Flirty tech
Note to self:
Keep telling women:
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you play with my iPod.”
‘Cause it seems to work. Just sayin’.
Category: Dating
Beautiful Redheaded Bike Messenger Girl
Last Friday I went to Taco del Mar for lunch. It’s quite a walk from my office and it was OK outside so I didn’t mind. However, it was a bit cold, and the Taco del Mar I go to is tiny so I got it to go and brought it back to my building.
On my way back, I also stopped at the bank, which took me out of my way a little, also. I found myself approaching the building I work in by an unfamiliar angle.
I got to the corner of SW 2nd and Oak, where there’s a parking lot, and rounded it. I spotted a short cute red-headed girl in a black biker’s jacket and a short plaid skirt, messenger bag slung behind her, well-used bicycle propped against a street lamp, standing in front of a trailer. At second glance the trailer was serving food – Thai food, it looked like from the sign, which read “Thai Basil”. A little old Asian lady was leaning out the trailers’ tiny window, but she quickly disappeared back inside.
I still had my Taco del Mar bag and drink in hand. I started to walk past, but something nagged at me. “Say something!” the inner voice said, and, in the exception to the rule, I listened and obeyed the inner voice.
I turned back around, and smiled and asked the girl standing on the sidewalk, “Is this place any good?”
She smiled, “Oh, it’s awesome! And so cheap. You get” she pointed at the menu “noodles, a spring roll, and a bottled water, all for five bucks!”
I was impressed. “Wow,” I said, “That’s a great deal!”
“I eat here all the time,” she said.
I lifted my TDM bag, shrugged, and said, “I’ll have to try it sometime.” I pointed down the street. “My office is just down there. I’m pretty close.”
She nodded and… waited…
“OK, thanks!” I said, and turned and walked away, back to my building.
Two blocks away, I was kicking myself. Hey, at least I said something but, damn, she was cute. I could have… um… I don’t know. So close, so far away.
Once I’d finished my lunch, at my desk, I realized that what I had just experienced was a “Missing Connection”. I love reading those ads that people put in the back of the Willy Week or The Mercury where they announce publically that they had an instant connection to someone… and blew it. So many stories behind all those ads… and now, I had had one of my own.
I didn’t want to wait for the ad to show up in one of the weekly rags, though. But craigslist offers instant gratification.
So, I posted the following in the Missing Connections section of Portland’s craigslist:
Beautiful Redheaded Bike Messenger Girl
Reply to: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-02-24, 3:09PM PSTTo the Beautiful Redheaded Bike Messenger Girl:
I was observant enough to notice you – maybe it was the red hair, maybe it was the bright red plaid skirt. I was brave enough to circle back and at least ask you something, if only to confirm that you are, indeed, attractive. Even though I had my lunch already in hand, the only thing I could think of was to ask you about the Thai trailer you were waiting at.
Even though I didn’t get your name or spend a little more time talking, I still walked away with something: a recommendation for awesome, cheap pad Thai, and a smile. Since I work in the area I’ll be sure to give it a try.
…probably every single day until I see you again. Just sayin’.
If you’d like, email me back and we can share other good cheap food recommendations. Or just conversation.
Signed,
Almost-bald guy in brown leather coat, taking Taco del Mar lunch back to office.
* this is in or around SW 2nd and Oak
The ad has since been pulled so don’t bother looking for it and replying.
I didn’t expect an answer. And yet, I did. Or at least, I compulsively checked my email – friends who are reading this will understand that that means I checked my email even more often than usual – for a reply. The weekend came and went, and no reply.
Monday and Tuesday I ended up having other lunch plans, so I didn’t make it back to the Thai trailer. But, today, my plans were fairly open. My friend Tracy was also working downtown, but she was pretty easily convinced to try this new place out. She was already aware of my story from Friday, and had seen the ad I’d placed.
Tracy met me at my office and we walked to the spot. I pointed out a spot where there were usually tons of bikes parked, and mentioned to Tracy that I wasn’t sure if it was because lots of people in the building used bikes, or if it was an office for bike messengers. I wondered if the girl I had seen was actually a bike messenger, and if so, perhaps she worked here. If not, maybe she works in the area. Tracy could tell that I was eager to see this girl again and get a second chance.
