Muir Woods 

I’ve been back home now for a little over a year. 13 months to be exact. During this time I’ve been involved—dates, kisses, heavy petting, or sleepovers—with 14 guys. OR sleepovers. Not AND sleepovers.

That’s union—not intersect—for all you math dweebs.
A={dates, kisses} B={heavy petting, sleepovers}
A U B = {dates, kisses, heavy petting, sleepovers}

When my friend Shaheen calls, she asks, “Did you sleep with anyone last night?”
A ‘No’ response: “Good, save some for the rest of us.”
A ‘Yes’ response: “Can you save some for the rest of us?”

Last week, I went from watching TV and spending the night with Guy #1 to having breakfast and spending the day with Guy #2.

I don’t have a dating problem. I’ve got a conversion problem. Help me, math dweebs! Let’s prove this mathematical equation. Catherine Loves Hot Boy = Hot Boy Loves Catherine. This is the symmetric property of equality. If we can’t prove this, then the world as we know it is completely and utterly wrong.

Pardonnez-moi. Enough of the math jargon. Prose from now on. Really I’m just trying to figure out what’s impeding me from having a meaningful relationship. Because I think I want it. That is the end goal for me. I don’t want to write a blog about being single for the rest of my life!

A birth announcement arrived in the mail the other day from my college roommate. I love kids and all, but I don’t yearn to have my own kids. I’m apathetic about the issue. But this one particular birth announcement tugged at my heartstrings. Two adorable twin boys. “Four little hands and four little feet, Two little boys make our lives complete…” I got misty-eyed. The yin and yang of happiness and sadness intertwined somewhere deep within.

Life is perplexing. Love is bewildering. Someone asked me the other day why I don’t have a boyfriend. I kept muttering that I didn’t know. Then I got to thinking out loud. This is what I managed to cough out.

“I like really hot guys. And I think that’s why I’ve got a problem. They’ll ask me out on dates. We’ll go out and it’s all fine and dandy, but it never goes anywhere from there. And I think it’s because I’m not THE hot girl. So really I’m just kind of the girl on rotation. I’ll get a call on like a Tuesday night and I’m thinking…I haven’t heard from this guy in a week. Nice to know that I’m on stand-by. Thanks buddy. But seriously, where should I meet you?”

I do really like hot guys. I’ve got a string of sexy ex’es which makes me believe the hot guys are always attainable—when maybe they’re truly out of my league. My first boyfriend told me, “Catherine, you’re not a head-turner. You don’t stand out in a bar, but you’re just so much fun and full of energy.” I glared at him, stunned and insulted. My second boyfriend appreciated my outer beauty as much as my inner beauty. “Catherine’s like a model, just shrunk down.”

The thinking out loud didn’t help because I’m still muttering I don’t know. I really don’t know, but it sure is fun putting my thoughts out there in this blog. I had dinner with my dad tonight. I took him to Tommy’s Joynt. Spaghetti and meatballs and a shared pint of Boddingtons. We got to talking about my sister and her husband. As he often does, my dad said, “I really like Ronnie.”

“So do I. You know…I think Therese found the perfect husband. Dad, do you think I’ll find a good husband, too?”

“I hope so.” He repeated again, “I hope so.”

Maybe three times a charm. I hope so, too. Life is perplexing. Love is bewildering. But at the same time, I’m a finance girl. I have faith in the numbers, the equations. I’ll prove the symmetric property of equality…if it’s the last thing I do.

Helen Garber’s Olympussie Exhibit 

I went to The Shooting Gallery today to see Helen Garber’s Olympussie exhibit. The cheerleading theme had piqued my curiosity when I read about her show in a Daily Candy email. I knew it would be a tongue-in-cheek treatise on cheerleaders and all that they stood for–good looks, boundless energy, acceptance, popularity, what every girl strives for. The irony of it all being the sadness and pain hidden in beauty. The imperfection of perfection.

Proud of my high-school cheerleading experience, I patrolled the gallery expecting to lambaste the exhibit as a shallow expression of stereotypes surrounding beauty. The Stepford Wives theme on canvas. I was thinking precisely those thoughts having viewed just a couple paintings. I read the comment book–propped up for viewers to jot down notes to the artist. Someone had pored out a heartfelt appreciation for the exhibit, how she had been a cheerleader at her private high school, kicking her heels up, all cheers, all smiles, when the whole time she was drunk off her ass.

