Pride

I did not go to pride. Everyone has been asking me as if it were a mecca for gays and going to stand in the sticky heat elbow to elbow with a street full of queens watching bad floats is the pilgrimage all gays must go on. I made up some excuse like I do every year and blamed it on work. I said I'm proud enough. I said I don't like parades. I said a lot of stupid things that people seem to understand all the same, they know I just don't want to go. But why? Why wouldn't I want to go? Is it the prevalent shirtlessness wreaking havoc on my social anxiety and insecurities? Is it the cheap beer sloshing around everywhere? The crowds? The noise? No, and all of those are things that I'd rather avoid, but they are not the reason I didn't go. The reason is actually quite simple.

I am not proud. I don't feel pride, not this year. And it's not just that I'm lacking gay pride. I am not proud of people in general. This has been one of the worst years of my life. I have never been treated worse by people in my life. I have never been this disappointed by people. People have never made me as angry as they did this year. I've grown to resent the gay community in this city. Because as great as it is that we have moved so far in some ways we are still behind in so many others. I have never seen a more racist, prejudiced, stigmatized, or self hating community in my life. The biggest threat against the gay community is not christians, republicans, or lack of arts scholarships, it is the gay community itself.

I often make these gripes through the scope of dating but it goes deeper than that. The gay community in Chicago lacks not only acceptance, but tolerance even for others that are different than themselves. Never have I seen more discrimination than at a gay bar. Dating profiles specify ethnicities that they would like to date. If you can't grow a beard you aren't masculine enough for some men. If you don't watch football you're not straight acting enough for the masculine guys. Nobody is concerned with being themselves, but which category that already exists that they can fit themselves into.

And the lies and disrespect. I can't even begin to explain it. It seems that every month I hear from another person that got HIV from someone who was not honest or just didn't know about their status. Every other man I date instead of saying they are not interested just stops returning calls and messages. People who just want to have sex agree to dates just to have sex. People who just want to go on dates agree to have sex because they worry that nobody will love them if they don't. We are under so much pressure to perform a certain way, to look a certain way, and to go to certain places and events.

We accept words instead of actions. We accept compliments instead of respect. We let other people treat us like shit because we're afraid of being alone. We let our fears and stigma destroy us. And though it has never been easier to be openly gay, there has never been more homophobia than what exists WITHIN the community. And now, on this one day we're supposed to celebrate each other just so that when it's over we can go back to tearing each other down? I don't go to church on Christmas and I don't go to pride every summer either.

I know that these are isolated problems and I should just be proud regardless. I know that I'm not supposed to let the small percentage of terrible people in the community ruin the whole thing. I used to love this city and the gay scene here. Chicago taught me how to be a gay man, how to ignore adversity and not let any person stop me from being who I am. I learned how to stop making excuses. I learned how to treat people right. I learned these things not by example, I learned because some of the people I have met here have disgusted me so much that I vowed to do anything to not become those people.

And I am not innocent. Before I learned these lessons I made all of these mistakes. The road to adulthood is often paved with the jagged stones we meant to avoid. This post isn't to rain on the parade or point a finger. This is just an explanation of why, contrary to what I am supposed to feel, I am not proud this year. And you know what, I'm sick of being ashamed to say it. I'm sick of pretending things are fine they way they are. 

The Funny Guy

I realized something the other day. I'm not liked by many people. My personality is sometimes abrasive sometimes overly dramatic and often judgmental. In grade school kids who aren't popular are fed lies that the reason people don't like them is because their different. Sometimes this is true. In my case I just had a bad attitude and made people uncomfortable. People tell you it is what's inside that matters but I was always relatively good looking-- it was what's inside that was the problem.

As a kid I let this get to me. I acted out to get attention. I figured if I couldn't get people to like me the next best thing was get them to pay attention to me. I was angry and moody all of the time. As an adult I started liking the things about me that made me different. Then I learned an important lesson about people-- there's always some that will hate who you are, what you're doing or how you look. Sometimes there aren't any that will love you for those things.