And, in mid-sentence, I stopped. Stepping off the sidewalk and walking away from us, at right angles to our path (we were going east, she was going south)… was the girl.
“..and that’s her,” I said to Tracy.
She had her bike, and her Timbuktu messenger bag, but had on a different skirt and no hat… but it was her. She did not appear to notice us – but we were a half-block away.
“Damn,” I said, “that’s totally her. She does work in the area. Maybe she is a bike messenger!”
Tracy just watched her walk away, and looked at me expectantly. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
“If that wasn’t a perfect opportunity,” Tracy said, “I don’t know what is.”
Tracy was right. I’ll probably never see the BRHBMG again.
Turns out the pad Thai was pretty good. Kinda sweet and not too spicy (but I’d asked for medium just in case) and it’s just as cheap and filling as the girl had suggested.
I’ll probably get sick of Thai food for the next week, or so, though.
Outrageous responders
It never fails to amaze me when I get an unreasonable response to a resonable request. Of course, being who I am, when I point out such disparities to the responder, it never seems to have an effect; they often only become more unresonable.
Often, the response is one of two things (or a combination of the two): first, to turn around and attack me, denigrate me for even bringing it up or calling attention to it, or second, to parse the language – the classic “that depends on what the definition of ‘is’ is.”
Among a group of friends, someone correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s out of line to ask for an accommodation once in a while. And even then, it’s OK if the others decline. I’m fine with that. But what I don’t get is when I am blasted for even asking, like my asking was somehow so outrageous that I’m a selfish bastard for even bringing it up. In the most recent example of this the person chose the tactic of turning a discussion about this single event into a blanket statement for all time, ever, world without end amen. How is that reasonable?
It’s not that difficult to compromise, people. Here’s an example. My sister and her husband obviously enjoy different types of movies. Having two kids, they don’t get out to see movies all that often. If they had to agree on a movie that would satisfy them both every single time, they would end up arguing for so long that they would never get to the theater. So they have a compromise in place: they alternate choosing the movies. If they’re unsatisfied with the others’ choice, they know that next time they’ll get to choose. It works over the long run, and it’s based on trust. It works. Everybody gets a turn, everybody’s happy.
A key point in a compromise is mutuality: both sides have to concede something. When dealing with a single, one-time only event, then everyone would need to give up some ground. (BTW, if everyone agrees in the first place, it’s not a compromise; it’s a consensus, which is a different kettle of fish.) But when dealing with an ongoing series of events, then the concessions need to be looked at over the course of the series; for example, my example of my sister and her husband.
But back to the outrageous response to a reasonable request. How best to deal with people like that? I for one am flummoxed. If I’m right in principle and right in the facts, then I’m not going to back down. Being backed by the correct position and the prevailing facts should (I would hope) be enough to sway folks’ opinions. It’s not, though, and I have a difficult time comprehending why. And the more I look into this, the more I find that those who can’t be swayed by ethics or principle (which is, after all, the basis of negotiating a compromise) are, in fact, unreasonable and prone to all-or-nothing thinking. The kind of people who start to pick apart individual words and misread them in an attempt to make their point. Or the kind of people who look for others to side with them, hoping that by weight of opinions they can enforce a “majority view”. Or the kind of people who simply attack the other to provide cover for their outrageous actions.
My friends, those who trust me, know that I am capable of admitting I’ve made a mistake. I go out of my way to support my opinions and to make certain that I’m seeing and dealing with the world as it really exists, not as I wish it to be. I am self-correcting. And because of that, I’m OK with my friends pointing out when I’m wrong. It’s actually important for me, because I know that I’m automatically biased in favor of my own point of view, and often others can see things differently enough to point out what I’m missing.
But even when I’m wrong, I think I deserve a level of respect. I am often wearing my Easy-Going Guy Togs and go along with the prevailing view. However, when I request a change in plans, I would hope that my previous history of allowance would gain me some favor, some karma, some goodwill. Is that wrong? Do I set myself up for people to take advantage of my easy-going nature when I don’t speak up except once in a while? Perhaps I should consider that.
Because that’s what I feel like when this happens. I’ll go along, and go along, and go along, then make a request and suddenly I’m a heartless bastard. Gee, nobody complained when I was silent about doing things I wasn’t so enthused about; why complain now?
