Where have all the cowboys gone?

Growing up in my house was like living on a military base without the moving and brattiness. When you got a 98 on a test Dad made you run around the block until you threw up. When I was 14 I wanted to see Whitney Houston in concert. The only way I could get a ticket was to go with some friends and buy them from a scalper. When I told my parents my brilliant idea, Dad pulled out one of the many penal law books in his library, found the appropriate law that I was about to break and made me write it 100 times.

There were some perks to having a dad who was a cop and a military historian. He taught me how to break into a house, I was the only kid on our block with a real bow and arrow set, and there was never a shortage of books for me to read and do reports on. Dad’s love of history was contagious. You couldn’t eat breakfast until you told him what war anniversary took place on that day – the answers were always hanging conveniently around the house because every average family has battle landscapes adorning their walls. He was also a big movie buff anything with John Wayne, The Best Years of Our Life, Zulu, Four Feathers, and Remember the Alamo. We’d watch movies together every weekend and during the commercial breaks he would go down to the basement and bring up the exact gun, knife, or spear that was featured in the movie of the day. Not a normal childhood by anyone’s definition.

As a kid I loved played cowboys and Indians. I know that’s not PC to say anymore but we didn’t think about those things back then. My brother was the perfect victim and always willing to let me tie him up and throw him in the closet or into a fully stocked toy chest for a few hours. My favorite person to play was The Lone Ranger. I had the silver mask and official Lone Ranger badge and hat. I also had a kick ass plastic rocking horse that carried me wherever I wanted to go and the neighbors could hear me shouting “charge” at all hours of the day.

Now that I’m all grown up and dating I get asked a lot what are you looking for? What kind of guy do you want? I hate those questions. Recently someone asked me and I was in such a snarky mood that I replied “I want a cowboy.” No seriously, I want a guy who can start a fire with sticks and stones, who can handle himself when I leave him alone at the table with my girlfriends to go use the restroom, someone who leaves me to handle my own messes and knows when to step in without making me feel foolish, a guy who can wrangle a rouge squirrel that somehow wandered in my city dwelling without harming it and who knows how to say it all with a wink and a smile.

The days of the classic tall, dark, and dusty cowboy are over. They’re replaced with urban cowboys who wouldn’t know how to survive a few hours without their cell phones. Guys who flash fake smiles and whip out plastic cards are a dime a dozen at the local watering hole. Belts and gun holsters are replaced with skinny jeans and modern day utility belts packing the latest gadgets that are meant to help you communicate. But when you look them in the eye, there’s no meaning, no glimpse into their soul, you can barely tell if they’ve had a hard day or not. Rustling up a couple of young sheep is easy at the bar because like sheep, women are clueless and they’ve lowered their expectations. Not me. I’m holding out. Standing tall, tired, and determined at my own personal Alamo.

So gentlemen if you’re reading this, buck up! Rent a John Wayne flick or two. Don a mask or a cowboy hat if you have to. But muster up the courage to ask a girl to dance, grab her hand for no good reason, hold the door open because you want to – not cause you have to, and when you look at her have a message waiting to send with a wink and a smile.

Hmmmm...so, where have all the cowboys gone?

The Three Stooges

Don’t be fooled, I like being single. I like everything that’s associated with it – freedom, fun, 4 a.m. nights out, the walks of shame, no one to check-in with, no compromising, the flirting, adventure, the chance to start something new, the mystery, the hope, the jealous stares from my boring married friends, and all the possibilities that await when someone new enters your life.

So before I went to bed last night, I decided to check my email. Three new ones popped up in a row, like silly Stooges in a doorway. They were from this dating site that I have my profile on. I thought: “Oh, how exciting, three new guys want to meet me! Let’s check them out!”

Now, despite what some people may think, I am actually a very nice person. I’m an amazing friend and have been told but those chosen few that I’m a terrific girlfriend. So what I am about to say next is going to completely contradict all this but I don’t care, I’m tired of the bullshit.

As I clicked on each of the three links what popped up on my screen was worse than the one before. Listen, I’m no raving beauty and by no means am I anywhere close to a size 6. However, men expect women to look and act a certain way.

