She's Writing a Novel

There's this oh-so-ironic holiday commercial on this season, featuring three adolescent females, two verizon cell phones, the verizon network crew, and an angry Shetland pony. You've seen it.

Anyway, when this commercial came on the other night I turned to the Russian lover and said "the children aren't getting a pony for Christmas." (Speaking of hypothetical future children, not of, say, children I've failed to mention until now because we keep them hidden in the attic.) The subject of children doesn't often come up between us, unless it's in the form of a joke ("Hey i think i might be pregnant! Hah hah, just kidding! You were scared it was true for a minute there though, weren't you!") or a discussion after a friend's child's birthday party ("Never. Ever. Never ever").

Which is to say I found the pony so creepy that I had to speak up and preemptively rule out any pony-having.
"You won't let your kids have ponies?" the Russian lover asked.
"No."
"So we're not going to have horses on the country estate? Come on. Don't you want horses?"

And initially I thought, no, I don't want horses either. But then I remembered that horses will require a stable. And if we have a stable, then we're going to need...a stableboy! And as a woman with a degree in English Literature, I understand the many ways in which stableboys can be put to good use. So I have decided that if the kids want horses, that will be just fine.

And then, when we've hired the poolboy and the manny, my harem will be complete.

Last night the Russian lover had a dinner date with an ex-girlfriend, and I went out to a bar alone for dinner and drinks and flirting with strangers. Neither of us had qualms about the other's plans, which is the kind of thing that causes some people to believe our relationship is unhealthy and unstable, and others to suspect that our relationship is unnaturally healthy and stable.

In any event, after he was off I settled myself with a glass of wine at the bar of a nearby restaurant, and waited. I was waiting to see who would approach a young woman sitting alone at a bar on a Tuesday night, and what they would have to say. I pretended to watch a hockey game on TV, trying to look both bored and approachable. But the bar was full of jealous and guarded couples, and I came to my second glass of cabernet having exchanged words with only the bartender.

But then, a thirty-something man approached and delivered the age-old opening salvo: "Is anyone sitting here?"

Game on, I thought.

"No, not at all," I said.

The first volley complete, I hoped for an interesting match.

And indeed, it seemed we might have a sporting good time, so to speak; he was a writer for ESPN, in town to interview a few local athletes.

"I never have trouble picking up men!" he joked. I laughed. That was clever. I wondered if he used that line every time he told a woman what he did for a living.

I told him I didn't know much about American sports; I tended to date Europeans, and so soccer was the only game I paid attention to. He was looked already defeated as he confessed that he was from Michigan.

We talked about the city - where to go and what to do. He said the hotel he was staying in was very nice. I almost told him how I had always wanted an excuse to stay at that particular hotel, which was true, and it would have certainly perked him up again. But no, I wanted to see if he could put just a little effort into something - if he was the kind of man who didn't need to mention his bed to get a woman into it.

Perhaps the days interviewing on the road had become a habit; our conversation digressed into little more than a mechanical exchange of information. It was dull and tedious and ultimately meaningless, like filling out an application for a job you don't even want. I realized that sitting alone with my own thoughts was more enjoyable than talking to this man, but we continued to chat, and I held out faint hope that he would suprise me yet.

The Russians lover's dinner was over, and he was on his way to meet me. I explained to the fellow that a friend of mine was wrapping up his dinner date, and on his way over to give me the dish. When one man doesn't initially display any interesting dimensions, sometimes throwing him up against another man brings out his true colors. Remember, competition is what gave us the peacock's tail.

So when the Russian lover arrived, and sat himself on the other side of me, I turned to him with delight and without any introduction to the man on my right. And waited for the man on my right to reassert himself to my person, or to re-insert himself into conversation, or to give any indication that he was a man who knew how to play the game.

But it turned out, he was just a guy who likes to write about games. Within ten minutes, he was on his Blackberry arranging for an escort. And within twenty minutes, I was going home with the man on my left - a man who would rather score by playing the game.

There may be many respects in which I am a cliche of a woman, but my shoe count is not one of them. Regardless of their socio-economic status, most women seem to have pairs of shoes numbering in the dozens. Women speak about their shoes the way men talk about their past lovers - with intimate fondness and perhaps the faint wish of making the listener jealous.

I am a shoe monogamist. I only buy shoes when I have to, and that is usually when the shoes that I have been wearing faithfully every day for the past year finally fall apart beyond all repair. Then I set out reluctantly to find a replacement, knowing that whatever I manage to find will not be the same. Shoe shopping is thus bittersweet.

Every season has it's shoe, of course. The boots for fall and winter, the slides for spring and summer, the black stiletos for evenings. But sometimes there is an unprecedented occasion needing a kind of shoe that is not to be found in my meager shoe wardrobe, sending me out to the stores in search of something I would not otherwise have sought to aquire.

