date with Alana and other possibilities
October 5, 2007

She sat me down on a plush sofa, brought me a robust glass of red wine, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Then she called me into dinner in this gargantuan dining area, appeared from the kitchen door carrying two square ceramic plates with a supernova-looking aqua glaze, on top of which she had prepared two plates full of vegetarian sushi with pink radish garnish. It was truly edible art.

“Better to be an older man’s princess than a young man’s whore,” my college friend Danielle used to say when we poked fun at her for dating a forty year old. I hate to say it, but I’m starting to see Danielle’s point.

I know Alana has the money to wine and dine me; she’s one of the rare few who can make good money from figure painting. But I don’t want to be someone’s pool girl, like I said. Still, I can’t say I hate being catered to once in a while, considering that I’m on my feet for six or seven hours most days sloshing trayfulls of booze everywhere.

After some relaxing and a rockin’ back rub, I had to set some boundaries.

Darcy: So, if you’re still with your husband, then…I’m also going to date as well.

Alana<pained expression>: If you’d like.

Darcy: Okay. I will.

So I set up a date with Emma, the girl who left her number for me at the bar, this weekend.

The rest of the night at Alana’s was spent looking at photo albums by the light of dimmed lamps and all of these gorgeous candles she has on sconces around the walls. And there was a kiss or two exchanged. But I’m trying to put the breaks on until I can see things a little clearer. I hope I’m not jumping in too deep here. And even if I am, it beats spending the time watching things like it happen on TV.

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quickie
October 4, 2007

About to drive to Kickboxing at the Y, then come home, shower, paint my toenails Amelia Redheart, and see what Alana has to say to me tonight when we have dinner at her place.

The thing is, I got a phone number from a customer last night at work. A cute, sweet, smart, Southern customer. Who’s practically my age.

The potential drama is as thick as the humidity today. We need a good rain to clear the air.

Major updates to come.

The Downstairs Neighbor
September 26, 2007

Think of my usually plain brown eyes with little rotating stars and hearts in them.

I have a gigantor crush.

On Ford’s downstairs neighbor. Jane and I went over there last night while we were out doing errands because I forgot my sunglasses there on Monday. He opened the door, and there she was, sitting at that too-hip brushed steel bar, sipping black coffee.

They were talking art. Ford has this delusion that he is going to be the next Jackson Pollock (and a radiologist? I don’t know). We joined in and went downstairs to see some of her work.

Think of a flower exploding. Think of a stick of dynamite going off in a pitcher of lemonade. To a foreground of black silhouettes of pin-up girls and topographical symbols.

She must be between forty and forty five. Jane kept humming “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson…” on the car ride back, and I just sat there with a crimson face like a goon.

The Downstairs Neighbor proclaimed herself half-Spanish and half-Irish, and she’s got this black silky hair that was so long she had it knotted up without a ponytail holder. And a too-big white Oxford shirt.

Ford invited us to stay for dinner, and ordered in some Chinese. (I’m starting to wonder when he does any of this medical school homework.) We all sat around drinking whiskey and talking about Frida Kahlo.

Darcy <after drink #3>: God, how do you paint like that? I’d love to paint like that.

The Downstairs Neighbor: Why don’t you come by on Friday and I can show you some tips on how to get started?

Flirty or friendly?

Wish. She. Weren’t. So. Married.

Gah.