Time to vent the spleen!

Ever put your foot so far into your mouth you’re not sure if you’ll ever get the taste of shoe leather out? Well, yeah. That’s what I did recently. But that’s not what this entry is about, since I’m more or less hoping it’ll blow itself over and life can proceed as normal. Until I open my big mouth again, that is. So much for resolving to stop giving a shit what people think of me.

No, kids, what today’s entry is about is…food. Yeah, food. And men. But not just any old food, not just any old men. I’m talking about my love affair with Thai and Indian food, specifically, and the fact that I’ve discovered that the single male population of this area has an outright aversion to Eastern cuisine. Thai and Indian are my favorite foods ever, and obviously I don't really get to eat that stuff unless I go out. So when someone asks me out to dinner, I immediately suggest Thai and their reaction (at least the last three guys I've gone out with) has been "Ew, NO WAY." It's really disheartening. My third choice is Middle Eastern, which gets shot down just as quickly.

So that's why I get stuck eating *yawn* Italian. Or, *snore* "American" food. Don't get me wrong, that stuff is good, too, (and hell, let's face it, if I don't have to cook it or pay for it, I'll eat it), but shit, where is people's sense of adventure? Maybe it's because I grew up in a totally white-bread, Anglo family with a mom who cooked straight out of the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook (you know the one, with the red and white checkered cover, uh-huh, yep, that one), but I've found that people who've done so can go either way: either they crave more variety and interesting things (like I do) or they stay stuck in their meat-n-potatoes rut (like the guys I seem to be hooking up with lately). I’m finding a lot of compromises being made at my expense lately, and frankly, it’s really beginning to piss me off.

Now, my faithful blog-watchers, you all know that I'm a strong-willed, fiercely independent, opinionated, feisty, stubborn woman. I might not be the prettiest flower in the garden, I'll never be on the cover of Cosmo, but I'm sharp and I'm fun. But you know, deep down inside is a girl who just wants some company, someone to talk to and hang out with and go places and do stuff with, someone besides my friends (though I love them all), and someone who's not just a (sensitive readers, pleas avert your eyes) “buddy with benefits” (yeah, I totally edited that). I want the total package - intellectual, emotional, and physical stimulation and fulfillment. Someone who can be a companion and help share the things in life that bring both of us joy. However, I'm finding that the things that bring me joy (music, art, history, architecture, books, coffee, wine...) don't bring single men my age the same kind of joy they bring me - and in recent cases are actual sources of repulsion for some. This guy I went out with last night - a metalsmith/jewelry designer, no less - told me he's never been to the Albright-Knox because "Honestly, there's nothing there that I can't see in a book." Oh. my. god. And he calls himself an artist. Wow. That'd be like saying you don't want to go see your favorite band play live because you can just sit home and listen to the record.

I’m no art snob myself, but there is something honestly breathtaking about standing in front of an original piece of work. What immediately comes to mind is Pollock’s Convergence. No image in a book can ever command the kind of feeling you get standing in front of the original – the thing is a beast! It’s like 13 feet wide and 9 feet tall. There is an energy, an excitement, a certain emotional response that is evoked from stepping up and looking at an original Van Gogh, a Mondrian, A Lichtenstein...or how about Chuck Close's Janet, the nuances and details of the hundreds of tiny circles that make up her face, her hair, her earrings, her glasses, and knowing that the guy painted this from a wheelchair with a fucking brace to hold the brush to his hand...you just can’t get that from a book, I’m sorry. You just cannot.

Anyway, my last relationship having been long-distance, I'm used to being alone, used to going out alone or with friends to do stuff, not really used to combining the two things. So when I finally got over jerkface and decided to put myself out there again, I realized how much I don't know about the opposite sex, about the game and how to play it. I'm learning quickly that "Sex and the City" isn't so fictitious. I just can’t decide if I’m a Carrie or a Samantha.

I suppose it would be whichever one really likes Thai food.