Dear Person I Never Hear From Except At Christmas,

Insert: Witty non-denominational holiday greeting. Yaay! Day/s off work!  Insert: Topical weather reference.  Plane landed despite the blizzard! Stuck in snowbank with new leather boots! But isn’t it lovely, all this white stuff.

Insert: Image of happiness. I don’t have children to photograph in matching red turtlenecks, so you’re going to have to enjoy this picture of me in my new heather-grey cashmere sweater (thanks, Bloomingdales pre-sale sale) and my dog. Except little woof woof isn’t a real dog, since I’m allergic to those too.

Recap of 2011.  This has been a great year. Thanks for asking last Christmas. I’ve discovered two new sushi places in my neighborhood. One of them, Sushi Suki, now refers to me as “Two Alaska Roool?” In fact, that’s my new name, but you can just call me ‘Two-A’ for short.

I would love to tell you about all the incredible things I’ve accomplished this year, oh yah, but I don’t have any kids.

But I do have a new green/philanthropic/adrenaline-inducing hobby: (Insert Hobby).

Vacation.  Central Park is my backyard, so I don’t need to go on vacation. Really. That’s so 2010.  

Well, that’s about it. I have to go plan next year’s resolutions now:

1. Get Kids
2. Get Hobby
3. Vacation
4. Buy new Sweater for Xmas Photo

Hope your house is radiating brightness with all those holiday lights.

Love (sitting on Santa’s lap),

Two-A.

© Annatonic 2010

This is where comfort begins: in clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in in New York City. Not even indoors, just in case the cute guy with the vinyl collection happens to be emptying out his wine bottles at the same time you’re running down the hall with your own. No, that’s a time for butt-loving yoga pants.

Forget the cute vinyl guy already. This isn’t about him.

It’s five days til Christmas and just as long until Mom gets her list of hardcover titles. Oh, and could I get those Magnesium and Calcium tablets from that drugstore I have downstairs too? ‘Duane Reade, Mom?’

The vitamins have been delivered already, but she’s giddy for more.

“Do you have any easy reading?” she asked me before bedtime, in a hole-y version of a sweater my sister wore sometime in the mid-90s (What? It’s comfortable!). Mom had already plowed through the New York Times I borrowed from Finnair.

“Here,” I said, handing over the January issue of Vogue – my plane reading. Disclaimer: “You’re not exactly the target demographic, though.”

Seven minutes later, I hear howling from her bedroom. Laughter. She comes back waving a Vogue spread at me. A bone-thin model in ginormous hot pink pants and even bigger hair.

“Look at these people, they look like they’ve escaped from an insane asylum!”
“Mo-om. It’s VOGUE. Fashion art. Plenty of people like that stuff. And two of them are called Anna.”
“Seriously? You read this? Are you crazy too?”

It’s ok, she’s just kidding. And I got my magazine back.

Mom, in turn, received a premature Christmas present.

“Here, guess, which hand?”
“What do you have now? More nuts for me?”

No. Nora Ephron’s ‘I Remember Nothing’.

The laughter down the hall kicks in again. I popped my head in to get the verdict.

“The first four pages – written just for me!”

Merry Christmas, Mom.

Copyright: Annatonic 2010

I live in one of those buildings where they like to post notices in the elevator. Usually about nice things like: Dear Lazy Residents, please fill out those census forms, or, Hey, the Pope might be dropping by so make sure you get home on time. You know, just good stuff to read up and down a few floors so you don’t have to talk to your neighbors.

Then there are the notes that, well, just make you want to cry a little. Dear readers, get your kleenex ready:

“Specifically, a resident reported that a condom was thrown from the roof deck and landed on her guest…”

Poor guest. I mean, s/he was just sitting there on the terrace sipping a vodka tonic when…PLOP!  Ok, I completely agree that this was indeed incredibly vile and disgusting and a violation of at least 283 health laws.

But of all the things flying from the heavens above New York City (read: torrential rain on your commute) – airborne condoms win every time.

P.S. Now they’re closing the roof at dusk. Damn.

 © Annatonic 2010

Ok, it’s been a while. The hilarity of life continues, whether I’m dating (no), online (definitely not), or just ducking the occasional ex on Second Ave. The world seems to toss funny stuff in my general direction. Usually aimed at my head (re: bird poop on Fifth Ave).

In other news – Ferris Bueller joined twitter today. In 140 characters (or less), he reminded me why I saw that movie seven times when my bangs were still doused in aquanet. In eloquent Ferris speak: “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Here’s to not missing any of it.

Oh, but here’s something you have missed.

Lo-Cal Chicken Guy seemed kind. He was the guy who’d run after you if you dropped your glove on the street. He liked SNL, and he’d just re-gifted his cat to a mother in a far-off state. Perfect catch, you say, especially for this allergy-girl.