Damn, this is all about boundaries, isn’t it? The damn topic comes up too often. Is there a middle ground, where I can make it clear that a compromise is in force, so that later it seems less of a surprise when I ask for a change? Interpersonal communication is hard.
But, again, back to the outrageous responders: I recognize that I’m unable to change them, so for me, my typical response is to point out that they’re wrong and avoid them. I’ve got no particular compulsion to spend a lot of energy on them. Their mendacity is hugely draining. If there’s a better way to deal with them I will be happy to look for it but for the most part, I don’t need them and therefore don’t have any reason to give them more than I’m required by the social circumstances.
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry
Trend I’ve noticed — a sign of selfish folk, self-centered folk, people who lack empathy: they tend to turn any complaint about them back on the complainer.
Couple of examples might help to illustrate my point. First, a legal example. I had a coworker who discovered some very disturbing things about our mutual employer. Well, specifically, some of the middle managers. She tried to file a formal complaint about the things they were doing, the illegal things, but the complaints were ignored by management and, in turn, they quickly built a case against her and terminated her employment. She then sued them for wrongful termination. And in their defense, they claimed that they had fired her because she was doing the things they were alleged to have done. In other words, their defense was a mirror of what she had originally claimed they were doing.
Second example, although a bit more of a poor match. The Republicans, over 30 years ago, were terrified by what a free media could accomplish when journalists reported openly and truthfully on the Republicans’ “dirty tricks”. It brought down President Nixon when he and his people’s activities were brought into public scrutiny. So in response, the Republicans enlisted the help of corporations and conservative and wealthy men and remade the media, putting their people in control of key networks and newspapers, employing think tanks to massage their message and craft their public image, and eliminating laws like the Fairness Doctrine so that opinion can masquerade as “news”. 30 years ago, nothing like Fox News, openly partisan and completely in the thrall of the conservative movement, could have possibly existed.
But all along, part of the conservative movement’s “defense” of their actions was creating this myth that the media has some “liberal bias” against Republicans and their dealings. In other words, while they were secretly pulling the levers of power to gain control of the national discourse, they made the claim that, in fact, the opposite was the case.
Finally… I almost hesitate to bring this up, but it’s an important point. At least, important for me to document for future reference. I have had several relationships in the past where I felt the situation was imbalanced. I compromised more, I gave more time, decisions on activities were decided in their favor more often than in mine. When, in the past, I’ve attempted to raise that complaint, more often than not the complaint was turned back on me. Where I asked that they make more time available for me, now they complained that I didn’t spend enough time with them. Where I explained that their disrespect was hurting me, now they claimed to be the hurt one. When I asked them to not speak so harshly of me, now they claimed that my words were hurting them. And sometimes they attacked me, all in the name of “defending” themselves.
Picture that. The situation is what it was, no complaints from the other person. But as soon as I raise the alarm, try to get them to bring the relationship into balance, the other turns around and demands more concessions from me, considers it suddenly OK to attack me, and then tries to appropriate the issues for themselves.
Gee, if you had a complaint before, why not say something earlier?
Or better yet, why not own up to the complaint and address it? Why does it suddenly have to be “balanced” by action on both sides? I’m the aggrieved party here, I don’t think it’s very positive suddenly having to defend myself.
At any rate, I’m finding that, yes, very likely there was an imbalance there. I’ve been creating that imbalance by giving more of myself to my friends than I give to myself. I have an internal double-standard; I basically treat my friends much better than I treat myself. So I’m making an effort to eliminate the harsh standard by which I judge myself. It’s difficult work. It’s been difficult just to recognize that it exists, in fact. But it’s made especially difficult by having relationships with people who make harsh demands of me. Not all my friendships are like that.
But I need to either change or eliminate the ones that are making those demands of me without being able to recognize and give back to me what I need.
Overheard and under-known
Just another Saturday night in Bridgetown. I’m on the west side, downtown, actually, the left side of Portland’s brain. I’m ready for transport back to my stomping grounds, the east, creative, right side. A river runs through it, eh? Good thing the two halves of Portland’s soul are connected. I guess that makes me, what? A nerve impulse? Yay. A tired and isolated nerve impulse, boarding public transportation along with all the other biochemical messengers.
