Author: Addie

Does this count?

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

revcafe

So there I am, getting off BART at 24th and I am in a mini skirt, t-shirt and tiny denim jacket. It is 55 degrees and the Pacific fog is a monster.

My jaunt downtown to chat up men at a Holocaust exhibit failed miserably. I’m seeing the miss-steps on that one as I walk toward Revolution Cafe for part 2 of my Meet Men in Real Life project for the day. It’s a meet-up for some live jazz.

I am cold. I am desperately trying to Look Confident. I am getting closer to the cafe and hearing the warm riffs of standard jazz pouring from the friendly venue.

I LOVE jazz. I’ve memorized jazz standard lyrics. Be-bop is my go-to at the end of each day. I recognize a very nice rendition of Misty as I cross the street to the front of the cafe.

But I …

I turn, walk right past the cafe and head down the block. And here begin the excuses.

I need cash (you do not).

It’s too crowded (Addie, you do not know this for sure).

I don’t know anyone there (this is actually a requirement of your project).

I failed miserably at the museum just now and feel I may fail at this one, too (okay, I can buy this one).

So, to keep up with my pretense for walking past this lovely place with lovely people, I go to an ATM on Mission and take out $20.

Back you go, dear girl

My tiny walk of shame ends at the place I promised I would go tonight. I enter, smile at people, and head to the counter.

Ah, San Francisco.

The woman behind the counter is flat-chested, wild-haired and dressed provocatively. Her face sports freckles and she is beautiful. I haven’t ordered my glass of Cabernet but she is bored with me already.

“Glass of Cabernet?” I inquire.

Blank stare. The jazz is loud.

“Cabernet?”

Her eyes widen. She seems to understand. Yes!

I sit at the only bar stool left and await my hard-won wine. I turn my attention to the band.

Oh my, they are cute. My age, happy-looking, and they all seem to like each other. They’re taking turns at solos and they are generous. Also, they are good.

I smile at the bass player. He looks away.

Just not my day

So, dear readers, at this point I’m thinking this is just not my day. I struck out at the museum earlier without even going to the plate. Now I’m sitting alone in this place, everybody coupled up or in loud, bumptious groupings. I am flirting with the bass player who is not interested.

Sigh. Again, time to take a look at the other folks here.

A woman knitting alone and nursing a pint of IPA. A group of surfers on the sidewalk puffing on something. Middle-aged jazz groupie men and their patient wives clustered against the back cafe wall.

But, then there’s something interesting: a young couple in the midst of it all, having a very serious-looking talk over a bottle of Sangria. He’s rubbing his face from time to time and looking away. She’s leaning in and then occasionally shrugging back into her chair.

At this point, I’m letting go the dream of striking up a conversation with anyone, so I let myself become a spy. I pull out my phone, tap the camera app, and snap a few shots of this couple. The light is interesting. The Sangria bottle is now empty and just a Picasso-like stack of fruit remains in the bottle. I’m working up the courage to go over to this troubled pair and ask to take a iPhone photo of their empty Sangria bottle.

She’s gone. Her purse is still hanging on the chair. Hey, a break in the break-up action so I should take this opportunity, right? But the guy looks so … so …

Alas, I decide not be be an asshole.

That’s when she’s standing next to me at the bar.

She’s looking at the menu. She’s behind one of the surfer dudes who is having a fantastic journey ordering his beer (bartender not amused) and my portrait subject is just standing there, inches from me. I could literally reach out and tap her on the shoulder.

So I do.

“Hi! I hope you don’t mind, but I was noticing you and your friend over there having a very engaging conversation and I took a few photos of it. I’m a photojournalist.”

(I am?)

“Oh,” says this nice person. “That’s sweet. Yeah, we’re having an intense conversation.”

“Well, I actually kind of like the shots I have here.” I show her the two I took. She likes the lighting. And, because this is the 21st century, I immediately email them to her.

She gets her food and heads back to the table. I turn my attention to the band, which is now in full swing. The bass player catches my eye. I smile and raise my empty wine glass. He gives me a big, full smile.

