A SINGLE GIRL IN ROME

A common FAQ:  “Where the hell have you been, Alex??”

My answer:  Absolutely everywhere.

This August, Amanda and I bon voyaged to Italy, France and Spain.  It was my first trip abroad and we decided to make it count!  Readers, it was the single most magical experience of my life.  There were meals.  There were sites.  And yes---there were men.

***

As I opened my eyes, I was horrified to find a dark hotel room. 

“Oh no, we overslept!” I cried.

Amanda shot up, disoriented, her covers flying in every direction.  She pulled the nightstand clock closer to her face and rubbed her eyes.
“What does this say??” she asked, exasperated. 

“10:30!”

“Oh no…” she sighed.  “We’re going to miss the last train.”   

It was our final night in Rome and [as part of Crazy Alex’s anal retentive ‘mustseeeverythingthereistoseewhileinEurope’ plan] we were originally slated to see the Spanish steps.  

 “Aren’t you going to get up?”  I asked, fumbling through clothes and fluffing my hair.  Amanda just sat there thinking.

“You know, Al.  I have a better idea.”

Moments later, we were in an over-priced Taxi bound for the Tiver River.

“Remember what the tour-guide said about this place?” she asked.

“I’ve been told so many things this week...”

“This is where the nightlife is!  There’ll be tons of clubs and people our age.  Ya know… we haven’t partied ONCE since we got here.”

It was true.  I was so consumed with cramming every bit of knowledge into this vacation that I completely forgot to be on vacation.  Though I was saddened to miss an important historical site, I reluctantly made the exchange for a night out.

But---of course we couldn’t just party… we’d have to make it interesting.  So, over a light dinner we conspired to conduct a little social experiment: we’d pretend not to speak any Italian in order hear what the natives truly thought of us.

Bouncing flirtatiously along the many bridges, our experiment was off to a running start.  We spoke loudly, in blatant English, sprinkling the occasional southern twang for some extra American charm.  In response, a choir of clueless men commented openly about our attire and anatomy.  Not only was this fun, but we were instantly able to separate the romantics from the perverts.  It was genius!     

We soon found a chic hookah bar and struck up a friendly conversation with Francesco, Fat Fabrizio, Skinny Fabrizio, and Daniel.  Unlike some of the other men, this quartet of gentlemen spoke softly and respectfully, admiring our beauty with class.

“I DO declare!  Just how American do we look?”  I asked.  (A first-time hookah-smoker, I got a little more southern with each toke.)

Pointing first to Amanda, Francesco replied “You-ah beautyy ees very, very Mediterranean.  You-ah could leeve en Roma, no-ah problem!”

“And me?” I asked.

“You-ah beautyy ees very, very… uhh… como se dice… difficult to… look at.”

 

I stared at him in disbelief. 

“MY BEAUTY IS DIFFICULT TO LOOK AT?!”  The southern belle was gone.

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOO NO!” Skinny Fabrizio leapt to his feet and ran toward me.  “You-ah beautyy ees bea-ooo-ti-ful!  Sexy!  So Sexy!”  He sat down next to me shyly.

“You-ah beautyy ees difficult to place” Francesco corrected himself.

“Well… alright then.”  I replied.

Despite his blunder, we soon learned that Francesco worked for the President of Italy.  He was multi-lingual, intelligent and well-travelled.  After conversing with him for close to an hour, Amanda and I were simply enchanted!  When he offered to give us an evening tour of Rome we happily accepted.

Francesco and Skinny Fabrizio took us to every stunning panoramic view in Rome.  We could see everything---the entire landscape illuminated beneath the gorgeous Italian sky.  But by now, Skinny Fabrizio had attached himself to me like a leech.  If there’s one thing I learned in Rome, it’s this:  fending off men in Italy is as pointless as swatting mosquitoes on a camping trip.  They’re everywhere, they’re persistent, and eventually when you’re not looking… they’re going to bite you on the neck.   

Finally, at our third location, Francesco pointed down. 

“Those are-ah the Spanish Steps.”

At that exact moment, I looked up at the night sky and saw my very first shooting star.  What an incredible memory!  Just then I realized, sometimes if you let go, you'll get everything you want.

