July 6, 2000
Personals Ads. We all get the illicit thrill of reading them, with an uppity smirk, and the knowledge that we would never do such a thing as advertise our loneliness. How sad. Go ahead; let’s hear it. You think they’re only for the fat, ugly, or otherwise desperate. Don’t get me wrong, I had never had trouble getting a date since college. I was smart, funny, and had a tight little booty that routinely turned heads, but I was in a dating rut. My last musician ex-boyfriend had just announced his engagement – and at my best friend’s BBQ, no less! Dating broke-but-fun musicians was getting old fast. I was seriously tired of my ‘type.’
So what now. I was young, attractive, and in the brainy-boy Mecca that is Boston. I should be up to my earlobes in men, right? Wrong! What I soon discovered was that most of the guys I liked – you know nice, liberal, educated hummus-eaters, into Soul music and Sonic Youth – found me INTIMIDATING. Why? Well, for one thing, I always though of myself as a sort of gene-spliced love child of Grace Jones and Holly Golightly. And that, in America, leaves lots of people scratching their heads. I would always have to make the first move, and once snagged, guys would always admit that they’d never thought they were my ‘type’.
This time, I thought, I would make the ultimate first move. I would place a Personals Ad. The local alternative paper in town offered ‘em for free, and after some soul searching and a Chardonnay, I was ready. My ad read: WINTER WARMER WANTED Sepia-hued honey, 24, seeks cultured cutie, 23-30, articulate, witty and charming, for foreign films, flirting, and frugal fun. Fondness of Cappio commercials [remember them?] and black turtlenecks a plus. No Republicans please.
Then I waited. As the replies came in, I knew I was on to something. There were artists, athletes, Britts, and even a Brahman too (the Indian variety.) I made dates with VC’s, and post-docs, as well as a lawyer whom I met while waiting for an ad date. But then one respondent caught my attention. A nervous voice announced his name, and went on to disclose his love of art, sun-dried tomatoes, red wine, French toast and the Cocteau Twins. He claimed to be intellectual, an industrial designer, who’d lived in Detroit and San Francisco. He ‘fessed right up front that he was balding (points! – ‘cause it shows he’s honest and secure.) But the real killer was the thick, but sweet German accent, and I thought ‘now there’s a man who can wear a black turtleneck and mean it!’
We met in a local hip-spot watering hole, made our bashful hellos and had all the awkward mutual discoveries of new relationships. We dated, moved in together, had some fights, then separated, he moving back to Europe, and I to another state. But, for some inexplicable reason, we couldn’t quit each other completely. He kept showing up for the odd holiday or birthday, while I found myself dating a guy with the very same retro 50’s china pattern. We knew it must be fate. Well, 5 years after that ad, we got married. After moving to Europe together a year ago, we now live in a small, but hiply furnished apartment in Zurich, Switzerland, and have French toast every weekend.
You know, I even ended up working in that alternative paper’s personals ad department for a while, cranking them out for other people, but that’s another story…
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Langstrasse 8
Ten minutes to midnight, and the streets around Zurich’s red light district are thrumming. Dirty human remains stagger in dark corners, waiting for deals or johns. Scruffy-looking college kids roam in smallish packs, looking to score or just playing tourist. Around the corner, the new cinema, Riff Raff, stands set-off against the grit around it by its sleek design and chic café looks. Through the picture window the city’s urban hip sit and sip macchiato and beer, while drinking in each other...
If My Life is a Joke, It’s Not That Funny.
May 30, 2000
I got an invitation in the mail today for afternoon tea with Senator and Mrs. Rockefeller. Also enclosed was the offer of an audience with Mrs. Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, or Maddy, as we like to call her, featured keynote speaker at a Symposium called Women Pacesetters of the New Century. It’s an alumnae thing. You know, the old school ties. Actually I only went for lower and middle schools, but it still counts. Remind me to thank the Hearsts, the Duponts (that was high school), and the other benefactors of my unfinished education. All dear, kind people, really.
But now, onto the other facets of my charmed existence. My family? They are, by turns, unemployed, alcoholic, on or off welfare, and often ten paces too far down the next poor decision.
I however, live in Zurich, as I have for the past 9 months or so. That was after moving from Vienna, you know the politics there were so… unpleasant. We, my new husband and I, were there for 8 months. I have no children, no pets, nothing to do all day really, but keep house, which I do only begrudgingly and with great harrumphing. I’m also nearing 30, and for the first time, am conscious of my physical decline. Broadening hips, new crinkles, the usual.
I sometimes feel as if caught in a vise-grip of extremities. The constant worries and strains of too many and too few options are always with me. I find it all so exhausting.
I often think of myself as the genetically-manipulated spawn of Holly Golightly and maybe Grace Jones, I guess early immersion in Truman Capote and post-punk disco will do that to a person.
I got an invitation in the mail today for afternoon tea with Senator and Mrs. Rockefeller. Also enclosed was the offer of an audience with Mrs. Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright, or Maddy, as we like to call her, featured keynote speaker at a Symposium called Women Pacesetters of the New Century. It’s an alumnae thing. You know, the old school ties. Actually I only went for lower and middle schools, but it still counts. Remind me to thank the Hearsts, the Duponts (that was high school), and the other benefactors of my unfinished education. All dear, kind people, really.
But now, onto the other facets of my charmed existence. My family? They are, by turns, unemployed, alcoholic, on or off welfare, and often ten paces too far down the next poor decision.
I however, live in Zurich, as I have for the past 9 months or so. That was after moving from Vienna, you know the politics there were so… unpleasant. We, my new husband and I, were there for 8 months. I have no children, no pets, nothing to do all day really, but keep house, which I do only begrudgingly and with great harrumphing. I’m also nearing 30, and for the first time, am conscious of my physical decline. Broadening hips, new crinkles, the usual.
I sometimes feel as if caught in a vise-grip of extremities. The constant worries and strains of too many and too few options are always with me. I find it all so exhausting.
I often think of myself as the genetically-manipulated spawn of Holly Golightly and maybe Grace Jones, I guess early immersion in Truman Capote and post-punk disco will do that to a person.
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