A girl gets on the bus ahead of me. Petite, shorter than me, long dark hair with shock-streaks of blonde. Talking on her cell phone. I feel a brief tug of interest, how could I not? But as we walk down the aisle I grab my usual seat near the front and she continues on towards the back of the bus.
Except… before the next stop, she gets up and sits down directly behind me. She’s still talking on the phone. Her voice has not stopped talking. I consider drowning her out with music, and make ready to pull my iPod out, when what she’s saying sharpens into focus.
She’s ranting. About men. “They’re just so phony. Do they really expect me to tell them what part of town I live in? Do they really expect me to tell them if I have a boyfriend? I’m nothing to them, it’s a means of control. They ask me that as a means to control me. Yeah, sure, I’ll tell you where I Live. Like I need another stalker. They stand there, grinning, unable to conceive of any other approach, with their pants worn low and their stupid hats on sideways, and I’m just an object for their pleasure.” So much anger. She’s barely not taking a breath, let alone letting her friend on the phone say anything. The words tumble out, no, they stream out like a firehose.
Do I drown her out with music? Hell, no. This is interesting.
Instead, I reach into my backpack and pull out the book I bought just a half-hour ago. Ironically, a men’s self-help book. “No More Mr. Nice Guy” promises the book, or maybe threatens, while the girl behind me rails against phony Mr. Nice Guys. I can’t tell if she’s reinforcing the book’s lessons or if her anger is undercutting the message.
She begins describing, instead, the boys she likes: self-aware, complimenting her on her verbosity (yes she uses that word), her taste in clothing, her interests in art and music. These boys make fun of themselves, they laugh at themselves; this, she declares, is a sense of humor. She compares these boys to the inauthentic ones who are simply trying to get into her panties. She much prefers the ones who earn their way into her panties.
Is she a student? I’m trying to see how much I can glean from what she’s saying. She still hasn’t stopped talking and she’s giving out a lot of information. For instance, who uses the word “verbosity”? Without turning around I can picture her, lost in her conversation, unaware of her surroundings.
Her tone, the pacing of what she’s saying, suddenly strikes me; it’s the sing-song cadence of someone reading something. It’s an essay. She’s reading it to her friend on the phone. Are these opinions hers, or does she agree with them?
I remember being lost in that same way, my consciousness existing in whatever cyberspace a phone conversation takes place, not really on the bus, rapping out some work gossip to a friend, when I became aware of others around me listening in. I apologized and explained to my friend what had interrupted me, but a man sitting in front of me smiled but couldn’t look me in the eyes when he said, “No, no, go on, it’s interesting. Who is Susan sleeping with?” Surely this girl is in a similar headspace.
The girl behind me, Blondestreaks, has wound down, but hasn’t stopped talking. She asks her friend for advice, criticism, on what she has just read. So it must be her own writing, although for what purpose I’m not sure. Is she in school? Dare I ask her? The book in my lap urges me to ask for what I want in clear, direct language; her bitterness and polarized view of men leave me wondering which category I would fall under. Better to just keep listening and learning if I’m uncertain.
She explains, “I want to verbally castrate the men who pry into my personal life, but I want to encourage the ones with more charm. Did I get enough of a balance? Did that come through?” In my mind, it’s a very fuzzy distinction. Doesn’t that all depend on her mood? Does she realize this? It’s not the men, or at least not necessarily, it’s her reaction to the men. She’s ranted out a tautology, self-defining: she likes the ones she likes and despises the ones she despises. While she continues on, granting the ones she likes with “depth” and beating the ones she doesn’t with “shallowness” I turn back to my book.
I read advice about not trying to please women, but rather trying to please only myself. I read about covert contracts, where a Nice Guy does something for a woman with the unspoken understanding that they, in turn, will do the same thing back, a sneaky way to fulfill a need.
Her voice, behind me, turns to a new subject as well. “I have a Gmail account, yes, but I hardly use it.” Pause. “I have a Mac. When I first tried to go to Gmail it told me something about incompatible browser or something. So I hardly use it.” Pause. “I have Safari. Well, I have Internet Explorer, too. I have both. I don’t know.”
It’s like she’s there to give me an opportunity to put the book into action. Gmail works fine with Safari now. It didn’t at first, but Google updated it shortly after rolling out Gmail. Do I tell her? I glance back at her but don’t turn all the way. She sees the motion of my head but keeps talking. The author is asking me to list all the ways I seek approval from women. Is this one of those times? Am I just considering interrupting her conversation to show off as a “smart guy”? Paradigms clash. I turn and meet her eyes, smile, and then turn away. I’ve used up all my courage for the moment.
While I’m thinking, her conversation rolls on, the bus rolls across the river, and we enter the creative east side of Bridgetown. I’ve tuned her out as I read more about acting from confidence and not neediness, but snap back to internal attention when she says, “In Portland they cannot touch you.”
She’s talking about strippers now?
“In Florida… it’s a grope fest. I look to my left, I see a girl humping some guy. I look to my right and I see some guy playing grab-ass, groping… They have rules in Portland. I can’t touch them. They can’t touch me. Portland, Los Angeles, Seattle.” Now I’m sure she’s talking about herself, but I still don’t see how her essay fits in. I mean, I can see that she was probably talking about her customers, but did she write it for school, or for herself, or for a local paper? Is it public, or private?
She goes on about Florida. “When they interview you, they might as well just come out and ask you, ‘Are you willing to sleep with the customer?’ because that is, that is totally what can, and will, happen.” Words are tumbling out, her anger is back. But she likes Portland, “I get to set the boundaries here. Portland is just a better place for this.” I remember my earlier courage to talk to her and feel it drain away. I feel better that I didn’t talk to her. Dancers have baggage. It may not be their fault, however, and with the state I’m in lately I think I’d only add my baggage to theirs. This girl seems to be dealing with it well, if I can tell from hearing a small part of her conversation… with a friend? A therapist? Another dancer? A boyfriend?
Why is it I only seem to run into the damaged ones?
Another night in Bridgetown.
Reading the signs (or not)
So, last night, I was taking the bus home, feeling a little, y’know, anti-social, nose buried in my book (“All The President’s Men” — awesome. I will post a review over at Geeks Against Bush when I’m finished), sitting near the back of the bus…
The bus stopped in front of Portland State, and this brunette got on and sat across from me. I can’t judge age well but she seemed like she was in her late 20s early 30s, maybe? She was wearing these faded old jeans, and, well… wow. I noticed a picture badge hanging from her backpack that was from the university — but I couldn’t tell, in my quick glance, if she was a student or faculty. Seemed more student-ish.
I’m sitting on one of the sideways chairs, and she’s sitting across the aisle facing towards the front of the bus.
She’s sitting there, and I’m looking at her, and she’s looking around, and… frankly, I don’t know why she turned to look, but she did it slowly up to a point and then turned quickly to see if I was looking at her. I was. And, again, like the last time, I held her gaze, not smiling, just a neutral gaze straight into her eyes.
…which were a rich dark brown, by the way.
She holds the look for just the briefest of seconds, and when it becomes apparent that I’m not looking away, nor am I embarassed, she looks down and away and gives this very coy, but also very sexy smile.
She has just the slightest blush, also. I smile, very subtly, back, and then return to reading my book.
When this happens, there’s a shock to my system, that’s hard to describe. But my mind goes into overdrive, fighting with myself as to what to do next.
Sadly, the part of my brain that says, “Do nothing; danger here!” won. 🙁
But for the rest of the bus ride, I can see her in my peripheral vision, over the top of my book, once or twice, look back in my direction.
When she got off the bus, she deliberately walked past the bus, and almost literally glared at me through the window, as if she was so disappointed that I hadn’t followed up on my direct stare.
It was… fascinating, actually. It made me recall another time from the night before. Another cute brunette, she was on the phone, I smiled at her and then sat right behind her. And after she got off the phone, she kept sneaking glances at me behind her.
This is the revelation I had, and it seems kind of basic and a stoopid thing for me to only now to be learning, after forty years… but here it is:
Some girls want to be approached.
Weird, huh?
It’s a completely new concept in my experience… but it seems to be happening a lot lately.
