Seattle Dating Scene

I know that I can be a bit old fashioned: I expect to be courted. I don't tend to date multiple people at a time. I like writing letters rather than texting. But the dating scene in Seattle is a very odd place. I know that the city is a passive city in comparison to the blunt conversations in which I partook in Los Angeles.  That passivity blooms out of the identity crisis of Seattle: it's a big city that wishes to behave like a small town. And I love Seattle. I enjoy the gloomy skies, the waterfront, the skyline, the obsession over being "green", and the fixed gear bikes that take over the streets.  But it's not without fault and where I notice it most is within the romantic interactions in the lives of my friends and I.

I have been on several dates with men that start out as seemingly normal whether it was dinner and a movie, a comedy show, concert and some cocktails, or whatever dinner and entertainment combination the testosterone-wielding component had come up with. But the supposed goodbye is where things turn out differently than I would expect. I would expect an awkward kiss goodnight after a first date or maybe even just a hug. But it's usually assumed, in Seattle at least and not just in my experiences, that now is the time when I go into his apartment and spend the night.   Now why is this the assumption? It might not even necessarily be for sex, but spending the night is a bit advanced for just after the first date. I am a female with morals and standards and integrity. I wish to part ways and wait for you to call me the next day to make future plans. But you want me to come over and sleep in your bed which basically equals sleeping next to a complete stranger.

When did this become the norm? To share such an intimate space before your even sharing secrets and entire life stories? What happened to second dates and aligning two schedules?

Just my thoughts. And my criticisms. Maybe this is what it is like now for people in their mid-20s? I, for one, miss the days of butterflies and phone calls and will gladly leave behind text messages and possible one-night stands of cuddling and awkward false intimacy.

xo

Gosh! Delilah is so simplistic but I can't deny that it's fantastic. And who doesn't love a song written about a housecat.

One Pink Rose

The following is a short story that is still in the editing stages. It is about a boy that I shall call The Artist for now.

One Pink Rose

“This is for you. This way the flower will never die.” he effortlessly said his probably well-rehearsed line as he handed me his latest art project: a pink rose for me. The details were flawless and the paper burned on the edges. He had listened when I told him I was in my pink phase. Whatever I meant by that. Sometimes lines are delivered because they sound good, like some dame in a 1960s movie who is as scattered as the record of men whose company she has kept. It’s similar to posing for a picture that is never going to be taken; instead you are writing dialogue for a movie that will never be filmed.

I was a bit speechless. When it comes to cheesy lines, I fall for them all. The delivery. The timed pauses. I suppose it’s all a result of too many old movies and my repetitive swooning over Humphrey Bogart’s seemingly candid brand of romance.  As soon as I could muster up the vocal power to say anything at all, I murmured, “Thanks.”  I snatched the rose from between his long fingers before he could do much more than smirk at me. I wondered what was going on behind his eyes and behind that gaunt face of his. I realize that under my aloof, cat-like nature, I have feelings…feelings for him. But did he?

He puts his bag in my room, pets my cat, and takes off his shoes.  He’s been here a couple times before…always invited never a surprise. I watch his willowy figure and sparsely tattooed arms amongst my things. Does he fit? Can his hands pull up my cheetah print throw and fold it so that the feline is still comfortable on her bed? Can he light the tea candles by my bed every night and listen to the quotes of Kierkegaard that I wish to read out loud to collect his thoughts? But more importantly, is he comfortable holding me every night: the right amount of pressure to where I don’t feel suffocated but I do feel safe?  Is he comfortable sleeping on a satin pillow case and next to a poster-size print of Mulholland Drive? Both scenarios could play out: he could become at home in my space and my scenery or we could be saying goodbyes sooner than I wish. I’m not sure I want either.

Samo rubs against his leg, not so subtly asking for his attention and I remark: “She seems to like you.”

“I have a way with cats.” he glibly offers.

“Sure you do.” There is more that I wish to say. But my brain stops me short. That and the fact that my best friend, more often than not, teases me about my catlike behaviors and demeanor. Do you want to be affectionate towards me? I’m not in the mood. Do you want to be left alone? Pay attention to me now. Are you reading that book? Pay attention to me instead. Are you staring at me? Stop looking at me.  Always on the opposite end of the spectrum of you and always making you wonder if I am purposefully being contrary. 

He sits down on the couch and taps the cushion next to him, asking me to occupy the space next to him.  I do, apprehensively. I curl into him and begin to breathe deeply as the opening sequence of the movie begins to sound.  It doesn’t much matter what movie he has chosen, I know that I am going to fall asleep within a matter of moments.  No matter how much I struggle with insomnia, the warmth of another being beside me makes me sleepily comfortable.  That feeling of safety is even more encompassing when it is radiating from a man that I hold high in regard.  I wake up periodically to nothing more than to check to see if he is still there and Samo is still within sight. 

My top tracks: Pretty Face and Bad Dream

Eventually the final credits roll and I am awoken by a lack of Hollywood dialogue.  I sit up. He watches me. I go into my bedroom: past the cheetah print throw and after lighting the tea candle on my bedside table, crawl under my comforter and lay my head down on a satin pillowcase.  He waits a few moment and, after a permissive smile from me, crawls under the comforter to rest his head on a satin pillowcase next to mine and to Kierkegaard’s.  Maybe we’ll only be saying “good morning” for longer than I thought.

First Things First

Current Album: Alone,Alone by Hungry Ghosts

Writing is my livelihood but I sometimes find that I do not get to write about the thoughts and events that are circling within my own mind.  So I wish to write for myself.  Every entry here will have what record I am listening to (or a playlist if my musical tastes happen to be a bit chaotic that day) and what I am currently pondering whether it be a romantic situation (let's face it...it usually is),  a quote from a book that I have happened to come across, a cd or show review...whatever I happen to desire.  It's not that I don't enjoy my freelance writing for interviewing musical celebrities and getting to ask them about their lifestyles and mindset is fantastic, but sometimes I need my own textual outlet.  It will be interesting to balance this amongst my college studies, my freelance assignments, and my life...but after all what other purpose would my insomnia better serve?!

Let's see what happens.