So Snuggie and I had a romantic evening of screenplay writing at a coffee shop and later watching our guilty pleasure, Twilight: Eclipse. In between my night out and my night in, I made a very masochistic pit stop: Union Square Park. So many gentlemen holding flowers waiting for their tardy significant others made me smile. Then comes the masochism.

I walked behind the arch, near the big, possibly oak tree (but I’m not a botanist,) to the dent in the dirt, where tables and chairs usually are in the summer. To the exact spot where I first met Shady. I glanced over at the red “W” hotel sign, and had a flash back that was worthy of a Blockbuster Rom-Com. Looking at the pile of dirt, I still could see him slouched over staring at his sneakers— only to jump up for a hug when I approached him.

The flashback concluded, I became present in the actual moment of an unusually warm winter night. Ironically, the day we met was an unusually hot day, even for the summer. Staring at the pile of dirt where the chair and the man once stood, I felt compelled to put flowers or a rock or a note or something. After all, telling someone “Forget you know my name” is as final as it gets. Noticing that my pockets were empty, I realized that I gave enough to Shady and to everyone. This should be much less dramatic and infinitely easier.

After a pensive and emotional five minutes of staring at a pile of dirt like a well-dressed homeless person in Union Square, I walked to the train and left. Clenching a fist as tight as possible for five minutes straight and then letting go… as each finger expands outwards on it’s own the pins and needles, the tightness, the awkward mobility of freedom. Men are not pre-sale tickets for Florence and the Machine at Summer Stage… and even those are not gone forever because there’s still regular sale.

Really supportive male friends, unknowing of my dramatic funeral for a lover lost, reached out on their own accord. Volunteering advice that ranged from listening to Alanis Morisette- extra loud and on repeat, to a list of 10 reasons why I should be appreciated, to my personal favorite:

PERSONALLY, [I] think you need to learn to get over these guys. They definitely won’t come to you if they see this intensity you have about making a relationship work…and I mean it in the way of, you need to treat these as fun, and accept any range of results. I feel like ultimately you have ownership of yourself, you’re confident, you’re certainly not desperate and yet when dating comes around you seem to lose your center.

Between advice and Eclipse, two things were certain. Edward Cullen is a fictional character and I need to be myself while not judging/puking/judging myself for puking. If I can maintain best friendships with a laundry list of guys, then it’s not me that’s the issue. What’s the value of not showing up as me? What is this pattern of unawareness and fear I’m living in? What can I do with it? How can I change it?

Bottom Line: It’s me but it’s not me but it’s something I can work on…(it’s me.)

Next Up: TBD

Your Undercover Lover,

Joneshaw

I’ve recently admitted to myself that I am in fact addicted to social media. There burns an artificial fire of a “need” to check people’s Facebooks, Twitter feeds, or google them to see what other member’s only site info I can dig up. It’s like this sick obsession with being a viral Nancy Drew.

It all started in grammar school. Yes, I know social media didn’t exist back then but if I would have been infinitely more popular if it had. I always knew everyone’s name, place of origin, and at least two to three random facts about everyone in my class at all times. People didn’t like me, they didn’t want to tell me their secrets, they thought I was a “know it all” or a “busy body.” All because I was just fascinated by people and their stories.

Getting older, the advent of Facebook changed my image amongst all peers and colleagues. Mainly because all the “facts” that were exclusive to me are now published, neatly on a profile page voluntarily. (Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg.) It’s not “weird” to know that much about people you don’t actually know. The problem is now I am compelled to “take it up another notch.” There’s no marvel, mystery, excitement on getting to “know” someone new anymore because there is no work involved.

I’ve recently acquired a stalker via my twitter account. He’s from Pakistan, resides in Palo Alto, and comments on my every tweet. This dude has tracked down my youtube, facebook, and personal website. All because he feels like he “knows” me via my twitter persona. This is highly flattering since I do have an exceptionally hilarious tweeter feed but its hardly the entire package. It’s a small colored square of my rubix cube of a personality. I’m not complaining- it’s great to have fans. The moral of the story here is: two of the easiest components of getting to know someone these days thanks to social media are factoids and sex.

The question is no longer how they they like it. What’s your favorite ____? Or even what tax bracket you’re in… but honestly, what else is there? Energy. Bare with me here, it’s not what you know or how you do it its about how they take you in energetically. My addiction to social media really just fills a void… the void of being distant, the fear of being sucked in and spit out. It’s almost like a reality of make believe/made up of facts and truths that are easily fabricated and subjective.