 

“I did get to see them,” I gasped.  "Oh, let’s get a picture!!”

Skinny Fabrizio finally detached himself, whipped out his phone and asked to have a picture of just me.

I was puzzled.  “Why would you want a picture of me?”

“For-ah, uhh, remembering.”

“But… why?”

Skinny Fabrizio thought for a moment, looked up and yelled “BECAUSE I LOVE-AH YOU!”

What a hilarious end to a fabulous day!

I'M BACK, BITCHES!

Due to my lengthy hiatus, curiosity over my current dating situation has permeated my entire existence.  It seems that both coworkers and friends alike have been experiencing severe “LABOR” withdrawals.  Symptoms include [but are not exclusive to] dry heaves, cold sweats, and compulsive dating activity.  Thus far---there is no known rehab.

As I’m sure you’ve gathered, this blog is the result of a very personal journey---not just to find the love of another person, but also [and more importantly] the love of myself.  Each week it became increasingly difficult to endure my “critics,” and for my thinness of skin I owe you an apology.  BUT, just because my broadcasts were back-burnered does not mean my love life was too; and [if you’ll take me back lovers] I’d like to give this thing another go.

My first blog back will include some funny stories from my trip abroad.  I hope you’ll stay tuned and enjoy!!!! 

BETWEEN ME AND DELIVERANCE, PART I

Perched atop a tall barstool, I awaited Amanda’s arrival.  We had set out to have a fun girl’s evening filled with drinks, dancing and perhaps some harmless flirtation.  Instead, Amanda was late and I---lost in thought.

“Maybe I should accept Music Man’s invitation” I pondered, stirring my vodka cranberry.  When he asked me out earlier that week, Nice Alex nearly leapt at the chance.  But as tempting as it is to “fling” with the same manic musician I always fall in love with, I am on a mission to improve my picker.  It is a personal decision based on more facts than I can share with you---but please trust me, readers---it’s the right call.

Nice Alex baulked of course, so I sent her to the naughty step for a time out.     

Having come to terms with my decision, I leaned in to take another sip.  But I was suddenly shaken when two men [quite literally] descended upon me. 

To my left was a short stocky ginger in a red cut-off T.  His eyelids were burdened with beer, and it seemed to take all his energy to slur a drink offer.  I declined by pointing to my already purchased libation, but that didn’t stop him from offering a second and third time.   

To my right was a thin man in a […wait for it…] grey cut-off T.  As his lips parted I became simultaneously aware of both his breath on my neck and the toothlessness of his smile. 

Did I mention I was upstate?

And you wonder why I don’t write fiction!!

Mere moments later, an alleluia chorus began to sing; a bright light poured through the bar door; and I looked up to see Amanda prancing in.  I swear I love that girl, but I had never been so glad to see her in my entire life.

Though we immediately relocated to the other side of the bar, the Tweedles (Drunk and Dumb) were miraculously able to transcend their intoxication and hone in on our coordinates.  Amanda (a little more vocal than I) asked them to give us some space.  When that didn’t happen…

“Al, maybe we should go check out Handshakes.”

“Handshakes!  Grea, we’ll definnnnitely go wit yous!”  chimed Tweedle Drunk.       

Sad but true, we were in a classic trap:  Two young women trying not to start a problem, and two inebriated men with no concept of their own creep factor.  

Unfortunately, most women will find themselves in this situation at least once in their lives.  

Amanda retreated to the bathroom while I remained to watch our drinks and guard our bags.  Just when I thought staying behind was the wrong choice, a familiar man walked into the bar.  He was tall, and strutted with some authority; his big brown eyes surveying the scene.  Instinctively, I scooted closer. 

I breathed a sigh of relief when we struck up a light conversation---perhaps now the Tweedles would mosey on.  

But just then…

“Hello my friend!” Amanda greeted, returning from the powder room. 

“We know him?!”  I thought. “Even better!” 

At that moment, I remembered who this person was.  This was Airforce Guy…a military man whom Amanda had dated a few months before.  I heard stories of their intrigues and though I wasn’t sure how I felt about them as a couple---I knew I was okay with him standing between us and Deliverance.    

