NORTH BAY BOH E MI A N | FE BR UARY 6 –1 2, 20 1 3 | BO H E M I AN.COM
20 Valentine’s ( 19
and hair stylist, Anita, worked at I. Magnin and cut my hair every two months. My “worst date” had its origin at the I. Magnin boutique. Anita’s co-worker, an absolutely gorgeous, tall brunette from Ohio named Denise, shared an immediate attraction with me, leading to our one and only date. Denise lived in the Pacific Heights area. After parking my car, I stepped in dog shit. Nice beginning. Denise looked ravishing and greeted me with a welcoming kiss. Off to dinner at my favorite restaurant, Vintner’s on Union Street. We smoked a joint before going in. Normally, smoking a joint leads to enhanced appetites and a loosening of inhibitions with free-flowing conversation. Interspersed, I constantly visualized Denise naked in my bed. I couldn’t wait. I was a “happy stoner,” the type whose gaps in conversation retention were quite frequent, accompanied by that dopey stoned look. Denise was the opposite. The joint didn’t affect her in the least as she talked on and on in all seriousness. My brain cells couldn’t keep up. Being so stoned led her to verbally dress me down multiple times during dinner. “Peter, do you understand what I’m talking about?” “Denise, your conversation is deep and wordy, and by the time you finish, I’ve only retained the last part of what you just said. I’m sorry.” There was a deep, cold chill in the air after that. Conversation was at a standstill. Maybe she’d forget the dinner and share my thoughts of saving the date by having sex at my apartment. Not a chance. She walked alone to her apartment without a “Good night.” It was my worst date. If Denise was writing her story, it would mirror mine—her worst date ever. I’ve completely forgotten Denise’s looks, our dinner and conversation, but, for some reason, I’ve never forgotten that smell of dog shit on the sole of my shoe.
Jumping Back In A wishful widow surveys the dating scene BY HELEN PACHYNSKI
H
aving just watched an old episode of Sex & the City, I am feeling very Carrie Bradshaw as I sit at my computer. But there ends the comparison. I do not have a body and a wardrobe like hers, indeed, nor her
talent at writing. Like her, however, I am searching for a mate that will love me and complement me. Why, at the age of 67, am I searching? Almost four years ago, my husband died of cancer. He was 69 years old; we’d been married 41 years. I am not looking to replace him; I am wise enough
to know that will never happen. And I have not made the mistake of putting him on a pedestal with the belief that he was perfect. But I yearn for the companionship, the quick glance or smile, all those little nuances that happen between a couple. “Meal for one” is a low point in my day. And in my aloneness, I turned to standup comedy and found that it alleviated