Let’s be honest with ourselves here, men won’t wink or like me if I’m average or “a few extra pounds.” I’m expected to have my hair done, makeup on, my nails lacquered, unwanted body hair removed, smell “oh, so good, baby” at any time of the day even when you text me at 3 a.m. with a heavily suggested “wassup, baby?”

So gentlemen, why shouldn’t I expect the same from you?

So let me start by saying: I’m tired of the photos of bald men with double chins, the classic couch potato shot complete with potato chip grease stains on your oversized t-shirt, the random shot of you in a cornfield with your Great Pumpkin sized stomach sticking out, the close-up on your abs, the pic of you and your pet skunk, Mets fans, DILF’s, do me a favor - keep the kids out of it, the group shot of you and your hot co-workers – newsflash: your friends are way hotter than you.*

I hate bathroom shots, shots of you on a tropical island where you’re no bigger than a speck of sand, pic of you at the gym – I get it your buff. So what? A photo of you holding up your camera phone is just proof that you have no friends or that you’re hiding something from your wife or mother. If you don’t have a photo that doesn’t include your ex-girlfriend, don’t white her out - go to Sears Portrait Studio instead. And what is up with the photos taken by your car camera? What goes on in the back seat of your car that requires you to have a camera in your visor? No seriously, I want to know.

And my personal favorite is addressed to you, Mr. SingleBlackMan – posting a pic of yourself taking a bubble bath with the bubbles strategically placed makes me think you’re gay and what I really want to know is: who took that photo of you?

I don’t really think I am asking for too much. First impressions are everything in the online dating world.  So bring it.  If this is you, then put your best foot forward, show me you put some thought into it, and that I'm worthy of running a comb through your hair or putting on a clean shirt.  Think about your surroundings and how you want me to perceive you.  I don't mind a round guy, or a short guy, or a short round guy - just own who you are!

Case in point, while I was writing this I got an email from what I am sure is a nice, good, solid, hometown guy. But what made this poor, Chris Farley look-a-like think that sending me photo of him holding up two huge fish would make me want to date him? What 's priceless and telling about this image is the look on his face. He’s holding up these huge prize winning trout or whatever with this expression of pure pride as if to say, “look hunny, I can hunt & gather. I’m a great catch!”

Hmmmmmmm… maybe I should jump on that?

*All  people who have contacted me in the past few weeks.

Sleeping With The Enemy

This past week, I read a lot of blog posts about people’s 9/11 stories. It was sad, numbing, and inspiring all at the same time. I was conflicted about whether or not to write mine. For as much as I talk and work in the wonderful world of communications, I really don’t say much about me or about what’s happened to me to since that day. Why? Because the truth is, no one wants to hear my story.

I had just returned from my first trip to Morocco – a month long trip. I had been dating a Moroccan guy for about two years. And we had decided that if were going to take this relationship further, I had to see where he came from.

I left my job at Sony because they wouldn’t allow me to take an extra two weeks of unpaid leave. This was the chance of a lifetime and I took it. I spent 4 weeks in the August heat and the day before I left Morocco I got engaged. His family threw us a surprise party that looked like a wedding from one of Scherazade’s tales.

I came back on September 1.  I was filled with stories and spices and unemployed. On the morning of September 11, I was getting ready to leave the house to go on a couple of job interviews. I was planning on ending the day visiting my family in Queens when I heard on the TV that a small plane had crashed into one of the Towers. I left a message for my folks about some dummy flying too close to the buildings and how even though this happened in the sky it would somehow affect the subway so I would probably be late in getting to their house.

Then it happened, the second plane crashed into the second tower and my TV went to snow. I picked up the phone and my Dad was already on it. And he said, “Kid, this ain’t no accident.” And then he said something in a half-joking tone of voice, “Well tell Issame he can’t hide out here.” I froze. “Dad, what do you mean by that?” He said, “You’re sleeping with the enemy.”

Even though my relationship pre-dates 9/11 by two years, I always start with that date. Not only was it the day my beloved skyline had changed but it changed my relationships with my friends, family, and the man I loved.

Pretty much immediately, the phone calls came in from near and far. “Did Issame know the terrorists? Could he tell us why this was happening? Did he know if another attack was planned and if so, where?” I could not believe that I was fielding calls like this from people I knew.