Then we made dinner plans. He asked what breed of protein I preferred, and I told him I’d eat anything (yes, most unhelpful), and he replied with a “Chicken sounds lo cal…” text.  Hmhm, chicken does sound lo-cal. As it turns out, it is lo-cal – we had a piece of chicken and there was something else on the plate, but it was small and green and I don’t really remember anymore.

Then he mentioned a fantasy involving fluorescent cheese. He wanted to devour an entire bag of cheese puffs in one sitting.  I thought he was joking. The next day he showed up – with a giant bag of cheese puffs. Which he promptly ate, along with a bag of pretzels and four bottles of fancy foreign beer.

Every day, he’d ask me what I had for breakfast/lunch/dinner. Were lattes, bananas and tuna really that interesting? Sometimes I evaded his food quiz, say, if I’d just eaten three Oreos in a row.  It was becoming increasingly apparent that this man needed relationship therapy – with his dinner.

On a frozen Sunday morning, I traveled downtown for what would be our last meal, brunch. He’d refused to go anywhere but his neighborhood diner – where he knew the calorie count of the egg sandwich. 455.

I had pancakes.

© Annatonic 2010

Breaking up is hard to do, especially when it’s with a computer.  It forced me to fill out my current “status” before giving into my wishes. Was I:  a) Single and still searching; b) Single and currently not searching; c) I met somebody on eHarmony/another online service/last night…You get the drift.  I opted for b), mostly because I wanted to avoid any further coaxing by the virtual matching gods.

Then I received a final “are you really sure you want to do this, because you’re going to be single for the rest of your life” reminder. YES, I am and I don’t care what you say. Now let me go, sheeeesh.

My heart’s not in this game any more. I think the final straw came around the time they sent me Jimbo the Secret Service Agent (I kid you not) as a match. He was definitely a few decades older than his alleged 37 years, had a stick-on ‘stache and passions that included bioterrorism and conservative views.

Wow.

I suspect my precious time will be better served cleaning out my fridge and dating in the real world than paying for the illusion that Mr Perfect is going to pop up on my computer screen one fine fall day. While I might miss the daily dose of email amusement – the nudges, the icebreakers, the communication received’s, the random rejections – and perhaps even some of the half-loony tunes I’ve met over the last eight months, I have no qualms about my decision.

Now I can focus on updating my facebook status instead:  single and not searching. Oh and P.S.: I bought a fabulous pair of Italian leather boots today. Now there’s one investment that will surely be more fruitful in attracting a Mr Lovely.

The prospect of not knowing who’s out there is simply a lot more appetizing than being told who is in 428 bachelors.

And what did my would-be dates think? To them I was just MIA.

There you have it – the Disappearing Act, a show most often performed by people you are dating. Or think you are dating. Until, POOF! They disappear.

This most common dating conundrum can surface at any time  – from your you-had-me-at-hello moment to the one where, well, you realize it’s bye-bye baby.

One day you’re gazing at each other, thinking how wildly stunning he looks under the elevator lights, and the next, you’re wandering the streets alone wondering what the heck happened. Did he move to another building? Did he forget my apartment number? Did his phone slip into the urinal?

NO. He just disappeared.

A Disappearing Act always has a pre-show. It’s easy enough to miss the pre-show when you weren’t expecting a final act in the first place.

Pay attention.

First comes The Randomness. Has it been more than a week since you heard a beep or a HI from him? Random! Does he text you “whatz up?” but doesn’t answer when you call two minutes later? Random! Do you only hear from him at very specific times, like 7:57pm on Wednesdays only? Random!

Then come The Excuses. His parents are coming to town. “I have to vacuum!” His socks are dirty. “I have to do laundry!” The game is on. “I have to drink beer!” Face it, he’d rather spend time with cleaning products or men in jock straps than with you.

And finally, Acceptance. So your worlds won’t collide anymore, at least in an Outlook-scheduled kind of way. And no, mapping your whereabouts according to his facebook status updates doesn’t count. “Oh yah, I always come to this laundromat. What? Oh….but my friend lives close by and I was just walking her dog…”

Save it. You will have better things to do. Eventually.

Then some twenty-seven years later your date shows up…with a buddy.  So which one do you drown or feed to the nearest reptile?

I get it, dating is scary.

It’s even scarier when you get a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. Who happen to be best buds. Who went to college together. Now one of them owns a wine bar on the Upper West Side, conveniently located for date-filtering purposes for the other.

My blind date did tell me over the phone, “Oh my buddy has this wine bar….”

Fair enough, that sounds great. Hey, it was close-ish and I heard something about wine. I didn’t think twice about the buddy bit.

Until three nights later, when an unfamiliar stubbly face approached me at a dimly lit bar on Broadway.

“Are you Anna?” Why, yes I am. And who might you be?

“I’m Wine Guy, hi,” he extended a lovely hairy arm and grinned.

I was impressed, just for a mini-second. I forgot my host wasn’t the one I was there to meet.

He ushered me to the one free table, closest to the bar, and explained that Mr Date was running a few minutes late.

“I know, I already let him know that I was running a little late too,” I said.

