After he paid for an afternoon of drinks and then another evening of drinks and dinner, it’s my turn. “Dinner on me,” I offered in an email. Then continued, “one of these days I’ll have to learn how to cook.”
“How about this time?”
Gulp. I agreed and have been panicking ever since. My head is spinning with suggestions and emails of friends’ EASIEST recipes.
Omigosh, seared ahi tuna. You cannot go wrong!
Breaded pork cutlet. So simple!
Pasta and proscuitto. You can make it in your sleep!
Lounging on Marc’s couch the other night, I told him my predicament. “Marky, I agreed to cook for this guy. Can you believe it? I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“So Catchy, I’m going to make the dinner.”
“NOOO! Of course not. I’m just going to have to learn.”
“Listen, you don’t want to fuck this up, alright? It’s all about marketing. And marketing is all about lying. I’ll come over, make the meal. It’ll be simple, but good, so it’s believable. And you can laugh when you’re older and it’ll be a story to tell.”
“That’s funny. Really, but no. I have to figure this one out.”
“Fine. This is the easiest recipe ever. I swear. I’ve made this countless times on a whim. Do you know how to boil? OK, you’re half-way there…”
There are a handful of times in my life I’ve been attracted to women. Not just ‘oh I think she’s beautiful,’ but really attracted to women. A few times at Burning Man. Maybe it was the drugs. Once or twice at a club. Once I met a friend of a friend and was deeply attracted to a combination of her beauty and outgoing personality.
I was at the gym the other night and stopped dead in my tracks when this gorgeous woman (about my age) exited the shower stall. She whizzed by me, covered in a towel, and I actually turned my head and stared. I have a female type: blonde, blue-eyed, and busty. My type is the complete opposite of me, but she wasn’t that at all. She had long, thick, straight black hair that came down to the middle of her back and dark, brown eyes. She looked like Jennifer Connolly, but thicker and curvy.
After I showered, I was delighted to see her in my section of the changing room. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help myself. I watched her dress and put her make-up on. I was smitten. It’s the first time upon first glance I’ve been sexually attracted to a woman. Keeping my options open if the men I’m dating don’t pan out.
Every once in a while I google myself to see what other people are seeing out there. Figure out what information the stalkers have on me. I have a unique name so the research isn’t difficult. My blog’s out there, obviously. Stuff from when I wrote my column in business school. Lots of pictures of myself from the column, plus pictures that I took of school functions and submitted for the paper.
But I was pleased to see a Burning Man listing among my Google results. I’m credited on the Burning Man web site as a 2006 staff member. I didn’t even know that I was on there until I googled myself. Those of you who read my blog know how fanatical I am about Burning Man. And as much fun as I’ve had each year, volunteering made me feel like I was centrally connected. Group shot above of the ARTery. I’m the black girl in the front row.
I can’t take this anymore. My heart is bursting…needing, wanting. I long for a dog. Is this what it’s like to want a baby? To long for a child? Time flies by when I’m at the animal shelter. Every time, I want to adopt. I’m not even thinking clearly. All the responsibilities, the time commitment, the consequences. I want to take one home.
I even have a name. Gatsby. Because he’s great.
(If anyone takes my dog’s name, I will go on a rampage. Don’t do it.)
Pictures from the last animal shelter visit. I could’ve taken either of them. The chihuahua mix was alert, but not too frisky. Cuddly. The other one was dopey and dumb, but affectionate. That’s what I want. Sedate. Hypoallergenic. Lap dog. Loveable and loving.