We’re safe! I thought.  A military guy who has loyalty to Amanda will surely be able to intimidate these hicks.  But like most things in my awkward life---it couldn't be that simple.

To Be Continued…

RED FLAGS

Summer has officially arrived, readers… and nothing rings in the season better than a New England Clambake!  This past weekend my dear friend Karen graciously hosted a smorgasbord of epic proportions.  She and her boyfriend literally prepared 30 pounds of muscles, 20 pounds of potatoes, hamburgers, hotdogs, lobster tails and some side dishes […in case we got puckish.]  For dessert we had cookies and pies of all assortments...  And fret not; we had plenty to wash it down with!

Before the gluttony commenced however, Karen informed me that there was someone I should meet. 

“He’s an AMAZING musician, Al… seriously I think you guys would click.”

Grumble-Grumble-Grumble-and-other-I-don’t-want-to-be-set-up-sounds

“NOT LIKE THAT!” she assured me, “I just think you would make some good music together, that’s all.”

Sure, Sure I thought.  I could feel the cynicism coursing through my veins.  I just wanted to eat and drink and visit with old friends…NOT be bothered with impressing a total stranger. 

Well…that was until I saw him.

Tall, broad and handsome:  in walked Music Man clutching a guitar.

By now I’m sure you’ve realized what a sucker I am for the artistically inclined.  The talent, confidence and subtle [I’m-a-mess-but-don’t-worry-I’ll-just-write-a-song-about-it] mystique seem to draw me in like a masochistic moth to the flame.  All in all however, I was resisting the weakness in my knees.  Sure he was cute and sweet and funny and friendly and we sounded really good together… but c’mon… I wasn’t sold.

“So who’s your favorite singer?” he asked.

“Gotta be Sarah Vaughan” I answered, anticipating the normal I don’t know who that is reaction.

“Oh my God, she’s amazing isn’t she??” he shot back.

TIMBER!!!

Before I knew it, it was 5 AM and we were still talking.  At this point, I was about ready to buy that moth a fire-proof vest and be done with it.  But suddenly, all I could think about was HOW MUCH he reminded me of my most recent ex.

My most recent ex is a talented musician in a newly disbanded group.  It was a big love filled with laughter and compatibility, but we were ultimately doomed by the emotional issues at play.  That double-edged sword of creativity had beheaded us… and for the first time all evening I was able to see the striking parallel.

Of course, you wouldn’t know it by Nice Alex!  She breezed right in and chalked this red flag up to fearful nonsense.  “This man DESERVES a chance” she asserted.  "He's not your ex and he has nothing to do with him."

Am I excited to have met someone with SO much potential?  Of course!  But still, in my gut I wonder “How serious is a red flag?”  

AND SO, I WRITE...

Obviously, someone has declared this the week of cyber incrimination.  It’s true! Over the past seven days, we were all inundated with tales of "abducted" bloggers, backfiring Facebook traps and yes… even Weiners.  In the face of all this stupidity, it’s difficult not to judge.  “How could she have fallen for that?” we wonder.  “How could he have been so dumb?” we ask.  “How can I be such a hypocrite?!” I quake.

For those of you playing catch-up, allow me to rewind.

On the last episode of “Alex is a Train-Wreck,” we bid farewell to a semi-beloved character---Mr. Wonderful.  Seemingly compatible he was, but ultimately on a much different track than your protagonist:  I asked him to slow down and he didn’t.  While he was anxious to speed the dating process (among other things), I was tapping the breaks.  Unfortunately, the result was a slight emotional collision. 

As I always do, I sat down to blog of my adventure; only this time, I was met with a very alarming comment:

“You do realize that your date has probably Googled you by now and is reading all your blog posts, right?”

Naturally, this has been a concern from the beginning.  However I thought with the right amount of poise and tact, I could somehow express my sarcastic views without crushing anyone.

Hopeful?

Positive?

Inspiring?

Yeah… you’re right:  Naive. 

By now, Nice Alex was paranoid with worry.  “What if this anonymous blogger is Mr. Wonderful himself---disapproving incognito?” Though it was unlikely, it was possible---and it paralyzed me with Single Girl Guilt.  “Oh no!” thought Nice Alex, “now what?”