For example, a silver lame minidress requires a certain kind of shoe, which is something I did not realize until I bought a silver lame minidress. Oh, and if you're wondering why I would purchase a silver lame minidress, let me tell you: I don't go running 4 miles a day so I can look good in sweatpants and Uggs.

So then. Store after store I searched for something that could conceivably work with a silver lame minidress to make it an outfit instead of a costume. And would you believe it, such a thing was harder to find than a silver lame minidress. But finally, after a few hours and a dozen or more stores, I discovered something that just might work...a grey suede stileto booty in a provocative design, with subtle metallic croc skin accents. It was an interesting shoe on its own -- the kind of shoe that makes me think I might become a shoe polygamist after all - but most importantly, it could work with the silver minidress.

I asked if they had them in my size, with some trepidation. I am a size 8, and apparently so is every other woman in this city, because most of the time stores are out of the shoes I want in my size. They come out from the back room apologetic and empty-handed.

So I was ecstatic, if somewhat confused, when the sales girl came out with not one box, but two.

"Here it is in a 7.5 and 8.5," she said.

Because, apparently, two pairs of shoes with sizes that average to the right size are just as useful as the pair of shoes in the right size. Truly, I was so impressed with her logic and math skills that I almost forgot to be disappointed that they didn't have the shoes in my size. Perhaps that was the effect she was going for.

I explained to her that as I was not a size 7.5 or 8.5, neither of these was going to fit me even remotely, and I am not so masochistic as to go around in an ill-fitting four-inch heel. She seemed to comprehend, and went to the back room again; when she came out this time, she carried several boxes all marked clearly "Size 8." These shoes, however, were not the shoe I wanted. They were, she said, other shoes that were similar to the shoe I wanted. And here, apparently, "similar" means only that these were also objects designed to be worn on my feet, as that was about all they had in common with the shoe of my desire. I thanked her politely and bolted from the store before she could make another trip to the back room.

I found another pair of shoes in the next store. Grey suede peep-toe stiletos; not as wonderful as the other pair, but still lovely as well as actually in my size. And on sale.

And as every woman knows, nothing coordinates better with your dress, silver lame or otherwise, than shoes that are on sale.

I overheard a conversation between two waitresses yesterday; they were lamenting about being unable to find "The One" and subsequently, about all the lonely nights spent with their cat and a pint of ice cream. They seemed to think that it should be immediately possible to identify The One upon meeting him, without having to be bothered to speak to him or hang out with him or fuck him. They wanted "The One" to come with a placard signifying such: These women clearly were not interested in the messy work of discovering another human being - be that discovery pleasantly surprising or bitterly disappointing. Then again, perhaps these women were the kind for whom "The One" does in fact wear a placard-- a placard known as a black American Express card.

But there seem to be many people who believe deeply and existentially in The One. I don't know why you would torment yourself with that thought. But then, I suppose most of the people who believe in such a thing, while belonging to a species 6 billion members strong, must not know much about statistical probability. Or they just conveniently believe in fate, or God, or eHarmony, or some other force which facilitates the act of finding that 1 person out of 6 billion.

The thing that has always put me off to the idea of The One is, what if it is true that there is only one person for you, and you find them? And then they get hit by a bus? What do you do then? Do you resign yourself to solitary existence? Do you reluctantly carry on relationships with people who you know to be inferior to your previous mate, solely on the basis that they are not The One, because the other one was The One? Or do you then maybe begin to suspect that the one who is dead is not really The One, because if they were then they wouldn't be dead. Obviously. The fates or gods or website that brought you together couldn't be that cruel. And this new person is pretty cute, so hey. Maybe you just got it all wrong and THIS is The One.

But then what if The One v2.0 leaves you for a tranny hooker? What do you tell yourself then? Do you descend into self-loathing because The One got away? Do you yet again decide that you failed to correctly identify The One and set your sights optimistically on The One v3.0?

At what point does a person begin to suspect that there may, in fact, not be The One? That there are only "the ones" - the ones you'd like to sleep with but should never ever marry, the ones you'd like to talk to but the thought of them naked makes you queasy, the ones you could reasonably settle down with as long as you never attempted to procreate with them, the ones you adore who won't give you the time of day. The ones who help you discover what exactly it is you want after all. The ones who make it clear (sometimes painfully so) just who The Ones are. The Ones who are not perfect, but who are just right. And the best thing is, there is more than one of them out there.

Unless you are, say, an adult person with dubious hygeine living in your aging parents suburban basement, spending your time playing video games, eating Dorritos, and learning to speak Klingon. Then you might have to hold out for The One.

Well, actually, no - let's be honest here. In your case, there's a good possibility that you're going to have to build The One out of scrap metal and silicone.