So people don’t call me “nosy” or “Yenta” anymore. Knowing a little bit about a lot of people is no longer taboo. With that out there, what would it take for the Facebook message to morph back into the phone call? What would a talk until sunrise without preconceived notions look like? What if I didn’t change my twitter status more often than I change my underwear?

Bottom Line: I’m hitting refresh on a Facebook page for 25 minutes only to realize it’s not a real person. He didn’t call… hitting refresh won’t change that. My satin panties, snuggie, and DVD of Twilight: Eclipse still can a Happy Valentine’s Day make…

Next Up: … not going to lead you guys on. What would it take for the universe to deliver an expansive partner that I’ve been asking for?

Your Undercover Lover,

Joneshaw

Why Tom Hanks? Because leading up to this date was a month of the all time greatest discourse I’ve been given the pleasure of partaking. Smart, funny, expansive (we’re talking Kafka jokes about my snuggie obsession) and all through FB Chat! All of this witty and exciting build up and here we are, finally meeting again in person for the first time since September, at the ACE Hotel in Midtown.

Coming from a networking event, I was already dressed appropriately with a feather in my hair… adorably humorous texts about how “Hipster Hogwarts is hoppin’” lead up to me at the door of the bar, being told they’re “at capacity.” Some drunk guy gave me a cupcake and then moments after swallowing, a man more gorgeous and stylish than I remember walks out of the door to have a cigarette and hugs me like we’ve known each other for years. “It’s so nice to finally get to see you in person.” It was the nicest hug I’ve received in a while. That and he’s the funniest person I’ve ever been on a date with and I’ve been on a lot of freaking dates.

When there wasn’t a place to sit, Tom Hanks went across the room to bring me over a chair. He loves white wines. He grew up in Europe. He’s as passionate and busy with work as I am… and he’s celibate. I was a little drunk at this point, so I initially thought he was kidding. If I had eaten since breakfast or not had that third glass of wine, or for Christ sakes thought before I spoke the giggling, “Stop it!” might not have been my response.

What Tom Hanks still doesn’t know is that I’m digging it. I know what you’re all thinking… “but Joneshaw, I thought you were a total nympho?!” and yes, you thought right. Please, throw back with me a second to Hot Beard, who collected playing cards off of the street a la Berger from SATC… One time years ago I found an eight of hearts in the street and kept it. The minute I picked it up, I thought “that’s how many people I’m going to sleep with.” Crazy. I know. But true. ESP.

How would knowing I have a “cap” for my sexual exploits make a celibate guy feel better? Well, because Shady Parkstein was number 7. That means the next person I’m going to sleep with will be my last. Finito. Dunzo. Closing up shop. I do not want to waste that on a one night stand or something that doesn’t work out. Its required to test the waters for sometime before I have sex again. All facts considered, unless George Clooney propositions me in the near future, it’s probably going to be a while before I have sex again, by choice.

But no, I did not share this nugget of a gem with this winner of the genetic lottery I was sipping wine with… that might have scored me brownie points. Instead, I went home with him, made out in his bed, and puked in front of him (3 glasses of wine + empty stomach + 108 lbs of Joneshaw will do that.) He then continued making out with me until in a horny, drunken, haze I made him feel uneasy about maintaining his celibacy. This made him go and sleep on the couch. All things considered, this was not a cute look for me.

In my hangover migraine, my first thought waking up was “shit, I’d never call me again after this.” And he over heard me telling an old friend/the waitress last night that I’m living with my parents. The next morning I did my un-PC impression of a homeless man while he walked me to the train which made him laugh as he hugged me good bye. I thanked him “exponentially” and went home. I text him “thanks again, have a good day at work.” Never to get a response. 

Some girls get upset and ask, “Why am I still single?” I don’t ask that question because then I remember nights like this one. Baryshnikov, my college boyfriend got puked on by yours truly after our second date, so I must REALLY like Tom Hanks to whip it out on the first… too bad he didn’t really like me enough to call me… after all was said and done with Shady, the first thing that came to my mind was… “Yes! Now I can follow up with Tom Hanks from months ago!” Figures, I’d blow it.

As a consolation prize for puking in front of him I offered him a freelance design job for my company… because I’m classy like that. I figured getting someone a combined total of $25k worth of work **might** make them forget you puked on your first date. We’ll see…

Bottom Line: You win some, you lose some, you puke on some… I think his celibacy is hot in an Edward Cullen sorta way. Regardless of how this turns out I’ll still let him be the happy ending character in the movie. He’s that good looking.

Next Up: Possibly some weirdo who likes Bordeaux from howaboutwe.com… I might give okChlamydia… errr, okCupid another try… we’ll see.

Your Undercover Lover,

Joneshaw