Hmmm, not sure what private school your parents were paying for, but we got detention for chewing gum on the premises.

Interesting work, but nothing spoke out to me. Until I saw ‘The Marriage Proposal.’ I think that was the title. It’s the painting featured here. Cheerleaders are on their hands and knees looking for an engagement ring like a needle in a haystack.

I wasn’t the captain of the cheerleader squad who deep down inside harbored thoughts of suicide. Underhandedly, that’s what I feel this type of exhibit is trying to convey: cheerleaders and beauty queens who represent superficial ideals should not be idolized. Despite the kodak moments, they don’t have it all.

Regardless, I felt a connection to this painting in particular because it does capture something that I grappled with then–and even now. I stood for school spirit and leadership. I was popular, but I went to the prom alone. No one asked me. I was smart, outgoing, involved, caring. But no one wanted to be with me. No one was putting a corsage around my wrist on prom night!

Fast forward nearly a decade later. I went to graduate school where the odds were in my favor. 70% men. Gone were the braces and the pimples. I was prettier, confident, polished. I was certain I’d bring home a nascent CEO boyfriend to meet my folks. Errr, right. Yeah, that didn’t happen. Seems to have happened to a lot of my classmates. But no, not this one. No bouquet for this cheerleader.

As I sit here and write this, I’m thinking, what if the joke’s on me. Maybe the artist was hoping to lure some sucker like me who initially snickered at the paintings, then realized, wait, I am one of those cheerleaders. Because she’s right. I do think I have it all. I’ve got my own place, a great job, my friends and family. But what if I am secretly combing the haystacks. I do have it all. I really do. I swear.

Everything but the ring.

Yosemite 

I’m sick. Sick-sick. Not hungover, out-of-it, or otherwise decommissioned in some way. I haven’t been this sick since Chicago–that shockingly windy, deathy cold city that caused my immune system to collapse every month or so. Oh my how I got sick in Chicago.

Back home, I seem to be in my healthy element. Except for this one blip.

Being sick turns my world upside-down. I haven’t run in a week. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to drink. If I eat, I eat cookies. When I was a kid, I requested Pepperidge Farm Mint Milanos. Right now, I’m sitting at The Grove on Fillmore drinking white tea, nibbling on a pan-sized chocolate chip cookie. I’ll probably have another cookie for dinner and be done with eating for the day. I’m wasting away, losing all my toned running muscle, as I watch the number on the scale drop every morning. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to work. I’m not 100% when I’m in the office–eyes glazed over, congested. I just want to go home and snuggle in bed.

This is when I wish I had a TV. That’s right, I don’t own a TV–by choice. My sister and I made a pact to raise our kids without television. I spend so much time reading, I have little use for a TV. She spends so much time on teaching, music, arts and crafts that she too doesn’t need a TV.

It’s the first thing people notice when they come over. “No TV?!” When I moved from Chicago, the estimator walked around my Lincoln Park studio, then asked, “So where’s your TV?” But I have to be honest, for someone who doesn’t own a TV, I do watch a lot of it. I run so much at the gym, what else am I going to do while on that treadmill for an hour? Read a book or flip through the pages of a magazine? Not while running. I run pretty fast, too.

I’ve seen it all between the hours of 6 to 10pm: The OC, Sex and the City, Cribs, Dr. Phil, Seinfeld, Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, The Fabulous Life of.., Nanny 911, Extreme Home Makeover, The Apprentice, The Scholar, Hell’s Kitchen, America’s Top Model. I can spout out every detail of the Natalee Holloway disappearance thanks to Fox News’ Greta Van Susteren. Ideally, I love to run while listening to my ipod and watching Rachel Ray’s 30 Minute Meals on the Food Network. “Remember: A great meal is never more than 30 minutes away!” She’s so cute and energetic. I don’t cook, but I’ve always been fascinated by cooking shows.

