Blonde Bloggers Bitching

Friday, March 24, 2006



SYNOPSIS

Witness blogs come to life through song as Kat and Clarice recall their bad dates, emotional moments, failed auditions and the friendships that keep them from jumping out the only window in their 6-floor walkup. Clarice and Kat are proud graduates of the Northwestern Musical Theatre program class of 2004. Both come from O-States and enjoy writing, performing, occasionally drinking too much, and keeping track of all their highly personal experiences online for the entire world to see.

CABARET HOTLINE ONLINE DISCOUNT--$10 COVER
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CALL TO MAKE RESERVATIONS: 212-255-5438

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Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Clarice Mazanec- BIO


Hailing from Cleveland, Ohio, Clarice Mazanec has been singing since before she could walk. Classically trained, she has found success in a variety of roles that span the stages of music theatre and classical opera--favorites include Donna/Oolie in City of Angels, Narrator in Joseph, and Laetitia in Menotti's The Old Maid and the Thief. Also an accomplished cellist, she has performed with some of the world's greatest including The Cleveland Orchestra, Yo Yo Ma, Bryn Terfel, and Mirella Freni. Recently accepted into the prestigious Yale University Cabaret Conference, Clarice has developed a love for the cabaret scene, and is ecstatic to bring Blonde Blogger's Bitching back to the stage.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Kat Voboril-BIO


Originally from Portland, Oregon, Kat Voboril currently performs with the USO World Troupe The Liberty Belles. Her theatrical career has taken her across the country, performing for school children, Heads of State, and even good ole boys from Indiana (watch out, she plays a mean game of Euchre)! Some of her favorite roles are Eva Peron in Evita, Rapunzel in Into The Woods, Blanche in the world premier of Irving Berlin's American Vaudeville, directed by David H. Bell and, of course, the sassy Diesel Shovel in Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. Kat is also a writer, and publishes a bi-monthly column on BackStage.com. She is a proud member of Actor's Equity and was recently accepted into the presitgious Cabaret Conference at Yale University.

To Read Some of Kat's Back Stage Articles, click on the links below:

My Three Disorders
http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002384108

Playing Hard to Get
http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002275324

Hungry? Order a side of Harry Chapin http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002156277

Tourpoundage http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1001995117

Shettiquette: How Far would you Go for A Friend in a Show? http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1001844044

My Father's Masterpiece http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1001699844

The Typing Pool--The Deep End http://www.backstage.com/bso/news_reviews/columns/first_person_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1001571033
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Sunday, March 19, 2006

Robby Stamper-Musical Director-BIO

Originally from Orlando Florida, Robby Stamper moved to NYC to study Musical Theater Composition. He has been singing and playing the piano since the age of five when he and his three brothers became the Stamper Brothers Quartet and toured the Southeastern coast. He has opened for many artists ranging from the "The Oakridge Boys" to "Joan Rivers". After receiving much notoriety in the Gospel music industry, Robby pursued a solo career at the age of 17. As a composer, he regularly writes for Disney Entertainment and is a highly demanded Musical Director and Orchestrator. Robby teaches music and songwriting in many inner-city schools in Manhattan and is currently working on projects for the on and off Broadway stage.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

A Few of Clarices' Favorite Posts: New York--If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere



Every day is a test....a test of self-worth, motivation, perseverance, morale...a test of survival.

And that is the hardest test of all. New York is a big monster. It's hard, it's suffocating, it's overwhelming. Everyone in this city scratches each others eyes out trying to get to the top of their game. Everyone is constantly racing--so much so that we don't notice ourselves changing in the process.

Even the warmest of hearts develops the quintessential "New York mentality" that being a selfish biatch as the only route to success. I bawl my eyes out on a weekly basis....I long for the vacation that will seemingly never arrive...every time I get somewhat comfortable, the god of New York sends down a lightening bolt to shake things up, so my soul is constantly rattled.

Yet somehow, at this moment in my life, there's nowhere else I'd rather be. I thrive on the fast pace...god knows I've got the legs to make the long strides. I love the sights, the sounds, the smells (well most of them), and the driving force that keeps this city in motion.

I hate the torture of instability, yet I thrive on the knowledge that I am no more unstable than the person standing next to me on the overcrowded subway car.

