn't even be bothered to break up with me in November. Personally I think it's the drunken pondering of ringing in the new year without a snog that makes them suddenly present themselves to us in a way sort of.

Or maybe it just goes back to my theory that eventually every man you give your number to will call back.

Right, Nygma?
Happy New Year!

What the hell are you doing reading this? Go! Drink champagne! Revel with your friends! Kiss attractive strangers!

And THEN come back here and read the blog.

Have a great new year everybody! May 2004 bring us all the happiness we deserve.

The Situation in the Middle East: Ex-Boyfriend Alley II

I finally sent a response to Israel's email. I was thinking and thinking and thinking and finally I was like "This isn't worth that much thought." So I sent him a three line email

"Interesting-An explaination would have been a better birthday present than a cryptic two line email-oh and you got the day wrong-it was the 20th"

And do I get a response? No. Not that I expected one.

So what do I get in my email box today?

An email from Israel-it's entire text reads "Happy New Year."

Anybody have any ideas what the hell is up with this? I guess he just wants to me think about him. And it's working-I'm thinking "What the hell is wrong with this guy?"


Edward Nygma

To the sender of the mysterious birthday/christmas gift-"Because it pleases me to think of you somewhere thinking of me." Suzy Mckee Charnas-The Vampire Tapestry


Vacation

Well I know you've come to depend on your daily dose of bunnificience, but I have to focus on some other things while I am break. Among the list of things to do, refine some essays and send them for publication, clean my apartment, spend some quality time on the couch with my cat, put an end to my dealings with Fleet Bank (I swear to you the entire staff of this bank is made up of Satan's personal ass raping guards-you want cruel and unusual punishment, go to Fleet Bank), run a variety of errands that I somehow manage to put off for months, maybe pamper myself a bit with a manicure. But I will be taking a little bit of break from blogging. Rest assured I will be posting about my New Year's romping. (Farm Fresh and I have been invited to 2 parties, so we shall have to decide.) And when the semester starts up, there will be more bunni goodness to go around.


Ex Boyfriend Alley

When I was in college, there was a manhole cover on fourteenth street that constantly leaked steam. One day my friend Stephen remarked "You know, I think that must be where they keep all of our ex boyfriends. It's the ex boyfriend museum." Everytime we walked by we mused about new additions, imagining their dirty smudged faces looking longingly towards a sliver of light as they heard our mocking voices above.

The idea of keeping ex boyfriends penned up in a distinct location is very appealing. Nothing is worse than hurrying to work late- make up put on with a shaky hand-rounding the corner with a coffee - and almost slamming into an ex ( managing to soak the cuff of your shirt)-have to stammer out some pleasantries-rush off to work and pretend like you aren't in shock for the rest of the day while you deal with a coffee stained soggy sleeve.

It seems to me that it is easier in a great many cases, especially when someone pulls a Houdini, to simply forget that they exist-a kind of "It's a Wonderful Life" scenario without the happy ending-a kind of "oh look if you didn't exist, things would be better-oh good, I can move on now" type of scenario. Or in other words, if a man vanishes, can't he have the decency to stay vanished?

Now what brings on these ramblings? Guess who sent me an email after a six week vanishining act?

Israel.

I kid you not people. I just opened my email and there it was.

Now, if you remember I said I blocked his email, and indeed I did, but I didn't block his work email, which is where he sent it from. And if you think I wasn't more confused than a dog being shown a card trick-if you think I wasn't more confused that trying to analyze a ezra pound poem BEFORE-well, you have no concept of how confused I am now. I mean what kind of mindfuck is that? I vanish, never give you an explaination, but send you a two line email on your birthday and sign off with the line "kisses." Is it me or is that straight from the Ted Bundy Manual?

The entire email read as follows:

"I'm Maybe far bat I didn't forgot Happy Birthday

Kisses

Me"

(Yep those mispellings were in the email-no joke)

And even more confusing, what the fuck do I do?

Now I know the simple answer, the right answer, the as clear as a note carved into your forehead with a dull razor answer is nothing. The guy is clearly not to be trusted-just move on.

And there is absolutely no RATIONAL REASON not to follow that advice.

But I have to think there is an equally obnoxious two line response I should send to him. Maybe a cryptic literary allusion ( "where are all the good men dead, in the heart or in the head?") or directly bitchy ("you clearly mistake me for someone who gives a fuck") or upfront/honest ("if you really wanted to show me you cared you would sent me an explaination").

It must be getting cramped there under fourteenth street. Maybe I should send them one of my old fruitcakes.