I have always had a hard time at work. I'm a bossy diva who doesn't take direction well and questions everything. I'm used to people not liking me in the workplace. Who I am at work is like an exaggeration of my worst qualities. And I thought after years of being generally unliked has hardened me a bit. It would appear that it's not true.

One little criticism made about me completely changed my perspective and made me feel more alienated than ever. It was almost a harmless irrelevant criticism except it hit at something that is very much at the core of who I am: someone told me I complain too much. I've written previously about my complaining. Hell, most of my writing IS complaining. It shouldn't have even upset me except that it didn't feel of a criticism of my work, it felt like an attack on my personality.

Ever since then I have been very aware of the things people have been saying to me, and probably too sensitive about them. I've started to resent some of my coworkers. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the best server and I have plenty to learn. This is the first restaurant I've worked in and yes in a year and a half I've learned a lot. My sales are good, I'm tipped really well, and I have confidence in my serving style, but there's always room for improvement.

What I tend to struggle with are not guest interactions, but dealing with my coworkers. Since I started I've been the leper that people don't want to drink with outside of work. That doesn't bother me. I don't need to make friends at work, I have plenty of friends. But I'm neurotic enough I don't need people taking weird jabs at me or giving me the silent treatment.

And it doesn't help that I'm worked up in my personal life as well. I went on what was possibly the best date in history only to get more silent treatment from the man for a week. Now I'm not needy, I don't need calls and texts every day to be reassured but in the first three date range I need a man to do three things to let me know he's trying to win me over: at least offer to pay even if I won't let him, send one unexpected message with no purpose except to tell me he is thinking about me, and set up the next date. If in a week a man hasn't done at least two of these three things he is clearly not interested, or not interested enough.

I am not back burner guy. I'm not the guy that waits on the sidelines while you exhaust all other viable dating options. And I am not a patient person. If you make me wait I won't.

I'm also strung out because someone said what I'm sure sounded like a compliment but was actually the catalyst for a major revelation. In reply to some stupid joke I made he said, "Hah, you're a funny guy." Instead of sounding complimentary it sounded to me more like a scientist identifying a species of animal. I had been identified as "the funny guy." Yes, its me, making all those jokes to distract people from the fact that I'm actually frustrated with the world and all the people on it. Nobody wants the big-nosed loudmouth who's always sarcastic and never serious. Nobody wants to date the funny guy. There's nothing funny about being the funny guy. I've learned to laugh and make jokes when life hands me a dire situation because it's the only way I've gotten through all of the trauma in my life. I need my wit and humor to keep me going. And it would seem that, although gay men pretend that they want the fun funny guy, they always seem to go for the stupid simple guy who makes everything easy. 

Doesn't anyone like a challenge anymore?

Times of Buffet

For a second everything slows down, or I try my best to imagine an appropriate slow motion pan of the scene outside. If you are dining at a restaurant on the patio this is what the scene looks like: Pleasant dim-lit ambiance, fire place, a warm breeze and a mojito in a lively restaurant space. You're in your own world at the table. Enjoying the view of the river, the city lights.  This is what it looks like to a server:

Imagine a mosh pit. Now give every person in that mosh pit glass wear and three drinks. Randomly scatter chairs, backpacks and children around it. In the middle of this bustling mosh pit in 90 degree heat place a server with a tray full of martinis.

In my opinion, most disagreements come from a lack of perspective. For example, from the point of view of my table last night their drinks took a long time (5 minutes) to make, so I deserved a ten percent tip. From my perspective their drinks sent them in to a deep depression about how hideous they looked and their only resolution was to punish me for being attractive with a 2-dollar tip. There, that's perspective.

I realize that my goal of becoming less judgmental is being hindered by the industry I work in. I was discussing this with one of our hostesses outside the other day, mostly to distract ourselves from the fact that we were about to bust into flames from the heat. We were taking turns putting the unfortunate looking people who walk by on competing teams in the zombie apocalypse. The restaurant had taught us to scrutinize people in our minds, if only to mentally bring them down a notch. People were rude, boisterous, poorly dressed, annoying, badly behaved creatures that needed to be punished. It it was our job to judge these boors into oblivion.