Not sure what the point of all this is. I guess when I’m sick, I want what I don’t have–like a TV so I can sit and watch movies with a box of kleenex at my side. Or a man who would come over and bake me cookies and put M&Ms in them–the way I like–just like my ex-boyfriend used to. Oh when will that happen again? Sniffle-sniffle. Time for a commercial break.

Chicago from the Navy Pier ferris wheel 

Here’s a glimpse into the past. Dated April 29, 2004, this particular column solidified my reputation as a gutsy advice columnist at the Chicago Graduate School of Business. This is probably some of the best writing I’ve ever done–hopefully not the last.

Hey there Vix,

Alrighty. Some female friends and I went for a few drinks after our Friday night Cases class, and the topic of hot men at the GSB quickly surfaced (I was purely a spectator/moderator). This evolved into a discussion concerning a 12 month calendar and who at the GSB would be included. I thought I would settle this debate for my group and go to The Source. What are your thoughts? And so I’m included at some point, what if there was a 3 year calendar for single, 2nd year-latinos at the GSB? Who would make it then? These are the questions. Thanks for the help.

-2nd Year Calendar Scout

Dear Scout,

What a great question!!! Well, boys and girls, the response you’ve all been waiting for. Frankly, I have been pushing off this question for quite a few weeks now, fretting over offending my pool of potential hook-ups. I thought about how hurt I would be if I weren’t included in a 12 month calendar of the hottest GSB women. But you know what? Fuck it.

But as a matter of fact, I know and you know, that we all know, I would fall somewhere in that female calendar.

A few notes: I can’t make an assessment on the first-year crop of guys since I know so few of them…hence, you’re all excluded from the survey. This is a 2nd Year GSB male calendar only. As for a Latino calendar, let’s not limit ourselves!

Here goes. Drum roll please. Starting off with Mr. January. This guy is most definitely at the top of my list, with muscles that are literally popping out of his shirt. Granted his baby-tees are a better fit for me, that’s still beside the point. Franco Pacelli is red hot. Yummy! All I gotta say is, I better get some lovin for this high-profile promotion.

Next up. If this guy works out as hard in the gym as he does with his schoolwork, then it’s no wonder he’s coming in close behind at #2. Brandon Lucas. Hello? Has anyone seen this guy on-campus? Like my #1 pick, he is bulging out in all the right places–and his shirts are regular-sized! Absolutely scrumptious.

Steven Devloo is perfect as Mr. March because once you get a good look, you will want to march on by his place every day. Seriously, he is the complete package. Great body and good looks to match. Lick-lick.

These three guys make up my Tasty Triumvirate. Depending on which GSB girl you ask, you’ll get some variance, but overall these three guys rank highly if you were to poll the 2nd year female population. But what do other girls’ opinions matter? They don’t. It’s all about me. So back to the list.

Aside from the top three, high on the list is the athletic prodigy Anuj Maniar. Like me, Anuj is short in stature. But we all know that good things come in small packages. There isn’t a sport this guy can’t do and do well–bowling, rock-climbing, basketball, soccer. No joke. You have to watch this guy in action. Trust me. He kicks ass.

Mr. May is David Rangel. May I touch you? You are hot! I can’t say I see this guy much on-campus anymore, but it sure is a special day when I do. Girls, watch out. You just MAY suffer from whiplash if you happen to see him walking by.

Only the best of the best can be the man for my own birthday month. Mr. June is the former high-tech group co-chair, Scott Ari Silverman. “Ari” divorced yet? I’m kidding. I’m just kidding!!! Come on now. I’m not that bad. This guy looks like he spends more time tinkering with weights than he does with his techie gadgets.

Coming in as Mr. July is my California counter-part, Eugene Sun. This sunny delight must be blessed with good genes because the whole time we lived at Regents, I think I saw him at the gym once. And I was there on a daily basis. Totally unfair! As much as I love Eugene, I hate the fact that he can eat whatever the hell he wants and still look that good. God those were the days.

Wonder twin powers activate! The 2nd Year Stewarts (Barry Stewart and DJ Stewart) share Mr. August privileges. Double your pleasure with side-by-side mug shots in the 2003-04 Campus Student Photo Directory. Page 67. Check ‘em out. I just might have to name my first-born son Stewart for good measure!