This blog brings me (and hopefully you) so much pleasure.  While it seems to have opened a dialog for other cynical daters, it simultaneously allows me to selfishly connect my own dots.  However, I am now faced with a very serious question:  Can an earnest search for love ever be conducted in the public eye?  Or, like Congressman Weiner, will my “over-exposure” eventually lead to an impromptu resignation?

Plagued by these questions, I went upstate for a family gathering.   The festivities eventually led us to a rinky-dink bar for some live music and drinks.  As the cute bartender mixed my usual vodka cranberry, he struck up a friendly conversation.  We exchanged names and basic information.

“What did you study in school?” he asked.

“English and Mass Communications.”

“English and Mass Communications.” He repeated, trailing off.

“Yeah… I guess I wanted to be a writer or something,” I said smiling.

“How’s that working for you?”

“I’m in finance.” I chuckled, raising my glass.

Laughing with me, he asked “So do you write at all?”

I had a choice.  I could allow this cute bartender to think I was just a girl who drank vodka cranberries, and lived in Westchester, and visited my family upstate on weekends, and worked in finance, and who maybe once wrote poetry…

or…

“Yes, actually---I write a blog.”

After explaining a little bit more, I rejoined my family for a couple tunes.  I left prematurely to get a little sleep; and when the cute bartender didn’t ask for my number, I knew---the blog was too threatening.  Though it pained me to consider it, perhaps The LABOR of LOVE would simply have to go.

…

You have one message

“Hey Sissy!  Just wanna make sure you’re okay, give us a call when you get home.  Also… after you left that bartender guy followed us into the parking lot and asked us to give you his number.  He’s kinda cute, Ali… just sayin’!  Alright talk to you soon!!”

And so… I write.

THE PRINCESS AND THE P(AST)

The other night, I had a dream fit for a Disney film!  My vision told the story of a petite, slightly awkward princess living in an enchanted land.  Each day, a Wonderful man would stand at the foot of her palace gate and call upon her.  He showered her with lovely gifts and charming compliments, until one day the young princess was coaxed from her castle.  From that day forward, the two took long walks along the water and talked of beautiful things. 

One day, the Wonderful man boldly invited the young princess to his garden.

 “It’s beautiful,” he bragged, “a garden fit for a Queen!” 

But the shy princess declined, insisting it was much too soon to see his land.  The next day the Wonderful man tried again. 

“Please princess,” he implored.  “The fruit is so beautiful and the flowers, so fragrant.  I know you will love it.”

But the princess simply shook her head saying “In time dear sir, in time.” 

Upon the Wonderful man’s third invitation, the princess could sense a desperation in his voice.  “Please!” he asked again.  “You have many royal things to do my beauty, but my heart will soar if only you’d take a peek.” Finally, she agreed.

They walked and walked until they reached his garden wall. 

“Close your eyes” whispered the Wonderful man as he led her by the hand. 

Ten steps later, he allowed her to view his craftsmanship.  She slowly opened her eyes, anticipating a breathtaking site.  But much to the princess’ horror, the Wonderful man’s garden was not at all how he described!  It was overgrown and unkempt; displeasing to the senses and generally frightening.  When he tried to draw her near, the princess simply turned and ran.

***

In a cold sweat, I woke up.  What did this dream mean?  I immediately scoured the memory of my last date with Mr. Wonderful for clues.

It’s true---our rhythm was different.  There was something off, something strange:  Redundant conversation, small talk about the weather; and multiple PDA attempts to fill the gaps in conversation.  It was odd and slightly discouraging, but I clung to the hope that it was just a fluke.  So, chalking it up to nerves, I agreed to a post-dinner stroll.

When the situation still proved to be…hairy…I decided I had to say something.         

“You told your mother you met someone special?” I asked, attempting to clarify what I’d just heard.

“Well I have!” he said, smiling.

“Okay… I have to get something off my chest” I began, gazing into his big, worried eyes.  “Look, I like you.  We have a lot in common and you seem really sweet.  The thing is…I’ve been through some change this year, and I really need to trim this back... you know… take things a little slower.”

“Oh.”  He replied.