This hostess and I had a strong bond, a war-like bond, after working the buffet together for several months last year. We're so used to how well the buffet runs now that we forget where it came from. A year ago we could barely keep the rickety old shaver we stole from banquets full of food, we ran out of every type of bread, croissants, and espresso. There was no busser. Tables became piles of filth. Our hostess was spending so much time running in the back to get tea and ketchup that she didn't have time to actually do her job so people started seating themselves at dirty tables. Confused and poorly coordinated old people dropped coffee cups on the floor that shattered. As we ran, not walked, ran with arms full of dirty sticky things people would ask us for more coffee and hold out a coffee cup as if the coffee would spurt forth from my mouth like a fountain. People became hideous ravenous creatures at the sight of the buffet, as if the offering of all-you-can-eat scrambled eggs were the full moon turning hotel guests in to werewolves. The restaurant was turned into a petri dish of bossy hormonally challenged women and fat businessmen wearing pinky rings. 

During the times of buffet only the sturdiest of servers could be trusted. It wasn’t about being smart or fast or talented, those servers worked the dinner shift. Breakfast was another world. Dinner servers were the micro surgeons, and we were the landscapers. There wasn’t much finesse or smarts needed, it was messy and mostly our goals were to just get the job done. Sensitive or weak servers just buckled, hid in the back, or cried. They broke quickly. The buffet servers were tough, durable, could take a beating and still hit the floor for more abuse. We were rugged versions of the nighttime servers, like pick-up trucks slinging thermoses of coffee and pastries. There was no knowledge of the menu, it was eggs, pancakes or some variation of those two things. There was coffee or juice. It was very straight forward. If someone asked what we thought of something it was ‘good,’ no more no less.

People left without paying, they charged the meal to rooms that didn't exist, they left zero dollar tips, one just drew a frowny face on the tip line. It was buffet-pocalypse. Total anarchy came over the restaurant. It was in this fray that we became sturdy durable and slightly jaded servers. We somehow kept our spirits up using the last power we had over these bizarre rude foreign people: the power of judgment, that and the ability to add 20% gratuity. 

This was how we cut our teeth in the restaurant, all of those part-time servers with no seniority. They threw us into the mosh pit and if we made it out alive were were guaranteed to walk with two to three hundos in our pocket. The food and beverage industry is about bottom lines, and as long as everyone is making money, nobody cares if and how much we have to suffer to do it. All servers get in the weeds, but nobody, not even the patio servers got it as bad as the morning crew. The mornings, the 6am breakfast shifts existed to crush your spirits, your hopes and dreams. It was one of those shifts that broke you and brought you back up again. There was something militaristic about it, like we were charging into battle each morning. 

You could tell the people who have been doing it the longest, the designated morning servers. Aside from a slight glassy expression in their eyes, they each had coping mechanisms to get through the shift. Some only did the bare minimum in an attempt to save energy and often shirked side work duties. Some narrowed their eyes and became perpetually disgruntled. Some people just moved slower. The more stressed out they were and the more they had to do the slower they moved, like a marathon runner pacing themselves.

It's in these moments when I am knee deep in shit on the patio that I take a breath and think back to the times of buffet and carry on. It's kind of like the "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON" poster, only ours would read: "KEEP CALM AND CARRY DRINKS."

Imagined things

Everyone has a different method to making pasta. My personal method is to bring the water to a violently rolling boil before adding the pasta. Then, once the water returns to a boil I put a lid on the pot and take it off heat and let the pot sit for ten minutes uninterrupted. This usually produces perfect al dente pasta. Obviously, the most important step in this process is boiling the water. It is the heat that transforms the pasta from one thing to another. Water will start to boil at 212° fahrenheit. People, on the other hand, reach their boiling point much faster. And unlike pasta, they are rarely transformed into something softer and better.

