Men and Basements: Be Very Afraid

Over the last month I have made the acquaintance of a few different men due to a myriad of reasons, the main ones being new clients and my tendency to mix business with pleasure if its not too dangerous.

I've met some nice people...and some interesting people. And when I say interesting, I'm not just talking about wow, he's such a clever fellow! or isn't it great that he speaks three languages and knows Tantric massage! No...I'm talking about interesting in the sense that you know the person is a few fries short of a happy meal - and one clue is that they want to convince you that they used to be a CIA agent...and THAT's why they won't let you come over to their house. Or the fact that there happens to be a couple of pairs of shoes in their apartment that are large enough to fit them...and they are more feminine looking high heels than any that you own. Or because they refer to themselves in the third person more often than not in that creepy way: Scott really likes it when you play with Mr. Happy!

Or, because they are 45 and live in their parents' basement.

I came across this winner through mutual friends, actually; an investment banker who lives in Queens of Italian descent, who enjoys art, fine wine, and is a witty conversationalist and intelligent man. I was delighted, after a couple of dates, at the prospect of going home with him, since our discourse had been so engaging and he was so attractive; I was horrified to find out that what I was going home to was nothing more than the running joke among me and my female friends.

What comes up among single women who are dating is the never-ending, never-not-funny cliché of how we're looking for someone and we end up finding "a guy who lives in his parents' basement". Or how he may not be a great catch, but at least he doesn't live with his folks at the age of 38. Wow, I found him wearing my underwear and banging my girlfriend, but at least he has his own place and doesn't live with his parents! - you get the idea.

So, after an expensive candle-lit dinner, two bottles of wine, a romantic stroll through Manhattan, cocktails at another place that included making out and conversation about literature, the subject of the End of the Evening came up, and he wanted me to come back to his place.

"I'll make it really special for you - I just don't want the night to end." He said huskily, and with that, I clasped his hand and joined him in a cab and we headed for Queens. We arrive at this lovely little house, and I'm smiling as he's paying the cab driver.

He suddenly looks pained.

"I forgot - I left the keys for downstairs inside - we're going to have to go through the front door."
I'm thinking...uh...so? This is your house, we should be going through the front door. I ask what the problem is.

"Well, this is my parents' house - and I live downstairs. So, we're just going to have to walk through the living room. I think they're up; let me poke my head in and let them know I have company."

Dear reader, I didn't know what to say. I was shocked - no, make that horrified. It was like 2am and I was going to be ushered through this 45-year-old man's house to his basement and along the way meet his parents? Thank God I wasn't sober.

He poked his head through the front door and said something like "Hi, I'm home - I have company, but we're going downstairs (at that point, I was thinking is that where he keeps the bodies?)," and then he grabbed my hand and pulled me into this time-warp of Italian suburbia. His mother looked as horrified as I was. His father looked amused. They were in their pajamas, watching television. I put on my cheeriest "Hello!" and made a beeline to wherever I thought the basement door, Dr. Who's Door, any door, might be - just so I could get past them and get the hell out of there.

He led me downstairs to another livingroom area, which I assume is his "space", and said "Well, what do you think? I have a great house, don't I?"

"Your parent's house is lovely." I murmured, and like the lone survivor of a group vampire attack, I waited for dawn to arrive. He couldn't seem to understand why I suddenly had a headache.

Since then, I have met two other men with Basement Issues: one man who is living in his ex-girlfriend's basement of her house and another who is living in a basement apartment in a lovely brownstone in Manhattan. The latter isn't a problem at all, but I'm so shell-shocked from the first two, anything that is not above ground is no longer an option for me.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Gettin' My Diet Groove On

Well, it's been 3 months since I started and I've lost 22 pounds. To be honest, I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to do it. Now that I've hit that weird world of "The Mid Thirties" (yes, please note the capital letters) I've come to realize that it really IS a wee bit more difficult to lose the weight; rigorous exercise DOES make me a little more tired; the pounds just don't melt off like they once did.

This has been an ongoing thing in my life. I remember having a big life-altering change in my mid 20's: I divorced my first (gasp!) husband and got on a health program; became a vegan vegetarian who ate 50% raw and lost like 40 pounds. I would smile smugly when people would tell me I was "almost too thin" and dated and wore clothes that I had never been able to fit into as a teenager...and have never been able to fit into since.



I think the last time I was actually petite and not really aware or neurotic about what I was eating was when I was about...five. Maybe even earlier. Two or three. That's kinda sad, when I think about it. I mean...I wonder...is there ever going to be a time in my life when I don't have to plan meals ahead of time or put thought into caloric intake at every meal? Or if I decide to splurge and eat out with friends or a companion, and eat like they do, not kill myself at the gym later?

I have to answer honestly: probably not. My body is just not made to eat like everyone else. I was out with someone a week ago and we were having dinner at a really nice restaurant and I was going to order a salad and an appetizer as my entree. He insisted that I order a full entree "It's the weekend! You're relaxing!" and split dessert with him. It was nice, but later I thought about it and was really annoyed the next few days because HE wasn't going to have to deal with the repercussions of eating a full meal like that in the way I would - nor would he understand.

I see girls eating pizza, really skinny girls, with a regular coke, and I wonder: Where was I when God was handing out the rapid metabolism genes?

My mother was thin all her life. She was a sex symbol all throughout her adulthood. Even now, at the age she's at, I would DIE to have a figure like hers - as would most of my friends (including the thin ones). How come I didn't get to wade into that end of the gene pool? Don't get me wrong...I'm relatively happy with the cards I was dealt; I'm attractive, I have a "youthful" looking face (from both of my parents) and I've done okay...but in the "look at food and gain weight" department, I ended up with the shit end of the stick.

So...at the age of 35, I am finding that I can't do it on my own anymore like I thought I could. I have yo-yo'd so much that I think I broke my string. But I have been using Nutrisystem and the gym, and for now, that is doing the trick. The food is wonderful and I've been very happy on it.

I just get a little unhappy sometimes when I think about the fact that I have to always always keep in mind WHAT I'm going to eat BEFORE I even eat it...like a day before, sometimes. So much for spontaneity...or bread...or wine. I really miss booze. LOL

Oh well, I guess my aspirations to be a gutter lush will have to wait.