I’ll quit while I’m ahead. I get up from my bar stool, adjust my skirt, grab my phone and head home.

Cool, foggy city of ..

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment
romanvishniac
Roman Vishniac, “Récalcitrante” (Berlin, 1929)

Back to reality. For me, it’s San Francisco.

First off, everything you read about the foggy mornings, the cold summers, the invasion of the hippies (we call them ‘hipsters’ now) … all still true. This city will never give up on its incessant waves of cool things.

The last time I went out to meet men in Real Life was in Las Vegas. It is warm in that town. Bartenders smile, guys at the end of the bar smile. The worst 80s pop music thumps all around you reminding you to ‘celebrate’ and ‘relax’.

But I live here. And that means if I’m going to meet someone, I’m going to have to try a hell of a lot harder. Because it’s San Francisco. And I am not the partying type. Or young. Or rich.

So here we go.

First up, and I admit this is a stretch: I choose to attend a museum. One of my kids is a budding film photographer and some of his work reminds me of this exhibit at the Contemporary Jewish Museum. So I go.

Attending art museums is a homework item of dating coach Annie Gleason: Sidle up to a man who is lingering at a particular piece. Ask him what he likes about the piece. Add what you like. Move along.

Chatting about the Holocaust

Photographer Roman Vishniac documented the decline of Jewish life in Berlin, and a few other places, between the two World Wars and then the Holocaust. He also spent a short time in the U.S. taking portraits of New York City entertainers and then worked in microphotography.

Why did I choose something so hard?

Gotta admit, though, his work was worth the trip. I absorbed the entire exhibit before I realized that I had not, in fact, noticed any men also there. Time to look at the people here with me.

Okay, it’s an older crowd. That’s to be expected. Lots of couples. After viewing the photos, I have come up with my opening lines .. so far I have ‘Stunning work!’ (meh), ‘I love how how photo-journalistic some of these pieces are (a little too much to share with a complete stranger)?

A couple is walking behind me. They are discussing where to have dinner later. From the sound of it, these two have known each other quite some time, and none of the restaurant options being suggested by each is getting a thumbs up from the other.

I am suddenly very, very sad that I am not in a relationship. I actually miss light bickering.

Anyway, back to my hunt.

But my confidence is gone. I can feel that old panic set in, like anything I say or do right now will be met with weird looks and one-word answers.

There is this one guy though. For a while now I’ve been alerted to his presence at the exhibit by his lunch bag. He has on a nice brown fedora, a large overcoat, comfortable shoes. He is holding a small brown paper lunch bag behind him with both hands. As he moves from one piece to another, the bag crinkles just a bit.

He looks amused as we stare up at the microphotography — a real departure from the other stuff because the photos are in bright colors, and are extremely up-close of things like mold spores and central core root tissue (yeah, I don’t know what that is either, but it looks cool.)

He stands there, staring up at the huge wall of photos in pinks and blues and oranges. Bag crinkles.

C’mon Addie! Say something! Instead I decide to investigate mold spores with an interest I’ve never experienced before now.

Lunch bag guy, in his adorable fedora and oversized overcoat, turns and leaves.

From the other room, an official sounding voice. “Museum is closing in ten minutes!”

Hail Mary pass

Ah, perfect! Just like writing your term paper the night before it’s due. Addie, go for it. Run across the hall to the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass exhibit. You LOVE bluegrass! You’ve been to every HSBG!

Nobody there. I find myself harmonizing along with the folks on a video screen playing Foggy Mountain Breakdown. I’m now lost in a memory of a guy whom I dragged to this free concert many times.

Disappointed in myself, I exit the museum through the gift store to discover the fog had come in with a vengeance. I am sadly underdressed, and a long way from home.

They think I’m a hooker: part 2

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

hooker1

How the hell did I get here?

It’s a bar in Vegas. I’m alone. I don’t even have a travelling companion a few yards away at a slot machine. Nothing.

My skirt is short and my t-shirt pink. I’m drinking a beer with a guy whom I do not know. His buddies just inches away in stripey shirts are jabbing each other and looking at me.

This is not the me I used to be.

The good girl

Many years ago I met the man, who would become my husband, at a friend’s party  — just a few weeks after graduating college and the day I arrived in a new town to look for a job. We got to talking and he asked me out. We dated, we got married, we had kids.

Even more years ago, I met my college boyfriend at a dorm party on the first day of school. We dated for four years. He went into the army and I went my own way.

In ninth grade, I moved to a new school and met the kid who would be my boyfriend right up until we went on to separate colleges.

At the age of 35 when my marriage ended I realized I had a big problem, should I want to get married again: I didn’t know how to date.

Help!

So I hired Annie, who taught me how to do the online thing. I became really comfortable with that and met some guys who later became good friends. Then one OKCupid flirtation led to dates and hikes and giggles and talk of the future. I fell in love. Big time. The all-in, kitchen sink and everything kind of love. A few years went by and ..

He met somebody better.

Devastation set in immediately.

But the problem was, once I’d gotten through the streaming mascara crying jags and jumping for my phone whenever it pinged; after the obligatory monologues with all the friends who would listen to me hash out what went wrong and why — after every inch of that broken hearted process –I started healing. I wanted to get back out there.

My hands would freeze over the OKCupid logo, I’d get wheezy looking at profile pictures on Match.

Remember Annie? I did. Digging up my notes from our long-ago coaching sessions, I found something I had completely forgotten. Did you know you can meet men in person? In real, live places where you haven’t had any time to obsess over his online profile stats and match rates?

All my life I’d galumphed from relationship to another. Now, in my mid-life and with a deep-seated, gut-wrenching desire to really find Something Great, I was going to have to get my groove back.

In real time. In real situations.

Like this Irish pub in a Las Vegas mall.

Hey fellas …

So, here I am, actually liking this guy next to me. I’ve realized I want to move it to the next level. Like a walk through the casino and play slot machines with him.

I ask him to take a walk with me. He says yes.

But here’s where the new Addie comes into play: before leaving the bar, I walk over to his buddies. I spread my arms and grab a shoulder of each.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to borrow your friend for an hour, if that’s okay.”

They seem agreeable to this proposal.

I squeeze each shoulder. “After all, a working girl has to do what she has to do.”

Oh God. They think I’m a hooker.

~ Addie ~ 2 Comments

Guinness

After some time put in at a Las Vegas fake beach, me smiling at people and saying ‘hello,’and even getting some ‘hellos’ back, I feel it’s time to get serious about finding a guy with whom I might actually go on a date.

Earlier, I saw an Irish pub in the mall. As I am already accustomed to being at an ‘ocean beach’ in the middle of the dessert, I am unfazed by the location of an ‘Irish pub’ in a mall.

More importantly, the sign outside announces live music that evening. Hmm. Beer, guitars … a likely place to find a guy to talk to?

It’s nearly 9:00 p.m. I’ve napped and showered and put on a skirt and t-shirt. Time to hit the mall and meet some guys. (And yes, these sentences make me sound like it’s 1983. Someone please hand me my hair scrunchy.)

Just me, some guys and a Guinness

Much like the clambake, the pub is packed. There are guys my age at the bar. And, just like the clambake, there is one seat open.

I take my place and smile at the three gentlemen to my left. They raise their beers to me. I order a Guinness.

Now, as my loyal readers might remember, I’d scored a free margarita and plate of clams earlier this week here in my Las Vegas tour. I’d also aced my homework by having a fun conversation with the random guy sitting next to me.

So I figure I’m on a roll.

Back to the three guys in the Irish pub. I make eye contact with one of them. I gesture to the man behind him setting up his amp and guitar on the tiny stage. He moves over to hear what I have to say.

“Looks like the show’s about to start,” I say.

“Ya,” says he.

“I love Irish music, don’t you?”

“Ya.”

I notice his buddies looking at him. Then back at each other. They have the tell-tale appearance of the Middle-aged American Male Conventioneer: untucked striped shirts, jeans, just-cut hair.

“You here for work or play..?” I venture.

“Work! I’m here for the electronics show!”

And we’re off to a nice conversation about things I know little about.

A few minutes later, my Guinness arrives. He smiles … I smile …

“Buy me a beer?” I say.

Blank stare in my direction. Buddies are now nudging each other.

Oh God. They think I’m a hooker.

 

 

 

 

Addie meets Justin: part 2

~ Addie ~ 2 Comments

clam bake

Okay: quick refresher. I am a divorced woman in midlife who has struggled to date successfully. I hired the fabulous dating coach Annie Gleason and she turned my life around.

I had some successes, got to meet more men with her guidance, and landed a wonderful relationship. And then he told me he’d met the love his life (bummer; it wasn’t me).

Cue the wailing, the bargaining, the endless phone calls to my best friend. Once I got it through my system, back into the dating jungle I went.

But I couldn’t face the online dating world just yet. It reminded me how I met the guy I was still trying to forget. I wanted something different.

I wondered if I was missing something. Annie’s training back in the day included homework. And this homework included meeting men in real life situations and talking with them. Flirting even. Who knows? Maybe go on a date.

That’s it!

I’ll go ‘off the grid’ and do all that homework again – and even the stuff I skipped first time around.

Well, hello!

Fast forward to the other night. As you recall, I’d just unwittingly crashed a private Vegas clam bake and got busted. That’s when the young guy next to me makes a snorting kind of noise and I looked his way.

Ah, youth. Justin is possibly in his very early 30s. Looks to be maybe Filipino or something close. He’s perfectly dressed business casual and staring at his phone.

“Looks like I just blew it,” I say.

“Don’t sweat it,” says he.

Okay. Now what?

Silence. His phone demands a great deal of concentration. I sip my Margarita.

Now, this is typically where I would take my (free!) drink and shrink away into the evening, down the palm tree’d pathway and past the fake waterfalls — straight back to my hotel room to watch ‘Big Bang Theory’ reruns.

Dammit! No! I came here for a reason. I’m completing my mission tonight. I’m having a conversation with this guy.

What would a Hollywood script have me do? Think Addie, think….

“You’re awful quiet … don’t tell me you’re crashing this party too?”

He laughs (phew!)

“No, no, I’m here to work. I’m the social media coordinator for the company that’s putting this party on.”

So this explains his nose in the phone. Got it.

And so it goes. We talk about the young kids back at my office who do social media breezily all day and how do you guys do it? According to Justin (oh, yes, I’ve asked his name), it’s got a lot to do with snappy headlines. This leads us to a long critique of today’s ‘journalism’ versus long-ago gumshoe reporting (turns out he has a degree in communications).

By now I’m really liking Justin. Alas, he is too young. So all the next things I might’ve done — touched him on his forearm when making a salient point about how ‘yellow journalism’ got its name, or touched my hair when he said something funny — it just ain’t gonna happen.

(Stop your thoughts right there. No cougaring. I have kids in college. Guys like Justin will always and forever remind me of their friends they’d bring home to play Gameboy. I mean, eeeeew.)

Oh no. Here comes that waitress again. The one who told me to leave. She looks at me, impatient and confused. She’s holding a forbidden plate of crawfish, clams, potatoes and corn on the cob.

“Ma’am? This is a private party!”

I’m feeling saucy (and one margaritar-y). I stick my thumb out toward Justin. “I’m with him.”

Justin nods.

The plate of seafood wonderfullness is mine!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Addie meets Justin.

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

private party

I’ll say this much: Las Vegas is a friendly place. Which is why I’m here.

But I have met one really unfriendly person here. She tried to boot me from a restaurant.

I can explain.

Last night I was practicing my flirty walk in and around the casino resort I’m staying at. Making eye contact with guys is getting (a little) easier. I am noting that the guys who look back at me seem, well, startled. Just like in the city. So for the next few hundred steps, I observe the women around me.