There seems to be a rift happening in the restaurant. It was subtle at first but is now unmistakable. There is a clearly defined, and it irks me to use the terminology, clique forming. And the one thing they all seem to have in common is some bizarre vendetta against me. The recipe for this is mostly straightforward. There is miscommunication at some point then there is resentment. And the resentment, when given enough heat, will start to expand like yeast. It bakes slowly over time to become a general dislike. It is decorated with sprinkles of offhand comments and snide remarks. It's cut into pieces and spread around. It's displayed for all to see.

There is something palpable about it. I have been on shaky ground for a while with one of our hostesses, so much so that it no longer seems logical to blame her hormones or my personality. Plain and simple, we're on the outs. We're on each other's shit list. And I could just sense it. What is usual just playful teasing back and forth felt mean spirited. I don't dance around issues like this. I confront. I went right up to her and told her she was being especially snippy with me today. She made a noncommittal noise. I asked what I did this time and she walked away. Later I asked if she was going to tell me why she was being snippy or should I just use my imagination. She suggested I do the latter.

It is at this point that my cunty-ness threshold has been reached. I'm getting all the stank attitude I can take. I'm done with the obnoxious pandering for attention and little cliques at work and the stupid jokes. I have been alienated my entire life for one reason or another and I certainly don't come to work to make friends or fit in. I'm there to make my paper, and I'm good at doing just that. And unlike the weak person I was in high school I am now  a much fiercer breed of the same animal. I can take more of a beating and it makes me stronger, sassier, and dare I say more attractive. The shittier people are to me the more determined I become to stay my whole shift and absorb more abuse because I'm like Godzilla. The things people do to try and destroy me only succeed in making me stronger and more ravenous than ever.

And in case you think this rant is in some way righteous or lionizing, think again, because I do not use my powers for good. I am not a benevolent creature. I am the sweetest person in the world until someone crosses me. Then I am a cruel, inconsiderate, and a wholly obnoxious creature that thrives off of moments, however short, of making other people miserable. The people who cross me are insignificant to me. They are cute, sweet, adorable kittens standing in front of me and I just want to step on their tails and hold my foot down. Their remarks and passive aggressive behavior are minor annoyances to me, like tiny black baby ants. They themselves are insignificant ant hills that I will pour sickly sweet lemonade on.

I am not playing with these bossy heifers any more. I'm over them, I'm over their behavior, and I'm over their bad haircuts. I do not need to act out the way that they do because I have something that they don't: no, not just my wildly unpopular blog that all of twenty people now read, but my ability to mentally will them into oblivion using the sword and shield of my overactive and over analytical mind. I am clearly put on this planet to outshine these talentless peasants who spend their days suckling the teat of mediocrity and trying to take down zealous flaming magical creatures such as myself that are imbued with such intellectual gifts honed by years of alienation and silent imagined vengeance.

You want me to use my imagination to figure out why you've got a stank attitude? This is where my imagination leads me: a bottomless hole of darkness lit only by embers of fury. I mentally empower myself with almost cartoonish fervor and, exacerbate every tiny action of yours into heinous crimes agains my being. That is where my imagination goes.

Obviously, I'm beyond my boiling point tonight. I'm at the point where pasta starts to break down and turn into mush. I've been boiling so long I'm basically porridge.

My disclaimer: I would like to point out that, in the spirit of hyperbole, the majority of this blog was written in a completely facetious tone--even more so than my usual hyper-exaggerated writing. No actual people, only imagined ones, were harmed in the conception of this blog.

Conversations

As much as I try to let go of the past I can't help but rehash conversations from time to time. It's partly the writer in me that clings to every inflection and word. The exchanged words are so important to me. And now that it's over they are all set in stone. All I can do is go back and re watch the same scenes over and over and hope that maybe this time I'll see something I never saw before.

The man that broke my heart owned a bar and while we were together he almost lost his bar. I remember the exact moment when I began to question whether or not he was serious about starting a relationship with me. I realized when the threat of losing his bar was upon him how inextricably linked he was to the business. It wasn't just the work that he did, it was who he was. He had staffed the place with his friends, and created something of a sanctuary. The bar was this perfect orb of fragility. It was the fact that it could so easily be broken or sold or taken away that made it so special.