But it would only get worse. Three days later a small mob of my neighbors gathered on my doorstep. They knew I was home. No one rang the bell. They just sat there and talked. I could hear everything they said because the kitchen window was open and no one made any efforts to whisper. Their words poured through the screen window as they talked about the people of a “suspicious nature” who lived up on the second floor. They talked about how we probably knew something and how they were going to catch us and beat us with bats.

I got a phone call from my landlord a few hours later. He told me that he was concerned that I was being held against my will in my own apartment. That all I had to do was say the word and he’d come in to rescue me. When I told him I was ok he then said, that it had come to his attention that I had a “person of a suspicious nature” living in the apartment with me. He went on to say that he couldn’t allow that person to continue to stay there but that I was more than welcome to continue living there on my own.

We moved two months later in the middle of the night.

I can go on and tell you more stories that happened to us between 2001 and 2008, the year our relationship ended. Which one would you like to hear?

I can talk about racial profiling. I can tell you how his and my name went on a watch list. I can tell you that Issame lost his job at a huge international bank because he had a photo of his mother wearing a hijab on his desk. I can tell you how to hire a civil rights lawyer. I can tell you that he never worked consistently after that again. I can tell you how I worked two jobs and went to graduate school in order to get the better job because I was tired of struggling.   I finally took a job that October, ironically down on Wall Street. 
I struggled emotionally. I never told my friends that I had gotten engaged.  I never had an engagement party. My parents threatened to disown me if I had children with him. And I have not spoken to my brother in several years because of his nasty words and threats. I also carry two big secrets around that I can never tell them.  It's funny how those things don't matter anymore and how those words and feelings got swept after 2008.    

Listen, I'm not complaining.  This past decade has been awesome.  Even when it was at its worse I knew I was experiencing the best that Life had to offer.  I went back to Morocco several times and had amazing adventures. I traveled to Spain and visited the Al Ahambra.  I met incredible people.  Those times were like a dream.  I learned alot about myself and people.  I discovered myself.  I don't regret, nor forget.

Until April 4, 2008 (another poignant date), when I decided to leave that life behind.  At that point, it had been seven years.  The flip-flopping on his part made for an unstable environment and even though there was alot of love there, it just wasn't enough.  I know now that PTSD played a role in the demise of our relationship. I couldn't carry both of us through this life anymore.  Again, who wants to hear that story?

By no means, am I downplaying what’s happened to us as a nation or a city. Nor would I ever disgrace the great men and woman who were lost to us that day. I’m haunted by the number of wounded and dead that continue to rise as those who bravely went down there afterwards succumb to terrible illnesses - people that I know and care for.  But when I think about that day and how it relates to me, I can't help but think about the ripple effected me.  I feel selfish for saying that.  When I told this tsory recently to my mother (it was the first time she heard it).  She said, "Stace, don't do it.  No one cares and no one wants to hear it."

So when I’m asked about 9/11, I say simply - “I’m just like every New Yorker, I'm heartbroken.”

The Disney Version

Last week, I went to go see the movie "The Help" at the ancient Alpine movie theater in Bay Ridge. I read the book and was excited to see the movie.  It was top on my "Summer to do" list.  After the movie, the age old debate of "reading the book vs. seeing the movie" got heated as I exited the theater with my college bestie (a former English major, now book editor).  She loved it but I was upset about how the movie left out all the important controversial parts about race and human behavior that were the premise of the book.

The director had managed to tie up all the ugly truths with a nice, neat bow.  It bothered me and it wasn't until a few days later with the help of a co-worker, that I was able to put my finger on the word that best described my feelings.  Disney-ified!

That's how I feel about about what happened today when I met up with my ex-boyfriend who I haven't seen since we broke up two months ago.  He finally came by to pick up a box he had left behind.  The meeting went fine.  And after it was over, I felt the same way I did when I left the Alpine last week  - Disney-ified.  The ex had managed to tie up all the ugly truths of our relationship into this amazingly, lavish, big pink bow.  I'm not sure why he did it.  Maybe he had the same reason as "The Help" director.  He knew that the audience couldn't handle seeing the truth on the big screen and he wanted to walk out the movie theater believing that everything was going to be ok.

It was no Oscar performance or low budget love story but I got to hand it to the kid, it was artfully done.