This past year has been nothing short of the wildest and hardest roller coaster of my life. It was a period of change--of becoming an adult. A period of learning lessons the hard way, of starting to find myself amidst the sea of other's perceptions, of sorting the things I always thought I wanted from the things I actually do want. A period of making mistakes, making even bigger mistakes, making the hugest mistakes of my life thus far, and still waking up the next day breathing and moving forward.

New York has tried its hardest to change me, to change my values, to harden my heart. And I'll admit, it has come pretty damn close to making me question everything I ever believed.

When I was a kid, I would always fall with my hands out to the side, I would fall hard, leaving my face a bloody mess but my hands scratch-free. I still fall hard today--in life and love--my hands still don't block my fall. I don't want them to. I think every scratch on my heart, every scar on my body is a lesson I needed to learn or a story I needed to tell. Thanks to NY, I have several new scratches and scars. Even though they hurt initially, I am all the better for them.

In a way, NYC has made me a much more needy person. I look around at everyone in this city and see the successful suits, the canoodling couples, the independence and I want it all. I need it all. The more I see, the more I want. This has, in turn, increased my drive for success, my expectations in love, my reliance on all that grounds me. I know I can always count on a solid three ladies in my life to have drinks with, to gossip with, to bitch about men with and to cry with when everything else seems like a complete disaster.

New York has a way of making everyone feel unlucky....unluky in career, unlucky in love, unlucky in life. But it also makes you realize the things that are constant...those people who would willingly give their lives for yours.

What most don't realize is that everyone in this city is lucky: Lucky to be able to afford such high rent (even if they do work 120 hours a week) and still be able to eat/go out/keep up with the constant changing trends; lucky to be pursuing their dreams; lucky to have the world at their fingertips; lucky to be making the connections they may not even see as important--but will be somewhere down the line; lucky to fall in and out of love; lucky to be who they want to be; lucky to have the freedoms they do; lucky...just lucky.

It's hard to realize all that you have, when we constantly focus on what we don't. Sometimes we see and recognize our mistakes in life...sometimes we blame ourselves for our unlucky circumstances when we are not to blame.

REG remarked how she feels for all the nyc newbies who've just arrived-eyes wide with hope, unaware and unprepared for the stressful year ahead. They are virgins. We can give them all the horror stories, all the "loss of virginity" experiences, but that will only go so far.

Each person has a similar yet extremely different and extremely personal story of losing their NYC virginity. I can hope people learn from that which I experienced, but everyone at some point has to experience it for themselves and learn how to deal. Once you get past that first year, once you break into it, and find your groove, you'll realize just how great this city is. It's a city that can produce orgasms of life more explosive and renewing than anything the newbies can possibily fathom.

All I can say is God bless. NYC is a really hard city, and if you can make it here, you most certainly can make it anywhere. I may not find the love of my life in this city and I may not find all of the success I seek, but for now, I'm young and I'm not giving up hope.

Afterall, the greatest thing about this city is that things can change in the blink of an eye. The moments you don't seek are the moments you often find...and just when you've given up all hope, something extraordinary is waiting around the corner.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

A Few of Kat's Favorite Posts: The Band of Liberal Actors Heads South


So, after we finished up with the Northeast, we piled into the van for an entire month away from New York City and headed to, of all places, the South. We were fortunate enough to be in West Virginia on election day, which was depressing. Interestingly enough, I was the martyr (aka designated driver) as most of my cast wanted to drink heavily and get into fights with red-neck Bush supporters.

I did managed to get the HUGE van stuck in the mud, and decrease the turning radius by at least 50%. It took us about an hour to get the car out, and the best defensive driving I could muster. My arms are still sore from trying to turn the wheel. Now, the car makes a groaning, dying cow noise whenever we try to steer...I know how it feels!

After West Virginia, we headed to Lexington, Kentucky, where we performed the show for a week in...you guessed it...a horse pavilion. I kid you not. We performed in a "theatre" (I use the term loosely) for show horses. We also found some great bars and clubs and I befriended a talking parrot in a local liquor store. Again, I'm not kidding or exaggerating on this: the parrot sold customers dirt cheap bottles of Captain Morgans. And when you're performing on a horse stage, what can you do but drink rum purchased from a talking parrot?

Our next stop was Greenville, South Carolina. We performed in an amazing facility, but there were some draw backs:

1) We ended up staying a the Red Roof Inn known for housing gay truckers. Fellow female castmate Melinda and I were able to roam freely at all hours. However, the boys were even afraid to sneak cigarettes. Men trolled by in their cars any time of the day and well into the night. On the second to last night, we returned from IHop to watch "The Biggest Loser" in one of the guys' rooms to find that a note had been slipped under his door.
It read: for a discreet BJ open your shades at 10:45, or just drop by room 205.

2) The first racial slur I have ever experienced happened there...and it was completely disgusting. We were eating ribs and coleslaw, (Southerners do know how to eat) and at the booth behind us, this guy was mad because his waiter was taking too long. He started calling our black waiter a number of inappropriate words that I, up to that point, had only heard in movies or from Chris Rock specials, in addition to calling him a retard. I was pretty upset and ended up almost getting our scrawny cast members into a fight when I turned around and gave the guy a little Yankee sass (after all, I waitressed in Manhattan, I picked up a few soul-shattering insults along spilled-cocktail-row). I'm sure if I hadn't been such a "cute little lady," I would've gotten my ass kicked.

It is not often that I wish I were big and powerful. Most times, I like being 5'4" and fairly petite. In fact, let's be honest, most times, I wish I were "wither away into nothingness" thin. But at that moment, I truly wished to be formidable, intimidating, and 6'5"...or at least wished our cast included someone like that. As it was, I think my male castmates cried harder than I did about the entire experience (once we were safely in the van listening to Ben Folds).

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

A Few of Clarices' Favorite Posts: The need for hunger



Hunger: it's the very part of our lives we thrive on. It causes pain and pleasure. It alters the way we think, the way we see things. We hunger every day of our lives--for that big break, for that unconditional love, for the ultimate happiness.

Hunger is that inexplicable tingling feeling in our stomach that takes precident over every other "need" we have. Noone ever dies completely "full." Even in our last moments we are hungry for something more, something that should have been, something that could never be. Hunger makes us hallucinate--we want something so badly that we see only what we want to see and never what truly is.

Sometimes we fight the hunger because our mind tells us to, so that we protect ourselves. Other times, we succumb to the hunger because our heart overrules our minds. So when is it okay to be hungry? How hungry do we let ourselves get before we give in or give up?

Sometimes we let our hunger get the best of us. We are starving for those nights of passion, being comforted and held when no one else is there to do so. There is no better nourishment then knowing you are needed, whether for an instant, for an hour, for a lifetime.

Sometimes we are so hungry, we jump the instant something comes along that will sate our hunger, even if only a little.

We go so long without a role, that we take the little, non-eq, non-paying tour because we are so hungry for the bright lights, for the affection, for the company. We go so long without a kiss, that we jump at the chance to have those few seconds of passion, even if it's with someone we don't really like.

The longer we go without, the hungrier we get. Likewise, the better our opportunity is when it arrives, the more full we become.

I am hungry every day of my life. I salivate at the thought of success and happiness in my future. I starve for attention, for recogition, for acceptance. I love the feeling of power when I am hungry--almost like I get stronger each day I go without. Sure hunger pains hurt every once in a while, but it makes the nourishment all the more rewarding and divine when it occurs. Because of my hunger, I am able to truly appreciate the good in life. If I was always "full," I wouldn't know a good thing if it knocked me clear off my feet.

So how long do we stay hungry before we give in or give up? For me, it depends on the situation. Everyone is different. I like to challenge myself to see how long I can go--for certain guys, it's a week; for certain thoughts, it's a day; for certain loves, it's a moment. I will always be hungry for success, and I will starve every minute of my life until it happens.

A wise tv show character asked the following: "Why do I constantly hit myself with a hammer?"

Later, she answered herself: "Because it feels so good when I stop."

That is the exact reason I thrive on hunger, why I endure the pain, why I go through the emotions. I do it because when the hunger stops, I know I am at my happiest.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

A Few of Kat's Favorite Posts: Les Halles is French for Clusterf*ck


After scouring Manhattan for a button-down denim shirt (which took a grand total of three and a half hours and 12 stores), I arrived at my first day of training at Les Halles, a French Brasserie in the Financial District, only to discover that Les Halles had Les Problems avec Management.

First of all, the uniform is denim on denim, or, as my favorite waiter Abbott called it, "DoubleDen with a tie." Talk about the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing! My first day of training was disorganized but harmless, and I am the only girl they've hired in a while, so I thought it might work out.

But then, yesterday, on my second day of training, they overbooked the entire restaurant and practically every item was 86'd. So, at every table, I took their order, then told them to order something else because we were out of what they wanted. Then, after I'd poured their second choice bottle of wine, I had to ease into the fact that we were actually also out of their third choice entree.

What weren't we out of? Pig's Feet Merlot, the cream of fennel soup and ice cream-no, wait, we ran out of vanilla at the end of my shift. We were also low on forks, knives, glasses and salt and pepper shakers."Welcome to Les Halles," the headwaiter told me.

The headwaiter was good-looking and a good waiter, which entitled him (at least in his mind) to be incredibly condescending while subtly hitting on me. "Sweetie, make sure you put a line between appetizers and entrees, you know, in the service industry, we have to make sure people don't get their salad with their steak." Thanks Captain in Charge, because I've never worked in a restaurant before, let alone eaten at one.

"Just go over and give them your sweet smile for me and tell them their food is on it's way, will you darling?" Sure thing, because it's really easy to use sex appeal when you're in head-to-toe denim.

The climax of day two was when an entire tray of wine glasses (about 20 wine glasses fit in a tray) fell on top of a table of 25 guests. As I saw the glasses fall, I instinctively covered my face(my face actually matters in my real job, and a scar isn't gonna go over well with my agents).

Oppositely, headwaiterman leapt in front of the customers and used his body to shield the customers from the flying glass. It was so very Keanu.

"Wow, going above and beyond the call of duty. " I called out.

"Just good instincts." He explained to me, brushing glass splinters off his DoubleDen.

Apparently, great service means taking the bullet if you have to.

Miraculously, no one was hurt, even though all 20 glasses broke. We started serving wine in coffee mugs. I wasn't going to come back today, for my final day of training, but the denim shirt had cost me $40, and I figured I at least needed to make up the price, since they pay their trainees.

I showed up late, because the subway wasn't working, but got right to work. And the thing is, I enjoy being a waitress. There are rules to fine dining, and I sort of like the tradition and respect of serving a bottle of wine properly, and I like to see people enjoying themselves.

The problem is, there is way much testosterone coursing through les Halles, with all the Wall Street guests and all-male staff.

The computer broke, and we began writing orders out. Then, the computer started working again, and the waiters would shove me to get to it. I felt like I was back in 4th grade, desperately trying to play with the my older brother and his friends and being pushed aside.

And the really stupid part of all of it is that IM A GIRL. Waiting on BUSINESSMEN. My tips were considerably higher than any of the guys. I checked. And, since we all pool tips, they would have benefited from not alienating me. Instead, I somehow turned into "person who will run and do things the men are 'too important' to do."

One person said to tell the manager I needed an item taken off a bill, while Headwaiterman asked me if I wouldn't mind just running my sweet self downstairs to check on his Poulet. When I got back, the manager was angry with me because apparently, I'd somehow gotten into the computer (while I was in the kitchen-my magical talent for being in two different places at once knows no bounds) and done something that was "not the way we do it at Les Halles."

I looked at the manager and just thought I don't need this shit. He was yelling at me about a $4.95 cup of soup, meanwhile, about three tables were waiting to order, and it wasn't that complicated. I quickly considered the pros and cons, and since I will make more money at the other restaurant I'm training at and it's more trendy and fun, I just figured the $40 for the denim shirt didn't matter nearly as much as my self respect.

A few months ago even, I would've just let him talk to me like that, and let everyone feel sorry for that poor sweet girl. Instead, I said, "I don't really care how you think you do things here at Les Halles, everyone seems to have a different story."

"Don't cop an attitude with me, sweetheart," he replied, "I'm the best manager here."

"Don't call me sweetheart." I countered. "And being the best here is hardly a distinction."

Abbott, my favorite waiter smiled at me as I strutted off the floor, "keep your tips" he whispered. I threw my apron in the dirty clothes pile, and managed to forget to return the really cool wine key I borrowed from Headwaiterman.

After I had removed my denim, I came back to the floor. "This place is a clusterfuck" I said to the group at large, "and I don't think I'd like to work here." The hostess smiled at me and said "good for you" in broken English when she handed me my coat.

The guys all gave me one last look, and I marched out of that place head held high. I've never quit a job before in my life. It was kind of exhilarating.

I think every single person who works there (except maybe Headwaiterman) really wants to be able to just leave that place, but for some reason, they can't. Maybe they're afraid they won't find another job, even though it would be really easy to. Maybe they like being somewhere so disorganized, because there aren't really any rules, at least not any that get followed consistently.

But when I said "I'm not gonna take it," I felt this little surge of power coursing through me (maybe it was testosterone?) and I saw these guys perk up with a little bit of (dare I say it?) respect for me.

For a place so long on penises, they sure are short on balls at Les Halles. Now I just gotta figure out what to do with the denim shirt.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

A Few of Clarice's Favorite Posts: Boundaries of Friendship



There he was...sitting...smiling as I walked into the Cafe. He stood, gave me a HUGE WARM hug, and offerred to take my jacket.

"You look really great, Clarice" --he said giving me the eye up and down

"Thanks...you do too.." -- I replied cautiously but truly heartfelt.

He did look great. Every inch of him looked better than I remember from the last time I met up with him a lil less than a month ago. Everytime I see him, there's a little light that goes off inside of me...I light up...like a little girl on Christmas morning...like a teenager finally getting her first ounce of freedom...I don't know what it is about him...but all my problems/stresses seem to disappear the minute he's around.

He bought me some coffee and we sat among candles, catching up. We talked about changes in the past weeks, jobs, halloween costume possibilities, sports, life....us.

"So....how's your dating life these days?" -- he asked honestly

"Oh it's been interesting....to say the least" -- I said, caught off guard. It has been. With flare ups of exes, sugar daddys, "straight" VERY metro men, and rapist friends, I've hand enough on my plate recently--but every ounce of me still yearned for the man sitting opposite.

"Well, because of all the traveling and everything, I really haven't had any time to do anything other than work...and sleep....I can't play the field as much as you 23 yr olds can..." he teased grabbing my hand.

I laughed, nervously. BUT I DON'T WANT TO PLAY THE FIELD...I wanted to scream from the rooftops....I WOULD MUCH RATHER JUST BE WITH YOU....But instead, I took my hand out of his, and stood up to go get some water.

He noticed a couch open up in the back, so we switched spots, and sat next to each other on the sunken "you will never be able to get back up again" sofa. He put his arm around me. Everything felt right. We continued talking about random things--I found myself wondering what it would have been like if we had never stopped dating in the first place. If right now, I had been seeing him for 4 months...what would our relationship be like then? I mean it felt more comfortable than ever...his arm around me....our eyes fixated on one another....at ease just being ourselves....but technically we are "just friends." So what is the boundary of friendship?

We continued talking...he played with my "death" ring, interlocking fingers with me. He listened intently as I told him about stresses these past couple months--he offerred worldly advice. We reminisced about "old times" and "old promises" and made new ones in the process. Time flew by (as it always does with him) and before I knew it, the coffee shop was emptying and it was time to say goodnight.

He helped me put on my jacket, opened the door for me and walked me to my stoop. We made tentative (depending on weather) plans to hit up CP next weekend and both said how good it was to see one another. He gave me a big hug. We both held on probably longer than friends should. We looked at each other in silence. He touched my face with his hand, brushed the stray hair out of my eyes, and said he'd talk to me soon.

I jumbled my keys--used the wrong one to try and unlock the door--we both laughed. I finally got in, turned and said goodnight...he said bye, waved, and started walking home. I called my mom as soon as I was in both doors and told her about my night...asking what it meant....telling her things I felt....things I want...things I don't.

Friendship--are he and I "just friends?" Well we were definitely more than friends while dating, definitely more than friends when we hooked up back in September, and last night, felt more than ever, like something beyond "just friends." Maybe we are meant to be friends....maybe we are meant to be something more...but further down the line...maybe all that is to be at this moment is friendship. If there is one thing I've learned--it's that sometimes you have to let life take its own pace. You can't speed up life, you can't slow it down...you have to let it operate independently and subsequently extract out of it as much as is humanly possible. Take advantage of the opportunities presented but don't EVER try to make out of them, something they're not. Fantasize, but don't disillusion yourself. And ALWAYS know 3 people you can count on, when the going gets a little too rough.

I don't believe there are any defined boundaries of friendship other than the obvious. I believe each relationship defines its own boundaries and is defined on its own terms. Sometimes two people don't need a "definition" to explain where they stand in the realm of each others lives. If both are happy with where they stand and how they relate to the other, then so be it. Sometimes I think definitions, rather than "defining" something, actually muddy things up.

So for now, I breathe in...I breathe out. I realize there are plenty of opportunities for love in this city...I just have to have the patience to let things happen as they happen. Who knows what time will bring? All I know, is that somewhere out there, someone is waiting, just for me

Friday, January 27, 2006

A Few of Kat's Favorite Posts: Older Men and Younger Women. It's not (entirely) About the Money

Only in New York City is an attractive 35 year-old male who's never been married a normal thing. Anywhere else, this guy would be married, or divorced, or "odd" and therefore perpetually single. But, oh Manhattan, you have made these men so common that a 35 year-old who's married is the anomaly.

I went on a date last night with such a man. I know I just finished talking about the nasty old bald men who date 20 somethings. But, this was a little different. This guy may be 35, but he looks (and lives) much younger. None of his friends are married. They all work on Wall Street, go out to clubs and bars, and are really into good food and great restaurants. This guy wakes up and goes biking or hiking or white water rafting every weekend, not to mention, he always gets to the gym, or at least goes for a run, everyday.

If he'd stayed in the midwest, he'd have a wife, an addiction to pro football, and a potbelly. As it is, he's in better shape than half the guys I dated at Northwestern, and he's just starting to think about buying instead of renting.

Readers are probably immediately jumping to the conclusion that I've turned into a true struggling actress, going out with way older men entirely because of their bank accounts. I understand that's what it looks like.

The truth is, and it depends on what kind of guy the older guy is and what kind of girl the younger girl is (we're all different) but the real appeal of the older man isn't the money, it's the experience. I'm sure when BrooksBrothers was 25, he pulled the same kind of shit I'm used to on his unfortunate female contemporaries.

I bet he went out to a different club every weekend, made out with tons of girls and got their numbers and then didn't call...or found the little slip of paper in a random pocket two weeks later and called from a bar to say "hey, why don't you hop into a cab and come out with all of us?" (while in the process of getting another girl's number). He probably bailed the minute it seemed serious-like he might have to say something along the lines of, "tell me more about your bad day, sweetie," and follow it up with actually listening.

There's nothing wrong with these actions and these guys. They get away with it because, I'm sorry to betray the sisterhood, but a lot of girls are dumb. Until we get smart, that is. We start making demands, and they peace out. Or, we decide not to demand so much and end up never actually going on a real date--unless watching him play Texas Hold'em with his buddies while drinking the beer you brought over counts, and if that constitutes a date these days then I'm off the market.

Women get smart, and start looking up the age ladder. Maybe this isn't necessary in other cities. But, it is here.

My date meets me close to my apartment, he has an idea of two different restaurants, both of which he's been to. He knows lots of interesting things and asks intelligent questions that show he actually listened to what I was saying. Is this guy desperate? Doubt it.

This guy is smart. It's smarter to meet by my apartment-it shows respect and he's learned (no doubt the hard way) that making a girl come to you instead only makes her resentful-then she orders the most expensive thing on the menu because she had to take a cab 40 blocks.

Why bother to ask questions and listen? Because he's learned that if you do that, the girl will be ten times more likely to remain interested in you, especially if you call the perfect amount of time later (which he knows is about two days after the first date). And, if he asks you about something you mentioned on date #1, you will be more likely to go on a second date.

Ah, experience. Yeah, the guy's in finance and has a great studio in the West Village, but Hyena's older man is a musician with a place way up in Washington Heights (like 180th or something WAY up there), and she 'aint complainin'.

It's not the money, it's the experience.

Although, tickets to "Spamalot, the musical" and five course dinners aren't so bad either.

As a Postlblog (hindsight is 20-20) to the above post, the older man dating scenario occured over a year ago and eventually, even the sugar daddy gifts couldn't fix the following problems created by 35 versus 23:

1) My not knowing what "Sanford and Sons" was made him feel old. (Apparently, it's a TV show?)
2) In order to look younger, the dude never left the gym and counted calories more than I do
3) He was balding, it started to bother me about the time he condescendingly explained a concept called "mortage" that he assumed would be over my head
4) He had a cat (that's really not about being too old, but the cat was a serious problem)

After BrooksBrothers and I ended things, I went back to being dumb, and dated a guy my own age called Thumbprint...who had a horrible habit of calling late at night, from bars, suggesting I "come meet up."

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

A Few of Kat's Favorite Posts: Forgiving Potaskey

In the dream, I was some sort of actress-I know because I had handlers. I even had one person whose sole task was to answer my phone.

"Potaskey's in the lobby" She told me.

I was getting my toes done while somebody briefed me on something and I turned to her and said, "Well what does he want?"

"He says he wants to be forgiven."

So, Potaskey came up and stood before me, and I thought it would be so easy, but, in a dream-like way, I was unable to get the words out:

"Yes...I...Forg" and my mouth shut up and I couldn't speak. I could speak when I tried to say anything else, but when I tried to say the word "forgive," nothing came out.
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I woke up at 3am. I didn't want to admit that I was still angry at my first boyfriend, and that maybe my heart never quite healed. I didn't want to be someone having a haunting dream about something so completely OVER-but I was. And I realized that my dream was right, I 'd never forgiven Potaskey, and he needed to be forgiven.

Potaskey made a lot of mistakes. He was 20, an actor, and he had a lot of shit going on, so you can't necessarily blame him. But, he was my first love, and he'd given up on me when the going got tough, and I haven't found anyone since who makes me feel that way. So, in my mind, in some ways, because he was the only guy I'd ever loved and he couldn't love me back, Potaskey had rendered me unlovable.

When he broke up with me, Potaskey blamed me for all these horrible things going on in his life, and I, following form, had blamed Potaskey for the romantic pattern that followed his exit. If I had met someone new who I loved, who loved me back, forgiving Potaskey would be easy. If there was someone else who proved, with actual evidence that Potaskey's earlier decision was wrong, then I could forgive him for making a mistake. But if I was alone, having tried and failed to meet someone to love, his decision loomed in the background.

At 1:00 in afternoon, I called Potaskey on the phone, and told him about my dream. Together, for an hour or so, we picked at the scab. Potaskey said everything that should've made me fee better. I finally got answers to all my questions and I truly understood where he was coming from. Potaskey really believed the entire thing was his fault (which, I have to say, at least 90% of it was).

"You were this amazing girl and I couldn't step up to the plate." Potaskey said. "It was just too hard to figure out how to fit you into my life, and it was so much easier to just let you go. I had so many things I was worried about, and I completely blamed them all on you, and then cut you out, so all my problems would go away."

But, surprise, surprise, the problems didn't go away. And now, Potaskey felt incredibly guilty, and this guilt has been tearing at him for three years.

"It's funny you dreamt that," Potaskey said. "Because it's incredibly true. I need you to forgive me."

I told him I was angry, because he gave up on me, just when we were starting to get to the good stuff, and he made me feel like I was easy to just throw away. He told me he learned more from our four month relationship than any other one he'd had and that he thought I was the smartest person he would ever meet-"I just felt intelligent being around you."

Before we hung up, I said "I 95% forgive you." But the more I think about it, the more I realize that he would've held me back from becoming all the things that I am, because he, even in his own words, "wasn't man enough for the job." I think I 100% forgive him.
Even though he dumped me, I realized for the first time that he was the loser: he had the opportunity of a liftetime in me, and he blew it. He had Godiva and he deserved Hersheys. And now, maybe he's figuring out how to deserve Ghiradelli.

What did I do wrong? I just picked the wrong guy and loved him with my whole heart. If I can love a total loser with my whole heart, think how great I'll do when I meet a real winner?