This man, I'll call him Bill, was not so much a man, but an ocean liner carrying too much and with too few life boats. His friends and what he considered his family were all at the mercy of this bar. The people in his life were doomed to either ride him to the end or be thrown overboard, and the risk seemed worth it for the luxury of him. When Bill came into your life he promised to make it exciting, he promised to make you a star in his constellation. I beheld him like something elegant and massive coming into my life, and yet there was fragility to him--like all seafaring objects. At any moment, if he went down, he would take so many with him. Was it kindness or selfishness that kept him afloat? It was impossible to see from the observation deck of love, I could see everything behind, and some of what was ahead but I couldn't see where I presently was. Love was a great fog, with all the fabulous details filled in by our imaginations. 


The conversation we were having was when he finally broke down and admitted he was horrified to lose everything, his relationship, his bar, his stability. I seemed to be the metaphor for all this change in his life. What it sounded like he was saying was our relationship could not work if the bar didn't succeed. It was in these moments of weakness, when Bill broke down and expressed his honest fears and anxiety, that I saw the perilousness of my own situation. I was now at the mercy of his buoyancy. I was now one of the people riding this liner and if he went down in some way he would take me with him. When he expressed this fear over losing his business all I could say was:


"But you are not what you do," desperately trying to keep him afloat. It was now a matter of my own self preservation that kept me supporting him. Just like he felt a strong unwavering bond to the bar, I felt it too. I came alive in that bar. I became the person I was then and there. And I wasn't going to lose the bar or the relationship.


When we met he insisted on getting me to dance to Madonna, which ended with the two of us dancing on top of the bar. Then, just like a blur of light, a blur of life, Ray of Light came on, we took a shot of Jameson and I vogued even though it wasn't Vogue. Dancing on top of the bar I felt a burst of energy; in the service industry it's called a second wind. I felt like I was coming back to life, in a Molotov cocktail of whiskey and passion. In this moment I knew that I was in love, not just with a man but a moment and a feeling and a life. I was falling back in love with my life. Nothing ever felt better. Bill grabbed me with one arm and flailed with the other, I let the drunk wash over me like a baptism. I was born again at a bar, a disciple of effervescent energy and blaring music.


Now I walk by the street before it comes to life, that corner of State street that looks like a ghost town by daylight. I can still remember that feeling. I can move on and move past it but I can never forget that the energy I felt when I had a place that I felt I belonged. When things ended between us I didn't just lose the man, I lost the bar. I had been forced to walk a plank away from everything that I loved, including those brief moments that I loved myself.


What I realize now is that it was artificial alcohol-induced confidence that I had been feeling. I wasn't alive in those moments, I was a barfly thriving off of the energy of others.

Chicken Balls

As union servers is is our sacred collectively bargained right to complain; it's right up there with two fifteens and a thirty minute break. We come with a preternatural ability to kvetch about any and everything. And when it comes to working in a restaurant there is always plenty to complain about, and usually a few people on the payroll to entertain those complaints. The managers do everything they can to satiate us but there is nothing that will quell the collective whine of a thirty odd food an beverage employees.

I think the complaining comes from a lack of control. In exchange for absolutely no responsibility and exorbitant amounts of untraceable income, we give up all control over the workplace. We have no say in anything and no pull when it comes to the schedule, uniform, or working conditions. And it may seem like a raw deal. Truthfully, most servers have more food and beverage experience and are more capable of running a restaurant than our supervisors. But if you offer any one of us a management position we'd almost definitely turn it down.

Why? Because we make more money. We get overtime. We don't worry. If something goes wrong (even if it is our fault) it's never our fault. When most restaurants may be struggling just to break even with their overhead, there's not a single server who's just "breaking even." We're making bank. This may be why most restaurants fail so quickly, because the discrepancy between employees making tons of money and the company making tons of money. And, as a union employee, I have more job security and better benefits than my managers.

