Pot. Kettle. Black.

Oh, this is just too rich…

One of the local radio stations had an interview this morning with one of the jilted participants in the recent ABC farce, The Bachelor (i.e., Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire? but somehow classier, in theory, because it wasn’t on FOX? Whatever…). The DJs—especially the female one—were gushing over how this woman was somehow above it all because she wouldn’t give in to the bachelor’s sexual overtones. As if, I guess, she was looking for something deeper and more substantial from all this.

Get real. The Bachelor was nothing but a game show where the object of the “game” was to be picked by some goober. And last time I checked, she entered into this willingly. So, what, this was her idea of the right way to meet a man? This was what she felt was the best way to establish a meaningful (i.e., talk first, boink later) relationship? My god, but how daft is this woman? She—and the twenty some odd other participants—were doing nothing more than prostituting themselves for this guy, hoping to (maybe?) become Mrs. Right. That’s it. You can try to make it sound somehow more glamorous or more virtuous than that, but that’s all that it was. So tell me again why she was so surprised…?

Let’s hold off on the “atta girl!” back slaps. There was nothing dignified or morally upstanding about how she presented herself—the most charitable way to put it would be that she was the best of a sorry lot, and even that would have to be prefaced with a big “maybe”. She got exactly what she deserved and should have known exactly what she was getting [into]. Any disappointment is her own damn fault.

Why the new economy sucks (revisited)

Following up on an earlier post, I just found out that my old group at my former employer is being disbanded, meaning the whole lot of them are getting laid off. :-(

On the one hand, it’s looking like me getting out when I did turned out to be a good thing (though my “getting out” had absolutely nothing to do with the job :-) But on the other hand, a lot of people I considered friends are now scrambling to rearrange their lives—which, again, is why the new economy sucks.

Part Eleven: Boy and girl go to NYC (Epilogue)

The date: July 15-19, 2000. The place: New York City…

The trip home was a little more exciting than we had anticipated.

It started with the cab ride back to Penn Station to catch our train back to Boston. All week long, we had somehow managed to avoid the legendary New York City traffic—we walked or took the subway for the most part, and the couple of times we cabbed it, things just sailed along. So, of course, our cab comes to a dead stop on our way to the station, and we’re getting close to missing our train. (Naively, we left the hotel later than we should have.) A few blocks from Penn Station, we decide to get out of the cab and walk/run the rest of the way. Which we do, finally making it… not more than two minutes after our train leaves the station. CRAP. Left with no other choices, we get tickets for the next train to Boston, leaving a couple of hours later.

So we’re sitting in Penn Station, reading the paper and a couple of magazines, munching on overpriced fast food. Now keep in mind that we’re sitting just outside the boarding area for the trains, and we’re paying really close attention to the boards and announcements, waiting for our new train. And yet we somehow manage to almost miss our second train, making it on board with less than five minutes to spare. Don’t ask me how this happened—to this day, we still don’t know how we [almost] screwed up [again]—but one minute we’re waiting for the train, the next we’re hauling ass down the platform trying not to miss it. But we did make it, and we did get back to Boston intact.

Well, mostly. As a cherry on top of this return trip sundae, I managed to leave a poster I had bought at the American Museum of Natural History on board the train. Of course, I didn’t realize this until the next day, and numerous calls to the station and Amtrak during the week turned up empty.

Ah well, just one more memory of an already memorable trip. And I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The whole story: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

Part Ten: Boy and girl go to NYC (Part 4)

The date: July 15-19, 2000. The place: New York City…

What a wonderful day it turned out to be. My favorite day of the whole trip.

We went downtown again, this time visiting the majestic twin towers of the World Trade Center. Zooming up the express elevator to the observation deck, a wall of windows overlooking the entire city. Taking the escalator up to the roof, standing 102 floors above life below as the wind whipped through our hair. Pictures, pictures, and more pictures. But that wasn’t the best part of the day.

Dinner was at 8:00 at Mesa Grill, one of the homes to Food Network’s Bobby Flay. After arriving fashionably late for our reservation, we sat at the bar with umpteen other waiting diners. She’s perched on a stool with a glass of bottled water, I’m standing in front of her with a glass of wine. My hand on her knee, our eyes never leaving each other as we cooed the way only people in love can. The maitre d’ breaks our reverie to announce that our table is ready—as luck (fate?) would have it, a primo (and much quieter) seat on the balcony overlooking the main floor below. Another bottle of water for her, another glass of wine for me, both—we found this out later—comped to us by the aforementioned headwaiter. (Maybe he does this more often than we think, I don’t know, but it was just one more piece of a delightful evening to us. Regardless, he was a charming man, and I thanked him after dinner as we chatted by the front door. He, of course, thought nothing of his gesture. But I did find out from him that Mr. Flay was coincidentally in Boston that week, and we were down from Boston to visit; otherwise, he would have arranged an introduction. Figures.)

As we’re sitting around for after-dessert coffee, I ask the waiter, uncharacteristacally for me, for decaf, which leads him to remark, off-the-cuff, “Don’t want to keep you up all night?” To which my sweetie cheekily responds, “No, that’s my job!” The waiter, momentarily stunned, stops in his tracks, then catches on and literally gives her a big thumbs-up. Priceless. But still not the best part of the day.

No, the best part of the day started in the cab ride to dinner. She slid into the seat before me, and I perched my hand on her leg as I climbed in after her. But it wasn’t the silky feel of her dress that got my attention, it was what I felt underneath her dress, just out of sight. A little bump… a soft ridge running down her thigh… oh god, she’s wearing garters. My reaction was something incomprehensible, yet completely impossible to misunderstand, and it caught her off guard in the best possible way. You see, I have always had the biggest thing for garters and stockings. Always. But she didn’t know that, and she had no idea I’d react that way. And it is impossible to describe the absolute look of joy on her face when it all happened.

But that was only part of it.

Fast forward to the cab ride back to the hotel after dinner. Again she climbs in before me, and again I slip in after her. But this time, her dress rides up ever so slightly as she slides across the seat, and what was once out of sight peeks momentarily into view. The lace top of her stockings, the narrow black band of a garter belt before they both disappear again beneath her dress. And it floors me, and by the tone of the… how to describe it? a growl?… yes, the growl in my voice, she knows it. And though it seems impossible, she’s even happier than before.

And that was the best part of the day.

The whole story: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

One more month

One month from today, I’ll be marrying the love of my life.

One month.

Just thirty days.

I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any happier. Well, maybe except for how I’ll feel thirty-one days from today…