Like me, they have the ripped-jeans, low-cut t-shirt thing going on. They’re clutching clutches. But they look mad. I look at them and smile, like, ‘hey we’re in Vegas and this place is great, right?’

Blank hostile stares, for the most part. But I digress.

The woman who had no smiles for me was not walking around. She was at work. To be specific, in a restaurant. During a private party clam-bake spring-break thingy.

In my defense, as I walked up to the restaurant off the breezy resort sidewalk, there was no indication that this clam-bake was in fact private. And the bar had a bunch of guys sitting at it with one seat open. My dating coach would be, like, GO.

So I did. I’m looking around, smiling, ordering a margarita. The bartender ignores my credit card. And then a plate of crawfish and sausages is put down in front of me.

“Oh, I didn’t order this!”

Woman-who-is-about-to-hate-me looks confused.

“This is for people attending this party. Were you invited?”

“oh, um …no?”

“You can’t be here.”

“But I just ordered my drink?!”

Next comes a string of instructions involving paying at the other side of the restaurant and moving to the second floor of another restaurant nearby.

“um…sure …”

And here’s where it gets interesting. The millennial glued to his phone next to me the whole time, starts to guffaw.

Our hater-lady marches off with her precious crawfish plate  (CLIENTS ONLY). I turn to this guy. Feeling flustered and dumb, I said the only thing I could think of.

“Guess I really blew that one.”

He smiles.

And Addie’s first meet-a-guy adventure: Vegas edition begins.

 

 

Shifting to 5th gear. Why not?

~ Addie ~ 2 Comments

vegas

Okay. For all of you who asked, the guy at the bar I talked with? The one I made a bet with my co-worker I could hold a three-minute conversation with? I won (Maria, you owe me $1).

After admitting to this poor guy I’d made a bet (and a startled look) I actually said, ‘Do you come here often?’

Warning: you all are going to have to get used to this. Sometimes, Addie says. really. dumb. things.

It must’ve been a dreadful strain, whatever we yammered on about, but I do remember getting to three minutes and then Maria showed up to pull me away. To our collective relief.

Okay. Addie needs a shot in the arm. And a vacation.

Las Vegas.

… just landed. My favorite resort is a lively spot this week. I’ve printed out my dating coach’s homework, stuffed it into my spangly evening clutch, and am about to walk down to the casino clubs — and into what looks to be a jungle, flirting-wise.

The Walk, check. The Smile, check. The Friendly Attitude, got that.

Here we go ..

(PS: Wondering about all this flirty walking and smiling homework is? Annie taught me.)

 

 

 

A quick, ridiculous backstory

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

Let’s get one thing straight: I love dating. I love going to places I’ve never been before, eating new foods, giggling though a game of putt-putt golf with some new guy.

I love that first kiss, and that scary hang-time before he asks to see me again.

This was not always the case.

Several years ago, fresh out a long marriage, I took a stab at dating. I put a tentative little profile up on Yahoo personals, got asked out, went on some dates and promptly realized I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

Figuring it was just a matter of practice, I muddled through several more guys, baffled at their behavior (and they at mine) and stumbled around the online dating world like a toddler at a family reunion where everyone seemed to know what was going on but me.

Eventually I managed to start a relationship with someone I really fell for and it seemed really great. I relaxed. I rejoiced. Then he dumped me.

Oh God. Must I have to do all that muddling again?

Something had to be done. They have life coaches, career coaches, and basketball coaches, right? What about dating coaches?

Turns out they do!

game plan

We begin … again.

~ Addie ~ Leave a comment

This will be the story of how one divorced girl, years ago after years of dating, love, and loss, hired a dating coach. (I’m not kidding, check out Annie. She changed my life.)

It will also be about a homework assignment from that coach. Only thing is … the girl really didn’t do enough of that homework. So more love and loss ensued.

Fast forward to now. Where this one girl took a bold step back into her homework to meet the love of her life.

The assignment? Strike up conversations with random men she doesn’t know.

The goal? get asked out at least once a month.

So … One Girl begins, again.

First assignment: talk to a guy I don’t know at a bar.