And, again, there's the money. Because we don't make "okay" money. We don't make "good" money. We make sick money. Crazy money. Unreal money. I mean for the average level of education and work experience of a server in Chicago, we probably make double what most entry-level employees make. And the best thing is, it looks like we make nothing.

So you may wonder, when we're bringing home that much MFB, what could there possibly be to complain about? What great injustice could light a fire under us so and cause such relentless guff from the servers? I have two words:

Chicken Balls.

In the year and a half working for the hotel restaurant I have become accustomed to the awful employee food served. I have been plagued by it. You may think that, working in a restaurant, we eat pretty well. It is not so. The dismal state of employee meals in the hotel has led to a melting pot of malady and disease, and a slew of strange new hybrid eating disorders.

Behold: the bacon eater. A vulture-like server who exists merely for those few precious moments when there is an opening on the line to snatch a piece of bacon. This person lives for the bacon, and lives off of the bacon. They will function solely on bacon and diet soda for days at a time.

Then there is the other strange creature that exists in restaurants: the squirrel. Nobody knows who this person is but there is (at least) one in every restaurant. This person picks up scraps of food from all over the kitchen and hides them places for future snack attacks. We will find evidence of their hoarding, fries, onion rings, bagels, muffins, egg white frittatas, bits of baguette, half-consumed $5.00 bottles of water. They will stash them in the most annoying of places: the hostess stand, the second drawer in the manager's desk, the ice bin.

There are the abstainers. These bastions of temperance think that by refusing breaks and meals they are somehow indued with superhuman powers of restraint and badass server cred.

The reason for these bizarre relationships with food stems from (in my opinion) those two words:

Chicken Balls.

Of all the awful food that is served under the guise of edibility there is one that stands ahead of the pack. Worse than the curdled mayonnaise, limp pasta with a pungent sauce that has the unmistakable odor of salmonella, vegetables that taste the way a baby's diaper smells, worse than all of that are the chicken balls. Chicken meat torturously hammered and shaped into a sphere of confusing intention, encompassing a single pat of butter that will melt into a pustule of fat when the ball of chicken meat is breaded and deep fried. This artifact of culinary angst vaguely resembles an egg and behaves in much the same way because if you were to bite into this thing, the butter would spurt forth, freed from it's imprisonment within the chicken-y walls of dismay. This dish, inexplicably served five to six times a month in the employee dining room has no known name or origin, except perhaps from some medieval prison cafeteria. These chicken balls are the bane of our existence, and--I'l say-- reason enough for our incessant complaints.

Boulders

Sisyphus pushed a boulder up a hill over and over only to fail and have it roll back down to the bottom just before reaching the top. I appreciate the metaphor for persistence, but find it hard to understand the whole "one more time" aspect. If you can reasonably surmise that a task is insurmountable then why continue on knowing you'll likely fail?

This question has crossed my mind every time I am presented with the daunting task known as the first date. I am trying to be less negative and less judgmental, which would be gangbuster except I need pessimism like the rest of you need oxygen. But is it pessimism or self preservation that causes me to be wary of first dates? A year ago I would have been head over heels for an attractive older Jewish man asking me out on a brunch date at east bank club. The bialy and the banter about what-his-nuts' daughter's wedding at the Trump and Gucci loafers. And what's more the man's a divorced doctor with more zeros in his bank account than there are crying teenage girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Honestly a brunette from the east coast couldn't ask for much better.

Yes, there were red flags. China doesn't have any many red flags as this guy. And I get it. I'm older jew-bait. They eat me up like gefilte fish. I'm a witty big-nosed loud-mouthed shegetz from Philly. I've basically got mid-life crisis stamped on my forehead. I've dated every single (and some married) older jewish man from here to the North Shore. The problem was not that I sensed this man was using me, it was that it all seemed so familiar. The brunch date followed by shoe shopping at Nordstrom and another pair of loafer I don't have room or money for. Everything about the date seemed so choreographed right down to our perfectly timed double bluff where we pretend to set up the next date but then pretend to be too busy the rest of this week to see if the other will call over the weekend.