Sporty Peter Lukens is my Mr. September. Pedro, I’ve given you a lot of shit for putting on a few extra pounds, but I expect you to lose the excess once we get out of business school. There’s just something very appealing about a guy who gets up before the sun is out and mutters, “surfing!” Another California-bred hottie, Peter is always on the go…surfing, mountain-biking, frisbee-ing. You will have to teach me how to swim one of these days.

Next one up is Scott Phillips. This guy is a true athlete, a running machine. What can I do to convince you to come on out to San Francisco? I would love to train with you. If my body were as fit as yours, I’d have all my hot gay friends in SF switching their sexual preference.

And in Thanksgiving, we’ve got Ricardo Silva as Mr. November. His interests as described in the facebook: surfing, rugby, soccer. That shouldn’t come as a surprise since this guy is ripped. And watching him play soccer, you’d think he was playing in the World Cup. Damn, get me a camera! And forget the flash, Ricardo’s radiant smile puts a twinkle in every girl’s eye.

Mr. December is [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE]! Yes, you!! This column was a lot of fun to write, but nerve-wracking at the same time. I’m sitting here with the remaining list of candidates and I really can’t decide. I swear your name is here. Just think, you would have been either Mr. December or an honorable mention. Trust me!

And lastly, a special shout out goes to the hottest guy of all time, Adam “HOTTEST GUY OF ALL TIME” Pressman who graduated last year. The GSB just isn’t the same without the Pressman eye-candy.

TIME TO APPLY TO BE THE NEXT ADVICE COLUMNIST

I am now accepting applications for the next Ask Vixen. A few things to keep in mind. This is not a popularity contest. You will be judged based on your responses only! And yes, the next columnist can be either a guy or a girl. The one who started it all was Ask Booker.

View of the MUNI depot and SF from my old apartment atop Laurel Heights 

Last Friday, I met up with my friend Todd who I hadn’t seen since we graduated from college. A long time had passed, but I recognized him immediately when I walked into the bar. I joined him and his two friends Diana and David. We chatted and drank before heading to a wine event Tom was aware of. Todd and Diana were on a date. Strange that Todd had invited friends along, but that’s his deal.

This event was a wine-tasting for singles–old, unattractive singles! We were definitely the youngest ones there. We probably had them beat by about 20 years. Always one to make the best of any situation, I wagered a bet with David to solicit as many digits/business cards/contact info. as possible. I taunted him. I’m fairly skilled in this regard and I knew I would prevail. The game was on.

David said we should hang together for a while and scope out the scene. I laughed, ditched him, and moved in for my first kill. Done: one business card in the bag. The same geriatric geezer proceeded to introduce me to everyone in the bar who he knew. This was too easy! The floodgates had opened.

I did a status check on David. I was shocked. He was on the couch still conversing with the same person. “Hey Buddy,” I screamed telepathically, “the game is about sheer numbers!” I was less shocked that he was still talking to his first target, and more shocked about who he was talking to.

David came over later. Smugly, he says, “Not only did I get her number, she invited me to this party in Russian Hill.”

“David!” I gasped. “That MAN is a transvestite!!”

“Uhhh yeah…” He conceded, “I guess she does look a little manly.”

“A little? There’s nothing little about that MAN. Get with the program. OMIGOD, I can’t believe you!”

An object in motion stays in motion. By this point, I was lit up–glowing with the confidence of an overachiever and also a little bored with the continual wins. I’d already had plenty to drink and by the time my glass was half-full, I had some loser at my side, begging to buy my next glass.

‘Buzzed’ was an understatement. ‘Borderline sloppy’ was more like it.

The troops persevered. I taunted. “Hi, I’m Catherine. I’m looking for a sugar daddy because I’m too smart to be working this hard.” That always shocked them, but they ate it up. Maybe they found my blunt candor beguiling. Who wouldn’t? And I’m cute too.

The next morning, I wake up to my cell phone ringing obnoxiously, like a mosquito buzzing around ready for attack. I can’t believe I always give out my real number. My purse is bursting with business cards…there are napkins with phone numbers. Maybe one day, I’ll actually call. You know what guys? Don’t bet on it.