On the bus
I spotted her — well, to be honest, I spotted her even before I stepped on to the bus. As it was pulling up I saw her face through the window. Black straight hair, half over her face, Veronica Lake style, Hispanic features, petite, almond-shaped green (I swear!) eyes…
At any rate, as luck would have it, I ended up standing next to her; she was sitting in the front part of the bus, facing sideways, her hands folded over a spiral notebook, her legs in pinstripe slacks and crossed. She wore white high heels, and the toes were sharply pointed. Honestly, to me, the shoes looked a little ridiculous. I’m sure, to a girl, they had some other meaning.
I didn’t pay much attention to her, but at one point, as I hung on the strap to keep my balance, I started tracking some object outside the bus; an interesting car or something. I can’t even remember what it was, because as my line of sight moved to my left and down, I looked right at her, and stopped. She was smiling to herself, and must have caught the motion of my head, and looked up… and I held her gaze, not looking away, keeping my face neutral, no smile, no frown.
She smiled wider and glanced down, then back up, only her left eye showing, the other hidden under the curtain of her black hair.
I felt a warm flush start underneath my scarf and start to work its way up into my face. But I held her gaze. I smiled a little bit; I couldn’t help it. That was one of the sexiest looks I’d been given in a while. I smiled simply to acknowledge the compliment and waited for her to look away again, which she did.
The bus ride is only 20 minutes long overall, from when I board to my stop, so the next few moments couldn’t have been more than a five minutes at the most, but it seemed so much longer. I returned to not looking at her. Not out of embarassment; simply out of the urge to not spoil the moment previously. OK, OK, I kind of chickened out a bit. I was thrown, I’ll admit it.
But as the bus rolled down the boulevard, swaying back and forth, her leg swung back and forth, too, and her pointed white-leather-encased toe poked me in the ankle. It drew my attention back to her, and I glanced at her again. Her whole face smiled; but it was subtle. She whispered “sorry” and looked anything but.
I gave her a mock-stern look and said, “You have to watch those shoes.”
She looked at them again, and playfully kicked at me. “I know!”
“You might hurt someone.” Someone else, I thought, dammit, why didn’t I say that? But years of practice let me keep my face neutral, with just a hint of smirk.
“I’ll be more careful.”
But then every time the bus swayed, her toe brushed my pants leg again. I would give her a stern sideways look, and she would softly giggle.
At the first major stop downtown, the bus cleared out, and I had a choice of a seat next to her, and one across the aisle from her. I chose the one across the aisle from her, facing her. I maintained eye contact, just to continue to see her smile and her eyes, almost lit from within. I wondered about getting a phone number…
The bus stopped again, and she stood, joining the line of people deboarding, and I finally saw a clear view of her left hand, finally unhidden, and the plain gold band around her ring finger, an obvious wedding ring.
…damn.
But it was fun while it lasted.
Turning ignorance into introduction
I was at the gym last night, in the middle of an “easy run” (no faster than a 10:00 pace), on the treadmill.. and I saw this woman get on the StairMaster or whatever, very cute… and she’s wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt to work out in.
And my first thought was, “I’ll bet she bought that after Boston won the Series this year. I should go over to her and ask her if she’s a fair-weather fan.” It sounded good in my head, it sounded cocky, and I could make it funny. It was a starting point, at any rate. The few times I’ve tried to talk to women working out I get a lukewarm response — Like the time I hissed at a woman on the next elliptical trainer over, “Stop staring at me!” She said, “Oh” and then got off the machine and left. I must have embarrassed her.
Back to last night, Boston Red Sox. By the time I finished running, though, I couldn’t find her. She must have finished and left. Bummer.
And, you know, I like baseball but I’m not a complete nut about it. I remembered the name of the player on the woman’s shirt, and decided to Google him. Funny… it was Nomar Garciaparra, shortstop, who was traded from Boston to the Cubs this year… the year the Sox broke their curse.
From one cursed team to another… now that’s irony.
So, if I had talked to that woman last night, and asked her that question, it would have turned out to be a really funny conversation. Because I’d be all cocky and knowing, but (assuming from the fact that she owned a Boston shirt from before the Sox broke their curse, that she was, in fact, a true fan) she could have lectured me about Boston and loyalty and schooled me in baseball knowledge and gotten all indignant… and I could have, oh I don’t know, offerred dinner to make up for the insult or something.
Dammit, things always turn out better in my head.