Nothing about it seemed exciting. The first date was like watching a re-run of a Friends episode it was fun the first time, worth a watch the second, and each time after that you only watch because there's nothing else on.

Match.com has also been increasingly frustrating as the site has takes to recommending guys that I've already contacted. It could be that my standard is now so low that my key requirements are they need to have a job and have a face, and anything beyond that is probably negotiable.

I'm trying to avoid falling into a rut but it would appear I'm already in one. I try not to have a case of the why me's but I look at the guys I'm attracting for the most part and have to ask: what am I doing wrong? I think I'm okay looking. A solid seven. Although lately I'm starting to wonder if I might be a six. I don't think my personality is that awful, and once you get to know me you get used to the apparent narcissism and constant nagging. I don't think my clothes are that awful. Yes, I insist on wearing long sleeves in 90 degree weather and still do the invisible tie thing but I know I have flawless taste in clothing.

If not any of those things than what? Can they smell desperation like animals? Is if that I don't list karaoke or the cubs in my interests or refuse to wear a baseball cap?

What is it that these men are looking for and how many more first dates am I going to have to go on before I convince someone I have it?

Fever

In high school my performance might have been lackluster. And by "might have been" I mean I had a 2.7 GPA and my extra curricular activities were limited to activities I could do sitting down. High school wasn't my forte, and I am of the school of thought that believes that people who are good in high school suck in the real world. However, though I may have wasted my glory days huffing paint fumes in art club as a teenager, my adult life has clearly been a flourishing stream of success and achievement.

Okay, who am I kidding? My adult life has been a series of failed relationships, dead end jobs, and shameless attention seeking. And it's not that I don't have a righteous, sometimes zealous, a-type personality, keen organizational skills, and awe inspiring talent to be successful--I simply have not found appropriate vessel. I used to think writing was my calling, and it may still be but a stroll through the aisles at Barnes and Noble is not encouraging: Reality TV stars (although I admire them greatly for their suckling of the limelight) and their ghost-written blather about the tough climb to the bottom of the top, teenage novels marketed to adults because most read at a sixth grade level, and the preponderance of mommy memoirs and books about how its okay to be greedy or republican or both.

No, I must push on, undaunted by the tripe saturating the shelves of corporate bookstores. I can't let the fact that even Steve Harvey can get a nonfiction book optioned to Hollywood upset me or drag me away from my craft. If only life were a little more like high school, teachers constantly checking in a guiding us along the way. As a writer, after graduation, if you don't join a writing group and don't have much of an audience, there's nobody to tell you if you're moving in the right direction. There are no more letter grades to let us know how we're doing, and no syllabus to tell us what's coming next.

The last two days I've been doing battle with more than just my inner demons over the popularity of Fifty Shades of Grey-- I've been fighting off a wicked stomach flu. Armed with about twenty bottles of vitamin water and three seasons of Glee I should have been well prepared for the 72 hours in bed. What I wasn't prepared for was the amount of time it gave me to ruminate. I try not to think too much when I'm sick because mostly the thoughts lead to 'If I wasn't single there would be someone here taking care of me.'

Some people went to the school of hard knocks, I graduated magna cum laude from the school of nothing-matters-if-you-don't-have-a-boyfriend. People tell me I shouldn't jump into a relationship if I'm not okay by myself. These people:

A. Are in relationships

B. Disgust me

My problem is that I'm lonely. And the solution to that problem is not to stay alone. I have great friends (bartenders) that I see often enough. I enjoy going to work (making money) for the most part. I have a fulfilling and culturally rich appreciation of the arts (GQ). I'm ready to finally bring home yet another MFB, a mother fucking boyfriend.

I am aware that my over-thinking of this matter is immensely attractive to a man. Okay, so I might not be the most easy going of guys. My voice might sound like Fran Drescher when I get excited. I may have an excel spreadsheet of varieties of men that are ineligible for dating and how many zeros behind their income would make them eligible. I still think I'm a catch, deadliest catch, but still worth taking out for a cocktail.