Fully recovered from her coma, Nice Alex arose to whack me repeatedly over the head with a rolled up newspaper.  "All this poor boy did was like you and now you’re criticizing his pace?!" She cried.  But I could only think of Carrie Bradshaw as she told Aiden (the most perfect man ever written) that he was suffocating her with his eagerness and certainty.  Rationally, Aiden was everything Carrie wanted and needed, yet emotionally, she sensed it simply wasn’t right.

Now---it’s easy to rationalize when you have a team of writers sitting around a table, concocting your Mr. Big; but like Carrie, I struggle with the question:  How do you know when it’s right?  Is commonality and comfort a sign of compatibility, or is it a sign that your counterpart isn’t challenging you enough?  Is fear an indication that it’s not working---or is it the past coming to scare you away from something real?

I’ve not yet decided how I’ll handle Mr. Wonderful, as I don't believe he is truly capable of taking a step back at this point... but the question is daunting:  Did the petite, awkward princess run because she was afraid of her past---or because she saw too much too soon?

THE LABOR OF LOVING YOURSELF

If you’ll permit the ridiculous simile:  Love is like a club sandwich.  Why?  Because it’s only fun in the middle.  Just like the bread surrounding a delightful deli meat, the top and bottom of a relationship is often intimidating and momentarily uncomfortable.  There’s the dry, awkward introduction; the starchy “baggage assessment;” the crust of self-consciousness, and we endure it all for but one blissful moment that’s soon digested and turned into… well… shit.

I joined the site, I paid my dues, I kissed some frogs and I met a truly great guy; a truly great guy with whom I have a truly great date planned for this evening.  For all intents and purposes, my “out there” efforts have paid off.  However, I’m truly freaking out. 

Last evening, I discussed this seemingly nonsensical anxiety with Dr. J. 

                “Why should a mutual, genuine interest with this man be so frightening?  We talk every night!  We get along really well.  He likes me a lot…what’s wrong with me?”  

               

                But as it often does in therapy---it turns out to stretch a lot more deeply than that.

                “What is it about this situation that’s scaring you?” asked Dr. J.

                “I just… I feel like I don’t have my footing… you know?  Like… all this stuff has happened and I’m not done figuring it out.  And this guy---he’s so eager!  He’s so sure!  He’s got our next twelve dates planned… and that’s only a slight exaggeration!!”

                Dr. J nodded as if to say “go on.”

                 “I mean, yeah… I believe I’m datable.  But… sometimes I feel like people are taking score, you know?  ‘Oops… Alex was engaged.  And woops, there goes yet another relationship.’  I just want to get it right!  I want to have some realistic expectation for how it’s all going to go.”

                I could feel it.  It was coming:  the big, devastating question of the session.

               

                “Why is it so important to know how it’s all going to go?”

… Because if 2010 were a book, I’d entitle it “ClusterFuck.” In an insanely short amount of time, I experienced a heart-crushing break-up, the death of a very close friend and a completely illegal eviction from my apartment. All the while, another important, sub-conscious adjustment was taking place:  I was asserting myself as a post-grad woman living on her own for the very first time. 

                As these thoughts flooded my brain, I replied “I don’t know… I’m just overwhelmed!”

                “So…” Dr. J interjected “why can’t you just tell him you need to take this slow?”

A loud plop suddenly resounded in my head.  I knew it could only be the sound of Nice Alex falling out of her chair.  We know she always defers to the other person; she’s terrified of leading people on; she worries day and night about everyone else’s feelings... and now, in one fell swoop she was knocked unconscious. 

                Slowly… I sounded it out. 

                “I… I can just tell him I n-neeeed…….to take this slow?  I can just tell him I need to take it slow!  Well… but wait… I mean… what if it scares him away?”

                “If it does,” she said “what would that say about him?”

How had this not occurred to me?  This was brilliant!  Genius!  Of course!  I’ll tell him that I need to take this slow!  One date at a time!  And then… then we’ll just… take it slow…see where it goes!     

So Readers, this evening may or may not be something I can write a pithy, humorous blog about.  Sure, it’s early; Mr. Wonderful still has plenty of time to morph into a mutant.  But for the first time in a LONG time, I feel like I’m looking at something that could actually be SOMETHING.

Maybe we’ll get to the meat and cheese, maybe we won’t. Either way…I'm going to take life one date a time.