“Oh?” He looked confused.

It wasn’t part of the plan that I was late. No, that wouldn’t give him enough time to deliver the progress report from the kitchen.

I can only imagine what the text read: “Shez here….blahblahblondeblah.”

My real date did show up a few minutes later. Tall, thick curls and emerald eyes. Yay!  Slouchy and not prone to smiling. Boo!

Then Wine Guy winked at his bud and went to fetch our very large drinks, and we were left to grill each other.

But Wine Guy kept on coming back for unscheduled commercial breaks. He and Mr Date would talk about me like I was in the ladies’ room. Except I wasn’t.

“She writes.” Mr Date said, nodding in my general direction.

“Oh yah? What does she write?”

“Funny stuff.” He looked at me with raised eyebrows for a second. Was that right?

Wine Guy beamed another dormroom grin and took off again. A minute later Mr Date fondled his silently vibrating phone for two very long seconds and then looked behind my shoulder and grunted. The left side of his mouth broke into a half smile.

Oh fabulous.

I was starring in some bad sitcom, only the audience was behind the bar and the director was sitting across from me.

It’s not really the question so much as the people asking it. You never hear single people asking each other why we’re still single. That’s because we already know we’re in the Special Single People Club and can go home at any hour of the day to eat cheerios for dinner – or lunch – and run around in our underwear, if the mood so strikes us.

There are varying levels of club membership to this breed. I’ve met most of them in this never-ending dating story, and have subsequently become something of a highly unscientific expert in the singleness of the opposite sex.

Here, dear readers, are the top four most common Adult Male Singles.

Grown Up Nerd Single 

The grown up nerd is interesting and likes to talk. Usually in earnest about select topics like structural engineering, Tolkien, twitter and Baywatch. He has recently discovered the gym and non-iron shirts and now he’s basking in the first female attention he’s had since…well, ever. The grown up nerd is enthusiastic, and often cute, but he still needs a few years in girlfriend bootcamp.  

I’ve Been Busy Single

The I’ve Been Busy Single has been scaling mountains, solving malnutrition problems in foreign lands or boarding planes because his boss told him to. All of this while the rest of the world up and got married and had children.  He woke up one day and realized 22 is no longer an appropriate age for a girlfriend and so he dumped her, packed his bags and signed up online. I relate to this single state the most, because yes, I too was either napping or changing countries, jobs or outfits while everyone else paired off. Dangit! I’m generally pleased to run into this kind of single male. He just gets it. And then we have cheerios together.

I Can’t Believe I’m Single

The I Can’t Believe I’m Single is the most recent member of our club. He hasn’t been alone since seventh grade when Becky with braces caught his hubbabubba in her teeth. He has trouble functioning as an individual in the world and he’s looking to heal his busted heart and cold bed with as many women as possible. You can easily spot an I-Can’t-Believe-I’m-Single when you go out with one on a Wednesday evening and he says things like, “My ex never let me out on a Wednesday night”.

I’m an Asshole Single

The Asshole Single is pretty self-explanatory. He’s an asshole. Me, you and the waiter he just yelled at all know this. Only the Asshole Single has somehow coasted through life not realizing what a royal nuisance he is to mankind. He may come off as suave, and often has nice hair and very white teeth, but he’s usually mad about something. Best to skip dinner, and town, with this one.

Groan.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be a guy sometimes?

I’ve never been one and have no notions of converting (yes, I like my body bits just the way they are, thank you), but I wouldn’t mind being a dude for a day.  Here’s why.

Let the hair grow, hallelujah. No lawn mowing required.

I’d email/call/otherwise harass my love interest whenever I felt like it.  No counting down the days til I enter the Officially Not Desperate Zone.

When the hair dryer ignites and smokes at 7:02am, I’d still manage to look professional in my wind-blown version.

I’d run around the city without carrying flats in my bag.

I’d stuff things into my pockets and jiggle them. Yah.

Spreading my legs would be an appropriate position on the subway.

I’d delete all the spare bachelors in my inbox and not think twice about it.

I’d chase all the hot people and not think twice about it. Ok, the one hot person. Even if he can’t spell.

I’d be Funny Guy, not Weird Girl.

I’d buy a house (or something Very Large and Expensive) with all the money I’ve saved not shopping in the feminine hygiene section.

Think I’ll just have a banana cupcake and call it a night. A small one.

Ok, so maybe I would spontaneously spill my files on him too, or just drop my laptop on his toes.  Surely a painful encounter, complete with bruising, would be more memorable…hhmm…

Could that be where I’m going wrong?  Think about it – all those business trips wasted at Westins and other places with fancy sheets.  There I’ve been, all along, just strolling down that geometric carpeting in a straight line, politely dodging the approaching Mr Handsome Chiseled Jaw.

NO.

Because that doesn’t happen in real life, people. Unless you pay $12.50 (yes, that’s a New York City movie ticket) and another ten bucks for a butter-smothered popcorn.