My experience on Match.com is proving to be even more depressing than being single. I'm now single, and looking. The active looking immediately makes me more desperate than I already was. Then there's my stiff competition on the site: men who list stargazing as a fun date idea. I filled out everything there is to fill out on my Match profile, sent e-mails to any and every bachelor that even came close to my scope of datability. So far the only person who has shown any interest lives in Schaumburg. And he likes fishing. I would just like to say that my idea of fishing is telling the server to surprise me at Sushi Samba.

It might just be my fever but reading through my daily matches makes my face burn hot, not in a sexy turned on way, but an enraged I might spit fire at the next person who starts their profile "just seeing what's out there." I'll tell you what's out there, the same bullshit that exists everywhere but instead of just being rejected by a person's face you're rejected by their entire personalty dossier.

This crankiness might be brought on by my temperature, or the lack of sleep I've been getting. Or it might be that I miss having someone around when I feel this way. I even called my mother and asked for advice (even though I know how to handle a flu). Even just hearing her tell me to stock up on Motrin was really calming. It's not so much the relationship stuff that I miss, it's the companionship. It's having someone that cares what color your snot is and how much water you're drinking that really matters.

The Moves

These are the moves. order your drink at the service bar while you pick your mark and your seat. The perfect seat is flanked with two empty seats on either side, preferably more. It must be exactly adjacent from your target. If you sit next to the target it will minimize the effect of the moves. It’s essential to be in direct eyeshot. Once you have your drink sit across from the target and immediately find a dummy target, someone within eye shot of you and the target.

1. Run hand through hair, glide this motion into a lean on your hand then prop your head up on one or two fingers. If you’re old enough to have lost your hair you’re too old for the moves.

1. Do the straw thing. Stir your drink briefly with your cocktail straw, then bring one end to your mouth casually and chew on it. Don’t be too slutty about it, don’t put the straw all the way into your mouth you idiot, just outline your mouth a little, give it a bite. If it looks like you’re putting on lip gloss you’re over doing it. The moves require a certain finesse to look natural and not feminine.

1. Pull out your wallet and look for something. This should be done toward the end of your drink to heighten the anxiety that you might not have another. Pull cards out, rearrange them, put them back in. Act like you’re looking for something. Stand up to put the wallet back in your pocket the hop back on the chair and resume drinking.

1. Smile at the dummy target. This works best when the dummy target isn’t even looking at you. The point here is so the target can see you in a moment where you don’t think you’re being watched. This also heightens his competitive spirit because now he sees you smiling at another man. At this point he will probably go to war for you; he’s on the hook. Resist the urge to look back at him just yet.

1. When the bartender asks to refill your drink tell him, “Not just yet.” and then do that thing that gays do at a bar when their bored, pull out your smartphone and look at Facebook for approximately five minutes straight, don’t look up once, be impenetrable. He’ll worry that you’re waiting to meet someone, maybe you’re being stood up, maybe you’re telling another guy to come here, maybe you’re buying drugs, maybe your telling your friends about this hot guy thats sitting at the bar. While looking at the phone reach into your glass, grab an ice cube and put it in your mouth, move it around a bit as it melts. At this point he will probably take a bullet for you.

1. Now, take your empty rocks glass and place it on the bar mat, the universal sign for done/need another. Before the bartender returns look up and make eye contact with your target. If he is not looking at you then he’s either not interested or you’ve not mastered the moves. Grab your stuff, go to the bathroom, and return to another seat and work on another target.

1. If your target is looking at you then lock eyes, a mouth “hi” to him across the bar. If he doesn’t nearly fall off his chair from trying to jump out of it you didn’t succeed. When he gets up he’s not going to walk to your side of the bar, he’s going to jog. He’s going to elbow every other patron and probably spill someone’s drink. He will be in the seat next to you in five seconds flat. Men are just trees in a forrest, they all fall the same way.

Now, confirm the target is into you. If he looks at you smile and turn away and immediately focus attention on the dummy target. Direct these actions to the dummy target and not the actual target. Repeat the moves in whatever order you see fit: